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.

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.