Still smilin' at the end of yet another crappy season...

"Don't You Feed Me Lies About Some Idealistic Future"

Some of you might remember that about six weeks ago I met this guy, who I deemed “the love of my life,” slightly overdramatically. What followed after that night was the most incredibly romantic week of my entire life. I was going to post about it for a while, but since then tables have turned and I never got to divulge the details of what I considered to be the quintessential DC romance.

He called when he said he would, invited me to half price wine in Georgetown. We spent hours (and two bottles), staring at each other, blushing, telling details to each other about one anther’s lives. The amount we had in common was mind-blowing. After the wine we took a walk along the waterfront, I lay in his lap in a parking lot staring up at him and kissing him. He held my hand, walked me to the canal where we sat with our feet dangling over the edge, asking each other questions like, if you had 20 billion dollars what would you do?
-Buy a condo in my favorite cities – San Fran, New York, London…
-I’d buy you plane tickets so you could travel the world.
-I’d buy you one so you could come with me wherever I went.
-I’d buy you a theatre so you could do whatever you want with it.

I never believed in love at first sight until I met this kid. There is not an explanation in the world for this kind of meeting, this kind of connection, this kind of trust in the universe. I stayed at his place that night, and we passed the time lying in each other’s arms talking and talking until dawn.

Each day that followed was similar. He’d call me for no reason, he text messaged me out of the blue to say he hoped I had a good day. He invited me out for seafood and we had a lovely dinner, laughing, being goofy. He told me he’d invite me to Redskins games – where I could use his family’s box seat tickets, he invited me to future promotions the company for which he works would host where we could eat free food and drink free booze. He asked for my help planning his dad’s birthday party, he said I need to meet his family dog, his brother, that we would have a night where we’d stay in, drink wine, watch the Godfather.

It was overwhelming to say the least. How could I, overnight, meet the one person I only ever dreamed about? I told my friend Kelly about him and she said to me, it sounds like he’s read your blog, has heard things you’ve said your whole life then stepped in and personified them. He was smart, hilarious, witty, charming, a gentleman, well-traveled, in to sports and artsy things, he was loyal, a ton of fun, full of energy, spontaneous, he talked of the future and in the present, when I’d look into his eyes, he was completely and totally into me. I knew it. I knew it, and I was terrified.

When he drove to my house late one night after work and ended up staying the night with me because he didn’t want to leave my side (although he had plans) it was the last straw. I started to panic, could this be happening for real? For real, was it happening, was it my time to meet this person? He caught me at a time when I was looking for something just like this, something that fit, something I always wanted, something I deserved more than anything, especially at this time in my life when I feel like I’m constantly putting myself out there and waiting for the universe to send me something in return. I remember that night my itunes playlist was on random and Nothing Better by the Postal Service came on. I love this song, he said to me and I smiled. “Me too…”

I couldn’t sleep that night as I was slammed with ultimate clarity: that I needed to quit my job at the Corporate Coffee Shop, that I needed to fold my life in yet another direction, that these were things I needed, that I deserved.

The following Saturday, after a week of not sleeping and being sick (which only added to the surreal ness of the situation) I met up with him and his friends in Georgetown. I posted about that night – a DC summer night where the air conditioning in every bar is broken, it’s a million degrees out, your friends are going back to the various stations around the country, and the glass in your vodka tonics melts a little too fast. It seemed his friends loved me, as I had a really nice time. He told me it meant so much to him that I met them, as they were his world. This was understandable, as my friends are my world as well.

I don’t know what happened that night. Maybe it was the heat, the lack of sleep, the sickness, the one drink too far from being completely sober yet not close enough to being euphoric, or the overwhelming feeling that… I still don’t know, but something happened that night. Something didn’t feel right, something didn’t fit.

The next morning we woke up and I sensed something was up. “Do you think we’re moving too fast?” I asked. “Only when I think about it,” he said. Then don’t think about it, I wanted to say, but I’m not really one to talk. I guess when you get two philosophers in bed together it’s easier to be the logical one, to be the one who says, I think we need to slow down, rather than be the one to say, don’t think about it because that in and of itself is completely impossible given the circumstances at hand.

So that’s what I said - I said, I think we should slow down. I do too, he said right back to me and then drove me to the metro so I could get home. I felt sick to my stomach on the ride home, sweaty, still in the same clothes from the night before. Something wasn’t right, something was off. If the world had been so clear to me just over a week earlier, when everything felt right and good and perfect, then here I was feeling the complete opposite.

I called that day but he didn’t answer. Later that week I left a text message to which he did not respond. I had never felt what I felt that week. I was confused, really hurt, curious, and… numb. I went to the beach that weekend and thought about my options:
-never call again
-call and leave a message or tell him what a jackass he was for saying things like that then never calling me again
-calling and saying that “taking things slow does in no way mean stop”
-calling and acting all chipper, happy, saying I want to see him.
After years of stupid dating, of making bad choices, reliving certain patters, and going through all those motions we do in high school and college I came to the conclusion that the most mature, grown up thing to do was the last option. It was the most honest, the most sincere, and what – from the gut – I really wanted.

So that’s what I did, I called and left a happy little message saying that I was home, that I wanted to see him, that I hoped he was well and to call me back. The next day I completely broke down sobbing on my couch in front of my mom who could do nothing but say to me over and over again, you really need something positive in your life, don’t you?

That was a month ago. The last month has been nothing like the first few months of this summer. I joke with my friends, telling them “I’m dead on the inside” because when it comes to life constantly only throwing you crumbs of the proverbial bones, the only thing you can do is maintain a sense of humor. That’s my chosen MO.

My friends fed me the typical clichés, which are the only ways people know how to handle situations like this – just dish out the clichés. I got “he’ll call,” “you haven’t heard the last of him.” They told me, maybe he’s really busy, maybe he’s scared, maybe he didn’t want you to be the one to say anything, maybe he had another girlfriend and she broke up with him then she came back and he got back together with her, maybe he’s in love with someone else, maybe he met someone else, maybe someone in his family got sick, maybe his phone broke. I believed none of that.

I thought, maybe he went off with his brother to open that restaurant he told me about. I thought, maybe he’s scared. I thought, maybe… … … I had nothing. Nothing. Not a thing. Me, the over-analytical philosopher/writer could come up with nothing.

“Why do you think he hasn’t called you?” people would ask.
“I have no idea. NO idea.”
And I still have none.

One night that first week while I awaited his call I stood on my friend’s balcony in Adams Morgan. She asked if he had called. No, I said.
“Well….” She said, “That’s really weird… Maybe he got hurt.”
It was all I could do to not laugh out loud. “Yeah!” I said, “Maybe he got hurt, maybe he died. Maybe he’s dead and that’s why he hasn’t called.” Everyone around us laughed.

Is that what we have come to? Have our clichéd statements of sympathy become so meaningless that now we have to resort to the fact that maybe our Other is dead?! I turned back to my girl friend and said, while she still chuckled, “But the thing is, Chlo, if he died, I think I still would have gotten a phone call. Someone would have picked up the phone and called me had he died, if everything he said was true.”

But I guess it wasn’t. It was just a bunch of bullshit I suppose.


When we met for that seafood dinner I mentioned earlier – the dinner before the walk around, before he kissed me on the bridge, before he held my hand as we strolled around, before we fell asleep kissing each other – he asked me, “What is your biggest regret?”
“None,” I immediately replied.
He raised his eyebrows. “None?”
“None.” I said again. “I don’t believe in regrets. I don’t live my life that way.”
He smiled. “Beautiful.”

It would have been easy for me to say while I sat on my couch sobbing with my mom, “I wish I had never met him,” or said it again later that week when I still hadn’t heard from him, or last week when I watched the Redskins opener and thought about how he was there for every second of that and perhaps I could have been too, there, in person, that I had never met him. I think it too, when I walk around Bethesda, or in Adams Morgan, that I wish a small part of me wasn’t on the lookout, terrified as to what on earth I would say or do if I ever ran into him, it would be easy to think that I wish I had never met him.

But, like everything in life, you just have to think that you’ve learned something. Maybe, even though it felt so perfect, it was absolutely wrong. Maybe all those traits are not what I’m looking for at all. Maybe, all this time, I have been wrong. Maybe I need something else. Maybe I will never get married, never fall in love, never had kids. Maybe that’s just not going to be my life, but something else will. Maybe it will make more sense in time, that you will only understand certain joy and loss when it has passed you by. No regrets.


For two weeks I woke up every morning and checked to see if he had called. I did so at the beach, one week after I had last heard from him, the beach where I’ve gone for 19 summers with my absolute closest family friends, my blood, my spine. I lay in the sun, I drank beer, I read my book, I left my phone at the house so as to not check it every four minutes.

One morning I woke up, walked upstairs to get my cup of coffee and sat down at a table with a few grown-ups who have been my life for years. A puzzle lay before us, one of those atrociously complicated ones of the Grand Canyon where every piece looks the same. I couldn’t put a single piece together and I’m good at puzzles. My brother and some of his friends sat across the room watching a DVD. I turned to watch them together – 15, young, learning, their cell phones scattered across the room, their long hair hanging in their faces. I thought, what was it about then when everything seemed a little easier? I turned back to the puzzle and looked down at the few pieces sitting in front of me. I looked to my left and back in front of me again. I picked up a piece, reached over, and snapped it right into place. I finished my coffee, got up, went downstairs, changed, and headed straight to the beach. Since then my tan has faded – as has my anger and confusion - though I’m not sure I’ll ever forget how it all felt.

Skin Biopsies: The New Cancer

I went to a doctor today and found out I have to have a skin biopsy next week. This will be the first of what I'm sure will be many, as cancer runs rampant in my family. It's for one of those, "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing," things, "We just want to be sure. If we're not sure, it could, uh, maybe... cause cancer."

OK so, what could cause cancer? The condition in question or the biopsy itself...? Hmm..?! And so I think, you just want to be sure enough that you will stick a needle in me and cut off a piece of my skin. Lovely.

(And PS, what doesn't cause cancer these days?)

I do not do well with needles or cancer... and I'm sure I don't do well with people cutting of bits of my skin.

What's up with that?

I mean, really, it's not a big deal but I feel like it's completely impossible to disassociate skin biopsies and cancer. It's almost like skin biopsies cause cancer. Does anyone know they have cancer until they have a skin biopsy? (shut up, I know they do.) But it's like, oops, here's the biopsy and hey, you have cancer. So you're like, ok, maybe, just maybe, I didn't have cancer until you cut out a piece of my skin. Then if you don't have cancer and it's really nothing (as most things are) it's kinda like, oops, here's the biopsy, you're cool, uh, thanks for the souvenir!

wtf?

And so it is

Music is freakin' amazing.

I've thought about LA more today than I have since I've been back... all because I keep hearing songs that remind me of it.

First was that hip-hop song that used to play in the restaurant where I used to work. I'd kick open the door and yell, "Gabby!!!!" at the bus boy or go talk to John, the crazy British chef and it seemed like this song was on all the time.

Then there was Citizen Cope who I'd listen to constantly my last month or so in the city while "driving" on the 101 heading towards/from Pasadena.

And now... my Damien Rice, The Blower's Daughter. I listened to this song on loop for three hours after I saw Closer - as I sat on my living room, lit by candles, drinking wine and writing.

I'd go back to re-live any of these moments for sure. But then again, why spend the money on a plane ticket when the memory is so clear as it stands?

That job goes really well with... another job

I got a new job!

Crazy, huh?

Sadly, the job I got has nothing to do with my degree, is not full-time, will not make me feel worthwhile and does not offer benefits. But there is one huge thing it does offer and that is money. Bling!

You got it, I'm waiting tables.

And yes, I'm waiting tables at a pretty nice seafood restaurant in Bethesda that charges entirely too much money for it's fish and wine. (I mean seriously, I was reading the wine list yesterday and it's not that I know a whole lot about wine, but I do know that a bottle of 2003 Coppola Merlot does in no way shape or form cost anywhere near $55. I bought that same bottle in LA for less than $15, wrapped it in socks, stuffed it into my carry-on bag and took it back east for my wine-buddy friend Mark for Christmas. However, if I sell aforementioned bottle of wine I should pocket at least $10 which would pretty much buy me that bottle... wait, I don't live in CA anymore... damn!)

So now I will be selling wine and fish (my two other chi-chi vices) to the same people (probably literally) I sell lattes to in the morning.

That's right. I couldn't do it. I couldn't quit the Corporate Coffee Shop. But I did cut back my hours from 25/wk to 10/wk tops. See, you have to be available to work two shifts a week at the corporate coffee shop in order to keep all the benefits that are not: medical, dental, vision, etc - all the amazing things that keep me with the company.

Because if I work there I still get a free pound of coffee a week. I can't tell you how crucial this is to my existence. I also get 30% all drinks and merchandise and I do plan to purchase an espresso machine in the near future because I am a complete and total caffeine addict and a total freakin nerd because at the end of the day I do enjoy making a good cappuccino. It's harder than you'd think.

So I thought to myself, self, work Tuesdays from 8:30-4. That way you wont have to get up at the crack of dawn and you'll be home in time to shower and go to pub quiz. And for the second shift: open on a Sunday. Granted, this cuts out going out on Saturday night, but when you work part-time jobs weekends are overrated. Every day is a Saturday. Kinda. But mostly, opening on a Sunday gets me home at noon, which leaves time for a shower, snack preparation and an entire day of football watching.

Pretty lame, huh? But I'll tell ya what. If you have the opportunity to schedule your part-time jobs around football do so because requesting off every Sunday in Janurary is kinda fishy. Trust me, I've been there. And dude, look, it's not that I'm the biggest football fan on the planet, but we are still recovering from some homesickness here - like the fact that I haven't seen the leaves change colors and fall in two years and I haven't seen Redskins games regularly on TV in many years (thanks, Baltimore, for forgetting about the Redskins and broadcasting freakin' Ravens games while I was up there in college. So selfish.) And seriously, if I can set my alarm clock in Los Angeles to wake up at 9:45am on a Sunday morning after having a long, scandalous night with a certain singer of a certain punk band in order to watch the first Skins game of the season (thanks, Gibbs, for giving west coast network TV a reason to broadcast the games at least once last season.. God forbid the team actually be good enough to be broadcast on TV...) then I can certainly request a Sunday off work in Bethesda.

Sadly, Expensive Seafood Restaurant requires that you be available to work on Sundays.

Sigh.

But I guess it's a compromise I'm willing to make. I really need the money. And afterall, there are TVs in the bar area and what could possibly go better with steamed clams than a bottle of "Redskins 51, Cowboys 0"?

How (Not) to Hit on Me. (WARNING: This post might include teasers... but not, like, sexual teasers)

I work with this boy who I think might be slightly retarded. (We'll call him SLB.) Seriously, it's been four months and I don't know what his deal is. Once he told me I had a bad attitude. I told him he brought my bad attitude out. At the Corporate Coffee Shop we call this kind of interaction "teamwork."

So SLB and I work together those very few times when I work in the afternoon, and he always tries to talk to me. I really hate it when people try to talk to me when they are freakin' annoying and I'm trying to do my job. It's like, don't talk to me when I'm making seven drinks at once, don't talk to me when I'm carrying gallons of milk, don't talk to me when I've worked all freakin' morning and I'm exhausted, and just generally, if you're SLB, don't talk to me at all.

Most of the "conversations" are total small talk: "Sooo.... .... ... um, what kind of concerts do you like?" Or "Soooo.... uh.... .... you like... um, where did you live in California....?" (I've told him a gazillion times.)

Anyway, one day SLB asks me my fave TV show. (Sex and the City and the Sopranos) I was in a good mood so I went off on how I love the Sopranos and how we used to watch it every Sunday in Baltimore and how, when I first moved to LA, I watched the entire series from start to finish. This was a huge personal goal of mine. SLB chimes in then saying that he loves the series as well. Excellent, I think! Something we can relate on. So I bring up a few episodes here and there, my whole theory on how Season Five totally blew ass until it came out at the end and bitch-slapped you across the face with the greatest, most shocking moment in all of Sopranos history. "Yeah," SLB said, "I totally agree.... wait.... I forget what happened..."

I. HATE. THIS.

If you don't know what you're talking about, shut the fuck up. Don't agree with me if you don't agree with me. And if you claim to be a Sopranos fan, how on earth could you forget the end of Season Five?!

?!?!?!??!

?!

I think my jaw literally dropped. "I mean," I said, "You don't remember when they drove Adrianna out into the woods and shot her dead?!?!?!?!"

Jesus Christ. What a moron.

So please, if you're trying to hit on me don't be a freakin' moron. Try something like subtly slipping in a, 'hey, if we ever make out I'm gonna put a horse's head in bed with you in the morning' reference or some sort of 'this friend of mine, in Jersey, his uncle like knows these guys..." thing.

But above and beyond anything else, don't be a dumbass retard.

Donate

I'm going to try to keep all my preaching and political beliefs out of this blog in regards to Hurricane Katrina.

However, if any of you feel like I do and want to reach out in a way that might seem a little more passionate than writing a check to the Red Cross (though don't get me wrong, that's AMAZING) might I suggest a couple smaller organizations that I, personally, have found intest in and you might as well (remember, there are thousands of people out there who need your help. Even buying a package of baby diapers will help... you can google if you need help finding places/ways to help):

On Domestic Violence Relief:

We know that you join us in our grief and outrage for all of those impacted by Hurricane Katrina.

Many of you are reading news and other reports about rapes in the Superdome and other areas, and you share our growing concern for the safety of women and girls in the region. During a time like this, when violence often escalates, everyday services for women and girls who have experienced violence come to a stand still, or possibly no longer exist.

Following Hurricane Andrew in Miami, spousal abuse calls to the local community helpline increased by 50%. The Missouri floods of 1993 saw the average state turn-away rate at shelters rise 111% over the preceding year and an overall 400% increase in need for services.

With the help of our friends at the California Coalition Against Sexual Assault (CALCASA) we learned that sexual assault services in the gulf region are at risk. There are thirty-six rape crisis centers in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama and they need your support. They need to repair buildings, relocate survivors, help families, and continue working with survivors of violence.

In addition, thousands of women and children fleeing domestic violence have been evacuated from shelters in the gulf coast region. Several domestic violence shelters have been completely destroyed. The Louisiana Coalition Against Domestic Violence (LCADV) states that all direct services for survivors of domestic violence have been suspended. LCADV has received reports of women being battered by their partners in the emergency shelters set up since the hurricane and many women are afraid to register with the Red Cross for fear of being found by their abusive partners. Thousands of displaced women and children who were seeking refuge in now demolished shelters require urgent assistance.

As a V-Day supporter, we know that in a time like this you too think of the immense need for aid in the region, and also specifically the aid needed to keep women safe.

Please consider making a tax-deductible donation to sexual assault and domestic violence survivors in the region. CALCASA's Hurricane Relief Fund and The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence Emergency Relief Fund will be distributed to sexual assault and domestic violence coalitions and centers in areas most impacted by the hurricane.

California Coalition Against Sexual Assault Hurricane Relief Fund

http://www.calcasa.org (Hurricane Relief Fund link on front page)

The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence Emergency Relief Fund

http://www.ncadv.org (Emergency Relief Fund link on front page; indicate "Emergency Relief Fund" under the section "Would you like to make your donation a tribute to someone special?" on the online donation form.)


For the furry ones: The Humane Society

In response to the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina yesterday, The Humane Society of the United States has launched a massive relief effort to rescue animals and assist their caregivers in the disaster areas.

Their entire relief effort is funded by donations from people like you and me, and they desperately need your support. Please
make an emergency contribution to the HSUS Disaster Relief Fund today. Your tax-deductible gift will be used exclusively for
their disaster animal relief work. Click the link below to make your donation now.

https://secure.hsus.org/01/katrina_relief/step1/r07q6-Ep12dmC



And next time you walk into a Starbucks, FYI, you can now (**finally**) make a donation at the register as you pay for your $3.36 latte when people in this country don't have access to clean water.

< / bitter, corporate-america bashing >

NYC Montage Circa Labor Day Weekend 2005

iWait

I have been saving up (I mean, theoretically saving up) for an iPod for way over a year now. I figure once I get out of debt I'll buy one as a gift to myself.

The whole controversy is iPod Mini vs iPod. iPod makes so much more sense, financially. Plus I don't jog, so eff the mini.

And if there weren't enough choices already, Apple just came out with the new iPod - Nano.

Maybe if I wait long enough they'll come out with the invisible iPod line.

Which is funnier: fact or fiction?

For a long time now I've said that CNN headlines often read like they should be in The Onion.

This morning I found this article on cnn.com. It is true:

Right City, Wrong State

Even The Onion wouldn't stoop so low as to even make-up an event as appalling as this one.

Thankfully there is this:
The Onion Feature

Might I also recommend picking up a copy of this week's New Yorker... gorgeous, as could be expected.

***

Just a side thought:
I find the media's response to events like this quite fascinating. Not the coverage and all that, but the... I don't know what to call it. But having worked in editorial I know that the New Yorker editors, for example, were just going about their daily business, working on lay-out, finishing final copy edits and moving towards issues way in the future when the hurricane hit. Then all of a sudden they scramble up 5 or so of their best writers, send them off, have them write touching pieces, edit them, re-lay it out, and get the bugger on the stands ASAP. Same with The Onion. Can you imagine the staff meeting? "What will be offensive, but not too offensive...? Levee jokes, dead body jokes, Bush jokes...?" Also, it will be a long time before Hollywood produces a movie about a natural disaster. I can guarantee there were at least two or three films that were shelved this week because they were deemed un-makeable, which means they wont gross any income because people will be too traumatized to watch a movie about a hurricane or the like for a long time. Also, have their been massive downloads of Zeppelin's "When the Levee Breaks" or Citizen Cope's "Hurricane Waters"? According to itunes, today's top download was Kanye West's "Gold Digger" so I guess we're still in good shape somewhere... I think... I don't really know where to go from here.... does anyone?

One in Two

In case you were wondering, it costs over five hundred dollars to have a stranger with a doctor’s bag come into your Chevy Chase family room and kill your golden retriever.

These days, a grande latte in Chevy Chase, Maryland will run you about $3.36 – that is, if you get it without vanilla or an extra shot. Undoubtedly, that very same day, someone will walk into your Washington DC area Starbucks and throw a hissy-fit about how Starbucks is not donating enough money to Katrina relief efforts, shouting about how Starbucks “takes enough of her money every day,” before willingly handing you, the cashier, nearly $5 for a shot or two of espresso and some milk.

Mind you, this all takes place after you received that phone call that says your dog will die today at 3:30pm, and you should try to get home as soon as possible.

Do you see? Do you see how it all ties together?

Chances are high today that someone you know or see will die. It’s a one in two chance. They either will or they will not. As my man Palahniuk says, the forecast is morose with a chance of disaster.

At 7:10am I opened my bedroom door and tripped over my five-year-old golden retriever. She jumped up, kissed me, shook, followed me around. Something was wrong. She’s usually out for a walk. I did not, however, have time to walk into my family room and see my fifteen-year-old golden retriever laying on the floor, hours from her death before serving $3.36 lattes to people who complain to me about the lack of relief efforts.

We knew it was coming. We all knew it was coming: a hurricane to hit New Orleans, a terrorist attack on New York City, the death of your dog.

You predict and predict and predict and wait and wait, waking up every day with the God-given gift that here you are again, blessed to step into another day.

Alas, we forget. Your grande extra hot no foam two splenda latte might ruin your day if it’s not hot enough. And God save your soul if you get hit by a bus while crossing the street that day. At least your latte’s not hot enough to burn you as the bus breaks your neck and you die, unexpectedly.

Let’s pay attention to the more import ant things.

Remember the time when your fifteen-year-old golden retriever used to bite your little brother’s ankles when they were puppies together and he was learning to walk? Or the time when you were swimming in the ocean, tossing tennis balls for your golden retriever to catch? Remember that? The smell of the pine needles from your Christmas tree and the scarf your dog wore around it’s neck, or the day you sat in the puppy pen making sure you chose just the right one. You were nine. There was a one in two chance you picked the right dog. You picked the best one, remember? You took her home, lavender collar and all. Today the collar is purple and right now it sits in your Chevy Chase family room sans dog. A souvenir of sorts.

This morning maybe your young dog was trying to tell you something was wrong. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t.

This morning when your dad came in to work and leaned in to say, “She’s not doing well… you should… get ready,” you should have taken off your apron just then and walked out the door.

Dogs these days, in this family, they are not dogs. They are your family.

So you turn your back on customers and blink back the tears. You make it home in time to lay on the floor and stare into your fifteen-year-old dog’s eyes’, tears streaming down your cheeks and tell her you love her.

You did not have the chance to do this when your cat ran away when you lived in London. You did not have the chance to do this when your best friend was killed in a car accident when you were seventeen. Your friend, however did – have that chance to say good-bye - to her mother who was dying of cancer. Your friend, the only one in the room, trying to shove food into her mother’s mouth, watched her eyes, watched them turn, “bright green, then glass over” she said. I bet you didn’t think that memory would come back today.

I bet you didn’t think when you tripped over your five-year-old dog that you’d watch your old one get injected with a needle today at 3:30pm by a stranger with a doctor’s bag in your Chevy Chase family room.

There was a one in two chance this would happen. You knew it all along. It either would or it would not.

It’s filler, see. You know what I mean. The lattes, the pub quiz, the stupid boys, bags, shoes. What matters, see – you know what I mean here – is the love. The father coming home early from work to sit with his family as their dog dies in their Chevy Chase family room, the friend that stops by at lunch time to say good-bye, the ones who text message you or leave a message for you.

It’s the look in those eyes, you know what I mean? The ones that are just a little too glossy to be healthy, but when they focus in on you – you can see it through the tears in your eyes – they love you. They smile at you. They try to wag their tail. You had a one in two chance and this time, you won. You got to say good-bye.

And maybe you won too, if you know what I mean. To know that life, your life, is your choice. Your money goes where you put it, your energy goes where you send it, your love goes to those who matter most: those who accept it.

Today I watched a loved one’s heart stop beating, brain stop working, lungs take their last breath and body go limp.

It would either happen or it wouldn’t. It happened. I lost. Or maybe, ultimately, I won.




Christy, left. October 31, 1990 - September 6, 2005.