Notes from the Sissy

I'm a crybaby. I don't mean that I throw a fit if I don't get what I want (although Kelly would argue that point), rather, I am reduced to a big puddle of salty sadness at the drop of a dime. Years ago I quit Oprah because I couldn't make it through a single fucking episode without staining my cheeks and feeling like I'd been the victim of an emotional beating. I cry during commercials about family and love and cotton... seriously. And it's not uncommon for the tears to arrive when I see a hunched over granny making her way down the street in her fine pressed suit, clutching her tiny pocketbook. Maybe I love people too much. Maybe I'm seeing life through different lenses lately. Maybe I'm just a big pussy. Nonetheless it's gotten way out of control; as of late the water works are more prone to leakage than ever before and the timing seems impeccably inopportune. Allow me to illustrate.

* For those who don't obsessively stalk my facebook status updates (ha) I spent the last four days in court... as an alternate juror... on a prostitution case... against a transsexual. God I love Los Angeles. Anyway, the deets of the trial are an entirely different blog I hope to write soon but it's worth noting that I had a soft spot in my heart for this cross-dressing hooker. She was tall like me and had a nice smile and because of my affinity for sexual liberation I happen to feel that prostitution is one of those silly laws created by uptight ass-faces. Suffice to say I thought it was kind of joke that she was being charged for trying to make a buck off something I give away for free every day; I admired her entrepreneurial spirit.

Anyway, I didn't end up in the deliberations or voting because I was the understudy, er alternate, so when the jury came back to announce their decision I was in as much anticipation as She-Man and the attorneys. One of the jurors stood and announced that the jury had found her not guilty. My eyes were fixed on her as the verdict was read. Her eyes filled with tears and her lip shook ever so slightly as the announcement of freedom set in. And seeing this honest expression of relief and gratitude evoked the tears in me. I knew it was inappropriate to openly share in the emotion of the moment so I spastically blinked and stared heavenward while secretly celebrating that "my side" had won. Yes, I know, I have the maturity of an eight year old.

* The other day my inner big baby reared its ugly head early on. Kelly and I were doing the little dance of our daily routine- the teeth brushing, bed making, paper reading, coffee drinking that makes up our morning. I made myself a pb&j and took it into the bedroom to enjoy in bed. Kelly walked by and noticed me stuffing the sandwich in my face like it was my last fucking meal and said, "What's that? You're having breakfast? Why didn't you ask me if I wanted one too? You know I always do that for you babe? That's so unlike you." And then he continued into the bathroom to groom and beautify.

Tears sprang to my eyes as I sat there in self-pity that I had been so thoughtless and selfish. He was right, he does always offer to make me whatever he's making himself. In fact many mornings he serves me breakfast in bed like a fucking queen. Here I was acting like we were on some 'every man for himself' desert island. I considered that I would be if I didn't stop acting like such a diva. And the tears kept coming.

* The other day during lunch I walked to a restaurant and sat at a table alone. I am reading a book by Joan Dideon called The Year of Magical Thinking, her memoir about the year following the sudden death of her husband of thirtysome years. They shared a love of writing, both accomplished and respected authors, travel and each other. At one point she reflects on the last birthday present he gave her...

Before dinner John sat by the fire in the living room and read to me out loud. The book from which he read was a novel of my own, A Book of Common Prayer, which he happened to have in the living room because he was rereading it to see how somthing worked technically. The sequence he read out loud was one in which Charlotte Douglas's husband Leonard pays a visit to the narrator, Grace Strasser-Mendana, and lets her know that what is happening in the country her family runs will not end well. The sequence is complicated (this was in fact the sequence John had meant to reread to see how it worked technically), broken by other action and requiring the reader to pick up the undertext in what Leonard Douglas and Grace Strasser-Mendana say to each other. "Goddamn," John said to me when he closed the book. "Don't you ever tell me again you can't write. That's my birthday present to you."

I remember tears coming to my eyes.

I feel them now.

In retrospect this had been my omen, my message, the early snowfall, the birthday present no one else could give me.

He had twenty-five nights left to live.

The waitress asked if she could bring me a tissue as the little boy sitting at the table next to me stared. I felt like a fool for being unable to repress the emotional response I had to the text. Yet, is that really important? Self-censoring, especially in a private moment like reading a book? I felt alive that words on a page could evoke that kind of response; I felt inspired to cultivate my own ability to create that in others.

I guess what I'm getting at is that maybe this cognizance for what is around me, this awareness of the extraordinary in the ordinary, will make me a better writer. Or maybe it will make me a more loving, forgiving, compassionate person. At the price of a couple tears, it sure seems like a steal.