Hi there. I don't believe we've met.

This morning, I came across a version of a 25 Things quiz I did about a year ago on my facebook page. I figured I'd update and repost it so I didn't have to exert any real effort actually writing a blog post today, only instead it backfired on me because it's taken me all freaking day to come up with new and interesting stuff to write about.

So finally, I present to you for your viewing pleasure, 25 things you didn’t know, and didn’t really NEED to know about yours truly. I hope you'll reciprocate and post your own!

1. I once watched a PETA video and couldn’t eat bacon for a month. Then I read something that said “if they didn’t want us to eat animals, they wouldn’t have made them out of meat” and I got over it.

2. I watch Intervention to feel better about myself. Hey, I may have been slightly overserved at the babyshower last weekend, but at least I’m not huffing on computer duster to get my fix.

3. Sometimes I astound myself with the horrific things that pass through my own mind. For example, I’ve had such bad work days in the past that I’ve found myself wishing that I could just break my leg so that I could have a few weeks off on short term disability. A broken femur, in my eyes, is a small sacrifice to make for a few blissful weeks spent on the couch. After one particularly god awful day at work a few years ago, I honest to god found myself wishing that I could get pregnant just for that glorious, three month stretch of maternity leave that comes prepackaged with the deal. That in itself isn’t TOO bad of course, but as the rest of my “plan” went, when my three month sojourn was up I’d then give my child up for adoption because motherhood simply “wasn’t for me”. I even shocked myself with that one.

4. When my little sister Samantha was born, I bit her finger to see if she’d cry. She did. I was twelve years old so this was clearly unacceptable behavior.

5. I have no rhythm. Thus, I can’t dance… although to be quite frank, I have yet to try dancing while sober. When I’m drunk, I’ll “dance” and blame the lack of rhythm on the fact that I’m drunk. It’s a vicious circle, really.

6. I grew up resenting my parents for saddling me with the most generic moniker known to man, save for “John Smith”. I have no qualms about even posting it on here because it’s so common. Take the 1st most popular girls name of 1981 – Jennifer – and add it to the 6th most common surname in the USA – Martin – and the end result is that I am virtually anonymous. It used to bother me when I was younger, like when I was seated next to another Jennifer Martin in my first semester of college biology class. Or when I lost my library card and they had to sit there impatiently while the librarian sifted through the 25 other Jennifer Martin’s in my town to find the right one. “did you ever live on Elm street?” No. “Hmmm… how about Franklin?” NO. As a youth desperately seeking the quirky independence that would set me apart from the crowd. I tried to differentiate myself from the fifteen other Jennifer’s in my graduating class by drawing little stars as the tittle in the I’s in my name. I imagined as I grew up that the trademark tittle star would become my identifier, and that eventually I could just sign christmas cards and checks that way… just an “I” with a tittle star, like the artist formerly known as. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to not only accept it but APPRECIATE it even. Especially in the age of the internet where endless information about a person is readily available at your fingertips, my name has proven itself quite useful for maintaining my anonymity. The exact opposite of what I sought as a self righteous, wannabe enigmatic youth.

7. I know in my heart that most all of you immediately thought something dirty when you read the word “tittle” above. No worries. I did too. There's no secrets here. We're all friends.

8. I firmly believe that if I ever have a chance of being “discovered” it would be in a suburban shopping mall. It seems to me that every celebrity profiled on the E! True Hollywood Stories gets their big break that way. Cue voiceover… “Little did Gisele know that her decision to hit up the Macy’s One Day Sale Double Coupon Extravaganza would forever change the course of her life”. For this reason, I toss my hair and smile seductively as I pick through the sale racks at Banana Republic, just in case a talent scout is observing my behavior from behind the wool, pleated style trousers. The secret is to never let your guard down. I feel it’s best to operate under the assumption that every middle aged man screaming into his cell phone while overdosing on MSG via Master Wok is a talent scout on the hunt for the next Heidi Klum. I don’t know what I’m expecting to be “discovered” for, but whatever it is, I want it discovered in a suburban shopping mall.

9. The most famous person I ever met was the Lizardman. My friend Danielle and I spent an evening taking Jagermeister shots with him outside a tour bus in some parking lot in Worcester one night. But he’s a reptile so he doesn’t count. Or is he an amphibian? Any bio nerds out there that can clarify this? I was too busy being tormented by the presence of another Jennifer Martin in my first semester college bio class to pay any attention to the difference.

10. I buy self help books and never read them. I just like the way they look on my bookshelf, how they make it appear to the occasional houseguest that I’m trying to “better myself”. I suppose I should buy one on overcoming pretentiousness next.

11. I can’t decide what my official stance is on the whole 12/21/12 business. It seems that most anybody who is not indifferent and actually has an opinion on the topic feels very strongly one way or another, either “yes, we’re all going to die a slow, burning, painful death” or “no it’s just going to be another day in our boring, monotonous lives’. I find myself thinking about it often, yet my opinion seems to flip flop based on how I think 12/21/12 would impact me given whatever is presently conflicting me. For example “should I really put yet another pair of brown suede boots on a credit card?” My answer is: “Yes it doesn’t matter how off balance your income to debt ratio is because the world is going to end in 2012 anyway… Get the purse too!” or “I can put off getting married and having kids for awhile. I mean, it’s not like the world is going to end on 12/21/12 or anything.” That’s right folks, I make 12/21/12 WORK for me.

12.Even though I live alone, in a big, beautiful apartment, I still hang out in my bedroom nearly every night like an angsty teenager. If I start writing bad poetry in my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper, I think it’s safe to say I’m regressing.

13. I'm skipping this one because I want you to think I'm superstitious, but in truth this used to be #25 and I simply ran out of things to say.

14. My brother and I both share the same obsession with zit picking. He’s been known to drive to my work just to have me pop a zit that he can’t quite reach on his back. And I’m honored to do it for him, actually grateful that he’s chosen to bless me with the opportunity to extract the puss from his inflamed pore. There’s nothing more satisfying then a successful whitehead pop, second only to the triumph of locating and extracting an ingrown hair. My obsession is the sole reason I won’t buy one of those lighted, magnifying “Face Picking” Mirrors because I know I’d have to see a reconstructive cosmetic surgeon and get a face transplant after I had a few hours alone with it and a pair of tweezers. It’s a disease, I swear.

15. Brushing my teeth in the shower affords me the luxury of spending an extra two minutes in bed each morning.

16. Peeing in the shower affords me another two minutes in bed.

17. Right here between piss and cankles, I'd like to give a shout out to my family. I'll keep it brief, and simply say that I am fortunate enough to consider every immediate member of my family one of my best friends. That goes for my mom, my dad, my brother and my sister. Despite our dysfunctions, I consider myself pretty blessed to have been given the family I was born in to. I’m incredibly close to each and every one of them, all in different ways.

18. I have cankles and I’ve learned to accept it.

19. The whole “don’t make that face, it’ll freeze that way” line that my mother used to threaten me with when I was a kid scared the crap out of me until I was about 12 years old, when I finally caught on that it wasn’t true. These days I can make “that face” without a care in the world. 

20. I suffer from omphalophobia and I am not alone. I have this neurotic fear of anything touching, entering, or coming anywhere close to the general vicinity of my belly button. The area from my ribs to my hip bones is a “No Access Zone”, and I don’t even like wearing fitted shirts. Too close for comfort for this kid. This fear spans over twenty years, from when I was in the third grade and a friend of mine told me of a dream she had about the point of a mathematical compass stabbing her in the belly button. Since then, I’ve lived in near constant fear of it happening to me. I wish I could permanently sew it closed or put a band-aid over it. I hate it .The near relentless (and wholly irrational) worry of having to protect my belly button is too much of a burden for me. I. Don’t. Want. It. On. My. Body. Anymore. It's too big responsibiilty for me, and I'm just about fed up with it. It's like being forced to carry around a house made out of playing cards and being tasked your whole life with making sure it doesn't collapse. And if it does, it'll cause you extreme pain.  I imagine that this is what being a parent must be like.

21. Jello makes me gag.

22. I get into near weekly battles with my father over my cell phone etiquette. I feel as though my phone is for MY convenience – you know, that whole I PAY THE BILL thing -- thus if I am otherwise preoccupied I do not always answer the phone, but I always call back when I am free to talk. Furthermore, I only check my voicemail when it nears capacity, and only then just to clear it out. Weeks can go by before I hear your voicemail, because after wasting countless days of my life listening to messages that simply say “hey it’s me call me back’” I just never bother anymore. My missed call log tells me the EXACT same thing. You called. You want me to call you back. Oddly enough, his argument isn’t about me not answering the phone, it’s about me not listening to my voicemails. His argument is “what if I’m in the hospital?”, to which my usual response is “Well than thank god I called you back immediately instead of wasting precious moments listening to your voicemail!!”. I once let my voicemail fill to capacity so that nobody could leave a new one, but he couldn’t handle the frustration. He all but demanded I clear it so that he could leave me messages, because "how else would I know he called?" So even though he knows I don’t listen to voicemails, he still insists on leaving them for me. That’s perseverance for ya.

23. My friend Shannon and I came pretty freaking close to getting arrested in Mexico in 2002. I'm not at liberty to disclose the reason why (my parents read this blog) but it makes for a great "oh yeah, well I can do you one better" type story, let me tell you.

24. When I was 20 years old, I took the two kids I was babysitting for and my sister to a miniature golf course as a special treat. While there, I caught the business end of a golf club to the face because I was standing too close to the backswing. I got knocked out and when I woke up I was lying on the ground next to a windmill, and the owner of the course was waving free passes in my face, in a frantic “please don’t sue me!” sort of manner. I wound up with a scratched cornea, a blow out orbital fracture of my left eye, and a pretty nasty black eye that lasted almost a week. The injury left me with semi-permanent damage such as impaired night vision, and occasional lazy eye due to fatigue. The person wielding the club that did that much damage? My eight year old sister, Samantha "Tiger Woods" Rose. I think it was payback for that whole finger biting thing.

25. I've been trying to use the word "harken" in a blog for the past couple of weeks now. I've been unsuccessful in my endeavors to date, so I'm just going to write it out for you. Harken. There it is. Done.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold…. Or With Meatballs

Imagine my surprise this past weekend when I inadvertently stumbled across some old files belonging to my ex-boyfriend while cleaning out my laptop. All these years have gone by and I didn’t even know I had them on there, as they were expertly hidden in a folder called “Jenn’s Important Financial Info" the contents of which are of zero interest of mine and never will be of any. I figure I must have unconsciously transferred the files over to a CD during one of my many midnight B & E reconnaissance missions to the home we once shared to reclaim my belongings. It's hard to really focus on the task at hand when you have two cats strapped to your chest in a Snugli, and are otherwise preoccupied with lowering a bureau out the window in the dead of night. Needless to say, things didn’t exactly go down amicably between us towards the end. But I’m over it. Really I am. No unresolved anger issues to see here! “Let bygones, be bygones” is what I say!

Anyway, one document in particular caught my eye – a text document, ominously titled “Confidential Document That Is None of Your Business” – password protected and all. I typed in my best guess of a password (it worked!) and a slow, satisfied smile spread across my face when I clicked it open and saw that it did in fact contain the holy grail of Italian Family recipes – the centuries old, passed down from generation to generation, heirloom, sacred, Italian Family Gravy Recipe, (or “sauce” to us non-Italians). Rumor has it that my ex’s great-grandfather (or Great-Nonno if you will) wrestled the stone engraving of the recipe from the hands of Moses himself (which is why there’s only Ten Commandments, not Ten Commandments and the Family Gravy), then when the stone got too burdensome for him to carry on his back as he traversed Italy by foot, he had Leonardo DaVinci draw it out for him on parchment. Later on, he sat at the right hand of Jesus as they ate the family gravy with some nice crusty bread (which Jesus then broke for the sole purpose of wiping his plate clean) during the Last Supper. Great-Nonno then crusaded on by smuggling the recipe out of Italy during the First World War and family legend has it that he held it clenched in his fist to draw strength from when he punched Hitler in the face, thus bringing an end to the Second World War. When the parchment it was written on got too tattered from the salt water breezes during his sail over the mighty Atlantic aboard the Santa Maria with everyone’s favorite Paisan, Christopher Columbus himself,  he carved the recipe into his own skin with the teeth of the world’s last saber tooth tiger so that it would always be with him. Upon his arrival to America, my ex’s great-grandfather is said to have introduced the idea of “a pasta course” during the first Thanksgiving with the Indians and the Pilgrims, a tradition that still holds true today.

My guess is that this didn't exactly go down the way I wrote it above, and that maybe, just maybe, over the years the family history got a little convoluted, but try telling that to an Italian Family. Take it from my past experience, should you happen to question time frames, war history involvement or the fact that Great-Nonno would be oh, say, 2000 fucking years old and not sitting at the head of the marble table right now beaming and nodding along as his story is once again recited as it was last Sunday at noon at “supper” and the Sunday at noon at “supper” before that, you will immediately be chastised and admonished with around the room signs-of-the-crosses and gasps of "MADONNA MIA!”.

So I learned to let it go.

Besides, like they said to me many, many times back then when this friendly, family dinner table banter took place… I couldn't prove he WASN’T there, now could I? Nevermind that "I was just jealous because my descendants were too busy gallivanting around looking for pots of gold to do anything noble, nevermind that they were all too drunk off whiskey to remember anything anyway." Boisterous laughter would erupt around the table and Uncle Vinnie would clap me hard on the back as though trying to dislodge a piece of proscuitto from my windpipe. I would stare down at my gravy in silence, knowing that the battle was lost.  Although to be honest, their broad assumptions about my ancestry actually weren't too far off from what my family is presently doing today.

But as the saying goes, the battle may have been lost, but the war had yet to be won. I'm sure that what I’m about to do now is a whole lot worse then questioning a little family history anyway.

The Italian Family Gravy Recipe is undoubtedly the most closely guarded secret an Italian Family holds near and dear to them. I’ll even go out on a limb and say that despite this one particular Italian Family’s technological mishap, it would probably be easier to sneak into Area 51 and take photos of yourself salsa dancing with aliens to post on your Facebook page than it is to get the Italian Family Gravy Recipe. They won’t even tell you what’s IN IT, never mind how they cook it. Even in the past when I would try to make casual conversation at family dinners by exclaiming, “Wow this is fantastic! Is that basil that I taste?”. Silence would momentarily fill the room, and the only sound to be heard was the plastic couch protector crinkling as someone uncomfortably shifted their weight to fill the awkward silence. I’d be met with a steely glare followed by a wooden spoon knuckle wrap. “Fugghedaboutit!” they’d say, “Just shut up and mangia!”. They'd then exchange smug looks to one another, proud of themselves for once again fulfilling their duty to protect the sacred recipe and keep it from the hands of the undeserving. Potential intelligence breech once again thwarted by wooden spoon.

So anyway, I think we all know where this is going. Now, I know what you're thinking... but despite what some may say, I’m not a total asshole. I wouldn’t POST the family recipe on my blog for the whole world (by whole world, I mean 34 followers) to read just to settle an old score, make up for past misgivings and misdeeds. All in all, I’m a pretty decent person, so I do understand that this is a serious thing to them. This would be a sacrilege to the Italian Family, and lest I have a desire to wake up with a horsehead in my bed, even I know better than to do that.

So instead I'm posting MY recipe.

MY recipe (which I made this past weekend, and I must say it was bellisima!) is essential this Italian’s Family Gravy Recipe that I tweaked with my own ingredients. Or ingredien(T) that is.

I added salt.

So here it is, in all its glory… Jenn’s Famous Italian Family(style) SAUCE Recipe. (Oh I love it. I JUST LOVE IT. I am beaming as I type this.) Now of course, I don’t have all the history that they have…I didn’t smuggle it out of Jerusalem in a balloon shoved up my rectum as I rode bareback on a T-Rex to confront the Confederates or anything like that. My tradition starts right here, right now. And I hope the rest of you enjoy it and make your own memories as well. For you Irish out there, feel free to add some cabbage if you feel so inclined... Mexican's, I'm sure this would be delectable with a little beans and salsa.

And because I am a good person, a charitable soul if you will… how do ya like these apples: Feel free to duplicate this recipe and send to everyone you know.

Jenn’s Famous Italian(style) SAUCE Recipe:

Cover bottom of sauce pot with olive oil--not too much--thin layer of oil
Saute 3-4 cloves chopped garlic (if you burn the garlic, start over… the whole sauce will taste burnt)

Add:
3 cans Pastene kitchen ready tomatoes
3 cans tomato paste
3-4 medium size Hunt’ss sauce
Add about 1/2 cup-1 cup water
Add some fresh basil
Add about handful of romano cheese
And now for the SECRET INGREDIENT… dun, dun, dun….
A pinch of salt

In a separate fry pan add oil -.not a lot - and brown pork chops and sausages to a nice deep golden brown. Salt and pepper your meat when you are browning it. Add meat to the sauce. You can use the same oil for the meatballs as long as it hasn't burned. Pour some of the oil from the pork chops and sausages into the sauce for flavor before browning the meatballs. Add more oil to the pan before I brown the meatballs. You can also buy salt pork and brown that in the bottom of the pot, instead of adding oil, before sautéing the garlic.

Let it cook a good while....don't let it boil....just simmer....I turn it off when I see the oil come up to the top of the pot. Let it simmer 3-4 hours after the meat is all in. It always tastes better the next day after all the flavors mix in.

Ciao,

Jenn

Oh and P.S. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that should a couple guys donning track suits and chewing on toothpicks show up in my driveway in a Cadillac requesting that we "go for a little ride"... Just so you know I'm not afraid of you. As a matter of fact, at 5 foot 4 inches, I'm probably taller than you. But to be on the safe side, I'll be having Matt start my car for me in the morning anyway.

Through the years

Matt and I at the MHS Senior Prom, circa June 1999

Matt and I in Bermuda, circa September 2009

What a difference a decade makes! I'm incredibly fortunate to have such a handsome, loving boyfriend by my side, though I will readily admit that it takes a lot of work to keep him there!  Take last night for example: We were lying in bed reading... I was itching my ear with my pinky finger when suddenly I stopped, turned to Matt and profoundly stated,  "You know, I think earwax makes an excellent cuticle moisturizer". His look of revulsion adoration spoke volumes. Oh yeah, he thinks I'm disgusting a genius.

What a lucky man he is.

Put your mind to it, go for it… get down and break a sweat!

A decision has been made.

I’m going back to the gym. Seriously. Like I might even go tomorrow, that’s how serious about this I am. I MEAN IT.

Although knowing me and my inherent lack of grace, this will probably happen:



I feel like when I go to the gym on a regular basis, I make healthier lifestyle choices overall. When I wheeze away on the treadmill for an hour and witness just how much friggen effort it takes to burn a measly 250 calories, it makes me think twice about the things I put in my mouth to consume those 250 calories to begin with. For example, right now I am eating Tropical Skittles and washing them down with a Lipton Brisk iced tea. If I was actively participating in the gym membership I’ve retained for the past two years, I’d probably forgo my 370 calorie, sugar laden afternoon snack. Especially whereas I just had a BLT for lunch. And a Dunkin Flatbread with hash browns a few hours before that for breakfast. And Burger King mozzarella sticks around midnight last night because I had like six beers while at dinner (which by the way was a TGI Friday’s Chicken Sandwich with French fries) and therefore had the drunken munchies. See what I mean?

I bet some of you are suspicious that I am getting advertising revenue for all the fast food name dropping going on in this post, but alas no... that's actually what I've eaten in the last 17 hours. The "Old Me" would have thought it's okay because I popped a multivitamin at some point therefore I was "healthy". The "New Me" is mentally doing the caloric equations and is alarmed at the realization that a week straight spent on a treadmill wouldn’t burn that shit off.

Ever since I hit my late 20’s things have just gone downhill. Granted I don’t always make the healthiest choices, but I feel like my lifestyle is starting to take its toll on me. I’m tired all the time, my jeans don’t fit, I’m miserable because my jeans don’t fit etc. I eat more because I'm miserable because my jeans don't fit. It's a vicious cycle, really.

I’m not really sure what brought me to this monumental crossroads, but for once I’m going to choose the path less traveled. No longer will I stand idly by and let Planet Fitness take $20 a month out of my bank account to pay for nothing more than a tag hanging from my key chain. I’m going to USE that key tag, chin held high and proud when I walk in there at night, leotard on, sweat band around forehead, leg warmers scrunched just so. Maybe instead of just getting the polite smile, they might even start to remember my name if I become a regular. As a matter of fact, I may become such a professional gym-goer that someday I might finally understand how the hell you work that stupid heartrate monitor thing without the screen flashing and beeping at me every thirty seconds demanding I put my hands on the sensors.

Hell, I might even eat a vegetable.

One that’s NOT on my burger or in my steakbomb that is.

Wish me luck.

A really long winded post about nothing really important. Enjoy.

Like most Generation Y “nine to fivers” out there, I am addicted to Facebook. I am logged on to the site for at least eight hours a day while at work so that I can mindlessly check it for updates every hour or so when I get bored. I think it appeals to my (self-diagnosed) ADHD, like when I’m in the middle of typing out a work email, and inexplicably and without warning stop in the middle and check for new Facebook updates. It’s also a reward system so to speak. Wrap up a phone call? Check Facebook. Finish filing? Check Facebook. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if my employer ever restricted Facebook, I would probably quit my job. In the past year since I’ve been a Facebook member (prior to that I was on the archaic MySpace) I’ve used the site to join a book club, promote my blog, “meet” several members of my extended family in Illinois, hell I’ve even made several “real life” friends through Facebook. Furthermore, anything I need to know I ask Facebook. Can you recommend a good wine, has anyone seen Paranormal Activity, where can I find a good tailor? Facebook is all knowing, and I am a Facebook Professional. With my Professional Status, there are two things that bother me about Facebook. Scratch that. THREE THINGS that bother me about Facebook. One is Facebook Drama which I might write about someday if I feel like alienating a bunch of people in my life. The second is Facebook Illiteracy… My general thoughts on the matter are if you don’t know how to use it properly, LEARN TO (but I will get to that in a minute). The third thing that irritates me is the Facebook Crazies. Instead of wasting time explaining what a Facebook Crazy is, I thought I would just show you a prime example of a convo I had with one a while back:

hi
Between You and FACEBOOK CRAZY

FACEBOOK CRAZY
January 23 at 10:49pm
Any chance you are bi?
28/f
-ericka

FACEBOOK CRAZY
January 25 at 10:33am
i'm sorry to bother. i guess you're not interested. let me know if you change your mind. -ericka, 28/bif

Jennifer Martin
January 25 at 2:03pm
Sorry Ericka I guess I had issues with my Mobile Message feature. No unfortunately I am not bi, although I am flattered you asked! Take care... Jenn

FACEBOOK CRAZY
January 25 at 2:08pm
Do you know anyone who is? Or who is open to just bisexual talk on the phone?

Jennifer Martin
January 25 at 2:09pm
Um, no... sorry.

Aaaaaannndd… “BLOCKED”

Disclaimer… Sorry if any of you happen to be this particular Facebook Crazy. And if you are her...again, I’m very flattered. I wish I had the nerve to post her name because it is HILARIOUS. Seriously. Email me and I’ll tell you. And if you're interested in bisexual talk on the phone, email me and I'll hook you up.

So anyway, back to Facebook Illiteracy. Because Facebook plays such a major role in my life, I decided to sign my boyfriend up so he could understand what I was talking about when I said things like “How funny is it that Tara tagged me in that picture as her arm because I taught her that skinny arm photo trick?”, or “I mean seriously, does anybody even use the poking feature?” or “Holy shit! Stop with the incessant over-liking!” In the beginning I was really excited about Matt joining Facebook… I thought we’d exchange cute little wall posts to make all my friends jealous, mutually tag one another in pics, maybe someday we could even change our relationship status to “engaged” or something (HINT MOTHERFUCKING HINT).  But alas, he is just not interested in Facebook like I am. He never posts a status, never adds pictures, never comments my witty wall posts… nothing. Every once in a while he logs in, but he’s like a silent predator... he checks the scene, views upcoming events, sees what his friends are up to etc. and then as quick as he appeared, he’s gone. It is all very sneaky and gosh darn it... I DON'T LIKE IT ONE BIT. Let your presence be known for chrissakes! Post a status so I can comment it! As a Facebook Professional, I post incessant updates every five minutes. Go ahead and block me, I don’t care (and by “I don’t care” I mean “I’d be devastated”).

So a few nights ago, Matt stops by after work, walks into the kitchen where I’m cooking dinner (aka microwaving a Smart One) and he has that LOOK on his face. If you’ve ever been in a long term relationship you know The Look. It’s the look that says “It’s been a little while since we’ve had this discussion, but I feel it is my obligation as your significant other to occasionally remind you that I am a highly desirable creature capable of soliciting unwarranted attention from other beings. Though I would never act on it, I think you should be aware that at any point in time, I could act on my right to trade you in for a younger, newer model. I won’t, but just a friendly reminder that I could if I wanted to. Just keeping you on your toes.” Yup. I got all that from a Look. Don’t lie. You’ve used it before too.

Now I needed worry, for I’ve never been more secure with any other person in my whole life. I’ve never - in all these years - had even one iota of a feeling that Matt would ever act on his right to trade me in. He adores me as much as I adore him. But let’s just say that over the years, I may have let my guard down in the keeping up appearances area just a tad. Let me back up a second and explain that of all people in my life, Matt has seen me at my absolute worst, many, many, many times. This has EVERYTHING to do with the fact that we first started dating when we were in 8^th grade (that particular relationship ended tragically after five months when I had my 8^th grade BFF call him and break up with him for me. She said he sounded heartbroken), and over the past 15 years he’s held the title of “My Boyfriend” about five different times. Although we’ve been more “off” than “on” over the past fifteen years, nevertheless he has remained a near constant presence in my life which means that Matt has been with me through my awkward adolescent years, through my rebellious teenage years, my hard-partying twenties and beyond.

With Matt hanging around, it’s almost like being on the Truman Show because this kid remembers EVERYTHING. He especially seems to have the memory of an elephant when it comes to things that I personally would love to forget. You know, like the time I crashed a moped into a tree at full speed, thus permanently losing feeling in my left knee... or like the time his cousin threw a bender of a party where I had way too much to drink and Matt had to put me to bed for the night. Matt still gets grossed out when he tells the story of how he woke up the following morning to discover his t-shirt drenched in my urine because I peed the bed while passed out next to him. Yeah… all that sort of stuff you don’t really want to remember as you get older and more “mature” because things like that don’t happen to you anymore. Yeah, I DEFINITELY don’t do things like that anymore. For example, this past Sunday, Matt didn’t have to carry me fireman style from the bar and clean the puke out of my hair after I drank way too much wine at a baby shower. (He didn’t have to, because I probably could have walked.) And maybe this past Saturday he didn’t witness me as I came jogging out of the convenience store towards his waiting car, only to trip in front of him over my own shoe, lose my balance and hurl myself down an incline… rip my jeans, skin my palms, cut my knee, and provide a couple minutes of entertainment to break up the monotony of sitting at a red-light for at LEAST five waiting cars at a busy intersection (maybe Matt was the sole person that happened to be looking the other way?) Needless to say, I’ve provided him constant, near endless fodder of breakupable offenses.

So back to The Look. Matt recently got a Facebook enabled phone and he walks in and starts waving it in my face proud as a peacock taunting me and saying “I still got it! Haha! I’m a handsome mothereffer, and you better watch out because others are taking notice!!” So I take the phone from him, scroll down and see that he’s received a Facebook message from some hot young thing saying “Hey there, you are GORGEOUS! Are you single?” So now I’m pissed. Of course, I don’t dare show my hand and give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m pissed so instead I play on his Facebook Illiteracy and mumble something like “oh, I get emails all that time like that… it’s nothing, probably spam, and it’s just your lack of Facebook experience that makes you believe it’s anything but spam” because I am a Facebook Professional and he is NOT so he has to take my word for it. It’s friggen Spam. I said so.

The next day, I go to work and immediately log into my Facebook. I quickly scan Matt’s friends list for any new additions of potential threats and check out his “wall” for any new happenings. Right then and there, I immediately decide that I hate this girl. Again, Matt doesn’t ever DO anything on Facebook, therefore his entire page is all my posts to him. Tagged pictures from Bermuda, little cutesy love notes etc. How could she even ask (type?) with a straight face whether or not he had a girlfriend?  Didn't she do her Facebook homework? By looking at Matt’s page, it would be hard to determine he had anything BUT a girlfriend in his life. So she’s either another Facebook Illiterate, or she’s dumb as rocks. I’m going with dumb as rocks. So now my psychotic side starts to get the best of me and I decide I’m going to compose a sarcastic little post... You know, pee on the bushes a little, mark my territory. Something to the effect of “clearly you have a girlfriend” to put on his wall to let little miss Hot Young Thing know that my boyfriend and I have an incredibly open and honest relationship, and that we are so secure in our togetherness that we laid in each others arms all night laughing at her message and the very idea that she could ever come between us. Only I can’t post my cleverly crafted message about how he “obviously has a girlfriend” on his wall, or I would look like a friggen moron. Why would I look like a friggen moron you ask? Because right there on Matt’s wall there was a little blurb that said “Matt is now meeting singles in his area on Date-App!”

Well isn’t that nice! My boyfriend’s now meeting singles in his area via a Facebook Dating Application!  I had to laugh… (that is… I had to laugh AFTER I called him and told him he had five minutes to remove the post before I had my BFF call him and break up with him for me). Facebook Professionals such as myself know that you don’t click on any of those third party applications unless you fully consent to them raping and pillaging your friends list, having full access to your last five years tax returns, and sending out Christmas Cards on your behalf. They are the electronic equivalent of a cold sore. THEY DO NOT GO AWAY. Playing with them just makes them stronger. Matt was bewildered when I called him to tell him, and went so far as to google “how did Date App get on my Facebook page” as proof that he was not out philandering with the gorgeous single ladies of Facebook. Of course, I know better anyway. He’s a Facebook Illiterate after all. Plus I love and trust him and all that shit.

THE END.

Okay, maybe not the end…

P.S. I obviously did MY Facebook homework and consulted another Facebook Professional to get the skinny on Miss Hot Young Thing. After all that worrying and thinking I had to start cooking more meals and giving more frequent blowjobs,imagine my surprise (and relief) when I found out that Miss Hot Young Thing is a Facebook Crazy. She's the type that does this sort of thing all the time... Randomly messages guys in her area asking to get to know them etc. My fellow Facebook Professional insider gave me about six examples of different guys we both know that have gotten the same message as Matt. So obviously I took immense pleasure in informing Matt that it wasn’t has devastatingly handsome good looks that drew her in to his profile, nor was it his biting humor and sharp wit, his caring and sensitive nature or any of those things. She’s just a Facebook Crazy. But on the bright side… all those things are what made him draw ME in… five times now and counting.

Two Years Ago Today

Two years ago today I had the day off from work. It was a Monday, Columbus Day, and I was lounging in bed with my laptop, wasting the day away on MySpace. I remember clicking on your page and saw that you had uploaded a few new pictures sometime over the weekend. I clicked through them, and found the one of you, me, and Jesse. I smiled when I saw that your caption for the picture was “I love these two”, and I typed back a quick “I love these two, too!” and hit send. Today, that comment has still never been approved and posted because by that time… two years ago today on a Monday morning… you were already gone. At the time, I just didn’t know it yet.

Two years ago today I remember getting the phone call that told me you were gone. I can remember every word of the conversation as if it were yesterday. Jesse asked me if I was sitting down, and when I assured him that I was he then broke the news that you had been killed the night before in a car accident. I remember being in shock, and accusing him - and hoping – it was nothing more than a sick, practical joke. I half expected you to pick up the phone and say “Obviously we’re joking Niff! Be ready, we’re coming to pick your ass up!”

Two years ago today, I picked up the phone to call Kristen and tell her that you had passed away. I wanted her to hear it from me… her cousin… her own flesh and blood. Her voice was still clouded with sleep when she answered the phone, and I remember feeling awful that I had to break the news to her while she was barely half awake. I wanted to ask her to go get a cup of coffee and then call me back, but I couldn’t take the chance of her hearing from someone else. She knew immediately that something was wrong when she heard me crying, and her voice changed instantly from half asleep to wide awake. I remember how badly I didn’t want to say out loud the words that I knew were going to hurt her so deeply… I’m sorry Kristen, but Leah died last night. Your best friend was killed in a car accident. I didn’t even sound real when it came out of my mouth. She was momentarily stunned as she processed the news, and then she just said “I’m on my way”. I remember hanging up and thinking that at least I had a few hours that morning absent of the knowledge that you were no longer with us, thinking you were still alive. I wish Kristen had been afforded even ten minutes of the same luxury.

Two years ago today I remember the influx of mourners that gathered at your home as soon as they heard the news. I remember sitting with your mother in her bedroom, amidst a scattering of your aunts, uncles, close friends and loved ones, hugging her and telling her how sorry I was. How truly, truly sorry I was that we had to lose you. I can still hear her voice as she asked aloud the one question that nobody could answer over and over and over again. “Why did it have to be my Leah?” she would sob as she rocked back and forth, clutching the framed picture of the two of you in her hand. Listening to your mother cry for you was absolutely heart wrenching, Leah. I looked over at Kristen and saw her fighting back the same tears that threatened to spill over my cheeks any minute, as we tried our hardest to be strong for your mother. I remember feeling grateful that I had my cousin there to go through this with me. That at least we had each other.

Two years ago today, we sat side by side on the unmade bed you had slept in just two short nights before. I remember closing my eyes and inhaling your scent that still lingered in the room. I looked around at your bedroom, trying to absorb ever part of you that I could to take with me. It disturbed me that there was so much life left in there. In this very room, less than 24 hours ago you had sat in front of this very mirror and applied your make up for a night out. The eyeliner pencils remained uncapped… the bronzer unclosed. (I think Kristen may have even found her lip plumper that you swore you didn’t have somewhere in the pile.) As I crossed the room to check out the framed pictures and concert stubs adorning the full length mirror that hung on the inside of your closet door, I was careful not to disturb the discarded clothes still strewn on the rug. The scattered shirts and pants you rejected in favor of a pair of jeans, Chucks and a hoodie to go watch the Red Sox playoff game at a local bar on a Sunday night. Maybe you planned to hang them up the next morning, but knowing you… probably not. Dirty or not, they’d go in the wash. It was just easier. I laughed to myself when I saw your quilted down, ankle length winter coat hanging in your closet doorway and I remember thinking to myself, “winter must be coming early this year” if Leah already broke out her Eskimo coat. You always looked so funny in that coat, but the best part of all was you KNEW how funny you looked, and you didn’t care. “Hey, at least I’m WARM kid!” you’d say from somewhere underneath the massive, faux fur lined hood.

Two years ago today I remember sitting on that bed, thinking about the night I met you. Kristen picked me up first on our way to see a local show in New Hampshire, and then we stopped to get you in Reading. I slid over into the middle “the bitch seat” to make room for you and from that point on, when the three of us were together I always had “bitch”. No matter how hard I fought, I never won that battle. Kristen always drove, you always called “gun” so I got stuck with “bitch”. Right there in that very truck, some of my most cherished memories were formed of the three of us together. I can’t always remember the destination, but I remember the scenario because it was always the same: us three in the cab of Kristen’s pickup truck… smoking cigarettes, scheming for gas money, and just chatting away. WEEI was always broadcasting a Red Sox game, and I remember Kristen proudly informing me that you were a REAL Red Sox fan, not the fake kind that wore pink Red Sox tee shirts. (I threw away my pink Red Sox shirt the very next day.) The destination was never the same, but the three passengers always were. That particular night that I met you for instance, I came home wearing no pants and two pairs of underwear. To this day it’s my favorite story to tell people about you… I can remember Kristen shaking her head and laughing in the driver’s seat, while you egged me on as I fumbled to pull my jeans off over my boots in the cab of the truck. (It would have been a lot easier if I wasn’t stuck in “bitch”.) That memory symbolizes everything I loved so fiercely about you Leah, because more than anything, the biggest compliment I can give you, is that I loved who I was when I was with you.

Two years ago today, I sat next to my cousin on your bed and wished with everything I had for just one more minute with you. We sat side by side in silence and shared thought. When I replay in my head what happened next, it has become all the more evident to me that it was your way of reaching out and comforting us when we needed you most, in the way you knew best. Music was such a huge part of your life, Leah. This was evidenced even in your death by the multitude of musicians who showed up at your wake, the songs written for you in the aftermath, and the many benefit concerts held in your memory in the months following your passing. Two years ago today, as we sat in your bedroom and listened to your loved ones grieving down the hall, your alarm clock inexplicably started going off, blaring music throughout the whole house. I remember Kristen and I both jumped nearly out of our skin at the disruption, and she ran over to your nightstand and fiddled with the buttons to silence it. As the stillness once again filled the room, Kristen stood upright from the alarm clock, and we met each other’s eyes. Together, we both started laughing uncontrollably through our tears. We couldn’t help it. It was just like our Leah to set her alarm clock to “rise and shine” at four o’clock in the afternoon. But even more the reason for our laughter and tears…. We knew you were there with us, at that exact moment, and that thought is what has given us peace to get through these past two years without you.

Neither of us had ever been a big believer in signs from the afterlife, but then again, neither of us really ever had a reason to want to believe until we lost you. A few days after your wake, Kristen called me in tears. Unlike me, Kristen had actually paid attention to the song that started blaring in your room the day you died, and had researched the lyrics on the internet. She learned that the song was called Who Knew by Pink and it’s about the unexpected death of a close friend. As Leigh Hunt once said “music is the medicine of the breaking heart”. Sometimes, I’ll be driving along and the song with start playing and I’ll feel nothing, other times to this day, I hear that song and I become flooded with emotion. I believe that these are the times that you are with me.

There is a quote that says something to the gist of “music speaks to the soul in a language that only the soul can understand, yet cannot translate into words”. More succinctly… music is what feelings sound like, so when I cannot describe what it is I am feeling, I usually rely on music to say it for me. On that particular day when you knew we needed you the most, you were speaking to us both in the best way you knew how, in a language we would understand… through music. So tonight Leah, two years to the day when you left us, Kristen and I are going to get together in remembrance of our friend, of a beautiful soul, and of a life cut too short, and we’re going to play some music for you. I hope that you’ll join us.

I love and miss you always, my friend.


“Life is one grand, sweet song, so start the music.”

Kids Say The Darndest Things

I don’t know what made me think of this particular memory today, but I can’t seem to get it out of my head so I figured I’d write it down to share it with you…

My mother met my father as a late teen while she was babysitting for her next door neighbors’ kids. Those neighbors happened to be my father’s brother, wife and their children, Yvonne and Jason. My dad stopped by one night, met my mother and alas! They fell in love. A few years later, after my parents were married and my brother and I were born, Yvonne then in turn babysat for me. Later on in when I became of appropriate babysitting age, I babysat for Yvonne’s children, and so the cycle goes. (Someday, if I ever have any children of my own, Yvonne's kids will babysit for my kids.)

I think I started babysitting for the kids when Alexia (now 16) was about three years old, and Tyler (now 14) was about one, and I continued on in that fashion up until about four years ago. I would have kept right on regularly babysitting for them (and sometimes I still do in a pinch) but I was getting older, had a “real” job, and had moved further away than was convenient to travel for a night of babysitting. Not to mention that the kids were getting older, and didn’t really require a babysitter quite so often. All told, I probably spent about eight years babysitting them at least one night every couple of weeks so that my cousin Yvonne and her husband Ted could escape the rigors of parenthood and enjoy the company of adults for the night. I don’t even think the kids knew we were related up until a couple of years ago, they just assumed every family invited their babysitter to Christmas Dinner. I think during those eight years, I learned more about children and parenting than I could have ever learned elsewhere save for having children of my own.

One hot summer’s night in about August of 2001 I was babysitting the kids for the evening. We were having one of those hot, humid, New England Summer’s where your legs stuck to the leather interior in your car and the only thing you could do to cool down was literally drape yourself over your air conditioner if you were fortunate enough to have one. Just the act of standing still caused beads of sweat to run down your back, and news reporters across the airwaves warned the elderly of heatstroke. That particular night, putting the kids to sleep was a nightmare as they just could not get comfortable in their beds. The air in the house was heavy and stagnant, and all the portable fans by their bedside did was blow warm air at their faces. They were hot, cranky and miserable. Never mind that at bedtime - 8:00 p.m. - the sun was still up, meaning these kids just did NOT want to go to bed. My twenty year old impatient self, on the other hand, was simply hoping that their sheer act of fighting to stay awake would be enough to drive them to exhaustion.

All in all I probably spent the better part of an hour going from one room to the next. Tucking Tyler in, reading Alexia a bedtime story (or better yet, HER pointing out that I had skipped a page), fetching a glass of water, rubbing their backs, getting cool, damp, cloths for their foreheads, etc. I’d be tucking Tyler in and from the next room I’d hear Alexia kicking off the sheets and yelling “Jeeeennn!!! Can you come rub my baaacckkk” in her adorable, low pitched, scratchy voice that my boyfriend refers to as her “Aunt Sue Voice”. Meaning that he thinks she sounds exactly like his great Aunt Sue did; Aunt Sue who smoked two packs a day of Camel Unfiltered until the day she died, God rest her soul. She was such a precocious kid, and played the role of Big Sister to the hilt. There was no better big sister than Alexia. When Tyler was a baby just learning to speak, she was the only one who could understand him and she did all of the talking for him, like a mini translator.

Tyler: (something illegible)

Me: Alexia, what is Tyler saying?

Alexia: He said he has to go pee, and also he wants you to buy him a new Barbie.

Smart kid.

Anyway, back to this particular night… The kids are getting more and more restless, I’m getting more and more frustrated and then to compound matters, I see a flash in the sky signaling lightening is on the horizon. This massive streak of brightness in the sky of course did not go unnoticed by the kids either and they both looked up at me from my perch between their doorways wide eyed as if to say “Well that does it Jenn, we’re definitely not going to sleep now! Too a-scared!!” So I did what any reasonable babysitter would do in my situation. I let them sleep together for safety in mom's bed, because by the time their parents got home and realized that they had to move two sleepy, sweaty, kids into their own beds I would officially be off the clock and on my way out for the night.

As I’m tucking the kids into mom’s bed, fetching water from their rooms, arranging their fans on either side of the bed, etc. etc. etc. Alexia looks up at me with her big, brown eyes and asks me in her Aunt Sue voice if the weather men predicted a thunderstorm tonight. For the first time I realize she’s really genuinely scared of the lightening. It was a little curious for me to see her in that state because as you know, not only does the role of Big Sister come with it’s perks such as getting the bigger room, and final decision over which movie to watch etc., it also has it’s responsibilities such as being The Brave One. In all of her eight years on this planet, I had never seen Alexia show such vulnerability. By this time, Tyler is pretty much “over it” and already snuggled up on “Dad’s Side” of the bed with his multitude of stuffed animals and plastic trucks to keep him safe. (Yes, plastic trucks on a water-bed… again, not my problem).

I realized that in order to soothe Alexia to sleep, I had to take this opportunity as “A Teachable Moment”. I was not going to simply dismiss her fears and tell her to relax it was only lightening. This kid was genuinely concerned for the safety and well being of herself and her brother, and it was my responsibility as her babysitter and big cousin to calm her fears to ensure a good night sleep for all of us. So I sit down next to her, tuck her bangs behind her ear and tell her that there’s nothing to be afraid of because it’s not NORMAL lightening.

“What do you mean, not normal lightening?” She asks, dumbfounded at such a thing as 'not real lightening'.

So I start slowly, thinking of the best way to describe heat lightening to a kid such as Alexia. She was a smart kid, and if she even SENSED a lie, she'd call me out and we'd be back at square one. “Alexia, do you know how it was really, really hot out today?"

“Yes, Jenn. I know it was WICKED hot! We played in the pool like all day long!?” She says, kicking the sheets off her legs once again.

So I continue, “Well when it gets really, really hot out like it did today, sometimes the earth doesn’t know what to do with all the heat so it takes all of the energy and makes a big, huge flash in the sky just to release all that pent up heat” I use my hands to illustrate this 'big ball of hotness' all the while wishing I paid more attention in biology in high school.

Alexia contemplates this for a minute...“So will it hurt me Jenn?”, she asks.

I smile because I can't help it. “No sweetie, it’s not like real lightening from a thunderstorm… its heat lightening. They call it a heat flash”

All of a sudden, something changed in Alexia’s face. A flicker of understanding shone in her deep brown eyes, and big smile broke out on her face. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed “oh I GET it now Jenn! A heat flash! My Gammie gets those!!!"

At this point I’m trying to fully digest that my adorably precocious baby cousin just told me that her grandmother got hot flashes just like the sky did, that I’m biting the inside of my lip so hard to keep from laughing that I think I drew blood. I mumble a quick, "Yep Sweetie, just like the ones that Gammie gets" and did what I could to make it out of the room as quickly as possible. I finished tucking her into bed, (Tyler was already sound asleep), and shut the light behind me. "Just leave the door open a crack Jenn!” Alexia yelled behind me. I made it all the way down the stairs before I broke out in a fit of hysterical laughter so hard that I literally had tears streaming down my face.

I waited until Yvonne and Ted got home to share the story with them, and like me they laughed until they cried. Even now, almost a decade later it is still one of my favorite Tales of Babysitting stories. Some things seriously just cannot be made up and are, as they say, absolutely priceless.

For You...

I wrote this about this time last year to commemorate the one year anniversary of a very dear friend passing away. With the two year anniversary coming up on October 8th, i thought I would take a minute and reminisce...

A few months ago while making my routine and astronomically high monthly bill payment to my cell phone provider via their website, I was pleased to learn that since I had been a dutiful customer of Verizon Wireless for the past two years I was now eligible for a complimentary new phone! Hidden in the bottom corner of the website, strategically located just out of eye catching view was the tiniest of all links saying “P.S. you’renoweligibleforneweverytwo” in the most boring, size 6 Arial font one could ever imagine. I have no idea how I ever saw it, but alas, I did (Score: Jenn 1, Verizon 0), and after spending countless work hours searching and comparing and agonizing over the newest and latest phone models available, I finally found one that “spoke to me” directly. I mean it literally spoke to me, as in it possessed the ability to talk. Now this was a huge selling point to me as I am an admitted chronic texter, and - though I’m not proud of it - I have been known to engage in this dangerous behavior while driving. (spare me the lecture, I’m now reformed). Thus meaning this hip, new, voice activated feature was somewhat akin to a life saving endeavor for me. Now I could simply speak out loud the words that I wanted to text and my phone would just input the text for me, meaning no more fumbling with the makeshift keyboard while steering with one knee to type out a quick “lol!” response.

But I digress, back to my point... I completed the online checkout process, and in the following days I patiently awaited my complimentary prize, I mean phone. I couldn’t help but feel like the dad from the movie "A Christmas Story", awaiting my Major Award for being such a wonderful and loyal customer. I guess today’s voice activated cell phone is the shapely leg lamp of yesteryear. After nearly a week spent incessantly hounding the UPS guy, and tracking the location of my package online, (It’s in Connecticut! It’s getting closer!) my new phone finally arrived. I immediately tore the box open, and settled in for a long day of getting to know my new phone. A few more countless hours of work time wasted, and I was in love. Not only did my phone know how to talk, but it also listened… I mean REALLY listened… and good communication is always key to a long-term phone purchase.

Everything with my new phone was going great, until I started to manually transfer over my contacts, one by one. Now I know there’s a much better way to do this, but for me I personally prefer to give each contact in my collection a little one-on-one face time, where after a few seconds of thorough analysis, I make the pertinent and irreversible decision as to whether or not the individual has “made the cut” to be transferred into my new phone. Though I admit that during this rigorous examination I generally have trouble actually deleting any contacts, I certainly do enjoy the memories each contact name conjures up during this housecleaning effort. All in all, it’s just another valiant effort to be super organized like the control freak I am.

All was going well and fine until I got to the “L’s”. Right there between “Laurie” and “Leanne”, was “Leah” staring back up at me in all her Four-Letter-Worded-Name glory, proudly, and a bit defiantly. I could almost hear her saying “what’s up now, bitch!?”. Here before me stood a conundrum that wasn’t really prepared for and I must admit that I had a tough time determining what to do. Did Leah make the cut into my new phone? Certainly Leah passed my rigorous examination questions with flying colors “Had I called this person in the last 12 months?”, “Does this person know of my existence?”, “Would I feel at all uncomfortable if I happened to drunk dial this person at 3:00 a.m. some night?” etc. Though I knew that I would never call her again, there was still something very unsettling about simply deleting one of my closest friends from my phone contacts permanently.

I eventually made the decision to transfer Leah’s phone number over to my new phone, though I knew deep down that I would never see her name flash on my new phone’s caller ID. Nor would I ever get another “GO SOX!” text from her, nor would I ever scroll through my phone’s photo album after a night out and find 15 pictures she’d taken of herself in a drunken stupor. Something about seeing her name in my contacts was comforting. You see, my friend Leah had been killed in a car accident about three months prior to this, and this simple exercise of transferring phone numbers into a new phone was just one more example of how deeply her loss affected every aspect of my life, and how much my life had changed since that fateful day.

When somebody is removed from your life, you are usually somewhat prepared. When it’s a breakup with a lover or loss of a friendship, you’ve usually initiated it or at the very least you “saw it coming”. You can take solace in knowing that there’s always the potential that you’ll see that person again, and maybe even work out your differences, though they’re no longer a part of your every day being, When an elderly relative passes the emotions are a little different, but you can still take solace in knowing that they lived a long and eventful life, and comfort yourself by telling yourself that it was “their time”. You had prepared yourself for the day it was going to happen, and are maybe even a little relieved that their suffering has come to an end.

When somebody is suddenly removed from your life with zero preparation, you learn how to cope with the loss as you go through the motions. Nothing in your past can prepare you for it, and the pain is more intense than any you’ve ever experienced. There is nothing to take solace or comfort in, and therefore anger and frustration set in. For me, the most painful part of the process was that I didn’t get to say goodbye. This sounds very cliché, so I will do my best to put it into words. Leah was removed from this earth one day, and I had no warning or time to prepare for it. I had spoken to her less than one day – 24 hours – 1440 minutes - one lunar cycle – prior to her sudden, tragic death, and I couldn’t remember when I last told her I loved her. I’m sure I ended the conversation with a “love ya!” but had I ever really told her just how much she meant to me? How deeply her existence affected mine? I was panicked. Oh my God… Did she know just how much I loved and adored her? Did she have any idea what she meant to me? More importantly, did she love me back? I would have given anything for just one more minute with her. That’s all I needed… one more minute to tell her how I felt about her. I don’t think you realize the importance of someone until they are no longer with you, and you can’t get them back. Not even for one minute.

In the first few days I coped by surrounding myself with Leah’s friends and family and people who also knew and loved her as much as I did. Their presence was somewhat of a distraction to the matter at hand but then that eventually ended too. Eventually when the services are over, and you’re forced to move on, all you’re left with is your thoughts, your memories, and a mind that is ill equipped to heal a broken heart. It’s during this time that you try your best to hoard memories… pictures… text messages… mementoes of special times the two of you shared together. For me, some of my most treasured items are a favorite belt buckle of hers, and some concert stubs that bring me back to a different time and a different place before I fully realized just how unpredictable this life could be.

Everyone copes with tragedy in their own way, and those of us affected by this loss certainly tried it all. My cousin Kristen focused on staying as active as possible. She was out every night, refusing to let her mind comprehend what had happened and refusing to let the hurt in. She claims that to this day she still hasn’t broken down. She won’t let herself. My friend Jesse, who is no stranger to death having suddenly lost his father when he was 13 years old, simply accepted it with a “well I guess that’s life” blasé attitude. Though he missed her with a ferocity, he simply chose to accept what he could not change right off the bat. My friend Leigh-Ann cried nearly every single day, and reached out to those who were closest to Leah for support. Her agony proved too heavy a cross for her relationship to bear, but she in turn found a partner who understands better than most what she is going through. Another friend of mine who had lost his best friend in High School told me that he coped with the loss by never thinking about it, ever, in the ten years since the accident that took his friends life. Anytime it came to his mind, he forced it out. He even went as far as to sever ties with his deceased friend’s family so as to lessen the pain, and while he regrets it now, he readily admits that that when he was a teenager that was the only way he knew how to cope with the loss.

It wasn’t until about three weeks had passed since Leah’s death until the finality of the situation fully hit me. I was blindsided with a “low” that I had never quite experienced before, and was completely unprepared for. I wasn’t just sad, I was hurt, and I was angry. Three weeks was much longer than her and I had ever gone without seeing each other or speaking to one another and I was starting to fully feel the weight of her absence. There was a void in my life that was hard for me to accept. I used to say that I had a “top five” before “top five” became a Sprint marketing tactic. There were five people in my life that were close enough to me that at any given minute of any given day, I always knew where they were, what they were doing, and what was going on in their life on that particular day. If I was looking for something fun to do I would call one of them. They were my besties, and Leah was one of my “top five”. It was during this time that I clung desperately to the memory of her existence, and all that reminded me of her. I didn’t see the point of talking to people who didn’t know Leah, because they couldn’t possibly fathom my pain. It amazed me that people were able to get up and go to work, or go out to dinner, or see their favorite bands, see their friends, have fun and laugh or do whatever best helped them move on from the tragedy. What was even more shocking was being invited out with them. Are they serious…didn’t they know my friend had died? How can they possibly be okay with this?! How can they accept this? It’s too soon! I just wasn’t ready to pick up the pieces of my life and begin the process of putting it behind me. I just wasn’t ready to start healing. I wasn’t ready to admit it was over… that she was gone… that life moves on.

There is a saying that time heals all wounds, but I think a more accurate description is that “time lessens the pain of all wounds”, or “time takes the sting out of all wounds” but I guess that wouldn’t really have the same flow. Time certainly does not heal all wounds, because if that were true it would suggest that all I had to do was “slap on a Band-Aid and I’m as good as new” since Leah’s death. Anybody who has ever experienced a loss of this magnitude can attest that this could not be further from the truth. While I am no longer angry, I am certainly still sad. There’s still a void. When you lose a friend, it’s like you’re permanently marked for life. I miss my friend. I miss her laugh, I miss her carefree existence, and mostly I miss the person I was when she was around. Time definitely takes the sting out, but it also serves to make the memories I hold so close a little fuzzier as the days go by. A year to the day since I lost my friend, I find that It now takes a little longer for my mind to remember every single last detail of our times together. A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I could not remember what her voice sounded like. I also realized that I have no choice but to accept and make peace with the fact that these things do and will eventually happen. Just because my memory fades, it doesn’t mean my love for her has to.

I’m sure someday there will be a day that goes by that I don’t think of Leah, but that day is not today, it certainly won’t be tomorrow, and probably not next week. What I do know is that there will never be a day that goes by that I am not affected by her presence in my life. Whether it be the friendships and bonds that I have forged with others who knew and loved Leah, my resolve to live my life to the fullest potential in honor of a beautiful life cut short, or simply the act of transferring phone numbers over into a new phone, her life and it’s subsequent loss have affected me deeper than most anything else ever has. I’m lucky to have been loved by her, honored to have been her friend, and inspired by her every single day.

I love you Leah and I miss you every single day.