Category: Smoochie Poo

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.

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.

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.

If I Can’t Sell It, I’ll Keep Sittin’ On It

Last July, I treated Sarah the L to a night on the (B-)town to celebrate her 27th birthday as well as the always-popular Canada Day. The evening started off with a lovely Irish dinner at RiRas Irish Pub on Church Street and was followed by front row seats in the FlynnSpace Theatre for Burlington’s hottest sensation: The SpielPalast Cabaret. During the show, Sarah promptly fell in love with one of the performers (Victoria Mary MacKay) and while true to our forever-different tastes in women, I fell for another (Trixie). Since then, we’ve always drooled at the thought of ever having the chance to meet the actresses behind the skimpy outfits and thanks in part to luck, fate, and talent, Sarah may have a chance to see her dream become a reality. My dreams on the other hand, are another story, and the second half to this one.

Part 1 – Victoria Mary MacKay

While it’s safe to say that due to her ever-steady relationship with Smoochie Poo, Sarah would NOT jump at the chance to jump Victoria Mary MacKay, I also think it’s safe to say that the thought of said jump has never left her mind. She’s the celebrity you put on your List. The one you’ll never have but are allowed to think about. (Incidentally, my list is as follows: Scarlett Johansson, Vyvienne Long, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Zooey Deschanel, and Audrey Tautou.)

I can’t say for certain when Victoria first caught Sarah’s eye, but I do know that the deal was most definitely clinched when she ventured out into the audience during a song and dance about money, leaned over our table, and seductively chewed on some fake gold coins. At this point, my guess is she could have stolen Sarah’s money, and Sarah would have been fine with it.

After the show, Sarah learned of a connection she had to Victoria (through a mutual friend) and that all she had to do to meet this money-eating woman was to sign up for a dance class taught by her. For whatever reason, Sarah passed at the opportunity and resigned herself to a life of never knowing whether or not Victoria was the only one who could ever teach her [African dance].

Now fast forward (through Sarah’s inevitable courtship with Smoochie Poo last year) to earlier this week: While out on the town, Sarah came across a flyer advertising auditions for this year’s cabaret…run by none other than Victoria herself. After much thought, and encouragement from both Mr. Benchly and Smoochie Poo, Sarah showed up for the auditions today and gave it her all. Knowing Sarah’s vocal, comedic, and dancing talents, I’m sure she’ll be selected to play some sort of role in the show. And with that, comes her opportunity to finally meet the woman behind the dream. Wish her luck. And a moment of anti-jealousy thoughts sent Smoochie Poo’s way would be nice too =)

Part 2 – Trixie

While seated next to Sarah the L at the aforementioned cabaret last year, my eyes quickly focused on a petite woman stage right. With the rest of the troupe, she was dancing with a chair while singing the song “If I Can’t Sell It, I’ll Keep Sittin’ On It.” Later on, to the audience’s delight, she played the part of a magician’s assistant with a high-pitched/squeaky voice and her animated movements. I’ve always said that Trixie stole the show and with her Victoria-goggles on, Sarah has always vehemently denied this claim.

After the show, as was always the case during that period of time when Sarah and I both found ourselves single, we brainstormed to come up with the best way for us to meet the women who had visually affected us so much. And, as was often the case, our shyness and lack of confidence won the battle against our infatuation and attraction. The night ended and so too did the summer, and until Sarah’s recent cabaret audition, Victoria and Trixie have only been footnotes to our lives, hidden in the back of our minds with high school locker combinations and Sandra Bullock movies.

When Sarah told me of her auditions, I did the selfish thing and thought, “now maybe I’ll get to meet Trixie!” Of course, I justify my reaction by reminding myself of Sarah’s probable thoughts: “now maybe I’ll get to meet Victoria!” And so, as we waited in line at Muddy Waters (B-town’s coffee shop) after Sarah’s audition, it was a pleasant surprise and a welcomed coincidence to notice Trixie standing stage right behind the counter, handing a coffee to the person in front of us. Sarah and I played a thrilling game of Scrabble and sadly, at the end of Trixie’s shift, I watched as she exited the shop with the Jordan Catalano rip off with whom she had shared her shift.

And so now, as Sarah anxiously waits for a phone call offering her a part alongside Victoria in this year’s cabaret, I sit here thinking of how I could possibly approach the coffee shop woman stage-named Trixie. I fear that my own fears will once again come into play in which case, if I can’t sell it, I’ll keep sitting on it, before I give it away.