This is me today

This morning I walked into a store to buy a coffee.  I smelled you.  I looked everywhere but you were not there.  14 years and it hit me like a punch in the gut.  I saw a man in a car today.  I thought it was you.  It was not.  I think I’m going to see you soon.  I feel it.  And it doesn’t really matter.  I’m OK.  You’re not OK.  My version of the book.

I'm_OK-_You're_OK

NOT.

I am moving soon.  It is a difficult thing to do.  The packing and selling and organizing.  Selling some of the stuff in my parents’ house so I can get my stuff out of here and in there.  Log jam!  Sometimes I feel overwhelmed.  And other times I feel like – I’ve got this.  I’m a frigging production manager.

moving

My father had his shoulder replaced last week.  He looked so awful afterward in the hospital, he scared me.  And I don’t scare easily.  He will be 81 on March 30.  He has been in rehab since Friday.  He is himself again.  If he wasn’t sitting around in jammies and wearing a sling, you’d never know.  Yay!

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I have a new job.  Driving an escort car for oversize loads.  I love love love love love it.  If I have my way, I will never ever sit in an office again.  Unless it is volunteer work of some kind.

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The other day I was escorting a guy whose handle was Big Daddy.  I kid you not.  But I did kid him about it; oh yes I did.  So we’re coming over 691 and I said, “Big Daddy.  See that tower up there?”  He said yes.  I said, “When I was in high school, I used to go up there with my friends and smoke the wacky.”  He laughed and said, “Me too.”  Turns out, Big Daddy went to high school in Connecticut, as did I.  We graduated in the same year.  I met Big Daddy in person at the end of the run.  He looked like my ex.  A little taller and his Buddha was a little smaller.  He had a shaved head complete with baseball cap, bright blue eyes and the same hands.  I said, “Big Daddy.  You look like my ex.  Hey!  You could be my next ex.”  He rolled his eyes.  I get a lot of that.

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I have this dog Dante.  He is some kind of freaky critter.  He is not my Mikey.  This doesn’t mean I don’t love him.  Maybe I feel about Dante how mothers feel about their kids.  You love them all but you love them different?  First I had Dave and he was my baby.  No doubt about it.  Then I had Mike and he was my BFF.  I loved him with my heart.  I still do.  We got each other.  Now I have Dante.  A rescue.  I had the others from puppy stage.  Dante has issues.  He is needy.  He cries and barks.  But he is sweet.  He stares at me all the time.  And he loves me.  And he is playful.  He worries.  I can tell.  He paws at me if I don’t touch him enough, which for him is most of the time.  He throws himself at me.  He tries to sit or lie on my lap.  He weighs 55 pounds.  He hogs the bed.  I have to fight for space.  But I’m a dog person/poodle mama.  I love his screwed-up little self.  But I think I might miss Mike every day for the rest of my life.

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Never heard of Pharrell Williams till the song “Happy” came out.  I freaking love it.  I wish I had written it.  But I never would have worn shorts to the Academy Awards.

Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you know what happiness is to you
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do

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Today, I am happy too.

happy day

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More Haiku

Haiku 又又

I have the best friends
I cannot thank them enough
For all their support

My dog is barking
I would like to whack him one
But I won’t do it

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Chocolate is good
Makes me happy and fat too
Should stop eating it

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Thanksgiving was here
Girly week at my condo
We did have a blast

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It’s been forty years
Since high school graduation
But I think I’m young

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No real job two years
Worried about my future
But I’m still happy

I love my condo
My favorite place to live
More than my big house

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Did not ever think
This is where I would be now
But I’ve adjusted

Supper Club was born
At a parent’s funeral
You can do it too

ImageSupper3

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Fix a kitchen shelf?
I don’t care if he’s eighty
Daddy will do it

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I miss my dog Mike
His smell and his big brown eyes
Won’t forget him soon

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All of my new blogs
Will be about getting old
Arthritis not sex

My last haiku sucked
I look in the damn mirror
I am thirty-six

Now we are cooking
I’m bitching and complaining
Please keep reading – thanks

Want to be better
At keeping my house cleaner
I hate vacuuming

Writing this haiku
Trying to figure out life
Please put up with me

My original goal
Was to write two blogs a week
Two years in the past

Very cold outside
February is awful
Enough is enough

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Furnace is running
Money right up the chimney
I will block my ears

One day I will live
In Florida once again
It is sunny there

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My life in Haiku

I do hate housework
I try to make myself clean
Vacuuming is awful

vacuum

I miss him a lot
My dog Mike with his brown eyes
I will not forget

Mike

Once I lost a job
A man who had small fingers
Were other things small

Was crazy in love
He said I’ll never leave you
Who tells lies like that

Ann Coulter faking
But people believe in her
She laughs all the time

ann-coulter

Looking at hairdo’s
I have been struck blind often
Need a mirror, Girl

bad hair

Thinking in Haiku
It’s funny and makes me laugh
You should try it too

haiku

Stop licking my pit
My dog loves deodorant
Dante’s a weirdo

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Candy Crush Saga
I am so addicted now
Candy Crack Saga

candy crack

I am fucking broke
Twenty two months not full time
But love not working

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Love NCIS
Isn’t Gibbs really handsome
Why did Ziva leave

ziva

I am getting old
Arthritis hurts my poor toes
And the rest of me

toe

I’m a love cynic
Now I protect my poor heart
It is easier

heart

Not superstitious
Only a dummy would be
Knock knock knock knock wood

knock wood

Word I never heard
Disambiguation – huh?
Love dictionaries

dictionary

I called you Pumpkin
You called me your Pussy Cat
You were full of shit

pumpkinpussy cat

My heat isn’t on
I’m waiting for Thanksgiving
Colleen needs the warmth

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The end. For now.

Almost three weeks without Mike

I have not cried about you in over a week.

I carried your jingly collar around in my purse for a bit, but now it is in my “Mikey box”.

Last Tuesday, I was at the Y longer than I thought I would be and started to worry about you and then remembered that you were no longer waiting for me.

Your pal came over Friday night.  You did not greet him and beg for cookies from his pocket.

I made soup on Saturday and dropped a carrot.  You did not dive for it.

I took a nap in the afternoon.  I thought how nice it would be if I had my nose in the back of your neck and I could sniff you.

I made an iced coffee and an ice cube slid from the fridge to the floor.   You did not come running like a big nut to grab it.  I picked it up and threw it in the sink to melt.

Nobody, I mean nodoggy has eaten any of my dirty laundry.

The back yard is all clean.  There are no pooper doopers.  The mulch is new and red and cedary.

I threw out your beds.  They were all lumpy from all the washings after your seizures.  I ran all your bowls through the dishwasher and put them in the Mikey box downstairs.   I windexed all your nose smurb off the slider and the front door.   I threw out all the toys you had chewed to smithereens.  I gave a couple that were like new to Boo.  I washed Kong and Orby and put them in the box with the bowls and the collar.  I washed the car blanket.  It is clean and will not smell like you again.

I picked up your ashes and it made me sick to my stomach.  And then I wondered – how could so much dog fit into such a small box.  And I don’t refer to your physical size but your emotional size – the hole in my middle.

But I am feeling better.  I just reread my last blog – 4 Days without Mike.  I no longer feel like I’m wading through an atmosphere as thick as peanut butter.  I can laugh without feeling guilty. I sent an e-mail to the nice lady we met last time we were at the vet – the one from Poodle Rescue.  You never needed anyone to rescue you.  You had me.

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No Mike – Day 4

From the tap, I fill the Brita pitcher with water.  After it runs through, I pour it into both the Keurig and Mike’s bowl.

After I get out of the shower, I walk back into the bedroom and talk to Mike while I get dressed.

I pick up my coffee cup because if I forget and leave it next to my chair in the living room, Mike will be slurping in it in less than 5 seconds.

When I walk back from the dumpster, Mike barks at me out the door and I threaten to beat him with a stick.

I put a baby gate in the opening at the top of the stairs every night so Mike won’t wander and maybe hurt himself having a seizure.

I leave the slider open so Mike can go in and out 45 times a day without driving me crazy.

I put the small wastebasket in the bathroom under the sink because Mike eats yucky Kleenex.

If Mike doesn’t race me on the stairs, I look up to see if he is already there looking down and waiting for me.

I hear the mailman and immediately give Mike the stink-eye so he won’t bark his fool poodle head off.

I leave the bathroom door open when I pee because Mike will be unhappy if I close him out.

I give Mike phenobarbital every morning and every night.  I’ve been doing that for nearly nine years.

I take Mike with me when I do errands – he has a red and white blanket in the back seat of my car.

Every night when I go to bed, Mike settles in with his head resting on my legs while I read my book.  When I turn out the light, he jumps off and goes to his bed in the corner.

I talk to Mike at least 25 times a day.

Sometimes I sing the song “Wild Thing You Make My Heart Sing” and Mike jumps up and put his front paws on my shoulders and we “dance”.

Mike and I nap together on the couch – our heads on opposite sides.  We share a blankey.

Mike under blankey

I am lonely and sickened.  It is hard to move forward.  I feel like that TV commercial where the guy dives into the swimming pool full of caramel and can hardly move.  I wake up in the morning and lie there for an hour or two and think about Mike.  I’m irritable and distracted.  I think I need to have my head examined.  I feel like I should try to function better, but I really don’t care.  When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t look so good.  I feel guilty if I don’t remember Mike is gone for even one minute.  I wonder if I’ll ever be the same again.  I know I’ll be the same again.  I just don’t know when.