"You meet thousands of people, and none of them really touch you. And then you meet one person, and your life is changed... forever."- Love and Other Drugs
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Love and Other Drugs
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Crazy Sexy Cancer
"We all have something we'd like to go back and fix, to stop time, and start over."- Crazy Sexy Cancer
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Shit People Say to Widows (Video)
Though I'm listed in the credits, my contribution was a little long to make it into the final cut. These are all widow(er)s repeating the stupid shit our mostly well-meaning friends, family, and sometimes complete strangers have said to us.
I have so much more I want to say about this topic - but it'll have to wait for another blog post. A day when my "widow meds" are working a bit better.
Friday, February 3, 2012
That's My Dog
Nate: It just doesn't stop, does it?
Ruth: It gets better... but it never goes away, no.
- Six Feet Under
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Here's a funny story for you.
My apartment landlord, after a year of my non-barking collie mix living with me, suddenly decided he didn't want pets in the building anymore. I didn't feel like going to court over a lease dispute and so agreed to move out in three months. My mother's comment, when I started moaning about having to move in the middle of March, said to me "My grand-puppy needs a yard. Go buy a house." So. I bought a fenced in yard that came with a nice little house. That was four months after my twenty-fourth birthday.
Two years later I had a friend who had to quickly move from her home into an apartment that didn't allow dogs. She boarded her Scottish terrier with me. It was cute. It was old. And it peed on my floors a lot due to some bladder aliment. But it never barked. And it always peed on the kitchen floor, for which I was eternally grateful in a house full of wood floors.
One lovely spring, my mother came to stay with me for a week. And, being not long out of college, along with already being burdened with a house mortgage, we had to share the only bed I owned. Since the weather was nice, (and I was cheap) we slept with the windows open. We slept with the windows open right up until about five in the morning. When a dog started barking.
Mother: What's wrong with that dog?
Me: I dunno, Mom. It's not my dog.
Mother: Is that dog hungry?
Me: I haven't a clue, Mother. It's not my dog.
Mother: Well, should I go let that dog out?
Me: Mother, that's not my dog! I don't bathe it, I don't feed it, I don't take it for walks. THAT'S NOT MY DOG!
The barking was coming from three yards over but between both of us being half asleep and the acoustics of the neighborhood, my mother assumed it was my furry little guest. As far as I was concerned, the dogs under my roof were mine, and were my responsibility. All the other dogs were, well, not my dog - nor were they my responsibility.
All this to say there are many things that are not my dog:
How uncomfortable people feel when I cry in public. Not my dog.
How disturbing it is to people the frequency with which I still think about my husband. Not my dog.
Making those around me feel comfortable with the idea that my life currently has no real direction. Not my dog.
Getting on with my life, knowing this grief may never fully leave my soul and coming to terms with that idea, working on getting better. That's my dog. That's my responsibility.
Ruth: It gets better... but it never goes away, no.
- Six Feet Under
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here's a funny story for you.
My apartment landlord, after a year of my non-barking collie mix living with me, suddenly decided he didn't want pets in the building anymore. I didn't feel like going to court over a lease dispute and so agreed to move out in three months. My mother's comment, when I started moaning about having to move in the middle of March, said to me "My grand-puppy needs a yard. Go buy a house." So. I bought a fenced in yard that came with a nice little house. That was four months after my twenty-fourth birthday.
Two years later I had a friend who had to quickly move from her home into an apartment that didn't allow dogs. She boarded her Scottish terrier with me. It was cute. It was old. And it peed on my floors a lot due to some bladder aliment. But it never barked. And it always peed on the kitchen floor, for which I was eternally grateful in a house full of wood floors.
One lovely spring, my mother came to stay with me for a week. And, being not long out of college, along with already being burdened with a house mortgage, we had to share the only bed I owned. Since the weather was nice, (and I was cheap) we slept with the windows open. We slept with the windows open right up until about five in the morning. When a dog started barking.
Mother: What's wrong with that dog?
Me: I dunno, Mom. It's not my dog.
Mother: Is that dog hungry?
Me: I haven't a clue, Mother. It's not my dog.
Mother: Well, should I go let that dog out?
Me: Mother, that's not my dog! I don't bathe it, I don't feed it, I don't take it for walks. THAT'S NOT MY DOG!
The barking was coming from three yards over but between both of us being half asleep and the acoustics of the neighborhood, my mother assumed it was my furry little guest. As far as I was concerned, the dogs under my roof were mine, and were my responsibility. All the other dogs were, well, not my dog - nor were they my responsibility.
All this to say there are many things that are not my dog:
How uncomfortable people feel when I cry in public. Not my dog.
How disturbing it is to people the frequency with which I still think about my husband. Not my dog.
Making those around me feel comfortable with the idea that my life currently has no real direction. Not my dog.
Getting on with my life, knowing this grief may never fully leave my soul and coming to terms with that idea, working on getting better. That's my dog. That's my responsibility.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Time Flies
Nate: I just feel like all I do all day long is manage myself, and try to fucking connect with people. But it's like no matter how much energy you pour into getting to the station on time or getting on the right train, there's still no fucking guarantee that anybody's gonna be there for you to pick you up when you get there. You know what I mean?
Maggie: Well, I know that if you think life's a vending machine, where you put in virtue and you get out happiness, then you're probably gonna be disappointed. I know that.
Nate: Is that how I sound?
Maggie: A little.
- Six Feet Under
Maggie: Well, I know that if you think life's a vending machine, where you put in virtue and you get out happiness, then you're probably gonna be disappointed. I know that.
Nate: Is that how I sound?
Maggie: A little.
- Six Feet Under
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Documenting our Life Part II
The last time I posted a few pictures and stories of Steve's belongings I was pushing myself as hard as I could to make some progress, any kind of progress, towards... I dunno. Reclaiming my life? Reclaiming my house? Reclaiming my grief? Reclaiming my happy memories? All apply, actually.
It's been a week on what I now call my "widow drugs". The Zoloft hasn't kicked in yet and I've had a few interesting side effects from the Xanax. Like, if I'm late on a dosage I go to sleep for three to four hours. And my dreams? Woo hee. They are fun. Complicated and full of mazes and talking rabbits. Hey, I'm not complaining, they're better then any Tim Burton movie I've seen. Cause when I take my Xanax on time, those four hours? They are some of the most functional hours I've had in months. Actually. The first time I took it I did more in four hours than I had done in a month. I showered AND shaved my legs! Life is improving.
I took a couple of photos a few months back while trying to sort through the bedroom yet again. I tackled Steve's beside table once, then never touched another thing. Just couldn't face it. I did eventually move a few of my clothes into his closet but his shoes are still on the floor in there. My shoes are kept in a pile under the coffee table. It's gotten to a point I won't let people past my front porch if they come to visit me.
This last effort got me a bit further but I still have a ways to go. So, once again, I thought I'd share a few special items and their stories. Please forgive the dark and odd reddish cast to everything. Our room is painted maroon. Very womb-like for those times you need to feel all nestled in and rather infantile while moodily crying.
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This is Steve's little dresser catch-all. It's where he'd place his jewelry, his wallet, his pocket change, his work ID and his cell phone. I took his cross of the chain, where I wear his wedding ring around my neck. His pinky ring, which he never took off, is resting there as well. The change was in his pocket when he died. In his wallet is exactly twenty-six dollars, including the two dollar bill his father gave him as a child. His mother's prayer card is in there, too. Periodically I take everything off the tray, dust it down and then place everything back in it's place. I did eventually throw out his drug store reading glasses.
The tray is red and gold embossed leather. On the back it says "made in Italy." Steve's mother gave it to him when she moved. Every day in Florence last year, I passed a shop that sold hundreds of these trays in various shapes and sizes. My last day I finally built up enough courage to walk in and look around. I wanted to buy a new one, to maybe place in another room. Something to remind me of Mama DeRose and Steve. I couldn't do it, though. I so badly wanted Steve next to me to help decide what shape, what size, what color, what room. But it was nice to see reminders of them both so very far from home.
The perfume bottles are all mine except for the one slightly behind and to the right of the maroon bottle. That's Steve's cologne. Took us years to find the scent that fit his chemistry. It was Coach, of all freaking things. I've been wearing t since he died. It smells completely different on me but every now and again I'll catch an odd whiff and think "Steve?" and then look around for him. Maybe that sounds sad but it always makes me a bit happy.
All my perfumes Steve helped me pick out. I've always been of the mindset that I dress and, well, smell good, for my husband. It made sense that I'd only wear something that he found beguiling. I always knew he liked a new perfume when it'd suddenly show up all gift-wrapped for no reason at all. The bottle in the back on the far left I bought myself while in Florence. I've only worn it once but I like knowing it's there for when I'm ready to head out on my own. I imagine he'd have picked it out had he been standing next to me in Italy.
This is the ugliest puke green chair. It belonged to my grandmother. When my father died I immediately laid claim to it. It reminds me of a chair Steve's mother had that I wanted to bring home with us when she moved. I didn't speak up fast enough and it was taken to the dump. Hers was, of course, much prettier. The pillow, which can't really been seen very well, has both a bird and a monkey on it. It's a relatively recent acquisition but it reminds me of how monkeys made Steve think of me and birds made me think of him. Now, of course, I'm all confused as what to collect so my house is starting to look like some weird rainforest.
The cowboy hat was Steve's. He bought it on a work trip to Texas. It was better than the steer he has been looking at - Lord only knows where we'd have put THAT. He never really wore the hat cause he couldn't figure out where it'd be appropriate to wear in public. And I don't know anyone with a head as big as his who I could pass it on to. So it sits on the chair in our bedroom where I can look at it and laugh about his "big pumpkin head." (His words.)
It's been a week on what I now call my "widow drugs". The Zoloft hasn't kicked in yet and I've had a few interesting side effects from the Xanax. Like, if I'm late on a dosage I go to sleep for three to four hours. And my dreams? Woo hee. They are fun. Complicated and full of mazes and talking rabbits. Hey, I'm not complaining, they're better then any Tim Burton movie I've seen. Cause when I take my Xanax on time, those four hours? They are some of the most functional hours I've had in months. Actually. The first time I took it I did more in four hours than I had done in a month. I showered AND shaved my legs! Life is improving.
I took a couple of photos a few months back while trying to sort through the bedroom yet again. I tackled Steve's beside table once, then never touched another thing. Just couldn't face it. I did eventually move a few of my clothes into his closet but his shoes are still on the floor in there. My shoes are kept in a pile under the coffee table. It's gotten to a point I won't let people past my front porch if they come to visit me.
This last effort got me a bit further but I still have a ways to go. So, once again, I thought I'd share a few special items and their stories. Please forgive the dark and odd reddish cast to everything. Our room is painted maroon. Very womb-like for those times you need to feel all nestled in and rather infantile while moodily crying.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is Steve's little dresser catch-all. It's where he'd place his jewelry, his wallet, his pocket change, his work ID and his cell phone. I took his cross of the chain, where I wear his wedding ring around my neck. His pinky ring, which he never took off, is resting there as well. The change was in his pocket when he died. In his wallet is exactly twenty-six dollars, including the two dollar bill his father gave him as a child. His mother's prayer card is in there, too. Periodically I take everything off the tray, dust it down and then place everything back in it's place. I did eventually throw out his drug store reading glasses.
The tray is red and gold embossed leather. On the back it says "made in Italy." Steve's mother gave it to him when she moved. Every day in Florence last year, I passed a shop that sold hundreds of these trays in various shapes and sizes. My last day I finally built up enough courage to walk in and look around. I wanted to buy a new one, to maybe place in another room. Something to remind me of Mama DeRose and Steve. I couldn't do it, though. I so badly wanted Steve next to me to help decide what shape, what size, what color, what room. But it was nice to see reminders of them both so very far from home.
The perfume bottles are all mine except for the one slightly behind and to the right of the maroon bottle. That's Steve's cologne. Took us years to find the scent that fit his chemistry. It was Coach, of all freaking things. I've been wearing t since he died. It smells completely different on me but every now and again I'll catch an odd whiff and think "Steve?" and then look around for him. Maybe that sounds sad but it always makes me a bit happy.
All my perfumes Steve helped me pick out. I've always been of the mindset that I dress and, well, smell good, for my husband. It made sense that I'd only wear something that he found beguiling. I always knew he liked a new perfume when it'd suddenly show up all gift-wrapped for no reason at all. The bottle in the back on the far left I bought myself while in Florence. I've only worn it once but I like knowing it's there for when I'm ready to head out on my own. I imagine he'd have picked it out had he been standing next to me in Italy.
This is the ugliest puke green chair. It belonged to my grandmother. When my father died I immediately laid claim to it. It reminds me of a chair Steve's mother had that I wanted to bring home with us when she moved. I didn't speak up fast enough and it was taken to the dump. Hers was, of course, much prettier. The pillow, which can't really been seen very well, has both a bird and a monkey on it. It's a relatively recent acquisition but it reminds me of how monkeys made Steve think of me and birds made me think of him. Now, of course, I'm all confused as what to collect so my house is starting to look like some weird rainforest.
The cowboy hat was Steve's. He bought it on a work trip to Texas. It was better than the steer he has been looking at - Lord only knows where we'd have put THAT. He never really wore the hat cause he couldn't figure out where it'd be appropriate to wear in public. And I don't know anyone with a head as big as his who I could pass it on to. So it sits on the chair in our bedroom where I can look at it and laugh about his "big pumpkin head." (His words.)
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