It's been a great and trying week.

Monday was work, work and more work.  Then I went by TWK to retrieve some items SJ donated to my son.  Then home for a late dinner and watching TV before going to bed.

Tuesday was awesome - it was my 46th birthday!  I started the day by dying my hair (again) and then got a mani and pedi at Pro Nails in my neighborhood.  Then dashed off to meet a dear friend for luncheon.  I arrived a few minutes early and took that few minutes to shop, just to wander the aisles, of Burlington.  Not one of my usual haunts though I always seem to find some little thing I can use.

I actually bought my first piece of commercially produced wall art in 20 years.  My house is filled with original works of art - paintings, sculpture, pottery, mirrors, photographs - and they all elicit some particular emotion from me, from my heart and soul.  Each has its special story.

This piece has no story.  There is almost nothing to it.  Bright red peonies on a mustard yellow background.  I wasn't looking for a piece to "replace" the painting I had done with such a surge of energy the morning after I met him.  Just like the painting, the discovery of this piece just happened.  It was there and for now, it is here.  I don't know if it will remain long, or if it matters.  What matters is that I'm happy with it hanging on the wall, complimenting the three African sculptures which grace the wall.  I am happy with it.

This shopping excursion took maybe 10 minutes and then I walked through the parking lot, tucked my purchase away in the car and met my friend for lunch.  We had Indian food.  It's long been one of my favorites, one of my favorite restaurants, a place I used to frequent, and it has been far too long since I ate there.  This was very special.  I ate well.  I enjoyed each bite and savored the conversation.

At one point, I referenced an old movie, one based on an Eugene O'Neill play, called Strange Interlude.  The movie was made in the mid thirties and my delightful companion knew it, she knew the movie and the play.  I am simply delighted to spend time with her because the conversation is always so engaging and her interests are so vast and varied that conversing on almost any topic is possible.  She is a wonder and a joy.

After a lengthy luncheon and a wonderful conversation, we parted ways and I returned home to get ready for Karaoke.  I love karaoke, love to sing and delight in the sharing of touchstone moments in the songs we recall fondly.  I love that sense of shared cultural intelligence, like threads woven into our communal fabric.

We went to the High Ball on South Lamar.  It's a bowling alley, a restaurant, a night club and has private karaoke rooms upstairs.  I chose the psychedelic room.  Very 60's, very upbeat and felt it was the perfect setting for this little party.  Friends arrived, with the lovely LA acting as host, and before too long, I was singing.  I sang most of the night, rarely relinquishing the mike for more than a brief interlude while someone else led the festivities.

I had come prepared, prepared with a list of songs I wanted to sing.  This was both a tribute concert and a comeback in one set list.

I started off with "Lonely Teardrops" and "Tracks of my Tears" and moved to "I know I'll never love this way again", which brought the only bout of crying, wracked by sobs, unable to sing moment of the night.  Strange, I had heard it in my mind for the ten days prior, though it has never held any particular meaning for me.  Here I was, imbuing this song with the weight of my loss.  This crushing loss which even now brings tears over the brim and spilling down my cheeks.  (I've taken to carrying handkerchiefs with me for the tears, not bandannas, handkerchiefs)

With hugs from dear friends, I marshaled on.  LA sang some Styx which delighted the crowd.  She had also given thought to what she would sing and brought with her the strength she wanted to impart on me.  It was magical.

I ran through a dozen more songs as more friends arrived.  For the last time, I sang "I will follow him", the song I sang for him whenever we were at karaoke, and often times at his home it would be my companion as I joyfully served.  I immediately followed that with "You don't own me..." but since it wasn't on karaoke, I sang it a capella.  During the course of the evening, I chose to sing a few songs we couldn't find this way.

On my list was "Love Me" by Elvis.  It wasn't available so I sang "She's not you" instead, then launched into "Love me" on my own.  "Treat me like a fool, treat me mean and cruel, but love me.  I'm begging on my knees, darling won't you please, please love me."  And I wished with all my heart that he would walk through the door, take me in his arms and take me back into his heart.  But some birthday wishes aren't meant to come true.

It was time for "Me & Bobby McGee" and I knew I had to sing it soon simply because I might lose my voice if I waited to exhale this powerhouse from my spirit.  I sing this all the time.  It is my traveling song, driving the streets of Austin, Janis rides shotgun and we sing.  We sing at the top of our lungs and pour out our hearts onto the bitter pavement.  It is a spiritual cleansing to sing this song, to embrace it with every molecule and live it in that moment.  "I would trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday."

Friends were snacking, laughing, singing along, jumping whenever the flash from LA's camera emblazoned the room with light.  They sang and as the afternoon turned to evening, we went into survivor mode.  We sang female empowerment songs from "I am woman, hear me roar" to "You're so vain" to "Survivor" and finished the night as it should be, all of us on our feet, dancing and singing with no thought for a microphone, just raucously devouring "I will survive" before the lights went out.

It was a magical night.  It was the tincture I needed to take.  I let out a host of emotions which had been leaking out through a pinhole in a bottle, but on this night the bottle shattered and I let it all hang out.  We all did.  We hugged, we cried, we sang.  We celebrated both what was and whatever is to come.

True friends will support you and commiserate without the need to disparage in any way that which has come before.  These true friends did just that.  They held me, the life preservers of my loss and my sorrow as well as my hopes and dreams, and allowed me to swim in this sea of emotion, buoyed by their strength, their presence, their friendship.  For this and so much more, I am truly grateful.  And I'm 46!