Here I Am, There I Went

What's that noise?

Do you hear it?

It’s the sound of my keystrokes, echoing in an abandoned blog!

I plead no contest to your charges of blog negligence. Alas, there’s no detox resort for bloggers who’ve overindulged in less creative activities (e.g. reading perezhilton.com, shamelessly downloading the latest Britney, and, oh yeah, working). I can only promise to do better. I will. Do better. Honest, officer!

The past five weeks have flashed like a cheesy movie montage, set to the tune of Peaches and Herb. Mid-October, I flew from Boston to Washington, D.C., where I reunited (feels so good!) with three TFA buddies (“liberal Commie do-gooders,” as our Administration would call them). Last time I saw this trio, they were living together in a converted Arkansas brothel. “Remember the monkey sex room?” L. sighed wistfully. Ah, yes: a.k.a. the attic.

For our schmaltzy tourist activity, we chose the International Spy Museum. I gave up on becoming an international spy long ago -- specifically, when I ripped my purple stirrup pants while playing FBI agent in my neighbor’s yard. (Man, those were great pants!) After elbowing through the Museum, I believe I made the correct career move. Thanks to Jennifer Garner (and maybe 9/11) everyone’s cousin wants to engage in transcontinental espionage. There’s nothing glamorous about being wedged beneath another spy-wannabe’s armpit. Even if you’re carrying a lipstick pistol.

We squeezed through the last exhibit with several daylight hours left, so I sweet-talked my friends into purchasing a board game and hauling it to one of the city’s two million Starbucks cafes. I don’t recall the name of the game (A., maybe you can help?) but the gist was: player 1 reads a question (“What’s one risk you’d never take?”), players 2-4 answer the question (“Skydiving,” “Sushi buffet,” “Tapping my foot in a toilet stall”), and player MC-squared has to match each answer with the person who wrote it. I haven’t ordered so many caramel apple ciders, nor had so much fun, in a long time.

My former co-workers at Highlights furnished last weekend’s reunion. Mary flew from sunny CA to chilly MA, and we drove to chillier northeastern PA in the world’s ugliest rental car. I could post a photo or link to the model, but it’s more fun to give your imagination free reign. We christened the car Bananito, the Little Banana -- owed, of course, to its hue. Yep, bright yaller. Our coche’s license plate read Florida, and I can only guess that it was pre-owned by a blind retiree. The GPS didn’t work. The windshield wipers groaned like rusty dental tools. For the return trip, we changed Bananito’s name to Lemony Snicket.

I’ll let you in on a bit of classified information: I miss Honesdale. I miss ordering garlic eggplant take-out at “China Castle, may I help you?” I miss gulping cocktails from shot glasses at The Limerick. I miss Dave’s Super Duper, the strangely scented discount grocery. During my dysfunctional graduate school existence, I frequently pined for Honesdale, the way one might lust after a lost romance. But on this recent trip, I realized: like most ex-loves, my adored borough looks better from afar. As I stirred my teeny tiny SoCo-Cran at The Limerick, I couldn’t help wondering what Murky was up to. At the exploitative jukebox, I paid a dollar for “Ruby” by the Kaiser Chiefs -- one of Murky’s favorites. The clientele, who might’ve been good for ten more rounds, promptly left. See you in the a.m.!

So, I’ve now returned to my regularly scheduled reunion, already in progress. I’ve lived in Boston for over a month now, but I still can’t believe I’m here. The Prudential! The ducklings! The snow! The...boy (blush). I’ll always be a Southern gal at heart, but can I tell you something? This feels like home.