vulpine \VUL-pine\
adjective 1: of, relating to, or resembling a fox 2: foxy, crafty

My cat, Remy, is part Fox. I am quite sure of it due to the level of fuzziness in her tail, and the fact that it doubles the length of her body. Ever since I can remember, I have loved foxes. Legendary foxes, like Swift from David the Gnome, the singing, swimming fox from Milo and Otis. Once, before I decided to officially annul my “no pets for 10 years” rule a bit prematurely, I looked into how it might work having a fox as a domesticated pet. Remy has turned out to be a vulpine gem – and she even plays fetch.

Every now and then you come across a word, a sound, smell, taste that launches you into memory, which is coincidentally, the topic of conversation in my MFA literature course – taught by Honor Moore. Today was my first week of classes and aside from being irrevocably enlightened, I am even more excited to write, read… and even work(!) this week. Oh my!

The first book we read was Joe Brainard’s, I Remember, which took form as a series of recollections, providing not only a glimpse into his own memory, but a social history of the 40’s and 50’s of his lifetime. His recollections were funny, nostalgic, erotic, nauseating, and breathlessly simplistic. Last night, after a pee break, we reconvened to write our own “I Remembers,” which I will share with you below (don’t worry none of them are erotic, because I can’t imagine myself sounded as nonchalantly so as Joe Brainard):

I remember getting married in the last scene of our kindergarten production of “the Little Mermaid.”

I remember someone from kindergarten friend-ing me on Facebook recently, and thinking it was creepy that he remember my sea shell bra.

I remember too many tequila shots.

I remember the taste of the tuna that made me sick for 15 hours. (yuck!)

I remember when I started not feeling skinny anymore. (ugh)

I remember the pool at the Grandparent’s neighbor’s house. The water always looked so clear and bright when we first got there. And the sun was always shining.

I remember my Grandmother’s Tropicana Orange juice towels.

I remember my first, and only, speeding ticket. It was my competitive nature that awarded me that ticket, while racing down Route 1 against a car full of boys. Later, when we met up with our friends, I learned that we had passed them on the way down and they thought the FBI was chasing after us.

I remember the day I picked up my kitten, she fit in the car’s cup-holder.

I remember the Fisher Price cassette player and microphone that glued to my side.

I remember, “She’ll be coming ’round the mountain when she comes”

I remember my red sippy cup filled with orange juice, and my sister’s yellow one filled with milk.

I remember band concerts.

I remember how great my Dad is at naming things.

I remember reading my Irish Literature final exam to my professor, because my handwriting “Monet” was illegible. It wasn’t the first time a professor had made that request.

I remember feeling great about the cash tips that I brought home as a waitress. Mostly because I had truly worked my way up from the bottom of the work “totem poll.”