I'm missing writing on ByJane. I'm missing doodling with keyboard and I'm missing venting and I'm missing sharing my every this, that or the other. MidLifeBloggers seems too--I dunno--grownup to just mess about on. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I feel too grownup to mess about in public. Whatever. Stuff is going on in my life and ByJane is where I've always put my stuff. Will I post it on MidLifeBloggers as well? I dunno.
Today D comes back to my house for a while. Take note of the pronoun, people, because it is My house. It may be the address listed on his license, but he doesn't live here anymore. He hasn't for over a year now. But in that year, something interesting has happened. The family I worked so hard for--my two step-sons, my daughters-in-law, my granddaughter--that family has coalesced and solidified and...any other words you could think of for "becoming tight." It happened willnilly of D; it began, in fact, without him. But now he's in there too and we're all, all of us, happy to see each other and be together as a family.
And happy to count on each other, as one does with family. Therein lies the why of D coming back to my house for a while. A couple of weeks ago, he got the dreaded news, the one that begins with C and ends with surgery. I'm not even counting chemo and radiation in there because we're hoping it ends with surgery. D lives alone, over an hour away from all of us. He'll need to be taken care of, at the very least. At the most, which is the way I do things, he needs a loving friend to go through this with him. He did it for me when I had the cerebral aneurysm. Now I'll do it for him.
I'm shy about telling people this because it's hard to explain in this world of I hate you and never darken my door again marital splits. But the fact is that I can't not do it. I guess I really did take those vows seriously: in sickness and in health....
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Jon & Kate Plus 8: Hang 'em from the highest tree
I just finished the season opener of Jon & Kate Plus 8. It was painful to watch, especially for anyone who has gone through the breakup of a marriage. Clearly they are each putting on the Brave Face that I remember so well from my own life, and that, perhaps, makes it harder for me at least to see. I get the sense that they are both doing the best they can in a crummy situation.
Meanwhile, the citizens are milling about yelling, Jump! Jump! Or maybe, to make the metaphor I'm reaching for clearer, Off With Their Heads!
I am astonished at the hysteria that this family has generated in the tabloid press, and thus on line, and therefore in Twitters and Facebooks etc. etc. etc. For a while public sentiment was against Jon, the doubledealing, cheating, oh-my-god-he-got-hair-plugs, what-does-he-do-for-a-living-anyway husband. But now, now Kate is on the rack because...because--
...because she's a woman and she isn't meek. I have a couple of book shelves full of most worthy historical assessments of the role of women, with titles like Disorderly Conduct, The Female Grotesque, and (one of my person favorites) The Madwoman in the Attic. They are all a testimony to the fact that in our culture, we have not wanted our women bold and beautiful and we have certainly not wanted them smart and articulate. Kate Gosselin fails on all four points, and thus she must be chastened, scourged, and maybe even burned at the stake.
As always, it amazes, saddens and disgusts me that it is mostly women who are casting the stones. Lord, how we love to hate each other. And we're so good at it, aren't we? While little boys bash each other over the head to establish dominance in the sandbox, we girls do it with sly innuendo and backbiting. We're the master (if I can use that word) of the verbal assault because really, that's the only ammunition our culture has allowed us.
I don't know what will happen to the Gosselins. I wish them well. I wish their period of time being scapegoats for the American shadow psyche is brief. I wish we weren't all so fucking eager to raise the flag and then, just when it's flying high, pull it down to trample it in the muck. I don't know--I guess I wish we weren't so human.
Meanwhile, the citizens are milling about yelling, Jump! Jump! Or maybe, to make the metaphor I'm reaching for clearer, Off With Their Heads!
I am astonished at the hysteria that this family has generated in the tabloid press, and thus on line, and therefore in Twitters and Facebooks etc. etc. etc. For a while public sentiment was against Jon, the doubledealing, cheating, oh-my-god-he-got-hair-plugs, what-does-he-do-for-a-living-anyway husband. But now, now Kate is on the rack because...because--
...because she's a woman and she isn't meek. I have a couple of book shelves full of most worthy historical assessments of the role of women, with titles like Disorderly Conduct, The Female Grotesque, and (one of my person favorites) The Madwoman in the Attic. They are all a testimony to the fact that in our culture, we have not wanted our women bold and beautiful and we have certainly not wanted them smart and articulate. Kate Gosselin fails on all four points, and thus she must be chastened, scourged, and maybe even burned at the stake.
As always, it amazes, saddens and disgusts me that it is mostly women who are casting the stones. Lord, how we love to hate each other. And we're so good at it, aren't we? While little boys bash each other over the head to establish dominance in the sandbox, we girls do it with sly innuendo and backbiting. We're the master (if I can use that word) of the verbal assault because really, that's the only ammunition our culture has allowed us.
I don't know what will happen to the Gosselins. I wish them well. I wish their period of time being scapegoats for the American shadow psyche is brief. I wish we weren't all so fucking eager to raise the flag and then, just when it's flying high, pull it down to trample it in the muck. I don't know--I guess I wish we weren't so human.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Marriage, Death, Kids and Family
1. Twenty years ago today, I got married. Not to the English actor; this was to the California country boy who I met in a bar in the foothills of the Sierras. We didn't meet cute or neat or however Hollywood calls it. I was in the bar with friends; he was there for a beer after work. I can't say I was bowled over, but I kinda thought I knew him from somewhere. So we talked, and he thought so too, and I gave him my number. He called that same night. We went out the next weekend. I still wasn't bowled over. There wasn't that instant chemistry that I knew from other relationships. There was just something about him that I couldn't stay away from. It wasn't sexual. I didn't understand it then; I just went along with it. Three years later, we were married. Now, twenty years later, we're not. I am better off for not being with him now, for all sorts of reasons. But that something about him that drew me to him then? It still exists. I don't know why. I still don't know what it means. I guess I just have to live with it.
2. This summer my cousin got married. He and his wife were expecting a baby in the new year. Last Sunday, they were having a meal in a restaurant. My cousin got up to pay the bill, turned around to look at his wife and watched the life leave her eyes. They couldn't save the baby either.
3. Today I had a conversation with a young woman I love who has two children. First, much talk about the cousin and his wife. Then much talk about the young woman I love and her pregnancy. Then I sang Happy Birthday to Son #1 and listened to Son #2 babble to me. Then the young woman asked how I was, and I started to tell her. She is one of the few people in my family who hears me. But #1 and #2 were hungry and cranky and wanted their mom's attention. So before I really got into anything important to me, she had to get off the phone. The feeling I was left with was not unlike what happens when you've been making out with a guy, he comes, and then says I gotta go, finish yourself. I know the young woman I love didn't mean for me to feel that way, but I did.
4. This afternoon I went shopping for light bulbs at the hardware store. I love hardware stores, but today, today it made me miss my dad. He kept me furnished in tools and up-to-speed on how to use them. I still have the love of all the gadgetry, but without him, I'm not sure what to buy. He was another of the few people in my family who could hear me. And my mom. As I wandered around the lumber department, I thought of how my parents had spoiled me. Not with gifts or money or any of those things. They liked me and they wanted to know what I was doing and thinking and wanting and knowing. So they spoiled me for this time when there really aren't very many people around who feel that way.
2. This summer my cousin got married. He and his wife were expecting a baby in the new year. Last Sunday, they were having a meal in a restaurant. My cousin got up to pay the bill, turned around to look at his wife and watched the life leave her eyes. They couldn't save the baby either.
3. Today I had a conversation with a young woman I love who has two children. First, much talk about the cousin and his wife. Then much talk about the young woman I love and her pregnancy. Then I sang Happy Birthday to Son #1 and listened to Son #2 babble to me. Then the young woman asked how I was, and I started to tell her. She is one of the few people in my family who hears me. But #1 and #2 were hungry and cranky and wanted their mom's attention. So before I really got into anything important to me, she had to get off the phone. The feeling I was left with was not unlike what happens when you've been making out with a guy, he comes, and then says I gotta go, finish yourself. I know the young woman I love didn't mean for me to feel that way, but I did.
4. This afternoon I went shopping for light bulbs at the hardware store. I love hardware stores, but today, today it made me miss my dad. He kept me furnished in tools and up-to-speed on how to use them. I still have the love of all the gadgetry, but without him, I'm not sure what to buy. He was another of the few people in my family who could hear me. And my mom. As I wandered around the lumber department, I thought of how my parents had spoiled me. Not with gifts or money or any of those things. They liked me and they wanted to know what I was doing and thinking and wanting and knowing. So they spoiled me for this time when there really aren't very many people around who feel that way.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Cleaning Out My Parents Desk
Now, isn't that a fascinating headline? They say--you know They, the SEO people--that one's blog titles are crucial, critical and direly important to what kind of traffic one gets. So you can see, what with the creativity that's just burbling out of me, why my blog traffic is so, so, so-so.
However, I couldn't think of any jazzier way to announce what I have spent the day doing. Yes, absolutely. Cleaning out my parents' desk. It's a lovely desk, mahogany, with a drop down writing surface,
and multiple cubbies as well as several small drawers in the top. And three drawers in the bottom. It has, for as long as I can remember, been the repository for the flotsam and jetsam of my parents' life. Once my mother died and bequeathed the flotsam and jetsam to me, I just kept it as it was, allowing it to grow a bit with my own stuff--dead cell phones and the like--shoved into the top drawer. But I've long known that one day I would have to deal with My Parents' Desk, and I've known as well that it would be difficult. None of us--my father, my mother, nor I--liked to throw things out. My mother was, in the early years, probably better at it than my dad and I. But once he died, she seemed to inherit all of his pack rat traits and then some. Thus, the Macy's receipts and Screen Actors' Guild cards from the 90s. Thus, it is left to me to make the hard decisions about what to toss.
That carton you see contains but one, the smallest, drawer and the top cubbies of the desk. It is, you will note, half full. What I threw most easily were my mother's bills and receipts, circa 1998. A twinge or two at tossing all of the Lee C. Gassner address labels, but none for the all the dessicated ballpoints, souvenirs of CPAs and insurance companies and, of course, now-defunct motel chains. I did experience some feelings of guilt at getting rid of stacks of perfectly good, albeit dreadfully dull greeting cards that my mothers gathered from somewhere or other. These are not of the Hallmark genre; think more along the lines of Birds of the World and Flowers of Fall. And with them went the handsful of perfectly good envelopes. It was hard to throw them as I know my father is flipping in his grave at the sheer wantonness of my waste. But if I did what my every instinct is telling me--put them in a box to keep and use some day--then they would become my flotsam and jetsam, and I have no daughter to will them to.
The Things I Did Not Throw (and yes, the allusion to The Things They Carried is intentional):
However, I couldn't think of any jazzier way to announce what I have spent the day doing. Yes, absolutely. Cleaning out my parents' desk. It's a lovely desk, mahogany, with a drop down writing surface,
and multiple cubbies as well as several small drawers in the top. And three drawers in the bottom. It has, for as long as I can remember, been the repository for the flotsam and jetsam of my parents' life. Once my mother died and bequeathed the flotsam and jetsam to me, I just kept it as it was, allowing it to grow a bit with my own stuff--dead cell phones and the like--shoved into the top drawer. But I've long known that one day I would have to deal with My Parents' Desk, and I've known as well that it would be difficult. None of us--my father, my mother, nor I--liked to throw things out. My mother was, in the early years, probably better at it than my dad and I. But once he died, she seemed to inherit all of his pack rat traits and then some. Thus, the Macy's receipts and Screen Actors' Guild cards from the 90s. Thus, it is left to me to make the hard decisions about what to toss.That carton you see contains but one, the smallest, drawer and the top cubbies of the desk. It is, you will note, half full. What I threw most easily were my mother's bills and receipts, circa 1998. A twinge or two at tossing all of the Lee C. Gassner address labels, but none for the all the dessicated ballpoints, souvenirs of CPAs and insurance companies and, of course, now-defunct motel chains. I did experience some feelings of guilt at getting rid of stacks of perfectly good, albeit dreadfully dull greeting cards that my mothers gathered from somewhere or other. These are not of the Hallmark genre; think more along the lines of Birds of the World and Flowers of Fall. And with them went the handsful of perfectly good envelopes. It was hard to throw them as I know my father is flipping in his grave at the sheer wantonness of my waste. But if I did what my every instinct is telling me--put them in a box to keep and use some day--then they would become my flotsam and jetsam, and I have no daughter to will them to.
The Things I Did Not Throw (and yes, the allusion to The Things They Carried is intentional):
- the collection of perfectly good, not-been-cancelled stamps that my father maintained through the years. Not that he collected stamps, but for the actual postage, you know. I'm sure I'll use them. It would be a sin not to, a waste of perfectly good money. Of course, I do wonder if there's a statute of limitations on postage. I know we now have Forever Stamps, but will the 5cent Washingtons and the 3cent Liberty's fly as well?
- their passports, each in its own leather case, initial-stamped in gold--HG...LCG. I don't know why I'm keeping them. They just seem too good, too fresh to throw out. But still...
- medical reports, because that's now the only record my sister and I will have, and we may need it some day
- a letter from my first husband, to my parents, written after I left him, in which he told them how much he loved them--and me.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
A Film for the MidLife Folks
So while I was being all silent, I was watching a movie. A Previous Engagement, a new film starring Juliet Stevenson, Tcheky Karyo, and Daniel Stern. It was written and directed by Joan Carr-Wiggan and all awards for producer will be going to David Gordian. Okay, now that we've got the basic credits out of the way, we'll go right into the critique. It's a comedy. Think An Unmarried Woman crossed with Same Time Next Year. The premise is this: a man and a woman had such fantastic sex on a beach in Malta when they were young and foolish that they vowed to meet on the same beach twentyfive years later. We don't get to see the sex, but they both agreed the earth moved, etc. etc. Okay, fast forward to twentyfive years later and a middle-aged librarian travels to Malta with her boring, bored husband and two whiny twentysomething daughters. The other half of the equation, the now middle-aged publisher of a literary journal, travels to Malta with his secretary, who he occasionally bonks. Meet cute, cute meet: what's going to happen? Will they fall into each others arms? Will they even meet again? Will they have sex? Will it be good? Will she leave her husband? Will her daughters stop whining?
I watched this movie because I was asked if I wanted to see it to possibly talk about it on my blog. I said yes, and now I'm talking about it on my blog. Okay, now I can tell you what I really think.
I really think A Previous Engagement is a sweet little movie, but over-long. The twists and turns of the will she/won't he/do they seem to go on forever. It's been a long time since my British film-watching credentials were polished, but it seems to me that this is an example of a particular genre of British comedy that has some name, except I'm blanking on it now. It's farce meets meaningful subject, which is a bit of a contradiction in critical terms, if you know what I mean, but saved by superior acting. The Brits do that, you know. Except Daniel Stern is American and Tcheky Karyo is Turkish. The former is quite good (isn't he always) and the latter is not bad, albeit no Alan Bates (where is Alan Bates these days, anyway?) But Juliet Stevenson is really quite, quite good. Quite. She's a bit mannered, in a quirky manner, but she pulls the character off.
The problem for me with this movie is that, well, how long ago was An Unmarried Woman? Twentyfive years, you say? Then the concept of beleaguered wife being sucked dry by a dull husband and LEAVING HIM was revolutionary. Today, it's not. So the movie is cute; it's sweet; and it definitely made me laughoutloud (LOL!) from time to time. Thus, I say it is worth whatever the hell they're charging at your Cineplex these days. Just in time for the summer blockbuster, we've got a movie for us midlife folk, and if we go to this one, maybe they'll give us some more.
I watched this movie because I was asked if I wanted to see it to possibly talk about it on my blog. I said yes, and now I'm talking about it on my blog. Okay, now I can tell you what I really think.
I really think A Previous Engagement is a sweet little movie, but over-long. The twists and turns of the will she/won't he/do they seem to go on forever. It's been a long time since my British film-watching credentials were polished, but it seems to me that this is an example of a particular genre of British comedy that has some name, except I'm blanking on it now. It's farce meets meaningful subject, which is a bit of a contradiction in critical terms, if you know what I mean, but saved by superior acting. The Brits do that, you know. Except Daniel Stern is American and Tcheky Karyo is Turkish. The former is quite good (isn't he always) and the latter is not bad, albeit no Alan Bates (where is Alan Bates these days, anyway?) But Juliet Stevenson is really quite, quite good. Quite. She's a bit mannered, in a quirky manner, but she pulls the character off.
The problem for me with this movie is that, well, how long ago was An Unmarried Woman? Twentyfive years, you say? Then the concept of beleaguered wife being sucked dry by a dull husband and LEAVING HIM was revolutionary. Today, it's not. So the movie is cute; it's sweet; and it definitely made me laughoutloud (LOL!) from time to time. Thus, I say it is worth whatever the hell they're charging at your Cineplex these days. Just in time for the summer blockbuster, we've got a movie for us midlife folk, and if we go to this one, maybe they'll give us some more.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Symbols, Metaphors, Tropes of one kind or another
We moved into our house in August of 2005. The landscaping went in that fall, so it wasn't until the spring of 2006 that we made good on our plans to buy some sort of gazebo thingie to protect us, when we were doing the lazy, crazy things Americans do in their back yards, from the hot hot hot Sacramento sun. We found a tiki gazebo at Target. It was cute, without being twee, and if we avoided hanging fishnets and coconuts, it afforded our back yard a measure of sophistication. At least we thought so.
The gazebo came totally disassembled in a long, narrow carton. We assembled it. It took us all of a Sunday to figure out which pipe A went to which bamboo strut B, and so on and so on and so on. We raised the roof on the gazebo just before dinner, and I remember feeling tired and sore from humping pipe A, etc., but also so very very good. I was proud of the way we had worked together, D and I, to create this thing which would be a token of our finally having achieved something resembling The Good Life. This was the first time we had a GrownUps backyard, where everything fit and was finished and spoke to our taste and good fortune. I anticipated many, many evenings outside in the bamboo gazebo, with family who lived nearby and friends, who we would surely soon meet. I wish I had taken a picture of it that day, but this is the nearest I could find: a photo taken to put the redwood furniture on Craigslist. Imagine, if you will, a khaki pagoda style awning for a roof; add some bamboo shades on one side--there you have it.
I think we had company over once. Family didn't make it over as often as we'd hoped; friends, well, let's just say they were very hard to come by. This next photo is the gazebo in January after a hellish storm which uprooted trees all over the area.
Obviously, it had to go, and today D. came over and took it apart. By himself. He didn't want or need my help.
I don't usually write about the breakup of my marriage, and I'm not going to say much more than this: I cannot help but see that gazebo as a symbol or metaphor. It's raising and it's falling. The hopes and plans and dreams with which we moved to this house--and what remains today.
The gazebo came totally disassembled in a long, narrow carton. We assembled it. It took us all of a Sunday to figure out which pipe A went to which bamboo strut B, and so on and so on and so on. We raised the roof on the gazebo just before dinner, and I remember feeling tired and sore from humping pipe A, etc., but also so very very good. I was proud of the way we had worked together, D and I, to create this thing which would be a token of our finally having achieved something resembling The Good Life. This was the first time we had a GrownUps backyard, where everything fit and was finished and spoke to our taste and good fortune. I anticipated many, many evenings outside in the bamboo gazebo, with family who lived nearby and friends, who we would surely soon meet. I wish I had taken a picture of it that day, but this is the nearest I could find: a photo taken to put the redwood furniture on Craigslist. Imagine, if you will, a khaki pagoda style awning for a roof; add some bamboo shades on one side--there you have it.
I think we had company over once. Family didn't make it over as often as we'd hoped; friends, well, let's just say they were very hard to come by. This next photo is the gazebo in January after a hellish storm which uprooted trees all over the area. 
Obviously, it had to go, and today D. came over and took it apart. By himself. He didn't want or need my help.I don't usually write about the breakup of my marriage, and I'm not going to say much more than this: I cannot help but see that gazebo as a symbol or metaphor. It's raising and it's falling. The hopes and plans and dreams with which we moved to this house--and what remains today.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Flotsam and Jetsam...post Christmas
I don't know if several days break is what I've been giving myself. I don't think it is the beginning of the end. More, I want to really get at why I'm doing ByJane, the "good" reasons and the "ill". I've erased that last phrase several times, because I don't like the opposition of good and ill. But it keeps coming back into my head, and I think it's because in some ways the "ill" reasons are those that I consider parts of my psyche that I would rather not exist. In other words, shit that I do.
One majorly (as they say) reason I've done (tense intentional) ByJane is because I want to play with the big guys, the A-listers. Not because I particularly like them (some I do; some--eh) or because I have anything really in common with them, thirty- and forty-something mommybloggers that they are. I want to play with the big guys because, pure and simple, that will signal to all and sundry, not the least of which is moi, that I have great worth. This is so obviously "ill" that I need say no more.
Another reason, which is nestled right in tight with the one above, is that I want to make money writing. Now I could, as I have done before, work to do it the traditional way: query, article, rewrite, revise rewrite, revise revised rewrite, wait for pay. Can you tell what fond memories I have of freelancing? So one would think I would do most anything to avoid it. Yes, one would. Unless one knew my uber-contrary ways.
Here are the things that I have been told/asked to do on my blog so as to make it PAY: (1) Focus on just one topic. I am constitutionally incapable of doing this. I have ADD for chrissake, people; my focus is in the best of times scattered. And besides, I don't wanna. And besides that, shouldn't the sharpness of my prose make up for the lack of focus? I mean, some days I reread what I've written and I think, hot damn, that's good. I wait for the world to beat a path to my door and...and...and...I'm still waiting. Then I think, hey , maybe it's not so good, maybe I'm fooling myself, maybe I've lost It. And then I'm all depressed and sad and who wants to write cheery things in that state of mind.
(2) Write about the breakup of my marriage. Do you have any idea how my stats went up when I first broke the news? Not to mention that I got a contract to write about divorce for a site that either never got going or is swinging without me. Because, frankly, I'm not so good at putting that ironic twist on someone else's, my soontobex's, psyche. I figure he's entitled to do his thing without my commenting on it and drawing the world's attention to it and creating subtle jokes and cynical snipes about it. And since all of that is one half of the story, I sorta can't write about the breakup of my marriage. Even if it would pay handsomely to do so. And maybe, even, make me an A-lister (because even I realize that Divorce is a focus, a single subject, that elusive grail). Not writing about it also means that some days what is on my mind is a great big ole elephant in the blog. A subtle beige one, with floppy ears. About which I will say no more because who wants to write cheery things in that state of mind.
Okay, the symmetry of these two final sentences is very nice and all, but really leads to the impression that I'm walking around wounded, dragging my limp and shattered ego/heart behind me. Well, t'ain't so, McGee. Generally speaking, I'm pretty up these days. I'm working on stuff and there's movement and life is good. Maybe because I'm working on Stuff. The advantage to having this shrink education (not to mention the wisdom of, ahem, the elders) is that I really can see my Stuff. I can lay it out and go, Ohho so that's what that's about...Hmmmm, very interesting. And then I think, oh, great for the blog. And then I think, why do I have to turn my every insight into a blog post? Am I living my life to live it--or to blog it?
And that brings me right back to the Original Ill--blogging as a manifestation of an untoward ego need.
Wooow! who said that?
One majorly (as they say) reason I've done (tense intentional) ByJane is because I want to play with the big guys, the A-listers. Not because I particularly like them (some I do; some--eh) or because I have anything really in common with them, thirty- and forty-something mommybloggers that they are. I want to play with the big guys because, pure and simple, that will signal to all and sundry, not the least of which is moi, that I have great worth. This is so obviously "ill" that I need say no more.
Another reason, which is nestled right in tight with the one above, is that I want to make money writing. Now I could, as I have done before, work to do it the traditional way: query, article, rewrite, revise rewrite, revise revised rewrite, wait for pay. Can you tell what fond memories I have of freelancing? So one would think I would do most anything to avoid it. Yes, one would. Unless one knew my uber-contrary ways.
Here are the things that I have been told/asked to do on my blog so as to make it PAY: (1) Focus on just one topic. I am constitutionally incapable of doing this. I have ADD for chrissake, people; my focus is in the best of times scattered. And besides, I don't wanna. And besides that, shouldn't the sharpness of my prose make up for the lack of focus? I mean, some days I reread what I've written and I think, hot damn, that's good. I wait for the world to beat a path to my door and...and...and...I'm still waiting. Then I think, hey , maybe it's not so good, maybe I'm fooling myself, maybe I've lost It. And then I'm all depressed and sad and who wants to write cheery things in that state of mind.
(2) Write about the breakup of my marriage. Do you have any idea how my stats went up when I first broke the news? Not to mention that I got a contract to write about divorce for a site that either never got going or is swinging without me. Because, frankly, I'm not so good at putting that ironic twist on someone else's, my soontobex's, psyche. I figure he's entitled to do his thing without my commenting on it and drawing the world's attention to it and creating subtle jokes and cynical snipes about it. And since all of that is one half of the story, I sorta can't write about the breakup of my marriage. Even if it would pay handsomely to do so. And maybe, even, make me an A-lister (because even I realize that Divorce is a focus, a single subject, that elusive grail). Not writing about it also means that some days what is on my mind is a great big ole elephant in the blog. A subtle beige one, with floppy ears. About which I will say no more because who wants to write cheery things in that state of mind.
Okay, the symmetry of these two final sentences is very nice and all, but really leads to the impression that I'm walking around wounded, dragging my limp and shattered ego/heart behind me. Well, t'ain't so, McGee. Generally speaking, I'm pretty up these days. I'm working on stuff and there's movement and life is good. Maybe because I'm working on Stuff. The advantage to having this shrink education (not to mention the wisdom of, ahem, the elders) is that I really can see my Stuff. I can lay it out and go, Ohho so that's what that's about...Hmmmm, very interesting. And then I think, oh, great for the blog. And then I think, why do I have to turn my every insight into a blog post? Am I living my life to live it--or to blog it?
And that brings me right back to the Original Ill--blogging as a manifestation of an untoward ego need.
Wooow! who said that?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Flotsam & Jetsam & Metaphors Galore
Last night I dreamt I got stuck in a steep ravine. I started to climb out and then stopped because I remembered how old I am. Too old to be climbing out of ravines, it would seem. In my dream, I found another way out, but when I awoke--now--I'm wondering if "too old" is a fact of life to be dealt with (as I did in the dream) or an excuse.
The brined chicken was not successful. Despite being all nicely browned, crispy even, on the outside, it was still pink--oh, yuck!--on the inside. I had to zap it in the microwave which, of course, left it dry. I'm wondering if brining does something to poultry that affects cooking time and temp. I find myself, in this current bout of cooking mania, very interested in the chemistry involved. It's as if--no, it is!--that I've suddenly discovered that cooking is really a chain of chemical reactions. Unfortunately chemistry was my worst, absolute worst subject in school...
The product of my weeding on Sunday: I chopped and trimmed and cut and eventually pulled out a dead bush . It was the sister to the bush below on the left. Why did one live and prosper while the other died? I'm not sure. Maybe it was the incredibly invasive vining weed that had wrapped itself around and through the bush. Or maybe it was just Its Time.
This is the clear space that's left, and now I get to decide what I want to put there. I'm thinking bulbs--I love hyacinths. And maybe herbs. I'm not sure.
When I typed that first sentence above, it came out as , "The product of my wedding on Sunday..." Today, actually, is the anniversary of my wedding nineteen years ago. Do I regret it? No. Do I regret its ending? In some ways, yes and in some ways, no. It is what it is and I am what I am, and today I'm happy with that.
The brined chicken was not successful. Despite being all nicely browned, crispy even, on the outside, it was still pink--oh, yuck!--on the inside. I had to zap it in the microwave which, of course, left it dry. I'm wondering if brining does something to poultry that affects cooking time and temp. I find myself, in this current bout of cooking mania, very interested in the chemistry involved. It's as if--no, it is!--that I've suddenly discovered that cooking is really a chain of chemical reactions. Unfortunately chemistry was my worst, absolute worst subject in school...
The product of my weeding on Sunday: I chopped and trimmed and cut and eventually pulled out a dead bush . It was the sister to the bush below on the left. Why did one live and prosper while the other died? I'm not sure. Maybe it was the incredibly invasive vining weed that had wrapped itself around and through the bush. Or maybe it was just Its Time.
This is the clear space that's left, and now I get to decide what I want to put there. I'm thinking bulbs--I love hyacinths. And maybe herbs. I'm not sure.When I typed that first sentence above, it came out as , "The product of my wedding on Sunday..." Today, actually, is the anniversary of my wedding nineteen years ago. Do I regret it? No. Do I regret its ending? In some ways, yes and in some ways, no. It is what it is and I am what I am, and today I'm happy with that.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Wedding Rings
Here is the post I intended to write, complete with illustrations. Actually, due to a fit of sheer laziness, enertia, and for-chrissake- it's- sunday, you are getting the unillustrated version.
First, a color photo of my hand on my wedding day wearing my wedding rings. They were a sapphire engagement ring that D bought for me and a gold band with invisible diamonds that we traipsed around Sacramento an entire day to find. The engagement ring was white gold, so to "match" (and what's a Jewish girl if her wedding rings don't match), we had to find something in white gold. Except white gold wedding bands look like plumbing pipe, and I was having none of that. The invisible diamonds on the gold band we found made it sorta kinda look like it had an air of white gold about it.
Second, a closeup of my hand sans rings. I took them off, wrenched them if you must know, in a fit of pique round about the second week of the current story of my life. I'll show him, motherfucker, I'll take my rings off--and then he'll be sorry. Don't know if he noticed or cared or what he actually felt. But there I was with my nude left hand, sort of dangling in the air, as it were. I thought it just needed some time to get adjusted to the light of day, but it turns out that the rings had some sort of permanent effect on my third finger, left hand. There is a line there, not of suntan, but of something within the actually flesh. Talk about a fucking metaphor.
Third, a closeup of my new, bought-by-me ring. I got it in Seattle. It is a sterling band, about tenth of an inch wide, brushed metal with the following stamped in cooly-wonky letters all along the ring: IT'S NOT THE DESTINATION, IT'S THE JOURNEY. Another metaphor, true, but this one at least is of my making.
First, a color photo of my hand on my wedding day wearing my wedding rings. They were a sapphire engagement ring that D bought for me and a gold band with invisible diamonds that we traipsed around Sacramento an entire day to find. The engagement ring was white gold, so to "match" (and what's a Jewish girl if her wedding rings don't match), we had to find something in white gold. Except white gold wedding bands look like plumbing pipe, and I was having none of that. The invisible diamonds on the gold band we found made it sorta kinda look like it had an air of white gold about it.
Second, a closeup of my hand sans rings. I took them off, wrenched them if you must know, in a fit of pique round about the second week of the current story of my life. I'll show him, motherfucker, I'll take my rings off--and then he'll be sorry. Don't know if he noticed or cared or what he actually felt. But there I was with my nude left hand, sort of dangling in the air, as it were. I thought it just needed some time to get adjusted to the light of day, but it turns out that the rings had some sort of permanent effect on my third finger, left hand. There is a line there, not of suntan, but of something within the actually flesh. Talk about a fucking metaphor.
Third, a closeup of my new, bought-by-me ring. I got it in Seattle. It is a sterling band, about tenth of an inch wide, brushed metal with the following stamped in cooly-wonky letters all along the ring: IT'S NOT THE DESTINATION, IT'S THE JOURNEY. Another metaphor, true, but this one at least is of my making.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Astrologer Daily: Mercury trine Jupiter. | BlogHer
I started reading KT, BlogHer's Astrology Contributing Editor, just about when she first started posting on BlogHer. Which was just about the time that my errant husband decided he didn't want to be married anymore. KT's daily readings just seemed to speak to exactly my situation, and to give me hope, and whatever else I needed to get through the day.
Which just goes to show how the stars can fool you.
Today I woke sadder than sad. Then I had to cut short Molly's walk because I was crying in the middle of the street, forchrissakes (fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, so other than the tears streaking down my cheeks and the snot blubbering out of my nose, no one could tell--I don't think). And then I got all weepy over Barbara Morgan, the teacher-astronaut, finally making it into space. A dream not so much deferred, but long in coming.
Shall I tell you why? Aw, c'mon, you already know. Why flog a dead horse, as the Brits say. Or try to shore up one's faith in a lost-cause marriage.
"Optimistic and hopeful for the future" is exactly what I don't feel. Able to see the Big Picture? Nope. Just a bunch of days and days and days ahead. The Moon is in the Balsamic Phase. Would that be, as in vinegar? And since four of my moons are in Cancer, not to mention my natal sign, would I be one big old vat of the stuff?
Phooey, I say. Phooey. And a pox on all their houses.
Which just goes to show how the stars can fool you.
Today's reading is: "Today is one of those great times when we can see the trees as well as the forest. Mercury, the planet that rules thought, logic and communication, makes an easy trine to Jupiter, the Big-Picture Planet. Details and grand plans merge in a delightfully complete scenario. Both planets are in energizing Fire signs. We feel optimistic and hopeful for the future. At the moment, words have more impact than we can imagine, so choose yours carefully. Humor, jokes and games go well now.
Today's moon:
Today the Moon is in Cancer all day. It's in the Balsamic Phase, closing in on the New Moon in a few days. It's 11% of full today."
Today I woke sadder than sad. Then I had to cut short Molly's walk because I was crying in the middle of the street, forchrissakes (fortunately I was wearing sunglasses, so other than the tears streaking down my cheeks and the snot blubbering out of my nose, no one could tell--I don't think). And then I got all weepy over Barbara Morgan, the teacher-astronaut, finally making it into space. A dream not so much deferred, but long in coming.
Shall I tell you why? Aw, c'mon, you already know. Why flog a dead horse, as the Brits say. Or try to shore up one's faith in a lost-cause marriage.
"Optimistic and hopeful for the future" is exactly what I don't feel. Able to see the Big Picture? Nope. Just a bunch of days and days and days ahead. The Moon is in the Balsamic Phase. Would that be, as in vinegar? And since four of my moons are in Cancer, not to mention my natal sign, would I be one big old vat of the stuff?
Phooey, I say. Phooey. And a pox on all their houses.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Mea Culpa...
The drive to LA takes 6-7 hours, depending on all the variables that time and distance offer. I go on 5, the IntraState, the big, wonking highway that all the truck drivers use as well. It goes, for me, from Elk Grove to Stockton, down through the Central Valley, the home of America's Big-time Agribusiness. No sweet little farms here. Just acres and acres, miles and miles of arable dirt in various stages of production: tilled, sowed, growing, harvested. The total effect is brown. Dirty brown. It's as boring as pig shit*. Speaking of which, scenic route 5 also is home to--okay, not pigs, but cows. So let's revise that to, it's as boring as cow shit. Of which there is an amazing amount. There are feed lots along the highway where they bring in cattle to fatten 'em up for the--well, you know what. The cows, thousands of them, just stand seemingly by the road, for miles inland, chewing and shitting, shitting and chewing. The smell is beyond belief. It's enough to gag a maggot.*
(*I'd like to thank my college roommate, Harriet, for both of these metaphors. If they seem somewhat dated--well, you know how long ago I went to college)
I tell you all this so you have some idea of what I endured during those 6-7 hours down to LA. And the 6-7 hours back home. Alone. By myself, that is. The radio--oh, the radio gets for most of the trip a choice of Spanish-speaking stations, Country & Western or Save-Me-Jesus stations. I don't speak Spanish. I like C & W, but it's all a bit too tragic for me these days, so I spent some considerable time listening to Pastor Whatchamacallit trying to convince me to give up my life for the Lord. Or, at the least, send him, Pastor W, a donation so he could pray to the Almighty that my sinning soul would be saved. I was unmoved, beyond noting that these guys are all heavily into the Old Testament,and they are also overly-partial to Paul, who as best I can tell had lots to say about women and hair. But then I'm Jewish, so I may have misunderstood.
All of this--yes, I have a point and I am getting to it--is to say that I spent some 13-14 hours by myself in the car, and something odd happened. My point of view began to change. On this whole thing, this marriage stuff, with D. After a couple of hours of regurgitating my plaints, poor me, bad him, oh woe, I suddenly had what might be called a chiropractic adjustment of the psyche. I started, maybe just out of sheer boredom, to think through the whole thing again but to see it through his eyes. Oh wow.
Suddenly, all the stuff that he was saying and doing made complete sense. I got It. Really got It. And I saw how much of all we have and have not become has been because of what I wasn't, rather than what he wasn't. Basically, I saw that I have been over the years so focused on ME ME ME and what I should have or want or need that I stopped seeing him. Stopped hearing him. Stopped being with him.
This is huge. D has said from time to time that I can be an obnoxious asshole. He's right. I can, and I have. There is something incredibly liberating about realizing this. Maybe because realizing my culpability also realizes my self-determination.
(*I'd like to thank my college roommate, Harriet, for both of these metaphors. If they seem somewhat dated--well, you know how long ago I went to college)
I tell you all this so you have some idea of what I endured during those 6-7 hours down to LA. And the 6-7 hours back home. Alone. By myself, that is. The radio--oh, the radio gets for most of the trip a choice of Spanish-speaking stations, Country & Western or Save-Me-Jesus stations. I don't speak Spanish. I like C & W, but it's all a bit too tragic for me these days, so I spent some considerable time listening to Pastor Whatchamacallit trying to convince me to give up my life for the Lord. Or, at the least, send him, Pastor W, a donation so he could pray to the Almighty that my sinning soul would be saved. I was unmoved, beyond noting that these guys are all heavily into the Old Testament,and they are also overly-partial to Paul, who as best I can tell had lots to say about women and hair. But then I'm Jewish, so I may have misunderstood.
All of this--yes, I have a point and I am getting to it--is to say that I spent some 13-14 hours by myself in the car, and something odd happened. My point of view began to change. On this whole thing, this marriage stuff, with D. After a couple of hours of regurgitating my plaints, poor me, bad him, oh woe, I suddenly had what might be called a chiropractic adjustment of the psyche. I started, maybe just out of sheer boredom, to think through the whole thing again but to see it through his eyes. Oh wow.
Suddenly, all the stuff that he was saying and doing made complete sense. I got It. Really got It. And I saw how much of all we have and have not become has been because of what I wasn't, rather than what he wasn't. Basically, I saw that I have been over the years so focused on ME ME ME and what I should have or want or need that I stopped seeing him. Stopped hearing him. Stopped being with him.
This is huge. D has said from time to time that I can be an obnoxious asshole. He's right. I can, and I have. There is something incredibly liberating about realizing this. Maybe because realizing my culpability also realizes my self-determination.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Two Weddings, Two Divorces
The first time I got married, I wasn't exactly blushing, but I certainly marched down the aisle in full regalia. I was married at Heinz Chapel, which is an 18th century reproduction of a 16th century church in Europe, somewhere. It's got gorgeous stained windows, six feet high, depicting what I can't quite remember, but it seems to me that blue, deep dark blue is the prominent color. You'll forgive me for my sketchiness of details: it was a long time ago and I was really just a girl then, full of hope and dreams and fantasies about what my marriage would be. That it wasn't could have been predicted at the moment, but how was I to know that.
The second time I got married, it was in my parents living room. My sister played me in to Here Comes The Bride on my dad's electric organ, and the only people present were those family members who were my nearest and dearest. I wore an elegant silk suit in a champagne color, size 7 if you please. We drove to Oregon to honeymoon, and perhaps the result of that marriage might have been predicted by the sight that greeted me the first morning: dead moose heads in various stages of decomposition jammed on fence posts.
I thought of the difference between my two weddings this morning when I sat in the lawyer's office and listened to her tell me the drill. It didn't sound familiar, even though I must have gone through it once before. I couldn't figure out why and then I thought of how Marriage Number One came to an end: not with a bang, but a whimper. I left the marriage but didn't divorce until some, oh, say, about ten years later when a friend who was a lawyer could not stand it anymore and prepared all the papers for me. All I had to do was show up in the court room and respond to the judge's "is-it-true-that-irreconcilable-differences" spiel in the affirmative.
This time promises to be somewhat different. I really will have to be engaged in the process, which is ironic considering that in #1, I engineered the breakup, and now in #2, I haven't. Another irony: big fancy wedding>puny little divorce; puny little wedding>big fancy divorce. I'm not sure what, if anything, to make of that.
The second time I got married, it was in my parents living room. My sister played me in to Here Comes The Bride on my dad's electric organ, and the only people present were those family members who were my nearest and dearest. I wore an elegant silk suit in a champagne color, size 7 if you please. We drove to Oregon to honeymoon, and perhaps the result of that marriage might have been predicted by the sight that greeted me the first morning: dead moose heads in various stages of decomposition jammed on fence posts.
I thought of the difference between my two weddings this morning when I sat in the lawyer's office and listened to her tell me the drill. It didn't sound familiar, even though I must have gone through it once before. I couldn't figure out why and then I thought of how Marriage Number One came to an end: not with a bang, but a whimper. I left the marriage but didn't divorce until some, oh, say, about ten years later when a friend who was a lawyer could not stand it anymore and prepared all the papers for me. All I had to do was show up in the court room and respond to the judge's "is-it-true-that-irreconcilable-differences" spiel in the affirmative.
This time promises to be somewhat different. I really will have to be engaged in the process, which is ironic considering that in #1, I engineered the breakup, and now in #2, I haven't. Another irony: big fancy wedding>puny little divorce; puny little wedding>big fancy divorce. I'm not sure what, if anything, to make of that.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Don't Slam The Door....
So here I am in my newly-emptied house. It's not really empty. Just the clothes and the books and the paintings and the man are gone.
For the past few days, he has been filling the SUV, newly registered in his name, with stuff. The garage, which we had specially fitted-out so it could be his studio, took the longest time. And made the smallest dent in my perception. But then, sometime yesterday or maybe the night before, I started to notice. A favorite painting that I sort of considered 'mine' was gone. And his clothes--there are few things sadder, it seems to me, than a closetfull of empty hangers. Of course, the good news is that I will probably never have to buy plastic hangers again, so many do I now have as spares.
Paintings off the walls and some transportable furniture left bare places that I couldn't leave alone. So I went trolling through my side of the garage and found a painting that I had done when I was about sixteen to hang where one of his had been. I quite like the painting; it's an abstract that I did in my aunt's studio one night while the grownups were talking 'round the table. It doesn't really fill the space, but it's better than blank wall, until I decide what I really do want there. And one of the Mission rockers that I bought at an auction in PA, that I put where his huge upholstered Bishop's chair had been. It's too small as well, but it will do the job. That all went out yesterday, and truth to tell, I felt quite sad all evening.
Today, he packed up his computer. But not before I undertook the Herculean task of deleting all of my files and programs. We shared that computer for a number of years and unwrapping my life on the hard drive from his was probably harder than the legal separation of property will be.
This is all so new and mostly, I don't know what to make of it. When I think of the reality of what's happening, I'm astonished, aghast, appalled. How can this be? How is it that in the space of what, six weeks, life as I knew it and expected it to be has been erased?
Still, I can't say I'm suffering mightily. I'm shocked and hurt and disappointed and mad--hey, I'm a candidate for the stages of mourning, aren't I! Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, writ large. But I'm sleeping well, and my appetite isn't off. And I'm exercising--yes, yes, yes--on my new Pilates Reformer, so tomorrow is another day, etc. etc. etc.
Actually, Molly is the one that I feel the most for. So much of her life was spent with him. They had routines that she won't have with me. I won't be taking her to Starbucks every morning and sharing my scone with her. Nor will she accompany me on trips hither and yon, although I do have her carseat (yes, Molly has a car seat, of course) in my car. But they used to spend some good portion of the day driving. And if he was in the garage painting, she was there with him. She doesn't understand what's going on. All she knows is, something's wrong with my people. Today I sat on the sofa with her after he had driven off and she scrunched herself up small, shoved her head under my hip and jammed the rest of her body as close to mine as she could get. I think she would have gotten inside me if she could. And then she'd be sure that I too wouldn't leave her.
For the past few days, he has been filling the SUV, newly registered in his name, with stuff. The garage, which we had specially fitted-out so it could be his studio, took the longest time. And made the smallest dent in my perception. But then, sometime yesterday or maybe the night before, I started to notice. A favorite painting that I sort of considered 'mine' was gone. And his clothes--there are few things sadder, it seems to me, than a closetfull of empty hangers. Of course, the good news is that I will probably never have to buy plastic hangers again, so many do I now have as spares.
Paintings off the walls and some transportable furniture left bare places that I couldn't leave alone. So I went trolling through my side of the garage and found a painting that I had done when I was about sixteen to hang where one of his had been. I quite like the painting; it's an abstract that I did in my aunt's studio one night while the grownups were talking 'round the table. It doesn't really fill the space, but it's better than blank wall, until I decide what I really do want there. And one of the Mission rockers that I bought at an auction in PA, that I put where his huge upholstered Bishop's chair had been. It's too small as well, but it will do the job. That all went out yesterday, and truth to tell, I felt quite sad all evening.
Today, he packed up his computer. But not before I undertook the Herculean task of deleting all of my files and programs. We shared that computer for a number of years and unwrapping my life on the hard drive from his was probably harder than the legal separation of property will be.
This is all so new and mostly, I don't know what to make of it. When I think of the reality of what's happening, I'm astonished, aghast, appalled. How can this be? How is it that in the space of what, six weeks, life as I knew it and expected it to be has been erased?
Still, I can't say I'm suffering mightily. I'm shocked and hurt and disappointed and mad--hey, I'm a candidate for the stages of mourning, aren't I! Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, writ large. But I'm sleeping well, and my appetite isn't off. And I'm exercising--yes, yes, yes--on my new Pilates Reformer, so tomorrow is another day, etc. etc. etc.
Actually, Molly is the one that I feel the most for. So much of her life was spent with him. They had routines that she won't have with me. I won't be taking her to Starbucks every morning and sharing my scone with her. Nor will she accompany me on trips hither and yon, although I do have her carseat (yes, Molly has a car seat, of course) in my car. But they used to spend some good portion of the day driving. And if he was in the garage painting, she was there with him. She doesn't understand what's going on. All she knows is, something's wrong with my people. Today I sat on the sofa with her after he had driven off and she scrunched herself up small, shoved her head under my hip and jammed the rest of her body as close to mine as she could get. I think she would have gotten inside me if she could. And then she'd be sure that I too wouldn't leave her.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I'm in Exalted Company, Lucky Me
Last week when I was at my dentist's in LA (yes, darling, of course I go to B.Hills for my dental work), I told him about the demise of my marriage. He was appalled. Chagrined. And sympathetic. And then he muttered something about it happening all over. I didn't question him--because his hands were in my mouth, for god's sake--but I wondered. And now I'm wondering no more. All is clear as headline after headline hits the tabs about famous couples breaking up.
Larry and Laurie David, 20+ years. Anthony and Corina Villaraigosa, 20+ years. Dermot Mulroney and Katherine Keener, 17 years.
Is there something in the air? It's a pretty big deal, it seems to me, when couples split after such a long time together. Your lives are so intertwined. You get the same jokes. You know where to tread lightly and where not to go at all. You live overlapping lives, which is sometimes good and sometimes bad and sometimes just plain blah. But just how irreconcilable must differences be in order to warrant creating the cataclysm of divorce after decades together?
Still, my second or third thought after hearing about these splits was--hey, these guys are now available. Not that I find the notion of dating at all, AT ALL, appealing. When D and I first married, I said, this is it. If this doesn't work, I'm done with the whole man thing. But still, I quite fancy the idea of having dinner with Larry David.
And then there's Paul McCartney, he's on the block as well. I always was a big Paul fan.....
Larry and Laurie David, 20+ years. Anthony and Corina Villaraigosa, 20+ years. Dermot Mulroney and Katherine Keener, 17 years.
Is there something in the air? It's a pretty big deal, it seems to me, when couples split after such a long time together. Your lives are so intertwined. You get the same jokes. You know where to tread lightly and where not to go at all. You live overlapping lives, which is sometimes good and sometimes bad and sometimes just plain blah. But just how irreconcilable must differences be in order to warrant creating the cataclysm of divorce after decades together?
Still, my second or third thought after hearing about these splits was--hey, these guys are now available. Not that I find the notion of dating at all, AT ALL, appealing. When D and I first married, I said, this is it. If this doesn't work, I'm done with the whole man thing. But still, I quite fancy the idea of having dinner with Larry David.
And then there's Paul McCartney, he's on the block as well. I always was a big Paul fan.....
Thursday, June 07, 2007
So What's New?
I've spent the better part of the day mewling and puking on the nets, checking my email, reading blogs, rechecking my email, reading more blogs, rechecking my email--. You get the point, don't you.
That was the portion of the day when I was not telling D that I wanted him out, out, out.
I can hear a collective gasp. But really, those of you who are careful readers must have know this was coming.
I want him out because he (1) doesn't want to be married any more, and (2) wants to move to Oregon. I'm not sure how those things are related, but this is a guy that has never really been alone, so I'm willing to bet he's got some close personal friend waiting for him up there. Whatever.
He announced this, apropos of nothing, about a month ago. I've been sitting on it and with it since then. The whole thing is a mystery to me, and it's not like I'm an ostrich when it comes to things psychodynamic. He seems incapable of or unwilling to offer any rational explanation. He can't even come up with a dramatic one that I could make some money off in Nashville.
So here I am, "ahem"-years old, married for almost two decades and, hey world, welcome me back.
That was the portion of the day when I was not telling D that I wanted him out, out, out.
I can hear a collective gasp. But really, those of you who are careful readers must have know this was coming.
I want him out because he (1) doesn't want to be married any more, and (2) wants to move to Oregon. I'm not sure how those things are related, but this is a guy that has never really been alone, so I'm willing to bet he's got some close personal friend waiting for him up there. Whatever.
He announced this, apropos of nothing, about a month ago. I've been sitting on it and with it since then. The whole thing is a mystery to me, and it's not like I'm an ostrich when it comes to things psychodynamic. He seems incapable of or unwilling to offer any rational explanation. He can't even come up with a dramatic one that I could make some money off in Nashville.
So here I am, "ahem"-years old, married for almost two decades and, hey world, welcome me back.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
It's One of Those Days...
...you know, the kind where not much gets done and what does is totally unsatisfactory or unsatisfying, whichever of the two you need. I've spent much of today getting up and sitting down, walking into other rooms, walking out again, coming back to my desk and sitting down and then getting up again. You can tell by this blog entry that I'm having one of those days, can't you.
D got back from Oregon last night. He spent the week wandering around Grant's Pass, seeing if he could fantasize himself into a life up there. Sorta, he thinks. Kinda. But he's not really sure.
I, on the other hand, have no intention of moving to Oregon. Perhaps, you might say, that accounts for it being One Of Those Days. And, of course, you'd be right, as you always are.
It's also one of those days when I feel overwhelmed with my Stuff--the detritus of my life. I would probably feel better if I threw some things out. That's what I'll do. Right now--.
D got back from Oregon last night. He spent the week wandering around Grant's Pass, seeing if he could fantasize himself into a life up there. Sorta, he thinks. Kinda. But he's not really sure.
I, on the other hand, have no intention of moving to Oregon. Perhaps, you might say, that accounts for it being One Of Those Days. And, of course, you'd be right, as you always are.
It's also one of those days when I feel overwhelmed with my Stuff--the detritus of my life. I would probably feel better if I threw some things out. That's what I'll do. Right now--.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
On Being A Mother - Why I'm Not
I never set out not to be a mother. I always assumed I would have kids, along with the obligatory husband, 2 car garage and white picket fence. That’s what people did, wasn’t it.
When H & I were in college, before we were married, we planned on having six children. I don’t know why six. I do know that one of them was to be called Megan; the other five were name- and genderless, I suppose. I recall sitting at dinner in the dorm cafeteria one night and he/we were playing house with our imaginary six kids. Suddenly, I don’t know how, he had all six of them in league against me. About what? I don’t know. I just remember the searing feeling of injustice, of being odd man out, without a recourse. It’s interesting to me now that I can only recall that emotion, the strength and taste of it, but no other details of that night. When I say ‘interesting’, I mean ‘telling.’ It’s telling isn’t it that all I can remember is the feeling and not the facts.
When H and I got married, the time for kids never seemed right. First he was in drama school and then a lowly rep actor. I supported us with a variety of secretarial jobs, menial labor of the female sort. We lived in furnished digs, bedsitters where we shared a bathroom with sometimes fifteen others, none of whom ever washed the tub, some of whom refused to even pull the plug after they’d bathed. I couldn’t imagine bringing a baby into that; it was so antithetical to my understanding of motherhood as to be beyond belief.
When H and I finally split up and I moved back to
What would be was zip, nada, not even a smidgeon of a pregnancy scare. In the back of my mind, I always kept an eye out for telltale signs: the swollen breasts, the darkening line down the belly. Nope. Not for me. And so it went until it was past the point of no return. Until it was, as they say in Yiddish, fahfallen, which is what they say to a bald man who is hoping for hair.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Day 24--A time of corrections and other stuff
First, I have not just celebrated my 19th wedding anniversary. It was my 18th. I figured that out several days after. See how time passes when you're having fun.....
Second, please remind me that I don't like turkey. Rather, I like turkey, but only the dark meat. So the idea of cooking a breast for leftovers was a generous act for D who loves turkey of all stripes.
Third, my NaNoWriMo project is coming along nicely, thank you very much. It will be ready for publication sometime in 2008.
Fourth, we're going to Los Angeles on Sunday. I am so missing living there. I feel, I must say, like a fish out of water here in Sacramento.
Fifth, can you tell that I'm babbling?
Second, please remind me that I don't like turkey. Rather, I like turkey, but only the dark meat. So the idea of cooking a breast for leftovers was a generous act for D who loves turkey of all stripes.
Third, my NaNoWriMo project is coming along nicely, thank you very much. It will be ready for publication sometime in 2008.
Fourth, we're going to Los Angeles on Sunday. I am so missing living there. I feel, I must say, like a fish out of water here in Sacramento.
Fifth, can you tell that I'm babbling?
Monday, November 20, 2006
Today is...
...my 19th anniversary. Can I tell you how that shocks and scares me. It's not that I never thought D and I would get this far; it's that I never thought I would get this far. And I don't know what I mean by that. I don't think it has to do with the D word, as in divorce. Nor do I think it's that other D word, dying. No, I think this anniversary is another crashing reminder that--holy shit! I must have grown up! Because only a grownup could be married for 19 years, right? So how come I don't feel any different from November 20, 1986?
This is the thing about aging that is so peculiar, not to mention wondrous and amazing. You are all of your ages in one and the 22 year old gets to comment on the 54 year old who is sharing a moment with the 42 year old who is amazed that she looks better than she expected when she was 32, but jesus, at 60--at 60, shouldn't I feel different? Except I don't, not really.
It's peculiar and wondrous and amazing to me in the same way that a pregnant woman is. She's standing there, whoever she is, but inside her is another person. Weird. And this too, the fact that I am inside myself all the Me's that have ever been. Weird. And exceptionally fun. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
This is the thing about aging that is so peculiar, not to mention wondrous and amazing. You are all of your ages in one and the 22 year old gets to comment on the 54 year old who is sharing a moment with the 42 year old who is amazed that she looks better than she expected when she was 32, but jesus, at 60--at 60, shouldn't I feel different? Except I don't, not really.
It's peculiar and wondrous and amazing to me in the same way that a pregnant woman is. She's standing there, whoever she is, but inside her is another person. Weird. And this too, the fact that I am inside myself all the Me's that have ever been. Weird. And exceptionally fun. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Why A Wife Leaves Her Husband's Bed...or Kicks Him Out
I am so groggy, I can barely keep my nose from plunging into my keyboard. I want sleep. Good sleep, kind sleep, silent sleep. The kind of sleep I last night did not get (the Latinate form, I do believe).
Molly, the world's best dog, last week began a bout of wee small hours shitting on the living room floor. For those of you who have dogs, you know that this act is always accomplished on the carpet, even when pristine tile is so readily available. And you also know that one pile is never sufficient, when multiple drops will do. We had to break her of the habit fast. So last night, we closed her in the bedroom. Our bedroom. Where she normally spends the night, or so we thought.
A word about dogs and their nocturnal habits. As with so much about her, Molly's sleep style makes us smile. It is based on we know not what. Here's how it goes. She starts off the night stretched out between us on top of the covers. A part of her body must be touching a part of each of us. At some point, she goes to the bottom of the bed. At some point, she goes under the bed. At some point, she gets into the bed, on D's side. All of this is done silently, effortlessly, even I would say delicately, for I am never waked/woked/awakened by her journey.
If I were, she would not be near the bed. This was a condition of getting her, that she couldn't keep me up at night jumping on and off the bed. As our last dog, the beloved Pupi, did until the point when I could no longer take it and left our marriage bed to her and D. For a number of years, we had separate beds. Sometimes separate bedrooms. Yes, dear reader, we were that kind of couple.
But at least I was getting a good night's sleep. Which at my age is no small thing and much to be grateful for and more important than lots of other things one once thought was crucial.
Last night, Molly channeled Pupi. Tonight if she doesn't go back to her former sleep habits, I'm off to the guest room.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
