The pre-show aural effects are subtle and gradually become hard to ignore, not that ignoring them should be considered a desirable goal. The tones (in a sound design by Stephen George that is uniformly excellent throughout the play) flow from what might be music to something that sounds like whale vocalization to a possible recreation of satellites orbiting. There is a sense of wonder, and vastness, that stays as a theme throughout the performance.

Any apprehension that sightlines will render a character’s facial expressions unknowable is immediately allayed at the transition from the first scene to the second. In choreography that can only be described as mesmerizing, the actors change the perspective of the hospital bed so that it faces each side of the theater more than once during the course of the show.

Charlotte (Jenny Soo, in one of two alternating casts) is dying of cervical cancer. She has come home to the town where she grew up. Her sister Kathryn (Tarah Pollock) and Kathryn’s husband Dustin (Andy Shephard) have made a commitment to visit Charlotte every day while she is in hospice care. This commitment, it is revealed early in the story, will not be a lengthy one. Charlotte tells her sister that she won’t be around long enough for a miracle cure for cancer to be discovered; she feels that her death is already beginning.

A deceased mother and an absent father, each one remembered very differently by their daughters, are imposing presences in the lives of these three characters. Inanimate objects on the set, actual or spoken of, also play important roles. A water glass and carafe on the nightstand beside Charlotte’s bed are alternately the source of comfort and tension. When Kathryn keeps insisting that Charlotte drink and Charlotte tells her she doesn’t want to, Kathryn practically drowns Charlotte by shoving the glass in her face, declaring “I want to hydrate you.”

Never has the promise of life-sustaining liquid felt so threatening.

Kathryn is a study in the contradictions that can encompass the layers of a relationship. She alternates, sometimes at lightning speed, between compassion and cruelty. And none of it will be put on hold just because her sister is going to die at any moment.

Indeed, as “Charlotte Stay Close” makes painfully clear, the world does not stop for imminent death. Anger, jealousy, selfishness – they will not be suppressed just because a young woman has no future left.

Much is made in this story of the fact that Kathryn and Dustin met in high school and married young. Their marriage is now in serious trouble. Kathryn, in a breathtaking display of narcissism, keeps asking her dying sister to tell her what to do about the relationship. When Charlotte’s answers aren’t clear enough, Kathryn tells her: “I really need you to make sense. This isn’t helping me.”

These are among the least unkind words Kathryn says to Charlotte in the course of the play.

In this atmosphere of anguish and despair, the actors give stunning performances. Every moment rings true, every piece of dialogue is honored. As Kathryn, Tarah Pollock – somehow, somewhere, in a way that is almost impossible to track – creates sympathy and a shade of understanding for this profoundly damaged character. Jenny Soo, as Charlotte, mines new levels of heartbreak. By the time it comes, her death will likely feel like a personal loss to the audience, and this reaction has been more than earned. Dustin is, at times, torn between the sisters. Andy Shephard makes his role in this triumvirate devastatingly painful and surprisingly charming.

The performers are aided by an impeccable script that brings humor to situations that feel impossible to make light of, by direction that makes everything work in seamless harmony, and by technical aspects that are a collective masterclass on how to stage a play.

The result is a production that is not to be missed.

Performances extended through November 3 at:
Ensemble Studio Theater/LA
3269 Casitas Ave. LA CA 90039
For information and tickets: 
https://www.estlosangeles.org/

The post Theater Review: “Charlotte Stay Close” at Ensemble Studio Theater/LA appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

Okay, so…

Umm…

See, umm… There seems to be this website somewhere called “glmux.com”…

I mean, I guess that’s their name, because I see it a lot in e-mail addresses…

Because a lot of different people with that mail server post a lot of comments on the blog posts on my website…

And the comments are really nice…

Very nice…very enthusiastic and very complimentary…

Here are just a few recent ones:

“Thanks for a really fantastic blog. It was very helpful. I am just so glad I found this.”

“This is an excellent site! A lot of useful information and handy tips, thank you =)”

“Wonderful website, how do you get all this information? I’ve read a couple of posts on your site and I love your writing style. Thanks a million, keep up the good work.”

“I browsed through this amazing site and there’s so much handy information; saved to my bookmarks.”

“I’m fascinated. I do not think I know anyone who understands just as much about the topic. You need to make a career of it, honestly; awesome blog.”

Seriously, those are all lovely, aren’t they? And I get messages like that just about every day from a wide range of people from glmux.com…

Of course, you don’t need to look for those comments on the blog posts in my website. Because they’re not there. Because you know how this story plays out…

When I saw the first of these lovely compliments, shortly after my website first launched, I was so thrilled! I either Skyped with or phoned my fabulous website designer, who is my forever web master/guru, and I probably said words to the effect of “They like me! They really like me!”

And there was a pause. In hindsight, I recognize it as a sad pause. And I heard my brilliant web master say, “Oh, honey, that’s spam.”

And I was, like, What?

“It’s spam.”

And I was, like, You mean they say that to everyone? And she was, like, Yeah, because it’s spam.

So now I go through the e-mail notifications I receive every day announcing that comments have been made on my blog posts, and I mark the ones that are spam as “Spam.”

And I do read them. Unless, of course, they’re in the Cyrillic alphabet. And there’s a little voice inside me that says, and probably always will say, “Gosh, maybe these are real people and not machines, and even though it’s their job to send out spam messages, maybe they did take a moment to read my blog post and maybe they really did find it charming or inspiring or funny…”

Well, I imagine I’ll get a lot of comments from glmux.com about this particular post, huh! Some may not convey great enthusiasm about what I’ve written this time, huh!

And some, I can promise you, will have absolutely atrocious grammar and syntax. Seriously, the ones I quoted above? I got so tired of typing “[sic],” I just went ahead and corrected them all; gmlux.com, you really should consider hiring a proofreader.

Because you know those silly spammers seriously have no sense of the significance of the superb semicolon…

And absolutely no appreciation of alliteration, apparently…

The post SPAM? A LOT! appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

I saw a headline on some website, and I did a massive double-take. In hindsight, I wonder if maybe the writer meant for the words to be sarcastic. Maybe. I’ll never know for sure, because I immediately closed the link in audible disgust, and now I can’t find the article again.

The headline that inspired such instant and unforgiving outrage in me read:

Horrible Things No One Tells You About What Happens To Your Body As It Ages

Are you kidding? Are you fucking kidding me with that crap?

Okay, maybe the writer really was being sarcastic. Maybe the article went on to say that a premise that dreadful stuff happens to your body as it ages and it is absolutely essential to share that depressing information far and wide is really quite unpleasant and probably the basis for many a self-fulfilling prophecy among hapless readers.

But maybe not. And that’s why I feel compelled to go on record with a rejoinder. What I’m about to share is entirely from my point of view. I duly recognize that my truths are not now and will not in the future be true for everyone as they age. But maybe they’ll spark recognition and maybe they’ll inspire some optimism. Because, if we’re lucky enough, we’re all going to get to a certain age at some point. And I honestly think that should be embraced.

I turned 60 last year. I know far too many people who didn’t make it to that age, so I will be utterly damned if I’m not going to enjoy as many of the moments of my years as much as I possibly can.

Herewith my top three favorite things about aging. I’m not going to limit it to what happens to our bodies, because I really do believe that all the details in our lives are profoundly related.

1. You really do have license to not give a classic fuck what anyone else thinks.

   

   And, seriously, you’ve earned it. Now, I don’t say this by way of giving anyone my blessing to be a self-serving, selfish shithead and to not give a fuck if other people think it’s not right to be a self-serving, selfish shithead. I’m directing this at people who behave with grace and kindness. I’m giving them license to not spend time with people who don’t appreciate their grace and kindness. I’m giving them license to avoid self-serving, selfish shitheads.

   I just think that at a certain age (I’m not 100% sure what that age is, but I do know for sure that I’ve been there for several good years by now…) you’ve lived long enough to not have to worry if anyone else approves of you as long as you approve of yourself, as long as you can honestly say that you are living according to your values. I think the assurance that the people whose opinions matter will respect you is a valid one.

   If you’re kind and caring, anyone who doesn’t appreciate you, who belittles or undermines you, shouldn’t be in your world. In fact, they should just go fuck themselves, don’t you think?

2. It really is possible to love your body more and more as it ages.

   

   I have a few friends who have medical conditions that keep them in near-constant pain. My heart aches for them. This is a cruel and unfair twist of fate. It can happen at any age. I suppose the argument can be made that it’s more possible to have medical issues as you age. Maybe. But why focus on that unless you have to?

   I want to enjoy being in my body for as long as I can. I want to feel comfortable in my skin until the day I die. This is a conscious and constant goal, and I do whatever I can to make it my ongoing reality. And it turns out that there’s a lot that I can do. I believe in taking positive action at any age, and I also believe that it’s never too late to start making your health and your mental and physical wellbeing a priority.

   I don’t want to start every new year that a birthday brings assuming that I’m going to feel less energetic, less inspired, less comfortable, less cozy. I want to feel as fabulous as I possibly can. And I honestly can say that I’ve never felt better than I do now. That’s something I wish for everyone as they age.

3. Time is precious, and that’s a really liberating thing to know.

   

   This is a bit of a corollary to the first item on my list. Living long enough to have seen that we are not guaranteed any specific number of days has made me guard my time with miserliness that Scrooge would admire.

   I don’t want to spend time doing things I don’t want to do. Maybe there are people who got that message earlier in life than I did. It took me several decades to get to the point where I wasn’t going to do something just because other people wanted me to. I do slip on occasion, and I end up doing something I don’t want to do because I don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. When that happens, I swear, I get a visceral reaction of discomfort that makes it almost impossible for me to sit still until I’m back to doing what I want to do. It’s my psyche’s way of reminding me what’s important in my life.

   I often do things for other people. When I want to. When doing so makes me happy. That’s my well-earned, time-tested litmus test for mapping out my schedule for every precious day of every precious year.

As a postscript, I do want to add that ageism can kiss my 60-year-old ass, especially ageism that is directed toward women. Several years ago, the New York Post ran a gossip column with a snarky comment about a movie star who was dating a younger man. She was in her early fifties. He was in his late forties.

I immediately fired off an irate e-mail to the columnist, calling him out on his specifically sexist ageism. He wrote back to say that they were not sexist at the Post, because they had also written about the age gap between Bruce Willis and his most recent girlfriend.

“So, nyeh, nyeh, nyeh, nyeh, nyeh, nyeh, and why don’t you calm down, sweetie,” was what I read as the subtext in the columnist’s words. Of course I could not let that stand without a response.

I wrote back to say that, given that the age gap between the movie star and her boyfriend was three years, and the age gap between Bruce Willis and his girlfriend was twenty-three years, I thought the columnist’s equating of the two as being equally newsworthy was at best patronizing and at worst massively fucked up.

I didn’t hear back from him. He is to this day welcome to jump up and kiss my ass.

The post Okay, Now It’s MY Turn To Tell You A Few Things About Aging #BOAW2018 appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

My huge thanks to Cynthia, and to Laurie Kenney, Wesleyan’s books editor, and my classmate Gary Breitbord, one of our two excellent Class Secretaries!

You can read the interview, here.

The post And What Author Doesn’t Love to be Interviewed for Her Alma Mater’s Online Newsletter? appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

Seriously. I’ll wait. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to take care of today, and there’s also a “Law and Order: SVU” marathon on (because it’s a day of the week…), so no rush, no pressure.

Okay, seriously, was that movie delightful, or what? And is that title character fabulous, or what?

I don’t think I ever thought I wanted children. I’m pretty sure, if I am indeed remembering correctly, that I knew even when I was a young kid that I never wanted to be a parent. I have infinite admiration for people who are able to do a good and kind job of raising children. I knew instinctively that I wouldn’t be one of those people. I have never had the patience to be around someone else for long and uninterrupted periods of time. Which I guess is part of the definition of being a parent. Babies and small children seem to need a lot of attention, don’t they? I have a visceral need to spend a lot of time alone. I am able to be happily married because my husband is an independent soul and he can entertain himself for long stretches of time, unlike toddlers, who seem to need constant input and stimulation.

Several years ago, I offered to babysit for our friends’ six-year-old, because she was a sweet little kid and I figured I’d plop her down in front of the TV (something educational, you know, like “Sesame Street”… I mean, I had the best intentions… It’s not like I was going to have an SVU marathon on…) and I’d just go on reading and writing and working while I sat on the sofa and kept an eye on her. When her dad dropped her off, he announced – quite out of the blue, as my assumption would indicate – that his daughter was not allowed to watch TV. I think my exact, sputtered response was, “What the fuck?,” the subtext of which was “What the fuck am I supposed to do to keep her entertained for hours? Seriously, what the fuck?”

We read books and we had a tea party and we walked the dogs and by the time her parents came to pick her up again, I hadn’t spent one minute that didn’t involve interacting with her and I thought I was going to have a complete nervous breakdown.

But that No-TV Policy bullshit and my flirtation with mental collapse aside, I have to say that I have come to be quite the Auntie Mame. I remember reading somewhere that every child and young person should have an aunt and uncle who don’t have children and who have the time and energy and resources to spoil them and fuss over them. It’s a noble calling in my book, and one that I embrace with joy and enthusiasm. I absolutely adore my nieces and nephews, and I am proud of them beyond description. They are all delightful people, and I love spending time with them.

I had to wait until I got married to have any actual nieces and nephews, because I don’t have siblings, but I have also always had an expansive view of what it means to be an aunt. Three of my first cousins have children with whom I am very close, and I always introduce them as my nieces and nephew. One of my closest friends is like a brother to me, and there’s no question that his son is my nephew. I also really love being the fun person with my friends’ kids, the one who says and does silly things to make them laugh. I think young people and animals are so wonderfully straightforward and honest, so when one of them likes you, it’s really quite lovely, isn’t it?

I do, in the interest of the ubiquitous demand for full disclosure, have to admit that I’m rather a bad influence as an aunt. I’m going to try to keep the following confessions vague enough that my relatives and friends don’t rethink their enthusiasm for having me be Auntie Mame to their offspring, but, since being a writer should involve bearing one’s soul for public display, if Hemingway can do it, so can I.

My bad influence tends to manifest itself by my weighing in too heavily on the side of having fun. My nieces and nephews crack me up. I’m the aunt who laughs when the kid does something funny but also inappropriate, and any parent will tell you (and will tell me, repeatedly) that that sends a mixed message which the parents then have to clean up when I drop the kids back at their house and go to join Tom at Happy Hour somewhere.

When my nephew, who graduated from college a few years ago, was around 10 years old or so, he was in the car with Tom and me.  Every few weeks Tom and I would take him out to lunch and to a movie and to shopping for a treat (I’m a firm believer in bribing kids and animals to love you; it’s quick, it’s effective, and, when I do it, it’s honest… I literally say the words, “Here. Now, remember, when I get old, you have to take care of me.  Enjoy your present.”). This particular visit, our nephew suddenly said a vulgar word.

A very vulgar word.

A shockingly vulgar word. One even I hesitate to say, and I’m a member of a Facebook group called “Smart, Sexy Women Who Say ‘Fuck’ A Lot,” so you know where I’m coming from.

And when he said that incredibly vulgar word, I immediately did a dry spit-take because I wasn’t actually drinking anything at that moment, and I started guffawing and I could barely get out the words, “Sweetie, I know I’m laughing, but you must never, ever, ever, EVER say that word again!”

Yeah, we still chuckle about that one, Tom and our nephew and I. And I still haven’t told my friend-who-is-like-a-brother about it.

Yikes, I am giving away far too much information. If my friend-who-is-like-a-brother reads this, he’ll know I’m referring to his son. Oops.

Another example of me deeming paying homage to comedy far more important than acting like an adult happened with friends of ours who have three delightful young children. I’m just crazy about them. Their middle child is a five-year-old boy, and he’s a hoot. He’s always giggling and he’s full of energy. So he was being silly and he said to me, “You smell like farts and I smell like flowers,” and I started guffawing and his parents looked horrified and they began to chastise him for saying that I had the air of gaseous emissions, and I couldn’t stop laughing and I tried to apologize for being a bad influence by rewarding their son with laughter when he had said rather a rude thing, and then I just had to add, “Listen, you have to give it to him. He’s got a great appreciation for alliteration and he sure knows how to land a joke.”

I’m not sure how I can hide the identity of the niece involved in my final example of being an out-of-control Auntie Mame. I just hope my sister-in-law forgives me…

My niece was visiting us when she was 15. She’s now 17.

Really, it’s ridiculous that I’m not using her name. I’ve only got one niece who is currently 17. I’m being disingenuously coy in the service of hiding a secret that’s no secret at all. Certainly not to my sister-in-law.

At any rate, and out of habit, I’ll continue to call her my niece and eschew any proper nouns…

My niece and I are very close. We really understand each other. She’s a fabulous young person. When she came to visit, I was determined to show her a delightful time in Los Angeles. We went shopping and hiking and to the movies, and on one of her evenings here, she was going to go out and have adventures with my other niece and nephew, her cousins, who were in their mid-20s at the time. So, you know, adults. Responsible adults.

Of course, I’m the adult who was ultimately responsible for my younger niece. She was staying with us. And I was going to do everything I needed to do to make sure she got on the plane to go back home safely.

Everything necessary to ensure her safety…while still being her Auntie Mame.

So the kids go out, and Tom and I watch a movie at home and have a bottle of wine, and before I know it, it’s midnight. And my niece isn’t home. No phone calls or texts from anyone.

“Gosh, it’s midnight,” I say.

“Yeah,” Tom says, “it’s late. What time did you tell [insert name here; my sister-in-law certainly knows which name to insert] she had to be home?”

I tried to buy some time by taking a big sip of wine and pretending I was choking on it. But there’s only so many minutes that can be wasted by your dear husband smacking you on the back while you sputter with over-the-top theatricality.

“I didn’t tell her she had to be home at any particular time,” I whispered into my wine glass.

“You what?” Tom gasped.  “She’s FIFTEEN!” he bellowed.

“I know,” I said. “But I’m the fun aunt.”

“SHE’S FIFTEEN!”

I started sending cheerful texts to my nieces and nephew.

“Hey there, Cutie Pies! Having fun?”

No response.

“Hi, my Darlings! How’s it going out there in the thrilling City of Angels?”

Nothing.

“Soooo, when were y’all thinking of coming back? Just checking in case I need to leave out a key if we go to bed because IT’S ALREADY SO FUCKING LATE AND WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING NOT SETTING A STRICT CURFEW FOR A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD?!”

I didn’t type that last part.

They got back just after three o’clock. And my niece got on the plane home the next day safely.

I hope if my sister-in-law reads this, she’ll let my niece come visit again. I can’t promise I’ll be any more of a grown-up than Rosalind Russell was as Auntie Mame, but I do promise I’ll get my niece back on the plane in one piece. With lots of wonderful memories of memorable times. Just like Auntie Mame would.

The post OH, YES, I DO THINK OF MYSELF AS QUITE THE AUNTIE MAME… appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

Shortly after I met my late husband Dennis and started spending a lot of time at his apartment, which included spending a lot of time in the company of his wonderfully surly cat, I found myself doubled over, gasping for air.

A trip to an allergist showed that I was vulnerable to a number of things, but none of them more than cats.

“Your boyfriend will have to get rid of the cat,” the doctor said.

“That’s not going to happen,” I replied. “Tell me what I have to do to live with Mr. Joe.”

When I returned to Dennis’s apartment, he interrupted me right after I recounted the doctor’s declaration and before I could get to the punch line.

“That’s not going to happen. Mr. Joe was here first.”

And I loved Dennis all the more for his loyalty. Here was a man who took his commitments very seriously.

Allergy shots and inhalers and baths for Mr. Joe (don’t ask) restored my ability to breathe quite nicely. A few years after Dennis and I got married (and after our beloved cat passed away at a very old age), we moved from New York to Los Angeles so Dennis could do more film and TV acting. I missed Manhattan terribly those first few months, but then it was February and I was wearing shorts on El Matador Beach and I decided living in Southern California was going to suit me just fine.

Three years after we moved to Los Angeles, Dennis was diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer that had spread to his bones and lungs. He died in just under six months. But for the love and care of our family and friends and the three precious cats we had adopted when we got to L.A., I feel quite sure I would have withered away from sorrow.

Eventually, I did begin to think that maybe I could one day have a relationship with someone who wasn’t Dennis. My friends introduced me to a friend of theirs who was in town from Australia for their wedding. We had a lovely time together during the entire weekend of their fabulous celebration.

You know what “a lovely time together” is a euphemism for.

Six months later, my same newly-married friends introduced me to a friend of theirs who was in town on business from upstate New York. We had a lovely time together for an entirely memorable weekend.

I realized afterward that it was especially nice that neither of these men lived in Los Angeles. It seems I wasn’t ready to have a long-term relationship with someone who wasn’t Dennis. Also, both of them were allergic to cats, so they each announced that they wouldn’t be setting foot in my apartment. Ever.

A year and a half later, a big group of us who loved Dennis gathered at St. Nick’s Pub near the Beverly Center to celebrate what would have been Dennis’s fiftieth birthday. I remember when I came home that night, I kept wondering if I was going to die just from the physical effort of crying so violently.

That was a Thursday. The following Sunday, I had been invited to a party at Molly Malone’s on Fairfax.

Clearly, Irish bars were figuring prominently in my destiny that week.

My friend was dating a musician and he was celebrating the release of his CD. My friend had placed an ad in L.A. Weekly announcing this. A few months before, as fate apparently was determined to have it, a guy named Tom had moved to Los Angeles from San Jose to pursue his music career. My friend’s boyfriend was in a band that Tom had followed with great enthusiasm for many years, so when he read about the CD release party in L.A. Weekly, Tom made plans to be there.

I’m going to confess that I don’t remember all the details of meeting Tom because Molly Malone’s has a lot of excellent beers on tap. I do remember seeing him as soon as he walked in and I do remember thinking that he was very handsome. It didn’t immediately occur to me that he might be younger than I am. That only became clear when he gave me his e-mail address and it included four numbers that indicated a year that was ten years after the year of my birth.

Tom drove me home and I gave him my phone number. He called in two days and didn’t specify an evening for us to get together. He just said, “So when can I see you again?” Which I found entirely charming.

Tom began spending a lot of time at my place. In the company of my three wonderful cats. And ended up doubled over, gasping for air.

A visit to an allergist showed that he wasn’t allergic to anything except cats. He told the doctor that he would do whatever was necessary to be able to live with Sam and Gus and Marpie because, “I’m not giving my girlfriend the ‘It’s me or them’ ultimatum. I know which of us she’d pick.”

And he was right. They were there first. I made a commitment to them.

Tom passed the litmus test perfectly. We’ll be married for twelve years in November. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…

I’m deeply grateful that we both take our commitments very seriously.

The post Allergies, Shmallergies…It’s All About Loyalty… appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

Lala and I both love our rescued senior dogs, and we both feel that adopting senior dogs is our calling in life. We both really love wine and champagne (and also beer and the occasional mixed drink). We are both madly in love with words and with language. We both overuse ellipses in our writing…and we’ve both been very, very, very lucky in love, twice.

And both of us had to be very, very, very unlucky in love a first time in order to be lucky in love the next time.

Here’s the second lead-in: Have I mentioned before that I live in Los Angeles and I walk to my gym? Seriously, how many people get to do that in the widely-spread-out City of Angels? I love it. I’m so spoiled. When I lived in New York City, of course I walked to my gym. Lots of people can do that on the glorious Island of Manhattan. In L.A., it’s a rare joy.

My gym has lots of magazines available to read while working out. I love that. I love magazines. I’m only semi-ashamed to admit that I love gossip magazines. And I love Oprah’s magazine and I love Real Simple. It was in the latter magazine that I read an article that was deeply moving.

I think I’m done with the lead-ins. Here’s the sum and substance:

Lala and I were both widowed at an age that is generally considered rather young to lose one’s spouse. Though, since being widowed and while my first husband was sick, I came to realize that life is very fragile, and that people old and young die all the time. Dennis had cancer. While he was receiving treatment at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, there were children who were also receiving treatment. Life is very, very fragile.

One of my dearest friends (we met in college and he’s really more like a brother to me than like a friend; he’s certainly part of my family) lost his partner to cancer a few years before Dennis died. He said something life-altering to me while Dennis was sick. We were reflecting on love and loss, and he said, “The answer to the question, ‘Why me?’ really is, ‘Why not you?’ This is life. We’re all going to die. It’s just a question of when and how.”

So I’m at my gym and I’m reading an issue of Real Simple, and there is an article in this issue that is profoundly moving. It’s called “Dancing With My Father,” and it’s by writer Michal Lemberger, whose father died when she was 21.

If we all live long enough, we will lose someone we love. And sometimes we don’t even have to live very long. I have three women in my life to whom I am very close. One is a very dear friend (my first husband and I introduced her to her husband), one is my sister-in-law (her husband and my first husband were brothers; they were born on the same day, five years apart, and they both married women named Heidi; yes, my sister-in-law’s name is the same fairly unusual name as mine), and one is my aunt, who is also one of my closest friends (her husband and my father were brothers). They all have one daughter, and their daughters are among my favorite people in the world. My cousin is like my baby sister, I absolutely adore my niece, and my dear friend’s daughter is like a niece to me. Those three women all lost their husbands at a far-too-young age, and those three young women all lost their fathers when they were around 14 or 15 years old.

If we live long enough…and sometimes we don’t even have to live very long…

I was 41 when Dennis died. He was 47. He died just under six months after his diagnosis of Stage 4 stomach cancer. The character in my novel who is based on Dennis is named Terrence. That was Dennis’s middle name.

Almost 18 years have passed since Dennis’s death. I met my husband, Tom, two-and-a-half years after Dennis died. Dennis and Tom are different, of course, and they also share certain lovely qualities – decency, kindness, and a very warm and generous spirit.

I have been very, very, very lucky in love.

Dennis and I were together 16 years, and we were married 13 years. Tom and I have been together 16 years, and we have been married 12 years. I am a much better person now than I was before Dennis got sick. I was glib and prickly before Dennis’s diagnosis and before I saw Dennis deal with his illness and impending death with so much grace. What a high price that wonderful man had to pay for me to start paying attention to the things that are really important in life.

I haven’t been able to speak to Dennis for almost 18 years. I have the option of seeing photos of him, and I have the option of watching video of him (he was a wonderful actor); I am able to look at the photos and smile, but it’s still too painful for me to watch videos and to hear his voice. Or I imagine it would be, because I haven’t done it yet.

One of the things I love most about being married is the shorthand of being a couple for a long time. I can make one-word references to a scene in a movie, and Tom knows exactly what I’m talking about. We have shared so many trips and movies and events and adventures. We have the same language.

Dennis and I had that as well. But now, when I hear or see something that he would enjoy as much as I do, when I see something that refers to a shared experience of ours, I can’t share it with him.

Before I read Michal Lemberger’s article, I had been thinking a lot about what it would be like to see Dennis again. I think I’ve been thinking about that since he died. As time passes, I have less and less of a visceral memory of what it was like to spend time with Dennis. Someone I saw just about every day for years and years has faded with time from my vivid memory. In a way, that’s a good thing. The first agonizing months after his death, I couldn’t think of him without sobbing, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Now, I am able to think of him and smile. I might get a tiny bit teary, but it’s not that horrible, overwhelming grief of the first months and years after he died.

I still can’t watch video of him, though…

And so these words from Lemberger’s article vividly resonated for me.

“But the true tragedy of losing someone you love unfolds over time. There’s the loss itself, the empty space that used to be filled by that person—his voice, the sound of his footfalls in the hallway, the face you inherited from him looking back at you. And then there’s the fact that the sorrow you feel changes you, so that you are no longer the person he once knew.

My father’s death set in motion a series of changes in me such that I wonder whether he would recognize the person I’ve become. As the years pass, he is more and more lost to me.”

 

What would I say to Dennis if I saw him again? How would I share with him all the adventures and changes and accomplishments and challenges of my life since he left me behind? His death has changed me. The sorrow and anguish have changed me. I have learned so much, at such a high price for him. He wouldn’t know me anymore. He might like me more as I am now than as I was when I was with him. At such a high price.

The truth is that I am so much happier now than I ever have been because of the lessons I have learned, and those lessons really started when Dennis was diagnosed. And typing that, and thinking it, as I often have, feels like a betrayal of Dennis. But at the same time, I feel sure that he wouldn’t see it that way. When he was sick, and this is something I found out after he died, if friends and family asked him how he was, he always said that he was fine, “but please take care of Heidi.” That’s all he cared about. He knew he would die, and he wanted to make sure I would be okay.

Our friends and family more than honored Dennis’s request. They surrounded us with love and care while Dennis was sick, and they surrounded me with love and care after he died. They still do. And they embraced Tom when I met him and fell in love with him, and they made him part of our extended family. I imagine that Dennis would be very happy. I imagine that he would like Tom very much. They’re both great guys. I’m very, very, very lucky.

The program for Dennis’s memorial service included one of his last headshots as an actor, and also a photograph of him when he was a toddler, sitting joyously on a beach. There was a quotation from “The Bridge of San Luis Rey” by Thornton Wilder: “There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

If I have learned anything from being left behind, it is that these words are absolutely true. Well, certainly they are true for me… Nothing is more important than love. Eternally.

The post Those Who Leave Us Behind appeared first on Heidi Mastrogiovanni.

I was rushing to get ready to go out the other night, and I had a huge mishap with my mascara. Without even thinking, because I didn’t have to think because I’m living in 2017 and what I was about to do is entirely second-nature to me, I grabbed a Q-tip and in mere seconds my face no longer resembled that of a sobbing raccoon.  And I had to reflect, even as I was running out to the car, that life with Q-tips is miraculous.  And how did we even function as individuals and as a society before Q-tips?  Did people not wear mascara, for fear of the possible hideous and irreparable results of one false move?

Of course I had to look at the entry for Q-tips on Wikipedia. It’s under their generic name, “cotton swabs” (and apparently “cotton buds” in Britain; who knew?).  Here’s a bit of history:  “The cotton swab is a tool invented in the 1920s by Leo Gerstenzang after he attached wads of cotton to toothpicks. His product, which he named ‘Baby Gays,’ [Blogger’s Note: WTF is that all about?] went on to become the most widely sold brand name, ‘Q-tips,’ with the Q standing for ‘quality.'”

Anyone who knows me or who has read my work will know that I absolutely adore animals. I love cats, but for the past several years we’ve only had dogs in our family.  I love dogs.  Honestly, I just adore them.  And so, I am, of course, moved and mesmerized by the fact that “dog” is “god” backwards.  Wow.  Just wow.  There must be some cosmic significance in that.

But here’s where my wonder goes astray.  It’s only in English, right?  Am I missing another language where that’s also the case?  Dieu and chien?  Uh, no.  Hund and Gott?  Nope.  Perro and dios?  You get where I’m going with this…

P.S.  I’m serious, shit like this keeps me up at night…  Also, please note that I gave the word for “god” in German an initial cap because they give all nouns initial caps.  It’s not a statement of preference on my part.

What, for the love of all things gracious and sublime, is going on with people dropping consonants all over the damn place?  I watch a lot of television.  Well, I don’t actually watch it much of the time.  It’s on in the background when I’m writing.  That’s just the best way for me to compose.  The low-volume television chatter is like a lovely little white noise soundtrack while I put words together.

But sometimes I do focus on what’s happening on the screen, especially when I’m looking for a plot point or a character trait or a special turn of phrase.  It’s a nice distraction while my mind buzzes on a subconscious level.  And I’ve been noticing while I focus on televised offerings that more and more PEOPLE ARE NOT PRONOUNCING CONSONANTS!

I’m serious; I hear the sentence “It’s kew,” for “It’s cute.”  I hear “I dih-int” for “I didn’t.”  When I’m watching my much-loved Say Yes to the Dress, I hear “sah-in” when the wedding gown is clearly made of “SAT-in.”

For a lover of our glorious English language, it’s just too damn much.  What are we, speaking French?  Let’s pretend we’re speaking German and do as they do…pronounce EV-ER-Y FUCK-ING LET-TER, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

Grated cheese is one of the best things in the world. And iced tea; that’s also one of the best things in the world.  It’s even better with a splash of lemonade.  Not a full-on Arnold Palmer.  Just a splash.

I could never do a low-carb diet.  If I had to give up pasta (or noodles, as we called it in my youth), I would… I just wouldn’t even see the point of going on.  Ditto with bread.  But more so with pasta.

Smoothies are really soothing.  There’s a reason those two words share so many letters.

Potato chips?  The best thing ever created?  Yeah, pretty much.  Pizza is also a miracle.  I don’t say that glibly, nor do I think I’m devaluing the word “miracle” by declaring that pizza is one.

If you take a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a scoop of strawberry ice cream and you put them in the same bowl and you let them get a little soft and you mash them up into a mixture, it will be one of the best things in the world.  Trust me on this.

Our beagle Maggie is kind of obnoxious when the time comes for her to be fed.  I say that with love.  Our three four-legged kids get breakfast, dinner, and a third meal just before we go to bed (because if they didn’t, they would wake us up at maybe three o’clock in the morning demanding food; I mean, demanding it).  And each time, Maggie whimpers and paces and occasionally bays because we’re not getting her food ready fast enough.

Maggie is a beagle.  Maggie loves to eat.  I say all this about our precious girl because I am basically just like Maggie vis-a-vis food.  Without the baying.  Most of the time.

I am such a feminist.  I am such a proud feminist.  I am such a proud, furious feminist.

How did the word “feminism” ever get a negative connotation?  I’m guessing it’s because the patriarchy didn’t like women getting uppity.

Don’t get me started…

Women haven’t had the vote for 100 years yet in the United States.  We’ve never had a female president.  And look at the rest of the world.  In Saudi Arabia, women aren’t allowed to drive.

Don’t anyone try to tell me that feminism isn’t necessary or that it’s negative or it’s too aggressive or any of that other undermining shit.

Oh, and you know what I really hate?  I really hate mansplaining.  I mean, really hate it.

I do however think that the word “mansplaining,” solely as a construct, is fucking brilliant.

I will say this though about my upbringing, and it’s kind of surprising… My parents were born in the 1920s.  My mom grew up in Europe.  And both of my parents, despite being of their generation, were more-than-reasonably okay in terms of not trying to limit my options because I’m female.  I’m really happy about that.

You know how there are certain movies that aren’t especially brilliant, but when you’re scrolling through the channels and you see that they’re on, they’re kind of deliciously not brilliant and there are moments that you kind of enjoy in them, and somehow you’ve ended up seeing them a lot because they’re kind of addictive, despite being entirely not brilliant?  Here are a few of the ones that fall into that category for me:

The Rocker

Couples Retreat

That remake of Arthur with Russell Brand

And apropos movies, here are my Top Five Favorites of All Time.

Casablanca

Random Harvest

Now, Voyager

Victor, Victoria

Moonstruck

Reading is the best thing in the world.

I honestly don’t think anything needs to be added to that statement.

If I could have a wish for one ability, it would be to be able to sing beautifully.  I can’t sing.  I can’t hear the notes and I can’t match them.  I love music.  I love singing.  My husband has a gorgeous singing voice.  He says sometimes I sing in “perfect thirds.”  Other than understanding that that has something to do with harmonizing, I have no idea what he’s talking about.

I always knew — I mean, from a very early age — that I didn’t want to have children.  I always knew that I wanted to have pets.  And at some point after I got married (because, being any only child, that was the only way I was going to get nieces and nephews), I knew that I wanted to be one of those legendarily crazy, legendarily fabulous aunts.

I swear, my nieces and nephews had better be reading this blog post right now, and they had better start making incredibly laudatory comments about me in the comment section below.  Heads up, kids; I haven’t written my will yet, and the jury is still out on who’s going to get what…

I am convinced that my hair can hear me when I call my stylist to make an appointment for a cut and color.

I usually wait too long to schedule an appointment.  I’m so lazy and I’m so easily distracted. So even though I write in my calendar that I should call for an appointment after a certain amount of time has elapsed since my last appointment, I generally end up adding a few weeks to that.  So what happens is I wake up one day and my hair is too long and it’s suddenly driving me crazy.  So I call my stylist and I beg for an appointment as soon as possible, and my hair hears that, and the next day, when I wash and blow-dry it, it looks fabulous. And I’m thinking, maybe I don’t need to get it cut and colored just yet.

I guess my hair just really hates being cut and colored, because, I swear, it does that to me every time.  It’s like it pushes me to the limit, and then I go nuts, and it realizes that it has gone too far, and it resolves to behave.

I do want to add that I know that I am obviously taking this whole anthropomorphizing everything too far… But… I’m still not entirely sure that my hair isn’t a sentient being unto itself…

Do I even need to add that the opinions expressed herein are entirely my own?  Though I bet that if our three senior dogs gave it even a few minutes of thought, they would all agree with me on just about everything I’ve expounded on. Especially the part about the ice cream.

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