Employment status: not 'un'

I started a new job yesterday, and it's creepy how much they trust me already. Within an hour of my first shift ever, I was given a key to the exterior doors, a key to all the storage, and a key that opens other boxes of keys. I was also given the gas station credit card for their van fleet and $60 company cash for job duties at the laundromat. Maybe it's my White Privilege, that I'm intrinsically honest in their eyes. Maybe it's the fact that I have Eagle Scout on my resume, and 'trustworthy' is literally the first point of Scout Law. Maybe they're just stupid. I could be a con artist or a larcenous crackhead. I should rip them off just to teach them a lesson about assumptions.

Everyone is crazy nice, though. I wonder when my widower status will come up? A couple of the office ladies know about it, but nobody has followed up or asked about my wedding band. It's bound to come up sooner or later. I'm going to be pretty blunt when it does. That way, I'll sort out the disappointing people from the ones who can hang real quick.

I have no desire to rip these folks off: I like the job too much. I should amend that, I like the job hours too much. I'm working part-time, only afternoons, and that suits me perfectly. The job itself is a bit crazy, as numerous employees have warned me. Like, enough employees have said it's crazy here that, they're saying it as a joke, but I'm starting to think they're not saying it as a joke. The guy who's been doing most of my training has dropped a few swearwords on the job, which is awesome. He also worked today, which was his birthday, just for the sake of training me. Crazy with nice, sweary people? I'll fit in perfectly.

Respect the unexpected

OK, yesterday was my first anniversary after my wife died, and what I'm going to say isn't what anyone wants to hear: it went well and I had fun. Hell, that's not what I want to hear. If I had fun on my anniversary with my wife being dead, doesn't that mean I didn't love her or something? Shouldn't I've been crying all day camped out at her grave with a crate of kleenex?

Well, I did cry. A lot, throughout the day. I did also did visit her grave and bawl my eyeballs out there. I had quite a few dark moments throughout the day, which I fully expected. But it didn't stop me from having a good time at other points. A highlight was meeting with one of my wife's best friends / bridesmaids at the park I got married in. It was the perfect way to start such a shitty day: talking about my wife with someone who knew and loved her (almost!) as well as I did.

This all goes along with my cynicism: I expected awful feelings all day. I ended up having some unexpected good feelings, too. Like I was heading to my scheduled execution, but then the executioner told me I had a lovely smile and great hair. And I didn't die. My personal advice for trying to prepare for a grief: always, always expect the worst, but graciously accept it if and when things fail to meet that expectation.

Plan to fail

In grief, if there is a milestone or anniversary or holiday you're dreading: plan for it. Let me give you an example. Just, you know, the first thing that comes to mind, I guess, is my anniversary tomorrow. Today, technically, but I'm not counting it until I go to bed and wake up. 'My anniversary' would've been my seven-year marriage anniversary. We got married on the five-year anniversary of when we started dating, so it also would've been twelve years together. You could say I'm dreading it.

So, according to the suggestion, I have plans. I'm lucky to have a grief group meeting scheduled tomorrow. Also, I'm meeting one of my wife's best friends at the park I got married in. Guess I'm going to cry in a public park tomorrow! Isn't that special? The good news is that judgmental douchebags rarely frequent nature and beauty, so I'm not worried.

Judgment regardless, tomorrow (today, really, as I said), has had me trembling for weeks. How do you close the book on an eleven-year tradition? Like this! It's just this easy! Or you don't. You plan something entirely new, so the old is preserved in a meaningful way. That's how you do it! Like it's easy or something.

Whatever. As long as I don't self-destruct, everything is going to go as well as can be expected. Plan out how not to self-destruct. That's all what matters, says I.

Off the co-deep-end

This is how codependent my wife and I were. When we were living in Los Angeles, we had a king-sized bed and a love-seat. That was the furniture. And it wasn't a sofa, it was a love-seat. We could both fit sitting on it, but if I tried to lay down, my legs would be bent and still hanging over the armrest. Both of us sitting there, we had enough space for us two, but it meant we were touching, at least our shoulders or thighs. We sat there every night, knocking knees through Netflix.

This was a studio apartment, as spacious as it sounds. But even in such close living quarters, we chose to spend everyday, both crammed onto a single love-seat. Yes, we were deemed codependent by a mental health professional, not just "Oh-em-gee we are, like, so totes codependent." It really wasn't healthy.

As I've mentioned, we had his-and-hers cats, and they did not enjoy sharing the space of a studio with each other. But many nights, my cat would come to me, and her cat would come to her, and even in already cramped quarters, all four living beings would come together and share the space of a single love-seat: maybe ten square feet. What's that song? Love's the only house big enough...in the middle of our street? Love's the only House of the Rising Sun? Love's the only brick house (and it's mighty mighty)? I don't know. I think it's some country song, but I don't listen to country music. Anyway, my wife and I were codependent as hell. I loved it.

Mom and Pop(corn)

Grief changes what matters. I have less road rage now that my wife is dead. People still drive like assholes, but I don't let it bother me. I also worry less, these days, what people think about me, unless they're thinking of ways to resurrect my wife. But now, a single baggie of popcorn can tear me to pieces -- chocolate-covered popcorn.

Like any red-blooded, non-Communist American, I like popcorn, and I like chocolate. I'm not over-the-moon about chocolate-covered popcorn, specifically, but it was a favorite of my wife's. So when I was at a chocolatier with my folks recently, I decided to get a bag to remind me of her. And later that evening, when I came downstairs, and I saw someone had eaten some of my popcorn, I had a griefburst, stumbling and sobbing around the kitchen. A griefburst regarding popcorn.

The next day, my mom actually came to me about the popcorn, and I told her that it was mine. Which promptly gave her a griefburst. She ate the popcorn for the same reason I wanted it: to think of my wife. Remember, this is not an antique pocketwatch she pawned, or an heirloom Ming vase she broke, or an original Van Gogh she Sharpied a mustache on: it's popcorn. She felt terrible, and I felt terrible. But a $3.75 bag of chocolate-covered popcorn + grief = priceless.

Sleeping 'til noon is sexy

My parents will be happy to know I got a job: I was so happy I had a grief burst! And this job is perfect for me, part-time, exactly the schedule I asked the universe for: only weekday afternoons, so I can still stay up late and sleep in, and have evenings and weekends free. So naturally, right after I hung up the call, I burst into tears. I don't think my brain knows the difference between good news and bad news anymore.

This was not a crying 'because I wish she could to see this' or crying 'because I'm so happy' or crying 'because this job reminds me of my wife's eyes.' This was just plain old griefy 'I miss her' crying, nothing more. I think were a few mutterings of 'I hate my life' mixed into the 'I miss you's.' Makes perfect sense!

I'm afraid I'm going to be out on the street one of these days, and someone will drop a hat, and I'll cry at it.

If I was a praying man, Id say mine were answered: I start on Monday and will be able to resume making student loan payments! In all seriousness, I'm ecstatic, I'm expecting to stay with this company until I get published. And we've all heard how quick and easy it is to publish a novel. Wonder how big a grief burst I'll have when that finally happens! 

Oh, grow up!

My wife and I were really just kids in grown-up bodies. We loved Disney movies, even into the age it would probably be considered creepy. Older Disney, though, like 90's and prior. Not Frozen. I will NOT be Letting Anything Go (although I could be persuaded to Let It Be, but that's McCartney, not Disney).

I've found it hard to watch Disney since last October. It doesn't help that damn near every single movie involves the death of a loved one. Simba beside a dead Mufasa made me tear up, even before I lost my wife. So now, I don't even have the balls to turn on the film. And it will be decades before I can once again watch the first act of UP, and even then, I'm sure I'll cry gallons. Disney is ruthless with those feels.

But, as long as I possibly can, I'll still hang on to the childish parts of me. My love for my wife is in there. If I stop liking Disney entirely, then I'd feel like a neo-Nazi, just like Walt was. I guess you can have hate in your heart and still make beautiful art. Or at least hire folks who can make beautiful art. Which is good, because I definitely have hate in my heart, though certainly not for anything so small-minded as anti-Semitism. I don't discriminate - I hate the everything.

Don't play if you can't win

The blinking lights, the high-energy chimes and bells, the three wheels of fate with a one-in-a-million chance of stopping in front of you on 'BAR-BAR-BAR.' Gambling is love. Metaphor. But it's 999,999-in-a-million that you'll end up with less than you'd hoped for. I knew this truth already by 15, when I met my jackpot. I can't tell you how lucky I was, to find someone capable of loving this hot mess, eleven years strong.

I have man-boobies, and odd-looking ones at that. I'm hard on myself. I'm a consummate hypocrite. I dislike like sharing. I can't grow a full beard, only a hipster-looking neckbeard. My sense of humor is dark to the point of alienating. I'm lazy and hold myself to low standards. I have social anxiety and insomnia. I care about myself more than my family. I self-censor in front of people and don't know how to defend myself. I second-guess myself at every turn. I'm mooching off my parents with no end in sight. If I can put something off til later, I always will. I don't keep my promises to myself and always think I'm wiser than you. My head looks like a yield sign.

If you've been reading, my flaws aren't really news to you. No question: I hit my lucky number at 15. At the time, I assumed I would die as a forever-alone meme, a 40- or 80- or 100-year-old virgin. I hit the jackpot, and not the penny-slots; the $20-a-pull, about-to-end-up-on-an-episode-of-C.S.I. bonanza. It's the only reason I have hope, which I do, that I'll ever have true love again. I had it once before. And I don't believe in one-in-a-millions. But now, I believe in two-in-seven-billion.

Truth hurts. Dead's just dead.

Don't talk shit about the dead: especially if you talked shit about them all the time when they were alive. If it sounds hypocritical, you're right! We say nobody's perfect, and yet, every dead person is perfect, if you only go by how they're spoken of.

Now, let me talk some shit about my wife! News flash: she wasn't perfect (bear with me). The good news is that shit-talking is actually not as bad as being dead (seriously, bear with me)!

My wife was fat. She was short-tempered and pessimistic. My wife couldn't empathize well and made me fight to know when something was wrong. She had night terrors and panic attacks. My wife drank too much and procrastinated. She was self-centered and didn't know how to treat herself right. My wife had a horrible childhood and sometimes used certain words incorrectly. She hid important things from me and was depressed. Her fourth toe on both feet were undersized.

Most of these flaws I'm also guilty of: I wear black t-shirts because they help hide my man-boobies. Though I guess you'd call my toes pretty much normal.

I'm a hypocrite about many things, but this is not one of them. I explicitly accepted all her imperfections while she was alive. One thing my wife was not is ignorant. We made peace with our flaws together while she was alive, so I'm not disturbing any rest-in-peace. I loved her lack of perfection. I still do. And I could fill hundreds of blog posts listing ways my wife was perfect -- to me. But who wants to sit through that?

That's 'pack' not 'herd'

Humans are pack animals. I don't mean beasts of burden like pack mules. I mean we've evolved to come together, not stay apart. Being alone all the time is unnatural to us. Yes, we all have figurative burdens to bear, ha-ha-ha. But whether you have a big *stereotype ethnicity* family, or if it's just you and your spouse against the world, we're wired to be happiest as part of a pack. Me? I'm actually stupider by myself.

I like to think I'm pretty sharp, pretty perceptive in general. My grandma used to call me "Eagle Eye." By myself though, I've been becoming a bumble-klutz. I trip more often, I forget things, I bump into stuff. I've dropped my cellphone more in the past nine and a half months than I probably did in that many years. In July, I locked my keys in the car for the first time since like 2011. This is all only when I'm alone.

I've heard it's pretty common with elderly couples, where one dies and the widow/widower starts to decline mentally. So when I claim my wife kept me sane, it's no bullshit. Don't get me wrong, sometimes it's nice to be alone, sitting with my thoughts and freely crying as the mood takes me. But I'll take just about any opportunity to be in a pack, to indulge the part of my brain that lights up around company. I'm less clumsy in a pack. I'd look up some psychology study to corroborate this concept, but I'm alone right now, and every time I try typing terms into Google, my grief-addled head just makes my fingers write "taco muffin taco muffin taco muffin."

"It was her time" and other bullshits

There's a lot of awful cliches in grief:

"They're in a better place."

"The universe wouldn't give you more than you can handle."

"Everything happens for a reason."

Some are actually helpful, like:

"He that conceals his grief finds no remedy for it." - Turkish proverb

"You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair." - Chinese proverb

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break." - some guy named Bill

When I was fresh in grief, it felt monstrous, inhuman, utterly impossible to exist but somehow, there it was. Turns out, grief is as old as humanity, and as normal. It pissed me off how much people had cliches coming out their mouths, noses and ears. But when I started sorting the good from the bad, I realized where it's all coming from at least. This has all happened before; it will all happen again. I can say, I finally see "the wisdom of the ages" in a way relevant to my life. This is why they say to listen to your elders and all that bullshit.

Turns out I'm not the only person to ever lose the person they loved most in the world. It's been happening for thousands of years, folks. Surprised? I kind of was. I'm still going to refer to Google as my lore-keeper and guru in all things modern. But with grief, I'm hungry to hear from those who've been adrift in these waters before. Grief is as old as smiling when you're happy and laughing at farts. I'm glad to know my grief's not unique as it feel. I try to find words to talk about grief in this blog: C.S. Lewis already wrote the freakin' book.

Give me a little credit

I need a job. I've been mooching off my parents since my wife died, and it's time. I'm going to pick myself up by my bootstraps and face the reality of my student loans. I've been hiding from them for months. But that's one aspect of my life that remained unchanged when my wife died. She'll never need to apply for an apartment or can loan again, that lucky so-and-so.

Forget diamonds, debt is forever. The only time debt was ever funny to me is when my wife got mail asking for bills to be paid six months after she died. Hilarious. So I need a job. I even have an interview already lined up, I'm ready for this, I'm pumped. I'm going to put my nose to the grindstone and punch that clock and other hard-workin' cliches.

Oh, by the way, I'm still going to be living with my parents. I'm only looking for part-time, just enough to get the loan-monkey off my back. I'm not happy about it either, but I need to do it. Because grief. One more thing, can I just say again how fucked up life is that I'm bitching about student loans on my widower blog?

'Twas the night before Labor Day...

Later this month is mine and my wife's anniversary, and, despite the sitcom stereotypes, I never forgot it. But this year will be decidedly sadder than last. Right now, I have what they call anticipatory grief! I'm upset now, because I'm assuming I'll be upset then. Which is a fairly safe assumption, I should think. Although I might end up just back into shock for the day and it could pass in a lovely, blurry fog. 

I've said before how I'm not big on sunshine and summer. Our anniversary was really the only reason I had to look forward to the mosquito-y times of the year. Surprisingly enough, I'm not big on Labor Day: I don't even get a tree or hang lights. And friends sending me pictures of their family as Labor Day cards? Ugh.  I just want the weather and leaves to change and bring me from summer into autumn because...well...actually October is when my wife died. Shit. I guess the anniversary of her death can't be as bad as the actual death was! It's something!

In my grief groups, I've been told that anticipatory feelings can be worse than the actual day. I've also been told that the second year can be worse than the first year, because the shock and fog start to lift and grief feels more real. So regardless of how the milestones go, there's something to look forward to! I think the lesson is to focus on the now: if I'm not too overly sad at the moment, just try to enjoy that. I can articulate the lesson, but actually putting it into practice? I think it'd be easier to find myself a Labor Day tree.

Assholes shouldn't get to reproduce

Losing my wife was one tragedy. Losing my in-laws: not so much. Going through pictures, there are some that make me cry tears of sappiness. Others, I take utter delight in throwing away. Like those of her parents. I hate them, and they hate me. Or if they don't hate me, they should, because I hate them. Every flaw I encountered in my wife, I can trace back to her mom or dad making really bone-headed parenting moves, to say the least.

I have tons of photos scattered across boxes and cellphones and facebooks, and I'm soooo happy to delete, discard and destroy those of her mom and dad. I need the good photos, of my wife alive, and I hate stumbling across those ghosts who haunted my wife while she lived. I'm gonna depend on my photo collection for many years to come, so I'm happy to prune away the rubbish now. There are some memories I don't want to be reminded of. People are always telling me to remember the good times, and not the bad times, so shitcanning pix of her parents is therapeutic, really.

Fortunately, I never have to see those people again, unless I run into them in the store or something. I'm sure, if I do run into one or the other of them, I'll come back and write a blog post about how I bravely leave the store immediately without even buying what I came in for. I'm not a confrontational person, otherwise I'd love to bitch them out and leave them crying about all the hell they put their daughter through. But for now, I'll just enjoy throwing away photos of their likeness, like modern-day voodoo dolls. If I ever meet a witch doctor, I will totally pay him to send them all the bad juju I can afford.

Too Much Intimacy

There's this hot pink Goody hairbrush, a mini one that's perfect for a girl or woman's purse, my wife's purse to be exact. Now I use it to brush my beard. Yes, folks, I went through my wife's purse, the unforgivable sin. Truthfully, I was welcome to paw through it when she was alive, she had nothing inside to keep secret from me. To the straight ladies out there, your boyfriend/husband is not ignorant to the existence of tampons, and we really don't care.

Turns out, being allowed to access her purse takes away all the mystery. My wife had all my computer passwords, too. She even knew where my porn folders were, all of them. Even that one. She still loved me anyway. I expect that after reading this, you're either freaked out, jealous, or you've known the intimacy of which I speak. If you're freaked out, I pity you. If you think it's T.M.I for a public blog, you're probably right.

Even with the horrible way my wife died, we enjoyed a level of relationship people only dream about. I don't mean to, but I'll be judging every future relationship based on the one I lost. I can see the argument for me be too honest, too open. Once you know, you can never unknow, until they invent brain bleach. But I hope you can see the point of my counterargument. You may not believe me, but it's just better when your lover knows and accepts the deepest, darkest corner of your porn folders. 

Posthumous humor

Don't laugh about grief. Seriously. Don't even think about how close the word 'requiem' is to 'rectum.' I know you want to, but there's just nothing funny about death. Even if someone solemnly lets out a toot-fart during a eulogy. Don't you dare laugh. No matter how much the dearly departed loved a good fart joke.

When the eulogy's over, and the funeral procession is en route to the cemetery, and you're alone in your car, let it rip. If you think I mean fart, you have a filthy, filthy mind. If you think I mean release your laughter, then there's hope for your soul. If you thought of both, you're very clever, and I like you, but don't get cocky.

Never let anything ruin your sense of humor completely. To those who've lost a loved one, I promise, if you could ever laugh before, you will be able to laugh again.  If you never had a sense of humor in the first place, may George Carlin bless you and keep you, for yours is the soul most in need (and I strongly urge you fill out the Contact Me form for free information on how the Church of George Carlin might be able to help you).

Without comedy, I would've jumped off a bridge by now, or put a bottle of vodka to my head and pulled the trigger. It's funny because it's true. And the first rule of comedy is always end on a big joke.

Seeking: Lawyer Specializing in Murphy's Law

Driving home from dinner, my dad unexpectedly stopped to run an errand he'd previously stated would be handled tomorrow. The reason he gave was that, per Murphy's Law, something might come up tomorrow, but 'nothing can happen tonight.' We were pulling in. I mentioned that a meteor could fall from the sky in the next few seconds: to me, rhetorical hyperbole is a challenge to reality. I was met with 'well aren't you just a ray of sunshine?'

Well, folks, turns out I am not, in fact, a ray of sunshine. In addition to all my previous posts where I mention enjoying clouds and rain, I'm just not a sunny, bright person. That part of me is dead, so to speak. But something bad could always just happen when you least expect it. I know this better than most. It's the definition of Murphy's Law, really, I'm just pushing it to the comical extreme.

I don't even see why it's so dark of me to bring up freak meteor strikes. If something's falling big enough to damage anything, it'll be all over the news before it hits. Plus, don't we have, like, a system of satellite lasers or something to shoot anything like that out of the sky? Plus, if a meteor did drop from nowhere and kill the whole minivanful of us, it would really simplify our lives and eliminate all our day-to-day worries.

OK, maybe I am a bit darker than most in the humor department. I'm just a snarky little raincloud. At least I amuse myself, even if the joke doesn't exactly 'land' on my audience, pun intended.