Miracle on Long Island

 

A miracle happened on Christmas Day. Miracle is a huge word. I realize this. I try not to overuse it, just like brilliant and genius. I reserve those words for Woody Allen and for Skylar my 6 and a half year old granddaughter.


The last time I witnessed a miracle was when my daughter was pregnant with Sky and I said to Glenn, my then son-in-law.


“This is a miracle!”


He responded, “This isn’t a miracle. A miracle would be if I was having a baby.”


I glared at him and said, “You know what a miracle is, Glenn? It’s a miracle that I have the control not to punch you in the face right now!”


Fast forward to Christmas two days ago. My daughter Jackie and Glenn are divorced and although I reluctantly admit he’s a wonderful Dad to Sky, we don’t celebrate holidays together so he’s not part of this story.


My son Doug and me and Tony Baloney, my perfect little Morkie zipped to Jackie and Sky's house near mine on Long Island to spend Christmas Day with them. We were busy bringing presents into their house so we didn’t notice that we closed the front door and Tony had wandered back outside.


Ten minutes later when Skylar showed us a present she had for Tony we realized he wasn’t in the house. A sick feeling washed over me and even as I yelled in the house.  


We all ran out, calling “To ny, To ny” trying to whistle and clap and try to see as far down the block as we could. I ran back and jumped in the car to get further faster. With the window opened I must have looked a little like a dog myself with my head hanging out of it. I felt a sob coming on and I stifled it.


People on the block said they hadn’t seen him…I described him as a little 9 pound Morkie wearing a Santa suit. A furry, four legged, low to the ground Santa has to stand out, I thought. I imagined my little guy scared and lost and my heart was doing flip flops.


Somehow, I knew that he wasn’t a Lassie who would sniff his way home. Somehow I sensed that Tony is probably helpless like me when it comes to his sense of direction.


As my panic rose, random thoughts popped into my head.


1. "I’ve ruined Christmas for Skylar. If we don’t find Tony I won’t be
     able to go back and finish opening presents. I’ll just be a mess."

2. "When do you stop looking? I’ll never stop looking."


3. "Oh, God, now am I going to be the Poor Widow Me who lost her dog?"

4. "I wonder if I'll feel like eating later"…was interrupted by,

    “Hey, that man found your dog!”

Tony was safe! The guy was driving around looking for
someone who was looking for a dog. His kids found him six blocks
away in the middle of the street. I followed him back to his house and
his kids handed my little Santa to me.

I squeezed that confused sweetface and I kissed and hugged the kids and the father.


As I walked back to the car carrying Tony Baloney in my arms I tried to
memorize the address to drop something on their stoop the next day to thank
them. I haven't done that yet. I'm blaming it on the blizzard.

The real kicker was that after a wonderful day, Doug, Tony and I headed back to my house where I listened to a message on my answering machine. I stood in my kitchen impatiently trying to make out what sounded like a 10 year old boy.


I assumed it was one of my cousin’s kids wishing me a Merry Christmas…I turned to Doug and said,

“Why do they put a kid on to leave a message? I hate that! I can’t understand a word he’s saying and he left a phone number – So ridiculous…I can’t even make it out. I’m not even going to try!”


“Hey, Mom” Doug said smirking, “Listen to the first part…he’s saying, “I found your dog.”


Right there is my Christmas miracle…not that we found Tony because of the goodness of strangers…but that I can be such an asshole.

Comments are appreciated folks...thanks!

Young & Ugly Beats Old & Pretty

When did "Poor Widow Me" lose my appeal? Walking towards my office the cat calls from hunky construction workers were constant. I admit, that was in 1970 when I was twenty, but guys, have a heart. Can’t you eek out a pity whistle to make a 60 year old widow happy?


I'll believe that you think I'm hot. I promise you. My needy gene will argue with my rational brain and my needy gene will win.  I'm that self protective.  I may even flirt back and make a game of it, not like the little snots that dismiss you like the dirt you’re shoveling.


In spite of my less than stellar track record, I don’t have low self esteem. My self esteem is actually higher than it should be. I’m always surprised when men walk by me without giving me a second look. Sometimes, even the first look turns out to be a mistake; he’s either squinting at the sun or looking past me to some young thing with legs that start at my neck.


Still, I’m not totally living in fantasy land. I do own a mirror. I know when I’m out of my league. Recently, I was in an airport and noticed “Barbie” from behind. Her genes were painted on her colt like legs and her shoulder length hair was ridiculously bouncy, healthy and shiny. Her hair reminded me of the ‘locks’ in old Breck girl commercials.


I trotted after Barbie just like children run double time to keep up with their Moms. I had to see her face. I was on a mission to console myself that maybe God was on my side and he gave her ugly features.

I almost abandoned my suitcase to be able to run fast enough to catch up to her. The clincher is that with those legs she was as quick as a Giselle and my Dachshund legs were no match.


I never did see her face. But, I went home to Google 'Breck Girls.' Wikepedia gave me the following list of gorgeous women who were Breck girls between 1968 and 1976. They are all approximately the same age as I am today, a fact I celebrated with smug satisfaction.


HA! Their hay-day is over now too… although not really. They are still close to a 10 while my number is plunging faster than the stock market did in 2008.


Here’s a partial list: Cheryl Tiegs 63, Cybill Shepherd 60, Jaclyn Smith 63, Kim Basinger 57, Christie Brinkley 56.

My needy gene is definitely going to have to work overtime here to convince my rational brain that a taxi driver wouldn't run me down to pick them up.

Run-Away Widow Joins the Circus (sorta) Hey, That's Me!

David Moye of AOL wrote this story:

Showbiz is a hard career, but it's even more difficult if you're trying to make it big by singing "Silent Night" like a pigeon, yodeling while milking a cardboard goat or imitating Ralph Kramden doing Shakespeare.


But New York radio personality Leslie Gold is doing a sort of showbiz stimulus package for people whose talents are, shall we say, less easily marketable -- such as the 60-year-old who wears a pigeon suit and coos like a bird sitting on a telephone wire.


And she's doing it by bringing back "The Gong Show" in a live setting. Gold will present "Gong Show Live" at B.B. King Blues Club & Grill in Times Square. It's a talent show modeled after the cheesy game show hosted by Chuck Barris in the late 1970s, where contestants compete for a measly sum ($543.32, to be exact) while trying to avoid being "gonged" by the three judges.


Heidi the Yodeling Guy is perhaps the only entertainer trying to make a career out of an act that consists of him yodeling while milking a cardboard goat. So far, a stage show called "Gong Show Live" is the only place giving him a chance.


For Gold, who will be one of the judges, bringing back a TV show in a live setting is something of a demented dream come true.


"To me, this hits the entertainment sweet spot," she told AOL News. "The best parts of shows like 'American Idol' and 'America's Got Talent' are the bad acts." Gold is a devoted fan of "The Gong Show" and got the idea to do her version after interviewing show creator Barris on radio.


"I'm an admirer of his. I think he's some kind of kooky genius," she said. "I wanted to do it as a live event."

Gold was told not to bother even trying to restart "The Gong Show," mainly because her naysaying friends assumed the rights to it were sewed up and wouldn't be granted. That wasn't the case, however.


"The trademark for the TV show and live show had lapsed, and the guy who was in charge of them said 'Yes!' [and] I knew he was doing nothing with them."

The first of what Gold hopes will be many live shows was held in August, and it was an immediate success.


"The club wanted us back within three weeks, but we held out till Halloween, which I think is perfect for this," she said, adding that the idea of a talent show where acts can be potentially gonged off the stage is especially appropriate in the Big Apple.

Pigeon lady Carol Scibelli dresses like a bird and sings songs such as "Silent Night" as a pigeon might.

"New York audiences can have a gladiator mentality," Gold said. "We can tell how the audience feels after 10 seconds, but we give all acts at least 30 seconds."


The task of finding enough acts unworthy enough for the show fell to casting director Robert Russell, who claims he checked out thousands of performers looking for the best of the worst.


Some of the acts that made the cut include "Amazing Amy," a contortionist who claims she's 55 but is suspected of being more than 80; Jessica Delfino, a performance artist who sings a song about being raped; and a striptease act involving robots.


"Yes, they're robot strippers," Russell confirmed. "The act is not risque because, well, they're robots."


Russell is especially enthusiastic about Bob Greenberg, who recites Shakespeare as Ralph Kramden from "The Honeymooners," and Carol "The Pigeon" Scibelli, who dresses up like a pigeon and sings "Silent Night" and "Hava Nagila" as a bird might.


It's a talent that Scibelli has waited 48 years to capitalize on.

"I started doing this when I was in eighth grade," she said with a laugh. "You know how kids like to do goofy things. I actually performed for Chuck Barris himself at a 25th anniversary 'Gong Show' celebration at the Friar's Club and I didn't get gonged! Barris even told me he liked my act because I had the chutzpah to sing 'Silent Night' to a room full of Jews."


Scibelli's background is in writing, but she is ready to fly at a moment's notice to pursue any opportunities to make it big as a birdbrained singer.

"They may take the show to Tampa and I'll go with them," she said.


Most of the entertainers are from New York and New Jersey, but David Reynolds is flying out from Las Vegas on his own dime in order to perform as "Heidi the Yodeling Guy." He dresses up like a St. Pauli Girl on steroids and milks a cardboard goat while yodeling.


"I actually used to perform this act on a cruise ship," said Reynolds, who thought he gave up showbiz four years when he decided to open up a flower shop. "It's hard because you're yodeling and milking at the same time. Of course, churning butter is a whole 'nother thing."

Like Scibelli, Reynolds was a fan of the old "Gong Show" and hopes to milk the exposure into getting something bigger.


But not every act on the live show was familiar with "The Gong Show." In fact, Roger Hanson, 21, wasn't even born when the show debuted and was unfamiliar with the Comedy Central reboot a few years back.


"When I tried out, I didn't take it seriously," he said. "But when the other performers told me about it, I did research it and now know how important the show was."


Hanson performs under the name "Wonder Boy," and he describes his act as "extreme interpretive dance."
"I do a warrior-angel-robot thing," he explained. "I'm a big dude so dressing like a fairy's pretty funny."

Hanson wants to do a good show and is excited about the chance to win the $543.32 grand prize that goes to the act that gets the best score from the judges.

"I just got my associate's degree and am trying to get into the Fire Department, so the money would be nice," he said.

A Widow Joins The Circus

Weird News


Live 'Gong Show' Gives Break to Yodeling Goat-Milkers, Other Quirky ActsUpdated: 38 days 10 hours ago

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David Moye

Contributor



AOL News (Oct. 26) -- Showbiz is a hard career, but it's even more difficult if you're trying to make it big by singing "Silent Night" like a pigeon, yodeling while milking a cardboard goat or imitating Ralph Kramden doing Shakespeare.



But New York radio personality Leslie Gold is doing a sort of showbiz stimulus package for people whose talents are, shall we say, less easily marketable -- such as the 60-year-old who wears a pigeon suit and coos like a bird sitting on a telephone wire.



And she's doing it by bringing back "The Gong Show" in a live setting on, appropriately enough, Halloween.



On Oct. 31, Gold will present "Gong Show Live" at B.B. King Blues Club & Grill in Times Square. It's a talent show modeled after the cheesy game show hosted by Chuck Barris in the late 1970s, where contestants compete for a measly sum ($543.32, to be exact) while trying to avoid being "gonged" by the three judges.







The Radiochick Corp.

Heidi the Yodeling Guy is perhaps the only entertainer trying to make a career out of an act that consists of him yodeling while milking a cardboard goat. So far, a stage show called "Gong Show Live" is the only place giving him a chance.

For Gold, who will be one of the judges, bringing back a TV show in a live setting is something of a demented dream come true.



"To me, this hits the entertainment sweet spot," she told AOL News. "The best parts of shows like 'American Idol' and 'America's Got Talent' are the bad acts."



Gold is a devoted fan of "The Gong Show" and got the idea to do her version after interviewing show creator Barris on radio.



"I'm an admirer of his. I think he's some kind of kooky genius," she said. "I wanted to do it as a live event."



Gold was told not to bother even trying to restart "The Gong Show," mainly because her naysaying friends assumed the rights to it were sewed up and wouldn't be granted.



That wasn't the case, however.



"The trademark for the TV show and live show had lapsed, and the guy who was in charge of them said 'Yes!' [and] I knew he was doing nothing with them."



The first of what Gold hopes will be many live shows was held in August, and it was an immediate success.



"The club wanted us back within three weeks, but we held out till Halloween, which I think is perfect for this," she said, adding that the idea of a talent show where acts can be potentially gonged off the stage is especially appropriate in the Big Apple.





The Radiochick Corp.

Pigeon lady Carol Scibelli dresses like a bird and sings songs such as "Silent Night" as a pigeon might.

"New York audiences can have a gladiator mentality," Gold said. "We can tell how the audience feels after 10 seconds, but we give all acts at least 30 seconds."



The task of finding enough acts unworthy enough for the show fell to casting director Robert Russell, who claims he checked out thousands of performers looking for the best of the worst.



Some of the acts that made the cut include "Amazing Amy," a contortionist who claims she's 55 but is suspected of being more than 80; Jessica Delfino, a performance artist who sings a song about being raped; and a striptease act involving robots.



"Yes, they're robot strippers," Russell confirmed. "The act is not risque because, well, they're robots."



Russell is especially enthusiastic about Bob Greenberg, who recites Shakespeare as Ralph Kramden from "The Honeymooners," and Carol "The Pigeon" Scibelli, who dresses up like a pigeon and sings "Silent Night" and "Hava Nagila" as a bird might.



It's a talent that Scibelli has waited 48 years to capitalize on.



"I started doing this when I was in eighth grade," she said with a laugh. "You know how kids like to do goofy things. I actually performed for Chuck Barris himself at a 25th anniversary 'Gong Show' celebration at the Friar's Club and I didn't get gonged! Barris even told me he liked my act because I had the chutzpah to sing 'Silent Night' to a room full of Jews."



Scibelli's background is in writing, but she is ready to fly at a moment's notice to pursue any opportunities to make it big as a birdbrained singer.



"They may take the show to Tampa and I'll go with them," she said.



Most of the entertainers are from New York and New Jersey, but David Reynolds is flying out from Las Vegas on his own dime in order to perform as "Heidi the Yodeling Guy." He dresses up like a St. Pauli Girl on steroids and milks a cardboard goat while yodeling.



"I actually used to perform this act on a cruise ship," said Reynolds, who thought he gave up showbiz four years when he decided to open up a flower shop. "It's hard because you're yodeling and milking at the same time. Of course, churning butter is a whole 'nother thing."



Like Scapelli, Reynolds was a fan of the old "Gong Show" and hopes to milk the exposure into getting something bigger.



But not every act on the live show was familiar with "The Gong Show." In fact, Roger Hanson, 21, wasn't even born when the show debuted and was unfamiliar with the Comedy Central reboot a few years back.



"When I tried out, I didn't take it seriously," he said. "But when the other performers told me about it, I did research it and now know how important the show was."



Hanson performs under the name "Wonder Boy," and he describes his act as "extreme interpretive dance."



"I do a warrior-angel-robot thing," he explained. "I'm a big dude so dressing like a fairy's pretty funny."



Hanson wants to do a good show and is excited about the chance to win the $543.32 grand prize that goes to the act that gets the best score from the judges.



"I just got my associate's degree and am trying to get into the Fire Department, so the money would be nice," he said.

Filed under: Weird News, EntertainmentTagged: amazing amy, americas got talent, b b king, carol scapelli, chuck barris, david

Dancing With Poor Widow Me

“I wish we had danced more” was one of the last “we” things Jimmy ever said to me. One of the first “I” things I did after he died was to take dancing lessons. Until recently that didn’t occur to me as odd. I hadn’t actually put it together.

Dancing is so wonderfully romantic and sexy.   For a long time when I heard a ballad, any song that could be slow danced to I pictured and actually felt myself dancing to it with Jimmy. 

 A few days ago I saw the episode of “Glee” where the widow and widower on the show get married.  As I watched them dance at their wedding I glided along with them in my mind.  In my fantasy, I'm fabulous but in real life even after dancing lessons I'm klutzier than Elaine in Seinfeld.

 Still, I felt swooped up and dizzy with the anticipation of falling in love and being swept away in a faceless man’s arms. Does ‘faceless’ mean I’m no longer reaching out to Jimmy? I think so and I think this is good.

If I put myself out there maybe one of these days I’ll be stepping on somebody’s toes again.

Rain Check Please!

After the funeral I wanted to be left alone. The suffocating hugs and tears and the “Call me. I’ll bring over a bagel. I’ll scoop it out for you” was kind, but irritating. There was no pleasing me. Bring Jimmy back. That’s all I wanted.



I wish today, four and a half years later, I could cash in on the services offered then. “Rain check, please!” should have been my mantra. Sympathy ought to be like a postdated check or a gift certificate with no expiration date.


At the beginning we’re just too foggy to appreciate being the center of attention. We’re like the bride and groom at a wedding except no groom is involved and it’s not a joyous occasion. Strike that stupid analogy.


A reasonable analogy might be “youth is wasted on the young.” Weepy widows can snap our fingers and like Domino Pizza there’s a knock at the door within thirty minutes. Talk about being too good to last.


Part of me, apparently, the self absorbed part, was aware that I only had a year before I’d wear out friends and family with demands to butter my toast and help me off with my boots. I knew my ‘special time’ was up when at 16 months my daughter Jackie called me and I sounded down and she asked, “What’s wrong?”


If only I wasn’t self conscious and embarrassed to break down in front of people I might have milked it through to the 18 month mark. It’s exhausting to put on strong face giving people the impression “Oh, she’s okay. She’s more than okay. She’s remarkable.”


Being stoic comes more naturally to me than publically sobbing and carrying on “Oh, why did he leave me? Why? Why? Why?” I left the drama to my private time. I suffered in silence; hence, I missed out on many a home cooked meal, a free movie or two and possibly even a Broadway show.


Sometimes these days I feel cheated and want to scream “Do over!” That’s insane so I keep it to myself which is the difference with actually being insane and not being insane, I think.

Regardless, I can’t change who I am. I put on a happy face which 'happiness experts' suggest may have helped me become happy.

Anyway, that's how I roll. I love saying “That’s how I roll” because I’m not that cool and it makes me feel I might be just a teeny bit.

Rain Check, please!

A Remarried Widow?

Here’s an inside scoop for all of the non-widowed people out there. At widow gatherings one of the most popular lines is: “People who haven’t lost their spouse just don’t ‘get it.’” I shake my head and say it, too. It's true.


We widows don’t really expect you to understand, though, at least, I don’t. Life is full of tragedies that I haven’t experienced and therefore, I don't 'get'. Even within widowhood I don’t have the slightest idea what it feels like, for example, to have my husband run over by an ice-cream truck.


Would I give up ice-cream? Maybe only the flavors I never cared for? Would that count? Or would I just take a hard stand against buying ice-cream from a truck? It’s difficult to say.


Throughout the widow community here’s something else non-widows may not be aware of...There are:

 Widows who have re-married and still call themselves a widow!


Now, that’s something I don’t get. If I was fortunate enough to meet a man and fall in love and re-marry would I continue this blog/website and speak to widows?  Sure, having lived through this tragedy I would still have something to contribute to widows and widowers.


BUT: I wouldn’t continue to refer to myself as a widow. First of all, I wouldn’t be one. According to http://www.dictionary.com/ “A widow is a woman who has lost her husband to death and has not remarried. There’s hardly room for an argument here.


Some continue to argue anyway. “I’m still a widow!” “I’m still a widow!” “I’m still a widow!” Kinda disrespectful to the current husband and it has to make him nervous.

                            New Husbands Respond:


TOM: “Wait, honey. I’m still alive! Remember we signed papers and you vowed to love and honor me in sickness and in health ‘till death do us part? Well, I haven’t died yet. That was the first guy."


DICK: "You took my last name! You introduce me as your husband! I know you loved your first husband and will forever, but honey next year you and I will be married longer than you were to him."

HARRY:"Just because he was first doesn’t mean he’ll always be #1. He had you through PMS, but I got you at menopause. Neither one is a picnic.”


 Without mentioning names here are a few comments from widows about remarriage.

“Just because a widow falls in love again and remarries does not change that she went through the hell and heartache of being widowed.”


"Of course not" I say. "And I’m sure that pain rears its ugly head even after remarriage, but when you’re discharged from the army you may suffer flashbacks, still you hang up your uniform. At ease…you are no longer a soldier."

"Oh, and to stay with the soldier analogy.  If a man is in the Navy and he transfers to the Marines is he still a sailor?"  No sir!


“The new love does not replace the old one.”


"Yes, that’s exactly what he/she does. And, the new love might be a better kisser."


“They are now roommates in your heart.”


"Nice phrase, but only one of those roommates is taking up the closet space."


Hey, widows, divorce is a trauma. If divorced people remarry do they still tell people they're divorced?


Widows who are wives again have said that they are still widows because "My new husband sweetly helps to keep my late husband’s memory alive by talking about him and visiting his grave with me."

That’s called maturity and sensitivity and recognizing we weren’t born the second we met. That also may be called, “If I'm understanding about the dead husband maybe I'll get laid tonight.”


Some women still see themselves as married after their husband has died. That isn’t technically true either, yet it’s totally different than a remarried widow referring to herself as a widow.


Continuing to feel married after losing a spouse is pure emotion, a natural need to stay attached.  We cling to our old life while we are in a lane we never imagined we’d travel.  It's an emotional tie that’s tough to break, although two little words could break that tie for me,
     
          'Widow’s Benefits'...that ends when we remarry…

Busy Being Peggy Da Pigeon - See AOL story...

Hey, it's not all about being a widow all of the time.  Sometimes, we just have to spread our wings.

 http://www.aolnews.com/weird-news/article/live-gong-show-gives-break-to-yodeling-goat-milkers-and-other-quirky-talents/19684319

Alternate Ending for "Keeping His Memory Alive"

Just to say that I'm writing this blog and the book "Poor Widow Me" at the same time.  It's a memoir, written from today looking back.  I'm rethinking yesterdays ending to the blog "Keeping His Memory Alive" and I wrote an alternate ending. 


Hoping you might take a moment to let me know which version you prefer and why -  either as a comment here or to my e-mail address:
CScibelli@aol.com  or on Facebook


Thanks everyone!

As I write this I see that we may have dropped the ball on our vow to keep Jimmy’s memory alive. I know this is natural. Even at the very beginning I knew it. I remember a friend’s 90 year old mother called me a few weeks after Jimmy died and said,


“I’ve been a widow since I was 60 and there are still nights when I lay in bed watching David Letterman and I turn to my husband’s side and I say out loud, “That was a good one, right Larry?” she said.


First of all, I was amazed that at 90 she still remembered she was ever married. And, 30 years later she's chatting it up with a cold sheet and an empty pillow? Who does she think she is, Yoko Ono?

I said, “Mimi, is this supposed to make me feel better?” She laughed. I thanked her for calling and after I hung up just for my own amusement I added, “Say hello to Larry for me.”

Keeping His Memory Alive

Tomorrow is October 13th - four and a half years since Jimmy died.  The 13th is supposed to be unlucky for everybody, but I was born on the 7th day of the 7th month.  I always knew that the 13th would be extra unlucky for me. Oh, right, and I guess extra-extra unlucky for Jimmy. 

Watching time click into the second half of the 4th year makes me take notice of how my life and the lives of everyone around me who loved my husband has
moved away from him little by little.

The unofficial rulebook after losing a family member states: You must keep his/her memory alive. For the first few months my kids and I would continually point out to two year old Skylar that her “Grandpa” liked this or that. Usually, the‘this and the that’was a dish of spaghetti or the waffle cones at a Baskin and Robbins.

We almost held a celebration of life memorial service where close family and friends could contribute “Big Jim” stories. The plan was to schedule it a few months after the funeral. We were sure by then the sting of losing him would be dissipated enough that we could display a montage of photos on a huge screen and a sound system that pounded out a song like “Through the Years.” We quickly vetoed that song because it was too ‘bar mitzvah-ish.’


Within a month we decided to pass on the memorial, too. The pain was fresher than we had anticipated and all the good friends had used their best material at Jimmy’s funeral. At the wake a TV looped the “This is your Life” video that I had made for Jimmy’s 45th birthday party and on three easels around the room we placed a framed assortment of dozens of his photos.


Pushing the envelope to eek out more adoration for a man and his life felt weirdly similar to paying a DJ or a band overtime to stay an extra hour. Party planners warn against it. “Leave them wanting more” they say.


For quite some time we’d smell flowers with Skylar and remind her that grandpa would carry her from flower to flower like a bumble bee pollinating. She was the only two year old on Long Island who could pronounce “pollinate” making her grieving Mommy, Daddy, Uncle and Grandma laugh out loud.


Jackie made sure that on a special occasion Skylar sent up balloons to Grandpa in heaven. Now at six and a half it’s part of Skylar’s holiday routine. There are never tears when a balloon escapes by mistake because we cover with “Grandpa must have really wanted that one.” We figure by the time she stops falling for it, it will be about the time she stops caring about balloons, anyway.


Let’s face it, to anyone older than ten years old balloons are just plain annoying. They’re fun and festive for the first twenty minutes. Three days later we’re stuck with a bouquet of dull and withering blue and yellow and green sacks of air that refuse to deflate completely.

They float and hover at our eye level until we’re forced to tighten their rubbery necks and stick a scissor through them the way Dexter, the TV serial killer stabs his victims. Only then can we throw them in the trash. Skylar is a year away from saying, “Are these stupid balloons still around?”


As I write this I see that we may have dropped the ball on our vow to keep Jimmy’s memory alive. Here and now I’m going to pledge to myself to mention Jimmy’s name more often to family and friends. He’s still continually on my mind.


I worry, though, that I’ll sound pathetic and make others feel sad. I worry that I’ll be forever perceived as “Poor Widow Me.”


Wait a minute...Worry? About being perceived as "Poor Widow Me?" Who am I kidding?  If that were the case I should put a halt on this blog, my seminars, the upcoming website, and the book. 


Well, if nothing else...I'm an honest widow.

Searching the Internet for 'Loss'

I was looking for articles about LOSS and this is what I found.  It isn't exactly
about losing a husband, but since mine was heavier than the average husband - is mine a greater loss?

1 pound = a Guinea Pig



1.5 pounds = a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed donuts


2 pounds = a rack of baby back ribs


3 pounds = an average human brain


4 pounds = an ostrich egg


5 pounds = a Chihuahua


6 pounds = a human’s skin


7.5 pounds = an average newborn


8 pounds = a human head


10 pounds= chemical additives an American consumes each year


11 pounds = an average housecat


12 pounds = a Bald Eagle


15 pounds = 10 dozen large eggs


16 pounds = a sperm whale’s brain


20 pounds = an automobile tire


23 pounds = amount of ****a an average American eats in a year


24 pounds = a 3-gallon tub of super premium ice cream


25 pounds = an average 2 year old


30 pounds = amount of cheese an average American eats in a year


33 pounds = a cinder block


36 pounds = a mid-size microwave


40 pounds = a 5-gallon bottle of water or an average human leg


44 pounds = an elephant’s heart


50 pounds = a small bale of hay


55 pounds = a 5000 BTU air conditioner


60 pounds = an elephant’s penis (yep, weights more than his heart!)


66 pounds = fats and oils an average American eats in a year


70 pounds = an Irish Setter


77 pounds = a gold brick


80 pounds = the World’s Largest Ball of Tape


90 pounds = a newborn calf


100 pounds = a 2 month old horse


111 pounds = red meat an average American eats in a year


117 pounds = an average fashion model (and she’s 5’11”)


118 pounds = the complete Encyclopedia Britannica


120 pounds = amount of trash you throw away in a month


130 pounds = a newborn giraffe


138 pounds = potatoes an average American eats in a year


140 pounds = refined sugar an average American eats in a year


144 pounds = an average adult woman (and she’s 5’4”)


150 pounds = the complete Oxford English Dictionary


187 pounds = an average adult man


200 pounds = 2 Bloodhounds


235 pounds = Arnold Schwarzenegger


300 pounds = an average football lineman


400 pounds = a Welsh pony

Tempting Fate

Facts you need to know before reading this.


1. Jimmy had a convertible. He’d hop in – well, maybe not ‘hop’ and shout out 
    "Oh, I love the wind in my hair!"  After 2 miles on the highway my hair   would be a rat’s nest. Guess how often we took the convertible?


3. We both loved to gamble in casinos and  9 out of 10 times I lost. He called me his anchor, but not in a good way.


4. Jimmy hated Steve Wynn and would have refused to step into his latest casino, Encore.


5. Bob is a web designer who I was going to Vegas to meet for business. There you have it...



I didn’t mean to rent a convertible. As I scrolled along the Hertz website there it was – a baby blue Volvo convertible with a beige interior. Isn’t this what I needed, a classy, yet not too obnoxious a car to pull up to the Encore?

Before I could say "Maybe I shouldn't" my finger clicked on to print out my confimation number.  I called my buddy, Connie.

"I did something" I said.

"What did you do now?"  She sounded like she was scolding a puppy.

"I rented a car for Vegas so I could drive to Bob's.  He's 40 minutes off the strip."

"Good. Very grown-up. So?"

"It's a convertible.  I rented a convertible."

Laughter was all I heard.

Finally, Connie composed herself and said,

"Oooooh. Forget about your life-long losing streak. A slot machine will probably fall on you!"

Connie may be right. Perhaps, staying at Encore was tempting fate enough.

"I can just hear the news report now" I said. "In a freak accident today a slot machine tipped over and pinned a 60 year old widow. 

As the casino workers pulled the machine off the unhurt, but dazed grandmother from Merrick, New York, she was heard to say, "Okay, Jimmy. That wasn't funny."

I Even Asked my Friends on Facebook: Do I Go to the Funeral?

Yesterday I wrote that I went to a funeral three months after Jimmy died. Some readers asked me why I brought that up more than four years later? A few felt that I was going backwards. “Slipping” another said.



I meant to write about my friend Lewie Bernstein who just died on Friday. Lewie and I knew each other slightly in high school and until our 40th reunion a handful of years ago I hadn’t seen him in all these years.


My close friend Vera (from Junior High) is wonderful about keeping up with people and after that reunion she and her husband Jeff made sure that Lewie was invited to a bunch of occasions at their home.


Lewie and I made pleasant conversation. He owned a restaurant, married, divorced and has two grown children like I do. I’m always astounded that someone who I haven’t seen in years has lived a life, too.

I assume that they are stuck in some sort of time warp. Are they hovering in the school yard or something else creepy? It makes no sense, I know. I never really thought it out. I guess that’s obvious.


Anyway, Lewie looked similar to Mr. Burtish, our assistant principal, except Mr. Burtish had a twitch. I always thought he was winking at me. Vera told me I was retarded (it was okay to say retarded then) that I hadn’t caught on about the twitch, but I still think he was playing it up. Once he established he had a twitch he knew he could get away with the winking.


Tom, a blind piano tuner I know does the same thing. He gropes. Can’t he 
 sense that his hand is headed straight for my breasts? And, then he doesn’t feel where he’s landed? Come on!


Anyway, Mr. Burtish is who I saw when I reconnected with Lewie, a middle aged man. When Vera sent me the e-mail with the subject “Sad news” I knew that Lewie had died. He was diagnosed with kidney cancer eight months ago and he wasn’t doing well.


 The e-mail was sent to our high school group along with the information about when and where the service would be. Was this a suggestion, a strong suggestion or an expectation?

Do I go to the funeral?  Who is Lewie to me, anyhow?  He and I shared some of the same recollections and a handful of mutual friends.


An e-mail by Lily followed: “Are you going?” I answered her quickly, without thinking, as is my habit and probably explains the odd way people sometimes stare at me.


“Lewie was a nice guy, but I’ve decided I will only go to funerals on a ‘need to go’ basis.”


Look at me. When did I become so smug? As if that wasn’t enough smugness I continue, “No one’s going to ask ‘Where’s Carol?’ so that’s my criteria for attending or not.”


Her response was approaching admiration. “Good for you. I applaud your attitude” or something like that. Her e-mail is lost in cyberspace. Still and all, Lily went. True, she’s not a widow, but at this stage of the game we’ve all lost people close to us. It’s painful for everyone to face those resurfacing emotions. And, time is not on my side. My widow card is losing its juice.


Sunday morning, the day of the funeral I was still cocky about my decision but doubt or guilt must have jumped into the mix causing me to run it by Doug, my 29 year old son.


I presented my case by first making Doug scrambled eggs, an act that legal minds may point to as a bribe but they haven’t tasted my eggs.


As precedence, I compared the case to one many years ago when an acquaintance wanted to borrow $2,000.


“Your Dad and I were about to write the check when we realized we didn’t know how to spell her first name, “Phoebe”…was it P h e b e? or F e b e? We just looked at each other and laughed. A person should know how to spell a person’s first name if they are going to lend them money. That became our criteria. Too bad for Phoebe that her name wasn’t Jane."


Doug listened as intently as he ever does which means that he glanced up from the newspaper and said, “What? I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

The bottom line is that Doug didn’t think the Phoebe/Jane story had any bearing on the Lewie funeral dilemma.


“You don’t have to know someone well to pay your respects. The hot dog vendor outside Lewie’s building may want to stop in and tell his kids what a good tipper he was. Lots of people came from all over to Dad’s funeral. We probably never met them or remember they were there. If it’s in your heart to go it’s in your heart. If it’s not – it’s not.”


My son is a wise man all right. The best is that he didn’t put any judgment on it. In the end, I didn’t go. At least, I didn’t reach for stuff to base my decision on to ease my guilt.

And, it’s funny, but I must have spent many more hours thinking about Lewie and weighing our relationship than most of the high school friends who just got off their couch and went to his funeral.


Rest in peace Lewie. In time our high school reunions will be where you and Jimmy are.

Three Months, a Funeral & a Whoopi Goldberg Moment

About three months after Jimmy died my good friend Henry’s father passed away. I needed to be there for him and his family even though it broke up my routine of staying home and feeling sorry for myself.

It was bad enough walking up the steps to the funeral home but it was impossible for me to cross the threshold into the room where the body was laid out. I tried. I willed my legs to step forward.
Just like my kids, they paid no attention to me.

My body reacted like Whoopi Goldberg in the movie “Ghost” when her fingers locked onto the huge check as she struggled to hand it to the nun. My legs had a ‘Whoopi moment.’

Henry was aware that it was ‘too soon’ and he and many other friends stood outside the lobby area with me. Even the widow came out to say ‘Thanks for coming.” To someone passing by it must have looked like a major turnout, an overflow of people waiting to pay their respects.

It was simply “Poor Widow Me” surrounded by love and understanding.

Why Didn't Mathman Call?

Mathman hasn't called me.  Did he lose my number?

I guess I didn't make the grade.

I weighed the pluses and minuses of our relationship.

Maybe we weren't equal.

When I mentioned pie, I meant apple and he was talking 3.14.

No bras have ever been truly comfortable on me, especially algebra.

Apparently he didn't think we were compatible...too divided.

I fantasized about having sex with him on the times table.

Oh, well, it's Mathman's loss.

Can Math Be Funny?

I met a man. 

We had lunch. 

He's a math teacher.            

Something doesn't add up.

Would a group called "Man Haters" be Successful on Facebook?

“There’s a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time.” That’s a lyric from a song, from the musical Avenue Q.”  I posted this on Facebook and women thought I was starting a man hating group - and wanted to join.

Personally, I can see a group called "Men Are Annoying."  Hate is reserved for huge discressions like the time Jimmy called my new haircut "a non event."  That was mean.  I hated him for the moment...and my hair.

Those Avenue Q. lyrics jump out at me and it stirs up a pack mentality similar to what "I Will Survive" does to woman when it's played at weddings. 

 You can guarantee that at the first note even the happiest of married women growl at their husbands and leap up to join their circle of sisters on the dance floor. 

Our intensity is palatable.  We'd be smearing war paint on our faces if earlier we hadn't spent so much time getting our make-up just right. 

You'd think only at a divorce convention would women be tempted to run from table to table toppling the centerpieces into the men's laps.

What makes us women, even widows who yearn to have their 'more perfect than when he was alive' husbands back, become drum beating, crazies when a "Woman: Hear Me Roar" song comes on?  

Retail Therapy?

Give me a break! And, I don’t mean on the price. The expression ‘retail therapy’ is trotted out by anyone who needs an excuse to shop. This is just like “comfort food” is a reason to stuff our face with carbs. There. I’ve said it.

I hadn’t heard about ‘retail therapy’ until someone posted about it on Facebook recently. A flood of responses revealing purchases they made after their husband or wife died was as intense as Hurricane Earl.

Widows and widowers listed cars and clothes, furniture and ipads all bought while under the influence of grief.

I looked up “Grief therapy” on Wikipedia – the source for everything except where I left keys and glasses.

According to Wiki: Retail therapy is shopping with the primary purpose of improving the buyer’s mood or disposition. Often seen in people during periods of depression or transition, it is normally a short-lived habit. Items purchased during periods of retail therapy are sometimes referred to as “comfort buys.”

Curious about how this term came to be? “Retail therapy was first used as a term in the 1980’s with the first reference being this sentence in the Chicago Tribune of Christmas Eve 1986: “We’ve become a nation measuring out our lives in shopping bags and nursing our psychic ills through retail therapy.”

Always a healthy shopper, my shopping gene didn’t kick back in for at least six months after I lost Jimmy. That didn’t stop me from going to the mall, though. I remember wandering around watching people in twos pass by me. I felt unbearably foggy and disorientated. I couldn’t wait to get home.

My credit cards never left my wallet which is kind of the opposite of retail therapy. This is a phenomenon that only could have been caused by grief. It’s surprising that Mr. Bloomingdale himself didn’t call me at home concerned about my unusual low activity. How come he didn’t inquire if perhaps someone – one of my heirs - stole my card to curb my spending?

Like I said, this not spending phase was at the very beginning. I do remember one of the first items I bought was minor, yet intimate – pajamas. I was acutely aware that Jimmy would never see them. This was more than uncomfortable. It was surreal.

But, like a racehorse off and running with a good start I began spending much more than when Jimmy was alive. Today I could walk you through every room in my house including the backyard, garage and basement and there would be at least one new item.

My closet? Oh my. These days more clothes, more expensive clothes are hanging with the tag waving defiantly. No more need to feign “This old thing?” and I no longer have to tuck the receipt in an old shoe.

This is my point. Buying stuff after we lose our husband or wife is not unusual but is the motivation to ease our pain? Does a new sweater give us a momentary fix of well being or does it simply go perfectly with our new pants?

We slowly become conscious that we don’t have to answer to anyone anymore. Jimmy was always generous and never stingy, but what husband understands the need to have day cream, night cream, eye cream – you get my drift…And, what wife gets the importance of season tickets to Giant Stadium or a new Harley? 

Even an agreed upon purchase warrants a discussion.

"Should we get the brown carpet or the beige?"

We recoil and smile simultaneously at the realization that no one is around to veto our choices. 

So, let's not call it what it isn't.  It isn't retail therapy.  It’s sad and it’s lonely but no more negotiating and no more compromise is the therapeutic part.

Shot in the Finger

Yesterday my husband and I would have been married for 38 years. The last anniversary we celebrated was #33. Jimmy was healthy and happy, but if you had a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you where we went and what we did. I’m sure it had something to do with sex. And, sex. Oh, yeah, and sex.


I do remember our 25th. For that milestone anniversary I bought Jimmy a gorgeous new wedding band. It’s a blend of silver and platinum and gold. I think it was my way of re-claiming my man. Or maybe, branding him?

The original gold one according to Jimmy “Got bent when I got shot in the finger” –He told me this when I noticed he had stopped wearing it. Well, I couldn’t deny him points for imagination and originality. Most men would have simply mumbled “I lost it” or “It bothers my finger.”

He went on to tell me that a brave little ring that saves your finger should be kept securely in a sacred drawer aka ‘my night table.’ I saw the ring. Indeed, it was squashed.  It was oblong now but showed no traces of gun powder.

“I’ll have it repaired” I said challenging him.

Without a hesitation Jimmy announced, “Not a chance. That ring should remain squashed to remind us what valor means.”

This is a man who clearly did not want to wear his wedding band. It begged the question, why? Which explains why I bought him the new one on our 25th anniversary.

As any wife with an IQ of three digits, I was determined to get to the bottom of the fishy “I was shot” story.  Played like an episode of Law and Order I reconstructed the scene.

To add a bit of flare to my interrogation I raised my eyebrow and his suspicion as I handed him a glass of sweetened (‘with what?’ he worried right on cue) ice tea. I began by mentioning that it seemed odd that he didn’t come home that day and say,

“Honey, a bullet whizzed through my office today. I know it’s unusual to have a drive by shooter hit you in the finger while sitting at your desk on the 7th floor in a building on Long Island, but as Henry, my best friend is my witness – just call and ask – that is exactly what happened.”

“Drink up, honey,” I punctuated with a wink. “To your health” I said as I touched his glass to mine.

Jimmy stuck to his guns and never budged about being shot. I decided he must have
slammed his desk drawer on his hand and – yes – the ring saved him. Most lies do have
a little bit of truth in them.

So, here I am at year 38, my 5th anniversary without him. Anniversaries take us back.  Couples reminisce. A widow does, too.

Just a week ago or so ago in anticipation of this day I had that new ring re-sized for me to wear on my middle finger.  Everyday, I salute him with it for leaving me.

The Future Mrs. Dan or Don!

So I went to a psychic. I won’t mention her name, but she knows who she is. What she didn’t know is that I’m a widow. You’d think that would be pouring out of my DNA.


This psychic is the same person who’s able to tell a radio caller that her eight year old will grow up to be a veterinarian. Face to face shouldn’t she know that my face is screaming out “Poor Widow Me?”

Perhaps I should have told her ‘sayonara’ immediately but she was accurate with some stuff.
Plus, I had paid in advance.

Her predictions for me can’t be challenged since they haven’t happened yet. I’ll just have to wait and see and hopefully remember them. Here’s one that stuck in my head.

She told me that in 2012 I would meet the next love of my life. You can see why that got my attention. His name is Dan or Don. She described him in detail but what made me sit up straighter is this:

“He lives in Huntington now. You will meet him in a bookstore, possibly at your
own reading. He’s a widower. His wife died of colon cancer.”

Okay. I admit I the thrilling crescendo for me was to hear “possibly at your own reading.” That’s not my point, though. Let’s put aside my giddy ego and look at the ‘widower’ part.

His wife died of colon cancer. I’m not going to meet him for another two years. I looked up the five year survival rate for colon cancer. Caught at stage one it’s 93%. At stage 3 it’s 59%. Pretty good odds – as long as it’s not me.

My point is Dan or Don’s wife may still be alive! As a matter of fact, she may not have been even diagnosed yet! I feel an obligation to run out to Huntington (only a half hour from my house) and comb the streets looking for her. I must warn her!

“Get yourself a colonoscopy, Mrs. Dan or Don– or you’ll be dead and I’ll nab your hubby!”

Still, her loss of life is my new one. So, #%&$@ her. Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Facebook & Widowhood

Buffy, Supa Fresh (Robin Moore) Hyla Molander (Drop Dead Life) and Poor Widow Me

Believe me, widowhood is not the neighborhood you want to live in. Besides all the obvious, there’s uncertainty. At every corner, there’s a decision to be made. Where’s my husband to stop me from making yet another idiotic choice? Of course, when he was alive I rarely listened, but at least I had the option.

Widowhood is a like a pineapple upside down cake without the pineapple and the cake part. Does this analogy make sense? Sure it does. My life has been turned upside down and there’s no upside to it. There you go. But, wait…maybe there is an upside. I had an opportunity this past weekend to help myself and others.

I just got back from Camp Widow, a Widow Conference in San Diego sponsored by The Soaring Spirits Foundation. Here for the second year hundreds of widows gathered at the Marriott to share, compare and fit in somewhere. Yes, that rhymes and worse, it sounds suspiciously like a sound bite. I know because I used it in my workshop. As it came out of my mouth I realized that if someone else said it I would laugh in her face. Luckily, few are as rude as I am.

The atmosphere at the conference was almost giddy with grief relief. Widows, widows, everywhere. Regardless of our circumstances we bonded instantly. Where else is a widow to go to feel such genuine understanding? At home, I’m unique, the only widow in my social circle. Here, I was just another widow. It never felt so good to see I wasn’t so special.

Facebook played a key role in bringing many of us together. It was nothing short of incredible to reach out and physically be with so many who until that moment was just a name, a sad story and a few photos.

We were told over and over again that the discussions led by me and Supa Fresh and Hyla Molander each day these past few months enticed many to embrace the chance to meet in real life…to hug our neighbors in Widowhood. Hearing this was better than a brownie…okay, almost as good.

We exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses and actual home addresses. We vowed to stay in touch.

If life gets the way and we go back to being Facebook friends until next year’s conference, that’s okay, too, because we touched each other. Now we all know that we’re real.

Saturday Night Live

It’s Saturday night. A handful of years ago we'd be out to dinner with another couple. I’d order that third glass of Cabernet and avoid Jimmy’s disapproving eyes. These days I’m driving myself home so I rarely have more than one. Ironic, now that I need it.



On a hot summer night like tonight we’d drive a town away to Freeport for ice-cream or go over to the Jones Beach boardwalk and play miniature golf. I always hated miniature golf. It’s fun once every ten years. He assumed I loved it too, so the tradition happened. Then I just went along.


That’s how I got stuck eating creamed corn each time I visited Aunt Sylvia. I miss Aunt Sylvia, but I just couldn’t deal with that creamed corn anymore.


In Freeport the crowds are in their 20’s and loud. Dozens of kids scream above the outside bands that compete for the foot traffic. The ice-cream was good and we always held hands. That was nice, but the noise went right through me.  I’d tell Jimmy I thought I was having a stroke.

He’d say,


“I’d love you more if you couldn’t talk.”


Jimmy had a theory that God only gives us so many words. Once we use them up that’s it.


I’d tell him I’ll take my chances.  He’d roll his eyes.


Saturday nights will never be the same.  Well, at least, I don’t have to play miniature golf anymore.

How to be a Gracious Widow

Almost daily I post a question for widows and widowers on Facebook.  Many people respond.  Using social media seems like a  great way to get us to delve into our own feelings and share them.  It helps all of us.

This morning I posted: How can we be a 'good' widow, a gracious widow?" Any thoughts?

Several people responded that it wasn't their place to be anything but who they were and they seemed
annoyed and upset that I would even suggest that they monitor their attitude towards others.  Maybe, I didn't explain myself so here are my feelings:

                                  The 7 Ways to be a Gracious Widow

1. At gatherings with family and friends it’s OUR place to raise a glass and mention our late husband’s 
   name. Other people are afraid it will upset us.

   It’s up to us to let them know we’re comfortable hearing his name and reminiscing about him.


2. Assume that most people mean well. Just because they haven’t been in touch doesn’t mean they’re not
    thinking of us. Haven’t you ever thought about reaching out to someone and you just never did?  It
    didn’t mean you didn’t care. 

3. People who rattle off thoughtless comments usually have no clue how insensitive and moroic they 
   sound. Just shake it off. Don’t call them on it...and maybe don't call them again...just file it away.

4. On our husband’s birthday or the anniversary of his death instead of allowing others to take us out  
   WE should invite those who have been closest and kindest to us throughout the year. We could make 
   dinner at our home or take them out to dinner. When we arrive at the restaurant to insure that no one 
   else picks up the check give your credit card to the maitre de or waiter.

5. Be aware that others miss him too. Simply say, “I know you miss him, too.”

6. Take back a holiday or occasion that you routinely hosted in the past as soon as
    you are able to.

7. Admit that we widows are hard to read. We continually flip flop. If “they” don’t call us
    on our anniversary or Valentine’s Day, we feel slighted. Often when they do, we respond flippantly
   to ensure that we don’t upset them or us.

Now, several years and may talks with other widows I wouldn’t run away from
kind words even though they make me feel uncomfortable.

I’d respond, “Thank you for thinking of me and remembering.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is how I've tried to live these past four years since Jimmy died.
It makes me feel better about myself and it feels respectful to my husband and it
puts others at ease.    Win/Win/Win

WHY Poor Widow Me? WHY NOT?

I was reading the Wedding announcements in Sunday’s New York Times because I assumed they would be cheerier than my daily dose of obituaries.


My habit of reading the obits stopped immediately when Jimmy died. The
 words literally took my breath away. Like smiling, though, my urge
to peek in returned a short time later.


I used to, as my father would say “make a big production” out of reading them
out loud to Jimmy each morning right after our horoscopes, the weather
and The Lockhorns.


We felt sorry for the dead person because his options were over. The
grieving family was a far away concept then so we glossed over the survivors
and zeroed in on the age of the deceased.


We concluded that if the majority of deaths were over 80 all was right with the world and our personal day would be a good day. If someone our age or younger died we considered calling in sick and taking to our bed. Nothing bad ever happens to you safely tucked in.


But, Sunday, it was all about weddings. The pages in that section are filled
with photos of young women and men eager to commit and older folks vowing to love, cherish and learn from their 3 previous marriages that “ended in divorce.” These days gay couples are also included. They’re determined to announce that they’re just as entitled to be legally bound (and gagged) as straight couples.


The common thread of newlyweds is hope and expectation. In all holy unions Cablevision will never conk out, but God forbid it does, the Cable guy will show up between the hours the office said he would.


We begin our married lives entitled to have it all. Why should bad things happen to us? We’re good people. So what that in High School we told our gym teacher we had cramps when we didn’t. Who wants to shimmy up and down that stupid rope?


A few years pass and life’s been rolling along sans disaster so we increase our cockiness. The babysitter looked a little stoned but we already had a dinner reservation so off we go…all’s well that ends well.


We’re not perfect, but our lives should be. We tell the world in the New York Times that we’re forging this incredible life together. We come from Queens or Long Island, but from this point on we will be living in Fairybook land.


The vow we made “Till death do us part” is heartfelt. We enthusiastically mouth those words. This is our forever partner. We will always feel as if our heart will burst at just the sight of him.


Divorce is not in our future. Death is decades after we dance spryly at our grandchildren’s weddings. We’ll take photos with our great-grandchildren after their college graduation and our gift to them will be a check for law school. We plan to attend that ceremony, too.

We’re not greedy. We simply know in our hearts that we will both die in our sleep at age 95 on the exact same day.


Neither of us will live a single minute in this world without the other. It’s unthinkable for either of us to experience the crashing blow of loss, the loss of our life partner, the loss of life as we know it.


Life is unfair, but not to us. We’re special.  But, where did we come up with this idea when UNFAIR is written clearly in the obituaries?

We must be touched in the head to imagine that we will never be touched by life.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Please scroll down and commnent...thanks...
Carol

Widow Envy - Think Again

It’s not all fun and games being a widow, you know. Doing what I want when I want has drawbacks that I’ll bet you married people with ‘widow envy’ have never considered.


No partner means no compromise and, granted, on the surface this is a plus. Compromise is a dirty word in all households. I know this from the old days before I was ‘Poor Widow Me.’ I would argue my case, go to bed angry and rant (and sometimes rave) that it was my turn to pick the movie. Often my husband and I would clash about trivial things, too.


When my daughter Jackie married in 2000 I revealed the C Trick (C stands for compromise) to her. I began by explaining that she came from a long line of devoted, yet sneaky wives.


“The key to compromise is to give in to something we don’t care about like, ‘Hey, I really wanted a white car.’”


“After you milk it ridiculously dry, honey, it’s time to choose another thing to compromise on that you don’t care about” I’d tell her. “Remember to continually rack up points for giving in.”


My motherly advice and wifely wisdom didn’t stop there. “Jackie, when the battle of ‘Do we go to Paris?’ versus “What’s wrong with New Jersey? pops up and it will, that’s the time to pull out the “I always give in card. When have I ever insisted on anything? ” Jackie used the C Trick often in her marriage right up to her divorce.


Married means making executive decisions together with one person getting the deciding vote. The stronger personality (translation: bigger paycheck) is usually the one who owns that final tipping ballot. It wasn’t me.


Now it is and it’s stranger than sleeping alone. While it’s peaceful to not have to resort to stamping feet and pouting “I live here, too, you know” it’s a performance that has no audience. Withholding sex, my strongest cheap trick, is pointless these days, as well.


To never again being able to taunt “I told you so” to my man is an unnatural way to live. I am solely responsible for the fallout from a wrong turn, a dumb purchase or neglected phone call, e-mail or invitation to friends and family. My favorite phrase, “He made me do it” has expired along with “He told me he would take care of it.”


I alone, will be blamed for being a stuck-up cheapskate if I refuse to lend out money. I can no longer look like the good guy hiding behind the bad guy. "Poor Widow Me" is the bad guy.


See? I told you. This grown-up taking responsibility road is full of pot holes.