The grass is always greener in my ex's yard.

I spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. On top of that I have an active imagination and I'm an excellent story teller. For instance, I tell myself this story about how ex and the new gf go out for fancy dinners every night at beautifully decorated restaurants and drink exquisite cocktails out of sparkly glasses and throw back their heads and laugh, laugh, laugh at their luck that when they dumped their alcoholic spouses they found each other. (Ex even has a full head of hair in this story.)

My story makes me feel jealous. Apparently, I like feeling jealous because when I try and rewrite this one they just end up drinking cocktails at the beach, or in Italy, or in a sewer. Sure I hate them but I hate them more that they are normies. (That's what we AAers call people who can have one or two and stop.)  She's me before. A better, normal me. Honestly, when I see them together the first thing that crosses my mind is "Get your hands off my husband."

My contracting gig ends tomorrow and clearly I need to hit up a few meetings. As Zig Zigler (A long time ago I was engaged to a guy who made me read his book, How to win Friends and Influence People) says, "I need a check up from the neck up. I'm suffering from a hardening of the attitudes." Because another story I'm starting to tell myself sometimes is that maybe I misdiagnosed that little drinking problem of mine and that maybe I can have a martini now and then. Maybe I drank too much because I was unhappy and now that I'm so grounded and at peace...I know, even the logic doesn't work. It's all story.

Happy Thanksgiving.

She's prettier, she's a better writer, she's published two

I wrote about Suzanne Finnamore once before. She's prettier. She's a better writer. She's published three books. And now she has succinctly summed up how shitty divorce really is. I could only hate her more if she was marrying my ex. (Yes. She found true love for the second time.)

I save old purse calendars.

This is why I don't have a smart phone. I keep my old pocket calendars to look back on. This day one year ago I had an appointment with ex at the marriage therapist and then hosted the tea for my son's school's book fair. It seemed so unemotional. Where were my messy interiors? I flipped back two months to the time he moved out. That month I had noted his mother's arrival and departure flight times (Yes! The month he decides to leave his marriage of 17 years is also the month he invites his mother to come stay for two weeks!), more therapist appointments, the first day of school, and then, the most telling detail, this is the month I started marking the weekends "NK" for no kids and "K" for kids. In my calendar I appear to move through the grief process and life changes like a German--efficiently and tidily. If only.

Engagement fever!

It's scary what jealousy does for divorced folks. It appears that Jessica Simpson got engaged to her boyfriend just a week after her ex announced his engagement.  Coincidence? This pre-loved woman thinks not.

I know I've said that divorce is about money but it's also about reaching relationship nirvana before that bastard/bitch who left you. I'm told it's normal. A friend who's been divorced for something like 12 years told me she still wants her ex to burn in hell. I wouldn't go that far, but it slays me when ex appears happy with his new girlfriend. Even though I don't want him back, I don't want him to be happy. Ever. And if I happened to be enjoying a Costco-sized bag of Fritos and Diet Coke* and read in US Weekly that ex was getting married I just might go out and drop 100K on an engagement ring, too.

However, I don't think Prince William's engagement has anything to do with Jessica or Nick. I think he's just in love.

*not the actual food Jessica was eating.

Oh Nora, this is just what I need to read today.

You can read the whole thing here if you want (and maybe you should if you're thinking about divorce or thinking about talking to someone who's divorced or thinking about getting married) but this is what sang to me:

But I can't think of anything good about divorce as far as the children are concerned. You can't kid yourself about that, although many people do. They say things like, "It's better for children not to grow up with their parents in an unhappy marriage." But unless the par ents are beating each other up, or abusing the children, kids are better off if their parents are together. Chil dren are much too young to shuttle between houses. They're too young to handle the idea that the two peo ple they love most in the world don't love each other anymore, if they ever did. They're too young to under stand that all the wishful thinking in the world won't bring their parents back together. And the newfangled rigmarole of joint custody doesn't do anything to ease the cold reality: in order to see one parent, the divorced child must walk out on the other.


I can't tell you how many people told me it's better for my children to be with parents who are divorced but happy. Really? This I know: my kids don't give a shit if I'm miserable, suicidal, and their dad dislikes me so much he can't even stand to share a bed with me and sleeps on the couch. No, all they care about is that we all live under the same roof. An intact family. Period. People don't seem to believe me when I say I would have stayed in a much, much worse marriage not to have to split my family apart but it's true. I'm not a martyr --(OK, I am but not in this case)--I just value my children's happiness more than my own marital bliss which, even if I was married to Matt Damon I know would be tested regularly. Matt's got moods and probably misses the toilet bowl occasionally like every other man I've ever lived with.

This would be a fine place to end and I should but I'm feeling pissy this week. Every day at lunch I head off walking toward the bridge thinking it would be a fine day to jump but turn around before I'm halfway there because apparently all I needed was fresh air. Anyway, my mistake was marrying a guy who didn't share this value. Although he told me that Hollywood love was just that--make believe--I think he was projecting, trying to convince himself of this. And you know, I have realized that the other major character flaw he accused me of throughout our marriage--extreme judgment  --was also a projection. I have proof. I went to a therapist and a psychic to work on my judgment issues and they both said I didn't seem to have any. (Of course, there were plenty, back up a dump truck, of other issues to work on but judgment wasn't one of them.) Take that, ex! For twenty years he hid behind this mild, academic demeanor but underneath was judgment dude. Mr. Judgment. His dismissive comments about my choice of television programs, certain family members, even the kind of cheese I bought should have tipped me off but that's the beauty of projection. You keep the people around you off balance, accusing them of things you don't want them to notice about you. Politicians do it all the time. It probably doesn't work on people with strong centers who know who they are. That's not me. Yet. Ex is 50 today. We all get our comeuppances. 

4 PM on November 2...

20 years ago, I was about to get married. At least I think I was; I can't remember what time the actual ceremony took place. Isn't that weird? I could tell you what we served (game hens with dried apricot stuffing), what I wore (Scaasi satin), and probably the names of all the people who attended. There was a lovely band with a red-headed singer who told me I had the most beautiful wedding dress she'd ever seen and she'd seen a lot of them. The caterer sent us back to our hotel with two extra dinners in a basket. I wanted to go down to the bar and continue partying with my friends. Two years ago in therapy Alan admitted that he had grave reservations about the marriage because of my desire to be with my friends and not with him: that for him, that was the sign that he'd made THE MISTAKE. I didn't go downstairs; we stayed in our suite and I accidentally locked the door that connected our two rooms -- me on one side, him on the other -- and had to call housekeeping to help us. Maybe that was the sign I'd made THE MISTAKE? Over the next 18 years, the signs got bigger -- Getting polluted at ex's Xmas party and flirting shamelessly with his boss makes spending part of my wedding night in a bar with my friends seem downright cute -- but we got just better at ignoring them. And that, people, is the true mistake.

Hell is an open pit of sensitive, hormonal women.

Dear Universe,

Thank you for the job. It's been just great, really, and I've learned so much, including the fact that, although being poor and unemployed has its drawbacks, it's not that bad being the only irritable, annoying person in the room. At least as my own co-worker I have enough compassion to suggest a baby Snicker's bar or a nap would be more helpful than telling me to stop fucking touching the things on my desk.

Mostly what I've learned, Universe, is that this job doesn't quite fit me. I'm afraid my life's purpose is not proofing 9 pt. legal lines in Intel's retail advertising. I'm sorry. I hope I don't sound ungrateful. I'm still a big, big fan but maybe you could send me something a touch more meaningful (legal lines for an organic milk producer?) Or possibly a well-placed lightning bolt -- I'll be walking down Market Street around 5:45 tonight. (But you already knew that.)

Smooches,
eileen