Ren Girl Ren

Saturday, I went to the Renaissance Pleasure Faire (“Ren Faire”) in Irwindale. It is one of my favorite things to do but this year hubby demurred. He only goes to please me and he needed a break. Instead, I made it a girl day with my twin sister and niece.

I have to admit it is an acquired taste. The Ren Faire is a menagerie of people and sights to see from Shakespeare’s jolly old England. To me, it is a magical experience if you let yourself fall into it and on Saturday, I did. I spoke in an English accent. I called people my lady and my lord. Everyone responded enthusiastically. I saw witches, elves, wizards and many a fairy. We were all play acting and loving it.

At the corset shop, I finally gave in after many years and bought a hideously expensive push up corset called the tigress with metal hooks. I already had on a flowing peacock print peasant dress and a crown of flowers so it matched perfectly. I walked around the faire proudly with my niece and sister back straight up, no slouching allowed. Then I bought my 18 year old niece a black flowered crown and a puzzle ring.

About an hour in, I saw a tall man in a spiked blond wig and thought, Labrinyth’s Bowie! I had to have a picture and while his fairy was in the restroom, I got a picture with him and talked about our mutual obsession for Starman.

About two pm, my sister and niece were tired and left. We had been there since 10 am, but I needed more Ren Faire time. Luckily, I had planned to meet a close work colleague and her niece and we walked around. Her young niece J was just as enthralled as I was my first time and I smiled when J used an English accent and begged her auntie for a hundred dollar staff (denied thankfully). We ate shrimp and chips with ale, then they threw knives. Later, J made a mask and bought some horns while I took a tarot card class. It was epic.

What I love about the Ren Faire is the freedom to be whoever you want (circa 16th century). And talk about body positive! It feels liberating to be valued for your voluptuousness.

There are people who Ren Faire and people who don’t, but I think the people who do are cool.

And while some may call us nerd girls and boys as they see us dressed as friars, wenches, wizards, fairies and wizards, I think to myself, Ren girl, just Ren.

The Music Girl

I just completed a ten best albums challenge on Facebook. Some might not take it so seriously, waking up at two in the morning debating what to post next, but they are not me.

What I realized through the experience is how much music truly defines me. I am humming a Sex Pistols song as I write this.

There are two kinds of people, music people and non music people. My mom and I are both music people although she leans toward Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash and Elvis and I lean toward The Smiths, The Cure and Buzzcocks.

Both of us start tapping our feet whenever music comes on. Seriously, my mom will just start dancing like a maniac should you play her favorite music loud and long enough (the louder the better because she is a little hard of hearing although she will not admit it). We took a three day cruise once and went dancing at the little bar on the ship that had a cover band. The band played a 50s song (what my mom calls "real rock and roll") and she started twisting so hard I thought she might break a hip.

My dad was a music person too. He loved country. He indoctrinated me by making me listen to Patsy Cline on repeat at a young age and my first concert was Loretta Lynn at nine at the Pomona Fair.

At the bar my dad owned during my teenage years, he would only have country on the jukebox: The Oak Ridge Boys, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton and of course, Waylon Jennings. I remember my sisters and I begging him to put the Go-Gos on the jukebox. Dad hemmed and hawed

Then, one day we came in on a weekend to clean the bar and there it was. The little card with "Our Lips Are Sealed" and the B side was "This Town". It was there. Like magic.

"Dad, give me a quarter!" I screamed. My poor dad had to listen to those two songs on repeat that whole day.

I remember my first U2 album ("War"), my favorite 45 (Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself"), my "Grease" soundtrack 8 Track that Dad would play in this pickup truck for me, and the first time I heard a Smiths' song ("This Charming Man").

I can remember every concert from high school, what it felt like, what it smelled like, what I drank. There are too many to count. Pixies, Replacements, The Smiths, Siouxsie, The Church, The Smithereens, X and many more.

If I close my eyes, I can see my Sid Vicious and Bono posters on the wall of my bedroom. Then I can look around and see my Pee Chee folder with the Smiths and Cure in cursive in purple marker. Music triggers memories for me.

Just call me the music girl. Now go listen to your favorite song and hum along.

another day

Up at six a.m., and I think why can’t I ever sleep in? My feet hurt, my back aches, and my stomach is upset. Is this life at forty something? Aches, pains and melancholy?

What happened to joy? What happened to sitting outside and watching the sun rise? Instead, my mornings are punctuated by a list of tasks.

Wake up. Coffee. Let dogs out. Give one shih tzu his joint medicine in a piece of ham. Feed both shih tzus wet food, one by hand. Wash hands. Fill water dispenser on coffee maker and refill water pitcher that distills water. Walk dogs. Grab poop bags. Make sure the dogs poop. Always pick up said poop.

Take dogs home. Give them treats. Fold laundry. Wipe down counters. Take out trash bag which is always full. Go upstairs and take a quick shower and pray I have have clean underwear. Next, get dressed. Make breakfast: peanut butter and butter on toast with banana. Realize there is no banana left. Must go to store on way home. More coffee.

Get in car. Drive to work on 215 South. Vacillate from CNN to New Wave. Settle for Replacements set list on Spotify. Sing aloud in car. Roll down windows. Put music louder. Turn it down. Park and do makeup in car. Sing along to Kiss Me On The Bus.

Try to smile. Remind myself to stop wishing that I had a kid to drop off at school. Cry in car. Fix smudged eyeliner.

Walk to court and face the day.

Focus pocus

People often ask me how I find time to write. But for me, writing is a kind of salve to my life. Whenever I am struggling with anxiety, it helps me to write. Whether it’s a mere sentence, an essay or a story, writing is helpful in giving me perspective. In some ways, writing has helped me become a better person, wife and daughter.

I’ve said this before, but the me on the page is at times, the “real” me and at times the me I want or aim to be.

Writing is not easy and you must focus on it to better your craft. This year, I made a pledge to rededicate myself to my writing after a year of frustrating stagnation. And, it worked. Just writing the words down seemed to create a kind of magic, as if the words created the reality. By stating my intent aloud, that I was to be a writer and focus on writing, the universe seemed to hear and respond with great opportunities. Within 4 months, I had an essay accepted to a magazine, I read at AWP (the largest writer’s conference), had two pieces accepted into an anthology and was just accepted to Macando, the most prestigious Chicano writing workshop in the United States.

Now, note that some of these irons were in the fire before I made my statement of intent to focus on my writing, such as the AWP reading and the anthology submissions. But, the Macondo application and the magazine essay were things I applied or pitched to after I made my proclamation.

What I am trying to say is that words do matter, and so do your actions. Taken together, they can create more than you ever dreamed of. Writing is witchcraft in a way and this witchypoo writer is here to stay.

Artist or bust

I have made a decision. I am a writer. First and foremost. To all of those who see me as a lawyer first, you’re wrong. Or as a wife, daughter, caretaker or sister, you’re wrong.

A writer. That’s me. I write to breathe. To remember. Sometimes, to forget. The high is better than anything in the universe.

There are times, I have buried things. I write to excavate them.

My childhood was me making stories in my head to escape the chaos. I became a writer then. Or maybe I was born one.

It’s only taken me a decade to see I am who I am. And I shouldn’t be afraid to tell people of my dreams. I’ve always had big dreams. Many of them came true. But this writing thing. It’s a doozy. The opposite of easy.

Yet, I can see it happening sometime soon. I’ll break away from the day to day. Give up my nine to five. Sit on my ass. Put fingers to keys. Or maybe even pen to paper.

And just write.

Eulogy for my brother in law

Note: I struggled with whether to post this but when I asked my husband, he wanted me to. This is for you Gabe. RIP.

My name is Juanita Estella Mantz and I am married to Gabriel’s younger brother Adrian. I have known Gabe and Adrian for more than 25 years. 

I was 20 years old when I met my husband and later his family. Albert the father, Orieta the mother and Gabriel, aka Gabe, Adrian’s older brother. The Pelaez family was whole back then and a small but close knit and beautiful Argentine family. Small but proud. 

And so cultured with their traditions. I was brought into their family and in fact, Gabe was not just a brother in law to me. He was my brother in heart for the last 25 years of my life. 

And the cost of being part of this beautiful family has resulted in heartbreak. First, the heartbreak of losing Adrian’s dad Alberto some years back and now, the unthinkable in losing Gabe. Gabe was only 54.

Losing Gabe, it quite truly broke my heart, all of our hearts, into pieces. The pieces are still there on at the floor of the hospital at UC Irvine Medical Center because Gabe was too young, his son Nicolas was too young, and it was way too soon. 

And my husband and I and his mom didn’t have all the adventures we were meant to have with Gabe. It is as if a projector broke in the middle of a movie.

Joan Didion wrote a book on grief after losing her husband, the book is called The Year of Magical Thinking, and in it she says, “Life changes in the instant… The ordinary instant…”

“Confronted with sudden disaster,  we all focus on how unremarkable the circumstances were in which the unthinkable occurred.  The clear blue sky from which the plane fell.The routine errand that ended on the shoulder with the car in flames…he was on his way home from work, happy successful healthy, and then gone”.”  End quote.

I think that quote captures how I feel. It feels surreal. Like Gabe isn’t really gone, like this is all a bad dream, one we will wake up from. Like that horrible day did not really happen. It is as if he could reappear if I pray hard enough.

It truly is a mad world. That was Gabe’s favorite song. He would always burst out singing it and say, "I love this song" when it came on the radio. We would be laying out by the pool at the house in Oak Hills listening to the 80’s station and he would start dancing and singing and we would tease him. "You like Tears for Fears?" 

But the song was prescient in that the song’s first refrain says it all and is very applicable to today.

“All around me are familiar faces

Worn out places

Worn out faces

Bright and early for their daily races

Going nowhere

Going nowhere

Their tears are filling up their glasses

No expression

No expression

Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow

No tomorrow

No tomorrow.”

Unfortunately, Gabe did not get a tomorrow. And, that mad day, the horrible day, at issue here with GABE was Feb 13th, the day when the unthinkable happened. The day before Valentines day and one moment, it was a sunny beautiful day and Gabe was at the auto shop (Prestiege Mercedes Benz) and he was fine, a healthy man of 54. Then, the next moment he wasn’t fine and after four days of fighting to stay, he would not recover. 

That instant, the ordinary instant, with a bright blue sky and all, changed my life. 

It drastically and tragically changed Gabe’s 13 year old son Nicolas’ life and Nicolas’ mom Sally’s life. 

It changed the lives of all of his friends and loved ones. It altered the life of anyone who was close to Gabe. Everyone who is here had their life changed in the instant when Gabe left us.

And it changed the life of my husband Adrian, Gabe’s only brother. My dear devastated Adrian who can’t even speak and can barely walk he is so full of grief. 

As is Gabe and Adrian’s 84 year old mother Orieta, Gabe was her firstborn, 

Both Adrian and Orieta are so devastated with grief. They have wept and wept and so I am here to say what they cannot even say. Because to say it makes it real. 

I am the voice of both Adrian and Orieta today.

But it is hard for me to breathe right now. It is almost as if I do not want to breathe because breathing means living and you’re dead. Gabe, you’re not here with us. And we wish you were. Oh how we wish you were here.

AND THE ONLY BRIGHT SPOT I CAN SEE IN THIS MADNESS IS THAT MAYBE GABE IS LOOKING AND LISTENING AND SEES HOW MUCH WE ADORED HIM AND SEES ALL THIS LOVE FOR HIM

But is Gabe truly gone? There is an old saying, in the midst of life we are in death (Didion mentions this saying in her book as well). 

Does Gabe’s death end his life or does he live brightly and shine in our memories of him? Perhaps Gabe continues to live within us in the memories of his infectious laugh and smile. 

The way he would whoop with delight.  "Whooooo" he would say when we played dominoes. He was happy and confident and full of life slapping down his tile with gusto. 

Does Gabe live in the memories of his charisma and in the love he showed his family not just in words but in action. Gabe visited his mom every day and had mate with her. 

Orieta lives with us and every day I would open the door leaving for work at 8 am and there he would be. Our dogs Frodo and Chewie would jump all over him and Orieta would walk out of her room rubbing her sleepy eyes and he would say, "Mom, you’re like a mummy, get up." 

Then he would sit and heat up the water for their Mate tea and pour it in the cup and they would share the straw they call a bombija and then he would toast the bread and butter her toast for her. Every morning. He never missed a day. 

And I remember when I was on vacation, I recall grumbling when the doorbell rang everyday and saying in my usual sarcastic way, “I bet it’s Gabe”, because I was sitting on the couch all sleepy with no bra on, in my pajamas… and the doorbell rang every day that week and I would open the door and there Gabe was smiling saying, "Is my mom up?"

That memory shines so bright it almost brings Gabe back to life in my mind’s eye. I can see him in that memory. I really can. Gabe lives there, I swear he does. And he lives here in our hearts.

And how he was with his dad Alberto. They were so much alike. Both charismatic and passionate and strong. Both Libras, both talkative and opinionated as heck (I am a Libra too so I know). They worked together for years at the shop and they loved one another.

Gabe also lives on in the memory of how much Gabe adored his son Nicolas and saw him as much as possible. Anyone who knew Gabe knows how much he treasured his son. It was really all Gabe ever wanted to talk about, his boy Nicolas. Nicolas’ mom Sally was reminiscing to me how Gabe would call every day to talk to Nicolas at 2:45 when he got out of school. 

And I remember watching Gabe with Nicolas and thinking that other than my own father who loved his daughters fiercely, I had never seen anyone love a child the way Gabe loved Nicolas. It was truly the most unconditional love I have ever seen. Nicolas is beautiful with his dark wavy long black hair and  those deep brown eyes and that Pelaez dimple. Gabe will always live in Nicolas we know that. 

But we also know Gabe was broken hearted by the loss of his son Andrew who was hit by a car many years ago and at the very least it gives me some peace to know they are together now.

Gable also lives in the memory of the relationship he had with his brother Adrian, who he helped support when the family and Albert had issues. Gabe was in high school and he became a surrogate dad to Adrian, he is ten years older than him you see. And he took on the responsibility at a young age. 

They were ten years apart but close. When we were young, Adrian and I worshiped Gabe and Sally. They would take us everywhere, Vegas, Big Bear, Laughlin (never asking us for a dime because we were poor as church mice) and I always thought they were the most beautiful couple. Looking at the pictures, I see that they were majestic and luminous. 

A couple of years back, when we lived in Hesperia, and Gabe was living with us, we all went on a cruise and we had the best time. It was me, Adrian, Orieta, Gabe, Sally, Nicolas, my mom and my twin Jackie and her husband Joe. 

And a couple of Christmases ago, we got a cabin with my family and Gabe and Nicolas came along and I just remember Gabe showing up with bags and bags of meat to prepare. Because that is how Argentines show love, through food.

Gabe also shines in our memories of him being willing to give the shirt off his own back, much to his detriment at times. So generous. And giving. 

In how big he lived, never settling for easy. Always speeding through life, much like the fast cars he loved so much, he lived big and bold, working hard to be a better Gabe. 

How talented he was with cars. Gabe could literally build a car from scratch and did. He could fix anything and he loved him a Mercedes.

Was Gabe perfect? No. But Gabe’s imperfections are what made him so human, beautiful and true. 

In the end, I think what we can remember and even learn from Gabe is to appreciate each moment because it might be our last. And to take time for our family and friends and loved ones. And we need to butter our mothers’ toast for them, whenever we can.

I will end with the lyrics to last refrain from the song Mad World, 

"Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson

Look right through me

Look right through me

And I find it kind of funny

I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I'm dying

Are the best I've ever had

I find it hard to tell you

Cos' I find it hard to take

When people run in circles

It's a very very

Mad world

Mad world."

Notes on grief

The last four weeks have been a zinger. My brother in law had a massive aortic rupture without warning. We were in the ICU in Orange for days.

Open heart surgery that lasted twelve hours. We were brimming to the rim with sadness and anxiety but we couldn’t break.

No sleep, so much grief, heartbreaking decisions, and it all felt like a bad dream. Then he passed on the fourth day. I fell to the ground. “Must get up,” I thought. So I did.

Funeral to plan. Collages to make. Still had to go to work. Every day.

My family shattered. Glass on floor. Husband in pieces and 84 year old mother in law a zombie. Then clothes to bring, photos to copy for montage and a reception to plan and much more. His 13 year old son to comfort.  A eulogy to write. I didn’t cry, not even once, that week. I read Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking” straight through (not my first time).

Then funeral.  More hazy moments. Friends in the seats are the only thing that kept me sane. I felt my family shrinking. I spoke. But felt weightless and floating over myself. Watching it all.

Reception. I couldn’t eat. Beer then more beer. Too many (exemplified by me saying “This is for the homie” with tears in my eyes pouring beer on the grass.)

The worst was the next day.

The sinking in of grief.

My house felt like a tomb.