"Email Associated With Account"

I guess I knew the day would come. I just didn't know which account it would be.

Pedernales Electric sent me the notice that all accounts would be disabled and reestablished with new account numbers, that we would have to re-enroll in in auto-pay... This was the moment I had been avoiding. You see, while my name has always been on the account, it's in his name - Roger's name.

At some point I was just so tired of calling yet another company to tell them my husband had died, tired of telling another stranger my husband had passed away, tired of my heart calcifying to their monotone sympathy. Yeah, I'm sure you are sorry for my faceless loss. After the accounts that had to be closed were taken care of, I stopped. I was genuinely drained, and obviously I'd continue to pay the bills.

Even if my name came second. 

My heart sank when I saw, "Email associated with account." My temporary password as I set up the new online account was sent (of course) to my deceased husband's email account that I locked myself out of a billion times of trying to open it ago.

So I called the electric company.

They happily took my account number. They gladly accepted the last four digits of my social security number. When I asked to change the email address so I could have the password sent there, the woman told me that Roger would have to call to take care of that; I was not the official account holder.

Well, this is awkward. 

Actually, I probably need to get quite a bit of information on the account updated. My husband, you see, passed away. (*SPOILER* She was so sorry for my loss.)

Unfortunately, he would have to call to have his name removed. Yeah, she actually said that! I'll give her credit that she stuttered, embarrassed when she heard those words escape her mouth, and you could hear her blush as she said, "but since he can't do that..." No, I would need to bring a copy of the death certificate, a past bill and my photo ID to my local PEC, and one of their representatives could change the name on the account. 

I wasn't offended or upset by the whole situation; I'm a tough cookie, but I'm also a realist. This just so happens to be the situation I've been avoiding.

That was about a month ago. I've been carrying around a past bill and a death certificate in my car for a month, just in case I have all of this free time between the hours of 8am and 5pm to swing by my local PEC. It just so happened that on the way to school from a doctor's visit this morning I had 5 minutes to spare, and it was on the way. 

In the most strangely-timed turn of events, sitting just inside the door awaiting an interview was a man Roger and I both knew a lifetime ago. I recognized him instantly. He looked at me like he knew a memory should be surfacing but wasn't. I was thankful. If the last 6 years has confirmed anything, it is that I highly value anonymity. 

I laid the bill, the death certificate and my license on the counter. She looked at the items and up at me.

I need to change the name on my account.

And in an instant, I was whisked away to an emotion nearly 5 years ago that I don't always know how to describe. I don't want you to think that I crumbled under an avalanche of grief because I didn't. (I have recovered well, but that's another blog entirely since society and widow(er)s in general seem to think the Royal "I" should be permanently damaged.) As soon as she looked me in the eye I felt so self-conscious. 

For so long after Roger died, I didn't get to be me. I had to be Darcy the Widow, Darcy Whose Husband Killed Himself, Poor Darcy, She's So Strong Darcy, and worst of all Did You Hear About Darcy. Yes, I was all of those, and I claim every single version of me, but sometimes I just wanted to be That Curly Haired Girl or What a Great Band Director or Random Girl in the Cereal Aisle.

She took the death certificate to make a copy for their records, and all I could think was

• please don't look at the date on it
• I know it's been a long time, but I hate having to say it again
• she's wondering why it took me so long
• she's going to have to get special paper because it's so long
• the addendum makes it long
• don't look at the addendum
• don't look at me either - just look at counter
• I hope that guy can't place me

But despite all of that noise, the loudest voice was, WAIT. WHY DO YOU FEEL GUILTY AGAIN?

February makes 5 years. I am in an extraordinarily great time in my life. I have a great job. I have a great boyfriend. My doglets are healthy babies. My family is healthy. My house has really pretty new siding, and my Christmas tree was put up on Saturday.

I constantly felt like I had done something wrong or shameful for a 

very

long

time.

And it's amazing how quickly that emotion found its way to the surface. 5 years later. It never ends.

One bill down. 

Three more to go.

Later.

Privacy Dilemmas

This woman wants to talk to me.

Cool stuff... I know... :)

I emailed The Suze Orman Show a while back asking if they thought I was doing the right stuff with my money: 30 year old widow, planning for retirement, making sure I can do it on my own if I need to. All the kinds of stuff people my age SHOULD be thinking about if they want to retire before the age of 70 and/or be able to have a normal existence once their monthly checks are dramatically chopped. 

So I emailed Suze. We're friends. I've watched her for years. I'm positive that she would always tell me "You CAN afford it" if I were to ask. :) 

But then the crazy thing was my email was actually answered!!! In the form of a phone call! A phone call that came in the middle of new-to-district teacher inservice I might add. I waited to pee my pants until AFTER I left campus that day. :) Would I like to be a guest on their show, they inquired. After an emphatic yes, I was sent a lengthy Excel file that covered every aspect of my financial status from top to bottom and a lot of places you forget about. 

I emailed my info back and then combed through it, piece by piece, with one of their producers... I talked at length to a producer. :) Yeah, I'm awesome. :) 

And then they called me back.

Sigh.

A quick search revealed a lot about my story, "my situation" as CNBC calls it, that peaked their interest. Originally, they wanted me as a phone guest for their "How Am I Doing" segment, citing there are far more young widows out there than we hear about, especially in the last several year with young, married men going off to Iraq and Afghanistan. A young widow is relatable. A young widow is interesting. 

But a young widow with my story is video interview worthy. 

And I don't know how I feel about that. It actually made my stomach churn a little. A piece of my heart will always belong to Roger. I will always cherish the time I was married to him, and even as I find it harder to remember his voice, I will never forget how loud it was or the sound of his laughter. But coming to a new school, I get a little bit of my anonymity back. 

I have felt under a spotlight for the last 2 1/2 years. Every time I walk into a room of band directors I wonder if he is what they think about. Probably not. I wonder how many of the looks are that of pity. Probably none. Maybe a couple. But I am very sensitive of the fact that I was thrust into the limelight for nothing that referenced my skill as a musician or dedication to my craft. We became recognizable through a horrible situation with tragic results, and as far as I want to know, maybe I get to be "anonymous" again. 

But "my situation" is unique. "My situation" is worthy of more time and a closer look. I just don't know if I want that. 

Yarn & Diamond Bling

Today I did virtually nothing. :)

I did mow and walk the doglets, but for the most part I did nothing of importance.
And it was wonderful.

I've been stressing out a lot about my new job. Even though I'm capable of saying out loud that I realize  it's a brand new school, brand new program, that it's going to be a strange year, I'm not capable of actually operating in that mindset.

And so today, after a full day of leadership with a handful of my new kiddos, I did nothing. :)

For most of the day I worked on my version of an Anthropology necklace I found well over a year ago, that I've been planning for equally as long to make. While I crocheted, I finished up season 4 of Mad Men off Netflix. In the final episode Draper proposes to his secretary using the engagement ring he inherited from Anna. It was a sweet scene, but it made me pine for my own ring.

It just sits there.

I wore my engagement ring for only a couple of weeks afterward. I wore my wedding ring for months. I took it off after we spread the ashes.

I don't know what to do with it. There's no way I can part with it. "Make it into a necklace." I have a diamond necklace that I've worn every day for 12 years, and I'll probably where it every day for the next 12. If I tried to have it reset into a different ring, it would be pretty dang flashy and probably still look like an engagement ring. I really love it. It represents a wonderful time in my life, but it sits there. In it's box. Just as pretty as the day it was slipped on my finger. But nobody gets to see it.

I bought myself a very bling-y diamond band last year (because a girl shouldn't have to have a guy to be sparkly) as part of my retail therapy. (That probably could have easily been the name of my blog. I've made a lot of big purchases in the last year and a half...) But as much as I love my "new ring", the old will always be prettier.

So I wore it today.

Go ahead. Think it's awkward. Think it's strange. It's not fair that I have this awesome piece of jewelry that stays well hidden because fate has something against me. I know what you're thinking mom, but no, people would think it was weird if I wore a diamond solitaire when I'm not engaged or married, even on my right hand. But today I wore it for a few hours, just so I could remember how much it sparkles (and how heavy it is), and then I put it back in it's box for who knows how long.

Hard not to feel pretty when you got your bling on.

Psychic?

There is very little left of today, Roger's 35th birthday, but I've had a lot of the previous hours to consider my life, my current state of being, and of course the sweet man of the day.

Particularly over the last year and half, a specific friend of mine and I have joked that I must have some level of psychic ability, even if it exists at the lowest level. Most of the time I'm joking; there are the rare occasions when I'm not.

I am an optimistic pessimist. As far back as I can remember, I have prepared for the worst so that I could handle the worst in the best possible way, or be incredibly grateful when the worst did not come to pass. Example in point: as a young child, my parents would leave my sister and I with my grandparents every year on their anniversary trip to McDonalds. I was always so afraid, even as a little kid, that they would be in a car accident on the way back. I spent the couple of hours they were gone considering how I would need to handle the situation should they die, be crippled, or awaken from a coma with no memory of their children like in a soap opera, all while my grandma dealt the next hand of Gin Rummy. Dark for a 7 year old... I know. Of course, my parents returned safely each year, and my mental over-preparedness for the worst allowed me to be overjoyed when the worst was not.

Years ago, I was recently out of college, working hard, living alone in a small apartment plenty big for just me, miles away from my version of "civilization", feeling very isolated in this world and life in general. I felt very out of place with the rest of the people in my community. Dating any of them was out of the question. Had I wrongly assumed I'd have the white bread, all-American husband and family? And so my optimistic pessimism kicked in. By the age of 23, I had literally begun playing out in my head the future in which I was 40-something spinster (old maid), spending my money selfishly on just myself (since I wasn't married), with two beautiful dogs (mini-schnauzers in that imagination that were replacing the children I didn't have), a shabby chic house (I was so young...) and a career like Betty Pierce. I figured if I told myself this reality long enough, when it came to pass I'd be okay with it, and if it didn't, well, awesome! All kidding aside, I imagined this future for myself a lot. I'd even say it loud to friends or family. I'd talk to my mom about her future grand-dogs, laugh, and then seriously look through those little shops and trades day shows in Fredericksburg for kitschy ways to decorate the house I'd be sharing with those two dog children.

About a week ago it occurred to me that I'm not far off.

Granted, I haven't won Honor Band (yet), and I don't have croquet mallets holding up curtains (like I once thought would be cool), but here I am... Sharing my house with two dogs, thankfully dachshunds. Telling them they are going to see Grandma. Taking vacations to Hawaii because I can afford to lavish myself with travel.

Psychic?

Last year at this time I had my hand in a box of ashes. I was certain that was the worst. 

A year later, I wouldn't call this the worst, but I certainly don't feel prepared. 

One Year, Come and Gone

"That night", my dad drove me to their house in Harper, dogs in lap, only a few pieces of random clothing thrown into a bag. Lucy peed on me twice as we drove in silence. The moon was full on February 16th. I think about that drive every time we've had a full moon since. I remember asking my dad how I was going to live through this. How does one even begin to answer that question?

When February 1st came round this year, I woke up every day counting it down. Morbid, I know, but I couldn't help waking up, trying to remember back to what was going on in 2011, thinking 'we had 15 more days'.... '14 more days....' I was very nervous about what February 16th would bring. 

Not a whole lot.

That's what it brought.

I took off half a day in advance, not knowing what my emotions would be. I had one moment on the way to work that I felt the anxiety building. Flute sectionals took my mind off it for a while. I left at noon, drove home, and pulled weeds. I love pulling weeds. It is very satisfying to get the whole root, and so it becomes a challenge: can I get the whole thing? It's also very addicting because once you pull one, the next one becomes more obvious. I pulled weeds for about an hour in my back yard. 

Around 2:00 I got a massage. I told the masseuse that I only like light pressure on my legs, firm everywhere else. He wanted to know if that meant I didn't like foot rubs. That question almost sent me over the edge. I used to get foot rubs a lot... like every night. It was my little dose of spoiling. It took a lot to quell the adrenaline at that moment. The massage helped a lot. I was glad I got it. 

I met with the Williams clan for dinner and drinks at Chez Zee that night. I got rear ended one block from the restaurant... Fate still thinks I appreciate her sense of humor. I don't. We had a great evening together. I was glad that the center of our attentions was not mourning Roger. We all do enough of that regularly. At least for me, and I would assume for the others by the presence of beverage and desert, it was a celebration of surviving. 

How do you live through something like that? You keep living. 

I looked for answers and miracles all year, but the answer is simply wake up, get dressed, go to work, surround yourself with supportive people, eat kinda healthy (with a good bit of Taco Bell in there), have doglets, go to bed, repeat. 

I fixed the garbage disposal tonight all by myself with a little help from Google. Last year over a year ago, that was Roger's job. Tonight it's mine, and I only thought about calling my dad for help like 7 times. 

My Awkward Valentine

For Valentine’s, I went out with some great girls for dinner and a movie, specifically sushi and a silent movie. I’ve been wanting to see The Artist since I first read about it back in November, but it’s been the waiting game until it made it’s way to less than metropolitan Texas. When one of my girl friends mentioned a few of us going to see it on V Day I thought this would be a great way to hang out with pals and keep my mind from the constant lurking to last year at this time… I’ve been doing that a lot since the month started.

Sushi was fabulous! Great food, better drinks, wonderful company. We all piled into my friend’s SUV and headed over to the one artsy fartsy theater I know I can count on for the non-mainstream flicks.

The Artist is really a very charming movie. Campy definitely, the characters are endearing, and the director did a superb job telling the story through the use of true facial expressions and acting – no dialogue to save a pretty face from a lack of talent. I found myself grinning through most of the picture. At one point I even thought this might be an interesting film to show my band kids to demonstrate the importance of music in cinema. I was having a good time.

The main character takes a turn for the worse as he finds his life not at all at a point his original path was leading. Down trodden and depressed that he has been forced from his lifestyle with the introduction of ‘talkies’, George Valentin returns to the home he previously almost burned down to retrieve a box. He sits down on the remnants of an arm chair, staring at the box, his loving dog by his side. George is not a very deep character. I’m imagining the fan letters in the box that are about to cheer him up and give him the strength and courage to take a risk and join this new fangled form of the silver screen.  As he opened the box, the course of my evening changed.

Elegantly nestled in white silk was a very small handgun.

My heart sank deep. I could feel my throat constrict. My cheeks burned. I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping against hope this was not headed where I saw it going.  What a horrible twist for such a lighthearted movie. At some point I realized no dialogue or sound effects were going to tell me if I was right. I opened my eyes to see the gun in his mouth, tears running down his face, tears that I realized mirrored my own. The soundtrack was silent, making this part of the movie I suppose more dramatic; I was trying so hard to keep my breathing under control. The little dog was jumping excitedly at George’s feet, begging him not to do it.

I couldn’t stand it. I closed my eyes again. This time I was met with an image I have successfully repressed for sometime. Please don’t do it.

I opened my eyes as George Valentin’s closed.  The title screen read, “BANG!!!” I held my breath.

The next scene was of the love interest, who has stolen her driver’s car to run to George’s aid, crashing into a tree, startling George and ripping him from his depression-fueled plans. The audience laughed at the clever twist. But I wasn’t laughing. I hadn’t taken a breath yet.

When I was fairly positive I could exhale without drawing attention to myself, I let out a heavy breath. I was so broken hearted. I tried to stay as quiet as I could, but I cried the rest of the movie. I’m honestly not sure exactly how it ends so I can safely save you a spoiler. As the credits started to roll, I took off my glasses and hoped that I was adequately rubbing clean my surely mascara streaked face. The four of us stood to walk out of the theater. I was silent. So were my friends. One of them rubbed my back on the way out, asked me if I was okay. Of course I was.

I’m really good at wearing my mask. I don’t think anyone has seen my breakdowns at school. I’m great at using humor and sarcasm to keep a conversation from getting too deep, at least around the subject of “how [I am] doing”. The problem with wearing a mask for any length of time is you start believing it to be true. And I said, “yeah” when she asked me if I was okay.

I made it out of the theater as quick as I could because a second longer and I would have cried right there in front of everyone, but I made it outside just in time for some raindrops to hopefully camouflage the tears I couldn’t control. I truly think that if it weren’t February 14^th, two days from the day that changed everything, I could have held my composure. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s true.

The trip back to our cars was silent. I’m really good at being the center of a conversation with nothing to say. There have been lots of those this past year. Ordinarily I think I would have felt awkward, but instead I just felt sad and empty. I doubt that’s the response the director expected from his silent era throw back. I’m pretty sure my friends felt awkward. Sorry about that…  By the time I was in my own car, the flood gates emptied the emotion I was trying so hard to contain.

I’m home. I’m safe. I’m snuggling with dogs. I’m cried out. I’m really tired. But purging my thoughts into the written word is my choice of therapy right now, so I’ll end my first and awkward Valentine’s with a blog. 

A Year in Cell Phone Pictures

This is totally not an original idea as I stole it from another blog I frequent, but I love the idea of the story my random pictures tell. Here is a sampling from 2011, the year that should have ended a hell of a lot sooner.

I started learning to crochet (this was my SECOND project ever).

I researched ideas for what my next tattoo might be. Never got this one.

Roger and I started hardscaping our entry way. That Texas stone has never looked good in the way we envisioned it. My nephew Liam was born this same day, and 3 days later Roger died.

Shanna sent me this picture of Liam in the hat I made him (my first crochet project) the day we made the funeral arrangements. He was 5 days old. 

Not knowing what to do with all of Roger's white t-shirts, I found this awesome way to up-cycle them into t-shirt yarn.

I found that keeping myself busy with projects, like this scarf, kept me sane.

I visited the Fort Worth Museum of Modern Art on Spring Break.

I learned how to turn that t-shirt yarn into a necklace.

My car was "dolphined" by a couple of ninja pranksters.

I researched more tattoo ideas...

...and decided on a more "calming" and "centered" design.

 We recorded for the Seattle Convention, were selected, and started thinking of t-shirt designs.

I did my first Painting with a Twist piece and was instantly hooked.

The golf balls... If you know, this needs no explanation...

I learned to make light catchers with mirrors and beads. 

 

And I crocheted some more.

I found a raincoat for the upcoming Seattle and Ireland trips.

We made it to Dublin, Ireland to spread the ashes.

I found out I secretly brewed my own beer...

...and visited dilapidated castles in Northern Ireland.

The view from one of our B&Bs...

...and we visited Gallaghers Boxty House, not the Alamo.

I came back to Texas and completed my second PwaT painting.

On a painting high, I painted the bathroom... and then repainted it because I hated it.

I learned to do some canvas paintings of my own with frog tape and the wall paint that sucked.

No idea why Scarlet was sitting with me on the bathroom floor.

I crocheted some more, sometimes with the assistance of the doglets.

I worked in the yard.

I went with friends to see Paul Simon.

I did my third painting.

We gave our Send Off Concert, and I actually wore a dress...

... and then we finally made it to Seattle with the band!

We accidentally left the travel agent at our hotel so we had to find another one. 

As a "treat" for the band kids, I straightened my hair. It never fails to be more disruptive than it is worth.

I decided that I would decorate for Christmas this year (since we didn't last year), 

and found these lights at Ikea.

I made the girls some bling to wear on Christmas and then forgot about it.

My sister and I made Christmas cookies.

Then we went ice skating at the Galleria in Dallas. No one fell. But if someone had fallen, it totally would have been her. :) 

Scarlet wished everyone a Merry Christmas.

Santa brought me super nerdy insult cards. 

And Liam pretended to be a seal with my gloves on his feet.

As much as I thought 2010 sucked, 2011 managed to start absolutely horrifically and end surprisingly okay. Here's hoping next year's pictures tell a story of hope, completed projects, and a bright future.