Tore up.

I love Big Guns. But I just had a nice visit with ex and I made him laugh and I still get a thrill making him laugh. It was a mind-fucking moment. For a second I felt torn between two lovers (sing with me), feeling like a fool...
However, my loyalties have shifted, seismically I might add, toward Big Guns. When I had my daily ponder/fantasy/nightmare about if I'd go back to ex if he wanted me, my first thought was about how it would hurt BG and I was horrified -- I don't want to hurt him. I never thought I would have feelings of deep loyal Labrador love for a man again but there they are. Oh life. It goes on.

The cynic has not left the building.

Weddings and divorces have a lot in common in that the industries are full of money vultures. Or maybe it's just a belief that the more spent, the greater the depth of feeling.

Example: For my Big Day, my parents rented this expensive, old house that was in great demand by insane brides all over the peninsula. Chairs were included so that my 75 guests could sit during the ceremony and dinner except they were those garden variety, institutional beige folding metal chairs. (Nowadays, they can be disguised with slipcovers and sashes to look like short guests.) But wait! Stored right next to the ugly chairs were the deluxe, faux-bamboo gold chairs that could be rented for an extra $1.50 per. In a moment of clarity, we went with the ugly ones. It's not a given that falling in or out of love will destroy the financial center of your brain.

Warning: Cynical Divorcee

I read a lot of design blogs including Design Sponge and What I Wore and Verhext and Making it Lovely and inevitably somebody's getting married or featuring a wedding. Crikeys. Were weddings this big a deal 20 years ago when I got married? These crazy people are designing their dresses, embroidering their napkins and hand-stamping the toilet paper with their initials. (OK. I made the last one up but I bet the idea isn't far behind. Behind. Get it?) I can admire the beauty and details that go into this extravaganza for a minute before I start to feel really, really tired. I just, at this stage, can't imagine sinking this much time and money into a 5 to 6-hour celebration that has a 50% chance of ending up in a vitriolic, painful blog like this.

Sometimes Big Guns mentions that if he ever got married again he'd like to learn to dance. In my head I'm thinking IF I ever get married again the most I could muster would be a celebratory dinner at Denny's. The high risk of contracting a good case of food poisoning seems appropriate. (This makes me remember that several people got food poisoning at my rehearsal dinner, which wasn't at Denny's; but even if this was meant to be a sign, I didn't find out about until I was well betrothed.)

Snooping.

The boys slept in at their dad's today and I went to his apartment to pick them up. There's never any parking so normally I just honk and they come down but today I took ex's spot and headed up. Nobody was packed or dressed or ready to go. I should have stood in the vestibule and waited. That's what any mentally healthy person would have done but I'm ill so I took the opportunity to have a look around. I think I was hoping for pictures of HER with HIM. Except for a sticky note with the library hours, the front of the refrigerator is bare. The counter next to it is devoted to drinking: a full bar with fancy tequila, gin, wine, vermouth, and other colored elixirs. I think it -- a home bar -- is the reason he left me but that might just be my alcoholic talking. Two dirty wine glasses by the sink. Lots of poetry books everywhere. Nothing on the walls. No plants. No pets. Closed curtains. Closed windows. Stale air. NOT my house. I don't belong here.
I feel guilty for snooping but it drives home the reality that he's moved on, literally. As we leave, the boys tell me about the trip to New York or Hawaii they'll be taking with dad and the gf. I didn't make them clean up the empty cookie wrappers on the living room floor.

First day of summer.

Ick. There goes my freedom. I had a writing date with my former writing partner and both kids called me three times each to tell me things like "I'm hungry" and ask me when I'd be home. I love them but really.

Escaping from the bad neighborhood in my head.

I was chatting with a friend in the program and she mentioned that she was disposing of some pain meds (oxycodone or something) that had caused her pop to faint and for a minute, as she held them in her palms, she considered popping one just to see what it would be like. "Ah," I said, "you wanted to take a little vacation from you."That's what we addict/alcoholics struggle with: a constant desire to take a break from ourselves.

I have a little voice in my head that tells me I deserve a mini-vacation because I have more stress than the average person --  I'm divorcing, unemployed, getting older, have a funny mole on my back, my guinea pig isn't looking well and my cat is obsessively grooming and licking the fur off his flanks, and my son will be driving in eleven months. You get the idea. I have to tell that little voice to shut the fuck up. It doesn't help to be polite with it. It's like a two-year-old and doesn't respond to any wishy-washiness.

So, what does a junky/drunk/shopaholic do for a mini vacation? Meditation and prayer. Those are the only ways to escape from the bad neighborhood of Me. And they don't leave me with any remorse, resentments or regrets. Try 'em.

Met ex's gf.

I didn't expect to meet her but the big one wanted his bass and I was coming from the hairdresser -- thank God. It was awful. I had nothing to say but hello. She was cooking in the kitchen with Mario, showing him how to make gyoza or something. Happy. Happy. Happy.
Ex looked awful. I feel awful, like I don't belong anywhere, like some woman I don't know and haven't even vetted is taking my place. The house is empty and I can't find the cats. But wait, the guinea pigs are here. They live in cages and can't go anywhere. All divorced people need pets in cages.

Playing grown up.

As kids, my sister and I loved to play grown up. In our big bedroom, we had a grocery store stocked with paper mache fruit and washed out empty milk cartons and juice cans. We had a living room and a baby. We took turns playing the mom. The dad didn't have much to do but go to work (which was standing in the hallway) then calling through the door when he was coming home. The mom had all the fun -- shopping and cooking and cleaning. Now that we are grown and both real moms we can't wait to get together and act like kids.

Stop.

I say this so many times a day. When the boys are yelling in the car, or laughing too loudly or taunting each other. When they whiz by me in the kitchen on scooters or skateboards. When they whine about the internet connection being too slow, as if I could somehow speed it up. Stop! Stop! Stop! But when I'm sitting at my desk thinking I'm not looking for work hard enough or writing well enough or running far enough or eating right, do I yell stop? Nope. I've used them all up already.