Pleasure Notes

Perspective

Am I having the time of my life or does it suck? Are my relationships doomed or full of potential? Am I excited by tonight’s plans or dreading them? I can answer any of these questions either way, and the answer would be valid. I have a choice, to go negative or positive, regardless of the specific details of my life, my relationships or my plans for the evening. Happiness is dependent solely upon perspective.

We get to choose how we tell our stories – whether they are comedies or dramas, the lessons learned are bad or good, or others agree with our narration or not.

I’m not saying life isn’t full of pain, obstacles and challenges. It is. But I can perceive the pain as a reminder of its antithesis, the obstacles as gifts and the challenges as fun.

Or I can doggy-paddle in the muck, stuck with a dread-filled story.

Doggy-paddling is exhausting. I’d much rather float. Wouldn’t you?

My friend, Jamie, died a few days ago. Her body has been turned to ash. My emotions are still raw. I rebel at the idea that she is gone. I still can’t speak of her in the past tense. Her presence is too powerful to be relegated to history. I’m not ready to say goodbye.

Me and Jamie in Dublin

Every morning, I wake up on an inhale of hope and possibilities. The first exhale, however, brings with it the memory of what has happened. I am blindsided by panic and grief. I madly search my just awaking mind for a thought that will distract me from my new reality. Anything to keep the horror at bay. Anything to silence the screaming of my heart.

Hours go by before I latch onto something strong enough to provide me respite from my feelings… full, blessed, denial-filled minutes at a time.

Jamie is everywhere.

I glance at my cat and can only remember how allergic Jamie is to her. I try to numb out with TV and am confronted by Tim Roth, whose slexiness – Jamie’s word – we discuss on a weekly basis. I turn on the radio only to hear one of her favorite songs – she has so many. I discover a new band and immediately wonder if she’s heard of them, secretly knowing she’s already researched their story and can identify at least 10 of their songs on the first note. I reach for a book and recall her review of it. I power up my computer and am greeted by the world to which she introduced me and in which she was the first to encourage and champion me.

I must leave the house to escape the memories.

I open the closet and remember our plans to go shopping for a wardrobe makeover. I glance at my toes’ chipped polish and realize I still haven’t taken her to my favorite pedicure place. I reach for shoes and see the new ones over which she has yet to squeal in approval.

I run outside.

The sun is shining, another perfect day for her to drive around with the top down and tweet me about the latest Chachi – another of her words – dodging paparazzi or idling next to her at a red light. A billboard advertises the new Sandra Bullock rom-com to which I have threatened to drag her. There’s the Jerry’s Deli where we last ate in town.

I meet up with some friends – people who don’t know her, who can’t feel how the world has gotten a little darker and a little heavier, who have never heard her laugh. Maybe they’ll be the distraction I crave. Their first questions are about my trip to Ireland, the trip from which I returned less than two weeks ago, the trip I went on with Jamie. How do I answer their queries? Yes, I had an amazing time. Yes, it was beautiful. Yes, the people were nice. Yes, Jamie and I had one prolonged, 8-day conversation about our respective hopes, dreams, worries, joys and values, interrupted only by raucous, gloriously out-of-tune bouts of singing Kings of Leon, Journey and Franz Ferdinand at the top of our lungs… Yes, Jamie tripped over a curb and injured her ankle on our last day, and that injury caused a blood clot, and that blood clot killed her. Yes.

We have plans on the calendar, to compare pictures and rehash the hilarity of our adventure. She’s burning me a copy of that one iPod playlist I love. She holds half my memories of the road trip. I haven’t yet thanked her nearly enough for the early birthday gift.

There is no one to blame. It’s not my fault, or the curb’s fault, or Dublin’s fault, or Ireland’s fault, or the airline’s fault, or the doctor’s fault, or… anyone’s. Really. Knowing that doesn’t make this easier. Jamie’s death serves no purpose, satisfies no logic, fulfills no justice, upholds no plan and makes no sense. She’s not done yet, I swear. We just talked about death. She doesn’t like it.

We still have new restaurants to check out, concerts to hit, American Idol results to discuss, anti-Prop 8 appeals to support, authors to discover, decorating ideas to mull. I want to watch her become a mom, and see her gloat about what a great dad her husband, Andy, is. I want to commiserate over the joys of being an aunt. I want her always to take pictures that ensure her chin looks hot – in hotel beds and out. I want her never to throw away that yellow coat. I want her to be in my wedding. I want to turn 80 and have her, at 73, laugh her ass off at my creaking knees, while her grandkids repaint that awesome patio furniture for the umpteenth time. I want her to stay in my life.

Now, none of that is possible. All those expectations and intentions are dust in the wind. I’m not okay with that.

I can’t yet reconcile myself to Jamie’s death. Perhaps, I never will. I have no predictions or answers or timetables. I do have some knowledge, however. I know that Jamie’s spirit is too brilliant to extinguish. She is the epitome of life, and the best role model for how to live it that I’ve ever met. Her laughter is infectious, generous and abundant. Her passion – for people, places, things, ideas and dreams – is unquenchable and uncontainable. Her love is unconditional and inspiring. She embraces joy rather than angst, gratitude rather than envy, hope rather than fear. She is the kind of person I yearn to be.

I don’t know where I go from here, but I do know that I want to honor Jamie. I want to be of support to the amazing family and other friends she left behind too soon. I want to walk through the world with passion and self-confidence and tenacity. I owe it to Jamie, now, to do more that yearn for a life fully lived. I owe it to her to live it.

Jamie: I love you, my friend, and miss you. Thank you for inviting me into your life. It was too short, but oh, so sweet.

By Philippe Starck for Kartell

Gnomes make me smile. I have no rational explanation for this, but I accept it. I’ve always been fascinated by fairytales – at first, because I thought they were real and then, later, because I knew they were not. I also get great pleasure from lawn ornaments, in other people’s yards. So when I saw these awesomely kitschy stools, designed by Philippe Starck for Kartell, I squealed. Out loud. And scared my cat. Then, I discovered Philippe Starck had named these little guys – Attila and Napoleon. Can you guess which is which? Utterly droll.

I realized I couldn’t keep these finds to myself. They are just great accent pieces. You can even use them as little side tables, the perfect resting place for a good book and glass of wine. I planned to show them to my friend, Jamie, whom I recently referred to as Sunshine and who already has two gnomes in her house, but I can no longer do that. Therefore, I’ve decided to share them with all of you, curious to know where you think they land on the kitsch spectrum – junk or gem? Fair warning, though, that if you think they’re junk, you may be haunted by Jamie, who has very good taste.

Price: Expensive. Available at AllModern.com and other fine contemporary furniture studios.

This may be the one and only time you will find me participating in the following…

Welcome to TMI Thursdays! As LiLu always says: Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

I have not forsaken you. I’ve simply jumped over to The Gospel of JP to reveal how I lost of my virginity. Compelling information that you can’t live without, let me tell you! How can you not go check that out? It’s a story chock full of juicy details you never wanted to know, and it’s my first guest blog, so go, go, GO… And then, come back.

Aliens

Sometimes I feel like an alien in my own skin. I look down at my body and I am shocked by what I see. Where did that roll come from, or that bruise, or that wrinkle? At other times, I feel like an alien in the world. Particularly when events don’t make sense. Take today, for instance. Today is one of those days when the world simply doesn’t make sense, and I feel like – gee, I’d like to go home now.

I woke up early, in a good mood. Then I checked my email and realized I was supposed to meet with someone. I had completely forgotten. How lucky, I thought, that I happened to turn on my phone before I left the house. I don’t usually do that on a Sunday morning. The world works in mysterious ways.

Later, I was hanging out with my girlfriends and noticed that one of them was particularly emotion. She’s frequently emotional, so I blithely dismissed any significance to this particular bout of heightened feelings. Just as my brain bounced to some other topic, my friend opened her mouth and announced she’s just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Shit. The world is fucked up.

Wait, though. I know plenty of breast cancer survivors. I’ve done the Revlon Walk. I have a few pink ribbons stuck in some drawer somewhere. This is a surmountable obstacle that she faces, that many women face. This is just part of the human condition, right? Thanks, Universe, for the reminder about the fragility of human life. Got it. Let’s move on.

But, no. Not today. Remember, today’s one of those days I get to wish I was an alien.

On my way home from brunch, I made phone calls, spontaneously dialing up friends I haven’t spoken to since before I left for Ireland (yes, I’ll fill you in on my trip at a later date). When Red – I’m gonna go the anonymous route on this one, guys, bear with me – answered the phone, I was surprised, as was she. She’d been about to call me. Don’t you just love it when the world works that way? In this particularly case, not especially. She was about to call me because her cousin and my dear friend, Sunshine, had just been admitted to the hospital. Sunshine’s heart stopped this morning. The doctors got her back. And then she died.

This, you see, is why I need to be an alien. Because that little sentence in the previous paragraph makes no fucking sense. Sunshine is just that – she isn’t just a ray of light, she’s the whole damn star. She’s the kind of person who brings joy to everything she does. She isn’t just a “glass half full” kind of gal, she’s the “oh, look, this glass is overflowing – I’m thirsty – yum, this water is great – here’s a refill” kind of gal. She doesn’t die. She’s not done yet. And any world where it’s decided that she’s done is a fucked up place to be. It makes not one iota of sense.

So, I feel like an alien today. Just beam me back to wherever it is I come from, where shit makes sense. Because I have plans for another beer and belly laugh with Sunshine, if you don’t mind.