A few years ago, I read an online article about ways to reduce electricity consumption.
I was fascinated to learn that even appliances in the off mode could still be sucking up electricity.
When I passed this information on to my husband, he guffawed. “Absolutely. Not. True!”
I thought it was worth checking out, so I secretly unplugged some of our less used appliances.
Must not have been so secretly, because the next day, all were mysteriously plugged back in.
I unplugged them again, only to discover the phantom re-plugger had been ‘round the house, again.
Recently, watching an episode of the TV show “Til Death,” I laughed to see the very same issue addressed. Joy, of course, believed the electricity saving advice, and Eddie thought it was a farce. And, so began the plugging and unplugging.
It’s weird to see your life on TV. It’s also highly amusing.
Jeff and I never did resolve the electric argument. With all the unplugging and re-plugging, we never were able to prove a savings or not, one way or the other. Then, this month’s Reader’s Digest shows up, and guess what? The April 2008 edition, page 17, has a lovely little blurb about… Vampire Electricity.
If nothing else, at least unplugging all of those dormant appliances reduces the chances of a house fire.
Who me, worry?
Episode 106 of Til Death, “The Toaster” aired 2 months after Jeff passed.
On October 13, 2020, I told you this: Last week, someone I don’t know said something that changed everything.
There’s been a change in the playlist.
The internet loves challenges like I love music. It thrives on them. It discovers dozens each day. But, only a few are worth it.
Mmmm. Like this one. #blueoctober #movingon #challenge .
I prefer not to start in the middle, but in this case, urgence of participation (gasp) makes sense.
I’ve had the wrong song in my #1 will-do spot for decades. Not my fault.
The right song hadn’t been written, yet. Now, it has.
Moved out of the first slot: I’m Moving On.
I believe in this song. For many years, it’s been an anthem excuse of self-promising, a someday in-waiting. Not an action wanting.
A melancholy sing along, every time, where I want the words to be real. A prelude to the reach, wanting lets me waltz. Feelings play along with well-curated reels in my mind. I can picture it, but I can’t do exactly that.
Now seen for what I really want it to be: the after, the explainer. Not every line is perfect. Some are so false that I’ll address them, later.
Moving into First Place: Moving On, though, is a rearranger – an artfully arranged mind-matter mover with an oddly perfect, happy melody.
Brought to me by Tuesday Night Recovery. Live weekly sessions hosted by Justin Furstenfeld of Blue October, featuring steps and music and supports.
Yes, plural. Discussions, viewer comments, one-day-at-a-time preaching. I have no idea how I got God-smacked into this mecca of inclusive anonymous help, where my anti-social not-group-joining self can join-in and be communed, but unobserved.
If it hadn’t been explained, I never would have though it to be what it is. To the writer, it’s not a love gone-wrong song. It’s a get-out-of -my-life I am never going back to (insert vice here.) It’s a sterner, angrier, get off of my life, pulling away from the surround, bursting my own bubble song.
Reminded me so much of this. Re-capping, quickly; a grief therapy session, where someone else said something that clicked.
Discussing my already 8-year-old grief. “Sometimes, I can’t keep it in.” I admitted. “It. Just. Wants Out.”
“Well, what do you want?” was the question, asked.
Firmly answered, “I want it gone.” “So,” he astutely concluded. “You and your grief want the same thing.”
I have to move on. I’m not saying goodbye to you or our memories or our friendships or him.
I’m saying goodbye to my crippling 15-year-old cloak in full-on ‘What Not to Wear Style’. It’s coming with a cost though.
An emotionally expensive fear, which I have avoided (or so I thought) until now. Because moving on is terrifying and de-cloaking is soul exposing.
I’ve taken advantage of grief to be comfortable, to exist in solitary. Guaranteeing no furtherly inflicted love or loss.
I have no faith that things will be different in six months.
I have faith that I will be. Different. In six months, when my grief turns 15.
Blue October: two videos, because something worth doing is worth doing, again and again. One of them will speak to you. I’m sure.