100 words a day

I don’t have to get ready for work.  My boyfriend does. 

While he showers today, I make coffee, dress, put on makeup, do my hair.  Intending to watch TV in the air conditioned bedroom, I couldn’t figure out his new converter box (he’s the only person I know who was directly affected by “the switch to digital”). 

When he walks back in, I ask him to fix it.  “But I have to go to work!” he says urgently, like I’m keeping him from doing something.

“Like that?”  gesturing toward the facts that I’m fully ready and he is still wet.

Pope John Paul 2 shot-on the playground at St. John’s

John Lennon shot:  home sick from school

Ronald Reagan shot:  home sick from school

Jackie Onassis death:  at the David Letterman show

Princess Diana:  babysitting my nephews

JFK Jr’s plane missing:  in my LI apartment, headed to NYC (where for some reason people set up tributes at the Imagine Mosaic)

9/11:  in the subway, on the street, in Murray’s Bagels (it took all 3 to sort of figure out what was going on just 2 miles away)

Farrah died:  sitting on my sofa

Michael Jackson died:  still on my sofa

Sarah Jessica Parker.  Florence Henderson.  Rocco Dispirito.  Lance Armstrong.  Monica Lewinski.  Matt Lauer (several times).  Katie Couric (not w/Matt).  Seal.  Howard Stern.  Cindy Crawford.  Robert DeNiro.  David Schwimmer.  Woody Allen.  Peter Jennings.  Billy Baldwin.  Ric Ocasek and Paulina Porizkova.  Yoko Ono.  Diane Sawyer.  Joan Collins.  Al Roker (not w/Katie or Matt).  Alec Baldwin.  Amy Sedaris.  Ed Burns and Christy Turlington. Andrew Shue.  Joy Behar.

And, Friday, a big one:  Donald Trump!  A friend asked what the hair was like and I told him, “Combover’s putting it politely.  More like a few strands of Barbie hair, stretched over a bowling ball.”

I first heard about her in a tweet from William Gibson (@GreatDismal) on Saturday:

“Young woman protester on her back, bleeding out. Orbit of one eye a perfect unspilled pool of blood. Image burns in, indelible. History now.”

Her name was Neda.  She was caught on video just after being shot in the heart while protesting the Iran election.  Who shot her is unclear, and perhaps irrelevant.  She’s now the new face of revolution.

Yesterday, a link to an article featuring the video of Neda’s death showed up in my RSS feeds.

I am not brave enough to watch it.

I’ve been a son for almost a half century and a father a mere 16 years.  Being a son this Father’s Day means feeling more appreciative and grateful; fortunate to spend another day with my dad.

Being the father of two children means spending my first “dad’s day” without them.  My oldest is away at a six-week academic honor and my youngest is 1000 miles away with his mome.  I miss them so much and want to be angry; but I’m not.

Truth is, everyday is Father’s Day for me.  I am loved and missed by my daughter and son.

I’m a grateful recovering Catholic and I carry around all the guilt associated with it.  Catholics take their religion as seriously as any other believers, but have all sorts of rules, covenants and rituals which if not followed…well, they send you to Hell.

My Godmother, my Dear Aunt is a great Catholic. 

She taught Catholic school for more than half her life, raised a daughter, loved her family and treated everyone with care.

She also found a way to play poker, dance, have a drink, smoke some, anger a sister or two and make everyone’s life better.

I love her.  Hell will have to wait.

Beams of dusty sunlight throw themselves on to the faded floor. We’re at Friday evening ‘ceroc’ dancing – which people take extremely seriously. Couples twirl around, lost in the joy of movement. On stage, a beautiful woman with a river of hair which almost reaches her calves, calls out instructions into a headset.  

G and I sit on the edge, watching. We’re such different heights, our earlier attempts at joining in ended in miserable failure within seconds. So we sit there instead, as the evening and music drift on, as I wonder why dancing always leaves me feeling so left out.

Every community has its unique individuals.  One of ours is a rock star.

He wanders the streets of Federal Heights, playing air guitar to a capacity crowd that only he can see, making music that only he can hear.  He serenades Federal Boulevard in ragged Levis, concert T-shirt, and jean jacket vest, tapping out a rhythm with his foot, his long brown hair stirring in the wind created by the passing cars.  His wallet chain glints in the sunlight as he points to the crowd, his fretting hand still blazing, hammering out his never-ending solo.

Rock on, Air Guitar Dude.

She’s there in the ticket queue at the station in my home town – a rather plump blonde woman in a navy suit with white piping around the jacket.

When I get to London, she’s there again, standing on the subway platform. Even more weirdly, she’s right here on the subway train a couple of hours later, as I’m heading home.

So, I think, here’s the thing. Am I following her or is she following me? Does she think I am stalking her? Or am I imagining it all?

I walk briskly, hoping this time I’ve shaken her off for good.

I haven’t been sleeping well, between not having a job, more weight gain and disappointment about possibly not running the NYC marathon in November. 

Usually this means tossing and turning but last night, mid-nightmare, I yelled out so loud that I woke both myself and my boyfriend up. 

He yelled back “What the hell?”  at the same time as I insisted, “I’ve never done that before!”

He said “How do you know?”, which struck me as really funny.  Now I’m wondering if I routinely yell in my sleep, and last night was just the first time I woke anyone up.