For red-headed pug lovers and hometown farmers

This ain't me, but if it were, I'd be fine with it.

The hair! The pug! The ankle socks! The Mary Janes! I wish this chick lived in St. Pete so we could kick it over beer and peanuts. I wish I hadn't just happened upon this picture while randomly searching for PUGS on Flickr.

Today I'm word-loose and Lancey-free, basking in the kind of deep relief that comes with turning in a story at 1 p.m.

When he's in the middle of an assignment, Joe, my fiancé, who's an associate editor here, likes to say: "The story's done. I've just got to write it."

On most days, that's usually where my head is. Floating somewhere between Story's Done and Just Got to Write It.

But not today! Today I turned in a big story – a cumbersome but interesting one – then I took the pug to Coffee Pot Park and I sat on a bench by the bay with my eyes closed for 20 minutes and daydreamed.

It was glorrrrious. 

I called my Nana, and then my mother and I sat for awhile longer on the bench and listened to water lapping at the break-wall. The sloshing reminded me of my childhood spent on a sailboat in Lake Erie, so I closed my eyes again and willed memories into focus.

The pug, happy to be in the shade under the bench, was so quiet and grunt-less I forgot he was with me, so I let the leash go slack.

Then I walked back to my house off Coffee Pot Drive, scheduled a few interviews and retreated to the backyard, where I sat in my Sky Chair and contemplated something my mother had said:

One house down from the house I grew up in, lives a man named Norm who owns the grape fields stretching up and down Langford Road.

He's about 90 years old, dour as hell and drives a rusted truck. When I was a kid he used to pull into our driveway and lay on the horn whenever he wanted to talk to my dad. According to my parents, he still does this today except lately his visits are fewer and far between.

My parents say it's been years since the red-headed goose-haired farmer stopped in, so when his pick-up truck pulled into the driveway yesterday my mom kind of did a double-take and my dad kind of sat back and waited to hear a horn-honk.

When that didn't happen, my dad went out to the truck to see what was up and a few minutes later walked back in the house with a bemused look on his face.

"Do we have any masking tape?" He asked my mom.

"MASKING TAPE?" My mom yelled from the kitchen.

"Yeah," my dad said. "Norm needs a piece of masking tape."

"MASKING TAPE? What?" My mom asked.

"I'll tell you later," he sighed. "Just rip him a piece."

So my mom ripped my dad a piece of masking tape and my dad brought it out to Norm, who was waiting as usual in his jitney truck, and the two sat in the driveway for awhile catching up on stuff.

That night, my dad wondered out loud if maybe Norm just wanted someone to talk to. He apparently needed the masking tape to adhere his crumbling car inspection sticker to his windshield, but my dad has a hunch the old man's just lonely. His wife died not long ago and since then, Norm's been up to all sorts of nice things. For one: he reconciled with his estranged brother Carl, who lives one door down from him on Langford Road, and whom he hasn't spoken to in 25 years.

Turns out Norm's leaving the country for the first time this summer. His daughter is taking him on a Caribbean cruise.

Well, my dad said, wouldn't ya know the old bugger doesn't have a birth certificate! He's come across nothing but trouble trying to get a passport for this cruise. He tried talking to the town clerk about it and she suggested he talk to someone in New York City.

The Office of Vital Records in New York told Norm they only deal with ancient birth certificate requests in person. So next thing Norm knows, he's flying into LaGuardia to deal with the matter face-to-face.

When he got there, the agency suggested he find someone who was at least eight years old when he was born to prove he wasn't trying to pull a fast one on the government.

"That's gonna be tough," Norm said. "Nobody that age is still alive."

So the agency let it slide, using testimony from Carl, who's three years older, to prove that yes, Norm was born in the United States and has lived in North Collins, N.Y. since the Paleozoic Era.

"All of this to go on a cruise?" I asked my mother.

"Hell," she said. "It'll probably be the first time Norm's left the state!"

--

PS. Lance turned one year old on Friday. Happy belated, pal.

PPS. R.I.P. Dorothy Zbornak.

PPPS. Pug-walking photo by Zen. For his photostream, click here.

I'm still here!

This is my 100th post. It's a post I started at midnight about two weeks ago but fell asleep in the middle of writing. When I woke up the next morning, I was 27 years old, had a 9 a.m. phone interview with a mathematician from Maine, a cover story due about a ballet dancer from Houston and plans to go to the beach (see left) with my best friend Ro and sister Heelya.

I didn't know I had it in me to stick with the Lance. I figured I'd get bored with it. Tire of writing about myself, my friends, my family, the odd ducks and lovable strangers that cross my path and make me laugh, cry, whisper and cuss.

I thought I'd get distracted. Find a new way to spend time while Joe was asleep. Take up abstract painting. Join a knitting circle. Volunteer at a nursing home. Start trading stocks online.

But here I am. Still Lancing. Truth is, I can't shake it. I find a story in everything. So much so that's it's annoying. If you were to ask me to write 500 words on the sound a potato chip makes when it's chewed, I'd give you 600 words and a sidebar on the texture of french onion dip.

In the picture above you'll find me on the left, Ro in the middle and Heelya on the right. Joe took it the night the girls arrived from Buffalo, just before we unfolded the pull-out sofa in his Man Cave and the girls fell asleep in a cocoon of down-filled blankets.

Ro and Heelya like nests. They like to burrow and they like to snuggle. I know because I spent many nights curled up beside either one of them, prattling on about things girls prattle on about.

Ro sleeps with her mouth open and Heelya talks and eats in her sleep. One night, when we were teenagers, I heard Heelya murmur something about French fries. Another night I caught her in the refrigerator, rummaging through the crisper for cheese slices.

Growing up, Heelya and I slept in bunk beds, alternating between the top and bottom bunk every few months. Whenever Heelya slept on top, I'd lay on the bottom with my feet planted on the planks of her bed, kicking her up in the air a good three inches just to aggravate her. One night when I was on the top bunk and Heelya was on the bottom bunk, my mattress fell through the weakened planks and landed on top of her head.

Basically Ro, Heelya and I spent the weekend laughing, catching up on nonsense, drinking beer and telling old stories around the campfire. There's much more of course, but I'd be here all day if I were to write about it all. So I guess I'll write about April 10, my birthday.

We had plans to go out to a Japanese steakhouse – me, Joe, Heelya, Ro and my sister PK – when around 7 p.m. PK, who lives an hour away, called to tell me she got in a car accident.

"Don't freak, Heid. I'm fine," she said, explaining that her car was towed from the scene and that the cop gave her a ride back to her apartment, and that for every day her car was in impound she would be charged a grotesque $100.

To avoid this monetary raping and to get PK up to St. Pete for my bachelorette weekend, I had no other choice but to load everyone in my car, drive an hour south to Sarasota, free the crinkled Escort from the impound lot and pick up PK – birthday or no birthday.

So at 9 p.m., with Joe in the front seat and Ro, Heelya and PK in the back, I pulled off a desolate street in North Sarasota, into a gravel parking lot guarded by angry dogs with no manners, where a Bubba with a belly like a bass drum unlocked a prison-high fence and mumbled that my sister's car could be freed for $250 cash.

(Note: Heelya is in a Sophia Loren sun dress. Ro is in a Doris Day skirt. And Joe is wearing the faux suede gentleman's blazer he reserves for television appearances and birthday parties. Remember, we were supposed to be at a Japanese steakhouse, sipping sake and watching a chef chop onions in the air using a Hattori Hanzo samurai sword.)

So at 9:15 p.m., with dapper Joe in the front seat and Ro, Heelya and ATM card-less PK in the back, I pulled into a SunTrust bank and withdrew enough money to recover a bent 1998 Ford Escort.

PK was pouting. I was bitching. Joe was deciding whether we should refuse to pay the after-hours fee. Ro was insisting the charges be itemized and Heelya was bitching about my bitching, suggesting I should just be happy we were all together.

And to be honest, though I was irritated and driving with night-blindness through a ghetto on my birthday, I was, actually, ecstatic we were all together.

When we returned to the impound lot with money in hand, the Bubba behind the gate barked at another Bubba to, "chain up the Escort and move 'er out," at which point Joe lost his cell phone in the dusty abyss.

As we followed the tow truck driver back to PK's apartment, and as Joe began frantically searching the car for his cell phone, I remarked that my 1997 Honda Civic was dogging it with so many bodies weighing it down.

"Shit," Joe muttered. "I must have dropped my cell phone in the parking lot."

"You sure it's not under the seat?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "I checked there."

"You sure it's not in the glove box?" Ro asked.

"No, I checked there."

"What about in my purse?" I asked.

"I looked through your purse."

"Did you check in the door?" Ro asked.

"It's not there."

"What about under the seat?" Holly asked.

"IT'S NOT UNDER THE SEAT!"

And then the car fell silent until we got to PK's apartment ...

Around midnight, after PK's car had been towed to her apartment and after we had returned to the impound lot for a third time to comb the dusty abyss for Joe's cell phone, and after we had returned to St. Pete, ordered two large pizzas, nibbled on leftover ice cream cake and opened presents, I settled into bed, exhausted, content and three years away from 30.

You see, I've been a little stressed lately. I'm not exactly sure why. I seem to be working things out in my dreams though, because every day I wake up a little less wound. I wonder if it's wedding stuff. Work stuff. Money stuff. The fact that I just paid the government $1,400 in taxes – half of my pathetic life savings. Or that I still can't clear up the pug's eczema, or stick to the novel I suck at writing or finish the novel by my bed I suck at reading.

One things for sure. My friends, my family and my fiance keep me grounded. Without them, I'd lose my head.

I tend to digest life better when I'm driving. I think it's because it's the only time I sit still and concentrate on getting from point A to point B. On my way home from the Tampa airport after I had dropped off Ro and Heelya at Southwest Airlines' curbside check-in, I started sobbing so much my temples hurt.

When I got home, Joe walked with me to the bike shop to pick up my Bianchi and I cried some more. I told him my heart breaks every time I have to say goodbye, and he told me to keep my chin up and sang me a stupid pop song to make me laugh.

And it worked I suppose, because on the walk home I saddled up my Bianchi like Lance Armstrong and pedaled fiercely from point A to point B; Joe running like a bull behind me with my purse slung over his shoulder, trying to keep up, looking hysterical and lovely at the same time.

--

PS. Ro & Heelya – I miss you and love you. See you in June when we ride 62.5 miles in The Ride For Roswell.

PPS. To my succulent readers – I'm alive and well. Thank you all for checking in on me! I received e-mails, Facebook messages, TWITTER greetings, younameit, wondering where the hell I'd gone. Thanks to yesterday's deep tissue massage, I'm back to my narcissistic self. I plan on catching up on all your blogs this weekend from my new Sky Chair.

Independence, 1950

This one's for my Nana.

We were sitting around the kitchen table Christmas night – my mom, my sisters, Nana and me. And for whatever reason PK got on the subject of homesickness.

She remarked that she has good days and bad days. That some days, no matter how many romantic comedies she watches, or how much chocolate ice cream she eats, she cannot shed the veil of homesickness that shrouds her every move.

Because I'm hard-headed and fail miserably at making my sisters feel better when given the opportunity to do so, I didn't tell PK that when I was 22 and living alone in Sarasota, I Googled the distance between North Collins, N.Y. and the Gulf Coast of Florida. And that every time I cried out of homesickness, I'd remind myself that 1,269 miles is pretty good chunk of space.

Putting my pangs of sadness to good use, I wrote a math equation.

For every one mile I was separated from my family I would devote one day to giving Sarasota a fair shake. Rounding up slightly, I divided 1,269 miles by 365 days, giving myself 3.5 years to make a go at in Sarasota. If after 3.5 years I was still sad as hell, missing home, or craving a new adventure, I'd throw in my beach towel, pack up my things and leave.

But of course I didn't tell my sister any of this as we were sitting around the kitchen table. Because the happy ending to this story is, after 3.5 years I met Joe.

Instead it was my Nana who piped up.

"I was terribly homesick when I was living in Arkansas," she said.

Dumbfounded, we asked, "WHAT? Arkansas? WHEN?"

My Nana – who raised her family next door to her sisters' houses, across the street from her brothers' houses, and literally within footsteps of the house she grew up in – lived in Arkansas. Arkansas? I don't think even my mother knew Nana lived in Arkansas.

Captivated, my sisters and I urged her to continue with the story, the likes of which goes something like this:

Nana's father owned grape fields stretching the length of Brant-North Collins Road. Nana and her six brothers and sisters grew up in these fields. And if they were doing poorly in school their father, my great-grandfather, would pull them out of class and stick them on the farm.

My Nana, the middle child, was whip smart, with a wicked sense of humor, and strong arms from playing softball and picking grapes. When Nana was 18 her father sent her to Sturkie, Ark. for the summer, where he owned a strawberry canning factory with his brother, Louie.

"Dottie," he told his daughter. "I'm too tied up in local affairs to travel south. I need someone to keep an eye on the Arkansas factory."

My great-grandfather had gotten wind of some shady dealings in Arkansas, and Nana, being whip smart, was as good an ambassador as any, so he sent her.

It was 1950, and Nana, together with a girl named Vicky and a guy named Vinnie, crossed the Arkansas/Missouri line in a dusty Cadillac with the windows rolled down.

Nana, wearing a sundress and feeling ridiculously independent, remembers pulling over for breakfast at a diner with fly strip-yellow lighting. She remembers Vinnie, who was older, perverted, and a friend of her fathers, muttering under his breath that if the waitresses' tits weren't rubber, he'd eat them. She remembers she and Vicky slapping Vinnie's hands away when he went to pinch the waitress' ass, and she remembers thinking: my father sent me to Arkansas with this creep?

She was dating my Papa at the time, so of course she missed him and wrote him letters every day. When she heard that he was dating someone else – another girl named Dorothy – she brushed it off, because, as she says, "the other Dorothy wasn't a threat."

One time, Vinnie handed Nana a letter. He asked her to drive it to a post office in St. Louis, Mo. Any post office, so long as it was in St. Louis. Nana says she figured the guy was fooling around with some lass in Arkansas, but that his wife back home thought he was in St. Louis. Whatever the situation, she didn't care. It was nice to take a break from strawberry canning and get behind the wheel of a Cadillac.

When Nana got back to Brant, she scolded Papa for "philandering around," (with another Dorothy no less.) Two years later she and Papa got married. They had five children, including my mother, the second-to-the-youngest, who was born in 1960.

Nana says she found the other Dorothy's sweater pin in Papa's possession, and that Papa tried to pawn it off as a gift for her. But she knew better.

She held onto it for few years. It was after all, a name pin, and Dorothy was her name too. Whenever she'd see The Other Dorothy around town, she'd think, Ha! I've got your pin at home. But eventually she lost it, threw it out, or whatever happens to things like that.

As she talked about Arkansas ("It was awful. I couldn't wait to come home.") her eyes sparkled. Sure she was homesick, but I could tell, the memory of her independence thrilled her.

For the helluvit, I Googled the distance between Sturkie, Ark. and Brant, N.Y. It's 946 miles. Or by my coping calculations, two and half years.
--

PS. Happy Birthday Nana, four days late.

Riding coach with PK

Hello again!

In keeping up with my merry self-deprecating elf of a sister, here's a third installment in the PK Q&A series.

For those of you new to Lance. I'll recap.

In June, my sister PK arrived in St. Petersburg, Fla. without her Pantene Pro-V anti-frizz hair serum, and a viral Leona Lewis song stuck in her head.

By August, she had a roommate and two jobs - a nine-fiver at a highfalutin Sarasota preschool and a night gig at an Italian restaurant.

Since then she's gotten her own apartment in Sarasota with a washer, a dryer, a $400 couch and nothing else. She lives alone and without cable TV. On weekends I drive down from St. Pete to grab hash browns and omelets with her at the Waffle Stop diner.

We just returned from the hinterlands of Western New York, where we celebrated Christmas with our family, and shocked the bejesus out of my father with a surprise 50th birthday party at the North Collins Senior Citizen Center.

(Hello Aunt Karyn! Hello Rebecca! Thank you, Erik for your handwritten Christmas card. It's stuck to our fridge with a Led Zeppelin magnet. Dad, I'm sorry I bitched about your dial-up Internet. Mom, I'm sorry I bitched about North Collins' lack of modern conveniences. Heelya, I'm sorry I bitched about bridesmaid dresses. I promised you all shout-outs, or in some cases, apologies. Nana & Papa: I have a post brewing in your honor. It involves a Cadillac, men's underwear, and a girl named Vicky.)

But enough about that. My third interview with PK took place on a Southwest Airlines flight from Buffalo to Tampa. The guy sitting next to us got an earful, but to keep him happy I slid the latest issue of GQ - the one with Jennifer Aniston naked on the cover - into the magazine compartment in front of my seat.

--

What are your airplane pet peeves?

PK: As in in the airplane? The airport? Or overall?

In the airplane.

My feet don't touch the ground and they fall asleep.

Who is the ideal person to be sitting next to in an airplane?

Generally someone who doesn't want to talk because I like to sleep. I don't want to feel the need to make small talk.

If you could sit next to any famous person on an airplane, who would it be?

A male dancer from Thunder From Down Under.

Do you think he'll drop trou mid-flight?

Maybe in the bathroom.

Why don't you eat your airplane snacks?

I'm not hungry.

But they're free.

You appreciate my snacks more. You get excited when I give them to you.

That's true. How would you describe your trip back home this Christmas?

Bittersweet.

How so?

It's nice to have so many people around that know you well. You don't constantly feel the need to explain where you're coming from. I miss that. But it's nice to feel independent. I know I'm going back to my own place. Do you know what I mean? I look at (North Collins) and I think, there's nothing there for me besides my friends and family.

But that's all you need, beyotch!

I agree. But I think ... how do I word it? It's hard to explain. It's weird talking to my good friends and they're talking about people I graduated with or other people I went to school with and the things they're doing and I'm sort of glad I got out of there. I mean to be able to say, I experienced things.

Snob.

I was stuck in a rut.

What do you miss the most about home?

Weird things, like being able to, in the middle of the day while Dad's at work, go out for lunch with Mom, or meet up with Holly. I constantly knew I had someone to do something with ... when I had free time.

Do you have people to do stuff with in Sarasota?

Yeah, I guess more so now. But it's always me making the effort. All you need is someone to be there to talk to. It used to be I would call George (her best friend in North Collins) and she'd be like, 'sure. I'll be right over.' People are a lot less empathetic in Florida. Is that the word I'm looking for? I've come to learn that people are less attached to their friends.

Isn't that just called growing up?

It probably has something to do with that.

This was your first trip home since you moved away seven months ago. What was the first thing you noticed about the parent's place when you walked in?

Everything looks so dark and wood-like. In Florida it's all cool colors and tile. Back home everything is dark, warm colors and wood. Mom Nana-fied our bedrooms. I get a kick out of how I slept in a twin-sized bed for 22 years. I move out and it becomes a full - with a plush pillow-top mattress.

Do you like what Mom did to your room?

It looks very nice, it's just very ... it's the same thing she did to your room. They've become guest bedrooms.

Did you feel like a guest?

A bit. Until Mom said, 'why don't you vacuum?' And we got in a fight over a can opener. Then it was like I never left.

Did you vacuum?

Yes, only the bedroom though. She told me I could stop.

Did the can opener fight get resolved?

Oh my God. I was going to wrap my white elephant gift for Nana's, and Mom said to Dad, 'Look what she's giving away? These nice mugs and an electric can opener? I struggle with my can opener every day, and she's just giving this good one away?' Things got heated and eventually I offered it to her, but she refused to keep it because she said it would remind her of this argument. It blew up into her saying how everything is given to me and how nothing is ever good enough. I said, 'Mom, that has nothing to do with it. I just like crank can openers.'

But she took the can opener. I saw her opening a can of corn on Christmas.

I refused to wrap it. On Christmas she was ranting and raving about how it cuts like butter.

What does your apartment in Sarasota look like?

It's barren. I've been told it looks like I got robbed.

Yet you invested in a grown-up sofa from a fancy furniture store?

Yes, it's my prized possession. I lint roll it once every two days.

Are you ever going to put out the rug I gave you?

Not until I get a kitchen table.

When are you getting a kitchen table?

Not until I look around for a good deal.

When are you going to get cable?

I plan on getting cable in January to start the new year, but I might put if off one more month. I sort of got my fix at Mom and Dad's. There's nothing wrong with watching Legends of the Fall for the 9th time.

Your TV gets an analog signal. You know you're going to have to get a converter box when cable goes digital next month.

Wait ... wait ... I've got an itch. On my shoulder blades.

I got it.

No ... to the left. I mean right ...

What cool rigamarole did you get for Christmas?

My America's Next Top Model pajamas are cool, even though Dad says they're too sexy for a single girl to be wearing. I say, even more reason to wear them. No one is going to see me in them.

Do people in Buffalo tell you your blood has thinned in Florida? I get that a lot.

Yeah, God forbid you complain about six-degree weather. Suddenly you've got thin blood and brittle bones.

Brittle bones? Do people in Buffalo have thick bones?

Apparently.

You didn't check your ice skates on the plane because of the blades, right?

That would be correct. I also didn't want my ice skates getting whipped out at security - like, 'whose are these?' I wouldn't want to claim them even though they're $600 skates.

Why are you ashamed of your skates?

I'm just ashamed of the smell. They have a pungent odor from my sweat.

You could have brought your flute on the plane.

Probably not. It could be used as a club.

What's your theory behind Buffalo zits? I see you've gotten a few.

Let me tell you. I haven't broken out this rapidly and this profusely in a long time. My theory? I think there are a few things that play into it. A.) The lack of sunshine. B.) The well water. C.) The stress of our family.

Do you think you'll move back home?

Not at this point in my life. I'm sort of like in between. I feel like I don't know what I'm doing. There are days I think I want to live in a foreign country and there are days I want to move home.

What if you meet a man?

I don't think I'm going to meet a Florida man. They're not my type.

Joe's a Florida man.

He's a rare find.

--

PS. Yes, the couch pictured above is PK's most prized possession.

PK With a Vengeance

After two months, my sister PK got a job. She's working at a preschool during the day and an Italian restaurant at night. I never see her anymore.

She moved in with my friend/coworker Kyle in Sarasota and, as illustrated by this photo, she has her own bathroom.

She's decidedly less gung-ho in spirit than when she first moved here. See June 10.

Without further ado, here's PK Part II.

But first, a word from her roommate:

"I tell her it's like living with my mom, which is not a bad thing. It's a good thing because I love and miss my mom."

Aww.

--

How did you spend your last two months?
It varied. Sometimes I’d have an interview so I’d come back, clean the house, go to the beach, come back and cook dinner.

Was this a positive experience for you?
I loved it.

Even though you freaked out every night because you didn’t have a job?
Even though I freaked out I loved it. Despite the stress of not having a job, it made me realize that I will make the best housewife. It is my true ambition.

Have you taken any steps toward that ambition?
Um. Are you kidding me? The steps would be to try to find my Prince Charming, but obviously that’s not happening.

Why?
Because I realized I’m the oldest 22-year old on the planet.

What about that one guy who took you to the Rays game?
Asshole. He was the most immature 26-year old I ever met. I told you what he told me.

What was that?
That I’m an effing tease.

And how did you respond?
I told him, ‘I didn’t intend to lead you on. I’m sorry if I did.'

And then you hung up the phone?
Basically.

Have you heard from him since?
He tried calling me and I didn’t pick up.

You like living with Kyle?
Yes. We’re both sort of … I don’t want to say dorky. We both sort of just find stupid things funny. We make each other laugh.

And you have your own bathroom with a yellow theme?
Yes.

What do you enjoy most about your new independence?
Coming and going as you please. Not always … you know having Dad be like, where you ram-rodding to? And Mom … you know how Mom would say it: ‘You just came home and you’re already going again? It would be nice if you spent one night home.'

Do you miss mom’s cooking?
Yes certain things. But lately she was catering more to Dad’s likings than mine. I’m not one for a chuck roast. You know what I mean. ‘Oh would you like me to make you something else, because I’m making your father a chuck roast.'

How do you like my bed? Entertained any gentleman callers in it?
UGH. I don’t plan on it either I don’t have any health insurance. A man might sit on my bed because there’s no place else to sit in the house, but there hasn’t been any physical activity if that’s what you’re looking for.

Have you discovered any favorite Sarasota places?
I like the Publix that’s nearby.

The one on Ringling?
Yeah. I discovered it after work one day. I fell in love with it the minute I walked in.

People call that the ghetto Publix.
Maybe that’s why I liked it. I’ve got the ghetto ass.

You do.
And the cashier was this big mama. And she was the friendliest, nicest cashier ever.

Why we move.

This one goes out to my mom, who reads Lance regularly and whom I imagine is at this very moment standing in my sister PK’s empty bedroom crying.

My youngest sister, PK is moving to Florida this weekend. Last we spoke, PK was stuffing the remainder of her bedroom into boxes, sleeping on my parents’ living room couch because her bedroom was uninhabitable. (I imagine my mother said: “Jesus Christ it looks like a bomb went off in here,” her favorite expression for describing four pairs of discreetly tossed socks and an unmade bed.)

By this time Monday PK will be in St. Pete, schlepping her bags up my concrete stairs. Hopefully most of her crap stays in the car as I’ve informed her that the JoeHo pad is not spacious.

It takes big balls to move away from home, or at least that’s what people say. “You’re brave to just pack up and start over,” …that’s another thing people say. And in a state where the locals say Coke not pop. The blasphemy!

Blah. It’s not about the size of your cajones, or about being brave. It’s about gravity. Some people can’t help it. They move because they can’t stay. The only math problem I ever solved went something like: a train is traveling 75 mph in a southern arc. Picture you’re waving goodbye in the distance. Are you a.) sitting in the train car or b.) standing at the depot?

Me? I’d be goddamned if I was the one standing at the depot, especially at PK’s age. At 22 I was the one in motion.

Since my sisters and I never went away to college we never experienced the thrill of buying our first bottle of shampoo as an independent apartment-renting adult. I was never a very domestic bird, yet when I left the nest four years ago I barked “Bring on the shower curtain purchased at Target,” like I was a gum-snapping football coach. I got my jollies off once just buying a vacuum cleaner at K-Mart.

Back home we rarely cooked meals for ourselves, since it felt like mom catered to our individual schedules, wrapping leftovers in tinfoil in the fridge, leaving notes on the countertop explaining what tinfoil packet contained what. In college my commitments and my sisters’ commitments were split between school, part time jobs and close-knit friends, most of whom we befriended in the 4th grade.

Moving to a town where no one knows who you are is like hurling a white canvas at a painter and demanding he go to town on it in every color imaginable. “Make me something pretty out of this lily-white canvas. Or don’t. It’s up to you really. Only problem is, if you don’t you’ll feel unfulfilled, empty and nostalgic for the wild paintings of your past. You painted before. Paint again.”

I never experienced growing pains like I did when I moved to Sarasota. Was it because I moved 1,200 miles away or because I was approaching 25? I heard of the Quarterlife Crisis, I’m well aware of the annoying narcissistic mid 20s meltdown. Just when I thought my moving to sunny Florida had exaggerated this, my best friend Ro confessed that she too was feeling bat shit crazy and she’d only moved across town.

If our infant-selves could speak, we’d make scholarly observations about our bodies stretching, pulling and tugging like Gumby dolls. Going from six pounds to twenty in six month’s time. If we could speak as infants we’d say, “shit this sucks, but shit this is cool!” It’s traumatizing so we cry. We wail because after all, we’re babies.

At 23 it wasn’t much different. "Shit this sucks, shit this is cool" is pretty much how I felt for a few years. The growing pains weren't physical but my reaction to them was still the same. I was still a baby.

After one year as a reporter I quit my job and started working at a marble yard, counting slabs of granite in the 90-degree heat, making deliveries of cement and stone tile to waterfront homes. Working here I stopped pissing on the rich and feeling sorry for myself as I was scrounging away money to purchase a car to replace my broken down ’86 Civic. I knew eventually I wouldn’t have to pedal a bike to work every day alongside day laborers, who for obvious reasons didn't have drivers licenses. At 23 I knew, like my Nana says, that it would pass.

I was bloated from a diet of Reese Cups and Miller Lite; a bona fide decision maker making decisions far from home, showering behind a Target curtain, pining away for my next big move. So I bought a car, took the summer off, drove across the country, fell in love with Wyoming and Idaho and Oregon and Missouri. I returned to Sarasota in the fall and fell in love with Joe.

I didn’t know what decisions were until I moved away. I remember making a piss poor one once when I first arrived to Sarasota, agreeing to watch a coworker’s child on a Saturday evening and assuming I’d have enough time to squeeze in a mid-morning bike ride, I rode 40 miles out to Longboat Key. I realized when I reached the shores of Whitney Beach that there was no way in hell I was making it back to watch that kid. And the one person I knew in town who could pick my ass up wasn't answering the phone.

Mom, this is a long one so I apologize for that. PK is going to be OK. You remember how I used to call you homesick, crying and bitching then proclaiming happiness then wallowing in self-pity all in one day?

I like to believe I'm in the clear now. It took three years and in those three years I grew stronger and meaner and nicer, tougher and happier. Would I still feel this way if I moved five miles up the street from you? I don’t know. PK won’t know either. Sometimes you don’t know why you leave a place until you arrive somewhere else.

Please tell PK I cleaned the bathroom toilet in the spare bedroom. She knows where the key is. I’ll see her Monday night when I get out of work.

PS. The picture above was taken near a waterfall in Oregon.