Bitter and Sweet

My husband died two years and seven months ago.  We were only married for two years and two months, and didn’t live together before the wedding.  So that means that I’ve spent more nights as a widow than I ever did as a married woman.  I’ve spent more nights alone than I ever did with my husband.

My mind has gotten used to the fact that I wake up without him. 

But sometimes, in the fuzzy haze that happens between waking and sleeping, my body forgets.  My leg reaches over to hook itself around his.  It wants to slide up beside him, rest my cheek against the cool skin of his shoulder.

When my leg finds nothing but an expanse of cold sheets, my body and mind finally communicate with each other.  This is not a fun way to start the day.

But, for the first time, I’m beginning to enjoy the sweetness of remembering what it felt like to be with him, not only the sadness that he’s no longer here.

A New Happy List

It’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these, but here is what is making me happy today:

*The light-up feature on my car’s speedometer had been broken, so at night I couldn’t tell how fast I was going.  Before I got it in to the shop, it spontaneously healed itself. 

*I’m very excited about my mostly green kitchen (I’m about to go downstairs and wail on that thing, get it entirely green).

*Arthur has been especially snuggly and sweet this morning.

*I took an ambien before bed last night, then came upstairs and looked at Pinterest (Facebook is entirely off-limits after ambien, but I’ve decided Pinterest won’t hurt anything, I’m not trying to say anything clever).  This morning it was a pleasant (and complete) surprise to see what I had pinned!

Hope your day is starting off well, too!

Kitchen Makeover, Part One

My brother pulled into town last Monday, and that night he immediately asked me if there were things at my house that needed to be done.  I have a little list on my fridge of things that I can’t do at all or can’t do by myself, so my eyes lit up.  The number one priority has been my back gate, the latch was broken and I couldn’t close it.  It needed to be replaced.  He told me he’d take care of it. 

When he came by on Friday to look at it, he said it would just take him a minute, but he noticed my paint chips in my kitchen that have been sitting in my window sill for months.  He and his wife gave their opinion on what color I should choose, and Gabe said, “Let’s do it this weekend.  We’ll get the paint while we’re at Home Depot.”  Yes, please! 

So, off to Home Depot we went, we got all of the stuff to paint (and fix the gate), and take down the hideous light fixture that was in there, they wouldn’t let me pay for it, and we headed home to start.  They started the prep while I went to an appointment (I wasn’t even there!).  I’m so excited!  I feel so cared for.

When I came home from work on Saturday they were there working on it, along with our friend Jeff, and I found out that it had been even more of a project then I had originally thought.  There were so many holes to patch it was ridiculous!

We worked on primer on Saturday, then headed to the Hoggstead (mom and dad’s house) for Irish car bombs.  It was St Patrick’s Day, after all.

On Sunday we got the primer finished, and most of the green done.  Yep, I chose green.  It’s so bright and cheerful, and I need that in my life.

I’m working on finding the silver lining where I can these days.  Sawan would never have let me paint the kitchen green.  He would have seen the paint chips and said, “My baby loves her bright colors.”  We would have probably worked out some sort of compromise, but he pretty much only liked a color if it could be found in a Starbucks cup.  Any shade from iced latte to espresso would work, but it had to be some sort of earthy brown for him to like it.  So, since he can’t be here, I get to choose myself.  That’s kind of fun.

I’ll post more photos when we get it all finished, but for now, here’s some photos of the progress.

Here's the before:

Wow, I have a lot of crap on my counters.  Also, notice the ugly light fixture.

It's an expanse of white.

I wish you could tell how dirty the walls were, but you could see where the previous owner's stuff had been hanging.  Plus, the trim was forrest green.  Barf.

Here's us working on it:

Masha, the painting genius.

Gabe, the motivator, wall repairman, and electrician extraordinaire.

Aparently, when I paint, I think I need to be dressed like a pirate.

This is what the kiddos did the whole weekend.  They watched shows, and tried to keep Arthur from eating their snacks. They were SO GOOD!

And, where we stopped yesterday:

Here's everything but the "cutting in" done.  This is how it still looks.

The beautiful new light fixture.  

Yay, for the Mini Hoggatts and their help!  

Obedient Driver

Today, I was driving on a not very busy street.  I notice a woman take a step just off the curb, so I slow a little bit.  She doesn’t have a hard hat on, or a vest, and there’s no road construction in the area that I can see.  But, she’s holding a stop sign like a road crew would have.  Hmm.  All of this takes a moment to process.

Oh.  Stop sign.  I should be stopping.  Does she mean it?  Why am I stopping?

So I stop.   I have both windows down, enjoying Denver’s 70-degree weather today, and I said to her, cheerfully, “Really?  I should be stopping?”

She snottily says, “Why would I be holding a stop sign if I didn’t want you to stop.” 

I said, “Well, you’re not standing in the road like they normally are, and it was just a little confusing.”

She haughtily explained that she wasn’t standing in the middle of the street because it’s dangerous (the duh was implied), and that’s why she’s lived this long (she was only about 40), then she pointed at the sign as she turned it and said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “Now you can go slowly.”  I still have no idea why.  I thought I might drive up on some road construction, but never did.

I think she was maybe just out there seeing how obedient Denver drivers would be.  The answer is, even when antagonized, very.

Spring Cleaning

It was my plan to get some writing done today, including a blog post.  First on my list, though, was a little spring-cleaning.

I did 10 loads of laundry.  I even put them away (for two weeks I had had three laundry baskets full of clean clothes on my bedroom floor that I kept rifling through for clean underwear).  I started with clothes and then did sheets, and several loads of rugs, blankets, and stuff that doesn’t usually get washed.

I did all of the floors in my house. 

I dusted.

I cleaned both bathrooms, and did this fun project (I read about it on Pinterest): I haven’t been able to get the soap scum off the shower since I moved in.  I was showering next to someone else’s soap scum and I had to do cartwheels in my head every morning so that I didn’t get too sicked out to get in the shower.  The trick I read about was like magic.  Using equal parts white vinegar and blue Dawn dish soap (heated for 1 minute in the microwave) I sprayed it on my shower and let it sit for two hours.  Then I wiped (read that, no scrubbing) it down with a scrubby sponge and rinsed it off.  My tile is clean for the first time in a year.  That’s it.  It. Was. Awesome.  I was thinking about renting a power washer (I'm not kidding) and if that didn't work then I was going to have to have it re-tiled.  It was that bad.

I changed four light bulbs, and successfully broke the upstairs light fixture, making a big mess, but also an excuse to replace it which is good, because it was ugly.  Luckily it was before I did the floors.

I cooked dinner, then opened up a can on my kitchen.  I wiped down every surface.

Then, I gave Arthur a bath, took a shower, put the clean sheets back on my bed, and promptly got in it, even though it was only 7:30.  I’m exhausted.  I’m too tired to write anything more than bragging.

I actually shouldn’t brag…now that you know that I spent hours cleaning you know how disgusting it was beforehand.  Yikes.

Crushed

Yesterday, I did my usual commute.  I drove the five minutes, parked in front of Cameron church, then crossed first Iowa, then Pearl, to walk the third of a block into the shop.  As I did, I passed the usual row of shops and restaurants.

There’s this little place that’s four doors down from the corner, called the Crushery.  I get coffee from there a couple of mornings a week, and food from there at least every Thursday night (they’re not open late on the other days I work).  Their concept is that everything is put in a Panini maker and “crushed,” so they make this salad that they put their own warm croutons on, and it’s like having a salad with a grilled cheese on top.  It might be my favorite food on the planet.  I’ve become such a regular that when I walk in the door in the morning they just start making my coffee, and when I come in for dinner if I forget to order my salad properly then whoever’s making it asks, “Hey, Noel, you don’t like onions, do you?”  It’s like my “Luke’s” from Gilmore Girls.  When Sawan died, they sent me an oak tree, signed from all of my friends at the Crushery, with all of their names.  That's why we planted one in the backyard of my parent's house.  When I went to London the last time, I bought presents for my family, a couple of girlfriends, and magnets with beer-bottle openers for the boys that work at the Crushery.

As I walked by yesterday, I saw a weirdo flyer in their window.  I got a sick feeling in my gut, like something was bad wrong.  The stools were still stacked on the tables, and they should be open already.  I walked up to look at the flyer, and it said that they had CLOSED their business.

I’m unbelievably sad.  These guys were my friends.  I’m sad that their business didn’t work out.  I’m sad that I won’t be able to see them again.  I’m sad that it won’t be a part of my life anymore.  I’m sad that I’ll never eat a number 10 (Tuna salad) with no onions ever again.  I felt so strange, too, because my first thought was that I needed to call Sawan and tell him, we had eaten there so many times together.

And, honestly, I’m a little worried about who’s going to feed me now.

Need to Get Me Some Tail

***Hi, Dad.  This might be a blog you'll want to skip.  Fair warning.***

One of my other widow friends tells me that after awhile, when people began to ask her how she was doing, she would say, “Well, I really need to get laid.  It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, they haven’t changed it, have they?”

Yep, I completely get that.  Never one to shy from talking about sex, my friends and I joke about this regularly.

It’s begun to feel like the whole universe knows about my “needs” as well, and that I’m being teased.

Last week, my bestie had just returned from a trip to LA.  We were doing the "de-brief", and she was telling me about two of her purchases.  One was a new android phone that has the capability to speak into it and it sends a text.  The other was a new set of eyelash extensions (and they look amazing).

Eyelash extensions are the hot new trend in LA.  They’re not just the stick-on kind that your grandmother bought at Walgreens.  You get them permanently adhered to your own eyelashes by an esthetician.  They last for roughly a month.

She was trying to convince me that I needed some extensions of my own (but, some people genetically are tall and skinny, I unfortunately, didn’t get those genes, but I did get my own set of long eyelashes so I don’t need extensions... Dad, if you're still reading this, "Thanks for the eyelashes.").  She texted me a photo of hers.  I replied, “Wow.  Amazing.”  Then she was trying to text me, “Let's figure out who does them (in Denver) and get you some, too.”  Instead, her phone sent this.

Hahahaha!  Even her phone knows I need to get some.