Wedding Day part I: What We Wore


On the eve of our Big Day, Giordano ravaged his closet for the most groomish combination he could muster.  In the way of pants, all he had (that was clean) was a profoundly casual pair of blue “trousers”. (Haha… Europeans!)  He sulked as he announced that they were “ruined”. I never figured out what he meant by that… but my hypothesis is that he was having some pre-game jitters, and eager to indulge in a steaming plate of saucy, Italian-style drama.  He put on a white button-down shirt that was suave enough (though he did toss in a token whimper about not having a flower to pin to his breast). It was the JACKET portion of the outfit that really krushed the ball.


All his sport coats looked laughable with his “ruined blue trousers”.  Two disparate worlds colliding. He was miserable as he tore through his entire, dusty wardrobe in search of the winning combination.  A tickled spectator, I sat on the couch marveling at this previously hidden facet of my darling Ball and Chain (wink). I had zero emotional investment in this scene of the Play.  Which infuriated him! He SO wanted me to care. He began to lash out. At one point he told me he hated me.


Some might argue for the undeniable wrongness of such an extreme, poisonous statement…


But I totally got it.  This unsightly voice of the wounded feminine has struck out in pain through me too many times to mention.  Awash with empathy, I made a concerted effort to shift gears from “being entertained” to “giving a shit”. When he discovered his navy blue wool sailor jacket* in the closet, peace fell upon us like a blanket of snow from the Heavens.  He ended up looking pretty damn sexy.


*A quintessential note on the jacket- Giordano bought it with me in Nevada City last year, from a super hip used clothing store called “Solstice”.  He fussed for a solid three minutes because the arms were too short, before finally committing to it. He donned it the foggy, early November morning, as he traipsed with a grave face and broken heart across my gravel driveway, laden with suitcases… toward the airport, and then home to Italy, doubting that we’d ever see each other again.  


I didn’t show Giordano my wedding outfit until we dressed that morning.  He called me “Rockstar”. Guilty as charged;) But the deeper cut, is that I was adorned in bittersweet memories of a life of love lost.  Not that love can ever be lost. But I sure have lost some lovers along this messy, fuckin impermanent Journey.


From my ears, hung gigantic, glittering black lightning bolts that my Ma bought me on one of our last outings “to Town”, before her death.  I wear them when I want to remember my true identity as an Unstoppable Cosmically Sourced Superheroine.


My dress, a teensy, white and black, form-fitting number that I found in a bag of used clothing passed along to me by the chic teachers at Serena’s school, days before.  I guess nothing too bitter about this… but certainly the sweentess of always being given what I need, in the mOMent that I need it. Oh and the sweetness of feeling fabulous in such a miniscule dress!


My slender, strong legs were adorned with my remaining pair of “Dead Dan Tights”.  Maybe you’ve been with me since 2012, and peered through the shattered window of Athena Graceland as I navigated the death of my Beloved Dan.  My first initiation in the realm of loss. Dan was my lover, best friend and number one fan. In april of 2012, he was kayaking alone near his home in Costa Rica.  Navigating especially wild waters, he was thrown from his kayak, smashed his head on rocks, clambered to shore, and inscribed a message to me in the dirt with his final breaths:




Yes, Dan!…  Living I AM!


To soothe my thrashed heart, my friend Marty took me to a hip sock shop on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley and treated me to two exciting pairs of tights and two rad pairs of knee-high socks.  My leopard tights deteriorated… but the vibrant, blue lace pair are still going strong, and they made my wedding day cut!


What really made the outfit POP, was my Wonder Woman cowgirl boots.  I found them in a Western shop in Livermore, of all places. Ed (Serena’s Dad), took me there in the glorious spring of our romance, to buy me a pink cowgirl hat.   I swear, these boots pounced on me, and did not let me alone until they were MINE. All three hundred dollars of them. (Ed bought one, and I bought the other.) Like the earrings, they transport me to an elevated state of consciousness.  I become a version of myself that towers above the stratosphere and clearly rules the Yoniverse.


Recounting the sacred origins of my wedding day regalia, the tenderest rooms of my heart are flung wide open and I could easily crumple in an emotional heap and grieve the loss of Ones who mattered THE MOST and now seem so far.  The hella friendly ghosts of my crushingly blessed past. Ed is not dead yet. But I have not fully digested the agonies and the ecstasies he sparked in my soul. In fact, you should know that I just afforded myself the luxury of resting my face in my hands and letting loose deep, tearful cries.  I’m in a busy cafe. There’s a good chance nobody even noticed. People, myself included, are too busy being the center of their own damn universes. It’s incredible to be here… on this hella crowded dance floor, otherwise known as Earth.


Remembering Softens Me

Before I get too hot and heavy into any pressing, earth shattering topic, I need to tell you that I did a modestly dopey thing yesterday.  I copied and pasted the WRONG contents into my blog entry.  I accidentally pasted a duplicate of the previous blog… so if you read the same blog two days in a row and were left wanting your money back, feel free to go back to yesterday’s entry and get the REAL scoop on sacred syllables and menstrual blood at 3am.

And now back to our show.  I saw Eric (my ex-fiance) for the first time in over a year yesterday.  (We saw each other ONE other time since we broke up a little over two years ago.  Last April we shared a brief afternoon promenade through Rockridge.  The single moment from that day a year ago, still alive as though it will never die, vivid as a dream burned into a ravenous, wide mind is us wandering slowly down the quiet streets bursting with pregnant gardens and hearing a chorus of shrill, persistent bird voices.  Naturally we looked up and right in front of our faces was a nest of hungry, scruffy looking baby birds, beaks wide canyons of bottomless hunger and mom perched on the edge of the nest poised to regurgitate mouthfuls of sustenance to her screaming babes.  Dreams.  Doesn’t that strike you as a soft lucid image from but a dream?  Wandering aimlessly about the warm, spring sun drenched streets with Eric after not seeing him for an entire year is dreamish enough… but then the camera panning so randomly instantaneous to focus right in on the intimate living room of a family of birds going about their business without regard to our presence… think about it.  That’s indubitably the stuff of dreams.

And speaking of birds, seeing Eric yesterday for the first time since last April, I felt like a bird with no place to land.  For five years of our lives, we were each others’ home; a source of perpetual, unconditional refuge.   I had this idea before seeing him yesterday that he’d be SO radically different, and I would be too.  But it wasn’t quite like that.  To me, there was something so fundamentally the same about me and about him and about sharing a slice of time and space.  Except my perch was gone.  So instead, I flew in an endless slew of sacred circles, which rippled with beauty around the silent truth of the ISness of the moment.  Life is a twisted mess if you ask me.  And if you asked me WHY it was designed that way, I’d say as impetus to never give up on digging and diving beneath all the smarmy twisty-ness to find the real shit.  You know… The All Pervading Hallelujah behind the paradoxically sheerer than sin and denser than thou curtain that enshrouds our minds and our hearts and mischievously conceals the holy secret of the ONE.

All this to say… All this to say that I am still grieving the choice to ditch Eric.  God, I am noticing that life is NOT anything like it is in the movies. Did YOU ever notice that? Resolution and happy endings.  Real life feels more like a perpetual chain of making messes and then cleaning them up, making messes and then cleaning them up. (Or sometimes just leaving them to fester for a good while…)  But beautifully, like a poetic dance between the omniscient mess maker and the omnipotent mess cleaner-upper.  I always wonder WHY God would have invoked a world like this (assuming that God would do such an atrocious thing, which could be entirely missing the cosmic mark…shrug… but I digress.  I can imagine Omnipresence witnessing all this fantastical duality as if it were an ingeniously executed improvisational dance performance that strangely simultaneously shook and shimmied and twirled its way through Forever, and also erupted in a single flashing blink and was over before it began.

I feel guilty for expressing feelings and memories about Eric, since Mykael reads my blog.  But this is my truth and my mind and my life and I must express.  I must digest and grieve and transmute.  That’s just the way it is.  When I was “doctoring up” my tea at the condiment table (which is actually a miniature organ turned table by being covered in a single, thick sheet of glass…) (I’m at Gaylord’s today) I watched myself take a slurp of creamed and honey-ed up tea off the long handled spoon, gaze off in the distance, allowing the sensual experience of the combination of flavors to hit me.  My head was cocked to one side, like a bird listening intently… and then I felt myself nod, hesitate and add a splash more sweet, and a dash more cream.  It reminded me of the moment that Eric said he fell in love with me.

We were friends for a couple of years before we became “romantically involved”.  Then one day, the gears started shifting.  We went on this date to Stone Ridge Mall in Pleasanton, because we discovered that we had a mutual history with “pre-teen mall mania”, and neither of us had been to one, I mean SERIOUSLY [biblically] been to one since.  So we took BART out to Pleasanton one feverish spring afternoon.  (Sigh, spring is the BEST time to fall in love, now that I mention it.  Mykael and I fell in love in the spring time, too.)  I had made some knock-you-on-your-ass-strong pot banana bread for us to nosh on, so that our mall experience would be guaranteed to be nothing less than the maha of magical mystery tours.  We ate it, and then went to lunch at Fresh Choice!  (Can we PLEASE have a moment of silence for Fresh Choice?!?!?  Really.  Shhhhhh.

Okay.  Thank you.  That should suffice.)  The salad bar had two sides to it.  So, just for fun, (which we had no shortage of together) we split up and each went hunting and gathering on opposing sides of the bar.  Something you should know about me is that I take choice making VERY seriously… So I spent a copious amount of time deliberating about what to load up my plate with.  At one point, I felt his eyes burning into me and I looked up to meet his captivated face.  I had been tasting a spear of jicama to see if I indeed fancied inviting it onto my colorful plate full of oh-so-fresh choices.  After biting into it and taking it for an earnest ride around my masticating mouth, I nodded in nonverbal affirmation that it indeed belonged on my plate.  Eric had witnessed this arduous jicama deliberation process and according to him, that was the moment he fell in love with me.  Don’t ask me… I don’t quite get it… all I know is I remember this, and remembering softens me.  AMEN.