World spins madly on

If I ever crash my car, I assure you the cause will not be my “bat out of hell” speed; the cause will be the distracting sights of the sky along Yankee Division Highway.

Last night, driving home from Stoneham, I glimpsed something rare from the driver’s side window: stars. At first I thought it was only a handful, with an errant, brilliant sattelite in the mix–but then I leaned over the steering wheel and met Orion, Canis Major, and others I couldn’t dream of identifying through my dusty windshield. The view was marvelous, breathtaking. I peered up again and a jet made its way across my vision, a milky vapor trail forming in its wake, contrasting with the dark sky. I slowed down and moved to the right-hand lane, but I know that if it hadn’t been so cold I would have pulled over–stars that bright don’t usually happen, even as far north of the city as Burlington.

Usually, it’s the mornings on route 128 that are marvelous–the sun rising in my left-hand mirror, with the moon still glowing in the driver’s side window. I write so many poems in my head on my commutes; later, at my desk, I futilely try to put them on paper; every day it’s the same routine, and as sad as I am to lose the poems, I’m grateful for that kind of inspiration.

Today is beautiful: sunny but cold, and I only spy one remnant chunk of (discolored and disgusting) snow from my window, so I am happy. I leave for the UK on Tuesday, and am excited to visit friends I haven’t seen in more than a year. And even though it will be just as cold (if not more) there, it is a beautiful life…

This post has no conclusion

Monday night heralds trash and recycling day at the Binns-Keeping-Mortimer-Lapointe household (Bikemola household? Kemolabi household? I like “Kemolabi,” it brings Africa, safaris, spicy food, and The Code of Hammurabi to mind). “Trash and Recycling Day”: The term reeks of pseudo-adulthood and responsibility, which is to say that I only appreciate Trash and Recycling Day because it demonstrates my lessening resistance to the idea of maturing in an organized and socially-acceptable fashion.

I’ve spent most of the past three weeks lamenting the state of my face, watching seasons 1 and 2 of Chuck, and continuing my Queen Victoria biography (it’s a long book, people, don’t judge!). I’ve found some time to write, and also managed to get to Arizona two weekends ago to visit Betsy (photos to come in the next post, I hope). Work has been busy and I go to the UK next week for five days. Say it with me, now: I’m happy.

Over the weekend I spent some time with my old roommates from Warner Street. I was not expecting several of the people who showed up, but it turned out well and we enjoyed ourselves. It hasn’t even been a year since the chaotic devolution of our Warner Street squalor, but the amount of change encompassed since that time might as well be a decade. I still don’t believe “everything happens for a reason,” but I readily acknowledge the serendipitous twists hidden in events that otherwise leave you feeling like you’re at at dead end.

Along with making me feel as if I will never find someone to love, because all I want to do is love fictitious Chuck Bartowski, Chuck has introduced me to some wonderful music. The following is one that’s been on repeat for several days:

Haunting and unintelligible; aka, my kind of music.

Wii are Three

Emily and Nikki got a Wii for Christmas. Today they bought a Wii Active at Best Buy, and decided to make an avatar for me, too, since I will end up doing lunges and squats next to them in the upcoming weeks.

“Binnsy, you always complain about having a square head, so we’re giving you a square head.”

“Okay.”

“We’re also giving you a side ponytail.”

“Okay.”

“Come choose your size.”

“Okay.”

And now wii are three avatars: Emily, the giant, Nikki, in between, and me, the midget with a square face and side pony.

It can’t get much better than this.

Queen of Hearts, indeed

Now that I’ve finished the Twilight books, I’m going to have to find another way to occupy my time.

Well, now that Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner have broken up, I’m going to have to find another celebrity couple to love unconditionally and irrationally.

What am I going to do with my time when I finish all current episodes of Glee!??!?!?!?!!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!??!!

Were it not for my all-consuming but fleeting obsessions, my life would be dull. Not for the first time I wonder if this is why I have crushes at all–merely for the mental and emotional entertainment of the perceived attachment; to make the quotidian more interesting.

When it comes down to it, the greatest loves of my life have been those who could never reciprocate my feelings, primarily because they have been dead for decades: Henry VIII and Elizabeth I; Victoria and Albert; the 1500 who perished on the Titanic; Nicholas and Alexandra et al; and, most recently, Diana, Princess of Wales.

I like to entertain my roommates with the story of my paper doll funeral for Diana one early September morning twelve years ago. All in all, mine was more star-studded than that at Westminster Abbey, since not one but two versions of a cut-out Henry VIII attended, along with all six of his wives and his offspring (minus Fitzroy. I don’t think they commemorate bastard sons in paper doll form). I remember the construction-paper coffins (again, two sets of Diana paper dolls = two paper doll burials), decorated with construction-paper Union Jacks, sitting out in the living room for at least a week while I mourned the passing of, at that point, the only woman I had ever loved.

It is easy for me to retreat to this love of the Royal Family, when all other obsessions fail (or take a broadcasting hiatus until February)–after all, true love lasts a lifetime…

Bits and Pieces

These days, my idea of perfect happiness is sitting on the blob after work while eating a bowl of baked beans and reading my Queen Victoria biography. It’s my version of “The Simple Life,” minus the heiress, the cows, and the money.

The winter is going to fly by–I go to Tucson to visit Betsy in just over a week, then to Cambridge to visit the wonderful Alice Tarbuck et al in mid-February, and my cousin, Olivia, might be coming out here soon after I get back from the UK.

Haven’t thought seriously about “New Year’s Resolutions,” I don’t usually do those kinds of things (that is, I don’t follow through), but I realized that I would like to start 2010 without any crushes.

Shocker, I know. Impossible? Doomed to fail before I even start?

But, really–I think it would be good for me to focus on liking who I am solo, and not who I am through the lavender-colored lens of crushlove (and my crushlove glasses tend to have a lavender gloss on them). I may have been single for most of my life, and for the past year, but I haven’t really been happily single (as the axiom goes), since I’m always hoping one of my crushes will reciprocate. It’s worth a shot, right?

There’s more to write, but this old lady’s bedtime is fast approaching…

For your Entertainment

After multiple phone calls home with requests, I am excited to report that this time tomorrow I will be in the possession of one of my old journals from when I was 13, all videos and photos from the first two years of my college career, and, most importantly, The Web. Granted, I haven’t looked at or updated The Web in years, but, for posterity’s sake, I will be interested to see if I can add any connections.

My preoccupation with nostalgia began this evening as I sifted through old documents on my computer, in which I had saved notes from old journals, instant message conversations with friends, and, of course, my college crush lists.

Here are a few nuggets (mostly of the chicken kind, not the gold variety):

[Disclaimer: Please remember I was 13 when most of the below items were written. I may not have changed that much in heart and soul in ten years, but I'd like to think the age gives me a carte blanche...]

From my Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul Journal, which had question prompts:

Have you ever thought you were never going to fall in love again?

Well, I had always loved my babysitter’s little brother named Gavin, and in 5^th grade I wanted to marry him. [Please ignore incorrect tense.]

What made you change your mind?

Well, I moved to middle school and kept falling in love with everyone else. [Never were truer words written.]

Have you ever loved someone and pretended that you were just friends?

Oh boy yes!!! Matt!!! I told him that I just wanted to be his good friend, but, well, I very much want to MARRY him.

Describe your 1^st relationship.

I think it was when I liked a boy in 1^st through 4^th grade. Billy Murray. [Billy now goes by Bill. We are Facebook friends. I think we kissed once in a bathroom as our (younger but bigger) sisters threatened to beat us up unless we kissed.]

How did it end?

Well, it was sort of an “on” and “off” relationship. [AHAHAHAHAHAHA. Yeah. "On" and "off" at age 7.]

Annnnnnd from the earliest crush list of sophomore year at Mount Holyoke:

“1. V. A. [Name obscured to protect the ignorant and innocent] ‘07 — WOW! I see her prettttty much every day and it always SEEMS as if she’s cathing my eye. Supposedly, she has a girlfriend who is abroad, and according to her AIM profile, she misses her, but … Just wow. She is so. So. So. Hot. It’s a huge crush. DEFINITELY number one.”

[Yeah. I was a dork. Still am.]

Counting my Blessings

Despite complaints and yesterday’s anomalous burst of anger (which should have done me well, but was entirely unproductive), I really do live a good life.

I know this because I sit here at my desk, 11:06am, almost panicking about what to do about lunch.

Lunchtime always stresses me out; I have to decide who to eat with, which means weighing the inevitable disappointment/judgment from some parties (I deserve the judgment; the perceived disappointment is probably just wishful thinking). It throws me into a tailspin here at my desk, inspires shame to color my cheeks, and makes me wish someone else would make the decision for once.

And then I realize: May all my worries be this easy.

Come on, Skinny Love

(I hope this does not become a “theme,” but I suppose I am in the penultimate stages of “recovery” regarding my last relationship; forgive me, then, if I continue to allude to it.)

This afternoon I was at the Gap (what kind of a name is that anyway? It’s not like we’re in the UK and the term would be relevant), for the second time today (I know, it’s kind of sad, but in a self-satisfactory way). On the phone with my mother, I saw a face I recognized, then two: friends from Mount Holyoke, of course, only they actually live in Holyoke, not Boston, so honest surprise followed the recognition. I hung up; we hugged and made appropriate exclamations.

Then Laura said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in another country?!!?!”

Though a year has passed, I still knew exactly what she meant.

I had a ticket from Portland to Edinburgh last September 23rd; I was supposed to leave for Scotland more than a year ago; for people who know me solely through Facebook, it might have been hard to discern that I never made that plane, that I never made that foolish leap.

I grinned broadly. “I didn’t go! I moved here instead,” I explained, “and it was the best decision I’ve ever made. I’ve never been happier.” Laura and Sophia said that was evident, and it felt good to be validated, especially by people who clearly thought I was still an ocean away.

I didn’t go; I couldn’t be happier. Most of this evidences itself in the following:

Wintery Mix

Unless I am forgetting some freak snow storm in Portland during which I managed to wrest a car from the cold, protective hands of my father, I have never driven on snow. Sure, I’ve driven WHILE it’s been snowing once or twice (and really only once or twice), but even the smallest snowflakes that melted the moment they hit the windshield were what I qualified as “snow,” then, so that’s negligible.

I’ve been on the east coast long enough now to believe the meteorologists–if they say it’s going to snow, chances are, it will (unlike Portland, where “snow” turns into slushy rain if you’re on the highest hill in my neighborhood, and is just cold rain everywhere else). Thus, I woke this morning expecting snow. I dashed to my car amidst thick, falling flakes, but nothing was sticking on the ground. This was okay with me. I hopped on Route 2 and, while it looked like snow, it was just water on the ground.

Then, as I climbed my favorite hill in Lexington, it started to stick. This startled me–I didn’t think snow stuck on the freeways (highways, whatever) because everyone drove too fast! I gasped and moved out of the left-hand lane. It was thick slush, but it was the most I’d ever driven on. The radio did nothing to highlight the momentous occasion: “Yeah, you might even see a bit of snow in some places, but no accumulation,” the Mike FM DJ explained.

“NO ACCUMULATION!?!?” I exclaimed, aloud, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, THEN???”

Needless to say, I checked my impatience and speedometer on that hill in Lexington, driving cautiously to Burlington. The slush got thicker and thicker; no one drove in the left-hand lane.

Turning into the Corporate Drive park, I saw that they hadn’t yet plowed the roads, so I transitioned to driving on at least two inches of freshly fallen snow–for the first time in my life.

It makes sense, in retrospect: fresh snow is much easier to drive on than slush. I drove to the back of Corporate Drive and found the parking lot deserted (this was 6:57 a.m., of course). Deciding to make my father proud (and being sensible, for once), I thought this would be a good, safe opportunity for trial and error. While the Spin Doctors played on the radio (“if you want to buy me flowers, just go ahead now…”) I started doing donuts on the snow, accelerating, braking, reversing–all for practice (“and if you want to talk for hours, just go ahead now…”).

I learned that the car sways when you brake on fresh snow–even a slow brake! I learned that a turn you thought was precise is more approximate. I learned that reversing is no big deal, as long as you go slowly.

Ultimately, I learned that it’s not as bad as I thought–which is what everyone told me from the outset. The challenge will be letting go of my need for speed, but I know it’s necessary.

The snow still falls here at Corporate Drive. I treated myself to a mug of hot chocolate and it feels magical to stand at the window, my hands warm and my eyes filled with the falling snow. I feel accomplished, although I know this is just round one. But I’m ready for it now.

Arctic blast, do your worst!*

*Well. Maybe not worst.

Love’s Funny That Way

Three-hundred-sixty days ago, the following postcard appeared on the Postsecret blog:

I had returned from a long day at Bowl & Board to find a message from Mairi, in which she had attached the above picture, saying it reminded her of me; saying she hoped the same for us. I cried, but I was buoyed by her attractive promises–next December we’d be together, next December she’d have this “thing” out of her system.

Next year, I want to get my tree with you. I clung to someone else’s secret as if it had been written for me. I made it my secret; and if Mairi wanted the same thing, then perhaps it could become true.

Three-hundred-sixty days later I woke to the following:

The morning is glorious; I hope heaven looks like this.

By sheer coincidence and miraculous serendipity, my roommates and I are going to get our Christmas tree this afternoon. Today is 360 days away from the above wish, a secret that I never really “forgot” about–but for which I long ago stopped hoping.

And thank heavens for that–thank goodness, thank my friends, thank the sun shining on the brilliant snow, thank the blue sky above, thank the music in my ears; thank the love that I let go, thank the love that kept me going.

This year, I’m getting my tree with the people who were there for me 360 days ago, for the people who have stood beside me and taken care of me for the past year. This year, I’m getting my tree with my family; and I couldn’t be happier.

But now for my secret: Next year, I want to get my tree with you–come on, Lady, let’s do it!