Sarah the L – Benchly'sword

A Flawed Life

I remember getting into an argument with Mama Benchly when I was 7 or 8 years old and tantrums were the logical and normal choice of attack. The tantrum most likely occurred after Sisters #1 and 2 refused to include me in whatever it was they were doing at the time, as was their right and responsibility as older siblings. I pleaded with my mom for her to have one more child and to please make that child a boy. I wanted a brother to play with and my childhood thought process was able to gloss over the fact that such an age gap would have meant that I would have ended up being the one refusing to include a younger sibling in whatever it was I was doing. Mama Benchly’s response was simple: she and Papa Benchly had decided that all of the complications associated with my birth had meant that it would be greedy and dangerous for them to try for more.

Seven or eight years earlier, Mama Benchly was gardening in our family’s Champlain, NY yard one summer evening when her water broke. After rushing to the hospital 30 minutes away, and after a labor that lasted just 90 minutes, I entered the world. At first glance, it seems like the picture-perfect, normal delivery; however, a second glance shows that I gave them a scare by wrapping the umbilical cord around my neck as well as by having an irregular heartbeat. Add to that the fact that I was born with one less pectoral muscle than the normal baby, as well as the fact that a few short years later, two toes on each of my feet would have grown overlapping each other if it wasn’t for corrective surgery, and my parents understandably saw the warning signs written on their son’s pectoral-less flat chest: try for more and you might not be as lucky.

As you can imagine, considering how desperate adolescents are to fit in with the crowd by not sticking out of it, I had a difficult time coming to terms with my pectoral deformity. Though I always loved gym class, I dreaded changing into and out of my clothes in the locker room where I ran the risk of being exposed as a deformed imposter posing as a normal kid. (I’ve still mostly blocked out of my memory the times in gym when the instructor made our teams play “shirts and skins.”) And to be honest, finding peace and comfort with my deformity has been a lifelong struggle against which I often find myself losing. I’m still hesitant to remove my shirt in public, and while it took quite a bit of trust for me to reveal the deformity to past girlfriends (again, it speaks volumes about the kind of woman my future wife is, that I felt comfortable telling her about it on our third date), regardless of how much I’ve trusted my close friends, it’s 33 years after my birth and most of my readers (read: friends) will be hearing of it for the first time in this blog post. I imagine Sarah the L didn’t even know about it. So considering my age, it’s ironic to think that it took a juvenile insult thrown my way from an adult posing as an adolescent to help me come to terms with my deformity.

Like most kids in my generation who grew up loving baseball, trading baseball cards, and memorizing the statistics on the backs of said cards, I became an adult who finds pleasure in playing in a fantasy baseball league each year. And thanks to Mr. Extracurricular, I’ve had the pleasure of playing in a locally-based league for the past two years (complete with a live draft! [I know how this sounds, so don’t bother telling me]). We expanded the number of teams this year and in doing so we welcomed aboard a few friends and some friendly strangers. One of these strangers (for the sake of rhyming anonymity, I’ll call him Brat) beat a returning team in the first week of the season and then bragged about it on a message board (the fantasy baseball equivalent of trash talk). This week, after my team beat his team in what can only be described as a “thrashing,” I felt compelled to defend the aforementioned losing team’s honor by returning the trash-talking favor (word for word the way he had done so 4 weeks earlier). Brat responded by saying he wasn’t going to listen to someone who didn’t even have a pectoral muscle. Oh. (You see, evidently, Brat is friends with my exgirlfriend, she thought it appropriate to share this information with others, and Brat considers physical deformities as appropriate punchlines.)

Instantly, I was transported back to 8th grade swim class when one of my peers looked at my bare chest and asked me if a tractor trailer had plowed into it (I’ll give him retrospective points for his creativity). However, unlike that afternoon and all of the uneasy years that followed, after Brat’s insult, I didn’t feel the urge to hide or be ashamed. Instead, I actually felt proud of my deformity because, 33 years into my life and I’ve finally realized that it’s my biggest flaw, and that rather than focus their attention on having one more deformity-free child, Mama and Papa Benchly instead raised someone incapable of poking fun at deformities; someone of whom they could be proud. I won’t pretend that I’m flawless, or even close, but I’d like to think that thus far, I’ve lived a life of which my parents could be proud.

I emailed Brat a few minutes ago and mentioned that I thought his personal attack was uncalled for. I also wished him well this season and mentioned my envy at his foresight in adding a certain pitcher to his roster. I don’t know if he’ll respond but if he does, hopefully it’s to talk baseball. Isn’t that the normal thing to do?

A Love/Hate Relationship

As most of you have heard by now, after a woman compared President Obama to Adolf Hitler in a town hall meeting, U.S. Representative Barney Frank responded, “It is a tribute to the First Amendment that this kind of vile, contemptible nonsense is so freely propagated.” I agree. She had a right to make the comparison, and Frank had a right to call the comparison vile.

For obvious reasons, this encounter was on my mind yesterday morning when a small group of extreme protesters (or, to be fair, “protesters who some have deemed to be extreme”) visited Vermont to protest gay marriage as well as, it seemed to this biased observer, everything else. They were doing so on behalf of God. I’m not making that up. One of the women in the group said, “you’re darn tootin’ we’re a hate group. We’re preaching the hatred of God.” I can’t begin to imagine what makes these people tick; how one goes about justifying such a message. What I can state with full confidence, though, is that the majority of Vermonters disagree. And disagree they did.

As a writer, my predilection is to use visual aids only when they can complement the written word. After witnessing yesterday’s events, though, I understand that the only proper way to document this story is to complement the photographs with captions.

This story is one of love and hate. While love is appropriate for all ages, the photo essay that follows might not be.

We love Viva Espresso for opening at 6 a.m. …

… so that Sarah and I could get our coffee.

And then Jen showed up and was loved …

… and reenacted the morning’s news.

And then the sun showed up.

And we love the sun.

When we saw this, we knew Montpelier loved us.

And God loves Anne.

And other people showed up …

… to show their love.

And this guy loved the shirt right off of his back.

And then the hate came.

But that didn’t stop the love.

And love laughed …

… and laughed …

… because hate is no match for love …

… and because the joke was on hate.

You see, every minute they hated, love raised money. (For more information, see the Facebook group Westboro Baptist Church Hates, Montpelier High School Donates.)

And raise money they did!

Even God helped.

And so did Peace.

And hate kept hating.

And we kept loving …

… even when it would have been easy not to.

Because love has no limits.

Not even in the eyes of the law.

So we honked for love.

And we sang for love.

And we flew balloons for love.

And they kept on hating.

And we saw their hate …

… and raised them peace.

And because of this …

… we prayed for them …

… and kept on loving.

Because why hate …

… when you can smile?

Our love is divine …

… no matter what they say.

And we walked proudly …

… around town.

Wherever hate went …

… love followed

(and the media).

And as much as hate tried …

… love was right …

… and strong.

And while hate disappeared …

… love burned brightly …

… on and on and on and on …

Little Plastic Castles

After I left work the other day, I walked down Church Street to my bank to withdraw some money. The coffee shop that has been serving as the gateway to my creativity lately won’t serve me at all without cash. On the walk from the bank to the coffee shop, I spotted Sarah the L sitting outside, soaking in the sun and the words of her most recent read. (As small as this town is, I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to these pleasant surprises it has to offer its residents.) I sat down at her table and we caught up each other on our respective lives. We talked about past and upcoming events, what candy we’d choose to have a lifetime supply of (her choice was caramel, mine was truffles), shared life advice, and snuck in one or two metaphors and idioms for good measure. As always, our conversation helped me to finally articulate the thoughts that had been floating around in my head, and considering I was en route to another evening of writing (this blog entry actually), this encounter’s timing was impeccable.

Last month, one of the modern greats, Ray Lamontagne, came to town to play, sing, and prove once and for all that even the socially awkward have a place in the world. The show, albeit a little too short for my tastes, was everything I had hoped my second Ray concert would be. It began with six of my favorite notes (though, whichever saint watches over great musical act beginnings was napping because Ray quickly broke a string on his guitar and had to begin all over again), Ray’s voice filled the Flynn like a smoke ring from a velvet cigarette, his band complemented him without trying to steal the show, and the songs were arranged in a way that was both refreshingly familiar and delectably new. To make the night even more memorable, I experienced the concert in a second row seat next to my father, marking the first time Papa Benchly and I had been to a concert together since my parents took me to see Peter, Paul, and Mary, and the first time Papa Benchly had been to a rock concert in a long time. Mama Benchly doesn’t like to go to rock concerts and so my dad waxed poetic about the concerts of his past, which included The Doors(!). I think this father-son outing was yet another impeccably-timed surprise for both of us.

Papa Benchly accepted the invitation to join me at the concert approximately one hour before he accepted my extra ticket and joined me at the concert, and to ignore this detail is to sugarcoat a night coated with a bittersweet frosting. You see, the extra ticket was intended for Cherry on Top, and ultimately became Papa Benchly’s a few hours after my relationship with her ended. As much as she may have subconsciously expected it, my impression is that our break-up came as a surprise to her (even if we know it’s coming, we still don’t want to believe it). And with as many break-ups as I’ve been through in my life, I still don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the respective pains of breaking a heart or having my heart broken. But to ignore the next surprise of the night is to not acknowledge the other (equally distinct) half of that bittersweet frosting. You see, as great as Ray Lamontagne was, he wasn’t my favorite musical act of the evening. That honor goes to the opening band, the phenomenal The Low Anthem. You should expect to hear more about them in the next year. And I will expect to one day wax poetic to my son about the time I saw them open for Ray Lamontagne.

Whether you call them a box of chocolates (or caramel), coincidences, serendipity, or happenstance, we can all admit that life is full of these tiny surprises. Happenstance is the title of a French film starring one of my favorite actresses, Audrey Tautou, in a plot based on the Butterfly Effect, the theory that even the smallest variant can alter the future in grand ways (the original title was translated as The Beating of the Butterfly’s Wings). The movie was essentially the 97-minute feature-film-version of the ongoing TV series How I Met Your Mother. Both the film and the TV show revolve around a protagonist looking for his/her “true love”; the obstacles and triumphs each experiences along the way; and the seemingly-random, but ultimately-important events that point each in the right direction. And if you think I’m not a fan of both the film and the TV show, then, well, you haven’t been paying attention the last five(!) blogging years.

All of this is to say that the question that has been occupying my mind lately has been whether or not these moments in my life have a purpose; and to be specific, whether they can be interpreted as some sort of indicator of my life’s purpose. We all like to think we have a purpose in life. In the underrated film Road Trip, one of the characters says he can’t die young: “Something tells me the people of Earth are going to need me.” And I’d be lying if I said that on occasion, I hadn’t felt the same way. As chaotic and scary as this world can be, isn’t it comforting to think each life has a master plan in the shape of a big inviting safety net? Get your heart broken? Don’t worry, it’s just part of the plan. Your car got towed because you tested the Rite Aid parking gods one too many times? That’s OK, everything happens for a reason. Afraid of failing? No need to; failure is just a lesson waiting to happen. And the more we believe this, the less we fear those leaps of faith, the more confident we become, and the less inhibited we act. Through our acceptance of the unknown, we find our strength.

But what if we’re wrong? What if there is nothing guiding us except dumb luck and chance? What if we have every reason to be afraid and are naïve to think otherwise? What if, like Wile E. Coyote, we’ve run off a cliff and the only thing keeping us afloat is our ignorance of the air beneath our feet? And to beat this analogy to death, what if the path we Road Runners have chosen through the mountains of life is simply a Trompe-l’œil? As has been the trend lately, I’m afraid I don’t have an answer except to say follow your heart. And because the blessings in my life have me feeling overly optimistic today, I’ll even go so far as to say maybe if you follow your heart, you’ll find your purpose and end up proving you were right all along. In that sense, I guess Ray Lamontagne was right after all: “The answer is within you.”

"Another boring romantic, that’s me."

Ms. Parker has often joked that in the game of our friendship, when points are scored for visits to the other’s home, I have thus far beaten her by a score of 5-0. Not one to be shutout, though, last month, Ms. Parker made the score 5-1 when she led off the third inning of our lives with a solo blast to left-center. For my baseball-challenged readers (read: reader) out there, that means she hit a homerun; and for those of you who are figuratively challenged by metaphors (or is that metaphorically-challenged, figuratively speaking?), that means she visited me in Vermont. Inspired by my close proximity to Ben and Jerry’s (or was it the other way around?), Ms. Parker and her cousin, Cousin J, drove up north to the land of cheese, maple syrup, gay marriages, and me (listed, of course, not necessarily in order of preference).

After a day spent sampling Vermont’s finest, the three of us settled into an American Flatbread restaurant booth where Sarah the L joined us, marking the first time those two Round Table friends had ever met. We ordered salads, a few drinks, and four different types of flatbreads split between two pies from our waitress who happened to be a friend of Sarah the L and proved as much with a hug. At some point during our meal, The Heinous Shrew walked by our booth on her way to crash her friend’s date. Later that night, Ms. Parker commented on how small our small city was and that she would hate to live in such a place where encounters like these were the norm. I think she’d probably go so far as to suggest that this is the same personality trait that makes her, in her opinion, a person whom the homeless find “unapproachable,” which, incidentally, recent trends would seem to suggest is a trait I don’t possess (but that’s a comment on my city’s homeless situation, which is best set aside for another blogging day).

Ms. Parker’s remark made me question my own reality: do I enjoy a city small enough that the aforementioned random encounters occur on an almost daily basis? Or would I rather live in a town with so many bars that hardly anyone knows my name? What’s my perfect balance of community and privacy? This is a question I’ve pondered on many occasions and quite often in the three weeks since I started this blog entry. And until four days ago, I didn’t have an answer. You see, I never know when I’m going to find the inspiration to write a blog entry, and when I finally start one, I never know how it’s going to end. My creative process resembles that of a junior high school metal shop class: countless bold ideas, quite a few stops and starts, and a finished project that never resembles the original plans. (That I’m even capable of producing a complete and coherent sentence is a sort of miracle in and of itself.)

Typically, most of my blog entries begin on my walk to work, an 8-minute jaunt filled with sounds of school children (if I’m on time), school bells (if I’m not), construction workers beginning their day spent fixing up a recently burned house, cars accelerating a little too fast for a side street, and the city busses idling as they wait for their respective passengers. Like that metal shop class, this walk doesn’t exactly overflow with inspiration. Thankfully, it’s what I learned in elementary school (how to be creative) and college (how to tell a story) that lets me utilize this time. And so, I spend my time daydreaming about my life, finding patterns and themes within that life, figuring out if they’re interesting to me, and then slowly attempting to make them sound interesting to you. Sometimes I end up with a finely crafted metal basketball hoop, and sometimes I end up with a pointless piece of scrap metal with no ending in sight. Whatever I end up with, though, you can rest assured it wasn’t what I originally planned to make.

My continuing struggle with the writing process was on my mind recently when I heard the claim that writers are a great source of wisdom because they spend their lives observing human nature in an attempt to accurately reproduce it on the page. The theory is that anyone who studies humans to the point when they know exactly what a fictional character would do in a hypothetical situation must understand nonfictional people in realistic settings. I hardly ever feel bold enough to offer a dissenting view in someone else’s house (especially this particular house), so I chose to keep my opinion to myself and instead share it here: I don’t agree.

I think writers only know what their characters would do in a situation simply because said characters reside in the imaginations of said writers. Claiming that an understanding of their character implies an understanding of society is not unlike claiming to know what another person is craving for lunch simply because you’re craving corned beef. And besides, to believe that this is proof that writers know the answers to most of life’s questions is to ignore how imperfect the lives of these writers are. We can’t answer most of our own questions, so how could we possibly answer yours?

In an effort to have some of my questions answered, and for reasons maybe Ms. Parker, Sarah the L, and Robin Williams would understand, last Sunday afternoon I found myself sitting next to Mary (nicknamed for various reasons) in a church she and her friends had started a few years ago. This is where I heard the theory about writers having answers, and this is where I met an assortment of characters whose (nick)names will have to wait for another day. And through these characters, I Ultimately found myself sitting side-by-side Mary in a Wednesday night discussion group, in front of a coffee table on which the homeowner had placed a coffee mug that had printed on it the name of Papa Benchly’s church. After quick Sherlock-Holmes-like detective work, I discovered that my father was a mentor to the homeowner. A small town, indeed.

The group’s discussion centered on the question, “What is church?” and at one point, a debate broke out regarding how many people were needed for a church to exist. Some claimed you needed a community to help your faith grow; I posited that only one person was needed “to go to church.” Mary’s view was that a person can only evolve (spiritually or otherwise) so much through the lessons he/she learns from personal mistakes; that to evolve to his/her full potential, a person needs to learn from others as well. I won’t say that I changed my opinion, but I will confess that Mary and the others convinced me that it does, in fact, take a village to evolve.

And that’s when I realized how much I loved feeling part of a community and the random encounters that accompany such a relationship. I don’t think I ever feel as alive as I do when one of my trees falls in the forest and my friends are around to hear it. Through these moments, I find joy, the answers to my questions, the inspiration to write, and sometimes even the perfect ending for my blog.

Migrate Love Story

This morning, I heard the honkings of the first geese of the season returning to their northern homes after a winter spent vacationing in the southern sun. Their appearance is one rung in the ladder that leads my community from the desolate depths of winter up and out to our long-awaited Vermont summer reward. After brunch with my friend, Gina, I ventured downtown to Uncommon Grounds, navigating through a flock of college kids who had migrated down the hill after a winter spent in their dorms. I even saw the obligatory fraternity brother wearing his shorts approximately two weeks too early, which is yet another rung in that ladder.

I’m now sitting in the back of the coffee shop at a table at which, 6 years earlier, I awkwardly made conversation with a blind date. The blind date didn’t lead to anything (as was often the case back then in that infamous 2003) except a string of more blind dates at other Burlington establishments. In fact, if hard-pressed, I’m sure I could think of a date for 90% of the restaurants, bars, theatres, parks, and barns in the area. Let’s face it: the longer you live somewhere, the easier it is for you to find the remains of past heartaches splattered like graffiti love poems on the walls of businesses. If you add in the heartaches of all of your friends, you’ll find every inch of town covered with the tags of exes.

Last summer, while she and I were experiencing our respective relationship heartaches, Sarah the L and I noticed what seemed to be a trend in our generation: all around us (i.e., friends, relatives, coworkers, friends of friends, new roommates, etc.), couples were breaking up. Even Ms. Darling and I bonded over our respective break-ups. There was no overlooking it; the Summer of 2008 was the Summer of Lovesickness. I asked Sarah the L recently if she had any theories as to why this happened. Jokingly (I think), she blamed Barack Obama. She said in a “year riddled with messages of ‘change’ and ‘hope,’” … people couldn’t help but wonder if they should upgrade their Bush for an Obama. She also thought the Summer of Lovesickness could be explained by a person’s reasonable tendency to respond to a friend’s “personal growth through trial” by reflecting on needed growth in his/her own life. Humans are impressionable creatures and for the same reasons a floor of college girls ends up on the same menstrual cycle by the end of a semester, a group of close friends most likely travels similar emotional-growth routes.

I posed this question to Sarah after a quick glimpse at an ex’s Facebook page (you do it, too) confirmed what I had long-before assumed: Hypothetical was now married (thus making her boyfriend’s Hypothetical now her husband’s Factual) and consequently, had become yet another in a long line of exes who had married the first serious boyfriend she dated after me (an ever-expanding sorority of women that also includes Widget, The Redhead, Stalker Girl, and The PT [it’s also worth noting that San Fran Girl and I never officially dated, but after our falling-out, she started dating the man to whom she’s now engaged]). This confirmed my long-standing belief that at some point in my life I had become Penultimate Man, the noble super-hero doomed to a life of boosting various women’s self esteems just enough for them to spread their wings and fly off to their future husbands. Considering I boosted Ms. Darling’s self esteem before sending her back to her stripper-loving ex, I wouldn’t be surprised if she got engaged to him within the year.

After spending a day contemplating my curse (aka, my exgirlfriends’ blessing), I asked Sarah what she thought it would take to become Ultimate Man. She wasn’t entirely sure because she has been dealing with similar demons, but she hoped one day soon she could rip open her shirt to show the world the blaze of UW (Ultimate Woman) across her chest, thus confirming my long-standing belief that she’s an exhibitionist.

Because I’m convinced that it is the perfect metaphor for every situation in life (including concerns about one’s penultimate tendencies), I’m yet again reminded of rock climbing. I haven’t talked about my adventures with rock climbing recently because after steadily improving for two months, my climbing skills have frustratingly hit a plateau. I should have known my progress would eventually decelerate: I have a history of excelling at a learned skill (e.g., guitar playing; mathematics; chess) only to reach my natural limit beyond which I can’t improve without prolonged resolute training, something my Benchly-of-Many-Skills, Master-of-None will-power has prohibited me from ever accomplishing. I’m determined to excel at this sport, though, and so I’m doing the only things in my control to ensure that that happens: consistent practice, and learning from other climbers. And as I direct my climbing questions to more experienced climbers, because I’m terrified of being Penultimate Man forever, I pose my relationship questions to my friends.

In addition to Sarah, I solicited love advice from CP and she responded with disbelief that I had asked her; she doesn’t consider herself an expert on relationships, though, she noted, her relationship had thus far survived 10 years. But truthfully, as much time as Sarah and I spend pondering how to keep love afloat, and as painfully educational as our break-ups have been, and as much success as CP has had at cultivating her love, and as much unsolicited advice as I’ve received in the last year, I honestly don’t think any of us have any idea of how to succeed at love with or without really trying. If you think I’m wrong, just look at our society’s divorce rates.

Uncommon Grounds is closing soon and I’m afraid, my dear readers (read: reader), that I don’t have an answer for you. I wonder if I ever will. And as I prepare to venture home against a gorgeous sunset backdrop (with views like this, can you blame the geese for coming back each spring?) while being serenaded with the sounds of college kids and geese, a bird that spends the majority of its life devoted to its “mate for life,” I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m just looking for the answers in the wrong place.

The rain’s turned into snow…

Four years ago, Mia Wallace and I joined Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Peace Corp Girl, and Head in Hinesburg to mourn the end of yet another year while simultaneously celebrating the beginning of the next one. After Mia Wallace shared with me her belief that how you celebrate New Year’s Eve impacts how you spend the rest of the year, I made sure to do my part in helping to plan a great evening. I even went so far as to create the first of what has now been five straight Mr. Benchly’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve Super Mixes. I made a copy for each partygoer. And though I did my best to make the CD a soundtrack for the evening, what I was actually doing was attempting to create a soundtrack for my life.

I know I’m not alone when I say that I’m intrigued at the thought of having a movie soundtrack play in the background of my everyday life. Whether it’s an inspirational Explosions in the Sky song for the walk to the Election Day voting booths; or a heartbreaking Bright Eyes song playing on the drive home from a break-up; or the upbeat Belle & Sebastian song that makes the stroll down Church Street that much more entertaining; or the hopeful Beatles song seemingly inspired by that first kiss; I’ve often dreamed of my life being set to music. As Caden Cotard said, every person in the world is a lead in his or her story. If that’s true, don’t we all deserve a musical accompaniment?

One song that has never made its way onto one of my Super Mixes despite its rightful claim to be there is the late great Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Auld Lang Syne.” The song tells the tale of two old lovers running into each other in their hometown and then spending the snowy evening drinking and reminiscing of days gone by. They toast their past and their present, and they attempt a conversation riddled with “emptiness.” In one of my favorite lines, Fogelberg says that the two were “living in our eloquence.”

I can’t think of a better way to describe a conversation between two old flames than how Fogelberg paints the picture in his song. Anyone who has ever experienced such an encounter firsthand knows that interacting with an ex is a complicated dance: there’s the obvious connection that drew you to each other in the first place, but it’s been marred by whatever drama that inspired your break-up; depending on how much time has passed, feelings are either confused or gone altogether and with them has gone the love-is-blindness that helped you overlook your ex’s flaws. What remains and the only thing capable of sustaining the conversation is the eloquence of your words. But your relationship has already ended for good reason and it’s inevitable that you’ll “run out of things to say.” Such is your fate as exes.

Despite “Same Auld Lang Syne”’s especially relevant subject matter this past holiday season (considering my break-up with Ms. Darling in the rainy autumn), it failed once more to make the final cut for my most recent Super Mix. Instead, I tried yet again to create a soundtrack for my life and, as embarrassing as this is to admit, like a documentarian trying to rewrite history, my song choices reflected my hope at reconciliation with Ms. Darling. A few of you received copies of the Super Mix before, predictably, I realized how unhealthy such a compilation was; I suppose that these copies will now be considered collector’s items. The lesson learned here is that though we each are leads in our own stories, we can’t act out our lives; we can only live them. Since that day, I’ve done my best to live my life to the fullest.

What’s so sad about Fogelberg’s song is that it’s autobiographical; it’s a genuine soundtrack to his life because these are words he actually lived. And it’s a song that will never be mistaken for a hopeful one. At the end of the night, the old flames kiss and go their separate ways back to their separate lives. Fogelberg sings, “Just for a moment, I was back at school and felt that old familiar pain. As I turned to make my way back home, the snow turned into rain.” Ms. Parker and I have debated the meaning of these lines and I’m not sure that we ever settled on an ultimate interpretation, but I don’t think that it’s much of a stretch to say that Fogelberg was going for symbolism with his words. My belief is that the snow represented joy or hope, and the rain, sadness or realism.

This song and my interpretation of its symbolic lyrics were on my mind late last year on an unseasonably warm and rainy December day when, on my walk to work, I heard a woman say to her friend, “well, at least it’s better than snow.” As timing would have it (and you know how this blog and its author love timing), this depressing, global-warming-loving comment happened two days after I met Cherry on Top, and inspired me to write her an email to tell her about it. I told her that though I may not ski, and though I’ll most likely feel differently in April, even I will admit that in the winter, I prefer snow to rain. And later that day, as I typed another email to her, adding yet another page to this new chapter in my life, the rain outside turned into snow.

Benchly’synecdoche

Although I know it’s most certainly not his intention, the great Charlie Kaufman has a knack for timing the release of his movies to coincide with transitional moments in my life when I’m in need of some sort of guidance or inspiration. The words that pour off of his scripts directly through the movie screens have always seemed directed at me. I’ve come away from each viewing feeling refreshed or renewed in some way. Repeated viewings of Kaufman films provide further intellectual and/or spiritual stimulation, but nothing quite like the first time.

For instance, Sarah the L and I went to see Adaptation as my relationship with Widget was dying its fairly-quick-yet-painful-nonetheless-death and I found comfort in a scene between the sibling characters, Charlie and Donald. In the scene, Charlie remembered a time back in high school when the love of Donald’s life made fun of him behind his back. Donald said he knew they were making fun of him and Charlie asked why then did he look so happy? Donald replied that he loved her to which Charlie said, “but she thought you were pathetic.” And Donald’s reply shed light on Charlie’s heartache and mine: “That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you.” Five years later and that scene still resides in the forefront of my heart and mind. And it was something I thought of when I walked into the theatre to see Kaufman’s most recent movie, Synecdoche, New York, all the while hoping I’d find some sort of new wisdom that might help point my life in the right direction.

I’ve spent the last week since viewing Kaufman’s latest trying to understand what my eyes saw. My first reaction was to compare the movie to an overhead projector straight out of a high school class. I left the theatre feeling as if, in an effort to tell the story of one man’s life, Kaufman prepared five transparent sheets, each with its own form of art (e.g., a Hemingway short story; a Norman Rockwell painting; an Annie Leibowitz photograph; lyrics to a Bob Dylan song; and a page ripped straight out of Grey’s Anatomy of the Human Body), and placed them down on the projector, one on top of the other. The end result, of course, was a blur of confusion with faint traces of unimaginable beauty, and the feeling that Kaufman had failed to bring meaning and understanding of life through art.

Now, six days later, I’m overwhelmed with the revelation that in his film’s study of the life of one man, this blurred confusion with traces of beauty is precisely what Kaufman was striving to achieve. How else to describe the indescribable life than to be unable to completely describe it? Even more mind-blowing was the realization that Kaufman came closer to bringing clarity to life than I originally thought.

The literary-ites among my reader(s), as well as those of you with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, are most likely familiar with the word “synecdoche,” but for those of you who, like me, spent their entire lives without hearing this word until Charlie Kaufman delivered it into our consciousness like a line from an Alexander Pope poem, I’ll give a brief lesson. According to my trusty dictionary, a synecdoche is a figure of speech in which either a part is used to represent the whole, the whole for a part, the specific for the general, the general for the specific, or the material for the thing made from it. For example, if I told someone to use his head, because I was talking about his brain (specific) but said his head instead (general), I’ve just used a synecdoche. Other examples include saying “steel” instead of “sword,” “wheels” for a “car,” and a “Judas” for “traitor.”

If you consider the definition for “synecdoche” when thinking of this film, it becomes clear why Kaufman titled the movie as such. Everything and everyone in this world is both the sum of its parts and part of the sum. In other words (some of which are Kaufman’s), every person in the world is a “lead in their own story,” but also the extra in someone else’s. Each person is a synecdoche. Furthermore, the tragedy of Caden Cotard, played brilliantly by the resplendent Philip Seymour Hoffman, is that his life’s work, which turns into a work of his life, cannot be completed until his death. Each separate moment of his life, including his death, makes up the bigger picture of his life and, thus, his life is a synecdoche.

As a writer, I found Kaufman’s film and this newly-learned literary term equal parts comforting and haunting. In “synecdoche,” here was a word that accurately described Benchly’sword: one blog made up of numerous individual pieces, each of which complete on its own but also meant to be combined with every other piece to define one person’s life. My life, as complicated as it can be in its worst moments (goodbye hugs void of any feeling on a cold fall evening), and as simple as it can be in its best (sleeping in on a cold, December Sunday morning), is one story made up of a seemingly-unending-but-obviously-inevitably-ending (and I’ll admit, oftentimes inappropriately long-winded) parade of anecdotes. This blog is my play and I am the lead character.

I’m haunted, however, because I know that though each posted anecdote may be complete, I’ll never be able to finish every anecdote of my life. As thorough as I am, it’ll be impossible for me to complete my life’s work. The best I can do is enjoy each moment (good or bad) and find solace in the fact that I’m able to share most of these moments with my reader(s). And if ever I’m lucky enough to be able to share them with my Maxine/Amelia/Clementine/Hazel, after all that I’ve been through in this life, and especially in this year, she would most certainly be the cherry on top.

"With every mistake, we must surely be learning…"

Thanks to the Photo Album Project of 2003–2008, the majority of my photographs since 1992 are now filed chronologically in no less than 10 albums, each with its own decorative cover carefully selected to suggest a maturity void of any effeminate qualities (see also my dark red, manly-patterned Martha Stewart comforter). Buried deep within one of these albums is a photograph taken at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC in 1994; a picture whose purpose is actually expressed in the biblical quote contained within its frame: “Only guard yourself and guard your soul carefully lest you forget the things your eyes saw, and lest these things depart your heart all the days of your life. And you shall make them known to your children, and to your children’s children” (Deuteronomy 4:9). In simpler (read: more John-McCain/Sarah-Palin-friendly) terms, the heart of this message is clear: honor history by learning from it and ensuring it isn’t repeated.

In an unintended bit of poignancy, this photograph is surrounded in these 10 albums by photographs of the various serious, semi-serious, and not-so-serious girlfriends/dates/girl-space-friends in my life, each of whom has been responsible for at least one valuable lesson about life, love, my flaws, my strengths, what I’m capable of in relationships, what I need to improve, what I want out of a relationship, what I shouldn’t put up with, etc. Whether it’s the woman who first called to attention my caretaker personality trait, or the ones who made me realize my susceptibility to dependency, or the ones who forced me to take responsibility for my role in our relationships, or the ones who helped me understand that disagreements can be healthy, I’ve learned a lot in the 15 years that I’ve been dating. And although I feel a tad shameful applying the lesson from a Holocaust-related-quote to a 30-something’s love life (I find my solace and justification in another lesson learned from the Holocaust: that each life is valuable and worth discussing), I think it goes without saying (though when has that ever stopped me from saying it anyway?) that if I ever want to find myself in a healthy relationship capable of sustaining the Long Haul, I need to protect these lessons learned from being erased in my memory like out-of-focus digital photos taken one-too-many-glasses-of-wine into a Friday night.

Now that I’ve started seeing a therapist, my past relationships have taken center stage in my memory’s playhouse. Although quite a bit of our 50-minute hours have been spent discussing the Benchlys who, in the last two and a half months, have started to resemble an overly dramatic and meddling family straight out of a bad 80s nighttime serial drama, we have also taken the time to figure out why my past relationships have failed, in hopes that my next one won’t. And though I finally caved at Mama Benchly’s twentieth suggestion that I seek therapy simply because I wanted to vent about my family, I’ll be the first one to admit how nice it has been to discuss my ideas/fears/questions about relationships with an educated, soft-spoken professional, affectionately nicknamed The Trash Heap (I can’t take credit for this one; this was Sarah the L’s idea). For although I pay her and so we’re naturally at risk for the “customer is right” mentality creeping in, her brutal honesty thus far has assured me that I can consider her opinion to be unbiased and caring.

The Trash Heap has been invaluable lately for a reason I’m sure my reader(s) won’t be surprised to hear simply because today I’m about as transparent as a political ad or election running-mate choice: I’ve started dating someone new. Her name is Ms. Darling (Ms. Parker: I have faith that you’ll figure this one out) and a darling she is. In the grand scheme of things, “what it is we’re doing” is fairly fresh and still carries with it that new car smell called Confidence that excitedly says, “This is the greatest car to ever be driven off the lot. I can’t believe it only has 2 miles on it! And look at the cup holders!” In other words, we’re still in that stage when you’re blown away by the refreshing and exciting new addition to your life, and you spend your time together discovering that second glove compartment or whether or not two bikes can fit in the back. But we’re not kidding ourselves. We’re hopeful that this is going in the direction of the Long Haul (and there are certainly days when I’m convinced that it is), but we expect road bumps. We expect headlights and taillights to go out, and maintenance required lights to go on. We expect them because that’s what our respective pasts have taught us, among many other lessons, and to remember and learn from these pasts is to honor them.

(I must admit, this time around I feel an overwhelming sense of comfortable calmness. Ms. Darling excites me and makes me feel relaxed at the same time. This is new for me and most definitely worthy of The Trash Heap’s input.)

I realized recently that the time has come to purchase an 11th photo album. I’m starting to feel overloaded with developed pictures awaiting their appropriate place in my chronologically documented history. Included in those pictures are new ones of Ms. Darling from the hikes we’ve been on, one of our marathon dates, the night we got lost under the stars, and a recent bike ride. These are moments I already know I don’t want to forget, lest these things depart my heart all the days of my life.

"Describe your ideal weekend…"

A friend of mine who has tried unsuccessfully to find love from the online personals dating scene, recently decided to let her personals account expire. In 9 days, she will officially give up trying to find that all-too-elusive plug-in-the-wall love. Not wanting to waste those 9 days that have been paid in full, and in recognition of the fact that this friend is a good catch, I took it upon myself to play matchmaker. I devised a thoughtful (read: random and illogical) and carefully crafted (read: long winded) question and answer sheet designed specifically to help this friend find “Mr. Right.” To paraphrase the official title, I called this the Operation Find Mr. Right.

Based on my friend’s answers to the questions, I was able to find two eligible bachelors who seemed to be worth her time. However, because this is Burlington, VT (“where everybody knows your name…”), she had already been in touch with both bachelors and had identified them as jerks. Consequently, my career as a matchmaker was short-lived.

This experience reminded me of my own attempt to find love through the personals, which Sarah the L and I have affectionately nicknamed “2003.” Following a break-up from a long-term relationship and its subsequent doomed rebound with Widget, I turned to the personals. This was at a time when online dating was still considered taboo (so much so that I honestly think this information will be news to my family) and eharmony was simply a misspelled word.

Like everyone else, in my profile, I did my best to accurately describe the kind of person I was, as well as the kind of person I was seeking. And like everyone else, I most likely exaggerated in an attempt to show my absolute best side. For if I’ve learned one thing about human nature, it’s this: when people find themselves on display in life, be it as a guest at a party, or one half of a first date, or meeting potential in-laws for the first time at a family birthday dinner, they often end up in poses that reflect who they think they should be, rather than who they are. It’s not a bad thing per se; rather, I think it’s an attempt at self-preservation: we don’t reveal our true and/or complete selves until we’re comfortable and confident enough with our relationships to know that we won’t get stomped on. This is reason #1 why I try to take first impressions with a grain of salt.

When I was searching for Mr. Right for my friend, I laughed upon discovering that, although the formats of the sites have changed, the content has stayed very much the same. There are still people who provide an impossibly long and unbelievable list of daily hobbies/extracurricular activities, which, logic suggests, is simply a laundry list of things done only once in a life thus far. There are still people who give just a little too much information in their profile. And there are still the spelling challenged whose errors are inadvertently comical. (For example, one guy said he was looking for a woman who “complimented” his qualities. Of course, we know he meant “complement,” but still, can’t you just imagine a guy asking a woman to applaud him at the end of their date?)

And, as was the case back in 2003, it appears as though the dating sites have continued the trend of making sure their users answer variations of the following questions: “What do you like to do on weekends?” “What’s your ideal Saturday like?” “What do you like to do for fun?” I found myself wondering how I answered these questions as a 25-year-old, and whether or not those answers would be the same as the ones I’d give today as a 31-year-old. I’m sure the details have changed ever so slightly in that time, but I bet the general picture has remained the same:

I like to play Scrabble, and watch movies (maybe a good Coen Bros. movie), and daydream, and hike (Camel’s Hump especially), and eat good food (maybe some thai), and read (for my book club or myself), and write, and play chess, and play softball, and go for a bike ride (onto the causeway), and lay out under the stars, and spend time with family, and cuddle with a pet, and go for a drive, and get lost in the woods, etc. And like everyone else, I guess I’m seeking someone who complements me and compliments me.

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.