Backyard Fairy Tales

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to live in New York City.  She spent her childhood winding pearls around her neck and sneaking her mother's clothes from the closet.  There was a tube of bright red lipstick hidden beneath her socks, and at night she dreamed of high heels clacking against shiny marble floors.  She tried to hide her country accent, polishing away any word that couldn't be found in the Oxford English Dictionary, and spent hours tugging at her naturally curling hair in an attempt to make it hang long as straight like the hair of the glossy girls in magazines.  She wanted the world she saw in books and on television:  glimmering skyscrapers, roaring traffic, foreign foods, never-ending bottles of deep red wine, and, most of all, to be always surrounded by a crowd.

A Morning Out of the Office

I spend the last few hours of darkness dreaming of a different world.  When the sun rises, I dress with care.  I twirl my curls round and round an iron, careful that each one is as tightly wound as the next.  I repair a tiny chip in my nail polish. I count the lights as I switch them off.  I dab a little extra perfume on my wrists.

There are not enough tasks in the quiet hours to make me forget what I'm doing today.  Later, there are not enough busy hours to make me forget what I've said goodbye to.

Story Time on the Teller Line

I've been working in a bank for a little over a year now.  My first position was in the "loan vault;" a dimly lit, dusty room filled to the brim with multicolored folders containing the financial history of our customers.  It was my job to organize and track these files, as well as to help launch an online filing system.  I grew to know our customers from their tax returns and title lien statements.  I spent hours alphabetizing and shredding and stacking and shipping and typing and color coding.

I'm No Good with an Alias

I am no good with an alias.  I am not one to hide.  It made writing here feel unauthentic. The false name chafed at my strict "honesty policy."  So basically, I'm back.

Me.

The me who loves nothing better than a good book, a jar of nutella and a snuggle from my Brinkle. The one who has a habit of traveling without plans, and rearranging her furniture at the drop of a  hat. The one who regards her blog (and readers) as her best friend and confidant.

The Girl Who Broke Her Own Heart

I am not the same girl that started this blog.

It's been a long while.

After seven and a half months together, the clan left 801 Stanford Lane.  I moved into a small apartment attached to a cottage a few blocks down from the duplex.  Rylie moved into a loft fifteen minutes away.  Tom inherited a farmhouse in the next town over.  And Bryan...Bryan spends a good deal of time at my cottage.

Little Things, Like Snowflakes

This morning I awoke to the palest light floating in through cream curtains.  This is a distinct light, and it only ever means one thing:  snow.  I crack the blinds and I am greeted by a new world.  Everything is pristine, blanketed white.  This is the kind of morning I love best.  Tomorrow, or perhaps even later today, that snow will melt away to unveil an avalanche of mud.  But right now?  Right now the world is clean and shining.  Right now I can curl up in my bed with Pandora and my laptop, and ignore all the problems buried in the snowfall.

Later today I'll be meeting a few members of the clan for our standard coffee date at a locally owned cafe.  We do this every Saturday around 11.  We have a usual order and a usual table, and each week whichever of us are available show up to swap stories and sip on sweet, warm drinks.  We rarely leave our corner before 2.  Today it'll be Tom, Leanne and I.  We'll have enormous white mochas in thick, sturdy mugs, and whatever pastries look delicious, and we'll curl into our seats until we become part of the scenery.  I love this.  I love our group, and our town, our coffee shop.

Dear Ex Lover

Do you think of me?

When you hold her in your arms, do you remember the curve of my waist?  The scent of my hair?  When you kiss her, do you remember the way our lips fit perfectly?  Do you remember the freckles beneath my eyes, and the way you cupped your hands around my ears to warm them one night in the cold autumn rain?  When you come home to her, do you remember coming home to me?  Slipping in behind me while I worried over your cooking dinner, wrapping your arms around me, and pressing your lips to the back of my neck?