Excerpts from my atrocious NaNoWriMo attempt

He was waiting in front of the bar when I arrived. We had both shaved; me, my legs and under-arms, he the scattered stubble that had littered his face on our last encounter. We had hung-out countless times before, but somehow we both knew that tonight would be different. We each had plans, or at least were open to them.

“Hey” I smiled, “I finally made it!” He glanced at his watch, ten minutes after our agreed upon hour.

“It’s about time” he joked.

“Parking’s a bitch.”

“LA” he shrugged and opened the door. I led us to the bar counter and ordered two Jack and Cokes. We preferred to put on a thick layer of liquid armor before peeling off one another’s clothes. Four rounds and several cigarettes later we stumbled onto the street arm in arm trying to steady each other from gravity’s sinister pull.

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We finally arrived at the door of his apartment. 32B. He fumbled with the keys. It was cold and I was growing impatient. He located the correct metal sliver and slid it easily into the keyhole. He twisted it to the left. It gave a slight click and he pushed the door in. I walked into the welcoming warmth of his tiny apartment. Tidy as always. In the living room, a small brown couch, one side slightly indented marking Randal’s usual place, was facing a large flat-screen television. Game counsels and a DVD player sat in the shelf of the TV stand that supported this focal point. Just next to it was a case neatly displaying a library of DVDs, video games, and books. Upon entering we both removed our shoes. Randal headed straight for the bathroom while I traipsed to the small kitchenette. I grabbed two beers from fridge and popped them open with my keychain. Though I was quite inebriated I feared that my blood alcohol level had decreased dramatically during our 45 minute travels and I was eager to preserve the buzz as long as possible. I carried the bottles back into the living room where Randal reclined on the couch’s left-most cushion. I handed him a beer.

“Thanks. You wanna watch a movie or something?”

“How about some music?” I suggested.

“Sure. I just gotta grab my computer.” He lifted himself off of the couch and reached the bedroom door in just a few strides. I followed him inside and took a seat on the corner of his neatly made bed. As he was lifting the laptop he turned and saw me “oh…uh…o-okay…” He blushed. Clearly he wasn’t expecting me there. I could tell that the sight of me on his bed filled him with both excitement and anxiety. This delighted me. I took a swig of my beer as he tried to decide upon some suitable tunes. He chose a song and turned to me for approval. I looked back at him invitingly, just long enough for him to notice and then quickly turned my attention back to the smooth, cold bottle in my hands. He took a seat beside me and nervously stared at the small round opening of his bottle, scratching at the label with his thumbnail. I tilted my head back and took a long drawn-out drink. I brought my face level and swallowed. His dull, hopefully eyes were burrowing into my light, unfocused ones. He seemed to be searching for courage or perhaps permission to make a move. I jumped up. “Bathroom” I announced and swept out of the room smiling at the shocked disappointment on his face.

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I enjoyed standing on his pedestal to be admired. The way he looked at me, his intense interest in my most fleeting thought, his eager need to please me; all provided a high I had never before experienced. I became obsessed with his obsession.

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One evening as we sat nestled on his worn brown couch, Randal shouting answers at the glowing television screen, “Who is Richard Nixon!” I posed the question that had been bothering me for a few weeks, “do you think we’re boring?”

“Huh? Hold on, it’s almost a commercial.” I sat sulking as he missed the last few clues before Alex announced the break. “Sorry, whadja say?”

“You didn’t even know them anyway!” I huffed. “I asked, ‘do you think we’re boring?’”

“No. Why? Who said that?” He looked at me curiously. “I’m having fun, aren’t you?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

He looked at me slightly hurt. “Aw, come on, Jeopardy rocks!” His disgustingly textbook smile tried to placate me. I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah Jeopardy’s cool. But I meant in general. All we ever do is sit around your apartment, watch Jeopardy, play you’re stupid video games, drink, drink, drink!” I shouted holding up my nearly empty beer. He paused to watch the unveiling of the Double Jeopardy categories. I took the opportunity to go to the kitchen to grab another beer.

“Okay, so stop drinking so much,” he retorted when I returned.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean? I bore you?”

I gave a nervous smile, “well…yeah…”

“Fuck you Kelsey!” He snarled.

I chuckled, “So sensitive Randy.” I placed a cruel drawn-out emphasis on the last word

“Ugh! I hate to be called that!” I felt a twisted grin on my face.  Frustrated, he continued screaming, “I’m trying to watch something, just let me enjoy my boring life in peace!”

“Fine!” and with that I threw the newly opened bottle at his head and stormed out of the apartment.

He called later that night. I sat at my computer, mid keystroke, when I was startled by the Fruging of my phone. Randal’s name and face appeared on the screen. I answered tentatively, “Yes…?”

He was totally wasted and his voice was cracking. “I’m…so…sorry…babe,” he sobbed. “I shouldn’t…have yelled…an...an...and kicked you…out…like…that.” I listened silently as he took deep gasping breaths between every few words. He paused to gather himself and then continued more fluently. “I was stressed from work, I…I…I didn’t…mean to take it out on you.”

I considered his apology in silence. Listening to his nervous breath, I took my time before responding. He deserved to suffer just a bit longer. “You’re really drunk” I finally spoke.

“I know…but I…I…I I really am sorry.”
“How about we talk it over tomorrow when you’re a little more coherent.”

“Yeah!” he exclaimed eagerly, “Over lunch?”

“Sure. I’ll text you a time and location tomorrow.” I ended the call before he could get another word in.

At 12:30 on Tuesday afternoon he met me at a café near my coffee shop. He had a small red cut just off center on his forehead a few inches above his left eyebrow. There were dark circles under his eyes; the result of tears, too little sleep, and too much alcohol. I was impressed that I could have such a profound effect on a person.

“So yesterday…” he started once our waitress trotted off after placing our plates before us.

“Yeah, let’s talk about yesterday.”

“Uh…I’m sorry. It was really terrible and I shouldn’ta got so upset so easily.” His voice was thick with shame and sincerity.

“No, you shouldn’t have. Though I guess I shouldn’t have provoked you either. But you are way too easily provoked.” I half-apologized.

“Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry.” He repeated. “If it helps, you have pretty good aim. That bottle you threw hit me square in the forehead and then totally drenched me in beer.” I tried to not to let slip a satisfied smile as I imagined Randal sitting on his couch in complete shock, his forehead stinging with pain, cold beer running down his face and soaking into his white T-shirt.  “But hey, I think that was our first fight. See we’re mixing things up already! Still bored?” He joked brightly. I laughed. “I am sorry you’re bored though…”

“I’m not bored per se, but, I mean…” I took a second to choose my words carefully, I was feeling slightly bad for upsetting him last night and didn’t want to further injure him, “I feel like we do a lot of the same stuff over and over, and while I do enjoy it, maybe we can add some new activities to our lives.”

“No, I know.” He conceded. “I’m a very routine kinda guy. I tend to get stuck in ruts. But I’m totally willing to try to be a little more adventurous. Just tell me what you wanna do.”

I smirked, “are you giving me complete power?” He looked slightly nervous. “Any crazy thing I suggest you’re totally up for it, guaranteed?”

“Er…” He stammered, a bit worried about what he may be agreeing to. “Well…uh…I don’t know about totally up for, but I’ll definitely give your suggestions serious consideration.”

“I suppose that’s the best I’m gonna get from you” I couldn’t help myself from throwing in just one small insult. I stood, “Well, I gotta get to work. I’ll let you handle the check as part of you apology,” then I strode out of the café.

NYC Subway Review

I wrote this a couple of years ago and recently came upon it. I think its worthy of pitchfork.

New York City Subway

2.5

The New York City subway will get you where you need to go; maybe not on time, but it’ll get you there.  This system has two car types.  The first seems to be going for a retro look with its yellow and orange seats and wood paneling.  It would almost achieve this too, if it weren’t for all those advertisements lining the top.  Though, these ads do have a way of getting in your head.  After a morning ride you’ll find yourself craving Budweiser and ESL classes all day long.  One good thing about this train type is that the seats are clearly defined; this aims to discourage passengers from taking up multiple spaces.  The other train type, with the long blue/gray benches, has a more modern look.  These trains do not have laid out seats, so optimum seating capacity is not ensured as in the aforementioned cars.  This, however, gives more middle space between benches and makes these trains more favorable for dance parties:

Then there are the panhandling performers and bums that frequent the trains.  They are so cliché that it just might be working.  The highlight of these vagabonds is the Suitcase Lady at the 125 St. station on the A line; she may just be the saving grace of this whole system.  While the NYC subway gets praise for being adventurous and endeavoring to provide progressive travel, it may be deserving of little more celebration than its contemporaries and it’s not quite on par with public transportation systems of days past.

 

What Would You Do?

One warm summer evening my sister and I decided it would be nice to take a short bike ride along the local greenway trail. The trail, which was constructed a couple of years ago, replaced some obsolete railroad tracks and a large portion runs along the backyards of houses. After riding just a of couple miles we turned to head back home. As we were riding along immersed in frivolous conversation our attention was corralled by a ruckus just to our right. We turned to find a man crouching in the corner of his backyard swinging his arms wildly and yelling inbetween deep, panting breaths. At first I thought he was engaged in some sort of brawl with a dog. But my mind quickly turned to more atrocious anxieties when I realized what he was yelling. "Are you fucking around on me bitch?!" He screamed incessantly between blows. Upon this realization my sister and I pulled over and looked at each other completely confused and horrified. "What the hell is going on?" "Should we call the police?" we asked each other. Not quite sure of what we had just witnessed, my sister turned to ride back over to confirm that the man was hitting a woman and not an animal as we had first guessed. She returned to report that it was in fact a lady, who had freed herself and was now walking away from the man yelling at him. She seemed ok, wasn't asking for help, and as the incident did occur in a private backyard, we were unsure what to do. So, as I tend to do when at a loss, I called my mom. She told us to ride by again, assess the situation and call her back. If it seemed dangerous or like someone was in harms way we should then inform the police. So we rode by again to see the man and woman standing near the chain-link fence hollering at each other. we continued riding as I began dialing my mom when we heard motorcycles behind us, we turned back wondering why motorcycles were on the bike trail and to our relief we saw two cops approaching us. We pulled over and my sister called out to them, "hey we need your help!" They looked at us nodded and continued passed us. Assuming they had misunderstood her plea, we started jumping, yelling, and waving our hands frantically. The officers turned and looked at us, once again nodded and then just kept on driving forward. We were appalled. Not only did they ignore us twice when we explicitly told them that we were in need of their assistance and tried to flag them down, but they themselves drove right by the very disturbance that had worried us so without doing a thing. This man and woman were standing at the fence, in full view, obviously having a heated argument and these so-called agents of peace and protection didn't even hesitate! Aghast, I surveyed the trail looking for a hidden camera crew that would jump out at us revealing that they had set the whole thing up to see how people would react, but there was none to be found. Still unsure of what the hell was going on, my sister and I rode by one more time and it seemed like the situation was cooling down. The couple was still arguing, but no one seemed in any imminent danger, so we just rode home. I felt like an asshole for not doing anything, but I really didn't know what to do, and when I had tried I was completely ignored. Being on the trail I couldn't see street names or addresses, so if I were to call 911 all I could tell them was that there seemed to be a domestic dispute in one of the homes along the trail between 2 streets. Which I guess would probably have been better than nothing, but alas I did nothing.

Bathroom Phobias

I've been afraid of the bathroom for as long as I can remember. I'm sure Freudian scholars could trace it back to potty-training trauma--something gone terribly awry during the anal stage. But as far as I'm concerned, it all began when I first heard the legend of Bloody Mary. It was in the early years of elementary school and different versions came from different sources. A friend at school claimed that if you chanted "Bloody Mary" three times as you splashed water on the bathroom mirror the murderous bloody witch would appear to torture and kill you. As my cousin told it, you were to flush the toilet one-hundred times in the dark. My sister's version seemed to be a combination of the chanting and toilet flushing in the dark. I didn't know which one to believe so I believed them all (not believing any of them was not an option because then I would have to find something else to incomprehensibly agonize over). I actually sort of combined them all, but invented my own torturous twists. The one thing all the stories had in common was the eventual-victim's intent--one had to actually summon the spirit in order for her to appear; but I neglected this detail. As far as I was concerned, a blood-soaked woman was likely to materialize in the bathroom at any given moment if she got a hankering for some child-killing fun. This left me on edge anytime I needed to use a restroom. This was only made worse when a girl in my second grade class performed the chanting/water-sprinkling ritual during recess one day and was sent home early, traumatized and claiming she had seen the witch. I tried to avoid the bathroom where the sighting had taken place, but it was a small school with few restrooms. And anyway, my fear was not isolated to that one particular facility. No matter where I urinated--school, home, a friend or family member's home--I honestly believed that Bloody Mary would come for me if I wasn't careful. I would conduct my business, pull up and button/zip my pants, unlock the door, and then flush the toilet and run out of the bathroom as quickly as I could. After waiting a few seconds to ensure that it was safe, I would cautiously walk back in, wash my hands, and then run out again. Then return a third time to quickly turn the lights off. What if someone had flushed the toilet 99 times and my flush was the 100th? Or I accidentally splashed water on the mirror while washing my hands and my mere fearing her was enough to summon the ghastly apparition? I knew it was ridiculous and would laugh at myself as I ran from the room after each flush, but I couldn't help it, I was seriously scared. This was something that plagued me for years, far longer than it should have. But somehow I finally convinced myself to get over it, I was really getting too old for such a silly fear--I mean, I couldn't be running in and out of the bathroom in high school now could I?

This fear of Bloody Mary was quickly replace by another, possibly more absurd bathroom phobia. At least with my childhood fear there was actually something to be afraid of, but now it seems I am afraid of the actual act of of urination...well, when in the vicinity of others. Public bathrooms are hell for me! If I hear footsteps or voices as I'm sitting on the toilet I immediately freeze up. It doesn't matter how badly I have to urinate, or even if I'm incredibly drunk, my bladder simply stops working. Even if I'm using a private restroom I can't go if I know that someone is waiting on the other side. For reasons that I do not understand, girls like to go to the bathroom in packs. When I'm out with friends or even at work and I ask that they excuse me to use the bathroom, by biggest fear is that one or more will respond with, "Oh I have to go to, I'll go with you!" as though they are doing me a favor. So I allow them to accompany me knowing all the while that I will not actually be excreting anything on this trip. It really is an irrational fear and completely inconvenient; as a result I've had countless awkward bathroom experiences, but none so terrible as the drug testing procedure that I was subjected to before starting work at a health center. 

When I moved to New York I couldn't start my job right away--as I very soon came to know, when you work in health care, especially for a non-profit, you face many hurdles. Of all the bullshit bureaucratic red tape I had to go through, the drug screening took the longest and was the most difficult. First, I had to schedule an appointment the day prior to when I wanted to go in. As the center got booked quickly, I was required to call at 8am when they opened each morning. It took nearly a week before I successfully made an appointment. And that ended up being the easy part. Being well aware of my urination issues I wasn't expecting things to go smoothly, but I also knew the measures I would have to take so that it would go as smooth as possible. I had submitted urine for drug screening in the past and provided I drank water for several hours beforehand without visiting the facilities so that my bladder was near the point of explosion, I had no problem filling their cup. So the morning of my appointment I purchased a large water bottle and hopped on the train. I arrived, checked-in (with the receptionist, foursquare did not yet exist), and then waited several minutes until my name was called. All the while enduring the painfully uncomfortable pressure the excess water had placed on my bladder. As I walked into the restroom I was appalled to find that the nurse followed me not only into the restroom, but into the stall. When I asked that she step outside and allow me to close and lock the door she refused, informing me that this was to be a supervised submission. Horrified, I laughed and informed her that I wouldn't be able to complete the task. Confused and embarrassed I quickly exited the health center and, as I tend to do anytime I'm confused or in trouble, I immediately dialed my mom. On the verge of tears I informed her of my dilemma and she calmly told me that I needed to walk back in and pee in the stupid cup. I was not a fan of this answer, so I hung up the phone, pulled out my Ipod (setting it to Bright Eyes) and decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood to collect myself. This was my first time wandering around the South Bronx and I feared for my life, yet a the same time, the melodramatic part of me hope that some crazy gangster would come out of nowhere and blast me to death so that I could avoid this damned drug test. Unfortunately, no such crazy gangsters were patrolling the streets that day and I was forced to walk to the subway station and return to my apartment. When I arrived my head was still reeling and I again called my mom asking that she make arrangements for my return to California--clearly this wasn't gonna work out (as mentioned above, I have the potential to be pretty damned dramatic sometimes). Again my mom told me to suck it up and I resolved to return the next day to give it another go.

After this failed second attempt, I got in touch with our group leader/support woman and informed her of the situation. I assured her that I would have no problem passing the test (though there was a slight concern I'd fail--I was fresh out of college after all), and offered to submit a blood or even hair sample (though I knew I definitely fail if this were the case). She promptly contacted the health center and asked about my options--I had none. Because news travels fast in my family I had been receiving several emails, text messages, and phone calls from my sisters, aunts, and cousins asking if I'd peed yet and offering words of encouragement such as "just freakin pee already you fool!" At this point I decided it would be far more humiliating to return home to their jeers than allow some strange woman to witness me urinate and I set a plan in motion. While the $2,000 Princeton Review MCAT course may not have gotten me a perfect MCAT score, it had efficiently drilled kidney physiology into my brain. Remembering that caffeine was an inhibitor of aldosterone, the enzyme whose action leads to water-retention among other things, I headed to the drug store to pick up some caffeine pills. I also decided it wouldn't hurt to purchase some diuretic pills while I was at it. My new purchases in hand, I headed home to spend the weekend agonizing over how this just had to work.

I awoke bright and early Monday morning and washed down a breakfast of 2 caffeine and 2 diuretic pills with a large glass of water. I then grabbed a 1.5 liter bottle of water and hopped on the train. Before entering the health center I stopped at the nearest food joint and purchased a large coke, because though my bladder was painfully full, I knew I needed all the help I could get. I would even have considered adding alcohol to the equation, had I not been afraid they'd be testing for that as well. When I checked-in at the desk the receptionist greeted me with "aren't you that girl who can't pee?" Jesus, was everyone talking about this?! When I told her that I was indeed that girl who can't pee, she asked what I was doing there. "I thought you couldn't do it?" "Well, It seems I have no choice," I responded, "I have to try one last time." So I sipped on my coke and waited until my name was called. I followed the nurse down the familiar path to the lady's room and squatted over the toilet. Several seconds passed. Then a minute. "Are you gonna go?" She asked. "Yeah...I hope. I just need a minute." That minute passed and still there was nothing. I shifted, closed my eyes and concentrated on the excruciating pain and how soon it would be over if I could just relax. And then, suddenly, the flood gates opened. I filled the cup far higher than they had asked me to, handed it to the nurse and asked that she allow me to finish. That was the longest, most relieving urination of my life! I proudly strutted out of the building and promptly sent out a mass text message to every member of my family, "Success."

Never Forget

When I was sixteen I watched the morning news each day for one reason and one reason only: to hear the weather report so that I could choose an appropriate outfit for the day. Not that I was particularly fashionable. I simply needed to know if it would be a jeans and t-shirt or jeans and sweatshirt sort of day. I didn't actually watch the news, so much as leave it on in the background as I wandered around the house and readied myself. The 5 day forecast was broadcast about every 15 minutes so I'd be sure to return to the room at the appropriate intervals to catch the day's temperature highs and lows. On particularly busy news days some of these abundant, repetitive weather reports were cut, in extreme cases they were all ignored completely. This angered me. So imagine my rage when one fall morning absolutely no mention of the days weather conditions was made whatsoever. Each time I entered the room to check the television all that appeared on screen were images of a smoke-filled sky accompanied by the utterly confused, appalled, devastated commentary of the newscasters, which I couldn't be bothered to listen to. "What the hell!!!" I bitched at the screen. "So a building is on fire somewhere, I don't care. Just tell me if its gonna be hot or cold!" I sat on the floor and stared at the screen in anger. "Just because some sort of "disaster" is going on doesn't mean we all have to stop our lives. We still need to know the weather forecast!" But the smoky footage continued, ignoring my demands. Angry and tardy, I finally just picked out some clothes and scuffed out of the house. When I arrived at school that day the classes and halls were ablaze with chatter. Were they all pissed about the lack of weather reports also? But I soon learned what was really going on. It turns out the newscasters had refused to tell me the day's temperature because they were covering the World Trade Center attacks. All of our scheduled lessons were canceled and instead we watched the news coverage in all my classes, which was on every channel. Apparently this disaster was cause for the halting of our regular daily activities. As he explained the magnitude of what we were bearing witness to, my U.S. History teacher said something that will forever stay with me; "Your parents and grandparents all remember exactly what they were doing when they found out that JFK had been shot. Future generations are going to ask you 'what were you doing when you found out about the September 11 attacks?'" All I could think of was how I would have to tell them that I was a self-centered teenager who was pissed because this massive attack and murder of thousands of people had forced me to miss the weather report. I may not remember what I wore that day or if it was appropriate for the weather conditions, but I will never forget what a total asshole I felt like when I learned the cause of my petty anger.

Unfinished Business

My dad is infamous for not finishing things. One day he decided that our den needed a remodel, so he gutted it completely; had my mom move out all the furniture, pulled up the carpet, and took a hammer to the walls until the inside consisted of a concrete floor and exposed 2x4s. I was in 3rd grade at the time. After my sister and I set the house on fire my sophomore year of college he finally knocked down the unfinished room completely. And that was only one of the countless projects he undertook. Don't even get me started on the kitchen!

Perhaps even worse than his track record of half-finished undertakings is my father's habit of caving to his children's most ridiculous whims...several months after they have forgotten them. When I was 16 I visited a pet store and decided that I wanted a pet bird. I fantasized about it flying around my room and perching itself on my finger, softly serenading me as I awoke each morning. We would be the best of friends my bird and I. But my parents weren't so keen on the idea. They weren't going to pay for it and insisted that I was not responsible enough to care for yet another pet. I reasoned with them (begged) and then sulked for about a week until I got over it.

One Saturday morning, maybe 4 months after I had lost sight of my dream of owning a bird and had moved on to something else equally frivolous, my father arrived at home with a birdcage. He had found it at a yard sale for only $10 and excitedly handed it to me exclaiming that I could now get that bird I wanted. That bird I wanted 4 months ago! When I hesitantly informed him that my desire for a pet bird had long since subsided he broke out in a fit of anger. Immediately he began shaking his finger in my face, screaming about what a "goddamn ungrateful, spoiled brat" I was, as saliva flew every which way from his mouth. After he had gone to all the trouble of happening upon a super cheap birdcage, this is the thanks he got?! He ended his long-winded scolding with an ultimatum: either I go buy myself a goddamn bird, or I reimburse him for the cost of the cage and find something to do with it. I foolishly opted for the first choice. A few days later I went to Petco and picked out a lovely blue parakeet. It turned out nothing like my fantasy - that bird was a bastard! Every time I opened the cage door and gently attempted to coax him onto my finger he would bite me and then retreat to the furthest corner of the cage. He slept all day and then would make a terrible racket fluttering about as I tried to sleep each night. Worst of all were the terrible odor emitting from his cage and the constant whirl of sawdust flying about my room. After just a couple of months I had had it and promptly moved the birdcage outside to hang from a hook on our front porch. This way he could get some sunshine and I could rid my room of that awful bird smell. Now, I'm quite forgetful and irresponsible, and was even more so at the age of 16. By moving it from my room to the communal area of the front porch I felt I had been relinquished of all responsibility for the bird and quickly forgot that I ever owned such a creature. The fact that I did, however, was precipitously brought to my attention one morning by the screams of my mother, who had found the neglected bird lying, cold and hard, on its side in the middle of the cage. Its water bowl was completely dry and its food dish empty. How long had the poor thing been deprived of nourishment? Hadn't I been feeding him?! He was after all, my bird!

***

After returning home from a brief stint in New York I spent the spring broke and unemployed. To entertain myself I took up projects around the house. I single-handedly transformed the concrete swamp in our backyard back into a crystal clear swimming pool in just a few short weeks. In addition, I took to tending the family garden, picking ripe vegetables every so often for my mom to incorporate into our family dinners. The majority of my days were spent sunbathing and enjoying the pool I had worked so hard to transform. Spending so much time outdoors made me yearn for a beautiful, botanic backyard. i decided that a surefire way to get the yard looking more like a garden and less like a lumber yard would be with the addition of a pond. When I informed my parents of my desire to build a pond in our backyard they questioned my sanity. Did I know how much work it is to keep up a pond? And I was gonna build it myself?! No way! I must be crazy! I tried to paint for them the picturesque ambiance it would provide for our backyard picnics and barbecues - which we'd surely adopt once we had a proper setting; but they weren't having it. When I explained that a small lagoon would prove a lovely new home for the water turtles currently trapped in the small aquarium in my sister's room, they countered with the high probability that said turtles would make a lovely meal for local cats and birds. I assured them that I'd find a way to ensure the animals' safety and proceeded to show them the step-by-step pond building instructions I had found on the Internet. I could build it no problem if they'd only buy the materials. They didn't. I moved on.

Long after I'd forgotten my pond-building inclinations, my father randomly brought home a pond shell. I wasn't even living with them anymore! I had come over to visit one day when he called me out to the backyard, he had something to show me. I walked outside to discover my dad holding a large, awkwardly shaped, black plastic basin. Perplexed, I asked, "what the heck is that?" "Its a pond shell!" he explained. "One of my customers was getting rid of it and I remembered that you girls wanted to build a pond, so I took it." He smiled, proud of his gesture. Flabbergasted by this presentation of something that I once again did not remember I had wanted, I responded, "uh...thanks...but that was nearly a year ago..." Once again he was left astonished and angry, and I was lectured. To this day the pond shell remains in the garage, housing the pool cleaning equipment. It sits just next to the birdcage that was once home to the blue parakeet I killed, serving as a reminder of the caprice of both my father and I.

The Suitcase Lady

Following a sub-par Broken Social Scene show at Coney Island, tired and still hung-over from the previous evening's festivities, a friend and I were at the 125th st. subway station waiting to catch the A train home. Having been standing on the platform for a significant period of time and out of conversation topics, I awkwardly gazed across the tracks toward the downtown side of the station when something caught my eye, "wow, that's a really large suitcase" I pointed out feigning interest. Suddenly, a frail woman emerged from the elevator with a second bag of equal proportion, "Oh shit there are two of them!" I exclaimed, actually somewhat intrigued this time. The woman then retreated back to the elevator only to return with a third. My friend and I turned to each other and laughed, inexplicably entertained by the three large bags. Upon returning our attention to the opposite platform we were baffled to see the three suitcases perfectly lined up with no sign of their owner.

"Is this a drug deal? Or maybe they're bombs!" my companion speculated.

"I hope she returns with more" I joked. "How awesome would that be if she has so many that she couldn't fit them all in one trip?"

To our delight this was exactly the case. We watched mesmerized and thoroughly entertained as the woman slowly made trips to and from the elevator with a new bag each time; slowly, methodically, perfectly lining them up along the yellow paint. Final count: 7 large to mid-size suitcases and a few smaller duffel bags. Once these had been nicely placed just outside the elevator, their owner began to move them toward the middle of the platform where the benches were placed; slowly, one-by-one lining them up once again. Grinning in amazement, now alongside other spectators, we watched her process. Finally, she settled on a bench surrounded by her bags and let several trains pass, giving rise to so many questions. Where was she going? How would she get all those suitcases on the train? How the hell did she get them in the subway station to begin with? She must have done this before!

Unfortunately our train arrived shortly thereafter leaving us with only wonder and speculation as we made our way home.

Several months later, that same friend and I, along with others, were on our way to the Apollo for a concert. A pre-show dinner of wine and cheese, followed by a dessert of wine-in-a-water-bottle that was consumed on the train, had left me feeling quite inebriated. As I staggered up the stairs toward the station exit I spotted three suitcases just inside the emergency exit and the same frail woman from before dragging in one more. Shocked, I excitedly turned to my friends and exclaimed, "Its the bag lady!" Not only was I lucky enough to see her again, but this time it was at a different point in her process. Yet, I still had so many questions: what about the bags that she had not yet brought in, were they safe? Was someone watching them? Could this really be a one-man venture? I wanted answers, but we were already running late. I was caught between staying in the station and watching her journey unfold or exiting to be sure I reached the venue in time for Jenny Lewis (and another drink). It was a tough decision, but Jenny (and alcohol) always wins.

It is just one short month later when my friend and I see her again. Due to weekend train schedules and too much alcohol, we had found ourselves at a gathering in Harlem, so we caught the A at 116 st. As I stumble into the car I immediately notice that the entire left corner has been overtaken by a mound of bags. My eyes grow wide with excitement as I realize that this is my third encounter with this woman and her many bags. A huge grin spreads across my face as I giddily make eye-contact with my companion, who, as composed as possible, whispers "just keep going" and leads me to the other side of the car. Speechless, I quickly follow as we search for seats as far away as possible. Upon sitting down we immediately burst out into laughter, once again inexplicably amused by whom we've now grown to refer to as The Suitcase Lady. I want to stay on the train and follow this woman; see where she goes and how she manages. However, it is late and I have to work in the morning. The train glides to a halt at my stop and she and her suitcases are not moving. Defeated, I exit.

Three encounters at three different stages; yet, I still have so many questions. I am intrigued. In fact, she has become a bit of an obsession. As I will be moving back to the west coast soon, I spend my last few days in the city seeking out this woman. I don't know why, but I must know her story, her process, before I leave. I begin to haunt the A line between Harlem and Washington Heights. On a few occasions I even stake out the 125th st. station for as long as I can manage (which if you're familiar with it, or any of New York's subway stations for that matter, you can imagine is not very long). I even consider foregoing a ride to the airport from a friend in hopes that I will run into the Suitcase Lady on my way there, or perhaps out of a strange desire to experience her odyssey myself. Alas, I must accept that some things are not for me to know.

10 Reasons I don't have Asperger's

I recently watched the move Adam with my sister. The title character is a young man afflicted with Asperger Syndrome. After the movie my sister kept calling me Adam. A few days later a couple of my other sisters viewed the movie. Then on separate occasions they each referred to me as Adam. In college two of my roommates took a course on Autism. After one particular lecture they excitedly came home and diagnosed me with Asperger's. In order to help me manage/overcome my disorder they said they would issue me a card and each time I asked a question relevant to a conversation I would get a stamp; once I had filled up my card with stamps I would get a prize. I'm still waiting for my prize. Anyway, for some reason everyone likes diagnosing me with this disorder, so I did some Wikipedia research and found characteristics of the disorder that don't apply to me:

1. Characteristic of Disorder: Failure to develop friendships
   Explanation: okay, so I'm not good at making friends, but failure indicates, well TOTAL FAILURE, as in no friends ever. I have a few, according to facebook I have 150!
2. Characteristic of Disorder: Lack of eye-contact and facial expression
   Explanation: I kick ass at eye-contact! I'm so good at it that I freak people out by over-contacting their eyes. Also I've been told that I have some pretty killer facial expressions. In fact, since I'm not a big fan of verbal exchanges I've developed the ability to carry on ENTIRE conversations with facial expressions alone.
3. Characteristic of Disorder: Awkward, but not withdrawn (will approach others)
   Explanation: Yes I'm awkward, however, I would also consider myself withdrawn -- no way in hell am I gonna randomly approach peeps I don't know and try to start a conversation!
4. Characteristic of Disorder: One-sided, long-winded speech without noticing others' disinterest
   Explanation: So when it comes to some things (i.e. wine and Jenny Lewis) I can talk forever, however, I know that no one else cares, I just talk about it anyway.
5. Characteristic of Disorder: restricted/repetitive routines                                                      Explanation: While I do like routine, I am not totally bound by it. For example, tonight I'm drinking Corona, last night I had hefeweizen, and the night before that I drank wine...would a person with Asperger's be able to handle such diversity? I think not.
6. Characteristic of Disorder: specific/narrow/unusual areas of interest
   Explanation: JL is probably my only unusual area of interest, plus I like other things...I'll let you know when I think of them.
7. Characteristic of Disorder: Atypical use of language/literal interpretations/difficulty with sarcasm
   Explanation: I guess I use language atypically in that I use it correctly, while unfortunately most folks today don't. As far as difficulty with sarcasm, I have difficulty not being sarcastic...I'm pretty sure that's not what they're referring to.
8. Characteristic of Disorder: weakness in irony/humor/teasing                                           Explanation: I like funny
9. Characteristic of Disorder: Marked verbosity
   Explanation: I rarely speak. Unless of course I'm drunk, but that doesn't count.
10. Characteristic of Disorder: Advanced abilities/"gifted" in a certain area
    Explanation: I have little, if any, talent.

Star Struck (Part 3)

Our third and final meeting occurred under different conditions.  This time it was in Washington DC after a Jenny Lewis concert. I was living in New York at the time, and though she was playing there just two days later and I would be attending that show, I couldn't possibly wait that long to see her. So I purchased tickets and forced my roommate to accompany on the four and a half hour bus ride into DC. Some poeple may think it a bit ridiculous to travel 5 hours on a China Town bus just to watch a lady sing for an hour, especially when she will be playing much closer in only a few days. In fact, this sentiment was expressed to me by several people. But this is Jenny Lewis we're talking about, so I grabbed a couple wine-filled water bottles and my reluctant roommate and hopped on the bus.

We arrived in DC around 4pm. The bus station happened to be right next-door to the synagogue where the show would be held so we headed over to see if a line had begun forming. There were no patrons in sight and the box office was not yet opened so we wandered around the city for a bit. My roommate wanted to explore, but I wanted to be sure to get a good seat so didn’t allow us to venture far. We returned to the venue at 4:30 and were informed that will call would not open until 6:45. To kill time we entered a nearby diner where I proceeded to consume one of my bottles of wine. Then we headed back to the venue about 6ish.  This time when we arrived there were the beginnings of a line, so we got in about 10 people back.  While there I consumed another half bottle of wine...a good buzz, feeling alright.  We finally entered the venue at 7, sat in the center of the second row, and enjoyed a FANTASTIC show. Once the band left the stage I fought my way to the front, begged for a set-list, and some how actually got one.

The show ended a little after 11 but our bus tickets back to New York were for the 1:30 bus.  My roommate, who for some reason hadn’t taken work off the next day and wanted to get home sooner rather than later, asked if we could swap our tickets for an earlier bus instead, the company obliged.  I, however, wanted to get my set-list signed so I encouraged my roommate to take the early bus but insisted that I would wait for the later one.  She was reluctant to leave me alone in a strange city, but being such a big fan, not to mention drunkenly stubborn, I eventually convinced her to go ahead without me.  She climbed on the bus while I waited outside the synagogue amongst the other hardcore fans hoping Jenny Lewis would shortly come greet us.

We had been waiting for about 20 minutes when a guy (I'm assuming her manager or something) came out and said, "Just to let you know I've been told that Jenny is not signing things tonight." A couple of people left after this news, but I and a few others decided to wait it out anyway. Sure enough, only 15 minutes later Jenny came out of the bus and walked right up to us.  Still drunkenly effusive I remarked, "that was an amazing show!" To which she graciously responded, "Aw, thanks.  It was fun. Thanks for coming." Then the girl standing next to me asked her to sign her set-list.  After signing it Jenny grabbed my set-list, signed it, and suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, you didn't even ask me to sign this! I just assumed…I'm sorry..." as though she had somehow ruined it. Surprised and amused by her humility, I awkwardly answered, "no, thanks...sorry for not asking...?" then she went on to sign stuff for other people, leaving me intoxicated by our encounter.  Contented, I shuffled into the bus station, where I sat smiling, staring at my signed set-list for the next hour until the bus came to take me back home.  

Star Struck (Part 2)

We met again just 3 weeks later. Again, it was at a LA music venue and a complete shock. This time I had gone to the Echo with some friends for a Maria Taylor/Whispertown2000 show. A couple of my sisters were attending as well but we drove in separate cars--the friends I was with are law-abiding citizens and my sisters had plans to smoke a few bowls before the show. I was a bit disappointed that I would be missing out, but as my grandmother says, everything happens for a reason.

When we arrived I found, to my great horror, that my name was not on the will-call list and the show was sold out. I was deeply upset and explained to the woman at the window that I had indeed purchased my tickets (months in advance no less) and could not understand why her list failed to say so. She was quite understanding, let me in, and told me to come see her when the rest of my party turned up so that they could get in as well (my sisters' tickets were also under my name).

About 15 minutes later I received a text message from my sisters announcing their arrival. I passed my beer to a friend for safe-keeping and carved a path through the crowd to the entry way. As we stood at the window remind the woman of our situation, who should walk in but Jenny Lewis and Johnathan Rice! I was facing the door and thus saw them enter, but my sisters' backs were to it. They saw only my eyes grow wide and my mouth open slightly leaving my face with a mark of disbelief. Confused they looked at me as I, speechless,  motioned with my head trying to get them to turn around. After what seemed like forever, they caught my drift and turned to the door. My older sister, who had just taken a natural anti-anxiety, said coolly "oh hey. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I met you guys a few weeks ago at the Bright Eyes show." For after my encounter, my sister too had to meet JL herself.

 “Oh yeah, I remember you.” Jenny lied. “How’s it going?” My sister pointed to us “these are my sisters.” I smiled, eyes still wide in shock and slowly shook my hand in front of me vaguely resembling a wave. Jenny looked us over and smiled “You’re all sisters? Wow. What’s the order?” Recovered a bit, I pointed to my older sister “her, then me, then her.” Jenny nodded then put her hand on my younger sister’s shoulder, “aw, so you’re the baby?” Here my sister informed her that there were in fact three younger ones at home. “More little ones?” Jenny asked slightly bending her knees and motioning down with her arm symbolizing smaller people. “Weavareallybigfamily!” I blurted out. Jenny turned to me and gave a slight smile while my sister gave me a what-the-hell-was-that look. Face flushed, I let them enter the main room first, then returned to my friends. Coincidentally, Jenny and Johnathan happened to be standing just behind them and remained there for most of the show. This made me both nervous and happy, and allowed me to claim that I hung out with them. My friends informed me that standing in front of someone, with whom you briefly and awkwardly exchanged only a few words does not constitute hanging out; I disagree.

Our House Go Up In Flames

I was home visiting for the summer when my parents decided to go to San Diego for the weekend to celebrate my dad’s birthday.  Now according to the movies I’ve seen this is the perfect opportunity to throw a raging high school party, but when you have 3 younger siblings left in your charge and live in a shithole, such cannot be done.  Also, my sister’s friend’s parents were out of town and he was already throwing a party that night.  We had been planning on attending his shin-dig and so were somewhat upset upon hearing that our parents would be leaving us with the responsibility of caring for their kids.  Our aunt, knowing the importance of underage drinking, offered to take the youngins off our hands for the evening.  They’d be sleeping at her house so we were free to get as wasted and stay out as late as we wanted.  Having just completed my first year of college I was now a seasoned drinker and intended to show these high school kids just how it’s done. So we shuttled the children to my aunts house, groomed ourselves to the party-appropriate level, and arrived at the gathering fashionably late.

Immediately I began consuming everything offered me. Thus I attained a sufficient state of inebriation and began talking way too much to anyone who would listen. During my mingling, my cousin decided to get into a fight with some guy about god knows what, because what’s a high school party without a good amount of drama? My sister, quite the drama queen herself, approached me in a huffy to inform me of recent events. She was dragging my cousin along with her, his hand dripping with blood. “We have to clean him up and take him home.” She informed me. “Okay,” I said, “but I can’t drive.” I had driven us to the party but immediately forgot my responsibilities upon the first sighting of booze. “I figured!” She answered totally bitchy. “I can drive.” I tried to argue, persuade her not to as I assumed everyone else was as drunk as I. She assured me that she only had one drink and was completely sober, so I gave up and followed her to the car. A few other friends/party guests piled in as well; I guess they wanted to see what would happen next. We arrived at my house, cleaned and bandaged my cousin’s hand, dropped him off at his place of residence, and then returned to the party.

A few hours later, about 3am, we decided it was time we called it a night. Again my sister drove. I sat in the front seat wearing a baseball cap (that I had stolen from some random guy as was my custom at that stage) backward on my head. As we turned into our cul-de- sac we noticed flashing lights and several fire engines. My sister turned to me “what should we do? It doesn’t look like they’re letting cars through.” I tried to focus on her, swaying in my drunkenness. “Its probably one of those damn old neighbors” I finally spit out. “Let’s go get some food and water and hopefully when we get back they’ll be gone.” So we drove-thru the closest fast food restaurant that was open and returned to our home street. Nothing had changed.

We sat there parked at the beginning of the cul-de-sac unsure what to do when a fireman approached us. “Hello, I’m Captain Morgan” he introduced himself. I couldn’t help but smile thinking of his contribution to my current state. “Do you live down here?” he asked. “Yes just a few houses down” I answered. He surveyed us, “which of you is older?” he asked. I raised my hand. He nodded toward my sister, “oh, then why is she driving?” Though I’m sure it was pretty obvious, I tried to answer anyway, “Er…well…she’s a better driver…?” I smiled. He looked us over one more time. “Any chance you guys have two dogs and a pool?” We nodded. “Yup that’s the house that caught on fire” he continued nonchalant. I looked to my sister and gasped, the size of her eyes mirrored mine. We asked him to repeat himself, hoping that we had misunderstood, but he only confirmed: there was a fire in our house. We informed him that our parent’s were out of town for the weekend, and though we were essentially “in charge” in their absence our younger sisters were staying with our aunt.

I was far too drunk to deal with this, and my sister far too emotional. So we left towards our aunt’s house, hoping that she would know what to do. We called her and relayed what we had just heard; she told us she’d be waiting for us to pick her up. Being both drunk and in shock, I don’t remember getting to her house or the drive back home. But when we returned to the scene of the blaze, there was quite the crowd gathered around. Not only had our neighbors awoken to see what the ruckus was about, but my sister had also informed her friends about what had happened and it seemed that the entire school had shown up to see the events unfold. The firefighters gave my aunt an account of the occurrence—it seemed to be an electrical fire that started in the bathroom. We had a wall heater at the time and apparently in the excitement of trying to repair my cousin’s hand someone had accidentally switched it on and not noticed, thus leaving it on after we had left the premises. As luck would have it, there happened to be a pile of towels near enough to the heater to catch flame. This of course would all be realized later; at the time all we knew was that our home had been destroyed because of a fire that seemed to have originated in the bathroom.

The fire-fighters allowed us to enter the house to get anything that we felt necessary—a couple turtles, fish, and a hamster that wouldn’t be able to endure the smoke that still lingered throughout the house. Upon entering I immediately felt sick. The combination of the alcohol I had consumed, the thick smoke that hung throughout the house, and the sight of what was once my home was almost too much too handle. I quickly grabbed what I could and ran out of the house gagging. My sister also couldn't spend much time inside and was standing on the lawn in tears. My aunt assured us that all would be well and we called our parents to inform them of the events as she drove us to her place to sleep.

When we awoke the next morning nearly the entire family was gathered at my aunt’s house discussing the events of the previous evening. My parents decided that it would be best to attempt to get a night’s sleep before driving back home, so they were not yet there. My younger sisters awoke confused, asking how their pets had come to arrive at my aunt’s house and why everyone else was there so early. Not knowing how to break the news, we evaded their questions and told them not to worry about it. My older sister who lived with my grandparents awoke in the morning to find a text message that my sister had sent at 3:30am saying “our house go up in flames call us.” As it was the beginning of July she assumed that we drunkenly had a pre-Independence Day firework show, and picked up the land-line to give us a ring. Upon putting the telephone to her ear she heard my grandfather shouting “what do you mean their house caught on fire?!”

Needless to say, my parents haven’t taken a trip since.

Year End Letter

Dearest Friends,

Its been a busy and exciting year in the Porter household. Our eldest three daughters continue to bring us pride and joy each day. First off, our 24 year old, beat down by the big city, came crawling home from New York in February. She remains unemployed, perched on our couch drunk. Boy, are we glad to have her back! Our third born (23) graduated college in June and currently waits tables at The Olive Garden. She too still lives at home, and in her spare time enjoys participating in the occasional bar brawl. Then August brought us the arrest of our oldest daughter (27). She is currently facing 2 felony charges. We look forward to the trial that awaits us in the New Year.

Our younger 3 daughters are doing just as great. The fourth born, ever the fan of marijuana has moved on to stronger substances and has even begun a career in sales. Rehab is just around the corner! Our 17 year old has been bouncing around between high schools, received several new body piercings, and she too has been dabbling in the world of drugs. The baby (15) has spent the past year keeping up with The OC, One Tree Hill, Gossip Girl, and The Hills among others. She aspires to become a Playboy Bunny.

Despite the menopausal mood swings, Mom continues to manage the household, all while struggling through math courses to complete her AA. Papa too continues to keep the house in order by providing both discipline and sound advice. As he says, "There is a fine line between respect and violence. If you want your kids to respect you, you gotta use violence."

We continue to receive daily greetings from banks and creditors. And just a few weeks ago, the roof collapsed in our kitchen during a rainstorm. This has forced us to remove the lovely maroon carpet and we expect to install a proper kitchen floor within the next five years!

It has been a wonderful year indeed, and we hope you all are doing as well as we.

Warm wishes for the holiday season,
The Porters

Star Struck (Part 1)

I like to think that I’m the sort of person who doesn’t get caught up in all the celebrity bullshit. I couldn’t care less who stole who’s husband, who doesn’t wear underwear, who’s sporting a “baby bump,” or whatever other crap is plastered on the covers of gossip magazines that solicit us in the checkout lines of grocery stores. I’ve sold wine to TV personalities without flipping my lid, I’ve spotted musicians at restaurants without feeling the need to fawn over them, and the time a certain drugged out Hollywood starlet said “hey” to me in a bar bathroom I nodded casually and walked out. Basically, I’m cool. But the fact of the matter is that I have been star struck 3 times in my life…all by the same person.

Our first encounter took place at a Bright Eyes show in March of 2007. I had been looking forward to the show for well over a month and had hopes of standing in the front row to watch Conor Oberst in all his glory. So imagine my disappointment when my sister's friend, from whom she was getting her ticket, didn't arrive until 8:30 (doors were at 7). Upon entering the packed El Rey any remaining hopes of a "good spot" were shattered, so I promptly headed to the bar to begin coping. Then we took up stance toward the back of the theater next to the aisle

As I was sipping on my beer casually listening to the opening band I noticed Michael Runion walk passed me down the aisle. Being aware of his affiliation with Rilo Kiley/Jenny Lewis I pointed him out to my sister and joked that Jenny Lewis herself may also be in attendance. My hopeful suspicions were then heightened upon sightings of some of her other associates: M. Ward, Johnathan Rice, and even Blake Sennett! Mr. Rice passed me and then stopped just a few feet behind us where he joined some friends in the crowd. Being a fan of his music as well, I was intrigued by his presence and looked back a few minutes later just to be sure it was really him.

Upon turning around to catch another glimpse I spotted standing beside him a short, red-headed woman engaged in conversation. Shocked and excited, I turned to my sister, "is that…” dare I say it, “…Jenny Lewis?!" She glanced behind us and confirmed that it was in fact my idol. At this point I felt about ready to have a heart attack because JENNY FUCKING LEWIS was standing less than 15 feet away from me! I continuously turned around throughout the show, because how could I not look? Noticing me totally geeking out, my sister advised me to calm down and pay attention to the show. First of all, the band that we had payed to see was playing. Second, and more importantly, if continued, my frequent peeps may be discovered by the object of my gaze; which is a bit creepy in and of itself, but adding to the creepy-stalker vibe, I also happened to be wearing a Jenny Lewis T-shirt.
   
So I returned my attention to the musical genius of Mr. Oberst for a while, but couldn’t help but steal a glance back just a while later. This time, however, Ms. Lewis was gone.  I turned to my sister and with great disappointment, informed her of the new development.  She told me to casually go to the bathroom, checking the lobby on my way to see if they had migrated there. So I exited the theater and sure enough, Jenny, Johnathan, and the whole crew were huddled near the lobby bar. I continued past them into the bathroom, so as to seem like I was not stalking her.

After taking a minute in the bathroom to compose myself I returned to the lobby trying to muster up enough courage to approach Ms. Lewis. As I entered she broke away from her friends and headed toward the door.  She was alone and this was my opportunity. I took a deep breath and prepared to walk toward her, but just as I was about to take my first step I saw her wave to a woman entering the venue and they began to converse. At this point I was only about 4 feet way, but was feeling discouraged; I considered giving up and returning to the show. But just as I was about to turn around a thought struck me: this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, what would my friends say when they found out that I hadn’t taken advantage of it? I had to do this. So I stood there awkwardly waiting.

Less than a minute later Jenny turned to walk back to her friends and spotted my shirt: Born Secular –Jenny Lewis. Here she pointed at me and exclaimed "whoa!" then took a step closer. Oh my god, Jenny Lewis is talking to me! My head was reeling and I was so extremely nervous—I mean, I have trouble talking to normal people and suddenly I had found myself in the presence of a goddess! With the biggest, nerdiest grin on my face I attempted to cover my shirt and replied, voice shaking, "I'm so embarrassed that I'm wearing this right now."

"Why? That’s so cool." she returned. "This is embarrassing, I feel so dorky" I repeated with my hands still across my chest. She placed her hand on my shoulder, "No, that’s so cool, that’s so sweet." she smiled. Then there was a brief second of awkward silence as we stood staring at each other. "Well, uh, i-it-its really nice t-t-to mee...” I attempt to stammer out, when staring at my shirt she again stated, "that’s really sweet."

"I-I'm a huge fan" I said feeling a bit more confident now. "What’s your name?" she asked putting out her hand. I answered. "Mine's Jenny." We shook. "See it says it right there" she continued as she put her finger to my shirt. Oh my God she touched my breast! "I know!" I exclaimed, still in total disbelief that I was actually speaking with Jenny Lewis! "So, any news about the new Rilo Kiley record?" I asked trying so hard to sound cool, collected, and normal, despite the burning in my cheeks reminding me that I looked anything but. "Uh…we're finishing it up" she responded cryptically. "So still no release date or are you keeping it a secret?" I so lamely and dorkily (so much so that it requires I make up adverbs) tried to joke. "No, no. We're working on it, trying to finish" she smiled again. "Cool," I responded as I decided to let her free, "well…thanks for being so nice." I think I may have even touched her shoulder at this point.  She simply laughed, shrugged, and said "Dude!" Then we went our separate ways.

Following our conversation I re-entered the theater with the largest smile on my face. I had to immediately brag to my sister that I had in fact met The Jenny Lewis, who touched my boob, called me “dude,” and said I was sweet, thus making my life complete.