December, 2012

Thank you very, very much to everyone who’s written right here, sent cards, invited, called, emailed, etc.   I thought I might be ready to respond, leave the house, lose the anger.  Thought.

The Wellness Community puts on a wonderfully elegant, unique, cancer fundraiser each December.  A tour of the inside of a few of the magnificent, Christmased-up houses in Agoura.  Agoura is not a poor town.  It  neighbors Malibu and Calabasas.   Lots of wealth, movie  stars, millionaires.   Each December, Phyl used to volunteer and take tickets at the movie star’s house,

All the people are absolutely terrific, both the volunteers and the many, many tourtakers  who spend lots of money to help people like phyl fight this thing.  Ann asked me to take phyl’s place, but I didn’t want to speak, so they gave me what someone called booty duty, handing out booties so the magnificent houses these special folks shared wouldn’t be damaged by the traffic of hundreds of tourtakers.  A liitle job, buy happy to help, after not leaving the house.for three weeks, except for phyl’s memorial.

I was situated outside the front door of an absolutely gorgeous 3000 sq ft mansion.  Our house would fit into the front yard.  They’d planted 150 pointsettias.  There were zillions of Christmas lights, giant candy canes,  huge, wooden, nutcracker figures.  Just the special iron front doubledoors and archway reached higher than the roof of our house.  I could peek in and see the  winding staircase, the paintings on the  walls, and an unbelievable Christmas tree.  A professional was singing only Christmas songs, Dean Martin-style.   Nearly every one of the hundreds of folks who came up the walkway were smiling, polite, and thanked me.  I tried to smile.  I actually felt ok.

It started to rain, which phyl loved and doesn’t happen much here, and I got a bit sad.  The singer did “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, the Pretenders version of which, my drama class did for many winter holiday programs.  “Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow,” and I started to cry.  Then, for whatever incomprehensible reason, the Christmas singer followed it with Elvis’ Fools Rush In, and I was bawling.  .i was thinking the hand-carved bench on which I was sitting was worth more than our 190,000 mile, peeling paint Camry, presently surrounded here by these folks’ new SUVs and Benzes. What kind of shmuck could afford to give his wife only a really beat-up house, into which, she was always embarrassed to invite her friends.   My smile was weenie and forced.  I tried not to show it, but I was quite jealous of these people, resented every guy’s wife,  disliked every grandparent’s kid,  and wondered why each of these nice people over 64 didn’t die instead of phyl.

The singer came outside, and we were talking.  A really nice man.  The hostess thanked him.  A really nice lady.  He told her, “I do it every year.  I’m happy to do it, because I’m a cancer survivor for 11 years. And still going strong.”

What came out of my mouth was, “That’s wonderful”.   What came into my head was “Phyl had 14 months; fuck you, asshole.”

Guess I’m not ready yet.  Still a little bitter.

At her Agoura memorial, Gertie, a real love from PHMS, arrived early. She told me her nephews were now really happy, and she had Phyl to thank.  I didn’t know what she was talking about.   She told me the story of her displaced nephews, whom Phyl had helped find a school and place.   The very next one through the door were Dick and Judy, whom Phyllis had helped get the CHS job she still has.  By the time the afternoon was over 5 other people had told me of Phyl’s help, only one of which I’d been aware.

She had that gigantic heart.  Just two examples….,

As soon as we moved here, despite my complaining about the 3 hours of driving, we’d always go to Seal Beach, with fruit Phyl’d bought, to visit a 104 year-old aunt she’d never before met.

As soon as my uncle passed, Phyl took my Studio City aunt out to lunch and shopping every other Saturday.  You know, she hated L.A.  Other than within Agoura/T.O., it was the only place she’d drive.  When I’d crab about gas, money, the cost of  fancy lunch, the time she was gone, or losing the car on my day off, she’d always say, (I can hear it right now.) “It’s your aunt.  Her kids live far away.  She’s alone.  And I enjoy it.”

Even before she was diagnosed, Phyl was working for Ann at the Wellness Community.  Also for Ann, she volunteered Fridays at the Las Robles Hospital Gift Shop.   Less than 3 months previous, the doctors at Las Robles had given her a complete hysteroscopy, under anesthesia in the hospital, and found nothing wrong.   We  returned for an exam at Las Robles, and they said come back in a year.   One month later, the Cedars doctors found “stage 3 cervical, that no doctor could have missed.”  I’d always say, “How can you go back to the hospital that should have caught this thing.”  She’d always say, “They need help.”

Phyl’s library at Patrick Henry was the social center of the school, because she talked to everyone, and everyone talked to her.  I just found annual lists of Christmas presents she gave.  There are 75 names on each list.   It always amazed me that she knew the lives of not just the teachers, but the aides, secretaries, maintenance, school police.  I know it sounds too much, but Patrick Henry people will read this and know it’s true.   Phyl never took a lunch or nutrition break.  Too often, if someone had an appointment, got sick, was late, couldn’t get a sub, the class was put in the library for Phyl to watch.  If a teacher covers a class, they get substitute pay.  Phyl covered classes nearly every day, sometimes every period.  It might surprise people to know she never got paid to cover.  Many librarians refuse to cover.  Sometimes teachers took advantage of Phyl.  It really bothered her that some would bring their class, and leave , or have parties, meetings, events, and leave a mess.   She would talk to those people, but never snitch in the office.  The teachers adored her.

Of course, she was there foremost for the kids.  As I’ve written here often, she was especially attenuated to making a welcoming, safe, comfortable haven for the lonely kid.   She was extraordinary at it.   More students applied to the library aide elective than music, leadership, drama, or any other elective in school.   The students adored her.

She loved cats.  Her license plate and email were always “6 meows.”  Every tzutske or artwork in the house is a cat.  Phyl’d save kittens from the pound or street.  Our bully cat she doesn’t even like, drank a Lysol puddle I’d left.  Phyl took him to the vet at 4 a.m.  Cost us $2,000.  I’d say something like, “What were you thinking?”  Same Phyl: “He needed me.”

Of course Job #1: Phyl would do anything for our sons. They could do no wrong.  They were very, very close.  She nurtured, abetted , and protected them, even from ourselves.

Phyl:  I just opened the mail.  I don’t believe it.  Jody got another{{A–ticket/B–suspension/C–overdraft}} (reader may choose one…..at a time) and our insurance went up

{{ A–$100/B–$1000/C–$ a bazillion}}.  He needs to get {{A—his own insurance/ B—his own car/ C—a brain}}.  I need your help.   It’s time he realized he needs a better sense {{A—of responsibility/B—of money/C—that this has to stop}}.  Can’t we talk to him?

Me: You are so right.   It is time he realized he needs a better sense{{A—of responsibility/B—of money/C—that this has to stop}}.  I’ll talk to him all right!

Phyl:  You’ll do no such thing!  I’m his mother. He’s my son, and he’s the most thoughtful, considerate boy in the world.

Often Phyl would ask if I could find a Sunday Times, People Magazine, or something obscure like Magnets Illustrated.  It’d go like this…..

Me: Not again!

Phyl: Please.

Me: Why? (knowing, as they say, full-well that she was getting some Pampers insert coupon for some single checker with a new baby at Ralphs’ or a Laura Geller coupon for some Agoura Post Office clerk with zits.)

Phyl: (Again, I can hear Phyl now.) “I don’t ask your business, just hurry.”

Me:  You know the gas money it’ll cost for me to get and then you to bring this fucking coupon  to someone we barely know, is more than the cost of the coupon and probably the item.

Phyl: You’re being mean.  It’s for a girl I was talking to, who….(insert sob story like, ‘had quadruplets last week, but her home was crushed by an asteroid.’)  Just go.

Me: This is ridiculous.  (But I go.)

Phyl was the personification of selflessness.  It’s a way she had so very many friends, and just everyone liked her.  Other than motherhood, that was her masterpiece.

shewas-s-o-o-o-special

Quiet was not you.  Nor was song.

You were the world’s worst.

Never in time, couldn’t hit a note.

But you were so, so cute.

Wailing away as if you were Whitney.

That last month in Cedars, a volunteer with a guitar came in the room.

We both rolled our eyes and asked him to leave.

Then you felt bad and asked him for one song.

Five songs later, you and he were an impassioned but earsplitting duet

“…..Parsley, sage, rosemary, and tyme.”

One of the incomparable sounds of my life.

Only you knew I loved to dance.

I loved to dance with you.

A puzzle….

Your head on my shoulder for a slow dance

You were always out of step.

Your rhythmic abandon for a fast one.

Never out of step.

The faster the music, the more exquisite your motion.

One of the resplendent sights of my life.

OK, signs.  November 18^th, the day of the big memorial for Phyl at Ann’s house.

I discussed signs from the departed with Joan, Beverly, and Linda.  Each had lost their closest family member.  Each believes in signs, mostly animals and dreams, and told me to watch out for them.

That morning I awakened to QVC’s Quacker Factory on the bedroom tv.  Anyone who knew Phyl knew it was, by far, Phyl’s favorite.  It’s the reason for our second mortgage.  The thing is, since she’s gone, I keep the tv on sports channels, to avoid the triggers that tear me apart.  I have no idea how it got to channel 14.  And Quacker Factory is only on three hours a month.

About 9, Kris and Beverly came from Brea.  The plastic U.S. mat was on the kitchen table.  Beverly asked about it.  Phyl kept it beside the family room tv with the plastic Presidents mat.  Years ago, she saw the U.S. mats in my fifth grade classroom and asked for one for a reference.  She was like that.  I was married to a librarian, before she was a librarian.   She was so excited when we found the companion U.S. Presidents mats in a Tucson antique store.  Like the U.S. map, she only wanted one for herself.  It cost a dollar.  Kris had been staying with Beverly.  There had been no-one in the house since Kris had left Friday morning.  All weekend, I had eaten and computered at the table, and no mat was there.  I had no idea how the mat got there, unless the cats secretly had hands.

Jody and Tracy came from Studio City, and Beverly, Kris, and I left early to help Ann and Bob.  When we got there, Kris and Beverly became very upset that they suddenly couldn’t find the zillion cookies they’d bought for Ann’s house and put in the car.   They even called Beverly’s grandson Brandon, back in Brea, to check the driveway.  They called Jody to check my driveway and he told them the cookies were in boxes in our house.  Both Beverly and Kris, who, like me, doesn’t believe in any of this sign baloney, swear up and down that no-one knew they had cookies, no-one brought the cookies out of their car, and certainly no-one had brought them into our house.

The moment I got home from the memorial, Joan Rivers was on QVC, on the family room tv.  She’s also on only a few hours a month.  She and that moron Jackie Kennedy jewelry ripoff guy were Phyl’s other favorites.  Four years ago, I had to leave my parents night show to take Phyl to a booksigning, so she could meet Joan Rivers.  Three years ago, I had to pay an arm and a leg, so Phyl could sit in the front row of Joan Rivers’ show at the Geffen.  Because one can see into the family room, I leave the bedroom tv on when I leave.  I already cry all day and night.  It’s why it’s still hard to answer your phonecalls, emails, cards, and even the door.  Because of the memories it’d trigger, I’d never turn on QVC, never mind Joan Rivers.

As Phyl could tell you, I’m weird.  But not such a weirdo that I believe in this stuff.  Jody says I cost him a between-shows job on the tv show Ghost Hunters, because I made an inappropriate joke, on speakerphone, to the Ghost Hunter executives, who fully believe in the paranormal and don’t ever joke about it.  (I said, “Say hello to Casper for me.”)

On one hand, I believe these are my misremembering or coincidence.  On the other hand, for me it’s the slightest, eensiest, infinitesmal possibility it’s a sign.  Because, right now,  the only things that keep me going are the kids and the hope I’ll see Phyl again some day.

Also in the realm of the inexplicable, in Phyl’s last months, Adam was in New York working as set teacher on the final season of the Showtime show, The Big C.   I’ve never seen the show, but it’s about a teacher who gets cancer, and her son. That weekend Friday, as I was working, unbeknownst to Adam, on the presentations about Phyl.  Adam called and said he was really upset and had to step away.  As the show hasn’t aired, Adam says I can’t tell why, but the why is unreal.  p.s. Adam’s job is set teacher of the son.  The kid’s name in the show is Adam.

The way you were always reading mysteries, and always the end first.

I know these posts are more private and don’t care. They’re for my kids and those in the future, who won’t know how special Phyllis was, but far, far more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my damn life, they’re for Phyl to know what I never told her.

“God must have spent a little more time on you.”

For 38 years I was married to the most stunning beauty in the world, acknowledged by everyone she met, as beautiful inside as out.
My Phyllis was exquisite. She was it for me. There was no second place, never a thought of anyone else. By far, the single most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen. Ever. And just a goddess-incredible body. Compelling and alluring almond eyes that made my legs buckle; lips from venus; long, straight, mahogany hair that framed her face like the setting of a diamond; a chest that entered a room 5 minutes before she did; dark, porcelain cheekbones that rose to the cosmos; olive skin, bronze-tanned in summer; a smile that lit the world around her like fireworks on the 4th. Her only imperfection were incongruous, chubby knees that I learned to love more than any of the other.
Sounds like I’m lying, but her dazzling beauty was only a part of it. I was 100+ pounds lighter, a senior at a prestigious university, a pretentious and sexist asshole who dated only beautiful girls. As the cliché goes, she was different.
Phyl was happy, vocal, loud, and the most positive person I’d ever met. I had no idea she was poor, working two jobs, paying to attend college full-time, and living at home. It wasn’t a secret. She didn’t tell me because I hadn’t asked. She always had a smile. She was blisteringly honest, so much so that it scared me. There was no filter. She just said what was on her mind.
Phyl was totally unpretentious. She was a dazzling knockout. It was ridiculous how she was hit-on all the time, but, unlike other beautiful people, had no pretention she was special. She was selfless. No ego at all. In fact, a bit insecure. A vulnerability that was precious.
She had a gigantic heart. Throughout the years, other than motherhood, it was her greatest attribute. E-v-e-r-y-o-n-e liked her. As her whole life, she had a bazillion friends. Not just friends, but close friends. I had lots of friends, but close friends? Only one. And, as her whole life, she brightened a room like the sun, and soon the room revolved around her.
At first I called her Little Phyllis, because I loved the name she hated, and her room was filled with pictures and albums, many of the cutest little girl. But, at that beginning, soon my tendency to sick humor embarrassingly won out. Phyl walked with a very slight limp from getting hit by a moving vehicle when she was little. Either that, her mother’s similar walk, or something caused her to walk a bit heavy-legged. It was slightly discordant, like Miss Universe stomping down the runway. So I called her Glunkies. A little later, due to her legendary stubborness, I started calling her My Cuckoo, which I loved to say for 41 years. Even though I was more hippie, and she was more straight, we got along very, very well….unless we were arguing over appearance. She was high fashion. I was shloomp. That argument also lasted for 41 years.
Our first date was my only blind date ever. I worked at Boston Aid to the Blind with her cousin Beverly, who fixed us up. I owe Beverly my life. Here’s too much information…. I had a serious, steady, really fine girl friend. I was also secretly dating two other girls. I was an arrogant ass. But when Phyllis opened her Winthrop front door,all that stopped as if I’d been struck by a lightning bolt. Because I’d been struck by a lightning bolt.
As always, I was wearing my roommate’s brother’s beat-up black leather jacket, torn jeans, and unkempt hair. I have no recollection of what she was wearing, but I do remember the very first millisecond I saw her face. I remember my eyes popping straight out of my head like in the cartoons, an inkling of impending drool, and the harp music, then wolf whistles, then sirens inside my head. Game over. Thank you, Jesus.
I don’t remember the particular second or third or so date, but Diane told me she and Phyllis got dressed up for a party we were giving, came to our apartment, arrived to see us having a giant pie fight, and Diane turned around and left. (We used shaving cream and the Tabletalk Company was right across Comm Ave. from us)
And I had to run the gamut of her friends. My Dad had a Latin phrase, “de gustibus non disputandum est”—To each his own, or no accounting for taste. In my case, beauty was in the eye of the beholder. I guess what my friends and I always suspected was true; beautiful girls hang out with beautiful girls. Phyllis’ best friends Diane and Gayle, Paula, Vickie, Sandy, and Mona were all like beauty queens. But to me, it was like Megan Fox with 6 Honey Boo-Boos.
The Steinbergs were very kind, gracious, and welcoming, especially Phyl’s mom. But unlike my family. Marty’s Bar Mitzvah was upcoming, but he’d just decided to ride his bike through the rabbi’s study and got caught, so there was some question how well it would come off. Harry invited my friends over and showed us slides of a family car accident. And one of our first dates was a Friday to meet her grandparents whom she absolutely adored. I remember it for 2 reasons. One–Everyone sat down to eat. Mama Dora brought out a big plate of cream cheese saltine sandwiches fried in chicken fat, and the Steinbergs quickly ate them, while I was throwing up in my mouth. Two—That night, Mama Dora told me Phyllis had many boy friends, and, way, way, out of character for me, I told her I was the last, because I was going to marry her.
And I did. And thanked God every day she was here.

My Beauty, I so pray you can read this.