THIS?
This is Kevin. The hope, the ambition, the joy, the wonder, the goals and dreams of the future.
Dogs have hopes and dreams too, okay? Roll with it.
(Not that I’m calling him a dog. Or a wiener. Well, yes to the last one but only when he steals my pillow in the morning and when he drinks the last Mountain Dew in the fridge).
(And when he bites his nails).
(QUIT BITING YOUR NAILS!).
On the flip side, this is me.
Ornery. Lazy. Content. Protective of my space. And yes, technically a cougar – because I’m six months older than him.
So we are, metaphorically speaking – the dog and cat. Learning to live in the same space, adjusting to each others habits and hoping to exist in the same space with the least amount of conflict possible.
Which, I’ll admit. It’s a bit more challenging than I thought it would be, this whole, “coexist and get-along” thing. Probably because I got a little too much sass in me. Probably because I’m stubborn. Probably because of a lot of things – men are from Mars, women are from Venus, why can’t he understand that I hate computers after five PM? Why can’t she just learn to try new foods? When will he put his dirty clothes in the hamper? When will she actually wash the laundry?
When the real problem is just that we think differently. He’s always looking ahead, I’m either looking behind (hi, past!) or in the moment. So we butt heads sometimes. Who doesn’t?
I tell you these things because well, I’m married. And you told me to blog. So I’m here, telling you about our lives, comparing us to animals. (This is the content I give you after two weeks of absence? For shame.)
My point is there really isn’t a point to this post, other than men are strange creatures, and they probably think the same thing about us felines females.
Three Months
Three months.
I’d be lying if I said I’m doing better.
I still miss you. Every second of every day.
My breath catches in my throat when I think, “I can’t wait to show you this,” or when I wonder if you need any groceries from the store.
I miss our house. I miss going upstairs every morning, afternoon, and night. I miss the way the dog runs up to you and licks your hands until you laugh and tell him to stop.
I miss your hugs and the way you say, “love ya”.
I miss you calling to remind me that the Jazz are playing. Hell, I even miss you calling to yell at me for not putting the garbage out or for leaving the dryer on overnight.
I just. . .miss you. So, so very bad.
I wish I were strong like you.
You, my dear sweet grandmother, who had the strength to tell them to turn the machines off. You were ready for your “next adventure”. And I am happy for you.
But I’m struggling.
After you first passed I focused on the next task – finding funeral songs, printing pictures, making duplicates of everything. And most importantly, being there for my sweet mother who was missing you at a depth I can’t even imagine to fathom.
But now it’s final.
You are gone. You’re not coming back.
I can’t help but mourn the things we won’t have.
The videos I didn’t take. The stories I didn’t write down.
I’m sad that I can’t surprise you with a Burger King ham croissan’wich.
That we can’t watch medical shows together.
That Ollie no longer has someone to spend the long days with while I’m at work.
That you won’t get to see my babies and love on them.
As much as I hurt and ache and long to have you back, I don’t regret a single moment that I spent with you. I had two wonderful years with you, and those were the best two years of my life. I meant what I said when I told you goodbye. Thank you, thank you for everything you’ve given me and taught me. I love you Grandma.
Meet Jessie
GRANDMA ALWAYS SAID MY CAR HAD A TARGET ON IT. She hated the thing. That’s because my car has been hit, not once, not twice but three times.
Three times, not my fault.
Two of the times were bad enough that I got insurance money from it (and used it to buy a computer, but that’s neither here nor there).
And not one accident did any irreparable damage. Just a few well, cosmetic blemishes. But Ol’ Bessie is resilient. She doesn’t quit. Not even with 250,000 miles on her.
(Don’t you wanna drive next to this!? I know. I know.)
So obviously due to my sweet driving skills it was only fitting that we buy me this.
It’s the Suzuki Boulevard S40. Suzuki calls this color “red”.
I call the person who thinks it is red, “colorblind”.
It’s pretty much as pink as it gets.
The thing is, since I didn’t know how to ride much when we bought it, Kevin was forced to ride a girly, HOT PINK bike home.
My friend told him if anyone honks or makes fun of him, to just wave like he’s gay.
So that’s exactly what he did when two guys accidentally gave him the riders sign before they noticed just what he was riding.
We went for a ride yesterday. I rather enjoy the looks, laughs, honks and waves we get riding it. Kevin even told one lady, “it’s not mine, it’s hers!” before she could finish laughing at us.
I told him that the reason I got a pink bike was so that he wouldn’t be tempted to ride mine!
I learned to ride it last night and it did a great job at pulling me out of my recent bad mood. It was scary and had my heart racing, just what I needed. A little excitement and danger!
And if you’re wondering I only killed it once.
That’s a lie.
But you’ll never know the true number.
I lost count.
Wordless Wednesday: Girls Day at Ikea
