Doctor Doctor, Gimme The News

When I was a kid, there were not as many choices for doctors as there are today.  There was the old-fashioned pediatrician who made house calls.  As a budding first grade Typhoid Mary, I brought home Chicken Pox and infected the whole house.  The doc came with his black bag and said "Yup.  Keep 'em home," condemning my mom to whatever the incubation period was for probably a few bucks for the diagnosis.

Then there was the GP-the man who had an office in the front of his house, who examined us with a Popsicle stick in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Dancing To The Rhythm That Is In Our Soul On Saturday Night, Saturday Night

From the day I met him, Wingman was a huge fan of Saturday Night Live. After all, it never competed with a single Yankee game on TV.  And perhaps, Saturday Night Live owes him a big debt of gratitude for helping create one of their more popular skits.

I met Wingman at a party. We tried to find common ground (certainly not our heritage with me being Irish/Italian and him Czech/Polish) but we did like the same movies (Casablanca) and TV shows (Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman). He was incredulous that I had never seen Saturday Night Live, which as the second season began, became a weekly ritual for us.

Wingman was working as a bartender at the time I met him, and knew a guy with connections to the show.  He called me one night in June and in a voice three octaves higher than usual, squealed "I got us an invite to the SNL season ending cast party!" For two kids from the burbs, this was beyond cool.

Shower The People You Love With Love...Show Them The Way That You Feel

With very few exceptions, 2014 turned out to be more "MEH YEAR" than "MY YEAR". True, I finally got a full-time job as a manager with the company I worked part-time at for six years, and couldn't be more grateful.  In November, I became a grandmother for the third time in two years-this time a beautiful baby boy who was named after Wingman. But beyond that, the year was quite unmemorable. Which made writing at a certain point difficult.  If I wasn't interested in my life, why would anyone else be?

All things considered, with 2012 being my personal worst year (Wingman dying, Sandy destroying so many belongings in the house as well as losing my job all within 92 days) this year was at least tolerable.  As I recall, 2014 was more about getting it together than getting together.

That's not to say there weren't good times.  The trip to Florida to help someone deal with her ex was great.  Surrounding myself with thirty or so cute college boys for a home-cooked meal in March was a night I'll always remember.  And, of course, nothing could beat the surprise birthday party my kids threw for me in October. But it was New Year's Eve alone in 2013, followed by the same on Valentine's Day and Mother's Day which turned most nights last year into my own version of Groundhog's Day.  There were too many nights sitting alone WITH the dog and not enough nights putting ON the dog.

It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To

When my BFF reached her milestone year, she planned her own party. She picked the place, the food and the guests. It worked out so well that I planned to do the same thing this year. And as my birthday was also the same weekend as the NYC breast cancer walk a friend and I planned to participate in, I figured I'd have it the week before. So back in the early spring, I mentioned my party plans to my son. His response was for me to walk in another city another month this year.

Could it be? Was I imagining that the men-children responsible for every stretch mark and quite a few gray hairs and frown lines might be planning a party for me? Could they have inherited that from Wingman?

If You Like Pina Coladas...

A young work associate and I were discussing dating.  "It's so hard", she moaned.  "All the guys act like The Situation or Paulie from The Jersey Shore.  They never stop checking out their phones or texting. You just can't meet a nice guy who wants to have a CONVERSATION."  I thought about that for a moment and offered this:

Imagine the lush African plains.  There are rivers and lakes, where all species of animals, birds and reptiles have plenty of water and live together peacefully. Now, think about that same African Plain during the dry season.  The lakes have dried up to muddy puddles and only the most aggressive animals get to lap up whatever swill is left.

That's the difference between the dating pool in your twenties and at my age.

The Record Shows I took The Blows

By now, half the civilized world has seen the Gatorade ad celebrating the career of Derek Jeter.  And I must admit, it brought a tear or two to my eyes as well.  A classy guy who was born two years after I graduated high school, who makes 12 million a year playing baseball ans another $18-20 million a year in endorsements is retiring. But what brought a tear to my eye wasn't that ad, or his retirement.

It's that he dates women half his age.  Which makes the men MY age who think they are as classy as he is, want to date women half THEIR age.

The Answer My Friend, Is Blowin' In The Wind. The Answer Is Blowin" In The Wind

When I finally decided how to commemorate the second anniversary of Wingman's death, I was reminded multiple times that what I planned to do was illegal.

Since he was a lifelong fan, I planned to leave some of his ashes at Yankee Stadium.

It happened that the anniversary was a day when the Yankees were in town during Derek Jeter's last season and it also happened to be Paul O'Neill bobble head day. Paul O'Neill was my favorite Yankee so to me it was a no-brainer.  A baseball game...a bobble head doll...maybe a beer...and a bag of ashes. What more could he ask for from me?

Well, for a $10.00 donation to the Yankee's charity foundation, I could put his name on the Jumbo-tron. For some reason, I found it insanely funny envisioning "The New York Yankees Welcome Wingman" knowing that part of him was resting in Monument Park.

Love When You Can, Cry When You Have To, Be Who You Must-That's A Part Of The Plan

A year ago, I thought that my head would explode if I didn't write down or talk about what I was thinking and how I felt.  Lately though, I've felt almost the opposite-that other people's heads will explode if I say what's on my mind.  And since yesterday was the second anniversary of the day I first thought to myself, "Wow, I'm a widow now..." I tried to think of where I was then, where I am now, and what I've taken from this experience.  Here's what I've come up with so far:

And I'm Never Going Back To My Old School

Wingman and I bought our first home in his hometown about a year before his first high school reunion.  On that evening, we planned to have a few friends over for a nice, sophisticated après-reunion soiree.  Some carrot and celery sticks, wine in the wedding crystal...

Well, the friends we invited told a few of their friends.  Who mentioned it to others.  By the end of the night, the announcement was made from the stage that the after party was at our house.

I have never seen that many people in one place legally.  Crammed in every corner, in every room. The screened in porch was packed, even on that cold (I believe November) evening.  Not to mention that there was sex happening EVERYWHERE in the house-even in the bushes outside.  Younger high school kids, who had nothing to do with the reunion, showed up with a keg, thinking they could PAR-TAY.  The house was filled with Newport cigarette smoke (that school's butt of choice) and Wingman's brother who was living with us at the time, came home to find cocaine lines being drawn on his dresser.

Ah, the eighties.

Last Night I Didn't Get To Sleep At All

There were a lot of things that Wingman bought over the years from TV ads that were crazy.  Stupid even.  Expensive as well.  He bought Saturday Night Live videos and Time Life music CD's, pillows that help you sleep, shoe lifts for fallen arches, even a program from a real estate guru to make millions flipping foreclosed homes.  But it took a snoring dog next to me in bed to put me into the category of "What Was I Thinking?" when I succumbed to the middle-of-the-night infomercial. 

Besides inside vacuuming and dusting, I am now forced to take on Wingman's outside house responsibilities or pay someone to do them, like putting up a fence and installing a sprinkler system. Rather than pay someone to stain the deck that had to be replaced when the tree fell on it during that "she-who-must-not-be-named" storm in 2012, I decided to do it myself.  All 175 spindles and 68 deck boards and steps.  I envisioned a summer spent, not at the beach but on my knees with a stain brush in one hand, sort of like Lady Liberty getting sucker punched. 

I'll Always Love My Momma (She's My Favorite Girl)

I remember being in 8th grade when my Mom had my youngest brother.  When I went into her room to visit for the first time,  she was crying in pain, and I went screaming down the hall for a nurse.  She later had "one of those talks" with me, saying that childbirth pain is hard but beautiful and you forget it quickly.  I wasn't big on the pain threshold back then and thought "I'm never having kids if it hurts."

Then there was the night in high school when I was forced to endure going to my other two brothers' Pop Warner football games.  When one brother got speared, the doctors thought he might have a cracked rib, so they put him in an ambulance to be x-rayed.  Mom went with him while Dad stayed behind as a coach. In the next game, that younger brother got clipped and hurt his knee.  As he was put into the second ambulance, the first one pulled in. Mom got out of one ambulance and into the next to go to the hospital again.  I thought to myself "I'm never having boys. They get hurt too much.  Just girls."