Finding my center

Hey guys! 

Been gardening and writing and reading and taking yoga and figuring things out in my head. My cousin's super-talented wife is helping me redesign the Lance. I'm dense when it comes to technology – borderline luddite. Rebecca offered to help make this site look snazzier, which I'm apprehensive to do because when I started writing it, I could give two-shits about design. I just wanted a place to write. A little bit of structure to my mornings. A creative way to pass the time before Joe woke up.  

I've been sleeping in later and Joe's been waking up earlier, which means we've been rising together, drinking coffee together. Not much lag time between my waking and his. Oddly, parts of me are rubbing off on him. Parts of him are rubbing off on me. Kind of like how when you stick a sliver of soap on top of another sliver of soap they become one. Joe does this with his bars of Irish Spring. Whenever a bar runs out, he sticks whatever's left on top of a new bar of soap. It always makes me laugh, the tiny nub of Irish Spring glued to the full bar of Irish Spring, like the soap is wearing a green derby cap. He does this so he never wastes soap. Very thrifty that Joe. 

He dug me a vegetable garden last week and I've been nuts about watering it in the morning. Nuts about watering my other plants too. PK is baffled by my sudden bursts of domesticity. To quote, "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd care about petunias." 

I told Joe I was quitting the Lance last night. I told him I want to write a book more than anything in the world and I've made zero progress on that front, but we'll see ... 

If Rebecca makes this site look freaking cool, I'll have to keep posting and just suck it up and write my fiction book regardless. My stupid annoying fiction book. Even if it means waking up before Joe again. My sanity depends on it. My center, so to say. 

Anyway. It's 1:30 in the afternoon here in St. Pete, Florida and I've got a lunch date with Zipper Boy. 

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PS. I took the photo at last year's Langerado Music Festival on the Big Cypress Indian Reservation outside of Fort Lauderdale. Group yoga, y'all. Throw your flubby thighs in the air and spread 'em like ya just don't care. It's liberating. 

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.

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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.

No disrespect to missing dogs

Once upon a time, on a day too dark and chilly for sunbathing, my sister PK and I sat in my living room in St. Pete, telling stories about odd apartment neighbors.

PK lives next door to a guy who used to keep his kid's hamster in a cage outside his apartment, presumably because tenants aren't allowed to have pets.

One day the hamster just disappeared. Gone. Cage and all.

Inspired by the number of missing dog signs in my neighborhood, PK and I designed a hypothetical missing hamster sign.

MISSING HAMSTER

REWARD $75

Male teddy bear hamster

Age: 2 1/2

Has small ears, tiny eyes and strawberry blonde fur

Has black fleck on front right paw

Last seen on wheel

Call: ###

And yes, we printed out a dozen copies and tacked them to telephone poles around my neighborhood.

Please don't chastise me. I'm a sucker for missing animals. Remember Pooh Bear?

Lighten up and do something funny for the helluvit. It's April Fool's Day – nine days before my birthday! For hoax-y inspiration, click here.

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PS. Please swing by Name Your Dream Assignment and vote for my friend Ricci. I've sung her praises numerous times. She's an amazing photographer and she has only a few days left to win this contest. Voting ends April 3.

While my Opa was sleeping

Joe's in Hampton, Va. for Phish's first reunion concerts.

Me and the pug? We're at my Oma and Opa's place, enjoying an alternate weekend in Nokomis, Fla.

(Oma and Opa = German for Grandma and Grandpa.)

They live about an hour from me in a wooded mobile home park called The Royal Coachman – the quaintest retirement community on the Gulf Coast. And in my journalistic opinion, the best retirement community on the Gulf Coast.

PK will join me tomorrow for sun tannin' by the Royal Coachman pool and home cooked German meals in Oma's lanai. Until then, it's just me and the pug sleeping on a pullout sofa, listening to the sound of clocks tick and motorcycles rev muffler-lessly into the night.

Oma told me a story tonight that I'll share with you briefly before I fall asleep under these downy blankets.

It started first with Opa pinching his gray hair, which hangs in a kind of sparse dutch boy when it's freshly cut.

"Gerhard," Oma said. "The barber tuk a lot off dis time."

"Ja. That is because I told him to," said Opa. "Every time I go to him he schnibbles only a little around mein ears, so I have to come back two, tree veeks later. I told him to take it all off at vonce. I pay to get mein hair cut, so cut it mensch!"

Smiling, Oma reached around Opa's head and touched the bristled ends of his hair. She asked if I remembered tiptoeing up to him as a little girl – my sisters and I – clipping plastic barrettes in his hair while he was sleeping.

I remembered it vaguely.

Opa, who has a hard time remembering most things, remembered it like it happened yesterday.

--

PS. Photo by R., a 23-year-old aspiring writer and "general bohemian gadabout" living in Sydney, Australia. For her flickr photostream click here.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

How I spent my summer Faycation

I ran into Ian (remember him?) Tuesday morning in Sarasota near the downtown mermaid fountain a few hours before Hurricane Fay was supposed to ravage Sarasota.

I asked Ian, "Where will you stay in the event of a hurricane?"

And Ian said, "Come here. Come closer. Let me tell you something. There are some people in this town who would get offended by that question. Having said that, the question isn't, 'where will I stay in the event of a hurricane?' The question is, 'why isn't the hurricane here?'"

Ian went on to outline some kind of Matrix-esque theory about the cosmos - essentially his version of Murphy's Law. How puppets anticipate things. Not people. How government and newspapers are puppet masters. And how, if I were to sit on a bench wearing the Santa pajamas pants I was wearing when I approached him, how HE should be the one to ask ME where I'm staying in the event of a hurricane. 

So I looked down at my Santa hammer pants, which belonged to my friend Ricci before she moved to Africa, and I suddenly thought: touche Ian. I look like a slob. You look like a slob. For all anyone knows, we're a street couple.

So I backed away slowly and let him rant some more about his being a scientist and a journalist, and how some people say he looks like Jesus when he wears a headband. Feeling like an asshole for reminding him that he was homeless, I said, "I'm gonna skedaddle, Ian. But can I take your picture first?"

And he said, "Wait. No. Not without my headband." 

So he grabbed his headband and his ball cap, laughing like Muttley because Jesus didn't wear a ball cap. And I snapped his picture, waved goodbye, headed back to PK and Kyle's house and promptly took a shower and changed my pants.  

I was instructed by my editors to hunker down in Sarascrotum for the night and to be prepared to churn out a series of bang-up stories chronicling the destruction. Our publisher even pushed deadlines back a day to accommodate the coverage. 

Since all downtown offices were closed, all government offices were closed, Sarasota County schools were closed, stores windows boarded up and bottled water sold out, I ate leftover Chinese takeout, parked myself on the porch and invented "Fay" puns for the newspaper.

Should I Fay or should I go?

Oh Faymate. Come out and Fay with me.  

Would you like me to put the storm on fay-away?

Do not disoFay me!

My Western New Yorker friend Sam and his wife Beth were staying at a resort on Sanibel Island near Fort Myers, when the storm was scheduled to make its first Florida landfall. Around 10:30 a.m. I received an e-mail from Sam that went something like:

"Last night we were evacuated from the island. As non-residents we are not cool enough to weather the storm. I am pretty sure this state is full of wimps. I generate more of a storm surge when I take a leak in the toilet. We were going to venture out to the Bass Pro Outdoor World, but they are not open ... even though they sell survival gear. Anyway, I strapped on my rain suit and went out to try and make it look bad outside. Here are some pics. The coffee here is OK and I didn't lose my swizel stick."

If anyone has good storm photos (and this goes for the New York readers, the Kansas readers, the Colorado readers, the Missouri readers, the West Africa readers, the New Mexico readers, the UK readers, the Germany readers ...) please email them to blog.lance@gmail.com. In the meantime here's my sister Heelya in our backyard after a blizzard in North Collins, NY. 

    

A Tale of Two Toothbrushes.

And now for a story.

My sister Heelya is particular about her teeth, which is understandable. She's had so many teeth drilled we joke that her mouth is a member of OPEC.

Because we didn't have dental coverage growing up we rarely saw the dentist. He was a haggler anyway, or at least that's what my dad said.

Of my two sisters Heelya spazzes out the quickest over things like germs and toenails. My dad likes to joke that my youngest sister PK should've been a doctor. She was always operating on the family, always carrying around a satchel of medieval looking tools, offering to fix our skin ailments, ingrown hairs, blisters, that sort of thing.

It was disgusting. I partially blame my Opa who owned the exact same kit - a zippered pouch of metal nail files, clippers, tweezers, and whatever other crevice digging devices might accompany such things. PK coveted the pouch as a little girl and whenever we visited my grandparents she would help herself to it in the cabinet with the bath towels and immediately start picking at her feet blisters. She was a figure skater so blisters ravaged her feet.

Soon she assumed ownership of the best tweezers in my house, the ones my father filed into daggers with points so sharp you could pierce the skin in one pinch, or kill an intruder under hostage circumstances. Regardless none of this has anything to do with the story I'm about to tell.

We all shared one bathroom - me, PK, Heelya, my mom, my dad and on weekends whatever friends had spent the night. Our toothbrushes never fit in one of those cup things with the holes in it. No matter what cup thing my mom purchased there were only four holes in it. God friggen forbid someone use the same color toothbrush, the same no-name brand Reach toothbrush and risk mistaken brush identity. 

I pity my sister Heelya, but she should've known better when she purchased a blue toothbrush. My father had a blue toothbrush and unlike the time we all decided to label our toothbrushes with masking tape and my father labeled his Jerry Maguire because it was 1996 and all his girls had crushes on a pre-douchey Tom Cruise, unlike that time this time his blue toothbrush was not labeled.

For weeks, maybe months, my sister Heelya would wake up for school and brush her teeth with the same toothbrush my father had used to brush his teeth three hours earlier. By the time she grabbed the brush the bristles would be dry. She was totally clueless.

Until one day, she woke up earlier, reached for her brush and realized it was wet and the bristles were flattened. Over her morning bowl of cereal she asked my father, "Dad, what toothbrush are you using?"

Story goes he walked into the bathroom, reached for what he thought was his toothbrush and said, this one.

"Omigod," my sister shrieked. 

Or so I think this is how it ends. When I called my dad this morning to confirm the details he said, "Yeesus Christ. Did your sister call you complaining about some kind of mouth virus?"

Meet PK.

My sister PK got in last night via 1998 Ford Escort with her friend Erika. Here's a Q&A with the Buffalo recruit:

What are you doing right now?
What does it look like I'm doing? I'm desperately looking for a job. [Closes the St. Pete Times.]

What was the worst part of the drive down from Buffalo?
West Virginia. Not knowing if my car would make it over the hills.

What was the best part of the drive?
The final hotel. The fact that the bed was so huge despite it being disgusting.

How many items of clothes can you fit in one of those vacuum-sealed bag?
Over 50 items.

Do you have them sorted according to item?
No I was stupid I didn't do that. Now I just have bags exploding and I have to pick through them.

What's your future apartment's must-have amenity?
This sounds really bad, but a washer and dryer in the apartment or in the apartment vicinity.

Good luck with that.
OK. Air conditioning. It must have air conditioning.

What's the most you're willing to spend on an apartment?
Assuming it's just me and depending on the job, no more than $800.

Any idea yet on how you're going to meet a man?
Networking.

What are you a CEO or something?
I know what I'm talking about.

Is there anything you forgot to pack?
Yes. My Pantene Pro-V Anti-Frizz Serum. (Points to head.)

What kind of music did you guys listen to on the drive down?
We hardly listened to music although Leona Lewis' Bleeding came on every time we got off our route. And then every time we got back on the route Leona Lewis' Bleeding would come on again.

What is your dream job?
My dream job? I really don't know what it is. Just a place where I feel comfortable and work with people who are nice. I don't care what kind of job it is.

What about Florida do you predict is going to drive you batty?
The traffic, the old people and people with that Florida air about them.

Florida air?
You know what I mean.

No I don't.
Like DeAnna from The Bachelorette.

Is she from Florida?
She's from Georgia. That's close enough.

[PK's friend Erika walks in the room and sits on the couch beside her.]

Erika, what kind of driver is PK?
I think Pam would agree with me. We had some moments. We had some oh shit moments.

PK, what kind of driver is Erika?
Erika couldn't drive because she's too long for my car and I also have lifts under my seat so she couldn't drive. I told her I wouldn't put her through that torture.
Erika: She kept saying 'those lanky legs can't fit in this car.' My legs would probably get stuck on the pedal. It would be full gas the whole time.

What's your fast food count at?
P: I took coupons with me for McDonald's and I showed Erika how proud I was to have them and she said they only take them in New York and Pennsylvania. We didn't discover that until West Virginia so we ended up at BK and she got cinnamon buns.
E: Only for a dollar though. I woofed those down. They put something in those.
P: You felt great after those cinnamon buns.
E: And for only a $1.

Spot any snazz vanity plates along the way?
P: Pretty Pam was our favorite plate.

Someone had a pretty Pam plate?
P: Believe it or not there are some pretty Pams out there.

What's the garbage situation look like in your car?
E: All our fast food accumulated by my feet.
P: It kept getting higher and higher until we returned the old McDonald's wrappers at the window of a new McDonald's.

What are your plans for tomorrow?
P: Frying at the beach.

What brand vegetable oil did you pick up at CVS?
P: It's Banana Boat.

Any noticeable differences between the north and the south?
E: Oh God everyone was so friendly. We had to get used to that, how friendly people are. People here are really big at staring.
P: Like the guys at the gas station who made animal noises.
E: We had a group of guys making animal noises in Virginia. Like farm noises, actually I don't even know if they were farm animals. I think they were wild animal noises.
P: It was like we got out of the car ... like we were being birthed. Like it was labor.
E: And we're both stretching and I see them out of the corner of my eye and I said, 'Pam lets slide back in the car.'
P: They walked out of their way to our side of the pump.
E: They were gross industrial workers.
P: And they were making animal noises.

What's the first thing you're going to buy for your apartment?
E: You need bedding.
P: Well, I need a bed.

PS. The picture above is of a space-saving-air-sucking bag packed with clothes.

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.

Me and Sophia Petrillo would rock this too.

Balls. I've been told I can't post about "Lost." As much as I want to rip into the show, Joe has informed me that in order to give an accurate critique of the tangent-tastic, scuzz opera I have to rent all the seasons on DVD. Apparently watching only 10 episodes doesn't cut it for Siskel & Joe-bert. So, I must wait and Lance must remain nonpartisan on topics such as "Lost." (I knew this topic would rile him more than Towelie.)

So instead let me pontificate on Stein Mart. Why I'm rip roaring crazy over Stein Mart, the shopping plaza department store that, on the surface, sells merch to outfit an old biddy and old biddy condominiums.

There's a Stein Mart up the road from me, in a Publix plaza maybe two, three miles away. Whenever I go there (and it is often) I feel like I'm going to my favorite Q-tipped Aunt's house for mint juleps and scrabble. The women who work there are sweet as pumpkin pie and call me hon. The first time I walked in there, brand new to St. Pete and on a mission to find a lamp for our new apartment, a lone male employee walked up to me in housewares and asked if I needed help. I never saw the Stein Male again, though he was just as helpful and fatherly as the ladies were doting and maternal. (I think they keep him chained up behind the swinging door in housewares, where he works on Sudoku puzzles and if needed is unchained briefly for heavy lifting.)

Since that day I've returned to Stein Mart perhaps two dozen times. I purchased all my family's Christmas gifts there and traveled with an extra suitcase to Buffalo with all these oddities inside - rubber boots with enormous flowers on them for my sister, Heelya; a blue, blue handbag for my sister PK, pug slippers for my mom, the list goes on ...

People have said to me (particularly those family members mentioned above): "What the hell are you doing at Stein Mart, Bea Arthur?

And to them I say: "The place rocks my socks. I got the ass-iest pair of jeans* ever at Stein Mart."

Some of the other things I've purchased there:
1. Two blankets
2. Pillows
3. Green shirt that I am wearing to the left on this Lance
4. Our kitchen table, which Joe and I call Grandpa's snack tray
5. Bed sheets
6. White granny sweater
7. The butt jeans*

*And it's thanks to my Stein Mart sistahs that I even own the butt jeans at all. I almost bought a frilly, caketopper dress instead for this wedding we went to last week, but Jesus no I didn't really want to buy it and upon seeing my scrunched up face as I half-heartedly twirled for them in the dressing room, the Stein Mamas told me, "Hon, if you really like the jeans better, get the jeans."

Which is precisely what I did.

My theory is, is that I'm sister-less and mom-less here. PK, Heelya, mom, Nana, Aunt Winnie ... they're all up in Buffalo. The ladies at Stein Mart fill that void. Perhaps I wouldn't even shop at Stein Mart if these women lived here. Perhaps I specifically sought a Gouda cheesy department store in an attempt to stir up substitute retail relatives so that when I go shopping it's like I'm shopping with my ladies back in Buffalo again, which leads me to my final point of the morning - PK is moving here in less than three weeks.

Things are gonna get funky.