If Helen Came For a Visit

A few weeks ago, my friend Helen and I traded tweets (yes, I said tweets) about an imaginary trip she would take to NYC. This inspired me to write down all my favorite places and think about how much fun it would be to play tour guide.



Helen hasn't been to NYC in quite some time and I'm still exploring new/interesting places to go. This is the list that I have so far:

1. Get massages at Great Jones Spa. Hang out for a few hours at the water lounge. (Helen: bring your bathing suit...or not!)

2. Go to my favorite independent bookstore McNally Jackson. Sit in the cafe, have a cup of coffee or tea, and just hang out for a while.

3. While NYC has many great museums and galleries, one of my favorites is the Museum of Art & Design . The space is intimate yet it doesn't feel so small that you feel like you didn't get your money's worth. And the exhibitions are inspiring, especially to the crafter/artist in all of us.


4. Decibel on East 9th Street is a serious sake bar--and probably the only one in NYC. I don't remember how I got home the last time I went to Decibel's. So we'll be sure to bring cab money and our address written down on a piece of paper.

5. Shake Shack in Madison Square Park--the place where it all began. It gives new meaning to the burger-shake combination. Oooo, I love a good burger!

6. High Line and the Pace Galleries. While the High Line is still just a promise to most New Yorkers, it's worth the scant 9 block walk. The views are amazing. Start at Gansevoort and exit at West 20th Street. Walk over to the Pace Galleries. The first one is on West 22nd Street, and the other two are on West 25th Street. The exhibits never disappoint.

7. One of my favorite bars in NYC is d.b.a. in the East Village. It has something for everyone--except food. But there are several places to order in food (yes, they will deliver it to the bar) and the bartender has a binder with menus.

8. Cafe Habana on Prince Street in NoLIta. They make really awesome fish tacos.

10. Menku Tei in midtown (West 56th Street) is the perfect spot for lunch or an early dinner when exploring the touristy midtown area of NYC (think MoMA, Rockerfeller Center, shops on 5th Avenue, or even Broadway shows).

11. Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown is a place that is not too scary for tourists interested in the NYC Chinatown experience. I happen to really like the food and it's on a quiet street rather than the hustle and bustle of the main Canal Street. It's also near the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory for a little red bean ice cream cone afterwards.

12. Urban Exploring on the 6 train. This "lost" subway station is one of the few spots that many urban explorers do not need to break into (and you know who you are). Just stay on the 6 train after it's final stop at Brooklyn Bridge and be sure to be in the first train car for the best view.

13. Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn (right over the Brooklyn Bridge). Brick oven pizza--probably the best in NYC, but there are so many foodies in this town with strong opinions on what their favorite pizza is. So let's just say that it's my favorite pizza--and I was born and raised in Brooklyn. So what do I know, right?

14. Brooklyn Flea is one of the most interesting and unique venues for handmade wares. Wear good shoes and be prepared to carry out a lot of goodies.

Okay, Helen. Here's your list! Happy Holidays, my English twin. I do hope you get to come play on my side of the pond sooner than later.

Much love,
Your American Twin Richela

It's Been A While

I've been off the grid for a month now, trying to figure out things of the spiritual and emotional kind. My apologies for the lack of an online presence, but it was a much needed break.
But look what I found: a wooden temple in the middle of Queens (that's a borough in New York City for those of you who are not familiar with these parts of the woods).

I heard about this temple, though it seemed more urban legend than anything else. A few weeks ago, an old friend was in town and itching for a dim sum fix on Kissena Blvd in Queens. Being a daft former Brooklynite, I had no idea how close or far away this wooden temple might be to my dim sum destination, but I thought it might be fun to search for it before meeting up with my friend. After consulting an urban explorer or two about the location of the temple, I jumped into my car and headed over the Whitestone Bridge with some scribbles on a paper towel and my camera. 

It's fair to say that my jaw dropped when I turned the corner of Parsons Blvd. On a tree-lined block with single family homes, there's this unfinished structure that stops you in your tracks. I stared at it for a good ten minutes for before I remembered that I had my camera with me. I could hear my smart-aleck side saying,"Take a picture, stupid. It'll last longer."

So, what else have I been up to besides driving around in my car and looking for wooden temples in New York City? Well, I started making books again. It was inspired by Esther K. Smith , a hero of mine that not only is an amazing book artist but a generous and kind soul. Three years ago, I was in a Barnes & Noble and casually browsing the craft section when I came across her first book "How To Make Books." Can I just say that my life was forever changed? And last month, I was lucky enough to visit her in her Purgatory Pie Press studio and see all her amazing work.

Esther's most recent book is "The Paper Bride." And while I am well past the blushing bride stage of my life, it did inspire me to make a book for my husband Dave for our 11th wedding anniversary. We have a habit of saving all the ticket stubs and business cards from every trip we take, so I sewed them together to make the outer case of my book.

I thought it might be nice to make a whimsical pop-up style book using many of our family photos with lift the tabs and movable pieces.

So that's what I've been up to lately. Hopefully I can get back into the swing of things and keep up my online presence.

Thanks for letting me share.

Day Fifty Two: A Lost Tooth and "The Final Countdown"

The tooth before it fell out.

Last night my son Mack lost a tooth.

The only problem was that he accidentally ate it. When he realized what he had done, he tried to regurgitate it back up, which made me shriek at him. Disgusted by the whole spectacle, my daughter Masana threw her hot dog on her plate, crossed her arms, and announced that she had lost her appetite.


Actually I did, too. But then I felt horrible for reacting the way I did once I saw the tears well up in the boy's eyes. Dave tried to comfort Mack by pointing out that the tooth wouldn't stay in his body, that it would come out the other end. When he said that, I thought, and then what, Dave? We go through the boy's feces until we get his tooth?? I shot Dave a deadly look and he quickly changed the subject. But he got the message: there would be no Tooth Fairy visiting Mack that night or subsequent nights. 

Lately, I am not a roll-with-the-punches kind of gal. I know that I could have come up with a creative solution if my head were not so loosely attached to my shoulders. Instead of maybe suggesting that we write a letter to the Tooth Fairy to explain the situation, I flatly said that Mack shouldn't be too upset for this one little missed opportunity and we couldn't do anything to fix the situation. There would be other loose teeth in his future and he could look forward to that.

Today I kept thinking how I let Mack down and how incredibly tired I've felt. Putting on a happy face is hard work. And how ridiculous is it to say that I'm tired of feeling tired?

While I'm sad that my Mom is not alive anymore, I think that I am more affected by the people who are still here. I can deal with the loss of my Mom; I can't deal with the strange behavior of the select few who make my life miserable. (They shall remain nameless because it would be unfair to call them out here and now.) So I've decided to remove myself from this current reality and head--where else?--to the beach. Just me and the sandy shores of some place other than here.

But not to worry. My "tipple" friend is coming to keep an eye on me, and because someone's got to hold my hair back when I talk to the porcelain god.

I leave in 3 days. Let the count down begin. This Europe song from the 80's will be my anthem until then, cheesy metal hair and all.

Europe/The Final Countdown

Day Fifty One: Standing Up In Front of a Crowd

Keep me away from one of these.

I was reminded today of what a train wreck I become whenever I get near a lectern. 

In my normal life, I am reluctant to stand up in front of a crowd and open my mouth. It's the burn of the spotlight that gets me, even if that spotlight is an imaginary one. If I even suspect more than a few pairs of eyes on me, my heart begins to beat out of my chest and I sweat uncontrollably. Thankfully, I've only been asked a few times in my life to give a speech, and they have been short and (mostly) sweet.

The last time I spoke in public was at my Mom's funeral. Yes, that's right: ol' sweaty here gave the eulogy. I have no idea if anyone who attended the funeral actually listened to me for more than 30 seconds because I was rambling and at times incoherent. Crying for 7 straight days will make anyone look and sound like a crack addict, and despite spending just as many days writing and editing my euology I was no exception. My brother-in-law watched me closely the entire time, just in case he needed to pull me off the lectern. But I finished before the sobs in my throat completely cut off my air supply and I ran away like an injured, whimpering dog.

So why did I do it? Good question. I don't really know what came over me other than my overwhelming need to do something really stupid. One can argue that it was far less dangerous than, let's say, jumping off a bridge or going on a bender.

Grief will make a person do what does not come natural, and I chose to speak in front of a fairly large crowd. I don't know if I channeled my grief for good or evil; I guess time will tell, as will the rest of my family when the facade of graciousness fades from this whole experience. 

  

Day Fifty: Playing Hooky

My Tina Turner days. Wanna go to the beach?

When I was in high school, I was thisclose to being a full-time "mathlete."
My only saving grace was Fran, my cool friend who taught me the ways of coffee in those blue/white Greek paper cups, big hair, Newport Lights cigarettes, and chewing minty gum at the right place and the right time. Because of her, I had (cough, cough) interesting moments that I will cherish forever.

While I tried to be as cool as Fran, there was one person who was adamant that I keep one foot firmly planted in the land of mathletes. Of course, that person was my Mom. For most of high school, I had to be home by 11pm on the weekends. Once I became a senior, she graciously added an extra half hour to my curfew which only garnered more ridicule from my friends--except Fran, of course. She was always sympathetic to my situation. And sometimes she encouraged me to break the rules for the sake of feeling like a normal kid. She never asked me to rob a bank or kill anyone. She thought my acts of rebellion shouldn't hurt anyone.

Towards the end of our junior year, the weather became incredibly distracting. One day, Fran suggested that we cut class and go to the beach. Me cut class? I had never entertained the idea before, but the sunny blue skies were shouting at us to go to the beach. So we planned to cut class the next day. I was to wait until my parents left for work, then call up the attendance office, pretend to be my Mom, and report myself absent for the day. Then I would meet Fran at her house before heading to the beach. The night before, I anxiously packed my beach bag and hid it under my bed.

The next morning, I went about my morning routine and waited in my room while my parents left for work. When I heard the front door close, I went to the kitchen to grab something quick to drink before heading out and saw (gasp!) my Dad reading the newspaper. The man--who had never missed a day of work in God knows how many years--had called in sick. The sight of him sitting at the table in his pajamas caused a mild panic attack and I slowly backed out of the kitchen hoping that he wouldn't see me.

But he did. He started to ask why I was still home when I cut him off, grabbed the phone in the hallway, and snaked it into my room. After sitting there for a few minutes, leaning against the back of the door and clutching the phone, a wave of calm came over me. And I started to ask myself some motivating questions: Didn't I deserve a day off, too? Aren't I a great kid, one that never does anything bad? Why should everyone else have fun but me? And who am I hurting, anyway? I resolved to make that phone call and set my plan in motion. Within minutes, I was on a bus with Fran and headed to the beach.


When I came home, my Dad was laying down in his room. I changed out of my clothes and and tried to discreetly dispose of anything that was sand-filled. When my Mom came home from work, I helped her in the kitchen with dinner and we made light conversation about how our days were. Of course, I was lying through my teeth, but I was so happy about my day at the beach that I just made up a bunch of nonsense about teachers and classes. Halfway through our meal, my poker-faced Mom finally spoke up.

The downside of being a good kid is that the people in the administrative office actually care about you. So the person who took attendance--a woman who remembered me even though I didn't remember her--called back to see if I was okay. She was genuinely concerned. When my Dad answered the phone, he was really confused and called my Mom. Well, my Mom called back the school and wanted to know what they were talking about. And that's when my little plan went south.

I never got yelled at like that in my entire life. The kitchen appliances vibrated with every shriek and I kept shrinking and shrinking in my seat. And in the morning, my Mom escorted me to school and spoke with the dean in person. After the two of them talked about me as if I wasn't even in the room, they decided that I deserved one week of detention, a fate worse than death to an insecure 17 year old girl.

But I lived through it. And I did have a terrific time at the beach that day. And eventually this former 17 year old girl got over the public humiliation of having her name on a detention list instead of an honor's list.

Thanks for the detention, Mom. :)

Day Forty Four: All I Want Is...

It would have been a great little movie...

Let me just start by saying that I had this great idea for a blog post. But as luck is not on my side these days, I could not follow through.



When I feel a little out of control, I go for a run. And the last two months my sneakered feet have seen many morning jaunts through the little village I live in. I know every pot hole and hill intimately. Through the humid 90 degree weather and the sudden thunderstorms I've kept going and going and going. I play my mixed tape and run until I can't breathe.

There's a spot along the Sound that always makes me ease up on my pace and take in the view: the sun, hanging low in the sky, peaking above Long Island; the boats in the water bobbing and creaking; fellow villagers walking their dogs or sitting beneath a tree to catch a breeze. Everything is slow and a little sleepy, and I often wonder if I should stop running. But I never do. While the idyl of this scene would make anyone stop for a drink, I will only slow down.

This morning I brought my little iPod camera, hoping to take a little movie and share it on my blog. But sweaty hands and the inability to stop are a funny mix. Without knowing exactly how it happened, my iPod was flying in the air. It landed on some rocks and I was able to retrieve it. But I came home with a battered iPod and no movie.

I wanted to show you what I see when I go for these runs, bring you with me as I work out all the muscles in my body that also include my head and metaphorical heart. There's a million selfish reasons to stop at this spot on my run, but I can't. And I thought that if I could share it, then maybe that one reason would be enough to give me pause.

Anyway, here is the next song in my mixed tape, one of the songs that I listen to on my morning runs.


8. U2/All I Want Is You

Day Forty Two: Questions

I'm feeling a little lost today.

I'm having difficulty putting together coherent thoughts about my Mom, whether it's a story or my feelings about her. I hate to say it so dramatically, but the proverbial well is dry.

But I know better. Or else why would I do this to myself? Every night I sit with alone with our stories and vividly recall the details. But when the morning comes, there's too much noise in my head and a linear memory is becoming harder to find. My emotions are on overload, humming inside me like an engine. And it's making me numb.

A friend tried to help me with the gift of a memory, but I selfishly squandered it by focusing the attention on me. I don't know what came over me. It was an uncharacteristically conceited moment. And as I shifted to recall all of my bits and pieces, my Mom receded into the background where the lines of her face and the timber of her voice were lost. Instead of getting angry or sad, I just sat in front of my computer and stared at a blank screen.

There's a part of me that feels separated from my reality, as if I'm a spectator in my own life. It makes me question my circumstances. All the things that I worked hard for over the years--my marriage, my kids, my idyllic life--seem superficial. And I get scared that maybe I'm not happy.

Is this my mid-life crisis? Or just writer's block?

Or is this a phase of grieving that I haven't been introduced to yet?

I have more questions today than anything else. If anyone can tell me what this is, I would REALLY appreciate it.

Day Forty One: Her Pearl of Wisdom

My Wedding Day, 1999. Photography by Todd Plitt.

My Mom didn't really dole out too many pearls of wisdom.

Growing up, what passed for motherly advice was more like her shouting the obvious at a speeding car. And, yes, that speeding car would be me.
"Slow down!"
"Don't do it!"
"Be careful!"

I don't know if she meant to say more to me. I was too impatient to sit still as she struggled to express herself in English--which was not her first language. Life was passing me by and my Mom was in the way.

When it came to matters of the heart, my Mom had a lot of opinions that were not necessarily expressed through words. A withering look, a cluck of her tongue, and tightly wound but polite exchanges were often the tell-tale signs of her feelings of disapproval about the boys that streamed in and out of my life. But there were a lot of boys rather than men, so the chance of my heart getting broken was not much of a concern for either her or my Dad. They were more worried about my--eh, hem--virtue.

When I fell in love for the first time, it was to a man that shared too many things from my past and present. I will only say that our relationship was intense, overwhelming, and bound for failure from the start. During the 2 plus years we were together, my Mom endured my stupid mistakes and thoughtless choices. I put this man before everything else. She witnessed my demise, but said nothing. At the time, I thought that she didn't understand or care, and swept it under the rug with the remnants of that volatile period in my life.

When I did fall in love again, I learned that she did perceive the folly of that first love. On the day I formally introduced Dave to my family, my Mom pulled me aside said this to me: "the man has to love you more. You can't love him more. And then when you get married, it should always be equal." Her one pearl of wisdom was a brief 3 sentences after which she looked at me expectantly, searchingly. My response was to laugh, which left her puzzled. So I gave her a hug, which softened her expression somewhat. "Don't worry about me," I said to her. "I got this one." When we announce our engagement a year later, the relief that came across my Mom's face was almost comical. And it was her turn to laugh--a riotous, belly laugh that made all the years of worrying about me disappear.

I hope that my own daughter is not as impetuous as I was regarding matters of the heart. But I'll hang on to this pearl of wisdom, just in case.

Thanks, Mom.

Day Thirty Nine: A "Tipple"

I went out last night. It was the first time that I have been out with friends since my Mom passed away.

That's all I could think about all day long, and the anticipation of it was akin to "first date" butterflies. My inner monologue was nonstop, filled with more questions than answers:
Would I have a good time?
What should I wear?
How long will I stay out?
Will I say something stupid and make everyone uncomfortable?
Is it going to rain?
What the heck should I wear?

On and on it went until I was finally ready to leave, Dave practically throwing me out the front door.

Oh, Dave. His eyes said it all: Begone, crazy woman! And have fun.

Which I did, of course. It began with burgers in a park under a rainbow of umbrellas, the rain falling lightly around us. This was where I had my first beer. Then we walked to an old tavern with a literary pedigree, and we talked about our kids and unofficially arranged marriages. There I had my second and third beers. Afterwards, our group of six became four and we found ourselves in a coffee shop that was certainly not known for serving coffee--all because of one person's confession of wanting a little something more, something she jokingly called a "tipple." How could I say no to that? A "tipple." It just sounded fun. And this was where I had a peach sangria and a mojito, though it should have been my fourth and fifth beers.

When I got home at 2:00 AM, I was in bad shape. Tipple be damned.

My "tipple" friend is also my "whole duck" friend. Because one drunken night, after imbibing a few appropriately named Yum-Yum cocktails and getting a questionable massage, we slid into a greasy spoon in Chinatown and ordered a whole duck. The exchange between my friend and the waiter went something like this:

waiter: "Can I take your order?"
my friend: "We'd like two Tsing Tao beers...and a whole duck."
waiter: [pause, blank stare] "A whole duck?"
my friend: "A whole duck."
waiter: "A whole duck??"
my friend: [slowly for emphasis] "A WHOLE duck."

I may be slightly hung over today. But last night I was reminded of how great it is to be with friends.

Thanks, girls. And to my "tipple" friend: next time, let's skip the tipple and order a whole duck.

Day Thirty One: The Gift of Cupcakes

Masana and Mack with their creations.

I'm a mean mom. And lately I've been saltier than my usual brackish self, which doesn't help me deal with my kids and their petty arguments.

When they fight, it's always a battle of words, which my son Mack usually wins. His seven year old beyond precocious command of the English language is frustrating for my daughter Masana. But then the mere physical presence of Masana always puts Mack in his place. It's not that she's an Amazonian soon to be 4th grade girl--he's just a tiny peanut of a boy. Masana is also quite athletic, which means that she can swing a bat, do handstands, run fast, and, more importantly, throw a pretty hard punch. And while Mack may give his heart when it comes to playing sports, all Masana has to do is show up. She's going to get picked to be on someone's team. Which frustrates Mack.

So the struggle between my smartypants son and brawny yet graceful daughter has me yelling at them every waking moment we're together. This is Bad Parenting 101.

Before my Mom died, I was a great mom. I hosted play dates and planned out activities. I read to my kids and said prayers with them every night. I cooked favorite meals and baked yummy treats. I remembered special days at school when either of them needed me to be there. I even volunteered at the school library. And unlike what I am doing right now, I NEVER tooted my own horn...(oops).

Most importantly, I tried NOT to yell at my kids. Of course, trying and doing are two different things, but I consciously made an effort to not be that yeller of a mom you see in the supermarket and secretly want to throttle. But now that I'm dealing with my grief, I have no filter for my base urges. I let myself scream and I know it's wrong.

Yesterday I tried to make amends with the gift of cupcakes. My daughter Masana has been obsessed with the cupcake cookbook What's New Cupcake?  by Karen Tack and Alan Richardson. We've only had the book for a week and she has brought it up to her room every night to review the recipes. So the night before last, I asked her to pick her favorite one and promised that we would make it the next day. Mack heard us in the next room and ran in with wild eyes. "Cupcakes? Did someone say cupcakes?" We told him our plan and he did his happy skip out of the room.

Masana chose "An Apple A Day" cupcake. And when the kids came home from their swim lessons, I had all the materials out in the kitchen. These are our apple-icious cupcakes:

Certainly not as pretty as the ones in the book , but just as yummy. Just ask my kids.

And wouldn't you know it, neither Mack nor Masana instigated an argument the entire evening.

I know that one night of cupcakes doesn't make up for my weeks of bad behavior. From my Mom's death, I learned that we can't take things back: not hurtful words or missed opportunities or exhibitions of ugliness. We have to move forward. I'm trying to do that now. And it all starts with my relationship with my kids.

Day Thirty: The Legitimacy of Grief

Sad Smiley Face. 

A friend came up to me yesterday and told me that she just learned my Mom passed away.
I had picked up my kids from camp, and we happen to be lounging in the back of our parked car with the hatchback door open, eating ice cream cones and popsicles from the nearby ice cream truck. I wasn't expecting anyone to express their condolences--I truly thought the whole world knew that my Mom died by now--and the whole situation caught me off guard. I could tell that my friend was sincere and a maybe a little guilt-ridden for not knowing sooner, so I wasn't mad for the reality check.

But as we stood there in the parking lot, it was clear that she had something else to say. It turns out that her husband's father is dying of cancer. And all the emotions that I felt on the day my Mom died came rushing out of me. I wanted to comfort my friend because I know. I simply know. She asked me for advice on how to help her husband, but it seemed that she was overlooking her own feelings, her own grief for someone that, although is not related by blood, is very special to her.

Sometimes I forget about other people who are not my sisters or Dad that feel the emptiness where my Mom used to exist. But we were not the only people that populated her world. There are others who loved my Mom; they have a right to their feelings of grief and to grieve openly as well. I think of my brother-in-law Victor, someone who had a long relationship with my Mom. She saw him grow up in the span of 25 years, and he was like a true son to her. It was wrong to have overlooked his sadness and his loss during the funeral. It was wrong to have shooed him out of our Mom's hospital room when my sisters and I were discussing our Mom's condition. We were so caught up in our swelling emotions that everything and everyone else didn't matter. But it does, and they do. The passing of a loved one shouldn't cause more pain.

This is my advice to my friend: Allow your husband to grieve for his father. Give him his space, and allow him all the irrational, insensitive blurts and blunders that he will exhibit in the weeks/months to come. But make it known that you are grieving, too. And don't be shy about it. He needs to acknowledge this, even if it's in the smallest of gestures.

Grief can be a selfish emotion. But we don't have to act selfishly when we grieve.

Day Twenty Seven: Sneaking Drinks

A White Russian from liqurious.not.org .

Today is a lazy Sunday and I'm laying on my couch, a cold beer within arm's reach.

I'm calm and peaceful, and thoughts of my Mom are not tinted with remorse or sadness. I'm experiencing a temporary upswing, and who knows how long it will last. But while I'm here, I might as well tell you another funny story, and hopefully you'll laugh along with me.


When I was in high school, my parents and I attended a cousin's wedding somewhere on Long Island. I didn't complain about being dragged away from my friends and other social obligations. Instead, I got all gussied up and looked forward to the fancy meal and free booze.

Of course, being a high school junior, I wasn't exactly drinking publicly. (Or legally for that matter.) So I had to be sneaky about it. I asked my Dad if he wanted a beer or a mixed drink, and then headed over to the bar where I personally had a little something before returning with his order. After the second time, he got wise to my scam and smiled at me. "Get me whatever you're getting," he said with a wink. Ah, my Dad was going to play along and not tell my Mom. Which was such a relief because not only did she NOT drink, she also frowned on anyone who DID drink, especially her youngest child.

Well, this bit of acknowledgement from my Dad empowered me to order Manhattans, gimlets, and other grown-up sounding cocktails. Some of the drinks I had never tasted before, and weddings with an open bar seemed like the perfect opportunity to experiment. If I didn't like it, I would simply leave it on the bar. If it tasted okay, I'd bring it back and share it with my Dad.

My last drink was a white Russian, and (for some stupid reason I can't remember) I asked the bartender to make it a strong one. I was on my way back to the table when my Mom came over to me from the dance floor. And she looked awfully thirsty. Eyeballing my drink, she asked me what is was. Because of its white-ish/brown-ish color, I blurted out that is was an iced coffee. My Mom grabbed it from my hand and drank the entire tumbler in two gulps. Uh oh. The jig was up.

Though she caught me red-handed, she never said anything about this incident for almost twenty years. Mom broke her silence a few years ago. We were all together for our annual Christmas Eve party at my parents' apartment and I saw her drinking a glass of red wine. My jaw must have dropped considerably because she laughed at me. "What? Do you want some? It's fruit juice," she said dryly. And we finally talked about that wedding on Long Island and my "iced coffee" drink.


Which brings me back to me laying on the couch. Today I'll have my cold beer and remember how my Mom and I were able to laugh about something that seemed so contentious twenty years before. Time heals old wounds. And I'm hoping that if I'm given enough time I can look back at this period in my life and find some humor in the pain.

Here's to you, Mom.

Day Twenty Six: Being the Third Child

My Dad. Long Beach Island, NJ, 2005.

Last night I got a little angry at my Dad.

He and my two sisters visited my Mom's grave and forgot to tell me about it. And he blamed me for not coming.

Over the phone, he swore that he told me about visiting Mom. Dad even got a little LOUD with me, if ya know what I mean. It took every ounce of self-control and patience that I possessed to not accuse him of losing his mind, because in that instant he was not making any sense. Why on Earth would I not want to come? Did I not drive all the way to his apartment the day before to help prepare for the 40th day Mass at my aunt's house? I could have slept over and gone to visit Mom with him and my sisters the next day. I would have looked forward to it. But he kept telling me that I don't listen, and it's all my fault, and that of course he told me because why wouldn't he. Which are all lies. A bereaved child would remember something as important as a planned visit to her mother's grave.

So I hung up the phone as politely as I could and called Elle to find out what the heck happened. She swore that it was not a planned visit, that it was a spur of the moment thing, and that Dad was simply confused. But even though it was a spur of the moment kind of thing, I asked why couldn't they at least call me to let me know they were going? Elle didn't have an answer. And when I heard this, I let loose a barrage of angry words. Of course I started crying, which made Elle cry, which made me feel horrible for making her cry.

It all boils down to being the third child and the game of telephone. Whenever a message gets sent through the telephone "line", it becomes distorted or forgotten completely. And the end of the Fabian telephone "line" is me, the third and youngest child of Pat and Norma Fabian. I am the last to know anything.

Most of the time, when this sort of thing happens, I pull out a story from our childhood to illustrate the deep the history of me being wronged in this way, the story of when I was in the first grade and my sisters forgot to pick me up from school. It's a bit childish since I'm an adult hovering around middle age. I when I recite the story, it's with a faux dramatic flair that elicits groans as well as laughs. Usually, I'm poking fun at a situation that didn't have such hurtful consequences, like when my Mom changed the time for our annual Christmas Eve party and no one told me. When I arrived hours earlier than everyone else--my Mom answered the door still dressed in her robe and she didn't even start cooking--I was more aggravated than truly mad. It wasn't the location or the date that was changed, just the time. No harm, no foul.

But missing a visit to my Mom's grave is hardly comparable to arriving 4 hours early to a Christmas Eve party.

Both Elle and Liza called to apologize, which was a relief to me. Sometimes I feel like my grief is not recognized by my family. Hearing my sisters say that they were sorry made me feel valid.

I have yet to call my Dad again. I can't talk to him when he refuses to say sorry. He lacks the humility to admit he's wrong. And he was really, really wrong.

Maybe tomorrow I'll feel less self-righteous. But right now I'll allow myself to be mad at my Dad.

Oh, Mom. How did you put up with him all those years? 

Day Twenty Five: Family Gatherings

Me, surrounded by presents. My Christening, 1971.

We all have quirks, which make us unique and occasionally interesting. (And sometimes irritating.)

Take coffee, for instance. In addition to skim milk and no sugar, I like it tepid. Oh, you can serve it to me hot, but I won't drink it until it has cooled down to a nice, lukewarm temperature. And no, I don't like ice coffee. Won't touch the stuff. My coffee must be tepid.

Dave has a whole bunch of quirks, like furniture on the middle of the room. When I purchased that red leather ottoman a couple of days ago, it broke his "open space in the center so I can roam freely" rule. But because I am his grief-stricken wife, the only thing he said was "wow" in all lowercase letters and then walked upstairs. Yes, I admit to playing the grief card, but I get to do it so rarely. It felt oddly satisfying.

Growing up in Brooklyn during the 70's and 80's, my friends (and boyfriends) thought I had a lot of quirks just because of my Filipino background. The strange food, the funny language, the mannerisms and attitudes of my parents, and the large Filipino family gatherings that dominated every weekend for the first eighteen years of my life: all of these things made me different. But in order to be accepted I allowed myself to be called "quirky."

I tried to separate myself once I got into college, only dropping by once in a while to visit my parents or hang out with my cousins. And while Dave has met my family and we certainly had a Filipino wedding, he has not really been introduced to the "Filipino ways" of my past.  I had buried it by the time we met.

To commemorate the 40th day of my Mom's passing, we had a Mass at my aunt's house last night. Of course I dragged my kids, because they are, after all, Filipino. And because they are young and therefore more accepting of the strange and bizarre. But then there's Dave, my non-Filipino husband who thinks that one of my only quirks is drinking tepid coffee. I've mostly shielded him from all things Filipino, except for small visits here and there with my immediate family.

The Mass at my aunt's house was held in "Taglish" (half English, half Tagalog) and punctuated with many Filipino hymns. The priest was Filipino and peppered his homily with jokes about husbands and wives like he was Henny Youngman. A Filipino folk choir group sat in the back of the room with guitars and an amp, and sang. There was an egregious amount of food waiting in the next room where the huge television was tuned to the TFC (The Filipino Channel). And there was about a hundred Filipinos packed into my aunt's house, singing, crying, talking, eating, and laughing.

I felt it was important that Dave come to this Filipino family gathering, that he experience this small dose of what my life was growing up in Brooklyn. And Dave was fine. During the Mass, he stood in the doorway to the next room, holding my cousin's newborn baby, and swaying to the music of the choir group. He ate pancit and pan de sal, talked with my family, and even invited a few of my cousins to our house. He was, above all, the man that I always knew him to be, but never gave a chance.

It was all the more sad because my Mom would have been so proud, having him there, her handsome and loving son-in-law. She would have introduced him to everyone, made sure that each person knew that he belonged to her in some way, stressing the word "my" in saying "oh, this is my son-in-law David..."and smiling widely as the words tumbled out of her mouth. But I denied her that pleasure. She had often made excuses to my aunts and cousins about my lack of attendance to our family parties: another party, a sick kid, or us being out of town.


So now I am making this promise to my Mom: we will be there, as much as we can, to every Filipino family gathering.

Because I miss you, and because I love you. And because I can't think of a better way of honoring your memory.

Day Twenty Four: Phone Conversations with Elle

Liza, Elle, and me. Outfits made by Mom. Circa 1974.

Phone conversations are not my forte, except when it comes to talking to my sisters. My inner social moron inexplicably disappears.

Talking with Liza usually means listening to each other mildly chide our husbands and children, report on the crazy friends we have, and discuss some family issues (or, more likely, me listen to her tell me what I need to do--she, after all, is the oldest of us three sisters, and quite the bossy pants). While our conversations are largely the same, the death of our Mom has made a small but significant change. Lately she's been uncharacteristically sentimental and ends our conversations with "I love you" which initially shocked the heck out of me. I nearly fell off my chair that first time, but quickly recovered and reciprocated with a "hey, I love you, too!" awkward outburst. I now expect her to end our conversations this way, and am ready to say it back without sounding stunned. Sometimes I get a little tearful after hanging up the receiver, a little happy/sad at Liza's subtle transformation, and I can almost feel my Mom smiling from wherever she is.

My phone conversations with Elle are a different matter. She's always been one to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and whenever we talk it always takes the tone of a Church confession. It's a two way street, this bearing of the soul. I seem to tell her things that I normally wouldn't say aloud, and I'm often surprised at what comes out of my mouth. But lately I've been holding back. Elle still bears her soul, talking about her "last times" with Mom, her sleepless nights, and her overwhelming sense of regret. I listen and try to chime in, tell her that she's not alone. But I'll go no further.

I listen to Elle laugh about watching a video that her son Michael made before my parents went on vacation a few months ago. It was the last time Elle saw her alive--well, alive in the way that she wanted to remember her. In the hospital, my Mom was not the kooky, funny, loving person that shows up in the video. She was unresponsive and getting colder by the hour, a dreadful promise of what we could never have again. And when Elle talks about watching the video a second and maybe third time, something inside me wants to break open, and it hurts to keep it from doing so. She can hear my Mom's voice, she can almost imagine her in the same room with her. And I want to tell Elle to stop, not because I think she's wrong for trying to bring my Mom back from the dead with her thoughts, but because I wish that I could do the same thing.

Whatever Elle has been telling me in our phone conversations is what I've been feeling but not wanting to face. The last times, the sleepless nights, the deep ocean of regret that sits inside me. Instead of allowing her--or anyone else for that matter--to see what my grief has been like these past 5 weeks, I sit with myself and shore up the walls, not letting anything in--or out.

Day Twenty Three: Victory Is Mine

My new ottoman. It looks brown in the pic, but it's a deep red.

This is the ottoman I bought yesterday on a whim.

"Shopping is good for the soul"--I think I saw that embroidered on a pillow once. And if it's good enough for someone to put in on a pillow, then who am I to disagree?

I went shopping because my soul needed a little distraction yesterday. A horrible night and lack of sleep will do that to a person, plus I had all this anger and sadness that threatened to spill out of me. There are only so many hours in a day that a person has a right to cry, and I had filled up my day's quota early on. So out I went, searching for clothes and accessories, kitchen supplies and garden tools, and anything else that I could tell Dave "we (I?) really REALLY needed."

That's how I found myself in a Marshall's/Home Goods store, coveting this pretty red leather ottoman, a random piece of furniture that does not go with anything in my house. I had to have it. After withstanding the flirtatious slacker boy cashier (who unsuccessfully tried to get me to open a store credit card), and hauling the ottoman into the back of my car, I giddily drove home sitting high and attentive in my seat, feeling like I vanquished a thousand knights and conquered a medieval fortress. 

But then I pulled my car up to the curb in front of my house. And that's when I realized my folly.

The 22 steps in front of my house. 

I have stairs, lots and lots of stairs.

Grief is a funny thing. It can sometimes obliterate a person's will to do even the smallest tasks, like getting out of bed or taking a shower. But it can also give a person an amazing amount of resolve. And because grief has been my one defining quality these days--and because I choose to be affected in the latter manner--I became stubborn and all my muscles stiffened. There was no way that 22 steps would prevent me from getting that darn ottoman into my house! And in a few minutes I had that thing up the stairs and through the front door.

So I'm sitting here on the couch, typing on my computer, and resting my feet on my new ottoman. It's a better day today and I am Richela the Conquerer. 

I think that my Mom would have been a little horrified at my act of stubbornness. But I also think that she would have been proud. These small victories are what I need to do for myself. Let's just hope that next time it's not something bigger or heavier than this damn ottoman.

Day Twenty One: Knowing When to Call My Dad

I talked to Elle last night.


She was sharing her observations about my Dad and his phone habits. So many people have been calling my Dad and I was afraid that he might be getting a little overwhelmed by the redundant questions about his emotional status, his health, what he plans to do next, etc. Plus there are a few emotional friends that call him to cry. They want my Dad to comfort them, and I find this unacceptable. During one of my visits to my Dad's apartment, I answered the phone and was faced with one such friend. I abruptly ended the conversation and hung up the receiver before the poor woman could let out a jagged, tearful breath.

But Elle was saying that he was okay, that he actually enjoyed talking on the phone. And when she said this, I felt the blood rushing to my face.

What? My Dad likes to talk on the phone? This irked me because whenever I called it seemed like he was rushing me off the phone. Was I bothering him? Was he bored of me?

To call or not to call. That has been my question these days.

I've never been good on the phone. I stutter. I talk over the other person. Worst of all, I talk loudly. And my Dad--oh, brother. He's a bit hard of hearing. English is not his first language. And he's often thinking of how he's going to respond to a question that you asked him ten minutes ago--if you are lucky enough to have him on the phone that long.

Despite my horrible phone manner, I used to have long conversations with my Mom on the phone. It was easy talking to her.  But in the middle of our talk she would force my Dad to say hi to me. She probably felt guilty spending all that time on the phone, ignoring my Dad and the things she was suppose to do for them (or really just him). So the rhythm of our conversation was interrupted by his forced presence on the other end of the phone, my stutters, and his apropos of nothing. After a few awkward minutes, my Mom would get back on the phone and I would let out an inaudible sigh of relief.

But back to my conversation with Elle. After getting an earful of my complaints, she made me realize that he was getting overwhelmed not by overly emotional friends but by his own kids. We were asking the redundant questions.

Did you take your medicine this morning?
What did you have for breakfast, lunch, dinner?
Did you go for a walk?
What are you doing today?

Egads. After the funeral I was calling him three times a day: right when I woke up, at lunch time, and right before I went to bed. If Elle and Liza were doing the same thing, then my Dad would certainly have the right to rush us off the phone.

Oh, to be cursed with three loving daughters. Sorry, Dad.

We've now coordinated our phone calls and my Dad is not harassed by us.

Well, at least not by phone.

Day Twenty: Jug of Wine, Packet of Pills, and Singing In the Closet

A jug o wine.

I'll try something new today. I'll tell a story about my Mom, some empty wine jugs, a packet of pills, and singing in a closet.

It was my junior year at NYU. My roommate was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend, which I suppose is a redundant statement since she and her boyfriend were always fighting, and fighting LOUDLY. She was an emotional type, an artist, and, well, he was just a jackass. This habitual fighting caused her many sleepless nights, and to relax, she would drink a glass of wine before turning in. She never drank that one glass quickly, so I never gave it another thought.


We both lived in our sorority house, where we hosted a lot of "mixers" with other sororities and fraternities. Often, I was in charge of the booze and bought lots of cheap wine. In my twenty-one year old eyes, wine was classy, despite the box or jug it came in. As a result of my desire to spread a little "class" around our sorority, there were jugs of leftover wine all over the house, some full but mostly half or near empty. I didn't notice that the jugs were making their way into my room for my roommate to drink her one glass every night. And because it was dark and moody on her side of the room, I also didn't notice that these glass jugs were piling up, covering every square inch of her desk and forming a border around her bed.

But my Mom did.

One day, she popped in for a visit to drop off some food and just say hello. We took a walk to enjoy a mild spring afternoon, and after an hour of walking around the East Village, we went back to the sorority house for a little rest before she went home. The couches in our house were woefully in need of a good steam-cleaning, so I suggested that she lay down on my bed. In my room. Where the empty wine jugs were. After seeing the wine jugs, she spun on her heels to go back home. She barely said goodbye to me before she left. I thought she was acting funny, but I didn't connect the dots until much later.

To make matters worse, this happened a few weeks after my Mom found a packet of little white pills in my room at my parents' home. The pills were Dramamine, an over the counter drug for motion sickness. I had gone to Egypt the year before and bought them to combat my chronic need to upchuck whenever I travel. The pills were not in its original package and were thoughtlessly shoved into my desk when I returned from my trip. I had forgotten all about them. But my Mom found them in my room one day when she was rummaging around for a pen. And, oh, did her wheels start spinning.

And then there was that Thanksgiving weekend when she found me singing in the linen closet at home. I calmly explained to her--and my sisters--that I was taking a voice class at school and I was simply doing my homework. The closet was the only private space in that entire house, especially when our entire family was home for the holidays. I knew the closet was a quirky choice, but the only other place I could sing without anyone hearing me was outside in the cold. To me, it made perfect sense to sing the closet.

My sister Elle called me later in the week and told me what my Mom suspected: her pill-popping, booze-swigging, closet-singing youngest daughter was in the process of throwing her life away. I had to admit that this version of me was far more interesting than my true self. But it was certainly not true, and I called my Mom to assure her that I was still sane. And drug-free. And not singing in the closet. But maybe, every now and then, having a glass of cheap wine...

My poor Mom. I could only imagine the number of candles my Mom lit at Church for me.

Miss you, Mom.

Day Nineteen: My Sleepless Summer

Sunset at South Beach, 2008.

Sleep doesn't come easy these days.
I usually have a tough time getting enough sleep during the summer months, but this year has been really bad. My typical foils--the brutal heat outside, the annoying sound of the air conditioners in our house, the lack of a window shade on the skylight right above my bed, Dave's penchant for sleepwalking just as I am about to fall asleep, the kids' bad dreams, and my overactive imagination--are nothing compared to what keeps me awake now and the methods I employ to distract my mind.

It's pretty obvious, the "thing" that keeps me up at night. Grief is my constant companion. But what's worse are the ways I try to keep these sad feelings at bay and whittle away the time until I can finally fall asleep:
Television (boring).
Shop online (guilty pleasure).
Read celebrity rags (vicarious pleasure).
Write about the way I feel and then deleting it (too angry).
More television (Jimmy F or Jimmy K?).
Check out youtube.com (Tom or Ewan?).
Check out imdb.com (Ewan or Tom?).
Look in on the kids because I heard a noise (darn kids and their noises).
Drink another beer (first one got warm).
Go to the bathroom (too many beers).
Even more television (repeat of Oprah).
Wake up in a cold sweat, realize that I passed out, head upstairs to my bedroom, and squeeze myself under the covers lest I wake up Dave (oh, sweet relief!).
Pass out again, only to have him wake me up with a sudden outburst, like, "Spiders! Everywhere!" or "Did you see where that bat flew?" or "Why did you wake me up?!"
Stay awake because my overactive imagination starts to conjure up spiders and bats and ways to punish Dave (argh).
Then finally fall asleep.

The sun rises early in the summertime. The brightness of the sky is more than visible through the skylight above our bed. It is felt. It heats up my skin and forces consciousness. A 6:00 AM wake-up call and I can't go back to sleep. Wake up, Dr. Greene.

It's like that first episode of "ER", when Anthony Edwards' character Dr. Mark Greene finally gets to put his head down, only to be jolted awake by someone knocking at the door and urgently calling his name. To him and the viewers watching, only seconds passed. But several hours have passed. He would return to his job--his life--unrested and disheveled.

I used to call my Dad when I woke up, because I knew he was awake. He has sleepless nights, too. But he started to sound annoyed on the phone, like I was disturbing his morning routine. So I stopped. And now I just lay in bed awake, pillow over my head, and sweat until I can't take it anymore.

Day Eighteen: The Easiest Task Is NOT Easy

My Mom and me, graduation day. NYC, 1993.

It seemed like the easiest of all the post-funeral tasks, but it's proven to be the most emotionally draining. I'm talking about the "Thank You" cards.

There are names and addresses everywhere. I'm woefully unorganized and slow to finish my ONE and ONLY task. My apologies to my two sisters, who have taken on the brunt of the work, like filing death certificates, closing bank accounts, and contacting Social Security. I admit "punking" out, taking what was perceived as the least stressful job. But it turns out that I would rather talk to the bank officials.

How do you say "thanks for coming to my Mother's funeral" in more than a dozen ways? And not drive yourself crazy?

Some are easier than others, like the people who I cannot picture in my head or did not spend more than a minute or two at the wake and/or funeral. I don't mean to sound callous, but there are no stories that can be linked together with the scribbled names in my notebook. I am not compelled to reciprocate with words of comfort or affection, which is a huge relief when every day is filled with impromptu fits of despair. It's just a simple "With Gratitude" and our names at the bottom of a card.

But there were people who came armed with tender stories, and each person sought us out, gunned us down like we were rabbits on a fence. When we retreated to my Dad's place at the end of the day, we would sink into whatever would hold us up: a chair, the couch, or a clearing on the cluttered rug. Their stories tore holes in us.

It's human nature and I truly harbor no ill feelings. These people are my Mom's family and friends, and they needed to tell us how much she meant to them. I had the same reaction when we were in the hospital and my Mom was lying motionless in her room: I had to tell her what she meant to me, spill my guts like never before while she was still there in front of me, still warm to the touch. I got to say goodbye. Most of her family and friends didn't have that kind of closure because her death was unexpected. So we--my sisters, my Dad, her sister and brother--patiently gave each person an audience at the wake and funeral. We gave them closure.

But replaying their stories in my head as I write these cards makes it heavy inside. I'm trying too hard to be my Mom, say something comforting in return for their display of love. She would rise up to the occasion, and here I am sinking under the weight of this supposedly easy task.

I am not my Mom. But for the first time in my life, I wish that I were.