my matthew is gone

“Matthew” the kitty was euthanized Monday morning around 9:15am; he was 19-years old. I’d been called to the EXbf’s condo Sunday night to assess the declining health situation; though it was painful to witness the labored breathing and obvious discomfort I at least captured one last hour with the best cat ever. I lay prone on the hallway floor for a few moments to make sure Matthew knew I’d come back — that I’d not forgotten, his noble presence in my life.

Those non-pet owner types won’t ever get this type of commentary because they’ve not experienced the unconditional love a pet brings into one’s everyday life. For the record Matthew was a most excellent cat. He defined the very best years of my long-gone 25+ year partnership. I’ll skip any more fond recollections because I frankly can’t write three sentences regarding his death that doesn’t spiral me further into heartache. I’ll leave it at this: I didn’t cry at my own father’s funeral. But then again he wasn’t a man who knew much about “unconditional love.”

you + me = love ~ the undisputed truth (1977)

how I lost 4.5 hours saturday

The tree came down this weekend; it’s the longest I’ve ever kept it up post holiday but, well, I didn’t have the energy. Saturday morning I thought: “Seriously? W T F? Get that tree down or toss a bag over it.”

So it came down. The ornaments were all individually hand-wrapped in tissue and I lined the box with bubble wrap in case I should move before the next Christmas season. You just never know. So there’s that.

where for art thou romeo

I know. It’s been a week or so since I last popped in. This blog is like an unfurnished, rental apartment: I stop by every so often to see if the heat is on and if the toilets flush properly while waiting for new tenants. Only there aren’t any new tenants. Just me. And I’m sucking at keeping up with this blog’s curb appeal. Frankly I still have no energy for any life detail other than work. (the tree is still up) I remain exhausted and have been muttering hallelujah ever since the Christmas season shimmied off into the crushed, glitter foil tiaras of new year’s trash heaps.

This week marks my 6-month dateline at the ‘new’ job. I remain readily fearful and easily sidetracked by multi-tasking; I feel very much like those archaic plate jugglers that use to appear on The Ed Sullivan Show. Now if I could only learn to fart ‘Flight Of The Bumblebee’ I’d have an act for the road. But I digress.

In the last month I’ve forecast and developed a half-million advertising budget — from radio and print to online impressions, redesigned the company’s shopping bag to a chic, low-luxe eurotote that fashionistas will want to carry lunch bits and Tory Burch ballet flats to & from work, designed and presented an emerging advertising brand campaign, implemented a new tagline, coordinated pending photographer/talents, updated some web imagery and — ongoing, posted daily content and graphic elements to the company’s social media presence. And you wonder where I’ve been? I have no energy left for anything but comfort food and bed.

This past weekend was spent — minus an evening’s dinner out, in bed. It still takes the weekend for me to recharge. I don’t know how or why I’m fatigued but it’s an emerging reality that sorta concerns me. Is this what ‘getting old’ feels like? Does it become a matter of not wanting to engage because one is physically not able or is it BECAUSE one simply doesn’t have the energy to back up the “can do” spirit of earlier decades that one turns to a lump on the sofa? This puzzles me; I don’t mind growing old but acting old is an entirely other matter.

The new year has brought a bit of sad news. A friend lost a friend, suddenly; he talked to him one day — gone the next. If you think you are immune to life’s cruel twists and turns of fate think again. Go back to a year ago: think of those folks gathered to hear Representative Gifford speak and recall how so many lost their lives in a jiffy flash. Time is far too precious to waste on the petty, the ignorant and the untrue. Today’s lesson? Go make beauty in your world; share it. It’s really later than any of us think. Dance in your underwear once in a while; maybe go balls out and skip the underwear.

new year take down

Happy New Year. Did y’all survive the ball drop? We have such mild weather here it seemed very much like a damp evening in October. Meh. Yesterday I hit the ground running with the take down of all Christmas trim. Minus the tree which I didn’t have the energy to tackle. Plus there’s that whole ‘Epiphany’ thang and if this is indeed the last year of existence according to the Mayan calendar I want to be right with lil’ baby Jesus. Just saying.

A young friend who has more smarts about him than I do at this over-the-hill age suggested that everyone write themselves a ‘new year’ letter. One writes about their accomplishments and victories of the past year while noting goals and objectives for the new year. I suppose the scenario illustrates a feel good moment for what one has overcome while providing a short list of new reasons to get out of bed. It sounds like a self-empowering OPRAH idea as we sometimes lose sight of small victories in our hustle-bustle world. Too, it’s good to commit to paper some notion of what challenges/desires are up ahead. Mostly I’d just like my closets cleaned and organized, the real ones — and the emotional ones, too.

It’s gently snowing now; just blustery snow that won’t amount to much at all but it’s covering the rooftops and alley-ways beneath my windows. And where was this bit of winter wonderland LAST week when I really wanted it? Nada. Zip. On the plus side we’re skating into January minus any snow accumulation to date. Maybe the next three months will fly by with moderate snowfall. Probably not though.

happy new year

Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Maybe so. Welcome to the New Year; the proverbial clean slate we all wait for to begin diets and a myriad of other muttered-beneath-our-breath healthier choices that signal yet another 365 calendar days to grab whatever brass ring alludes our vision of happiness. I for one will begin the new year with a binge cleaning of closets. My emotional connection to special clothing isn’t really necessary any longer; what am I going to do with a ’90s VERSACE shirt anyway? Out it goes. And much more. I am jettisoning the very detritus that keeps me stuck when it is time to sail, soar or leap.

2012 brings change. More change. And that’s not necessarily anything I’m frightened of any longer. Once you’ve scrubbed a public toilet for $9.10 an hour you soon realize how resilient one can become to make ends sorta’ meet while one’s professional curriculum vitae hops the last bus to been there/done that-ville. And that’s okay.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in this nasty old year is that change is part of growth; there can be no fresh growth without risky change. Those of you who beat frayed emotional quilts down by the river of silent tears over loss, betrayal and unfilled wants need to load up the wet wash and come home. This is our year sweetie.

I adore this photo of society doyenne Nancy “Slim” Keith with über stylish Diana Vreeland and husband, Reed, at a Park Avenue New Year’s Eve soiree circa 1952. They probably all thought they’d live forever, and in this photograph — they do. They remind us that Park Avenue is not so much a birth privilege, an address or an income level as it is a state of mind sweetie darlings. Now pass around that iced Veuve and let’s get on with it; we look good.