This one is in honor of International First Love Day (a day which is like porno for wordy little ladies like myself who like to overshare). Thanks to a lovely ladyfriend who passed this idea along to me.





In sixth or seventh grade, in the sweaty, sneaker smelling gym of my middle school, I proudly declared my love for my best friend's brother. To my best friend. I made this announcement with all the conviction that anyone with braces and a bowl cut can muster. Who knew I was serious?


Thank goodness I no longer have a bowl cut, or braces, though I suspect that nowadays, I could possibly at least rock the bowl cut with a little more confidence and gusto. Being 12 is rough, what can I say?


Were there other boys whose affections I sought? Of course. There were other kisses, other lovers, other dates. Other boys who I even thought I was in love with and wanted to be with forever (some of which should probably spend eternity alone). However, the years of hand scribbled notes to my very disapproving best friend say it all. "I hate your brother, his hair looks terrible today." Now, that's love.

We eventually actually started dating, no thanks to either one of our skills, because neither one of us has any game whatsoever. I believe making a girl cry on the first date cannot be classified as "game."

At this point we are so intertwined, like a tree growing through a chain link fence, that I'm not sure either one of us could remove the other if we tried. And we've both tried, sadly. This is a story about being able to conjure up the smell of someone else's parents' kitchen amid the aromas of a BBQ. A story about being afraid of someone because they know exactly the cards you've been keeping up your shirtsleeve. A story about what happens when a crush turns into two people standing in Home Depot, arguing about the best way to fix a toilet... and then fixing it.

This story is a difficult one, as love stories often are, because choppy waters and unfortunate circumstances (or our own stupidity, whatever you want to call it) swept us apart, and we're still somewhere in the middle of a long, mysterious anthology.

I guess I'll let you know how it turns out.

The Wife of Bath

Pulling out of your parents' driveway, struggling as usual not to hit the bushes, destroy myself on the house, or end up digging a new drainage trench for the woodland creatures to drown in, I was relieved when you made me get out and let you finish the job. For once I dumbly kept my fat mouth shut and just got out of the car. The intensity with which I once arbitrarily picked epic battles has faded.

This made me vividly recall the sticky hot tears and screaming that once ensued because you dared to open your mouth while I floundered miserably to simply parallel park my car. I did manage to tell you that I'd never hated you more, as you zipped down the cliff (I exaggerate) with all the skill and precision of an ancient hermit, building a tiny ship in a dusty bottle.

As we drove into the night, I let my day unfold, slowly holding my cards further and further away from my vest, until I dared to bring up my mother, which these days has been a subject most easily pried from my lips by a bottle of whiskey and too many questions.

I asked you if you remembered the bitter night last February, as we drove the same road into the city from the suburbs, that we'd seen a car on fire. I told you that I thought of it often as though the soot and flame and ash itself had burned themselves into my brains.

I wonder if you remember that you hadn't been in my car for more than a block or two from that night until the question escaped my lips. I wonder if you remember what that car ride felt like, how I was literally falling asleep in my seat, eyes struggling to stay open long enough for me to figure out why exactly I had never hated you more in my life. I finally waved my white flag at the sandman and tossed and turned until you pulled into the gas station to buy some ginger ale, because, despite the late hour, our obvious disdain for one another, and a myriad of other reasons, there was no way we were not going to go home and drink ourselves to sleep. Oblivion is a friendlier alternative to the discussion we would inevitably have when drunkeness turned into bitter daylight, n'est-ce pas? That night I fell asleep alone with my thoughts and you built virtual cities late into the night.

Something tells me that you don't remember that night with the same painful clarity and detail, but I know you remember more than the flaming car that forced us off the highway, away from one explosion into another.

Instead, you knowingly kissed me on the forehead and I let you.

A song for Mother's Day...

Pretty little bluebird, where do you go? Come back, come back, to me.

"I go," sang the bird, as he flew on high, "to see if my color matches the sky."

Road Rage, Road Rash, Roadkill

There's nothing quite as demoralizing as listening to the song "In Cars" while you're trapped in yours in seemingly unending traffic. Whatever brilliant mastermind is behind the idea to play that winner during rush hour should have to drive through endless bumper to bumper gridlock. Thank God I have the musical stylings of Tom Jones to remind me that I'm a lady, and that a lady probably doesn't kick out her windshield with her little pink Minnetonkas while screaming "Fuck" at the top of her lungs. Thank you, Tom Jones, thank you.