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?

Introducing the Clan, Part I: The Story of Carlie and Rylie

It's late fall 2010, and Rylie and I are speeding down the interstate.  The back seat of my Saturn is full of brightly colored bags as we head home from a spontaneous shopping trip.  We've been laughing so long that we can't remember what was funny, and as we near our exit I say, "What if we didn't stop?  What if we just kept driving?"

"Do it!  Can we?  We should do it!"  Rylie is always up for an adventure.

So I floor it.  We pass our exit, and the next one, and dozens more after that.  An hour later my cheeks ache from smiling, and my sides are sore from so much laughter.  We don't stop driving until we cross the Tennessee state line.

The Family We Choose

During my last quarter hour at work, my cell phone buzzes incessantly.  I am positively bombarded by messages from my roommates.  They text to make sure I'll be home on time, to ask if I remembered to put oil in my car, or to make dinner plans. We're always checking in on each other this way.

My shifts usually run latest, so when I arrive home the whole gang is assembled in the living room.

Put it in a Box and Bury It

For the past month, I've woken with a smile on my face.  The nightmares about my husband leaving have finally subsided, and so have the sweet dreams of "before."  I don't scan crowds for his face anymore, and I'm not choking back an "I love you" at the end of our rare, abrupt conversations.  I am gradually removing all traces of my marriage from my life, and in the end I'll be left with a beautifully clean slate.  I can fill my days and my future with whatever I choose, and I adore that freedom.