Category Archives: d is for divorce

Aug
26
2013

Parenting 101: The Good, the Bad and the Yucky

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405091_466573723395477_1792569133_nAs a blogger, I try to balance sharing my life’s story with protecting the innocent.

Well, usually it’s the not-so-innocent who are howling about what I write here and looking for protection.

I want to be honest, to write about the yuckier side of life here, but I also don’t want those I love to feel thrown under the bus as I tell my version of what’s happening. And that’s really all it is, my side of the story.

But I’m a manipulator, too, because like everyone else I have an innate desire to paint the picture I want the world to see. I mean, it’s what Facebook was built on.

I want you to think that I had a passel of kids and then went through this super-crappy divorce but have come out the other end all enlightened and spreading joy and happiness throughout the land.

But that’s just not the case.

I am highly flawed. I often don’t know what to say in important conversations or how to course correct when situations veer wildly off-track. My knee-jerk response to challenging situations is to shut down. I just opt to do nothing and leave the issue woefully unaddressed. I avoid conflict like it’s tuna fish.

And I hate to apologize.

I’d like you believe that while there are the occasional blips in my house – like kids leaving crusty dishes in the sink or my freaking out over loud music while driving to school – overall my family is generally on solid ground.

But that just would not be true. We are on slippery ice and just when we find our balance, we see cracks threatening to spread beneath our feet. Stability can feel tenuous, at best, sometimes.

I wish I could tell you my recent whirlwind trip south to bring my college kids back to school was a bittersweet ending to a nice summer together. I wish I could tell you that the days leading up to it were filled with quality time together and that we all realized how much we loved and would miss each other.

But that would be a lie.

I was happy that the oldest two were about to disappear for three months. I had had enough of them this summer to see me through to Thanksgiving. And they, I believe, of me.

And by the end, I had stopped speaking to the oldest, who drove himself back a few days earlier. In fact, his dad and I brought his sister down and got her set up in her new off-campus apartment and we never even saw him.

We are that mad at him right now.

And I don’t know what to do, how to resolve the situation. How to wrap my brain around the idea that sometimes – regardless of how long you breastfed them or how many books you read to them or nagged them to practice their instrument or eat their broccoli – your kids will make decisions that disappoint you.

Maybe, as with so many parenting situations in the past that seemed so dire when I was in the thick of them – like when one kid refused to take Honors English or another returned home late one night bombed – time will help to make sense of the situation.

The passage of time and distance from the situation has allowed me to see that a child has got to want to be challenged academically, not pushed into it. And that kids are stupid and sometimes drink too much Fourloko.

So this trip did not result in any picture-perfect moments. There were no heartfelt embraces or Come-to-Jesus reckonings. It was more like, “Good-bye and good luck.”

On the bright side, I did spend the eight-hour drive home with my ex-husband and we had pleasant conversation. He even came into the house – for the first time since we split up for good four years ago – to use the bathroom and then fixed something that had been broken and ignored forever.

I mean, you couldn’t have told me these things were possible four years ago.

But then later that night, he sent me an angry text, assuming the worst of me about something unrelated. He couldn’t just call and say, “Hey, I noticed this, what’s up?”

He immediately went on the offense and sent a text that zinged a “WTF” at me.

But unfortunately, I just couldn’t deal. I thought about calling to talk to him about it. To assure him I harbored no ill will towards him and apologize, once again, for doing something that pissed him off. But I just didn’t have the energy.

I left it somewhere on the side of the road during the long drive home.

Aug
20
2013

in good company

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DSC_0100 I took a big bite of freedom earlier this month, tearing into it with a fierceness I didn’t know I could muster. And as I greedily swallowed all that aloneness in big, ragged pieces, I realized that it was the most liberated I’d been since I became a parent almost 21 years ago.

And it tasted fucking good.

I’ll admit, at first it seemed kind of strange, like some weird-flavored Dorito, you know like the Zesty Taco or Enchilada Supreme varieties. But the more freedom I tasted – really inhaling its full blast of flavor  – the more I wanted to stuff that shit down my gullet.

And I am here to report that (unlike the weird Dorito), only having myself to worry about for nine days tasted super-sweet.

In fact, I’d compare the usual mom getaway stuff – like going to get a massage or away on a girls’ weekend – to those little bits and pieces of bland honeydew melon used as fruit salad filler here in the U.S.  But when you go some place exotic and bite into the same type of green fruit, you can’t believe the difference. “Now this is a melon,” your brain shrieks as you lick the juice running off your fingers.

Going off by yourself for an adventure is sweet and juicy and you can’t stop reaching for just one more slice of it.

This is how I would best describe what it was like to leave my everyday life as a single, working mother of four kids behind to sail around the Greek islands for a week by myself.

It rocked.

And in retrospect, the memory has become all the sweeter as I’ve return to seething, end-of-the summer angst at home with my kids stressing about bedding for college apartments and U-Hauls to cart said bedding and assorted pieces of furniture to school.

I returned to find there’s one child who STILL can’t get a handle on what the rules and regulations are here in my house. Plus there’s a green pool in my backyard and a sizzling electrical socket in my daughter’s room, and massive layoffs coming at my company. And the cat just barfed.

And all I can think is: “Can’t someone just grab me a beer and let me sit here in the sun and read?”

Because it’s hard to shake how sweet it felt to have no responsibilities for a week. A fantasy, really, that everyone should step right up and sample.

I decided to book the trip after seeing another single mom’s photos of the same excursion to Greece on Facebook last year. I was longing for some real adventure and tired of waiting around to find a travel companion to accompany me.

I think I suffer from a by-product of living in New Jersey, which the incredible Junot Diaz described in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao as: “A particularly Jersey malaise – the inextinguishable longing for elsewheres.”

So I pulled a Single White Female on my friend and made my reservation for the same trip for beginning of August.

But the goal of the trip morphed over time and while at first, my giant ego worried that people would feel sorry for me for going on vacation alone, that eventually became the whole point of the journey.

I am a person who enjoys living in the cozy little box I’ve built for myself – often ordering the same meal whenever I go to certain restaurants because I know what I’m getting – and am not naturally inclined to venture out of my comfort zone. And I certainly try not to do so alone.

But one of the benefits of my divorce has been learning to stand on my own. To show up for parties and dinners solo, which means I might not have a wingman to sidle up to if I need to take a break from being sociable, but it also liberates me from having to wait for someone else to finish a drink or telling a story or having fun before I can leave. I can just pick up my bag and walk out the door. Sometimes I don’t even say good-bye.

So as the departure date drew nearer, I fretted about all those meals I’d be eating alone and whether I’d feel like a third wheel as the only non-paired person on the week-long sailing trip (I met up with two couples and a pair of friends).

It was a challenge figuring out how to get over myself and stop worrying about what other people might be thinking, and focus instead on what I thought and what made me happy.

And if you are a parent, you know that that is about as natural as well, pushing a baby out of your bottom. It just doesn’t feel right. But somehow, it is.

I’ve especially enjoyed the reaction I’ve gotten from people when they’ve learned about my solo trip. I’ve liked watching their faces change as I explain how I went off to Greece alone and then maybe I get a fist bump or a “Wow” in return.

My college roommate called to welcome me back and said, “I can’t even go to the movies by myself.”

And the taxi driver who drove me from my hotel in Athens to the Acropolis couldn’t believe I was a single woman travelling alone in a foreign country. “No family?” he asked. “No one?”

“Ah, okay, it’s good, it’s good,” he finished, but I could tell he still thought it was kind of crazy as I stepped out alone into the hot Athens sun.

But the most interesting reaction came from the Korean lady who owns my dry cleaner. I ran in the day before I was to leave on my trip, begging her to hem an adorable pajama-y bottom pants I had just bought and desperately wanted to take with me. She finally relented and as she pinned the bottoms of the gauzy fabric for hemming, she asked me where I was going.

“Greece,” I told her and she looked up at me with widened eyes, pins clenched between her lips.

I went back to drop some stuff off to be cleaned after the trip and she asked me how it was. I told her it was great and somehow it came up that I had gone by myself.

“What?” she asked. “I couldn’t go anywhere alone,” she confided.

This is a woman who speaks English with a heavy accent and obviously came to the United States from some place else. Like, she’s had to step out of a comfort zone or two as some point in her life but still feels uncomfortable being by herself.

Some day I hope to return to Greece with a companion; someone to swim with in the salty Aegean and look up at the blanket of stars at night overhead and wake up with to the sound of a rooster crowing at dawn.

But I had a bigger journey to make this time around. I needed to go someplace a little scary and know, no matter what, I’d always be in good company.

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Aug
13
2013

8 Things Not to Pack to Sail the Greek Islands

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High atop the island of Patmos, Greece.

In case you’ve been living under a rock, which is what I consider anyone not as fiercely connected to Facebook as this blogger, I just returned from a nine-day trip to Greece.

“What?” you’re thinking. “This would be coming as a total shock were it not for your non-stop posts about this trip over the past few weeks.”

I know, it’s probs getting annoying but please, indulge me, this is so out of my sandwich-making-laundry-folding box that it was kind of a big deal.

I spent some of yesterday dragged down by jet lag after returning late Sunday and a little bit of crying because of it (welcome to Crazytown) but rallied last night to finally unpack my giant suitcase and decided to share a list of things that might have been better off left at home.

  1. Hair Dryer – After the first day of sailing, you will no longer be worried about whether your hair is straight, much less frizzy.  Following a few days of gusty summer Greek wind and numerous dips in the salty Aegean, your hair will take on a nest-like quality, kind of textured and crunchy, much like the beach towel you brought from home that dries out each night pinned to the ship’s lines. Stick a clip in your hair in much the same fashion and move on.
  2. Eye shadow – It’s nice to think you’ll need your usual variety of eye makeup for tarting up to go out: a base, a darker one for contouring and another shimmery affair for highlighting and trying to perk those lids up a little, as we in the over-40 set sometimes need to do. In the end, some mascara and lip-gloss are all you’ll need to feel dressed up after your day out at sea. And besides, see #3.
  3. Sexy lingerie – Unless you’re interested in the heavily bearded taverna owner who takes your souvlaki order and then later plays the accordion while deftly clenching a cigarette between two fingers throughout an entire song, you are not hooking up on this trip. You will, however, be glad you got around to the bikini wax, as you’ll be spending a considerable part of the trip walking around in a bathing suit. Consider it a public service.
  4. Running Clothes – You might think that going for a quick run through the hills of a small Greek island would be the perfect way to start the day, but unless you set out when the roosters start crowing around dawn (and roosters always seem to be crowing at dawn), you will wither under the intensely hot Aegean sun. Not to mention you will spend much of your time picking your way through prickly brush on pebbly paths past curly-horned goats chewing on leaves and watching you go by. And you know they will be judging you. No, the most exercise you will get will be snorkeling through a cave or going below deck to grab yourself another beer. Your bathing suit will suffice for both endeavors.
  5. Travel-sized shaving cream – Yes, of course, you assume that onboard you’ll retain the same standards of personal hygiene that you keep at home and as such, will want to keep your legs smooth and stubble-free. But when faced with the reality of the contortions required to shave your legs using the hand-held sprayer pulled out from the sink in the tiny head (I’m getting all nautical) you’ve been assigned for the week, you start to reassess your priorities and reason that no one’s really looking at your shins or knees anyway (again, see #3). You’ll discover that it’s a remarkably quick jump between your usual high levels of personal maintenance and Lord of the Flies living.
  6. Your favorite straw beach hat – It’s a staple in your summer beach bag for a day on the beach in Jersey, the bucket shape fitting snugly on your head and fending off harmful rays from your sadly-aging face and heavily-processed hair. And while it’s perfect for sitting on your beach chair with your toes dug into American sand, that thing does not stand a chance against the strong August winds that blow in gusts across Greek beaches. And if you try to keep that chapeau on your head whilst sailing it will be floating in the Aegean within seconds. Go instead for the jaunty pirate look and tie a scarf on your head that will not only keep your hair from getting any more crazy blonde than it’s already become this summer but will help mold your locks into a shape that will be ready to be clipped for dinner out later that evening (See # 1).
  7. One-piece bathing suit – It’s super-cute — a black, strapless number from JCrew that screamed Mediterranean glamour when you ordered it — but in reality, no one, not even old dames (like, gals even older than yours truly) in Europe wears a one-piece bathing suit. And it’s really so hot sitting under the mid-afternoon sun that you begin to understand the desire to wear as little as possible. The suit will come in handy, however, when you finally get to Athens at the end of your trip and pull it on to sit and read at the hotel pool for a spell to cover up the incredible bloating brought on by more beer and bread than you’ve had in half a year. Your tummy — which has begun to resemble what it looked like while four months pregnant with your fourth child — will feel good, hiding under all that shirred Lycra.
  8. Trepidation – In theory, this all seemed like a great idea: going off on a grand adventure solo and gathering up lots of odds and ends to write about for months, maybe years, to come. But as the departure date looms closer, you’ll start to freak out a little and spend an inordinate amount of time talking and writing about your anxiety. Fuck that. Just go and have fun and embrace that you have been blessed at this moment with the opportunity to pick up and visit a far away place by yourself. Get in the goddamn arena – Teddy Roosevelt-style – and take it all in. And anyway, with all the other stuff you’re inevitably going to pack and not need, there won’t be any room for fear in that bag.
Why I travel solo
Aug
01
2013

eat, pray, blog?

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Why I travel solo

Francois Rabelais

Sometimes I think I should have turned to screenwriting, rather than blogging as a creative outlet, because I tend to see things in cinematic terms. In my mind, I’m always composing the (improbably cheesy) Lifetime movie based upon, of course, The Life of Amy.

Like one morning last spring I was jogging up a hill  listening to the very end of The Beatles’ “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” on my iPod.  You know it’s the song on Abbey Road that you imagine must have been inspired by major hallucinegens because it’s a lumbering loop with a psychedelic-synthesizer laid on top of it and it builds in intensity just like my climb. Just when you think it will never end, it suddenly breaks, and there’s a beat of silence, and then the plucky first chords that begin “Here Comes the Sun” start to trill right as I reached the top of the long hill.

It was so epically heavy and then light and free and made me think of my struggles, not just the hard work trying to get to the top of the freaking hill, but the hill as a metaphor for all that I’ve had to overcome over the last few years: the divorce, dealing with angry teenagers, going back to work full-time, becoming the gal I really want to be.

I imagine how I’d use that moment in my Lifetime movie, maybe it’s towards the end and I’ve had all the attendant struggles and made my way through and as I’m slogging up that hill, the Beatles pounding in the background, I hit the top and we do a quick cut to something super-happy as “Here Comes the Sun” skips in. And this is going to sound so cheesy but in my make-believe story, sometimes that scene is a wedding, like it’s some Shakespearean comedy or something and we’ve just emerged from the woods.

Poetic license, for sure.

But whatever that scene is, it represents the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

There have been plenty of other scenes looping through my head over the last four years as I’ve moved from an unhappy and unsure wife and mother to someone who knows who she is and what she wants.

In my movie, there would definitely be that scene when the checkout guy at Trader Joe’s asked for my phone number while bagging my humus (guess that’s not all he wanted to bag, ba dum tss).

Of course there would be a scene or two showing the truly low points of my life, like a blow out with one of the kids or the super-sad scene of my ex-husband and I standing in front of a judge in a dreary courtroom on a hot July afternoon and swearing before God and our very expensive attorneys that we no longer wished to be married.

And then later, we’d see how I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car and cried.

Sometimes the movie takes a turn towards the macabre, like when I’m looking around at all my fellow plane passengers pre-flight and imagine we’re all going down in a fiery crash, a la Lost or Airport 1975.

But sometimes I need to help my movie along a little and have to plan some real-life adventures from which to draw inspiration for upcoming scenes, which is what I’m about to do.

One part Mama Mia, two parts Shirley Valentine and 10 cups Eat, Pray, Love (math’s not my thing, yo), my sojourn begins Friday when I take off for Greece for about nine days.

I can’t even tell you how ridiculous that sentence was to write. I can’t believe I’ve had the balls to pull this thing off.

So here’s the plan: I fly from Jersey to Toronto for a quick stop and then across the Atlantic (gulp) to Athens where I land Saturday morning. I will then hang out there for a few hours (worst part of trip) until I catch a flight to Samos, an island in the eastern Aegean Sea and the birthplace of the Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras.

It’s there that I’ll meet up with my group of seven travelers who will climb aboard a 50-something foot yacht and sail around the Dodocanese Islands, off the coast of Turkey, for the week.

I know, right?

We’ll finish up the following Saturday morning and I’ll fly from Leros – population just under 8,000 – back to Athens where I’ll spend the rest of the day checking out the Acropolis and all the attendant sites and ruins. I catch a plane home the next day and arrive back in New York Sunday night.

I know, this all sounds fabulous. Who doesn’t dream of sailing the Greek islands? It’s the trip of a lifetime.

But I’ll let you in on a little secret: I am really not that intrepid. If I could just stay in my comfort zone, I’d probably spend my life going on spa vacations with girlfriends and taking the kids to Disney.

But I don’t want either the make-believe Amy or the real Amy to be that comfortable; because it’s only when we’re uncomfortable that we grow (or at least that’s what my therapist keeps telling me). My divorce sucked and all but, man, did I figure a lot of things out about myself.

And, who wants to watch a movie where nothing really happens?

So here’s my dilemma: My plan was to leave the laptop at home and take copious notes while away and blog about my experiences upon my return.

But recently, a number of friends/followers have suggested they’d enjoy more immediate updates.

So tell me, should I blog my adventures real-time or share when I get home? Or am I just imagining that my life is more interesting than it really is?

Either way, I can’t wait to find out what happens next in the movie.

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Jul
24
2013

BlogWho? BlogWhat? Oh, BlogHer!

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BH13_298x255_0Apparently, I’m about to take this whole blogging thing a little more seriously.

Blogging had always been something I wanted to do, ever since I heard about the whole Web Log trend over a decade ago.

“What? Writing and talking about myself  happen to be two of my favorite things! I’d be the perfect blogger!” thought Amy, sensing this was the most perfect pairing since Cheez-Its and red wine.

It just took 10 years for me to actually stop talking about it and launch the thing.

So while I’m still pretty impressed with myself for even following through on my threat to overshare publicly, I’ve learned that there are some tricks involved for becoming a successful blogger (whatever that exactly means) and I want to learn more.

So I’m getting picked up at 4 a.m. tomorrow to head to Chicago for the first of a three-day bloggerfest called BlogHer. The Big Kahuna of blog conferences (I read somewhere on the Internet) BlogHer brings together over 4,000 (mostly female) bloggers and gives them a few days stuffed with networking, sponsorship opportunities, breakout sessions like “Grow & Monetize Your E-Mail List” and “Roundtable: A Case for Podcasting” and hopefully, a big dose of inspiration.

It’s terrifying.

(Side note: My 20-year-old son, upon learning what BlogHer was all about, said, “Sounds like a nightmare.”)

Frankly, I signed up in June when I saw on Facebook (ironically) that Sheryl Sandberg was to be one of this year’s keynote speakers.

Sign #1.

Then I find out after the flights were booked and the dye was cast that The Pioneer Woman – Ree Drummond – was also set to speak.

Sign #2.

And finally, the speaker closing out the conference on Saturday is one of the writers/producers of The Walking Dead (you don’t even know how much I love zombies).

The Universe wanted me, no NEEDED ME, to go to this thing.

So I’m off on my first of two big adventures this summer (I’ll share more about my Shirley Valentine-style getaway next week), with my fancy new camera bought for both missions and some cute outfits, including a darling pair of shorts I bought at JCrew yesterday to wear to BlogHer’s evening activities and fabulous necklaces, compliments of my sister-in-law.

I’d be a full-on liar if I didn’t tell you that I’m a little nervous to show up in a strange city and not know even one of the 4,000 ladies there (I mean, I do know Sheryl and Ree but we might not be hanging out much). My stomach has been a mess all week.

But that’s how serious I am about this blog and my writing. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t push to see how far I could take this thing.

And maybe, in the end, my blog will turn out to be just a fun thing I did that resonated with a few people other than my mom and BFFs (a guy at a party I went to last weekend called me the Carrie Bradshaw of our little town, and that was pleasing).

If nothing else, it’s three solid days sans sandwich making or laundry folding, and that’s a win right there.

I’ll keep you posted.

Jun
12
2013

cheez-its: a love story

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cheez-it It wasn’t until my ex-husband moved out more than four years ago that my late night nibbling began.

Until then, we’d finish dinner and maybe I’d have a bowl of ice cream with the kids (I was younger then and could get away with those kinds of things) and we would have eating wrapped up by 6:30 most nights.

I remember sitting on the bleachers after dinner during one of my oldest son’s baseball games, maybe 10 years ago, and one of the moms passed around a bag of Twizzlers. “No thanks,” I said as she waved the open bag towards me. “I already brushed my teeth.”

In retrospect, I get why the other moms looked at me like I was crazy. But I guess back then, that was how I was able to set good eating boundaries and lose the fairly significant weight I had gained following each of my four pregnancies.

Or maybe I was just too tired to brush my teeth again. Who knows? That thinking just worked and kept me fitting in my jeans.

But as is often the case, the rules I had set for my eating habits deteriorated over time.

When the former Mr. Amy moved out, right after our 18th wedding anniversary and just shortly before Christmas, I celebrated my new-found freedom nightly in my bedroom with a big glass of wine.

Over time, that one glass morphed into one or two more cups full o’ vino and eventually, I started to get hungry.

Enter the Cheez-Its.

Back then, I had what the neighborhood kids probably considered a top-notch selection of pantry treats. We had Pop Tarts and Sun Chips and Little Debbie snacks by the box full. If it was on sale, I threw it in the shopping cart and brought it home.

So I started inviting the friendly box of Cheez-Its upstairs into my bed each night and for a while, those crunchy little guys were great company.

I remember my daughter walking into my room late one night to find me lounging on the bed and cheating on the usual orange crackers with a giant red bag of Doritos. “Gross,” she said, stopping at the door. “It stinks in here.”

“Perfect. Then leave,” I instructed, pointing to the door with one hand and digging into the cavernous bag with the other. My Doritos and I didn’t need anyone, thank you.

But then things began to change, but it took me  a great while, as is my nature, to connect the Cheez-Its to my increasingly tight clothing. I’ve never been particularly good at linking cause and effect.

It’s a problem when your sports bras and outerwear become snug. When you can’t button your raincoat or the straps of your already-stretched-out-jogbra begin to dig into your neck – threatening decapitation – you know something has gone wrong.

At first, I thought maybe I had developed a thyroid condition. I’d heard that a sluggish one could cause weight gain and was pretty certain mine had thrown in the towel.

Then I became convinced that perimenopause was to blame. “You,” I said in a private conversation with my estrogen, “are the cause of so much crazy in my life. Must you wreak havoc on my ass as well?”

When a quick blood test debunked both of those theories, it was time to consider alternative causes.

Unlike probably 99.9 percent of the women I know, I have a weirdly good body image. It’s like the opposite of body dysmorphic disorder: I look in the mirror and think everything looks fine.

Or I’m just not good at noticing changes. Like my butt might be getting bigger, but I don’t really see it.

But what really caught my eye about six months ago was the change in the way my back looked when I studied my rear view in my bathroom with a handheld mirror.

Initially, I thought the horizontal indentation of flesh cutting through both sides of my back was the result of a long-suspected undiagnosed case of scoliosis. I was convinced that a curvature of my spine was causing my back to tilt backwards and create the deep creases slicing through my back just below my bra strap.

I thought if I just stood up straighter, pulled my shoulders back a little more, that the situation would be remedied.

But then, after one inspection, it dawned on me that the cause of the back ripple was not a physical defect but the same problem that had me busting out of that cute coat I bought on sale at Anthroplogie and my Lululemon tops: the damn Cheez-Its.

And Tostitos. And Wheat Thins. And Triscuits. And Doritos. Especially the Doritos.

So we broke up.

It wasn’t easy. You know these things never are. But it’s better for all of us.

And as Jennifer My Therapist would tell you, you can’t fill that gaping hole you’re feeling in your life with stuff. You can’t backfill all the salt-n-vinegar chips and Kendall Jackson in the world into that pit.

Oh god, how that woman makes me work.

My strategy now is to just not invite all of those salty treats — that seem to call to me around 10:30 every night from their pantry bed — into my house. I just can’t resist their nightly siren call.

My kids aren’t thrilled. I saw my 19-year-old daughter standing in front of the open cabinet doors yesterday, staring at the drawers full of raw almonds and Trader Joe’s tortilla chips that taste like Eucharist, and moan, “There’s nothing to eat.”

But that’s okay, because I’d rather have no rolls on my back than a late-night tryst with some salty good-for-nothing.

My priorities have changed.

May
02
2013

bad karma

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I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few years trying to make sure the universe and I are on the same page.

The universe?

You know, the “universe” which, according to sources like The Secret, a certain Tarot card reader I know and my therapist, returns to you what you put out into the world. Like a great cosmic boomerang, the universe’s law of attraction throws you what you ask for, even when you don’t realize that that’s what you ordered.

Accordingly, not only does douchy behavior beget douchy circumstances, but thoughts and words can become self-fulfilling prophesies. So while I try to make it a priority not to act like a douche bag to others, it can be challenging having all bright and sunny thoughts and conversation when my default mode is self-deprecation.

So, since my divorce I’ve tried to be clear about what I want. I’ve written down where I see myself professionally/romantically/personally a year from now, five years from now and so on.

I even cobbled together a list in my journal of qualities that I am looking for in a partner. It’s kind of great, actually, like placing an order at a deli.

“I’ll take smart with a side of respectful, hold the bully. And maybe some integrity on the side. Oh, and funny. Definitely extra funny. (You can slather that on, it’s like the secret sauce).”

But as I close in on the three-year anniversary of my divorce, my still-single status is making me wonder if perhaps the universe and I are not speaking the same language. Like I’m screaming “Hey! I’d like a really good man in my life!” in the universe’s equivalent of Mandarin when I really should be using sign language because the universe is fucking deaf.

I mean even a friend who recently announced, out of the blue, that she was leaving her husband is already madly in love with someone else.

Clearly, it’s me. Maybe I’m just too happy being single.

My eyebrow girl, who has served as a sounding board for me over the years while she tends to my brows and moustache, suggested I try making eye contact and smiling at strangers, which is the opposite of my natural inclination to quickly look the other way and pretend I’m invisible.

She even helped me create a mantra, “I am open to romantic love with a good man,” to let the universe know that I meant business (witness “romantic” love and “good” man).

I briefly considered working with that Tarot card reader a few months ago after being told that my heart chakra was blocked, thus preventing love from entering my life. I was actually going to fork over a few hundred dollars for three hour-long sessions for her to help me pry that thing open. But then I got a hold of my senses and realized I’d really rather just buy a great new pair of shoes.

So it was the universe I was worried about sending mixed messages to the other day when I found myself writing my phone number down on a blank piece of register tape for the check out guy at Trader Joe’s who told me I had a nice smile.

I had thought he was pretty chatty as he asked me about my day while bagging my faro and frozen fruit, but I didn’t really see where things were heading. But then he asked me if my husband worked from home like me, and I thought, “That’s a weird thing for a checkout guy to ask.”

Still, I was blindsided when he asked, while waiting for my credit card authorization, if he could contact me some time to “talk.”

Number one: As noted, that does not happen to me every day. Check out guys hitting on me. C’mon. I was so surprised I didn’t have time to react. I had to make a quick decision and slink away before he started ringing up the woman behind me.

Number two: I don’t want the universe to think that I’m not open to love when it was so clearly showing me, right there at the cash register, that at least the check out guy thought I was. Maybe this was some kind of a test.

I kept a straight face long enough to get out to my car and hide inside until my girlfriend answered the phone and I started howling with laughter. I think she thought I was crying at first.

I mean, seriously, I make a list of like 100 attributes I’d like in a mate — everything from his height to the absence of a felony charge or conviction — and this is the best the universe can muster?

And don’t think he hasn’t already texted. And called. Twice.

But I think I’m just going to have to tell him that while I was flattered by his interest, I just can’t run the risk of having to hide every time I need to pick up chocolate covered almonds or Greek yogurt. Because love and companionship may come and go, y’all, but Trader Joe’s is forever.

I hope the universe is listening.

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Apr
26
2013

too much information

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It happened one day last week.

There I was, minding my own business in my kitchen while frittering away precious moments on Facebook, when I heard the ding of a text hit my cell.

I looked and saw my ex-husband’s name pop up and felt that familiar spark of adrenaline as a panic attack began to spread through my chest. He can be a serious text bully, and had spent a lot of time sending me venomous thoughts wirelessly during our divorce. To this day, I experience PTSD symptoms every time I see a text come in from him, even though nowadays most of our exchanges are benign and sometimes even pleasant.

But I’d been waiting for this one.

He  was wondering, via text, what our children must think of my newsletter “or whatever u call it.” He’d been hearing about it “week after week”  from others, asking him how he felt about his ex-wife writing about him and the kids.

That’s funny, I thought, my friends had been asking me the same thing. Well, now we know he’d at least heard about my blog.

“Thanks 4 that. I’m sure the kids will thank u 4 that some day too,” he finished, adding what time he’d pick up our youngest for baseball practice.

Here’s the funny part: My children are my blog’s biggest fans. They are usually the first ones  to like a post on Facebook. They always send encouraging notes after reading a post and get on me when it’s been a while since I’ve written something.

Yesterday, my oldest told me my most recent post had him “crying lol.”

“Great writing,” he texted.

When I wrote recently about my gift for getting pregnant and several subsequent miscarriages, he told me how “emotional” he felt reading it and was promoting my blog to all of his friends via Facebook.

“Writing too good for people not to see,” he wrote.

My heart swelled inside my chest, Grinch-style.

This, from the child who challenged me from Day 1. Who at times made me question myself as a mother and a person. But to be honest, he’s the oldest and had always been under my mommy microscope. Nonetheless,  I was thrilled.

But I admit, I am always nervous before posting something for all the world to see. I never want my children to feel like I’ve thrown them under the blogger bus. And though I know I have the propensity to overshare – to friends, family, complete strangers – I feel like I (usually) have a good sense of what really should stay private.

Things no one needs to read about online.

I went to hear Anna Quindlen speak at the 92Street Y a few months ago and someone in the audience asked her what her rules were for writing about her children. Quindlen said she was sensitive to it and as a rule has the subject review the piece before publication.

I, on the other hand, am not so democratic.

Of course, I have gotten a couple of texts from my college son complaining that I’d crossed the line (one time was valid and the other he completely misread). Even my post – complete with photos – about my daughter’s pigsty of a bedroom didn’t elicit any e-message to cease and desist. And that girl can be very intimidating when threatened.

My little guy walked by me while I was working on my laptop recently and spied the photo of his handywork mutilating the sheetrock in our garage as the picture accompanying one of my posts. He stopped, stared over my shoulder, and said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

As for my former husband, well, therein lies the rub. On the one hand, the man has provided enough copy, as Nora Ephron would say, for a lifetime of blog posts. But we had a whole herd of children together and although our marriage didn’t last, I believe in my heart that he truly did the best that he could at the time.

I mean, don’t we all?

And I don’t want to speak badly about him for my kids’ sake, too. Who wants to be that ex-wife? But that doesn’t mean that sometimes I don’t want to take a little swipe. Like, I’m not perfect.

I think I subscribe to what Epron wrote in Heartburn, “Because if I tell the story, I control the version. Because if I tell the story I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me. Because if I tell the story I can get on with it.”

Interestingly, my 19-year-old daughter and I were chatting on Facebook yesterday after she read my most recent post and she started getting all Jan Brady and complained, “You only write about the boys.”

“Really?” I asked. “You really want me to write about you?”

“Of course,” she replied. “But only the good things.”

Apr
14
2013

take the plunge

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I know I’ve said in the past that one of the few times I missed having a man around the house was when it snowed.

That is not true.

I also wish there was somebody else around here (there doesn’t even need to be a penis involved) to help out when I see dead things floating in the pool and when a toilet starts to overflow.

Which seems to be happening around here a lot lately.

Now, I’ll take responsibility for failing to mention to my children that toilet bowls aren’t like really fancy trash cans. You can’t just put anything in there and flush without thinking there are going to be repercussions months, or sometimes even seconds, down the line.

I walked into my own bathroom last week (which now everyone uses because of the kitty litter box lurking in the kids’ bathroom) to find mounds of paper towels filling the bowl. One of the kids had cleaned something off the bathroom mirror and instead of tossing it into the trashcan literally one millimeter away, she opted to dispose of it in the toilet (yet failed to seal the deal with a flush).

Having grown up living with a temperamental septic tank, I was incredulous that anyone would even consider flushing anything but toilet paper.

“How was I supposed to know?” asked the culprit, rather nonplussed, and more than a little irritated that her mom was being such a freak about the toilet.

I also didn’t think I had to mention to the girls, in this day and age – what with all the signs posted in like every goddamn public restroom stall you sit down in – that only toilet paper should be disposed of in the toilet.

The girls were shocked to learn that feminine products, no matter how small and seemingly streamlined they may appear to be,  cannot be disposed of through the toilet. “Wait, what?” said one. “That’s stupid.”

Stupid, perhaps. But only until toilet water is starting to pour down the sides of the bowl. Then, as you are trying to remember where the fucking plunger is, it starts to make perfect sense.

.

Apr
10
2013

the dating game

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When I first separated from my ex after 18 years of marriage, I was under the impression that there would be this never-ending supply of eligible gentlemen waiting to meet me once I was ready to date.

I was still fairly cute, could be funny and was in possession of naturally thin ankles. What’s not to want?

So I took my time. I concentrated on my kids and tried to figure out who I was and what I wanted out of my life.  You know, the emotional heavy lifting they tell you to do that I actually did (I should have put that much effort into high school).

Four-and-a-half years later, I have found that while there is no shortage of young guys who would like their Benjamin Braddock moment with chicks like me, I haven’t figured out how to find a grown up to have a relationship with. Like, a real man.

Let’s begin with what’s out there once you reenter the dating pool at 46.

Damaged goods.

This is not to say that I don’t come with my own set of baggage (fuck, I’ve got steamer trunks), but I’ve worked REALLY hard to figure out how I had ended up in the situation I was in. Just ask my therapist. I went from meeting with her TWICE IN ONE WEEK at the lowest point to my current status, where I check in with her maybe every six weeks just for a readjustment. That’s progress.

In the past month, I’ve learned to not only identify but walk away from a charming narcissist. How very unlike the old me.

What I’ve encountered during my brief foray into dating has made a great case in support of the controversial letter written by a Princeton alumna in the Daily Princetonian, urging young Ivy League coeds to find their mates while in college.

“You will never again have this concentration of men who are worthy of you,” wrote Susan Patton in a letter to the editor she titled, “Advice for the young women of Princeton: the daughters I never had.”

And while her argument focuses on women finding their intellectual equals, it is fair to say that the pool of eligible bachelors is just much larger when you’re a young gal. And less fucked up.

Strike while the iron is hot.

So my advice to my daughters is to urge them to choose well the first time around. Maybe concentrate on what a potential mate does rather than what he says. I’d tell them to go for substance over style. Because, as Sartre observed, “We are our choices.”

Believe me, I could write a book about that.