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[Jan. 20th, 2010|12:14 am] |
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Can I announce it yet, Bowie? |
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[Nov. 3rd, 2009|10:45 pm] |
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Looks like I still have a job. Thank you to those who voted. |
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[Nov. 2nd, 2009|03:00 pm] |
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God, this (work)day just won't end! |
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[Oct. 31st, 2009|06:27 pm] |
Another day, another funeral. Anymore, it feels like everyone around me’s dying. It’s odd. We’re too young for this sort of thing. Trevor was only 49 and though he wasn’t in the best shape, it’s still not something you expect. I couldn’t help but feel like a fraud during the memorial service. Everyone else seemed to be from this side of Trevor’s life, the people packed in students, or colleagues, or drinking buddies. And then there was Greg and I, in the second to back row in our matching suits and ties (unplanned), glancing at our feet while everyone else was crying because we had only spoken to Trevor half a dozen times in the last decade. When the tears did come, they weren’t so much for the man in the casket as the friend I had lost some thirty years earlier. Growing up, we had been inseparable. Sometime during high school, though, when I went off to Latin and he went off somewhere else, we drifted apart. With no play dates to keep us together anymore, we saw each other less and less until suddenly we were standing at his wedding, realizing we hadn’t spoken since my own almost ten years before. There were always vows to keep in touch, of course, but attempts to get together fell through and eventually we stopped attempting all together. Trevor Brenham died a stranger to me, his children only known through the Christmas cards I got every year, his wife just a pretty face by his side that I said hello to on the few occasions we ran into each other when I was back home. I learned today about the Trevor I didn’t know, the teacher, the lover, the father. His widow, resplendent in her grief and the black-and-white dress she wore, hugged me tight like if she let go she too might die. I couldn’t help but feel I’m collecting widows as I offered my condolences and she, pushing a strand of red hair out of her red-rimmed green eyes, said we really must see each other outside of occasions like this. It’s always said at funerals, just as common as I’m sorry, or he was a good guy. We never follow up on it, though, just think of the person once or twice before life swallows us up and then suddenly it is their funeral we are attending.
I flew home to an empty hotel room, a restless city. Tonight, I am going trick-or-treating with the kids and I will hug them extra hard. Still, I cannot help but wonder if we’ll ever change or if we’ll all spend our lives promising to keep in touch but never reaching out. |
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[Oct. 27th, 2009|09:21 pm] |
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This is me, admitting I need social interaction before I turn into a completely awkward recluse. |
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[Oct. 23rd, 2009|05:23 pm] |
And they say things don’t come in threes. Not surprisingly, Iason’s relationship with the questionably-aged Elisabeth (only 20, what the hell was he thinking?) has ended. What does come as a surprise, however, is the fact that Greg has joined us in the pool of the broken hearted. Gregory and Avery. Avery and Gregory. Avegory, as I read on some blog. My baby brother with his beautiful wife, only two months ago so damn happy. And then they lost the baby and all was fucked. I guess losing a child does that to people but it doesn’t make it any better. He loved her, still loves her, more than I’ve ever seen someone love another person. They were the new…Well, they were taking over for Jo and Me, the golden couple that was going to stay together until death did them part but now Avery’s in London and Gregory is falling to pieces in DC. I’ve offered to come down but both of us know it’s empty. We Miers boys are stronger by ourselves, better when we can plunge ourselves into work and ignore the outside world. He has a Congress to take over; I have bad guys to put away. Still, it makes you think, the way we’ve all crashed and burned within the same few months.
I finally moved out, kissed my wife goodbye and gave up the house. I loved that house. I loved her, but I guess it’s time to start getting over both. Now there’s a new challenge, the challenge of finding a place of my own. I considered Brooklyn, home of stickball and all that’s good with the world but the commute might just kill me and the borough is more suited to the family life of my past. Still, it isn’t completely ruled out if only because there is nothing in Manhattan calling my name. I’m tempted to just put my name down on a lease for some cramped studio in Hell’s Kitchen, to embrace my bachelorhood and revert to the days I should have had as a twenty something. Messy bed, messy kitchen, no room. For now, though, I’m putting off the choice and living out my office and an extended-stay hotel on 95th. They don’t call it extended-stay, of course. They call them “executive suites” or “furnished apartments”. No matter what they call them, they’ll still be the dumping ground for lonely men away from home for business or the divorced that haven’t yet found their feet. Even with the relative luxury and the regular hotel guests, there is an air of disillusionment. I both pity and envy those of the Marmara that haven’t a clue of its deeper purpose, the blonde housewife staying two floors down, with her two bubbling children taking a break from the Midwest, all wide-eyed and certain the city is so much more than it can ever be. I wonder if my own children and grandchildren ever were that naïve, or if raising them in the city has simply stolen that chance from them completely.
Mostly, though, I wonder if it isn’t time that I find people outside the office to socialize. With a divorce, you lose your circle of friends, everyone you thought you knew. Suddenly, there are no more invitations to Yankees games (though they all knew I was a Mets fan), no more offers of a beer during football Sunday. Perhaps that is the biggest casualty of all that, my social life. Perhaps, though, I don’t really need it. I suppose only time will tell. |
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[Sep. 17th, 2009|10:50 am] |
Jo got the house appraised. "In case we ever want to move," which really means "for when YOU move out." A part of me was praying that it had magically gone down in value, that even with all the upgrades we've put in over the past twenty plus years, it would be worth less than what we bought it for, but it's not, it's worth more. A lot more, enough more that when those papers come (and they will come) I will find myself without a home. The only question now is if it will be sold and the money split or if she'll get to keep it. In a way, I can't blame her if she does. It's her home, too, but God, I don't want to go through that. I don't want to spend weeks living out of boxes in some extended-stay hotel while I try to find a place I can afford. I don't want to worry about being a bachelor again. I don't want to become my brother, dating a girl (as sweet as she is) young enough to be my daughter. I don't want to plan another wedding, another family. I don't want a mid-life crisis. I don't want this damn divorce (though I'm not stupid enough to think the marriage can be salvaged) but it's coming regardless, waiting in the wings for the right moment to pounce.
Some days, I can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be better to be proactive about this whole process, if it would be like a band-aid with the pain less the quicker you pull. Should I start looking for places to live? Should I go and actually get the papers? But I don't have the guts, can't pull the trigger hard as I try. We were supposed to be the marriage that worked out. High school sweethearts. You shouldn't be married for thirty plus years only to fall apart now. We've been through too much, survived this long. It seems silly to kill it just because of something like no more passion. Surely there's another way to solve this? But instead of doing something one way or the other, dragging Jo to marriage counseling or filing the papers myself, I just sit here and wait, and perhaps that's the worst part of all. |
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| OOC NOTE |
[Sep. 16th, 2009|07:33 pm] |
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Everything below this point is considered null and void. Feel free to read it to get a handle on Alex's personality, but any notes mentioning his job and/or location (specifically Boston)are now irrelevant. |
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