Recycle. Repurpose. Reuse.

Some of my friends have given me the nickname "recycling enthusiast".
I fully try to embrace the three R's.
Recycle. Repurpose. Reuse.
School has only been in session for one full week and two of my paper recycling bins are almost full.

One of the many things I reuse is manilla folders.
Just flip them inside out and they are as good as new.
And like other teachers, I have used some of my own things from home to stock my classroom.
One such manilla folder is on my desk.
At the back of my standing file holder.

Thursday evening as I was working after the children had left.
I walked from the back of the classroom toward my desk.
Probably after dropping paper in the recycling bin.
There I saw it.
My heart skipped a beat.
I paused.

The back of the manilla folder stared at me.
Two simple words.
Capital One.
It was not the words that stopped me.
It was the handwriting.
Not my handwriting.
Not Mr. X's.
But Roger's.

Handwriting is a funny thing.
It is evidence you did exist.
You are not part of my imagination.
You are not part of some dream that never happened.
Such a simple reminder.

And the cool thing.
You are there.
In my classroom.
With me.

Being Recognized

Yesterday Mr. X and I went to a food tasting for our caterer.
They are public group events where they put out about twenty different menu options to try.
While looking at table linen options, a girl approached me.
I had seen her when we first went in and noticed she stared at me.
"Star?"
My first thought was one of the readers of this blog recognized me as I tried to place how I knew her.
"Yes?"
"I met you at Rusty's wedding. We sat at the same table."
I started to remember her.
At Rusty's wedding, I sat with one of Roger's old friends from martial arts club, Nathan, and this girl who was his girlfriend at the time.
She remembered Mr. X as well.
It was the first wedding we attended together.
She is no longer dating Roger's old friend but one of the instructors from the martial arts club.
The instructor insisted he was at my wedding to Roger.
I asked if he was sure.  I mean, I did do all the names for placecards and I have looked at the pictures a million times.
He was not at my wedding.  Roger did not even like this guy.
We did not invite him. And he was not anyone's plus one.  I knew all the plus ones.
No, I know where he was.
He was at Roger's funeral.
That I remember.
It was a shock he was there.
Those are mostly the people I remember at the funeral.

It was beyond weird to run into this girl.
And her new boyfriend.
Weird especially to be reminded of Roger's funeral at a wedding-to-Mr. X event.

Ashes, Ashes

All week long I have had the little nursery rhyme "Ring around the rosie" stuck in my head.
Only one line though: "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."
Mostly just the first two words.

Roger's ashes took over a week to get back.
So after my father's funeral, when the car was being unloaded, I never expected one of my dad's friends to hand me my dad.
My dad in a box.

"Whoa, he is ready already?"
"Yep, the funeral home did it yesterday on site."
"Ohh..."

My dad wanted to be spread over the property where they lived.
Where he died.
I was thinking we would all come back and do that part.
But my dad's wife wanted to do it on that day.
While we were altogether.
Like right away.
"Oh, okay."

But first, we needed to set aside some of the ashes for my sister and my dad's stepdaughter to keep.
So as we were carrying my dad outside in the freezing cold, I asked someone to grab a spoon.
A plastic spoon.
And ziplocs.
I was about to scoop my father up with a spoon.
And distribute him into snack size bags.
Great...

My dad's wife asked if the three of us would share this task of spreading the ashes.
Now, in the movies, it seems so fantastic and simple and holy.
In the movies, people open the container and the ashes just simply fly away in the wind.
But I knew that was false.
I knew that even though the wind was abundant and very, very cold that my father would just not take to the wind.
I knew that if I tried that he would just fall in one huge clump on the ground.
One giant pile of grey ashes on the white snow.

I asked the other two who wanted to start.
I was still holding the plastic spoon.
My sister said I could start.
So the first place I sprinkled was his place of death.
It seemed appropriate.
A few spoonfuls there.
Interestingly enough the ashes sank into the snow.
As we walked, a path of ashes followed us.

Scoop and drop. Scoop and drop. Scoop and drop.
"Does anyone else want to do this?"
"No, you are good at it. You can keep doing it."
Great.  Let me add that to my resume.
"Other Skills: spreading human ash remains with a spoon."

We continued along the path to my dad's garden.
Then, in what can only happen to me, the wind shifted.
My dad flew into my face.
All over my jacket.
All over my scarf.
And I noticed later, he made it onto my jeans.
I tried to cough and not inhale but I am pretty sure I inhaled my father.
I immediately thought of this.
Trying not to laugh was hard.
I could almost hear my dad laughing.

Spreading the ashes of a whole human takes what seems like a long time when it is done with a spoon.
And being me, I tried to find a pattern.
So as we entered his long gone garden from this past summer I went row by row.
Scoop here.  Scoop there.  A little here. A little more there.
Up and down the rows until I was out of ashes.

I took the white plastic spoon and dropped it into the box.
Closed the lid and placed it into my father's lookout over his hill.
The place he probably spent his last morning alive and many other days beforehand.

My coat and scarf went to the dry cleaner's this week.
I feel like my dad will always be a part of me.
Hell, I inhaled him.
But I could not keep my winter coat with his ashes.
It will probably be a long time where I do not think of my dad when I wear my coat or my scarf or those jeans.
And thankfully living in Florida, I do not have to wear those things often.
Except the jeans.
One of my favorite pairs.
Great...

When I die, just dump me into the ocean.
No spoon necessary.

Wedding Dreams

When Roger and I got engaged, they came.
Wedding dreams and nightmares.
Ones where I was pregnant.  Ones where the catering never came.
Ones where things went terribly wrong.
But none of those came true.
The wedding went off flawlessly (at least from my view).

After the wedding, I had wedding dreams and nightmares too.
So did Roger.
Of course it was too late for those to come true.
I had new real nightmares awaiting me.

Last night, I had a new wedding nightmare.
But...
It was not a wedding with Roger.  It was a wedding with Mr. X.
[Interestingly enough I referred to him as Mr. X in the dream.]

In this particular dream, I was in my hotel room getting ready putting on my dress.
But for some reason, all my bridesmaids were gone.
It was just me.
"Why am I alone?  Where is everyone?"
Then I realized I had forgot to book a room for the wedding night for Mr. X and me.
The bridesmaids were going to be sleeping in this room.
Mr. X and I can't sleep in this room with my bridesmaids on my wedding night!
So I decided to drive back to the hotel I had stayed at with my bridesmaids a few nights before.
As I am about to leave the hotel, I see Mr. X.
I tell him he needs to drive me to the other hotel to see if I can get a room for us and he agrees.
The wife of my photographer mentor (and former wedding photographer) was working at that hotel and I asked her if she could hook me up.
We drove back to the hotel where the wedding was to be but I had not done my hair or my makeup.
As I am about to go up to my room, I see it is time for the wedding to start.  I ask Mr. X to stall the crowd so I can finish getting ready.  "It will only be five more minutes, I promise."  He smiles and agrees.
The coordinator spots me and the bridesmaids have already gone down the aisle.  Everyone is waiting on me.  She says it is time to start and that I look fine.  No need for makeup or my hair today.
I beg for more time to get ready.  My hair is in rolled into an everyday bun.
"I need to look my best. There will be pictures of this day."
She insists that I walk down the aisle now.
I concede but insist that I will be putting on makeup before the formal pictures.
I start to walk down the aisle.  My bouquet is magically in my hands.
My heart starts to beat fast and loud.  It feels like it is going to beat out of my chest.
I feel lightheaded. (I wonder if my heart was beating this fast while I was sleeping?)
Midway down the aisle, I see the wife of my photography mentor again sitting in the audience.
I run over to her.  I need help.  I feel so alone.
I plead to her to help me.
She tries to coax me.  "You can do this.  It is going to be okay."

I woke up.

I laid in bed a few minutes before getting up.
On my new wedding day, at some point in the future, I cannot be alone.
Someone must stay with me the night before.
And I will probably need a good friend to walk me down the aisle this time.

The Recycling Nazi

With affection, I have been deemed the recycling nazi.
And I tried to think back if this was part of widow-ness or part of me historically.
Fortunately/unfortunately I think it was part of me way before even Roger entered the picture.

I think it started in NYC.
NYC residents are required to recycle.
And we recycled everything under the threat of a fine.

But... after Roger died.
Yes, it did become even more of an obsession.
As a control freak who just had the world ripped out from under me and I felt I was spinning out of control, I needed something I could be in the driver's seat of since death was not an option.
So what could I control?
Recycling! [And choosing whether to eat or not, mostly not.]

Yes, I am still a bit obsessed.
My friends and family are even still a bit scared of me.
Recently, I found out some good friends hid some styrofoam containers from me last New Year's Eve when their catered dinner came in individual dinner portions.
"Do not let Star go in the garage."
Another friend confessed she thinks of me as she brushes her teeth and lets the water continually run.
Others have told stories where as they were recycling, reusing, or reducing they thought "Star would be proud of me."
I laugh mostly.
It is nice that perhaps I am influencing people's thinking about recycling and such.
But I really hope I do not terrorize people to the point they are afraid of me.
That is not my intention.
I am just a control freak who deeply believes in the three R's.
So I apologize to those have felt my wrath as the recycling nazi.

A Roger Dream

I am a huge fan of "Grey's Anatomy".
Sometimes I cry a lot as certain topics hit close to home.
This past week's episode got stuck into my head.
A little more than usual.

Roger does not enter my dreams much anymore.
Sadly, I think.
And this particular dream was not my ideal Roger dream.
But I guess he can wiggle his way into my dreams in ways I might not expect.

In this dream, Roger was alive.
Sort of.
The doctors were able to save his soul.
And they put it into a worm.
The worm was kept at the hospital in a cage.
Yes, a cage.
The cage was wire like for a bunny or something.
Why Roger did not get out of the cage I do not know.
I asked Mr. X to help me free Roger.
We broke into the hospital and pried the wire holes bigger.
Roger escaped.
Roger the worm.

Now, I would love to have some normal Roger dreams.
Dreams where I could talk to him.
See him in his regular body.

One request for the writers of Grey's, no more worm episodes please.

Need Me

I had to sort of giggle at a situation I came into the other day.

I have always been pretty independent.
Not antisocial but I always try to do things for myself.
It is the way I grew up.
I was left alone a lot.
I learned to keep myself entertained.
I learned to keep myself alive.
I learned to meet my own needs physically and emotionally.
Thus issues asking for help have always haunted me.

But after three years together, I was finally asking Roger for help.
I needed him.
As my walls fell down, he was trusted enough for me to need him.
But it took me a while to get to that point.

When he died, I was devastated that I had trusted him.
I let him in.
And when I needed him the most and he was dead.
I was pissed.
At me.
At Roger.
At the driver of that Isuzu Rodeo.

In the last two years, I have learned not to need people as much again.
To become completely independent again.
I am stubborn at points to let people help me.
Not to mention I get nervous about it.
Feel like I owe people.

Laying in bed Saturday night, Mr. X was a bit tiffed at me.
I had not woken him up when I had insomnia Friday night.
Instead I chatted with a friend online.
He was annoyed I did not wake him up.
On Saturday, he had driven me to a friend's house to "celebrate" the dead day anniversary.
But of course I had been difficult in letting him drive me.
I did not want to ask for his help or to feel like I needed it.
Plus it was inconvenient for him to drive me.
So I made a deal.
I would let him drive me if he went to see his parents too.

As we lay in bed that night I asked, "Why are you upset?"
"You won't let me help you."
Sigh...
"You won't let yourself need me."
I could not giggle at the moment.
But I was amused at the situation in a way.
I just hugged him and let him know that I do need him.
I need him a lot.

But I guess I need let my walls back down.
Let myself need.
Again.

Comparison

Everyone knows it.
Most people even say it.
Do not compare the dead husband with the new guy.
And I try not to.
Mr. X is different in most ways.
In some ways however, they are similar.

They both liked drafting in high school.
Both are a bit nerdy.
Both a bit handy around the house.
But Mr. X is much more outgoing.
Much more physically affectionate.
And I could go on but I will not.
Because I should not.
It is not good to compare.

However...
When Mr. X moved in, I gave him some drawers in the bedroom for his clothes.
This was bound to happen.
I do not have millions of drawers so the odds were good.
But I was still a bit weirded out.

I was putting some laundry away.
Some of Mr. X's underwear was ready to put into the drawer.
Out of habit, I opened the drawer where Roger's underwear normally resided.
And to my surprise, Mr. X's underwear resided there in the same exact drawer.
Freaked out, I decided to see if his socks were in the same place.
Yep. Socks in the exact same drawer.
I could not even open the other drawers.

Now I know its not huge.
But it was still freaky and weird.
I did not mean to give him the same drawers.  Some of them are not but some are.
Mr. X just happened to organize his things the same way.
So weird.

"Jesus"

When I was visiting New York City a few weekends ago, my old friend Cecilia and I were talking about some of the things that happened the week Roger died.

She came down on Sunday night (I think?) before he died to help me and be with me.

She became me as I handed over my identity for a few days as she called people while I just tried to just exist.

And as always with my dear friend Cecilia, we had some funny moments that week.

The one that has us rolling in laughter a couple of weekends ago was one particular moment at the funeral home.

It was already quite a strange place.

They had about seven, maybe more, exactly the same shaped sofas that had the exact same ugly mauve floral fabric on them.

Something that would have been popular maybe in the eighties.

I had to laugh at how many of these sofas they had.

They were everywhere we looked.

In the front of the funeral home, they had a curio cabinet full of ceramic dogs.

I found this very odd and amusing.

Until I realized they were very pet ashes.

In the meeting with the funeral director, he had so many death impulse buys and gimmick items.

Paperweights with lights for the ashes.

Thumbprint necklaces.

Odd, odd things.

Roger's middle name, like a lot of Hispanic males, was "Jesus."

It is pronounced in the traditional Spanish way. With an "h" sound instead of a "j".

The funeral director asks me for my husband's full name.

I give him his first with spelling.

He asks for his middle.

I say "Jesus" in the English way to aide this very WASP guy.

"What was his middle name?"

I repeat it.

"What?"

I say it louder.

"What?"

"Jesus. J-E-S-U-S as in Jesus."

The funeral director says "Oh okay. I am just hard of hearing."

Except I never had to repeat myself for the rest of the time.

Was it really that hard to believe someone was named "Jesus"?

Especially a Hispanic male?

After we left, we all laughed.

"Jesus as in Jesus."

It still makes me smile.

A very shitty shitty day but at least I could laugh and smile.

The Widow Card

In this messed up journey I have to have a sense of humor.

It keeps me somewhat sane even if the sense of humor is dark and twisted.

And I am not the only one.

My blogger friend Supa created these widow cards.

I had a set of them in my purse for a while.

But then I lost them when switching between purses.

And I just have not got around to replacing them.

I have/had fantasies where I would bust them out.

"Stop, I am widow" as I flashed the appropriate card to the "suspect".

I could see myself wearing the official widow badge.

And the official widow outfit all in black with one of those old fashioned birdcage veils in black.

And maybe sometimes there would be a group of us on the "scene" to help out a new "victim".

Yes, it is a sick sense of humor.

But it helps.

I have to laugh.

And the thought of all that really makes me laugh.

But then a new thing happened.

Someone tried to use the widow card on me.

They try to use it in reverse!

Recently I had to fire the person who cleaned my house.

I could not afford it really and it is a luxury item.

She was quite upset.

And guess what, she used the widow card on me.

I was shocked at first by the comments like "...you sure have changed since Roger has been gone and not the least bit good..." and this one is a doozy: "...poor grieving star..."

Then I was slightly hurt.

But then I started to laugh.

It is a widow card!

Someone was using the widow cards on me.

Someone was trying to reverse the playing field.

She was trying to make me feel bad.

Trying to shock me into submission.

Trying to use my situation as a get-of-out-jail-free card.

Wow.

Thankfully, I do have a sick sense of humor.

Now, I will just need to get my widow outfit together so I can go fight "crime".

So Stinky

Roger worked out a lot.

At least three times a week and sometimes up to five.

And with that he sweat.

And sweat. And sweat.

When he got home, his clothes would be completely soaked.

Which was fine.

We eventually came to a solution which I documented a while back.

But before that.

Before we moved into together, it was a bit of a problem.

Specifically for his love seat.

The way his family room was set up the love seat faced the television.

Roger loved watching television.

So he pretty much always sat there.

And he always sat on the left side of that love seat.

And he always sat there right after coming home from the gym.

In his sweaty clothes.

His stinky sweaty soaked clothes.

When I would come over, I sat on the right.

Eventually I started to smell something.

"Dear, what is that smell? It smells awful."

"I dunno."

I started to investigate.

It was the love seat.

It completely reeked.

I tried to clean it.

I tried to Febreeze it.

And the smell would go away.

At least for a while.

But then it would come back.

After I moved in, I insisted that we donate the love seat.

I had one and we did not need two.

Thankfully Roger agreed.

Then we came up with the naked solution...

A much better solution than a stinky love seat.

Blood Money

This was funny and gross as it was happening.

But it probably was/is not that funny.

Roger had his wallet in his pocket.

Roger kept his wallet in his front pocket.

There was a lot of blood.

Some of that blood got onto his jeans.

And thus into his wallet.

Thus onto the cash in his wallet.

[Although I still have his wallet and it does not seem stained so I am a little unsure about this part.]

It was not a lot of cash.

I really cannot remember exactly how much.

Perhaps twenty dollars or so.

I remember thinking of it as blood money.

I cannot remember if I actually said this out loud.

_______________________________________________

Holly or Scott would have to chime in for that:

[Holly says:

Yup, we joked about it together that it was blood money. We both apparently share a morbid sense of humor because I still think it's semi-funny to call it blood money. Scott and I helped spend some of it for you - we spent it at CVS when we picked up your prescription. Scott actually washed some of the money off in the sink there, dried it as best as he could with paper towels, handed the cash over to the pharm tech and then we bolted out of there before anyone could ask any questions!]

But I wanted it gone.

I wanted it out of my possession.

I could not spend it fast enough.

I used it to pay for my antibiotics.

Some food that I pushed around a plate.

I wonder about that money.

What happened to it?

Does someone take money like that out of the cash flow?

I wonder if by some weird chance if I will ever see it again.

I apologize to those who have handled that money.

Roger did not have anything.

Except he was positively amazing.

I Hate it When He is Right...

...and he is still right from the grave.

Roger was Cuban.

Roger was not a racist.

Not at all.

But he told me when we moved into our new house that he thought our neighbors were Mexican.

And then he joked that he bet they were landscapers.

Yes, they have two big trucks so it made sense.

But, "Dear, you do not know that."

And I have never really talked to them.

Sadly.

I tried once.

When Roger was still alive on our first July 4th in this house.

We were walking back from the fireworks show and they were outside.

We both tried to make conversation.

Only the toddlers would respond.

We went inside a little disheartened.

I was longing for that neighborly accord from the movies.

When Roger died, I waited on someone.

Any neighbor to offer food.

Or their condolences.

They had to see the huge funeral flowers sitting on my porch.

But no one came besides my friends and family.

In the last fourteen months, I still have not really socialized with them.

Partly my fault I am sure.

But I wanted them to make the first move.

Silly I know.

But it did not happen.

In July, my landscaper due to economic reasons had to leave town.

Fuck.

I was disappointed.

He said he had sold my account to a friend who would be doing my lawn from now on.

Great...

I loved my landscaper.

He was awesome.

He always took care of us.

Now, I would have to find someone else.

It would seem in this town where I see a different landscaping crew in front of every house on the block, it would be easy to replace.

But here is the thing, in Orlando, the landscapers are not great at customer service.

I would call.

I would email.

I would ask for recommendations.

No one would call me back.

Or email me back.

So I stuck with the one that inherited me.

I promised myself by the end of September I would find a new one.

October 1 was last week.

No new landscaper.

Crap.

Crap.

Crap.

Then I remembered Roger's prediction.

His stereotyping of our neighbors.

And finally last night, I walked over to my neighbor.

I could hear him in the garage.

It sounded like he was cutting tile.

Something he did about once a week for the last two years.

Odd.

As I got close, he walked out carrying blades.

Lawnmower blades.

He was sharpening them.

Not cutting tile.

And low and behold, he is a landscaper.

Yep, Roger was right.

I am not sure if he is Mexican but he does own a landscaping business.

So tonight I hired my neighbor as my landscaper.

And laughed when I realized he was right.

Again.

Even in death he is right.

The Tiger

Roger had two tattoos.

One on each of his upper arms.

One was a lion.

One was a tiger.

Roger was a leo astrology-wise and loved big cats.

The lion tattoo was really cool.

It was his first one.

The detail was amazing.

The tiger one was okay.

Not great.

The detail was blah.

The color was starting to fade.

Now, Roger and I saw a lot of movies together.

We lived fairly close and I have always enjoyed going to the movie theatre.

And in late 2007/early 2008, we saw the preview for "10000 BC".

For a few short seconds, we saw the face of a sabertooth tiger.

Roger shot me a look.

"What?" I whispered.

"I like that!"

The next morning Roger explained that he wanted to modify his tiger tattoo.

"To?"

"I want it to look more like that sabertooth tiger."

"Okay. Whatever you want dear."

So he found the image he liked and I found a black sharpie marker.

We marked up his arm in how the existing tiger could be made into this new cooler tiger.

Roger was excited.

He put his shirt back on.

Side note:

Roger and I had an agreement before our honeymoon.

A bit of a compromise.

Roger wanted us to get a tetanus shot in case of injury in St. Lucia.

And I wanted us to get a flu shot before the wedding.

So I got my tetanus shot.

And...

Later this day, Roger and I were on our way out to run some errands.

We passed the minute clinic at our local CVS.

"Hey, we should go get your flu shot," I suggested.

"Okay."

We happily trotted into the CVS.

Headed toward the back.

We sat down into the waiting area to be seen.

I went into the exam room with Roger.

Roger explained our compromise to the nurse.

She smiled at us and our excitement about our wedding and honeymoon.

The nurse raised Roger's sleeve.

She gave us a strange look.

She started to smile and tried not to laugh.

I started to laugh.

It hit me why she was smiling.

There still on his upper arm where my black markings making his existing tattoo into a sabertooth tiger.

She did not say much but I could see Roger's silly mischievous smile appear.

I wonder what that nurse thought of us.

I wonder what she thought of this strange couple.

Roger and I laughed in the car at ourselves.

The tiger never had the chance to be modified...

I Have "Herpes"

For starters, I just finished my microbiology class and in the last chapter we were talking about some of the pathogens like viruses that cause sexually transmitted diseases.

So as I was reading a widow friend's blog today, I thought of an analogy.

A dark sense of humor analogy but it mostly fits.

Grief is a lot like herpes.

Herpes are painful lesions and when most people think of them, they think of the genital ones.

They are a virus.

Spread by sexual contact.

And widowhood is slightly sexually transmitted.

I mean, I was married.

And in marriage, I had sex.

And without marriage and sex, I would not have been a widow.

So widowhood is sort of transmitted by sexual contact.

And in widow-ness, there is of course grief.

So I have "herpes". A version called grief.

Herpes is very painful.

And after the initial breakout, a person has reoccurring attacks throughout their life.

Much like grief.

Grief is very painful.

And grief always comes back.

There is no cure for herpes.

There is no cure for grief.

Even if I move forward in my life.

Even if I fall in love again.

Even if I marry again.

Even if I never have something bad happen to me ever again.

Grief cannot be cured.

Herpes re-attacks occur when the person is stressed.

Grief can come back at any moment but especially when stressed.

People are also are afraid of people with herpes.

They are taken back.

Can they get herpes by hugging others?

People think widowhood and grief are also contagious.

People are not sure how to react to a widow.

Can they get widowhood by being around me?

Can they hug me?

Can they be around me?

What do they do if I cry?

But no, grief is not contagious.

And although there is no cure for grief, I appreciate the love of everyone.

I promise I will not give people the disease of widowhood.

Even if I cry.

Even if I am hugged.

Holly & Scott's Wedding

Last May, Holly and Scott tied the knot.

It was a beautiful wedding and I was excited for both of them.

It was also the first wedding Roger and I attended after ours in February.

We were husband and wife.

We knew what they were experiencing for the first time.

And we got to enjoy the whole wedding experience from a new point of view.

We knew how much work it was and we knew how fun a good match could be.

The day of the wedding, Roger and I helped Scott and Holly by setting up their arch.

It was part of a barter deal.

Holly and Scott hung Chinese lanterns at our wedding.

Both turned out very nice.

It was hot however the day of Holly and Scott's wedding.

I kept sitting down in the shade to catch my breath.

Roger dutifully marched on.

Such a good husband.

He brought his trusty tool kit in case we needed anything.

He looked so cute as he carried it over to the ceremony site.

So boy scout.

So prepared.

After we finished setting up the arch, we went into the locker rooms at the country club to clean up and shower.

Roger was semi-excited.

This was the same locker room Tiger Woods sometimes showered in.

When we met up after getting ready, he described the locker room to me.

I smiled at him.

I loved that he enjoyed simple pleasures.

I loved that he could find "cool" stuff in almost anywhere.

As we went to find our seats for the ceremony, Holly and Scott had put out poppers at the end of each aisle.

I realized that ceremonies can be a little boring for boys.

And so I thought Roger might enjoy being in charge of the popper.

I gave him the aisle seat and just explained to let it off when Holly and Scott passed after they were married.

As the ceremony came to a close, Roger picked up his popper.

As they passed, he pulled the fuse.

And then he did something I could not believe.

He let it go.

And like Roger's luck, the popper became attached to Holly's dress.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

"Dear, you have to go get it."

Roger replied "Really?"

"Yes! It is stuck to her dress. You have to get it."

In the pictures, you can see Holly's face.

And then you see Roger bending over to get "something" off the ground.

Tugging to get the popper off the dress.

At the reception, we got to enjoy dancing together.

We danced a lot. Pretty much the whole night.

It was nice.

It was the last time we danced in public together like that.

And we were married!

I was his wife.

He was my husband.

I think of the popper story often.

Remembering how silly it was.

Remembering how Roger it was.

It always makes me smile.

Thank you Holly and Scott for a wonderful night last May. I truly enjoyed your wedding night.

It is a night I will always remember.

Inheritance

Yes, I inherited some normal things.

A house. Life insurance. A little money from checking account.

Normal things that most beneficiaries get.

But then people forget about the other stuff.

The everyday stuff.

And the little stuff.

All the little stuff people accumulate during a lifetime.

Furniture.

Towels.

Clothing.

Books.

When Mr. X was asking me if I had a certain tool in the garage, I said "I do not know but..."

I started listed things I did know I had.

Things I had seen when I have to go out there for a screwdriver or as I am leaving the house.

He said it sounded like I was reading an inventory list.

A weed whacker, an orbital sander, some plywood, various size nails, paint, a leaf blower, safety goggles, some hammers, a car wash bucket, disposable gloves.

Sometimes people will comment on something they see at my house.

A piece of furniture. A throw. A painting. A magnet on the fridge.

They will ask where I got that cool book or ugly painting.

"I inherited it."

And I discover new things all the time.

Office supplies. DVDs. Toiletries.

Some things I love.

Some things are okay.

And some things I hate and I will eventually get rid of.

Eventually.

One of my favorite things is an eraser.

Yes, an eraser in the shape of a CK one cologne bottle.

It is very silly to love this very simple thing.

It used to sit on his desk in the office.

I never remember seeing him use it.

But I do.

It is now it my backpack.

I use it during tests.

When I take notes.

I use it during my science labs.

And every time I feel it in my palm, I think of Roger.

Even when I just see it.

I will keep this.

I will use it as long as I can.

And I will probably cry when I cannot use it any longer.

Roger's silly eraser.

Oh Baby

Well, I cannot believe I am admitting this in an online forum.

Or any pubic place.

I cannot believe I even have these feelings.

I cannot believe these thoughts and words are coming out of my head and out of my mouth.

What is wrong with me?

Me. The me I thought I knew so well.

But here it is.

Here is something so crazy that I know my friends who know me in real life are going to fall out of their chairs.

Their mouths are going to drop open.

I think, that maybe, just maybe, someday I would like to have a child.

Yes, that is what I just said.

A real little living breathing child.

Now, this is a shock to me too.

And I am not making any promises that this is for sure.

Or that I will not change my mind again.

Because I just might.

Who knows.

And do not push me, because that will definitely make me run back the other way.

At first these thoughts started to freak me out.

Really freak me out.

Why now?

Why this change?

I just wrote about how I did not want any a little more than a month ago.

And then I thought, "Why didn't I have these thoughts with Roger?"

Was there something wrong with me then?

Was there something wrong with us?

And that really bothered me.

I know for sure Roger would have been a good father.

He would have loved being a dad.

But collectively we had decided it was not in our cards.

At least not for a while.

And quite possibly not ever.

And in the last few weeks, the idea has become more appealing.

Why?

Why?

Why?

I kept asking myself.

Because of Mr. X?

I barely know Mr. X.

Is it something hormonal?

Pheromones perhaps?

But then tonight, I was having coffee with my friend Courtney.

She actually shares the same birthday with Roger.

They both were really into philosophy and debating things.

And sometimes when she is explaining or talking to me about something to me, I can totally hear Roger.

We share similar family backgrounds too.

I was telling her my mental inside my head drama/dilemma.

How could I feel this way?

How could I be changing so much?

But then she shed some new light.

Some new perspectives.

She said despite Mr. X and despite the whole widow thing, I am different.

I am not the same person I was a year ago (this I knew already).

A year ago, I had a job.

I had a different career path.

I had a different life plan.

I was married.

I was planning my life with Roger.

But that is all gone now.

I am in school full time.

I am looking at becoming a biology teacher.

I am learning new things.

I am changing.

I could have gone a million different directions after Roger died.

But I went in a positive one.

And I will not make the same decisions I made a year ago because I am not the same person.

I am not the same person I was a month ago.

So, this change may have nothing to do with Roger.

Nothing to do with Mr. X.

It may be something to do with me.

It is probably all me.

I cannot feel guilty for changing my mind.

I have new information.

And that is what life is all about.

Constant reevaluation. Constant growth.

If I am not growing, then I am stagnant.

And that would be boring.

So, I should appreciate this new growth.

This new change.

I should just let it be.

Thank you, Courtney, for being an outside perspective and listening to me. I love you!

And Mom, don't get your hopes up just yet.

The 23rd

I try not to overanalyze.

I try not to connect imaginary dots with imaginary lines.

I try to be reasonable.

I try to be logical.

I really do try.

Really.

But sometimes smart people rationalize stupid things.

Roger read a whole book about this.

"Why People Believe Weird Things"

So I am trying not to do this.

I am trying hard not do this.

But... here it is.

Call me crazy.

My wedding anniversary is (was??) February 23rd.

The car accident was the day before our six month anniversary.

August 22nd.

I was really looking forward to August 23rd.

To say we made it six months.

To reflect.

To read our love letters.

Okay... so Mr. X and I met the first time on a 23rd.

Now, the crazy/weird/funny/illogical thing is that my counselor told me to be distracted on those days.

On the 22nd, 23rd, and 28th of each month. I really had a hard time with those dates at first.

My counselor told me to plan other events on those days so I did not have new dates to get stuck in my head.So she suggested to do something fun.

Have something to look forward to on those dates.

And when Mr. X and I decided to meet for the first time, he picked the date.

I did not even realize what the date was.

I realized it after the fact.

When I started to stick the date into memory.

[Important dates always get stuck in my head.]

Now please understand, I realize I am making a mountain out of nothing.

I realize I am trying to make meaning out of some sort of coincidence.

But I cannot help but think of it.

I cannot help to dwell on it a bit.

There have been some other coincidences too.

Nothing I can write about in a public forum but again I know I am being silly.

I am putting weird faith is weird things.

But the thing about people believing weird things, it is what usually helps them get through their days.

It is what helps them make sense out of chaos.

So maybe just maybe it is helping me get through my days.

Maybe just maybe it helps make some abstract life events seem normal.

And the cool thing is I know have a new reason to like the 23rd.

It is a day that a new life began.

Just like before.

Just like it sixteen months before.

Premarital Counseling

Premarital counseling was great.

I thought it was worth every penny for us.

We learned a lot.

How to fight. Who we are. Our priorities. Our fantasies. Our dreams. How to handle money together.

I even recommended it to my non-Catholic friends.

Hell, I would recommend it to anyone who was even remotely thinking of getting married.

But then, I was pissed.

I was pissed that Roger had died.

We took all the right steps in preparing for marriage.

We did it right.

As some of our friends were struggling with their marriage, we were enjoying the married life.

And partly because we took marriage seriously.

And secondly because we did our premarital counseling.

I was pissed that I had worked so hard.

Hard to be the perfect wife.

Hard to be a better person.

And all for a marriage that ended almost as quickly as it started.

Damn it.

But in the last couple of months, I have realized something new.

All that premarital counseling, it did not just benefit Roger and me.

It benefits Mr. X and me.

It benefits my friends and me.

It benefits my family and me.

It benefits just me.

I am a better person through one part of premarital counseling, two parts of grief counseling, and a twenty parts of widow-ness.

I am (slightly) more patient.

I am more understanding.

I can admit when I am wrong.

I can see other points of view.

I am still benefiting from that premarital weekend back in February 2007.

I know more about me.

I know more about others.

Of course, I still have more to learn.

And I will definitely do it again.

Because it was and is worth it.