Junk mail for the dead, or, YOU CANNOT BE TURNED DOWN!

Sometimes a piece of junk mail can really make your day. Widowed people are pretty used to receiving mail, email, and phone calls for their late spouses. At first, these situations can hurt, and be another occasion to "break the news" yet again… but as time goes on, the picture gets a little funnier: the dumbest marketers are the last to catch on. And once in a while, it's downright HILARIOUS.

Like the other day, when my late husband received a bulky envelope from United of Omaha Life Insurance Company. On the envelope there was no question who was being addressed — or what they wanted from him:
"Here's that second chance you hoped for, Gavin O'Shaunnessy!"

I open it up to find a direct and engaging, yet serious letter. There are lots of small official looking bits of paper, some that look like certificates, an easy card to fill out, and oh my — a prepaid business reply envelope. As a widow, I can really use that 44 cents somewhere else. It's just so hard not to talk back to this solicitation, which often puts words into my mouth, like: 

"Why didn't I get more life insurance when I was younger?…. "

Or maybe when I was alive?

"… And when it was cheaper?"

Well, um, gee, err… it probably won't get any cheaper than THIS.

"Now you've got the opportunity to get up to $10,000.00 graded benefit whole life insurance protection at an affordable cost… Your acceptance is guaranteed and your application is pre-approved."

Should I laugh or cry? When he was diagnosed with cancer, I would have killed for some life insurance -- he had just a tiny bit, because he'd lived with a heart valve defect and was self-employed. We couldn't find any that he qualified for. We kept our eyes peeled for envelopes like this. Too bad this offer arrived more than four years after he died. So, you know, I'm skeptical when the letter intones, in green gothic type,

"You can't be turned down."

RILLY? I say. Wannabet?

So I strongly considered filling the policy out. After all, as the letter states, "this insurance does not require a medical examination." And they make it so easy… that envelope was really (I had no IDEA) an IMMEDIATE ACTION ENVELOPE. The application was a big piece of paper, legal sized, two colors, but I only needed to fill out a few fields, and read the attached Post-it with Gavin's special preapproved authorization number: 519 858 890.

The forms were peppered with grown-up (if not senior-citizen) phrases like "beneficiary," "estate," "protection," "cash value," and an assurance that he'd be protected till age 121. (Suicide, of course, was excluded.) One table contained the word "GUARANTEED!" nine times in a row.

The whole package just left me feeling… I don't know. Confident. Comforted. Covered. Except for the fact, of course, that it was addressed to someone who couldn't, um, read.

Such a simple offer, a no brainer, with practically no effort required: payments could be made via "Easy Pay Option." I mean, even a dead guy could fill this out, right?

I laughed for a day solid, and so did my new husband, and I wondered if it would be even more fun if I applied, filed a claim, and had the requisite phone calls: this time, finally, with me at an advantage. Aren't they asking for it?

I mean, this is a company that bought a very very cheap mailing list. How careful could they be? They might even pay!

Then I realized that they would probably, at some point in the process, and possibly before issuing my check, ask for a death certificate. They'd probably notice that he was dead before the postmark date on my reply OR their offer.

It would probably be fun, but even United of Omaha was probably not dumb enough to fall for it.

And you know what? I've got better things to do with my time.

But it's hard to get this good a laugh out of a mailbox these days.

I Heart Camp Widow

Of course I had to redo my Powerpoint at the last minute. Friday evening
in the hotel bar I told Andrea how I derived the name "Supa Dupa Fresh"
and she nearly fell asleep. "Fine, we'll say I took that name
because 'I like soup,'" I conceded. And so, a legend was killed.

Camp Widow, a weekend of events in San Diego hosted by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, was the highlight of my year. I spent many months preparing my presentation on widows in social media, “Grief? There’s No App for That!,” and helping promote the event to my widowed friends and followers on Twitter and Facebook. I relished the chance to meet in person many folks who’ve become close friends online over the past few years. And I was honored (and totally shocked) to receive an award from SSLF for connecting so many people with resources with each other.

Even though I started with a serious lead, I can’t make this into a comprehensive article about this outstanding weekend. There are so many other perspectives – Candice has listed most of the blog posts, and others are here and here (and more here, here, here, here, here and here -- Holy crap this list is getting ridiculous!), along with two articles in USA Today, including one in which I was quoted.

Instead I’d like to share a few observations. First, the connections are so wonderful to see. If you are widowed, you already know the tremendous power of meeting others who’ve “been there,” how liberating it is to not have to explain yourself, to find those who understand your dark jokes. For many of the 200 attendees this was their first time close enough to hug someone their own age who’d lived with loss. Before Camp, I'd already met scores of my peers in person, and hundreds online, and I know I’ve been exceptionally lucky. This kinship is so validating, such a source of encouragement and conviction – I was a little envious of those discovering this place in themselves, this feeling of not being alone. I was moved to say something new agey: “All these hearts opening up – it’s lighting up the room.” (And then, strangely enough, there were actual fireworks over the harbor.)

And then, through the weekend, I felt a little distant. While I’m still in transition in my life, my emotional needs are much simpler, much less urgent, and not so much about grieving. As my friend Ellen Gerst said, this is a good sign for the rest of you. The weekend was not without pangs: it’s shocking to me, though I know so many of them online, to see in person widowed parents younger than me, some MUCH younger (one with a baby in attendance). And I was inspired by the courage of those who showed up in a strange place, knowing not a soul, in the early days after their loss – many with “0-6 months” on their nametags (each guest selected their own).

Second, the role of social media in making the connections. I loved witnessing the rich and dense web of friendships that had started online, many through my own Facebook activity. One woman told me, “when you friended me you were the only widow I knew other than my great aunt, and now half of my friends list is people like us.” Others toasted (with mashed-potato cocktails) the real faces of people they’d grown to love as sisters from tiny avatars.

Aside from a posse from Widows Wear Stilettos, the largest contingency (23 people) was definitely bloggers: not just the seven from SSLF’s flagship Widow’s Voice, who appeared on stage in a group, but also Candice, Abby, Matt, Andrea, Sarah, Chelsea, Mel, Dan, Boo, Deb, Wendy, Jennifer, WnS, my dear sister Hyla, and the hilarious, stunning Carol, who had the second-most beautiful shoes in the room.

My presentation on social media went “fine” (as we perfectionists say). It had to, given the number of cocktails I passed up throughout the weekend in order to “finish it.” I was trying to be analytical and high-level when people were looking for support and laughs: which you can get online, but perhaps not talk about.

Like so many other aspects of the weekend, the proof was in the pudding: I could see evidence of social media’s value in the connections all around me (and in the award and the attention of USA Today reporter Sharon Jayson), so the Powerpoint was almost beside the point.

Third, the ordinariness of our group: how, when you take away the “drama” the rest of the world invests our “stories” with (to paraphrase Matt, that’s no story, that’s my life!), when you remove yourself from the people Alicia calls “civilians,” the sadness and surprise of our youth and existence and laughter – all the reactions – we’re free. Black or white, fresh or seasoned, young or old, gay or straight, widowed people look like any other group of people: some shy, some giggling with roommates, most with a deep bond to at least one other here, all learning. As I walked back to the elevator after the gala, the “fresh widow” label on my wool shawl invisible as it protected my lucite award, I looked at the gaggles of conversation groups on square beige couches in the hotel lobby: it wasn’t easy to tell who was with our group, and I might have fit in to any of them, too.

I didn’t have a scarlet "W" on my forehead, after all. The role I play was put into relief: I have been widowed, and I can offer hope and share with those in the depths of it, but as a sister and an advocate I’m a handhold* for others.

* To understand this reference and also to be human and delighted you must read or preferably listen to Michele Neff Hernandez’s keynote.


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Guest Post: Defining the Widow/er

On Facebook, I asked for jokes about loss and this appeared in my inbox. Since he's published it only via email, here is a guest post from my friend Jo Rozier:

Widow, n (‘wi-do)
Bipedal primates belonging to the mammalian species Homo Sapiens Alone-ous. Involuntarily solitary, widows are social by nature and can be fearsome predators. Athough they have a reputation for unprovoked anger they are often quite insecure especially about their appearance. Because of this they will rarely initiate a charge. If they do attack, it is usually a blind one to scare off those who are less than comforting...or to scare up affection. More often than not, the widow will use stealth techniques to ambush its prey, rather than speed.

Widower, n ('wi-do-wer)
The male version of the bipedal mammalian species Homo Sapiens Alone-ous. This creature, formerly known for its great strength and cunning, now cries at the sight of butterflies and can be seen looking at pretty flowers. Now that it has to run the household on its own, the widower quickly realizes its former mate was much smarter and more organized than he. Its appearance is often characterized by excessive amounts of gray in its mane or what’s left of it. Although involuntarily solitary the widower can be reluctant to engage in a new relationship for fear that its first partner will somehow find out and he’ll still be in trouble. Particularly susceptible to the attentions of a widow. Approach with caution.

Children of Widows or Widowers, n (children of wi-dos n wi-do-ers)
Long term: the offspring of a widow or widower are observed to be very capable and surprisingly well adjusted. While some may exhibit problems making lasting commitments because of their painful past experience most develop the capacity to live and love to an astounding level. They take little for granted and are often a source of incredible compassion for others who have been hurt deeply. They are the embodiment of resiliency and strength.

Short term:**** WARNING, APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION AND PROTECTIVE EQUIPMENT. DO NOT APPROACH UNLESS YOU’RE IN A LARGE GROUP !!! ****

These members, especially the “teen” version of the species, are capable of extreme fits of rage and destruction. Do not be deceived by quiet members of the clan, they are merely resting between rages and sizing you up for a meal. Can render great physical harm merely by looking at you. They do not suffer fools lightly. For more handling information go to your local library and look up anything on pit bulls, piranhas, great white sharks, or category 5 hurricanes.

(Thanks, Jo!)

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Proof (Products for an Alternative Valentine's Day)

For several years in the mid-90s I used to sandpaper the mottos off of conversation hearts candies and use food coloring and a teeny, tiny, itty bitty paintbrush to write my own, nasty sayings. It was especially useful because it kept me busy, singing in my garret, after the Christmas craft sales were done.

I sold hundreds, in little boxes of six like the above, and by large handfuls for the occasional party of snarky singles (I don’t think we used to use that word? We’d just say “mean,” right?).

So, now let these pictures serve as proof that I used to actually be funny.
Proof that I have always been somewhat bitter, because I made them fifteen years ago, young and thin, even while I was in love.
Maybe I was fated to be a widow, disappointed, unhappy that others are doing well, pissed to see others in happy true love.

But they’ll also prove that Bittersweets, my version, were made and marketed years ago. You’ll see on the back of each box I’ve painstakingly included the year of copyright with my name (retouched for blogging benefit, but clear on the objects). Because actually, I don’t begrudge anyone their success. I just like to get paid. (Although I will lend the dig that mine are a way lot funnier than most of yours).

You can expect a call from my lawyer.




Also – I used to make these little boxes. It's hard to survive an entire commercial holiday like Valentine's Day with a single product. Imagine the presentation ... it’s funny for about 1 second. Still, at $3 a pop (in 1995 dollars), they moved.

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I Dumped My Job

I’ve been busy working for money.

Not like all those Mommy bloggers who are really just justifying that they don’t work outside the home. So anxious to dispel your ideas and reassure themselves because they don’t really “own” their perfectly fine decisions. (Mr. Fresh’s very prejudicial take, not mine. Not really.)

Sometimes I wonder if I ever “own” anything about myself. There’s a thread, smooth with years of friction, pulling through my mind constantly to catch a “good excuse.” That maybe wants to fail people. That wants my potential to always still be true, to be outstanding, so that I never have to cash the check of my spectacular gifts.

Never to get to the bank and find out they’re tin, or fake, maybe not even good fakes.

It was fun to say: sort of glamorous. And a good excuse: "I wish I could help you with that, but I am overwhelmed with paying work." Sometimes I wonder if, as post-70s-feminists, we've become romantics about work.

They called me a talented child, but no one knew what to do with me. I was head and shoulders above the other kids. Schoolwork was easy and occasionally, rarely, fun, but a good way to please people. I learned not to study, not to work, not to try. I could do things with one hand tied behind my back.

Dispelling the panic of my last few months at a (very) liberal (very) arts(y) college, I spieled, “I just have to figure out how to get paid for sitting around nursing a beer and talking about ideas. You know, a café intellectual. Anyone have any alumni contacts in that field?”

(Mommy blogging might be a pretty good fit, actually.)

The real world, when I finally entered it, was interested in neither head, nor shoulders, nor folks in half-upper-bondage. They didn't want to buy great ideas OR rent out people who were smarter than everyone else. Can you imagine?! I worked at “other things.” [Insert stories about “coping,” “money,” the beauty of compromising by living in the real world.]

Early this year I started “not working” for the first time since age 14. Then this freelance job showed up. In some ways, it was an ideal gig, work from home, flexible hours, using my talents, in a field I have a sense of mission toward. And in the past few weeks, as the work heated up, as they fell in love with me, and as I started to accept that I might have a job as a creative, someone with room for eccentricity and Oh God the hair, I was having fun. Some fun. I enjoyed being productive. Dressing up before breakfast.

I even tried to tame the mane, at a further disadvantage because many products are still in boxes somewhere.

I loved the idea of having “clients.” Doesn’t that sound romantic? At least, if you don’t perform Brazilian waxing? (Why do they call it that? It sounds more like “waning” than “waxing” to me).

But it was the worst possible timing. Mr. Fresh’s new job means he has no flex to cover for me on weekdays and is trashed on weekends. We moved. Shortie started kindergarten. The firm started to want me at lots of meetings. The client, who has rather sharp teeth (but who I like enormously), needs a lot of handholding. I was too busy, not fun busy, and losing sleep and still with the persistent cough.

Mr. Fresh and I did the math and figured out that, after travel and band aids, as a household we might clear $6/hour. I can be a fucking artist for that. Instead of kissing butt and driving all over the state with no road signs for the client whose address is listed wrong on their own web site.

This morning, when I quit, I felt like an enabler dumping an alcoholic. Maybe that’s a good sign… that I’ve broken a tie, recognized something that’s not right for me now, and stuck to my guns.

Maybe it’s the first step in housewifely entropy.
Maybe there are about a hundred other ways to make money and improve the world waiting on my “desk” (dining room table and a bunch of boxes) right now.
Maybe life is meant to be easy, and work a playground for my talents.
Maybe the client will develop some boundaries and call me back.
Maybe I’m playing games and just won a hand.

I thought I might want to pull a late-stage, last-ditch widow card: "I'm sorry, while I watched my husband die, I swore I'd never do anything un-fun again."

But that wasn't it. The romance is gone. There's no intrinsic value in work and no shame in being a stay-at-home Mom. Sorry, Mom, I'm over it. At least for now.

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Cancer, Schmantzer. When Will We Market Death Awareness?

October’s over. The debris from the pink tsunami I see in every store I visit could be evidence of the recession or that people are as sick as I am of the idea that consumerism can heal our disease, which I suppose are the same thing. Or they could be evidence that this particular product push has had its day. Maybe it’s time for something new?

In October I got pretty hot in a debate on the BlogHer site on “Do we really need Breast Cancer Awareness month?,”  initiated by the great Denise Tanton. Suzanne Reisman followed up with her own piece, "Breast Cancer Awareness month is bunk." I contended that the pink has done its job, and it’s time to move on.

(I could also engage further in questions of how much funding BRCA receives compared to other cancers, the politics of cancer advocacy, the limitations of the American Cancer Society, the effectiveness of funding research versus reducing disparities in health care delivery and outcomes, how much money from these purchases actually gets to an organization, or how much each organization actually helps people with cancer. I could argue about the different types of BRCA, the ages they affect women, and the efficacy of mammograms for each type. I could talk about black women’s rates of death, which are much higher. Or about health care reform, pharmaceutical companies, and the changes that would make a bigger difference than mammograms. But I won’t do that here. [Do you like how I spent 124 words “not talking about it? Me too. Where’s a good editor when you need one?])

I do, in general, support medical research and public education about health. I have several friends who’ve lost loved ones to this deadly disease and I in no way wish to diminish their pain, or the courage presented every day by people faced with any cancer.

But I think it’s time for a change. (No, not that one, but thanks.)

See, we’re all going to die, right? No exceptions. And probably, we won’t be the first person we know who will undergo this fate, which many say is the only fate.

My public awareness campaign would encourage us all to plan for the inevitable. Here are the elements:
-- Discussion with your loved ones that specifically gives them permission to remarry and do anything else that’s important to them.
-- Write a will and make sure everyone knows it’s true to your intentions. If folks are going to receive bad news, might as well tell them now, or they will make life hell for everyone else. And for the love of God, put in a fund for a mediator in case of dispute so your family can avoid fighting in court.
-- Prepare an Advance Health Care Directive (I just preached about my experience the other day). Understand that this is a dynamic document, because you never know what the situation may be. Discuss it with loved ones but have paper to comfort and cover them in this most stressful time.
-- In some states, you may need a living will and some other documents. I’m not a lawyer. At least Google it, okay?

Naturally a public awareness campaign is necessary. People can be eased into the discussion. Just like “breast” 30 years ago, “death” is still a fairly dirty word and something most of us would rather not think about at the grocery store or in the garden products aisle at Home Depot.

But just think about the products in this campaign (of course everything is black):

-- Ribbons? Sure, what the hell, black ribbons. Satin, not grosgrain, those Swarovski crystals make a lovely accent and they get cheaper every year.
-- TV ads featuring famous actors: Don’t be morbid. Be prepared.
-- A panel on the bus: Talk about the end: it isn’t just for widows any more.
(and) How much do you love your family? Will love be enough? *
(and) Wow! What bargains! How much did you spend today to protect your family?
-- A frisbee: Life’s a breeze when your Advance Health Care Directive is in place. (Maybe we make a boomerang for Hindu outreach).
-- Bumper stickers: Shit Happens. That’s why I just updated my will.
(and) In case of apocalypse, I speak to Jesus. In case of cancer, I speak to Hospice.
(and) I wrote my will. What’s your excuse for driving like that?
-- Produce state-by-state kits of the necessary documents and sell at FedEx office, Target, etc. Cute designs for men and women, Gen-X and Gen-Y, Latinos. Lots of butterflies on the chick stuff, motorcycles for guys. (Yes, it’s all available for free, but to reach everyone you need a consumer option. As demonstrated by BRCA).
-- Partner with banks to produced branded kits to offer FREE when you open an account.

Yeah, I presented it as sort of a joke (sort of), but I do believe in this cause.

Don’t you think there’s room somewhere, somehow, for a more public discussion of what death requires of each and every one of us?

* Note the potential synergy with life insurance marketing -- we can learn from their successes and failures, and I bet they'd love to work with us. Win-win!


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Behaver Rules [sic] (Found Art)

An artist friend found this “readymade” in an old school notebook from around 1956, and gave this to me as a housewarming gift. It’s been posted in my work area ever since as inspiration. Or something… perhaps to remind me to be grateful I’m not the fidgety bright child of the 50s, and no longer this kid at any time (though workplaces seem to bring this out in me still).

Gavin grew up in an era when the teacher read Scripture in class, an average somewhat-challenged pupil unlike me, and he didn’t find this a bit funny. Maybe he knew a kid like me back then and hated her.*

Still, #4? #9? Poor kid.

Behaver Rules
1. Listening to stories inc.
2. Be good in school.
3. Raise your hand.
4. DON’T moan.
5. DON’T talk out.
6. Sit up straight.
7. Follow drirections.
8. DON’T talk to your self.
9. DON’T laugh when the teacher is reading the bible.
10. DON’T bring toys to school.
11. In your free time walk around the room quiltely and read quitely.


* It certainly bugged him that I point out any spelling error that crosses my path, even in something a child was forced to write as punishment 35 years ago. 


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Widows' Cooking, or, What's Burning Tonight?

At least 1000 pots after Gavin's death, I widowed the fucking coffee again today. Around here, if we're in the kitchen, "widowed" usually means more or less burned, although Mr. Fresh insists that last night I "widowed" the partner of the rice, not the rice (or the pot). Peh! If I can destroy a 1-qt 18-18-stainless pot just trying to boil a damn egg, I obviously don't have time for the niceties of transitive vs. intransitive verbs.

Gavin and I had a superfancy Alessi espresso pot with a great story ("was $225, NOW just $5") behind it. After he died, I committed to simplifying by purchasing a conventional drip.

You wouldn't know when you meet him that there are at least a dozen ways to strike out with Mr. Coffee. First of all, you can defeat his wisely installed safety features. One morning I forgot to close the lid on the pot, so boiling water backed up in the filter area. The counter spilled over with boiling water mixed with coffee grounds. Two towels later I tried to correct it (mid-stream, so to speak -- I added more water) but the coffee tasted like dirt. On other mornings, I managed to leave off every possible component: water, coffee, filter, the tray that holds the filter and the pot. I managed to keep it unplugged or not turn it on until it was time to leave. I'd set it up the night before and mmm, wht's that fantastic smell waking me up at midnight? A few times, I left it on all day to sludgify. That one, I know you've done.

And how many ways can you screw up coffee if you count combinations of two errors on the same day? Three errors? As my Sensei used to say, I having experience.

It's only natural for a young widow to be distracted, to try to multi-task a bit more than your average Mom, and to not care much about small things like nutrition when she has so much "on her plate" already.

Many widows will talk about the futility of cooking. It's hard to change recipes (how much is 2/3 of a handful?) and you have to set the table for one less adult, a constant mistake to make, a painful and frustrating reminder not only of loss but in our addled minds, of our failure to adjust. There's always a backlog in the sink, so you get stuck using the wrong pan for the job, either overflowing it or adding too much liquid in an attempt to cover the bottom. And don't get me started on running the dishwasher when no one's around to empty. I'd rather just leave all the clean stuff in there for a while than face that no one else is home.

Combine these feelings with a new incompetence that makes you forget to shake juice (bad) and NOT shake soda (very bad) and you have a lot of extra cleanup and still no meal.

In this situation it can be a blessing that grieving folks tend to have little appetite. But I had a toddler and an elderly MIL to cook for (both with freaky eating habits), and a little bit of pride in independence, so I soldiered on. A few weeks after Gavin died, I found myself at J.C. Penney buying a cute yellow microwave, my first. We have an adorable vintage kitchen and insisted we couldn't spare the counter space. There's something not worth standing up for after your world dissolves.

You can probably see why we quickly became dependent on frozen entrees from Trader Joe's.

After a year of fishsticks, pizza, and salad-in-a-bag, with its accompanist, my deteriorated cholesterol numbers, I started trying to use the kitchen more fully. But I was still a widow.

"Widowing" doesn't just involve burning. Once I got really organized and cooked extra chicken breasts, deliciously I might add, but left them in the (off) pan overnight. Cooking like a widow includes making useless grocery lists that say "chocolate, tampons, 100 other things" but no food. I would buy expensive cuts of meat that I didn't know how to cook or out-of-season produce that would spoil immediately. And I didn't want to eat any damn leftovers. I threw out the fridge as often as most of us thrown out the mail.

It didn't help that for a "timer" I would use a beer. "I'll turn down the rice when this (half-empty) beer is finished." I'm sure you can see how effective that technique is.

Perhaps bad cooking is itself a way to grieve. After all, smell and taste recall the past more vividly than other senses. It's too easy to say, "the last time we ate this, Gavin was here" or "this is the first time we've had Thai without him." The landmarks pile up. Steamed broccoli is always the same, even though our family looks different.

Perhaps cooking badly is a way widows can continue to tear their hair and beat at their breasts: a new way to mortify the flesh in agony, in memory.

But I'm out of active grieving. Now my challenge is to cook enough protein for the meaty Mr. Fresh, who's joined our table and our lives. I am remembering some skillz but I still use a beer for a timer sometimes.

Maybe we'll register for some fancy new cookware? We could still use a 1-qt and I'm in the mood for egg salad.



Disclaimer sidebar: Not all widows are shitty cooks

Some of us not only eat but also, egad!, cook well: Snickollet cooked a luscious-sounding fish dish, for a date no less, and J-in-Wales has published some wonderful recipes (one,  two,  three, and an unnumbered soup.) These plans share the virtue of simplicity, but then, in their authors' first-things-first, no-nonsense wisdom, that's no surprise.

There's also at least one recipe named for us, though it seems like an awful lot of ingredients for an actual widow to have on hand: "Widowed potatoes."

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Mr. Fresh: A Father’s Day Sketch

Mr. Fresh has been overwrought all week. He's been working feverishly on a demanding project, hastily planned, on which the company's future seems to depend. The June 30 deadline is tight, and we have a houseguest showing up immediately afterward.

Like me, Mr. Fresh can get a little intense. Unlike me, he’s dedicated to his job (he works from home). Every morning he gets up at 6:30, works a bit, does that day’s part of his extensive weekly workout plan, and works until 10 or 11 p.m., pausing only when nature calls. He’s been a ghost at dinner and I’ve tried to expect little from him around the house. Tense, with a bad stomach, he’s had trouble with sleep lately. Every minute has been occupied with the project and his doubts about the future of the economy, the company, the product he works on, and his career.

On Saturday he realized what he was making was rather brilliant; he had figured out some steps that make the product really innovative and useful, beyond the original outline. So, let's ramp up both excitement and pressure. I support him and try here and there to provide fun or perspective (we’re working on “not globalizing”), but mostly I’ve left him alone just as I would if two kids were fighting over a toy.

On Saturday he reminded me of a household chore I’ve committed to doing before June 30. “Yup, it’s on my list,” I figure 8 days is plenty of time for putting away a few dozen pieces of junk.

On Sunday I tried to get him out for a Father’s Day dinner but he was too tense to be social. He could barely look at our little girl. After a beer he was able to pick at the platter we were sharing but couldn’t get his head together enough to choose from the menu of his current favorite restaurant.

I'm not willing to let him "kill himself" by working, to me it seemed he'd turned a corner where that seemed possible. I resolved to talk to him later, at a quiet time.

The evening settled down to grown-up bedtime. Mr. Fresh announced with pride that he had just finished the last component. I was pretty surprised. I’d barely followed his updates all week, since I don’t really have the tools to “get” what he does. “Remind me again when John arrives?”

“Tuesday.”

“This coming Tuesday?” I started to put things together.

“Yes. Two days from tonight... and I just have these things left to do...”

“Hang on a sec. Did you think this is the last week in June?”

“What do you mean ‘did I think?’”

But I did not want to shatter his world, at least, not without being sure; we both believe in playing by the numbers. I went down to the calendar. That day, Sunday, was Father’s Day, and signs taunting “Father’s Day is June 21st” had seemed omnipresent for weeks. I made sure the calendar was on the right month as I checked off the little boxes three times, counting forward from our last weekend away (last weekend, at his parents’, a trip that had been planned early) and backward from July 4.

There was no doubt… he’d left out an entire week. I held my iPod up to him so he could see today’s date from an objective source.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. I mean, I had to stay up late just to finish laughing.

(To his great credit, he laughed very hard and almost as long.)


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Dating Episode 4: Making a List.

Clunk, clunk, clunk I perambled through the hallways of Match.com, my heavy feet mostly unheard in the crowd. Two of those last four guys were selected almost solely on the basis of being widowers and two of them weren’t up to meeting me in person.

At least I was in the game, I could see the nookie at the end of the tunnel, and I was having a blast sharing the stories. It was a bit gratifying to see happily married friends excited as teenagers to hear about my adventures. Like me, some of them had been matched up for so long that they were titillated by the thought of online dating. Even as I was encouraged by these friends, gaining points among fellow little-kid parents, I couldn’t romanticize this set of dates, especially the ones that hadn’t happened. So I sought advice on the playground.

Bryan’s Mom and Dad told me how they’d both had unhappy first marriages, returned to the dating world, and then found each other. BD wrote up two lists: desirable qualities and dealbreakers. BM pointed out that she didn’t meet several of his “good” criteria and BD reminded her that the lists were only tools and you have to be sensible. (Excuse me? Would you repeat that last word?)

I started the list in my head:
(1) Must make me laugh.
(2) Must read real books, there will be a test.
(3) Must love women.
(4) Must enjoy sex, the “in person kind.”

A cute Jewish Ph.D. economist and I had some fun phone conversations. He sort of engineered that he’d join me and a girlfriend at a dance. As I found out, he was a tremendous avoider and this was one of those ways to not have to commit to asking for a date.

We met at a Cajun dance event in an open pavilion on a frigid night. There was no one else there under 60. When he showed up I found out that while his ad said he was 5’9” he was shorter than me (I’m 5’8”). That explained why the pants hung baggy in one of the pictures. He was very fit, with a runner’s physique. I felt like a draft horse standing next to him. We hugged ourselves in our coats and watched the oldsters lining up, hoping I suppose that something would happen somewhere.

I knew he was amusing, I could always pretend we were on the phone... We asked him about his two broken engagements. He didn't know what had gone wrong; perhaps he mentioned that women can be confusing. Somehow a pleasant convo led to this: Once a girlfriend asked him to “talk dirty.” He had never heard of it, but was game (and in the act) so he said, “I’m throwing dirt on you! Dirt, dirty! Now you’re getting muddy!” The woman said, “No, dummy! Say something really filthy to me! You’re supposed to curse! Come on!!!” So he said, “Cock! Cunt! Cock! Cunt!”
I raised my eyebrow, not sure if I should believe him. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. Those were the filthiest things I could think of.”
The eyebrow elevated a bit more and my hands went to my hips.
“I’d never heard of it. What, was I supposed to have done research already?”
Now my whole body was skeptical. One hip dropped to match the other eyebrow. “How long ago was this?”
“Last year.”
The second eyebrow went way up. “I guess you’ve probably learned something since then?”
“Well… I don’t usually sleep with a woman until we’ve been dating for a while…”

My face fell. Okay, well, I think we’re about done here. But hey, it’s not like either of us had any other prospects in the room.
“I’m not sure that girlfriend really was good for me, anyway. I mean, she never noticed that I wanted to do it while watching sports.”
Oh no, I thought. Not the baseball scores thing. Early in my sex life a college boyfriend told me how he would recall vintage Yankee statistics to last longer. He was 21. I tested: “You mean you have a better, um, time if you’re partially distracted?”
“Yeah, but she never seemed to notice why I preferred sex in front of the TV, on Sunday afternoons and Tuesday evenings.”

He was 45.

Ten p.m. on a Saturday, it was too late for another party and it didn't make sense to pay the cover at the excellent, popular, post-Gap-ad Swing dance party right next door. My girlfriend and I drove off in her Jeep, and I called out to him, “Hey, enjoy the game tomorrow!”

I went home and updated my list:

(5) Must have age-appropriate understanding of male sexual function.

* Read the next installment in this series! *

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I did not laugh

He was probably 8 or 9 years old, in line at the grill outside the lodge.

"Wow! Dad, 7 inches -- that's a really long hot dog, isn't it??? I mean, it's like (holding hands some distance apart)."

"Yes, son, that is really long."

"I'm going to get that! I'll bet it's the biggest hot dog I've ever seen!"

"I'm sure it is, son.... Yes, ma'am, one hot dog, one beef, and two Dr. Peppers, please."

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Pottymouth

Short Stack knows the alphabet and is learning to write it. One evening (this almost qualifies as a tantrum) she insisted that I tell her how to write the word "POOP."

It was not worth fighting.

I told her (see picture).

"Another 'a'?" she said in disbelief.

"Yes, honey, you want me to tell you how to spell 'poop,' don't you?"

I am a bad mommy.

(By the way, she wrote it boustrophedon -- the way early literate cultures did -- as the ox turns the plough. Left to right, then right to left, then left to right again.)


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Introducing My New (FREE) Product!The Widow Card!

One night in my support group, S. said casually that he’d “left work early… I just pulled a widower card.” I thought about how often I’d done this in the months since LH died, but more about how I could make good use of some little advantage. All the handicaps I was living with… single (really, double) parenting, how impossible it was to go grocery shopping with a toddler, and how no one could see that anything was wrong. The side of me that is tempted to shoplift (but only cashmere or chocolate) was aroused.

I was always comfortable as an underachiever, but could I have some legitimate “cover” after surviving catastrophe? Something versatile? Something I could use every day?

And so the concept was born: Not as useful as a “get out of jail free” card, more powerful than a hall pass… it’s… it’s… The Widow Card!

How to create your own REAL LIFE Widow (or Widower) Cards:

1. Download the PDF

Womenfolk – Download the Widow Card Set A here (PDF)
Menfolk – Download the Widower Card Set A here (PDF)

2. Purchase Avery 5871 pre-perforated business card stock at your local office supply store.

3. Print the PDFs out on your stock. They are double sided; you’ll have to figure out how to run the paper stock through your machine twice.

Also, please note that you WILL get error messages saying you’re printing outside the print area, and so on. Just IGNORE it, and don’t let it automatically adjust the margins, or your widow cards will look a whole lot less slick.

4. Didn’t buy the special paper? No problemo. Print your Widow Cards out on heavyweight paper or card stock and cut them out by hand. The stripy border will hide mistakes if your scissors get shaky because you are laughing.

When can I use The Widow Card?
Pull The Widow Card on someone at work, at home, or in line at the grocery store… heck, take more than one, we’ve got nearly a dozen* here for you. You’ll be amazed at how often these little babies come in handy!

What good will it do me now?
Let The Widow Card simplify your life … avoid long awkward conversations (or silences) … evade minor niceties like being polite, remembering people’s names, and participating in adult society in a normal fashion.

But, dude, I’m a guy.
Chill – there are widower versions as well. Since there are seven widowed women to every widower, I think I can be forgiven for favoring the gals linguistically.

Okay, I get it. I can’t wait to start using my Widow Cards!
Slow down, cowpoke. There are three steps – well, four. Did you read the instructions yet? If not, there is one more – so that’s five. Number 0: read the instructions above! Then follow steps 1 to 4 in order.

How long can I use The Widow Card?
Use The Widow Card until it stops working.
UPDATE 06/09: Keep a couple handy. They work great around anniversaries, even years later!

But I need an excuse for something and you don’t have a Widow Card that fits!
Relax. You can send in your requests for new situations that deserve a Widow Card. Don’t like the suggestions for men? Find the women’s ones inappropriate? Your wish is my command. Let me know what you want, and I will issue a new set B, C, etc. Write to supa.dupa.fresh AT gmail.com. (I don’t promise to be prompt.)

About the design
The font is Mrs. Eaves by Zuzana Licko and published by Émigré. Of course, I thought the character Mrs. Eaves was fictional, and I’m a bit disappointed to find out she was real (or, I am delighted that this fictional character has been accepted as real, as the font and its hyperactive, sometimes shizoid ligatures have gained legitimacy).

Either way, however, Mrs. Eaves was a widow, so my point stands.

Full disclosure: In this project, I owe a significant debt to the work of conceptual artist Adrian Piper.

* Hey, that’s a new expression: widow’s dozen – ten of something. Huh!


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Typical

Seems like everyone has a supercold, persistent pneumonia, or is hacking like a wacko.

So,
Q. How will the Avian flu spread itself?
A. Viral marketing.

Leading to the phrase I've heard most often in my life: "I get it, it's just not funny."
And what HF said yesterday, that I realized no one had ever said to me: "I still can't hear you."

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What Wd Miss Emily Litella Say?

What's all this I hear about preposition 8? Eight is a number, not a preposition. If someone wants to put a "until" or "to" next to it, I'm not one to object!

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