Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Send them packing

FH has been reading blog posts. Funny: when they're married to you, they pay no attention whatsoever. You can fly to the moon for a month and no one notices. As soon as you send them packing, they're sniffing about, true pests, clocking moves, asking about your schedule, your business. It's like living in some small mountainous village in the Old Country, but instead of ancient ladies in black taking note, you've got a middle-age man fueld by fury. Oy. This of course, only feeds my hunger to travel and get away with my two gorgeous children. We need change - yes, bigger change than a divorce can bring about. Maybe it's the weather, the gray, the suburbs, which never, ever rocked my world. I'm doing the footwork as they say - the gym, the nice house, friends, good diet, good books, and have even started dating. But I think what I really need is unrushed time with the kids on the road just ... being. A girlfriend said I should be happy about the date invites. She wants to remarry ASAP. I can't imagine a worse fate: wasted too much time worrying about FH to spend another second worrying about another guy, other than my sons. So I let them get dinner, amuse me, make me laugh, and if I feel like it, give them a kiss and send them packing. It's better that way right now. Another friend - remarried after 6 years of divorce -- said she used to go dancing. She'd get just enough touch and flirt but could leave. If a cowboy was cute, she gave him a kiss--then waved good-bye.


Wednesday, December 21, 2011


For anyone getting divorced, get an anal-retentive lawyer. You'd be amazed at how sloppy they are: case in point. I bought FH out, and refinanced. Bank cut check for unused escrow to both of us. Now, we don't have a joint account. Check can't be cashed unless he agrees to write a letter. Which he won't, because you know, he can mess with my life, so he will. A careful lawyer (not mine, clearly) would have had this taken care of before I signed off on a new mortgage. Which in itself is liberating and terrifying. Think it's the two small children living under my roof that I'm responsible for that makes it scary. I mean, if I lost the house, it's just me. But W and T...whole 'nother ball of wax.

So, after asking nicely if FH would write letter so I can cash the check and get much-needed funds to, oh, buy groceries, and after his nasty refusal I am left to consider options. Lawyers are expensive, and sloppy. Getting enraged only makes FH happy and me nuts. So I've decided to eat the money. Just not cash the damn thing. He won't get any, neither will I. I'd prefer to give it to a charity, but again, I'd need his signature. So in the scheme of things, I'm left thinking I'll light a cozy fire in teh fireplace and burn the damn thing. I'm just too fed up.

I think this is the "angry" part of post-divorce. They say it gets better. We find happiness. Even love. Possibly. But not tonight. Still, I didn't get furious. I stayed calm. Perhaps this is worth something -- even that darn check.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Feeling sexy? Not so much.

So, yes. I filed for divorce. And no, I don't want Former Husband (FH) back, but I'll own up to it: I'm hurting. And sulking. And trying to stop. Unsuccessfully.

And no, it's not attractive.

FH is having a glorious time with 21-year-old Former Babysitter (FB), who is just one of the many reasons I filed. (I'm a bit French about indiscretion but after a handful of flings, it's ridiculous.) He's wasted no time informing me of his dates, his nights away, his art gallery- opening soirees. And I am home with my gorgeous sons reading them Harry Potter, making dinner, doing laundry, packing tomorrow's lunches . . . being a working single mom. Who yes, happens to be old enough to be FB's mother and it boils down to this:

How do you get back in the groove as a woman?

Especially with Prince Charming's instant messages (I mean, do I need the blow-by-blow date commentary?) I know, I know. It's fresh. Time heals. There's a world of I-don't-know-what out there. But I'm skeptical. And really, all I really want to do is dance. Dance and laugh and flirt. Just for a night, so I can remember what it's like to feel like a woman.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Not on top, but back

So it's been a year and in a nutshell, not the best. In fact, has all the makings of a really bad country-western tune: husband got drunk and arrested. Then ran off with 21-year-old babysitter, next day I had to put my sweet dog to sleep (and miss her more),so i filed for divorce, and four is now three (me, two sons). So...determined to grow the humor, grow the courage, but sometimes it's hard. This is where I will turn. With virtually no followers, it's safe.

So, where do you start when a boozy, cheatin' husband leaves? You pull out a sledge hammer and start busting down walls and rebuilding your life -- literally. That means redesigning the kitchen. Well, who knew how hard it is to handle a kitchen. Yeah, cabinets are basically lots of Lego blocks but then you need to put them together. Finding inspiration in blogs, and have called my best friend Clare - an amazing, award-winning kitchen designer from Savannah - who is flying into Connecticut this weekend like the cavalry to figure it out, talk to contractors, and do her thing with measuring tapes and budgets and spreadsheets and Home Depot-lingo. Wish us luck!

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Red suede shoes

These came from a vintage clothing store I wandered in a few weeks ago. I wasn't really in a buying mode, but there they were, red, suede peep-toe Bettye Muller pumps, to die for. Made in Italy. My size! Needless to say, had to have them.

I know. I know. Second-hand shoes? Trust me, these are the shoes Cinderella's fairy godmother would have put her in if the ball was held in the fall. They're more an amber red. like fall leaves in sunshine than candy-apple red, which is so obvious. Anyway, I woke up this morning full of tears -- my niece is sick and hurting herself, my mom's depressed, my marriage is ... well ... as Eleanore Roosevelt said, "Cry in the bathroom, come out smiling, dear." So I was all set to wear boots - black like my mood - but then I saw The Shoes. I put them on, all the awful news be damned, I started to smile. They're defiant and strong and sexy and grown up, all the things I wish my sweet niece (and so many countless of other women I know) would feel. My advice? The world can be brutal, so get yourself some really great shoes and kick up your heels.

Thursday, September 23, 2010


Longing to travel today. Actually, it seems like I'm always longing to travel so should probably just do it. The usual excuses: bills, children, job, no freedom. I'm reading a book now in which the author said that she put off going back to Italy for 20 years for those same excuses. Then one day she traded in her miles, packed her bag, and went. It's really that simple, I suppose. Do you put off dreams or are you good about just going for it?

Friday, September 17, 2010

Second Grade Mafia

The other day my son asked me if second grade was the hardest one of all. "When you're in it," I told him. "It will seem easy to you in a few years, just like kindergarten seems easy to you now."
But some things don't get easier. Like rejection. And hurt.

I'm not sure how it works in your schools, but at my little elementary school, there's a cabal (really, that's not an exaggeration) of women who run the show. Now, I'm all for those super-loyal volunteers who make things happen. We've all seen them: at church, school, Cub Scouts, you name it. Usually, there's a dedicated core of individuals who work tirelessly so the rest of us who are either too disorganized, too busy,too lazy, whatever, can enjoy the fruits of their labor. I'm not talking about this kind of selfless dedication. I'm talking about women who literally shoved my sweet friend aside when she tried to sign up to be a "room captain" for our second grade.

Quite possibly, we need a change of language. I mean, who doesn't want to be a captain? Or a chief? Apparently, not this small group of women who left off my friend's name from the list of class reps, berated her for speaking up -- oh so tentatively-- about possibly sharing responsibility for organizing class parties, who told her that because she worked it was inconvenient to work with her as a volunteer.

Now, I realize in the great panoply of human drama, internecine fighting at an elementary school may seem, well ludicrous, laughable, possibly pathetic. My friend is not this. She's a five-foot-tall (in heels) pistol who runs at 5 a.m. before the rest of the world is up, runs her own company, devotes herself to her three kids, and is in love with and supportive of her husband. She drives hours every week to take care of a father with Parkinson's and have lunch with her mother. She's not perfect. But she's funny and wise. She has grace in the true sense of the word. It's not about her fashion or style, it's her compassion for the world. Her humor. She truly never complains. But I have seen her cry when she sees someone picked on. So, I am mad. Truly stinking mad at how this friend has been treated. This isn't about cupcakes. It's about bullying that's become all-too-pervasive today. If she, and any other parent, want to get involved, to participate in class parties -- to be a part of their children's daily lives, because God knows time does whiz by too quickly -- then who is a group to shove her aside? And I wonder, what will all of our children learn by this? We tell them to share, to take turns, to work cooperatively. then we stick a big, ol' asterisk on this. Those rules, we note, don't apply for grown-ups.

So, I'm venting today. To my friend: I love you. Be strong. You are needed. To the others: Shame on you. May you remember the lessons you learned in kindergarten. Because second grade shouldn't be the hardest year of all.