Take two

Today's question: Something's shifted. The tone has changed. Do I start over with a new blog, or keep on with this one, even though, as far as I can tell, the funny (such as it was) has fallen out?

One reason to keep this blog is that it's been around for over three years, which is like 30 in internet years. Long enough for me to have become the target of spammers --guess that's some measure of, uh, success. I actually got pissed enough to turn off comments. Since I seem to be a bit of an attention-whore, that's a big deal.

I love knowing there's a teeny little audience out there. Will I post if there's no chance of getting virtual pats on the head in return? Tough one.

One reason to close this blog is the archives. Documentation of three insanely beautiful, agonizing, frustrating, exhilarating years of my life. It's an exquisitely painful reminder of getting what I always wanted, discovering reality rarely follows the scripts of our wildest dreams, watching it all slip away. Also, the realization that lightening won't strike twice. That was it-- that's all I get.

Sucks.

Do I stay or do I go? The answer? No clue. Can't wait to see how it all works out.
 

The Grand Experiment

Believe me, I tried, but I couldn't find a good enough excuse to get out of it.

I've set up some rules of engagement so I'm not just dangling in the breeze. No Facebook, although I do get email notifications when someone posts on my wall or sends a message. It would be rude not to read those, right? Personal email twice a day, morning and evening. Blog feeds in the morning, and the newspaper online. Videos and music are allowed, but no (gulp!) games. Also, I've decided blogging is allowed, since it's the closest thing I have to journaling. And everyone says journaling is good, right?

Sounds harsh, but it's not that far off from the way things were 15 years ago. Well, except for the blogs and newspapers and music and video...

OK, not really, but you get my point.

Yeah, I'm kinda scared. I'm not going cold turkey or anything, but the thought of all that TIME opening up has me feeling a bit agoraphobic. And we all know how much I love changes in my routine. Heh.

Three, two, one....
 

What would happen if...

...If I did not check email and Facebook 57 times a day? If I didn't spend more time than I care to admit banging out logic puzzles (aka bookkeeping exercises) on brainbashers.com?

I have a short attention span; we all know that. I'm the first to admit the interwebs is a wonderful toy for those of us who enjoy self-soothing with an infinite and constantly changing source of entertainment. But does being wonderful make it the right thing to do?

Time for baby to step away from the pacifier and see what happens.

I'm not talking about legitimate computer tasks. Hell, my entire work day is spent in front of a computer. I bank online. I still need to check email once or twice a day. Since I don't get a newspaper, I could probably even rationalize clearing my Google Reader feeds and checking the weather over my morning coffee.

It's the random, brain-sucking "gosh I'm bored... let's poke at the interwebs and see what falls out" kind of shit that's gotta cease, at least for awhile. In fact, instead of having four computers on 24/7 at home, I might even consider turning them off when I'm not actively using them. The temperature in my house would probably drop three degrees.

How does no Facebook, email only first thing in the morning and last thing at night (seriously, I only get about 5 emails a day) and (gulp) no computer games or blogging sound?

Sounds like it's going to suck, actually. But I am intrigued enough by what might happen when my brain doesn't have that digital sugar tit to latch on to to give it a go.

Obviously I'm not talking about a complete digital withdrawal here. I'm just wondering what would happen if I throttled my addiction to the interwebs back down to a more reasonable, 56K modem level. What kind of mental energy would that free up, and how would I choose to spend it, once I've gnawed the erasers off all my pencils?

February's short, and it's still far enough off to give me two weeks to invent reasons why I can't do it. Sounds like a plan!
 

Resolved!

Pal P, an avid and talented quilter, posted on FB that she is making a 'resolution quilt' of her goals for the new year. She listed a few of her resolutions,all very life- and health-affirming, and certainly suitable for quilting.

That got me to thinking, of course, about my own resolutions. I didn't make up a list this New Year's Eve but I do have a few life-tweaks I've been working on that I can lay down for you.

• No more deathbeds. 'Nuff said.


• Master the bass line of Llama by Phish (on medium, not expert!) in Rock Band 3. Have you heard that song?? Again, 'nuff said.


• Do poop patrol once a week. My lackadaisical attitude toward back yard sanitation is no big deal when it's cold, but that, ahem, shit gets problematic in the warmer weather.


• Do not tailgate. Yeah, I'm one of those, at least on 'my' stretch of highway between home and work. Historically, if you were driving one mph slower than I wanted to go in the fast lane, I would be all up in your ish, gar-on-teed. Sorry 'bout that. I'm working on it.


• Make my daily Diet Cokes mediums vs. larges. Gotta start with baby steps. I figure it will also aid in increasing the time between afternoon bathroom visits to something more than 15 minutes.


• Pare down to three computers at home (plus the iPad, of course.) Eventually I hope to get down to two, but again, baby steps.


• Clean out the purple room. This is the room in the basement where Mr. B and I threw all the stuff we didn't know what to do with when we combined households. I think there are enough office supplies alone in there to open a shop. Golly, we both loved us some office supplies... wonder what that means? Probably don't want to know.


• Reduce my max speed on the highway to 65 mph. I read/heard somewhere that reducing one's speed by 5 mph is equivalent to a price cut of thirty-seven-gobillionty dollars per gallon of gas. Or something like that. It also would keep me within ten percent of the speed limit, which seems prudent.


• Have fun once in awhile. Buying Rock Band (2, 3, and Beatles) for Chillaxmas this year was a start -- we had a blast playing it. Made me realize fun is something I could use more of.

Now wouldn't those make an awesomely-illustrated quilt?
 

Reflections upon leaving mid-life

I turned 51 last weekend. It wasn't a big deal until I realized that I could no longer legitimately say I was in mid-life. I mean, women to tend to live longer than men and all, but my gene pool simply does not support reaching the age of 102.

I guess that means I am about as grown-up as I'm going to get. That's somewhat sobering, although I am kind of relishing taking on the role of crotchety, eccentric old bat.

This last chunk (third? fourth?) of my life is certainly not starting out as I had envisioned. Wrapping my head around being single for what may be the rest of my life is turning out to be quite a challenge. At this point I've been married for well over half my life and I (naively) assumed the pattern would continue unchanged. Fer chrissakes, the base of my ring finger is still the size it was when I was 19. I wonder if it will ever fill out, or if it's doomed to stay in its stunted state, like the bound feet of an old Chinese woman.

The other thing that happened this week that got me to a-pondering was that Mr. B's older, single sister, (we'll call her Sr. B) passed away from cancer a couple of days ago. I was not one of her favorite people (long, boring story there) but I am the only one resembling family nearby, so I am the one that was called. I sat with her in the hospital as she passed.

Even though she wasn't really conscious, I talked to her. I told her about the lunar eclipse on Monday, what my personal vision of the afterlife was like, and other random crap. I told her everything here would be taken care of so she could go when she was ready. I told her I knew I wasn't the one she would have chosen to be there, but it meant a lot to me to know that she was comfortable and safe in the hospital, rather than dying alone on her cold, hard kitchen floor surrounded by her four cats (which very nearly happened.) The whole scene was eerily familiar, as it was almost three months ago that I had done the exact same thing (well, except for that part about the cats and the kitchen floor) with Mr. B.

(Can you imagine getting that phone call? Even though she had 'banished' me a few weeks before Mr. B died, I would never have been able to forgive myself.)

Regardless of that shakes out going forward, I am grateful that I can put my 'angel of death' costume away before I shut the door on 2010. Two deathbeds in three months is plenty. Looking forward to finding a new hobby for 2011.
 

Same old, same old

Yeah, I've not been doing too well with the blogging thing lately, have I?

Oh, I think about writing all sorts of things, but when it comes time to actually put black pixels on white background, it just sounds like more of the same old shit. "My husband died! It sucks! I'm depressed! Waaaah-fucking-waaahh!"

You think you're tired of reading it? You can't imagine how sick I am of thinking it.

Luckily, I am making progress with the depression thing -- turned out to be a simple dosage tweak, a really obnoxious full-spectrum light, and a handful of supplements. It's only been a week but I'm feeling better already. Unfortunately, that hasn't stopped the suckage of the last six months from repeatedly beating me about the head and shoulders, but it is nice to be able to leave the couch long enough to get my own fucking TV remote.

Here's something new: Seeing Mr. B's stuff around the house, looking at photos, thinking about him, etc. is actually getting more painful. In the early days, it was very comforting to see his hats on the hat rack, wear his pajama pants, visit his Facebook page, etc.; in fact, I craved it. But recently I find myself going out of my way to avoid all of it.

Isn't that weird?

Not sure what to do about it, other than start getting rid of stuff, but I'm hesitant to do anything I might regret later. Although I will probably shut down the Facebook page soon. The email reminders from FB can be really disturbing: "Mr. B! Let your friends know what you're up to!" It's very tempting to pull out the old Francisco Franco routine from SNL.

Wait for it...


I read somewhere that if you write down all the symptoms, grief really is a form of (usually self-limiting) mental illness. Yep, I'll buy that.
 

Oh shut up

I'm telling ya, I shouldn't allow myself to post when I'm feeling good.

I swear, it's almost like I don't even remember writing that last post. I don't know who the cocky twit is who wrote it but right now I want to bitch slap her.

No lie, it seems like almost as soon as I finished publicly preening over how BEAU-tifully I was doing, I crashed. The whole week since has been one of the hardest yet. In fact, I'm starting to see signs that it's not just yer common, garden variety grieving going on... it may be time to (gulp!) tweak the meds.

I HATE having to admit that, but I am grateful as all hell that I've had enough experience to know when it's beyond my control and it's time to call in the experts.

I realized recently that December 2010 marks TEN YEARS since I first started on anti-depressants. I remember still what a huge relief it was, after twenty years of toughing out the "dark times" curled up in a ball on the couch, rolling my eyes and snapping at the Ex like a hormonal tortoise, hollering at Lovely Daughter to climb a flight of stairs to bring me the TV remote that was ten feet away from me, and asking the doc to test my thyroid "just one more time" only to see the results come back normal again, to have those blue pills make the life-sucking cloud of Dementors* lift and fade for good.

I was so grateful to just feel normal. It was kind of pathetic, really.

*(Sorry for the gratuitous Harry Potter ref, I'm gearing up for Deathly Hallows. Squee!)

Sure, I've stepped in puddles of dark since, but they've been brief and shallow. The last one big enough register was four years ago -- almost exactly, oddly enough -- around the end of my 26-year marriage. I changed meds for a few months, but then I met Mr. B and it no longer seemed to be an issue, IYKWIM. Nothing will get your brain chemicals right faster than a bucketful of burning love. That's some good shit, mon.

Funny thing is, it hadn't occurred to me that I might run into trouble this time. I'm that used to being normal, and although I'm proud of that, WTF was I thinking? This particular Fucking Growth Opportunity is a gobazillionity times harder than the divorce, due to the divorce lacking an actual death. Of course my neurotransmitter tanks would be running completely dry by now. Duh. What a maroon.

If I want to have any chance of keeping the dirty dishes from piling up on the floor and Young Son fed on something other than Blue Box and grilled cheese sandwiches through the winter (Not lyin'. Ask Lovely Daughter about her childhood comfort foods) I figure I have two choices: I can do it "naturally" -- hit the dating sites hard, find someone to stuff in the Mr. B-shaped hole, and hope for the magic to strike twice -- or I can go to a professional and get hooked up. With the right meds, not guys.

I think this time I'll go pro. Bound to be much easier in the long run. This last round of the Dating Game had a pretty brutal finale.
 

U'r doing it wrong

Everyone keeps telling me there are no rules for grieving, but I still feel like I'm doing it wrong.

It's only been just shy of two months since Mr. B died, and I am (mostly) back in one piece. The events of the last five months have faded, almost to the point of seeming unreal.

I keep poking myself (mentally, you pervs) searching for signs that I'm kidding myself, and that there's still a big wad of something festering inside that I haven't gotten to yet.

I'm not finding it.

I keep coming to the conclusion that I have reached a pretty good perspective on my relationship with Mr. B, the good and not-so-much. I am at peace (most of the time) with the fact that the rest of my life is not going to go the way I thought. How one phone call in June changed everything.

Oh, I still have bad days, but they don't hurt as bad or last as long. Sometimes I still feel gypped, but it no longer comes with the side order of blinding rage.

I feel disloyal admitting that I'm doing OK. It hasn't even been two months, for fuck's sake! I should be in more pain. Shouldn't I still be in more pain? I keep looking but it's not there.

What's worse, I keep going back to the dating site (not match.com this time). I find myself looking for profiles that show originality and wit (and, I admit, decent grammar). It's quite a challenge, believe me, but that's a post for another day. At first I really was looking for Mr. B, but now I find myself wondering what some of these guys are really like. Still don't have a desire to act on it, but is it really OK to look?

I dunno. It doesn't seem right, somehow. But that doesn't seem to stop me.

It's really hard for me to write this because so many of my twelves of readers know me personally and most of the rest knew Mr. B, but I feel I need to be honest about this process, 'cause otherwise, what's the point?

I still feel like I'm doing it wrong, but I can't figure out how to do it "right" and still be true to myself.
 

10 months, 2 weeks, 2 days

I can't even believe that was just one year ago. Yeah, as you might suspect, today kinda sucks. Luckily I had enough foresight to take off work.

I'd originally thought I'd want to spend today looking at wedding photos and memorabilia, but the truth is I can barely stand even thinking about our trip to Vegas. I'd even considered getting a tattoo today but I don't think that's going to happen. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, I am not exactly the Queen of Acting Out, or even the Duchess of Impulsive Decisions. Oh well. It would have been a grand gesture, though.

Instead, I'll be leaving the house shortly and running errands most of today. Later on I'm meeting Pal P for dinner. Then I'll pick up Young Son, come home, and spend the remnant of the evening staring at something stupid on the Teevee. Way to commemorate the occasion, eh?

Sometime in the next few days I'll probably pack up The Shrine, a bulletin board over the sideboard in the dining room where I've been posting all the cards and letters I've received. I may even pack up the remaining wedding memorabilia (the Yay! flags and origami flowers) that has (have? has?) been sitting on my bedroom dresser for a year. No idea what I'm going to do with my dress -- there's no way I can ever wear is again and looking at it in my closet does not make me happy. And his suit was pretty expensive. I can't imagine getting rid of it but it doesn't make sense to keep it, either.

The worst thing, though, is that sometime last weekend between 10 am Friday and 10 am Saturday I lost Mr. B's wedding band. I'd been wearing it on my thumb since I sent him off with the funeral home guys. I'd thought of putting it away today, since it was a little loose and kept threatening to slip off, but instead it's disappeared. I'm trying to be a good sport about it, telling myself that Mr. B just wanted it back, but it doesn't always work.

We were married for ten months, two weeks, and two days. I keep trying but there's no way I can convince myself I'm OK with that.

To summarize: It sucks. It all sucks.

(I wonder how many times I've used that word since June? Probably a lot.)
 

Wherein things get a little weird

I tried. I cut myself all sorts of slack, removed all expectations, and I still couldn't do it. I really hate-hate-hate to quit, but I'm bailing on this year's NaNoWriMo.

I'm just not feeling it this year. It's just not happening. Since (for me) NaNo is for entertainment purposes only, I figger there is absolutely no point in me feeling bad about doing badly -- so badly, in fact, that today I can't even bring myself to open the document I've been working on for the past three days. Yes, it's five thousand and fifty-three words of "that bad." Not enough lipstick in the world to make that pig look good, IYKWIM.

My mistake was not following my own advice. To be fair, though, I couldn't have. What with helping Mr. B graduate to the next dimension and all, there just wasn't enough mental energy available to spend on giving a red, ripe rat's ass. I think that's a valid excuse, don't you?

Speaking of next dimension, my latest random coping technique is a sudden and unwavering faith in George Anderson and John Edward, those mediums who can communicate with the spirits of the dead. I've decided that I believe them with all my heart, everything they say is true, and that Mr. B is hanging around me -- and his pals if needed -- kind of like a guardian angel. So far it's working out pretty well. He gave me a great sunrise the other day. I do kind of blame him for letting me down with the whole NaNo thing, but I suppose I can only ask so much.

Oh, wait, here's a good one. Ready for this? The other day I found myself searching on Match.com. WTF is up with that? It took me a day or two to realize that I was actually searching for Mr. B. I knew it was time to back away when I got an email with the subject line: "Mr. B* in Seattle is a match for you!" I almost shit myself before I realized it wasn't actually him. That was the end of Match.com.

I guess that means the lonely is setting in. And it's the inside kind of lonely, not the kind that can be fixed by being with people. No way past it but through it, I suppose.

I'll leave you with something fun: Young Son got this in his trick or treat bag.

"I got a rock."
I think it's brilliant! I know what I'm handing out next year.

* Of course it didn't say Mr. B, but it did have his first name, spelled properly, which is not the common way. And that's a no-shitter.