The little brown house
In my neighborhood, a couple blocks from where I live, there is a little brown house that sits on the corner of two streets.
Long before I ever moved to this neighborhood, I used to know a girl who lived in that house. Her name was Lauren. She was in my first grade class. She wasn’t very popular. I remember that occasionally, some of the meaner girls in our class would tease her. I can’t remember why. We were friends.
I still know where some of those mean girls are at, today.
First grade was, according to most of my former classmates’ account, a great year. (I say “according to”, because unlike my classmates, I was still recovering from The Worst Year Of My Life.) We wrote and illustrated a school newspaper, had a class store, studied way too many insects (Madame Yvonne was exceptionally fond of them) and sang a whole lot of French songs, songs like C’est L’Halloween.
Before the school year was over, Lauren’s mother died from a brain tumor.
Confessions, part one
I’m one of those people who wear runners with (nearly) everything.
Running shoes are practical. Sure, flats are cute. But they kill your feet and leave you (me) limping after a day in the city. Sure, heels are sexy. But they’re impractical to wear for day-to-day use.
Can a girl not win?
As a general rule of thumb, if where I’m going involves walking from more than just the car to the destination, I forgo the four inch heels for running shoes. Because I mean, seriously. I’m a practical girl. I wouldn’t walk ten blocks in heels unless true love and a million dollars were waiting for me at the end.
