Dear Stage

"and all the men and women merely players"

Dear downton Milwaukee

this is a picture I took of a fountain in downton Milwaukee

Dear Multi-Tasking

I do not have good eyesight. So for some 20 years now I have been wearing contacts. In the years prior to that I wore glasses, but glasses are not my favorite. Though I very much like the frames I ow now, I still prefer my contacts. 

I used to wear the sort of contacts that you take out and then put in solution to be cleaned of the eye gunk so you could see anew the next day. As modern times advance, though, such things are considered old school and the kids? Well the kids put in a FRESH PAIR of contact lenses EVERY. DAY. This is fine except that daily-wear contacts are expensive.

I was wearing the every day contacts but I guess I have really dry eyes and the particular brand of contact lenses I was wearing tore several times. All manner of bits of plastic have been lodged in my eyeballs. Twice I have driven home with one seeing eye as the contact had ripped in the other and I didn't have my glasses with me. I finally decided that maybe a different brand of contacts would be a good idea. 

I thought that I could just go to my store of choice and get a different brand but they said I had to see the eye doctor first and have an exam. 

Eye exams are innocuous enough. For me the most awkward part is when the doctor gets real close to your face with that light. I nearly always laugh out loud because that proximity makes me feel uncomfortable. 

My other stressor, if it can be called that, is the pressure I suddenly feel to make no mistakes in citing the row of letters I must call out and the need I feel to see as many rows as possible. I don't care that the point is that no one can see that last teeny, tiny line. I CAN SEE IT. I CAN. You know, blind me, who is here for new contacts. 

Also, I guess I am a big liar. Because I also feel worried that I will choose the wrong prescription. 

When the doctor says: "Which is better, one or two? ONE? Or TWO?," I kind of panic. And they have to flip the lens a few times before I can say for sure One or Two. I am always worried that I will then end up with headaches from squinting or the exact same prescription I had which is not very good anyways which is why I am at the eye doctor. And maybe it was TWO! Why did I think One? Why can't I see? What is wrong with my vision? Will I end up blind? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

And then I answer: "Uhh...two?"

At this particular exam was a new fun feature because the doctor used that machine to do what is really the most worst part of the eye exam, that puff of air they shoot in your eye. 

So, you know, you have to rest your chin on the...chin rest, and then press your forehead into that....forehead bar, and then hold your eye open. But I have no torso, so when I sit in those chairs, I am never the right height for the chin rest and the forehead bar. I sit at the edge of the seat and I try to force my large head and sunken torso into the eye-puffer position, but I am also not close enough or in the right spot. The doctors always try to adjust the chair and machine but my belly and "the girls" only allow for so much more adjusting. My optometrist was determined though, and she pressed and smashed and so I ended up with a new eye prescription and a mammogram. 

The doctor also said that I have large optic nerves which means there is a chance I will have glaucoma or something so I have to go to another doctor. 

Walking out of the store to my car, I started to stumble and kind of limp. I thought that it was because they had dilated my eyes and it had thrown off my equilibrium. It felt like every time I put down my left foot I started to twist and kind of spin. I keep looking down, feeling dizzy and disoriented. I finally figured out that my strappy sandal has blown a strap and so when I take a step it twists my shoe out to the left and to compensate my foot and then body twist and turn a bit and I feel like before I reach my car I have completed a series pirouettes on account of my broken shoe. 

So, I have simplified as I now own less shoes.

The more important part is that I got my prescription and eventually I was able to get my contacts and so far, my eyes have been free of ripped contact debris. 

It is nice to be able to see and it is nice to walk in a straight line. 

Dear Fish

About two months ago, I obtained a pet fish.

I'm not what you would call a "pet" "person." I literally cannot handle pet hair. Like. Cannot. It is.

I. Cannot.

Also, know how they are called pets on account of a person could touch them and connect and feel comforted and such? I think that is just. I mean.

I. Cannot.

So, it made perfect sense that I would get a fish.Frankly, I blame dead grandma.

Well. That isn't really fair. One, because it isn't like her last words to me were: get a fish, baby. And two, a few years ago, I thought about getting a fish but then all I could think was: Ugh. I would have to like, clean the tank. And so much work. And do I really want one? I can barely keep these plants alive. And barely is my being generous to myself.

In more recent times, though, I was feeling a stronger urge to have a living thing in my home. I was talking this over with a friend and he suggested a fish store in the area where I could look at my options and discuss them with trained professionals.

So a trip was taken. Do you know what there are a lot of in the world? Fish. Fish species. Fish sorts. Fish plants, food, bowls, tanks, sceneries and. My god. Just. So. Many. Fish.

I went to the store fully intending to come home with my fish and their tank and all the possible fish names and the dream of something living in my life. Instead I came to my home and had a complete breakdown. Like, there was crying and texts of help and anxiety. And more crying.

I am straight up mentally ill.

My friend suggested that actually I was excited about the possibility of a fish and the fun of building the tank but it was being expressed as fear. This was insightful and also I believe, partly true. Because of my  afromentioned straight-up mental illness, excitement and happiness are complete shocks to my system and instead I went for my go-to feeling: fear, horror and more fear. I became so, so, so scared about owning a fish and what if it was the wrong fish? And I chose for it the wrong surroundings? What if it died? What if I didn't really want a fish but I wanted something that I could actually pet? What if I was finally accepted to teach abroad and was going to move away? Then I would have abandoned him? Is that the kind of "pet" "owner" I was?

All these unrealities to simply torture myself and to hide a truth of me: I allow my fears to suppress my joys. I think I have missed out on lots of happy times because of the fears; because of thinking I didn't deserve the joys. Considering this made me really want to change. All of this fear and horror and more fear is super exhausting. I am exhausted of carrying it and of having some many layers of feelings. I would like to feel calm and joy. I would like to be free.

So the next day, I went back to the store. I walked around forever. Looking at tanks and fish types and getting up the nerve to ask the salespeople a million questions about which fish would go best with which other fish. Naturally, the first person who offered to help me was a very petite, very strung-out on the crack-cocaine woman. I literally could not keep up with her. She ran from one side of the store to the complete polar opposite side. I showed her the one I was initially interested it and she was able to find, in under one minute, 75,000 other similar fish and both their desirable and undesirable companions.

The temperature of that store, combined with all of the water makes for a climate akin to a subtropic region. The climate, my terrible fear-excitement, fearcitement, if you will, and the act of chasing that woman around had me in a panic. She would briefly pause near a tank, rest her leg on a shelf and then begin very intensely rubbing said leg back and forth as she gave me a very jittery oration on the details and apparent personality of every single fish which has ever lived. She was pushing for which types liked and then would become transfixed with one. The rubbing would stop long enough for her to itch and sway and say which were her favorite and why and how they would likely die.

I could feel my breakdown returning. I was finally able to lose her, by which I mean, she ran somewhere and I remained stationary. I hid in a corner staring at fish castles trying to compose myself and decide if I still really wanted any of this.

A drug-free saleswoman approached me and provided me with some legitimate, calm help. I continued walking around. I found a really lovely fish who appeared to be wearing mascara and I was all: you go, fish. She (Well, I think it was a she. I have no way of knowing. I mean, there are ways to know to fish gender, but I am not adept at those ways, so let's just go with she because it is me telling this story) seemed like my fish. I walked away from her long enough to find the un-intoxicated saleswoman to ask more about what this fish would need in order to not be dead the next morning but she was helping someone else. I saw other people approach the tank where my lovely mascara-ed fish was and the panic was back. That was MY fish. Ya'll strangers better recognize!

Do people say that anymore?

Anyways...I didn't say that but I did go back over to keep guard over her. The saleswoman told me all the things the fish would need, including little other fish for motion so that it would not die of depression. So I walked around more and began the practicality of caring for a living thing which always boils down to money. As it turns out, fish, fish tanks, fish food, and fish decor cost several million pretty pennies. Then I started to remember who I was. I am the most fickle. I also don't really want a pet. Also, remember all of my dead plants? What are you doing, Liantonio?

So I walked over to the beta wall. I looked at all of those solitary, angry fish. Some appeared to be in comas. Then I found him. He was red but because of the shape of the bowls and the water distortion, it was hard to really tell what he looked like. I turned the bowl and that fish seemed like he would kill every molecule. Me being me, I turned the bowl more. And oh my did that enrage him! I spent more time staring at him, rotating his environs. Walking over to different bowls.

Two hours later I had his home, a castle, sparkly accoutrement for the bottom of the bowl, and one angry, angry Betta.

I have named him Futomaki (FOOO-TOE-MAH-KEY) which is a kind of sushi. I call him Futo for short. He is a weirdo.

Do you see that little castle in the background? I mostly got it because I thought it would be cute. Futo routinely hides in it. I have never seen a fish do that. Part of me finds that endearing, part of me thinks it is an indication that this fish and I have matching dysfunctions, and part of me thinks this means Futo is real, real dumb on account of it is a clear, small bowl, with a small castle and when he "hides" in it, his head and bottom still poke out, and also, it is a clear bowl. Sooooooooooo, I can totally see him. He would make the worst spy ever.

I have cleaned his bowl several times since his adoption. He freaks out every time. He goes limp in the fish-net. I transfer him to a different container to clean out his little bowl. As I pour him into the new container I feel like he clings to the edge, pleading for none of this to happen again. In the temporary bowl, he swims around in frantic, furious circles.  I used to feed him after the cleaning as his reward for making it through the trauma, but once he is all set in the newly cleaned bowl, he goes on a hunger strike. All of the food eventually falls to the bottom and then I am annoyed because now it is no longer clean. He hides in the castle or lays among the fake plant leaves on his back staring up at the top, as if to ask: What did I ever do to deserve this? Why? WHHHHHYYYYYYY? Last week, he just laid on the pebbles on the bottom of the bowl for several hours not moving. I was certain he was dead. 

After bringing him home, I was still terrified. There was more crying. I woke up after the first night and asked: "Futo, are you dead?" He did not answer me, thank goodness, but that is because fish don't talk or if they do, I can't hear them since they live underwater and I don't speak 'fish', not because he was dead. 

Sometimes I talk to him. I don't think he cares for that. I think he is annoyed when I come home from work each day. But I still like having him around. I am impressed that he remains alive, and actually with myself because despite my fears, I did it. I have my own little, freak pet. There is more life in my home because I didn't let the fear take away everything. Hopefully one day I will conquer more fears. This is just my start.

Little weirdo.

Dear Love Story

Dear Denzel

A few weeks ago I went to a resale shop near my apartment. I was looking for a coat, but, as always, was drawn to the jewelry.

I love me some baubles, ya'll; rings, especially. I have...several...rings. I think they are fun. I don't spend too much loot on them because I am fickle and a ring I am obsessed with at one time, will soon make me think, why did I love you so much? I don't have too many pieces of significance either. I have a ring which belonged to my grandmother and recently, two very kind people gave me a key necklace with the word strength engraved on it. That really matters to me, but most of what I have is very on-again, off-again.

Of course, the meanest pieces in my jewelry collection are those with whom I am still in love, but which no longer fit. And yet I still keep them in my collection, foolishly thinking that at some point, my fingers will...become slim? Sure. My clothes are pretty standard (I never met a neutral I didn't like and black is my jam), but how I like to dress it up is with my jewelry.

I was looking at the rings and a "gold" ring caught my eye. It was very sparkly and kind of delicate which isn't usually my go-to. I like chunky and large rings. I favor those pieces which might could also serve as weapons. Multi-functional accoutrement, humans. That is how you make your money work for you.

Anyways....

The delicate gold ring was very pretty times and sparkled under the glass case. I asked the saleswoman in the store if I could see the ring. She obliged me and I do what I always do: put the ring on, turned my hand this way and that, took the ring off. Looked at it more. Tried to imagine what outfits I owned which would go with the ring.

Here is a thing about me: I have often selected my clothes for the day based on jewelry I want to wear. I think sometimes what takes me longest to get ready is determining which pants, skirt, or top would go best with the ring, earrings, bracelet or necklace that I have decided to wear.

So I was trying to think of what outfits I own that lend themselves to "gold" jewelry and if I could really make this more delicate ring, me. I wasn't sure about the ring. It was very pretty, but I don't necessarily go for that. I mean, I don't want my things to be ugly, but this seemed more feminine that I usually feel I am. I was being real, real indecisive, you guys.

The saleswoman tolerated my lengthy decision-making process and picked up on my on-the-fence-ed-ness. She decided to do her part:

"It's very pretty."

"Yes, it is," I said with hesitant admiration.

"I really like it," she replied.

"Me too?" I responded.

I thought I liked it, but was I IN LOVE with it? The time I was taking probably should have been my answer, because there are moments when you see a thing or put on a thing, and you just get a feeling like, THIS. THIS is perfect and I love it and it shall be mine forever and I could never have more love for anything in the whole wide world as I do for this most divine item which heretofore I could not have even imagined but now know I can't ever be without.

I am materialistic.

I didn't have that moment with this ring, but it was pretty. It shined so in the sunlight. It looked nice on my finger. And the saleswoman said it was nice and no one else will have the same ring BECAUSE IT IS A RESALE SHOP AND IT IS UNIQUE. I could probably only find another one like it if I visited several nursing homes in the area, comparing my newly bejeweled hand to those of other women who I would assume are from the same era which produced this trinket.

So I bought it. It was $10. I lectured myself for the extravagance. As the saleswoman rung me up, she said:

"You can tell people Denzel gave it to you."

And that, that right there, almost made me say no deal.

At first, it made me feel old. Like, Denzel is my demographic? Isn't he like, 50? But then I also thought, "what makes you think I want Denzel?" And then it was like, oh yeah. I am black and so is he. Duh, Liantonio.

And that isn't a thing, right? It's just an assumption people make. The blacks marry the blacks, and the whites the whites, and the Asians the Asians, and the polygamists everyone.

Except, since my ma and pa were of different races, I don't often make that assumption. And there are even times when I am more surprised to see two people of the same race together.  I always assume it is who you are attracted to but I also think you have to be brave because it isn't really the norm. People stare and people make comments. People of all the races make comments. My most-lovely grandmother once told me how it doesn't work to have two races inter-marry. And I was like, um, hi Grandma! I am the product of that afromentioned travesty.

I don't know that I really have a type. I will say that I don't often imagine I would be with a black man. I have yet to encounter one who makes me feel as much love as Johnny Depp or Ray LaMontagne, though there have been moments of glorious awe with Sydney Poitier. I am not opposed to it. I always felt like it would be the person that I felt connected to, that I could really talk to, that I felt the most comfortable with, who really saw me. That person, would be my person. I pretend on our conversations or jokes or travels or outfits; I don't often envision the color of his skin.

I haven't really ever been set up with anyone. Once someone tried to encourage a relationship with a man from Africa. That...was not successful. A year ago, my friend told me that I should marry a white guy. She felt they would be a better fit for me. That made me laugh out loud. When I was a teenager, my mother told me that I would probably marry an older man. I remember being appalled at first, and then she said she didn't mean an OLD man but that he would probably be older than me.

At the time, I agreed. I didn't really see myself getting married very young. Then, I didn't see myself married because I have many issues and fears which now I see as being kind of dumb, but they were them. Those feelings shaped my choices at the time and I don't know that I regret them. I regret some of the things I said about them to others, definitely, but in some ways I feel like those feelings kept me safe from trying to feel lovable with someone who wouldn't have really loved me because I didn't know enough yet; enough of me or life, to choose well. 

I try to imagine my life with a dude. Sometimes it seems so nice and other times, I shudder and make a yuck face and feel grateful for my solitude. There are times when I wish very much there was someone to hold my hand or help me choose. And there are other times when I am so proud that I get to choose on my own.

It is how everyone, married or single, must feel. Sometimes the gig you have is great and other times, there is this lack. Sometimes there is longing and other times there is yuck face.

I didn't say any of this to the saleswoman. I smiled at what she said and I still bought the ring. In the times that I have worn it, there hasn't been the opportunity to tell someone that is from Denzel, OR Johnny, or Ray or Sydney, or anyone else.

Interestingly, I don't even want a wedding ring. I already have so many that I figured I would just alternate and wear one of those or get one that matched my wedding dress and wear that until I was sick of it and found something else. Then if the opportunity presented itself, I could say, this ring is from someone I love who loves me back. I adore it and hope to have it even when I am waiting for my fingers to get slim again.

And if I ever master things, I might be able to procure a ring for myself and say that last part, even now.

Dear Katherine and Tom

When my dad died, a lot of things were really crazy. Like, really crazy.

There were two funerals for my dad. At the first one, a friend of my dad's wife (my dad's wife would be my step-mother and is not the way I would refer to my own mother but instead the second woman my dad married; which is not to say there was a third, but just that she was not the person who birthed me and they got married when I was like, 20 or something, so I never called her my step-mother but none of this is the point,) came with us to dinner afterward. I was sitting at a table with my mom, my dad's wife, two of her friends and my sister. The one friend started to tell us that she had multiple personality disorder. She was telling us of all the places she'd woken up with no memory of how she'd gotten there. She told us how her kids liked one of her personalities because it was the personality of a child and how they would try to get that personality to "come out" so they could play together. When I look back at everything that happened upon finding out that my dead died, through the funerals and cleaning out his apartment and all the rest, I tell people that the most normal part of it all was the woman with the multiple personalities.


On October 25, my grandmother died.

It wasn't like with my dad. I was literally shocked by the news of my dad dying. He was not in good health, but death didn't seem like what would happen next. With my grandmother, I knew this was what was going to happen. I'd gone to see her a couple of times. I got to hear her talk a little bit to me and tell me one more time that she thought I looked nice, though I am pretty sure she didn't know who I was. I think she just thought I was a nice lady who was helping her while she was sick.

Watching, waiting, for a person to die is terrible, but the gift of it, is being able to tell the person goodbye. I got to tell my grandmother several times that I loved her and that she didn't have to be in pain anymore. I got to tell her what it would be like when I saw her again. I got to touch her face and hold her hand and sing to her a little bit.

One regret I have about my father's death is that I didn't go see his body before they cremated him. My dad lived about four hours away. When his wife finally got a hold of me to tell me that he had died and what she knew at that time, she said that they would wait for my sister and I to come and see him before they cremated him. I talked to my sister about it, but at the time, I didn't go. I was scared and freaked out and I didn't have a good relationship with my dad. The practical parts of me took over the feelings parts of me and I decided that I didn't need to see him. But I wish that I would have. I wish I would have seen him. I wish I could have told him goodbye.

During my grandmother's funeral, the things they said about her were true. She talked about her faith to the very end of her life. She did love to cook. She was incredibly talented. She was vain and tough and spoke her mind, even when the mind with which she was familiar was gone.  It was really nice to listen to someone say what I did know to be true about her.

When my dad died, many of the people who knew him came to tell me the nice things he'd done for them or with them. It was very bittersweet because it wasn't the person I knew. I was glad this was the experience they had but it left me no comfort at all. With my grandmother, there was a little more comfort.

My grandmother could barely walk, but when she was in the hospital, she kicked a nurse for trying to help her into bed.

She was incredible.

I do not know if my dad kicked a nurse when he was in the hospital. I do know that he drove himself to a second hospital because the first wasn't helping him and he still felt ill. He bled in his car. I remember wiping the blood out of his car because my sister was going to be driving it. There wasn't a lot of blood, but I remember cleaning it.

I feel sad that he didn't have any help at what was really a time when he needed it most.

When my grandmother was dying, her face appeared very contorted. Had she been able to see that face, she would not have been pleased. My grandmother cared very much about how a person looked. It must have been painful and exhausting for her, the dying process. After she finally had died, she looked the most like her self since she'd been in the hospital. Once it was all over, she was truly at rest. 

She used to always introduce me as her "oldest grand-baby" which sadly lost a touch of its charm as I became way more older. I used to feel a little embarrassed when she would do that, but now it makes me feel so incredibly sad to know that she isn't here to tell people that anymore.

My grandmother loved me unabashedly. I have a voice mail she left me in the summer saying how she just had to call to me that she loved me. I am heart-broken that there is no longer a person on the planet who loves me like that.

That is probably over-dramatic.

She was a flawed person. I didn't know her well enough. I didn't spend enough time with her, but it was so great knowing she was there. It meant something that she was here, even if I wasn't with her.

I acknowledge that this post is all over the place and also that it is not really funny. I apologize.  I just feel really sad. It is a romantic idea I have, of a person in my life who knows me so intimately and could advise me, particularly in this time of my life where I just feel so completely without an idea of what to do. I know I need to fix my person; I do not know how. In my dreams, I would be able to talk to my dad or my grandmother about it and they would know me and offer some sort of advice.

Instead.

Instead, I am just me. Really confused. Wasting more time. Wishing that the oldest grand-baby had...something. Had more.

At least I know that she did love me.  And the last time we talked, she thought my tights were really pretty.

I know that my father loved me, too, in his own, warped way. I don't remember at all the last conversation we had. I am certain it was brief. I hope I would have told him I loved him at the end of it. I don't know if I did. I know it would have been strained.

I know it won't all feel sad forever. It will pass and this blog will lighten up again. Maybe I will even start writing in it more often!!

There you go, humans. That was your one joke.