La La Land

Because everybody is a film critic (and a food critic) these days.

(Spoiler alert: don't read on if you haven't seen La La Land and intend to.)

I've heard that there is speculation that La La Land may win Best Picture.

No.

It is a pretty film. It is a cute film. It is unique. And refreshing. I applaud the courage of the producers and writers and cast and crew for creating something that could have been easily dismissed as unpopular.

Did I like the film? Yes. I even teared up at times. That's what it caters to do. It is a chick flick. I'm a chick. (I categorically detest rom-com, though.) Actually, it's a chick and gay dick flick. My apologies for the stereotype. Heard it on the radio. Not in so many words. I'm sure there are those who fit the demographics but don't love musicals. I'm sure you exist.

But Best Picture? No. (I am not saying it won't win. Because it's a white industry. I am saying it doesn't deserve to win.)

I can see that Ryan Gosling is charming. I can understand why women swoon over him. Props to him for learning the piano in merely three months. He pulled it off impressively. And the recent speech at the Golden Globes thanking his wife Eva Mendes? Genuine and sweet as heck. But I have not been attracted to Ryan Gosling. Not even in The Notebook. There. I've said it. Blasphemy, I'm sure.

But the sadness of Ryan Gosling's character at the end of La La Land got me. That's right. I'm attracted to sadness. Always have been. Of course it had to be a sad ending. Sad endings make for the best love stories. If Gosling's Seb would've married Emma Stone's Mia, that would have been boring. The parallel universe of what could've been (or should've been, if you're that kind of a romantic) was perfect because it was bittersweet. And that knowing nod and smile - that IS the perfect ending. Thanks for comin'. It doesn't matter what happens for the rest of their respective lives.

You can tell that the actors literally just took dance lessons. Great effort and heartfelt performance, but there is better on Dancing with the Stars (and I don't even watch that show). The rise and fall as they waltz is totally lacking. (There is some grace.) The tapping is barely adequate. Mad skills they are not. If you've seen Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers... I am sorry but their contemporary counterparts don't even come close. But they are pretty and young and easy on the eyes. And they are trying. And I do find the acting to be quite good, especially Stone's.

Then there is the scene of the lovers' first fight. The way the dialog escalates is unbelievable to me, it feels so staged. Also the fact that the argument takes less than five minutes, and all of a sudden the bird in the oven is burnt beyond recognition, triggering the smoke alarm? They literally just sat down at the table! So the bird would've burnt anyway. Seb took all his time planning this surprise dinner, and the bird would've overcooked within minutes of Mia walking in? Nah. Don't buy. That is poor writing.

The cinematography is... nice. You get to see L.A., and L.A. is always nice to look at. Big blue sky, palm trees, landmarks... they all stir nostalgia and sentiments of adventure. Shots at the Griffith Observatory are visually pleasing. But no one scene is particularly breathtaking or groundbreaking.

When I think Best Picture, I think life-changing, a film that compels you to reevaluate your perspectives of the world, challenges your values, makes you a better person even. Is that too much to ask? La La Land, while highly enjoyable, is not even a believable love story. We see a white guy hook up with a white girl, we don't question. What do they have in common? Examine the broken pieces, and you will conclude: no wonder they didn't work out.

All this said, boy, Ryan Gosling really rocks a dark suit with a skinny tie. And I still have no desire to fuck him.

Trimmin's & Fixin's

I have a handful of fond childhood memories with my mother. Don't get me wrong. I had a happy childhood, one that is envy-worthy even. I have tons of happy memories of the four of us: my parents, my brother W and me. But involving solely my mother and me, those are far fewer.

One of those memories is my mother clipping my nails. I would feel so pampered. She was meticulous about it. Truth is it was rare when I felt she was poring over me, focusing on just me. She was a career woman and I needed more attention than she had time. These moments are much cherished.

The best part is toenails. The sensation of her digging into the corners attempting to get all the crud out - if that isn't love, I don't know what is. It was guilty pleasure too, just borderline erotic and as close to incest as one gets without actually committing.

Years later, one summer my Mom is visiting at W's, and we're all hanging out in the living room. Elsie is clipping OC's toenails. Tirelessly, just as my mother did. OC just sits back and takes it all in. In fact he is so relaxed he appears to be sliding off the sofa any minute. I reflect on a mother's love and how I could not fathom the depth and vastness of that selflessness.

My mother then comments along the same line, that it was so special Elsie was doing this. Taken aback, I blurt, "You used to do the same for me. Don't you remember?"

The smile freezes on her face. Awkward. She doesn't remember. And she admits so.

Mom is sensitive about the subject of forgetfulness as she ages. So I drop it. But I can't help but feel hurt. This act of bonding - did it not mean as much to her as it did me? Obviously not, right? Then anger sinks in. I already have so few mother-daughter memories. By not remembering, she has taken one away from me. It is as if it never happened.

This line of thinking is illogical, of course. And it can't be always about me, now can it?

Few more years go by. Another summer, my mother is diagnosed with lymphoma. We are an ocean apart.

It was a difficult time. Difficult for my mother as she (and her side of the family) are notorious worrywarts and negative thinkers (who happen to have a long family history of cancer - a little correlation there?) When she can't relax, she can't relax. She thinks of the absolute worst. When I come home a little late, she doesn't just wonder. She envisions gang rape, torture, and my mangled body tossed off a cliff. She can't help it. When she hasn't heard from someone in a while, death is the first thing on her mind. Not because she is in her late 70's now and of course death is on her mind. This goes way back.

And difficult for my father, her sole caretaker who is older than she. Even before she became ill, he cooked and cleaned and did all the dirty work around the house. I found out just recently that, before my late grandmother, my mother's mother, promised my mother to my Dad, she sat him down to have a talk. It went something like this according to my Dad:

My grandmother:
Look, K (my mother's name) ain't ever gonna cook. She ain't lifting a finger. You understand? If you won't accept this, I can't let you have her.

My father, crazy in love, agreed. And he has kept his word ever since.

They have had only each other in their empty nest for decades now. I shudder to imagine the fear of losing the one person you see day in and day out, depend on, the only one you have loved all your life.

Between September and November, my mother had 3 rounds of chemo. All things considered, she did well. There were inevitable effects. Could be worse.

Not being able to be there for her was the most difficult part. She assured us it was for the best. Her doctor had advised against visitors at all costs to avoid infection and complications, since her immune system was so compromised.

A strong, independent, whip-smart woman all her life (except for the little things like not being able to make real food and asking about a kettle "How can I tell when the water is boiling?"), my mother would comfort us during this time. We did try to comfort her as best we knew how. Not sure it made a difference. My mother is not easy to convince. She would say things like, "What if the 3 rounds are not enough?" I reminded her to focus on one step at a time, and to view the treatment sessions as milestones. The concept of living in the present is foreign to the woman. She's a planner. This went against every grain of her nature.

But she did it. She conquered. She retested and is now cancer-free.

When I visited during the holidays, she hadn't had that last consultation yet. Nobody knew if she was in the clear or not. She felt fragile, apprehensive. But I could see that glimpse of hope, her allowing herself to entertain the better what-if's. I tried to stay positive for her. I refused to think too far ahead. What's the point? I argued.

One evening during my visit, I find my parents having one of their little squabbles in the dining room. My mother is trimming her fingernails. Her fingertips have gone numb from the chemo, apparently a common side effect. It can take months for the sensations to return. This makes it challenging to trim one's own nails, we find out. Doesn't help that her hands are - she still is - weak in recovery.

My mother reaches out to my Dad for assistance. My Dad is reluctant at first. "I'll miss and cut your flesh..." My Mom insists that it is unlikely, that it is child's play. My Dad acquiesces, but gingerly.

"You are not getting close enough!" My mother criticizes.

"I'll cut you if I try to get closer..." My Dad repeats. This goes on.

"Let me give it a shot," I volunteer.

I feel the flesh of my mother's fingertips with my left hand, and guide the nail clipper along. I ask questions. Am I too close? Doesn't hurt, right? Is this short enough?

She always wants shorter. "See? This is easy. I told you," my mother quips, addressing my Dad.

Secretly I was filled with love and pride in this act of reciprocating the favors she did me decades ago. Oh, the circle of life! And pleasantly surprised I didn't suck at this nurturing task even though I had never been anyone's caretaker in my life.

"Are you sure you want shorter?" I ask one more time. "This is pretty short already."

"Yes, shorter." My mother replies. "Next time I'll be on my own again."

She didn't mean to, but my heart broke a little.

Always Rings Twice (Or More)

Since I moved to my place, I've been getting a lot of marketing mail. Realtors, housekeeping services (both understandably), and school-age-children-related propaganda.

Every week I clean out my junk mail. Trained to be paranoid, I tear out my name and address, shred that portion, and recycle the rest. There is more the following week. There is more, and more still. I feel inundated, annoyed by the inconvenience.

These days, I'm plain seething. How DARE they target me based on my age and gender. To lump me in a specific demographic group implies assumptions. I am a certain age. I MUST have children. Never mind my disposition, preferences, conviction, let alone my individuality or identity.

To this day some find it hard to believe that some of us may choose not to have children. As if everybody must. Because that's the norm? What nature intended? To me, the reasons NOT to have children are numerous and obvious. Every time I run into parents and/or children in public situations, or when I listen while a friend or a family member recounts the challenges of parenting, I say to myself, "THIS is why." And I'm glad. Mentally high-fiving myself even.

I've been asked to list my reasons. (There are probably at least 5 bullet points.) I used to oblige. After a while, I think I don't owe anybody an explanation. It is as if this decision (if they can believe it's a conscious, calculated decision) is so unfathomable that it is my duty to justify it to strangers' satisfaction. Frankly, I'm tired of the burden of proof.

No doubt, I can imagine that the rewards of being a parent must be unparalleled. My unwillingness to go down that path is not a statement against those who do take the plunge. There is no need to preach the benefits. I did my own thinking (imagine that!) and outweighed them. Pure logic. Case closed.

All this said, what outrages me the most is putting myself in someone else's shoes, someone who didn't choose to be childless, and is constantly getting bombarded by cruel reminders of his/her very state, a state that might be considered failure, or reason to feel a void in life. Every piece of mail inviting your nonexistent child to pre-school, suggesting the best place to buy art supplies, or on after-school programs that vie for your attention. That must be fucking exhausting.

Heartless. Inconsiderate. Oblivious. Go away.

Glaced

I hope Denisse doesn't read this. I have no intention of causing distress. I still need to write as if nobody is reading. This is my last haven.

Yesterday Denisse and I went out for drinks. It'd been ages. We have so many fond memories of meeting for happy hour, getting really happy, bonding over a drink, or two, or four if we're out dancing at clubs. What good times we've had! They feel brief now in hindsight. But I wouldn't trade them for anything.

We went to this hip and happening strip that we'd been to many times. I used to be able to pretend that I belonged. For some time, it felt like that we did, be it a chilly Saturday night or a warm Sunday afternoon. I'd be so charged, I could skip.

We weren't as carefree on this day. But I did enjoy being outside and the people-watching. We'd joked over lunch, "Who cares about food? The ultimate goal is the drinking." Denisse had laughed. And she'd lamented that, if drinks were two hours away, it was too long.

At last, after strolling past many stores whose goods we couldn't afford, we settled at a cool, open-air bar. We selected our cocktails. They were artisanal and delicious. Our bartenders were friendly and cute. I savored each mouthful, careful not to oversip. I looked around at this beautiful place and stared out at the glaring sun. I was happy.

Denisse wasn't talking. Our "usual" was that we'd open up after a few sips and bitch about whatever had been bugging us, or be sharing silly anecdotes. We'd get giddy. We'd giggle.

But Denisse stayed quiet. I wasn't sure: did the alcohol bring her down? Or was I just now noticing -

Well, I did get giddy. After telling Denisse that my parents had been up to something, hiding the true reason they hadn't been around for our weekly Skype calls, I noticed our reflections on the chrome surface of a beer tap right in front of us. Full funhouse effect. I took a photo and laughed. I promised I'd post it later.

"You're easy," said Denisse, referring to the effect of one single drink on me. I confessed that when I am out drinking, it doesn't take much. The last time I met up with Jean Henri, I had only two glasses of wine over the course of over two hours. I was so high, I had to be mindful taking a short trip to the restroom so as not to stumble. It was embarrassing. Also exhilarating.

My theory is that our mindset BEFORE the intake matters. (Not an original insight, I realize.) If you're already in a good mood, having a few sips can elevate that mood exponentially. If you're drinking to drown your sorrows, and I speak from experience, of course, ain't no magic potion gonna lift your spirit. Primo champagne is not gonna make you happy if you're not already happy.

Which reminds me of the sad fact that so many of us with an addiction circle back in search of that high. No substance can get you back there. Nothing beats sweet memories. Nothing will compare.

And so it hit me: Denisse wasn't happy.

I've known this for quite some time. She is not UNhappy. But she is definitely not happy by definition. Even though this pseudo-epiphany caused no consternation, it saddened me.

I told her that her drink was weak compared to mine (we'd tasted each others').

Comes to memory one of the nights early in my friendship with the now deceased Sherry (so many nights were a blur). I forget the context, but I said something to the effect of "You have to surrender and become susceptible to your poison", which made Sherry laugh her hearty laugh. It was a great memory, making my friend laugh.

Years ago, when I experienced heartbreak like I'd never experienced heartbreak before, I couldn't believe the pain. How EVERY second would hurt. There was no relief. I wanted to curl up in fetal position and rock myself to oblivion. I came across one of those quotes that seemed such pearls of wisdom. Little did I know that some time later they would be a dime a dozen on Pinterest and the like.

The quote was:
Everything is going to be okay in the end.
If it is not okay, it is not the end.

I was blown away. It offered solace, a respite from the unrelenting pain I was acutely feeling.

Now I chew on it. "The end". That's death, isn't it? So are we saying, in essence, we're all looking forward to "the end"? The end of our daily struggle, the end of not knowing what fucks you next, the end of suffering? The end of our last breath.

Buddha offers a path to end suffering while one is on this earth. But that's too much work. What works for me is knowing "This, too, shall pass." And when it all passes, it's the end of the road. We'll get there, all in good time.

I care for Denisse like a sister. It is unsettling, the knowledge of her unhappiness. But we are all unhappy one way or another (except those enlightened creatures amongst us). RJ is unhappy, I'm unhappy. I know my love can't fix unhappy. And I'm okay with that. But I am also happy, in my own way. You can be both. It's not contradictory. Human beings are complicated.

I just hope that Denisse, in her unhappiness, lives with happiness as well. Our time on earth is a constant battle. But what is the alternative? The end.

Dogeared

I hope, when I am not engaging, Alley knows that it is not her. It is me.

Alley is a good dog. So docile. Couldn't be more submissive. I reminisce the times she and I would run out the backyard on a hot summer night, both of us naked, and just run around like maniacs. I'd run, pretending that I could out run her. She'd get a kick out of it. I'd call out to her, and she'd come. Sometimes she got so excited she'd paw me and scratch up my thigh. Oh, good times.

We had a sizable backyard then. It was not ours. It was rented. But it was ours.

And now we're all cooped up in a condo. It affects all of us. RJ grew up in a rural area when he ran around exploring hills and streams all day, just like my father, a fisherman's son, did, growing up. RJ is a lot like my father in temperament. Go figure. You marry your parent of the opposite sex if you're hetero, right? Textbook.

Imagine the guilt. Going from that kind of openness to having to take the elevator all day just to walk the dog. None of the serenity. It's a fall from grace.

Dog's older now. She doesn't play catch anymore. I drive by the park in our old neighborhood once a week when I see my new acupuncturist. It is where we used to take Alley and send her off-leash. RJ threw the ball so far. She ran so fast you couldn't see her legs. She and her crazy eyes. There is this wonderful photo of her in which she's catching a ball in midair. She is closer to the photographer than RJ. It is as if she is levitating. She appears monstrous. A freak of nature.

These days I rally to take Alley somewhere where she can be set off-leash, at least once a week. But it doesn't always work out. And it's not the same. A dog needs to be off-leash, dammit. It's their nature. Freedom, however brief, is the least we can give her.

So many fond memories, the three of us. Those years at the house were the best times of my life. The way I'm taking a trip down memory lane now, you'd think she's dead. She is not. It'll be terrible when she dies.

I hope, when I am not engaging, Alley knows that it is not her. It is me.

Grimace

2 weekends ago, RJ and I went to a wedding & spent the weekend away. I had dreaded it and looked forward to it. When we came back, I suffered from "bone-crushing" depression, as JD used to call it.

In the almost 7 years since RJ and I had been together, I hadn't experienced depression this bad. Unshakable, thick - rendered me lost in despair and compelled me to question my existence. Thoughts of suicide returned. I was weepy for no reason. I had been struggling with a cold. Lethargic and devoid of joy, I wanted to call in sick. Forever.

The first two days after our return home, I couldn't even articulate any thoughts. RJ would ask me, "Are you okay?" I would shake my head. We would hug. I couldn't explain if I wanted to. Late at night, RJ would ask, "What is it?" I said, "So many things."

The overwhelming sadness and the conviction that the sadness was uncalled for and therefore did not matter - tormented me.

It had been a beautiful wedding - the town was beautiful, and we were surrounded by beautiful, friendly, kind people. I cherish times like this, simple, sweet moments with pseudo family, as moments with real family are few and far between, and riddled with anxiety.

Despite everything, I love weddings. Even at my most jaded, seeing two people in love and surrounded by their supportive families, now joined as one, always filled me with hope and faith in the human race in general. This particular weekend was intensified as these are people that RJ cares about, his blood (and extended blood). Even when family can be complicated, love knows no bounds.

The trigger might have been Quimby, RJ's stepdaughter, of whom he is very fond. They have a special relationship unconstrained by typical parental authoritative dynamics. She was about 7 when RJ became a fixture in her life. RJ reminesces, in amazement, how weightless and fast she was as a gymnast at that age. As Amelia gleefully recalls, at age 10 Quimby would piggyback-ride on RJ. They just have this closeness. He watched her blossom into a attractive, highly successful woman. Even though they don't see each other often, whenever they do get together, they never skip a beat.

Several years ago, Quimby moved to the Big City from another where she'd had a penthouse loft and a promising career. She works hard and parties hard and is not afraid of change. Name a major cultural (cool) event and she's been there. Name a daredevil, death-defying activity and she's done it. She's a connoisseur of sorts, has great taste in food, wine, clothes and men.

She has a bucket list and she enjoys adding to it as she crosses things off on the regular. She's a go-getter, a doer, and mover and a shaker. She's the kind of person whose dating profile I'd read and be like, Seeesh, What CAN'T you do? Gimme a break!

But Quimby and I get along. For the most part. I feel that I bore her, though. She's just too refined.

Over time, resentment grew. It started small. I recognized it right away. I shared my sentiments with RJ and acknowledged how irrational I was being: I was jealous. Plain and simple.

And yet I haven't been able to outgrow the resentment. I see her updates on Facebook and she's literally The Most Interesting Woman in the World.

Why would I even compare myself to this unattainable ideal of a woman? I'm not that person. I am not driven. I struggle to be social. I don't make friends easily. I'm no Quimby and never will be. All my traits I have known for years. Why let them bother me now?

I was here first, I thought. I was supposed to conquer the city, do all the fun things. And Quimby just swooped in and I'm nobody.

You know what Eleanor Roosefelt has been quoted to have said, "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent." So really it is just my pesky insecurity that never left.

I had a few years of super confidence, when I was rail-thin. Since thin is often equated with beautiful in our society, I rode that wave. I was fearless. But it was all a delusion. Confidence should not ride on looks. It should ride on substance.

So back to that age-old quandary of not feeling intrinsic worth.

The night of the wedding, as guests danced the night away, I found myself aching to join in. I had missed dancing so much. A few glasses of wine down, I mustered up courage to approach the floor.

By now Quimby had become BFF's with the groom's right-hand woman as well as the two bridesmaids. Of course she had. I had watched from a distance like a hopeless stalker, wishing I could be like them, dancing like no one was watching, having a grand time, 'cause the night was young, and they were young, and all was beautiful.

Later I would learn that Quimby had Spotified the playlist that night, tapping into her DJ persona. She had masterminded the entire musical backdrop! Of course she had.

I stared at her blond curls, red lips, 5-inch heels and what looked like a 22-inch waist.

Long story short, I didn't dance. I retreated like a cowardly soldier abandoning a post.

What was I thinking? I was never a cool girl. I never fit in.

Recollections of my teenage years surfaced: I always feel the loneliest in a crowd. Introverted and awkward by nature, I didn't yearn to hang out at gatherings. Best size groups were a party of 4, myself included, or fewer. Preferably fewer.

Years later RJ and I would come to the realization that we were both introverts by definition. We'd always had an easy relationship and accepted each other as we were. We hadn't grasped how similar to the core we were. I am not sure even Amelia, brilliant and disturbingly observant as she is, has noticed.

One night over the wedding weekend, Amelia and I had an uncomfortable (for me) conversation circling back to RJ's infidelity when they were married.

"He was always searching for something different," she offered, still appearing perplexed.

I wasn't sure about "different". She pondered and semi-concurred. "Something," she reiterated.

Pretty sure he was still looking for himself. Like me, he had been lost. Now we are lost together.

After two doses of St. John's Wort (the stuff really works for me and RJ), I was able to start talking about what I referred to as my "post-holiday blues". That's easier to deal with than a brutal midlife crisis when doubting oneself is nothing new.

"Do you think you feel intimidated by people like Quimby and Amelia because they're successful and they've made so much of their lives?" Asked RJ.

My eyebrows furrowed and I thought hard. "Sure," I replied. "That's part of it." This didn't help.

It's occurred to me that at various stages of my life, I needed to create archenemies in order to feel alive. And by alive I mean sad and/or angry:
1. JY, my baby cousin who drew all the adults' attention from the rest of us.
2. Cool girls in high school.
3. Cool girls in college.
4. Cool girls at work.
5. Exes of exes who I imagine must be SO much cooler and funner than me.

I see a pattern here.

Wanting to be included and liked and the aversion I feel toward people is a killer combo. I've set up my own purgatory.

Most introverts work so hard to pass as, well, not. Because it is such a stigma. It is a congenital combination of personality traits. You can't fight it any more than you can eye color. Well, you can fight, but you can't change your configuration. You can fool them, though.

I have fooled the best of them. It gets exhausting. Sometimes I am filled with hatred for the pain that I feel. Toward people, toward myself, toward life. And I hate that I have these thoughts. The self-loathing continues.

There are good days when I don't think in extreme, negative terms. But I am never healed.

This afternoon, as I dove into writing as way of catharsis, I told RJ, "I'm exorcising demons." He nodded knowingly. Truth is: I can't exorcise my demons.

Recently, a friend of Amelia's (another cool kid in my book) posted grateful thoughts on therapy on Facebook. RJ called the post "effusive".

In a nutshell, the friend expressed that he would have saved so much money and have had some totally different, magnificent experiences, if he hadn't stuck with therapy for 25 years. (25 years! Did he really say that?) Yet he doesn't wish different. He is glad for the journey and for the person that he is today.

Sounds like such a cliché but it was very moving. And it touched a sore spot.

Perhaps I should have stuck with therapy. But what do I know.

Earlier, I came across an article in the New York Times by Lily Brooks-Dalton touching on love and loss, and going through rough patches. In the end, she wrote, "This isn’t the happy part of the story, but that’s O.K. This story isn’t finished."

It was utterly refreshing and it made me, dare I say, giddy inside. That is the bright side, isn't it.

I often joke that at least there's death to look forward to. Sounds morbid, but if it helps grappling with the day-to-day, why not? To each his/her own.

Sheen

It's been a long time since I've blogged, or written anything "real". I've wanted to, but it's felt like something futile and pointless to do. Times are changing. I don't feel nearly as anonymous or protected behind the computer screen. There's so much hate, the English language has evolved so much, political correctness has been elevated to such heights, I might as well censor every single thing that I have to say. And that would go against the entire notion behind the birth of this blog. Which is why I chose silence.

Besides, not like people read blogs anymore. So, basically, I fear that I won't be read. And at the same time, I fear that I will.

On the evolution of the English language, the other day, I asked RJ, "Is 'awesomesauce' one word?" It is. And why? And who cares?

In addition, my brain feels like molten lava at times. There's so much to get out, but the flow... yikes, it's like in slowmo. And back to the very cynical "What's the point?" I look at the world in general, and the country I live in. I question everything. Why am I here? In every sense of the word "here".

Not that this is new. I've been wondering the meaning of life since about age 9.

Taylor once asked, "Why must life have meaning?" That is a very good question. Why do some of us assume that life has to have meaning? So, yeah, the fact that this may actually be all random, an accident, and by the way, the universe IS going to end, just blows me away.

Denisse might be moving away. She's mentioned recently via text. But to hear her reiterate in person today was something else. The shock sank in quite a bit later.

Denisse moved out here 10 years ago (holy wow, it's been that long!) Today Denisse brought up the cliché that time flies. Yes, it does. My brother W, who is even more morbid than I, if that's possible, would follow that with, "Yeah and soon enough we're gonna die." We'd burst into boisterous laughter while I'd secretly find comfort in the knowledge that, yes, all this misery will end. And soon.

In merely 10 years a LOT of happy memories in my adult life have been thanks to Denisse. With her, I experienced SO much that I never would have otherwise. I more than made up for my boring 20's.

See how 10 years can be "that long" or "merely" depending on the perspective?

It is true we take for granted somebody is going to be around forever. You'd think that I would've learned this by my ripe old age. I forget.

Now, the move is still up in the air. But why put off grieving when you can start now? (Ha, ha.)

I don't do separation well. Never have. And nothing compels me to write like separation anxiety (and the pain and angst that comes with it).

I already do not have a lot of friends or family close by to begin with. Denisse and I, after our partying years, don't hang out as much. That's just part of growing up. But it's always been comforting knowing that she's near. The thought of not having her near anymore is pretty hard.

In fact I am all choked up and teary-eyed just "talking" about it.

I realize, though, while I value Denisse as a human being, not being able to, or not wanting to, part ways, has more to do with me than her, of course.

It is true. When you miss someone, you really miss how you used to feel when you were with that person. Realizing this has helped me get over the most painful breakups in my life.

Now I am not saying this is the case with Denisse. Speaking of pain, Denisse was there for me through some really tough times, both physically and emotionally speaking. I don't know what I would do without her.

We have all thought this: "I don't know what I would do without him/her." Give it time, though, you look back and you realize every time you have said that, you got through it just fine. Things are always easier in hindsight.

I know that no matter what happens, that's life, and I'll have to deal with it. Not much you can do about the changes in life anyway. It's all transient. You can kick and scream and what good would it do?

A Korean chef I used to work with comes to mind. Whenever there'd be something sucky, out of his control, against his wishes, he'd say, "No choice!" Indeed. No choice. It is not your choice. Life happens. You have to accept.

In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I'll grieve.