Serendipity Strikes

This weekend found me trafficking bags at a holiday boutique. Financial success–not so much. Spiritual success–you be the judge. Serendipity struck as two amazing people fell into my life from out of the blue.

A welcome respite to the asshats from the IRS lurking in the shadows circling for another piece of nothing. Or the state sending its fourteenth notice addressed to a dead husband, despite three original death certificates and meetings attesting to the fact that the man, is in fact, dead. ‘Cuz if this was all for fun, the IRS wouldn’t have to worry about contacting him. I’d deliver him, in pieces, personally. The level of asshattery at work in our government agencies is astounding. Can’t read a form or make notes of a conversation but have a health care package beaten only by the one-for-life given to Congress and the President. Oh, and job security.

The job that pays the bills was eliminated last week. I wished for time to write, make handbags and travel the world and the Universe delivered. For some reason, I assumed these things would come with funding. Not so much. I need to have my job eliminated as it is an experience new to me. Since The Norwegian’s death, craptastic events have become my specialty. Death, short sale, IRS stalkers, shady business partners, house flooding–widowhood at its finest. Count me the lucky one. With any more blessings I just might reach my limit and start wearing sensible shoes. I kid. I will be homeless in pearls, pumps and a sheath dress; my little box festooned with lovely paisleys and chintz. And all the shoes I can carry in my shopping cart.

Which makes my full circle moment on Saturday even more interesting. I met a widow–one like me. With a nasty mouth, a take no prisoners attitude and a fuck you at the ready. She is friendly and outgoing. She has three children. She is my age. She came from Chicago making us talk even faster and understand each others’ cuss words. I recognized the slightest accent and knew I’d found a kindred spirit. Her beloved died five years ago. I was desperate to know how the next few years unfold and what’s to follow on this fantastic voyage.

For her, it got worse. She lost her home, became homeless, sent her children to live across the country and had her savings stolen. As she recounted her story, we laughed. No shit, we laughed. The brain reels. Another sadistic bitch who can find nothing else to do with tragedy but laugh. Does she date–fuck no. Bonus. Does she spend all her time with her kids. Hell yes! Is there any way to go but up–you got it sista! Misery loves company? Bullshit. Crazy ass bitches love company. We plotted a holiday drinking night and vowed our love for one another. Usually I need quite a few cocktails to declare drunken girl love but sitting face to face with a woman who’s walked in my shoes demanded professing my adoration.

And to know I am neither crazy, helpless nor done with all this is strange relief. Not the be done part, ‘cuz that shit can excuse itself right now. Karma, my dear, I get it. My past life as a bitch on wheels brewed my comeuppance. Can we agree I’m choking?

Another woman, sitting quietly at my left said it was past life righting itself and the need to let go is paramount. She is Hindu. She’d been listening quietly and told us her story which involved loss of fortune, loss of business and hope. She has a husband but wonders about his effectiveness in hole climbing as theirs is quite deep. Her belief says when something bad happens it is not necessarily about you. It may be something in a past life righting itself. We must let go and move on without anger. You may call bullshit. But her kindness, grace and presence in the room was striking. Ignoring her was not a choice.

It is also, she explained, feeding my calm and the calm of the other widow. It is why we laugh in the face of adversity and have a sense that all will be well. All things spiritual, whatever that means, to whomever. I choose to believe it is a connection to The Norwegian, who after the past year, owes me big time. He better be following along picking up the pieces. Regardless of what we believe, connection can catch us off guard and feed our souls.

So I sat at a holiday boutique surrounded by grandmas in stretch pants, decidedly not Amour clients, having just lost my job, counting my blessings and praising an eagerness for what’s next. I swear to God if it’s another letter from the IRS, I’m gonna go postal on their ass. At least I’ll have two new friends to visit me in jail.