Instant Holiday Traditions

Here's the last of my Holiday viddies for the season:



I went shopping today.

I didn't have to go to the store today. I could have made it until the day after Christmas just fine. I had food and drink enough, but I was low on canned cat food. So this afternoon, I went down to the supermarket for not just cat food, but to create a new holiday tradition.

I'm realizing that, here in the 21st century, traditions can be generated and extinguished at a fairly quick rate. Why, look at the new holiday tradition of watching "The Interview" on Christmas Day to celebrate free speech and Sony's despicable marketing practices.

In our family as kids, we had a tradition of dad making clam chowder on Christmas Eve. Then we opened presents afterwards. But even this tradition was something that emerged sometime in the 1970s. We had an angel on the top of our tree then. Now I have a star (when I actually put up a tree).

So I decided I would generate my own holiday tradition this year by getting some thin-sliced roast beef and making French dip sandwiches. After all, they were invented just a couple of miles from here at Philipe's in downtown Los Angeles. It made sense that I could take this tradition with me back to the Midwest for next year's Christmas.

When I got to the supermarket, there was not a parking space to be had, even with Steve's handicapped placard at my disposal. After about five minutes, I did get an open space. It was not quite at the far end of the parking lot, but I didn't care. I got my bags out of the trunk and headed into the store. There were only a few shopping carts left outside, but I was lucky enough to get one of them.

So I went inside with my cart and was confronted by the hundreds of other shoppers who had stopped in to pick up a few things. Here and there you could see those who had left all their shopping until Christmas Eve, not only filling their carts with food, but also finding just the perfect gift at the very last minute.

The store had overstocked items they anticipated would be in demand, so the narrow aisles were blocked with bags of flour and sugar, and other staples they had simply piled onto the floor. Add these to the displays that normally block the aisles, and a third of them were simply impassable.

So I picked up the roast beef, the rolls, the au jus mix, the cat food, some Christmas cookies and half & half, which I would run out of Christmas Day after my first cup of coffee. And some danish to go with that coffee.

It was rather dismal. People were either ignoring each other or giving nasty sidelong glances to those folks who were standing, transfixed, blocking the aisles for other shoppers. I gave people smiles and did my best to be polite and make room for other shoppers. Not once did I hear anyone say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." It was rather dismal in a frenetic sort of way.

The checkout lines were the same way: people jockeying for position, trying to find the shortest line (which, at this point, was academic). Got back home and lugged the bags in, put groceries away and sat down to ease into Christmas Eve. Planned viewing tonight is "Scrooged" with Bill Murray. I also have a couple versions of "A Christmas Carol" sitting on the DVR so I can speed through the commercials. And "The Wizard of Oz" is on Blu-Ray disc, so my viewing alternatives are solid.

Here's hoping your new year will be an amazing one. I'm looking forward to mine, I know.

In Between the Holidays

Four days to go until Christmas, and I'm feeling very little holiday cheer.

It's not that I'm depressed (although I do get that way sometimes), just that I haven't really invested anything into the season this year. My one effort was driving up the coast this week to visit with Vena and get together with some other old friends while I was in the area, but it really wasn't holiday oriented or inspired. And, as usual, I took nary a photograph to share.

I avoided driving in the storms we had last weekend, waiting until Wednesday to head up to Grover Beach/Pismo Beach. As Kittie and David both had plans that night, I spent the evening with Vena.

Vena and I have become kind of a support group of two, both having lost a spouse in the last year. I was surprised that we were sharing things, finding common experience in our separate griefs, and feeling much less isolated from the world, feeling much less alone now that the person who was always there by default is permanently absent.

After some egg nog at her house, we went out to Old Juan's in Oceano for dinner, which was Vena's treat. I dropped her off at home and then headed back to the motel.

Thursday morning I slept in, and after having "brunch" at the Denny's next door to the Motel 6, I walked over to the outlet mall. Window shopping was about as close as I got to the merchantile Christmas spirit this year.

Thursday evening there was a get-together planned at Marilyn Blake's house. I got my facts screwed up and ended up arriving an hour early. Marilyn was out walking her dog, so there was no one there when I arrived. After sitting in the car for a half hour, I called Kittie, who informed me that people were arriving at 5:30-6:00, not 4:30-5:00. I sat back and played games on my phone until someone arrived. It turned out that Marilyn walked right past my car (she knew my red Mazda but not Steve's white Saturn, which is what I drive now).

So Marilyn, Kittie, David's sister, Susan, Lisa and Elaine all dropped by. We had some wine and ordered pizzas after David arrived. It was really great to see everyone, and I left feeling connected to all the things that I've been and done, and not just this last year of stress and grief. Several people mentioned that I should get involved in theater again in La Crosse, because I was the best director they had ever worked with.

These are the things I need to be reminded of, because I often forget that there's a lot more than web sites and brochures I excel at creating. As my design professor told me after seeing my stage production of "The Hot L Baltimore," "As a creative force, you're very good on paper, but you're much better on stage."

After the powwow at Marilyn's, Kittie, Dave and Dave's sister and I met at their house in Grover Beach, and I soon headed back to the motel to crash, as I was heading back to Pasadena late Friday morning. It was a quick trip up, but it was mostly to see Vena, because I know how isolated and disengaged she's feeling right now.

It took me less than three hours to drive up, and it was almost four hours heading back, as there were about a half dozen stretches where the traffic was stall-and-crawl (more descriptive than stop-and-go) on the 101. When I got back home, even though I had been gone only two days, Patty was hiding upstairs. A lovely can of fresh cat food was enough to draw her downstairs, and after some time, she was demanding that I make up for all the petting sessions she had missed during my absence.

And now, a holiday interlude from 1963. If Ed Wood Jr. had made a Christmas movie, this would be it. It also provides an insight into what the youth of the 1960s were rebelling against.



Good times. Can anyone say "mealy insipid sexist doggerel"?

While visiting, I suggested to Kittie and David that they come down for New Year's Day, since this was probably the last time we would be able to see the Rose Parade live. At first I was thinking we could go down and stake out a place, sleep on the curb overnight and catch the parade. The more I thought about it, the more I thought the expense of the tickets would be worth having a warm bed the night before. So I checked it out with Sharp Seating (a fellow chamber member and directory advertiser) and ended up getting three tickets in one of the grandstands fairly close to here (it's about an eight-block walk). Not bad for so close to the event.

I have always avoided going down and attending the parade live, as many locals have told me that you get a better view watching it on TV. So this year will be an experiment: I'm going to record the parade on TV, then head down and watch it live and see if they're right. In the end, though, I want to be able to tell folks that, having lived in Pasadena, yes, I did see the Rose Parade in person.

So we'll celebrate New Year's Eve in a very sober manner, hitting the sack right after toasting in the New Year and rising early in time to bake some cinnamon rolls, make some coffee and head down to our viewing stand. Hopefully, Dave will be able to get Friday the 2nd off, so they can stay the weekend rather than having to head back home on the 1st.

If they do leave on New Year's Day, it's a delicate thing: you have to leave between the mass exodus after the parade and before the influx of folks heading to the Rose Bowl for the game. Most years, Steve and I would simply spend New Year's Day at home and wait for the world to vacate the area and leave us to ourselves here in Pasadena.

So I'm thinking that Christmas will just be another day off for me this year. All the decorations are boxed and ready for the move. I do have the tinsel tree from last year, which I plan on deploying sometime in the next few days. Other than that, I want to spend the next week collecting and organizing all the paperwork from this year, so that I'm ready to face the new year (and my 2014 tax return) with confidence.

One tradition I don't want to slip up on, though, is providing my favorite stop-action holiday animation, "Insect's Christmas." It's my holiday greetings to you all.



Hopefully, next year I'll have a more extravagant holiday rejoicing to share. An I will remember to take pictures, too.

I'm Thankful That I'm Thankful

I wrote the headline about a week ago, but then the directory got the better of me and I've been lost in chamber-of-commerce land for the last couple days. I'm about halfway through the alphabetical index, a process of searching the entire document for the 1200 member names and listing upon which page the member is featured.

Also, I just got the final correction list from Kelly at the chamber, and half of the short list is already taken care of. So the rest of the evening will be spent fixing typos, tweaking elements and finishing the index. I will not go to bed until I have a finalized book to hand off to them.

My last post was about a week before Thanksgiving, if I recall correctly (and I do). At that point I was facing the Thanksgiving weekend on my own. But Kittie called up, saying she and David were thinking about coming down here for the holiday. The day after I wrote the last post, they called to say they would be coming down. I take care of the turkey, Kittie does the side dishes.

The rolls are always the last on the table: TRADITION!

They showed up around 10 p.m. on Wednesday, having zipped through from Grover Beach with very little traffic: seems everyone was heading out of L.A., so the congestion was on the other side of the freeway. I had gone out the day before and purchased a fresh turkey hen, and Kittie arrived with her coolers filled with side-dish makin's.

I only remember three things from their visit: 1. It's so nice to have other people's voices in the house; 2. We got to the final two-guy tasks, like packing Christmas and the remaining artwork for shipping, and; 3. I realized Punkin Chunkin, or at least its spirit, will have to be woven into my new life if I am to truly embrace the Midwest.

Kittie's photo provides a bird's eye view of the bird.

I researched it, and Punkin Chunkin is first mentioned in the 12/1/09 blog entry "'Tis the Season to Be Dealt With." When Kittie called on Saturday to say they might be coming down, I said, "I'll record Punkin Chunkin for Dave." And I did.

The production quality had improved quite a bit in the past few years, and they now had hosts from the cable show "Mythbusters," which helped give it some cohesion. Then there was a special called "Superchunk" where they hurled pianos and small cars and a half-ton pumpkin and such through the air with trebuchets.

So Kittie cooked the meal on Thanksgiving, and it was really good. We had enough for leftovers on Friday and turkey a la king on Saturday. Also on Saturday, we went out to Andy's for brunch and then to Arclight Pasadena to see "Interstellar." I was really disappointed. Really.

They left Sunday afternoon and suddenly the house was silent again, and emptier than even. The cleaning ladies were supposed to come last Wednesday, but their schedule shifted and I said they could come on Monday (yesterday), which they did. So now the house is minimalist, all the surfaces shining, only the akimbo window screens destroying the perception of modernity on a budget.

So now I'm wrapping this up, as I have to return to the indexing chore. The cat is once again lying on the desk, head encumbering the mouse pad just enough to be a bother. She knows if she doesn't make room, she's off the desk until my work is done, so she's fairly cooperative about it.

An Elaborate Elaboration

I read over the post I made yesterday (posted just after midnight today, actually), and I wanted to go a little further into those very dark subjects that I touched upon.

No, I shall not be offing myself anytime soon. I have no such desire. But, reflecting upon things, I realize that the notion of self-destruction and personal annihilation is a theme that winds itself through what I have experienced as the grieving process.

Another off-the-wall reaction to Steve's death, even after a year of trying to process it is "You killed him." It's a Harry Potter approach: I should have been able to whip out my wand, wave it with an incantation and made Steve stay here with me forever. So I'm the one who let him down.

With this mode of thinking, you look for all the moments that you could have stepped in and saved the day. Even with something as uncontrollable as stage 4 cancer, why didn't I have the knowledge, that Heloisesque bit of homespun insight that would have rectified the situation ("Inhaling warm peanut butter will remove even the most stubborn tumors!")?

Turn that delusional thinking on its head and it becomes Steve being the selfish son of a bitch who went and left me alone right when our love and life together was blossoming into what we knew it could be. It's thoughtless, just cold, to turn around and die like that. Just see if I buy him a wedding anniversary present this year!

Waking up wanting to die (or with that thought in my head) is returning to the conscious knowledge, each day, that I am alone and I don't want to be. Some kind of magical thinking (which we all share) convinced me that we would be together forever. It was just that good, that rewarding, to share my life with him. And just when I trusted that he was sharing his back, it up and left him. And if that's not his fault, it must somehow be mine. The Western mindset requires someone to blame.

These modes of magical, nonsensical thinking swim through my head every day. As someone who was trying to convince me to accept Jesus into my heart once told me, "If you believe in flying saucers, why can't you believe in the risen savior?"

OK…Let me mull that one over.

There are lots of extraterrestrial-based shows on cable these days. My favorite is Ancient Aliens, where people postulate the most absurd things. They started with the "Chariots of the Gods" premise and, over the decades, have enlarged and embellished upon the concept.

So, the aliens built the pyramids. The aliens drew the Nazca lines. The aliens parted the Red Sea for Moses after handing him the 10 commandments. The Ark of the Covenant was an alien telecommunications device. Jesus ascended to the Mother Ship. The aliens caused the Renaissance. The aliens built Disneyland.

Aliens also supposedly provided us with the transistor, the integrated circuit, Teflon, Mylar, the internet and self-flushing toilets. Why is it humans can come up with an intriguing concept and then turn it into an elaborate silly and stilted belief system that makes them look crazy? And why do these people not accept that humans were as intelligent, insightful and innovative thousands of years ago as they are now?

Give us the time and the resources and in a decade we can go from unreliable exploding rockets to landing people on the moon. Why couldn't an army of workers build a pyramid in a lifetime? People are incredible at whatever they set out to do. Our compassion is just as expansive as our ability to hate each other. We are wonders; it's our choices that get us into trouble.

And what are my choices right now? I'm not sure. Am I using the grief to block my way, or do I have to surmount it in order to continue on? I'm not sure. Part of going through a life-changing process like this is that you just don't have the answers experience provides. Friends, even parents dying is one kind of grief. Losing your spouse is another thing altogether.

I keep falling back on what so many people have told me: Give yourself room, let things happen in their own time, all will be well in the end. I noted today that, having taken off my wedding ring six weeks ago on the anniversary of Steve's death, I still have a dent where it lived on my finger. And I still catch myself reaching to absentmindedly fiddle with a ring that's no longer there.

These things do take time.

Death was nowhere in my mind as I woke up today. I'm feeling good about life. It's more likely that chronic procrastination is my immediate enemy, not self-loathing or self-destruction. Generating distractions to keep me from moving forward is my greatest obstacle right now.

This puts me in mind of my favorite line from the film "Up":

"SQUIRREL!"

Oblivion Is Just Too Boring

Another two weeks with nothing really interesting to report. The time has been taken up mostly with putting together the chamber of commerce directory. It's been a longer process this year, since I decided to forgo working in columns, which means making each spread, each page, a design on its own, and yet congruent throughout the book.

Of course, the directory portion is in columns; kind of hard to create linear, alphabetized entries without having them fall into rows. But the front of the book is all open, with lots of negative space. I like it. More important, so does Paul at the chamber, who signs the checks.

I met with Kelly (the powerhouse of the chamber who seems to make everything go) last Friday. She is heading up proofing the back of the directory and coordinating ad sales (which, thankfully, are closed now, although Kelly slipped a full-page ad in under the wire and Paul added one today). 

At our meeting, I told her that the front of the book would be done tomorrow (the 21st). She called back on Monday and said Paul needed it on Wednesday, so the last couple days have been working like mad to get as much done as possible. I handed off the PDF of the front at 3 p.m. on Wednesday, and Paul stopped by today with the corrections they'd done.

We went over the corrections and revisions up in the office this afternoon, and Paul said he would be more than willing to have me design the book next year from La Crosse (I did not ask; he offered). "We do it all by e-mails now anyway," he said. At least I know this chunk of work will follow me across state lines.

Meanwhile, my mental condition has been going this way and that. I talked with my friend Vena, whose husband died in September. I was on the phone with her last night (Kittie was over there visiting, so I got to talk to both of them), and Vena was very open about us being in the same boat. Talking to her, I realized that I still cry a lot (a couple times a day, though for only a minute or two), that I'm lonely and sad most of the time, and that I am pitifully unable to enjoy being alone. 

And although I don't consider myself suicidal, there are at least two mornings a week when I wake up with the thought "I just want to die" at the front of my mind. On bad mornings I might even say it aloud. Then my eyes open, the cat is sitting up on the bed, waiting for me to rise, go downstairs and get her breakfast. Once I collect myself, stretch out the stiff muscles and head down the stairs, I'm feeling better, focusing on what the day will bring. 

The one time in my life I seriously considered a suicidal thought (a winter evening in 1972 in Ithaca, New York, when I had nowhere to be), I ended up thinking, "Fuck 'em; I won't give them the satisfaction, they're not worth it." In a few days I was in Syracuse, spending the holidays with an aunt I never met, Aunt Kit, who ended up sharing the last few decades of her life living with my mother.

And with all those mornings waking up wanting "to die," I have never expended any mentation on just how I would do it; the thought never goes that far before I'm fully conscious. It was only a week ago that I realized if I committed suicide, I'd have to leave a note, and I would never stoop to write such a whiny, self-pitying or even explanatory tome. 

Then I had a realization about that little voice that grumbled, "I want to die," as I awoke. It was really saying, "I don't want to live." There's a big difference, because you can be alive and never live, but dead is dead.

And that's agoraphobia: being alive but not living. Existing without leaving a mark. That's just fucked up. Steve was the one who always kicked me in the ass when I wanted to give in to my agoraphobia, and that's one of the millions of things I miss about him. Another is doing the dishes after I make dinner. I've gotten good at keeping up with the dishes on my own, so I'm sure, with a little practice, I can kick myself in my own ass.

Working on the directory has really helped me to feel better in the last couple weeks, but sitting in front of the computer for too long is not good for my back, so I have started putting an hour and a half on my phone's timer, so that I don't sit at the computer for longer than that. A ten-minute break is all I need to keep the muscles from cramping up.

I just got the good news that Kittie and Dave are coming down for Thanksgiving, which means I've got to get a turkey this weekend. They came down for Thanksgiving 2012, and that was when David discovered Punkin Chunkin on the science channel (people design machines and try to hurl pumpkins the farthest). After about two hours of it, Steve got irritated and asked Dave to turn on something else. Afterward, he said, "No more Punkin Chunkin ever." It was one of the few times I knew him to be so inflexible, but the stuff really bugged him.

During one of the many times Dave came down on the weekend and helped with the remodel and keeping me sane, I told him that I would rescind the edict. "You can watched Punkin Chunkin as much as you want." So when Kittie mentioned on the phone while with Vena that they might come down, I checked out when Punkin Chunkin would air. I recorded Punkin Chunkin 2013 this evening, and the show from this year will be airing on Saturday after Thanksgiving, so Dave is guaranteed at least four hours of gourd-hurling fun.

And I have a suspicion that we will be digging through the packed boxes downstairs to find stuff that we need to make Thanksgiving dinner, as I packed thinking there would be no holiday celebrations again this year. I'm beginning to realize that the universe happens the way it wants, offering us choices much like Schrodinger's cat got. We're just vain enough to think we're making all those life decisions by ourselves.

Looking at it that way, God seems like a logical conclusion.

Green Achers

I'm sitting here in the living room, watching one of the several films I've recorded on the DVR ("Outrageous Fortune" with Shelly Long and Bette Midler). We're in the midst of another heat wave (yes, in November), the windows are open and the fan is on. In November. It was 88º today, and it's going to be 90º tomorrow, with no real end in sight. But at least the evenings are in the low 60s, so the house has a chance to cool off.

The gardeners were here today (which is normal) and they spread manure over the bare patches of the lawn that used to be bushes up against the wall. So my senses are diametrically opposed: listening to the traffic on the 210 freeway, sounding like industrial white noise, while the farm smells of fresh animal dung waft through the window.

I never heard back from Regina, the cleaning woman, so I called a chamber member (at least they were last year) and it looks like I'll even save a couple bucks by going with them. The woman was bend-over-backwards enthusiastic on the phone, telling me to call on the weekend if I wanted. So I'm thinking I'll call back tomorrow (Saturday) and arrange the whole thing. And they do windows.

Looking around, there's not that much to clean (floor, kitchen, windows, carpets), but little stuff, like cleaning out the slots the windows slide in and getting the remnants of wood glue off the floors.

I had my first drink in months this evening, and I have to say, I should be doing more drinking. It's a kind of self-medication, taking away the sinking feelings I get when I think about moving forward and making things happen, moving out and moving on. I seem to be preoccupied with movements.

This sign speaks to me

I saw this photo on Facebook today, and I had to laugh out loud. This is exactly what makes me hesitate moving forward. And when I look at the absurdity of it, I have to laugh.

I am experiencing what Fritz Perls called the cataclysmic expectation: If I make any single move, the world will fall apart. It petrifies, it ossifies, and it has the illusion of safety.

Gees, I'm busting my own balls here. I just need to focus and move. Focus and move. But in the back of my mind, I recall my visit to Wisconsin last March and all the cold and all the snow. I'm thinking that, perhaps, holding off until now to put the house on the market was really wise, looking at the subzero weather that's about to descend on that very same locale this week. Don't want to be driving in that any more than I have to.

Perhaps all my self-loathing at being so unorganized and scattered is really just God making sure that I don't hit the road to my new home while winter grips the Midwest.

Can't I simply accept that things are unfolding just as they should, and that my hand-wringing and personal tribulation are just a way to time things out so they happen in perfect order at the perfect time? In the midst of chaos, can there be a plan?

Could be. Could be. We shall see,

He's Got L'Eggs (and He Knows How to Use Them)

The headline is a throwback to the '60s or '70s and refers to a pair of panty hose in a plastic egg. Not being an aficionado of panty hose, I don't even know if they still make them. But, golly, it was mid-Century brand marketing at its best.

And it refers to walking. Moving. Taking care of business. Being able to think about doing chores without adding "if I can stand up" to the sentence. I'm back to making lists. Like today, I was out on the patio with my morning coffee and noted an accumulation of pine needles from the hell tree (a ponderosa pine) in the front yard. They're those long ones, with three needles to a…what?…stalk?

In any case, they get into all the plants and are nearly impossible to pick out without tearing up leaves and branches and such. If the tree did not provide excellent shade to the house, I would try to get the Homeowners' Association to cut it down. So, after a while (and especially after a rain, as we had for Halloween night) the needles pile up on the patio and it starts looking like a forest floor.

Before I went inside, I stood up, picked up the broom and swept the needles into a pile. Wow. It was an automatic thing, and I didn't stop and wonder if it would kill my back. And it didn't.

Waking up stiff now means something much different than it did in my younger days. I get up with a slight soreness in the low back. It starts to complain as I move around, but I just push through it, stretch the muscles and complete my current task. After about an hour of moving around, things loosen up, and I'm walking freely before I pour my second cup of coffee.

Until now, I've been limited to one or two things a day (do the laundry, do the shopping, take a shower, take out the trash, vacuum: pick two). Today I've been up and going pretty much like normal. After something like shopping or laundry, which requires lugging up to 20 pounds up and down flights of stairs, I have to sit down and relax the back. But in five minutes' time, I'm back up and pain free. I still do get discomfort later at night, but that's just tired muscles. When I start walking with a stoop, I know it's time to hit the sack and rest the back.

Halloween was non-eventful. That's the price you pay for living in a gated building. I still buy a sack of candy and put it in the popcorn bowl (just like we did when I was a kid), but there were no trick-or-treaters. I stayed in and watched "American Horror Story: Freak Show" on FX. A very disturbing show, but perfect for Halloween. And you won't see Jessica Lange in a more twisted role. It's definitely not for the young.

So today I did a load of laundry, went shopping, swept the patio and plan to actually cook a dinner for myself (I've been doing eggs and toast or sandwiches up to this point: tonight I'm attempting to make a turkey meatloaf). Standing in the kitchen cooking is very uncomfortable, as the counters are just low enough to make me bend slightly while working.

Standing and working are the bellwether of how my back is doing. Two weeks ago I couldn't stand for two minutes without crumbling into a chair for relief. Last night I stood in the kitchen for almost 15 minutes and got back to the living room without cramping up, stooping over or leaning on stuff. I have decided that tomorrow I'm going to start the daily walk. Nothing else loosens things up like walking.

The directory is hitting its stride, and I finally got the spreadsheets I needed to start actually laying it out, page by page. Paul (chamber CEO) really seems to like the layout this year, and I think it will be really nice once I get everything in place. Between editorial copy, photos and ads, piecing together an 88-page book can be daunting. But I like puzzles.

And another client, Electric Power Group, is putting together the copy for its second newsletter, so that's even more work for me. And since the template for the job was designed last time around, this one should be a slam dunk.

It's so nice to simply react to my surroundings. When the bed sheets need changing, I change them. When the cat needs playing with, I play. This is really the first day I could say that without the caveat of "if the back's okay."

But the biggest relief is that, for the most part, the referred nerve pain down the legs is gone, although it does twinge for a minute or two when I lie down flat in bed. And when I wake up in the morning, I still think "what will happen when I stand up," but it's usually a pleasant surprise at how limber I am after six or eight hours of sleep.

So now I can start doing all those little "outside" chores, like getting a hair cut, doing some clothes shopping, and planning a daily walk without worrying about the back seizing up halfway through. According to my chiropractor, this occurred because of overactivity followed by inactivity. Like my late friend Robert Lee Norton said, "Just keep moving."

When I was working outside the house, I got the daily exercise of commuting on the train to work. When Steve was alive, we were active and would go out and do things together. But since he died, I really haven't been doing much in the way of activity.

My agoraphobia puts the brakes on simply going out for a stroll. Until now, that is. I can override it when there's a good reason. Like pushing through the morning back discomfort, I can push through the anxiety that keeps me from going outside when there is a good reason, like being able to walk. And going up and down the stairs in my house is not enough to be called exercise; that's about all I was doing before this all occurred. One thing is for certain: now I'm going to do everything I can to avoid this from happening again. I really don't need to be an old man until I have to.

Today at the store, the checkout lady (who knows me) gave me a senior discount. She was nice enough not to ask if I needed help out to the car, though. I still have five years until I can retire, and the idea is not palatable to me. I want to keep working, albeit part time, as long as I can.

I have calls out to Regina (the cleaning ladies) and Triple Screens to get the last of the work done on the house before it goes on the market. I know there's going to be one more round of handyman type stuff (carbon monoxide detectors installed, water heater strapped to the wall, etc.) before the city signs off on the house going up for sale.

But for the present, I relax. And now, on to the meatloaf!

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea: Boy, That's Deep

It's been two weeks since I last posted an entry here. Several regular readers have commented that there has been no recent posting, and that's been because there was nothing but whiny, bitchy stuff to report in my life. (My Back Hurts. Nobody Loves Me. I Can't Find Any Worms to Eat). I hate writing posts that don't have anything to say. It just seems like reality has slowed to a crawl from about June (the remodel) onward, and the back going out was like the climax right before the end of Act I.

My back has been my major preoccupation. It improves day by day, but sitting too long in one place (like at the computer) or not moving around enough in general and things start to cramp up again. The biggest challenge now is to stretch and work through the discomfort to get to higher mobility and the return of normalcy. I guess putting the house on the market will be Act II.

I keep harping about this being psychosomatic, and perhaps I'm a little too aware of my state of mind. The last two weeks have been highs and lows, but mostly it's been about not moving forward. I am so scared of moving forward. The agoraphobia kicks in and I'm lucky if I make a phone call all day. I stay inside and work on the directory, then play computer games. And when the sun goes down, it's time to sit myself in front of the TV. I hide. I hide. When will I rise?

Jessie came up from Irvine for lunch on Saturday and she saw firsthand the situation: Moving around at first is problematic, but once movement starts, there is a point of breakthrough: kind of like a runner hitting the wall, only with walking. Then things free up and I feel good. The trick at this point is to really watch that I don't overdo it, because the muscles then cramp up and I feel like I'm back to Square 1.

So things like taking a shower or lugging the laundry up and down two flights of stairs can become the major event of the day, and often the only event of the day. Going to the store can be a daunting task but, again, once I work through the stiffness, things loosen up and I feel great. But by the time I've got the groceries back to the house, lugged up from the garage to the kitchen and put away, it's time to rest the back, 'cause it's singin'.

One big improvement has come from a suggestion that Jessie made: sleeping on my side with a pillow between my legs. One of the real irritations has been the cramping after I wake up in the morning, which is when it was at its worst. It is simply no way to start your day: As I awake, the first thing I've thought is "Will it hurt when I move?" Then I move. Then I stand and greet the recalcitrant irritation and the first cramp of the day. I'd rather look forward to going to a job I really hate; it's the same sinking feeling first thing when you wake.

Now, with this pillow scheme in place, I'm getting up in the morning with little discomfort, no cramping. I know the muscles are there, but I can get around and loosen up much quicker than before. Or maybe I'm just getting better. Either way, things are getting better.

I finally arranged to have Out of the Closet come and pick up my donations yesterday. They took everything except what I thought they would leave: the aquarium (not shiny clean), the junky stand it was on and the office chair (which has cheap and cracked vinyl leatherette on the arms). These are easily tossed into the dumpster. In any case, I've got room in the garage again, and things are looking pretty clean and uncluttered. Now there's room to move the Christmas stuff from the living room closet to the garage.

I think I'm going to have to goose the cleaning lady to remind her to come over and give me a quote for the cleanup job. She said she would call on Monday or Tuesday, and that hasn't happened, so I have to get proactive. Their services are worth the effort, though, and theirs is a home invasion that I very much look forward to; then new screens and the place is ready to show.

The chamber directory is coming together nicely, and it's time to actually solidify the layout and get moving on the nuts and bolts of putting the book together. This is when coordinating with their offices is all important. There are one or two things I'm a little worried about, but there's time to address them if I keep focus on the design.

I still haven't had drinks with Kelly from the chamber. We ostensibly had planned to get together last weekend, but her father went into the hospital, so we never hooked up. That's okay with me, because I really haven't been drinking much at all. I have the same bottle of scotch in the pantry that was there three months ago.

The major arc of the last two weeks of my life, though, has been loneliness, singularity, all-by-myself-ism. After this kooky, crazy, horrible year that I've experienced, I still haven't gotten used to not having Steve here. There should be a second person. This back could not cripple me in the same way that losing Steve has. And without that second person, things seem so difficult to accomplish.

The summer has finally broken. We get one more warmup this week, which will be in the upper 80s, but the evenings are cooling off into the 50s now, so a hot day only lasts a few hours in the afternoon. We sometimes get one last gasp of heat in early November, but that's about it. And now to find out if this is going to be a wet winter. Indications are not looking good for this, and I can't wait to get out of this desiccated mudhole of a place and start something new.

Brother-in-law Dave Vicars just called and asked when I was going to come up the coast for a visit. Vena had mentioned she wanted to visit with me. We share a vibe, she and I, both having lost spouses in the last year. She had been married to Bob forever, though. I wonder if the hollow feeling is more intense the longer you've assumed that person will be there forever and will never leave.

Looking at my calendar, I realized that there is no time because the next five weeks are going to be nothing but the directory design and putting the house on the market. And selling it, of course. But that part is something I know nothing of, so I'll leave lots of room to accommodate the process.

My ass is starting to ache. I've been sitting at this computer too long. Time to go get dinner and sit in front of the TV, deflated by the lack of entertainment on the 500 channels I now receive on cable. If it weren't for the Internet and the fact that the cable charges are included in our HOA dues, I'd cancel it and turn my attention to streaming video. I like my distractions cheap and transitory. Thank God I live in America.

The Day After the Year After

Monday was the anniversary of Steve's death. I did not take it well. I slept 18 hours. I sat and talked with Steve in the living room. Tears came out of nowhere. As far as I know, he's fine with all that's going on. He'd better be, because I'm ready to have him actively in the past.

Is there something valid in the scheduling of anniversaries? Is it more than just the calendar that punctuates this flow in annual repetition? Why does a full turn of seasons (for those of you who have them) somehow bring clarity and wisdom to evoking memories of things and people past?

Whatever.

Today (Tuesday) is better. I'm still feeling a behavioral paralysis, but I'm owning up to this pathological procrastination. It's been a whole year of adapting and adjusting to being alone. So, I'm inches from getting the house on the market; now just pick up the phone and make the calls. And nothing happens. But there is a clear feeling inside: I just don't want to talk on the phone right now. (Leave me alone.)

And yet I am so happy to hear from and see friends and family. I open up space for them just fine. But all those people who want things from me, who have requirements to meet, they can go screw themselves.

So the process plays out thusly:

I don't want to do this now, so I'll do it a little later, when I feel more like doing it. Then perhaps some sort of game on the computer. Get up and stretch and exercise the back. Grab something to drink. Check what's on TV. (With over 500 channels, that can be a black hole for empty behavior, not to mention Netflix streaming.) And I still just don't feel like it.

I know this behavior very well. It's an excellent way to spend the day and end it with the feeling that nothing has been accomplished. Part of me is ashamed, but it was wide awake while I was busy accomplishing nothing. 

If I avoid chopping up myself into parts, I realize that I spent the day screwing off, knowing what I had wanted to accomplish but full-aware that none of that was going to happen. And I know that I'm going to feel bad about myself tonight. 

Is that the payoff? Yeah; that's the payoff. I'm generating a world where I'm busy, nothing happens, and I feel weak and vulnerable and flawed. Really flawed. This last year has ground me down to the point where really flawed feels comfortable.

All this is a very twisted aspect of my grief process. It is a new incarnation of my agoraphobia. But this is the first day of my second year as a single person. I admire the intellectual processing, planning and performance I've done over the last year. I've gone from the first day, when I realized I really didn't belong here anymore (marrying Steve had been my Pasadena experience and it was over), to defining what I want in my life now.

I want family. I want new friends. I want a small city where I can get involved. I want seasons. I want a white Christmas. I want the time/space to create possibility in a new way. 

So I'm doing my best to make that happen, but all this old crap, these old modes, keep popping up—because they're familiar and I know while I'm busy doing them, I will spin my wheels and nothing will happen. Isn't that stupid? Couldn't I just say, "Hey, Mark, take a couple days off and enjoy yourself." I'd say that to anyone else in this situation. "Then hit the ground running when you get back to it."

But it is also the friendly cliff. I don't want to do any running. Step carefully, because once I make these few phone calls, once I sign just a few more papers, the sales process begins; no turning back, just free fall. 

Then all this gets very, very real: Yet another stress-inducing experience I have not had before, and I'm starting to really tire of stress-inducing experiences. Although once the house is sold and I have the equity sitting in the bank, I'm sure I'll feel on a lot more solid ground, feeling more like I'm ready to rock.

"And remember, when making a call, always put a smile in your voice."

—Bell Telephone educational film

Petrified Orchard

This last week seems like it didn't happen at all. I can feel myself going into a state of spiritual paralysis, unable to really connect with anyone and having little desire to do so. Lists of things to get done orbit anxiety in my head and nothing actually occurs. The emotional element is fear and loathing of next Monday: a year alone, a year with death and its social aftermath.

Don't misunderstand: I am organizing myself and lining up services to take care of the last few things that need doing. I have lists of companies and individuals all written out, but I simply have not been able to move on them. When I think about getting folks over here, I worry about whether my back will be in shape when they show up, whether I'll have things ready for them, whether I'll break down and cry in the middle of a meeting.

I don't want to let go. I don't want to leave our home. The theme keeps coming up over and over again. I'm miserable by myself, and there's no one in my world just now who can even begin to fill the hole Steve left in my heart. Daily, the ache comes in my chest, not evoked by memory but erupting like emotional vomit, spewing for no particular reason. No stimulus sets it off; it's like Old Faithful but erupts on an irregular schedule.

Jessie takes foodie shots at Robin's.

Putting the house on the market is never turning back again. It's releasing this dismal spiritual hell I've been moving through this past year. Intellectually, selling the house and finding a place to call home seems a straightforward set of tasks and goals. Emotionally, I'm dealing with feelings of guilt over abandoning our home, shame at cashing out on what was the place we shared.

Cole slaw (right) and Blueberry Cornbread.

Jessie dropped by last Saturday and we went out to dinner at Robin's BBQ. Without realizing it, I had chosen the restaurant where Steve and I had our first date. Jessie and I even splurged and had one of their Messy Hot Fudge Sundaes. It was Steve's favorite dessert there. That dinner helped engage this whole anniversary thing in my head.

The Messy Hot Fudge Sundae.

Every day I think back a year and try to remember what was happening with Steve. A year ago today, he was actively hallucinating, having a lovely time with these others in his room. I could get him to focus on me if I touched him and asked him to look at me. He would acknowledge my presence, smiling to show me he was in there somewhere, and then he would move back to the others and jump back into the subverbal conversations he was having with them.

Steve tackled these solo!

Monday brings the end of the first cycle and the beginning of the next. At some point soon, I have to sign papers that will obligate me to moving ahead. Some days things are fine, others are murky and overshadowed by depression and grief. My work on the chamber directory is now as much therapy as actual work.

Patty has been very clinging since her stint in the garage in August. Not only does she sleep with me on the bed and sit next to me when I watch the boob tube, but she has also started hanging out on the desk while I'm working. We're working on her not standing in front of the monitor and staying off the mouse pad. I'd shoo her off the desk, but she retreats like she's just done something horribly wrong. I find with her, it's better to do some training because she takes to it.

Patty "holds hands" when I work the mouse.

We go out onto the patio several times in the evening, and she accompanies me. She is now trained to head for the door when I'm ready to go back in. I say, "OK," and she trots up to the door, since she goes in first. Every once in a while she'll have cornered a spider or (recently) a big juicy grasshopper, which was the biggest bug she'd ever seen. During the day, hummingbirds come to drink from the fountain, and Patty's learned she can watch to her heart's content, as long as she doesn't move.

Patty knows what "down in front" means.

Last night, I was watching a film on TV and realized I hadn't seen Patty in a while. I had another sinking feeling, wondering what could have happened to her. Then I recalled hearing a door shut upstairs (the windows are open and a breeze must have done it). I went over to the stairs and, sure enough, I heard her plaintiff yowls from behind the office door. When I opened it, she dashed out, and you could see on her face that she thought it was the garage all over again. (See entries "Come Back, Little Shithead," 8/4/14, and "The Prodigal Returns," 8/9/14.)

I must be very careful not to turn into a crazy cat guy.

Speaking of Kitties, my sister will most likely be coming down to visit this weekend. David can't make it because he's involved in a show called "Follies" that's an annual fundraiser. From previous posts, you will probably remember that he's on the board of directors this year, so popping out of town on a performance weekend isn't practical.

Kittie might not come if she's asked to work on Saturday. Oct. 15 is a tax deadline, and if they have overflow work, it may mean she doesn't show. I really hope this doesn't happen, as I'm not sure I want to be alone on this weekend leading up to remembering that night, that phone call, that flurry of activity to deal with Steve's death and subsequent cremation.

Also, there's the practical matter of having a second body in the house for a few days, so we can get the last stuff packed and down to the garage or tossed in the dumpster. Because I'm hoping that, after Monday, I will have the motivation and enthusiasm to get moving forward on the process.

And a part of me can't wait to see my house listed on Zillow.

All Gods Go to Heaven

A rational part of my being is centered and positive and looking forward into my future. Another part is still all confused and unfocused and torn up by the last year's events. I am as much a scared, frightened child as I am an intrepid, fearless explorer. I can't seem to find too much of the practical picking up and cleaning person since my back went out, but I'm looking for him.

This weekend was kind of a washout on a selfish level, but very good for my soul in a general kind of way. You see, I drove up to Pismo Beach/San Luis Obispo to attend the memorial of a dear old friend, Robert Lee Norton, who I've known for 40 years. It was so weird, because he was taking care of his wife, Vena, who was having health problems. He also had a cough he couldn't shake, but his focus was on getting Vena better.

Then his diagnosis of lung cancer, and within a number of days he had died. Vena was just getting back on her feet when it happened. If they weren't both such resilient people, it would have been the end of them both, I think. But Vena seems to be hanging in there, and she has a support group of a cast of thousands.

Now back to me.

I know that Kittie and David were urging me to come up to the memorial to get me the hell out of the house and the megalopic miasma we call L.A. I knew I needed to get away, as well, so I made my reservations at Motel 6 and put out extra cat food.

I left Saturday around noon. The drive up was long, with a good half-dozen places on the road where the traffic came to a complete standstill or, at best, crawled along at 15 mph for long periods of time. Five hours later, I had arrived at the motel, and my back was singing a painful ode to the journey. "Sitting still" for that period of time, all the little movements and adjustments you make while driving (holding your arms just so to steer, that slight extension of the foot on the gas, the bouncing of the car) really put a strain on my back muscles, and they told me about it as I dragged my bags into the motel room.

It was nice to be on Kittie and David's turf again. The apple tree in their back yard was still putting forth fruit, so Kittie had yet another apple pie. This one with the appropriate amount of cinnamon. On Saturday, David was finishing up the work on the transmission that he had brought down to L.A. the last time they visited. The job was finally done and he was eager to get the car delivered and out of his hair.

I had stopped on the road and eaten around 4 p.m., so I was not particularly hungry and passed on dinner, but I did have some apple pie with them. David dropped me off at the motel around 11 p.m., and I had a fairly good sleep, but woke to even more stiffness and pain Sunday morning. I drove over to the Denny's that I would normally walk to, had a late breakfast and killed time until the memorial.

We gathered at Cuesta Park, a beautiful setting at the base of the Cuesta grade in San Luis Obispo. There were quite a number of people attending, and I ran into folks I haven't seen in years, some in years and years, some in several decades. We are all so wrinkled now. It was lovely to see them all after so many years, but it also brought home the fact that SLO, for me, is my past; something I can't retrieve but only recall.

I made it through the ceremony fairly well, standing erect and feeling only slightly uncomfortable. I returned to the motel after and lied down for an hour, then Kittie stopped by after returning from the service and ferried me to her house, stopping briefly at Radio Shack to purchase a WiFi router for their home.

They bought a Blue-Ray player that's WiFi ready, and I was trying to explain all the streaming services that are online these days; that you can get almost the same programming on them that you can from a cable service, and the cost is much less. I also touted the advantages of having WiFi at home and hooking up the iPhones (gifts from me when Steve died) and Kittie's iPad, so they run faster and don't use up the data plan.

David's still kind of gun shy of all this 21st-century technology, so I decided that, instead of waiting for them to purchase a router, I simply made a gift of it. Kittie and I took it home and I supervised while Kittie attacked the rat's nest of cable's behind the computer in order to hook up the router to the modem. We had the router up and running by the time David got back, and we had a grand old time connecting all the WiFi devices. I even got them to sign up for Netflix.

Up until now, they have been getting their TV over broadcast, which meant two, maybe three stations came in clearly enough to watch. When they broke down and purchased a digital flat-screen TV, all of a sudden they had many more channels. I'm hoping that they'll get hooked on Netflix, since there are a whole passel of films from the '30s, '40s and '50s that Kittie has never seen that I consider vital viewing for anyone to have a decent cinematic visual vocabulary.

We ordered in pizza and had another round of apple pie, then I said my goodbyes and David drove me back to the motel. I was ready to relax the back once more, as it had been a tiring day.

The next morning my back was so sore. I collected my things (very few for such a short stay), packed, checked out, gassed up the car and drove once again over to the Denny's for breakfast.

The trip back to Pasadena was uneventful, 65-75 mph all the way. It was a chore to get the luggage (two small bags and a therapy machine for the lower back I had gotten from Kittie). That evening I went to bed early.

Tuesday morning I felt as though my back had reverted to Day One. I was hobbling around the house once again, bent over like a 90-year-old man. I tried the therapy machine and it provided only marginal relief. My back was screaming and kicking over all the abuse it had suffered,

Today the back is feeling much better, since most of yesterday was recuperative. I have a couple of errands that need to be done today, and I'm back to that balance of being good to my back muscles and working them when they're up to it. I am noticing that I do bounce back quicker from these periods of overwork.

The chamber of commerce directory is my focus right now, and the next few weeks it will start coming together. I'm hoping that Paul will have new photography and copy this year, as it is my third time doing this book, and the old stuff is getting boring (at least to me).

October. A big month. The anniversary of Steve's death is 12 days away. The wedding ring comes off my finger and either goes back into its original box or will hang around my neck, I'm not sure which.

So my left ring finger will be naked once more, and I am sleeping on sheets now that Steve never touched. It has taken a year, but I slowly segue into mi vida de solatero, ma seule vie.

Mein Führer, I Can Walk!

Peter Sellers as Dr. Strangelove. I think I was about 12 years old when I saw that movie. The whole cold war thing had us terrorized as kids ("Duck and Cover!" says Bert the Civil Defense Turtle). Seeing Dr. Strangelove was the first time I realized that scary stuff could also be funny, even though it feels kinda weird. Heh-heh.

Or did you think I was referring to a neo-Nazi faith healer?

Who cares? Today was a breakthrough day! I did three loads of laundry, dragging it down and up two stories. I also stood at the dryer for a good 20 minutes folding the clothes. Then I put the clothes away, cleaned the cat box, stripped and made the bed, and made a short shopping trip. It was tough, but so was I. Even though the standing was uncomfortable, there were no twangs or cramps.

On top of that, I walked completely upright all day long with little or no discomfort. I can feel the muscles and nerves aligning up, chakrawise. After two weeks of hobbling and dreading standing up (anticipating from minor irritation to twisting pain), I spent a good number of hours functioning like normal. What heaven!

I'm not overdoing it, but I want to keep up the moving around because it feels so good. In my darker and more painful hours dealing with this back, I couldn't help thinking of that scene in "Midnight Cowboy" where Rico says, "I don't think I can walk anymore. I've been fallin' down a lot. I'm scared…You know what they do to ya when, when they know you can't, when they find out that you can't walk-walk. Oh Christ."

Not that I was ever that bad, but it does make me realize I could be: take care of myself, keep myself healthy and happy as often and as long as possible. And keep moving forward. With a song in my heart.

But the best news is that I'll be able to finish sorting those last three boxes downstairs and donations are done. I can get the cleaning women in here ASAP followed by the city inspector for the last-minute tweaks to make the property legal for sale.

As a kid, we moved around a lot. Dad used to say it was cheaper than paying the mortgage, but most of it came from a nebulous malaise he had, and moving to a new town or a new job or a new opportunity always beat out facing his demons. For most of those moves (over a dozen), Mom was the happy housewife who got to take on all the responsibilities, from packing to house hunting.

You could always tell when moves were imminent, because Mom would start absently scratching the inside of her elbows where she would get a crimson rash that would not subside until we were moved into our new home.

I've been scratching the inside of my elbows numerous times today. No rash yet; that will happen when I sign the listing agreement and have to clean every frickin day.

Working Weekend

Whenever Kittie and David come down for the weekend, the Monday after is always a day of rest for me. This is out of necessity, since we have been diving into chores, and I want to get all the two- and three-person jobs out of the way while they're here. And, on this trip, just lifting, carrying and moving stuff I can't.

This time around, I made a written list so I wouldn't forget anything. And, of course, I did. But I think we hit all the bases, and the place is 90 percent prepped for cleaning and staging. The only stragglers are new screens and a coat of paint on the banisters.

So the upstairs is clear; ready to clean and show. I'm keeping the office space as my personal area, but I'm ready to live as sparsely and unobtrusively as possible once the place is on the market, so as to minimize the amount of cleaning and maintenance I have to do, day to day, to keep it spotless all the time. I just don't live like that, as many of you well know.

Since I'd done most of the packing, the real work was carrying boxes to the garage, organizing the donations—blahblahblah—you can cut and paste this stuff in your own head. The upshot is that the closets are cleared and the cabinets are cleared, all the extraneous furniture is out.

The downstairs closet needs some clearing, and the Christmas stuff needs to be moved out. I want to cull extra dishware/glasses/appliances from kitchen and pack/store as much as I can. Not only will it make all the storage look bigger, but I'll have less to hustle out of here when the house does sell.

Sell the house: that still has a weird sound to me. Mired here near the end of getting the house ready for sale, the idea of this process being done and moving on to the next step seems somehow unreal. I suppose I considered the preparation process some kind of purgatory for those recently widowed.

So we spent the weekend with Kittie and David doing most of carrying, and David also grouting the slate tile at the foot of the garage stairs. The grout set up faster than he anticipated, so there was lots of scrubbing, but the floor looks spectacular. He also lead the charge on disassembling Steve's huge corner desk, then ripping down the pieces to make tops for the cabinet and file drawer that we saved from the ends of the desk.

The apple tree in Kittie and David's back yard is prodigious, so Kittie brought down stuff to make a pie, just like last time they came down. And just like last time, I didn't have any cinnamon, except a couple sticks in a jar that were at least a decade old. Like last time, she ground enough off to give the pie a little cinnamon flavor, but I made sure the spice is on my grocery list now, because if the pies are incredible without it, think what a little fresh spice would do.

We really did burn through the weekend, even going shopping for cat needs and a couple new sets of bed sheets for me (PetSmart and Bed Bath & Beyond are next to each other in the shopping center). The extensive walking was uncomfortable at times and painful after a while, but I'm taking the advice "exercise to discomfort" to heart. And after each session of such exertion, my recovery time is now five minutes instead of 45.

So each day begins with the sore muscles from exertion the day before. It takes half an hour to work out those kinks, then another 45 to feel comfortable in my own bones. The middle of  the day has at least several hours where I can stand straight and walk with almost no discomfort. But standing in place is still very uncomfortable after only a few minutes.

The fact that I can stretch out the muscles without them cramping is a sign that things have turned the corner. I'm feeling as though I'm on top of this malady, rather than the other way around. It's going to be weeks before there's a full recovery, but at least I feel like I'm starting to get my life back.

On the not-all-about-me front, I'm feeling certain that Kelly (at the chamber) and I are going to work very well together on making the directory happen this year. She also extended an invitation to go out for drinks or coffee just to get me out of the house. She's a single mom with an 11-year-old kid, so I'm sure she needs adult contact in a non-work setting, just like I do.

This week is pretty much devoted to getting several design comps put together for the director for Paul (chamber CEO) to look over. I want to have a positive direction on the directory by the first of October, and have lots of time in November to get it just right.

So life goes on.

Back on the Mend of the Back

The weather has been ungodly hot since the weekend. Supposedly, the bakefest will subside during the middle of the week (that's tomorrow, when it's going to be 101 instead of 106 like today). The weatherman promises it will be in the upper-80s/low-90s on the weekend.

I went to the chiropractor on Wednesday last week and got my back examined and adjusted. The relief from the nerve pain was almost immediate, but my back was sore and tender and nowhere near better, even though I had better range of motion. Still, standing for any length of time resulted in aching muscles and the return of the nerve twinge.

The instructions were ice packs when desired, but at least three periods in the day (including night) when I lie down and completely relax my back for at least an hour. No lifting, no carrying, but when the back feels good, exercise it to discomfort (i.e., go out to dinner or go shopping or something else you don't even think about when you're feeling good).

The upshot is that here, a week later, I am standing up without worrying too much about clenching muscles. Sometimes they cramp up, but I just work through it or take five minutes out and sit down. I'm still very frustrated that I can't continue on the packing, but Kittie and David will be down this weekend to help.

Jessie drove up from Irvine on Saturday and we went out to Panda Inn for dinner. Unbeknownst to her, it was the anniversary of Steve falling on the sidewalk outside the house and breaking his shoulder and hip. It was the last time he saw our home.

It was tougher on me than I thought it would be. There were some tears shared before dinner, and I realized how strange and lonely my life had been over the last year. It's very hard to see all the changes going on when you're in the middle of something scary, strange and new.

Jessie helped out when she arrived, taking the trash out and cleaning the kitchen, since the trash had drawn flies over the last week and I couldn't even get it to the garage, much less tote it out to the dumpster. I was just sick about the flies (I had only seen a few; the cleaning activity really stirred them up, and there were at least a dozen). I started to cry, imagining taking my first steps toward being on "Hoarders."

When Jessie dropped me off after dinner, I sat down on the couch in the living room and looked over to the spot where Steve used to sit. A whole year without him there; a whole year to the minute, almost. And I started wondering if he didn't have a little something to do with this back problem here on the anniversary of his injury. Or perhaps it's all me having a hysterical conversion over the whole mess.

The work on the chamber of commerce directory is going well. I've got a rudimentary layout file going, a general graphic concept and ads are beginning to come in. It's nice to have a large and complex project to concentrate on. Kelly from the chamber office will be picking me up on Thursday morning so we can go over and coordinate the ad sales and production needs of the book.

Steve's accident's anniversary did get me thinking more about him, about not having him here, about selling our home and starting a new chapter in my life, quite separate from the past. I want to feel myself carrying him in my heart and my life, but I want to feel myself moving ahead at the same time.

I've stopped being angry at our "friends" not helping out. Perhaps I'm just not begging enough or my circumstances aren't dire enough to actuate their concern; whatever, I'm going to go with the resources I have and stop wasting energy and focus on those who aren't here rescuing me. How dare they have lives busier and fuller than my own. Just you wait! Once I'm established in La Crosse, I'm going to be a primal force of civic fabulous.

So I'm on the mend and simply frustrated by my inability to continue the packing. There are some small things I can probably clear out in the next couple days, but I have to be judicious about how I expend myself. Emotionally and spiritually, I'm good: I hit the mark when I grieve, and bounce back faster and feeling more confident each time. TCB.

I have another appointment with Dennis (my chiropractor) tomorrow afternoon, and I'm hoping that the back will limber up a little bit after the treatment. My fantasy is to be able to jump in with both feet this next weekend and make it to within sight of the finish line, houseshowingwise.

But, as I reminded Jessie, Fritz Perls, the father of Gestalt therapy, said, "Don't push the river; it flows by itself." He also said something about cataclysmic expectations, but I forget what and I can't find it on Wikipedia. Oh, well.

Can I Have My Back Back?

The last couple days have been uncomfortable and totally unproductive. I hate that.

The sciatica (that is, the low back pain) got progressively worse until, on Thursday, I was hobbling from place to place in the house. I was lucky to get some food made and keep myself hydrated. In the evenings, the muscles would be sore and knotted and obviously pinching on the nerve. Owie.

Luckily, I have a couple of bottles of generic Tylenol with codeine left over from Steve's illness, so I was able to mitigate the pain, but any hope of packing or carrying boxes to the garage was gone. I was hobbling around, moving things from upstairs to downstairs, and I even got a box of framed artwork packed and labeled. But chronic pain wears me down really fast.

As with any back problem, bed rest is the main element of recovery, and for someone with insomnia, that's not easy. Lying down on the couch watching TV is not the same thing as lying flat on your back, giving the muscles hours of rest. And I can't help but think there is a psychosomatic component to this, a kind of hysterical reaction (if you're up on your Freud). But the point is moot: pain is pain and lack of progress is frustrating.

I found that by bending forward slightly at the waste and taking short steps, I could get from place to place in the house without setting off the twangs in the the nerves. It was a shocking realization to find myself moving just like a 90-year-old man. I had to laugh: I had turned myself into an old, dottering creature who could do nothing more than exist in pain in this house until he died. I reconsidered the psychodynamics of it all and spent time last night before sleep concentrating on the "injury" and relaxing the muscles. I think it did some good.

I woke up this morning and the pain on the right side had subsided to where I could walk comfortably on that leg. The left side is still sore, and any twisting movement sets off the pain, but it's not knotting up like before; as soon as the movement stops, the pain stops. Most certainly, I'm calling the chiropractor on Monday to get this dealt with.

There are other things to deal with, as well: this coming Saturday is the anniversary of Steve's fall in front of our house (the last day he was at home and the beginning of a very expensive end). A month to the day after that will be the anniversary of his death. I'm sure I will be going through a tumultuous passel of angst, emotional upheaval and upset. I only hope that the year's milestone will move me into a stabler place, and that I can put the mourning away.

I'm wondering what to do with my wedding ring. I don't want to wear it on my finger anymore. I was ready to take it off several months ago, but I thought wearing it for a full year would bring some kind of formality to the gesture. I still have the box it came in, so it might get stowed with other precious memorabilia. I might wear it around my neck, but that feels too much like hiding it, putting it into my emotional closet.

Then there's Steve's cremains. The actual container for the cremains is much smaller than the larger, formal box within which it resides. Perhaps I'll collect marriage stuff and make a sort of time capsule out of the bigger box, putting the corporeal remains of Steve and the marriage within and placing it somewhere unobtrusive in my new home.

So, as this is Sunday, I have decided to rest: no packing, no cleaning, just lots of napping, reflecting and relaxing. The weather has gotten very hot and very humid, so I'm splurging and running the air conditioner on automatic all day just like normal people do. I'm focusing on the image of waking up tomorrow morning with the soreness and stiffness simply gone.

Where have all the simple things in my life gone? I've got to pack them and make sure they reach my next destination.

The Mortification of Unclean Stairs

Stares/Stairs; get it? (OK, so I'm running out of clever headlines.)

It's been hot and humid (in the 90s with nights in the upper 60s), and I'm only running the air conditioner when absolutely necessary. Finances have been carefully planned out, and I've budgeted for the $270 electric bills (about what two months in the summer costs running the A/C full time), but if I can save that, so much the better. Besides, the six weeks of remodel with no A/C at all toughened me. But I still fume when sweat drops fall onto the lenses of my glasses.

The Labor Day weekend was just more sorting and packing for me. And things aren't going as fast as I'd like due to a flareup of my sciatica. It started bothering me significantly in March, when I was constantly being squeezed onto airplanes, sleeping in a different bed every few days, and spending nearly a week bouncing and rocking on the train.

I start out stiff in the morning. The physical sensation is somewhere between sore muscles and a charlie horse, with the discomfort/pain being bilateral. Only when it gets really bad do I have any pains transferring to the legs (which is typical). An ibuprofen and working it out are the only really effective methods of dealing with it. It's my first real old-person's malady, and I accept it with the same dignity as I did my graying hair.

The upshot is that I haven't been moving things as fast as I had planned. Standing at the top of the stairs with a heavy box of books, I take my time going down the two flights of stairs to the garage. Sometimes I forgo the shlepping altogether and just clean and pack. Also, I have been compromising, taking things down just one flight of stairs and collecting boxes in the entryway.

The one thing in the house that's clean is the stairway going up to the bedroom. This is the bamboo that was installed so semi-satisfactorily. I have been trying to get an answer from the folks at ST Builders Group how in the hell to get the wood glue off the bamboo, the bathroom linoleum and the office carpet. After a week, Sam finally called back last Friday, saying he would have a guy here between 11 and noon today.

Of course, no one showed up. But I had swept and mopped the bathroom and stairway in preparation for the work. If we can get the guy here this week, I'll feel lucky. The person with the right solvent and/or technique will spend perhaps 30 minutes cleaning, maybe a little more on the carpet. But it's not a huge job. I could probably have the cleaning ladies tackle it when they do their thing, but I would much rather have someone from the company do it, just in case they screw up.

After getting a few comments about how bleak the last blog entry was, I reread it and, darn if it wasn't just the gloomiest thing I'd read all week. I even wrote a couple e-mails to folks, letting them know that I'm not suicidal, just deflated, defensive and depressed. This condition was middlingly mitigated over the weekend, as in moments of reflection I realized every ounce of effort I put toward getting the house ready is taking me closer to the edge of the friendly cliff. You know, the whole alpha/omega thing: my primary goal is to conclude this portion of my life; my ultimate goal is to launch a heaping helping of Mark 4.0.

When Steve died, I was busy with papers and bills and forms, and it was soooooo good when that part of the death process was over. Now, however, I'm looking at re-entering a new paper phase. Last time, I was formally erasing Steve's existence from the world. This time I will be formally erasing every sign of the home that we shared together. And with the move to Wisconsin, I'm putting the last nail in the coffin of our life together. 'S'gotta be done.

Last entry, I mentioned emptying out the drawers and going through everything. I figured a couple hours, tops. But after 15 years of stuffing crap into drawers, there was a lot to go through. Since the majority of the stuff is Steve's, it often means trying to figure out what this clear plastic doohickey goes to, or getting that urge to save all the loose screws, washers and nuts because they might go to something. There are papers with unlabeled phone numbers, business cards and coupons, AA coins and tiny inspirational books, greeting cards and an endless font of promotional pens that no longer write.

So four boxes took about a week to go through (off and on sorting, since each box results in the creation of three things: a storage box for moving, a donation box for items I don't want, and a trash bag for all the stuff no one wants. The items for the storage box all need to be cleaned and wrapped and carefully boxed and labeled. The donation items need to be wiped down and wrapped enough so they don't break between here and Out of the Closet's sorting facility. Trash is trash, but those in the know will tell you sometimes I have problems even getting that out to the dumpster.

While on box No. 3, I ran across a cinnabar-colored book with a tooled leather cover. It was Steve's final journal (or one of them; I've come across three final journals so far). I skimmed through a bit of it, finding a silhouette of life and dying, with no secrets or details. I then absently leafed through the pages for photos and such possibly stuck in the pages. There was a sealed white envelope with "Mark" written on it in Steve's own hand.

I was kind of creeped out for a second. Now is not the time for some lifelong secret to emerge from the confessional of the grave. After a moment, I opened it and found two pieces of paper: one was a signed "last will and testament" (neither witnessed nor notarized, just a paper he wrote up saying I get everything), and the original copy of our marriage certificate. Did he tell me about this? I don't recall him mentioning it, and I would think he'd put this stuff in our safe place, along with the passports, pink slips, birth certificates, etc. As with all things dealing with the dead, I shall never know what was going through his mind, why he left this.

My emotions were paradoxical, like eating a Peep liberally sprinkled with bitters. At first I was pissed off that, with all the urging I did to get him to fill out a will, this was what he left me. Then I was overcome by all the sweet and quirky things that comprised our life together, and how typical it was of Steve to do something like this. (Avid blog readers will recall that I found the original deed and mortgage documents for the house leaning against a bookcase, under a pillow, in the bedroom. What kind of accountant does that?)

I'm just so glad that I had him in my life for a period of time, and that I got to spend the end of it with him. I'm getting used to the comfort of missing him, and the familiar hollow pain of uninvited moments of grief.

I was going through the house on Friday, assessing where to make my next move, organizationwise, and I realized that there is very little left in the house (save the office/business stuff and the kitchen) that's not organized and/or boxed and ready for storage/donation. I'm sure I'll run across more documents that need shredding before the process is over (I do have one personal box left to go through), but the lion's share of that task is also finished.

This is my job now. None of my clients have pressing graphic needs at the moment, and I don't feel it's ethical to go around town soliciting new clients, knowing I'll only be here for a few more months. Once the house is sold, nothing's finished, just put away. The drive east is going to be the great divide for me, I'm sure.

Mark Doesn't Live Here Anymore

I realize I haven't posted anything since the cat was discovered cowering in the garage. Well, it took a day or two to realize how glad I was to have her back. Being alone, she is often my only companionship for days at a time. Friends (especially married friends) tend to forget about the widows and widowers among them, and fall away socially after a time (who wants to be reminded of death and its emotional aftermath), and I was precluded from attending the one event to which I was invited in months due to the idiots who put in the stairs. ("GET OUT OF MY HOUSE," Wednesday, July 2, 2014 entry.)

No one is willing to come over for even a few hours to help out with things like moving furniture and other two-man chores; they're just too too busy. Everyone, of course, wants to get together for dinner before I leave town, once the tribulations are over. Many of these "friends" were in AA with Steve, and I am shocked at the insincerity and lack of caring that's come from these people. To them I'm not a fellow human, I'm a leftover "normie" spouse, and a theological third wheel.

I was crazy to think a bunch of recovering drunks would extend their compassion to me. Now, if I were an alcoholic or a heroin addict or a meth head who went to three meetings a week, there'd be compassion to spare. I guess if I don't share in their suffering, then they feel no need to share in mine.

By the way, the workers never cleaned the wood glue off of the stairs or the bathroom floor, and I can't get any reply from them, via phone or e-mail, on what solvent to use to clean them myself. The company is called ST Builders Group. Never never never never never hire them to do anything.

The job here was done satisfactorily, but only because I kept making them come back and do it right. Had I not complained, they would have left the shoddy work undone. And the most unsettling thing is they have a great rating and online reviews. I suppose if I were spending an extra $50- or $100,000 on the project, they would have paid a little more attention.

So anybody know how to get dried wood glue off floors? I Googled it and wet hot towels are the most consistent answer I found, but I'm hoping someone knows about a great product that will do it without all the hassle of microwaving wet rags and scraping slowly by hand to get the crap up off the otherwise attractive flooring.

Kittie and David visited the weekend of the 16th, and most of the undone work was picked up. Dave installed the bedroom light fixture (now all are done) and, with a little help from me, we put in a slate floor at the foot of the garage stairs (he cut, glued and placed; I sealed and grouted), so now it matches the entryway floor. The only DIY remodel left is painting the banisters and balustrade white and touching up the paint in the office.

Also, the screens need to be replaced. The old ones never really fit well, and the workers did a great job of destroying them even further when they were here. Then windows cleaned outside (I'm hiring a service for this, since I don't fancy balancing on a 14-foot ladder with a bottle of Windex.)

Happening in parallel with this is packing all non-essential items and gleaning even more donations from the closets. Things are actually starting to pay off, as the bedroom is now clear, the two bathrooms are clear, all ready to be restocked (with the bare essentials only) and staged.

Yesterday I went around to all the drawers and decorative storage boxes and emptied all contents into several cardboard boxes. Today I plan to sort through all that crap, which will leave little else to sort through. Most of what's left in the upstairs closets are big-ticket donations already in the box. The last big packing area is the kitchen: anything I haven't touched in the last six months is being packed or donated (fancy glassware, the crock pot, etc.).

So I'm seeing the end of the tunnel. Once all my stuff is packed and to storage and donations have been picked up, then I can clean the garage and the cleaning women can come and do their magic and make the house sparkle.

This past year has been filled with unpleasant anniversaries: March, Steve's diagnosis; June, his birthday; August, our wedding anniversary. Next month will bring the date of his fall (which was really the day some kind soul should have shot him and put him out of his misery, as he never saw home again); and, in October, the anniversary of his death. These last two—by far the most unpleasant—will fall just about the time I relinquish this house to the open market and the machinations of Realtors.

I plan to take the wedding ring off my finger on the anniversary of his death, put it away in the box in which it arrived or perhaps wear it around my neck. But, at some point, I have to admit that I'm no longer married. All the reasons for my being in L.A. and Pasadena are no more (Steve being the major force keeping me here).

I follow this grand plan of mine in a sort of semi-daze. I'm not engaged with the world around me beyond existence and sharing the same municipal and business facilities of the community. But my heart is wandering. My head has made these big decisions and plans directed toward a new life, but my heart won't be warmed again until I have a new home, new friends and a new community.

So, off to the boxes of junk and a fresh garbage bag: it's amazing what we hold onto.

I shall fill the dumpster this week.

The Prodigal Returns

After round two at the food bowl

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. For three days, I had left the front door open just in case Patty the cat decided to (or found a way to) return home.

I prayed to Steve to go find her and guide her home. I left cat food on the doorstep, just in case. Once I posted the last entry here, I got e-mails and phone calls, everyone with suggestions, condolences, hopeful words of encouragement.

But yesterday, I told myself that if she did not return that evening, I would stop leaving the door open. That's when I prayed to Steve to help her. It could be his anniversary present to me. Then midnight came and went, I closed the door and accepted the inevitable.

I had dreams of Patty, over and over, last night. I awoke feeling like I never wanted to stand up again. But the conscious (and conscientious) part of me kicked in, and I got up to greet the day. After my morning routine (such as it is), I went to the garage to go do some shopping. I pushed the garage door opener, and the assembly let out its great moan and chunk. At just that moment, I saw a tricolored tail dart from under the car into the storage cubby under the stairs.

Could be Patty, could be a stray. I had been down here three times already, calling her name.

"Patty." I made it singsong and happy sounding. No response. I repeated it, and after a beat, a desperate yowl replied from behind the file drawers. I cleared out enough of the stored stuff to get a look behind the drawers, and sure enough, there was one freaked out Pitty Pat. I kept calling to her, but she was doing her Tippi Hedrin zombie freak from "The Birds."

So I went upstairs (making sure to prop the door to the garage open) and got her a bowl of canned food and put it on the stairs leading up to house. I expected her to smell it and dash to eat, but that wasn't the case. So I got the bowl and put it up where it normally goes. I sat down and turned on the TV, a sound she knows.

Sure enough, ten minutes later she was sticking her head around the corner, then dashing upstairs to hide. I went down and closed the door to the garage, then came back up and called to her, which got a yowl of desperation once again. (These would continue for the next hour or so.) After about five minutes, she came back downstairs, made an olfactory inventory of the area, then hopped up onto the couch next to me, as she was ready for a reunion.

That's about it. She's been back to the food and water for a third time, cleaning after each snack. I need to get back to packing, but I don't want to freak her out with it. We'll see how it all comes down.

I have reflected upon this experience, and I think it's God's way of telling me I have to get out more: If I was in the habit of a daily drive for errands and such, I might have found her a day or two earlier.

In any case, my roommate and companion is back in the living quarters once more and things don't feel so terribly empty.

And I didn't waste good money on the Pet Tube.