Suppose I said you're my saving grace.

If there's anything I've learned (OMG this sounds like if narrative from Traveling Pants mated with narrative from Carrie Bradshaw) from all of this, it's that I know nothing, and that I believe very little.

I know I've had more great love than most people could come close to even thinking up in their lifetimes. Stephenie Meyer and Jane Austen don't have a clue. I know life's not fair. And I know I'm so tired of feeling like this. If you haven't guessed, this is going to be one of those posts where I am serious and heavy and I write here instead of my journal, and break my promise to you that I was going to start keeping it light (and I am glad you protested, because I was going to explode). If you're looking for something funny, Maddox and Wonkette are linked in my sidebar. Knock yourself out.

I believe...so few things. And the things I believe are bizarre. I didn't believe them before August 10th, so I think I'm entitled (well, no, indebted) to believe them now. Because if I didn't, it would be ungrateful and blind. Not to sound like that Vanity Fair/Vogue/Whatever article where Jessica Simpson talked about spirituality through butterflies, or that unfortunate post-homo-Anne-Heche-speaking-in-tongues-to-aliens spectacle...but I really think dreams are this place you go when your body is at rest - and that you can run into each other there like you can at Smith's (I'm serious, Anne Heche did an interview where she made gibberish sounds on camera speaking in a magical language). I'm not a freak. And in dreams, sometimes we imagine people, and sometimes we run into the real them...and usually don't know the difference. And most often, I doubt we remember it happening once we wake up.

I also believe in sad, weird things I probably WISH were true without having any reason to think they are. Like how sometimes a song, or a conference talk, or a conversation someone else is having...will burst into your attention at the right time, and it feels so oddly and peculiarly like someone shoved it into your mind. I know this. I am certain that it has nothing to do with my ability or efforts to focus or pay attention. It happens on its own, and it's conducted by something external to me.

Here and there, I hear songs on the radio or things I just have to turn on because they're not associated with any memory of have of Rbf, and therefore do not leave me a raw, broken down mess with creaking head bones. I had to do this when I got divorced - and it left me with no good music, so I was reduced to a lot of Taylor Swift and Lady Gag, because everything respectable reminded me of my husband. Now, Taylor Swift reminds me of the days I was falling back in love with Rbf.

These new, comfortingly unfamiliar, random songs usually just create background noise, but once in awhile, lyrics will jump through the haze--the haze of me tolerating consciousness--and pierce my thoughts. Like, rudely interrupt them...and say something to me that, I swear on my blog, I believe is almost coming from Rbf. (And my soul mixes with butterflies and glitter and unicorns and shakra and mystical chi topped with rainbows and tasting like bonkers candy!) I know, I know, I am losing it.

It's not like I think Rbf takes time out of whatever his soul is doing, to go down to Clear Channel and mess with airwaves so that Jay Sean can tell me "there's no need to worry." It's not that. It's just the information that comes my way at the times my mind tunes into it.

I turned my Zune to a random song a while ago, probably thinking about real estate or how to fix the html on this damn blog...and the song suddenly made me grip my steering wheel and freeze.

Would you want me when I'm not myself? Wait it out while I am someone else? And I in time will come around. I always do, for you.

It was just mainstream old John Mayer (hey, HE didn't mind when Jessica Simpson talked about sparkles and God and flying leprechauns, probably because she has big jugs - which I don't, so maybe you have to expect more sophistication from me. If so, sorry Charlie). But I thought, if I died, I'd freak out worrying that my sweetheart wouldn't wait for me. Rbf and I have a history of waiting for one another, and returning for one another, and so on. I'd just worry that this time, he wouldn't wait.

It made me feel bad for him a little bit. I know that's not how it works. But in my sad, warped, A-bomb-leveled mind...it makes a little bit of sense. Does he worry I don't want him anymore because he's in a different form? Does he worry that I will stop loving him because he's not himself right now? He shouldn't. I love him the same, if not more, and I sure as hell trust him without question. You and I can agree, there are no drunk Monster Girls in heaven. (Book title?)

I have had a "didn't expect to run into you here" moment, in a few dreams in my lifetime. I LOVE when it happens. It tells me there's something more than this. And that almost makes up for the drained, horrified, breathless, trampled-heart, sunken-stomach, kicked-in-face feeling I get when I hear the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack, or smell our old backrub lotion (Love Spell...cheesy, I know), or see the preview for that new Amelia Earhart movie. (Seriously? Right now? Hey, show that part again where the plane crashes into the ground, the sight feels so good on my cried-out bloodshot eyeballs, you Hollywood dickwads). And the moment's over.

In my defense, he really was on his best behavior...and I really think I've always been his saving grace. There are so very few things that I believe...but that much I do.

Sorry for all the ellipses. And for the sap. Do we need a Moses story to lighten the mood?

My dog Moses chews and eats everything in sight. Everything. He ate SH's glasses and three seasons of Six Feet Under. If you put bitter polish (from the petstore) on things to deter him, it just makes him like it more. He's such a goat. That's all. Watch some 30 Rock, and thanks for reading my diary.

When Your Lifemapping GPS Tells You

...That It's Getting Worse.

(And other reasons to write a "Favorites" blog).

Not to sound like every college-ward testimony you and I ever bore, (That's a Mormon thing if you are reading this from outside the zion curtain)...but the last couple of weeks have been bad.

Call-my-mom-and-ask-her-to-call-me-in-the-morning-to-make-sure-I-wake-UP bad. You know, because that poor woman isn't already worried enough. Then I got sick, and laid awake all night long trying to barf and not being able to, which sucked because that is like the one talent I learned from getting divorced last year, and now I'm a big fail about it. People were like "is it upset stomach, or like, sore throat?" And I couldn't decide, because my throat really hurt. Turns out it was from my finger (see post from late 2008 where I thrash my throat with my fingernail and describe it to everyone). My stomach hurt. My head hurt. My throat hurt. My heart hurt.

Anyway, I guess it's time where I have to do that thing where I remind myself of my favorite things, because I get too sad when anything and everything I see reminds me of Rbf. Like I heard a Bush song, which always reminds me of the time Rbf and I "broke in" his new car once in college - note: Honda Accords not conducive to relaxing stretches of necking, so just stay home and cuddle on his smelly dudebro couch instead. It's not even like Bush was popular then either. He was like "this reminds me of my Senior year!" and I was like "Yeah! This reminds me of 8th grade! What a perv you'd be for liking me then!"

So my Top Four for this week's emotional breakdown are:

Google Chrome - my gmail is so fast and it also reminds me upon launching the browswer, of the embarrassment of sites I visit regularly. Thanks Chrome! (Bank, blog, gmail. LOSER). It also remembers passwords (careful boys) and then tells you what they are, so if your wife thinks you're sneaking around on her, she'll probably figure out your passwords to things log into. Don't be dumbasses. Cheat the old way, like on Mad Men. OR not at all, or whatever. Psycho-enabling aside, it's just slicker than Firefox or expl***r (my apologies to the Spaniard's sensibilities, but the comparison begged its mention).

Tadaki - My friend Kelly works/sews/gossips with me. She is the best of the best even on her own, but she got a CCI service dog this year named Tadaki. When he wears his vest, he is quiet and somber and holds his leash (or her file folders or anything he sees you drop) gently in his jaws. When that vest comes off, though, buckle up. One associate at work gets T all riled up, and races him down the carpeted aisle of our office and stops abruptly, sending the Tadakster skidding spastically through the office past the cubicles and copiers. It's more disruptive than the time they hired me. It is awesome. Even when I go to her house and it's "release" time (no vest), and he is therefore allowed to greet me like Kelly's Australian Shepherd, Deacon (meaning spazzout charge you, and manhandle you)...and you drop your coat/purse/sewing machine in all the excitement, and your phone goes flying across the room...Tadaki forgets he's not on duty and hurries to retrieve it for you. He returns it gently in his big strong dog-jaws without crushing or denting or scratching anything. GENIUS. He's the most chivalrous damn dog I've ever met. Kelly lets him stop at my desk on the way to hers, just for loves. They both can tell when I really need it. Kelly waited a long time for Tadaki. We could not be more honored to have him join our team at work and our circle of family at Kelly's.

Kingdom clothing - Rbf's favorite motocross team (Rockwell), who he got to go on the road with, has a line of clothing by the name of Kingdom. That meant lots of cool free things for somebody's regirlfriend! My Kindgom shirts fit long and snug and flatter me on my puffy days.

Beyond Glaze donuts - I can't imagine they're good for you in any way except for when your soul needs nurturing. But they are these beautiful works of art masquerading as donuts. They are so good, you can eat a half and not even crave more. Even though I eat a whole. The only store of theirs that I know of is in Draper, just off 123rd west of the freeway. My only disappointment is that they close at 6. I never get there in time on my way home from work. Damn traffic.

Jedidiah T-shirts - I once took Rbf into Buckle to show him their cute earth-and-orphan-loving line of T-shirts and he just thought it was damned-right fantastic. He thought it was cute that I ordered one for myself, right before he died. I found them on antiapparel.com...but when I never got my shirt (they accepted my payment), I was sad. The whole idea of it had gone from cute to special, and I didn't even have the shirt. I emailed them my story, and they rushed to send me whatever shirt I wanted, and also threw in the new one from their Hope project. I now have three Jedidiah shirts. They are the softest fabric and my favorite articles of clothing. Antiapparel was undergoing a management shift, which caused the complications with my order. When my shirts came, there was a little note inside from the guy who took my complaint, hoping it brought a little joy to my day. It did. I'll be buying more from them, too. Hope you join me.

Good night. Tomorrow is Monday. Pick a favorite thing and run with it, because Mondays can eat our poo. xo/km

Where in the world are you now...

I love Great Lake Swimmers. In medium-sized doses, of course, because after that you need to drink Seattle-in-January proportions of caffeine and pop a benzo of some variety just to keep yourself from having a day like I had on Monday.

I know I said no more blogging like I'm that girl that needs attention for her tragedy (bring on the comments, I know you know I'm not That Girl, but still...) but my timestamps are getting ripe, and I feel like maybe I've become a crapwad writer all of a sudden.

The Swimmers' song Where in the world are you? is in my head, because I'm writing the lyrics to it in my little book of letters I write to Rbf.

OK. Little book of letters, not so much. It is actually the journal I got him for Christmas. The gorgeous leatherbound, gold-edged, soft cover lined journal I picked out just for him, the front cover of which he inked with his name, number and address, and the date "January 1, 2009" in. And nothing else from that point on.

We had been talking and catching up just before the holiday, and we sat down to dinner a few days before Christmas to catch up. For the first time in three contact-free years. He had come directly from a downtown bookstore where he was buying journals as Christmas gifts for the little kids living in Grandpa Floyd's house on the farm. Their parents "rented" it from Rbf, and by "rented," I mean "occupied and trashed without paying for." They loved him (as we all do), and he decided they needed journals.

Of course he did. Why not bring a Brazilian orphan to the table that he picked up on one of his trips back there, and proceed to speak to her in Portugese in front of me while telling me Angelina Jolie doesn't know crap about orphans and asking me where I got my highlights done, before mentioning he thinks jacked-up trucks are an embarrassment to roughnecks everywhere. Hearing the journals-for-white-trash-kids story was like getting rufied. I'm lucky he didn't have impure intentions.

He filled six or seven journals in his lifetime. He loved to journal, and I laughed over our dinner as it all came back - what a huge part of his life journaling was, and how much it had made me love him back in the day. We used to sit and read to one another from our journals...and skip to the parts each of us wrote about the other. He said he hadn't been writing in his lately, that it had been a really long time. It's sad, because I would love to be able to read what was on his mind during the past several months. We still aren't sure if he had picked back up in his current unfinished journal, or where it is. It's possible the most recent one they have is his last.

I searched for the perfect one, found it, and gave it to him on Christmas Eve when we carpooled to the two towns in southern Idaho our parents lived. I don't know when he marked it January 1, but I wish he'd followed through. The blank pages of it bugged me. The journal reminded me of the rest of my life. Branded with him early on and then nothing more of him in the story, from that point forward. So I fill it up with writings of the one-sided relationship we now have. I write letters to him there. I include lyrics to the songs I hear him in and tell him about my day.

And this song always applied. When we dated the first time, and he was always traveling the world with his dudebros and leaving me behind. And when I was married, how I wondered once in awhile if I would ever run into him in a gas station or a mall what I would say, and where he was, and if he was happy, and if he knew how great my husband was, and what he would think if he could see the grownup, independent, employed, confident me that my husband helped coax out. I kept my thoughts loyal to my husband, but I wondered about Rbf. When we found each other again, and he was always on the road, I'd wonder what state he was in as I sat at my boring desk every day.

And now, all I ever do is wonder. I think I see him everywhere. My 40 minute commute every morning has more 18-wheelers than you'd believe. And motorcycles. And the sky is filled with planes...single engine ones that piss me right off. Why do those guys' wives and partners and girlfriends and roommates get to see them tonight? I see him in the traffic and I hear him in every song. It feels like I'm always looking for him somewhere. Rbf, where in the world are you?

I got a storage unit today. It was time. I haven't packed up my room at the boys' house yet. It's still right where I left it. Bed made, sheets unwashed, a bridal magazine dog-eared and sitting on my desk. Dust on my printer. Dust on my monitor. My garbage can unemptied. It is time, now, for that dreaded task that makes it really over.

When I filled out the application for the unit, I got to the line that said "emergency contact" and robotically put the pen down to write his name, and it hit me. Shit. Ow, that one hurt. OK that was the sad part, now here's the embarrassing part. I kind of looked up and stared ahead trying to think of who else I should put since he can't be my emergency contact anymore for stuff, and my mind went, "oh oh, I know, Reboyfriend!" DAMMIT. I'm such a moron. I had to have that kick to the face twice. I kept wanting to write his name anyway. I should have. What are the chances of an emergency with my storage unit? Duh.

The thought of just putting his name down anyway, just depressed me. It reminded me of this guy that bought a bunch of home-made soap from my sister Scoot in this one scent (she made them in all kinds of pretty smells). He said he wanted just that scent, because it was his wife's favorite. Scoot found out later that day that the guy's wife had died like two weeks earlier. Sometimes I still refer to Rbf in the present tense. I'm getting a new snowboard here soon, and I'm only looking at Forums, Rbf's longtime board of choice. I'm soap-wife guy.

I'm at the two month stage - Rbf's sister told me that she took a little grieving seminar thing, where she learned that you are in shock for the first two months. You are blogging and laughing at work and bragging about the two times you did your hair since the funeral and everyone is going "hm, well she's taking this well." Nope. Wrong-o. Suddenly, out of the blue, you REALLY realize he is not coming back.

I have dreams where I forget he is gone, but I'm acutely aware that I haven't talked to him FOREVER, and it really has been awhile since he called, so maybe I should just call HIM. I wake up to do it, too. And I then have that DAMMIT moment.

I have severe sinus issues. I'm due for my third operation on them. Basically they all grow in and close off my nasal passages, and I have to get them roto-rooted every six years and it's like $16,000 and you have black eyes for weeks and it hurts like a bitch. You might understand why I'm putting it off.

When I cry extremely hard, and all the tissues in my sinus cavities swell, there is literally no room for them to expand. My head hurts like it's been hit with a hammer, and I can hear the little bones above my palate and septum and in between all the sinuses, creaking like an old ship under the pressure against them. It's super gross and creepy.

My hair comes out in handfuls when I brush it. I have zits growing on top of other zits, scattered over giant wrinkles. I have zits in my wrinkles you guys. W!T!F! I weighed myself today and I'm about a damp kleenex away from two-digit territory. (Sounds extreme, but keep in mind I don't even clear 5'3"). When you drop a bunch of weight and your skin is still a blanket of cellulite, it's not called weight loss...it's called dehydration. Gross. (I'm not single, but I'm not getting married anymore, so it's a weird mid-air/matrix/relationship limbo that equates to not having to shave and still being in love. Awesome). Sorry, I just had to get up from my laptop to go pick my face since I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since I just wrote that. It wasn't helpful. Nothing got smaller and now I look like I have shingles.

I haven't blogged because I have nothing to say but sad things about my fat dimples and hair loss. The cupcakes and flowers I buy myself are still nice, and they still make a difference, but the past two weeks have been heinous. It has hit me. It is real.

And I don't have much else to say.

"I've been looking in churches and looking in bars

Thought that I saw you in the oncoming cars

It was your reflection cast off by the light

And into the sky of this dark city night

I looked for you up in the tallest of trees

Swayed back and forth in the mid-autumn breeze

When the leaves reddened and left too

I knew then that it wasn't you

Where in the world are you now?

Where in the world are you now?

Oh where in the world are you?

Oh where in the world are you?

Where in the world are you now?

And I looked for you then in music and song

'Cause I thought I could find you there

They were only notes pulled from the air

Not the kind I could read or breathe if I dare

Where in the world are you now?

Where in the world are you now?

Oh where in the world are you?

Oh where in the world are you?

Where in the world are you now?"

You

Did you guys know that your comments are the advice column I live by?

Too bad I'm not kidding even a little bit. I bet you think I'm being cute or finding cheeky ways to show my gratitude for your support.

In conversations I have to stop myself from saying "I know, Lovestrong tells me I ...." or "Katie" or "Nicole" or the other fifteen of you personal (and quite skilled) personal therapists that come here to take me in and then leave their unique signatures of grace at the bottom. Your words are the pulse of my sanity.

Your comments - all of them - I need to respond. Not out of obligation or etiquette, but out of this overwhelming sense of closeness I have gotten with you. I freaking LOVE you guys and all the things you write on here.

As for my in-person friends: Your emails. Your calls. I have three or four of you that I need to call (those of you who live out of town) and two or three that I need to go to lunch with. BAD. You know who you are. You have left me a voicemail or a text or an email and I have not gotten back to you, to help myself to your love that is there for the taking. Probably some of my best friends on earth, I have a voicemail from mentally dog-eared to call back. It's the people I want to talk to the most.

My handful of closest girlfriends are the ones I have seen the least of (or not at all) since the accident that changed my life, world, and blog.

But I don't do it. Once I make the phone call or have that lunch - or come see you - that visit isn't out there waiting to happen anymore. As if I'm afraid you won't have phones after I call you. Or you won't have houses for me to visit after I drop by. Or Greek Souvlaki and every other eatery on the Wasatch Front will go out of business and we won't have food to bond over. It's a psych 1010 conundrum. Don't enjoy anything too much, don't seize anything worth seizing because when you do, it goes away forever.

For the hundredth time, this whole thing has made me so extremely psychotic, it's not even close to funny.

Well, maybe a little close.

But I am a little messed up. I write psycho PSYCHO emails to total strangers that might have known ReBF. I will not even hint about the disturbing things I've saved of his. I've always been weird and I have not hidden that from you here or in my previous life's blog.

That's really all. Oh PS this stream of consciousness has been tied together by nothing but text and punctuation. Sorry.

Kristina The Cyber Prom Queen once told me she can't really read superlong posts. We were at a blogger in-face meetup where our online clique physically went to Olive Garden. The look on my face made her quickly remind me that it's not MY blog she was talking about, but those big, verbose no-hard-return blocks of text she can't handle. OTHER people's long blogs. Phew! Even if she was just backpedaling, it still worked. I felt better. She said my "new paragraph" approach to various trains of thought makes mine the exception.

So,

That's what's with all the hard returns.

And stuff.

Why is this the biggest A.D.D. post ever? What was I even talking about before?

Oh yeah, that's right. The part about I love you guys.

That stupid-ass number 7

...stared at me from my calendar all day long. Don't know why a 2 month mark matters.

I am just so tired.

Glee

First off, it's just a great word. You can't sound younger than 55, or masculine in any way, when saying it. So when you are telling everyone about the show called Glee, you have to sound like a dork and also put some effort into explaining yourself because it's kindof a musical. People who didn't grow up on musicals don't tend to like musicals. Glee might be the gateway drug, since all the people in it are hot and the music is all urban. Showtune versions of it all, but still. It sneaks its musicalness in the backdoor and before you know it, you are slackjawed staring at your laptop screen, bawling and stating YEAH, all obnoxious and resolute, with your mouth full of food and tears streaming down your face...because Rachel sings "On My Own." Who doesn't cry at that? Especially when they're me? I downloaded the soundtrack on Zune and I guess it's not really the same without being able to stare at the most adorable teen actors in teen acting history while they sing it. But in my head, I picture them, and their darling wardrobes. (I love him, but when the night is over...He is gone. The river's just a river. I know, sweetie. Sing it, girl).

A friend got me hooked on it the other night...and I've been a slave to Hulu ever since. I sit at my computer and laugh and cry and shove my face full of Smart Cookies. Which, by the way, I was so food-horny for today that I almost ditched my cart in the middle of the Target line to go buy (yeah, note to AF Target: every other Target in America has like 15 lanes available. You are the birth defect of all Target stores everywhere. You owe me 20 minutes of my life back).

Don't worry, I didn't. I made my purchase at Target and THEN went to Smart Cookie. Four flower cookies, two almond and two lemon. Holy shit, half of one will keep you feeling all gross and unnervingly "full" for seven meals. That's what is so Smart about them. You can have one on Tuesday, fast for three days and then when you finally feel like you can eat again, you are two pant sizes down, byotches.

Smart Cookie and Glee don't really pertain to one another. Except that they should usually be indulged in simultaneously, and can be the dirty thoughts you think about when you find yourself one man short of an actual love life. Sad. (Editor's note: wait! That's all true except for the part where neither compares to you, Reboyfriend! Don't be mad, you hunk of Jedster McStudlytown, come on). The memory of him is my constant companion now, but sometimes the memory of him gets jealous. (If you just met Smart Cookie and Glee, baby, you would feel so much better. You'd be friends!). Ok I'm done, it's not funny anymore.

If you don't believe me, just Hulu the first episode. Adorable young earnest teacher, dripping with earnestness, sees hope in "geeks" at a satirically cliched high school. (Seriously, the cheerleaders are always wearing their cheer uniforms). These "geeks" (can't stop using quotes, you'll understand why) have She's All That syndrome. Where the girl is supposed to be ugly, but isn't, but you as the viewer go along with it because eventually she'll take her hair out of the pony, and take her glasses off, and music will play and we can all officially agree that she's good looking. THAT kind of geek. I was a geek. I wish that's what I was like in high school. Anyway, this teacher organizes this little group and they cover Don't Stop Believin' at the end. It is in the top ten cutest things I ever did see.

Also, I'm pretty sure Reboyfriend spoke to me through a rap song this week. So, both my hair AND my blog now look like they belong to Wanda Barzee. But with more A.D.D.

And now, your moment of Zen:

"And when I lose my way, I close my eyes and he has found me."

On words

My favorite thing in this world is words.

They are power. You know how we all love power.

They protect you from being misunderstood. They relieve you from exploding. If you are equipped with them to enough of a degree, your pain has an exit, and you make the most of it.

Words are the most powerful thing in this world. They have the power to engage a world war, they have the power to end one. They have the power to deliver love. They have the power to heal others. They have the power to hurt them.

I love them all. Big ones, small ones, swear ones, French ones, ancient ones, misused ones. (I acknowledge that "ones" is improper use of words, but it's an impropriety I love). When you are bickering, you can win much easier when you know more big ones. Ask Reboyfriend. Once, in a disagreement, he pouted, "Your vocabulary is bigger, so you're going to win." (This was about two weeks before he asked for The Big Book Of Words Reboyfriend Should Know). To be fair, I was right and he was wrong, but if it were the other way around, I could have danced my way around it a little more craftily. And one time when I got mad at him, I could ripped his throat out with my words. I didn't use the bazooka ones, but I whipped out a few to show him my arsenal. He learned: Don't. Do. That. Again. (He didn't Do That Again, to be sure).

Words, and their glory! When you run out of them, there are like 200 other languages full of their own, and you can start new.

They compel action. They are the thing that happens right before any action is taken. That's why I told Reboyfriend I would never date him if he used the N word. It's not harmless. It holds the power to set more wickedness into motion than most natural catastrophes can. That goes for all other racial words. Make no mistake, words created from hatred and used in the past to establish and fabricate conflict: Dealbreaker city.

Kids are naughty and throw huge fits, I honestly believe, because they don't know enough words to express themselves. Moms say "use your words" when their kids are acting out. Well, most kids don't know powerful enough words to usher their anger out calmly. When you are not armed with their power, you have to scream and kick and break things. That is the emotion and power they harness.

Once, in a powerful and special dream experience, I received communication that was delivered through speaking, but when I woke up to write it down, I couldn't find the word in my mental word rolodex. It wasn't a word. It was spoken from someone's mouth, but I couldn't register the word when I woke up. I knew the word when it was spoken to me in my dream, but there wasn't a waking counterpart. It was the weirdest thing. I SOOO needed a word for it. It was a verb. Crazy.

My starter husband and I sometimes text awesome words to each other. We had a list of grossest/most awesome (synonymous) words. (Like, ointment and discharge and loafer and horseplay). Words are fun.

/geekout completed./

Just issuing a public statement...

...to set the record straight: I'm not OK.

I swear some people think I am somewhat close to it, and it freaks me out. I want to ask "where the hell in this process do you think I AM?" People are asking about my next relationship, and I still think to reach for my phone to text ReBF when I see some show or event I want to attend. I still tell people I have a boyfriend.

One of my biggest fears in life is being misunderstood. It's why I love words so much.

But you've read enough 5,000 word posts about it that I kind of think you've proved yourself as a friend by now. Thank you, and I love you. I know you've been waiting for this post a good long time.

I have sought the validation that my grieving process was robbed of because we hadn't gotten married. And I have received it. My pain is legitimate even if the legality of our relationship was just shy of that legitimacy. After talking to a close friend about The Blog, I really think I gotta take it down a notch with the dramatic flowery boo-hooing and the like.

So, to set the record straight, all I want to do is curl up in a ball with the four articles of his dirty laundry left in the laundry basket when he died (three of them are underwear, ew, and how sad am I). OK, no lying: that is what I do. You are correct in your being grossed out. I'm not offended by it. Of course, I'm not grossed out by his dirty underwear either. I remember once walking into the bathroom because I had to leave for work, to say bye. He was sitting on the toilet. Without batting an eye, I came through the door, leaned down and kissed his forehead with a hair-tousle and said "I'll call you. Let's do something tonight. I love you." He looked pretty taken aback. Nothing about him grossed me out. Anyway, his unwashed undies don't have the same effect on me as they would on you. But it is a pretty good measure of how desperate and lonely I am for him. If you didn't believe I've died inside just a little, maybe that helps you understand.

And if anything I write on this blog from here on out makes it seem like I am doing anywhere near OK: I am misleading you, and I am sorry.

But it's time to talk about other things, and keep the sadness in my journal. You've paid your dues, and it's time to talk about the funny things I notice in the day, and not the sadness I breathe every minute of the day.

Thanks for being there through this.

To send off this little era, here he is in a pointless, disappointing cameraphone moment that meant nothing then (and everything now). He had the tendency to be a little oblivious, especially when it looked to him like I was just texting. I kept wishing he'd look over and instantly do something inappropriate. Nope. Clueless and candid. Warning: nothing, I repeat nothing, happens in this video. But when I found it deep in the hard drive of my phone thinking I'd accidentally deleted it, I was pretty happy. You can watch it if you are super bored.

*OK, here's some background to the video and I put it in my comments but I think I will just put it in the body of the post as it's kind of cute. About 2 minutes after this moment, he looked back to see one of the axles smoking from the pup trailer. He was so mellow as he pulled over to check it out and put a quick fix on it to hold him over until he could get it in the shop. The repairs probably came to more than they even made on the load. He just shrugged it off. (It was such a fun day, he let me in the little shack where they start the pump and let me push all the buttons.) After he got back in the drivers seat, he had me come sit behind him in it, and rub his shoulders. He was so excited, thinking his life was so perfect. He just lost his whole profit and had to work all night, but he was in hog heaven anyway. Such a sweet memory.

I had remembered taking this little clip about a month ago and scoured my phone and computer for it. I looked through all the hidden folders on all my SD cards that could have been in my phone when I snapped this. For weeks I had thought I'd lost it. I stumbled across it when looking in another folder. It had been accidentally moved to some folder with clips of Lolo at the arts festival, of all things.

The day I found this was the day I found out they had the Red Book. It was the cherry on top. It's funny what silly things will mean something to you later.

Man, I love him.