I’m leaving for NYC in about 4.5 hours to see family and friends. I am uber excited. Adonis, covering me with morning kisses, will have to survive without his SuperPartner for 3 days. Life, as he knows it, will pause for 72 hours.

Upon landing in NYC, I will breathe in the city, my home city, and think how midwesternized I have become. This fix should keep me good for a few months anyway. I’ll come back honking my horn again, sneering at chain pizza places, and walking with my eyes straight forward, never looking down.

I’m going (to one of my) home(s).

My beauteous car, Rozzi, has breached 100,000 miles today.

I’m having a mini-party for her. I appreciate anyone that sticks with me for this long, even though I adopted her at 54K. Seriosly, for as indecisive as I am and for as many illegal u-turns as I’ve pulled, not to mention how many profane retorts I’ve shouted out of her windows, I am honoring the wonderful companion that is my darling girl, Rozzi.

Lolo, in Tagalog, means grandfather. Since Tagalog is so heavily influenced from Spanish, my parents say that likely, LOLO, came from ABUELO…LO…LOLO….

My adorable newphew cannot say much. Knowing only a handful of words, he calls his mother by his first name, SSSSTHSSUZI, his Dad – DADDA. His aunts, TITA (more Tagalog), but the person he loves most is his grey haired LOLO.

My Dad loves it.

Saturday Morning
Apartment
Adonis and I are getting ready to go for a morning walk. This means we’re pulling on hats and sneakers in our pajamas.

“So, are we going to see that Borat movie tonight?”

Adonis, “Yeah, I think so. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah! I’ve been wanting to see it. [cue Sacha Cohen voice, high pitch] Maybe afterward we’ll have sexy time!”

Adonis laughing, “Did you read the quotes they had about the movie [flipping through Time magazine]…here? Did you read these? They are unbelieveable.”

Tying my shoelaces and trying to ignore my morning breath, “I don’t want to know anything that might spoil it! Don’t read it. But I did glimpse that part -“ I cut myself off, laughing already.

“Oh yeah the-“

I get up and start yelling in Sacha Cohen imitation, “THE RUNNING OF THE JEWS! HIGH FIVE!”

Loud. It was really loud, our laughter.

knock knock knock

Adonis and I look at one another. His glance reads, “Who could that be?” My glance is, “There’s an offended and violent Jew outside and now we will be killed.”

Adonis slowly dips his eye into the peephole and opens the door. I hide behind him.

A white man, 33-ish, holding a small baby is standing at our door, “Uh, hi. Does anyone speak Spanish?”

Adonis looks at me. “No.”

Whitey, “Oh, okay…”

Maybe he needs a translater because a Spanish speaking driver has hit, blocked in, something to do with the cars in the parking lot.

My bravery mobilizes my tongue, “Well, I do, but I’m not…well, how proficient of a speaker do you need?”

Baby gurgles. Whitey shifts him on his left arm, “Oh, we need someone who knows…you know…can speak…really well…”

I look at Adonis. Is this an immigration issue? Bewildered. “Uh, that’s not me.”
Whitey, “So, you don’t know anyone that would? Speak Spanish?”

Adonis and I, brows furrowed, shake our heads slowly, “No…not anyone we can think of that’s available at this moment.”

Whitey, “So are there Mexicans here?” He glances at me. He’s not saying, ‘Spanish-speaking,’ he’s not saying Latinos or Latinas. He’s saying Mexicans. FBI. This is definitely FBI. The baby’s a ruse.

Adonis glances at me again, “Nope.”

Whitey turns to leave, baby attached. Adonis,”If you don’t mind my asking, what’s this for?”

Whitey turns and waves a glassy brochure with his baby-free right hand, “We’re looking for someone to help us with our bible preaching. We’re looking for Mexicans.”

I begin to pull Adonis away as if Whitey said he’d like to give us the plague. We close the door in silence. Adonis looks down at me with his classic Whaaaat IN THE HELL just happened? look.

I assume my Sacha Cohen, high pitch, screechy tone, “So he did not care about the Running of the Jews! HIGH FIVE!”

My back hurts.
I think Velma is coming for her monthly escapade with my ovaries.

Over the past 2 years I have lived in Cincinnati, I have gone through 3 different cameras. And today, I have absolutely nothing to show for it.

Waiting until my first job to make decent money, I bought a fabulous camera that I brought with me everywhere. It was stolen on the eve of my birthday. I waited four months to purchase another one. I bought the replica, with a few upgrades. A second chance at first love. In Hawaii, the lens cap broke and I brought it back to Best Buy, and two hours later, with security nearly ready to throw me out, I argued my way into them giving me a brand new camera, another upgrade, and a $60 gift certificate. That camera, which also served as a modern day trophy of my assertiveness and persuasion skills, was stolen in Nicaragua.

Now, that is three cameras gone in two years. I’m not even going to talk about my laptop that was stolen in Logan airport when I lived in Boston. Am I a fucking moron? Do I have a sign that reads, “I’m carrying expensive things that I work really hard for, but you can have them if you want!” sign on my back? I am not the vulnerable type.

So, yesterday, I took the deepest plunge and bought my next investment: a camera and lens that cost more than almost four months rent. I barely spoke when I was in Ritz Camera, I just wanted to buy it, rush home, lock it in my closet, and brace my body against the door to protect it. The camera I finally decided upon is a Nikon D80. I bought a 18-200 mm DX VR lens (which should come in before Christmas). In photography world, that’s a pretty decent purchase for an amateur. For the rest of us, that translates into: I’m going to be taking some kick ass pictures.

My graduate assistant gave me a tip: If you are brave enough to buy that camera, you have to learn how to protect it. You protect it with your body. It never leaves your body.

I nodded, eyes wide, and not blinking. This thing, I vowed, I am a going to guard like a small child. It shall not be stolen while there is breath in my lungs.

Last night, I tackled the mail, trying to sort it all – the most annoying domestic task in the free world.

After discarding folded up directions, receipts used as wrappers for used gum, and Bed, Bath, and BEYOND coupons the size of my thighs, I sat down on the couch and watched Adonis wash the dishes with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

I commented, “You’re losing weight again. That or your new haircut makes your head look smaller.”

He agreed with a nod, “Yes, that’s a definite possibility.”

Reminiscing how he looked yesterday, “It was getting quite bushy.”
Bushy, for Adonis, is 2.1 cm.

Then, suddenly, Adonis is coming toward me with a champagne flute, one that we used on our wedding day to toast our love and new life together. Ready to proclaim this person as the most romantic, thoughtful, and intuitive partner, I smile. What a find of a man I have, I think to myself, he washes the dishes, he does the laundry, and now he turns ordinary evenings into romantic moments.

But, then Adonis gradually walks past the couch to where I am waiting like a lioness, and pours the tap-water-filled-champagne flute into Buddy – his trusty green plant perched high on our wooden book shelf.

A small frown pulls my face down.

I watch Adonis go back to the sink and resume his dishwashing. He looks up and gives me a megawatt smile.

Ten years ago, September 19, 1996, my friend Celeste was riding in the backseat of car when she was instantly killed in a collision with another vehicle. Celeste was sixteen, I was seventeen years old.

It’s strange that today, on her ten year anniversary, a day I have been thinking about and anticipating for several months, I found myself at a funeral. My co-worker’s mother died of cancer on Saturday and after 90 years of life, she died peacefully in her sleep.

On a beautifully crisp near Autumn day, I remember. Death and bereavement are bottomless topics, there is so much to think about and consider. Celeste’s death, on so many levels, overwhelms me. The questions pertaining to the purpose of life, why now, why her, why in this way, and what for cannot be contained. They are too massive. Spiraling into different spheres of conversation, these questions always prompt people to think about the inconceivable and the inevitable: one day we ourselves will perish.

On top of these monstrous thoughts, there is a certain level of emotional assault that comes with witnessing the death of a young friend. There is a shattering of the sense of world and life order. What I previously thought of about life is no longer. I am not invincible, nor was she. Oftentimes, surviving a tragedy is a tragedy all of its own. Days after Celeste died, I was in her home, walking slowly through her house with her family. To this day, I cannot think of those moments without hurting. The heaviness of that time, the saturation of death was too much. Never in my life had I seen faces like that of her family members. No words can describe the depth of emotion that was so powerful, it must remain unnamed. It’s beyond sorrow, shock, grief, depression, and longing. It was even beyond love.

Celeste was the girl in highschool who was born with a beauty and kindness that you wanted to envy, but you were enveloped in her spirit that you wanted nothing more than to call her your friend. I once thought of her, “She made envy a superfluous emotion.” You never were envious, she always made you feel good about yourself. She made you feel special. That was Celeste Falvo.

I tried to be present to Elma Silliman’s funeral. I prayed at her open casket and followed the hearst, but in the back of my mind, I charged at G*d again, “Why did she get to live 74 more years of life than Celeste? Why did Elma live to ninety and Celeste only sixteen?” But, in those moments of painful mystery, I am answered with the same quietness: a deep blue sky, spilling yellow sunshine, and an autumn breeze to cool the anger inside.

http://rememberceleste.com

You’d think with September that the wedding season would be over.

It’s not. That’s unfortuante for football goers.

Adonis and I are still scheduled for 3 more weddings in the fall, after attending 6 this summer and saying no to 4 additional affairs.

Unfortunately, the only things I now look forward to are observing how many different ways mashed potatoes are served and waiting anxiously for the ChaCha Slide to begin.

The wedding this past weekend was so touching. 68% of the crowd left the reception at 7:45pm to catch the OSU/Texas football game. Luckily, the Bucks proved victorious 24-7. I drank until 3:30am to celebrate our solid status at the top of the football pyramid. And eternal love.

It’s a monsoon out there.

I’m rocking the matching outfit today at work – calf length skirt and coordinating 3/4 sleeve top. Ditching the umbrella, I grab my I-thought-this-was-waterproof Adidas windbreaker. It’s not.

Today, as I tell my therapist how great things are in my life – full of meaningful work, organic foods – I think also of how fleeting life is. Yesterday, in my writing class, everyone talked about September 11. It was interesting to hear their perspective, people who have never set one eyelash on NYC. My siblings and I feel like NY is our backyard, familiar and non-shocking territory. I was born in Glenridge, NJ, and lived 20 minutes outside the city until I was 8 years old. I spent most of my childhood in the city parks, public pools, and stenchy streets. New York is mine.

It wasn’t just the attacks’ anniversary that made me bawl. I cried just as hard today as the monsoon came down. When someone you love dies unexpectedly, shock stuns your body and mind. Denial, I’m sure, is a friendly resident. It occurred to me this morning, that the Day After, when you wake up and realize that you weren’t dreaming and each day you’ll hope that you were, it settles. The shock and disbelief move in closer to a place called reality, a horrific reality where someone who was once your life is, all of a sudden, simply gone. The Day After – September 12, the emotion sets in. I cried for that shift. The shift in people’s lives as they went from partnered to single, parents to single parent, love to sorrow, life to memory, and disbelief to grief….But, I know that city and those streets are large enough to hold both the grief and the hope of peace.