lo.facciamo.insieme

When someone special dies, we lose their physical body, yes. But we lose so much more. The sound of their voice, the anticipation of meeting them for dinner, the ability to call them with a quick question, being annoyed at something they said, the struggle to find them the perfect birthday gift, the smell of their brand of soap when you hug them, the wrinkles that make up the fabric of their skin.

My dad wasn’t a big social media guy. Well, let me rephrase. He did not have his own accounts, but regularly trolled us all on my mom’s accounts. He was more of a tracker than a poster. Periodically, I’d get an invitation from him to “track my phone”. Really, dad? And then I’d let out a sigh of relief that I was not a teenager during this current time of technology. I couldn’t have gotten away with much (although it would have been easier to look up the plot of the movie I didn’t go to, so I could tell my parents what it was about when I got home from whatever nefarious thing I WAS doing).

Eventually, my dad did get an instagram account of his own. He didn’t use it a lot, but it was there. And that’s another thing you lose when someone dies. Those periodic “likes” on something you posted. I have my gripes with social media, but it’s nice knowing your people are out there. They are watching, they are possibly stalking, they are hopefully supporting, they are… alive.

But what to do with said accounts when they die? I mean, I think we are all Facebook friends with at least a couple of dead people, right? Their socials sometimes turn into de facto tribute pages, filled with once a year birthday wishes. Or sometimes people will tag their loved one in all the photos where they are missed and would normally have been. It’s sweet. It helps us hang on.

I don’t know how or why, but at some point after my dad died, my mom ended up on his instagram account. Like, she is USING his account (she has her own). It’s curious, because she didn’t have any of the actual important passwords she needed to get shit done after he was gone, but she did get on his instagram. And I only know this because one day, out of the blue, he “liked” something I had posted. These feelings ensued:

DAD!

oh yeah.

dad…….

**stomach lurches**

Since then, there have been a couple posts to his account and a periodic “like” on something I post. I didn’t say anything to my mom, and still haven’t. I have no idea why she’s doing this. Is it a mistake? Maybe to keep his spirit alive? And mom, if you’re reading this, let’s be clear: I don’t WANT to know. Please don’t ever talk to me about it. Because here’s the thing. I love it. As briefly jolting and at least slightly alarming as it was the first time, it doesn’t happen often, and when it does, I happily go into this little zone where I pretend my dad is still watching me. Participating in my life. Even tracking me, for fuck’s sake. I mean, maybe he is - somewhere out in the universe. And those periodic social media shout outs from him? They bring a comfort/longing duo that is hard to fully describe.

His user name is lo.facciamo.insieme. He was a lifetime student of the Italian language and I figured this was something meaningful to him. I never bothered to look it up. Until just this moment. The English translation is “We do it together”. And while it hurts like hell that I can’t ask him the significance of this choice (another thing lost…), at this moment, it feels a little perfect. We do this life together and when someone important leaves, we still do it together.

Thanks, mom. But please don’t ever talk to me about it. I like the magic.

For The 178th Time... She Really Isn't Asking For It.

We grow up being told to “smile more”.  And so we smile and are told we’re giving the wrong impression. It was our fault that he did that. We shouldn’t have been so friendly. We shouldn’t have gone out alone. We shouldn’t have accepted that ride home from someone we thought was just a friend when it was below zero. Don’t make eye contact. Hold your car keys like a weapon.

And even as you read this, even if you agree with me that it’s wrong, even if you are a woman who desperately wants things to change, you have thought these thoughts. It’s engrained in the fiber of our beings. She was asking for it. Her skirt was too short. Her neckline was too low.

I’m in the Dominican Republic. I have made many jokes about how I spontaneously booked this trip with little planning or research. But, it’s true. I recently turned 50 and I don’t really give much of a fuck about a lot of things anymore. But I truly did not anticipate how difficult this would be. I researched places that had the best chance of sun in February and recalled how successfully I’ve navigated around many Caribbean islands or bumbled through Spanish speaking countries getting directions or trying to get medical care with two years of high school Spanish and no real practice. Even now, I feel I have to justify this to you. So you don’t think… WHY would she go to the Dominican alone?? WHAT was she thinking??

I didn’t do this as a test or to try and prove anything. I just… DID IT. 

And yesterday, my first full day here, I decided to venture out. I turned away from the beach, toward whatever ELSE happens in the Dominican. I made it less than two blocks. I was completely overwhelmed by men... trying to sell me something, trying to whisk me into their shops, touching my arm, my hand, my back, my hair and asking me a series of questions in Spanish or English or some odd combination of the two. My self confidence disintegrated and I stumbled back to the relative safety of the beach, where I have experience saying no to hair braiding and parasailing and photos with parrots or monkeys. I got breakfast and chatted with the wait staff I had met the night before and began to understand why people go to all inclusive resorts (I’m staying at a little hotel where I have yet to see any Americans - which is fantastic, DO NOT GET ME WRONG HERE). I thought, ok, I’ll just hang at the beach - I have three books with me. This will be FINE. But here they came again. I literally could be looking directly at the ocean and minding my own business and here they came.

Where is your husband?
Where is your wedding ring?
How’s the food here? (I wasn’t eating)

What’s this? (two separate men felt it was fine to grab my foot and play with my toe ring)

Why are you alone? 

Do you want someone to show you around?

Can I join you?

Nope! I have a boyfriend, actually. I’m not interested. I’m happy sitting here alone.

It didn’t help. It just changed the conversation until it could be brought back around to whatever it was they thought they were going to achieve. Because surely, I didn’t MEAN what I said. 

Fucking exhausting. 

Last night, I spent the evening in my hotel room, kind of hungry, feeling a little trapped, but without the energy to go out and find food. It just wasn’t worth it. 

I’m not telling you this so you feel sorry for me. I wish I had some important take away that would make an actual difference. Some nugget I could share to change the world. But I don’t. I just want you to think about it, ok? When you speak to your children, your friends, your spouse, your co-workers, your running buddies, the friends at book club or game night… think about it. 

I’m convinced there is a limit to what I’ll see in my lifetime when it comes to gender equity. But I do have hope. I want things to change. For my daughters. For all of the daughters. Everyone deserves more than this.

And for now, armed with my new favorite phrase, déjame en paz, I will head back out. Nobody is going to stop me from enjoying this vacation!

Valentine's Day

It’s Valentine’s Day. But I woke up recalling a memory from Christmastime a couple years ago. In fact, as I recall, it was the darkest day of the year, winter solstice, December 21st…. my marriage ended around summer solstice that year and as the days grew darker, so did…. well, everything else… But survive, I must! And so I was out in some western suburb killing time until an evening showing. I stopped to have salad bar at a grocery store and perched at a booth in their sad cafeteria. Karen Carpenter was singing Christmas tunes over a poor quality sound system and nearly everyone was middle aged and alone. And eating a salad. As I was thinking…. so this is how it all ends for me…. A guy approached my table and slapped something down, exclaiming, Merry Christmas!  I glanced down at what was sure to be a $5 gift card, but it was a pamphlet proclaiming “An intimate message from God to me.” 

Now… If we were at one of those churches with a body of water in the name, a thinly veiled intolerance of homosexuality (as long as you don’t ACT on it, it’s fine…) and a Christian rock band playing every weekend, this story would end with hands in the air and my sudden realization that all I need is to be loved by God and forgiven for my sins. And I’d be lying if I said I’ve never been in a pew of one of those churches wishing that did it for me.

But that evening, that moment…there was something about that word on the pamphlet. Intimate. And I think that very sad, very alone moment under the florescent lighting of Lund’s grocery cafeteria and eating while someone who had died of an eating disorder was singing Christmas tunes…. I think that moment was the start of something.

It was a while before I ever got the gumption to try actually dating again. But I did. And you know what we do now, right? All the kids are doing it. Sigh. Dating apps. Thankfully, many of them are free, but if you go down a certain rabbit hole at 2am after clicking on a Facebook promotional article, you may be convinced that you should join a paying one. Not that I’d know anything about that.

Anyway, if you are one of the lucky humans who has never had to resort to such tactics, perhaps you don’t know the logistics of all of this. Let me help you understand…

First, you make a profile. You look through your phone pics and realize you don’t have any good photos of yourself, so then comes a selfie photo shoot… in which over thinkers (again, not that I know anything about this) try to capture a decent likeness of self, yet a realistic one, so as not to alarm potential date as you approach the table, unrecognizable. (Note: you do not yet know that you will not be able to recognize at least 80% of your dates because they did not overthink, or even really think at all when they chose their photos, several of which are from 2003).

Next, you write a flowery little blurb about yourself (which you will later revise into a more biting, sarcastic, realistic blurb about yourself, in the hopes that you can weed out some of the sad, tragic and crazy messages. Spoiler: You cannot). 

And sometimes you don’t use your actual first name and you have to pick a clever user name. Some of the apps give you a pep talk about this (Be creative! Be fun! Show your personality!) 

Here are a few actual examples my dating pool has come up with:

Uwilneed2hands

Tired Of Searching
SurprisinglyHappy

Upforanything (really? ANYTHING?)

Doounow3 (*****Doounow1 and Doounow2 obviously taken)

YoungCub4Cougar (this guy is 25 and included a photo with a single tear running down his soft, baby man cheek)

If you aren’t having fun yet, not to worry. Because we still get to click on the actual profile and see what they’ve written for us….it’s like Christmas morning, really! I will be sure to copy as found, with no edits, punctuation or grammatical corrections, so as not to spoil the fun. 

Frank didn’t have a lot of time, so he cut right to the chase...

Looking for fun wet punnay. Make me an offer I cant refuse. Loveable and hard as a rock get it… We should Chat

Irresistible, right? 

And then there’s Jim. He fought spell check HARD for your entertainment, ladies...

If yur’oe albe to raed tihs, yuv’oe had eonguh to dinrk.
I love it when u give me head, I hate when u give me headaches.

Surely, he’s beating off the ladies with a damn stick, people!

This next guy, though. He KNOWS how to use his charming honesty to attract that woman who is perpetually making horrendous decisions about men....

If we go camping, I will drink too much and piss up the tent. I think kids are fun if I don’t have to remember their names. If I’m around long enough to remember their names, I’ll end up teaching them to swear and smoke… I like going out to see live music and love hearing myself sing karaoke (dont ask me to sing a duet, you probably suck…) I’ve been investing heavily in Jameson and 1994 buick century wagons so we will have to roll with progress and let the lady buy.

On one of the apps, they have fun little things you can write about (to help us seem more interesting). This guy chose to answer “Two truths and a lie”....

ive been stabbed, ive been shot at, ive been arrested

BUT I WANT THEM ALL TO BE THE LIE!!!!

Describing your “ideal first date” is another option. And I think we can all agree that Brendon really nailed it here...

My ideal date would be to meet for coffee at McDonalds in a place between where the two of us reside. 

It’s frugal, it makes geographic sense, it’s the best coffee of all the fast food restaurants. Brendon is a safe, responsible choi—- sorry, I nodded off there for a sec.

And then, once you’ve had an opportunity to sort through all these heart stopping profiles, you have a choice. You can shut off the phone and cry yourself to sleep, you can binge another Netflix series for 8 straight hours, you can eat the rest of the bag of Doritos and wash it down with some whiskey (Note: All three can actually be done in one evening) or you can PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE and try sending a message. But before you compose the message, know this: The people who seem most interesting/promising are likely: 

1. Not real humans (bots and scams and blah blah blah) OR…
2. Never going to meet up with you because evidently 1/3 of the people on dating apps NEVER actually go out on a date with anyone OR…
3. Narcissistic predators (to be fair, this problem is not specific to dating apps)

Despite the fact that pretty much all of the odds are against all of us at all times, sometimes, you match with someone AND you have a decent conversation via the app AND you even exchange phone numbers AND you actually meet somewhere on a date. 

I could regale you with these stories for a long time. But I do go on. So. Let’s just say I have been on dates where…. I was told in detail about how one’s wife and his OWN MOTHER had him committed to a mental institution twice (but they had it all wrong, really), I’ve made it clear there was no attraction and would be no sex and been BEGGED for “at least a blow job” and I’ve been in an argument over the location of the nearest record store. God that guy was annoying. But a special shout out to you, Judy, for having my back that time I had to escape the crazy guy!

They aren’t all terrible, though.

When you’re middle aged, you most certainly have your fair share of baggage, and sharing these war stories is part of the date. I actually find this refreshing. Being young, hopeful and not yet jaded is so…. overrated. And for those of us who have been beaten down a bit by life (ok, maybe more like smashed into a pulp and reformed as if from clay), it’s nice to be with another human who is honest and knows their own shit. Or knows they don’t totally know it. Or at least is willing to try and know it. Something like that. Where was I?

The other night I had a good date. And I had a moment sitting at the table across from another beautiful, broken human, where I was so very grateful for good conversation and hope and Chile Rellenos and romance and not listening to Karen Carpenter singing Christmas music at the salad bar. And even though a goodnight kiss in middle age means you can’t really see the person because things that close up are super blurry….. I’ll take it. All of it.

I still believe in love.

Tomato Face

I’ve spent the past six months getting into the worst shape of my life. You probably think this was easy, but let me tell you, it took a careful combination of tragic life events, excessive drinking and anxiety coupled with intermittent depression to get me as far as I got. And lest you think I didn’t notice or care, I actually signed up for a marathon along the way and five separate times even began a running routine. But then… stuff kept happening. My dad died. A dog bit me. It snowed a foot and the temps dropped below zero. My divorce took one frustrating and ugly turn after another. It was just so much easier to have a glass of wine and complain or binge eat sour gummies while reading through the phone & bank records confirming all of the terrible things I didn’t want to be true. I signed up for a 21-day challenge yoga thing I saw online. I did 1.5 of the days. But don’t worry, they’re all still in a folder in my gmail and I’ll get back to them. Surely, I will.

And then yesterday, I agreed to go on a trip to a warm location in two months with my skinny friend and her skinny sisters. And these girls like to take pictures.

So that’s it then. Time to get serious. I joined the YMCA online (after my nap) and vowed to go to my first exercise class today. And I did. Almost an hour AFTER the class is done, here’s how I still look:

That is a trademark tomato face. It runs in the Fruncillo family. It means that you have to plan your exercise for a time when you won’t have to do anything important for a few hours afterward because people will ask you if you’re ok. If you’re hot. If you’re ill. If you have high blood pressure. If you need to sit down. No. I’m just a Fruncillo. It’s just going to be red like this for a while. A long while.

I chose the Y because I had recalled with nostalgia the great shape I was in back in my thirties when I regularly went to step classes there. Yes. This will be great. 

So today, I arrived early, ready to secure my place in the back of the class where it is safe and I can take as many breaks as I need and hopefully not even be noticed by the instructor and definitely not be asked publicly if “I’m new”. I did get a place in back and the class was so full, I mercifully could not even see myself in any of the mirrors. I have a giant, ugly bruise on my arm right now, which, along with the ghostly winter white skin, is fast tracking the self esteem to a dangerous new low. I have a solid feeling I am transforming into a jellyfish. I was next to a lady who was a bit overweight and definitely older than me. I struck up a conversation and found out she comes to this class regularly and she modifies for her bad knees. This was encouraging. Good. I got this. 

So we start and at first I think, yeah, I do remember some of these moves. This will be ok. Then I stop for a water break before it’s time for the water break. Then, the instructor says we are only halfway done when I am pretty sure I might need to go to the hospital. I tell myself that it’s going to be fine. I start to modify. It’s my first day back! I got this. 

I’m watching the clock and focusing on the people who are also modifying and suddenly, I notice a pregnant woman. And she is PREGNANT. Third trimester pregnant. And she’s not modifying. I shrug off the shame and focus on the fact that we only have 20 minutes left. And then suddenly, a woman who is up at the front of the class right next to the instructor starts running in between all of us and stopping to…. i don’t know….. motivate people??? Her calf muscles look like they’re about to bust through her beautiful skin and I know with every fiber of my being that she definitely doesn’t ever pass out on the couch instead of going up to bed, wake up with purple wine teeth, and then skip a morning work out class. Not that I’d know anything about that. She is giving out high fives. I will her not to come near me. I look over at my new friend and tell her that I’m pretty sure I’m going to die today. She doesn't laugh. Because I look like I can back that up.

By the end, I was mostly flailing my arms and legs around and trying not to trip over the step. The instructor said at one point, “Great job, back row” and my heart swelled with pride. And then we stretched out and I had my moment of glory, because despite my sedentary winter lifestyle, I am still pretty flexible. It’s the little things, people.

So, I did it. And here, with my tomato face and drenched hair, I know I’ll go back tomorrow. 

As long as I don’t meet up with my friends for drinks tonight. 

Eulogy For My Dad

Standing up and trying to do justice to a life like my dad's in just a couple of minutes feels all wrong. My dad was larger than life and it seemed that everyone who ever met him never forgot him. 

He was known by many names:

Art... Grampy... Arthur... Greepap... Artie... Gramps... Arthur C... Art F... Grandpa

My dad loved The Onion. If you aren't familiar with The Onion, it’s a satirical publication, mimicking the style of real news with headlines & articles filled with ironic and dark humor. He would email me headlines often and he would have loved this one that I saw yesterday: 

"Area Man Afraid Some Woman Might Come Out Of The Woodwork To Hold Him Accountable For Something". 

In his last days, dad maintained his terrific sense of humor and he and I were actually writing Onion headlines together. 

For example…he was screwing around with his oxygen mask….making fart noises & funny faces, so we came up with:

"Area Man Goes Viral On You Tube Playing 'Stairway To Heaven' On Oxygen Mask”

And this one is dark, but he loved it:

"Area Man Gets Last Laugh After Dying In Front Of Family Who Tried To Convince Him He Was Not Dying”

In true Art Fruncillo style, he joked around, hoping to make a terrible situation a little easier for us all.

The other day, someone asked me “What did your dad do for a career?” Well. That was always a tough one to answer. But as I’ve reflected upon his life these past days, I’ve realized that he achieved something that so many people do not. He lived life so fully. He ate it up until he was stuffed. And he still came back for dessert.

My dad once attempted to shovel our 1/4 mile long driveway in the woods of Grantsburg, Wisconsin after a huge snow storm (I can’t recall how far he actually got). 

My dad was always up for a road trip, and he went on many with all of us, to destinations all over the United States and beyond. 

When I got my first period, my dad sent me a dozen roses and a card that read, “Girl, you’re a woman now”. I was mortified. But that was my dad. 

Art would hate this early winter we’re having and by now would probably have said, “That’s it, I’m leaving for Florida and I’m not coming back until spring”  He often did leave for Florida, but he never stayed as long as he planned, because he inevitably missed his family and came back. 

When it came to driving, Art took things very seriously. He believed everyone should be able to drive a manual transmission and when I had nothing but a learner’s permit, he marched me right out to practice one winter night when they warned to stay in due to black ice. 

My dad could be the least technically trained musician in the room, but he’d be the one who had everyone on their feet singing and smiling. 

He pushed us all beyond our comfort zone and took us on great adventures that will never be forgotten.

When Art became a grandpa, he embraced it with a giant love. 

He would patiently let his grandkids climb all over him or squirt him with a hose and he would tickle them and wrestle with them endlessly. 

He played music for them and with them. 

He showed up at their events to support them. 

He exposed the grandkids to reality, even when their parents weren’t ready. The first time my kids ever heard the “F word” was in Italy, when grandpa told an overly aggressive flower peddler to “Get the fuck away” from me. 

He could be aggravating. But he loved deeply and passionately. He was a beautiful man. 

There’s a story my dad told often called the "Tree of Sorrows".

It is the story of a village where once a year all the inhabitants write down their sorrows, their problems and difficulties from the last twelve months. They then pin their list on a special tree, the tree of sorrows, for a day where all the villagers can read them. At the end of the day each person has a choice to take home their experience of the past year or choose the experience of another villager. As the story goes, they all choose to take back their own experience as that ultimately seems easier to bear than any of the others they have read.

I don’t want this sorrow. But this empty space in my life, in all of our lives, is a result of having had Art in it. And for that, I will forever be grateful.

The beginning of the end of the beginning of the end

The pure agony of the loneliness at the bitter end. You know you can do it because you’ve done it before. But you don’t want to do it. And then you are in it, coming ever so gradually to what will be acceptance and you wonder…when does it go from an end to a beginning? Because at some point, you go from the shattered and broken ending and emerge from the cocoon of loss into something. And it’s the beginning of whatever it will be. But if only you didn’t have to do the work. If only you could just fast forward right to the beginning. But no. It can’t happen with just a long run in the park or enough wine with a friend or even an interaction with a stranger that suggests you could possibly, ever be appealing to another human being again. No. You must stay still. Listen to your heart beating in your tightened, anxious chest. Let yourself feel those mother fucking feelings, and they will go ahead and come whenever they please. Because a book title or a pile of leaves or one single chord that begins a certain song can take you right to your damn knees. And to your knees you must go. Embittered with the injustice of it all. Clinging to all of the good and in denial of all the wrongs. Helpless to the wounds and left to wait for them to heal. And they will. 

You can be so tired of starting over that you are sure you’ll never be able to do it again. But you’ll do it.

Again.

Dear Lola

Dear Lola,

I miss you, friend.

I saw this recently:

“A dog on a walk is like a person in love. You can’t tell them it’s the same old world.”

And this is so you, Lola. You were always, always ready to go. The fact that we had to spell out “walk” and eventually had to just say “w”, was testament to your eagerness and love of going. Anywhere and everywhere. And a wonderful companion you made, every time. Whether you were sitting on the bank watching your daddy fish or accompanying me in the car to a cross country race or chasing the stick over and over again when the kids tossed it into the water for you.

Mostly, I want to thank you.

Thank you for always being in a good mood. All I had to do was say your name and your tail, and possibly entire body, would wag. You were sweet and enthusiastic…always.

Thank you for being the most loyal friend. In my hardest and darkest moments, you were happy to lay with me, for hours and hours if need be. You didn’t complain or want to do something else. You were happy to just “be” with me. You helped me through some of the hardest times of my life just by being there.

Thank you for knowing things that it seems a dog wouldn’t know. I watched every member of our family find comfort with you at different times over the years. It seemed you knew somehow that your presence and the ability to hug you would heal and comfort in a special way. And it did. 

Thank you for being my running buddy for many years, for making me laugh when you “talked”, for being kind to Charley even when the last thing you wanted was another dog in the house. Thank you for learning to love Gerd even though men were scary. Thank you for always being willing to sleep in. Thank you for trying to get outside when you had to throw up, even though a lot of times you barfed right on the rug.

Thank you for being the best dog. 

I will miss you forever...