While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Bianchi almost got the boot.

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bianchi_nut

My stomach is in knots. I hate flying in commercial airliners. I never minded flying in my dad’s Cessna. But every time I take my seat in a commercial airliner, surrounded by strangers reading Stephen King novels and listening to iPods, I freak the frig out and watch in slow motion as my life’s happiest moments unravel while our plane plummets to earth.

I’ve literally got six minutes to write this, so here we go …

I’m heading to Buffalo for my bridal shower and the Ride for Roswell. Bianchi’s big hurrah. Joe dropped us off at the airport this evening and I’m not kidding you when I say checking this bike has been the most stressful airport experience of my life.

First: I didn’t know Bianchi had to be BOXED, so she almost didn’t make the trip. A nice woman working the curbside check-in wrangled up a cargo box for me. Twenty-five dollars and an hour later (yes an HOUR later) we finally had Bianchi in a box. Poor girl. She probably saw her life’s happiest moments unravel before her as I tore her front wheel off and wedged her head-first into a GIANT airport-issued cargo box. Her coffin.

Then, after I kissed my Joe goodbye, a TSA screener told me my wedding gown (which is in a GIANT green garment bag and coming with me on the plane) was “too cumbersome” for the overhead compartment. I told her it was my wedding dress and that I was told specifically by a Southwest attendant and by my bridal CONSULTANT (yes, I have a bridal consultant) that I could lug this thing on the plane. In fact, my bridal CONSULTANT told me I could hang it in a CLOSET on the plane. A closet. Like I’m Zsa Zsa Gabor. The miserly TSA screener let me go and here I am. Sitting at the terminal, waiting to board.

I’m nervous as hell. Like I said, I hate commercial airliners and I’m fearful for Bianchi. She’s somewhere in the hinterlands of airport security, hopefully being pushed across the tarmac as I type this, hopefully getting hoisted into cargo. Can you believe people send their PETS cargo? I’d lose my mind if the pug flew cargo.

I just looked at my hands. They’re covered in grease from ripping Bianchi’s tire off. Great. I’ll likely forget to wash them and end up licking honey roasted peanut dust off my fingers 30 minutes into the flight.

Anyway. We’re boarding. Wish us luck and see you in Buffalo!

—

PS. I’m pretty certain the kind Southwest attendant who helped me box Bianchi took pity on me after Joe told her I needed the bike for a cancer charity ride in Buffalo.

Bianchi’s Goodwill comeback tour

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Hello friends,

Bianchi and I need your help! This June, we’re riding in a 62.5-mile charity bike race through Buffalo, N.Y. and we’re sweating bullets because … well … neither of us has begun fundraising.
Please check out my Ride for Roswell homepage and read my fundraising letter. For those of you accustomed to verbose Lance posts, I promise you this letter is quick and to the point.
I wasn’t going to plug the ride here, but Joe (who has yet to contribute) encouraged me to. He even took these glamour shots of Bianchi and I spending quality time together Wednesday night. 
This cause is so important to me, you have no idea how much it will mean if you donate just $1.
And because I love the U.S. Postal Service (or more-so because I love you) I promise to mail a cheesy Buffalo souvenir to anyone who donates more than $10 to my ride. 
Thank you so much,
Heidi
—
PS. I really do love post offices. I patronize them at least twice a week. At a bar one night in Sarasota, a male postal employee, whom I frequently deal with, bought me a drink and asked me to dance. (I did and he had very stale moves.) Now whenever we see each other it’s awkward. Actually, it’s so awkward I avoid his post office. 
PPS. Yes, Bianchi has pink handlebars now. I figured a new pink wrap-job would compliment her svelte green frame.

Fan mail

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Dear Heelya’s students,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to return your letters. They’ve sat in a pile on my kitchen table for days now.

I’ve read them and re-read them so many times while eating my morning cereal that I’ve memorized many of your sentiments.

Per your request, I’m posting your last correspondences on my Lance. Per your teacher’s request, I wont use your names.

(FYI: I’m pen-pals with my sister’s students in Buffalo. They’re elementary school kids and I love getting letters from them. They like to ask me about the pug, the weather, Joe and random things like: Do you drool? Do you like people in your town? Do you like snakes? Or, do you eat Snickers bars? I like to nickname them and ask them how they spend their weekends. Sometimes I draw them maps of Florida and explain where poisonous snakes lurk. One time I drew them a map of my living room with an arrow identifying where Joe usually sits on the couch and where the pug sleeps next him. Sometimes Joe writes to them. Sometimes I send them newspaper stories I’ve written or pictures I’ve taken. I like to tell them stories about Ro and I, because Ro is the speech pathologist at their school and they’re always blown away by the fact that we know each other. And I always, always tell them to keep writing. Their letters are awesome! They make my heart sing.)
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

Can you come and visit my classroom? I like Spiderman soo much!
Me and my brother went to Disney on Ice. My mom didn’t go.
October the 12th is my birthday and then comes Halloween. My hair looks crazy today. My mom didn’t finish it before school so I took it out and shook it. Happy Valentine’s Day!
Are you glad about your mom? Do you like the people in your town? I like the people in my town.
I can’t wait to hear back from you!

Love,
@#!!@&*$
—

Hi Ms. Kurpiela!

I like your dog Cubbie. Yes, I am a clean person. Every day I wear a button up shirt tucked in. I have boots and dress pants. I get in the tub every day, sometimes in the morning. Sometimes at night.
I got new glasses! They are tinted blue. Do you have glasses?
What do you do for fun?
I like to play PlayStation 2. My dad has PlayStation 3. My sister has a Wii. My brother has a silver PlayStation 2 like me. It is so much fun playing it!
We’re growing beans in the classroom, but mine didn’t grow. Everyone else has beans that are growing besides me.

See ya later, alligator.
@#!!@&*$
—

Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

I am a new student in Ms. Kurpiela’s class.
Do you have any dogs? I have a dog. She is a Beagle and is 10 years old.
My sister likes monkeys.
How are you doing today? Do you work?
I love cars.
I am Native American.
I listen to drum CDs and my favorite artist is Johnny Cash. My favorite Johnny Cash song is “When You Get the Blues.”
Who is your favorite artist?
I am 7 years old. How old are you?
What is the weather like in Florida during the winter?
Today in Buffalo it is seven degrees! It is freezing!
Nice to meet you.

Your friend,
@#!!@&*$
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

How are you? I am doing good.
I went to a Build A Bear workshop. I made a brown bear. I love him. His name is Chocolate. He has a red bow tie and a book. We got lots of snow yesterday. I like to stay inside when it snows so I don’t get cold.
How is Joe and your dog?
You should come visit sometime at school.
Last week I went to Disney on Ice. I saw Mickey, the Ducky, Aladdin, the mermaid, Woody and Buzz and the Chipmunks.
I had pretzels, popcorn and a drink. It was yummy!

Love,
@#!!@&*$
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

I like to say hi to parents, not teachers, that say good morning.
I’m looking at a Monster Inc. Book. Could you send me a Hero coloring sheet?
Do you ever take kids to a playground?
I went to a zoo and the elephants weren’t there. I wanted to see if they were falling in the water.
I saw a book about skating at my house and I hope we go soon.

Good day,
@#!!@&*$
—

Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

I like to ride my bike too. I have a big blue and red bike. I ride it really fast, but stay out of the street.
I am in a new class. Write me back still.
Do you watch TV a lot?
My favorite show is SpongeBob. I hope to hear from you soon!

From,
@#!!@&*$
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

I am a new student. I like my new school and my teachers too.
My favorite subject is math. It’s my favorite because I am really good at it.
I am good at drawing too!
When I am not in school I like to play in the park. It is sooo fun!
One of my favorite things to do is play Hide and Go Seek and run around.
My best friend is nice and I like her a lot.
I have seven sisters and brothers. They are really cool!
I like Keyshia Cole! I can sing some of her songs.
It is really nice to meet you. I can’t wait to get a letter back.

Love,
@#!!@&*$
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

Your job is cool!
There is drool on the floor.

From,
@#!!@&*$
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

What did you have to eat yesterday?
Do you like snakes?
Are you sad?

Love,
@#!!@&*$
—
Dear Ms. Kurpiela,

Do you have a pool?
I like school.
I do not like tools.
I do not like drool.
I am cool.

Bye,
@#!!@&*$
—

I’m still here!

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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.
—
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.

Ani, if you’re out there, thank you.

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10 reasons why I love Ani DiFranco:

1. Her voice is creamy. Seriously. Like vanilla pudding. It’s a beautiful juxtaposition – somewhere between angelic and fierce. If Ani were singing shit about my pug, I’d turn up the volume and sing along. She’s that captivating.

2. Her songwriting is AMAZING. I picture her scratching out lyrics between coffee refills in diner booths. Or on the back porch of her home in Buffalo, under an awning, in the rain, making sense of bad relationships, her 20s, her 30s, politics and pollution.

3. She’s from Buffalo. My hometown. And without too much preaching, she became the poster child for a steel belt city with a reputation steeped in bad football jokes, blizzards and economic woes. A few years ago she purchased a historic church on the corner of West Tupper and Delaware Avenue, rehabbed it, reopened it as a music venue and called it Babeville.

4. She is 11 years older than me, but it never felt that way. In the mid-1990s, when I first started listening to Ani, newspapers and magazines labeled her militant, angsty, angry, gay, bisexual, feminist, rocker grrrl, younameit. As a teenager, I couldn’t think of a better chick to idolize. She was complex; a Rubik’s cube of sexual identity, with song lyrics like poems, marked by peaks and valleys in an emotional landscape not unlike the one I pounded. Britney Spears and I are the same age. (Arrggh! It’s true!) Yet it was Ani I latched onto like a long-distance pen pal. (Ani and Jewel to be exact.) From my bedroom in the middle of nowhere, with its pink walls and quilted bunk bed blankets, I spent my nights alternating between Ani and Jewel, a cross-pollination of a fan. Romantic and wispy. Pent-up and pissy.

5. She can fingerpick a hoedown beat like nobody’s business. Ani could pluck a love song using her guitar strings to clean out the grit from under her fingernails. She’s that fast and that good.

6. She’s a journalist’s wet dream. She’s funny, disarming and ridiculously quotable. (“Some people wear their heart up on their sleeve. I wear mine underneath my right pant leg, strapped to my boot.”) Even her terseness is eloquent. (“My songs are just little letters to me.”)

7. She’s a stubborn success story. Ani has repeatedly turned down baller contracts with major record companies. She formed Righteous Records in 1989 with Dale Anderson, a writer from The Buffalo News, and renamed the company Righteous Babe Records in 1994 after she and Anderson parted ways. The company now produces a growing list of emerging artists – Andrew Bird, Bitch and Animal, Arto Lindsay, Sara Lee and Hammell on Trial to name a few.

8. Her song, Angry Anymore, was my anthem for years. Listen to it. It’s cathartic.

9. Fuck you at the start of a refrain never sounded so pretty or so appropriate. Untouchable Face is a lyrical feat of genius.

10. She is finally happy, and I’m happy for her.

—

PS. Joe took me to the Tampa Theatre last night to see Ani. The tickets were a Christmas present. (Thank you, Joe!) I cried tears of happiness during the show. It was dark, so no one saw.


***

Lance spreads some love.

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My boyfriend keeps hitting the snooze on his radio alarm clock.

It’s how he wakes up every morning before work – to 20-second blasts of 1980s pop songs.


“Do you come from a land down under? Where women glow and men plunder? Can’t you hear? Can’t you hear the thunder? You better run. You better take cover.”


Me? I’m usually in my office by then, drinking Timmy Hos coffee out of an Artvoice mug.

Who would’ve thought when I swiped this Artvoice mug eight years ago from the dimly-lit, alt-weekly newspaper I interned at in Buffalo, that I’d be sitting in my office, in my house, in St. Petersburg, Fla., sipping Timmy Hos in a blue nightgown and red slippers?

“Buying bread from a man in Brussels.
He was six-foot-four and full of muscles.
I said, ‘Do you speak-a my language?’
He just smiled and gave me a vegemite sandwich.”

Although Valentines Day has come and gone, I’m going to put this post up now before it totally gets away from me.

Since I still feel like the new kid on the blog block, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to introduce Lance to some friends, which I did by following new peeps on Twitter. I hadn’t set out to befriend only mommies on mommy blogs, but apparently Lance likes moms.

“Lying in a den in Bombay.
With a slack jaw, and not much to say.
I said to the man, ‘Are you trying to tempt me
Because I come from the land of plenty?’
And he said …”

Not being a mommy, I didn’t think I’d be drawn to mommy blogs (oh, and to one pseudo-daddy blog), but upon further reading, I found myself oddly captivated by these men and women and their child-rearing highs and lows, the likes of which I won’t get into. That’s their job.

Suffice it say, reading mommy blogs has kept me equally awestruck and birth-controlled.

Jill over at Modern Mommy Blog, is a 29-year-old social worker whose New Year’s resolutions include ingesting fish oil every day and avoiding alcoholic beverages. I think it’s refreshing that she broke both of these promises by Super Bowl Sunday, because in my opinion, cutting alcohol out of your life while introducing your body to fish oil sounds grim.

Jill has a one-year-old daughter, and is rooting for Kate Winslet in the Oscars. She entered herself in a Valentines Day contest sponsored by Linda, a scrapbooking, stay-at-home mother-of-three in Mississippi.

On Valentines Day, Jill, the Modern Mommy, spread a little “bloggy love” my way by posting about Lance on her blog, which was so solid of her.

So …

In the spirit of paying it forward, I recommend Modern Mommy to those of you who have children/are about to have children/might one day have children/are parents to pugs (or other such animals)/can appreciate a network of supportive family-friendly folks even if you are crass, self-indulgent and light-years away from having children/enjoy a pretty blog layout with meaningful posts/appreciate good advice and loyal webships (web friendships.)

Oh, and Joe finally woke up around 9:30 a.m., throwing groggy daggers my way in Pat Benatar’s battlefield.

“We are young, heartache to heartache we stand.
No promises, no demands …”

—
PS. My father gave my mother 1,600 lb. of corn for Valentines Day. After receiving such an awesome gift, she helped him lug the corn bags into the basement to dump into their corn burner hopper.

Ringing in the new year with ABC gum

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https://www.niawigs.com/collections/glueless-full-lace-wigsHappy New Year!

Resolutions are for the birds. To quit doing some thing, or to start doing another thing, there has to be a motivating factor.

For example, I stopped chewing gum in 8th grade because it disgusted me. Cows chew on cud. People should know better. Plus, it’s too conveniently stuck to the bottom of things – chairs, shoes, desks, bathroom stalls, a pair of Levi’s Silver Tabs in 7th grade homeroom.
I had a friend who liked to shove her chewed gum into whatever bottle of beer she was drinking. As a child, this same friend also placed chewed gum on her cafeteria lunch tray while she ate, and then after lunch, would pop the gum back into her mouth for more chewing.
I brush my teeth twice a day, floss occasionally, and avoid garlic. If my breath reeks, I pop a peppermint. Aint nothing so rank inside my mouth that a hard candy can’t lick, which is why I have not chewed gum in 13 years.
Canadian artist Jason Kronenwald created this portrait of 1960s pixie, Twiggy, using people’s chewed bubble gum. Check out his series of Gum Blondes here. To create his paintings he hires a team of chewers to chomp on wads of gum, (he prefers the texture of Trident) and using a bevy of colorful flavors, which Kronenwald asks his chewers to mix inside their mouths, he stretches the gum across planks of plywood and begins molding the visages of famous blondes.

As a blonde, I’m mildly insulted by the connotation of this art. Hey, Kronenwald: ask your grandma to start chewing on those Bit-O-Honeys she keeps in her candy jar, then have her fork over her dentures. The sticky aftermath will make for a nice series of brunettes.

My father is disgusted with his beer gut, so to whittle it he started walking today from his house on Langford Road to the town highway department on Eden Road. (It’s about three miles.) I called my mother this morning to talk about overpriced wedding photographers, and my father, gung ho and out of breath, answered the cell phone.

“What’s up with you?”

“Ah yes,” he rasped. “I’m walking.”

“Walking?”

“I’m almost to the highway department.”

“You sound out of breath.”

“I’m OK. It’s beautiful out.”

“Is it?””It’s 19 degrees out, but no wind and bright sunshine.”

“And you’re walking to the highway department?”

“Yes. I’m almost there.”

“Did you bring the cell phone in case you needed to call Mom to pick you up?”

“I brought the cell phone in case I fell dead from a heart attack I could call 911 before I hit the ground.”

“What did you and Mom do for New Years Eve?”

“Fell asleep.”

“So did we.”

“That’s OK. At least we all woke up.”

“Right. Alright Dad, good luck walking. Tell Mom I called about wedding photographers.”

“Will do. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”

Riding coach with PK

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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.
—
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.
—
PS. Yes, the couch pictured above is PK’s most prized possession.

Roadkill takeout an economic fallout?

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What better way to follow up that last ooey – gooey post than with this road kill story – a story that comes courtesy of my hometown newspaper, The Hamburg Sun, where I interned as a 16-year-old under Felice Krycia, the woman whose byline is on this article.

As a kid I frequented this China King in Hamburg, NY. My best friend’s mother ordered takeout from them on what seemed like a weekly basis.

As a pseudo-vegetarian, the story makes me cringe. As a reporter from Western New York, it pleases me to share with you a roadkill headline.

Dead deer are a dime a dozen in Western New York.

Once, when the rival basketball team from Eden, NY wanted to piss off our basketball team, they stuck a severed deer head on the cheerleader bus. Whenever a high school boy shot a buck in the woods, the faculty gnawed on venison for weeks.

Our neighbors at the end of Thiel Road liked to bleed their deer from the front porch of their two-story home.

You get the picture.

On that note, bon appetit!
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(Story courtesy of The Hamburg Sun.)

China King restaurant shut down after dead deer found in kitchen
By FELICE E. KRYCIA

It may have seemed like a good idea at the time, but butchering a dead deer on the floor of a restaurant kitchen is just something you don’t do.

According to Town of Hamburg Police, they received a call about 9 a.m last Friday (Oct. 24) that a dead deer was being dragged in through the front door of the China King restaurant, located in the Big Lots Plaza at 5999 South Park Ave. in Hamburg.

When Officer Joseph Kleinfelder arrived at the scene, he located drag and blood marks from the woods on the south side of China King to the front door.

He then followed them into the restaurant through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the suspect, Tin Chun Cheung, was attempting to remove the head of a female deer on the floor between the sink and the center food prep table of the restaurant.

The deer’s legs had already been removed from the body and placed in the kitchen sink, Hamburg Police Captain A. Daniel Shea said.

“Officer Kleinfelder followed the trail right into the kitchen and saw the man bent over the deer trying to cut through its neck,” said Shea.

According to police, Cheung said he had found the deer dead in the parking lot and was going to take this meat home for his family. He went on to say he had no intention of leaving the meat in the restaurant.

The Erie County Health Department and the state Environment and Conservation Department were called in and along with the violation of a dead animal in the business, they found the walk-in-cooler was too warm and all the food inside it needed to be removed and destroyed.

Cheung was also charged with unlawful possession of wildlife, a violation of the NYS ENCON law. The Health Department then ordered the business to be shut down until all the evidence on this incident had been presented and a determination made by Erie County Commissioner of Health Dr. Anthony J. Billittier IV.

The determination was expected to be handed down Wednesday (Oct. 29), which is after The Sun had already gone to press.

This ruling will outline what Cheung must repair and do to the building before the Health Department will allow it to reopen.

“They will have to repair or replace the walk-in-cooler and have the entire building sanitized,” said Erie County Health Department Public Information Officer Kevin Montgomery. “Once all the issues are addressed, inspectors will be sent to check all aspects of the restaurant and then a determination will be made on if they may reopen.”

The deer, which had been struck by a vehicle earlier that day had reportedly fled into the woods, was disposed of under the direction of the county’s Health Department.

For a video of this story, click here.
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PS. Happy birthday to Ro, my beloved best friend, who enjoys stories like this more than I do. I would be a sorry, humorless sack without you.

Losing the hockey mom vote.

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Before I leave to cover U.S. Rep. Vern Buchanan’s election party at the Sarasota Hyatt, I thought I’d share with you this anecdote:
My mother, who hasn’t voted in an election since 1980, cast her vote today at the Langford Fire Hall in North Collins, NY. 
In a rural Erie County farming town that still uses the old lever and curtain voting booth, my mother cast her vote for Barack Obama. She even called to share the news, she was so proud of her voter participation. 
Later in the day, while waiting in the check-out line at a Marshalls department store near Buffalo, N.Y., my mother overheard two ladies discussing today’s election. 
Said one lady to the other: “White people should be ashamed of themselves, voting for Obama.” And then, turning to face my mother, she croaked: “Did you vote?”
My mother, in her trademark non-confrontational Western New York accent, replied: “You should be ashamed of yourself. At moments like this I’m ashamed to be white.”
Mom, in your honor. This post. 
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