Save The Last Dance For Me

It’s only a 60 second walk down the isle, but on Saturday when my father took my sister by the arm and led her past the stained glass windows in the church, I could barely watch. My eyes were somewhat fixated on the floor, until that traditional wedding march began to play and everyone rose, along with my eyes. What people saw that day was perhaps one of the most beautiful visions ever to be had. Now every wedding I have attended, the guests always say the same thing..."You're the most beautiful bride ever." But on my sister's wedding day, I felt this was actually true. Seriously, she put the models in Bride magazine to shame! And while I’m not one to compliment my sister very often, on this day, her little brother was left in awe. While friends and family were busy living in the moment by soaking up the exquisite and simply stunning vision before them, my mind was elsewhere. When I lifted my head and my eyes gazed to the back of the church, I didn’t expect to see the image I immediately saw. It was my sister, but she was 7 again and playing dress up. Long, brown, curly locks and those intense, blue eyes in her First Communion dress. When I saw my Dad walking with her, my mind traveled back in time where a series of childhood memories flashed before me. Instead of seeing her in the crisp, white 5-inch stilettos she was actually wearing, I saw her in a pair of my Mom's high heeled shoes, three sizes too big, stumbling down our house steps. Instead of seeing my Dad walking my sister down the isle on her wedding day, I saw him with that same 7-year-old girl standing atop his feet so she could dance with him. She would fall off his toes and giggle in delight. To cover her slip up, he would take her small hands in his and twirl her to the music. Then back on his toes she would go. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Apparently you’re never too young to learn the waltz.

My breath shallow. My chest tight. My palms clammy to the touch. I was a nervous wreck and I wasn’t even the one getting married! I can’t even imagine what I’m going to be like one day as a groom. I’m going to be an f-ing mess! Well, hopefully a beautiful mess, but a mess nevertheless. A snowflake must have fallen in my eye in August because I could feel some type of foreign liquid trying to take shape just beneath my right, lower lid. There was no way I was crying infront of all these people! So I swallowed the lump in my throat and did the tried and true method/trick of "soaking up the liquid by performing excessive eyeball movement." I looked to the left, the right, up, down, and all around - hoping that my cornea would feel overworked, become thirsty and want to drink up a salty tear or two before the laws of gravity took over, forcing it to drop and roll down my face. Oh the horror! Somehow I managed to pull myself together and I’m glad I did. The night was young and there was plenty of time for all that sentimental crap later. Afterall, I still had the best man's toast to deliver!

After failing to compose a speech with my laptop, I threw in the towel and went with a different approach. I decided to go about it the old fashion way, with pen and paper in hand. I worked diligently on my speech for 3 hours on the flight to California. Then the night before the wedding, I sat down to edit and practice it some. Anyone who’s ever had to compose a formal toast will tell you it’s not an easy task. And perhaps I took too much time collecting my thoughts and putting them down on paper, but in the end, it was worth it.

I rode around in the limo for 4 hours between the ceremony and reception. Needless to say, I was waaay over the buzz limit. So when we sat for dinner, I used my meal to help sober me up before I had to give the toast. And then...I knocked it out of the park! Ok maybe that’s a bit cocky to say, but the toast actually went much better than I expected (or anyone expected for that matter)! I had my sister and all her bridesmaids crying, as well as my Mom, Grandma and most of the women in the place. But they were happy tears so it's all good. My sister said it was the best part of her wedding day, which has left me glowing for days.

So it's official. My sister is no longer a Miss and I now have a new brother-in-law. I'm happy, but can't help feeling a bit sad too. She’s all grownup now and no longer mine to protect. But I like to think, that as her little brother, I can always be useful for something. And while my feet are still sore from dancing so much, I consider that a good thing. It means we partied hard, had fun and sent her off into the married world with a bang. Honestly, most of the weekend was a blur, but I do recall my sister's final single girl words to me..."Try not to sleep with any of my bridesmaids." Rather fitting since the object of my affection for the past decade was there! (More on that some other day.)

Before the night had ended, I had just one request for my sister - to save the last dance for me. She graciously obliged.

Stalking the Wild Bill

One woman dressed against type is an eccentric; two or more women dressed against type make a trend.

Taking advantage of our constitutional right to freedom of expression, we and our like-minded friends went out on Easter day to strut our stuff; to see and be seen. Because we are women of a certain age, we still believe in Easter bonnets. We eschew the current tendency to Halloween-ize this one remaining day of the year when a woman can still creditably wear a real hat. It's a little like Christmas when, if the secret object of your affections stands under the mistletoe, you can kiss him or her with utter disregard for the usual social constraints.

We also (confidentially) went out looking for Bill Cunningham. We found him, and he (recognizing style when he sees it) found us. See Valerie and Shiho in picture 6 of the New York Times' slide show; Jean and Tziporah in picture 10:

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2009/04/18/fashion/20090418-street-feature/index.html

In the photo above, left to right: Tziporah, in a vintage white hat wound with a strip of black velvet; Elaine, in a NYC-themed straw hat she hand painted, as she does every year; Valerie, in a shibori'd pink hibiscus beret from Nafi de Luca, with green pipe cleaners added; Shiho, doing her very best Holly Golightly, and actually wearing a small lamp shade (yes, really) to which she strategically basted a swath of pink chiffon; and Jean, wearing a black bathing cap topped with a plastic champagne glass, from which spring bounding rabbits.

Valerie wears Japanese sunglasses spray painted pink with black spots, a vintage Ungaro white wool coat with black and white wool piping (bought at Alessandro Mitrotti's Transfer, when it was still on the upper east side), white wool and lace gloves (not seen) from Strawberry, a vintage pleated pink silk dress by Patricia Lester (known for her Fortuny look-alikes), and vintage Miguel Hernandez shoes, which look great, but are no match for neuromas or bunions. (More on the trials and tribulations suffered by old feet in another entry.)

Jean is wearing Missoni sunglasses, Norma Kamali '80s leopard jacket (purchased at the Manhattan Vintage Clothing Show at the Metropolitan Pavillion), Brigitte harem pants and Trippen boots (from A-Uno in Tribeca). For more photos of us (and others!) at the show, check out http://jenniferdrue.com/slideshow/mv.html. (Valerie appears in black, white and red Gaultier in the April 2009 intro, and we reappear in the 25th photo with our friend Bill.)

Back on the Horse

Back on the Horse

Nearly two weeks later, I'm still getting over my big cardiac scare. It has been difficult both physically and emotionally. But the way I figure, I'm still here and it's about time to get back to doing the things I love. Like going to Phillies games. Tickets to see the World Champions are hard to come by these days, but I was able to score a pair to today's game, featuring the debut of newly-acquired ace pitcher Cliff Lee.

The only thing hanging in the balance was the weather. But with Fox 29 chief meteorologist and my good friend John Bolaris in the house, I figured we were in good shape. And with Cliff Lee on the mound, the Phillies were in good shape, cruising to a 3-1 win over the visiting Colorado Rockies. It was the first time in five tries this season I witnessed a Phillies victory. I truly enjoyed myself and it was big step for me as I try to get back to normal.

Me? Blog Crush Worthy?

Tomorrow I will be jet-setting across the country (ok I’ll be riding coach on US Airways but jet setting sounds fancier) which has left me super busy tying up loose ends at work and just life in general. So I made a promise to myself (which you’ll see I already broke) that I wouldn’t piss away time by aimlessly surfing the web or even writing on my blog until I finished writing my toast for my sister’s wedding. A man must keep his priorities in check and on top of the David To-Do List is "write that f-ing toast!" I fear that anything else I do would be counterproductive and will suck out any remaining creativity left in my fingertips that would be better spent on speech writing. Which as you know, I need every last ounce of as I continue to experience an extreme case of writer's block! What’s funny is that while I’m putting myself and my writing down because I'm struggling to find the words for this toast, out of the blue comes a little confidence boost. To much of my surprise, I’ve been labeled as a blog crush! Me? Blog crush worthy? Really?

Over at Ophelia’s Webb, blogger Elisa Doucette has a Blog Crush Series in which every week she features a blogger she is crushes on, writing exactly why he/she is crush worthy. And apparently I’m this week’s crush! It’s sweet, cute and innocent. Sort of like a traditional school girl/boy crush, but without the butterflies and sweaty palms. Elisa describes it best...

What is a BlogCrush? Well, the urban dictionary describes it "to be attracted to someone you know only through their blog" or "the person that you're attracted to because of the things they write in their blog." With so many amazing writers out there, it's easy to develop a little crush on certain people. Now I'm not talking a drive 13 hours wearing adult diapers and carrying a black wig to abduct people stalker kinda crush, but you just want to learn more about them. You know who your BlogCrushes are. They are the folks you read immediately on your reader before getting to anyone else's. They are the posts that you ReTweet because they speak to you so much. They are the websites you comment on regularly. They are the folks you are hoping you'll see and talk to "IRL" at the next SXSW. They are the people you admire, and because of this you want to share their greatness with lots of other people.

That in essence is a blog crush.

Upon finding out, I was completely flattered! Then when I started reading what she wrote, my face began turning various shades of burgundy, darkening with each paragraph. I must thank Elisa for all her kind words about me, for making this boy’s day a bit brighter and for changing my skin hue! She may not have even realized it, but that little confidence boost is just the push I need to finally finish writing my toast! So thank you. Really, thank you!

Read Ophelia's Webb BlogCrush - David Stehle
Read her full Blog Crush Series

So who is your blog crush?

I Got Nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

Before I begin, let me first apologize to my high school composition teacher. I realize proper English is "I have nothing" not "I got nothing." But if you are going to circle that phrase in red ink, then you must also circle the made-up word "notta" that I used in the title as well. However, before your pen goes on a whirlwind of i-dotting, t-crossing, circling, underlining, crossing out and the insertion of those little condescending carrot marks that indicate that I'm a dumbass and I should have said this or that instead of what I originally wrote, let me stop you. Let me ask you to take a little pity on the grammatically incorrect and ignorant, rambling fool that I am. There will be plenty of time to rip me apart on my term paper, but for today and for just this one time, have a little heart. Spare me the wrath of your red ink and lend me your sympathetic ear. Today, as much as it pains you to hear, I care not about my spelling or poor grammar. Improper sentence structure, misplaced punctuation, and the confusion of past and present tense does not matter to me right now. Because unlike my usual obsessive compulsive editing and re-editing, striving for perfect but forever failing writing style...I'm just going to get it all out. Get it all down on paper so it's no longer inside of me, haunting me. I'm going to write like no one is reading, because it's much more freeing that way. If that is too much for you to bear and your hand begins to tremble and itch with red ink fever, then look away now.

You may recall this recent post, "Giving A Toast Isn’t Hard, It’s Composing It That’s Hard!" And now with my sister's big wedding day fast approaching, I am still speechless! There is only 5 short days left and I have yet to write a single word on paper! I'm starting to really freak out now. It's crunch time, the pressure is on and I'm failing miserably. Was that a figment of my imagination or did I used to be fairly decent with words? Where is the writer within me? He has vanished without notice and without a trace. In his midst, he has left this shell of a man. A man that lacks the flowery prose needed to compile a best man speech. Some best man he is!

Perhaps a freelance writer I could never be. I seem to crack under writing pressure. This is a true test with a deadline just around the corner and I got nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. Zero. My long standing love affair with pen and paper has ended. Yes, the honeymoon is officially over. The joy of writing has morphed into a deep, ugly hatred of mine for the written word. As of right now, our relationship is bitter and vile.

At this moment, all I am going on is hope and a prayer, literally. I'm hoping something will come to me and I'm praying it does! Although I've NEVER drawn such a blank like this before in my entire life. Without a doubt, this is the most extreme case of writer's block I have ever known. I wish it was a stranger or mine, but lately it's been like a best friend. Well, an enemy is more like it. It creeps up on me late at night when I lay my head down to sleep and it penetrates my mind everyday when someone asks me how the best man speech is coming along. It's NOT coming along. That's the problem! Ugh! The frustration overwhelms me. I want to scream and pound my forehead on the mahogany desk in front of me. Actually, I have smacked my head on the desk in hopes it would jar my brain into some aw-inspiring thought I could jot down in Shakespeare fashion.

Still, I got nothing. Notta. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

May God have mercy on my soul.

Biddy Bodies

Greetings, kiddies, from two survivors of generations of trends like preppy, hippie, punk & power suits! Join us in our journey as we navigate the vast, fabulous wasteland of Planet Fashion in a recession/depression economy. Join us (Jean, above left, & Valerie, above right) as we sample everything from Japanese to vintage to French haute couture to H&M from each other's closets, flea markets, other friends & fellow fashion afficionadas. (We junkies need our "fixes" - hats, Bakelite, faux fur, Issey Miyake ...) Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night!

In this photo, taken May 24 at Fabulous Fanny's, we check out the fabulous selection of accessories, and model two pairs of FF's vintage designer shades. Note our flagrantly gray hair.

Valerie's wardrobe: anonymous straw hat in military cap shape (a thrift shop find), holly and ebony pin by Georges Larondelle, from the Philadelphia Museum of Art; Peter Lane ceramic necklace, H&M cotton and lycra long tee, Big Apple cotton pants with adjustable velcro closure, MOMA plastic digital watch ($8!).

Jean is wearing a black Tahari 3/4 sleeve T, a 70's black plastic neck ring, an armful of vintage Bakelite bangles and fingers full of black Bakelite and gold rings, a black Issey Miyake Pleats Please skirt and black Dansko clogs and is carrying a faux leopard tote.

A Real Shocker!

A Real Shocker!

"He said...he said it wasn't such a good day to die."

Kevin Bacon in "Flatliners" (1990)

Early last Saturday morning, I thought there was a distinct possibility that I would be blogging no more. In fact, as they say, I thought I had "bought the farm". You see, after spending Friday afternoon trying to control what I thought was a simple case of dehydration causing my heart to beat irregularly, the defibrillator in my chest decided to take action.

As I lay in bed late Friday night contemplating whether I should seek medical attention, I heard what sounded like a light bulb popping and saw a blue streak in front of my eyes. It took me a second to realize that "Oh my god, it went off!" I told my nurse to wake my parents up, and as he was exiting my room, the device shocked me again. It felt like being punched in the chest.

911 was called and within 5 minutes (although it seemed like an eternity), EMS arrived to transport me to the emergency room. Though I was really anxious of having my contracted legs injured while being transferred from my bed to the stretcher, the EMS personnel and my nurse were extremely careful. Throughout the 15-minute ride to the hospital, the defibrillator shocked me at least a dozen times. I was wondering why the device wasn't able to regulate my heart and was continuing to fire at will. I looked up at the white lights in the ambulance roof, hoping that wouldn't be the last thing I ever saw.

Upon arrival at the hospital, the first goal was to insert an IV so that medications could be given to me to bring my heart rate under control. Easier said than done with my hard-to-find veins. Meanwhile, my defibrillator was shocking me seemingly every few seconds. Just before a shock was delivered, I would feel a weird crawling sensation near my heart, which I figured was the device charging up to fire again, and the heart monitor above me would show a rate as high as 200 beats per minute. The only thing that seemed to help prevent a shock was when the nurse massaged my carotid artery.

Once an IV was finally inserted, doctors began a drip of a medication called amiodarone, an anti-arrhythmic, which began to regulate my heart. The shocks grew less and less until finally stopping. At this point, I was transferred to the ICU, where I began a weekend-long stay for observation. Later that morning, a technician from the manufacturer of my defibrillator arrived. He interrogated my defibrillator and determined that the device had been shocking me for atrial fibrillation, a serious condition typically treated by medication alone, but not nearly as life-threatening as ventricular tachycardia or ventricular fibrillation. Although devices such as mine are smart, once the heart rate reaches a certain speed, it is unable to distinguish between atrial fibrillation and ventricular tachycardia, and therefore delivers a shock. The technician adjusted the parameters of my device so that it will attempt to better distinguish between the two kinds of rhythms. A cardiologist at the hospital visited with me and my mother and explained the situation to us. They would start me on an oral version of amiodarone, see how I tolerated it, and if there were no problems I would be discharged within a day or so.

Staying in the hospital, of course, is no easy task when you have Duchenne's. To their credit, the nurses, nursing students, and respiratory therapists were extremely caring and kind. Even still, things like turning me are not the everyday situation for nurses who have never cared for someone with DMD. Although I ended up with a few aches and pains, there wasn't a whole lot that anyone could have done to prevent this. I wasn't completely comfortable with the hospital ventilator the respiratory therapists switched me to -- it was also overly sensitive and would alarm constantly -- but I made the best of the situation. Without my own air mattress I was unable to get extremely comfortable in bed, although the bed in which I lay was actually pretty state-of-the-art. Because I had no way of using a nurse's call bell (or a call bell into which I could blow), my mother spent the weekend with me, sleeping in a chair at my bedside at night. It was a good idea that she stayed with me to make sure that my complicated list of medicines was followed, and also to assist with transfers and positioning. I couldn't have gotten through this ordeal without her, as well as the other family members and friends who gave me their support at such a trying time.

By Sunday night, the anti-anxiety medication I had been taking round the clock had sufficiently constipated me. And really, no stay at the hospital would be complete without a delicious milk-and-molasses enema! Very effective, I'll tell you, but I could find a better way to spend a Sunday night.

Early Monday morning, I got the news that I was to be discharged within a few hours. After a sleepless night, I couldn't wait to get home in my own bed and sleep away my nightmarish weekend. The good news is that the medicine seems to be working and I am still here. The anxiety remains and it may take a while until I am not afraid. My life may never be the same, but like the quote above, "it wasn't such a good day to die." So I guess I'll stick around for a while!

Special thanks to Julie for helping me type out such a long entry!