THE REALITY OF THINGS

We traveled to Oklahoma to visit with my family over the weekend and ended up getting back home kind of late. As a result we were left scrambling to get things ready for the next day. I left laundry in the washer and dryer. There are still things that need to be unpacked and put away. My need for order and cleanliness has gone into overdrive, leaving me to feel a little panicky about things in general. I will spend the week playing catch up, getting things done here and there only to have to do them again on the weekend. But it was nice to visit with my family this weekend with the exception of dad. Mom and I drove down early Saturday morning to visit with Dad. We had been told that Dad could handle thirty minutes of visitation, so I knew I'd be driving three hours one way for a very short visit. Instead, when we arrived, we found that dad had been sedated. He'd had a rough week, got in a fist fight with another patient, and had been yelling about someone taking his dog. Finally Friday night, the nurses thought it was best to give him a sedative. I'm not sure if he recognized us or not. He seemed excited to see us when we walked in, but quickly dozed off, drifting in and out. He'd wake up and want to fix the quilt draped over his legs and then settle back to snooze. His movements reminded me of Chris near the end. Basically those sedatives and pain meds are a form of meth. It causes the user to become twitchy and they pick at things like their clothes or their skin. Chris got fixated on peeling apart a piece of paper that could not be peeled apart. I finally had to take the paper away before he drove me crazy. Dad's "paper" was his quilt, constantly rearranging it, picking at it, feeling the lines in the stitches.

Mom left me alone with him while she went to talk to the nurses. I was sitting in his dark cell like room on the end of his bed, my face swollen from crying, when I decided to take this picture. I was hesitant to take that picture because I worried about what people would say. Why would I photograph that moment? I saw the image in my head before I took it though, a vision of something pure and real and so I photographed it. This is what this looks like. This is the face of this disease. Maybe I wanted a reminder that this is ugly or that there's not always a silver lining to things. I can candy coat things only so much. But also, that picture is part of the story, a record, an account. I was thinking about all the special moments we photograph in life. The birth of a new baby. That first birthday. Graduations. Weddings. All of these monumental moments in life, but not all monumental moments are pleasant or joyful. I guess I just wanted hard copy proof of that. Maybe I wanted people to see that the face of death is easy; it's the face of dying that's hard to look upon. Really and truly, that's the hard part.

My past experiences have prepared me for the hard parts. That picture is a reminder that I know how to weave my way around the hardest part and find a way to be OK on the other side of things. But I won't lie. The hard parts are HARD.

OLD HOBBIES AND DANGEROUS DREAMS

The other night I dreamed that I was on an island. The island was being evacuated because the island volcano was about to erupt. There was already a large billow of smoke and ash in the air. Instead of heading to the evacuation point, I was still off exploring the island. I kind of got myself lost in the narrow winding streets of one village and I thought to myself "Crap! I really need to get out of here". My nose was all stuffed up because of the ash. In fact, I would wake up with one side of my nose clogged up. Instead of rushing to find my way out of the village though, I looked up and saw the cutest house built into the side of a hill. It looked just like a fairy house and had multiple stories with rounded off windows. The landscaping was positively fairy tale. So instead of hightailing it out of there, I stopped to take pictures with my fancy pants camera. The alarming part of this story is that I'd wake up the next day to this headline on Google News about Mount Kelud erupting. The part that doesn't surprise me is the part where I'm using my fancy pants camera instead of my phone. I've been thinking about that camera a lot lately. It's just been sitting in my bag that I carry around with me all the time. A few days ago I pulled it out of the bag with some intention of using it and found that the battery was dead. The lens cap had never made it's way back onto the lens and the lens (the whole body really) was covered in lint and dust. I was slightly embarrassed. I know for a fact that there are images from our stop at Big Brutus on the memory card that I have yet to transfer over for editing. That was the last time I had that camera out. November 2013.

I did so well in Ireland, relying on the Olympus for most of my pictures. It just gets so easy to get lazy. It's easy to come up with excuses like I need a better lens. I don't have time to stop right now and set up that shot. I've put my sd card reader away and I don't want to get up and dig it out. See how easy it is to be lazy? The truth is, that camera should be part of a daily meditation practice. I think one road block is that I always think I have to be outside to take pictures and let's face it, the past few months have not been let's-go-outside-and-try-to-use-our-fingers kind of weather. It's true that natural lighting is best, but I sit at a desk across from a wall of windows. Last I checked, windows let in natural light. In fact I remember capturing a moment on my camera phone inside the Neslon that is a perfect example of how windows let in natural light and how that light bounces off structures, creating interesting shadows.

I went to a liberal arts college that emphasized thinking outside of the box and looking at problems from multiple angles. This education has served me well in my career, made me a better scientist. One of the biggest problems I have is taking the literal meaning for everything. I also speak in literal terms. When I hear the phrase "think outside the box" my first instinct is that I need to step outside into the open air. Get out into nature. When in reality, staying inside could actually be stepping outside the box. I never shoot with a flash. I've never took the time to figure out the hows and whys behind using my flash. I am usually generally disappointed with the results when I've used the flash before, but I know there are multiple settings for the flash that I don't mess around enough with. I could actually learn how to use my flash. Now that's thinking outside the box, the kind of thinking that makes me smack my palm on my forehead for not figuring it out sooner.

Self improvement is hard.

TWO

This weekend was pretty awful. Michael and I picked at each other all weekend. The Cabbage woke up at 4:30 AM Saturday puking in her bed. This did nothing to improve the quarrelsome tension between us. In an attempt to escape the tension and chaos, I sneaked out of the house for a morning yoga class and then I went grocery shopping on my own. I was lugging my giant reusable grocery bag filled to the max with groceries while also trying to carry a bag filled with the things that would not fit in the reusable bag in my other hand. This one contained the eggs. I got these things out of the car, the largest bag situated on my shoulder like a pack mule, took one step and went down hard on the driveway. The pain that shot through my right hip and knee was the kind that made me slightly queasy. I sat there for a few minutes feeling the cold ice seeping into the seat of my pants, before peeling myself off the drive and finishing what I'd started. At least the eggs survived. Pride goes before a fall. Later I would tell Michael that I didn't need someone to take care of me and then later still, he would bring me grilled cheese and tomato soup on a tray in bed. Every thing Michael did or said this weekend irritated me. As a result I was awful, condescending and critical. I was so ugly. I was so shameful. Each criticism was a verbal shove, an unspoken "don't love me" or "don't love me enough to want to stay". Finally, Sunday, Michael put his arms around me and said "We both have some hard dates this week. Let's be gentle with each other." And then I started sobbing, the kind of sobbing that I only allow to happen behind a locked bathroom door. There's maybe three other people that have seen me cry like that and one of them is dead. I don't know which part was worse, the letting it happen part or the part where I actually let him see it happen. Or the part where I took it all out on him. Then the sewage started to back up in the basement. How fitting. The whole house was overflowing with shit.

As Michael was tucking me into bed last night, he asked me how he was supposed to be today. I didn't understand is question. He didn't know how he was supposed to treat this day. I told him to treat it like any other day. What I should have added was that this day is not special. Special implies holidays and cookies. The day Chris left us was not a special day. No holiday. No cookies. I slept fitfully last night. I thought I heard the sounds of Michael throwing up and then worried that he'd caught whatever stomach thing from the Cabbage. When I slept, I dreamed that I was stuck at Mom's house without a way to get to work. I'd ridden my scooter to work the day before, but the weather had turned and I'd had to leave my scooter at work. Chris was at mom's too. He was sick, but not sick with the same thing that killed him. He just had the regular old flu. It was the kind of dream that just ended. No resolution. No answers. Chris, once again not saying anything of use to me. I suppose he thinks that I contain all the wisdom I need to know.

I wonder if there will come a time when I don't remember this date has any significance in my life other than it just being the 10th of February. The only thing that surprises me about today is that it's been two years. It seems like longer, maybe because I pressed the fast forward button on my life the day he died. I sat on my bed that day while I let someone else clean up the evidence of Chris and illness and death. Maybe in hopes of erasing the horror of it all from my memory. Maybe if I stepped out into a clean living room, no hospital bed, no pill bottles, then none of this had ever happened. Except Chris was gone. Easier to accept his disappearance without the reasoning of the how he disappeared. Not really. I wasn't built for easy, but I'll admit to moments of fragility. My sore hip and bruised knee are proof of that. Some dates are just hard. Let's be gentle with each other.

BIRTHDAY WISHES FOR A DEAD MAN

It started last week. An email from some card company. "Chris Maddera's birthday is just around the corner. Send him a card!" Let the haunting begin. I thought I'd just stay away from facebook today, but curiosity and boredom always kills the cat. "Send Chris an iTunes gift card today!" "Wish Chris a Happy Birthday!" Then there's the notes that others have left for him on his page. I see every one in my news feed, beautiful words expressing just how much he's missed. Amy losing her Charger yesterday just adds salt to the wound. It's not hard to envision a ghost world with Charger standing on Chris in some crazy way, Hooper lounging lazily at Chris's feet. Charger liked to stand on you. The higher up on your person the better. Though I'm pretty sure Hooper and Charger in the same room together would be a recipe for disaster. Dog fight. I remember Chris's last birthday. I wanted it to be special and awesome. I made everything jambalaya and the house was full. Traci and her Chris and Todd where there. Todd made beignets. Traci brought us our favorite vegan cupcakes from Green Goodies. Chris took center stage in the recliner we'd borrowed from mom, being Chris, making us laugh. All of us ignoring the cancer elephant in the room. The next day, I would go to work while Todd stayed with Chris. Sometime during the day Todd would call to say that Chris had thrown up and he needed to know where the cleaning supplies were. Todd said that Chris had told him not to tell me about him throwing up. Chris hadn't wanted to hurt my feelings. Four days later he'd leave us. This is the memory that came floating into my head while cleaning microscope objective lenses this morning. I thought "really? That's the one that pushed itself to the front". What about that time we had the Star Wars surprise birthday party for him at Stonewall's? Or what about that time I bought him an assortment of cupcakes and we had beer and cupcakes? He said that sounded like a TV show and that he'd be beer and I'd be cupcakes. No...it had to be that last birthday. That's the one that I have to remember first. That's the one that leads me down the rabbit hole of pictures looking for birthday's past, finding evidence of our stupid happy life together. And I suddenly become enraged at Chris, at cancer, at memories, at the internet, at everything. How dare there be dates that make me remember! I want to punch that stupid facebook profile picture of the squinty Fry! Why the fuck is that the last profile picture he chose to upload?!?! It all makes me so unbelievably angry.

But then I get a text from Michael. "Hey...are you OK today?" He knows that I may be struggling today even though we didn't really see each other this morning. He was still sleeping when I left for work. It's his text that pulls me back down to the present. This is what I have now. This is my life now. That was then. This is now. I won't send an iTunes gift card to Chris or even write a "Happy Birthday" on his facebook page. I won't get out the wiji board and attempt to communicate with the dead. Neither one of went in for that sort of hocus pocus, so why start now. Though I do hope, if Chris is somewhere out there, he's enjoying himself. Maybe eating cupcakes and drinking beer or watching Star Wars.

UNEXPECTED

As I sit here typing, it is snowing outside. I am a little surprised by the snow. I wasn't really expecting it because I stopped paying attention to the news or weather earlier this week. So I was unprepared to see everything outside my window look like a shaken up snow globe. I started dreaming of roaring fires in a fireplace and steaming mugs of mulled wine or cider. The idea of lounging in a fluffy bed sounded very appealing. When ever I have thoughts of lounging in a fluffy bed, my mind always pictures that scene from The Little Princess when Sara Crewe wakes to find that the man next door has covered her bed with a beautiful thick and luxuriant comforter. In reality, I am not the type of girl who covers her bed in silks and satins. Nor am I the type for lounging. But there are moments when it sounds like a good idea. It was while I was having these daydreams of snow day activities that my friend Heather called. I hadn't talked to her in a really long time and I'd missed her at Christmas. Her call out of the blue was a welcome surprise and unexpected. She told me about life with a toddler and a new baby and then she told me about cleaning out the toddler's backpack. There was a pocket inside the pack that they never used. It was zipped up, so Heather opened it just to make sure the pocket was empty. She told me that she found the picture of Chris that we'd given out at his memorial. Her intention wasn't to upset me. It was just an odd thing for her to come across so close to the date. As she talked about it, I felt the tears well up and my throat close tight. It was a moment I wasn't prepared for. The tears came upon me like the snow.

Moments before I'd been dreaming of lazy luxury. I'd just sent out a racy email to my boyfriend. And then seconds later, I'm clutching a phone to me ear, nodding answers as if Heather can see me, unable to speak through grief. It never goes away. I think that I always have a handle on in it. I'm in control of this loss. I've come to terms with the missing and that there's nothing to be done or that could have been done. It just is. It's just a part of things, of me. Then comes the reminder that I am not in control of all of it. The difference now is that I feel guilty for the lapse. I feel guilty for everything. I must have been Catholic in a former life. I feel guilty for being happy. It's not that I feel guilty for being happy. I feel guilty for being happy with another man. I feel guilty for grieving over the loss of someone else. I know that's hard for Michael. I know he's jealous of what I used to have. How could you not be jealous of what I used to have? I feel bad any time I've said or done something that may remind him of my life before us.

The good thing that I had in my past does not mean I cannot have this good thing now. I am continuously marveling at my good fortune. I am always practicing being willing to release that guilt and just accept what is. Life flows in a circle. It just so happens that mine is turning out to be a series of circles that resemble a Spirograph, interconnected and full of all the colors. I am lucky to have had those years with Chris. Oh, how he made us all laugh. I am lucky for new love. I won't say second chance because that's not really what it is. It's more like being struck by lightening twice or picking the winning lotto numbers two times in a row.

Maybe I need to buy a lottery ticket.

SACRED SPACES

There is an idea in yoga that your mat is considered to be sacred space. At least this was the lesson taught to me by my teacher. Your mat holds your energy or, if you are not a believer of energy bodies, your germs. You should always ask permission before stepping onto someone else's mat. It is the respectful thing to do. We take our shoes off in yoga studios because the studio itself is considered to be sacred. Yoga classes are designed to foster your own personal practice. So we can think of our yoga mats as our personal yoga studios at home. We treat them with respect. As yoga teaches us to be more mindful of our bodies, it teaches us to be more mindful of our surroundings. I am mindful of the heaviness of my mat and and the smooth texture of it under my feet. My mat is my sacred space. That being said, I am also aware of the bubble that's formed in the middle of my mat as the two layers of it has started to pull away from each other. The smooth texture has become slick in places and my hands do not grip as well to the mat as it used despite keeping it clean. My yoga mat has become worn with grooves. You can see the tracks I make from forward fold to plank. You can see my sun salutation path embedded into the mat. I've decided that it's finally time to replace it and will be ordering a new one on Friday.

Though I'm really excited about getting a new yoga mat, I'm a little bit sad to part with my current mat. It doesn't just hold my energy. It also holds memories. I've had that yoga mat for a really long time. In fact, I've held onto it probably longer than I should have. Of all the mats that I've purchased, that brand and style has been my favorite for comfort and grip. I can tell you that was the mat I was on when mom called me about J. I was in pigeon pose when she called that day. It would take me months to get back on that mat after that phone call. Every time I'd step on the mat, I'd expect the phone to ring with tragic news and it would take time to get over that post traumatic stress. It helped me to heal from that incident. It is the mat that saw me through yoga teacher training. That mat holds the triumphs of mastering chaturanga and headstand. It witnessed my first forays into teaching, the thing I always came back to after wandering around the classroom checking on students. And while Chris was in the hospital, it was my moment of peace while I waited for him to come back from this procedure or that. I have laughed on that mat and I have cried on that mat. It has seen me through heartbreak and sorrow. It has been an endless source of joy and empowerment.

It will be nice to step onto a new mat, one that hasn't been flattened and squished down with use. I look forward to a new added cushion from the hard floor and and a mat that holds my hands firmly in place while I'm in down dog. But for now I'll honor this old raggedy mat. This mat that holds so much more than my energy (or my germs). I will honor this sacred space as I begin to break ground on a new sacred space.

WEATHER, YOU ARE DRUNK

The other day my weather widget on my desktop said it was snowing. Outside, it was a bright sunshiny day. Later in the day, the weather widget declared that it was a bright sunshiny day except in reality, clouds had rolled in and blotted out the sky. Today the highs are in the sixties. Tomorrow's high will be twenty if we're lucky. The weather has lost its ever lovin' mind and it's messing with all of us. I'm blaming the weather on my lack of follow through on good intentions. I have paved the roads galore with good intentions for the New Year. Yes, I have been sick and yes, I know that makes getting on a treadmill or a yoga mat darn near impossible. But I've never been one for excuses. Remember that creativity journal? I've done one entry and it turned into a depressing tale of the last time I saw dad at the flea market. Those days laying on the couch, coughing my head off could have been spent coloring some bright sunshine into my life. But no...I spent that time staring glassy eyed at Game of Thrones (the DVDs had been sitting there to be watched for months).

Friday is the Chinese New Year. I thought about wiping the slate clean and pretending that our New Year didn't happen. I'd just start over with the Chinese, but Talaura pointed out that I would be ending the year on a bad note. Technically that is true. It is really hard to admit failure so early in New Year. I mean January isn't even over yet and here I am waving the white flag of defeat. That is ridiculous. Never give up! Right? This is why I don't make resolutions. I've always felt that resolutions are a good way to self sabotage.

So this week, I'm back to my good intentions. A reminder that I am only human. As we all are. I have heard many of you out there struggling with similar set backs. It seems that 2014 came roaring in to a crashing train wreck of a start for every one. Sit back, drink a cup of tea, and take breath. Start tomorrow off with a new set of good intentions. This week I will get back on that treadmill. I will get my old yoga mat. I will eat less food at supper and eat more Chia seeds. And I will shake my fist at the weather and say "you will not get me!". I will not be pulled into the weather's bi-polar wrath!

Now...where'd that cough syrup get off to...

ROAD BLOCK

I have had some sort of sinus related illness off and on since November of last year. I'd get over it, have about a week or two of feeling normal, and then more sinus pain, congestion, snot and now bronchitis. There was a time when all of this would be common place. I would be used to the constant sinus pain and only breathing out of one side of my nose. But I fixed that years ago with my yoga practice and change in eating habits. At least I thought I had. I also know that when I'm stressed about something and not processing any reaction to that stress, it festers in my body. When J died, I had a sinus infection that lasted a month. I thought I had learned something from this. I thought that I had figured out that internalizing all that pain and grief was detrimental to my health. I have learned nothing or have forgotten those lessons. It is true that we are closing in on some difficult anniversary dates. But really....this is not the thing that is bothering me. I have learned to deal with the loss of Chris. Sometimes I feel really guilty about how well I've dealt with his death. Like I made it too easy. Shame on me for moving forward, for allowing myself to fall in love again. I'm sad at times for sure, but over all I feel like I'm moving in a direction that Chris would be proud of. I know I'm with Michael for the right reasons, not just because I was lonely. I don't love him because he's like Chris or not like Chris. I love him for him. That tells me that I'm handling this whole transition from widow to not-single-any-more thing pretty well.

I'm pretty sure the real problem lies with my dad. I have mentioned to Katrina that I'm totally frozen on what to think, do or feel regarding all of this with dad. Part of it is the distance. It's not easy for me to get away for a weekend to just see mom, let alone a three hour drive to sit for one hour with dad reminding him of things he's not going to remember the next time and then three hours back to mom's. Part of it is the realization that there is nothing I can do. He's got a deteriorating brain disease that is just going to get worse. Not better. Janell texted me Saturday as Michael and I were driving to the country bar for two step lessons. She said that dad had gotten violent with staff and that they were having to sedate him. I had no reply to this, but also I'm not sure what is meant by "sedate". Are they pumping him full of morphine or just giving him a Xanex? It's just a progression of the disease. The violence is why he's there in the first place. First directed towards mom. We knew it would only be a matter of time before he started directing it on others. Yet still I have no reply. I have hit an emotional road block where dad is concerned. It all seems false.

At least with Chris, I knew. I knew without a doubt that he was dying. We hated every moment of knowing, but I think we used that time well. We'd lay in bed holding hands, just talking about nothing. Laughing about how absurd everything was. Making sure that it was well known how much we loved each other. I was witness to it. I said goodbye to a man who knew me. I don't get that with dad. When he dies, he won't know me. I really don't think he knows me now. He has some idea of who I am, but he needs constant reminding. Mom sent me a birthday card that said "We love you" and then it was just signed "Mom". Dad's gone, but not gone. And as I type that, tears begin to leak out of my eyes. Dad is gone but not gone and that's the most difficult of transitions. How do you even process that? Talaura reminded me that "I can grieve the loss of the man I knew, but can still spend some time loving the man that he currently is". Dad's gone, but not gone. I can grieve that part that's gone and I can love the parts that remain. Even if I have to do those things at a distance.

HAPPY BRONCHITIS

When Michael asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, at first I said "ice skating!". Then I remembered that I've been nothing but slightly ill since the beginning of January and that gravity gets a little harsher with age. I changed my mind and decided on two-stepping. I can remember younger days of visits to Tumbleweeds and Cattleman's Stake House on a Friday night for line dancing. I am not a country music fan, but I appreciate the music and it's fun to put on boots and scoot around a dance floor. So, I said "let's go dancing!" and Michael agreed only if I'd buy a proper pair of cowgirl boots. Saturday night, we had dinner at Cafe Gratitude and then made our way over to Denim and Diamonds for two step classes. We were only mildly thrown when the teacher said "OK ladies, rotate up one and switch partners." Wait. What? I spent the next hour rotating from one older gentleman to the next each one wearing their shirt unbuttoned a bit too far and a gold chain around their necks. But it was fun. Occasionally I'd make it back around the circle to Michael and every time we'd both be so relieved and happy to see each other. We learned the basic two step with two different kinds of turns. And we had a good time. In fact, we had such a good time, that we've talked about going back.

And that's how I celebrated my last few days of being 37. On Monday morning, I woke up age 38 with a horrible cough. It was the kind of cough that was violent and felt like I was slamming my body into a brick wall. By the end of the day my body actually did feel like it had been slammed into a brick wall and I was still coughing. 38 was not lookin' too good. The next day, I coughed my way to work, but left around 10:30 for the doctor's office. Bronchitis. A prescription for prednisone and a codeine laced cough syrup later and I'm sitting here typing in a haze. I am disappointed because I have things I want to write about, but can't really form a clear thought to do so. I vaguely remember having some profound thought about turning 38 and how I can't wait to turn 40. But now that thought is trapped inside one of the carbon/hydrogen rings of codeine.

Better luck next time.

ILLICIT

I bought Michael a ring on ebay for $15. I know, it's cheap, but he picked it out and actually we think it's kind of funny. Any way, the ring showed up over the weekend and he's been wearing it. It's weird to me to see him with a ring on that finger. I've always been slightly distracted by his hands in general. They are large, but not chunky. Long and lean. Strong, capable hands. Sometimes his hands make me feel really small. I don't mean small in an insignificant way, but small as in dainty and petite. Now there's a ring on that left ring finger and it's odd because I didn't think that him wearing that ring would matter all that much to me. It's particularly odd at the moment because I am with out a ring. It feels a bit scandalous really. I am the mistress. The rings were Michael's idea. He wanted me to wear something that signified that I was in a relationship. The feminist in me rolls my eyes at his archaic idea of branding me, but since he also planned on wearing a ring that makes us equally "branded". My ring finger still holds the indention and markings of the previous set of rings that I now wear on the chain around my neck. My fingers have been bare for almost two years. Adjusting to a new ring was not as difficult as I anticipated. Adjusting to the sight of a ring on his hand is another story. I tell myself "that's ridiculous". It's just a metal loop. Jewelry. Adornment. But there's something different about that simple band. When I was single I noticed those ringed hands or at least I paid more attention to them. I didn't really trust intentions of those without a ring. Sometimes I didn't trust the intentions of those with a ring. I may say at first without thinking that the ring doesn't really matter so much, but I remember. I remember the day Chris lost his wedding band in the chair he'd been sitting in. He'd lost so much weight that the ring had just slipped off. I remember how much it upset him when he realized that he couldn't wear it any more, how much it meant to him to be able to wear that ring. I don't think I truly realized the importance of that symbolic ring until that moment.

When Michael asked me if I would wear a ring for him, I said "sure" with a shrug of indifference. I think I may have said that if it's important to him then I would wear it. I wasn't necessarily resistant but I was definitely nonchalant. Perhaps my indifference and whatever attitude was just a protective coating. There is something in the idea of protecting myself from falling back into a relationship where I hand over my heart. Shielding myself from creating a permanence. Sunday morning, as Michael's arm snaked around me to hold me close as we lay in bed, I could feel his ring and a twinge in my gut. It was not a bad twinge, but the kind that makes the heart race. Sealing the deal. I can no longer keep him at arms length or make light of this relationship. Because, like it or not, that ring means something. There is a little bit of fear in that. It makes me unsteady on my feet. Light headed. Woozy. Unsure of myself.

But then he places his hand on the small of my back to steady me and I'm OK.

WHAT IS THIS UNMARRIED BUSINESS?

Many of you are curious about what this whole being unmarried thing means. I told Michael last night that there were several comments on the blog about it. His answer was "pretend we're gay". I liked his answer. The thing is, I have never wanted to be married. Not even to Chris. I didn't see the point. I didn't think it really mattered all that much. Marriage did not change our relationship, but Chris thought it was important and someone told us we'd get more money for graduate school if we were married. Chris and I signed legal wedding documents, but did not receive any "extra" financial aid for grad school. Instead I merged my nonexistent credit to Chris's poor poor credit. Not that being married was a bad thing. I have no regrets, but really, marriage is just a non issue for me. If you look around at arguments for "traditional" marriage you find that often times one of the arguments listed is that marriage exists for procreational purposes, meaning that only people who can procreate or intend to procreate should be allowed to marry. I've never wanted to have children of my own. Maybe I fit into that "can procreate" category, but I definitely fail on the "intend to" category. Obviously this isn't a rule that they enforce when filing for a marriage license. Actually, if I remember correctly, I only had to show two forms of identification to get a marriage license. I also never really shook of the feeling that marriage is for the religious. Marriage, for someone like me who doesn't ever intend to have children and is not religious, seems like an act of hypocrisy and blatantly unfair to my friends who cannot legally marry their significant other.

Michael mostly feels the same way about marriage as I do. He never really wanted to get married but agreed to it because that's the thing you did. Though of the two of us, he is more likely to push for an actual legal marriage one day. He just thinks it may be important financially one day to do that. I see that. There are some good financial reasons for legally getting married. Car insurance. Home loans. Taxes. According to this article, marriage benefits like those save a woman about a million dollars in her lifetime as opposed to her single counter part. "Marital privileging marginalizes the 50 percent of Americans who are single." This is true for ALL single people straight or homosexual. This doesn't seem right or fair to me. So, early in our relationship, when I looked at Michael and said "I never want to get married again" these where the reasons roaming around in my head. I want to live a fair and honest life. We've made a verbal agreement to spend the rest of our lives together. Unmarried. The rings we wear are our promise rings to each other. We are together. Partners. It's like Michael said. "Pretend we're gay."

HAPPILY UNMARRIED

Saturday, January 4th 2014, Michael and I became officially unmarried. It was a small ceremony that took place in my bank office. A very nice young lady, I think her name was Gretchen or Greta or something starting with a G, was witness to signing of the necessary documents. The day was sunny and almost warm. I celebrated by using my Anthropology gift card while Michael tooled around Better Cheddar eating all the cheese. From there, our day would slowly deteriorate. We took my ring into Tiffany's to get it sized (it's too big). Michael was a bit put off by the way they may have to size the ring (something about size beads), but we won't really know anything about it until around the 17th. I spent the rest of the day rubbing the place where I had been wearing the ring and panicking that I had lost it already. We probably should have known better because as we left Tiffany's the sky started clouding up. We forged on any way to a new health food store that I was hoping would replace Whole Foods. We ended up at Whole Foods. After screaming our way out of that parking lot, we headed to Old Navy. I left Michael there arguing with someone about his Old Navy credit card and walked down to Trader Joe's to get the rest of this week's groceries. Unfortunately, Trader Joe's had been hit by a hoard of locusts because there was almost zero produce. No orange juice. What Trader Joe's did have were two old ladies taking up half of the frozen foods section. "I don't want the sweet potato tots. I want the regular ones." Then I stabbed them. I will say that our check out girl looked exhausted, but was still happy and pleasant to us. That's not how the people were at Price Chopper, our next stop. We had problems with the lady at the fish counter there and at check out. I appreciate that the check out girl cleans her conveyor belt, but that doesn't mean I want my food placed directly on her freshly sprayed toxic chemicals. When Michael asked her to leave our food in the hand cart, she snarled out a "fine" and then threw our fish at me to bag.

That Price Chopper, by far, has the worst parking lot in the country. My throat was starting to hurt. Michael's jaw was clenchy. He handed me the car keys because he was afraid he'd intentionally ram the car into someone or something. We narrowly survived our escape from that parking lot. We got home and unloaded the car. I took some cold medicine and Michael opened a bottle of wine. Then I laid down and slept the sleep of the dead for about two and half hours. I woke up to brussel sprouts and fish and all things set right. The next day after Michael shoveled the fresh layer of snow from the drive, I bought his unwedding band on ebay for $15. And that's how we got un-hitched. I figured that if we could handle a day like that Saturday without turning against each other, we'll probably do just fine.

GO TEAM

Oklahoma State will play the University of Missouri in the Cotton Bowl tomorrow night which means this house is a house divided. Michael's all "Go Mizzou!" and I'm all "Go Pokes!". We've decided to stay in and watch the game. Monday Michael sent me this text: "Friday, six thirty, OSU vs MU. you're going down. Wager? I love you". We've been tossing wager ideas back and forth ever since. It will be the first adults only night we've had since Christmas Eve. So of course, all wager ideas have been sexual in nature. This is where I admit that I am not a creative wagerer. At least, not when sexual favors are involved. You here stories of bets between couples where if the guy wins, he gets to have sex with his wife and she wins, she gets to buy a new purse. I don't understand those kind of wagers because I feel like the woman is in a win win situation. A couple of years ago, I started working on a bit of fluffy fiction based on the perspective of Sherlock Holmes' maid. I had intended it to be somewhat erotic fiction. The thing is, at the time I'd been watching the new Sherlock Holmes series on BBC with Benedict Cumberbatch and I don't know what it is about that awkward looking man that makes me want to lick his neck, but there you have it. I started on my first little piece of fiction that is now sitting there gathering dust. I keep telling myself that I haven't worked on it because I don't know enough about Mr. Holmes and mysteries. It's true. I've never read any of the original books. I know I don't want to use the same mysteries, but I feel like there needs to be more to the story than just a sexual romp. I think I've set up some nice sexual tension between Sherlock and his new maid, Elizabeth. At least, I've got her baking and making tea for him. Really I'm kind of nervous in that 13-year-old-boy kind of way about actually typing out any explicit interactions between the two characters. What if I go too far? What if I offend? What if someone reads it and is so shocked and upset by the filthiness produced by my brain? And then I think "why is sex filthy?" (my brain is a slippery slope). In retrospect all of these questions make sense. I've never been good at asking for what I want. I want what will make the other happy. My fantasies are fulfilling the partner's fantasies and that's why coming up with a wager for this football game has been so difficult.

You know how all our favorite bloggers are offering courses on writing and photography? I think I may need a class on sexual creativity. Maybe I should just develop one on my own or a new 365 day project. 365 days of sexual creativity. I may be onto something (heh). As for tomorrow, I suggested strip football. For every point scored for MU, I take off an article of clothing and vice verse. I plan on cheating and wearing extra layers. Either way this puts us both in a win win situation.

Go Pokes! ;)

RESOLVE

Last year for New Year's Eve, I was in bed before the boom of the fireworks started. The house was so still and silent. By then, I'd grown used to the silence created by Chris's absence, but I wasn't quite used to the silence of a missing Hooper. There was no tappa tappa of his feet on the hard wood floors, no snores from his bed. That New Year's Eve sounded very much like that time Hooper and I were alone in our little rent house on Mallard when that huge ice storm hit and our power went out. Hooper and I laid in my bed listening to the crack of limbs outside. That was the only sound, no hum of heaters or cars driving by. This New Year's Eve was not rowdy, but it was not quiet. And I was not alone. The real miracle was that I actually stayed awake to ring in the New Year right, with a sip of Champagne and a proper kiss. We ate stuffed mushrooms and steamed crab legs with baked potatoes and we talked about our resolutions for 2014. Those of of you who've been reading this blog for years know that I always have a hard time setting resolutions. I feel like making a list of resolutions is just asking for failure and disappointment. Instead I usually list some things that I'll try to work on in the next year. I call them "I'll tries". This year though, I'm feeling the need to be held accountable for a few things. I let myself fall into some bad slacker habits in 2013 and it's starting to take it's toll on my health. I went from eating a whole lot of nothing to eating just a whole lot. As a result, my skinny jeans are truly skinny jeans and I feel sluggish and rollie pollie. My yoga practice has been sketchy. Rarely do I ever have a week where I am consistent with a daily practice. I've gotten slouchy. Michael gets onto me way too often for walking around with slumped over shoulders. It's always worse when I'm tired, but these days I'm always tired. My kapha dosha is out of control.

So my first resolution for 2014 is to get my health back under control. That means eating less cheese and more tofu (sorry Michael). That means yoga mat every day and finding time for more than a daily walk. I need to run or ride that dang bicycle. I don't see the bicycle thing happening until winter is over. So maybe the couch to 5K needs to happen (treadmill). I remember at one time wanting to run and I think I still want to do that. But it doesn't stop there. This is something really embarrassing to admit, but I think the last time I was at the dentist was to get my wisdom teeth removed. I was a senior in HS. I haven't been to the dentist in 20 years. I brush twice a day and floss every day. I don't drink a lot of soda or eat a lot of candy. That's no excuse I know, but it has made it easier to shrug off the idea of a dental visit, particularly when I haven't really had any problems with my teeth (knock on wood). This year for real is the year of the dentist and probably the optometrist. Why not? It's been a while since I've had these eyes tested and it's kind of important that I see things in my line of work. I'm making 2014 the year of good health or at least the year of getting to good health.

The second resolution I have for 2014 is more writing. It's time to finish that book. I have enough material now to do some editing and filling in and finishing up. I have a couple of writing projects that need to be finished. They are just hanging there waiting for more words. I started a piece for the Listen To Your Mother series that I need to finish up before the submissions deadline. There's a bit of fiction that I started forever ago that has some real potential. I want to finish up with these projects before I start on a project that's been rambling around in my head for some time now. I think it's important to finish up some things before forging ahead with the new one.I have a feeling this new project is going to take up way more time and I can see myself getting side tracked. This year will be a year for finishing up projects, even the knitting ones (yes, Michael I am finishing that dang scarf, I swear it).

My last resolution for 2014 is to get back in the habit of a daily meditation practice and creative journaling. Robin gave me a brand new journal for Christmas. It's a beautiful book that her mom made with an elephant tapestry cover and clean white pages that beg for printed pictures and colorful words. I'm linking meditation and journaling together because I noticed that when I'm working in my creative journal, I am actually meditating. Also, I'd like to get in the habit of printing out some of my Instagram pictures. Printing them out for the journal gives me a good excuse do exactly that.

The rest of my plans for 2014 include some traveling, some money saving, some cleaning out and some serious house purchasing. I'm going to try harder to pay attention to current events. I'm going to work at putting the phone down and picking up the Olympus. I'm going to be better at conversation. One of Michael's biggest complaints is that I don't talk to him. I think he learned one of the reasons why I don't say much during our most recent trip to OK. I want to be better at voicing those words that usually just seem easier for me to write. His second complaint is that he thinks I don't listen to him because he doesn't see any physical sign that I am. I want to fix that. I want him to know that I'm listening to the things he's saying. I want to edit and update the old Life List. I want to worry less. I want to renew my Yoga Alliance teacher card. Woa...the more things I write down here, I realize the more things that I want. I want a lot for 2014. But more than anything, I want happiness and peace for all of you. And better posture.

Bring on 2014!

NOT TOO SHABBY

One of the things that Dad said to me the last time I saw him was about how time kept getting messed up in his head. I was thinking about this while I looked through the pictures of this (soon to be past) year and why it helps to have photographic evidence that things, good and bad, happen in my life. What do I have to show for the year 2013? How does it measure up? It's hard for me to sit down and really answer those questions. I'm having a hard time looking back at this moment because I've started looking forward. I feel that anxious need to get everything neat and tidy, to eat buckets of kale and other self improvement projects that either fell by the wayside or just never got started. I've got big plans for 2014. OK, maybe not BIG plans, more like mediocre plans, but plans none the less. Taking a few moments to look back at this year reinforces the need for those future plans. The year 2013 started out a bit on the gloomy side. There were snow storms and moments of snow shoveling that nearly broke me. There were adventures in online dating. There were weddings and trips. I attended three weddings and one funeral this year. One wedding short of being a movie. I fell in love and acquired a new family in what feels like a matter of minutes. Mom and I took our first steps out of the country. In fact, I often get the urge to send mom this text: "hey remember that time we went to Ireland?". 2013 swirled itself together in a frenzy of new and wonderful as well as a little bit of sad. There's always gotta be a few thorns or we wouldn't really appreciate the sweetness of the fruit. 2013 has been a very sweet year.

2013 in Pictures from elephantsoap on Vimeo.

I hope this could be said for your 2013 as well. Here's to the sweetness of 2013 and the many more joys to follow in 2014. Wishing you all a fabulous and safe New Year.

'TIS THE SEASON

This time last year I was dealing with saying goodbye to Hooper and managing my way through the first Christmas without Chris. I came down with the worst sinus infection and had to travel to Oklahoma hepped up on antibiotics and cold meds. When I look back at that time, I can't help but think of how ridiculously cliched it all turned out to be. I remember being so proud of myself, setting up the Christmas tree and making stockings for me and Hooper to finally replace the ones that had been destroyed, only to have to have Hooper put to sleep a week later. It was like my life was some sort of parody of a tragedy. And while all the grief, heartbreak and awful was crashing in around me, I kept insisting that I was fine. I was just fine. In reality, it would be months before I'd be able to pull myself out the dark hole I'd fallen into. I would go through the motions of each day looking like a normal human being on the outside and feeling like a scraped out hole of nothing on the inside. I even missed a couple of days of work because I was "too sad". I toyed with the idea of antidepressants. I toyed with the idea of just remaining in that dark hole, with the idea that it wasn't so bad down there. There's no rule that states you must be happy all the dang time. I remember meeting a guy for Sunday brunch. We'd chatted a lot through text for several weeks before he finally had a break in his schedule. He was nice enough. Polite. He kissed me at the end of the date and I felt nothing. Later he asked to see me again and I told him "that I didn't think so". He replied that he thought "I seemed really sad" and we never spoke again. Eventually the snow melted, the sun came out and things started to get better. This Christmas looks completely different. There are two new stockings hanging next to a different Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve, I get to help "play Santa" and fill those new stockings up with joyful surprises.

The contrast between this year and last is the starkest contrast. Night and day. At times it makes me feel a little short of breath, this sudden difference between this year and last. Michael told me over the weekend that his ex wife ended their marriage February 13th 2012, three days after Chris died. His Christmas wasn't much better than mine last year. Less death, but plenty of sadness. Michael is not a believer in fate or that things happen for a reason. I don't necessarily believe in those things either, but there's something to be said about the coincidence in timing. I've always said that the Universe talks to us and that it puts people in your path when you need them or when you're ready to meet them. We both had the same amount of time to grieve and lick our wounds. We were both on the verge of giving up on the whole online dating scene. There is an odd link to our last names. The Universe can yell pretty loudly when it needs to.

Yes, this year Christmas is different for the both us. I'm hoping it's different in a good way for Michael and the Cabbage. It's already better for me because I have these two to share this time with me. I will admit to being a bit nervous about how well they'll adjust to all the new people and the hectic pace my holiday always seems to take on. I know that it will be overwhelming for them with all the new people that they will be meeting. "People love you" Michael says to me often (except he's usually saying in a tone of voice that implies that this is a problem) and he's not wrong. I am loved. This knowledge is better than any present under a tree.

Things are going to be quiet around here this week. There may be a video posting at some point, but really, most of my energy is going to be spent soaking up family and friend time. Here's to a wonderful and safe Holiday to all.

AND NO ONE DIED OF FOOD POISONING

This weekend I set out to finish up Christmas things and for the most part, I did. I finished ornaments. I finally found that special candy to go in a certain stocking. I rather crapily sewed together a couple of stockings. There was an issue with the sewing machine that involved several swear words and tension adjustments for bobbins. At one point Michael asked me if I wanted to call my mom and have her come and lay in the floor. He's heard the story of how mom would just lay in the sewing room floor while I worked on 4-H projects, but I finally got it working. Stockings are hung by the Wonder Woman with care (I don't have a fireplace). Presents are mostly wrapped and things are boxed and ready for shipping (shipped today!). Most surprisingly is that the house is also clean, dusted and vacuumed and everything, with the exception of the garlic skins floating around the kitchen floor. You see Michael thought it might be more economical to peel our own garlic as opposed to buying the big bag of peeled garlic at Costco. Turns out you can buy a shit ton of garlic for $7 at the City Market. The City Market in the winter is a sad affair. There's not much in way of local, but the spice guy is still there in the conventional section and that's what we were really there for. We went and stocked up on chili powder and cinnamon. Michael bought all of the garlic and then we headed out the door to make our way back to the car. Just before we opened the door to leave, I made a face about having to walk any distance in the cold. It was just so. cold. Michael leaned down to kiss me, to reassure me that I could make it one block, when we heard someone yelling "PDA! PDA!". We turned to see one of Michael's students pointing at him and laughing and we laughed along with the joke too. Michael is all the time telling me stories of getting on to this student or that for a clothing violation or public displays of affection. Here it was his turn with the student catching the teacher. It made me giggle.

I have one of those Pampered Chef garlic peeler things. You put the clove of garlic in this rubber tube and roll it around on the counter top until the garlic skin comes off.The garlic roller thingy is great for when you need one or two cloves of garlic, but not so much for the amount of garlic we had planned. It reminded me of Christmas morning, after we'd open our stockings. There was always a bunch of un-shelled nuts in our stockings and dad would pour them out in a big bowl and spend Christmas day with a nutcracker, cracking nuts. I have yet to figure out if the nuts were in our stockings for us or for dad. He ended up eating most of them. Any way...garlic...we're still peeling. Also, I woke up Monday morning with a bruise on the palm of my right hand from rolling out garlic. We both agree that the bag of peeled garlic from Costco is a steal. While I was in charge of Christmas things and laundry, it was Michael's job to keep us fed. He planned a new recipe from his latest Food and Wine magazine, scallop stew. He bought fresh scallops from a local grocery store. He chopped turnips and carrots and spent quite a bit of time cooking things. When he started cooking the scallops, we noticed an ammonia smell. A quick internet search later and Michael was tossing bad scallops and calling that local grocery store. Turns out bad scallops smell like cleaning chemicals when cooked. His quick action saved us from food poisoning, because I would have smelled the odd smell and shrugged my shoulders. Rotten scallops would have been in that stew. But instead we have lived to eat scallops another day!

This was going to be an entirely different entry, but I've rambled on about garlic and rotten scallops instead. Oh well. At least you got your public service announcement of the day: bad scallops smell like ammonia.

THE VERY DEFINITION OF CONDESCENDING

Con.de.scend.ing: showing that you believe you are more intelligent or better than other people

A small little facebook scuffle has been playing out between me and distant relatives this week. It's really my fault, partly because I was fed up with the lack of real discussion. Instead people were throwing out phrases that are equivalent to the ones tossed around on elementary school playgrounds. There were no facts or logical debate. Yet when I included these things in my side of the argument, I was accused of being condescending. That wasn't my intention. When I include links and facts in my arguments (providing sources for information), I do so because I think it's better for the person on the other side of the argument to read and make their own informed decision. Because that's what I would do.

I see a great divide in this country and it's not necessarily between the have and have nots. When the government shut down in October, I went on a quest to understand exactly what was so horrible with providing affordable health care for everyone. I wanted to understand what exactly made the opposing side so angry. These are people who still believe that the President's birth certificate is fake and that he wants to take away their guns, two things that couldn't be further from the truth, but are believed with a great passion. This mentality leaves someone like me wondering and honestly trying to understand why it is they feel so strongly or why their argument sounds so hateful. What exactly are they so angry about? I read this article on The Dish about a focus group with republican voters and I found the statements from the group to be alarming and scary. I don't understand their sense of entitlement. And I don't say that with a meaning that I think it's wrong or stupid (but I do). I really don't understand it. I don't understand how your religion or your race makes you better or more deserving. I have yet to have someone from that side use any logical argument or debate to help me understand their point of view or why they are so angry.

Which brings me to the topic of poverty. Because I said something about poverty levels and how we, meaning my family and that distant family, comes from a similar poverty level as Obama did growing up. I believe this statement is what caused the most offense, not because of the comparison but because of the implication that they are or at one time where poor. Like there's shame in admitting this or that hard working Americans do not live in poverty. Poverty equals lazy. I am not ashamed to admit that I have lived at poverty levels. In fact, I have only been making what economist would say is a middle class wage for about three years. I am 37 years old and have only had a usable savings account for the last two years. Previous to that it's been barely keeping my head up and living paycheck to paycheck. I have a good education and I've always had a strong work ethic. I think there is a large misunderstanding of the definition of economic classes and I think a large part of that comes from that idea that this person is more deserving than that person. It's the keeping up with the Joneses mentality. The more stuff we accumulate, the higher up in economic class we are, the better we are (looks a lot like that definition of condescending). Except we forget that the thing that makes each one of us special and unique has nothing to do with any of those things.

Luke 6:20-21 Then he looked up at his disciples and said: 'Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. 'Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. 'Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.

Luke 6:31 Do to others as you would have them do to you.

I just believe that logical conversations on this is more productive than slinging hateful and angry words.

PRICKLY PEAR

Have you ever noticed that the quieter you try to be, the louder you actually are? The same holds true for the more you pretend that everything is OK, the more off kilter everything really tends to be. The truth is the little things have been making me cranky and I've been having a really hard time pretending that they are not. The kicker came Friday evening at Michael's work Christmas party. I had dressed the Cabbage in the cutest outfit that I'd purchased for her weeks ago. I'd been dying to see her in it and there she was in all her ruffle glory sitting on Santa's lap, cute as can be. Then Santa looked out into the audience of people and kids and said "Where's the mom? Is mom here?". Michael quickly replied "Oh no, her mom's not here." I felt a sharp pang, like a kick in the gut as all the adult eyes turned to me with puzzled looks. Michael instantly turned to me and whispered "did I handle that right? I didn't know how to answer that question. Was that OK?" and I just nodded. We really weren't prepared for that or how to deal with it, but I was surprised that it had bruised my feelings a bit. Some time during the end of last week, I was told that the Cabbage had a play date on Saturday in Lee Summit. Michael needed one more part to fix the dryer and that part was in Lenexa and I needed to pick up a wagon on the opposite side of the city as all of these things. Maybe I had ulterior intentions when I suggested we divide and conquer, but honestly I didn't see any other way. In between play dates, dryer parts hunting and wagons, I wanted to buy material for making Christmas stockings for Michael and the Cabbage. So yeah, there was some ulterior some what selfish intentions in my suggestion. I have no regrets (other than forgetting to buy paint brushes and tape). I spent Saturday strolling around the fabric store (wishing I was at Owl and Drum) trying to find just the right pattern of fabric for Michael and the Cabbage. Finally I settled with stars for Michael and little girls riding unicorns for the Cabbage. Then I wandered around a craft store picking out ribbon for trimming the stockings and paint for a project I have in the works. I drove out to the other side of town to pick up a wagon and then realized I'd skipped breakfast and it was after noon. Since I was on my own, I decided to treat myself. I had a late lunch at Cafe Gratitude, where I said yes to a cup of the soup of the day (mushroom) and a salted caramel macaroon for dessert. I lingered with my little French Press pot of coffee and smiled to myself as I eavesdropped on the couple next to me. They were on a first date, the awkward just getting to know you because we met online kind of first date. I sipped my coffee and sighed with relief that it was not me on that date.

As I left the cafe, I felt things shift around and readjust. I had needed this time for me and in fact was probably a little overdue for it. Not all things about my solitary life before Michael was bad. I had Saturdays very much like this one where I'd putter around a shop and treat myself to a nice meal. They could be lonely of course, but there were at times a peace to them. I don't want or need a solitary life, but I do need solitary moments. Time to gather my thoughts. Time to gather some peace. We all need that.

I GIVE MYSELF A C++

NaNoWriMo has come to an end, along with NaPhoPoMo and NaBloPoMo. I did not write 50,000 words. I wrote 29,945 words. I don't even think my Master's Thesis contained this many words. I think if I'd worked really hard last week, I would have reached 40-45,000 words. Honestly though, I hardly wrote ten words last week and even then I'm still not sure there's 50,000 words in this particular story (though there are people out there strongly disagreeing with that). I may not have "won" at NaNoWriMo, but I did win several prizes. The first prize is recognizing that I need to set aside non blogging writing time for myself. The second prize is this foundation of a book that I've got going. The book I've got going. That still boggles my mind that I've written a shitty first draft of my very own. Not a list. Not a short blurb of a blog post, but a gin-you-wine shitty first draft. It still makes my head spin that I may actually, after some serious editing, have a book that people may actually want to read. Meaning, I'll really just have a book that only friends and family will read, but so what. It's there and I thought I'd share the last paragraph I've written. Here is an excerpt from The Widow Maddera's Handbook to Widowhood: "All of this, my new life with Michael, doesn't mean I don’t still grieve for Chris. I still think about the what if it never really happened part. What would the two of us be up to today? We would take silly Christmas card photos. Every year would be a new theme. The first year we did ugly Christmas sweaters. One year it was a Christmas themed American Gothic photo. I wonder what this year’s theme would have been, what crazy scheme we would have come up with. While traveling to Oklahoma for Thanksgiving, Neko Case’s “South Tacoma Way” started playing on the radio. The lyrics wrapped around my heart, squeezed and then pulled my heart from my chest and stomped on it. The song is about loss and grief. “Couldn't pay my respects to a dead man. Your life was much more to me.” Michael was asleep in the passenger seat and didn't hear the song or see how it left me shattered in pieces. I still walk this line between two men. There are equal parts guilt, relief, sadness and joy in this. Right up until I met Michael I thought for sure I was un-fixable, that I could never love another man. I was sure that I would be settling for someone I felt just comfortable enough to spend time with. I was positive that I would keep my solitary life. I also thought I’d spend the rest of my life with Chris. Life never happens the way you think or expect it should. And most likely you are never prepared for the unexpected. Life is all about choice. All those cliched metaphors about trees bending in the wind are true though. You either learn to bend or you break. I chose to bend. I chose to believe that my life didn't end with Chris’s. I chose to believe there’s still the possibility of good things for my life. Michael, the Cabbage, my family, my friends, are all such wonderfully good things in my life. Sure it could all be gone again tomorrow, but for every moment of sadness and pain, I've had thousands of moments of joy and love. I suck at math, but even I can see that joy-love/sad-pain ratio is high, so high it can almost (almost) cancel out the bad. I hold onto those good memories of my time with Chris like a dragon guards his treasures, while I continue to gather new ones with Michael. I’m going to have the most glorious treasure chest of memories."

I really believe that.