Sorting through the remnants of my life

Well. Strangely, my father keeps telling me I should write more in my blog. Is that weird or what? Guess now that I know he reads it, I should only say nice things about him :-)

So I've taken a little break from being bitter to pursue the great organizational quest of 2007. In other words, my sis came to visit me. I really should post before and after pics, but was too frightened to enter parts of my house much less take pictures. Let me sum it up like this:

• I have a kitchen table?!? Who knew?
• Mold does indeed grow on old school papers.
• Used Kleenex does not self destruct if it misses the trash can.
• If left to lurk too long under the bed or in dusty corners, dog hair becomes reanimated and puts up quite a fight if you try to sweep it up.
• No, I really do not need another book, but I really want one, even if it won't fit on my bookcase.
• Never, ever, under any circumstances stop to think about the amount of money you spent on trinkets, memorabilia, or junk over the past 15 years. That way leads to madness and sweaty palms. (a free t-shirt for anyone who can tell me where the previous line (possibly slightly paraphrased but I'm too lazy to look it up) comes from).
• Your high school yearbook is nothing like you remember it.

It's been an adventure. Everyone should be lucky enough to have a sister that will help them start anew. We took three carloads of stuff to the Salvation Army, gave away some things on the side of the road, and recycled at least that much paper. And now I have a nice house to come home to, with no fear of being buried under a pile of stuff that falls on me in my sleep and suffocates me.

The strangest thing is how hard it was to let go of some of these items, particularly some of the baby items, like a sleep monitor we used when the munchkin was in the sids range. It was the only way I slept during those first 9 months, and it nnearly brought me to tears to give it away.

In some ways, I feel like a complete failure. All the junk I've wasted money on, all the things I no longer have a need for, all the stuff I've never used. Giving all that away is like admitting my old life was a failure, that I spent all that effort to acquire things to end up trashing them. I have such an innate drive to collect that getting rid of things is almost physically painful.

Then there's the whole "failed" marriage thing. It's hard to look back on 13 years of my life (almost a third of my life, for those of you who are desperately trying to do the math) and jettison many of the symbols of that life. It's hard not to think that, even if I may be headed in a better direction, even if I might be happier in the long run, my marriage, something I spent a hell of a lot of time working on, thinking about, even planning for (don't get me started on how society programs little girls--and boys to an extent--to spend life searching for their happily ever after) is over. It's hard to give it up, to let go of the habit of thinking in terms of "we." Of course, I still think "we" in terms of my daughter, who makes all of this worth it (when she's not in the midst of a temper tantrum or whine fest). And my life is still not entirely my own because I need to make sure she's in a good place (writing for tv in 12 hour shifts is probably not an option logistically.)

So basically, I spent a month purging and rebuilding. Exercising and eating right. Living on a schedule and learning how to discipline myself and my child. And yes, on occasion, huddling in my bed wishing everything wasn't so damn hard.

All I can say is, I owe my sister. A lot. What exactly I owe her I'm not sure . . .

Off to cook dinner as part of my new life as organized supermom.

Why I hate exercising and eating right

I hate it when my sister is right. I called her for a perfectly legitimite bitch and moan session and she listened politely, and essentially told me to get off my butt and exercise. She said it much more nicely than that, of course. And she was right. Grrr. Argh.

So why does it always feel so impossible? Why do I get the urge to eat an entire box of Koffee Kup glazed donuts?--6 of them. Count them. 6. And no, they weren't mini donuts. And why, when I have an exercise machine (I confess, it's The Gazelle) that I enjoy using since I can then justify watching at least one episode of Gilmore Girls, Smallville, or Desperate Housewives (I'm alternating according to mood, which doesn't actually work since I'm netflixing), why oh why is it so hard to just do it (sorry, too lazy to avoid the cliche.)

Of course, I have to move the Gazelle about 3 feet, put on running shoes and workout clothes, and insert the DVD. And my daughter does sleep in the same room as I do, which is also the only room the gazelle fits in, so exercising while she's asleep is not really an option.

I know I'll feel better if I exercise, just like I know I'll feel like crap after the donut pig-out. Why aren't I exercising every day? Of course, my therapist would probably say that I should see it in a different way. We had a great talk yesterday about negative attitudes. She was totally right, of course. And hey, my sister brought up something similar in our talk.

But it's hard not to be negative when your life sucks!!!!

Just kidding (kinda).

I suppose I could think instead that I am exercising every day, since I exercised tonight and there is no reason that I won't wake up and exercise tomorrow.

Then again, Dunkin Donuts is only a couple blocks away . . .

I miss my old life. That's the real problem. And I can never go back.

My daughter called me tonight, after having a wonderful time at Pizza Putt and an anarchist meeting with both her father and her grandmother (my mother-in-law.) She was exhausted to the point of tears and said she wanted me. It broke my heart.

I told her how much fun she would have tomorrow with her dad and grandma, and that I would see her the day after that, on Friday. I told her Pablo and Baby Sarah were there with her too (2 of her stuffed toys.) I sang her a lullabye, told her I loved her and that it was no fun here at the house because I was working.

It's getting harder to tell her everything is fine. It's hard to be excited about her excursions with her father, since a part of me has lost a ton of respect for him. Not that I'd ever tell her that (and believe me, when she starts reading and surfing the net (like, tomorrow, at the rate she's going the little smarty-pants) all traces of this blog entry will be gone. I'll leave her the funny ones, the light-hearted ones, since she deserves to know that this was hard for me too. But the critical ones will have to go. Some days I know that's the right thing to do. And some days that makes me sick to my stomach.

How does anyone do this? Are they really eating all that well and exercising? Is that the secret to surviving divorce?

Ok. Pity party officially coming to a close. But if you know anyone who knows anyone who exercises daily, can you send them my way? I'd really love to know their secret. Especially if they can also cook.

Goodnight Nobody. Goodnight mush.

The Great Bicycle Incident

One Saturday morning I went to an amazing local coffee shop, Viva Espresso, (http://vivaespresso.blogspot. com/) intending to write like a crazy woman. Later that day, I planned to finish painting the living room, work on this website, clean the house, and generally excel in the role of Domestic Goddess. I was feeling a little down what with the separation and all, but all in all the day held promise.

Then I eavesdropped on a conversation between my friend and Viva owner Megan and a guy who looked vaguely familiar, only to find that this guy owns a local farm and is selling CSA's (don't ask me what that stands for, or if I even spelled it right--it just means an awesome weekly delivery of fresh local produce each week. Nuff said.)

Now, I've been wanting to get hooked up with a CSA since last season. I had even researched them in my post-separation-announcement-distraction-activity-frenzy. But I was just too lazy to make the call. But there, right in front of me, was salvation. My CSA had come to me.

I accosted the man and his lovely wife (really, here they were trying to have a quiet cup of coffee when some psycho girl insists that she wants to buy a share now. Not fill out an application and mail it in, but do it now. Yeah, some days I make a GREAT first impression.)

In my zest and zeal at finding an easier way than phoning to get my CSA share, I told the farm owners to stay put and that I'd be back ASAP. Now, to clarify, I live within biking distance of the cafe. And of course, this morning, I had spaced on my bike helmet. Anyway, I leapt onto my bike and sailed down the street at a much faster rate than I ever bicylce. I couldn't believe my luck! I had stumbled onto my CSA. I had met nice people in the cafe. My friend Megan was being really supportive of me. My life, in short, was good.

In fact, it was better than good. Dare I say . . . it was nearly perfect. I was in the right place at the right time. I could do this. I could survive on my own. I was excited and fine and . . . oh, better stop biking on the sidewalk. There's a car coming. Better get out on the street before they get here . . .

I swerved. I hit a rut. I crashed. The car turned off long before it got to me, and I was left lying shaking in the street, alone. I'd broken my glasses when the handlebars smahed me in the face. My fun and funky rhinestoned glasses. My hands were scraped up. My elbow was skinned. And my shoulder hurt like hell. I sat for a minute. Someone walked by and didn't ask if I was ok.

Then it occurred to me. I will be alone for the rest of my life. If I'm sick, doesn't matter. I still have to be Supermom and support my daughter. If I'd broken my arm, I would be driving myself to the ER.

I picked up my bike and walked it home, sobbing all the way.

When I got home, I surveyed the empty, messy house--my daughter was at her Dad's. And I decided I might as well go back to the Cafe. Even if I bled to death internally on the way back, at least I could guarantee fresh veggies this summer for my daughter. And the likelihood of someone finding my prone and rotting corpse increased if I kicked it on the sidewalk. Besides, if I died at home my three dogs would probably eventually take advantage of it and have themselves a little snackie.

I walked back to Viva and handed over my check to a minimum of strange glances, given my tear-stained face and general shakiness. Then Megan took over. She sent me to the back of the cafe to clean up and cry. She gave me band-aids and neosporin and free coffee and a kiss on the forehead.

I told her my theory of aloneness, my image of the shattered armbone jutting out of my skin and bumping against the car door everytime I made a right turn on my way to the ER. And Megan said, "No, dear. That's why we have community."

I stayed a little longer, until Megan's physician hubby showed up with the kids and pronounced an ER visit unnecessary (ok. jutting out bones may have been a slight exaggeration.) Then I trudged back home.

I sat on the couch, and watched Gilmore Girls with one dog draped across my legs, one on my lap, and one on the floor at my feet. I felt loved. And a little better. Although, that could've been the massive amounts of Tylenol I downed.

Later, when I picked up my daughter, she delighted in being the mommy and taking care of me, insiting we put a bandaid on the unbroken skin of my shoulder, since it hurt. She also bandaged my hand and elbow, and gave me a lot of kisses. She also behaved impeccably.

All in all, I learned a lesson. While I could've taken away the message of "Once you start to feel good the universe is going to mess with you" (ok, that's exactly how I felt for the first few hours) I instead realized just how strong I was. And that I do have a community. Even if I'm just getting to know them. And that Damn! Megan is an amazing, caring person. And there are more people out there like her than I could ever imagine.

Oh. And always wear your helmet.

With big warm community hugs and kisses, and many promises to blog more often,

kat

Does the Farmer's Market take credit cards?!?

So here's a beauty of an idea:

Spoke with stbx at his slammin' bachelor pad that doubled our housing expenses. Apparently, our debt-to-income ratio is too high for a home equity loan (no kidding! We were lucky to get a mortgage in the first place.) But, we can pay all our expenses and get through the next 6 months if we just put all our food on credit cards.

Is he insane?!?

Again, I so did not sign up for this.

Insult, Injury, and a whole lot of pissed-offness

So, not only is my husband leaving me, but I have head lice. Or at least a lot of nits. My daughter got head lice last November god knows how. Fine. we did chemical treatments, and I spent many long hours combing. My husband combed through my hair. M was cleared to return to preschool. They checked my head. Life went on.

Then, the relapse. I swear she picked it up again from a bouncy castle at the Y on New Year's Eve, but whatever. Darling hubby was convweniently out of town on work-related business for 3 weeks. So, more treatments and a shitload of combing my dsaughter's long hair, which I had cut to shoulder length. A dear neighbor volunteered to comb through my hair for nits, but I felt awkward (duh!) and didn't want to put her through that. Plus, S would be returnign home in under a week. He returned, bitched about combing my hair, and did a half -assed job. I went to my salon for a color and my stylist found a couple nits, no biggie, she colored me anyway.

I went to SLC and found a nit on my head and had my sister check. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, so we gave up. Definitely some there, close up indicating I might have a live louse or two.

Returned home to find my husband was moving out. Didn't bother to ask for help with my hair.

Forgot about nits in the agony of being left.

Fast forward through much sadness, anger, grief, and a plethora of bitterness to Friday. Went to get my roots done. Stylist asked, embarassed, "Have you been having more problems with, you know . . ."

Oh. My. God. "Not that I know of."

"Well, there's definitely something going on here. I can't do your hair today."

I wished for a very large black hole to open up under my salon chair. It didn't.

So now my roots still look awful, I'm doing a billion lice treatments on myself and checking my daughter AGAIN for nits--a two hour process at the least, if you didn't know.

And who, might you ask, is to blame for all this? My soon-to-be-ex-husband. The best way to get rid of head lice is to comb every single nit out. And comb again. And again. A process which I am very familiar with from combing my daughter's hair. The trick is to locate them visually and pull them out--a lot harder to do on your own head, I might add. So, since my husband was too much of a lazy-assed bastard to do a good job on my hair, I have to walk around with the proverbial scarlet L on my forehead (for both Lice and Loser).

My life sucks.

Maiden Voyage, So to Speak

Well, ok. I'm not officially an ex-wife yet. But I'm definitely bitter. My husband--we'll call him S, just like in 18th century French novels--moved into an apartment. at the beginning of the month. Our three year old daughter, M, is very excited that she has "two cool houses" now. She doesn't quite get it. We're trying to be amicable, and trying to make the big D easier on the munchkin. Yay us. See? Bitter.

Anyhow, tonight is the first night that M will stay at the apartment (hopefully she's asleep by now, since it's almost midnight.) Have I mentioned that this sucks? I'm by myself in the house we shared. Luckily, I have two dogs and a cat. And a laptop. I'm saved! So to mark this momentous occasion, I decided to start a blog. Except then I pissed the night away watching movies and talking on the phone, and now I'm too bloody tired to write much.

Maybe I should just explain why I'm bitter. Then I can go to sleep and have vitriolic dreams (under my new bedspread--the old bedspread was the first casualty of separation. No way am I sleeping on the same linens we shared for many years. They don't make laundry detergent strong enough to wipe out the grime of betrayal. Oh goodie. Now I'm bitter and melodramatic.)

So. Bitter.

Reason # 1: I moved hundreds of miles away from my friends and family so my husband could take a job as a tenure-track faculty member. Good move if you're a family. Bad move if you've been tossed like a used tissue.

Reason # 2: We were together 13 years, married almost 11. He broke the news to me Feb. 9 (16 days after my 36th birthday, five days before Valentine's day, 8 days before what would've been the 13th anniversary of the night we met. But who's counting?)

Reason # 3: I had to hand-make 19 valentines for my daughter's pre-school class, even though I hate the damn holiday.

Reason # 4: I have no income!!!!!!!

Reason # 5: I still have no income!!!! I'm a writer, and I've been staying home with the kiddo. I taught as an adjunct one year at the aforementioned university, and then took time off to finally begin my writing career (at the stunning and oh-so-fair-rate of 10 hours a week of writing time while continuing to further my husband's career by continuing my roles as mother, wife, and housekeeper (albeit a bad housekeeper.)

Reason # 6: I will be going back to said university and groveling for a position again.

Reason # 7: Even if I teach full time, which is not likely since then they'd have to give me benefits, I would still make only 2/3 of what my husband makes, while teaching twice as many classes.

Reason # 8: If I teach 5 classes over the course of an academic year, I'll make around $15,000.

And I could go on (believe me, I will, at a later date.) But for now, I just feel the need to put this out there. Separation is not a pretty thing. Hell, no breakup is ever pretty. With kids it gets uglier. They were born with the expectation of a mom and a dad who would raise them together. The kid never chooses this. She just gets caught up in the crazy trip her parents are on. So I thought I'd like to document the journey. I've been reading a lot of self-help books on divorce and separation, which are useful. What I haven't found is a book about a real person going through that (I know they're out there, but dammit! I'm too busy trying to find a job to search for them!) So I'm going to give it a a go. I promise I'll be honest. I promise I'll say what I feel. I promise to be bitter and write engaging revenge scenarios. Even if no one else reads them.

But first, I should get some sleep.