Good Mourning

My last entry was posted on his 10-year anniversary. 10 years! It seems like a long time, and so significant. So important, yet this was the first year I forgot. I didn't call anyone to see if they were thinking about him, too. Just to check in to make sure everyone was okay, like I usually would. I forgot, completely. Usually, the date looms and I start to feel a bit crazy. Remembering that day with such clarity, it almost feels as if no time at all has passed. I give myself the okay to act out, to act the way I feel... a little bit crazy. Crazy with memories, loss, nostalgia. This year, I still went crazy, but didn't know why. I was actually having a GREAT time.

I went out and got drunk. Drunker than I've been in a long time. I'm a casual drinker and I can have a beer and call it a night. Sometimes, though, the wine goes down too easily. I start talking loudly and laughing and probably end up with a few purple stains on whatever I am wearing. Good times. Times when you know you should stop, but you're just having too much fun and don't want the fun to end with the last sip from your glass. So fill it up again, and let the fun continue.

I was on my way from the party to a friend's house, late. Going to see his newborn baby girl, knowing it was inappropriate that I was drunk, but not caring. My husband was there and I was going to pick him up. I had a message from my mother, so on the bus ride uptown (I never take the bus... another sign of just how drunk I was!), I returned her call. I was the annoying woman talking too loudly on the cell phone about completely inappropriate things. That is the word to sum up my behavior when I drink: inappropriate. Anyway, talking to my mother about ovulation cycles and whatever, when she brings up the anniversary.

GASP! I forgot, I say, and I start to cry. She comforts me and tells me it's okay, that it's a good thing. That it doesn't mean that I've forgotten him, but just that I'm maybe moving on a bit. That it's significant that this would happen at the 10 year mark. That it's okay. But to me, it wasn't. I should have called her. Called my grandmother, my sister, my brother. I should have mentioned it to my husband. But I forgot. Simply forgot.

I spent a long teary-eyed evening after that, trying to get other people to tell me it's okay. When I should have been celebrating the birth of their baby, I was instead mourning for my own loss so many years ago. Sometimes I hate myself for the things I do, the way I act. Deep down, I know it is okay, and I don't want to spend my life counting the years that my father has been dead, but I also want to keep the clarity of the memories that I have of him alive. Next year, perhaps a quiet walk outside, sober, alone with my thoughts. Appropriate.

You Must Go!

I'm in advertising and recently I started to wonder "How subliminal is subliminal marketing?" I remember when I was young, in school, taking a fun class about advertising, being shown print ads that included subliminal messages. The liquor ad that had the word "sex" faintly written within the ice-filled glass, indiscernible to the unaware reader flipping through their magazine. Did they get the sudden urge to have some vodka? I'm not sure, but I like the idea of using the most discreet form of psychology to get people to buy your product. Kind of like having someone whisper in the ear of a person you are attracted to "She is SO pretty. You like her. You love her. She is so cool and popular" thus making you appear in a different, more flattering light.

The reason I started to think about this is that I am in the midst of planning a trip to Mexico. Never having been, I thought it would be the perfect long weekend getaway. We'd avoid the spring breakers and go south of Cancun where it's a little less crazy. Sounded divine. Until I started seeing the flight prices increase. And then, every person I knew either was also planning a trip to the same part of Mexico or knew somebody else who was. It seemed that the world was going to be where I wanted to be. And I was shocked. I mean, who goes to Mexico in the summer, when it's already hot here? And why had I never heard about this place before, and now when I discovered it, it seems like the most popular destination ever. Was there a hardcore marketing effort out there that I was unaware of? Was I being subliminally directed to go there by sneaky advertising, whispers in my ear?

Of course, I don't know. If I knew, it wouldn't be subliminal. But I am going to have to redirect my thinking and choose someplace else, where I can get the cheap airfare that I expected for this trip and stay in just as nice a place, without bumping into my colleagues in the infinity pool or while ordering an icy Corona. Perhaps I should start my own campaign, sending the airfare wars in a different direction, taking some attention off of my destination of choice. Perhaps a mass worldwide office email would do the trick? I just have to figure out how to hide my message, but make it impossible for people to resist the urge to go someplace, anyplace other than Mexico, in June.

The World is Your Oyster

I've been around the world and I, I, I... want more! I've had the travel bug for as long as I can remember. I still love the idea that a road can lead from New York to California, and getting my driver's license was the start of finding the freedom that I thirsted for. The freedom of sand on my feet, wind in my hair, a couple of dollars in my pocket. I relished the idea of a road trip somewhere new, getting lost a highlight rather than a disruption.

My desire to travel had been piqued long before that, though, when a second cousin, whom I really didn't know that well, sent me a postcard from Paris. I kept that hanging by my bed, the edges frayed from me toying with it while I stared at it, hoping to one day go myself, Paris seeming so far away for a little girl from the country. In my home, vacations equaled getting in the car and driving, to Cape Cod, to New Jersey, even to Florida. We did not fly anywhere. We couldn't afford to. Instead, my mother would wake us early, early morning, the day we were departing, sometimes without us even knowing we were going (she didn't want us to get overly excited and unruly during the weeks leading up to our vacation, I suppose) and we would get into a stuffed car and watch the sun rise as we traveled to our destination. I loved watching the road roll on by, knowing we would soon be at the beach for a week of vacation that, as a child, felt like a month.

The day finally came when I was offered the opportunity to take a business trip to Edinburgh, Scotland. I did not care about receiving the training that I was being asked to get, but I jumped at the chance and flew, for the first time, and by myself, to a far-off land. I toured the city, met some new people and enjoyed a quaint little room in a bed and breakfast. Solo. Happy. I came back knowing that my journey had just begun.

After that, a joint trip to London and a tour of Ireland with a close girlfriend. A solo trip to Amsterdam before heading back to England to attend a wedding of the woman responsible for sending me off to Scotland. A trip with a girlfriend to Italy. Various jaunts to the Caribbean. The trip of a lifetime with another close friend to Japan. And then my husband came along. Trips with him to Paris (at long last), Spain, Portugal. I think of the places we'll go and I get excited. It is my lifelong dream to see as much of the world as I can before I die. It's an unquenchable thirst that I have, documented vigorously with scrapbooks and albums that I look over from time to time when I am about to embark on another journey.

Now, because of that Paris postcard, I send my niece and nephews postcards from wherever I go, trying to show them that the world is theirs and is bigger than their backyard, but not as big as it appears. Go. See. Come back home. And do it again.