Typical Erin

Stories too true to be made up.

The dark side of Maine: Brown Helmets are Hot, and I’m getting a buzz cut. Or: who cares?

Can I tell you guys something?

I want a scooter.

Really, really badly.

Don’t you think that would be the best?  Something more eco-friendly to pop around in?  Then I can stay within the safe confines of Kittery and Portsmouth and the Rite Aid on Shapleigh Road.

For.

Ever.

I’m thinking something like this:

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But I think the one I can afford looks like this:

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My mom told me it was NOT VERY SENSIBLE ERIN to get a scooter, which of course means I will be popping around Kittery with that pink radio flyer any day now.  Watch out, Rite Aid customers.

In other news: I’m thinking about shaving my head again.  Because I got my Maine license (finally) you guys.  It’s really not good.  It’s like – I’ve finally found the dark side of Maine, and it’s my license.

In the same vein as shaving my head, I almost put it as my profile picture.  Because fuck it right?  Why does your profile picture have to be a super cute picture of you?  It’s like – to a much, much lesser extent than shaving your head of course – a powerful way to confront your own vanity.  But, much like the razor got stuck in my hand, tears streaming down Anna’s face while she yelled that she DID NOT WANT TO BE THE KID WITH THE WEIRD MOM my gaze is stuck on ‘upload new photo’ and the picture itself.   I actually didn’t think it was that bad, but then I showed it to my coworkers.  At first, no one really said anything, which caused me to be like:

But you guys.  That’s not what I look like, right?

Right?

In Real Life?

For real you guys?

In Real Life?

It’s not that bad, right?

While they quietly turned to stone.

And then I realized that one of them was frantically googling – until she said “FOUND IT!  THIS is what it reminds me of” and backed away from her computer screen so I could see what she pulled up:

Maine

……..

……..

And initially, I was like NO WAY YOU GUYS!  But then, this:

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And further, this:

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I know.  You can’t even tell where I am in that picture, can you?

Breaking news: Anna just came up behind me while I was typing and pointed to the picture and said OH MY GOODNESS YOU LOOK JUST LIKE THAT WOMAN MAMA!

The hits keep comin’.

Here’s what I think though, staring at the perfect brown helmet that is my head.  Even if I don’t shave it – ever (even if I really, really want to) – I can kill the blow dryer, because it’s killing my hair anyway?  And maybe just cut it super short, like a BUZZ cut.  Or wear wigs on a regular basis.

Or shave it.  Because why not.

Or leave it exactly how it is.  

And that is actually, what I look like, when backed up against a wall at the DMV, awkwardly talking to the unpleasant woman that’s telling me where to stare, pretending I’m so laid back I don’t even need to review the picture (and then asking her to take one more shot?).  And I look different when I’m happy (and who is legitimately happy at the DMV?) or devastated, or excited, or scared, or turned on, or brushing off my knees after tripping in the woods on a run, early this morning.  I just don’t have those moments as properly documented as the government required one.

And who cares?  Brown helmets are hot!  And I mean, just look at that picture.  So am I.

The clocks are back on and the wedding dress is in the closet. Or: sweet, sweet fantasy.

Hey guys.

I’ve started marathoning Gilmore Girls.   Have you guys seen it?  It seems like the worst in a good way, so far – mostly because I’m fantasizing about being Lorelei and picturing Anna as Rory, because y’know – we’re in a small town?  And I’m a single mom.  And I could totally own an Inn.  I can see me and teenage Anna going to the Kittery Town Hall meetings with popcorn and soda and involving ourselves in the politics of parking laws and curbing your dog and all things small town. She’ll tell me about her first kisses, and I’ll start dating her teachers and the local coffee shop owner.  He’ll have a beard and wear flannel shirts (for warmth, not trend) and be able to fix stuff for me – like the window in my kitchen that doesn’t open right, and that thing that keeps making a noise in my car, a belt maybe?

While I patiently await his arrival at my door and comb the Kittery websites for the next Town Hall meeting, current love updates:

I fell in love with my sister’s in-laws: My nephew had a baseball game this weekend, so I dragged Anna (WHY ARE THERE SO MANY INNINGS MAMA?), and we sat with my sister’s in-laws for the game.  We talked while we were watching him play, and they noted their granddaughter had a game later that day, that happened to be across from where Anna’s lacrosse game was.  And after the first half of Anna’s game, I looked up to them walking across the field – and my sister’s mother-in-law sat down on the blanket with me and cheered Anna on.  And it was just so nice you guys.  Like one of those nice things that you don’t realize are going to overwhelm you with love, but it did.

I fell in love with someone else’s family:  Have you guys ever been to a baby shower?  Usually, they’re not good times.

Side note: I’m sorry if I went to your baby shower and you are now thinking I did not have good times.  I totally did! I, mean, it was for you.  I love you.  

Anyway – I went to a baby shower this weekend for a friend, and while the food (make your own waffles with ice cream and nutella and fresh berries) and the favors (I left with champagne!) were enough to make it the best baby shower ever, after we’d eaten, the father-to-be’s sister passed out lyrics to a song she’d written for the baby.  And she taught it to us, and the entire room sang, with purpose, to the parents to be and baby in the belly.  And I cried. Because being in the middle of a group of people that have that much love for two people, in the way that this family did, was just – good.

I fell in love with myself again: I’m not all that practiced at breaking up.  Like – I get it, that relationships don’t work.  Things end.  The relationships I’ve had in my adult life haven’t really broken off officially though, they just kind of tapered off and got less, somehow, like the end of a song – when it just shifts to the repeated chorus getting quieter and quieter, so you can’t really tell when the musicians have called it quits.  Which for me, just means they didn’t.  I still love them.  Quietly.

This one had a defined end, though, and left a chest-tightening feeling that took a while to go away.  And I couldn’t really see myself through the heartache – it made me feel old and tired and not so great about myself.

Now that the smoke has cleared, though – I realize all of the space that the difficulties of our relationship took up is free and clear.   And when everything falls apart, there’s so much open space to create something new.  And although I’ve been saying that, inside my head and out loud – for weeks, I feel it now.   Like – for real feel it.  Because last week, someone made my heart stop in a good way, and I’d forgotten how good that can feel.  And this week, after two glasses of champagne and a cup of coffee, I went on a 5 mile run.  And that’s so badass you guys!  (Also not so smart, but badass!)

And I feel good, like – really good, for the first time in a long time.  The fantasies I’m creating in my head are based in what I think I can create in reality.  And they’re good, you guys.  Promise.

 

 

I’ll love who I want. Because **** That. OR: It’s Oh So Quiet.

Breaking news: I have an inappropriate crush on someone.

It’s mild, at this point.  I mean sure – I’ve done my research.  But I’m not like – Facebook stalking him or anything.  (Because he’s not on Facebook?)  It’s just entertainment, I think.  Crushes are fun, right?  It’s fun to have someone to think about.

It’s my thing – to like and eventually fall in love with people I’m not supposed to.  Mostly, it’s not something I’m doing on purpose.  It’s built in somewhere.  My heart can immediately tell that someone is fitting into a class that is not defined as societally perfect for me, and bang, I dig in, head over heels.  There are other things at play, of course – whatever mysterious characteristics add to that immediate chemistry with another person, but – if there is no defined edge, I am uninterested.

The first class I walked into freshmen year of college was Sociology – and the first thing we learned, leaning forward in our chairs, notebooks on desks, pens in hand, was who we would marry.

Sigh.

Our professor broke down the human population for us – and how, just by the very nature of our existence in our world and the parameters that are set down for us, who we would marry was really, actually – completely out of our control.  She began with outlining geographical location, class, then age, then race, gender, education level – eventually landing us, it would seem, to only having the ability to pair off and eventually marry people sitting next to us in the actual class we were in.  As long as, within the class walls, for me, there was specifically – a white male from New Hampshire.  If not, I’d have to sit on the quad long enough for him to appear.

I listened to her talk, and thought to myself –

Fuck.

That.

I would not get married.  And if I did – it would not be to a **white man within 5 years of my own age with at least some college education living in New Hampshire.**  I would fall in love with someone much older, or younger.  Or a person of color.  Or a woman.  Or someone that lived halfway across the United States, or better, in a different country!  Anyone but the same-age-white-man.  Or at least, I would make sure that I did not rule out any possibilities.  Explore it all.  Come to it on my own.

A friend once told me (a very young me, I might add) her sexual orientation was a choice for her – she’d always been with and was attracted to men, but she’d found it difficult to find a man that encompassed everything she wanted in a partner, so she made a choice to be with a woman.  And I thought oh no no no!  Don’t say that out loud!  You’ll RUIN the progress of the gay population!  

But then I thought – why do I CARE why she’s chosen who she’s chosen as a partner?  Why do I care who she loves or why she loves them or anything else about it at all?  I love her and she’s in love.

Because anyone I love, in love, is a good thing.

Because if everyone was in love it would be so nice, wouldn’t it?  Don’t you think people in love would be less likely to be cranky?  Or park in the handicap spot at Starbucks?  Or run you off the road because you accidentally cut them off while trying to press pause on the latest edition of Serial?  (I’m so sorry, red truck driver guy!  Are you in love?) Or hurt other people, on purpose, in general.

I feel like they would.

And really, maybe I am just trying to justify my case, or defend my last one.  To put an asterisk on my current inappropriate crush – so later, when it all falls apart, and I’m in a mess of tears, listening to a bad mix of 80’s love songs and watching High Fidelity for the 30th time, I’ll have prepped you all – you’ll know what happened.

Because even when it’s amazing, sometimes, most times, even – it all falls apart.  Whether it’s defined as inappropriate by the greater population or not.

In the meantime, though, I’ll hold on to the love I have, keep the door open to the possibility of new love, enjoy the crush, the happiness that comes with hope, and most of all – I’ll love who I want.

Because.

Fuck.

That.

Put away the bathtub gin and come over. Because Maine is like TOTALLY. It’s like YES.

Last week was a week.

Like, a weeeeeek.

And I started to write to you guys about all the things that had made it a week, but that process made me feel kind of like this:

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And that didn’t feel so great.  Because I don’t want to bring you guys down too, y’know?  So, instead, here are the positive sides of the things that COULD have totally made last week a week.

I did NOT forget my coffee at the drive through window: I DID forget to pay at the first window, but it was TOTALLY FINE because the guy at THAT window yelled REALLY LOUDLY after me.  For some reason, it made me feel old.  No worries though, after the yelling (LAAAADY!  LADY!  YOU NEED TO PAY!)  I was able to reverse.  And make all of the other cars reverse – until they couldn’t do that anymore, because there were too many of them, but again – NO BIG DEAL because I just popped out of my car, and walked back over to the window.

And all of the other people in their cars were super, super patient.  No one even beeped their horn at me.

For real though you guys.  I’m not even being sarcastic.

No for real.

I fell in love with one of my neighbors: I work from home.  Did I tell you guys this already?  It’s mostly amazing, but the notsoamazing parts of it are that there’s no requirement to get dressed.  Like, ever.  Or shower. Which again, is not the worst.  Mostly.  Because people stop by sometimes, and for some reason it hasn’t clicked for me that hiding under the window because I’m wearing leggings with holes in them and haven’t washed my hair for 48 hours is no way to live.  And when Anna dragged the neighbor-lady down to meet me Friday night, I was still working.  And still unshowered.  So Anna was like “SOANDSO IS HERE TO MEET YOU” and I was like “I CAN’T COME OUT RIGHT NOW I’M WORKING, JUST TELL HER I’M ON A CALL” because I’ve never met her you guys!  And I wanted her to meet showered-Erin.  But instead of telling her that I was working, Anna said:

“Oh, my Mom doesn’t really feel like coming out right now.  She’ll come meet you later.”

Which I’m sure, made her think I looked something like this:

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And let’s be honest, I kind of did.

It was fine, though, because I made her apology corn bread and walked it down yesterday, so she would know that I do actually leave the house.  And told her when she came over I was unshowered and wearing leggings with holes in them.  And we talked for long enough that I forgot how long it was – in a really good way.  And she had that aura about her, the one that makes you feel completely at ease immediately?  And everything she said was like – TOTALLY.  Y’know?  It was like YES.  I fell in love with her.

And even though – even with the positive, it was a WEEK, the weekend reminded me of all of the things I love about where I’m sitting right now, writing you from.  Because I drove to Massachusetts, to our old neighborhood.  And I drove to New Hampshire.  And at the end of both drives, when I crossed the border into Maine, I felt safe again.  Because I started my day here, on top of a mountain:

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And I ended it here, after a 3 mile run along the coastline:

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And both of those things happened within 10 minutes of my front door.  And that is like TOTALLY, y’know?  It’s like YES.

So.  If you forget the first window, no worries, someone will notify you.  Loudly.  And you can hit reverse and pop out of the car.  If you forget to wash your hair, no worries, your neighbor will not judge you, especially if you’re honest with her when you bring her apology corn bread.

And if you need a respite, put away the bathtub gin and come over.  Because Maine is like TOTALLY.  It’s like YES.

I’m in love with Sarah, starving us slowly and planning a party, or: I will keep you posted

Hey guys.

Happy almosttheweekend.

In my songs-on-repeat-100-times extravaganza, I have been obsessively listening to this song.

100 times.

It’s making me really happy.  You should just keep it going while you read this post, because I bet it’ll make you happy too. Like it’s summertime and we’re outside in my backyard.  I’ve hung up white Christmas lights around the very old wooden fence and in the large tree, so even though it’s dark outside, we can see each other, between that and the half-melted candles around the table.  Bar lighting.  We’re just finishing dinner I made for you, and it was so good!  Some sort of grilled chicken I think – even though I’m a vegetarian.  We ate outside on an old picnic table that my dad refinished for me (heads up Dad), and the fire is going nearby in the fire pit.  It’s low tide and we’re just barely close enough to the ocean to smell it, on the occasional warm breeze.  Anna’s gone off to play with the neighbor-kids, and we can hear them laughing, screaming and running a few houses down.  This song comes on, and as the beat picks up, we decide to leave all of the dirty dishes, pour more wine and dance.

*Sigh*.

In reality, there’s a wintry chill outside and it’s raining, and that sort of feels like weather to sleep to instead of dance to.

Also in reality, I’m sort of in survival mode right now, which means a few things, other than songs on repeat and fantasizing about what the summer in Kittery will bring.  Other happenings from the front lines of heart-hurt:

Sarah Koenig has become my one-sided rebound relationship: It started as an addiction to the show itself, of course – Serial.  Did Adnan Syed do it?  I don’t know.  Has Bowe Bergdahl paid the price already?  Honestly, I don’t even care, as long as Sarah will keep talking to me about it.  I wasn’t able to sleep for a few weeks, and have been trying everything: Meditation.  Advil PM.  Whiskey.  Running.  Okay, I’m lying about that last one, but I THOUGHT about how it might help.  Regardless, Sarah has been my only savior. I have been plugging in my phone, absorbing myself in the even tone of her stories, and passing out.  Yes, I’ve been waking up hours later to the silence of the podcast being over, still not managing to make it to the end of Episode 5, ‘Meanwhile, Back in Tampa’, but it’s okay.  Because I don’t really want it to end.  So I hit play again, tuck  myself in, and fall back asleep.

I’ve committed to eating everything in my house before I shop again: I don’t know why.  I looked at the cupboard one day and realized we had managed to purchase, or acquire, like 10 different boxes of cracker-like-pretzel things.  And who NEEDS that?  We don’t.  It felt so wasteful and processed and it stressed me out.  It was like, everything that is wrong with the world, right in my cupboard.  So I decided we’d eat it all and then once all the food was gone, go shopping again – locally, of course.

For produce only.

With reuseable bags.

On my bike.

Until I can get the garden going?

What this means is that my options for dinner tonight are frozen quinoa, beans, some beef broth, apples or marshmallows that are all stuck together in a bag.  Or wait – brown rice.  Or some sour cream?  Maybe I can put those things together.

Shockingly, Anna has been stomping around the house for the last 24 hours noting she will STARVE with only WATER and SOME APPLES to eat and drink!

(I won’t let her eat the bag of marshmallows.  But why haven’t I thrown it away?  I don’t know.  I’ll go do that now.)

I’ve overposted on Facebook and Instagram and written 10,000 blog posts.  I know you guys, totally pathetic.  I’m all – look at my cat!  I’ve updated my profile picture!  I’m running a race!  Wait, my cat again!  I’m one post short of a picture of my sour cream and beef broth dinner.  I wonder what people did when there wasn’t even email?  Because at least before Facebook and Instagram, you could hit ‘get mail’ a bunch of times.  And that was satisfying for sure.  I mean, I likely did that 10 times before I wrote to you guys.  Maybe people just stared at the phones hooked into the wall and called the operator to see if it was working?  That seems like something that would bring me endless joy in the absence of wi-fi.  What I am saving you from is the 9,999 other blog posts I’ve written over the last few weeks.

You’re welcome.

I decided to have a party:  The last time I decided to have a party – a large one, anyway, was this time.  This time of year, hurting a little bit, and wanting to plan something where a ton of people I love would be in a room with a ton of other people I love so they would all fall in love with each other.  I’m going to be 38 this year, and I had some fleeting fantasies about having a 3rd anniversary of my last party – my 35th birthday party (because that has a better ring to it, doesn’t it?  A third anniversary of 35?), but there’s so much stuff happening this summer (isn’t there always?) that I didn’t think I could make it happen.

But I’m rethinking that, in this moment.

And no worries, as mentioned in the previous paragraph, once I figure out the details, I’ll totally keep you posted.

Find the people that know everything about you and still love you, or: how to be a successful sad sack.

Hey guys.

I’m a sad sack this week.  

That might be the 100th time I’ve used that phrase, which just serves to reiterate the phrase itself.

Side note: how great are the losing horns from the Price is Right?

So, so great.

Anyway, my weekend updates for you:

I joined a writing workshop: It’s kind of amazing and terrifying you guys.  Part of the workshop is reading your stuff and then asking the other folks in the group for feedback.  It’s 10 times scarier than reading in front of a large audience – especially when you’re with the group I am, who are all fantastically intelligent, thoughtful writers.  Sometimes, when I’m planted in front of an intelligent, good-looking, funny man, I gain weight.  Like – INSTANTLY.  And my voice gets deeper.  I can’t help it, I’m all of a sudden a very large, unattractive man.  I believe this same thing happened in the writing workshop when I started to read the draft of what I’m working on right now.

I was Barry White.

But once I was done, and they had to gather their thoughts and communicate them, my voice got back to it’s regular amount of manliness, and the multiple chins that had erupted disappeared.  And they helped.  And it felt so good to be in a mini community!

I got my heart broken:  I used to think heartbreak was reserved for lovers – or at least, that the people who maintained control over your heart were people you’d given it to, formally.  Like with rings or pins or Facebook statuses.  Like – when Grant decided he wanted to focus on hockey in the 6th grade instead of me and ended our 8 day relationship,  it broke my heart because I’d declared my love for him already, in a public way.

The worst.

What I know now, though, is that anyone can break your heart.  Or at least anyone can break mine.  All it seems to require is that I love them, however public or private or formal or informal that love is, whether it’s the kind of love that’s reserved for lovers, or for family, or friends.  Even if I’ve never stood in front of them to declare my feelings. They can still break my heart.  A bunch of them can even do it at the same time.

Also, the worst.

The positive about the heart-breaking, if there were to be anything positive, is that I get it now.  I know what I do when this happens, I’m aware this time.  The pain in my chest and the inability to breathe.  The not eating and eating and not sleeping and sleeping.  High Fidelity multiple times and subsequent binge watching Netflix.  (Frank Underwood’s life is so much worse than mine!)  Songs on repeat 100 times.

Most of all, the knowledge that today, it’s palpable and that one day it won’t be.  That I will be fine.  Even if I can’t really feel that now.  Even if that feels so far away.  Because I didn’t break anyone, or anything, all I did was love someone, as best as I possibly could.

I spent time with people that know everything about me and still love me:

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Which is just the best possible thing ever always, and especially when you’re a sad sack.  Because I laughed really hard, and I hugged a lot, and it wasn’t enough time, but to have all of us in the same place with so many kids and relationships and work and *stuff* to manage to get there was just good.

So.

If you’re a sad sack too, try hitting the price is right losing horn a few times.  Join a workshop.  Watch High Fidelity, and House of Cards and eat pizza from Domino’s.  (Or don’t, because it’s really not good you guys?)  And most of all, find the people that know everything about you and still love you, and hold on to them really, really tight.

 

Trip-ups and maxi pads and vibrators: Goodbye Typical Erin.

In my past life, I was prone to mishaps, clumsy, and consistently surrounded by a cloud of chaos.  All around terribly uncool.

I grew up in a very small town – Berlin, New Hampshire, which for those of you who don’t know, is basically Canada.  Since it was a small town, my middle school was pretty small – the 5th and 6th grade wing on one side, and on the other – 7th and 8th grade.  Since it was such a small school – it’s not like the wings of the school were miles apart, but the two wings of the school were connected by our gym.

In my head now, not having been there in probably 20 years, it was ginormous.  I’m sure it is actually a TEEENY TINY gym.  The 5th and 6th graders were still in the world of having an entire day with one teacher, but the 7th and 8th graders were in the world of seven periods.  The world of periods was a big deal.  Just BEING in 7th or 8th was a big deal too.  They were super mature.  They had much cooler clothes, they got to go to dances at the rec, and they had RELATIONSHIPS.  Sure, I was most likely in my first relationship at the time, but we didn’t have a RELATIONSHIP like the 7th and 8th graders did.  It was like they were adults.

Anyway, I can’t remember much of the day outside of what was to happen in the 10 minute period I describe below, but I’m sure it was just a regular day.  I was walking down the stairs with gal pal Crystal Kearns, and we were at the very top.  There were – are – about 15 to 20 steps that open up into the gym.

There they were.

The 8th grade boys.

Gathered at the bottom of the stairs, joking around, because it was the end of one of their fancy periods and they were about to part ways to jaunt off to the next class.  In my head, they were all really good looking and smart, possibly soon to be George Clooney types, or Brad Pitt?  At the time, I’m sure my comparison was more like Kirk Cameron or Jordan Knight, but whatever, roughly the same rugged good looks, no?  Anyway, I turned to Crystal to tell her something, in an attempt to look cool.

When I did – I believe I lost the ability to measure where the next step was.  The steps are all the same distance apart, but in my attempt to look cool, I lost myself in the moment.  And the next moment, my head was hitting the step two steps down.  And then my head was hitting the step 5 steps down.  In between that, I *think* some part of the lower half of my body may have hit the step 3 or 4 steps down.  Because I was somersaulting.  Somersaulting down the steps, very loudly, in the middle of the gym.  I landed in a HEAP, at the bottom, at the VERY SPOT that allowed me to look up at the incredibly hot group of 8th grade boys, while Ms. Lawton, the gym teacher, LEAPED across the gym yelling ARE YOU OKAY ERIN???

Sometimes, when I try to think of my earliest memory – this is what I think of.  Not because it is, in fact, my earliest memory – but because it’s the first time I remember being mortified, and because it was the beginning of a long career of mortification.

When I was 11 – I started my  period for the first time – wearing white shorts and only realizing it had happened when one of the boys, after soaking me with a water gun, asked why my shorts were pink.

When I was 13, the junior high principal walked into my classroom holding a beautiful suede coat with a super long maxi pad with wings hanging out of it and asking whose it might be, and I couldn’t crouch down quickly enough before one of the boys pointed to me.

When I was 14, having just begun my freshman year of high school, my parents announced we were leaving the small town I grew up in and moving to Dover New Hampshire – which, when you grow up in a small town that far north – well, they may as well have announced that we were moving to New York City.

When I showed up on the first day of school, I was wearing an off-white leotard, skin-tight light green jeans, and a vest with a country scene on it – like, a fence and some birds or something – and to top it off, ankle boots that had the shape of a horseshoe on the bottom.  Like, mini cowboy boots.

Looking back, I can see clearly that I looked really, really bad.  At the time, though – I thought I was ON POINT.  Solid.  Best.  Outfit.  Ever.  The entire thing had cost a total of like $11.50 at Macy’s – a fact I didn’t shy away from telling anyone who would listen.

In addition to being new (and incredibly uncool), what was new to me, at the time – was band.  I’d grown up playing piano and flute – and loved being in the band in Berlin.  Everyone was in band.  You just did it.  It had no social connotation.  In Dover though, it immediately put you in geek status.  I didn’t have a choice though – in addition to the lack of choice I had in the move in general, being part of the band wasn’t something my parents would budge on.  I played the flute – and since you couldn’t play the flute and march, I had to play the piccolo – which I hated.  So instead of switching to an instrument that was perhaps easy to carry – being inclined to disaster – I switched to bass drum.

In case anyone is unclear, bass drum doesn’t instantly shoot you to prom queen.  

And as much as I’d like to believe I was completely fine being a total geek – I wasn’t.  Like every other high school person – or at least, those of us that were not prom queens – it was tough.  I felt uncomfortable in my body.  My skin was horrible – it was either oily or flaking off from overdosing on Clearasil.  I sweat in places I didn’t know how to combat – and to top it all off, I got braces – when everyone else was getting theirs off.

But bass drum.

It was marching band – so wool uniforms, feathers out of our hats – everything.  With a bass drum.

When I initially took on the bass drum, though – I wasn’t all that good at it.  Or rather – I wasn’t that good at walking with it.  I don’t know if I was ever good at it, but especially in the beginning.

Also – being the classic geek – I had a classic crush on one of the football players.

I know.

Totally ridiculous.

I’m here, and I’m pretty sure he’s finishing up a sentence in the Dover prison, so you could say it worked out okay for me, but at the time I would have died to talk to him.  I would have died if he just acknowledged my existence on the planet, of course.  He did, though – when he drove by the parking lot we were practicing our moves in at the EXACT time that I was tripping in my roll step, landing on stop of my bass drum, and slowly rolling over.  I know he was driving by, because he and the rest of the football players in the car yelled out ALRIGHT LAPLANTE! and beeped the horn as it happened.

There were more bass drum incidents – three, maybe four – to the point that when I passed out during the memorial day tribute at the cemetary in Dover, my mother – perhaps 500 feet away, watching, knew it was me that went down.

It continued, for most of my adult life.

One time, deciding to clean out my car one summery Saturday morning at the gas station, I accidentally caught my skirt in the vacuum – exposing my heart covered underwear to the entire parking lot – and the employees at Mr. Mike’s Mobile ON THE RUN had to come out and turn the machine off to get it out.

I have been bruised up one side and down the other.  I have shown my naked ass to more people – without purpose – than I can count because of a gust of wind on a spring day, or shoes that were too small for me tripping me up, the result of which was my face hitting the pavement and the contents of my purse being flung out for the entire city to see.

Had all of these things happened to anyone other than me, they would have been the same as what they were for me – embarrassing.  But what I did with them was build my life around this girl – this clumsy, not totally aware, always caught in some kind of mishap girl – because I told and retold these stories enough so that even when I was prepping for this evening, they came back to me easily.

And one day – after I’d done one of these things – one of these embarrassing things – or something a little notsosmart – a friend of a friend – a woman who had never even met me, upon hearing one of these stories, commented, “Typical Erin” with a roll of her eyes.  And that’s what it became.  Each one of these little stories – between my friends and me – was that – typical.

And although – through the chaos – I’ve managed to create a life that’s (seemingly) successful, whenever something like this would happen – I’d add another chapter into my long life of embarrassing moments.  Tell another story over cocktails to coworkers.  Use one of these moments to make a close friend laugh after she had a bad day.  But it morphed into something else – my overall reputation of being clumsy, or not so put together – or a little chaotic in general.

And eventually – one of these friends, that happened to continually be on the opposite end of my stories, told me to start writing them down.  All the time actually.  She never let up.  So I did.  And I started a blog, and began sharing them with other people.

And what I found, was therapy I never knew I needed – support I didn’t know I had – an outlet that has been unbelievably fulfilling.  Because although initially – I wrote about these stories to make people laugh – what ended up happening is that I could let it go.  And once I had gotten through all of the stories of my past, I started writing down what was happening every day.  And it wasn’t always embarrassing, or chaotic, it was just life.  And most of the time – when I was writing something, I’d be nervous to hit ‘publish’ because I’m honest, and open – and that is a very vulnerable place to be.  Like – telling people about my daughter finding my vibrator under my pillow last week, and asking if it was a wine stopper.  Or telling people about yelling at the top of my lungs at that same daughter – cursing her very existence, in the same moment I was wondering how I would live without her.  And falling in love and breaking up and moving and fights with my lover and struggles with my friends.  And love and love and love.  And each time I told a story – I connected with someone over it.  Because – it turns out – we are all the same!  I know you all probably know that, but that’s what I get out of telling stories – a reminder that no matter what horrible or lovely or amazing or totally sucky or completely horrifying thing you are experiencing – or you have done – or you want to do – someone else out there is going through the same thing.  (Even if they don’t admit it to you out loud.)

You are not alone, ever, ever ever ever.  And in our heavily disconnected world – I find that incredibly comforting.  That in this room – someone has had a moment like I told you about.  Someone tripped over themselves and landed at Ryan McKay’s feet.  Someone walked into a wall.  Someone’s daughter found their vibrator.  (maybe not?)

And I’m not clumsy anymore, or prone to mishaps, or chaos.  Or at least, I’m not just that.  I’m imperfect, yes – of course, but what I’ve learned to take from these moments is just that, it’s a moment to learn from – it doesn’t define me, anymore.  It’s just a story to be told.

Go to Bikram. Go to the beach. Go anywhere, just don’t leave a wine stopper in your bed.

Hey guys.  Happy Oscars.

How was your weekend?

Ours, was a weekend of discoveries.

A recap, of course, here:

I discovered Bikram yoga: Have you guys done this before?  What it is, in short: a specified number of yoga poses (somewhere near 30 I think?) that you repeat for about 90 minutes in a room that feels like it’s about 190 degrees.  My friends have gone, and been all “I lost 20 pounds with Bikram” and “Bikram changed my life” and “Bikram made me a better person”, so I thought I’d try.

And y’know what’s super fucking hard?

Bikram yoga, you guys.  Bikram yoga is SUPER. FUCKING. HARD.  And if your friends tell you all of those things, and don’t tell you that it’s super fucking hard, they are super fucking liars.  Because it is.  So the entire time – in my head, I was thinking “Youneverhavetodothisagain” overandoverandover again.  And thinking of running.  And thinking of what people would do if I ran?  Like – if I just walked out, pretending I ran out of water, but then kept on walking?

But I didn’t.

Even though I really, really wanted to.

And at the end, the instructor said, “You did it Erin!” and the whole class turned to me and clapped.  And I thought oh, fuck.  Because of course that was all I needed – that small little boost of support – to decide that I’d do it again.

Sigh.

Anna discovered my wine stopper: Anna got up early on Saturday – like, crazy early, and although I was up, I didn’t want her to be up, so I sent her back to bed.  But it was coldish.  And I bought a heated mattress pad this winter, so my bed is warmish.  So I sent her back to my bed.  And after about 10 minutes of listening to her rustle around in there, I finally went back in and accepted defeat, and told her she could get up.  And she pulled her hand out from under my pillow, and held something up, and said, “What is this Mama, is it a wine stopper?”

And I said, “Ummmm, yah.  That’s a wine stopper.”

But you guys.

It wasn’t a wine stopper.  

It WASN’T.  A. WINE. STOPPER.

We discovered Fort Foster: We’d discovered it before, of course – having been up here random weekends to meet my sister and family – but this morning, we met up with a friend (and her dog) and grabbed coffee at the local coffee shop (better described as: the coffee shop that serves the most heavenly baked goods on earth) and drove out to the gate.  Although it’s technically closed for the off-season – we weren’t the only ones there, it was flooded with other Kitterians and their hounds, since the weather was so lovely.  And we walked forever, while Anna collected seashells, and my friend and I caught up, and when we found a place to park for a minute, ran into a couple I’d just seen at Lil’s.  And because it’s Kittery, when I asked if they’d just been there – that led to a conversation that lasted 15 mintues.  They’d moved up here from Newton 10 years ago – and like me, two months in, wondered why everyone in the northeast wasn’t here already.  Because this was where we stood, for our Sunday morning conversation:

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And I don’t think there could be anything better than good coffee, good company, and new friends, here.  Really.

Between that, and my parents, sister, brothernlaw and nephew coming over for dinner tonight, I thought again – for what seems like the millionth time in two months, how happy I am that we’re here.  How no place since she was born – no place since I left my own hometown, has felt this good, this warm, this home.  How it seems like I’ve been looking for this for so, so long – in a way that I didn’t even know I had been.

So.

If you want to discover how strong you are, mentally and physically (because you are) go to Bikram yoga.  If you want to avoid figuring out to avoid talking through how a wine stopper would end up in your bed, DON’T LEAVE A WINE STOPPER IN YOUR BED.

And if things are as awful as you thought they could be, and you’ve dropped to the floor in the midst of chaos, just wait.  Because three months later, you could be home.

 

Goodbye Lemon, goodbye Ocean – you were loved.

Hey guys.  How’s it going out there?

Here, it’s been a little crazy.

Like – I stopped buying liquor at the Rite Aid.

I didn’t, really – but I’ve received some feedback from avid fans (read: my friend Autumn) that I’m talking too much about my fascination with the drugstoreliquor stuff so I should put a stop to it.  (Just last night though: red wine, antibiotics, pharmacy counter.  You just can’t beat it.)  Really, I need to stop being on antibiotics because then the thrill of the purchase will be gone – because that’s what it is, you guys – it’s not just that you can buy it, it’s that it feels somewhat rebellious to be holding the label that clearly states you must not have alcohol while on the drugs, while holding the alcohol – the eye contact we make, the pharmacist and me – she, wondering if I’m going to drink it, me, wondering if she’s wondering if I’m going to drink it – it’s just too good.  Like buying condoms as a teenager, maybe?

Me, writing about it later and thinking I really need to find better outlets for my need for acts of rebellion. 

Here’s the real (vacation) week in review:

We took care of ourselves: Anna went to my folks last weekend to kick off vacation, and I stayed here.  She shopped and watched and got love from my parents.  I ran and slept and read and slept some more.  Drank good coffee, wine and had good food, and good love.  Stayed inside – because our new space is soooo cozy.  I checked my oil, and organized my closet and shopped too long at stores and went to see a movie.

We Western Massed: Anna returned from the land of yes midweek, and we went to Western Massachusetts to stay with friends and ski.  I never liked skiing, but did it anyway, being a northern NH girl – but when we walked into the lodge and got in line for rentals, all that little girl stuff came rooting back up and I thought, “I will never, ever ski again.”  But then she loved it, which I love so much, so I’m reconsidering my silent promise.  Beyond the skiing – Western Massachusetts is just so. lovely.  Peaceful and slow and creative and warm and organic and fair trade and solar everything, all set to the backdrop of a river and a train track – and all of that, this time – with the company of people both of us love so much.

With really good coffee.

We said goodbye: When we got home from Western MA they were fine – but this morning Ocean seemed a little lethargic – and that turned into morethanlethargic, and maybe on his last leg – so in the midst of Anna on the floor in tears, I called the emergency vet, and we hauled him in.  When the vet saw him in Anna’s hands, she quickly took him and said he needed to put under oxygen.  When she came back, leaving him in the care of the techs, we talked through the possibilities of what might have happened – but before we managed too much conversation, the tech came back, opening the door – looking at me, then the doctor, and then me again, and slowly shaking her head.  As if she’d been stabbed, Anna dropped to the ground in sobs, while the vet talked to me about the need for an autopsy.

Because she suspected foul play.

 

Just kidding.

She did want to rule out anything that could affect Lemon, though – and while I agreed out loud that it was important to understand what happened, it was the same as when I agreed out loud that giving the birds anesthesia so we could determine if they were male or female was important.  As in, not at all agreed.  Although she offered cremation, we declined and decided to take Ocean home with us.  While I dug in the backyard, Anna went to check on Lemon, who seemed to be in the same state of decline – and soon after, he passed away too.

And my little animal-lover has spent the day torturing herself for losing her birds, all wrapped up on the couch now watching a movie and occasionally talking about the emptiness of the house and how things will never be the same.  

And while there have been moments in the midst of the passing – (like when they said ‘oxygen’ and ‘autopsy’) that I had to hide my immediate reaction, I do think we’re learning big stuff today.  It gave us an opportunity to talk about how different people cope with losing ones they love, to figure out how we’re going to cope together (or in reality, how I’m going to cope with the amount of coping that needs to happen), what happens and where the birds are now, and to give each other some love.

So.

If you want to take care of yourself, send your children to your parents house (or mine?) and stay home, read and sleep and eat and sleep some more.  If you want all the same things with the added bonus of a low-key mountain to ski on surrounded by open, warm local-folks, go to Berkshire East by way of Shelburne Falls.  And if you find yourself losing someone you love, come over.  We have sage, good comfort food, wine, and lots of love.

RIP, Lemon and Ocean.  You were loved.

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You guys! I finally shaved my head. (Or: it’s a hair 911.)

Just kidding.

But I THOUGHT a lot about it this weekend, because I got the worst hair cut ever to be gotten.  I didn’t document it, I don’t know why – it was just all so tragic.  But it looked a little bit like this:

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Only not as good as that.

NOT.

AS.

GOOD.

For real, you guys.  I know it can sometime sound as thought I’m exaggerating, or being overly dramatic, but I am not doing either of those things.  I’d been hacked.  Like with a machete.  When she said this, I should have bailed:

 “Well, let me just shape it a bit.  Y’know, give you an update?”

I was paralyzed in fear once she did it – because I thought it would be bad, but y’know how they’re tricky with their scissors, and you don’t always totally understand what they’re doing?

But then she turned the chair around, and I felt my stomach drop and a little like I was going to throw up.  I know, it’s just hair you guys.  But let me remind you guys, it was NOT AS GOOD AS THIS:

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So I put an elastic in it.

And I tried to keep that just-hair thought in my mind when I was driving home, like, maybe I was being overly dramatic.  And maybe it wasn’t that bad?  And then one of my friends showed up, and I opened the door, and took the elastic out of my hair, and she said:

It’s really bad Erin.  

So I called Troupe Studio in Portsmouth, because they had good reviews.  And when someone answered the phone, I said:

Listen.  I know you probably don’t have any openings.  I know it’s Saturday.  But I got a bad haircut.  I look like an 80’s suburban mom.  I can’t leave the house.  Even if you don’t have time to cut it, even if you just LOOK at it, and like – give me hope?  I would be so, so grateful.  Please.  It’s so, so bad.  

Please.

And the man said:

How soon can you get here?

And when I said 8 minutes – he said he couldn’t promise anything, that he would do his best, but he might not be able to cut it, because he was leaving for an appointment.  And what I found out later, is that he hung up the phone, and alerted his next appointment he would be late.

Because it was a hair 911.

And when I walked in, and looked at him, and took the elastic out of my hair, he said:

It’s really bad Erin.

Just kidding.

Ever the professional, he focused on what he could do to help, rather than digging for what salon I’d come from or focusing on how bad my hair cut was.  He told me we’d have to go short, shorter than I’d hoped, but that he could help get it to what I wanted.  And y’know what?

He totally, totally did.

I am not completely happy because I wanted long hair, and now I am left with short, but it is not tragic – in fact, it’s really cute.  And if you’d seen it, you guys – you would get the miracle that is now my hair cut.

So.  If you’re going to get your hair cut, call someone you know.  If you can’t manage that, call someone you know in the area to give you a recommendation.  And if all of that fails, and the chair turns around, and your stomach drops, and you feel like you’re going to throw up, call John Tilton at Troupe, and let him know it’s a hair 911.