I am looking for someone, who can take as much as I give,
Give back as much as I need,
And still have the will to live.

I am intense,
I am in need,
I am in pain,
I am in love.

I feel forsaken, like the things I gave away.

(c) Indigo Girls (1989).

Labels: Last Life, Mr. Magoo

This man made we wait in agony over every move and every moment we would spend together. He said we could meet at 10 for one hour. Well that is what we did. He said to come over and watch TV. That is all we did. No food, no alcohol, no sex. Just TV because that is what he said. So when he said he would call me back, I knew he would. But he chose his words carefully, as carefully as he chose every other minute detail in his life including what pair of underwear he would don the next morning, and like that he chose not to say when he'd call. When he did this my heart and mind would devolve into convulsions where I could do nothing but think about him and anxiously wait in gut wrenching palpitations where my heart only beat every second time it should for him to lead me to his greatness. I couldn’t call him. Well because that was not in the instructions and because I was guaranteed no phone call back until later - the time he determined he was ready to again speak to me. So one very paranoid afternoon later, Shannon texted me the greatest words in the English language, “cockpails?” The typo a result of her early start on the game. A word that will forever mean a multitude of drinks always to begin with a very dirty martini. So cockpails it was at a four o’clock on a Friday. No, no, no lawyers don’t leave at four. Not anymore and not unless you live in New Orleans. But this was June and we had a hurricane coming. How grand it is to live in Florida sometimes? At this juncture of bad weather and cocktailing we knew that the storm wasn’t really coming, we also lived in a world pre-Katrina where all risks were scoffed at. With that I danced down the hall, towards the elevator, into my car and straight to the bar. We watched the weather, we sat outside with the unusual and often cool gusts, and we drowned in our own liquids. In a buzzed stupor I declared that I was never speaking to Mr. My Time Only if he did not call me back by nine o’clock that night. Shannon dutifully held my phone hostage in her Prada to prevent me from checking it obsessively every ten and half seconds. At a quarter to nine she granted me my one wish to have the Motorola back to check any messages from him or otherwise. When I got not a one,I slammed the phone down and again dramatically pronounced that unless my phone is broken he and I were done. Because this is what friends do who buy you cockpails and hold your phone hostage, Shannon dialed my number to show me that my phone was not broken - that he was just an asshole. She dialed and it rang and rang and rang. On her end. My little flip phone never once made a sound. When voicemail should’ve picked up, an operator came on rendering her unable to leave a message. I didn’t even get a missed call. Turned out MY PHONE WAS BROKEN. And that HE WAS NOT AN ASSHOLE. Okay wait a minute. He was still an asshole but my drunken declarations were now allowed to be thrown by the wayside. I actually could make good on those excuses. I could continue in this “relationship” and no one could stop me. Yeah no one could. They should have, but I wouldn’t let them. Not at that point anyway. Because he did call and according to him it was many times. But we have no proof of that. I'm a lawyer and I like proof. But apparently only when I have not just consumed cocktails with 8o proof vodka. So we did make plans. And we all know what that means. His plans on his time. One movie, one day, this weekend. Three hours and I am out. The hurricane never came but it did leave an excellent excuse for Logan to continue to walk all over me and the true reason why my phone did not work that night. I let him because I was having fun and I was too busy tyring to maintain the rest of my life to even see what I can see so clearly now. The thick of the fog of that relationship storm made it so no calls could get through to me about where we were headed. Like the hurricane that never hit the Bay, we were in a relationship that was going nowhere either. It just took me a while to realize it.

Labels: Last Life, My Life

In our move I found stacks of old letters and cards. I was a keeper and have a ton of notes, birthday cards and funny memorabilia from the past decade or so. Included in the pile was an un-sent letter in a pink envelope with a teddy bear sticker addressed to Alli my old near and dear friend. I wrote it in college as it was going from my PO Box to hers, a testament of our age and that time in our lives, when we sat in our respective dorm rooms and chatted about everything for hours. The content of the letter is also a testament to a younger me. Something I appear to recognize in the letter and something I feel I actually achieved. In a way the fact that it was unsent was to be destined, as if it were just another journal entry or a letter to myself. Because I prophesize and I would like to think that prophecy came true.

April 24, 1999

Allison -

Hey Baby. I know I just talked to you this morning, but I really need to get this out. This whole situation with this guy is bothering me to no end. I've already bitched to everyone about it and I know I am annoying but I just can't shake it. This is/was precisely the reason I don't hook up randomly or drunk. I want the guy to call, I want respect and I don't want to be made to feel dirty.
I'm sitting here on a Saturday night and all I can do is think about him and
this fucked up situation and that just pisses me off. I had a great life before this happened and I was a strong minded person - why am I so weak now that I can't even plan a lesson plan? It makes me mad that I can't get over this or do anything. I've called him once (which in my mind is already too much.) I never open myself up because I thought I'd get hurt. When I do, guess what? I got hurt. Whats this going to do for my self esteem? I always thought that I was stronger than this, that I could handle something like this. Which makes me even more upset - that I am not handling the situation as expected.
My final closing thoughts are why the hell can't he just pick up the phone and call me? There is not time not to mention no reason to play games. I feel like he is getting bad advice from one of his immature and retarded fraternity brothers. I can't deal with the bullshit!!!
Please remind me of this letter one day - when we are old. So hopefully I can appreciate what a great life I have and to laugh at my youth. I'm hoping that one day this will seem funny!!!

Thanks for listening and bearing with me.

Love Always - A

Labels: Last Life, Perspective

I just got off the phone with a new old friend. I have accumulated lot of friends and most of them are considered to be old by now, you know like from childhood old or even college at this point. Because damn I met those guys 10 years ago. So this one, well he is a newer old friend. We worked together and now that I am gone, we have to test our friendship and put in the real effort to remain friends. So he called me to hold up his end of the bargain and told me he was exiting a day long workshop that our, scratch that, his firm puts on every year. We, again er, he is required to attend to meet and mingle and to do a few other law firm type things. But really it is eight hours in a Marriott that are better spent sticking snot in your eye, because it is just as pointless and equally as painful.

My first year at the conference I had just been dumped. As in four days before. I had the wounds of a newly single person fresh on me. A large conference room with nothing to do for eight hours was not the best environment for a person in my mental state. Really any mental state but others seemed to survive better than I. In those days I needed to stay busy and occupied or else I would think about him. Of course no windows and extreme boredom were no cure for that and I became crazy. So that evening when invited out I over served myself. Or maybe it was just that I had not been eating and had not been going out. He was boring and I put myself on the post break up diet routine. Involuntarily, but I did it. So to make myself feel more comfortable in a group of near strangers and to get over the mental torture I put myself through, I threw back a few Seven & Sevens. And then I got home and threw them all up. I literally made myself sick. I survived seven Mardi Gras without so much as a dry heave. But when life gives you a mind numbing seminar and a break up, you react the only way one should - you vomit three times and pass out. This was monumental at the time, because it had been ions since I upchucked. But I knew it was just my life making me sick and not the actual alcohol. And you know when your life makes you sick things are going pretty freaking well. That maybe you need to reevaluate and calm down. Put the bottle down and take a step back. Really think about your decisions.

So I did all that and decided to get back together with the fool a mere month later. I also decided that no one needed to know of this decision. Of course that is a whole other story. But as I told Shannon the other night, "You know it is a good relationship, when you have to keep it a secret." She totally agreed, "Yeah, this was the best secret relationship I have ever been in." And we both laughed over my mistakes and idiocy. But the thing is, and the conclusion we reached, was that no amount of discussion or prompting was going to change my mind about getting back with him. Clearly even my body rejecting yummy things like Seven & Seven was not going to teach me that lesson. Those are ideas you have to learn and mistakes you need to make on your own. Our friends cannot do it for us. That is the thing about bad relationships. We all get ourselves into them and count on our friends to help us out at the end of them, but the middle is where it gets sticky. We do those things to ourselves and will absolutely not hear it from anyone. Which is why I made that decision not to tell anyone. See if they don't know than they can't tell me all the bad things I am doing. Genius, pure genius. But really, I didn't want to hear it, not from any one and not from my friends. Which is why no matter how many friends you have, older, new or even older, there are certain things you need to do on your own. Even if they are riddled with mistakes. No matter how many friends you have or how well your friends know you, there are certain ideas and mistakes you need to endeavor on your own. It just does not matter what they have to say, you will go out on your limb, knowing they will be there to catch you and say not a word about the trip you just took.

I got this all from a ten minute conversation, but isn't that what friends are for? To remind you of all this and teach it to you one morsel at a time? They are there to keep you up to date, to laugh over your missteps and help you celebrate your now, new, old, blue or gold. They are there to help you remember your past, where you came from and where you are going, even if it is just to lunch on a Wednesday. Because really such plans are exactly how friends stay that way.

Labels: Friends/Family, Last Life

You know me now, at least glimpses of my life, and you probably have images and ideas. But if you knew me then at all of 16, you would see a girl with Phish t-shirts, a grey Ford Taurus station wagon with dancing bears, and a propensity to listen to CSN&Y. We all have those phases. Well maybe not us all I guess others could be different. For my college roommate it was R&B. Go figure. But they are phases. They make up our younger selves and the basis of our older memories. They create a part of who we are today and speak to a side of us. I can never forget that was who I was as a happy go lucky high schooler. I had the best friends in the world, who I spent all my days with. We drank and smoked and sat around philosophizing about life and love. We played and studied. Those girls knew me and we acted as a unit. I saw myself aging this way with long grey braids and Birkenstocks, never thinking twice about growing up or moving on. I brought these ideas with me to college attaching the stickers to my dorm room wall. Like all things I slowly grew and changed. My music taste varied and my wardrobe expanded from used Levi's. So much for leather sandals at least ones with straps. But I have that memory with me still and I can hear Sugar Magnolia, Friend of the Devil, and China Cat Sunflower and feel wonderfully terrifically hippy peacy lovingly great about my self, my life and where I have been. Those girls and those days were gratefully memorable and I can recall it all as if it were yesterday.

Shannon went first recalling details of being at home. Summer break for our soon to be Junior selves. She was lying on her bed when her dad entered her room requesting all her Grateful Dead CD's. He told her of the news and as a tribute would be playing their tunes on loop all day at the restaurant he owned.

Magoo went next and recalled being in the moving in stages of his house as a soon to be freshman in college. It was his first days of life in Tampa. In the August heat of Florida he was unpacking and had the T.V. on. Though not a fan, he recollected the moment clearly as well.

I finished our trio of stories. I was in Chicago at a summer debate program, in the basement of a building at Northwestern learning fun facts about immigration law. Our instructor walked in and announced the news and then pronounced "Phish Phorever" in bold letters across the chalk board. Words too that did not survive - but that is a whole 'nother story.

Over large ass bowels of pasta at our local Mac Grill with paper table clothes, crayons, and Magoo and Shannon's drawing lessons, we discussed those younger days of our pasts. All things from those high school times; parties, music, laser light shows, and other assorted paraphernalia. That and the Dead and how we all remember where we were when Jerry died. As if it is our generations JFK. Though Jerry was not our generation, at least not initially. But that was over ten years ago and we all remember. Vividly. Even Magoo, who vowed that he did not listen, had a memory. Isn't it amazing how we can recall these details? How certain moments in time seem to be frozen and we can recollect the time of day, weather, smells and tastes. Was he that monumental to our music and society? Was it the culture he promulgated and the ideas that went with it? I am sure that this could be the case for others. But maybe for us it was just a vestige of our youth. I know where I was because I was happy and in love with my teenaged self. I was good at being 16 and I had not a care in the world. I spent the ins and outs of my days with my friends enjoying our leisure days. I may have been a pseudo hippy who had liberal notions, but I had beautifully happy high school days. I can taste that feeling, which may be why I can recollect that moment in time so well. And for that I am Grateful.

Labels: Friends/Family, Last Life

I had another post planned for today, which will likely arrive tomorrow. But all day I have not been feeling it. I feel gross. Blah. Icky. My pants are too tight and it is my fault - I should not have worn them. I am just aggravated and my boss did nothing to alleviate that fact. The decision was prompted by a quick run at the NYTimes headlines. I was decided in my decision to hold off on something silly, though important to Magoo and I, in the wake of the Virgina Tech shooting.

To me college was a safe haven. We walked around freely and liberally and did whatever we wanted. I am not kidding - I saw people having sex in the quad outside my window. Seriously though we did not consider risks and safety, let alone a crazed gunman shooting at us. And this was New Orleans, a place with the highest murder rate in the country. While there were no walls and stranger danger was present, the University did an excellent job in making it a non-issue. At least to the point we did not have to think about it. It was a time for carefree carelessness and a time to revel and celebrate. Certainly this time of year when the weather changed and summer break was this close. We could taste the freedom, as we held classes on the grass and laid out during study breaks. For us it meant French Quarter festival back to back with Jazz Fest. Nothing short of perfection. And nothing to worry about, except maybe studying for your Spanish Final. But like today and my hatred of my clothing, really nothing to worry about. I know the same is true across the country littered with universities, including Virginia Tech. That is what college is about. It is the best thing about those blissful four years. That, in part, is what makes this so horrific. It is tragically sad what happened but it is worsened by the fact that college does not mean that anymore. Not to these kids, not to the ones who lost their lives and not to universities who now have to deal with this reality. The freedom of learning, living, growing, and relaxing was so harshly interrupted that it can never be the same. At least not there. That is so terrifically terrible.

So tomorrow it will be back to my reality, but for now I pause and think about real problems and issues and am thankful that mine are only the communication problems I have with the jefe. Truly thankful.

Labels: Last Life, Perspective

In law school we had Sunday breakfasts. For many weekends on end we all brought food, coffee and a George Foreman to cook the bacon. Mmmm bacon. It was then that I learned the joys of the meaty goodness. We gathered early, by 9 am, to prepare, enjoy and catch Meet the Press, central time. We were a mixed bunch of right and left but we all agreed to shut it and eat, at least most of the time because who wants their eggs with a side of Ann Coulter? It really was meant to be a hearty home cooked meal and a social hour before the library. I then agreed to host the Easter one. This one was later, more relaxed, and involved the Masters, as Easters do.

This year I agreed to host Easter again with promises of delicious food, good company and of course green jackets. No one needed to rush off to study anymore. Plus we wanted to make use of our new space - when we first took a look, our initial thought was this would be great to entertain. So we did this past weekend - even if we were not quite entirely settled. I spent Saturday night busying around, cooking, cleaning and making good use of the camera. On the menu, many many bottles of champagne, fresh fruit, lemony asparagus, sweet and spicy bacon, quiche Lorraine and spinach quiche (store bought thank you very much), passion fruit sorbet and boozy baked french toast. All as delicious as billed and all recipes gently lifted from some of my favorite food blogs. So enjoy our Easter as much as we did and check out some shots of the new digs. You can view the set here.

Labels: Friends/Family, Last Life

I hate that expression learning curve. What the fuck is a learning curve? Does it mean there is a curve that I have to get over to learn? Do I need to learn how to curve? What curve is it? Is it a hump? Is is a good thing? A bad thing? I don't fucking understand it. And I can't stand how it is thrown in my face daily. I want to take the curve and boomerang it back into their mouth. How is that for a curve? Did you learn anything from it?

I feel new and peanut butter and jelly-ish. I feel sticky and uncomfortable. I don't know where I belong. It is too early to cry at least with the door open. Some would say it is not worth crying about. But the unease and the gas forming an anxiety bulge in my stomach are worth the tears. I fixed the ergonomics problem. Maybe it was feng shui. I think it was both. I felt cramped, ugly, and uncomfortable. It helped make me feel less claustrophobic and less paranoid. Who can sit with their back to the door? How very Sopranos of me. It just irks me. What I can't fix is not knowing. What I am doing. If they like me. When I will eff up (because I will, we all do at some point). And why I have to eat alone. Like the new kid in kindergarten style, I sit alone and make miserable decisions about where to eat, what to eat, and if I will do it alone. Again. No that's not kindergarten. There everyone was your friend. You sat in circles and shared and your only worry was who got the red sleeping mat. This is not kindergarten, this is hating high school. Those uncomfortable awkward times when you didn't know a person and felt alienated. Which I didn't, so I guess ten years later I get initiated. It is never to late.

Which is funny because getting here felt like rush. Smiles and fake noises meant to impress. "I love your shoes" now translates that they like me. But 90 bucks at Charles David does not count, it says nothing about me. And I was told it is superficial and a sign of someone who does not want to get to know you, the real you, the one beyond you and the pointy black patent pumps. The magic is, that person is now here, working down the hall. Reminding me of these ideas and where I came from. Amazing when life does that to you. A little circle of a reminder of god's way of showing you that life works itself out, that it has a meaning and purpose. It helps to know that everything will be ironed out. That there is a place and time. Mine will come and I will feel more secure in it. More at home and welcomed. Like high school really was for me. That, with time, I will see things from her eyes and the way they were back then when I was less stuck. Maybe this is the learning curve. Probably not though and to be honest I don't really care. Fuck the learning curve.

Labels: Breathing, J.O.B., Last Life

I lived next door to Fidel Castro. In Miami in the 1990’s. I know the neighborhood can attest to this truism. At the house two doors down, the only non-ranch style house. It appeared to have two stories and the the purple Mustang in the drive. I suppose there is no accounting for taste. Especially in a house where a Cuban dictator lived. Who wouldn’t have thought that a bearded man wasn’t Castro? Not when we roamed the streets in army greens. My sister and I swear we saw a cigar, Cuban no doubt, hanging from his mouth and peaking out from the grey beard. In those days too, Castro’s prominence was questionable. The media never showed him and there had been rumors that he died. Well, we knew the truth, he was alive and talking leisurely strolls down 70th Avenue. Residing amongst millions of Cubans exiles and lapping in the sun of South Miami.

In Tampa we moved to the golf course neighborhood. New to us, but there were old school Southerners. Rambling homes with oak trees, brick streets, and Muffys. One next to us who spent her days at the Yacht club, drinking beverages with tonic and lunching. Or we would presume. Possibly mostly the beverages. As her husband later went bankrupt – which would drive me to drink. To welcome us to the neighborhood she “made” a peach cobbler. People like her make things by paying for them. She daintily crossed the lawn careful not to ruin her silk heels or trip over her alcohol. She warmly knocked and welcomed us. A kind gesture no doubt. But for the chunk of cobbler missing from the dessert. “Oh, my husband was hungry so I gave it to him.” Welcome to the neighborhood.

In a few days I get new neighbors. As we are set to move into a house in a new area of town. Yeah we are moving. (!) Out of the condo and into more space, where we don't need a storage unit and we have grass and a kitchen. We will have tables and not just one but a dining room one too. This means no more eating on the couch and and it means room to spread out and cook and relax. It also means I get to meet a new breed of people. To me they are like co-workers. You have no idea where they come from and they are bizarre and strange with some questionable fashion sense. Yet they are there daily and you spend significant amount of time with and near them. Some how they also become the fabric of your life. Weaving in and out and sharing their witticisms with you - often without a choice. You standing there awkwardly waiting to exit the conversation and be polite. They do make for good storytelling and insane frustration, but hopefully in this instance some good friends too. We all dream of those blocks with parties, friends, and wonderful street life. Or at least a lack of drama. Let’s just hope Castro and Muffy stay where they are.

Labels: Everyday Life, Last Life, Practice

In elementary school they were the mean girls, Nina Monroe and Lisa Berger. A tag team, arriving to our class in the same year. Revered because they were new and because of the triangle. The upside down triangle on the back pocket of their jeans. Guess Jeans. They had them and matching outfits from Limited Too and Burdines. But they were mean. Prank callers, hair pullers, and note passers. The notes were the worst, written in spite to instigate trouble and hatred between girls. Always. And it usually worked because we believed what they were saying. They were those girls. With that kind of power. But boy did they have fun. You know it because of the giggles, but also because you joined them from time to time. There was a rush, with the planning and the anticipation of how it would all turn out. Of course the smugness when their plan sprung into action on an unsuspecting victim. Pure seven year old bliss. Like riding your bike so fast that you can feel the wind in your hair with your mother's warnings echoed in your ears. Extreme fun, the kind with consequences. The best kind.

I met one again this summer. She was a summer associate and the only thing I could think about her was that she was mean, in the way that Nina and Lisa were mean. But she was 25. And in law school. This is not the law firm, cut throat mean I am talking about either. This was elementary school hair pulling and finger pointing antics. She just had that it about her. The one that says she never outgrew it. She truly was still a mean girl. In the way that I know she intimidates her friends. Gets her way through bully tactics. And it is allowed, until the girls grow tired and move on. She finding her next "friend". I have to think she is the word frenemy. We quickly grew tired of it all and she will not be joining us.

Do Nina and Lisa still do it? Have they toned it down? Or are they now mean women? I hear they live in New York City, where such behavior is groomed, displayed and cultivated to a lifestyle. I am certain they are still well styled individuals. But it has been 20 years, I have to give them the benefit that they have outgrown the note passing stages of 1989. But really, more so, am I still a mean girl? To people I dislike or I feel have hurt me. I gossip. I know I do and talk ill of others who I find humorous or even feel threatened by. This is different. At least I tell myself it is. This is not done to their face and even more importantly it is not used to harm or dismantle them. It is done for myself, usually to make me feel better. It goes no further. The mean girl outwardly projects onto it's victims. That is what makes it mean.

I know the rest of us have outgrown that, if it ever existed. We are mature adults. But does some of that still resonate? I just wonder how much we outgrow and how much we chose to retain. The lessons we learned as fourth graders, on how to intimidate and manipulate. Using our power to make others feel poor and ourselves feel rich, at least for that momentary high. Do we incorporate those techniques into our everyday, in ways to get a job, a date, a car, or a home. They are power moves after all. Used to place you above the others. But there is a difference between mean and savvy. Between nasty and smarts. That is not what mean girls are made of. I have learned these differences and appreciate the nuances. I try my best to live a decent, kind life. With no intention to harm or even manipulate. Knowing those scars run deep and how poorly it is received by the rest of society. It is just plain ugly and there is nothing more that I hate than ugly. But there are flashes and moments when I can feel the mean. When I am doing to my friends what I learned on a playground in the sunshine of Miami and sometimes it feels pretty good. Especially when I am just retaliating. It feels excellent. Like wind in my not yet died blonde hair. It feels like freedom. Of course there are consequences. But damn, mean can be fun. The best kind of fun.

Labels: Last Life, Perspective

When I moved to NOLA in 1997, it was solely to attend school. Not to live in a city, per se. I was going to college. (!). Exclamation point included. I was dead set on leaving Florida, pinkie swearing on the corner of Dixie Highway that it would not later be used against me in a guilt trip. It never was. But there I stood all of 18 years, thinking I knew every damn thing there was to know about every thing. I swear I knew everything. And I was going to college.

What I didn't know was there was this entire city of people, places, and history that I was going to be introduced to. That would come well after I spend my requisite nights at frat parties and the Boot. Weeks and weeks and weeks there. But eventually I would take my nose out of the vat and would learn of this wonderful world built around one of the greatest cities. Where history meets personality and there is culture in every space you turn.

What I didn't know was that the first two people I befriended would not make it through the first year. Both owing their departure to some nose candy and an inability to handle the consumption of the city and of the affluent influences of Tulane's study body. I too had no idea. I had a foundation, I had seen it. To a degree as a highschooler. Lexis' in the parking lot and party hopping at the age of 17. But this was country club, private school, nuevo riche with all the trappings that came with it. We drank keg beer in backyards out of red plastic cups. They did coke. A whole different ball game that claimed each individual separately. I would learn that Tulane was not for everyone. Also claiming two of my suite mates after the first year. For totally different reasons, but still it was not meant for them. Really that glamour does not translate to sustainability. Reasons we chose the school in the first place do not match what our day to day experience are. On all ends of the spectrum

What I didn't know was that when I asked for a restaurant referral on the first parent's weekend was that there was not really a place called Emeralds. In those days before google, I tried my hardest to find this place that came so highly recommended. What I didn't know was that she meant Emeril and that he was a cooking legend and his food was a phenom. Something that I will learn as we later enjoy his BBQ shrimp and visit and revisit his restaurants across the continent.

What I didn't know was how much I would hold so close those memories and times. I think back fondly on my undergraduate days despite all the turmoil, trauma, and young girl mistakes. More importantly is how much you learn in college about, well, about life. Things I swore I already knew as a so so very sophisticated high school grad. I had spent a lot of time discussing such with my very brilliant colleagues at Miami Palmetto Senior. I knew everything about everything. So I went to university to major and learn of macro economics and Latin American studies. But that really became secondary to all the education going on around me. Since what we truly learn are lessons about people, behaviors, friendships, our own limits and strengths and of course great food.

Labels: Last Life, Perspective

It is Friday night. Yeah, one of those Friday nights. I am cleaning up the Annie’s (cooked with broccoli) from dinner and getting ready to make these treats. Willing to give it a try, learning later they are difficult to serve. Too cold makes them hard to eat, too soft makes them messy. But in the moment it is fun to bang and mash the pots and pans around. I am overcome with a memory and an image. Instead of standing at the kitchen counter in a tee shirt and bare feet, sipping a red, and mixing cream cheese and Cool Whip, I am standing at a bar. Holding a martini, sipping softly and standing awkwardly. Countless nights spent like that, waiting. For something. Or someone. I always felt that there was something else out there, as I stood in three inch heals waiting for it. I looked around, half listening to my girl friend's chatter and discussion. Waiting for that moment. People pass by, smile politely. On occasion, an offer of a drink or a pick up line. That is occasionally. I traveled in packs and appeared un-inviting. At least I have to think so. I never met people at bars. I thought it was a possible, every night I went out and dressed. Applying perfume, eye make up, and cleavage. But it never happened, not that way. Instead I stood there, enjoying the ladies company and laughter. Always darting my eyes and looking for something. Waiting. I think I was waiting for this.

Labels: Last Life

In a free association moment, I saw a crushed cardboard coffee cup in the middle of the street with the words Joe written on the side in bold print and a few steps away was the black lid that once topped the cup off, now also smashed by the traffic. This triggered a memory of a guy I went to law school with. Whose name I cannot recall. He dated and eventually married an Anne. I remembered hers because, well, she was memorable. She wore plastic Notre Dame shower shoes, everywhere. Everyday. Including with a satin dress to the law school formal, or Prom as we liked to call it. I get the whole alumni thing and I know those Fightin' Irish are pretty passionate, but no one understood her. Chris. Thinking about her and those shoes, his name popped into my head. Chris carried the biggest coffee mug I have ever seen. It was white, with a red handle and top and must have been purchased at a gas station of sorts, as their logo was splashed on the side. He arrived every morning to Professional Responsibility with a cup of coffee the size of his head. Literally. It was enormous. I sat there wondering how he held it (I learned nothing in Professional Responsibility and this could be why). I know I would spill such a monster of a cup. Hell, I spill the grande size 'bucks without even taking a step. So I wondered. How did he transport it in his car? It could not possibly fit into those tiny cup holders. I also wondered how he made that much coffee? Did he have giant sized appliance at his house too? The big-as-your- head coffee maker by Black and Decker? And, and, how did he drink it all before it got cold? There was so much liquid in there, no way he could enjoy all that coffee. It could not still be hot coffee at the end. It did not seem possible. Which was why I always believed it was not actually coffee in that cuppa Joe. He was just like that. After all he married Notre Dame. Or maybe I was the one with the spiked coffee this morning.

Labels: Last Life, Practice

If we had made it we would be living there, most likely. My clothes would be cramped into a guest room closet with an old comforter and our diplomas, down the hall from the bedroom. The house decorated like you, just you. With my ideas, tastes, and tokens of the past 27 years stored in the other guest bedroom, the one where your brother lived. You would still be attached to your parents, using their house for gym equipment and meals. Your after work routine. Not mine. I have to create my own, like it always had been. It would be unaltered by my presence or our seriousness. I would be a guest, but not welcomed. Your mother cannot handle the competition. So I would eventually avoid it and make excuses about work, my family and personal time. Which is the way they wanted it anyway. Despite that they would be just a mile away. I would see her at Publix as I am now the one buying you a toothbrush and diet coke and she will resent me because that was her role for thirty years and some how my choice in diet coke is wrong. Because everything I do will be wrong. When in reality it was us that was wrong. And it felt wrong. I hated your small toes. I sat nightly on the worn brown leather couch, watching terrible action movies, and wondered if those were feet I could look at forever. You later handled that inquiry and cut us off at the knees.

If we made it, would the linen covered table clothes have turned? Would the good start to out number the bad. When we were together, the bad was there living amongst us hanging in your closet next to the ties and dress shirts aligned neatly. It should not have been bad, not in the beginning, not like it was. There were moments of glimpses of good. Where I sought happiness and reveled in the gaps. I believed that would be what we would be. When it fell together coherently lined neatly like the books stacked on the shelf. I truly thought it would do that someday. I was wrong.

If we made it would you continue to bring me orange juice in bed while I lounged. Offering to make coffee and instructing I stay put. Sleeping in the bed you initially invited me into our first night. At that time I declined. Thereafter, it was the best sleep I got on the soft comfortable expensive sheets, next to you. I took it as a sign of us. But the bed was the only thing inviting in that relationship and the only time you let me in. I would relax in that bed until I have to tip toe through the kitchen to the bathroom and sneak a moment by the coffee pot. The day started with us laughing and embracing. Would it remain like that? Or would the relationship slide as the day progressed, as it always did. By night, we sat in silence, tired from the strain of the day and our burdens. I thought this too would get better. But we never made it that far, we lived in the strain, our waking hours spent spooning it out. We never got past that. Really, how could we?

If we made it would the small tokens continue; remembering the pearls and roses. Each a small gift that brought smiles and false promises. An innuendo that was not there, though I believed and willed it to be so. Carrying the gift and an image with me. Thinking that would be us when it all worked out. At times you meant it and expressed it as you could. The phone calls and text messages, "I am so proud of you" and teasing me about my quirks. But not really getting them right, since they weren't my quirks, since you never really knew me. You could not know me. To know me would mean to let me in. When it was your world all the time. You, you, you. And you never bothered to make room for me.

So, would we have made it? Would there have been an us, if we got the chance I wanted us to have. Would I have been given space in the guest closet next to the old musical equipment, when I was never given room in your life or your heart?

Labels: Last Life, Practice

Not like Britney and Kevin, but the word I would use to describe my life one year ago. Playing this game, I would say it was a sleep deprived anxiety induced heart palpitations chaotic. I had my one year, "I am a lawyer" review at work. And I had not idea what to expect, I had never been reviewed, at least not openly and to my face. And don't particularly like criticism. I feared the harshness of the words would lead to tears which would lead to embarrassment. Earlier that week I was at lunch with a new friend, when he offered a dinner and a plan for Saturday night. But I was planning on a trip to L.A., a real vacation. Not a day for laundry or one at the beach. This was vacation. Whole multiple days off from work basking in the glory of sunshiney movie stars. Two days before that transcontinental Delta flight, I learned my 93 year old grandfather had taken a turn for the worse. Flights off. We are on alert and Mom flew immediately to Montreal to be with the family. Instead of vacation, I could accept the dinner date extended earlier.

This was my first dinner, my first let's call it real date, with Magoo. Under the crazy pretense of a relative on his death bed. That Saturday night we dined, laughed, cried, and closed down the restaurant. I revealed in the first breath of the date that I hated basketball. He displayed his dismal sense of direction. Five days later I accepted a second date. In the interim, I also accepted an offer presented via IM at work, "Anyone want a beagle?". The message came through on a Tuesday morning, that a six year old beagle was up for adoption. This was how and when I came to meet Ginger. I lay awake those first few nights in a constant state of anxiety. Worried I would not be able to handle the responsibility of another creature. Worried she would commit the P trifecta; pee, poop and puke. But like all parents, you adjust and deal. 'Cuz yeah they all happen. I also stressed that he would not be a dog person and I just blew something by quickly adopting a dog in a matter of minutes. Then, I rationalized that I did not want to be with someone in the end who didn't like dogs. I had dogs in my future, so if you too wanted to be in the future, you too must love dogs. Just like the movie. Seemed simple but stress can play cruel tricks on your psyche and your heart. Mine raced and pounded out of my chest every night for a week. Pure sleep deprived chaos.

Date two. He learned via e-mail that there has been an addition to the family. Instead of flowers or candy he showed up at the door with a dog toy, a squeaky basketball. A present for her and a joke for me. Clever. I love clever especially in gift giving, it shows smarts and heart. And he had me at the squeak. Again, we close the place down while downing five too many classes of Sangria. Small plates of tapas and not so small talk. This was the real deal. After the chairs had been stacked on the tables and the staff swept the floor around us, we return to what is now our home to walk the dog together arm and arm, buzzed from the wine. Within the next week, my grandfather passes away. That la la la L.A. vacation turned into a week long trip to snow bound Montreal. Not the glam trip planned, but a necessary family event and a fact of life. He lived a hearty loving life, to an age we can all hope for, in good health for a majority of those years, accompanied down the road of life by his wife of fifty some odd years. A celebration of his life and not a mourning. All the time, awaiting for me at home was a new man, who diligently dog sat a dog he barely knew for a girl he may have liked.

Many sleepless night were had during those four weeks. The review was less than stellar, causing more panic and a fresh set of tears, both in an out of the office. I swore to Magoo life was not always this way. He made it through that time, including crying at that first dinner and urine on his carpet (Ginger's, not mine). And here we are one year later. Ginger still pees and I have a pesky review right around the corner. Somethings never change. We move on and in together. Holding and helping each other through it all. At least that is the idea. Since there is always going to be something chaotic. But we have each other and maybe that is where the chaos lives. We just learn to manage and control. Wheel and deal. Whine and dine. Coping is what draws us together and the chaos finds a home on the couch cushions next to the pillows and the hand knit throw. It lives there dormant and cozy. Controlled by the balance, waiting to appear again when the timing is not right. We just hope there are less tears.

Labels: Friends/Family, Last Life, Mr. Magoo

1984

I had a broken leg. As a kindergartener, I determined I was capable of climbing to the top of the fireman’s pole. Like my male class mates, once on top of the pole, I knew I could jump off. Forget shimmying back down, the boys dangled from the top bar and let go, landing on their feet. So I too dangled and let go. But I landed on my ankle, smashed it against a rock, and fell over onto the side. My mom was called to the school, as I limped off the playground. I waited, able to join the class back inside for the afternoon art project; rolling a marble, dipped in paint, around a shoe box. See, I’m fine. I don’t need any help. I was taken to Dr. Geoffrey. My parent’s dear friend. I hesitated at the idea of a cast. How was I going to continue to play? While of course it was necessary, I stood firm and refused the use of crutches. No way, I was not going to look weak. I won the crutches battle and even grew to love and accept my cast, letting my friends sign it. After six weeks I was healed. The doctor removed the cast and I ran freely through the playground again. Trying to catch up with the boys and match what they did.

1991

I had a broken finger. He was a crush and a friend of a friend and I determined he liked me. We must have been flirting. As much as 12 year olds can flirt in shorts, sneakers and our JCC camp t-shirts. This meant we tried to touch when we could. Passing each other at swim time or on our way to pottery class. He grabbed my hand, sending tingles down my spine. He didn’t let go as I passed by chatting with my girlfriends. Laughing and pretending I didn’t notice that he paid me attention. Also not noticing that he had yet to let go and in the process bent my finger backward. I hesitated reporting it. How was I going to continue to play? So I kept my mouth shut and proceeded to my sleep over date at Dani’s house, Dr. Geoffrey’s daughter. By night the pain was too much and the swollen finger was impossible to hide, especially from an orthopedic surgeon. He wrapped and splinted it. I was taken out of activities for two weeks. Not a way to spend your summer camp days. But the finger healed and the splint came off. I was able to freely hold hands again. By that time I had a whole new crush and someone else to chase around the camp grounds.

2002

I had a broken heart. He was a love and I was determined this was going to work. We planned and he promised. He whispered of my talents and my beauty, swearing it would be forever. Until it was not true anymore and forever came on a Saturday in June. This time Dr. Geoffrey wasn’t there to cast or splint. It is not because a surgeon cannot mend a broken heart; but because he passed away in 1996. That is a whole different broken and a terrible type of ache. This. Now this, was a broken heart that cannot be casted, splinted or repaired. Unless you count whiskey or even tequila. But those are temporary and not a fix. This is not the kind of broken that allows you to show it openly like a band aid or stitches. Unless you count un-washed hair and puffy eyes. Even those don’t excuse a broken heart. So really these pains and breaks cannot be treated by a doctor in a white coat. This is not the kind of ache that gets you out of work or special parking privileges. It does not mean you get to miss play time or sit out swim classes. Life has to go on. And it does all around you.

This time I had to accept the pain, I couldn’t refuse a cast or pretend it didn’t hurt. The pain was too much. A broken heart meant that blood stopped flowing and my body stopped functioning. With legs, I had two. With fingers, I had ten. This was my only heart and it hurt. That pain echoed in the empty of the broken space, while people danced around merrily enjoying their lives.

This kind of broken takes a cliché to fix; time. And that was the only way for this kind of broken to ever go away. The schism of heart gradually moves closer back together like a fracture unionizing. While the opposite happens; the boyfriend who created the break gradually moves farther away, the union you shared grows more distant. The schism between you grows wider. It has to happen that way. Otherwise, the heart remains broken and there is no room to mend. Kicking him and those memories out, means there is space for the heart to become whole again. Pumping and functioning properly. You move out of bed, away from the wine bottle. The tears stop, your hair gets washed and you can leave the house. You become part of that world again, it stops moving with out you. New people, new events, new ideas all take form. With time and distance the heart finally re-grows. Stronger, healthier and ready to pump out a greater stronger love. For someone new, who has something new to offer. Someone who makes it skip a beat and pump faster. It is healthy and strong now. It is a renewed heart that is primed to chase after a new boy. Ready for a time when you can keep up with their activities, with no broken legs, hold their hands with no broken fingers, and sustain the relationship with no broken hearts.

Labels: Last Life, Practice

If we were in New Orleans, it would mean sweatshirts, library pants and the same t-shirt and bra for three days straight. Pulled from a pile in the floor where they were dropped the previous night. Well, morning really, since studying never ended anytime before midnight. Quitting any earlier meant we didn’t feel complete. It is the time of year you fall into bed, your mind heavy with theories and pneumonic devices derived to remember. So tired you can’t think; so awake because all you can do is think. We would awake and repeat day after day. For almost three weeks. We would Starbucks at ten, two and eight. Three times a day, each visit seeking a caffeine infusion, a break and a glimpse of the real world. Christmas tunes, blind dates and turtle necks. The trappings of how the other half lives. We would laugh, make promises of our lives post-finals and encourage ourselves to get through three more hours, one more week, or a single final exam. We would be there for each other. That is what friends do. That is what law students do. That is how it was in New Orleans.

If we were in New Orleans, we would be hunched over a laptop typing and recalling, analyzing, outlining and praying. The weather turned cool, but we never noticed. It was always cool on the fourth floor of the library. The lights were strung, but it was all a blur in the car on the way to our carrels. There, there in law school were generic stale fluorescent lights. The same people, the same faces and no one knew it was December. It was just, “what exam do you have next?” Monotony spiced with a change in subject; contracts, criminals and intellectual property. Despite this we would take solace in each other. Sharing jelly beans to pass the time and lap up the sugar. Agreeing to a noon lunch and place for a sandwich. Helping to hold books and computers on the long walk back to the cars in the dead of night. Asking each other those damned hypotheticals and attempting to sort out those questions with no right answers. Crying when the stress was too much and we just, “knew we failed our Torts final”. We would be there for each other. That is what friends do. That is what law students do. That is how it was in New Orleans.

These were the times we prepared for the rest of the semester. Otherwise, it was Sunday’s where you made homemade scones and hand whipped cream topped with fresh berries from the Whole Foods. We dine while preparing meatballs to stew for dinner. We then curl up on Ikea with a third cup of coffee, flannel pants and enjoy our friends in Beverly Hills. The 90210 gang are our separate memories enjoyed together to make new memories. We may part ways with plans to call our moms and go to the gym. Only to meet up in a few hours for study groups and planned meals of pasta with gobs of cheese. At the end of the day, at the end of exams, at the end of it all we would be there for each other. That is what friends do. That is what law students do. That is how it was in New Orleans.

Labels: Last Life, Practice

The first night we were together we lay in bed drunk. Talking in that way that 4 am makes sense. The way that those first few moments of a new man make sense. Lying there sharing ideas and stories. He says, "I don't have a religion. Duke basketball is my religion." In that early moment of the early morning I knew we were never going to last. That didn't make sense.

What I didn't know, until that point, was how I felt so strongly about the importance of religion. His lack of one, was troubling. It is not important what yours is or who you consider a god. It is important you have one. It means a belief system and a foundation. It is something that roots you and a system you can teach your children. A fondness for college basketball is one thing. To consider it your religion is a whole different story. It apparently also means that you will be devout about spending time watching, talking, and reading about it. After all Coach K is your god, you must treat him accordingly. With all due respect and proper time for prayer and reflection. That may mean endless hours watching games, reviewing play history, reading on the Internet and glorifying past wins. That too was a sign. One that would come later, as the 4 am conversation was in May and as I learned there 'aint no basketball in May.

Don't misunderstand. He was a good person with values, kindness and heart. We had good times. That was a relationship I don't regret. But such a bold statement was apparently a warning for me. One I didn't even know I had. Even in a drunken sleep depraved state. Clearly there were other warning signs. But I already knew how it would end, so why not enjoy the ride? And what a ride it was. Men who worship basketball as gods also know how to drink beer, make 4 am a new bed time, set up stadium seating in their living rooms, and beer pong tables in their driveways. It was several months of heavy partying, a constant stream of people, places and friends. There was always something to do and when there wasn't he made it up. He turned The Bachelorette into a betting game. He decided Martin Luther King Day was a reason for a keg. He even got me to play flag football. A feat achieved by no one past or present.

As with all good things, that too had to come to an end. I figured graduation was the time to do so. He apparently believed otherwise. And discussed as much with his friends. Who are equally as drunk, at most times of the day. After a night on Bourbon street, I was the recipient of a 3 am door bell ring and I let up a disaster of an individual. He smelled of beer, b.o. and cigarettes. He lost a contact lens somewhere. He was post-bachelor party, and post-strip club, and I was half asleep. What happens thereafter is up to your imagination. A few short hours later, laying in bed again, his phone rings. This time the bedroom conversation, is between him and a friend. But the result is the same as it had been a year earlier; I knew it was not meant to be. This was my deductive reasoning, gleaned from my training as a lawyer. Or simply the fact that cell phones are notorious for allowing others to hear your every word. So I heard this, "you are with her? I thought you said last night you went there to break up."

And there it was. Not said to my face, but the message was clear. Maybe that is what you get in a world where NCAA is the bible. Or when you chose to continue a relationship when you even know that it was not meant to be. I don't really think so.

There is not much more of a lesson. Shit happens. Relationships end. And that was inevitable, especially here. Where geography and personalities were never meant to be long lasting. We meet certain people who touch are lives and leave an impression. Or at least some crazy stories, ridiculous pictures, and an ability to watch eight consecutive hours of football. It does not always have to be meaningful and spiritual. It can just be fun. Sometimes there passion is not ours. And clearly where Duke blue is involved, we differ on what spiritual is. From that I learned I truly am not a fan of college basketball. Which has come to be a running theme, just ask Magoo about that. Who knew Florida would be a powerhouse? I also learned how important some values are to me. For that I am thankful.

Labels: Last Life

I thought I was pregnant. He was a doctor. A brain surgeon. There was another, a Fourth of July rendezvous. I had two tests in my car, EPT's. Picked at a CVS in the middle of town. I had driven to the levy, not those, the ones by the Lake. Through City Park over to CC's in MidCity. Now it was August, four weeks later. I wasn't sure about him and I wasn't sure about his feelings toward me. There were nerves and a sense of anxious but I don't recall steamy. There was cool, at least in the air. There was no humidity, despite the time and place. Insted I recollect oak trees and a slight breeze. The heat didn't stick, though I stored a secret, that clung to me and was packaged in a plastic bag. I sat outside, iced coffee, MPRE practice questions. An upcoming test. A real one with multiple choices, bubbles, and pencils. We chatted; his notes, my books, our lives. I eventually agreed to sushi, with a stranger. To Frenchman. Dinner and rolls. Still a stranger. But less strange. We parted, early Saturday evening.

I pass the tests. That means negative, no lines. It's not someone else's problem. The week passes, with a phone call and plans. Later agreeing to meet, "I know a bar where surfers hang out." He was wrong, there are no surfers in Louisiana. Drinks surrounded by CBD yuppies and New Orleans drunks. At Lucy's there amongst surfboards, with plastic mermaids in our margaritas, he reports he " beats up gay people". There placed in between stories of Yale and patients. He has a flight to Houston. I am given a lucky break. We again part ways, still very much a stranger. This time very strange. I knew then I needed to give the other one a chance, he had not yet failed me.

I fail the test. The MPRE. I don't know it yet, but I could sense it. I knew I didn't pass that exam. I also knew to refuse his phone calls. How can you beat anyone up? Really, who is that evil? Gay people? Prep School, Ivy League and Medical School? Neurosurgeon? Ummm excuse me? That is digusting even. You failed all my tests. And this isn't even brain surgery. This one is a simple no-brainer. I can't even begin to imagine what is wrong with you. All that education and training. Seriously more breeding then two people combined. I guess you can't teach class or tolerance. Certainly can't pay for it. Who admits to it too, after three conversations with a stranger. I guess in some ways it is good to get out there. "Oh you beat gay people, well "I chew my fingernails". We all put our flaws out there to examine. Take it or leave it. See what you can handle. Me, gay beating is definitely a no.

I was given the chance the retake the test, a chance to pass. I later did. Using his tools and help. He helped me pass. While we will later fail, at that time I decided to give him a chance. This one. This one got no more chances. He failed. He is just strange. A true stranger. Fucked up and strange.

Labels: Last Life

I am having a Paul Simon kinda day. Never been lonely, never been lied to. It's the rain. The words cling to me and wrap me in their warmth and familiarity. Waking up to it does that to me. It is a whole different animal, having it come during the day. That middle of the night boom, puddles and grey in the a.m. Cozy tidy fixings. I had a crap of a day yesterday, too long and too much. Words like gingivitis were used. I had no lunch. It is okay that the rain interrupted my sleep, it just left me groggy and waining. Hearts and Bones. The sleep never really left me and I have been wandering through the day in a tired hangover. Still feeling like I am there piled underneath the comforter. The music filters through my computer speakers and allows me to revel in that feeling. It reminds me of home, my parents and Miami. One and one half wandering Jews.... Not just the warmth of the purple sweater, my blue wrap draping my shoulders and the fog of the day, but the memories of childhood. These were my parents tunes fed to me in doses. Their sounds become my past and draw me into the comfort of the day. It is the best I can do from a leather bound office chair. Indigo Girls do it too. These were my tunes, though. Chosen myself, using the tools they lent me. It gives the same resonance and jerks me back to days in a pale blue bedroom. A funeral and black dresses, shoes and tears. It was these songs that she said "were perfect music for our mood". Today is not somber; it is cozy. Music makes those memories, gives us the snug, lets us remember, lets us enjoy, lets us feel...old friends scattered like book ends....

*Yes I know the title is The Fortunes.

Labels: Everyday Life, Last Life