Friday, July 31, 2009

House Plants

At a local garden center, I buy two hanging plants. When I get home, Scott researches the plants. "The Virginia Creeper can sometimes cause reactions similar to poison ivy." He tells me. "I bought poison ivy? They SOLD me poison ivy? That's not on the cardboard tag!"

I am going to keep the pot of poison ivy because it's pretty and it cost me $16.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Dancing After Dinner

"What are we going to do for our first dance?" I ask him. "This." He says, dancing like he will when he is 92-years-old, his arms moving in all directions like a firework.
"Seriously! We need to figure this out!" I giggle like a tipsy twelve-year-old, sleepily excited to be up late with the grown ups. "Ok, when I say 'go' step forward with your left foot and then to the side with your right. Ok, go."
Beau, my parents’ dog whom we are watching, drops his wet tennis ball at our stumbling bare feet. "Do you think we'll get lonely out here?" I ask. "I was just thinking about how much fun we're having here alone with a dog."

I don't want a television. I want to dance after dinner.


"Hold onto your TREASURES, RACHEY!" Mom screams her unpredictably boisterous insanity from the couch. I laugh as I shove my first boyfriend out of the house.

Before my date, she had said, "Rachey, a girl's treasures, you know what I mean when I say ‘treasures’ right? A girl's treasures should be held onto for as long as possible and until you meet the right person and for when you're older. Got it? Good."

The conversation tortured us both with laughter, but I understood.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Damn. I forgot the animals.

I am Noah sailing inside my big wooden biblical barn.

ain is drenching the dirty driveway making muddied pools of water for cars and feet to drown in. I think the world is cleaning itself for my new beginning, like a cat.

Saturday, July 18, 2009


I drive my mother to Boston for her haircut. She kisses Beaufort and I good-bye because she is going on vacation and Beau is coming with me.

Beaufort, Beau, is named after his hometown in Ireland: Beaufort, Co. Kerry. My brother, Patrick, wanted to name him George after the Irish farmer who's farmhouse we were renting when Beau, the runt of George's Border Collie litter, zealously ran into the kitchen and leapt onto Mom's lap. Four summers later in Massachusetts, Beau is herding blue birds, bugs, squirrels and Ford pickup trucks.

Today, the radio is temporarily broken and the cars on 93 South resemble babies crawling through sand for the first time. Oh and I only have two gallons of gas in the tank. When I can, I bumper to bumper off the highway and pull into the closest gas station. I reroute the GPS and the British boy inside the machine (a voice we chose and downloaded) tells me to take a right out of the parking lot. I do. The boy proceeds to guide me through every notoriously dangerous neighborhood of Boston.

In the backseat, Beau anticipates the kennel. In the front seat, I anticipate to be shot. To pass the discomfort of long red lights, I begin to sing every song I know. Beau's eyes close. So I sing until my seat belt is unbuckled.

Inside his crate that night, Beau begins to cry. So I sing. My songs keep him from crying, but they do not keep him from farting and Beau's below the tail blows boom an inconsistent drum line to every song I sing. I sing until he is asleep.

At 1:30 a.m., Scott climbs out of bed and Beau nearly turns over the crate with excitement. Morning? I think he thinks. I let him out for a moment, but once out, he begins gagging and coughing. We take him into the small bathroom across the hall and roll up the rugs. Beau circles the bathroom spitting up. I follow him with damp toilet paper. When there is a dry moment, we run to find our pants and glasses.

Outside, the sky busily makes rain, lightning and thunder. On one side of the driveway, Beau hunches over, spitting up. On the other side, my husband, Scott, hunches over, sneezing. Beneath the shelter of the garage, I stand watching.

At 6:30 a.m., I wake up and open Beau's crate. After he pees outside, we run back in, jump into bed and sleep for two more hours.

Later in the day, I call Mom. "It was trash day, yesterday. He probably just ate some trash, he'll be fine." That explains it.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Tree House

We are leaving for an apartment in the trees, a tree house in an Irish twin town of green tobacco farms, curious black bears and sweet corn stands.

Scott is hearing horses and applying for jobs. I am photographing empty barns, walking down dirt roads and wearing bug spray every day. I am washing dishes in our wide porcelain sink, drinking tap water and walking to the bathroom in my underwear. Scott is chopping carrots for the couscous cranberry salad, saying, "I can't believe we live here." I am laying on the bed watching the clouds change shape and pass over the skylight's wooden frames wondering when we will have another pay check and cursing the regrets I have hiding inside my flat empty wallet.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Love Finds You

Love will find you even inside the fog. Even when the lighthouse lamp is tired from scrolling and searching for your dingy in the bay; love will find you and pull you to the sand.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Happy Birthday Nana

With her third red, white and blue paper cup of Budweiser Beer in hand, my eighty-five year old nana says, "I want great grandchildren!"
My 24-year-old unemployed fiance, Scott responds with, "How about we wait until after the wedding." "You better.” She says. “I was a dutiful wife. I was a good provider again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again

and again." She laughs when she says this. Nana is as surprising as thunder and lightning in the early morning.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

A few fat drops drop to warn me.

The rest circle above me. Then they all fall down. If you want to catch the most raindrops: run. That's what Dad used to say anyway. So I'm wearing my blue galoshes and splashing through puddles like a baby in a bathtub. It's been raining for weeks.