Sunday, February 28, 2010

Death wishes.

I can't deny that some days I wish my ex had just died instead of divorced me. It would still be sad but mournfully so. Nobody would think it was half my fault -- unlike marriage, death doesn't take two to tango. Our union would be eternally remembered as tragic rather than a colossal failure. And when the ex didn't respond to my emails and phone calls I would know why -- because he'd be six feet under. So nice.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

I hate divorcing!!!

My ex used to be so nice; now he's a selfish prick. I, on the other hand, retain my hair-trigger anger and ability to harbor resentments for uncannily long periods. Can you tell I just got another $1K bill from our "mediator" for responding to our emails and running two more scenarios where I actually don't have a job? Thanks a million, Lisa.

If it weren't for the program, I'd be half a bottle of wine into a rip-roaring, eye-crossing drunk right now. Instead, I made butter chicken (basically boiling chicken in a bath of butter) and latkes. If I can't destroy my liver, I'll clog my arteries -- anything to hasten the end.

Watching paint dry

I was selected to serve on a jury at the Federal court in Oakland. Did you know that could happen? We can all be called by the Feds to attend trials in Oakland, SF, or SJ. I thought my commute was far but there are jurists from Healdsburg and Santa Rosa. Those are nasty commutes, although we are reimbursed 50 cents a mile by our fine government.

It's a criminal trial, titled the U.S. vs. (name of innocent until the government proves him guilty). As a young person, which our innocent is, having the U.S. against me would scare the poop out of me. It's fascinating, laborious, amusing and emotionally buffeting to watch the wheels of justice turn. Overall, it's sad-- the stupidity and waste and I'm sure the whole process has already cost the government (monetarily) more than the crime.

On the home front my teenager pulled an unexpected fast one on me last night. He said he was taking the train to SF to hang with a friend and that his dad would give him a ride home. At 7:30 I called his dad to see where they were and he didn't know anything about picking him up -- he was out to dinner in Redwood City. (Not his problem.) After I picked up the top of my head and put it back into place and called my friend D who talked me off the ledge, I got the teenager to give me the address, phone number and name of the person he was staying with and had him agree to having a talk about how we'd handle these things in the future. Truancy is not what I need right now. Can you imagine if something had happened and all I had to tell the police or CPS was that my son was somewhere in SF visiting a friend whose name I don't know but, hey, I trust him, he's a good kid and just "having an adventure" (exact words from the ex's mouth.) Not exactly parent of the year award material.

Oh, and I'm sick again.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Defemification

So I was mulling over with my therapist the failed marriage -- always a fun topic. I believe that a person can marry pretty much anybody (look at the success rate of arranged marriages) and make it work if she has to. When left to our own choices, it's interesting to examine our reasons, both conscious and not, for choosing a particular mate. Of course there's the physical attraction, can't downplay that one 'cause it's huge. (Although it played a small part in my marriage because we met via snail mail and wrote each other for months before we met and by that time I already loved him. Imagine my surprise and dismay when he turned out to be the opposite type of what I'd been attracted to up to that point.) We carry around a personal history of experiences and traumas and joys like our own personal elevator music and look for someone who'll mesh with our ambient sounds.

A brief history of the formulation of my gender identity: I grew up in a male-dominated household (former Olympic athlete/surgeon father, brawny, football-playing brother) where the men were men and the women were not. (I learned how to make a white sauce when I was ten because if "you can make a good white sauce, you can do anything.") I played with dolls, studied ballet, and flirted with anorexia. I was small and I felt scared. I was uber female. Then I met the ex who was the most nonthreatening male I'd ever come across and the tables got turned. The roles got reversed. I didn't have to be the weak one anymore. There is no word in the English language to describe what happened to me in my marriage. When a woman dominates her husband we call it emasculation. But when a man strips a woman of her femininity? I think I've made up the word, maybe not: defemification. I was defemified in my marriage. The ex was skinnier than me. I could bench press more than him. I knew my way around a tool box. I had a job and a car and he was in graduate school and rode a bike. He accused me of not being able to be intimate which hurt me to my pink core. The defemification process grew from there.

Very early in our dating, Big Guns said to me that it felt like I'd worn the pants for too long in my relationship. I was used to being in control. I didn't understand what he meant; I let him drive, after all. (And I didn't give him directions even when I knew he was going the wrong way.) But now I'm starting to see it. I feel like a girl again -- the bearer of intimacy, the expressed of emotions, the keeper of the kitchen tools. Unless steroids enter my system, I'll never be able to bench press more than Big Guns. It's more than putting on panties, sisters. It's a way of being and I like it. Here's to femininity.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Danger Will Robinson.

My boys are going skiing with their dad this weekend which means I'll be alone. Alone with my tooth ache. Yes, after three days this root canal business still hurts. On the good side, I tossed the pain meds Dr. Dang -- Dang it, Dr. Dang; it still hurts! -- gave me because they gave me a headache and a belly ache and I've always had a leetle problem with pain meds. On the bad side, I was in such agony last night, Big Guns gave me one of his pain pills. It was great at first; I felt the pain subside and loved everyone and everything in the room. To me, the world is just beautiful shrouded in a narcotic haze. Dust bunnies! Chihuahuas! Cell phones even! This feeling was closely followed by the panic that it would go away some day -- maybe even in the next five minutes! -- and I would need another pill and then another one and that, my friend, is my addict talking.

This must be what it's like for food addicts who can't give up eating all together but have to learn to moderate. Moderation. Another foreign concept to me. I've never done anything in moderation, even things that are good for me. (If running five miles feels good, ten must be even better.) I see these tendencies in my baby who will decide to finish twenty pages of math homework when only two are required just because more is ALWAYS better.

I'm helping Big Guns move this weekend. He's an addict, too, so he won't feed me pills. In fact, he does this business of asking me all these questions in the hopes of helping me live in integrity. "Are you OK holding on to that bottle of meds?" (Actually, I just like to stroke it and hear its comforting rattle in my purse.) "Will an ice pack suffice instead?" (Yes, sweetie, but only if you stick it in your ear.) Those kinds of questions. It's so fun being me! And being with me!

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Better sit down, I'm writing a gratitude list.

I used to think about Sylvia Plath all the time because she is a woman who struggled with life, I love her work and she's featured prominently in my novel. She hasn't been in my thoughts as much since the novel's finished and my children are bigger but when I started feeling squirrely during these dreary, rain-filled days, she moved back into my head. A frigid winter (accompanied by bad colds, divorce, two young kids with the flu, a philandering husband and mental illness) did her in. I often wonder if she'd still be alive if the sun had just come out for a day or two, or if she hadn't been so worried about money. The Dissomaster hadn't been invented yet and, as much as I hate it and the lawyers who punch the numbers into it, that piece of software eliminates the financial portion of divorce misery. Imagine how horrible separating would be if the man could just walk away from you and your children and only be required to help you as he saw fit? As good a man as my ex is, I'm certain my support payments would be a lot less if they were based on what he felt was necessary. Heck, even I would accept far less. I don't feel entitled to his financial help. I'm grateful for it, but I feel guilty that I haven't earned it and really guilty when I spend it on crap like mascara. The pot really gets stirred when I buy something for Big Guns.

Anyway, today I got to shell out $350 for a root canal. I had my first one about sixteen years ago and remember falling in love with my doctor just because he'd made my face stop hurting after a week of misery. I was ready to follow him home and do his laundry. This time around, I was kind of hoping for a young, handsome doc I could fantasize about while having a nerve scraped out of my head but, alas, Dr. Dang was uber pleasant but just didn't do it for me. I spent the hour staring at an odd cluster of tiny holes in his ceiling.

My gratitude list for the day:
Sun
Novacaine
My ex's health insurance
The Great Dissomaster

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Phantom limbs and anniversaries

I have been with my ex for almost half of my life. It's no wonder that at times I expect him to be there. He is like a phantom limb and, because we have children together, I still see him so he's like a amputated limb that gets reattached occasionally. This analogy is getting absurd but how do you just walk away and shut it off? I suppose things will evolve, that some day in the future I will relate to him like any other man friend -- in a cordial and removed way.

I saw the ex at a school function recently. We had time before it started and stood outside together. It was awkward. He asked how I was and that's all it took for my emotional Tourettes to unleash itself. I said everything -- what was happening on the job front, the emotional front, the parenting front. He didn't respond or share anything. He just stared at me. I didn't stop chattering until my baby's teacher stuck her head out of the gym and announced that the program was starting. That little interlude -- I can't call it an exchange -- was a microcosm of our 20 years together distilled in 15 minutes. Afterward I felt filleted and remorseful. It's why I'm a terrible poker player. I can't even begin to understand how to play my cards close to the vest. I don't even have a vest.

Saturday I'm going to a 50th wedding anniversary celebration. Five years ago I wouldn't have appreciated this. I used to think people who stayed married that long were held together by ennui, just too lazy to separate. I don't think that way anymore. It takes lots of hard f-ing work. Kudos to all you married people.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Sleep deprivation masquerading as mental illness.

I was so tired yesterday I didn't feel tired anymore, just depleted. The most creative thing I could do was eat. I thought this was it, I'd turned the corner and was finally, firmly mired in a joyless hell. I was officially a depressed person; not even the world's best carrot cake was pulling me out of this one. And then it stopped raining for a minute and a flock of the plump, robust robins landed on my garage's gutter and began feasting on seeds or maggots or whatever buffet it offered up. Kitten was at the back door watching and began making these guttural sounds -- not anything like a meow and probably closer to the grunts I used to make snarfing ice cream sundaes. That made me laugh.

 
Kitten: not his given name but the one that stuck which is 
akin to naming the fat lady at the circus Tiny.


Dylan: not as big as Kitten but few cats are.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Life as my Netflix picks.

I recently received from Netflix: In the Loop, a dry British docucomedy about the Iraq war, Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli film about war, and Yoga to Awaken your Chakras. Before that, it was Little Dorritt, The Hangover, and some Japanese anime movie for the boys.

From experience, I know the Netflix brain likes to analyze its users. "If you liked American Pie, you'll love Porkys." When you take the bait, I imagine it breathes a sigh of relief at being able to categorize you. "This person is developmentally arrested and enjoys teenage-boy humor with fart jokes and bare breasts. Got boatloads of that!"

Maybe it's just me thinking I'm unique, but I imagine I've stumped the chump and that smoke's coming out of the Netflix brain's ears. God my life is small.

Friday, February 5, 2010

I finished another book!

Behold -- the second book read by pre-loved woman post divorce. A slim, gem of a novel about spirituality, which I need in spades right now. I feel that I should be meditating and praying more but I always forget and clean bathrooms or play online Scrabble instead. (It's a universal, self-destructive problem with addicts that we tend to avoid the things that are good for us.)

Speaking of differences, I feel more hopeful about the job situation. There is this field out there called social media marketing and, unlike the advertising industry, it's actually growing. What is it? It's Facebook and Twitter and blogs like this. It's user-generated content. It's the new way that consumers expect to interact with companies. It's a kind of advertising that talks back. It's the internet in action, baby.

Anyway, my friend R works in this field and her biz is booming. She said companies are desperate for content and "that's where you come in, deary." (I love that she calls me dear.) Yes! I can write content. I love telling stories. I could get a job and I could like it! Imagine that. I'll give you some time to ponder me happy. Have a GREAT day.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Letting go. Again.

I find it very difficult not to wonder about the lives my children have that don't include me, especially after 14 years of knowing exactly what they've eaten, worn, the state of their rooms, and, for the most part, the state of their bowels. (What about sleepovers and playdates, you ask? All you moms out there know that one of the pass-off rules of playdates is informing the other mom what you plan on feeding her children and what you fed them.)

My little angels spend eight days a month away from me in a second home with their dad and, apparently, his girlfriend, and it's KILLING me. I have to bite my tongue not to ask what goes on over there -- as if they're making sacrificial offerings of small animals. Last Thursday I asked the baby what he'd had for dinner the night before. It sounded so innocent, like maybe I was just interested in knowing whether any roughage had been ingested. When I heard that the girlfriend had been there to show the ex how to prepare a certain dish and that they'd also made the same thing I made that night? Well, my hair caught fire again. I conjured this image of a happy family that didn't include me --  I'm exiled to another page with a red "x" through my face.

The lesson I am learning is not to ask. It's none of my business. It's practice for when the babies go to college, but it will be easier because their dad's girlfriend won't be there making them dinner.

The New York Times agrees with me.

My friend D sent me this article and I read it. (I usually do; I'm a good girl that way.) Great information even though it's a little too late for me and it isn't something I already didn't know but -- still! -- it's nice when the NY Times validates you. A quote:

Sure, you could bet big and lose on a single stock or money manager. Or your small business could go bankrupt, taking your life savings with it. But divorce and the costs that often come with it — from legal bills to the sudden need for an additional residence — affect far more people.

No shit.

I loathe to do it, but I must take a meeting with our mediator. The ex had her run different tax scenarios (I deduct kids; he deducts kids, etc.) to see the affects on our bottom line and two of the three assumed I had a job, a good-paying one at that. Has she seen the unemployment numbers? I mean, why not run a scenario where I win Oprah's "Live your Best Life" million-dollar sweepstakes? It could happen. Or one where I sell my novel and before it even hits the bookstores Hollywood makes it into a movie and I'm on the red carpet next year in Versace with Jennifer Garner and Matt Damon, the stars of the film?

Our mediator, clearly, is one crazy bitch living in some fantasy land, as opposed to me who is all about avoiding "what ifs" and future tripping and embracing the present moment. I'm simply exuding mental health today, no? I'll have to get used to being the saner person in the room. This next meeting should be fun!