Human

Fan or Foe?

Million-Dollar Baby

My mother and I had a regularly-scheduled shopping routine, based on the days in which we knew certain stores would mark down clearance items. Target was a sure bet to mark down clearance on Wednesdays. Thursdays might indicate large mark-downs at Kohl’s. And, of course, we had our usual Saturday shopping date, to hit Target yet again, as well as peruse the mall. Our true goal was to find the best clearance items. The bigger the markdown, the more excited we got, like an addict getting a much-needed hit. Apart from groceries and basic household essentials, I came to a point where I would only purchase items on clearance, and I would make a determination on an item based on how I thought it would sell: if it was marked down to 50 percent off, did it look like a big seller at that price? Or should I hold out, hoping that the item will hit 75 percent off, and I will be lucky enough to get it for that price. My mother once asked me the question of if I thought we’d still buy only clearance items should we become millionaires. Well, of course, I told her. We would still buy our clearance items; we’d just buy more of it.
     When I married my former ex-husband, my mother began to immediately purchase clothes and supplies, for a baby that was neither conceived nor planning to be conceived any time in the near future. This did not matter to her. If she spotted a good clearance on anything from clothes to bottles to pacifiers to toys, she snatched the item up and packed it away in a Rubbermaid bin, safely tucked away for her anticipated grandchild.
     My ex-husband and I waited five years to have a child. By this time, a closet in my mother’s guest bedroom was stacked from floor to ceiling with bin after bin, all filled with clothing and what she found to be essentials. In those bins contained wardrobes for both a boy or a girl, from single to octuplets, so she was ready and prepared for either. In fact, she was so much so prepared that I did not have to purchase a single item of clothing for my child until the age of five.
     When contemplating a future plan of having children, I knew that first and foremost, I needed to have a girl. Some people want one or the other; others are simply happy to have a healthy baby. But for me, having a girl was a need, an essential, if I wanted any quality of life. In a conversation with a former coworker, I once announced that there was no possible way that I would ever give birth to a boy, because clearly that would be a sign of the universe unleashing hatred toward me, and I doubted I could love a boy, anyway. She nearly doubled over laughing at such a statement, one that was so bold and so narcicisstic, it nearly makes me skin prickle now.
     After 15 long months of attempting to conceive a baby, I finally got a positive pregnancy test. At the very first ultrasound, my child was a 7-week-old embryo, the size of a grain of rice. I demanded to know if the technician could see the gender of my child. She looked at me in bewilderment, and explained that that wasn't possible, as those organs had not yet been formed, much less anywhere near the size of being visible.
     I spent my time online reading pregnancy articles on various sites, and always advertised was the "Know Your Child's Sex as Early as 11 Weeks!" Though I knew it was likely a hoax, I coveted this product. Every time the pop-up appeared, I opened it and stared, thinking about getting my credit card out. Why did the test need to cost $250? After all, I was administering it myself--no doctor or medical professional required--and I'd learned that the pregnancy tests from Dollar Tree were more accurate than the more expensive pharmacy ones, so what could really be in this test that would require it to be so expense. I'd glare at the screen, perhaps enter my info, but then make it to the section to enter my payment method and quit. It was an epic test of my patience, waiting to find out if this now raisin-sized child I was carrying was a girl or a boy.
     When my big ultrasound finally came along after an agonizing 18-week wait, I was thrilled. I chugged a can of Sunkist orange soda, because I wanted my fetus to be riled up and moving around, allowing flashes of private parts. The wait in the reception room was agonizing, partially because it was finally the day that I could know the answer, and also because the Sunkist that I guzzled was causing my bladder to feel like a water-filled balloon ready to pop at any second. I mumbled under my breath and complained repeatedly to my ex-husband; who were these people at this clinic, making me wait like this! I analyzed the other pregnancy candidates in the waiting area, and found myself to be of much greater calabur than they were, as I often saw teenage girls who my nurse told me she needed to use child-sized blood pressure cuffs on, because they were so slight. Why should these girls get their ultrasound before me? After all, I was much older, and therefore I'd waited a much longer time than they have for this moment!
    When my name was finally called--45 minutes after my scheduled time--I nearly stormed through the waiting room and behind the double doors to get this party started. It was much to my dismay when I found my ultrasound technician to be a male. Is this an appropriate job for a male, I thought? Sure, I could see men doing ultrasounds of other areas of the body, but men don't even have the anatomical parts that they were viewing! I most certainly did not wish to discuss my reproductive health and habits with this strange man!
     Perhaps worst of all, my male technician was the silent type. My big belly was fully exposed, covered in the clear, sticky ultrasound gel. He slowly ran the wand across my stomach, saying nothing. He did not point out a single feature of my now pear-sized child: no head, no hands, no feet, no butt and certainly no reproductive organs. Finally, the silence in the room was too much, and I blurted out, "So, can you tell what it is? Is it a girl or a boy? Do the parts look like a hamburger or a hotdog?"
    He glanced at me with no more enthusiasm or excitement than he'd already expressed throughout the entire experience. He glumly answered, "It looks like a girl to me...do you happen to be seeing your doctor after this appointment?"
     Most pregnant women would freeze at the words "do you happen to be seeing your doctor" while undergoing an ultrasound. Not I. I had already moved on to crying tears of joy that I was indeed having the little girl I insisted that I would have.
     The technician mumbled something about needing to leave the room for a moment, and when he did, I looked over at my husband with sheer excitement, overjoyed that we were having a girl. It was a time when no words would've been needed, but he looked at me and dully said, "Well, I guess it's for the best for everyone: for the baby, for you, for me. I don't know what you would've done if they'd told you it was a boy".
     When the technician returned, he brought with him the high-risk pregnancy specialist, who had to run a separate screen to analyze. My still-baking-in-the-oven girl was not cooperative at showing certain parts of her body--genitals excluded--and needed additional shots of her heart, to ensure four chambers, and of her limbs, to certify all four existed. Having an expert present was excellent by my standards. This meant I could get a second opinion on the sex of my child, just to be sure. When asked, she replied with, "I'm 99 percent sure that you've got a girl there. If I'm wrong, I'll come over to your house and repaint the nursery for you".
     When sent back to the waiting room to wait for my doctor, I gushed to my husband and quickly scanned the Internet for bedding. Before my name was even called, I had already selected her nursery theme; black and white gingham, enhanced by pink French poodles. How perfect...and the pinker, the better.
     When my doctor did call me back for my appointment, he asked how I was, and instead of describing how I was feeling, I answered simply with, "I'm having a girl". He replied with the same enthusiasm as my husband, likely grateful that I was having a girl, and likely even more grateful that the ultrasound footage taken by the specialist did not reveal any defects I had to be aware of.
   
     As a parent of a girl, one thing you most look forward to your daughter's first dance recital. You imagine your tiny little girl, hair in ringlets and bows, wearing a costume with much sparkle, gliding across the stage with poise and ease. I can still imagine the feel of my daughter's very first dance recital dress; it had a white satin top with poofy sleeves, and a navy blue velvet flared skirt that twirled along with her so beautifully. In her ringlets we placed a big pink satin bow, finishing off the look I had dreamed of for so long.
     When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, her one hope was to live long enough to see her granddaughter's recital. She was determined to go, even if she was wheeled in in a hospital gown with an oxygen mask. Sadly, she did not make this goal, and died one month before the dance recital.
     The evening of the dance recital was bittersweet; I was so happy to see my beautiful Shirley Temple-esque daughter perform, but I was devastated to not have my mom next to me. Actually, I was to have no one next to me. I had vowed not to date for 1,000 days, and the day my mom was admitted to hospice, an enormous fight broke out amongst my social clique, and I was the weak link who got tossed out of the 30-something Mean Girls clique.
     In an unusually generous move, my ex-husband offered to allow me to sit with him, his girlfriend and her children, which, quite frankly is the ideal situation for normal co-parents, which we were not, as he stated so clearly to the judge upon our divorce. I certainly did not wish to be sitting with the man I could not escape from for 13 years thanks to the fact that we shared a child, but it was still better than sitting alone.
     In my small town, the fresh flower supply had been exhausted by the dance recital. There was not even a bouquet of filler stems, much less an actual floral bouquet, to be found anywhere. I resigned myself to buying fake, oddly-colored silk flowers at Walmart. I discovered them in the Memorial Day section, so they were meant to be placed on the graves of loved ones, not given to a 5-year-old child after her first dance recital.
     I met my ex-husband and his girlfriend at the school where the recital was to be held, and while walking down the stairs, I refrained from kicking his girlfriend in the back of the knee, a move that would've most certainly taken her down, as penance for the fact that she was the other woman my ex cheated on me with during our entire seven-year marriage. I spared her, not out of kindness but rather out of the fact that I am a Jackie and not a Marilyn, and such behavior would be completely uncouth.
    When we reached the entrance to the auditorium, I found a local floral vendor selling live roses, and I had to stop to buy a half-dozen, to make up for the pile of burnt orange silk and plastic roses I'd purchased earlier. I was disappointed that the only color left was red, because red was just so...traditional. I'd once had a fiance who sent flowers at least once per month, and it was almost always red roses. I recall that Jackie Kennedy was given red roses upon landing at Love Field in Dallas on the day of her husband's assassination, and her bewildered comment that she repeated over and over while grieving: she was confused to be handed red roses, when the state flower of Texas was a yellow rose. Nevertheless, with red as my only choice, I quickly grabbed my flowers, some still thorny and dripping cold water.
     My ex-husband assured me that it was fine for me to stop to buy the flowers, and that he would be sure to save me a seat. Alas, with fresh roses placed in my arms, I entered the darkened auditorium, and I wasn't able to spot my ex anywhere. His hair is black, so it was fully understandable that I could not see him, but his girlfriend has wildly bleached-out hair that I had previously assumed glowed in the dark simply from the amount of peroxide it held. I was wrong. Not able to find them, I slinked over to a seat in the far corner of the auditorium, and tucked myself in an empty row, just me there, wearing my favorite vintage dress, teal with black embroidery, that reminded me so much of Jackie Kennedy, with its sleek A-line skirt, sash and silky finish.
     Tucked away in the darkened auditorium, slinking down like a hermit with an extreme social disorder, my thoughts ran wild. Those jerks, I thought to myself. They obviously did this on purpose, and what kind of people do that, anyway? Who leaves the mother of his child alone and shivering in the corner merely one month after her mother's death? I took solace only in the fact that I was wearing my beautiful Jackie Kennedy dress, a look that the girl with the glow in the dark hair could never pull off, though my beloved dress was quickly becoming soaked with tears.
     After my daughter performed--lovely amongst a group of other girls in which one fell, one went screaming off the stage and the rest stood and looked around--the spotlight suddenly illuminated my ex. I could see his black hair glistening from the half-bottle of hair gel he applied every morning in the glare of the spotlight. I had found them, and there was most certainly not a seat saved for me. I spent the remaining time glaring in his direction, silently thinking of a menagerie of insults and willing them to teleport across the auditorium and into his psyche.
     At intermission, the lights came on, and I could see them in full, glaring color. My anger was building and building as I rose from my seat, calmly grabbed my handbag and my bouquet of roses and began to make my way over to them.
     He never saw me coming, never noticed me creeping up from behind, likely because he was too busy stroking that glow in the dark hair of his girlfriend, who was not even been born by the time my ex-husband graduated from middle school. The closer I got, the angrier I got, and in a totally uncharacteristic move for me, I snuck up behind him and proceeded to beat him across the head with the bouquet of roses. Petals of the red dewy roses flew through the air, and I was silently praying the thorns would break through the protective plastic on the flowers, inflicting even more damage. I secretly imagined that the scene looked like the backseat of JFK's limo after he was assassinated, with Jackie's red roses laying everywhere, petals and stems scattered in the blood of the deadly shot.
     After I had hit him in the head several times, he and his girlfriend stared at me with a look equivalent to one that you would use when seeing a serial killer, not quite believing your eyes. I blurted out my hatred toward them--for leaving me all alone at my daughter's dance recital, suffering quietly in the corner--and I quickly turned and walked away.
     I very calmly walked back to my seat in the back corner, feeling nothing. As time went by, I considered this situation and realized this is probably how people inadvertantly become murderers: they set out with no intention of murdering, but someone does something that angers them to a point where there is no more rationality and they act with no forethought whatsoever.
 When I arrived back at my seat, I carefully placed my rose bouquets on the empty seat beside me, smoothed my A-line skirt and calmly sat down. I was acutely aware of the fact that approximately one-half of a city of 6,000 people had just witnessed me physically assaulting my ex-husband with flowers meant for our daughter, and I wished that I could tell them my side of the story, because if they knew, they would most certainly side with me and agree that the flower-beating was well deserved. I had to instead take comfort in the fact that I looked lovely in my dress and designer handbag, and they looked like country hicks, held hostage by a town and a culture that discouraged any independence or thinking.
     After the recital, my ex-husband and I avoided any eye contact, despite the fact that we had to both congratulate our daughter in the same room. I noticed a scratch on his cheek, and smiled smugly. Sure, he could've gotten that scratch while shaving, but I liked the idea of me causing it with my sneak attack.
     As the recital was held on a Friday evening, I had plenty of time over the weekend to think about my poor behavior. Sure, I felt some guilt, but not enough to make me want to apologize. Instead I felt more embarrassment, knowing that a great number of people had watched and now likely considered me mentally insane, which at that time, it was quite possible that I was.
    When I went to work on Monday, I guiltly admitted the story to my co-workers, even though it was starting to become an amusing memory. Craig, one of our season cleaning helpers, was at the same receital to see his granddaughter. Mercifully, he had not witnessed the floral attack, but said to me, "Eh, a man's not really a man until a woman has smacked him in the head with some flowers".

 

Well, well, well...

Here we find ourselves catapulting from the year 2011 to the year 2015, much like space travel into a whole new world. Yet again I have made myself promises and resolutions to blog and to do so on a regular basis, both for practice and because this way, I will have fresh material should I fall behind on a submission deadline at graduate school, where I am diligently working away to earn my MFA in creative non-fiction writing. My arrival at my graduate school intensive residency was disheartening, as all of the mentors tried to explain to me the remote possibility that I could become famous with a NYT best seller, and that perhaps I should focus my attention on a possible career teaching English and Composition at a community college.

Nevertheless, I still have not yet let go of my notions of fame and fortune, and I occasionally practice signing books, because I want to be ready when the time comes for my book tour.

There is virtually nothing in my life that has not changed since I last posted four years ago, and many of my changes have been more like struggles, along the lines of the Whack-a-Mole arcade game at Chuck-e-Cheese. I have faced terminal illness (not my own, obviously); death; probate court; custody court; a move to a new area in an attempt to get a fresh start, of which has failed thus far; almost charged with a felony and many, many more fun stories to come.

I promise.

I'm Sorry For "That" Night...

So, as it would seem, it is February. Once again. And it seems that every February, I commit myself to blogging, and follow through for like, a month. And then I find something else that takes my attention away, like Facebook or match.com or something of that mind-numbing effect.

However, this time I am insisting that it be different, if only because I myself am looking for a mind-numbing effect--for myself. Sure, a little Klonopin is good, but only last so long, because before you know it, all those haunting thoughts are back.

Remember the guy I talked about in my last post, oh, about six months ago? Gushed about how he was perfect in every way? How I was convinced that he was my soul mate, and we'd be together forever and ever and ever? Turns out, I might have been just a little bit wrong...actually, more than just a little bit wrong.

After the arrival of the wild-cherry appliances that he so graciously bought me, things went downhill rapidly. This was around the time that we integrated our kids, so we then lived together full-time, officially. What I didn't realize by "live together full-time, officially", was that he thought this meant, "act as my slave and take care of my three children who will come and go at their own will, without any discussion with you, leave the house trashed and you can clean up the mess, because I am totally oblivious to the kids, much less the mess".

I was so determined to make this relationship work. So determined. First of all, after moving in together on a part-time basis, I had a lot of people to prove wrong--all those people who said it wouldn't work. Second, I once read in a book that the Kennedy family relied on two "rules": Kennedys don't cry and Kennedys don't fail. Failure was simply not an option for me. I could not fail at this relationship. No matter how badly things were going downhill, I would put up with anything and everything to avoid this so-called failure.

So, for about five months, I just took everything as it came, and spent much time defending my now-ex, who was quickly growing less and less favorable among my friends and family. I wish that I could tell you what I did during this time. I cannot. It's like my mind blocked it out, that I have no real memory of those months, other than a blur. I do know what I didn't do, a long list that includes reading a single magazine book, cleaning the house and doing really fun things, like drinking with my friends. After the relationship ended, my mom asked me what I did during all those months, and I had to admit that I had no clue. What did I do? Work all day, and then come home and worship him? This is what must I have been doing, because he was constantly glued to his computer, working on his medieval fiction "novel", so I should've had plenty of time for things, but I just didn't.

Sometimes, I think our minds block things out, or blur memories, just because we couldn't handle it if we had to re-live it like it was. I once had a horrible car accident, and I remember very little of it, despite the fact that I injured my shoulder and not my head. I've always credited this to the mind shielding you from such things, because if you really did remember what it was like, you may never drive again, in the example of a car accident. In this case of my deleted memories, I'd never date again if I fully realized what those eight months were like.

One of the things that my mind likes to block out is that the relationship turned from enchanting and perfect to abusive, just like that. At one point, I remember something irritating him, and I just saw the anger in his eyes, saw him grow cold. I even commented on it, about how I'd hate to see him truly angry. He smiled, but said nothing.

I got my first dose of his true anger when his teenage daughters were in my living room with my dog, and they both tried to rip a toy our of his mouth, because the dog has an awful habit of eating most every toy my daughter owns. He snarled and snapped, though he didn't actually bite or even make skin contact. But when my ex found this out, he hurt my dog. He literally beat my dog right in front of me. I was frozen, I was shaking and I couldn't move. At 32, it will always be a moment that I will remember as the loss of my own innocence, because no one had ever been violent like that in front of me. Shaking, I locked myself in the spare bedroom with my dog, not knowing what to do. I called the doctor the next day and asked for a prescription of Valium, only to be shot down because evidently, this is no longer the age of 'Valley of the Dolls'. Who knew?

And thus began the start of the demise of what we "had". I should've made him leave after that. A person that can hurt your animal is clearly void of feelings, and the bad news is that oftentimes, you are up next on the hit list. And I was. Not so many people knew, until the grand climax, the final event, when I was covered in bruises and could no longer hide it. I mean, c'mon. What can you really do in a situation like that? It's not like I could simply announce to my friends and coworkers, "Hey, I had a great day. I didn't get shoved into the wall today", even though that's what it was like. And "what it was like" is hard to put a label on. One of the few people who did know that there was some physical abuse in my relationship asked me after it was over...why did I put up with that? Why? As a criminal defense lawyer, he'd represented so many of these abusive jerks, but why me? Why would I stay, why would someone like me put up with that? After all, I wasn't the stereotype--I have a college education, my own house, my own income, I didn't share any children with him. I had no answer, but his question will always echo through my mind, because is there really a stereotypical woman that this happens to? As I learned, it can happen to any one of us...and you might not ever know.

By early December, I started to have "that feeling". You know, that instinctual feeling women have when they know deep down that their man isn't being faithful? Yeah, that feeling. And I was all-out paranoid, to the point of checking his phone and his Facebook and any other outlet I could find. And there was my evidence: his correspondence with some woman that he had a brief "relationship" with, who lived out of state. I saw the messages. I confronted. He admitted to the emotional affair. It was like someone had pulled the carpet out from under me. I mean...really? This woman was barely a two, and I am darn near a 10. Why on earth would he continue this "emotional affair" with this woman--a hamburger, no cheese--when he had me--filet mignon--at home?

We slept separately that night, me in the kids' room with my daughter, and him in my bed. The next day, he brought me roses, and I tossed them on the bed to die. That gesture didn't make a bit of difference. I mean, really? Did he really think that this would make up for the fact that he hadn't been emotionally faithful from day one?

I was so exhausted from the emotion that I took a nap that afternoon, and I awoke with a startle. Before I even opened the bedroom door, I knew that he was gone. I knew, because I could just sense it. And when I came out, all I had to do was look at the desk, and his laptop was gone. It was pretty clear at that point. But really? I mean, seriously? Who the hell just up and walks out on his live-in girlfriend with no warning, no reason--and while she's taking a nap, for God's sake? Suddenly, my life was playing out like a Lifetime Television for Women movie.

He didn't anticipate me being up when he walked back into the house to continue to gather his belongings. And when he did, the inevitable fight ensued, with him eventually getting to the point of throwing me against the wall, pinning me there and daring me to hit him in the face. Why? Probably because then he would've felt justified in punching me in the face. And all I knew--even at that moment--was that that would absolutely not happen. There are so few things that cannot be taken away from a person, and one of mine is my face. I'd made a "career" off that face, with years of pageants and local modeling. There was no way that I'd allow him even a split second to take a swing.

He backed off me at some point, and I calmly got my cell phone and called the police. He fled the house, taking off so quickly that he did not even bother to close his trunk before he left. The police were at my house in a matter of minutes, too soon for the physical bruises to show. There was no real evidence of what had happened. Sure, I could file a police report, but without physical evidence, little would come of it. So, I didn't.

And then I don't really know what happened for the rest of that night, and maybe even for that weekend, and the week after that and the week after that. My bruises were glowing for all to see by Monday, and I should've followed through and filed the police report. But I didn't. I was truly scared. Scared that he would come back and hurt me, or my daughter or my dogs. So I let it go, a decision that I regret to this day. Had I pressed charges, at least it would've been on his record, right? It's typical practice for me to run a criminal background check on all of my dates, as downright creeper-ish as that sounds. And he only had a few speeding tickets--big deal. But would I have changed my mind if he'd had domestic assault charges on his record? I don't know...

I have so little memory of the week that would follow. I still wonder, why? Why was I pushing myself so hard to just jump back into my regular life, even though this break-up was the equivalent of going through another divorce--two divorces in one year. How strong did I have to be? Why could I not allow myself time and space to grieve what was truly a gigantic loss?

My friend H came over the night that he left me. That I do remember, but I don't remember how she got there...did I call or text her? Obviously, I must've, because as great as she is, I don't think she would've had the psychic ability to show up at that exact moment, wine bottle in hand. And I remember that I let her smoke in my house, and for the next few weeks sat the wine bottle stuffed with cigarettes from that night. I simply didn't have the energy to even put it in the recycling bin. A few nights later, H sent her boyfriend over, and I just remember sobbing--all out gasping sobbing--on his shoulder, and asking the inevitable question of why, why, why. WHY? Why would a man just up and leave like that? But there is no answer, no answer that would ever make sense. By the end of the first week, I did virtually did nothing but cry, work, and cry. I went to my primary care doctor to announce my nervous breakdown, and she looked at me like I was a drug addict when I announced that I wanted something stronger than Klonopin to take the edge off the pain I was feeling. Again, I was shot down. I totally don't understand this. Evidently, from the impression I've been given, these prescription drugs used to be widely prescribed in the 1960s. What about me? Is this to say that I have less pain that someone would've had in the 1960s, and that I should just tough it out? I think not.

The only good thing that came of my doctor's visit was that she wrote me an excuse to get me out of work for a few days. It sounds silly now: "Please excuse J because she is having a nervous breakdown from a recent breakup". And then since I got to stay home, I could orchestrate my schedule of cry, sleep, cry. And it was during this time that I learned that my ex had beautifully executed his escape: I realized that his mail was no longer coming to my house. He'd already changed his address. He'd already arranged for help in moving his kids' beds out of my house, and had I delved further into his Facebook messages, I would've discovered that. Not only did he leave me, he PLANNED to leave me, all while pretending he loved me and that we would be together forever.

To get over the pain, I figured the absolute best thing to do would be to date. As quickly as possible, as much as possible. I went out with four men, within four weeks. The first one came along before I'd even disposed of the infamous wine bottle. But with each of these guys, I found their flaws, virtually immediately. "Red flags", everyone tells me they are called. And it would seem that by analyzing the red flags I'd been handed, each and every one of these men was interested in one thing: bashing me to build himself up.

Needless to say, I discontinued dating, because now it just seems like some half-assed sitcom that comes on in the middle of a season to fill time. It'll likely get cancelled because it sucks. Now I deal with my self-fulfilling prophecy of being alone for the rest of my life. And everyone asks, would that really be so terrible? Really? After all you've been through? But yeah. It would really be that terrible. Sometimes, I am consumed with hatred for my life. This wasn't at all what it was supposed to be, and the majority of that was caused by my own poor decisions. But where's my happy ending?

The entire thing--maybe even the entire relationship, looking back with perspective--was so hurtful that I wish, more than anything, that I could just give the whole thing back. I'd give back every single minute of those eight months, just to re-gain my own innocence and to un-break my own heart, not to mention that of my daughter's. She still asks when we will get a "new boyfriend", still tells me that she loves my ex, still calls his oldest daughter "my girl". And now I am lost...I brought him into my life, believing that he was it. And now what? He wasn't. My daughter is now four. I don't want to have a revolving door of men around her, so now I will forever question every relationship, every everything. I don't known when--or even IF--I'd allow a man to meet my daughter.

My heart is heavy with the implications of what I did: I allowed someone to move into my house, and I didn't even know him. Even if I didn't fail at the relationship, because so much of what happened was his doing, I failed myself and I failed my daughter. I have to swallow my own pride, and apologize to the two of us for "that" night, when I was so enchanted by this guy--this stranger--that I drew him completely into our worlds, and then eight months later, all of my beautifully executed plans imploded. I have to learn to forgive myself for that, for what may be the poorest decision of my adulthood. I'd like to say that my daughter won't remember this experience, but she will. And with all of me, I hope that she knows that was not okay, and the way Mommy allowed herself to be treated is not okay, ever.

As far as the ex...I don't really know what happened to him, where he lives, what he's doing. He hasn't contacted me since he left me. For the first couple of weeks, I had a really strong feeling that he was around--like that mid-1980s song that Michael Jackson did the chorus of, "I always feel like somebody's watching me...". And then, conveniently, my ex-husband ran into him at the gas station. For all the crappy things that happened throughout our marriage, the guy still does care, and it is in my benefit that he has the size advantage over my ex. After the gas station run-in--and my ex-husband did not even have a conversation with my ex-boyfriend--that feeling of being watched disappeared.

There's little consolation in those wasted eight months, other than what he left behind materially: my wild-cherry appliances. A battery for my car. A partially-finished room in my basement. A very stinky chihuahua. Everyone asks why I kept the chihuahua: isn't it just a memory of my ex? The chihuahua showed up a few weeks before my ex left me--a left-over from his previous marriage, and unwanted by everyone. And then the chihuahua stayed with me, and I decided not to let him go. I don't know what he's seen, how he was treated, especially after I watched my ex attack my dog. The chihuahua is named Charles; I jokingly refer to him as Charles the Consolation Chihuahua. I've tried to change his name to Patrick, as it would be much more fitting with my other dog, Kennedy. Charles just won't go for it, though, and my daughter also loudly protests the name change. Charles does, however, go for his new way of living at my house, in which he generally spends about 23.75 hours of every day in bed. I even serve him his meals in bed, to make sure my golden doesn't eat all of his food. He sleeps in my bed, under the covers. He is fiercely protective at me, and wants no one to talk to me, because he believes that I am his possession. Come to think of it, I think Charles the Consolation Chihuahua might have some abusive traits, in his issues with possession. However, I am very proud over the fact that he has grown his first fat roll, a huge difference from when he first arrived, and you could count the vertebrae on his spine, because he was so skinny. If there's a reason for everything, maybe that's why my ex came into my life: to make me the saver of the life of Charles.

Last week, one of my mom's coworkers was going through her Facebook, when she discovered a friend had changed her profile picture. The picture was now of this girl--with my ex. After this, I found out that this girl works with my ex's ex-wife, whom must apparently either hate this girl or be so oblivious to the fact that she was treated badly by my ex, because I am sure that she got a lot of the same treatment I did. I certainly wouldn't wish the guy upon any of my friends, that's for sure.

H is an ace creeper. The only thing she hasn't managed to crack are military records, which is unfortunate. She presented me with photos of the "new girlfriend", and much to our excitement, the girl is extremely overweight. As in, no amount of dieting, exercise or surgery could fix her shape. I described her as having the shape of a Weeble: Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down. And for her sake, I sure hope she's got the "won't fall down" part taken care of, because if her new boyfriend manages to pull the same act, it will be hard for her to not fall down. If he could take me down, it wouldn't be hard to do the same to each and every woman that comes into his life, probably forever and always, from that night and beyond.

Wedding Tips for the Bitter

Sooo...it would appear to me that I have taken an extended vacation from this whole blogging thing, though not entirely on purpose. I have a multitude of reasons that I could use as excuses, including the fact that as rumor has it, my ex stalks my blog to look for evidence that I am a poor parent to our daughter, or that it's been summer which equals tourist season at work, therefore lending me a lot less time for personal pursuits like blogging.

Truth is, I met a really fantastic man, and we pretty much had the first date that never ended: he basically moved in with me the night of our first date, and we haven't been apart much since, at least since we introduced our kids to each other. Previously, my blogging had my fueled by the flames of my anger that just sprayed out in no particular direction, but meeting the aforementioned man kinda dulled that fire and all of the anger I had inside me, and therefore, I was left creativity challenged, and usually I rarely have anything nice to say, and if it happens to be nice, I typically don't bother saying it at all. So, thus, I quit blogging for a while. But now I'm back.

Sadly, the really fantastic man is writing a fiction novel of his own, and has much more discipline than I do. While he is writing and revising, I am taking four-hour naps, brushing the dog, watching iCarly, shopping, Facebooking or any number of time-wasting activities that suit my fancy on that given day. Needless to say, my progress on what I hope will be my big break at last is sparse.

So, I have a friend who is equally as cynical and sarcastic as I. She has grown to become one of my favorite people, and we share a sense of humor that is so questionable, her now-fiance once asked her, "Are you sure you should send her that? It is a bit...offensive". She explaned that I wouldn't find it offensive, but rather humorous. And of course, she was right.

Over the weekend, she became engaged to her long-term boyfriend, though not unsurprisingly, as they've been building to this point for quite some time. She sent out a mass email to her friends, asking for wedding tips. I decided I'd reply in my own special fashion, a fashion that is probably duplicated and/or understood by few.

Thinking about tying the knot? Here's my list of realistic tips, and I am sure you will find them equally as helpful and warm and snuggly as I do:

First, CONGRATULATIONS on snaggin' N for life! Your ring is FAB. Did you have input on selecting it? Or did he surprise you with the ring style? I imagine you are quite pleased! I, of course, have the intense desire to inquire about carat weight, which I immediately did upon my second engagement, about like, 1.5 minutes after the proposal, but everyone told me this was bad manners and socially unacceptable. However, if you were to willingly offer this info, I would not complain. Remember, I relentlessly nag the boyfriend about rings even though he already bought me my wild-cherry appliances that could be considered a promise ring of sorts, I suppose, but I am still careful to point any and all rings out, as I have a talent for meticulously cataloging rings on both men and women. It's a shameless hobby. Alas, my boyfriend was forced to look at your ring as he was trying to drive yesterday. I am THAT shameless, that'd I'd risk a fiery death in a car accident in order to show him photos of rings.

Okay, so you want my wedding tips, huh? BAHAHAAAAAAA! Keep in mind that when I got married, I was a totally different person than what I have become now. So...

1. Why get married at all? I mean, now that you've got the ring and all...just sayin'. I'm gonna need some pretty hard-core benefits--preferably financial--to want to do THAT again. I mean, sheesh! What did I do to deserve that kind of punishment again?!? Though, admitedly, if Z asked, I would say yes, but that is due in part to a claim on his military benefits and pension that I'd only get if we were legally married. That being said, forever never seems like too long until you are wrong. Keep that in mind.

2. Since I suspect you will not listen to my advice on this topic at all, I may also suggest that you don't marry in September, as you have suggested you would like to do. Both of my failed marriages have been in September--my wedding that I *almost* went through with was scheduled for September 15 (2001, of all years--at a time when the entire country was at a standstill); and my "real" wedding was September 28. It'd be kinda funny, actually, if I got married and had another wedding in September. At least it'd be funny to me. I'm kinda weird like that.

3. Again, I know you aren't going to listen, but don't invest a ka-zillion dollars in your dress. I (unintentially) lost about 10 pounds in the few weeks before my wedding, and for some reason, it went from the boobs, which is never the case any other time I lose weight. So even before I walked down the aisle, I had bridesmaids trying to seal me into the dress with pins and double-sided tape. By the end of the ceremony, there was dried wax flowing down the front of the dress, from the taper candles that should've lit the unity candle (which wouldn't light, and should've been a sign). It was a pain to bustle, and dragged in the dirt, so the whole hem was filthy. I am pretty sure champagne was spilled on it in the limo. Before I made it to the reception, it was already in rough shape, and only went downhill from there. I later wished that I'd used that dress for the ceremony, and then changed to my wedding dress from my "first wedding" for the reception, as that dress was much more simple and didn't have a train. At any rate, both gowns are something that have been tossed in a closet at my mom's house. It's not like my daughter will ever wear it, or I'd like, make a quilt out of it or something. Though it just struck me that it would be HILARIOUS to make a quilt out of it for Jason's next wedding, and give it to him as a wedding gift. I don't know how to make a quilt, mind you, but I am sure I could find someone to do it for me.

4. Obviously, you will wear a tiara. That's a given. But don't even bother looking at bridal shops. Check eBay and online retailers, and don't get something that has a veil attached. That way, you can wear them separately, for comfort purposes. My veil was yanked multiple times, and since it was pinned in my hair so tightly, I am surprised it did not result in a severe case of whiplash. Or hey...you could wear MY wedding tiara, since you already have it in your posession! I could send you the veil, too! Bahahahaaa! "Something borrowed..."

5. Nobody signs a guest book. Like, half the guests or less will actually sign it, and of that half, probably a fair chunk of them will write nasty and/or perverted notes to accompany it. And really, are you going to look back at it anyway? Will you and N sit around on your anniversaries and look through your guest book? Plus, it just causes congestion at the door of your ceremony site, because people are too busy writing nasty sentiments to move their asses to their proper seating locations.

6. Cake rules. I don't need to tell you that. I didn't do the whole "save the top of the cake" crap, so the whole thing was gone by the end of the reception. I consumed, at a minimum, three pieces, so I could taste each flavor, and it was MY wedding, right? So I could eat all the cake I wanted. And I am sure cake became another addition to my filthy wedding dress, as did all the Coke I drank throughout the reception. Yeah, that's right. Coke. I was stoked to be able to drink Coke again, because I avoided it for about three weeks thanks to the whole tooth-whitening thing. Drinking Coke again was like being able to sip the Nectar of the Gods.

7. If you plan to wear hose--which I doubt you will, especially in Florida, go with thigh-highs, so you don't have to wrestle with them to pee. And dehydrate yourself if necessary, to keep peeing to an absolute minimum. Since peeing will require help so your dress doesn't fall in the potty, photos will inevitably be taken and will surface. Keep this to a minimum by peeing as little as possible.

8. One thing that pisses me off as a guest is when you get to the reception, and you end up sitting and waiting for your dinner for like, two hours while you wait for the bride and groom to show. So, I had a jazz band and hors d' ouevres for that in between time, when people arrived and when they got dinner, to keep them occupied and prevent them from acting like rabid monkeys, scratching and clawing and shrieking in high-pitched voices out of boredom and hunger.

9. I do not like "cover bands", so if any "dancing" was to be involved in this reception of mine, I had to have a DJ. People got live music with the jazz band before dinner. The DJ was a total nitwit, but by then, I didn't care. I just wanted it to be over so I could leave for Mexico.

10. I thought bouquet tossing was ludacris, so instead, I went with this Finnish tradition--and I am 100 percent Finnish, not that I care. So, the tradition is that all of the single women stand around the bride in a circle, and the bride is blindfolded. The bride has a TIARA and she is spun around in a circle, supposedly to lose her grasp of where she is while leaving her dizzy and nauseated, perhaps a tactic to take away from the inevitable thoughts of what she just did by commiting herself to sex with one man for eternity. I didn't lose my grasp on location, though, and like most contests involving a tiara, it was rigged for me to pick a certain friend. Alas, anything with a tiara is good, right?

11. About the favors...every wedding I've gone to has had crap favors. I can't think of a single wedding where I've enjoyed the favors, mine included. My original idea was little floral pots with seeds--you know, like "true love blooms!!!"--wrapped in a bow, and now I can't even remember why that didn't work out. So...I ended up with like, 200 mini flower pots. I ended up with personalized fortune cookies, two packed in mini Chinese takeout containers and wrapped with ribbon. Random but yet cliche. And because I hate when people clank their silver against their china for "kissing", I had these little "kissing bells" that were like little silver bells on a business card. And of these favors, I bet like, 75 percent were left behind and tossed in the trash. If you are gonna go with favors, go with something like handmade chocolates...or BETTER YET, I see Lush offers a wedding favor service. But I doubt men would be excited over bath bombs, but too damn bad. They probably came with a woman anyway, and if they didn't, that increases the odds that they would indeed enjoy a good bath bomb.

I am sure I will think of more "helpful tips", and I will message you when I do. Bahahahaaaaa! In the end, mine ended up as more, "Uhhh, Mom? Um...sorry about that day that I married that d-bag who ended up fathering your grandchild after we managed to waste $25,000 on a one-day affair..." I have no doubt, however, that yours will come with a happily-ever-after ending.

Truth be told, should I ever marry again, I'd rather take the money involved in creating such a spectacle and put it toward a fabulous new house, complete with outdoor hot tub, something I've been coveting for a while. Or a fab honeymoon in a location where celebs also honeymoon, of which I can no longer name, since I am that behind on my gossip mags. Or, like, an retainer account for the impending divorce that would inevitably follow any marriage of mine.

Not Absolutely Perfect

Because my mind thinks and thinks and overthinks some more, I occasionally drive myself crazy. Crazy enough to believe that it is a good idea to email the unrequited crush I have not heard from in two months. You know...just to see if *maybe* he wanted to get together for coffee or a cocktail?

Yeah, I am totally that pathetic. One of my dearest friends, whom has affectionately termed me her "lovey", came up with the term "lose-bag". After I sent that email and immediately regretted it, I spent the rest of the night feeling like a complete lose-bag.

He did answer me. I did not like the answer. He essentially told me that he'd "come to the conclusion that I was not absolutely perfect for him". Absolutely perfect? Is anyone absolutely perfect? Really? If there is such a thing as an absolutely perfect person, where would I find one to act as my mentor? Pretty harsh stuff, especially when used to defend quitting something we'd never even really tried in the first place.

He did, of course, ask if I'd like to grab a beer next week, so long as I didn't "expect too much so I wouldn't be disappointed".

In response, I sent this, what I feel is a beautiful, lovely, you-stung-me-in-the-heart-but-you-don't-need-to-know-how-much-you-just-hurt-me letter:

"While I am typically a fan of blatant honesty, I am not so much when I am on the receiving end. In my mind, I'd wanted to hope that you had discovered a preference for Asian girls or came to the conclusion that you were gay or that you found yourself trapped in an arranged marriage. To hear that you found me to be less-than-perfect, based on emails and no face-to-face experience, stings the equivilent of a ripped contact sealed to the cornea.

So, as much as I do want to meet you because I am so enamored with your blog and wholeheartedly see you as as equivilent of David Sedaris, though much hotter and not gay, I will have to turn down the invite for a beer, though it was likely my own invite in the first place. I am certainly not in the business of making people feel forced or obligated to socialize with me, because I doubt that social tension would lead to laughs for either of us. In the interest of setting the best possible example I can for my daughter and for others who foolishly see me as some sort of example of being a strong, independent single girl, it would be woefully self-defeating for me to sit before you, wishing I could change your mind and convince you that I am, at the very least, worthy of a chance, despite all my less-than-perfections. Seven years of marriage taught me that the only mind you can change is your own, so I guess I've gotta roll with my own wisdom and let it go.

For whatever reason--just like you have no relevant reason for feeling like I am not absolutely perfect for you--I did the opposite and placed you on a pedestal. Perfect in every way but one: you didn't even like me enough to call. Why I was willing to ignore what should've been the most glaring imperfection of all, I don't know.

Good luck. I truly mean that. I hope that you can find someone who sees you the way I see you, and that it will be mutual. Likewise, I am gonna hold out until I can find someone who sees me in the same way I see you, and can see me as absolutely perfect, whatever that might mean. And hopefully, that is the way it works, because as jaded as I am, I still want to believe that it does work that way and that it can happen..."

There's this tiny, angry child inside my soul who still wants to pout and cry and stomp her feet on the floor, and chastise my grown-up self for turning down the beer, because WHAT IF I could've MAYBE gotten him to LIKE ME had he met me FACE-TO-FACE.

But...at the same time...I have to trust in myself that I made the decision that is absolutely perfect, at least for me.

Why? Why, why, WHY?

My daughter is at the phase where she asks 'why'. A lot. It can be non-stop. An answer to any question is met with, "Why?" After I answer that question, I again get, "Why?" And why, and why and WHY? I have a surprising amount of patience for this relentless question of why, though even I run of answers at some point, and resort to, "That's just the way it is, I guess."

My mind is never quiet. My mind thinks 24/7. It is always trying to answer some endless "why" of whatever I may be thinking at the time. Even if I am quiet, even if everyone around me is quiet, my mind is still thinking. I must think about the same things an awful lot, because you'd think, after your mind works so much constantly, you'd think I'd run out of things to think about.

For the majority of my life, I didn't know that *other people* don't think like I do. I can't comprehend that there are *other people* who don't think constantly, who don't have a non-stop stream of thoughts running through their heads. It only dawned on me that perhaps this might be unusual when my doctor looked at me and said, "You know, it's really funny...you carry yourself so well, I would never guess that inside, all you do is think and you can't stop these thoughts." Then I got a prescription for Ambien, which takes care of my non-stop thinking, at least from 10:00 pm to 7:00 am each day. Now that I've been hooked on Ambien for several years, I wonder how I ever stopped thinking long enough to sleep before I had it, with the blissful black slumber it brings me each night, when I get a break from myself and my own overthinking.

Last weekend, AC was spending a night with her Grammy, so I used the time to catch up on a couple of movies that I'd bought and never bothered to watch. But of course, while I can give the movie the attention that it needs for me to adequately follow the plot, it doesn't stop my mind from running off and thinking of other things.

While I was lying on the couch, my mind was wandering, and of course, landed on a boy. A boy who didn't even like me enough to call, but nevertheless, I have placed him on a pedestal, and in my mind, he is flawless in every way, likely because I don't really don't even know him, much less know him well enough to determine his flaws. My mind got to thinking...why can't I have this boy? He meets all of my basic criteria, plus all bonus areas! Since I have no relevant explanation for this rejection that wouldn't hurt my feelings and/or leave me feeling like a loser, I told my psyche, just because. And then, of course, my mind answered back with why, why, WHY?!?

Much like when I grow weary of answering AC's non-stop whys, I just had to tell myself that's just the way it is...but it still fails to silence my whys.

Sometimes, nothing is better than when you've moved away from that quizzical phase of why, when you do eventually discover the reasons why. I have to assume, if only to soothe my inner loneliness, that things didn't work out with the boy who didn't even like me enough to call because, just like a subway that you missed, there'll be another one coming down the tracks in the not-too-distant future. And I hope that when that happens, it'll soothe my inner whys because I'll be able to see the reasoning.

That night, on my Facebook status, I updated it to reflect my never-ending why. A friend replied that she, too, could only ask herself why at this time in her life. Knowing that she'd had a baby a mere three days before, I told her that it was totally normal to feel this way...I sure did, thanks to the crushing phenomenon of the "baby blues", which I found to be more like, "Be prepared to sob hysterically, not sleep, envision your life falling apart and your child dying, and grieving from the loss of weekly visits with your OBGYN" blues. My friend later sent me a message that explained it all: it was believed, from an ultrasound, that her baby would be born with a slight defect that was easily fixable. Upon her birth, her baby was just fine, and my friend was told that the ultrasound reading must've been false, but her newborn needed to spend the night in the NICU anyway. The next morning, my friend was told that her baby had a "spell", in which she'd had trouble getting oxygen for a few moments, but things were now fine. Many, many tests and procedures have since followed, and her baby is still hospitalized in the NICU. The doctors have not told my friend what, if anything, is wrong with her baby, and have not even given her an estimated date of when she can bring her baby home. She is devastated, and cannot stop crying and asking herself why: why is this happening, why can't I get answers, why am I at home without my baby?

It caught me off-guard, as I was at home, pouting over something as petty as some boy I didn't even know not calling, and my beloved friend, who is miles away in Chicago, is stricken with grief and cannot even get an answer to her simplest questions of why. But it just illustrated that no matter the situation--from as simple as stressing over a boy, to dealing with your brand-new baby's possible illness--there never is an end to the question of why. I guess it goes without saying that "why" is just part of human nature.

Clutter: The Root of all Evil

I shudder to think of the amount of money I have spent on stuff throughout the years. I bet it would be in the six-figures. All on stuff, crap that I likely would not even remember, much less treasure. My credit card debt doesn't consist of fun things, like trips or parties or a wicked cocaine habit, but rather things like that new Olay moisturizer that I had to have because it was new and I must try anything and everything new, or high thread count sheets, because I deserve them. Or pajamas. I buy all of these in wild fits of compulsion.

Right now I am sitting in my house, contemplating what to do. The answer should be simple: I need to get off my ass and do some cleaning. There are toys scattered everywhere. Clothes, too. And books. Items that, if calculated over my lifetime, would total in six figures.

And yet, I blame this stuff on my inability to get up and actually do something. It seems too overwhelming, too much. Unable to be cleared in one day. I'd feel as big of a failure after all that work as I do now, doing nothing but leisure activities. So why even try?

I see that the local community ed program is offering a one-night seminar on home organization, for $30. It promises tips and resources for organizing, but I'd rather spend that $30 on Olay moisturizer. It'll be more fun, and the bottle will last a lot longer than any organizational tips I could learn.

In other news, the community ed program is also offering an intro to aviation course, the first step in acquiring a private pilot license. I am so going. For reals. I realize that all totaled, getting a private pilot license would probably cost me as much as grad school, once you add in-flight lessons. Besides, I don't want to entirely learn to fly. I have no desire to fly at night, ever, under any circumstances. And it is my understanding that you don't get to pick and choose what you want to learn, based on personal preference. Alas, I can't see anything bad coming out of this. First, I have a pilot fetish. But it's wrong to sign up for classes with an ulterior motive of scoring men. So, I will pretend I am taking the Angelina Jolie route. I'd be totally bad-ass if I could fly planes, no man required, just like she does.

Just as Screwed as Me

I live in a middle-sized city in northeastern Minnesota. It's small enough to be cliquish and gossipy, and not big enough to be considered urban or at all hip.

Because of the relative smallness of the area, the local newspaper prints "Matters of Record". Matters of Record consist of court reports for trivial misdemeanor crimes, property sale transactions, bankruptcies, and my personal favorite, marriage license applications and divorces.

The marriage license and divorce section only comes once a month, usually the second Friday of the month. Typically, when I grab my newspaper that morning, I remember what day it is, and I briefly get excited, because there's sometimes little else to be excited about in my life. Ten years ago, I would've been more interested in the marriage section rather than the divorce section, because no one I knew was getting divorced and everyone I knew was getting married. Now I am far more interested in the divorce section. Not only do I get to see who is just as screwed as me, but occasionally I see the name of someone that I would possibly consider dating once his divorce is final.

January was an especially frustrating month for me, because Friday after Friday passed with no marriage and divorce records. I considered cancelling my newspaper subscription, based on the lack of gossip it was providing me. But the payoff of that is when they did finally print this information, it was two months at once, so there was a lot to review.

As I was scanning the divorce section last week, I was delighted to see the name of an ex best friend. We had been best friends ten years ago, when we worked together at a cell phone store. She was ten years older than me, and in my opinion, the epitome of glamour and fun. She had a bit of a drinking problem, but that suited me just fine, since I was 21 and liked going to bars. Unfortunately, she got three DUIs in a time frame of six months and had to go to jail. It was work-release jail, but nonetheless, it was jail. It was a rough 60 days, having to pick her up and drop her off at the jail each day. Plus, we could never go shopping or out to lunch, because it would seem that "work release" actually requires "working", not shopping or lunching.

After her jail sentence was up, she had three months of house arrest. This was again not great for the social life, but we made do, and I made out with her roommate, the brother of her sister-in-law. A few months after her house arrest ended, she met her future husband. At a bar, natch. Because where else would you meet your prospective life mate?

They had a whirlwind romance, consisting of one unplanned pregnancy, one abortion and one engagement, all over a four-month period. I was the maid of honor at their wedding, and by then, I was engaged to one of the groom's friends. It was a great day, if you exclude the fact that I got car sick on the trolley ride to the reception and that my shoes damn near cut my toes off.

As the months passed, we grew apart. We no longer worked together, so we didn't have that 40-hour-a-week contact. She got pregnant three months after her wedding, so that temporarily curbed her alcoholism. I ended my engagement with her husband's friend so I could date my now ex-husband, causing palpable tension in the group. The last time I saw her was about a week after her son was born, when she stopped by to show him off. He was born three days before their first wedding anniversary.

As the years passed, I'd occasionally see her name in the Matters of Record court section. I saw that she'd gotten a fourth DUI, and that she'd been charged with domestic assault, a story I'd sure like to hear but bet I never will.

About a year ago, I ran into her at the mall. I didn't know that she had a three-year-old daughter. She didn't know that I had a two-year-old daughter. She bragged on and on about her terrific life--her husband's fabulous engineering job, her perfect kids, the house they built, the enhancements she was getting on her already huge engagement ring. I wasn't even wearing my engagement ring, because it was during one of the many brief separations I had with my ex, before we actually got separated. She didn't notice this, and asked how my husband was. I lied and said he was fine.

Over the years, I used to wonder how her husband could deal with her alcoholism and her apparent domestic abuse. After seeing that they are now divorced, I guess I know the answer to that.

So, needless to say, after the impression that her life was perfect just barely a year ago, it did fill me with a sense of delight to see her name in the divorce section, to know that even though she put up a facade, her world was really crumbling around her. Plus, there is always comfort in knowing that other people you know are just as screwed in this world as you are.

We'll Be Through the Worst...

Living in northern Minnesota, it seems like every year after the holiday season, the conversation turns to the weather and how we will survive January and February, typically the worst months, weather-wise. Everyone assures themselves that once we get through January and through mid-February, "We'll be through the worst".

This winter flew by for me, with everything that has been going on. Sometimes, it surprises me when I step outside and it is relatively warm, at least in northern Minnesota terms. One of my friends calls it "hooded sweatshirt weather" when it hits about 25 degrees. Living through the bitter winters, we are shameless when it comes to temperatures that would be perceived as deadly in other parts of the country. The days are slowly getting warm enough that the sun is melting the snow and ice, and there's a steady stream of water that freezes into twinkling icicles on my house. It's light out when I leave work in the late afternoon. Even the air has a distinctly fresh, springy smell to it. It makes you think that you are through the worst of it, and have only bright, happy, springy days to look forward to.

But sometimes, a northern Minnesota spring surprises you, and you discover that you are no way through the worst. The spring that my daughter was born, we had an early March blizzard that dropped nearly 30 inches of snow in 24 hours. It felt as though the wind was blowing straight through my drafty brick house, and I clung tight to my newborn as the lights flickered all around. When the storm passed, it left snowbanks taller than my garage. And not more than a week later, we got hit with another storm that dropped another foot of snow on top of that. The "first day of spring" came and went, and we were still covered in heavy, wet snow. The worst was most certainly not over.

Lately, I've found the same in trying to navigate this whole divorce thing. The past few months have changed me. I know that. I feel better about myself, and feel more positive about my future. I can breathe again. I can be selfish and do single-girl things, like stay out until 3:00 in the morning and sleep until noon, and skip dinner and eat frozen pizza at 11:00. Sometimes, I don't even bother to attempt to clean the house when I am home alone. Why should I? I have more appealing options of things to do when I am at home, and besides, I am not really home all that much. I thought I was through the worst.

Last week, I got a text from my ex-husband that was obviously not meant for me. It was meant for another woman. Even though I have been dating (or attempting to), it irritated me. First off, I have the class and common sense to make sure I send my texts to the right number. Second, it was a casual message, telling her that he stopped at his "midway point for food and gas". I was married to him for eight years, and I didn't get messages like that. He was married to me for so long that he lost that sense of common courtesy, and I'd rarely get a call or a text, no matter where he was or how late he was going to be. That stung, not because it was meant for her, but because it illustrated the total lack of respect that he had for me and our former union.

A couple of nights later, I got a late-night text from him...telling me he was at the bar and sad, because there was a girl there who looked and dressed like me. I rolled over and went back to sleep, not knowing that this was the start of his quest to get me back.

After that text, he became relentless. In a classic quote, he said to me, "Would you rather be with someone that you've known and loved for nine years, or would you rather be alone for the rest of your life?" He knew what he was doing. He knew that indicating that I would be "alone for the rest of my life" would trigger all of my insecurities. But I still stayed strong.

I did, however, make sure I pushed for details on his "date". Turns out he did meet this woman...who did not live up to his expectations at all. They met for their date, and he discovered that she'd "grossly underestimated" her weight on her dating profile. I can only imagine, since I am a size 14. I have the urge to defend her, because one thing I cannot deal with is dissing someone over her weight. But alas, in the protection of my own high self-esteem, I will allow him to be critical of other women, after he spent nine years with the gorgeous me.

As the weekend continued, he carried on with his text messages and his attempts to get into my house (and inevitably, my bed). As he indicated his interest in "working" on our marriage, I was lying in my bed, and suddenly I was gripped with terror. I remember looking at my curtains (for no particular reason; it was just what my eyes landed on), and thinking, "Oh my god...I DO NOT WANT ANYONE SHARING MY HOUSE. I DO NOT WANT A RELATIONSHIP."

It was the first time I've ever felt this. Ever. Never in my life have I envisioned myself happy and complete without "having someone". After going through my divorce--the years of wanting to do it, the complete loss of feelings for him, the technicalities of having him move out, the sense of loss over having my daughter only 50 percent of the time, the finality of the paperwork--I thought the worst was through. Truthfully, I didn't care that I was, by some standards, a failure at marriage. In my superficial way, I still thought that while the worst was through with one marriage, I still needed to find another one. Now, the mere thought of having my freedom jeopardized and having to share my home chilled me to the core.

The weight of having to hurt and disappoint my ex-husband weighs heavily on me. The worst is not over there. I've agreed to a "date" with him on Sunday afternoon, but I made it clear that he won't be coming back to my place, and I expect him to head to his home to spend time with our daughter, since it is one of his custody days. I have told him upfront that I do not feel ready for a relationship with anyone (teensy lie...there is one person who, in my mind, I would like to have a relationship with, especially since I would've married him sight unseen, based on writing and sarcasm ability alone). I told him that I will make him no promises and no guarantees. He still says that he is willing to take this risk for another chance to be with me. I still think that chance won't happen, because I am determined in what I want, and secure with my decision to divorce him.

In movies on and on TV, it always seems glamorous and romantic when an ex comes back and begs for the love of his long-gone partner. In reality, there is nothing glamorous or romantic about it, if you are not interested in this. It just causes a setback in your attempts to be through the worst.

The Only Brush in the Basket

I am blatantly honest, perhaps to a fault. Typically, I say what's on my mind, and even if I am quiet, I am probably thinking blunt, sarcastic thoughts. I remind myself an awful lot of any of the characters in "The Invention of Lying", because I can be that blunt from time to time. And the closer a person is to me, the likelier he or she is to become a victim of these observations of mine. That's why, when I date again, I need to find someone with a similarly dark sense of humor, because I can be a lot to tolerate if you don't get me. Just ask my ex-husband.

Recently, I mentioned to a friend that I hadn't heard from a mutual friend lately. She suggested it was because I gave the friend a lecture on the perils of extramarital affairs. The conversation went a little like this:

Me: I haven't heard from Other Friend lately. I wonder if she's mad at me?
Friend: Maybe she's mad at you from that time you lectured her about sleeping with married men.
Me: That was not a lecture. That was the truth. And I guess some people just can't handle the truth.

While I have no problem sharing "the truth" with friends, I tend to keep quiet around strangers, mostly because I don't like to be seen as socially unacceptable or as an oversharer.

However, today when I was at the nail salon, my tech had no problem with oversharing. Her partner is out of town, or rather visiting family in Vietnam. I guess that's why she decided to open up to me today.

When I am having any kind of salon service done, I typically prefer my technician to just be quiet, and this is especially true when I get my nails done, because it's in the middle of the work day, and sometimes just listening to that file grinding away at what is left of my nail bed can be soothing. Today, my tech was the opposite of quiet. By the end of the appointment, my inner lip was bloody, from me trying not to laugh at the following overshares:

* "Yeah, I got pregnant a month after I got separated from my husband. I don't know how that happened so fast...I guess it was because I was going out to the bars and drinking a lot."
* "My sister married my ex-boyfriend, and he used to try and make out with me. I mean, I never did the nasty with him, because I was still a virgin then."
* "Oh, my kids? Yeah, I don't have custody of any of them, but I can still see them whenever I want."
* "Was your ex-husband whhh...I mean, American?"
* "I lied to my husband about needing to work, and then I met this guy and we were drinking and kissing in the pool room. Then he told me to go out to his truck, and I did, and my ex-husband caught me with him."
* "All I did when I worked there was drink all night long, so I didn't want to do anything except lay on the couch all day. I didn't even want to take care of my kids!"
* "Yeah...that time that I got pregnant, I think I had a miscarriage...is that what you call it? I went to the doctor and they told me I was pregnant, and then I started bleeding a lot and I wasn't pregnant anymore."
* "When I was pregnant with my first kid, I caught the dad having sex with some KOREAN in the bathroom. I came into the hallway, and I heard was bang, bang, BANG!"

Sometimes, I wonder why people feel so inclined to overshare with me, because this is not the first time I've been in this type of situation. I can only assume that it's because I seem to be a good listener, which is not entirely untrue, because what I am actually doing is listening so I can make fun of the comments later.

When I got up to wash the acrylic dust off of my nails before getting polished, I couldn't help but notice that I was the first nail brush in the 'used' basket today. The first client of the day, and it was 1:00 in the afternoon. If she overshares with her other clients as much as she does me, I can see why other clients might experience trepidation in visiting.

In other news, I feel really frustrated when I don't get what I want. It is especially frustrating when this involves another person, because then there's really no way to alleviate my frustration over not getting what I want. And since this happens so rarely--this business of not getting what I want--I am completely unaccustomed to these feelings and have no outlet for dealing with them.

Jagged Little Scars

I've had two surgeries in my life: my C-section, to deliver my daughter, and seven weeks after that, my gallbladder removed.

My C-section incision was a work of art. MY OBGYN's specialty is surgery, and it shows. My incision was flawless, perfectly straight, and staple-and-stitch-free. It was simply smoothed together with surgical glue. When I was in the hospital, nurses would ask to examine my incision, and I'd dutifully lift up my gown to show them. Many nurses would oohh and aahh over it, saying how good it looked. I would smile in pride over my OGBYN's handiwork.

The C-section scar healed beautifully. I forget that I have it, because it is so smooth that it just seamlessly blends into my skin. I never think about it.

My gallbladder, on the other hand, was removed laprascopically, and I feel that the surgeon did a hack job. I have four scars, and while they are small, they are jagged and stick up from the skin. They are a different color than the rest of my skin, and even when I tan, they do not. Lately, I have been considering taking those little sunshine stickers they force upon you at the tanning salon and placing them over the scars, just to bring a little sunshine into my life.

I equate my emotional heartbreaks to my scars. Most are like my C-section scars: they heal up smoothly, and you forget that they are even there, that the pain ever even happened. It's a distant, long-resolved memory that requires no further thought.

Others are like my gallbladder scars: noticeable, protruding pains. Jagged edges, as though they were left incomplete, not smoothed down to a vision of not being noticeable. Forever there, no matter what. And every time you look down, ever-present and always noticed.

The majority of the heartbreaks in my life have been the smooth-scar type. Sure, it hurts in the recovery period. But then as time goes on, the pain goes away and you forget that you ever even endured it, much less even notice the mark this left on you.

The jagged scars are the ones that you are forever marked with, the ones that never go away. The ones that you can brush against, and the memory of the pain will be back full-force. These are the ones that are the product of unfinished issues. I think that it's inevitable that anyone we have unfinished issues with will continue to pop up in our thoughts.

The question for me is always, how do you finish these unfinished issues, so you can forget that scar and let it blend in with your past? I don't know the answer to that one, but I wish I did.

I think there are only two people who have scarred me to the point that they still recur in my thoughts, as much as I wish they didn't. With one, I thought I resolved him, because I thought I felt it. In an instant, I sensed his presence, and with that, it felt as though my heart and soul imploded into each other. And then I felt relief. But just like a temporary pain reliever, the effect wore off, and I find myself irritating that scar more and more these days.

So, what's the answer? It's sure not Mederma, or Tylenol, or even time...