Best times of my life

“So far, my favorite times of my adult life were spent with you” – Christopher Hoffman

Cheers, dear friend.


Trespassed. (part 1 of 2)

It was a Tuesday in either late august or early September or maybe it was in late July. Sometime during the warmer part of the summer of 2009, on a Tuesday around 1 p.m. I was wakened by a loud banging. “Dan, I think someone’s at the door.” No reaction. He just continued to lay there, flat on his back, mouth gaping, fast asleep – as usual. I decided that if he was asleep, I should be too. So I shrugged off the banging, assuming it was the mail carrier or the oil guy or someone who could just leave whatever they had on the porch and let us sleep. It really had nothing to do with me.

That’s when I heard stomping, followed by rapping on my bedroom window and “Dan, I know you’re in there! You need to come out here right fucking now!” It was Michelle.

As the stomps headed toward the other end of the porch that stretched the length of the front of my mother’s house, I glanced over at Dan who was now laying rigid, vaguely terrified, like he’d been caught in the middle of cleaning up a murder. His long, thinning, stringy bleach-blonde hair was disheveled and greasy as I got out of bed to peek at what was going on; my years of moving through my house, paranoid that a sniper might be aiming for me finally being of use. I crouched and hugged corners, catching sight of Michelle’s mini-van in my driveway and her frantic angry movement up and down my porch as she repeatedly yelled for Dan to stop hiding and come out to talk to her. I made my way back to my bedroom and stood in the doorway. “You really need to go out and get rid of her. What the fuck is she doing at my house?”

He just shrugged.

“If you don’t get rid of her, I will. She’s trespassing. I will call the cops,” I was using my best stage whisper and I was livid.

He voiced some disagreement.

“Dan, what the fuck. You need to man up and fucking deal with her.”

“Your car’s in the driveway, I know you’re here. How fucking stupid do you think I am?” She was still stomping around on my porch.

Dan sat there on my bed, a 29-year-old child, terrified he was in trouble; unsure what to do knowing he’d been caught. However, as we were exchanging tense words, she finally gave up and drove away.

“Why was she here? I thought you were supposed to meet her at 1:30,” I asked as I tried to slow my pulse and regain calm.

He was checking his phone now and he started feeding me some story about her being pissed that he didn’t show up at his father’s to see his son at 11:00 and that she had definitely told him 1:30 and she was insane.

“And how did she know where I live? This is so incredibly not okay. You really needed to go talk to her.”

“I don’t know, Tammy probably told her and no way was I going to go out there and let her do that.” It was always someone else’s fault.

“She better not fucking show up here again, I really will call the cops on her ass. I swear to fucking God, Dan. You need to deal with her,” at 20, it didn’t even occur to me that I was involved in a very trashy and complicated situation or that it was more than I could handle.

He told me that she wasn’t letting him see his son, he should have met her at 11:00 and somehow, for once, I was not the one being yelled at. Instead, his response was that we should go to Kaaterskill Creek in the Catskills, where there was a massive waterfall and it was supposedly a great place for swimming. It was summer  after all, it was hot, the sun was shining, and we both needed to relax after that wake up call.


… is so strange. We agree to meet up with people we hardly know because we think they’re attractive or because they think we’re attractive and then, we either like what we experience or we don’t and act accordingly. Alright, so that doesn’t seem too incredibly strange. The strange part is that sometimes, these people just enter our lives for a week or two and then fall off the face of the Earth (okay, so they probably still exist somewhere, but when someone stops texting, calling, or answering my attempts at communication I would like to pretend they no longer exist).

What’s really bothering me at the moment, though, is that I was seeing someone (and be seeing him I mean that we were doing things like meeting for coffee or milkshakes or calzones and then one or both of us would pay and we’d awkwardly wave good-bye in the parking lot), and I thought it was going well and we were at least becoming friends. A week ago, we made tentative plans for later in the evening which never came to fruition, he apologized for being MIA the next day and I haven’t heard from him since. WHAT IS THAT?!

No, really. Should I be wondering if I did something to offend this person? I mean, I’m relatively sure I didn’t injure him in any way, definitely not physically and I’m positive that he was more than willing to drop everything and meet up whenever I wanted and was very quick to respond until he suddenly wasn’t and no longer does. So what happened? Seriously. I really just… don’t get it.

And on a completely unrelated topic, a girl in an eighth grade class I subbed for recently, showed me this:

Which she claims to have made herself. I’m altogether impressed by the logic chain and overwhelmingly concerned by the level of neurosis.


It was 10 a.m. on Sunday February 20, 2011 and I woke up to see his face near mine; with his curly, dirty-blonde hair, that crease down his forehead and the mole on his left cheek which was already so familiar. I wriggled over until my nose was touching his face and kissed his cheek to wake him before I shifted my weight to my left and threw my leg over his hips so I was straddling him.

Wake up, I’m hungry,” I said.

He groaned, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” I replied.

“You can’t prove that,” he said.

I kissed him deeply and his hands came up to grasp the back of my head. I pulled away. “See.”

He pulled me back to him and we rolled so that we were side by side, facing each other.Large and small skillets

“I’m hungry,” I repeated.

He groaned again, “Alright, fine.”

Wearing a t-shirt and a pair of his old Frisbee shorts, I went out to the kitchen and started grinding some coffee. He joined me shortly wearing a pair of generic green mesh basketball shorts and opened the fridge asking me what I would eat in my omelet. He handed me a frying pan and while I heated it and melted some butter he began chopping the onions. I browned the onions while he chopped the peppers and added them to the pan. Standing in the kitchen in our pajamas, we worked in a simultaneous harmony that suggested this was a well-rehearsed routine. Dancing with each other in the 2 square foot space between the counter and the stove, it was just another mundane Sunday morning that should be repeated every Sunday for the rest of our lives.

Six days later, I said goodbye and with tears in his eyes and rolling down my cheeks, I would drive out of the parking lot for his building and drive the 1,800 mile journey back home.

Insert depressed passive aggressive pseudo peom here:

And you don’t hide it well that you’re sick of me,
and I don’t hide it well that I’m hurt
and I thought that this would all work out differently
– in the end we all end up in the dirt.