Tag: Life

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.

The Straw That Broke All the Camels Backs

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Disclaimer: These are my thoughts and opinions. You are not obligated to read them. They are not all sunshine and roses. But this is how I deal. This is my therapy. This is how I get it out and this is how I roll on. Read at your own risk. Also, I use the fuck word. A lot.

I knew that everybody getting all psyched up about 2020 coming to an end was going to be a mistake. Just because time continues to march on does not mean that anything has changed. I saw a meme just today that said “New year, new me….ntal breakdown” and nothing in my life has ever been more fucking accurate.

Today our school board met to determine if our children should remain in remote learning or return to school on some kind of from home/in school hybrid basis. I did not get my hopes up. For the most part anyway. I understand the county I live in, I understand the people that make the decisions and I understand that my opinion really doesn’t count for shit. Hence why I’m here writing about it because it’s the only way I really know how to express myself. Not that I really need to say, but they chose to stay in 100% remote. What. The. Fuck.

My children are my life. They kind of have to be seeing as how I’m basically all they have. That’s not true. There are a good amount of people that love and care for them. However, on the regular, all they get is me. And I’m a pretty good mom. I do ok. They could definitely do worse. As a matter of fact, I have a coffee mug that states “Not the worst mom”, so I have that going for me (and them), which is nice. But they need more than me. And that has never been more evident than it is now.

Warning: Here’s where I get super whiney – but I’m going to whine, I’m going to get it out of my system, I’m going to play the woe is me card – and then I’m going to be ok. And then I’m going to wine. (See what I did there?!)

My children have not known normal for about 3 years now. They watched their father die. For 13 months. They watched him wither away. They watched him throw up. They watch him sleep. They watched us constantly leave them for nonstop doctor appointments. They watched him get admitted to the hospital countless times. THEY WATCHED THEIR FATHER DIE. They were shuffled back and forth between grandparents and uncles and friends. And they handled it like the little champions that they are. Because they are fucking champions.

But my little fucking champions are fucking breaking. Their abnormal lives are just now taking their/its/a (I’m not sure what’s grammatically proper here) fucking toll. My 11 year old cries. All. The. Time. He had a routine doctor appointment just last week. The tears started when returning to therapy was mentioned. They continued when he was informed he was due for 3 vaccines. And they really started fucking rolling when his twig and two berries were checked out (twig and berries accounted for and progressing as they should FYI). He cried the whole way home. He sat on the porch and cried and wouldn’t come in the fucking house. Because he is fucking breaking. Last night, we decided to watch a family movie (which, as a side note, has been kind of difficult for us – watching family movies that is – because our “family” is abnormal. For us.). We watched “The One and Only Ivan”. We read the book last year so we knew exactly what to expect. *Spoiler Alert* We knew it got sad, we knew Stella died. We knew Ivan saved Ruby. We knew everything that was going to happen. However, knowing it and actually watching it happen are two very different things. Do you know how many times Jack had “to go to the bathroom” last night during this 1 hour and 37 minute movie? It was seven. Do you know why he went to the bathroom 7 times? It’s because he was so upset about everything that he couldn’t even handle being in the room with the 2 people he trusts most in this world – his brother and his mother.

I will admit that my eyes were not dry either. We are all quicker to cry these days. Nothing is normal for anyone. I get that. However, my 11 year old son was inconsolable last night. I will be honest and say that he never grieved when his father actually passed away. He maybe cried about 4 tears and returned to business as usual. So I’m not saying that his behavior is abnormal at this moment. I am grateful that he is feeling. That is necessary. He had a lot of questions last night that he never asked at the time of death. How did I know daddy was dead? What happened? What was I doing? Why did daddy never hug me before I left? Why is all he did was sleep? Daddy never said goodbye. All things that I didn’t realize were happening at the time. I didn’t realize my children didn’t officially say goodbye to their father. I didn’t realize that Ash didn’t officially say goodbye to Jack and Colt. I should have noticed, but I was so busy being wrapped up in easing Ash’s pain, that I guess I forgot. How awful is that? But clearly they (and especially Jack) haven’t forgotten. Jack is pulling away from all of his friends. He never wants to see them. He never wants to play. He only wants to be around his brother and me. We are his safety net, I get that. However, it begs the question, if he were in school, if there were some sense of normalcy to his life, would he feel the same way? I tend to lean towards no.

Colt is also having his own difficulties. Virtual school for a 6 year old is not ideal. He does ok. I do ok with him. But he breaks down all the time also. He can’t sit still for google meets, because what 6 year old can? I have to be right next to him at all times to keep him on task and even then, he’s rarely ever on task. He’s wildly brilliant, though, in an outside the box kind of way (just like his father). And educationally, I know he will be fine. Socially? That’s another story. He’s different. He’s not naturally social. And that’s ok. We all march to the beat of our own drum. But he’s been out of the “normal” social scene for so long, I’m afraid of what it looks like for him when it does eventually return. He also breaks down far more often. He’s good about talking about his dad, unlike his older brother, but he is not good at handling adversity. He doesn’t like it when things change. It makes sense, given that the biggest change of maybe his entire life happened when he was 5 years old. He wants everything. And I do mean everything. Like acquiring more shit will fill the gaping hole that has been left in his beautiful heart.

I get it. The world is in turmoil. The world is fucking crazy. My kids deserve better than that, though. Your kids deserve better than that. We all deserve better than that. I don’t know what the answer is. Faith. Love. God. And maybe, just maybe, a little more fucking normalcy. For everyone.

PS – It’s also the fucking 12th of the month. Fucking figures. (If you’ve forgotten, Jonesie passed away November 12, 2019 – that’s exactly 14 months ago. But who’s counting? It’s me. I’m fucking counting.)

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.

Happy Death Day. Happy Birthday? (Month 10)

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Dear Jonesie:

Kind of an oxymoron, huh? Death day and birthday right around the same time. Today marks 10 months since you left us. And Tuesday will be the 38th anniversary of your birth. I’ll never forgive you for not growing old with me. But I suspect you could careless.

It’s hard to believe it’s been 10 months since I’ve seen your face in real life. Probably longer for you since you were in a drugged up, not with it state. I’ve thought about our last night together a lot lately. In true Kellie fashion, I was inappropriate, making light of death rather than telling you how much I love you, how much I appreciate you and how much I’m going to miss you. Although I feel I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, I wasn’t quite good at expressing myself or actually letting you know how feel. I can write it down like it’s my j-o-b, but give me face to face interaction and I clam up, like, well, a clam. (Not my best analogy there – I’m going to blame it on the tears is my eyes as I write this.)

What can I tell you? Jack has started talking about you again. A lot. Unfortunately, none of it is very nice. It’s no secret that the 2 of you didn’t have the best relationship, and I guess a part of him just needs to get it out, get it off his chest. And I understand that. It also hurts some kind of awful. I hate that he only remembers the bad. But maybe he has to get through the bad, before he can start remembering the good. Because certainly there was good, right?! Kidding, I know there was. Jack continues to excel in baseball. He’s doing well with virtual school also, but is struggling with math, which I am too stupid to help him with. 5th grade math ain’t my thing! He grows more mature by the day, always helping with Colt (perhaps a little too much!) and always looking out for me. He’s still a slob and still obsessed with video games, but I guess there could be worse things.

Colt’s birthday is coming up and no one is more excited than him. In his true Colt way, he has asked for some interesting things – a baby Groot, cool new baits, another fishing pole, a metal excavator and bull dozer and a Dr. Doom costume (which, by the way, doesn’t exist!). I got him baby Groot and a Dr. Doom figure and I’m taking him on a near shore fishing trip. I so wish you were here to join us, but alas, you, God and the universe have other plans. I’m sure I’ll write another poem that I’ll think is so wonderful, read it out loud and get the same lackluster reaction that I always get. Such is life I guess. Kindergarten is ok. More often than not, Colt has the consistency of a wet noodle or lava lamp, melting into the couch and trying to do anything but what he is supposed to be doing. Maybe it will get better. Maybe it won’t. All we can do is try.

As for me, I’m ok. Still short on patience, still yell too much. My 38th birthday came and went. You weren’t here. Although, I did get on the treadmill over the weekend and right in the center of the screen was one tiny pink flower. I’m assuming you perhaps arranged that. Which is ironic given the fact that you never gave me flowers that I can remember in our 13 years together. I’m not entirely pleased that you will be 37 forever while I continue to age but, again, nobody fucking asked me what I wanted. I might be a little bitter today. Shocking, I know.

Yesterday I had a near panic attack while driving to get gas. Over something quite ridiculous. But it struck me, while driving that Ash Jones ICE can no longer be my ICE (in case of emergency for those of you that aren’t quite as hip as me. Ha! That’s a joke.) But it hit me, I’m 38 years old and my in case of emergency contact is dead so good luck getting a hold of him. Although, to be fair, even if he weren’t dead, good luck getting a hold of Ash Jones. You know I’m right!! And man, did it take my breath away. I’m sure there are forms out there with you still listed as my emergency contact. Hell, my medical power of attorney still hasn’t been changed since your passing. And I know, I have my mom or dad or brother to take your place but I shouldn’t have to have someone take your place this young. It’s just not fair. But life ain’t fair. Lord knows we’ve all learned that. Anyway, it was a harsh reality that I hadn’t thought of until yesterday. And it sucks.

What else can I say? We miss you. I dreamt of you not long ago. You were in the backyard cutting grass and I ran out to touch you and as soon as I got to you, you turned into someone else. And that was pretty shitty.

We are well-ish. We love you. Happy heaven day and happy birthday!

Love,

Poopsie

Thirty-Not-So-Great

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So my birthday is coming up. And it is generally one of my most favorite days/weeks/months of the whole year. This year, however, I’m not sure I’m feeling it. On the one hand (and I really hate to even say this), how could it possibly be worse than 37? I lost my husband. We entered a global pandemic. The shit has certainly hit the fan in every possible facet that the shit can hit said fan. But, it’s 2020, so I shudder when I say things can’t get much worse. Because, undoubtedly, they can. But let’s stay positive and hope not.

Today was one of those days where if it could go wrong, it did. I’ll start with virtual school. I’m not going to get into it much. However, I will say, do you know who is not meant to learn virtually? Kindergarteners. It is “virtually” impossible (see what I did there?! Man, I crack myself up!!). It is a struggle. Every. Fucking. Day. My 5 year old does not know how to use a computer, yet alone a mouse or a track pad. He’s not meant to know how to use these things given that he is 5 years old and computing is not necessarily something that is important in a 5 year olds life. But what do I know? Not much about helping with kindergarten, that’s for sure. I let out a very loud growl/yell today trying to figure out how to video and post and photograph said 5 year old painfully attempting to trace the letter “e” on said computer he doesn’t know how to use with said mouse he doesn’t know how to navigate. All the while the 10 year old is on google meeting number one of four for the day. I’m pretty sure his microphone was muted. If not, oh the fuck well.

After all the virtual hell, I decide it’s a good time to go let out some frustration on the treadmill. It’s generally the best medicine to get me back in the game so to speak. Unfortunately, I had ordered my groceries online beforehand so there was a lot of back and forth on everything the grocery store does not have in stock. I was trying to type while jog, which wasn’t really working out, so attempted to step off the treadmill to finish my message about my damn lunch meat but apparently did not step completely off the treadmill and almost fell to what I’m sure would have been my death, or at least the death of my mostly scar-free face. I caught myself on the fly and did quite a number on my shoulder and arm so as not to ruin my face before my 38th birthday. It’s not the best face in the world, but it’s mine and I’m pretty attached to it so I’d rather keep in the best shape that I possible can. My arm is feeling better tonight, thankfully. We’ll see if that holds true tomorrow.

I then go pick up my groceries, or lack thereof. They’re all packed in paper bags. And of course, all the glass items are packed in the same bag because that makes complete sense. I’m one of those people that tries to carry as many bags in as humanly possible at one time a. because I’m lazy and 2. because I think I have Herculean strength (for the record, I do not). And of course, the fucking paper bag rips and all glass items scatter on the hardwood floor including 2 bottles of wine. Good times.

Next up on the list of shit that is this day, I’m making a new recipe for dinner. I’m chopping onions like it’s my dang j-o-b except for not really because I kind of miss the onion and kind of slice my thumb instead. Luckily, I just nicked it but 1/2 a centimeter in the other direction, this could be a very different story.

The grand finale of this day (I’m hoping anyway), my dogs are playing in the backyard. One is old. One is not. The old one has a growth/tumor thing on her eye because she’s old and really sexy things happen when you start getting old – dog or human, the same is true for both. I’m chatting with 2 of my girlfriends, look over at the old girl and her eye is bleeding like a stuck pig. I hold a wet paper towel on her eye for a while and she seems fine. The bleeding stopped. The growth has actually shrunk a bit but I’m sure it will fill back up and be it’s ever beautiful self again in no time.

I realize that none of these are real problems. I’ve had real problems so I know the difference. But dear lord, can I get a fucking break. I want easy. I want relaxed. I want love. I want acceptance. I want the clouds to fucking part and the sun to shine on our lives more often than not.

I want thirty-no-so-great to become the thirty-great that I’ve desperately been hoping for over the last year.

 

Anniversary Blues

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It’s my anniversary week and I must say it’s not really going well. I’ve been in a shit mood. I’m weepy as hell. And I’m just generally pissed off. Unfortunately, I also seem to be taking it out on everyone I love.

I didn’t realize it would hit me like this. Things have been going so well. But I guess that’s the nature of grief and heartbreak. Most days are normal. And then some are pure hell. And I’m currently in pure hell.

I don’t remember what Ash said when he proposed to me. Being pregnant, and knowing where we were headed, it was a little anticlimactic. We were living in Denver, CO in the super swanky neighborhood with the crazy homeless general and the den of a million foxes next door (that might be an exaggeration). Like I said, super swanky. We took Bogey, our chocolate lab, for a walk. We ended up at a park. Ash sat me down, probably said something nice I would assume (or maybe not, you never know with him) and then asked me to marry him (I said yes by the way, in case that wasn’t obvious). The ring was gorgeous and also way too big but I loved it and I loved him. We walked home hand in hand with smiles on our faces all the while puppy Bogey was trying to bite the diamond off my hand. Apparently diamonds are a dogs best friend, not man as originally thought.

I believe we got engaged sometime in May but I’m not so great with dates so that could be totally wrong. I know we got married in August and my mom kindly reminded me it was the 9th, which I sort of knew but also thought it could have been the 8th. The wedding was short and hot but also one of the best days of my life. I guess now I could also classify it as one of the worst days of my life because here we are on year 11, and I’m still Mrs. Jones but Mr. Jones has flown the fucking coup. And that just plain sucks.

By our first anniversary, we had moved back to my home town in North Carolina and so began the tradition of anniversary dinner at our favorite Colington Cafe where I would indulge in too much wine, too much rich food, overheat from all the said wine and rich food, and leave my handsome groom at the table halfway through dinner to go sit in the car in the a/c, take my ridiculously over the top high heels off and try not to vomit. I am the definition of sexy. And romantic. Eventually, around year 7, we learned – sexy time before dinner so when Kellie overindulges yet again, everyone is still happy.

Last year, we spent our anniversary in Durango, CO where we went on tiny hikes, long drives and essentially said goodbye to each other. We didn’t have our kids with us so it was a good time to let it all out. And we did. All our thoughts, all our feelings and more tears than I knew any 2 humans could cry. It was by no means the trip of a lifetime but it is a trip I will never forget in my lifetime. Until the Alzheimer’s hits at least.

And now he’s gone. No more Colington Cafe. No more sexy time. No more unsexy time. No more short hikes or long drives. Still plenty of tears but now I cry them alone. And right now, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone in my life. And tired. I’m so fucking tired.

It’s not always like this. It’s just this week. I hate this week. And I equal parts love this week. But I miss my groom, my date for life, my best friend and my worst enemy.

I do have a large distraction this weekend to help get me through – a ladies only fishing tournament. My children are going to stay with my parents (thank you parents) for a few days and I’m really going to live it up with some great ladies and maybe catch a marlin while I’m at it. I will pour one out for Ash. I will celebrate our marriage. And I will also curse him the fuck out for leaving me way too soon.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

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In the interest of keeping things real (because that’s how I roll), this morning was not great. It never fails, every time I write something regarding strength and happiness and moving forward, something happens that totally negates everything I think I believe. And it’s not that I don’t think I’m strong or that I’m not moving forward. Because I am. But without fail, once I put it in writing, something smacks me in the face (like memories and all the ways that I’m potentially failing my children) that says whoa bitch, calm the fuck down, you have nothing figured out. I guess that’s the nature of losing your spouse maybe.

I woke up this morning thinking I should make my children breakfast. (Not that I don’t feed them breakfast regularly – like cereal or grits or something equally lacking in effort on my part – they do get fed. If you’ve seen them, you know that. Well, it looks like Colt doesn’t really eat – he’s long and lean – but I promise he eats more than Jack and I combined – kind of like his father.) Anyway, back to the point, if I have one. I woke up, laid in bed for while contemplating making bacon and eggs and pancakes. I got out of bed and made my coffee and talked myself right out of making breakfast, drank said coffee, then asked the boys if they wanted me to make them breakfast. Emphatic yeses (is that a word??) all the way around – you know, all 2 of them.

And it hit me. I have not actually made breakfast since Ash died. So as I’m frying up the bacon, I lose my shit. Food (and eating) was one of the most important things is Ash’s life, which I get sounds weird. But that man LOVED to eat. And eat he did. Seriously, he ate like he weighed about 507 pounds. But he didn’t. He was little. He just had that metabolism that burned up everything as soon as it entered his body. He was kind of an asshole that way. Unlike me that looks at a French fry and gains 3 pounds.

So, I’m making the bacon (hey oh!), crying my eyes out, trying to figure out what in the actual hell is my problem. Breakfast is not a big deal. But today it was. Because when you become a widow with 2 young children, everything becomes your job. EVERYTHING. (Obviously) The messes. The meals. The injuries. The sports. The school. The chores. The tantrums. The really good things. The really bad things. When shit goes wrong in our house. When shit goes wrong in our other houses. I had to fix an electrical problem this morning. Do you know what I know about electrical problems? Apparently one thing that actually worked. Today anyway. Hell, I even started cutting grass this week. (Side note – I suck at cutting grass. I managed to make both mowers – riding and pushing – stop working. I missed several spots. I ran into the garage and knocked off the garage door censor. I left the gate open and lost my dogs for a bit. I burnt my neck on the cord thingy on the push mower because I thought if I just pulled it harder, certainly it would start. And I pulled it right into my neck. I was not good at mowing grass. But I did it. And the lawn looks mediocre at best (and that’s being generous). But still, I did it.)

I used to make breakfast all the time. It was one of Ash’s 3 favorite meals. Ha! But once he left us, I never brought myself to do it. I didn’t think the boys cared. They never asked for a home cooked breakfast. I make them lunch. I make them dinner. I just gave up on breakfast. But today you would have thought I hung the fucking moon. They were so grateful and happy. They hugged me. They thanked me for the “best breakfast ever”. There were I love you’s all around. And it was just pancakes and bacon. Nothing complicated. Something I used to make all the time.

It’s strange, the things that change when you lose someone you love. I promised the boys that I wouldn’t wait another 10 months before I made them breakfast again. And they were happy with that.

There were also so many memories swirling in my head for the rest of the day. Ash and I fought. A lot. Especially for the first 5-7 years of marriage or so. It took us a long time to adapt and accept all the things that we could not change about each other. So not all the memories swirling in my head today were good. But some were. And I just miss him.

I just started watching Yellowstone. And it’s good. But Ash would have loved it. It would have been a show that we got sucked into together, staying up entirely too late, bingeing as many episodes as we could until one of us (usually me) couldn’t make it any longer. But he’s not here to watch it with me. And today, it hurts. Which I know is normal. It would be weird if it didn’t hurt. I also realize I’m talking in circles but sometimes I talk in circles.

Hug your people. Tell them you love them. You never know what’s coming in the chapters ahead.