the wittiest widow

Witty Commentary on widowhood

As many of you probably have also done recently, I stumbled upon that pixie-esque Japanese delight that is Marie Kondo via her ubiquitous Netflix series, Tidying Up with Mario Kondo.  I had a vague notion of who she was via my layman’s knowledge of the cultural zeitgeist, but I was woefully uninformed on the truly life changing art that can come from purging your shit.  Anyhoo, after watching a few episodes, I decided to think about just what does and does not spark joy in my life…truth not much.  All touchy-feely thanking your clothes as you chuck them in a trash bag aside, Mrs. Kondo makes some goods points with her patented KonMarie method.

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I’ve never been that happy about anything, including Bryan, as Marie Kondo is about a stranger’s black t-shirt.

I’ve noticed over the last 716 days that I’ve been husband-less that I’ve started to fill the void in my life with “things”.  It started slowly at first, perhaps out of boredom, that I might go to Ulta just to browse; or open the Amazon app just to see what they recommended for me.  Now, almost 2 years later, (ugh the dreaded deathiversary is fast approaching) I’m Diamond status at Ulta, and have a whole 3rd bedroom full of still-packed boxes of my former married life, as well as Amazon boxes full of crap I don’t need.   Who buys a bedazzled dickie or marble-look bathroom cups just because Amazon suggests them? I do.

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If I’m being truly honest, this dickie has totally sparked some mutha fuckin’ joy.

When I first bought and moved into my post-marital home last year, there was a lot to do and a lot to buy, and I have to admit, I was kind of getting a rush from buying a new comfy couch, selecting the perfect quartz counter top, and going all in on a fancy front loader washer and dryer.  So many paint color choices!  Is the thread count on these sheets high enough? Never mind that I had like 4 sets of perfectly fine sheets somewhere in a box.  I needed to buy these new ones. My former self would have been ashamed.  Who succumbs to basic domesticity so easily? Oh. That’s right.  A widow who has already had to succumb to playing the game of life with a 2-7 offsuit hand.  It’s starting to make sense now!

So after folding my underwear in thirds and letting my socks “rest” as Marie suggests, I started to get inspired.  What else could I start storing vertically so it’s viewable in my life?  Better yet, what could I just say “Arigato” and  “Sayonara” to and start to remove some of the weight off this emotional yolk I’ve been bearing? (Sidenote: the yolk is a very deep emotional metaphor for how I feel burdened daily that I came up with in therapy. Continuously evolving y’all.)  Since I’m finally starting to learn that the tiny rush I get from ordering stuff and seeing the box on my doorstep, or grabbing the latest mascara and earning more points, is fleeting, and that I generally feel just the same or worse later, it’s time to think of all the good the purge does.  I’ve started to avoid and purge negative influences as well.  It’s not just my stuff I need out of my house; it’s some of the dark emotions and feelings that rumble around in my head that need to go. It’s letting go of the hurt I feel towards people who let me down.  It’s starting to remove the “stuckness” I have and opening myself up to moving forward…in whatever fashion that may be.  It is also totally about thanking my Camp Horizons ’97 t-shirt and tossing it because it no longer sparks joy for me.  Until I;m a totally self-actualized human being, I’ll just be breaking down a bunch of cardboard in my guest room.

OMG you guys. Puhleeeze tell me you’ve seen the documentaries about the music festival that never was, Fyre Fest. Not going to lie, I subscribed to Hulu just so I could watch its documentary, Fyre Fraud, only AFTER I devoured the Netflix documentary aptly titled Fyre.  For an emotionally unstable widow, these docs are my kryponite.  I vaguely remember when this shit show all went down (April 2017) but to be fair, I was barely showering back then.  Well after watching the downfall of over indulged millennials, I went down an internet rabbit hole that took me days to get out of.  When I did finally emerge 48 hours later, I knew I had a mission in life. Everyone I know should walk, nay RUN to their nearest streaming device and check these hot messes out. Maybe all the shit that’s happened in my life has led me to this point?  Wait. that’s dark.  So maybe not.

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I’ll still keep spreading the good word of the Book of Fyre though.  This is a cautionary tale of what can happen when Ja Rule (R-U-L-E!) becomes friends with this dork ass Jersey Boy named Billy, and their social media personas take over their cognitive decision making skills, or lack thereof.  Aside from the juicy factor, I feel like this is really a social commentary on the FOMO culture of the 21st century.  All the hype and build up and buzz around this music festival was just a facade, and ultimately led to its downfall.

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The “dream team”

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There isn’t an insta filter strong enough for this wasteland.

That’s just me getting all deep and cerebral about a juicy gossip story.  Maybe this resonated with me so much because my grief and subsequent depression makes me feel like people’s shiny happy social media lives have been turned up to 11, and I constantly have to remind myself that I’m not the only one with a less than an American Dream reality.  So when the curtain is pulled back, and the private yacht-luxury villa-sushi-Pablo Escobar island-fantasy was just that, a fantasy, it was more than just a little satisfying.  I honestly feel like Josh is all of us when watching these documentaries.

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Chicken soup for the middle-class soul is right! You know everyone grieves in their own way, and I’ve been told over and over by “experts” that there’s no wrong to grieve.  So I guess I can add smug realness to my box of therapy tools! Any moments of the day not spent thinking about my life or doing the “hard work” of moving foward, or “being strong” are moments I cherish.  So these collective 3 hours was time well spent in my book.  I would love, love love to discuss all the amazingness that was Fyre Fest in the comments. Until then, I’m going to go look for my glamping villa, I mean FEMA tent now.

Hola fellow widowinos.  It’s 2019 and you know that that means!!!…Absolutely nothing.  The new year has never really meant more to me than the passage of  time, but as a lonely woman it only serves to highlight the status quo of my less than awesome life.  Apologies for my MIA status the past few months. The final quarter of every year is a bit rough for me as I forge through the emotional minefields of my late father’s birthday, Bryan’s birthday, my dad’s death day (on Thanksgiving!), my would-be wedding anniversary that I’ve never actually celebrated with my husband, and of course Christmas.  Ah, the holidays! As of I’ve said before, now fraught with melancholy!  But I digress. So for as much of a resolution as I plan to make, I resolve to post on a more regular basis, as I know you all are itching with anticipation at every thought (not really).

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Since we last spoke, I can’t say anything totally radical has changed.  I go to therapy, take my meds, try to get out and be social, work the steps and go to meetings — oh, wait that’s a different program isn’t it.  Maybe that’s my problem! But in all seriousness, while I don’t always feel like I’m progressing in my grief day-to-day, when I take periodic check-ins from this day a year ago, I do see some progress (I think, I hope).  For example, Christmas 2017 I just pretended wasn’t happening.  So much so, that I flew over an ocean to get away from it.  I spent the actual day of Christmas in rainy London catching up on sleep from jet lag from my Christmas Eve flight across the pond (side note, how does Santa do it?! amiright?).  Then I spent the subsequent days sightseeing and drinking tea and being around friendly strangers who had no idea what my story was and I LOVED it. Also, Christmas in general is far less commercialized and in your face in Britain than it is here, so it was a welcome relief.  This year I decided to face the music and acknowledge the day and the time with the family I have left. It wasn’t…horrible.  Maybe next year I can say it wasn’t too bad. I even willed myself to put a tree up in the home I  bought completely after Bryan that he has no connection to.  Opening those Christmas ornaments was like a firing squad of emotion as I unwrapped newspaper only to be hit upside the head with “Remember your engagement???” or “LOOK! Your honeymoon!”.  Needless to say, decorating the tree took a few hours as I had to take to my bed frequently and revive myself with loads of smelling salts.  BUT I did it. And I guess I’m proud?

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I’ve also been more cognizant of the fact that time is moving forward for those around me, whether I feel like it has for me or not.  Within my friend group in just the last few months, there’s been a birth, 3 new pregnancies, a couple moves, a cancer diagnosis in remission, and quite a few new furry friends.  Oh and also this girl I know announced her THIRD ENGAGEMENT! I mean kudos to her. I’d love to know her secret. Anyway, all this to say that while I’ve spent the past few months trying out makeup tutorials on Youtube and watching really obscure crime documentaries on Netflix, the world has kept on spinning.  I hope, with cautious optimism of course, that 2019 brings me something more exciting than just the final season of Game of Thrones, but if that’s all, it wouldn’t be that surprising.  Until next time, here’s to whatever kind of 2019 you want to have, and dear God I hope the House indicts Trump.

So it’s been a hot minute since I posted to the Widowino Universe.  Apologies, I was just experiencing some summertime sadness, laying on a flamingo float alone in my backyard pool staring up at the clouds.  Speaking of summertime sadness, sometimes I just like to chill and feel my feels while listening to sweet jams.  I’ve always found music to vibe with whatever mood I’m in, and ever since I was a newly minted driver cruising with windows down rocking out to Now That’s What I Call Music Vol. 8, it’s been a meditative experience for me.  Bryan was the same way.  We made playlists for every experience, big or small.  Whether it was a kiss-themed playlist for our aptly named “Smooch Fest 2014” all the way up to allowing our wedding DJ zero creative license by giving him literally every song to play, music “rocked’ our soul.  So it seems right that I created a  new soundtrack for the shit-storm that is my current life.  I’ve been collecting songs for months, in anticipation of the ultimate sonic release and this post, of course.  So if you’ve been searching for the perfect melancholy blend of notes, look no more!  These are the ultimate songs to do the emotional heavy lifting.  Have you ever been crying in the mirror and thought I wish I had some equally depressing music right now? THESE are those songs!  Or maybe you’re on a train, not sure where it’s going, and while you rest your head against the rain covered window, you thought “you know what this cliched sad moment needs, a soundtrack”. Then you’ve come to the right place!  The playlist can totally be played on shuffle, but for the true emotional roller coaster, I suggest playing them in the order listed here.  Enjoy! (Note: for maximum enjoyment have a day, in the tub, with red wine and a good cry.  Make sure to stay in there long enough for the water to get cold and then ever so slowly submerge your head.  Lastly, tell yourself you did your best over and over.)

  1. On the Nature of Daylight — Max Richter.  If my life was a movie, this is the song that would have been playing while you watched me run up the stairs in slow motion and find Bryan.  The song that played while the EMTs pushed me out of the way as I was hysterical, still in slow motion.  The song that played while the phone fell to the ground in the foreground of the shot…yes, still in slow motion. Too morbid? I think you may be lost then, here let me direct you to a site that might be more your speed.  Now I just mostly listen to this song when I take my makeup off in front of my Hollywood vanity mirror in total darkness except for those 12 mirror bulbs illuminating my face and its suddenly aged (pronounced “age-ed”) wrinkles. I’m also wearing a chic mu mu a la Glenn Close in Sunset Boulevard.  Interesting side note, I wear mu mus now. I’m really leaning in to this whole widow thing!  Sheryl Sandberg would be proud, on BOTH accounts.
  2. Life and Death — Paul Cardall.  This aptly named little diddy  has a lot of the great melodies you think of when something profound happens in life, or death…Oh I see what he did there!  Cardall actually wrote this song while facing his own mortality waiting for a heart transplant, and I think that really gives it the extra punch of authenticity, don’t you?  The crescendo is quite dramatic and good for solo train rides around the 3:45 mark.
  3. Fade Into You — Mazzy Star.  Everyone has that quintessential emo moment of their adolescence when they were feeling hella deep. Just me? Oh.  Well anyway, for me that moment was the slow dance prom scene in the highly underrated 1995 movie Angus. The popular girl had just given Angus some #realtalk about her bulimia and actually imperfect life and it was deep AF for my 10 yo self.  Point is, this is the song they dance to as prom king and queen.  Now that I’m old enough to actually understand its meaning, I think the lyrics are a solid metaphor for my feelings on losing my identity as part of an “us’ and a wife and how I need to forge a new identify. #barf
  4. To Build a Home — The Cinematic Orchestra.   This song was a must add to the playlist ever since I saw that crappy old crock pot spark and set those curtains aflame and then proceeded to lose my shit along with the rest of America.  If this is the song that’s played the moment the Pearson family’s life went up in literal and proverbial flames, then it’s good enough for me.  Of all the songs on my list, I think this one elicits the most single dramatic tears down my face.  I think of the future I won’t get with Bryan and the fact that I won’t get “to build a home” with him, like ever.
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    FYI: I store my crock pot in a certified clean room devoid of oxygen now.

     

  5. When It’s Cold I’d Like to Die– Moby.  If you’re surprised to see a Moby song on here, perhaps you’ve never heard of Moby.  The first line of this song is “Where were you when I was lonesome?” for pete’s sake!  It’s a question I ask a lot; maybe to myself and maybe to Bryan, depending on what you believe, but at this point I still have anger over him leaving me, and by all accounts, and Dr. F, that’s perfectly fine.  Also, I felt/feel like dying a lot, cold or otherwise, so this makes sense.
  6. Captain Phillips– Henry Jackman.  One thing I’ve always done is listen to movie scores while I need to concentrate and write and think.  I do it even while blogging! When I heard Jackman’s score in Captain Phillips, it moved me.  Maybe it was the majesty of Tim Honks, America’s hero (that’s his name right?) bringing the captain’s fear and anguish to life, but this song gives me the feels.  The tagline of the movie was “out here survival is everything” and most days I feel like I’m just surviving, so this tune was apropos.
  7. Born to Die — Lana Del Rey.  Fake lips and horrible live performances aside, I actually love Lana Del Rey.  This song epitomizes how I feel when I’m out pretending to the world to be “okay”.  It’s also got a zero fucks given vibe, which I must admit has been one of the few freeing things to come from the tar pit of my brain.
  8. Nothing Compares 2 U — Sinead O’Connor.  It’s totally been longer than 7 hours and 16 days since Bryan took his love away, but I do certainly sleep all day so at least that part of the song is accurate.  Plus this is a true oldie but goody when it comes to the lonely hearts club.  I’ve also considered shaving my head more than once over the last 18 months, and Sinead may or may not have been the inspiration.  Hey, a widow’s ideas can’t all be winners okay?? Bonus: The single dramatic tear game in the video is quite strong.
  9. The Cold — Exitmusic.   Another “cold” song.  I guess there’s only so many metaphors for sadness.  Lead singer Aleksa Palladino’s voice is haunting and how I envision I would sound if I had any talent.  This is the quintessential song for solitary staring off into the distance, perhaps by a body of water (dealer’s choice), or better yet headstone. True Story: this song came on while I was visiting Bryan at the cemetery.
  10. Habits (Stay High) — Tove Lo. This is the song I imagine would be the personification of my life, if I had gone down the vice route while dealing with grief.  I’m honestly a little bummed it didn’t happen for me, I hear opioids are all the rage right now.  But according to my extensive widow research since this is a blog of the highest journalist integrity, self medication and destructive decisions are a common part of many people’s grieving process.  So this song makes the list as an homage to my fellow widow divas currently laying over in Struggle City, and that’s just fine.
  11. Runnin (Lose It All) — Naughty Boy ft Beyoncé and Arrow Benjamin.  If I lose myself, I lose it all.  That’s the theme of this anthem that Queen Bey sprinkled her magic dust all over.  It talks of loss, loneliness, and doing it all yourself, with a catchy beat to back it up.  They don’t call her a queen for nothing.
  12. Green Light — Lorde.  A little bit of anger, a little bit of hope, and lot of bad assness.  I wish I could “just get my things and just let go”.  In some ways I’ve done that already, but in many ways I’m waiting for my green light, stuck in neutral at that light that’s always red at that abandoned intersection.  Why can’t I just hit the gas and go?  What’s stopping me? Oh right, crippling depression.
  13. Elastic Heart — Sia.  I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart.  Grieving does nothing if not make you harder, better, faster, stronger©.  You start to see the world differently and you’re forever changed, as much as you may try to fight it.  I feel like Sia really gets me and my internal struggle here, so good job Sia.  P.S. How do we feel about Shia LeBeouf in the video? Oddly attractive and rugged? No? Yeah, me neither.
  14. All By Myself — Celine Dion.  You might be thinking…hmm safe choice.  Or “wow this one’s a little on the nose”.  And to you I say, don’t question Celine or my’s decisions ever! The reality of the situation is I am, in fact “all by myself” and I “don’t wanna be” anymore, sooooo yeah.  And who doesn’t love a good power ballad to sing into their ice cream/dinner spoon (hello 2:40 mark)?!
  15. Dancing On My Own — Robyn.  When I get there, this is the song I think will be my anthem when I’m at peace with my new life and I’m just out there, dancing on my own, and owning my dance.

So there you have it, music essential for being in your feelings.  I’ve got loads more but this post was taking longer to write than I felt like it should so that’s what you get!  Let me know what music gets you through hard times and makes you feel the feels!  I’ll make a B-sides soon with reader suggestions.

I don’t dream about Bryan much anymore, and that’s unfortunate.  He wasn’t even in many dreams in the beginning.  When he was they were very disjointed and we were usually dealing with the fact that we had just broken up (?) or something else equally stressful.  It was an odd way of interpreting him dying, but dreams are never really literal anyway.  Side note, if you do dream about only mundane everyday things, maybe you should read a Tolkien novel or something. Anyway, I did recently dream about Bryan, after getting nada from the celestial plane for months. When I woke up however, I wasn’t exactly stoked about it. You see, my subconscious had manifested a version of my spirit bae who was kind of a…tool.  It was Bryan, just douchey.  Like if Bryan lived in Ocala, Florida or some other equally godforsaken, southern fried place, and wore crocs and jorts exclusively.  In the dream Bryan was straight stealing checks, checks (!) from random people and using them to buy stuff like TVs, video games, and…lawn equipment. Aside from the televisons which are universally liked, he wasn’t in to either video games or lawn equipment in real life. I can’t even. Um what does it mean when your subconscious talks shit about your husband?  I was so confused.

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Now Mr. Griffith, exactly why were you committing the truly low-rent crime of stealing checks? It’s frankly, embarrassing.

Just think of me as a well-dressed Leonardo DiCaprio because it’s time to go into the dream, and unpack this shall we? First question, why is this dream set in the swamp land of the Australia of America? I live in Florida now (which also means I’ve got a license to talk shit®), but never Ocala, and Bryan never lived here.  If I was the architect of this dream, I sure as well wouldn’t have picked a place where there are more meth heads than alligators.  Neither of those things are particularly appealing to begin with, and Ocala’s got a shit ton of both. Secondly, the Bryan I and everyone knew was the kindest most generous person ever.  He wasn’t no criminal, and even if he was, I’m sure it would have been for something way sexier than check fraud.  Like diamond heisting on the French Riviera.  He always looked quite dapper in a tuxedo. Lastly, he wasn’t even good at it! I can’t remember exactly how his thievery was revealed, because dreams are foggy, but like it wasn’t hard to figure out.  Then everyone was pissed off and I had to defend him as the good wife that I am/was/will be whatever.  According to the 2-second Google search I just did, dreams “which revolve around theft are the psyche’s way of indicating a fear of loss in your life. When you have dreams about theft, consider your own feelings of security in your waking world.” Well that actually…makes a lot of sense I suppose.  Although I”m not sure how scared about loss I still am since it’s happened to me more than once on some heavy AF levels.  Also I give zero fucks about my own life and I”m not scared to die #liberated, so maybe it’s not that accurate after all.

It was a weird dream feeling (what I call the feels you have in the dream world) to know everyone pretty much thought your hubby was an a-hole, and that you had to be his ride or die (too late) chick when you weren’t feeling him either.  Dream Bryan didn’t even apologize when I pulled out the big guns of “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”!  Well I don’t remember much after that, except waking up and thinking “I don’t dream about you for 6+ months, and the first time back you’re a petty check thief?!”  Damn subconscious, it’s shady over here.  I couldn’t really find too much specifically on dreaming about a dead loved one acting differently, but the general themes were anxiety, insecurity, and change, which all sounds about right.  So I guess I’ll chalk this up to I’ll take what I can get, and hope my psyche interacts with a better version of Bryan in the future.  For now, I’ve got to make sure that top has actually stopped spinning…

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So a funny (is that the right word?) thing happens when someone close to you dies.  My theory is, in an attempt to take a mental break from the 24/7 pit of despair that is your brain, you tend to become obsessed with random and often obscure hobbies, habits, or tasks.  For me, it’s MURDER PODCASTS.  I can’t explain it but in the months since Bryan 86’ed this living thing, I’ve become a subscriber, longtime listener, and no-time caller to not one, not two, not three (sensing a pattern?) but 12 murder-themed podcasts!  In my current state, I enjoy few things more than taking my lunch break in my car, blasting the air conditioning and listening to Karen and Georgia rehash their newest favorite murder.  I live a wild and crazy life right?

Some people find podcasts of this topic disturbing and/or morbid, and I can’t say I disagree, but I guess I’m going through a “Blue period” or something.  Although I highly doubt my blue period will yield anything as profound as what came out of Picasso’s (one semester of art history and I am impressive AF!).  I have to say though, I think we were on the same page when he painted Femme aux Bras Croisés (Woman with Folded Arms) because that’s me pretty much any time I’m in public. At work? sitting in a meeting freezing with a BRF and “folded arms”.  Waiting in line at Target? Switching from one foot to the other because I most definitely have to pee, with “folded arms”.  Laying on the table getting my eyebrows waxed? Pursing my lips in agony with “folded arms”.  You get the idea.

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She’s slaying #notimpressed

But I digress.  What was I talking about? Oh right, muuurrrrddddeeeeerrrr! Or redrum if you’re dyslexic.  [This blog is certified compliant Section 508 of the ADA].  Anyhoo, I can’t explain it totally, but the things that help me forget about my current life circumstances even for a brief moment tend to be dark; unless it’s “Parks and Recreation” on Netflix, but that’s really universal.  Perhaps I feel less hopeless about the future seeing resilience that comes from others who’ve been through some shit and come out on the other side.  Maybe it’s the comfort of knowing, “well damn, at least my life is not as fucked up as that one!”.  Or it could be the lessons learned.  It’s a sick, sad world out there and I believe knowledge is power.  How was the Golden State Killer finally identified? Does Iceland have the death penalty?  Why was my sorority so crazy about security in our college town?  All of these questions and more can be answered, in the wonderful world of murder podcasts!  [Answers: 1) familial DNA match from ancestry.com subscriber 2) no 3) because Ted Bundy murdered 2 women in my sorority’s chapter house at FSU 40 years ago]

I know some people, including my mother especially, would rather I not dwell on the dark arts (only Harry Potter you’ll ever get here), but until I see the world as a place worth living in, I doubt my satisfaction from these stories will lessen.  If nothing else, it provides an escapism that I’m yet to find in anything else.  And for the record, plenty of “happy” well-adjusted people listen to them everyday. So maybe check out some of my faves, in no particular order:

  • My Favorite Murder where I learn how to stay sexy and not get murdered.  It’s hilarious and educational!
  • Dirty John This took the world by storm and had a crazy twist.  Bonus points for the sense of superiority you’ll feel knowing this would NEVER happen to you.  Even my mom liked this one!
  • Serial Killers I mean yeah, the title is pretty much a dead (get it?) giveaway
  • Up and Vanished The case of the disappearance of Tara Grinstead starts out “colder than Alaska” but the story of the people in this small Georgia town sucks you in.  Aside from the ridiculously annoying millennial host, they actually solved a murder case in real time and that’s pretty awesome.
  • Sword and Scale  Likely the darkest of the bunch but also the most factual and in-depth.  I never understood the doll baby on the logo though…

 

That’s all I got for you, fellow or future murderinos (that’s an industry term).  Until next time, I’ll just be widowing out listening to stuff about murder.

This morning as  I left for work my landscaper rolled up to conduct his usual bi-weekly lawn maintenance.  I waved to him and anticipated the inevitable “Your grass is cut, you can pay me now” text (I’m paraphrasing).  Like clockwork my phone pinged, however this time it was joined with the little passive aggressive shame nugget that I really should be having my lawn cut more often because it’s summer and why don’t I pay up so the yard won’t look like shit? (again, paraphrasing).  I mean he’s not wrong…it was starting to look a little Florida vacation home circa 2007 (that’s a cerebral economy joke in case you didn’t get it).  At the same time it’s like “Back off bro! I’m a lonely widow who doesn’t own a lawnmower!”  This just proves to be another glaring example of one of things I hate about widowhood…having to do all the shit myself.

Before I met Bryan,  I lived alone and embraced my independent womanhood.  Sure, I wanted to find a life partner, but I was okay running my own self.  In the immortal words of the Child of Destiny, “All the women, who are independent, Throw your hands up at me. All the honeys, who making money, Throw your hands up at me. All the mommas, who profit dollars, Throw your hands up at me. All the ladies, who truly feel me, Throw your hands up at me.” Yes, that was me being an independent honey who profits dollars.  When I did find a true partner in Bryan, I found that I relished taking some of the load off.  Suddenly I wasn’t responsible for EVERYTHING and it made life easier.  This isn’t some profound new idea after all, but I know of plenty relationships that aren’t that way, and I think, “what’s the point?”

Bryan was happy to do the grocery shopping, vacuuming, and getting the oil changed in my car-three things I have always hated, and still hate, to this day.  He also did 99.9% of the cooking (there’s one time he was gone and I had to feed myself and another time I made him a cake).  It was glorious, I just watched Jeopardy and food appeared.  Now I don’t mind cooking per se, it’s the cleaning I hate…and he did that too.  The kitchen was his domain and I was fine with that.  Nowadays, I go to the grocery store maybe once a month if I’m lucky and barely microwave a frozen meal.  I eat out way too much, causing damage to my wallet and waistline.  That’s just what it’s like in the abyss.  I recently had my kitchen completely redone with new cabinets, counter top, back splash and paint.  I’ve cooked in it ONE time.  #realtalk  The reason for this is likely 1 tbsp. laziness, 2 cups depression, 2 tsp. hatred of dishes to clean, and 3 tbsp. indignant bitterness that Bryan isn’t here to cook for me.  Now that’s a recipe for…wait for it…disaster!  LOLz

I also tend to ugly cry most late Friday nights as I land at JIA at 11:48 pm from a long week in Nowhere USA and must drag my 50 pound bag a mile to my car, if I can even remember where I parked it.  Pre-Bryan I didn’t mind this ritual.  I could finally drive my car and not some shitty Chevy Crapper (trademark pending), I was finally warm in the Florida air, and I could sleep in my own bed and catch up on my TV.  When Bryan and I were together he always picked me up from the airport, and dragged my suitcase up and down stairs.  I would literally say “You can take my bag now” unironically.  Those were the days, you guys.  When I landed at DEN I was suddenly a little less exhausted and bedraggled because I knew my man was waiting for me at Arrivals Door 508 with (always) a Coke Zero and (sometimes) pizza!  But that is no more.  I must carry my own bag, metaphorically and literally. I’m so fucking deep aren’t I?

Last Friday night, my flight from Minneapolis was late and I landed at 12:20 a.m.  I’d been up for 19 hours.  My bag was the last one on the carousel and after walking in stifling humidity (no longer pleasant) keys betwixt knuckles to avoid rapists, I could not find my car.  Widow brain had struck again and I totally forgot where I parked it.  Twenty minutes and two elevator rides later, it was spotted, but not without a parking ticket!  So yeah I cried all the way home.  Thanks Bryan!

I’m chalking this up to the many “secondary losses” I’ve mentioned before. I hope to someday not feel like every day is a burden and utterly annoying and exhausting.  I’ve got to retrain myself to embody the Destiny’s Child mantra of a honey who makes money.   I guess I just got too comfortable having a husband.  Pro Tip:  Don’t have a husband and you’ll never be mad/sad when you don’t have one! On that note, I think I’ll go pay the landscaper now.

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