A few weeks ago I received a text from a phone number that was like a ghost whispering in my ear, “Remember me? Thought you’d quite forgotten?”

The strangest thing about this particular text is that I managed to recognize the long-deleted number from the guy who stopped calling me and blew me off when I was sick with whooping cough one January THREE YEARS AGO.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. How nice. How quaint. How flimsy and pointlessly offered. Why this? Why now?

Please don’t misinterpret my annoyance and disgust for conceit. The thing is, it’d be one thing if it was a fluke, but it’s not. His unnecessary text is not unique.

At 31 years old, I find that one of the most insulting things about dating has been the “after-the-fact” one-two punch of many an ex-boyfriend/ dalliance. Months later. Years later. After no contact whatsoever. No friendship. No nothing.

Why is it that my worth, my “value,” to these men is only evident once I’m in their rearview mirror? Why can’t they see what they have when I’m sitting in the car beside them? Ex after ex after ex after ex…they find their way back and want….what? What do they want?

The truth is, I have nothing more to give them. They’ve gotten the best of me already, had their chance, and I warned them. Be sure you’re done before you say it. This is the last of me you will have.

There is no more going back. And yet. There are texts, emails, Linked In invites, Facebook requests, and tweets cluttering personal and work inboxes left and right. Clawing at my eyes, my consciousness. More requests. More demands. They cling to my legs as I wade through the present. How do I go forward when I’m dragging around so many yesterdays? Where can I go, where can I look, that they have not yet papered with their inquires?

I have nothing for these men who used to know me. There is no piece of me that remains that they would be content to have. My heart is tired. My will to converse with them silenced. My unkissed lips have gone cold. My insatiate desire waned. I am no longer the woman they knew. “DIDN’T YOU TAKE ENOUGH OF ME LAST TIME!” I want to scream.

It occurs to me that I have not burned enough bridges. I have not been a bad enough girl to release these former somethings from their attempts at rekindled knowing. Rather than lash out or maim with words or deed, I retreat within myself and do not respond.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. Happiness. You. Deserve. I deserve.

What happiness might that be? Surely none that any ex-whatever can give me.

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 “Come sit by me. I need to tell you something.”

….

“We’re moving again. I know you’re probably not at all surprised by this, as we haven’t been ‘home’ in three weeks, but there it is. I’ve found a new place- a complete rehab with a view of the lake, the city, and Wrigley Field; with hardwood floors, a dishwasher, and closet space. And, it’s on a quiet street.”

…..

“I know, I know. It’s not how I thought things would turn out either. But, I don’t want you to worry. Pretty soon, everything will get back to some sort of daily pattern and all of this nomadic activity will subside. We’ll take naps and have lazy Sundays again. We’ll watch movies on the couch and go for walks along the lake, or maybe just talk about doing that. It’ll be just like old times!”

….

“And, most importantly, no matter what happens, I will always take care of you and love you and make sure that you are kept in treats and toys.”

!!!!!!!!

“Oh shit. Sorry. I said the “T” word. I did. Well, let’s get you a treat then.”

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The other day, someone asked me what I did over the weekend. After thinking long and hard (TWSS), I realized holy fuck. I had bacon on three separate occasions within 24 hours (on a burger, straight from the frying pan & sans eggs, and in my mac and cheese). I continued to think long and hard about whether to actually share this feat. Would it be worse to plead forgetfulness to hide my shame (“Oh, yeah, this weekend? I think I took a nap…or something?”) or proudly parade my inadvertent Bacon Fest 2011? Decisions decisions…

During the 20SB Summit, I found myself joking A LOT about being “grandfathered-in” to the community. Joking. But utterly serious. I belong dammit. Don’t you question me, you young whipper-snappers! Never mind that the term “grandfathered-in” bespeaks all things crotchety and old.

I now live in fear of the kidney stone redux that the Internet tells me I am 95% likely to experience in my lifetime. My fear is not so great that I will give up drinking tea or choosing soy milk however. 

I recently realized that I put my underroos on inside out. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I shrugged and continued to wear them that way. I should add that this was the second time in a week I’d been bested by the challenges of wearing one’s clothing right side out. Holla!

During one of my awesomesauce insomnia bouts, I wound up googling “dog ate a silverfish now what” to find out if that’s bad. I went on to wonder if the presence (or previous presence as it were) of said silverfish on the tile floor meant that the dude and I are slobs who live in squalor. Are we “dirty people”? [BF: Yo, if you're reading this, don't answer that because we both know the answer but they don't.]

I am genuinely considering getting a red streak put into my hair later this week. Because, why not? I dye my hair brunette as it is, have for years, but am thinking it could use a little something. Like a streak of fire engine red! I mean, if you can’t dye a red streak into your hair at 31, when can you? #RedStreakFTW!

This conversation happened at work the other day…. Emo: “I can’t believe I showered for this.” Me: “Don’t worry; I didn’t.” And scene.

What can I say? This is what it’s come to….I’m clearly living The Dream. And my thirties? All they’re cracked up to be. Obviously.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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Fast-forward to four weeks ago and my plane was touching down at the Vegas airport. My cab whisked me off to the hotel I said I’d always stay at if I ever came back: the Bellagio. I had my dinner reservation all set at Olives and my ticket to Cirque de Soleil’s “O” later that evening. I had a day to myself before the Bloggers in Sin City festivities truly got underway and I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. Amongst the bloggers who had signed up to attend, there were several I’d been reading for years, of which I’d only actually ever met Jenn, the Mayor of the Josh Lyman Tiger Sex Den.

It’s a funny thing meeting other bloggers for the first time. I’m always worried they’ll think I’m not at all who I seem to be online. That they’ll think I look dumpy or that I’m boring or, worst of all, that they’ll find other people who are more energetic, happier, or more outgoing to talk to instead of me. I want to be liked by these people I admire, who make me laugh, whose word choices I fawn over, and whose confidence I observe and marvel at…and okay, envy. But, from every other blogger I’ve met already in Chicago, I’ve learned that generally they are one of the most welcoming and accepting groups of people I’ve had the luck to encounter in my lifetime.

So, when I hurried up to my room later that day after seeing “O” and knocked expectantly at the door, I was gushing with anticipation to meet the girl I’d invited to stay with me. Brandy was the first blogger I’d meet at BiSC and she and I quickly became brand new besties just as I’d always thought we’d be! When we decided to room together for the weekend, I confided I felt like the coolest girl in the world because my roomie was her. I still do.

Together, we had a hoot of a time talking about meeting other bloggers, catching up on the drama in our lives that we aren’t writing about right now, and planning a trek to Mandalay Bay’s Shark Reef the next day where we would run in front of a motion camera, making wavelike ripples against an ocean backdrop and spend upwards of 40 minutes petting sting rays.

In the days that followed, Brandy informed me that American monies are “confusing because they’re all the same color and you have to actually look at the number on them,” whereas her Canadian monies are bright and colorful and “made of hope and free health care!” Don’t worry- I called her a whore and slapped her, and then promptly wound up leaving my carry-on bag in the back of the cab as we checked into the Flamingo (which I actually got back when the cab driver found Nicole’s phone number inside and called her and she called me and informed me that “Some cab driver totally has your shit and wants to give it back to you so call him back here’s his number and you probably won’t be able to understand him at all but call him okay I’ll see you soon bye!” Nicole talks really fucking fast and is, of course, awesome not only because she planned the whole BiSC thing but also just, you know, in general).

And then I did finally meet Nicole. And so many other bloggers that the whole experience became a dash overwhelming. I hurried to hug many an almost-stranger and butt into conversations because I was overly excited to actually meet the person behind the blog. Which, let me send my deepest thanks right this minute to Jess for telling Katelin about me and asking her to keep an eye out for me!

That night at the meet and greet, Brandy and I spent several hours unabashedly wearing balloon hats on our heads as we introduced ourselves, and if that’s not a conversation starter right there I don’t know what is! From the people I met that night and the days that followed, I have so many memories and things to smile and laugh about…

Brandy’s destroyed phone from a leaky 20 oz frozen Miami Vice that she was carrying around in her bag while shopping for Kaci’s impromptu bachelorette (which would later bring us all to/near to tears).

Pushing the button to open the drapes at the Flamingo and reciting lines from The Hangover in my late-night-drinking voice as I gazed out at Caesar’s and the strip below while laying in bed. “Hey guys…how about that drive? Hehehehe….” “Could it be? Could I have found another member of my wolf pack?”

There was Suki and Leah from San Fran, who I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time with but am looking forward to seeing again very soon. Labor Day weekend?!

Brandy finding and proudly wearing a tiger shirt, then starting a band with Rachael called “Fanning the Slash.” Yup.

Pseudo stalking Jenny Blake only to scream “YOU’RE KINDA MY IDOL!” when I finally met her as a group of us waited outside Serendipity 3 for late night frozen hot chocolates. (P.S. I’m reading/ working through the prompts in your book right now and just…YES.)

Enlisting Boston bloggers Germana and Ginny to go to Bouchon with Brandy and I before the Black, White, and Gold party at Pure. Thank you for going with us and for walking in our fancy dresses and heels from the Venetian to the Flamingo, then to Planet Hollywood and to Caesar’s. It totally was a sucky walk, but you guys were awesome.

I’ll always remember Brandy replacing swear words with “Holy Dinah!” and teasing her when her Canadian accent would slip out. Agaaaainst. Aboot. Sephoria. Incidentally, if she says “never mind” to you, that means you’re in deep trouble!

There was the Boston crew I just sort of “fell into” lounging by the pool: the aforementioned Ginny and Germana, but also Bob and Carly, and Nicole Marie Says who has now forsaken Chicago for Beantown once more. Hearing them talk about “Southie” boys and comparing commutes during games at Fenway vs. Wrigley made me all ga-ga for everything Boston. Thank you for being so lovely to me and including me in your dinner plans at Sushi Roku! I miss you WICKED hard.

I’ll remember with a smile Ameena’s dinosaur sound & walk, which she showed us after much peer pressure in the midst of Pure’s rooftop lounge.

Brandy worrying (A LOT) about the Kardashian girls, who she informed me are “tormented by their bodies.”

There was Jenn Bizzle Rainbow Brite who will always be known as such for her epic Rainbow Brite costume at the meet and greet. There was Chelsea and her tall, skinny-mininess and adorable dresses from Mod Cloth, Kathleen who I just instantly clicked with but somehow never got to hang out with again. There was Stacey who was ever so sweet, but had to leave early under the saddest of circumstances. There was Katherine with her beauteous glitter shoes in a plethora of colors. There was Simone who was a true dancing queen in her badass Black, White, and Gold party dress. And there was Tiffany who was one of the friendliest people I met and who introduced me to a new Chicago friend- Caryn!

I’ll fondly remember catching the last fountain show of the night at the Bellagio with the kickass Terra, who I absolutely adore and sincerely wish lived closer, and Katelin’s husband, Matt, who was so nice in walking us over there and ensuring we made it in time. It was a lovely way to end the evening! Thank you Terra for lending me Jayme’s flip flops to wear while watching the fountains…and thank you Jayme for unknowingly lending them to someone you still hadn’t met!

And then it was time for us all to say good bye. Brandy hugged Maxie through a wall, which only makes sense insomuch as one can see the photo. Almie wore her pink wig and Kelly and I decided the Farewell Brunch should morph into Misfit Brunch where everyone wears their as yet unworn items of clothing/ accouterments (I’d have brought my ferocious shark lunch bag that I picked up in the Shark Reef gift shop. It’s pretty badass and I proudly carry it to work).

There was the “baller” private gondola ride Brandy and I took before we had to leave for the airport later that day- thanks for that awesomesauce!

And then came the inevitable flight delay back to Chicago, which evolved into a canceled flight, a two-day stay over at the airport La Quinta, and a curious bout of food poisoning. When I finally did leave Sin City, I sat at my gate with an airport gift shop purchased mug filled with alka seltzer, wearing my sunglasses, trying not to throw up, and pretty much penniless. And when I happened to glance down, one of the last things I’ll remember about Vegas is seeing somebody’s toe nail clipping on the carpet. An actual fucking TOE NAIL. No wonder the place smells like feet! Seriously. The Las Vegas airport smells like feet. I should know. I was there 3 times in a week.

These are the things I’ll always think of when I think of Vegas now. I’ll think of you. And you. And you. That time we laughed at Absinthe as Penny relayed a really hilarious and really NSFW story involving sock puppets (seriously, ignore the annoying fucker who recorded it and USE YOUR HEADPHONES). That time we walked right into Pure ahead of eighty bajillion other people standing in line. And that time we had Second Dinner at 2 am at the burger place in the Flamingo. And I’ll think of this, courtesy of Almie, and watch it over and over again.

BiSC happened at a pivotal moment in my life and I’m so happy and grateful for being able to go. I know so many more bloggers now and know that should I have the opportunity to travel to the cities they call home, there will be a welcoming hug and drinking buddy waiting for me.

Those were my thoughts as I moved out of the apartment I’ve called home for the past six years and in with my boyfriend. The last time I’d give a cab my address was when I came back from Vegas. Saying it aloud that night, sitting in the quiet of the darkly lit cab, it hit home. After Vegas, everything was irrevocably going to change.

And, it has.

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She began her behest innocuously enough with a whisper into the phone: “Shhhh…don’t tell your father,” she said as I heard her hastily scamper into another room in the background and shut the door. “I have money I want you to take to your brothers when you see them and I don’t want him knowing because it’s just for you kids.“

“Seriously?” I asked her. “You realize they’re grown ups now, right?”

“Oh, I have money for you too.”

“Mom, I’m not joking. You need to stop- we’ve talked about this before,” I tried for what had to be the bazillionth time, knowing full well it was useless.

“Shut up, you’re taking the money and that’s all there is to it. I have Girl Scout cookies for you too.”

“Well fuck, when you put it that way….”

Hate me if you must; I couldn’t say no. There were peanut butter patties. And thin mints. And, yes, even samoas.

So, just like that, I became my mother’s mule. I carried $50 and three boxes of Girl Scout cookies for each brother from my parent’s home in WI to my own, then to Midway, and finally to South Carolina. Was I proud of it? No, not really. I hate taking money from my mom, but she’s the type who refuses to allow you to say no. She will shove it in your pocket and do so in the most embarrassing way in public until you take it just to get her to stop. Or, she’ll be sneaky about it and hide her stash in a purse pocket you didn’t even know you had only to find it two weeks later and resort to shaking your fist at the sky and shouting “Curses! Foiled again!”

The thing is, even though my brothers and I are grown up, in my mother’s eyes, we’re still her kids and she wants to give us money so we can “go get a coffee with a friend” or “go see a movie” or “treat ourselves to something nice for Easter.” It’s thoughtful of her and everything, but it also isn’t necessary and is often really uncomfortable because my parents aren’t in a position to be concerned about giving us $20 here or $50 there. Plus, it’s awkward because she always sneaks it to us without my dad knowing. At this point in my life though, I’ve realized that my mom is sure to ferret money away until the day she dies because she wants her kids to have a little something from her if she can give it. True story.

After my conversation and after she’d made the exchange, I sat contemplating my plight while absently watching the TSA German Shepherd at the airport. I’d have loved to have made friends with him but remembered I was carrying SIX BOXES of cookies and wouldn’t it be a little odd if he smelled them and security was all like “Dude, what’s up with all the cookies, yo?” After considering the consequences, I opted to reach into my bag and surreptitiously eat  a peanut butter patti instead. Less evidence.

As I nibbled one, then inhaled another and another until a whole row of cookies disappeared, I let myself off the hook. So what if my mother tricked me into doing her bidding? So what if I’m a 30 year old GROWN ASS woman who just accepted $65 and three boxes of cookies from my mom? So what if I’m enabling her ridiculousness in giving money to my brothers as well? So. What.

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and bite the proverbial cookie. You have to listen to your mom, do what she says, be a good daughter. Even if it means you become her secret allowance mule. Even if it involves payment in Girl Scout cookies.

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You didn’t know my name, didn’t know my hair color or smile or laughter. You didn’t know the way my hand would feel in yours, didn’t know if there’d be a first date. You didn’t know how your words would resonate.

You told me not to look back, not to regret the past. Told me not to hold myself too culpable for supposed missed opportunities, for “phantoms of choices that never were.” You were out of the blue. You were eloquent.

Two years ago, I read your email as snow fell on branches, sidewalks, and terraces. Each flake covered over, cleaned away, the dirt and dust and shambles of earlier. Email for email, sentence for sentence, we forged our way toward that doorstep, that snowy April afternoon, that first look into each other’s eyes. And on an untarnished blanket of white, we left footprints side-by-side.

Neither of us could know what would come, what happinesses we’d find, what challenges lie in wait. We couldn’t yet know how love would find us, change us, sometimes disappoint us. Couldn’t know how in time we’d take one another for granted; still always support, rely upon, listen, and comfort.

Two years ago, I got an email from you.  Two years and my heart still replies.

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