Lacey pillow, having so been named due to being both a pillow and being covered in white lace, was my go-to comfort item from approximately ages 0-10. On one fateful road trip, it was accidentally abandoned at a Hilton Inn and Suites. On that occasion, I noticed it’s absence one and a half hours into the drive….ready to snuggle up with it after popping in a crisp new copy of The Cheetah Girls 2 into my portable DVD player until *GASP* it was nowhere to be found. After a brief cry with my mom, we pulled over to the next rest stop and called the Hilton, our last hope of being reunited with our favorite lacy friend. Much to our delight, the cleaning staff had found it, tucked in-between the layers of white sheets and complimentary pillow mints. I should have known. It was the perfect camouflage. Maybe it was trying to make a bid for freedom…..but no luck Lacey, we were on our way back to the Hilton. 4 1/2 hours later and very delayed on our journey, we were on the road with Lacey pillow clutched triumphantly and tightly in between my hands. I wouldn’t be making that same mistake twice.

Over the years, my tight grasp on the well-loved lacy edges loosened. Lacey transitioned from center stage on my bed, to a chair in the corner, and eventually to the back floor of my closet. As rooms changed and I started calling it my “parents house” instead of “my house”, it’s been lost somewhere in the shuffle. I can’t help but feel a little guilty. I’m no stranger to the Toy Story franchise and I’m quick to personify any object if you leave me alone in the same room with it for a while. It took me years to notice Lacey’s absence when it once took only an hour and a half. Lacey, I hope you don’t mind. I’m sorry I only think about you in the dead of night. I miss you, I swear!! I miss road trips where all I had to worry about was which DVDs I was gonna watch. I miss fighting with my parents and I miss the times where grasping on to my little lacy pillow could fix all of my problems. Maybe I should call the nearest Hilton...just in case.

Pickle house is so named because a couple of months ago when I walked by, the entire surrounding 100-feet of sidewalk next to Pickle House reeked of----well----pickles. I’m not that inventive with my house naming, so I’m sure that wasn’t a complete shock. I don’t know how they came up with names like Mount Vernon or Monticello. White House? Yep. The guy that named that is on the same page as me. Anyways, back to Pickle House. I truly did not know that owning that much vinegar was possible. What on earth could they be doing with all those pickling materials? According to the sign shoved haphazardly in the edge of their lawn, Pickle House “Believes in Science!” Was the scientific method being pushed to its vinegar boundaries?   I may never know… 

Fall walks in Cleveland Heights are a gamble. The pages of Instagram girlies posing in pumpkin patches and the propaganda of North Eastern United States will have you believe that fall foliage is abundant. The trees of Cleveland Heights demonstrate an excellent act of silent rebellion. Perhaps rebellion against the fact that they are living in Ohio, a sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree. Most leaves simply alternate from green one day, to brown on the sidewalk the next, with no display of autumnal fanfare in between. A few of the trees put up a mediocre effort, glinting in the setting sun with muted versions of your traditional oranges, yellows, and reds. Every now and then, I’ll come across a tree with colors as brilliant as a brochure located in the Vermont department of tourism. I’ll pause. Take a closer look. Lean my head back and take off my sunglasses---only to realize I’ve been hoodwinked by the tint of my protective lenses. They’re not even rose-colored.  

We just moved into a new office space and apparently the thermostat doesn’t work. Right now it’s a breezy 63 degrees and my menopausal coworkers rejoice in hitting the temperature jackpot. Anyways. I’m thinking about quitting based on the temperature alone… of course there are other valid reasons but this one sounds the best for future job interviews. “So, Brooke, why did you leave your last job?” “Poor circulation.”  

The other reasons to quit, include, but are not limited to: never having anything to do, not getting paid nearly enough, and all around not having a good time. I’d be more than happy to sell my soul to a corporate job if it paid well or if they gave us free donuts every day. Right now I don’t even get the donuts.  

Unfortunately I’m also still very much laboring under the delusion that my job is supposed to be one of my main sources of happiness. I’m supposed to love what I do, do what I love, and never work a day in my life. I love a lot of things but none of them include sending emails to people. And that seems to be a big part of most jobs. 

I once gave a speech in high school talking about how I was a procrastinator and I was still trying to figure out what I wanted to “be when I grow up.” I thought that would change in college once I settled down, found a husband, had 5 kids, and finished my calculus homework. But my “aha” moment never came. I liked pretty much everything I tried, which is an issue when you are indecisive by nature. I need to start hating more things.  

I hate being cold.  

1. Striped

2. A freshwater fish and

3. According to dinnermom.com, best served with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, a dash of paprika, and an optional sprig of parsley

Swimming just feet below the festivities on the south shore of Lake Erie, the ordinary perch is oblivious to its status as a local legend. Over a matter of days, the sleepy town center fills with inflatable bouncy houses ready for bare-footed children, craft tents full of knick knacks you *think* about buying for your mom, and approximately 15 different ways to eat fried dough. Everyone is happy to be there. I am happy to have found parking.

I’m there on invitation from a work friend, whose in-laws throw their own backyard celebration every year on the same day as the fish festival. I don’t know anyone else at this gathering and cling to the host’s dog for emotional support. The amount of kids under the age of 10 outnumber the adults 2:1, so I find myself squeezing chubby baby legs and holding sticky hands as I help dish out fresh heaps of pasta salad. The nearest couple to me quietly announces their pregnancy to a select few. Squeals and hugs ensue. I sit under the shade of a beech tree with my paper plate of potluck goodies and listen to a group of old people talk. They talk of their friends who are now in nursing homes, and one who is not because she’s too combative. Janet apparently has a mean right hook for a 96 year old lady. Their topics of conversation are sad and subdued and to the point. Who has cancer, who is still alive, and can you pass the mac and cheese? I’m struck by the dichotomy of the two groups, but continue on with my plate and let the thought pass by. Existential dread is for the winter. Summer is for fish festivals.

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