The crazee lady's back.

Every time I get any kind of document from our mediation attorney, I want to stick my head in the sand. Or an oven. It's so baffling and obfuscatious (I just made up that word like in Wicked) and sends me into an anxious, Frito-eating tizzy. I don't like feeling confused and helpless and stupid. I'm sure that most of the time I actually am confused and helpless and stupid but I don't know it and that makes all the difference. Clearly, it's time for me to go see Mr. Wizard, my own grandfatherly, soft-spoken attorney for the verbal equivalent of a good lap rocking/hair stroking. I did figure out how to get the ex on the phone; call him from my son's cell phone. I hate it that I have to be underhanded like that but he doesn't answer my calls or emails. I can add feeling invisible and dismissed to my list of triggers. More on feeling invisible and ghosts later.

Shallow hair talk.

For those of you interested in the Brazilian blow out, also known as the Keratin smoothing process, here is what my hair looks like when I do it myself.

Blow dried:

Air dried:

Carry on.

I finished a book!

It's the first book I've finished since the Big D six months ago. I feel like it's a turning point. Just last week I had a thought that the Ex and I were not good for each other. That was it! No flames of anger. No stars of frustration. No black clouds of misery. I digress. Since I've finished this you know what that means: BOOK REVIEW.

Lorrie Moore (obviously not a first time author since her name comes before the book title) is one of the greatest writers ever. She loves her job and it shows. This woman massages language, i.e. "When misfortune accumulated, I could feel now, it strafed you to the thinness of a nightgown, sheared you to the sheerness of a slip." She's a word acrobat. I imagine her at her computer spending hours staring into a cold cup of coffee searching for the right metaphor. She's also quirky and uses lots of exclamation points! What she isn't is a great story teller but the rest is so good, the lack of a driving story doesn't matter to me. This novel was a joy to read -- I should know since I've been reading it, sporadically, since September during one of the darkest times of my life and still managed to be delighted.

Because I'm so hopefully optimistic and always seeking, I picked up a new book at the library instead of finishing one of these.

It's the little things.

I got so excited a minute ago when I realized it was the ex's night with the boys and I wouldn't have to make dinner! I like to cook but feeding children is not cooking; its a Sisyphian crap shoot. The little one only likes white food (potatoes, tofu, and rice) and the big one (who acts like a cat but eats like a dog) will wolf down anything I put in front of him, maybe even cat poo if I garnished it properly, which isn't exactly satisfying for the cook.

Monkey Bread Time.

Recipe courtesy of my friend, Micki, at http://theyeasticando.blogspot.com. Her version looks a lot better because a) she bakes a lot of bread, b) she's an art director and takes a mean photograph, and c) she didn't include the recipe for what to frost the monkey business with.

Go check out her blog and you'll see why it's hard for me to love her right now. On top of being a gifted baker/designer, she's also a great writer, gorgeous, smart, tall AND she has two super cute kids and a husband. You can see my dilemma. Nobody likes perfection but I like her and so as I continue to search for Micki's flaws I will toast a slice or two of monkey bread and slather it with butter.

A monumental weekend full of exclamation points.

My friend J took me for a mani pedi for my birthday on Saturday. It's Monday afternoon now and all my polish is still intact -- even on my fingernails! You dishwashing, toilet-cleaning, laundry-folding, dinner-making women (or men 'cause I don't want to be accused of being sexist) know what a major feat that is! I continue to be amazed! That was followed by an evening of great gringo sushi (the kind that's fried and smothered in mayo) with Big Guns. On the way home, we stopped at the market for ice cream and Hard Shell. Let me wax poetic about that fine product for a minute. It allows you to re-create a Foster's Freeze's dipped cone in the comfort of your own home! It cracks like the shell of creme brulee only melts in your mouth. It's sweet and a little salty and is just about the world's most perfect food!! Get yourself a bottle now!

On Sunday, Big Guns and I went to the Cupertino Whole Foods which is the uber store, the jewel in the crown, the Whole Foods to beat all Whole Foods -- three football fields of shiny floors and artfully arranged food stuffs and employees who seem really happy to be working there. We picked up takeout dinner from a vast assortment of buffets (Chinese? Greek? Mexican?) and Big Guns bought me the Le Crueset soup pot I wanted for my birthday (Thanks, sweetie). From there, we went to the multiplex to beat all multiplexes (Oakridge Mall) and saw The Book of Eli, which Big Guns was excited for since he is a self-professed buff of "action/adventure" movies. We were both satisfied, however, since it also had a story.

Overall, a lot of monumental experiences followed by this morning where I got my ass kicked in Pilates then BOSU and came home to a house that felt like a meat locker. Who else is longing for spring?

Pleasantly suprised by The Invention of Lying.

Cute movie, nice script written by the star of the film, Ricky Gervais. It looks at what life would be like if we didn't know how to lie. Apparently without lying, we go around speaking whatever is on our minds and it makes us miserable. It's a whole metaphor for religion, basically, with Ricky as Jesus and it's riddled with stars. ( Look for Edward Norton.) Ricky must have lots of friends in Hollywood. Jennifer Garner is luminescent. She has this face that fools you into thinking she's accessible but then she moves into a certain light or angle and she becomes impossibly beautiful. (Girl crush?) People magazine says she's a good mom, too. Matt Damon should have snagged her. I'm glad I rented it. It's the kind of movie that's perfect to watch while flipping through Good Housekeeping or painting your toe nails. (As an aside, have you ever rented a foreign film that was this kind of boring but you couldn't do anything like file your nails or organize photos because you had to watch the screen in order to read the dialogue? Isn't that frustrating?)

When men are useful.

There are some men -- mechanics, construction guys, repairmen, etc.-- who seem to be more comfortable dealing with other men. Or maybe it's me that's not comfortable dealing with them, especially in my own home. First I have to get over that sexual issue -- we're twenty feet in any direction from a sofa or bed -- and then I have to get over thinking they are going to monetarily take advantage of me because I'm a dumb woman and don't know the first thing about leaking roofs and water heaters. They are right.

My ex is a kind of a girly man and more interested in words than houses and cars and barbecues so the man shit fell on me. I oversaw the remodeling of our suburban castle and although I really liked our site manager, Rich, I mostly hated feeling -- what was the feeling? -- bewildered about the cost of molding and what to do with the enormous pile of leftover deck lumber the new guy over ordered. (If you're me, you give it to the site manager and regret it later when you realize it was worth almost $2K.) It's a good thing I liked the guys because they practically lived with us for four months. They were here by 7 a.m. and mostly I was dressed but one time I had a horrible stomach flu and waved to them from my sick bed as they walked through my room. We got close.

Anyway, the roof on the new addition has been leaking for the past six years and I finally worked up a nerve to call the outfit that built it. It sounds crazy but I was embarrassed that my roof was leaking, like it was some menstrual mishap. Steve, who's over six feet tall and has hands like bear paws, stopped by today for a look see. He was nice about it, said he'd be back next week and fix things. What should I learn from this? To put a lid, no a lock and key, on my crazy thoughts. Just in case, the next pre-loved man is going to have a big tool chest.

I have straight hair now.

This is a Brazilian blow out, not be confused with a Brazilian waxing. A woman I work out with is a hairdresser and learning this new technique so she did me for free. It takes three hours but lasts six months. The rub is that I can't get my hair wet for three days and it's a deluge outside. (That Jackson Browne song -- Before the Deluge -- keeps playing in my head.) The gutters on the streets are flowing like rivers. Kitten sits at the window, meows and looks at me as if I had the ability to make it stop and have chosen not to just to make his life miserable. Hey, cat, I know that feeling.

My birthday, the state of my brain, and a strange kitten photo.

My family and some friends came over for my birthday dinner last night (see below) and we talked about the ex in a wistful way, as if he were dead. It was nice. The extreme anger I was feeling toward the ex has subsided, not gone completely but I'm more neutral now. I appear to be moving through the stages of grief.


My brother commented on how easy-going the ex always seemed. No, I corrected him, he was working on developing a bleeding ulcer. I'm continually amazed at how you can know a person for years and not really know him.

Oh, my baby went to bed early with this supreme being from another planet.

Need the Cliff's Notes for Adulthood. And parenthood.

There are days, many days, when I feel completely bewildered by and unprepared for being a grown-up, let alone a parent. I got more training learning to drive a car.

An example: Big Guns came to visit and my baby was a full-grown/blown asshole to him and me. I wanted to ignore it (and I would if it had just been me) but it can't go on. Do I punish him because he's angry? How do I teach a kid to express his anger appropriately when I don't know how to do it myself? If he were older and I were still a drunk, I'd offer him a glass of wine.

I know this isn't how he expected things to turn out. It's not what I planned, either. And I'm angry, too. I'd like to tell him to take some of his attitude and give it to his dad who is the one who left after all. I'm having fantasies of selling or giving everything away and going to Haiti where I can help and people might appreciate it. Or maybe take a backpack to Europe and start smoking and tanning.

DVD review: Dogville

I have, apparently, an affinity for all things Danish, not just their design sense but their sensibilities, too. They seem, as a nation -- crass generalization alert! -- to have a cynical, dark sense of humor. A bonafide Danish friend also told me they have one of the world's highest rates for alcoholism and happiness but also suicide. It's not hard to relate these, eh? My point: I have a love/hate relationship with the Danish director Lars Von Trier. His films make me uncomfortable and yet I can't turn away -- like gawking at a terrific car accident. I remember Breaking the Waves as being vaguely upsetting and exciting and Dancer in the Dark was one of those films that I had to dream a new ending for the night after seeing it. I watched Dogville last night. At first I didn't think I'd be able to sit through the whole thing because of the lack of sets. It's staged as if for theater. The whole film takes place on a sound stage with chalk outlines and wood skeletons for buildings. The actors open pretend doors. One of the things I most love about films is the sets and the dressing -- I'm all about those details. However, I was shocked and amazed to notice that I stopped noticing the lack of this about 30 minutes into the film because I became so engrossed in the characters in that stomach-clenching way. What a statement about provincial, small-town Americans, nee Coloradans. This is not a light romp and I wouldn't watch it if I were feeling suicidal or homicidal but I do recommend seeing it, preferably in the middle of your cycle and after you've lost a few pounds and are happy in your marriage and secure in your job and your roof isn't leaking and your neighbors have all their teeth.

Why I'm in the program.

That's me on the right with I don't know who at some Halloween party I don't remember leaving. This was near my bottom, clearly, and if the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader® franchise knew how I sullied their reputation I'd probably be sued. I did wear this outfit three other times in front of 35,000 people during the Bay to Breakers but I was able to hold myself up. That makes all the difference. Isn't it great that I can laugh about these things now?

Speaking of blond goddesses, I'm doing some work on judgment with my favorite woo-woo lady. I would like to be a combination of her and my friend Susan when I grow up. The thing she said that resonated with me was that when I view a person through my tunnel-vision judgment goggles, I don't see their potential or possibilities. Duh. I don't think I'm judgmental at heart but it's certainly a pattern the ex and I shared and it worked as long as we were both viewing from the same end of the judgment goggles -- cynical solidarity! I found it amusing the way the ex could assassinating another person's character. If a person deigned to appear unaware of his or her character defects -- look out! That was like shooting fish in a barrel. It made us feel better, even superior, that we had this insight into people that they seemed to be lacking. It was our job to point it out, in an amusing way of course. It was so Noel Coward-ly. Big Guns calls me on it. I don't need you to point out my defects, Eileen; I'm fully aware of them. The difference is he chooses not to focus on them or mine. He's taken off his judgment goggles. I'm trying to remove mine now. It's not easy.

I got the booby prize.

If understanding is the booby prize, I win. It recently occurred to me that the reason I was so unhappy in my marriage is that I expected the ex to figure out what I wanted. I even freed things up for him to give him the space to do this and when he didn't figure it out for me, I got angry and blamed him for failing. Today, in our final (hallelujah!) co-parenting/marriage therapy session he admitted to doing the same -- giving me the job of figuring out for him what he needed then resenting me when I failed. It's so simple yet so complicated. A real American tragedy. My new motto is personal responsibility. Even my guinea pigs weet weet when they want a carrot.

Breaking up while still divorcing is a painful as it sounds.

So I broke up with big guns on Thursday. That hurt. My baby asked me why and -- not that I would tell him -- but I didn't have a good answer. Lots of reasons but the main one is that I wasn't ready to be somebody's wife again. Yet. I was having dinner ready for him when he showed up. I was a hair's length away from offering to do his laundry. We moved through the dating phase way too quickly. It's half my fault; I see that. After much crying, yelling, and talking, I decided that I would still like to date him. So it was less of a complete break up and more of a re-group. I wish I could skip all this and just be comfortable and happy and settled again. I'm no good at upheaval and change. I'm no good at boring stability either. What was I good at? Creating my own dramas. The same thing all addicts are good at.

Pre-loved movie review: It's complicated. Plus DVD review of 500 Days of Summer.

What I absolutely loved about It's Complicated were the sets. Jane (Meryl) lived in my dream house in Santa Barbara. She ran some kind of bakery/cafe which was also Dean & Deluca-gorgeous. I find it comforting to watch a movie where nobody is worried about money and everybody lives and dresses beautifully. What I didn't like is a longer list. First, from the little I know about running a restaurant, the owner works all the f-ing time but Jane had time to jog in the mornings, have friends over for dinner, and pop in to see her therapist during the day. Sure her ex is a big lawyer and she probably got a terrific settlement, but still. I also felt that Hollywood was pandering to women over the age of 45. Case in point: On a date, when Jane asks Adam (Steve Martin) whether she's not too old for him, he replies that her age is what he likes about her. All the women in the sold-out theater sighed but I gagged on my popcorn. It's a cliche line and he should have/could have been more specific or elaborated, i.e. You and I know the words to the same songs. There were a couple of other places where the appreciation of aging felt forced, as did Jane's "you-go girl" girlfriends. Jon Krasinski as Jane's future son-in-law was a bright spot. Overall, it was a fun romp in fantasy land. If you want the camaraderie of a theater full of pre-loved, 40+, Chico's-clad women in Dansko shoes, go see It's Complicated. Otherwise wait for it to come out on DVD.

I also watched 500 Days of Summer, which I loved. It was quirky (in a good way) and inventive (in an amusing way). There was a Disney-esque song and dance scene that was brilliant IMHO. I did find the Zooey Deschanel character irritating but maybe that's because I fell so hard for the man character who's name I can't remember. Cuteness, earnestness, everything any chick besides Summer would kill for.

What these two films share is a new trend in films I've been noticing: the melancholy, non-happy ending. These films didn't deliver the endings my sappy little heart expected and hoped for (especially from Hollywood) but neither did they deliver the endings that made me want to get in a warm bath and open a vein. I wonder if it's a sign of the economic times? Hollywood is still serving up escapist fantasies but with a tiny sprinkle of despair and reality.

Bedazzling.

Pre-loved woman's family likes things sparkly. First my niece bedazzled herself.


Then she bedazzled her new vacuum.


Then my mother bedazzled.Even Kitten got into it (sort of).

The holiday hangover

It was fun then the Visa bill arrived in my email. This (along with the tooth I broke on a candy cane) is giving me a headache. Why can't I win Oprah's $100K to live your best life sweepstakes? Why? I'm putting it out there to manifest. And please throw in a soul-satisfying job and a book deal while you're at it. Thanks, Universe. Off to take a Tylenol or four.

Human kleenexs

I realize that I have certain friends who I call only when I'm having a good, snot-inducing cry. Poor friends. I'm surprised that in this age of caller ID that they answer my calls. Here's a public thank you to D, S, A and C. You're the best and you don't leave lint all over my face.

Today just hurts.

I can't lie. It's been an awful two weeks. I'm having obsessive thoughts and feeling jealous, angry, and powerless. I've spent months examining my part and now I can't stop thinking about the ex's: those "how dare he" and "shame on him" futile thoughts. I need an anger and judgment lobotomy. I need my support payment which is two days late. I need a stiff drink. (Not really but I'd like one.) I need to let go. And I need to get rid of the five pounds I've gained over the holidays. Generally speaking, I am not an emotional eater (just an emotional drinker and pill popper). Lobotomy, liposuction and an injection of cash and I'd be good to go.