More Than a Feeling

I'm sitting here, staring at the screen, wondering what to write. SAG awards? Eh, not tonight. My mother's visit this weekend? Still recovering from that, although it is always nice to see her and I do love her very much and we all know it's never boring when she comes to visit. My problem is I can't think straight lately. I've got a lot on my mind and I'm having trouble processing it all. I'm preoccupied with concerns about the people I am closest to and I feel helpless. I know it's not my job to save everyone, but it's my tendency to try to ease the pain of the people I care about. The frustration lies in knowing I can't fix what hurts them, and that hurts me. (Yes, I am working on this with my therapist) I had trouble writing cards tonight. Anyone who knows me knows that might be a sign of trouble. But it's not just worrying about my friends. I'm worrying about me, too.

I'm going to be thirty-five soon, and as a friend said to me at lunch today, "it's like going through turning thirty all over again." I'm not so much worried about turning thirty-five as I am nervous and a little excited. Not as excited as I was about kissing my twenties good-bye and starting a whole new chapter, but excited. There are some things I want to work on and I want to decide what those things are, which ones will be a priority between thirty-five and forty (holy crap! I'm going to be forty!). When I turned twenty-nine, I made up my mind about a lot of things: I decided I was going to quit my retail job and do something else, even though I didn't know what that something else was going to be. I decided I was going to move out of my basement apartment and find something above-ground, even though I didn't know where. I decided that I was going to concentrate on my family and friends, not worry about having a boyfriend, but if it happened, yay for me. I let go of a lot of stuff during that year and allowed myself to try to be happy. I guess it worked: new job, new place and new relationship in five years, with two out of three happening before my thirtieth birthday. I've gained a lot and I'm grateful for what I've learned. (I've lost a lot too, but that's the way it goes sometimes) And it all started with an epiphany.

I was in the City on my twenty-ninth birthday when it happened. Cat and I had just made our annual pilgrimage to Tiffany&Co (I know, I can't help it, I love the sparklies) , and we were headed to Madison Square Garden for the U2 concert (so rocking!). We're standing on Fifth Avenue, getting ready to cross the street, when I heard music. Someone was playing the saxophone. I couldn't see the guy, but I could hear him. He was playing Someone to Watch Over Me.

There's a somebody I'm longing to see

I hope that she turns out to be

Someone who'll watch over me

Don't ask me why, but I started crying. I felt happy and strong and so sure of myself in that moment. It wasn't just because it was my birthday and I'd been to Tiffany and I was on my way to see my favorite band with my best friend. I'm sure all those things helped, but believe me when I say I had never ever felt this way before. Suddenly, I was certain that no matter happened from then on, I was going to be OK. It just happened. I can't tell you how it happened, since it just kind of snuck up on me, but I highly recommend it. Imagine taking the deepest breath you could ever take and, in exhaling, letting go of all the crap you've been holding on to for so long. I had a lot of crap to let go of that I had been hanging on to it for a long time, so letting go felt freaking amazing.

My dad got sick shortly after that and I don't know if I would have the strength to deal with everything that happened that summer and fall (and beyond) if not for that one moment of peace. I've had moments of joy, moments of contentment and, of course, moments where I feel like I've faltered and failed miserably since then, but I don't know if I'll ever have another moment like that one. I didn't know it then, but that the someone who'll watch over me, no matter what? Turns out she's me.

How to Save a Life

Grey's Anatomy ripped me wide open last week. Again. I'm starting to believe that the reason this show and I have made nice with each other is so that I can cope with my grief. Because three years, three weeks and four days later, it still hurts like hell. It's true that I have yet to watch an episode of this show and not get choked up a little or end up in full on tears. But this episode takes the cake. If you haven't watched the episode, come back and read this entry when you have. Seriously, don't keep reading if you are a fan of the show and haven't watched the January 18th episode (Six Days, Part II). I don't want to be held responsible for spoiling it for you. OK? Good. Thanks.

The short version is that George's dad dies from a number of complications stemming from esophageal cancer. The longer story, for me, is that what the O'Malley family went through is similar to what we went through with my dad, except that it was a longer road for us. Basically, the episode ended, my phone rang and it was my sister on the other end. I answered the phone with the words "OK, that was not cool."There were so many moments in the episode that were very close to my own experience. It was almost too much to take. The week before, when George can't walk into his father's hospital room and we see the scar down Mr. O'Malley has down his belly and the tube in his throat...that was a lot to handle. Things came back to me that I hadn't thought about in a long time. I remember seeing my dad intubated for the first time and it scared the shit out of me. After my dad's surgery, I was the only family member in the room with him when one of his doctors and a surgical intern showed up to check the scar on his belly and remove the surgical staples. Not stitches. Not gauze. Staples. I had to hold my father's hand while some kid in a lab coat used a staple remover on him. I'll never forget that intern's face when he asked about my father's condition and I told him what the deal was. His whole faced changed, like he knew something I didn't. Poor kid, I don't know if it was his first time with a patient who was dealing with what my father was dealing with or what, but suddenly, he looked stricken. He just patted my father's hand and said something like, "Good luck" or "I'm sure you'll be fine." Thinking back now, it was obvious that he knew something long before I did.

But the part of the show that hit the nerve, the part I can't think about without my eyes welling up and a lump forming in my throat is this:

CRISTINA: "There's a club. The Dead Dads Club. And you can't be in it until you're in it. You can try to understand, you can sympathize. But until you feel that loss... My dad died when I was nine. George, I'm really sorry you had to join the club."
GEORGE: "I... I don't know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn't."
CRISTINA: "Yeah, that never really changes."

And there I was. Ripped wide open, sobbing and feeling it all over again. That feeling never really changes. It's so unfair, but it's so freaking true. Yes, I get out of bed every day and I go to work and I spend time with my friends and live my life and all the other things that anyone else does. But there is this underlying feeling that something is missing. There is this piece of me that will always hurt, always long for my dad. I'm still not sure if I know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn't. I try to, but I know that there is no way I will ever fully recover from this loss. My heart's broken. That's a fact of my life. And maybe for the rest of my life, every happiness and every sadness will be tinged with an unspoken "I wish Daddy were here." Maybe. But watching that episode made a difference. It reminded me of how my family came together, how we found out how many people cared about all of us. It reminded me that it is OK to feel that sadness, he would want me to miss him, but he would also want me to go on and enjoy the life I have left to live.

I think what makes it even more meaningful is that the woman who wrote this episode, Krista Vernoff, was drawing from her own experience (click here for her story). She was brave enough to put herself through it all again and tell the story of losing her dad. And that gives me the strength to tell the story of losing mine. I am strong and I am not alone. I have my friends, I have my family and I have my dad with me every day.

Coliseum Fall Down, Go Boom

all photos courtesy of Keith Krolak

This is the view from my condo in Downtown New Haven.The hulking structure with the triangles is the New Haven Veterans Memorial Coliseum as it stood at 7:30 yesterday morning. The Coliseum hosted everything from hockey games and the circus (same thing in sense) to concerts and bridal fairs. It's been there for roughly thirty-five years, but officially closed in 2002. The last event held there was a Barry Manilow Concert.

7:49am: There was a series of explosions and the building started to come down like a stack of pancakes. It was the implosion people had been waiting for since Barry Manilow left town. It was louder than I thought it would be and only took 17 seconds, but damn, it was something to see and hear and feel. The clock on our kitchen wall was rattled to an interesting angle and the bathtub ML and I were standing in shook. There was a resounding chorus of "Holy S**T!" in our place. I say chorus because, like so many other people in Greater New Haven, not only were we up, we were throwing a party! Yes, indeed, we invited people over for breakfast with a bang! When you have seven windows facing what will probably be the biggest event of the year, you want to share those windows and the experience with your friends. So, up we were at 5:45am, with guests arriving for bagels, coffee, eggs and Bellinis starting at 6:30am. Twenty guests in all here at our place, which is nothing compared to the thousands of people hanging out on the roof of the Temple Street Garage to watch this thing come down. It was pretty amazing, and although there was this lingering sense of 9/11, especially when the smoke started rolling across the sky, at least this time we all knew we were safe. Here's some video that ML's brother took from our window and posted to YouTube.

And here is what the Ninth Square looked like after 8am. Some folks had windows that shattered and some light poles were taken out by the blast, but as they said on the news, the implosion was "moderately successful."

So, now THIS will be my view for the next four to six months...a crooked-assed bunch of triangles and the two parking helices they didn't implode. But, I got to see something really cool, throw a super fun party and come July 4, I'll be able to see the fireworks not one, not two, but up to three towns from the comfort of my air conditioned home. Good times.

This One's for EJ

My summer fellow leaves for a semester in Paris tomorrow night. I'm so excited and proud! I know she's a bit nervous about the whole thing. It's this great unknown ,first time away from home, a strange city, learning the language...But it's also PARIS! I know she's going to have an amazing time or at the very least, she'll have crazy adventures that she'll always remember. Anyway, I found this poem over the weekend and it made me think of her.

Shoreline Hello

When I walk along the shore
I am sometimes overwhelmed
to think that I am standing
on the edge
of the beach
of the state
of the United States
of North America.

And I look out as far as
I can see
and I wonder
if there is someone looking
back at me
across the ocean.

A girl like me
standing on the edge of her forever
on the coast of her world.
Dreaming her dreams
and wondering if there is
anyone else out there.

So I wave to let her know
that she is not alone.

Daisy C. Abreu January 29/1992

Global Morning

What is up with the Golden Globes? Gone are the days of people winning awards while they are in the ladies room (Christine Lahti, 1998), winners giving up their awards to the old guard (Ving Rhames giving Jack Lemmon his Globe, 1998) and people acting all, oh I don't know, happy to be there (yes Angelina, I'm talking to you). When the woman who once jumped into the pool (wearing this Randolph Duke number, no less) at the Beverly Hilton to celebrate her win (1998 again, damn that was a good year) can't crack a smile, despite the fact that she is practically married to Brad Pitt, we got troubles people.

Ok, so I don't have too much to say (yeah, right), but I do want to hit some points of interest here:

Not enough of the Cloon for my taste. In fact, it was barely a taste. He came out, gave Jennifer Hudson an award and then, poof, he was gone. Didn't even see him on the red carpet. Um, yeah, not pleased. I was able to tell, however, that his hair looked awesome. So handsome, he is. Well, that's out of the way.

You know what's nice about the Globes? No host. It just flows without someone onstage to guide things along. No 17-minute monologue that hits and misses, no weird jokes to fill the time, no awkward laughter and reaction shots. People just walk out on their cue, do their thing and move on to the next thing. Also, no musical numbers! The only constant we see on the stage is Miss Golden Globe (Jack Nicholson's daughter, Lorraine). I think that's nice. Let the celebs loose, don't have another celeb try to wrangle them, let them roam free! Free range celebs! I like it.

As far as speeches go, thank God (or is it thank Britain?) for Hugh Laurie and Sascha Baron Cohen and their strange senses of humour. I thought Forrest Whitaker was going to pass out, but he recovered nicely in the end. Alec Baldwin was random, but in a good way (thanks for sharing about the hernia!). I feared that Kyra Sedgewick was going to forget Kevin Bacon, but how could anyone forget Kevin Bacon? Meryl Streep continues to win me over with her wacky ways. I guess when you are considered the greatest actress of your generation, have 13 Oscar nominations (more than Kate Hepburn even!) and TWENTY ONE Golden Globes under your belt, you can be as goofy as you want to be when you win, but always in the best of taste. Jennifer Hudson and America Ferrara had me close to tears and Helen Mirren is, well, she's a classy dame who forgot to thank her husband, director Taylor Hackford, BOTH times. I'm sure he's fine with it.

Dear Tom Hanks: What in the hell were you talking about? I didn't know you even knew Warren Beatty, much less were so buddy-buddy that you could present him with the Cecil B DeMille Award. Yes, your speech had some high points and you took some risks. Ballsy risks. And by balls I mean "artistic vision." Obviously Rita wasn't there to keep you in line. You know who might have been a more appropriate person to do this tribute. Warren Beatty's sister. She's an actress too, you know. I think her name is, oh what is it? Oh yeah, I remember. It's SHIRLEY MACLAINE. Where the hell was she? She would have kept all those boys in line, for sure. Would have ripped those sunglasses right off of Nicholson's face and told him to "Grow up, that's your daughter up there!" Come on, people!

OK, I have to talk about the clothes. While some people have recovered nicely from previous awards fashion debacles (well played, Naomi Watts, you're almost there! don't give up, keep taking tips from Nicole), some people continue to leave me baffled as to why they are considered fashion icons (Sienna Miller, I'm sorry, I just don't get it and I don't know if I ever will. I will say this: that dress, though not my fave, is probably the best thing I have ever seen you in. Ever). And then, of course, you have the people who are consistently wonderful and make you happy to see them. May I present Exhibits Armani, Blass and Dior: Jada Pinkett Smith in a perfect coral Armani, Rachel Weisz in gorgeous red Bill Blass and Slammin Salma Hayek in a white Dior. (you can go to style.com for photos of all of these beauties). And of course, J-Lo shows up wearing all of her own jewelry and fox fur fake eyelashes and channeling Liz Taylor, right down to the adoring husband. And Renee Zellweger is all perfect, if not a wee bit pinched. I would love to see that dress she was wearing on Julianne Moore. Her coloring is perfect for that type of thing. And Hilary Swank and Reese Witherspoon show up with their brave Oscar-winning divorcee faces on to show how strong they are in the face of adversity. They both looked great, in spite of their struggles.

I have to say that one always hopes, if not for a Bjork swan-dress moment, then at least for a little bit of Cher out there. Everyone can't look perfect, right? That would be boring as hell. Well, I thought it was bad enough that Charlie Sheen was wearing the most ill-fitting jacket I had ever seen and that Philip Seymour Hoffman was incredibly rumpled and that Clint Eastwood was wearing a funky goldish tiny bow tie (Clint and I have an unspoken pact: He shows up to win awards wearing ties I hate and I stay home and watch him win in those ties I hate. Very simple). And even Beyonce's Mackie-esque gown could be reasoned out one of two ways: either her mother made that dress for her and forced her to wear it using mother's guilt or she's taking the Miss Diana Ross thing too far. But no, someone I like had to show up looking like hell. Someone I like had to make me say, out loud to my television, "Ooooooh Noooo!" Not only is this someone I like, someone who's Golden Globe winning show I thoroughly enjoy, this is someone I've seen in person, from not too great a distance. Someone who is, for her age, hell for any age, absolutely stunning and can pull off almost any outfit. Almost. So I ask you this: Why Vanessa? Why? When Tim Allen was on stage with her (by the way, why was he there...oh right, Santa Clause 3), he gave her the up and down and said, "Man if looks were a minute, you'd be a loooong day." Yes, Tim, a very long day indeed.