tix, hicks, and chicks

i make plans to go to chicago, abandon a dead girl and have two children. and it’s only tuesday.

Eric comes home tomorrow. And right now my mom is buying tickets for us to see Chicago. What you must understand is how much I love this musical… and I’ve never seen it. We had the soundtrack when I was growing up, and when I was about three I guess they took the album and hid it because I was running around the neighborhood saying “You’ve been screwing the milkman!”

When I was thirteen my mother pulled the album out of the garage and put it on. You know what? Even though looking at it I couldn’t recognize what it was, when she put on the first song, I still knew right when the gunshots came. So as far as I’m concerned, I’ve always known Chicago, and quite frankly, I’m a little insulted that they never asked me to be in the revival. All they’d have to teach me were the steps. I would love to play Roxie when I get older. Right now I’d settle for one of the six merry murdresses in the Cook County Jail. Or Matron Mama Morton. Ooh, I’m so excited that we are going to go… if tickets are still available.

Last night I was at the bar and I went into the little girls room. I sat down in the stall and looked to my right. In the stall next to me was a girl wearing sneakers and brown corduroy pants. She got out of the stall, I got out of the stall. She was washing her hands, and I was standing behind her waiting for her to be done so I could wash my hands. She moved out of the way, I washed my hands, she left. I left.

About half an hour later I went back into the bathroom. I sat down in the same stall and looked to my right again. Sneakers and brown corduroy pants. She got out of the stall, I got out of the stall. She started washing her hands, and I waited again. I made small talk. “Looks like we’re on the same pee schedule,” I said. “Yeah, well with me it’s every fifteen minutes, so chances are you’re gonna see me in here,” was her reply.

Another half hour went by and I went to the bathroom again. I went in the same stall. Looked to my right: you got it. Sneakers and brown corduroy pants. I said (inside the stall) “I figured you’d be here.”

complete silence. She didn’t respond.

I started to wonder, “Did that sound like a freak? Do I sound like a freak? I’m some stall talker… a stall stalker. I don’t want to be a stall stalker. Normally I never talk to people when they are peeing, but the two of us had a history.”

She said nothing and remained in the stall. When I got out, a friend of mine was waiting at the door. I tried to pull it off like I was talking to her when I declared I knew she was there.

Half an hour later (don’t ask how long we were at this bar, okay?) I go to the bathroom. Same stall. Look to my right: Same shoes, same pants. Now, I don’t say anything to her, since she already gave me the cold shoulder. I mean, what do you say to a total stranger when that happens? “Hey! You! I’m talking to you, you know! Don’t ignore me just because I don’t know your name. We’ve chatted!” So I didn’t say anything. But I started to worry about her. Is she okay? She doesn’t even look like she’s moved. Maybe she passed out on the toilet. Maybe she’s really sick.

And then I thought about how she snubbed me, so I left her alone in the stall.

Maybe I missed out on making a new friend. Maybe I missed out on helping a fellow woman in need. Maybe I missed out on being a hero. But if you snub me, then I’ll snub you back.

Unless the reason that she didn’t talk to me before was because she was already in trouble way back then. Oh, I didn’t think of that before. God, I’m a horrible, horrible human being. I should have done something. I should have offered to help her. I should have checked on her. How do you check on a total stranger while they are sitting on a toilet? I guess it really was none of my business… maybe… I am filled with guilt.

So my friend bought me not one, but two virtual pets for Christmas. Two different virtual pets. One is the old tried and true Tamagotchi, and the other is this talking nano puppy. It’s a dog, but he talks in English. Of course. Anyway, because I’m a masochist, I started both of them at the same time. And they are in the baby phases of this toy, so I’m constantly going back and forth, feeding one, playing with the other. My tamagotchi just grew up a year, as they do within the first two hours of their lives, so now I don’t have to be so attentive to him right now. The good thing about the Tamagotchi is the “pause” feature. The nano puppy does not have one. So, when I go to Vegas next week, my puppy may die. I don’t think I’ll take him with me. I already get carded enough in Vegas, I’m sure with a Pooh backpack and a virtual pet, with my hair in pigtails, they’ll barely let me in to see Siegfried and Roy.

My second vacation starts tomorrow. So, again, if you want to contact me for the next week, use the other e-mail address. Isn’t this fun?But that starts tomorrow, not today, because I’m working until ten tonight… but not tomorrow, when I’m off… forget it.

Mostly I’m excited that Eric is coming home tomorrow so that I can get a decent night’s sleep. I can never sleep when he’s gone. The bed is too cold. I end up staying up until five in the morning reading or watching television. Last night I read Prizes. Read all about it in the book section.

Both of my virtual pets just pooped at once. Maybe I’m not feeding them right.

go me!

trying to muscle some gumption and drive

So here I am at work, on a Saturday, pulling in an extra shift to have maximum fun on next week’s Vegas Vacation. It’s really slow here… I don’t know if anyone’s gotten a call yet. I mean, who’s working on the day after Christmas? But.. I forgot my cigarettes. So it’s going to be a slow couple of hours. I mean, I’m just sitting here in my office all alone, blasting Hole and drinking water… what would be perfect is a small cigarette break. But, alas! I will be sitting here at my desk for the next few hours in a nicking fit.

The show for tonight got canceled. The show that I came back from Houston for. The show that I rearranged my schedule at work for. Canceled due to lack of staffing at the bar. And the irony? We’re listed as one of the Chronicle’s “Best Bets” for the weekend. That’s lots of people going out to see a show that won’t be there. Damn.

My mother drove me back to Austin, since my dad drove me to Houston. She’s going to stay the evening.

If I don’t start that new play soon, someone’s gonna kill me. I just have to have it written by Wednesday. Wednesday afternoon at the very latest. The very, very latest. So after I’m through with this, perchance I shall start on that.

And I know why I don’t want to start on it… what if I fail? My plays and performances have won a Best of the Fest every year in some way or another at Fronterafest for the past three years. But after this non-Aspen thing, and this non-promotion thing, and this non-hearing-from the Mighty Kymm thing about the other play that she asked to read… I’m not sure if my quality of work is improving or declining. What if I write the ultimate stinker? And the Monks are doing this play, since we don’t have to be working on an Aspen show, and if it stinks they will be like, “Oh, great. At least I’m not totally wasting my time. Just killing my career bit by bit.” And then they don’t want to talk to me anymore and everyone knows me as the stinky not funny writer.

that would suck.

Oh, I’m antsy. Just a bit antsy. Maybe I could go take a quick break and go buy a pack of cigarettes. yeah, I could probably get away with going to do that.

But, since there’s only a few of us on the phone… oh I just checked.. I’m all by myself from four until seven. No smoke breaks, then…Wait… it’s me and another girl.. The two of us.

What am I bitching about? I just have another four hours left. Just sit tight and ride it out.

But, like I was saying, for some reason I can’t start my new play. I know exactly the story, how it begins, how it ends, everything. I even know who’s in it. But, I just haven’t started writing it down. That’s all I have to do! It’s a twenty minute play, how hard is that? I need to write it so I can start rewriting it. I need to write it so I can hear it and listen to how it sounds when it’s not just in my head.

But I just can’t. I’m afraid it will suck. In my head, it’s beautiful.

Same thing with the sketch ideas I have lately. In my head, they are funny. I feel that if I write them down they will become childish and overdone. “What if we make a cable access show with these two kids and they say funny shit?”

“Gee, Pam, is that Wayne’s World or that Goth Kids sketch?”

“Oh, yeah.”

So, I’ll probably just stay up late tomorrow night watching Mr. Show and thinking about how much I suck.

But tonight, I have my mother in town, who constantly reminds me how much I don’t suck, but she’s a talker, so I probably won’t get any writing done. Plus, who writes when they have company over? I’m not that rude. I wouldn’t… couldn’t do that.

So, I should be writing now. Right now. Not this, but that. Why is it so much easier to write this, and not that?

Because you guys don’t tell me when I suck.. You just keep it to yourselves. When I suck, I don’t get much mail. And that’s easily rationalized. (Oh, I guess a lot of people were busy today.)

Oh, I read Hotel New Hampshire. I wrote about it in the books section.

And now, as Madonna is telling me that she is a material girl, I am thinking about actually starting the new play. I think I will begin by outlining how I want it to go, and then maybe start on some character work. That usually gets the ball rolling.

I think I need a cheerleader.

Or a paycheck.

(got paid for the anime gig. All is well in Nevada soon.)

ixnay on the short storynay

pamie gets cultured

Eric’s version of pig latin cracks me up. He never learned exactly how it goes, so he just says what he knows.

“Ixnay on the presentsnay.”

He knows “Ixnay,” but I don’t think he realizes what it stands for, and he doesn’t know how to rearrange the words to make it into Pig Latin… but it still confuses people the same, because they try and translate what he’s saying back into English, and end up reverse Pig Latining it. “Spresent? What is that?”

Web site trackers. They find the coolest stuff. Someone had come to my page via The Dialectizer. And I had a bit of fun looking at yesterday’s page through it. It takes whatever page you plop into it and translates the entire page into the dialect of your choice (from their pull down menu.)Some of the “dialects” are just stupid. Don’t bother with the “Moron” or “Elmer Fudd:” And when we got into town, Dad took me to Stawbucks. Oh, dat scwewy wabbit!

That’s all the Elmer Fudd one does is change the “r” to “w” and add “Oh, dat scwewy wabbit” after every paragraph.

But, I really enjoyed the cockney one. You see, Eric’s family always reads these books that are more prestigious than I read. They are a family of teachers and writers, and they are always reading the latest award winning collection of short stories or whatever, and I’m plodding through the latest Wally Lamb or something. So, recently at the house there has been the book How Late It Was, How Late, and both Eric and I have tried to read it. It is written in a terribly hard to read style. Here’s the book jacket description:

“Ye wake in a corner and stay there hoping yer body will disappear, the thoughts smothering ye; these thoughts; but ye want to remember and face up to things, just something keeps ye from doing it, why can ye no do it; the words filling yer head: then the other words; there’s something wrong; there’s something far far wrong; ye’re no a good man, ye’re just no a good man.”
From the momentSammy wakes slumped in a park corner, stiff and sore after a two-day drunk and wearing anotherman’s shoes, James Kelman’s Booker Prize-winning novel How Late it Was, How Late loosens a torrent of furious stream-of-consciousness prose that never lets up.

It is terribly impossible to understand, unless you read it aloud. I began calling it “How Hard I Was To Read, How Hard.” And when I popped yesterday’s entry into the dialectizer, I found that “The Homecoming” sounded like it might be the next recipient of the Booker Prize:

Into the bloomin’ kitchen they go, right, and ‘e brews a pot of Folgers. The smell instantly ‘its evry room of their two story ‘ome, and in the wee mornin’ light of dorn, the parents ball of chalk dahn the apples and pears, wrappin’ their robes ’round ffem, right, wonderin’ ‘ow wee Sally made coffee. As they ‘ave a look dahn the apples and pears, wee Peter– ‘oo is now big Peter, right, has coffee on a tray. He bends dahn ter one knee and ‘ave a looks up ter ffem ‘umbly– the bleedin’ prodigal son returnin’. The chuffin’ muvver wispers ‘is name, just barely, right, and takes Peter into ‘er arms lovingly. The bloody favver stands behind them, and pats Peter on the bloody back, smilin’. “He’s done good again,” ‘e finks.

Somehow my prose has become beautiful.

And in Pig Latin, “ethay omecominghay” was just darn annoying.

I wasn’t too excited about the “Jive” section, since I found it to be most not funny, but I did find a particular section that amused me: the closing lines.

So, ah’ still gots mah’ coffee. All doodads considered, I’ll snatch a Mocha Latte upside a pot uh Folger’s any day. Slap mah fro!

What the hell does “Slap mah fro” mean? No clue.

Eric called earlier to brag about his Christmas haul. I got some new dishes, a CD holder, socks, lots of bras and underwear (a much needed gift), some bath/shower toys, hair accessories, a Tigger shirt, and the parts of my dad’s old car CD player. Hopefully someone will know how to install it.

I have another Christmas in five days. When Eric comes home, we have another Christmas evening to celebrate. And that, my friends, is when I’m sure to get a Bouncing Tigger. Most assuredly.

My father told his old college friend about this page on the phone today. I heard him say, “Well, I don’t read it very often. She talks about sex and stuff in it, which is something that a twenty-three year old shouldn’t know anything about. That and she makes up stories about her childhood. She seems to remember them so that they all favor her.”

Well, hasn’t he ever heard of a literary licence? Jeez. Of course I’m going to slant the stories towards me. It’s cheaper than therapy.

He asked me yesterday how I maintained my web page. I think he’s interested in trying one out on his own. He says it’s just going to be pages and pages of the “real” story behind every false one I tell. He just has a bad memory. I rarely stretch what happened. He just forgets the details. He knows that the stool softener incident happened, he just doesn’t remember my boyfriend standing there at the time. He remembers what he wants to remember, and that’s just fine with me. If he ever gets his page up and running, I’ll be sure to link it.

Well, it’s time for me to install and begin to play Computer Scrabble with my mom. This should be interesting. My father brought up a good point: how will we not see each other’s tiles? We shall soon see.

the homecoming

i remember it hazier

My parents’ new computer puts mine to shame. It almost puts my work computer to shame. But their unlimited hours online puts my home internet provider to shame.

Anyway…

So it’s Christmas Eve. It’s cold outside, for the first Christmas Eve that I can remember in a long time. We don’t get too chilly here in Texas, but when I lived in Michigan or Virginia, we had some cold holiday times.

Dad drove me to Houston yesterday. The drive was quick and fun. We discussed whether Rocky was a show tune and if Egg Nog is indeed a mixed drink. We talked about my old boyfriends, and how obsessed I was when I was fifteen. We talked about work, and why I didn’t get the promotion. We talked about Christmas, and what everyone was getting. We talked about ballet, and why he hates it. We talked about the holidays. It was a good time.

There’s something about coming home that always tricks my head. Every year I see that Folger’s commercial where the eldest son returns from college and walks into the house with a bag of presents and (presumably) some laundry tucked under his arm for Mom to clean. His little sister wakes up and squeals to see him. He hushes her, and he asks about their parents. “Everyone’s asleep!” her crooked smile tells him.

“I know how to fix that,” he says.

Into the kitchen they go, and he brews a pot of Folgers. The smell instantly hits every room of their two story home, and in the tiny morning light of dawn, the parents walk down the stairs, wrapping their robes around them, wondering how little Sally made coffee. As they look down the stairs, little Peter– who is now big Peter, has coffee on a tray. He bends down to one knee and looks up to them humbly– the prodigal son returning. The mother whispers his name, just barely, and takes Peter into her arms lovingly. The father stands behind them, and pats Peter on the back, smiling. “He’s done good again,” he thinks.

And part of me thinks that every time I come home there will be that kind of celebration. As if we haven’t seen each other in months or years. There’s that kind of celebration when Eric goes home to see his family. They all hug. The family all goes to the airport. The friends all meet him at the bar. I tease him that women all around Pittsburgh wax their lips in anticipation of his arrival. (That joke has sort of lost it’s touch now that I’ve been to Pittsburgh and fell in love with the city… but for those of you who still have the same images in your head that I did about Pittsburgh– feel free to enjoy my old joke.) When Eric comes home, it is just like Peter’s arrival in those early coffee hours.

When I walked in the door yesterday afternoon, my parents began to talk about the new computer. It was time to set up the new computer. When will all the parts of the new computer be here? Where do you want to set up the new computer? What side of the desk should we put the new computer on? Is it bigger? Is it smaller? Will everything still work?

And I peeked around the hallway into the room where the new computer sat. And as I looked in, I swear I saw the computer kneel down with a tray of coffee in its hand.

So, maybe my homecoming isn’t the big ceremony my head creates. Maybe that’s a good thing. My family doesn’t feel removed from me. I always slide right back into my niche here at the house. Right now my mother is reading a book, my father is out buying pies and my sister has left to return gifts at the mall and go to work. The eighteen year old cat is by my feet, and the dog is panting in the next room. I am in the room that used to be my old bedroom. For five years I spent just about every waking minute at home in this room. I cried a lot in this room. I had my first real boyfriendy kiss in this room. I pined for years for my own phone line in this room, to no avail. I dressed every day in the dark of my closet that never came with a light fixture. I wrote pages and pages of love letters and stories in this room. I watched hundreds of movies. I sang thousands of songs.

And now, it is the room of the New Computer. It has it’s own phone line. And if you peek into the closet, you will see that they have now installed a light fixture. This computer looks at a CD holder, shelves full of books, and as of this afternoon– it’s new scanner.

And maybe the New Computer is smarter than me, so what if it is? This new computer can’t snuggle. It can’t tell jokes. It can’t sing all the songs to Grease… well, with a CD in it, I suppose it can–

I am willing to accept that the New Computer was the best thing to come home for Christmas. I don’t want to start this feud early on. I am showing my acceptance for this machine by writing on it right now. See? You can hardly tell that I’m gritting my teeth.

Every year on Christmas Eve we try and convince my mother to let us open one gift each. Every year she tells us no. Every year we beg, every year we get turned down. How much do you want to bet this New Computer gets to install its new scanner tonight, eh?

The New Computer never danced in Jerome Robbins’ Broadway in the seventh grade.

The New Computer never played Fagin in Oliver!

The New Computer never learned Fingermath.

The New Computer never…

oh forget it.

I should just be happy with the arrival that I got. My mother hugged me. The dog brought me one of her toys. My father hugged me. My sister got home from work twelve hours later and told me a (surprisingly) funny Howie Mandel story.

And when we got into town, Dad took me to Starbucks.

So, I still got my coffee. All things considered, I’ll take a Mocha Latte over a pot of Folger’s any day.

cake and icy.

an open letter to chuy

Dear Chuy,

Happy Birthday.

What do I get to look forward to on your birthday? Why this!

Freezing Streets Cause Deadly Accidents

Austin’s freezing drizzle made driving treacherous early this morning. At about 1:15 this morning, a minor accident in the Southbound lanes of I-35 near 290 turned into a 35 car pileup that claimed the lives of a 30 year old man and a 19 year old woman. Another fatal collision involved an 18-wheeler near 183 and Evelyn Road in Mustang Ridge.

So, it looks like my dad is coming to pick me up when all of his work gets done in Round Rock, and then we will slowly make our way towards Houston. Then my mother is going to drive me back to town and stay the weekend with me. Good news: no driving… Bad news: that play that I was working on for you to direct is getting pushed back again probably because of the weather.

Although last night I thought of a new ending, since I’ve resigned myself that I cannot make it snow in Hyde Park and clean it all up within five minutes.

Thanks for you and your wife staying up very late with me and playing Monopoly last night. I have a hard time sleeping when Eric’s not around. Good thing we stayed inside, huh? My father said that the accidents were so bad here they were on the Today show this morning.

Have I told you what interesting e-mail I get? Yesterday’s email for example, taught me things I just didn’t know before:

Where else can you learn so much? I’ll tell you, nowhere. Squishy is all you need. Anyway, have a safe trip and keep warm. Give your family my love. I’ll see you when we all get back.

insomnia.

i feel like a lonely spoon

Oh, it’s early.

It’s really really early.

I just took Eric to the airport for his flight to Pittsburgh for the holidays. So, I’m a little lonely. Especially since it dropped down so cold… he was my snuggle partner, and now he’s on a plane headed for miles and miles away. So, I don’t really feel like sleeping, although I’m exhausted. We got about three hours of sleep last night, after having Chuy’s surprise birthday Karaoke party, followed by packing up Eric’s things and then listening to the storm rage outside while we talked before we fell asleep.

I can’t believe we didn’t sleep through the morning.

But I took him to the airport, where it was surprisingly easy to get in, park and check in. I was following Eric to his gate and as we went through security the guard-woman stopped me as I put my keys into the tupperware thing and went through the metal detector.

“I need to see your ticket.”

“I don’t have one,” I said, pulling my keys out of the holder.

“Oh,” she said, and took the keys out of my hand and put them back into the holder.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t come through without a ticket. This area is for passengers only.”

I always see Eric to the plane. I need to make sure he got on okay, his flight wasn’t delayed, he didn’t forget anything…

“She’s with me,” Eric said.

“You have her ticket?” the woman asked him.

“Yes. She’s with me. Come here, baby.” And he whisked me away into the forbidden area.

My hero.

I spent the next twenty minutes driving Eric insane: “Oh, man, I’m not supposed to be here. Do you think she’s going to come look for me? I figured my Pooh backpack gave me away, so I hid it under my coat. I’m nervous. I have to pass her again when I leave, she’s gonna see me and–”

“Arrest you? What could she do?”

“Well, if she tries, I’ll tell her that I was going to go elope with you, but then I decided not to, so now I want to go home, but you are still taking your flight.”

“Brilliant.”

He must have wished that the guard had escorted me out of the building in the first place.

I leave for my parents’ house tonight or tomorrow… regardless of when it is, they are getting their computer replaced, and it may not be in for a couple of days. So, if I don’t update, it’s not for lack of trying.

Can you believe I got all of my Christmas shopping and birthday shopping done yesterday? Technically I only had one birthday present to buy yesterday, so really I got all of my shopping done on Friday. How cool is that? Yesterday was bad enough shopping.. I can only assume today is the real nightmare before Christmas.

Hmmm.. suddenly a real feeling of sleepiness has set in. The kitties are looking at me, the bed, me, the bed, me… sounds like a good idea…

What’s the question of the week? What have I been asked by each and every person that I know? Well, let me give you a hint… the answer is: “No. No. Well, we don’t know exactly why. No, but… oh, thanks. No, we’re okay. Yeah, it sucks.”

I don’t know how to ski, anyway. I’m just glad that my friends and acquaintances care enough to remember.

I have this terrible crawly feeling on my back, like something is walking on me. I took off my shirt and looked at it inside out, and went to the mirror… nothing. But it feels like little spiders inside my shirt, and I swear I felt something poke me in the back a few minutes ago. I’m losing my mind from sleep deprivation.

And it’s only eight days until Eric comes home… what am I so sad about? I just like spending the holidays with him. Him and Taylor and Lillith are a part of my family, and I never get to spend any holidays with my family. Oh, and if you are wondering just what to get the pamie who has everything… there’s a pet pappazan chair at Cost Plus that would look just perfect in the corner of our living room. Taylor and Lillith would just be stoked.

Hmmm.. the whole day to myself to write and clean and… watch Grease. Now that’s what I call a Christmas movie.

twenty.

i swear she’s still six.

My earliest memory of being with my sister was when I was six years old and she was three. We were playing in our basement, and we were pretending I was Little Orphan Annie and she was my dog Sandy. We were on the run from the bad guys who were going to split us up and put me in the orphanage and her in the dog pound. We tried our best, but we were split up. They had caught me, and they were going to take me away. I remember we had hidden ourselves in a corner under a table and we were saying our good-byes. I looked at her, and in her make believe world she realized that we were no longer going to be together.

She began to cry.

And so did I. We cried because we had just started our lives together, but we had lived so much. We cried because we were best friends and we were never going to be together again. We cried because we truly believed this world we were in and we had never felt this kind of loneliness before.

We cried because we loved each other.

Later I remember trying to separate myself from her. “Oh, she’s my little sister,” I would toss away to whomever was around to hear. We were the new kids trying to make friends. She always made friends so easily. She always found someone who had a dog or a bike or video games and she always had a new friend. I was much more cautious, shy, and bookish. I would stay in my room and read or write stories, while she played Kick the Can all night long. While distancing myself from her, I shut out my world of new friend opportunities. She was always the friendly one. You could hear her laugh down the street.

When I was eight and she was five I used to babysit her after school. She didn’t like having me as a babysitter, and would use her kung-fu moves to keep me away from her whenever I told her to take a bath or eat her lunch. I hated getting kicked by her, and would hide myself in closets until she had gotten wrapped up in a television show. She was strong, and she didn’t need me to tell her what to do. I was a wuss, and didn’t want to assert myself. I always felt that if I did, I would hurt her, and I would never forgive myself if I had caused her pain.

One day (I guess I was about twelve) she came into the house and told me that I had to beat up her friend because she was being mean to her. She had told this girl (who was the largest seven year old I’ve ever seen) that I was going to kick her butt. I had never been in a fight before, and this seven year old was larger than I was… and tough… and completely prepared to annihilate me. I went out into the front lawn, and chickened out. I was turning to go back into the house when I saw the look of fear and disappointment in my sister’s eyes. I had no other choice.

“Get over here on my property so I can kick your butt!” I yelled to her. She came over, and we kung fu’d each other until a neighbor told us to knock it off and go home. My sister seemed proud.

But after that, she fought her own battles. She didn’t need me anymore.

Today my sister is twenty years old.

Twenty.

I still feel like she should be so much younger than I am… but she’s not even a teenager any more. I can’t make that claim that she’s just my little sister. She’s become her own woman. I am no longer an influence. I am no longer a babysitter. I am no longer her best friend. But I will always be her sister, and with that comes certain rights and privileges. I will always be the one to listen about her problems with my parents. I will always ask her about her boyfriends, and try to listen without interjecting my disapproval. I will always be there to stay up all night with her on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus to bring our presents.

And I will always remember the sadness I felt when Annie and Sandy said goodbye under a card table in a basement in Virginia seventeen years ago.

Happy Birthday, Natalie.

I love you.