That's a capital "R"

I have this weird habit now.

When writing out Roger's name, I can not let it be uncapitalized.

I know that does not seem too odd but no one else gets this treatment.

When I am instant messaging or quick email, I rarely capitalize people's names.

I barely even do a capital "I" when instant messaging.  

It just a bad habit of typing fast and not taking my time or giving proper respect to people.

But for Roger, I feel like I'm disrespecting him if I leave it as a small "r".  

Even if I accidently type "r", I go back and fix it before I hit send.  

It reminds me of the way I am with the word "God."

I have to capitalize that word too.  

Maybe it is a respect for Roger now that he is gone.

Cause I did not respect his name like that before. 

Yeah... crazy grief girl.  

I know...

The Movie

It's a typical movie.  

It's cute.  

It's funny.  

And at the end of 120 minutes or so, all is right in the world.

The girl and guy are the perfect couple.

They are in love.

They are good people.

Something bad happens.

Some silly mistake.

The girl and the guy break up.

They are miserable without each other.

They both realize how perfect they are together.

They get back together.

They fall back madly in love.

Life is happily ever after.

Except I realized that Roger was perfect for me before we were married.

Before I lost him.

I knew I was lucky.

I knew I had a great husband/fiance/boyfriend.

We were already in love.

And at my movie, it does not tie up all the loose ends nicely.

I do not get my husband back.

Roger does not come running back to me.

We do not get to spend the rest of our lives together.

And some where in my head because of all these movies, I keep thinking he will come back.

We will live happily ever after.

Ugh... 

Except...

My life is not a movie.

My life is not a fairy tale (like that one song says).

This is my reality.  

23rd...

On my way home from class tonight, I needed milk.  Like usual.

I stopped by the CVS because its almost 10pm.

The grocery store closes at 10pm.

And in my unlogical logic, I did not want to go to the grocery store.

Why?

Because then I might want to buy everything else that I need.

I walked over to the refrigerator cooler.  

Opened the door.

No skim milk.

Damn.

And I think, "I drink way too much milk not to do skim."

"Maybe just a half gallon of skim.  Then I'll buy a full gallon later this weekend."

"Nah."

"The gallon size is on sale."

"I should just get 1%.  I'll be fine.  It is only one gallon."

I went back to the original cooler.

Grabbed the handle.

I checked the expiration date because that is what I always do especially when buying milk from a drugstore.  

Feb 23.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Really?  Does this day have to fucking haunt me all the damn time?!?

Earlier this week: 

"On February 23rd, we will be meeting in the library for class."

"On Monday, February 23rd, this assignment is due."

And the fucking asshole of the other driver, his birthday... 2/23.  

Fuck.

Going to the zoo

Roger loved the Brevard Zoo.

It's a great zoo.  I highly recommend it.

Roger loved it so much he was a member.

I still have his membership cards (yes, several years in a row).

Of course, he only went once in the three years I knew him so I am not sure why exactly he had a membership.

That one time we did go together was fun.

I cannot remember exactly when we went but it was before we were engaged.

We walked around the zoo.  Enjoying the Florida sunshine.

It was better than most zoos.

The animals looked healthy and the zoo was small enough to really take care of the animals.

It is also small enough that it can enjoyed without exhausting ourselves.  

Then we came upon this little half an hour kayak trip that was available for an extra few dollars.

The little river ran by some of the animal exhibits so we could get an up close and personal view without the confinement of cages.

Awesome!

Sounds fun.

Sign us up.

Roger being a member had been on this particular kayak trip before.

So it would be my first time, but I had been kayaking before and my kayaking experience was a nine mile kayaking trip.

We get in line for the safety instruction.

The teacher asks "Who has kayaked before?"

Roger and I both raise our hands and a few others.

"Great, you guys  go ahead.  Just remember not to kayak to close to the animals' islands."  

We go, put our stuff in a locker, and get our kayak.

And put on our life vest for the two feet of water that we will be kayaking in.

Our guide suggested that the heaviest and/or more experienced kayaker get in the front.

Unfortunately, I was the heavier one [except now I weigh the same as Roger did, woohoo!].  

So I climbed into the front.

We get into the water.

We start to paddle.

Yeah... hmm.  Why is this so difficult?  He was not really paddling the way we are supposed to be.

I turned around and asked Roger, "Dear, how much kayaking experience do you have?"

"Just the last time I was here so about thirty minutes worth of experience."

"Great..."

As we kept trying to coordinate, we kept getting closer to the animals.  

And closer.

And closer.

Of course it was the animals that are the most territorial.

The guide kept reprimanding us.  

We were zigzagging all over the place.

Hitting other boats.

Getting too close to rocks.

All within about five minutes into the experience.

I turned back to Roger.

"Hmm, dear, can you just not paddle?  I think that will be more helpful."

So Roger just sat back as I paddled all by myself for the rest of the trip.

Moral of this story... do not get in a boat without knowing what you are getting into.  

Because sometimes, you may find yourself paddling alone.  

Today I was driving around and remembered this experience.

And I laughed.

Geez dear, you could have warned me.  

Oh well... at least it was a fun day.

Three more days...

... till one of the worst holidays ever.

It was awful before.

Now it's just worse.

Way worse.

Red hearts everywhere.

Valentine's dances.

Roses being sold in the neighborhood.

Jewelry commercials.

Pink valentines.

Ugh.

Yuck yuck yuck.

So in honor, I am inviting some other V-day [don't even want to type the whole word, it does not deserve it] haters over to my house.

We are going to have a girls sleepover.

Chocolate, cheesy movies, and just chit chat.  

The great thing is once that day is over, I am about half way through February.  

Next up the anniversary...

Painting the other house

I tried to think of a catchy title for this entry but I could not think of anything I liked so... just the obvious.

The night before the accident, Roger had been out in the pouring rain playing landlord.
The storm was bringing rain in from the side and rain was seeping into the living room of the rental house.
Great... (I had just decided to start straightening my hair chemically and was vainly spending money on that)
Roger found out that the house needed to be painted and that with sealing some cracks in the stucco would keep the rain out.

So being the responsible person he was, he immediately started contacting painters.
He set up a few people to come out and quote the house.
I have no idea what happened to those appointments and frankly I just did not care at that point.
My renters were awesome.
They dryed out the carpet and everything was fine.

But I knew, I would have to handle the painting decisions alone.
I put it off for a while.
I could not choose a color.
This was not my house.
This was Roger's house.
This was potential buyers down the road's house.
How the hell do I choose colors.
And not to mention I had to pick from a pre-defined list.

Grace helped me.
And then the renters helped me.
Then even the neighbors weighed in.
The renters do have to live in it and the neighbors have to look at it everyday so might as well get some decisions from them.

We settled on a grey with white-ish trim and a red-ish door.
Of course those are not the real name of the colors.

Then I found a painter.
I went back to Roger's emails and I found a guy who had actually talked with Roger that Thursday night almost six months ago.

He started painting the house yesterday.
I went over there just to see the progress.
It was so hard.
It is just a simple color change.
This should be no big deal.
I only lived there all of three months.
But I drove there and stayed 2-3 nights a week for over a year.

And this was Roger's house.
Even after I moved in, I referred to it as his house.
Roger would say "Let's go home."
And all coy I would say "Where?"
"To our home"
"Oh, you mean your house."
Geez, what a bitch...

The house looks nice.
The grey suits it well.
It's it just so different.
It's like the house is moving on.
So I cried on the way home.

Geez House, it's only been six months. Yes, yes, we moved out and left you well before that. But painting yourself a new color already?

6th, 6TH, SIXTH!!!

Roger's car was a five speed.

My car is a six speed.

And in some situations, it can be a big difference.  

When riding together, we almost always rode in Roger's car.  

And almost always Roger drove.

Roger liked to drive.

I only like to drive long distances.  

I hate local driving.  

And related/unrelated, I hate driving myself everywhere now.  I just want to be driven so badly. 

In those rare occasions that Roger drove my car, it was great.

I like being a passenger in my car.

Except, we would get on the highway or a road with a speed limit of 55 mph, and someONE would forget that my car had a sixth gear.  

And most days instead of being a nice wife and gently reminding my husband that he had another gear to go, I became a protective car owner.

"Dude, sixth"

"Duuuude, sixth!!"

I would praise him if he did it without me reminding him though.  

If I was being a good nice wife, I would just gently tap his hand.  

Now when I'm on the highway and I move into sixth gear, I smile or cry.

Depends on my mood.

But I almost always think of Roger.

And the reminding of "Sixth. Dear, sixth."