Grief

  I have survivor's guilt. At least, that's what I've named it. It may be an actual term, I don't know. After Bob's death, I can't sleep or eat much. In my mind, I feel guilty for it being him to go. Out of the two of us, it should have been me. Even though we had been separated for years, we were still a team. A team for Viggo. So, out of the two of us, it most definitely should have been me. Viggo idolized his dad. He was his whole life. He could have gotten over the loss of me so much easier. I just don't understand why it had to be Bob. He touched so many lives and so many people loved him. It's so wrong that he was taken. I'm left to do this job alone. The one we were doing together. I feel such guilt and anger for being the one who gets to live. He was so better equipped for this. He was the best father to that boy. How do I do this alone? When he needs a man in his life, who will be there? I can't be what Bob was to him. I can't even come close. I feel inadequate and unprepared. In the beginning of Viggo's life, I never imagined that we would even be separated. Now, he's gone from the earth. We've all lost him forever. It should have been the two of us, figuring out the tough situations. What do we do if he comes home drunk or on drugs? Who gives him "the talk"? What do we tell him about love? Bob was supposed to teach him drums and guitar, how to fish, how to play football. What can I teach him? He already knows how to read? I don't do anything special. I just feel like a failure before I have even begun.
  I don't know how to deal with my grief. I feel guilty about that, also. Everyone else lost more by losing Bob. Viggo lost his dad. Bob's mom lost her only son. His sisters lost their dear brother. His girlfriend lost the man she loved. I lost a man I had already lost six years previous. Why should I have grief? I don't know, but I have a tremendous amount of it. I'm sure there's a niche out there of women separated from their husbands who are now widows. I need to find this group. No one else feels my exact pain and I feel bad for even feeling it. Everyone else lost so much more. I feel lost.

Bob

  Bob, it's day five, as Viggo would say. That's how he refers to the days you've been gone. I have so many things I want to say to you. I can't believe you're gone. Sunday, you were fine. You looked handsome and healthy as ever.  

  How do I take care of this boy? He's devastated. He keeps asking "Why did he have to leave, I'm only nine?" What do I say to that? Why did you leave? Why? Out of the two of us, it should've been me, dammit. He worships you. You were so close. You were the best father. The best. The only comraderie I've ever seen like that was with Bill and Billy. He says you made him laugh all the time. He asks "Who is going to make me laugh now?" Bob, what do I do? How can I possibly comfort him? And, your family is the same. Missy and Cheri have been the strongest. They are the ones making sure all the plans get made. Dawn is making a cd for you of all the songs you loved. You don't want to see Nikki cry. It's the worst. She lost her big brother and she's lost without you. Your mom is strong but breaks down and it's so hard to see. Why should a mother lose her son? Everyone goes to Cheri's. There's lots of stories about you and laughter. It's weird to see Ed and Matt and not see you. Jason came and you're not there to see him. Everyone is so lost. I feel like I've lost you twice. I put it aside, though. I made you a promise at the hospital. You were laying on this table not looking like yourself at all. I touched your hair and whispered that I promise to take care of Viggo. I will. Somehow. He wants to finish reading your Lone Survivor book. He kept asking about your car. I found out its because he wants to drive it when he's older. He understands but he doesn't, you know. I don't think any of us understand this bullshit. You were 41. You didn't even make it to your birthday. 

  People want to pray with me. I want to scream in their faces. How can there be a God? Why would anything let this happen?  

  I told V that everyday will be rough for awhile. That only time will ease the pain at all. You were his everything. 

Michael Fassbender, you trouble maker

  In my last blog, I was irritated with my boyfriend for remarking that some girls on the trolley looked good. He was trying to express to me that although girls may look good, he hates to hear their conversations and is glad he has me. All I heard was "girls look good" and wigged out. I should've been flattered that he enjoys talking with me because I feel most people tune me out. Instead, I said something about Michael Fassbender being hot. It has now turned into a debate. I think it's a joking one, but we're texting, so I can only imagine it's the case. He told me Fassbender wasn't that great and only rated .75 Hugh Jackmans. He then asked "How many Hugh Jackman units do you think he is?" I told him Jackman doesn't even compare. So, he moved onto Tom Hardy. Same answer. Then, Ryan Gosling. After receiving the same answer as Jackman and Hardy, all he said was "This conversation is over." Fassbender has come out on top. But, my bf is just as jealous as I am and I may be stuck kissing my GQ covers rather than a sexy Russian. 

I want to move to a desert island

  I don't know if it's the long winter, going off of Prozac or what, but I've had it with everyone. Today, my mother brought me to tears in Wal-Mart. I spend at least an hour to two hours every week taking her to shop for her groceries so she doesn't have to take the senior bus. At some point, we always split up in the store. Then, I usually spend a minimum of twenty minutes trying to find her. This week, I felt sick. Even after sitting on a bench and looking down the aisle, she hadn't reappeared and I wasn't feeling well at all. Eventually, we found her only to get accused of rolling my eyes and being impatient with her. I tried explaining that I felt sick only to have her wig out more. Then, I cried. To the point where a random stranger asked if I was alright. Can I just get a break somewhere in life? She apologized but the damage was done. Once I start crying it's like the first pee on a night of drinking. The well has sprung. Viggo tried to comfort me by saying this non-sequitur "Mom, even when I'm not with you, I'm always here" pointing to his heart. That, of course, made me cry harder. The wellspring of emotions was tapped again by an Ancestry.com commercial. 

  Later that night while texting with my boyfriend, he tried to express how he likes me in the worst way possible. He's telling me about girls on the trolley car with him. He tells me they "look good" but he hates what's coming out of their mouths. That, if he hadn't met me, he would stay in his single universe. Ok, I get the sentiment, but, fuck, can you not tell me in a way that says other girls look good?! I never want to hear that. Ever. Guys always think it's alright to express opinions about other girls. I'm only now slightly accepting of Jennifer Lawrence because one ex went so verbally wild when he saw her at the Oscars. I'm what you might call "insanely jealous". Emphasis on the insane part. That emphasis most likely came after bad relationships & cheating. He tried to make things better after his comment about the girls on the trolley by saying there are obviously good looking people in the world but, he would never cheat and blah, blah, blah, I quit listening. At this point, I'm hoping a rogue asteroid hits me directly on the spot. I was so sick of everyone and their reactions towards me. I know he meant well, but the way he said it made me feel like the guy who gets kicked into the pit in 300 after King Leonidas yells "This is Sparta!" 

  I know I'm being sensitive. Like I said, I've been down. This winter has bankrupted me emotionally and $96 gas bills have spent me financially. Yes, I have my health, I know. But, I've gained 10 pounds and my clothes fit me like I'm a human sausage. I need a day of sunlight and no human contact. No humans telling me I'm not working hard enough, not patient enough or that there are attractive people in the world. Shit, even if I have to be lied to, I'd like to be told I'm appreciated and the only attractive person in someone's eyes. I like to imagine Michael Fassbender saying these words after tonight because I'm angry. Also, because he's really hot. You know, there are attractive people in this world, so I've been told. I'll cool down at some point. Granted, being part Irish, this point may be long after I'm dead. I'll just go to bed feeling fatter than usual, unappreciated and unattractive. It's all good.

If you're obsessive-compulsive, don't read this (or read it over and over).

  When I started dating a Russian, I had no idea they'd be so superstitious. The problem with me is that I'm already obsessive-compulsive. Meaning, I've got my own weird superstitions. If you don't have this problem, then, you're fortunate. Imagine feeling like you have to do something a certain amount of times in a row just so you don't have bad luck. That's what it's like. It's something I moderately control, so it doesn't interfere with my life so much. However, now, thanks to my boyfriend, I now have new superstitions to follow.
  There's one similar to our "knock on wood" superstition, except you lightly spit over your shoulder three times instead of knocking. If you are talking about a physical injury that happened to someone and you show it on yourself, you have to grab the imaginary injury and blow it away from your hand. I was talking about my roommate's cat having a tumor in it's throat and I touched my own throat while describing it. My boyfriend interrupts me very seriously "No, babe, don't do that. Now you have to do this." He touches his throat, and blows this imaginary ailment from his hand like it was an eyelash. I was like, what the fuck is going on? I guess you do this to keep this injury from happening to you, too. He proceeded to tell me all the Russian superstitions he could think of in one night. Mentally, I took notes but they were hard to remember. There was something about meeting a woman carrying a bucket, but I let that one slip. Honestly, how many times could that occur in life? I was once again talking about the cat's tumor to a co-worker. I accidentally touched my throat as I was describing it and freaked. Confused about what to do, I blew from my hand AND spit over my shoulder three times. I must have looked like I was having an epileptic seizure. Dammit, I didn't want to have bad luck. When I told my boyfriend about the confusion, he just laughed and shook his head. "Babe, you just grab it and blow with your hand. You don't spit. That's for when you want something to happen." Silly me.
  I started taking these Russian superstitions so seriously. Apparently, you can't whistle inside or you'll become poor. Is that what's been going wrong all these years? I love to whistle, but screw that. It's humming from here on out. One night while we were eating, I dropped my fork. "Oh, a man is coming to see you", he said. "Or, maybe it's a woman. I forget." Which is it? He told me he'd research it. Exactly where does one find out this information? Does he skype with a grandmother in the motherland? You can't just lightly throw this information out to someone like me. It's gospel from this point on. If me dropping a fork means a man is coming to see me, then a man is coming to see me. These new rules are cemented in my brain. I just hope I never come across a woman carrying an empty bucket or I'm screwed.

OMG, I just exercised

  I just experienced ten minutes of cursing, pain and sweat. Yes, I finally exercised. Big deal, you say? Imagine someone with the willpower and motivation of Homer Simpson. I don't have any angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other; I have a devil and a fatter, lazier devil on the other. "Stay under the electric blanket watching Ancient Aliens" one says. "Eat something and then take a nap" says the other. There's motivation in my head, but it occurs when I'm at work. I get inspired to eat something healthy and exercise when I get home. The problem is that I'm on my feet for eight hours. After I get home, I'm emotionally and physically spent. You know how Mr. Rogers would change into his sweater and shoes when he came in the door? I throw on sweatpants and a thermal shirt the same way. That shit is on in less than a minute. If I could motivate myself to exercise like I motivate myself to get ready to relax, then I'd get somewhere. How can I harness this misspent energy? One answer-disgust with myself. I'm not talking about my laziness. I'm talking about my flab. This winter, I've definitely gained weight. Sad, but true.  I was wrestling with Viggo the other day and he pointed at my protruding stomach being held back with spanx and asked "What's that?" It must have looked like the walls of a dam before the water bursts through. Finally, tonight, I couldn't take looking down at that belly pouch. Lady, get a grip, I thought. Granted, I only did ten minutes of pilates, but in my world, it's like running a marathon. For now, I'll take baby steps. Maybe, or if, warmer weather arrives, I'll be able to take some walks. I have to do something. I feel like Brando when he was in Apocalypse Now. They had to change the fight scene with Martin Sheen because he was so out of shape. He should have looked at himself and said "Fuck, Marlon, get it together. " I'm going to try now before I'm past the point of no return.

Winter blows

  Like most people on the east coast, this winter is killing me. It's been a bombardment of snow, ice and bitter cold. This is the worst winter I can remember since '93. Geez, I sound really old making a statement like that. I only recall that winter because I lived with my grandparents at the time. My grandpap wanted me to shovel a tunnel from the back porch to the shed. He totally did one of those man things by telling me I was shoveling the snow wrong. Regardless, two days after I accomplished this task, I could barely move. I was a tiny lady back then. The winter now is miserable in so many ways. Walking is precarious. Tonight I slipped on ice and almost fell, twisting my back in a so not right way. My steps have become my daily Mt. Everest. When I make it to the front door, I feel like I should plant a flag by the door as a sign of accomplishment. Driving in this is even worse. My tires have been as bald as Patrick Stewart's head. My mom, bless her soul, lent me money for new tires. I can finally make it out of the space on my street without struggling. My apartment is pretty warm. That's because my roommate jams the heat. I half expect to see him walking around in Bermuda shorts with a Mai Tai drink, he keeps it so toasty. I miserly turn the heat back constantly. I grew up poor. You learn to layer your clothing and huddle under blankets, not rock the heat. But, I do keep my fingers crossed that the heat doesn't go out. It's happened twice this winter, which is always delightful.
  On the days when I grumble most, I get excited texts from my Russian boyfriend marveling over the snowfall. "Isn't it beautiful?", he'll declare. I'm glad someone can find the beauty. I can only worry about making it safely back and forth to work. These winters are probably nothing to my bf. I'm sure he's thinking we should suck it up. I should, at least. Maybe I shouldn't swear immediately upon exiting my front door in the morning. Sweltering summer will be here before we know it and we'll be whining about the heat. I'll just be happy when walking isn't like some high-wire circus act. Having the grace of a rhinoceros, it's only a matter of time before I fall down.