Category: Life

Dating and Why It’s Stupid

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Ladies (and gents, I’d hate to not be politically correct here), this is a gentle reminder to clean out your purse(s) perhaps a little more frequently than once every 2 or so years. Don’t be like Kellie (I’m Kellie, in case you forgot). I just pulled out a purse that I apparently haven’t used in quite a while (as in years, this purse may not even be in style anymore, who knows?! Who cares?!). Don’t worry, there was nothing disgusting in there. I’m not a total pig. But at the bottom of it was a pill bottle. And in that pill bottle was a little something called ZenPep. And ZenPep is a prescription given to those who cannot digest food normally because their pancreas does not make enough enzymes. Any guesses on who had to take that? Any guesses on who just had a major breakdown over an orange and white pill used to aid in digestion? It was me. (I had the breakdown; I didn’t have to take ZenPep – there is nothing amiss with my digestion thus far in my life. Ash was the ZenPep taker – if you recall, he had bile duct cancer and all sorts of problems that came along with bile duct cancer and prescriptions out the ying yang to help live with bile duct cancer, which clearly did not work as he is no longer living. Thanks for being such a douchebag, life.).

Grief is a little crazy in that way. It never truly goes away. You learn to live through it. You find the happy again. But then sometimes you find a bottle of pills and it’s like the whole wound has just reopened and you have to work and fight and cauterize and stitch that wound back into submission. I know, that doesn’t make a lot of sense but you get the point.

Things have been interesting around here as of late. I have dove/dived (what’s proper here?) head first into the big bad world of dating. We’ve gone over this, I know, but for fun, let’s go over it again. And by fun, I mean torture. Because that’s what dating is. Pure torture. I thought it was bad in my teens and 20s. That shit ain’t got shit (I know what you’re thinking, damn she speaks so eloquently and I know, it’s a gift) on being a widowed mother of 2 at the ripe old age of 38. The games are just as strong now as they were then. And I can’t figure out why. I’m an honest person. I’m not going to tell you that I like you if I don’t like you. Just like I wouldn’t expect a man to tell me that he liked me if he didn’t actually like me. And it’s really easy to tell if someone doesn’t like you. Mainly because they don’t speak to you. They don’t call, text, send carrier pigeon. Nothing. They leave you with an I like, maybe a little smooch or 2, and then they disappear. Only to reappear a few days later with some nonsense you don’t really give a shit about but feel excited because they did in fact reach out, so then you feel like you can reach out next time with some nonsense that they don’t give a shit about only to be ignored again. What in the actual fuck?

You’ll also recall I was called a very bad name recently. And I’d like to shed a little light on that, lest you think that I actually am a whore. I told you I was not. Maybe naive. But definitely not a whore. Someone I have been friends with for more of my life than not was very supportive to me, well, in reality, always. We always stayed in touch, always checked in, always kept our friendship alive, if you will. He doesn’t live here but we have maintained communication throughout most of our adult lives. Once my husband passed away, he kind of turned into my rock. I leaned on him. A lot. And what was a very close friendship almost morphed into something more. I knew he was married, however, (and here’s were the dumb girl believing everything she’s told comes in; damn dumb girl) I was under the impression the marriage was not a happy one and would be ending any day now. As you have seen, that was not the case. The marriage was not over, let alone unhappy. I mean, it may be a bit unhappy now as dude was busted and stuff, but that’s not my problem.

What is my problem, though, is that I lost my rock. I lost one of my best friends. And he has not spoken to me, explained anything to me or reached out in any way. And I understand it on one hand. But on the other hand, I don’t understand it at all. My heart was broken. My heart, that has already been through so much pain and despair, was ripped to shreds by some selfish asshole that claimed to be anything but a selfish asshole. And I find that wholly unfair. What kind of human does that to another human? What kind of human does that to their own family? For what purpose? Is he sleeping well at night knowing that not only did he devastate his own family, he also crushed another human spirit? What a prick.

Here’s what I know, though. (I’m gonna get a little too self confident here, prepare yourself.) Do I have a little baggage? Of course. Who doesn’t at almost 40? Am I perfect? Obviously not. As was pointed out to me just last week, I’m not very warm and fuzzy. I can be a little standoffish at first. And I am a bit shy. And clearly, I’m a little bit too trusting. But, also, I am the prize here. I am kind. I am funny. I am a lot of fun. I’m honest. I’m financially secure. I can be cute if I try really hard. I’m open and can be adventurous with a bit of a nudge. I’m sporty. I like to go out just as much as I like to stay in. I can be sexy (probably – it’s been a while). I have a lot of love to offer and I am not willing to settle for some bullshit game playing.

My point is this – don’t mess with a broken widow. She (or he) has been through enough. And she (or he) may be gone before you realize what could have been.

Things I Do Now

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In case you didn’t know, this whole widowhood thing is not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m sure you are over there thinking that I’m just living the high life, what with being a single mother to 2 boys, a single mother to 2 dogs (one of which won’t stop peeing on my fucking carpet) and all these household chores all to myself. I know it sounds pretty awesome, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret, it is not.

Take today for example…I have a large yard. Part of that yard (a too small part in hindsight) is fenced in for the above mentioned 2 dogs (although, the one would be fine without the fenced in yard what with her just using the bathroom wherever she fucking pleases all over my house). The weather as of late has been cold, wet and dreary. Seriously, there’s now a creek running along the side of my house (think of stocking it with fish and charging admission…) because all it ever does is rain. Yesterday and today, we are finally looking at the sun. I woke up a little grumpy today, maybe a little weepy, knocked out kindergarten with my youngest and decided to work out. And I worked out for a really long time because sometimes it’s the best way to clear my head. So while clearing my head, I thought to myself, man, I really need to pick up dog shit. It’s been a hot minute. (I know what you’re thinking, super glamorous widow life). So, between the dog shit and all the rain, my grass is growing rampantly. In the winter. Yay.

I set about scooping poop (side note – I find it really unfair that Ash left me with all these dogs. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly, but there is just way too many things to take care of around here. It’s exhausting.). It takes a good long while 1. because there’s so much (ew) and b. because my wrist keeps cramping up and I have to keep taking breaks (I’m nothing if not sexy. And so young. And so hip.). I get it all(ish) picked up and decide “you know what, I’m going to weed whack this out of control fenced in area.”

So I go get the weed whacker. Do you know what I’ve never used before? A weed whacker. Another job of that asshole who left me here to take of everything while he’s living the high life with God and shit. Sorry, I’m a little bitter today. But, I get it started and set about my mission. Now, you might be wondering why I chose weed whacking over just mowing it and I’ll tell you (I’m certain you’re on pins and needles waiting to read this if you haven’t given up on it already). 1. The grass is super wet and super thick (hey oh! That’s what she said?) and b. I’m terrible with the lawnmower and 3. as mentioned before, the space is pretty small so I figured the weed whacker was the best tool for the job. Oh. My. God! Who the fuck invented the weed whacker? First of all, that thing is the same height, if not taller, as me. Not exactly super easy to maneuver for the vertically challenged. Secondly, do you know how much that thing weighs? I don’t either, but it sure as shit ain’t light. The scooping of the poop, combined with the hellacious weed whacking may be the worst jobs I’ve had to do to date. They did not bring me joy. The yard looks like Jason Vorhees stopped by with his machete and hacked away at it. There are grass clippings all over the white vinyl fence. And my body feels like it’s been smooshed by a damn steamroller that went over once and came back once more just to make sure I was really down. Ash would be rolling in his grave (if he had a grave) if he could see what I’ve done to his yard. Sorry babe, but your fault.

You know what else I’ve done recently that is also 100% Ash’s fault? I saw that match.com commercial where the devil and 2020 met and fell and love and I thought if the devil and 2020 can find love, maybe I can, too. I’m not sure if this is taboo to talk about but since when do I care about being taboo? But I’m lonely. I miss having companionship. And I’m caught between a rock and a hard place of wanting to move on but not wanting to dishonor my husband but needing something more in my life but also still loving my husband. It’s very tricky and complicated and probably taboo. But whatever. So I had a little too much vino one night and I made a profile. Online dating is horrible. Awful. Terrible. 0 stars. Would not recommend. If you are even the slightest bit happy in your relationship, fucking stay there. Because do you know what’s out there for 30something widows with 2 children? Less than nothing. I had a near 80 year old man, claiming he was 35 hoping we could meet. Um, no. One man pushing 70 who progressively got meaner with every message he sent to which I did not respond. A lot of serial killer looking types then I’m totally judging just based on a few pictures. And then, should you meet one that maybe seems attractive and nice and normal, they get a whiff of your crazy and all your baggage and disappear faster than you can say do you think we should meet. It’s awful. Seriously. Stay where you are. Unless you’re with one of the serial killer types.

I don’t usually say this, given that I am grateful for much in my life and because I really really hate acronyms but FML. Not really. Just FTD (fuck this day.)

Abrasive

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Monday night I did not feel well. It was a normal enough evening. It was colder than a witch’s tit out. It was raining. It was a perfect evening for potato soup. We had some friends over for dinner. I had one glass of wine. Pretty normal. By the time I went to bed, I felt like shit. I lay there, unable to get comfortable, tossing and turning. My stomach literally felt like it was going to explode. I kept going between thoughts of “shit, my appendix is minutes from bursting” and “lord, please don’t let my children find me dead in the morning” and “holy fuck, how the hell am I going to get to the hospital because certainly if my insides are exploding, I shouldn’t drive, and my driver went and died on me and I don’t want to call 911 because what if I’m really fine and just have a bit of gas, that would be super embarrassing, and I don’t want to call my parents because they’re probably sleeping and they don’t generally sleep well so I definitely should not disturb them and I don’t want to call any of my neighbors for the same reason I don’t want to call 911” until I finally go to this thought – my husband felt like this, but far worse, every fucking day for years. And that one thought stopped me in my proverbial tracks.

I am the type of person that is generally pretty good about compartmentalizing. I can come off as abrasive and uncaring, I think. Which isn’t true. It’s just how I deal. I can remember being at the park with Jack when he was around 2 years old. This was before I’d really made any other mom friends, and Ash was working all the time, so it was just him and me, hanging out, parking it up, doing the mother/son thing. He was playing on the slide. I was sort of paying attention, sort of day dreaming about what I used to do for fun before watching 2 year olds climb up the ladder, slide down the slide, giggle, repeat. Again. And again. And again. You get the picture. Next thing I know, I see Jack tumble off the side of the slide about halfway down and land with a big thump in the dirt. There are other mothers and children around. I hear the gasps and the “oh no’s” and the “is he ok’s”. I calmly get up, walk over to him, help him up, look him over one good time and tell him “tough boys are tough.” (Now, before you get your panties in a wad, Jack came up with the saying tough boys are tough and used to say it all the time whenever he took a tumble or got a scratch or anything like that – I wasn’t just being a bitch. For the most part.). I also then heard more gasps but of a different nature this time. These were the “I can’t believe she just said that to her hurt child” gasps. Here’s the thing, the fall hurt, there’s no doubt about that. But I knew he was fine. I knew the bigger my reaction, the bigger his reaction. I also knew I was being hardcore judged for my seeming lack of empathy and hightailed it the hell out of dodge.

Exhibit B – Jack played on a travel baseball team when he was 9 (he was on a 12u team and my point to that is not to say how good he is, my point is that he’s young playing against much bigger and better players, especially pitchers). It’s the weekend before Ash passed away. I’m sure I’ve told this story, but my point is different this time so I’ll allow it. Jack is up to bat and takes a fast ball to the face. And he hits the deck. I mean, he falls out. And what do I do? Nothing. I stand at the fence and watch until finally the coach yells at me to come to Jack, he’s down and he’s bleeding. So I went to him. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t coddle. Hell, I didn’t let him skip the next game. I mean, I sort of gave him a choice but he’s my kid and he chose to play. I grabbed his tooth out of the dirt, gave him so ice and returned him to the dugout to cheer on his team.

I’m not big on coddling, I don’t get sad because my children get older (that’s the whole point of life, if you’re not getting older, chances are you’re dead), it’s rare that you will see me cry in public and I will make more jokes about my husband being dead than is deemed proper (is it ever deemed proper??? Probably not. But I deem it proper and Ash knows who he married so I’m willing to bet he deems it proper as well). It’s who I am. I can lock things up in my brain, and I can throw away the key or I can only let them out on my terms.

So Monday night, while I’m lying in bed convinced I’m dying, I thought of my husband. I thought of all the pain he endured and I thought of all the living he did while he was in that pain. And I felt shame. Because I never fully grasped what he was going through. I never actually put myself in his shoes and imagined how he must feel; partly because I had no idea how much pain he was feeling, partly because I had my own shit I was going through and partly because I literally couldn’t. I let myself imagine it Monday night, mainly because I thought if I was feeling even a fraction of the pain he felt, how the fuck did he not only endure it, but keep living his life while he did it? And how selfish was I to keep pushing him to do things? To complain when he didn’t feel like doing things? To feel sorry for myself for what I was going through? I’m a fucking prick. And that’s when I lost control of my emotions, weeping uncontrollably while still trying to determine if my appendix was rupturing. (Side note – it wasn’t. I’m fine.)

But all of that has led to me to this – God made me abrasive for a reason. He made my brain work the way my brain works because I have to survive. If I were to constantly think about what Ash has been through, what my children have been through, what our family has had to endure, there is no way in hell I could function. It is just too hard to bear. When I let my mind really go there, I become paralyzed with grief and despair and loneliness and unending sadness and shame and guilt and so many other feelings that are difficult to function with. So God gave me the tools to lock it up. I can let it out when I need a release, when I need to remember, when I need to feel that pain. But I can also put it back in the recesses of my mind and go on being a mother, daughter, sister, friend and pain in the ass. I can be me. Sarcastic, witty, abrasive, me.

Fours to the…

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Disclaimer: I’m divulging a good bit of personal information here that you may or may not want to know about me. Read accordingly.

I have written about this before but figured after some recent events that it may be time to go over it again. Some may have forgotten. Some may have never read the last one to begin with. And most really don’t give a shit. But I give a shit so, again, I’m going to re-cap.

In no way, shape or form am I a perfect person. I am flawed to the nth degree. I’m fairly certain God still loves me, though. My friends and family probably do, too and could certainly tell you even more flaws of mine than I’m about to list out (please try to refrain, though. My delicate psyche can only take so much right now.)

In no particular order (except for the end), here goes:

I’m highly impatient – “instant gratification generation” is what my mom likes to call it. I want what I want when I want it and tend to be a little bratty when I don’t get my way.

I have a temper. A big one. My late husband used to call me “The Hulk” – only he said instead of turning green I turn purple

Speaking of anger, I like to hold onto mine. I don’t forgive easily and I never fucking forget. And unfortunately, when I have been wronged, I will use said wronging in future arguments. Which, I realize is unfair and unhealthy, but it’s true. We’re also not talking about things about me that are good at this moment, so there’s that.

I use sarcasm in place of real feelings and emotions. I deflect all things with a solid dose of inappropriate humor. And I rarely take anything too seriously.

I loathe cleaning. I would much rather pay someone to do it than do it myself but that brings me to my next flaw…

Humans terrify me. They make me so nervous most of the time. I don’t like to call people, businesses, places or things. I hate to ask for help. I’d rather just figure it out myself. On this subject, I also care entirely too much what people think of me. Although, the older I get, the less shits I give. So there’s one on the positive side. Sort of.

I pee in the shower. Ew. I’ve also peed in pools a time or two or maybe more. Double ew. I’m also not afraid to pee outside should the need arise and there’s not a bathroom in sight. Side note: this summer I was a wee bit hungover at my kid’s baseball game (mom win), I’d downed 3 cokes on my way to the game, not realizing there were no bathrooms at the field. Had to pee, obviously, and ended up in the back of my car with a gatorade bottle. My pee comes out like a 1984 sprinkler head, so the gatorade bottle was none too helpful. After peeing on my hand, floormats and everything but the gatorade bottle, I found my youngest son’s hydroflask with the wide mouth opening and peed in that (and that’s how you win at momming.)

I’m kinda vain – which seems rather contradictory given my proclivity to pee nearly anywhere. But there you have it. I love clothes and makeup and doing my hair and making myself look as good as I possibly can.

Here’s another ew – I flush my tampons down the toilet. Apparently that’s a no no. But I do it anyway.

Sometimes, especially here lately, I let my kids play video games for far too long while I watch some kind of television show that shouldn’t be on in their presence. Hence why I let them stay on the video games. In a different room.

I constantly lose the tie thing that goes on a loaf of bread.

I’m never up on current events as I don’t watch or read the news. Well, sometimes I read the news. But mostly I just skim it.

I don’t walk my dogs nearly often enough.

I spend way too much money on way too much shit that I don’t need.

I’m terrible at making decisions on little shit – like where to go for dinner or where to go on vacation. Things like that. Stuff that’s really important, though, I’ve got that pretty well down.

I am way too competitive at way too many things. And now my children are just like me. Hell, they have competitions to see who can eat the most green beans, which, let’s face it, is a win for everyone.

Sometimes I drink too much.

I can be loud and obnoxious (drinking or not).

I cackle like a hyena.

Sometimes I’m super lazy and sometimes I’m on the go way too often.

I still sleep with a blankie. Like a toddler.

I bite my fingernails. I often forget to cut my kids’ fingernails. And toenails.

Sometimes I eat my feelings. Although, here lately, I have very little appetite. Which is concerning in itself. Because I used to really, really love food.

I am on my phone far too often, which is actually a good thing, because if not, it may have been way too long before I saw my name on a very popular social media site followed by the words “is a whore”. That’s right folks. Someone very publicly called me a whore. And thank the fucking Lord above that I happened to see it within a couple minutes of posting and could very swiftly remove myself from such a derogatory (and very untrue, might I add) post. Unfortunately, before it was removed, my mom saw it and a handful of friends (that I know of anyway) saw it. Thank goodness I’m not that popular, right?! I felt like I was in high school all over again. I’m nearly 40 (if we round up, like a lot). Why are we still name calling and tearing each other down? What in the actual fuck?

Mirriam-Webster defines a whore as “a person who engages in sexual intercourse for pay; a prostitute” or as “a promiscuous or immoral woman.” Ok, well I’ve certainly never been paid to have sex with anyone unless you think about marriage and the fact that I was a stay at home mom for a while, thereby making my husband the one who made all the money, thereby meaning he financially supported me and we had a pretty active sex life so maybe I was, in fact, a whore.

As far as the second definition goes, well that’s pretty laughable, too. Promiscuous is not a word I would use to describe myself, especially now. And believe me, I am willing to call myself nearly anything, if it is true. I am happy to share any flaws regarding me that you may or may not want to know. I am not scared of who I am. I have not performed any sexual acts in quite some time (unless we’re counting the sexual acts I may on occasion perform on myself but I don’t think that qualifies). I have not had any sexual acts performed on me in quite some time.

Now, I cannot say that I have not exuded some promiscuous behavior a time or 2 in my life. There was that time in college when I took Lauren Aponte’s boyfriend home with me for a one night stand and I only knew him as Lauren Aponte’s boyfriend, (even though I don’t think he was her boyfriend, she just wanted him to be her boyfriend, I don’t know, the details are fuzzy – I also didn’t really know Lauren Aponte, she was a friend of a friend of a friend and her nonboyfriend was quite hot). And afterward, we (my college roommate and I) referred to him as “get it girl” because, well, he said it a lot throughout the night. And got it I did. Anywho, that could be described as promiscuous behavior but did not make me a whore. I also used to make out with Dinty Moore Beef Stew (not actually the can of soup, though, just to clarify) every time I saw him in a bar my freshman year of college. I think his actual name was Denny but we always just called him Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Apparently not learning names in college was a thing for me. Is there a name for that? But we made out. A lot. Again, promiscuous behavior. Not a whore. Apparently I had quite a bit of promiscuous behavior in college. But, hey, who didn’t?

I dressed up as a slutty nun for Halloween one year. While poor taste for sure, it still doesn’t qualify me as a whore. I’ve been known to wear revealing clothing, especially when my husband was alive. He was a boob man, particularly my boobs, and he wanted to see them as much as possible. And I obliged. Whore? I think not.

And that leads me to my whole point. I have plenty of stories where maybe some risqué behavior happened on my part. Hell, I hope there are more risqué stories to come in my future, I’m not going to lie. But I have never been, currently am not and never will be a whore. I may not be classy. My sense of humor may be dark and sinister. I may be too forthcoming about my life and details nobody gives a shit about. And, hell, I may be a touch crazy. But I am not a whore.

Try to be kind. Try to mind your manners. Try to think before you speak (or type). And let’s try not to defame anyone’s character in the process.

Burnin’ it Down

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There are many things in life at which I do not excel. Cutting grass, for instance. I suck at it. I tried it a couple of times over the summer because I absolutely had to and it just didn’t go well. I tried push mowing. I tried the riding mower. It didn’t matter which one I used. They both shut down on me, I cursed a lot and the yard ultimately looked like I let an ADHD goat gnaw it down for us. So, mowing, not my thing.

Something else I have learned that is not my thing is anything pertaining to bikes (other than riding one, I’m pretty mediocre at riding one). Low tires? Can’t figure out the pump. Popped tire? Ummmm?????? Gears twisted more than an Auntie Anne’s pretzel? Yeah right!!! Can’t do it. Don’t want to do it. That’s why I have a brother. And a brother-in-law. And nearly any other human on the planet that is not me. Mechanical fixes are not my jam. And I’m ok with that.

Also not my thing – assembly of any and every thing. I’ve been searching for Christmas gifts for my children, trying to fulfill *most* of what they are asking for (that’s not even a little bit true – Jack’s list is so over the top ridiculous and expensive, I’m not even pretending that I’m getting him anything remotely close to what’s on it – other than the scooter (only needed because his brother may or may not have left it in the middle of the driveway and Uncle Randy may or may not have run it over) which is really the only affordable thing on his list). Seriously, his list consists of a Playstation 5 (impossible), an iPhone, a Chromebook, an iPad, a gaming chair (umm, isn’t that just like an office chair and won’t that require assembly on my part?!) and a million dollars. Get in freaking line kid. That’s one hell of a Christmas list. I’m not saying you’ve been bad this year, but you sure as shit ain’t getting any of that. Anyway, I got a little off topic there. Assembly. I suck at that as well. Shocking, I know based on the above where I’m proving some pretty impressive skills. I’ve been searching for only things that do not require assembly. And when did everything stop coming assembled? Has that always been the case? I bought a new vacuum probably over 2 months ago and just opened the box YESTERDAY and it was all because I knew it had to be assembled and to me, that seemed very daunting. (It wasn’t, by the way. I did it just fine. It even mostly works as long as I don’t take it on the carpet. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)

You see, Ash was in charge of lawn mowing, bike mechanics (or any other mechanical things that may come about), assembly of all things including Legos (seriously, I cannot follow Lego instructions to save my life. I put at least some portion of any Lego project together backward, upside, inside out or all of the above. Every. Fucking. Time.) and grilling. Ash was in charge of grilling.

Which leads me to where I’m at right now in my current state of widowhood. I have been grilling for a while now. And I haven’t been terrible at it (unlike everything else listed above). I’ve been succeeding. I’ve been doing it regularly. My kids have even been impressed with me. They’ve been begging me to try grilling steak again for the last few weeks. So, I finally bought some ribeyes and tonight was going to be the night. I poured a large glass of red wine, started the grill, went about cutting up potatoes and seasoning the steaks. I had fed my dogs and let them out. The Lumineers radio was playing softly from that stupid Alexa bitch that can never seem to get anything quite right (it seems we have that in common). Everything was right with the world. Until I hear my old Bogey girl barking like crazy (which isn’t weird for her, the older she gets, the mouthier she gets, kinda like me). But it’s starting to annoy me so I can only imagine how the neighbors feel about it. I go outside to see what all the fuss is about, look to my right at the screaming banshee/crazy old dog and then look to my left to see my grill up in fucking flames. I mean, the bitch was on fire. Big fire. Scary fire. I look at it for a few seconds, open the lid (flames everywhere), open the doors underneath where the gas is and and (proudly) smart enough to know to turn the gas off. I notice the little tray that I guess catches all the yuck that falls off all the shit you grill (including the fat and grease and stuff) and pinpoint the source of said fire. I turn the burners of the grill off and shut the lid thinking certainly that will solve all my problems (it doesn’t) and then I just stand there for a minute, staring, entranced by the heat and the flames, wondering should I pour some water on the grill. But then remembering that water is sometimes bad for fire but I can’t quite remember why or when or how. So then I go grab my cell phone and call my parents house. They don’t answer (umm, parents, why do you have a house phone if you never ever intend on answering it?) so then I call my mom’s cell phone. I very calmly (and I’m serious here, my mom even commented later on how calm I was) explained that my grill was on fire and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. She suggested flour or baking soda/powder (I can’t remember) and I very calmly marched inside, got the flour and threw that shit all over the grill, the grill pan, the porch, the dogs, myself. Wherever I could throw flour, I fucking threw it.

And it worked. The fire went out before my house burnt to the ground. It’s safe to say I need a new grill. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. But that brings me back to my whole point. Grilling was not my job. Grilling clearly should not be my job. I had no idea about the grease trap pan thing (probably definitely the technical name for it) – didn’t know it was there, didn’t know it was full, sure as shit didn’t know it needed to be changed (probably frequently).

I’ve never lived on my own for such a long time (I mean, my kids clearly live with me but they’re not so helpful in the way of chores and getting shit done and knowing how not to burn the house down). I lived with my parents (obviously) until I went off to college. In college, I had a roommate every year except for one (and even though I paid rent on a one bedroom apartment for that one year, I actually lived in my college boyfriend’s apartment and literally never stayed in my own apartment. Sorry mom.) There was a brief time after college where I lived by myself but that was only for a month, maybe less. I’ve always had a family member or a roommate or a boyfriend or a husband to pick up where I leave off, to fix what I may break, to balance out all the shit that I can get so incredibly wrong, to know that the grease trap pan thing in the grill needs to be changed or your whole grill will go up in flames. And now, at age 38, I have lived essentially on my own for almost 13 months. I guess I was bound to almost burn the house down. I’m sure I’ll make hundreds and hundreds and thousands and thousands of other nearly detrimental mistakes. That’s both the pain and the hilarity of becoming a young(ish) widow.

But, I guess the whole point is that I didn’t burn the house down. We ate steak from a cast iron skillet. We’re all still here. We’re all still healthy. We’re all still sane(ish). We’re doing it. It’s not always (ever) perfect. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always (ever) normal. But we’re still ok. And if we’re still ok (especially in 2020), then I absolutely know, that no matter what, we will always be ok (I’d better knock on some wood STAT). Even when we (I) almost burn down the fucking house.

Grateful?

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Thanksgiving was Ash’s favorite holiday. Which is no surprise. If you knew Ash, I’m certain you knew the top 5 loves of his life and I’m certain food may have come in first place followed closely by golf, his 2 sons and then maybe me. So again, with his love of food, of course Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday.

Last year was our first one without him, and while I’m sure we felt his loss, it was all so new (him being dead and all) and we had so many people trying to keep us distracted, it wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it was going to be. We went to my parents (we actually spent the night there, which may sound normal to those that travel for Thanksgiving, but my parents literally live 7 minutes away, so spending the night wasn’t exactly necessary). We had a fried turkey and a smoked turkey and all the normal trimmings. I may have teared up a time or two throughout the day but it was mostly uneventful, emotionally wise. We did have the moment where my mom’s curtains fell off the wall of their own accord (which was actually quite hilarious – you may or may not know this (because I may or may not have already written about it) but Ash and I had a history of breaking curtains in hotel rooms every time we traveled. It started on our honeymoon in Antigua – we consumed entirely too many Jack and Coke’s, returned to our room in a drunken, laugh-filled stupor, attempted to close the curtains, couldn’t close the curtains so clearly used more force, more strength because that was most definitely how to fix the problem and ripped the curtains right from the wall. It didn’t stop there. We had a streak for quite a while of ripping curtains right off the wall in our ignorant attempts to draw them closed nearly everywhere we went.) So I felt like that was Ash’s little sign last year, to say hi, to let us know he was ok and to make us laugh.

Anyway, that was a really long winded paragraph to basically say we made it through our first major holiday without Ash pretty unscathed. This year, I don’t quite feel the same. I am lacking in the holiday spirit, if you will. We decorated for Christmas on November 11 (don’t judge us, we needed some cheering up and nothing cheers my children up more than Christmas and decorating and colorful lights). And it helped for that day. But I feel like (and bear with me here, this is going to sound really overly dramatic. Because it is overly dramatic.) my holiday spirit is currently on life support. I am no longer excited about any of it. I used to be great at Christmas and not to toot my own horn here, but I was great at giving gifts. It’s one of my talents, and I don’t have many, so I’ll boast about the few I do have. I love the music, the movies, the spirt and decor, the shopping, the baking (ok, I love watching my mom do the baking), the eating, the planning and gift giving and holiday lights and all the things that are everything Christmas. And now, I’m not necessarily dreading it but I can’t say that I’m too hyped up about it either. I have no idea what to give anyone. I could careless about listening to the music or watching the movies. It’s like there’s this big dark cloud (kind of like the ones outside right now raining down on Ash’s favorite holiday – thanks, babe. Again.) parked over my soul, sucking all the joy out of all the things I used to love. (I told you I was going to be overly dramatic.)

And it’s probably not as drab and dreary as I’m letting on. But I’m having a hard time finding my holiday joy. I’m having a hard time finding the motivation to even care that it’s the holidays. Don’t worry. I will put on my happy face and make it as good as I possibly can for my children. But once they go to bed, and I’m alone, I feel this overwhelming exhaustion from pretending all day that this doesn’t suck, that I’m fine without my husband, that I’m a great single mother, that I don’t spend most of my day barking orders and cleaning up messes that I didn’t make or yelling at little people to clean up the messes that I didn’t make. It’s all exhausting. And overwhelming. And just a general pain in the fucking ass. I’m tired. I’m the opposite of jolly. And my family deserves better than that. But I haven’t quite figured out how to snap out of it.

Yesterday I decided to not yell at my children all day. And I was mostly successful. So maybe that’s a step in the right direction. And I realize that I have so much to be grateful for and that my life is good and we’re very fortunate for everything we have. Just right around this time, it’s easy to feel very unfortunate for what we don’t have.

Ok, pity party over. I will put my smile on. I will enjoy this day with my family. I will focus on what I do have. Happy fucking Thanksgiving.