Ripping off the bandaid every week.

We still go to marriage counseling every week, although I have chosen to call it co-parent counseling. I can't do it anymore. It's too painful and fools me into believing we are there because we might get back together and I don't know if I want that so I won't have to face all these changes or if I want that because I could love the ex again but then I realize that this thinking is futile to explore because -- reality check! -- we're two weeks away from being legally divorced.

Last week I showed up angry and defensive which is how I show up when I'm anxious and scared and, thanks to the therapist, ended up blubbery, snotty and smeared with tears. (Oddly, she has this type of Kleenex that leaves white fluff on my face and in my eyelashes that I have to pick off later -- usually after I've been to Costco.) Why? 'Cause she asked me what I'd miss about being married to the ex and I said it: having a person watching my back, having a first reader who I trusted, having another adult in the house to take over or run parenting issues by, and because the ex is one of the few people in the entire world who can make me laugh. Does it help to say these things out loud or does it just hurt? Then he said a few things he would miss and the only one I remember is that he said he would also miss being my reader. Being the co-dependent piece of shit the world revolves around I assumed he considered this a chore. Then he described my writing in the most appropriate way: desolate and funny. I may use this description in my query letter if I ever get around to sending out my novel. I just can't handle anymore rejection right now. I don't even like it when my cats ignore me. I have to remember my friend D's motto: DTIP, don't take it personally.

Sobriety check!

I was driving down El Camino in Redwood City last night and was funneled between traffic cones and stopped by the police. There was a news van and police cars everywhere. I thought that somebody had been run over. I rolled down my window and the officer asked me if I'd had anything to drink this evening. Oh, sobriety check point. I got this one! I replied "I haven't had anything to drink in almost two years." After a stressful, difficult week that felt pretty good.

The latest: my baby is a bit of a dictator -- bossy, imperial, and proud. He's been getting away with this for years because he's so cute and my ex and I are cream-filled, undercooked pushovers. Big guns doesn't like it. On top of that, my baby doesn't like big guns for obvious reasons -- he's dating his mother, he's not his father and, probably most pertinent, big guns has his number. My baby hung up the phone on big guns on Xmas eve. I saw it and it wasn't good. It meant I was really going to have to do something. But why now? Why big guns? Why Xmas eve? Big discussions with my baby and his brother. Big tears. Big emotions. Baby steps toward our new life. His big brother's words of wisdom: "Why don't you just try being nice and see what that gets you?" Then, in response to his brother's complaint that big guns isn't always nice to him, big brother said those two things are not related. (I'm just learning that now.) That kid -- I used to call him the Dalai Lama. I wish I could take credit for it but he's been a Buddha from birth. I was born negative, he was born wise.

I don't want to be negative. I just write that way.

I woke up excited because it's my niece's birthday and we're having dinner out tonight and I get to put on this beautiful pair of Chloe shoes:

First I had to get Kitten to the vet. Well before that, I had to find him then wrangle his 16-lbs. of floppy, fighting fur into his carrier. He knows when I'm even thinking "vet" because he started wrestling as soon as I picked him up followed by fifteen minutes of woman vs. beast. I won but then the car wouldn't start so I guess Kitten really won. He went back to napping and I spent the morning and $166 at the car dealer getting a new battery installed. On the good side, they had Vogue and People magazines in the waiting area (the last time I was there it was Auto World and Business Week) so I got to read all about Oprah and look at pictures of TomKat who's daughter, Suri, was photographed wearing an outfit that cost more than my car battery. (Except the whole reason for the story was to dispel rumors that Katie spends way too much money on her daughter's clothes.) Damn, I'm being negative again. It just comes naturally, like breathing.

Speaking of negative, I've mentioned I'm dating a man, Big Guns. What I'm about to admit to isn't exactly news, but dating isn't a way around the pain of divorce. Oh no. In fact, it's like I'm juggling the divorce and then I've gone and thrown another ball into the air. Clearly, in the early stages of feeling intensely rejected by my ex, the attentions of Big Guns felt affirming--"You think the way I smack my food is cute?" But now? It's just another relationship that requires work. I can write about this because Big Guns only reads Flex, the Harley parts catalog, and ThunderPress, a magazine that's full of beauty shots of bikes being straddled by women with very, very large bosoms which seem like non-sequiturs to me -- the girls and the big tits. Anyway, it's kind of refreshing dating a person who doesn't have a PhD in literature like the ex and who'll never finish reading something of mine and ask if all the grammatical errors are a post-modern literary device.

Look! Another piece of shrapnel.

I had the realization the other day that the only other person who loves my children unconditionally as much as I do is this man who no longer loves me. It feels so wrong. I miss having a person who delights in my cute kid stories or who I can unabashedly brag to about my boys. Which is why at times I find myself all the way back at the beginning of the grief process, way back at disbelief and denial. Then I notice myself wondering if we'll get back together again and what that would be like. What would he do with that new sofa of his? (It's amazing how quickly I forget how hostile he was in the last year and how he doesn't even seem to like me anymore.) The emotional weather in my head is unpredictable and scary. It's like Denver -- sunny and warm then snowing and frigid.

Pre-loved movie review: Up in the Air, plus a bonus DVD review

George Clooney is the Cary Grant of my generation. Rakish, devilish, hairy-chest handsome, my favorite kind of man actor. His latest film is my favorite genre, a modern-day romance. And I watched it alone, which is my favorite way to see a movie. Maybe all these things make me biased but I loved "Up in the Air." The banter was witty a la Philadelphia Story, funny at times, dark at others and not sappy. The dialogue just sparkled. I don't know who wrote the script -- Reitman? -- but it's good.

Speaking of sappy, I also watched Julie and Julia on DVD. Of course I loved the Julia part; she's a great character. Americans love people who defy convention, especially ones who show up the French. I did not love so much the Julie character. I don't know if it was the actor (Amy Adams) or the script, but she seemed cliche. (OK. I really hated the way she kept pronouncing beouf or however you spell the French word for beef. Really hated it.) As a butter-loving woman, I feel disloyal, that I should stand in solidarity with my sisters and love this movie. As a consolation, my 11-year-old son is home with a sore throat and a headache and he's loving it. No cliches in my household.

Hemorrhaging money

I've opened a vein this month and the bloodletting is ongoing -- on top of Xmas, my car needed four new tires ($600) and $1,200 of service, the cats had to go to the vet ($200), and the garage door broke ($100).

The ex has a modest inheritance from dead aunt Una and uncle Howard. The fact that I had to drive three hours with babies and toddlers to spend a few tortuous afternoons with them makes me feel I should get at least some of it but the law states that any gifts or inheritance received during marriage is NOT shared. This, along with tight underwear and slow drivers, pisses me off.
Yesterday the ex stopped by to pick up a fat check from the IRS made out to both of us but which was an additional refund from the inheritance and, therefore, not mine. I can't tell you how it hurt handing him that thing. I couldn't; I had to place it on the table between us and let him pick it up. My heart rate is elevating just reliving it.

As a consolation, there is something called a 2460 which entitles me to get back the money I had saved pre-marriage which we used to buy our first house and build this vast real estate empire. As he is sitting on Howard and Una's fat nest egg, yesterday I asked the ex if I could have my money back early but he declined. Does any of this change anything? Does it alter who I am? I need a nap.

Surprised kitty is here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Bmhjf0rKe8

The ultimate mood lifter. Legal and free!

Surprised Kitty

http://www.flixxy.com/surprised-kitty.htm

I don't know if I did this correctly so I included the web address. I am going to be one of those crazy, old cat ladies, aren't I? My house full of cat toys and litter boxes a la Big Edie. Help me.

2009's tree

It's a Noble Fir. It cost $80!! I don't like it. What I like is a tree with big spaces between the branches so that the ornaments swing freely. My favorite tree was one I got from my dad's tree farm two years ago. It was so spindly I had to tie it to the curtain rod so that it wouldn't fall over but it was 10-feet tall and had huge spaces between the branches. It was like a supermodel -- skinny and plain when unadorned but spectacular once dressed. Tree as ornament hanger. 

I don't wanna be one of those persnickety women who drags her family from tree lot to tree lot looking for the right one but, dang it, I am that woman. Next year, I going to embrace her and buy her a double grande pumpkin spice latte.

2.5 hour stroll through my settlement.

I had to take a 45-minute nap to try and restore my sense of humor after spending over two hours with the mediator today. Why is it that when I ask a lawyer for clarification I get a 20-minute discourse that leaves me further befuddled? Why can't lawyers communicate clearly? Ours likes to use her hands and I find myself desperately searching her finger triangles and air diagrams looking for meaning.

Our kitchen-sink but standard and simple settlement is over 30 pages long and includes language like this:

"A general release does not extend to claims which the creditor does not know or suspect to exist in his favor at the time of executing the release, which if known by him must have materially affected his settlement with the debtor."

Fun! I think I'll top the day off with a good bikini waxing and maybe watch some re-runs of speeches given by George W. Bush.

Fear, sadness and uncertainty with a side of Botox.

When I was new in recovery I never knew how I was feeling because until that point I only felt good = stoned on my drug of choice or bad = waiting to be stoned on my drug of choice. 

At recovery camp, I was given a daily exercise of checking in with my fine self. I picked emotions from a two-page list the staff had typed up. I was told it was OK to feel more than one at the same time! I faked it most days and picked emotions that matched what I was wearing. But checking in is a habit that stuck. 

Most mornings I just feel "off" which is nebulous and vague so I sit and try to mine what, exactly, is underneath "off." Today I feel fear that I haven't received a single call to the resumes I've sent out. (The economy is really bad in case you didn't know.) I always feel sadness; apparently I'll be stuck in that phase of the grief process for a while. I'm flush with uncertainty about the first holidays as a pre-loved parent. (Aaah!!!) I also have a slight headache from the Botox my niece's doctor injected into my forehead on Thursday morning. He said I must worry a lot considering the state of my forehead and my age. It's nice to know all that work wasn't for naught. 

The results are supposed to kick in around Thanksgiving day but I can feel it working already. For the first time in my life, my forehead feels relaxed. I'm hoping it effects my mood, a fake-it-til-you-make-it kind of thing. 

My niece promised me I'd love the it. Coincidentally, that's the same thing said by the person who gave me my first line of cocaine, which was also free. Ha ha. I found my new drug and it costs more than all of them. Botox: the new heroine. 

No poppage, just leakage.

So I didn't explode with a major epiphany at the Landmark Forum® but I'm leaking like a weepy sore. Apparently enough information took hold that it's having some effect. I've had actual, real-time moments when I'm aware that I'm not my opinions, experiences, rackets or strong suits and don't -- and this is truly incredible!! -- react to them! 

My whole life I've been a knee-jerk reactionary, as if somebody's banging on my brain with a reflex hammer. An example: the other day big-ass arms was talking to me about a highly charged subject. He has a problem with one of my friends and was trying to explain to me why. Externally I sat and listened but internally my committee was going off, crafting retorts and assassinating his friends. I didn't respond, however. I just let my angry little thoughts pass on by. And then it happened -- I really heard what he was saying to me and none of it was a personal attack on me or my friend. (Apparently this is how I show up in life: defensive, angry, and ready to roll.) What do you know? It's a Christmas miracle! I owe it all to my higher power and the Landmark Forum®. Stay tuned; more will be revealed.

Taking an "F" in the Forum

As soon as we settled into the basement conference room, our Landmark Forum® leader began promising us that by Sunday evening we would transform, or "pop" as she liked to call it. (It's the moment of epiphany when you realize that you've been doing everything wrong or how to do everything right except that there is no wrong or right.) She said some of us would pop early and some of us later, but most would pop on Sunday. The pressure to pop made me anxious so I went up to the mic and voiced my concerns. I'm afraid I got labeled as the seminar cynic. (It's not bad to be the cynic if you're the good kind of cynic a la Mark Twain. Unfortunately I'm the bad kind of cynic -- anxious and fearful.)

What followed was three days/39 hours of listening which is difficult for me because I like to talk or at least respond to what's being said. I had some mini epiphanies, tiny aneurisms of self awareness, but no major pop like some of the yippee skippy folks who were jumping around as if Jesus had just come into their hearts. Indeed, at times the Landmark Forum® feels like a revival because it's all about promotion, rather than attraction. There's a lot of proselytizing and pressure to get what they've got and I wanted it! I would have died to pop but they also preach about integrity and authenticity so lying about popping seemed inappropriate. 

By Sunday evening I was feeling depressed and my ass hurt from sitting. A fellow, popped attendee approached me with the information that my face wore my suffering and he could tell I didn't get it. Thanks for the insight, dude. 

I signed up for the advanced course. Apparently I'm a cynical optimist. 

I'm off to The Forum in the morning.

The Forum is EST lite. My friend D promised me it would change my life. It already has; I'm $400 poorer and my stomach hurts. I'm scared. Apparently lots of people have done it but nobody talks about it until they find out you've sent in your non-refundable registration fee then a look of glee and terror washes over their faces and they repeat how it will change my life. Bonafide EST-holes deny that I won't be able to go to the bathroom and that I will be yelled at and cry. At this point, I'll cry if anybody looks at me funny. It will all be over by Monday. If I never post here again, it will be because I have evolved into a breatharian with no need for food, toilets, or dirty, little blogs.

Oh. I should mention that I'm dating a man, big-ass arms. This is our second time around; we were bf and gf in college but I was a bitch or, as he so nicely put it, "emotionally unavailable." Now I'm an emotional tsunami. Fortunately, he's really strong. I've come so far in 24 years and I have the forehead lines to prove it. (Where's my Botox, beautiful niece?!)

OMG

I just realized that 18 years ago today I was getting married at Ralston Hall in Belmont. The weather was just like it is today -- sunny and cool. At this time, I was probably putting on my 25-lb. Scaasi-designed (which happens to be Isaacs backwards) wedding dress -- soon to be listed on ebay -- and doing last minute touch ups, including following the bad advice from the dress lady at I. Magnin's to cover-up the tan lines on my bare shoulders with foundation (don't try this at home.) That sentence was about as long as my marriage. Anyway, tomorrow is my son's birthday and I still haven't shopped for that or written my daily nanowrimo. It seems the thing I'm most talented at is procrastination. Onward.

My mind is a bad neighborhood...

... that I shouldn't visit alone. I can't remember which writer said that -- Mary Karr? I'm squirrely on the weekends I don't have the boys. I think it's because I'm convinced that during this free time I should be uber productive, writing and painting and self actualizing. I imagine that my ex is using his free weekends to beat me to the top of Mazlov's hierarchy. (Competitive? Me?) 

This weekend I mulled around the house leaving a trail of empty Halloween candy wrappers behind me, unsure of what to do with myself, not wanting to do anything really. Sunday I realized it was the first of the month and the first day of nanowrimo, the national novel writing month. I opened a file on my computer, the equivalent of putting a blank sheet of paper into a typewriter, then freaked, trying to convince myself I could do this. I got up and sat back down over and over again. My friend L called and gave me another great quote from Dorothy Parker: "I don't like writing; I like having written." Amen, sister. L and I also decided that we both hate beginnings, on top of which I hate endings (of all kinds) and that the best part of novel writing is the middle. So I should be enjoying myself toward the middle of this month.

The daily goal is 1666 words. I wrote 816 yesterday and they were real dreck. I can't wait to see what putrid vile I come up with today.

Beauty break

I was zipping down the driveway yesterday, turned my head to the right and -- pow! -- noticed that my camellias are quietly going insane with blossoms. The conditions must have been spot on this year, just enough water and rain and sun, for every plant is heavy with blooms and buds and I almost missed it! This is a good reminder to pull my head out, stop and admire the camellias. 

It's also another good reason to stay put. I had a good five days of ruminating whether it was worth hemorrhaging the money every month on this humble house and not better to sell and move to a nice manageable apartment with a little patio for a couple of potted plants and a landlord to call when the roof leaked. I was stuck on the proverbial fence when my little one asked if it would be possible, please mummy, even though it's expensive and we're broke to stay in the house at least until he got to be his big brother's age? Could I swing that? Why yes, my little chicken, for you I can do that! I'll forgo waxings and new clothes and maybe dye my own hair and eat beans but as God is my witness we'll stay. Besides, who needs new shoes when you've got camellias like these?

Les petites morts

Divorce is not one death but many little ones. It's like buckshot, not one clean entry but a messy scattering of small wounds . For instance, I was at my friend J's house the other day and she was excited to show me what she was giving her husband for their 20th wedding anniversary -- a photo of them from their wedding day that she'd had placed in an antique frame from her mother-in-law. It was so beautiful, both of them shining with hope in all their wedding finery and late-80s hair dos. (J's bangs were a couple of inches high.) I'm admiring the picture and the job the framer has done when I come across another piece of shrapnel embedded in my heart -- I'd never be re-framing a picture from my wedding day almost 18 years ago. Even though I'd never considered doing this, the possibility is dead.

I'm probably feeling so morbid because I spent 2.5 hours in the company of our lawyer yesterday which is like being in the presence of a dementor from the Harry Potter books. I sat in that depressing conference room watching the lawyer's mouth open and close as I felt all the hope and joy being leeched from my body. Have a nice day.

Needles around my nose and a three-drumstick day.

I have a beautiful niece, well I have four of them, but the one I'm talking about is the one who wrangles a couple of plastic surgeons in Palo Alto. She was looking for a "model" to test a new facial filler, which is like spackle applied with a needle. I pictured this being applied to erase years of worry from my deeply lined forehead. Nope. This particular filler is intended for marionette lines -- the ones the go from nose to mouth a la a wooden, hinged-mouth puppet. I'm open to new experiences so I agreed to be a guinea pig. (Ten minutes later I tried to back out--"Too bad; I don't have puppet lines."--and threw out the names of a few friends who were more likely candidates. Sorry J, J, and A. I didn't mean it. I was just scared.)

In the receptionist room there were three of us: me, another woman like me, and a tannish, thin man who looked like he was no stranger to Botox since his face lacked any signs of life. We signed release forms then I was taken to the injection room. My niece introduced me to the doctor and said he was the best injectionist and that, as a bonus, he would Botox my forehead when he was finished with the filler. I was grateful. I noticed that I was the only person in the room with wrinkles on my face. The doctor and I initialed another release form that I was too nervous to read but which probably stated that should I die or, worse, become horribly disfigured he would not be responsible because, after all, he's never used this product before. To further drive the point home, the drug rep stayed in the room and discussed doses and viscosity and mid- to deep-derma positioning and adverse patient reactions the whole time.

I don't have a thing about needles but after he injected me about thirty times I started to feel jittery and clammy, a bit like I was going to projectile vomit the two cups of coffee I had for breakfast. I was sweating so much I started to slide around on the vinyl dental chair. The nurse dabbed my forehead and my niece put ice packs wherever she could find exposed skin. The doctor decided to give me break and while he was gone the nurse said that when he came back he should fill that deep line in my chin. She handed me a mirror. I do have a deep line on my chin! It's hideous. I couldn't wait for him to erase it. We waited. My color returned. My face started to ache but my stomach unclenched. I was thinking, OK doc; I'm ready for my Botox. But he decided I'd had enough and moved on to the tan man. I could hear them laughing in the next room. 

Plastic surgery is a lot like divorce -- expensive, quasi-elective, self-inflicted pain and suffering. As I walked to my car, the staff told me to ice my face all day to keep the swelling down. I ate ice cream instead.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Image snatched from Sweet Home Style. Can you imagine living in a place so beautiful? I have to remind myself that even surroundings as stellar as this do not protect one from divorce, aging, high cholesterol or death. 

Beauty and mysteries

This is a corner of my friend D's backyard. If I were a better photographer, you would be feeling very serene and peaceful right now. There isn't a lawn to speak of. I ripped mine out of the front yard and if I didn't have children I'd rip out my back lawn (or what's left of it) too. Lawns fall under the category of what Big Guns calls "man shit." Gutters I can do; lawns remain a mystery and mine, like my marriage, is mostly dead. It makes me sad if I think of each blade of grass as a little plant suffering out there so I wont.

Anyway, my mother and niece came over a few days ago and made us dinner -- roast chicken, asparagus risotto, mashed cauliflower and key lime tart. My mother burnt the crap out of the cauliflower. I'm telling you this because she is not getting divorced nor does she have ADD. Maybe my pans are cursed or my kitchen is being haunted by some woman who died burning dinner? Like lawns, another mystery to ponder.

hugs not drumsticks

As promised, a new therapy: getting hugged by these arms and having coffee with the guy attached to them is as good as or better than ice cream. And those sundaes I like that I couldn't remember the non-generic name of? This guy -- let's call him Big Guns -- reminded me they are called drumsticks. He's so so helpful.

Two-cone days and shallow regrets

Last week I had a few one-cone days and was feeling optimistic but the weekend sent me back to the freezer. All this negotiation about who takes the children and when and me judging whether a poetry reading is more important that seeing your boys. Saturday was a three-cone day.

So, besides the obvious good and bad life changes that accompany divorce -- like getting the whole bed to myself but also having to find a job in the worst economy since the great depression -- I'm missing my rings. It's shallow but I love them still. This picture doesn't do them justice. It's like losing a limb. I know some women have the diamonds re-set into divorce pendants and brooches but I don't love the diamonds, I love the whole package. Is it bad luck to pass on a pre-loved ring to your children or nieces? Does it carry bad mojo? Some kind of divorce curse? Should I sage stick them?

Stay tuned. Tomorrow I'm going to post a picture of a distraction that's even better than ice cream cones. 

Divorce-onset ADD but optimistic.

Here is what is on my night stand at the moment. Apparently I don't have the attention span to cook a full meal or finish a book. This truth doesn't stop me from trying. I picked up two new books at the library today and I'm cooking dinner this very minute. (So far, I've only charred one side of the sausages, easily hidden in the "plating up.")

On a side note, yesterday I went to pick a piece of leafy detritus off my bedroom floor that was dragged in on the cat's tail and, maybe because I was wearing really cute 4-inch Marc Jacob platforms and tight bell bottom jeans, something tweaked in my lower back. Now I'm walking around like my father after a long day of gardening -- the hunched-over, old-man shuffle. It's not helping my mood. My friend D said that the lower back is the center of financial insecurity. No shit. While I wait to win the Lottery, I'm taking Aleve. 

Tina was right.

What's love got to do with it? Nothing. Divorce is about money.

I think that people fall in and out of love during marriage all the time. At some point, you make a choice whether you can or want to continue doing this with your wife, that woman who smacks her lips when she eats and has too many keys on her key ring and stuffs the refrigerator cheese drawer so that it's difficult to open."*

After you decide these things are intolerable, it comes down to money. Money is power and divorce is about getting power. This is how it's settled in California: the mediator plugs money coming in and percentage of time the children spend with each parent into a program called the "dissomaster." The all-knowing dissomaster then spits out a figure, my monthly allowance. It does not take into account expenses, of which mine are far greater. 

A has graciously allowed me to stay in the house with the boys for a few years or until he remarries or needs money. I'm grateful, really, truly grateful, but this also means I pay the mortgage and the property taxes and the pet bills and the water and PGE. Yes, I have more space and a yard and a gas stove but I also have gutters to clean and a lawn to mow and -- oh yeah -- no job.

In parenting therapy this morning I was kind of bitching and moaning about money because I'm scared. No scared isn't the right word; I'm a hair shy of head-in-paper-bag panic attacks. The therapist sympathized with me then mentioned that A felt lighter to her, which is when a little explosion went off in my head. 

Even though I'm glad that I'm in my home, I'm also aware that A has walked away with a few boxes of hand-picked essentials. His old term papers are housing mice in our attic. His old Mac is in the garage rafters. There's a broken lawn mower on the side of the house and an unwanted winter coat in the closet. I feel these things. They are heavy. I mentioned that this may be why A feels lighter -- (It delights him so much when I share my insights into his psyche.) -- because he actually is lighter. He replied that it has been difficult for him, too, that when he went to make pancakes for the boys Saturday morning he realized that he didn't have vanilla. "Right," added the therapist, "you have to set up an entire pantry!" Are these people kidding me? My angst about money is being compared to having no vanilla extract? Am I crazy?

*actual marital complaints.

Pre-pre-loved these would have come home with me.

Two of today's kittens, not from the same litter. I was thinking of getting a dog before the Big D and maybe more kitties at the same time. These would have been perfect. Me needs to find a job first and when me finds a job, me won't have time for any more kittens or a puppy. Alas.

(Oh, these bad boys will be available for adoption soon at the Peninsula Human Society in San Mateo.)

Playing the role of angry father...

Meet Kelpie and Comet, temporary roommates. I'm about to give them a cookie, which is the dog equivalent of my ice cream cone sundaes and explains that desperate, pre-fix look on their faces. (I just tried, unsuccessfully to upload the after photo of their glazed faces.) Anyway, they are staying with me for a week while their person, my friend D (who is even older than me!), is away being hedonistic and artistic at Burning Man. What I love about animals and especially dogs is they so clearly understand their roles: protect house, beg for food, love the person who feeds you like that person has never been loved before. I, too, have been playing a role in my marriage; I was given the part of my ex's angry dad and I played it with gusto. I played it until it hurt. It's what happens when a person has fuzzy boundaries. To wrap this all up a la Anne Lamott, if I'd been a dog, there wouldn't have been enough dog biscuits in the county to satisfy me. I was that good. 

Burning down the house.

So far this week I have burned two sheets of cookies, three artichokes, the beginnings of matzoh ball soup, and four pancakes. Not just too-browned burned but call 9-1-1 burned. 

I have divorce-onset ADD (DOADD). In the middle of cooking, I'll suddenly decide that new file folders will fix my life, jump in the car, and drive to the nearest Office Depot only to return to a house full of smoke and a pan so hot it leaves this burn mark on the back deck. 

My son says the inside of our house "smells like Italy." I think he means it smells like the scent of burning leaves that lingered in the valley in Ascoli where we stayed. Either that or there were a lot of Italian women burning the crap out of dinner every night.

Five-second vacations

Several times a day I go to this site: http://sweethomestyle.tumblr.com

 I jump into every image and spin little tales about living there, who I'm living with, what we're having for dinner. I'm taller or tanner or French speaking. I'm never an alcoholic or divorced. I'm full of joie de vivre and ennui. Even my garbage is pretty. 

Prescription for pain

It's all so painful, this pre-loved business. I'm finding that eating two to three of these beauties every day is helping my mood (not necessarily the size of my ass.) I've always been more of a Fudgesicle gal, so this surprises me. I am aware that I can turn anything into an addiction (like the famous pretty underthings spree in spring 2007), but as far as I know nobody has died from eating too many ice cream cones. Or gone broke; they come in an industrial-size box from Costco for $12.99. I think my higher power will be OK with this.

Separated two weeks.

I don't like the label "divorced" or "divorcee." (Besides, I'm not officially divorced; California requires a 6-month waiting period. FYI: in Ireland, the wait is four years and if that doesn't want to make your drown yourself in Guiness, I don't know what would.) Anyway, to me those "d" words conjure an image of a boozy, middle-aged woman who laughs too loud, bares too much cleavage, and wears lipstick that's too dark. (Truth is, I was this woman before I got sober and separated, minus the dark lipstick.) 

So I was driving the kids somewhere, thinking about what to call myself -- pre-married? separated? used wife? -- when I passed a Volkswagen dealer with a 6-foot tall banner announcing they had pre-loved cars for sale. Thank you Volkswagen's ad agency. I'm stealing the idea. I'm a pre-loved woman. Doesn't that sound so much more positive than divorced? I thought so. And it's true: A, the pre-husband, says he loved me for about 16 of the 18 married years plus three years of dating. I can't remember when, exactly, the love began. I also don't know when, exactly, the love ended so let's call it 17 years. Not a bad track record. I feel a smidgeon better if that's possible for a pre-loved woman who feels as if someone is pulsing a Cuisinart in her guts.