Did she get scared? Even though it would make no sense, I often wonder if my mother was nervous during the first year of my life. Having nearly lost my brother near his first birthday, I picture some sort of PTSD-related breakdown on one of those green cracked vinyl cushion and chrome kitchen chairs. The same chairs where she sat and heard him speak his first words at 4. Did she fear never hearing mine? Those first few days home did she keep me too close? Too careful? Too watched for risk someone would snatch me away?

My first year.

The stories I hear I’m too young to remember, but sometimes wish I had been old enough at the time to experience. Apparently my brother and sister were quite the dynamic duo, constantly causing trouble. From what I understand, there was a walk involved. And a power washer. And then my genius sister figured out that if they vacuumed the water out of the toilet and then reversed the suction on the vacuum, it would likely have the same effect. Never mind the whole electricity plus water equals disaster equation. I haven’t heard this favorite in years.

My second year.

We weren’t allowed to watch much television, but I remember, vaguely, Pinwheel on Nickelodeon. Similar to Sesame Street, it had many short snippets of a variety. My favorite was of a young Asian girl playing at a piano recital. I wanted to do that more than anything. Yes, at three. I desperately wanted a piano and to play. I had a toy piano and a stuffed dog named Ralph (after Rowlf on the Muppets). It was obvious what was to come, right? I don’t think they had faith but my mom started researching teachers, talking to friends.

My third year.

Ring around the rosie
Pocket full of posie
Ashes, ashes we all fall down


I only have one memory of the playground behind my nursery school.

A tall tree.

A long slide.

And singing that song, dancing in circles…

Over and over.

Hands clasped, someone in a purple jumper. A boy with really flushed cheeks. A chocolate-brown haired girl with white teeth.

A yellow plastic bucket, the kind for building sand castles, in a wet sandbox.

The wind was blowing more than a breeze, less than a discomfort. Late fall. And that song, over and over and…

My fourth year.

My first piano teacher bit me. And while I’m sure she was just kidding, trying to make a point, I distinctly remember being absolutely horrified that she took my hand, placed four fingers in her mouth, and bit down. I screamed and cried and carried on. All because I couldn’t remember where my fourth fingers went and when the thumb went over on my major scales. It didn’t matter that she said she was joking. And it was years before the NEA indoctrinated me to understand intent vs. impact (and that I was OKAY to be horrified).

My fifth year.

My second piano teacher didn’t want to take me as a student. She said I was too young… a theme in my life (even now). I auditioned and she took a gamble. I stuck with her for more than 20 years. Weekly lessons (at least). Trips to the city to visit her coach. Practices. Auditions. Performances. And yet if you looked at my hands then, you wouldn’t understand it. I have never had a pianist’s hands. AD had her lessons after me for a few years. And E. I was fascinated. Their age. Their grace. Their ability.

My sixth year.

Mrs. K was a horrible teacher. She was great at pushing kids and delivering instruction that helped students achieve, but she would pick out kids to simply torment. Did it work? Yes. The rest of the students in the class would be scared shitless to step out of line, but it had far-reaching effects. I remember being violently ill in the downstairs bathroom after school, to the point that my mother was nervous and didn’t think I was going to go back. And remember, there weren’t bad kids in my second grade class. We were sickeningly good.

My seventh year.

In Mrs. Johnson’s class we learned two new things. Cursive and our multiplication tables. Somehow, these two things are no longer taught in school. And, I’ll admit it: I never use cursive… I don’t even use lowercase letters anymore. But multiplication? I could not get through a single day without the ability to multiply. From figuring out how long it’s going to take me to get somewhere based on my speed, to figuring out percentages, to my career, to my phone bill, I use basic math (which includes knowledge of the “times tables”) on a constant basis.

My eighth year.

I don’t know at what point I started, but I distinctly remember reading Sweet Valley High books in Mr. Bloom’s class during the fourth grade. I was obsessed with them. They were a little more grown-up (in Book 3, for example, which was called Playing With Fire Jessica, the more rebellious of the twins, gets her bikini top undone by the naughty rich boy) than what I probably should have been reading, but they were so easy to get through. I remember Todd, the red spider convertible, the swimming pool in their backyard… must’ve read them all.

My ninth year.

Fifth grade was when we started going to middle school. I could walk and would often do so with friends. But sometimes I would stay late for something, or they would… forcing what I hated: walking alone. That’s when Bobbi-Jo would appear. She wasn’t your typical bully; she was actually fairly popular, but for some reason she tormented me on those walks home. She never came through on her worst threats, but the other stuff was more than enough. Years later I hoped to run into her in a bar. I so would have kicked her ass.

My tenth year.

Personas were tried on like sweaters. If you look at the girls in my class we changed who we were, how we looked, what we wore, to whom we listened on a near weekly basis, trying to find the persona that would actually fit instead of just waiting for it to emerge authentically. In that change came friendships that didn’t break, but bent in order to try on others for size. To see which would become the favorite sweater with a hole on the seam; which would get stepped on, left forgotten on the dressing room floor.

My eleventh year.

Overnight I felt completely different. Like I was done playing the game of what and who were cool. I was just so tired of it, so I stopped playing. I wore what I liked, spoke to whom I wanted, took on hobbies that interested me, and stopped worrying about everyone else. And, oddly, was incredibly happy. Because they didn’t react as I thought they might, but instead accepted that I was me. And that was that. In doing so I definitely sacrificed some things, but the gain was immeasurable: one of my best friends, and an identity.

My twelfth year.

Not to sound like a bitter old woman, but I think my first experience kissing a boy really gave me a glimpse into what the next fifteen years of interactions with men would bring. Pretty much a little physical interaction after a long emotional buildup, ending up with, “Oh, you thought that MEANT something?” and a great deal of grief in the end. Okay, maybe I’m being a tad melodramatic, but I swear the scenario repeated itself regularly. Luckily I didn’t turn into a shot-swilling whore who sat at the bar and spread her legs for acceptance.

My thirteenth year.

I remember it being kind of cold out and completely lying to my parents about where I was going and whom I was seeing. Probably one of the first times I pulled that, but definitely not the last. I can’t remember what we were originally going to do, probably hang out on the beach, but it was absolutely frigid for March. Instead we hung out in the back breezeway of Oyster Bay High School, near the band room, and made out. I was wearing what I believe was my favorite sweater, which I realize now was hideous.

My fourteenth year.

Kissing boys caused nothing but drama. Sophomore year it was J, whom I met through A. He was definitely intriguing and I think I hung out with him twice… the night I met him and then I brought him to a Sweet Sixteen. It caused all sorts of girl drama; which was dumb because I didn’t think it would last. It didn’t. She got over it. But, it brought about two nights of making out with a boy who was definitely not my “type”, and the thrilling prospect that my parents would have DIED had they known.

My fifteenth year.

I can't remember the name of the place now. Wait, Paris Cafe. It was in downtown Huntington, kind of on the fringe, where it starts to get a little sketchy. C, R and I spent so much time there. Thursday nights during the summer. Poetry readings. I think the mc's name was Steve. And we met people who were writers of all different genres and calibers and we loved hanging out with them. They had such a different way of living; a different set of rules. Definitely not the snotty north shore standards we were used to.

My sixteenth year.

My mom picked me up at school and we drove to the DMV. We went home and my parents gave me my birthday present: our ancient VW rabbit, The Silver Bullet. I was one of the first to get my license, opening a whole new world to my friends and I. Who knows how many miles R and I travelled, each with either nonstop laughter or deep conversation. And maybe a blown stop sign or two. It was the start of something big: late nights… not having to be completely truthful about where we were… growing up.

My seventeenth year.

It’s tough to think about just how cruel I was to him that year. I was the person I hated. I lied, ignored, snapped, avoided. But there was more: I let him believe that everything was fine and that I was just as in to him as he was me. I let him believe that it was all going to work out and that four years later I’d move back home, lots of visits in between and we’d grow old together. But I had lots of growing up to do before I could commit to growing old.

My eighteenth year.

It was a great summer. Working at the club, going out at night, days off spent at the beach or hanging out with my girlfriends. Spending tons of time with C on our many adventures... most involving beer and boys. We had so many insane nights in Huntington, kissing people we'd never admit to, getting more drunk than we thought possible, hosting late night pool parties and spending so much time at that one dive bar. To this day when I drive past I think of her and I and the madness we left in our wake.

My nineteenth year.

J and I were super close throughout college. We had one of those really rare friendships where even the most egregious of wrongs (like the one she committed this particular year) were forgiven after time and space. I’m not quite sure how that happens, but as I get older I have developed a harsh theory: That it’s not that you’re so close you couldn’t bear to lose the person, it’s simply that you’re not invested enough to go through the drama of cutting them off… knowing eventually you’ll drift. Whatever the truth, there were many good times.

My twentieth year.

I had spent Spring Break home that year, catching up with friends and gearing up for my 21st. My last night of 20 I celebrated; C and I, getting ridiculously drunk on the fake i.d. I no longer cared about losing. She was starting her break as mine ended, decided she’d come to Albany for the week to celebrate. We weren’t hungover but exhausted and cranky. We knew a nap would be in order when we got to Albany. Right before the exit we saw sirens… the cop letting me go when C pouted, “It’s her birthday…”

My twenty-first year.

After the ceremony we had exactly one hour to leave. People wanted to do one last dinner before the drive; J and I never discussed it. Quietly we finished packing the room we’d shared in our house, clearly both near tears. At one point I asked, "Do you realize we're never going to live together again?" She sniffed and mumbled something about seeing each other nonstop once we moved back home. I can count the number of times we hung out again… Brooklyn sleepovers, Long Island shopping, a few other times… at least it takes two hands.

My twenty-second year.

I met them at Atlantic when they got off the LIRR. On the N on the way to the bar she whispered, “They’re still fighting over you…” I wasn’t interested. I was sick of boys; wanted a break and eventually something easy and quiet. But I didn’t know how to say that yet. Instead I smiled at the guy I found most attractive at the bar. He said “you’re hot” and “it’s cool you wear a grown up jacket.” I only kissed him to shut him up. The things I did to avoid being honest with boys.

My twenty-third year.

It was black, and sludgy, but amazingly didn’t smell. It crept up the bathtub drain one morning as I brushed my teeth and looked at my hair; examined my skin. I was completely freaked out and noticed, as I rinsed out the sink after makeup, that more crept into the tub. Of course I had visions of it filling all day and spilling over onto the floor, flooding my apartment with its gritty blackness. I called in sick, went to the cornerstore to grab draino but it didn’t work. My super poured it down the sink – success!

My twenty-fourth year.

We thought my leaving in Brooklyn would change things, M and I. We’d been friends for what seemed like forever, and spent more time together than most. Fridays she’d head to Brooklyn and we’d go out to Annie’s… causing trouble, earning free drinks, playing the electronic matching game. Saturdays she would sleep in (I would awaken to write) then we’d play boardgames all day before calling Pete’s to bring us pizza, sometimes beer and cigarettes. We’d stay up all night watching horror movies, talking… Sundays would be pretty much the same except she’d leave around dinner time.

My twenty-fifth year.

Well, it didn’t change. While it wasn’t monthly, M and I still found time for our sleepovers once I moved. My first year there she would come up, not quite monthly, and it was the same, once again. She would arrive on Thursday nights and we would hang with J. Fridays she might come to school with me, or I might take the day and we would talk, watch movies, play nonstop sorry or Royale or Monopoly. Friday nights we’d go out before slipping into our crazy Saturday routine. You’ve got to have one friend like M.

My twenty-sixth year.

I slipped into a dark place… but o one could blame me. I hated my job, had a few dysfunctional friendships, my relationship had finally ended and that was throwing me for a whirlwind while everyone around me was getting engaged. But, there were good things. My caching adventures, Mugsy, weekend trips to see my mom, visits from M, Brattleboro trips for no reason other than to visit the bead store and eat Indian. There was Scrabble, housesitting for the W’s in their dirty but cool house, my slow friendship with S, and did I mention geocaching?

My twenty-seventh year.

Things I remember:

Being made fun of for my coffee addiction
Our first kiss
Him being freaked out about pooping in my bathroom
A conversation about not dating other people
The first sleepover
Driving to my mom’s for a weekend
A frog named Carlyle
Hearing, “I think I’m falling in love with you”
Eating S’s pizza at the B’s and laughing the whole night
Him changing my guitar strings
The first times the sleeovers extended into two nights
Talking on the phone really late
Taking him to all of my favorite spots
(not realizing they’d become “ours”)

My twenty-eighth year.

I hated the idea of 30. I thought about it the whole year. Everything about it annoyed me. The fact that I wouldn’t be in my twenties any longer was a biggie. Also, the idea that 30 was grown up… I wasn’t feeling much like a grownup. Not one bit. I still liked cartoons, and staying in my PJs all day, and watching horror movies while eating popcorn with my girlfriends. And geocaching in the woods with Mugsy and L. I was still obsessed with checking my email and secretly loved Halloween. I wasn’t ready for 30.

My twenty-ninth year.

It was time. Change was quick – new job, new city, new state. We were quickly moving toward our future in a city I thought we would love. I was wrong. Detroit was dirty and sketchy (even in daylight) and the only thing I liked were a few restaurants and the fact that when the bargaining conference was there I could literally walk to work. It was great because of how much we drank at night… Kris and I just had to hop the people mover to get home. Kris hated Detroit. Mugsy hated Detroit. I hated Detroit.

My thirtieth year.

She called us each at work and then we called each other, “We got the house!” It was so exciting. We decided to celebrate this huge event by going to dinner. Walking to dinner I had one quick sharp pain in my stomach. After dinner I was doubled over… spent the night in the bathroom with terrible diarrhea which soon turned bloody. I’ve never been more scared. I woke up Kris at 3 to tell him about the blood, he didn’t believe it was bad. He saw a sample in the emergency room and finally got it.

My thirty-first year.