#tbt

A couple of weeks ago, Ellie (my sister) found these photos from Christmas 2008 and showed them to me.  I had never seen them before. 

Sawan and Arthur

Sawan and I with our Christmas cracker hats on

Ellie says she was trying out her new iphone and took this picture before he left for work.  It was his contact photo in her phone. 

After looking through them that night, I had a dream about Sawan, which has seriously only happened about four times (isn’t that strange?).  It was just a normal day, we were back in our old condo and he was making me dinner, which is pretty much how life always was.  His back was to me almost the whole time, and in random dream world he was making a salad but then he was trying to put it all on a pita, not in a “hey this will make a great wrap” sort of way, but just in a “this makes absolutely no sense because it’s in random dream world” way.  He put raw onions on it, which he realized too late and was annoyed about because then he knew I wouldn’t want to eat it (I hate raw onions).  And then I woke up.  I never touched him, didn’t get to tell him I loved him, how much I miss him.  It was truly disappointing.  Especially for it only being the fourth time in six years that I have had a late night rendezvous with my dead husband.

There was also this one.  Because, you know, safety first.

So long, 2015 (don't let the door hit'cha...)

What a crazy year 2015 was.

By seasons, it was a rough winter, followed by springtime of conflict, one of my darkest summers on record, and a fall that was beautiful but also painful in a different way.  As the year moved on toward colder weather again, I found myself loving winter in a way that I never have before.  I need the cold to seal everything up and let dormant things lie, so that there can be new life.

But, amid the dark stuff, there was light.  Here’s are some of the major happenings:

I got a Fitbit.  I got it in March, and gradually became obsessed with it. By May my crazy was full blown.  Picture me doing laps inside my house getting steps.  The neighbors see me walk by and call out, “Getting your steps?”  Pacing the floor in a quiet moment, causing my friends to say, “What are you doing?” I went from the second week of May through the beginning of September without missing my 10,000-step count goal (When you reach your goal, the Fitbit vibrates.  I call it “Party on my wrist.” It now comes with a dance, as well.).  A combination of it getting more difficult to walk outside and a three-week separation from it in November allowed me to release myself (I have a problem with letting things go once I’ve set a goal).  I still average 9K, but it’s not like the 12K I was getting in July.  Let it go, Noel.  *deep breath* But, summer 2015 will always be the Summer of the Fitbit.  All of my Denver family had one, and we would compete against each other and our Australia family.  My sister would stop by just because she was going out to get steps and she wanted company.  We would all be together and find the furthest parking spot away so that we could all increase our steps.  It was such fun. 

From a Fitbit walk this summer.  Sun setting, perfect weather, and a field full of dandelions.  I hate them in my own yard, but at the park, it was so dreamy, all I could think was, "That's a lot of wishes."

From an amazing encounter with author of the Shack, Paul Young.  

That leads to another great thing about 2015.  I began to “read” again.  Well, sort of.  You see, I used to be a big reader.  I would read one or two books a month.  When I was a kid, I actually got grounded from reading more than once.  I would be reading when I was supposed to be doing other things, like chores, or sleeping.  After Sawan died, however, I had to stop.  I couldn’t read as quickly as I had before, and my comprehension had gone down the tubes.  Reading provided only frustration where it used to bring joy, so I gave it up for awhile.  There have been a few books that I’ve struggled through in the last six years, but it was just that, a struggle.  I have a friend that is an occupational therapist that suggested I try doing two things at once, like reading and swinging, or reading on my elliptical.  That would employ both sides of my brain and therefore help me to remember.  But, I found an even better solution, using her suggestion of two things at once.  Audiobooks.  I listen while I’m getting my steps (or walking, if you want), or driving, or working in the yard, or in the tub, or doing the dishes.  It’s employing both sides of my brain but I’m still being productive.  I “read” 17 books this year.  Plus, I’m old school reading (actual books with paper and words) three more right now, but that takes me forever.

August is always a hard month for me; the majority of my "hard days" fall in August.  I really keep thinking that it’s going to get easier, but man, this one was tough.  I told my mom one day that the only thing I wanted to do was smoke and work out.  A bit counter-productive, I know, but I allowed myself some grace in the cigarette department (I technically quit November 2014) and gained some muscle at Orange Theory.

Which brings me to my very favorite thing from 2015.  Orange Theory Fitness.  Orange Theory is a HIIT workout that kicks my butt every time, but is completely enjoyable.  When I tell my friends about it, some of them say they never want to do it, and some of them have come with me.  Either way, I am addicted to the endorphins and have injured myself more than once from trying to go too often. I think it probably saved my life this summer and so I’m incredibly thankful for it.

I started a new job in September staging real estate.  I work staging on the days that I’m not doing hair.  Well, to be fair, I only worked a handful of days last fall and then things totally slowed down around the holidays, so I had plenty of time for the busy season at the salon.  A really gifted friend is training me, and I love every minute of it.  It’s totally energizing in a whole new way.

I began to use Arthur (my service dog) less and less this fall; it just felt like it was time, because I’m doing so much better than I was when I first started using him.  I just don’t need him as much as I used to.  He and I are stumbling a bit through the transition of him not having to work all the time, but still being a good boy when I need him to work.  I think he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why I’m leaving him.  And, I miss him.  I don’t miss all of the questions or the attention that we got, though.  Anyway, we’re getting it figured out.

Arthur with his birthday cone

freezing his paws off.  not a fan of the boots.

September in Santa Fe

My parents moved away this fall.  My dad started a new job in October, so he headed north then, and my mom came and went throughout the fall working on finding their new house and getting the old house ready to go.  They left for good right after Thanksgiving. I went up there for Christmas (BTW, spending time in the town where I went to high school and have rarely been since was surreal), so I haven’t really felt their absence until this week.  It pretty much sucks.

Sprinkle in there a few bad dates, a few good dates (but none with a permanent solution to my single-girl woes), some awesome time deepening old friendships and making new ones, another season watching the Rockies lose, and you pretty much have my year.  For the most part I feel like 2015 can suck it.  I’m not sad to see it go.

old friends. (Or friends for a long time.  We're NOT old.)

(relatively) new friends.

I’m excited to see what 2016 will bring. 

My dear readers, my Readership of Tens, thank you for reading my words.  Thanks for your comments and words of encouragement.  Especially you widows…we got this!  We’re in it together.  Thanks for another year.

 

Christmas in Montana

Complete (A Mother's Day Post for the Child-less)

Today is Mother’s Day.  It’s one of my Hard Days, as I call them.  One of the days where my face randomly leaks at any given point.

I’m pretty sure I’ve told you guys this, but I feel like I got “this close” to being a mother before Sawan died.  I was ready to try for a baby a long time before he was, and it took a lot of “discussing” to get him on the same page, but, literally two weeks before he died, we had this amazing conversation and we decided that we would start trying as soon as we got the salon sold.  The closing date for the salon was September 1, and he died on August 24, so I never got the chance.  I have people that ask me, when they find out that I’m a young widow, if I have children, and when I respond “no” they say that I’m lucky.  I want to punch them in the face.  I feel like I lost my husband, but I lost my babies, too.

It’s a complicated thing, this being 36 years old and childless.  I (except for a brief period in my self-centered twenties) always wanted to be a mom.  I was one of those little girls that carried around a baby doll everywhere I went.  I know that I’m not the only woman that is constantly feeling that it’s almost too late (or maybe it already is and I don’t even know) to be a mother.  The pressure that that puts on relationships is ridiculous.  The pressure that it puts on me to be in a relationship is enormous.  I just stayed in one way too long and one of the main reasons was that I thought it might be my last chance to have a family. 

Here’s what’s strange about that.  When Sawan and I were dating, I was (and still am) this super strong, stubborn, independent woman.  I made a big deal about not needing him to come and rescue me.  I think that somewhere in the beginning of our relationship we watched Jerry McGuire on TV and we talked about how neither of us needed the other one to “complete” us.  Gag me.  I don’t buy into that line of thinking in relationships.  He was a soul mate, for sure, and I loved him with every part of my being, and when I lost him I felt like I had lost part of myself, but he didn’t complete me. After we were married, though, I think I somehow bought in to the world’s idea of what a woman should want and be.  I read all of the sappy quotes about how you’ll never know true love until you have a child.  I thought I needed a child to know how to really love.  I thought I needed a child to complete me.

It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally come to the realization that that way of thinking is so wrong.  You know, this may be “it” for my life, and that’s ok.  I guess I’ve just realized that for now, I’m as complete a person as I’m supposed to be.  I’m as complete a “lover” as I’m supposed to be (at least at this moment).  If I was

supposed to know how to love like a mother, then I would be a mother.

Don’t get me wrong.  It is my heart’s deepest desire to find another love, to have again the kind of man that I can imagine being on a team with for the rest of my life.  And then, to get to have a little person grow inside me, to get to hold a tiny baby that has half my DNA, to get to teach them all about life, to hear someone call me “Mommy.”  I hardly ever spend much time thinking about it because it hurts so bad knowing the dream may never come true.

I think that there are lots of women out there who feel similarly to me, who, for whatever reason, have not had life turn out the way that they thought it would.  If you’re one of those women and you’re reading this, to you I say, “Don’t buy into it!  You’re a whole person just as you are!”

And, who knows?  I may still get to be a mom.  All of those dreams could still come true.  But if not (or until then), I’m going to practice being the best lover of people that I can possibly be.  I’m going to love with all of the love I know how to love with.

On this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about how I get to love on my siblings’ and cousins’ and friends’ kiddos.  I get to be “Auntie” and “Tia” and, sometimes just “Noey” (it’s awesome when I get to be “Noey” and the kids have to call all the other adults a formal “Miss So-and-So”).  I get to be a daughter to an awesome, still living Mom, whom I actually really like (and got to spend Mother’s Day with today, don’t think I don’t appreciate how special that is).

I don’t need a child to complete me.  I’m whole and complete, just as I am.  (It sure would be nice, though.)

2012: Some of the Milestones

2012 was a pretty amazing year for me.  I almost said that it was a year of healing…but that implies that I healed more in 2012 than I did in the previous years and I don’t think that that’s true.  I think I just finally got to a point where the slow and steady pace of healing that I’ve been going for the last three years felt like I had actually gotten to a place where I could enjoy life again.  So, here’s a little look back at the milestones.

It feels a bit like I should do it by comparison- so let’s compare 2011 and 2012!

Number of first dates I went on in 2011: Two.

Number of second dates I went on in 2011: Zero.

Number of first dates I went on in 2012: Two.

Number of second dates I went on in 2012: ONE!

Then I went on a third date and a fourth…and had a relationship that lasted a few months.  It ended, but it ended as well as can be expected and I am so thankful for the things that I learned.  I’m so thankful for the man that he was and the kindness that he showed me as we were dating.  I ended up feeling like he was a great man, just not the right one for me, and so it ended at the end of October, but it was a huge blessing and I have no regrets.

Number of plane rides Arthur got to go on in 2011: Zero.

Number of plane rides Arthur got to go on in 2012: Two.

Number of parking tickets in front of my house in 2011: A Million.

Number of parking tickets in front of my house in 2012: Zero.  They give parking tickets for street sweeping on the first Tuesday of every month, April-November.  I set a reminder in my phone this year and beat The Man.  *Fist pump*

Number of writing classes I took in 2011: Zero.

Number of writing classes I took in 2012: Two.

I got a solid start to my memoir and I’m really thankful for the friendships that I made there.  I feel really good about the way the book is going and I’m so thankful that I did it and for the community that I’ve found there (one new friendship in particular…such a blessing!).  As a result, I read a ton of memoir, and the best book I read this year was Wild, by Cheryl Strayed.  It was one of those books that halfway through I started being bummed about how many pages I had left and really trying to savor it, trying to time where I would be when I read the last pages.  It was so good.

Number of tattoos I had on my body in 2011: Zero.

Number of tattoos I have on my body in 2012: ONE!  (And I love it and might get another one.  Don’t tell my Dad.)

Number of rooms that still had boxes in the Pink House in 2011: Three.

Number of rooms that still have boxes in the Pink House in 2012: One.  That’s my New Year’s Resolution.  Organize and finally move in to the office (and get this number down to zero).  Boo.

Number of bodies living in the Pink House in 2011: Two.

Number of bodies living in the Pink House in 2012: Three! 

Arthur and I asked Chrissy to move in and she came to join the Pink House family in August.  She is a huge blessing and we love having her here.

As I look back at 2012 I think about all of the major things that happened.  New friendships were formed.  Old ones were strengthened.  Lots of my close girlfriends had babies.  Some in my group experienced great loss.  In my family this year, a sibling moved here, we enjoyed a brief time of having all of the siblings living in one city, and then a sibling moved (to Australia, no less!) and we’re flung all over the globe again.  But it sure was a treat for that few minutes.  I also lost twenty pounds in the spring, which has done great things for my psyche (it’s pretty great to look in the mirror and like what I see).  Mostly this year I realized that I could be happy again.  I’m not always happy, but I find myself saying that sometimes (“I’m happy.”), and it is delightful.

This has been a rough month, but a pretty amazing year.  I keep hearing the Counting Crows song in my head, “It’s been a long December and there’s reason to believe, maybe this year will be better than the last.”  I said that at the end of 2011 with great hope for 2012, and I say it again with great hope for 2013. 

Thank you to all of you who have been on this journey with me.  For caring to read the words that I write and for loving me through all of this.

Xo

Noel (and Arthur)

Wishing you...

A Merry Christmas!

December 24, 2012

With Love,

Noel and Arthur

A fun Christmas Project!

I thought we could use a fun post on here, so here’s a fun thing that I’ve been doing:

About a year ago I bought a sewing machine.  Since I hadn’t used a sewing machine since Home Ec in eighth grade (thanks for everything, Mrs. Stolberg), I got intimidated by, um, loading the bobbin, so I put it in the closet (isn't that where all scary things live?) and decided I would take a class before I faced it.

I looked into classes but never got around to taking one.  Well.  My roommate, Chrissy, happens to be a crafty little minx and she helped me get it out and get the bobbins loaded and get the thing threaded.  Then she helped me figure out what I was doing wrong when I made a few novice errors.  And she was only a little bossy.

I started with a dishtowel project I had pinned on Pinterest (that particular “pin” was actually the deciding factor in me buying the machine in the first place).  It’s actually the only thing I’ve made so far, but I’ve made a few of them and they’re super fun.  I’ve even ironed (you have to when you sew, and I’m a seamstress now.  I sew.).  One of my favorite things about doing this was that it was creative, but it also made me feel so woman-ish.  It made me think of all of the women in my life that had helped teach me to sew and had sewn things for me to wear growing up (like Aunt Neecee, and my Granny, and Aunt Cindy, and Fran Collie, to name a few) and I felt like I was joining in their ranks in some small way.  I had a great time!

Here are the photos.  All I did was buy dishtowels at Target and then I sewed on strips of decorative fabric (this is my first one, with a Christmas theme) and then a little rickrack (well, one little rickrack and one HUGE rickrack) to make it extra cute.  Easy.  I think after I get a little more experience I’ll laugh at the fact that this one took me about two hours.  I mostly think it’s the ironing that takes me so long (guess I should practice that, too).

Sewing.  And I have a Sonic Coke Zero with Vanilla.  Always.

Finished with the Polka Dot part.  I'm pretty proud!  I sewed!

The finished product.

A Whole New Kind of Heartbreak

When I was new to this widowhood thing, I kept hearing stories about a childhood friend of a friend who had been widowed in a very similar way to me.  Sawan had died in late August and this woman was widowed in November.  Her husband was the same age as Sawan (40) and was super healthy.  In fact, her husband collapsed while on a run, happened to be in front of an emergency room, and they were unable to save him.  It turned out to be blockages in his arteries, which was also a contributing factor with Sawan’s death.  There were so many similarities in our stories, and I was longing for fellowship with someone who could understand me, that I really wanted to meet her.  She eventually moved to Denver and when we finally met, it was one of those meetings that can scarcely be explained.  Her brother told me, “Noel, I’d like you to meet my sister,” and she and I, after hearing about each other for so long, but never actually laying eyes on each other, just fell into an embrace and sobbed in each other’s arms, without even saying a “Nice to meet you.”  At last, here was someone who “got it.”

She and I have become friends over the years since then.  Our stories are similar and yet very different, as is always the case with widows and grief.  We relate to a lot and then struggle with it in our own unique ways.  She is a delight to me and it is always just so good to be with her.  To get her different perspective.  To have someone who can somewhat relate. 

We both have busy lives; she and her husband had four children.  Our time is mostly spent talking about widowness.  It's girl time.  Our last visit was about a week and a half ago; we just met for coffee and chatted, as we always do, about how we’re coping, about how we make sense of all of this.

And then, two days later, her oldest son died.  He was 14. 

My heart is broken in a whole new way.  I think, for the first time, I’m getting a glimpse of what it must have been like to be the people that loved me when I went through those early days after Sawan’s death.  To want to do something, anything, to make it just a little better, knowing that there’s really nothing you can do.  It feels so helpless.  I don’t know what to do or say.  I want to hold her and protect her.  I want to do it for her.

And then there are the things that it stirs up in me and my own grief, as well.  I know that neither of these options are truly logical, but I find myself thinking that as a widow one of theses scenarios is true:  Either I’m completely exempt from more pain, I’ve seen the worst and nothing bad can happen to me again, or I’m one of the people that all of the bad things happens to and everyone else gets to lead a charmed life.  As this has happened to another widow I can’t help but live in great fear that the second is true and I’m doomed.  Doomed to a life of pain.  Doomed to bring pain to everyone around me that I come into contact with.  I feel a great sense of responsibility in this, as well (“Ok, as one of the doomed ones, I should never love again, it’s not fair to them, they’ll only die young because of it”).  C.S. Lewis wrote that he never new that grief would feel so much like fear, and I’m really getting that this week.  I’m constantly reminding myself that, “True love casts out all fear.”  It’s hard in these situations to live in that reality, but I know, logically, that neither of those two options is true.  I’m neither doomed nor exempt.  Death is a part of life and we can’t try to explain the “whys” to ourselves.

So this has been a dark week.

With the holidays upon us, I think of her and her family.  I think of their celebration and how different it will look, and how painful it will be.  And then I think of the way she addressed it in her speech at the funeral and feel that this is the hope for me, as well…Why would we not celebrate?  We, the grieving, more than anyone else, have something to celebrate because of all that it means for us.  Unto us a Savior is born.

Happy Birthday, America!

The Fourth of July has long been one of my favorite holidays.  You don’t have to buy presents for it, so it hasn’t become disgustingly commercial.  It isn’t a high-pressure holiday.  It’s mostly about getting together and hanging out, with an undercurrent of patriotism.  I kind of love that.

The only time that I generally get “widow sad” on the 4th is at night with the big fireworks.  This year, with all of the wildfires in Colorado, nearly everyone had cancelled their shows, so I didn’t even have to worry about that!

Ellie and I (the Aunts, who both live in Denver), got up early, fortified ourselves with Starbucks, and made the trek down to the suburbs to watch both sets of nephews and nieces in their individual annual neighborhood Fourth of July Parades.  They decorate their bikes.  In one, the fire department came.  There was patriotic music.  They threw candy.  It was major cute-ness.  It gave me such a sense of Americana.

Parade One, with decorated bikes!

Cutest Spectators Ever! (If I do say so myself)

Parade Two! (Mine is second from the left)

Then, in the afternoon/evening we had a party at the Pink House.  I love hosting.  I love decorating my cute little house.  I love having laughter filling my rooms.  I love making memories there.

I did this flower arrangement myself!

The littlests, both eating JUST ENOUGH dinner to earn ice cream.

NOT a good photo of any of these guys, but the only way that even remotely shows how hilariously crammed in we were with16 people on my front porch.

The biggests, looking like men, lounging in the front yard.

I'd say we know how to celebrate America's Birthday!

The Baby of My Dreams

This has been a hard few days.  I’ve really been grieving.  Not only the loss of my husband, but also the life that we had planned.

The summer before Sawan died, I was working on getting in shape, trying to get my body prepared for a pregnancy.  I had quit smoking that March, and was walking up to five miles a day, trying to take off the “quitting smoking” weight and also, I just wanted to be in the best athletic shape possible when I got pregnant.

I was emotionally ready to get pregnant that spring, but Sawan had been slightly dragging his feet about it. We had been planning, but he wasn’t quite ready for me to “pull the goalie” in terms of birth control.  I (somewhat) patiently spent the summer talking him into it.

I was too stressed at work, so we decided to try to sell the salon.  By the end of July, miraculously, we were under contract.  It was going to be perfect.  We were going to be out of debt and I was going to stay working there as a contractor with a flexible schedule.

Sawan had been unemployed, but had decided on a new career, and was in real-estate school, which was only a three week ordeal, and he would have flexible hours which would allow for fishing and helping out with a baby.  Everything was falling into place.

So during what I was calling our “Enchanted Summer,” where he had all kinds of time, being unemployed, we walked.  It was the first time in our marriage that he had been home every night, since he had always worked in restaurants.  We walked all over the nearby neighborhoods.  We found a little neighborhood restaurant with an amazing greek salad and walked there a few times a week.  And we talked.  We talked and talked and talked. 

We talked about our family.  We chose names.

If he was a boy, he would be Wyatt.  Either Wyatt Gabriel or Wyatt Jerry, the middle name being after my brother or my dad.  We called him our little cowboy.  Wyatt Nail.

If she was a girl, she would be Yelena.  It was always my favorite Russian name, I loved the way it rolled off your tongue, and it’s the Russian form of Helen, his mother’s name.  She would be Yelena Leslie, her middle name after my mom.  We would call her Lane.

One night that summer, after walking past hundreds of clean, neatly manicured, perfect yards, there was one that was utterly cluttered with toys, and the stoop had a half eaten happy meal strewn all over it.  It was so out of place and comical.  Clearly the kid had had a busy day, and no one had gotten to it yet.  Sawan tried out our name.  “Wyatt, get out here and clean up your toys!” he mock-yelled.  Yep.  That name will work.

The baby thing had begun to feel so real.  We had named it.

During the first few days in August, I came home from a trip and we had a major conversation about having a baby.  But this time was different.  It started out as an argument about something else, but then it totally changed.  I wasn’t convincing.  I wasn’t begging.  I wasn’t trying to manipulate.  We just talked it through.  And in the end, he said, “Let’s start trying September 1.”  I made a bunch of phone calls, to make sure my health insurance covered maternity, to the doctor to see about the birth control reversal.  My dreams were just within my grasp.

But Sawan died on August 24.  In a lot of ways I feel like I lost Sawan, but I lost Lane and Wyatt, too.

I think that’s why Mother’s Day is especially hard. 

This year, I decided that I needed to do something.  I had thought about going up to the place where we had buried one of Sawan’s fly rods, and doing a little memorial for the baby of my dreams, too, but then I wouldn’t be able to see it often.

So instead, I bought rose bushes, to go in my front garden.  I’ll get to see them everyday, and I think their flowers will cheer me up.

One of the two pink climbing rose bushes

Mom's House

This is my first chance today to post this, but I had been planning for months, since I wrote it in my writing class (about a place that we’re nostalgic about), to put this up on Mother’s Day. 

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  You’re the Best Mom ever.

Mom’s House

There is nothing like my mom’s house.

I’m thirty-three years old.  When I’m sick, I still just want my mom.  Why is this?

There is something about her house.  There’s something about the way that her laundry smells.  Even though I buy the same laundry soap, it smells fresher and cleaner at her house.  It’s not just lavender, or fresh breeze; it’s somehow magically always the same smell regardless of what kind of detergent she buys.  It’s the smell of her, like summer, and childhood, and comfort and softness and sweetness all rolled into one.  The sheets are better.  They’re softer.  They feel like a feather brushing your cheek.     How is it that my mom magically gets softer laundry than the rest of us?  Is it that she really uses vintage sheets on her bed, that have been washed so many times, and the pillow cases (pronounced “pill-uh” in this household, the way Okies have said it for generations; every time I hear her say it I can see the old tintype photo of my great grandmother) touched by so many cheeks, from wrinkled, to fresh and new-born still needing fluffing, or is it that she buys a high thread count and they would be soft on anyone’s bed?

The TV is strangely better at mom’s house.  The remote control is a magic wand, a transporter into a different world.  There are better movies at mom’s house.  How is this possible when I have the same cable package that she does? 

Is it her generosity?  Is it that she will go to the store and get you anything you will eat or drink when you’re sick?  She offers sprite.  When you’re sick, that’s what you drink.  It’s always better with a straw, and the bendy kind is even better.  At mom’s house there’s always a bendy straw, just like there were when you were little.  It makes drinking at the bedside easier, but it also brings comfort in the nostalgia.  Plus, somehow everything tastes better with ice and a straw, the chinking in the glass like a time machine back to days when mom could make everything better.

Is it the way that she touches your forehead?  The way that she intuitively knows whether or not you have a fever, like she has a built in thermometer in her fingertips?  Is it her offer of a cool, wet washcloth for your forehead?  On a fevered brow, the washcloth, wet simply from the bathroom tap, feels icy, like the only exposed area on a blustery winter day when you’re all bundled up and only your eyes are uncovered.

I think maybe it’s not mom’s house at all, but the love felt there.  The fact that she loved us so well then, that she loves us so well now.  What is it about mom’s house that’s so amazing?  Well, clearly it’s that mom is there.

Three out of four...

My last Valentines Day with Sawan, I got up earlier than him for work.  I kept waiting for him to rouse from the bed, to wake up and kiss me, to tell me Happy Valentines Day, to maybe get up and make coffee while I was in the shower, but he never did.  Our plans for the day were not really to celebrate, I had to work, then he had to work that night, we weren’t even going to see each other at all.  So when he made no move to acknowledge me at all, before I left for work I picked a huge fight.

In my grief I spend a lot of time thinking about things I would have done differently.  I feel a lot of guilt and I beat myself up about things that I made a big deal about, that, if I had known how it was all going to work out, I wouldn’t have cared about.  I wonder sometimes if Valentines Day is one of them.  If I had known, would it have mattered?  Probably not.  We’ll never know. 

The thing is, I didn’t know.  And at the time, it did matter.  He did hurt me.  I’m not sure why I’m using myself as a punching bag over this.

I read a quote recently that said something like “You can’t judge a relationship by the last conversation.  Relationship is the sum of all of the conversations,” and then I was reminded of the same thing by a friend today, that I can’t focus on one fight…my relationship was about all of the fights and all of the make-ups.

So I’m choosing.  I’m choosing to remember the good parts, and choosing not to beat myself up.  I’m remembering the other Valentines Days.  The one where we left the “fancy” restaurant because it was a Prix Fixe menu with nothing that I would eat (sweet meats…gross) in our nice clothes and went to Benny’s (hole-in-the-wall Mexican Food) because they had chicken tacos on their menu that I knew I would love.  The one where we made crab legs and ate it in the living room at his old apartment, with newspaper for a tablecloth.  And then there’s the one where I agreed to be his wife.  Really, three out of four aint bad.

Suck it in.

Anyone ever wear Spanx?

Holy Cow, I had my first experience with them the other night.

I was invited to a friend’s fancy Christmas party (at the Art Museum…cool, right?) so I went to my closet and found that I had gotten rid of every cocktail dress that I had ever owned.  Hmm.  No problem.  I have a black belt in shopping.  Actually, it’s more like my super power.  I had exactly one evening to get my shopping done.  Evil voice…“Ha, ha, ha, I laugh in the face of one stop shopping!”

 I headed to Nordstrom Rack.  I found a dress and shoes in record time, but their hosiery department was sadly lacking.  So, looking around, the only pair of black tights/hose that they had were made by Spanx.  I had heard of these, but had never actually owned a pair.  I thought they were more of a fat girl thing.  Well, that’s not what I mean.  I mean a “fatter than me” girl thing.  But, lacking options, and not wanting to make another stop, I bought them. 

Saturday night rolls around and it took me about 20 minutes to get those suckers on.  I broke a sweat.  They came up to, ahem, about my bra line, they were so high waisted.  But, wow, did I look skinny.  I must admit:  I’m in love.

Here’s where it get’s really good: (and, Hi, Dad, if you would please stop reading here) there’s a nifty little “naughty girl hole” in the crotch.  Presumably so that you don’t have to pull them down and do a full-on Gillian Michaels-style circuit every time you have to go tinkle.  I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so every time I went to the bathroom it made me laugh out loud.  I’m in the stall of the bathrooms in the Denver Art Museum, by myself, laughing out loud and short of breath from my tights work out.  What can I say?  I’m classy.  Having shared this with a few girlfriends, apparently it takes a ballet-style “plie” but then it works like a charm.

Awesome.

Did I just over-share?

After my tutorial from my girlfriends, I’ll definitely be braver next time.  This way I won’t have to avoid eye contact when I leave the stall.  Other than that, I highly recommend them.

A little bit of silver lining

I pretty much never liked my birthday. 

As a kid, most of my friends had summer birthdays; so I always wanted to do something warm-weatherish for my birthday, like go to the waterslide, which is just not really possible in January unless you’re trying to join the polar bear club.

As an adult, I’d say that it’s more about the time of year.  January 3 is a rough day for a birthday, it’s hard to get people to want to party (people are burnt out from Christmas and New Years).

Plus, birthdays for me have always been a day to take stock of your life.  I’m so goal oriented.  I seldom am satisfied with what I’ve accomplished.  I’m extremely hard on myself.  So, every year on my birthday I would be sluggish, discouraged, thinking about how life hadn’t turned out the way that I thought that it would, beating myself up for not having accomplished what I’d planned for myself.

As a widow, the dark stuff spills onto almost every day of my life.  I’m faced daily with the idea that nothing is in my control.  I daily recognize that life hasn’t turned out the way that I thought it would, the way that I had planned.  In some ways, this has freed me up to not torture myself.  It’s not my fault, I did all I could.  But it’s still disappointing.  This is not the life that I dreamed of.

All of that lead-up is to say this:  widowhood has totally redeemed my birthday.  I don’t dwell on the fact that this isn’t the life that I was planning.  I have that thought every day, anyway.  I’ve already gotten used to it.  So, now, on my birthday, I can just think about all of the people that love me. People wrote me amazing notes on Facebook and via text and email.  My friends all got together and we bowled and played pool and had cupcakes and I received flowers and thoughtful cards and gifts, and there were people there, just telling me that they were glad that I was born. I feel so loved and cared for.  I can focus on that and have a kick-ass time. 

I love my birthday!  Thank God some things have gotten easier as a widow.

Bowling!

NO WAY could I blow out all the candles.  Doomed.

(some of the) Friends!

Pinball!  (my favorite)