Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Happy Sunshine!

It’s March, folks. 

I have gotten tired of people asking me how I’m doing and responding, “Medium.”

We’ve had a pretty mild winter around these parts, but even with the lack of snow and cold weather, I’ve realized that I really hate winter.  Not only because I hate to be cold, but because I hate the short days.  I hate it that even on a day when it’s noon and sunny outside, you can tell that it’s February out there because the color of the sun is different.  It’s not June sun.  It’s not April sun.  I even love October sun.  But February sun leaves much to be desired with it’s pallor. 

I start feeling gross right around November, get a bit of a reprieve once January hits and I can feel the days elongating just a bit, and then by February every time anyone talks to me I try not to spill my cranky all over them and find myself saying stuff like, “Let’s just move.  How about Mexico?”

But it’s March.  I’m sitting outside at a coffee shop getting some writing done, in short sleeves.  It’s sunny.  It’s March sun, so it’s starting to get a little of it’s lemony glow back.  I know in my heart that March is Denver’s snowiest month, can remember the blizzard that hit on St. Patrick’s day a few years ago where we got six feet of snow, but the end is in sight.  This is the home stretch, and we’re getting some breaks in between.   I feel it in my soul, cheering me up.  It’s a beautiful thing.

I’ve never loved March as much as I love it this year. 


Welcome.  Thank you for coming.  I’ve always wanted to ask you, what are your “Ides?”  I really look forward to your friend, April, but I’m going to enjoy every ounce of you until she gets here.


Arthur, soaking up some rays at Stella's Coffee Shop.

Monday, March 4, 2013

I never have to do that again...

My big resolution for 2013 (or we could call it a “goal,” I don’t really like “resolutions”) was to have no more rooms containing boxes in the Pink House.  After two years, I don’t think that was really too overambitious.

On Friday, my mom came over to help me tackle it, by motivating me to do the last room, the office.

Now, I want to say something in my own defense.  This was no ordinary office.  It contained boxes that hadn’t been unpacked, or even looked at, since the condo.  It contained stuff of Sawan’s that I hadn’t seen, boxes full of emotional landmines.  I needed to open up the file cabinet and box up the old files to be kept for tax purposes for a couple more years, stuff with his handwriting on it, stuff that he had just “stashed.”  After he’s been gone for three and a half years, I finally felt ready to face it, mostly because I could no longer handle my hoarder style filing system and want to move on, so that I can get my taxes done for this year.

I steadily moved through the stuff.  I was prepared for it to be an emotionally taxing day.  I thought I mostly knew what I was going to find. 

There was a basket that we had kept by the door, his sort of “catch-all” full of jewelry, change, pocketknives, his AA chips.  I threw things away that were trash, kept the things that I wanted, and when I finished, I thought, “I never have to do that again.”  I cried, but I mostly felt good about it.

Then, I found our financial planning binder.  In the front pocket was a sweet little note in my handwriting, “Baby, here’s how the monthly payment broke down.  I love you.”  And in his handwriting, the form filled out for his life insurance, which he went as far as to even have the exam for, but never signed the paperwork.  I have never been as angry as I was on Friday.  I sobbed.  I wanted to throw things.  I have been angry about this particular issue a lot in the past three years, but seeing the actual papers made me feel it in such a tangible way.  I guess you could say that it’s a good thing he’s already dead (and, the fact that I’m able to make a joke about it, already, only three days later, means I’m starting to do a little better).

In spite of all of the pain, there were love letters from me that he had kept, and it was so good for me to see, in my own handwriting, how much I loved him.  He was an amazing man.  He was full of flaws, human, like all of us, I guess, but I really loved him.

I only got about 60% of the office completed, but the rest should just be the filing that has not gotten done in the last three years because I was afraid of my filing cabinet.  So, it won’t be emotionally charged and should be tedious but not overly taxing. 

Here’s to no more rooms with boxes in the Pink House!  Hip!  Hip!