Sunday, December 25, 2011
I made the Christmas Eve dinner last night like I usually did, and my extended family came over and we unwrapped gifts and partied. I laughed and smiled and drove myself crazy making sure everything was just perfect. Today I went to my brother's house to celebrate Christmas with my extended family and celebrate my niece's birthday, who was born on Christmas Day. Again, fun, laughter, jokes and a lot of wine.
But the whole time, and still, I have a nagging, troubled, and for lack of a better word, "yucky" feeling in the pit of my stomach, over the fact that he is not here. It's amazing how I can partake in happy times, yet be so sad at the same time! It's confusing and uncomfortable, and impossible to explain with mere words. And it's not that this only happens on Christmas, it just happens to be a bit magnified during this time.
So, since I can't really explain how I feel, I'll just stop writing for now. I miss him so much, maybe it is just time for a good cry.
Merry Christmas, my love. I miss you more than words can say.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Well, the other day on Facebook, she posted, Just now, the yoga instructor had us open our hearts. When I opened mine, I realized it is still broken. I thought that was really profound, to tell you the truth. Here we have a woman who has seemingly got through and past the bad times to create an awesome and happy life for herself and her children, and then, unexpectedly while meditating, she opened her heart to find that it is still broken, after all these years.
She still misses her first husband. Even though she has built this wonderful life for herself, her heart still breaks for her first husband. And even though I was sorry for Hyla when I read the post, I was also relieved to have read this, because I’ve always thought that my heart will always be broken, no matter where this life takes me or what life I choose to create or not. It made me question myself as to whether or not I was really learning to move forward in my life, and I was starting to feel like it was my “own damn fault” that I am still nursing a broken heart.
Well, now I know it’s not true, and I know it is not my fault. The validation really meant a lot.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
I was talking to some of my colleagues today, and one of them asked me, "How are you doing?" I said I was alright, but she clarified, "No, how are you really doing? How are things at home?" I said, "Well...I'm not over it. It still sucks."
"Has it gotten any better? Easier?" she asked me.
I had to think for a moment. Was it better? No, certainly not better! Was it easier? Hell, no, far from easier. "I'm getting used to it," I answered. That was the best I could do; I could not think of any other way to put it.
"Used to it?" she clarified.
"Yeah, used to it. You know, like when someone has chronic pain. Like my friend who was in a car accident a long time ago...she has chronic pain in her arm 24/7. That's how it is for me. It is a chronic pain, only the pain is in my heart. I've gotten used to it being there. I'm learning to live with it, but I don't like it. I never will. I wish it would go away. But I know it's never going to go away. So I'm getting used to it."
She got it.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
NOTE: For those of you who are not aware, I am a huge Springsteen fan. So if you know who Springsteen is, then most likely you also know who Clarence Clemons is. Not only was Clarence Springsteen’s sax player in his E Street Band for about 30 years, he was also Bruce’s best friend. Clarence died in June of this year.
I took my son to band practice last Wednesday night, and I was talking to the other moms while we were waiting for our kids to be done. During our conversation, one of the moms asked, “Did you hear? Springsteen announced a 2012 tour?” and one of the other moms looked horrified and said, “Really? So soon after Clarence’s death?”
That sentence struck me – being a widow, you would not believe how many people think that once you’re a widow, moving forward is equated with disrespecting your spouse.
Well, here is a newsflash for those of you who think so – we already feel guilty enough for just being alive when the person we love most in the world is not. You don’t have to make us feel even more guilty. And by “moving forward”, I'm not necessarily talking about dating and/or remarriage.
This past summer I took a trip to
People are quick to judge those of us who’ve lost someone, and then subsequently do things for ourselves to try to move forward with our lives. Well, they certainly don’t need to. We do a great job judging ourselves, thank you.
So just as I thought of Bobby multiple times every single day on that trip to
When it comes to grieving, 99% of the people that I’ve spoken to about grief agree that keeping busy is the best way to deal with grief. And I will admit, keeping busy does cause me to forget about my grief and deal with whatever the task at hand happens to be, whether it is work, the kids, taking care of the house, the cat, or a relative. Even going out with friends and spending fun times with family allows me to think about something else besides my grief. And this is a good thing, right?
Well, maybe not.
Here is a new take on the subject...if we are constantly dealing with other things, we are not dealing with our grief. Shortly after Bobby died, a good friend told me that the only way to deal with my grief is to walk straight through it. She told me not to try to go around it, under it or over it, because in walking through it, I can deal with it, and possibly make peace with it. But how can we do this when we are constantly putting it on hold?
I’m nineteen and a half months into widow-hood, and I truly believe that I have not yet dealt with my grief. So many other aspects of life, both negative and positive, have gotten in the way, and that darn grief is still hanging over my head like a dark rain cloud, waiting for some attention.
How do I know this? That’s an easy one...during the few and far between times that I do slow down, which is rare, the pain comes back to me all at once, like a punch in the stomach. I feel as though I am back in April, 2010, and Bobby has just passed away, and I immediately revert back to the big pile of mess that I was back then.
I wish I had a realistic solution, but I don’t. I’m painfully aware that my solution is not realistic, and will never happen, but I wish widow-hood gave a person a free pass to take a year off from life. A year to not have to work, have a free babysitter and personal assistant to take care of everything that needs to be taken care of, and no obligation to anyone or anything, so that we could walk through the grief and deal with all the feelings that go with it completely. It’s so hard to deal with grief while trying to deal with everything else that life hands out. It gets pushed aside, like everything else that is good for me.
Is there a realistic solution to this? None that I can think of. Life has gotten in the way of my grieving. I’m not done grieving; I want to be done grieving; and I cannot think of anything that I can do about it.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I used to have no understanding for posthumous awards. I mean, I thought they were nice gestures, but I also thought, “What good is it if the person is not here to get the award?”
As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, my late husband and I worked for the same organization, although in two different departments. Our professional paths would occasionally cross, but not often. Yesterday I was doing some research and found a document that was posted to our Internet site explaining some of the technology innovations and visions planned for the organization. (My husband was in IT). There was a section that pointed out some of the major problems that the department was having, and my husband was cited as the man who pioneered the solution to several of the problems. It made me smile. Then I noticed that the document had been written in May of 2010. He died in April of 2010. I smiled even more.
Even though he didn’t get an “award”, the posthumous praise meant so much to me. So now when I see widows and widowers and children of deceased parents accept awards for their late loved ones, I’ll see that even though the honor goes to the person who has passed away, the pride and smiles go to those who loved him or her.
Now I know.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
However, this does not typically show on the outside, and on the occasional day that it does show on the outside, I’m tired of people who think I’m crazy, weak, or just seeking attention. Nothing could be farther from the truth. When my pain does show on the outside, all I want,(besides an opportunity to crawl under the covers) is a little understanding for the daily struggle that I am dealing with, even if that understanding comes in the form of silence when you’re at a loss for words. That would be much better than the look that says, “Here she goes again!” It’s amazing how insensitive people can be.
What I don't really think people believe is that I really dread those days that grief rears it's ugly head when I'm in public. And the amazing thing is, that it shows up without warning, without triggers. I could be happy one minute and in the next minute, the grief is bubbling up inside me like acid reflux. When it happens, I think to myself, "Oh crap" because I know what comes next...it's unavoidable...the misunderstanding and uncomfortableness of others. Some avoid me, others give me a look that wonders what could possibly be wrong...I mean...he died over a year ago! Aren't you past this by now? They can't deal with my emotions, so they have to minimize them. I'm sure it is some sort of defense mechanism on their part, but they have to learn that it is very hurtful to the one who is grieving. And believe me, the last thing we need is something else that hurts. It's like kicking someone who is already down.
So when a widowed friend or co-worker seems a little emotionally "under the weather" one day, for no apparent reason, depending on what is appropriate for your relationship with that person, give him or her either a hug, a sympathetic smile or just some space without judgement. It is truly appreciated.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
I recently read an article written by the woman who lost her three daughters in the much-publicized accident in upstate NY in June of 2009 (the Diane Schuler case). She talked about the ways – both positive and negative – that she was dealing with her childrens’ deaths.
One of the things she mentioned was that after the first year, she decided to continue to go out on monthly dinners with friends of hers. These dinners started long before the accident, so eventually she and her husband started joining their friends again.
She said in the article that she felt judged by some people, as if people were whispering behind her back, “How could she do such a thing? Has she forgotten about her girls?”
Boy do I know that feeling! I recently re-did my bathroom, and went on a nice vacation. And I do feel as if people are looking at me and whispering “how could she do such a thing?" as if I've completely forgotten all about him.
Truthfully, I do not know if they are saying these things or not. I really don’t know. I’m not supposed to care about what other people think. It’s what I feel that is important, but let’s face it...I am my harshest judge. A part of me does think that I am being cold hearted by doing these big things, like fixing up my home or going on vacation. Unfortunately, it takes a little bit of the fun out of these things.
I don’t know how to get over this. I don’t even know if I want to get over this. I feel like I need to carry some of this guilt around as a tribute to Bobby and what he meant to me. But on the flip side, it’s not easy living my life feeling guilty all the time. But when I think of giving up the guilt, it just makes me feel guilty all over again, and then I think again, do I really want to give this up? It’s a tribute to Bobby!
It’s a vicious circle, that’s what it is. It keeps going around and around and around, and I don’t know how to get out of it!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
One thing I never planned on is being alone. Sure, I’m not completely alone, I have my two teenage sons with me, but I don’t have Bobby here to make me part of a couple. So I’ve had to learn something that I never thought I would have to do: live alone.
This does not mean I’ve never lived alone before. I had my own apartment when I met him, and I was young, in my 20s and single, which was fun when I was that age. I met Bobby when I was 27. And as I've mentioned before...we were joined at the hip almost immediately.
So now I have something to learn. I recently read in a book of practical advice for widows that we need to learn to live alone and be comfortable with our alone-ness, no matter what we decide to do with our lives down the road. Some of the things she mentions in her book are going to museums, restaurants, shopping, comedy clubs, and the movies, and be comfortable with it. I thought about what I had read, and I decided that shopping or visiting a museum alone is not terrible. I’ve done both of these before, even when I was part of a couple. But dining alone? I cannot imagine dining alone!! And I’m not talking about getting a bite to eat at the food court in the mall...I’m sure we’ve all done that alone at one time or another. But she mentions in her book going to a nice restaurant and dining alone without a book or a newspaper! I wouldn’t know how to do that in a million years. A comedy club? I would be mortified to walk into a comedy club by myself. (Although I’m sure my alone-ness, if noticed, would be great fodder for the comedians). The movies? I could probably do that alone without any anxiety, although I don’t think it would be much fun to see a movie without having someone there with whom to make comments.
The author, though, was able to achieve this, so I’m thinking it’s probably a good idea to try. My sons would tell me, “Remember what Yoda said. There is no try, only do,” since I tend to pull this one on them from time to time when they say things like, “I’ll try to remember to pick wet towels up off the floor."
I’m not making any guarantees on the restaurant or comedy club, though.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
I noticed the other day that my normally upbeat and happy 15-year-old was sullen and quiet. When we got to talking, he said that it really bothered him that his dad never got to see all the accomplishments he's achieved since attending High School. My son, like his father, is a gifted musician, and this year in school he joined Concert Band, and Marching Band. He also tried out, and was accepted to Competitive Jazz Band, as well as trying out and being accepted to a
At that very moment, something occurred to me, and I told him that actually his dad has a huge advantage over me at the shows. My son asked me what I meant, and I told him, "When I'm watching your show, all I can do is sit and watch from the bleachers. Where do you think Daddy is?"
He thought for a moment. "On the field, with me?"
He smiled. And I know that he believes it as much as I do.
When I was a little girl, April was always my favorite month. April held the promise that spring was on it's way, and not far behind, summer. It was the beginning of the 4th Marking Period at school, and that meant school was almost over. But most important, at that time in my life, it was my birthday month. My birthday was always marked by a big party with my relatives on one day, a small party with my friends on another day, and going out to dinner with my family on "the actual day". So really, my birthday was usually celebrated three times during the month, not just once.
Of course, as I got older, April no longer held the magic that it once held when I was a child. My birthday was no longer over-celebrated as my mom had stopped the big parties when I was about twelve (except for my Sweet 16). Instead, my birthday celebration in my teens was hanging around with my friends, and dinner with my immediate family. In my early 20s, it was going out to a bar, dancing, and again, hanging with friends.
The year I turned 28, April was wonderful. I had already been with Bobby for nine months, and he spoiled me on my birthday. I no longer cared nor needed to be "out" on my birthday, cuddling with him on the couch in our apartment was more than enough. It was also my second year as a teacher, and once again, it meant the beginning of the end of the school year, and I looked forward to my summers off.
It was just the two of us until my mid thirties. April became "Mommy's Birthday Month" according to my children, and it was then celebrated with cake, cookies and gifts that Bobby let the children pick out. I got lots of plastic flowers and home-made gifts, and one year, the boys insisted on taking me to Build-A-Bear for my own birthday bear. They got joy out of my birthday, and I got my joy watching them.
The April that I turned 41 was difficult...Bobby suffered his heart attack, fell into a coma, had a triple bypass, but emerged feeling better and healthier than he had before the attack. So that April was really significant...it was the month he looked Death in the face and flipped it the bird. We grew even closer together that year as a couple, as well, which I thought was really impossible, because we were close to begin with!
For the years following the heart attack and my forty-first birthday, April became "no big deal". My birthday came and went without a large celebration, since my kids became teenagers. When you are in your forties, your birthday no longer holds the wonder of when you were a kid. Presents become obsolete, and, at least in my case, it becomes very difficult for me to even think of what I "want for my birthday", because materialistically speaking, I have everything I need or want. But despite all this, Bobby always found a way to make my birthday special, even if we were at work all day and driving the kids around all evening to various activities.
Then two years ago, April held horrible news...Bobby had cancer.
One year ago, April became the dreaded month of the year. Bobby passed away in April. It will always be the month he passed away, even as my own life goes on.
April is no longer my favorite month of the year. And while it still does hold the promise of spring, and the approach of summer, my favorite season, I just cannot get passed the fact that it is also the month he passed away. It will never again be the same.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
As the one-year anniversary of Bobby’s passing approached, my kids and I were on pins and needles. What would happen that day? How would we feel? Was it going to be horrible and would I not be able to make it through without crying on my bed all day? This went through my head, as similar thoughts went through my childrens’ heads, too.
We decided to make plans for the day, to remember him. I took the day off of work, and my younger son opted to stay home from school as well. My older son, who is in high school, wanted to go for half day. So we picked him up from school right before his lunch period, and headed to the cemetery. We spent some time with Bobby, then went to his favorite pizzeria and had his favorite pizza.
Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), our little celebration of his life could not last all day because my older son was playing in a Jazz Band Competition that night and my younger son had a Boy Scout meeting. I also had a Physical Therapy appointment. “Life” took over, and did not allow any of us to flop on our beds and cry all day.
So the day came and went; we got through it; we survived. And I can honestly say that it is not the actual day that bothers me, but the fact that it signifies that my time away from him is getting longer and longer. It puts the image in my mind of two people on two different boats, holding hands, and as the boats drift away, the hands have to let go, and the outstretched hands get further and further apart as the boats drift in opposite directions.
I am no longer within that first year, which in some ways became sort of "comfort zone" for me. I’m now into the second year. What happens now? What does the second year mean? Does it mean anything at all? It’s so unsettling.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
This incident happened to me two and a half months ago, right before Christmas. However, I did not blog about it right away because I thought anyone reading it might decide that I was out of my mind. However, after thinking about it, I've decided to blog it anyway. It's about my own personal miracle at the mall that combined my experience as a widow with the movie “Miracle on
About two years ago, Bobby and I decided that living in
So this past winter, I decided it was time to get warm shoes. I already had boots, but I wanted shoes. I’m a bit fussy about my shoes, so when I saw a pair I wanted, I would buy them, since it might take me a long time to find another pair that I really wanted.
On the Friday before Christmas, I headed over to the mall to buy the shoes. I went right to Lord & Taylor, because I knew they carried the brand & style I was looking for. I went into the store, and found a pair in brown on the display, so I brought them over to the salesman, and said, “I would like these in black, size six.”
He answered back, “I’m sorry, miss, but we only have brown, and we don’t even have brown in size six. All the size sixes are gone. However, we might be getting more in on Tuesday. I'm not sure.”
I told him I was hoping to have them for the weekend, so he looked around, then said in a low voice, “You can try Bloomingdales. Bloomingdales also carries this brand.”
My mouth dropped open. It was like Santa Claus in Macy’s telling the little boy’s mom to go get the fire truck at Gimbels.
So I headed over to Bloomingdales, and found the same brown shoe on the display. I walked up to a saleswoman, and asked her, “Do you have these in black, size 6?”
She took the shoe and said, “Oh, I don’t think so. I think we’re all out of black, and I’m sure we’re all out of size six. Sizes six and seven are the most popular sizes, and they tend to get sold out first.”
“Can you check anyway?” I asked.
She looked somewhere in between annoyed and feeling sorry for me, so she went in the back to look. She came out with a box and a very surprised look on her face. “Here you go. Size six, in black.” I took the shoes and tried them on. They fit perfect, so I went to the register.
The same saleswoman was at the resister. While she was ringing up the sale, I asked her if there were any more black shoes in the back. She shook her head and said, “No, not at all. These were the last pair of black. I cannot believe they are a size six.”
So that is my version of Miracle on 34th Street. Bobby wanted me to have warm shoes, and I’m convinced that he had something to do with me finding the one and only black pair, in size six at the mall that night.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Yesterday, while sitting in a diner with my kids and some friends, I heard the song “Somewhere Out There” by Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram on the radio. It reminded me of an experience that Bobby and I shared very shortly after we met.
Bobby and I had one of those "love at first sight" romances. I never in a million years thought that "love at first sight" was true, but from the first moment we met, we knew it was special and we knew we would be together always.....except for the three week period that I was on vacation.
When I met Bobby, I had already planned a three-week trek in Europe with my friend Christina, which included a week long stay with another friend Jane who lives right outside of
One night while staying with Jane, he called me. It was about 5:00 am,
And even though I know how very far apart we are,
it helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star,
and when the north wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,
it helps to think we’re sleeping underneath the same big sky.
It gave me an idea. I asked him to take the phone outside and look at the sky. I asked if he could see the moon. He said yes. So I told him that I was looking at the moon also, and that it made me miss him a little bit less, because at that very moment, even though we were an ocean apart, we were both looking at the same thing at the same time. We could share something, even though we were physically so far apart. He said he thought that was "pretty cool", and said that every night while I was away, he would look at the moon, and know that I may be looking at it at the same time.
Yes, there are times when I feel connected to him, whether I am wearing his bathrobe, holding one of his guitars, or watching our kids. But I wonder if, and hope that he is there, too, sharing the moment, "looking at the moon" with me. I miss those shared moments. A lot.
Friday, February 18, 2011
One of my widow friends on Facebook posted something really interesting the other day. Her post said,
And my #1 tip for surviving winter.... STOP READING THIS. Read something that ISN'T about death, not by a widow, and NOT WRITTEN THIS TIME OF YEAR by someone who feels like you. Nothing current! Try fiction, or Scientific American, or something you can buy in the checkout line at the Supermarket! I'm doing this RIGHT after I log off for a bit, just like I do every year, because it's NECESSARY. What will you do?—Posted by SupaFreshWidow on
I thought a lot about what she wrote, and at first I was surprised. She also has a blog that talked about her life as a widow, so why should she want to discourage people from reading it? Then I “got it.” It reminded me of an experience that a good friend of mine told me about that stayed with me since she said it, when I was about six months in...
My friend has an son who is autistic. He was born around the same time I had my son, and both boys are now 15 years old. I remember after she got the diagnosis of her son being autistic, that she went online and found tons of information about autism. For several years, she read blogs and message boards about autism, later contributing some of her own experiences to these. Being a writer, she even wrote some articles on living and thriving with an autistic child that were published in local newspapers and other periodicals. She also made local connections, and one of those connections turned into a lifelong friendship. She was the mom of an autistic son, and this was her life.
She then told me later on, that one day she had, like they say on Oprah, an “A-ha” moment. She stopped reading about autism. She stopped writing about it. She stopped going online and making the connections. She said that she realized that since she had totally immersed herself for several years into being the mom of an autistic son, that she stopped being who she was before. She had lost her hobbies, some friends, and did not do very much any longer with her husband or her other children.
Does she still take care of her autistic son? Of course! She makes sure that he has the best education for autistic children, and he has all the support at home that he needs to thrive to the best of his abilities. But she has shed the label “mom of an autistic child” and is just herself.
She told me this story because she thought I was immersing myself way too much into the world of widowhood. I thought about what she said, and told her that it was way too early for me to make such a decision. She understood. But later on that day, when I was alone, I started to question myself...was I labeling myself? Was I pigeon-holing myself, and concentrating too much on being “a widow” rather than just being “me”? I did not have an answer. And I’ve been struggling with this for a few months now.
But when I read the Facebook post, it made me realize that other widows might be struggling with the same issues. We can’t label ourselves, and we cannot immerse ourselves in “widow-stuff” 24/7! But we still need each other. And I realized that I am still me, even if I do frequent the widow pages on the internet and interact with other widows (and the occasional widower). It’s the same as working moms...they can be good employees AND good mothers. So I can still be a widow, while still being myself and doing other things, as well.
And now it is time for me to shut down my computer and watch a rented movie with my two sons.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Well, maybe not my first. Actually, I had a lot of Valentine’s Days alone, but they were easy to get through because I was young, single and had a lot of young, single friends who were more than willing to go out and have fun without men on Valentine’s Day. We even made fun of our friends who DID have Valentines!
This year was completely different. Since I spent the past 19 years thinking that I had a Valentine for life, this one just plain sucked because my special guy was not there.
Not that we made a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. Every year, I would buy him a box of Queen Anne Chocolate Covered Cherries. And, in the beginning, he used to send me roses and big cards from the Hallmark Store, but after two kids and a mortgage, I would get the little card and the single red rose (and he still got the chocolates). All this meant so much to me....I didn't need the huge bouquet. Just the fact that I got a hug and a kiss and a “Happy Valentine’s Day” in the morning was special. Then we would go to work, come home, drive the kids to some activity, have dinner and go to bed. Dinner was usually pizza because he would say every year, “You shouldn't have to cook on Valentine’s Day”. That was sweet. That was all I needed.
This year, I got wrapped up in my son’s love life instead. He wanted to have dinner with his girlfriend, so I arranged with her mother (who is divorced AND happens to work in the same building as me!) for them to have dinner at a local nice Italian place. But of course, we had to eat, too, and our younger children had to eat, too, so the six of us had a nice dinner together. I’m sure that was not exactly my son’s idea of a romantic dinner with his girlfriend, but it had to do. We did let them sit next to each other.The funny part was the strange looks we got the next day when we told our colleagues that we had Valentine’s dinner together the night before.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
I’ve always been a Classic Rock sort of gal...I like listening to Springsteen, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, you know the type. I always thought that my favorite Classic Rock station was a safe place to listen to the radio because I didn’t have to worry about running into Celine Dion or Air Supply singing a sappy love song that would send me into tears. The only love song I want to hear these days is Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC.
Well, when you’re grieving, there is no safe place. I know I’ve blogged in the past about being in Shop Rite or in my cousin’s pool, and remembering something about Bobby. But today, on my way to work, I was doomed.
I have a very short commute to work – ten minutes at the most – so I don’t get to hear a lot of music on my way in. So this morning, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I turned on the radio to find we are in the middle of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Just the title was killing me. (Boy do I wish he was here...Bobby I mean, not Roger Waters.) But I decided to brave out the rest of the song, since there are no other good radio stations that come in well in my town, and I haven’t yet sprung for satellite radio. Finally the song was over and I was hoping for something along the lines of Jumping Jack Flash when the DJ put on Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.
Really? Did you ever listen to the words? "Well I’ve been afraid of changin’ since I built my life around you. But time makes you bolder and children get older. And I’m gettin’ older, too."
But I like that song, so I braved it out. I found myself actually gritting my teeth. As I made the last turn to get on the road that leads to my place of work, Landslide ended, and who comes on? Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven.
I was done. I had to sit in the car, have a good cry, then fix my mascara before going in.
So no, I've discovered that no place seems to be safe.
The up side? At least they didn’t play Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper. I probably would have turned around and gone home.