Carter’s Little Pill

One of the reasons I wanted to go to Vegas for Christmas was to spend some time with someone I met a couple of months ago.

I’ve been hesitant to talk about it, mostly because it just didn’t seem real. I had no plans on meeting anyone, had no thought of ever getting involved in a romantic relationship again.

But I have. His name is Chris, he’s a Dodger fan, and wow. Typing it makes it real.

Steve would be really proud of me. He always wanted me to acknowledge that life would go on after his likely death, and I always resisted the notion. Of course, Steve wouldn’t approve of a Dodger fan, but you can’t have everything.

I am starting 2010 in a much different place than I started 2009. Someone wish me luck. I need it.

It would have been my 12th anniversary. The silk anniversary.

There are times when it’s useful not being someone who makes a big deal over dates. Widowhood has revealed that gift in all its glory.

On the plus side, Steve didn’t get to hit me in the head with a snowball.

I’ve posted this photo before, but I really can’t imagine a better one, given the circumstances.

The day I’ve been fearing is here. My Sweet Baboo? No longer an Indian.

LOS ANGELES — The Dodgers bolstered their second-base situation by agreeing to a two-year contract with versatile infielder Jamey Carroll, pending a physical examination, agent Jonathan Maurer confirmed Wednesday.

Maurer would not confirm the salary, but it is believed to be $3.85 million, plus incentives. He said Carroll turned down potentially more money from the Oakland A’s “to play for what he considers to be two Hall of Famers — [manager] Joe Torre and [batting coach] Don Mattingly.”

I might just go into a decline. Oh sure, he didn’t make sense with the 2010 Cleveland Indians, but dammit, if loving Baboo is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

(On the plus side, I’ve already been invited to a spring training game, Indians at Dodgers, in April. Maybe I can make a really glittery poster by then.)

I went shopping last night and found a cache of fuzzy sweaters in pastel colors. I want spring dammit. Instead, I have a fuzzy pink sweater. It’s not the same.

I have no idea why I have made a fairly abrupt transformation from “wearer of mostly navy and black and other severe colors” into “Wheee! It’s PINK! IT’S PINK!!” It’s probably a sign of some horrible mental breakdown and tomorrow I’ll think I’m a fire hydrant.

Promise me you won’t let your dog pee on me, no matter what.

I was outside chatting with one of my neighbors and I asked her if she liked the house color. She said she had been worries, but really did like it and I mentioned how opposed Steve was to a blue house.

This neighbor is also a widow and she said, “Just say, ‘Honey, if you wanted an opinion, you should have stuck around.’”

It was perfect.

Non-widowed people might not get how much freedom comes from widowhood. It’s bought at too terrible a cost, and it isn’t worth it. But it’s there.

And, honey, the house is blue the way you never wanted. Sorry you missed it.

I started singing this song the other day, and now it WON’T LEAVE MY HEAD. I begin to think I’ll need to burn the place down to drive it out.

Today’s goal will be to substitute this song.

This has been your Big Band Minute.

I receive recipes in my email every day, and since Thanksgiving started looming I’ve been receiving Thanksgiving-appropriate recipes. What does this really mean? Recipe after recipe of cranberry relish.

Listen, people. I don’t want your steenkin’ cranberry relish. I want canberries. If it isn’t shaped like the can, it does not get a place on my plate. You don’t have to eat them. That leaves more disks of jellied goodness for me.

Canberries. It’s what’s for (Thanksgiving) dinner.

I’ve read lots of places where people have worrited and fretted about how much information is available online. It is a veritable stalkers’ paradise at times.

Last night, while on the phone with someone who was in a location I’ve never been, I could pull up Google maps and street views and satellite images and do a time-delayed stalk.

I also discovered that anyone who cares to know can read up about my house, though the auditor’s office says I have four bedrooms (it’s three) and a finished basement (it’s not). It was strange to find out how many square feet I have by looking it up online. I begin to think there will eventually be a Wikipedia page for every one of us, and we’ll learn to consult it to find out what we did last Tuesday* and how we feel about Mark McGwire**.

We have so much information and so little privacy, but I’m willing to trade some of the latter for some of the former. I just hope I never get cameras in here. This amount of dorkiness is catching once seen.

* Very little.
** Very little.

I was whining last month about how I was dreading Christmas. What with one thing and another, I’ve decided to conquer the Christmas Dreadies with a trip to Las Vegas.

I don’t gamble, though I do have a hot date to play bingo which might send me into a spiral of debauchery–B4, and after!

As I write this, I’m sulking at home because I’ve had to turn the water off, at least mostly, while waiting for a plumber to come fix a leaky pipe. Maybe I’ll leave for Vegas a little early.

Because you can never have too much Blarney. Or Animal.