Guy #6 got mad at his best friend because he heard a rumor that his best friend "took me home." Here's my drunk list of reasons why that is absurd:

1.) I don't go home with with guys. I'm just not that kind of girl. Besides, at this moment I only have eyes for Guy #6. Not his best friend.

2.) Guy #6 has a girlfriend. Why is he getting mad?

3.) Why do I care???

4.) Why do I want Guy #6 to want me?

5.) I am drunk as I type this. Very drunk. Very very drunk. Under sober circumstances I wouldn't care enough to blog this crap.

6.) I met Guy #3's best friend tonight. LOVE HER!!!

7.) I feel the need to make this list long.

8.) I am quasi upset with one of my best friends for not calling me tonight.

9.) But I told everyone else that I didn't care.

10.) But really I do. She's been blowing me off lately and I don't like it. That's not how you should treat friends, especially one as awesome as I am.

11.) Did I mention that I'm drunk? Really really really drunk.

12.) Woo Woo!

13.) My car was left at the bar. I'm glad that I have friends who care enough to take my keys and drive me home.

14.) I hope that those same friends love me enough to take me back to my car tomorrow.

15.) This might be the dumbest blog ever. But I'm drunk right now, so I don't care.

16.) I wish that Guy #6 would hurry up and dump his girlfriend so that I could make my move.

17.) I hope that when Guy #3 gets married, we remain friends.

18.) I hope that I'm not hungover tomorrow.

19.) Please disregard any drunk phone calls that I make tonight. Especially if they are to boys.

20.) Please take my phone away from me before I make any more calls.

Must go lie down and/or throw up and/or just sleep. But first the room must stop spinning.



This is the image that came up in google when I typed in "Woo Woo." Whomever is in charge of google images must me drunker than I am. Woo woo!!!

Inspired by Kristine's blog, I went into my garage, found my video camera, recharged the battery and set out to find something funny to record. But alas, it was late in the day and the only thing worth recording was the season finale of "Desperate Housewives." But amidst all of the camera supplies and accessories, I found a tape. There was no label on the tape, but it clearly had something on it, for it had not been rewound. So I popped the tape into the camera, turned up the volume and was taken aback by what I saw. Actually, it was what I heard that stopped my heart for just one second: "Merry Widow, I love you."

There he was. My husband. Looking straight into the camera, smiling, and talking to me. I hadn't heard his voice in almost 3 years. In fact, I had forgotten his voice. I had forgotten how deep it was, how caring it was, how loving it was. I had forgotten that look that he would give me which always let me know that he had devoted his life to loving me. I had forgotten that his smile could make me melt in an instant. I had forgotten that his soul could reach deep down into my heart and make me feel like I was safe and protected.

I watched the entire tape. Nothing too exciting was going on in our lives at that time. I was just bored one day and had decided to film my husband doing mundane things around our apartment. I filmed him watching TV. I filmed him dancing. I filmed him making a sandwhich. I filmed him petting the cat. I filmed him taking a nap. All stuff that would be boring for most people to watch, but when I found this tape it had brought back a part of me that was the happiest time of my life. It was my life before this blog, my life before my adventures of being single, my life before I was a widow.

And after I watched the entire tape, laughing at his silliness, smiling back as he smiled at me, crying when I heard him tell me that he loved me, I did something that I never would have imagined doing. I erased the tape.

I don't know why I felt compelled to do it. I didn't even think twice about it. I just did it. And even though I don't regret my decision, I can't, for the life of me, figure out why I did it. Is it because I'm ready to really move on? Is it because I don't want to be reminded of what I once had? Of what I lost? I just don't know.

Three months before my husband died, he told me that when he died, he wanted me to move on. He didn't want me to be sad. He wanted me to go out into the world, find someone to love and to love me back. He wanted me to be happy. And I remember being appalled by his statements. I couldn't and wouldn't dare think of a life without him, let alone with another man. But he made me promise him, right then and there, that I would follow through with his request.

And as one year turned into two, and as two years approach three since his death, I have found myself honoring his wishes. I have ventured out into the world, at first tentatively and fearful, but eventually with my head held high, confident and ready to conquer anything that life threw at me. And even though I haven't yet found love, I have once again found happiness. And more importantly, I have found hope.

Maybe, somehow, someway, my husband came down from heaven, perched himself on my shoulder, and whispered into my ear, "Merry Widow, I love you. Erase the tape. For the only way for you to truly find love is to let go of me." It's the only explanation that I can think of that would make me erase that tape. Will it work? Only time will tell. But despite the erased tape, I don't think that my husband's love will ever be erased from my heart, mind, or soul. And for that, I am forever grateful.

There's this girl I know, let's call her doughnut-head, who does not like me. I know that she doesn't like me. People have told me that she doesn't like me. Now, I know that you're thinking, "Who doesn't like The Merry Widow???" She is totally fabulous and awesome and I wish that I could hang out with her everyday." But yes, there are people out there who don't like me. And I'm guessing that doughnut-head doesn't like me because, well, let's just say that her boyfriend and I may or or may not have gotten to know each other pretty well in the past. Mind you, doughnut-head and her boyfriend were not together at the time, but she still hates me, nevertheless. And maybe another reason that she hates me is because whenever I see doughnut-head's boyfriend he totally flirts with me, hugs me, kisses me, and tells me things like, "Oh that bitch? She's not my girl." And because I'm the polite person that I am, I flirt back, hug back, kiss back, and say, "Really? Then let's ditch her and go somewhere else." (Sidenote: I have never actually left with doughnut-head's boyfriend...I make it a rule to not "steal" another girl's man. So don't hate me.)

Anywho, I ran into doughnut-head and her hottie boyfriend this past Saturday at a local bar. Now I'm thinking, "Uh oh. This girl wants to cut me. I'm gonna avoid her all night to avoid any drama." And at the same time I'm thinking that she surely wants to avoid me too. But instead, she marches her big butt over to me and says, in her most bubbly voice, "HI, MERRY WIDOW!!! IT'S SO AWESOME TO SEE YOU! IT'S BEEN FOREVER!!!" Now, there are two theories that run into my head as to why she is so nice to me at this very moment:

1.) The "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer" theory. A smart move. I would never go after a friend's man. It's an unspoken rule that I will not break. But, doughnut-head is not the brightest color in the crayola box, so I don't think she's smart enough to come up with this ideology.

2.) She's a fake, scared, chicken-shit. Sure, she can talk smack about me behind my back. But to my face, she's as sweet as an angel, complimenting my hair and clothes, telling me that I'm funny, and pretty, and nice.

Now mind you, I don't say nice things back to her. I just sort of smile, say thanks, and ask her where her boyfriend is. I'm not one of those girls who will kiss your ass in front of you and then call you a slut behind your back. If I don't like you, then I'm not gonna act like I do when I see you. I'm not gonna march up to you and get ghetto or anything, but I'll make it pretty clear that your presence is not worthy of my time, space, or sight. And guess what...I have a whole posse of awesome friends who do have my back and will kick your ass for me if necessary.

On may way out of the bar, doughnut-head's boyfriend runs up to me and says, "I know I've already told you this, but I just wanted to tell you again...she's not my girl." To which I reply, "Yeah, right. Give me a call when she's completely out of the picture." He says, "Not until then?" I just smile and walk away. I might not like doughnut-head, and I might want to jump her boyfriend at any given moment, but I won't take another girl's man. I've met Karma before...she can be an even bigger bitch than I am.

Dear People at Work,

If I didn't personally give you my blog address, and you read this blog, then don't talk to me about it. Furthermore, don't tell other people at work about it. I like my anonymity and I hate being included in the work gossip circle. I have found that most rumors at work tend to be false anyway, so I'd rather that my name be kept out of it. Yes, I know that I am putting my personal life out on the internet for the whole world to read, but most of those people don't know who I am in real life. If you haven't noticed, I don't post my name, picture, or address. I would like that information to stay private, so please help me keep it that way. By all means, feel free to continue reading my insane thoughts on life, but please don't tell other work people about me.

Love,
The Merry Widow

A long time ago (last night,) in a galaxy far far away (at the movie theater,) the Merry Widow witnessed the nerdiest/coolest movie of her lifetime. Nerdy because she was surrounded by a bunch of no life geeks, dressed up as Jedi's, Wookies, and Storm Troopers; armed with light sabers, calculators, and pocket protectors. Cool because, well, it was a damn cool movie. In fact, it might have been the best episode of the entire Star Wars saga. A Star Wars fan, the Merry Widow has become, yes. (Please say last sentence in Yoda-like voice.)

But wouldn't it be funny if Star Wars went a little gangsta? Like if when Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, Obi-Wan would have said, "Oh no you didn't!" all while snapping his finger and doing the head/neck moving thing.

With that being said, here's a list of some shiznit quotes that can replace actual Star Wars quotes:

1. "Luke, I am your father." = "Who's your daddy?"
2. "May the Force be with you." = "May the force schizzle your dizzle."
3. "Use your feeling, Obi-Wan, and find him you will." (Yoda) = "Alright stop, collaberate, and listen!"
4. "You don't know the power if the dark side." (Darth Vader) = "This is how we do."
5. Chewbacca's yell is replaced with Lil' John's "Yeah!"


Yeah!

I hope that when Episode III finally comes out on DVD, one of the special features will include an episode of MTV's "Pimp My Ride" where Han Solo gets spinners put on his Millenium Falcon.

It has been brought to my attention that I am being blamed for giving inaccurate time references. I won't say who is doing the blaming, but Guy #3, you need to stop. I NEVER said that it took 4 1/2 hours to drive from here to San Antonio. What I did say was that it takes Guy #4 that long. I don't know if you've ever noticed, but I drive like a mad woman and am incapable of driving slowly. If you don't believe me, then please read my previous post. Subsequently, I told you that it takes me between 3 and 3 1/2 hours to get from here to there. So shut your trap, already, or else I'll call Mike Jones and tell him that you are totally not down with "FoooBooo." Then we'll see how fast you drive outta H-Town.

Love,
The Merry Widow

Bu Bum (say that outloud ala Law & Order)

I have been charged with the act of speeding: 58 in a 45. (Not too shabby, considering that my last ticket was an 89 in a 65, and the one before that was a 98 in a 65.) And because I'm such a little speed demon (Go, Speed Racer, go, Speed Racer, go, Speed Racer, Gooooo!!!) I got the honor of meeting "her honor" in the courtroom today. So this past weekend, I prepped for my arraignment, and refreshed my courtroom lingo by watching movies, such as, "A Few Good Men," "My Cousin Vinney," and "Shawshank Redemption." OK, "Shawshank Redemption" didn't teach me any courtroom lingo, but it prepped me for the possibility that I might unjustly go to jail. Plus, it's just a darn good movie. If I ever go to prison, I hope that Morgan Freeman is there with me. Then he can smuggle in some hot Justin Timberlake posters for me. But I digress....

So this morning, I woke up bright and early, put on my best lawyer outfit (with matching purse, of course) and marched into the courtroom, ready to yell out phrases like, "I OBJECT!!!" and "TRUTH??? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!" But there was no such drama.

Instead, I encountered:

1.) The Bailiff: Talk about stereotypes...he droned on and on about how he didn't want any trouble in the courtroom, lest we disturb his doughnut buffet. And yes, he really did talk about doughnuts quite extensively. His favorite are from this place.

2.) The Assistant District Attorney: This was the lady with whom I interacted. She offered me a plea bargain of "deferred disposition," which basically means that I'm on probabtion for 3 months. If I don't get another speeding ticket during these 3 months, then my case gets dismissed and no charges will appear on my record. (Read: my insurance will never find out that I'm a menace to society. Bwahahahaha!!!)

3.) The Judge: She reminded me of Shirley from "Laverne & Shirley." I wanted to yell out, "1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8! Schemeel! Schlemazel! Hasenfeffer Incorporated!" But instead I just said, "No Contest." in my quiet mouse voice when she asked me how I pleaded. It turns out that Shirley is way more Judge-Judy-like once you get a gavel in her hand.



Judge Shirley (with Laverne.) Don't let that sweet smile fool ya.


4.) The County Clerk (aka Hag): The Bottle Neck of the entire arraignment hearing. The District Attorney and Judge were each able to visit with 150 individuals/cases in under 60 minutes. It took another 2 hours, however, to get seen by the county clerk to sign one lousy piece of paper. She took her sweet little time, sighing and yawning as she went through each case. During this process, she got up a total of 6 times to use the bathroom, 2 times for phone calls, and 3 other miscellaneous times, probably spent stuffing her face with the Bailiff's left over doughnuts. Note that each person was called alphabetically to see her. It took her 2 hours to call my name, and my last name is not far from the beginning of the alphabet. I feel sorry for the poor fools with last names like Yentl and Zorro. (Can you guess what other movies I watched this weekend?) By the time their names get called, they would have probably sat in that courtroom for the equivalent of 2 life sentences.

But fortunately for me, I had brought my book along to occupy my time. If it wasn't for that, I probably would have gone off the deep end and cut that heifer, grilled up her ass with some BBQ sauce, and served it to the Bailiff. Then I would have to come to court all over again, deal with the Bailiff...again...and the entire cycle would repeat itself. Not to mention that murder is a hard thing to "get dismissed." And boy does it jack up your insurance premiums.

(*Footnote: Just this once, I'm not being a hypochondriac. I really do have bona fide, doctor certified Pneumonia. I'll show you my antibiotics to prove it.)

I went to Sarcastic Journlist's mansion today during my lunch break. It was fun because we talked about poop and boobs, but I digress. When I got there, she had just finished frying up the biggest pile of bacon that I had ever seen in my life. It was glorious. But now that I'm back at work, I have come to realize that now I smell like bacon. And even though I had the biggest lunch ever today, I have the uncontollable urge to drive to Waffle House or IHOP. (Which leads me to another thought.... When did the House of Pancakes decide to classify itself as "International?" Is it because it is the melting pot of Pancakedom? Is it because of the diverse assortment of pancake syrups that they provide? Or is it because the waitresses there never seem to understand English? Anywho, back to the bacon smell.)

So I'm sitting here at work thinking that everyone is grossed out by the fact that I smell like pork products. But then slowly, I started to realize that every single guy that I've come accross, since returning with my lovely new piggy scent, has been flirting with me. Now, I'm pretty hot, so guys are like, you know, flirting with me non-stop. They practically line up every morning just to say hello to me. But now they're laying it on strong. Now they're all, "Why, hello there, Ms. Merry Widow! Don't you look extravagant today." Or, "Yowza! Did you do something to your hair? It looks really good." Or, "Hey! Nice ass!" So here I am, thinking that I'm looking absolutely fabulous, right? When it dawned on me...it's my smell. The guys are attracted to the smell of bacon. I mean, it works for dogs right? Y'all have seen those commercials for those little doggie treats called "Beggin Strips," right? The ones that smell and look like real bacon? Well, if it works for dogs, it HAS to work for guys too, right? I mean, there's no other explanation. I have a big zit on my nose right now, I'm wearing a ratty shirt, and tennis shoes. Plus, I have my hair strategically bobby pinned off of my face right now because my bangs are in that too long to keep down, but too short to pull back stage. Oh yeah, and I'm all congested and snotty today -- left overs from this weekend's cold. Let's face it: today is not my best day, looks-wise.

So here's my plan: next time I'm going out on the town, I'm gonna fry me up some bacon. I'm gonna dab it behind my ears, a little on my wrists, and maybe rub it a little on my boobies. Then, not only will I meet, fall in love with, and marry my Prince Charming, but I bet he'll take me out to breakfast too.

I got tagged again! This time it was from The Recovering Straight Girl! Everyone go and read her blog, because she is awesome and makes fun of the way Canadians spell their words. (And to all my Canadian friends, I love you guys!!! But her post about the spelling thing was fuuunny.)

Anyway, this time I get to list my 10 favorite things. So here it goes:

1. First Kisses. The excitement that builds up to them...the anticipation...the softness of that first touch on the lips.
   
2. My Dad's Hugs. He always hugs me way too tight so that I can't breath. And I always fight his hugs, because, well, I want to be able to breath. But at the same time, his hugs make me feel so protected and so loved...so that when I finally do break free from his grasp, I just run into his arms and get hugged all over again.
3. Laughing. It's a requirement in my daily routine. It's the best when you're laughing so hard, that you can't explain to other people why you're laughing. Some people are such party poopers...I don't know how they get by in life without a sense of humor.
   
4. Purses. Duh.
5. My Mom's Voice. She can calm the raging storm within me with just her voice. It puts me at peace. It makes everything ok. It makes me want her wisdom. It tells me that she loves me.
6. Sharing a sunny day with a friend. Sunny days by themselves are also glorious, but when you can spend a day in the sun with a friend, the world almost seems perfect.
7. Lip Gloss. I won't leave home without it.
8. Spooning. Especially if the sheets are fresh from the dryer and my cat is curled up next to me, purring.
   
9. Lightning. I always go outside to watch a good lightning storm. The smell of the rain and the eeriness of the storm make life seem so surreal. But the other day, I got to watch a lightning storm from above, while flying across the U.S. It made me remember why I believe in God...it was that spectacular.
   
10. Justin Timberlake. He's sooooo dreamy.

OK, now I tag Shaun, Mrtl, and Diaschisis. Ready? Go!

So I guess there's a little blog-Tag going around, and Kristine tagged me today with the "If I could" game.

Here's how you play:

The rules are simple when you're tagged.
Choose 5 items from the list to write about.
Tag 3 other individuals when you're done.

The theme is, as you can see, "If I could be..."

If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer

If I could be a musician- I'd be on American Idol. Then I'd make sure to sleep with Paula Abdul so that she would buy me that new camera phone that I've been eyeing.

If I could be a doctor- then I would have the job of my dreams. I would cure people's illnesses, save people's lives, all while putting a smile on their faces. Plus, I'd be a way better doctor than Guy #3.

If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionary
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be a librarian

If I could be an athlete- then I would totally make sure to get my house featured on MTV's "Cribs." Oh, and I would play soccer.

If I could be a lawyer
If I could be an inn-keeper
If I could be a professor

If I could be a writer- then I would make sure to pimp my book out to Oprah's book club. Can anyone say "Ca-ching?"

If I could be a llama-rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be an astronaut

If I could be a world famous blogger - then I probably wouldn't have a "real" job. Don't you have to be fired to be world famous?

If I could be a justice on any one court in the world,
If I could be married to any current famous political figure.

OK, so now I tag Hornblower, Madmanan, Guy #3, and The Defective Writer. (Yes, I know we're only supposed to pick 3 people to tag...I like breaking the rules.)

Because she so selflessly re-designed my bloggy-poo for me. I heart you, Kristine! But only in a friend way ;-)

Now everyone bow down to her and go read her blog.

For starters, let me say how sorry I am about your dad. I too am very very close to my dad, and can't imagine what it would be like to lose him. But I do know what it's like to lose someone that I love with my whole heart, as you do with your dad. I completely understand how you feel...after my husband died it seemed like everyone around me quickly forgot how much I was in pain. Because he wasn't their husband (or their dad, in your case) they weren't the ones grieving. Yes, they felt for me, at the beginning, but of course they didn't have their heart broken like I did, so it was much easier for them to move on to everyday life after the funeral. And let me tell you, it took a long long long time for me to stop crying. That trip to Chicago that I wrote about didn't end my tears, it just reminded me that I could still be happy.

And I know EXACTLY how you feel about not being able to talk to anyone. Talking about death makes people uncomfortable. I could see that whenever I talked about my husband, even if it was to reminisce a funny story about him, let alone talk about how much I missed him. Most people don't want to be reminded of their own mortality, and me talking about my husband, no matter how funny the story was, (he was a pretty goofy guy, probably the one of the top reasons why I loved him) reminded them of death. And frankly, people are too busy to think about death. I could see people pulling away from me. No one wants to hang out with a sad widow. But I so needed to be around people, because at home, I was all alone. My parents live in a different state than me, and I have no siblings. So after my husband died, it was just me. So I pulled my pain inside and put on my poker face for everyone else. You're right that everyone wants to see you be strong and not cry. I think it's because if they see that you're ok, then it makes it ok for them to move on. And that's what everyone else wants to do...move on. They just don't understand that you (or I) are not ready to move on yet.

I found a widow's support group, here in Houston. I was really reluctant to go because I'm not a support group type of person. In fact, in general, I tend to not open up at all. But the hospice that my husband was with kept calling me...sending me letters...reminding me of the support group. And I remembered that my husband had asked me to please not cry for him after he left. So I went. And even though these ladies were much much older than I, (I was 26 at the time, most widows tend to be older) and even though we were all strangers to each other, we all understood how each other felt. We felt the exact same pain. And we all talked about how we couldn't talk about this stuff with other people, because they just didn't understand. We all cried a LOT. We cried for ourselves, and we cried for each other. To us, it seemed like our support group was the only place where we were really allowed to really let it all out. And every single one of us did. It was great. The group was facilitated by a pastor who kind of discussed different aspects of grieving. He let us know that everyone grieved differently, and that there was no time limit on how long we should grieve. But for the most part, he would just let us all talk.

I don't go to that support group anymore. But every so often, I meet someone in passing who, for some reason or another, will let me know that they are a widow. And it's almost like I scream out in joy, having found someone else who knows how I feel, "I'M A WIDOW TOO!!!" And for just that passing moment, we give each other that look that let's each other know that we both know the secret pain that each widow carries in her heart forever.

But even those moments, are few and far between. And even now, as happy as I am, I still have those fleeting moments of pain. They don't come as often as they did when my husband first died, but yes, I still get sad. I don't want to forget my husband, just as you don't want to forget your dad. But doesn't it sometimes feel like everyone else wants to forget? It's hard to find that one person who will remember with you, cry with you, or just listen to you. We both know this. But I want you to know, that I understand. I will remember with you, I will cry with you, and I will listen to you. Anytime, day or night. Because if it wasn't for those few people who did that for me (and still do for me) when my husband died, then I wouldn't be "The Merry Widow." I would just be "Widow."

Sincerely,
The Merry Widow

Here are snippets of conversation that I had during my 3rd Annual Girl's Weekend:

"That guy's ass is hot. Grab it!"

"I can't believe that guy let you grab his ass. Go back and cup his nuts!"

"Guys...if I had my tonsils removed, and then I was then infected with strep, where would the infection go?"
"Your vagina! You would have a pussy vagina! You would have a pussy pussy!

Yelled out across shopping area as one of my friends was returning from a long bathroom trip:
"HEY! DID YOU PUKE OR POOP?"
"I PUKED!"
The rest of us, in unison then replied, "YEAH!" (She was hung over, we thought if she could just throw up, then she would feel better.)

Conversation that we made up while walking through a big group of horny men:
"So when you went down on him, he came all over your face?"
"Yeah, and it tasted like Pus!"
(The look on everyone's face was priceless.)

"That guy is hot. Let's go make-out with him!"

"I don't wanna talk to you unless you buy me a drink first." (Said to Kevin Federline look alike.)

"Just so you know, I'm NOT having sex with you! So you might as well leave."

"Hey guys??? What's your favorite STD? Because mine is totally 'The Clap.'"

"You have been the best waiter. If I wasn't already engaged, I would totally do you."

Which was then followed by: "I'm not engaged. I'll do you now."

And the quote to sum up the weekend:
"You guys, I totally love that I can talk freely about cunts and jiz and pus with y'all. Because at work I have to be all professional and shit. You guys are the bestest friends...EVER!!!"

I just did a cavity search on my mouse (the computer kind, not the we're gonna test our drugs on it kind) becuase it was totally sticking and acting as my Girl Fest 2005 buzz kill. When I opened it up and took out the ball, here's what I found:

1.) 10 million pounds of lint
2.) A piece of something orange and hard, that I'm hoping was a piece of cheeto.
3.) A Curly hair, that I'm hoping was not a pube.
4.) Smegma

Reminds me of an exboyfriend. I wish I could have removed his balls too.

December 7, 2002: My husband died.

All of January 2003: I cried. Like non-stop, all the time.

February 1-February 10, 2003: I cried some more. I would yell at people who would tell me that they understood how I felt because they once lost their family pet. People, I totally love my cat too, but her death will not even compare to the loss of my soulmate.

February 11, 2003: My 4 best girl friends make a pact to take me on a vacation to get my mind off of things. They buy me a ticket to go to Chicago so that we can all meet up there and have a girly-girl weekend of girly-goodness and fun.


February 12-February 20, 2003: I cry. I wonder how my body stays hydrated despite the constant niagra-like waterfall pouring out of both of my eyes.

If you were to meet me today, (and you had never read my blog,) you would never guess that I'm a widow. I am far to happy, joyful, wonderful, fabulous, full of giggles, and humble to be a widow. Some people don't believe me if I do finally tell them that I am. "What?!? You're a widow? Nuh-uh...you're way too happy. You shouldn't joke about that, you know." I fill my life full of sunshine, laughter, and ice cream. I always see the silver lining very clearly, my glass is always full (and not just half full...it's filled to the rim with brim,) and the grass is totally greener on my side of the fence. Gag, I know, but you should totally be jealous of me and my merry life. And I have 4 girls to thank for that: Jaime, Lisa, Laura #1*, and Kelly. (*Sidenote: There are three Laura's in my life. My parents have assigned each one a number to differentiate them.)

February 21, 2003: I reluctantly fly to Chicago. I cry on the airplane.

Jaime is my best friend from elementary school, Lisa is my best friend from high school, and Laura #1/Kelly are my best friends from college. Collectively, they know every single thing about me. Individually, they each know me in ways that one else can. Jaime knows my moods. She knows the exact point when my happiness will turn to anger, when my anger will turn to tears, and when my tears will turn to laughter. More importantly, she knows how to switch my mood from one to the other. Lisa knows my methodical ways. She knows that I have to put a lot of thought into each decision that I make in order to be at peace with myself. She knows that if she asks me a question, and I don't answer right away, it's not because I have forgotten, but rather because I am thinking. Laura #1 knows my love. She was there from the very beginning...she was there when I secretly told her about my crush on my future husband. She was there when my and his relationship turned from friendship to love. Kelly knows my sultry side and knows how to bring out the inner goddess in me. She and I have matching tiaras. All four girls were there when he died and when my heart was broken into 8 million little pieces.

But on February 21, 2003, Jaime, Lisa, Laura #1, and Kelly pulled out their needles and thread, their super glue, and their band-aids. They focused all of their attention into mending me and my heart. They set out to make sure that I found hope, faith, and most importantly, my smile.

So I flew to Chicago. They were all waiting for me when I stepped off of the plane. And the instant that I did, my tears of sadness turned into tears of joy. I forgot all of my sorrows for just a weekend and immersed myself in their love. We drank champagne, shopped, stalked Oprah, flirted, did facials, tried on make-up, watched movies, and laughed. In fact, I don't think that I had ever laughed so hard in my life. I practically got a 6-pack from using my stomach muscles so much with all of my laughing. By the end of the weekend, we all agreed that our "girls weekend" had not only cheered me up, but it had cheered us all. We made a pact that we would reunite every year, in a different location, for a weekend chock-full of cooter talk, drinking, and facials/massages.

April 29-May 1, 2005: 3rd annual "Girls Weekend."

It's been a long long long time since I've cried. Well... sort of. I still cry whenever Julia Roberts dies at end of Steel Magnolias, or when Ritchie Valens dies at the end of La Bamba, or when Mr. Big finally decides that Carrie is his true love in Sex & The City. But it's been a long time since I've cried about my husband's death. I've since been able to refocus my memories on the good times...the lovey-dovey "I love you. No, I love you more." fights that we had...the healthy times. My girls did that for me. Not only did they hold me up when I couldn't walk on my own, but they taught me how to run again, how to skip again, how to jump again. And they continue to do so every year when we meet. I hope that one day I can return the favor to them.