Mirror, Mirror

December 2012:

A few weeks ago my friend Dalia visited me for a few days. We have been friends since our first semester at Bible college in Dallas, TX, Fall 1998. I was about to be 19, she was 23. In the fourteen years since we have followed each others lives and visited each other every few years despite not living in the same place at the same time since the three semesters we spent in Dallas together. We have adventured in Dallas, NYC (2000 & 2012), Charlotte, Boston, Montreal, Toronto, London, RAF Lakenheath, San Francisco, Lancaster, Abilene. This visit was nice since there were no partners, mutual friends or family members to negotiate around.

Having not seen each other in over three years, we spent the three days we had together talking. She had recently experienced a painful breakup. Intending to comfort her, I mentioned a detail from the last months of my marriage which ended almost five years ago. I did not realize how much she had not known and after telling her about these nearly forgotten events, I was left upset and restless. Pacing and sleepless and not knowing why.

September 2013:

My ex-husband was powerfully built. We were stationed together at RAF Lakenheath, England. We became friends around 9/11 and were dating withing a few months. He seemed like a gentle giant. Like myself, he made friends easily, loved to make people laugh, loved to dance. He was great with money and would plan fun vacations. We loved each other and I used to want us to die at 100 on the same day.

He was also incredibly passive-aggressive and bullied me. When we were alone he would ignore me, playing HOURS of video games. I was often the butt of his jokes when we were out with friends and he would bait me, setting me up to behave badly. He was a habitual liar and I could not trust him to be entirely truthful about benign subjects, let alone important ones.

Not understanding why the man I loved acted like a brick wall when I wanted a partnership, I would lose my temper. I threw tantrums and broke appliances and did other things I am not proud of. I didn't like this about myself and started going to therapy when he was in South Korea. In that year apart from my husband I learned to control my reactions...

October 2013:

In February 2008 Eric visited me in Lancaster, PA for two or three weeks after his assignment to South Korea was completed. He was en route to his new base in England. I was supposed to ship our belongings to England at the end of February and join him in England in May after I finished my sophomore year at Millersville University. I had been accepted as an exchange student at Metropolitan University in London and intended to do my junior year in England, commuting from our house near Eric's base while still working on bachelor's degree. We had been living apart for thirteen months due to his assignment in South Korea. I had gotten out of the military at the beginning of that timeframe and

September 2014:

Eric did not inform me of his flight information ahead of time. He called me at 3 am to tell me that he would be arriving the next day, right before he boarded his direct flight from Seoul, Korea to Baltimore. I had not awakened when he called so he called my parents and woke them up, relaying the flight information. Pretty typical behavior on his part. I had two classes including a quiz and no way to contact him to sit tight for a few hours. I booked a hotel at the airport and called him between classes to let him know the plan. He said that plan did not work and he would catch a ride.
Not wanting my husband to take a bus or some other bullshit after such a long flight, I think I skipped the second class and drove to Baltimore to pick him up, which was a strange start to a visit from my husband I had not seen in seven months. Had not lived with in a year. We were 28 years old.

September 2015:

Since I was a full time student a month into the semester, I was not able to give all of my time to Eric during the three weeks of his visit. I suggested things he could do around Lancaster. A few days into his visit I requested that he bring empty boxes up from the basement so that I could pack our belongings in preparation for the move to England. My right foot had a stress fracture, was in an air cast and I was trying to avoid using stairs whenever possible. I explained that the six boxes were to the left of the stairs.

January 2016:

When I returned from class that day, I shuffled down the hallway with my books. Eric was surfing the internet in the living room. I asked if he had brought up the boxes. Without turning, he replied that he looked and they had not been there. I took off the brace and hopped down the basement stairs. Ten feet to the left of the stairs, in the center of a large empty space where the boxes.
Pretty annoyed but not interested in an arguement about it, I called his name from the bottom of the stairs:
Eeericcc
He probably didn't hear me.
Aeeeyrrricccckkk
A little louder. He could have just told me he didn't look for the boxes.
Eric!
More insistent. I just wanted to hand the boxes up the stairs to him so I did not have to make more than one trip.
Eric!
pause
Eric!
He appeared at the top of the stairs: What?
Can I hand these boxes up to you?
pause
No, he said. Then my husband shut out the basement light. He shut the basement door and deadbolted it, locking me in the dark basement.

June 2016:

I climbed to the top of the stairs, turned the light back on and sat on the top step. Instinctively I knew to remain calm. If I shouted or pounded on the door I knew my time locked in the basement of my apartment would be prolonged. A glance around confirmed that I would not be able to climb through a window or get out another way.

In my memory the quiet wait feels longer than the five or ten minutes it was.

My cheek pressed on the door, I called out, "You are going to have to let me out. The sooner you let me out, the better it will be."

I waited. A few more minutes. Perhaps a few more pleas, on the tightrope of panic and peaceful persuation. Eric. Eric. Eric. Let me out of the basement.

The door suddenly unlocked and swung open. I stood up and entered the apartment. "Why did you turn out the light and lock me in the basement," I asked my husband. He ignored my question and gave me a hug. Suggested I get off my injured foot. Asked if I was hungry.

I said that I did not want to talk about anything but why he locked me in the basement. He suggested we talk in the bedroom, took my hand and led me to my bedroom.

We sat beside each other on the bed. I faced him and repeated the question.

July 2016:

Eric put his arms around me, an embrace I did not want.
I said that I did not want to hug, I wanted to talk.
I tried to squirm away and his grip tightened, keeping me on the bed.
I tried to stand or twist out of his arms and he held on,
repeating that this was a hug.
He had missed me.

I was getting weaker and screamed.
First at him in fury at being forcefully restrained.
Then in fear when I didn't know what was going to happen next.

August 9 2018:

His arms locked around my upper body, his mouth near my right ear, Eric said multiple times in between my shouts, pleas and screams "When you calm down I'll let you go." In my efforts to break free i was now laying on the bed

Focus on the family

I had never lived with children before my brother Ben and his children moved into a house share with my boyfriend and I. The kids were us three days a week.

Although I did not like the hand and foot-marks on the walls or the increased frequency counters, tubs and floors had to be cleaned again, I did like that the house was filled to the brim with the lively messiness of happy children.

Whoa: Parenting is hard. Ben is the first parent I ever lived with that wasn't my own mom and dad.

Parents need love, support, encouragement, company. When they invite you to their house for dinner: GO OVER! Bring a 6 pack. Smoke them up for crissakes! They are spending their money on winter coats and shoes for growing feet not on eighths....dubs.....dimes.

Ben: I suspected before and I know for sure now: you are a the BEST DAD EVER. Your children are the BEST. You are doing everything right.

Darkness revealed

After a tiny little woman friend was traumatically attacked and nearly killed by a stranger in Lancaster, I could not sleep for a month.

After weeks of insomnia, I had a panic attack that took me to the ER at four am. Straight to psych.

They released me and asked me to see my family doctor and therapist, which I did.

My therapist asked me to pay attention: during the panic attacks, which have continued, my hands won't work:

MY HANDS:

Won't open doors.
Won't turn on a faucet though I can move my hand to the sink.
Though I can feel the cool porcelain on the skin of my hand.
But not operate my hand to turn a faucet.

MY HANDS
Won't open the purse strapped to my body.
Won't operate the phone I can see in my purse.
Won't clutch at the cigarette.
Won't open the bottle of Xanax I have been keeping in my purse.

The therapist prompted me to trust my body. What are my hands asking me to remember?

I REMEMBERED!

I was drugged on a first date. I have been blaming myself for what happened.

July 2012, NYC:

I WAS DRUGGED AND RAPED ON A FIRST DATE AT 32 YEARS OLD.

It does not matter that I broke three single girl dating rules that night.

I forgive you, Regina, for getting into a taxi that he insisted I take when I had wanted to cancel because I had been hanging out with friends and it was too late for me to take a train.

I forgive you, Regina, for entering his house hesitantly at his invitation to be polite because he had just given the taxi driver the $40 fare.

I forgive you, Regina, for taking small, hesitant, polite sips of the cold white wine with his sickening words, "Drink up."

Maybe one day I will stop hearing his voice...............................

A letter to the abused

Three friends were abused by their boyfriends this summer. Two friends got the fuck out of that situation. The third did not. This is my written account of her story. 

Early in the summer of 2014, at five am on a Sunday, she was beaten so badly by her boyfriend Stephen that she had bleeding in her brain.

As a result of her injuries, she spent two days in the hospital and missed two weeks of work.

She was punched in the face, picked up and thrown on the ground. Stephen then kicked her in the head multiple times. I visited her three days after the attack. She cried about her son's future with a boot-print bruise on her neck.

She was with her son's father for six years when she missed two days of work in September 2013 after he gave her a black eye among other injuries. She ended their relationship and her family promised their help with childcare as a show of support and solidarity.

She worked as a cook, training under an internationally recognized chef after completing culinary school. She turned down the sous chef position due to her responsibilities as a mother. Her ex saw his son infrequently and contributed financially even less frequently. Her mother and sisters watched her son when she was at work. She made about $350 a week.

She met Stephen in November. He moved in with her over the winter. He potty-trained her son in the spring, a few months before beating her almost to death. Stephen has a five-year-old daughter that lives in Virginia.

 Her three-year-old son was sleeping in the one-bedroom apartment when Stephen started beating her. She was hoping he did not see any of the attack. Wishful thinking. I have been to her apartment. It is an open floor-plan. Most likely her son saw the entire thing.

She reconciled with Stephen by the 4th of July and moved to Virginia with him in August, leaving her son behind.

I wrote letters to her in July, when my fears for her future were unfolding.

July 20
On Friday, July 18 you didn't show up to work. Last night at four a.m. I awakened from a bad dream. I tried to look you up on Facebook but couldn't find your profile. I scanned the internet for over an hour, searching for proof of your presence or whereabouts.
I returned to bed as the birds began to sing their summer morning song.
I tried to return to sleep but kept wondering if you were OK.

July 22
Did you already move out of state?
Your boyfriend is skipping out on his court hearing concerning the early morning he beat you so badly he almost killed you, correct?
 Does your son's father know that his son is moving to Virginia with the man that repeatedly kicked you in the head while his three-year old son watched?
Has he noticed the speech-delays your son is experiencing as a result of the trauma he witnessed?
Have you noticed?

July 24
I get the bad boy thing.
I too have loved and fucked dangerous men.

I have never received a smack, let alone a brutal attack, from one of them.

Get rid of this guy.
I am afraid he is going to kill you.
I want you to leave him and enter into a women's shelter with your son.

Stephen is dangerous.
He does not deserve the trust is takes to move to another state with someone.

You have known him for less than a year. A year in which he beat you so badly you were unable to work for two weeks.

When a twenty-four year old single mother making  $23,000 a year misses two weeks of work, how will she be able to pay her rent? I asked you in June if you wanted friends to help with money, knowing you would be hurting financially. You said no.

Who is going to take care of your son if something happens to you?
Aren't you afraid he is going to kill you?
Do you want this guy to kill you?

I'm sorry, #mikebrown

Unarmed teenage shot six times this summer.

SIX TIMES!

WHERE ARE THE ANSWERS?
WHERE IS THE JUSTICE?

Well, he's black and dead so there won't be any.

We can't un-shoot him.

Shhh, America. Shhh. Go back to sleep.
Let's pretend this was all a strange dream. 
In the morning we will pump our veins with high fructose corn syrup and our bellies with ammonia-soaked dollar menu meats and catch up on trending dog-shit.

We will not concern ourselves with the grief or heartbreak of his mother.

We will talk about his shoplifting.
Two of my siblings were caught shoplifting when they were 18. They were given stern lectures. My mother never had to worry that one of her foolish teenagers might be shot by police. We are white. Of course she didn't have that fear. And even if one of my mother's teenager's had been shot by a police officer, can you imagine the public outrage? Shoplifting would have had NO place in the post-death dialogue. But Lesley McSpadden has to listen to the callous dialogue of strangers who wish to assign blame for his death to her son's age-appropriate rebellion.

I am so sorry, Mike Brown. You didn't deserve to die. Your death sucks. And exposed how scary things are right now. So scary that we can't walk down the street without sometimes getting shot six times. You shouldn't be dead. You should have had your chance to become a man and live out your life.

Since I still have the chance to live out my life, I have to keep raising my voice.

I want peace.



I want us to treat each other with respect and as equals. I propose a blessing, a toast, a moment of reflection:

Here's to the past, looking back to make sure mistakes are not repeated.

Here's to the present, working for change.

 Here's to the future, while we're still alive to look forward to it.

I stand against police brutality, and will not rest until #JusticeforMichael is served. Join us: http://naacp.org/ferguson #NAACP

http://oogeewoogee.com/since-you-already-forgot-about-ferguson-mikebrown-let-me-give-you-an-update/

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.

may we all be so lucky...

My great-uncle Joe Kokoszka died this week. He was married to my grandmother's youngest sister Mary for 60 years. My mother, also the youngest sister, was named after this aunt.

My grandmom is about to be ninety-three. Her three sisters range from 83 to 91. Her older brother died just shy of 92. They lost a brother in the Korean War when he was in his early twenties. They lost a brother to cancer when he was about 40.

The remaining five siblings' lives where and continue to be intertwined throughout their long lives. They took beach vacations together. They attended the weddings, showers, parties and funerals of each others children and grandchildren. They occasionally feuded or fought. None were big drinkers or smokers. None were teetotalers. They were neither athletes nor couch potatoes.

I don't know the secret to their longevity  Perhaps it is the network of loved ones they created. Their long marriages and large, close-knit families.Perhaps it is their Catholic faith and simple, healthy lifestyles. Their ability to talk about loss, grief, happiness, politics, weather, music. Ability to accept life's pleasures with its pains.

My grandmother's spirit is sharp and strong. She speaks her mind and loves her life. She sings when she does the dishes. When she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins-Lymphoma at 80, she told the cancer that it was not going to get her.

This is my idea of a successful, happy life. May we all be so lucky.

Saddest Year

I started and stopped writing this several times which is why it is posted so long after the fact.

In September 2011 I wrote:

A few days after Jon and I broke up one of my friends said that it had taken her a year to get over a break up from a man she had loved but needed to live without. At the time I thought that was crazy. A whole year of tears and pain? Four days into this breakup I was still crying myself to sleep and had physical pain over it. I had never experienced pain like that before.

*********************************************************************************

September 2010:

Jon's statement: "If we had a baby, you would have everything you wanted and wouldn't need me anymore." ended our relationship.

He moved out at the end of the month.

October 2010:

I watched his dog Sammich, a pug puppy I had bought for his birthday that spring, the weekend Jon moved out. When I dropped the puppy off in Harrisburg at Jon's trendy loft apartment across the street from the capital building, he was completely unpacked. The pictures were hung on the walls. He took me to dinner to thank me for watching the dog and said that we could get back together and date. I asked if he still felt like I wouldn't need him anymore if we had a baby. He said yes. I said that did not work for me.

He attended my low-key Bingo birthday. My mother, wondering what would bring my ex-boyfriend to my birthday celebration, said that she thought he would propose. He did not. He got me a book and a CD. He left Bingo early.

 November 2010:

Jon told me that he did love me. That the things I wanted with him were not too much to ask. That I was the only one for him. That he wanted to get back together and that he wanted a future with me. That he needed to take care of me.

I did not feel happy like I thought I would. I felt cautious. He had broken my heart. I said that I needed to think about it.

A few days later I drove out to see him. While there my car got towed from the spot where he had told me I could park. Jon got stressed and irritable about it. He loaned me the money to get the car out. Knowing he made $70,000 a year and knowing that he was aware that I was working two jobs at an average of $8.50 an hour I thought the loan was strange since he had just said he needed to take care of me.

I mentioned that if we were to get back together, I would want to take it slow. He would need to earn my trust again. His snappy reply was that it would not be ok for us to see other people and he was not going to jump through hoops. He wanted to pick up where we left off in September. I thought of the chest pains the loss of his love had given me.

I thought of how stingy he was with praise, compliments, affection. I thought of how content I had been living with him in the suburbs of Elizabethtown. In my mind I had everything. He fucking left and was so eager to be in his new apartment he unpacked in a day. He would get jealous and weird about me having a lot of friends, loving to dance, talking to everyone. I thought about what I would need to be happy with him again. I considered whether he would be able or willing to give me what I needed.

After a week I told him I couldn't do it right now, even though I loved him. He asked where I had been the night before. I had decided to keep plans for a second date that I had made before he swept in with his declarations. I confirmed that I had been out with another dude and he hit the roof. I literally ran after him to finish talking about us. He said that I was throwing everything away and he was done. I was upset at how the conversation went but also felt like I had made the right decision given his reaction.

December 2010:

Jon refused to speak to me for several weeks. I tried to call and text him. About three weeks after our fight, I saw on Facebook that he was in a relationship. I called and left a message yelling that he should have told me before I found out on fucking Facebook. He called me back and I yelled at him some more, fucking furious. I continued to be furious for the rest of the month, occasionally calling him to let him know. I was mad at everything. I was mad at Jon, mad at killer whales (documentary-related), mad at my jobs, mad at the economy, mad at my hoarder roommates that kept the house at 53 degrees. My therapist said it was ok. Be mad, it is a part of the process.

January 2011:

Megan moved in with Jon. I am working at That Fish Place/That Pet Place.

February 2011:

Jon proposed to his girlfriend of three months. My tennis racket was still in the trunk of Jon's car. On our second year anniversary Jon told me that he thought we were still getting to know each other.

June 2011:

They had their engagement pictures taken by a friend of mine, in Lancaster at a spot I have been going to since high school.

July 2011:

Jon and Megan buy a house together.

September 2011:

Jon and Megan get married in Lancaster. What the fuck? Get out of my town, assholes. Go back to Harrisburg and let me put this worst year ever behind me.

Happy Place

After a few months of applying to numerous jobs, I have received one lonely response from a prospective employer for more information. I haven't gotten any requests for an interview and I am discouraged.

Work has been stressful and shitty. Line cooks call servers lazy which is insulting to half of us and apparently is a cue to the other half to show them exactly what a lazy server looks like. Restaurant guests consistently tip 8%. A table with a $56 check left me nothing last night. Makes me glad to get 8% and wild-eyed with desire to get the fuck out of that restaurant. See above...I am trying, with no results so far.

It is cold. Buses do not always come when they are supposed to come. They also run infrequently at night when I get off work. It gets dark early and I work second shift hours so when I wake up there are only a few hours of daylight left which is depressing. My hands and feet are constantly sore and chapped from work and the cold.

Half an hour before the restaurant closed last night, the shift reached the pinnacle of shittiness. I wanted to be in my pajamas with the covers over my head. I was standing in the kitchen waiting for the food for one of my tables, trying with partial success to remain calm.

I took deep, cleansing breaths. I stood straight, elongating my spine. Imagining my idea of paradise.

I had off today, which is rare for a Saturday. I walked my dog for about forty minutes this afternoon. It was about forty degrees and the sun was shining. I was content but longing for warmer weather and to walk my dog on clean rather than litter-strewn streets. Again I found that I was daydreaming about my idea of paradise.

Puerto Rico, spring of 2004. Laying on a net in the front of a catamaran. Blue ocean: sparkling, clean, perfect, surf spraying my legs. Sun. Fish swimming in schools. Pina Coladas. Snacking on kiwi and strawberries in between aquatic pursuits.

I was active duty Air Force, about half-way through my enlistment. I was engaged to be married that summer. I was 24 years old. I thought my future would be filled with sunshine and snorkeling. Michael Cunningham said it beautifully in The Hours:

“I remember one morning getting up at dawn. There was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling. And I...I remember thinking to myself: So this is the beginning of happiness, this is where it starts. And of course there will always be more...never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment, right then."

"It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk. The anticipation of dinner and a book. The dinner is by now forgotten; Lessing has been long overshadowed by other writers. What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and its perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other.” 

DeGaetano Christmas

I went to Lancaster for Christmas last week. I overbooked at Thanksgiving and had a pretty stressful visit so this time I tried to keep my Christmas schedule breezy.

My mom picked me up from the train station at 10 am Christmas Eve. We went to the mall and spent a few hours finishing our Christmas shopping together. At 2:30 we met up with my dad at Valentino's, a little bar that my family likes to go to. My mom and I happened across their Christmas Eve celebration last year. The first round is on the house, they have a complimentary buffet and a packed house. It was nice to get a few relaxed moments alone with my parents. Mr. Valentino, who is at least 85, played the accordion to our delight. He stubbornly played marching tunes with a twinkle in his eye while his daughters begged him to play Christmas songs. Bethany and Stephen joined us for the tail end of our time there, which was a pleasant surprise.

 Back at the house, my mom put a ham in the oven and sequestered herself and my dad in a spare bedroom to wrap presents. Ben, Kara and the kids arrived and everyone worked on dinner together. I had started to make an apple crisp and my brother said that I was trying to cramp his style since he had previously announced that he was making the dessert. His dessert would be made with duck-fat (a separate blog entry would be required to properly document Ben's relationship with duck-fat), and how could I compete...what was I using...butter? A dessert-off was declared and much shit was talked to everyone's amusement/irritation.

 Fearing the crisp would not be big enough for everyone (and realizing after the crisp was in the oven that I forgot to add flour and it would probably taste like sugar and oatmeal and that was not an option since I was in a dessert-off), I also made molasses cookies. Ursa, three months shy of three, announced that she wanted to help me and I let her crack the first egg to humor her. Standing on her highchair, she tapped the egg once and neatly delivered a shell-free egg into the bowl with her tiny fingers. No big deal. When I commented, Kara said that she has been letting Ursa make her own eggs in the morning. Supervised, she added after Ben's surprised/proud/delighted/scared/high-pitched "WHATTT!!!"

 Naftali, six at the end of February, had been observing and helping quietly and at one point we looked over and he had used the chopper to chop a cup or two of walnuts and combined it with a cup or two of sugar in a bowl. Rolling with it, Kara said that he was going to make cinnamon rolls. Naftali, busily stirring the sugar/walnuts with a spoon, agreed as if that had been his plan all along. Ben welcomed him into the dessert-off and explained to him that everyone would vote after they tasted all the desserts and a winner would be named.

 Bethany made the brussel sprouts. Ben made the fingerling potatoes. My mother emerged to check the ham. Orla and Steve were playing records and scoping out the growing pile of presents under the tree and by the fireplace. I announced that I had started Christmas crafts a month ago and they were still not done yet so only the kids were getting actual presents from me. Lauren called...Christmas was not quite perfect with her and Skyler in North Carolina. Kara sliced the bread and made an antipasti tray that did not quite make it to dinner. We were hungry.

 After dinner, the presents.
After presents, the dessert-off.

The apple crisp was ok but not great due to the missing flour. The molasses cookies were really good but not amazing by Christmas cookie standards. The dessert Ben made...in the words of Orla, "tastes like cheeseburger and fries." Ben took one bite and declared it to be terrible. Perhaps the beloved duck-fat should be saved for savory dishes. The cinnamon rolls were amazing. The pastry was buttery and flaky, melting in the mouth. Bethany and I asked Kara how she did it, but then we saw Naftali. He was silent, watching everyone's reactions to the desserts. It was official and we let him know: Naftali and the cinnamon rolls were the official winner of the 2012 dessert-off. He took the news in stride with a pleased closed-mouth crooked smile.

I said I would give it a year...

My summer in NYC was spent on my bike, riding around. Drinking beers with new friends. Getting tan at the beach and while at the park with my dog. Flirting with boys and finding my way around this bulky old town. Having as much fun a broke single gal can have.

That abrubtly ended with the unraveling of my relationship with my roommate/friend/crime partner upon whose insistance I had moved to New York. The first week of September we had our third ugly, marriage-style fight that started (as the other two did) because he was being possessive of me. I put a stop to further fights by deciding to move out. He took that as a betrayal and did a couple super-shitty things as a result of hurt feelings.

I spent September and October feeling stabbed in the back.

Out of last minute necessity because everything of course went wrong, I moved to Washington Heights on W. 177 St in Manhattan. It was a dump but I could afford it, they allowed my dog and did not require a security deposit. Good thing: In September I earned about half the amount I had easily made in August. The door locks? Great, I'll take it.

I have been practically living on the train. It takes two hours for me to get to work and sometimes more than two hours to get home. Then Hurricane Sandy arrived the last week of October and rocked NYC. I am grateful that I did not experience power outages or flooding. But the transit system was not back to normal for about two weeks.

During this time my birthday came and went. I was so depressed that I canceled the few plans I was able to make post-hurricane. I barely got out of bed. I hate my job. I hate my commute. I am so fucking broke. I am so depressed that I am a thirty-three year old waitress. I have no man. I have no children. I have nothing.

In addition to all that, I am like the worst dog owner ever. I can't imagine what Spencer is thinking. At the park I was talking to a man whose dog was fifteen and still going strong. My heart actually sank at the thought of Spencer living seven more years. Then I was furious with myself for wanting Spencer to not have a long life because I am tired of taking care of him. At Thanksgiving I am taking him to my parents house for a few weeks or months so that he can receive care from nice people who are home enough to not only care for his most basic needs but also might even occasionally have the energy to play with him.

And then I got hit by a car while riding my bike...

Friends and family began urging me to move back home. I would call my mom and cry about being lonely and broke and homesick. I would stare at the pictures of my nieces and nephew on my phone.

But I feel like moving back at this point would be giving up. I moved here to try and use my degree. To see if this town is all its cracked up to be.

Trying to rally my battered spirit, I started to look for jobs. I cleaned up my resume and have been applying to a new place every few days. I am getting my bike repaired. I am moving back to Brooklyn and in with a close friend. The first week of December I will be living with someone I love and trust. I will be a twenty minute bike ride from work. The world will not actually come to an end.

I will reassess my relationship with New York when I am here a year, on May 1. It's a date.

Concrete Jungle

I moved to Brooklyn, NYC 2 months ago. It was time for a change. I loved Lancaster and was happy and content there but needed to have more going on. More job opportunities, more chances to have adventures, a larger pool of interesting men, etc.
My faithful dog Sir Spencer Rooney and friend Kris moved with me.
Kris and I became friends working at the same restaurant. We have both travelled quite a bit, both lived abroad for a while. We share the same longing for adventure and better career-related opportunities. We both love Belgian White beer, ice skating and smoking cigarettes. He tolerates Spencer but "doesn't do dogs" which I find to be unconscionable. I snore and he sometimes wears earplugs so that he is able to sleep.
Spencer, Kris and I moved to Brooklyn into the tiniest efficiency apartment the world has ever known. Kris and I share bunk beds. Spencer's bed is located under the desk. This desk doubles as the media stand, table and occasional ironing board.
Since moving to New York City we have been arrested, mugged and lived through a two month rolling brown-out. We went without running water for 5 days. I inadvertantly hitch-hiked at 5 am and received a free ride from a cabbie who asked me out. I went out with the cabbie.
Kris learned the true meaning of the what it is to de-louse.
I have locked myself out of the apartment three times, once for 3 hours where I finally made it into the house by conning into our upstairs neighbor into letting me climb out their window, down the fire escape where I jimmied our windown open and climbed in.
Kris passed out on the street and came home with a chipped tooth.
Spencer eats chicken bones and donuts off the street and likes to chase the rats and feral cats.
More to come.

Highs and Lows

This blog will be about three things: tickets, moving and anxiety.

1. TICKETS. Usually I am very Zen about tickets. I get a lot of them and rarely let them get me down. Speeding tickets, parking tickets, tollbooth tickets, overdue library book tickets for chrissakes! I just park where I want and drive how I please and pay the fucking fines. But tonight I got a ticket at 11 pm and I am down about it. The cop was rude to me. He pulled me over for an expired registration that I did not even know about. He told me right away that he was giving me a ticket, even though I said that I did not receive notice that it was expiring and thought that it did not expire until the end of this month. He and a cop that emerged from a second cruiser shone their flahslights into the cab of my car and asked if I had any drugs or weapons. A third police car crept slowly by and I started to feel kind of paranoid. And I am trying to save money because I am moving so I am bummed at having to pay this damn citation...........speaking of...

2. MOVING. I am moving to NYC with my best boy friend, Kristopher Horner and of course my beloved dog Sir Spencer Rooney. We are going to see if that big old city can provide some opportunities that Lancaster is not able to provide. We are certain that there will be hijinks and adventures although I have plenty of those in my beloved Lancaster. I am happy with this decision and know that if I do not like it I can always move back. I am sad about leaving but it is time.

3. ANXIOUS. My anxiety has been through the roof recently. I am really sad about leaving Lancaster. I love it here. But I have not found a fulfilling job and I really want the chance to have a more rewarding career. I am anxious that it is not the job market, it is me. I am anxious that Spencer will not be happy in New York. I told that to my parents tonight and they said that he will be happy as long as he is with me (after having a good laugh that I would worry about such a thing). I am trying to just breath and act logistically. Make a list, slowly check tasks off the list. I am trying to remind myself that once I am there I will be fine (this is true of all of my big moves). I remember the weeks leading up to leaving for the Air Force Basic Training I had feelings similar to the ones I have now. And actually now that I think about it, I was really nervous to start college. As a 27 year old freshman that had gotten out of the miitary only days before, I felt old and did not know anyone. Driving to campus at 8 am on that Tuesday morning I wanted to throw up. But after the first class I knew it would be fine and I could do it. Change is hard and scary but that does not mean it is wrong. I need to follow this through.

Straight Talk with Regina

I really love giving advice. I am good at giving both good and bad advice.

You got haters? Fuck those fat fucks.

You hate your job? Quit today and live off the land.

Is your boyfriend being shady? I will follow him in my car like the private eye I long to be. When you decline, citing that as ridiculous behavior, I might follow him anyway and perform a small background check. Don't worry, I will only tell you if I have any juicy findings. If he turns out to be a standup guy with a penchant for youtube kitten videos and late night stress snacking, then I will simply stop telling you to break up with him.