I'd like this to end now.

Maybe an exectomy would help. I did purge my house of all photos of him, us and his family. I put them in a bag for him to deal with or throw away. I don't think I should have to deal with the all the detritus of our past. What to do with this porcelain statue of a wedding couple (a wedding gift from friends of my parents)? What to do with that old wedding dress of mine -- 25 lbs. of Scaasi designed beauty? I'm thinking Ebay.
Things are slightly better now that he's back in the country and I'm not imagining him, or rather his girlfriend, buying Hermes scarves and Prada purses at Italian prices which is just crazy since she doesn't seem the type. And is that truly, shallowly what I had my panties in a wad about? I didn't get to shop in Italy because my husband and I got divorced? I think so. Mario was excited to see ex after two weeks and excited to see what ex brought him. (Apple doesn't fall far from tree, I'm afraid.) Saturday he swung by to pick up a video game and I asked him what his dad got him. "A shirt like this," he points to the shirt on his back that ex brought back for him from ex's "you went to rehab so I get to go to Italy" trip last year, "and a bracelet." "I'm sorry," I said. But inside I was doing a jig because ex screwed up, that he forgot what he bought Mario last year and, apparently, forgot that he's a boy, at least a boy who doesn't have proclivities for jewelry. That's what I'd like to be done with. Taking joy in somebody's failures, at least somebody who hasn't been elected.

Mad men on Sansome Street

I worked three days at an agency in SF this week.

Not much has changed in the advertising world in the last ten years.

The duct work is still exposed:

Caffeine still rules. (Sorry my photo of the pile of twelve packs of soda and cupboard of coffee --Peets, yay! -- in the kitchen didn't turn out.)


Half the employees are still hungover and reliving the experience with the other half. People start drinking at 3 on Friday. That's why I loved this business! Oh, and I sat by the water cooler and was amazed at the effort all the employees made to keep well hydrated until one told me it was because they were all hungover. Good times.

Bad times. There is still this lull in creating and producing. An agency sometimes feels like an office full of people justifying their existence and living in denial. It's too embarrassing to admit that we have spent days -- days!-- finding the right sentence or color to describe a restaurant. There's this joke in advertising -- "Relax, it's not brain surgery" -- and we repeat it but nobody really means it. We care and it's shameful, shameful that we're not in Afghanistan reconstructing bodies blown apart by suicide bombers or feeding the homeless.

I was writing copy to sell newly built Residences -- calling them condos is beneath them -- in L.A. My Creative Director had a really hard time approving copy and I couldn't decide if it was because that meant we'd have to commit to something and that our job would be done and we'd finally realize that we'd become dispensable or if my copy just sucked? So I wrote numerous versions to justify my existence.

It's a beautiful, weird business full of beautiful, weird geeks.

Today's mood: Dark and cloudy. (Again.)

Lately I've been foul quite regularly. Can't blame it on hormones. What gives? I think -- and I'm just guessing -- that it may have something to do with the fact ex is in Italy with gf for two weeks and I have been with our lovely boys full time. Like most kids, they are kind, considerate and selfless, picking up after themselves, offering to make dinner, taking out the recycling without being asked numerous times. Ha ha ha ha ha. I'm laughing so hard I might need a Poise pad.

Here's how it's really going: the other morning I began waking the big one up at 7. When he finally rolled out of bed at 7:10, he yelled at me for not getting him up on time. That same morning, while he was getting his bike out of the garage, I asked for the tenth time if he'd remembered the cookies I baked for him to take to school (I sound like a saint, no?) Him: No. Can you get them for me? Me: I can't believe you... Him: Don't argue with me; just get them. Who is raising this ingrate?

I am planning my own two-week vacation to Bora Bora or New Zealand. Ex can have the boys full time for the first time in year and see how he likes it. I am also working on a bonfire-sized resentment.

Have a full-day freelance gig tomorrow. Get to act like a grown up and stuff. Woo hoo.

Another interview.

I think I want this job, even though it's on Market Street in SF. So inconvenient. Parking nearby would be $450/month. It's been so long since I've driven in -- and not through -- the city I freaked out and made a few faux pas such as hesitating during a lane change, waiting for pedestrians, and using my blinker. It's  showing weakness. Seasoned city drivers hate weakness. I got a lot of looks and head shakes and one honk.

The job? Writing for Poise or Depends, two accounts where my advanced age and female gender are advantages. I imagine it's difficult to find a hip 20-something male creative who'd jump at the chance to write about LBL (that's light bladder leakage in case you're not female). 1 in 3 women have it. I'm not one of them (yet) but the creative director -- a hip 30-something dude with quirky shoes and nonchalant hair -- said that I probably won't get it since I've already had kids. It was a strange interview but things loosen up quickly when you're discussing pee and poo. On a side note, this agency got these accounts because they did such a bang-up job on Kotex. If it comes out of a human, they handle it. They're the effluvia agency. (Not really; they do have other accounts and everybody was really nice, not like city drivers.)

Divorce relapse

I've been weepy and agitated and then I remembered that it's the anniversary of ex leaving. The mind forgets but the body doesn't. It doesn't help that ex is in Italy with his girlfriend for two weeks. All of that is bad enough but then I was looking for my birth photos (don't ask) in an enormous basket of unorganized photos of my entire life with ex and that was like walking through a minefield. Kablooey! Our honeymoon. Bam! Trip to Vegas. Boom! Quinton's fifth birthday party. I spent the rest of the day limbless and shell shocked and fell into what Big Guns and D call my teenage girl role. This is where I'm pissed and whiny that things aren't going my way and on my time. So, in an attempt to put the past behind me and move on I am posting the latest pictures of my almost grown children. Here's the oldest, who looks so much like ex:

Thank goodness I have Mario who looks like my side of the family. He's all wet from a water balloon fight at his cousin's birthday party.

Enjoy your labor day. I washed my kitchen windows!

Government LSD test. Fun with art!

This here reminds me of journals and drawings I used to find after a night of too much red wine, painkillers and "Sex and the City" reruns. (In one I had designed a line of menopause wear for women -- layers of quick-drying clothes. Most contain pages of drawings of my feet and cats.) I feel sorry for the subject matter. The art is good -- I think his tempera painting halfway into his trip is his best yet -- but imagine if somebody recording your wasted ramblings. Yikes.

Liar.

Who am I kidding? I'm not happy for my friend who's moving to London. I'm so jealous I'm actually turning green. And when I think about foggy England, it makes this heat wave we're having feel so much hotter.

Up date.

Before yesterday, I hadn't been on an interview in eight years. They haven't changed much except for length. Mine was two hours. I wrote it off thinking that a scarcity of jobs makes picky people. They can afford to take their time. (BTW it was dropped by two different people interviewing me that the job entailed a lot of project churn -- picture meat grinder -- and some of the projects weren't that creative, i.e. data input. Way to sell! I felt a bit overqualified.) Benefits: the company has nice parties and gives 4 hours a month for family obligations and free snacks! Later that day, my son's friend's dad stopped by and announced that his interview in Finland last week went great and he was starting his new job in London on Monday and moving his family across the pond in January. So much for my slow-hiring theory. His job offer included 11K/month housing allowance and a car. I'm feeling about as big as the period at the end of this sentence. But I am happy for him. Nice, little adventure.