Category: Sarah the L

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.

The Stolen Child

Part I
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand

One piece of Benchly gossip I neglected to mention in my last entry is what my favorite Christmas present was this past year. As the wrapping-paper dust settled on another Benchly Christmas, Mama and Papa Benchly said, “Don’t forget. [Mr. Benchly] has one more present.” Considering there were no boxes left unopened, I was puzzled and my expression said as much. And it was at this point that everyone in the room turned in my direction and told me in unison that Sister #1 was pregnant. So yes, that’s right, faithful readers, if the fates have their way, Niece #4 will be gracing our presence in August.

It’s been a long time since my last entry. In fact, it’s been more than a month since my discussion of second cousins, and while I’ve been actively responding to other people’s entries, it can safely be said that I haven’t been keeping up with my fair share of the blogging. And for that, I apologize. I’d like to get back into the habit of posting at least two significant entries every week; I just need the will power to do so.

I think it’s fair to say that my relationship with Freckles has affected my writing. Before Freckles, I was lonely, miserable, and filled to the blonde-haired brim with inspiration for meaningful (read: misery-filled) entries. But after that fateful June day when Freckles charmed me by saying she was a “bad, I’m talking off-the-road bad driver,” my focus has been more on her and less on my writing. But I don’t blame her, and you shouldn’t either.

I think Sarah the L will concur with my assertion that writers are most productive in their bitter, heartache days than at any other time in their lives. Knowing this, my new goal in life is to cherish and focus on my happiness while simultaneously channeling the miserable emotions from my past for my writing. If I can find a balance between the two, I believe I’ll be able to be both happy and a good writer.

Fortunately or, more to the point, unfortunately, my life as of late has been filled with some negativity that has Inspiration written all over it. And so, consequently, in this first entry of the new year, I’ll be able to draw on emotions from the present negativity, rather than worry about experimenting with those from the past. But before the negative, first some positive because, as is often the case, there was a poetic quiet before the storm…

As some of my 5 or 6 readers may remember, my last entry described my excitement over the revelation that a member of my family was performing on Broadway. Well, thanks in whole to the unbridled generosity of Freckles’ family (both extended and immediate), 2005 ended with quite a harmonious bang. Following a limo ride from Pennsylvania into New York City, and a rewarding dinner at a fine Italian restaurant in the Broadway district, Freckles’ aunt handed us 6th row center seats to Spamalot (aka, my second cousin’s show). Both the show and my relative were amazing and although I’m slightly bitter that my cousin was a no-show at our last-minute-planned meet-and-greet after the show, I was excited when Freckles and I were able to score autographs from both Hank Azaria and David Hyde Pierce.

The remainder of our New Year’s trip to Pennsylvania was spent celebrating Freckles’ cousin’s engagement, eating a never-ending supply of delicious snacks and meals, fighting off the little cousins for time on the X-Box (and losing), shopping the outlets, and aiming my paintball gun at the freckled redhead wearing the bright red sweatshirt who was aiming her paintball gun at me. Not only did I discover that I can survive and prosper in a paintball game, I also discovered, thanks to a direct hit to my middle finger, that I won’t ever want to play paintball again. And then, as the sun began to rise on the new year, I stood on the beach and watched the ocean water of my life recede to the horizon at an alarmingly fast rate.

Part II
For the world’s more full of weeping
Than you can understand.

Some days, when I’m overwhelmed with the anguish that seems to have set up shop in my world, I can find ample solace in the promise of my sister’s unborn and uncorrupted child. Most days, though, this baby can be only what he/she should be: a sweet footnote to an otherwise tumultuous month.

After enjoying our four-day weekend, Freckles and I returned from our Pennsylvania trip unenthusiastically ready to take on the working world again. First thing Tuesday morning, we were greeted by our company’s president, who read a statement he had been assigned by his bosses to read. As it turned out, the statement was, in effect, our termination notice. The company that owned our company had decided to close shop, move most of the work to a sister company, and offer one-fourth of the workers jobs at a sister company. As luck would have it, Freckles and I found ourselves in the group of workers “traded” to another company. As The Doctor said, “I feel as though I just used my eighth of nine lives here.”

It’s an odd feeling, this feeling of survivor’s guilt at the site of 150 of your coworkers doing the Lay-Off March. These are people with families; some with very little education and/or limited skills who fear the world outside of this small Vermont town they’ve known their whole lives. And yet I still have a job. With that said, although my intentions are still to leave as soon as a better offer comes along, I won’t pretend that the predominant emotion I’ve felt the last month is anything other than relief at having this job on which to fall back. But even so, other events in the month have served as reminders that life is more important than the company from which your next paycheck is coming.

I mentioned earlier that anguish had seemed to lay its roots in my world. I think that that’s the gentlest way to describe the fact that, in the past month, the lives of three of my loved ones have been greatly affected by four instances of cancer. The best friend of one of my best friends lost her fight with cancer earlier this month. And in the past month or so, I learned that the fathers of three wonderful women in my life were diagnosed with various cancers. After looking on from a secondhand point of view, I’ve learned how incredibly helpless one can feel at the hands of this powerful and mysterious sickness.

Again, I think of my sister’s unborn child. When anxiously awaiting all the joyous moments of this soul’s life, it’s difficult to overlook all the heartache that awaits it, too. Why do we do this? Why is it our pleasure to bring children into a world of pain and suffering? It seems that for every child that fulfills her childhood dream of starring on Broadway, there’s one that begins to successfully enter her adult life only to discover a loved one at risk to exit it. But then. Then, there are unexpected moments in your life that bring with them such a clarity that helps you recognize how worthwhile your life is.

And so it was that I found myself in the passenger seat of a car driven by Freckles, shaken up after skidding off the road into a snow bank/ditch, checking to see if Freckles was OK, making sure I was OK, fighting off the inevitable shock to determine what needed to be done, and saying a silent prayer of gratitude for being allowed the opportunity to continue to share my life with someone so special. Yes, the world may be more full of weeping than a child can understand, but as you grow older, you begin to realize that it’s mostly filled with love.

Big News

I learned something today. That’s not the big news. The big news comes later. I know you can hardly wait but you’ll have to deal because I want to share with you what I learned. And this is what I learned: I learned the difference between first, second, third, etc. cousins, as well as when to apply the term “removed.” You’re jealous; you’re thinking, “I want to know the difference!” But don’t be jealous. I’m going to share my knowledge with you right now.

The first, second, third, etc title for your cousins is directly related to your grandparents. Cousins who share two grandparents are considered first cousins. Cousins who have different grandparents, but who share great-grandparents are second cousins. Therefore, your children are second cousins to the children of your first cousins because they all share the same great-grandparents.

When the word “removed” is applied, it indicates that the two people described are from different generations. You and your aforementioned first cousins are from the same generation so there’s no removal; but you are from a different generation than your first cousin’s children. Therefore, they are your first cousins, once removed. If the children of your first cousins, once removed have children, those children are your first cousins, twice removed. And so on, and so forth. Make sense? Good. Now, onto the big news…

As all of you know, New Year’s Eve is quickly approaching, carrying with it the brand new year 2006. To celebrate the event, I’ll be traveling south to Freckles’ aunt and uncle’s house in Pennsylvania. These are the same all-too-generous extended family members who shared their lake home with me this past summer. Freckles and I found out last night that their latest gift is to bring us and the rest of the family to New York City tomorrow evening for the 8 o’clock show of Spamalot on Broadway. So before we ring in the new year, we’ll have an opportunity to witness one of the best entertainment accomplishments of the current year. As Mama and Papa Benchly, as well as Sarah the L and Head will tell you, this is a truly awesome gift! But that’s not the big news either.

When I told my father about these tickets, the following conversation ensued (with some poetic license on my part, including an inside joke that, I’m guessing, only Ms. Parker will get):

Papa Benchly: You should have your mother email Lauren to see if she can get you backstage!
Mr. Benchly: Lauren?
Papa Benchly: Lauren Kennedy.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: Your COUSIN, Lauren Kennedy.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: You know, your mother’s mother’s brother’s son’s daughter.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: Mr. Benchly, are you listening to me?
Mr. Benchly: Shove it.
Papa Benchly: Did you just say “shove it”?

Anyway, evidently, the daughter of Grandma Benchly’s nephew; aka, the daughter of Mama Benchly’s first cousin; aka, the granddaughter of Grandma Benchly’s brother; aka, Mama Benchly’s first cousin, once removed; aka, Mr. Benchly’s great-uncle’s granddaughter; aka, my second cousin; is currently starring as the Lady of the Lake in the Broadway hit show Spamalot!

And my mother emailed her, and she responded to say that if I let her know when I’ll be attending, she’d love to stick around after the show to meet me. Of course, Benchly family historians will remind us that we have, in fact, met once before: at an extended family reunion gathering in the Carolinas back in the early 80s, when I was ~7 and she was ~10. If it wasn’t so tacky, I’d bring a picture from that reunion to have her autograph. I’m so excited and oddly proud of a woman I’ve met only once in my life. Hopefully, tomorrow, she doesn’t sing like I do!

Now that I’ve revealed the big news (and yes, in fact, that was the big news), I hope that all of my loyal and, consequently, bored-out-their-mind readers have a wonderful and safe New Year’s Eve and I hope that, for all of you, the new year brings with it health, love, happiness, and an ultra-talented, famous second cousin (or third cousin, or fourth cousin, or 3rd cousin twice removed…)! I’ll see you in the new year…

Have I told you lately…

Each morning, after meeting up with Freckles and/or The Doctor for our daily car pool, and passing the other commuters (who, after many years of commuting, I have begun to recognize, sadly), and dealing with all the road rage and construction, and silently pretending that all the roadkill doesn’t bother me, I exit the interstate onto the access road that winds its way down an unending hill into the depressing granite town in which we work, and I peak my head around the off-ramp corner to see the spray-painted message that has been waiting for me on the interstate overpass bridge each and every weekday of my career: “Have I told you lately…”

The first day I saw this message, I understandably expected the second half to be spray-painted onto the second overpass bridge, but I was unpleasantly surprised to find the conclusion missing. As I’m sure most other drivers have done, I wondered aloud a number of different questions: What’s the second half of the message? Is it what I thought it was going to be? Is what I thought it was going to be any different from what everyone else thought it would be? Did the graffitist suffer heartache after spray-painting the first bridge and before marking the second one? Did he/she get arrested for vandalism? Why hasn’t it been erased after all this time?

In the (too many) number of years that I’ve been commuting to this job, I’ve had ample time to concoct my own story behind the “Have I told you lately…” graffiti. The abridged story that I’ve come up with goes something like this: a 17 year old boy, in love for the first time in his life, having decided to tell the world and his love of this love, spray painted the first half of the message onto the bridge. After marking the last of the ellipses, he slipped and fell to the ground, and just as he stood to shake off the gravel and shock that accompanies such a painful but survivable fall, a car heading under the overpass plowed into him; a collision that ultimately killed him. His girlfriend, on her way home in tears after cheating on her first love, climbed out of her car, fell to the ground next to her dying boyfriend, and though she tried to tell him one last time of her love, she could not find the words through her tears of guilt. And so, in yet another fictional poetic (read: ironic) twist for which I am infamous (subconsciously inspired by my first girlfriend in high school), both the girl’s and the boy’s words of love remained unspoken.

This story that I’ve created in my head is a product of the imagination-inspiring past-time of people-watching, a game that Montana Girl, Sarah the L, and I have perfected over the years. The object of the game is basically to come up with a back story for anyone and everyone who crosses your path. The more random and troubling the story, the better the entertainment value. Until I started contemplating how to write this blog entry, I never really understood why I liked the people-watching game so much. And then it hit me.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I don’t deal well with the unknown. Try to slip an inside joke by me, try to keep a secret from me, whisper something to someone else in my presence, tell me “I’ll tell you later,” and all I will do is make it my life mission to find out what I’m missing. I think this stems from my own insecurities (ie, my fear of being left out or isolated) and try as I might to obsess a little less, and relax a little more, I can’t. And thanks to another one of my insecurities (ie, my fear of rejection), in the absence of a certain truth, I react in the worst possible way: I invent my own idea of the truth that is far worse than any reality I’ll ever experience in my life. As you can imagine, in the past, whenever I’ve entered into a new relationship where uncertainty is always part of my daily diet, my insecurities have always stood guard with their knees shaking in front of my emotions, which brings me ever so transparently to the next paragraph; the one for which you’ve all been waiting.

Freckles and I have been spending quite a bit of time together the last few weeks and, as I’m sure you all would have been able to guess had I asked you to guess, that’s a bit of an understatement. Evidently, I wasn’t lying in my previous posting when I said I wouldn’t stand a chance in her 2-hours-a-day presence. It didn’t take long for either of us to realize that something special was developing between us and it didn’t take long after that for both of us to say something about it. We don’t know each other very well – only as well as a handful of weeks could possibly allow – but based on what I’ve discovered, I’ve learned that I want to know more.

I like Freckles. Among a million other unnamed positive traits, I like her intelligence, her insecurities, her humor, her stubbornness, her loyalty, her humbleness, her beauty, her fragility, her sincerity, and her purity. I think, above all else, though, what I find most endearing in her is that she has the same fears and questions that I have. She does not take me lightly and from this, I whole-heartedly believe that she never will. And the benefit to a relationship begun with both people involved eyeing potential heartache like a cub’s mother eyes a wolf a mile away, is that although we both feel drawn to each other, I get the sense that we’re both willing to go at a much slower pace than the one to which I’m accustomed.

It’s early yet, I know, and there are a number of unanswered questions and unfinished thoughts spray-painted in a clear and bold font on the side of a bridge, but though, from time to time, our imaginations and insecurities may get the best of our respective fears of heartache and lead us to answer those questions and finish those thoughts with irrational conclusions, I’m finding sweet solace in the fact that each new day that I spend with Freckles brings with it one more extraordinary reason to stay with her.

And then: you close your eyes, hope for the best, and jump.

The One With the Prom Video

Montana Girl and I recently went to see the new movie Batman Begins and unlike most Hollywood blockbusters out there, this one worked for me but not for the action-packed fight scenes or the logic-defying special effects. What I loved more than anything else about this movie were the many quiet scenes where the title character struggled with morality and grief and fear and all the other dramatic feelings that accompany a dramatic movie. As we were leaving the theatre, I thought about my favorite action movies and how my favorite moments from those movies rarely involve a punch or a gunshot or an explosion but rather an ironic statement or a genuine and heartfelt expression.

Saving Private Ryan was praised by critics for its realistic depictions of the violent World War II but the one scene that I remember more than most occurred between battles. Captain Miller (played by Tom Hanks) sat in a deserted German-destroyed French town with Private Ryan (Matt Damon), doing his best to comfort Ryan after breaking the news to him of his brothers’ deaths. Ryan said he couldn’t picture what his brothers looked like and Miller said that was because they needed to be placed into context. Miller then gave an example of how when he wants to think of his wife back home, he pictures her in their backyard pruning the rosebushes. Ryan then told a story of his brothers and ended it by asking Miller to describe his wife and the rosebushes. Miller’s response was simply, “No, no that one I save just for me.”

A lot has happened to me in the last few weeks and because I’m a perfectionist who couldn’t quite think of the proper way to document the events of my life in my blog, I basically neglected to mention any of the events at all. And consequently, you’ve missed quite a bit lately, which I’m going to try to do my best to recap now.

For starters, thanks to some insider information from my coworker Soccer Mom (named as such because she’s totally turning into one), I took the plunge and awkwardly asked Freckles if she would like to carpool with me and The Doctor. After warning me about her “bad…I’m talking off-the-road-bad” driving, she eagerly accepted my offer and we made plans to begin carpooling the next week. And from the very first car pool conversation with her (that, incidentally, touched upon nearly every taboo carpooling subject), I knew I would be thankful of my decision to include her in my commuting world. Quite simply, she’s someone I already want in my life.

In other news, Montana Girl and I ventured to the disc golf course 30 minutes away a handful of times in the past few weeks and thanks to another player with whom we played a round one day (an older man by the nicknameless name of Xander), who taught me a proper sidearm throw, my game has been substantially improved; and thanks to my always reliable backhand throw, I was able to birdie the first hole of my life, which, to be honest, was a bigger thrill than most people would ever expect it to be. Shortly thereafter, Montana Girl’s employer treated the two of us to a free blues concert and VIP tent pass at B’town’s recent Jazz Festival. Despite the fact that I declined the chance to eat frog legs, I had a great time and got to hear awesome music.

A few days later, Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, and I checked out a free Grace Potter concert but decided to leave early to avoid the inevitable 300-degree gymnasium evaporation. We then headed to a nearby softball field to check out a local women’s league softball game and quietly debated the homo-hetero ratio on each team. (My conservative 40-60 guess turned out to be a liberal one. In other words, there weren’t as many lesbian players as you would stereotypically think there would be.) We finally ended up at Sarah and Smoochie’s home where we ate some awesome homemade pizza and listened to Sarah play/practice/relearn her set-list for an upcoming open-mic performance. This quiet, private performance turned into an appropriate preparation when Sarah nixed her open-mic performance in favor of a quiet, public one on the Church Street Marketplace. For just over an hour that night, Smoochie Poo and I, as well as the Nomad, the Homeless Drunk, and the Paraplegic sat on the street and enjoyed some beautiful poetry told in sweet melodies.

And then the rains came and four days later, they have yet to cease, which I’m finding to be something placed perfectly between miserable and pretty. Every day feels like the moment before you’ve had enough time to learn whether or not someone is shedding tears of joy or sorrow; the world is crying, but why? And it makes me think back to all the confusing and mixed emotions I was feeling in the restaurant parking lot in the pouring rain that night. But that….that I’ll save just for me.

"She fades just out of sight so there isn’t any sweetness in the dreaming…"

When I was 14, I went on a weekend church retreat with Sister #2 and Papa Benchly to a tiny white church in a small town in southern Vermont. Before we left home, Mama Benchly had received word from her brothers that their father, my grandfather, was most likely on his deathbed. For a few hours, we tossed around the idea of staying home but then decided to leave with the understanding that if anything happened, we would come home right away.

Around 9 p.m. that first night of the retreat, while I was seated at a table joined with others to form a half-circle, the church office phone rang. One sound I can assuredly say is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, is the sound of a phone ringing in a hollow church on a quiet, small-town Friday evening. It’s so loud, you almost expect it to be God. The person who answered the phone said it was for Papa Benchly and in that split second, I knew who was on the other end of the phone and why. And to this day, I can still vividly recall Papa Benchly’s calm, yet pained expression as he passed by me and my sister on his way to answer the phone; and Sister #2’s fearful and sad expression, too; and I can still feel in my stomach the feeling of anxious dread I felt that night. It’s a feeling that accompanies any inevitable news of death, and it’s a feeling I felt when I woke this morning.

I first met Hypothetical on a Saturday morning in February when Montana Girl and I ventured into a Main Street consignment shop called Pam’s Place. The three of us were the only customers in the store that hour. Montana Girl took me there to search for her Mardi Gras parade costume; I went on the off chance I would find a cool outfit for an upcoming date with Peeps.

After a few short minutes of browsing through a depressingly small men’s section, my “Cute Girl Radar” sent urgent signals to my attention and moved me into a position where I could see Hypothetical. As Sarah the L and I like to say, she was “wife cute” (aka, on a strictly superficial level, someone I’d feel comfortable waking up next to for the rest of my life). She was wearing jeans and a grey, knee-length, pea-coat-like winter jacket, and her hair and make-up suggested she was in control of her life. She overheard my conversation with Montana Girl and took the opportunity to point out leather pants that might work with the parade outfit. While she paid for her clothes and as she left the store, I made a point of remembering her name; I can’t explain why except to say I felt like I’d be using it again someday. And I did.

In early March, the determined folks in the world of fate pushed Hypothetical into my life again and this time, I didn’t let her go. What followed were intense dreams and promises and kisses and smiles and text messages and hopes and hugs and cuddling and passion all rolled up into one big unhealthy fast start. And slowly, but surely, as is often the case when you mix ingredients out of order or too quickly, the flimsy foundation we had built began to crumble as we silently realized that our true personalities, though both drenched in heartfelt sincerity, were not a perfect match for one another. The death of us was inevitable and for the best, and yet I couldn’t help but fear it.

This morning, Hypothetical made official what we had unofficially felt in our hearts for awhile. And as I sit here pondering all the wonderful memories I’ll have of Hypothetical and succumbing to the tears that accompany the painful memories I won’t be able to ignore, I’m reminded of a conversation CP, Sarah the L, and I had about the superpowers we would each choose to possess if given the chance. Sarah said she would be Super Leap-Tall-Buildings-In-A-Single-Bound Lesbo-Loving Telepathic Chick, thus giving her the power to read the minds of lesbian, Empire State Building sightseers. CP said she wanted to be Super Flying Leper-Healing Invisible Woman, allowing her the opportunity to heal people and to be invisible and fly away if “the lepers got out of control.” I said I wanted to be Do-Over Man, not to be confused with Dover Man, the invincible capital of Delaware! I would have the ability to go back in time to correct my mistakes.

And so, as I file this Hypothetical chapter away, I can’t help but wonder one last hypothetical question. What if I never saw Hypothetical after Pam’s Place? What if I could go back in time to make it so our story ended the way it began?: Hypothetical left Pam’s Place. Montana Girl purchased the leather pants, I resisted the temptation to buy a cheap wine rack I didn’t need, and we left the store, heading up Main Street. On our walk to the Church Street Marketplace, Montana Girl turned to me and said, “where to next?”

Anyone who knows anything about me understands that very few words come out of my mouth without careful consideration for how they convey some sort of ironic or genuinely meaningful symbolism. Sometimes it’s blunt, like my “Hypothetically…” posting last month, and sometimes it’s subtle, like the last paragraph in each section of my “Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume II” posting last week. So it will come as a shock to most all of you when I end this posting in a tone lacking any subtle symbolism:

Hypothetical’s departure from my life hurts like hell. I want the pain to go away and I don’t think it will for awhile. But, if given the chance to go back in time to take away this pain, if I could be Do-Over Man for one day, I wouldn’t trade away one star-crossed minute with her for anything. She made me smile more than most. And I’m thankful for her.

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.

My life’s odometer

I found out last week that Scarlett and Young Dude are engaged! The question was popped during a romantic weekend getaway. The blushing fiancé told me they’ll be moving to North Carolina shortly and will return in the summer of 2006 for their wedding. Mazel tov!

In other news, Sarah the L was cast in the Spielpalast Cabaret! The troupe will be performing in Burlington one weekend only (last weekend in April) and will follow that up by touring the state over the following weekends. In celebration of this achievement, and to show my support, I offer up the following pledge to any of my friends or Sarah’s friends who should happen to stumble upon this blog: if you venture from out of state to attend the Burlington show, I’ll buy your Cabaret ticket for you so long as you join me front and center for the performance.

On a related note, shortly after her casting, Sarah the L discovered that Cute Redheaded Flask-in-Her-Cleavage Solo Girl from last year’s cabaret was none other than Cute Rainbow Belt Lesbian Biker Girl from the Loser Cruiser!!! What a small world!

And speaking of that old faithful hunk of public transportation funds…

…while riding the Cruiser last week, I noticed something tragic: Cute Red Hat Girl’s red hat sitting alone on one of the seats. For the next week, whenever someone exited the bus, someone else inevitably yelled, “Wait! You forgot your red hat!,” only to find out that the owner of the hat wasn’t on the bus. So it seems that, for whatever reason, Cute Red Hat Girl no longer needs the Cruiser, but as an offering to the Goddess of Safe Travels, and maybe as a symbol of her departure, her hat remains.

As I sat there pondering Cute Red Hat Girl’s whereabouts and current commuting options, I was reminded of my own reasons for using the Cruiser: Inga. She has been struggling as of late, but she’s still a faithful friend. And although her disbelief in fringe benefits has slowly convinced her to stop doing many of her mostly-inconsequential jobs (eg, the broken hinge on the arm rest/cup holder; the child proof but mostly Mr. Benchly proof locks to the backdoors; the refusal to open her hood in cold weather; the hole in the ceiling’s upholstery; the lack of heat, the CD player/radio that plays only the radio; etc), the one task I can always count on her to follow through with is keeping an accurate odometer.

As the years and miles have gone by, I’ve always been excited to see the beginning of a new ten thousand miles. And my favorite part is when, for example, the 150,000s are close to becoming the 160,000s, and in the last hundred miles, the 5 slowly turns into 6. Turning appropriately much slower than an hour hand on a clock, the second number on the odometer makes its way to a number it has seen only once before and will probably never see again.

It is in this random, once-in-a-many-months experience that I find the best reflection of my own life. From many hundred miles away, I can see a change coming. I can feel it. And though anxious to experience it, I must be patient enough to cross the many miles of life still left standing before me. So while the Scarletts, Young Dudes, Sarah the Ls, and Cute Red Hat Girls of the world see their odometers change over a new leaf in their lives, I know that my new 10,000 is just around the corner.