Category: relationships

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.

The Art of Moving On (Month 8)

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Dear Jonesie:

If I’m being completely honest here, I almost totally forgot that today was the 12th of the month. In my defense, I fear my brain may be partially melted from overexposure to heat and sun this past weekend. Jack had 2 double headers in 2 days in the brutal, unrelenting heat of southeastern Virginia. Seriously, at one point I put ice cubes in my bra and felt very minimal relief. Also tried some down my back. Not much better. Also forgot to bring the stupid canopy to guard us a bit from the hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch sun so today we just kept moving further and further away from the field to seek shelter and shade in the trees. Hell, towards the end of the game, I wasn’t even watching, which you know is very unlike me. Colt was sort of a trooper. Yesterday he fell asleep for a while, woke up and cried for a while. My mama thought he might was coming down with the Covid, but, thankfully, once I took him to the car and let him sit in the A/C for a while, and eat some Star Wars fruit snacks (what can’t they cure?!), he was back to his nonstop chattering self (seriously, he’s so much like you, it’s ridiculous. It was easier with you because I could just tell you to shut up or walk away or even leave. Can’t so much do any of those things with a 5 year old). Today he handled it much better.

Our oldest boy played great yesterday. He pitched well, he did well at short stop and hit some bombs. Today, not so much. That’s the nature of our boy, though. I’ll defend him a bit and say he was nervous today, playing with a team he only knew a handful of kids on and a coach he had never met until today. Yesterday was also a long day that ended late and today started early. And, again, the heat. So, Tiger Mom here will give him a bit of a pass.

Anyway, back to my fried egg status brain, I was sitting at dinner, it was the boys, my parents and me and we’re just chatting and I randomly half shouted “SHIT, it’s the 12th of the month!!” To which Jack replied so what. To which I then reminded him (well, after counting on 2 hands)  it was the 8 month anniversary of your death. To which he replied “so what? It’s not like it’s been a year.” So, yeah, he’s still 10. Ha!

The truth is, we’ve been super busy. Baseball is in full swing so that consumes a lot of our time. And in between, we are going to the beach, pool, sound. We are sharing meals with friends. We are over using the grill and trying to avoid the stove. We are covered in mosquito bites from staying outdoors way too late. We are dancing by fire pits, we are staying at the beach until dusk, we are laughing and singing and finding joy in as many ways as possible. We are making new friends while still enjoying the old. Colt is fishing as much as he can. Jack is still all about the sports while adding a couple of new favorites – surfing and skimming (he could use some help with both but I’m not quite the person for that job). And I am loving watching them grow and change. Their wings our spreading and it won’t be long before they are ready to take flight (shit’s getting real deep now, you got any waders where you are?!). As corny as it is though, it’s also 100% fact.

As for me, I am in a good place. Sometimes I drink too much. Sometimes I smoke too many cigarettes (sorry but you know how I love a smoke sometimes). I stay up too late and wake too early, never quite getting enough sleep. But I am well. My family is amazing. My friends are incredible. I’m looking forward to the future while also completely embracing where I’m at today. (There I go getting all corny again. WTF is wrong with me?!)

I’m not sure if you want to hear this or not, but, for the most part, we are happy. We were in a dark place for a while, I’m not going to lie. But we can’t stay in that dark place. I think you’d actually be really proud of how we’ve dug our way out. It did get ugly for a while, I’m not going to sugar coat it. And I’m willing to bet my left arm there will be more ugly in the future. That’s ok. We can handle it. Right now, though, we are going to soak up all the happy, sun, friendships and love that we can. Because that is what makes our world go round.

We have found a sense of peace. Maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe we’re just too busy to think about how sad we are supposed to be. Maybe it’s a combination of a million different things. Whatever it is, we are happy and enjoying all of life as much as we can. In the words of Creepy Jonathon, it is well with our soul.

Certainly we miss you. Certainly we think and speak of you often. But those assholes were fucking right. Eventually, time heals all (most) wounds. Not to say we’re not still wounded, because we always will be, but the more time goes by, the better we get at going by with it. Because that’s how it has to be.

Love you always,

Poopsie

 

 

Amarillo By Morning

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Music is an amazing, albeit sometimes unwanted, trigger for our memories. Well, at least for mine. I guess I shouldn’t speak for everyone. I was just driving from Target back to Jack’s baseball practice when George Strait’s Amarillo By Morning came on. And boy did it trigger. First I felt happy, it’s a great song, and then the tears came. But they weren’t all sad either. Because the memories are happy.

In May, 2008, after 2 short years together, Ash packed up his shit and moved to Durango, CO. In August, 2008, I sold most of my shit, packed what I could in my little Jeep Liberty, grabbed my mom, some Harry Potter books on tape (side note – I hate books on tape. I don’t think we made it through 2 chapters. Fuck a book on tape. No offense intended to those who enjoy them. They just don’t work for me) and hit the road. It was one of those trips I will never forget. I was moving far, far away from my family and everything I’d ever known. I quit a great job. I left amazing friends. But I was moving to something. To something wonderful and awful and perfect and stupid and beautiful and ugly and fun and mundane and just everything (as is the nature of meaningful relationships).

My mom and I are extremely close. So it was only natural that she accompany me on my journey out west (move over Fievel). That and she would have been terrified to send me all on my own! (Ash used to call her worst case scenario Geri because, well, her mind instantly goes to the worst case scenario possible in any given situation, you know it’s true Mama! 😘). Our first stop was Tennessee, where I got pulled over for doing absolutely nothing wrong. Apparently, he couldn’t see where I was from on my license plate (even though it was just one state over and our license plates are pretty distinctive what with either a lighthouse or the Wright flyer on them) so he stopped me to find out. He also had many other questions for me – where I was going? Why I was going? Was I going to college? All sorts of weirdness. I also hit a bird in Tennessee and believe I screamed when I did it! My mom probably thought the poor bird was stuck in the engine which would cause said engine to fail, which would lead to the whole car blowing up, us included. Haha! Just kidding! Sort of!!

Our next stop was Oklahoma City, if I’m remembering correctly. It was a long time ago. We took turns driving. We talked incessantly. We sang (probably off key) our hearts out. Oklahoma City was a little scary, at least where we stayed so we got the hell out of there as fast as possible. We stopped in the small town of Elk City, OK for a quick breakfast. But if we’re really being honest here, we stopped in Elk City because, at the time, we were a wee bit obsessed with bull riding, a wee bit more obsessed with professional bull rider Justin McBride, knew that Elk City was his home town (stalker much?!) and figured we’d certainly run into him because he would obviously be craving an egg McMuffin at 6:30 in the morning at the same time as us. I’m guessing we probably just missed each other by a few minutes. But, much to our hearts’ dismay, we did not catch even a glimpse of him.

When we got back on the highway, I think my mom was driving, Amarillo By Morning came on the radio just as we passed a highway sign for Amarillo and the miles left. I screeched (because that’s what I do, I’m a screecher and a woo girl and I am not ashamed). I thought it was pretty ironically cool that Amarillo by Morning just happened to be playing as we passed the highway sign indicating how far Amarillo was from our location and that we would in fact be traveling through Amarillo just that morning.

I was so excited to get to Ash we drove straight through from Oklahoma City to Durango. I can’t remember how long it took. But I do remember knocking on Ash’s door, I was wearing gym shorts, an old white t shirt and tennis shoes, he opened the door, we shared an awkward, somewhat uncomfortable hug (it had been months since we’d actually seen each other) and he told me I’d never looked more beautiful. We moved inside, into my new studio apartment that I was sharing with this boy that I couldn’t help but love, and we, let’s just say, reacquainted, ahem, ourselves in the closet while my mom took a shower (sorry Mama).

I haven’t thought about that journey in a long time. Hearing that song this evening brought it all back (ok, not all because it was a long time ago and I’m not as young as I used to be). And thinking about it now brings back so much. So much that I don’t even know how to put it into words. Ash always pushed me. To be brave. To take the leap. To go on the adventure. And while his adventures were cut short, mine are still going. His spirit, his passion, his love will always live inside of me, pushing me, as always, to live. As he would have lived. Well, maybe not exactly but pretty darn close.

S@$&’s Gettin’ Real

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Ash was probably the most private person I have ever met. Which is funny because private I am not. Clearly. He never wanted to know about any of my past relationships, hated seeing old photos, especially if I was drunk in them, which let’s face it, was pretty much the entirety of my first 2 years of college. He was tight lipped on his own previous relationships also, which drove me absolutely batty!!

He was always evasive, never answered my questions and just generally gave me no information regarding his life pre-me. I guess I eventually learned to accept it. Or it at least didn’t send me packing.

Ash never met my parents until my brother invited him to dinner, shortly before he moved away. I guess I had adopted some of his habits of keeping everything private? I don’t know. I think I was just so enamored with him, I didn’t want anything to screw it up! (Not that my family is crazy or anything, I just suffered from massive anxiety (still so) and just wanted him to love them like I love them) It was different for me. My boyfriend in college became an extension of my family. I mean, shit, he spent more time with my mom working on puzzles than I ever did! But Ash was different. He grew up worlds apart from me. His family life was unlike any one I had ever been a part of.

And I use that “a part of” very loosely. I didn’t meet Ash’s mom until we were living together in Durango, CO and Ash didn’t exactly tell her he had a girlfriend, much less a girlfriend that was living with him. So that was fun. I don’t think I met his dad until I was already pregnant with Jack so it was really too late by that point if I decided to say fuck this noise! Which I may have had I met him a little earlier in the relationship. Kidding. Mostly.

Ash’s dad was a horse of a different color. He did not welcome me into their lives with open arms, he did not seem to like me and I’m pretty certain he would have preferred I never existed. In his life anyway. He’d probably have been fine if I was alive, just maybe not anywhere near him. He sat me down (after I upset him greatly by eating too much of his cantaloupe – he even bought another cantaloupe but informed me I couldn’t have any – true story) at one point and asked me what my intentions were. Ash and I were already engaged, I was pregnant, I thought it might be a little late at this point in the game for this talk. Either way, my gut reaction was to say to get the fuck out of dodge. Luckily, back then I was much better at holding my tongue and said something along the lines of I intend to marry your son in my home town in a month and that’s where you’ll find me until then.

And that’s what happened. I packed my bags and went home while Ash stayed in Texas and rented us an apartment as close to the hospital as humanly possible. Ash’s dad and I never bonded, he mostly looked at me like I was stupid, but he did learn my name so it wasn’t all bad.

Where we come from shapes us into who we are. I love to know the details. It’s in the details that you figure out a person, why they are the way they are, what makes them tick, how they handle obstacles thrown in their direction and how they even find joy and purpose. I understand why Ash stayed so guarded. It was a defense mechanism. But I regret that I know almost nothing, to this day, after 13 years, 7+ moves, 2 kids and 2 dogs and one hellacious cancer journey, that I barely know a damn thing about his past. And likewise, he didn’t want to know about mine.

Perhaps that’s why I’m an open book now. I never don’t want to know about the people I love again. I want it all. Even the ugly and the awful. Because If we can’t be real, what the hell is the purpose of any of it?

Lucky Number 7

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Dear Jonesie:

What can I say? This sucks. You being gone sucks. There’s nothing lucky about the past 7 months. And unfortunately, your death has been trumped by the whole entire world turning into a steaming pile of donkey shit. It’s also raining again. I wish I had kept a log of the number of days it has rained since you died. I’m not saying you have something to do with it (yes I am) but it sure has been a ridiculous amount of rain. It’s kind of like our grief – we get glimpses of sunshine and then the sky opens up again.

Jack just yesterday declared 2020 the worst year of his entire life. Which is really saying something because I didn’t know it could get worse than 2019, you know, the year we lost you for the rest of our lives. But this new normal is anything but normal. It sure would be easier, in ways, if you were here with us. But then it would also be awful because following rules wasn’t really your jam. And it is my jam, mostly, so a lot of arguments would have been had I imagine. But it doesn’t really matter what I imagine because you’re not here and therefore, we’ll never know.

After weeks, maybe months, hell if I can keep track of it, we have finally re-emerged (I may have turned our kids into recluses for a bit of time. Sorry about that). Spending time with our friends and family. A semblance of baseball is back in our lives, which is really delighting Jack, not so much Colt. We spend as much time outdoors as possible (when you’re not reminding us to still be sad via down pouring rain). Just so you know, the rain is no longer working for the boys (so why don’t you go ahead and ease up). They get excited because they get to have an inside pajama day filled with movies, video games and laziness.

I often wonder what Jack and Colt remember about you. They don’t talk about you much. When I ask them, they don’t have much to say. And I don’t say that to be mean. It’s just incredible, the mind of a child, the strength of a child. Especially our children. Maybe all children. I don’t know, I only know ours. But Colt no longer pees not the floor (thank the maker), he never breaks down anymore crying for his dad. He’s happy. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He’s remarkable. He’s becoming quite the fish slayer. He finally got to go on the boat with Uncle G this week and loved every second of it, as he usually did when the boat was ours. He said he had a trout on his line but the fish bit his bait in half. But that’s all he needed. It brought him so much joy just feeling the tug and trying to reel it in. They went cruising, too, just like you and I always liked to do, and absolutely loved it. Our little waterman.

Jack is like a little man. He takes care of me. He’s the one consoling me when I’m having my moments. But he never has moments of his own. He’s so mature. And understanding. And compassionate. Is he happy? I think so, but he’s in that phase of life where hormones are taking over so there’s a little more discontent and a lot more attitude. He tries to help me parent Colt constantly, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, drives me insane. Baseball seems to be going well, but I don’t know for sure, because I can’t always watch, which, you know me, I absolutely hate because crazy baseball mom. It’s good though, he needs some space away from me to do what he loves without the pressure of thinking I’m disappointed. Which how could I ever be disappointed but we know how his innocent and sensitive heart works. What I do know is how happy it is making him, which is absolutely what he needs in this self-declared worst year of his life.

As for me, I’m still a mess. Mistakes should be my middle name because I seem to be making them constantly. The loneliness can be all consuming which has led to latching on to ridiculous and inappropriate things, which then of course leads to let down, which is the last thing I need. You’d think I’d learn. But I’m only human, and a bit of a broken human at that. You would think, after all this time, things would start being better. And from the outside looking in, they are. But deep down, I’m just as broken today as the day we found out you had terminal cancer with 8-12 months to live.

I miss you. I know it’s repetitive but it’s true. We should be arguing about travel ball and how expensive it is. We should be teaching Colt about fishing and boating and how to swim and arguing because your expectations are too high and mine are too low. We should be arguing because the governor won’t let us open Turf’s Up and we’re really starting to stress about the future of our business and money and what it will look if and when we can reopen. All of these things would be more favorable than life without you. But we didn’t get a choice. And it is what it is.

I’m down 30 pounds, which is a huge accomplishment. Unfortunately, I need to lose about 20 more to still be just a little chubby. Ha! I’m thinking of getting a new tattoo – not of the one you hoped for – your face on my left breast with your tongue reaching, well you know, but, as weird as it is, I want a reminder, not that I ever really need reminding, of you, of us, of our life, our love and our hate. We’ll see.

Bogey is still brown and grumpy and groany. Her tumors continue to grow but Nattie has brought some life back into her. Nattie, for all my bitching and moaning and wanting to give her away for a while, (to be fair, you had just died and taking care of a puppy while going through all that was about one of the more overwhelming challenges I’ve taken on, which sounds ridiculous but true) she is the sweetest, most loving little girl on earth. She is finally potty trained, she sucks at walking on a leash and she loves us something strong.

I hate that I never dream of you. I hate that I never see your face anymore. They say your loved ones come back to you in your dreams, but I guess you’re wherever you are, living your best life. You always were out of sight, out of mind! I guess I kind of forgot.

I love you. I miss you.

Until next time,

Poopsie