My Mother’s Best Friend // “Casimir Pulaski Day”

My mother’s best friend is keeping my grandmother company while my mother is on vacation.  She flew in from North Carolina on Sunday.  She had never met my grandmother, nor my siblings and me, but upon introduction, she said “I’m a hugger.  Come here.”  Her embrace was one of the warmest embraces I’ve felt in a long, long time.


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“You Have Me”

My teenage sister kept me company while my car underwent routine maintenance today.  I picked her up first thing in the morning and we went to the car dealership, stopping for coffee and donuts on the way.  I suppose she decided she preferred spending three hours with me in a waiting room to three hours in a house avoiding our grandmother.

We goofed off quite a bit; we took online quizzes together to determine what song we should listen to on repeat based on our astrological signs, or how awesome we were based on our knowledge of 2000s emocore.  You know.  The important stuff.

While taking a breather from pointless questionnaires, I returned a text message to a friend.  We were trying to pick a date for me to come over and meet her son.  A lot of my friends have given birth in the past year.  I try not to gush publicly.  I simply “like” the picture on Facebook.  Internally, however, I’m screaming and trying to come up with ways to be known as “Aunt Leila” or mentally designing little “edgy” onesies.

Anyway, my little sister looked over my shoulder at the text conversation I was having with my friend and then asked what we were talking about.

“You remember ‘K,’ right?”  I started, “Well, she had a baby, and I’m hopefully going to meet him next week.”  For some reason, I continued, “A lot of my friends have had babies.  I have no babies.”  I tried to force out a chuckle.

My sister, without hesitation, replied, “You have me!”  After reading my puzzled expression, she went on, “And you didn’t even have to give birth to me!”

We both laughed.  I hugged her tight and joked that she will always be my baby, pinching her cheeks until she started swatting at me to stop.

It was a strange moment, though.  She acknowledged something that my family members don’t typically talk about.  Instead of validating the sentiment and going off on some tangent about (at the very least) my parents absenteeism, I held my tongue.  Ten hours later, I still don’t know how to feel about it.



I’ve missed two days of blogging and that’s okay because sometimes it’s okay not to have anything to say.  Instead of forcing something, I just decided to leave blogging alone for a bit.

It occurs to me that I need to do something restorative for not only my mind, but my body as well.  I ache mentally and physically these days, more than I’ve ached in the past, anyway.  That’s not okay.  It’s never been okay, but I think I was able to do enough to sweep my stress under the rug previously.

Lately, I’ve been highly emotional.  Today has seen its fair share of crying jags and internal shouting matches with my demons.  It’s exhausting.

I need a vacation from myself if that makes any sense at all.

Too Old To Hang

I haven’t been to a show with a super raucous crowd in quite some time, so last night’s Andrew W.K. experience was a little jarring at best.

I should have expected the dancing.  I should have expected the shoving.

What I didn’t expect was needing to use my rescue inhaler once I got out of the pit.  I made it through two songs pressed against the stage before I said “Enough is enough.”


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TBT: Teenage Antics and the Mass Pike // “I Love NYC”

[A quick aside: I’m having a difficult time with today’s blog post simply because my stress level is pretty high and I’m goddamn irritated.  I’d love to vent my frustrations, but venting has only made me angrier today, oddly enough, and I’d like to retain the last sliver of emotive control that I have.  Coming to a personal resolution is seeming less and less possible.

There.  I’ve acknowledged my mental roadblock.  On with today’s post!]


As a teenager, I was very, err, passionate about things.  My high school on-again-off-again sweetheart (because he “didn’t believe in titles”) resumed contact with me towards the end of my senior year after nearly an entire school year of silence.  There had been a falling out, but that’s another story for another time.

Instead of going through all of the sweet nothings exchanged and declarations of love made, I’ll cut to the chase: I drove to Boston and back in 25 hours in the name of love, only to have my heart broken 4 hours after my arrival.

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