Stories

The other night, my cousin Meems and I went to a party to see a friend of me-and-Rbf's (remember, it's an entity), play with his band. Afterward, we were talking to him about Rbf, and he pretty much made my week.

First: He demonstrated some classic ReBF dance mooovz. OMFG. I have no idea how Jason could channel Rbf so well, but I stood laughing and in shock. *Thanks to Melynda V for the actual pics of him dancing!

Second: He told Sleepytime-Rbf stories. These are the best because for Rbf, all time was sleepytime. He once fell asleep at a Metallica concert. In six cumulative years of dating, we never once made it through a movie without him snoring. And we can't forget that time he asked if I'd marry him, then when I said yes, he promptly fell asleep, satisfied.

Hearing a truck driver talk about trying to move an awkwardly-slumped, 190-lb sleeping Rbf, is hilarious. "I was trying to move him because he fell asleep with his chin shoved into his chest. But I couldn't because he kept TICKLING me. He reached out and grabbing all over my stomach. And he was calling me Kirsten. Then he would just fall back asleep."

I pictured them in the back of the sleeper, two motocross truck drivers just trying not to look gay. I'm guessing the saying "Kirsten" part made Jason feel much better when being inappropriately fondled.

I miss sleepytime-Rbf. Aside from the rare sightings of needy-Rbf, nothing was ever much cuter.

On the way home, Meems said that ReBF should be here for this stuff. I love how she's not afraid to say that. She's one of the few people who are excited to hear stories, not afraid to remember. I've lost some of the most important things in my life. What I have left is memories. The stories keep me going. Please, never hesitate to share your own. And if there are two hundred, I'd love to hear them all.

He came, he worked, he played and he loved. Then he left. And we are left with his stories. Please, never stop sharing them.

9999 and the sound of silence

Every time I listen to my voicemail, I delete my way through the nonsense until I get to "saved messages." I listen to the first few words of each and re-save them just to know they're safe for another week or so.

"Hey girlfriend...I was just thinking about..." [BEEP] (Pressed "9" to save some steamy vm Rbf left on a long haul drive when I was sleeping).

"Kir, call me back right away...please..." [BEEP] (saved: Rbf needing me to be a Creamie girl at a golf tournament)

"Hi Kir, it's Jos." [BEEP] (Rbf's sister and 2 year old nephew singing happy birthday is mine for one more week)

"Happy birthday to...." [BEEP] (Jordan's sweet wife and kids singing happy birthday to me, plus cha-cha-cha at the end).

I hang up my phone, and the screen reads the last four numbers I pushed, all nines for "SaveSaveSaveSave." It's becoming a common sight.

I remember coming home and uneasily telling Rbf, "The only thing in my life that isn't perfect is me."

I was a little unorganized and didn't exercise, so I realized I was the only thing in my life I wanted to improve. I had the perfect job. The perfect man. I had the coolest living arrangement a girl could ask for. I had enough money. I was good friends with my ex-husband. I had time to do the things I wanted. I fit into my favorite jeans and work wasn't stressful. Life was sweet and fun. I realized this was that thing everyone was always buying self-help books and flat-screen TVs just to feel. It was happiness.

I worried it was too much good, and that it was about to be taken away. My ears were ringing with the unfamiliar quietude in life some people might call "peace."

In the four months since then, I've endured a missing persons search, followed by a triple funeral. I wrote and paid for an obituary. I moved. Again. I wrote 33 blog entries comprising about 45,000 words. I created and delivered personalized benefit summaries to tens of thousands of people. I made hand-pressed personal letterhead. I drove three hours each way just to lay tokens on graves in Idaho. I sent letters and family photos to Civil Air Patrol for finding the plane, to the Malheur County Sheriff's office for getting the bodies back to us, and to the Funeral Director who was so gentle with me. I survived Halloween. I made framed gifts for Jed's best friends here. I turned 28. I overnighted some of Rbf's personal affects to his out-of-state friends, so they could have a piece of him. I bought a headstone. Survived Thanksgiving. Spent 150 hours and 6,000 miles and $1,000 in gas just commuting. Experienced my first "fail" in safety & emissions. Had to get new wiper blades. Had to get new windshield. Had to get a tire repaired. Jobs that used to be his. I submitted an offer on a townhome. Had my first "Our good people are getting laid off and it could be any one of you" meeting in corporate America (officially a grown up). Pulled the offer on the townhome. Went to West Yellowstone with the Dumkes. Went to Midway with the blog girls. Went to Jackson Hole with the quilt girls. I joined a widow's forum. I made 100 scotcheroos. Got an engraved memorial plate frame for my car. Hit The Anger Stage and dropped my very first online f-bomb in five years of blogging. And in about seven hours, I will have officially survived Christmas - the anniversary of our first kiss of The ReAwesome Era, and the biggest and loudest reminder that I'm alone.

Somehow throughout all this, I kept my car insurance current.

But I am now exhausted. And now, I have to let it all quiet down again, back to the silence that yielded peace four months ago.

I'm so scared of what silence will sound like now.

My guess is that it will be something bittersweet. Like the brief moment of silence my mom and two sisters had last night over the Christmas Eve clam chowder tradition our family has enjoyed for probably 20 years. Rbf and I showed up for last year's, and he had a bowl before he left for his parents' house. He raved about it for my mom. She makes it from scratch, after all. When he returned to the house the day after Christmas, mom insisted on taking our picture before we drove home. It was our first picture together in Round 2 (a nicer word for "post divorce"). I posted it on here a year ago, so giddy and excited to have him back. I didn't really expect it to mean so much later.

Last night, one of my sisters commented, "Last year's was better." They all fell silent over the table, and had a stretch of that blaring, unignorable quietude in his memory. Oh, the courage that takes.

The quiet snow tells us to hush. It stretches in a big, wide blanket from my home to his and lies over my sweet boyfriend now as he sleeps in heavenly peace.

Merry Christmas to all - and I'm so glad it's over.

A rant of sorts

So, on the widow forum I'm on, everyone's always posting their DGI's of the day ("Doesn't Get It") and stories of "widdabrain" (which is the result of the emergency brain chemical cortisol released in excess - shrinking your hippocampus and making it hard to lay down new memories and access existing ones...thanks DJ Maj!).

We all get them - always from a well-meaning friend. My DGI experiences were belated - or I was too bombed on widdabrain to notice for the first few months. One widow on the board was told "at least he didn't suffer" when she explained that her husband died of cancer after fighting for 6 months. Others just hate holiday cards handwritten with "I hope you have the best Christmas ever!" Shelley, Jordan's wife, was asked by a female friend if she wanted to go to a singles dance together, two months after he and Rbf died.

My DGI issue was brought to life when some douche in Jackson (a complete stranger who had asked my situation) felt the need to Dr. Phil me and explain life to me. It seemed like he was saying that this was supposed to happen so I could find the RIGHT guy. I wanted to say "Die, bitch. I hate your face." Instead, I walked away in the middle of his asinine sentence.

This same dumbass ran into me the next day at the fundraiser. I gave him my best stupid-cow blank stare and pictured Rbf beating him down in a dark alley, and didn't stop walking. It was in the middle of another sentence of his. This "sentence" was about how he'd love to trespass over the border to violate the fair state of Utah just to come take me dancing...

"I just won't take a plane!" he laughed.

Which is a cryin' shame, because I hear that they sometimes fall out of the sky and I don't see your face anymore. Isn't that how it goes? Can I request this?

First mistake: trying to be The Sensitive Guy to earn my trust, then sit down next to me, uninvited, and wax sensitive in a terribly-disguised attempt at getting my guard down. He thought he was being so cute. Like after that whole conversation ending in him getting blown off, that somehow my dead boyfriend was our little inside joke. Why didn't he just go up onstage and get the auctioneer to go "Vrrroooommmmmm BRRSSCHHHT!" and make a plane motion with his hand, and make it crash in the ground and then twinkle his fingers like jazz hands to imitate the miles of scattering. It would have been just as funny, asswad.

I asked God once more why he took three perfect men and left us with these pieces of shit in their stead. Way to give me a vivid reminder of what the difference is between sainted-dead-Rbf and the male scum that just won't go away. I don't care if he just got nervous with girls and suffered from severe social palsy. He's proof that evolution was just a theory, and that life just isn't fair.

At any rate, it's safe to say I had finally been initiated into DGI awareness mode.

Suddenly, I was acutely suspicious of men's motives. I've always presumed guys' comments to be platonic unless stated otherwise, but suddenly, comments I'd never notice before now seemed like come-ons. The charismatic tone of a salesman's voice might not be him trying to make a sale, it MIGHT be him flirting. And because of my cortisol brainbath, I don't know the difference. Jiffy Lube guys giving me the promo discount without a coupon? I say thank you and hope my reaction is not being a.) overly grateful, or b.) completely ungrateful. It's innocent, because they don't know my story. I'm just a girl trying to pass safety & emissions. Unsuccessfully.

But if I meet someone who learns my story and still seems to have his sights set on anything other than polite friendship, I will be incensed. It seems like I've had run-ins with this and I can't believe how mad it makes me.

Because it has been four short (albeit excruciating) months since Reboyfriend's funeral. What kind of dick is already thinking about who's next in line for what's left of his regirlfriancee...even if they throw in the requisite social disclaimer that it "probably won't be for awhile....but when that time comes..."? It's not like I'm a trust fund he's left behind, where it actually makes sense to start thinking about who gets it now. I remember when he died, decisions would need to be made pretty quickly about *who got his stuff. It started instantly. But it was normal, because it wasn't about the things. It was about having one last piece of this person everyone loved.

This is different. I am not Jed's gun, or his dirtbike, or his snowboard or his fucking truck. I am his partner, and he did not designate a beneficiary. If I ever wake up one day and decide differently, I'll make it clear.

In reality, I don't really believe this is going to be all that much of a problem. Crying publicly and forcing myself not to park my cart and slump down on the floor in the Walmart aisle in my loafers and rolled-up too-long jeans, isn't the purring mating call it sounds like. It feels wrong and bitchy to be preemptively mad and insulted at something that should flatter me.

But here's the thing: Any budding of a "relationship" I could possibly have with someone else would only be good for them (if that, if we're being honest). Any "date" or "hangout" I got myself into would be a reminder that I am not with the person I want. It would only serve to exacerbate my loneliness. If dating me would not be for my benefit, then pray tell: whose would it be for? It's an arrangement that would work well for him and would not me. Please explain to me how that's "sweet?"

An open statement to future men everywhere, especially Jackson Hole: I am somebody's girlfriend. Please respect that. And because I love him, my expectation is that you please respect his memory as well.

/bitchfest off/

I have pictures of our Jackson Hole trip that show what an amazing experience it really was this year...this wank can't undermine Fireball 2009!!! Stay tuned.

*Ironically, we had this discussion Wednesday night, less than two days before he was killed. We each assigned the entirety of our stuff to the other. Obviously, I did not fly off my bed and type it up before demanding his signature. I just never thought it would be necessary to actually have to tell anyone that before the wedding. And really, would they believe me or think it was appropriate? I knew it was his wish to leave everything to me, but it didn't work out that way. And it's just stuff. I got what I wanted, and let the rest go.

She's a GRUMPY regirlfriend!

(You have to read that in the tone of "He's an ANGRY elf!").

I got an email from Urbana on 11th today. It's one of those "We are unique! Just like everyone else!" shots in the dark. I was thisclose to writing back with something sweet like:

"Congratulations. You are one of the 7,000 properties in the valley competing for the 400 households that can make enough money to afford them. Good luck, because 300 of them already own homes."

But I didn't. Although, it reminds me of going to college and dating in Utah. It was the dating scene that should have been called "A whole lotta '5's, waiting around for '10's."

Even though I work for a wonderfully stable, large company, nobody is safe in this economy. Everyone is nervous. And I look around and think "The stupid housing market did this to us." I'm bitter.

Then I have a memory of Rbf that makes me want to cry. For a sec my heart melts, then I just get more bitter. I can't hold on to that fleeting meltage moment. Trust me, I try. I realize that my pain is fermenting into anger...finally. 

I remember that, at least twice a day, he would pick an innoportune time to smack me in the butt, and I would simultaneously make a suggestive little Betty Boop-ish playboy bunny sound. If you knew me well in person, you'd know that this is done in jest. Very much in jest. I'm not very Betty Boop. Maybe that's why he thought it was so funny. He was always trying to catch me off guard, especially in public. Or like, pumping up the bike. Walking into the model home. Showing me how to operate the riding mower. In Walmart. At his cousin's wedding. Anywhere I'd expect it least, or where I'd be too socially aware (etiquette-wise) to make my risque little noise. If I didn't do the sound, he won. If I hesitated, he got points. So I brought my A-game to the ass-tapping. I'd do the whimper when and where I got the smack-dat. The more I called his bluff, the funnier it became to him. The less I hesitated--the better. His usual victory cry: "I love making you squirm!"

And I mean it about the hilarity thing. When I defied social norms with my pornstar sound, Rbf laughed like a 5 year old rewinding on a funny part in a movie ten times and laughing just as hard each time. He seriously thought it was the funniest damned thing I did. And he never got sick of it. I never got it. I just didn't get it. But I had a 100% success rate. Go figure.

The time that has passed since our fun times together, is getting longer and longer. And I am finding less and less strength to be cheerful. I miss him so profoundly much, that I have no more ways to describe it. It is just raw, and it is unbridled and merciless. I wake up in the morning and think "I can't do this again." I can not do this every day.

But I do. A massive part of me died with him that day, but I get up and do it all over again every day. I do. I hate it, and it's not rewarding. But I do. It's what I feel him telling me to do every time I consider anything else. Dammit, Jed, you dirty trucker. Boy, do I love you.

A few of Reboyfriend's favorite things:

Healthy food like blueberries, brown rice and raw honey

Peterbilts

Kenworths, but only if there isn't a Peterbilt instead

Hard, hard work

Flying

45 minute showers (not with me)

(Well, probably with me, but that wasn't my point. He just took everything so seriously when washing up)

Brazil, Brazilians, Portugese, all things Brazil

Conspiracy theories, like 9.11 and maybe us not walking on the moon (I was kind of rude about this...how sweet was he to shrug and let it go? I will never meet another person like this again, I do realize that)

Stuff from the 90's

Blue Moon

Being late for everything

Me speaking French (it would make him laugh like the butt smacking thing, and he'd say "say it again")

My Hudson jeans

Snowboarding until you break something on you

Wakeboarding until you break something on you

Me doing his Excel spreadsheets

When the bed was made

Me driving the semis

Me bringing us toast and coffee to bed every single morning

Me

Indy, oh how he loved Indy...and Indy loved him

His grandpa Floyd, and the hope that I might agree to name our child after him

Dirtbikes and riding

Anything I ever wrote him

Jake's kids

Freedom

I just realized I could keep writing that list until it bumped all the other posts into archives. Reboyfriend loved so many things. He loved life. He loved health and vitality. He loved learning new words with me. I loved that little pause he always gave before he tried out a new 5 dollar word on me for the first time. He tried to be sly, but it happened so often I could tell instantly when he was about to work one out. He would look at me intently, waiting for me to tell him if it was used right. He loved it. He loved me, and it was glorious.

I think of this hideous pain, and I understand that, by its nature, it will have to be as powerful as the bond we shared. My future is gone and my present is crippled, but it was worth it. He died so incredibly happy, I am certain of this. I would not trade my unlimited pain for his last nine months of happiness.

The last month of his life, something changed about his intensity. Even under some of the heaviest work, family & economic stresses of his life, he was finally happy again. He explained to me that everything in his personal life had finally become exactly what he wanted, and how blessed he felt. Imagine what that means to me.

Because somewhere, at some point, Someone pulled me aside and said I would have a chance to be the reason someone died with a full heart, in love, at the top, and at peace. I would have power to be the difference, but it would come at a dear price, a monumental, immeasurable price. At the price of my heart breaking, my body weakening, my future disappearing and a piece of me dying inside. And I must have been asked, would you do this for someone you loved? And this pain, this story, I guess it tells us what my answer was. And if asked again, I would say it without hesitation, like the little noise I made when he spanked me in the bookstore. Without thinking, without batting an eye.

I love that truck driving, ass-smacking, astronaut-doubting, baby hungry Reboyfriend of mine. I just love him.

Sorry for all the sap...sometimes it takes over, but I'm still my grumpy self. Don't worry. The end.

Get in the car, loser, we're going slopping.

The last week was hell. There was a traffic jam of epic proportions DAILY. I was supersick through Monday with some sinus malady that made my previous colds seem like a woodstock orgy. And by sinus malady, we all know that means ear/nose/throat equilibrium clusterf**k that ends (as all good things do) in some inner-ear freak show. My ear is still ringing. When I blow my nose, it sounds like those phone calls with people who have toted their cell phones into horizontal 70-mph wind. Like there is a boat in my head, and its canvas sail is flapping about.

And Anaga, did you do a word count on that last graf? I believe it was like 750 words of me talking about an ear infection in the spazziest way I could think of.

Oh, back to the traffic thing!!! You were almost off the hook. Tuesday morning I grew some stones and decided to go to work and infect my office. Karma took note of this and made certain it took almost 2.5 hours to get there. Karma then told some pilot to crash his small personal airplane on my offramp, right before I was getting ready to leave, so that I might have the opportunity to be cornered in a traffic jam, with a plane crash to behold for 20 minutes while the NTSB pranced around measuring shit. They're thinking the same thing as me: This is a crash landing. Actual plane crashes look very, very different than this. If you don't believe me, I have some pictures for you. But whatever. The universe was such a dick this week. *Fortunately, my coworkers are NOT dicks, and gave me warning that some plane just COULDN'T get its crashing overwith before it got to my exit, and certainly couldn't pick one of the open fields everywhere out there...so it was perfectly aimed at the Highland/Alpine SB offramp. I was able to kill time in the valley while they removed the little plane, so *I didn't have to see it.

By Friday night, I wanted to scream. Driving daily to and from Utah county has called into serious question the intelligence of our friends in the southerly county. I've had six different commutes since I've worked at my office. Not one of these routes is as prone to constant car accidents and rubbernecking as this route - NB I-15 mornings, SB I-15 afternoons. It's like, a sociological marvel. I don't want to call these people morons...so let's just call them special. If that's condescending, sorry. I'll stop being a prick when these people find a way to repay me the 46 hours of my life they owe me back. It's not just the accidents they like to get in all the time. It's the general, overall waiting behind their asses in traffic while they crawl past point of the mountain, pointing out shapes in the clouds, and/or otherwise pretending that they are in a parade and their car is a float. For no effing reason. (Other than 3 days earlier it was snowy).

When I started blogging five years ago, my blog was up and running solely for my bitching and moaning pleasure. It evolved into general merriment of mocking obnoxious liberals, then became about how seriously so blessed I was, then mocked obnoxious conservatives, then got really empty all of a sudden. Next thing I knew, I was getting divorced. And it became about that. And then....well, you've read it. It is a sad blog now. I have a sad life, one that I sometimes wish I could have someone else come live for me for just a couple days while I got my spirit back to health.

And now, we see that it has come full circle. It is, true to its roots, now a forum for my bitching and negativity. So something is finally right in the world.

**Not to make light of this poor guy's situation. He crashed his Beech and only barely survived. I was vicariously relieved for his family. I hope they know how blessed they are.