Recyclin’ Lightnin’

Ever since Bunny died, I’ve been reluctant to wear my wedding and engagement rings.   They were too painful a reminder that he was gone.  For the first few days, I tried switching them to my right hand, but then they really were a constant reminder, because I wasn’t accustomed to having them on that hand.  I wore them for the memorial--which felt like the right thing to do--and as I put them away, I realized that I was letting perfectly good diamonds go to waste in a drawer.

I’m generally not wasteful by nature, and my love of bling is legendary—plus, diamond is my birthstone!   I decided to convert my old rings into a new one.  I’d recently read about newly-divorced women melting down their old rings and turning them into happy new ones.  I decided to do the same.   As an aside, my love of bling began, appropriately enough, as a result of Aunt Ruth’s garage sale hauls.  She would send us cocktail dresses and other fancy attire, which we would put to use in our dress-up games. 

My first, much-beloved cocktail dress was a shiny, ice-blue satin number, with blue rhinestone buttons and embellishments.   I was about six when I got it, so it was more like an evening gown on me.  It was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen!  My sisters and I called it the Lightnin’ Dress.  For those of you who didn’t grow up in the South, lightnin’ is the electrical atmospheric disturbance that often accompanies thunder.  And the insects you catch in jars during summer nights aren’t fireflies, dammit—they’re Lightnin’ Bugs!   From that point on, I wanted lightnin’ every chance I could get it.

Back to the present: I found a jeweler who was up to the task, so Trinity and I went over there today to bring him my three rings and Bunny’s three rings to melt down and recast into a new one, using my five diamonds.  Let me explain why we had six rings:  I had a thin, gold band and an oval solitaire to start, and Bunny had his first gold band.  Bunny’s first band was cut off him during an emergency room visit for an asthma attack.  We were in Atlanta at the time.   He went ring-less for years after, until he got ready to move to Florida.  At that point, he insisted I get another band for him.

“Why?  You haven’t worn a ring for years.”

“Because you’re not going to be down there with me, and I want all the other deauxs to know that I’m taken.”   Aw!  He was so earnest, I didn’t have the heart to tease him.  In hindsight, I realize he was anxious about being alone, even for a little while.

That was Bunny’s ring #2, which he lost in less than a year.  I got ring #3 and later found the second one.  During the trip to get #3, I got a ring wrap, with two diamonds on either side, for my solitaire.  This is the whole trove of our combined marriage symbols (badly in need of cleaning):

I explained what I wanted done, and why, and the jeweler showed us several different settings.  I found one I really liked, then I had a brainstorm.

“Let’s make my ring with the three larger diamonds, and take the other two diamonds and make pendants for the two granddaughters.”  Trinity really took an interest at that point.   The thought of dying didn’t bother Bunny so much, but the thought that Sarita wouldn’t remember him did.  He really identified with Sarita, and if he had one regret, it was that he hadn’t gotten to spend as much time with her as he had with Trinity.

The jeweler pulled out a book to show Trinity the pendant styles, and she found one that we both really liked.  She pointed it out to him.

“That’s the rabbit-ear setting,”  he said.  How perfect is that?  Sold!

He made a sketch of my new ring, then started taking my old ones apart to weigh and measure them.  The solitaire was first.  He took out the stone and examined it with his loupe.

“Wow!  This is a very high quality stone; one of the best I’ve seen!”  Then he put it on the scale as I told him an abbreviated version of the story.

“Yes, he had it custom-made.”  Bunny and I started dating in mid-June of 1985.  Within two weeks, he asked me to marry him.   By November, he’d enlisted one of his professors to make the ring.  This professor made jewelry as a hobby, and had access to wholesale diamonds.  I remember stopping by the professor’s house so Bunny could pay for the stone.  Bunny told me at the time that it was a very high-grade stone.  I got a really bad vibe from the guy, but Bunny thought highly of him.  As it turned out, I was right—he later went to jail for perving on a girl.

Bunny’s plan was to give me the ring on Thanksgiving weekend.  I wouldn’t know how or when, but that was the timeframe.   I woke up in pain Thanksgiving morning, ate very little of the dinner my mother had prepared, got sick from what I did eat, and was undergoing emergency surgery that night. 

I really don’t remember the exact moment he slipped the ring on my finger—I’d gotten so sick from the anesthesia that I’d been up all night.  Plus, the nurses (who were my co-workers) made sure I wasn’t in pain.   At some point, when I was fully conscious and lucid, I realized that I was engaged.    It was a beautiful ring, but everyone I tried to show it to had already seen it—Bunny had shown it around before he’d given it to me!  He’d even shown it to my cousin’s fiance’, who was in one of his college classes.  We were married on May 31, 1986.

Seeing the stone loose from its setting brought all those memories flooding back.  Fat, heavy tears flowed involuntarily down my cheeks, splattering onto the glass case below me.  Then I started thinking of Trinity and Sarita wearing their pendants, maybe even on their own wedding days.  What better way to begin a marriage than by wearing a pendant made from jewelry that came from your grandparents’ happy marriage? OMG!  Can you hear the violins yet? 

The poor jeweler, seeing the sudden storm brewing before him, looked genuinely distressed.  He quickly brought me a roll of paper towels (apparently jewelers don’t keep Kleenex at the ready), and consoled me on my loss.   I assured him I would be alright, and dried up soon enough. 

In a few weeks, I’ll have my new lightnin’ ring.  Just in time for my anniversary.

Passin' it On

Yesterday was Take Your Child to Work Day, and for the first time since Joey was little, I had a child to take: Trinity.  She and I went to the courthouse and joined other Hillsborough women lawyers and their kids for the morning—touring the courthouse and watching justice at work.  We also saw a very entertaining mock trial involving pirates.  Trinity was quite excited to be on the jury.  After lunch, we set off to Brooksville for an estate sale.

During the drive, we talked about a number of things, including Take Your Child to Work Day.

“Who invented it?” she asked.

“My grandmother,” I answered confidently.

“Nah-ah,” she said.  I couldn’t see her face, but the tone of her voice more than conveyed her disbelief.

I explained how once upon a time, when I was Trinity’s age, my grandmother occasionally took me to work with her.  This was long before Take Our Daughters to Work Day.  My grandmother was a public health nurse in our rural Louisiana parish, and back when I was small, there were only a handful of nurses covering the whole Parish.  My grandmother (“Miss Betty” to her patients) was their leader.

The days that she took me to work with her were very special.  For one thing, it was a rare chance to spend time alone with her—at home, I always had my sisters competing with me for attention.   When we were at the office, I got to do cool things like stapling papers, filing index cards, and helping keep the rosters for the clinics.  We spent a lot of time out of the office, though, visiting patients all over the parish in Grandma’s Chevy.  She always left one of the windows slightly cracked, so that we wouldn’t be overcome by carbon monoxide.   I don’t know if that was a legitimate concern, but we were protected, in any case.

We would travel down winding, tree-lined dirt roads without so much as a compass, and somehow eventually find the people we were visiting.  If we happened upon a country store along the way, we’d stop for cold Cokes.  Back in those days, Coke came one way: in glass bottles.  Grandma kept a bottle opener on her keychain “just in case.”  Once we got where we were going, Grandma would disappear into the house to visit her patient while I stayed on the porch visiting whoever was there.

I felt like hot stuff on those days—people would fuss over me and ask me if I wanted be a nurse like my grandmother.  Some days I did, and some days I wanted to be a doctor, but I knew I wanted to help people feel better, like my grandma did.  Either way, I knew I wanted a career outside the home.

Years later, when I was entering high school, I was planning my schedule for ninth grade.  I could choose one elective, but our high school was limited to three: Home Economics, Shop and Typing.  The first wasn’t even an option—I had zero interest in Home Ec.  I’d have taken Shop, but didn’t want to be the only girl in the class.  I was left with typing, which I figured would come in handy at some point.  (Note to my younger readers—this was back in the Dark Ages, before everyone had a keyboard within easy reach.)  I turned in my schedule and didn’t give it another thought, until I was called into the principal’s office the next week.   Mr. George, the Principal, had an issue with my elective choice.

“Ah, Baby, I see you don’t have Home Ec scheduled,” he said.  Maybe he thought I’d been confused by the scheduling process.

“No, I’m taking typing instead,” I answered.

“But all the girls take Home Ec,” he replied helpfully.

“Well this girl isn’t.  It’s an elective, and I’m electing not to take it.” Poor Mr. George—he wasn’t used to eighth grade girls being so assertive.   Nothing he could say would convince me to change my plans, even throwing in that I needed Home Ec.

Knowing that my grandmother and my mother, who also became a public health nurse, had careers outside the home gave me any extra confidence I needed that my family and I would be able to survive despite my lack of Home Ec.   Aside from that, I had an innate sense of outrage that men seemed to have the easier paths in life.  I wasn’t going to fit into somebody else’s mold for what girls should do.

Yesterday after lunch, one of the judges asked Trinity if she was going to go to work with me that afternoon.  I explained that we’d be going to an estate sale instead, where I would teach her the art of negotiating.

I learned negotiating at the feet of the master—my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Ruth.  Before she retired, Aunt Ruth had worked at the Sears in Alexandria, the biggest city near my small hometown.  She had been the head of the foundations department, which sounded quite risque’ to a nine year old girl.  Aunt Ruth had the added mystique of being divorced—an unheard-of condition in Grandma’s strict, Baptist family.  History was later rewritten so that Aunt Ruth was a widow.

Grandma would pack us up for overnights at Aunt Ruth’s house.  She had a small, modern house in the big city of Pineville.  Early on Friday and Saturday mornings, we’d hit the neighborhood garage sales.  Aunt Ruth loved her some garage sales!  My sisters and I, encouraged by our grandfather, would giggle about Aunt Ruth’s frugality.  But as much amusement as it gave me at the time, I picked up some very valuable lessons in negotiation from Aunt Ruth’s garage sale shopping.

Years later, Bunny started going to garage sales.  I resisted at first, but soon joined in.  He would stand back, gape-jawed, as I’d walk away with items he’d have paid at least 50% more for.  On one of my bad days.  He got as much fun from watching me wheel-and-deal as he did from going to the sales.   When my daddy came to visit last year, we found a willing accomplice in our treasure hunts.

So now, I’m passing my skills on to a new generation.  Once we got to the site, we starting looking for the things that interested us.  There were TONS of things, but most were way overpriced.   The seller wasn’t the actual owner of the property, but one of those companies that comes and sells all your junk for you.   Getting good deals at those kinds of sales—particularly on the first day—is difficult, because the mark-up is high and the person running the sale doesn’t have much incentive to slash prices.

Almost immediately, Trinity found a box of knitting supplies—various sizes of needles, yarn and other stuff.  Her eyes lit up.

“I’ve been wanting to knit!” she said excitedly.  I looked at the box, which didn’t have a price, and took a quick inventory. 

“They’ll probably want $20 for it, but they’ll take $10.”

“That’s a good deal for all this stuff!”  She, like Bunny, was an easy mark for these folks.

“No it’s not.  $5 is a good deal--$10 is what an amateur would pay.”

“But I AM an amateur!”

“Yes, but I’ll teach you the secrets.”   Then I told her what to say.  She’s got enough savvy going that I knew she’d throw in the appropriate body language and eye contact.  She was dubious about the script I gave her, and insisted that I practice with her before she approached the seller.

I sent her on her way with the box of knitting supplies and continued browsing the overpriced artwork.  She was back in less than five minutes, empty-handed.

“Well?” I asked.  I knew from her expression that she’d closed the deal.

“I did it!  $5!! I can’t believe it!!” She was full of glee as she explained how the deal went down.

“So where’s your box?”

“I left it with the lady so that I don’t have to carry it around.”  Ah, my heart melted.  Such a smart little grasshopper!  Then I threw in some extra advice for the next time.

As I was taking her home last night, Daddy called.  I told him about our day, particularly the estate sale.  He’d probably been to garage sales with Aunt Ruth as a child, too, and he told Trinity, almost verbatim, some of the things I’d told her.

“That’s what Nana said!” she shouted from the back seat.  We all had a good laugh, and I’m sure that Aunt Ruth was smiling down upon us: three generations of negotiators that she’d trained.

Memorial Day

Yesterday, on what would have been his 50^th birthday, we held Bunny’s memorial service.  Bunny was always a proud non-conformist, so when we were discussing what kind of ceremony he wanted, if any, he decided that he wanted a memorial with a Star Trek theme.   I’d known that if he did settle upon some kind of ceremony, it wouldn’t be a conventional one.  Just to cover all my bases, I asked if he wanted any particular religion attached.

For many years before his death, Bunny claimed to be an atheist: the last time he had even been to a religious service was at his mother’s funeral, five years ago.   However, during  his last month, when he spent more time in the hospital than out of it, the hospital’s priest had visited him a few times and had administered the Sacrament of the Sick on some of those visits.  So, on the day before he died, as we discussed his final-final wishes, he thought for a moment before answering my question.

By this point, Bunny could only get out one word at a time, very slowly.  This was torture for him, because he always loved to chatter away.  There was rarely silence when Bunny was around.

“Yes.   Catholic.”  He smiled at the startled look on my face. 

“Okay, well that’s a shock,” I admitted, which made his smile broaden.

“But hey—it’s your funeral.”  At that, we both burst out laughing.   We had always shared, and kept, a quirky sense of humor, and we weren’t going to stop now, when we needed it most.  Then I made a crack about atheists in foxholes that made him laugh again.

He also decided that his memorial should be on his birthday.  His birthdays were always akin to national holidays for Bunny, and often included week-long celebrations.    Anytime a new decade was involved, the celebration was even more grand than usual.  For example, for his 40^th birthday, we went to Las Vegas for a week. 

As we were discussing the final details, Joey announced that he had arranged for a memorial poker tournament at Bunny’s favorite local card room, Lucky’s, with a part of the proceeds going to prostate cancer research.  This addition to the celebration made Bunny beam with pride.  It was the best parting gift his son could have given him. 

After he died, I got overwhelmed with grief and work and the unexpected loss of my mother, and was quickly becoming anxious about getting the final arrangements set.  By the end of February, I knew that we had to get going if we were going to have a memorial on April 20^th.  At the time, Corey wasn’t working, and I asked her if she’d make all the arrangements.  She readily accepted the task, and arranged every detail with the efficiency of a professional event planner.

We got the invitations from vistaprint.com and sent them out.  Fortunately, I didn’t have to look very far for decorations: they’re all over my house.    With the start time set for 11:00 a.m., the plan Thursday night was to meet JoCo at the hotel at 9:30 a.m. Friday to set up everything.   I was running a few minutes behind—I needed gas and decided to drop into the Target next to the gas station for some glittery confetti to spread on the display table.  As I was exiting the store, Joey called me.  I could tell from the background noises that he wasn’t even on the way yet.   Margeaux and I exchanged some very colorful conversation in the three minutes between Target and La Quinta.

I got to the hotel and unloaded all the Star Trek gear I’d packed: 4 life-sized cut-outs from Star Trek: The Next Generation (Captain Picard, Commander Riker, Counselor Troi and Mr. Worf); a box of assorted ship models (including two identical models of the U.S.S. Enterprise) and hand-held gear from the original Star Trek; and a box of Hallmark collectable Star Trek Christmas ornaments.  I’d also brought along a kitschy table-top aluminum Christmas tree to hang them on.

By them time I got everything into the conference room, I was fuming!  Still no JoCo.  I was calmed slightly, though, at the sight of the cake.  It was absolutely perfect in every detail!  I used to decorate cakes as a hobby, so I appreciate the work that goes into them.  If this cake tasted anywhere nearly as good as it looked, it truly would be perfect. 

The cake only held my attention for a minute—I went quickly about setting up, since it was now past 10:00 a.m.  I set up the table displaying the models and a picture that Bunny had taken during a trip to Vegas at the “Star Trek: The Experience” exhibit at the Hilton.  I scattered the glitter around the table to simulate stars.  Then I put up Picard and Riker on either side of the podium, Troi near the cake, and Worf guarding the door.  Naturally, Margeaux and I kept a steady stream of expletives going, since I was doing the work that three people were supposed to be doing.

At about 10:30 a.m., JoCo and Trinity casually walked in.  Boom!  I went off.  Corey usually seems to know when my last nerve has been snapped, so she got busy immediately with the remaining decor.  Joey doesn’t seem to have that same radar—plus, he has the annoying habit of making more inane chatter than usual when he’s anxious.   I knew he was very anxious about the memorial, and that he wasn’t sure he would be able to sit through it.  I had told him to sit near the exit and quietly step out if it got to be too much.  Still, we hadn’t even started yet, and now he was an hour late and seemingly oblivious to the fact that we weren’t yet ready for a ceremony that would start in less than 30 minutes.

I told him to rearrange the tables—they’d been set up at a 45 degree angle, with chairs on either side, and I wanted them straightened out with the extra chairs lined along the wall.  I also wanted chairs set up at the back of the room for any late-comers.  As usual, he had what he thought was a better idea.  I made it clear that I wasn’t entertaining options—I was giving an order, and it needed to be carried out immediately.

By 10:45 a.m., everything was ready, and I was a hot, sweaty mess.  Great.  Nothing better than hugging a sweaty WiDeaux, I’m sure.  I changed from my flip flops into my dress shoes and hustled off to the bathroom to try to tidy up a bit.   By the time I got back, the first of the guests were beginning to arrive.  After that, everyone seemed to flood in at once, and before I knew it, 11:00 a.m. had arrived.

I started the ceremony and introduced the one and only Catholic deacon in all of Tampa Bay who had agreed to attend such an unorthodox affair.  He opened with a prayer, then read from the Book of Wisdom, then gave a rather stirring and appropriate mini-sermon.  My distaste for Catholicism aside (that’s a whole other blog post), he did a very nice job.  Bunny quickly made his presence known by causing two stars behind the podium to fall off the wall.  I wasn’t the only one with that thought—everyone else I spoke with afterward mentioned it.

The deacon closed with a prayer, then I spoke for a few minutes about Bunny and our life together, including how we initially met as children, then as adults after he’d done a tour in the Navy.  John McClendon, one of Bunny’s former co-workers from Atlanta then Florida, was the next to speak.  Finally, Scott Long and Chris Cosenza, two of Bunny’s poker buddies, shared their memories.   Chris and Scott own a poker magazine (Ante Up); Bunny was one of their first columnists, so he was on the ground floor of what’s become a national publication.   I think it’s safe to say that ­­­­we all learned about facets of Bunny’s life that we’d been ignorant of before.

Jazzy’s Bar-B-Que catered the affair, and the food was delicious.  I cut the cake and it was, indeed, as perfect on the inside as it was on the exterior.  We visited with the friends and family who’d gathered to celebrate Bunny’s memory, and he once again made his presence known.   Chris and one of the other guests were trying out a game called “Draw Something,” which is like Pictionary for the iPad and iPhone.  The first clue to draw: Mr. Spock.

Once the guests left, I went home, changed clothes, and went to poker tournament, which was already in progress.  I drew the seat right next to Chris, and he told me that his first hand had been Ace-King.  Bunny was famous for (unsuccessfully) playing that hand, so we took that as another sign of his presence.  In all 30 players started, which wasn’t too shabby for the middle of a Friday afternoon.   Corey and I were the only women playing.  By the end, I finished fifth, Corey third and Joey first. 

I hadn’t played poker in about a year, so I was pleased to even get to the final table, especially considering the awful cards I was getting.  Corey is convinced that Bunny sent her good cards, but she’s a good player, and probably the most consistent finisher of the three of us.   People had been buying her drinks all afternoon, though, and from the amount of alcohol she’d consumed, I don’t doubt that she was getting extraterrestrial help.  Joey hasn’t said whether Bunny sent him good cards, but he’s a good player, too.   I’m sure Bunny was quite pleased at the outcome, even if he didn’t help.

This morning, I got another sign from Bunny.   The History Channel was one of his favorites, but I haven’t watched it since he died.  I absolutely guarantee it wasn’t the last channel I watched last night.  About mid-morning, I turned on the TV to try to catch some DIY shows.  Imagine my surprise when the TV came to life with the History Channel’s show about a naval (remember, he was in the Navy) aircraft carrier.  Its name? The U.S.S. Enterprise. 

Knock, Knock!

Last week--Holy Week, as we called it when we were practicing Catholics--was more difficult than I thought it would be.   As each day drew closer to Easter, my anxiety level increased.  This would be my first major holiday as a WiDeaux.

Growing up, Easter was always a big holiday in my family.  My parents and grandparents would boil dozens of eggs, which we would decorate as elaborately as we could.  We smelled like vinegar and had multi-colored hands for days.   They boiled so many eggs because we needed them for knocking.  Where we grew up in southern Louisiana, egg knocking was a bigger part of the Easter celebration than the Easter Bunny.   The seat of the parish (county) even holds an egg knocking contest on the courthouse square each year.

This is how egg knocking works: first, each person chooses an egg.  Then, one person holds his/her egg steady while the other knocks (or pocks) it. There are as many methods of knocking as there are people knocking them.  The owner of the winning egg moves on to challenge someone else, while the loser gets a new egg to try again.  The owner of the last egg standing wins.   To get the most mileage out of our eggs, we’d turn them around and knock the undamaged sides, as well.

My grandfather was always like a little kid at Easter—knocking eggs was one of his favorite things to do.   He would knock with everyone he possibly could, even the dog.   After we knocked with my grandparents, we’d go to a big family gathering and knock eggs there.  There was usually a pig roasting in the background, and 
plenty of side dishes and cakes to be consumed for lunch.   Of course, there were also dishes 

of deviled eggs, potato salad, and anything else that one could make with freshly broken eggs.  The rest would go into the refrigerator to be pickled the next day.

Bunny and I continued the egg dying and knocking with Joey when he was little, and then with Trinity.  Since she was a baby, Easter has always involved two things: a trip to the mall to get her photo with the Easter Bunny (who always terrified her, no matter how friendly it looked), and eggs.   Last year, she flatly refused to visit the Easter Bunny, purportedly because it wasn’t the cool thing to do for a big girl.  Some part of me suspected that she was still a bit afraid.  She still continued to embrace the egg dying, which was a good thing, because Bunny liked dying the eggs as much, if not more than, knocking them.

For all his nerdy ways, Bunny was quite artistic.  He could draw free-hand very well, for one thing.  Another of his specialties was making flower arrangements—that was his major contribute to our décor.  He had an eye for colors and shapes that could be very pleasantly surprising.  His very favorite artistic endeavor, though, was dying eggs.  He and Trinity would sit for hours trying to out-do each other with their creations, long after I’d finished mine.  One of his best-ever eggs looked like Monet, himself, had painted it.  

Last week, as I bought the Easter goodies for the kids, I also bought dye for the eggs.   I was excited at first, because this package of dye had glitter.  I love me some glitter!!  As the week wore on, though, I started getting sad, because this would be the first time in 25 years that I wouldn’t have Bunny to take over the decorating process.

I babysat the kids on Good Friday, intending to go out in the afternoon to get the eggs, which we’d dye on Saturday.   Sarita was sick all day, though, and clearly didn’t feel good.  Instead of going out for eggs, Trinity and I had a movie marathon at home while Sarita alternately slept or rooted around the house.  She was unusually cranky, and did not like having her nose wiped, even though she frequently needed to have it done.

By Saturday morning, my last good nerve was worn out.  The thought of dying eggs was causing me so much anxiety that even the thought of having eggs for breakfast made me ill.  I packed up the kids and took them home, explaining to Trinity that I was sorry, but I just couldn’t bring myself to doing the eggs this year.  She said she understood, but I could tell she was not pleased.

After I’d calmed down, I went back later that evening, and Corey told me she was still upset.  I went into her room and climbed into bed with her, hugging her and telling her how sorry I was that we hadn’t dyed eggs.  Now I was really feeling bad.

“That’s not what I’m sad about,” she said, her back to me.

“Then what are you sad about?” I asked, turning her to face me.

“I’m sad that you’re still sad.”  My heart melted.  I explained that this was my first holiday without Poppi, and lots of people in my position felt the same way.  I also assured her that I’d be less sad as time wore on, and that I was sure we’d die eggs next year.

Then we started talking and laughing about egg dying from years past, and how smug Poppi had been  about his artful eggs.  Joey dyed eggs with her later, after I’d gone.

On Easter, I didn’t call my step-father until the evening, because for as long as I’d known him (35+ years), he’d been involved in Easter festivities with his family until then.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only newly widowed person to feel less than enthused about the holiday—he had spent a quiet day with only his daughter for company.  He just hadn’t felt like doing the big family gathering.  I assured him I knew exactly what he meant.    

Roller Coaster

The blues finally caught up with me last week.   I started feeling achy and flu-ish Thursday,  and figured I’d picked up a bug somewhere in my travels.  I bombarded my body with Vitamin C and slept as much as I could.  On Friday night, I went out to see JoCo and the kids.

When Joey let me in, Zeus was right behind him, excited to see me.  He’s always excited to see people, but he really loves his Nana.   Zeus is their quirky pit bull—a huge horse of a dog.  He’s only a little older than Sarita, and he adopted her as his baby from the moment we brought her home from the hospital.    Sarita saw me and smiled a big smile and said “Hhhiiiiii!” and waved.   It was nice to feel so warmly welcomed.

After we visited awhile, we decided to go out for dinner.   After throwing around a few options, Joey suggested Sonny’s.   Sonny’s is probably my favorite restaurant on Earth.  I’ve been to some very fancy, highly-rated places, but I’ll take Sonny’s over them any day.  Whenever it was my turn to pick, I chose Sonny’s 90% of the time.  It drove Bunny crazy, but he was a fine one to talk—his favorites were Bob Evans and Steak-n-Shake.

 If you’re never been to Sonny’s, it’s a Bar-B-Que restaurant chain.  The service and food are usually good, though you might have to tolerate screaming children, because it’s a family place.  I love their ribs, and they’re the ribs by which I judge all others.  If I say someone’s ribs (like my cousin Vicki’s husband, Chris’s) are better than Sonny’s, that’s high praise, indeed.   In addition to good food, Sonny’s has a variety of four sauces on every table, ranging from mild to tangy. 

As part of our ritual when we’d go there, Bunny and I would sit down, order, the have the Parade of the Sauces.  Whoever was sitting closest to the sauce bottles would line them up, down the middle of the table, with the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper bringing up the rear.  It was silly, but a prime example of the silly little games we played--the kind of silly little games that I miss now.

So after we’d placed our orders Friday night, I turned to Corey, who was closest to the sauces, and said, “Parade of the Sauces!”  She gave me a blank look and said, “Huh?”  I briefly explained what I was talking about, tears slipping down my cheeks.  If anyone noticed, no one said anything, but since the mood went to the subdued side, I think at least JoCo did.  I hadn’t thought of it before, but this was the first time since Bunny’s passing that I’d been to Sonny’s.   Now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d said “Parade of the Sauces” and someone else knew what I was talking about.

Bunny’s mother died about five years ago.  I remember how well he held up, until about four months after she died.  He went into a tailspin of depression that alarmed me enough to actually take him to the doctor.  Shortly afterward, I read that the four month mark is when grief intensifies.  I don’t remember why, exactly, but I do remember that four months was the timeframe.   It seems I’m right on track for the roller coaster that my emotions have become.

It seems that the more back to “normal” my life becomes, the more I’m exposed to these unexpected emotional triggers.  In the last few months of his life, Bunny was pretty much housebound, so we rarely went out on dinner dates.  Even as briefly as a year ago, our lives were fairly normal.  I know that, because the photos on his Facebook timeline show us going to dinner, or spending Spring Break with Trinity and Stephen.   But as time wore on and the cancer progressed, our lives became less and less normal. 

Honestly, we were blessed to have a very happy marriage.  We only had one truly rough spot, when he was so wrapped up in self-pity that he lashed out passive-aggressively at me.  It didn’t last for long, because I made it clear that I wouldn’t stand for it.  When I step onto these emotional landmines now, it’s memories of the good times that we had, even as he was growing more ill. 

Caring for a terminally ill spouse is kind of like having a baby.  You know what’s coming, but you don’t know when.  You prepare as best you can, but until you go through it, you can’t really appreciate what it feels like.  Then the most painful part comes and goes, and you eventually forget the bad times and misery and pain that came before.   That’s how it is for me now.  The bad days have faded like cheap newspaper, but all the good memories—and there are many, many good memories—bob to the surface of my mind unexpectedly.

The roller coaster of emotions is supposed to smooth out over time, and I’m sure it will.  But I've never been a patient person, and even though I’ve always loved roller coasters, I’ll be happy when this ride is over. 

The Not-So-Young and Restless

When I decided to start a blog, one principle guided me: it had to be an honest, real account of my journey.  No scripted moments in the Wideaux’ Peek!  So now, I’ve come to a point that I’ve debated sharing, then decided to just go with it. 

Have you ever noticed that when you want something, everyone else seems to have it?  Like when you’re trying to get pregnant, you can’t go anywhere without seeing massive baby bumps.  For the past couple of days, I’ve been pretty blue.  I miss Bunny, but I really miss the affection you can’t (or shouldn’t) get from a blood relative.   It seems everywhere I look, I see couples holding hands, or kissing or hugging or talking, heads together over dinner or coffee.  Then I thought how nice it would be to Skype my mother; she’d be full of wise-cracks and platitudes.  Of course, you know how that turned out.  For those of you who came in late, my mom died 27 days after my husband.

So, back to my current situation.  I love hugs and kisses and hand-holding and all that mushy stuff—I always have.   The Irish and French blood in me seem to dominate: I am fiery and fierce and passionate.  In the words of Janet Jackson’s song I Miss You Much, “I’m not the kind of girl who likes to be alone.”   So, to find the supplier of this much-needed affection, I turned to the place I always do to look for things: the Internet.  For those of you who think it’s too soon, I can only say this: my sitting home alone isn’t going to bring Bunny back.  He fully expected that I’d be looking for companionship, and is probably a bit surprised that I waited as long as I did.

Before I get to the good stuff, let me be clear: I don’t need a man in order to survive.  I’ve been on my own before, and I’m dealing with all the day-to-day things—bills, chores, house upkeep—without much difficulty.  I’m comfortable with who I am and don’t need another person to validate me.   As much self-esteem as I have, though, I can’t hug and kiss myself.  

I’m probably the least patient person on earth, but I’m at least I’m decisive.  No debating for days on end here—once I decide to do something, I do it.  A few weeks ago, I signed up to three dating web sites: eHarmony, Plenty of Fish and Our Time.  Hey, a girl’s gotta cover her bases!   I filled out the profiles on each (which are basically the same) and uploaded the best pictures of myself that I could find.   So far, the results have been…underwhelming.

Granted, I’m no Angelina Jolie, but I’m not Quasimodo, either.   I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I’m trying.  Plus, I haven’t gone back to smoking, despite the fairly overwhelming stressors in my life.  I kept my profiles positive and said the only things I was looking for in my match were intelligence, a good sense of humor, and a kind heart.   Not too much to ask.   Each of the sites purports to match people based on shared interests or qualities, but you can further narrow the search with preferences.  I set my preferences:  age between 45-65, location within 25 miles, any race, any religion, any education level.  

I’m pretty open-minded, but the age limitation was a comfort-zone kind of thing.  I’m comfortable dating a little younger, and a lot older.  Bunny was the youngest guy I’d ever dated, and he was still 10 days older than I was.  The oldest I’d ever dated—Dexter, a detective that those of you from back in the day in the AP probably remember—was 16 years older than I was.  I was a newly-divorced single mom at the time, and my mother was opposed to my dating someone that much older.  My step-father, though, took the approach that life is too short to be concerned about age differences, and his opinion on the subject got Mama to back off.  As for the geographical restriction, I just don’t have the kind of time or energy for a long-distance relationship.

Plenty of guys look at my profiles—I know, because each of the sites lets me know who’s checked me out.  I’ve sent some messages to a few of my “matches” when I felt like we had a lot in common.   I’ve gotten a few messages from my “matches,” but more from guys who could not have been even remotely matched to me.  

eHarmony was the first site I signed up to.  After a fairly exhaustive questionnaire, I was confident that the matches I’d get would be promising.  So far, not so much.  Of the three, eHarmony seems to have the best-dressed, most attractive demographic.  It has a guided communication option, which most people seem determined to use.   The farthest I’ve gotten is Step 2 (there are at least 4).  I’ve tried cutting to the chase and going outside the guided communication to send e-mails directly, but haven’t had any luck with that route.  eHarmony doesn’t seem to take my preferences into consideration—it sends me a lot of matches from the Vero Beach area, which is nowhere NEAR where I live.  Maybe I should move to the east coast.  Nah!

My cousin Vicki suggested Our Time, the idea of which kind of rankled on me at first, because it advertises to the over 50 set.  However, reality-checking told me that—duh—I was about to be 50, so I bit the bullet and signed up there.   Surprisingly enough, there are lots of people on Our Time who are way under 50.  And even more who are not.  Our Time, in addition to skewing older, seems to attract surprisingly picky men.  One Joe Pesci look-alike,  who describes himself as good looking and 5’8” is “looking for an attractive, slim, or toned in shape brunette or blond non-smoker social drinker” and ends by specifying that potential matches be “YOUNG LOOKING” and “NO PHOTO NO RESPONSE---- DON'T WASTE OUR TIME.”  Newsflash, Pisano—I can lose weight and get plastic surgery, but nothing you can do will make you taller.

I did get a nice note from a guy who clearly fell outside my preferences, hailing from Dallas (Texas, not Georgia) and being a very young 73.  I don’t know how Daddy would feel about my dating a guy older than he is, but the geographic distance, alone, makes this guy undesirable.   I’ve also noticed a lot of guys on Our Time have their e-mail addresses spelled out in their profiles, like lizlanier at rocketmail dot com.  These are guys who are putting their contact information out without having to pay for a membership.  You could look at this maneuver several ways: either they’re: 1) thrifty/crafty; 2) cheap; or 3) poor.  Any way you look at it, they’re not committed enough to invest in the process.  Since a lot of them are retirees, maybe they’re living on fixed incomes. 

Finally, there’s Plenty of Fish, which now calls itself POF.  This site seems to have a mix of the eHarmony and Our Time crowd.  Some of the guys here do the membership-dodging trick, too.  Of the three, this site has been the most fruitful.  I’ve gotten lots of messages from guys I’d never have considered (although I do prefer men with teeth and good grammar), including one very young admirer (32) with whom I’ve chatted online a few times.  He’s black, which doesn’t bother me, but so very young!  I’m no Demi Moore, and look how that whole thing turned out for her, anyway.  He’s only two years older than Joey, and that’s the sticking point for me.  

I’ll meet him for coffee as soon as I get a moment, and see if I can overcome my age objections.  JoCo, meanwhile, have been throwing Lisa Lampanelli-esc barbs my way, but I think it’s funny.  I told 32 that, if things went anywhere between us, it would be like How Stella Got Her Groove Back.  I hope he’s not so young that he didn’t understand the reference.  

Driven to Distraction

My love affair with driving began early: my grandfather taught me to drive his tractor when I was eight.  Now that I have my own nine year old granddaughter, I question the wisdom of his decision, but I suppose that’s one advantage of rural living: wide open fields make for a fairly safe learning environment.  It wasn’t a state of the art tractor, anyway—he’d probably had it since my dad was young, and it topped out at 15 mph.

Up in “The Country,” as our New Orleans cousins called it, there were two brands of vehicles: Ford and Chevy.   Our cousins would come up on weekends or special occasions driving such exotic brands as Pontiacs and Toyotas.  My cousin Rene’ had a Corvette and cousin Nelson had a yellow Porshe that I was absolutely crazy about.  I learned early on that city folks had much cooler rides.

The first car I learned to drive was my dad’s AMC Gremlin.  Daddy lived near LSU at the time, and we went to the stadium parking lot on a Saturday for the lesson.  It was a stick shift, and we went round and round the parking lot as I learned the art of the manual transmission.  Back then, kids in Louisiana could get their driver’s licenses at 15, and a week prior to my test, he came up to The Country to teach me to parallel park.  As it turned out, parallel parking wasn’t part of the test, but Daddy was an exacting teacher—even today, I can parallel park just like the folks from up North.

We didn’t have nearly as many cousins on my mother’s side of the family, but our cousin Bryan had several exotic cars of his own, including a convertible.  Bryan was a true bon vivant, and lived just outside Atlanta in a rambling, antebellum home. He was about 10 years older than my mother, and way more easy-going. He loved a good time, and came to Louisiana several times to sample the good times there.    Once, he had my uncle drive him over (Bryan couldn’t actually drive his cars because he was legally blind) in the convertible.  Oh, were we an excited bunch of country mice! 

I had just gotten my license a few months prior, but Bryan fearlessly handed me the keys so that I could chauffer him around town.  My sisters and neighbor, Lisa, piled into the back and we were off.  We drove all over Mansura, being sure to wave at everyone we saw.  Bryan was a history buff, so we had to stop at every historical marker so that he could jump out and stand next to the signs and read what had happened on those spots.  When we were going at any rate of speed, the wind would whip our heads so strongly that we couldn’t carry a conversation until we slowed.  I think it took a full week for me to get all the tangles and knots out of my hair.

After high school, I married an Air Force guy stationed in Germany.  The first car we had was a BMW, the second a Mercedes.  That’s not as impressive as it sounds: in Germany, even the taxis were Mercedes.   Driving the German-engineered cars gave me a taste for performance cars, though, and I enjoyed having cars that we couldn’t have afforded in the U.S.

My preference in cars was set by then: I liked them small and fast.  As a newly-divorced mom back in Mansura, the first car I bought all on my very own (with my mother co-signing and threatening me with death if I missed a payment) was a red Mercury Capri.   I named her Baby.  My family has the odd habit, which I trace back to my maternal grandmother, of naming vehicles.   Baby was followed by Jett, a black Ford Escort with manual transmission.

We moved to Atlanta and Jett was stolen within six months.  If you’ve ever had a car stolen, you know that it’s a pretty traumatic experience, especially if it’s later found totally stripped.  Such a violation!  After that experience, I decided to pick the least-stolen car available to replace my fast little ride: a maroon Toyota Corolla wagon.  I had sworn off Ford by that time, because both my prior cars had had mysterious radiator problems.  She wasn’t too pretty to look at, but PDW (Precious Deaux Wagon) could maintain a good speed (did I mention I like to go fast?) and was quite serviceable to shuttle Joey and his friends around. 

PDW never needed anything done to her, other than routine maintenance.  She got me through college and law school, and had over 150,000 miles on her before I decided to trade her in.  I got a red Honda Civic, the name of which escapes me at the moment.  That’s the car I drove down to Florida when we moved.  That little car saw a lot of miles before I finally traded her in.

At that point, I was making a good salary.  I could have gone up in class of cars, but the frugal side of me prevailed.  As I had explained to my son when he was younger, there’s a big difference between wanting and needing, and I didn’t need an expensive car.   I found a fun economy car, a Mazda 3.  It was 2004, the Mazda 3’s first production year.  It only had four cylinders, but had all the pick-up of six.  Zoom-zoom indeed.  Her name was Mikki.  She was a dark blue color that people sometimes called purple.

When it became too difficult for Bunny to climb in and out of his truck (about two years ago),  I convinced him to take Mikki and sell his truck (Nicky Nissan) to Joey.  He was happy with this solution, as he (like everyone else who drove her) loved Mikki.  Poor Mikki eventually met her demise just before Christmas last year: Joey was driving her back to our house (he’d been shuttling Bunny back and forth to doctors’ appointments) when some idiot made a left turn directly into Mikki. 

When Bunny got Mikki, that’s when I got my second Mazda 3, Sylvia.  When I was trying to decide what to get, I toyed with the idea of an Audi TT—my dream car.  I’d loved the TT since I’d first laid eyes on it.  Bunny even gave me a toy one for Christmas one year, until I got the real thing.   It would be silver, just like the model he’d given me.   Once I started the actual narrowing down process, though, I once again yielded to my frugal side.  That much for a car?  Holy cow!  I could buy TWO Mazda 3s for that price!  I didn’t need a luxury car—Mazda got me everywhere I wanted to go.

Then last year, my Aunt Kathy got a black Mustang: Nazgul (it’s a Lord of the Rings name).   She was fresh from divorcing Uncle David, and was on her own for the first time in more than 30 years.  I was excited hearing about her adventures with Nazgul, and happy that Aunt Kathy was blossoming in her new life.  During my mother’s wake, I had gone out for some air and walked down the sidewalk when I saw it: Nazgul, in all its glory; sleek, sporty, luxurious.  I looked it over all the way around.  “You know this thing SMOKES the road,” Margeaux whispered.  I had driven Mustangs as rentals, so I knew what they could do: go very, very fast.  And I do like to go very, very fast.

A few weeks ago, Corey took on the task of making the arrangements for Bunny’s memorial service.  Even though he died in January, Bunny wanted his memorial on what would have been his 50^th birthday, April 20^th.  It will be a Star Trek-themed event with Catholic influence, also at his request.  Someone asked me if those were my ideas.  HA!  Not in a million years!  It’s pure Bunny, who always celebrated his birthday like it was a national holiday.  His 40^th birthday celebration lasted an entire week.

My own birthday is 10 days after his.   I’ve never been one to have huge Bunny-type celebrations, but I decided that this year I would get myself a really nice present.  Taking a page from Aunt Kathy’s book, I decided what it would be: an Audi TT.  If I was going to be 50, I was going to be 50 in style.  Naturally, I did my research to make sure it was still a good car, and it is.  The fact that one reviewer called it a “Cougar Car” didn’t deter me.

There are only two Audi dealerships in the area, and one night a few weeks ago I went to the closest one.  There was only one TT on the lot (they’re a limited production model).  I didn’t want to test it at night, so I returned the next day and, with a nervous salesperson riding shotgun, took it for a spin.  I felt like Speed Racer!  There were two drawbacks: no back seat at all, and a humongous blind spot.  The first didn’t bother me as much as the second: I’m a very fast driver, but I’m also a very safe one.  My dream car had now become much less desirable.

I turned my attention to the Audi A5: still sporty, but without the Cougar stigma.   The salesperson, Chris, showed me the various styles, and mentioned a convertible on the lot.  I told him I really wasn’t interested in convertibles, because they were so noisy and bad for the hair.  He assured me that convertibles had improved quite a bit over the years, and we took out the A5 convertible.  I didn’t feel so Speed Racerish driving it, but wow!  It had get-up and go to spare, and was as comfortable as a velvet glove.  

At first, I wasn’t wild about the color—at dusk, it looked very dark.  It would take two months to order one in a lighter color.  I don't have that kind of patience!   I went back in the daylight on Friday, and was happy to see that, with the sun shining bright, it looked more blue-gray than charcoal.  That’s when I knew that Audrey would be coming home with me.  Nelson called me yesterday to tease me a bit, then said, with all seriousness, “You’re going to need a radar detector.”  Yes I am!