Moving on

I am wide awake, eating ice cream at my kitchen table, in the middle of the night. I told myself I could stay up late if I cleaned. Instead I took a long, hot shower. My apartment is packed into neatly labeled boxes; a twenty-five times familiar task. This will be my sixth home in two years.

Tomorrow I am moving from this tiny apartment on East Walnut to a west end house with four bedrooms and a yellow door. It is a quiet street in a safe neighborhood. The couple next door have been living there for 58 years.

It is important to me that Chip, Ben, the kids, Sir Spencer Rooney and I are all moving into this space at the same time.

I'm excited.

Pin pricks

Ever feel so stressed, stretched so thin, you could not possibly bear for one more thing to go wrong? This is a story of the kind of stress that is too much for me right now:

I lost my keys yesterday. And the keys of a friend whose dog I was looking after.

Said keys were lost while walking aforementioned dog.

Also lost that day: what little remained of my calm.

Time: noon

Heat: 90 degrees

Dog: walked about a mile. No stops were made. Ok, a stop to bark at a squirrel. A stop to rub her face on the grass. A stop to confirm that she does not like playing in the fountain. A stop to rub her face in more grass.

Keys: discovered missing when walk is nearly finished.

Steps: retraced.

Dog: thirsty, confused.

Regina: thirsty, without phone or wallet.

Keys: never found.

Dog: tied to porch while Regina tries to get into the house.

7 foot high gate into friend's alley: climbed.

Back door to dog owner's house: open.

Baby Jesus: thanked.

Phone charging happily on counter: used to call mother.

Mother: agrees to pick up/rescue sweaty, dirty Regina.

Regina: peels back a section of the backyard fence; walks two blocks around to front of house where dog is secured. Walks two blocks back with dog to force dog through fence opening into yard.

Fence: re-secured.

Dog: hugged and watered, left to nap inside her home.

Belongings: gathered. Except for pesky missing keys.

7 foot high gate from alley into street: climbed.

Mother: picks up sweaty, dirty Regina.

Gitmo

Mos Def, now going by the name Yasiin Bey, made a video of what it is like to be force fed, Guantanamo Bay-style. When he was fearful and in pain, he pleaded with them to stop. The Gitmo "detainees" are not given that option. And having been not only in the military but also handcuffed by the police once or twice, I assure you the bodies of the prisoners are not restrained with the delicacy and respect that the crew showed Bey.

Eighty-six of the one hundred sixty-six detainees were cleared for release in 2009. That was four fucking years ago. No wonder people are hunger striking. Also: are some of the people being force fed in the middle of fasting for Ramadan? Have we respect for nothing?

I am embarrassed to admit that I thought Obama closed these unethical torture camps as soon as he got into office. Out of sight out of mind apparently for this silly woman.

I can make an argument for why I don't follow the news more closely. The media spins stories to match up to their agendas. Or worse, to make a good segue into the next "breaking news" story. The government has the public distracted by hyped up local-level trials that distract from larger, more globally important issues and empty promises of politicians jockeying for seats of power. Even if a politician's initial campaign was sincere, once you are in the belly of the beast the only exit is the end of your term. No thank you, I will save that news-watching hour of my day for something less beastly.

Obama tried several times to close Gitmo and was shut down by Congress, the Navy, etc. He recently made statements against what was going on there. But if he was unsuccessful in closing an operation of which he is publicly ashamed, does he have any power at all? Is he just another puppet? Who is running this show? Corporations?

The U.S. government is a machine churning out propaganda, oozing into other nations to take their natural resources and whatever else we want by force, taxing the public to pay for shady, inefficient, inflated military operations. Instead of plantations, minorities and the poor have projects and prison.

In government there is no truth. There is no good. There is no hope. We are the worst.

Now what?

http://www.mysanantonio.com/opinion/commentary/article/It-s-time-to-get-things-right-at-Guantanamo-Bay-4680075.php

http://youtu.be/z6ACE-BBPRs

On being DeGaetano

Yesterday my sister Bethany texted me that the video she had made for her husband was almost finished and posted on Youtube. http://youtu.be/ZAxzGjWKclw

I love it and have been showing it to my friends for the past 24 hours.

Beth is 30 and about to have a baby with her husband Stephen. They have been together for ten years and have what I consider to be a beautiful relationship, the rare kind of happiness that not everyone gets to have. In the video Beth is largely pregnant and performing a rap she wrote called "Baby Daddy" about Steve making her feel loved, safe, secure.

My friends comments surprised me. They talked about how similar my sister's movements, dancing, voice, tattoos, face, style and body were to mine. Since she and I have such different body types, I have always thought that we looked enough alike to clearly be sisters but did not think that we were noticeably similar.

We totally are, although we are only half the picture. Ben and Lauren make up the other half. We are four pieces of the same puzzle and I am so happy, blessed and grateful to be a member of this tribe called DeGaetano. I have often focused on the things about my family that drive me crazy or the fights that various ones of us are having with each other. What I should focus on is what I have: an amazing, loving family.

Our parents did not do a lot of instructing. No talks were given about the importance of nature. We were just taken to the park and the beach and the lake. We were taught to ride our bikes and rollerskate by six, sent out to play every day of summer vacation. Music was a focal point in our home. Not talking about music trivia or debating one form of music over another. Just listening to it,dancing to it, making it. Music was on all the time. Bethany and I were given piano lessons. Ben had trumpet lessons. Lauren had dance classes. We were all in choir at some point. Bethany and I sang and played piano on worship teams in church and school when we were teenagers.

Time was the cherished commodity, not money. We know how to give to the people we love.

The last time I saw Ben, Bethany and Lauren was in February when we lost both of our grandparents in the same week. The night before my grandmother's funeral Bethany, Lauren and I shared a hotel room (thanks, Mom). Ben had decided to stay in my parent's room. It surprised me a little that he chose to skip our slumber party but I guess a grown man sharing a bed with one of his sisters was too high a price to pay for the fun benefits of aforementioned sleepover. Whatever, Ben. Us girls giggled into the night. There was a remote that adjusted the pressure of the mattress and Lauren lowered the pressure until we could feel our asses on the bedframe. Bethany, six months pregnant at the time, watched with mild amusement and I scuffled unsuccessfully to get the remote back from Lauren. We gave each other Pop pop kisses (lightning fast) and Dad kisses (super thin-lipped). We even took time to hurt each other's feelings a little.

The next week was Pop pop's funeral. Lauren was sick and stuck in North Carolina. This time Stephen was along. I drove with my brother from the funeral to the cemetery. He keeps a mouth harp on the dash of his truck and I tried to use it. He took it from me and showed me all his sick mouth harp tunes. We hummed and whistled songs. We did not discuss the absurdity of having a receptacle to store an urn in a public place. If you are going to be cremated, shouldn't your ashes be scattered or kept with a loved one? Why burn the body and then pay to store what isn't there anymore? The luncheon after the "inurnment" was at a Maggiano's, an Italian-style chain restaurant. Ben, Steve and I beelined to the bar. Quality time and all.

Regigi for Mayor

Been doing stand up for four months. First time in a long time, if ever, that I wanted to be really good at something. I am not horrible but want to be awesome. Have been trying to get on stage at least twice a week. 

Could I take this to the top? Can I at least take this to the middle? 

Last night I was sitting on my roof smoking a cigarette and finishing a bowl at five am. Spencer was exploring the roofs of neighbors and I was looking at the skyline, trying to figure out my plan.

Have more conventional plans not worked because I was trying for the wrong thing? Or have they not worked because I do not care about them? Is it me? Is it this shitty economy? Is it lame-ass corporations I don't give a shit about pandering to? 

Manhunt Ahoy

I am sorry that there were bombings in Boston this week and that people were killed, injured and scared out of their minds. Totally sucks. Oh, humanity you sneaky snake. I actually had two friends and three acquaintances in Boston for their marathon that day. My friends saw the second explosion and I am so glad that they were not hurt. I watched the news unfold holding my breath and clutching my throat just like everyone else. 

Today my Facebook "news-feed" is filled with celebrations that one suspect has been apprehended and two others killed in the manhunt that put a city on lock-down just for them. Those celebrations seem premature and misplaced. 

First: I did not realize we were no longer innocent until proven guilty. Second: now that Dzhokar Tsarnaev is in custody they want to take away his right to an attorney and the right to remain silent because that would be too much of a hassle. Senators McCain and Graham issued a statement saying "the last thing we want him to do is remain silent." No fucking shit. The ideal suspect in any case is a chatty one. That doesn't mean we take away someone's rights. Should we also torture him, Senators? To ensure that justice is served? What means are you willing to pursue in order to get the end you desire? Third: Would we be talking this way if the suspects (dead and alive....) were whiter? More "American" looking? Are we really that gross? Last: Can we even bear to look in the mirror and question ourselves about U.S. government/military actions abroad? What is our death toll? We can be certain it is greater than "three killed and dozens more injured."

I am not interested in being part of a jeering, cheering crowd at the base of any gallows. I do not want to sit back and rest assured that "America" is now "safe" and that "justice" has been served because most likely neither is nor will be true.

Good Grief

My grandmother Marie Dorothy (McGovern) Gemmell died February 1, 2013 on her ninety-third birthday. During her lifetime she raised nine children who in turn gave her seventeen grandchildren. The great-grandchildren are multiplying as we speak (my sister Bethany and cousin Susan are both expecting). She never forgot a birthday. She sang when she did the dishes. She was the second of seven children and grew up in Philadelphia during the Great Depression. Never more than five feet tall, she was the tiniest of women her last few years.

Though my (first...ha!) marriage did not last, one of the happiest days of my life was my bridal shower. Grandmom gave me a set of sheets and her recipe for lemon sponge cake. In the card she wrote that my grandfather had proposed to her while they were on a Ferris wheel and that she had loved him very much. I have read that note dozens of times, written about love, with love, from a woman I loved. Love.

The eleventh grandchild, I did not become truly close to her until I got out of the military six years ago. I would drive from Lancaster to visit her every month or two for the three and a half years I was in college.    We would drink tea. Play Scrabble. Talk about books, school, politics, family gossip.

On keeping her house warm in the winter:
"I don't drink, I don't carouse. I'll have the thermostat up if I want."
On getting non-Hodgkins-lymphoma at eighty:
"I told the cancer it wasn't going to get me."
On learning that I hate doing the dishes if I am alone:
"You need to put a radio in the kitchen."

She had been put in hospice about ten days before she died. I took the bus from NYC to Philly to say goodbye at the end of January. I held her hand and told her that I loved her. I tried to keep her from seeing my tears.

The night of her viewing my brother and I went to the airport to pick up my sisters who were flying into Philly  on red-eyes from North Carolina and Chicago. While driving back to the hotel my mother had booked, my dad's brother Darren called at 2 am. He was upset and trying to reach my dad. I asked what was wrong and he said that my Pop-pop had suffered a heart attack and was on life support. That they did not think he would make it through the night. Bethany suggested that we not call ahead with news this bad. We intended to knock on their door and tell them in person.When we got to the hotel, my mom was already awake, adorably lingering in her robe near the elevators. She was smiling, almost dancing eager to see my sisters. After the girls were hugged and kissed we told her that we needed to wake Dad. My sisters woke him up and we all waited in the hotel room as he called Darren back. I don't care that my dad's dad was seventy-five and that I am in my thirties.This was news that I did not want to hear or accept. We all thought that we had more time with him. Though exhausted, it took me hours to fall asleep that night.

The next morning my dad knocked on the door and told us the news we were dreading: his father was gone. The day ahead of us suddenly seemed too hard. Having attended her viewing the night before, I decided to skip the morning version which was before the church service. I borrowed my brother's truck in order to have time for breakfast. I sat alone in the hotel restaurant, feeling small and weary. I wanted to go back up to the room and get back into bed, covers over head. Instead I mechanically ate the food I could not taste and tried not to creep out the staff by crying too much.

Fair to the end, my grandmother had specified that all granddaughters be given a role in the church service and each of her six grandsons be a pallbearer. Though it was a cold February morning, the warm sun shone on us at the burial. Our aunts, uncles and cousins came up to us over the lunch that followed offering their condolences for our additional loss. My Uncle Tom, Aunt Margaret and Uncle Darren DeGaetano attended the whole Gemmell funeral. We made half-hearted jokes about how Pop-pop was a show stealer and couldn't just let that day be about my grandmother. One-upmanship from a natural performer and all that.

After the lunch Ben drove Bethany to the airport and then went back to Lancaster. Lauren's flight was early the next morning. That night my parents, Lauren and I stayed at my grandmother's house. We ordered a pizza and watched TV. No one suggested that we play Scrabble. I opened her closet to get a housecoat she would have wanted me to wear and breathed in her smell. She used Ivory soap but switching soap would not be enough.

The next morning my father flew to Florida with his brothers to help Edie make the arrangements for my grandfather's funeral.

On February 13 I took the train to the 30th St station in Philly and my mom picked me up. We drove together to the viewing in Marlton, New Jersey. My brother was not able to make it until the funeral service the next day. Lauren had gotten sick after my grandmother's funeral and was unable to make the trip up. Bethany and Stephen were driving up from Tennessee and had gotten stuck in traffic outside of D.C. They did not make the viewing. It was snowing. My parents were in the receiving line which was very long and filled with people I didn't know talking about a version of a man I didn't know. Everyone was talking about his life in show business and as a car salesman. I didn't know Domenick. I knew Pop-pop.

Domenick DeGaetano was forty-two when I was born. When I was growing up he lived in Marlton, New Jersey. He didn't come out to see us as often as my grandmother would. He didn't consistently buy us Christmas gifts and almost never remembered our birthdays. But when we drove up to his house, he would be waiting. He would scoop us up and shower us with kisses. No one could give better, faster kisses than Pop-pop. He would cook spaghetti and sausage. Made salad and heated garlic bread. Made his own gravy. That's spaghetti sauce to you non-Italians. He gave us soda and let us watch too much TV.

At the viewing I kept thinking thinking about what he had meant to me as a little girl. I remembered a trip I took with him to the grocery store when I was about six. It was summertime and in the car on the way to the store he let me ride on the center armrest. His arm was around me as he drove. The sun was in my eyes so I kept them closed. We were going to the grocery store with my uncle Tom and Bethany. He was talking and telling a story. He smelled like hairspray and his brand of cigarettes. I sat alone at the viewing crying over the memory of that scent.

At the grave site Edie's face was in her hands, weeping for the loss of her husband. His body was cremated and they said people could go up and sprinkle holy water on the urn. I didn't do that. I did not want to squeeze the plastic bottle of liquid onto the marble box. I wish I had the chance to give him a hug, to get his kisses and hear him tell me that he loved me, call me pal, tell me that I was number one. To hear his laugh. To watch him entertain my nieces and nephew the way he would entertain us when we were little.

The last time I saw him was almost a year ago. He had flown up for the christening of Darren's youngest daughter and had driven over from New Jersey to my parent's house to visit with our family. After dinner he pulled out his inhaler and made a it into a magic show for Ben's kids just like he made all his activities magical to us as children. He was magical to everyone that he loved.

I am lucky I had so much time with Grandmom and Pop-pop. Lucky that I had the chance to know them into my own adulthood. Many people do not get to share so much time with their grandparents.

I am happy they are at peace. Glad that they did not have lingering, painful illnesses at the end. Thankful they were clear of mind until the end.

I wish that we lived forever. I don't know what happens when we die: I don't believe in heaven. I think they each believed in Heaven but I don't know that we will meet again. No, not because I believe I'll be in Hell. But because I don't think that Heaven and Hell are what happens if there is any life after this life. But what I do know is that they were people that knew how to give love and receive love. They were loved. Memories of their lives will remain in my heart and the hearts of the many who loved them.