This is only a test

...but it does count for 100% of your final grade.

I recently, uhh, overwhelmed myself with feels by sharing this blog on my facebook with peopole who know me. And after I shared, I just had to keep along with the responses, you know, because facebook.

But the truth is that the responses were overwhelmingly warm and accepting. I can't thank everybody enough for their positive sentiments and words of wisdom.

So I figured I'd put that acceptance to the test!

I'm not usually particularly explicit about the cause of my wife's death yet. For many people I've met who are also in mourning, the cause of death is part of the introduction.

"My mom died three years ago, cervical cancer."

"My best friend was killed by a drunk driver."

That sort of thing. So here's the test. My wife died from cirrhosis of the liver. Alcohol-related. Vodka, if you must know. Does anyone want to change the answer they already wrote down?

To be honest, I take a bit too much pride in my bluntness. I lived through it, so it doesn't make me squeamish. I can tell you things like: "we thought we were OK because we never drank anywhere near as much as her binge-alcoholic mom used to drink" or maybe "it happened so much faster what it says about cirrhosis on WebMD." But it doesn't change the fact that my wife is dead as direct result of her and I making a conscious decision to get drunk pretty much every night.

To be honest, I really don't think the reality behind her death will make anyone withdraw their support. I don't think any of my family or friends are that shallow. But if there is even one so-called well-wisher that would judge the drinking so harshly as to let it cloud their empathy, I want that one person to quietly excuse him- or herself from the classroom. I really do have faith in the quality of the company I keep, but I'm also in a period of my life marked by profound uncertainty. Thanks for listening, truly.

Just remember: this was only a test.

Note: I  will be grading you all on a "check, check-plus, check-minus" scale. Make sure to have your parents sign your report cards and bring them back to me by the end of the week

The best things are free, discounted or stolen

My wife and I spent about $700 dollars for our wedding. Jealous, fellas? Ladies? Although, FYI, the ceremony may have been slightly illegal, but the document is binding! We got married in a local park. I went down to the city's parks office to obtain permission for the ceremony, I tried to be cool about it. I went up to the counter and made my request. We had a particular area of the park in mind. The clerk asked me if I meant the conservatory. The conservatory is a building and probably where most couples want their wedding if they're choosing this park. We didn't want the conservatory. We wanted an area around an archway inscribed with the words "The Poet's Garden" cuz we were all deep and brooding at 20 and 21 years of age. That's right, I got married before I could buy alcohol. I knew what I wanted. But they didn't have a form all ready and a fee pre-determined for couples who wanted to use The Poet's Garden. So we left the office and as we drove away, we decided: fuck 'em! If they won't take our money, we're gonna squat there!

So we called a family friend who had access to a bunch of chairs and did a blitzkrieg wedding. We arrived on scene the day we wanted and set up the wedding ourselves with help from family. We did the Cosby strategy. We got in, did our thing and left before they could stop us!

I wonder what anyone would've done. Some strangers walked past on the trails through the park. If they said or did anything, it didn't affect us. Even if a cop had driven by, he wouldn't know offhand if we'd had permission or not. Even if the Chancellor of Parks & Recreation (or whatever the title is) had strolled past and he knew for a fact that no weddings were on their calendar for today, what would that person have done? Kicked us out in the middle of our vows? Written us a citation for our ninja-esque nuptials?

We had a family-friend marry us in a non-denominational ceremony. My family's Jewish, her family's half-Catholic and half-Protestant, there was no way to please everybody. The stated religion of our officiant friend was Paganism, too, which was fun for the religious kooks.

My wife walked out, not to the Mendelssohn wedding march or Brahms' 1st Symphony, but to the song "Love" from Disney's Robin Hood. She asked me if I minded if, instead of fancy high heels, she wore a pair of Converses under her dress and I said sure! Fantastic idea. Our colors were pale pink and silver.

Her real mother (a career alcoholic) decided to relapse that day instead of sharing the happiest moment of our lives with us. I don't have a joke for that, but I wanted everyone to know about it. At least her dad cheerfully brought the evil step-mother of folklore (his long-time girlfriend).

But we had a blast. We looked back on our shoestring budgeted ceremony with pride. Anything that went sour was somebody else's decisions, not ours. We kicked our wedding's ass and had all the stuff we wanted. We won! We never regretted our decision even for a day. Even if, technically, the ceremony may have been some kind of misdemeanor. What can I say? We were a couple of badass punk hopeless romantics.

Mia-isms - (Joygasm, Semicolon)

Mia was my wife. She had a unique way with words, truly my writing inspiration. From time to time, I may post Mia-isms. Mia-isms are words or turns of phrase that only Mia could concoct. They're good.

Joygasm

  [joi-gaz-uh m]

  noun
  1. an uncontrollable, often physical, outburst of sheer happiness
  2. an instance of experiencing this

  verb (used without object)
  3. to have a joygasm

  ex. When Boris proposed to Thelma-Ann, she had a total joygasm.

Semicolon (OK, this is a repurposing of an existing word but it counts)

  [sem-i-koh-luh n]

  new slang
  1. used in the exact same way as "word" is used in slang

  ex. "Yo, man, you aight?"
        "Semicolon."

New York Song State Of Mind ('state' not 'city')

I live in New York. I won't say where, but it's not The City. My wife and I grew up in the same town. By the by, did you know there's a whole big section of New York that's not Manhattan, Queens, The Bronx, Brooklyn or Staten Island? (No, I'm not talking about Long Island or some cow farm). I do notice quite a few songs about New York (City) that I can relate to, though.

In Disney's Oliver & Company, the movie begins with "Once Upon A Time In New York City" by Huey Lewis. When my wife and I lived in California, we used to substitute in the name of our current locale: Temple City.

"If it's always once upon a time in Temple City

Why does nightfall find ya feelin' so alone?

How could anyone stay starry-eyed

when it's rainin' cats & dogs outside

and the rain is sayin' 'Now you're on your own?'

Keep your dream alive.

Dreamin' is still how the strong survive.

Once upon a time in Temple City."

That song always gets me right in the feels. It has since I was little. I tried for years to get my wife to watch Oliver & Company with me. It helped that she loved Billy Joel but she never got much into the flick, except for that song. She would sing it with me. Now I'm the one on my own (random Disney trivia: my wife could sing "Reflection" from Mulan like a seraph, I'm talkin' tear-in-the-eye singing).

"I thank the lord there's people out there like you." That's from Mona Lisas & Mad Hatters by Elton John. That's about New York City, too. We loved that song. We were night owls, we relished in saying "good morning to the night." But now that she's gone, I'm so thankful for all the support I've gotten in the wake of the loss. I've told people that I'm afraid I may be judged, but the truth is that every single person has been the opposite of judgmental toward me (except her dad, he blames me for everything and can go fuck himself).

"I thank the lord for the people I have found." If you're reading this, that's you!

Although, once more, I'd like to reiterate that one item of business: New York is a city and a state, and there's lots of people that don't live in the city, you assumption-makers in the rest of the country. When we lived in California, and mentioned we were from New York, the next question was always "what borough?" No borough, muthafucka! When I say that, though, people seem to short-circuit, like a robot trying to process a logical paradox. Although, granted, by population, New York City makes the percentage of folks living out here in the medium-sized cities all but statistically insignificant. But nobody writes songs about Albany or Corning.

But "let's hear it for New York, New York, New York!" If you don't include the word 'city' in your song, I'm hijacking it for the rest of us! Take that, Jay-Z!

Pop! Goes the griefburst

A Jack In The Box receipt. They don't even have Jack In The Box in my hometown. If you're not familiar, Jack In The Box is a drive-thru fast food chain that mostly operates in the Western United States. Usually, their drive-thrus are open 24 hours a day. They give Taco Bell a real run for their money in the stoner munchie market. Good shit.

I found a Jack In The Box receipt in my car and I haven't lived in a place with a Jack In The Box since my wife died. It still has her order on it. Oh crap, the feels train is barreling down the tracks I'm tied to. I didn't cry, but that's only because I was in my car, which was idling in public, waiting for a friend. I can't really cry in public. Cuz I'm a man. HOOOAHH!!

That shit is some fucking bullshit, I can't cry in the United States because I have a Y chromosome unless I hide myself away from everyone to do it like a meth habit. I wanna know what some blueish-white collar guy walking from his job to get some lunch would've thought if he'd seen me bawling in my car holding a receipt.

"Oh, that's terrible, his girlfriend musta got ahold of his credit cards, look how sad he is, she must've bought the whole damn boutique! Sucks to be him!"

Nope. Just a fish sandwich ordered back in February 2015 (if you saw my post about me cleaning, a pattern of not throwing stuff out is likely emerging in your mind). Fuck. At least the guy in my imagination had a bit of sympathy and didn't call me a pussy for crying, so he's not a bad dude. And he gave me enough credit to have a girlfriend. Maybe I don't give real strangers enough credit. At least in my imagination they're sometimes nice.

And if I'd been crying when my friend came out? I imagine he would come out like I was in the middle of growing a tumor out of my forehead in the shape of a possum and he just had to wait for the tumor to get big enough to climb off my head and skitter away. He wouldn't know what to do or say or think or how to react. Cuz it's just a Jack In The Box receipt. What could he do in any case? Offer me a picture frame to save it for eternity? Offer me the use of his shredder?

So I did the man thing, pocketed the receipt and my emotions, and went about my day.

Guys try so hard to avoid crying that we don't even understand crying. I'd like to gain the self-esteem one day to be crying while staring a stranger in the eye. Preferably a male stranger. I would cry as a challenge to him. I would dare him to say something judgmental about my sobs. Nobody recognizes the crying dude as the alpha male, but that could change, right? I'd like to cry like a boss. Cry like a gangsta. I'd like to brandish that Jack In The Box receipt like a shotgun, filling those around me with fear. Because anybody could feel this sad. Any thug or tough guy or German dude really can feel this sad. All they need to do is find someone they love unbelievably and watch them die. That'll put hair on your chest. Figuratively, of course, unless while you're crying, you're also rubbing your chest with Rogaine.

Widower cleans up!

I had a good day today! I hung all my hoodies up on a lamp! (Don't worry, it's not plugged in) No more floor storage for the hoodies! I cleaned! I threw out five big bags of nothing but trash I'd previously been hoarding out of laziness.

Grieving folks will know what I mean when I say I was "cry-cleaning." Because when you clean, you never know what you're gonna find. In fact, cry-cleaning is just one of a whole class of new, grief-related cry-activities! There's cry-showering, cry-driving, cry-jazzercise, etc. With cleaning, you can move a pile of legit garbage and underneath find an irreplaceable memento that sets you to sobbing. I probably picked up fewer tissues than I actually used while cleaning, and there were a LOT of tissues to pick up.

But cleaning made me feel good. I made more good decisions. I took a shower (which is a real accomplishment!). My last job was roofing and I had to shower every day because of that. But I'm freelancing now. Something about grief, I forget to shower regularly. It's one of those normal parts of life that's in disarray now. But I've showered 2 days in a row now! High fives all around!

After the cleaning, I went to a seminar about grief from national speaker Alan Wolfelt. It was good but annoying, because I'm cynical enough to see that he's a national speaker. He has his act down pat, every joke, every proverb, every little quirk of voice that makes it sound like he's saying a practiced phrase for the first time, every time. He's a type-A go-getter, I know the sort. But I liked what he had to say.

Afterward, I went up and talked to him. I didn't really have a reason, but I wanted to exchange a few words and tell him about my wife. I crave sharing my story (can you tell?). I told him about how I felt like almost nobody really 'gets' what I'm struggling with. I told him that even at the grief support groups I attend twice a week, sometimes people who are normally very empathetic let down their empathy in favor of pity. Because I'm young. I'm usually the youngest person at grief groups by a good 15 years. So when I share my story, people invariably respond "but you're so young!" I like to pretend I'm in a Maybelline commercial and bat my eyelashes. "Thanks, I know!"

But what Mr. Wolfelt told me is to try and find more people like me, or possibly seek one-on-one counselling. The problem is that, well, 27-year-old spouses aren't just dropping like flies. So...

Hello, Internet! There's a lot more people here than there are in my home town. I figure bigger sample size, bigger possibility of similar people to share with. So, I have to ask.

Do you have a unique grief situation? Do you come out here to the Internet often? Let's get weird. I like comments from folks in mourning. You can post comments anonymously if you like. The world kept spinning after my wife died. But I know that in grief, the only thing that seems to be spinning is your head. It's not funny. But we can laugh about it!

Haters gon' hate

I hate my life. How will I make this funny and worth the read? Good question. I like a challenge. Some idiots say "I hate my life" just to exaggerate and hyperbolize a lame situation they're in. I used to be one of those idiots. I didn't get any smarter, I just had my life fall into a septic tank. The messed up part (like there's only one) is that I know my life could get worse. One or both of my cats could die, I could crash my car, my folks could kick me out (and no, I wasn't living with my parents when my wife was alive...recently). Tomorrow, I could be abducted by aliens and spend the rest of my life rectally attached to a supercomputer. And yet, I still don't feel like it's a hyperbole to say "I hate my life" right now, you know?

So it's the worst time of my life, and it could get worse, somehow. Isn't that special? But it does give me hope for that bullshit cliche I've heard that there are better days ahead, that just because those good times are over it doesn't mean you'll never have times that good again. I guess it kinda has to be true, right? But to be honest, those kinds of words of wisdom and sentiments of hope piss me off a bit, do you get that? Those cliches have been around forever! Only in the aftermath of the death of my favorite person in the world does the message really "click." Same with "I hate my life."  Back in early 2015, I had no idea the boundless depths of "I hate my life" that we're achievable in my lifetime! Like some astronaut I departed into the unknown to realize that it was only unknown to me. There's a buttload of cliches already about it. I'm familiar with the cliches, in fact. Like if Neil Armstrong had stepped out of the lunar lander and found a time-share community there already bored of the place.

Since my wife died I've met a bunch of other folks who've lost people they really gave a shit about. These are some people who really get the gravity of "I hate my life." Don't get me wrong, I don't judge people who say they hate their life because of something more mundane. Like I don't judge you if you say you hate your life because you dropped out of college 9 credits short of your degree and had a baby with someone you met at a rave who surprise! turned out to be a tweaker. I do scoff, though, quietly, to myself. Because you could drop your troubles and skip town if you really wanted. I can't hop a Greyhound away from my grief. So I scoff. But I don't judge. If I had a time machine, I'd scoff at my tender 26-year-old self, all wet behind the ears. Actually, duh, I'd use the time machine to make my wife not die. But I can't. I actually did try. My uncle has a time machine but there's that damn time-travel paradox. So I guess I'm stuck hating my life. But hey, it could get worse! There's something to look forward to! And so yeah, it could also get better like the cliches all say. Grumble grumble...

Blog Intro: What are you laughing at, Widower?

Grief hasn't been the least bit funny since my wife died last October at the age of 27, and that really gets my goat. I love laughing. I loved hearing my wife laugh. So I had this idea. I'm gonna force some funny into my grief. I'm gonna shove funny, unwanted and unasked, into my grief. That sounds bad and sexual but it's not. In fact it's as good and asexual as anything I've done since she died. Cuz I lost so much when she died. I won't lose my humor, too, dammit! (Plus, my incessant dreariness would get tiresome real quick if I didn't pepper in a few yuks for the folks I wanna share with) So I'm here to play slide-whistle sound effects for the tripping of emotional breakdowns and stuff like that.

Let me tell you why I had to start this. I was out driving by the lake, a road my wife and I used to drive a lot. There was a beautiful sunset over the nuclear power plant, and something caught my eye. I thought it was like a piece of wood or something stuck up from the ground on the side of the road and paid it no mind, but then did a double take in the rear-view and I was like -- I think that was a falcon eating some roadkill! That I had to see! So I turned around. I went back and sure enough, as I slowed to the spot, the hawk looked at me, and flew away and I saw the rust colored tail feathers of a red-tailed hawk which I've always loved. I looked at the dead animal being devoured by the hawk and it was a kitty with black fur. And you wanna know what my first thought was?

Actually, some background first. I own two black cats, formerly 'with my wife.' His and hers cats, you know the deal. They're both black, like the dead fella the hawk was munching on. Also, one of my wife's many pet names was 'Kitty.' In this case, 'pet name' may be more literal than figurative, but I digress. To top it off, on the way home from my wife's funeral, I chanced to see an ominous black cat along the side of the road that felt...significant in some way (I'm noticing a pattern of seeing stuff on sides of roads and am making a mental note to keep my eyes the road in the future).

So what was my first thought when I saw that dead cat?

D'aaaaaaawwwwwww! It's a sign from my wife! She knew I would appreciate the hawk and feel reverence for the reality of nature and black cats seem to be a thing with me and now I feel a glow that has nothing to do with the nuclear power plant! I love animals and the thought of someone's pet getting hit by a car makes my stomach turn. But just this once, roadkill made me feel as wholesome as a matching-t-shirt family at Disneyland.

Life is darkly funny like that. I find in my grief, my humor is still around, just darker (which was aleady pretty dark to begin with). I don't expect many people to get me. That's why I went to the internet. There's billions of you out there. In all those billions - I'll drop it down to millions to account for people who don't speak my language - I know there's gotta be, Idunno, at least four of you out there that could relate to a good dark laugh right now. And I have a lot to share with you three. I bet I can spin my grief into something that makes the two of you laugh. Even if it's just you and I. I know how lonely it is.

I'm a widower. I was 26 when I was handed that demotion. Grief sucks worse than anything I've ever experienced. But if I can make somebody laugh in it all, that'd make me pretty awesome, right? It feels pretty 'not-awesome' to be me right now. However, I'd like to, if I have a choice in the matter, emerge from grief 'awesome,' you know? I know my wife, and she would be ashamed of me if after she died I fell all to pieces and died OD'ing Vicodin I paid for with stolen printer ink behind an old, abandoned Denny's. That'd be 'not-awesome.' She'd prefer 'awesome.' Now that's just my guess, but I was only with her for 11 years and married 6, what do I know about what she would think?