A Decade of Memories: New Year's Eve 2009

2001: The year I meet Cindy. Rocky introduces me to her over lunch and I am so instantly smitten that I can't even look her in the eyes. Instead, I bury my face in my sandwich and just keep shoving food in my mouth. Cindy asks Rocky whether I've eaten in the last 3 days.

2002: Cindy takes me to Las Vegas for the very first time. Within 2 hours of arriving, Cindy introduces me to the wonderful games of roulette and Texas Hold 'Em. I win $314 and take us all out to a steak dinner. Later that weekend, Cindy, along with Rocky and Gloria, watch me finish the Las Vegas Half Marathon. This is also the year that Cindy and I move in together.

2003: Cindy and I visit Mt. Rainier. In the gift shop, we buy each other matching $7 rings and exchange them with each other during one of our hikes. For Cindy's Christmas present that year, I commission a stained glass artist to create a stained glass piece that depicts the scene (shown below) where we exchanged rings.

2004: For my 30th birthday, Cindy takes me to Las Vegas and surprises me by inviting my closest friends to join us. This is also the year that Cindy and I adopt our dog, Vegas.

2005: For Valentine's Day, Cindy replaces my $7 gift shop ring with a silver Tiffany ring. I buy her the same ring for her birthday and we wear them on our wedding ring fingers. Later that summer, Cindy and I bump into CAROL CHANNING in the bar at the Watergate Hotel. For a Broadway lover like me, Carol Channing is a god. I start freaking out when I see her and Cindy tells me to pull myself together and directs me to get her autograph (which I do). Then, one of the gay boys in the bar starts playing the first few notes of "Hello Dolly!" on the piano and, in a rare and unexpected moment, Ms. Channing gets up and starts singing the song. Cindy captured the photo shown below.

2006: We purchase our first Vespa scooter from eBay!

2007: Cindy enrolls in an intensive 18-month full-time nursing program while also working a 40-hour work week. When the Queen of England visits Washington, DC this year, Cindy skips work and, after dodging security and hiding out in the bushes, takes the awesome photo shown below (l. to r. George Bush Sr., The Queen, Barbara Bush, and Prince Phillip).

2008: In March, I throw Cindy the biggest party ever in our house for her 40th birthday. Later that year, Cindy passes away from a brain aneurysm. About 250 of our closest friends and family attend the funeral.

2009: This blog, inspired by Cindy's memory, provides me with an outlet to deal with the pain and helps me to survive the first year without her.

Christmas 2009

Did you ever see that episode of “Family Ties” where Uncle Ned (played by a young Tom Hanks) finally admits that he has a drinking problem? With each painful scene, you know that the eventual train wreck will be catastrophic. Ned starts drinking beer as soon as he arrives at the Keaton’s house. He then drinks a six-pack during an innocent game of Trivial Pursuit. In the middle of the night, Ned downs a bottle of whiskey, some vanilla extract, and a jar of maraschino cherries. He turns up drunk playing Tina Yother’s clarinet at a job interview. When the Mr. and Mrs. Keaton finally confront Ned about his problem, Ned bitch slaps Alex in retaliation. After this last humiliation, Ned admits his problem and calls AA.

Wouldn’t it be great if all our problems could be solved in 22 minutes?

For the past 2 months, I’ve been on this Uncle Ned trajectory. In my case, my addiction is not to booze, but in feeling sorry for myself. Obama said “Hope is on the way,” but on the way I lost all of mine. There are times when it feels like I am watching myself on TV and I want to scream at the main character.

Did you know that I came this close to committing petty larceny? Before you call me Winona Ryder, let me explain.

Next to the mailroom at my building, there is an apartment occupied by two very festive men. On December 1, to set the season off on a good note, they placed a musical wreath on their door. Anytime a person walked by the wreath, the song “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” played in its entirety (only imagine a high-pitched muzak version played through your old Radio Shack computer). There is no way to enter the mailroom without passing by the door of this apartment. Believe me, I tried everything: ducking under the wreath, running by it very quickly, and even walking on tip toes. This wreath apparently has infrared, CIA-grade motion sensors. In fact, even after you left the mailroom, the song kept playing as you waited for your elevator. I can’t pinpoint exactly why this wreath upset me so much, but on Dec. 26th I resolved to take it down.

I got up around noon on Saturday, put on big pair of sunglasses, a ski cap and gloves, and headed to the mailroom with a pair of barbeque tongs (so as to not leave fingerprints). If I was to do this, I knew I’d have to do it fast. The blaring of the melody would soon bring attention to me. I stealthy walked over to the mailroom, but to my surprise, the song did not play. I surmised that the batteries finally died after all those hours of playing. A Christmas miracle indeed.

This entire season has been filled with moments like this, where I want to trip couples walking arm-in-arm in the snow, glare at people who I think have a charmed life, or throw my boot at the TV every time a movie comes on for Lifetime’s “25 Days of Christmas” extravaganza.

My roommate texted me on Christmas day to ask whether I had a merry Christmas. I don’t know what overcame me, maybe it was because I was on my third (in a row) viewing of “Bad Santa,” maybe it was because I was alone, or maybe it was because I was still steaming over that wreath. But, I texted her back, “This is the worst, most lonely day ever.” Who writes stuff like that?

You know, when I think back to that Family Ties episode, what made the Uncle Ned character so compelling was that he was an intelligent, well-educated man, and a genius in the field of economics. How could someone like him, with all his credentials, fall down so hard in life? Why couldn’t he just figure out a way to make it on his own without drinking?

And when I look at me, I get really angry because I should be smart enough to work my way out of this funk. I’m no dummy, right? I’m Phi Beta Kappa, graduated magna cum laude, I got my masters from Georgetown, and I’ve read every Encyclopedia Brown book known to man. Someone like me should be able to figure out a way to cope. But, like alcohol was for Uncle Ned, feeling sorry for myself and angry at the world is the easiest crutch to fall back on. I hate to say this, but it’s almost instinctual.

The final straw came for me last night when I was talking on the phone with one of my really good friends from Seattle (this is the same girl who fly to DC the second Cindy went into the emergency room and stayed by my side for three whole weeks). I think I spent the majority of the conversation just going off on everything and everyone. I was like, “This person forgot me! This person doesn’t call me anymore! No one wants to hear about it anymore! I hate people who cuddle.” Just really random, scattered, bottled up thoughts.

I’m angry. I have been angry. And I’ve been trying to hold it in, but I just let it out. And afterwards, I felt really ugly. I got off the phone with my friend and just started crying and this time the tears weren’t about Cindy. They were about me. I had become that angry, bitter person convinced that the world is against her. I hate that person. That’s not who I am deep in my heart. I’ve never been that person.

I think I’ve written this in the last three blog entries, but I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to draw upon what got me through the first year, but it seems so long ago. And like I said earlier, it is 100 times easier to fall back on the negative responses. So much easier.

But, I don’t want to live like that. It has to be about making choices, right? I get to choose whether I feel happy, right? I shouldn’t empower some freaky wreath with the ability to make me sad. I should be able to watch “Bad Santa,” one of the best holiday movies ever, and not turn into a misanthrope, right?

I remember seeing the movie “Vanilla Sky” with Cindy. Basically, in this film, Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz fall head over heels for each other right away. All signs point to them having this amazing relationship, but then the next day Tom Cruise gets into a car accident and is horribly disfigured. The Tom Cruise character spends the rest of the movie sulking, lashing out, and wearing that stupid mask. The Penelope Cruz character does make an attempt to welcome him back into her life despite his disfigurement, but he still remains a jerk. When the movie was over, I turned to Cindy and said, “Why did he have to be such a jerk to Penelope Cruz? She would have gotten used to the face.” To which Cindy responded, “But, his heart was disfigured and that was worse than the face.”

Merry Christmas Cindy.

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P.S. How cute is that photo of Cindy above in the Santa hat? And I love that there is an angel on her shirt and spaghetti sauce on her face.

Palliative Care for Widows 101

There’s a song I found myself singing tonight as I ran through the streets of D.C. under the haze of a newly fallen snow.

You gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind music
Even if nobody else sings along

You’re gonna be knowing
The loneliest kind of lonely
It may be rough goin’
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do

I actually have my college roommate to thank for turning me on to the sounds of The Mama and the Papas. When she popped in the greatest hits CD, I immediately fell in love with the voice of Mama Cass. Deep, warm, and folksy—her voice just draws you in and (I don’t know how she does this) for a short while you forget your problems. Songs like “Words of Love,” “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” and the song I was singing tonight, “Make Your Own Kind of Music,” contain deceptively simple, yet thoughtful lyrics.

And so, as I stared at our nation’s official Christmas tree, I sang this tune.

But, let me back up a bit and first tell you how I got here.

Since late November, I have been trapped in a dim, desolate mental place. So many texts, e-mails, and voicemails have gone unanswered because I don’t have the language necessary to explain what I am going through.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, then I’ll make it clear. Widows are the biggest liars in the world. Especially widows like me in our second year of the loss. You’ll ask us how we are doing, but we know you really don’t want an honest answer. I don’t mean to quote Jack Nicholson, but trust me when I tell you, you can’t handle the truth. You won’t want to handle it. The bleakest, least optimistic thoughts may be racing through our minds on any given day. So, when you ask us how we are doing, it’s just easier to keep the answer short and somewhat vague. You’ll get responses like, “Ehh, I’m okay” or “I have my ups and downs” or, my personal favorite, “I’m doing my best.” I love that response in particular because “doing my best” for a widow probably means that she succeeded in only taking one sleeping pill, picked herself up from a pool of tears off her bathroom floor, and remembered to feed the dog and put pants on in the morning.

Anyway, the day after Thanksgiving I was caught in a traffic jam that forced me to be stuck in my car for nine hours. With no one to talk to for hours, my mind immediately moved to Cindy. I don’t know why, but whenever bad luck comes my way, it’s so incredibly easy for me to use it as confirmation that misfortune is simply my lot in life.

I know, I know. It’s a little melodramatic. Okay, it’s completely melodramatic. But, I don’t tell you these things as justification for histrionics. I’m just trying to explain what goes through the mind of a widow. Our minds take rapid leaps in incredibly odd and disquieting directions.

For example, earlier this month I found myself watching “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” a movie that I have seen dozens of times without incident. However, during the scene when Bridget attends a friend’s dinner party filled with “smug marrieds” and she is the only single person there, I started to cry. Who the hell cries during Bridget Jones?

My mood proceeded to worsen in December as the holidays kicked in. I’d do my nightly, solitary jog in D.C. and have to weave around what seemed like hundreds of couples dressed up on their way to holiday parties.

I took two trips on a plane this month and, each time the plane touched down at DCA, I’d watch everyone around me race to turn back on their cell phones. But, I’d just sit and stare at the powered-off phone in my hand.

I’ve lost my way. In the first year of widowhood, I constantly tried to stay one step ahead of the suffering. But, it finally caught up to me and I can’t dodge it anymore. I’m scared. How do I alleviate the pain? Reduce the severity of the symptoms? Conceal its effects?

Without a formal plan of attack, I did what I’ve always done when I am at a loss, which is to go out for a run. When I started my jog tonight, it was in the low 30s and the snow had not started yet. By mile three, when my hands were shivering, I was ready to call it a night, but that’s when I felt the air dampen on my face. I looked up and saw the white flecks coming down like confetti in slow motion. I turned off my iPod and removed the headphones from my ears.

I decided to take a detour to the White House to see the National Christmas tree and the various state trees. As I jogged down 15th Street, the words of Mama Cass (herself a former resident of the Washington, DC environs) came out of my mouth.

You gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind music
Even if nobody else sings along

I’ve wanted to go down to see the trees all month, but I was afraid to go alone. You see, the trees are our equivalent of ice-skating under the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center in New York City. You share the experience with the person or people you love.

The loneliest kind of lonely

So, I kept singing that song and made my way down to the trees. While the big tree was impressive, I was fascinated with the state trees. This section, known as the “Pathway of Peace," contains 56 smaller, decorated trees representing all 50 states, five territories, and the District of Columbia. I got a kick out of the Arizona state tree because the ornaments (made by the Boys and Girls Club of Phoenix) had cotton balls glued to them to represent snow. The ornaments on the Indiana tree (prepared by an elementary school class) puzzled me because they were just leaves, which meant that by now they were dead leaves. Not to be biased, but I loved the tree decorated by a Girl Scout troop from the District of Columbia. Their ornaments were big, colorful, and plastered with glitter.

Midway through my stroll, I stopped in front of the Yule log to thaw out my face and hands. If you ever visit D.C. during holiday time, you must go see these trees and, most importantly, the Yule log. Their version of a Yule log is basically a huge fire pit. But, it feels amazing on a freezing night. The warmth felt so comforting that I did not want to leave. After fifteen minutes, I don’t know why, I felt compelled to make a wish in front of the Yule log. I actually made two wishes and then walked away.

On my way out, I stopped in front of the Massachusetts state tree, whose decorations were provided by the Hospice and Palliative Care Program of Southeastern MA. The ornaments consisted of simple brush and bristle tied together with a bow. Although not as bright and cheerful as the ones on the D.C. tree, there was something dignified about them. They may not have flash and glitter, but they did a solid job capturing the rugged spirit of winter.

As I jogged back home tonight, I knew that I still didn’t have all the answers. The path is still not clear to me. But, I do know that I felt the most peaceful and content, even if it was for a short moment, surrounded by the trees with the snow falling around me and the warmth of the fire on my face.

It may be rough goin’
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do

Little Song #2

I walked by the Christmas tree in my lobby and stopped dead in my tracks. That scent. I knew that fragrance. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? That tree’s been there for a week. The smell went through my nose, into my head, and I closed my eyes. One moment I was on my way to the gym, and then, in the course of a second, I was back in my house in Virginia with Cindy and it was December 2002.

One night, on my way home from work in 2002, I decided to purchase a real live Christmas tree. Although Cindy said that we had a perfectly good fake one somewhere up in the attic (left there by the previous owners), I wanted a real tree. Cindy assumed that it was because I never had a real one growing up. But really, there seemed something prestigious to me about having a real tree. In my mind at least, procuring the tree, strapping it to your car, working tirelessly to prevent a sap seal, and setting it up in the home that you share with the person you love was a rite of passage.

You can’t tell this from the picture above, but we only had enough ornaments for the front of the tree. Cindy and I were not the type of people to buy ornaments randomly just for the sake of having lots of decoration. Therefore, for the first year, our tree was sparse. I didn’t mind this so much because I recognized that we were still a young couple and had decades more of Christmases together. In fact, I looked forward to the later years when we would have amassed hundreds of ornaments from our travels and our friends--each ornament telling a different story of our life together.

That evening, while we trimmed the tree, I suggested a Christmas gift alternative. Rather than spend lots of money on gifts for each other, I suggested that we do something creative for the other person. I loved this idea because I had fun thinking up unexpected, imaginative gifts for Cindy. One such gift that I am really proud of is visible in the photo above. In the top right corner, hanging on the wall, is a black and white portrait of us. That picture is actually made up of more than 1,000 tiny square Lego pieces (a gift that I had given her for our first Valentine’s Day together).

I had no idea what Cindy would come up with for me. Since she was a camera person, would she do something with photography? Would she play a song on a piano for me? Would she get me my favorite celebrity’s autograph? Even though I was 28 years old at the time, I acted like an 8-year old anxiously awaiting Santa’s arrival.

When she finally handed me her gift Christmas morning, it felt heavy. Could it be a book? A picture frame? I unwrapped the gift and took out the chocolates that she had used to weigh down the box. Underneath the box of chocolates, on purple card stock, was a handwritten poem titled “Little Song #2.”

As I stared at this most amazing gift, Cindy explained that it was only fitting that her Italian girlfriend should have an Italian sonnet written for her. When I asked about the title of the poem, she reminded me that the term sonnet means “little song.” I can’t recall why she titled it #2, but, knowing a perfectionist like Cindy, it was probably because she edited Little Song #1 to death.

As I read the poem, I could not believe how well Cindy adhered to the structure. Italian sonnets are typically 14 lines with a rhyme scheme like this: a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e-c-d-e. The first part of the poem describes the problem the poet is facing and then the second part offers some sort of resolution to the tale. What makes this gift so extraordinary was that Cindy was not a huge aficionado of poetry. She decided to do something way outside her comfort zone because she knew that it would be completely appreciated by an English major like me.

I debated whether to share with you something as cheesy as a poem. What seems romantic to us in our personal lives does not always translate the same way to the outside world. Nonetheless, here’s the poem:

Little Song #2
When I thought true love was so far from me,
into my life one summer day came you
Beautiful, charming, smart with eyes of blue
In front of me, was what was meant to be
Life with you is all I could ever see
Would you be the one? Could it become true?
My heart, my desires would be for you
Since that day, I thought of you endlessly.

We are now one. How fortunate our fate
For here we are together everyday
No more nights without you or days apart
With you I have found my friend and soulmate
I am happy when in your arms I lay;
I am complete because I have your heart

--CMR 12/2002

I always thought that if we ever had an official wedding ceremony and Cindy was stressing about what to say for her vows, that she could just recite the poem she had written for me in December 2002.

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P.S. In order to take the photograph shown above, Cindy used a tripod and, after eight tries (keeping the cat still was a feat in itself), eventually captured this shot. We used this photograph as the basis for a holiday e-card. I thought it would be funny that our family portrait consisted of me, Cindy, our cat Mr. Kitty, and my beloved animatronic reindeer that I kept inside the house. On no account did I ever doubt that Cindy was my soulmate for she never questioned my desire to keep the animatronic reindeer in our house. After all, if they were outside the house, how could I enjoy the site of them in their neat red bows, moving their heads left and right?

The Fortress of Solitude

There’s a scene in Superman II when Clark Kent and Lois Lane are in a diner. This is right after their weekend in the Fortress of Solitude when Superman decides to do away with all his superhero powers. While Clark uses the restroom, one of the male patrons plops himself onto Clark’s stool and starts hitting on Lois. Seeing this, Clark tells the man to get out of his seat. When he does not move, a fight ensues. Clark hits the man hard but, without superhuman strength, the force of the punch actually hurts him. By the end of the scuffle, the man knocks Clark to the floor. Clark stares in wonder at his hands. The blood dripping down his fingers reminds him that he is a mere mortal now.

Did I ever tell you about the time that Cindy and I survived a near-killer shark attack? We were in Vieques, Puerto Rico snorkeling far, far away from shore. All of a sudden, thousands of small fish started swimming past us. The fish darted between our legs, through our swim shorts, and around our arms in droves. It was like an underwater version of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Upon noticing this myriad of incredibly frantic fish, Cindy grabbed my shoulder.

CMR: Where do you think they are going in such a hurry?
JM: I think they're running from something. . .
CMR: Wow! You think we’ll see a shark?
JM: We need to get the f*ck outta here.

I felt my heart race uncontrollably as I swam faster than I had ever before in my life. About a minute into our escape, I turned around to look for Cindy. She was way behind me. I swam back to her.

JM: Cindy, you need to pick up the pace.
CMR: I am so mad at you for not bringing an underwater camera.
JM: Cindy, we need to get back to shore.
CMR: Yeah, I know. But think of the pictures I could be taking!
JM: Cindy, c’mon!

This went on for twenty minutes. I’d be swimming hard and then I would turn around and Cindy would be trailing behind. Each time this happened, I backtracked to make sure we were always together. Finally, I placed her arm around me and I swam for the both of us. I did not let Cindy go until we safely reached the shore.

This was not the first time I protected the woman that I loved.

Several years ago, a drugged-out intruder tried to break into our house as we slept one evening. We woke to the sounds of Vegas’s barking and a persistent knocking at the door. Thinking it was our current houseguest trying to get in, I went downstairs to open the door. When I got to the door (which was glass paneled with a sheer screen in front of it), I noticed the dark silhouette of a man. I quickly placed the chain on the door and ran back upstairs. The knocking intensified and then soon degraded into pounding.

JM: Cindy! There’s a man at the door!
CMR: Is it locked?
JM: Yes, it’s locked!
CMR: What do we do?
JM: Maybe he'll go away.

The man started kicking the door now.

I called the police. I went through a game of twenty questions with the dispatcher and begged her to send a squad car. After what seemed like five minutes, the dispatcher told me to go downstairs and to direct the man to leave my property. When I repeated her suggestion aloud, Cindy grabbed my arm.

CMR: Don’t do that. F*ck that. Don’t go downstairs.
JM: But, she’s telling me to do that. She says she doesn’t have a car to send out right now and this might get him to leave.
CMR: F*ck that bitch. You don’t know if he has a gun. Don’t go down there.
JM: (into the phone) Are you sure you want me to go downstairs? I mean, what if he has a gun? We have a glass door.
Dispatcher: (laughs) You must watch a lot of cop shows.
JM: Have you sent a car yet?
Dispatcher: Not yet. I’ll stay on the phone with you as you go downstairs.

I looked at Cindy and grabbed a baseball bat that I kept by the bed. Why did I keep a baseball bat by the bed? I always believed that two girls living alone in Virginia should have one handy in case of emergency.

CMR: Where are you going with that?
JM: I’m going downstairs. Stay where you are.
CMR: Don’t go. Don’t listen to her.
JM: Cindy, I am going to take care of this. Promise me that you will stay here.
CMR: Why haven’t they sent a car yet?
JM: I don’t know Cindy. I’ll be right back.
CMR: Wait!
JM: What?
CMR: Take a tennis racket instead. More aerodynamic.
JM: I love you.

I finally went downstairs and instructed the crazy man to leave the premises. Of course, he did not and continued to beat the crap out of our front door. This went on for several minutes until a squad car finally arrived and the police apprehended the intruder. After we got back into bed, Cindy wrapped her arms around me. When I woke up the next morning, Cindy’s arms were still around me and my arms were cradling the tennis racket.

For the past 53 days, since reaching the one-year mark, I have been feeling like Clark Kent in the aftermath of that diner scene: weak, wounded and, most significantly, mortal. I don’t know my purpose anymore.

When Cindy was around, my objective was clear. You love your partner. You care for and protect your partner. You plan a future with your partner.

Then, Cindy’s death forced me to change directions. I now had to take care of myself. For 365 days, I did just that. I traveled around the country, hiked in places I had never been to before, re-connected with friends I had not heard from in ages, and whatever else was necessary to make it.

Now I am at a loss. I am entering some new phase of this process that has thrown me for a loop. The superhuman strength that got me through the first year has gone away. In its place are pity, negativity, and cynicism. I am trying hard to fight them off, but I’m losing the battle. I just feel like lying on the floor like Clark Kent and staring at my hands.

Orientation (a Widow's Experience on Long Island for Thanksgiving 2009)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/75449583@N00/ / CC BY 2.0

Without us even knowing, we rely on landmarks, scents, and sounds to orient us to a particular place. The smell of the evergreen, for example, might remind you that you are back home in Washington State. The ringing of slot machines as you disembark in McCarran International Airport confirms that you are back in Las Vegas. For me, when I am traveling on the Grand Central Parkway and I drive past the old Unisphere, I know that I have returned to Long Island.

The Unisphere stands twelve stories tall in the middle of Flushing Meadows Park. Built to withstand rain and ice, the stainless steel globe remains a landmark to anyone traveling between Manhattan and Queens. When it was constructed for the 1964 World's Fair, it was meant to build upon the fair's theme of "Peace through Understanding." The Unisphere represented the need for global interdependence (as it related to the promise of the space age). Now, more than 45 years later, I merely use it as a visual cue to let me know that's it not much further to my parent's house.

This Thanksgiving was my first trip back to Long Island since Cindy's death. The trip, for me, was bittersweet. While I was excited to see my parents and childhood friends, I could not help but feel reduced in some way to be there without my partner. For several years, Cindy was more than just a girlfriend I brought home. She was treated like a daughter by my parents. My sister considered her a sister. If it were legal in our state, Cindy would have been my wife. I had a life and a future planned with Cindy. I am 35 years old. Now what? Downgraded.

Normally, when Cindy was with me, as soon as we got off at the Willis Avenue exit from the Long Island Expressway we'd make a beeline for Vincent's Pizzeria to get two slices of regular and a couple of Diet Cokes. On Black Friday, we'd get up at 6am to walk over to the Radio Shack in the Waldbaum's Shopping Center to take advantage of the sales. And, when Cindy was still smoking, I'd invent elaborate excuses to sneak her out of the house so that she could get a few puffs off her cigarette. Don't get me wrong, I never condoned her smoking. But, Cindy in the throes of nicotine withdrawal was not a pleasant experience (trust me). This Thanksgiving, I did none of those things.

Each morning I woke up on Long Island this time around, it took me a few moments to get my bearings. I am sure other widows have experienced this. It's not that you are completely disoriented and don't know where you are. But, there's a piece of you that is hopeful that you are waking up from a long dream. That maybe this is the day where you finally end the nightmare. This actually occurs no matter what city I am in--I turn over in the bed, stretch out my arms, and after I confirm that Cindy is not next to me, I spend the next several minutes trying to figure out how I am going to make it to the end of the day.

On my way out of town, I took 495 West towards midtown Manhattan. As I got closer to the city, I could not help but remember how often I traveled these roads as a child with my family. And I recalled how the view of the New York City skyline never failed to amaze me. The Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, and the Twin Towers stood out amongst all the other nameless buildings to me. Interestingly, one of the coming attractions shown at the 1964 World's Fair was a model of the World Trade Center. The original purpose of the Trade Center, which was to bring together entities involved in the business of world trade, seemed a perfect compliment to the Fair's mission, which was to highlight "Man's Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe."

As I drove towards the skyline this Saturday, I thought how disorienting it must have been for commuters used to seeing those two towers every morning on their way into work. In the days, weeks, and months after the Towers fell, who else traveled these roads hoping to see these buildings magically reappear? How many people, like me, used the skyline to orient themselves while traveling in New York City? Who else relied on the Twin Towers to tell them whether they were correctly heading downtown? And what could we rely on now?

Help the Homeless Walkathon 2009

When Cindy died, I set 3 rules for myself. My rules were so simple that I am slightly embarrassed to list them. But, here they are, in order of importance.

1. Don't get fat.
2. Don‘t become selfish.
3. Don't kill yourself.

I unintentionally came upon the first rule. Even before becoming a widow, I’ve always said that grief and mono are two of the world’s best diets. I dropped almost twenty pounds in the weeks that Cindy was in the ICU. If not for all the different kinds of pudding in the hospital cafeteria, I most certainly would have fasted the entire time. But, once the weight was off, I knew that I could not allow myself to put it back on.

Believe me when I tell you that when you lose the love of your life, you will need to draw upon every single ounce of strength and energy to not break rule #3 from above. To battle a grief as deep as widowhood, you need to be in tip-top shape both physically and mentally. Everyday your mind wants to trick you into thinking life ain’t worth living. People talk at you, but it’s so hard to focus because all you can do is see the face of the person you are grieving over. Your alarm clock goes off at 7am, but your body doesn’t want to move. Food is put in front of you, but even the thought of chewing tires you out. Negative thoughts come at you from every direction. I swear, since Cindy‘s death, I’ve been in a never-ending bereavement video game jumping over despondency, swinging above despair, and judo-kicking misery in the face.

One of the things that I’ve always found really infuriating about depression is the inherent selfishness that comes along with it. So, I knew going into this that I would need a way to combat those self-centered tendencies. I sought out places to volunteer in my community. To be honest, a homeless women’s shelter was not my first choice. I actually tried to volunteer at hospitals, hospices, and places like that, but none of them would take me on account of me being a recent widow. The only place that took me without question was the shelter.

I’d love to tell you some Hollywood story about how I got through my grief working with those less fortunate than me. Or weave you some yarn about how the women at the shelter taught me how to appreciate my life. But, none of that happened. I’m no Michelle Pfeiffer from “Dangerous Minds.” The shelter is under-funded, there are holes in the wall, and bedbugs in the dorm. Many of the women battle addiction problems, struggle with diabetes, and have inherited serious financial burdens. I used to think that if a person worked super hard, then eventually they’d be able to support themselves and get out of poverty. But, I know women in this shelter who work three jobs a day from 6am until 10pm at night and it is still not enough to rise above their economic situation.

Last month, the DC government slashed the homeless services budget, which boggles my mind since job rates are frighteningly low and the shelters are packed. In particular, Calvary Women's Services, where I volunteer, will face a $75,000 loss to its existing contract. This amount astounds me because Calvary already runs a super lean operation and trust me when I tell you that it‘s no-frills there. In an attempt to battle this shortfall, Calvary is hoping to raise some funds through the Help the Homeless Walkathon taking place this Saturday, November 21st at 9am. I will be marching on Saturday and I was hoping that you would consider making a small donation and earmarking it for Calvary specifically. To sponsor me, click here.

As for rule #3, I don’t have much to say. I loved Cindy with all my heart. I fell in love with her the moment I met her (my friend Rocky can attest to that, she was there) and I expected to spend my life with her. She made me laugh, she inspired me to do good things in my life, and she taught me everything I needed to know about this wonderful thing called empathy.

I’m still trying to figure it out. But hey, I’m still here. So, maybe there is one thing I am learning at the shelter: resilience.

The Deep Sleep

Since Cindy's death, I have been on the run. I'm not sure where I've gone exactly, but according to my calculations, I've jogged about 450 miles (in addition to numerous un-clocked miles roaming the streets of D.C. and hiking the desert trails of California and Utah). In the past twelve months, I have been on an airplane about fourteen times. When I wasn’t too busy orchestrating some out-of-town event to get through a holiday or anniversary without Cindy, I was replying to a text to go out with friends. But, I can’t do it anymore. This week, my body revolted. Instead of going to the gym like I normally do after work, I went to bed around 9pm each night this week. On Saturday, for the first time in more than a year, I slept for thirteen hours. Today, I slept ten hours. I have to admit that I forgot what it was like to be stationary.

Sleep.

I have so few memories of Cindy actually sleeping. If you knew Cindy, you know that she rarely ever slept. If she wasn't working overtime, she was cramming for a nursing exam, running to Babies 'R Us to pick up some new outfit for a friend's kid, talking on the phone to her mom, lurking on the scooter discussion boards, or packing our latest houseguest an amazing bag lunch. I often fell asleep before Cindy--my arm wrapped around her stomach, my nose to her back. In fact, in all my years with her, I never had trouble falling asleep.

Since Cindy slept so little in the time that I knew her, it is easy to recall the couple of times that I did actually see her sleep. In February 2008, our friend Liz treated Cindy and I to a night at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel (the only 5-star hotel in DC). Cindy was a third of the way into the intensive nursing program and we were desperate for some quality time together. Knowing this, Liz gave us the best gift imaginable: a weekend alone, away from our house, and in a city that we thankfully did not need to explore.

I will never forget those 24 hours with Cindy. No school books or cell phones allowed. We lounged by the pool, ate at the hotel restaurant for dinner, had drinks in the cocktail lounge, and fell asleep in the huge king-size bed shown in the picture at the top of this entry. Before going to sleep that night, I remember joking with Cindy that it wasn’t too late for me to “carry her over the threshold.”

When I woke up that morning, I remember leaning on my side and staring at Cindy. She was on her back, snoring, and wearing her “Pig Pen” (the Peanuts character) boxer shorts. I watched her chest moving up and down and wondered if she were dreaming. And, if she was dreaming, what did Cindy dream about? Things that made her happy? Bacon? Double coupons? Laying on a beach? Me?

As the morning went on, I started to get sad because each passing minute drew us closer to check-out time. If only we could have stayed in that hotel room forever--barricaded from the reality of our lives.

Even as I write this entry, I find myself constantly looking back at the picture above (taken with our tripod). In that picture, I remember feeling content, in love, and at peace. Do you want to know what I feel now looking back at it? Cheated and naïve. I had no idea that our weekend at the Mandarin was going to be closest we ever got to a real honeymoon.

I had no idea either that eight months later I would again be watching Cindy sleep, except this time in an intensive care unit.

When I sat next to Cindy as she slept in the ICU, I often thought about all that she did for everyone during the course of her normal day (it will always be ten times more than any of us could do in a day). As I watched Cindy sleep in the ICU, I held her warm hand, kissed the back of it, and whispered in her ear, “Cindy, you rest as long as you need. You deserve it. Take your time--as long as you need to heal yourself. I’ll be here when you wake.”

By Day 10, I remember nervously joking to whoever was with me in the room, “I bet Cindy’s secretly happy she’s finally getting some peace and quiet.”

Born Again

I have lived in Washington, DC since 1996. I’ve seen the cherry blossoms a dozen times and ran around the Tidal Basin a dozen more. I’ve marched for gay rights, reproductive rights, Darfur, and gun control. I’ve eaten the half-smokes at Ben’s Chili Bowl, the truffle-mashed potatoes at DC Coast, the fried chicken at Georgia Browns, and the infamous death by chocolate pie at Kramerbooks Café more times than I care to acknowledge. How could I possibly find anything new about the city that I have called “home” for the past thirteen years?

I didn’t want to get up today. Although I saw the sun sneaking through the blinds, I thought to myself, "What's the point?" Which trail could I run that would be new? What museum could I walk to that I have not been to before? I threw the covers over my head and tried to go back to sleep. I wished that when my eyes opened again that I'd be back in my old bedroom. If Pam Ewing could have a yearlong dream, why couldn't I?

Everyone told me not to make any sudden moves the first year. Don't quit your job. Don't leave town. Save your money. Take it easy. But, I'm restless. I turn from one side to the other, throw pillows on the floor and all the while I am stuck with this annoying Proust quote in my head: “The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” Yeah, thanks Proust. I didn't ask for these new eyes. No one consulted me. There was not even a negotiation. I liked the old life that I had just fine. I'm tired, restless, and my heart is just not in it anymore.

Nonetheless, I decide to crawl out of bed and get the bike out. Could I ride around the District as if I were tourist seeing it for the first time?

If the first year was about survival, then this next year seems to be about awakening. I think I like the first year better.

I'm scared. Really scared. I don't have anyone to answer to. I make my own decisions. I am responsible for keeping myself warm at night. I cook my own dinner. I decide when to get up in the morning. I am learning these things for the first time--again.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Sorrow makes us all children again, destroys all difference of intellect. The wisest knows nothing." Emerson's son, Waldo, had just died from scarlet fever when he wrote that. You think you have this life ahead of you. You see the future. Your course is planned. But, then your story is rewritten. What you thought you knew has been completely turned on its head.

You know I talk to Cindy? I ask her for advice. To tell me if I am doing the right things, making the correct choices. And I beg her to come back. I just can't believe that she left me here without her. The girl who couldn't bear not to talk to me at least 10 times a day on the phone. The girl who stayed up all night with me. The girl who promised me that she would never leave me. How am I supposed to do this? I know that the first year I sounded all kinds of smart and positive, but this second year I'm at a loss without her. It's like Emerson said. I know nothing anymore.

The first year I was surrounded. Crowded, in fact. But, I know in my heart that this next year needs to be me on my own. I have to re-learn, discover, and understand new things about myself. I used to tell people that I felt like an old soul since I had already experienced so much. But, now I am backtracking. I am a scared kid again--boarding the school bus for the first time and I want nothing more than to run back home.

I do want to go home. You actually don't know how bad I want to go back home--back to Cindy. I'm lonely. Cold. Tired. And I'm pissed that she left me behind.

This next year has me worried. Although, I emerge into it without any expectations, I am really scared. I thought the first year I was pretty strong, but this next year seems unpredictable. The only thing keeping me going right now? Curiosity.

Interestingly, during my informal bike tour around DC, I did discover a landmark that I had never seen before. As I was biking alongside the Lincoln reflecting pool, something new caught my eye. Hidden between the World War II and Korean War Memorials is a somewhat neglected dome temple commemorating the DC residents who served in World War I. It is also the only local District memorial on the National Mall. How many times have I run alongside the reflecting pool and never seen this structure between the trees? And why today did I finally notice it?

Cindy's Famous Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies

Cindy only ever baked once a year and when she did it was to make pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. During the Halloween/Thanksgiving season, Cindy would stay up until 3am (on a work night) in order to make these cookies. The reason for the all-nighter was not because she was baking hundreds of cookies at a time. It was because Cindy wouldn't start making the cookies until 11:30 at night. Then, at 11:45pm, she'd realize that she needed baking soda or more chips and I'd be forced to throw on a coat over my pajamas and drive to the store. So, the actual baking didn't begin until midnight at the earliest.

The first batch was often burned when she missed the timer going off. Normally, after she placed the cookies in the oven, she distracted herself by playing poker on the computer, talking to her LA friend Jamie on the phone, or browsing eBay. After seeing that the bottoms of the cookies were burnt, she designated those as our cookies and would then begin a new batch for her co-workers and friends. The last couple of years, I actually wound up making the cookies for her. When it came to baking, Cindy felt like everything had to be measured and executed with the utmost perfection. So, what should have only taken a couple of hours always took her four.

In honor of Cindy, I am making those cookies tonight. Here is the recipe in its entirety with some color commentary.

Ingredients:
-->1 16 oz can Pumpkin Mix
[Note from JM: Serious bakers will know that standard cans of pumpkin come in 15 oz. This missing one ounce drove an anal cook like Cindy bonkers. So, to ensure a perfect execution of the recipe, Cindy bought 2 cans (only taking a couple of tablespoons from the second can). Then, she'd Saran Wrap the top of the can and it'd sit in our fridge for 12 months until the next season whereupon we'd toss the bad pumpkin mix in the trash.]
-->2 eggs
-->2 cup sugar
-->1 cup oil
[Note from JM: Another point of annoyance for Cindy was that this recipe did not specify the type of oil. I remember I lied to her and told her that when a recipe does not specify the type of oil, you can assume it means canola oil by default.]
-->4t baking powder
-->4 cup flour
[Note from JM: Each year Cindy would pause for twenty minutes at this point in the recipe and try to deduce whether the flour should be loose in the measuring cup or packed.]
-->2t cinnamon
-->1t salt
-->1t vanilla
-->2t baking soda added to 2t milk
[Note from JM: One year Cindy mixed up baking soda with baking powder resulting in disastrous consequences. It took months for Cindy to forgive herself.]
-->1 bag chocolate chips
[Note from JM: Cindy preferred the Ghiradelli milk chocolate chips as opposed to the semi-sweet.]

Instructions:
Preheat oven at 325 degrees. Combine wet ingredients together in one bowl and all dry ingredients in another. Mix dry into wet a little at a time until well mixed. Add 1 bag chocolate chips. Drop on lightly greased cookie sheet & bake 10-12 minutes.

Enjoy!

---

P.S. I actually need to reference Cindy's friend Barry B. here because I believe that this is his recipe. I don't think Barry ever knew how much Cindy thought of him when she made these cookies each year. I don't keep in touch with Barry, but if anyone who reads blog this does, let him know that his recipe was put to good use.

365 Days to Zion

A year ago today I knew that I would be traveling to Zion.

Even though I always talked about wanting to visit Zion National Park in Utah, it was a place that Cindy had no intention of ever stepping into. But, at that moment, after the doctor turned off the respirator of my partner of almost eight years, the vast solitude and quiet that Zion offered seemed the perfect choice for me.


But, I was not ready to go there in the weeks right after Cindy died. Instead, I chose Joshua Tree National Park where I would be welcomed by thousands of outstretched arms ready to take me in and show me how to survive. As far as role models go, the Joshua Trees were quite successful. After all, they endure not just one year, but year after year of the most challenging and cruel conditions. Not only that, those trees have to remain standing amongst those that have fallen. What struck me most was how even the departed could help facilitate life among those still living. The lessons I learned in Joshua Tree carried me into the year, and eventually into Zion.


I often walked alone in Zion and I knew that’s just how it would be. Cars are not allowed deep into the park, the tourist season drops off, and the only sound you hear is that of your own breathing getting heavier as you hike into the higher altitude. When you walk around Zion, and especially when you hike into its neighbor park, Bryce Canyon, you feel like a dwarf amongst giants. Those rock formations, evolving for the past 150 million years, tower over you, close in on you, and render you speechless.


We often wonder what it takes to move mountains. In Zion, one of the biggest forces of nature is water. The power of that fluid in association with gravity, centrifugal acceleration, and electromagnetism create some of the most colorful, soaring, and imposing rock formations found in the United States. I wondered about the amazing geologic magic tricks these rocks must have seen over the years and how lucky I was to be able to witness the effects of this geology with my own eyes.


Being a mere 35-year old walking in and out of formations that are still kicking millions of years later make you feel significantly insignificant. After all, my time in Zion was so minuscule compared to how long many of the rocks, plants, and spirits have been there. I am not even a blip on the Zion radar. However, no matter what, I did step into Zion. My footprint is there. It’s like my buddy Ron Franz told me, “I came to Zion to be a part of eternity.”


Throughout this year, I’ve tried to share so many memories of Cindy. Those who know me well know that I have the worst memory. Because of this, I’ve been so fearful of forgetting things about Cindy. This blog has been my outlet for committing those memories to some semi-permanent space. When I cleared my things out of our house, the first items I grabbed were my journals, my photographs, and my videotapes of Cindy. But, the fear of forgetting, not just by me, but also by others terrified me. I remember recently I asked someone if they still thought about Cindy everyday and that when that person said no I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach.

I know I am not alone in this. Our friends who have children, particularly babies, often shared with me the sadness they felt thinking about their kids growing up and not recalling this affectionate, sweet, playful Filipina that their children called “Tita” and who showered them with baby clothes, toys, and kisses. Cindy loved these children unconditionally, so I can’t help but feel disappointed that they may eventually forget her. Something about that just doesn’t seem right.

Since Cindy died, I’ve had this urgent desire to memorialize her. I had a running shirt made with her picture on it. I created bumper magnets with her face on it for my scooter. I developed this blog. I posted pictures of her on my Facebook. I tried to not go a day without mentioning her name in conversation. Similar to my Ron Franz who created a Web site to post his wife’s music, I have done all of this in an effort to give Cindy an immortality.

For the past 365 days, I have been racing against the clock of forgetting and believing that immortality is the answer. But, what I learned in Zion is that all of that is inconsequential. Things in life change, they evolve, they come, and they even go. The absence in our individual lives is inevitable. At some point, something will change, someone may change, you may change and that is the nature of things.

For example, the formations in Zion used to be under water. But, slowly over time they lifted up to 10,000 feet higher. Another example, in Bryce Canyon, the “hoodoos” are actually believed to have once been joined together in arched formations before the effects of erosion rendered them separate.

It’s no wonder that when hiking in Bryce, I felt a discord. While the silence and isolation of Bryce inflicted me with intense feelings of loneliness, I felt a kinship with my fellow widowed hoodoos in the canyon. I took comfort in knowing that we have all experienced the inevitability of separation. And we are still standing.


Cindy is no longer here. But, I am here. You are here. Your children are here. Does that make up for her absence? Hell, no. Will she be forgotten? Not today. Not even tomorrow. We’ll still talk about her as long as our memories are here. But, 100 years from now, will people still talk about Cindy? Maybe? I don’t know. But, should that matter to me? No, because I won’t be here in a 100 years. I am here now. Today, I will find peace in remembering Cindy and celebrating Cindy. For the forseeable future, I will laugh at the stories of Cindy and her schemes. I will smile at the images of her holding her friend’s children. And it will feel bittersweet, witnessing for Cindy, the triumphs of her best friends.

We should keep Cindy with us as long as we need her. I will need her for a long time. You may need her for a long time too. And some may only need to call up her memory when the moment is right. But, do we need immortality? Probably not. On the road to Zion, I took in every sight, sound, and smell that I needed at that moment. And I will draw upon those memories when I need Zion to help me through the day.

Cindy led me to Zion. Cindy led me out of Zion. And she will continue to lead me as long as I need her.

My Ron Franz

Ron Franz and I had been hiking up the trail for about 1.5 hours when we hit a crossroads. The last half-mile of the trail requires you to navigate a thin slice of ridge (only 2 feet wide) with drop-offs of 1500 and 800 feet on each side. Then, there's a 100-foot climb over a steep rock face to complete before you reach the summit of Angel's Landing in Zion National Park. Since 1989, five people have plummeted to their death on this portion of the trail. When we reached this section, Ron Franz looked back at me, "Jennifer, it looks like you have two choices. Are you going to choose courage or sensibility?"

Ron Franz was not really his name of course. If you have read the Jon Krakauer book or have seen the movie, "Into the Wild," then you will remember that Ron Franz is the name of the 80-year old man that befriends 24-year old wanderer Christopher McCandless. Hal Holbrook played Ron in the movie. Anyone who has seen the film knows that one of the sweetest scenes is when Ron offers to adopt Christopher before his tragic trip to Alaska. Hal Holbrook may not have had much screen time in the film, but his tender performance sticks with you long after the movie is over. So, when this older man asked me if I wanted to join him on this long hike, I instinctively said yes knowing that he would be my Ron Franz.

Ron had recently lost fifty pounds. About five years ago, his doctor warned him that if he didn't take better care of his health, his life would be in serious jeopardy. Without thinking twice, he made some immediate lifestyle changes starting with exercising and eating better. When I asked Ron if he would be able to handle the steep inclines, he pointed to his knees, "They're made of steel now! Got 'em both replaced. Good as new!" A year or so ago, Ron had both knees replaced and focused every ounce of energy on physical therapy. During his rehabilitation, he promised himself that if he got strong enough he would return to Zion to hike Angel's Landing.

He lives in Idaho, but he happened to be in Utah this week for the World Senior Games. He figured since he had a day to kill before his racquetball event, he would hike more than a thousand feet up one of Zion's toughest trails. On our way up, he made one request, "Just make sure I don't have a heart attack." I said that sounded fine as long as he made sure that I didn't fall off the ledge.

Along the way, we talked, we rested, we talked some more, and we took lots of pictures. An amateur photographer, Ron advised me that when taking a photo with people in it, never place them in the center of the picture: "The people are oftentimes the least interesting thing in the picture."

When Ron asked me if I was married, I changed the topic: "So, what do you do for a living?" Ron is a music engraver. When he asked me if I had children, I replied, "How many kids do you have?" He has two kids and five grandchildren. There was a moment where I thought that he might be a widow too since he had not mentioned a wife. I was actually about to open up about Cindy, when I learned that his wife was, in fact, alive. However, she was in poor health condition.

Unlike Ron, she responded to her doctor's health warnings by abandoning all hope of getting better. She continues to eat food not recommended for diabetics and refuses to exercise. "I just don't know how to convince her not to give up," Ron stated as we walked up the steep switchbacks. "We used to do stuff together. Now, it's just TV and potato chips. It's like she's just biding time until the end."

I asked Ron, of all the places he could try his new knees out on, why he chose Zion. He pointed to the rock formations, "I don't think we can ever fathom the amount of time it took to build these canyons. I just wanted to be part of eternity." In my mind, I contemplated the forces that brought me to Zion of all places.

During our lunch break on Scout Lookout, we talked about faith. A former devout Mormon, Ron explained to me the spiritual crisis he went through after 9-11 and the ostracism he encountered from within his own community when he started openly questioning things. "Between me and you Jennifer, now that I am retired, I regret the amount of money I gave to the church. And for what?"

Although I did not share this with Ron, I have been questioning many things myself since Cindy was taken away from us all. She was one of the good ones. I still can't accept it. There was so much more she wanted to do. She wanted to be a nurse. She wanted to write a Hollywood script with her friend Jamie. She wanted to open up a high-tea place with Liz. She wanted to know what the Barrett kids would grow up to be. She wanted to open up a Smoothie King with Rocky. She wanted to see Hamp finally marry Chris. She wanted to be there when Beth Boobs gave birth. And, I wanted all those things for her too. But, then she was taken away from us. Cindy. The sweetest, kindest, most loving person each of us ever knew. I'll never be able to make sense of it.

After I returned from the Summit an hour later, Ron put his arm around my shoulder: "Well, it looks like you chose courage Jennifer." I smiled. "I don't know about that Ron. I just wanted to keep going."

During the journey back, Ron expressed relief that I did not fall off the landing. I replied by thanking him for not having a heart attack. I also thanked him for waiting for me on the Lookout while I left him to complete the scary part of the trail. Ron smiled, "Of course. We were a team and you helped me get as far as I did. I completed my goal and now I can brag about it to my physical therapist." When Ron asked if I wanted to come see him play at the Senior Games. I could tell it broke his heart a little when I turned him down.

Nearing the end of our hike, I did reveal one fact about myself to Ron. When he asked what I do for a living, I mentioned that I help people build Web sites, to which he enthusiastically responded, "I built one too! I placed my wife's music on it [she plays piano]. I just wanted to give her an immortality, you know?" I told Ron I knew exactly what he meant.

Cindy's 10 Steps for Maximizing Your Vegas Buffet Experience

Whatever I learned about successfully working my way through a buffet I owe to Cindy. And believe me, it is work.

1. Do not go to a buffet hungry. If you go to a buffet starving, then you'll inevitably pile up your plate too quickly and run out of steam before you know it. If you go to a lunch buffet, make sure you've had a light breakfast several hours before. If you go to a brunch buffet, make sure to eat some crackers on the way there.

2. Survey the landscape of the buffet before you begin. Figure out where the crab legs are. How far is the carving station from your table? What's to look forward to at the dessert section? Are there shrimps at the salad bar? Cindy said this way you could strategically craft your game plan before blindly piling things onto your plate.

3. Start with the more expensive items. Cindy trained me to focus on the high-ticket fare such as crab legs, shrimp, lox, and prime rib. What I always found odd about Cindy was that despite telling me this she still piled low-cost items onto her plate (e.g., tortilla chips, bread, bacon).

4. Do not drink soda during your buffet experience. I didn't realize this, but soda fills you up faster. Cindy suggested that you start with water so that you can wash down your buckets of food easier.

5. Do not take more than you can eat. If there are spare ribs at the buffet, only place one or two onto your plate. Try a spoonful of the bananas foster before dishing out a huge bowl. Smaller portions of each dish will give your stomach the flexibility it needs to sample more food.

Note on #5: This rule does not apply to bacon. According to Cindy, bacon could be pilled onto your plate in handfuls. Actually, Cindy always gave bacon its own plate. Disgraced, former vegetarians Nikki and Tanya may remember this spectacle.

6. Take breaks between plates. Sometimes I would catch Cindy just chilling at the table while the rest of us had gone back to the buffet line two or three times already. When I asked her about this, she said "I'm pacing myself. I figure with these prices I am paying by the minute here to enjoy this food."

7. When in doubt, use the toilet. Cindy always said there was no shame in using the restroom to "clean out" before proceeding. She was not talking about throwing up mind you. Throwing up one's food on purpose went against everything Cindy believed in. That's because in her mind you're basically tossing out money.

8. Whenever possible, try to get to the buffet at the tail end of a brunch or lunch. Her thinking was that if you stalled long enough at the buffet, you'd be there for a food changeover. This happened to us once at the Mandalay Bay where we paid for the Sunday brunch, but squatted there long enough to flow into their dinner selections. You will never know what feats of strength and stamina we called upon to make that happen.

9. Always bring a purse or bag to the buffet. Why? To stash post-buffet cookies, bread, apples, and bagels in of course.

10. Never write down all the items you eat in a buffet. Cindy warned that if you do this, you will surely want to vomit it up later. And, as I mentioned in lesson #7, tossing your cookies does NOT make for a good return on buffet investment.