Write Here, Write Now

Forgetting Myself

2011-11-19T16:44:00.000-05:00

I'm at a party or in a bar, and the question comes up.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a deputy director at a business improvement district."

Right, what does that mean?

I'm part of a team that works to make downtown a better, more livable place. I talk about how the organization helps support local business owners. I talk about the Downtown Ambassadors, the visitor center, special events and advocacy. I talk about how I like making a difference in my community.

One of my friends will say, "AND?"

Oh, right. I'm in graduate school. I'm working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at Fairfield University. I'm writing a book.

Why do I forget to mention that part? It's not that I don't think it's important. It is important. It might be the most important thing I've ever done for myself. But sometimes I forget I'm doing it. It's a lot of work, but it doesn't feel like work. I'm doing something I love and pursuing a dream. One that seems more attainable than, say, dancing with Gene Kelly.

Maybe I don't mention it because it is kind of private. As private as writing a memoir can be. I'm shy about it. Yes, me.

Maybe I think people won't care, or won't get it. I have to get over it.

It's what I do and who I am. I'm a writer.

Midway

2011-11-07T23:45:00.000-05:00

By Thanksgiving weekend, my last packet for this semester will be in the mail. Another thirty plus pages of original work and three critical essays on the books I'm reading are all due by November 20th. This means I am (almost) halfway to completing my MFA. Holy. Crap. I am actually doing this. It still amazes me. A year ago I was getting ready to leave for my very first residency. I was a wreck. I didn't know if I could really do this or how I would manage. Balance my full-time job and the MFA and all my community work (yeah, I took on two board positions AFTER I started the program. I know.)? How?

Guess what. I'm doing it. Not brilliantly, but I'm not half-assing it either. I'm learning how to manage my time, how to focus when I need to and how to say no to things. That's the tricky part. Saying no means sometimes feeling like I'm letting people down. But saying yes to too many things means my work (and my health, mental and physical) suffer.

If anything has "suffered" it's been my social life. My friends are not only understanding about the "New Haven Maven" becoming "Daisy the Disappeared", they are supportive and encouraging and loving. Even when I don't show up to Trivia for weeks at a time. Even when I ask if we can meet for coffee on a weekday afternoon instead of dinner and drinks on Saturday night. They want me to succeed, they believe in me. I love them for it.

So, two semesters down and two to go. A third semester project and my thesis are down the road a piece. And somewhere in there are holidays with my family, residencies on Enders Island, work events in the Have, board meetings and...my fortieth birthday. Yikes! And, hooray!

Senses of Loss

2011-09-28T00:08:00.000-04:00

There is not a day he is not in my thoughts. Nat King Cole singing Mona Lisa on my music player, someone whistling to a friend on the street, a change in the air stirring up a man's cologne as he brushes by me. He's there, reminding me. I'm fine. And then I'm not.

It is the muscle memory of that last week. My arms remember the weight of his body as I steadied him on his side while my mother and brother changed the sheets on the hospital bed we set up in the back bedroom. I smell the peppermint lotion I rubbed into his legs and feet every day to soothe him and myself, the coolness of his skin under my hands. I hear what they call the death rattle shaking his insides on the last morning of his life. I knew what it meant. We were losing. We lost.

And today, almost eight years later, I am reminded again. My mood shifts and there's a change in me I cannot shake. A sadness I pretend not to understand, that I try to ignore until I realize there's no fighting it. It's not work or school or other obligations getting me down. I know what it is. I remember. And I grieve. Still.

D Essentials: Family Matters

2011-09-17T21:42:00.000-04:00

I've got family on the brain. Makes sense since my school work is focused on learning and writing about my family. Between thinking about (and doing) the writing, reading, my full time job and other obligations (Mason's Road, two different community boards and two City committees), it's no wonder I've been a bit sleepless. You know what helps? Lists.

Instead of counting sheep, I make alphabetical lists (authors, actors, books) to quiet my mind. The last time I did this, I started with actors. Astaire, Bridges, Cooper, Day-Lewis...you get the idea. That got me thinking about acting families (or dynasties, depending on how you look at it). Then I started thinking about signature films for each family member. I know, how can this possibly help me sleep? It does. So here's a list of great film families and my favorite movie(s) from each member.

Note: There is nothing even remotely scientific or sanctioned by any Academy or Institute here. These are based on my personal (and occasionally cheesy) taste. Feel free to disagree with me.

Fonda
Henry Fonda
Yours, Mine and Ours. He's got ten kids, Lucille Ball is his love interest and she has eight kids. Comedy ensues!

On Golden Pond. "You're my knight in shining armor. Don't you forget it." Tears. Every time.

Jane Fonda:
Nine to Five. "Judy Bernly, please hold. Judy Bernly, please hold. This is Judy Bernly."

Peter Fonda:
Easy Rider. Badass. And he wrote it.

Bridget Fonda:
Singles. "Somewhere around 25, bizarre becomes immature." Oh, the 90s.

Bridges
Lloyd Bridges:
Cousins. "You've got only one life to live. You can either make it chickenshit or chicken salad."

Airplane. "Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit amphetamines"

Beau Bridges:
The Fabulous Baker Boys. Down on his luck, playing piano and sparring with his brother.

Jeff Bridges:
The Contender. The Dude plays the President.

The Last Unicorn. Watched it every time it was on TV. Come on, she's the LAST one!

Leigh/Curtis
Tony Curtis:
Some Like it Hot. Still can't decide if I like him better in lady drag or Cary Grant drag.

Janet Leigh:
Bye, Bye Birdie. Because watching her dance with Dick Van Dyke is infinitely less scary than watching her get stabbed to death by Tony Perkins.

Jamie Lee Curtis:
Amazing Grace & Chuck. I know you've never heard of it. It's an 80s movie about a kid who gives up baseball in order to stop the threat of nuclear was. Yes, really.

Garland/Minelli
Judy Garland:
The Wizard of Oz. Was there ever any doubt on this one?

Vincente Minnelli:
An American in Paris. Kelly, Caron, Gershwin, Paris. Perfect.

Liza Minnelli:
Arthur. When she steals the tie from Bergdorf's and goes off on Chester the store detective? Brilliant.

I know I've got more of these in me. Favorite ensemble pieces, dynamic duos, bad movies I can't stop watching...suggestions are welcome. Making lists plus thinking about movies equals enough brain unscrambling to allow me to get back to the big project feeling somewhat relaxed.

Now...back to work! I've got a packet to finish!

Wedding Belles

2011-09-15T22:34:00.001-04:00

Kate & Nicole Gorton

My Fairfield MFA roomie got married last Saturday. Kate is hilarious, super-smart, gorgeous, up for anything and so generous. She is, as AJ once said, the American Hermione Granger.

Her wife, Nicole, is equally fantastic.

Kate's siblings and Nicole's brother joked in their toasts about the brides' constant public displays of affection, the pet names and the giggling they do, but they also agreed these two people are meant to be together.

Kate and I werqing the dancefloor.
photo by Kate Taylor

Watching Kate and Nicole take this step, surrounded by people who love and support them, gave me hope and renewed my faith in a lot of things. I cried through the ceremony, the toasts, the first dance. I'm a soft touch anyway, but this was one of those times where my main line was busted. Good thing I brought my hankie. Once I dried my eyes, raised my glass and ate a wedding cupcake, I joined the bridal party, family members and friends on the dance floor and rocked out all night long.

One of the catering staff said it was the happiest wedding she had ever seen. No doubt.

Married!

Love is love. And seeing it in action is so awesome.

MFA Residency II: Summer Writing Boogaloo

2011-07-26T01:05:00.000-04:00

I just got home from my MFA program's summer residency on Enders Island in Mystic, Connecticut. My days were spent learning about the craft of writing in morning workshops, attending seminars on everything from the poems of Zbigniew Herbert to what to do after I receive my degree (the short answer: keep writing) and sitting in the chapel after dinner, listening to my professors read from their work. And, yeah, there was some downtime. Bonfires and s'mores, swimming and wiffle ball, fellowship under the stars and a talent show. You know what they say about all work and no play...

Brian Hoover swings for the gazebo

Some notes from my Isle of Write:

Kate, me and the dread pirate Cisco aboard the Argia

The right roommate makes all the difference. Kate, thanks for bringing the fan, the fun and the fierceness. You are my Jiminy Cricket.

Don't be afraid to ask for you want or need. Whether it's a meal, a mentor or a chance to do something new, don't hesitate. Or, as Kate said to me: "just f'ing take it!"

No matter how much bug spray you use, mosquitoes will get you.

No sign of Chuck Johnson this time around. He's probably going to the Galway residency.

Let your word nerd flag fly. Instead of playing f*%k, kill or marry, think about which literary character you don't want to wake up next to, which fictional party you want to attend and which movie villain you want to kill you...well, not want to kill you.

Gregor from Kafka's Metamorphosis, Holly Golightly's party in Breakfast at Tiffany's, Leon from The Professional. What? Who would you pick?

Sit in the tent for "fellowship" long enough and you'll find out which literary character is the most desirable mate. Mine? Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird.

You can learn a lot about a person by asking about literary crushes.

Honor the traditions of those who came before you. Kate and I co-wrote a parody song in honor of the graduating cohort and performed it with A.J. and Erin at the talent show. Writing Queen (yes, as in Dancing Queen by ABBA) was whistled or hummed for the rest of the residency. That is, when people weren't whistling or humming Phil's and Linsey's awesome Mason's Road, the Fairfield University MFA program's version of John Denver's Country Road. Pat O'Connor, we tip our hats to you.

The only way to get more comfortable with public speaking is to do it every chance you get. Not only did I read some of my work in front of my classmates, I had the honor of introducing three of my fellow students at a reading. Brian, Sam B. and Erin, I meant every word I said.

It's back to the day job in the morning, but as I drift off tonight, I'll be thinking of my classmates and the words Phil borrowed from John Denver to make the song his own, our own.

Mason's Road, take me home to the place I belong. Enders Island, Mystic Mama. Take me home, Mason's Road.

Digging Deep

2011-06-13T22:49:00.000-04:00

"What did it feel like to go back to work after Daddy died?"

I sat on my front stoop on Saturday night, shielded from a light rain and working by streetlight as I tried to remember.

I've written twenty-one pages about losing my father; his illness, deterioration and death, diagnosis to funeral. There's still more to write, more details to include, memories coming back slowly. What I haven't explored is what happened afterward. How I grieved and tried to find my way back.

I sat outside for an hour conjuring those feelings. I wrote in broad strokes all the things that came to mind. Re-reading every sympathy card. Going to the cemetery on the first Father's Day after he died (which, like this coming Father's Day, also falls on my birthday). Sitting in a ladies room stall at work and crying over something that reminded me of him. Telling people who didn't know what had happened that he was gone. The first time I went to a wedding and realized I would never have the father-daughter dance I'd imagined. Five pages in longhand.

I finished, came upstairs and went to bed. I woke up early and went to my neighborhood coffee shop to type it all up, adding these new pages to the previous twenty-one.

I haven't looked at those pages since I came home late Sunday morning. I know I have to go back and fill in some blanks. The editing, adding detail, taking things out, shifting paragraphs, unpacking the work and trying to make it all fit together is the part I enjoy -- well, not enjoy -- but it's the thing I'm learning and when I think I've hit it right, that's enjoyable. What I did over these last two days--remembering and grieving all over again is what got me and I still haven't shaken it. I shouldn't be surprised. I'm glad I was able to start this next section. I know there is going to be some crying and writing along the way, but I do feel good about it, even if it means feeling bad for a couple of days.

I am not my hair

2011-05-24T00:00:00.000-04:00

I'm in my own world when I walk to work. Headphones in, listening to some dance track that causes me to do what I still call the "Hudson County Strut," even though I haven't lived in New Jersey in twenty years. I can't help it, especially if it's nice out and I'm wearing heels. On one of these days, I smiled good morning at an older gentleman as we passed each other. He smiled back and said, "Gorgeous." Felt nice.

On the next block, I walked by some fresh-faced, peaches and cream blond straight out of a shampoo commercial, her hair bouncing and behaving in the sunlight. My moment of gorgeous slipped away.

"Right, that's what beauty is."

I know what you're going to say. That's not what beauty is anymore. Eye of the beholder and all that. But it still stops me when I see a woman with long, flowy perfect hair, no matter the color. And it's not a "poor ugly me" thing. I think I'm cute. It's being reminded no matter what I do, I'm never going to be Olivia Newton John, the ideal beauty to my six year-old self.

Olivia as Bad Sandy

My friends and I used to take turns performing the role of Sandy in our marathon sessions of singing and dancing to the Grease soundtrack. Good Sandy, blond hair swinging as she does the hand jive with Danny in the high school gym. Bad Sandy, working that mass of blond curls as she struts around in those red Candie's and leather jacket. I wanted to be Sandy, a pretty girl with the long blond hair that all the boys wanted to be around. I wasn't.

Ia and me with our long hai

My mother had long wavy hair; "good hair." I used to sit behind her on the couch and brush it with a pink handled bristle brush from Avon. I loved parting it down the middle and seeing all the white hair that was coming in underneath the dark waves. My sister was a master with hair. She had Fawcett waves, could do any kind of braid or twist. Her friends would come over on Saturdays and she would do their hair before they all went out. Me? I never got the hang of it. I learned to braid my hair, but I suspect my braids were always crooked. I had bangs in the 80s. You know what I'm talking about, the kind of bangs that look like a claw on the front of your head. Of course, all of this was achieved through the burning magic of relaxer. Every few weeks, that plastic of tub of lye and whatever other chemicals were in there was purchased, cracked open and applied to my shoulder length hair in sections. I knew it was working when my scalp started to burn. Then the chemical was rinsed out, my hair set in giant, purple rollers and I sat under the dryer for hours.

Thirteen years old with a long bob, a blob

The result was straight, soft, silky hair and a scalp covered in itchy scabs. It stayed "nice" until I washed my hair again, then it went to shit.

I cut my hair short before I graduated high school and never went back. In the intervening years, I have had many lengths of short hair, I even had bangs again in the mid 90s, but the back of my neck has not felt a ponytail or braid against it in two decades. Sometimes I dream about brushing my long, dark hair or putting it up in a French twist, but I don't really miss it. OK, I don't miss the hassle. I won't ever have long hair like Sandy or that woman on the street and, most days, I'm OK with it.

short and sassy, like my momma.

I've grown to love my haircut. It suits me. People say I "have the face for it," whatever that means. And they comment on how easy it must be to manage. I go to the barber when my hair starts to feel heavy or when the gray (it's coming!) starts to show more than I would like it to; about every three weeks. Danny sets the clippers at 1.5 and does my entire head. Takes about 20 minutes, costs less than 20 dollars and puts the strut back in my walk.

The next time I see that blond Breck girl walking down the street, I'll remind myself that we're both gorgeous, but I got to sleep in while she was blow drying her hair.

Spring Cleaning Mix

2011-03-17T17:17:00.002-04:00

I've been letting the piles in my apartment get a little out of control lately. I come home from work at night and just toss stuff around. The chair in the bedroom is covered in the outfits I wear to work, the recycling is piling up (hey, at least I'm recycling) and my "sleeping companion" is made of books, notepads and magazines. Everything is out of order, not so much dirty, just really disheveled. Every night I get home and end up on the couch or at my desk.

"No one is coming over, who cares what the place looks like?"

Oh. right. I LIVE here It shouldn't look like hell, especially now that I'm spending more time here than anywhere else. The clutter makes me crazy and it distracts me from the work I need to be doing. I needed to suck it up and get it done before I wrote or read another word.

All I wanted to do when I got home last night was take a big nap before I dinner and the MFA portion of my evening, but I knew if I did that, a twenty minute power nap would turn into an hour and a half dream session and I'd wake up too groggy to read or write (or that's what I would tell myself). The place needed a speed cleaning before I did anything. I didn't even switch my boots for slippers. What I did do was grab my ipod and set it to the dance mix. Here are the choicest cuts from last night's Grooves over Grime session.

Big Time Sensuality, Bjork

"I can sense it / something important /is about to happen / it's coming up"

Oh Bjork, I didn't even know what this song was about until a few years ago. I just like the beat and the fact that it reminds me of dancing with Douglas at BAR. Oh, the 90s.

Mama Said Knock You Out, LL Cool J

"I'm gonna take this itty bitty world by storm / And I'm just gettin warm"

Badass: the man, the song and how the song makes me feel. That is all.

Mo Money Mo Problems, Mase/Puff Daddy/Notorious BIG

"Ten years from now we'll still be on top / Yo, I thought I told you that we won't stop"

Any song with a Diana Ross sample is OK by me! Yes, I know all the words to Biggie's verse.

My Lovin (Never Gonna Get It), En Vogue

"What makes you think you can just walk back into her life/ Without a good fight?"

Memories of dancing and drinking with my best girls at UofH. CBs forever.

Back to Life, Soul to Soul
"No more room for trouble and fuss / Need a change, a positive change / Look it's me writing on the wall"

One of those tracks that puts me in the zone on the dancefloor. Also works while scrubbing kitchen counters.

An hour later, my place was in order and my mind was clear of clutter. I still had time to shower, eat dinner, and catch up on Glee before I settled in to study! Aw yeah! Works every time.

How I'm Learning to Stop Worrying & Love the MFA

2011-03-08T22:27:00.002-05:00

I'm trying to balance a full-time job with what amounts to another full-time job. Deputy Director of a Business Improvement District/Fairfield MFA Candidate. How's it going? Well...

I'm at the office from 9am-5pm. Emails, phone calls, meetings, event planning. I'm home by 6pm and allow myself two hours to unwind (reading non-school stuff, a hot shower, a real dinner) before I'm in pajama pants and working at my other job until midnight. Writing, reading, revising. Sometimes I'm just THINKING about writing, reading and revising. Yes, thinking about the writing, reading and revising is a huge part of the process, but I must be careful not to do too much thinking or I freeze up. I'm learning this one slowly.

Thinking about writing has begun to overlap with thinking about work. Here's a sample:

"Don't forget to bring the packets for the board meeting. Remember what Elizabeth said about slowing down when you're working on that scene. Call Brad about that meeting tomorrow. Did I put the office husband's birthday card in my datebook or in my purse? How many pages is too much for submission to a publication? Who gives a shit about what I'm writing?"

Yep, all that before 7:30am. I'm not a morning person and having that much going on in my head before I've had coffee is especially annoying.

I'm exhausted and irritable. So much so that I said I hated the writing and the reading and the revising. OK, what I said was:

"I do hate this whole process, because most days I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, but I love it more because I know what it is doing for me. Stupid character building."

As my dear old (best friend's) Dad says, "No one ever said it was going to be easy." I know it. I knew this would be hard, maybe the hardest thing I've ever done for myself. And that's my real struggle. I'm doing this for myself. I'm doing this because it's what I've always wanted. I love writing. I love reading. I love thinking, talking and learning about writing and reading. And this MFA program is the way to get more of that in my life.

Only took 38 years to figure that one out. I always was a late bloomer.

Issue of Diminishing Return

2011-02-24T21:29:00.000-05:00

I received the 2011 Vanity Fair Hollywood issue. Based on what I've seen in this magazine, I'm surprised Vanity Fair bothers to call it "The one and only Hollywood issue." I have purchased every Hollywood Issue since 1995. I've saved them all and still enjoy looking at them. I refer to this collection as "the archives." I'm sorry, but this is no Hollywood issue.

The Cover


From left: Jennifer Jason Leigh, Uma Thurman, Nicole Kidman, Patricia Arquette, Linda Fiorentino, Gwyneth Paltrow, Sarah Jessica Parker, Julianne Moore, Angela Bassett, Sandra Bullock. Photo by Annie Leibovitz.

The cover of the first Vanity Fair Hollywood Issue (1995) featured a group of up-and-coming actresses photographed against a white backdrop and referred to as the Class of 2000. Yes, Gwyneth is the only one fully dressed here, and that caused a stir, but VF hit the mark on calling these ladies actors on the rise. All of them have since been nominated and/or won the Golden Globe, Oscar, Emmy, Tony, Screen Actor's Guild and Independent Spirit Award.

Vanity Fair continued to put rising stars (some rising higher than others) on the cover of the Hollywood issue until 2000, when it was time for a Master Class.

from left: Nicole Kidman, Catherine Deneuve, Gwyneth Paltrow, Meryl Streep,
Cate Blanchett, Vanessa Redgrave, Kate Winslet, Chloe Sevigny, Sophia Loren, Penelope Cruz. Photo by Annie Leibovitz.

It's a gorgeous cover and all but one of the four women who didn't have an Oscar at the time the photo was taken now have one. Chloe Sevigny, the pressure's on now.

This year's cover? It's fine.

A promising group of Young Hollywood stars looking glamorous in an old Hollywood way? Yep. The four most famous of the group under the masthead to get you looking and hopefully buying? Yes. A little skin showing in fold out panel two? Sure. Robert Duvall behind the bar? Wait. What? Why is Robert Duvall behind the bar? The "behind the scenes of the photo shoot" page reveals nothing.

The Portfolio

Scarlett Johannson & Javier Bardem recreating a scene from Rear Window. Photo by Norman Jean Roy

Early Hollywood Issues feature portraits of everyone from George Burns to Johnny Depp, group shots of writers, directors, producers and a closing reunion shot, a tip of the hat to a classic film (To Kill a Mockingbird, American Graffiti, Fast Times at Ridgemont High). The 1995 spread includes Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in full drag makeup reliving the Some Like it Hot days. Oh, speaking of hot:

Daniel Day-Lewis. Photo by Annie Leibovitz.

Yeah. I went there.

Follow up issues were a mixed bag, but there were still some standouts. The 2006 salute to film noir, entitled Killers Kill and Dead Men Die, and the 2008 tribute to Hitchcock with recreations of scenes from Psycho, North by Northwest and Rear Window.(see photo above) gave the photographers and actors a bit more room to play. In 2010, the scope was smaller and the focus was on collaborators, directors and actors. Penelope Cruz and Pedro Almodovar, Lee Daniels with Mo'Nique and Gabourey Sidibe. They were trying something new. This year, I feel like VF didn't try. The 2011 portfolio is much smaller. How small? The 1995 issue had thirty portraits. The 2011 issue has twelve. Twelve. You're telling me Vanity Fair couldn't find enough actors and filmmakers to fill an issue? If you're only going to focus on nominees, fine, but how about ALL of the nominees. The acting categories alone give you twenty people to photograph. Throw in the directors, producers and screenwriters and you easily clear thirty. Something to consider for the 2012 Hollywood Issue.

Oh, and the picture of Christian Bale? Obviously from a red carpet event. Don't you have some of the best photographers in the world on the payroll? You couldn't get Christian Bale in a room with Annie Leibovitz or Bruce Weber? OK.

Trying Times

2011-02-11T22:23:00.000-05:00

Not the best week. I'd call it a trying one. I've been trying to

find my balance

do my best

be braver

not feel isolated

stay focused

not take it personally

remember to eat

remember everything

get enough rest

not lose my mind

improve myself

improve my work

sleep

Yeah. I'm frustrated and a little blue. It happens. It won't last. A cup of tea, a slice of my friend Heather's awesome lemon curd pound cake and a new episode of Law and Order: UK are making things a bit better right now. Tomorrow, this girl gets back on her feet.

Things I Learned at my First MFA Residency

2011-01-26T19:20:00.001-05:00

Ten days on an island with one hundred writers? Yeah, I learned some things.

Name, semester and genre are the equivalent of name, rank and serial number. Meet, greet, repeat.

Daisy, first semester, non-fiction.

Big siblings are the best. Even when they break a foot, they still look out for you.

You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get a hot shower in before breakfast.

Do NOT go near the sea wall.

Chuck Johnson is not who you think he is.

If you have a question, best to ask Mother Hastings.

You can get up at 10:00am to jump in the water on New Year's Day, or you can get up at 10:30am and run down to the water in time to watch your classmates do it.

It is possible to get a nap in somewhere between meals, seminars, workshops and readings.

Photo by Erin Corriveau

Getting up in front of a large group of writers to read my work is still scary, but not impossible.

Writing is a solitary act, but being in an MFA program is not. There is always someone to talk with, confide in, ask questions of and receive answers from, beginning at breakfast and lasting well into the evening social time. When the residency is over and everyone has gone home, we're still encouraging each other.

I'm a writer.

Facing the Page

2011-01-20T23:13:00.000-05:00

I started a new piece this week as part of my first packet for school. It came out of a writing prompt in one of my seminars, and it's been floating around in my head since I got back from the residency, so I decided to go with it. I spent three days on it, one for each page I ended up with before sending it to E for some initial feedback. She reminded me that I was doing that thing again. I was glossing over a lot of things, leaving out details that end up being questions in the reader's mind in order to get the scene over with quickly. I'll spend the next few days fleshing it out and turn these three pages into at least five. I've got to really go back to that moment and get it all down. I'm afraid. This isn't a funny story about my mother or sweet memory about my father. This one is mostly me and it's not pretty. But I can do it. I have to do it. I will do it.

A Change in Me

2011-01-03T22:27:00.001-05:00

"1/9/10. A new year, a new decade, a fresh start. A chance to believe in myself, believe in what other people see in me. I don't think I've ever been stronger, and yet there is that little bit in the back of my mind that doubts. It may never go away, especially not late at night when it is just me and my thoughts. I imagine it would be worse if not for the medicine. I still can't believe I waited so long to begin that process. I was afraid of the change it would bring. Who am I if not that weak, scared girl I've been for so long? Who am I to try something that might actually work, might make it easier to get through the tough days and the easy days? I was afraid to be even remotely happy. But I am getting there. I am learning."

"1/24/10. Change is good when you know what the change is going to be. I still don't know what my big change is going to be, but I sense it coming."

The change I sensed a year ago? It came. It's here. I'm writing this piece from my dorm room at the MFA residency I started seven days ago. Me. In an MFA program. For writing.

I didn't even know I wanted this until E sent me a link to the program on facebook. She gave me the information, answered my questions, arranged for a campus visit. She nudged me as only very few people can nudge me.

I knew I wanted this before I arrived at Enders Island. I submitted my application and transcripts the night before I visited the program in July. Spending a day on the island meeting people and sitting in on classes only made me want it more. I gave myself a month to get recommendations and a portfolio together.

I was scared. The last thing I wanted (or thought I wanted) this badly didn't happen. And it took a long time to get over it. If I failed at this...I didn't want to think about it. But I got it.

The first couple of days were overwhelming. There are all these people. All these writers. I felt like a phony. At least I had my big sis and E. After some seminars and workshops I began to feel better. I've made some friends. I've started to participate. I've read some of my work in front of faculty and students. Here's the most important thing I've learned so far: I'm a writer. I'm part of a community of writers. I'm not alone.

The residency ends on Thursday, but this is my beginning. I'm ready to do the work.

Interview

2010-11-29T22:52:00.005-05:00

Dear Daddy,

I'm working on this thing, the grad school/MFA thing and I have so many questions for you, but you aren't here to help me on this one. Well, you're not here here, but you're around. I know you are. I don't know for sure what my project is going to be, but I have an inkling. I want to tell my story, our story, the story of how I got here. I'm beginning to realize that I can't tell my side without knowing some of yours, even if I don't end up sharing that part with the world, because you're part of me, a big part. You and Mami and Pete and Ia. My story begins with all of you. The fact that you left Cuba and came here, to the states. That I was born here instead of there. My story begins in 1968, even though I was born in 1972. Maybe it begins even earlier.

So, I have some questions and I'm putting them out there to you, wherever you are, instead of Mami because I have a feeling you'll send me the answers in your own way. And, about Mami, in the seven years since you've gone, she's barely said a peep about the time before you all came here. Oh, she's still talking, telling it like it is and letting us know what she really thinks all the time. But unless we give her a drink or two...well, that one Thanksgiving she mentioned something about you hiding people in the house and not telling her, but other than that, she's been as tight-lipped about your life, her life back there as you were.

You never talked about it. You were born and raised in another country, got married (twice), had kids (three before me) and left that country (under some duress from what I understand) and I only know what I know because Ia told me some things when I was in my twenties. She was only seven or eight when you all left, so I still don't have the full picture. I know I didn't ask. All those times we were together in the car, at the lab, in the hospital and at home, I never asked. That's my fault. I was too caught up in being a kid - playing with my Barbies, reading my books, growing up, planning my escape - to even consider that I had everything because you gave up so much.

But that's the thing. I don't even know exactly what you gave up. I know now that you left our extended family behind knowing you might never see them again, but I didn't understand what it meant when I was a kid because no one talked about it. Everybody drank about it, (El ano que viene, estamos en Cuba, next year we'll be in Cuba), and told stories about this relative (mi primo Fulanito, cousin whathisname) or that neighbor (Menganito de la esquina, whathisname from the corner) from back home, but I never heard "The night I left Cuba..."

I want to know. I want to know what it was like before the revolution. I want to know how you met my mother. Legend says you were fixing her teeth, she says you met at a dance before that happened. How long before you married? What was it like in those few months before everything changed? What was it like for you those nine years before you left? How did you and Mami make that choice? How did you tell your kids? How did you say goodbye to your mother?

Whenever I'm at Ia's, I look at those photos of you - at thirteen posing with your parents and siblings, as a newlywed smiling and sipping champagne, as a young father standing with your wife and children - and I miss you even more. I wish I could have a drink with you, turn on the tape recorder and listen to every story you kept tucked away.

You always told a great story. With your help, I'm hoping I can tell one too. Maybe we can work on Mami together?

Message

2010-10-10T14:16:00.002-04:00

I went to see a medium last month in hopes of hearing from my father. I walked in, shook her hand, wrote my name and birth date on a card. She told me my numbers, my signs (stars, moons, the works) and what all of that meant. She told me things that reassured me about the path I'm on now. And she told me that since I'm a Gemini, I get “a double helping,” whatever that means.

At the end of our hour together, she asked if I had any questions. “Is my dad around?” She closed her eyes, “Tell me his name.” “Domingo.” And then he was there. Here's some of what she said he said:

“His message to you is don't settle. He's behind you 100%. He's encouraging you, he's giving you a little nudge, saying 'you can do this, you can do this'. Ask him for help. You're a little bit hesitant to ask him because he worked so hard here.”

She was right. I talk to my father a lot, but I don't ask him for help.The last time I asked my father for money was in the spring of 1993. The money I made at my summer job ran out before I finished buying all of my books. I needed $70. I didn't want to ask, but my first work study paycheck wouldn't come through until after the class had started.

“How many books will that buy?”

“One book.”

“$70 for one book!”

He wired the money that day. I still own the Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer (in Middle English). He always tried to give me what I needed and even though he didn't go to college or really understand what I was studying, he supported, encouraged and helped me. And he still does. All I have to do is ask.

What's the story, morning glory?

2010-10-06T23:07:00.003-04:00

Nettle asked me THE question over beers at Richter's last Friday. The question I expect to hear quite a bit over the next two years. “What are you going to write about?” Valid question. And I had an answer. I knew. I knew because I've been telling the story for years. At some point, I'm going to write about the following:

Growing up first-generation Cuban American in Northern New Jersey in the 1970s and 1980s.

I'm not saying I know what my final project for the MFA is going to be. I don't. But this story is the story I've been telling all my life. I just haven't written it all down. I've written some of it on this blog and I've told plenty of parts of the story to plenty of people, but writing it all in one place? Turning it into something? How am I going to do that? I don't know. But I know I'm going to do it.

I had a dream that points me in the direction of what I want to be writing about. I was in one of those tunnels like the “It's a Small World” ride at Disney. I was traveling through the images of my life. Here's a sample of what went down in the dream:

I'm on the beach right where the sand meets the water. I can feel the sand and the waves at my toes. I can hear the song “Dos Gardenias.”

I'm swimming and a voice over explains how and why I never really got the hang of swimming.

I'm in a gallery where images of famous Latinos, most notably Ricardo Montalban flash across the screen.

The last gallery I'm in before I wake up shows images of cartoons I loved as a kid, most notably George, Judy and Jane Jetson. Sidebar: I spent the better part of my life spelling George Jetson in my head as “Jorge Jetson.”

I remember that in the moments before I woke up, I spoke to the dream. "I know this is important and I want to know more. Stay right here. I'll be back soon for more information!"

There's a story there.

Write here and now

2010-10-05T22:43:00.005-04:00

I was at work until 8pm, got home, had dinner, put on my pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth and am now at my desk, writing. Yes, I'd rather be in bed reading a magazine, but at my desk is where I need to be and writing is what I need to be doing. I got accepted to an MFA program in creative writing, what did I THINK I would be doing when I wasn't at work?

Getting my application and portfolio (did I even HAVE a portfolio? I sure didn't) together was the first challenge, but I did it. And I got in. I got into graduate school (I do love the sound of that sentence). Post acceptance, the tiny bursts of panic started. OK, not tiny. How was I going to do this? And work? And have a life? It's a lot, but people do it. My soon-to-be cohorts are doing it. Right now. And, about them, my cohorts, these people I have not met yet. They've welcomed me into their virtual world already. Thirty nine notifications of friend requests on facebook in two days, a welcome shout out from my “big sister,” and lots of welcome messages. So great.

The schedule says I start in December, but the work begins now. I have to get ready for school, adjust the lifestyle I've become accustomed to for the last three years, for the next two years. I need to curb the going out, cut the unnecessary spending (this isn't going to pay for itself, no matter what the mysterious Stafford says) and quit making excuses for why I'm not writing. Every night after work, I'll be doing some combination of reading, writing and editing (though E says not too much editing).This is the thing I have always wanted, and I'm ready to do the work. Time to get serious about Daisy, the writer, version 2.0. Am I ready? Maybe? Yes. Is it worth it? Without a doubt.

Word from the Wise

2010-07-09T18:17:00.000-04:00

I had another dream about my father. It was a vivid one, but free of the sadness (and sobbing) I normally experience. He is at his best, at the lab, surrounded by friends and work. He is in jeans and one of his blue surgical scrubs tops. He is wearing his glasses and his hair is graying but not totally white. That puts him in his fifties (probably) though I realize that while my father's appearance changed over the years (dramatic weight loss, etc) he didn't seem old to me until those last few months before we lost him. Up until the summer before he passed away, he was ageless and seemingly invincible.

I am seeking comfort from him in my dream. My heart broken yet again, I turn to him for advice. He never offered romantic counsel in life...my love life was not something I discussed with my dad. I know he wanted me to be happy, but maybe not married off. I was his little girl, always.

There is a concert being held in the back room of the dental lab. I'm there enjoying the music, singing along and taking photos. I see an ex-boyfriend walk in with a woman. I try to ignore them and focus on the music. She begins to make a fuss about me being there. First of all, what are any of us doing at a concert in a dental lab? Secondly, it's my dad's dental lab so if anybody has a right to be there, it's this girl. I go into the front room to find my dad at his work station. I'm upset, so he hugs me while I explain. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders, looks me in the eye and says one word. "Irrelevant." At least that's what I think he says. He didn't speak much English and I doubt that word featured prominently in his vocabulary, but that's what it sounds like. It makes sense, considering what my mind has been focused on lately (the single lady's lament). But he's right. That stuff is irrelevant, because I've got plans. Big ones. Relevant ones.

Summer Session

2010-06-28T18:00:00.004-04:00

This weekend I met Carl Kurlander, a screenwriter, director and producer. He wrote St. Elmo's Fire. Yes, that St. Elmo's Fire. He was in town promoting his documentary, My Tale of Two Cities: A Comeback Story. Nice guy. Good movie. I helped plan the premiere and post-screening discussion at the Criterion Cinemas. We had a small screening room, but it was packed, so I felt good about my role in the whole thing. After living in Hollywood for years, Carl packed up his wife and daughter and left Los Angeles to return to Pittsburgh and live "an authentic life." This is not to say that one cannot live an authentic life in LA (although I've never tried) but it might be a tough thing to do when you are in "the industry." The movie is about his journey home as well as Pittsburgh's journey from industrial giant to punchline to one of the most livable cities in America. Carl is funny, smart, talented, a little neurotic (aren't we all?) and really passionate about the work. Not the work of making movies, although I have no doubt that he is passionate about film making, the work of making a difference, which movies can do on occasion and this movie definitely did on this occasion. Carl's film resonated with everyone in that screening room on Friday night. The discussion lasted an hour and people lingered after that to talk to him about it. They weren't just asking questions, they were sharing their stories. That's pretty great. The Chief and I spent about two days with Carl, showing him around the Have, introducing him to people, talking up the movie, hearing stories about famous people...it was exhausting (but fun) for everyone.

I had a little one on one time with Carl on Saturday night after the final weekend screening. We had beers at Richters and talked about how the screening had gone. He asked me about my story, how I got here, etc. I told him about my family leaving Cuba, what my Dad had gone through to get us here, how I ended up in New Haven, all that stuff. He said I had a great story and asked if I ever considered writing a screenplay. That's right. The guy who wrote St. Elmo's Fire asked me if I had ever thought about writing a screenplay. Um, no, I hadn't considered it. But it's nice to be asked.

Away I Go

2010-04-28T22:57:00.000-04:00

I was in Philly this weekend helping the Aaron move into his new house (it’s lovely and he and the little dog are very happy, thanks for asking). When we weren’t doing the semi-heavy lifting, cleaning, discussing furniture placement, laughing at ourselves and each other, eating or napping to catch a second wave of energy, I was reading Amy Bloom’s novel, Away. I picked it up in preparation for a book signing Bloom was doing in town. I haven’t read her work in a while, so I wanted a refresher before I went to the event. I came across a passage that I haven’t been able to shake for days:

"Sometimes it's the case that when you hear the thing you have most wanted to hear, you cannot take it in. Hope is everyone's mirage and everyone who comes upon that green and grassy spot, the swaying date palms and the bubbling blue pool, is temporarily taken in, even people who have been there before and even when, upon closer inspection, the oasis is nothing but a reef of sand; even with grains of sand blowing lightly across our faces, we find ourselves standing on soft grass of a tenacious, unreasonable green."

Wow, right? I know. I’ve read it over and over again. There’s a part of me that doesn’t get it at all and a part of me that goes “yes,” every time. It’s been a long time since something I read had that sort of effect on me. And now I am trying to figure out why. I know, I should just go with my gut and not try to figure out why, but that’s what I do sometimes, think too hard and too long about something because I need to figure something out instead of just running with the feeling. But this many days later, this many hours of mulling it over, I think I know. I read that passage in the afternoon, I experienced it later that night. And that might be what I’ve been really thinking about for days.

Aaron and I were having dinner in his new house on Sunday night. We were sitting in a couple of armchairs in the dining room (we ran out of steam before we could get the dining table together), finishing our drinks and talking. The discussion turned (as it so often does) to relationships. Here’s what my dear friend told me:

“You don’t have any role models for the life you’re leading. You’ve had to carve this life out on your own and figure it out for yourself. And you’ve accomplished a lot.”

Seems obvious doesn’t it? It wasn’t. Not to me. I’ve spent all of this time feeling like a misfit because my two strongest (literally) role models, my mother and sister were/are working married ladies with children. Yes, I’m a lady (I mean a woman…fine, I’m a broad) and I work, but the other two parts…not so much. My mom and sister are from another generation and a whole other culture. By the time she was my age, my mother had gotten married, had two children, moved to another country and had another baby. My sister took a modified approach to my mother’s plan as she so often does: marriage, two children and a house (instead of leaving the country). I spent much of my life breaking away from that lifestyle, setting the apron strings on fire when I left for college, moving away without ever considering going “home.” I’m not saying that any of us Abreu ladies chose the wrong path, just different ones (and sometimes the paths chose us). Now that I’m not some brooding kid who didn’t want to be like them, I’ve begun to realize that I want to be like them in some ways (my sister’s endless positive attitude in the face of anything, my mother’s ability to cut to the chase regardless of who gets sliced by her words), I’m already like them in others (fiercely loyal, tender hearted, eager to please) and may never be like them in others (mom: widow with 3 kids; sister: married with 2 kids; me: late 30s, childless and single) It’s all OK. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.

I’ve had to figure a lot of it out on my own and I’ve done alright for myself, right? Right. Sometimes you just need to hear it, even if you can’t take it in right away.

Enough is Enough

2009-07-08T15:46:00.003-04:00

I went to Cafe Nine last night to hear Marc Douglas Berardo play. There's something in his songs that always goes right through me. I have yet to attend a show of his without tearing up at a new song. This time it was a song about Havana. Yep, he went there. And there I was, with a lump in my throat and my dad in my heart. My dad, who offered me unconditional love and appreciated me in spite of my quirks, flaws and fuck-ups. This brings me, in a roundabout way, to the point of this post.

I had a chance to catch up with an old friend between sets. We drank beers, chatted and just hung out. It was pretty great. Eventually, the talk turned to my lack of luck in love as of late (heaven forbid I have a conversation with a straight man in a relationship and not ask what's up with the rest of his gender). He said something that struck me enough to post it here (after not posting for how long? Exactly). Apparently, my problem is one of semantics. Instead of saying (and understanding and believing) that something didn't work out with someone because it wasn't the right fit, I automatically say (and believe) that it's because I wasn't "enough". Pretty enough, smart enough, sexy enough, tall enough, enough enough, on and on. This, my friend pointed out, is dumb because "enough" is totally subjective. And, by the way, I am more than enough and I should probably come to terms with that soon. I may, in fact, be the shit. So, we made a deal. I promised (maybe I solemnly swore, I was on my fourth beer at this point) to stop using the word "enough" when talking about all things related to myself in the realm of romance. If I find myself in a situation that's not working, I'll try to say (and understand and believe) that it's bad timing or a bad fit, and not mark it as a personal failure because I think someone else thinks am not "enough." We high-fived on it and ordered another round. Another step in Love's recovery. And that's enough for now.

What the Hell?

2009-04-05T22:11:00.004-04:00

Here's what happens: I make a pact with myself that I'm going to write everyday, build up a good month's worth of material and then fall off the wagon. I don't make writing a priority. Well, I do for a while and then I don't for a longer while. I get scared. I wonder if I have it in me to put it all out there. My fear is irrational, but it is there and it has a hold on me. I start to write something and end up questioning and criticizing it before I'm halfway through. Everybody does that, right?

I have a writing assignment. It's a one off I sent over to E, something I needed to get off my chest so I could sleep. The draft is crap, but E is encouraging me to make it better. Part of me wants to never touch it again, but I have to stop doing that. I keep writing "good beginnings," but I never do anything more with them. Maybe because I don't think I know how. How am I going to make two hundred words that sort of suck into eight hundred words that suck less?

Today, instead of writing, I napped, snacked, surfed the interwebs, watched people walk their dogs, did some more spring cleaning, watched the original Yours, Mine and Ours (I have a big crush on young Tim Mathieson) and finished reading Love is a Mixtape. I could have found some time in there to write. I think, read and talk about writing more than I actually write these days. All that thinking, reading and talking is not doing me any good. Dp I really want to be a writer or if I just want to talk and think about being writer? That's what E asked me yesterday. I never really do anything with the stuff I write, so do I really want it? Do I want to be a writer or do I just want to write from time to time and leave it at that? I don't know anymore.

The Moment

2009-03-04T22:38:00.002-05:00

You sit down, ready to write and...nothing. Not a damn thing comes to mind. That's not true. Nothing you feel like sharing, out of fear or embarrassment or concern that you will say too much and someone will get hurt. Someone like you. So you push it down, ignore it, figure you will save it for another day. But it's there, lurking, waiting, keeping you up at night. You know what you feel, but you don't know how to say it in a way that anyone would understand. You don't even understand it, so how in the hell will anyone else get it.

You get up and go to the kitchen. You make tea. You go back to the computer and...you check facebook, blogs, email. You're stalling and you know it. Whatever it is, you can't or won't say it. Not tonight. You sit and you think about it some more. Really, if it's keeping you from writing (or thinking) about anything else, then why not say it?

And then it happens. What your best friend once called "the moment of breaking." The hurt, the frustration, the confusion, the trying to make sense of how you got to this place. It all spills out, faster than you can keep up with it. It still doesn't make sense, but it's out of your system. You feel lighter, unburdened, relieved and maybe, just maybe you'll be able to sleep.

Super Sunday

2009-02-23T21:41:00.006-05:00

Ever wonder what would happen if a comedian didn't host the Oscars? Me neither, but someone must have considered the possibility because it happened. And the results were...not bad! Let's recap, shall we?

Sparkle...Magic: In case you were wondering, the sparkly curtain at the front of the Kodak Theater? Swarovski crystals.

Nice to meet Hugh: Still a little on the fence about Hugh as host, don't know why. Maybe because he was so relaxed and seemed to genuinely be having a good time. I'm not accustomed to the host not having at least one moment where things go wrong and they to want to be swallowed whole by the stage or played off by Bill Conti (who, by the way, was not missed by ANYONE).

Close to Hugh: The big show felt a little smaller, a little more intimate. The orchestra was moved and the audience got to be a little closer to the action. The good news is some winners had a shorter walk to the stage. The bad news is everyone in the front row got to see a whole lotta Beyonce.

And the winners were: I may be in the minority, but I really loved the whole "welcome to the club" presentation of the acting categories and the montages introducing those segments. I know some people thought it was too much mush, but think about it, people...you're nominated for an Academy Award, it's the biggest night of your life and instead of having to watch that same clip of yourself (the one you have now seen at the SAGs, the Globes, the BAFTA's and the Spirits), Shirley MacLaine or Robert DeNiro or Eva Marie Saint or Alan Arkin walks out and talks about how awesome you were in your movie. How are you NOT thrilled? How do you NOT get emotional? And if your name happens to be called when that envelope is opened? BONUS!

His and Hers: Last year, Javier Bardem became the first Spaniard to win the Academy Award. His co-star (and lady love) Penelope Cruz is now the second Spaniard to win. For those of you who do not speak the Spanish: All of the loyal people of Spain, now they share this moment with me and feel that this (Oscar) is theirs also, so I dedicate to them. To all of the actors and actresses of my country, Thanks a lot.

Que Viva Espana!

Kate, so great: Sixth time is the charm for our girl Kate, the youngest person to be nominated that many times for an Oscar. This was totally worth the wait, if only for that sweet moment when she said, "Dad, whistle or something, 'cause then I'll know where you are." (He whistles.) "Yeah!" (Waving to him.) "I love you." My sister and I agreed that our dear dad would have done the same thing...and then he would have started sobbing.

Bonus: This is what it looks like when it really hits her backstage.

Milk Men: What a beautiful speech by Dustin Lance Black. Heartfelt, genuine, lovely. Well done, sir. Well done.

About that dress, briefly: Penelope Cruz in vintage Balmain Coutoure. AWESOME. Natalie Portman in Rodarte? SO Audrey. Taraji P. Henson in Roberto Cavalli? Amazing (and that necklace! Love it.) I could have done without the feathers on Nicole Kidman's dress, but she looked good. Diane Lane? Perfect and lovely, as usual. Anne Hathaway in Armani Prive? Sparkly and gorgeous! Sarah Jessica Parker in Dior Haute Couture? Only person who could get away with it. You know who couldn't get away with it? Jessica Biel in Prada. As my mother would say, "No goo." On a brighter, hotter note...

Let's hear it for the boys: Damn, the men looked good in their tuxedoes. They combed their hair, wore ties, some of them even shaved! Even Mickey Rourke, in his white Gaultier suit looked good for Mickey Rourke. My favorite? Craig, Daniel Craig. Damn.

Two words: Slumdog Millionaire. Eight Oscars. Effing Brilliant. Haven't gone? Go NOW.

Seeing Things

2009-02-16T20:27:00.005-05:00

I went to see Ghost on Sunday with Heather. Yes, dead Patrick Swayze, teary Demi Moore, psychic Whoopi Goldberg Ghost from 1990. It may surprise you to know that it was nominated for an Oscar for, wait for it...BEST PICTURE. I know, crazy right? It still holds up almost twenty years later. Swayze and Demi look gorgeous, Tony Goldwyn is the perfect evil best friend and the story is engaging. The special effects are dated, but overall, not a bad flick for a Sunday morning. The mimosas probably helped.

In preparation for Oscar Sunday (aka My Superbowl) I've seen Ghost, Roman Holiday, Pat & Mike, Say Anything, the Age of Innocence, Gigi, and most of Funny Face. Heaven bless Robert Osbourne, TCM and their 31 Days of Oscar. I might have a crush on Osbourne. He's such a gentleman, with his white hair and classic clothes. It also helps that he has an encyclopedic knowledge of film. The man loves his job and I love him for it.

So, I'm watching Funny Face last night and I am struggling to believe that Audrey Hepburn would fall in love with Fred Astaire. Richard Avedon, sure (Astaire's character, Dick Avery, is loosely based on Avedon), but Astaire? Not buying it. I can buy her falling for Bogart and Holden in Sabrina, Peck in Roman Holiday, Gary Cooper in Love in the Afternoon and especially Cary Grant in Charade (who DIDN'T fall for Cary Grant in Charade?). I'm just not feeling Fred. It's not that he's too old, most of Audrey's leading men were considerably older. Maybe he's too smooth, aloof. I know, I'm biased. I'm a Gene Kelly person. Always have been, always will be. I can't help it. Astaire, is absolutely an icon in his white tie and tails, but give me Gene in a polo shirt, khakis and some loafers any day. Oh, what do I know? Judge for yourself and watch Fred and Gene rock it out in The Babbit and the Bromide.

No Ordinary Love

2009-02-11T23:02:00.005-05:00

"Life isn't a love in, it's the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and... ground round instead of roast beef. And I'll tell you something else: it isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts." - Henry Fonda as Frank Beardsley in Yours, Mine & Ours (1968)

My parents were married for forty-five years. They survived a revolution, moved to a country where they did not speak the language, started a business, made a home, raised three children, fought a lot, laughed a lot, traveled (alone and together) and opened their home to countless refugees (and helped find them jobs and homes). They took care of each other (and us) no matter the cost. Sickness, health, richer, poorer, better or worse, they were in it for the long haul. God knows it wasn't easy, but they stuck it out. As my mother once said to one of a friend who told her she should go home and get some rest after spending days at my father's side in the hospital, "After forty plus years, I'm not leaving now."

I will think of my parents on Valentine's Day and remind myself that, not only is lifelong love absolutely possible, I've seen it in action. How lucky am I?

First and Last

2009-02-09T22:21:00.003-05:00

I've probably mentioned this before, but I wrote a book about ten years ago (OK, more like going on twelve years). It's twenty-six poems, that I wrote in no particular order. Somehow when I put them all together, they made sense. They tell the story of who I was and who I loved at that time in my life. Now that I'm writing again, and I'm more serious about the writing, I'm wondering if it's time to do something with these. Take a look and let me know what you think. Thanks.

Here's the opener:

Ambitious

Brunette seeks

Caring,

Devoted,

Exuberant

Foreigner to

Give

Her

Insight and

Joy. Must have

Killer smile,

Legs of steel and good

Manners.

Opportunists

Please.

Questions

Regarding

Sexual appetite

To be asked later.

Until our

Very anticipated

Walk through an

X-rated garden,

Your face

Zooms in my memory.

3.26.97

And the closer:

Zinc

Arrives at the

Back of my throat,

Closing it

Directly.

Every bit of

Flesh

Gooses.

How

Is it possible?

Jellyfish for hands. Where

Knees once

Lived,

Marshmallows

Now

Own the

Place.

Quite

Remarkable this

Spell. And

To have kept me

Under, you must be

Well

Versed in the

X-otic language of

Yes.

4.10.97

A to Z: another exercise

2009-02-07T00:21:00.000-05:00

Give it a try, but you have to do it right. Copy this whole thing, go to your profile/notes/new note, click and paste.

Then comes the hard part. Replace my answers with your own. Then tag as many of your friends as you'd like…

A
- Available: More than I should be
- Age: A rocking 36
-Annoyance: You know when you reach in the kitchen cabinet to grab a pan and everything clangs together? Yeah, that's an annoyance.
- Animal: PS #2 Dolphin, Memorial Tiger, Hartford Hawk...I've been them all.

B
- Beer: Lately, it's Harp or Stella
- Birthday: June 19
- Best Friend: Ia, Cat, Aaron
- Body Part on opposite sex: Eyes and thighs
- Best feeling in the world: spooning after the fact and falling asleep that way
- Best weather: right before a summer storm, when the wind picks up but it's still warm...sexy!
- Been in Love: Thought so repeatedly, but really only twice.
- Been on stage?: I have played Susan B. Anthony, one of Santa's elves, one of the babies from Free to Be, You and Me, and Deniece Williams lip-synching to Let's Hear it for the Boy from the movie Footloose. Yeah, this girl's got RANGE!
- Believe in Magic: Absolutely, all kinds
- Believe in Santa: My mother ruined Santa for me. She would have me pick out the present, wrap it and then stick it under the tree...no element of surprise whatsoever.

C
- Candy: Cadbury Dairy Milk, preferable from England
- Color: Red
- Chocolate or Vanilla: Vanilla with a swirl of fudge
- Chinese or Mexican Food: Mexican
- Cake or pie: Cake a la mode (that means of the fashion)
- Continent to visit: Europe
- Cheese: Pleasant Cow from the Wooster Square Farmers' Market

D
Day or Night: You know the night-time is the right time
Dancing in the rain: Yes, and in my head it is ALWAYS with Gene Kelly

E
- Eyes: Two of them, dark brown
- Everyone's got: a hungry heart.
- Ever failed a class?: Almost. Chemistry. What was I thinking?

F
- First thoughts waking up: What am I going to wear?
- Food: Used to be my enemy...we're on better terms now.

G
- Greatest Fear: Already realized.
- Goals: To be published, to help send Flash to college.
- Gum: Sweetmint
- Get along with your parents? After a decade of living in the Bell Jar, I can say that I do.
H
- Hair Color: Pepper with a dash of salt. (as opposed to A Salt with a Deadly Pepa)
- Height: 5 foot 2
- Happy: Lately, yes! Thanks for asking.
-Holiday: Christmas Eve
- How do you want to die: Happy

I
- Ice Cream: Chocolate Chocolate Chip or Rocky Road
- Instrument: My body

J
- Jewelry: Tiffany's (I know how that sounds, but two of my favorite pieces are from there and they were given to me by two of my favorite)
- Job: Downtown Deputy

K
- Kids: The best kind, nieces and nephews!
- Kickboxing or karate: Couldn't we just have a dance off?
- Keep a journal? Ummmm, have you not been reading my notes on here?

L
- Love: “I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it.” -AH
- Letter: Write them when I can, love to receive them

M
Milk flavor: Chocolate
Movies: Old and in Black and White, usually featuring a beautiful young woman who falls for someone WAY too old for her.
Motion sickness? No
McD’s or BK: McDonald's fries are legalized crack.

N
- Number: 19

O
- One wish: One more day

P
- Pepsi or Coke: Coke
- Perfect Pizza: Mashed potato, bacon and garlic from BAR
- Piercing: 1 in the right ear, 3 in the left ear, 1 in the belly button

Q
- Quail: Sucky VP. Oh wait, that's not how you spell it, is it? HA.
- Quiet?: I wish

R
- Reason to cry: Release
- Reality T.V.: Too much, sadly.
- Radio Station: 105.9 for the 80s at 8, then it's all itunes.
- Roll your tongue in a circle: Indeed.
- Ring size: 6.25. What? You think most women don't know their ring size?

S
- Song: Lately it's As Cool As I Am by Dar Williams and Nostradamus Said by Al Raebuck.
- Shoe size: 9 aka GIANT
- Salad Dressing: Oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper
- Sushi: Miya's or Miso
- Skinny dipped?: No...I should get right on that, in July.
- In the shower?: Soap, face wash, washcloth, razor, shampoo, body scrub. I have too much stuff in there.
- Strawberries or blueberries? Yes, please.

T
- Tattoos?: Nope.
- Thunderstorms: Best when shared with someone while lying in bed.

U
- Unpredictable: I can be.

V
- Vacation spot(s): Let's call this places I don't get to enough: Block Island, Dublin, London
- Weakness: Bad boys (such a cliche. I blame Johnny Depp)
- Which one of your friends acts the most like you? I have friends who have very similar senses of humor, but I wouldn't say any of us act alike.
- Worst feeling: The dizziness when I get out of a too hot shower and I have to sit on the bathroom floor. I always think, "great, this is how someone is going to find me?"
- Wanted to be a model?: We had a modeling team at my high school. I never tried out. Too bad because I think I have a great walk.
- Worst Weather?: Anything with a wind chill in single digits. My people are island people, we don't fancy the cold.

X
- X-Rays: Not recently. Just a sonogram. On my leg.

Y
-Year it is now: 2009
-Yellow: Living room

Z
- Zoo animal?: I haven't been to the zoo since the 1980s.
- Zydeco?: Buckwheat?

ACT. Now.

2009-02-06T20:57:00.005-05:00

Why arts, culture and tourism are important to me:

I live here. I’m lucky enough to live in a city (and a state) that allows me the luxury of seeing amazing art (from the masters to modern architecture), dining in some of the finest restaurants around and enjoying exciting festivals and arts events all year round, all within walking distance of my apartment.

I work here. As Deputy Director of the Town Green Special Services District, I know first hand the importance of the arts, culture and tourism to the community. Every day, our staff works with countless merchants, restaurateurs, hotels, attractions and arts agencies to get the word out about our fabulous city. These organizations employ thousands of residents, entertain thousands of visitors and keep our local economy strong. Arts, culture and tourism makes a city a more appealing place to live, work and play and enhances the quality of life in ways that are sometimes intangible.

My closest friends in the world are artists. They are painters, print makers, photographers, sound designers, ceramicists, musicians and writers. Some of them are fortunate enough to make their living making art and some of them have day jobs that allow them the time to make art. They are all talented, passionate and unstoppable in their pursuit of creation. They inspire me every day.

I’m an artist. The arts are my outlet, my sanity, my safe place. I’ve been writing poems, essays and (now) blogging since I was fourteen years old.

Join the cause, save the arts, feed your soul, do some good. ACT.

Visit the ACT for Economy facebook page or sign the petition at Tourism Works for Connecticut

Wintry Mix

2009-02-03T18:41:00.005-05:00

In the spirit of list making, I give you a mix of songs that can perk me up, make me smile and heal me. It's also a bit of a personal history. I am including my favorite lyric from each one, because as much as it's about the melody, the writer in me loves a good lyric.

Growing up:

Guantanamera/Celia Cruz "Y antes de morir, you quiero cantar mis versos del alma."
This one always reminds me of my dad and all the people I grew up around. They sang it at parties. The first time I heard it after my dad passed away, I cried and cried. Now I can listen to it and think of happier times.

ABC/Jackson Five "Naw! Get up Girl! Show me what you can do!"
A call to action that always gets me moving. The first thing I saw on the giant color TV my dad got for us was the Jackson 5 cartoon. AWESOME.

Boys of Summer/Don Henley "Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadilllac, a little voice inside my head said don't look back, you can never look back."
It always takes me back to walking to school with Arlene after our Algebra 1 class at the high school. I don't think either of us knew what a Deadhead sticker was at the time.

Never Tear Us Apart/INXS "I told you...that we could fly. Cuz we all have wings, but some of us don't know why."
Junior Prom, 1989. My first little black dress. Jessica McLintock, off the shoulder with a rose where I should have had some cleavage. It was classic...for 1989.

Falling in and out of love:

Barely Breathing/Duncan Sheik "I don't know who I'm kidding, imagining you care"
Beautiful and bittersweet .

Jersey Girl/Tom Waits (or Springsteen) "Cuz down the shore, everything's alright. You and your baby on a Saturday night. Nothing matters in this whole wide world, when you're in a Jersey girl." Right on.

Love Will Never Do Without You/Janet Jackson "If you believe in love, SING!"
Great sentiment, great song, great video. Herb Ritts, you are missed.

Cinnamon Girl/Neil Young "You see your baby loves to dance."
He's right, I do.

Losing him:

Walk On/U2 "And I know it aches, how your heart it breaks, you can only take so much." I listened to this song over and over the summer my dad got sick. It helped. A lot.

Seal/Love's Divine "Love can help me know my name." I was listening to this song one afternoon while cleaning the kitchen and...I just lost it. All the hurt inside me just poured out in chest heaving sobs. I looked like hell afterwards, but I felt so much better.

Anthems that get me through these days:

As Cool as I Am by Dar Williams "I will not be afraid of women" Every word of this song strikes a chord, but that's the best line.

I'm Free/Soup Dragons "Don't be afraid of your freedom!" We must have listened to this one a million times in college. Reminds me of hanging out with my best friends, laughing and dancing. An excellent reminder on the days I feel low.

Freedom '90/George Michael "All we have to see is that I don't belong to you and you don't belong to me." In the last year, I have found it to be even more relevant.

Mama Said Knock You Out/LL Cool J "I'm gonna take this itty bitty world by storm, and I'm just getting warm!" A power track, makes me feel ready to take on the world.

Right Here, Right Now/Jesus Jones "There is no other place I'd wanna be. Right here, right now, watching the world wake up from history." Hell yes.

I could go on and on, but I'm sleepy now. Feel free to chime in with your faves. Consider this an endless mix tape and play on.

Midnight Rambler

2009-01-29T00:55:00.005-05:00

My earliest memory: Gene Kelly dancing in the fountain at the end of An American in Paris.
I wrote a fan letter to Gene Kelly when I was seventeen. A year later, I received an autographed photo. I have it framed in my office.
There is no simple answer to the question, “What’s your favorite movie?”
Movies I watch whenever they are on TV: To Kill a Mockingbird, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, Auntie Mame, The Philadelphia Story. Notice anything?
I love a good “wink,” in a movie. For example: In His Girl Friday, Cary Grant says, “Listen, the last man that said that to me was Archie Leach just a week before he cut his throat.” Cary Grant’s real name was Archie Leach. I think that’s fantastic.
The older I get, the more I dislike chick-flicks, especially ones that have been released in the last five years. I want to shake my fist at the screen and shout, “We are not all desperate for a husband! Some of us just want to have sex regularly with someone who is not a total jerk!” I’ve pretty much stopped going to those types of movies.
I have never walked out of a movie. Not even to go to the bathroom. Once I’m in, that’s it. I’ve made the commitment and am sticking with it.
Based on numbers 6 and 7, I have become more selective about which movies I see in the theater.
I own ten little black dresses. I can’t stop buying them. I like to fancy myself the Cuban Audrey Hepburn. I am delusional.
I try to be a lady, but I'm more of a broad. I love to swear (the F word is so versatile). I love a project where I can do some heavy lifting (although my back is not a fan of that). My best friend's parents call me Mighty Mouse...small but strong.
I like to think I'm good at bringing catch phrases into my friends' lexicon. Perhaps you have heard (or spoken) some of my work? There’s sweet cracker sandwich, that's SO Audrey, and batshit bananas. My most recent creation? Random Act of Hotness. I may also be responsible for bringing back "douche." Yeah. Sorry about that.
I used to eat ice cream for breakfast while watching Saturday morning cartoons.
My mom and I would watch Tarzan movies on Sundays after she got home from church. She thought Cheetah was a riot.
Sometimes when I am falling asleep, I hear the voices of deceased loved ones. I find it comforting and scary at the same time.
Years ago, my best friend’s family cat died. I was upset for her and when she told me it was OK, because he was 19, I said, “Rose Kennedy is 104 and she is still alive.” Rose Kennedy died a few days later. I have since “killed” Bruno Kirby, Estelle Getty and was an accomplice in the death of Luther Vandross. Ever since, whenever someone says, “Is so and so dead?” I know it’s only a matter of time.
I celebrated my twenty-first birthday in Dublin, Ireland. I sat outside the Norseman Pub and had a pint with my best friend. Best. Birthday. Ever.
I was a late bloomer and didn't have a boyfriend until I was twenty-one years old. In retrospect, I'm glad for the experience, but I should have waited a bit longer.
I fell in love at first sight when I was 22. It was across a crowded room. It didn’t last, but man, it was something. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
I still think of him.
I like to refer to that time before a summer storm, when it’s warm but blustery and the sky is getting dark, as “sexy weather.” Because it is.
It took me thirty-four years to realize that if I am reading a book and it’s not interesting to me, I don’t have to finish it. You have no idea how freeing that is for someone who studied literature.
Based on the kind of food I grew up eating (rice, beans, fried meat, fried plantains), my mother’s style of cooking (lard played a large role in most meals), and my father’s penchant for bringing a candy bar home for me every night, I’m truly amazed I didn’t grow up to weigh a thousand pounds.
When I feel like I’m losing control of my life (personally or professionally) the secret switch inside of me flips and I stop eating, sometimes for long stretches of time. The last time it got really bad was when my relationship ended. Yes, it's a disorder of the eating variety, and yes, I keep an eye on it.
If I could go back and change one day, it would be my first day of high school. It was epically bad, but not for the typical reasons.
I keep a list of encouraging things people have said or written to me over the years. It’s called Self-Esteem Check. It helps.

Poem for the Moment

2009-01-24T23:11:00.009-05:00

I've made some notes in my book, finished Bird by Bird and started Thinking About Memoir. Now what? A poem.

The Words

There they are
on the page
And now
I'm writing
The words, the words, the words
sometimes they don't show up
sometimes I can't keep up
it is surprising
their presence
is a comfort
and a terror
all at once
No one may ever see them
There it is
the comfort
and the terror
all at once

Daisy C. Abreu, 9/16/07
revised 1/25/09

Notes on the Process

2009-01-21T19:31:00.003-05:00

In a few days, I will have written more posts on this blog than I did in all of 2008. How cool is that? I have to admit that this seeming burst of creativity isn't actually a burst at all. It's a daily grind. It's my other job, writing. It's my avocation. Spilling my guts, working on the stories of my life, trying to make sense of everything in my life is a therapeutic work out and an exercise in getting over myself. Except when I'm staring at the screen trying to figure out where to start.

I realized after talking with T tonight, that part of my "problem," is that I am used to writing in tidbits. Poems have long been my preferred method of expression, so writing longer pieces on a nightly basis, that aren't in longhand in my journal, seems daunting. I love telling stories, but writing them down is a whole other deal altogether. I was thinking about this in the shower this morning. The issue I'm having with Coach E's assignments isn't that I can't write about my past. It's realizing I can't remember most of it. The pieces I'm working on about my childhood trip to Cuba are daunting because although I "thought" I remembered a lot of it, getting Coach E's assignments makes me realize I don't really remember much detail. The things that would flesh my story out? Gone. I look at photos and remember the broad strokes of the story, but I fear the minutiae is lost. What to do?

For now, I will keep making notes on the stuff I've started on to fill in the blanks the best I can. I'll also keep brainstorming offline and piecing the bigger story together. And I'll keep posting writing exercises, award show recaps and notes on my current life to keep my momentum going. It turns out, importing blog posts to facebook gives me access to an audience of objective and subjective readers. Keep those comments coming, especially if you remember something!

It's Not About the Dress

2009-01-20T23:28:00.003-05:00

When Michelle Obama walked out of the Blair House today on her way to church, she took my breath away. Not simply because she was on her way to becoming the First Lady or because of her lovely lemongrass ensemble, but because of what that outfit meant to me. Here's the thing: the woman who designed that dress and who has now been brought to national, if not global, prominence was once a Cuban girl from West New York, New Jersey. Just like me.

Whenever someone mentioned how much they liked Mrs. Obama's dress today, I beamed. And maybe I bragged...OK, I totally bragged, "I know the designer! She's my sister's oldest friend and she used to babysit for me AND she is amazing!" Yes, today was a monumental moment in our nation's history. And yes, the matter of what the First Lady wore today may be considered minor, even trivial, to some. But, to the people of a small town in New Jersey (not to mention the contingencies in Miami and Camajuani, Cuba) this is HUGE. This is "yes, we can," Latin style. And what it means to this Cuban girl from West New York is immeasurable. Because it's family.

Isabel Toledo has been a part of my family's life for as long as I can remember. Our families were tight when I was growing up and Isy remains very close with my sister. They went to high school together. They were at each other's weddings (my sister was her maid of honor). They catch up the way all best friends do when they can get each other on the phone or send a quick email. It's never "my friend, the fashion designer," with my sister. It's just Isy.

I on the other hand, might be considered a bit of a stalker. Not a scary stalker, just a very avid fan and follower of her career. It still amazes me that someone I know, someone I grew up around and always looked up to, is...famous. I still get a thrill when I open up a fashion magazine and see her work. It's beyond cool to me. I know she's just a person, but she's a ridiculously talented person who gets paid to do what she loves and has had great success at it. Like I said, beyond cool.

I have mentioned before that Isy's parents, Bertie and Felix are two of my favorite people of all time. I will say it again here. I loved them the way I love my own parents. They were loving and hard-working and hilarious and they treated me like I was their own. Felix, tall with silver hair and a dark mustache, looked like a movie star to me, like Gregory Peck. I remember he laughed through this teeth. I can hear it now. I remember my mother always called Bertie by her maiden name, "Berta Perez," but I couldn't tell you why. I remember spending afternoons at Abuela Casilda's apartment on the 22nd floor of one of the senior housing buildings with my mother, Felix and Bertie. We played bingo for pennies (cleaned out Parkay tubs are good for holding the loot), drank Cuban coffee and had a lot of laughs.

I wish Bertie and Felix had lived to see this great day, to see their girl achieve this great thing. In my heart I know that they, together with my father and all those old Cubans who raised us in that giant extended family in West New York, New Jersey, are smiling down, saying ¡Si, podemos!.

Practical Magic

2009-01-18T22:55:00.007-05:00

With apologies to my sister if I got any of this wrong:

My sister was talking to her kids the other night about our father and how he is still a presence in our lives. Apparently, Brian (her youngest) remembered playing in his room shortly after my father passed away and feeling someone rub his head and put a hand on his shoulder. He knew it was his Papi, so he wasn't afraid. In fact, he said that he had felt the same presence recently when he was playing in his room. "I know it's Papi." My niece has had the same experience, that feeling that someone is in the room with her, watching over her.

My family has always had an affinity for the spiritual side of things. Growing up, I experienced a healthy mix of Catholicism and...something else. Not Santeria, not voodoo, but some sort of white magic mixed with old wives tales and a belief system my mother feels as strongly about as she does the church. Religious statues and photos are spread around the house (most notably Santa Barbara, San Lazaro and Pope John Paul II) and called upon daily. My mother spends the first part of her day reading from a book of prayers to honor my father and grandparents, but also for the comfort she receives from the ritual. In good weather, she is known to go to church multiple times a week. She will ask God to bless us before we leave her side and she will thank God (and Jesus and the Virgin and the saints) whenever good fortune shines upon a loved one. Candles are lit, holy water is sprinkled, prayers are said, but sometimes there is more.

Here's a good one: I'm a teenager holed up in my room and my mother calls me out into the hallway. I walk out and go "What?" She proceeds to rub me from top to toe with...a coconut. A real unopened coconut. This is supposed to clean me of any bad spirits lurking within me.

Another: On New Year's eve, my mother will mix up a bucket with holy water, regular water, some perfumes from the botanica and some flower petals. If you are living in that house and planning to shower, please know that you are expected to do your final rinse with whatever is in that bucket. What difference does it make if flower petals stick to your body? After midnight, she will walk through the whole house sprinkling holy water and then she will pitch that bucket out the door, sending all the bad spirits out with it.

She's got a million of them. You better believe my mother can fix what ails you through the power of prayer, a well placed lemon or a strong dose of Vick's Vaporub. In recent years, I have come to know my mother's powers and am starting to believe that I may have some too, although I have no idea what to do with them. I often say to my friends, "I must have brought you with my thoughts." Part of me is starting to believe I can. Is it magic when I have a dream about someone I haven't seen in a long time and then I hear from them the next day? The strongest example was the time my mother, sister and I all had the exact same dream about my dad, on the same night. Spooky, yet comforting.

My mom says she learned how to use her gift from her mother, who had learned from her mother before. I have never known my mother to use her skills for anything but good, so maybe leaning in and listening more closely when she tells the story is what I need to do. You never know when a good spell could come in handy.

Trying to Piece it Together

2009-01-18T01:26:00.005-05:00

OK, I'm frustrated. I made an attempt to write last night when I got home, but nothing seemed to make sense. There's a lot on my mind, but I'm not sure how to get it out and on the page. What's a girl to do? Stream of consciousness it is.

I had a dream last night that crossed from past to present and back again. I was at my dad's lab, but I was with my New Haven friends. The lab looked the same as it did the last time I was there, which is to say it was kind of a mess. Stacks of newspapers under the counter, molds for teeth on the work tables and a fine dust covering everything. It was late at night, it was cold and there were people there waiting for a ride to the airport. One of my coworkers was in the space, and one of my interns, someone I hadn't seen in a long time. I remember hugging my intern and seeing the people off to the airport. That's all that comes to mind now.

I spent the bulk of my childhood at my dad's lab, doing homework, sweeping up and hanging out with my father and his friends and clients. It was close to the grammar and high schools, so it made sense for me to go there in the morning and have breakfast with him, then come back after classes to go home together. And it was where I waited the two hours between school and gymnastics practice. The TV was usually on, tuned to a Yankee game. If there wasn't a game on, then the radio was playing. My dad loved us, the Yankees and music.

I was there when the Challenger was lost and it was there that I ran after learning that one of my high school classmates had died. I remember my father hugging me and crying with me and telling me he understood how I felt. He was always the more emotional one of my parents, though my mother has softened some over the last few years. That was his place, the hub of his world. He spent more time there than he did at home, six or seven days a week, sometimes up to twelve hours a day, making dentures for every Cuban in town. I couldn't tell you if he loved the work, but I can tell you that he was good at it. He was so good that after he retired, he still made teeth for people, although now he was doing it out of my childhood bedroom. I wonder what all his clients thought of the hot pink walls and the Michael Jackson stickers.

Note to Self

2009-01-17T01:41:00.003-05:00

It is super late, but I have the computer up and running, so I may as well write.

I am grateful that I even have the energy to be typing. It's been a long and busy couple of weeks, but I am happy. Things are falling into place, or maybe I am putting things in place. Getting my priorities straight and putting out a more positive vibe has helped me see the good in my life. I am feeling stronger than I have in a long time. I am open to what's out there, personally and professionally, and I am striving to be my best. I wish I could go back in time and tell the fourteen year old girl I was all the things I know now. I would assure her that mistakes will be made, but she will be better for them.That all those times she followed her heart, she was right, even when she thought she was wrong, because that's how lessons are learned. I would tell her to not worry about that dance she didn't get to go to, because there will be plenty of opportunities to dance all night when she is older. I would encourage her to keep reading, because it will come in handy in life and at trivia night. On that same note, I would tell her that there is nothing wrong with being brainy...some boys actually like that in a girl. Speaking of boys, I would tell her that it's OK to wait, because although there is a rush when you finally get there, there's no rush in getting there. I would tell her that she will find friends that feel like family and that she will eventually see her family as her friends. She should hold on tight to all those people, because they will get her through the worst of it. And I would tell her that, in the end, things will turn out the way they are supposed to.

Waking Life

2009-01-15T19:07:00.004-05:00

Wondering, wandering, searching my mind for something to say that will make some kind of sense. I am beginning to realize that if I have an idea over the course of the day, it would probably be wise to jot it down so that I can share it here. I had something in my head when I woke up yesterday morning and foolishly thought I would remember it, but between work and social engagements, I lost track of somewhere over the course of the day. Dammit.

I used to write notes to myself about particularly vivid dreams the moment I woke up. "Remember dream: hospital room." Then I would pick up my notebook before bed and fill in the blanks. It's funny when that happens, the super vivid dreaming. Not "funny ha ha," more "funny hm," and occasionally, "funny uh-oh." I suppose I dream every night, but only remember some and of those some, very few are super vivid. By super vivid I mean I wake up wondering if someone has been in the apartment.

More peculiar (to me) dream stuff:

When I was little, I was able to wake myself out of scary dreams then drift back into them in a safer moment. Not time travel, more sleepwalking, without the walking.

In times of extreme stress, I have what I believe to be panic attacks in my sleep. I'll be puttering around, doing my thing in the same room in which I am sleeping. Everything will be the same as it is when I'm conscious, until I notice one thing that is totally out of wack, not like a monster, more like a feeling that things are not what they seem. I begin to panic, open my mouth to speak or scream and nothing comes out. For example, I once had a dream that something was wrong with me and I was trying to call out for help to someone I could see in another room. No sound. I wave my arms and scream at what I think is the top of my lungs and...nothing. I know I'm dreaming and try to force myself awake, but can't do it. More panic. Actually, it's more of a freak out. If and when I wake up, the struggle in the dream is so exhausting that I pass right back out...and then I am in it again, fighting to get out. Typically the coming to and passing out happens three or four times. These dreams have become rarer, but on the occasions when they do happen, they will mess me up for a whole day. Good times.

About a year after he died, I had a very intense dream about my dad. I was in our old apartment on 60th Street, standing just outside my bedroom. I could see my dad down the hall in the living room. Up to this point, every dream I had about my dad was a happy one. He was young and healthy and totally at his best. In this dream, he was in his pajamas and didn't look well. I wanted to go to him but reach him. I woke up in tears and called my sister to tell her about the dream. She and my mother had both had the exact same dream on the same night. Coincidence? Powers.

I have had deja vu in a dream. This dream: I am sitting at a restaurant bar with some celebrity crush (OK, it was Gary Fencik). There is a giant window behind the bar looking out on the ocean. At some point, Gary, puts his arm around my shoulders. And I felt it. The weight of his arm across my shoulders. It was heavy enough to make my shoulders sag. And in that moment I remember thinking, "This seems very familiar. This has definitely happened before. " Then I woke up. I had this dream twenty years ago.

How is it that I can remember things like that, but somehow manage to occasionally leave my apartment without remembering to take the keys out of the door? I guess I'll sleep on it.

More of the Same

2009-01-14T21:57:00.007-05:00

I had lunch with a new colleague today. We both have a thing about writing...we like to do it, we want to do it, but we are having trouble sticking to the "write every day," schedule. The usual excuses came up over lunch, "It's hard to get home after a long day at the office and work on your own writing." "It's easy to put it off until the weekend and then not do it at all." And, my favorite, "If the inspiration doesn't strike me..." By the end of our meal, we'd agreed to nudge each other on a regular basis and be writing buddies. Yes, I know I already have T as a writing buddy, but right now, I'm thinking you can't have too many.

I'm starting to realize there are more writers around here than I thought there were. I know the city is loaded with journalists, authors, professors, etc, who have all been published over magazines and newspapers. Hell, there are plenty of people around here who make a good living writing books. Can you believe it? Books! I have always been intimidated by these people, maybe because I think they know something I don't about writing (like how to get published). They get paid to write and, for the most part, people read their work. They seem so far ahead of me, so literary. It seems effortless for them. I know it's not, I know it's a perception. I'm working on getting over it and it's getting easier. Over the last few months, I have come across more people who aren't just working writers, but are working at writing. I am building relationships with writers. Finally. I'm not even seeking them out. I'm just talking about what I'm doing and discovering that I'm not the only one. The solitary act is becoming less lonely and I am (I think) becoming braver about it. I have a mentor in Elizabeth and two new friends who are in a similar boat. I've gone from hiding out and not knowing what I'm doing to having three people in my life who understand what it is I'm trying to do, who get what I'm struggling with and who help me push myself to do it. And I have friends and family to cheer my on while I work all of this out.

It's exciting be able to tell people that I'm writing every day. It helps me understand why I'm doing it. I'm trying to put into practice what I learned at school. I'm exercising the muscle. I've set a goal and I'm not afraid to mess up in the process. I still worry about what I'm going to write about every night. I fear that I'll have nothing to say. I procrastinate, sometimes a little, sometimes for hours. But then, I get over it and get to it. And now, I'm coming into contact with more people who understand and speak the language. I'm finding a whole new tribe.

After all these years of shying away from the title, of scribbling away in the safety of my apartment, I am beginning to understand that this is not just a way for me to pass the time. Patrice said it to me tonight, "You may have always written, but I get the feeling that you're really starting to think of yourself as a writer." She's right. I am.

The Long Goodbye

2009-01-13T23:38:00.005-05:00

I just cracked open my book of writing prompts to see if I could strike a spark tonight. The page I turned to said "write from the point of view of a person on their deathbed." I'm taking a liberty and writing about my point of view at my father's deathbed. This seems right tonight because there is a new baby in the family, and from the looks of him in photos...the old man might be back.

My dad was sick for a long time. By the summer of 2003, he was wasting away and it was getting harder for him to walk. He was getting weaker and thinner.I came home every weekend to a different person. It was a shock to me seeing how much a person, this person, could change from week to week. I didn't know how any of us were going to be able to let him go.

When he slipped into a coma, I went home to New Jersey and stayed for two weeks. I was in a staff meeting when the phone rang. It was my parents' number. They never called during the work day. I answered and heard my sister's voice. "Come home, it doesn't look good." Thank God for my coworkers who managed to call my boyfriend, get me home and take me to the train station in what felt like one huge gesture. I barely remember the train ride, but I remember Mike and I walking through Grand Central Station and seeing an exhibit of work by film students. There, in the middle of this horrible moment, in the middle of Grand Central Station, was an installation that reminded me I was still here. One lamp post, one umbrella and a screen playing Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. As I watched the scene Leonard Bernstein called "an affirmation of life," Mike squeezed my hand and told me it was a sign.

By the time I got to the apartment, it was full of people. Neighbors, family, friends, all crammed into the living room of my parents' tiny one bedroom and that's how it was all day, every day for seven days. My dad was in the bedroom, in a hospital bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply.I had always known him to be a big guy, but now he was literally half the man he had been for most of his life. In spite of the steady stream of visitors bringing food, stories and comfort, I spent most of time with him. I rubbed lotion on his feet, cleaned his face, gave him water and medicine through a syringe I imagine people use to give kittens milk. And I talked to him. I told him who was in the room, who had visited that day. I kept him informed because I knew he would want to know things. And I knew he could hear me. That's what I tell myself anyway. The hardest thing I had to tell him was that it was OK to let go. I assured him that we would take care of my mother and each other. I told him I would be OK without him (not that I believed it at the time, and not that he's not with me every day). That is the toughest one-sided conversation I have ever had. I didn't want him to let go. I wanted him to open his eyes and ask me for something, anything. I wanted him to tell me to turn the television on because he was missing the Yankees game. I wanted him to ask me why I wasn't at work. I would have settled for a "hey, there's my girl."

At the end of the first week, I thought I would come back to New Haven, catch up on a little work, pack some more clothes and get back to his side the same day. When I went into my parents' room that morning to give him his 6am dose of morphine, I heard it. That sound they call "the death rattle." He had been breathing quietly for about a week...this was a totally different sound. I knew I wasn't leaving that day, or any time soon. I closed the bedroom door to keep my mother from hearing it.

It was Monday, September 29th. For the first time in a week, the only people in the apartment were my father, my mother, my sister, my mother's best friend and me. The hospice nurse had been there earlier in the day to see how things were going. She was surprised he had lasted so long, especially since he hadn't eaten in over a week, but she also said it wouldn't be much longer.

When my brother came home from running errands, he went into the bedroom. It took me a minute to realize that it was quiet in the room. I didn't hear the breathing anymore. I looked in and saw my brother bent over my dad, listening. When I walked in,I looked at my father and saw him exhale for the last time. My brother turned to me and said, "That's it." I said "OK," and then I lost it. My sister walked in, saw us and went to get my mother. This is where things get mystical and strange. My mother, her friend and two other neighbor ladies walked into the room and started crying and praying. At that same moment, there was a bolt of lightning and a crack of thunder. As the women prayed, it began pouring. By the time they said "Amen," the rain had stopped, the sun was shining and the sky was clear. And he was gone. When the women took my mother out of the room, my brother said, "That was fucking weird." It was, but we all agreed later that there was no way he was going to go quietly. That just wasn't his style.

Golden Ticket

2009-01-12T22:07:00.002-05:00

Is it just me, or did this year's Golden Globes seem a wee bit...meh? Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to have them back. Last year's press conference was depressing and downright unwatchable, but really, this year's just seemed long. Take the following comments as highlights or lowlights (and take them with a grain of salt, these are only the opinions of one avid viewer). Your choice.

Kate for the win: Kate Winslet might be the actress of her generation. She's got the range, the chops and whatever else it takes to make everything she's in better for her presence (Sense and Sensibility, Finding Neverland, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Iris, etc, etc.) Not to mention that she is well-spoken, smart, funny and seems to be a genuinely lovely person. Thank goodness someone finally recognized her for it. Not once, but twice! Good job, Hollywood Foreign Press Association. Let's hope this is a sign of more shiny objects being handed to her in the near future, like, oh, I don't know...an OSCAR. She's been nominated for an Academy Award five times, which is very impressive, especially considering that she is a mere thirty-three years old. Oh, and she has manages to look flawless every time she hits the red carpet. Some people are not as fortunate. For example...

You OK, Renee?: I refuse to believe that Zellweger was wearing Carolina Herrera last night. The bottom is classic Herrera, but the top (if you want to call it that)? So wrong. I know that I have said before that Renee should take a fashion risk from time to time, but this is not what I meant. She looked a little Sharon Stone on a bad day to me.

Someone call the Police: Dear Sting, what the hell happened? You know I have loved you since I was ten years old. You know that you can do no wrong in my book. You know I still think you're totally hot. But if you ever, EVER, show up at an awards show looking like that again, well, I just don't know what I'll do. That look may work on Colin Farrell, but even he's cleaned up his act. You are a Commander of the British Empire now, buddy, show your Queen a little respect and button your shirt.

Bed head: Um, were people getting frisky in the limos on the way over? I'm only asking because I saw a lot of people with seriously mussed hair. Not the Gisele Bundchen beachy waves, mind you...Messed. Up. Hair. Cameron Diaz, Amy Adams, Vanessa Hudgens, Blake Lively all looked a bit wind blown as Miss Clairee would say in Steel Magnolias. Only Mickey Rourke and Drew Barrymore appeared to have crazy hair that seemed intentional.

Demi, De-Mom: I love that Demi Moore called her daughter Rumer out for slouching. No one wants to see Miss Golden Globe all hunched over like she's so over the whole thing. This is Hollywood's biggest party, and you are wearing a very expensive gown, so the least you can do is stand up straight. It's about time someone told those It girls to how to present themselves. At least Demi opened with a compliment.

Who wants to be a Millionaire: So happy for Danny Boyle and everyone involved with Slumdog Millionaire! If you haven't seen this one yet, go now. And stay for the closing credits!

I'm Latin, let's party: The President of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association spared us all the long speech about how the awards work and opted to encourage everyone in the room to have a good time. Another reason to love my people.

OK, I do like him: Colin Farrell won me over last night with his sweet speech. I have never been a fan of the guy, but he just seemed so genuine, so moved by his win...fine, he's adorable. There. I said it.

No, you can't: That's my answer to Steven Spielberg's eternal film making question. To be clear, a little boy finds and befriends an alien? Yes. Richard Dreyfuss sculpting mashed potatoes and then being swept away by aliens? Yes. An island of dinosaurs? Yes. Whatever the hell is going on in Minority Report? Yes. The ending of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Crystal Skull? No. The man is indeed one of the greatest film makers of all time, but I will not give that last one a pass.

Oh, shit, I forgot to hit the seven second delay button: Darren Aronofsky giving the finger to the world (OK, just to Mickey Rourke, but the world saw it). That moment is now up there with Bono dropping an F-bomb on the Globes a few years back. It's that sort of unpredictability that makes this show worth sitting through. But it would have been nice if someone's name had been called while they were in the bathroom.

Still Do, Always Will

2009-01-11T23:25:00.004-05:00

Taking a night off might have set me back, but I'm pushing on with this. I don't know if I've learned a lesson, but I do know that the writing is important enough to to feel a little guilty when I don't do it every day.

I think the writing I'll be doing will focus more on the process and the project and less on some matters of the heart. For now. And by that I mean my present state of mind and heart. The past is the past and I have made my peace with all that happened. I was younger, eager to find love and easily convinced that I was in it. Now I find that I am ready to be more discerning and maybe I am willing to wait and see.

It may seem foolish, but my heart, my mind and my body want what they want. It doesn't make it right. In fact it makes it somewhat difficult to get on with it. I guess I know the final answer, but it doesn't stop me in my heart. Better to be alone than in bad company. This one will be tough to get over. And really, there are always one or two you never get over. This might be the second time I've felt this. The wanting something I can't have even though every fiber of me says yes I should have it. It feels right. I suppose it always have, since the beginning.

I keep dreaming about him. And the weird thing is that my dreams have been in the stages that the reality has followed. Passion, protection, distance. The dream I had last night was either a prophecy or a fantasy. I have not figured it out yet. I guess time will show me one way or the other. The dreams are so real. The sight, the feel, the conversations...there is nothing fantastical about them. The things happening in the dreams could and have happened in real life.

I miss him. And I don't know if the waiting and the wondering are the answer, but it's all I have right now.

2008: The Year that Was

2009-01-10T11:02:00.006-05:00

I took last night off from writing and now, I'm a little stuck. It wasn't my intention to skip it, I just got home super late and a little tipsy. I was pretty much useless, but it was good to unwind, see a movie and have a drink with friends. Now I'm sitting here, thinking about nothing and trying to come up with something. Perhaps I should ramble and see where it leads.

I'm ten days in to 2009 and I already believe it will be better than 2008. I've got a clean slate at work and a good sense of where I want that to go. I'm excited about writing again and feeling better about the prospect of a project that has a definite beginning, middle and end. I'm reconnecting with old friends and developing strong relationships with new ones. I really feel like I am coming into my own space, in my own time and way. That said, let's recap a little, shall we?

Check one, check two: I went to two open mics this year...and read. Kind of a big deal. I also gave a little speech at my boss's farewell roast. I killed. Pretty satisfying.

Let me entertain you: I had more parties and gatherings this year at home. Turns out I like playing hostess. Poodle even gave me a very Betty Draper apron with cherries on it. Speaking of Betty...

Mad about the men: I am totally hooked on Mad Men. I watched one episode on demand, and the next thing I knew it was five hours later. It is perfection. The writing, the design, the characters, wow...just wow. Don Draper is a bad, bad man. And I love him for it. If you haven't seen it, go out right now and get season one on DVD. Seriously.

Opening my eyes: I'm becoming something of an art collector. I'm interested in the process and the people who make the art. I'm going to more art openings and buying what I like and what I can afford. I guess hanging out in the art buildings with my friends in college is starting to rub off.

Bottom line: I'm still a serious person and a worrier, but I'm learning to let go more and enjoy my life here. Feels great.As Jenni and Patrice say, "enjoyable!"

I'll be back to my regular schedule tomorrow night, but right now I am going to get ready for a weekend away with old friends. Stay tuned for my Golden Globes report!

Back and Forth

2009-01-08T22:00:00.000-05:00

I am standing in two worlds at once. Here I am, living this life I have created for myself while simultaneously mining the past I thought I had left behind. In the last few weeks, I have reconnected with a number of people I went to high school with and it's been great. People are posting old photos (the clothes and the hair!), telling old stories and roaming the virtual halls saying "HI!" The timing is interesting, especially since I am mining my memories for this memoir project. It's like I've brought these people back into my life with my thoughts.

As I said before, I knew a lot of these people all the way from kindergarten through senior year of high school. Many of us are part of what I call the "American Dream" Generation. Our parents came from other countries to start over in the US. Most of us were born in this country and are the youngest sibling, with brothers and sisters anywhere from five to fifteen years older. We are tied together by a connection to a place many of us have never been to through language, food, music, photos, families stories and hope. Hope that we would grow up, go to good schools, get good jobs, marry and create families. And, every December 31st, hope that next year we would return"home."

What I know about being a Cuban born in the US is that there is longing; a deep rooted desire to go back to a place we have never lived in, to be with people we don't really know. As a child, it was confusing to me. I wondered why my parents and their friends talked about going back. Wasn't it bad there? Isn't that why they left? Do I have to go too? I don't know anyone there. I like it here with the ice cream truck and Saturday morning cartoons. When I think about my one and only trip there, it all makes sense.

My father took me to Cuba when I was eight years old. I met my grandparents, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and my half-brother. I remember a lot of it, maybe because I knew there was a strong possibility that this was a one-shot deal. Here's what I remember the most: everything was in color. I have a pretty good idea of how Dorothy felt in the Wizard of Oz when she opened the door after landing in Munchkinland. I walked off that plane into the heat of Havana and WOW!I had only ever seen black and white photos of Cuba, so I suppose I got it in my head that everything there was...black and white. Amazing.

We arrived at my maternal grandparent's house and, like any child that had been traveling all day, I told my father I was hungry. He relayed the message to my grandmother who asked, "What am I going to give her? She's American. Doesn't she only eat hamburgers and hot dogs?" "What do you have in the house?"
"Rice, black beans, pork and plantains."
"Put a plate of that in front of her and see what happens."

Apparently, my visit was a big deal. The gringa was coming to meet everyone! Word spread that I had arrived, because the house was full of people waiting to see me. Correction: the kitchen was full of people waiting to see if this American child would eat. Oh, I ate! Man, did I eat. We stayed for three weeks (standard allotted time for Cubans visiting Cuba). I met everyone my family had ever known, saw where my parents had lived and got to know my extended family. And I ate very well. My last meal in Cuba was arroz con pollo (chicken and rice) made especially for me by my mother's mother. I found out later that a neighbor lady had killed one of the chickens in my grandparents' backyard especially for my farewell meal. Hard core.

I realize now how important that trip was. I can't imagine how hard it was for my parents to leave that life and start over with nothing. But, the more I read and hear about what Cuba was like fifty years ago, the more I understand why they had to do it. I also know that, as much as they embraced the American lifestyle, they never really left the old ways behind, not in their hearts and not in the life they created here for me and my siblings. They couldn't be there, so they created as much of that world as they could here. The food, the club, the language, the music was all there for me to absorb. I soaked it up and I take it with me no matter where I go. And every time I hear Celia Cruz sing Guantanamera, I understand the longing to go home.

New Year, New Direction

2009-01-07T20:03:00.003-05:00

Today was a good day. The weather was crap, but it didn't deter me. Things are becoming clearer and I am beginning to see the possibilities. Call me cautiously optimistic.

I set aside the hurt inside me long enough to really say what was troubling me and I asked for an opportunity to take my professional life in a slightly different direction. It wasn't easy, but I did it because I needed to feel in some control of my destiny at work. I took some time over the holidays to think about what the changes at work could mean for me and I really believe this is my chance to tackle my job in a new way. It's exciting and a little scary, but it beats the hell out of what I was feeling before. In the end, I think it will be OK.

Between work and writing, I have much to do, so I need to get organized, manage my time and try not to be so hard on myself when I come up against some crap. Moderation is key here, I don't want to hit the wall again. I've been pushing myself, but I'm also trying to take a breath when I start to feel overwhelmed. My priorities are shifting and I need to know when to say no if I feel like taking on one more thing seems like too much. I also need to remember to have a life and not let the work consume me like it has for a long while. Luckily, my friends and family remind me to stop and have a laugh (and a drink). Cheers to that!

Starting in the Middle

2009-01-07T00:03:00.003-05:00

This writing every night thing is hard...but a deal is a deal. It's not so much writer's block that's got me right now, it's that I've been going full force all day without time to think. I worked all day, came home, ate and then straight to trivia night at Liffey's. It's always a blast and I get to utilize my vast knowledge of absolute nonsense. There's also the bonus of getting to spend time with my friends AND sometimes we win money! I can be fiercely competitive, but it's all in the name of good fun, so I think it's OK. Anyway, enough with the excuses. Time to write.

Note: this might be a bit of a ramble, but the book I'm currently reading says I should start with "shitty first drafts," so here goes nothing.

I'm reading Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird and it's got me thinking about how to put my story together. Frankly, it's got me a little spooked. I'm used to writing poems and "essays," so I have no clue how to put a larger story together. E. suggested taking a look at all the pieces I've written about my family and growing up Cuban, making some notes and going from there. There's so much, I almost don't know where to begin. Lamott talks about looking at a scene through a one inch square and describing what can be seen through it. Right now, I'm doing a lot of thinking about the past and the people that populated my life back then. This might sound crazy, but Facebook helps. I find myself back in contact with so many people from that time. People I knew in high school and grammar school are back in my life. I've thought about a lot of these people from time to time, but having them right there, even virtually, stirs a pot of memories I forgot I even had. It is great to be back in touch, but at the same time, I think of the person I was back then (rather the person I thought I was) and I think, "Who was that girl?" Let's explore a little bit...

I was, in my opinion, a nerd. Seriously. I happened to attend a high school where the honor society people were also, for the most part, the popular kids. I was not in the honor society, but I did alright as far as my grades went, if you don't count math or science. Many a teacher took pity on me, but no matter how hard I tried, I just didn't get it. Numbers have never been my thing. I was friends with lots of people, just like now, but most of the time I didn't feel like I fit in any particular group. So many people say high school was the best time of their lives. I can look back now and say it wasn't awful. My classmates and teachers were always nice to me, it wasn't them. It was me. I hadn't found my way and I was hard on myself. I felt different (as in not cool) and I think it showed. I lost myself in books, I went to the local "art house" movie theater and lost myself in films like Howard's End (side note: The Galaxy Theater is closed...so sad), I wrote bad poetry and I wrote in my diary. Some things never change, I guess. Well, the poetry might be a bit better.

What happened to that girl? When and how did I start to feel like myself, like the woman I am still becoming? I left home. It wasn't easy leaving that incredibly close community of Cubans behind and venturing to the wilds of Connecticut by myself, but I knew I had to do it. I needed to get away from the girl I had been, the girl I thought I was, the girl everyone knew as the Abreus' youngest girl, as Pete and Maria's baby sister. I needed to figure out who I was outside of all of that.

By the end of the first year at school, I had found my tribe. Granted, for the first month, I was pretty lost, more lost than I ever felt at home. I would call my sister every weekend and cry because I was so lonely. Then I met Chris and things started falling into place.Chris introduced me to Kev who introduced me to Cat, Jenni, Cyn and the rest of the Girls and the Boys. For the next three years I ate nearly every meal with these people. We took trips together, walked to class together, studied together, watched our favorite shows together (Northern Exposure!) and, as college kids do, drank together. It was wonderful and it felt right. I felt right.

You should know that all of these friends of mine are artists. Painting, printmaking, photography, sound design, ceramics, on and on. Maybe that's what drew me to them. The great thing about my writing back then (and now) was that I could do it anywhere. I didn't need a studio, I could keep my friends company while they did their thing. For example, if Jenni was in the print shop, I could sit with her and write while she worked. I could hang out with Cat at the music school and scribble away while she recorded things. It reminded me of being in my Dad's shop after school doing homework while he worked. Considering the amount of hours I spent in the art school buildings, I should have an honorary Bachelor of Fine Arts...too bad I can't draw worth a lick.

The difference between my college friends and my high school friends is time. By the time I started high school, I had known a number of my classmates since kindergarten. You get to know people pretty well during those years and if, like me, you are awash in self-doubt, you aren't going to take a lot of chances. I was in a constant state of "Oh God, I hope they like me. I want them to think I'm normal (whatever I thought that was)." I'm going to guess that my high school mates weren't thinking about whether I was cool or not. They liked me for who I was and treated me accordingly. I realize now how much time I wasted worrying. I've always been a worrier. (Again, thanks to Facebook for facilitating a second chance with so many of my childhood friends. I really did wonder what happened to everyone. Glad to be back!)

When I got to college, I didn't know anyone. Did that free me up a bit? Maybe. The people at college had no idea I I wasn't "cool," so I had nothing to lose. I didn't expect to be the most popular person at college, I just wanted to have one friend who "got me," in spite of my preference for English films and 19th century poetry, and maybe because of it. A lot to ask, I know, but I found them. Or, maybe they found me.

I am still in regular contact with most of my tribe. You might say I'm the hub of the wheel or the conduit that so much information flows through to the others. People move, I've got the new address and phone number. These friends are as much my family as my parents and my siblings. They've seen me through so much (breakups, bad jobs, bad hair) and I love them for it. No matter how many days or years have passed between phone calls or visits, I know I can pick up where I left off. They know me better than anyone. Sometimes better than I know myself.

Somewhere Different Now

2009-01-05T22:09:00.002-05:00

"I'm not on fire, but I'm not burned out. Just somewhere different now." -Girlyman.

I'm in a different place than I was a year ago, and somehow it feels the same. On my own, starting over and feeling like this place I'm in is not one where anyone can really reach me. I've got to get my bearings, adjust to the surroundings and push on to the other side. Not easy, but perhaps I am up for the challenge.

The writing helps. It gives me an outlet, something to focus on, a goal and maybe a little peace. I started writing again to deal with my grief, to try to understand my place in this world without my dad. Then I branched out, started telling the stories of my life (as interesting or boring as they may be). I had a place where I could spout my ridiculous theories about the Academy Awards, go on about the wonder that was Audrey Hepburn and expose my mother for the delightfully wacky little old lady she is. Better to have it all down somewhere than have the wheels turning all day and night, right? Sometimes the stories make sense. Sometimes the stories only make sense to me. No matter, no one is really reading this thing, right?

The thing that worries me now is how everything will fit together. How will I tell the story I am supposed to be telling? What is the story? There are actually multiple stories. I've already told one, Spell. I managed to write a series of poems out of order and put them together in a way that made some sense. And it's a love story of sorts. And I've been sitting on it for over ten years. Yeah, I should do something about that soon.

So, what's the next chapter? The story of my childhood? How I came to be in this place at this time? My experience with losing a parent? It's obvious to me now that I have something to say, a lot of something. How do I do it? That's what I need to figure out. Now. It's time.

Another View

2009-01-05T00:28:00.002-05:00

I went to see the Curious Case of Benjamin Button tonight. It was good in that escapist, get out of the house for three hours kind of way (yes, it was three hours long and although it didn't feel like it was long to me, I recommend you use the bathroom before you commit to it). It is also one of those movies that I will put on the "I saw it on the big screen and will probably never watch it when it's on TV" list. Titanic, The Talented Mr. Ripley and The English Patient are all on that list too.

The thing that got me about the movie was Cate Blanchett. Granted, she is always luminous, always perfect. The woman played Katharine Hepburn for crying out loud. I would watch her read the back of a cereal box. But there was more. There was an aspect to her character that was, how do I say this without sounding like an ass? Me. Let me clarify. There's the obvious bit about her character being called Daisy. But then, she's a dancer...like I once dreamed of being. And then, she teaches dance at her own studio...like I once dreamed I would. It was weird. There's a lot of other things that happen that I won't give away, and obviously the Brad Pitt factor is not something I expect in my life (I'm more of a Daniel Day Lewis/Javier Bardem kind of girl). But...still. What are the chances? What are the chances that I would go to a movie on a whim and see a portrayal of someone with my name doing the things I dreamed of doing as a child? It made me think about what my life would have been like had I been able to pursue those dreams. Just seeing it on screen made me wonder "what if?"

Curious indeed.

The Insomniac Speaks, er, Writes

2009-01-04T00:12:00.003-05:00

I have been writing more, mostly in my journal late at night. Here's last night's entry:

January 3, 2009 at something like two in the morning.

Lately I fele like I want to give up on writing. But then I realize that I haven't given it a real fair shake. And there are so many people who believe in me. Why can't I believe in myself more? Good question. I am scared that I will fail again. Scared that I will be laughed at and considered a hack or not be taken seriously. And after the year I've had, I don't know that I can give it a real shot. My confidence, the thing that I've been working hard to cultivate for the last year or so, is shaken pretty badly. I gave it my best shot and I failed. Really, this was a major setback. This was the voice inside of me saying, "I told you so." And I am afraid to try again, but really, I am more afraid of never trying. So I need to keep going. I need to wrap up the mourning, close out the pity party, put on my big girl shoes and push on. Because as bad as this feels, giving up and resigning myself to a life of quiet desperation would be worse.

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So, I lie in bed and write in my head. Sometimes, I put it in my journal. Sometimes, I post it here. Sometimes, I just leave it in my head. I'm bursting with things to say, but I can't seem to get it all down. That makes no kind of sense. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have to show anyone anything I write. I can keep it to myself if I think it sucks. The important thing is getting it all out, because right now it is all keeping me up.

This is actually not as bad as it seems. A few months ago I couldn't write anything down. The well was dry. Now I don't feel like I need to push. The words are coming faster and easier than before, sometimes I can't keep up. It's not the actual writing that's the issue (OK, maybe a little), it's what to do with it. It's being brave enough to share it with anyone at all. I want to, but I'm scared, like I said.

You might be wondering what I'm going to do about all of this inner conflict. Step one: keep writing. No matter what. Step two: keep reading. Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird is helping me get my thoughts in some kind of order and I have another book about memoir writing on its way to me. Step three: find a great coach and a great workout buddy. E. is always there when I need her guidance, humor, honesty and general fantasticness. T. and I have made a deal to meet regularly to talk about writing, share our work and work together. Step four: don't stop believing.

It's actually a little bit exciting, the idea of having a real project to work on, having other writers to talk to and work with, making myself make something of all of these stories. I don't know what it's going to become, but it could be the start of something good for me.

A Random Beginning

2008-12-29T20:05:00.002-05:00

The following is part of a "writing exercise" from Facebook. The point is to write twenty-five random things about yourself. Turns out random is not necessarily my strong suit, but, as E. said, this is a good start for a completely different project. Enjoy.

1.I am the youngest of four children. My father's son from his first marriage (he still lives in Cuba), my brother and my sister were all teens and pre-teens when I was born.

2.Having much older siblings meant that for first part of my early life I was raised by two sets of parents (sort of). By the time I started high school, my brother and sister had moved out. After they left, it was a little bit like being an only child.

3.I grew up in a bar. OK, it was my parents’ social club. My parents and siblings took me everywhere. I was seen but rarely heard. I think this explains why I always felt more comfortable around adults instead of people my own age. It also explains why I am so comfortable on a bar stool.

4.My parents taught me a lot about the importance of helping others. In the 1980s they took in a lot of people that came to the US from Cuba. They gave them a place to stay when they arrived, helped them find homes and jobs, and made them part of the family. My parents asked for nothing in return, they were simply repaying the kindness shown them when they arrived in this country. I try to be that way for my friends. Don't ask, just give.

5.I did not meet my grandparents (or any of my extended family) until my father took me to Cuba when I was eight years old. It was the only time I got to see my grandparents, but the love was instant.

6.I saw my uncle (my mother’s brother) when he came to the states in 2002. I was amazed by the instant connection my siblings and I had with him, in spite of being apart for over twenty years.

7.When I am with my family, I am a Cuban girl who happened to be born in America but when I’m not with them, I am an American girl of Cuban descent. I struggle to find the balance and not lose either part.

8.I am currently 36. My mother had her last child (me) when she 36. My sister had her last child when she was one year older than I am. Makes me wonder.

9.My father died five years ago. I have come to realize that I will never get over it. Life goes on, but it will never be the same. I know I was lucky to have had as much time with him as I did. He was far from perfect, but loved me unconditionally. I miss him every single day.

10.I still believe in love. My parents were married for 45 years. They fought like mad but they also took care of each other and us. Now that I’m older, I understand how and why they stuck together.

11.I still believe in love, but I’m not going to settle. My mother has often said, “Better to be alone, than in poor company.”

12.I have recently started buying art. I don’t know what’s “good,” but I know what I like and I buy pieces when I can afford to do so. I can’t paint or sculpt or draw worth a lick, but many of my friends can, so I’m learning about different techniques from them.

13.I’m trying to be better about traveling. I haven’t been out of the country in two years. My last “big trip” was for five days for a friend’s wedding in Wyoming. I don’t know what’s holding me back. There are a lot of places I want to go, but I never actually plan a trip. I guess I’m not good at vacationing.

14.I used to hate the mole on my nose so much that I once tried to scratch it off.

15.I have had short hair since right before I started college. Before that, my hair was shoulder length, chemically straightened and often pulled back (one French braid, two French braids, pigtails, cornrows, ponytails). I also had TERRIBLE bangs for a long time. Whenever people ask me if I would consider having long hair again, I want to say, “Sure, will you be hiring someone to come over and do it for me every day?” I was never good at doing my hair, so this works for me. Plus, I think I look cute.

16.I have very large feet for someone my height. My father used to tease me that, if I wanted to, I could sleep standing up.

17.I always wanted to be a dancer, but my parents could not afford dance classes, so they signed me up for the free after school gymnastics program. I haven’t tumbled in years, but I cartwheel when I can, preferably in front of monuments and historic sites.

18.When I was in kindergarten, my teacher told my mother that I was a “soft touch” because I cried at the end of every movie she showed in class. I still cry at movies. My top tearjerkers include Rudy, The Color Purple, Shadowlands, Cinema Paradiso and Truly, Madly, Deeply.

19.I played Susan B. Anthony in the fourth grade school play and led the other girls in a rousing rendition of Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman. This clearly explains my feminist/activist ways.

20.In 2004, I took a bus to Washington, DC and participated in the March for Women’s Lives. A friend invited me to go and after thinking about it for a day, I realized how important to me it was to go. We left before dawn and got home late the same day. It was one of the best days of my life.

21.I am learning that for every major (or minor) setback, there is an opportunity for success.

22.I have become more comfortable in my own skin over the last few years than I have ever been. I think this feeling comes with growing up and doing things that used to scare me (taking a big girl pill as my sister would say). We’re not talking huge things, I’m not jumping out of planes or anything, but going to open mics, walking up to strangers and striking up a conversation…things like that are making a difference.

23.I have always been a night owl/insomniac. No matter how tired I am, I’m up until at least midnight (at most 2 or 3 am). Sometimes I’m productive (cleaning, writing letters, paying bills), but mostly, I just lie there reading until I’m drowsy.

24.Instead of counting sheep when I have insomnia, I make lists in my head. The most popular list is of authors in alphabetical order. Jane Austen, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Raymond Carver...

25.This list took a ridiculously long time to compose. If it were truly random, it might not have taken as long.

There's a theme here and all I have to do now is flesh it out.

Thinking of You Again

2008-12-15T18:13:00.003-05:00

From a journal entry: December 11, 2008

I'm wondering where you are these days. You always come to mind when I am in the midst of some struggle. My inner self reverts back to the girl you once knew. Fearless and foolish, uncertain but willing to take a chance. I wonder what you would say, what advice you would offer me now. Would you even offer any now, knowing what you know of me, of yourself, of us. It wouldn't matter. Even if you said nothing I would know how you felt. That's how it always was between us. As much as we talked to each other, we could say just as much without a word. That is how I found myself to you in the beginning. It wasn't anything you said. It was just you. When we were together and the world fell away, we were able to say everything to each other. I miss that so much now. I miss having that with someone who knew me before we were even formally introduced. What a luxury it was to have you for that time. What a gift to know that even when you weren't with me, near me, I had you. I realize now that I still do.

These Are The Days

2008-11-06T23:18:00.010-05:00

The world has changed. Not just my little corner of the world, the whole freaking world. And as much as I had hoped and believed that it would happen, the moment still took my breath away and left me in tears, as it did for so many others. There are a million reasons why I was so moved, but I can sum it up in six Jason, Mia, Sebastian, Perla, Samantha and Brian.

My sister and brother both have children. Beautiful, talented, smart, wonderful children (not that I am biased). I love them, I spoil them and I worry about them. I worry about their futures and the world they will inherit. They are a huge part of why I got out of bed at 5:57am on November 4th and stood in line for forty minutes to cast my vote.

On the night of the election, I wept tears of joy for my parents, my siblings, myself and especially my nieces and nephews. Forty years ago, their parents and grandparents came to this country full of hope and searching for change. Like so many before them, they wanted a better life for themselves and for their children. Come January, my nieces and nephews will be able to look at their president and see a bit of themselves. These children will be able to say, "The President is multi-racial, just like me." and that's kind of a big deal. They now live in a world where the phrase "anything is possible," rings a little truer. They now live a world where they can proudly say, "Yes, we can." And whatever it is they choose to do with their lives, I truly believe that yes, they will.

While I Was Gone

2008-09-16T18:00:00.006-04:00

I guess you could say I've been "on sabbatical." When it's been this long between posts, there's NO WAY I'm going to be brief. Let's call this my mid-year report (except that it's already September).

Baseball Bookends: I started and ended the summer in the same place...Yankee Stadium. This baseball treat was brought to me courtesy of my friend, Robin (she also gave me that kick-ass shirt for my birthday). Robin had never been to a game at the Stadium and I feel honored to have been by her side the first time she walked into the church of baseball. We ate hot dogs and Cracker Jack, drank Cokes from our commemorative cups and screamed our heads off. She is now converted. The weather was great, the company was better and bonus: they won both times! We'll be back next year to see them play in their new home, conveniently located right across the street.

Me, in the movies? I received an email from my friend Janna about a filmmaker looking to interview single women in their twenties and thirties for a documentary called Seeking Happily Ever After. My initial thought was, "If Janna can do it, so can I!" so I agreed to be in it. By the time I found out that Janna had no intention of being interviewed, it was too late to back out. I'm glad I went through with it. The women making this movie were great to work with and I learned a lot about myself from just sitting there and answering questions about how I got to this point. I talked about the break-up, my parents marriage, being raised Cuban, my cinematic heroines and how all of that informed my relationship choices. Having the conversation made me realize that my life is pretty fantastic and I already have wonderful people sharing in that fantastic-ness with me. As much as it would be nice to have a boyfriend/partner/lover/whatever, not having one doesn't diminish how great things are right now. Clearly, I've come a long way in thirty-six years. Speaking of which... I had a birthday!

Birthday Babe: I woke up on my birthday and decided to make this one really count by showing the world how fierce and fiery this thirty-six year-old can be. How? I discovered the power of a good dress, a really, really good dress. It's cream with a navy swirl pattern that drew attention to my assets (and probably my ass). Paired with brown wedge sandals and new attitude Miss Patti LaBelle would have been proud of, I walked out of my adorable apartment ready to kick ass and take names! The day did not disappoint. I had a great meal with my friends at Caseus and drinks at 116. As Poodle would say, "it's kind of..perfect."

And, AND, my sister came to visit for the weekend (OK, two days, one night). We haven't had that much time alone together since she had the kids (um, that would be sixteen years ago, but who's counting?). We went shopping, visited the farmers' market, and hung out at some of my favorite places. We also saw John Edward, the medium. Intense and interesting, but my Dad didn't show up. Suddenly, he's shy. Bonus: Aaron and Cat were in town as well, so that's three of my favorite people all together at the same time! Sweet! My sister will also want me to make mention of the fact that she played Rock Band and got a very good score. Clearly, she rocks.

Since last year was the total opposite of the best birthday ever, I decided to wipe the slate clean this year and throw myself a proper party. Cocktails @ Chez Daze: because 35 is SO last year! was a huge success. Lots of friends, food and adult beverages. I wouldn't change a thing...OK, I would get a second air conditioner. My apologies again to everyone who sweat their butts off at my party. I do appreciate your sacrifice and assure you all that next year there will be TWO air conditioners, so you might want to bring a sweater.

I haven't even mentioned all the work, craziness (some good, some not so good), trips to see friends and family and new people that have come into my life since my last post. It's been great and I feel like things are going to keep getting better, even with all the challenges I've got down the road.

By the way, sorry to have stayed away so long. I appreciate the support and nudging about the blog. I have no excuses, I guess I just needed a break to do some living so that I could keep doing some writing. As I like to say, we'll see how she flies!

Better Than Your Town

2008-04-20T23:52:00.009-04:00

Every once in a while I have a day or a series of days that reminds me why I love living in New Haven. This weekend was absolutely one of those times. Here's why:

I live one block away from this amazing sight:

Hughes Street in Wooster Square is lined with cherry blossom trees they are totally freaking gorgeous. Today was the Cherry Blossom Festival in town and it was so great. There was live music from the Neighborhood Music School, little old ladies selling cookies and cupcakes, an Italian ice truck, and lots of people out with their families enjoying the beautiful weather and the trees. Here's a closer look at the blossoms:

I spent hours park walking around the park and catching up with neighbors and friends that I hadn't seen in ages. It was so good to be out doing something low key and fun instead of sitting at home watching cable. It was the perfect way to cap off what might be the best weekend I've had (on my own) in a while. Yay Spring!

One Giant Leap

2008-04-05T00:58:00.003-04:00

I did it. I went to an open mic and read a poem. It doesn't sound like a big deal, but believe me, this was huge. Up until about thirty minutes before the thing started, I was ready to chicken out. I was a nervous wreck, but I've decided that I need to try new things or, in this case, retry old things. I haven't read in public in ten or eleven years. And if it weren't for my friend T, that record would still stand.

I received an email from T saying that he was putting together something called Cold Poetry and he was looking for poets...and that I was one of the poets. I waited about a week to respond (sorry about that T), because I was completely thrown by this email. Me? Get up in front of people? Read my poems? ME? I don't do that. Don't get me wrong, I love attention, just not that kind. I responded as follows:

Sorry I did not get back to you sooner. This looks cool. I would like to come see what comes of all of this. I haven't read in a while (a decade at least) and I don't know if I'm brave enough to do it now, but you have my support. Maybe I'll show up with a surprise in my pocket...a poem and some guts.

A supportive, yet noncommittal response. One that did not completely cancel out the possibility of me getting up the nerve to take a turn at the mic. I continued to think about it. I even picked a poem to bring with me, should the mood strike me. A week before the event, I decided I would read. What's the worst that could happen? And who would know? I had yet to really tell anyone about this. I figured I would show up, feel things out, do my thing and be done. I could tell people that there was a cool event going on, but not that I was taking part as anything other than a supporter. Right? Wrong.

Six days before the event, I was out having drinks with Kiki and Davis before meeting Mrs. D for dinner and a show (A Woman of No Importance at Yale Rep. Pretty good show). Chakakwan showed up for a cocktail and some hilarious chit-chat. Mrs. D apologized to Chakakwan for missing our weekly take-out and TV night at my house the prior evening. (we watch Top Model. I know, horrible.) Chakakwan then apologized to Mrs. D for missing the previous week's take-out and TV. They agreed to both be at my apartment the following week for TV and take-out. Just one thing...I had plans. They asked me what my plans were and, not wanting to make something up, I told them about the poetry reading. "Are you going to read?" they asked. Again, I didn't want to lie, so I told them that there was a very good chance that I would read. They then decided that they would come along and be my cheering section. This was touching and frightening. They then told Davis of the plan. He was in too. Chakakwan would also bring her husband, Drew. I told them that they didn't have to come, that it was no big deal, but they wanted to be supportive. They knew the prospect of me doing this was a big deal. "OK," I said. This was OK. My friends wanted to support me. This was great. Inside I was flipping out. Pouring out my heart to strangers was one thing, but these were my friends, for goodness sakes.

Lucky for me I had a session the same afternoon of the event, so J gave me the pep talk I needed. I walked over to Richter's for the seven o'clock sign up. I greeted T, who directed me to the sign up sheet. No joke, I stared at the clipboard for five solid minutes. It wasn't that I wasn't going to go through with it, it's just that I wasn't sure what time would be most appropriate. I didn't want to be first (thankfully, that slot was taken) and I didn't want to be last. I think I ended up smack in the middle. I signed up, took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. I also ordered some food, no need to be up there with a growling stomach. Turns out two of my coworkers were providing musical accompaniment for the event. I was as surprised to see them as they were to see me. Mrs. D arrived and promptly purchased a second beer for me. Davis and Chakakwan arrived, followed by Drew and Juanita. I didn't realize how many other people would be there that I knew. I don't know why I was so thrown by that, really. I hang out there all the time, who did I think would be there?

The back room was full. There were about thirteen people signed up to read and another twenty-five friends and supporters. Standing room only. I was beyond nervous. I just needed to get through it. T introduced me and I took the "stage." I had decided to read HOME. If I had to choose a favorite of my own work, this would be the one. I read it over a few times before I left home that night, and I found myself feeling the things I felt when I wrote it, which was comforting. I was shaky, but I tried to settle down. I took a quick glance around the room, tried to get comfortable and went for it. It was surreal at first, but then, I think I got my rhythm. I focused on the words and not the fact that I was standing in my local watering hole, saying those words out loud to a room full of (mostly) strangers. I think I did alright. There was applause. People came up to me afterward and paid me compliments. Once I stopped shaking, I felt good about it, proud of myself. Maybe next time I'll read more than one poem. Maybe next time I won't run from the stage (OK, it wasn't a run, more of a brisk walk). I'm glad I did it. I'm glad I made myself take a step outside of my comfort zone. It can only make me stronger in the long run.

A friend once remarked that my work was "about being competent and daring." I believe it's about time I start striving for that in my life as well as my work.

Thirty Seven Twenty One

2008-03-23T20:07:00.013-04:00

Little black dress with beading on the bodice and at the hem: Thirty-two dollars at Fashionista Vintage & Variety

Isaac Mizrahi black beaded peep toe pumps: Marked down to five dollars and twenty-one cents at Target. Did I mention this was only pair left and happened to be in my size?

Looking (and feeling) like the last fifteen minutes of an Audrey Hepburn movie: PRICELESS

Where's Cary Grant when you need someone to take you out for cocktails?

Screen Gems

2008-03-17T22:25:00.005-04:00

Best thing to happen all week: I went to the Criterion on Sunday morning with friends to see the Movies and Mimosas feature (that's a classic film shown on the big screen for a mere five dollars. Two more dollars will get you a tasty mimosa). This is one of my favorite things about living here. How many people my age get to say that they saw Casablanca for the first time on the big screen? Not many. If you're looking for me on a Sunday morning, start at the movie theater. This week was extra special. One word: Travolta. Two more: Newton-John. Yep, they showed Grease. And it's as good as I remembered.

Grease is not only the word, it's the first movie I ever saw in a theater. I was six years old (give or take, the movie opened three days before my sixth birthday) and my sister took me to the Mayfair Theater on sixty-fourth and Park Avenue to see it. It was love, instant perfect love the minute I saw Danny and Sandy frolicking on the beach. I'm pretty sure I saw it at least once more in the theater before that summer was over. And then...someone gave me the album. Remember that album? Sandy and Danny in an embrace on the cover, with Olivia's awesome hair rivaled only by Travolta's sideburns and cleft chin.
The pencil's a nice touch, don't you think? Gives it that yearbook feel.

The soundtrack was a double album (four sides of music!)and featured big hits like Sandy and Hopelessly Devoted to You, as well as songs played during the big dance (Those Magic Changes, Tears on My Pillow...anyone?). As if that weren't enough, the album jacket opened to reveal stills from the movie. I wore that thing out, as I'm sure most kids did. I know you know all the words to Rizzo's big solo, There are Worse Things I Could Do, no need to be ashamed. Do you think Stockard Channing was ashamed to be playing a possibly pregnant high school senior at the tender age of thirty-four? No sir, she was not!

That summer and for many months to follow, my friends and I would spend our afternoons acting out all of the big numbers (Summer Nights, We Go Together, Greased Lightnin). We'd take turns being Sandy. You always wanted to be Sandy. She was so pretty and sweet and she had that cool accent...then she got that tramp makeover (she had to be sewn into those pants) and you wanted to be her even more! By the way, there's an entire generation of us who grew up singing the dirtiest lyrics this side of an R. Kelly song. Seriously. Greased Lightnin? Filthy. But it does have a good beat and you can certainly dance to it (I dare you to listen to that song and not do the signature move. Impossible). What did we know? We were kids. Innocent children singing songs from our favorite movie. A movie that referenced teen pregnancy, underage drinking and stealing car parts to soup up your sin wagon so that you could bang the foreign exchange student you met over the summer. Ah, the Seventies!

Next up at M&M is Breakfast at Tiffany's, starring Audrey Hepburn as a call girl (she gets fifty dollars to go to the powder room) and George Peppard as the kept man she falls in love with in spite of herself. Did I mention she does all wearing clothes by Givenchy. If that doesn't take care of the mean reds I've been experiencing lately, I don't know what will.

I'd Like To Thank The Academy

2008-03-04T00:45:00.008-05:00

Sorry for the delay on this one, I've been burning my candle at both ends and am now paying for it with another cold...OK, it's the flu. Let's get to it, shall we?

Welcome to the make up sex: I was really nervous that the big show was not going to happen or that it would be another glitz-less press conference. Or worse, the show would go on without writers. That would have been, to use a technical term, a sh*t show. Jon Stewart did a good job of staying on top of things, keeping things moving and reacting with the class I've come to expect from him (you know, like noting that Jack Nicholson being the room could mean more women end up pregnant by show's end). Not an easy job for someone standing in the shadow of Carson, Hope and Crystal.

Montage me: The first montage, introduced by the Cloon, totally got me, especially the part with all those mega-stars tearing up. Here it is. You know what else was good? The montages that led into the major awards (acting, directing and picture). I'm a sucker for sentimentality and the Academy clearly recognizes that there's nothing like punching a sucker like me with a barrage of images designed to pull at my heart strings. Oh, and please note: the Oscar moment between Rob Lowe and Snow White, the one I know all of you don't believe happened? It's in there. And it's still a little horrifying.

My favorite mama's boy: OK, we knew Javier Bardem was hot (in spite of the haircut), but can you believe how sweet he is? A good Spanish boy always thanks his mother...in Spanish! Here's the translation, in case you missed it.

Mama, this is for you. This is for your grandparents, for your parents Rafael and Matilde. This is for the comic artists of Spain who have brought dignity and pride to our work. This is for Spain. And this is for all of you.

Yeah, that totally made me cry.

Eye Candy: That might have been the hottest collection of Best Actor nominees ever. Clooney, Day-Lewis, Depp, Mortensen and Jones? Yes, even Tommy Lee Jones has a rugged hotness to him. He's no Hal Holbrook, but still. Throw Javier Bardem into the mix (the hottest Spaniard since Antonio Banderas) while you're at it and all those other fine fellows hanging around the Kodak Theater. Is it any wonder they were all kissing each other? Cat said it best when Josh Brolin and James McAvoy took the stage: "Double yum"

Once in a lifetime moment: As I said in my Critic's Choice recap, I loved the movie Once, so I was super excited to see Glenn Hansgard and Marketa Irglova beat the Disney juggernaut (really Academy, three for Enchanted? Three for Enchanted and none for Into the Wild? Wow). Even better, Jon Stewart, classy guy that he is, brought Marketa back out to give her acceptance speech after that damn Bill Conti played her off before she could say anything. Do you think there's a gang of disgruntled Oscar winners somewhere waiting to catch Conti in a dark alley without his Academy Orchestra for back-up? I wouldn't be surprised.

Speaking of speeches: Good speeches all around, yes? Kudos to Tilda Swinton for being gracious and humble first, then going in for a kill on the Cloon at the end of her speech:

And Sydney Pollack, and George Clooney, you know, the seriousness and the dedication to your art, seeing you climb into that rubber bat suit from "Batman & Robin," the one with the nipples, every morning under your costume, on the set, off the set, hanging upside-down at lunch, you rock, man.

My guess is it takes a lot to make Clooney blush, but damn if she didn't get him. Payback for every prank he pulled on the set. Nice.

You know who else was amazing? Marion Cotillard. She was so genuinely overcome with emotion, good thing she had Forrest Whitaker to hang on to when she got up there. And yet, such a lovely speech once she pulled herself together. Again, tears. If you haven't seen La Vie En Rose, please do so immediately. She earned that Oscar but good.

One for the history books: Please keep in mind that Oscar facts are to my brain what baseball stats are to my friend Davis. It's all just in there, processing away, waiting for the moment at Liffey's trivia when I can use bits of information to prove my worth as a team member. this was a pretty good year for keeping track of things. Ready?

This was the first time since 1964 that all four acting awards went to Europeans.
Javier Bardem is the first Spaniard to ever win an Oscar (he was also nominated in 2000 for the film Before Night Falls, playing a Cuban. Yes, I love him more.)
Marion Cotllard is the second actress to win Best Actress for playing a non-English speaking role (Sophia Loren was the first). She's also the second French woman (Simone Sigornet came before her)
Daniel Day-Lewis is one of only eight actors in Academy history to win Best Actor twice (he is now in the company of Marlon Brando, Spencer Tracy, Dustin Hoffman, Gary Cooper, Tom Hanks, Jack Nicholson and Frederick March)
The Coen brothers are only the second team to win for directing (Robert Wise and Jerome Robbins won for West Side Story)

There's probably a ton more ( like the one about the guy who has yet to win after being nominated nineteen times), but that's probably more than enough for you right now.

And then, there's this: I swear, for a hot second I thought they were going to call someone else's name. Not that I doubted the performance, but I know how unpredictable the Academy can be. You think your guy's got a lock on something and then BAM! They call somebody else. I would have been happy with any of those other fine gentlemen being called to the stage, but this is what made me happiest. (photo: getty images)

And, who are you wearing?: I would write about the clothes, but honestly...YAWN. Everyone looked good, but no one blew my doors off. The usual suspects showed up in the usual designers (Zellweger in Herrera, Kidman in Balenciaga, Diaz in Dior) and they all looked nice, but these are the women who used to raise the bar. You watched to see what they would be wearing. What the hell happened? Where's the Nicole Kidman of the Asian-influenced poison green Dior or the controversial lilac Prada? Where have you gone, Renee Z ,in your lemon yellow vintage Jean Desses? Remember? I do. That was your big moment. I know people change and style evolves, but please, please don't become complacent. Even Audrey mixed in a little Valentino, Mary Quant and Ralph Lauren from time to time. Your fashion moments aren't over! You're still relevant! You're still icons! Call Proenza Schuler or Donatella Versace or Zac Posen...hell, call the boys at Heatherette, I don't care. Don't be mad. I love you, you're perfect, now change. See, I told you I didn't have a lot to say about the clothes.

Overall, a good showing, except...Here's what I missed about this year's spectacle, but am willing to forgive the Academy for not including it because it would have made the show four hours longer:

Round up the usual suspects: Every time the Oscars reaches a milestone (an anniversary ending in a zero or a five), the producers like to have a "class photo" reunion moment. Every living Oscar winner (acting categories only) is invited to the show and trotted out on stage. I thought we were in for one when I saw Mickey Rooney on the red carpet, but no! He only has an honorary Oscar. I should have known something was up when I didn't see Ernie and Tovah Borgnine.

One final thought: Gary Busey? On the red carpet? At the Oscars?: Poor Jennifer Garner! Where the hell was that husband of hers? Thank goodness for Laura Linney! In case you missed the craziest moment on the red carpet since they banned Isaac Mizrahi, Kathy Griffin and Joan Rivers, click here.

There Will Be A Recap

2008-02-25T00:16:00.005-05:00

I'm very excited, too excited to write a full recap right now. I am thrilled that everyone I was pulling for did win and that the evening was full of funny, sweet and truly touching speeches. Stay tuned for my full report later in the week. Until then, let's hear it for my boys!

Having A Moment

2008-02-18T21:58:00.004-05:00

I didn't have to go to work today, so I got to sleep in and laze about, which is always nice. I do occasionally enjoy a day when I give myself permission to do absolutely nothing, not even get out of my pajamas. I was fine for most of the day, I had a light breakfast, read for a while, watched tv, snoozed on the couch. But then, well, I wasn't. I had a moment. One of those "I've got to get out of here," moments. And I don't know if it was about feeling stir crazy or feeling actually crazy. My guess is that a brief flash of loneliness got the best of me and took root for long haul. It happens from time to time, but this might have been a tougher one since I spent quality time with Cat, Jenni and the girls. You don't have that much fun with people that know you that well and not come crashing down after they leave and you're all by yourself for hours. At least I don't. Know what I mean?

As much as I enjoy the time on my own to write and read and nap and watch horrible tv and dance around in my underwear (being honest here, it happens), the hours alone can also be a time to question and doubt and beat the crap out of myself. Poodle said it tonight, "I think you undervalue yourself." It's true, I often do. Why? Well, let's explore this.

Somewhere along the way, I decided that it was my "job" to ease other people, that is to say, to put other people at ease. There's something inside me that doesn't want anyone I care about to feel as bad as I have felt on my absolute worst day. I'm all about the post-it note of encouragement, the well-timed hug, the "anything I can do?" I'm that friend who will remember your birthday, ask how that project you're working on is going and send you a note to remind you that you're not alone (I love a good greeting card, you know). I know it sounds like a lot of work, but damned if I don't work at it every day. I'm a caretaker, a fixer, a smoother-over (is that even a word?) I really can't help it.

My therapist says I have to stop with the rescue missions and start with the taking better care of myself. She has two theories and she's dead on, I know it.

Theory number one: the Daisy Well is eventually going to dry up, meaning I can't keep giving this much of myself and not start to feel like there is nothing left for me.

Theory number two: I give so much of myself (she likes to use 120% as the measurement), no one will ever be able to match me in the returning of kindness, meaning I'm always going to be disappointed. I don't know, I'm always taken by surprise when someone shows me a kindness, so what does THAT mean?

In fairness, she does say I've come along way, what with moving out and starting over and really trying to turn myself around in the big picture, but she wants to see me do more little picture stuff. Fair enough, but really, how am I supposed to do that? I know how to take care of myself in the pay bills, eat regularly (as regularly as I can, anyway) and keep my job kind of way, but the other stuff is harder. It's a big deal if I get the spa manicure and pedicure at the nail salon. I know I have to move the "take care of yourself" item up higher on the list. I just wish I knew what that meant and/or how to do it.

Is it crazy that I think it's going to take some courage on my part to do this? To say, "I'm number one," is not easy when you spend your whole life being number three or four. But if I really believe in "you get what you give" then there should be a whole lot of good stuff coming my way. Let's hope I'm ready for it.

Sleeping to Dream About You

2008-02-11T23:54:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I sit here and think, "Just write, whatever comes out may actually make sense. Work it out!" Ok, here goes. What's on my mind?

My dreams are super vivid lately, which is good and bad. Good because I can feel things (my father hugging me) and bad because those things are no longer real (my father hugging me). I dream about my hometown, places and things I haven't thought about in ages (the Provident Bank on the corner of 60th and Broadway, for example). I dream about things that could never happen (ok, it is possible that I could go to the Oscars someday, but highly unlikely that I would be attending as Javier Bardem's date). I dream about things that have happened in life, only in the dreams they are happening in a different way. I used to have deja vu in my dreams, which is different from recurring dreams (I have those too). I know, deja vu in a dream...weird.

I think I dream about my father regularly, but I can't be sure. Hard to explain. Sometimes I'll wake up and not remember the dream right away, but later in the day, it will hit me...Daddy. Other times, I'll know I'm dreaming, even though it feels real, and I'll start to cry, because it's still too hard to say goodbye even in a dream. I usually wake up all stuffy and puffy from the crying. Occasionally, he's there, but in a very vague way. The dream is vivid, I sense his presence, but I don't see him. Not a ghost, but just a feeling. Or maybe I'm not remembering as well. I'll think, "Did I have a dream about Daddy last night?"

You know what has me on this grieving and dreaming thing? It just hit me.Kanye West performing at the Grammy's. He sang a song for his mother. "Last night, I saw you in my dreams. Now I can't wait to go to sleep" It made me cry, which is easy, but still, it caught me off guard. I'm not a fan of Kanye's by any stretch, but I felt for him. Whatever you want to say about his pomposity or bad attitude or whatever act he's putting on for the cameras, the guy still lost his mother. And until you've experienced that kind of loss, there's no way of imagining how a person feels. Everyone expresses grief differently. Some of us cry in private and never show a single soul how we feel, some of us write it all down and post it on the web and some of us tell the world from the stage of the Staples Center. No matter what, it's still private, if that makes any sense.

Whenever I hear about someone losing a family member, it wrecks me a little inside, especially if the person had a long illness. I guess I go back to the moment in my own life, the emotions I went through. Relief that he would no longer suffer, disbelief that he was gone, the overwhelming sadness that came with knowing I would never hear his voice or his laugh, guilt that I could have, should have done more and regret that I would never be able to share certain things with him. It's awful, and I don't think it ever goes away. But I do find some comfort in my many (mostly hilarious) memories of my father. And as long as I can see him in my dreams, I know I'll be ok.

A Voice From The Past

2008-01-31T01:00:00.000-05:00

I was going through the archives tonight in search of...something. A sign? Maybe. Something to reassure me. Something to remind me of a better time, and maybe a better and happier me. I mean someone who wasn't weighed down by the stuff that seems to weigh me down now. I know that generally I have been happier in my thirties than I was in my late teens and early twenties. Back then, you could look up "teen angst" in the dictionary and find a photo of me. Also, my twenties were as bumpy and alcohol fueled as anyone else's. Anyway, I found this letter...Yes, I said letter. I have kept almost every letter, postcard and note sent to me since I started college. Yes, I have email and yes, I am slowly becoming addicted to facebook and yes, I have a blog, but I still believe strongly in snail mail. There's something about getting a letter and being able to read it over and over without having to boot up my laptop that makes me feel human. Anyway, it's from friend I haven't seen in close to a year, someone I very rarely see . I don't even remember getting this letter, but there is a lot of mail in that file box that I haven't even looked at in a dozen years, so that's not too weird. (Weird would be knowing exactly what every piece of mail in that box is, who it's from and when I received it.) The minute I opened this one, I started smiling. I could hear my friend's voice in my head telling me these things. But I also smiled because of what was in the letter, the message I was being sent from the past has relevance in my present.

October 25, 1996

Daisy,

Hey kid, I was thinking of you today. And I am writing to let you know it was good to see you at Jenni and Brian's wedding. You seem to be doing rather well. I can say that your writing is going well. I really liked that poem you gave me (Note: I don't remember which poem is being referred to here). I know it's not easy to be honest. Someone far wiser than I once said "To place your dreams before the crowd is to risk ridicule; To place your feelings before them is to risk appearing sentimental; To place your ideas before the crowd is to risk involvement. But risks must be taken. Because the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing. The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing. He may avoid suffering sorrow but simply cannot learn to feel and to grow and to love and to live. Chained by his certitude he is a slave, only the person who risks is truly free." WOW

Wow indeed. That's just the first page, but it struck a chord. I've got to take some of the risks I've been too afraid to even consider. I've done it before. It's hard, but how do you know if you don't try? I'm always encouraging friends to "go for it," why can't I encourage myself? Well, I think I know why, but that's for another post. Back to the letter...

In your work Daisy I feel that personal pain, loss and personal hope few can show with such honesty and grace. To be quite honest I've always hated poems. I could never understand them. But as I said I've become a little bit more peaceful to see the beauty of other work and other people. Your poems to me seem like Brazilian jazz. Easily overlooked, beautiful, joyous, free, painful and very personal. Unlike modern rock which can only shout--Brazilian jazz whispers. You can say a lot more with a whisper than you can with a shout.

If anyone else had written that, I might be thinking what you are perhaps thinking right now, "Brazilian jazz? Really?" But, knowing this person the way I do (or did way back when), I get it. The fact that someone I hadn't seen in years, except for a few hours chatting at a friend's wedding, took the time to write that letter means so much to me. I'm glad I kept it. Funny I should find the letter at a time when I've felt like I've been shouting at the rain, in my head anyway, for weeks and weeks. Wherever you are tonight old friend, thanks for your note. It's what I needed to hear right now, a reminder to speak softly and take a big risk.

Another Old Song

2008-01-27T00:31:00.001-05:00

Another poem, revised a bit. I wrote this when I was nineteen. Good Lord!

Some Nights

Some nights
I linger in my room
listening to Billie Holliday.
I sit at my window and
write in my journal
the stories of my life.

Your picture hangs on a rusty nail
over the roll top desk.
You stare at me from your brass cage.
You watch me with those eyes.
I put down my pen,
return your gaze.

I think of the starlet
you ran away with last summer
all high heels and red lipstick
and I wonder if she’s
playing Joan Crawford
to your Cecil B. DeMille.

Then I laugh out loud
because the thought of you
wearing a monocle
and carrying a megaphone
is just too much.

Daisy C. Abreu

November 11/91
revised 1/27/08

The Goody List

2008-01-12T01:18:00.000-05:00

For the last week or so, things have, in my twisted brain, seemed pretty grim. I realize that the insomnia and the cold that refuses to leave my body are partners in the crime of making me feel like crap. I also keep telling myself that this too shall pass. For heaven's sake, we are only twelve days into the new year, how can I possibly think things are crap? Exactly, I can't. So when I was lying here the other night, wide awake, my mind reeling, I decided to make a list of all the good things that have happened since January 1, 2008. I give you, in no particular order, the goody list.

Watching That's Entertainment! on New Year's Day with Cat.

Poodle coming to spend the weekend with me.

Having dinner and a bottle of wine at Skappo.

Drinking wine and chatting deep into the night with some of my favorite people.

Getting four thank you cards in the mail (bonus: they all came on the same day!)

Watching junk TV and eating junk food with Drew and Furonda.

Talking to my best friend on the phone.

Watching Project Runway curled up on the couch with a blanket.

Finishing one of my new books.

Picking out the beautiful new lamp Poodle got me for Christmas.

Getting into my flannel-sheeted bed after a hot shower, with a cup of tea and a new magazine.

Watching CBS Sunday Morning.

Taking a walk on an unseasonably warm afternoon (I know, global warming, but I really needed the walk)

Waking up on Tuesday with the memory of a sweet dream still in my head and carrying it with me all day.

Finding more new magazines in the mail! (don't worry, I recycle).

Sitting here, writing this, knowing I can sleep in tomorrow. And knowing things will get better.

Mining the Archive

2008-01-11T02:18:00.001-05:00

As you can see from the time stamp on this, I am not sleeping much lately. In an effort to knock myself out, I pulled out an old journal in search of answers and/or remedies for the insomnia. Well, turns out I have always been an insomniac of sorts and the only thing that helps is to write down all the things that are rolling around in my head in the middle of the night. Some of the stuff in the journal is embarrassing and some of it reminds me of how far I have come (not as far as you think).

Anyway, I was reading a journal entry about working on Spell, the book of poems I wrote ten years ago (holy crap! ten years!), which got me thinking that ten years is a good round span of time and perhaps I should revisit the book, update it some and maybe try to show it to more than fifty of my closest friends. I opened up the file, re saved it as the ten year edition and wrote a draft of a "note from the author" type thing. That led to me wanting to take a look at my original notes for it...so there I am at two am in my Rudy's t-shirt (how appropriate) and pajama pants looking through old file boxes. Guess what I found. EVERY paper I wrote in college, drafts of EVERY poem I wrote between 1991 and 1998 (including ones I thought were lost forever to a time when zip drives were all the rage) and, AND the essay I wrote to get into my first choice college . I just re-read that essay and I can't believe I got into Sarah Lawrence College with something entitled Signature of the Dance. I know, I should cut myself some slack, I was only seventeen when I wrote it, but yikes.

The best part of finding all that stuff? I still have all the papers I had written for Clayton's class, with his notes attached. He gave great notes and reading them was a reminder that someone believed in me and my writing when even I didn't believe in me. Makes me smile and get teary all at once. I guess that makes the insomnia worthwhile.

Four on the Floor

2008-01-08T19:35:00.000-05:00

I had a shit day. Not the worst day ever, but not great. The kind of day when you're pretty sure everyone can hear you screaming on the inside, even though you've barely said a word to anyone all day. The kind of day when you think, "Can it be that bad? Have I totally lost it?" I've been having these days more often than not. I think it's a combination of the crappy weather, the holiday season and being sick for the last week. I know I have it better than most. I know I'm blessed every day, from the minute I open my eyes in the morning until I crawl into bed at night. I have my mini mantra "good job, great friends and family, cute apartment, enough money to live and have a little fun, more books than I could ever read." I am grateful to have made it through the last year emotionally, albeit with more than my fair share of tears. But who am I kidding? It's really hard sometimes, this whole "well that's not how I expected things to go at all" feeling that I've had since last spring. I'm not as tough as I think I am or pretend to be. I've exhausted my supply of brave faces and I can't hold back my disappointment at how a lot of the last year went. I'm out of sorts and feeling like more than one of my houses is out of order, which is more than I can handle. Now I'm sitting at home writing this all down instead of going out with my friends because I can't face them like this. Like I said, shit day. And then...

In the mail, tucked under my copy of InStyle magazine featuring a flawless and pregnant Halle Berry, were four reminders that all is not lost. Four, yes, FOUR handwritten thank you notes arrived today. All were on pretty stationery, beautifully written and gentle reminders that I'm a lot less invisible than I think I am. The power of the written word saves me again.

Sick & Tired

2008-01-07T23:20:00.001-05:00

In the literal sense, of course. I have whatever is going around. You know the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy-head, fever thing, minus the fever (I'm not going to count 98.9 as a fever). My body pretty much succumbed to the running around, taking trains, being up late, eating and drinking too much that was my holiday break without a break. Being that busy had to come back and bite in me the ass somehow.

I just finished watching the Critics Choice Awards on VH1, the first in what I hope and pray will be a long and fruitful awards season, though right now it might just be wishful thinking. The Golden Globes have already been transformed from the "party of the year" to a press conference and that makes me really sad and scared that if this thing isn't settled soon, the 80th Annual Academy Awards may not happen. I support the writers, I really do, and I hope that the strike ends soon. We wouldn't have any awards to give out if it weren't for the writers doing what they do, so as the Cloon said tonight, "When the strike happens, it's not just writers [affected]," "Our hope is that all the players will lock themselves in a room and not come out until they finish. We want this to be done. That's the most important thing." Well said, George. I'm starting to realize that there is only so much "reality" television a girl can watch.

On a brighter note I do have some highlights from tonight's show:

Nikki has two Mommies: Hairspray's Nikki Blonsky's genuine excitement upon winning her award and then thanking "my mommy who's sitting here crying and my other mommy who's at home, John Travolta." That's going to be the sound bite of the night.

Blame it on her effing nerves: Leslie Mann getting bleeped when she said "Before I walked out here my husband said 'Daniel Day-Lewis is out there' and I said 'Great now I'm f&*^ing nervous.'" But the censors didn't move fast enough to bleep her when she said "Can you say f&*^ing on cable TV?" Classic.

Trifecta: (1) George Clooney, Javier Bardem AND Daniel Day-Lewis all in the same room, beautifully dressed and groomed. (2) Javier and Daniel won in their respective categories. (3) All three gentlemen were not only handsome, they were eloquent and funny at the mic! I could stand to see more of this, so let's hope for the best.

Dark horse for the win: Falling Slowly, from the movie Once winning the award for best original song. Great song, great movie. I know I am one of a handful of people who saw this movie, but I encourage you all to rent it. It's small, made on the cheap in something like seventeen days and has no big name stars in it, but damn, I really loved it.

You've got a point there, Ed: Eddie Izzard's introduction of the nominees for documentary film "Okey dokey from WGA came during teatime, so some speechy talk not so good as other mans," he said. "This was wrote in toilet, so only first draft and a bit la-la." A reminder that we need the writers to come back soon. Do you think that if an American had read that it would have come across as endearing? No, people would have said that person was on drugs or drunk. An Englishman does it and it's adorable. That's just how it is. Sort of the Hugh Grant effect.

A quick word on the fashions: Everyone looked great and that makes me happy. This wasn't the kind of show where I expected to see a train wreck, but you never know. Katie Holmes looked downright fierce in her (I'm assuming here) Armani dress. Good hair, makeup and shoes all around. Kudos to you celebs and your stylists for the effort. One note, though. Allison Janney: I love you in every movie and you were my favorite thing about the West Wing. The dress you had on tonight was beautiful, your kicky new haircut was...kicky. But why, WHY were you wearing flat shoes. They were nice flat shoes, but still, why? I know you're probably six feet tall in heels, but you usually OWN it and you should continue to do so. Hell, Katie Holmes wears heels all the time and, well, you know who she stands next to all day long. If it's because you are injured in some way (back issues, bunion surgery, messed up knee), then I completely understand. Otherwise, embrace the fact that you are statuesque. Girls like me would do anything to be as tall as you are. Thanks!

I'm off to bed, visions of a tuxedoed George, Javier and Daniel dancing in my head.

Feeling Bookish

2008-01-03T22:24:00.001-05:00

I should be sleeping, especially since I am fighting some sort of chest cold thing, but I can't. I feel like writing...and it's a good feeling. I could also be excited that Poodle is coming tomorrow to spend the weekend. It will be fun to hang out and chat and shop and be around someone who gets me the way Cat gets me. Oh my God, Poodle and Cat...my closest friends sound like some sort of menagerie! Apologies to both.

I have a huge stack of books on my nightstand. Twenty-seven books to be exact. I'm trying to read three at once (see the What I'm Reading sidebar) and it's not as hard as I thought it would be, although it's early in the process so we'll see how I'm fairing in another week. Of the three, I'd say my fave is Fifteen Candles. The stories really take me back to that time in my life and I am enjoying remembering things about being a teen that I hadn't thought about in years. The Tender Bar is pretty good so far, I'm curious to find out what happens to the author as he gets older. Women's Letters is a wee bit daunting because it starts during the Revolutionary War and I'm struggling to wrap my head around some of what I'm reading. I might wait until I finish one of the other two in order to really get into Women's Letters. Any minute now I expect to get three or four magazines in the mail, so that, along with all my lovely new books, should get me through those cold winter nights. Bring on the snow, I've got enough reading material to get me through til spring!

I realize that the three books I am reading are all non-fiction and/or biographical in some way. I've been doing more of that since I started the blog, leaning toward memoirs and the like. Maybe I'm looking for inspiration in these true stories in order to write my own. Or maybe I'm not feeling the chick-lit vibe. I'm sort of living one of those single-gal-trying-to-sort-her-life-out books right now, only without the madcap adventures, sexy rendezvous and closet full of fabulous shoes ( I do, however, have the hilarious and endlessly lovable friends part down pat), so why read about it too?

The Wests sent me a funny little book called the Writer's Block (ha ha). It's chock full of writing prompts. I moved it from the desk to my nightstand for the sake of not being able to say "oh I should do a writing exercise before bed, but the book with the prompts is in the other room..." It's next to my notebook, so I have the tools at hand. Now do I have the nerve?

2007: The Year That Was

2007-12-29T22:47:00.000-05:00

This might be my last post of the year. I've had the last week or so off, but still haven't been able to catch my breath. Don't tell anyone, but I technically, I am still Christmas shopping! I know, not like me at all. At least I got all my holiday cards out, I think. It's all a bit of a blur and I am more than ready to say goodbye to 2007, but here are some quick highlights before Dick Clark drops the ball:

Toughest thing I had to do: " Hearts will be practical only when they are made unbreakable." The Wizard of Oz. Yeah. Still dealing with this, so I'm not going to get into it. It's been tough. It will get easier. It has to. Moving on....

Proudest Personal/Professional Moment: Completing the Greater New Haven Leadership Program. I had been nominated to be a part of this class before, but this year I really felt ready to do it. Our team developed a four part program for young girls entitled GURLZ: Just Be Yourself! We spent a day with the Girl Scouts talking to them about everything from individuality to inspiration. It was so amazing, I still get teary thinking about it. Here I am with the other GURLZ at graduation. I learned so much from these women. And I learned a lot about myself in the process. It was a wonderful experience that I will cherish forever. By the way, GURLZ stands for Grace, Uniqueness Respect, Leadership and Zest for Life!

Best "What the hell?" moment: Art Weekend II. After a lot of back and forth in my mind (and some not so subtle messages from Kev), I traveled to New Jersey to spend the weekend with some college friends I hadn't seen in years and years. We ate, drank, laughed, made art and spoke that secret language that you can only speak with people you've known since you were seventeen or eighteen. It was just what I needed. I'm glad I went.

Best move in the right direction: Attending the National Writers Workshop this spring. You wouldn't think it would be that hard to do, but the insecure kid in me was scared to death. But I did it, and I'm really looking forward to attending the next one. I know haven't posted much lately, but attending the workshop made me think about my writing, how to make it better and how to keep it interesting for myself.

Best reason to go out on a Tuesday night: Trivia at Anna Liffey's. I know I'm a total freaking geek, but this weekly battle of the brains really opened up a new can of nerd worms for me. The rivalry between our team and One Nut Tattoo is pretty intense. How intense? Our team name changes weekly, but is always a horrible insult to one of the One Nuts. Plus, we laugh our asses off every week and heaven knows I need that lately. Added bonus: sometimes we win cash!

Best reason to stay in on a Wednesday night: America's Next Top Model. The PerKwans and Mrs. Deese come over, we order some food and proceed to heckle Tyra and her faux fierceness for an hour. Is it fixed? Probably. Do we care? Not a stitch. Speaking of stitch... Honorable mention goes to Project Runway for the gayest thing on television. There's the guy with the hats who won't stop crying, the kid with the hair who uses the word "fierce" too, too much, even for a gay guy, the costume designer who reference Joan Crawford in the third episode and, of course, Michael Kors. My favorite quote from this season? "What you got there twirly girly?" "I'm making me a jacket!" This exchange took place between two men.

Best reason for a road trip to the wilds of upstate New York: Poodle's engaged! So, he calls to tell me this wonderful news and for the first time in weeks, the tears I shed are of joy. Scooter and I packed up the hybrid and drove to Ithaca for an engagement party that was not only a true expression of love, but incredibly chic. I don't want to think about how much time they spent baking, all I know is I never ate the same kind of cookie twice. This little party had everything but "Ferns, dancing, every flower east of the Mississippi, wedding cake in the dining room and the groom's cake hidden in the carport." How good was this little fete? I believe the revelers sipped their way through three, yes, THREE bottles of bourbon. Now that's a party! Next day we had breakfast burritos and coffee at the farmers' market. Oh, life in Ithaca is idyllic indeed!

Best rediscovered passion: Dancing. It started one night when I joined the group with no name for a happy hour at Hula Hanks. Next thing I know, I'm looking for people willing to put up with the college crowd just so I can get my groove on. I went out dancing so much this summer, my legs ached on Sunday mornings. It felt great! I'd forgotten how much I love to dance. I think I wore out at least one pair of shoes. Fan-freaking-tastic. Someone needs to open a club that plays Freestyle music, then I'll really be in my element.

Most beautiful place I traveled to: Jackson Hole, Wyoming. This photo says it all. No matter where I looked, there was something beautiful to see. My inner monologue basically consisted of the phrase, "holy crap, would you look at THAT!" I'm glad I went.

Best new family tradition: The Abreu family celebration hat, as modeled by my mom on her seventy-first. birthday. I was the first, but not the last to don this Seussian headpiece. No one was safe from my sister's special purchase. If you were anywhere near her house on your birthday, you were wearing the hat. You'll notice that my mother is SMILING in this picture, so it must be magical. Behold the power of the celebration hat and its ability to make the corners of my mother's mouth turn up in a photo!

I don't think anything can top that last image, so I'll sign off for now. I hope (plan, I mean plan) to be writing more in the coming year, so stay tuned.

A happy and healthy 2008 to you all!

If you believe…

2007-12-15T00:10:00.000-05:00

There’s a lot to be said for unpacking Christmas ornaments by yourself when you’re slightly exhausted and Do They Know It’s Christmas (Feed the World) is playing on the radio. It's a cocktail for tears. To be honest, I was fine until I found the stockings. But, then I pulled out the stockings. I eventually got myself together, blew my nose, hung the wreaths, put out Yukon Cornelius and Hermie (I know you thought it was Herbie, but it’s actually Hermie who wants to be a dentist) and started on my cards while watching back-to-back episodes of Designing Women (I admit to being a fan of Julia Sugarbaker…who isn’t?). I’m not quite full of the holiday spirit, but I’m sure I’ll get there. You know what helps? Maureen O’Hara and Edmund Gwenn.

I watched Miracle on 34^th Street on Sunday. It's so freaking good. Not familiar? First of all, for shame! And secondly, here’s the IMDB synopsis: When a nice old man who claims to be Santa Claus is institutionalized as insane, a young lawyer decides to defend him by arguing in court that he is the real thing. How can that NOT be great, right? I think this is Natalie Wood’s first film and she’s just fantastic. The whole cast is spot on, and the overall message is good and Christmasy. “Faith is believing when common sense tells you not to. Don't you see? It's not just Kris that's on trial, it's everything he stands for. It's kindness and joy and love and all the other intangibles.” That’s what Fred Gailey says to Doris Walker before he walks out on her for not believing in him and in Santa. It helps that Fred Gailey is totally hot in that 1940s pipe-smoking, fedora-wearing, sensitive lawyer with a heart of gold kind of way.

By the way, I’m the dork you hear sniffling in the theater when Santa starts speaking to the little Dutch orphan girl in…wait for it…Dutch! Her adoptive mother is all, “I told her you wouldn’t be able to talk to her, but she insisted on seeing you, and she’s been through so much…” and then, BAM! Kris Kringle speaks Dutch. I cry. Every. Single. Time. How can you not? It’s the classic example of finding that one other person who gets you. That’s what we all want. To connect and be understood and not feel isolated. And if you can't feel that way at Christmas, well what's the point?

The Space Between

2007-11-12T20:59:00.000-05:00

"There is so much distance between who you are and where your skin begins." -kpg

Kev said that (or something similar to it) to me last night. I wish I'd written it down, gotten it exactly right. It's good. And it's true. The distance, the difference between who I am, who I think I am and who people perceive me to be is vast. I don't know if that's good or bad.

True story: I didn't realize I wasn't white until I was three or four (possibly five) years old. I looked in the mirror one day and saw a brown face staring back. It didn't freak me out. I didn't think much of it, other than, "hmm, interesting" or something like that. My parents are brown, my siblings are brown. My mother always referred to us as being "paper bag brown." Why didn't I think I was? I guess I didn't think about it at all. Some people might say I still don't realize it. We're not friends with those people.

Being Cuban means being everything from dark-eyed and deep chocolate brown to being blue-eyed and honey-skinned or lighter. When you grow up in a community that is 85% Latino (heavy on the Cubans), you don't think about it. You all eat the same food, dance to the same music, belong to the same club, look out for each other's kids. It doesn't matter. And then, one day, it does.

I was sitting in English class. There was discussion going on, but I can't remember what it was about. And then I heard it. The boy I had a crush on said, "My parents would never let me date someone who wasn't white." What? Wait a minute. He's not white. He's Cuban, like me. But he's not brown. There it was. Someone had said it out loud. And other people in the room, the people that looked like him, agreed. Their parents would never let them go out with someone who wasn't white. Someone who looked like me.

The thing that's tricky is that my appearance is as much part of who I am as my penchant for the films of Merchant Ivory or my deep abiding love for rocky road ice cream served over Entenmann's pound cake. But looking a certain way makes people think certain things, treat you a certain way for better or worse. There are people who will never want to get to know me, men who will never want to date me. And there are people who will think they know me before they even speak to me. I also need to say that it works both ways. I'm not proud of it, just being real. I realize this is not a major breakthrough in the study of human behavior. To be honest, this is the most comfortable I've ever been in my skin, but I still struggle with my identity. Who am I anyway? Who do people think I am? Does it matter? Should I care?

"You're Cuban? You don't look Cuban." What the hell does Cuban look like? Gloria Estefan or Celia Cruz? Eva Mendes or Cameron Diaz ? All of the above. And me.

Long Time, No See

2007-11-05T23:04:00.001-05:00

I attended a seminar at the National Writers Workshop last spring entitled Writing Life Stories. The speaker, Bill Roorbach, gave us an assignment, a prompt if you will. He suggested we write a letter to someone we haven't seen in a very long time and explain ourselves. Simple enough. And yet I'm looking at the screen thinking, "Can I really do this?" Here goes.

Dear You,

It's been ten years since you left. Ten years since we last spoke. And yet here you are in my thoughts, in my blog. Blogs didn't even exist when you left. Why am I writing about you here? Shouldn't this be private, just between us? Maybe not.

What have I been up to? Well, since you asked...I stayed here. Right where you left me. Well, not right where you left me, on the other side of town. Way on the other side. I have a different job, a different home, some new friends, but a lot of the old ones are still around too. I've grown up a lot. I am a very responsible person, except when I am completely irresponsible and do foolish things. Sometimes alcohol is involved, but sometimes not. Sometimes it's just me going with my gut, and my gut being horribly wrong.

My dad died. It's been four years. I still can't believe he's gone. I can't tell you how much I miss picking up the phone and hearing his voice. Today for example, it was cooler than it's been and I thought, "If I called today, he would tell me to stay warm, the weather's changing." I'd give anything to hear him tell me to bundle up, because "You always come down with something when the weather changes." Isn't that crazy? I wanted to call my Dad and have him tell me to bundle up. Of all the things I would want to hear him say, that's all I can come up with now? But that's what he would say, that was one of the ways he would tell me that he loved me.

He was sick for a long time and we were all with him when he passed. I'm blessed to have had him in my life and to have been there when he left his.

Now, let me tell you some good things before you get to thinking that everything has been a mess for the last decade. I live in an adorable apartment, I have a good job, I have some of the greatest friends in the world, and a loving family to keep me grounded. Plus I'm writing again, which I think is a huge deal.

After you left, I wrote a lot. I kept a journal for years. Then I slowed down. When my dad's health got really bad, I stopped completely. I didn't write for a long time. I couldn't write. I wouldn't write. I know, I always write when I'm hurting. It usually helps. But this was different. How was I going to write about this pain without everything inside me going haywire? I thought I had nothing left to say, no words to say it with anymore. I was wrong. I had a lot to say and about a million words at my disposal. I write for work, I write on my blog, I write long letters to people I will probably never see again, I write short cards to people I see all the time. I think I've gotten better as a writer. I even went to a national workshop for writers. And there were some "real" writers there. I guess that makes me real too. Like the Velveteen Rabbit or something.

You've been on my mind a lot lately. That's not so surprising, considering that I've been looking at the stuff I wrote when you were here. I've been tweaking it, posting it, showing it to people. I've been wondering what to do with the book, my book, our book. Should I try to get it published? Is it enough that it exists? These questions are slightly rhetorical, since I think I already know what you think.

Thank you, by the way. For always encouraging me, for being a fan of mine, for everything. Really. I know back then things sometimes seemed a mess, but you know what? I think back to that time and smile. We were young, slightly crazy and slightly a lot of other things. We were supposed to be a mess. Maybe time has colored my memories, but I think, for the most part, we had fun. I relish the good times and I appreciate everything I learned from you. And, yes, I miss you. And...yes...I love you still. Because we grew up together and because you were the first person I felt that way about. And because when you weren't making me crazy, you were making me happy.

Someone asked me once what I would do if you walked back into my life today. Well, once I got over the shock of seeing you and released you from a giant hug, I guess I'd ask you what you've been up to for the last decade. We'd probably end up at Rudy's, because that's where we always ended up. They have real food there now. I know that sounds like crazy talk, but it's totally true.

There's a lot more I want tell you, but I think that's enough for now. In a nutshell, I'm thirty-five years old, living completely alone for the first time in my life and trying to make the most of things. I'm not at the top of my game, but I'm not, as you once put it, "in a foxhole with shells going off around me." I'm not a superman, or a decoy. I'm just a woman in transition. I know there's a bright side somewhere. And I know I'm going to get there soon. I figure as long as I get out the door every morning, anything is possible. I know, I'm still a closet optimist. But that's what you loved about me.

I hope this letter finds you well and happy. And someday, I hope this letter finds you.

Always,
Me

Happy Thoughts

2007-11-04T23:45:00.001-05:00

Lord knows I love to make a list, so I thought I would make one of things that have made me smile in the last two weeks. And no, it's not a cop out entry, it's an affirmation of the good things in my life.

Art Weekend II....every freaking minute of it. More on that later.

Beating out One-Nut-Tattoo at Liffey's, AGAIN and feeling like a total robot from the stars.

Eating Indian food and watching ANTM with the PerKwans.

Drew's map and prescription for a happy life.

Getting thank you notes from my niece and nephew.

Poodle's email.

Feeling like a friendship I thought was broken beyond repair might still have a fighting chance.

116 Crown.

Sitting on the living room floor, listening to music and getting tipsy with friends.

Running into an old friend at the Farmers' Market.

Helping a friend find the perfect boots at the Nine West Outlet.

Seeing Lars & the Real Girl with Peter. Then talking about what a great movie it is over beers.

Sleeping "all the way in," then having breakfast on the couch.

Talking to ML while I waited for my laundry to be done.

Laughing out loud while reading Bill Bryson's book, The Life & Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.

Napping.

Making myself a nice Sunday dinner.

Eating that nice Sunday dinner while watching VH1 Classic ALbums: The Joshua Tree.

Reading Wunderkammer: A Together Life and feeling connected to my friends.

That's a lot of good stuff for a little over ten days, huh? I'm a lucky girl. Hopefully, I'll remember that the next time I feel crappy.

Still Tweaking

2007-10-24T22:43:00.001-04:00

I tweaked another poem tonight. Why am I still trying to fix things when they were supposedly "finished" fourteen years ago? Good question (on many levels). I think they can be better, I think I can make them better. It gives me some perspective. It gives me a new jumping off point. It's an exercise in editing. I'm stalling. Yeah, that's it. All of the above. Plus it's a rainy night, so it seems appropriate to post this one. Anyway, here it is.

Rescued from the Rain

Standing in my doorway
smelling like a wet dog
eyes pleading to be let in

And that stupid grin of yours
all those perfect little teeth
begging my forgiveness
you swore it was the
last time
“Scout's honor”

I believed you
gave you a towel
you sighed from underneath
endless apologies

Yet when I freed you
from my terrycloth grip
you were still grinning
no remorse
just those perfect little teeth
and the scent of a wet dog
rescued from the rain

Daisy C. Abreu 3.31.93
revised 10.24.2007

I don't know if I'll go through my entire catalog of poems, tweak and post them here. That seems daunting and I would rather get some of the newer stuff up (yes, there is some new stuff). I'm just not there yet. Also, I'm enjoying revisiting some of the newer older stuff. It reminds me of what my life was like back then, how far I've come with my work (and my life) and how far I've got to go (total cliche, but true).

I'm seeing some college friends this weekend as part of an artists retreat. I'm hopeful that good things will come out of that and be posted here. In the interim, please enjoy memory lane.

Tweaking The Old Stuff

2007-10-22T23:11:00.001-04:00

I wrote this one wrote a long time ago, about that boy from long ago. The version below is slightly modified. I still like this one. It's quiet.

Star

I love you.
Is that too much to say?
Too soon to say it?
I do.
Every time I see you
I say it.
Softly,
under my breath,
so you barely know.
Mouthing it to myself.
A prayer.
Like the Hail Marys I whisper
while kneeling in an empty church
on any given afternoon.
Like when I'm walking home
and see that first star.
Star light,
Star bright.
Only you're that star.
That far off thing
I wish could bring me
what I want.
And I lie here,
knowing you're
lying with her,
praying to her,
wishing on her,
mouthing in her ear.
I wonder if she knows
she's your star
or that you're mine.

Daisy C. Abreu
3.31.1996
revised 10.22.07
for jpb

Enter Sandman... I Said Enter!

2007-10-22T00:21:00.001-04:00

You know you have a crazy case of insomnia when you're sitting up listening to Delilah (You know...De-LY-La...Love someone tooooonight) and giving a crap about the people calling in with their stories about God sending them their one true love in the grocery store. Delilah can be hit or miss with the songs she picks sometimes, but tonight she seems to be dead on, bless her heart. She must know there's a skeptic listening. Why else would she play Michael W. Smith's Place in This World and Train's Calling All Angels?

Anyway, sleeping has been a challenge the last few days. I'm distracted, so I'm reading, watching TV or rocking out a crossword to try to calm my mind. It's not that I'm not tired. I'll be reading an article and my eyes will start to droop. The problems start when I turn out the light. My thoughts get all loud in my head, my anxieties take hold and I can't quiet things enough to get to the good stuff (sleep and a possible dream date with the Cloon...yes HIM again). That's when I pull out the alphabet game. Seems to work. I list authors in alphabetical order (Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Albert Camus, Charles Dickens...you get the idea). If I'm lucky, I'm out cold by the time I hit the middle of the alphabet. I know, why not count sheep? Counting is easy, literature is hard. Also, I count this as credits against all that money I spent learning about these authors in college. That's me, always multi-tasking.

Fear Of A Blank Page (a rant of sorts)

2007-10-13T20:58:00.000-04:00

OK, it's not even fear. It's, it's, I don't know what the hell it is. It's almost two weeks since I posted and as much as I think about writing every day, I don't really do it. So I decided to plop myself down and go for some stream of consciousness. No real filter, no one else around, no sound except for the Music to Leave NYC CD that Mr Doug made for me a while back. He's the reason I decided to open up a new page and go for it tonight, Mr. Doug that is. I was reading his blog entry about inspiration and U2's Joshua Tree and all the stuff he's doing with his music and thought, "well, damn, I better get off my ass and do something too." It was like he paid it forward without even knowing it, which is part of the reason any of us put ourselves out there in this way, isn't it? Maybe we inspire each other by trying to be brave and honest and out there. Or maybe not.

So, inspiration. I'm not going to pretend to know what it is or where it comes from, but it's out there, right? People get inspired all the time, don't they? Sure. But when I try to think about what inspires me lately, I come up short. Except for tonight when Mr. Doug's posting inspired me to be sitting here, talking to myself and to you and the world. I have this book, The Pocket Muse: Endless Inspiration. It's a series of writing prompts and exercises to get a person writing. I've looked at it once. OK, maybe more than once. It seems daunting. I know I should let go and try one and see how it feels, but I'm afraid. How stupid is that? I'm afraid to try an exercise in a writing book. An exercise that no one will ever see if I don't want them to see it.

I'm experiencing a lot of anxiety lately. I feel like I'm failing miserably in a lot of ways and it scares me. I'm in this holding pattern, this limbo, and try as I might I can't really shake it. I know everything will work itself out, but right now things are harder than I have been letting on to most people. Maybe all of this means I'm about to turn some corner, or maybe it means I have a long way to go. I do feel better writing all this down, so that's something.

Ripping off the Band-Aid

2007-10-01T22:29:00.000-04:00

This one's newish, from earlier this spring. I wrote it off the cuff, to get the healing started. And then I sat on it for a while. I wasn't ready to share. In a way, I'm still not. But the only way to get better is to stop bottling it up. So, here it is.

The Beginning of the End

As it was in the beginning,
so it is in the end.
Two as one.
Alone together.
Wrapped in each other,
hanging on.
Knowing,
but not believing.
Understanding,
but still hoping
And then…
One lets go,
Turns away.
And there they are,
One as two.
Together.
Alone.

Daisy C. Abreu 5/3/07

Ya Gotta Hang On Til Tomorrow

2007-09-24T21:24:00.000-04:00

I'm waiting. Waiting for a sign that I've done the right thing. Waiting to understand this mess of feelings that brews inside me every day. Waiting to feel like my whole self again, whoever that is. Because as much as I'm starting over and really trying to be "brave," and putting on a relatively happy face and spending time with my friends and having all of these little victories, this just sucks. That's not to say that I don't have my good days, or even my great days, but today was not one of them.

I know that in the long run I'm going to be OK. I try to remind myself of that regularly. I keep fighting the good fight and trying to take care of myself. I've been worse than this. Much worse. I wouldn't say I'm depressed, I know what that feels like. I wouldn't even say I have the mean reds. Maybe it's just a touch of the blues. So, I need to stay focused and positive, though both of those things seem impossible right now. I know what my problem is. Classic low self esteem. Things happen that are the equivalent of being punched in the gut and I end up reeling. I get rejected or corrected or neglected and I start to think, "Wow, I thought I was cool, but I guess I'm not." The old thinking kicks in, the fourteen year-old girl shows up and I find myself having to rebuild again. I know I'm not that kid anymore, but I was for a long time and it's hard to let her go and send her to her room so to speak. It's ridiculous, I know. It's irrational to feel this way, because, as the man said "feelings aren't facts." That's true, they aren't. But they are still real.

So, I'll keep my chin up and remember that this feeling won't last. Just because I feel like crap tonight, doesn't mean I'm going to feel like crap forever. I'll take a cue from Katie Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler and remember that "Tomorrow is another day." I know tomorrow is also a better day.

Boy Story

2007-09-17T21:53:00.000-04:00

You know that line in As Good As It Gets? Helen Hunt says "Why can't I have a normal boyfriend? Just a regular boyfriend, one that doesn't go nuts on me!" and her mom says "Everybody wants that, dear. It doesn't exist. " Women nod and smile when they hear this line because, in a way, it's true. It doesn't exist, except in the movies.

OK, clarification: Plenty of people have normal boyfriends. Lots of my friends have normal boyfriends and husbands. My point is that in the movies, boyfriends/husbands are either wack job serial killers, wisecracking sidekicks or so incredibly perfect that they ruin it for all the perfectly sweet, somewhat normal men out there. You know, the way Halle Berry and Jessica Alba have ruined it for so many of us perfectly nice, somewhat normal women. I've been thinking about this a lot because I spent Saturday night with one of these incredibly perfect men. His name is Lloyd Dobler. Yes, that Lloyd Dobler. Trench coat wearing, kickboxing (sport of the future), boom box blasting Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes to win back the girl he loves Lloyd Dobler of Say Anything . OK, maybe you don't think Lloyd is perfect. He's a character in a movie, so he's not even real. But think about it for a minute. Think about all the little things he does. He writes her a letter after they make love for the first time and all it says is "Dear Diane. I'll always be there for you. All the love in my heart, Lloyd." Simple. Perfect. The kind of letter we all dream of receiving. And guess what. Even after she gives him the pen, he's still there for her. (If you haven't seen this movie and have no idea what I'm talking about, go watch it right NOW, if only to see Eric Stolz in a chicken suit). Basically, John Cusack in this movie ruins it for every normal guy out there.

You know who ruins it more? Jake Ryan. Fair-Isle sweater vest wearing, Porche driving, undies retrieving Jake Ryan. Jake Ryan who leaves the Carolyn none of us could have ever been in high school for the Samantha we all were and probably still are. How bad do women have it for Jake Ryan? There's a whole Washington Post article about it. Seriously. There's even an "I heart Jake Ryan" t-shirt. I have one. I wear it proudly. But only around the house. Ever since I wore it out once and the kid (OK, he was 25) at the pizza place asked "Who's Jake Ryan?" I haven't had the strength to wear it out.

OK, so while those are probably the top two culprits, there are plenty more where those came from in the movies. It just depends on your taste. Here are some other "ruiners" I could watch all night long (in no particular order).

Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly), Singing in the Rain: We should all be so in love we dance in a downpour.

Paul Varjak (George Peppard), Breakfast at Tiffany's: Another guy who looks great standing in a downpour. Also, he's a writer and he's beautiful.

Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck), To Kill a Mockingbird: A good father, a good lawyer, a great man.

CK Dexter Haven (Cary Grant), The Philadelphia Story: It takes a real man to create an elaborate ruse just to win his girl back.

Macauly "Mike" Conner (Jimmy Stewart), The Philadelphia Story: How did Katharine Hepburn ever choose?

Crash Davis (Kevin Costner), Bull Durham: "I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days." Me too! What a coincidence!

I could go on here. I didn't even mention Day-Lewis and Clooney (if you know my track record, you know it goes without saying). Is it unrealistic? Totally. Do I care? Not so much these days. Nope. You know the song Where the Boys Are? For me, the boys are on Turner Classic Movies, American Movie Classics, and about seven other movie channels. And that's as good as it gets.

Getting Over Myself

2007-09-09T22:07:00.000-04:00

I had an epiphany while I was getting ready to go out last night. I realized that as long as I'm comfortable (in my clothes AND in my skin), I shouldn't overthink what I'm wearing. I'm not (usually) going anyplace fancy, I'm not going on dates and I'm not looking to meet men right now, so why should I feel a need to compete with girls a decade (or more) younger than I am? I'm too old to worry about that sort of thing, right? Believe me, I've been there and did that for years. Some nights it was like a drag show at our apartment, the amount of makeup Cat and I would slap on our faces (although we never went out in the winter without coats...what the hell is that about anyway? Seriously, if I see one more girl shivering in her skimpy top and saying "ohmigod socoldsocold!" I don't know what I'll do. But I digress.) As long as I'm comfortable, neat and smell ok, I'm ok. My summer uniform of a tank and jeans and sandals is more than enough (winter uniform: turtleneck, jeans, boots). I don't need a ton of makeup and jewelery. I can get along fine with mascara, lip gloss and a pair of dangly earrings. Hell, if I'm going dancing, I don't even need a purse, just pockets. As Polly Mellen said to Isaac Mizrahi in Unzipped, "Fussy, FINISHED." I too, am finished with fuss. I don't need it, I don't want it. I'm fine as I am. It's taken me over twenty years to get to this place. Feels good, I think I'll stick around.

On My Own

2007-08-26T22:34:00.000-04:00

The thing about living alone for the first time is that it's not as scary as I thought it would be. I actually can't believe that I lived to be thirty-five without ever living completely alone. It helps that I live in a super cute apartment on a street everyone loves (not bragging here, when I tell people where I'm living, they all say "Ohmygod I LOVE that street") and that I know a lot of my neighbors already. It also helps that my friends are super supportive and make sure I have plenty to do (movies, trivia night, dancing, etc) . But the biggest surprise is realizing that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I fixed the bathroom sink the other day, all by myself! Granted, it was a pretty easy thing to fix, but still...I did it. Small victories are key right now, and that was a huge small victory. Maybe I'm going to make it after all.

First Poem in the New Apartment

2007-08-25T16:25:00.001-04:00

It goes without saying that this is a draft.

And Still...

The air is still.
And so am I,
for once.
At last
the stirring has
somehow
ceased.
The ebb and flow,
the constant waves
of emoting,
expressing
the need
to not swallow every scream.
This moment,
however brief,
brings the peace
to face
but not erase
the past
and prepare for whatever
still awaits.

Daisy C. Abreu
August 24, 2007

Just one of the guys

2007-08-12T16:29:00.000-04:00

Here I am in Jackson Hole, Wyoming hanging out with the fellas hours before Chris’s wedding. It was one of my favorite parts of the trip. We had lunch near Cache Creek, went to the classic car show and shot a round of pool before getting Chris to the (figurative) church on time. I’ve known Chris forever and John's been an honorary part of our college crew for as long as I’ve known Chris, but I had just met Gary and Craig a couple of days earlier. No matter, I had a great time with these guys, which is just what I needed. There’s nothing like a day out with the boys to make a girl forget her troubles. The trip as a whole was great, the wedding was really beautiful and I got to spend some quality time with my two best friends, which means the world to me. But under my current circumstances, I have to admit that I was really struggling to keep it together from day to day. I just felt out of sorts and out of place a lot of the time, which is why being included in the boys’ day out meant so much to me.

Aside from obvious reasons, I really love being around my guy friends. I love their occasional disregard for ironing, their willingness to try to fix anything whether they know how to or not (I like to call this the MacGyver factor), and their general goofiness, especially when they’re trying to be cool. I love that they can go from asshole to teddy bear in about 25 seconds when necessary. And I love the lack of filter which can result in anything from uncomfortable laughter to absolute shock. Most of the men in my life don’t really have a filter, so as long as I brace myself for an honest answer, I can ask anything I want. (Sidebar: Please don’t think that I am one of those women who have nary a close girlfriend. How can you not have even one other woman to share the girly bits of life with when necessary? I have known women like that and frankly, it creeps me out.) While there’s nothing quite like getting the phone call when you've been crying into your haagen-daaz for days from your girlfirends saying “F**K GUYS! Let’s go dance!” I do have my moments when I need to be around the boys, if only to get a fresh perspective on life. My old roommate was this big, tough, barrel chested guy who worked in theater (he could build anything, seriously) and he always had all these guys coming over to the house to drink and play video games and shoot the shit for hours. Sometimes I would go upstairs and hang out with them. The best part was when they would forget that there was a girl in the room, because give a man enough to drink and he will say anything. I learned a lot about men from hanging out with those guys and I miss them.

There’s a widespread theory that men and women can never be friends because the sex thing always gets in the way. That may be true; I have some experience with that myself. I’ve been hurt by many a boy, but I still love them all. Right now, I’m at a place in my life where I don’t want to have that extra added nonsense. I just want to have a beer, watch the game and learn some new swear words…is that too much to ask?

Finding My Footing

2007-08-07T23:45:00.000-04:00

Well, this is the hard part. Starting over. I am, literally and figuratively, in a new space. It's weird. It's hard ( I know, I said that already, but it's worth restating). It feels like I'm trying to walk underwater and I am not a strong swimmer. I guess it will get a little easier every day, that's what people tell me, anyway. I wish I could believe it.

The worst part is not knowing how I'm going to feel from one minute to the next. Actually, the worst part is wondering if I'll ever feel normal again. It's hard to breathe sometimes, it's hard to think straight, it's near impossible to keep my emotions in check. I know that this thing that's happening, this thing I'm going through, people deal with this every day, but how? How do people get over this sort of thing? How does anyone ever exhale again?

Every day, I say to myself, " I need something good to happen, something to make this hurt a little less." I realized today that good things do happen every day, they just aren't always colossal and showy, like winning the lottery. Every day, something good happens, a little reminder that someday, this girl is going to be herself again. Because I have to be, I need to be. Being this way is exhausting and absolutely no fun. So, reminders are good. Like finishing the chocolate ice cream in the freezer while watching Jeopardy, that's a good thing.Or getting a text message from my best friend reminding me that she loves me, that's a great thing. Small victories, true, but if I follow the philosophy of Three Beautiful Things, then I should be OK.

I don't know what's next. The summer has been kind of a blur, and aside from my little trip to Jackson Hole, WY (totally gorgeous out there by the way) I have not had a vacation in the traditional sense. I have friends all over the place, so I could go visit one of them. For right now, I just have to try to take care of myself, not my strong suit at all, but perhaps that is the lesson in all of this. Maybe this not so old girl can learn some new tricks.