hugs not drumsticks

As promised, a new therapy: getting hugged by these arms and having coffee with the guy attached to them is as good as or better than ice cream. And those sundaes I like that I couldn't remember the non-generic name of? This guy -- let's call him Big Guns -- reminded me they are called drumsticks. He's so so helpful.

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.