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…… in the space of a year.

It’s been a little over a year since I last wrote a post.
I’ve found that when things are going smoothly, I have less to say.
I wouldn’t say that the past year has been smooth. It’s been full of half-assed decisions and choices and questions.
But there was nothing that I felt like writing about.

It’s difficult to write about negative feelings when you feel that you should feel blessed and happy.
Yes, even if you’ve been widowed.
I shouldn’t complain.
I don’t want to complain.
I can’t complain.
Well, yes, I can, but I really can’t, if you know what I mean.

I’m starting to feel like it’s time for a new adventure.

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

This will come as a surprise to many, if not most, of my friends, family and readers (if there are any left out there!).
I think it’s time to leave New York.
Not immediately or anything.
Maybe not even in the next year.
But the time to leave is approaching.

I can feel it.
I can’t explain it, really.
It’s just a feeling that won’t go away.

I have loved NY more than I can ever say.
It has helped me to heal, grow, learn and open my eyes to this country.
It has entertained me, given me friends I’ll always love, and taught me things I never would’ve learned elsewhere.

NY has made me appreciate diversity more than I ever thought possible.
It has taught me empathy, love for the underserved, and how “christianity” is seen outside of the “bible belt”, where diversity is often seen as “un-christian”.

And now what?
Exactly.
I’m not sure.

My top option is to move back to Tulsa, where I have family and friends. It’s closer to the grands, so that’s a plus.
But the political landscape there is a huge drawback for me.
As is being back in the “bible belt”.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m a Christian.
Always will be.
But I’m not the kind of “christian” that seems to dominate the news lately.
I’m not a christian nationalist, by any stretch of the imagination.
I follow Jesus, not white men who pretend to speak for him.
And I will continue to speak against those people and the party who pretends to follow him.

But I dread living someplace that’s red, to put it bluntly.
So …… I do nothing.
For now.

Yes, it’s time for a change.
I’m just not certain what that change is going to look like.

And that’s okay.
For now.

P.S. It occurred to me, about an hour after I posted this, that tomorrow would have been our 41st wedding anniversary.
I will always believe that our bodies remember events, even when our minds aren’t tuned in.
I still miss that man every single day of my life.
I will always miss him.
These decisions, changes, moves, etc. are much more difficult without him.
This wasn’t the plan.
And thus, I fail to plan.

…… is a question I used to get asked at least 5 times a week.

I was watching a tv show just now and this topic came up. The fact that most men with a partner know that they call that partner on the way home to ask that question.
Without fail.
Everyone laughed and agreed.
Including me.

And then it sank in.
I mean, really sank in.
All the way into the depths of my heart.
I could literally feel it.

I used to hear that.
Probably almost every day.
For years.

And then I didn’t.
And I really haven’t given it a lot of thought for over 15 years.
I mean, I’ve wished for someone to be around to help with things.
Many times.
But I haven’t really thought about those words.
About hearing them for a long time.
And then not.

The missing of him will never stop.
The little pains that sometimes zing my heart will never end.
But the memories …… thank God for the memories.
They are a balm for the hurting heart.


Tonight, the past came rushing back.
And I smiled.

…… is how I feel at the moment.
I’m still in my old apartment, slowly getting things ready to move in a couple of weeks.
I took down all of my artwork and pictures so that the building manager could inspect the apartment (a pre-move out inspection, they’ll do another once everything is gone to determine if I get back my security deposit).

It doesn’t feel like home now.
And the new place certainly doesn’t feel like home.
Yet.

The seller had the apartment beautifully staged.
Beautifully …… and sneakily.
When we did the walk-through just before closing I was shocked to see how much needed to be done.
Including fixing a 2 foot hole that had been cleverly hidden with a very large painting.

That was quite an unpleasant surprise.
A lot of wall damage had been cleverly hidden.
But, as the seller’s attorney told me, “When you buy a used home you buy it “as is”. It appears that “in good faith” doesn’t apply here.

So now I get to hire a contractor to come in and fix not only this but the rest of the walls, some plumbing fixtures and the bathrooms.
It’s only money.
Ugh.

Wednesday morning my building’s management (current building) told me that the moving company that I have contracted (and paid a deposit) is no longer allowed to move people out or into this building. Of course, they didn’t have this company listed along with the other three they have banned on the moving out instructions that they sent.
So now I get to try to get my deposit back, or fight the building.
Double ugh.

For those who have known me (or followed me) for more than a decade now (!) …… the inside of my cheek is starting to look/feel like hamburger. For the rest of you, evidently I handle stress by unknowingly chewing the hell out of my cheek. I never realize that I’m doing it, until the pain begins.
I haven’t dealt with this for many years now and the memories that come flooding back because of it are not welcome.
Triple ugh.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time at the “new” apartment this week.
I’ve taken 2 suitcase loads of framed pictures over there, with only one piece of glass breaking (and slicing my finger when I reached into the suitcase to remove it. Not fun when you’re in an empty apartment with no first aid, cotton or anything.)
I figure that if I have to go over there for whatever reason I might as well take something with me.
One less load, right?
A drop in the bucket.

The more I’m there the better I feel about living there, even with the work that has to be done. It fits me.
Of course, I don’t think it will fit all of my stuff but that’s another problem for another day.
My mom should’ve named me Scarlett.

This afternoon I went over to meet with a contractor so that he could bid on the job.
He didn’t show.
That makes the decision a bit easier.
Quadruple ugh.

But afterwards I walked around a bit and then went to meet up with a group of ladies to explore the JP Morgan Library, which isn’t far from the new place.
This is my new view when I step out of the building:

Not too shabby.

I learned that my new neighborhood is filled with modern furniture stores. I passed one, did a double take, and then had to take a picture.

Does that look like a spot in a forest to you? Or just a sofa and a few ottomans?
I really have no words.
Except these: Who buys this stuff?!!

Once I got to the Morgan Library I completely forgot about the ugly forest furniture.

Yeah, a pretty cool place.
And it’s in my neighborhood!
And …… Friday nights are free!!

I still have mixed emotions about moving (most likely one reason, out of many, for the cheek chewing), but I’m starting to feel more positive.

Now if I can just find a moving company that doesn’t charge an arm and a leg at this late date.

Never.
A.
Dull.
Moment.

I’ll leave you with my last Christmas tree picture here.
Cheers and Happy New Year to each of you!

https://ra.co/promoters/108642

…… mixed feelings.

Today I close on an apartment. After 10 years (and a hurl-inducing amount of rent payments) I decided to purchase. I’ve spent months looking online and in person. It’s taken months to get to this closing. (Buying a home in NYC is NOT like buying one in Texas. It’s complicated. Very complicated.)

People keep asking me if I’m excited.
I can’t say that I am.
I have mixed feelings.
It’s bittersweet, like so much has been over the past 15 years.

I’ve been in the same building these 10 years.
I’ve made good friends.
I love the people who work here.
To say that I will miss being here, next to Central Park and across from Lincoln Center is an understatement.

I’m moving to a totally different area of the city.
At first I didn’t want that.
But then I figured that it’s time to learn a new part of the city.
And so I will.

It’s not excitement that I feel, exactly.
It’s more like hope.
Hope that I’m not making a huge mistake.
Hope that this apartment will truly feel like home to me.
Hope that interest rates will go back down and I can re-finance. 😉
Hope that nothing breaks down for a least a year.
Hope that I’m going to absolutely love living in this place.

So much hope.
That word has guided me since Jim’s death.
Hope.
It’s a small world but it holds so very much.

Hope was waiting for me as I walked through the Valley of Death.
It was a long walk.
Hope helped me believe that my kids would be alright.
Beyond alright.
Hope helped me find so many wonderful friends on this same path.
Lifelong friends.

Hope brought me here to NY.
Hope helped me find new friends.
Lifelong friends.
Hope had a big part in bringing me grandchildren.
Hope is a pretty calming companion.

Hope is like a living being.
It can be very, very small and then morph into something very, very huge.
It ebbs and flows.
Sometimes it seems to disappear completely, but it doesn’t really.
It just waits for us to be ready to see it again.
It’s always there.
Waiting.

So, I have hope.
I also have some sadness, trepidation and melancholy.
Mixed feelings.
My life has been full of mixed feelings since Jim died.
And that’s as it should be.
Hopefully.

15.
It’s  a substantial number, right?

15!!
I mean, it’s not a huge number (depending on one’s perspective) but it’s certainly a number worth celebrating.

Usually.

15.
The fifteenth year that I have blogged about this date.
The fifteenth year that the tears have come.
The fifteenth year that my children have not had their father.
The fifteenth year his friends and family have missed his presence.
The fifteenth year that I’ve lived (depending on one’s perspective) with an ache in my heart. The severity has dimmed but the ache is still there.

15.
It’s a number that can seem like eons.
It’s a number that can be gone in a flash.
It’s a number that can seem like nothing.
It’s a number that seems unfathomable.

15.
The number of years my children have pushed forward, even after having fallen back.
The number of years where many friends became so much more.
The number of years I’ve wandered, trying new places, people and food.
The number of years my heart has continued to grow and love new friends, who became so much more.

Yes, 15 is a substantial number.

But there are others.

5.
The number of years it took me to remember that Jim and I had talked about moving to NY.

4.
The number of years it took me to give up the fight and follow my heart to NY full time.

8.
The number of years I’ve been a Gigi.

9.
The number of sons and daughters I now have, thanks to my children.

10.
The number of years I’ve lived in NY.

27.
The number of years I had Jim.

48.
The number of years (minus 3 weeks) he lived and the number of years he impacted people.

15.
The number of years I have survived, strengthened, grown, messed up and kept going.

Forever.
The number of years I’ll love him.

…… will she know how much I loved her?” – Garth Brooks

Life has been crazy, wonderful, exhausting, sad and joyful.
Pretty much like everyone else’s.

The kids are all well, the grandkids are fantastic (most of the time …. they’re mine but they’re not perfect …… all of the time.)
There are five of them: 7,5,2,2 and 4 1/2 months.
#gigilove

I’ve traveled a lot this year and the year’s only half over.
Thank you, Covid.
Two years of travel plans stuffed into one is exhausting.
And amazing.

Life is full.
And yet sometimes I feel that empty space.
The space that contained him.
It doesn’t happen much these days but once in a while that emptiness brings me to tears.

And then there are the times that I’m reminded of the love that’s still there.
The love that overflows from that space …… even without him.

I was listening to some Garth Brooks this afternoon.
Some of his songs became “our songs”.
And it was always Jim who made me aware of them.

“If Tomorrow Never Comes” is one of those songs.
You’ll have to go read the lyrics if you don’t know them.

One morning I woke to find a letter by my bedside.
This was decades ago. I won’t tell you exactly how long but suffice it to say that we only had three children.
It was a letter that Jim had written the night before, while he watched me sleep.
This song was in his head and he wanted to let me know.

He told me what I already knew, but it’s always nice to be told anyway.
And especially to put it in writing.

If tomorrow never came, he wanted me to know how very much he loved me.
He wanted to make sure that I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how much I meant to him.

“And if my time on earth were through
And she must face the world without me
Is the love I gave her in the past
Gonna be enough to last
If tomorrow never comes?”

I didn’t know that just about 17 years later …… tomorrow wouldn’t come.
But I did know one thing:
I was loved beyond measure.
And his love is indeed enough to last.

“So, tell that someone that you love
Just what you’re thinkin’ of
If tomorrow never comes.”

…… it’s year 14.

That’s 168 in dog years.
Which totally feels appropriate some days.

But this year ……
This year was different (and yes, I realize what an understatement that is for the entire world but I’m not talking about Covid).

This year, for the first time in 168 dog years ……
I forgot.
Forgot.
Didn’t see it coming.
Even though I know the date.
Even though …… even though …… everything.

The picture above is my calendar.
The calendar that I change every day.
Every.
Single.
Day.

As I was on my way to bed on Dec 16th I switched the date on the calendar to the 17th.
And never thought about it.

I went through the entire day not thinking about it.
I looked at that date more than once.
And the only thing I thought was, “I need to make three phone calls tomorrow.” because the 18th happens to be the birthday of my sister, my brother and my step-dad.
That’s all I thought.

Then last night I received a text from a loving friend, saying that she’s thinking of me and of Jim (even though she never met him …… I love friends like that).
And just like that ……
I remembered.

I sat on my sofa, stunned. My brain turned to a kind of spider web of mush and I really couldn’t think. I was just …… stunned.
And then I said two words, aloud.
“Holy shit”
That’s all.

I’m still stunned …… 18 hours later.
My brain still doesn’t know what to think.
I “know” it’s a good thing.
My mind knows that, even in its state of shock.
But my heart.
My heart feels sad that I forgot.
It’s a strange kind of limbo.

I have no plans for today.
Which is probably good because I feel like I just need to sit with this.
Well, sit with it and watch the new Sex in the City episodes.
Which I already did.
And yes, I cried. But it wasn’t a “bad” cry.
It was more of an “I get it” cry.
Not “I get it but I wish I didn’t”.
Not “I can’t believe this is my life”.
Not “I will never survive this”.
Just …… “I get it.”

I’ve missed him a lot lately.
I missed him at OSU’s Homecoming.

I missed him when our granddaughter played in front of his picture so that he could watch her play.

I missed him at my niece’s wedding, especially as I watched my brother dance with his daughter.

I missed him at Thanksgiving when all of the grands were around.

I missed him on birthdays, anniversaries, days in Texas, days in NY, when I see my children, etc.
You get the picture, right?
I miss him still.
Always.
Forever.

But for the first time.
The very first time.
I forgot.
Just like that.