The purpose of this blog is twofold. I am forcing myself to exercise. Not the kind that you do at the gym but the kind where my mind does some lifting. Not heavy of course. Not yet anyway. I am writing and putting it out there somewhat anonymously. If you are reading this within a week or month of my posting it, chances are you know me and I am not Anon Y. Motley to you. Maybe we are Facebook friends or old colleagues; maybe we have shared a drink or the rent, it doesn’t matter really. What matters is you are reading this. Well that’s what matters to me. I kinda hope you don’t know me and are starting to fall in love with me. Not the real me but the faceless voice of me.

Being anonymous is ubiquitous with our online personas. When driving in traffic and another driver is being an ass and you cuss at them or flip them off or call them stupid or something worse, it’s pretty safe until you get out of your car and there is the other car and driver walking into the same store. You tentatively walk behind them to choose the route that will not intersect inside. But online, just one click and you are gone.

Writing is an odd endeavor. For me it’s a way to connect but I don’t want to be too connected. I want you to connect with the story and the emotions. I am just the story teller, the connector. Writing is also a way for me to connect to myself and to learn about myself and others. So I am taking this huge step (huge for me, I prefer sit in the back) by starting this blog to help me connect and to grow. So here is a little about me to make me a little less anonymous…

When I was a child I would travel by bus with my mom from upstate New York to New Jersey to visit my Aunt, Uncle and cousins. Some years my Dad would drive the whole family and other years he would meet us there. The bus was always an adventure. Maybe my memory fails me and there really was only one bus trip. Well, this one in particular was hot, steamy and stinky. Ha you thought I meant sexy when I used the word steamy. Au contraire mon ami!

My mom woke me very early on the first day of summer vacation. We had to be at the Greyhound station by 5:30am. Dad carried our bags to the car and dropped us at the station. The pavement had pink and blue skin cancer like growths that seemed safe to step on until the heat of the day began to soften their resolve. Once adhered to the bottom of my sneaks every step echoed keer- plop until eventually the gum was silenced by the coating of urine, dirt or whatever other unsavory remnants left behind by other passengers.

The sun was just starting to burn through the dark when we boarded the mammoth metal box. We found two seats near the middle of the bus and took them. The fabric on the seats was that stuff that if you rub your hand over it in one direction it was soft and comforting but go the other direction and that is some bristly shit. This bus ride was 5 hours into New York City and then another 2 hours into Mammoth County, New Jersey.

Mom had packed us sangwiches, that’s what she called them. Mom was no gourmet sandwich maker and liked butter instead of mayo or miracle whip. Butter and bologna and cheddar on wonder bread, yum. We ate our sandwiches and rode along in the artificial darkness of that big stinky dog. At one point a funky smoke billowed above us. My mom moved me to the window seat and she took the aisle. After a short time, one of the passengers began listening to some music on his boom box. That’s what they called them back then. Boom box! She walked to the front of the bus and spoke to the driver about someone named Mary Jane. At the next stop, the driver went to the back of the bus and had a conversation with Mr. Boom Box.

By the time we arrived at my Aunt and Uncle’s home I was excited to see them. My cousins, older than me by about 10-12 years, were always so nice and welcoming. Not at all like my two older sisters, probably happy to see me go. Their house was a ranch and only a few blocks from the beach. The interior was equally as 1970’s as the interior of my home but much more tidy. For the next several days or weeks, I would walk to the bridge and back stopping at the Hersey’s ice cream shop across from the Church of St. Mary’s - Emasculate Conception (that sounds like an off-Broadway play, oh auto-correct you have a wicked sense of humor!). That was the best soft serve I’ve ever had. I wonder if that shop still exists.

Thanks for sticking with me today. Ripping the band-aid of anonymity off wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.