You went away without saying goodbye

A song reminds you of someone in particular.
It might be a single phrase that does it.
Or was it a shared moment?
A time captured?
An idea?
There might be no explanation for it at all.
You just know when you hear the song, that person won't be far from your mind.

Hey, Jack Kerouc. I think of your mother.....

<End>

Take him from the fire into the frying pan

I googled the Jerry Seinfeld episode where he traveled with his girlfriend and things did not go well. I was looking for a quote but couldn't find it. Instead I found about 3,490,000 Google results for traveling with your girlfriend. 3,150,000 results for traveling with your boyfriend. Who knew traveling with your bf/gf could cause over 6 million internet anxieties? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Anxiety is the new black.

As usual, I'm seeking information too late. That's a good thing. If I don't know ahead of time what to be worried about, I'm less likely to look for trouble or to spend a lot of energy second guessing, leaping to conclusions and seeking out ulterior motives.

The Electrician and I have already clocked two weeks of traveling together and I'd say it's going well. If he were speaking to me, I'd tell you what he thinks.*

It helps, that we're traveling for work, not pleasure. We're not trying to be entertained or to entertain 24/7. We're both working most of our waking hours so our time to get on each other's nerves is limited to the 4 hour drive and the couple of hours we're awake at the end of the day.

Now that his situation has changed and my work is portable, it makes sense for us to live in the same place even if that place is an economy hotel populated by other traveling workers who require the basics - no bed bugs, heat and air conditioning, hot water, a comfortable bed, free wifi and expanded cable.

We're developing a rhythm helped by the fact that we're both creatures of habit. He's up first and out early. I get up, shower, go to the lobby to fill my giant tumbler with an unhealthy amount of caffeine, grab the USA Today for later and return to the room to get to work. At the end of the day, he returns, showers, we eat, do the USA Today Crossword puzzle together, watch a little TV and go to bed.

This week the hotel's hot water tank blew and it was -2 degrees in the West Virginia Panhandle. It's perfectly reasonable for someone who's been doing physical labor outside all day to expect to come back to the hotel for a hot shower. There were probably 300 men who couldn't do that for nearly two days. A pall fell over the Days Inn. The housekeeping staff got a feral look in their eyes if you asked when the hot water might return. Discussions were held about vacating. I feared mutiny.

It's the closest I want to come to pioneer life. Out of desperation, I took a cold shower. So cold it hurt. Water like shards of glass. Or maybe it was ice. Thankfully I'd warmed enough water to rinse my hair. Thank goodness for the in-room microwave, the ice bucket and the coffee maker. I tried to fill the tub with enough hot water so The Electrician could take a bath, but was stymied by the non-functioning drain stopper. I even tried to Life Hack a stopper to no avail.  I'm taking that as a sign that I was right. Life is meant to be weird and difficult.

We survived the ordeal and smell clean again even if my hair does have a slight scent of coffee.

The trickiest part of traveling together is the drive. Four hours each way is plenty of time for me to get under anyone's skin. It's in that quiet car that The Electrician and I are still playing emotional chess - being ourselves, but not quite. We range from letting our freak flags fly to staring silently out the window at the mind-numbingly flat landscape of central Ohio.

I pull out my Kindle and play Solitaire. He jokes it's the most expensive deck of cards he ever purchased. I switch to reading a book until he's no longer paying attention. He recounts the plots and characters of his favorite TV series and movies. I listen and think if I ever have a script or a book completed, he's going to be my pitchman. Sophie Facetimes me and rides along in the car with us. There is much talk of cats.

The Electrician downloads music often. His tastes vary and he tends to play a song over and over until he's had enough. Last week's song was Yelawolf's Til It's Gone. This week's jam is Stephen Bishop's On and On. I had the 45 of that song when I was 10 and music was still pressed onto vinyl discs.

The music provides background for the conversation and filler for the silence. Last night, we rode along singing, neither of us surprised at the lyric muscle memory, both of us off somewhere in the mid 1970s when we couldn't have imagined the strange and wonderful turns our lives would take.

On and on...
You just keep on trying.....

*joke!

What's your song this week?

Not L.A.

What do you do when your heart is in two places?

You kick stones. You find your place at the bar and try not to pull that face. You stop and start and hope no one notices.

What do you do when the new groove resembles the old groove?

You dance because if you don't?  We all fall.  Down.

What do you when your options narrow to a trickle and the finger of blame points back at you?

You pinch that place above your nose where the headache centers and wait for things to pass.

What do you when you can't sing a note, but the song is there?

You turn it over to the talented ones because sometimes they can tell your story better than you can.

Overkill

I can't get to sleep.

There are heavy thoughts doing in my head. Not the least of which is another shooting. Purdue. The long-standing rival of my Alma Mater was the latest scene of this ongoing carnage. This rolling shit show of pain and suffering dealt out by troubled young men.

Another life cut short. Well done, United States of Dumbasses. You're winning something ugly and horrible.

I think about the implications.

I recently learned that there was once a guinea pig named after me. Not a kitten or a sweet puppy with soft ears and that precious puppy smell. No. A guinea pig who was probably shotgunned by a weed smoking and cruel older brother. Lisa was never quite right after that.

Of diving in too deep
Possibly the complications.

The Electrician and I signed a lease on a nice duplex somewhere between our hometown and this current place.  I should be happier than I am right now about that. It may have to do with the stripping of wallpaper border and preparing walls for a fresh coat of Happy Cloud.

According to my shoulders and knees, I'm not as young as I was the last time I redecorated.

I'll be damned if I give in though. There I am some day dropping dead in the middle of rearranging the furniture in my semi-private room at the nursing home.

Ultimately, I want the hard stuff behind me. I want to be moved in and settled (watch for that word to recur), and feel like at least a tiny corner of my life is normal and under control. (Thanks, Ginger, for offering that bit of wisdom.)

Especially at night
I worry over situations

The Electrician will be working on the road indefinitely which means I'm pretty much living alone. I'm adjusting. This is not what I signed up for but sometimes life gives you exactly what you need when you need it.  Whether you want it or not.

I know we'll be alright
Perhaps it's just imagination

Perhaps.

Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear

I'm over thinking things. It's a bad hobby. I'd be better off addicted to eating toothpaste, but there I am making mountains out of molehills like I might win an award for doing so.

Ghosts appear and fade away

Returning to the place of my youth, has been eye opening. I've been reminded of so many memories that I didn't retain at the top of the pile. I guess that's one of the things we do for each other. We remember. We serve as the memory keepers of people who've touched our lives.

As a writer I feel shame. How can I write if I can't remember?

Conversations with old friends have been the highlight of the last few months. On some level, you can go home again.

Alone between the sheets
Only brings exasperation

Being here has reintroduced me to my old dreams, the way I thought life would turn out.  The joke has been on me.  Turns out, you have to work for that shit.

What's the line? What you'll settle for is what you'll get? I'm sure Mark Twain or Dorothy Parker has some witticism about that.

Hell, even I've got some thoughts about settling. There are so many meanings to that word.

It's time to walk the streets
Smell the desperation

Thank you, Colin Hay. I love you and your goats.

As life breaks new ground

What I've learned this week (so far):

1.  A taste of one's own medicine is a bitter reminder of how flawed we are.
1a.  Feeling someone else's pain isn't really possible, but feeling our own pain in the same way that we've dealt it out to others is a powerful lesson.
2.  I want desperately to be independent because ----- who needs a reason?
3.  Under extreme stress, I am ugly.
4.  The happy pills had their advantages.  Feelings suck.
5.  Feelings are necessary.
6.  Music is a better drug than anti-depressants.
7.  Vodka and determination can make a frozen gas cap lock unstick.
8.  Sometimes having an epiphany about someone else can be like opening a door upon one's own psyche.

For example, realizing that someone who is quite accustomed to being the smartest kid in the room, the best person in their field but who also refuses to retain information about the most basic aspects of using a computer is being mentally obstinate because he/she cannot accept being not the best.

It's not that they can't. It's that they won't.

Which could be applied to yours truly when it comes to writing. Admitting this doesn't please me, but there it is stark and real. Damn it.

Now that I know this about myself, it's up to me to fix it.  Damn it again.

And yet....


 

This is like a hell list of vaguebooking, but until I decide whether or not to start blogging anonymously, I've gone as far as I'm willing to go. My point here isn't to shame anyone but rather to remind myself that Karma, the way most of us misunderstand it, is indeed a bitch.

Writing this does help, too. I don't know how it does, but it does.

What have you learned this week?

Some people don't dance if they don't know who's singing

Source

When I used to work from home, was unemployed, lived in my little enclosed world, I was skeptical of the way the workplace was portrayed on television sitcoms.

Maybe I'd been working in tiny offices for too long. I mean, my last paying gig had its moments. Like the time I did a little breaking and entering for my boss. Or the time we had the tutorial on using Urban Dictionary to look up phrases to describe questionable sex acts. Yes, I'm judging.

Now that I'm working in a larger office with a cast of characters (several who will require pseudonyms at some point), I'm less skeptical.

Some of the pseudonyms are easy. For example, there's The Bossfriend and Monique. I work most closely with them. The Prankster shows up occasionally with his airhorn and duct tape. We have The Kid, Maxine, and Mr. Wholesome. We have the Former Mayor of Portland.

One of the characters, however, needs a name desperately and he seems to defy categorization. Recently, he had each of us sign a sheet of paper

I asked why.

"Can't I just get a little blind faith. Just this once?"

I signed. I hate to see a grown man cry.

Turns out he wanted to analyze our personalities using our penmanship. According to him, I'm creative, start strong, but have trouble finishing what I've started.

I swear, I haven't talked about my writing or lack thereof at the office at all, so maybe there's something to this signature analysis business.

Of course, according to him, we also have several staff with anger issues, short attention spans, too much work, too little work, trouble with the drink and one who would, in another life, be your sixth grade teacher. Such beautiful penmanship. A lost art really.

I couldn't deny how hurried and sloppy my signature is so I spent my lunch hour practicing new techniques like a girl in love doodling her boyfriend's name on her notebook. Well, that was a waste of a lunch hour. I didn't even come close to developing a signature signature. It still looks like

Lisa Gol(Ican'tbebotheredtowritetherestoftheletters).

********

People on Twitter and Facebook were oohing and ahhing over Shirley Bassey's performance during The Oscars on Sunday night. I had no idea who she was until someone tweeted that she was singing Goldfinger and then I remembered that voice. That voice.

So this got my attention this morning. It's rough and delicious and so very relevant. Micro and macro.

 

Is history repeating itself?

What does your signature say about you?

And that's precisely why you buy the book

There's been a lot of why bother going around. Many days I feel the Grand Marshalette of that particular parade. Self-defeat thy name is Lisa.

I was preaching the gospel of get out there and try to Nate the other day. We were commuting together and he was going through the litany of things he wants to do, but doesn't think he'd be successful doing. This nearly seventeen year old boy is already a master at negative self-talk. Oy vey.

I don't have to look far to see which donkey's ass on which to pin the blame for that.

I'm the anti-Stuart Smalley. I stand in front of the mirror and tell myself that I'm never good enough, never smart enough and holy fuck, do you know how many people don't like you?

Then I lean forward and try to rub the line out from between my eyes.

Why bother writing?
Why bother talking?
Why bother listening?
Why bother voting?
Why bother fighting?
Why bother loving?
Why bother trusting?
Why bother trying?
Why bother?
Why?
Why?
Why?

Do it anyway. DO it anyway. Do IT anyway. Do it ANYWAY. DO IT ANYWAY.

Just like the song we're addicted to the L word

(Brief nudity. Not safe for work, children or the repressed.)

 

Down by the river on a Friday night

I'm here. Asking questions, getting some answers.

 For susan. xo
(The song was Chloe's suggestion. Apparently they play it at every Atlanta Braves game.)

Nemesis

Ever have one of those weeks where you just keep repeating the same mistake over and over? You know you shouldn't and yet you refuse to listen to your instincts. Maybe some of us are more wired to be like that. I don't know.

It's like when you know you shouldn't date that person, but you can't resist their dark eyes, the shape of their fingers. That last vodka tonic after you knew you'd reached your limit. The second,  or third, piece of cake. The gaucho pants that were on the clearance rack. The W tattoo. The agreement to jump off the bridge if all your other friends would.

The 2a.m. burrito. The white pants on the 27th day of your cycle. The devil-may care way you said "We won't run out of gas before we get home....."  The Boston fern over the bathtub. The cartwheel on the wet driveway. Saying yes to the first guy who asked you to the prom even though he wasn't your first choice.

It's the way Sean Hannity is going to feel for aligning himself with George Zimmerman whose case just seems to get sketchier and sketchier.

It's giving away your art deco buffet because you just didn't feel like loading it onto the truck.....the perm you let your mom talk you into, the decision not to take the insurance on your cellphone.

Every day. Every single day I do this with my nemesis I75. And every single day I remember what a dumbass I am for thinking I can beat the odds, that I won't be thinking unkind thoughts about whomever caused the accident that has resulted in the bumper to bumper clusterfuck that is the worst commute in the nation. I lament the fact that they don't have formal drivers' education here, that the public transportation system is pretty much nonexistent and, of course, I berate myself for once again for forgetting that the back roads aren't just more scenic. They're more efficient, too.

At least when I'm sitting in traffic, I've got music like this to cheer me.

Ever wish you'd taken a different route?

It's not a message written in the dark or some truth that no one sees

This is the book I'm reading right now and the description from the author's website:

Crippled by lupus at twenty-five, celebrated author Flannery O’Connor was forced to leave New York City and return home to Andalusia, her family farm in Milledgeville, Georgia.  Years later, as Flannery is finishing a novel and tending to her menagerie of peacocks, her mother drags her to the wedding of a family friend.

Cookie Himmel embodies every facet of Southern womanhood that Flannery lacks: she is revered for her beauty and grace; she is at the helm of every ladies’ organization in town; and she has returned from her time in Manhattan with a rich fiancée, Melvin Whiteson. 

Melvin has come to Milledgeville to begin a new chapter in his life, but it is not until he meets Flannery that he starts to take a good, hard look at the choices he has made.  Despite the limitations of her disease, Flannery seems to be more alive than other people, and Melvin is drawn to her like a moth to a candle flame.

Melvin is not the only person in Milledgeville who starts to feel that life is passing him by.  Lona Waters, the dutiful wife of a local policeman, is hired by Cookie to help create a perfect home.  As Lona spends her days sewing curtains, she is given an opportunity to remember what it feels like to truly live, and she seizes it with both hands

Heartbreakingly beautiful and inescapably human, these ordinary and extraordinary people chart their own courses in life. In the aftermath of one tragic afternoon, they are all forced to look at themselves and face up to Flannery’s observation that the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.

Some lines that I would highlight were this not a library book:

 Melvin liked the idea that something he told Flannery might appear in a book. His life was a messy compilation of moments that didn't fit together. If Flannery wove them into a narrative, they would have cohesion and significance. He would be able to read about himself and all that was inexplicable in real life would be explained.

The music that has my attention this morning.

 

What does one have to do with the other?

Please feel free to discuss. There are no right or wrong answers.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Sunflare

This could have been the day I finally went meh, I'm over this project because I didn't feel like aiming my camera at the sky.

I'm otherwise occupied and distracted and there's this to watch and this rabbithole to tumble into and a request that I listen to something that is going to make me sigh with longing, and those horrible fleas are nipping at my feet so that I have to sit all tucked up on my chair until my feet fall asleep and the light breeze on a sunny day and Betty's eggs and good strong, black coffee and the ongoing manuscript edits and brain numbing job search and the new webcam and the tweeting of birds without hashtags and a bag of Halloween candy that will never hear its first Trick or Treat.

I owe you a photo, don't I?

Randal reminds us of what's coming. And then there's this.

UPDATED: Summer finds the meaning.


What's got your attention? What are you humming when you stare at the sun?

Mine.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Blue

Peacock. Indigo. Cerulean. Light. Sky. Prussian. Sapphire. Azure. Federal. Baby. Columbia. Cobalt. Falcon. Electric. Powder. Cornflower. Egyptian. Royal. Ultramarine. Oxford.Turquoise. Brandeis. Steel. Persian. Eton. Teal. Navy. Cyan. Tiffany. Teal. Denim. Air Force. Maya. And true.

These beauties.

 From Lunatique.

They are so gorgeous and delicate. Thank you, Cindy!

Geoffrey asks the question....

and I answer his question with a question.

Or this because I cannot decide which version I like better.

On the other hand, Randal has candy colored memories.

And Summer has the man of her dreams.  And makes childhood memories.

What do you think, what do you feel when you see blue?

Unemployment Diary: Swing Time

Another Monday.
Another week.
Another chance to do good, get something right.
The pressure of Monday and its promise of a shiny new week is making me wish for tired old Thursday where I can gaze lovingly back at Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and take stock of the week. More or less. WINNING? You betcha.
Today I go and play yet another round of Come on, lady, won't you even consider being a home health aide with the Department of Labor Dude.
He means well, but seriously? Take care of the needs of others and be paid precious little for the pleasure?
Now you're just describing my homelife,sucka.
 I'll whip out my long list of jobs applied for.
The Excel spreadsheet of shame, a life's work itself these days. A map of failures to make a great first impression.
And he'll nod and remember that oh, yeah! this is that woman who does that thing for a living he doesn't quite understand.
But her old title sounds important. Does it involve the mafia?
Well, you're doing everything you can by the looks of it.
I won't tell him about how I'm looking for work in the sex industry.
He'll smile. I'll smile. It's all we can do.
Given the constraints of the workplace and human decency.You know.
And I'll go home again, enthused not so much, but at least safe in the knowledge that I'm not alone.
The Department of Labor office is rocking.
Especially on a Monday.

Queen of Fakes and Imitators

Source: flickr.com via Lisa on Pinterest

Shoooeeeee. You guys. I went to Craigslist searching for a job working on a phone sex line and ended up applying for several freelance writing jobs. Yeah, I can see how the two are related. We'll see what happens with that. At this point my job search is pretty much in the spaghetti category. Fling it against the wall and hope something sticks.

Everything else gets scooped up and covered in sauce.

Anyway. Today's a day for some other kinds of research and for fulfilling promises made. Before I go, I must ask - Did you watch the comedy on MSNBC last night? Such a hot mess. More hair! Less brains! Execution applause lines!  Fuck y'all. What have we devolved back into? I didn't even watch the debate. MathMan was watching the Phillies play somebody and I was reading my Twitter feed and screaming with laughter. At one point Nate popped into the room to make sure I was okay.

And tonight? I'm fully prepared to be underwhelmed. It seems we're a nation incapable of big ideas, bold plans. Unless, of course, big ideas and bold plans include blowing the holy fuck out of brown people. Then we're aces.

Maybe if the phone sex thing doesn't work out, I'll consider the military. Specifically and more lucrative, a job with a military contractor. They need housekeepers, yes?

Oy, let's shift gears. The real world brings me down. Today is a day for art. You know, when everything else seems like it's sliding into the fuckpile (mmm fuckpile), at least we still have art. Thank somebody's god for that saving grace.

Right then. Here's where I will be when I'm not working on my own manuscript.

Book by Kevin Edwards
Poetry by Hafiz
Visuals for inspiration

This song by Gillian Welch (hell, her whole discography if I'm being straight with you) with David Rawlings who appears to be an  underappreciated guitar god. I know. I'm late to this one. Yow - Za.

You're welcome.

Where are you escaping to these days?

I want to cover every inch of you like ink on paper

 A few reasons why my blogging mojo fled the scene.

1. The long weekend meant that all my verbal ninja skills were devoted to those lunatics with whom I live.

2. I painted my nails a fabulous shade of red and it took a long time for the polish to dry. While I waited, I noticed that the blades of the ceiling fan appeared to have grown fur. While I was standing on the bed wiping down the fan blades, I saw that one of the lightbulbs was out so I went to the basement to get a new bulb. While I was in the basement, I heard the buzzer on the dryer go off......you see where this is going, right?

3. I share a computer with three other people and a cat with an online gambling habit.

4. My office chair makes squeaky fart sounds every time I move which means that MathMan says "Nice one" every time. Which means I lose my temper after the twenty-sixth nice one  and must tackle him and dangle spit over his face which means the kids hear the ruckus and call Grandma to tell on me because they always assume I'm the problem which means my mother calls me on the house phone because she doesn't believe in cell phones which means I have to climb off MathMan reminding him that since I won't be able to torture him further I will instead call takebacks on the sex we had that morning which means he says no takebacks on sex, but it's too late because I'm already on my way to the living room to answer the phone where my mother proceeds to ground me which means I remind her that I'm an adult and she can't really ground me to which she says "Don't sass me, missy, unless you want to be grounded for another week."

5. MathMan and I went for a power walk and he made me do lunges and squats. Three times. No, that wasn't the sex, but I could see ways we could combine these things.

6. The long weekend had been long enough by 2pm Monday, but no one would listen to me when I announced that we were moving on with our week.
6.1 It rained so I had to go outside and dance in it.
6.2 The tornado sirens went off so I had to do a quick clean of the house because if we're going to be blown to bits by nature, we're going to start from clean by golly.

7.  I got sucked into watching How the States Got Their Shapes on History Channel. It's like crack covered donuts with a side of fries dipped in chocolate Frosty.

8. I started using Pinterest.

9. I hit the bottom again on being depressed about not being able to find a job and so I did what I do when presented with an unmovable obstacle. I rage. I have a lot of rage about this and hence I raged long and loudly. With jazz hands. And props.

10. This song. Over and over. And over again.

Lyrics.

Now I have to go research setting up a phone sex hotline because that is looking like my only viable option to pull in some meaningful amounts of cash. What will you do with your short week, my loves?

Did I tell you about the place called Doo Wah Diddy?

Another sultry day in the middle of nowhere...

I'm going to go do some sweating and swatting at flies while I peruse the books at the library's used book sale. I've got my church fan and tote bag and I'm ready to go

Later, I'll be committing acts of the domestic kind. There's a big ole watermelon to cut up and a layer cakey to bake. I'm reading Grand Duchy by Kevin Edwards and I hope to have it finished this weekend, too. And naps. I foresee naps. Dr. Who is on tonight and that's our family night activity. A bucket of popcorn and Dr. Who. Jump back, we're a wild bunch.

I used to mourn the end of summer, but these days I welcome it. The dog days aren't over here, but there's just the tiniest hint of change in the air. The light slants a little and by the late afternoon it's like you're tangoing in a tide, but cooler days are coming. I'm ready for it. I am itchin to be itchin in a wool sweater.

Wishing you a wonderful long weekend. What are your plans?

Take it away, Curly....

For blog commenter Denise. Oh, how I love Phil Harris. My favorite Jack Benny programs are the ones featuring Phil, Dennis Day, Don Wilson, Rochester and Mary Livingston.

Don't Go Jason Waterfalls

Chloe goes back to school today. She's the last one to get back to some semblance of real life. Now it's just me and the cats. Sigh. Hand to the forehead. (Lisa's conscience here. If you're believing that self-pitying  hogwash, do not operate heavy machinery, try to cross the street alone, or answer any emails from Nigerian lawyers because one of those brain hamsters has sneaked out the back for a smoke break.)

I'm helping her move in today. Every year when we do this, I'm reminded of just how quickly the time passes. Considering we started out this summer break with the mess about Cambridge, things turned out pretty nicely. We hung out quite a bit and I'm really digging the grown-ass woman she's become. I'm not losing a little girl, I'm gaining a friend.

One of the best parts of the summer was a long discussion about what she remembered from her childhood. We remember different things, but I had the clear advantage of being the Mom. It was a treat to hear what she remembered and to see how it aligned or didn't with my memories.

She shared with me a little story about a song we used to listen to a lot when she was just a tiny thing. She thought the lyrics were "Don't go Jason Waterfalls....." That drew us into a rambling conversation about what it's like to want your kids to fly while you stand on the ground holding the net behind your back. You want them to know that you believe they can fly.

Which took us into another more grown up convo about chasing waterfalls versus sticking to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to. I know I pretend to be all laissez-faire and shit with my Parenting by Benign Neglect, but you have to know that it's a lot of bravado. In other words, I have a Ph.D. in Worrying. Alas, they grow and all you can do is hope they heard you you saying the right things often enough.

Even so, I'm keeping that net handy. Maybe more for me.

Steve Poltz covering TLC's Waterfalls

Suitcase of memories

On Saturday, Larry Kirwan, host of Sirius XM's Celtic Crush, talked about music that reminded him of first loves. He asked who was your first love?

What a question because, you see, I've been greedy. So very greedy in love.

I met Troy when I was twelve. Before I knew what love could be.We were a pair for almost two years and the entire time, he took my breath away when I saw him walk by the window of the middle school where I attended. He was in high school, on his way to the shared cafeteria. There were hayrides, and mash sessions in the tent where the farm kids slept during the 4H Fair. Making out to The Car's in the backseat of the Ford Granada. He was dark curly hair and dark eyes, tentative, at first. I was, too. His kisses were secrets I'd write in in my diary. I still think of him when I smell hay.

Or David. Long, languid summers, daring adventures on bridges and in muddy bottoms. A growing up and growing apart I still regret sometimes because he was adorable. When we were in elementary school, he played Rudolph in the Christmas show and I fell in love with him then. I hurt him later because the world was going to be my oyster and I didn't need any ties to home.

Or the other David. The one who gave me lessons in pleasure and pain. One door opened and another slammed shut. There was no looking back from him.

Or the new David. Fireworks exploding over our first kiss like something out of a cheesy movie. Brief and breathless. Barely deserves a mention except, well, you know...

Or maybe Chris. I begged my parents to let me stay with him because going away to school scared the hell out of me. 

I adjusted. Quickly.

Craig, the guy who sang to me Waiting for a Girl Like You the first time we met, helped. He's still helping me adjust, but this time it's to middle age. We skyped last week so I could test out my microphone and webcam because I might have a skype job interview. Yes, this is the world we live in. Anyway, if you don't count my husband who is far and away my BFF, Craig is my best friend. The years show on our faces, but we can still burn through an hour without noticing because we're so busy being ridiculous, trying to make the other laugh.

See? Greedy. I didn't even tell you about Dylan (not his real name) who was a two-fer. High school and college. His song is The Rain King. Or Abdel. I can't narrow the summer of 1987 down to one song. It's the entire cassette of Cat Stevens' Greatest Hits. But especially this song.

I want know who you think about when you think of first loves. What songs trigger a memory of young love, lost love, first love?

And I tread a troubled track

Remember this story from PoliTits?

I am not fond of the RIP stuff that happens on Facebook and Twitter. To me it's akin to those roadside memorials. Tacky. A need to become part of a personal, private tragedy. I am a judgmental fuck. I come from a world where emotions are best suppressed and life is to be faced with a thin-lipped grimness. To intrude on someone else's loss is gross. I don't want to be a part of it and I am embarrassed for the multitude of strangers who feel it necessary to voice their grief or even acknowledgment of a celebrity's passing.

But today, learning of the death of Amy Winehouse, whose music touched me at a time when I lived with my own dangerous addiction, I saw the point. This is a person who had an impact on my life and it didn't matter that she never knew. The lyrics on Back to Black were stories lifted from my life.

Thank you, Amy. And Rest in Peace.

And this.