My Heartbreak, My Joy

I've had much to write about in the past month, but for whatever reason never sat down to do it. I took 2 separate trips to Vegas with some of my most favorite ladies in the world, and each trip was like a special event in my life. The first trip was a rendezvous with my dear girl Lola, 5 days of just she & I wandering about the Vegas Strip with no need for anything but one another's company. The second trip was a reunion of sorts with 3 of my college roommates, a trip planned around a Leonard Cohen concert, which was one of the most inspiring musical events of my life. There is so much to be said about each of these excursions, my first trips to Vegas without Alex. So much to be said, and yet, I don't have the strength just now to write about joy. I took a trip home to Jersey for the holidays, attending multiple parties and reuniting with many friends and family members. There is much to be said of my east-coast doings of the past 2 weeks, and yet, I don't have it in me to write about the wonders of the holiday season. I have so much that I should have written about, because now all of the laughter has all been colored in sorrow, and to write of happy times seems callous and shallow. I have nothing much to say, on this perfect sunny day in Seattle, except to write of heartbreak and loss. And while I don't want to throw a shadow on anyone's holiday spirits, I have to put a few things into writing so that my grief can take form instead of sitting like a stone in my chest. I have to put it into words to begin to accept it as reality. I have to write it out:

She-ra, my perfect fuzzy daughter, died on Christmas Eve.

Oh God, even looking at in print makes me feel nauseous. And silly. For while I know that, for me, for Alex, her death is devastating and overwhelming and all-consuming, I can't help but have a little voice in the back of my head saying, "She's only a cat." Not because I feel that way myself, oh no. For me, she was my baby, my comfort in being home at night, my solace when in pain, she was my reminder to look on the bright side, my proof that life is beautiful, my understanding of unconditional love. She has been with me since 1995, and not a day has gone by that I haven't felt lucky to be her mama. She completed the family that Alex and I began to create in 1996, the family that has seen it's share of ups and downs and always managed to make it through, because we had each other. How many times over the years have Alex and I gotten into a fight about who-cares-what, and somehow, her little fuzzy face would force us to think about how much we had to lose by not being together. She started out as My Cat (actually, she started out as a former roommate's cat, but she became mine very quickly), and it took some time for her to let Alex in. But for a decade now, she has been Ours, Our Baby, Our Kitty, Our Family. Alex was her daddy, and oh, how relieved I am that when she died, he was right there to hold her. When she knew she was dying, she came to find him, to let him comfort her. She looked right into his eyes, and he knew she was going, and he knew she was scared, and he knew that she was glad to be with him in those last moments.

Oh, how it breaks my heart to think of him alone with her, knowing she was dying, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing he could do to give me one last chance to see her. Because, while she was dying, I was 3000 miles away, eating Christmas Eve dinner with my family in Jersey. While she was dying, I was convinced that I would see her again in just 2 days. While she was dying, I was playing with my parent's 5-month old kitten. And I was laughing. Earlier in the week, I had spent 2 days in agony, wondering if I should hop on a plane back to Seattle, because she was sick, and I couldn't bear the thought of her dying without being by her side. I couldn't bear the idea of her spending her last hours without me scratching her chin and telling her how much I loved her. 2 days, I looked at flights and wondered what to do. I didn't want to fly back, because I thought that I was almost enforcing that these were her last days. And what if she was sick with something treatable? That was my hope. And my hope was confirmed by a vet who came to visit. She said that She-ra had a kidney infection, on top of the stage 3 kidney disease of which we were already aware. She said that She-ra, while very sick, seemed happy and not yet ready to go. And so, I didn't fly home to be there as she was put to sleep. Instead, Alex canceled his trip to Jersey so he could stay home to care for her, and I canceled my trip to Florida (for Alex's grandfather's 90th birthday party) so I could take over for him the day after Christmas. And I was so relieved, Alex and I were both so relieved that she wasn't ready to go yet. And over the next few days, she seemed to get a little better. She was sick, no doubt, but she wanted to be near Alex, she wanted to eat, she wanted love. Right up until the very end. It happened so suddenly. Alex had spent the day with her, she was out near him as he worked, she wanted to be with him. She went into the closet, her go-to sleeping spot, and Alex checked on her, gave her a little scritch on the chin, and went back to work. And then he heard her, something was wrong, she came out of the closet, he went to her....and she was gone. And Alex, poor Alex, he was in shock. He was convinced that she was getting better, we both were, even while understanding that she was sick and would never not be sick again. We both were certain that she was going to be okay. Otherwise, I would have come home. I would have been by her side. I would have had a chance to say goodbye to her, to hold her one last time, and to let her know that everything was gonna be okay, and I was so thankful for all of the joy she had brought to me over the years.

She wasn't just My Cat, she was my everyday. She was my understanding of motherhood. She was dearer to me than I can ever express in words. And I feel so empty without her. This apartment feels empty. And quiet. She was not a noisy cat, she didn't even meow, she just made little merping sounds, and she and I would talk back and forth in our little shared language, and I have no doubt that we understood one another. Quiet. The sound of her lapping water on the windowsill near my bed. The sound of her little nails on the varnished wood floors. The sound of her purring as she curled sleeping on a chair. Such small sounds, but their silence is deafening. Such a small cat, only 7 pounds, most of which had to be fur, but her presence was huge. It made any place we lived feel like home. And we've lived a lot of places. That cat saw more of America than most Americans ever will. Multiple cross-country drives, she's lived in 7 states, at who-knows-how-many addresses, and as much as she hated being uprooted each time we did it to her, she made it clear that she simply didn't want to be left behind. And we never could have left her. We never could have abandoned our child. She was our responsibility, yes, but also our treasure. For Alex and I, who have never planned on having children, this little ball of fluff allowed us to nurture whatever parenting instincts we had. And we were very good parents to her. Sure, we made her life hellish with our gypsy-ish wanderings. But all parents make life hell for their kids in one way or another. She-ra was never without love, never without affection, never considered to be less than a full member of our family. And she knew it, she knew that she was safe with us. Which is why she went to Alex when it was time for her to die.

Poor Alex, he wasn't ready. Neither of us is ready. I finally made it home last night after 3 days of being snow-bound in Jersey. Seriously, the timing of the past 2 weeks has been AWFUL. First, she gets sick when I'm far away and Alex is supposed to be joining me, we cancel multiple plane tickets and re-book new flights, then she dies late on Christmas Eve, which is about the only time I couldn't fly back to Seattle to be with Alex, which is the only place in the world I wanted to be, in his arms, nor could he fly to be with me, so we make a plan to meet in Florida, but a blizzard comes and shuts down the world and rather than trying to meet him in Florida on Sunday or Monday, I am stuck in Jersey til late Wednesday, when I finally make it back to Seattle, and I finally have the dreaded moment of walking into the apartment where she used to live, the apartment that now feels like a tomb. Even as the sun shines outside, with Mt. Ranier clearly visible beyond the city skyline, even as I marvel at the beauty of this apartment and the spectacular view of the city I now call home...all I see is the place where her food dish used to be. All I hear is the silence of her footfalls. All I feel is the hollowness in my heart. All I want is to have her back, and that impossibility overshadows everything.

Alex and I have had our share of heartache in the 15 years we've been together, but this is the first death we've shared. I know that time will heal this wound, and I know that we will someday have another fuzzy daughter (or son) to love and cherish. I know that our grief will lessen with each passing day, and eventually I'll think back on She-ra's life with nothing but joy and gratitude. I am so grateful to Alex for being such a loving father and husband, and I am so glad that he no longer has to be here alone with this silence. He and I will be just fine, and life will roll along to take us on new adventures with new friends. And maybe someday I'll be able to write about all the fun I had in Vegas with my ladies this past month. But for now, I am going to live in this pain and let it wash over me until my grief has been washed away and my heart settles into my chest without the burden of this grief. I am going to let myself cry as much as is needed, until I find that I have no more tears to shed. As much as this heartbreak ROYALLY SUCKS and is leaving me feeling debilitated, I would go through it a thousand times more rather than lose one moment of the joy She-ra brought me for almost 16 years. I would never deny joy in order to avoid pain. So, allow me to grieve, and grieve for me if you will. But never doubt that I am happier in my grief than I ever could have been without it. While I wish that her ending could have been different (mainly, I would have been with her and Alex, for my own selfish need to see her go, and to keep Alex from having to go through all of this alone), I wouldn't have changed a single thing about my life with her. It was perfection. And I am so lucky to have been her mama.

Lessons learned on Thanksgiving

Every day is a learning experience. Here are some things I have learned today:

1. Sitting in the second row of an IMAX theatre to see "Harry Potter" is almost like being in the movie itself. Alex and I arrived as the lights were dimming, and the only seats available were in the first two rows. Normally, I would never choose to sit so close, especially in an IMAX. However, the latest "Harry Potter" flick worked amazingly well at close range. I actually squealed in delight during an early broomstick-riding scene. (In case you're wondering, I'm a fan of the books, and I've liked the movies well enough, but I thought this one was pretty awesome. Go see it!)

2. The Camaro is not meant to be driven in snow. And I mean ANY snow. I drove this morning to pick up a girlfriend for an African dance class. The roads were completely clear, except for her little side street, which has just the tiniest incline. Well, that snowy incline was much too much for The Sexy Beast (our current title for The Camaro, though we're still not set on a name). I was fishtailing and spinning out at 2 MPH, and eventually we had to abandon it on the side of the road and take Buford the Buick instead (and Buford handled the snow with no problem). Later, I returned to The Sexy Beast, and after numerous attempts was able to back it up the tiny incline (all the while spinning and sliding) and onto cleared pavement. Phew!! The Sexy Beast ain't so beastly in the winter, it seems.

3. An African dance class is a terrific way to clear one's head of all concerns for a little while. This class is a yearly Thanksgiving event, hosted by a volunteering organization. A donation is requested, and each year the donations benefit a different project supporting a different African community. So, the philanthropic aspect of the class is feel-good. The African drumming is feel-good. And the dancing is good and sweaty and requires little skill and only a desire to let go and enjoy it. What a way to start the day!

4. An African dance class in the morning makes apple-cranberry pie an appropriate breakfast. Maybe not, by some standards. My standards say, Fruit is good!

5. Fakesgiving leftovers are just as good on Thanksgiving. Our leftovers will be just about finished today (except for the pie--please come over for pie!!) but I'm so glad to have enough turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and cranberries for today. Makes me feel like I'm not really missing out so much by not being at a big family gathering today--me and Alex and She-ra are well taken care of.

6. She-ra likes turkey. And I mean, she really likes turkey. She's always been rather particular with her food choices and has rarely taken any people-food from us (though she loves canned tuna and fresh salmon). Alex tried giving her a little piece of turkey the other night, assuming she would sniff it and walk away. Quite the opposite! She's been begging for turkey every time either of us opens the fridge! We're supposed to be keeping her on a lower-protein diet, due to her failing kidneys. But hell, she's old. If turkey makes her happy, she's getting turkey, even if it takes a few months off of her life. When I'm old, I'm gonna eat what makes me happy, to hell with what's good for me! I'm gonna eat cheese and drink wine and enjoy every last bit of it. Here's to enjoying life!!

7. Life is meant to be enjoyed. That's not a lesson I learned today. It's a lesson I try to re-learn every day. There are so many responsibilities and worries and difficulties and requirements in life, and it's easy to get swept up with all of it and lose sight of why we bother to do it all---we do it in order to enjoy living! I hope you all go out today and enjoy yourselves, enjoy your people, enjoy your meals, enjoy your music and movies and football games and whatever else you'll be a part of. Far too often, we're just living to work. Today, I hope we all can enjoy the life that our hard work brings to us, makes available to us.

Happy Thanksgiving, happy holidays, happy happy joy joy to every girl and every boy!!

Happy Fakesgiving!

There is snow in Seattle. Inches of snow, right on my balcony. In the 5 winters I previously lived in this town, I'd never seen more than a dusting. And a dusting is enough to shut down the city. Seriously. There are no snow plows or salt trucks here, because there is rarely a need. The temperatures don't drop below freezing very often. So the winters are grey and rainy, but hardly ever snowy.
Well, here we are in mid-November with inches of snow on the ground. The temperature outside is about 23 degrees. We're supposed to be feeling a low of 14 degrees tonite. Unheard of! Though the sky now is blue as can be, so the snow has stopped falling. And the streets below me are white and brown and somewhat slushy. I expect there are many businesses closed around town. There are hardly any cars driving along 3rd Avenue. I think everyone is staying home under the covers today.
Which is my plan. I moved to Seattle to escape below-freezing temperatures. Meggy don't play in 23 degrees. And I've got enough Fakesgiving leftovers to last me & Alex a week, thanks to my mama. Oh, Mama!
My mom came for a pre-Thanksgiving visit last week. And we had a wonderful time. The weather cooperated, so we were able to take some walks down to the market and along the waterfront. We were even able to see most of Mt Ranier, which is unusual in November. We had a waterfront dinner in a restaurant that already got their holiday-decor going on, with dozens of 6-foot nutcrackers and lit trees and life-size Santas. We went to a happy hour with my ladies, saw a wonderful show at the Seattle Rep, and we had a moon every night she was here, which, for me and my mom, is always an event. We're moon-babies, no doubt. All of my mother's children are moon-babies. Alex makes fun of me, because every time I see it, I respond like it's the first time, and I squeal, "The Moooooooon!!" And to see a full moon rise behind Capitol Hill is enough to make us go gaga. The full moon rose on Sunday, which was the night we had our Fakesgiving dinner. Since we can't be with her on Thanksgiving day, Mom decided that she'd like to make an early Thanksgiving dinner while she was here. We spent the weekend baking pies and corn muffins and roasting vegetables and sweet potatoes. And we were able to watch the Browns game Sunday morning (though they lost it in the end in a most upsetting manner), which is a treat for a Cleveland girl who has no access to their games in New Jersey (thank you, DirecTV Sunday Ticket). Sunday evening, Alex and the boys got to watch the Eagles move to the top of their division, while us ladies were in the kitchen, munching on cheese and olives and David's homemade guacamole, and as the game ended, the turkey was carved and dinner was served. 8 of us sat down to share a meal, and I couldn't help but think of the history at that table. There were elements of so many pieces of my life: my first family, my Emerson family, and my Seattle family. There was a time when the last thing I would have wanted was to share a meal with my mother and my friends. What could we possibly talk about? And now, I am honored to share my table with them all. Yes, Mama, we have gotten to that point, where we have become friends. Seems corny, but it makes me happy.
Yesterday, I drove her through the snow to the airport in my shiny red Camaro (which is not built for snow, let me tell you), and then I came home and made a huge pot of turkey soup and watched the snow fall on the city I now call home. It was kind of magical, actually. Even though I am still trying to get started here, even though I'm a bit scared that nothing is ever gonna happen...well, I felt a sense of peace, watching the world turn white, knowing how unusual such a sight is. Things feel right, somehow. My mother likes the place I live (though she would still prefer me to live a short drive away). I like the place I live. I have passed the stage of feeling like a visitor here. This place is home. Not this apartment, which I love, but which I know is not mine. (Especially as they just broke ground yesterday on the lot across the street from us to build a 17-story building which will completely remove my totally stunning view of the city.) This city feels like home. I have family here. Not blood-relations, but they are no less a family than my family back east. And that place back east also feels like home. I don't feel a need to choose one or the other. I don't feel a need to determine that THIS city is THE home that I will stay in for life. Who knows where I'll be a decade from now? And frankly, who cares? Today, I feel at home in this place. And I am so excited to go back home--my other home--in a month, for the holidays. And I look forward to coming back home--the one I'm writing from--to ring in the new year. I don't feel torn between the two places. The fact that my mom could come here and fit right in makes it clear to me that home truly is where the heart is. And my heart is where my people are. Which makes me one hell of a lucky girl.
Happy Thanksgiving. I wish for everyone a moment of peace and a sense of home. And a really good meal, with a whole lot of leftovers!!

My new ride

I had my cry, thank you very much.
And the Cleveland Browns beat the Superbowl Champs New Orleans Saints, which had me crying all the harder. Tears of joy, remember.

It is a lovely morning. And it's the time of year when every lovely morning is a cause for celebration. Because every lovely morning could be the last lovely morning until Spring makes its way through the gloom. Yesterday was a lovely day, and I embraced it in the best way I could have imagined: I picked up my girlfriend and we went driving
IN MY NEW CAMARO!!!
I think that bears repeating. We went driving
IN MY SHINY NEW CANDY-APPLE RED W/WHITE RACING STRIPE 2010 CAMARO SS!!

What?

For those of you who have known me over the years, you know that I am not into cars. I rarely notice them, let alone desire them. My vehicles have always come to me used, and I always accepted them gratefully. My vehicles have been a means for me getting from point A to point B (and often, those points are 3000 miles from each other). My vehicles have come to me in a physical condition that kept me from fearing a scratch or a dent; their histories were worn on their bodies, and a few more dings and nicks only added to their intrigue. I will say that the condition of my vehicles has improved over time. The '88 aqua-green Oldsmobile, lovingly named Grandpa in honor of the grandfather who handed it down to me, was a beautiful beast to drive. However, it had been rarely maintenanced over the years, and within a year of it's coming to me, Alex was using duct tape to keep the engine in place. When Grandpa came to his final resting place on the side of a neighborhood road, we purchased a Dodge Neon which had operated as a rental vehicle in its previous life. Neo was shiny and clean and felt like a big step up in reliability. But it was a drag to drive, and it turns out that rental cars don't receive the best care from either the renters or the rental companies. 6 years and numerous cross-country trips later, Neo was sold to Alex's partners in Vegas as an extra set of wheels to be used when there were no better options, and we bought my parent's '98 Buick Regal. Oh, this car was a beauty! Shiny black, V-6, power everything. My mother had cared for her car for 90,000 miles, and it ran like a dream. I remember the first cross-country drive in Buford: it felt so unusual not to be worried about breaking down in the middle of nowhere; it was fantastic to have air conditioning that could be used without overheating the engine; it was wondrous to drive through the Rockies without leaning forward for fear that the car might not make it to the top of this stretch of mountain road. Ah Buford, how I've loved ya! But here we are, 4+ years and 80,000 miles later. And now, you constantly display warning lights to me: Service Vehicle Soon, Service Engine Soon, Traction Off, Low Traction, Anti-Lock Brake warning, Change Oil Soon. So many lights! Buford, my love, what am I to do? I've replaced alternators and 3 power windows and multiple tires and wheel bearings and tire rods and sensors. Thousands of dollars have gone into you in the past 2 years, and you've always gotten me where I need to go (though, lately, it has more frequently required white-knuckle driving on my part, as your brakes refuse to fully engage and your RPMs barely make it to 1500 on some stretches of highway). Buford, you're the nicest car I've ever owned! And your engine runs great, you're a comfortable ride, and even with only one speaker working you still have a better sound system than Neo (though, to be fair, Alex put a crazy sound system into the Neon, which was promptly stolen when we moved to Queens, and we never bothered replacing it because, well, we lived in Queens. 1 month, the Neon was broken into 3 times. For real.) I do love you, Buford, and if I could look into the future and know that you'd be with me for another 40,000 miles, I would take you straight into the shop and fix whatever else needs fixin' and we would ride off into the sunset (when the sun decides to shine). But I have no crystal ball. I have only flashing warning lights and a failing anti-lock brake system and a snapping serpentine belt, all of which leads to a huge sense of relief when I am able to pull you into your parking spot and release my grip on your wheel. I just don't think I can keep up like this any longer.

Plus, there's this Camaro, see.

I'm sure you're wondering how this Camaro has made it's way into my life. My husband has a funny little job which has some funny little perks and some funny little opportunities. Understand, he and I would NEVER think to buy a new Camaro. We are far too reasonable in this stage of our adulthoods. We'd been having The Talk about the need for a new vehicle, as the writing was on the dashboard, so to speak, that Buford wasn't gonna be taking us much further without a major overhaul. And we'd actually been considering doing just that: take the Buick into the shop and have them replace every single bit of him that needed replacing. Yes, it would cost thousands of dollars to do so. But for a car we've loved driving, it seemed like it might be worth it. It would be cheaper than buying the cheapest new car, and we'd be getting a lot more car this way. Really, it's hard to go from a V6 to a V4. We did it with the Neon, and it sucked. We were also considering buying a higher-end used car, something reliable without a lot of mileage. It would cost a good chunk of change, but it might give us the best value. Value. Everything comes down to value when one lives with a pro-gambler. Alex speaks in terms of Expected Value, or EV, constantly. Whether he's talking sports wagering or hiring movers or buying cars. What's the EV, he asks. What is the best value available to us in buying a vehicle?

Turns out, it's a shiny red Camaro. What??

Long story short, this car was won by his group in a Vegas contest (pick all the football winners, win a new Camaro!) Since the car is owned by his group, Alex is part-owner. And so, after balancing the pros and cons and looking at dollars spent now versus dollars spent later, it was decided that buying the car from the group provides the best value.

The truth? The 16-year-old Jersey boy in Alex found the car of his dreams and had to have it. The truth? Every guy that Alex works with discovered his inner 16-year-old. They each took a few days to drive it, to feel the power to the V8, 500-something horsepower engine. They each fell in love with it. But Alex was the only one who was actually in need of a new car. And so, we have a Camaro.

I will admit, I was not thrilled with the car. When I first saw it, I thought it looked stupid. It looked like the kind of car that the boys I used to hang with at the Jersey gas stations would go totally nuts over. And I'm done with those kinds of boys. Except, it turns out, that's Alex. And, it turns out, I'm a 16-year old Jersey girl who wants to take a drive in a fast car with a pumping sound system. It took only half a block for me to squeal in pleasure and say, "Oh, I LOVE this car!" It was all I could do to drive within the speed limit. I took it from 0--35mph in half a second, then had to force my foot off of the pedal and coast along the neighborhood roads. Oh, this car is SEXY!! I want to drive it. A lot. In fact, that's what I'm going to do today. I'm gonna go pick up my friend from the train station, and we're gonna hit the highway and listen to classic rock at full blast with the windows rolled down. My inner 16-year-old is totally in love with a bitchin' Camaro. I'm so freakin' Jersey.

The only thing missing is a name. We haven't found the name for this beast. It's definitely male, because it's a total muscle car. But it's too sexy to be named Tank or Beast. It needs a name that speaks to Jersey, but Bruce doesn't feel right, and we ain't calling it Bon Jovi. I don't know. Guess I'll just have to keep driving until he lets me know who he really is. Vroom vroom!!!

Tears of joy

I am exhausted. I have been for over a week now. Physically, mentally, spiritually wiped out. I can barely keep my eyes open. Well, okay, I just woke up, and while I plan to crawl back into bed as soon as I'm done writing this, I am awake enough to sit down and write for a bit. Because while it's true that I am exhausted, I also feel a need to communicate, to shout out from the mountaintops how wonderful is this thing called Life. On this gloomy, grey and drizzly day, I can't help but see how much beauty there is in this world of ours. I feel a little punch-drunk. I feel a little gaga. I am one the verge of tears and laughter all at once. I am overwhelmed with emotion, and I want to share it with humanity. Somehow. Some way.
I have been wanting, for over a week now, to ball myself up in a fetal position, and just cry, cry, cry. I want to cry out of sadness. I want to cry out of relief. I want to cry out of joy and surprise and love, so much love. But I haven't had the time to cry, I haven't had the space. Last weekend, I had to hold myself in to allow another's tears to pour freely. And this week, I had to keep it together so as to be a good hostess. And yesterday, well hell, I spent the day at a birthday party, which wasn't mine, and so I had no right to just cry if I wanted to. And truthfully, as the days have gone by this week, the need to cry has been less and less. My feelings of joy and pure relief have surpassed my feelings of sadness and guilt. But I realized yesterday, as I was talking to Zoe on a drive on one of the islands, that my need to cry has shifted. I realized that I want to cry because I am feeling so much love, so much love, and I am surprised by my capacity for love, I am surprised by its power over me. I want to cry because I am responsible for creating something beautiful, something divine, and I never thought I could be the cause of such beauty. I want to cry because I am so very proud of my family and their ability to surprise me. Who woulda thunk...
Last weekend, I broke my mother's heart. I believe I actually shattered it, into a million pieces. For a time, I felt like the absolute worst person in the world. I mean that. I felt guilty and selfish and undeserving of her love. For a time. And then, I watched as my mother picked up the pieces and put them back together into a heart that had almost doubled in size. And I knew that I had given her a gift greater than any I'd given before.
Last weekend, I feared for a moment that my father might come to hate me. For a time. Instead, my father threw his arms around me and told me that he was proud of me. That I had done a good, good thing, and that this goodness should be shouted from the mountaintops. My father surprised me in the most wonderful way, by showing me that his love always has room to push aside fear or doubt or long-held assumptions in order to make way for joy.
Last weekend, I was able to share with the people I love most, the people I need most, a most wonderful secret. I didn't know, until the weight of this secret was lifted, how heavy it had been to carry. I didn't know just how much I needed them to accept this secret as a gift and not as a burden. I didn't know just how badly I needed their approval. But I did, oh yes, I did. And not only did I receive their approval, I received their joy.
And I am so happy. Yet, all the same, I want to cry. I have had a lump of sobs churning in my chest all week long. Each time I talk about last weekend, each time I think of my mother's tears and her glowing smile, each time I think of my father wanting to pop open a bottle of champagne, I want to cry. But mostly, what I am realizing, is that I am feeling, for the first time, the true impact of the choices I have made. Now that this secret is out, now that I am no longer battling my desire to protect my parents from my choices with my desire to scream out how proud I am of these choices, I am now able to feel just what I am feeling, without layering it with my concerns for what others might feel. And I am feeling...overwhelmed. Overjoyed. Over-the-moon. And it's a lot to take. I am on a journey that I could not prepare for. Decisions made years ago have taken shape in a way that surprises me. All of the things I have logically understood have now been side-swiped by all of the emotions that defy logic, defy understanding. I am not a person who fears emotions. Quite the contrary, I thrive on emotions! I welcome them in and look for ways to magnify them! But these emotions of the past week, well, these are a whole new breed. And I am reveling in them, yes, but I feel like I'm at their mercy. Hence, I am exhausted. Beautifully, wonderfully exhausted.
And for the first time this week, I can cry. I have no guests to entertain, no birthday girl to celebrate, and all day long, I have no place to be. This lump in my throat can finally be let loose, and I can curl up in a ball and cry myself silly and become a slave to my emotions and not censor them in any way. To some, this must sound like punishment. For me, this is a gift. A wonderful gift to myself. I embrace this opportunity. And I can hold it back no longer. I want to let go of all logic and all thoughts of what's proper for a grown woman to express. I want to be entirely selfish and do nothing but feel the vastness of my emotional reserves. I can tell you, it will be awesome.
See you on the other side.

Loving my neighborhood

October already, eh? Time does fly.

Seattle weather has been treating me well the past 2 weeks. Plenty of sunshine and blue skies. Perfect walking weather. Alex and I have been taking walks to explore our new neighborhood, and it's kinda awesome. From our place, it's 4 blocks downhill (west) to the waterfront. This stretch of waterfront is mostly based on tourism: restaurants, shops, hotels, the aquarium, ferries to the islands. However, if we turn and walk just 2 blocks north, we find ourselves in the Olympic Sculpture Park, an outdoor exhibit which is part of the Seattle Art Museum. There are winding paths through flora a-plenty, and scattered throughout are pieces of art, some of which are almost hidden, some of which are huge and vibrant, and some which just make me giggle (the washing machine and old tv set would be garbage if they were found in some other park). The park begins 2 blocks east (uphill) from the water, so walking through, the backdrop is Puget Sound and the islands and the Olympic Mountains in the distance. Stunning, truly stunning. When it can be seen, that is. Because on many days, the fog sits so low that the water is barely visible, and the islands and mountains are hidden. But on a clear day, wow. The sculpture park winds it's way down to the water, where it meets up with Myrtle Edwards Park, a stretch of waterfront about a mile long, with walking and bike paths and big rocks to sit upon and watch the ferries going across to Bainbridge Island. The park is probably my favorite thing about this neighborhood. Which is saying a lot, because there are so many things I like here. Just a few blocks north is Seattle Center, where Alex's Space Needle lives, but it's also home to lots of theatres that I want to work in. Just beyond that is lower Queen Anne, with restaurants and shops, and when I'm looking to sweat a little, I keep walking north up to the top of Queen Anne, which is a hell of a hill, but the top provides amazing views of the city and everything surrounding it (plus there's a Trader Joe's up there, which always makes me happy). Walking south brings me to Pike Place Market, which is far too crowded to be enjoyed in the afternoons, but mornings allow for a calm stroll to peruse the local produce and baked goods and of course the flying fish. Best of all are the flowers. Incredible flowers, rows and rows of them. I went yesterday to buy a bouquet for closing night of Angela & David's show (Angela is my best friend, whom I met when we did a show together here in 1998, and David is her husband, whom she met when they did a show together in 2001). The bouquet I got them was beautiful, all autumn colors, and huge. And it cost me $5. FIVE DOLLARS!! I would have easily spent $50 in New York, probably more. But a quick walk to the market gets me so much for so little. Alex and I have made the market walk part of our routine, as it involves a whole lotta stair climbing. From the waterfront, there is a set of stairs that goes directly into the market. I haven't counted the steps, but I guesstimate that the climb is about 5-6 stories. Getting to the top, a little out of breath, we enter into another world, with street performers and fish throwers and the original Starbucks (which is surrounded by coffee shops, and somehow, all of them are busy). But when we want to enjoy the wonders of the natural world, we just turn north rather than south, and there we have it. It's a perfect mix of city and nature. My favorite thing about living on West 110th Street was that mix: I was a block from the subway and restaurants and shopping, but I was also only blocks from both Central Park and Riverside Park, which meant I could escape to nature in only a matter of minutes. Of course, Seattle is a city that is nestled into nature, whereas New York kind of allowed nature to remain in some places. Entirely different cities, but regardless, I have come to appreciate living in a part of a city that gives me a place to distract myself from the city itself. From this apartment, I am looking straight at skyline, which is awesome. But to be able to walk 5 minutes and sit looking at mountains, well, that's perfection.
I'm starting to feel a little more present in my Seattle life. I'm starting to find a rhythm to my days, and I'm starting to feel confident that in the coming months, I will be busy doing things that are meaningful to me. I had my first audition last week (which was one of the nicest audition experiences I've had---I didn't feel like a number, nor did I feel like the auditors were wishing their day was over already), and I've had a couple of meetings with friends here in the theatre community who want to help me get onstage. I feel like it's really up to me here, that if I work hard and take some risks, I'll be rewarded for it in a tangible way. Which I never felt in New York, not after being there and auditioning for months and months and sending out monthly mailings to dozens of agencies. New York felt somewhat hopeless to me, which is why I left. I didn't want to give up. I don't know what will happen for me in Seattle, but I do know that I feel hopeful. For the first time in, well, years. And hope feels good, you know? It feels kinda youthful and fun. Which I need, as the grey hairs are multiplying like bunnies on my head. I need to battle them with my inner child or something. Though there are about 50 salons in this neighborhood, so in case I decide to do away with the grey via some means other than tweezers, there's yet another reason to love where I live.

rainbow

Just an update on this morning's post:

The sky has shifted. In a big way. The sun broke through and blue sky made it's way into Seattle. And then the fog rolled in. And now it's sunny and raining. And there's a rainbow. Talk about bringing in some color.

Monochrome

There's an Ani DiFranco song that starts out like this:

The sky is grey, the sand is grey, and the ocean is grey...

That's the view from my window. Well, not quite. There's no sand. There's no ocean. But there's endless sky. And it's all grey. There's plenty of water. Grey grey grey. The city's glass skyscrapers reflect all of it. There are splashes of green on the tree-lined streets, and down on the docks there are cargo containers of blue and red. But the overwhelming color here, the overwhelming feeling, is grey. Which isn't even a color, not really. I mean, sure, technically, it's a color. Color is "the quality of an object or substance with respect to light reflected by the object". And there's plenty of light sifting through the cloud cover. Not so much as to require sunglasses, but enough so that my rose-tinted shades take the squint outta my eyes. But the light that's being reflected here, by the buildings and the water and the tar-black roads, is as bland a light as one can imagine. There's no depth to it, no imagination. It's flat. It's sterile. It's dull. And as an object, I am soaking it up. I am reflecting this dullness back to the world. Or that's how it feels anyway. That's how I feel. Grey.

And it's only September. Holy shit. This is gonna be a loooooooooooong winter.

I had dinner with Zoe last night. Zo has survived 12 winters in this town, and she's managing just fine. She's been taking classes at a hot yoga studio (not straight Bikram, for you yoga enthusiasts out there). Hot yoga is pretty much what it sounds like: a yoga class held in a hot room, generally about 100 degrees. I've had a number of friends rave about this type of practice, though I've been too timid to try. I mean, yoga is challenging enough without having sweat pouring into my eyes within the first two minutes. But I'm told it can be uplifting, revitalizing, detoxifying, soothing (afterwards). And, obviously, it gets rid of any chill you might walk into the room with. Which is a constant state of being for me during the Seattle winters. It doesn't often get below freezing here, but the never-ending drizzle, the overwhelming dampness seeps into my bones and hangs there like a wet blanket. So, I'm thinking that maybe I'll tag along with Zoe and get over my timidity of the sweaty downward dog. Because if I can find a way to warm my body, perhaps that warmth will filter into the rest of me. And then I can reflect something other than grey.

A deeee-luxe apartment in the sky

We're movin' on up, indeed.

First off, in order to appreciate my latest home, it's best to appreciate my home of the past year, lovingly known as Maui East. (Maui East was thus named due to a trip to Maui Maui that I took with my Columbia classmates and Alex shortly before we graduated. The week in Maui, after 3 years of high-intensity work and drama and lack of sleep, was like heaven on earth. Absolute peace. And beauty. And love. In a desire to carry that feeling into our day-to-day east coast lives, our humble Jersey City dwelling was named Maui East.) Maui East consisted of the top three floors of a brownstone in a lovely section of Jersey City. Really, Maui East was made up of the 5 people who resided there, more so than the place itself. The people were a perfect match. Absolute peace. And beauty. And love. It was wonderful to share my morning tea with Huling, with whom I would swap life advice and literature. And how I loved to come home to find Charlotte smoking her Camels on our front stoop. And Liz's morning vocal warmups soothed me into consciousness each day. The 5 of us co-habitated without any drama or ill-feeling or noise complaints. The house was big enough, and our schedules mixed enough, that we could go days without seeing anyone else who lived there, but it was always a happy occasion when our paths crossed. Honestly, it was the perfect living situation for me, after living through the hell of My Year in Las Vegas. I needed people. I needed creative people. I needed intellectual people. I hit the jackpot. The people of Maui East were exactly what I needed.
The place itself, well....
The place itself was a fixer-upper, in every sense of the term. The attic room that Alex & I moved into was known as "The Junk Room" until we took it over. Old graffiti on the walls (from the house's former life as a drug den, operated, we assume, by Pepe, since Pepe's name was prominent on the walls), peeling paint, holes in the plaster, a hardwood floor that splintered if you sneezed on it, a "closet" that had been used as wood storage until we moved all the wood out, windows replaced by cardboard (which were later replaced by old windows which we closed tight with duct tape, magical duct tape), a bathtub which always seemed dirty no matter how hard I scrubbed, bathroom ceiling tiles which threatened to collapse on our heads at any moment (and which did, in fact, collapse on our heads when Alex & I tried to "fix" the ceiling with duct tape, and upon us rained chewed-up ceiling materials and grey-fur nests made by some kind of critters who's poop pellets also rained down on our heads, soooooooo icky nasty disgustingly GROSS)...well, you get the picture. In the winter, we froze. In the summer, we melted. The place we called home during our year in Jersey City was far from what we'd call "deluxe".
And so, you can imagine why, in Alex's 3-day apartment hunt to Seattle in late July, he decided that he wanted to embrace the high life a bit. Seattle's rents have gone up quite a bit since we moved away 7 years ago, but compared to New York, everything is a bargain. We had some rather specific parameters set in our housing search: walk-ability (while it's easy to get around Seattle by car, I much prefer to walk--or bike--everywhere, no matter the time of day or night); an office for Alex (after a year of combined bedroom-office living, there was no debating this); a view (since Alex works from home, and works about 16 hours a day during .football/basketball season, the man deserves at least a glimpse of the world outside). That's it, as far as our demands went. But it was surprisingly difficult to find such a place. However, it was found. And how. It shouldn't be surprising that Alex would walk into the place that we are now calling "home" and decide that it was perfect. Honestly, it looks like a casino suite: floor-to-ceiling windows looking south at the city skyline (we're on the 11th floor, which is the highest floor I've ever lived on); artwork with a theme (in this case, 1929 Golden Sable Champagne ads, featuring a curvaceous woman in a black gown); tiled walk-in shower stalls (no bathtub, tho, which I suppose I can live with); remote-control gas fire. This place is beautiful, no doubt about it. And while I rarely admit to casinos having any kind of class or taste, the suites at casinos are often both classy and tasteful. The only thing that differs dramatically between this place and, say, a suite at The Wynn (other than the full kitchen, that is, which casino suites NEVER have) is the plant life. This place came furnished, and along with the furniture came plants. Which I am expected to keep alive. Yikes. I like plants, really I do, I love having them in my home. I've just never been able to keep a plant alive. We'll see how this goes.
So, here we are in our newest home. We'll be here until after the Superbowl, at least, and then see where we go. Chances are, our next place won't be quite as "suite". But I have a feeling that, after living in luxury for some time, I will be adding things to my list of "apartment must haves". Like a balcony. A building with a gym and a roof deck. Floor-to-ceiling windows. And, oh yes, an apartment in the sky. I never need to go below the 11th floor again. Sweet.

And so, it begins.

The rain, that is. As we wound our way through the Cascade mountains, the sky descended on us and the raindrops fell. By the time we made it to Seattle, we were treated to some sun, but the sky was still collapsing, to the point where there were no mountains to be seen in the distance. That's the hardest part of the Seattle weather for me: the disappearing sky. Sure, I know, there's always sky above me. But the cloud-cover comes to rest so low, it eliminates the whole view. The entire Olympic mountain range, so stunning and RIGHT THERE on a clear day, is hidden behind endless grey, sinking fog. On a clear day, you can see forever (cue Barbra Striesand). Mount Rainier is an overwhelming presence in the southern sky, the snowy Olympics to the west, the Cascades to the east. There is so much depth and texture in the world that I just want to swallow it whole. But when the grey comes, depth disappears. The wide-open sky becomes a low-lying ceiling. The expansive views become monochromatic walls. Even the tops of the buildings are shrouded in grey! There's a claustrophobic feel to this city during the winter months. And I know this. And I am prepared for this.
But it's not supposed to happen NOW!! Labor Day weekend is still summer! But it's been grey drizzle for me. Ugh.
Which is not to say that I'm not happy to be here. On the contrary, I'm giddy! I don't feel like I've actually moved here, that's too much to comprehend. I feel like I'm in a semi-sleep state, just sort of floating along until I fully arrive. In the less-than-2 days that we've been here, I've unpacked a bag or two in our week-long sublet on Capitol Hill. Then Alex and I went to our fabulous soon-to-be-apartment in Belltown (right near the Space Needle, which is Alex's favorite Seattle building, silly man that he is) and met with our new landlords and got the tour of the apartment (nice), the fitness room (perk) and the roof-deck (holy wow, the view). Then back to the Hill, where we were treated to a homemade dinner of Danish Pancake Balls (known in Denmark as "Aebleskiver", which is pronounced without the L or the R sounds) by our temporary downstairs neighbor, Daniel, and his lovely lady, Alison. Yesterday we were served a yummy veggie casserole dinner at the West Seattle home of my BFF Angela and her hubby, David, where they shared some Louis CK with us, and we introduced them to the wonders of Antione Dodson. (YouTube can answer that question for you if you don't know who I'm speaking of). I'll be spending today with my dear friend Caroline, perhaps sitting in the steam room at the day spa, or drinking a hot beverage at one of Seattle's many many many coffee shops. Tonite, maybe some Thai food (it's plentiful in the town), who knows. Like I said, I don't really feel like I'm here. I mean, physically, yeah, I'm here. I can tell by the way my hair looks (whatever moisture lives in the Seattle air, my hair likes it). I can tell by how friendly the cabbie's are. I can tell by all the recycling bins on the streets. Yep, I'm in Seattle alright. But do I actually live here? That I can't say. It's all too new. Sure, I know my way around, I know some good people, I know where to find at least 3 Trader Joe's and 2 Whole Foods and my favorite co-op. I know I don't need to wear makeup or high heels, and I know that sarcasm is entirely misunderstood here, as is verbal directness. I know how to live here; I just don't feel like I do, in fact, live here. Yet. It will help to move into our actual place (Friday!!) and unpack the car (which made the 3000 mile journey with no problem, such a good Buick) and introduce She-ra to her next place of residence (she, too, made it here in excellent condition and seems to be very much at peace with things). But really, it's gonna take some time for this city to feel like The Place Where I Live. It's gonna take some "doing stuff", you know what I mean? Getting some work, getting cast in a show or 4, having places to be and people to see and a schedule, oh how I'm looking forward to having a schedule of sorts. And these things will take time, I know. I feel a little lost, a little out to sea. And that will fade with time, I know. I have to be patient and try to enjoy the journey. Which I have every intention of doing.
I just wish the grey would hold off for awhile. Let me have just a little time before winter sets in, please! SHOW ME THE MOUNTAINS!!

On my way....

...back to where I used to be.

Seattle. A city I haven't called home in more than 7 years. And yet, it's never stopped feeling like home. Hell, I never got rid of my Seattle cell number! And of course, New York is HOME home, it's where my family is, it's where I grew up (well, I grew up in Jersey, but New York was where I starting to figure out who I was), it's a city whose rhythms make perfect sense to me. But New York is not where my heart is these days. In truth, I've been pining for Seattle for some time. When I knew it was time to leave Vegas and the question was, "Where to?", it was always a question of "New York or Seattle?" And the answer was New York, for some very clear reasons, which mostly boiled down to my need to be quite certain that New York was or was not where I am meant to be at this stage of my life. Because I had no doubt that Seattle was calling me, I had no doubt that Seattle felt like the easier choice. But easy has always frightened me. I am afraid of the what-ifs. What if I went to Seattle and wondered if I had given up on New York? What if I went to Seattle and felt that I had settled? What if I went to Seattle out of fear rather than self-knowledge? And so, the answer was New York. And this past year in New York has been full of wonderful, full of stunning, full of awe-inspiring. I love my New York people, I love my New York theatre, I love my New York energy. I saw a dozen operas at the Met, lots of Broadway and off-Broadway theatre, made some fun little films, performed in some challenging & rewarding roles, reconnected with friends old and new, had dinners with my parents, seltzers with my brothers & sister-in-law, card games with my aunt, bike rides with my cousins, ice cream with my housemates. And oh, the place I called home for a year, wondrous Maui East, living with Alex and 3 friends who were exactly the people I needed to be surrounded by after my year of relative isolation in the desert...My year back in New York has been wonderful in so many ways. And yet, it highlighted the many things I want in my life that I wasn't finding. And while it's been heartbreaking to consider putting 3000 miles between me and the city of my youth, it's been a relief to decide to return to the city of my adulthood.

And so, I return. Me and Alex and She-ra have been journeying across the country for the past 5 days, and we'll arrive in Seattle tomorrow. And I'm excited. And I'm scared. But mostly, I'm excited. I have a better sense of what I'm getting into in Seattle than I did with Vegas, but it's still an adventure. I have great hopes for this next chapter in my life, and I know that there will be many struggles in the months ahead, as I try to re-establish myself in a city and a theatrical community that I said goodbye to long ago. But I welcome the struggle. Like I said, I've always been afraid of easy.

Here we go!!