The Poconos: For Lovers Of Every Kind

Growing up my parents had a condo of sorts in the Poconos. It was the coolest place ever. It was three stories high and each floor was balconied so you could stand on the third floor and look down to see part of the second and first floors. Aside from the three stories and the beige carpets, I have few precious memories of it. As you can imagine, they are also the coolest memories ever.

1. Apparently the only way to get furniture up to the third floor was to haul it up over each balcony. My brother and two of his friends struggled with a green couch in this manner for hours, much to my enjoyment. It ended up being the only piece of furniture up there. At least that I can remember and since we all know my memory is sh*t, I could totally be lying.

2. The kitchen was tiny but I was in it with my mother when I lost my second tooth. I bit into a bagel and the tooth was still in it when I brought it away from my mouth. I remember there being a small earthquake that morning which is actually what prompted me to run into the kitchen. I think. I reiterate the last line of memory one.

3. One particular trip to the condo probably lent a hand in my parents' decision to sell it. We opened the doors to a trail of droppings. A very, very long trail of droppings, much like a child from the family circus would leave, and we actually followed it all over the house. It started at the fireplace and weaved under tables, around the couch, up the stairs, and under the bed until it stopped in front of the night table. My dad lifted it and there curled up in a lover's embrace were two dead squirrels. It was gross. The poop I mean. And you know I'm not lying about that because really, who lies about poop?