Ripping off the bandaid every week.

We still go to marriage counseling every week, although I have chosen to call it co-parent counseling. I can't do it anymore. It's too painful and fools me into believing we are there because we might get back together and I don't know if I want that so I won't have to face all these changes or if I want that because I could love the ex again but then I realize that this thinking is futile to explore because -- reality check! -- we're two weeks away from being legally divorced.

Last week I showed up angry and defensive which is how I show up when I'm anxious and scared and, thanks to the therapist, ended up blubbery, snotty and smeared with tears. (Oddly, she has this type of Kleenex that leaves white fluff on my face and in my eyelashes that I have to pick off later -- usually after I've been to Costco.) Why? 'Cause she asked me what I'd miss about being married to the ex and I said it: having a person watching my back, having a first reader who I trusted, having another adult in the house to take over or run parenting issues by, and because the ex is one of the few people in the entire world who can make me laugh. Does it help to say these things out loud or does it just hurt? Then he said a few things he would miss and the only one I remember is that he said he would also miss being my reader. Being the co-dependent piece of shit the world revolves around I assumed he considered this a chore. Then he described my writing in the most appropriate way: desolate and funny. I may use this description in my query letter if I ever get around to sending out my novel. I just can't handle anymore rejection right now. I don't even like it when my cats ignore me. I have to remember my friend D's motto: DTIP, don't take it personally.

Sobriety check!

I was driving down El Camino in Redwood City last night and was funneled between traffic cones and stopped by the police. There was a news van and police cars everywhere. I thought that somebody had been run over. I rolled down my window and the officer asked me if I'd had anything to drink this evening. Oh, sobriety check point. I got this one! I replied "I haven't had anything to drink in almost two years." After a stressful, difficult week that felt pretty good.

The latest: my baby is a bit of a dictator -- bossy, imperial, and proud. He's been getting away with this for years because he's so cute and my ex and I are cream-filled, undercooked pushovers. Big guns doesn't like it. On top of that, my baby doesn't like big guns for obvious reasons -- he's dating his mother, he's not his father and, probably most pertinent, big guns has his number. My baby hung up the phone on big guns on Xmas eve. I saw it and it wasn't good. It meant I was really going to have to do something. But why now? Why big guns? Why Xmas eve? Big discussions with my baby and his brother. Big tears. Big emotions. Baby steps toward our new life. His big brother's words of wisdom: "Why don't you just try being nice and see what that gets you?" Then, in response to his brother's complaint that big guns isn't always nice to him, big brother said those two things are not related. (I'm just learning that now.) That kid -- I used to call him the Dalai Lama. I wish I could take credit for it but he's been a Buddha from birth. I was born negative, he was born wise.

I don't want to be negative. I just write that way.

I woke up excited because it's my niece's birthday and we're having dinner out tonight and I get to put on this beautiful pair of Chloe shoes:

First I had to get Kitten to the vet. Well before that, I had to find him then wrangle his 16-lbs. of floppy, fighting fur into his carrier. He knows when I'm even thinking "vet" because he started wrestling as soon as I picked him up followed by fifteen minutes of woman vs. beast. I won but then the car wouldn't start so I guess Kitten really won. He went back to napping and I spent the morning and $166 at the car dealer getting a new battery installed. On the good side, they had Vogue and People magazines in the waiting area (the last time I was there it was Auto World and Business Week) so I got to read all about Oprah and look at pictures of TomKat who's daughter, Suri, was photographed wearing an outfit that cost more than my car battery. (Except the whole reason for the story was to dispel rumors that Katie spends way too much money on her daughter's clothes.) Damn, I'm being negative again. It just comes naturally, like breathing.

Speaking of negative, I've mentioned I'm dating a man, Big Guns. What I'm about to admit to isn't exactly news, but dating isn't a way around the pain of divorce. Oh no. In fact, it's like I'm juggling the divorce and then I've gone and thrown another ball into the air. Clearly, in the early stages of feeling intensely rejected by my ex, the attentions of Big Guns felt affirming--"You think the way I smack my food is cute?" But now? It's just another relationship that requires work. I can write about this because Big Guns only reads Flex, the Harley parts catalog, and ThunderPress, a magazine that's full of beauty shots of bikes being straddled by women with very, very large bosoms which seem like non-sequiturs to me -- the girls and the big tits. Anyway, it's kind of refreshing dating a person who doesn't have a PhD in literature like the ex and who'll never finish reading something of mine and ask if all the grammatical errors are a post-modern literary device.

Look! Another piece of shrapnel.

I had the realization the other day that the only other person who loves my children unconditionally as much as I do is this man who no longer loves me. It feels so wrong. I miss having a person who delights in my cute kid stories or who I can unabashedly brag to about my boys. Which is why at times I find myself all the way back at the beginning of the grief process, way back at disbelief and denial. Then I notice myself wondering if we'll get back together again and what that would be like. What would he do with that new sofa of his? (It's amazing how quickly I forget how hostile he was in the last year and how he doesn't even seem to like me anymore.) The emotional weather in my head is unpredictable and scary. It's like Denver -- sunny and warm then snowing and frigid.

Pre-loved movie review: Up in the Air, plus a bonus DVD review

George Clooney is the Cary Grant of my generation. Rakish, devilish, hairy-chest handsome, my favorite kind of man actor. His latest film is my favorite genre, a modern-day romance. And I watched it alone, which is my favorite way to see a movie. Maybe all these things make me biased but I loved "Up in the Air." The banter was witty a la Philadelphia Story, funny at times, dark at others and not sappy. The dialogue just sparkled. I don't know who wrote the script -- Reitman? -- but it's good.

Speaking of sappy, I also watched Julie and Julia on DVD. Of course I loved the Julia part; she's a great character. Americans love people who defy convention, especially ones who show up the French. I did not love so much the Julie character. I don't know if it was the actor (Amy Adams) or the script, but she seemed cliche. (OK. I really hated the way she kept pronouncing beouf or however you spell the French word for beef. Really hated it.) As a butter-loving woman, I feel disloyal, that I should stand in solidarity with my sisters and love this movie. As a consolation, my 11-year-old son is home with a sore throat and a headache and he's loving it. No cliches in my household.

Hemorrhaging money

I've opened a vein this month and the bloodletting is ongoing -- on top of Xmas, my car needed four new tires ($600) and $1,200 of service, the cats had to go to the vet ($200), and the garage door broke ($100).

The ex has a modest inheritance from dead aunt Una and uncle Howard. The fact that I had to drive three hours with babies and toddlers to spend a few tortuous afternoons with them makes me feel I should get at least some of it but the law states that any gifts or inheritance received during marriage is NOT shared. This, along with tight underwear and slow drivers, pisses me off.
Yesterday the ex stopped by to pick up a fat check from the IRS made out to both of us but which was an additional refund from the inheritance and, therefore, not mine. I can't tell you how it hurt handing him that thing. I couldn't; I had to place it on the table between us and let him pick it up. My heart rate is elevating just reliving it.

As a consolation, there is something called a 2460 which entitles me to get back the money I had saved pre-marriage which we used to buy our first house and build this vast real estate empire. As he is sitting on Howard and Una's fat nest egg, yesterday I asked the ex if I could have my money back early but he declined. Does any of this change anything? Does it alter who I am? I need a nap.

Surprised kitty is here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Bmhjf0rKe8

The ultimate mood lifter. Legal and free!

Surprised Kitty

http://www.flixxy.com/surprised-kitty.htm

I don't know if I did this correctly so I included the web address. I am going to be one of those crazy, old cat ladies, aren't I? My house full of cat toys and litter boxes a la Big Edie. Help me.

2009's tree

It's a Noble Fir. It cost $80!! I don't like it. What I like is a tree with big spaces between the branches so that the ornaments swing freely. My favorite tree was one I got from my dad's tree farm two years ago. It was so spindly I had to tie it to the curtain rod so that it wouldn't fall over but it was 10-feet tall and had huge spaces between the branches. It was like a supermodel -- skinny and plain when unadorned but spectacular once dressed. Tree as ornament hanger. 

I don't wanna be one of those persnickety women who drags her family from tree lot to tree lot looking for the right one but, dang it, I am that woman. Next year, I going to embrace her and buy her a double grande pumpkin spice latte.