If You Build It, They Will Come (like it or not)

I grew up in the church--or rather I grew up in a church. No, my parents weren't a pair evangelical ministers--they were a pair of…other "colorful" nicknames throughout the years. I grew up in a church because my dad stumbled upon one for sale in rural town he'd driven through on his travels working for the state of Indiana. Unlike a normal person who would have just started a secret second family in this ideal isolated hamlet, he actually relocated my mom, two sisters and me to live there--after a bit of weekend remodeling.

I barely remember our previous house as little more than blurry snapshots in my head, taken by a one-year-old with a penchant for sneaking sips of grandma's beer. But I do remember going to the new house on weekends to "assist" my dad and grandfather, and to marvel at the open space of the house and yard. Having been a church, the house was wide open with few internal walls. My folks worked with my grandfather, a carpenter (like Jesus Christ - coincidence?) on creating a blueprint for the new house which cut the house up into the usual rooms you'd expect.

My parents didn't love my two older sisters enough to build them separate bedrooms. But they loved me enough to give me not only my own room, but a sort of custom upper bunk bed situation where my bed was attached to the wall and rested on my dresser, leaving a secret passage way behind it. A wide ladder was the way up to my loft bed, and thick rope with huge knot hung just at the end near the ladder. It was fun to swing on until pendulous gravity began helping it burrow up my bum. But it looked cool as hell and was the envy of any friend I had who ever saw it--all two of them (one was imaginary, but that still counts.)

Some weekends the renovation was a true family affair. In addition to my dad and Grandpa (his dad), my Pap (mom's dad) would come down to help. I remember him digging a huge hole on the side of the house--for plumbing or something. When it was done he asked me if I wanted to get into the freshly dug hole and play. As soon as I was deep into the wet earth he told me he was doing to fill the hole back in. I couldn't prove it in court, but the bury-me-alive part was heavily implied. When some adult finally came to the aid of my cries for help I was retrieved from the cavern and placed safely above ground. I'll never forget how hard he laughed while I was terrorized, thinking he was going to let me die in that hole. (I'm sure the hole wasn't as big as I remember; hopefully neither was my Pap's bloodlust!)

Once we were settled into our new abode my sisters would seek constant revenge against me out of their jealousy. One of the rooms carefully designed was a huge walk-in closet in our entry way. It housed my dad's suits and served as general storage for miscellaneous junk--and me. When my existence was deemed "a problem"--as it was from time to time by my sisters (one in particular, but there's no need to name names), I was tied to a chair with fashionable belts from my mom's terry cloth closet and force-fed ketchup sandwiches. But the joke was on them: a) I had learned to crave adventure--and kidnapping--from a couple of bionic friends and three little girls who went to the police academy, b) I looked amazing in terry cloth, and c) I LOVED ketchup sandwiches!

Other times when they'd set up their shared bedroom as a general store and play "town", I was only invited at the very end--though I'd been begging to be included since set-up. "Ronnie, do you want to play?" they'd finally ask me enthusiastically. "Yes!" I'd eagerly reply, jumping to me feet ready to dig in knee deep into "town". "Ok. We're cleaning up the town." The joke was back on me. My role in "town" was never more than "streets and sanitation," and it only worked on me every single time.

Any city family who relocates to the country gets a puppy (who may or may not turn out to be a furry despot.) When it came to household status I wasn't even a close third compared to our family's beloved "wonder dog" Buster--who was without dispute lord and master when Dad was traveling as he did back then. In my father's absence, Buster ran our household with an anything-you-treasure-should-have-my-teeth-marks-in-it attitude. Not unlike like my sisters, Buster liked--needed--to be center of attention. If someone brought a baby into the house, he'd take something from the diaper bag out of jealousy and chew it to a nub in his dark lair under my parents bed.

Sometimes, he'd somehow take something off the counter--mostly Tupperware--and retreat to his bed-framed cavern to decimate it. A simple command from my father would have gotten him to relinquish whatever he'd taken, but in his absence if there was any chance of getting it back with minimal damage, speed and Kraft singles were the answer. A slice of American cheese could sometimes be used in a primitive bartering system the rest of us were reduced to practicing. There were times during the complicated negotiation between my sister and I and Buster when his monotonous and unending growl would increase in volume and ferocity, depending on how close our hands were to whatever treasure he held in his death grip. To add insult to injury (which was inevitable if Dad was out of town) Buster would sometimes throw his paw into the object just to hold it steadier, his brown eyes never leaving us. He had swagger, no doubt about it.

Sometimes after particularly long negotiations we'd get sloppy, and Buster might release the Tupperware only to replace it with my index finger--which would have been too close during the cheese-offering/goods exchange. Gulping the cheese wasn't enough for him. He liked bargaining chips. And my index finger played tightly gripped hostage more times than Flo told Mel to "kiss her grits." It was in situations like this when I'd yell "GO GET MORE CHEESE" that more times than not my sister slump back empty-handed. "We're out of cheese," she'd shrug. I logged almost more hours on my parents' cold tile floor than I ever did swaddled in terry cloth in the walk in closet. And it was a far second choice.

(Buster romping in the foreground completely ignoring my sisters and me. Oh, wait, I'm ignoring them too, so it's okay. I think I was about to throw gravel in the faces for pay back for my bit part in "town".)

And what the hell is going on with my wagon? Why aren't I in it and being pulled around like a little prince by his two older huskier sisters?

Towels, Trips & the Hope Diamond

It's hard to remember a time I didn't live in Chicago. The city feels as much like a treasured friend as the corporeal ones I've made since moving here twenty years ago. It offers a comfort and a feeling of "home" like no other place I've lived. I consider it a city that hasn't gotten so big for its britches. It's colorful, accessible and livable.

When I was growing up in rural Indiana I always anticipated living in Chicago. And though I made one or two trips here up through high school, my first introduction to "a big city" was a pre-college trip my dad took on the weekend before I started at Purdue University. Somewhat of a reward and a definite adventure for us to experience together.

I was doing some spring cleaning/purging recently and I found myself--of all things--staring at a stack of bath towels. I needed to go through them and get rid of the older ones. It was while going through the stack of older towels I ran across a couple of striped ones that weren't as threadbare as I would have expected for their age.

The day before I was to leave on my weekend adventure with Dad, my sister presented the eight towel set to me along with a long-gone brown plastic laundry basket. I don't know why the memory is so vivid for me. Maybe because I thought by having my own set of towels I was really an adult. I was going away to college on my own where I'd be responsible for laundry, grocery shopping, cooking and all the other mundane aspects of adulthood. I looked at the towels, trying to fathom how they stuck with me--or rather I stuck with them--over countless apartment moves, including two cross-country ones. These towels were twenty-five years old and as not much of a pack rat I hadn't been able to part with them. But in thinking about the memories surrounding them my mind was flooded with images of pre-Chicago and pre-who-I-have-become me; before I'd met most (though not all) of the amazing friends I have or the experiences I've had since then; before I'd met Ken and realized a life and a love that most people only dream of. A very different me in most respects.

Going to DC was not only a thrill in itself, but it was the very first time I'd ever flown. I remember my dad not being so thrilled with the concept though he'd flown many times before, but when the engines revved and we were all pressed back into our seats during acceleration I felt a rush of excitement--like this feeling was what my life had in store. It was a rush I've never forgotten and can still give me goosebumps upon reflection.

While in the nation's capital we spent an entire feet-aching day exploring the Smithsonian. My brand new zero-support brown leather deck shoes did me no favors that day. But my dad was adamant that we see every single thing we could while we were there. Imagine my "delight" when I realized the famous national museum wasn't just one large building, but a freaking campus of many! But they were indeed chock full of important things--like Archie Bunker's chair from "All in the Family". The biggest treasure (literally) I laid my eyes on was the Hope Diamond. I had been mesmerized by a TV movie a few years earlier detailing (and perhaps dramatizing) the history if its owners and the fates that befell each and every one of them. For months after seeing it I had fleeting thoughts that its curse may have rubbed off on me. "What if…" has been with me for a very, very long time.

One day we walked around the capital and White House and monuments. I saw a man lying on the sidewalk and looked over at my dad who didn't break his gate--like it wasn't unusual. We got closer and closer until I eventually had to step over the man. I said, "Did he have a heart attack or something? Should we help him?" I turned my head back to look at him as my dad answered. "No. He's homeless. Keep walking. We're almost there." I'd never remembered hearing the word "homeless" before. Everyone in my little home town had a home to go. I'd seen "Stone Pillow" but I didn't actually think it was "real". Plus, it starred Lucille Ball, so I figured it was just some kind of comedy I didn't understand. Seeing that man lying on the grating was so profoundly sad and so indelibly etched in my memory. It was a loss of innocence I couldn't possibly understand at the time. It was an introduction to the big city and a glimmer the world that was yet to come.

At the hotel my dad had befriended a man and his wife who were visiting from Verona, Italy. (Where Romeo and Juliet lived!) The husband didn't speak a word of English. Neither did his wife, but she did speak Spanish as well. I'd had four years of high school Spanish and our conversations were painful and filled with lots of nervous, time-filling laughter. But it did offer its moments brilliance when I realized I had gotten my point across to them. Over the course of the weekend my points became shorter and shorter. "How are you to day?" to "Good morning" to "Hi. We good. Bye." They were of course more patient and sublime than I would imagine an American being in their position. "Do you speak English? Does ANYONE HERE speak English?! UGH!"

Anyway, long story short…I kept the towels.

Dinner with a Friend

I received an email last week from Kathy Buckley. She is a stand-up comedienne and motivational speaker, and she was someone Ken loved very much. They met in 2004 when we lived in Los Angeles at a Disability Showcase for CBS, and in my recollection it was love at first sight. I remember him telling me about their first meeting and her brazenly honest approach to life. She was somewhat of a mirror to Ken--neither of them looking at their disabilities as inabilities. Anyway, her email indicated she'd be in town and wanted to know if we could get together for dinner. It was really excited to hear from her, and even more so to be able to visit with her.

I remember all through Ken's illness I received a phone call every so often from Kathy--calling not to check on Ken (because they communicated regularly)--she was calling to check on me. I had never actually connected with her, but would try to send her an email to thank her for the call and update her on how I was doing. In March when Ken was in the hospital before being released to come home for hospice, she had called me. I was stressed and emotionally stretched to my limits. I had left Ken at the hospital with visiting friends to come home to coordinate the removal of a really unsatisfying massage chair I'd bought for him and the delivery of his hospital bed, oxygen concentrator, and all the accoutrements of hospice. Kathy's call came while they were putting together the hospital bed. I felt so bad that I'd never been able to talk with her live, so I answered, thinking it would do me good to talk with her. I think I got out, "Hi, Kathy" before I completely broke down--unable to utter another single word. After a few moments of my complete inability to get out one single discernible word, she told me she very sweetly told me she loved me and that maybe it would be better we spoke another time. I did my best to reply in agreement before hanging up and stumbling to our bedroom where I curled up on the bed and let myself completely unravel for a few brief minutes, but picking myself up, washing my face and heading back to the hospital.

Ah, memories!

I'd had a couple of "dark" days before I met Kathy for dinner. I'm certain part of it was anxiety about seeing her and just not knowing what to expect. Could I comfort her if she needed to express her feelings about Ken's death? Would be both be messes? Or would I just not know what to say to her? In trying to figure out why I was feeling so uncertain, I thought a lot about Ken's journey-oriented attitude--one I'm trying to adopt when possible--and considered that sometimes my feelings can be too complex to be "figured out". In those cases, it's been more "fake it 'til you make it."

When I arrived at the hotel and walked through the slowly turning automatic door, I could see her face, smiling from her perch on a table in the middle of the lobby. We hugged hard and long. She engenders such love, light and peace, I felt like I could have just melted away in her embrace. I haven't physically seen Kathy since April 28, 2006, when Ken and I had a small "going away" gathering at our apartment in the San Fernando Valley before we moved back to Chicago. She and Ken had kept in regular touch with each other, and he'd been able to see her on a trip or two back to LA since we moved. They'd had regular phone conversations up until shortly before his death.

Kathy is a unique combination that is sublime and so full of light and love mixed with bawdy and audacious humor. My time with her didn't lack anything. It's a strange thing to find yourself friends with people who were Ken's friends. They were mine too--by proxy, but I was never the main caretaker of those relationships. That's another facet of loss that I'm learning to deal with. So many people reached out and supported us during the past two years, and I'd like to be able to connect with each of them--whether in person, email or snail mail card--but it doesn't always occur to me to do so, and doesn't always seem possible. I guess it's just daunting. Or maybe I'm doing enough or as much as I can. Regardless, my visit with Kathy was as colorful as Kathy herself is.

In anticipating our visit, I felt more like I was going to visit with a friend of Ken's, but as I lost track of my multiple neuroses, I knew I was sitting and talking with a good friend of mine. I was happy she brought up Ken and we were able to talk about him, lovingly and harassingly. I told her (and she agreed) that he would be so happy to see us sitting together, talking, harassing and loving each other. It felt so right.

The Good Kind of First

Since I DVR everything I watch, it's rare that I catch a commercial--which is why I'm so out of touch on pretty much everything. But the other day I was distracted while watching the boob tube and forgot to fast forward through the commercials. There was an advertisement for the movie "50/50" with that kid--who is hardly a kid anymore--from "3rd Rock from the Sun" and Seth Rogan (who I have a comedic crush on). When I realized the movie's description was encapsulated as a "comedy about cancer" I knew that was going to be the first movie I'd ever seen alone. It seemed appropriate and even something a little stronger than that--though I'm not sure what word would describe it accurately. Ken found comedy during even the darkest parts of his journey. It's not that cancer itself is hilarious, but sometimes life that happens around it--in reaction to it--most definitely can be. I think having a sense of humor about anything gives you an elasticity that is necessary in times of great pain and turmoil. It keeps you from going rigid and shattering into countless jagged pieces.

The weather that day was odd. As I walked up Lincoln Avenue to the Davis Theater, there was a huge patch of cloudless open sky with the sun beating down on me, the kids practicing football and the group of old Eastern European men playing Bocce Ball in Welles Park. But on all sides of us tall, threatening clouds were stationed--waiting for the sun to take a powder, it seemed. It was a striking visual on a scope which unfortunately my iPhone couldn't properly capture. But it's another note that will forever help make this day memorable for me.

I was catching the last matinee and figured there would only be a handful of people able to get home from work so quickly in order to make a 5:30 pm show. I'd purchased my ticket online as added insurance that I would actually go. (I hate waiting in line or dealing with people if I proactively take care of it online.) To my surprise there were about thirty people in the theater to see the same movie. I think I was secretly hoping for fewer people "in case" I was blubbering, but I'd have to trust that the darkness of the theater would be enough camouflage to hide the identity of "the cryer."

Once I was sitting there waiting for the movie to start, I wondered "now why is it that I have never seen a movie by myself?" I actually couldn't figure it out because I was pretty excited--even about seeing the previews. Again, not watching commercials I don't even know what movies are coming out. But for a few long minutes before the movie started I could see enough to notice I was the only solo person there. And the couple behind me were clearly on a date and speaking to each other in low, hushed tones. Though my solo-movie phobia predates Ken, I was struck by what a shared experience movies had been for me, and that I didn't have anyone's hand to squeeze during a touching or scary part or to speak to in low, hushed tones--though I used to.

"Stay in this moment."

"Stay in this moment."

"Stay in this moment."

The movie was pretty much everything I expected and hoped it would be. Ken could have written it--and starred in it. For me it was filled with "familiar" moments. I laughed a lot. I cried a lot--sometimes during "insignificant" parts that I don't think many people would understand as touching or emotional. But by the end, the entire theater was filled with sobs and sniffles--as you might expect. At one point the woman in the row in front of me was crying so hard and for so long I felt a great relief in knowing I was clearly not the hottest mess in the theater. Thank you, lady. Thank you.

After the movie ended, I reached into my backpack to pull out tissue I was too hesitant to get during the movie because of the noise the Velcro closure would have made when I ripped it open. As the lights came up there was a symphony of nose blowing, throat clearing, and congested laughter.

This had been a shared experience, after all.

Belonging

It's not often I'm able to get together with four of my closest friends--at the same time. The last time all five us were together was at my birthday a couple of years ago, where Ken orchestrated two of them who came the furthest (St. Louis and Los Angeles) as surprises. Alan, Kathy, Retta, Tina and I comprised "the A-List"--what we named ourselves when we met while studying at Second City--and they have been constants in my life ever since. We share the "wrongest" pleasure in harassment of each other as much as we are fiercely protective of one another. Having grown up the outsider in many ways, and the one who found "apartness" so appealing, the A-List was the first group I ever felt like a belonged to. It was my tribe…finally and effortlessly.

I've been in contact with all of them in one way or another always, and in particular, since Ken's cancer returned last year. I was checked upon and double-checked upon; I have called, texted and emailed while I vented or cried or ranted. I can imagine there may have been communications among the four of them I'm not even aware of. So, it was with great relish that I looked forward to the four of them converging on my apartment this weekend for a long-anticipated and much-needed reunion. There have been few times in recent months where sorrow isn't something that I have to actively combat. The time spent with the A-list is one of them. I remember noticing that in between laughter and conversations and jabs; that I felt transported and "normal" and loved. During the time I spent with them I didn't feel empty or missing anything. I was whole--complete in every way I needed to be--and loving every single second of it.

There is a power and an energy that is purely magical when the five us are together. And though the anticipation sets the bar high, the actual time together always exceeds expectations--and boundaries. There are certain things that can be counted upon in such cases: ripping on each other mercilessly, mad laughter as a result thereof, and the same reminiscences about "the good ol' days". Old stories shimmer like new with long-forgotten nuances, uncovered and embellished.

I was excited to have company so I could get busy in the kitchen and try out some recipes I've had ear-marked for quite a while. Feeding these people I love so much, and hearing their voices and laughter fill my back yard all afternoon and evening--then my apartment as we moved indoors later in the evening--filled me with a sense of peace and security that was both familiar and foreign. Knowing I have these people in my life with their non-stop love and unfailing support of me is great source of strength.

In spite of the fun of the weekend, Ken was never far from my mind--as always. He loved the A-List--perhaps an acquired taste for spouses to manage--and he appreciated what I had with them; and what they gave me. When it came to having company, Ken was the master chef, getting creative and delighting in serving tasty morsels to our guests. I'm sure that's at least part of the reason why I did too. Doing things he loved makes me feel connected him. Honoring him in even the smallest of ways makes me happy. He loved our friends and he would have loved seeing all the goodies I made: Lemon Blueberry Buckle, Blue Cheese and Walnut Crackers, and Goat Cheese and Sun Dried Tomato Profiteroles.

I wish I could feel the way I did this weekend every day--especially in light of an impending Monday. It's impossible to come off such a high without wishing he were here to end the weekend with, talking about all the verbal debauchery, reliving it and laughing at it. Regardless, it was undeniable that Ken was here this weekend; inspiring me to get excited and creative in the kitchen (not to mention to sweep the patio--something he did without prompting every time we had company). He was also here in another very special way. Our friend Bruce competed in the Chicago Triathlon today in memory of his sister-in-law and Ken. It was a beautiful gesture that is so fitting of Ken.

He was definitely here this weekend--just not in the way I wish he were.

Writing and Rambling

I have always loved the idea of sitting at a coffee shop and clicking away on the keys of my Mac to some stunningly witty piece I was working on, but in truth sitting alone has never held much fascination for me. Alone at home is one thing. Alone in public has always been quite another. Same with restaurants and movies. I've still yet to see a movie alone, but is still something I hope to accomplish.

The lure of writing outside the house is just that--to get away from the same old distractions and finding new ones seems attractive! But today I knew I needed to get away. It had been a difficult day. I had Ken on the brain and couldn't stop punishing myself with photos, words and memories. "Dosing" myself seemed a bit out of my control. What set it off was getting a call from Costco that the old video tapes I'd dropped off in July had been converted to DVD and were ready to be picked up. I barely remember hanging up the phone and driving there, I was so entranced by the idea of seeing and hearing Ken. One tape in particular detailed our move to Los Angeles in 2002. We packed up our lives, our Chow and each other and drove for nine adventure-seeking days in our Geo Metro. It was the boldest thing I'd ever done.

As I watched the DVD, no tears. Just a unshakable grin on my face, hearing and seeing him and my beautiful puppy Quantum. I'd forgotten the nitty gritty details, but what I could see was we were clearly in love and obviously excited about the future. I so clearly remembered how secure and safe being with Ken made me feel--from the get-go. He just had a way of handling change--and always did. He could take the edge off of any new situation for me and make it okay. It's still hard not to feel that sadness when I think about that particular benefit of loving--and being loved by--Ken. Everyone wants to feel safe and loved. And I did in spades.

In spite of almost talking myself into writing at the patio table, after work I grabbed my Mac and some supplies and headed over to a coffee shop nearby that we'd always talked about trying out. And it's from there as cars glided by from the stop sign on the corner that I wrote this blog. I saw some beautiful pooches parading by, teasing me with their "shiny hineys". I watched two friends part company on the corner as I gathered one was moving far away. They both kept it "light" but it was clear they were both quelling a lot of emotion. It was an interesting exchange to watch--objectively. And I was happy to play no part in it. She had chunky glasses and purple hair. He had a close-trimmed beard, and by the way he flamboyantly called her "guuuurl" was pretty much gay. I imagined he'd finally saved up enough money to transfer to a Kinko's in San Francisco--the "mother land." Clearly, I have tools for keeping it "light" too. Damn my distraction-seeking imagination.

I spent about an hour going through our book--which I compiled in hard copy the other night from things we'd both written--and edited some parts I'd written a while go. I also tried to work on how it will be organized. It's exciting but daunting, and getting out of the house to begin tackling it was the right decision. I unwittingly became one of "those" people who sit outdoors at coffee shops and talk too loudly on the phone to compete with the traffic whisking by when my friend Beth called me to check in on me.

After two hours I was chilled sitting in the shade, and decided to pack it in to head home. I felt accomplished that I'd finally gotten away. It did make a difference in my ability to focus, and I'll do it again. Unfortunately as I walked home I realized I no longer had possession of my wallet--which I'd had when I bought my cup of coffee earlier. So I did an about face and headed back to the coffee shop. I'd called on the way, and she'd found it--on the ground under the table I'd occupied.

Clearly, I have some packing glitches to work out before I make my next coffee shop appearance, but taking a page from Ken's book, shit happens, but it's how you handle it that determines its weight in your life.

Going Home

PadLo was up and ready for an adventure! So after securing him into the back seat, we set off for my small hometown in Indiana for a weekend visit.

There was a time when my dramatic storyline-driven teen self regarded my hometown as Alcatraz Island, my house as the actual prison, and my parents as tyrannical co-wardens. I was the wrongfully imprisoned character. But those days and feelings waned long ago. As I matured (and I use that term loosely), I grew to realize how lucky I was to be raised in that little rural town and even luckier by those two over-worked and under rewarded people. I never dreamed I'd so look forward to going there to visit. Driving into town is like running into the embrace of an old friend.

I’d been talking about getting out of Chicago for a while, and finally took the opportunity to plan a weekend getaway to my home town to spend some “down” time and relax with my family. There is something strong and protected about the house I grew up in. I knew I couldn’t completely escape pangs of sadness, but I was definitely in a place--physically and emotionally--where it couldn't get the best of me.

It was the first time ever, as I left Chicago that I didn’t feel a little morsel of regret. My connection to Chicago is immutable. It’s where I “became”, and leaving it usually incites even the tiniest bit of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. But not so on this trip. I was all smiles as I slugged back my home brewed coffee and belted out the vocal stylings of whomever was playing on my iTunes play list. PadLo joined in on the verses he knew.

When I arrived early on a beautiful August afternoon, I grabbed my overnight bag and PadLo then headed inside. I was a little surprised no one greeted me outside since I arrived pretty much right on schedule. I put my things down inside and still didn’t encounter anyone. I walked to the back of the house and saw my parents and one of my sisters sitting on the deck, talking. I felt such a sense of peace and comfort that I actually stopped and watched them for a few minutes. I loved seeing them gesturing and laughing with each other. It was one of the memories that I took the time to etch into my brain.

Dinner was ready by the time my other sister arrived. One of my favorite parts of the day was sidling up to the raised bar in the kitchen where we sat and ate like we did growing up. It was the first time in recent memory that it was just the “Original Five” of us, and it was a really special. Lots of harassment and laughter shared over the table were just as delicious as the steak and farm fresh corn on the cob.

Going back to Remington was meaningful in more than just seeing my family. There is a happiness that existed within me that pre-dated Ken--well, it predated most every other part of my life since I lived there since I was two. It was important for me--and it felt really good--to connect with it.

I’ve always been nostalgic, and taken great comfort in warm memories of the past. Over the past weeks I’ve tried to connect with happy times before I met Ken--not to ignore or deny him, but more to illustrate and remind my sometimes fragile psyche that my life is full of many different kinds of happiness, and in working through my grief, there will be more happiness to come.

After my sisters left, my mom drove me around to town to show me the sights that I don’t think I’d seen for more than twenty years. In the intervening time, I’d arrive at my folks and never get out to see anything else, so I was really eager to see what other parts of town looked like. We drove past the old town park with the same curly-Q slide I used to play on as a child; the new elementary school that was demolished and rebuilt as soon as I left it (coincidence?); and of course we drove down Ohio Street (the main drag) and passed the dime store of broken dreams (pictured, now an antique store, but with the same black and white marble running under the display windows).



On this visit I spent a lot of time floating aimlessly around the pool with my mom and sisters as Dad looked on from deck. My mom and I engage in friendly oneupmanship while my sisters act as sometimes-willing targets. Mom told the stories we’ve heard over the years of how she and my dad bought what used to be a Baptist Church and converted into a home that housed five people, two dogs and innumerable visitors and gatherings. More comforting and happy memories while making new ones.

I spent a lot of time not feeling sorrow--and it felt good. The dynamic of my immediate family is undeniably funny, good-natured and ever supportive. They all take my harassment and quick wit in stride. But when the five us are together, there is something that feels so comforting and loving about it. I felt protected and cared for. And I felt free to experience whatever emotions I had, though fun and laughter easily dominated.

Everyone should be so lucky to have such a wonderful family--and one that gave and continues to give me such unbelievable fodder for blogs!

My $2k T-Shirt

In an effort to gain more exposure as I writer, I joined a couple of blogger/writer-driven sites: technorati and blogcritics. Yesterday, I submitted a blog to blogcritics and I just received notification it was published today. It's not my strongest effort. In fact, I fully expected to get some feedback on edits that needed to be made. I'm really excited to see an article and my byline on a site that I'm not paying the fees for! Check it out!

Article first published as My Two Thousand Dollar T-Shirt on Blogcritics.



Every so often I stumble across a neatly folded red t-shirt tucked way back in my closet when I'm organizing or looking for something. I'm always compelled to unfurl it, unfailingly get lost in memories. It's my two-thousand-dollar t-shirt. I've never worn it. I'm not even sure I've ever washed it, but I have considered having it framed because of the price.

In spite of the sage words of my grandma, I never liked to stand out, preferring a safe place huddled in the masses. It wasn't that I didn't know how to sparkle--intentionally or not--but that there was no expectation of it. I had developed a quick wit over time and by my mid-twenties knew when and--when not--to use it.

I began hearing "you should do stand up comedy" around that time. Though I didn't have anything against the idea, I had no concept of how to begin. Besides that, it looked terrifying. Alone. On stage. Dying. Being heckled. Scary stuff that I wasn't ready for.

But I had the benefit of living in the home of The Second City. And as I heard the "stand up" comment more and more, I began to understand that it was a misunderstood by many people to mean improv comedy. A couple of years later my bestie and I began to consider seriously signing up to take classes at the venerable improv comedy institution.

Once we decided it was time to pony up the two-hundred dollar fee, we reported to 1616 N. Wells on March 15, 1997 (and still it feels like only a couple of years ago). My nerves were atwitter and my IBS was went beyond teasing me to blatant torture. It was a sensation that never let up as class approached each week. It was terrifying--only in the way something that exciting can be.

It was during the two years of weekly three-hour classes that I learned--or perhaps--remembered to be fearless. Unlearning how to think on stage and rather than act, react; figuring out "the game" of the scene each time. I learned how to trust my stage partners and to heighten the scene in accordance with the rules set forth by the progenitors of the very stage on which I was standing. I had three different weekly sessions which took place on the hallowed Main Stage, where the likes of Belushi, Nichols and May, Carrell and Fey performed.

Attending classes at Second City was without a doubt one of the most special and defining experiences of my life. It was the scariest and smartest decision I'd ever made. It ever-so-slightly changed the direction of my life, and my perspective as well. What I experienced each week in class found its way into every aspect of my life. The teamwork I learned caused my performance at work to increase exponentially. I began to look at "problems" as "challenges", where the key lay with finding the game. Improv became a metaphor for life.

The satisfaction and intensity of being fearless on a weekly basis propelled my life forward at an accelerated rate. But I have to say, it wasn't the most valuable gift by any means. Aside from "graduating" Second City with a sense of accomplishment, I left with four of the closest friends I've ever had. As I look back on my tenure there, the rules I learned on stage give way to the long-lasting and harassing friendships that were formed while learning them. At the time in your life where most people aren't in the position to make new friends, I made some incredible ones. Another reward of fearlessness.

Ojai, How Are Ya?

Like most small town kids, I had a 25" console television in my bedroom when I was growing up. I was a shy, introvert who spent hours alone, entertaining myself. But no matter what I was doing, the boob tube was on, beckoning me into one zany adventure after another. I made many friends in the land of make believe. At the top of my list are two people: Steve Austin and Jaime Sommers.

Jaime (yes, that's how she spelled it) was one of my closest childhood friends. Steve Austin and I were tight too, but Jaime embodied much more of a fun contrast for me. Cute. Sweet. Funny. And could kick some Fembot or Bigfoot ass when called upon to do so. She could also chop vegetables faster than a Cuisinart and when faced with no can opener, could use her bionic fingernail to get at those baked beans. She was the whole bionic package. She, Steve and I shared many bionic adventures together. As a lazy kid, it was fortunate that in order to play "bionic", I just had to move in slow motion. This kid wasn't going to break a sweat!

I was giddy to discover Season 2 of the "Bionic Woman" was available on DVD in May, and I snatched it up as soon as it went on sale. Ken was sleeping more then, so after the house was quiet and kitchen was clean, I sat in front of my computer and watched a couple of episodes. It was like an emotional orgasm of childhood, bringing back the wonderment and security of childhood. In spite of the wonderful distraction it provided, something told me to put them away; and that they would better serve me later. Soon after he died and I found myself alone and never in great need of a distraction of bionic proportions, I pulled out those DVDs. And they served me well.

My obsession with Jaime made for a couple of my very favorite outings when we lived in LA. Always up for a day trip, Ken asked me one weekend where we should go. I didn't really know how far away it was, but I suggested Ojai, where Jaime Sommers lived in rustic apartment above the horse barn of Steve Austin's mother and step-father. (GEEK ALERT: They had also become her legal guardians when she was a minor because her parents died.) After the couple-hour drive, we explored the quaint town and had lunch. We took a drive out of town into the Ojai Valley and passed some beautiful olive farms. We drove through some tunnels that had been blasted through the mountains, and stopped to admire this subtle and beautiful waterfall.



Further down the same road we happened across a state camp ground. I'd never been a camper before I met Ken, and he'd taught me to love it. So we made plans to return later in the month for a long weekend. Little did I suspect that he'd hatched a plan to bring Kathy, one of my Chicago besties as a surprise. It's one of my favorite memories. My bionic obsession was well-known to Kathy. She revealed to me late in our friendship that while on a trip to Universal Studios in the late 70s, that she had been chosen from a tour group to be "Jaime Sommers" in a tug of war with several large burly men. In true Hollywood fashion--sound effects and all--she yanked the rope and dropped all the would-be assailants to the ground like potato sacks. It was extra special to share an evening under the stars with her in my beloved Ojai. It's funny to think of all that as I watched those episodes and felt the comfort of those few nights by the camp fire with Kathy, Ken and Q. It gives me just as much comfort now.

However, was it completely coincidental that I fell in love with a handsome hottie with a bionic leg?

The bionic theme continued at Ken's soiree--which took me completely by surprise--and only enhanced the experience in a very special way for me. During the prep for the event, my friend Terry presented me with a gift bag. Along with pushy Kathy, they both insisted I open the gift in front of them. Opening gifts in front of people is an IBS-inspiring moment for me. As an improv teacher once told me, I'm just not that good of an actor, and contrary to popular opinion amongst the rapscallions I run with, I don't (always) enjoy seeing people cry in disappointment. But this surprise made my heart leap.

In true 70's "women's lib" fashion, it's the Bionic Woman's Bionic Beauty Salon. No, of course, it couldn't be Jaime Sommers Covert Ops Training Center! Who the hell would buy that? Oh, wait…me. Of course, I would have begged for it if it were The Bionic Day Care Center (bionic pooping babies sold separately). But I think the point is Jaime had choices--a pink house coat or her tennis whites…hmmm…life is full of difficult decisions, no? And of course, a photo of pseudo-boyfriend Steve Austin is displayed prominently to remind Jaime why she has to be beautiful. And finally, in spite of the geek-known fact that bionic skin doesn't tan, there is a huge nuclear-powered sun lamp center stage at the salon. From the brilliant, in-touch minds of Kenner!

Make no mistake, I love my Bionic Beauty Salon. Watching the show recently--like watching it when I was a kid--enveloped me in a world where people could do things that were surprising, if not superhuman. It was a message that resonated with me--and still does. I'm no former-tennis-pro-turned-undercover-8th-grade-bionic-teacher-who-saves-the-world-on-a-weekly-basis-and-looks-vintage-doing-it, but my life--like everyone's--has been faced us with situations and people that we found overwhelming, yet somehow found a (perhaps surprising) way to overcome it. Hence, we are a little bit bionic. Watching Jaime kick some bootie reminded me that she was in a sense (as I imaginarily inserted my character of her younger brother Brody into all story lines), and as i watched them a few weeks ago, she was doing the same thing: protecting me--this time, emotionally. Focusing my mind on something so magical and fun and fraught with good memories made me feel so good and it placed a short moratorium on sadness. It's a weird connection to the kind of naive strength and ambition a kid can have--before society beats it out of him.

Now I have a little bit of Ojai sitting in my living room--as well as a huge target on my forehead for mocking by aforementioned rapscallions. Mock away. I have to brush Jaime's hair. Steve just called and said he was running over--at 60 mph no less. Ugh.

For Your Weeding Enjoyment...

I received a cheeky text from my friend Samara earlier this week that began "Ronny, Ronny, how does your garden grow..." to check in with me. But it presented a big, daunting question: how does my garden grow? After enjoying many hours with friends and family in recent weeks, sitting in the backyard, the answer was "it grows out of control with weeds." Even the herbs, planted in pots looked a little singed after so many hot days and ne'ery a thought of watering them until I had a "holy sh*t!" moment. I couldn't help but think of Ken and how lovingly tended to the garden when I was watering. And while working to figure out my new "normal", my mind spun repeatedly, thinking about the garden.

So, this morning, I decided to take action. I armed myself with a do-rag (a la Ken) and these tools...


I began a three-hour weeding frenzy the likes of which my lower back and knees had never known. It was satisfying and cathartic. Yanking out deeply rooted interlopers proved to be a great release--almost enjoyable. I knew Ken would be proud--and most like dumbfounded--by my single-minded drive to eradicate anything that didn't belong there. I'm certain my amateurish eye to all things green pulled out beauties that belonged, but I'm even more certain that anything that didn't belong was abruptly dislodged and tossed, limp and lifeless, onto the hot sidewalk until I bagged up all the refuse and put it by the garbage.

In my mind's eye this garden is Ken's--as it always has been. He planned, tended and cultivated it year after year. But there came a point during my work today, eyes stinging from the sweat streaming into them, that I began to consider thinking of this garden as my own. It's a thought that hadn't ever really occurred to me before. But perhaps like my recent affinity with cooking (another Ken specialty) that I might take an interest in gardening. Nothing ambitious to start with. But I have a lot of blank soil to fill in, and even I find it a little hard to believe that I'm kind of excited about going to Home Depot to see what might catch my fancy.

This project was enjoyable in a few ways. Most obviously, it's good to be busy and productive no matter where you are in your life. Secondly, it's a meaningful way to connect with Ken, honor him and the home we made. And last but not least, growing pretty things is just cool--as is growing herbs that I love to cook with. Did I love the hellish alien creatures that were dislodged from their dark and cool hiding places? No. Do I think they are going to collaborate and stage an invasion of my bedroom while I sleep in order to kill me? Most likely. Did I entertain elaborate snake scenarios? Definitely. Will I look at purchasing venom-proof gardening gloves? Hellz yes!

It will take some time to get into the mindset and rhythm of caring for my garden, but I'll take today as a superb victory. As I sit here in the backyard typing this blog, I feel a sense of satisfaction that I'm certain Ken felt often, but for me it's new. I feel like I earned the right to sit back here and look around in the twilight at my plants. I feel proud.

Here is the proof that all you haters have all been waiting for.

Before...






After...

Once Upon a Time...

When you're truly happy in your life, and loving it, that's when things get even better--at least in my experience. I'd spent my twenties dating unsuccessfully and lamenting the fact I didn't have a boyfriend. It became my "schtick." Most all of my friends were coupled, and making fun of my singleness became my way of coping with it. When I turned thirty I opened myself up to meeting someone online--the advent of computer dating. What followed were a string of disastrous--albeit, funny dating experiences. (Blogs to follow!) About a year later, something changed in me. I looked around my life and realized how lucky I was. My choosy nature had surrounded me with a close knit group of friends. I had a job I excelled in, and I'd completed a long-standing dream of attending Second City's two-year improv training program and conservatory. My life was full and happy, and my dreams were mine for the taking.

On this cold night in March I treated myself to a night out to a little neighborhood bar near my apartment. The bartenders were friendly and the crowd was usually chock full of smiling regulars. It was unlike the bars on Halsted in that it was tiny and tucked away in quiet Ravenswood. I remember it was unusually crowded that night and I was lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time in order to get a seat at the bar. One of the bartenders hooked up me with a cocktail (probably a cosmopolitan), and as I sipped it I surveyed the people around the bar, not really looking for anything in particular. Just being. My eyes caught sight of a handsome man sitting further down where the bar turned. He looked familiar. And did I say handsome? Woof!

Then it clicked. It was Ken. This night wasn't my actual first meeting with him. I'd first meet him a couple of months earlier (January 12 to be exact). I happened upon him that night as he sat alone against tiny bar that lined the wall, drinking a beer and scribbling on a piece of paper. Imbued with the confidence only a vodka-tonic can instill, I sat down next to him and asked what he was writing. I slid the paper away from him and toward myself and boldly read it--or rather pretended to read it. (Hey, I was just looking for an "in", people.) We enjoyed some playful banter which somehow led the conversation to theater. He was an improviser himself. I remember being so excited to have someone to talk with about improv. I never performed professionally, as he did, but the thoughts, comments and experiences we had were common. However fun that night was, it somehow went off the rails for us through a series of misunderstandings. We parted that night abruptly, and though I was sad that it hadn't worked out more to my satisfaction, I relied on my new outlook to get me through. It apparently wasn't meant to be.

Or was it?

Now, back to March 23. When I saw Ken I immediately thought he'd have no interest in me--or might not even want to catch sight of me. Yet I couldn't help but gaze over at him from time to time. He was playing darts with some other guys and seemed to be having a good time, undaunted by my sneaking glances. A little while later, I passed him as I headed to the facilities. He stopped me, said "hello" and re-introduced himself to me. "I remember you," I said, nervously then excused myself to finish my mission. It was an awkward exchange, but I realized "hey, he's not angry with me." That thrilled me. I noticed a while later as he played darts, he was dealing with a very drunk admirer who he clearly had no interest in. When he walked past me again he said as much. This was it! An opportunity to use my improv skills--something we had in common. I told him I'd help him out, and just waited for him to give me "the signal" (a la Carol Burnett tugging on her ear lobe.)

I fortified myself with another cocktail and soon glanced over to see him giving me the sign. I swilled what was left in my glass and boldly marched over to Ken and the perpetrator. Voice low and fuming, I posed as the loyal--and deceived--boyfriend. My tirade sent the ne'er do well transgressor onward to his next victim as he lilted away quietly (like any plant under my care) during our "lovers' quarrel." I grabbed his hand, proclaiming "we need to talk!" and pulled him around the corner out of sight of everyone. "Was I butch enough?" I asked, covering my mouth in the most (intentionally, right?) feminine fashion I could muster. Ken didn't just approve, but lauded my performance with gratitude, his trillion dollar smile, and a drink. We spent the rest of that night talking, laughing and sharing our thoughts, dreams and non-stop laughter.

Seven years later at my 40th birthday party, Ken surprised me with many things. One of the main surprises was asking guests beforehand to write a scene about how each of them met me--then act it out. He wrote a scene the described what I described above. It was a wonderful celebration of our meeting. I actually have that scene--all of them, in fact--on DVD: another gift he gave me. I watched the DVD of the party on my birthday last month. I wondered it if it was the right thing to do, but it so was. I was all smiles--just like I was that very night and at my party. Watching him and my friends re-enact that meeting is an inexhaustible source of joy for me.

As for the "real" meeting, my life was forever changed after that night. Ken and I were together from that point forward. All of the natural fears in getting into a serious relationship assuaged naturally over time, and we just melted into a single unit: the kenron scandal. Yes, we still had our individual identities, but together we were bigger than the sum of our parts. Thinking of that night and this blog as I type it leaves an undeniable smirk on my face. The magic of that night lingers around me.

Thank you for suggesting I write about it, Claire.

Finding a New "Normal"

Today felt like the beginning...of something. With Ken's Memorial Soiree a jumble of fond memories and feelings, today the remnants of my out-of-state family left to return to their lives in California. There was nothing standing between me and my future. It was a good day overall. Cleaning, laundry and prepping for heading back to work per a traditional work schedule tomorrow. But it was also a bit...paralyzing. I've learned to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. If it weren't for losing Ken, today would have been the day things went back to normal. But, now, what is normal? My new normal.

I know I'll figure it out as I go, but as a planner, it's a bit unnerving to have to erase a planned future and begin re-imagining it from the ground up. It wasn't that I didn't have my own goals when Ken was alive, but he played an integral part in all of them--particularly in being the foundation on which I could achieve them.

Today is Independence Day. What an ironic holiday. In many ways it's just the third one I've had to endure...along with my birthday and the second anniversary of our getting married in Iowa. This one might just be the most difficult. It was this weekend last year, that Ken had healed in nothing less than a miraculous fashion from his hemipelvectomy surgery in January and had come through a "preventative" and devastating round of chemo a few months later with flying colors, a positive attidude, and some dear friends at the Creticos Cancer Center--our home away from home during treatments. Tonight as I hear the neighborhood fireworks crackling, and flaring in the sky, I'm reminded of a night like where he and I grilled outside and enjoyed many martinis while talking, planning, laughing and loving each other. We'd been through a war, and by all accounts at the time, we'd won. Now THAT was an Independece Day if ever there was one (okay, aside from the original one).

I remember he wheeled around the neighbor like Speedy Gonzales as we moved to get better vantage points of the night's temporary stars that abounded. The feelings and memories of that night are emblazoned in my mind. It was truly one of the best days we'd had post-surgery. He was in charge of the grill, and I was in charge the martini shaker. Like then, lightening bugs sublimely lit up all around us. And we marveled at them--as he always had. I mean, c'mon, a bug whose but lights up? High couldn't have been easy for any of them.

After dinner, we went for another wheel around the neighborhood. Ken was feeling strong and powerful--and he certainly looked the part--so he propelled himself forward like a hummingbird darting from flower to flower along the craggy sidewalks. I highly discouraged "drunk" driving, but he insisted he would be fine. The state of the art wheelchair came with more fails safe's than Fort Knox. So off we went on a gorgeous July night around the neighborhood. And it was on this trip, we had quite an adventure. Part scary and part hilarious.

Click this link to veiw.

In typical Ken fashion, he dusted himself off, get back in the chair and we continued on for another 40 minutes. He gently reminded me to please make sure the anti-tippers I removed were put back on his chair. He was remarkable in that respect--and in so many others. "Why not?" he said, to which I had no argument. The next day in spite of the tire burns on his arms, he wanted to go to Halsted Street and go to a couple of bars. And we did so. I video taped a lot of that journey, and I watch them with such great pride--for both of us. The video is a testament to how Ken's mind worked. His tolerance for pain was higher than most, and all he wanted to do was take a walk around the neighborhood with his husband to checkout fireworks you can only see in Chicago. Doing any of that with me was possible for him--but meaningless.

He's still teaching my lessons, and I'll be a start student. He left me with much more than he took. And that's just something I need to keep reminding myself about. You can feel free to remind me as well.

Before I sign off, I wanted to recommend a new blog for your reading pleasure, started by a good friend of mine. Check it out and make some comments. I have no doubt she'll give us a lot to think about: http://mycornermidwest.blogspot.com/

Make tomorrow an amazing day.

A Better Day

Good days should be acknowledged. And today was one of those days. No tears came today--not that that would have been a bad thing. But for the time being appears i've reached my quota of saline production. I made the conscious choice to not work on the memorial soiree, though my "to do" lists are aching for some attention. I spoke to my friend Katie (who also happens to be my sister-in-law) for a good long while last night. She was the cherry--or rather the chocolate covered strawberry of my day.

Earlier in the afternoon I'd received a box of said chocolatey delights as well as a beautiful orchid plant, rife with blooms about to pop. Ken would have gone ape shit over such a gorgeous piece of flora. After marveling at its beauty for an hour, I said to myself, "Now how am I going to keep it alive until she gets here!?" Not good with the "green" (money or plants), my history with such things involves midnight trashcan burials and buying identical replacements more than reaping any long term enjoyment. But as my mom pointed out in an earlier conversation when I was telling her about the thoughtful gifts, I didn't used to be very good a cooking either, and managed to pick up that talent to a degree, so perhaps next on my self-improvement agenda will be to not kill plants.

I'll keep you updated.



This plant really is the metaphor for all the love and support I continue to receive from a family so full of love. I couldn't be more grateful if the plant were plastic.

Happy times lie ahead. Difficult ones too. But for today, I understand how "happy" will fit into my world again.

Building and Stumbling

I returned to work yesterday. It was a daunting feat, but a necessary one. I'd submerged myself in alone-time last week to ensure I could feel the full gamut of emotions I needed to feel. I gave them their due. I kept busy but allowed myself moments/hours to feel what I felt. But by Sunday I was ready to go back to work—or at least be “out and among.” To be busy and distracted and productive sounded like a wonderful idea. And it was. A couple of well-wishers stopped by my desk, and that was lovely, but for the most part I don’t think many people noticed I was back in the office. Many of them probably hadn’t noticed how long I’d been gone or why. The day went well, in fact I felt good to be back in the Aeron saddle again. The morning passed quickly. I ran across the street to Corner Bakery and indulged in a chopped salad. Delicious! The second I finished it, I had the impulse to call Ken and see what he had for lunch. Weird. I dipped my toes into a the sadness pool, but kept jumping in. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I left about 4:30. I felt triumphant and even texted my sister-in-law with said confidence. "Day 1 down!" As I rode the elevator up in the parking garage I could feel my emotions rising as well. As soon as I got into the car the tears streamed down my face and my chin quivered uncontrollably. The dam burst, and there was no holding it back—even if I’d wanted to. I used to love coming home. And seeing my sweet man. I knew we'd hang out and commiserate or celebrate, depending on the kind of days we’d had, over cocktails. It's sad and disappointing not to have that anymore. It’s another familiar experience that seems so empty and pointless and dull without him. Our time together was usually full of fun and laughter, but it was sacred at the same time. We replenished each other as well as ourselves.

I think a deeper challenge that I hadn't yet considered is finding meaning in my life. Before…just being part of “us” carried so much meaning for me. It was the multi-faceted foundation that acted as a spring board for everything else. I still had a strong sense of self but my life was bigger than me. The sum of us was greater than either if us individually. Therein lies the new challenge: creating a foundation to keep me stable and support me as I figure out what my life will look like and how it can serve me best. And serve the lessons I learned alongside the most amazing man I have ever known. I know he'd want our love and our life together to be a building block for me, not a stumbling block.

The bar in finding meaning in what I do in my life has been raised to just out of reach, it seems. When Ken was here it didn't really matter what I did all day because I came home to him in the evenings, and that was the time we worked on planning and pursuing our dreams. Now that time is over, and it feels like since it can’t ever be re-created, that it has to be taken to the next level in order to do it justice. What is that? I’m not exactly sure, but I’ll know it when I see it.

Giving myself permission to be excited about the possibilities that lie ahead won’t an easy task. It would feel like I’m abandoning my old life, and Ken. But it’s not time for that yet. I have a lot more feeling--and intellectualizing--to do before I get there.

Blog Day Afternoon

(Ken booked ended by my folks on the left, and his folks on the right.)

It's a funny thing to be gay and fall in love in one's early thirties. Your personality is pretty much fully "baked". You know who you are for the most part, and have an established group of friends. This was the case when I met kenan. We both lived in Chicago, away from our families (coincidentally) so it took quite a while for me to meet all the members of his immediate family, and likewise for him to meet mine. What's even odder, that after almost ten years our sets of parents had never met each other--due mostly to geographical complications.

We'd talked for years about how well our folks would get along, and hoped that it would happen at some point--presumably our wedding or some kind of celebration. Their first meeting occurred in January 2010, and was under less-than-ideal circumstances. Both parents were present at the hospital during kenan's hemipelvecotomy surgery which was the big event that kicked off the most recent occurrence of cancer. On the one hand, it was so wonderful to have the families come together to easily to support us through such a serious situation. On the other hand, kenan wasn't able to witness their meeting or ensuing conversations, and I'm not sure I even remember much of it since I was preoccupied with worry about how he was doing, and wondering how many Xanax I could take without passing out or technically be considered an addict. I recounted the story to kenan as he recovered as best I could. It made him so happy to know I was being looked after by both our parents while he was undergoing surgery.

With his most recent diagnosis and coming home for in-home hospice, we've had the benefit of an incredibly strong support network. Our friends and family have stepped up behind any expectation to help us and support us. Ken's folks came immediately after he got home to stay with us in order to help out and spend time with us. When I speak with my mom she is a rock of support and knows when to discuss the matter at hand, and when to distract me with her razor-sharp humor and ridiculous and humiliating memories from my childhood. I am instrument she plays beautifully.

So it happened that while his folks were in town, mine were also coming to visit! I wish I'd had the time and wherewithal to be excited for days in advance. I did get excited the day of the gathering. I'd carefully crafted a meal (with some help from Costco) of chicken alfredo and spinach salad. The weather wasn't being as cooperative as I would have liked, but it was sunny for the most part. Unfortunately, it was only going to hit the mid-50s. That didn't keep us from getting outside though. When my parents called and said they had arrived, I scurried to collect Ken and get him outside to greet them. The last time they'd seen him was the day we came home from the hospital. He was not very coherent, and I was freaked out beyond measure. I was glad they would get to see the kenan they knew and loved. A short while later my in-laws arrived, and as soon as they entered the living room, both sets of parents got along famously. I would sneak sideways looks at ken as we both enjoyed watching the four of them getting on so famously--especially considering how painfully aware we were of each and every one of their flaws, faults and idiosyncrasies. But it was a great day, and a memory I will always treasure.

iRescind

In a previous blog I lamented my iPad purchase, declaring it overhyped and underwhelming. So I happily returned it, thinking I was free from its touch-screen grip. However, it wasnt that simple. It never is with me. I am a lover of anything that "organizes." I had a Trapper Keeper in 1980. A DayRunner in 1990. A Handspring Visor Deluxe (Palm OS) in 2000. A Dell Axim (Windows Mobile OS) in 2003. A BlackBerry in 2006. An iPhone in 2008. My need for centralized organization is overwhelming. Something within me was determined to find a use for an iPad.

So after breaking up with it and realizing my feelings weren't fully reconciled, I wondered how we could give our relationship another chance. In the meantime iPad 2 had been introduced with no great "must have" features (in my opinion). Even better, I got an email from Apple letting me know the first gen devices were in "clearance". Ok. Reason número uno for a reconciliation.

I did a lot of research to find companion apps to desktop Mac programs I had. Syncing is very sexy, you know. And I found several. Reason number two! Let's see, I guess I should round out with a third. Did I mention it was discounted?

No doubt I wanted to want one more than I wanted one, but after spending a few days with her (yes, she's a girl...like a ship. A wonderful mini computer ship with a glossy touch screen) I began to understand how I'd use her. Reading newspapers, keeping myself organized and synced with my Mac, and even writing. Part of the deal was I told myself I'd have to use it for writing. That alone would make it worth it's weight in platinum. And it payed off. Like the know-it-all Genius at the Mac store said when I returned the first one, "You get used to typing on it. Just like you did your iPhone." Yeah. Yeah. It's actually not that bad, but does take some getting used to. This blog entry was typed wholly on my iPad.

Oh! Reason number three: paying less for the same thing you paid more for two weeks ago is also sexy. Very sexy.

Bully for Me

Last week, after finishing the first draft of my novel, I started writing about a bullying experience with a kid from high school. (To be clear, I was the one being bullied...I know...shocker!) Tonight, I just finished the fifth version and sent it to a writer friend for her input. I was so excited to send it off and get her esteemed opinion. But as soon as I hit "send," I could feel my heart beating heavily. The knot in my stomach that evokes this experience--reserved now for job interviews and intimidating meetings with leadership at work--made an unwelcome return performance. My hands were cold and shaking. And the sounds of my world were drowned out with a ringing in my ears. It was I was back in high school again.

The idea to write about it hit me like a bolt of lightening last week and I began working on it feverishly as if to reach back in time and offer some help to my former self. I worked on it for hours for a week solid, finally getting to a draft--my fifth--that would be presentable to another reader's eyes. I have thought about this bullying story for years and even considered putting pen to paper to express it. I think I was too ashamed. Still after 25 years when putting myself back there, I get a little sad and sometimes a little weepy for that poor kid who shared my name and my life. The lesson learned was that truth is the basis for any well-told story and in telling the truth, revealing oneself is a must. It's not always easy to do, but something I'll get comfortable with.

It started out as a blog I planned to publish in keeping with the promise to myself of posting weekly. But as it poured out of me--an unintentional, but timely topic--I knew I wanted to get feedback on it. But that didn't make sense. My blog was an unedited, first draft of thoughts and experiences. Then it hit me to check the yearly deadline for the Writer's Digest Competition which I discovered with relief was May 3. I'd entered a piece in the essay/personal memoir category in 2006 and received honorable mention, placing 18th. It felt good to receive acknowledgment that I was't spinning my wheels and actually had a modicum of talent. The certificate I received hangs proudly in my office--where I do most of my writing--just under a personally typed letter I received from the hilarious and oh-so-idolized Mr. David Sedaris. I look at the certificate often, always tickled by the honor they are paying so formally to my piece titled "Cousin Fucker", which sit loudly in the middle of the certificate.


The very kind and talented Mr. Sedaris' reply to a letter I'd written him about "Me Talk Pretty One Day.


My profane certificate. I guess it makes me certifiable.

i[wanted-to-love]Pad

After saving the money, and waiting a year, I finally bought an iPad on Tuesday. And I returned it two days later. Although my Apple Store return experience was as easy--though less joyful--as purchasing something, I thought owning an iPad would be a transformative experience, but I just "didn't get it." Steve Jobs told me I needed an one! And no one wanted to believe him more than I did. I believed it when I converted to Mac. I believed it when I got my iPhone. But the iPad...I'm befuddled. There wasn't anything I could do on my phone or laptop that I could do any easier/better/faster/more magically on the iPad.

Maybe today's purchasing market is more mobile than I am. And for that reason I can understand having one. But my iPhone fits in my pocket, and in spite of the rumors it does make/receive calls. My MacBook Pro is brilliant for receiving all my writing projects--like this blog.

I'm glad I tried it. But unless the iPad vacuums or tells my fortune accurately (aside for losing ~$1k on hype) then I'm out.

Of course there is always iPad 2.0. I mean, you never know.

The Dime Store of Broken Dreams

My parents owned a "variety store" when I was third grade--maybe after and possible before, but I know for certain I remember going there in third grade. After school my sister and I would walk from elementary school ten minutes to the block-long business district known to everyone then as "uptown" to spend time there until Mom closed up shop at five and took us home. Sometimes my friend Marie would offer me a ride on her banana-seated bike, in which case my nine-year-old laziness would force me to blow off my sister's accompaniment.

Our store was called Remington Variety. It sold all kinds of stuff from office supplies to toys (a personal favorite) to housewares, and paint. It was there where I got my big singing break--or took my opportunity, really. One Saturday afternoon while my father literally "minded the store" to give Mom a break to do fun things like clean the house, do laundry and grocery shopping. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to squeeze in a couple of shots of Jack or a nervous breakdown. It was a slow day (you could almost smell the bankruptcy), so I thought if I swung into action I could bring customers into the store and keep them there, enraptured by my vocal stylings and purchasing the wares we peddled at reasonable prices.

There was a little-known intercom system (except to me--even then all things electronic caught my interest) from the back office to the front of the store or showroom, as I called it. I didn't feel the need for rehearsal. I had put of on plenty of shows with my sisters for my grandma, though as a back-up singer (the youngest), not as the lead. This is what they called in showbiz as a "make or break moment." I hopped on the little stool by the intercom master control center (on/off switch), grabbed the CB-radio-shaped microphone and pressed the button before bursting into my rendition of "Delta Dawn" by Miss Helen Reddy. Over and over. Like a flawless track on a perpetual loop. It's moments like this I recall with great curiosity, fondness, and even pride. Somewhere along the line I stopped indulging the little voice inside and its whispers of encouragement and daring.

I was in the middle of my third repeat when I heard the unmistakable tap of my dad's hard-souled shoes, heading my way--FAST. He rushed into the office and said, "You know that thing is on?" I just stared at him blankly, hoping I wouldn't have to answer that question and that he'd leave so I could continue my in-store entertainment. But this show didn't go on. Apparently my talents were too esoteric for the likes of that hick town. A dream crushed. A true calling burned to the ground. Another boring afternoon sniffing the wares in the paint room (where one of my illegal stashes of Wacky Wafers and Marathon bars were kept.) I hadn't known so much humiliation since the day I nearly choked on root beer-flavored Wonka Bottle Cap during the Spring Fling Sale.

We lived on the opposite edge of town in the old Bible Baptist Church my folks had purchased and converted into a house. Our part of town was newer and didn't even have sidewalks. It was fun to be "uptown" (which at some point in the passing of time has changed to "downtown"); to be in the thick of the what little hustle and bustle a town the size of Mayberry could generate. Running across the street to the post office or going next door to the cafe for "a breaded tenderloin and a milkshake, please" or running to the drug store to get Mom and me little bottles of Coke, each costing "two dimes and a nickel."

It went out business after a couple of years. Not long ago at a family gathering I asked, "Do you think it was because of all the candy I stole?"

"Yes,” my mom replied. "I'm certain it is."

(Thar she blows! The green storefront back in the day wasn't green and was nestled between Brookings Shoe Store on the right and The Remington Cafe on the left.)

There's Something about Tina

Tina is a buddy of mine who I met back in 1997 while attending training at Second City. I think our friendship fate was sealed on the first day of improv class as he were tangled into a continuous, hand-holding "human knot" and were tasked with unknotting ourselves while not letting go. Shortly thereafter, I found myself behind Tina, hands cupping her......breasts. I was horrified, and she couldn't stop cracking jokes about it--and hasn't to this day.

At that time Tina lives near me in Lakeview so after departing from our classmates after having a drink or two after class, Tina and I would head up north via "L" and stop for a "slushie" at Sidetrack, probably the most patronized bar in "Boystown." Our class ended in the afternoon, we'd arrive at Sidetrack in the afternoon, yet somehow it would always be dark when we left Sidetrack. It was a strange phenomenon we'd try to tackle each time we sat down with a frosty grape-flavored, vodka-enhanced drink.

This week we decided it was time for a trip to our old watering hole in order to catch up--it had been far too long since she and I got some face time. After we met up at our tribal meeting spot, I couldn't help but consider that it had been 15 years since our first trip there together and all the fun times that have ensued. We were a little stunned at the number considering we're both 22 years old, but after a slushie or two that math problem always seemed to fade away.

We share the same a common language and a humor this is wrong, inappropriate and if not illegal, then at least "frowned upon" in most red states. As a result, we were dubbed "the dark hearts" by our "friends." And though the years may have softened our every day delivery, when we get together, I'm reminded how appropriate the nickname remains to be.

As always, the tide of people ebbed and flowed around us, but we didn't really notice. I've found it's hard to see anything through eyes, gushing with tears from laughter. (They are sore this morning, from all briny tear production!) I have wondered what the people around must think--aside from the requisite jealousy--as we tell stories, gesticulate, and laugh to a point of silence because breathing isn't possible.

If your ears were burning yesterday, now you know why.


(Is it me, or does it look like she's talking about me?)