My Grandmother

When I was seven years old, I was OBSESSED with "Annie." My grandmother, Mary Byrnes Collins, introduced me to the Broadway record, and I was never the same. "Annie" was my love, my life. I hadn't seen the play or the movie, but that was neither here nor there. Something in me was always incredibly drawn to orphans. Those without a home, who had nowhere stationary to place their love, so they had no choice but to go through life embracing all that was around them. Never taking love, or anything really, for granted. Appreciating the spirit and grandeur of the smallest things in life that most people didn't know how to.

I was not a spoiled child, to say the least. Everyone I knew and everything I owned was special to me, no exceptions. Including -- especially -- my Annie ring. It was a cheap, gold-ish ring in the shape of the cartoon Annie's head. I don't remember who gave it to me, or when or where, but I do remember wearing it with immense pride and immense love. It was my most prized and beloved possession. My physical bond to all the things inside me I didn't know how to vocalize -- triumph of spirit, love through loss. Beauty through the D(d)epression.

In the summer of '82, Robb and I spent a week with my grandparents at Hewlett's Landing in Lake George. It was the summer home that my mother's parents had had since my mother and her siblings were little. We'd "used" it for weeks here and there when my grandparents were elsewhere. This was the first time my brother and I stayed with just my grandparents, because my dad had a business trip somewhere.

It was great. My mom's parents were totally different from my dad's parents, who were uber-warm and mushy. My mom's parents were chill and to many kids, seemingly cold in comparison, but y'all have read my blogs, you guys know that even though I was young, I knew that my mom's parents were mad cool. They didn't need to bake me cookies and shower me with accolades. It was amazing that they taught me that both men and women could play sports, and that Miracle Whip and celery turned tuna fish into a delicacy. They rocked, and the week that I spent in Lake George with just them? Was great.

So I was happy, hanging with them, and never was I happier when I was a child than when I was immersed in water, especially Lake George. This One Day in the lake was no exception. I was next to the docks, doing I don't know what. Living in my imagination. Wondering, as I did with every visit, exactly how long it would take to swim out to the island that seemed so close, but was miles away, and blocked by a Frogger-esque motorway of boats. I wondered how I could get out there, but was also completely content just floating, and imagining, and really having one of those Perfect Summer Moments, when you're a kid, and all that matters is the sun and the water and the possibilities.

Until my Annie ring slipped off of my finger, out of nowhere.

Now, I had worn this ring since I'd received it, obviously. In the bath, the shower, the Warnos' awesome pool -- this ring was a PART of me. It seemed safe to wear in the lake, or I'd never have worn it there.

And I've always anthropomorphized things, which when mixed with deep abandonment issues...well, let's just say that losing my Annie ring was intense, and just unacceptable along the lines of when you see overinvested "Grey's Anatomy" people giving pathetic CPR to certain patients, because...dude is gone.

But this was different. This was my Annie ring.

I spent the entire day diving down for my ring. It is one of my most vivid memories. I was a total fish in the water anyway, it wasn't a sacrifice or a test of stamina, it was just what needed to be done. Down, up, down, up...

...no ring.

And my grandparents were incredible. Here is where it mattered the most that they weren't worrisome cookie-baking grandparents. Here is where they walked out onto the dock, said, "What's wrong?" and I told them, and they, despite being tremendous creatures of habit and probably wanting to go inside and relax, understood that this was ANNIE, and just let me do my thing. I couldn't let it go. I couldn't.

I don't remember when exactly I did let it go, the ring. I can still feel my water breaths, and the desperation with which I refused to let the Annie ring go without a fight. Not because I needed a ring on my finger, but because I was not about to leave this thing that I loved the most in the lake I loved the most to travel out to that island without me.

But it did. And that was the day that I learned to let things that I love go. At some point, I had to tear myself out of the water and realize that I'd done everything I could.

That same year, in November 1982, I went to the city with my mother and my grandmother, Nanny Collins. The party line towed by my mother was that Nanny's Christmas present was "in the city," and we had to go to my mom's job (also in the city) to pick it up.

Sure 'nuff. I LOVED the city! And if getting a sweater or something meant a trip there, then awesome! My grandmother was never one for the warm and fuzzy emotional presents, it was more like "Here's a perfunctory gift, enjoy," and it was all good, 'cause she was just a chill woman, grandmother status notwithstanding.

On our way towards my mom's office, the three of us started passing the Uris Theatre in Manhattan. Home of "Annie."

Home of "Annie."

This was even before I acted, but dude! Black and white shots, "ANNIE" emblazoned, or at least block lettered, on the marquis? I was enamored. I was transported. I was filled with the all-too-familiar sensation of yearning for something incredible. I stood there in the cold, knowing that many people would go inside, but no one would appreciate it the way that I would.

It didn't matter though, honestly. All that mattered was that I was THERE. Magical!

"Just think, Judith," my mother goaded, unbeknownst to me. "All of the actors are in the dressing rooms right now, just waiting to go onstage..."

"Yeahhhhh," I breathed, used, as a financially challenged child, to knowing other kids would reap the wonders of the world that I could only imagine.

And that was it. I was satisfied just to stand there, just to behold.

And then my grandmother, Nanny Collins, piped up.

"Judith," she drew out in her unique voice, "...Would you like to see Annie?"

WHAT!

WHAT!

WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was a dream come true. THAT was my grandmother's present in the city -- a dream come true! She'd watched me mesmerize myself, listening to the soundtrack. She had witnessed me dive all day long just to get back the Annie ring, that's how much I loved Annie.

And now, she was telling me that we could go inside, and see what was to me, the equivalent of magic in real life -- on Broadway!

It was my first Broadway play, and it was unequivocally perfect. There are no words to describe what that night meant to me. Except that there were three generations of Collins women sitting together in the Mezzanine, only because one seven-year-old girl loved Annie. It was the best night of my life for a very long time.

And stayed with me for my entire life -- that was my best memory for so long.

Then, on August 23, 2003, my awesome grandmother, Mary Byrnes Collins, died unexpectedly.

She was the last one we expected to let go of at this point. She was the one who would have been annoyed by tears, and sentimentalities, and platitudes. She was the one who would have wanted to out-live everyone.

She was that kind of woman. I admired her more deeply than anyone I have ever known, in that respect. She didn't know how to, and would never have wanted to know how to, be the grandmother who tells you anything other than, on the day that you lost your ring in Davy Jones's locker, okay, suck it up, I'm so sorry and we can chill, but let's just go hang out and stop being crazy, 'kay?

That was my grandmother. Mary Byrnes Collins.

And the day of her funeral, we all went to the church, which she probably would have wanted just for religious sake.

We went to all the proceedings. I saw her buried on the hill in Lake George, while my grandfather said goodbye to her, to the mountains around her, to Lake George itself, as he sold the summer home the next year before beginning a new life for himself in a new town.

And it was beautiful. And it -- all of it -- would be exactly what my grandmother, Nanny Collins, would have wanted if she had to leave this party first.

But there were also these moments that day -- those most perfect of moments that can only be experienced in times of utter loss -- when I walked straight out into the lake, because I could barely deal with all of it. I couldn't bear that she was gone, and I just wanted to be immersed in water, enveloped in her memory, enveloped in everything that meant something, anything, ever.

And that day in the lake, I just lay there, you know? In the spot where I lost my ring, where I wondered about the island out there. Was it awesome, once you got there?

I really hope so.

Maui Crispness!

So back in 1997, my family took a trip to HAWAII!!! ™The Brady Bunch. It was an amazing time. We were there for ten days. The first five I spent bike riding down a volcano at the crack of dawn, jogging on the beach, swimming in the Pacific, eating at an outdoor restaurant with swans. Hawaii was everything everyone had ever cracked it up to be and more. Maui is literally the most beautiful place I've ever been in my life, in every way, and really want to go back as soon as I can, because those first five days...dude.

The second five days I spent in my pajamas, reading a bunch of books and crying a lot. Because what happened was you see, that by the sixth day, I had achieved an Irish girl triumph: The Base Tan. Everyone knows you have to come back from Hawaii golden and glowing and generally looking like you've spent the past week having sex while on a lot of sedatives. And it's like you know how you always admire and appreciate the perfectedly toasted marshmallow, but you inevitably lose your patience and just stick it in the fire and it's still good? But every now and then, you try to have a little dignity and make a grownup toasted marshmallow? It was like that. I was in Hawaii, not Point Lookout, and could not do the Irish girl Burn-Tan. This tan had to be acquired gracefully and with elegance.

Which by the sixth day I was radiating with, and even wore the Look-How-Casually-I-Can-Wear-White-'Cause-Of-My-Bitchin'-Tan Dress! And what I thought was that my Bitchin' Tan didn't need no Effin' Sunscreen. Surely I could go sit under the shade for 20 minutes by the pool at 4:30 in the afternoon...

How it played out was not unlike the unraveling of events in The Perm Incident of '89. Things started out all right, a little pink, nothing major, a little red...uh-oh...until all hell broke loose and I started becoming a lobster. Not just in the red way, but in the boiling in the pot kind of way, only the pot was inside my skin. It was painful, and disgusting, and horrifying, and I couldn't sleep, and the next morning we were all supposed to take a helicopter ride over the island. But not only was I in pain, but the only way to describe how I looked was to say that I was like the incarnation of first-night-of-the-breakup face. Where you feel like your tears are following you around the next day like a hangover, 'cause you're all salty and swollen and sad.

So I don't know, I think the sun gods were angry at me because I bucked tradition by refusing to go to the luau, but I kind of hate "Let's have fun!" events 'cause it's awkward due I'm SURE to being a cheerleader for six years in a completely unironic way, and now there is such a vast residual deposit of sunshine and rainbows and general jingle-jangle fluttering about in my brain, that I feel about luaus much the same way as former acid freaks feel about the Cat in the Hat ride at Islands of Adventure.

Also, I was scared of the roasted pig.

So as penance for opting to hang out with Robb and boycott the luau, I had to spend the rest of my vacation indoors, having failed initiation. It was all good though, I still got to read It by Stephen King, you know? And a a bunch of other stuff I don't recall. The words were probably too blurred by my tears. And my blistering skin.

If only Baz Luhrmann's poetry had been around two years earlier...




©2007

"A Lifetime's Not Too Long To Live As Friends."

Imagine my amusement when I discovered that once again, late-evening CW11 has tried to get off My List for cancelling "Gilmore Girls" while retaining the abominable "One Tree Hill." They are doing this by picking their episodes based on things I have talked about earlier in the day. For example, after I referred to Ross's "A PASTE," that very episode aired! Then, I was thanking Javier last night for making me believe in romance again (sawry sawry, I know, blech, but I like it!). So what do you know, but tonight's "Sex and the City" was all about the concept of romance! And seriously, it was, in my opinion, the best episode of the show ever.

In many ways, I hate the show and the weird ripple effect it had on society. I do blame "Sex and the City" in large part for the backwards, "If ya can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude that "women" adopted towards "men." That basically suggested that fucking = power, and if women could only lose those pesky emotions and use their vaginas as voraciously yet disinterestedly in "men" use their penises, then we'd have achieved "feminism," only with better shoes.

And of course I am not down with that, in large part because I think it misses the whole point of feminism, but more specifically, because it in my opinion actually reverses it by separating ourselves, both men and women, from our bodies; that is, denying that our entire being -- body, spirit, heart, soul -- is connected to each other, and if you try to extract one, you cease to function as the best, strongest person you can be. Which is to make yourself weaker. And that is not feminism.

But at its best, "Sex and the City" could be a great show. In this episode, the one where Miranda and Steve get married, each of the four ladies gets to shine in her own way. Carrie manages to be sweet towards a boyfriend, while not getting eclipsed by him. Charlotte...well, Charlotte has her perfect romantic dream date and then...gets diarrhea. But it's actually sweet, 'cause I mean, it's Charlotte, and she really can't not be adorable, first of all, plus it's nice, because if you love someone after a night of Montezuma's Revenge, I think that is really awesome, and of course is made easier by having a huge place with two bathrooms, but anyway, it was nice in the end.

And Samantha goes for a boob job, and finds out that she has breast cancer. And it is heartbreaking.

And Miranda proposes to Steve, and they have one of the best weddings I've ever seen, planned in a week, and Miranda wears a red dress, and it's a traditional and beautiful ceremony, but not cookie-cutter. And Cynthia Davis is just luminous the entire episode without losing Miranda's edge. I loved watching Steve and Miranda's relationship over the years, as they learned that fine art of comprising and evolving without changing, and finally just wanted to be together forever because it wasn't the next leap, but the next step.

But what really set this one apart for me as definitely up there on my list of Best Any Show Episode Ever, was that the show did what it did BEST. It focused on the amazing, complex friendships among the four of them. They all had their own strong plotlines, but what was nice is that you see how sometimes those are the times they not only need each other most, but are able to get over themselves enough to give.

The results are incredible. Although the episode ends kind of heartbreakingly, it's the heartbreak that makes it beautiful, watching the four of them sit together at a table for four, with their martinis held high, toasting Samantha's life as much as Miranda's new one with Steve. And that was how everyone wanted it. It was like a silent admission: "When life becomes bigger than us is exactly when we realize just how ready we are for it, as long as we are together."

And I realize that's a little end-of-sleepaway-camp, even for me (and DUDE! PLEASE, someone remind me to write about sleepaway camp!), but if Carrie is allowed to heavyhanded metaphor and self-analogize all over the place, then I think I should get to now and then, as compensation for owning no Manolo Blahniks.

Seriously, though. Tonight was a night that I was happy to watch "Sex and the City." Here were these women in their late '30s and '40s -- totally beautiful. Totally strong, Totally happy. Two married, one with a child, three with great careers, one with cancer. At that moment when they toasted, all of it was one shared experience for them, and they'd get through anything, because their love was that strong. And the episode was about romance, but about how it is truly the icing on the cake. Delicious on its own, but just not right without the foundation.

I am very blessed to have friends like that. I am very blessed to get to be a friend to friends like that, even though a lot of times I have my head up my own ass. Thank you to all of those "friends like that" that are reading, and just remember that we can get through anything together.

Lots of love.