“When you’re around, I feel like the Grinch at the end of the story” I said.
“You feel like . . . the Grinch?” he said.
“Oh, at the end of the story,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
Postcards From South Dakota
We had three days, so we decided to drive ten hours there and back. First stop: Mitchell, land of the Corn Palace. Second stop: Murdo, land of 1880 Town. Third stop: Wall, land of the Badlands. Forth stop: Wall Drug, skittered through the morning before we left, after a new radiator cap was acquired and the broken tent packed, to drive the ten hours back home.
Lessons learned: it is impossible to get sick of some people, camping is still fun, candy is delicious, everything is hilarious.
Full album: here.
Running image by Jamie.
When the Revolution Comes
I will be first against the wall.
The bougiest statements made during our South Dakota camping trip:
1. Oh! I love a stilton!
2. Ah yes! Was that in Chamonix?
(Jamie astutely pointed out that there’s nothing inherently despicable about loving cheese, but put “a” in front of its name, and you’re officially rich.)
Image by Kristy.
Making Headway
“Oh hey, I found out some good news on the internet today,” I said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“So for the past two years I’ve had this clicking sensation come and go in my sinuses, kind of near the bridge of my nose. It’s this vaguely annoying pressure and movement thing, and it clicks, and it just happens every so often, but it’s weird.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I’d read a story once about this woman who had a similar sensation maybe and it was a cockroach that had climbed up her nose and couldn’t get back out. So for the past two years whenever my nose clicked, I thought, ‘oh, it’s the cockroach that lives there now I guess.'”
” . . . uh huh.”
“But tonight I finally broke down and Googled it, and it turns out, it’s just allergies! And, the cure is using a Neti Pot.”
“Well. Yeah. That makes sense.”
“Sooo . . . aren’t you impressed? I’ve lived the past two years of my life assuming I had a cockroach living in my face, and I managed to not even Google it.”
“I feel like,” he said, “that’s actually insane. To even assume that.” He paused. “Like . . . certifiably.”
The Days of Best Friends
When I was going into the ninth grade, I knew I was not going to be very popular. First of all, I still drew cats wearing prom dresses in chalk on the sidewalks. Second of all, in middle school I had managed to finagle a couple of friends, but in the new school our classes didn’t line up. And so that first day of high school, I was a little anxious as I walked to the bus stop. I ran my clammy hands up and down the cloth strap of my brightly embroidered farmer’s market bag (seriously). Who would I hang out with now? (And, as I wrote in my diary, “what about boys? Don’t they get beards in high school? AHHHH!”)
So the most wonderful thing I could possibly see that morning under the stop sign was Melissa Machovsky, the sweetest girl from our fifth grade class.
“Annie?” she said.
“Oh, I go by Adrianne now,” I said.
“Okay. Want to sit next to each other on the bus?”
Melissa became that friend for me, that girls get. Hanging out after school every day. Sleepovers every weekend. Notes passed back and forth in French class. How is it we never ran out of things to talk about? We lived only a few blocks away from each other, which made the ties even easier. We joined theater together, worked on sets, got crushes on boys, got our licenses and drove each other around. The greatest thing in the world was laying on her family’s trampoline and eating Golden Grahams out of the box.
Our junior year, we started dating two guys who were also friends. I still distinctly remember the double date we went on to the lake, walking in couples to opposite ends of the dock. Immediately upon getting into the car for our ride home together I squealed at her. “Melissa! I got GROPED!” She jumped and clapped in her seat. “Me TOO!”
And a year ago she called me in Boston. I don’t answer my phone much: mostly because it’s been broken for a while, but also because I’m rarely in its vicinity, and also because I hate phones, but the fates conspired to show me her name on the caller ID and I jumped on it. Was she okay? We never talk on the phone! What’s going on?
“We’re engaged!” she said. “AHHHH!” I said. “I know you’re in Boston, and travel isn’t always possible . . . so if you can’t come I understand,” she said. “PFFFFT!” I said. “PFFT PFFT. PFFFFFFFFT!”