WashingTina

It's no secret that this has been a hard year ( hard few years , to be clear). And WH and I have been struggling . It's easy to get lost in that struggle, to forget that there is sunshine, to wallow. As Thanksgiving and the holiday season approaches, it's a stark reminder of what we don't have. But that's a rabbit hole I'm trying very hard not to let myself fall down. I could easily think about how WH and I aren't able to be together. But instead, I'm thankful that we have each other. That we are in this thing together. That we bolster each other on those days that seem darkest. I'm thankful that we haven't lost each other even as we have lost so much else. I could let myself feel all alone. But instead, I'm thankful for family and friends who have given of themselves to make sure that we aren't alone. To make sure that we feel loved. These warriors in our army have given their time, their money, their tears, their souls to make sur...

Today I am 40. It's a milestone, to be sure. But it's one that's a little harder to face than previous ones ( here's why ). Rather than wallow or feel sorry for myself, I'm going to practice self care in the form of self love. A friend on Twitter yesterday (when I was still 39) suggested that I mark the end of my 30s by giving myself 39 compliments. I didn't quite get around to it, but I've decided to kick off 40 with 40 compliments for instead. Here goes: I'm tough.  I've got a great head of hair. Loyal, almost to a fault (but we're dealing in compliments here, not faults). I have low blood pressure  (which should not be underestimated as one ages). No wrinkles! (Also should not be underestimated) I will laugh with you and cry with you, because I really do care. I'm a pretty damn good writer.  I make a mean chili, burrito, and chicken soup (but not all in the same pot). My eyes (my best feature) are pretty. I work hard. I play ha...

Lest you think that this has all been about perspective and growth and strength, I feel the need to share with you one of the most devastating (and, frankly, shallow) aspects in our journey to health through loss. I reached a point several years ago where I was utterly pleased with my wardrobe. I had cultivated and curated pieces that I loved and could intermingle with each other to wear again and again. It made me feel good and it gave me confidence. More than my wardrobe, though, was my shoe collection. I can only say, with a tear in my eye and not an ounce of irony, that my shoes were my babies. I had boots: suede, leather, snakeskin; red, black, brown, camel; high heel, low heel, mid heel; knee high, calf high, ankle booties. I had heels: patent, suede, fabric, leather; gold, black, brown, burgundy, red, nude; stiletto, wedge, chunky. I had sandals: strappy, flat, walking; leather, rope, cork, plastic. I even had a couple of pairs of sneakers and three or four pair of flats. Did ...

I checked into the hotel with just the clothes on my back, my phone, and my wallet. Minutes earlier, I had walked out of our now-empty home for the last time, having purged the remaining bits of our life into the garbage. Just before I left, I snapped one last picture of our beautiful view of Thomas Circle and tweeted , "I don't live here anymore." It took my breath away how much it hurt.  The woman at the hotel desk handed me a package with the clothes I would wear and a purse I was borrowing from my mother. They were the only possessions I had. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to my room. As I stripped off my clothes and put them into a garbage bag, I thought to myself, "How did I get here? How had I survived the past year? Would I survive what was coming next? What was coming next?" There I was, in nothing, with nothing, and I couldn't fathom how I was going to put my life back together. I didn't know if WH was ever going to get better....

I realize I've gone down a rabbit hole with my (sparse, yeah, yeah, ok, sparse) posts this year. It's not the high comedy some have come to expect from this blog (and yes, I use "high comedy" loosely....I'm not so arrogant as to think I'm Steven Colbert or similar).  But sometimes one just feels the need to wax philosophical. Today is one of those days (it seems I increasingly have those days). I have reached a point where I have little patience for the "I don't get Twitter," "I'm not going to 'do' Facebook," "What do you mean you met your boyfriend ONLINE!?!?" school of thought. I am a deeply entrenched member of Generation X, and so are many of my friends.  My parents are Boomers.  But there is so much that we can learn from the online generation. I get such great enjoyment from my online life. I am on Facebook, Twitter, and obviously here on this blog. I have reconnected with friends from childhood. I have m...

There are a few dying arts, one of which is customer service.  Sure, we can all think of those times when we've received good customer service, but the reason they stand out is because most customer service is so bad, the good ones have to stand out. Nothing against call centers located somewhere in Asia . . . I know that the people who work there are trying their best . . . but are they really well equipped to deal with someone who is undeterred?   The answer, my friends is no.  Because I can guarantee that I am more determined and more patient and willing to call back as many times as it takes until I get my refund/service call/resolution.  There is no way that there are enough "supervisors" to pretend to pacify before I get what I want.

One time awhile back, the Policy Lawyer and I went on an adventure with her mother to see the Miss America pageant.  It seems that Miss Maryland contestant was a congregant at her mother's church.  A whole gaggle of congregants were heading up to Atlantic City on a charter bus, but we were having none of that.  We decided to road trip it together, the three of us. Bet you didn't know that Atlantic City is crazy far from D.C.  Or at least, it certainly seemed to be.  It took hours to get there.  When we finally arrived, we pulled into an Econolodge, as that was where the church group had made reservations. 

What would you do if the person you love more than anything got sick and nobody could figure out what it was or why it happened? What would you do if, after visiting doctor after doctor and having test after test, you had to watch your partner be told "it's all in your head" as he only got sicker and sicker? What would you do, when, after knocking on what seems like the door of every doctor in the country you finally found one who believed him and could treat him? What would you do if that doctor told you that one crucial step to treatment was avoidance, in effect cutting off the head of the beast that got him sick -- and that meant losing your dream home and every. single. thing. inside it? What would you do if your clothes and hair were so contaminated by the thing that makes your partner sick that it meant you couldn't live together until he recovered? What would you do if people you loved questioned your commitment to your partner, at a time when he was ...

Some days, I feel like I'm being tested. If I'm honest, the last couple of years, nearly every day, I've felt tested. This past weekend, the AC unit broke resulting in a flood in my room. Carpet was ripped up, blowers were installed, I was displaced. Nothing to go to pieces about, really, except that when you are in a constant state of unease, taking away one's "fortress of solitude" feels like the straw that broke the camel's back. But in those moments this weekend (and in the ensuing days of ongoing disarray), there were little messages reminding me that I'm not being tested alone. That I'm not the disaster I often feel like I am. That I am loved. Sunday, during a text exchange with a friend, she said to me, "Thanks for being such a good friend! To all of us who get to call you a friend." Reminder.  Sunday afternoon, visiting a restaurant I hadn't been to in months, our favorite manager said to me, "Where have you been? I...