Happy Hour

A waitress in a cocktail dress sets a steaming pepperoni pizza in front of three women, two are wearing sneakers and sweatpants, and the third is touting a dainty black dress with three inch nude heels. Retelling escapes from the workday, they’re clinking glasses; watching the rain through the large glass windows. Twenty-something and thirty-something’s are perched flirtatiously, the restaurant is crowded with that desired chaos; suits and sundresses are recovering from a hectic workweek…. The three think they're alone....

Until a familiar button down waltzes by..... Watching this man carefully, they expect him to join the group of routy guys shouting at the TV, but he walks past the men, snaking through the mess of people, he makes his way to a blond women. She is wearing straw sandals and not much makeup.

And before I can turn to my friend, my own heart sinks… but before she can force a smile, she closes her eyes for a brief moment. I reach for her hand, but she recoils; her entire body is in a freeze frame, because a nightmare just came true. She stares at the scene unfolding, straight from a 90210 episode with awe…. Almost as if she had been waiting for the moment it would all unravel… for the moment she could prove it was all wrong.

The man who walked by the three of us, the man whose eyes are locked with a complete stranger is the same man who was whispering sweet nothings not but 72 hours before. To her. In his bed. His back is turned toward us; he has no clue that we’ve has spotted him. The blond woman’s body is leaning toward him, she tilts her head back in laughter, and her recently conditioned locks sway in perfect feminity. And I’m pretty sure all three of us are going to vomit.

Why? I could go on and on, rehashing stories similar to this with vivid detail, the untold and still secret stories that could rip apart colorfully designed futures packed full of diapers and engagement rings. And yes, do I like the fact that men and women go around crushing each other’s hearts without second thought? Heavens No… but I’m no idiot to matters of the heart. And for once I ask myself… why can’t we just go around the world and be honest with each other… about our intentions, our objectives, agendas, whatever motivates us in life… but it hit me last week, before we can be honest with each other, we must overcome the challenge of being honest with ourselves. Often I see people with baggage – oh all sorts, designer, second hand, some light and others’ in desperate need of therapy running all over town into the arms of somebody new every night. They justify this romping with the hope of locating, “the one”. With great confusion and utter despair they believe unearthing the ying to their yang will solve all their problems. But it isn’t two halves that make a perfect pair… people need to be whole before they can give half of themselves (and their baggage) to anyone else.

But oh, it is so much easier said then done… to saunter into a first date with blown dry hair and a sexy grin and a few witty lines? Then, it’s easy to imagine perfection. Whenever a student walks into a class - they all have A’s, but we’re tested. Then arrives the trials and tribulations – accept or deny, pick up the phone or hit ignore, and finally arrives the “vulnerable”. The discovering of the messy vehicle, whistling in the shower, an addiction to ice cream. Oh.. The months that you tiptoe into the bathroom and tinkle quietly because God forbid he find out you’re human.

Let me tell you… there is nothing worse than standing at Nordstrom, in front of a full-length mirror, the kind with bright overhead lights, completely naked… why? It exposed every detail, flaw, scar or scratch…. And isn’t it so much more fun to dress in body-friendly threads? So often, I think that I’d prefer to hide under the covers, but wouldn’t it be sooo liberating to be completely accepted? Ass and all?

And not that my dear friend failed to accept…. we all knew a nasty secret…. She did something far worse… far more fatal than not risking it all for what appears to have lasting potential…. She knew, deep down that he wasn’t right to begin with – sure he was about 90% okay…. He was attractive, successful, considerate, and funny… but he was missing that 10% critical ingredient, the ache. That ache when you want someone so much that you don’t want anyone else.

She always left one eye open for another male specimen.. Could it have worked out? Maybe… Should she have left him alone without barraging him with interrogating questions? Should there have inherently been more trust? Or rather, was the 10% missing the breach of trust to begin with? When we know something is wrong, or more importantly not right, do we go out of our way to locate the 10% in no man’s land… do we try to conjure it up? So we bridge the missing ache with babies and prenumps?

I don’t have any answers…. Only a suggestion. This is coming from a woman who is a hopeless pragmatic and a diehard romantic…. Wrapped up in a commitment phobe’s frame of mind. Try to ditch the to do lists and resumes prerequisites and be honest with yourself. And most often you’ll realize that this next date, the next dinner, the next whatever isn’t’ going to suddenly mold into amazing… the rule of holes, stop digging. People need to give up when they want to be in something so badly… and it simply, won’t fit.

But then there are the times that you push it away… too afraid that maybe; there isn’t a real reason to fake it. And maybe sometimes if you’re honest with yourself, and honest with the other person, after you’ve endured the ice cream and the messy vehicles, the late night banter and the confusing details of our pasts that really make no difference at all, You realize that you’re not fighting for something to suddenly happen, waiting for the moment to trip across them at a bar, flirting with someone else, and make you feel like dirt… you’re not spending months making that 10% “right”…

You realize that you’ve been waiting to make sure that that 10% was never wrong after all.

You Write?

Like drool. Vowels and consonants slip off my tongue splattering on the page. I love it.

His blue eyes are glistening like polished glass, reflecting a youthful energy. A small man with a hunchback and a khaki beret is sitting at a corner table. He can’t be younger than 75. Sipping on his coffee, he is devouring the sophisticated dialogue around him with a blue felt pen and a black leather notebook. He blends into the Tuesday afternoon, he is invisible.

A romance writer in a wheel chair, or a war veteran scripting anthologies about peace, we’re telepathic. Unassuming, we tuck our vernacular in our back pocket and hide behind laptops and headphones. Just another nobody flittering away on a keyboard. But any real writer will recognize when they’ve crossed paths with another.

I watch his wrinkled hand dance across the lined paper, and without hesitation he flips the page. For a moment he lifts his brow and glances at me, acknowledging my presence, before he quickly returns to his scribbling.

Sure, some say that photographs capture a moment, and they do. But words seize emotions and detail, time is imprisoned in a snow globe. Words can be carried across oceans and centuries and languages. From a parent to a child, a leader to his country, a lover to a lover…

Chances are his words will be found in a dusty cardboard box by a nephew and tossed in a garbage bin. But maybe in a hundred years, his journals will be discovered by an aspiring poet and studied in high school English classes.

That is the beauty of words leftover, they allow strangers to climb inside of the pages and experience life from the eyes of Anne Frank’s attic, or a psychologist’s study on biometrics, or the dungeons of Harry Potter. Sometimes great stories can manipulate us into believing our boring lives are boring. Sometimes they inspire us to do great things.

I hate to stereotype (okay, I don’t hate it so much), but TV personalities, musical artists, chefs, whomever… those creative personalities tend to be predictable. But writers, this is why I love to meet writers, they arrive in all shapes and sizes and demographics. Writers are unpredictable.

What is that single quality, which has united writers? Is it narcissism perhaps? The joy we experience when rereading a perfectly constructed sentence? I once assumed it a curiosity; a need to contemplate or analyze, obsessed with solutions and enigmas. But throughout my contemplation I haven’t an answer…. While all writers succumb to the universal, unequivocal, equalizing sport, and our identity is veiled behind semi-colons and imprints. There are no real rules and all is fair game.

I used to believe that I wrote purely for the intent of my content being read. MY content was specifically designed to cater to the woman running on a treadmill with Attention Deficit Disorder. I’d consolidate quotes and minimize statistics; I abandoned color, leaving stories lifeless.

Staring at the hardcover books collecting dust on my bookshelf, I attach a feeling to each title… Even though these books haven’t been touched in years, their guts still make me shudder… I close the pages disturbed or enlightened.

The Internet and blogs are riddled with political dribble; it’s temporary, so transient. Sure, stamp a date on history. But do all these opinions (which I’m equally guilty of imploding) tug on our emotions like tweezers to a stubborn hair follicle? No, we extract a decent catch phrase, but we’re still unaffected. We forget.

Good books don’t condemn or congratulate humanity, but rather examine it carefully. Writing that ignores the brain and instead penetrates the heart is an endangered species. Amazon is bleeding paperbacks with authorial entitlement, outlined with clear and concise arguments – handpicked to coincide with movie releases. But the litanies that trump movies and songs and other art forms aren’t written in a hope to change the world.

These books are simple. They’re just stories about life.

Alone: Joan Didion picks apart the meaning of her husband’s death, and life with honesty.
Denial: F. Scott Fitzgerald reveals the power of denial through pitiful and heartless characters.
Exploitation: Truman Capote investigates his own experiences and destroys relationships to give the world disturbing and exciting stories.
Forgiveness: William Styron created Sophie’s Choice, explicating describes how a mother could logically face her most terrifying fear.
Acceptance: Jean-Dominique Bauby built the The Diving Bell and The Butterfly one blink at a time. He left the world with the thoughts he no longer could say.

I know… I’m selfish. I’m not a super hero, or a starving orphan. What about the tale tailored for the American girl, who is faced with normalcy? Trust me: I'm plagued by safety and education.... I'm spoiled with pop culture's reassurance that I'm executing that "twenty-something" dream.

But, when all is said and done, after my flu shots and vacations and I’ve fallen exhausted into my duvet, I cannot hear quiet…

I’m ravenous, still starving for more. And then I'm reminded that I'm just one of millions... When in the middle of the night I'm stirring and restless and cannot locate stillness with an ambien and a red glass of wine, I put pen to paper and empty the blank pages until my hand aches and I can think of nothing more...

Unlike real estate or accounting or artistry, I realize there is something all writers share.

Writers are hunters. The world is a forest and a plot is the prey and the bullet is our final sentence.

Throughout the centuries and countries and languages I understand that writers are nothing more than nomads. We struggle through unnecessary terrain and question things that have long since been answered. We're stubborn and prideful. But we love, and we love hard.

The old man slowly stands up and tucks his leather journal under his arm. With his watercolor eyes he glances my way, and tips the brim of his hat. I do not know where it is he is from, or where he is going, as I watch him wander away.

The wrong type of luck...

Ralph Lauren’s model Nacho Figueras can be spotted weekly, Madonna vacationed here last summer; there are stories of Prince Charles, presidents and movie stars. A whole gammet of influential people really. It’s invitation only when cameras and gossip columnists are permitted at 3667 120th Avenue South. The address belongs to the International Polo Club.

My naked toes sink into a thick carpet of Kentucky blue grass. I sit on a blanket far away from the grand stands, but the sounds of muscular bay and chestnut horses galloping at full speed on the acres of manicured fields reach me perfectly.

I don’t know that later tonight a handsome guy in his twenties will be driving home to celebrate his sister’s birthday. His name is Scott Wilson. Also tonight there is a much-anticipated fete where the polo elite are expected. These parties last until the wee hours, until the valet pulls around every last porsche. And then the polo players and girlfriends and grooms stagger home. My sister is one of those staggering home with juicy stories and sore feet from dancing.

Right now I’m watching the last chucker of a twenty-goal tournament. Wisps of afternoon cloud are nearly invisible against the sapphire sky. I observe the battle with fascination. Gripping reins in one hand and swinging a mallet with the other, each polo player wears a brightly-colored jersey. The player and his horse are both sweaty and determined; they also share an equal love for the game. They move together as a single weapon.

This is no child’s play… this is the sport of Kings.

Scott is a soon-to-be engineer. He is kind and responsible. Police regularly patrol Wellington, Florida. The quiet streets are lined with gated communities and horse farms. The Wilson’s live in a safe neighborhood.

100-yards from where I’m sitting I spot the magnificent stands overlooking the polo fields. There are champagne flutes smudged with pink lipstick, and caviar spit out on linen napkins. The women are in white capris and hold onto the elbows of men with salt and pepper hair, who are smoking cigars and standing in penny loafers. My sister is with my brother and father – they know all these people. I don’t ride horses like everyone else, I’m just a curious bystander really… The palm trees sway with the cool breeze. This utopia hinges on surreal.

At 1am Scott will pause at a stop sign at 120th Street and then his car will be violently hit by a drunk driver.His car will flip over and land in one of the canals that snake between the walkways and driveways. The metal and rubber will drown and his body will be found buckled in the front seat tomorrow morning, on his sisters’ birthday.

But for now I’m just a spectator, my legs are outstretched on the blanket and I'm massaging my calves with lotion. I'm wearing a hat and sipping on lemonade. I’m one of the thousands of people who have had great fun at the International Polo club. The place is at no fault, the people here are at no fault - it is still as enchanting as it has ever been. A mistake and inexplicable luck is all that happened...

I might be exploiting a story by delving into its emotions face first, but I don’t care… breathe its angst, digest its lessons. Lately shit has happened. Sad stuff that leaves you hungry for understanding. The stuff that leaves you strangled with despair and eager to believe that there is something greater than us, A God - watching our back. But with this shit? How could it be so? So then we succumb to Darwin, or something else who convinces us we control our existence. We operate as mammals; fretting about this damaged earth. Animalistic in logic and emotional with irrationality, we try not to kill each other and ourselves in the process. We try to better the planet, smile and locate laughter whenever the comedy channel can be found. Oh there is glorious stuff; the home runs, relaxing over a candle lit dinner, or playing golf on a Saturday morning. Or blowing candles out with your loved ones singing around you. I must to unearth something to learn from this wretched blog post, or the disturbing articles. Even if it's just one more designated driver, or cab ride home next Saturday night.

The man who hit Scott left that party a little early. He put his key in the ignition and sped out of the parking lot and with one run of a stop sign, he changed hundreds of lives. He is a wealthy staple in this tight-knit community– his face is familiar and welcomed around Wellington. He is a gregarious and generous fellow – he is a father. Many extending far beyond Scott’s family will be deeply affected by this split-second error, an intersection of lives... the irony. The scars from shame and frustration – a missing parent now in his children's childhood. Almost self-inflicted in a way. Those wounds are tragic, but they still scar. It is unnatural for a parent to lose a child... that pain never heals. To know your child should never have been stripped of a plentiful and rich future was, dozens of years too early. That has to hurt.

There were countless people who survived 9/11 by chance, they were supposed to be in those buildings. They had dentist appointments, or chose a different route to work … experienced a little mishap, one of those that make us run a little bit late, the annoyances we curse until we realize that teeth cleaning or that iota of stupidity is responsible for saving our life. But what about when there is no mishap and we’re led directly into our own demise? They don't call it bad luck for nothing. Can we navigate our way around misfortune, can we?

What was the reason, if there could even be a reason? For now I'll watch the polo ponies knowing that nothing bad could ever happen in this chunk of peaceful, manicured land - the people around me, who live in these homes are responsible and nice. Here I believe, I'm far from violence.

At 1am the streets will still be empty of cars – restaurants will be closed and it will be too early for people to leave the nightclubs. Only stars and barely a sliver of moon, will leave the night pitch black. How will it be that the only two cars deserted on this road manage to find each other?

I was in bed during the car crash, but if the drunk driver would have left five minutes earlier, it might not have been Scott. Someone else was on the same road five minutes earlier... the person killed could have been my little sister.

The phone rang too early

... for it to be good news.

Crawling out of bed about to face a day, which I’m fully aware will be comprised of phone calls and emails, conversations with family members with whom I haven’t spoken to in years, repeating the sad details, planning the services. And then the long silences shared with my immediate family, holding hands, an empty tissue box, unsure what to say or mumble, because words cannot sew, or tape or glue together the void… facing a day like this is hard. Don't worry.... this entry will get happier...

People say losing grandparents happens, and it does, all my friends
have – but the hard part isn’t my loss, yes, I am grieving, but it’s
watching my mom lose her mom. My grandmother was in her seventies, she
was in pillates class a month ago, she was traveling to New York, and
she was sassy and full of life. She was too young to leave us – too
young even for the US Consensus, but for her the time was right.

There were too many obscure occurrences in the last 48 hours to
believe that her frail body couldn’t take any more IVs, or that she
quit fighting. Her body never gave up, but around 4am her spirit let
go.

People say, “She is in a better place, she isn’t hurting anymore…”
These statements are all true. Death is the predictable part of life,
right? The event we can count on, but can never prepare for. My mom
left Houston only two days ago, after being told that my grandmother
was on the road to recovery – there was scientific proof we were
allowed to hope. Enough so to give my mom permission to fly to Denver
only for a few days. She arrived home late at night, the next morning,
well this morning, she had an appointment scheduled, a day of laundry
and catching up and then she was scheduled to fly back to Houston to
root her mother on while she did physical therapy, to drive her to
doctor’s visits, to help her heal.

My grandmother had many visitors yesterday; she was lively, telling
stories and joking with the nurses; she convinced everyone she felt
well. She spoke on the phone with each of her children. She ate French
toast. For the first time in weeks she didn’t take anything for the
pain. We were convinced that she wasn’t suffering. Nobody thought
anything different than she was getting healthier. My grandfather
received a phone call around 2am. He drove to the hospital and he sat
next to her for two hours. She told him she loved him and then she
promised him she knew how much he loved her. And then she stopped
breathing.

When I heard the shaky voice over the telephone receiver this morning,
my first reaction was; when is the next test? What is the next
procedure? The new prognosis? But when I pressed the “End” button; I
realized there are no more nexts. Death is game over.

My mother has always said, “The day I lose my mother will be the
saddest day in my life. I don’t know how I will get through it.”

But as I type this, my mother is upstairs and sleeping. We chuckle
because she drives the same as her mom and pokes around in her
nightgown, she makes the same facial expressions and she loves us more
than anything – she is her mother’s daughter. My mom is curled up with
her head in my father’s lap. He loves her so very much. How can we
ever be sad when there is so much love? My brother and sister and I
have taken turns scratching her back and bringing her tea and kissing
her forehead.

Today is now over. Tomorrow there will be flowers and more phone calls
and funeral arrangements. There will be cleaning of closets and
heirlooms to divvy amongst the cousins. And then there will be
photographs to organize and photographs to frame and then we will have
choices.

Why her? I wonder… I’m a person who refuses to accept something
without attaching wisdom - a lesson, a skill, some takeaway to store
and tuck in my back pocket for later use. The phrase, “sunk cost”
doesn’t exist in my vernacular. Experiences and situations and
hardships must have meaning – I seek value. And even with all the
horror in our world, I have trouble understanding why my grandmother
had to leave us, so soon, too soon.

You see....My grandmother was at peace. She had closure – she was the
strongest and that's why she had to go first. Like most matriarchs who
keep traditions alive, who don't forget birthdays and the names of
boyfriends, she scolded us and she spoiled us - but she always
accepted us. When we think of her we're flooded with a desire to make
things right, tomorrow we can say “I love you” to all the people who
can pick up their phone.

She was more than a mother and a wife, she was also a philanthropist,
an only child, a Houstonian - she has friends from every walk and
every chapter of life - from the opera to the ballet, from bookclubs
and the Hillcountry, all the way down to the Christian halfway home.
Her family always came first – she came through with flying colors -
she was cheering - attending graduations, dances, weekends away - she
tended to us when we were sick and she threw the parties when it was
an occasion to celebrate. And although her calendar was abundant of
new acquaintances and old friends, overflowing with big trips,
organizations and charities; her life was still very simple.

Every moment she spent, she spent well. Every person with whom she
spoke, felt heard. A little woman of 5'2'' made so many hundreds of
people feel loved.

In a few days the extended family will fly in from around the country
for her funeral and we will grieve. We will witness everyone at his or
her most vulnerable place. Men will cry and the children will wear
dresses and suits and won’t understand the eulogies until years down
the road when they will hear stories about the grandmother they cannot
remember. Her death has left a hole in our family and the only way we
can fill it; is by loving each other. We will have to take it upon
ourselves to organize family reunions; remind cousins of birthdays.

She took great joy in gift giving - it was a way for her to show
people she knew them, their needs, how she could communicate - and
the gift she left us with is time. There is enough time to love harder
than ever before and let go of the things that hold us down – that
waste our moments – that prevent us from relishing and experiencing
and enjoying the very stuff that life is made of – each other.

People keep saying that although my grandmother has passed, one day
we’ll join her in heaven. And while I believe that is true and that
will bring comfort to most; heaven still seems so very far away.

This morning, after the phone call and before I crawled out of bed, I
closed my eyes and prayed. I took a deep breath and felt her presence
protecting me, helping me navigate the future; I envisioned her
laughing and heard her telling me the sweetest things that put a song
in my heart. Now, whenever I miss her... I close my eyes and she is
with me. And that will last forever.

An Empty Suitcase

The war in Afghanistan, the unemployment rate in America, and the never-ending battles men and women endure to somehow find “the one”… all of these subjects intrigue me greatly, but I’ll admit however dismal a theme; I want to stick with “life”. Notice I don’t say heaven or hell, choosing the life of a pagan or a religious zealot, or death.

I’m a person who inherently doesn't believe in putting too much emphasis on the variables outside of my control – not that much of life is in my control to begin with, but I’m naïve enough to protest – that free will is driven by our choices, and more than anything how we choose to respond. Our character is gauged on how we act with the rest of the world – our family, friends, significant others, mentors, enemies, allies and the strangers on the street, who only intersect our lives for a milisecond, but the impact they make can affect us forever.

I received some beautiful emails after my last entry… and so I’m grateful that my words might resonate… I have never doubted the strength of language, however I write this with hesitation; I’ve never been quite convinced that my own words could make a difference. I type with a fervent desire to not just be heard, but for every person who reads to identify…. And walk away feeling understood.

There is great power in feeling understood.

I have a limited window of time in which I can contemplate the “cycle of existence” from afar. For the next three days, I don’t have to have closure… this whole “Death” thing has been put on pause. But the inevitable will arrive- I will wear my black cashmere sweater, there will be eulogies, and conversations consisting of weather requium. But until then I can observe life from a distance. I know come Tuesday, this calmness, this almost analytical approach in how peaceful I am could change dramatically. And that is a reality I’m trying to prepare myself to face.

Death brings out the softness in people… just like alcohol is truth serum, death draws emotion – it allows vulnerabilities to surface. And there is something terribly liberating and also terrifying about that.

Life arrives in a pretty standard format; we’re born, we learn how to walk, we attend elementary school, and we have guitar lessons and soccer practice. We undergo adolescence, we reach high school, we discover the joys associated with the opposite gender, unearth our interests, go to college and dive face first into a career… a vocation in which we’re supposed to pursue fearlessly, and we evolve into adults. Then there is the significant other, the white dress, and the mortgage; there are 2.5 children and a picket fence. There is tuition then there are caps and gowns and throwing graduation parties for your kids. They leave to start their own beginnings and you’re supposed to rekindle the sparks with your spouse and leisurely enjoy the years and compounded interest leftover. And then it’s over.

That’d be the skeletal outline… the required curriculum. There will always be the electives, the addendums, the stop-outs, the unusual diversions, the opportunities, the hells… sickness, awards, relocating, divorces, 2nd marriages, the unanticipated events that redirect our course of action. There are the lives ended abruptly, those that linger for more than a century, misfortunate, success… some born brilliant, other born with more challenges than a medical textbook could diagnose, but we all share something….

When we’re born we’re genetically wired to survive.

Some more so than others, some lives so tainted they choose to exit early, but the bottom line, the common denominator is we as homo sapiens persevere. We will ourselves to stay alive. My hope is that we fight death as a civilization because we have something valuable to offer humanity. Some skill set or ability that separates us from the masses, each of us will make a definable, a measurable difference.

But often I wonder if it’s a fear of death that keeps us running toward the future….

Sometimes sprinting so fast we don’t have time to stop and catch our breathe. And by the time we slow down, it’s too late to look in the review mirror, to carefully consider choices, to say the correct words, to be kind, to remove ourselves from toxic relationships, to learn how to cook, read enough literature, to feel wet sand between our toes? To stare into the pink and yellow and azure of a sunset until the stars are twinkling in the sky - and to risk everything in order to attain that mystical and enchanting, westernized version love. The category of love where resumes and rulebooks don’t matter…

A love to paint, to sing, to engineer something? The love to travel the world with a single suitcase, to abandon worry and forego the “status quo" … and strategize anyway possible to give that love, that dream, that feverish desire that leaves you weak at the knees a chance. The kind of love for something or someone that leaves you exhausted, empty of energy and overflowing with the rush of endorphins you can't stop grinning? The kind of love that odds and statistics and logic say - impossible... but your heart whispers, "Yes, yes you can."

There is the idiom, “Youth is wasted on the young.” … insinuating that humans are not equipped to grasp the meanings, the how-tos, the supposed-tos until we’re weathered and wrinkled. And this argument frustrates me… I want to do life right, right now.

And so I wonder if there is anyway to live in a way, in the present moment, so when we exhale for the last time… We can smile knowing there is absolutely nothing left?