The Irreverent Widow Project

In grief, as in dog walking, one must ask:  

“Is putting the poop in a plastic bag & tossing it really the wisest way to deal with it?” 

Don't talk to ME about poop!

During the April school break, I took my three children on one of our spontaneous, ill-planned, overnight “adventures.”  This time, we headed up the coast. Along the way, we enjoyed some snooping around in antique shops, consumed the requisite fried seafood and ice cream treats…and then we did what every American family does to end the day on a happy vacation note.  We zipped into a weathered, old cemetery for a quick bit of fun.

The fact that a widow and her three children choose (of our own volition) to hang out at cemeteries while on a vacation jaunt may shock some.  But that’s because they don’t know.  They don’t understand.  It’s not depressing. It’s comforting. And it has nothing to do with religion.  It has to do with a sense of connectedness. Not just to the husband I lost and the father they lost….but connectedness to the rest of humanity. 

Some people use cemeteries as alternatives to “parks”…public places to walk their dogs or take their morning jog. Personally, I have never understood the appeal of a cemetery for those activities…but maybe that’s because I don’t receive calls from nasty neighbors, complaining about Rover’s poop in their Petunia beds. Also…I dislike jogging with a passion. Any activity that results in that look of pain on someone’s face just cannot be good for you.

Most people drive by cemeteries and turn their head to gaze at the strip mall across the street rather than be reminded of our ultimate date with destiny.

Not us.   We are DEALING WITH THE POOP

.

Since Drew’s death, I have visited many cemeteries. In different towns. Different states. Even different countries. At first, with my journal in tow. More recently, with my camera.  Photographing beautifully aged stones, covered with lichens and moss. Reading the names of those remembered and perhaps long forgotten.  Doing dazzling mathematical calculations…subtracting and adding dates, years, facts and figures… perhaps coming to the realization that the woman buried there was my age when her husband died, as well.   Over a century ago.  Comfort.  Connection.

My children used to be a bit puzzled by  my elevated obsession…I mean curiosity… with graveyards.  Now, however, they seem to be just as drawn to them for many of the same reasons I am.  The beauty.  The wisdom. The details.  The way nature reclaims even formidable things like chunks of granite and marble.

Another hot angel.

We see things differently then most people.  My children see things differently than most children.  They have had no choice but to DEAL WITH THE POOP.

They know the reality of those stones. Of those cemeteries. And they aren’t afraid.  They have already lived through great tragedy in their little lives. And it has given them gifts that cannot be purchased in any store or left under any Christmas tree. Gifts too big to be contained in any box.   They are so large, in fact, that we usually can’t see them until we travel down the road a good number of miles and are able to view them from a distance.That is the point we are finally beginning to reach.  Six years down the road.

Enormous tragedy brings with it enormous grief.  Thankfully the gifts we ultimately receive also lie in direct proportion.

The fact that I can spend hours strolling through old cemeteries with my children as part of a “vacation” and find beauty and meaning in the details we see there is a blessing.  The fact that we find twisted humor in the dog poop sign is a blessing beyond measure.  The fact that I am amassing an enviable collection of seductive cemetery angel photos is priceless.  And something Drew would be supporting me on, 100%.  Trust me. 

We have already DEALT WITH THE POOP.  We will continue to  deal with it and use it as compost as we rebuild our life.

Putting it in a plastic bag and throwing it in with the trash is not really effective in the long run, people.  Your sign does not intimidate us!  

Oh sure...it LOOKS harmless!

DEAREST (and most patient) READER:  

It has been a busy month for me.  The world of widowhood, dating and single parenting has, as usual, caused me to lose track of time. A month since my last posting? Goodness! But all has not been for naught…as I have come back rejuvenated and filled to the brim with deep thoughts and brilliantly helpful tips!

And so, for your Friday morning amusement, I give you the following:

It has come to my attention that my personal care habits are in need of some modifications. Specifically, my tendency to perform the WASH, RINSE, REPEAT cycle too often.  

No. Not with shampoo. With men.

Why is it that I keep pouring the same guy out of the same bottle…yet expect to get a different product?  I date him. I get frustrated with him.  I curse him under my breath and make a solemn vow to NEVER text, tweet, email, voicemail or send one more sentimental, thoughtful, handwritten note on heavyweight, imported Italian stationery EVER again in my lifetime.   Then, two months later (or, sadly, sometimes only two weeks later) I am texting him or tweeting him or emailing or voicemailing or committing some other sin I had sworn to God and a host of girlfriends I would never again commit.

I am not Catholic, yet I clearly require a portable confessional booth.

WASH, RINSE, REPEAT is not only NOT a good idea when dating… it is not even good practice when caring for one’s hair.  Anyone with a brain can clearly deduce that washing, rinsing the residual shampoo from the hair, and then doing it all over again will do nothing but dry out and damage one’s lovely locks.  And unless you have just come from a dinner date with a man who found out you were sleeping with his best friend and poured Italian dressing over your head,  there is no need to wash your hair more than once during any given 10 minute period.  

And yet, there it is.  Right there on the bottle.  That one little tidbit of advice.  Bad advice that most smart women ignore…yet some of us still follow. Thereby making the shampoo industry twice as much profit while simultaneously leaving our own hair crying for mercy.  And our souls longing for a martini. Extra olives.

Recommended repair measures.

Steps to hair care (and happy dating):

1. Soak hair. It’s important that the hair is damped through thoroughly and evenly.
2. Petrosage. Petrosage is a scalp massaging technique to stimulate blood-flow to the scalp encouraging healthy hair and scalp.
3. Shampoo. Remember hair usually only needs one application of shampoo. More than this can lead to static or fly-away results and leave the hair unprotected.
4. Rinse. It’s important to ensure that no shampoo residue remains as this can dry the scalp out and create a flaky itchy scalp.
5. Condition. Distribute the conditioner evenly through the hair first using your fingers then using a comb.

The next time I (or you, dear reader) am tempted to do a follow up shampoo with the same man who caused us the frizzies, limpness or just an all around BAD HAIR DAY (or perhaps week, month or year!), I implore that we use our heads.  Instead of jumping in and using that same old shampoo again….I suggest we think twice.

Our memory often fails us. If we had to go to a a salon for a deep conditioning treatment to undo the trauma after dating him the first time around, we will undoubtedly be going to the salon again if we do the “repeat” step with him. Sure, he may pour on smooth and smell yummy and make us all bubbly and happy momentarily…but we must not forget how difficult it was to do the RINSE step!!!  It may have taken months or years to wash that man out of our hair!  We must not fall for the REPEAT trap.  We must not fall prey to yet another successful Madison Avenue marketing campaign.  

Ahhh...bubbles! And amnesia!

      TIPS:

      *  BUY SHAMPOO THAT SUITS YOUR HAIR TYPE.

      *  SHAMPOO ONCE.  DO NOT REPEAT!

Oh sure, shampooing is fun. What woman doesn’t like yummy, luxurious, delicious smelling bubbles?  But, remember, the more times you rinse and repeat, the more extensive the damage.  Use a gentle shampoo. Treat yourself with care.  And don’t fall for fancy bottles or slyly written directions.

And throw the old bottle away, for God’s sake.  Any attractively designed bottle that sits on the edge of your tub long enough will eventually look appealing again.  

Time to switch brands, ladies!

Just say NO !

I am widowed.  Which is why I am here (see my blog title). I am also dating. Which is why I am on sites like Match.com.  Today, I was talking with a fellow (that sounds wrong) widow. We were talking about men. About dating them, mostly.  She was feeling odd about the prospect of dating someone younger than herself. I could not immediately even grasp what she was saying. I mean, I myself have never experienced that “odd” feeling in relation to dating younger men. What other kind of men are there??  Older ones, I guess.  And what exactly is the draw…?  Maturity?  Some brand of “fatherly-ness?”  I suppose that’s attractive to some women. I don’t know. What? You throw his E.D. issues in the bucket with the fact that your breasts aren’t as perky as they once were, stir…and everyone feels equal? I just don’t see it.  I mean, when I was in college and fell head-over-heels for my late husband, I thought it was kind of sweet that he was 1.5 years my senior. One and a half years seemed perfect.  But let’s get real, my friends… I was 19 when we started dating in earnest.  He was 20…and a HALF. What’s the big difference?  There is none.  Men are a bit less mature than women at that age…so it all balances out nicely. He could have been ten years older than me and it still would have seemed perfectly perfect.  WHEN I WAS 19.

MAINE. Where there are NO MEN!

Okay, but now I am in my forties. Even 1.5 years is too much of a chasm for me to bridge. I did the *unthinkable* and put my profile back up on a certain internet dating site this past weekend. I cannot even believe I am admitting this to anyone. Much less the general population. But, really, I am living in Maine now. MAINE.  Portland, the hot spot. The place where it’s all happening - the big city.  Portland is the only place in this one-area-code-state where there remains a shred of hope if you are single. And, sadly, even here, there are virtually NO MEN.  Where have they gone?  And if you find one, he is probably an outcast from some other civilized place…or has come here to recover from something (like I did!) or he is here by default, unable to function in a state that has the stress associated with multiple area codes.  Like Massachusetts. Or California.  Get the defibrillator!

Now, please, do not write telling me that if I hate Maine so much, I should move. I love Maine. I love the ocean. I love my vintage house. I do not like the lack of men, however. Needless to say, I was depressed upon hearing a good friend proclaim, “Women don’t move to Maine unless they are already bringing a man with them.”  So happy to have gotten that tidbit of enlightenment after I had already taken out a 15 year mortgage. All by myself. Without a man. HEY!  Cool!

"Sorry to hear you're under the weather. Get well soon!"

So, given that I am living in the Sahara desert of dating, you’d think I would be happy to get the attention of any seemingly decent man. No matter what his age. But, I must admit…NO!…  I am not happy with the attention of any seemingly decent man, no matter what his age.  As you know, I have been widowed. My first thought is this:  I am not burying another husband. Nope.  Not doing it.  That was a one-time offer, gentlemen. Marriage vows.  For better or worse?  Been there. Done that. I’m not going down that road again if I can help it. You get diagnosed with terminal cancer?  Sorry…I will be headed off to a spa for a couple of years. I’ll send flowers. I’ll email.   I cannot imagine living through that brand of hell again. Really.  There is only so much one woman can endure. Especially when it comes to unfathomable heartbreak and devastation. 

Therefore, a younger man seems like the wise choice.  I know there are no guarantees. But we all know that men tend to wear out earlier than we women do. And why start something with someone who might not have many years left on his warranty?  I suppose I could request a full physical exam, EKG and family history on the first date…but I think I am intimidating enough to most men without making things worse.

So…when you see me out with someone younger…it’s not because I am some desperate older woman, pouncing on poor, unsuspecting young men.  No.  It’s because I have been there and done that and I cannot do a repeat performance of the “burying-the-man-I -love” thing. I know I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen…but, I can at the very least stack the odds in my favor.

Stop looking at me like that. You go and bury the man that you love, and then get back to me when you start getting “winked” at by men on internet dating sites who are old enough to be dating your mother. “Dear Man Who Could be Dating My Mother: I’m sure you are lovely and still have your own teeth and are good hearted, but…really…here is Louise’s phone number.  Ring her up!  PLEASE!  I am no good for you!  The sex alone would kill you!”  

And there you have it.  My point exactly.

Of course, there are numerous other reasons for being drawn to someone younger…but I probably don’t need to go into that right now. The imagination is a powerful tool.  

Ashton to ashes.  Demi to dust.   When it works, it works.

STILL CRAVING MORE? You know you are!  See the little companion movie to this story by clicking  on the following link:    \”Younger Men Pay Less for Life Insurance.\”

…Known to many of us winter daters as:  ”S.A.D.D.”  

So, here I am.  Spring.  A new season. A new beginning.  As a widow, it also often makes me a bit melancholy.  I remember the first spring after Drew died. Six springs ago…but it feels like far fewer.  I saw the daffodils peeking up through the soil, and it hit me all at once and without warning:  ”It’s spring.  And he’s not here.”  ”How could he not be here?” I thought, as tears trickled down my cheeks.

Well, that’s a different topic, for a different day.  Today’s topic is a bit lighter.  I want to talk about men. Seasonal men, in particular.  And disorders.

Madeline is lucky she never dated!

So, spring has arrived.  The winter is over.  The snow is disappearing. I can finally see my rotting pumpkin outside my front door…right beside my “so dry it might spontaneously burst into flames” Christmas tree.  Ok, so I am not the the queen of domesticity and yard maintenance.  So sue me. I dare you!  I am in just that sort of a pissy mood this afternoon!!  My point is this:  Winter has just ended, and NEITHER of the men with whom I thought I might spend not only the entire winter season, but also the spring, summer and possibly even the autumnal equinox….NEITHER of them are still in the proverbial picture. Done. Cooked. Over.  Finis. Perhaps my judgment was clouded by lack of sunlight. Perhaps I should have been taking more vitamin D.  Maybe my 6th sense is in need of a trip to the repair shop.  Clearly, I need to check to see if the warranty has expired on my “suitable dating material” radar device.  Because, as Miss Clavell, the nun in the beloved “Madeline” series of children’s books exclaims repeatedly, “Somezing is not rrright!”  

Forget “Seasonal Affect Disorder.”  That’s no biggie.  This is “Seasonal Affect Dating Disorder.”  Similar to S.A.D. But infinitely worse.  S.A.D.D.  With two D’s. If it were bra, it would not be an A cup, B cup or C cup.  But the dreaded DOUBLE D.

Miss Clavell says: "No French Kissing on a first date!"

So, Winter Man # 1 lasted from mid-fall until early winter.  Two months. Count them. One. Two.  After a disastrous ending, which could have been avoided had I used my 6th sense (or, let’s face it, merely my COMMON SENSE), I plunged wholeheartedly and with an actual head upon my shoulders (whether there was a brain in said head remains to be seen) into something with Winter Man #2. He had defined it as a “committed” dating relationship. Looking back, not only were we not “committed”… we were not even DATING. Because…drumroll please:  He was incapable of making an actual date.

Date (n.)1. a pre-planned social engagement with someone of the opposite sex.

Irreverent Widow Dating Rule #1: No date-making = no dating.

So, I suppose the entire thing is null and void.  Phew!  Now, although I found him very charming, Winter Man #2 admittedly initially entered my life as a way to soften the painful blows dealt by Winter Man #1. Because, believe me…no amount of 100 proof vodka was capable of softening THAT nuclear bomb of a relationship ending.  No.  It required something more inappropriate. More toxic.  Something fun…but with a touch of the forbidden.  

Something to cause temporary amnesia.

Red Flag = DANGER!

So, I am pole-vaulting toward Winter Man #2…. and clearly not seeing the gigantic red flags in front of me.  Red flags that this man had written messages on by hand…with sharpie marker. Permanent signs. Signs that clearly were telling me, “RUN! I am not really ready to date you!!!”  But, did I run?  No. Of course not.  I did not run, because my brain was apparently on “dating auto-pilot” and my common sense remained buried in the snow next to my rotting pumpkin and my dried out Christmas tree. 

Meanwhile, the man with whom I probably SHOULD have been enjoying a real winter relationship…the man who wanted to sweep me off my feet and kiss me on sun-drenched beaches and on ski slopes and in front of fireplaces while the snow was falling…that man was watching incredulously from afar as I would make a plan with him, cancel a plan with him…make a plan with him, cancel a plan with him…all while trying to decide whether I should be dating someone, no one, him, them… anyone.  

Stop me! I'm getting dizzy!

Good God.  My brain was like a dating salad spinner.  

As it turned out, I was completely wrong about Winter Man #2. I don’t think I have ever been quite so wrong about anyone in my life.  So here it is, spring, and I have gone through not ONE, but two winter men. I mean, really.  Two men in one short season. Sadly…now I am sitting here, wondering why I didn’t just say goodbye to both of them upon seeing those gigantic red, hand inscribed warning flags…instead of tormenting myself for an entire season.  

I should have gone off on the wonderful trips with Winter Man #3.  Well…he is not just a winter guy…he is a year-round guy.  Not so much seasonal. Catch up with me in July and I’ll let you know how it’s going. Hope springs eternal.  Forgive the bad pun. Meanwhile, I am happy that the snow is melting. Happy that the daffodils will soon be peeking up through the mucky ground. Happy that my two “winter men” will soon be a distant memory as I walk barefoot on the beach. Hopefully, with the year-round guy. Who, I am happy to report, only makes my head spin when he kisses me the way he does. My only regret is that I have wasted yet another perfectly good fireplace season.  

Next winter, I am taking preventative doses of vitamin D.  

WARNING: Today, I am trying something *NEW*.  Do not be alarmed.  I’m posting my written story…plus its “test” video (YES…you get me in live action!) accompaniment.   Here’s the link: My Great Ass.

Have fun!  As always, ”My frustration (and in this case, my joy) is your entertainment.”

"Who knew??!"

I never thought of myself as having a great behind.  I mean, I always knew I had a nice body…but, as a woman who recalls having once layered 8 pair of cotton underwear under her jeans (at age 13) before going to dinner at some friend of the family’s house because they had a cute son her age and she wanted her derriere to appear, more, well…prevalent…let’s just say that I never thought of my ass as my greatest asset.

So imagine my surprise when I began dating again after Drew died only to have men making proclamations left and right about what a “great ass” I had.

I knew Drew liked my behind. But I am not even certain that HE ever told me I had a great ass. Maybe he did, maybe I just didn’t really give it much credence since he was my husband and he was supposed to think I was wonderfully perfect in all ways.

So here I was, with men drooling all over me and my great behind. At first, I didn’t really believe it. But when I started hearing it not only from dates number 1, 2 and 3…but also from dates number 4,5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11, I began to think “Huh. Maybe I really DO have a great ass!” I mean, what could make a 40 something year old woman happier than to find out the ass she thought was just passable for her first 4 decades was now something to be coveted…something men were dreaming about when they climbed into bed at night?

I soon came to the conclusion that my ass wasn’t all that spectacular. It was the jeans. Or the way my ass fit into the particular jeans I had inadvertently purchased. When I realized this, I began wearing the same pair of jeans on each and every first date, just to test my theory. I had a kind of first date uniform. To keep the testing ground consistent. I mean, I wanted to be comparing apples to apples, so to speak. The “great ass jeans”, a thin cashmere sweater, silver earrings and upswept hair. That was my first date uniform. Upswept hair because I suddenly also had every man telling me what a beautiful neck I had. I had previously always disliked my neck. Now I was appreciating both my ass and my neck more and more every day.

So I did what any woman would have done. I went out and bought 7 more pair of the exact same jeans, just in case they were discontinued at any point down the road. I wore those jeans constantly. I wore them until they all were full of tears and holes and until the belt loops were all in varying degrees of disintegration from being twisted around men’s fingers while they pushed me up against car doors and restaurant walls and kissed me goodnight. Those were some jeans. Now I only have one pair left, and they are too ragged to wear out of the house. I am going to keep them and frame them and display them on my bedroom wall when I get too old to remember how to have sex.

In the meantime, I have come to the conclusion that, although I exercise and use the elliptical torture machine faithfully and walk and do all of that good butt-shaping stuff….I still do not have a truly great ass. I think that what I am blessed with is precisely the right amount of material in that area, and when it is squeezed into the right pair of pants, well, it gives the illusion of being nearly perfect. The problem is, eventually, you have to get naked.

Which brings me to my next topic…

SEX. (and let’s be real here…you’ll probably have to wait for the book for that one).

What??!

Happy second day of March, 2009.  It is snow day #4. I know this, because I opened my laptop early this morning to find cheerful emails from all manner of school administrators making me aware of this fact.  It is Monday.  I just spent 2.5 days with my beloved children… and now we are given even more time to bond. This wouldn’t be so terrible, but for the fact that this *surprise!* three day weekend comes a mere 7 days after a February school vacation that turned into an extended funfest due to an additional day of lifelong learning lost to snow. Nine days of vacation…only to be capped off by a snow day last Monday.  

I think I speak for parents up and down the northeast coast when I lovingly plead to our school administrators: “For the love of all that is holy, please keep our children for 5 consecutive days! “

So this morning, after lying in bed twittering away on my laptop from under the covers (not nearly as filthy as it sounds), and praying that my cherubs would stay asleep for as long as humanly possible…I was suddenly and noisily jolted back to reality by my 10 year old son, informing me that we had snow in our kitchen. Snow. In my kitchen.  The door, whose closing mechanism has never worked as God intended, had apparently blown open at some point during the night and our kitchen floor was covered in the fluffy white stuff.

Him:  Mom!  There’s snow in the kitchen.

Me:   What??!

Him:  Yeah.  The kitchen door is open and the snow blew in through the screen door.

Ok, so this is disturbing for numerous reasons. 

Reason #1. He had not thought to actually close the door after noticing that it was open.

Reason #2.  Its close resemblance to a conversation between the 10 year old and myself that took place only 5 days ago that went as follows:

Him:  Mom!  There’s a dead mouse in the toilet upstairs.

Me:   What??!

Him:  Yeah. I thought someone took a dump until I saw the tail.

*please note: I had a lot of difficulty actually typing the word “dump” due to my own uptight, well-mannered Protestant upbringing regarding matters of excrement. But that’s what the child said.

Reason #3. Had the glass panel been installed into the storm door in a timely manner as planned, the snow would not have been able to blow into my kitchen  The handyman never showed - surprise! - (see “It’s Raining Men” for further details on my continuing handyman-related frustrations), and by the time I found someone to help it had already snowed more than once, and the storm door panel was a mere three feet from the kitchen door, buried, sadly, beneath an avalanche of frozen, white precipitation. Presumably, it would be accessible for installation after the spring thaw.  And who the hell needs a storm door at that point?

Temptation abounds.

The man who had finally noticed my storm door problem and offered to come to my assistance was the same man who also invited me to jet off to Aspen with him. In fact, I could have been there right now. Today. Tomorrow. And the next day.  The babysitter could have been here with the kids on this fourth snow day of the 2008-2009 school season.  Shoveling snow in my kitchen at 9 AM.  Her.  Not me!  Aspen man was kind enough to send me a photo direct from paradise just this morning.  

What??!  

How sweet of him to taunt me.

My glamourous life.

So, the reason I am at home shoveling snow off of my kitchen floor today is because I am, obviously, not in Aspen. And why am I not in Aspen?  Because of my affectionate feelings toward a man who has something money cannot buy…A smile that makes me melt.  And with those six little words…POOF!  bye bye Aspen. 

Dammit.  I hate that!   

Therefore, alas, I find myself in one of those situations made possible only by the illogical palpitations of the heart.  Shoveling snow off of my kitchen floor with a spatula…while the manwho has made numerous noteworthy

attempts to sweep me off my feet enjoys his lunch in vacation paradise, at 10,000 feet.  Sans me. Not that

"Who says I'm not domestically capable??"

I’m complaining or anything. I’d totally rather be here with a man whose smile makes me melt than in Aspen with a man who asked me at least once a month (for over a year) the million dollar question: “Do you ski?”  He was either not paying enough attention to ever recall my answer: (”Yes, but not all that well!”) or else had asked so many other women the same question that it was all one big blur of dating information. He was nice enough, but come on.  I mean, the guy with the melty smile may not be without his imperfections, but there is something undeniably hot about a man who, within three days of knowing you, has committed to memory not only the names, ages and gender of your three children…but also the fact that you have, yes, THREE children. As a single mother who is dating, I can tell you that I like a man who pays attention to the details of my life. For example, the fact that I have children.  Dreams do come true.  

I know these events are all somehow related and there is a lesson in here for me.  Storm doors.  Snow Days.  Aspen. Men. Kids. School Administrators. Snow in my kitchen.  I am suddenly feeling woozy. 

I need air!

Which shouldn’t be too tough to access since there is still a screen in my storm door.

Excuse me while I saunter into my luxurious kitchen to build a snowman who can fix things. I think I’ll give him button eyes, a sweet Twizzler licorice smile, a cashmere scarf…and a nice, big, succulent cucumber, ummm………..nose.  

Let it snow, baby!  My kitchen’s got it all over Aspen.  Whatever!

We all know the catchy little holiday tune, ”The Twelve Days of Christmas”…yes?

All chipper and bright.  Maids-a-milking and chicks dancing and drummer dudes drumming.  Sounds like a real party! And that poor partridge, stuck up there in that pear tree, afraid to come down lest he be attacked by the three horny French Hens.  Or are they French horns?  No matter. And then there are the five golden rings.  Ahhh, yes. The rings.  Which make me think of wedding rings.  And weddings. And marriage.  And MY marriage.  And my husband.  And the fact that he is now my DEAD husband. And the tragedy that was his death by pancreatic cancer, on the magically beautiful snowy morning after Christmas.  Circa 2002.  Sad is a word that does that Christmas no justice.  Yes. How I have always loved Christmas. 

So now it is 2008.  Five Christmases have come and gone since then.  Five.  I can barely fathom it. It feels like…as much as I hate to say it…well, yesterday. Cliche’s do come from somewhere.  This is Christmas number six.  On the horizon. Next week.  Again, where do the days go?  The hours of tears. The tissues that are now already disintegrated in some landfill in Massachusetts. Or right here in Maine.  

That Christmas season when Drew died, he told me he wanted me to find someone.  To love someone.  For our children to have someone.  I couldn’t even process the words as they came from the mouth of the man I loved.  WIth warm blood still pulsing through his failing body.  But I absorbed them.  And I knew that someday, I would be oh so happy he had voiced those sentiments.  Painful beyond comprehension as they were at the moment.  And sure enough, as the months and years went by, and as I began dating and searching for someone to fill that void…I remembered his selflessness, and his loving words.  

I believed he would “send me someone.”  Later…when all of the “someones” turned out to be the “not-so-right-for-me-as-I-had-hoped” someones…I stopped merely passively BELIEVING he would send me someone, and started ASKING him to send me someone. When months and years continued to go by and that special someone my dying husband had promised me was still a no-show, I not only asked…I began to beg. “PLEASE send me someone. What’s taking you so long?  It’s been _____ (fill in the number of your choice) years.  How long do I have to suffer? How long do I have to wait?”  

Next I moved on to SWEARING.

It got rather nasty.  It turned ugly between he and I.  ”Oh sure…you’re up there in heaven or wherever the hell and I am here…with our three children.  So where’s Mr. Wonderful??  Huh?  You’re all talk and no action. Thanks a lot.  Really.  Don’t rush or anything. I can wait around till I’m 70. No problem. It’s not like the clock is ticking and I have limited time left till my breasts are in need of a lift and my hair turns gray and I hit menopause. No rush. Take your time up there, sweetie. Have I mentioned how much I hate you for leaving me here all alone…to date these losers? “

Okay, so stop making that face.  I warned you already that it got ugly at some point.

The worst part was the holidays.  Never having a boyfriend or date during the Christmas season. It was a bad enough season for me to begin with.  A little attention/ affection/ hot sex would have taken the edge off.  Taken my mind off of my loss.  But no.  I always seemed to break up or be miles away from any sort of dating situation when it got to be Halloween. Maybe even Labor Day.  

And so, to recap my resplendent years of widowed holiday dating, I submit to you the following:

“On the 1st Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

Humorous man. Warm body. Long distance. Admittedly, my  virgin “Please get me through my first holiday season without my beloved husband whom I still adore completely” guy.  Tragic error in judgment.  Cruelty (on my part) at its best. Of course, he was freshly divorced and it was his first Christmas alone, as well. Technically, we both should have still been locked in our homes in shackles.   Marked as dangerously undateable.

“On the 2nd Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

Delusional love due to strictly shallow requirements being fulfilled.  Handsome.  Right height.  He smelled really good all of the time and dressed well. Long distance… so no need for real intimacy or a real relationship.  Easy Peas.  Made it on a hope and a prayer to the holiday season…only to implode mid-New Year’s Eve.  Gave me holiday gift that would have landed him in the current Saatchi & Saatchi/ JC Penney ”Doghouse” video 57suyw.  Unforgiveable Christmas gift discounts status as “holiday boyfriend.”

“On the 3rd Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

First Maine boyfriend.  Local. Two miles away.  Seemed better than 120 mile relationships I had navigated two previous holiday seasons. Started dating mid August.  Ended around Thanksgiving.  Lord knows what emotional turmoil would have ensued had it lasted through the Winter Solstice.  Pretty certain I’d still be in full-time therapy. As would he.

“On the 4th Year of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me”…

It’s all a blur. Really. No clue.  I vaguely recall writing a holiday letter on New Year’s Eve to family and friends asking them to package up any handsome, tall, intelligent men who smelled good and owned button-down cotton shirts and send them via FedEx to Maine, because I hadn’t had sex in 10 months…but I would have to search my laptop memory for proof of that document.

“On the 5th Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

Not one appropriate man. But two “kind-of-appropriate-men.”  First I cannot find any.  Then I have two.  Started dating both of them in August.  Both pretty much over by Halloween…yet lingered through holidays without any tangible benefits.  Not feasible as holiday party dates or men who could curl up next to me in front of the fireplace while my three kids played with Christmas toys across the room. But for some stellar kissing throughout the fall, seasonally useless.  Especially once we reached December.

“On the 6th Year of Christmas My True Love Sent to Me”…

It’s hard to believe.  But it seems Drew has finally pulled through. Could it be that he has finally listened to my pleas?  Or perhaps it’s because I’ve been feeling so happy with my life as it is that he thought I was finally ready for someone.  I wasn’t begging anymore.  I wasn’t pleading anymore.  I wasn’t desperate anymore. I wasn’t trying to fill in that seemingly endless void created the day he took his last breath and left me here to raise our children and carry on without him anymore.  I had done my time.  I had done a lot of crying, a lot of cursing, a lot of accepting, a lot of surrendering…also a lot of writing, a lot of art-making…and a lot of healing. 

So, thank you my love.  For giving me the most wonderful Christmas gift of all. My happiness. My first truly happy Christmas since you died.  I have been waiting six years to hear the first Christmas carol on the radio while I’m driving in my car without ending up in tears…sobbing for the duration of the hap-hap-happy holiday season.  This year, I heard the first carol on my car radio and didn’t shed a SINGLE tear. It felt so good. Of course, it was that ridiculous “Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey” carol….but I’ll take it.  

Of course, I still can’t make it through the Peanuts characters singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” at the end of the “Charlie Brown Christmas” movie… but, hey, one thing at a time.  Ever the optimist, I believe that one day, a bunch of cartoon characters with big round heads and a dancing beagle dog wearing Christmas pagent costumes joyously shouting, “Merry Christmas Charlie Brown!” won’t make me weep uncontrollably.  But I’m not making any bets quite yet. Next year is the anniversary of our 10 year “Time Capsule” …circa New Year’s Eve, 1999.  A few months before we heard the words “pancreatic cancer.”  

Please send tissues.  I’m stocking up.  With any luck…I’ll still have the present Drew gave me this year and “My 7th Year of Christmas” will be filled with more unimagined blessings, and a continued decline in Kleenex useage.

R. I. P.

I see a trend in progress. I see disaster on the horizon. I see the Twitter Train of Trouble barreling toward a cute little imported sports car…that has gotten its sensitive, run-flat tires hitched on the tracks.

“You should give social media sites a try. You should be on Twitter.”   Yes. Ok.  Twitter?  What the hell is Twitter?  So I follow the guy’s advice…and I not only go on Twitter…but I find out I actually LIKE Twitter.  I like it because it allows you to showcase your witty little comments.  It allows you to goof off for a while, and do it in the name of social media networking.  It allows you to communicate in 140 character sound bites.  And, really, isn’t that what our world is coming to?  Condensing it all into sound bites?  Very helpful for the ADD crowd.  Myself (proudly) included.

But, there is a problem with the whole Twitter thing.  Perhaps those of us who are veterans of a foreign war (aka Match.com) can see the problem more clearly than others.  Any match.com survivors out there?  I can’t be the only one. Step forward, for God’s sake.  Ok.  So, for those of you who have not had the pleasure or reason to participate in the match.com experience, I will fill you in on one of the biggest problems I had with it.  Besides the fact that men who were 5′7″ would claim to be 6′1″ and would then not expect you to be even slightly annoyed upon meeting and being able to count every hair on the top of their heads.

The biggest match.com problem for me was what I like to call the “Active within one hour” effect.  This was when you would come home from a date that had gone (seemingly) well…only to click on loverboy’s profile an hour later and see the unfortunate phrase, “Active within one hour” appear on the screen.  Not “Active within 24 hours.”  Not “Active within 3 days.”  Not “Active within 3 months.”  But, “Active within ONE hour.”

Yowch.  Ok.  So, the date went well.  Oh, yeah, you were having SO much fun together.  He makes a 2nd date with you. Or a 3rd . Or a 17th.  Things are going great. BUT WAIT!  It has only been 60 minutes since that mind-melting goodnight kiss…and Mr. Dreamboat has already been back on match.com…searching for some new prey.  For another woman to bamboozle.   Your lips are still tingling, and the loser is already out there, looking for someone else to kiss before he sees you for the next date.

This is not only hurtful and disappointing. This is just plain cruel.  I mean, no one needs that much information.  And, in real life, you would not have access to that type of information.  Now, this goes both ways. I was guilty of this behaviour upon occasion,too.  But I was not really on the prowl.  I mean, maybe one of you returns from the date and freaks out a little because you like the other person too much and it’s happening too fast…so you go on match.com to do a little browsing. No real harm is done. It doesn’t mean you’re sleeping with someone else or even communicating with someone else.  In real life, if you stopped at the grocery store after your date and batted your eyelashes at, say, the guy at the deli counter, no one would be the wiser.  Yet, in cyber-dating, you get all the evidence you need for full-blown annihilation. I mean, seeing your recent date on there within an hour puts the nail right there in the coffin.  It’s internet suicide.

Now, back to Twitter.

I see Twitter as having the same potential disastrous effect.  I don’t just see it.  I have witnessed it.  I have seen it in action. Up close and personal.  It is like a trainwreck waiting to happen.  And the crash is not pretty.  I know I am not the first person to be aware of the negatives.  But, perhaps I am just very sensitive to it.  Being less a fan of online communication and more a fan of “real-life-in-person-hello-let’s-grab-coffee-kind-of-friendship” communication.

So, without further ado, and with all of the love and goodwill in my heart, I offer up the following tidbits of advice (note: The following are all purely fictitious examples: any similarities to real-life are purely accidental.  If you have been speaking of your new iPhone apps, potty training, or traffic issues on Twitter as of late, don’t bother trying to sue me.)

1. If you are doing work for me, and I am paying you, and you have not completed something that I thought you were trying earnestly to complete…I do not want to go on Twitter and see you….on Twitter.  Tweeting about the weather conditions and/or your kid’s baseball game and/or the latest iPhone application.

2. If I am supposed to be having lunch with you, and you are late, I do not want to go on Twitter and see you… on Twitter.  Tweeting about your busy day and/or your kid’s potty training issues and/or a recipe for macaroons.

3. If I am dating you, and have sent you a thoughtful message, and I am anxiously awaiting a sweet little thoughtful 2 sentence message in return,  I do not want to go on Twitter and see you…on Twitter. Tweeting about a humorous event at the office and/or the price of fresh figs and/or the fact that the bridge was up as you were driving in to work.

Mark my words.  Twitter will be the death of many a friendship, business relationship and romance.

It’s always fun, until someone pokes an eye out.  Best to separate church and state.  It’s a public forum, people.  PUBLIC.  Don’t let it ruin the personal side of your life by thinking no one sees what you write. I am as guilty as the rest. I have had my Twitter “close calls.” Hitting send when I shouldn’t have and then scrambling to hit the red panic button.  ”ABORT ABORT!!!!” It’s no better than coming home from that fabulous date and catching the idiot with “Active within one hour” plastered next to his (or her) match.com profile photo.

Relationships are important.  Internet “relationships” can be fun. They can be entertaining.  But, real life relationships are where it’s all at.  Social Media might be big at the moment…but I have a feeling (and this is just my old-fashioned gut instinct speaking to me) one day it will be responsible for a lot of damage…and that a whole lot of therapists are going to be able to buy new vacation homes off of the proceeds from the wreckage.

So, think before you type those 140 little characters.  Two sentences in cyberspace can sometimes do irreparable damage. You can hit “erase”…but there are certain things that you can’t “undo.”

Now…go out there and tweet away if you must (Lord knows, I’m hooked)…but use protection.  And, go smoke a *cigarette with a friend afterward. In the REAL world.

*Disclaimer:  THE IRREVERENT WIDOW does not actually recommend cigarette smoking.  While still standing by previous statements (made by myself) that it is damned sexy when done by the right man, and looks endlessly cool…it WILL most likely have the unfortunate side-effect of killing you.  Better death by Twitter than death by Marlboro Lights.

Burn baby, burn.

There’s an old adage….”Don’t burn your bridges.”  

I’ve been thinking about that old adage a lot as of late…and about burning things… as the kids beg me to let them start a fire in our vintage fireplace nearly every night.  The one that looks charming but sucks the heat out of our poorly insulated vintage house.  And, I’ve also been thinking about bridges. And the whole concept.  And, btw, I know that I’m not suppose to begin sentences with “and”…but, I don’t really care.  I like to start sentences with “and” so please don’t write to me about it.  Ooooh…that sounded a bit defensive!  

Note to self: Make appointment w/therapist to delve into possible unresolved issues w/ grammar school teacher who taught me about proper sentence structure.

 So my thoughts at this point in my life are running to the side that says, “Hey, that’s a stupid old adage.”

This opinion was solidified when I happened to stumble upon a website containing a blog posting containing a thought on the whole “don’t burn any bridges” rule.  The thought was the following: when we operate out of the fear of not destroying relationships or burning bridges to people and things…it can, in fact, be a type of imprisonment.  Self-imposed bars that keep us from standing up for what we know is right. That sometimes keep us from being true to ourselves and our own sense of fairness.  Believing in a concept as some “across-the-board truth” doesn’t allow us the room be true to our own power and our own intrinsic value.

So, whoever wrote those few words that inspired me to think more deeply and to question things like old adages - things we just “accept” as truths and allow to have an influence over the way we operate in our world - thank you.

The best part about being widowed and having your priorities quickly thrown into order is that you are set free from the ridiculousness of rules and adages and all of the things that hold many other people captive. I can see clearly that some bridges are best burned.  I myself am 100% certain that I don’t need to waste one day hanging onto an ill-built structure that I will likely end up falling through one day as I try to cross the Hudson River. If it’s a choice between being true to my instincts…or not being true to them, and getting hurt…I say, why not create a little smoke?  There are helicopters and kayaks and things like that.  We don’t always always need bridges.  In fact, sometimes they are a crutch that keep us stuck by allowing us the safety of knowing we can always “go back” if we want to.  Life is not about backwards…it’s about forward motion.

No…I used to believe in that adage. But not anymore.  In fact, when I left my very first full-time job, a job at a PR agency…a job that, after 16 months or so, left me feeling as if I had worked there for 16 years…well, I left there with flames behind me.  I mean, I totally burned that bridge.  And I think I always felt a twinge of guilt for the destruction.  However, 30 something years have passed, and I have never needed that bridge. Which makes the guilt seem just ridiculous. As all guilt is.  Ridiculous.  

So…my thought is this:  Do what you need to do. Sometimes you need to take a stand. Sometimes you need to move on.  Sometimes it’s good to burn things and blow things up and chop them to hell. Metaphorically, of course.  I mean. I am not looking to initiate actual violence or start a rash of criminal activity upon structures paid for by our tax dollars, for heaven’s sake. I don’t want to read in the paper tomorrow morning that you were outside in your underwear at 2 AM with a stick of dynamite or anything.  Don’t misunderstand my intentions.  I mean, clearly, if you are going to destroy any property…best to confine it to your own home.  * As an aside: A few of you out there are aware that I am still trying to fill in the dents in my nice hardwood bedroom floor where I took out my passionate anger on an old boyfriend’s piece of artwork with the claw end of a hammer a couple of months back.  My poor floor. I should have just thrown the piece of artwork in the fireplace, instead.  Or sold it on eBay and made some money!  

Bad bridges. Bad relationships. Bad anything.  Why muck up your life with bridges to things that no longer lead your heart to something good?  Cut your losses.  Be true to your own soul.  Move on.  Stand firm in your convictions. You can’t always keep bridges in place. Even when you want to. Sometimes they just fall apart and there is no repairing them.  Not everyone is going to like you if you operate under these guidelines…but at least you can smile inside…knowing something better may be just a kayak ride away. Sometimes you just have to dismantle the bridge, throw the wood in the fireplace…and Burn, Baby, Burn.  

p.s.  As always,please remember: THIS IS A GUILT-FREE BLOG ZONE!  

Magritte

As I stood atop the rickety wooden ladder yesterday afternoon, installing the enormous storm windows that help keep the heat from escaping through the single paned glass of my old 1920’s porch, the thoughts running through my head varied.  Thought #1:  I am going to fall off this ancient ladder and suffer life-threatening injuries while my 12 & 15 year old offspring yammer around instead of paying attention and hold the ladder steady.  Thought #2:  If I had a man in my life who was house-maintenance enabled…I wouldn’t be up here on this ladder, worrying about imminent injury.  Thought #3:  I don’t need a man in my life to do this sort of stuff…because, I can do it myself!!  Wonder Woman didn’t have a male sidekick doing her home maintenance chores, did she?  Thought #4:  Damn you, Drew, for dying on me…and taking all of your handyman skills to the afterlife, with you.  I’m sure they’re all kinds of thrilled “over there” that they have snagged one more guy who is not only capable of fixing stuff…but who actually loves to do it. But, I am suffering down here.  Thought #5:  I am SO tired of doing everything by myself…or, worse yet, remaining at the mercy of handymen who show up to put the storm windows up in, say, January. Or turn on the outside water in, say, September.  Thanks so much Mr. Handyman.  You’re nice.  And witty. But I’ll just do it MYSELF - before I lose another hundred dollars worth of heat!!! I thought we were in an economic downturn, for God’s sake. Doesn’t the lure of cold, hard cash mean anything anymore??

Prior to climbing up on that ladder…and down that ladder…and up that ladder…and down…up….down…up  (you get the picture - there were 5 humongous screens to take down, 5 humongous windows to clean, and 5 humongous storm windows to install) I had been in my garage, prying the unwieldy, weighty windows from their resting places.  As I stood there, I was reminded of a day soon after I had bought this house…as a widowed, single parent of 3.  A day when a woman was delivering a huge, unwieldy, HEAVY antique cabinet to my house.  There were 4 of us women there that morning, to get this mammoth piece of furniture off of the truck and into the empty house.  My first big purchase for our new house…our new life.  So, there we were, all four of us, still struggling to move this thing off of the back of the pick-up/delivery truck.  When suddenly…what to our bleary eyes should appear, but…men.  Not just one man.  But, men.  Like, 5 of them. They emerged through the early morning fog, from the wooded lot next to my new home, as if in some sort of dream.  They had on their tree cutting gear.  Some sort of protective eye masks or breathing filter apparatus.  Carhaarts….man, they looked good.  Not because they were so extra hot or anything…but because they were coming to rescue us.  The damsels in distress.  Of course, we weren’t in distress…not really. And two of the women were lesbians, which somehow made it even funnier that these macho men were coming to save us.  But, damn, when 5 men come sauntering out of the foggy woods, like in some movie…wanting to help you move a 900 pound piece of furniture…your feminist thoughts vanish.  Poof! And you just smile and say, “Thank You.  I am in love with you and wish to bear your children.”

So, I’m in the garage, dragging these windows around, and I’m thinking of the cabinet moving incident, and I burst out into song.  Which is not completely unlike me.  I start singing, “It’s Raining Men.”  Who sang that? The Weather Girls?  Circa 1970-something?  And my 12 year old son looks at me, and without skipping a beat says, “No it’s not raining men…because if it were, you wouldn’t be out here doing this!”

And at moments such as that, I am both happy to be Wonder Woman - setting a fine example of independence for my male and female children…and okay with admitting to sometimes wishing I could allow more of my Sweet Polly Purebred side to show (for you Underdog cartoon fans!), looking for those men to come back out of the woods…in their sexy, dirty Carhaarts.  Wanting desperately to be rescued.  If only for a an hour or two.  

The 24/7 Wonder Woman thing gets exhausting.