Upon waking this morning I found that the Fonz himself, Henry Winkler, had responded to a cheeky tweet in which I had mentioned him.  The only way it could have been better is if he had told me to sit on it.  He wished me a happy weekend instead.

In other words, Henry and I are now best friends!  He’s very good.

PS: follow me on twitter @theactualembenn

I’ve been staying at my parents’ house for the past week and a half.  It’s weird.  I haven’t spent every night in the room I grew up in, but I’ve spent enough time to get past the initial fear that kept me up all night.  I should feel comfortable in this room since I slept here every night for ten years.  I am no longer able to fall into a sound sleep because of the immense changes that have taken place since I moved out and on with my life.  My mom made me come through and clean out all of my belongings, including the posters and magazine clippings that decorated the walls and closet.  This act removed the identity of the teenage girl who had worked so hard to leave behind something to be remembered by.  All that is left are a few pictures of the Beatles and the full-length mirror with the now-permanent note, “Halloween: Jedi.”  I have evolved while my room has deteriorated.  I try to ignore the dead spiders that are strewn along the edges of the carpet.  The bed is not the one I slept in, but rather the old one that was in my room for the two terrifying years I lived in Tennessee.  Perhaps most importantly, my dog is not here protecting me, keeping watch as I fall securely to sleep while the now-absent radio plays softly in the corner.  My viola is not here, nor is the white music stand plastered with Joshua Bell pictures (you know, for inspiration).  Some of these things have made the transition to the apartment I now share with my boyfriend; more things have not.  The reason I no longer feel comfortable in the place that used to be my sanctuary is because I am not the awkward, desperate young girl I once was.  Of course I’m still awkward and unsure of myself, but the person who lived in this room is gone, and with her the traces of who she thought she was.  The person that I am now has adapted to her new life.  Instead of a dog sleeping softly by her side she has become accustomed to the sound of cats crying outside her door.  Instead of Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings and The Beatles… well, those things are still around, but they are no longer the first things she sees when she wakes up.  No, now I see someone that I love and trust, and the home that we continue to create together.  This home is not that of my parents, but rather one that we build and define together.  Soon my family will leave this house and scatter across the country.  New generations will arrive, others will be lost.  The memories of this house, my room and the time I spent here will always be vivid, but they are moments that I will never be able to return to.  And that is why I feel uneasy about being here.  It is better to look back fondly than to try to recreate the past.  While this room will always mean a lot to me, it is time for me to leave it and the girl who once lived here and acknowledge the adult woman that the world is forcing me to become.

Farts.