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.
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Thursday, February 18, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Divorce Detox
I've reached a stage in life that I've been predicting for years: the domino effect of divorce. Just like when you are in your early-to-mid-twenties and you are constantly attending weddings, it's now fallen into the cycle in your early-to-mid-thirties where you are constantly attending post-divorce celebratory parties.
I've fallen nicely into a group of friends who, like me, are recent divorcees, or divorcee wannabes. It can, at times, be the most fun I've ever had in my life. It's like re-living my early 20s, without the same pressures, because when it comes to marriage and babies, I've been there, done that. When I was in my early 20s, I was on a quest to find a husband, so going out always added to that pressure: I needed to find someone. It was fun, at times, to be single and young, because I had the vitality to stay out all night and still get up and work and go to college the next day. When I was young, I had so few responsibilities that I could do what I pleased, for as long or as late as I pleased. Now--just a mere 10 years later--staying out until even midnight when I need to get up and go to work the next day leaves me feeling like I've been hit by a train. No pun intended, of course, since I do actually work for a railroad, and theoretically, I could be be hit by a train on any given day.
Now, sometimes, life can be really lonely. Sure, we are all recently divorced or trying to get there. It's a fresh start--a detox of our entire lives, if you will. Except instead of that freshness and newness and excitement that came with being single in our early 20s, we are jaded. We've come out of marriages and long-term relationships that ended up being nothing but wasted years of our lives. We've learned to stop trusting men, because our married experiences have taught us that they cheat, they don't live up to their potential, they don't do what they say they are going to do, they refuse to mature and take care of their families, which left us to do all the work. And all the while, we've grown exhausted and unhappy and unsatisfied. All men now come with a "proceed with caution" banner, because we are scared and apprehensive, because the fear of being hurt again is so great.
Western medicine lumps us young divorcees into a category that strongly suggests "medicate until the feelings disappear". We all have our "anti-anxiety meds" in hand, some of us with a "sleep aid" booster. What used to be so hush-hush and kept secret no longer is, because that is what the medical field and society drill into us: take this pill, and it will calm you through your situation. It seems to be the answer prescribed to each and every one of us.
But with our "fresh starts" come a lot of new expectations.
Last night I was out with my divorcee friends, as a final dinner for our friend H, who is having a tummy tuck this morning. It's something that she has wanted for five years, and now the day is finally here. Ten years ago, I would've never understood. Now, being single again, I totally understand. The strain of having a child took a toll on my tummy, and now that I've lost weight, it is even more noticeable. It makes me cringe. It's like your feet: you can diet and exercise as much as you want, and you will never change your shoe size. With your tummy, you can diet and exercise as much as you want, but you are still stuck with that dead, stretchy skin that exists as a result of baby-making days. I dread the day that I am naked with a man again, and I hope to hell that he's mature enough to have been with women who have had babies before, whether he's been married or not, because unlike H, my C-section scarred tummy ain't going no where.
It scares me that, just like when we were young, the pressure to look good has re-surfaced, only now it's harder than ever. We've had babies. We've endured hard, unhappy marriages that led to hard, unhappy divorces. We're scared of being alone for the rest of our lives. We're expected to hold the universe up, but all around us, the planets collide. Society tells us that we should fall into the category of "MILF", but we also have to take care of our children, take care of the homes that we won in our divorces, work full-time to provide for our children, maintain somewhat of a social life, be active at our kids' schools, be out and active to "find" a new man...and the list goes on and on...
I don't own a scale, so the only time I get weighed is when I go to the doctor. Last time I went, I weighed about 15 pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight. I'm guessing I've lost more since then, but sadly, the difference is most profound in my boobs. I'm pretty sure that of the 25 pounds I've lost, 10 has come from each boob, and five from other various bodily parts. That is unfair.
Alas, that is never good enough. Even when I was young and I was skinny and fit (because I had the time to be!), I never felt good enough, never felt thin enough. Now I don't think I ever will either. Divorce and the stress that it has caused has led my appetite to shrink, which is what caused my weight loss to begin with. But now it's like a potato chip: bet you can't stop at just one.
My latest tactic is the detox. I tried a detox once, when I was young and skinny. It was intended to last 14 days, and involved a complicated regimen of pills, and a lemon juice, maple syrup and water diet. I made it all of three days, before I broke down, due to weakness and a virtual collapse during a work-out.
The newest detoxes, it would seem, are largely pill-based. So I picked up the Jillian Michaels 14-day detox, and so far, I've seen nothing. No results, no side effects.
I brought this up in conversation last night, and as it would turn out, all of my friends also "detox". Like, big time, serious detoxing. In fact, H had an auto-ship plan on her detox, so she had bottles and bottles left, because now that she's lost so much weight, she doesn't need to detox nearly as much. After a quick stop at her house--where baby daddy drama ensued--I am now the proud owner of multiple bottles of her detox pills, which she assured me caused her to lose 10 pounds in two weeks. Sadly, I can't wait to start. I feel obligated to finish out my Jillian Michaels plan, and then I'll kick right into the acai detox.
In some ways, the very assumption of the detox makes me want to crumble: we were expected to detox our lives. We had to eliminate our husbands or significant others, who were our partners for years. For some, we had to eliminate our homes. We have to eliminate some of our recreational spending, because divorce is hard on the pocketbook. We had to detox our personal lives and pursuits, because we are now single parents. And we are expected to do so with a vivacious smile on our faces.
And now, because society tells us we have to look a certain way, we have to detox our bodies, too, which is so deeply sad because we detoxed our lives to bring us happiness and serenity and a deepened sense of mental health. Unfortunately, the pressure to detox our bodies is too strong, and if we get all of the good stuff we so wanted from our divorce detox, we also get the risk of detoxing our good health--in a negative way, at least on the inside. The high, high cost of beauty in our society...
I've fallen nicely into a group of friends who, like me, are recent divorcees, or divorcee wannabes. It can, at times, be the most fun I've ever had in my life. It's like re-living my early 20s, without the same pressures, because when it comes to marriage and babies, I've been there, done that. When I was in my early 20s, I was on a quest to find a husband, so going out always added to that pressure: I needed to find someone. It was fun, at times, to be single and young, because I had the vitality to stay out all night and still get up and work and go to college the next day. When I was young, I had so few responsibilities that I could do what I pleased, for as long or as late as I pleased. Now--just a mere 10 years later--staying out until even midnight when I need to get up and go to work the next day leaves me feeling like I've been hit by a train. No pun intended, of course, since I do actually work for a railroad, and theoretically, I could be be hit by a train on any given day.
Now, sometimes, life can be really lonely. Sure, we are all recently divorced or trying to get there. It's a fresh start--a detox of our entire lives, if you will. Except instead of that freshness and newness and excitement that came with being single in our early 20s, we are jaded. We've come out of marriages and long-term relationships that ended up being nothing but wasted years of our lives. We've learned to stop trusting men, because our married experiences have taught us that they cheat, they don't live up to their potential, they don't do what they say they are going to do, they refuse to mature and take care of their families, which left us to do all the work. And all the while, we've grown exhausted and unhappy and unsatisfied. All men now come with a "proceed with caution" banner, because we are scared and apprehensive, because the fear of being hurt again is so great.
Western medicine lumps us young divorcees into a category that strongly suggests "medicate until the feelings disappear". We all have our "anti-anxiety meds" in hand, some of us with a "sleep aid" booster. What used to be so hush-hush and kept secret no longer is, because that is what the medical field and society drill into us: take this pill, and it will calm you through your situation. It seems to be the answer prescribed to each and every one of us.
But with our "fresh starts" come a lot of new expectations.
Last night I was out with my divorcee friends, as a final dinner for our friend H, who is having a tummy tuck this morning. It's something that she has wanted for five years, and now the day is finally here. Ten years ago, I would've never understood. Now, being single again, I totally understand. The strain of having a child took a toll on my tummy, and now that I've lost weight, it is even more noticeable. It makes me cringe. It's like your feet: you can diet and exercise as much as you want, and you will never change your shoe size. With your tummy, you can diet and exercise as much as you want, but you are still stuck with that dead, stretchy skin that exists as a result of baby-making days. I dread the day that I am naked with a man again, and I hope to hell that he's mature enough to have been with women who have had babies before, whether he's been married or not, because unlike H, my C-section scarred tummy ain't going no where.
It scares me that, just like when we were young, the pressure to look good has re-surfaced, only now it's harder than ever. We've had babies. We've endured hard, unhappy marriages that led to hard, unhappy divorces. We're scared of being alone for the rest of our lives. We're expected to hold the universe up, but all around us, the planets collide. Society tells us that we should fall into the category of "MILF", but we also have to take care of our children, take care of the homes that we won in our divorces, work full-time to provide for our children, maintain somewhat of a social life, be active at our kids' schools, be out and active to "find" a new man...and the list goes on and on...
I don't own a scale, so the only time I get weighed is when I go to the doctor. Last time I went, I weighed about 15 pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight. I'm guessing I've lost more since then, but sadly, the difference is most profound in my boobs. I'm pretty sure that of the 25 pounds I've lost, 10 has come from each boob, and five from other various bodily parts. That is unfair.
Alas, that is never good enough. Even when I was young and I was skinny and fit (because I had the time to be!), I never felt good enough, never felt thin enough. Now I don't think I ever will either. Divorce and the stress that it has caused has led my appetite to shrink, which is what caused my weight loss to begin with. But now it's like a potato chip: bet you can't stop at just one.
My latest tactic is the detox. I tried a detox once, when I was young and skinny. It was intended to last 14 days, and involved a complicated regimen of pills, and a lemon juice, maple syrup and water diet. I made it all of three days, before I broke down, due to weakness and a virtual collapse during a work-out.
The newest detoxes, it would seem, are largely pill-based. So I picked up the Jillian Michaels 14-day detox, and so far, I've seen nothing. No results, no side effects.
I brought this up in conversation last night, and as it would turn out, all of my friends also "detox". Like, big time, serious detoxing. In fact, H had an auto-ship plan on her detox, so she had bottles and bottles left, because now that she's lost so much weight, she doesn't need to detox nearly as much. After a quick stop at her house--where baby daddy drama ensued--I am now the proud owner of multiple bottles of her detox pills, which she assured me caused her to lose 10 pounds in two weeks. Sadly, I can't wait to start. I feel obligated to finish out my Jillian Michaels plan, and then I'll kick right into the acai detox.
In some ways, the very assumption of the detox makes me want to crumble: we were expected to detox our lives. We had to eliminate our husbands or significant others, who were our partners for years. For some, we had to eliminate our homes. We have to eliminate some of our recreational spending, because divorce is hard on the pocketbook. We had to detox our personal lives and pursuits, because we are now single parents. And we are expected to do so with a vivacious smile on our faces.
And now, because society tells us we have to look a certain way, we have to detox our bodies, too, which is so deeply sad because we detoxed our lives to bring us happiness and serenity and a deepened sense of mental health. Unfortunately, the pressure to detox our bodies is too strong, and if we get all of the good stuff we so wanted from our divorce detox, we also get the risk of detoxing our good health--in a negative way, at least on the inside. The high, high cost of beauty in our society...
Monday, January 4, 2010
Obsessive Dill Pickle Over-Consumption
I have a flat-out, weird, unhealthy relationship with dill pickles. And back off your dirty minds: I eat them, not use them for illicit activities. I crave them beyond a description of words. To say that pregnant women crave dill pickles is nothing compared to how I feel about dill pickles. There's been a few occasions when I've run out of dill pickles, and I've honestly considered drinking the pickle juice straight from the jar.
Yesterday, I was innocently reading my Sunday paper when the craving for a dill pickle struck. I was so consumed with the dill pickles that I had to put my paper down so I could go to the kitchen to get a couple, at 10:00 in the morning. That is just wrong.
I am also very particular about my dill pickles. I will not accept anything less than Gedney Kosher Dills. Gedney. It's the Minnesota Pickle. When I was married, I went through a phase where I liked to slice my pickles in half, and spread cream cheese in the center, and sandwich it together. My ex-husband thought this was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen. Another case for divorce: he didn't recognize good eats when he saw them.
Over the course of about four weeks in the fall, my daughter did a unit on colors at her school. It was complicated, because she had to wear the color of the day. So I'd have to deal with finding a green shirt one day, an orange shirt the next. On green day, she came home carrying a picture...of a bright green glittery dill pickle. I still have it on the refrigerator, because I don't know what's funnier: that I pay this school to have them help my daughter color enormous green phallic symbols, or that she chose to make a picture of her mother's favorite food.
Right now, I am having an intense craving for dill pickles, and there is nothing I can do about it, unless I want to interrupt my day for a trip to the grocery store. This is the worst day ever.
Yesterday, I was innocently reading my Sunday paper when the craving for a dill pickle struck. I was so consumed with the dill pickles that I had to put my paper down so I could go to the kitchen to get a couple, at 10:00 in the morning. That is just wrong.
I am also very particular about my dill pickles. I will not accept anything less than Gedney Kosher Dills. Gedney. It's the Minnesota Pickle. When I was married, I went through a phase where I liked to slice my pickles in half, and spread cream cheese in the center, and sandwich it together. My ex-husband thought this was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen. Another case for divorce: he didn't recognize good eats when he saw them.
Over the course of about four weeks in the fall, my daughter did a unit on colors at her school. It was complicated, because she had to wear the color of the day. So I'd have to deal with finding a green shirt one day, an orange shirt the next. On green day, she came home carrying a picture...of a bright green glittery dill pickle. I still have it on the refrigerator, because I don't know what's funnier: that I pay this school to have them help my daughter color enormous green phallic symbols, or that she chose to make a picture of her mother's favorite food.
Right now, I am having an intense craving for dill pickles, and there is nothing I can do about it, unless I want to interrupt my day for a trip to the grocery store. This is the worst day ever.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
(500) Days of Summer, or T-minus 5 Months
When I was married, I was unhappily married for longer than I can count. In theory, I could make use of that calculator feature on my iPhone to multiply the number of years times the number of days, but that would be a number so high that it might make me eternally depressed to know that this number is equal the amount of unhappiness and wasted time in my short life.
I've had four major relationships end painfully in my life, two with friends, two with men. In all four instances, I can name the exact moment when I knew the relationship was over, even though it wasn't entirely over yet. In one, a friendship, it was when he came back from a two-week academic seminar in Cape Cod. The trip was with some friends from his MBA program, and in those short two weeks, he'd gone from being my office husband to being someone I didn't know at all. Most telling was his conversion from vegetarian to carnivore. His wife was a vegetarian, and had been for years before she met him. He converted to vegetarianism shortly into their marriage--nearly ten years--but returned from Cape Cod a carnivore. I didn't believe him. I bet him it wasn't true, and told him that if we went to lunch and he ate a meat burger, I'd pay. He ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and I could see the defiance in his eyes at first bite. It was that moment that I felt that the person he was, was gone, and I was right. Thanks to the fact that we worked together five days a week, ours was a long, drawn out goodbye, that finally came to a full conclusion when he was fired. Even though he revealed his true colors in the year before he was fired, and even more so after the firing, I still long for him in some ways, when things feel tough for me. In being my office husband, his job included reminding me of how cute I am. I don't have that ego boost anymore.
I know the exact moment my relationship with my ex-husband came to an end, too.
On a Sunday, he wanted to go four-wheeling with some friends early in the day. I had no problem with this--I enjoy my quiet time on Sunday mornings to read my newspapers and enjoy my coffee in peace. I did, however, want to go to a movie that afternoon, so I made it very clear that he needed to be home by 1:30, so he could be ready to leave by 2:00.
So, I waited. And I waited. When he hadn't called to say he was on his way by 1:00, I decided I'd get ready and go to the movie by myself, without him. The movie was (500) Days of Summer, and in my small-ish community, independent films are shown on short-lived runs, so I knew I had to go that day, or risk not seeing it.
When he finally called--at 1:55--I calmly told him I was going alone. I felt disrespected since he could not even manage to come home to do something with me, but I wasn't going to let it ruin my day.
It was after 2:00 when he finally walked in the door. The movie started at 2:30, and was a good 20-minute drive. Like a teenager caught after curfew, he insisted it wasn't his fault and that he could get ready *that* fast. Since he took nearly as long to get ready as I do, I knew this was a lie.
In earlier stages in our marriage, I would've been furious. However, on this day, I was not, probably due to a combo of age and meds.
I calmly slipped my wedding ring off, put it on the counter, and walked out the door.
It was the first time I'd ever done anything alone. Sure, I'd been grocery shopping or to Target by myself, but never to a movie or out to eat. I was shocked at how liberated I felt, to be out and doing something for myself, sans wedding ring.
I enjoyed the movie, due in part to the fact that in my afterlife, I secretly hope that I come back as Zooey Deschanel, with her enormous blue doe-eyes and dark, dark hair.
When I got home, my wedding ring was still laying on the counter, and my ex-husband was in bed, napping. He had no remorse, no regret, for the fact that his failure to do the one thing I asked of him--show up on time to take me to a movie on a Sunday afternoon--resulted in me being so hurt that I was no longer wearing my wedding ring. His attitude was that of complete nonchalance, and that was when I knew: not only did he not respect me, he took me for granted.
It was roughly five months after (500) Days of Summer that our marriage ended for real. My only regret was that I didn't do it five months--or 500 days--sooner.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I've had four major relationships end painfully in my life, two with friends, two with men. In all four instances, I can name the exact moment when I knew the relationship was over, even though it wasn't entirely over yet. In one, a friendship, it was when he came back from a two-week academic seminar in Cape Cod. The trip was with some friends from his MBA program, and in those short two weeks, he'd gone from being my office husband to being someone I didn't know at all. Most telling was his conversion from vegetarian to carnivore. His wife was a vegetarian, and had been for years before she met him. He converted to vegetarianism shortly into their marriage--nearly ten years--but returned from Cape Cod a carnivore. I didn't believe him. I bet him it wasn't true, and told him that if we went to lunch and he ate a meat burger, I'd pay. He ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and I could see the defiance in his eyes at first bite. It was that moment that I felt that the person he was, was gone, and I was right. Thanks to the fact that we worked together five days a week, ours was a long, drawn out goodbye, that finally came to a full conclusion when he was fired. Even though he revealed his true colors in the year before he was fired, and even more so after the firing, I still long for him in some ways, when things feel tough for me. In being my office husband, his job included reminding me of how cute I am. I don't have that ego boost anymore.
I know the exact moment my relationship with my ex-husband came to an end, too.
On a Sunday, he wanted to go four-wheeling with some friends early in the day. I had no problem with this--I enjoy my quiet time on Sunday mornings to read my newspapers and enjoy my coffee in peace. I did, however, want to go to a movie that afternoon, so I made it very clear that he needed to be home by 1:30, so he could be ready to leave by 2:00.
So, I waited. And I waited. When he hadn't called to say he was on his way by 1:00, I decided I'd get ready and go to the movie by myself, without him. The movie was (500) Days of Summer, and in my small-ish community, independent films are shown on short-lived runs, so I knew I had to go that day, or risk not seeing it.
When he finally called--at 1:55--I calmly told him I was going alone. I felt disrespected since he could not even manage to come home to do something with me, but I wasn't going to let it ruin my day.
It was after 2:00 when he finally walked in the door. The movie started at 2:30, and was a good 20-minute drive. Like a teenager caught after curfew, he insisted it wasn't his fault and that he could get ready *that* fast. Since he took nearly as long to get ready as I do, I knew this was a lie.
In earlier stages in our marriage, I would've been furious. However, on this day, I was not, probably due to a combo of age and meds.
I calmly slipped my wedding ring off, put it on the counter, and walked out the door.
It was the first time I'd ever done anything alone. Sure, I'd been grocery shopping or to Target by myself, but never to a movie or out to eat. I was shocked at how liberated I felt, to be out and doing something for myself, sans wedding ring.
I enjoyed the movie, due in part to the fact that in my afterlife, I secretly hope that I come back as Zooey Deschanel, with her enormous blue doe-eyes and dark, dark hair.
When I got home, my wedding ring was still laying on the counter, and my ex-husband was in bed, napping. He had no remorse, no regret, for the fact that his failure to do the one thing I asked of him--show up on time to take me to a movie on a Sunday afternoon--resulted in me being so hurt that I was no longer wearing my wedding ring. His attitude was that of complete nonchalance, and that was when I knew: not only did he not respect me, he took me for granted.
It was roughly five months after (500) Days of Summer that our marriage ended for real. My only regret was that I didn't do it five months--or 500 days--sooner.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome
So, yesterday I went to my regular nail salon, because I needed a fill, and I figured since I still have money left from my holiday bonus, I'd get a pedicure, too. Not that anyone sees my toes, mind you, but it was a good way to have a little relaxation in the middle of the work day. It's my version of the "afternoon delight" right now.
One thing I totally hate is being in the presence of really cute girls. I am pretty dang cute myself, but every so often, you encounter one who is so cute that it makes you sit and stew and think about how uncute you are. This is what happened at the nail salon.
As I soaked my feet in the lovely peppermint foot bath, I noted the cute girl. And she was cute: perfect hair, well dressed, extremely tan. And then I realized who she was: it was this girl that used to work at the tanning salon I used, like, 12 years ago. She was really skanky back then, and at the time, we were so young that we were going to "dry night" at the local bars, and she was known for stripping down to her bra. It took me a long time of discreetly observing her to decide that yes, this was indeed Pammy. The Pammy I knew was totally classless. This cute girl had a lot of class. But when she opened her mouth, it was the squeaky little Pammy voice, so I knew it was her.
Pammy and I were scheduled to be married on the same day--the first time I almost got married. I didn't get married that day. She did. She ended up divorced within two years--maybe even one. She moved back in with her parents. At least I managed to stay married for a whole seven years, and I have my own house. Pammy ended up in the same category as my ex-husband: cellar-dweller in the parental basement.
Because I always notice rings on both men and women, I noticed that Pammy was not wearing an engagement ring or a wedding ring, so I would assume that she learned her lesson the first time around and has not re-married. She did, however, have a fabulous ring on her middle finger, and now I am coveting it.
Even before I was divorced, I stopped wearing my wedding ring. My ex-husband did not know this, because I'd wear it out of the house, and as soon as I could, I'd slip it off and store it in my Coach pill case. But suddenly, looking at Pammy's ring, my own left hand felt really empty, and I can't shake that feeling. Usually my bling-y watch takes care of that, but now I can't get over the feeling of the missing ring--the Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome. My left hand feels so empty, even though this is what I wanted more than anything.
While I claim that I will never marry again, this is a blatant lie. I do hope to marry again someday, and sometimes even spend time daydreaming about my beach wedding and my wedding ring. My next wedding ring, I have decided, will be a cushion-cut diamond of 2.5 carats--minimum--and have two pave accents surrounding it: one in amethyst for AC's birth month, and the second in diamond. The wedding bands will be two--one for the top and one for the bottom of my 2.5 carat ring--and will be pave amethyst to match the pave amethyst row on my engagement ring. I hope my next husband has a lot of money, because I plan for this to be one hell of a custom ring. That's the only thing that is missing from my future wedding plans: the groom.
Alas, with no grooms lined up, I think I might need to do something about my Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome and shop for a nice middle-finger band, like Pammy's. I'm thinking tomorrow will be the perfect day to shop for this. New Year, new ring.
One thing I totally hate is being in the presence of really cute girls. I am pretty dang cute myself, but every so often, you encounter one who is so cute that it makes you sit and stew and think about how uncute you are. This is what happened at the nail salon.
As I soaked my feet in the lovely peppermint foot bath, I noted the cute girl. And she was cute: perfect hair, well dressed, extremely tan. And then I realized who she was: it was this girl that used to work at the tanning salon I used, like, 12 years ago. She was really skanky back then, and at the time, we were so young that we were going to "dry night" at the local bars, and she was known for stripping down to her bra. It took me a long time of discreetly observing her to decide that yes, this was indeed Pammy. The Pammy I knew was totally classless. This cute girl had a lot of class. But when she opened her mouth, it was the squeaky little Pammy voice, so I knew it was her.
Pammy and I were scheduled to be married on the same day--the first time I almost got married. I didn't get married that day. She did. She ended up divorced within two years--maybe even one. She moved back in with her parents. At least I managed to stay married for a whole seven years, and I have my own house. Pammy ended up in the same category as my ex-husband: cellar-dweller in the parental basement.
Because I always notice rings on both men and women, I noticed that Pammy was not wearing an engagement ring or a wedding ring, so I would assume that she learned her lesson the first time around and has not re-married. She did, however, have a fabulous ring on her middle finger, and now I am coveting it.
Even before I was divorced, I stopped wearing my wedding ring. My ex-husband did not know this, because I'd wear it out of the house, and as soon as I could, I'd slip it off and store it in my Coach pill case. But suddenly, looking at Pammy's ring, my own left hand felt really empty, and I can't shake that feeling. Usually my bling-y watch takes care of that, but now I can't get over the feeling of the missing ring--the Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome. My left hand feels so empty, even though this is what I wanted more than anything.
While I claim that I will never marry again, this is a blatant lie. I do hope to marry again someday, and sometimes even spend time daydreaming about my beach wedding and my wedding ring. My next wedding ring, I have decided, will be a cushion-cut diamond of 2.5 carats--minimum--and have two pave accents surrounding it: one in amethyst for AC's birth month, and the second in diamond. The wedding bands will be two--one for the top and one for the bottom of my 2.5 carat ring--and will be pave amethyst to match the pave amethyst row on my engagement ring. I hope my next husband has a lot of money, because I plan for this to be one hell of a custom ring. That's the only thing that is missing from my future wedding plans: the groom.
Alas, with no grooms lined up, I think I might need to do something about my Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome and shop for a nice middle-finger band, like Pammy's. I'm thinking tomorrow will be the perfect day to shop for this. New Year, new ring.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
2009: A Recap
Since my last post, I have regained my positivity and my sarcasm and my charm. I do not know why. I had yesterday off work, and my toddler rode my ass like I was a racing greyhound. AC refused to take a nap, so I missed some valuable sleeping time. My friend J was having a boy crisis and insisted she come over, which then forced me to clean my house in a hurry. When I told her my house wasn't clean, she said, "Don't worry about it. I'm used to seeing your sh!t everywhere." This may not have been meant as a compliment.
Nevertheless, in my bout of positivity, I decided it'd be a good idea to recap the major negative events of my 2009, and fill them in with the good stuff they actually brought. So here goes:
*I divorced my husband.
--> To normal people, divorce is a major, life-changing decision that leads to depression and sadness and other maladies. For me, it was the best thing I've ever done, and a long time coming. I could pretend that I'm feeling some pain, but nope. My Give-a-Damn's busted on that one. I feel nothing but happiness and gratefulness and relief over my divorce. Best. Decision. Ever. I had zero feelings left for my ex-husband by the time we divorced: no anger, no love, no affection, no nothing. It always reminds me of my favorite book of all time, 'Valley of the Dolls'. Anne Welles had everything she ever wanted--the husband, the child, the career, the NYC penthouse--but yet her husband was a cheater, and she knew it. And each time he'd cheat, she'd be hurt a little less, but she'd feel a little less love for him...until in time, there was nothing: no love and no hurt. My marriage was a little bit like that. Only minus the cheating part.
*Thanks to my divorce, I have my daughter, AC, only 50 percent of the time.
--> At first, this was a tough pill to swallow. Then I realized that this just might be the best thing ever: I can go out for Tequila Thursdays with my friends. I can sleep all by myself in my big, beautiful bed. I can sleep for as long as I'd like, uninterrupted. I can watch whatever I want on TV, and I don't have to watch Dora the Explorer. I can read magazines without the tiny tot grabbing it out of my hands and screaming, "No! ME!!!" All my friends who are a few steps ahead of me in the divorce process assured me that I would appreciate my time. They were damn right.
*I almost died twice due to various medical issues.
--> For those who don't know, I have an enormous pain tolerance. You'd never know it by looking at me, but I could rival a Marine. I also have little sympathy for those in pain, because I think they should suck it up and deal. I'd make the worst nurse in the entire world. I'd be better off pursuing a career as a dominatrix. However, over the course of the year, I had two events where I could've died, at least according to me. With the first, I postponed a visit to the ER until I had quite near hemorrhaged to death. The registrars stared at me in disgust, shocked at the fact that I had driven myself to the ER and that I was there alone. I got priority treatment. It rocked. The second time was the infamous ambulance ride for my extreme tachycardia--the highest heart rate the fire department guys had ever seen! The one that almost caused them to stop my heart and re-start it! I would've truly been legally dead--but only for about five seconds, according to the paramedic, who told me he was bummed that my heart regulated on its own, because he's never been able to administer that heart-stopping med, and I would've been his first. Thanks, buddy. From both of these near-death experiences, I have determined that the ER is like a five-star resort for single mothers. It's pretty terrific to spend time in the ER. They bring you heated blankets and prop you up with pillows. They bring in enormous syringes of federally controlled substances to treat your pain, and shoot you up so high that they need to put the bed rails up so you don't fall out of the bed in your drugged stupor. You can watch whatever you want on TV. You can eavesdrop on other rooms, to decide if your condition is better or worse than the person next to you. Doctors and nurses and your family show sympathy and concern. I can think of very few places where I can relax in such a peaceful environment.
*I can date again.
--> Okay...not so much progress on this one. I've had one date. And it was highly unsuccessful. But it's that hope that I'll stumble upon a good one that keeps me going. But this isn't Hollywood, this is a small town, so we'll see...
*I have effectively eliminated the need for eating and sleeping, thanks to stress.
--> Since my success in eliminating these two seemingly basic needs, I have lost a minimum of 25 pounds. The way I see it, stress like this is equivilent to doing meth. Both eliminate eating and sleeping, so you lose weight. I just got to stay pretty with the stress, unlike what would happen if I did the meth. Right now, I can literally take my pants off without even bothering with buttons and zippers. This could come in handy at some point. See above: dating. Alas, this also came with a negative benefit: the DDs are sneaking away on me. No fair. I am seeing the need to invest in some new lingerie for 2010. Again, see above: dating.
*I feel as though my work load has increased exponentially, and my productivity has decreased exponentially.
--> I got a rockin' year-end bonus. And I still have a job. That always helps.
*I finally joined the 21st Century and now have an iPhone. This has resulted in me downloading $600+ in iTunes.
--> Well...I needed the iPhone for, you know, texting and phone calls from prospective dates. It wasn't a want, it was a need. Besides, it was really gratifying to learn to use iTunes all by myself.
*I wasted an enormous amount of money to see Britney's Circus tour.
--> C'mon! It's Britney, b!tch! Plus, I stayed in the same hotel as Brit, which was extraordinarily fabulous. The shower was amazing. As soon as I hit it big, I am so getting a replica of that shower, with dual shower heads. Oh, and the headboard was etched glass, that lights up. Fabulous. And I drained the mini-bar, of virtually everything, except for the overpriced sex toy kits, because I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna pay $27 for a mini-vibe that you can get at the sex toy store for under $10. I did not appreciate that bill, but it sure was fun. I can't wait until I find myself a boyfriend, because a weekend at the Graves 601 is definitely in order. It'd be a total bonus if Britney was also in town, since the Target Center is right across the street, but that would be highly unlikely, so I should consider other fantasies for my next stay at the Graves 601.
*I drank so many tequila shots that I had to throw up at the bar. At 9:00 pm.
--> Pfft...this happens to everyone, whether they are 21 or 31. I didn't get it out of my system at 21. I did get it out of my system at 31. Literally.
*After a bout of depression caused by a med change, I self-diagnosed myself as bipolar.
--> Yeah, I might have to opt with my medical provider's opinion on this one: not true. But it was a good excuse for a while, plus it was a way to bond with Britney. I never got to the head-shaving part, but I did think the neon pink bobbed wig was pretty sweet. I thought that'd be the best Halloween costume ever: Brit's 'Womanizer' cop costume, only with the neon pink wig instead of the blonde hair. But, alas, I guess I will have to side with my mom on this one: "It's not YOU who is crazy. It's your MARRIAGE that makes you crazy." Touche, because once my marriage ended, so did my craziness.
*I planned a hell-raising bout as a really, really bad girl. I fully intended to have one-night stands, drink a lot, smoke cigarettes, maybe smoke some greenery, date a plethora of boys, go to sleep way past my bedtime...
--> I was a total failure. A complete, full-on epic fail. Of this list of things I planned to do, I succeeded only in drinking a lot, and that resulted in the tequila-vomiting episode mentioned above. I smoked a cigarette, in the midst of a five-week bout of bronchitis, and looked like an ass when I coughed and coughed. I decided that I've never had a one-nighter, and don't plan to, since the idea of getting it on with someone I am actually dating freaks me out right now. Smoking the greenery? Forget it. Too much work. Dating lots of boys? I can't even find one. As it would turn out, I will forever be the good little girl next door. And I guess that's probably okay.
I'm sure I made many, many more negative or questionable decisions throughout the course of 2009, and I am sure I'll do the same in 2010. But at least I can laugh about it, right?
Nevertheless, in my bout of positivity, I decided it'd be a good idea to recap the major negative events of my 2009, and fill them in with the good stuff they actually brought. So here goes:
*I divorced my husband.
--> To normal people, divorce is a major, life-changing decision that leads to depression and sadness and other maladies. For me, it was the best thing I've ever done, and a long time coming. I could pretend that I'm feeling some pain, but nope. My Give-a-Damn's busted on that one. I feel nothing but happiness and gratefulness and relief over my divorce. Best. Decision. Ever. I had zero feelings left for my ex-husband by the time we divorced: no anger, no love, no affection, no nothing. It always reminds me of my favorite book of all time, 'Valley of the Dolls'. Anne Welles had everything she ever wanted--the husband, the child, the career, the NYC penthouse--but yet her husband was a cheater, and she knew it. And each time he'd cheat, she'd be hurt a little less, but she'd feel a little less love for him...until in time, there was nothing: no love and no hurt. My marriage was a little bit like that. Only minus the cheating part.
*Thanks to my divorce, I have my daughter, AC, only 50 percent of the time.
--> At first, this was a tough pill to swallow. Then I realized that this just might be the best thing ever: I can go out for Tequila Thursdays with my friends. I can sleep all by myself in my big, beautiful bed. I can sleep for as long as I'd like, uninterrupted. I can watch whatever I want on TV, and I don't have to watch Dora the Explorer. I can read magazines without the tiny tot grabbing it out of my hands and screaming, "No! ME!!!" All my friends who are a few steps ahead of me in the divorce process assured me that I would appreciate my time. They were damn right.
*I almost died twice due to various medical issues.
--> For those who don't know, I have an enormous pain tolerance. You'd never know it by looking at me, but I could rival a Marine. I also have little sympathy for those in pain, because I think they should suck it up and deal. I'd make the worst nurse in the entire world. I'd be better off pursuing a career as a dominatrix. However, over the course of the year, I had two events where I could've died, at least according to me. With the first, I postponed a visit to the ER until I had quite near hemorrhaged to death. The registrars stared at me in disgust, shocked at the fact that I had driven myself to the ER and that I was there alone. I got priority treatment. It rocked. The second time was the infamous ambulance ride for my extreme tachycardia--the highest heart rate the fire department guys had ever seen! The one that almost caused them to stop my heart and re-start it! I would've truly been legally dead--but only for about five seconds, according to the paramedic, who told me he was bummed that my heart regulated on its own, because he's never been able to administer that heart-stopping med, and I would've been his first. Thanks, buddy. From both of these near-death experiences, I have determined that the ER is like a five-star resort for single mothers. It's pretty terrific to spend time in the ER. They bring you heated blankets and prop you up with pillows. They bring in enormous syringes of federally controlled substances to treat your pain, and shoot you up so high that they need to put the bed rails up so you don't fall out of the bed in your drugged stupor. You can watch whatever you want on TV. You can eavesdrop on other rooms, to decide if your condition is better or worse than the person next to you. Doctors and nurses and your family show sympathy and concern. I can think of very few places where I can relax in such a peaceful environment.
*I can date again.
--> Okay...not so much progress on this one. I've had one date. And it was highly unsuccessful. But it's that hope that I'll stumble upon a good one that keeps me going. But this isn't Hollywood, this is a small town, so we'll see...
*I have effectively eliminated the need for eating and sleeping, thanks to stress.
--> Since my success in eliminating these two seemingly basic needs, I have lost a minimum of 25 pounds. The way I see it, stress like this is equivilent to doing meth. Both eliminate eating and sleeping, so you lose weight. I just got to stay pretty with the stress, unlike what would happen if I did the meth. Right now, I can literally take my pants off without even bothering with buttons and zippers. This could come in handy at some point. See above: dating. Alas, this also came with a negative benefit: the DDs are sneaking away on me. No fair. I am seeing the need to invest in some new lingerie for 2010. Again, see above: dating.
*I feel as though my work load has increased exponentially, and my productivity has decreased exponentially.
--> I got a rockin' year-end bonus. And I still have a job. That always helps.
*I finally joined the 21st Century and now have an iPhone. This has resulted in me downloading $600+ in iTunes.
--> Well...I needed the iPhone for, you know, texting and phone calls from prospective dates. It wasn't a want, it was a need. Besides, it was really gratifying to learn to use iTunes all by myself.
*I wasted an enormous amount of money to see Britney's Circus tour.
--> C'mon! It's Britney, b!tch! Plus, I stayed in the same hotel as Brit, which was extraordinarily fabulous. The shower was amazing. As soon as I hit it big, I am so getting a replica of that shower, with dual shower heads. Oh, and the headboard was etched glass, that lights up. Fabulous. And I drained the mini-bar, of virtually everything, except for the overpriced sex toy kits, because I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna pay $27 for a mini-vibe that you can get at the sex toy store for under $10. I did not appreciate that bill, but it sure was fun. I can't wait until I find myself a boyfriend, because a weekend at the Graves 601 is definitely in order. It'd be a total bonus if Britney was also in town, since the Target Center is right across the street, but that would be highly unlikely, so I should consider other fantasies for my next stay at the Graves 601.
*I drank so many tequila shots that I had to throw up at the bar. At 9:00 pm.
--> Pfft...this happens to everyone, whether they are 21 or 31. I didn't get it out of my system at 21. I did get it out of my system at 31. Literally.
*After a bout of depression caused by a med change, I self-diagnosed myself as bipolar.
--> Yeah, I might have to opt with my medical provider's opinion on this one: not true. But it was a good excuse for a while, plus it was a way to bond with Britney. I never got to the head-shaving part, but I did think the neon pink bobbed wig was pretty sweet. I thought that'd be the best Halloween costume ever: Brit's 'Womanizer' cop costume, only with the neon pink wig instead of the blonde hair. But, alas, I guess I will have to side with my mom on this one: "It's not YOU who is crazy. It's your MARRIAGE that makes you crazy." Touche, because once my marriage ended, so did my craziness.
*I planned a hell-raising bout as a really, really bad girl. I fully intended to have one-night stands, drink a lot, smoke cigarettes, maybe smoke some greenery, date a plethora of boys, go to sleep way past my bedtime...
--> I was a total failure. A complete, full-on epic fail. Of this list of things I planned to do, I succeeded only in drinking a lot, and that resulted in the tequila-vomiting episode mentioned above. I smoked a cigarette, in the midst of a five-week bout of bronchitis, and looked like an ass when I coughed and coughed. I decided that I've never had a one-nighter, and don't plan to, since the idea of getting it on with someone I am actually dating freaks me out right now. Smoking the greenery? Forget it. Too much work. Dating lots of boys? I can't even find one. As it would turn out, I will forever be the good little girl next door. And I guess that's probably okay.
I'm sure I made many, many more negative or questionable decisions throughout the course of 2009, and I am sure I'll do the same in 2010. But at least I can laugh about it, right?
Monday, December 28, 2009
75 Hours...and counting...
I hate seeing myself as a negative, chronically pessimistic person. I like to think I am not. Sure, I am a bit cynical and sarcastic, but overall, I like to think of myself as positive. Or at least able to fake positive to the outside world.
I am not, however, feeling so positive or happy right now. Not at all. Maybe it's the holidays. Holidays can be no fun when you are alone, because it leaves you feeling so...alone. And the Christmas holidays just may go down in the history books my worst, and I don't expect New Year's to be much better. See? Cynacism. Or is it simply realism?
Right now, I am feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. Like, all-out, unproductive, lay-in-bed-with-the-dog-and-cry sorry for myself. My house still has that FMH look I first debuted a few posts back. It takes me an eternity to finish even a small task, because I will find a way to divert my attention to my own patheticness instead.
I realize that there are people out there who have it way, way worse than I do. I know this. There are people who are jobless and homeless. There are people grieving the loss of a loved one. There are people dealing with terminal illnesses. There are people eating Kraft Mac-n-Cheese not by choice, like me, but because they truly cannot afford anything else.
Alas, I still feel sorry for myself. I could make a list of all the things that make me feel sorry for myself, but then I'd have it in writing, and one day in the future, when I am out from under this giant cloud of self-pity, it will surface, and I will have no choice but to mock myself over my "problems". Worse, someone else would find it and make fun of me. There are few things worse than that: being made fun of. I'd rather be dishing it out than taking it in.
So, to cope with my incapacitating sadness, I am allowing myself 75 hours of sorrow. 75 hours. I chose this, because as of right now, there are 75 hours left in the year 2009. Once 2010 hits, the sadness and patheticness have got to go.
So, here I go...75 hours to get out all of my tears and sadness and anger...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I am not, however, feeling so positive or happy right now. Not at all. Maybe it's the holidays. Holidays can be no fun when you are alone, because it leaves you feeling so...alone. And the Christmas holidays just may go down in the history books my worst, and I don't expect New Year's to be much better. See? Cynacism. Or is it simply realism?
Right now, I am feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. Like, all-out, unproductive, lay-in-bed-with-the-dog-and-cry sorry for myself. My house still has that FMH look I first debuted a few posts back. It takes me an eternity to finish even a small task, because I will find a way to divert my attention to my own patheticness instead.
I realize that there are people out there who have it way, way worse than I do. I know this. There are people who are jobless and homeless. There are people grieving the loss of a loved one. There are people dealing with terminal illnesses. There are people eating Kraft Mac-n-Cheese not by choice, like me, but because they truly cannot afford anything else.
Alas, I still feel sorry for myself. I could make a list of all the things that make me feel sorry for myself, but then I'd have it in writing, and one day in the future, when I am out from under this giant cloud of self-pity, it will surface, and I will have no choice but to mock myself over my "problems". Worse, someone else would find it and make fun of me. There are few things worse than that: being made fun of. I'd rather be dishing it out than taking it in.
So, to cope with my incapacitating sadness, I am allowing myself 75 hours of sorrow. 75 hours. I chose this, because as of right now, there are 75 hours left in the year 2009. Once 2010 hits, the sadness and patheticness have got to go.
So, here I go...75 hours to get out all of my tears and sadness and anger...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Random But Deep Four-in-the-Morning Thoughts
Remember my last post--the FMH post--where I elaborated that rather than clean my pigsty of a home, I'd rather read my Sunday papers? It only went downhill from there. At 2:30 in the afternoon, I decided I'd much enjoy a "nap".
I hate Sundays. No matter what I do or who I am with or whether or not I have to work the next day, I hate Sundays. Hate them. No matter the weather, my mood is always cloudy, gray and down.
So, for the second Sunday in a row, I have decided to "nap". And by "nap", I don't mean "I will sleep for a couple of hours and then get up and resume normal life activities". What I mean by "nap" is "I will sleep until Monday morning and then get up and resume normal life activities".
Nap involves wake-ups on a semi-regular basis, as so not to tip others off as to your true activities. So, I make sure I wake up at least once or twice throughout the duration of the "nap" to return phone calls and texts, and again in the later part of the evening to turn off the lights, so the neighbors don't know that I've been asleep all day and all night.
My boss, who has himself been through an unpleasant divorce, calls this "depression". I call it "catching up on my sleep". When I was married with a baby, this 15+ hours of uninterupted sleep would've sounded like it was heaven sent, but believe me: it's not as splendiferous or as rewarding as it sounds.
So, now it is 4:00 am, and I have been awake since roughly 2:30. Sure, I could take an Ambien, but--for once in my life--I just don't feel like it.
I could clean my house or catch up on my reading, but that makes me feel like a vampire. So instead, I am lying on the couch, in the midst of my piles of Christmas cr@p, with my iPod on shuffle, just thinking random thoughts. Among my thoughts on this cold and early morning:
* I hate when people sign correspondence "take care". I don't know why, but "take care" holds a certain finality to me. My boss signs everything with "take care", and it certainly does not mean that he is not interested in talking to or seeing me again. It's just what he does. But it irritates me. And it irritates me that a person I would definitely be interested in talking to and/or seeing again signed an email to me with "take care", and now I haven't heard from him in nearly a week. I know I should give cut some slack for the holidays, but "take care" seems so formal and final, and now my OCD mind runs wild, trying hard to re-create what had yet to be created.
* Why is it that I am barely out of a bad 7-year-marriage, I am so anxious to "find" someone? I insist out loud that I don't care if I find another man ever again because I don't ever want to be treated the way I was when I was with my ex. But the truth was that the whole time I was married, I don't know if I ever stopped looking for a husband in the first place. Sure, there might've been temporary reprieves, when my ex was actually good to me, when I postponed this search, but I think, deep down, I never stopped searching. So...where is he?!? If "he" exists, then where the hell is he? Have I been bad in this current or previous life, and now I will live forever without "The One"?
* Why did I never dream when I was with my ex? Never, ever. The only time I would have a dream was if it was traumatic, the sort that always makes you sit straight up in bed, sweat drenched and terrified. And those dreams almost always centered on a certain fighter pilot who got away (after all these years? Really?!?). I assumed that I didn't dream with my ex thanks to the heavy amount of drugs required to chill me out to sleep, but since I can drug as equally now as I did then, that doesn't seem to be the case.
* Why does my iPod play Britney songs like, every other song when in shuffle? Okay, I probably know this answer: because I have too much Brit downloaded, so it is envitable. Never mind.
* Why was I not born a hot girl? My friend H is the perpetual hot girl. She dances on top of bars and gives lap dances. I do none of these things, no matter how much Patron I have consumed. H lost a ton of weight after her divorce and is even having a tummy-tuck in a few weeks. She brought me a bunch of clothes that don't fit her anymore. I am torn between feeling slightly hurt, because now I know for sure that I need to lose weight, and that makes me feel really unpretty. But at the same time, I cannot help but laugh, because she included some corsets and lingerie that she never wore, because in her words, her husband "never wanted to have sex with her". It makes me laugh to think that she thinks that there are men who want to have sex with me.
* Why do so many books and movies need to feature the leading character losing weight to gain success, especially a man. Is that really a cure-all? If so, then why didn't I have more men when I was skinny and fit? And if I choose not to lose weight now, does it mean I have doomed myself to being alone forever?
* Would it be hopelessly sad to announce to everyone and anyone that the reason for my weight is an endocrine disorder called PCOS? Living with PCOS rarely makes me feel angry or cheated or like life is unfair, because I was one of the unlucky ones who got stuck with messed-up hormones. I just live with it, and that's that. But how lame is it to try and use it as an excuse for my lacking love life?
* Why do I work at a job where I am guilted into not taking vacation time, and I do so with a smile? Later today, I have to go in to do payroll, even though I "take the week between Christmas and New Year's off". I will also go in on Wednesday and Thursday, and this doesn't bother me. Am I a sucker or do I merely like my job? Or do I see it like PCOS and I just live with it?
Now that it is 5:00 am, it seems appropriate to end my 4:00 random thought session, so perhaps I will have a bowl of cereal before resuming my nap.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
I hate Sundays. No matter what I do or who I am with or whether or not I have to work the next day, I hate Sundays. Hate them. No matter the weather, my mood is always cloudy, gray and down.
So, for the second Sunday in a row, I have decided to "nap". And by "nap", I don't mean "I will sleep for a couple of hours and then get up and resume normal life activities". What I mean by "nap" is "I will sleep until Monday morning and then get up and resume normal life activities".
Nap involves wake-ups on a semi-regular basis, as so not to tip others off as to your true activities. So, I make sure I wake up at least once or twice throughout the duration of the "nap" to return phone calls and texts, and again in the later part of the evening to turn off the lights, so the neighbors don't know that I've been asleep all day and all night.
My boss, who has himself been through an unpleasant divorce, calls this "depression". I call it "catching up on my sleep". When I was married with a baby, this 15+ hours of uninterupted sleep would've sounded like it was heaven sent, but believe me: it's not as splendiferous or as rewarding as it sounds.
So, now it is 4:00 am, and I have been awake since roughly 2:30. Sure, I could take an Ambien, but--for once in my life--I just don't feel like it.
I could clean my house or catch up on my reading, but that makes me feel like a vampire. So instead, I am lying on the couch, in the midst of my piles of Christmas cr@p, with my iPod on shuffle, just thinking random thoughts. Among my thoughts on this cold and early morning:
* I hate when people sign correspondence "take care". I don't know why, but "take care" holds a certain finality to me. My boss signs everything with "take care", and it certainly does not mean that he is not interested in talking to or seeing me again. It's just what he does. But it irritates me. And it irritates me that a person I would definitely be interested in talking to and/or seeing again signed an email to me with "take care", and now I haven't heard from him in nearly a week. I know I should give cut some slack for the holidays, but "take care" seems so formal and final, and now my OCD mind runs wild, trying hard to re-create what had yet to be created.
* Why is it that I am barely out of a bad 7-year-marriage, I am so anxious to "find" someone? I insist out loud that I don't care if I find another man ever again because I don't ever want to be treated the way I was when I was with my ex. But the truth was that the whole time I was married, I don't know if I ever stopped looking for a husband in the first place. Sure, there might've been temporary reprieves, when my ex was actually good to me, when I postponed this search, but I think, deep down, I never stopped searching. So...where is he?!? If "he" exists, then where the hell is he? Have I been bad in this current or previous life, and now I will live forever without "The One"?
* Why did I never dream when I was with my ex? Never, ever. The only time I would have a dream was if it was traumatic, the sort that always makes you sit straight up in bed, sweat drenched and terrified. And those dreams almost always centered on a certain fighter pilot who got away (after all these years? Really?!?). I assumed that I didn't dream with my ex thanks to the heavy amount of drugs required to chill me out to sleep, but since I can drug as equally now as I did then, that doesn't seem to be the case.
* Why does my iPod play Britney songs like, every other song when in shuffle? Okay, I probably know this answer: because I have too much Brit downloaded, so it is envitable. Never mind.
* Why was I not born a hot girl? My friend H is the perpetual hot girl. She dances on top of bars and gives lap dances. I do none of these things, no matter how much Patron I have consumed. H lost a ton of weight after her divorce and is even having a tummy-tuck in a few weeks. She brought me a bunch of clothes that don't fit her anymore. I am torn between feeling slightly hurt, because now I know for sure that I need to lose weight, and that makes me feel really unpretty. But at the same time, I cannot help but laugh, because she included some corsets and lingerie that she never wore, because in her words, her husband "never wanted to have sex with her". It makes me laugh to think that she thinks that there are men who want to have sex with me.
* Why do so many books and movies need to feature the leading character losing weight to gain success, especially a man. Is that really a cure-all? If so, then why didn't I have more men when I was skinny and fit? And if I choose not to lose weight now, does it mean I have doomed myself to being alone forever?
* Would it be hopelessly sad to announce to everyone and anyone that the reason for my weight is an endocrine disorder called PCOS? Living with PCOS rarely makes me feel angry or cheated or like life is unfair, because I was one of the unlucky ones who got stuck with messed-up hormones. I just live with it, and that's that. But how lame is it to try and use it as an excuse for my lacking love life?
* Why do I work at a job where I am guilted into not taking vacation time, and I do so with a smile? Later today, I have to go in to do payroll, even though I "take the week between Christmas and New Year's off". I will also go in on Wednesday and Thursday, and this doesn't bother me. Am I a sucker or do I merely like my job? Or do I see it like PCOS and I just live with it?
Now that it is 5:00 am, it seems appropriate to end my 4:00 random thought session, so perhaps I will have a bowl of cereal before resuming my nap.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Plenty of Fish in the Sea
Last week, I had a conversation with a recently-divorced friend, and I told him he'd be fine, since he was a "good catch".
He elaborated further on this: he was a good catch, but his wife of 15 years tossed him back in the sea when she asked for a divorce. Now he is a newbie fish, swimming around in uncharted territory, not knowing what to do, especially when it seems as though you are surrounded by other fish who seem to have it down-pat.
It got me thinking to that old adage, "there's plenty of fish in the sea". Really? Are there really plenty of fish in the sea, or is it like kissing 1,000 frogs to find one prince? That a good catch will take at least 1,000 reels to find the big one? If you do find one, will it be fresh and healthy, or will it have some unrepairable flaw and need to be tossed back out into that proverbial sea?
My own experiences with fishing, as in the activity, have not been positive. I have not been fishing since high school, when I went to cast off and promptly caught myself a person. Yes, a person. Hooked right through the nose.
As for keeping fish for pets, my daughter was in love with the fish she'd see at Wal-Mart, so I relented and purchased a Betta fish. She put Play-Doh in the water, and it was dead within a day. Not having much experience with fish--and especially dead fish--I pretty much hoped that it would just float round in a horizontal position until I could replace it, thus (mis)leading her to think that her fish was still alive. Unfortunately, that was not the case. When I came home from work that night, the fish was bobbing vertically, and it was such a gruesome sight that I had no choice but to flush. A conversation with my daughter ensued when she noticed the disappearance of her fish, and it went a little like this:
AC: "Where my fishy at?"
Mom: "I don't know. Where do YOU think he went?"
AC: "He at school?"
Mom: "Yes, honey. He is at school. The private school of fish that can be found only by a flush down the toilet."
Her dead fishy was quickly replaced, and shortly after that, she lost interest.
The job of maintaining these "catches" of hers now falls to me, and I rarely remember. Maybe every few days, I think, oh cr@p! I haven't fed those fish in days! Truthfully, when I go to check on them, I secretly hope they are dead, and that I will no longer have to deal with them. Alas, they live on, no matter how poor the conditions. It's a little like my ex-husband: I ignored him for days on end, deprived him of basic needs, and would wake up each morning, hoping he was gone. Much like the fish that refuse to die, he also refused to leave for a long, long time, well past the lifespan of what our marriage should've been.
Now much like my friend, I have been tossed back into the sea, looking for a good catch who will view me the same. I'm hoping that I can find one, even if I do need to forcibly hook him in the nose to convince him that I am catch-worthy, and this time around, I won't hesitate to flush him away to the private school of fish if necessary.
He elaborated further on this: he was a good catch, but his wife of 15 years tossed him back in the sea when she asked for a divorce. Now he is a newbie fish, swimming around in uncharted territory, not knowing what to do, especially when it seems as though you are surrounded by other fish who seem to have it down-pat.
It got me thinking to that old adage, "there's plenty of fish in the sea". Really? Are there really plenty of fish in the sea, or is it like kissing 1,000 frogs to find one prince? That a good catch will take at least 1,000 reels to find the big one? If you do find one, will it be fresh and healthy, or will it have some unrepairable flaw and need to be tossed back out into that proverbial sea?
My own experiences with fishing, as in the activity, have not been positive. I have not been fishing since high school, when I went to cast off and promptly caught myself a person. Yes, a person. Hooked right through the nose.
As for keeping fish for pets, my daughter was in love with the fish she'd see at Wal-Mart, so I relented and purchased a Betta fish. She put Play-Doh in the water, and it was dead within a day. Not having much experience with fish--and especially dead fish--I pretty much hoped that it would just float round in a horizontal position until I could replace it, thus (mis)leading her to think that her fish was still alive. Unfortunately, that was not the case. When I came home from work that night, the fish was bobbing vertically, and it was such a gruesome sight that I had no choice but to flush. A conversation with my daughter ensued when she noticed the disappearance of her fish, and it went a little like this:
AC: "Where my fishy at?"
Mom: "I don't know. Where do YOU think he went?"
AC: "He at school?"
Mom: "Yes, honey. He is at school. The private school of fish that can be found only by a flush down the toilet."
Her dead fishy was quickly replaced, and shortly after that, she lost interest.
The job of maintaining these "catches" of hers now falls to me, and I rarely remember. Maybe every few days, I think, oh cr@p! I haven't fed those fish in days! Truthfully, when I go to check on them, I secretly hope they are dead, and that I will no longer have to deal with them. Alas, they live on, no matter how poor the conditions. It's a little like my ex-husband: I ignored him for days on end, deprived him of basic needs, and would wake up each morning, hoping he was gone. Much like the fish that refuse to die, he also refused to leave for a long, long time, well past the lifespan of what our marriage should've been.
Now much like my friend, I have been tossed back into the sea, looking for a good catch who will view me the same. I'm hoping that I can find one, even if I do need to forcibly hook him in the nose to convince him that I am catch-worthy, and this time around, I won't hesitate to flush him away to the private school of fish if necessary.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I Have to Kiss HOW Many Frogs?!?
"I'd kiss 1,000 frogs if I could catch one prince..."
My friend H is also going through a divorce, and this is what she recently told me. Kissing 1,000 frogs is a lot of frogs to kiss, so many that I wouldn't even know where to begin to find such a large number. Currently, I am only at 19 frogs kissed, and I wonder who number 20 will be, because I've had little luck trying to achieve that benchmark. Perhaps number 20 will be that magical prince, and I can end the kissing spree right then and there. H, on the other hand, got lucky right off the bat, and instead of making it to 1,000, she got to stop at 49, since she did, indeed, find a prince.
My ex-husband and I decided to bring AC to the Disney movie "The Princess and the Frog" over the weekend, as it was AC's first movie, and an experience neither one of us wanted to miss, even though it meant having to share each other's company. In between balancing AC and her Dino Combo on my lap, the movie gave me plenty of time to think.
Does it REALLY take kissing that many frogs to score a prince? What if I am already a princess? Do I still have to kiss frogs, trying to find that elusive prince? Shouldn't he just appear? Why do movie frogs have disgusting, mafia-like Italian accents? Why are frogs so slimy--or, as they insisted in the movie, "It is mucus!", which I am really not sure is any better than slime?
AC lost her patience about one hour into the movie, so I have no idea how the movie ends, but I bet I can guess: I bet Princess Tiana and her frog, Prince Naveen, eventually kiss, discover that they no longer need to aim for 1,000 kisses to catch one good prince, and they live happily ever after, forever and ever. Isn't that the way it always goes, at least in Disney movies? Perhaps I should make my own anti-Disney movie, where after kissing 1,000 frogs to find her one prince, the princess discovers that number 1,000 is no better than the other 999, and it ends in a difficult divorce with child custody and alimony issues. Now that would be a touch more realistic.
Alas, it got me wondering...when will my frog prince comes? I sure hope it's closer to 20 than it is to 1,000.
My friend H is also going through a divorce, and this is what she recently told me. Kissing 1,000 frogs is a lot of frogs to kiss, so many that I wouldn't even know where to begin to find such a large number. Currently, I am only at 19 frogs kissed, and I wonder who number 20 will be, because I've had little luck trying to achieve that benchmark. Perhaps number 20 will be that magical prince, and I can end the kissing spree right then and there. H, on the other hand, got lucky right off the bat, and instead of making it to 1,000, she got to stop at 49, since she did, indeed, find a prince.
My ex-husband and I decided to bring AC to the Disney movie "The Princess and the Frog" over the weekend, as it was AC's first movie, and an experience neither one of us wanted to miss, even though it meant having to share each other's company. In between balancing AC and her Dino Combo on my lap, the movie gave me plenty of time to think.
Does it REALLY take kissing that many frogs to score a prince? What if I am already a princess? Do I still have to kiss frogs, trying to find that elusive prince? Shouldn't he just appear? Why do movie frogs have disgusting, mafia-like Italian accents? Why are frogs so slimy--or, as they insisted in the movie, "It is mucus!", which I am really not sure is any better than slime?
AC lost her patience about one hour into the movie, so I have no idea how the movie ends, but I bet I can guess: I bet Princess Tiana and her frog, Prince Naveen, eventually kiss, discover that they no longer need to aim for 1,000 kisses to catch one good prince, and they live happily ever after, forever and ever. Isn't that the way it always goes, at least in Disney movies? Perhaps I should make my own anti-Disney movie, where after kissing 1,000 frogs to find her one prince, the princess discovers that number 1,000 is no better than the other 999, and it ends in a difficult divorce with child custody and alimony issues. Now that would be a touch more realistic.
Alas, it got me wondering...when will my frog prince comes? I sure hope it's closer to 20 than it is to 1,000.
Friday, December 18, 2009
32 is NOT the New 22
Yesterday, I turned 32. My birthday typically goes unnoticed, with its close proximity to Christmas. I got cheated when I was born at this time of the year. If my birthday was in June, perhaps people would notice. Perhaps I'd get double the gifts, instead of the people who give you one gift and tell you that it counts as both your Christmas and your birthday gift. At the very least, I'd be able to get a Birthday Caboose on the tourist railway I work for, as obviously, this train does not run in December. However, since my mother's birthday falls on the day after mine, she has always been aware of the separation of my birthday and Christmas, unlike the general population.
Being single for the first time in 10 years made my birthday slightly less than enjoyable. I don't typically find any birthday downright enjoyable--it's just a birthday. Once you hit 21, there's no real reason to even keep counting and keep track, because you have the same rights at 71 as you do at 21. Sometimes when asked, I even have to briefly think about how old I am, because I don't consider it a daily consideration.
Alas, my loneliness got me thinking back to my 22nd birthday. On my 22nd birthday, I got flowers from three different boyfriend prospects. At 22, I still believed in the myth that Prince Charming would soon be coming to sweep me off my feet, preferably with a fighter jet rather than a white horse. Shortly after my birthday, I chose one of the three flower-sending boys for a relationship, and we were engaged within seven months. Eight months after that, I left that fiance for my now ex-husband, to whom I was engaged after six months. Next time around, I plan to be engaged within five months, to keep consistent with my gradual reduction in time it takes to acquire a diamond ring.
While turning 22 brought many prospects and hope, all of these were blown to hell in the proceeding years. While I did actually marry fiance number two--mainly because I had no other choice, since there was no way in hell I'd call off two weddings in under one year--I was miserable for roughly six-and-a-half years of our seven year marriage. It finally dawned on me that there is no such thing as Prince Charming--that notion is merely an urban legend, like believing that sea monsters live in storm drains or that if you step on a sidewalk crack, you will break your mother's back.
Turning 32 has found me a divorced single mother to that toddler who acts like a caffeinated ferret. I am far more exhausted. I am far more broke. I am far less attractive and fit, at least based on the photo comparisons I have made of myself on Facebook--see left. I am far less hopeful that I will ever find anyone to date me ever again, much less find the much-fabled "The One". Instead of receiving three bouquets of flowers at work, I received none.
The only redeeming quality of turning 32 is that I have a far better group of friends now than I did then, friends whom I adore. Sometimes I worry that my friends will one day wake up and realize that I am not nearly as cool as they are and they will de-friend me, but so far that has not happened. My 32-year-old spirits brightened considerably when last night, they took me out for dinner and showered me with yellow friendship roses and iTunes gift cards. What more could a girl ask for, except maybe an invitation for a date with a cute boy, so she no longer feels completely and hopelessly undateable?
However, as lovely as the evening was, it is always still sad when it ends, because when I go home, I know am going home alone. And that can be a lonely, lonely feeling, and one that when I turned 22, I would've never expected to be feeling when I turned 32.
Being single for the first time in 10 years made my birthday slightly less than enjoyable. I don't typically find any birthday downright enjoyable--it's just a birthday. Once you hit 21, there's no real reason to even keep counting and keep track, because you have the same rights at 71 as you do at 21. Sometimes when asked, I even have to briefly think about how old I am, because I don't consider it a daily consideration.
Alas, my loneliness got me thinking back to my 22nd birthday. On my 22nd birthday, I got flowers from three different boyfriend prospects. At 22, I still believed in the myth that Prince Charming would soon be coming to sweep me off my feet, preferably with a fighter jet rather than a white horse. Shortly after my birthday, I chose one of the three flower-sending boys for a relationship, and we were engaged within seven months. Eight months after that, I left that fiance for my now ex-husband, to whom I was engaged after six months. Next time around, I plan to be engaged within five months, to keep consistent with my gradual reduction in time it takes to acquire a diamond ring.
While turning 22 brought many prospects and hope, all of these were blown to hell in the proceeding years. While I did actually marry fiance number two--mainly because I had no other choice, since there was no way in hell I'd call off two weddings in under one year--I was miserable for roughly six-and-a-half years of our seven year marriage. It finally dawned on me that there is no such thing as Prince Charming--that notion is merely an urban legend, like believing that sea monsters live in storm drains or that if you step on a sidewalk crack, you will break your mother's back.
Turning 32 has found me a divorced single mother to that toddler who acts like a caffeinated ferret. I am far more exhausted. I am far more broke. I am far less attractive and fit, at least based on the photo comparisons I have made of myself on Facebook--see left. I am far less hopeful that I will ever find anyone to date me ever again, much less find the much-fabled "The One". Instead of receiving three bouquets of flowers at work, I received none.
The only redeeming quality of turning 32 is that I have a far better group of friends now than I did then, friends whom I adore. Sometimes I worry that my friends will one day wake up and realize that I am not nearly as cool as they are and they will de-friend me, but so far that has not happened. My 32-year-old spirits brightened considerably when last night, they took me out for dinner and showered me with yellow friendship roses and iTunes gift cards. What more could a girl ask for, except maybe an invitation for a date with a cute boy, so she no longer feels completely and hopelessly undateable?
However, as lovely as the evening was, it is always still sad when it ends, because when I go home, I know am going home alone. And that can be a lonely, lonely feeling, and one that when I turned 22, I would've never expected to be feeling when I turned 32.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Say Hello to June Cleaver!
Upon our divorce, my ex-husband relocated himself to his parents' cozy basement--where much to my delight, he is sleeping in a twin-sized bed. After he monopolized my queen-sized, four-poster sleigh bed, complete with 400 thread count sheets, for many, many months--while I slept on an air mattress in my living room--I find this to be a lesson in karma, created especially for him. Look back and watch me smack that!
When my ex left, he took very few of his possessions. He took his guitars and his musical equipment, apparently fearing that I might pawn it for cash or drugs or sex, or perhaps all of the above. He took the clothes that had previously been scattered all over my bedroom floor. He left everything else, which was very little, since I own the majority of possessions in my home, including the home itself.
One day, I got to the point that I was tired of looking at the evidence of my own job of being a poor "homemaker". I decided the best way to start was to take the initiative, and pack up his stuff on my own. I called this "taking out the trash". And really, what other option did I have? I certainly could not invite boys over if I had my ex-husband's stuff all over the place, so it had to go. I gleefully deposited it on his parents' front yard--on Thanksgiving. A shameless homemaker, I am.
Once his stuff was out of my way, I could get down to business and clean the house to my standards. Plus, I felt as though as 250 pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders--it was like gaining a new life and a new attitude. So I cleaned. And I organized. And I cleaned some more.
Serving in his role as baby daddy, my ex had to come to my house to pick up AC one night, and he noted the cleanliness of the house. He was probably cringing inside, knowing that he had missed out on the June Cleaver-like tendencies that I seem to possess after all. Because I was getting ready for a double date and the baby daddy was 45 minutes late to pick AC up, I had no choice but to kick him out as quickly as possible so I could get ready.
The double date, a first for me, was a disaster. It was a completely misguided attempt on the part of a guy friend. The guy friend happens to be dating one of my own best friends, and on this night, the guy friend ended up having to date us both, because I ditched the double date candidate after one glance. All that house cleaning...for nothing.
Needless to say, my ex was not oblivious to my tactics. At the next possible opportunity, he brought up the clean house, and said he "knew what I was up to". I became curious of "what I was up to", since clearly, I'd been up to nothing. He warned me that I "knew what he meant".
I smirked to myself, knowing that he was implying that I was *a-hem* entertaining men in my newly-clean and organized house. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am lucky if I am home often enough to entertain myself in my own house, much less entertain guests, especially the type that are looking to get laid by me, this Pussycat Doll-turned-June Cleaver-homemaker that I have become.
In the end, I found it highly amusing. If he believed that a clean home is an indicator of an active sex life, what did that mean about ours, since the house was rarely clean during our marriage? Using his standards, it would indicate that he didn't get laid. Ever.
When my ex left, he took very few of his possessions. He took his guitars and his musical equipment, apparently fearing that I might pawn it for cash or drugs or sex, or perhaps all of the above. He took the clothes that had previously been scattered all over my bedroom floor. He left everything else, which was very little, since I own the majority of possessions in my home, including the home itself.
One day, I got to the point that I was tired of looking at the evidence of my own job of being a poor "homemaker". I decided the best way to start was to take the initiative, and pack up his stuff on my own. I called this "taking out the trash". And really, what other option did I have? I certainly could not invite boys over if I had my ex-husband's stuff all over the place, so it had to go. I gleefully deposited it on his parents' front yard--on Thanksgiving. A shameless homemaker, I am.
Once his stuff was out of my way, I could get down to business and clean the house to my standards. Plus, I felt as though as 250 pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders--it was like gaining a new life and a new attitude. So I cleaned. And I organized. And I cleaned some more.
Serving in his role as baby daddy, my ex had to come to my house to pick up AC one night, and he noted the cleanliness of the house. He was probably cringing inside, knowing that he had missed out on the June Cleaver-like tendencies that I seem to possess after all. Because I was getting ready for a double date and the baby daddy was 45 minutes late to pick AC up, I had no choice but to kick him out as quickly as possible so I could get ready.
The double date, a first for me, was a disaster. It was a completely misguided attempt on the part of a guy friend. The guy friend happens to be dating one of my own best friends, and on this night, the guy friend ended up having to date us both, because I ditched the double date candidate after one glance. All that house cleaning...for nothing.
Needless to say, my ex was not oblivious to my tactics. At the next possible opportunity, he brought up the clean house, and said he "knew what I was up to". I became curious of "what I was up to", since clearly, I'd been up to nothing. He warned me that I "knew what he meant".
I smirked to myself, knowing that he was implying that I was *a-hem* entertaining men in my newly-clean and organized house. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am lucky if I am home often enough to entertain myself in my own house, much less entertain guests, especially the type that are looking to get laid by me, this Pussycat Doll-turned-June Cleaver-homemaker that I have become.
In the end, I found it highly amusing. If he believed that a clean home is an indicator of an active sex life, what did that mean about ours, since the house was rarely clean during our marriage? Using his standards, it would indicate that he didn't get laid. Ever.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Homemaker versus Homewrecker
My ex-husband is not thrilled that I am divorcing him, and honestly, who would be? A catch like me? For sure he should've straightened out his behavior in the seven years that we were married, so I wouldn't have had to find myself in the position of needing to choose between killing him or divorcing him.
For the purpose of making himself feel better and more like a man, he loves to hurl insults at me. He insists that I am a "homewrecker", despite the fact that the only home I've seemed to wreck is my own. That is not to say that I have not participated in some lecherous behavior that could've possibly deemed me a homewrecker, had I selected a less-honest man to seduce. However, my single endeavor in homewrecking, while momentarily promising, came to a halt when my womanizer--you know, as in Britney's 'Womanizer': "You say I'm crazy...I GOT your crazy"--decided that he had too much to lose if he got caught having a little planned but no-strings-attached afternoon delight with me.
In a recent tirade, my ex-husband was shrieking insults at me, which I calmly navigated, knowing that if I fulfilled my desire to actually kill him, I'd find prison much lonelier than divorce and life as a single girl.
By far, my most favorite insult of the night was when he looked and me and screamed, "You are sure no HOMEMAKER!"
I damn near fell over laughing at the fact that anyone would ever believe that I would aspire to the career goal of "homemaker" in the first place, much less that someone would consider me to be less of a person because I am not one. I am sure that my shrill and hysterical laughter only incited his anger more, but really...who did the guy think he was marrying? June Cleaver in a Pussycat Dolls costume? We married in 2002, not 1952.
In a discussion with friends, one pointed out that some men want their women to "seduce like a phone sex operator, f*ck like a hooker, dress and look like a model--all while putting on a perfect facade of devoted parent, devoted wife and "homemaker". Right that.
For the purpose of making himself feel better and more like a man, he loves to hurl insults at me. He insists that I am a "homewrecker", despite the fact that the only home I've seemed to wreck is my own. That is not to say that I have not participated in some lecherous behavior that could've possibly deemed me a homewrecker, had I selected a less-honest man to seduce. However, my single endeavor in homewrecking, while momentarily promising, came to a halt when my womanizer--you know, as in Britney's 'Womanizer': "You say I'm crazy...I GOT your crazy"--decided that he had too much to lose if he got caught having a little planned but no-strings-attached afternoon delight with me.
In a recent tirade, my ex-husband was shrieking insults at me, which I calmly navigated, knowing that if I fulfilled my desire to actually kill him, I'd find prison much lonelier than divorce and life as a single girl.
By far, my most favorite insult of the night was when he looked and me and screamed, "You are sure no HOMEMAKER!"
I damn near fell over laughing at the fact that anyone would ever believe that I would aspire to the career goal of "homemaker" in the first place, much less that someone would consider me to be less of a person because I am not one. I am sure that my shrill and hysterical laughter only incited his anger more, but really...who did the guy think he was marrying? June Cleaver in a Pussycat Dolls costume? We married in 2002, not 1952.
In a discussion with friends, one pointed out that some men want their women to "seduce like a phone sex operator, f*ck like a hooker, dress and look like a model--all while putting on a perfect facade of devoted parent, devoted wife and "homemaker". Right that.
Monday, November 16, 2009
"I love you...you love me...we're a happy fam-i-ly..."
On Saturday, I am relatively certain I nearly died.
I went to Target, and feeling in a particularly cheery mood, I bought AC a Barney DVD, dropping a whole $4.75 on this prize. Previously, Barney had been banned in our home, and I took pride in the fact that AC had never seen Barney...or so I thought. When I presented her with the DVD, she shrieked, "Oh! Barney!", so it appears someone in our inner circle has been breaking the Barney-free rule.
She insisted that we immediately watch Barney, and we climbed into the "Big Bed". Previous to my separation from AC's baby daddy, we had been sleeping apart, and in our small house, this was accomplished by me sleeping in an air bed in the living room. AC grew quite attached to what she called the "Big Bed", so sadly, it has become a permanent fixture in our living room. Very high class. It makes me quite eager to invite others over, be it friends or dates.
While lying in the Big Bed, AC became so engrossed in Barney that she began kicking me in the head. I told her to stop kicking me, and rolled onto my side, to prevent the unfortunate kick to the face. She continued kicking the back of my head. As I was on the brink of losing my patience, I told her she had a choice: I would stay in the Big Bed and cuddle with her if she quit kicking, or I would sit on the couch. She pointed at the couch.
I plopped myself down on the couch, and pulled out my iPhone, so I could work on my imaginary social life, the one that exists primarily through Internet contact only. Suddenly, I felt a strange feeling in my chest, like my heart bottomed out. I suspected a severe heart palpitation, and stayed put. I then started getting dizzy and lightheaded, and started to suspect that I might actually pass out. Up until this point, I had never actually "passed out" before. Sure, there might have been a night or two in my younger days that I don't actually remember going to bed, which could be considered "passing out", in an alcoholic sense. But I'd never physically passed out.
Meanwhile, AC hopped off the Big Bed and began demanding that I get a puzzle that was on the fireplace mantle. I did so, hoping that if I walked, the feeling would disappear. It did not. My last memory was that of sitting back down on the couch, and AC stuffing a green octogon puzzle piece in my face.
In my lack-of-oxygen stupor, I stumbled to get my estranged husband, who happened to be at my house, because he'd picked AC up from my mother's house. He was in the bathroom, removing ear wax from his ears. No joke.
On my way to get him to tell him I needed an ambulence, I blacked out. I have no memory, except that of everything going black. When I came to again, I was aware of blackness and of the room spinning...and of Barney, happily singing, "I love you...you love me...we're a happy fam-i-ly..."
Once I managed to get to the bathroom, I knocked on the door, and was again reminded of the reasons that my husband and I were never a happy fam-i-ly: he stood there, and insisted I did not need an ambulence. I had to beg him to call the ambulence, which fortunately, he did.
When the ambulence arrived at the house, he did not wait for the first responders to come to me. Instead, he shoved me out the door. Fortunately, one of the first responders walked me to the ambulence, because I could barely breathe. Upon getting myself into the ambulence cot, sure that this would be my last memory of life on earth, I heard a voice say, "Oh, hi Jen..." What?!? Not being a religious person, I thought, oh no...it's my higher power coming for me...I really am dying...
But naturally, in my small town, I WOULD have to know the ambulence guy, wouldn't I? I was mortified to see that it was an, *a-hem*, close friend of a friend, whom I've seen on a social basis. After determining that my heart was beating at 230 bpm, my buddy put in IV in me that resulted in my blood spurting all over me and him. Not cute. Guess that time he jokingly suggested a three-way with our mutual friend just ain't gonna happen...
By the time I arrived at the hospital, my condition had stablized and the doctors and nurses treated me as though I was a freak of nature. Had the first responders not presented the readout that showed my heart beating at 230 bpm, I doubt they would've believed it. After my chest x-ray, blood labs and EKG all showed normal, I was sent home and told to call my doctor, to see what would come next.
The next day, I saw the movie, "The Men Who Stare at Goats". I'd so looked forward to seeing this, as I love George Clooney and, obviously, I love dark, sarcastic humor. It was a terrible disappointment. The irony? The end result of the movie was the report that Iraqi prisoners held as POWs were forced to listen to Barney sing, "I love you...you love me...we're a happy fam-i-ly..."
Lesson learned: should you hear this melody, run for your life. It is the theme song of both heart failure and Iraqi imprisonment.
I went to Target, and feeling in a particularly cheery mood, I bought AC a Barney DVD, dropping a whole $4.75 on this prize. Previously, Barney had been banned in our home, and I took pride in the fact that AC had never seen Barney...or so I thought. When I presented her with the DVD, she shrieked, "Oh! Barney!", so it appears someone in our inner circle has been breaking the Barney-free rule.
She insisted that we immediately watch Barney, and we climbed into the "Big Bed". Previous to my separation from AC's baby daddy, we had been sleeping apart, and in our small house, this was accomplished by me sleeping in an air bed in the living room. AC grew quite attached to what she called the "Big Bed", so sadly, it has become a permanent fixture in our living room. Very high class. It makes me quite eager to invite others over, be it friends or dates.
While lying in the Big Bed, AC became so engrossed in Barney that she began kicking me in the head. I told her to stop kicking me, and rolled onto my side, to prevent the unfortunate kick to the face. She continued kicking the back of my head. As I was on the brink of losing my patience, I told her she had a choice: I would stay in the Big Bed and cuddle with her if she quit kicking, or I would sit on the couch. She pointed at the couch.
I plopped myself down on the couch, and pulled out my iPhone, so I could work on my imaginary social life, the one that exists primarily through Internet contact only. Suddenly, I felt a strange feeling in my chest, like my heart bottomed out. I suspected a severe heart palpitation, and stayed put. I then started getting dizzy and lightheaded, and started to suspect that I might actually pass out. Up until this point, I had never actually "passed out" before. Sure, there might have been a night or two in my younger days that I don't actually remember going to bed, which could be considered "passing out", in an alcoholic sense. But I'd never physically passed out.
Meanwhile, AC hopped off the Big Bed and began demanding that I get a puzzle that was on the fireplace mantle. I did so, hoping that if I walked, the feeling would disappear. It did not. My last memory was that of sitting back down on the couch, and AC stuffing a green octogon puzzle piece in my face.
In my lack-of-oxygen stupor, I stumbled to get my estranged husband, who happened to be at my house, because he'd picked AC up from my mother's house. He was in the bathroom, removing ear wax from his ears. No joke.
On my way to get him to tell him I needed an ambulence, I blacked out. I have no memory, except that of everything going black. When I came to again, I was aware of blackness and of the room spinning...and of Barney, happily singing, "I love you...you love me...we're a happy fam-i-ly..."
Once I managed to get to the bathroom, I knocked on the door, and was again reminded of the reasons that my husband and I were never a happy fam-i-ly: he stood there, and insisted I did not need an ambulence. I had to beg him to call the ambulence, which fortunately, he did.
When the ambulence arrived at the house, he did not wait for the first responders to come to me. Instead, he shoved me out the door. Fortunately, one of the first responders walked me to the ambulence, because I could barely breathe. Upon getting myself into the ambulence cot, sure that this would be my last memory of life on earth, I heard a voice say, "Oh, hi Jen..." What?!? Not being a religious person, I thought, oh no...it's my higher power coming for me...I really am dying...
But naturally, in my small town, I WOULD have to know the ambulence guy, wouldn't I? I was mortified to see that it was an, *a-hem*, close friend of a friend, whom I've seen on a social basis. After determining that my heart was beating at 230 bpm, my buddy put in IV in me that resulted in my blood spurting all over me and him. Not cute. Guess that time he jokingly suggested a three-way with our mutual friend just ain't gonna happen...
By the time I arrived at the hospital, my condition had stablized and the doctors and nurses treated me as though I was a freak of nature. Had the first responders not presented the readout that showed my heart beating at 230 bpm, I doubt they would've believed it. After my chest x-ray, blood labs and EKG all showed normal, I was sent home and told to call my doctor, to see what would come next.
The next day, I saw the movie, "The Men Who Stare at Goats". I'd so looked forward to seeing this, as I love George Clooney and, obviously, I love dark, sarcastic humor. It was a terrible disappointment. The irony? The end result of the movie was the report that Iraqi prisoners held as POWs were forced to listen to Barney sing, "I love you...you love me...we're a happy fam-i-ly..."
Lesson learned: should you hear this melody, run for your life. It is the theme song of both heart failure and Iraqi imprisonment.
...And I Don't Even Know His Last Name...
It's been a while since I last posted, for so many reasons...I forget. I work too hard at a job that pays me too little. I get run like a racehorse by a two-and-a-half year old child. I am terrified of cruel criticisms by strangers or stalkers. But after my nagging--err, encouragement--from my many Facebook groupies, I decided that if I ever want to be successful, I better get back to this blogging business of mine, and prove that I can actually put the money where my mouth is.
In early October, I separated from AC's baby daddy. It wasn't really that hard of a decision, considering I had not been happily married for roughly six-and-a-half years of my seven year marriage. This was a no-brainer type of decision, and over these rocky years, I have come to the conclusion that there is no one on the face of the earth who is actually happily married. The ones who claim they are, are probably lying to save face. It's like when I am at work, and someone says, in a saddened voice, "But don't you just miss AC so much when you are here?" Naturally, I have to answer yes, to avoid the stigma of being labeled a socially unacceptable mother and human being, but really, inside I am thinking, hell no, I don't miss that kid. Are you kidding me? Coming to work full-time allows me to avoid the realities of living with a toddler, like being kicked in the face, having my home destroyed piece by piece, and digging sticker residue out of the ceramic tile grout in my kitchen.
At any rate, as soon as I got AC's baby daddy out of my house, I was anxious to begin to date again. I figured I wasn't looking for a replacement baby daddy--lord only knows I learned that lesson once, the hard way--but rather just some casual dating. When I was at the age where people typically "casually date", there was no such thing for me. I dated only for the purpose of securing a husband. If a boy did not show husband potential, forget it. And for sure I would never put out on a first date, a second date--maybe not even a third date!--because girls who put out don't land husbands. Alas, I figured at 31, this re-entrance into the dating world would be terrific, because I am certainly not looking for a husband, and at this point, the joke is up: I was married for seven years and have a child. Everyone knows I put out. Why not take advantage of this new world?
The first problem is that I needed to find a date, as quickly as possible. In a matter of days after my separation, I decided that I needed to pursue online dating--what I saw as the quickest means to an end. No risk-taking in having to go out to bars to find a man, no time-wasting in waiting for these dates to come around. Within a couple of days, I got a nod of interest from a boy the same age as me, and I read through his profile. I was easily able to figure out what he was up to: there's a large number of temporary workers in my town right now, working on the pipeline. No question this was a "piper", in town for only three months. But I thought, why not? Pipers are known around town for their united slogan of "wine, dine and pipeline", so I figured I could take advantage and get some free dinners and maybe some gifts and possible some good, old-fashioned, Southern boy sex.
Upon our online conversations, the Piper did not disclose his name until I asked for it. When he told me, I was so mortified that I could not even save him in my phone with his real name--it was simply too unacceptable for northern Minnesota culture. I had to tag him as "Pipeliner" in my contact list, because even to have THAT name in my phone would signal social doom, in my conservative, professional circle.
When the Piper called me for the first time, I was stunned to silence. His Texas accent was horrific, very near to speaking to someone who uses a foreign language. He sounded so ignorant that when his profile said he had a "graduate degree", I became certain that by "graduate", he actually meant "high school graduate". Alas, my friends told me to give the guy a chance, because he probably found my Midwest accent grating as well, so I should not judge him based on that alone.
Piper and I agreed to meet for dinner and margaritas at a local Mexican restaurant. Because this was my first "date" in eight years, I had to spring for the new date outfit, and I thought I looked damn cute. So cute, in fact, that when my estranged husband just happened to drive by the restaurant as I was walking in, he later told me that his thoughts were, "Hey, who is that hot chick walking down the street? Oh sh!t...that's my wife!"
Now, I've never had a one-night stand before, but I figured that I was good and entitled to one, after living an entire lifetime without this experience. So, all afternoon, before I left for my date, I geared myself up for the sinful act I was about to commit: sex is an act, not an emotion; sex is an act, not an emotion; sex is an act, not an emotion...
When I met Piper at the bar, he was hot. Not white collar hot. Naughty boy hot, with lots of visible tattoos and earrings. I was instantly attracted. Now this was the perfect candidate for my one-night stand goal. However, as soon as he opened his mouth, I realized I needed to get him home as quickly as possible. His favorite word was "motherf*cker". Over and over and over. At least every other sentence, if not more. Motherf*cker.
The quicker I removed him from a public place where I could be spotted with someone like this and potentially ruin all of my social standing that I have worked so hard to maintain, the better. So, Piper and I went back to his place, to watch a movie. I thought, SCORE! Back in my young days, "come back to my place to watch a movie" actually meant "come back to my place to get it on."
On the drive, he told me of his two children, one named after him. Piper Junior. The other, with a nickname used in a Reba MacIntyre song, when the song's character is turned into a prostitute. The children had two different baby mamas, the first his high school sweetheart, an understandable choice. The second? In the words of Piper, "Some f*ck buddy who wanted to have a kid so I married her and got her pregnant. We were married for 10 months, so I got married and divorced in the same year!"
Upon arrival at Piper's residence, it was obvious that his truck cost more than his home. Worse yet, upon entering the home, a mouse skittered across the floor: an honest to goodness mouse. I still question if this was a mouse or a rat, having not actually ever seen a mouse in real life, apart from the zoo and the pet store. The mouse seemed to have an awfully long tail, and it seemed to have no real concerns over being observed by humans, which leads me to believe that there was a strong possibility that it was a rat. It took up residence next to a glass door, happily munching on crumbs. Admitedly, I had never been on a date involving the viewing of rodents, either caged or in a natural state. This should've been a warning.
Piper decided that he wanted to watch the new Will Ferrell movie out on DVD. I found it ridiculous. He laughed at all the inappropriate moments, in between conversing with me about what a "funny motherf*cker" that Will Ferrell is. At this point, I just wanted to get down to business. In my mind, I was there for one reason, and one reason only: I needed to get laid for the first time following my marriage.
Things were not looking promising as far as reaching my goal, and my hopes were diminished even more when he explained that he had to work late that day, and had to choose between washing his truck or taking a shower before our date. He chose to wash his truck.
After fielding text messages from my friends wanting to know how my date was going, I asked Piper to bring me back to my car. On the drive, he cranked up his Garth Brooks and sang along, as loudly as possible. I am a conservative sorta girl. I prefer that my dates communicate with me and show interest, rather than scream along to country western tunes, particularly on the first date.
When he walked me back to my car, Piper pulled his sweet Southern boy act, and kissed me on the cheek, before waiting until I turned and he really kissed me. By really kissed me, I mean "jammed his tongue down my throat while I attempted to back up to save myself from accidental choking." However, as a girl who just got her first "first kiss" in eight years, I decided I could forgive the fact that he cohabitated with mice, said "motherf*cker" every other sentence and would be socially unacceptable for any social gathering I could possibly attend. I figured I'd keep him as my dirty little secret.
Piper made plans to see me again, but thanks to my custody arrangement, that would not happen until the following Friday. I suggested a casual yet quaint brewhouse-style restaurant. He informed me that he only drank Coors Lite, not homebrews. Again, this was a fact that I was willing to overlook, because as a frequent patron of the brewhouse, at least I did not have to be seen with a man who said "motherf*cker", as though he had Tourette's.
Two days later, Piper sent me a text message: "Thought about it, and you just are not my type. Sorry." Huh. Well, as a newly-single girl, I am ashamed to admit that I cried over this rejection. Yes, I cried over a man who was so socially unacceptable that I could not be seen in public with him. I could not introduce him to my friends, coworkers or family. Yet, I cried over my "rejection". In my own defense, I was overly tired because AC had been sick, and I had just spent the past 48 hours covered in vomit, so I was feeling especially vulnerable.
After I got over the sting of my first rejection, I got to laughing about Piper. I mean...seriously? I was upset over the loss of this prize? First, who has to "think about" if you are his type or not? Second, in what region is "motherf*cker" a socially acceptable term? Third, I never even knew the guy's last name. If it was anything like his first name, I was pretty sure I didn't want to, either.
I wasted my cute Silver date jeans on him. I wasted my coordinated collection of Philosophy Amazing Grace products on him. I wasted four valuable hours out of my life on him. But at least I didn't waste a condom on him.
In early October, I separated from AC's baby daddy. It wasn't really that hard of a decision, considering I had not been happily married for roughly six-and-a-half years of my seven year marriage. This was a no-brainer type of decision, and over these rocky years, I have come to the conclusion that there is no one on the face of the earth who is actually happily married. The ones who claim they are, are probably lying to save face. It's like when I am at work, and someone says, in a saddened voice, "But don't you just miss AC so much when you are here?" Naturally, I have to answer yes, to avoid the stigma of being labeled a socially unacceptable mother and human being, but really, inside I am thinking, hell no, I don't miss that kid. Are you kidding me? Coming to work full-time allows me to avoid the realities of living with a toddler, like being kicked in the face, having my home destroyed piece by piece, and digging sticker residue out of the ceramic tile grout in my kitchen.
At any rate, as soon as I got AC's baby daddy out of my house, I was anxious to begin to date again. I figured I wasn't looking for a replacement baby daddy--lord only knows I learned that lesson once, the hard way--but rather just some casual dating. When I was at the age where people typically "casually date", there was no such thing for me. I dated only for the purpose of securing a husband. If a boy did not show husband potential, forget it. And for sure I would never put out on a first date, a second date--maybe not even a third date!--because girls who put out don't land husbands. Alas, I figured at 31, this re-entrance into the dating world would be terrific, because I am certainly not looking for a husband, and at this point, the joke is up: I was married for seven years and have a child. Everyone knows I put out. Why not take advantage of this new world?
The first problem is that I needed to find a date, as quickly as possible. In a matter of days after my separation, I decided that I needed to pursue online dating--what I saw as the quickest means to an end. No risk-taking in having to go out to bars to find a man, no time-wasting in waiting for these dates to come around. Within a couple of days, I got a nod of interest from a boy the same age as me, and I read through his profile. I was easily able to figure out what he was up to: there's a large number of temporary workers in my town right now, working on the pipeline. No question this was a "piper", in town for only three months. But I thought, why not? Pipers are known around town for their united slogan of "wine, dine and pipeline", so I figured I could take advantage and get some free dinners and maybe some gifts and possible some good, old-fashioned, Southern boy sex.
Upon our online conversations, the Piper did not disclose his name until I asked for it. When he told me, I was so mortified that I could not even save him in my phone with his real name--it was simply too unacceptable for northern Minnesota culture. I had to tag him as "Pipeliner" in my contact list, because even to have THAT name in my phone would signal social doom, in my conservative, professional circle.
When the Piper called me for the first time, I was stunned to silence. His Texas accent was horrific, very near to speaking to someone who uses a foreign language. He sounded so ignorant that when his profile said he had a "graduate degree", I became certain that by "graduate", he actually meant "high school graduate". Alas, my friends told me to give the guy a chance, because he probably found my Midwest accent grating as well, so I should not judge him based on that alone.
Piper and I agreed to meet for dinner and margaritas at a local Mexican restaurant. Because this was my first "date" in eight years, I had to spring for the new date outfit, and I thought I looked damn cute. So cute, in fact, that when my estranged husband just happened to drive by the restaurant as I was walking in, he later told me that his thoughts were, "Hey, who is that hot chick walking down the street? Oh sh!t...that's my wife!"
Now, I've never had a one-night stand before, but I figured that I was good and entitled to one, after living an entire lifetime without this experience. So, all afternoon, before I left for my date, I geared myself up for the sinful act I was about to commit: sex is an act, not an emotion; sex is an act, not an emotion; sex is an act, not an emotion...
When I met Piper at the bar, he was hot. Not white collar hot. Naughty boy hot, with lots of visible tattoos and earrings. I was instantly attracted. Now this was the perfect candidate for my one-night stand goal. However, as soon as he opened his mouth, I realized I needed to get him home as quickly as possible. His favorite word was "motherf*cker". Over and over and over. At least every other sentence, if not more. Motherf*cker.
The quicker I removed him from a public place where I could be spotted with someone like this and potentially ruin all of my social standing that I have worked so hard to maintain, the better. So, Piper and I went back to his place, to watch a movie. I thought, SCORE! Back in my young days, "come back to my place to watch a movie" actually meant "come back to my place to get it on."
On the drive, he told me of his two children, one named after him. Piper Junior. The other, with a nickname used in a Reba MacIntyre song, when the song's character is turned into a prostitute. The children had two different baby mamas, the first his high school sweetheart, an understandable choice. The second? In the words of Piper, "Some f*ck buddy who wanted to have a kid so I married her and got her pregnant. We were married for 10 months, so I got married and divorced in the same year!"
Upon arrival at Piper's residence, it was obvious that his truck cost more than his home. Worse yet, upon entering the home, a mouse skittered across the floor: an honest to goodness mouse. I still question if this was a mouse or a rat, having not actually ever seen a mouse in real life, apart from the zoo and the pet store. The mouse seemed to have an awfully long tail, and it seemed to have no real concerns over being observed by humans, which leads me to believe that there was a strong possibility that it was a rat. It took up residence next to a glass door, happily munching on crumbs. Admitedly, I had never been on a date involving the viewing of rodents, either caged or in a natural state. This should've been a warning.
Piper decided that he wanted to watch the new Will Ferrell movie out on DVD. I found it ridiculous. He laughed at all the inappropriate moments, in between conversing with me about what a "funny motherf*cker" that Will Ferrell is. At this point, I just wanted to get down to business. In my mind, I was there for one reason, and one reason only: I needed to get laid for the first time following my marriage.
Things were not looking promising as far as reaching my goal, and my hopes were diminished even more when he explained that he had to work late that day, and had to choose between washing his truck or taking a shower before our date. He chose to wash his truck.
After fielding text messages from my friends wanting to know how my date was going, I asked Piper to bring me back to my car. On the drive, he cranked up his Garth Brooks and sang along, as loudly as possible. I am a conservative sorta girl. I prefer that my dates communicate with me and show interest, rather than scream along to country western tunes, particularly on the first date.
When he walked me back to my car, Piper pulled his sweet Southern boy act, and kissed me on the cheek, before waiting until I turned and he really kissed me. By really kissed me, I mean "jammed his tongue down my throat while I attempted to back up to save myself from accidental choking." However, as a girl who just got her first "first kiss" in eight years, I decided I could forgive the fact that he cohabitated with mice, said "motherf*cker" every other sentence and would be socially unacceptable for any social gathering I could possibly attend. I figured I'd keep him as my dirty little secret.
Piper made plans to see me again, but thanks to my custody arrangement, that would not happen until the following Friday. I suggested a casual yet quaint brewhouse-style restaurant. He informed me that he only drank Coors Lite, not homebrews. Again, this was a fact that I was willing to overlook, because as a frequent patron of the brewhouse, at least I did not have to be seen with a man who said "motherf*cker", as though he had Tourette's.
Two days later, Piper sent me a text message: "Thought about it, and you just are not my type. Sorry." Huh. Well, as a newly-single girl, I am ashamed to admit that I cried over this rejection. Yes, I cried over a man who was so socially unacceptable that I could not be seen in public with him. I could not introduce him to my friends, coworkers or family. Yet, I cried over my "rejection". In my own defense, I was overly tired because AC had been sick, and I had just spent the past 48 hours covered in vomit, so I was feeling especially vulnerable.
After I got over the sting of my first rejection, I got to laughing about Piper. I mean...seriously? I was upset over the loss of this prize? First, who has to "think about" if you are his type or not? Second, in what region is "motherf*cker" a socially acceptable term? Third, I never even knew the guy's last name. If it was anything like his first name, I was pretty sure I didn't want to, either.
I wasted my cute Silver date jeans on him. I wasted my coordinated collection of Philosophy Amazing Grace products on him. I wasted four valuable hours out of my life on him. But at least I didn't waste a condom on him.
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