Live Free, or Die

Day 2 Epic Summer 7/2/2010

What can I possibly say about the ride through New Hampshire other than it was absolutely gorgeous! The weather was perfect and every curve in the road revealed pockets of breathtaking landscapes. Mojo got the thumbs up from several helmetless biker dudes and chicks, but I chose to keep my brain bucket cinched up tight ... always better safe than sorry in my opinion.

Cruising along through the mountains, I noticed a sign that said, "Best BBQ north of Memphis." Being an Arkansan and knowing what smoked pig should taste like, I was curious enough to give it a shot. Also, I've come to discover that wherever there is BBQ, there are bikers, and this place was no exception. I pulled Daimon right up next to a big shiny Roadking classic, took Mojo for a potty break, wrapped his leash around my crash bar, and walked inside the smoke joint. It had all the right sounds and smells, and I was instantly greeted by the deep voice of a round bellied southern man. I replied with, "That can't be the voice of a New Hampshire local I hear." He chuckled, fessed up to being from Kentucky, and proceeded to explain how the woman behind the bar lured him up here to the mountains. I ordered what any good BBQ connoisseur would reach for when testing a smokehouse out, 1/4 rack of ribs and a pile of pulled pork. After sampling an array of sauces, I explained that I would be dining outside on the curb with my pup, and the Kentucky man followed me with a big bowl of ice water. After swapping motorcycle stories with the owner of the Roadking and watching Mojo lick his paws of the last greasy spots from his portion of pork, we carried on towards Portland, Maine.

It had been many many years since I'd seen this old friend of mine who now resides in South Portland. As I rode along, a memory of her in high school immediately came to me.

"Jen, has a girl ever tried ... to approach you?"
"Uh, what do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't think so?"

I knew what she meant, but I wasn't ready to hear it. I'm pretty sure I've known all my life, but high school wasn't the time for me to realize it. So much of me was undefined then, and at the moment that memory resurfaced I was so satisfied that I could at least define that part now, and comfortably and proudly so. I smiled excitedly, anxious to get to her home to meet her family. She has a life that I think many would envy, a loving partner, a beautiful little girl, and a group of solid people around her. Their house was a cozy one, and her partner had, through her own blood, sweat and tears, built an addition that served as a preschool/daycare that she ran. And though I did not expect a place to crash for the evening, the toddler sized tables and chairs would become my floor buddies for the night. There is nothing more loving and hospitable than an offer of a place to bed down and a home-cooked meal, and I was lucky enough to be afforded both that night from an old friend.

So I say, cheers to the lovely ladies of South Portland! Thanks for the warmth!

The Key To The Highway

Day 1 Epic Summer 7/1/2010

As I worked to attach my belongings to Daimon in the garage, I felt like a bag lady that won a Harley at a casino. My bike was packed so heavily with crap that I may not have had a rear suspension at that point, but I did my best to have all the things that Mojo and I needed to travel comfortably for a couple of months. I watched him lick himself with no idea what he was in for, but I knew that as long as he was with mama, everything would be right in the world for him. I envied him at that moment, and not only because he could lick himself ...

We said our goodbyes to our friends that were there in the garage to see us off, I clipped Mojo into his seat, and belted out as loud as I possibly could, just as I started the engine, the words made famous by many blues artists over the years, "I've got the key ... to the highway ... long way to go ... I'm gonna leave here runnin' ... ain't comin' back no mo'" And with that, we were off.

Speaking of keys, I can't even begin to tell you the breathe of fresh of air I tasted when I realized that I had only one key as of that day. I had no house key, no office key, no garage key, no ID badge, no mailbox key, and no car key. My once jumbled mess of a keychain was reduced to the one that goes vroom vroom!

The whole ride that day was filled with moments of realized freedoms. I didn't care about my cellphone. Hell, it's turned off and in a bag. I wasn't waiting for any important emails. Aside from updating Facebook and letting people sort of know when I was due to drop in, I saw no need to worry about time. I don't wear a watch, and that didn't really matter anyway. I knew that the sun and weather would pretty much determine my daily progress. It's just me, Mojo, and the single key, and I was grinning ear-to-ear because of it.

Of course, leave it up to my hound to truly capture the emotion that day. We were on a country road in the Adirondaks, far away from any other people, at least that I could tell, and I saw a huge bird (hawk, eagle, I really don't know) soaring. I felt Mojo perk up behind me and I glanced in my rearview mirror. He had clearly gotten a glimpse of the bird too and he started following it with his eyes. As the bird dipped down and passed us overhead, Mojo let out this amazing, "Arrrooooooo!" I almost choked on that feeling. So I just howled with him. This, my friends, is a hell of a ride!

I Got My Mojo Runnin'

Sometimes I feel so terrible for my little Mojo, because I know he's totally confused by his new surroundings. I wonder if he remembers the old neighborhood in St. Louis. Does he miss his dog buddies in the old apartment building? His best friend Sierra is this adorable husky whose parents were both med students. Sierra's daddy rode a little yellow crotch rocket that was parked right next to my cruiser in the garage. Playtime for Sierra and Mojo meant shop talk for this guy and I. Which leads me to another sweet old dog named Harley. She was a slow moving brown lab-type dog and Mojo loved her and was always gentle with her. Harley's mom was a cute, eccentric, very pale girl with a little pixie hair cut that made me smile. I thought maybe she rode bikes due to Harley's name, and I asked her. "No," she said, "I don't ride a motorcycle, but she just looks like a biker chick, don't you think?" Grinning like the big cheeseball that I am, I noticed that Mojo's harness was the same pattern as Harley's collar, and I was seconds from offering Harley's mom a ride on my bike before, like a dumbass, I stopped myself. I still don't know why for the life of me I never asked that girl out.

Aside from the apartment, Mojo had tons of friends in the dog park down the street. How could he forget his boxer playmate Boston, whose daddy was a huge Red Sox fan? Boston's daddy and I would shoot the shit about baseball while the little men rough housed. If we were lucky, a this pug named Brewster and his very beautiful mommy would stroll up to spend time in the park too. Brewster's mom had these amazing tattoo's on her arms and neck, and I was always afraid of making her uncomfortable by staring at the scales on this wild detailed pattern just under her hairline on the back of her neck. It was one of those that could almost make you cross-eyed. Boston's dad and I also loved to chat about the soccer moms. There was a group of women that showed up at the park precisely at 4:45 and stayed until 5:30, no later. They came with their dogs, almost all black labs, go figure, and often human type babies strapped to their frontsides. They rarely engaged us in conversation, but they did allow our dogs to socialize. Boston's dad and I often chewed over whether or not any of those women were getting happily laid on a regular basis. We decided no ... haha!

Mojo had sooo many friends, he's bound to be missing them, even the ones he never really got to play with. Like Yoshi, a little speck of a thing that did more yapping than anything else. Yoshi's mom was way too sophisticated to let any other dogs approach her. I mean, god forbid their matching outfits would get dirty. I think Mojo was puzzled by that. That little shit sure could have used a beatdown from a dog or two ... just kidding, I don't condone puppy violence. Mojo would never have beat her down anyway. He would possibly have licked her to death, but Mojo is no pummeler. Oh and I almost forgot about The Impostor. There was this other husky in the neighborhood that Mojo ALWAYS thought was Sierra and would crouch into play-stance as it approached. The only difference was that The Impostor's mommy wasn't a nice lady. So I always had to tell Mojo, no no that's The Impostor so he would back down.

Mojo and I found a great dog park here in Syracuse. Onondaga Lake Dog Park is a huge enclosed spot with two areas, one for the big guys and one for the puppies and littler dogs. Mojo, being a nice mid-sized guy is comfortable on either side. This park, though, is so big and there are so many dogs during certain hours, I think Mojo just gets overwhelmed. He starts foaming at the mouth like a rabid monster and all the other owners look at me funny. Last weekend I thought about foaming at the mouth myself just to freak people out. However, it would be a sad day if I were ever banned from a dog park. So I sucked it up, kept my mouth foam free, and brought Mojo, slobbery mouth and all, to the park so he could frolic and spread gooey love all over the pant legs of the other dog owners.

Peeling Back the Layers ... just another weak day in a retarded sea of many

So not too long ago, I was sitting at my favorite bar for another round at Happy Hour. I go there when I'm bored, thoughtful, or whatever. The regular rowdy crowd of red-cheeked bar goers surrounded me as I shot the shit with the bartenders. FYI, I am a firm believer in not "breaking the seal" until it is absolutely necessary. If you don't know what I mean, then this story is lost on you. Whatever, pints a plenty filled and emptied in front of me before I decided it was time to break the seal. I also find it to be a good sobriety check to go to the washroom. If my reflection in the mirror appears to be less than a 75 degree angle to the counter, it's a good indication that I am not going to drive anywhere. So there I am, ready to get up from my seat at the bar. I always leave a half pint at my stool, so no wise guy decides he or she can take my seat. Now, if you know me, you know damn well my feet ALWAYS dangle from a bar stool no matter what sort of footing is available. I'm just short like that. One other important note, if you happen to have read any of my other posts, you may be familar with my amazing ability to make a complete fool of myself in public. This day is no exception. In one fell swoop, I had my elbows off the bar, swung my dangling legs around the stool, stood upright, attempted a step forward ... oh damn. No step forward, why? You guessed it, my pants are at my ankles *facepalm* Seriously, I am lucky that my counter angle was only at about 85 degrees, otherwise my relatively graceful bend to yank my pants back up would have probably failed. I'm not 100% sure when I'll have the kahones to go back to that bar.

I suppose I can be thankful, in a way, for moments like that to distract me from the reason I found myself at the bar in the first place. It would be total denial to think that I actually go to the bar alone when I'm happy about anything. My brain gears twist a million miles a minute on stuff it shouldn't. What makes certain life events so very incredibly hard to get over? Is it a time thing? Can I put a number on the years needed to cleanse? Years of wasted affection and energy yielded layers created by the co-dependancy that I am slowly peeling away to recover the woman that was strong before the failed relationship. Sometimes I'm afraid I was never strong to begin with. I can only ride so many miles on my motorcycle thinking that it's theraputic for this broken soul. Somedays the smiles are masks. Most days the smiles are chemically induced. I want legit smiles. I want anything legit. I swear, Happy Hour is falsely named. How many times do I have to drop trow before I go bananas?!

Counter angle check during this post = 90 degrees ...

Brooklyn, Baby!

I finally got the kahones to take Daimon into the big city. Really, what's 250 miles? I knew the ride was gonna be beautiful and fun. It wasn't the first 245 miles that scared me. I can't even describe the feeling as I exited the Holland Tunnel and spilled right out into the madness and mayhem that was Canal Street. It was a rush like no other I'd had on the bike. Feeling so small made the experience so big. At any second, I knew I could've become the filling in an automobile sandwich as I maneuvered in between traffic. Shit, if a guy on a freakin 10-speed could do it, I sure as hell was gonna try with 1200cc's between my legs. I wanted to take it all in as best I could, so I lifted the visor of my helmet and took a deep breath. Honestly, it smelled so bad I almost wanted to vomit a little, but all I had to do was get to the Manhattan Bridge and into Brooklyn only a handful of miles before arriving at my destination. Even though I was completely focused on the road and the cars around me, I could feel the weight of the city and the density of the crowds scavenging through cheap sidewalk knock-offs and gawking at sign after sign cluttered with characters I only wish I could read too. I'd been to the NYC many a time, but never like this. There were cops at almost every intersection attempting to direct traffic, and just about every one of them gave me a respectable nod as I cruised along my own personal lane marked by the dashed line that cars are intended to be governed by. I'm not gonna say I was going much faster than 10 miles an hour, but the truth is I did manage to take out a couple of rearview mirrors that protruded into my lane. It's a damn good thing those were designed to fold back.

Finally, I had the Manhattan Bridge in my sights and the intensity of the traffic became a little more bearable. Okay let me just say first, there's this thing I do every time I cross a state line. It's something sort of like a battle cry, but more like a vocal expression of joy and accomplishment. I think I can describe it as something between a "Yee-haw" and a "Woo-Pig" (for those readers from Arkansas, you may be able to understand completely). Anyway, the very moment that my front wheel went past the first bridge support, I just belted out a huge holler, bigger than any single state line crossing battle cry I'd ever allowed to escape my lungs. It felt incredible! And suddenly the cars around me were insignificant to me and my own experience. I wanna say my shout lasted about a quarter of the way along the bridge, and I remember looking around at the city thinking "Damn, I did it!" Now it's important to note that my usual battle cries are never really heard by anyone but me, seeing as how they generally happen on state highways. This time, being in traffic on a warm day in New York City didn't make my screams of joy quite so private. And it wasn't until I looked at the car on my right, that I realized just how loud it must have been. I must say though that there is something extremely poetic about being a newbie biker in the big apple getting a thumb's up from a very large man literally stuffed in the driver's seat of a mini-cooper. At least his carbon footprint was small :)

Driving through New York City on a motorcycle really is as intense as a phat breakbeat!

Time Flies When You Uproot Your Life and Start Anew

Wow, so it's been a good couple of months since I've felt the need for therapy via blog in the form of brain spew. Maybe it's this new sense of peace I've gained. Maybe it's this new flowering love interest ... pfft, yeah I wish. No, maybe it's the fact that the last couple of months has been full of fun in the sun, hundreds of cardboard boxes, and a 1000 mile solo motorcycle trip.

Yes, it's true. I FINALLY got my ass out of the oppressive arms of conservative St. Louis and the corporate office, and into the throws of not so oppressive upstate New York and the union labor environment!
You know what time it is? LIST TIME!

The Lou vs. The 'Cuse from the Perspective of a Big Brown Lesbian Biker:

• Weather – It’s still summertime, so I’m gonna table this comparison until my tropical-by-nature ass is waist deep in snow. At least brown is a good contrast to snowy white, yes?
  
• Vroom Vroom – In the Lou, I know I have more actual riding days overall in a year. But in the ‘Cuse, I can go in any direction and see some beautiful windy roads that are far from the flatness that is the Midwest . Note: It was a hard decision to make, but Nietzsche did NOT make the 1000 mile trip from the Lou to the ‘Cuse with me. Why you ask? It isn’t because he didn’t want to, it’s because I am a true American in every materialist sense of the word. I desired a bigger bike! I tried to keep Nietzsche in the family, attempting to convince my little brother that he needed to learn to ride a bike and that I would sell him one for a sick low price. That didn’t work, so I went to Gateway Harley Davidson, found Daimon (a 1200C that was love at first sight, by the way), rang the Freedom Bell (more on that in another blog entry I promise), and rode out of there with Nietzsche in my rearview mirror. We’ll always have Memphis , my sweet Nietzsche! *sniffles*
  
• Friends – I left a number of good friends in The Lou. They are farther away, but close to my heart. Really, it’s a damn good thing I have friends all over this fine country and across so many state lines, because being in NY has put me in closer proximity to many other friends that I used to have to fly to see. Who loves ya’ Toronto , Pittsburgh , the NYC, etc. etc.
  
• Dating – Again, I probably need to table this comparison until I get my feet wet in the scene here. So far, it seems small. I'm sure you all will get dirt soon ... or shit, I hope so *sigh*
  
• Work -- I couldn't be happier with my situation here. First of all, I'm closer to the beer. Being in the brewery is sooooo much more fun than sitting in a cube farm. Everything from the smells of the brews to the sights of large scale production is really pretty exciting. I most definitely feel more comfortable in a hardhat and boots as opposed to business casual. But I didn't have to tell you guys that, right.
  
• Bars -- Other than the obvious change in the price of a beer, I've already found some spots I like around here. My favorite is The Dinosaur. It's a biker bar/bbq joint. However, being from Arkansas, I know my damn BBQ and I'm picky about it at that. Just as any good Arkansan would tell you, don't joke about the smoke, and you better cook my hog like you make love in the summertime, nice and slow. I drool just thinking about BBQ back home, but The Dinosaur will have to do. It's really the feel of the place that I like, and plus I get to play a tough leather biker chick when I go and pull Daimon up next to the big boys ... hee hee, it's so fun! I could totally walk there because I live so close to it, but what's the fun in that??!!
  

Ah, and so it goes! Jen has made it out of the midwest, huzzah! It's been about 3 weeks now, and my ass has healed fully from the ride. It's time to see what else Syracuse has to offer me.

Wine Date with an Animal Hide Soul on the Telephone

I think I can count on one hand the number of tried and true souls that I can run to when the shit really hits the fan. I'm talking about those fantastic individuals that you can go months without even speaking to, and when you finally do manage to wrangle them onto the other end of the phone, it's like you pick up right where you left off in that conversation months ago as if it had been only a day or two. People like this are so key in my life, and you know who you are, that is if you even read this. I'm willing to bet that over half of them don't read my occasional ethernet spew, but no matter, because I know they are always on my side of the court.


So in the different layers of souls and energies that I keep in the fabric around me, the "dial my number when shit hits the fan" friends are like my base layers. They aren't always visible, but they are certainly essential. Over my base layers are naturally several other layers of light and dark that make up my little bit of daily radiation. Now, besides all the immediate and more permanently close weaves of lives and loves, I like to think that everyone I have ever encountered in my life makes up this wild stash of blankets that I can pull over onto myself from time to time. It's like I've learned a lot of really good and bad things from people who have come and gone in my life, and those things never get thrown out. I try to keep them folded away for later recall and extra warmth if need be.


So where the hell am I going with this damn stoner analogy? Oh yeah, my wine/phone date! I've lately been making a ton of reconnections with people I've not been in contact with for a long time. And one in particular has been an incredible comfort and inspiration. Let's see if this makes any sense. The blanket that this woman's soul weaved for me was really more like a tough animal hide. Back when I hung out with her, she was always someone I looked up to from a self-confidence point of view. Yo, basically, this bitch was, and still is in my opinion, quite the bad ass! From what I remembered of her, she was a strong, bold, take no bullshit, give no bullshit, kind of woman. And on top of that, she was just down right gorgeous. Anytime her name would come up over the years, I would always couple that with this memory of a beautiful hardcore woman that could probably kick your ass. So there is no way her blanket would have been wool or any sort of typical fibrous weave. Chick is definitely a leather throw!

Okay, so here is an interesting tidbit of information about my leather blanket woman. And I suppose my attempts at keeping her anonymous are probably fucked up because some people are sure to figure out who she is from this story, but I can't possibly leave this goody out of the blog. At one point, I actually worked for her. She was working at a temp agency, and I was living a rather unstable life at the time. Without going into too much detail, it's easy enough to say that most nights my head rested on more couch cushions and upholstered car seats than it did on pillows or mattresses. "Home" was hard to define as I spent time in various states to fulfill, um ... legal obligations ... enough about that. Anyway, I asked her to please not place me anywhere that business or business casual attire was necessary, because I just didn't have it, nor was I quite ready to part with all the damn metal in my face (yes, I went through a ridiculously pierced phase). So I was given assignments that were more manual labor intense, which I had no problem with. One day, she calls me up with an address and contact person to go see for work. I arrive at a Kinko's Copy Center and ask for the manager. Apparently, my job for that day was to clean out all the air ceiling vents in the store. Again, I had no problem doing this work, but I didn't exactly have the right supplies for the job. I guess he was expecting an individual armed with cleaning supplies. All he got was a thuggish sneaker clad young lady without even a bucket or a sponge. After making it clear that I would use whatever he had for me to clean with, he hands me a folding chair and a canister vacuum. Soooo, the ceilings in the Kinko's had to be, oh, at least a good 15 feet high. I am 5'4", and the folding chair he gave me was a standard couple of feet to the seat. You don't have to be Asian to do the math here. Luckily, I wasn't afraid of possible limb breakage of any sort, because used Kinko's giant formatting tables to put the damn chair on top of to reach the vents with enough angle to clean them appropriately. At the time, I could have cared less how stupid it was because I needed moolah.


The day went on, and as I approached my final vent, the manager came over to chat with me just as I was balancing the canister vacuum on the back of the folding chair. I don't know for sure if he just knew I really needed the money or if I was just the first person he asked, but he told me of another opportunity to make money for Kinko's. That coming weekend, there was a conference at the convention center being held by the local Chamber of Commerce. Kinko's needed a representative to advertise for them. Now, maybe I did look like a monkey climbing all over the shit in his store to clean some air ducts, but a gorilla? Yes, the Kinko's representative they were looking for was an individual who would don the Kinko's gorilla costume and wander the convention with a giant Kinko's sign. I have never been "above" any job in my lifetime as long as there was a paycheck attached to it. So I agreed.

The next day, I went back to the store to pick up the gorilla costume. The thing looked hot, and I'm NOT talking about, "Damn, that's hot!". I'm talking about "Shit, I'm gonna sweat balls in that thing!" I brought it back to my girlfriend's apartment to try it on. Much to my dismay, the thing fit ... well, not just fit ... but the damn thing FIT PERFECTLY. It fit so well, in fact, it was like my naked ass body was covered in fur. I stood there in front my roommates, furry as hell, ready for the comments from the peanut gallery. I'm sure my eat shit and die face didn't help the situation, but the laughter that filled that room was enough to drown out the grunts that escaped from under my breath. Dude, that damn suit was so form-fitting that if I had had any more than my gym shorts and a t-shirt on underneath, I would have never been able to zip it up. Never mind the fact that it was so tight that fucking Johnny Cochran could surely have gotten me out of a murder conviction. I was just damn lucky that there was a gorilla head to go with this costume.

The next morning was the convention day, and sliding into the furry body suit wasn't any less disconcerting. Therefore, in an attempt to ease my anxiety of facing the city in fuzzy nakedness, I decided to smoke up. Let's just say it loosened me up enough to get me comfortable and into character. So there I am, in the convention center, Kinko's sign in hand, prancing around lanyard-sporting tourists with a gorilla's gait. Naturally, it got very warm in this suit very quickly. Luckily, there was a spot where I could rest, have water, and remove the gorilla head without being seen by the masses. Here's where the "damnit, Jen, why did you have to go and get high before this job" question hits me. I had no choice but take numerous breaks throughout the day. It was scheduled as a 7 to 7 gig for Christ's sake! For anyone who has read any of my other posts, you already know that I am quite used to a daily dose of humiliation, and this day was no exception. It must have been sometime in the early afternoon right after a water break. I was recharged and ready to monkey-it-up for the crowd. So I grabbed my sign and headed out from around the curtain that made up my break room. Keep in mind that I was asked not to speak and simply ham it up for the convention-goers. I have no problem doing this, as I generally embrace being the center of attention. Anyway, there I am, all up in my naked fuzziness, channeling the posture of our ape-like ancestors, mouthing grunts, beating my chest, swinging my arms to and fro, scratching my fake gorilla head ... oh, wait ... that felt like my soft and silky straight black Asian hair ... FUCK MY LIFE! Just as I realized that I did NOT in fact remember to put on the head of the costume, I was already wrapped around some guy's leg, performing what I thought was my best monkey show ever. If you have never seen how animated I can be when I blush, wait until you can catch me blushing on top of being stoned in a fur suit while trying to peel myself off of an innocent man's leg. The sound was familiar, almost exactly the same as the sound I heard in my girlfriend's living room the day before ... only much, MUCH louder. The second I was upright, I looked around at my smiling audience, took a graceful bow, and ran like a bat out of hell back to my curtained retreat to fetch the only part of my costume that served to maintain any sort of anonymity. After collecting myself a bit "backstage", I trotted back out to finish my job only to be greeted by a flashbulb from the local newspaper's cameraman ... Thank fucking Jeebus I had the head back on! Suddenly, I didn't feel so naked anymore.

Okay okay, back to my leather blanket woman. So, as luck would have it, after about 10 years of not having spoken to her, I find myself on the phone with her last week. Being on the phone for almost 2 hours, one would think most of the time would have been spent reminiscing, but this wasn't so with her. It was mostly spent attempting to provide summaries of our lives and what they had been like over the last 10 years. Here is exactly why I was not wrong in my analogy of how I remembered her. I've been in touch with many of my old acquaintances over the years, and the majority of them have created a wonderful life and place in the world for themselves, all of which I am very happy for. I don't want to say anyone has lost their passion, because that's really not the case, but I will say that many of them have changed or focused their passion in a different direction. I think the Steve's would agree (wink wink -- points the reader in the direction of a previous blog entry). So here is this strong hardcore woman, telling me of the rows she has hoed over last decade or so, and I could not pinpoint a single redirection of passion or drive. Hell, if anything, she's going harder and stronger than I can even remember! So I sat to take in all that she decided to share with me, and I made a comment to her. It was something along the lines of, "Dude, you were always so self-confident and strong, and I always admired you for that." I wouldn't have been surprised if her next story was one about her single-handedly wrestling a bull to the ground. But I was wrong, our conversation took a turn about our own vulnerabilities and weaknesses, and we began to relate on a more real and open level. This tough leather blanket suddenly felt like one of the softest polartec fleeces I'd ever wrapped myself up with. It was so nice to have an open and interested ear on the phone, and it was even more comforting to catch up with a really cool old friend that has lived up to and even gone beyond the initial impression she made on me over a decade ago. What's more is that learning more about her than I ever knew before managed to morph my fabric layer analogy of her. Oh no, bitch is STILL leather for sure! But she is no blanket anymore. I'd like to think of her more like a motorcycle vest with a soft fuzzy lining. So thank you, my dear. You know who you are.

Oh, and yes, every single person I have ever met provides some layer of warmth to me. However, I'm not so sure I would think of anyone in the category of fuzzy body suit. Yo, that's just a little too close for my comfort ;-)