Category: Othello

Gumbo was his name. Oh.

On any given day, at any hour, and regardless of the general mood of society, a quick stroll down Any Street always reveals an alarming number of folks displaying horrible parenting skills. Whether it’s the mother of two complaining to one daughter about how the other daughter is “being a bitch”; or the father showing his friend a picture of his teenage daughter and saying, “they didn’t look like that when we were that age!”; or the mother with the crying toddler shouting “don’t make me hit you again”; or the mother preaching hatred to her son; or the father letting his 8 year old kid watch the most recent Saw movie; I see on a daily basis inept parents handing out contagious doses of awful parenting to their children. And each time, I’m reminded of something The Doctor once told me. He said he and his wife wanted children because they had a lot of love to give and because they wanted the joys of a family, but in the back of his mind, he always found satisfaction in knowing that his good parenting skills might someday cancel out the bad parenting skills of at least one other parent. I’ll see your child growing up into a man who abuses women, and I’ll raise you my child who will volunteer at nursing homes.

Considering how many parents out there seem to be failing their responsibilities to their children and the world around them, I find myself especially thankful for my fiancé’s parents. Among the countless items on the list of reasons why I’m drawn to my fiancé, is that she, too, likes to make lists, and though I’m not entirely sure from which side of the Benchly family I inherited this trait, from the moments I’ve spent with her family, I can tell that she gets this trait from both of her parents. She is her father’s daughter with planning book in hand, carefully taking notes for current and/or impending projects, formulating ways to ensure that dreams become reality, and making sure she is prepared for every possible scenario life has to offer her. And she is her mother’s daughter sharing aloud each of her innumerable, and often times complex ideas for future events/plans, in a way that at times is only comprehensible to those who have spent enough time with her to have memorized the cipher necessary to decode her thoughts. As a result, I can’t remember a time when I knew her to be unprepared (except my surprise engagement, but that’s a story for another day) and each time I see her confront life’s challenges with the courage that comes with knowing life’s next three moves, I know that her parents did a great job raising her. (Note: they already blessed our engagement/marriage, so you know I’m not brown-nosing.)

It’s an item from one of my fiancé’s lists that inspired this blog entry today. A week or two after we met, I noticed a brief but ambitious list of goals for 2009 hanging on her wall. Without getting into too much detail, I’ll just say that it speaks volumes about the person she is that she was able to achieve most of those goals, including her desire to adopt a dog. She and I both had dogs in our youth and after our talks of love turned to talks of engagement, her itch to adopt a dog became our itch. We had love to give to a dog in need of love. And so we poured over countless websites looking for the right dog. A few adoption applications were turned down, a few were submitted too late, some dogs didn’t get along with cats (which mattered due to Othello’s veto power), and then finally, a no-kill animal sanctuary contacted us about an energetic terrier who had been rescued and who was looking for a home. We couldn’t resist his Benji-like appearance and the obvious wag of his tail captured as best as possible by the still photograph, and so we drove 6 hours to meet him. After a long walk around the sanctuary’s property on which we experienced firsthand what it means to hold the leash of an energetic terrier, we adopted him and drove him home (with a stop for a necessary bath along the way). He was Gumbo, our dog.

As I write these words, Gumbo has settled into his bed upstairs 10 weeks after we brought him home. The first few weeks he lived here, I often told friends, family, and strangers that he was a “work in progress”; an energetic puppy in need of a lot of training, and daily trips to the dog park. We gave him tasty treats for sitting, and we induced vomiting when he dined on our socks. We laughed as he navigated what appeared to be his first set of stairs. He took two Gumbo was his name. Oh.emergency trips to the animal hospital in the first month. He met Othello and wagged his tail as Othello growled at him and slowly backed away. He devoured three rope toys and a few other chew toys. He slept at our feet while we watched LOST. He retrieved tennis balls and promptly lost them while getting distracted on the return trip. We took him on road trips with us and let him lean forward and rest his head on our shoulders. We loved him.

But Gumbo needs more than love. Gumbo was born on the street, and has spent most of his life hopping around from home to home, never certain when and where he’ll find his next meal, never certain if he should feel safe. And so Gumbo the loveable puppy is at times Gumbo the unpredictable, growling, barking, biting dog with sharp teeth. He guards his food. He sometimes guards his toys. He gets on edge when he senses food in the air. And more unpredictably, he gets on edge when he’s tired; when LOST has ended and we attempt to stand up, we’re met with a scared dog attempting to bite our ankles. If born into a different situation, if his litter wasn’t discarded by an inept human who was most likely an inept parent, he’d not only be the most adorable and loving dog ever adopted, but also the most trustworthy one. Unfortunately, that’s not the hand he was dealt in life. We don’t love Gumbo less for this, which makes what happens next especially difficult.

Gumbo was his name. Oh.As you read these words, my fiancé and I will most likely be on the road to return Gumbo to the animal sanctuary. Gumbo needs the right kind of parent in his life: someone with no children in their lives; someone with experience dealing with the most serious rescue dog issues; someone who can love him as much as we do, but who will also be able to meet his training needs better than we have been able to. People have told me it’s not our fault; that we have been great parents to Gumbo; that we are giving him the opportunity to find his “forever home.” I hope they are right. I hope he finds peace in life, I hope he spreads joy, and I hope he brings a smile to the faces of those in need of the kind of smile that helps you forget how horrible this world can be.

Prose and Cons

Earlier this year, just as the summer sun was readying itself for its moment in the New England spotlight, Othello and I moved out of our cozy (read: tiny) Old North End apartment and into our current bigger (read: bigger) New North End home. The move, though a good one, has had an unexpected side effect: instead of walking to work each morning with my time occupied by thoughts of the next great blog entry, I’m forced to spend my morning commute distracted by other drivers and the morning radio’s news. Without that morning walk during which I habitually organized my thoughts on my life and the world around me and subsequently planned how to accurately and entertainingly present them in my blog, I’ve had a hard time compiling these anecdotes into entries worth reading. To compensate, I’ve changed my blogging habits, which is why I’ve spent many a recent evening patronizing Speeder’s, Sapa, and Dobra: three (mostly) quiet coffee and tea shops where I can research (via both the Internet and people-watching) and imbibe in the token Generation X-Y beverage. And so it was that I found my inspiration for this blog entry while seated in a somewhat comfortable chair in Sapa eavesdropping on a what-seems-to-be weekly discussion/debate group.

We love to debate, don’t we? In November, within a span of seven days, citizens of a New England state voted to ban gay marriage, the New York Yankees won a 27th World Series championship, a U.S Army major killed 13 people and wounded 30 others, the U.S. House of Representatives passed a controversial health care bill, and the infamous D.C. Sniper was executed by lethal injection, and though some of these events were more important than others (obviously), they all shared at least one common denominator: their ability to divide people into a heated debate. Whether you were for or against gay marriage, capital punishment, universal health care, the “Evil Empire” Yankees, or a “turn the other cheek” philosophy made popular by the conservatives’ right-hand man, Jesus, and whether or not you made any of these opinions known, it’s a safe bet you found yourself residing on one side or the other of each respective issue. I’d go so far as to say that you took opposition to your stance personally.

And then, as if there wasn’t enough controversial newsworthy material making its way through the airwaves and Internet lately, ready to divide even the closest-knit friends and families, Sarah Palin released her biography (I’d call it an autobiography, but let’s be honest here: her coauthor did the writing.) and it had the expected result: the stage-right liberals criticized her, the stage-left conservatives praised her, and the moderate audience made another bowl of popcorn to enjoy while watching this free entertainment play out on a national stage.

I’m sure my readers (read: reader) will not be surprised to hear that I wasted no time tossing my opinion into each discussion salad, nor will they will be surprised to hear that I didn’t always have the popular opinion. I debated the Boston Red Sox fan, Mr. Extracurricular on his view that the Yankees were an “evil” corporation like WalMart (my argument was that baseball is just a game and if you want to claim moral high ground for other teams, let’s talk about the Boston Red Sox’s all-white baseball team decades after the color-barrier was broken); I called this guy a bigot in a Facebook dialogue that featured him comparing gay marriage to the marriage of a man and a dog (Seriously? I thought that argument died with the fear of catching AIDS from a toilet seat!) (my argument was that government should never have gotten into the marriage business in the first place and that it should start recognizing “civil unions” instead of marriages; but in the mean time, I was tired of people playing the “God loves everyone … except you” card to justify their bigotry); I referred to Sarah Palin as a “moronic conservative woman” to which one of my conservative female friends called my view one-dimensional; and then, after not heeding every warning known to man (emphasis on man), I questioned the necessity of requiring health care plans to cover abortions unless the pregnancy is endangering the mother’s health or is the result of rape.

Considering the sensitivity of some of these subjects, I was surprised to discover the one that affected me the most was the Sarah Palin diss, simply because of my friend’s response. This friend of mine (I’ll call her Maine Girl) is an intelligent, conservative woman who is devoutly religious. I haven’t flat-out asked her, but I’m fairly certain that she voted for the McCain/Palin ticket last November (I don’t mean to single her out because she’s most definitely not the only friend of mine to make that claim). In her response to me, she said that she wondered if I was capable of seeing only one side to an issue (i.e., the liberal side). And that’s what bothered me: I wasn’t sure that I was.

I have spent the last 10 years of my life passionately supporting the staple liberal points of view (gay rights, civil rights, social programs, less military, more education, peace, abortion rights, etc.), while patting myself on the back for being open-minded, and now I’m afraid that somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the justifications for one of the most important liberal commandments: Thou Shall Have Freedom of Speech. Sure, I’ve recognized everyone’s right to speech (e.g., when the Westboro Baptist Bigots visited my state earlier this year, I didn’t fight their right to be there), but I’ve done so with an attitude that listening to their speech wasn’t worth my time. And let’s not kid ourselves here: listening to the WBBs and the Facebook Bigot wasn’t worth my time except maybe for the opportunity each presented me to understand ignorance and hatred. But, not all opposing views are those of extremists and I need to remind myself that just because someone resides on the other side of the aisle, doesn’t necessarily mean he or she is wrong. And if I listened to the other point of view, I might learn something.

There is always, as Mama and Papa Benchly taught us over and over again, more than one side to the story. And even that’s not the whole truth because, in fact, in most cases (especially political debates), a good rule of thumb is to assume that there are at least three: your side, the other side, and the truth. So if it’s common knowledge that there are at least three sides to the story, why do we even bother debating? Why are we willing to debate our friends and strangers over a social-networking website; and travel 1,500 miles to protest for 3 hours; and organize a bunch of Craigslist strangers in a coffeehouse to discuss a weekly topic? To help me understand, I muted Van Morrison in my headphones and listened in on the discussion group.

The identity of the Sapa discussion group’s organizer was quickly revealed through his group moderation tendencies and his propensity to dominate the discussion: he was both Jim Lehrer and John McCain. He did not hesitate to share his anecdotes, which it seemed, had been carefully recited on his morning walks to work, and he did not shy away from bold and controversial statements (e.g., “unlike men, women just don’t appreciate anything that has to do with physics”). Like me, like Sarah Palin, like the WBBs, like Mr. Extracurricular, he wanted others to hear his voice and the message it carried, because, like all of us, he believed deeply in what he was saying. And like all of us, there were folks who disagreed (shame on them if they didn’t!).

After eavesdropping for a bit on Mr. Anti-Women-in-Physics and without the acquisition of any real evidence to support this theory whatsoever, I’m going to try to answer my own question: we debate because we believe strongly about something (i.e., life, health, death, and all the controversial subjects in between), because we are deeply afraid that our beliefs are wrong, because the only way to assuage our fears is to be surrounded by like-minded people, and because, in the absence of a like-minded support group buffer, we are desperate to disprove opposing points of view so that our beliefs can be validated. In essence, we are all insecure schoolchildren hopeful that we can convince others that we possess that all-too-elusive cool trait, and the way to do so is to be the proud owners of indisputably right and morally-sound beliefs.

Feel free to let me know if you disagree, and I’ll do my best to listen.

Benchly’s Guide to Renting in Burlington

After graduating from college, I decided to do the conforming nonconformist postgraduate thing of cramming my belongings into my car (a Plymouth Colt the size of Plymouth Rock [a rock that’s far less impressive in person than in name]) and promptly heading out of town on the open road to a destination paved in gold where I was sure I’d find a job and, subsequently, myself. I said my goodbyes to my family including Mama Benchly who, because she’s Mama Benchly, morbidly assumed this would be the last time she’d ever see me.

On my trip, I drove through my college stomping grounds, which, because I had graduated two weeks earlier, could now be referred to as my old college stomping grounds. After a quick overnight stop to see my college buddy Hugh, I resumed my trip, serenaded by a seemingly unending supply of cassette tapes, each of which was forever branded with my postgraduate taste in music (read: Dave Matthews and Counting Crows). 12 hours later, I reached my destination: a 2-3ish-bedroom, Wilmington, NC apartment occupied by my friend Scoot and her friend Susan. And then three weeks later, without a job or experiencing anything close to a moment of self discovery, and with ~$30 to my name, I packed up my belongings and begrudgingly headed home. (A side note: if you can believe it, if my car hadn’t died in New Jersey, that $30 would have come close to paying for my entire trip home to Vermont. Oh to be 22 and paying less than $1 per gallon of gas again!)

After a 3-month stint as the Benchly Family Bum, I found a mind-numbing, yet well-paying job at the Evil Empire. A year later, after saving up a small fortune, I bought Inga Beep the Jeep (at $.89/gallon, you would have too), crammed my belongings into my new car, and headed out of town on the open road to my new home: a 2-3ish-bedroom, Burlington, VT apartment occupied by my coworker and soon-to-friend Veronica Japonica. And that’s where I lived for the next seven years. When Veronica Japonica moved to California the following year, I had the pleasure and pain of having to find a replacement roommate, which went something like this:

1. Place creatively-crafted classified ad in the local weekly (read: liberal) newspaper, and do your best not to feel like you’re selling yourself in the personals.

2. Screen 50-75 calls in the next week from interested potential roommates who:

– “can’t believe how cheap your downtown Burlington apartment is”;
– “is a totally laid back and mellow roommate who gets along with anyone, and I’ve called you three times so how come you haven’t called me back?”;
– “is, like, the ideal roommate”;
– “is a quiet, peaceful roommate who should probably mention I’m a recovering alcoholic, and the anger management classes seem to be working”;
– “is looking for a nice apartment for my daughter who is really nice…and…she’s really cute too.”

3. Interview the elite few who survived the screening process and do your best not to laugh when one of them says she loves to sing at home and then volunteers a completely tone-deaf rendition of “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

4. Choose the person you’re going to be living with for the next year, give or take a month-to-month. In this case, I selected Dexy’s Midnight Runner, a UVM graduate student who reminded me of an old friend. One year later, when Dexy moved out, Veronica Japonica moved back in, and one year after that, when Veronica moved out again and in with her boyfriend/now husband Rick Springfield, I repeated the process and selected The Virgin Mary, who, in her phone interview, said, “I’m pretty much a loner who will be out of your hair most of the time, or in your hair if you want, too.” After The Virgin Mary moved out and in with her boyfriend/now husband Joseph (notice a trend?), I repeated the process twice more to first select Closed Bedroom Door Roommate (CBDR) and then ultimately Julia Stiles.

This is the long-winded (read: Benchly) way of saying that I’ve had quite a bit of experience in the roommate search department, and less experience in the apartment search, which explains how unprepared I was when I began my latest apartment search last month. Suddenly, I was the one whose phone calls were being screened, who couldn’t believe how expensive downtown Burlington apartments were, who was a quiet and peaceful roommate, and whose anger management classes seemed to be doing the trick. And remarkably, considering Othello and Burlington’s blatant discrimination of tenants with cats, suddenly I was one of the elite few who survived the screening process and who was doing his best to sound completely “normal” and like the ideal roommate.

My first interview, for a 2-3ish-bedroom apartment close to the border of Burlington and its southern counterpart, was with Speed Guy, so named for his apparent choice of recreational drugs. He was super nice, but talked like he was being paid per character, and ran up and down the stairs like he was a toddler late for Saturday morning cartoons. There was also a photocopier in the living room; an odd decorative choice a roommate might someday regret should a weekend party get out of hand. During the interview, another potential roommate arrived and I found myself conducting the interview for her in the hopes that Speed Guy would pick her over me; that’s how little I liked the place.

My second interview, for a studio a few houses down from The Virgin Mary and Joseph, went well until I entered the studio. I’m serious. I was charming. I sounded responsible and like the ideal roommate. And the studio was mine for the taking, and I would have taken it too except that it was essentially a kitchen hallway with closet space. Maybe I’m naive, or at the very least, way too influenced by Hollywood, but I’ve always envisioned a studio apartment as a large square room with hardwood floors, high ceilings, large windows, a loft bed, and enough room to distinguish between bedroom/dining room/kitchen. The one that I checked out was essentially a basement with carpeting and the kind of kitchen you’d find in a college’s temporary housing built to accommodate hundreds of students displaced by renovations.

My third interview was for a promising 2-no-wait-3-bedroom apartment in the south end on the hill. The ad was misleading; I entered the apartment expecting a 2-bedroom living arrangement and was surprised to find 3 bedrooms and 2 roommates. Strike one. Strike two was the huge dogs who growled, barked, and showed their teeth at me the entire time I was there; the same dogs their owner, Clancy Brown assured me would be friendly toward Othello (I imagine Othello will end up rooming with another dog at some point in his life [he roomed with one when he lived with Montana Girl] but I think I’d rather he live with a dog his own size). Strike three was the kitchen with dishes piled in the sink up to and above the faucet. Strike four was when Clancy pointed out an extra room and said, though we would be paying equal rent, that this extra room was his and could be used only if I was quiet and didn’t disturb his stuff. Strike five was Clancy pointing out that on a street with minimal parking, if the apartment received a parking pass, it would be his to use. Strike six was Clancy saying he’d get upset if his roommates made noise after 10 p.m., but that he tends to make a lot of kitchen noise at 5 a.m. Strike seven was that Clancy and only Clancy would be on the lease. He offered me the place. I declined.

After Clancy, I was discouraged to say the least. I replied to quite a few Craigslist ads and received only a handful of responses, most of which thanked me for my time but regretted to inform me that the apartment had been filled…in the 15 minutes since the ad had been placed. This is when I gave up hope. And that’s precisely when a woman responded to my email and asked me to check out her apartment later that day. I recognized the woman’s name and quickly realized that we shared a mutual friend: Sarah the L. Score. Mama and Papa Benchly were especially generous in letting me stay with them for a month, but as a 31 year old, I needed my own space or else I’d risk having my sanity go the way of the dodo bird. And that’s why I wasn’t above exploiting this connection.

When I looked at the place, a residential gold mine by Burlington’s standards (front and back porch, huge yard, off-street parking, a large bathroom, rooms with character), I discovered that this woman wasn’t looking for a roommate, but rather a tenant to share her downstairs apartment with another woman who had already been chosen to live there. Essentially, she was playing roommate matchmaker for the apartment she owned. And when her first choice backed out, I was offered the place. I gladly accepted and last week found myself yet again cramming my belongings into cars.

I can’t say that this process has taught me much in the way of how to find an apartment in Burlington. If anything, it taught me how screwed up this town’s housing situation is, and how lucky a person has to be to find a safe, clean, decent, affordable home. For every landlady like mine, there are 15 who end their ads with “sorry, no pets.” And for every safe, clean, decent, affordable home like mine, there are 20 broken-down, dirty, overpriced holes in the ground owned by deadbeat landlords (you know who you are, JL). And no matter how hard you try, sometimes you end up finding a great home for a reason you never even considered.

After moving in, I learned that my new landlady had specifically chosen me because of my described personality traits but also because of Othello. As the proud mother of her own cat, she knew how difficult it was for kitty owners to find decent housing. Consequently, as Othello settles nicely into our new home, I’ve made sure to smother him with hugs and kisses for helping us get here. Not one for PDA, he then pushes me away, licks his paw, walks to the window sill, sits down, and keeps an eye on his new neighbors.

The (Life) Choices We Make

I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new “home” now allows me to afford. My walk to work, though shorter, is still long enough to justify listening to my iPod and, with my carefully selected songs in hand and ear, I can feel, at least for five minutes of the day, like I’m caught in a movie’s musical interlude that suggests both whimsy and the promise of things to come. I’m getting ahead of myself here.

This morning’s walk to work was serenaded by Dar Williams’ “As Cool As I Am,” a song, which, embarrassingly, I still don’t think I quite understand (maybe Ms. Parker could help me out here?), and yet which feels relevant nonetheless. But as I turned each corner on my way to my office home, my thoughts were not of her lyrics or the joys one feels when a short walking commute to work means saving gas money, but rather of how and why I came to be spending my work day mornings alone.

As all four of you know, it’s been over three years since I was first introduced to Freckles and subsequently introduced her to you. I did so in a carefully crafted entry on carpooling, which I’m not entirely sure even the most faithful readers of mine would recall if I didn’t link to it here.

I think it’s safe to say that my readers quickly caught on to my love for Freckles. Maybe it was the sudden lack of blogging on my part (as Sarah the L knows, writer’s block is the consequence of happiness and falling in love), or maybe it was the fact that I beat my readers over the head with our whirlwind romance. Whatever the case, I was happy and everyone knew it.

But as is sadly the case in life, people change, things change, relationships change, love changes, and Freckles and I found ourselves on opposite ends of our relationship’s spectrum. One of us believed in us, and the other didn’t anymore. One of us felt heartache for hurting a loved one, the other for being hurt. Both of us were terrified of losing a loved one. And so it was last week that I found myself with packed boxes, bags, and Othello in hand, failing miserably at settling into my parents’ guest bedroom.

The day that I officially moved out of the apartment that Freckles and I had turned into a home, the rains poured harder than they had all summer. With no end in sight, I was forced to load the final items into my car while unable to dodge the raindrops. Three years ago, I described such a rainstorm as something “placed perfectly between miserable and pretty.” This past week, it felt more like melancholy drowning in heartache.

A day later, as the rains stopped, the sun came out, and the inevitable rainbow appeared in the sky. We’re shedding tears of sorrow, but at least the world is still hopeful. And I think of all the great times Freckles and I had together, and the love that we had, and the sadness we felt the last time we saw each other. But that I’ll save just for me.

The Road Not Taken

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

With only a handful of minutes left before yet another July day abruptly leaves me behind, I’ve settled in The Blogging Chair and Othello has taken up residence on top of the purple coffee table-turned-footstool, his tail tapping against my outstretched legs as if to keep tabs on me.

Earlier this evening, Freckles and I returned from an all-too-short, 4-day family vacation in Bethany Beach, Delaware. And although he got quite a bit of love from Sarah the L in our absence, Othello is most definitely playing the part of Emotionally-Hurt Kitty. This is not to be confused with Heartbreakingly-Sad Kitty and Pathetically-Miserable Kitty. (Montana Girl wasn’t kidding when I adopted him a few years ago: Othello requires more emotional attention than the next cat! Considering how emotionally sensitive I am, she also got it right when she called him my kitty soul mate.)

Freckles and I left Delaware a little after 10 a.m. and I expected us to arrive in Burlington shortly after 9 p.m. I expected an 11-hour trip because that’s how long it took us to do the reverse trip 5 days earlier. However, despite a 20-minute detour in Millsboro, DE to find Grandma and Grandpa Benchly in the local cemetery, as well as 1-hour detour in Dover, DE (home of Dover Man, the invincible capital of Delaware!) to pick up an E-Z Pass for me, water for Freckles, and “cheap” gas (read: $3.89/gallon) for the car, we ended up arriving in Burlington 1 hour earlier than expected. If you ask me, the difference was the timing of the trip; in other words, we hit the streets of NYC before rush hour did. If you ask Freckles, the difference was the route.

Any Vermonter will tell you that there’s no easy way to get there from here. We have two interstate highways: one travels from the northwest to central eastern Vermont, the other travels north to south but on the eastern border. And thus, anyone wishing to travel down the west coast of Vermont from Burlington has two options: 1) brave the local (read: the pharmacy-destined elderly) traffic on Route 7 and ultimately cross over to New York’s “Northway,” which I think is so named because Canada is north of the self-centered New York City, not the other way around; or 2) go 40 miles out of the way on our two interstates while hoping that the traffic-less route will save in time what it costs in gas. On the way home, we went the “Northway” route because Freckles didn’t want to repeat our spontaneous adventures on our southbound trip. And although I was happy to oblige because I wanted to be home as quickly as possible, it wasn’t because I regretted our ultimate southbound route; in fact, I’d probably do it again:

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

It was 2 p.m. on Saturday, and we had been in the car since a little after 8 that morning. We were stuck in traffic on I95 South, about 5 or 6 miles east of the George Washington Bridge (aka, the gateway to hell [aka, New Jersey]), and had been at a practical standstill for 10 minutes. Our planned route looked like this:

But traffic was going nowhere and it was going nowhere fast. While I cursed myself for daring to test the George Washington Bridge waters when we could have easily skirted around the city the “Northway,” I silently prepared an imaginary alternate route in my head. With our road map placed conveniently in the trunk, I convinced Freckles to let me try a detour on a bridge that sounded vaguely familiar (the Whitestone) and which, the signs said, would take us south. 5 minutes later, while pulling an oh-my-god-we’re-lost-in-Queens-again U-turn, I cursed myself for taking said Whitestone Bridge while silently preparing an imaginary way out of Queens. 45 minutes later when, without map, we arrived in New Jersey via the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island (while also enjoying a gorgeous view of the Manhattan skyline), I applauded my navigational skills while Freckles silently prepared to throw herself out the window. She claims we lost time, while I strongly believe my “Staten Island Detour Express” route saved us time:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Now, I learned my lesson and will most likely never be able to go the out of the way route with Freckles again, and maybe going on the Whitestone Bridge wasn’t the smartest idea (when told about our I-95 South to “Staten Island Detour Express” route upon our arrival in Delaware, Papa Benchly’s response was “why did you go that way?!?”), but I’m still a firm believer in the underlying philosophy expressed in this quote (one of my favorites):

Although a beach-bound Freckles will most likely disagree (as would a Yankee Stadium-bound Benchly), I think the trip should be just as important as the destination.

Proud of My Pride

I’ve never been good at taking care of my car. As my troubles with Inga Beep the Jeep proved, I’m pretty awful at it, in fact. I don’t take the car in as often as I should and therefore, inevitably, whenever I do take it in, there’s something wrong with it. And so each time I bring my car in to be worked on, I sit there in the waiting room with all of the other less-than-proud owners, dreading bad news and the subsequent guilt.

The same can be said for pets. Yes, I had a dog when I was growing up and yes, he lived happily and healthily until he was 13, but he did so only because of Mama Benchly. I fed him periodically and I walked him occasionally, but my ownership responsibilities extended only to playing with him during the day and sharing a bed with him at night. Because all of the responsible responsibilities were left to my mother, it can be argued that she was his proud owner.

In college, my senior year, I had a few fish (as did my three roommates) but they never seemed to survive more than a month each. My roommates and I taped on the wall above the fish tank home-made construction-paper tombstones for each fish that passed on to the tank in the sky; “RIP Alexis – 9/2/98-9/7/98.” By the end of the year, there were at least 12 tombstones on our wall, each staring down at the still-alive fish, serving as a reminder to exercise and to eat only the recommended number of pellets per day.

At the end of the school year, the day before graduation, we donated the fish to the tank in the office of the Dean of Students. Considering that they were outnumbered and much smaller, if my life was a movie, I’d have been shown giving the commencement speech while a dramatic song (maybe with chanting, and long notes in major chords; maybe something by Moby) drowned out my words and the camera cut to a shot of our poor fish being attacked by their new predators.

When I adopted Othello from Montana Girl, I was fearful that I wouldn’t be able to take care of him. Even The Virgin Mary still thinks that I’m not up to the task; to her credit, I was definitely slacking in the food-purchasing/litter-scooping departments in the beginning; and to my credit, I’ve definitely improved since she complained. But then a peeing-outside-the-litter-box incident pushed me to set up a long-overdue yearly check-up for the little guy, and this morning, I found myself sitting with said kitty on my lap, impatiently waiting for the veterinarian to tell me all of the things wrong with him.

And so, as you can probably imagine, words cannot possibly describe the joyous feeling I had when the vet told me that my kitty was healthy and perfectly normal, and, evidently, “naturally gorgeous.” Although Othello’s ears perked up when she said that, you can be certain that his owner was the proudest of them all.

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 2: My Juxtapositional Life

Part 1.
For the next few weeks, the Loser Cruiser will be driven by a substitute driver while its regular driver, Deane, visits with his son who is on leave from the military. I don’t know the new driver’s name but she seems nice and unlike the regular Friday morning driver Steve, she actually knows how to drive a big bus and how to drive on the highway.

Tuesday morning, I was the lone passenger as we departed the B’town bus station. Monday morning, the driver had to ask where to make one of the turns but by Tuesday, having memorized the route completely, her only question was whether or not to stop to pick up a man standing at a bus stop on the side of the road. Without hesitation, I said, “no, he’s waiting for another bus. Deane always waves to him as we pass him.” I was alarmed at how familiar I’ve become with the route and routine.

A few minutes later, I instructed the driver to stop for the silver-haired Daddy Sutherland standing on the side of the road nowhere near a bus stop. I’m not particularly fond of this man, a state senator, but I figured it was my civil responsibility to make sure he made it to work on time. Not coincidentally, I was reminded of a recent conversation I overheard him having with another state senator in which he said, “sometimes you have to vote for the things you disagree with in order to make sure the ones you really want pass.”

As the bus made its way onto the highway and its patrons cozied into their seats for their morning nap or read, I wondered what it must feel like to be a substitute driver. For all I know, she’s only been hired until Deane returns in which case, what must it feel like to do a job efficiently while lacking any job security whatsoever and never knowing if the seat you’re sitting in is a temporary or a permanent one? And if you were worried you were only in a temporary job, would you have it in you to do the job well?

Part 2.
Wednesday was Othello’s 4th birthday. To accommodate everyone’s schedules (including my own), I scheduled a birthday party for Tuesday night. After spending the first half hour eating and talking and letting Othello get used to so many people in the apartment, my mother, Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Jay Peak, CAT, Hypothetical, Montana Girl, Surfboard Guy, and I quietly sang happy birthday to the kitty while Smoochie Poo carried into the room a food dish with Fancy Feast and a lit candle in it.

After Othello ate a little of his birthday “cake” and while he went to the bathroom 5 or 6 times (he’s a nervous kitty and his bladder goes crazy whenever he’s nervous), I opened his presents for him. Considering that Othello was able to cope with an apartment full of people and then he spent most of the night playing with his new toys, I think it’s safe to say the party was a success.

Afterwards, after most everyone had left, I sat there with Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo, playing catch up for all the time we’ve lost now that Sarah no longer works with me. At one point, she asked me if I would be willing to watch her kitty for a day or two this weekend while she and Smoochie traveled to Connecticut. Considering I had no way of getting to her apartment, I had to regretfully decline. This prompted Sarah to wonder if her indoor kitty would be OK alone for two days. I reminded her of what I had heard about cats: most cats, after being left alone 2-3 days, believe their food supply has been cut off and start looking for a new home. So while her kitty wouldn’t be able to escape, she would most certainly greet Sarah’s return with a very cold shoulder.

Part 3.
This next part, I’m surprised to say, I’m finding incredibly difficult to write. Last night, as is always the case on the second Wednesday of every month, was Trivia Night. My team, the Hotties, gathered for yet another attempt at the Trivia Crown. Our team consisted of myself, CP, CP’s mother, CP’s brother and his girlfriend. Sadly, Sarah the L was not in attendance. The night started without fanfare as we barely found an open table at which to sit. We were surrounded by obnoxiously drunk legislators and for a brief moment, I considered packing it in and calling it a night. But then…

After the first three rounds, One Flew Over the Hotties Nest (our name for the night) found itself alone atop the leader board with a perfect score. Only after the next two rounds when, unlike past Trivia Nights, we found ourselves just one point out of first place, did we begin to think something different was happening. And even then, we were prepared to lose. You see, we Hotties are accustomed to losing. We’re like Cubs’ fans and our motto has always echoed what a summer beer league softball coach once told my team: “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s HOW you lose that matters.”

I’ve spent the last three years of my Trivia Night life crafting email invitations and recaps detailing every which possible way we Hotties could lose. And this is why I’m having trouble finding the right words to say. How do you say “we won”? After so many times trying and failing, after so many close calls and near misses, after so many nights when you dared fate by trying to glimpse into your glorious future, after so many heart-breaking finishes, how do you say you won? I think I’m unable to find the right words because I’m in shock and I’m having trouble accepting the reality. I expect to wake from this dream. But man, oh man, what a sweet dream it is.

It’s just another Monday, right?

Even the best fall down sometimes
I’m in my room in the evening before Valentine’s Day, Othello is sleeping on the bed, I’ve just talked to Sarah the L on the phone, and I’ve loaded six sappy CDs into my newly-dubbed “Sappy Stereo.” My limbs are sore from a day of sledding down a mountainous central-Vermont hill, my digestive system is sore from a delicious/spicy Asian dinner complemented with the always unsavory beer, and my heart is sore from what appears to be the latest in a string of seemingly-endless rejections. Per my usual storytelling style, let me back up to the beginning.

As you may recall, I met Peeps last Friday while viewing A Very Long Engagement with Montana Girl. I liked this woman. As is hardly ever the case with women (or anyone in general) I’ve just met, I found myself at ease in her presence. Add to that an attraction to both mind and body, and, as the night progressed, it became painfully clear to me and to Montana Girl that I was smitten with Peeps. Through a fortunate twist of unfortunate events (namely Inga Beep’s refusal to operate), I found myself alone with Peeps in her car, being driven home. Thanks to my lack of confidence, I soon found myself standing on the steps of my apartment building, watching Peeps drive away completely unaware of my thoughts.

Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo learned of this new attraction in my life over lunch the next day. Kudos to them for putting up with my prepubescent gushing. While finishing my salmon sandwich, I decided that my new mission in life was to see Peeps again. And so I set out to the streets of B’town to find this woman in the green scarf. Well, B’town is a small town but not that small and I soon realized that another meeting with Peeps would probably have to be one not born of chance.

Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
I contacted Montana Girl Sunday afternoon and told her that, if at all possible, I needed her help in getting in touch with Peeps. Give her my number, ask her permission to give me hers, anything to be able to speak with her one more time. After two days, and while reminding me that I owed her big time, Montana Girl gave me Peeps’s phone number. I talked to Peeps the next day on the phone and though I had spent nearly three days imagining what I would say if given the chance to say anything to her, I stumbled and babbled and stuttered my way through the most ineloquent speech possible. In between my mismatched words and incomplete thoughts, I managed to tell her I wanted to see her again, and to ask her if she felt the same way. When she told me she did, we made a date for Sunday.

In the days that followed, through yet another twist of fate, I was invited out to the movies Saturday night with Peeps, Montana Girl, and Montana Girl’s boyfriend Snowboard Guy. The movie: The Wedding Date. Though knowing I was in for 90 minutes of the most mind-numbing torture known to movie theatres, I couldn’t resist the chance to see Peeps. And when we found our seats as the previews were starting, I melted into mine as Peeps revealed to me that she doesn’t like it when people talk during movies.

After the hellish movie ended, we stopped at a nearby restaurant for margaritas and the “best salsa in town!”* While sipping our enormous drinks, Peeps and I were invited to go out on the town for dancing (eek!) and “girly drinks” (yes!). The plan: follow Montana Girl and Snowboard Guy to their friend’s house and then downtown. The plan, though simple enough, soon backfired when, in the heavy snowstorm, Montana Girl and Snowboard Guy’s car disappeared and Peeps and I, both without directions, were left to fend for ourselves. After it became clear from Montana Girl’s voicemail message that she either a) did not bring her phone with her or b) was ditching us, Peeps and I made the best of the situation and settled into a quiet wine bar downtown by ourselves. While listening to a piano-playing singer straight out of the Lost in Translation lounge, and while sipping our red wines, what began as we laughingly called our “pre-date” turned into our first date. After confirming our plans for what was now going to be our second date, we sealed the evening with a kiss.

Out of the doubt that fills your mind
The plan for our second date originally was to eat dinner and then go sledding or snowshoeing in the evening. The cold weather changed our minds and we opted instead to sled before dinner, thus turning the always rewarding Five Spice Café meal into a literal reward for a tiring day of sledding. While deciding where to sled, Peeps mentioned a hill from her childhood to which no other sledding hill could possibly compare. Though an hour away, it seemed the logical choice. When we arrived, I knew it was the right choice. This “hill” was the size of the upper tier at Yankee Stadium and even though Peeps fondly remembered this hill from her childhood, she needed a few runs down the “baby hill” to muster up enough courage to tackle the big hill. After a few hours of sledding that will no doubt leave me barely able to get out of bed tomorrow morning, Peeps and I drove home to change our clothes and prepare for dinner.

The second half of the date began with Peeps receiving a tour of my apartment. She was dressed up and made up more than she had ever been before; I took this as a good sign and even now, a few hours later, I still don’t know if I was mistaken. The food was great and her company was as well, but something felt different. There was a new vibe and I spent the majority of the meal decoding it.

At the end of the night, we talked; the first serious talk in our short history. Peeps told me that though she was interested in another date with me, she wasn’t sure she was capable of going through with it for numerous reasons: in six weeks, she’ll be spending 3 months in Japan; when she returns, she’ll probably be moving in with her mother in New Hampshire; and while there, she’ll probably be applying for jobs out of state. She needs time to think about things and she’ll get back to me.

You finally find that you and I collide
I want to believe Peeps. I want to believe that this is an issue of timing (a word I’ve recently learned to dread). I want to believe that if, in some parallel universe, she was presented with this chance, she would run straight for it, wrap her arms around it, and fight to hold on. I want to believe that what I saw in her in the very little time spent together isn’t a blind hope caused by my own desperation. I want to believe that she’ll call me and say, “I have to know where this is going to lead.” But I can’t.

*As declared by Mr. Benchly to Montana Girl.

I’m With Crazy

As some of the five of you know, while I do have a computer at home, I don’t have Internet access, which went the way of the landline phone. And so my ability to send emails and post on my blog rests solely on the shoulders of three separate but equally awkward computers:

1. My work computer, which is owned by the very same company that recently officially forbid its employees to send personal emails and surf the Internet. Thus, whenever I send emails and post on my blog, I’m risking termination of my employment.

2. My parents’ computer, which I use far too often whenever I visit. And truth be told, I visit them far too often. They’re probably sick of me and probably sick of me using their computer all the time.

3. The public library computers, which I use occasionally and which I’m currently using. Typically, I use them on the days I don’t work and whenever I feel like I’ve worn out my welcome at my parents’ house.

And so, after spending at least 5 consecutive days at my parents’ house due to the holidays, and on my day off from work, I have decided to venture down to the public library to post this message. In doing so, I am braving an hour in the building in which I have had quite possibly the most uncomfortable encounters of my short life.

You see, the library is home to the Library Crazies. There are the men who talk to themselves; the women who cause scenes because their allotted computer time expired before they could finish their Internet game; the teenagers who are so starved for attention that they yell at each other and ignore the poor librarian’s desperate attempts to quiet them down; and finally, the staining ones (the individuals who leave stains on the chairs they use). So far, with 14 minutes left, I have been fortunate enough to have only encountered a man singing to himself and luckily, he sang in tune.

Today has been a somewhat disappointing one. My friend CAT canceled our cross-country skiing plans and so, despite the newly fallen 6-8 inches of snow, I stayed indoors. After a short trip to the mall with The Virgin Mary, I got into my car to run some errands. Well, evidently, Inga Beep the Jeep had another idea because she wasn’t running right and I had to turn around and park her in the parking lot. I don’t think her gears were catching; though, let’s be honest, her turn signal could have caused this problem and I wouldn’t have known the difference. The sun has set, the day is slowly ending, and I feel as though I’ve wasted it. If I had it to do over again, this is what would have happened:

I woke up at 9, showered, dressed, and walked to Muddy Waters, a local coffee shop and ordered a hot chocolate. After reading a few chapters in a new book of short stories, and after writing a few pages of a letter to a friend, I returned home, dropped off my things and then ventured out onto the streets of Burlington in my skis. After skiing around town for an hour or so, I returned home again, showered, dressed, and ventured to the local theatre to watch a matinee. Then I returned to Muddys for another hot chocolate and to read some more. As the sun was setting, I walked home for a quiet night of movie-watching and cuddling with Othello. The end. Oh well.