Monday

No time for excuses

NY Day

2013 has begun and so have the promises we've made to ourselves and each other in exchange for absolution erasing sins of the year prior.
A promise. A peculiar and misunderstood covenant of which I'm not nor ever pretending to be a master or an expert. A promise is an oral contract between two parties. Sometimes the stakes are high and other times as simple as something that may be sealed with a soft kiss. When broken, the chards of glass are just as fragile and tender and don't hurt any less. The most pain inflicted when those promises are made to oneself. When you read what you promised to yourself last year and realize you failed, the words pounce off the page in mockery with the intent to shame and deepen the scars.
Last week I read what I promised myself and when I read it, my initial reaction was, 'I can do that, no problem! 2013 is a GO!' And reality smacked in like an ice bath that the covenant made was from 2012 and it would have been impossible for the person who had it in writing would have secured the ambition for this year.
The doubt crowded around me like a dark fog making it hard to breathe. I failed. I started questioning everything; my relationships, job, where I live; you name it and it was up for emotional auction and the lowest bidder was me. We all do a pretty good job beating ourselves up. In GE's world of differentiation we can talk ourselves into the bottom 10% and begin to rationalize how we can hang on by a single malt thread.
We also have the power to rise above it. So I didn't get to my goal weight by my birthday last year. I also did a million amazing things and I know without a doubt I made a difference in some people's lives. And I don't regret a single minute or a single M&M cupcake for that matter. I wondered if NYC was for me. Well I'm not finished because I have just buckled into the starting blocks.
Al Roker writes in his book that he had the gastric bypass surgery and had a 40 pound relapse. He got on the horse and rode the stallion of life with vigor vowing he will succeed. He will occasionally treat himself but uses the scale everyday to measure his success and to map out his strategy for the day. This can work in all facets of daily life and I'm embracing it.
There is no need to work as much, just a desire to work smarter and eliminate the easy time wasters - regardless of who or what they are - so we may enjoy our pleasures, budgeting time and resources from the driver's seat as it should be.
Last night I watched the firework display in Central Park and when the finale exploded into the sky with a powerful vibrancy in color, sound and excitement I watched in awe with the wonder of a child's eyes and thought, 'only in NY'. And I'm fired up!
It's ok to face your fears, where you failed. Do it. Get it out of your system. And stop kicking your ass.
Grab the wheel, hop into the driver's seat and steam into this year with gusto, passion and no regrets. Water boils at 212 degrees. Do what it takes to get that one extra degree for yourself, you deserve it!

Happy 51st

Date: November 17, 2012, 9:39:05

Today would have been Shane's 51st birthday.
For his thirtieth, his Mother Ellie had the best, most creative and meaningful gift idea. She put together a huge basket of thirty small presents, each representing every year of his life. My part - I had to take two cobalt blue water glasses (permanently on loan, like the sterling silver teapot from London) from the hotel.
A lesson I learned from Shane, among many; was about significant others. We sat in The Adam Room when he told me he was HIV positive and that when his time was nearing to part ways, he was going to go far away so we may remember him as he was and not a withering version of himself. He chose to do this with his partner, Jack. He and Jack had the same issues any couple would have and Jack was a little over protective and, well, not exactly everyone's favorite in Shane's circle. But I chose to respect Shane's decision and I can look back without regret. His last night in Boston, his last night ever in Boston, he and Jack stayed with me, Tara and Shane (the baby in this photo). It's indescribable the overwhelming emotion that I felt saying goodbye to him. He never seemed 'sick' to me and the reality hit like a stinging brick when I gave him that last hug.
One of his other birthdays I bought him a long sleeved red polo shirt from Abercrombie. This is back when they were a little more sophisticated and sold books, beautiful picnic baskets with fine china and pure wool blankets, dress shirts and ties and cologne (favorite was 'woods'). So I called him just before we were leaving to celebrate his birthday and in conversation asked how he felt about red. Of course he told me he liked the color and hated red clothing, but in a sports car it's hot. It was too late to exchange the gift that already been fastidiously wrapped at the store and signed card woven in to the presentation and there was the 'oh sh..' moment.
He opens it, taking his time through the process enjoying each tug of the ribbon and careful part of disassembling the paper, as he did with every facet of his life. Holds up this red shirt, looks at me with a wink and announced red is his new favorite color. He wore it at least once a week and my son Shane wore it for a time when it fit and it's still in the family.
The other photo was from an annual employee banquet where the five star of the year team was announced. Of the five winners, I was one of them. Later, Tara's parents said they would have paid for us to go on the trip if I didn't win so they could watch their grandson Shane and big Shane was in charge of the arrangements.
I only knew Shane for a few years when he stepped into our lives and he forever changed how I saw the world. To this day, the silver guardian angel on his baseball cap reminds me of the foreshadowing of him being that for me today. Without pause...

I'm at Barnes & Noble on Broadway and 83rd sitting in the events area. Random two and three high book piles are spattered about on the beige metal vinyl cushioned chairs  telling their own story. My former tenant was reading 'Dance of Death' where she wanted it all and not even murder would stop her. The other two choices, more calculating and bloody; the 'how to's I surmise, were, 'The Butcher - Anatomy of a Psychopath' and 'Body Parts' which include the killer's gruesome confession.  So where the fuck is this person and should I continue seeking a rental in this area? Based on my nimble yet otherwise thought provoking choices of 'Thoughts Without Cigarettes' and 'This Boy's Life', both innocent, humorous introspections on coming of age, I may want to consider Hell's Kitchen or a walk up in the upper east side.

Madonna at 53 has released a new album, MDNA which is remarkable how she has also taken some sorrow and will turn it into platinum. Regardless of her motivation, she speaks for everyone with a voluminous unedited voice which, like it or not, she inspires by being a voice for those who benefit from her unabashed reality art. Twenty one years ago my best friend Shane stood beside me at my wedding and there is a photo of him walking with Tara across the grounds, ever so graceful; her in her Priscilla of Boston gentle blush wedding gown and he in his custom fitted black tuxedo, effortlessly carrying her train crossing the pristine greens of the golf course never once pausing in their conversation. I met him when Madonna was somewhere between Borderline and Blond Ambition voguing through The Ritz-Carlton, Boston. I just watched http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvT6-U4SZP8Capote, the 2005 film that takes us through his torturous writing journey of In Cold Blood and when Shane was still alive, many thought he resembled Truman Capote in looks, stature and mild eccentricity and all of this illuminated wonderful bright memories of Shane. He is a lot more Breakfast at Tiffany's rather than In Cold Blood. Complete with his clear plastic eyeglass frames nearly an exact replica of Capote's frames.
I started working at The Ritz-Carlton, Boston on April 6, 1989. I walked by it a few times, imagined its luxurious history and wondered what it took to be a part of it. One winter night, I got all dressed up to the nines. Polished black wing-tip shoes, navy pin stripped suit with a crisp white shirt and red paisley tie; my navy cashmere coat and silk scarf. I walked into the lobby like I owned it. The sweet smell of white Lily's took over, the opulence of gold leaf on the ceiling, the fine tapestries, elegantly dressed men and ladies in sequins and heels sipping champagne and cordials in the smokey bar, the line spilling into the lobby for the Cafe. Music from all rooms gently tapping on the Chippendale furnishings and aromatics of fine French parfums glistening from the ladies slender, graceful wrists. I boldly walked up to the very busy maitre d' in the cafe and asked if they were hiring. He graciously told me that personnel is closed right now and I would need to return during business hours Monday through Friday. As he hefted a pile of full length sables and minks to the coat room across the hall, I introduced myself and let him know he would see me next week. I didn't want to miss the opportunity to be remembered.
I was marrying someone outside of my class and I knew it. I come from moderate means and personally worked my way through school with two full time jobs each summer and full time work through the school year. My bride to be went to school in London for a semester and parents paid for her undergraduate and at this time, her graduate education. She nor her loving family ever made me feel anything but exactly what I was - a loved part of the family. But I knew I wanted to contribute in some big way and that what led me to take a day off from my full time job with Blue Cross and Blue Shield and dedicate time to find a part time position to put together money for the wedding and honeymoon.
As instructed, I walked to the hotel and found the personnel office. While on Newbury Street, I had 'Puttin' on The Ritz' playing at full volume in my head with a little kick in my step. I saw a pigeon, and I am not a big fan of pigeons, waltzing across the pristine sidewalk who had a similar kick in their step, as if he in his multi-colored iridescent feathers, he was sporting black tails, white diamond weave tuxedo shirt and a little cane tucked under one wing and in a slight move bending to one side, a silk top hat tipped in his other wing.
The personnel office had the old steel desks, filing cabinets, threadbare carpet outlining the traffic patterns and a pleasant, sterile scent topped off with a commingling of colognes. A slight woman with a wide smile and sincerely warm demeanor greeted me with a 'Good Morning, how may assist you?' and I asked if there was any part time positions available. She let me know they do not hire part time people and offered an application anyways. I filled it out and handed it to her and she asked if I had a resume and I gave it to her. We had a casual conversation and she thanked me for coming, stood up, shook my hand, letting me know her name was Lori and someone would be contacting me sometime this week. Years later, when I ended up in the 'personnel' office, later to be referred to as human resources, I read on the old paper application that she had written, 'Nice Smile, Very Friendly, we need to find something for him.' Later that week, Susan called me and I became a part time server in The Tea Lounge on the second floor across from The Dining Room. The Tea Lounge was officially titled The Lounge, everyone called it the tea lounge. And in both cases, the names were nothing that would catch an ordinary person's intrigue, the elegant lettering at the foot of the grand staircase of each entrance  led you to believe in its naming simplicity awaits a lifetime of dreams.
I met Conrad as my trainer. Flamboyant, fast moving, pale complected arrogant young man who made every attempt to make me and those around him feel small. He buzzed around, showing me where things were, cleaning up from the tea service and transporting the day set to the evening set and speaking so awkwardly proper it made me feel anxious for him, not for me, and perspiring at the same pace and harried manner in his inability to prioritize and stick to task. Picking up my new responsibilities was likened to calculating the wave pattern of an approaching hurricane at high tide. Thursday night was Tea Dance from 5:30pm - 8:30pm and this is the night I trained with him. We dress the cabaret tables in the adjoining French and Adam room in pristine white linen, soft pink glass candle holders, dust them with rose petals and randomly place Ritz-Carlton dance cards at each setting. Then the sign, The Tea Dance ensconced in an ornate gold frame and an original tea menu cover titled, 'le thé' with a beautiful woman in a full length floral dress sitting in the garden, was placed on a brass easel in The Lounge at the entrance of The French Room to welcome guests. Soon, Al Vega and his band mates assembled at the end of the room at the dance floor and were ready to play waltzes, rhumbas and whatever made the ladies twirl and men swoon while they sipped thier libations and washed away the day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_vCeQ-rx5A&feature=related

This April on the 6th will be my 21st wedding anniversary and Sara was our wedding song. 21 years ago she stood at the top of the chapel stairs, who was ethereally beautiful, gracious and enchanting in her way. I will always love her, no matter what and not a day goes by I am humbled by her genuine love for all who enter into her life. An optimist who never waivers and when a last chance has passed, she finds it in her heart to lend one additional. And each of these passing days I struggle in pain. The pain I had caused. I know she has forgiven me, I however will not. 

I was thinking the other day about love and the battle between the mind and the heart. Who wins? Who loses? I have been in and know of many who have been in relationships, marriages, partnerships with the loves of their lives and the heart seems to extend its delicate, powerful tendrils to the one that may be even a truer love, or a soul mate. Our mind tugs on those tendrils and whispers the reasons why we shouldn’t.

The heart seems to know otherwise and the truth is the big question. 

I remember meeting someone many years ago. He was young, beautiful, and intelligent and in my own bottled up truth, we spent the night talking. His parents were missionaries; he of Cuban and American Indian decent shared with me the music he wrote and performed; his passion for playing pool; his love of country music and bigger fellows. He also shared with me the love of his life. Each time one was ready for the other, distance or another lover seemed to be in the way. I looked up at the stars in the moonlit sky as we passed the Jackie Gleason theatre in South Beach and I thought about how unfair it was that she was in a relationship that was not whole. She deserves to be loved and to love - all the way and not with someone who was not really there. For me, I wondered what if I fell in love? How would all of this work? I made a decision that night that the truth, for whatever it was worth along with its wrenching pain, must be told.

So I did. 

A week or so after that night, I went for a walk and I told her. They say the truth sets you free. I am puzzled at how freedom aches. Still, after all these years.

I write this leaving plenty out, wondering if its too soon, if its too risky, if its a bit raw and unfair.

I believe there are so many beautiful people in the world, in my world, that have shared their joy, their pain, their laughter love and many things I would not dare write publicly. Secret loves, secret lives great pleasures glazed with internal strife in wonder.

If I can open a small door on my own life perhaps it could help some young person who is afraid to be his or her true self and reach out. Or an older friend, one my age step out to the end of life's diving board, bounce really high, do a back flip in the air and twist around in the sea of love.

Don't deny yourself pleasure and do it with integrity and abandonment.

The New Yorker

Short Stories From The New Yorker, 1940. A collection of short stories was sitting proudly on the bookshelf among the other relics but stood a little taller, a little wiser and with a dash of attitude and whisper of fine brandy and vintage cigar. I spied this treasure while visiting a dear family friend for her birthday and commented on quite a few of the books on her shelf and made special note of this one. My mind conversed in full and decided sometime in the early winter we would treat ourselves to first the hunt for it on eBay, the anticipation of its arrival and the night reserved to enjoy it with brandy and a cigar.

This past very short week came with long, willowy and very weathered legs. Demands of the day were mentally, physically and emotionally draining and the legs strode heavily to complete each of the four days. By Friday, a sensation of a hangover set in without the joy and exhilaration of Belvedere, Edna Valley Cabernet or even a cheap shot. Just good old fashioned wiped out exhaustion. Oddly, as that fourth and final day of the week ticked on at times too slowly and others at a speed of which I wished to restrain, I avoided leaving not because I loathed retreat, rather, the three block walk home toiled in daunt. I arm wrestled my mind to push its stubborn body below to get moving and outside, the crisp pre-autumn air presented a spa-like flavor to the trek.

Greeted by the friendly door staff, up the elevator to an empty apartment. Melancholy, peace and emptiness were the houseguests by whom I was greeted, together and at once raising their voices to win my attention. Only one bill on the table, no other mail. On the buffet sat a slightly crushed box about the size of a large toaster oven and the personality of a bored introvert nestled at this cocktail free cocktail party. Its corners sealed in UPS brown tape, double and triple runs and looking particularly unfamiliar. Although strange as it was nothing I ordered, was not a holiday and certainly nothing I expected. The strangeness was complimented by its address label's familiar, friendly handwriting.

I broke the seal fastidiously, slitting the brown packing tape with house keys still in hand with childlike enthusiasm and adult precision. Green tissue paper and bubble wrap protected the precious insides.

Card One

The sender's original address crossed through and updated to a current address.

The date 2009.

A young girl's print read, 'Lulu told me it's your birthday. My name is Sierra.'

This young girl letting someone she met only twice in her life know his legacy has been told like an ancient folk tale in Mark Twain prose at the dinner table, in between sips of tea and on commercial breaks about how special he is. And in her delicate innocence, realized I need to love him too!

A birthday card vacuum packed to reveal the preserved wish years later the way the steam of freshly brewed coffee stirring as morning's gentle alarm.

Card Two

A multi-layered paper flower so real, I buried my nose in it to inhale the spring wish it was intended to carry; to brighten up this end of summer day. The beauty of its non scent was I made up my own and had the luxury of letting start out as peony, turned to lilac and finish a lilac rose - an everlasting gobstopper of scented imagery.

Striped paper meticulously held a book like a newborn.

And finally, a promise.

To my dear friend to someday be published in this book's sequel.

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction