After, oh, about 9 or so years, my Ex, who always did have a way of finding me when I had already put him out of my mind, friended me on Facebook. It took me about two weeks to decide if I'd accept this particular friend, more so because I've come to know my weaknesses. I figured since he now lives 1000 or so miles away, I could accept safely. But my burnt forehead may prove otherwise.
That was about 2 years ago, and now we've spoken on the phone a couple of times, for two hours or so each time. We have always had a lot to talk about. We talk over each other. Being friends was never the problem. We excel at it. But, ever since then, I've been having dreams in which Ex is the star. Only a couple, but they were quite vivid, the most vivid I have had in a long time.
1. Battle of the Scandinavian-design furniture.
In this dream, Ex and I are living together in the apartment I currently own. The place is decorated in much the same way it is in real life, with most of my dad's old furniture and art on the walls. The piece of furniture in question is this wall unit that currently lives in my mother and stepfather's apartment in Virginia, which I have coveted since I was a little girl. It is sleek and simple, mahogany wood, clean lines, quintessential Scandinavian design. A testament to my stepfather's impeccable taste in furniture. Anyway, I had fought long and hard to wrestle that wall unit away from them, and I used it to proudly display my stereo (record-player included, thank you very much), my pride and joy record collection (The Who to Ravi Shankar to Fleetwood Mac to Gladys Knight to Louis Armstrong), various tchotchkes and family pictures, and my beautiful orchid plant.
Ex and I used to live with this dude, AH, and he starred in the dream as co-conspirator. He did not live with us in the dream, but thanks to Ex and him being friends well beyond our living together and subsequent falling-out (my and AH's), he often sat on my beautiful, beige, very expensive couch smoking cigarettes in his cocky, self-centered way.
In pre-bedbug NYC, one could often find nice furniture and accessories on the curbs. So one day, Ex and AH find this ugly-yet-utilitarian desk/bookcase hybrid monster from IKEA near our apartment and bring it inside. They can't figure out where to put it, so they get rid of my precious wall-unit and Ex plops his computer on this new monster and sets to work writing a song. Brilliant, to be sure, but I come home and freak out, and like a television sitcom, the dream closes with a close-up shot of me, my mouth hanging open in anger and disgust. And the worst part, the IKEA monster had a big gash in its side. Ex made me feel like the bad guy for wanting my wall-unit back, that I was too wrapped up in possessions.
Conclusion: God saved both of our lives by breaking us apart, for if we had stayed together, we would have eaten each other's souls.
Why? Fundamental differences in the way we live. He doesn't care about things being pretty. He cares more about whether they are useful to him or not. I, on the other hand, care very much about things being pretty. If I made a list of how my days are spent, you would see that a lot of my time is spent either in the shower washing my hair and body with all manner of flowery/sugary/fruity shampoos and gels or in the mirror, blow-drying and straightening my hair into graceful submission, every bang laying just so, or in front of the mirror applying and re-applying makeup. True, some days, I don't care how I look, but most days, I "girl out", as another boyfriend put it. This need for things to be pretty reaches out its tentacles to most aspects of my life. I carry pretty purses. I love pretty furniture. I like it when it's really useful, but prettiness trumps all.
I very much resented Ex's friendships with people I couldn't stand. First there was AH, which I've already covered. Then there was Anna, this Polish emo/manic depressive chick who used to live with us. AH and I couldn't really stand her much if at all, and it didn't help that her and Ex would take long walks together and that one day, I came home to find her little mary jane shoes placed ever so neatly on the floor beside my bed. I don't remember having asked questions about that, but I remember fuming for days. And then there was that little hipster girl who lived in SoHo who I loathed, but to whose apartment I was often dragged in the name of pot delivery. All Ex's other friends, I quite liked.
So yeah, extremely different lives to say the least.
2. My credit card, myself.
Last night's dream involved me living in a strange house in a suburb of some city, snow covering the ground. Ex was visiting or something to that effect. I remember waking up in the morning to find my credit card stolen and him sleeping with another woman in this, my house.
The credit card represented me, and not because he stole me. I lost myself completely in that whole mess. The other woman may or may not have represented another woman, but if anything, it represented the fact that I ended up not trusting him much and if something was amiss, it was almost always his fault.
Which brings me to the burnt forehead. Since I have been speaking to Ex, I have 4 new burns. The first two are on my wrists from when I was making grilled cheese sandwiches and not paying attention to my arms. The other two are on my forehead and neck, respectively, and came from mishaps with the straight-iron. Now, I have been straight-ironing my hair since December 2003. One would think I know what I'm doing. Thankfully, the burn on my forehead can be concealed by my bangs, and the one on my neck is way in the back under my hair. But the ones on my wrists make it look like I have been trying to kill myself.
This could be me going through an accident-prone time. It happens. This could also be me having things on my mind, things that I had put away a long time ago, and therefore just not paying attention. I'm not sure. But my hairdresser thinks it's the latter. As much as I emphasize knowing thyself, often other folks know me better than I know myself. So he may be right after all. Queer guys are usually quite insightful.
(Now we'll see if Ex really does read my blog.)
lunes, abril 18, 2011
lunes, abril 11, 2011
"Why you're not married" - I call bullshit
TV writer Tracy McMillan is a master.
Surely she wrote "Why You're Not Married" to get a rise out of people, and she certainly has, me included. The backlash is all over the web. I will also bet that her article was her way of cleansing herself by admitting she has three failed marriages under her belt. My guess, however, is that she would rather project her own failures onto her readers than take responsibility for the fact that she has very bad judgement. It's easier that way. Following are her points and my reactions:
1. You're a bitch - I'm not gonna lie. I am, sometimes. So is everyone. Bitch is a very subjective term, because if I don't give you what you want, you think I'm a bitch, right? Well, vice-versa. Yeah, I do get angry. NYC is a really good place to foster anger. As long as you're not shooting up post offices and have some positive outlet for your anger, like a spinning class, and you own up to that anger, you're good.
Over this past summer, a friend told me that another friend of ours (how very high school - sheesh) said I was a negative person. You all know where I was emotionally at that time, if you read my blog. I also very much cared about what people thought of me. So much so, that I went out of my way not to be all sad and emo in front of my friends, when really I was and had every right to be. Friend told me a couple of other things and soon it all came to a head and I freaked out on her. I said something along the lines of "I feel like I've just had my right arm cut off, so if anyone deserves to be upset, it's me!!" She was speechless for a minute, very uncommon for her, and that behavior was very uncommon for me. Needless to say, but I'm saying it anyway, it isn't anymore. Lessons learned: 1. Your friends are your friends, until proven otherwise. So if you are feeling like shit, they should understand. I'm all for decorum, but there's no reason to hide your true feelings in front of your peoples. If they whine because you're no longer Miss Suzy Sunshine, cut em off. 2. Stop caring what people think of you. It's not important, because their opinions come and go. Your opinion of yourself will follow you everywhere. 3. You don't have to keep quiet.
McMillan says "...you think you're super smart, or....setting boundaries," as if those were bad things. There's nothing wrong with either. I am super smart, and I am setting boundaries. And my life is better for it.
It's true that female anger terrifies some men. And it is our problem, but getting rid of that anger has nothing to do with catching a man. Fix yourself and the rest will fall into place. Let us please get rid of this notion that we need to change how we naturally are just to snag and/or keep a man.
2. You're shallow McMillan's got a point here. She doesn't mean "shallow" in that you like to shop or have an LV suitcase you refer to as "Louis". She is talking about a list that women are often encouraged to make of the traits they want in their ideal man. Now, I love to make lists, and I made one of these about 7 or 8 years ago. I stuck it in a bible I have at home and prayed and hoped for the best. Not. Working. Ladies, take that list out of your bibles, journals, safe-keeping boxes hidden in the back of your closet, rip it up and burn that shit. You shouldn't be eyeballing every man you meet to see if he meets height, weight and eye color requirements. Talk to him. If he asks you out, go, and if it turns out badly, at least you know what NOT to want. I always wanted a basketball player with a pretty smile who looked just a little mean (translation: good in bed), and a great ass that had to be bigger than mine cause when we did it I didn't wanna be embarrassed, and he had to be super masculine. So what happened? I ended up dating a tall, skinny chef, and yes, his butt was smaller than mine yet he never complained, and our relationship was one of the best I've ever had. Which brings me to my next point: when you are freaking out over what you look like to your man nekkid, stop. Know this: he already won the lottery. He gets to do it to you. Now proceed.
3. You're a slut Oh Lord, here we go with the whole "men can have sex whenever they want, but women don't get to" shit. I just never though it would be a woman dishing it. The excuse here is a chemical: Oxytocin. McMillan says that past a certain age, it's the Oxytocin that gets women attached to men, even if they're just casually fucking. So it's not mens' faults. It's a chemical. Huh? This is what I know: If you start a casual relationship with someone, then he leads you on and treats you like his girl, gets you all excited and naming your babies, you are going to get attached. This is only natural. If you get screwed (and not in a good way), it's HIS fault. Not yours, and certainly not the Oxytocin.
Fact is, the older I get, the less likely I am to get attached to a casual hook-up. I used to do that when I was in my early twenties, and it worked out once, for a while. But that was only one out of, um, a lot.
Regarding the stoppage of casual relationships, very simple: If you're having a dating dry spell, like yours truly, where are you supposed to get it? Nature calls in several different ways, and hell, sometimes I need to answer the phone.
4. You're a liar - McMillan's got another good point here. If you are not comfortable in a casual relationship, don't be in it. Let it be known that you want what you want. It's not a sin to assert yourself.
5. You're selfish - I don't see what the harm is in thinking about your career, your thighs, or your naso-labial folds. There is, however, a lot wrong in thinking a guy can solve your problems. If you think a man will fix you, stay single and learn to be with yourself. Men, like your friends' opinions of you, will come and go. You'll be with you forever.
The trick here is being open to the fact that one day, as McMillan says, it won't be all about you anymore. You will have to take care of your man, your kids, etc. You will have to love somebody other than yourself. Before you go looking for a mate, you best be sure you have something to bring to the table. Be sure you have a lot of love, respect and patience to give. You're gonna need it.
6. You're not good enough - Of course I don't think that, and neither does McMillan. When you start doubting yourself, go look in the mirror, declare your greatness, smile and wink, smack your own ass, whatever you have to do. But never doubt yourself.
McMillan is absolutely right on this one: "women who don't know their own worth make terrible wives." Out of all my guy-friends, I have only one who already figured this out. I bet you anything he'll be married soon, and he will have his family. Why? He's smart and has character and he knows that women who know and respect themselves are wifey material. He can tell if a woman has this trait really quickly.
Remember what I said about not worrying what you look like nekkid because your man already won the lottery? Go forth in the world thinking that, and make sure you have love, honesty, generosity and respect to back that up.
As for Ms. Tracy McMillan, if I need advice on writing a TV show or maybe a question on parenting (she has a 13 year old son), I'll call her. For advice on love, I'll look elsewhere, thank you very much. My biggest issue with her is that she's trying to say that she is some sort of expert on snagging a husband. And maybe she is, but certainly not on keeping one, because she didn't know herself enough to realize what was good for her. Because she can get them to the altar yet not keep them by her side, she is an expert in nothing but desperation. She'd do well to follow her own advice and know her worth. She covers for her lack of sense of self very well by telling others that they have fundamental problems.
I can agree with her that marriage won't fix you. I also agree that marriage is not all about getting something. It's about giving too. I can't stress enough what McMillan said about that certain point when life ceases to be all about you. Leave yourself open for that and for many things. Life has tons of options. Although there is such a thing as fate, for the most part, life does not lead you, you lead it.
Surely she wrote "Why You're Not Married" to get a rise out of people, and she certainly has, me included. The backlash is all over the web. I will also bet that her article was her way of cleansing herself by admitting she has three failed marriages under her belt. My guess, however, is that she would rather project her own failures onto her readers than take responsibility for the fact that she has very bad judgement. It's easier that way. Following are her points and my reactions:
1. You're a bitch - I'm not gonna lie. I am, sometimes. So is everyone. Bitch is a very subjective term, because if I don't give you what you want, you think I'm a bitch, right? Well, vice-versa. Yeah, I do get angry. NYC is a really good place to foster anger. As long as you're not shooting up post offices and have some positive outlet for your anger, like a spinning class, and you own up to that anger, you're good.
Over this past summer, a friend told me that another friend of ours (how very high school - sheesh) said I was a negative person. You all know where I was emotionally at that time, if you read my blog. I also very much cared about what people thought of me. So much so, that I went out of my way not to be all sad and emo in front of my friends, when really I was and had every right to be. Friend told me a couple of other things and soon it all came to a head and I freaked out on her. I said something along the lines of "I feel like I've just had my right arm cut off, so if anyone deserves to be upset, it's me!!" She was speechless for a minute, very uncommon for her, and that behavior was very uncommon for me. Needless to say, but I'm saying it anyway, it isn't anymore. Lessons learned: 1. Your friends are your friends, until proven otherwise. So if you are feeling like shit, they should understand. I'm all for decorum, but there's no reason to hide your true feelings in front of your peoples. If they whine because you're no longer Miss Suzy Sunshine, cut em off. 2. Stop caring what people think of you. It's not important, because their opinions come and go. Your opinion of yourself will follow you everywhere. 3. You don't have to keep quiet.
McMillan says "...you think you're super smart, or....setting boundaries," as if those were bad things. There's nothing wrong with either. I am super smart, and I am setting boundaries. And my life is better for it.
It's true that female anger terrifies some men. And it is our problem, but getting rid of that anger has nothing to do with catching a man. Fix yourself and the rest will fall into place. Let us please get rid of this notion that we need to change how we naturally are just to snag and/or keep a man.
2. You're shallow McMillan's got a point here. She doesn't mean "shallow" in that you like to shop or have an LV suitcase you refer to as "Louis". She is talking about a list that women are often encouraged to make of the traits they want in their ideal man. Now, I love to make lists, and I made one of these about 7 or 8 years ago. I stuck it in a bible I have at home and prayed and hoped for the best. Not. Working. Ladies, take that list out of your bibles, journals, safe-keeping boxes hidden in the back of your closet, rip it up and burn that shit. You shouldn't be eyeballing every man you meet to see if he meets height, weight and eye color requirements. Talk to him. If he asks you out, go, and if it turns out badly, at least you know what NOT to want. I always wanted a basketball player with a pretty smile who looked just a little mean (translation: good in bed), and a great ass that had to be bigger than mine cause when we did it I didn't wanna be embarrassed, and he had to be super masculine. So what happened? I ended up dating a tall, skinny chef, and yes, his butt was smaller than mine yet he never complained, and our relationship was one of the best I've ever had. Which brings me to my next point: when you are freaking out over what you look like to your man nekkid, stop. Know this: he already won the lottery. He gets to do it to you. Now proceed.
3. You're a slut Oh Lord, here we go with the whole "men can have sex whenever they want, but women don't get to" shit. I just never though it would be a woman dishing it. The excuse here is a chemical: Oxytocin. McMillan says that past a certain age, it's the Oxytocin that gets women attached to men, even if they're just casually fucking. So it's not mens' faults. It's a chemical. Huh? This is what I know: If you start a casual relationship with someone, then he leads you on and treats you like his girl, gets you all excited and naming your babies, you are going to get attached. This is only natural. If you get screwed (and not in a good way), it's HIS fault. Not yours, and certainly not the Oxytocin.
Fact is, the older I get, the less likely I am to get attached to a casual hook-up. I used to do that when I was in my early twenties, and it worked out once, for a while. But that was only one out of, um, a lot.
Regarding the stoppage of casual relationships, very simple: If you're having a dating dry spell, like yours truly, where are you supposed to get it? Nature calls in several different ways, and hell, sometimes I need to answer the phone.
4. You're a liar - McMillan's got another good point here. If you are not comfortable in a casual relationship, don't be in it. Let it be known that you want what you want. It's not a sin to assert yourself.
5. You're selfish - I don't see what the harm is in thinking about your career, your thighs, or your naso-labial folds. There is, however, a lot wrong in thinking a guy can solve your problems. If you think a man will fix you, stay single and learn to be with yourself. Men, like your friends' opinions of you, will come and go. You'll be with you forever.
The trick here is being open to the fact that one day, as McMillan says, it won't be all about you anymore. You will have to take care of your man, your kids, etc. You will have to love somebody other than yourself. Before you go looking for a mate, you best be sure you have something to bring to the table. Be sure you have a lot of love, respect and patience to give. You're gonna need it.
6. You're not good enough - Of course I don't think that, and neither does McMillan. When you start doubting yourself, go look in the mirror, declare your greatness, smile and wink, smack your own ass, whatever you have to do. But never doubt yourself.
McMillan is absolutely right on this one: "women who don't know their own worth make terrible wives." Out of all my guy-friends, I have only one who already figured this out. I bet you anything he'll be married soon, and he will have his family. Why? He's smart and has character and he knows that women who know and respect themselves are wifey material. He can tell if a woman has this trait really quickly.
Remember what I said about not worrying what you look like nekkid because your man already won the lottery? Go forth in the world thinking that, and make sure you have love, honesty, generosity and respect to back that up.
As for Ms. Tracy McMillan, if I need advice on writing a TV show or maybe a question on parenting (she has a 13 year old son), I'll call her. For advice on love, I'll look elsewhere, thank you very much. My biggest issue with her is that she's trying to say that she is some sort of expert on snagging a husband. And maybe she is, but certainly not on keeping one, because she didn't know herself enough to realize what was good for her. Because she can get them to the altar yet not keep them by her side, she is an expert in nothing but desperation. She'd do well to follow her own advice and know her worth. She covers for her lack of sense of self very well by telling others that they have fundamental problems.
I can agree with her that marriage won't fix you. I also agree that marriage is not all about getting something. It's about giving too. I can't stress enough what McMillan said about that certain point when life ceases to be all about you. Leave yourself open for that and for many things. Life has tons of options. Although there is such a thing as fate, for the most part, life does not lead you, you lead it.
martes, diciembre 21, 2010
This Christmas
This Christmas is going to suck.
That's what I've been thinking for months now. Thursday morning, I will be taking the bus to DC to visit my mom for the holiday. I don't want to go. I don't really want to do Christmas this year. Last Christmas was the end of it being a fun holiday for me.
Really, my fun Christmases ended when I was 16. That was the last one I had with daddy before he had his stroke. That was the last one that he enjoyed just as much as I did. For my 17th Christmas to my 22nd, he was pretty blah about the whole thing. But I had my whole month off of school to hang out, so I still got happy about it.
For my 23rd and all Christmases thereafter, I made up a routine:
Come home, sit and talk with daddy, go over the Christmas meal (yes, go over it. He had specific instructions - all food must be bland and relatively tasteless-while-being-tasty, just like the Christmas meals grandma used to make), supermarket list, chores, etc.
Go down to the mall and shop for last minute gifts. Go to market, buy turkey, etc.
Shuttle to mom's house. Have a great time with her while trying to relate to stepdad (a skill in which we both have improved tremendously). Bake stuff and make Christmas eve dinner.
Shuttle back to daddy's on Christmas day. Cook meal. Snap radio on to WPGC and listen to Donnie Hathaway sing Christmas songs while up to my elbows in homemade bread stuffing mix. While turkey cooks, go in to daddy's room, read the Post, and ask daddy all manner of questions like I did when I was little, all of which he'd answer lovingly. He liked it when I acted like a kid. Sometimes, I would do it on purpose. A couple of hours later, daddy and I would sit down to the meal. The worst parts of the holiday came in here: having to get daddy in his wheelchair and roll him out to the dining room, even though he could have walked it with his cane, and then having to serve him a plate and cut his meat for him. I never got used to those things. Of course, I would gladly do those things today.
Shuttle to mom's house for a few days. Hit Nieman-Marcus Last Call sale and get our hair did by Dusan, the hottest hairdresser on the planet (and straight!). Watch DVDs.
Back to daddy's.
Walk down to mall and sip a coffee while watching the ice-skaters in the courtyard.
Hit the after-Christmas sales with no one to tell me not to spend my money and not to buy this or that. Get daddy fast food for dinner (he loved his fast food so much).
See friends, but only if I absolutely had to. I much preferred to sit and read the Post with daddy and ask 50 gajillion questions, all of which were answered with a big smile.
Take a day to walk around DC and play tourist-in-my-own-hometown. One of the many things I loved about daddy is that he encouraged me to go out and do my own thing, and not to worry about him so much. Even on his death bed, I believe that he, if he had had the voice, would have said "Don't worry about me, Maria. I'll be OK."
This Christmas, I don't exactly know what I'm going to do, besides sit and have dinner with mom and stepdad, and visit daddy at the cemetery. Sounds like we are going to have a nice meal - tamales and all that Guatemalan food I really love. Mom is going to great lengths to make sure I enjoy this holiday. She knows it's important. And I love her so much for it.
One of the crappy things about death is that you can't curl up into a ball and ignore the world. You don't get to be selfish, if you have family or anyone that depends on you to keep a brave face. I don't know what this holiday is going to bring. I'm keeping my expectations low yet hoping for the best. Hell, hoping to just make it without crying.
Wish me luck.
That's what I've been thinking for months now. Thursday morning, I will be taking the bus to DC to visit my mom for the holiday. I don't want to go. I don't really want to do Christmas this year. Last Christmas was the end of it being a fun holiday for me.
Really, my fun Christmases ended when I was 16. That was the last one I had with daddy before he had his stroke. That was the last one that he enjoyed just as much as I did. For my 17th Christmas to my 22nd, he was pretty blah about the whole thing. But I had my whole month off of school to hang out, so I still got happy about it.
For my 23rd and all Christmases thereafter, I made up a routine:
Come home, sit and talk with daddy, go over the Christmas meal (yes, go over it. He had specific instructions - all food must be bland and relatively tasteless-while-being-tasty, just like the Christmas meals grandma used to make), supermarket list, chores, etc.
Go down to the mall and shop for last minute gifts. Go to market, buy turkey, etc.
Shuttle to mom's house. Have a great time with her while trying to relate to stepdad (a skill in which we both have improved tremendously). Bake stuff and make Christmas eve dinner.
Shuttle back to daddy's on Christmas day. Cook meal. Snap radio on to WPGC and listen to Donnie Hathaway sing Christmas songs while up to my elbows in homemade bread stuffing mix. While turkey cooks, go in to daddy's room, read the Post, and ask daddy all manner of questions like I did when I was little, all of which he'd answer lovingly. He liked it when I acted like a kid. Sometimes, I would do it on purpose. A couple of hours later, daddy and I would sit down to the meal. The worst parts of the holiday came in here: having to get daddy in his wheelchair and roll him out to the dining room, even though he could have walked it with his cane, and then having to serve him a plate and cut his meat for him. I never got used to those things. Of course, I would gladly do those things today.
Shuttle to mom's house for a few days. Hit Nieman-Marcus Last Call sale and get our hair did by Dusan, the hottest hairdresser on the planet (and straight!). Watch DVDs.
Back to daddy's.
Walk down to mall and sip a coffee while watching the ice-skaters in the courtyard.
Hit the after-Christmas sales with no one to tell me not to spend my money and not to buy this or that. Get daddy fast food for dinner (he loved his fast food so much).
See friends, but only if I absolutely had to. I much preferred to sit and read the Post with daddy and ask 50 gajillion questions, all of which were answered with a big smile.
Take a day to walk around DC and play tourist-in-my-own-hometown. One of the many things I loved about daddy is that he encouraged me to go out and do my own thing, and not to worry about him so much. Even on his death bed, I believe that he, if he had had the voice, would have said "Don't worry about me, Maria. I'll be OK."
This Christmas, I don't exactly know what I'm going to do, besides sit and have dinner with mom and stepdad, and visit daddy at the cemetery. Sounds like we are going to have a nice meal - tamales and all that Guatemalan food I really love. Mom is going to great lengths to make sure I enjoy this holiday. She knows it's important. And I love her so much for it.
One of the crappy things about death is that you can't curl up into a ball and ignore the world. You don't get to be selfish, if you have family or anyone that depends on you to keep a brave face. I don't know what this holiday is going to bring. I'm keeping my expectations low yet hoping for the best. Hell, hoping to just make it without crying.
Wish me luck.
lunes, noviembre 01, 2010
For Roderick, 1969-2010
Roderick was a close friend of mine who died last week of cancer. Doctors first found the colon cancer early in 2009, but since the cancer was detected early, the prognosis was good and he fought the first battle triumphantly. In the beginning of this year, he started to have pain in his lower back, and doctors found a mass, which they at first thought was benign, putting pressure on a nerve. They removed the mass, and Roderick was on his way to recovery, so he thought, and we all did, too. Turns out it was cancer. Last Tuesday night, 26 October 2010, he lost the war. Throughout his whole ordeal, Roderick, although he let us know how he was doing, never expressed his pain or any emotions. And that's why we all thought that he was going to kick cancer in the ass and live a long, happy life with us and with his family. But it just wasn't in the cards.
Following is a note that I ended up writing on Facebook and sharing with my friends. We did have two events , thrown in his honor, where people expressed their sadness and words for our dear Roddy. But I couldn't bring myself to say out loud what I wanted to say, because the sadness was just too great. I knew that if I even opened my mouth, I would fall apart. And I did anyway, but I wanted to share my love. So here goes:
One of the first times I met Roddy online on Yelp, we got to talking about our mutual love for Jonathan Rhys-Myers. He told me how raunchy The Tudors was, and I said that I MUST see it, but that I didn't get showtime. So he asked for my address and sent me a DVD of the first three episodes. I'll add here, just in case you're not sure, that we had not met yet. A few weeks later, a group of us met at Amsterdam Billiards on 4th ave and 11th for Pool Night the First. Julie K was there, making a mockery of the billiards institution, yet sweetly giggling her way through it. Sean T. showed us all how to play "golf pool". We met the fabulous Drew B. I walked over to the bar, famished, to get what turned out to be the most horrible plate of nachos in creation, and I looked to my right and saw this dude in a Red Sox cap. "Are you Roderick?" I took him over and made introductions, then we played our own game of pool. I think the Red Sox game was on tv, and I told him Dan Petry (pitcher for the Tigers and then the Angels in the 80s) was my cousin. Ok, twice removed. But still. I knew, without really knowing Roddy yet, that he would appreciate this. He was impressed. And I was impressed that he even remembered Petry. The first of many of my obscure references and factoids that he would "get" instantly.
And that was the beginning of a beautiful spring and summer, and then fall and winter, and then spring and summer again, and so on. Riding in the mirthmobile listening to Girl Talk, going out late on school nights (one night in particular, I was already in my pj's and winding down late on a Tuesday, when I get a Gchat - "Do you need a ride?" "To where, Rod?" "umm, to Gibney's. I'll pick you up in a few."). Izu with Audrey and the gang. The impromptu road trip to DC after the impromptu picnic in Washington Square Park. Javier getting all excited to see the Watergate in person. Renting a car from Benny the Walking Flirt. The AuJaMaRoRo take-over of Sugar restaurant and Mason-Dixon. Roddy's parking pimp-hand ("Ummm, I'm only parked across the street."). Bon-Chon chicken. Bibimbop at Sura (Chicken. White rice.) Verlaine, of course. Our Olivia Newton-John duet. A million more memories.
The way Roddy looked on at everyone else's bickering, online and off, without ever (ever ever) joining in or even taking sides. The way people, who might have had a lot of bad words for everyone else, and I include myself here, never ever had a bad word to say about Roddy. Javier mentioned to me last night that Roddy had the ability to be friends with everyone, in every crowd, because he was never so full of himself that he couldn't see the good in every single person he crossed paths with. Now, that's an ability I only wish I had, and I think I might be improving in that department. Slowly, and someday, surely. Only now in his death do I realize that that is my goal, to let go of my own shit and just let it be. I think maybe he knows how much he's inspired me, and I'm sure many of you as well. And though I'm distraught, although I miss him terribly, I know that he'll never let go of us, just like we'll never let go of him. Just as we all hold his hand, he holds all of ours. He was our angel, and it was just time to give him back. But he still watches over us. This both comforts me and scares the holy hell out of me. I better try and not mess up. I always did want to look cute for my Tito Rick.
--------------------------
The wake, mass and funeral were held this past weekend. The family apparently had no idea how huge Roddy's group of friends was, and we were a comfort to them. I'm glad for that. But as everyone was concerned about how the family would hold up, it was our group of friends who just completely fell apart. Each and every one of us, including people who hadn't seen him in a long time. Roderick really touched our lives in such a positive way, and unfortunately, we never realized the magnitude of that until he died. But isn't that always the way? One thing we always knew: he made us feel good about ourselves, and we all loved him so much. He was magic.
Following is a note that I ended up writing on Facebook and sharing with my friends. We did have two events , thrown in his honor, where people expressed their sadness and words for our dear Roddy. But I couldn't bring myself to say out loud what I wanted to say, because the sadness was just too great. I knew that if I even opened my mouth, I would fall apart. And I did anyway, but I wanted to share my love. So here goes:
One of the first times I met Roddy online on Yelp, we got to talking about our mutual love for Jonathan Rhys-Myers. He told me how raunchy The Tudors was, and I said that I MUST see it, but that I didn't get showtime. So he asked for my address and sent me a DVD of the first three episodes. I'll add here, just in case you're not sure, that we had not met yet. A few weeks later, a group of us met at Amsterdam Billiards on 4th ave and 11th for Pool Night the First. Julie K was there, making a mockery of the billiards institution, yet sweetly giggling her way through it. Sean T. showed us all how to play "golf pool". We met the fabulous Drew B. I walked over to the bar, famished, to get what turned out to be the most horrible plate of nachos in creation, and I looked to my right and saw this dude in a Red Sox cap. "Are you Roderick?" I took him over and made introductions, then we played our own game of pool. I think the Red Sox game was on tv, and I told him Dan Petry (pitcher for the Tigers and then the Angels in the 80s) was my cousin. Ok, twice removed. But still. I knew, without really knowing Roddy yet, that he would appreciate this. He was impressed. And I was impressed that he even remembered Petry. The first of many of my obscure references and factoids that he would "get" instantly.
And that was the beginning of a beautiful spring and summer, and then fall and winter, and then spring and summer again, and so on. Riding in the mirthmobile listening to Girl Talk, going out late on school nights (one night in particular, I was already in my pj's and winding down late on a Tuesday, when I get a Gchat - "Do you need a ride?" "To where, Rod?" "umm, to Gibney's. I'll pick you up in a few."). Izu with Audrey and the gang. The impromptu road trip to DC after the impromptu picnic in Washington Square Park. Javier getting all excited to see the Watergate in person. Renting a car from Benny the Walking Flirt. The AuJaMaRoRo take-over of Sugar restaurant and Mason-Dixon. Roddy's parking pimp-hand ("Ummm, I'm only parked across the street."). Bon-Chon chicken. Bibimbop at Sura (Chicken. White rice.) Verlaine, of course. Our Olivia Newton-John duet. A million more memories.
The way Roddy looked on at everyone else's bickering, online and off, without ever (ever ever) joining in or even taking sides. The way people, who might have had a lot of bad words for everyone else, and I include myself here, never ever had a bad word to say about Roddy. Javier mentioned to me last night that Roddy had the ability to be friends with everyone, in every crowd, because he was never so full of himself that he couldn't see the good in every single person he crossed paths with. Now, that's an ability I only wish I had, and I think I might be improving in that department. Slowly, and someday, surely. Only now in his death do I realize that that is my goal, to let go of my own shit and just let it be. I think maybe he knows how much he's inspired me, and I'm sure many of you as well. And though I'm distraught, although I miss him terribly, I know that he'll never let go of us, just like we'll never let go of him. Just as we all hold his hand, he holds all of ours. He was our angel, and it was just time to give him back. But he still watches over us. This both comforts me and scares the holy hell out of me. I better try and not mess up. I always did want to look cute for my Tito Rick.
--------------------------
The wake, mass and funeral were held this past weekend. The family apparently had no idea how huge Roddy's group of friends was, and we were a comfort to them. I'm glad for that. But as everyone was concerned about how the family would hold up, it was our group of friends who just completely fell apart. Each and every one of us, including people who hadn't seen him in a long time. Roderick really touched our lives in such a positive way, and unfortunately, we never realized the magnitude of that until he died. But isn't that always the way? One thing we always knew: he made us feel good about ourselves, and we all loved him so much. He was magic.
martes, agosto 17, 2010
Aftermath
I have been reflecting on many things over the past 6+ months. Nothing like death, or the threat thereof, to make you take a look at your life. Here's what I've learned so far.....
1) I can get through most things and come out fairly unscathed.
I found myself talking to people who've lost a father just to see what was normal in the grieving process and what I should be concerned about. Turns out that everything I'm feeling is normal. That's the good news. The bad news is that the excruciating hole in my heart will never go away, and I'm told the only improvement will be that I learn to live "around" that hole. I'm still sorry for all the things I didn't do, and I mean stupid things, like chores that I kept putting off, like taking out daddy's old newspapers, buying him chocolates at the market or making a pot of the black beans he liked so much. I'm sorry that I didn't talk to him for over two weeks before he died (we had a habit of not talking for long periods of time - not because there was any love lost, but because he just didn't dig the phone). The bad news is that I will be sorry for the rest of my life.
We had the mass for daddy in March, the day before my birthday. The original plan was to take daddy's ashes and scatter them in several different places: at Myrtle Beach and Pawley's Island in South Carolina, in Baltimore at Camden Yards, in Tennessee at Morgan Manor (aka, my aunt Patty's old house), and a few others. But the priest told my mother that if we scattered the ashes, he couldn't give the mass. In Catholic lore, even if a person is cremated, his ashes must remain in tact because when judgement day comes around and everyone is risen from the dead, he needs to be complete with no arms or pieces of face missing. Something like that. Both daddy and grandma were Catholic, and grandma would have come down from heaven and gotten after me if I skipped the mass. Daddy would have said something like "Dammit, Maria, if you had any sense at all...." And so, a group of about 10 people, me, my mom, two of my high school buds and several of his old co-workers gathered at the church where I was baptized, sang a horrible rendition of Amazing Grace, in which I didn't dare open my mouth for fear of falling apart, and fell apart anyway. The image of daddy's bright, smiling high school self in a graduation picture sitting next to the box of his ashes was ironic in the worst way possible.
In June came the actual burial. Daddy did two years in the Navy, which he referred to as his "cruise", and for his honorable discharge, he earned the right to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. This came as a relief to us, mostly because we couldn't decide where to put him after we found out we had to keep him all together. So off we went, again a small group of us, huddled under a white tent on a beautiful Washington, DC, day. Not a cloud in the sky. To the left of the cemetery, in the distance, I could see the Prospect House, where daddy lived when I was little. I remembered standing on a chair and sloshing my hands around in the kitchen sink, "washing dishes", the planes flying overhead on their way in to National, and the afternoons at the park looking up at the Iwo Jima memorial, which was almost in daddy's front lawn. To the right of the cemetery, I could see the building where he lived for 28 years and where I became a teenager, horrible to every adult except daddy. I was fine up until the seaman played Taps. Ladies and gentlemen, what you hear in the movies is nothing compared to the real-life rendition. It's heartbreaking to an unimaginable extent. And so is the 21 gun salute. Another seaman handed me the flag, which had been folded into a triangle, each fold symbolizing something important which I can't remember right now. Then I carried the box to his niche in the Cemetery's Columbarium, and that's where he rests. I hope he's keeping cool in there.
Meanwhile, I had shut down, and it was showing at work. My two bosses, both ladies and probably the first ones I had actually gotten along with in that sort of scenario, sat me down to let me know that. Some people would've taken this negatively. I took it as a slap in the face. A good slap, the kind that someone who truly likes/loves you would give you so that you wake up to be your best self again. Lord knows I am trying, and most days, I am succeeding in being my best self again.
I've survived all of this, plus cleaning out daddy's apartment, which has been an ordeal. And somewhere in all of that I managed to buy myself an apartment, which is madness just by itself. I also managed to get a little closer to God and have a bit more faith, just as it was being tested.
2) You cannot count on anyone but yourself.
I'm more like my dad than I thought I was, and I understand him better. I am a loner. The older I get, the more solitary I become. Yet I expect that when a friend or anyone else offers to do me a favor, they keep their promise. I wouldn't offer help if I wasn't prepared to give it, and I am always prepared to give it. However, I may need to rethink offering it so much. Just like daddy on all counts.
When you have a death in your family, everyone comes to you with "...if there's anything I can do for you....". Most times you don't accept help because they couldn't possibly help you. I mean, it's a beautiful thing to know you have people on your side, but they can't imagine the pain unless they've been through it themselves. I hate asking favors from people. I don't like the position it puts me in, and I don't like the expectations and the subsequent let-downs, which are unavoidable. It's not the fear of having to repay the favor; I have no problem doing that. I've had some friends accept to do specific things for me, only to back out at the last minute. I've been told on several occasions that I shouldn't be afraid to ask friends for favors. Maybe this is why I don't: because I know I'll resent them if they back out. And sure enough.....
I want to add, in a separate paragraph so that it is not passed over, that others can truly surprise you. Friends that seem aloof or otherwise entangled in their own business can provide tons of comfort, and all they do is offer a shoulder to cry on. Others who have let you down in the past and who you may not have been on speaking terms with for the last, say, year and a half, offer their help as a complete surprise and do not take it back.
Even so, I'm not going to count on anyone but myself. And my mother. She's never let me down, EVER, even when I didn't deserve her help. If I don't count on anyone, I won't get disappointed and add more hurt to my life, because I take everything extremely personally. Despite all the encouragement to just let things roll off my back, I can't rid myself of that, and the last emotion I need to add to my current mix is disappointment.
3) I don't have to hang with anyone I don't want to.
This can lose me friends, I know that. My good friends are chums with a whole throng of people I don't particularly like. It doesn't bother me anymore that they ditch me to hang out with them. It does not bother me anymore that I'm sometimes invited to dinners or brunches that include the disliked ones(if I can accept the invitation, I will, with thanks and without "scenes"). What does bother me is the almost constant badgering to be friends with these people regardless of what it is I don't like about them. My friends might think I'm just full of negativity for not being chummy with whoever I tried to include in group plans and who made an ass-face through the whole outing, or who got drunk and started to pick on me relentlessly. Oh, that's just how she is? She's shy? Apparently, and I don't appreciate it. I've already had my share of making nice with people because I absolutely have to. I've already made up with people I've fought with in the past. I do my part. I'm tired of extending myself to people who don't need to take up my time. I'm not going to give people 15 chances to annoy me, because they will undoubtedly annoy me. I may be alone for the rest of my life, but I would have no one to blame but myself, and that's strangely liberating.
I look around me and I see oodles of people who are "set in their ways". This used to be a bad thing to me, and it continued to be until recently. As in, "she's old and set in her ways". The thing is, they're pretty happy people, but I am continually requested to change my shit, and it makes me doubt myself constantly. When do I get to be happy with myself? What's wrong with setting boundaries when it comes to the way others affect me? Why do I need to listen to people who tell me I should let things roll off my back, or try to get along with people because it makes it easier for others to be friends with both of us? What's in it for me? Should I really care if someone else thinks I am a negative person? I am who I am. Love me or hate me. What you see is what you get, and all that good stuff. This is of course not to say that one shouldn't be open and accepting. I'm just saying that you need to do whatever is necessary to be happy with yourself. After all, that is the most important thing. If your parents are anything like mine, that's all they want for you, right? It's all you should want for yourself.
I opened this year on such a positive note. I really had some high hopes. And God seems to have chosen this year to test the hell out of me. My father, who I adore, is dead. My mother is in almost constant pain yet still kicking. Two of my friends and my stepfather have cancer. One friend has diabetes. My cat died two weeks before my father. I'm trying to keep up those high hopes despite all this. It's been awfully hard for me to do that, but I realized I have to live in the now, for myself and not for someone else's viewing pleasure. Life is tiring enough. Keeping up appearances is positively exhausting.
1) I can get through most things and come out fairly unscathed.
I found myself talking to people who've lost a father just to see what was normal in the grieving process and what I should be concerned about. Turns out that everything I'm feeling is normal. That's the good news. The bad news is that the excruciating hole in my heart will never go away, and I'm told the only improvement will be that I learn to live "around" that hole. I'm still sorry for all the things I didn't do, and I mean stupid things, like chores that I kept putting off, like taking out daddy's old newspapers, buying him chocolates at the market or making a pot of the black beans he liked so much. I'm sorry that I didn't talk to him for over two weeks before he died (we had a habit of not talking for long periods of time - not because there was any love lost, but because he just didn't dig the phone). The bad news is that I will be sorry for the rest of my life.
We had the mass for daddy in March, the day before my birthday. The original plan was to take daddy's ashes and scatter them in several different places: at Myrtle Beach and Pawley's Island in South Carolina, in Baltimore at Camden Yards, in Tennessee at Morgan Manor (aka, my aunt Patty's old house), and a few others. But the priest told my mother that if we scattered the ashes, he couldn't give the mass. In Catholic lore, even if a person is cremated, his ashes must remain in tact because when judgement day comes around and everyone is risen from the dead, he needs to be complete with no arms or pieces of face missing. Something like that. Both daddy and grandma were Catholic, and grandma would have come down from heaven and gotten after me if I skipped the mass. Daddy would have said something like "Dammit, Maria, if you had any sense at all...." And so, a group of about 10 people, me, my mom, two of my high school buds and several of his old co-workers gathered at the church where I was baptized, sang a horrible rendition of Amazing Grace, in which I didn't dare open my mouth for fear of falling apart, and fell apart anyway. The image of daddy's bright, smiling high school self in a graduation picture sitting next to the box of his ashes was ironic in the worst way possible.
In June came the actual burial. Daddy did two years in the Navy, which he referred to as his "cruise", and for his honorable discharge, he earned the right to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. This came as a relief to us, mostly because we couldn't decide where to put him after we found out we had to keep him all together. So off we went, again a small group of us, huddled under a white tent on a beautiful Washington, DC, day. Not a cloud in the sky. To the left of the cemetery, in the distance, I could see the Prospect House, where daddy lived when I was little. I remembered standing on a chair and sloshing my hands around in the kitchen sink, "washing dishes", the planes flying overhead on their way in to National, and the afternoons at the park looking up at the Iwo Jima memorial, which was almost in daddy's front lawn. To the right of the cemetery, I could see the building where he lived for 28 years and where I became a teenager, horrible to every adult except daddy. I was fine up until the seaman played Taps. Ladies and gentlemen, what you hear in the movies is nothing compared to the real-life rendition. It's heartbreaking to an unimaginable extent. And so is the 21 gun salute. Another seaman handed me the flag, which had been folded into a triangle, each fold symbolizing something important which I can't remember right now. Then I carried the box to his niche in the Cemetery's Columbarium, and that's where he rests. I hope he's keeping cool in there.
Meanwhile, I had shut down, and it was showing at work. My two bosses, both ladies and probably the first ones I had actually gotten along with in that sort of scenario, sat me down to let me know that. Some people would've taken this negatively. I took it as a slap in the face. A good slap, the kind that someone who truly likes/loves you would give you so that you wake up to be your best self again. Lord knows I am trying, and most days, I am succeeding in being my best self again.
I've survived all of this, plus cleaning out daddy's apartment, which has been an ordeal. And somewhere in all of that I managed to buy myself an apartment, which is madness just by itself. I also managed to get a little closer to God and have a bit more faith, just as it was being tested.
2) You cannot count on anyone but yourself.
I'm more like my dad than I thought I was, and I understand him better. I am a loner. The older I get, the more solitary I become. Yet I expect that when a friend or anyone else offers to do me a favor, they keep their promise. I wouldn't offer help if I wasn't prepared to give it, and I am always prepared to give it. However, I may need to rethink offering it so much. Just like daddy on all counts.
When you have a death in your family, everyone comes to you with "...if there's anything I can do for you....". Most times you don't accept help because they couldn't possibly help you. I mean, it's a beautiful thing to know you have people on your side, but they can't imagine the pain unless they've been through it themselves. I hate asking favors from people. I don't like the position it puts me in, and I don't like the expectations and the subsequent let-downs, which are unavoidable. It's not the fear of having to repay the favor; I have no problem doing that. I've had some friends accept to do specific things for me, only to back out at the last minute. I've been told on several occasions that I shouldn't be afraid to ask friends for favors. Maybe this is why I don't: because I know I'll resent them if they back out. And sure enough.....
I want to add, in a separate paragraph so that it is not passed over, that others can truly surprise you. Friends that seem aloof or otherwise entangled in their own business can provide tons of comfort, and all they do is offer a shoulder to cry on. Others who have let you down in the past and who you may not have been on speaking terms with for the last, say, year and a half, offer their help as a complete surprise and do not take it back.
Even so, I'm not going to count on anyone but myself. And my mother. She's never let me down, EVER, even when I didn't deserve her help. If I don't count on anyone, I won't get disappointed and add more hurt to my life, because I take everything extremely personally. Despite all the encouragement to just let things roll off my back, I can't rid myself of that, and the last emotion I need to add to my current mix is disappointment.
3) I don't have to hang with anyone I don't want to.
This can lose me friends, I know that. My good friends are chums with a whole throng of people I don't particularly like. It doesn't bother me anymore that they ditch me to hang out with them. It does not bother me anymore that I'm sometimes invited to dinners or brunches that include the disliked ones(if I can accept the invitation, I will, with thanks and without "scenes"). What does bother me is the almost constant badgering to be friends with these people regardless of what it is I don't like about them. My friends might think I'm just full of negativity for not being chummy with whoever I tried to include in group plans and who made an ass-face through the whole outing, or who got drunk and started to pick on me relentlessly. Oh, that's just how she is? She's shy? Apparently, and I don't appreciate it. I've already had my share of making nice with people because I absolutely have to. I've already made up with people I've fought with in the past. I do my part. I'm tired of extending myself to people who don't need to take up my time. I'm not going to give people 15 chances to annoy me, because they will undoubtedly annoy me. I may be alone for the rest of my life, but I would have no one to blame but myself, and that's strangely liberating.
I look around me and I see oodles of people who are "set in their ways". This used to be a bad thing to me, and it continued to be until recently. As in, "she's old and set in her ways". The thing is, they're pretty happy people, but I am continually requested to change my shit, and it makes me doubt myself constantly. When do I get to be happy with myself? What's wrong with setting boundaries when it comes to the way others affect me? Why do I need to listen to people who tell me I should let things roll off my back, or try to get along with people because it makes it easier for others to be friends with both of us? What's in it for me? Should I really care if someone else thinks I am a negative person? I am who I am. Love me or hate me. What you see is what you get, and all that good stuff. This is of course not to say that one shouldn't be open and accepting. I'm just saying that you need to do whatever is necessary to be happy with yourself. After all, that is the most important thing. If your parents are anything like mine, that's all they want for you, right? It's all you should want for yourself.
I opened this year on such a positive note. I really had some high hopes. And God seems to have chosen this year to test the hell out of me. My father, who I adore, is dead. My mother is in almost constant pain yet still kicking. Two of my friends and my stepfather have cancer. One friend has diabetes. My cat died two weeks before my father. I'm trying to keep up those high hopes despite all this. It's been awfully hard for me to do that, but I realized I have to live in the now, for myself and not for someone else's viewing pleasure. Life is tiring enough. Keeping up appearances is positively exhausting.
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