Never lovers, ever friends

I wish you bluebirds in the Spring
To give your heart a song to sing

You can do this.
That’s what I told myself.
It’s what Margaretta told me.
It’s what my mom told me.

A few hours and it’s over.

“You don’t have to go.”
That’s what my mom said.

But, of course, I had to. How could I not?

And in July, a lemonade
To cool you in some leafy glade

I drove up from Boston slightly hungover, nauseous and, quite frankly, emotionally drained.
It’s been a tough 9 months. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to get through it.
Gracefully, that is. I knew I could get through it by getting drunk and acting a fool.
I owe him more than that. I owe myself more than that.

…shelter from the storm
A cozy fire to keep you warm

We got to the church- a small wooden affair in the middle of a VT field.
The guest milled about outside and I went in and gave him a hug.

…bluebirds in the Spring
To give you heart a song to sing

His brother walked his grandmother down the aisle
Then the bridesmaid
Then he walked with his mother
His father trailed behind.

And then, I knew for sure.

My breaking heart and I agree
That you and I could never be

Because it’s true

But most of all, I wish you love.

Bye Bye Blackbird

We close on my grandmother’s house next week.
Mom went up Monday morning, the movers come on Friday.

Pack up all my cares and woes

55+ years.
Johnny and I went out last night to help with the attic and collect a few last pieces.
At this point it seems as though my mother will take most of the belongings. My uncles are wrecks, particularly my uncle John in CA. Mom's the one who has cleaned out the house. To the victor go the spoils, or so they say.

Here I go, swinging low

We found my grandmother’s yearbook from 1938 (she was just 14 but a junior, no accelerated or gifted program back then, they just had you skip grades), several old trunks and my grandparents engagement announcement from the New York Times.

Bye bye blackbird

Johnny mixed martinis, Mom had a G&T.
Mom turned to me and said, “Aside from when you were sick, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

My Isle of Dreams

I was unable to finagle a trip to the beach this weekend. My usual sources did not come through and, without transport of my own, I was stuck on Manhattan.

Then! I realized! Manhattan! It's an island! And near the ocean! Surely there must be beaches around here, somewhere.

Yeah. Geography. Not so much my strong suit.

Ahem.

Tempting as it was to go to Coney and eat baloney on a roll, we took the A train and went to
Rockaway Beach. An NYC public beach in Queens. It was, an experience. Actually, better than it could have been. Think a slightly more down-market Wildwood. Still, for $4 round trip, you can't beat it.

After the beach we popped into a local saloon to watch the pony's run at Belmont. Then we got back on the A train and went to Howard Beach, another stop in Queens where the tracks split and one can go either back into Manhattan or out to JFK. Johnny's "special little friend" in Los Angeles is making a guest appearance in New York this week and he had to pick up Fam-a-lam-a-ding-dong up at baggage claim around 10. Rather than cool his heels alone at the airport we popped into another local saloon.

5 beers and 1 shot of whiskey for $20 even. Plus tip. Talk about culture shock.

It's nice to leave the city from time to time and realize that there are other places out there. It's hard to write about because I can't seem to structure a sentence that doesn't make me sound like an effete ass. Blah blah blah single minded urban professional blah blah blah life in the provinces so refreshing blah blah blah. Like I said, no way to express it without coming off like an ass.

But still, refreshing none the less.

Simple Minds, Simple Pleasure

For Ashley, wherever I may find her...

So, my grandmother. Elle est tres malade. Oui. Elle est presque mort. Je suis tres desolee. Yes, you see, my grandmother-- very sick and very near death.

Last night I went through my voicemails in a fit trying to find one last voice mail from her. Please GOD! I am so lazy. I rarely check and often delete my voicemails without listening to them. I'm good like that. I was terribly concerned that I had unknowingly deleted all messages from her. That's just the kind of thing I'd do. Delete the message I want to keep but hold on to every single message from my doctor's office confirming my appointment on Feb 22, 2005. But, I digress.

I had 45 messages sitting on that thing. I listened to every single one. I found my grandmother-- one from last summer inviting me to dinner. Her old voice, deep and throaty. Upper Montclair's very own Lauren Bacall. Sigh of relief. And tears, of course. For, although I have made my peace with this whole, you know circle of life type thing, it still sucks.

I stopped crying and listened to the rest of the messages. And there, amongst 27 messages from my mother, several from Phil, one from my dad, and, like, 14 from Harry, there was yours.

And the opening,
"Ryan, my love, where have you been all my life?!"

Well, I felt loved. I must say. I must say.
So, Smashley, where have I been all your life? Apparently I've been sitting on my bed surrounded by the Sunday Times going through old voicemails to hear my grandmother's voice. Which sounds just as depressing as it was. Until I found yours.

Love you, too.

for loyalty love and for soothe

“Not to compare your grandmother to my car...”

But, my dear, that is the most apt comparison.

Heavens to Murgatroid, it’s helpful to have a bosom buddy.

"Plastics!"

For ESL, KDC, and Emma Jean Booshay...

I play it cool
And dig all jive
That's the reason
I stay alive

My motto
As I live and learn
Is:
Dig and Be Dug
In Return
--Langston Hughes

Dear-

I wanted to find some deep, profound thought, some amazing truth to send you on your way as you graduate. Sadly, I have some hideous cold and it's all I an do to remember to breathe. No profundities from me today.

That said, Langston Hughes has been kicking around my head for the past while and I thought it was as good as anything. You know, what's simple is true, Occam's Razor and all that.
Still, did and be dug, words to live by, no?

So, congratulations to you on your graduation! I am so proud of you and your accomplishments. I'm so excited to see what you'll do next. I have no doubt that it will be amazing.

Such a smart, kind, good natured and good looking kid-- how could you be anything but a success?

Congratulations!

Love,
Ryan

Puttin' on the Ritz

I’d like to think I am a reasonably well-dressed person.

For years it was my dream to be “put together.” One of those people whose clothes are always pressed, whose hair is always done, etc etc. I think (hope?) that I am slowly but surely getting there.

Years of scrupulously following Trinny and Susannah’s rules have provided me with a more than acceptable wardrobe and, generally speaking, I am able to dress myself without incident or embarrassment. Generally speaking.

I had a rough morning a few weeks ago. A “morning after the night before” if you will. It is my custom to spend such mornings (or afternoons, whatever the case may be) with the blinds drawn and large glass of water next to my bed. If I have my druthers, I rise only to pop an advil and a benadryl and then head back to the warmth of the duvet. Sadly, this most recent morning after occurred on a Wednesday. Even more sadly, I was expected at work at 9 am.

So I rose, and showered, and dressed myself. Each task immeasurably difficult. I persevered and managed to throw on a suit and a pink t-shirt. Out the door I went.

A predictably unpleasant day ensued. Requisite headache and sour tummy made life difficult. I avoided looking in the mirror, kept my head down, and made it through the day.

At 5:30, I went to the ladies room and took what must have been the first real look at myself. “Not bad, not bad” I thought. “It could be much worse.” I silently congratulated myself on wearing a suit and made a mental note that “look good/feel better” can actually work. Very well done.

And then I looked down and saw a spot on my shirt. What the….
Except it wasn’t a stain. It was a very specific part of the female anatomy.

I’d spent the entire day wearing a mostly see-through shirt.

Very well done indeed.