Dear Abby - Eat it

Dear Abby columns are one of those things I read to pass the time while waiting for search results on something else. Alright, yes, sometimes it's Miss Manners. Depends on what level of idiot I want wandering through my brain cavity as I wait for the hourglass on the screen to sort itself out. Eventually, there's always an idiot who has an opinion on death or funerals that just... stresses me out.

DEAR ABBY:

May I share a pet peeve of mine? I wish you'd raise the consciousness of people who write obituaries and fail to mention the musician who provides the music for the funerals and memorials. The musician often does more preparation for the services than the pallbearers. Why are their names omitted? I usually want to know who they are when I attend.

-- WONDERING IN GEORGIA

DEAR WONDERING:

I can think of a couple of reasons. The first is that some obituaries are actually taken from the eulogy, which may have been written prior to the death by someone in the family. If the obituary was written by an employee of a newspaper, the information may have been taken as part of a standard list of questions about the deceased and any survivors.

Frankly, I think it would be more suitable if the musician's name was included on the program. If it hasn't been included, there is nothing rude about telling the officiant or a family member how much you enjoyed the music and asking who provided it.

 
Here's how I would have responded:

DEAR LOONEY,

You have to be looney to even think that "pet peeve" and "funeral" belong in the same conversation. Wondering is what I'm left with as I question your level of social awareness.

After the expense of a $10,000 funeral, I don't think the extra $10 it will cost to publish in the newspaper the name, of a likely stranger, who performs at the funeral, will break me. The idea that the performer is of the same fucking relevance as my husband's family, whom he left behind grieving his early death, may actually break me. Which means I may break you. Obituaries aren't public announcements for musical performances. I suggest you attend the local symphony for music and attend to the dead and bereaved at funerals.

Actually, I suggest you stay home. The grieving don't deserve a clod like you using up their tissues.

And with that, I think I've found my new calling.

For all those sports fans...

Eventually, everything comes full circle.

In February of 2006, the Seahawks played the Steelers in Superbowl XXsomething-or-other. The only reason I know this is because I watched it. The only reason I watched it is because I married a Packer fan. A Packer fan who wrote a sports blog with a Seahawks fan. Both of them, oddly enough, named Steve. Which is where they came up with the blog name of SportsBlogSteves.com.

My mama had always told me "Your man will be into one thing above all others. Probably it will be a sport, I'm sorry to say. Join him in it. Wholeheartedly and with enthusiasm, join him. It will give strength to your marriage."

She was right.

Steve was a Green Bay Packers fan through and through. His words to me early on were "I'm a Packer fan. Deal with it."

So I did.

I asked him to teach me football. To not speak over my head, excluding me from actually learning by using a language I didn't know. To not yell at me if I talked over an important play, cause I wasn't doing it on purpose. To help me become a true fan.

And he did.

Getting TiVo helped immensely. Instead of talking over plays, we just rewound and watched over and again until I understood the play or rule or nuance. Eventually we used it to rewind and argue about plays before hearing what the refs called. He seemed proudest when I won the rewind arguments. We tried to catch up at commercials but in our household, we finished watching the game bout a half hour behind the rest of the world.

By the early spring of 2006, I was an avid Packer fan and pretty decent at watching football in general. I couldn't speak to coaches or players outside of the Pack but I knew what I was watching, knew the positions and rules and felt comfortable making comments in rooms full of men watching football. So when we sat down to watch the Seahawks face the Steelers, I was excited for our friend.

Imagine my surprise to see officiating so bad I had to wonder what mafioso had bought the outcome. My Steve wrote a post about the game and said this:

This wasn’t just one bad call, this was a consistent and deliberate agenda, a fraud perpetrated against the Seahawks by the officials. Every time Pittsburgh needed a call they got it. Every time Seattle began to move the ball, a call went against them. It was obvious and shameful.

Fast-forward to February 6, 2011. Steve died six months earlier and his team was headed to the Super Bowl. I hadn't even woken out of my widow-fog to realize what was happening until sometime in the playoffs, though I had been in front of a TV for every game. When I did finally waken enough to see what was going on, I shook. I wanted the Pack to go to the Super Bowl. I wanted them to win. It felt right and proper and fitting. Considering my husband had just died at 47 leaving me a widow at 36, proper and fitting had no place in my world. Hence, the nervousness.

There's a whole other post I could write, and have tried to write, about being a widow and watching my beloved's team make it to the Super Bowl the season after his death. Today what I'll say is... the Packers played the Steelers. The cheating team that had already stolen a Super Bowl from our friend up north.

And though I could barely watch the game, and the memories of that night are mostly fogged in, one stands out clear. A Steelers fan had made it into my house that night. And sitting in my dead husband's recliner she made a comment about an unfair call by the refs after having repeatedly screamed about taking Rodger's "out at the knees". To which I replied something along the lines of "it was a fair call (and it was), it's only fair turnabout after the last Super Bowl you cheaters showed up to play at, we don't dirty talk about intentionally hurting players in this house so watch your mouth, and get your scrawny ass out of my dead husband's chair before I actually hurt you."

Packers won the Super Bowl that night. Which felt right and proper and fitting for my dead husband. And brought a little joy to some Seahawks fans. But the circle wasn't complete. Not until this past Sunday when the Seahawks got a second chance to win the game they were supposed to win, should have won, eight years ago.

And while I'm excited and happy for our geographically challenged Seahawks friend, Steve. I feel a loss that my Stevie wasn't here to cheer and scream for his friend's team. The blogging they would have done! So I'm writing it for my Stevie. For our friend, Steve.

St. Ides, this is for you. We've come full circle now. Congrats.

Fate Can Eat Me

Fate, you fickle bitch, you made me fearless when you took everything from me... but we're good now.

Dan

Steve was working a contract in Wisconsin when he met Dan's father. In the course of their time working together, Steve found out Dan was accepted to VCU/MCV for his doctorate. We immediately invited them to Richmond to visit the school and promised to give them a full tour of the city.

Guess we were good tour guides, because Dan decided to stay. Steve immediately announced that Dan would be at our house for every Packer game. This wasn't an invitation, it was a command. I lent a hand by looking at apartments for Dan while he went back home to pack for the move.

That first year, Dan did come over for every Packer game. We took him to the state fair, where Dan got to watch my New Yorker husband be amazed by livestock. (Yes, Steve, sheep actually say baaaaa.) We had Dan over for cookouts. We took him to the botanical gardens at Christmas to see the lights. We drove Dan to his first marathon. We drove like maniacs to as many of the stops along the marathon so we could scream our fool heads off as Dan ran by. We brought Dan back to our place after the marathon worried he wouldn't be able to climb the stairs to his apartment. We were, we came to realize through a series of events, surrogate parents. We called Dan our adopted college-aged son. And though he made us feel old when he expressed shock we could use the word "epic" just as appropriately as any hipster, we loved having him around.

Steve had a favorite story about Dan. And this version isn't purely Steve's language because we often told this story together, one interrupting the other to insert some piece of information. Here it is as we would tell it together:

Dan is the stereotypically nice, corn-fed, mid-westerner. Please and thank you are the words we most often heard come from his mouth those first few months. He wouldn't say "shit" if he had a mouthful. Always willing to help or lend a hand however he's able. Always a smile. Always up for anything.

One game-day Monday, Steve was working out of town. Dan came over to the house to watch the Packer game with me. I was on the phone with Steve as the game was starting. Steve started bragging about watching the game on a large, high-def, flat screen TV in his comfy hotel room with the air conditioner cranked to the max.

"Are you jealous" Steve asked Dan.

... pause ...

"I have your wife" replied Dan.

We were so floor by the unexpected change from wouldn't-say-shit-if-he-had-a-mouthful guy to clever retort guy, that we were still telling that story regularly when Steve died.

After Steve died, everything reversed. Dan made sure I was sitting in front of a TV for every Packer game. Dan invited me over for cookouts with his grad-school friends. Dan competed in a triathlon in Steve's memory and gave me the medal. Dan grubbed in my yard. Dan took me out to eat. Dan accompanied me to Christmas ballets, anniversary dinners, and Packer games in Washington DC in place of my husband. He kept me company when I wasn't fit company.

Which may be why I felt so genuinely happy and excited for Dan when he graduated a few weeks ago. He is an amazing man who picked up and moved cross country not knowing anyone, met an incredible group of friends, and with apparent ease, earned his doctorate. He bikes, he runs, he hula-hoops. I have yet to hear him say a bad word about anyone. I have, however, finally heard him say "shit" and I don't believe he actually means it when he says it.

Tonight was Dan's going away party. Dan is moving cross country, once again. Moving somewhere he doesn't know anyone, once again. This time he's starting his career. And I am, once again, genuinely happy and excited for him.

But as everyone was telling their favorite Dan memory, I kept quiet. Not because I don't have one, but because mine are so... oddly tainted by grief that I don't trust myself to speak without weeping for the kindness he's shown me. All the same, here are a few:

Sitting in the parking lot before the Packer / Redskins game, me drunker than I realized, watching the swooping dragonflies while wondering where they all came from. Then getting lost trying to find the car after the game because I was too drunk to pay attention and Dan was too preoccupied with keeping me on my feet on the way into the stadium.

Dying Dan's hair a bright turquoise and shaving it into a mohawk for the triathlon he ran in Steve's memory. He looked like he'd rubbed a smurf up and down the center of his head. It looked good on him.

Dan, quietly dogging me around as I drunkenly climb eight foot tall, cast iron fences in my dress and heels to read a monument on my wedding anniversary simply because I'm not ready to go home to that empty house yet.

Plastering half a pound of pink glitter on Dan's eyes for his "naughty school-girl" Halloween outfit. Then plastering another half pound all over his face. Dan's runner's legs look good in fishnet stockings, by the way.

Wandering around some small, hick, West Virgina town arguing that yes, that house with the sign out front saying it's a place to meet singles and an ATM neon light in the front window really IS a whore house.

Watching the world's worst Christmas play of "A Christmas Story" in the same small, hick, West Virgina town. And being able to pick out the town's hairdresser because he's the gay man in black leather pants, black leather vest, with a bright red button down shirt. The diamond earrings are what gave him away, though.

Dan and I have known each other longer without Steve than we've known each other with Steve. The relationship changed along the way. I don't know how I'd describe it now. Friends, I suppose. Though I don't feel I've the right to be named a friend as I haven't done much to hold up my end for the past two years. Maybe better is to state, one friend who is deeply indebted to the other. And while I am happy, excited, and thrilled for Dan and this new journey he's beginning, that didn't stop me from crying the entire drive home.

I will never be able to repay your kindness and support, Dan. But that won't stop me from trying. Good travels, my friend. I will miss you.

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.

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

                --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

Bouncing Around the Room - Phish

Steve liked telling me about a dream he had in his twenties. He dreamt he was in a bar, carrying on as he normally did in his waking hours, when he met a curly redhead. He couldn't remember what they said to each other only that they spoke for a few moments when she turned and walked out the door. He said when he woke he felt sad because he knew she was the woman he was supposed to spend the rest of his life beside. Then he'd reach up, pull on one of my curls, and tell me how happy he was to have finally found me.

The first time I heard this song, it just felt like Steve. It has always made me smile when it rotated into play on our iPod. It wasn't until I went searching for the words that I realized why Steve would reach over and pull on one of my curls when it played.

It still feels like Steve. And I still smile when it rotates in to play.



the woman was a dream I had
though rather hard to keep
for when my eyes were watching hers, they closed, and I was still asleep

for when my hand was holding hers
she whispered words and I awoke

and faintly bouncing round the room
the echo of whomever spoke
and I awoke, and faintly bouncing round the room
the echo of whomever spoke

the place I sought was far beneath, the surface of the sea
my sight was poor, but I was sure
the sirens sang their song for me

they dance above me as I sink
I see them through a crystal haze
and hear the bouncing round the room
the neverending coral maze,
the crystal haze,
and hear the bouncing round the room
the neverending coral maze

then before and now once more, I'm bouncing round the room
that time then and once again, I'm bouncing round the room
that time then and once again, I'm bouncing round the room
that time then and once again, I'm bouncing round the room
that time then and once again, I'm bouncing round the room

and I awoke, faintly bouncing round the room
the echo of whomever spoke
and I awoke, faintly bouncing round the room
the echo of whomever spoke
and I awoke, faintly bouncing round the room
the echo of whomever spoke

O Sole Mio - The Three Tenors

What a beautiful thing is a sunny day,
The air is serene after a storm
The air's so fresh that it already feels like a celebration
What a beautiful thing is a sunny day

But another sun,
that's brighter still
It's my own sun
that's upon your face!
The sun, my own sun
It's upon your face!
It's upon your face!

When night comes and the sun has gone down,
I almost start feeling melancholy;
I'd stay below your window
When night comes and the sun has gone down.

But another sun,
that's brighter still
It's my own sun
that's upon your face!
The sun, my own sun
It's upon your face!
It's upon your face!

Stairway to Gilligan's Island

The first time Steve and my father met, Steve played "Stairway to Gilligan's Island" for him. My father was a man who loved goofy songs like "Chicken Train" and "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road" and "King Tut". So, of course, "Stairway to Gilligan's Island" was gonna send my father over the moon.

We never recorded Steve playing/singing the song, but whenever I hear "Stairway to Heaven" I think of the two of them laughing like loons to this version.

Daddy, I hope Stevie is playing all your favorite tunes for you right now. I love you both. And thank you, Daddy, for carrying me through the first year without Steve.

A Short Conversation with My Brother-In-Law

In the week after Steve died, I planned for every moment of his service. Right up to the point of what music would play as we walked out of the chapel. After everyone had left, the family waiting outside by their cars, I stood in the foyer of funeral home with a blank look on my face unsure what to do. I hadn't planned for anything past that moment. I was a lost little zombie.

A couple of days after the one year anniversary of Steve's death, my brother-in-law, Butch, called to check on me. And because we have an agreement to never lie, I had to admit I'm feeling a bit unmoored much like after Steve's service concluded. My goal had been to survive the first year. I hadn't planned on anything past that time. I have no idea what comes next.

Butch thinks awhile and says "I know what you need to do".

"Oh yeah? What's that" I ask.

"Go join a local gym," he says.

"Ummmmm." I'm not really liking this idea already.

"Get a personal trainer," he continues.

"Uh huh..." Please oh please don't finish this up with the words triathlon or marathon, I'm thinking.

"And make sure his name is Enrique" he finishes.

...

"Uh. Butch?"

"Yes."

"Are you suggesting I need to get laid?"

"It's been a year. That's all I'm saying."

Had it been anyone else, had it been presented any other way, I'd have been offended. DeRose family trait at it's best, the man had me laughing.

Whatever comes next, I survived the first year.