When I’m feeling a little under the weather, I drink hot tea. I don’t really like it under any other circumstances. I remember my mom drinking a lot of it when I was growing up. And still does. For me, back then it was mostly a warm, dark vehicle for tons of white table sugar. I'm lucky. I don't get sick very often. Sometimes, even before I realize my throat is getting scratchy or I'm sounding a bit nasally, I seek out the little "Colonial" (as I call it) tea cup and saucer.

Dear Universe, It's been a while since my last letter . I was thinking about you the other day; trying to understand the mixed-bag-that-is-you as I sometimes attempt to do. You're so unpredictable and formidable, and sometimes so cruel. Being kind-of-a-bitch is your thing. I get it, though I must admit I struggle with accepting you as you are. I want to change you. I would bet most people you know want to change you. Take a hint? In fact, you're becoming quite the cliché.  

There seems to be a point in the day by which everything is measured. Sometimes it's anticipation of a stressful meeting at work or excited anticipation of a special event. But those are the exceptions. A creature of habit--desired habit, needed habit--there is a baseline in my day which is essential, it seems, to maintain order, balance, sanity. It's the point in the day when I know I can relax, kick off my shoes (emotionally speaking), let my hair down (figuratively, of cou

It seems this time of year holiday traditions are somehow more romantic. The Christmas traditions I shared with Ken are still very important to me. We really delighted in the season. Ken had a childlike giddiness that was infectious. It was impossible to be a Grinch at Christmastime with him around. For me, Christmas continues to be magical. It's my first Christmas in my new place, and I'm looking forward to bringing some old traditions here and making new ones, as well. Fir

Milestone dates regarding Ken don't ambush me or fill me with dread...much. Or at least like they once did. I'm usually prepared for them--particularly the important ones. Birthday. Our anniversary. Or the anniversary of his death. And, really, as time passes and I keep pushing forward in my life, they seem to hurt less. Really, though, what I think is happening is my tolerance for the pain is higher. I'm just used to it. This past weekend was Ken's birthday. He would have

There is a trap I fall into every so often when I'm working in the office. (It never happens when I'm working from home.) An electronic pack rat, I've kept most of my Outlook email since 2006. I know. I know. That's a lot of email. But things are cyclical at work and I sometimes need to refer to something old to create something new. And I'm lazy--trying to decide what might or might be useful in the future. Just keep all of it! It's during these moments when I need skip bac

Two years ago, I was saddened--bothered, even--when I found an old camping percolator and cups while trying to do some organizing in the old apartment. It had been a punch-in-gut reminder that I'd never camp with Ken  again. I'd never be able to enjoy the thing he introduced me to again with him--or without him, for that matter. The memories and the loss tugged at an already fractured heart, so. I tucked that percolator away near the rest of the camping supplies and didn't t

"I think it's a little strange she doesn't have an ID," I said as I passed the tenured, buffoonish security guard about the nurse pushing an elderly woman at the Secretary of State (DMV) office downtown the other day. The "nurse's" eyes burned into me and he waved his hands dismissively as I passed. She and I had tangled earlier. She was lazy and probably non-credentialed. She and the security guard were both idiots. But then again, I'd willingly walked into a Bizarro Unive

When I met my nephew Jack he was 5, the older of Ken's two nephews via his brother and sister-in-law. This past weekend he graduated from high school--an emotional event on its own. But packed an added punch knowing Ken wasn't watching next to me, beaming as I know he would have been. I'd prepared as I much for it as I could. I knew he was there in all of our hearts and minds. When all else failed, I reminded myself what a gift it was to come together as a family to celebrate

June 1 is crisp. Somehow compact and rigid. It sits right at the promise of summer. It can barely contain its toothy smile in light of all the bounty it will bear. Almost smug. But it can't help it. It's just being June 1. As it should. Apparently, I'd met June 1 before. But it was in passing. Carelessly. Without any kind of acknowledgment. I can remember running into it once in a while. But we had no connection. No relationship. Since Ken died in 2011, June 1 has taunted m

He kept itching his nose--under his left nostril--intermittently until he tilted his head back so I could practically see up and into his brain. "Is it bleeding?" he asked. "What? Your Cerebellum?" I thought. But "no" is what I actually said. Nothing I could see was bleeding. At my breakfast. Where I was eating food. Food I wanted to eat blood-free. "See? I told you," he said finally, holding out the finger he'd been using to pick away at the scab under his nose. "Blood.

I planted my garden last weekend. Really, more potted than planted. Gone are the days of the sprawling garden in the backyard yard of the apartment on Cuyler Avenue, and figuring out what to plant and what would require the least amount of attention and considering what Ken might have appreciated. My new "garden" is a 6 foot by 6 foot patio, surrounded by a manicured garden maintained by my condo building's landscapers. Of all the items on my checklist for buying a place, a

My greatest dream since age thirteen--when I discovered my love of writing--was to be a published author. Back then, I wanted to be a novelist, creator of gripping, over-the-top dramatic best sellers. Non-fiction essays held little interest for me outside of mandatory English assignments. What could possibly be interesting about non-fiction? It seemed so...limiting. I could never have imagined the piece that got me a publishing credit would not only be an essay about my life

A gigantic part of Ken's identity was his left leg...er...lack of one. After having it amputated below the knee when he was a teen was life-defining--and I've written before--it sent him down the path of becoming the most inspirational people I've ever known--let alone loved. "Feet" played a big part in his life, and in turn, mine. His one-man show  about his journey with cancer was called "My Foot Left"...as is his website that I haven't touched. He had a Grey's Anatomy ta

It made me more than a little sad yesterday when I looked at the calendar--as I do every day--and realized it was the anniversary of when I met Ken, intertwining our lives. Thirteen years ago. A lifetime ago. I feel an emotional distance from this milestone date that filled me with glee when he was here and echoed inside my empty heart after he was gone. Like some kind of safety gate has come down, keeping me from getting too close to it. A means of protection time has gran

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" are lyrics to a song I always found profoundly deep (and from which I took the name of this blog). There was a time when I had the blind luxury of pondering its meaning as I sang along in the car, but discovering I was living it during Ken's illness and death was a true FML moment. For a while I found the song--and these lyrics--taunting, reminding me of something so painful and obvious. Now, I just find them indiffe

As stated in my previous blog , the place I'm buying is smaller than my current apartment. I haven't really packed much yet. It's been a lot of going through things and deciding what will/will not be making the journey to the place/my new life with me. And therein lies the chafing emotional rub. Early in the process of looking at condos and deciding on one to put an offer on, I knew I needed to thin things out. Early attempts resulted in short circuits and overloads ending

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog. Here's an excerpt: A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 5,800 times in 2013. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 5 trips to carry that many people. Click here to see the complete report.

I'm moving. Aside from the Christmas cheer in the air there is also one of excitement. For change. And an equal measure of dread for the same. The normal dread of change. As well as the other kind: the kind that finds me packing up and purging things from my life with Ken in the apartment where we lived together the longest. Saying goodbye to the place where we said goodbye. Not an easy task. I remind myself of lots of things. Constantly. This isn't--in fact--the place whe

I can't believe it's only been three years I've been pouring my heart out into the ether of the internet. It seems like I've always been blogging. It certainly saved my sanity during the insanity of the last few years. But it also has served as a venue for sharing my brand of humor. I've linked a couple of my favorite blogs below to mark the occasion. The Dime Store of Broken Dreams If You Build It, They Will Come (like it or not) The Unflattering History of Sports (and me)