And So It Goes

Taking advantage of my parent's momentary lack of concentration and good judgement, I've convinced them to renovate our aging home. We've ripped down the paper, coated the walls with new color, ordered new furniture and are now having the floors taken out and replaced.
There are untold benefits with this monumental change, but a few worth mentioning are:
(a)I get the opportunity to flex my interior design skills and prove to everyone that home decorating shows and subscriptions to Verdana and Better Homes and Gardens are worth every penny,
(b)Never again will I be ashamed to bring home friends and/or potential mates,
and (c)there is currently a rather handsome Italian man laying tile just one room away. He speaks very little English but who needs talking, right?
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In Biblical times, they thrust the unclean and unwanted members of society out of the city and forced them to live in caves and beg for scraps. These days, they force them into their parents home and make them beg for part-time wages.

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I've spent the past 6 days at the beach, soaking in sun and salt, basting with number 8 spf, and waiting for the sun to sizzle as it drops down into the watery horizon. I've ignored the world with unbelievable ease and the largest problem I've had to tackle has been which bathing suit will create the best tan lines. It's a hard life and someone has to live it.
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I rose reluctantly that day, though earlier than usual on account of a work function being held before my noon class. In my rush and sleepy haze, I dressed quickly and in silence, ignoring the almost constant phone calls coming in on my cell phone. I thought it was Stuart, my co-worker telling me I was late. It was actually my mother telling me to turn on the tv and witness the world falling down. I had no idea. I finished dressing and raced across town, CD blaring and more than likely screaming at traffic and red lights. On any other morning, I listened to talk radio and would have tuned into tragedy but in my haste I failed to switch from CD to tuner. I pulled into the driveway of the home where I parked and was mounting my bike when Jon, my friend and house resident, came out to tell me that this morning was like no other. By the time I reached the tv, all four planes were down as were both towers. I rode to school, tears and prayers tumbling out, numb and disbelieving. By the time I arrived at the volunteer fair, Stuart was waiting to tell me it had been cancelled. We discussed the morning briefly and eventually I joined the crowds of people huddled around tv sets, reliving the hours-old disasters, mouths open though completely silent. Today, two years later, we are still silent in memorium, in reverence, and because, really, there is nothing we can say. The silence says it all.
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Happiness could possibly resemble...lunches and visits with friends, old friends, new ones, friends reclaimed, friends you never knew you had...smelling the remnants of men's cologne after an afternoon and an embrace...waking up to find the haircut you hated yesterday is growing into something fabulous, with bangs...still fitting into size 4 low-rise hipsters after weeks of couches and ice cream...sandy shoes, salty hair and stinging skin from an afternoon with the world's most handsome three-year-old...a twelve dollar chance turning into the best investment...warm butter struesel coffee cake...closing in on hundreds of new television possiblities...lunch dates with corporate opportunites...and Vincent D'HOTfrio, definitely him.
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Reunited, and it feels so....
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