Here I am back to blogging. Where have I been for two months? Is my sense of direction so bad that I can't locate my computer? I find it to e-mail friends. I play three card poker and video poker on-line.
Sometimes writing about life gets in the way of living it. Often, I'm writing in my head and it's just a matter of putting it down (not my head, the thoughts) Now, half the summer is gone. I'm attempting to review.
A week ago today my crackerjack agent, Victoria Skurnick of the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency sent my "Poor Widow Me" proposal out to publishers. She told me to keep my fingers crossed and I said, "How am I going to type like that?" I haven't heard from her since.
The memoir only covers the first year after Jimmy's death and if I'm lucky enough to get a "Yes" from a publisher today it will be nine months to a year before the book is out - At that point it will be over three years and as a reader I'd want an update. I'd want to know how the first year compares with the second, etc...and I'm too lazy to write another book.
So, my last chapter will be an epitaph (look it up) Keeping current with this blog will help me remember this time period. It will be my note taking for that chapter.
Starting today - no more huge gaps in these entries. It probably makes sense to categorize. Today, I'll talk a tinge about my love life.
Before I do that I must say that daily life is different for me now. I do similar things, but I'm more comfortable doing them. The change for me is internal. And, yet external because of the way people react and respond to me. That leads me right into my so-called love life.
The first year when I was asked "How are you?" it was accompanied by a crumpled face and a suffocating hug. At the year and a half mark "How are you?" was a careful tread bordering on perky and the translation was: "Are you dating yet?"
Today, two years and three months in, a wink precedes "How are you" and often no words are spoken to say "Seeing anyone special?"
In the romance department, I've learned I'm behind the curve. I've only gone on four dates and even those were just to get my feet wet. As I predicted, they only lead to soggy socks. My attraction to the handyman was inappropriate and I couldn't pull the trigger, anyway so I'm not sure if that one counts.
My bereavement shrink, Gene tells me I still think like a married woman. Yesterday, just to spite her when two cute guys in the elevator asked me if I was married, I much too enthusiastically said, "No." I think they expected me to add, "Press the stop button."
Gene tells me I'm naive. I half expect Cupid to find me at the cleaners or the butcher or in my kitchen. "Love doesn't come to you. You must go to love" she says. When I quote Gene in person I give her an Romanian accent. It adds flavor.
The biggest change is that I feel sorta kinda almost ready to experience someone Jimmy-like. This time we get to grow old together and he has a mustache. (or at least more hair on his upper lip than I have)
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