I Want Candy

“I read your blog,” said my fellow gym-member yesterday as we each wiggled into our respective gym clothes in the locker room.

My eyes went wide as I tied my new sneakers. “Oh yeah?” I said as I searched my brain for anything possibly offensive I may have written. It’s my standard reaction anytime I hear that someone I know in real life has found my piece of the internet.

“I think my favorite line,” she said, pulling her shirt over her head, “was ‘the sight of [Billy] walking into a room is followed immediately by the sound of hundreds of panties falling to the floor.’” We both laughed. “What is he, made of chocolate or something?”

“To me he is.”

She zipped up her bag and tossed it on the floor. “You are so in love, it’s disgusting.”

“I know.”

It’s true. I am. It is disgusting. But I can’t help it. In fact, I’m so in love with that man that I spent the better part of yesterday being mad because he chose to spend the previous night playing video games instead of hanging out with me. Because that’s totally justified, right? Being mad because your boyfriend – who spends approximately 98.76% of his very sparse free time with you – decided to actually spend a little bit of that free time on himself?

I thought so – because I needed him, and he chose PS2. That, to me, was reason enough to get all salty and bent out of shape. I relayed my woes to my mother via email, and was met with a response that went a little something like this: Oh, STOP it. He deserves time with himself or his friends. Stop acting like a spoiled kid.

That’s the abridged version of what she wrote, but it really gets the point across. It’s true, I was acting like a brat who didn’t get her way and, therefore, decided to throw a tantrum. And I was totally out of line. And I knew that, even while I was sticking out my lower lip and threatening to stomp my feet. But it didn’t make me any more agreeable.

My reasons, though arguable, all boil down to me loving him. Because, when he’s home, I want to be with him. It doesn’t matter that we’ve spent the last three days attached at the hip, that we spent the better part of his New Year’s Day birthday in bed. It doesn’t matter that we live together, that we talk during the day, that I’ll see him tomorrow. The only thing that matters is that the time he’s choosing to spend a floor away from me is time we could be spending together. And I want to spend it together: Why doesn’t he?

What’s hard to remember is that he works so much. And while I’m visiting my friends, driving around by myself, shopping alone, doing laundry, tooling around on the internet, going to the gym, seeing my family, he’s at work. While I’m marinating in alone time, he’s at work. While I’m fulfilling social obligations, he’s at work. And I’m getting everything I need to get done out of the way before he even thinks about getting in the car to head home. So it’s hard to remember that those things, for him, still need to be tended to: The time with friends, family, himself. The way I see it, from my selfish vantage point, those things have been taken care of already, and I’ve been saving up my day, just waiting, with baited breath and expectant eyes, for him to come home so I can see him.

And, if I had the choice, I’d spend my every second with him. I’d talk to him until his ears bled, until my vocal chords wore thin and snapped. Because I want to share all of me with him: From the start of my day to the fuzzy end. I want him to know it all. And I want him to want to know it all.

And, usually, he does. But, sometimes, he just wants to relax. He wants to spend most of his time with me, but sometimes, he needs time alone. And I know it, I do.

But it’s hard to remember that when I get giddy with the sound of his footsteps downstairs; When all I want to do is curl up in his tired, warm arms. I’m childish in my excitement to see him, so why wouldn’t I be childish in my reaction to not seeing him?

So, yeah, he must be made of chocolate.

Celebrate

It's just after eight in the evening on Christmas Day, and I'm sitting in my house with Billy, unwinding after a long, travel-packed day. It's been incredible, full of family and love and giving and receiving and warmth and laughter.

And, you know, for all of the absence of the season I've been feeling, today has turned out to be spectacular. Sometimes, the nicest holidays are the ones that sneak up on you, where expectations are forgotten before the day is reached, where there is no build up, no anticipation. It's the surprise of the day that is so gluttonous, so delicious.

Today has been one of those days. Waking up early, like a kid who can't wait for Santa's spoils, I stirred before eight this morning, making coffee before unwrapping the beautiful sapphire ring Billy gave to me, before unveiling the trip to Las Vegas I'd decided to give to him for Christmas. We went straight to my parents' house in our pyjamas, filling their living room with torn and wrinkled remnants of wrapping paper and offering just as many "Thank you"s as we received.

We split the day between his family and my own, stopping just long enough between the two houses to collect ourselves before heading out again. And now, we're here, in our home, listening to music and laughing as the day winds to a close. I'm overcome right now with splendor, overtaken by delight. I'm in love with my family, my boyfriend, his family, my life. It's been incredible in every way.

And days like this are the best ones, when we're worn out from too much merriment, too much joy. Even though the ground outside isn't covered in snow - even though our Christmas has been far from white - it's been just as merry as we could've hoped.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all.

Come With Me

I wish I knew how to play music on this site. I wish that opening this page would open a stream of music. Because, if I could, I'd play this song. And it would be loud and obnoxious, but it would tell you everything I feel about love.

I've listened to the song no less than twenty times tonight, each repeat making me more and more grateful, hitting closer and closer to home.

It's how I love. It's how I love my parents, and my brother, and Billy. Even though I might not always show it, even though they may not see it one hundred percent of the time, it's the truth. I would do anything. For any of them.

And it's they way my family has always loved me. Full-on and unashamed. Lacking selfishness. A pure desire to give all of who they are, all for little ol' me. I'm humbled by the thought of it, the amount of love my mother and father have given me through my life, the proud love my brother gives me.

And it's the way always expected to be loved by a man, but never thought I'd find. And, look at me: I've finally found it. Billy makes me feel alright, even when I'm terrified in the face of things I can't control, things that wake me in the middle of the night. He lets me know that I don't ever have to face anything alone, that he's here with me. No matter what.

Yesterday, I had a mini-breakdown in front of Billy. For some reason, I started thinking about what would happen if I go back to my doctor in March for my follow-up appointment and that pre-cancer has found its way back to my cervix. What then? I was terrified, out of nowhere, about what I would do, what it would mean. And I cried, hard and ugly, my face only inches from Billy's, worried about what comes next.

And he did the same thing my family would do: He reminded me that it would be okay. Regardless of what happens, it'll be alright. And he made me feel better, the way my family does: By letting me know he'll be there. Reminding me that they will all be there for me, always. That whatever I have to face - trials big or small - I won't ever have to face them alone.

"You think you have to do this by yourself, that you're alone in all of this," he said, making me face him, my forehead wrinkled with emotion, my hand covering my quivering mouth. "But you're not. I'm right here."

What ever did I do to deserve such love in my life? Whatever I did in my past life must've been pretty spectacular to hold this bounty now.

The Prom of my Adult Life

Just the Two of Us

With every party I attend, I make a solemn vow to myself that I will take lots and lots of pictures. Only, I hate digging my camera out of my purse. And asking people to pose. Or, worse, asking people to take a picture of me. I just feel like I'm bothering people when I'm forever asking people to "scoot together," or demanding that they smile.

Which is why I only have a handful of pictures from Billy's company party this past weekend. And by "handful" I mean five. And, curiously, all but one of them are of the two of us. Sure there are a bunch of the obligatory "Oh! It's late and I haven't taken any pictures, so I'll just aim my lens sort of in the direction of the dance floor and hope for the best!" And "the best" winds up being a blurry mess of dark heads and blurry arms.

So I'm left with only these few as reminders of a wonderful night. I searched for a dress for weeks. I planned my makeup and my accessories and my shoes, excited for what has become an annual event I begin to look forward to somewhere around Halloween. I donned the red dress Billy requested, and wore my hair down like he requested, too. I drank and laughed and danced my way through almost seven hours of a party. And all night long, Billy periodically put his hand on my waist and told me I looked "gorgeous" or "beautiful" or "sexy," making me feel like I was the most amazing woman in the room through his eyes.

I drank with his coworkers, mixing my standard vodka-tonic-splash-of-cranberry with a double shot of Jack Daniels. Prior to the toast, one of Billy's coworkers introduced me to another one as "Billy's bride-to-be..." And I believe that Billy had a small heart attack right then. I danced with Billy to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean," and when he left the dance floor, tapped out after only one dance, I stayed on the parquet floor and shook what my momma gave me to song after song.

We fell into the hotel bed somewhere after two, exhausted from dancing and drinking and socializing. My feet throbbed from the silver shoes I bought just for the night. And right before I fell asleep, Billy wrapped me up in his long, sleepy arms and told me he loved me.

This holiday season is off to a perfect start.

The Sister's Curse

My little brother is coming home from school today for Thanksgiving break...With his girlfriend! They'll both be staying with my parents for a full week.

As the protective older sister, I feel not unlike a mother whose little baby is growing up and leaving the nest. It makes me feel ancient and antique, like I've turned around and suddenly he's a man, and I'm a grandma. Something about Chase bringing a girl HOME for a WEEK makes me want to weep a little bit. He's all grown up, I want to cry, dabbing at the tears in my eyes with the embroidered handkerchief I'm holding in my wrinkly hand. My little boy is a man now. Then I'd straighten my reading glasses and adjust the chain that holds them around my neck, take a deep and ragged breath, and go back to my knitting.

But I don't carry an embroidered handkerchief, and I don't knit; I don't have wrinkly hands, and I don't wear glasses. I'm 26, and he's 20, but something about this makes me feel old. And it makes me want to take this girl into a locked room, point a sweat lamp directly at her head and ask her all sorts of intrusive questions. What are your intentions with my brother? Are you sure you feel strongly for him? Are you leading him on? You better MEAN EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO HIM, AND STICK BY IT NO MATTER WHAT OR I WILL OWN YOU. Understand? I want to employ the tactics my dad threatened me with when I first started dating: Cleaning guns at the kitchen table when she walks in. I want to eye her suspiciously, make her nervous...

But I won't. Obviously. For a number of reasons: One, it's not my place. Two, I'm just not that kind of person. And three, Chase really cares for her. And he must care for her for a reason. If he likes her, she must be pretty incredible.

And then there's the other thing: No matter how shitty my boyfriends in the past were, Chase was always nice. He may be my "little brother" by timeline, but not physically. Physically, he's much bigger than me, and he could very easily play the role of Asshole Big Brother if need be. And he never did. Not because he didn't care, but because I cared about the guy, and that was enough for Chase. So I'm going to try to approach it that way this time.

I haven't always thought of it this way. In fact, I'm sort of notorious for being the mean older sister when it comes to girlfriends. Not because I'm mean just for the sake of being mean, but because in Chase's younger years, I was just a better judge of character than he was. Chase was sweet and unquestionably trusting, where I could sense evil immediately. And one particular girl he brought around was just that. So from the instant I met her and heard her referring to my mom and dad as "Mom" and "Dad," I'd had enough. I was short with her, I couldn't look at her, and I wanted nothing to do with her. I tried to be nice, but I insisted, to Chase and my whole family (who all loved her), that something was wrong. With her. That she wasn't as sweet as she made herself out to be. I didn't like that she was intruding on my territory. That she was trying to wedge herself into my incredible family because she got dealt a shitty one. I thought she was too full of sacchrine, her act was too syrupy to swallow. And you know what? A couple of months later, the truth was revealed. And who was right? ME. That's who. I saw through her artificial affection and her too-sweet demeanor to the slimy opportunist that was circling Chase's feet.

But, because I was "mean" to her, I've developed a slight reputation in my family of being a VERY overprotective big sister. My little brother isn't nervous about bringing girls home to meet my parents, he's nervous about bringing them to meet me. "Promise me you'll be nice," Chase said when he gently broke the news that his girlfriend would be sharing our time together this Thanksgiving.

"I am nice," I maintained. "As long as I think she's good to you."

"She is," he said. I could picture him closing his eyes and nodding, like a frustrated parent tired of explaining things to his child.

"I promise." I heard his exhale of relief through the phone. "BUT!" I amended, "If I sense something off, I'm going to tell you. And then I'll be civil, but I won't be awesome. Okay?"

I'm approaching this like Chase and his girlfriend are 14. They're both in their twenties. Technically, they're my peers. Yet I'm assuming the role of Adult to their assigned role of Child in my mind.

It's so silly. Because I know that Chase is grown. I know he's capable of judging good from bad. And I even know that this girl is really nice, and treats him really well. But I'm constantly on the lookout for people's ulterior motives when it comes to him, as though Chase The Poor College Student has anything worth stealing. It's just that he's such a good man, such a kind, giving and caring person, I'm terrified that people will take advantage of that soft, perfect part of him. I love him so much, I want to protect him. Even if he's perfectly capable of protecting himself. Even if he doesn't want me to. Even if it's silly and ridiculous and antiquated and stupid. I love him. And I'm his big sister. I always will be.

Protecting him, in whatever small way I can, is what I'll be doing for the rest of my life.

Maps

"Can I get you guys something to drink?" the hostess asked, leaning over and into us. We turned away from the sushi bar before us to face her. I looked at Billy, unsure of what he'd like.

He spoke. "Can we get a coke," he put his long fingers on his own chest, "and a pinot grigiot?" He grabbed my hand.

"Sure. Of course."

The hostess's heels clicked over the stone floor on her way to the bar. I wrapped Billy's hand in my own. "I love that," I said, leaning in to kiss the stubble on his cheek.

"What?"

"That you knew I'd want a pinot without my asking."

Dating someone for a significant period of time allows you access to little pieces of them that not everyone gets to see. Sure, everyone I know knows that I love wine. But he knows that I love it with my sushi. And he knew, without my announcing it, that I'd like to indulge.

I know how he likes his coffee, I know that he likes the toilet paper over the roll, never under. I know that he likes to leave the window in the car open for a little while after we throw out our cigarettes. I know the face he makes in the mirror when he's assessing his shirt/tie combination. I know all of that.

Yesterday, he received two ties he'd ordered over the internet. He tore into the manila package with the anticipation of an eight year old on Christmas morning. He was giddy as he removed each silk accessory from its individual wrapping, letting the tie fall to its full length in front of me. "Look at this one," he purred, pulling the clear plastic off.

He surveyed their quality, he held them up to his long torso. "Whaddya think?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in mock coyness.

"It's beautiful," I said, laughing at him. "Is this what I'm like with a new pair of shoes?"

"Yes," he replied, setting the tie gingerly on the ottoman in front of us.

He hung up the ties in our closet, unsure of which one he'd wear today before we settled in for our DVR'd viewing of Lost.

Today, he called me on his way to work. After cooing good morning to one another, he asked me how my day was. I gave him my standard response of, "Eh. Fine. Yours?"

"Well, I watched some TV. Then I got ready, and now I'm driving to work. Aaaand, I'm wearing one of my new ties."

"Which one?" I asked, smiling and cradling the phone between my shoulder and my ear.

"Guess."

"Umm...The Ted Baker one. The one with the circles."

"Babe," he said, "how do you know me so well?"

In truth, I had a 50/50 shot to get that right. I could've just guessed and gotten lucky. But I didn't. Because of the way he tied it not once, but twice around his neck last night; a dry run for the tie. The way he surveyed it for pulls and irregularities. The way he considered the color of shirt to wear with it. He placed both new ties on the rack carefully and gingerly, but he fondled the circle tie just a hair more.

The thing is, people talk about the honeymoon phase all the time. The first few months of a relationship that find both parties blissful and enamored of one another. The period of time where they can't be torn from their lover's side, where everything that certain someone does is cute and romantic and wonderful. It's the time when butterflies tumble through your belly, each kiss is delicious and new, each spoken word of affection merely a stepping stone to love. Your stomach does somersaults while you wait for the relationship to take shape, you shave your legs every day, you buy new underwear, you wait for his call. It's hot and dizzying and wonderful...

And it lasts for about three months.

Then suddenly, you're in a relationship. And you're talking about the most mundane things over dinner. You talk about work and you share stories you've shared with one another a million times. You find yourself saying, "Did I tell you this already?" with the tone of voice that implies you know you have. You settle into a routine and you stop shaving your legs because, hey, it's winter and he loves me anyway; and you stop filling up silences with plush and giddy conversation. There is no need for filler in your lives any longer. You eat together, you wake together, you fall asleep together. You remind each other to "remember your phone" and "take your pill" and you start buying toilet paper and Tub'N'Tile cleaner and you can't remember the last time you wore a bustier.

And that honeymoon stage is great. It is. But this, this year-into-it, comfortable-with-each-other phase? It's so much better. Because along with no longer shaving every day, you no longer worry that maybe he doesn't love you like he says he does. You no longer feel like he loves you because you apply your makeup with the hand of an artist. He loves you for the skin and bones beneath it. He loves you when you wake up, your hair standing on end, with bad breath and sleep in your eyes. He loves you in your heels, but he loves you out of them, when he can wrap you in his arms and playfully call you "Shortie."

And you know one another. You aren't shy, and you aren't afraid, and you feel comfortable. And not the kind of comfortable that fosters laziness and neglect; the kind that feels like blankets and chamomile tea and a good book. He's no longer an amphetamine, he's a glass of wine and deep kiss, slow and certain.

And he is. He's my home, my favorite meal, the sweet surprise of the wine that stays on my lips after a drink. He's my safe place, my solace. I know my way around him inch-by-inch, and he's embedded with a road map of me. And I love that we still have roads to learn.

I've never been happier.

What Women Know

We know we're supposed to be treated well, that he's supposed to notice that our toenails are the same color of the pinot noir we drink, that our eyes are the color of glaciers. We know we want to live in love songs, the kind they play on country stations. We know we want to be called beautiful, to feel alive in his presence, to feel desirable, to feel wanted. We know we want flowers and birthday cards with mushy notes written in black ink in his sloppy handwriting, gifts for no reason. We want hand holding and stolen kisses and sweet words whispered between soft sheets. We know we want to be appreciated, to feel smart. We want him to laugh at our jokes, and give us the kind eyes of empathy when something's gone wrong. We know we want to feel like the only woman in the world in his eyes.

We want romance. We're supposed to look, keep looking, until we find the kind of fairy tale we've seen in a million movies, on a million diamond ring commercials. We're not supposed to settle. We're not supposed to put up with anything but perfection, that a man who loves us will do anything he can to keep us by his side.

We know we're supposed to find a man who will love us like our parents do, unconditionally and without exception. We're supposed to find the man who will adore us like our fathers have, who will dote on us like our mothers. We know we want him to think we're most beautiful first thing in the morning, with messy hair and sleepy eyes. We know we want him to dedicate love songs and leave us love notes. We want him to love us for who we are beneath the breasts and the tiny waist and the curves of a woman.

We want to know he's there for us. We want to know he's someone we can turn to when in trouble. We want to be able to rely on him; for safety, security, protection, comfort.

We know we're supposed to take care of him in return. We know we should make ourselves beautiful for him; wear frilly underthings and lingerie with black stockings and high heels. We know to make him feel special, to be excited to see him. We wash his shirts and tandem with our own, marrying our loads of laundry to show him we care. We get him gifts, tell him he looks handsome, tell him we need him. We know to make him feel needed and wanted, just as much as we need to feel needed ourselves.

We know it takes work. We know we will fight and disagree and not see eye to eye. We know we'll say things we don't mean, and that he will do the same. We know we will cry - with joy and sadness. We know it will love him so much that it hurts. And we know that very love will make us more vulnerable to pain. We know that he'll know how to hurt us like no one else, but the he can make us happier than anyone else could ever dream.

Deal

It'd been days since I've spoken to either of my parents. Not because we're fighting or because I didn't want to talk to them, just because I hadn't been thoughtful enough to call. My mom usually calls or emails every day, and since we'd gone a few days without words, I figured I'd better get to callin' before she got mad. My dad, however, is different; he's not the type to call for no reason, just to catch up. Daddy and I are a lot alike. Neither of us has much need for the telephone, and calling, for us, is limited to necessity: You need to make a plan or share news, you call. To talk about nothing? Nah. I'd rather read a book.

I was surprised when he answered because normally, when the phone rings, he looks up from his book or the TV or his dinner, and at the phone invariably placed right next to him with unmasked indifference. He smiles, and says "Phone's ringin'." Mom, Chase or I would scramble to answer before the jingling stopped, usually uttering something playful along the lines of "God forbid you answer it," or "You just know it's not for you," as we hit the talk button. He chuckles to himself, his mustache curling with the corners of his mouth.

But, on this call, he picks up. His deep voice issues a sunny hello.

"Hey Daddy," I say, my is voice tired from the gym, but happy to hear him.

"Well hello there," he replies, his words strong and southern. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I tell him. I sit on the bed, holding the phone with one hand, scrunching my wet, fresh-from-the-shower hair with the other.

"You eating dinner?"

"I ate already. I was at the gym. I just ate a sandwich. What are you doing?"

"Well, nothing, really. We just got home."

"Where'd you go?"

"Oh, we had to go up to West Point to get your mom's ID card renewed. Then we went to Perkins for some supper. Then we got home and took Sammy outside." The way he says Sammy's name tells me that the Golden Retriever is somewhere nearby. "So we ran around for a little bit out there, and then we came inside." When Daddy takes Sam outside, he throws old, chewed up tennis balls into the trees surrounding our house so that the reddish-gold Sam can bound through the yard to pick them up. They play every day, until it gets dark or one of them gets tired. It's their little ritual.

"Well that's nice."

"Yeah," he says. I can hear his standard half-smile in his voice. "What about you?"

"Oh, same as always: I went to work. I went to the gym tonight, did some kickboxing, then I came home, showered, ate my Subway from last night, and now I'm talking to you."

I hear the TV in the background instead of him.

"Daddy?"

"Huh? Yeah. Hold on..." His voice trails off. He's distracted, watching TV. I cradle my little silver cell-phone between my shoulder and my ear, start picking on my nails, and wait for him to return. "Well, Iiii'll be," comes his southern colloquialism of surprise. He sounds more and more like my grandfather, his father, every day. "Clive Cussler has a new book out." He's watching a commercial for it on the TV. "I guess I'll have to remember that. I only have two un-read books in my little library, so I can't start them until I have a new one to read."

"Huh? Daddy, that doesn't even make sense," I joke.

"Well, you know, it's so I have another book there for when I finish one. I like to have a couple lined up. Because, you ever read a book, and you like it and the characters so much, that you're almost sad when it's over?"

I smile. I know exactly. I'm the same way. "Yeah."

"Well, that's how I am. So I need something else to go to next." I make a mental note of the book.

He goes on to tell me about the main character, and how all of the books are set in present day, so the hero's got to be "gettin' up there" in age. He tells me about the story lines, the characters. I sit on the other end of the line, just listening to him. So unusual for him to just want to talk.

He tells me about his meetings at work, his schedule, the pile of mail I have waiting for me there. "I'll come pick it up," I say begrudgingly. The standing joke is that I never take my junk mail. Only the important envelopes: The bills and the correspondence.

"Well, I think I put in a bill in there, but it's hard to tell, because your little basket is so full of mail."

I sigh dramatically. "I'll come pick it all up," I huff with a smile.

His response is a good natured, half-believing "Okay then."

"So, is my mother around?" I ask.

"Maybe. What's it worth to you?"

"Uuuhhh...A visit?" I grin, even though he can't see me. I always feel like a little girl around him.
"Hmm. A visit...And maybe a hug?" he suggests.

"Yeah, I could do that." I laugh.

"Well, that sounds like a good deal to me." His smile is audible.

Much like we don't care for the telephone, and feel sad when we finish good books, my father and I are both not much for affection. My mom jokes that she used to suffocate my dad when they first married, her desire for touch was so great. And my dad? Not so much. Typically German, he's all about less being more in terms of endearment. So his insistence that a hug be included in my deal touched me for some reason.

A few nights ago, I was at a friend's house when her sister stopped by. It was Halloween, and my friend's sister had brought her daughter along, in costume. We exchanged "hello"s and "good to see you"s while the young daughter ran around the house chasing my friend's cat. My father works with my friend's sister, so we talked a little bit about what's going on work-wise.

"Watch this," the sister said to me conspiratorially. She called to her daughter. "You know Mike, at my work?" she said to her daughter. "That's Laurie's dad." I couldn't see her daughter's reaction, but the sister turned to me with a smile on her face. "She just loves your father. Talks his ear off every time I bring her into the office."

The daughter rounded the corner hesitantly, sizing me up. I smiled at her. "You like my dad, huh?" I said sweetly. She kicked at the floor in response; shy. "Yeah, I like him, too."

People love my father. At every turn, I run into people who tell me what a good man he is. He's so tall, and can be so imposing, but he's just so sweet. With his southern drawl, his mane of salt and pepper hair, his ever-present thick gray mustache, and the wrinkles from a million smiles around his big blue eyes, he's every bit the gentleman. And he's all mine.

"Well then, it's a deal," I reply to my father, getting a little teary for some reason. It's odd how appreciating what you have escapes you so easily. I have possibly the two cutest and greatest parents on the earth.

"Well, alright, sweetie. Here's your mom. Love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy."

Morning

The alarm howls the same way every morning: The thick voice of a DJ blurred by intermittent static. Sometimes he's introducing a song, sometimes he's announcing the weather, sometimes he's talking about nothing. But it's always the same: His voice. That static. The desperate reach for the snooze button. It's been the same way since Christmas of last year, when we got this alarm clock.

The only thing that changes in my morning rousing is the room around me. The position of the sun, the amount of light or lack thereof coming through the white blinds. The room is either flooded with light or terribly dark when we wake, depending on the season. Right now, we're in the transition. The sun is hesitant, barely peeking into our room when we wake. Like he's not sure he wants to see us yet, either. It feels more like dusk than dawn in our bedroom these days. Bright enough to function, but cozy enough in its dim lighting to settle back into the covers and sleep longer.

It's also colder. I open my eyes to the air of our room and know that freeing myself from the cocoon of blankets I'm in will be miserable. I know it's like Antarctica on the other side of those sheets, and I don't want to expose my skin to the freezing temperatures. So I hit snooze one more time and roll into Billy, whose sleepy lips kiss my smooth forehead. He pulls me in closer to him there, in sleep, and we lay like that until the alarm screams again. I look at the blinds, survey the position of the sun, feel the air of the room with my face, then make the decision to hit snooze just this last time.

When the clock tells me I have less than 45 minutes to get ready and go, I begrudgingly heft myself from the supple mattress and high-thread count sheets and The Urchin we're surrounded in. One leg, then the other, flops over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. I search for my morning coat in the semi-darkness. I make sure the alarm is set for Billy's wake up time. I head out into the hallway, on my way downstairs to make the coffee.

I leave Billy's travel mug, full of prepared coffee, on the table on his side of the bed. I kiss his warm face before I leave the room, and I head out to take my shower. When I return, Billy is always sitting, half-propped by pillows, coffee in hand, remote pointed at the television. He smiles when I walk in, hot pink towel wrapped around my head. That smile makes my morning, every morning.

"Good morning, baby," he says sweetly, his eyes soft, his face sweet. All mine.

It always is.

Before the Fall

Water Wheel

"This is my life," she says as we drive down her driveway. She points at the trees and the fallen leaves that surround the house. "I'm in the autumn of my life."

Her hair matches the color of the rusty leaves around us as she shakes her head and giggles.

"Mom, what do you mean, autumn?" I crinkle my eyebrows and cock my head, confused.

"I mean," she says, turning on her blinker and coming to a stop, "that I'm in my fifties. It's my fall. Still pretty, but we're on our way to winter."

I shake my head, rid myself of the thoughts of mortality she's inspiring. "But fifty is young, you're not on your way to winter."

"Yes I am, Laurie," she shifts into first and pulls forward, the tires sliding over the leaves that litter our road. "But I'm okay with that."

"This conversation is a bit morbid, I think," I say, reaching for the bottle of Dr. Pepper I brought along. "I don't want to talk about...you know...dying."

"I'm not saying I'm dying. I'm not saying it's coming any time soon. But, you know, when you reach a certain age, you realize that you're not getting any younger. And you realize that you pretty much know what's left. And now, I'm ready. Because I can look back at my life and say it was good. It was satisfying. I have a wonderful husband, I have two beautiful kids. I have a house, I drive my dream car. I've traveled, I've seen some amazing things. If my winter is coming, I'm ready. Because I've done all I wanted to do."

Fall takes its sweet time fading into winter. It starts long before we notice it, the slight shift in the air that makes the leaves turn rusty, the dry soil that makes them go gold. We don't notice it until we're driving down the road and see an explosion of canary, a blur of crimson. And we make promises, to drive north and appreciate it, to see the trees of Vermont, the painted hillsides that line the interstate. We marvel at the colors as they spin from green to yellow, to amber, to red.

It's the most beautiful season of the four, but we take the colors for granted, and before we know it, the veined and brittle leaves line our streets and parking lots, no longer hanging onto the trees for our viewing pleasure. Trees are naked and twisted, their skeletons exposed, bared for winter. Very rarely do we appreciate the fall. We let the autumn pass us by and realize, too late, that it's winter.

It's extraordinary that she sees it, that my mom slows down enough to look around, take in the changes and appreciate them. I hope I appreciate the beauty of my fall, too, rather than just anticipating winter.

Seriously (Because, Apparently, it's the Word of the Day)

Oh my god. Can I just tell you how awesome you guys are? Seriously, you are fab-u-los.

I mean, really, to tell me where I can find that CD cheaper, to tell me that it's possible to buy from amazon.uk - And to actually go through the steps to find that stuff out? Honestly, Tiff, Liz, Shawn, Michele and Serra: You guys kick some serious ass.

Because, thanks to your comments, I GOT IT.

I am looking at a confirmation from Amazon.co.uk that tells me I just paid 10.73 in Euros (roughly $14) for a CD that I'll have somewhere around the 21st. I expect that you'll be able to hear my yelps of excitement from whatever corner of the earth you happen to be reading this from.

Which brings me to a bigger point: Seriously (Do I use that word too much?) you guys, the people who, for whatever reason, choose to open my little page here and read my words and give me positive feed back, who support me and listen and are just there for me when I need it...You are the best. You've no idea how grateful I am - and have been, especially in these last few months - for you all. So, though it falls dreadfully short of expressing the extent of my gratitude, thank you. Thank you all so much. For reading, for being here, for caring.

I can't tell you how much it means to me.

And now, not only do I have you all, but I'll soon have an awesome CD because of you. And that fucking rocks.

Looking for the Right

Let's go over a list of the things that have happened to me these past few months, shall we?

• My house was robbed.
• I went in for surgery, and after waiting for no less than three hours, I was told to go home and come back in a week.
• I went in the following week, and actually had a surgery, in which they removed a cyst the size of a tangerine - a cyst so big that it matched my friggin' uterus in size - from my ovary.
• I went in for my follow up appointment, wherein my doctor told me that my pap was abnormal, and that I would need to come back for a biopsy as soon as possible.
• I went for the biopsy and learned that I would not be able to wear tampons on my vacation to Mexico.
• In Mexico, I was treated to a splendid outbreak of sun-poisoning.
• Once back from Mexico, I discovered that the abnormal pap was due to pre-cancerous cells growing on my cervix.
• Does my boyfriend ever want to marry me? This question was posed, and answered, though not with the answer I was hoping for.
• Another surgery, in which they removed the pre-cancerous cells from my cervix via an electric loop or sorts.
• My boyfriend advises me we will be married. In fourteen years.
• I could not use pads during the period that came a week after my second surgery.
• My cat died.

I'd say I'm pretty much done with the drama. I really feel like I've gone through my fair share of shit recently. It all began to unravel with my annual exam in June, and the downward spiral has yet to come to a halt. Even a screeching one would be welcome at this point.

Even though they may be considered silly to some, going through a mess of trials makes you sort of step back and evaluate your life. You know, what have I done that was so horrible that all of this came down on me?

I'm superstitious, so I look at ways I've jinxed myself. I've talked about the ovarian cysts before flippantly, like they weren't serious, even though I've had two of them rupture inside of me already. I read an article about cervical cancer in the waiting room of my gynecologist's office. I wore wedding dresses - full-on dress and veil and shoes - for a bridal company for many years during my teens. I didn't put much stock in the sadness of a friend who'd just put her dog to sleep.

But I convince myself that it's not superstition that's brought me here. I mean, if I take a step back and look - really look - at myself, I can see myself as horrible. So horrible that of course I'd get a round of bad luck. I'll think of me, and the stupid things I've done. I'll forget about the good things I do, my good intentions and my good nature. And I think of the worst...

There have been times that I've talked about people behind their backs, that I've watched my phone ring with calls from my mother, my friends, and let it ring, choosing myself and silence over them. I don't give enough time to my family, and I don't give enough time to the friends who mean most to me. I've been selfish and ungrateful. I've been demanding and, at the same time, neglected people. I've expected a lot from the people in my life, but couldn't be bothered to give back.

Is that it? I mean, could I really be that bad? Have I done something so horrible, so shameful, that God or whomever hovers above us has decided to teach me a lesson?

And there's the other thing. Religion and I have never exactly been tight. And I've made it a point not to just start praying when things go down the shitter. But maybe that's what all this testing is? I can almost hear God above me, his or her voice booming through the clouds: "Just pray, Laurie. Just pray once, accept that you're not the one in control of everything, and I'll make it stop. Just once littler prayer, that's all I ask for." Should I be going to church? Should I be asking for help? Forgiveness? What?

And, worse, I think part of me likes it. The surgeries, the shit luck, the tragedy. Because it gives me an excuse to be sad, to be angry. To cry without reason, to be in a bad mood, to sequester myself in my bedroom, letting the phone ring, letting plans go unmade, letting in no one but my boyfriend. And not even him sometimes. All of it, the word "cancer," death of a loved one (felines count), the scars on my belly, they all give me a damn good excuse to shut down, to not call people back, to not go out. "Sorry I didn't call you back. I've got a lot on my mind..." And I can run through my litany of ailments. And who's going to argue with that?

But it's a slippery slope, because my patience starts to wear thin. If you only know me from here, you wouldn't know that I don't make it a habit to complain - unless it's to my mom. In my day to day life, I quickly glaze over my problems, then just let other people talk about theirs, since that's what they want anyway. I feel like some my friends aren't all that interested in what's going on with me. They'd rather have me around to hear their problems; I'm a good listener. Plus, droning on about my emotional maladies makes me feel weak and boring. Suddenly, I'm the person I can't stand, bitching all the time about things are are really of no substance.

But, this - The recent health problems, violations of my home, my marriage quandary, the passing of a friend of 20 years - they give me the right to talk, to complain. And when I do, I still feel like people don't care. I feel like a whiner, a worrier, someone seeking pity. And maybe that's partly true. But I notice that people disregard what I have to say, shrug off my worry and sadness with a casual "It happens all the time," and I'm supposed to be okay with that. So my patience wears thin for friends that I've listened to for years, who now have to ante up and do some listening of their own, but won't.

And I do some spiraling of my own. Into convincing myself that, but for a very select few, I'm all alone. And I forget to remember that I have an incredible mother, who is there for me no matter what. A boyfriend who actually loves me for who I am, without makeup and heels, who doesn't love me any less when I'm bandaged, sick in bed, and wearing a pad. I have a father who would do anything for me; a man who never calls out of sick for work when he's actually sick, but called out to wait at the hospital when I was having surgery. A little brother who makes me laugh like no one else in this world can, who, underneath his hard and tough exterior, is sweet and kind and always wants to do the right thing. All four of them are there for me, will take care of me if I'd actually admit I need it. I forget about those things, and focus on the negative.

And maybe that's why things have gone so out of control in my life; Me, always focusing on the wrong.

Maybe it's time for some right.

A Stitch in Time

In the bathroom of our swanky Merida hotel room, I peeled the clear waterproof bandaids from the incisions above each of my hips in preparation to take a shower. Though the surgery had taken place two weeks prior to my vacation, I was still a tad nervous about my little scars. Not that they were ugly – though they each measure less than an inch, I’ll be honest; I didn’t love the dark slits on my abdomen – but I worried that they would get infected. If you can’t drink the water in Mexico, surely you shouldn’t let it get into any open wounds.

So I peeled the bandaids from my body, and went about my ritual of inspecting my wounds. The incision on my right side was a little bigger, a little more raw than the other one, I fingered the scab forming and turned my attention to my left incision. Smaller and healing better, it only needed a second of inspection before I moved onto my belly button.

My belly button had been the unfortunate loser in the surgery situation. It was allergic to the tape they placed over my incisions, it was red and itchy and the most uncomfortable of all three points of entry into my abdomen. I was under instructions to slather it with Cortizone to alleviate the itching and redness. So I hunched over and took a gander at my poor little belly button, checking out the healing progress. I saw what I thought was a scab, and touched it; Sharp and clear nylon, it was no scab – it felt like fishing line, and it was coming out of my stomach.

Naked, I ran out of the bathroom and to the bed, where Billy was lying watching Spanish television. “There’s a stitch,” I said, pointing to my belly button. “I didn’t know I had a stitch! It’s coming out! Cut it off!” I shook my hands like I’d just touched something hot, squeezed my eyes closed like I’d just gotten soap in them. I was in full-on grossed-out mode.

Billy sat up in bed, and reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. “Let me see,” he said, pulling me closer to him by my hips. “Yuh, yeah. There it is. I see it.”

“Get it!”

He looked up at me, his eyes chuckling at my reaction. “’Get it’?”

“Yeah,” I replied, my word coming out as sort of a half laugh, half sigh. “I don’t want it to get caught on something or, I don’t know, fall out or anything. Just trim it down so it doesn’t get caught on something.”

He grabbed the nail clippers we’d just purchased downstairs in the lobby. “Hold still,” he said through lips pursed in concentration.

I tensed my whole body, my whole face squished closed and turned away, certain that he would miss the clear film of the stitch and clip at something vital – like, say, my skin.

“Did you feel that?” I heard him say. I felt him back away from my body, so I relaxed my face and opened my eyes.

“No,” I said, looking at him. He sat on the edge of the bed, clippers squeezed shut, holding up the silver grooming equipment triumphantly.

“I pulled it out.”

Eyes suddenly wide, I focused more intently on the clippers. Sure enough, in the light, I could make out the slight curve of the stitch, it’s clear fiber arching into a perfect, clean half circle.

“I didn’t even know I had stitches,” I said again, squatting to examine the object. “They never told me.”

“How did you think you were, you know, staying closed?” He asked, smirking.

I glared at him from the corner of my eye, then stood up straight. “I don’t know,” I said assuredly. “But that’s not the point, anyway. I just didn’t realize I had stitches.”

A week later, back at my doctor’s office, I related the story to the very doctor who had placed the stitches in my body. “Yes,” she said in her thick Romanian accent. “Dey are suppozed to dissolve, but soometime, de body pushes zem out.” She took a look at my belly button. “But I put dem in verry deep, so you can’t even see dem.”

I nodded, looked at my belly button again. “Well, it looks good now,” I said, pulling my shirt down to cover my exposed belly.

But my belly button proved to be the slowest to heal. Still, after now almost a month, it is still healing and itchy. I have some dry skin in my button, that I am for some reason inexplicably forced to play with and pick at. If I know it’s there, I must touch it.

Billy, who up until the end of July, had spent a great deal of time with his hands on my belly, finger sometimes resting in my belly button (Why? I have no idea. Maybe because it made me squirm?), has been dying for me to get back to normal so that he could once again poke at my belly button while we watch TV or talk or stand around.

Last night, while we laid in bed, he attempted to touch my belly button. “Don’t!” I squealed, sitting up. “I have a scab or something in there. And I don’t want any scars, so I want to leave it absolutely untouched.”

“Let me see it,” he said, sitting up and leaning over my midsection.

“No,” I whined, pulling my shirt taut over my belly. “It’ll hurt.”

“I’m just looking.”

Years ago, when I was getting my wisdom teeth pulled, I made the international sound for “Stop! That hurts!” when your mouth is filled with instruments, hands and to people are preparing to rip a tooth from your skull: “GRRMMPHHHMMMGGGMRRR!”

“You’re numb,” said the doctor, her masked face looking down on me disapprovingly.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head from side to side, as much as I could. I couldn’t afford to be put completely under when they removed my impacted lower wisdoms, so they shot my mouth full of Novocain and gave me Nitrous Oxide. I mumbled something again, to confirm my pain.

She reached behind her, grabbed the needle she’d use to shoot the Novocain into my gums, and jabbed me in the lower lip with it three or four times. I didn’t move. “See,” she said. I could see the movement of her mouth through the green mask she wore. “You’re numb.” She seemed pleased with herself. She wiped away the pinpricks of blood with a square of gauze. “It’s not that it hurts you. I think you’re just anticipating the pain. You’re scared of it.”

And that was the reaction I had last night as Billy threatened to poke around in my belly button. I knew it probably didn’t really hurt, but I was afraid it would. So I clamped my hands over my belly and said no.

“Just let me look,” he said. His eyes smiled and pleaded at the same time when he said it, so I had no choice. I released my hold and let him look.

A minute or two passed. “Are you done yet?” I said, looking down at him. His longer fingers held my belly button, well, open, while he peered in.

“It’s a stitch,” he proclaimed. “Where are my nail clippers?” He seemed excited.

“No,” I said, pulling my shirt back down. “No way. This one is deep, and you are not pulling it out.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, getting up to get his clippers. He searched around the dresser. “Where are the clippers we got in Mexico? Those were awesome.” His voice was distracted, rooting around in the mess of our belongings. He shrugged. “Oh well. These’ll do.” And he came back toward me, shiny silver nail clippers in hand.

“No,” I whined. “Billy, it’s so deep in there. You can’t get it out. No.”

“What do you think will happen?” I could see that he was getting frustrated with me.

“What if my whole belly button unravels and my guts fall out? Huh? What then?” I thought I was funny. He did not. He just looked at me, angry that I wouldn’t let him go exploring.

He rolled his eyes at me, like he thought that I was serious about what I’d just said. “Would you stop being a baby, please, and just let me get it out of you?”

“It’s my body,” was my feeble attempt at a retort.

He let out a disgusted sigh. “Clearly your body is trying to get that stitch out of you. I’m just trying to help. Now stop being a baby and let me.”

“NO.”

He was furious with me. “Stop being so ridiculous. You are acting like a child. Just let me take it out.” His words were sharp, forceful.

“We are done with this conversation,” I said, now hurt by the edge of his voice. I thought we were having lighthearted banter. He was being serious. And I really was afraid of being hurt, and now upset that he didn’t respect that. I snatched the clippers from his hand, set them on the nightstand and looked at the TV.

I could feel his edge retreat. He sighed and turned to face me. “Don’t you know that I’d never hurt you?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “Seriously. I would never hurt you. When are you going to trust me?”

“I do trust you,” I offered, still covering my belly with my hands.

“Then just let me take it out. It needs to come out.”

“Because my body is trying to reject it, or because of some morbid need you have to yank it out?”

“Both. And because I want to be able to touch your belly button again. It’s not going to hurt, I promise.”

A few minutes later, he produced not one, but two stitches. One came out complete with the knot.

“See. Did that hurt?”

“It pinched a little,” I said.

“Did it? Or are you just saying that because admitting that it didn’t hurt would be admitting I was right?”

“No, it did pinch a little.”

“Right,” he said, smiling and examining the last of the two stitches.

Actually, it didn’t hurt at all. But I couldn’t tell him that.

Happiness is Made of...

1) A late night drive with my little brother, where we cranked old Bon Jovi and sang at the top of our lungs. Last night, Milford was privy to a stirring rendition of both Livin' on a Prayer and You Give Love a Bad Name. Never before has this brother and sister duo thrown quite as much fervor and passion into singing. Much less, singing to Bon Jovi. Our mobile concert didn't end with those two classics, but there was a solo (mine) of Blaze of Glory, a solo (his) of Whitesnake's Here I Go Again (On My Own), a lead singer (me)/choir (him) performance of Madonna's Like a Prayer, complete with car-dancing: flailing arms and many hands-folded-into-prayer-position interpretive moves. This dancing and singing occurred on an excursion to the Dairy Queen, where Chase and I parked in the exact same spot in which we always park, sat in the exact same booth we always sit in, opened the door too hard like we always do, and I ordered the exact same thing I've ordered the past three times we've been.

"You're getting the Heath Blizzard again?" Chase asked, surveying the menu while the young employee scooped extra Heath chunks into my vanilla ice cream.

"Oh yes I am. What are you getting?"

Chase rubbed his chin like a man twice his age, indecisive and contemplative. "Do they have anything with Peanut Butter?" Oh my God, I thought. He's turning into our father.

"You could get a peanut butter shake or sundae. Or maybe a Reese's Peanut Butter cup blizzard," I suggested.

He let out a sigh. "Yeeeeah," he said, stretching out both the word and his long arms. "I think I'll get the Reese's Blizzard."

There's something about that particular Dairy Queen that brings out the goof in both of us. We sit in our little booth, scooping our ice cream into our mouths with long red slender spoons and can, for some reason, find humor in everything. It's been there that we've witnessed a thin and frail old man with a long, long beard, who closely resembled Father Time, with his family. He reminds us of an old, ridiculous country song that our dad has on one of his Old Time CDs called Trinkets and Beads. This is a song we've always pictured being sung by an old man not unlike the Dairy Queen patron, who would do a little jig while he sang "Trinkets and beads, trinkets and beads, got five times more than anyone needs..." We've spotted men in tank tops with backs and shoulders so hairy that they resembled the standard Big Foot image, who looked as though they'd stumbled into this establishment by accident while trying to terrorize some campers in the woods just behind the DQ's brightly lit facade. We've watched a woman decide that she didn't feel like walking to the Dairy Queen's restroom ("What?" She said to cashier, her baby resting on her jutted hip, "the restroom's outside? Forget it.") and change her screaming baby right there on the table. We've been goofy, Chase making me laugh so hard that people look at me like I'm crazy. He accidentally-on-purpose gets ice cream on his nose and cheeks, then, straight-faced, asks one of the employees for an extra spoon or something. I don't know why but it makes me laugh every time.

Our drive is always with the windows down, trading the comfort of air conditioning for the ability to stick our hands out of rolled-down windows during our dancing. We always get home windblown and sticky, but full and aching from laughter.

2) Flowers given to me, not by my boyfriend, but by my incredible friend Melanie.

She showed up on our Monday night date with them, a card in her outstretched hand, wishing me well for my surgery. But more than that, she just did it to cheer me up. And they have. They sit on the island in the kitchen, greeting me every morning as I stumble downstairs to make my coffee. The rose in the middle has bloomed since coming to my house, and the rest of the flowers (I'm not sure what they are...Sorry!) all swarm around the rose in the most beautiful and cozy way.

"I went to florist," Mel said as we took our seats in the smoking section of our local haunt, "and I was like 'What kind of flowers should I get?' And I was looking at everything they had, and I wanted to get you something different, but I was like 'NO CARNATIONS! I KNOW HOW SHE FEELS ABOUT CARNATIONS!'" She finished with a giggle that echoed mine and took a sip of her coffee. I blinked back tears of raw gratitude and sheer appreciation.

A good friend knows which flowers you hate. But, more importantly, she knows exactly what you need when you're feeling a little low. Who said you have to wait on your boyfriend to give you flowers? They're incredible coming from an amazing friend, who has known you for as long as you've been in Milford and also knows everything - and I do mean everything - about you.

I should've used my flash for the picture, and I should've used an actual camera instead of my camera phone. But no matter how good the picture, it wouldn't convey the way they make me feel every time I see them. A reminder of someone who loves me. Someone I love.

She's a friend I don't see all the time. Jobs, boyfriends, distance and life get in the way of our regular meetings. But months can pass between our encounters, and it still feels like no time at all once we're face to face. We don't talk on the phone, we don't email each other, but our marathon sessions together - which last a minimum of two hours - suggest a closeness you don't see everyday. We store up the happenings in our lives, and explode with stories as soon as we sit. After telling our waitress "We're gonna be a while," we spill our lives out on the table over coffee, cigarettes and some sort of meal. We laugh like we're the only patrons in whatever restaurant we've chosen. We've cried over our meals, laughed, sulked, complained, beamed. By the time we leave, our table is covered with empty sugar packets and a million secrets.

3) Playing an old CD on my way into work. Two, actually. The first one was MTV The First 1000 Years: R&B, where I found not only Bobby Brown's My Prerogative, but also Tina Turner's What's Love Got to Do With It. I'd forgotten I had the CD, but last night's flashback session with my brother made me seek something old and familiar. I turned it up and sang along, feeling lost in junior high or earlier, recalling the crushes and school dances that the songs carried.

I then switched to the stripped version of Gavin DeGraw's Chariot CD. It reminded me of this time last year, where I went with Chuck and Pollo to his concert. I watched him onstage, with his curly hair and his passion for what he was doing, with his quirky sense of style and his genuine joy, and I wished for someone. I just wish I could find someone like that. Passionate and creative, sentimental, unafraid, confident. I liked his curly hair. I loved his music. And I remember, standing there in the crowded and sticky theatre, how much I wished I had another half who would enjoy this with me. Someone eccentric. Someone, perhaps, with curly hair. Someone who wouldn't think me silly for wanting to sing and dance to the music, someone who could understand being swallowed whole by music, a moment.

Before I went to the concert, I told Billy, who was merely an acquaintance at the time, that I'd be seeing Gavin DeGraw. "You'll love it," he said. "He's incredible in concert."

And I did love it. And, after making those wishes over the strains of the song Meaning, I got Billy. The one who does understand, who doesn't blame me for loving a song because of the piano in it, the one who gets just as into music as I do, the one who sings along, loud and honest, when we're in the car together.

I got what I wanted.

I have all that I need.

We Land

A full day of flying has brought us here, to a dusty airport in what I assume is the middle of Belize City. Employees of the airport wheel two flights of stairs to our idling plane, securing the steps to the open doors while we in the plane clamor for our place in the exit line. Carry-ons drop from overhead compartments, bags are flung over shoulders, hair is fluffed, legs are finally, blissfully stretched. I peer out of my window while the heat from outside slowly makes it way into the aircraft, gliding over us as we wait, wait, wait. Finally, word is given that we’re free to disembark, and Billy and I shuffle our way out of the back of the plane. “I love this, in these countries, where they put steps in the front and the back,” he says over his shoulder as he leads me out. We step out into the heat, onto the tarmac, following our fellow fliers into the airport.

Everything is brown. Brown building, brown dust, brown people. Over the airport I can see palm trees, blue sky. The side of the building announces something in Spanish, words adhered to a stucco exterior. I look up at Billy expectantly, a smile spreading across my face. We’re really here. Oh my God. We made it. It didn’t seem real, even all that time in the plane and I still hadn’t quite wrapped my brain around the fact that I’d actually be somewhere when we landed.

I try to look casual, like I know what I’m doing. Like I’m not impressed. But I am. Because it’s different. Billy holds my hand tightly as I survey my surroundings like a kid, taking in every detail; smelling the air, noticing the way the breeze feels against my bare arms. He kisses me, mid-stride. “We’re here,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I know,” I say, amazed at the truth of it.

Everything about the airport is different than what I’m used to. The wide doors, the lack of a food court, the quaint set up. The toilet water is warm beneath me, the water from the faucet only comes out cold. There’s no air conditioning. The sweat accumulating on my upper lip and beneath my tank top just heightens my experience. I rush from the ladies’ room to Billy’s side, giddy like a school girl.

We make our way to the Customs line, passports and declaration forms in hand. I have no idea what to do, so I watch Billy for clues. At twenty-five, I've never traveled out of the US, but Billy had 28 countries under his belt before we arrived here in Belize. I love that I know he’s here to guide me, because I feel suddenly stripped of any knowledge I’ve ever had, unsure of what to do, just standing there with my passport, waiting to gain access to my vacation. We talk about nothing in particular, me with my eyes glued to the space just beyond the Customs Guy. As soon as I’m on the other side of him, I’m actually in a new country for the first time in my life. Once we're beyond the man behind the desk, we're legally on vacation.

A sweaty man in a button down shirt calls us up to his desk, his hand already outstretched for our documents. I can’t stop smiling while he circles and makes notes on my little declaration form. No, I’m not carrying any beef. Yes, I’m from the US. No, we don’t know where we’ll be staying. He takes out his stamp, thumps it against an inkpad and slams it into the clean pages of my blue passport. Billy, his hand wrapped around mine, nudges me with his hip. I look up at him and smile. I actually want to cry. “I’ve been stamped,” I say. “My first stamp!” I celebrate quietly as we collect our things and head to baggage claim.

Billy surveys the room, looking for other backpackers from whom we can gain direction. But there are none. I keep my eye on the slow turnstile that unleashes a parade of bags for all of us recently-landed tourists. Our backpacks, his red one and my gray one, make their way to us, and we grab their straps, still warm from the Belize sun outside.

With our backpacks secured to our bodies, we make our way to the main “terminal,” which, unlike the airports I’m used to, is just another room in the same small building. Our Belize book is tucked into one of the backpacks we’re carrying, and from that, we’ve deduced that Belize is not a country that boasts beaches. Famous for its coral, most of its sea side communities offer docks on which to enjoy the water; their beaches are more rock and coral than sand and waves. So we decide to book a flight to Placencia, a travel move made on the direction of Billy’s cousin, who promises quaint beauty and quiet beaches.

I stand behind Billy in line, letting him do the talking and make the decisions. Even though everyone around us speaks English, this is all new to me; The country, this method of travel. I'm accustomed to flying with bags of tightly-packed luggage secured beneath me on the plane, suitcases full of shoes and makeup, glittery tops for going out, casual clothes for milling about whatever city I'm in. But this is new, traveling with only a backpack's worth of belongings. No heels, no makeup. I'm not used to picking where we'll be headed upon our arrival, I'm used to knowing exactly what hotel I'll be calling home. But this was our deal: He brings me along on his annual vacation to somewhere, and I have to travel his way. Forsaking my makeup, my heels, my glittery tops.

I adjust my weight from side to side as Billy asks the Tropic Air agent, a smooth mocha woman with bright teeth and a wide smile, about the flights they offer. His speech takes on a different cadence as they speak, claiming an accent similar to hers. No contractions, no big words; simple English with clipped consonants and sharp vowels. I giggle to myself as he secures our seats on the plane.

We board a small plane, choosing solitary seats across the aisle from one another, both with views of the water over which we're flying. I've never seen anything like it in my life, all of this water, so clear and such a perfect shade of turquoise. We hold hands across the space between us while he laughs at my unbridled excitement. I look at him, saying with my wide eyes that I can't believe it.

Three stops later, and we're in Placencia. We make our way out of the 12-seater airplane and into the wide-open airport, sliding through the thick heat on our way inside. A sign on the door, "No shoes, no problem. No shirt, problem," makes us chuckle as we enter. "They do call it 'Barefoot Paradise,'" he reminds me, pulling open the door and letting me go ahead of him. We are lead to the taxi we've requested, and climb inside the back of a mangy old minivan. Billy tells the driver the name of a hotel he read about on the plane ride. The car bucks and lurches to start as the pock-marked driver nods and says "No problem."

We drive over bumpy dirt roads, as Billy recalls his days in Africa. He tells me about the public transportation there, how, in Ghana, there would be maybe ten or fifteen people squeezed into the five seats our taxi offers. I try to listen intently, but I'm too wrapped up in what's just beyond him, outside of the dusty windows. We heave through ruts and over blemishes on the dirt road, taking a narrow passage that squeezes between the ocean and a field of lush grass. We fly down a poorly paved road, where small buildings - homes and businesses - litter the low shoulder. We come into town, one road snaking through crisp white buildings, with tropically painted trim. Aquamarine, fuscia, orange, they pop out and away from the homes they highlight.

The driver stops in front of a small restaurant. "Here you are," he says to Billy. We look around and see nothing, beyond some residential homes, a few restaurants, a pharmacy. "Sea Spray?" Billy asks, loudly enough to be heard over the whining engine of the car. "Yeah," the driver says, turning his large body and opening his door. He lumbers around the vehicle and opens the back of the van. He pulls out our backpacks while we squirm out of the side door. "Sea Spray," he continues, dropping our packs on the dusty road at his bare feet, "is just that way." He points between the two buildings in front of us, nodding at the elevated sidewalk stretched between them. "Follow that," he says. "You'll see it."

We heft our backpacks over our shoulders and do as we're told, stepping up onto the narrow beige footpath. Conversations drift out of the screened windows of the buildings around us. Spanish music in one home, rap blasting from another. Coffee colored children run toward and around us, hopping off of the sidewalk and into the sand to pass. Bright pink flowers fall from imposing bushes sprouting from the sand, and, just off in the distance, we can hear the ocean.

We cross a T in the sidewalk and there, nestled behind squat palm trees, is our hotel of choice. Their lobby is a small building, just a desk and four walls, open to the sidewalk and, behind it, the beach. Billy talks to the man on duty and I peer out the back door. My shoes, flat-soled and pink, have trapped sand between my toes. I'm sweaty, and travel weary. But I'm in awe. It's dusk, and through the narrow door of the hotel, I can see the ocean. Palm trees undulate over clean sand, the remnants of the sun dancing over bright blue water. So this is why he travels so much, I think to myself, resting my shoulder on the door frame. I could finally see it, the draw to be somewhere different, somewhere new. The view, my surroundings, the town: They were all a surprise, a welcome diversion from what I see, day in, day out.

"You ready?" Billy says from behind me, chin hooked over my shoulder, taking in the same sight as me. He dangles a key in front of our shared view, and scoots around me to lead the way. I don't even have to answer.

Our second-story room is simple - seafoam walls hugging a basic bed, a bathroom, a small TV. But what it lacks in amenities it more than makes up for in location. The windows and the back door open to a porch, replete with multi-hued hammock and wooden beach chairs. The railing gives way to beach below us, affording us our own private view of the shore line, the water, the sky. The air is thick inside, and the single ceiling fan offers little relief. But out on the porch, a steady breeze flies up from the water, tousling my hair and ruffling my skirt with cool, damp fingers. Billy exhales and stretches out in the hammock, his long body curling the fabric into a lone parenthesis. He stretches his slender arms and rests them behind his head as I rest my elbows on the white railing. "What do you think?" he says, eyes closed. I look at him. "I think it's amazing," I reply, before resting my eyes back on the ocean before us.

Dusk has passed by the time we settle into our room, and we make our way to the restaurant a short walk from our hotel. The restaurant sits right on the shore, the thatched roof stretching over our heads the only thing between us and the air. We order drinks and seafood, and look out on the moon-kissed ocean while we wait.

Sweaty glasses of coconut rum and pineapple juice are set on the table by our smiling waitress. Billy makes a lazy circle in his drink with his straw, then sets the straw on the table. With his long fingers, he lifts his glass, tilting it toward me. "Toast?"

I smile, bowing my head and tucking my hair behind my ear. I take my own glass and hold it even to his.

"To us," he says, "for making it to Belize." I nod and pull my drink toward me. "And," he says, "to you. To your first trip away from America."

"To me," I agree, laughing. We take sips of our sweet beverages and resume staring at our new surroundings.

Bellies full, we take walk down the deserted beach. Shoes in hand, our toes slip through the sand as we head to no place in particular. "I do believe," Billy's shadowed figure says to me, "that this is officially a romantic moment. Moonlit walk, sand, ocean, foreign country." I agree with him, leading us to a pair of unoccupied beach chairs.

We rest our tired bodies in the whitewashed seats, our legs stretched out in front of us. "So, what do you think?" He asks me again.

I turn my body to look at him in the dark, and offer him a serene smile.

"I can't believe I'm here."

Therapy is a Crock

Sunday, for me, was rough. In my typical, pessimistic form, I somehow convinced myself that I was falling apart. My health issues got the better of me, and I spent the majority of Sunday tucked in bed feeling sorry for myself.

With Billy away for the weekend on a boat with his cousins, I was the only one in attendance at my pity party. But I was the best guest EVER. I watched Fever Pitch for the second time and cried my way through parts that didn't even require tears. I cried when I realized there was nothing else on all of our 600 channels that I wanted to watch. I drank water and smoked too many cigarettes, getting up only a few times to either visit the ladies' room or change my laundry from the washer to the dryer.

A number of events led me to where I was on Sunday - Where I was being in our bed, in our un-airconditioned bedroom, with the window fan pointed directly at me, alternately staring at our TV and flicking my cigarette ash into an over-filled ashtray - but they were all minute. My ovaries, for one. The fact that it was hot. A long wait earlier that morning to get my nails done. A zit blossoming on my face that was no-doubt stress induced. The fact that Billy would come home from his three day boat trip to me, with my weird ovaries and a huge pimple. The dress shirts of Billy's that I washed and dried, but accidentally left haphazardly draped over a chair downstairs and forgot to hang up, leaving me the options of either drying them again, or ironing them. A small stomach bug I'd apparently picked up the night before. And, of course, the Alpha and Omega of my problems these days: My ovaries.

Mind you, I didn't yet know that I'd need surgery. I just felt like something was wrong. And I was scared. And earlier that morning, I had just suffered through another woman (the client my nail lady had before me) telling me that it was no big deal. And I'd been light-hearted about it for long enough. I needed my breakdown.

So I did what I always do when things get to be a little too much. I shut myself away from the world for a couple of hours, and I feel sorry for myself. Why me and I can't handle this being just a few of my favorite strains of commentary that run through my head. Sure, it's melodramatic, and unnecessary, but it's what I do.

By the early evening, I continued to follow my pattern of self-repair, and I called my mom. And she let me cry to her, let me complain and whine and be truly, utterly pathetic. She invited me over for dinner. And when their menu for the evening (hamburgers) didn't sound appetizing, she agreed to make me spaghetti and sauce. Just for me. So I drove the four minutes it takes to get me from my house to hers, in my I'm-Feeling-Like-A-Bum clothes, and collapsed on her couch.

I ate my pasta. I chatted with my family. And then Chase and I decided that a situation like this only calls for one thing: Dairy Queen.

So we hit the road, in his beat up Altima. The windows were down and he played me the CDs he'd just made. The CDs were mixes of some of his favorite songs. Older ones that I'd introduced him to (Like my favorite band, 311) and newer ones that I can't help but love (Panic! At the Disco). I sang along while the wind blew my hair all over my head, speeding down the rural roads that take us to ice cream.

My mood started to lift in earnest. Although not entirely absent, I noticed the decrease in my sadness, my self-pity. At least I wasn't crying.

After Dairy Queen, we went to rent movies. Something funny, something that would lift me out of my doldrums whether I liked it or not. But there was nothing. Except...

Except, there they were: The entire series of Sex and the City. Our digital cable company provides roughly six episodes of that show every month, but whenever I see the new episodes showing on the list, I gorge on them that moment, forgetting that I'll be without anything new for another thirty days. Naturally, I'd already watched every episode playing On Demand for the month of June (Okay. TWICE.), so I stared at the boxes of the episodes I hadn't seen yet with lust in my eyes. Nevermind that I've already seen the entire series, start to finish, at least twice over the course of my life. I needed it. So I picked up the final season and walked to the register.

"How many nights?" The teenaged counter girl asked me, terribly bored with her job, obviously eager to get out.

"Just one."

So what it was eight episodes? So what it was already 10:00 at night? I needed this.

Chase and I drove back to my parents' house, but I made my exit almost as soon as we pulled into the driveway. With my family having made significant chips in my horrible mood, it was up to me and Carrie Bradshaw to get rid of the rest.

I know how stereotypical it is of me to love Sex and the City. I know it's cliché. But I can't help it. I love it. It hits me somewhere that's very true. I get lost entirely in each episode, seeing myself in one, if not all, of the characters portrayed there. I forget all about me for the half hour or so that those girls traipse around New York, dressed in their awesome shoes. I escape me for a bit. And that's exactly what I needed.

That night, that's what I did. I watched as many episodes as I could, stopping the DVD only when I knew my eyes would refuse to stay open much longer. The next morning, I finished the series.

And though my eyes were a little puffy from the crying, I felt better. So much better. My zit was going down. My ovaries weren't hurting so much. The world, which had seemed so off-kilter only one day ago, and shifted back into place.

I don't need a psychiatrist to treat my fleeting depression. I need alone time. My parents. My brother and his music. A trip to Dairy Queen. Some chick programming. A good cry. Because after all of that, I felt better than normal.

I felt like me again.

Dependence Day

Fourth of July always finds me with my family. As a group of four people whose lives have always revolved around the military, the patriotic theme of the fourth always resonates with us. The Fourth means charcoal-grilled hamburgers, my dad smelling like the grill's thick smoke. It means beer, and killing time until the sun finally goes down. It means my little brother Chase and I running around like idiots, lighting fireworks and applauding loudest and longest for the most disappointing ones. It means Mom and Dad and Sammy, our Golden Retriever, sitting on the porch, watching us making fools of ourselves, warning against the perils of firecrackers ("Not so close to the house! Watch your fingers! Throw some water on that! Don't point those at each other!") in their good-natured way, while they remember the days they had to light the wicks for us.

This year, nothing was different. Except that my Billy was there with us. He cheered for the mediocre fireworks, he twirled sparklers with us. He fit right in.

Mmmm....Sparklers! And Daddy makes an appearance in the background. Like Bigfoot, but way cuter.

Me and my "Little" brother.

Not only is our love incredible, but it's also patriotic!

With Mom behind the camera (hence her noticeable absence in the pictures), we giggled our way through an evening of cheap fireworks sold at one of the many makeshift vendors stationed all around our fair town. The night was incredible.

But, funny that we were celebrating Independence, when that night reminded me of how much I need those people, how much I depend on them. All of them have made arrangements to sit in the waiting room while my doctor digs inside me and rids me of my pesky cysts. They will all help take care of me during my probably brief, but certainly painful, recovery, even though I hate to admit that I need anyone. And I know them: They won't ask questions, they won't begrudge my helplessness. They'll help me for no other reason than because they love me. Pure and simple.

My surgery is a one-day thing. No overnight stays, no lengthy rehab or anything. A simple procedure that will allow me to leave the hospital with nary a stitch hours after being admitted. The doctor assures me that she will glue my incisions back together rather than stitch them to avoid scarring, but my recovery will be a number of days. And these are the people I've counted on my whole life, with one new addition in the form of a handsome six-foot-four man that I never imagined I'd be fortunate enough to find. And they will all be there for me.

Sure, cysts, and their surgical removal, suck. But look at how fucking lucky I am.

Cation: This Could Induce Nausea

I'm really of no use today. I'm tired and I'm completely lovesick. It makes me act funny, all googly-eyed and dreamy, my stomach doing somersaults and my face flushing every time I think of my other half.

It's just that, when you realize that someone really loves you - the kind of love you never expected you'd find, the kind that you never thought you'd be lucky enough to have - you tend to lose yourself in the fortune of it. Yes, I've been dating Billy for almost a year. Yes, we've been saying I love you constantly since three months into our relationship. Yes, I know how crazy I am about him. But, I just always sort of figured that the scales were tipped in his favor. That, though he loves me, I would always love him just a little bit more. That the feelings coursing through me were so great they would shame the way he feels. That what I feel for him far outweighs what he could even fathom feeling for me. And then I see that it's not that way at all; That I have what I thought wasn't possible. That he loves me back. Fully and completely. I always wanted it, and here it is. And I'm in disbelief. I almost can't believe it's real; it's that amazing.

Because, for some reason, I felt destined to wade around in murky love, the kind that is fickle and unforgiving and fleeting. I thought I'd be forever sentenced to loving more, to doing more, to wanting more. I've spent so much of my life begging for love, and having it rationed to me. Bits and pieces, part of the whole package, but never everything at once. I chased, I followed, I was dropped. And something within me makes me believe that that's the way it will always be. I deny myself the faith in forever, the trust that I'm loved, that I'm worthy of the kind of emotion that makes someone actually want to be there for me. I've seen it, sure. In countless other relationships, and even once in a relationship of my own. But I just never thought I'd see it again. And here it is.

When I was young, Martina McBride had this song out on the radio called My Baby Loves Me. She sings that her husband/boyfriend thinks she's pretty and smart, he loves her when she's mad, silly and sad. "High heels or sneakers, he don't give a damn. My baby loves me just the way that I am." My grandmother told my mom it reminded her of my father, how he loves my mom. Years later, I'd hear that song on a country radio flashback and cry, thinking I'd never have that. Thinking to myself, that just being me would never be enough to make someone love me, and keep them with me.

But Billy thinks I'm sexiest right after I wake. He prefers no makeup to a polished look, and thinks I'm cutest when I run around the house barefoot. He loves my mind, and tells me that his favorite part of me is that I'm genuine. Our favorite moments are in bed, with the TV on, laughing together at something silly. We still, all this time after our beginning, spend every free minute with each other, failing to tire of one another's company. I still have a crush on him. He still kisses me for no reason, holds my hand in the car, and looks at me with eyes that tell me more than he could ever say.

I was talking with Billy's uncle the other night, out at a local restaurant, and we were discussing the family trip I'll be going on to Mexico in August. "Yeah, I told my mom that you're coming, and reminded her that she met you in Florida, back in October. I said 'Yeah, Billy's been dating a girl for a whole year, I can't believe it.' She can't either. She asked if you're using some kind of sorcery on him." I laughed, nodded, sipped my wine. "You bet," I said.

"He's not my type, I don't want to date him," his uncle mocked. "What happened to all that? Remember, this time last year, you were telling me you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him? Now you've been dating for almost a year. And he said the same thing: No, no, no. I don't want to date her. A year! What the hell?"

"I know, I know," I said. "I don't know what happened. I'm just really incredible, and he couldn't resist me. I took pity on him."

"No, really," his uncle said, seriously. "I told my mom, 'Yeah, they've been together almost a year. And this one...I mean, they really love each other. You just have to see it.'"

Clarity

Extreme Makeover Home Edition played on the large TV in front of us as Billy and I nestled into our new couch. Having caught the show from the middle, instead of the beginning, I only knew that the mother of the family receiving the home makeover had cancer. I didn't know what kind it was. But, as they revealed room after remodeled room, not knowing the root of her disease didn't stop me from crying. That show always makes me cry: Always, without fail, no question. By the time the busdriver has moved that bus, my face is soaked in tears. Billy watches me whenever we watch it, his mouth turned into a slight grin, just waiting for the waterworks. He thinks it's cute, he says, that I cry over those shows. He knows exactly which moments will push me over the edge, and waits for that moment to wrap me up in his arms, simultaneously comforting me and taking little jabs at my over-active tear ducts.

This Sunday was no different. As the parents thanked Extreme Makeover for making their children smile for the first time in months, he looked at me. I saw his grin from the corner of my tear-filled eyes, and reached out to hit him half-heartedly. "They haven't fallen yet," I said, keeping my eyes glued to the screen, "so technically, I'm not crying." But the pre-commercial previews of what would happen when they returned proved to be my breaking point. The mother was talking about her husband, their love, their relationship.

"That's gonna push you over the edge, huh?" Billy said as the show faded into an ad for a new ABC series.

"Yes. Yes it will."

And so we waited for the show to come back, and for me to cry. Sure enough, the master bedroom was revealed to the couple, who, I learned, have battled not only cancer, but a low-life contractor who stole $44,000 from the family while "remodeling" their home earlier in the year. The husband and wife took tentative, reverent steps into their new master bedroom, touching the walls and the new sheets, looking at the art work and the accessories, and as they did this, they cut away to an interview with the mother. She talked about her cancer, and how she's fighting all the time, and she's tired and frustrated and angry. She doesn't know what she'd do, she said, without her husband. He allows her to be depressed and angry and sad, but he also gives her the days where she's just feels lucky. To have someone who loves me more than he loves himself, who takes care of me, who gives me strength, she said, was what has kept her going. Of course, I cried, large, appreciative teardrops for the husband she'd found, who, while her voice-over spoke, knelt before her in their new bedroom and kissed her operation-scarred neck. I held a kleenex under my eye, catching the tears I couldn't keep from falling and scooted a little closer into Billy's chest.

"That's how I feel about you," Billy whispered, holding me just a little tighter.

I giggled at him through my tears, a sarcastic "yeah" falling from my lips as I cleaned up the tears that had rolled down my cheeks. When the moment was over, when she was done extolling the virtues of her husband and how he loves her, I turned my face into Billy's neck. "That's probably one of the sweetest things you've ever said," I told him, "even if you were just messing around."

"I wasn't. It's the truth."

That was three days ago. Since then, I've needed Billy. Not just needed like I had a bad day and I needed someone to bitch to. Not needed like my overly-dramatic way of saying I wanted him around. Needed like Keep me from falling apart. And you know what? He was there. He left work and he rushed to my side and he held me while I cried and kept my fragile being together when I was on the verge of shattering. He told me what I needed to hear, he kept me rational, he made it better. He gave me strength.

I didn't believe him when he said that, when he claimed to love me like that man loves his wife: Putting himself before me, being there for me when I need it, giving me what I needed to push forward. I don't know if I was short-changing him or me. But, either way, I just didn't believe that he was capable of loving me that way; the way that I love him. I always just assume that I'm the only one who loves that deeply, that emotion of that magnitude will never be reciprocated. Whether I thought I don't deserve it, or that he just wouldn't want to, I don't know. But, either way, I didn't expect it.

Until his car pulled into the driveway, and he rushed upstairs and wrapped me in his arms and just held me like that for a bit and let me cry.

"Thank you for being here," I said into this chest.

"When are you going to realize that I love you?"

I always knew he loved me. I just didn't give him enough credit. Until now.