My Arbitrary Christmas Tree...

Every Christmas, since Bob died—this coming will make number three—I am absolutely certain I won't be "into" Christmas this year, that I'll quietly go into hibernation and  let it pass without fanfare. And each year, at the most random time, I'll get hit—make that blindsided—by the damn Christmas Spirit, and eventually have to succumb to the overwhelming desire to have to go out, now and get a tree, or pass out from the sheer anxiety of not doing it, which then sets this whole blessed mess into motion.

This year's random blindside moment couldn't have been more timely—it happened just before the Arctic freeze settled into Minnesota for a long winter's nap. There I was, sitting at my desk, snuggled into a blanket, minding my own business while working on a major assignment due this week, when out of nowhere, BAM! I absolutely had to stop typing and go out and get a tree—now, dammit! The past two Christmases, I've gone to Kruger's Christmas Trees in Lake Elmo and have been drawn to short, stout, adorable (read: easily handled by short, stout, adorable redhead) Fraser firs, but this year, with Thanksgiving so late and the cold settling in too soon, I found myself dreading this little tradition that I'd started a few years ago, and even started eyeballing my pathetic Boston fern, shedding dried out, crusty leaves in the corner of my dining room, as a possible Christmas tree understudy. I am still purging, downsizing, reorganizing, reinventing my life here in St. Paul, and the though of trying to fit a damn Christmas tree into this already crammed-full apartment sent me into mini-panic attacks. . .

But there I was, working on this paper—maybe writer's block had something to do with it. Or undiagnosed, unmedicated ADD—when suddenly, I had to get a tree. NOW!!! It was dark, the temps were plummeting, winds threatening to pick up—if I didn't go right away, who knows when, if ever, I'd have the guts to head out. Without changing out of the pajamas I'd been in since the night before (I know, right? uggg! It's finals week, peeps!), I grabbed my coat, purse, keys, jumped into the Jeep and headed down to my local Ace Hardware on Dale and Grand, where I had seen trees stacked in front of the building a few days prior.

Lemme tell you one thing: Ace Hardware ain't Kruger's. Not by a long shot. If you're looking for a beautiful, memorable Christmas tree experience, go to Krugers, frozen tundra or no. Even if you don't cut your own, Kruger's ambiance, setting, hot chocolate, friendly and knowledgeable staff and sustainability philosophies make the experience so worth it. It's a 4-generation, local business, you know that your tree is grown on site, and is replaced, recycled, renewed, year after year . . . cycle of life. . . the year Bob died, the son of the founder of Krueger's, 2nd generation, had just died, also from cancer, if I remember correctly . . . No offense to Ace, but all they have is a bunch of trees, bound up like Christmas hams, crammed in a lot staffed by a teenage kid who will say ummm, I don't know to any questions you ask, and when he hacks off a couple inches from the trunk, he will ask you if it looks okay . . . you're taking your chances, 'sall I'm saying, basing your choice on something greenish, tree-ish, hog-tied and suffocating for God knows how long. But, for thirty bucks and sub-zero temps and gale-force winds literally on the horizon, it didn't seem like a bad deal. I'll just wait to decorate until the tree thawed out and revealed its full glory or deformities, I thought. I am not above cramming this tree back into my Jeep and returning it, should it thaw out into an evergreen nightmare. All about principle, right?

Long story even longer, the tree thawed out just fine—it's far taller than any tree I've had in the past, but it's full and lusciously gin-smelling (or is it gin that smells like pine?), and before I could schedule an exorcism, I had all my Rubbermaid tubs dragged out from the basement and was decorating like an elf goofed up on eggnog.

I was going to stick with a simple theme for my tree this year, thinking I'd keep the decorating and effort to a minimum. I'd only hang ornaments that were predominantly white and/or silver.  I did a pretty good job with that, except that some decorations that were not predominantly silver and/or white made me feel wistful or happy or sad or nostalgic, or whatever, and before I knew it, I was making all kinds of exceptions, for red, purple and blue . . . and gold, green and a bit of yellow, too . . . for the owls, and then for the hideous 70's ornaments Bob's mom gave him as a kid . . . do arbitrary if you must—grief, life, love is arbitrary—but allow room for arbitrary exceptions to those arbitrary rules. . . exceptions to the rules are always good. . . I love my tree, love this season, love to you all . . .

The ~~~~***¡MIRACLE!***~~~~ of Facebook!

Okay, so I was going to devote an entire entry on the fabulousness that is Chicago (I may still get to that—anything to keep me from studying, being it is my last week of class at Hamline), but then realized that, in the midst of all our running around, sight-seeing, oooh-ing and aaaahhhh-ing and eating and drinking and being merry, the very highlight of my weekend there was meeting a woman whom I'd only "met" on Facebook, never in person, another lifetime ago when Bob was so critically ill. Don't misinterpret that—Chicago is an awesome city, FULL of things for everyone and everyone, but the final few hours of our stay, before we caught our flight home, will resonate with me for a long time to come

I don't believe I ever wrote about this on Bob's blog, and who knows why not—perhaps it was too personal, perhaps there were too many other things that took precedence, perhaps it was too hard to try to explain, even to myself . . . but when Bob was in the throes of his illness, I recieved a facebook message from a woman I did not know:


3/29/10  10:54 pm
you

Jennifer, I don't know who you are, I don't know your Bob, or your relationship to him...(but through a facebook link from Jill Hildebrandt, who I also don't know worth shit, but know a friend of hers on facebook and liked the picture of her as a baby, crying, and then friended her)...but I gotta tell you something. I read your blog from Sunday. And, alas, I love you...not just a little. I love you dearly. Like you are my sister. I am sending you that love, big time. I want you to know that. And I want you to get it that its possible for some loon from chicago to love you like crazy, even though she only knows you a little bit from your writing, and you don't need to feel one iota of love back...but just know that you are loved...and accept the energy that that brings you. You are in my heart and in my mind and your words on that blogged changed me. love, mary

3/30/10  10:57 pm
Mary,
 Last night, I couldn't sleep and turned my cell phone on to call my husband (that's Bob) in ICU. At 2:30 a.m. Like I did the night before. Just to check on him. Even though I knew he wouldn't be able to speak to me. Then I thought, "Hey, crazy lady, quit it. He can't talk anyhow, and the nurses won't tell you anything you don't already know . . ." So instead, I flipped my phone over to Facebook, to try to escape with some mindless fb stalking . . . and found your note. And just had to say, it surprised the hell out of me, and made my day (night)! Made me laugh, made me just lie in the darkness, in wonder. That someone who doesn't know me or my husband, at all, cares that much. I felt your love, and continue to feel it.
That crybaby you've friended is my sister, Jill. She posted the link to our blog on fbook the other night, to reach out to friends and family that may not have known about Bob's situation . . .his story is a long one; had childhood cancer, was "cured," but now the fallout of the radiation he was exposed to way back in the 70's has come back to haunt him: heart attack 3 years ago; secondary cancer that was diagnosed just before Christmas '09, then another massive heart attack while doing an inpatient stint of chemo this past weekend . . . the blog has turned into my outlet, my therapy, a way to process all the shit that's been dumped on him, a way to try and shovel out from under all of it. . . poor guy, I've turned his situation into a real life Truman Show . . .
I could go on and on (I sure do in that blog), but I'll spare you, and just let you know that I was simply, deeply touched by your message. Thank you for that. Love back to you, Jen


Throughout the course of Bob's illness, I'd receive emails from this Mary person who knew neither my husband nor I, yet loved us like someone who had known us all our lives . . . we continued our facebook friendship after Bob died, sending little messages now and then to each other. She's a total dog person—how can you not love a total dog person?! Even one you haven't met?! And finally, this Thanksgiving, we had the opportunity to meet in person.

The second we spotted each other at Starbucks, we began screaming and crying, "It's you! It's you!!" and hugging for dear life (because we recognized each other from our facebook photo albums, of course). We then proceeded to spent the next two hours blabbing, interrupting each other, changing the subject, catching up on lost time, like old friends do (how do you catch up on lost time with someone you've never met? Not sure, but we gave it our damnedest, and pretty certain we succeeded). Even Gretchen, who didn't have the facebook connecting with Mary, seemed to be drawn into the energy of our meeting . . . 

I am still moved, beyond words, to know this beautiful person was so moved by Bob's story,  and to finally have the opportunity to meet her. "It was like the most tragic love story I've ever read," Mary had said of the Sofa King blog. . . She shared with us the story of her brother who had colon cancer, and died . . .  I can't begin to do justice to their story, so I'll just have to say, "wait for the book." It is that amazing of a story. . . I so wish I had thought to tale a pic of the three of us—Mary, Gretchen and me—but we were too busy blabbing, we hardly took time to breathe, much less take pictures. . . Mary was so generous and gracious to drive us to O'Hare and drop us off curb-side—I know, peeps, I know!!!! Killers reside on Facebook and Craigslist and other online venues! The RISK! The DANGER! The HORROR! Guess what? We lived to tell the tale. . . and guess what else? There are many good people in the world. Guess what else? We are blessed with brains and guts and hearts that exist to help us make it through this world. And guess what else? In the grand scheme of things, in spite of brains and guts and hearts, everything is still out of our control. Odd conundrum, isn't it. . .

I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook; quite frankly, I would not be on it, had Bob not fallen ill. It became my only means of connection to the "outside" world, when we were trapped in the insidious world of cancer for nineteen months. I stay on it (though I do take a hiatus every year or so, when I get truly disgusted with the mindlessness that seems to hijack the site), because, like it or not, it is a main method of communication for many (though the kids are making their own exodus from Facebook, have you heard? I haven't even heard of most of these social media outlets, much less check them out.....uggggg....some days, I forget to brush my teeth—how can I keep up with this Indy-500-paced techno-world??!!) 

I am still continually astounded at the lack of filters of some, the attention-seeking behaviors, the "road rage" mentality, and/or simple lack of judgment often displayed on facebook. . . but it is part of our modern world, like it or not. Like anything else, I have to separate the good from the bad. And meeting Mary in person was one damn good thing. Almost a miracle, if one believed in such things.

That Dang Road to Hell . . . (can lead you to some interesting places . . .)

Yes, I had (and still have) the greatest of intentions of keeping this blog going, to update regularly, but I keep sputtering and stalling for various and sundry reasons. Main one, I'm quite sure, is that I simply despise writing under the "widow" title; try as I might, to embrace it, reclaim it, accept it, whatever it, I plain and simply hate it. Two and a half years out, the label is as uncomfortably ill-fitting, as scratchy and irritating as one of those plasticky-tags at the neckline of a cheap shirt, as it was the day Bob died. I despise the word and all it conjures, all that others assume, or fill in the blanks when they hear it—the pity, the patronizing, the pigeonholing, the stereotypes . . . I despise how I feel when I think about myself as a widow—the disbelief, the immense sadness that can weigh me down, the still-startling reality—and everything that is wrapped around that silly little word. It is what it is, as "they" say, and I get that—it is who I am now, so deal, right? Right. But I don't have to like it. That, and c'mon. Everyone has their shit. Why add to the pile with a blog that could easily go onandonandon about, well, anything and everything that this journey encompasses. As I said, everyone has their shit. So, until I come up with a better title for my blog, until I come up with a better word to describe this involuntary role, until I find a new focus, or figure out a better way to do all this, I'll keep "widow(w)rites", and keep sputtering and stalling and restarting. It's what I do best.

So, on to current events. Thanksgiving is just around the corner (okay, more like breathing down our necks). Folded into the continuing aftershocks of loss, I discover and rediscover tremendous things in my life to be thankful for. My most immediate and immense gratitude is for that of family—the perimeters of which run the deep and wide—my immediate family, Bob's family, our extended families, friends who are like family, andonandonandon . . . I have met many women on this journey who have lost husbands, partners, significant others, and heartrendingly, also lose a whole family in the process. Or lose connections with their own, immediate family, or end up with those relationships redefined, for the worse, for various and sundry reasons. Another tremendous loss, that upon first look, seems to be organic, though if one would examine the phenomenon deeper, we might find otherwise. . . the fallout of grief has reverberating effects that last a lifetime, the irony being, people have been dying since God was a kid, yet we're still so inept at handling it. I am tremendously, eternally thankful for my family . . .

Speaking of family, I'll be spending the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend with my adorable niece, Brittany, who lives in Chicago! Holidays are a strange time, but I am slowly embracing the concept of stepping out of old traditions and creating new—I say that as though Bob and I had any holiday traditions of our own, which we didn't. He was notorious for walking through the house as I was deep in the throes of decorating the tree, solo, all tangled up in Christmas lights (seriously, how much more sacrilegious can a person get than dropping f-bombs while decorating a Christmas tree?) and say, "Aren't you done with that yet?" before disappearing downstairs to his office. Being without kids, we were the hanger-on-ers, showing up to to the home of whomever was hosting the festivities, wine in tow, go figure. I guess the point is, we still got together, with both families. As a couple, a cohesive unit. I am grateful that I'm invited to be a part of whatever is going on, to both my family and Bob's family celebrations, but it's also slightly awkward for me. Just my own little issue, and no matter how many times someone tells me that I am not infringing on their time, it's still awkward. Holidays are strange for Brittany, too, I'd imagine. She's a hardworking young woman, our endearing free-spirit, but she often is without family on holidays. I know she has an endless web of friends whom she likely considers family, but must still be tough for her, too. When I learned that she wouldn't be able to get to Minnesota for Thanksgiving, I decided to go to her.

This time last year, Gretchen and I were kicking back on the lush, beautiful island of St. Maarten, in the Caribbean. I still have the time-share dealio that Bob and I bought into years ago—then, it was a wonderful impetus for us to travel; now, it's an unnecessary, unjustifiable expense. As I may have said before, ad nauseum, this whole reinventing thing is a damn full time job—it's taken over two years to downsize our belongings to the point where I can finally fit twenty years of a life into a house the size of a single day. All the other stuff—time shares, houses that are too big and too expensive, careers that need to be refashioned—has to be dealt with, one at a time, in time. Last year was the first time the time share had been used in over four years, even though I still pay yearly maintenance fees. As Gretchen and I feasted on fresh lobster instead of turkey last year, and zip-lined through the rain forest, and rode horseback into the ocean,  I thought, "Hey, why not do this every year—travel over the holidays?" And why not. We were in another world—no Black Fridays, no family dramas (we all have them, right?), no pressure. Just ocean-fresh, buttery lobster in an open air restaurant, surrounded by shimmering aqua water, in sundresses and frizzy hair (tropical climates are not conducive to any hair type, which makes it pretty dang easy to style—simply don't!). Why can't that be a tradition, as much as anything else?

This year, I didn't get my act together in time to do a tropical Thanksgiving (there is still time to plan something over Christmas/New Year's, if there is anything available at this late date), but Chicago is an adventure in its own right. We got a great deal on Travelocity—three nights in an adorable vintage-y boutique hotel, the Allegro, located in the theater district, just a few blocks from Michigan Avenue—the Magnificent Mile—and a few blocks from Chicago's own 80 year-running Thanksgiving Day Parade. Wicked is still playing at a nearby theater, an old friend of Bob's now lives in Chicago and will hopefully join us for a lovely dinner at a local restaurant. So it's not lobster on the beach, but it is something new. Yes, I will think about Bob the entire weekend, but I will also give thanks to the beautiful person he was, for all he bestowed upon me, and continues to bestow. . . and I hope to do at least a few updates on this blog, maybe share a few of our adventures while in the Windy City. . . stay tuned! And be thankful for family, in whatever form or definition that might mean to you. And take good care of that family, the best way you know how . . .
xxoo

Burnt Orange vs. Toasted Orange. . .

Ive been hittin' the Craigslist Jackpot this week, both in selling and purchasing. . . the downsizing and reinventing continues . . . funny (not really), how f'n long it takes, to make 2300 square feet of stuff fit into 1200 square feet . . . what I'm saying there, peeps, is that 2300 square feet of stuff does not fit into 1200 square feet of space, no matter how much one tries to stuff, rearrange, push, shove, no matter how much a geometry genius one fashions oneself, no matter how f'n creative one believes one to be . . . the process of whittling down is a full-time job, in and of itself, added to the whole big heap of everything else that has to be reinvented, redefined, regrouped, redone. I can see how most people choose not to deal with this part of death and dying. Holy hell. Stress on hell. . . 

But, in the midst, I have also created more breathing room this week, by eliminating more CRAP from my life, though I can't be so arrogant or presumptuous or certain as to say that this is the sole reason for the breathing room . . . this week, this is what went out the door: a lovely, stylish TV stand, two gargantuan shag rugs (that looked FABULOUS out at Wrenwood, but took up waaaay too much space in my St. Paul digs—and c'mon—a turn-of-the-century duplex maybe, maybe, has aesthetic (though barely physical) room for one shag rug, but four??!! Dear lord—cue the porn music now—bow-chica-bow-booooowwww . . .), a love seat that matches the sofa I still have, but seriously have no room for both, no matter how much or how many times I push, pull, angle, twist, turn, tweak, twerk (SORRY! gratuitous pop culture reference, just to prove I'm not completely and utterly homebound) and a dog ramp—that last one was a "lucky strike extra," as Penny might call it—we've had this dog ramp forever, way back when, when Gaia was beginning to show signs of not being able to jump into the Jeep any more—long before Bob's cancer survivor body turned traitor on him—I'm almost certain we bought it even before we moved out to Wrenwood, though you'll have to trust me on that (as with most things), as he's not here to refute or support. Gaia never got used to the ramp, even at her worst; back when Bob was healthy, we indulged her obstinance—both of us could hoist her in to the back of the Jeep whenever, wherever we were going, and all was well. At the end of her life, when it was me, by myself, I enlisted the aid of a neighbor to help hoiste her into the Jeep to get to the emergency vet during an ice storm, and into the depths of the garage the ramp went. Outta sight, outta mind, like so much stuff. Until I had to move.

Back at Wrenwood, we had a 3-stall garage and a basement that had tons of storage spaces, into which we kept cramming and cramming and cramming crap, not even knowing how much crap we were cramming into it, the house and garage were that cavernous. Until Bob died. Honestly, this is the only time I ever get mad at Bob for up and dying on me—leaving me with the layersuponlayersuponlayers of crap to wade through. By myself. But, it is minor, in the grand scheme of what he has given me, continues to give me, so I suck it up, glare heavenward at him (he's totally cool about it, btw—he is in that place of pure peace and love, and "gets" that I'm just a sad, earth-bound soul, who is still trying to figure all this crap out), and plod on, like a surly teenager.

In this stage of the reinventing, I have a one stall in a garage that I still can't park in, because of all the crap still crammed into it,  in spite of all the crap that I've already given away, sold, donated, pitched, repurposed, torched. . . (okay, okay, I didn't actually torch anything. Yet.). This past week, I decided, I must park in my garage before snow falls, for the only reason to know that the Jeep even fits into the garage. If not, another phase of downsizing begins, in the form of a new vehicle (which I keep going back and forth about—the Jeep is paid for, still runs great, in spite of having over 200,000 miles on it, but it is a gas guzzler, but it has helped tremendously on the gas bill, to be in the city—round and round I go, with that one. . . ) But, there I go again digressing. Back to Craigslist.

Today, I procured the most beautiful stuffed chair, circa 1940, toasted orange upholstery, a few signs of wear and tear here and there, but solid as a shit brickhouse, vibrant as a fall sunset, comforting as a grandmothers arms, to replace the love seat I had no room for. It was advertised as "burnt orange," but I'm leaning more toward "toasted orange." Or perhaps "persimmon." It is a spicy little number, for sure, cozy as all get out. Now I need a "new" rug . . .

I have been a huge fan of Craigslist since I discovered it, and I can't even tell you when that was—I'm trying to think of the very first thing(s) I ever bought or sold on Craigslist, and come up with fuzzy recollections, at best. . . it must have been when I started my salon, trying to furnish it on the proverbial shoestring budget, constantly trying to find fun, funky and functional furnishings for the shop (tremendously successful, in all accounts!), as well as dump stuff that just didn't work . . .  I have reduced, reused and recycled for as long as I have memories, truly. I know I got that from my parents, who got that from their parents. I hate throwing stuff away, but I'm also not a hoarder (seriously fine line, peeps). My unofficial motto: keep things that are essential to my being, but whatever I can't or don't want to use any more, find a good home: donate, sell, give to family (my mom and I were laughing the other day—virtually her entire apartment is furnished with my stuff! It does make me happy to know a family member is using something I simply don't have room for any more). What I absolutely cannot sell or give away, I eventually end up tossing, but usually not before exhausting all other options. Waste of time, some may say, but I get a tremendous amount of satisfaction, in the process.

Once in a while, someone will say, "My God, you have a lot of stuff! (or shit, or crap, or whatever)." Heard that a lot in the past few years, when I moved three times. Yes, moving certainly brings to light just how much shit a person has (and let's be real, most of what we all have squirreled away in closets, garages, attics and basements is just that. Shit. That's why it ends up in closets, garages, attics and basements . . .). and I have to remind others that, "Remember, this is not all my stuff. I'm just the lucky sucker who ended up having to deal with it." Then I ask, "Imagine, for a moment, if the person you lived with, died. Or (not to be mean or morbid and all), let's say you died." Or, if that's too hard to imagine, how about if you lost your job, or divorced, or whatever, and were forced to downsize? How much stuff, or shit or crap would you be left with, or your loved ones be left with, to deal with? Usually stops a person dead (no pun intended) in their tracks, to ponder that, gets a person thinking about how much crap we all have, all this crap that just keeps accumulating, stuff we have to have, that we can't get rid of, that we can't live without, ironically becomes the stuff that we can't live with. At least that's how it's been for me. Guess I can't speak for everyone.There are infinite ways of dealing with the crap left behind, I'm just sharing my way of dealing.

I find it funny, how freaked out some get about Craigslist. My sister freaks when she hears that I've gone to someone's home alone. "Take someone with you!" she scolds me. She seems to forget that that's easier said than done.  If I sat around waiting for someone to escort me in everything I do, I'd never leave the house! Yes, like anything, Craigslist has developed a dark, warty underbelly—killers, stalkers, wackos, blah, blah, blah. But, hey, so have our public schools, so have our work places, so have our very own homes. Like anything, that is still the scant minority of transactions, and like anything, there are wise ways to approach it, and like anything, there are no guarantees. The odds are—like anything—you will not end up hacked into bits, portioned off into Hefty bags and dumped in various and sundry rivers. Yes, I have as active imagination as anyone, and yes, fear is as much a part of my life as anyone's. But I try not to let it dictate my life, whether it's Craigslist transaction (I've done enough of them to know which transactions are legit, and which ones are possible nut-jobs. I meet in public places. I call a family member and give an address to where I'm going. I call when the transaction is complete. If I feel something's not on the up'n'up, I don't follow through with the transaction. Craigslist is a fab resource for getting rid of crap, and for procuring crap to take the place of the crap you've just gotten rid of (that's where that "recycling" part comes in! An endless cycle, if one isn't careful!), but I'm not so desperate that I'd take a careless chance, just to score a deal or make a few bucks.

I "get" the concerns of others, I really do—yes, there are "wackos in the world," that no, you can't "trust just anyone," that others are still, understandably, "overly protective" of this "delicate, vulnerable widow" . . . but I operate under some new rules that may be a bit unconventional to others, rules that might seem a bit skewed—I like to think clarified—by death, depends on what side of that coin you stand. I don't take unwise chances, but I am also learning to not pass up chances based on unrealistic fears, whether it's a Craigslist steal or other aspects of my life. We all may as well stop doing anything, if we live by such fear. The world is a scary place, no doubt. But it's scarier to me, to life a fear-based life. That's not really living at all. Okay, lecture over, kids. Now get out there, and score some deals!! Peace out!!

xxoo

Pumpkin Festivals ROCK!!

Gorgeous fall day for a pumpkin festival, in spite of the furious wind, once again (though in my mind,  fall and wind, kind of just go together, like—well, like anything else that goes together . . .). My sister Gretchen and I joined our other sis, Jill, and her kidlets, Amelia and Otto, for the 17th Annual Kelly Avenue Pumpkin Festival in Golden Valley (I'm sure I butchered the name of the festival, just typing on the fly here—it WAS in Golden Valley, it WAS on Kelly Avenue, and the central focus IS pumpkins, but as for the official name, well, I'm too lazy to Google it right now!).

The origins of this festival is sofa king ;) awesome—many years ago,. a bunch of neighbors in a neighborhood were sitting around, sipping (that part is questionable, I'm thinking) cocktails and someone gets the crazy idea to start growing giant pumpkins, and have a neighborhood contest. Seventeen years later, this little neighborhood gathering draws hundreds of people to the cordoned off area of a quiet GV neighborhood adjacent to a park, where everyone DONATES time, efforts, whatever they can, to the cause.

I wish I had taken more photos, but Otto is at the age where he is a bloody handful right now (and I mean that more literally than you could ever imagine, and more than I could ever respectfully, in good conscience, post photos of. . . story to follow . . .); it was all we ALL (and I mean ALL three of us) could to, to keep track of him; hence, few photo ops to be had. You'll just have to trust my words to convey the awesomeness that was this event, in spite of the bloody ending . . . neighbors donate everything from food (hotdogs and bbq pork sandwiches, chips and an endless array of cookies, bars and other sweet treats, Surley beer for grownups, 1919 Root Beer and lemonade for kiddies), and entertainment (endless stations set up for kids—bean bag toss, face painting, relays, local fire department with new and vintage trucks on display, a DJ playing such FUN, eclectic music—Gangnam Style, Michale Jackson, Old Crow Medicine Show . . .), and overseeing contests—of course, the Giant Pumpkin contest (winning pumpkin was OVER THREE HUNDRED POUNDS, PEEPS!!! HOLY THANKSGIVING PIE, BATMAN!! AND NO, MY CAPS LOCK IS NOT STUCK, I'M STILL SHOUTING AT THE ABSOLUTE LITERAL ENORMITY OF THAT PUMPKIN!!!), and the Tallest Sunflower contest (I don't remember the height but I do remember that the winner was ELEVEN YEARS OLD!! YES! MORE SHOUTING OUT TO WINNERS!!), and a parade, complete with waving beauty queens and a local high school marching band. . . all contained within the confines of two city blocks . . . I know I'm forgetting things, there was so much going on . . . that's likely, in part, because I was so enveloped by the incredible sense of community, the beautiful rainbow blur that this event is steeped in, even as an interloper, I sensed this deeply . . . AND when the event was over, everyone in attendance was encouraged to take one of the pumpkins home (not one of the giant, hundreds+ pounds winning pumpkins; rather, from the endless pumpkin pyramids that were scattered about the festival).

At one point, Gretchen said, "I wish our neighborhood did something like this," and Miss Amelia, in her wise-beyond-her-years ways, looked up at Gretch and said, "Well, you could start one of your own, you know. . . " next weekend, Gretchen and her husband are having their own Halloween gathering in the backyard of their new home—who knows what might transpire around their bonfire, after a few cocktails . . . it reminded me of the wine parties Bob and I hosted at Wrenwood . . . anything in life worth pursing often begins with just one person . . .

The day ended, unfortunately, with Otto—long past the time for his afternoon nap and getting crazy-squirrelier by the second—launching himself off the edge of a curb on our walk back home in a perfect 10 swan-dive face-plant on the asphalt. It was a slow-motion horror scene to behold, yet happened so fast that no one could do anything to stop it. The little bugger stood, screaming with every cell of his being, blood pouring from God only knows where—his whole face was covered in blood. . . Jill scooped him up and began running for home, which was several blocks away. . . Gretch, Amelia and I were running behind them, pulling a wagon with three pumpkins, coats,  candy, shoes, empty tupperware containers for the homemade cookies Jill had contributed to the event, when I saw Jill slow as Otto was slipping from her grip.

"I can't hold him any more!" she cried. I dropped everything (which might have been nothing, I have no recollection) and tag-teamed with her, scooping Otto in my arms as he turned his bloodied face into my very artfully tied scarf and brand-new sweater, sobbing into my chest, "hold me, Jenny, hold me, hold me. . ." and then, "Where's my candy? Where's my candy? My candy . . ." I took off running with this little brute (who literally is about half my size), my heart nearly seizing from my chest with the effort, but feeling the adrenaline lifting my feet, assisting my arms . . . long story short, we made it home, Otto was cleaned up, and other than a very scraped up face (and swelling nose—I told Jill he could go as W.C Fields for Halloween. . . sorry, very bad taste, but still, kind of funny, if you'd been there . . .), he seemed to be back to his goofy self in time, though I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a black eye. Maybe two . . . at one point, he broke out into a 2-year old rendition of "Call Me, Maybe": "but here's my mumber, caw me maybe. . ." (don't know who sings that, refuse to Google it, for fear Miley Cyrus's photo will appear on my computer screen), punctuated with "where's my candy? wheeeere's my caaaaandyyyyy?!" referring to the candy he'd procured from the parade, which none of us could produce. We surmised it must have been dropped in the street as we ran for home, which didn't placate him one bit . . .

later . . . I went home, took one of my patented 10 Minute PowerNaps, then headed out for my evening walk with Rocco. On our final stretch for home, we ran into a woman who was dog-sitting for a 5 month old Golden Doodle (sorry, as cute as this dog is, those "designer dogs" are still every bit as mutt as Rocco is, in my opine. But no one asked me. . .) who, at five months old, is really is the cutest thing on legs—I swear, that doggie—Miles is his name!—how cute is that??!!—has springs for feet, he literally—and I don't mean that figuratively—bounds vertically, with every step, it's soooo fun and funny to watch, like Tigger! Anyhow, this woman was lovely, we spent a good 20 minutes condensing our life stories, ended up exchanging phone numbers, making plans to meet for coffee, and her parting words were that this neighborhood is the best place I could possibly be, right now, to reinvent . . . the slowing of handfuls of hair loss (and new growth that is finally appearing!!!) is but one piece of evidence of this. . . when I got home, I emptied my purse, to clean it out of the day's events. And found Otto's fistful of candy at the bottom . . .

Here's to community, peeps. Love your neighbors . . . xxoo

Be happy for no reason . . .

When I resurrected this blog several weeks back, I had every intention of writing on it regularly, but c'est la vie. . . that means "that's life," or something like that, in French. Because yes, ummm, yes! That's it! That's why I haven't written—bcause I've been learning French . . .

Or not. One of endless lessons I am learning is that—guess what??!! We have endless "do-overs" in life! How cool is that?! No one's keeping score! No one's going to punish us for starting over, RIGHT NOW. And we can do that till infinity! Overandoverandover, againandagainandagain, till we get it right. Or till we never get it right! Who cares, as long as we're trying, right??!! . . . So, in the spirit of that, let's just "do over" this blog, once again!

So, how 'bout that weather? Sure was windy today, wasn't it? (Where else in Beautiful Minnesota can weather be a seriously engaging topic of conversation?) Mid-October day, temps in the mid 70s, sun at least part of the day—but holy hell, the wind! My hair was violently wound around my head many times over, in every direction, at the same time, againandagainandagain, on my walk with Rocco this morning and then again this evening. . . when I got home tonight, I discovered that the front porch of my duplex had turned into a giant terrarium, as a big gust of wind, at some point, had toppled every plant stand lined along the porch railings, along with the plants standing atop them. I would have taken a picture of the mayhem, but I was so overcome with this immense sense that my plants were literally choking and suffocating under the mounds of soil and upturned pots, that I dropped my phone and began digging, as though on a rescue mission in the Alps. . .

Almost an hour later, all of my plants were upright, back in their pots (only one terra cotta casualty), all of us breathing much easier. I'm hoping for at least another few weeks of plants on the patio, but I'll take what we can get at this point, because even in her fury, Ma Nature is a wonder to behold. . .

I'll be honest, a huge part of me wants to just DUMP on this blog tonight, try to fill in all the missing spaces since I last wrote, because it's been so long and I have so much to say, so much time to make up, but good God! A girl's also gotta sleep sometime, doesn't she? And I do need to be kind and spare y'all the theatrics. . . As such, I will reign it in, with the hope that, instead of being daunted about the enormous prospect of DUMPING everything into one blog entry (and as a result, not write anything), that I'll just take it step by step. Bird by bird (a nod to Anne Lammott. . . ). And try to just show up every day. . .

With that, I will leave you with this little gem that flashed across my internet pan today: "Be happy for no reason. Like a child. If you're happy for a reason, then you're in trouble. Because that reason can be taken from you." ~ Deepak Chopra . . . wish someone had shared that one with me many, many years ago. But hey! Do-over, right??!!

Hopefully, more later. . . xxoo j

Always a process. . .

August 23, 2013

A week ago, or so, got an email from my lender, Shitty Porridge, asking for a cash contribution from me, in order to proceed with the deed-in-lieu of foreclosure on my Stillwater home. A DIL is a voluntary "agreement" between borrower and lender, to give a home back to the lender, free and clear, without having to pay the difference between what is owed and what the house eventually sells for, without having to pay taxes on the "profits" of the difference, and other eyeball-glazing details. Rumor has it, it's better for one's credit score and faster than than an out-right foreclosure, but I'm not entirely convinced of that, as this "faster process" has been over five months in the making now. And not just anyone can request a DIL, mind you. Many conditions must be met: one first try to prove a hardship through piles of submitted documents, then be denied a refinance, then denied qualifying for any of the mythical "hardship programs" offered by the government, and then fail to sell the house via a short sale, all of which take many, many months in and of themselves, in spite of proven hardship. Then, hardships must be proven, again, via more pathetic "hardship letters," followed by endless hoops that must be jumped through, piles of documents must be submitted and resubmitted many times over because they get "lost" or have "expired," or were not the "correct" documents, or perhaps were simply shredded by the maniacally laughing Head Shredder in the Shredding Department at Shitty. Oh yes, and the "Grantor" (that's me) must also contribute, along the way, lavish amounts of: blood, sweat, tears, hair, sleep, weight and sanity. In spite of all of this, there is no guarantee the DIL will be accepted, because ultimately, the lender is the deciding party in this "agreement," and I would venture to guess that the decision process is at the whim of the mood of the Powers That Be, who make the decision. Or a dart board.  

The email I received last week made no mention that my cash contribution was a guarantee that my DIL would be accepted, btw, simply a request for $$ on my behalf, to keep this process "moving forward." Thus far, my lender has done nothing to make me believe this long, dragged out process is going to end any time soon, or in my "favor." (Ending in my favor would have been the short sale that I had tried to do, for over a year prior to embarking on the the DIL. That route didn't work out for various and sundry reasons, main one being Shitty Porridge turned down a full-price offer on my house, because the buyers—who still loved the house, and I don't blame them, as it is an adorable home tucked into the hillside of a beautiful, restful country setting—discovered via inspection, that the septic system on the property wasn't up to code and needed to be replaced, to the tune of $20,000. Still in love with the house, the buyers adjusted their offer to reflect the septic issue, Shitty refused to negotiate, I raised my hands skyward in despair, hence the DIL route.)

Holding yet another clump of my own hair in my fist, I pounded out an e-mail response to Shitty Porridge, told them I'm done playing trained monkey in their game, they are getting nothing more from me because finally, four years into this insane, nonsensical process, I've figured out it's in my best interest to do what I have to do to protect what little assets I have left. The cash contribution they're asking from me would put groceries in my cupboards for months. It would pay half of my annual health insurance premium, or several more months of therapy, which I will need, after this week's events. Or buy me a stylish wardrobe of wigs. For sure, a few palates of spray-on hair. "From here on out," I pounded the words on the keyboard, "you people can figure out what to do with my empty house, because I am out, I am spent, I am not giving anything more." Especially not any more hair.

Two days after the extortion email (<----- okay, maybe that part is a tad hyperbole), I got a letter from Shitty, telling me my DIL request was refused, based on the financial information I had provided them (specifically because my mortgage is less than 30% of my income, which is $0. You do the math, I'm bad with numbers, especially numbers that don't add up), that my mortgage terms remain the same, that outright foreclosure may now be my only option (though the letter ends with, "However, you may be eligible for other short sale or deed-in-lieu options available from Shitty!"). Which means this letter was already en route to me, when I had received the request for the cash contribution. This resulted in the loss of another handful of hair, making me wonder what the hell would have happened to the money they requested of me, had I, in desperation, broken down and sent it to them? The very next day after I received the letter of refusal (I am not kidding, they are dated August 12 and August 13, respectively)—I receive another letter thanking me for submitting all my documentation, and my DIL request has been passed on to a negotiator for review. Still following me? Don't blame you if you're not, as I'm even following this mess any more . . .

Instead of pounding out another angry e-mail, I decided to volunteer at a Habitat for Humanity building site the other day--something I've wanted to do for a long time, have had many excuses not to. With all my own house drama dragging on, I though it might be a good thing to "step out of" my own shit for a day, and lend my services to someone who could use a little help. I can swing a hammer. I can operate power tools. I can follow directions like a trained monkey.

I literally sweated my ass off this past 90 degree'ed Monday afternoon, and I don't mean that figuratively. I stood up at one point to pull my hammer and a handful of nails out of my apron, noticed I was so drenched, it appeared as though I'd wet myself. Pretty as a picture. Felt good, though, to pound nails, drive holes into concrete with big drills that made my teeth rattle in my head, run power tools I've never used before (and maybe shouldn't have been allowed to use, given my mental state), even to get scorched a bit by the sun, in spite of multiple layers of SPF 50. My anger at Shitty Porridge and the big mess I've been dealing with for four years melted away in the heat of the sun.

But the irony of the day was not lost on me. Here I am, facing foreclosure, want nothing more to do with homeownership ever again—I never, ever want to be so helplessly, hopelessly tied to an inanimate object like that, with no way out—and there I was, eight hours in the scorching sun, helping build a house for a family who so desperately wants to own a home, who could probably do it no other way. I also thought a lot about the big ugly Myth that is the American Dream of Homeownership, but that's another post for another time. Or not.

This morning, as I'm packing for a weekend sabbatical from the insanity, I get phone call from the negotiator, saying my DIL has been approved. What. The. Fuck?! (I'm sorry, Mom, but heck just didn't have the most effective impact here.) I didn't know whether to cry or jump for joy, so as soon as I got off the phone, I did a bit of both. The ironic juxtaposition of finally waking from this nightmare, coupled with the sobering, aching realization that if this does go through, I will finally be severing the most tangible connection to my life with my husband is, right now, beyond what I can describe.

I need longer than just a long weekend get-away from this nightmare-covered nightmare sundae, topped with a nightmare cherry. . . maybe need to run away to Bali, live in a simple little thatched house, teach Pilates on the beach. hmmm. . . on second thought, maybe not. I keep forgetting I have translucent skin. . . even though I'm more than a bit suspicious that it's not quite over, this is tentative good news with which to begin my trip. Process, process, process...