And How Was Your Summer?

NOTE: As soon as I figure out how to post more than three pics at a time, you will see more of my summerstime shots. Until then, enjoy these.

You might have noticed that it's been a while. Well, no excuses here. Just the facts. Busiest. Summer. Ever. And it does not even "officially" end until September 15th, the night of Dance Party (insert shameless plug here). So, what have I been up to? Well...


Road Trip. Davis and I traveled up to Ithaca (that's Cornell country, you know) to check in on Poodle once he was done with all his lawyering classes. God, it was good to see him. You know when you meet someone and things just click and you feel like you've known that person all your life? Well, the minute I laid eyes on Poodle and his JCrew ribbon belt, I knew we would be friends forever. He's the Givenchy to my Hepburn (not that I think I'm Audrey, I haven't become delusional!), always there to gently encourage and keep me from going out in gauchos and clogs. Kudos to Davis for putting up with the two of us for 48 hours. We ate well, laughed much and drank...just enough. And I got to meet the new beau AND the new dog. My little boy is all grown up!

Birthday. I turned 34 in June and so far, so good. I had my friends around me, my man by my side and a blue pearl firmly in hand. I got some awesome books that are currently piled high on the night stand and enough fancy note cards to last me a while. Do my friends know what I like or what? Bless their hearts, I'll probably burn through it by Christmas, though, Hallmark whore that I am.

Family. My brother and sister came to town for the Kool & the Gang concert earlier this month. I don't know how ML survived it all, we can be pretty rambunctious when we get together, and Mami wasn't with us, so things got very relaxed! It felt good to be able to show them a good time and have them see that I, too am grown (I'm the youngest by 10+ years, so no matter what I do, I'll always be the baby.) I'm proud of the life I've built here and I want them to know that they don't have to worry. Mission accomplished, I think.

Boyfriend. I celebrated ML's birthday. I threw him two parties, one for friends and one for the family. I know, I have a tendency to spoil him, but seriously, he's worth it. Friday night we gathered up the usual suspects for pizza (mashed potato pizza is awesome, say what you will) and beer and ice cream cake (devil's food, chocolate ice cream and peanut butter cups in cake form...holy crap!) at BAR . Saturday was family day, so I got up early and went to the farmers' market for salad fixings and fresh bread. On the menu: baked ziti, a green salad with super fresh veggies and homemade garlic bread. For dessert, ice cream cake (yes, MORE ice cream cake). His parents, younger brother and younger brother's girlfriend all came over and it was really nice. I think he was happy and I know he appreciated it. Also, I think he's going to take his new ipod to Massachusetts and marry it. I know how he feels, I'm still obsessed with mine and I got it last Christmas.

Work. Nothing new there, but it just seemed busier than usual. Maybe it's because we had FIVE interns to help so the hive was extra buzzy with projects we never get a chance to work on consistently. Maybe it's because people have become more aware of what we do and so they are asking more of us. Or maybe it's because I've gotten involved in more committees and projects outside of the office. I don't know. I do know that it's no where near over yet. Not to worry, I'm taking some time at the end of September to decompress and maybe get away.

Book. Still thinking about it, but not just thinking. I sent Benni the manuscript to see if she has any ideas for artwork. I printed out copyright forms, but have yet to fill them out. I even went on an archaeological dig and found the original notebook in which I wrote the thing. Lots of interesting bits in there, to be sure.

Ok, were all those things excuses? Maybe. The moral of this story is, I need to make some write. Notice I did not say "I have to", I said "I need to." That's a good sign, I think.

I'm Just Saying

Ok, there are a few things I need to get off my chest, so forgive the rant-y nature of this post. Take this as a series of letters from the editor to the world of entertainment.

Dear Brandy,
I know you're a single mom and all, and maybe you need the money, but why the hell are you on that America's Got Talent? YOU have talent, use your powers (good singing voice, pretty face, likeable personality) for good! I can't even watch the thing, what with the Hoff and the Simon Cowell-y guy and Reege doing their canned schticks. I barely know what the show's about, except for what I see on the Soup. You are better than this Brandy! How in the world did you become Jaye P. Morgan on this modern bastardization of the Gong Show? Why don't you call your old friend Monica and see if she wants to duet with you again? It's not too late! Save yourself!

Dear Creators of Grey's Anatomy,
I have now made several attempts to watch your program and still cannot get through one episode. It's not the writing (I think the writing is really good), it's not the supporting cast (I quite enjoy George, Cristina and Burke), it's not even the heartstring tugging music (I get it! I'm supposed to be moved by what I've seen). It's Dr. Meredith Grey. She bugs me. Even when she's being all tough, she still looks like she's going to fall apart. I understand she's dealing with a lot of stuff (her mom, Ronald from Can't Buy Me Love, long hours), I've watched enough to know that it's very challenging to be a surgical intern, but seriously, she needs to pull herself together! The show is about her, but she's the one I care about the least. You want to know how little I think of her? If she were my surgeon, I would ask for someone with a bit better control over her emotions to cut me open. I would want them to fly in Dr. Benton from ER to work on me, and I REALLY hated him. Grey is not instilling any confidence in anyone by being so freaking weepy. And please, someone, feed her already!

Dear VH1,
Stop telling me about the artists I ought to know about. You aren't going to convince me any time soon. Nothing makes me more resistant than being told what I should like. If you want to play those videos without the little "this new artist and song are going to change your life" intro, then I might give it a chance. That's how I discovered Five For Fighting's Superman and that worked out well. I wanted to know more, I bought the album, I became a fan. That's how it is supposed to work. I don't need to hear about how they became musicians and how they write their songs and how their first single is SO incredible. To be honest with you, VH1, every time I see and hear the You Oughta Know thing, I change the channel. That's right, I tune out. The You Oughta Know thing is now the same as a commercial to me, which I know is what a video is anyway, but still. Maybe I would have discovered those artists on my own and looked forward to seeing their videos, since you so rarely show videos anymore, but no, you've ruined them all for me. It will be years before I can accept KT Tunstall and the Fray as a part of my life. Thanks a lot.

Dear Paula Deen,
Thank you for Jaime and Bobby. You raised those boys right. It's a comfort to know that there are still some sweet southern gentlemen out there and that they are into food. I love that they call each other "brother," I love that Jaime spends the entire episode laughing his ass off, even when Bobby is cutting on him and I love that they love you so much. When they showed up to surprise you in Paris, I cried along with you. Bless their hearts, they love their momma. Way to go, Paula!

OK, I feel better now. I think I'll go back to bed for a while.

Here's to the Good Times

I found this photo a couple of months ago while I was cleaning. It's a Polaroid, the kind taken at a party and then tucked in a sleeve and sold for a couple of bucks to the people who are in it as a memento of the good time they were having. (You know, like when you ride a rollercoaster and a photo is taken of you just before you soil yourself on that first drop and when you come off of the ride they try to sell your fear back to you? Yeah, I have one too.) I have no idea how it ended up in my things, but I'm glad I found it. It makes me smile. This photo is the quintessential snap shot of a Sunday afternoon at the Club. My parents are dancing with Bertie and Felix Izquierdo, two of my favorite people of all time. I'm guessing from my mother's and Bertie's sleeveless-ness that it is summer. I can't quite tell what year it is, although my dad is smoking, so it must be pre-1982.

My dad's birthday is on Friday, August 4. This photo is how I would like to think of him celebrating Number 74. Some people will say that dealing with a loss like this gets easier. It doesn't, not really, not for me. It will be three years in September and the hurt hasn't gone away. It never will, but the intensity of that hurt has diminished a bit. I have a very full life, a life my father would be proud to boast to his friends about. There's plenty to keep my mind occupied what with my relationship, my job, my friends, my writing. My brother and sister have kids, jobs and homes, too. And, of course, we work together to make my mother's life easier (I'm no hero, my siblings do the bulk of the work with my mom). What never changes is that every year, there's a birthday and Father's Day and the anniversary of his passing. Bumps in the road, I guess, but there they are.

I think about my dad every day. Little things will remind me and make me smile. My mother will do something crazy (anything, really) and I'll think about what his reaction would be (laughter, usually). I'll hear a song that he loved and feel like he's with me. Baseball is a good way to feel close to him, so I watch more games now. Then there are the things that totally throw me. Funerals are different now. I can relate to what the family is dealing with on a very different level. I understand the process better. Weddings are hard. The Father-Daughter dance is impossible. I have to duck out because I start to cry and it's not the "isn't that sweet!" crying that relatives and bridesmaids do. It's much worse. It's sobbing, the kind that is accompanied by gasping and lots of nose blowing. It's not that I'm not happy for the bride and her dad, it's just that...well, you know. I feel gypped. And yeah, I get angry because I don't get to have that moment, which I know is very selfish. And then I think, "who the hell are you mad at?" There is no one to blame, it's just how I feel. Maybe lots of women who lose their dads feel that way too. I don't know. I can only speak for myself.

I have to say that I feel very lucky to have had him around for as long as I did. And I'm lucky that I got over myself and my teenaged angst in time to have a decent relationship with him.Even when I was all but living in the Bell Jar, I knew that he cared about me and wanted to see me happy. Maybe I've said this before, but to have gone to bed every night being absolutely certain that my father loved me, no matter what, is the greatest gift he ever gave me. And no one can take that away from me.

Here goes...

This poem isn't part of the book I was talking about in the previous post, but it's one of my favorites. Am I allowed to say that about my own work? Sure, why not?

HOME

Solace.
I came to this place now for peace.
The green how I want you green.
A mist rises with me in the morning
and kisses my face
the way you used to.

Dewdrop kisses on my eyes,
my brow.
You said I was beautiful,
that you wanted me.
Encased me in the tangle
of your arms and legs.
The pressure of you on me
never seemed too much to bear.
I felt I understood at last
made the connection.
Steady now.
And I remember the scent of you.

There is always you,
gone all this time
but still sneaking up into my body,
saying good morning on the back of my neck,
the inside curve of my thigh.
And still there is no place safer to me
than the crook of your arm.
The halo of your hair.
The jagged lines of your face.

Blue how I want you blue.
Blue eyes.
Navy blue.
The first time I saw them
I wanted to cry
and I wanted to fly into them.
I have never known a passion
that came so innocently.
Was I a fool.
The crackle of your smile
and the lightning bolt it sent through my body.

The warm spot I kept for you.
Uncovered,
crawled in.
Sinewy arms around my waist,
head on my chest,
warm, moist breath between my breasts.
Rolling to each other,
to safety
and on.
In that moment it was all.

You were a candle.
Tall,
easily inflamed,
but melting away if I fired you up enough.
And I loved you for it.

Daisy C. Abreu Spring/97

Express Yourself, Don't Repress Yourself

I don't want to get all soul searchy here, but I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Mostly about my writing, which is weird because I thought I had given up on it years ago. I had really reconciled myself to believing that writing wasn't going to be the way I made any sort of living. Maybe I'm wrong. I can be wrong. I've been wrong about a lot of things, I could be wrong about this, too.

Here's a little back story for those of you keeping score at home: I wrote my first poem in the fourth grade. For a boy. And it rhymed. It was terrible. How terrible? Here's a taste: "I know you're going to grunt and gripe/but to me you are the perfect type." Seriously? Seriously. I can't believe that (a) I wrote that in the fourth grade and (b) I just shared it with whoever is reading this. My apologies to those who were rendered so nauseous by reading that bit that they cannot possibly continue. I never got the boy, but I kept writing.

I wrote poems all through high school. Rhyming poems, haikus(!), I think I even tried sonnets. To be fair, it wasn't all terrible. I had a couple of poems published in Nova, the high school's literary magazine. I was also co-editor of Humanist, my high school yearbook (my first job writing copy!) All of the classic themes populated my work: love, death, war, things that, as a teenager, I had no clue about. I realized years later that the more I lived, the more I experienced things, the more specific my subject matter became. The bigger my world, the "smaller" my writing. Junior year, I was introduced to a playwright named Andrew Young. He spoke to our writing class and invited us to see a performance of his play at Maxwell's in Hoboken. I spent that summer going to a writing/theater workshop every Tuesday at the Y (what is it with me and not being able to stay home on a Tuesday night?). It was good for me, so if anyone knows whatever happened to Andrew Young, let me know, because I'd like to thank him.

I kept writing in college, and eventually declared English my major. (I can still hear the classic question in my head, "So...English major? So, you want to teach?" I've had some wonderful teachers in my life. They nurtured, supported and encouraged me. I would never besmirch their noble profession by joining their ranks. That is my final answer. But never say never, right?) I had a couple of poems published in the school paper and the literary magazine. My friend Benni (nickname) even made some of my poems into beautiful pieces of art. You can check out her awesome work here.

I don't think I've ever written more than when I was in my early to mid twenties. Lots and lots of poems, all a bit sad, some a bit sexual, mostly about one person who I will refer to as the Magnificent Obsession. I could be less dramatic and simply use initials, but he actually went by his initials, so forget it. How magnificent was this obsession? I basically wrote a whole book about it. Yup, a book. I was showing it to Furonda (not her real name) the other night and realized that I hadn't read the thing in at least five years (I wrote it ten years ago).I don't know why, but I was scared of what it would be like to read it all again. Maybe I was afraid that it would suck, maybe I was afraid that it would bring back bad memories. I read it yesterday morning and (a) it doesn't suck, (b) I'm not that person anymore and (c) most of my memories from that time are good. Basically, a win-win-win. Which brings us back to me thinking seriously about my writing.

I haven't written a poem in over four years, and aside from the late-night rambling I do here, I no longer keep a journal. I stopped right around the time my dad's health took a turn for the worse. I guess I lost my focus in a lot of ways during that time. I do spend a lot of time writing for work. Some of it's serious (memos, reports, meeting minutes), but a lot of it's not so serious (Tea Leaves, marketing copy, web stuff). The boss occasionally calls me Punster, and I'm often called upon for my brainstorming skills. Does that sound geeky? Well, I'm proud to be a three-time spelling bee champ and scrabble nerd, I can't help it if I'm good with word association. Go ahead and call me bookish, I'll take it as a compliment. Anyway, I'm feeling like it's time to get back out there (because this blog isn't out there enough). Seeing Sharon Olds definitely stirred something up inside me. But it's more than that. In some ways, I'm trying to regain my focus in every aspect of my life and writing was a huge part of my life for twenty years. Writing the blog is part of regaining that focus, but I feel like there is more to be done. Why not take a chance? Oh, right, fear of rejection. I'm working on it. I'm showing the book to a couple of people who know nothing about that time in my life. I figure they'll be objective. I'm also running the idea past friends who were with me the first time around. I figure they'll be as encouraging as ever (I'm getting a lot of "About time!"). We'll see where this all takes me. Baby steps, people, baby steps.

Poodle (again, phony name) said to me the other night, "Like it or not, the world wants you to be a writer." Well, like it or not, I guess I am.