So yesterday, after successfully traveling to Illinois and back (over 750 miles round trip), I went to Border’s around 5:00 to kill some time. When I came out and started home I noticed a 4 - 6 inch long crack in the windshield starting in the lower left corner (as seen from the driver’s seat). Once I got home and could really look at it I could see the tiniest of chips in the glass where the crack started. I must have picked up a rock impact along the way.
This morning the crack had grown to over a foot in length. I called Lexus to get their recommendation on replacement glass installers and about had kittens at the price – $1700. Turns out the fancy-dancy rain sensing windshield is wired and without those wires the automatic wipers don’t work.
My insurance deductible is $500, which is roughly the price the aftermarket installers want for just the windshield. Might as well use the insurance, pay the deductible and get a fully functioning windshield.
Un-freaking-believable… $1700 for a windshield.
The back story here is that for years (since getting the car actually) I have complained about the numerous tiny imperfections in the glass from its first life in Denver. They sand their streets and highways in the wintertime, so spring turns the roads into one large sandblasting experience. Under most driving conditions you can’t see the hundreds of tiny chips, but when the sun is directly in front of the glass all you can see are those chips. Michele got tired of my grousing about how I wished I’d get a rock chip or crack so I could justify having it replaced. If I had known it would be $500 to me I’d have kept my big mouth shut.
Sigh.
It has been almost nine months since my wife died and I am finding my thoughts turning more and more towards the future. What’s next? Who will I become in the next year? Five years? Decade? It is hard to contemplate, and even harder to visualize as real.
For some time now I have found my thoughts straying towards the future. At first I resisted such thoughts as they felt like a betrayal of Michele. Over time, however, I have come to understand that not pursuing these thoughts is a betrayal of myself. Michele would be sorely upset were I to betray myself in any fashion. So I sit and think about what’s next.
The odd part is that I imagine having a conversation with Michele about my future. She was the consummate listener and was able to hear what I wasn’t saying just as loudly as she could hear what I was saying. Her counsel was full of wisdom and humor and in my imaginary conversations with her I hear faint echos of her sage advice.
Rejoining a martial arts dojo is a step forward, and one that brings me into contact with other people. Allowing myself to participate in social activities with co-workers and friends is also a step forward. Initiating some of those activities is a huge step forward. Perhaps the most powerful and self-validating thing I have done is to allow myself permission to rejoin the mainstream of life. Tentatively, cautiously, but still back in the flow. I know I’ll revisit the eddies of grief and sorrow for some time to come, but only by letting go of the rocks can I float free in life’s stream once again.
Several times in recent weeks I’ve found myself thinking about the future. Not the gloomy I’m-alone-in-a-cave-forever future, but the I’m actually-living-and-maybe-have-a-meaningful-relationship future. Shocking, but true. Don’t tell anyone, it’ll ruin the brooding, melancholy thing I’ve got going.
What if, and it’s a big IF, I meet someone? What if they are intelligent, smart, funny, active, stylish, opinionated, attractive and not afraid of nerds? What if they find me intelligent, smart, funny, active, stylish, opinionated, attractive and nerdly? What if I win the Powerball Lottery? What if JFK, Elvis, and Jimmy Hoffa are all living on a super secret government island in the middle Pacific? But I digress…
Everyone warns you about the “what if” questions in reference to dredging up the past and beating yourself with it; but no one says anything about the future “what if” questions. I looked in the grieving widow/ers manual and there’s nothing there about this at all. I’d like my money back now, please.
Of course, were she here physically I could bounce all these questions and thoughts off Michele. But then, if she were still here, having these thoughts and questions might result in my needing a cot and sleeping bag for the garage.
I guess there is life after death. Furthermore, I guess it’s going to happen whether I participate in choosing the direction or not.
Man. Is it ever bright outside of this cave.
Last night’s kendo workout was good; more and more of the basics are starting to feel normal to me, my focus is returning, and I am less wiped out by the exercise itself. The soles of my feet are taking a beating; hopefully they will toughen up sooner rather than later. I did manage to generate a blister on the ball of my left foot. As the proper stance has the left heel in the air all the time, a lot of pressure is focus on the ball of that foot. Since I’ll be out of town this weekend I’ll miss Saturday’s workout so it should heal before Wednesday.
I’ve ordered a keiko-gi and hakama, the jacket and pants that are traditionally worn. Since the gi is heavy cotton it’ll add some difficulty to the workout in the form of retained body heat. Last evening the temperature at 6:30 was 93, and it was still 90 at 8:15 when we broke up for the night. My plan is to get a large Rubbermaid tub and use that to wash my gi and hakama. Since both are dyed with indigo I expect them to run quite a bit the first several washings. I’ve heard from more than one source that you can actually stain your tub permanently with the dye runoff if you aren’t careful. The Rubbermaid tub will isolate the dye; and the water can be dumped outside.
The real trick will be getting the dye off of me before coming into work the next day. My friend E in Chicago says I’ll look “smurfy” after the first few workouts. Papa Smurf, Girl Smurf, and Kendo Smurf.
City of Bones is another in Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch series. Bosch continues to be among my favorite literary characters, and this book is no exception.
Rating: Once you pick it up it’s hard to put down.
Of Flutterbys and Bedspreads The day of Michele’s memorial, as P and I stood at the table holding the flowers and her pictures, a Monarch butterfly suddenly appeared from nowhere, did a lap around the arrangement and a figure-eight around the two of us. We both remarked about not having seen a Monarch in years. It felt like a sign then and still feels that way today.
In the first several weeks after her death I would come home from work only to find her side of the bed turned down. Intellectually I know that it was only Taz burrowing under the covers to sleep, but it only ever happened on Michele’s side of the bed, and it had never happened before. I could just see Michele standing there egging on Taz. She was leaving me another sign that she was okay.
Just this week, for the first time in months I came home to find Michele’s side of the bed turned down. My first thought was she’s back. It felt good to think that I have my own angel now, and that she stops by to make sure I’m okay. Tonight, as I was leaving my favorite pizza parlor another Monarch fluttered by and disappeared, bringing a smile to my face.
I have been struggling with how to move forward in my life, and while I’m not sure of the details yet, I do feel like I am moving ahead. To me the bed being turned down and the Monarch are signs of approval from Michele. I know she’d come back and kick my ass if all I did with the rest of my life was sit around and mope, so it feels good to think that she would approve of my moving on with my life.
Oh Sh*t, Not Again The second year I worked at summer camp the permanent staff there was on a “wellness” kick. They had all read the wellness handbook and were full of excitement about eating healthier and taking proactive steps to be well instead of just merely not ill. Unfortunately they tried to alter the lifestyle of everyone at camp that summer too, largely through the menu in the dining hall. Compounding the parade of sprouts, salads, and carob bars were two fraternity row cooks from nearby Purdue University who were cooks only in the mechanical sense of mixing things together and serving them. The food that year was quite simply, awful.
One late summer evening, dinner was a particularly odious tuna salad, something I have never, ever liked, and so I passed on the main course and filled up instead on oatmeal raisin cookies. Seventeen oatmeal raisin cookies. This was my night off and so myself and two other counselors headed for the nearby mall and some real food. By the time we reached the mall parking lot I was in a bad way. I knew it was going to be a close call getting to the men’s room in time. As it turned out I was all the way in the stall before I lost the race.
After twenty minutes or so waiting one of my companions finally came looking for me to see if I was okay. After explaining what had occurred I tossed him my wallet and sent him off to by me a set of underwear and some new shorts.
I haven’t had an oatmeal raisin cookie since.
On the spur of the moment this evening I decided to go root around in the boxes I have in storage looking for a chain necklace Michele had given me some years ago. No sooner did I have a dozen or so boxes out of the locker and in the hallway (it’s indoor storage - climate controlled) than a series of cramps hit me. I had just one large box, empty save for some large sheets of heavy packing paper, to go when the final set of cramps struck.
Fortunately, Thursday evening at the local indoor storage mart is quiet. I had the place to myself as I as I cleaned up as best I could with sheets of packing paper and some Kleenex. And the length of my oversized tee-shirt was advantageous as I hurriedly ducked out to my car to come home and shower. After donning fresh clothes I returned to the scene of the, ah, spill, with Oxy-Clean, clorox and a supply of paper towels.
Twenty-six years later and those damn raisin cookies are still after me.
Please keep your scatological jokes to yourself.
Files Are Not For Sharing from the The Morning News.
Today was a bad day. Bad as in I had to leave work before I totally lost my composure. I feel like the guy in one of those “how do you get two chickens and a fox across the river one at a time with out the fox eating the chickens” puzzles. Only I’ve got two foxes and one chicken. I can handle the grief of Michele’s death. I can handle the grief of my mother’s death. The two combined takes me right up to my limit. I have no freeboard left for anything else.
Only I have a job, and that job, like all jobs, comes with a ration of stress. We are in the final eight days of our design. Originally we were to hand it off on June 19th, which slipped to the 26th, and has now slipped again to the 30th. Ordinarily having some extra time to tie up lose ends would be welcome, but in this case it feels like we are prolonging the end for no real gain. Certainly, I’m not enjoying it. I am burnt out on the endless slog through the minutiae that is this design. Adding to my stress is the knowledge that our current tasking ends on June 30th. There is a possibility that the next tasking won’t be in place by the following working day.
In other words, at a time when I have no spare bandwidth for stress, my job has become more and more stressful, the duration of the stress keeps getting extended, and after it is all said and done, it may really be all said and done. Now I don’t expect the project team to be let go after the 30th, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a delay while the ever so fine wheels of politics grind slowly forward.
On a scale of one to ten I would rate today about a minus three. I’m looking forward to a time when things will just suck again. I know that all of this will pass and I’ll be able to move on, but for now it seems unending and relentless. Venting about it here, be it maudlin or haphazard, has helped. Now all I have to do is beat the cats, yell at the neighbors, and smash something to feel better.
Just kidding… I would never beat the cats.
They know where I sleep.
Back in late April and early May I was casting about trying to decide how to celebrate my birthday this year. For the first time in nine years it would be a day without Michele’s planning behind it. Adding to the difficulty was my mom’s declining health. The weekend of my birthday I actually traveled to Illinois in what later was the last visit I had with my Mom while she was still conscious. I would see her again Memorial Day weekend, but she was no longer aware or responsive during that visit.
In thinking about my birthday and trying to decide what Michele would have me do, were I able to contact her and ask, I settled on having a meal out at our favorite Kansas City eatery, Peach Tree. Serving incredible southern style home cooking, Peach Tree is a gem. Located in the Jazz district meals there are often accompanied by live piano or jazz ensembles. The food is simply incredible.
Not wanting to go it alone I asked a couple I met through work if they would like to join me. Michele and I had started a friendship with them, and my relationship with the two of them has only deepened in the months following her death. They agreed and as luck would have it, the first mutually free date was yesterday. Being Father’s Day it turned into an extended family gathering with mom’s and dad’s and grandparents all in attendance. Usually I feel like a red-haired ugly fifth-wheel when I’m the only non-family member present but I was made very welcome and enjoyed myself immensely.
After leaving the restaurant I could feel Michele’s satisfaction that I had done something for me, in celebration of me, for my birthday. It is hard amidst all the grief, travel, and work, to find time to celebrate me, to allow myself to have some good just because. I know that we all need to feel special and valued or we sink into depression. I’ve worked hard at keeping myself active and moving forward, which counteracts much of the pull depression has, but not all. Letting myself have a special meal out, with good friends, was the just the thing to lighten my mood.
Books that have accurate depictions of martial arts are few and far between. The John Rain series, starting with Rain Fall by Barry Eisler, is one of only a handful novels with a good story and good martial arts thrown in the mix. I’m re-reading the first four in the series in anticipation of the newly released fifth book.
Rating: As hard hitting as any o-soto-gari.