My Reflections of the Donald J. Trump Campaign

From the moment it was announced the Trump had an announcement regarding the upcoming election, I waited with bated breath for him to toss his hat in the ring. Why you may ask?

Well, over the years friends, coworkers and neighbors have often made the statement that we need a business man as the president because the government is after all a huge business. Yes, it is a huge business and not unlike much big business there are handshake deals and behind closed doors negotiating. Unfortunately, when that is undertaken in the halls of the Senate and Congress the American people are screwed because those deals line the pockets of the two shaking hands. Taxes are implemented and the deal allows someone making a $150k salary to grow to millionaire status in a matter of a few years.

Quid pro quo. You hear it over and over. It means we are getting effed; plain and simple.

So when Trump tossed his hat in the ring, I hopped aboard the Trump Train for what was no doubt going to be a bumpy ride.  I ordered bumper stickers and Make America Great Again hats. I started to slowly wear my gear and when I saw a Trump sticker on a car early last fall, I finally put mine on the Mini.

I was very vocal on my social media pages. I received harsh criticism on FB and was often asked why and how I could support Trump. In the beginning I typed several long paragraphs and would cut and past them. That wasn’t good enough for some folks, they parsed my words, threw harsh memes at me and in some cases, drunk texted me until the wee hours of the morning. I eventually blocked those folks on FB, Twitter and on my phone.

I don’t mind a fair discussion; hell, I relish it. But the mean-spirited attacks from the Hillary supporters to me personally were no different than the hatred her supporters were filmed doing on a daily basis.

I become more vocal for Trump and I fought back like the scrappy fighter I am. The news continued to beat Trump like a drum. He stood resolute. God Bless him, he was resolute.

As the Hillary accusations mounted her supporters shrugged them off as conspiracies. One can only have so many conspiracies for the love of God. And the pounding on my Facebook continued.

I blocked one individual after a long back and forth discussion. This individual has moved to Canada and shouts into his social media from across the border. I asked him in a discussion why he was so gung ho about Clinton and his inane response was that “she can get things done”. I ask what things and this very educated smart guy was stumped for an answer. I did rip him up and point out the idiocy of his remark. He wanted details from me as to my support of Trump and I bullet pointed them and all I got from him was…she can get things done…

That there is the mindset of the opposition we had to contend with in the fight to take back the White House and to take back control of the government. No statement was clearer of the inability of the Democratic opposition to support their candidate. They had no successes of her career….NONE…I can list the failures, but I’d be typing well into next week.

I have received dozens of texts, pm’s and IM from folks thanking me for my solid support and dedication to Trump. These are the silent Trump supporters. Make no mistake those silent Trumpsters were there the entire time. Due to work fears, they had to stay in the shadows.

So, let me say now why I abruptly retired in August. I have given many reasons, but this is the real reason…my ability to support my candidate was being shackled to some extent. I worked for a Trade Association and a “non-political” mindset had to be maintained. I get it, but that is not for me. To the point, at a work luncheon one day early in Trumps campaign, candidates were being discussed and Trump was being sliced and diced. I said nothing…ate my lunch and went about my day. I knew then it was time to retire so that I could push for the candidate so desperately needed to change the course of this country.

I have lived a very great life. I was sickened by the fears of the changes that might have been brought about by a possible Clinton win. So on a Friday August 2nd, I decided I needed to put my feet, fingers, and voice to a better goal than some paltry pay check and I needed to campaign for Trump. Bad form to do as I did, but I emailed a resignation statement and I never felt freer than that 5^th day in August.

Then the real work began…I shouted through my Facebook microphone…my twitter followers grew exponentially and I kept the faith. I always knew Trump would win. The goal was by how much.

I was drawn and quartered by friends and I slowly removed them from my feeds…they were not supporting their candidate in a fashion to help get her elected.  It became insults and demeaning my choice of candidate. I attempted to high road, though sometimes I was guttural…I’m human after all…tried not to take it personally, but the other side did and became brutally mean. Moreover they began to troll supporters to try and silence our voices and fingers.

I never feared retaliation for my stickers on my car and I proudly wore Trump shirts, hats and buttons everywhere I went. It brought many folks out to engage mostly positive. I was walking out of Wegman’s one day and a woman popped out of her car and rushed over to me. I was prepared for whatever she had to say. She said, “I saw the two stickers on you car and said to my husband, we cannot leave until I meet the woman who owns this car.” (I have a ‘Women for Trump ‘sticker on the window). She went on to shake my hand and thank me for my visible support of Trump. She explained she is a councilwoman for New York, the town over from Chappaqua. She is a Republican and pointed out the campaign is draining their coffers because to get to Hills house you go through their town. She is a silent supporter because of her close proximity to Hill. I hade a #MAGA pin on, took it off and handed it to her. Asked her to wear in on good health. We chatted a bit more. I learned her son is in the military and they were here visiting him and she said meeting me was one of the highlights of her trip.

Several weeks ago I had to make a very quick trip to Whole Foods. I parked in the hour parking and bolted in. As I was parking a young mad puled in behind me. Thought nothing of it. 35 minutes later I’m getting in my car and he pops out to tell me I am an uneducated asshole. I pointed he was pretty stupid to have had to sit there 30 minutes to tell me that. I explained my shopping was done and I could move on with my day…and his was wasted…I also reminded him Trump would win.

Which brings us to today…we have a president Elect, Donald J. Trump. I am already positing my words to help him win his second term. Long may he serve this beautiful country.

In reflecting back over the past 18 months, I have no regrets. I do not regret resigning to undertake the task I decided was far more important than a 4-hour daily commute to bring home a paltry paycheck. Don’t misunderstand, I loved what I did…just not worth the road time and stifled voice.

Have friends removed me from their FB feed, yes they have, but that removal has worked both ways. I have been trolled by Clinton supporters, and I have trolled some myself.

The crossroads has been crossed. Now we have the SJW’s crying and protesting our democratic process. I don’t recall riots and protests when Romney and McCain were both defeated by Obama. I do know that I had the same sinking feeling in my stomach when his election was announced not once but twice.

I have never spoken a nice word about Obama, I cannot stand  him and did not support any of his Executive Actions.  His policies have indeed hurt many in this beautiful country. Those that gained are the same ones now complaining about Trump. The change they see is the change that will expect them to work to be a maker for themselves. They have been takers and want to take more. They have received participation trophies though have never won anything. If they are that upset, perhaps they should have been out pushing for their candidate in more meaningful ways. No, they were the silent minority that expected everyone else to do the campaigning for them so they could again take more and more.

So I have no empathy…NONE…the American people took the country back from those destroying it from with in. The swamp will be drained and reasonable business practices will guide decisions. I’d like to see the debt reduced. Trump delivers projects ahead of time and below budget. Who can’t support that?  He has raised an impeccable family with strong traditions and amazing business skills. How can you not want your children to have role models like that?  I prefer their role models to the likes of Jay Z and Miley Cyrus (to mention a few). Our SCOTUS was in a very perilous position. We have a President Elect who will be able to nominate replacements to keep the balance and to avoid the tipping into such liberalism that we would be bound and gagged for the rest of our lives, your children’s lives and their children and so on.

We are two days into the transition of power and ads are being taken out on craigslist for folks to demonstrate. Adds for folks to ply homeless and the like. Why after such a bitter campaign is the opposition still bussing demonstrators in to cities to disrupt the peaceful public? If you are gnashing you teeth that Trump won…maybe you will stop and for once open your eyes to the evil that lurked in the opposition campaign and still lingers like the stench of rotting flesh.

So take the high road as we the Romney and McCain supporters did over the past 8 years. He is elected: the people have spoken. Ask yourself what you could have done to see your candidate succeed…the answer lies with you…

Embrace this change. It is for the better my friends…

Hey Dennis Crowley, You Can't Justify Cheating. #bandit

I run half marathons. I’m neither fast nor slow. I start a race and I finish. I pay my entry fees. I appreciate what those fees cover for me and for all the runners who decide to take several hours from their day to hustle to a race, run, finish, and celebrate afterwards.

I was fairly naïve when I first began to run. I ran my first half marathon because of an office challenge. Once completing that first race in Phoenix, Arizona, I was hooked. I was hooked on a sport that many folks have participated in long before my obsession with running and will be participating in long after I can no longer put one foot in front of the other.

Running became one more obsession for me to distance myself from the sadness of Jim’s death. I was tired of earning degrees to keep my mind occupied and running filled the void left by boredom. I was dating a bit and began to date a race director.

That dating experience opened my eyes to an entirely different view of running. I had the opportunity to meet the race directors for many of the major races to include the Marine Corp Marathon, Boston Marathon, NY Marathon….and the list goes on. Conversations centered on the drug testing which is performed at the end of the races…ok, so why did I not even realize they did that? I suppose because I’m long and far behind the winners. Other conversations were about race organizations that are considered “charlatans” in the running community. And the biggest conversation revolved around race “banditry”.

I actually ran races with the aforementioned “charlatans” and was very supportive of their races. I was cautioned by my date that once I’d run more races with quality race directors, I’d change my tune. Well, I have to hand it to Phil, he was spot on. I have since stopped running races with that group due to their carless disregard of the runner and the full on attention to their bottom line. But, this is not about them.  Instead I’m stepping off the road and onto my soapbox to rail about banditry at races.

So, first let me define the word BANDIT:

bandit  noun, plural ban·dits

1. a robber, especially a member of a gang or marauding band.

2. an outlaw or highwayman.

3. Informal.

a. a person who takes unfair advantage of others, as a merchant who overcharges; swindler; cheat.

b. a vendor, cab driver, etc., who operates a business or works without a required license or permit, and without observing the usual rules or practices.

Thanks dictionary.com for the very clear definition. What I noticed missing in the definition is the name Dennis Crowley and Chelsa Crowley. Yes, these two bandits did the unimaginable. One had a bib for the Boston Marathon, the other did not. So, like any self respecting business owner, oooppppsss did I fail to mention Dennis Crowley is the founder of Foursquare, yup self respecting…he and his wife printed a fake Boston Marathon bib so they could run together and finish this years momentous race.

Really Dennis and Chelsa? You are so damn special you decided that the two of you should cheat to run? Well, you cheated the American public and the spirit of road racing. You diminished the spirit of this race for the non-finishers of last year that received courtesy bibs to compete again this year. Lives were lost in the 2013 Boston Marathon, lives were shattered, bodies mangled and the two of you are so damn special you had to cheat to run this year.

You STOLE a medallion at the finish of the race. You stole energy drink, water, police and medical team services, food at the finish and all of the other resources that an entry fee covers. Worst of all you stole the bib number of a young woman who raised charity funds to support her honest race in the Boston Marathon.

I read your pathetic explanation for cheating and banditing the race. It was just that; pathetic….the same drivel heard from any liar and cheat whereby you are trying to have the ends justify the means. Well buddy, it doesn’t stack up. You cheated, you bandited, you disgust me. I only wish the race director would press charges to make an example of you. You and your wife are bandits, cheats, liars, robbers, scum, pigs, outlaws, crooks, offenders, villains, wrongdoers,  reprobates, evildoers, scoundrels, rats, delinquents, anti-heros, transgressors, and thieves. You filched, stole, snatched, robbed and pinched something that did not belong to you.

Your actions are no different than someone burglarizing a home.  You and your wife are somehow deluded into thinking you were justified in stealing a number and running in the Boston Marathon.  Bandit, yes you are bandits, the worst blight on our sport. I hope you look proudly on the medallion you have hanging on display and hang your head in shame each time you gaze upon it. Somehow your egotistical delusion will have you fist pumping and patting yourself on your back that you finished. You and your wife are so pathetic.

So Dennis Crowley actions speak louder than words: you cheated and I deleted.

In French it is Faux Pas, in English it is Turd in the Punchbowl.

When someone asks, “Do you know so in so?” They usually expect an encouraging response. Or they want the person they asked the question of to be impressed by whom they know. Maybe they should be prepared for an answer they did not expect.  Sort of like when someone says, “Hey watch this.” You can bet something is going to end badly.

Which brings me to the long tale from the Preakness party this past weekend. For the first time, many of my friends met EW. Often when I would attend weddings and functions, EW would be traveling. I attended solo, or invited a friend to escort me. I went to functions with so many different escorts: no one could keep count. So at the Preakness party, friends got to meet EW and learn his real name. No it is not Nanook, Voldemort or MWNN.

Rob, a friend of mine, pointed out that he kept up with our comings and goings on FB and until the party had no idea if EW existed or actually had a name. My friends often referred to him as the ghost. We went on to discuss my crazy postings of all news Florida. If it is wacky, weird, or just interesting (in an odd way) I’m quick to add it to my FB page. I went on to point out that because I read the news wires religiously, I know a lot about a little, a little about a lot, a lot about lot, and a little about a little.  For instance, I pointed out a recent dinner I attended with EW and the “bullet boys” and how I was totally in the dark about armaments, but as a result of the dinner, I know a little about buying large-scale ammunitions.

We had an enjoyably evening and as the night wore on EW and I decided to head home early. One guest inquired why we were leaving so soon. I explained it was because we live in Clifton, Virginia and it is a fairly long drive home.

This same gent (Naval Academy grad) had been attempting to entertain several of us moments earlier with a story about his recent trip through an airport screening. Don’t we all have one of those stories? His was a bit dramatic and he punctuated the story by dropping his restored gold Rolex on the table and recreating the problem that was caused by his watch going through the screening.

Now, I don’t care about the incident with TSA, it was the fact that he had to drop his watch and recreate the scene several times over. We got it, you have a gold Rolex….we got it. Heavy metal…sheesh…..

So, I mentioned we were heading home to Clifton and he immediately asked if we knew J. Daniel Howard who lives in Clifton. I responded by asking if we should. I suppose because we live in Clifton he thinks we know everyone.

No, that was not the reason for the question. He wanted to name drop. And man o man he did name drop. He dropped a name like dropping a turd in a punch bowl.

After asking if we new the guy, he went on to point out Howard is a former undersecretary of the Navy and Reagan administration. Wait for it…plop…hello punch bowl meet turd.

Yessiree…thanks to EW who had texted me a few weeks earlier, I knew a little about this guy. My nose in the news paid off big time. I had followed the story EW alerted me to on May 2^nd.,

The Academy grad was attempting to brag about taking Howard’s daughter to a Naval Academy Cotillion while he was a midshipman. Who cares? I was busy on Google looking up J. Daniel Howard because, wait for it…he had been arrested on May 2^nd on charges of possessing and reproducing child pornography in Fairfax County, according to court records.

Naval Academy guy just kept on trying to tell his story while the rest of us were then on to the topic of the child porn story. We didn’t care that Naval Academy guy escorted the perv’s daughter years ago. Or how he rubbed elbows with Generals and Admirals or how he had to be vetted by the FBI for the dance or some such nonsense. Nope…there it was, the story of J. Daniel Howard’s recent arrest, just two miles from my house.  Yup…a big floating turd in the bowl…

EW whispered in my ear that he thought it was time to leave as I kept laughing about the incident. I suppose it was time to leave because the punch bowl was full and I had a story to recount on the blog.

So dear friends, it is great to name drop. We all do it. I’m guilty of name-dropping. I admire those that know famous people and rub elbows with them. We all want to brag about those times.  But…perhaps one might want to keep current with these “famous folks” so as to avoid this type of faux pas…or as I say in English, turd in the punch bowl.

The Lies That Bind

 

My husband and I settled on a home in January. We knew prior to occupying the house we would have some work done throughout and we would take up residence after the dust settled. Within days of settling, my contractor moved in a crew who began to remove walls, cut new door openings, remove doors, replace doors, paint, remove wallpaper, restore the deck, remodel a bathroom, and on and on, and on. You get the picture. It was a bustling beehive of activity and dust and paint fumes.

Additionally, we had a HVAC contractor in to repair and replace items associated with the heating and air conditioning.  Finally, we had a closet installation company rework every closet including a bedroom we converted to a walk-in closet. So, now you really get the picture.

Fortunately, we were renting another house and had the flexibility to delay our move into the new home. Our closet folks put us in touch with a fellow who works in window treatments. He came very highly recommended.

So let me point out here, my contractor and my closet installation folks have done two other houses for me. I have used them over and over and referred them many times over knowing that they are reliable, reasonable and trustworthy. In some instances the work was contracted on a hand shake, keys changing hands and little to no follow up or need to check in on the project until the job has been completed.

So, when “window man” was recommended, I was quite happy. He came to the house and seemed quite nice and was very helpful in answering questions on a variety of issues regarding my windows and window treatments. We accepted his offer to mill and install plantation shutters on 22 windows.

We explained that we did not want the shutters installed until all of the spackle dust had settled. We had a push out date of 30 days. Well those days came and went and we began to call for an update with no return call, just message after message. Not to worry, I had not put down a deposit on the ‘handshake’. He was very quick to point out no money was due until the install was completed and his website states the same.

Finally, out of the blue I got an email on March 6^th… “Hi Judi - Hope all is well. Just checking in for an update on your settlement date and possibly an install date for installation of your shutters”. WTF? When we met him, we had settled and he knew it because he walked through the ongoing renovations. Did he think we would have started that mess without settling, much less the previous owner agreeing? So, I emailed back and there it was again, crickets…no return…and then in the middle of April, the 19^th of April to be exact I got this, “just returned from being on travel and I'm waiting for the ship date confirmation. I should have that today.. My apologies”.

About a week later he called me to ask me how much I loved him as a contractor because the milling company dropped a palate of shutters and ruined them and wait for it…they were mine.

So he promised they would be re-milled and we’d have them in two weeks because they were now a rush-order. Yawn, heard it all before, “Sure baby, I’ll love you in the morning.” EW and I gave him the two weeks to make good and of course the entire time, no returned calls. I called from a different number and voila he answered…LOL…I was starting to feel like a stalking girlfriend…he gave some BS answer but assured me they were on the way.

Two days later I had EW call him and the poop started to flow again: the milling company went out of business and left him high and dry he was too embarrassed to call, he was waiting to find another source, on and on and on…it was wasted words because I’d already set an appointment to have another firm estimate the job.

After all of his boo-hooing about how he’d been worked over by the milling company, EW sent this email:

I understand that the milling and production of our shade order will begin on Monday. Please send us a detailed plan, per our phone conversation on Wednesday, on the production schedule and projected dates that the manufacturer will install our shutters. Please confirm, as part of your follow-up email, that the original price quoted by you will remain the same. My email address is and Judi’s email. EW

To which he responded:

Good morning Chuck
Again, thank you for your extreme patience and for giving me the opportunity to work through this horrific situation. First, let me assure you that the price will indeed remain the same . Two, the Hunter Douglas shutters, although the original shutters were of good quality, are the pinnacle of the industry. I will have a better understanding on Monday as to the projected ship date and possibly installation date as well.

Today is Monday, May 6^th. The Monday he is referring too. And you guessed…no follow up. No problem. I hired a new company this morning which brings me full circle to the lies that bind.

The gentleman I hired this morning is terrific. His name is Steve, I found him on the internet, he is local, and he does his own milling out of Waldorf Maryland. He had no idea I’d worked with anyone else. I explained the remodel was now complete and no dust would spoil the shutters. I pointed out that we were working on the yard outside the house, so it was time for the shutters since the inside was completed.

We were enjoying coffee in my kitchen and Steve mentioned the reputation of his company and how there are some bad dealers in the area, one in particular. He went on to say that he used to do the milling and install for a local guy. He pointed out he had to part ways because when he would go to the install there would be miss measures, incorrect products and a mad homeowner because the project was six months overdue. He said the contractor would always use excuses that the fax must not have gone through and would tell his clients it was a milling problem. My guy Steve from this morning chuckled and said, “How is it his is the only faxes we never received?” and shook his head ruefully. I looked at him and asked if he would tell me who it was and he didn’t want too but I begged and well imagine that…it was the boob we’d been dealing with. So, I poured more coffee and explained what we had been dealing with and it all added up.

I accepted the offer from Steve, and he was within a few dollars of the original order. I made some changes that resulted in a bit more, but again, negligible. Our order will be here in five to six weeks and somehow, I believe it will be.

We do not intend to call the other guy. It will be interesting to see if he follows up and what the shaggy dog story will be then. I am glad EW will be able to tell him we have moved on and can then drop the name of the company we moved on too.

BTW…the boob is an Angie’s list contractor. I’m curious how he remains in good standing on there. I don’t care; he is not my guy anymore. Like a bad prom date, I have tossed him out for a better man.  

 

Give him a call! http://scottplantationshutters.com/

The Day the Finish Line Disapeared.

Anyone that knows me will tell you that I am never lost for words. As I watched the horror of the Boston Marathon unfold on my TV yesterday, I was somewhat lost for words to post on my face book page. I was  very choked up and had difficulty talking with friends and family members who called to see how I was and to feel some relief that I was not in Boston.

First, let me be perfectly honest. I will never qualify for the Boston Marathon. However, that said it doesn’t mean I can’t run it. I could collect donations for one of hundreds of charities that offer a running bib for specific dollar amounts raised for their cause.

I appreciated every call and every comment from yesterday’s face book commentary.

As a runner, there is a huge sense of euphoria when crossing the finish line. Euphoria that you have for the first time, or several times over, completed a momentous physical feat. You have run what many do not and cannot accomplish.

From the moment I finished my first half-marathon, I joined an elite crowd. I joined a small percent of beings that can check the box of running 13.1 miles. I’ve yet to check the box for 26.2 miles.

So, yesterday instead of enjoying the feed of the Boston Marathon, I was pulled into the horror that erupted four hours and nine minutes into the race. I’m no different than any human being that watched the scene unravel into a frightening calamity of chaos and fear. I could not pull myself from the TV.

I texted friends who were running in the hopes I would get a ping back. I messaged them on FB for an update. I knew the odds were long that I’d get communication back. Most runners place their personal belongings in a plastic bag which is then secured by the race management team and those belongings are retrieved after crossing the finish line. But at 4:09 there was no finish line to cross.

But in truth, a line had been crossed. One of, if not, the most revered marathons in the United States had been attacked. There was no doubt from the first puff of smoke that it was deliberate though the news channels were at first taking the high road. It soon became very evident there was no high road to take.

So there it was, the moment of euphoria when you cross the finish line, intersecting with a moment of unspeakable horror.

A road race is no light undertaking. There are 27,000 + or – runners registered to run the Boston Marathon. There are easily three times that amount of staff, volunteers, fire, police, medical station workers, and photographers staged along the entire route. Those numbers swell upward when family, friends, and road race junkies are added to the mix.

Runners do not just show up and run. There is an entire morning ritual of early morning wake up calls, getting to the pre-race staging to drop personal belongings, and eventually making your way to your assigned corral and waiting to run across the start line.

The start is euphoric. Always the euphoria of running across the timing mat and knowing you are off on a 13.1 or 26.2 mile adventure. The runner high sets in at different points for all runners, and as I’ve said many times, I am a late comer to this sport. But late or not, I love this sport. I have embraced it as my own. It is the first significant athletic thing I have ever done. But this is not about me; it is about the friends I have made both near and far. Friends like Sid Busch whom I see at races all the time. Sid whom I commiserated with yesterday afternoon.  Jac Blair whom I just ran Disney with in February and sooooo many others and tooooo many others to mention by name.

I have a bit of a relationship with some race organizers and I could not imagine what each and every one thought, when like me, they saw the explosion and following carnage. Our sport changed in the blink of an eye. The change was evident on Face Book and Twitter, the heavy hearts and spent tears were common place in our discussions

I prayed for the MarathonPhoto camera operators who sit in and around the finish, in the street, along the sidelines, and perched above the finish line capturing fabulous images of euphoric runners completing their runs. Lord knows what images they captured by accident and then maybe intentionally. Lord only knows. These wonderful photographers capture the beauty of our sport and yesterday they captured something that cannot be unseen.

I wanted to stop watching, but I was held entranced watching the replays over and over as if at some point it would all right itself and become our glorious sport again. I had the same feeling when the twin towers collapsed. I thought if I watched long enough they might stand erect and majestic and I’d awake from a terrible dream.

Yesterday, race directors across the country stopped in their tracks and assembled their teams to muddle through this maze of uncertainty. I can imagine they are meeting and conferring to try to come up with contingency plans for their races. Races that have been run over and over and the logistics, though daunting, are pretty much a repeat of the previous year with tweaks to continue to improve the runners and spectators experience. Now this, now a new level of planning has to be put into place. My mind cannot comprehend the overwhelming task they face. How do you plan for the unimaginable? 13.1 or 26.2 miles is a lot of ground to protect. I just cannot fathom.

So, today I am trying to figure how to express my profound sorrow. I’m not angry yet, though I think that will come. I’m just deeply saddened for all involved. There are no survivors of yesterday’s bombings. We are all impacted, some in ways I cannot comprehend and for others just from the simple viewing of the outcome.

I will continue to run. I will run in the spirit this sport was intended, but I cannot, and will not forget the day the finish line disappeared.

The Art of Grieving.

Grief is personal. We all grieve in different fashions. What no one can know is what your grief style is. When Jim died, I wanted to spend time with people; I did not want to be alone in my house. For several weeks, I stayed busy with friends and family members. I consumed bottle after bottle of wine with my neighbors to avoid the quiet of my house and then as quickly as that had onset, it changed. I moved to our farm for several weeks where I locked myself away from the world. I labored every day to clean up old outbuildings. I needed to sweat out the grief. The physical labor of the days allowed me to pass out at night and sleep through those periods of grief.

I undertook bereavement counseling to deal with my anger of loosing Jim. I was angry. I was angry that he was gone. I had a short fuse with many of the issues I had to contend with in the aftermath of his death. In fact I was pissed off that I’d had such a short time with Jim. I am thankful for every day, but at times I still feel cheated and angry.

I had no grieving timeline. I let me grief wash over me and I floated in the ebb and flow like a piece of flotsam on the seas. I knew that life would push me along and that I would pass through the phases of my grief. I gave myself no timeline. There were times I embraced the pain of his loss and at other times I got angry and found that undertaking extreme physical chores was the placebo I needed. It was what it was. I could not change what had happened. It was meant to happen and I was meant to experience his loss.

In the early months following Jim’s death, friends would call to check in with me. They wanted to comfort me, and as I have written before, I often thought they wanted me to comfort them.

So, this week I was confronted with a situation that made me wonder about grief all over again. A friend on Face Book suffered a tremendous loss on Saturday. A mutual friend wanted to have a discussion in a private group on Face Book about the tragedy. She wanted to discuss it. I think she wanted to discuss it because she wanted comfort, and in doing so may not have realized the pain that would be cast on the grieving family. The discussion was closed out and moved into a private forum so that there could be no prying eyes, off hand comments, or any chance the grieving family would see the discussion.

Perhaps I’m overly sensitive, but with the electronic age everything is “out there.” Grieving should be left with the impacted family. Let them decide when they want to introduce their feelings in the social media. I have a friend whose husband died recently and before his body had been removed from the house she was updating her FB status about the tragedy. Grief drives us to unfortunate circumstances. She posted for several days and I could feel the pain of her words…and as suddenly as she was posting about her loss, all of her posts have dried up. There are none of her comical postings of grumpy cats or goofy dogs. Her path of grief has changed. She will be back one day when she has dealt with her pain and I welcome her back. Have I poked her on FB to see what’s up? Nope. She needs her time to deal with her feelings. If she wants to reach out to me or anyone, she will. It should be her timing by her choice.

Which circles back to the Saturday discussion. Some thought was given to taking a meal to the family. Though maybe meant in a cynical tone, the comment leant itself to “food won’t replace a lost family member.” I pointed out that the meal would sustain a mother in her time of grief, because preparing food may be the last thing on her mind. Lord knows as much as I like to cook, I avoided the kitchen for months after Jim died. Neighbors helped to sustain my physical need of food. I would just have soon not eaten.

Another friend in the conversation talked about losing her husband and a gentleman that would stop by and just sit with her on the porch never uttering a word. They were comfortable in the silence, and yes, as much as I gab, I had those moments as well. Grief has no defined pattern. It comes and goes; it can be loud or serene, it can be the wailing and gnashing of teeth. It can be anger at the world or quiet reflection. You do not get to pick the grief you want, it just sort of happens (my observation, not a scientific definition).

So, this morning I reached out to my friend’s fiancé and explained that my silence on the subject was intentional. I don’t have the words to express my sorrow. I can offer a cyber hug and let him know that my ear is available if and when needed. If not, I understand.

I don’t have any words that will comfort this dear woman. I am not so close as to need to force myself into the terrible tragedy. Lord knows her days ahead are difficult enough to deal with without me trying to be helpful or just repeating meaningless platitudes.

Some friends will read this post and hate me for writing these words. Some will applaud, others won’t understand because they have not had to deal with any loss of loved ones. Those who have might be nodding their heads in quite understanding.

So dear friends, I do post on FB asking for prayers in a situation. I won’t tag a family and I will respect their privacy as they wend their way through the uncharted paths of a tragic loss of an individual’s life. Young, old, sick or healthy, death does not discriminate. Grief is grief. Grief is a journey that offers moments of great reflection and hopefully some peace in the future. Time dulls the pain, but does not eliminate it.

My prayer is that we all take a moment, step back and allow friends to grieve as is their right and let those friends set the parameters. If you feel you need comforting about the loss of someone outside of your family, call me, you can have a conversation with the Widow Fike.

 

Kindly call me Princess Judith...it is official!

It is official. I am a Princess. I do in fact have the Medal of Honor to prove that I am.  How you ask did I become a Princess? Well, let me explain….

A long, long time ago, I agreed to register to run the Disney Orlando Princess Half Marathon. At the time I was running regularly and felt very much on top of my running game. I continued to run and register for more and more events. In August I ran a night half marathon in Roswell Georgia. Little did I know then that it would be the last race for me until I became a Princess on February 24^th, 2013.

A series of missed races, coupled with my marriage in December, and a foot my doctor told me to stop running on had me in a runners funk.  I won’t bore you with the list of missed races. It is a substantial list and anyone who knows how I push myself can probably do the math themselves.

So, as the holidays approached I convinced myself I’d start training to prepare for the Disney race. Well, the only training I got was the practice of telling myself I’d start tomorrow. Tomorrow never came and the race was looming. My friend Jac Blair that I was running with was messaging me on Face Book asking about my training and excitement level. I suppose I was underwhelmed by the race. Because….

My husband and I have bought a new home and I was and still am very consumed with the remodel and move into the new digs. I was convincing myself and anyone that would listen that I couldn’t train. I had sooooo much going on. But, I was going to run, or walk, regardless. We had plane fare, the condo at Disney and a friend headed in from Arizona.

The week of the race I was finally excited. Maybe it was the fact I’d be in warm weather in Florida, or just nerves that I was going to run 13.1 miles with absolutely no training since I shelved my shoes in August. So, off we went to Disney on Friday February 22^nd. Jac showed up that night and we hit the expo the next day. I scooped up some Princess merchandise which I wasn’t sure I’d wear, because I wasn’t sure I’d finish.

At the crack of dawn Sunday morning, yes at 2:50 am, Jac and I awoke to dress and head to the bus that would become our coach to the start line. There were women of all shapes and sizes and all wearing Princess outfits. The rainbow of tulle in the tutus and the glitter from all of the tiaras was quite a sight that morning. I felt as though I was trapped in a Jo Ann’s fabric center.

I had a dress on, but I had no other defining costume. No tutu, no mouse ears, no tiara. I just wanted to start, finish, survive, and get a bloody Mary at the finish. I loved the weather, warm/cool (crack of dawn) overcast sky to keep the Florida sun from beating the runners down, and mild humidity. Jac hated the humidity. I didn’t really notice it, but coming from her dry Arizona temps she didn’t like our moist air.

Jac wears a racing watch to time her and asked why I don’t. I explained that I can figure my time very close to my actual by noting my start time and calculating at each check point. I told her I thought I’d have a slow day, probably about 3 hours and 15 minutes. I’m a consistent 2:45 give or take runner. My personal best is 2:32.

 

We corralled up: Jac was in Corral B, I was in C. We agreed to text as we got close to mile 10 in order to keep track of each other and to meet up at the finish. As each coral was released to run, our Fairy Godmother waived her wand, gave us a little magical love, and counted down to one. Fireworks went off and so did we. So, it was Corral C’s time to start. I was a bit nervous, but I was excited to be back in a race. I have missed my sport.

So, the fireworks lit the sky and off we went. I checked my time crossing the start line so that I could keep track of my pace. I was surprised that I actually ran the first three miles (albeit slow) and was pulling a sub 14 minute mile. I was feeling good in spite of no training, nothing hurt and the foot the doctor warned me about was on its best behavior. I was compensating a bit on my left foot to balance a bit, but realized that was causing an entirely new problem so, I adjusted back to my normal form, and voila, magical!

From the moment I ran beneath the start arch, I knew I’d made the right decision to start running again. At every twist and turn of the race, some wonderful Disney character appeared. Jack Sparrow was standing next to his pirate ship and would be Princesses were lining up to have their photo taken. As much as I love jack, I kept running. I was on a mission to finish and wanted nothing to keep me from the time I’d projected. I ran past Aladdin and Prince Charming(s). I ran past every Disney Princess they have. There was Snow White and Cinderella with her evil stepmom and stepsisters, who by the way looked rather fetching in an evil sort of way.

Disney music was playing all along the route. I was in Disney heaven. I felt good, my foot felt good and I knew I had beaten the course. I would finish and add a spectacular piece of bling to my collection. We approached the Magic Kingdom which was the half-way point of the race. I stopped for a quick photo-op and kept going. I waived at Mickey and Minnie and kept on running. I felt like Forest Gump; I was not stopping for nothing. Truth be told, I thought if I did stop, I might not get going again.

So, through the kingdom we ran. I ran past Cinderella again, she looks fabulous, hasn’t aged a bit. And we were again on the Disney access roads wending our way to the finish line at Epcot. As with most races, we are cordoned off into certain lanes of roads. So it was as we exited the kingdom. The running path was lined with orange cones abutted next to each other. It was a solid orange line, no gaps. Some of the runners hopped into the open lane only to be hollered at by the race volunteers to get back in the running lane.

The open lane for cars next to us had traffic headed in our same direction.  It was not oncoming traffic. So, there we were headed towards the finish 5 or 6 miles away and some zippy young lady was popping in and out of the clear lane: the traffic lane. Disney vehicles and cab vans were moving by us as we ran, so zippy young lady kept ignoring the words of warning and she jigged when she should have jagged and she threw herself into the path of the cab van. She was no more than 30 feet in front of me. She just popped out in the lane without looking and hit the quarter panel of the van just past the headlights and the BIG BLACK MIRROR hit her head like a melon. In fact the impact sounded like a melon popping.

Yes, I was horrified as she rolled down the street towards me (outside of the cones). She sat up; she had a crowd around her and was attempting to stand, all the while telling everyone she was going to finish the race. By the time I was parallel to her the driver of the cab had joined the crowd and he look horrified. I felt worse for him than her. Jac asked why I didn’t take a picture and I told her I couldn’t. I see plenty of injuries and heart wrenching accidents at races. It is bad enough it is seared in my mind, no need to sear it in yours. Later in the day as Jac, EW and I were discussing the event, we had to laugh that Disney attorneys were probably notified before the EMT’s.

So, with the drama of the mirror and melon head attack behind me, I ran on, all the while enjoying the Disney characters and entertainment provided by the mouse. I was well hydrated, I was in no pain the foot was good and my time inched up over a 15 minute mile. I was in the zone, the slow zone, but running and walking my way to the finish. I loved seeing Epcot up ahead. Jac was texting and at one point I realized she was about 10 minutes ahead of me. We would be finishing close together!

She sent a text that she had finished and I had less than a mile to go. It seemed like a terminal slow-mo half mile, but I rounded the bend and there was the finish. Holy Running Blisters!! I looked at the race clock and calculated I had run 3:15. No training in a six month period, unless you count the arm lifts of vodka and tonic and wine. And, and I was finished, I felt great, the foot was fine. To top it off I received the blingity of all bling, my Princess medal.

So, if Disney deems me a Princess, who am I to disagree? After al,l I am a Princess now and we Princesses are agreeable folks. I think the icing on the cake was the fact they I wore my bling for the remainder of the day including out to dinner. No matter where we went, what bus we rode, or strangers we passed in the parks I got words of congratulations and I was constantly referred to as Princess.

 

So, if you want to congratulate me on this mini comeback race, please do so using my official name, Princess Judith, but remember; I’ll always be the Widow Fike.