Please Don't Stop the Music

I dont do emotions real well. I tend to laugh at awful times. I tend to make sarcastic remarks when I should be sensitive. I tend to burst into tears when I (and everyone around me) least expects it. But this blog has int he past served me as a place to say what my mind keeps telling me to think about but which sometimes I cant. If you know me real well, you know what this is about. And so you might not want to keep reading. This isnt here for you to read. This is here for me to say it. As out loud as I can right now.

Joey Ruggiero was the first friend we made after moving to Philly. In fact, if you go through the guest list for my birthday party all but two of the friends we have made in Philly, we have because of him. He invited Matty and I to dinner at Buddakan within a few months of meeting Matty. I had never met him. We refused because it freaked us out. The first time I met him he insisted on picking me up at the airport after Christmas. I could have taken the train or a cab. But he insisted.

Yesterday I got a phone call from Matty. I answered and all he said was "Sara?" and I knew something horrible had happened. My first thoughts went to his cousin who is in charge of the Canadian Navy's boarding party for captured Somali pirate ships. But the tone was wrong. It must be one of his parents. Something had happened to one of his parents. So when he said "Someone just told me that they heard from his office that Joey is dead." I knew I must have heard him wrong. I had to have. Joey couldnt be dead. Joey is 28. Joey is moving back to Philly. Joey has to take care of Tank. Joey couldnt be dead. Matty told me he didnt believe it, I told him to call his cell phone. I stayed on the other line. When I heard Matty say "this is one of Joey's friends" everything else just disappeared. No one else answered Joey's phone. Joey was attached to his phone. All I could think was that Matty had to get home. That there was some sort of mistake but Matty had to go home, because I could here in his voice as he talked to his best friends mother that he was not ok and he was not going to be ok. As soon as he hung up with her, after getting what he could, (Joey went upstairs at his parents place to watch a movie with tank Monday night, this morning his alarm went off and his mom went into his room and found him) I told him to go home, I would call Tara, I would meet him at home. I called Tara and in the least tactful way possible I lost it and blurted it out. She started screaming, on a street corner, and that was when I snapped into taking-care-of-shit Sara. I talked as much as I could to her. I left a note at work for someone to help with my shit and I rushed (as fast as I could on my week-old sprained ankle) to a cab.

He quickly became an addiction for us. He made you feel special just being with him. Like it was a privilege reserved for only the best. Which sounds worse than it is, but if you know what I am talking about you know what I mean. We changed plans to spend time with him. We left the apartment (and changed our outfits) when he insisted. He knew how to get what he wanted and wanted you to have what you wanted too. As long as he got more attention than you. Tank is the only chihuahua I have met whom I instantly fell in love with. Everyone did. Even my mom. You could say whatever you wanted because he usually said something much worse.

And it seems so perfect that I had an impromtu get together at our apartment last night for 16 people. I had something to do. I had to make sure that we got through our list of people that we had to call. I had to make sure that they all got somewhere so they werent alone and they could be taken care of, and if that meant our place then all the better. I made a pot of sauce and some went to the market. 2 lbs of pasta? check. Brie and strawberries? check. OJ and cranberry juice for mixers, marshmallow iced devil's food cake, lots of fresh bread? check, check and check. We watched the funeral scene of Steel Magnolias. We finished Matty's 12 year Jameson's. His birthday present from his brother last year. And most of a full bottle of regular old Jameson's. A good portion of our tequila, someone brought a bottle of White Star, someone brought a bottle of Prosecco, someone brought beer, someone brough more whiskey. Someone stopped at Wendys. And everyone brought stories and memories. And tears and grief. And anger and questions. He would have loved that I had this get together, without my normal anal planning stages, without allowing Matty to clean first, where people drank what he wanted us to drink and talked about what he wanted us to talk about. Him. It was always about him. How we met him, what we would have wanted to wear for his funeral, what he would have wanted us to wear at his funeral, who should get his Hello Kitty bling, our most infuriating memory of him, our best memory of him, what he would have thought about the weather (cold and rainy) and what we were wearing (Matty and Johnny both in argyle sweaters). All about him. But it was also a little bit all about us. And i think he would have appreciated that too. That we were all doing exactly what we needed to do. However uncomfortable that made anyone else. And for me, most importantly, I had something to do. Make sure they have food, make sure they have drinks, make sure they have tissues, make sure they could use a computer, make sure make sure make sure.

We all ended up going to the Westbury. I had never been there without him before. And without something to do I started to think. And I couldnt stop it, there were too many people. Too many familiar faces. Too many strangers. Too many familiar songs. So we came home and I couldnt do it. I couldnt cry the way I needed to cry. I couldnt think the way I needed to think. I started slamming little doors on thoughts. That is what it feels like. Physically slamming shut thoughts. I catch myself shaking my head a little bit sometimes.

This morning I went to a hearing of the PA House Committee on Education regarding the acceleration of science, technology, engineering and math education in PA and specifically Philly. It was a good distraction. I took copious notes and just tried to listen to every word they said.

I still havent been able to do it. To think the thoughts that need to be thought and cry the tears that need to be cried. Some have been. I made homemade mac and cheese with andouille sausage and a spring vegetable couscous salad. I cant eat any of it. I am not hungry and I feel sick to my stomach. But I had to do something. I couldnt be here by myself with nothing to do. I couldnt go to work. I cant say it again out loud. I keep practicing, to myself. And I cant. So I cooked. And talked to my dad. He is so upset that he cant help. He doesnt like me in pain. But he told me that when my grandparents died I did this. I didnt cry the way they thought I should have. I didnt ask the questions they thought i should have. They were scared at first but eventually realized that that is my way. I hope it feels better soon. Because I have so many questions.

How could you do this?
Who is going to encourage us to drink too much too-expensive champagne in too-loud too-dark bars?
Who is going to comment on every outfit we wear, every haircut we consider?
Who is going to drive us crazy spending all their time on their cell phone instead of interacting with us?
Who is going to be the life of the party and announce when it is over?
Who is going to make the snarky remarks that no one thinks they should say out loud?
Who is going to be my kids' Uncle Joey?
Who is going to organize Matty's bachelor party?
Who is going to keep us all together?
Who is going to take care of Tank?
And who is going to take care of all of us?

We arent ready. We need more time. We need a lifetime more time. And we all knew we never had that. But we need more.