Step One. I admit I am powerless over Facebook and my life has become unmanageable.

I'm leaving Facebook. Probably not forever, but hopefully for a prolonged break. Here's why.

Not long ago, someone asked me for an honest estimate of how many hours a day I typically spend on Facebook. I thought about it. "Six?" I answered, sheepishly. It sounded like a ridiculously high number. But actually, I exaggerated. The truth is, it's probably more than that. And thinking about the actual number, the minutes and hours that I spend (Spend? Yes, spend. Like currency.) every single day, well, it's painful. So naturally, I stopped thinking about it. Until the Elephant stopped just standing quietly in the room and started trashing the place.  

Certainly something was trashing the place. I look around as I type this...after spending most of the last two hours on Facebook. My house is a mess. I have a to-do of about twenty items list sitting on the dining room table. Whenever I look at it, I get overwhelmed and log onto Facebook instead. I used to exercise more. I used to spend more time cooking real meals. I'm sure I could be making more money if I put some time and effort into it. My house, my garden, my health, and my finances are all suffering because I don't "have time" to put into them. Why don't I have time? How long can I plead the fifth for?

But here's the clincher, and the real heartbreak. My son, light of my life. It goes something like this:
"Mommy, come play with me!"
"I can't right now honey, I have to finish writing this." (Do I need to tell you what "this" is? Do you suppose it is something of urgent importance that couldn't wait another minute?)
"Mommy, can we go a playground?"
"Not today, sweetie. I have a lot to do." (Read: The comment threads on this foodie group are really funny today!)
"Okay kiddo, time to get your PJs on and brush your teeth!"
"Come with me, Mama."
"You get started, I'll be up in just a minute."  (Or two. Or five.)

Writing all this out is making me sad. You know what else makes me sad? If I post this on Facebook, my friends are all going to tell me what a great mom I am and tell me I'm being too hard on myself. But they only see the Facebook version of me. You know all those pictures and all those amusing anecdotes about my son that I post? What do you suppose my son was doing while I was posting them? Beats me, I was doing my best to ignore him at the time.

Is it really this bad? Really? Truthfully...sometimes it is. Maybe not every day, but way too often. And there's more. Let me give you a random sampling of how my life has changed since I joined Facebook in 2009.

FB has become my default communication mode. Instead of phone, email, postcard, or walking half a block down the street to my neighbor's house, I'll use FB. Don't have FB? I'll probably never contact you at all. Not because I don't like you or care about you. It's just not as easy to contact you.

If  I'm having an event I'll post it on FB. If you're not on FB there's a good chance you won't be invited.

If I'm looking for something to do I'll check FB events or post on my wall and ask what's going on. If it's not on FB it's not on my radar.

If I want to get together with like-minded people, be it foodies, karaoke fans, local moms, etc, I look for a group on FB, and if I don't find one, I'll create one. I'm currently listed as a manager (aka "admin") on twelve groups. I started seven of them. These are now my social circles. My old ways of socializing have fallen by the wayside.

I recently realized that I don't have any way to contact a large number of my current friends other than via Facebook. No phone number or email; I just message them on FB.

When I'm doing something fun or interesting, I'm either taking pics for FB, or wishing I had my camera to take pics for FB, or thinking about what I'll say about it later on FB. Often I'm doing the  the same for when bad things happen.

Oh, and let's not even start with all the ads, privacy invasion, and other annoyances the FB itself  throws at us daily.

I could go on. But I'm not really enjoying writing this post. I tell people I need to stop because I'm addicted. Am I? The Merriam-Webster Dictionary says addiction is "a strong and harmful need to regularly have something (such as a drug) or do something (such as gamble)." We could debate the words  "need" and "harmful" here. I could try to wiggle my way out of this. More to the point, let's look at what the American Society of Addiction Medicine says...

Addiction is characterized by:

Inability to consistently Abstain;   

CHECK

Impairment in Behavioral control;   

CHECK

Craving; or increased “hunger” for the rewarding experience; 

CHECK

Diminished recognition of significant problems with one’s behaviors and interpersonal relationships; UM...

A dysfunctional Emotional response. (such as: Increased anxiety, dysphoria and emotional pain) CHECK

My friend Maggie posted this on my wall when I said I'd be leaving Facebook soon.

But, but, but...I LOVE Facebook! Can I tell you all the wonderful things that have come out of being on Facebook? 

New friends! I may have "met" them on FB, but I've gotten together with them in the real world too! 

Reconnection with old friends! From high school, junior high school, elementary school, ever girl scout camp, for crying out loud.

Information and education! Good gracious, the things I've learned on Facebook. Some of them are even true!

Support! When things have been rough for me and/or my son, I've gotten all kinds of wonderful support and helpful advice from my FB community.

Bringing people together! Some of the FB groups I started include:
An alumni group for the high school I attended (closed since 1982) that we used to track down nearly 100 long-lost staff and students and hold a reunion.
A group for NE Ohio Paleo eaters, now up to about 270 members. We share recipes and resources and have held two potlucks.
A group for my fellow karaoke addicts where we can plan outings and post reviews of places we've been.
And more!

Work! I have an actual paying job updating the FB page for the publication I work for.

Along with our farmer's market manager and board president, I use a long-running private message thread to plan market events, share important info, and joke around. It's so much more fun and efficient than emails or phone calls.

I can't tell you how many parties, special events, and other assorted things I've done, because I heard about them on Facebook

And dopamine, dopamine, dopamine, dopamine, dopamine, dopamine, dopamine, dopamine. It's fun! Facebook is so freakin' much fun! Little witty exchanges, getting "likes" and positive comments when I post stuff, watching adorable videos or reading hilarious memes posted by friends...it's really, really fun. (You can read more about the Facebook dopamine connection in this article: How Facebook (FB) is Altering Your Mind.)

So what do I hope to achieve by I signing off?
Time. Lots more time.  Maybe I'll clean the house, get into more creative pursuits, exercise more, spend more time playing with my kid.
A break in the addiction/obsession/whatever-you-want-to-call-it cycle.
And I hope to figure out what parts of FB have real value to my life, and what I can live without. Maybe I'll decide not to come back at all. I doubt that, but I hope I can find a way to return with a clear picture of how I can successfully integrate Facebook into my life without having it take over.

Those are happy tears, right mama?

I've hesitated to broadcast the recent good news for fear of jinxing things, but then I remembered that I don't believe in jinxes, so here it is: Eliot has been doing FANTASTIC for two whole weeks. That may not seem like much to those of you with typically developing kids, but for us, it's like a miracle.

Two solid weeks of good days at school, no major meltdowns or incidences, always smiling and happy when I come to pick him up, doing his homework thoughtfully and without complaint. Two weeks of him being reasonably well behaved and actually joyful at home.  For two entire weeks my son has not hated himself, called himself stupid while punching himself in the head, tore up or tried to break his favorite things in a rage, or attacked the people who he loves the most.

Best school day report EVER.
I didn't even know they had a 2+. It's like the amp that goes up to 11!

Contrast with the day, only a few months ago, that he spent more than an hour in an absolute fury, screaming, trying to punch, kick, bite, scratch, and spit on me; ran to a window and threatened to jump out. When his inner storm passed and he fell in bed, exhausted, he gently kissed the spot where he saw his own teeth marks on my arm and said remorsefully, "Mommy, you should give me away or throw me in the garbage. I don't deserve a mommy like you. Your life would be better without me."

THIS is the same boy who now has been happy and has felt like he is a good kid for two full weeks. More then two weeks, even! (It's taken me a couple days to finish this blog post.) Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

We've had brief reprieves before, so I know not to count on this being a permanent condition. But I'm sure you'll forgive me if I pause to celebrate anyhow. You may recall my post this past October, when he had a few good weeks (though never quite this good) after first starting on ADHD meds. I had spent several years disdainful of the possibility that my son might need medications.

ADHD is just a diagnosis for a kid who needs more exercise or who doesn't fit the mold in school, right? It's a condition invented by the pharmaceutical companies, right? It's just the sign of a spoiled brat whose parents are afraid to discipline him, right? Right. No problem. I've got this covered. When my son didn't fit in at school, I pulled him out and home-schooled for most of a year. I made sure he ran around like crazy. I was strict as all get out. But oddly enough, none of this was a magic cure. How about vitamins? Talk therapy? OT? Food sensitivities? Tried them all and then some. Nope. Meds, two of them now. Concerta, 18 mgs, twice a day. Risperdal, .5 mgs, twice a day. The second daily dose of Concerta was added about two weeks ago, and that was when we truly saw the flip switch for Eliot. Night and day. Now my sweet child can control his own body and impulses and emotions, almost as well as any other kid. And he is HAPPY. My boy is happy.

And I just want to collapse and weep out of relief and gratitude and exploding heart-fulls of love for my dear, sweet, happy son.

Two weeks. Yeah. What do you say, kiddo? Let's go for two more.

It's NaBloPoMo!

So you may have heard that November is NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month, but did you know that it is also NaBloPoMo: National Blog Posting Month? It is, and I'm going to do it, minus day one because, even though I was thinking of blogging every day this month in homage to NaNoWriMo, I didn't know NaBloPoMo already existed until about an hour ago...and also I just didn't get around to posting yesterday.

What shall I tell you about today? Hum...I might like to start with this picture of me that my friend Kevin posted on Facebook a few minutes ago:

This picture makes me laugh because I look like a demented lunch lady. Also, because I'm holding a nine inch long sausage. Go ahead, hit me with you best comments. You know you want to.

The fellas were making sausage in five different flavors, over seventy pounds worth. I was helping by cooking and eating some of it and chugging homemade vanilla extract. Gosh, I love my farmer's market.

Stay tuned. More, and perhaps ever better(!), posts coming your way SOON!

The Chicken Adventures of Golden...Now with Super Special Added Bonus Feature!

My eight year old son spent almost two hours writing and illustrating a story today. Yes, kids write stories every day, but I have reason to be particularly thrilled with this one. 

Eliot has pretty severe ADHD and until recently he hated reading and was none too fond of writing either. Organic, earth-mama that I am, I have spent the last two or three years trying to keep my son off the stimulant meds that all his doctors and therapists and teachers were telling me he needed. I wasn't going to be one of those moms who caved in and ran to the doctor for Ritalin the minute her kid acted up a little. But after he wound up in a psychiatrist hospital a couple weeks ago, it seemed high time to start caving.

He's been on a time-released stimulate med (that's code for "amphetamine") called Vyvanse for about two weeks and he is a child transformed. No longer lashing out at everyone including himself. Happier then I've seen him in many, many months. Liking school again. Willing and able to read and write. He's still not exactly a poster child for perfect behavior, but then, neither am I.

But I am now officially an idiot for trying to keep my son off the medicine which appears to be exactly what he needs to be a happy and functional human being. And I've never been more overjoyed to be an idiot in my many long years of doing idiotic things.

Here's my boy's story:

The Chicken Adventures of Golden 

Eliot's Stories

Chapter 1: 

There was a chicken named Golden. 

She was in a store with other chickens. She was bored.

 Then a boy named Eliot said, “I want one of those chickens,” he said.

 He got one of them

And he got Golden. He loved Golden. 

He named Golden, “Golden.” 

He gave her treats

 She loved Eliot. She played with Eliot. Golden had friends too. 

She ran to Eliot when he walked in the backyard.

Eliot carried Golden to the corner of the block

and took Golden to a pet show and tell. 

They were on the newspaper.

They were best friends. Golden laid the first egg. 

Chapter 2: 

 Golden got lost. Eliot was sad. Golden was on a...

adventure. Golden was captured. 

Somebody stole animals. His name is Animal Man. 

He was doing animal experiments on turning himself...

into animals and mixed up animals. 

When it was dark, Golden got a plan with the other animals. 

They made a plan. When it was morning time...

the animals started the plan. 

Golden honked. He [Animal Man] walked backwards. 

The monkey grabbed the keys and unlocked the cages.

Chapter 3: Golden eventually got home. 

Golden was happy. Eliot was too.

The end.

  Well. I was just finishing this up and was about to publish this blog entry at 9:30pm, when my boy called down the stairs and said he couldn't sleep. He's been in his bed and quiet since 8pm. He asked me to come up and see what he had written. There were five more pages in his book and he read them all to me. I'll just include the first two for now because they were absolutely amazing. This kid never talks about his feelings. But he wrote this:

The Adventures of school
Chapter 1
bad times
Eliot was bad. Really bad.
He was sent to the principal's office 4 times.
He was the baddest kid in the school.
[The picture shows Eliot being restrained by a teacher.]

Chapter 2
good times
Eliot eventually Eliot was the best kid.
He never went to the principal's office.
He was happy as can be.
He went full days in school.
The end.
[The picture shows Eliot sitting in his school beanbag chair, smiling and waving.]

Wow. And I thought it was going to be a story about chickens. Ain't no chickens here. 
Talk about happy endings. 
:)

I have an algae problem

Dear Blog,
I apologize. I have abandoned you again. I have no good reasons, just a lot of crummy excuses: I'm busy with this or that; I'm a procrastinator; I'm afraid what I have to say isn't important enough or interesting enough; I'm spending more time thinking about whether or not this well be read and how people will react to it than I am to the words stuck in my brain that want out.

It's a problem. When I neglect my writing my blood grows sluggish with unwritten words, unexpressed thoughts. I feel like if I were able to consistently skim off the surface layer of words-- the algae blooms of my mind-- I  might be able to get to a clear vantage point, a path to the deeper stuff below where the brilliant tropical fish weave just so through the beautiful coral. But no. I'm all lake scum and minnows and turtles forever sunning on the same logs. Alas.

But I'm here now. Forever stopping and starting, meandering, trying again. Speaking of which, this morning a friend posted a link to this Buddhist thingy called Starting Over, and it's coming in handy right at this particular very second.

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike

Lots of books about market gardening and chicken rearing and how to build chicken coops. I intend to purchase four baby chicks next weekend. So that oughta give me something to write about, huh?

Also, currently reading Astray, a fascinating book of historical fictions by Emma Donoghue. And an equally fascinating book of I-don't-know-what-to-call-it, by David Shields. Title: Reality Hunger: A Manifesto.

My ever so wonderful writing group met last night and I brought an unfinished piece that I suspect is going to turn into something much longer, about my retiring from midwifery. I have quite a lot to say about it, as it turns out, and it appears I am finally ready to start saying it. Stay tuned. 

Good Eats

The Beachland Ballroom kitchen, run by super-chef Brian Doyle, had a soft opening this afternoon to test out a new lunch menu. My friend Amy and I went, and hot damn, was it ever good. Highly recommended by us: Sweet potato tater-tots with curry aioli, Fresh "pealafel" bites with garlic-tahini sauce (it’s falafel made with peas instead of garbanzos), Brian’s Asian salad tossed with Thai vinaigrette (made with cabbage, lettuces, carrots, peppers, cilantro, and bok choy), North Coast Turkey Sandwich with Slovenian style locally produced bacon, smoked turkey, tomato, avocado, poached free range egg and Gruyere cheese sauce. There was more too, and all of it was delicious. And since it was a soft opening, half-price! Score! But I'll happily be back to pay full price later.

My Adorable Child

...makes me wish I was rich. The school I want to get him into is $18,000 a year. The summer camp I'd like to send him to is just under $5000. And his last dental visit turned up six cavities which will require a special pedio-dentist visit, likely to be out of network and out of my price range. How did this kid end up with six cavities? He gets less sugar than almost any other child on the planet. The poor child has always been forced to drink water instead of juice. WTF?

Happy Birthday, Buzzy Linhart!

Today is Buzzy Linhart's 70^th birthday. I dated Buzzy for a year or so in 1979-1980. Then he moved out of state and we eventually fell out of touch, but I've been thinking about him lately and have reconnected with him and the reason is this: I want Buzzy to know what a profoundly positive effect he has had on my life. From people he introduced me to, to experiences we shared, to his songs which have become part of the ingrained soundtrack of my life, to my actual physical health, I owe so much to this man. If you don't know who Buzzy is, you should. Read on, and you will.

 

 Who is Buzzy Linhart? (Hint: That's guy above is not him, but if you watch this you'll see him)

Trailer for Famous: The Buzzy Linhart Story

You can also go HERE to watch the entire movie for free!

When I was 17 or so I appropriated my older brother's Buzzy Linhart record, Pussycats Can Go Far, and by the time it finished playing I decided that this was the man I would marry someday. His open, smiling face on the cover, his blatantly joyous voice, his transcendent vibraphone and tumultuous guitar playing, his charming, disarming, utterly unique style...I wanted to be part of all that.

Some months later my friend Jeanne and I, having procured fake IDs (age: 21!) at a photo kiosk in Terminal Tower, went to see Buzzy perform at the Cellar Door in Cleveland Heights. Many of the details are lost to me now, but I did meet him that night, and we started dating when I was 19. He was in his mid 30's.

Some sketches I made of Buzzy, circa 1979

When my mom expressed concern over our age difference, Buzzy instantly volunteered to come meet her. He sat in the living room being his witty and endearing self, chatting amiably about this and that, talking in goofy voices, and eventually pulling out his guitar and singing her a couple of songs. There were no further complaints from mom.

Yes, he was twice my age, but quite honestly, I think we had a mutually beneficial relationship. He got to date a cute young thing who adored him; I got to date a musical idol and have many a fun adventure. He was always honest with me. I knew he was dating other girls and at that point in my life, that was fine with me. I got over wanting to marry him and settled for having a helluva good time whenever we hung out. While he clearly had his faults, I don't recall a single harsh word between us. We enjoyed each other for who we were.

And as a then-19 year old, dating Buzzy had a pretty awesome coolness factor. He had had a huge presence in the NYC folk and rock scene in the 1960s and early 70s and played with artists as diverse as Fred Neil, Richie Havens, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Eric Clapton, and many more. He told me stories about hanging out with Jimi Hendrix and playing on one of his albums. He had shared an apartment in the Village with John Sebastian of the Loving Spoonful. He co-wrote the song Friends, which became known as Bette Midler's signature song and later was the theme music for Sesame Street. He dated Carly Simon. He played a naked hitchhiker (Full frontal male nudity; shocking!) in the 1974 movie Groove Tube. And I saw him play enough times to know for myself what an insanely talented and an incredibly charismatic performer he was. I never tired of hearing him sing and play.

Buzzy rocks out in NYC, 1969

Plus he was just plain fun to be with. He would often break into these crazy cartoonish voices and imitations and goofy made-up-on-the-spot song lyrics. He took me to hear and meet countless local and several nationally known musicians. I often heard his own band at the time, Buzzy Linhart and The Buzzards. This band, when they eventually parted ways with Buzzy, became The Generators, a pretty popular local rock band who owed their very existence to Buzzy. He took me to watch a recording session he did with folk and comedy troubadours Willio and Phillo. They made a mock commercial for dolphin food and Buzzy played the voice of the dolphin. Another time he had me, along with his sister Abby, sing backup vocals for one of his own recordings of a song called Resurrection Rag.

Like many musicians of his generation, Buzzy had done his fair share of drug use and abuse, but at the time I met him he was on a pretty extreme health kick and was not doing drugs at all. I was a vegetarian when I met Buzzy and, though pretty health conscious myself, I was duly impressed when I watched him thoroughly rinse his organic brown rice in the sink and then do a final rinse with spring water to remove any last trace of chlorine and fluoride. This guy was hardcore. Later he convinced me that adding meat back into my diet would be in my best interest and took me to earth by april, where we dined on Red Snapper Amandine. It was delicious and I felt a rush of energy eating it. I eventually added other meats back in, and he was right; I felt better. I wonder if I'd be eating Paleo now-- a diet which has given me vast improvement in my health and well being-- were it not for his influence back then.

One of the most memorable adventures we shared was when Paul Simon came to town to film One Trick Pony. Buzzy and Paul had hung around many of the same NYC clubs and coffee houses in the 1960s and '70s, so they knew each other fairly well. So Paul Simon came to see Buzzy play at the old Agora Theater on E 24th some months before he came to shoot the movie, and I got to meet him then. And when the filming started, Buzzy and I were extras and hung out on location at the Agora for about a week, and then for an additional day of filming at Baldwin Wallace College. And we got paid for it too! During the course of the filming I got to pal around with Paul and Buzzy a lot. I also played pinball with Tony Levin and Richard Tee, chatted with Steve Gadd, met John Sebastian and Tiny Tim, and hung out with Buzzy in the B-52s trailer. And I got to be Mare Winningham's stand-in for a day too. She was very friendly. Told me if I was ever in LA to come visit her.

Paul Simon, Me, and Buzzy Linhart onstage at the Agora, 1979.

Paul Simon was sweet and unassuming. Just about every time he's come though town since then, I've gone backstage to say hi. I took my friends Sue and Ray to meet him when the Graceland tour came to the Coliseum, and most recently, I took my pal Rachel to see him on his 2011 tour at EJ Thomas Hall in Akron. She snapped a few pics for me.

 









Of course, none of this hobnobbing with one of the most famous musicians in the whole wide world would have been possible without my own personal musical ambassador, Buzzy Linhart.

And I have Buzzy to thank for introducing me to the chiropractors at the Geneva Chiropractic Clinic. In fact, my very first treatment was when Buzzy arranged to have Dr Daniel Duffy, the founder of the GCC clinic, come to the set during the filming of One Trick Pony and treat the cast and crew. He spent the afternoon treating one person after the next, including Paul Simon himself. At the end when he was about to close up shop, Buzzy asked if he could take one more patient, and that was me. Although only 19, I had been having chronic lower back pain for several years. Dr Duffy put me on the table, did a few magical adjustments, and bingo, the pain was gone and never came back. He winked at me and said, “That one's a freebie.” I've been going back to the GCC ever since and they have been a major source of both health care and information. I have referred many clients to them over the years who have had equally good results. And this is all due to Buzzy's influence.

From my record collection

I talked to Buzzy for over an hour last night. He played a couple of his songs over the phone for me, including the Resurrection Rag song that I sang backup vocals on. He frequently interrupted our chat with instructions given to his friend Larry who was helping prepare his dinner. He broke into funny voices. He told me tales of pain, hardship and woe, instantly followed by assertions that everything was sure to work out okay.

Sadly, Buzzy himself is not in the best of health now. And he has never quite reached the level of fame and fortune that he might have enjoyed. He, like most of us, is an imperfect soul; and like most of us, he has sometimes worked against himself and fallen short of his own goals. But he has touched literally hundreds of thousands of lives with his music, and those of us who have been lucky enough to know him personally have been blessed and impressed with his many talents, his warmth, his drive to improve himself, his all-out goofy and fun-loving spirit, his generosity and his willingness to give all of himself. And if that isn't fame and fortune, I don't know what is.

1974 There It Goes Again

"As soon as anything is that bad, you might as well just rejoice 

and be happy you still got your hands and feet."

***

Dear Buzzy-- Happy Birthday! I hope you have a delicious day and a delightful year, surrounded with warmth, laughter and love. And remember: the check is in the mail, the rainbow is just around the bend, you are brightest star in the story of your life, and the Love is STILL growing. Sing joy!

***

Here  is a set of songs on Spotify, put together by Buzzy's son, Xeno David.

***

Off the Shelf

When MikeDeCapite's new chapbook Creamsicle Blue came out last year, I promptly ordered a copy. I'm a big fan of his writing. Mike grew up in Cleveland and his wonderfully atmospheric novel, Through the Windshield, is set primarily in Tremont. I was living in Tremont when I read it and I felt like I was riding in the backseat for the whole journey. I had not yet met Mike when I ordered Creamsicle Blue, but we have a lot of mutual friends and he had generously accepted my Facebook friend request. 

After I ordered the book, I was surprised and pleased to get a personal email back from him, asking if I would like it inscribed in any particular way. Well boy howdy, give me an opening like that, and I'm liable to run with it. And run, I did. “Indeed,” I wrote him, “Please inscribe it, 'To my darling Blayne, Love of my life,' or something like that. Point being,” I said, “...something to make the book club ladies jealous.”

When the book arrived, I was not the least bit disappointed to see the following:

For Blayne- I'll never forget you, although you cast me aside. 

I still have your hatpin, by the way. And your tire iron, and your turtle food. 

 Mike 1/3/12

O, happy day! And I immediately thought that it might be fun to make up a back story to go with this inscription, but I was busy, and the idea was shelved. Until this past month, when the prompt for my writing group was “Off the Shelf.” So I wrote it. And I sent it to Mike and he said-- and this is a direct quote, mind you, “How great. I love it.”

I have now met Mike in person (exactly once) but I'm going to include the following disclaimer: While the two main characters in this story are actual human beings, the events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events is 98.42% coincidental. No turtles were harmed in the writing of this story. To the best of my knowledge, my grandmother was not a Nazi. This story is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians.

Okay, without further ado...

2/18/13

Mike-

Thanks for sending me your new booklet. It was really nice. Sorry it's taken me so long to write back. You know what a procrastinator I am, plus I had to kind of...think things over. I didn't really expect to hear from you again at all, given what happened when we last saw each other. And I don't know where you come off with this “cast me aside” business, given that you were doing more than your fair share of casting yourself. Oh, and speaking of casting, I want that tire iron back! Did you go back for it that day, or did you wait till it stopped raining? Frankly, I'm surprised you went back for it at all and even more surprised that you found it. You flung it pretty far into the woods.

I actually had a flat tire about two weeks before I got this booklet from you, and I had to call AAA and wait a fucking hour and a half for them for want of that damn tire iron. So the timing of your letter was interesting, to say the least. The minute I opened the trunk and saw that the tire iron was missing, the memory of that day and all that followed (or didn't, as the case may be) came pouring back. And at first I was really steamed all over again. Jesus, if you could have seen the look on your face when you winged that thing. “Next time, change your own damn tire,” you yelled. Which is fucking hilarious, given that you know perfectly well that I tried to do it myself and you pushed me aside and said it was “man's work.” I know this was supposed to be your ironical feminist-hipster stance and you were probably just trying to help, but still. I could have had that tire changed in ten minutes flat, and without stripping the goddamn lug nut. And I think you really did have some macho pride and didn't want the guys driving past see you stand idly by while I, a mere girl, did all the work. Stupid male egos. Face it, I was always better at mechanical stuff than you.

But the whole thing actually strikes me as kind of funny now. Remember at the service plaza before we got the flat tire, that bride and groom in line in front of us at the Burger King? I think we totally ruined their wedding day, what with your being “inspired” (haha) at the sight of them to drop to one knee and propose to me on the spot, and my refusal on account of you didn't have a ring. That guy looked like he was ready to slug us both for mocking him. If I hadn't started up with the crocodile tears, I think he would have. On the other hand, they were eating turnpike cheeseburgers, dressed up in a cheap white gown and veil and an ill-fitting rental tux, so what's to ruin, right? I still wonder what their story was. I've occasionally thought that I should make up a back story for them. But actually, you should do it. You're the real writer. Do it and send it to me, okay? Seriously, it would be funny.

This is getting ridiculously long. Listen, you can keep the hatpin, or sell it on ebay, or whatever. That thing creeped me out anyhow. Why on earth my grandmother had a hatpin with a swastika on it, I'll never know. I've wondered if she was secretly a Nazi but I have no evidence for it other than that crazy hatpin. Did I ever tell you about what happened when she joined the Fairfield Transcendental Meditation group? Funny story; maybe I'll tell you someday. She was a quirky lady, my grandma. She always liked you.

I assume the fact that you still have turtle food means that Raphael died, huh? That's sad. I should have come back for him but, well, you know. I always thought of him as your turtle anyhow, even though I bought him. Why would you keep the food? WTF? You're a weird guy Mike, you know that?

And yet...(That's from your book, get it? )...I'm glad you got back in touch with me, really I am. We did have our problems, we were no match made in heaven, but what the hell. We had some fun too, didn't we? This new little book is actually pretty cool; it almost reads like poetry. You were thinking about me when you wrote that part at the beginning, weren't you? Is that why you sent it to me? It sounds like you've been doing some serious soul searching and maybe you've let go of some of that angst you've been hauling around. So you have a steady girlfriend now, huh? I'm glad for you. I hope everything is going well. How's life in the Big City? I've been dating this guy Micky off and on for the past year and a half. You remember Micky? Used to hang out at Edison's with Chuck and Alex and those guys? Well, right now were off. But he sent me a bouquet of pink daisies on Valentine's day, so...maybe.

Well, I hope you're still working on getting that novel published. You been working on that thing for...well, since me anyhow, and that was...how long ago now? A long time. Lot of water under that bridge.

I hope this means we can both let go of the past now. I'm going to unblock you on Facebook, so if you want to send me a request I'll accept it, okay? Friends?

Oh, and Mike? I'll never forget you either. How could I? Your name is tattooed on my left baby toe.

Blayne

P.S. I have a blue notebook of yours with your notes from that lecture we went to by that weird German guy about music and syntax or some crazy-ass shit. The notes don't make any sense to me, but neither did the lecture. He did have the greatest accent in the world though; that I remember. If you want, I'll mail it to you. Also, your 20 pound barbells, but the hell if I'm shipping those suckers.

P.P.S. I'm enclosing $5 toward shipping for the tire iron. Really, I want it back.