These last few weeks were much needed days of decompression—decompression from four years of school, decompression from a not so happy ending, decompression from the stress of moving, and decompression from reality. I slept in until ten and then napped from one until four. I sipped glasses of wine with no cares in the world. I laid out in the sun (and even got some tan lines, thank you very much), but now I have to return from it all, though I am ready.
I spent a week at home in Maine, which is pretty unheard of for me, seeing as I usually just pop in for three days or maybe four if the drive-back weather is icky. But it was good to see my family, as I realize instead of seeing them semi-regularly between school breaks I’ll be saying hello when I have PTO and those sorts of things I still don’t quite understand.
I got to meet some new additions to the house, which is jokingly called Pug Ranch. Lately, people who are moving and can’t bring their pugs with them have been leaving them with my parents. In the past year we’ve acquired a mouthy pug Otis, a pug-chihuahua Miley, and this puggle (a pug-beagle) Buddy, who is a little, indecent snot.
Of course I spent some time with one of the originals, Milo, who despite his young appearance is actually very old and probably doesn’t have many years left. But he has always been my favorite. He’s the only pet that is allowed to snuggle into bed with me. I hope he’ll be around for Thanksgiving.
For the past few years my parents have been slacking on lobster dinners when I come home—they seem to only be reserved for my siblings—so I finally guilted them into getting some for me, but more on that later this week. For now you can sleep well knowing this Mainer didn’t have to sneak into a Vermont supermarket to get some sad looking lobsters to fill her crustacean desires.
There was some reminiscing, of course, with old friends I hadn’t seen in years and their parents who I hadn’t seen for much longer. I made it home in time to see the carnival, which I didn’t go to, but it was nice to think back. Mom’s rule was ‘never talk to the carnies’ and to ‘pick up the cell when I call’ or else. The rest of the time we stuffed our faces with cotton candy & fried dough, whirled around on the Zipper ride, flirted with high school boys, and our future thoughts were when and where we’d lose our virginity—even though we hadn’t gotten to making out—never mind careers and healthcare deductibles.
PS: In case you were wondering, the ride back on Route 2 was boring as ever, so here’s the quick run through. Since it’s summer there was a lot of stopping at single-lane roads behind large trucks. I made the obligatory stop at the N.H. State Liquor Store and stocked up on vodka, tequila, and white rum; this part was not so bad. I ate some McDonald’s French Fries, because nothing gives you that extra jolt of energy like potatoes fried in what can only be addictive, liquid crack. Overall, I really hate that drive.