Traveling!!!

Travelling makes me happy. Even if it's only a long weekend in a new city.

Old words

This is something I wrote a while back.  About a week before my mom died, in fact.  I always toyed with putting it out somewhere.  I never knew where or why, but I think it's a good fit here.  It is in fact, all about the crazy random happenstances that roll around in my brain.  Which, honestly sometimes scare the crap out of me. But more than the crazy randomness of my thinking, it's also frighteningly accurate to how I feel right now. My brain is still rolling around with a lot of these thoughts. I could update it now, but I don't want to distort the words. This was my life then. My life now might follow in a couple days.  

But this goes back to early October 2008.  I had just fallen deeper for Team Paul.  I had begun the obsession with gluten free baking.  And I was beginning to become frighteningly aware of how crazy my thought processes could be.  A friend read this back then and called it somewhat prophetic. I don't like such words. I don't know if I quite believe in the idea of "prophetic." It's too mystical for me. I think it's predictable. I also sort of think that when I write without paying attention to form or matter, I tend to write pretty damn good. It's when I overthink the words that I kill it. And no one wants to read dead words. (Um, pun is totally intended.)

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I hugged my childhood crush this week. We even shared a quick kiss. It happened at his father’s wake. And it was probably inappropriate to get a thrill over this at that time, but I did.

I’ve had a crush on Anthony since I was ten. Or since I was old enough to realize what crushes were. He never really saw me as more than just that lil’ girl across the street that obnoxiously jumped in the pile of leaves he just spent all morning raking. I’m assuming that of course. I never actually asked him what he thought of me as a ten year old.

He is the same as my brothers. I am sure I was nothing more than an annoying little sister like person to him. He too has a story about being my babysitter once. I remember looking for pictures of Anthony in my brother’s high school yearbook and not my brother. I was sad when he moved away for college. I was jealous that he married.

I had my first real conversation with him on August 23, 1992. Earlier that Sunday morning, my mother had collapsed while making coffee and was rushed to the hospital. I had been driven home from the hospital and Anthony was in his drive way. He walked over to ask me what happened.

I remember, even then, being amazed at how calm I was. I didn’t giggle. I didn’t find myself twirling my hair. I didn’t step from foot to foot. And I definitely did not stammer. I clearly told him my mother was in a coma and no one knew what was wrong. He said, “Wow.” I remember writing about that day in my diary that night and that I included that conversation. It marked in many ways a loss of innocence and a loss of childhood. Carrying on an adult conversation with an adult male that I had a crush on was a big moment for my fourteen year old brain. But this is just my overly analytical brain overly thinking getting carried away looking back at the one moment in my life.

This week, standing in that funeral home saying goodbye to his father I thought about my past feelings. The feelings stayed in the fore of my thoughts as I approached the family line and offered my condolences. As I stood across from Anthony, we hugged. The hug lingered a bit. But maybe that was all in my head.

My father frustratingly moved away from the line much too quick and called me over to introduce me to an old friend. Anthony said goodbye. And I walked away upset at not sharing a longer conversation with this man who grew more attractive every year and looked amazing in a suit. But, again, not an appropriate place or time for these thoughts. Especially as his wife and child came to stand by him.

I sat in my chair on the other side of the room pondering my life. This entire week had been a fascinating study in how my brain functions. I’d spent the week ogling the new boss of my boss. And by ogling, I mean, complete and utter adoration of the man as a public speaker that I could not stop referring to as my candidate for hope and change.

If you can’t control thinking about that childhood crush at inappropriate times, you can’t really control developing a crush on a super suave political operative that happens to fall on the other side of the political spectrum? After hearing him speak a week ago, I have wanted to make up Team Paul t-shirts and wear one proudly. I told my boss I was ready to quit my job as an attorney and be his personal assistant. I would be sure to get his coffee order correct.

And now when I have to talk to him, I get a case of the giggles. Or the stammering. Or the hair twirling. Or the complete incoherence. I become my ten year old self talking to Anthony across the street.

I snap out of this strange circle of thought when my dad begins telling our other neighbor about his bypass. I correct him. Angioplasty. Not a bypass.

It’s almost as if he’d rather it be the more serious condition. He gets glory in talking about it. When I diminish it and say it was nothing more than an angioplasty, his face falls. I’m not quite sure what that is about. It’s almost like he wants it to be a bigger deal. It’s not like an angioplasty is not a big deal. But, bypass sounds way more important and impressive to him. Or he just can’t remember the word “angioplasty.” Whichever it is, I feel the need to correct him because I don’t want our neighbors reporting to other neighbors that my dad had a quadruple bypass and is in dire straits and might die tomorrow. When, in reality, he had an angioplasty with a stent put in to address an artery that was 90% blocked. He was in the hospital for 30 hours. And four of those were spent waiting for the nurse to complete the discharge papers.

Serious? Yes. Grave? No. But maybe grave isn’t the word to use while at a funeral.

I get choked up at funerals. It happens. I know why. I can pin point the exact reasons why I start fighting the urge to shed tears and fall apart even when I barely know the guy. The psycho analysis for this is not that difficult. The thought in my head is always “we’re next.” But I really shouldn’t dwell on that. So I won’t. But I do take notes. To prepare. Like the music. I wonder what music funeral homes allow you to pick from. Could I get some Dean Martin playing for my mom? I think on Six Feet Under the Fishers let you play whatever music you wanted. But Peter Krause would also greet me at the door.

It’s all too much sometimes. My dad wanting a bigger injury. My mom being sick all the time. Me crushing on a gay Republican who is indirectly my boss and I accidentally called a girl that one time. It’s a lot, you know. And I’m amazed my brain doesn’t explode. But we are a resilient species. Truly. It’s amazing. We’re designed to withstand so much – both physically and internally.

My dad tapped me on the shoulder and I remembered I was still at Luigi’s wake. He motions to leave and my thoughts close down temporarily as I begin my goodbyes. I play with my cellphone as I walk to my car as I chauffer this week while my dad recovers from his non-bypass procedure.

I’m sure the bizarre train of thoughts that has marked this week of emotional ups and downs and possibly hormonal rages will spark back up later this night. Perhaps I’ll plan my future as a gluten free baker extraordinaire. Perhaps Team Paul can help that dream happen. Maybe I just need to get him some of my gluten free chocolate chip hazelnut cookies. Maybe I need to focus on my rock star dreams and work on that strumming pattern I stubbornly refused to practice in my lesson this week. I think Anthony played guitar once up on a time. Maybe Team Paul plays as well. Could you imagine?

Happy Daylight Savings

I was a little stunned when I woke up this morning.  I forgot it was Sunday and then I forgot it was Daylight Savings.  When I realized what it was, I got really excited.  I had to buy a new alarm clock a few years ago and it automatically updates for Daylight Savings.  And that's awesome in my opinion.  And yes, it takes very little to impress me at times.  

Not impressive of late, is Napoli.  The soccer team.  Not the city.  I have no opinion on the city in fact as I have yet to visit.  It's on my list.   My hope is to make it there next summer.  

But back to the soccer team.  S.S.C. Napoli.  I have been a fan since I can remember.  Sure, I've had mild flirtations with other teams.  There were those days as a kid when I was obsessed with the Toto Schilacci era Juventus.  And even a few years back I developed an obsession with Fiorentina and the beautiful Luca Toni.  But Napoli has always been my team.  Why?  Well, my dad is and therefore I am.  

I won't bore the few readers of this blog with the recent  history of the team.  But I will say that it appears Napoli has decided winning is not the thing to do in 2009.  A team that was ranked a surprising 4th after the first half of the 2008/2009 season has not won a game in this new year.  And the year, not that new anymore.  They play well, sure.  But, they're not winning.  A game is on right now in the background.  And it's a few minutes from the half and they are still tied.  Ties are good.  It's better than losing due to a last minute goal by the other team on a stupid mistake.  

It angers me.  Win a game!  Just one.  Because I'm convinced that's all you need.  I really think that when you remember how wonderful it feels to win, you will be thrilled by the experience and do it more often.  One game.  It would make me so happy.  And don't you want me to be happy?  (I know guilt is a cheap tactic, but they're an Italian team.  I was brought up to think guilt was the Italian way.)

Okay, that's out of my system.  

I feel better.

As for other matters, I realize I am not as regular a writer as I once hoped I would be.  I'm in what one could refer to as a "funk" lately.  I feel the need to do something drastic in order to move myself out of it. 

Drastic for me is probably not that drastic for others.  But I've been thinking a lot about my hair.  I sort of want to go to a hair salon and say - "Change it.  Make it different.  I want to be look different."  I've been really happy with my long hair.  But, I feel a need for a change in some aspect of my life.  And hair is so easy.  I'd like a more fit body, but that can't be accomplished over the course of one sunday afternoon.  New hair can be.  And then it grows back over the course of time and it's okay.  

I woke up with that feeling today.  It's ridiculous to say that one haircut can be responsible for the unfunking, but I think it can be a step.  Or something.  I don't know.  I used to do this all the time.  Wake up and decide it was time to chop my hair off.  And do it.  I've gotten less gutsy with my hair over time, but maybe it's just the simple step I need for right now. 

I'm not overly concerned with the funk being anything major.  I've decided I'm allowed to be in a funk for the next year.  I'm entitled.  But the funk is starting to interfere with work.  I spent too many hours this week reading articles about Napoli's inability to win games this year, Will Chase's extensive theater career and blog posts about anything.  None of those things have anything to do with work.  And that's a problem.  I have no problem with the occasional wasted day, but the frequency of them this week are a problem.  I've just been tired and out of it and without any desire for anything.  

And I think a simple hair cut may make me feel lighter and different.  Add a new perspective to my day.  

But for now I need to see what my boys can do in Naples.

one of those

Last week was one of those weeks at work.  Everything that could go wrong went wrong and everything that could be insane was insane.

Sadly, due to the confidential nature of many of the case facing us, I can't write in much detail.  Even by coming up with clever nicknames like "confused daddy" or "the inept one" I still can't write much.  I like my job and in this current climate, I sort of need it.  

But, I can say that sometimes just when I think humanity is at it's lowest, I am amazed by a human's capacity to love unconditionally.  Yes, that is unnecessarily obtuse.  But after a week where I saw or read some of the worst in people.  And questioned the decisions of people, it ended on possibly the happiest note possible.  

A family completed the adoption process of four children.  They are not Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.  They did not adopt their children from exotic lands.   This was a couple that was still putting their biological children through college.  

This was a couple like my parents.  Like most of my friend's parents.  A family that realized they had more love to give.  And could not say no to the adoption of all four children.  The kids range in age from first graders to not yet pre-schoolers.  The kids are beautiful and happy.  Most importantly, these children are loved.  

It's amazing to me that despite reading more and more about how horrible things are and the feeling that the world is slowly falling apart, this family opens up their heart and home.  There's a lesson here.  It doesn't matter how rough your life is. It doesn't matter how downright shitty it is - you can always do more to help others.  

I spend my Wednesday nights tutoring adults with Greater Hartford Literacy Volunteers.  And I bitch every Wednesday about how I don't want to go.  I want to stay home and drink wine and prepare for Lost.  I want to go out to dinner and talk about what might be happening on Lost that night.  I want to go to a Lost party and watch Lost.  (I have a wee obsession with the tv show.)   (oh and last week's episode had a moment that made me think of Rent and that was a great collision of sorts.)

But I go.  And it feels like I go out of an obligation.  Yet, I love it.  Even if we do no writing or reading and just spend our night talking about a news article discussing the first ever integrated prom at a Mississippi high school.  It's a great hour and a half.  

I guess what I'm trying to babble about here is the idea that we can always do more.  And I know I can do more.  I am not particularly good about going to Church, but one thing my very Catholic upbringing taught me is the idea that there is always someone else to help.  The idea that there is always more I can do.  

I feel more of a responsibility to live this out as I become an aunt to older children.  I think it's important to set an example.  When I talk to my now 12 year old niece about our responsibility to help people who need our help.  When I try to persuade my 10 year old nephew that he should give away one of his most prized toys.  

They are starting to get it.  They are starting to become little conscientious people and it's fantastic.