Adios Licenciado

He was given to me at a time when I was grieving. I had sent Gabo the black lab to dog boarding school and he mysteriously died overnight. The owner asked me to accept his apologies and the gift of a beautiful almost white yellow lab. I named him Licenciado, the title given to people who graduate college in Latin America. I have always found it funny that this title defines some people so much they demand from others that they call them that, as opposed to their names. It was funny, and he had more intuition that many of the real ones, the ones with many diplomas.
From the minute I met him I admired him. Little as he was, he already had strong paws, a beautiful boxy head and an elegant and strong stance.Some animals, like some people, are just born flawless. He was by far the most beautiful pet I had ever owned. Soon I was to find out he would also be the most spirited, annoying and disarmingly warm, all at once.

I remember these Licenciado moments clearly:

1. When my mom, who reprogrammed herself to not like pets after suffering the death of Frosty, met him for the first time. After she had Jesused another Dog Me she came back into the room, and covered him with a blanket while he slept. I knew she would be ok with him staying.

2.When we went on vacation to Hector's house at the lake and he disappeared one morning. Security and guests searched every inch of the property to no avail. He was spotted three hours later on the dirt road with a fellow canine lady friend,taking it easy. After he came back he proceeded to play in the water , his favorite pastime. It ended badly when he ate the neighbors floating devices. When we were all sitting around the terrace atthe days's end he laid out in front of me to rest, finally exhausted. Hector turned to his mom and asked her "guapo , verdad?" "Si, muy guapo", she answered.

3. When we took him to the beach, tethered him to a Rubbermaid table and he ran off with the table. Seafood everywhere.

4.When he got in the car, equipped with a pet net, but insisted on sitting shotgun.

5.When I had my heart broken and cried like you only can when your heart is, indeed, breaking. He put his giant head on my lap. I'm sure he didn't understand but he sensed something was off, and it was not the time to try to knock me over or play. Some humans don't give you that courtesy.

6.How much he loved kids and how much he scared them, Ironic, really.

7.The fact that he went to dog school and after four weeks only learned "sit."

8.Our first dog show, where he won for beauty but failed in obedience.I started calling him my dumb blonde.

7. When he chased Chayito, my sister's Boston Terrier at the lake house and got literally booted from the house. I had to bring him back to the city.I still think that was overkill, he was just trying to play.

8.When he met Gizmo, Marcela's yorkie, and the smaller dog slid down his back and that was their game. Until he knocked him over with his big paw.

9.The anguish I felt when he ate all the mangos that fell from our tree and ended up vomiting nonstop. I thought his stomach had turned, as it is common with labs. I slept on the floor next to him to be able to hear his breathing and to be there in case he puked. I remember thinking maybe I would be a good mother after all.

10. When we said goodbye, my plan was to not make a big deal out of it, to not be sentimental.I'd return soon anyway, and he would still be there.

But I did not return in time for that. And the cycle of his arrival and departure closes, for here I am,grieving again. Because that floppy eared, boxy headed, clueless beast that drove me crazy also drove me good crazy. Because despite all of the public humiliation and endless mortifying moments he made me go through, despite his bad behavior, his heart was all goodness. And today he died, and I wasn't there to help him or even pet him. And now I can't stop crying.Kind of like the time he rested his boxy head on my lap only now there's no black snotty nose on my knee. And if I listen closely I hear a crack, my heart breaking. Adios, Licenciado.

The Wedding Funk

The Wedding Funk.


I've been in a funk for the past twenty two days,
just festering and recoiling from the tasks of wedding daze.
All this saving, all this planning, just for one day out of life,
party favors, nighttime terrors, to become somebody's wife.

I fast forward to the day of,and things there don't look so grim.
Best friends, music, party chaos and my drink of choice, my gin.
First slow dances and white dresses,scrumptious food and wedding cake.
All of these are things I think of to retain the peace I make.

Then there's gifts and honeymooning, sunny beaches,little huts.
White sand moments we'll remember when we hate each other's guts.
Expectations, no carnations only roses purely white,
Decorations, cocktail stations, they will all be gone by night.

Don't expect to see me play the role of swan princess in veil,
all prince charming and no problems,that is such a bullshit sale,
And my friends won't let me lie, they've seen me laugh ,they've seen me fail,
this is painful time consuming and its not a fairytale.

I wrote this in the midst of wedding planning, on a frustrated day at work when I should have been doing research. (Sorry Dr.Li). I can honestly say there where times when it seemed we had chosen to do things the hard way by having this ceremony and the party that ensued , as opposed to just staying at legally married and going on a spending spree at Design Within Reach. It has now been a week since the wedding and I still sit and recall bits and pieces of it, relishing once again in the newly made memories. The cheesy fairytale book is full of brides exclaiming their wedding day is the best day of their lives. I like to think I will not peak so early in life. But I also have to give it to them, because if the one day in your life when all the people from your past and present who mean the world to you, who have been witnesses of your highs and lows (and have stuck with you through both) are gathered in one room celebrating you and love and the good things this life has to offer, if that day is not your happiest I don't know what could be.
I like to think that our wedding , although intended to celebrate love between myself and my husband, was also a celebration of friendship and those love stories that are not necessarily of the romantic kind. Ongoing stories made of bonds formed out of loyalty and friendship. Because at this wedding there were people who have literally peeled me off the ground, and are just as happy to be there to see me soar. They have been my confidentes, my shrinks, my clients, my support system, my fun, and my school. I have truly been blessed with immensely kind, bright and good people as friends, a circle that is insurance against the mean reds and all things that can go wrong in life. You can't really tell but I am tearing up. I love you all, thank you for the efforts you made to be here,it really was the best day ever.

Love,


Boomer

The Bergdorf Goodwoman

An excerpt of my journal dated February 22nd, 2012.

" Some people wake up in utter panic from dreams where:a)they are being chased b) jump into an abyss or c) see themselves about to die in any way. Personally I, glorified fashion intern, woke up in panic today because I did not plan my outfit last night. This being the last week of market month,all my fun clothes lie in a heap in my dry cleaning basket.Only dowdy, dull law firm clothes from the old days  were left for me to wear. I came out of the shower wrapped in my beloved Hilasal towels that I make my mother send me from time to time and survey the possibilities. I decided on a sleveeless black and white Roberto Verino sheath, belted with a black skinny belt. I felt very pleased with my B list duds.Then I realized in dismay that the tights I could pair this up with were dirty and I'd no time to wash and dry them. I looked in the bag where I keep my hosiery, I saw purple tights (what am I , four?), and red , camel and black fishnetty ones. I decided the black ones are the only choice and put them on, at least today was a fifty degree day so I could survive in non wool. I finished the look off with a pair of black booties and a leather jacket instead of a cardigan. (What Would Kate Moss do?) Matt told  me I looked beautiful when he dropped me off at the station and I believed him, and smugly thought I accidentally hit the outfit jackpot. That is, until I realized today is Ash Wednesday and I had to go to Saint Patrick's Cathedral for mass. I have to admit that the outfit that made me proud and smug before made me ashamed now. My fishnet leather combo seemed painfully inappropriate for church, but I resolutely walked in thinking to myself that Jesus had a)once defended a prostitute or an adultress or something b) been a fisherman himself so the nets could not be that big of a deal.

    With my i pod buds draped around my neck I approached the line to get the cross put on my forehead, when it was done I went back to my pew to pray. Or at least with an intention to pray.Instead I started to wonder about Jesus.About how God sacrificed his son for such a callous race.I thought of  my nephews back at home, about how much they mean to my sister and whether or not she would ever allow any of them to suffer for any purpose, to be crucified and humiliated by the likes of us. And for the sake of the likes of us. This thought brought tears to my eyes that no amount of religion classes, first communion prep sessions, or homilies had been able to before. I know catholics are made fun of because guilt is perceived as the cornerstone of our religion but the truth is, how can you not feel bad when you have let down someone who sacrificed their child for you?

    I walked out of church towards work, passing Bergdorf Goodman on the way. I was aware of the curious glances. I guess it isn't every day that you see a leather clad, fishnetted, big haired girl with a cross on her forehead.I didn't care.I was proud of it, I walked taller because of it, because it meant that if I can get it, if a person like me, a former certified hellraiser, can understand the purpose of  Easter, there is hope. That Jesus's sacrifice was not completely in vain.

  The cross had an unanticipated effect on me, I don't know if it was the fact that it is there for the world to see and what you do reflects on your faith, or if feeling spiritual can really change you, but I have never been nicer than I was today. I was excessively friendly and kind. I treated everyone I met with respect and genuine niceness, not just cold politeness. I held doors open for strangers instead of letting them figure out how to carry their bosses lunch and cappuccinos, and open the door with no free hands. I volunteered to help out with even the most mindless of tasks, even if it wasn't my responsibility. I swear it was the cross on my forehead, somehow compelling me to put my best foot forward all day. And then I thought, what if it was there everyday. What if we all had something that compelled us to be nicer to each other... to act more, I don't know, human.

   It is now then end of the day and with all the playing dress up, running around the showroom and the activity of my sebaceaous glands my cross is gone.It makes me a little sad, I really liked who I was with it."

History of Valentines Past

    When I was around eight I had a music teacher from Romania. His name was Ion Cubicec and until today I never wondered why a south eastern european ended up in El Salvador teaching third grade private school brats, first because of the distance and secondly because most of the time he did not even seem to like kids too much. I try to see his face but  I don't have a clear recollection of it anymore. I remember that at what I am guessing was seventy, his short, stocky frame was always clad in a suit and dressy shoes, every bit the old world gentleman, his grumpy voice calling us microbios .I also  remember thinking that along with Mrs Peters the librarian he was the oldest person I knew, and  that on special occasions instead of class we would play Calcetin or "Sock". The game was an invention of his, some sort of dodgeball with a pair of socks stuffed into each other. I loved that game so much it was the first reason I ever had to love Valentine's day, the meaning of which was explained to us by Mr. Cubicec. He told us about the letters written in blood from jail and all of that. Then we would play Sock for the rest of the hour.Besides playing sock, other Valentine bonuses were getting candy and cards from everyone in my class, and I especially remember being fond of a Care Bear one I got one year signed by a classmate with an "i" in her name,where she had replaced the dot on the "i" with a heart. I soon started signing my name with a heart stemming out of the "z" at the end of my name.

  Three years passed, and while Ion Cubicec tormented a new crop of third graders I was starting middle school, being tormented by the beginning of pre teenage years. I liked an older boy, and when a couple of friends told me I had a secret admirer I hoped and prayed it was him. Then Valentine's day came and instead of cards we sent each other candy grams for a colon, chocolate grams for two colones, and rose grams for three colones. That year I got around sixty rose grams, all saying "please say yes". During recess the identity of my admirer was revealed. It was not who I had hoped, and angrily I stepped on his roses and threw away his grams in the trash can in the hall. I gave him the coup de grace by shouting "no!" to his face.I would punch me in the face now If I knew me then.

   I am in New York City walking through cobblestone streets of  the Meatpacking District towards Sofia's apartment on Horatio street. I am smiling thinking of all the people that I saw on the subway platform with roses or balloons, the kids I saw in front of the NYU campus, in their carefully though out "I don't care outfits" , of the girl who stood on tiptoe to kiss her college beau who she probably thinks she will marry someday , on the lips. Oh, to be young and in love!

     I look through every restaurant window and see many tables of two, holding hands, shelling out big bucks to eat at Recette or similar on this special day. How nice, I think to myself, than in a city full of  people who claim to be over everything, bored  of the ordinary, always looking for the next small or big  enthusiasm, or the next small or big disappointment, there is still a day when you drop pretenses of being too cool for everything and celebrate love. I pass a couple getting in their car, he helps her put her flowers in the backseat. Then I pass an Asian couple, more around my age. She has her armed linked through his and is smiling up at him. I think of Matt. He is fishing in West Palm Beach with his father, having left that same afternoon. I am having Valentine's dinner with Sofia and Lola, the frenchie. I am not bothered that he's not there, we had breakfast and a little gift exchange in the morning and then he dropped me off at the train station. Years ago I would have been fuming, I would have analyzed the meaning of this absence to exhaustion and then  used my dooming conclusions as verbal ammo in the next fight.I would have happily  procured the scenario for that fight. Not now. There is no drama, no making storms in glasses of water, there is no need to guard an imaginary territory,  there are no assumptions of attacks, there is no emotional terrorism. There is nothing to prove. I live one happy day after another, and another.  " Oh young Boomer, " I say  to the me in my twenties," there is only one thing better than being young and in love.... and that is being in love and older."

     We order Bareburgers, french fries and milkshakes. I go to bed stuffed, happy and with Lola snoring next to me in my bed.

A Day at Laundroland

    Let me tell you something about Greenwich, Connecticut. As one of the US towns with the most concentration of wealth, mansions by the water, diamonds the size of quail eggs and other extravagances are everyday life for most people. This is not my case. Somewhere in this town there is a game room for a toddler the size of my apartment, an apartment that is comfortable enough for two people and their worldly belongings, except a clothes washer/dryer.

    Deemed guetto by my very white husband, before I arrived, he never went to the laundromat; he had his personal one at his parents' house until the amount of clothes that magically piled up due to my constant change of outfits was too much for the non industrial equipment. I never really knew how he worked the laundry system, but I'd see him load up the car with the bins and then the clothes came back clean, impeccably folded, as if by a magic hamper elf.

     A week ago Matt was away on a business trip and I was left to do the house chores alone.He does most of the cooking, so I stuck to cereal and salads, he does most of the cleaning so I just cleaned a little with my beloved swiffler,and was left to deal with grocery shopping and laundry, which he helps with and takes care of respectively. It then dawned on me that I am the household member with the day off, EVERY DAY, and yet I do very little, or nothing. Driven into action by my GG's(Guilty Garys) I resolutely scribbled down a grocery list and packed a bag with the dirty clothes. I would be damned if my husband couldn't come home to a full fridge and clean underwear.

    I drove slowly down the Post Road, looking for a place to go wash the dirty duds.Then I spotted it, Laundroland. I parked the car and dragged my bags in. It was a bit sad. Stark walls, no music, just the sound of the clothes spinning in the nineteen seventies machines, the dryers big steel boxes that you could fit my three nephews in. A sign claims it is open 24/7 but I don't see anyone who works there.Still, I had a mission, and the sneaky satisfaction the anticipation of surprising Matt with the fact that I had done my housewife duty gave me. Never mind I was only doing what I was SUPPOSED to do in the first place.I felt like I was doing him a favor, yo. Now, this being unfamiliar territory  I took a minute to regroup my thoughts, count the money I took from the piggy and mentally go through the process. First get change from the quarter machine, then pick a machine, then the detergent, shit I have no detergent..First, then , buy detergent ...After I got detergent, had picked a machine and was ready to start I relized I didnt know how they worked. I didnt know where to stick the coins, how to make it start, or if I was supposed to put in the detergent on the clothes first. I was going to have to do the unthinkable. I was going to have to ask for help. Now, this made me nervous for various reasons :a) they all looked like immigrants (and not spanish speaking ones)who did not want to be bothered. Its bad enough to be stuck doing laundry on a nice day, let alone have some newbie looking for a laundry mentor pester you. b) Asking for help would mean my presence would be acknowledged, and  therefore  provide witnesses that at thirty three years old,with a law degree, I was washing my husbands underwear at eleven a.m. on a weekday, and c) I had already gotten curious glances due to my choice of clothes and could bet they thought it was funny that leather clad, diamond sporting,blown out hair girl didnt know how to do shit- that I was a cliche....I turned my engagement ring on my finger until the diamond faced my palm, put my hair up in a ponytail and approached a black girl that looked semi sympathetic. You'd think we we playing three words or less, but I got the hang of it and started doing my thing. When the time to dry came I was embarrassed to ask for help again so I stared at the machine hoping there were instructions on a sticker somewhere,pulling handles, sticking in quarters , pushing the button to get it going. Again. And again. Nothing. (sigh). It was then that a kind english speaking soul (unemployed) told me you had to push it down for five seconds to get it going. In return for the rare gesture of kindness I let him read my New York Post. He suddenly became Chatty Cathy, going on about how he liked The Post because it was more risque, but he didn't get it at home. I said I hoped he would not be disappointed, they really had nothing there today except a little Kardashian article on how they had the Midas touch, but in reverse. Ears perked up, even immigrants know who the Kardashian gypsies are. Suddenly we were all in the conversation, heads shaking side to side to show disapproval of their antics,even the Russian girl who said "bye bye" on her way IN tried to put in her two cents.I learned that nothing bonds people quicker than common hatred. From that, while we waited for our laundry to dry,we went into each others stories of unemployment, marriages,failed careers, hopes for careers, and origins, at which point I found out that the black girl was from Accra, Ghana, and we had lived there at the same time once. The sound of my cargo pants's belt clacking as they went round and round stopped. Russia was gone, Ghana was folding. Unemployed was going on about high school specials (similar to Pollo Campero). I folded my stuff and left. Driving to my second stop, the grocery store, I thought Matt was wrong, the laundromat isn't guetto. It is the real reality show.

Life is Short and I am Not Tall

    On December twenty second of this recently past year a Greenwich, CT bound train left Grand Central Station in New York City at approximately 6 pm. On this train was a little French Bulldog that goes by the name "Lola". She came to my house to be looked after while her owner was away, my duty in a nutshell and  in Sofia's words, " just make sure she doesn't die". I could do that. 

    Lola is a mix between gremlin and Barbie, she came with instructions (gremlin) and  a bag full of gadgets and clothes containing everything from coats and booties to a purple heart that dispenses her  poop bags. (Barbie). As I  read the instruction manual I  realized that Lola's life, with the West Village as scenario, is summed up in a couple of pages: a paragraph on eating, a paragraph on sleeping, a paragraph on her walking schedule, another page with emergency contacts. Structured, predictable, simple.That is Lola's life. She walks, eats, snoozes.Then she goes back in the crate in the corner of her NYC studio apartment. Repeat.

    Now, French Bulldogs are more known for their mellow, smoochy, warm and loving personalities than for their brains, which is why I was surprised to see Lola deciding to milk her days in suburbia the minute her mother left. It's like instantly she knew there was more out here, she broke her cycle and she took great joy in exploring, in looking for first time experiences to revel in,  instead of shying away from them. Lola discovered car rides, endless grass, friends, ponds, rocks, and fire; she worked at a retail store for a day (proving to be a great sales strategy) and  got smuggled into a hospital disguised as a baby. Her biggest  discovery of all though, was a great love of chasing leaves in the wind. I am not sure why she loves this futile enterprise so, but while walking her one day she went from her little mini sashaying to greyhound speed tugging at the leash, making it hard for me to keep up. It was funny to watch her, so intent, so focused, going after it with all the energy and agility a small, stumpy dog can muster... all for nothing as the leaves carried by the wind  were always faster than she was. As a reasonable homo sapiens I was well aware of her shortcomings and felt a little bad for her, but she wasn't and she didn't. She was relentless in her seemingly empty pursuit, going after one, then another, enthralled. How nice, I thought, to not focus on the shortcomings, to go after what one wants independently of if we get it or not, how  liberating to chase just to feel the happiness derived from the pursuit. Even if it is a silly pursuit, even if we look funny chasing after it. Turns out Lolalosophy can be applied to homo sapiens after all. If this terribly cute but stumpy dog can chase leaves in the wind with such zest, if  such happiness can be derived by chasing, focusing, wanting and doing something about it regardless of the results, so can we. So in this new year, I pledge to chase, to get after it and to enjoy the ride. In this 2012 lets take another shot at getting it right, we have 365 days to  go big or go home. Or to the crate, in her case.

Best wishes to you all. Get after it!!!!

Boomer and Lola