Friday, November 29, 2013

Running In Place

We get to the liaison's office. She greets my lawyer warmly. Always a good sign. I am in with the in crowd.

She also does not have a face like Sasquatch, so I can focus. Another bonus.

She is responsible for assigning judges and court dates and all manner of things for the judicial robe wearing set. Deb talks to her about our little sitch. Gives her the details in a humorous little thumbnail sketch. A master. The liaison already has a questionable opinion of Randee. She wants to work with us. Yay me. A friend in a high place.

Deb also asks that we not be scheduled, if possible, with that asshole who was so mean to me the last time. The liaison gives her a wink.

I can almost feel myself starting to breathe normally again. Maybe I won't actually have turned blue by the end of this thing.

The liaison sees no reason to proceed with one hearing that is going to be undone weeks later in another conference and hearing. It is a waste of the court's time and resources. She wants to continue the first hearing and add it to the docket with the second. We have a better chance of settling if all the numbers are thrown in a pile at once.

And then the fun begins.

We call Randee. On speaker so all the office occupants can hear. Randee is blissfully unaware that she has an audience. Upon picking up the phone, she is on her horse and riding once again. In that famously abrasive, seizure-inducing voice of hers. Decibels above conversational tone. She is trying to be heard in the cheap seats.

She is so completely outrageous that another court employee comes to close the door. But the liaison is so amused and amazed by the inflammatory, nonsensical filibustering that she quietly waves the employee in for the entertainment value.

And then of course, while the hamster on the wheel in her head is trying to figure out how to get a win for Lars and how to turn the whole mess into a cash cow for herself, she fills up the air time with malevolent, baleful comments about me. My abysmal record as a wife and mother. Character flaws. Transgressions.

None of it was accurate in the slightest. But the strangers before me would have no way to know that. The liaison looked at me apologetically and then away. It was not nearly as funny now that it had turned malicious.

Turning blue and in a flopsweat of shame, I look at the floor. Deb pats my hand and winks at me when I look up.

She smiles and delivers a show stopping comment intended to get Randee off balance in her Payless wedges. (She has to be at the top of the Judicial Systems Worst Dressed list). Deb has been thoughtfully composing a reasoned argument while Randee rambled on with no end in sight.

In the split second of silence, she interjects a description of the liaison's plan and how it benefits all parties, including Lars. How about that?

And then Randee added some levity quite by accident by accusing Deb of just wanting what's best for her client.

Ooh. Good one, Randee.

The court employees stifle their chuckles while Deb calmly answers that that is her job. Duh.

But in the end, Randee will not agree to the continuance and the aligning of court dates. Of course not. The more she appears in court, the more she gets to bill Lars, the poor sucker. She is going for the big win. I am going to have to pay him - evidently with my good looks.

I am shaking. I am insulted. I am worn to the core. I get in my car and drive.

On the way home, Lars sends me a text confirming that he can pick up the kids a few days early to leave on their trip.

No more Mrs. Nice Guy.

I pull over and reply.

That depends on what happens in court on Thursday. Send.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Face Off

I was right to be nervous. Nothing about this process makes any sense at all. This is why lawyers get to bill you whatever astronomical figure they can pull out of their asses to save YOUR ass. It simply can not be saved without them. If I had it all to do over again...

My lawyer, Deb, is a gem. She is funny and quick minded. Snarky and observant about people. We are two peas in a pod. A pod brimming with sarcasm. We spend a few minutes in the room (dungeon) of the courthouse where paperwork gets filed. The woman at the desk has a beard. Yes, a beard. And it isn't that she doesn't know she has a beard and therefore has not found a salon willing to wax-on-wax-off that thing. There is evidence that she has shaved. Just not recently. I am so distracted that I almost don't hear what she is saying.

I had filed the first petition. I should be able to withdraw it. She has to look at the file. I notice as she walks past that she also has a mustache and sideburns. Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy. She and her unfortunate facial vegetation return to the window. She says I can't withdraw the petition without Lars' consent.

Like I am going to get THAT. He won't do anything without his lawyer Randee's approval. She has convinced him that he's an idiot, that only she can make competent decisions, and that without her, I would lead him to the gates of Hell and give him a shove because I am a wicked, evil, incendiary bitch on wheels. (She comes by her opinion honestly; it's not like Lars made me out to be Mother Theresa when we were going through our divorce). She has Lars by the short and curlies. He will spend a fortune getting advice to do exactly what I propose because she will spend countless billable hours thinking out loud to him and talking in circles, in a voice that could curdle milk, eventually arriving at my original proposal. Only she's put her grubby little mitts on it and has found a way to make it Liza-proof by writing a bunch of precipes and stipulations that I have to sign and she gets to bill for. It's brilliant actually.

So we walk away from the hairy-faced lady and step into the stairwell to call Randee. Deb calmly tells her the situation and what we'd like. Pauses for a moment to take a breath and then jerks the phone away from her head as Randee launches into her tirade. Deb's eyes widen in professional disbelief. She puts the phone on speaker so I can fully hear the details of the bombastic rant. In fact most of the county employees can hear it as it echos up the metal stairway.

It is one long breathless harangue - not about anything of import. No, what Randee does to buy a little time to think before she provides an actual response (and thumbs through her book of statutes and codes and such)is rail against me. ME! Name-calling, character assassination, hauling out every well-noted shortcoming I have according to Lars. It is brutal. It is humiliating. It is loud and inflammatory. I want to rip the phone from Randee's hand and go all Estelle on her. I learned how to rant at the right hand of the Master. Step into the ring with me, Randee. I will bury you.

So simply put, she didn't agree to withdrawing the petition. She insists that I owe Lars a bunch of arrears and I was cheating the system by not telling anyone what I was earning (when I was earning) because telling Lars isn't good enough. Telling Lars is like telling a railroad tie.

Deb manages to squeeze in a sentence noting that as promised, I had paid Lars' legal bill from Randee in exchange for the arrears. And that she was supposed to withdraw the order if I had not begun to work by LAST MONTH. So it was really Randee fumbling the proverbial ball.

That mere suggestion going over like a fart in church, Deb terminates the discussion and we ascend the stairs. The court liaison may be a little more amenable. Deb knows her. She wields a lot of power. And she will not be cowed by Randee and her demonic personal presentation.

Once again, the click of my heels on the stairs of the courthouse. And another pang of angst.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

The Opening Bell

The morning comes, as reliably as ever, and it is a crisp, sunny, humidity-free day. Thank God. If I have to make some kind of effort with my hair before leaving the house, I would prefer a better than one in a million chance of not looking like a cat toy when I'm finished.

I reacquaint myself with my makeup bag. I've worn little more than sunscreen, lip gloss and mascara for weeks. It has been a nice little vacation from the usual spackling and painting required. Sun and fresh air have transformed me.

I have to find an outfit that does not include running shoes or a jog bra. Or shorts and flip flops. Or a bathingsuit. I open my closet door for the first time in a long time. It feels like I just opened a tomb. Whose clothes are these?

I begin to try on crisp summer outfits that suggest that I am not a deadbeat without also suggesting that I have money to burn. That never goes over well in a support situation, and you never know who you need to talk with. You have to walk the fine line between "living in your car under the overpass" and "snooty well-heeled bitch." It takes a little effort.

I find that most of my pants have become too big (all that walking having turned me into a bean pole) and I struggle to find something that does not make me look like a heroin addict. I settle on a cool pair of white jeans and a 3/4 sleeve pink, brown and white patterned shirt with gold buttons. It is the perfect combination of casual but pulled together. I am grateful that both pieces fit. I had already assembled two large piles on the floor next to the closet: One for the tailor and one for charity. I close the closet on a bunch of clanking empty hangers.

I jam my feet into sandals, grab my purse, pour a cup of coffee and take a deep breath before heading out the door. Before I do, I take a photo of my right thumb, which at the moment is adorned with my father's gold ring. A thick band of gold that used to bear initials, but is so old the initials have rubbed off. It had been in his jewelry box when he'd died. I always wondered whose it was before it was his. His father's? His beloved grandfather's? I used it as a talisman. I channeled his strength when I wore it. I posted the photo to Facebook. "Wearing Dad's ring, as I always do when the stakes are high."

The reaction was immediate. Most of my friends wished me good luck thinking I was interviewing.

Including Craig.

He'd ignored the question about being mean, but evidently had decided not to be so anymore.

He sent me a text asking if I was interviewing. I told him that I was not, that I was filing for child support, and that frankly, I was a nervous wreck.

He asked if I had a lawyer. I told him I had hired one on Friday. He seemed relieved and pleased. Almost proud.

He asked why I was nervous. I told him what I expected from Lars. How exposed I felt. How worried I was about his reaction. How even though the law was the law and proceedings were just proceedings and I had a fully capable and willing lawyer that I really liked to fight my fight with her words not mine, I was afraid. I dreaded how he'd react, how he'd make me feel. How he'd scare me. This is the Lars I knew so well, whose reactions I can predict. Who sheds the tame, refined exterior and becomes a streety thug when threatened.

He asked if I had the kids. If I had a place to stay. Did I think he'd hurt me.

No, yes, and I have no idea. I have not really poked the bear like this in a long, long time. I had no idea how far he'd go sailing over the edge of reason, just that he would.

I filed. I endured the humiliating intake session with someone who is studying to become a minister who felt compelled to give me snippets of advice straight from God Himself, while she recorded my most personal factoids in her system.

I met with my lawyer. We had a long conversation over a light meal and got to know each other. She laughed at my more comical marital stories. She got herself up to speed on Lars and his lawyer and their usual antics. And then we were off to the courthouse again, to get to the real business of the day - getting in touch with Lars'lawyer and getting the hearing moved off the docket for this week.

And what followed throughout the day, was a vivid reminder of the kinds of people I have in my life. Craig, Terry, Charlotte all were attentive and supportive. Asked for updates. Cheered me on. Craig told me I had to be the toughest version of myself and told me he knew I could do it. I am smarter than most and stronger than I know. I needed to hear that.

But still, as I clicked up the steps to the court liaison's office, a pang of angst rang through my gut. Once we were there, there would be no turning back.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Reality Bites

The next morning is glorious and dew-kissed. The sun is up early and so are we, despite the antics of the prior night.

Terry and I go for a hike and walk all over the mountain again. I am showing her every nook and cranny we could not see last night or could not see well enough by only the moonlight and the twinkling porch lights of the cottages.

She is still enchanted by the place and has decided it is her next home. Wouldn't that be fun?

After our walk we stop for coffee, return to the cottage to shower and drag Mick out to do two things: see the linen store and its workshop space for rent and head to the French pastry place for a decadent breakfast and more coffee.

It is at breakfast that I fully elaborate on the Craig situation. Terry reminds me that I am a prize. I have a magnetism that I am completely unaware of. Let him - or some other man - come to me.

I am not sure she has not mistaken skepticism for magnetism. I feel about as magnetic as a toadstool. And about as beautiful. Who had I thought I was last night depleting the world's reserves of beer all in one night?

But coffee and breakfast work their magic. I feel better with a few carbohydrates and some caffeine coursing through my veins.

Terry and Mick eventually have to leave, as her father has been watching her 13 year old and their 4 year old since the prior morning. The poor man probably needs a nap. Or a good stiff drink. Terry says she'd like to rent a cottage and bring her Dad and the kids back. I tell her to plan something and I'll secure the cottage with Charlotte. She'll be meeting Charlotte the next week when she comes for the Art Show. The world just keeps getting smaller.

I stay behind. Remake the beds. Clean up the dishes and beer glasses and put them away. Place the bottle of wine Terry and Mick brought for Charlotte and Jack next to the gifts I've left for them. And right next to the puzzle.

I am sad once again to leave, and this time it is for real. I have a week of trouble ahead. And no kids, no Craig, no job prospects and nothing to dream about. I drive home without even turning on the radio.

Once at home I set about getting ready for my first outside obligation in months. With no job and only a few face to face interviews in the past months, I am a little out of sorts. I have to think about what to wear. Carry a wallet. Shower. God only knows how I did it all when I worked.

It is more than that that rankles me, though. My house is in disorder. Literally and figuratively.

The cats have managed to give my clean house a "lived in" look while I've been gone for 2 days. The place mats and centerpiece on the dining room table suggest that a game of musical chairs has been played. There are fresh pulls in the area rugs and the dining chairs. The house plants have been chewed beyond recognition. All of Hil's hair notions have been pulled out and chased about the house. Trinket found a piece of packing tape, ate it and hacked it up on the hall rug. (I know it was her because of her penchant for all kinds of tape and postage stamps).

I have burgeoning piles of laundry everywhere I look. I have about 3 crumbs of food in the house. My car needs an oil change.

And then there is Craig. I have not heard from him in 10 days. Maybe he thinks "liking" photos on Facebook is communicating. I don't see it that way, but it least it takes a little of the edge off of what feels like hostility.

And with nothing but what will surely be a poor nights sleep between me and my court filing tomorrow, I am a wreck. It's not that I will run into Lars. But that once he gets the notice, he will be livid. And livid is not a good color on him. He will do everything he can to threaten me and make me feel powerless. The time between the filing and the hearing will be dreadful. It is almost enough to make me not go through with it.

Almost.

As I get into bed, I realize I have no happy thoughts to soothe me.  In the dark, I pick up my phone and send one final text to Craig.

"Why are you being so mean?"

Monday, November 25, 2013

The Power of Mom

An astonishing number of beers and appetizers later, we head for the cottage. And Terry and I take a seat on the porch while Mick heads off to bed. We talk into the wee hours. About her art project, job prospects, kids, holidays, Craig, eHarmony, men in general.

We dive into the unfamiliar waters of my mother having left when I was exactly Hil's age. It is as astonishing a revelation to her as it was to me. This is a girl whose mother died when she was young. We know exactly the power that a mother holds. We also know exactly the influence of a father thrown head first into the deep end of the parenting pool. Sink or swim. Cling to one another. Eventually we all find our sea legs.

Oddly, the most telling story is that one about Hil getting her Period. The monthly curse. Aunt Flo coming to town.

I admit to wishing I could have spent the time with Hil. Watching old movies and eating chocolate and bacon and popcorn to soothe the soul. Everyone needs a little TLC when their ovaries are in an uproar. And the first time is so alarming!

I tell her about the conversation Hil and I had. The prep work we'd done months in advance for this very occasion.

And she tells me about when hers arrived. She was young but her mother was already bedridden with illness. She'd yelped from the hall bathroom. Dad had come running. But when she objected, her mother had come. Crawling. Quite literally. A mother's call to duty.

And by contrast, I'd been in 8th grade. My parents were well on their way to marital ruin. Mom was morbidly depressed. Slept the day away most days. This day was no different. Charlotte and Joe and I had been getting ourselves up and out the door to school on our own for years. But I thought something like this would have compelled her to leave the bed. Propelled her to my side to put a hand on my shoulder and calm my nerves and help me focus on a practical reaction to the arrival of womanhood. I had tiptoed into her darkened room where she slept the sleep of the dead.

"Mom! I got my period, " I'd hissed quietly in a state nearing panic.

"Do you know where everything is?" she mumbled sleepily, never opening her eyes. The lids never even fluttered.

I was sure I could bash her in the head with the potted plant she'd left to die of thirst under the bedroom window.

I stood up straight and said, this time not bothering to whisper, "I'll find everything. The closet is neat as a pin." (The closet, you should know, resembled one you might find in a college dorm room. After a bombing. Complete disarray with things falling out when the door was opened.)

And again, it had been on the bus and in gym class that I'd gotten the motherly advice on what to do, where to go, all the how-tos. My gym teacher had probably thought I was an orphan.

And I wonder what Hil will remember. Will she remember that she called me crying? Will she remember my calming conversation, and my offer to pick her up? Will she remember my advice about chocolate or my confidence that I could save her favorite shorts from the trash bin?

Or will she remember that I was not there? That I was in my car on the way to the cottage seeking solitude? Will she remember that I offered to talk to Lars about our agreement or will she feel that she suffered her parents' separation? One more loss, one more challenge laid at her feet by our failed marriage?

These are the thoughts I have when Lars gets into my head with his criticism of me as a mother. When his claims that I wanted to be a part time mother and did not care about the kids dig deep. In my heart of hearts I know that his feelings of abandonment by me were really dormant feelings that he'd been abandoned by his mother that I had awakened from hibernation. His natural (albeit twisted) instinct was to couch it as my abandoning my children. Asshole.

But I have to believe that in my weakest hour I am still a powerhouse of influence on my children. That my love and my guidance embrace them. That I am their safe place, the home to their hearts, and unshakable, tireless presence. Have. To. Believe.

Only time will tell. And time is in short supply. The day I know for sure is coming like the dawn.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Polishing the Dating Resume

Mick drives. Terry and I continue drinking.

First things first: Terry looks at my profile information. I have a tendency to be wordy. She raises her eyebrows and says she loves that I am smart but having a great vocabulary is only really an asset when you are in conversation. An overly chatty response to a simple question might just look like "blah blah blah blah blah, yakkety yakkety yakkety" to a divorcee who sat at the dinner table each night for 20 years with Chatty Kathy, Patron Saint of the Endless Run On Sentence.

I allow her to edit.

When it comes to activities I am woefully lame. I don't ski. I don't golf. I don't run. I don't play tennis.

Where are the check boxes for frisbee golf? The walking? Dusting and vacuuming?

Terry is not hung up on accuracy. She checks "hiking." Her logic is that my walking is a lot like hiking. But walking sounds like I am an old lady in cross trainers. And possibly diapers. Hiking sounds outdoorsy and sexy. And not prissy. Tennis is prissy.

I want to make sure I don't come across as a tight assed priss. No trophy wife here. And no detail oriented homemaker either. Don't expect Carol Brady or Sue Ellen Shepard Ewing.

Terry gets it. Gets me. Vows to remove all evidence of priss from the profile.

Let's start with the Must Haves. She removes some benign and uninteresting entry I've made and puts in "A good IPA." Perfect. A girl who knows her beer. And has ideas about it. Distinctly unprissy.

Terry and I disagree about some of my pictures. My profile picture for instance. She thinks I look too polished. It is a great picture but doesn't necessarily suggest that I am easy-going. My hair and makeup are flawless. I may look a little high strung. I should look a little messier. Like I walked out the door a few hours ago and so what if the wind tossed my hair around while I tooled around town singing with the car windows rolled all the way down?

She askes Mick for his opinion. He likes the picture but sees Terry's point.

Good answer, Mick. Safe. No one is going to pick up an ashtray and whack you across the face with it for that.

She scraps and re-checks different boxes in response to the "how my friends would describe me" section. I am quite literally afraid to look at them.

We get to the part about what "chemistry" means to me. There is no free-form answer. It is multiple choice. I have checked that I should feel chemistry in the first date or two.

Terry nearly falls off the barstool and into the creek behind the bar.

"What???"

"What, what?" I answer, completely baffled.

"You are a recruiter, for God sake! You decide whether you like someone in under 30 minutes! Why waste another weekend night on a dud you don't feel drawn to?"

She's right. I have gone on second dates that have materialized into relationships, but probably not good ones. Scott and I weren't even sure about each other on the phone... but once I saw him, wham! That was chemistry...at least for two years. But it had happened like lightning.

And that's just it. Chemistry feels like lightning. Or should. An instant spark. A spark you can not take your eyes off of.

That's what I had with Craig. And no online dating service will ever let you feel that.

So maybe Charlotte is right after all. This will lead to nothing.

But Terry has created a masterpiece profile for me. Let me see where it takes me. Even if it leads nowhere near anything that resembles chemistry, it would have to be a better place than alone.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Cocktails and Cottages

I shower and change and turn up the tunes. Pour another beer and wait for my guests. I text Charlotte that everything is A-OK at the house and Hil is managing the Big P just fine (at least according to Facebook) and that I have fully registered for eHarmony and that I didn't think it possible but it actually made me feel more lonely. What???

I tell her about Jack and that I think I sent him a smile (whatever that means) but the rest of the matches are complete duds and I am convinced I have already dated (or she has married) the only worthwile men currently on the planet. I've had my chances and squandered them all.

She will have none of my boo-hooing but says she wants to interview all of my dates and there will be no underperformers getting through the tollgate. I can only imagine the interview questions. The role playing. The rifling through of the wallets, the bank statements, the criminal histories, the resumes, the school transcripts, the divorce decrees, custody agreements, restraining orders, tax records. I am sure only the strong will survive. And probably run screaming in the other direction, not stopping until they've crossed a minimum of 6 counties.

But Jack gives me hope. Maybe he'll smile back (again, whatever that means).

Terry and Mick arrive from their firehouse gig and pull into the driveway. I come down the steps to greet them and offer to pour a few pints before we go up. Terry takes me up on it (that's my girl!) but Mick wants to snooze in the hammock. He's had enough beer.

Terry comes into the house and is wildly in love with the place. And in fact, admits to having driven through the hamlet before and not quite understanding the hype. Now that her GPS has taken her on a leisurely meandering over hill and dale, she is passionately in love with the place. Tells me she wants to take a walk through the whole neighborhood when we've finished our beer.

Why finish? We can take them with us?

Now she is even more in love. We top off the pints and head out into the twilight. The twinkling lights are just coming on on all of the porches. The play is just beginning at the Playhouse. The crowds are forming at the ice cream shop and the cottage porches are filling with cocktailing grownups and board gaming kids. It is a typical night. One of the many things that draws me here.

Terry and I have not had a chance to talk this week and have much to catch up on.

I tell her about my frustrating job search. She tells me about her new project at work and the asshole who is threatened by her enormous talent.

I tell her about my angst about going to court on Monday. She gives me an emotional pat on the back and tells me she'll be on hand for tears and beers or even hiding places.

I tell her about Craig's vanishing act and how sad it has made me. That it has surprised me how anything - anyone - could affect me at all after all of the life I've lived in the last year. She is careful not to dis him but tells me what she has said before: I am a prize and any man who does not realize it is a boob. And further, I have been given a chance to reinvent my whole life, including career and love life and goals to be writer. I need to nab them and leave the past in the dust.

She tells me about a cool new art technique she learned and that she'd like to set up a workshop here among the cottages. I tell her about the French linen store and the workshop space they have for rent.

This is a very productive little walk we're taking.

We return to the cottage, check in on the snoring Mick, refill our beers and head out again, yakking and sightseeing and taking down addresses of houses for sale and open houses that are scheduled. We've had a few beers so we are also peeking in windows of vacant cottages, ooohing and aaahing about the decor and the design.

And then I lower the boom. Tell her about eHarmony. She nearly croaks. I tell her I need help with my profile; I have no idea what I'm doing. Terry remains a man magnet even as a married woman. Men adore her. Thank God she has found her soulmate in Mike or she'd never have time to work for all the dating. She's exactly who needs to help me. And her husband's opinion wouldn't exactly hurt either.

She calls Mick and tells him we need to go to the biker bar around the corner. We have a mission.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Rogues Gallery

I text Priscilla.

I take a snap shot of the men I have been matched to and place a series of question marks under the six photos in the text.The smorgasbord is hilarious.

There is the anonymous blue head profile pic of Joseph who was not only too lazy to upload a single photo, he was also too lazy to put his city and state in the required fields. He put his zip code instead. I suppose I am just too lazy to look up a list of zip codes to see if Joseph becomes more appealing at all. The odds are stacked against him. I doubt the zip code is that of an exclusive neighborhood. It is probably one of those neighborhoods hoping for a Renaissance.

There is the Richardd. Yes, two Ds. Dumb and dumber. No thank you.

There is Steven who hails from Craig's neck of the woods. Like I need another long distance date and the possibility of running into my other away game player on said date.

There is Peter who is pictured in each of his 10 photos in a wife beater and black elastic waistband workout pants and sneakers. No explanation necessary.

There is Alex, smiling away on his boat, holding a halibut, his gold tooth and bald head glistening in the sun. The boat and the fish are the best parts of the photo.

And Mark, who looks like a rare book collector, posts his height at 5'7" (my height), looks like the sun hasn't warmed his skin in decades, claims to drink alcohol only on special occasions (isn't every day special?) and lists his mother as the biggest influence in his life. I don't even need to open the profile.

Priscilla responds with an OMG and and LOL. But tells me to hang in there. It is admittedly hit or miss, but if I keep honing my profile, the matches will get better. Let the matches roll in.

But I scroll down a little and there is someone interesting.

Jack. Jack who is pictured in front of an old time beer truck with a pint in his hand and wearing a cool shirt and baseball hat. He looks like he's fit. His eyes are pretty. He has a very cute smile. One that looks like it doesn't have to be forced to his face. Good start.

I rifle through the pictures. One in a tux at an event. One of him cooking in what seems to be a pretty decently appointed kitchen. One of him in a retro-looking chair holding a glass of red wine. One of him in Sonoma, and one in Paris. Another of him on a motorcycle and another still of him in his "place at the shore."

I decide to read the rest of the profile.

Jack and I both like to travel to the same kinds of places. He is not a couch potato. He is in the pharmaceutical industry. He has a Masters Degree.

Good, good, good and good.

He likes the same kinds of movies I do, and likes dogs (no mention of cats, but I like dogs, too). He can't live without coffee (I am amazed anyone can) and would rather be out doing something fun than sitting at home having a quiet dinner. He likes a woman who stays healthy and fit but is not going to be afraid to eat a bowl of ice cream once in a while.

I like his writing style. He sounds like he is sort of laughing when he's writing. The humor comes through. He sounds sincere without being serious and maudlin or sappy. He is not trying too hard.

I am not sure what I'm doing but I want to get to know him. I think. I don't know. I don't know anything.

There is a little icon at the bottom that looks like a smiley face. I press it with my thumb and it grays out.

I have no idea what I've just done but have to believe that a smiley icon would not lead me down the road to ruin.

I'll let Mick and Terry be the judges of that.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

E-Unharmonious

The beer actually helped. I finished my dating resume and paid for the membership. Got my first matches.

Oh boy.

There is a reason these people are single. I wonder if they are saying the same thing about me.

First on my list of grievances are the pictures.

I went to great lengths to put the right pictures out there. My profile picture is one that Charlotte referred to as "stunning." (Which I guess is better than "shocking.") I made sure I put a photo of myself with each of my children. Photos that deliver the message that I am a mother, a mother of exactly one boy and one girl, that we do fun things together and Mom still manages to be consistently inoffensive in her appearance. I was careful to refrain from posting any picture, no matter how flattering of me, with any man from any stage of my life, no matter how long dead the stage has been. I put pictures of me engaged in fun activities - boating, on the boulders on Arizona, attending a football party, or hugging the pro baseball team mascot. I skipped over the ones (again, no matter how flattering) of me holding an adorable kitten or a gurgling and cooing baby. I also make sure that my pictures show various hair lengths but consistent dress size, if you know what I mean.

Some men make no such effort.

Some men post no picture at all. What??? If you can't make the effort to find or take one photo of yourself that means one of two things: You are either really lazy or have a face that even makes your mother cringe.

And if all of your photos are either selfies taken in the mirror with the phone obstructing the view or have been all taken on the same day because you are wearing the same outfit in all 10 of them, you have had an abysmally mundane life that was not worth committing to pictures. I will forgive a house fire in which all memorabilia was destroyed, but not much beyond that.

And if you can not be discriminating enough to exclude the grossly unflattering, wildly inappropriate, hideously attired and groomed shots, you are either too dumb to date or have no good friends to talk you out of selecting those photos.

And if you don't have the good sense not to show a really filthy house in the background, you don't need a date. You need a maid and a smack in the face.

If you've cleared the picture hurdle, let's move onto orientation to detail.

Misspellings are unacceptable. Particularly in your own first name.

When filling in the data section one seems like a boob if he fills in the "city" section with "Boston MA," and then the "state" section a second later with MA. Boston, MAMA may as well read "Boston, Idiot." Small detail, but come on. Life is in the details.

And if you do not have the integrity to use your name (only your first name is published) and have to resort to a nickname, you do not have the integrity to be interacting with people. Any people. And names like "Serendipity" make you seem like a kook. And "kook" trumps "no integrity" so it's a lose-lose situation for you. Especially if you misspell "Serendipity."

I decide to wait for Mick and Terry to arrive. They will help me zero in on why on Earth I would have been matched to such a bottomless pit of undatable losers. In the mean time, I file through the profiles, cringing and laughing and almost crying again.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Choices, Choices

I do some homework.

Priscilla is on Match.com. She's had some very fun dates. She's had some clunkers. She says it's hit or miss. But she is having fun.

Joy tells me that eHarmony is known for better quality of matching. It's scientific. You also pay for it so people who are out there on it are more likely to be serious about a relationship. She's had friends on Match and eH and the buzz is better for eH.

Charlotte tells me she thinks I am out of my cotton-pickin' mind and that online dating is going to be nothing but an enormous mistake brimming with disaster. It is not my style. I don't need it. She wants to screen all of my dates. (And let's be honest, I have really dropped the ball, in glorious, graceless fashion, in the "screening out" function. I think my chip is damaged.) But I tell her I am lonely and not working and men just aren't dropping by the house to say hello, exactly.

Hil says to go with eHarmony. She likes their commercials. Pat says I should figure out what's going on with Craig first and not be too hasty to get rid of him. He says I seem to like him a lot. But if I do decide to go fishing in a new pond, can the pond be closer to home? They want to meet the next guy.

I check with my friend James. He is a font of information. He says there is a freebie site that is like a dumping ground of all manner of people hoping to scrounge up a date for the weekend and perhaps not much more. There is Match, which is the mid-range site, higher caliber, lower cost, fewer rules. He knows about this one because it allows same sex connections to be made. eHarmony does not, which makes me cringe. They don't endorse THAT kind of dating? Isn't love love no matter who has done the falling? Anyway, he says, he recommends eHarmony for me since he is sure I don't have the patience for the usual bullshit and deserve better than to have throngs of dirtball overly-optimistic suitors contacting me like a pack of wild dogs.

I go with eHarmony.

I sit in the cottage and go through all the steps. There are a lot of them. So many that just when you think you want to skip the rest and go pour a beer, the system itself sends you an encouraging little note. Gives you a preview of some potential matches. Tells you to keep going. Love is out there waiting.

Puh-lease. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

There are thoughtful questions with boxes to check and comments to make. There are free form answers and pictures to upload. It is sort of fun, and just as I'd expected, a lot like writing your own resume. Only so personal. So exposing.

And I have to really search my soul for some things. For instance, how important are looks?

Well, important and not. I have dated some ordinary looking men but it was certainly much easier to date a Chippendale look-alike like Scott. And those unremarkable looking guys, I met them as friends first when looks weren't part of the selection criteria. And as I got to know them, and began to become attracted to their personalities, they became much easier on the eyes. The charming, soft-spoken funny guy also suddenly had really long eyelashes and a very pretty smile. The confident, studious romantic had really nice masculine hands and a beautiful thick head of black curly hair.

But I wouldn't be meeting these guys first. Looks would have to be kind of important. If all I get is a picture and a few self-authored descriptive notes, I am going to have to make a judgment call. And if he's 5'7", has a comb-over, is 40 pounds overweight and dresses like pro wrestler, I am not sure I give a hang if he has a beautiful soul.

I rate looks on the high end but not top banana. Safe answer, I think.

How important is religion? Am I religious or just faithful?

This is a loaded question. I'd like to have someone in my life who practices a faith, but I do not want a Bible-beating zealot who is going to ask me to repent if I drop a few JCs in vain in the kitchen making dinner. I also don't have much exposure to wildly different religions than my own. And from what I can tell, I'd be a really crappy obedient Jewish wife. Maybe a reformed Jew who can't be bothered with most aspects of his religion would be tolerable but then that isn't really having a faith, is it? And I could never date a strict Jew. He can't touch women who aren't his wife? What? I could just see me introducing him to my friends. Kate would kiss him on the cheek and he'd be flogging himself all the way home with his nose in the Old Testament.

I am tired of thinking about myself. I would like someone else to think about me. In the meantime, I am going to go pour that beer.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Decisons, Decisions

Hands shaking, I return to the cottage. I need a shower. I need a nap. Hell, I need a drink.

As I ascend the stairs, Joy calls me. We have Girls Weekend coming up and we have some details to chat about. It is good to hear a voice of pure reason. I tell her about my wicked mother and she and I agree it is a blessing that there are 5 states between us. It would be a long way for either of us to drive and continue to hold on to thoughts of strangulation upon arrival.

I also tell her about what I fear I can expect from Lars when I go to file for Child Support on Monday. She knew him when we were dating. She knew him as my husband. She watched him morph into someone I did not know when we became parents. She knows exactly why I am nervous. She is happy to hear that I have a lawyer. Even happier that I like the new lawyer so much. Maybe this one will help me finally get Lars to stop insisting on picking my pocket and go and make his own money so he can (really) support our children and presumably his half-assed yoga instructor wife. In the meantime, she wants me to make sure I can go to Charlotte's or her house if he goes berserk and I need to go undercover for safety and sanity.

I go upstairs and prepare to shower. The cottage is quiet and it is nice to be able to take the time to do things slowly. To walk around without a towel if I want. To hog the hot water. To sing Half Breed really, really loudly in the shower because no one can hear. (At least I don't think they can.)

Hair dryed and broken-in jeans and sweater on my back, I return to the first floor and think about putting on the radio. I don't. Silence, or rather, silence laced with birdsongs and bullfrogs and squirrels at horseplay is all the accompaniment I need.

I slice a few pieces of cheddar cheese and get out some crackers. Lunch. Because it's only me.

And I flip open my laptop and click the button to watch it come to life.

It's show time, folks.

I have decided a couple of things in the last few days.

One of them is that Craig has dropped out of my life voluntarily and does not look like he's coming back. So I have to move on.

Another is that moving on is much harder than it seems like it should be.

And the next is that Mr. Right is not going to come a-knocking on my door. I am not working so there are limited opportunities to browse the selection in the halls at the office. (And even when I was, the line up was so abyssmal I may as well have been working in a State Penitentiary.) I am not in any socially invigorating clubs, so meeting someone interesting at the Yacht Club or the Music Festival Planning Meeting is not a possibility. And my friends are almost entirely of the married set and can only be relied upon for fun-filled nights out once in a while, and never on the fly when I find myself bored, lonely, thirsty or looking for trouble (which happens with surprising regularity.) And lastly, though I've gotten much more comfortable with the idea, I can not always just go grab a bar stool at one of the local pubs by myself. I do not want to get the reputation for being the Hag Bar Fly, and I am about one more solo visit from doing so. My last trip to the bar was during a blackout and the bar had only bottled beer and spirits since the generator could only run the lights and A/C. The male patrons abruptly left when the power failed and left me to share the bar with only a beefy lesbian with a poorly concieved outfit given her size and bra strap configuration. Not exactly a meat market.

So my last decision is this: eHarmony or Match.com?

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman With A Cell Phone

As I walk through the lush hamlet surrounding the Charlotte and Jack's hideaway cottage I cheerfully dial Mom's number. Endorphins must really put a whammy on a person. I had the unabated courage of a drunk dialer.

Mom answers on the second or third ring. She probably had to A)find the phone, B)figure out that that sound was it ringing, since it is undoubtedly an unfamiliar sound, and C) do that squinty thing she does to try to read something without her Hubble Telescope readers.

She answers cheerfully in a voice that sounds as though she's swallowed turpentine.

I say hello and Ask how she's doing. Loaded question. Her response could be anything from something as benign as the weather to annoying as Bill's latest health issue, whether it be ass or elbow, or as inflammatory as a Fox News inspired rant about the government and how we are turning into a Communist Country. Again, endorphins make you brave.

She was just back from the Piggly Wiggly or some darn store and had not had any in-the-aisle-across-the-aisle confrontations, pricing disputes or parking lot altercations evidently. She seemed to be in a good mood.

Or not. You never know. There is a coiled snake waiting to spring at any moment. I just need to say the magic words.

And I did. Without even knowing them! What a coincidence!

I told her I'd gotten her text and wanted to tell her that she'd probably be better off getting a bare bones contract with an actual carrier rather than her current situation of being held hostage by the plan that is no plan.

She starts to object but I ask her to listen. I tell her that it is not a coincidence that she and Joe have the same no plan plan and have the same problem. They are the only people having this issue with me, and I send a pant load of texts. The problem lies on her end of the line, not with mine.

And though I was fairly certain that the conversation began with my mother, at some point she had apparently handed over the phone to Satan. She bellowed back in a demonic voice (even worse that the chemically burned one she had at "hello") and screamed that IT WAS NOT HER PHONE IT WAS NOT HER PROBLEM IT WAS NOT JUST HER IT WAS EVERYONE AND JOE MADE A PHONE CALL TO THE COMPANY AND THEY CORRECTED HIS BILL BUT SAID IT WAS THE PHONE THAT RECEIVED THE TEXT THAT WAS AT FAULT.

Had it been a text, it would have been in the Screechy Howler Monkey Bold font. Red. Twenty-four point.

I pulled the phone away from my withering ear and put it in front of my face as though I were about to say something directly to her.

I hauled out my best Mercedes McCambridge/Exorcist voice, ramped it up a few decibels and bellowed. "DON'T YOU DARE YELL AT ME!" and hung up. (A most unsatisfying hang up. There isn't even a click on a touch screen hang up. It should sound like shattering glass or flying bowling pins.

And with shaking hands, I call Charlotte. A feel good call. She is always bearing the brunt of Mom's rage (no one else really talks to her) and feels like she is Mom's special pet target for venom and meanness. I get her voicemail.

>"Hey, Char. It's me again. I won't rain on your bicycle ride but I just wanted to let you know what happened when I called Mom. She Jekyll and Hyded on me and went from zero to sixty in under a minute. Over the texting thing. I believe I am in the dog house for good. I also may have profound hearing loss. I'll let you know if she sends me a venomous text. Or calls back. Or sends me a letter bomb or some kind of exploding package."

I am sure Mom's next call will be to Charlotte to screech about what a flaming beyotch I am. She'd be smart not to answer her phone. Or carry it at all. I consider her forewarned by my voicemail. But may have to text her a smoke signal to make sure she is duly notified. That is a snake pit she most definitely should know to step around.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Over Hill And Dale And Straight To Hell

Saturday morning starts in the dark (with a trip to the bathroom in the dark, to be truthful) and a few moments of peace listening to the rain on the roof in a cool breeze through the open windows in the moonless pitch blackness that only the woods can offer. For a moment, I forget all that I have that worries me and can nod off to sleep again.

A few hours later, I get up and put my feet on the floor determined to be a different me. A me who grabs life by the ass and makes it happen, not one who assumes the best and then lets people dump all over it.

I make coffee. Lots of coffee, actually. And I eat a handful of mixed nuts and a few peices of bacon for breakfast. I empty Charlotte's dishwasher and fold the laundry I'd left in the dryer. It is amazing what a little orderliness can do for your sense of control. I remember back in college that I could not focus on studying until the dorm room was neat and orderly. Call me crazy, but it is about knowing what distracts you. If I'd had laundry and papers spread all over it would have been no less distracting than Duran Duran in the room giving a concert.

When I take the laundry upstairs and put it away I decide it is as good a time as any to get changed into workout clothes and hit the mountain trails. I'd done a few miles each day when the kids were with me but I was jonesing for a long hike without any pressure to return to the house and be on a proper vacation with the kids. There were new trails to try and new hills to ascend. It was hunting season, I'd brought some orange to wear so as to not be mistaken for a white tailed doe. Or any kind of doe for that matter.

While I am dressing I get a text, and I get that feeling of relief that I sometimes do when Craig as been MIA and suddenly pays attention. But it is not Craig, it is my friend Terry, who began as a work friend and has become a true friend. She and her husband Mick have a firehouse gig to go to during the day, but would I like some company later? She and I had gone to a concert together and she wanted to take me out to dinner as a gesture of thanks. How nice!

It is just the thing I need. She is such a loyal friend and I need to have some girl time with her. And her husband is pretty good in that department, too. He is patient with all the chatter and weighs in when asked. And has no agenda; has never steered me wrong. She is unflinchingly on my side and full of great advice. Some time on the porch is the elixir that will cure me.

I tell her how to find me and tell her I'll have the porch lights on when they arrive later, and head out the door and into the woods with a spring in my step.

It is a great hike. The weather is perfect since Fall comes early to the cottage. There are people with dogs and people on horseback and people who are profoundly lost out there on the trails with me. I love stopping the lost souls and telling them how to follow the trails and what to expect up ahead. I feel like and expert Girl Scout. Hil would be so proud, wouldn't she?

I get a few texts from Charlotte in NY. She is having a ball. Bicycling around Central Park. Shopping in the grand stores of the city as opposed to the mundane stores of suburban malls. She sends a few pictures. I send a few back.

And in between I get a text from Mom. She is complaining (natch!) that something is wrong with my phone. She gets repeat texts from me. Texts that I sent weeks ago get delivered again. It costs her a dollar (a dollar!) every time that happens so I need to make it stop.

My first thought is that my mother texting is one of the first of the seven signs of the Apocalypse. My mother has no computer, thinks email is fad, and will not use an ATM.

My second thought is that I need to enlighten her about her no-contract, pay as you go, fly-by-night carrier flip phone. I have had my phone since 1994 and have been with the same carrier since then as well. The fact that she is the first and the only person to have this problem with me (and with Charlotte, and with Joe, BTW, with his similarly low-budget flip phone) tells me that the issue is on HER end, not mine.

And in my endorphin-induced state of bliss, I imagine I can call her and tell her that.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Woe Is I

I am jonesing to get back to the cottage. I need to wallow a little. Miss the kids. Figure out my life. Let my woes and worries sink in and focus on them without interruption.

Without housework calling to me.
Without yard work nagging to be done.
Without cats to care for, laundry to be done, errands to run, shopping to be completed, bills to be paid.
Without the overwhelming reminder that it is Friday night and I should be doing something and I have no one to do it with. (This is where I get myself into trouble.)

I get to the cottage with my much lighter load and unlock the door. It still smells like it did when we left. Not enough time has passed for that closed-up house smell to return. It makes me sad about the kids.

I put the wine in the fridge. I put the bag of snacky stuff on the counter. I open the salad and close it again. Maybe tomorrow. I have a nervous stomach and will just eat a package of crackers for now.

I take a long hot shower and use some of my favorite shampoo. I put on a cool comfortable slouchy outfit. I make myself reasonably presentable (from a hair and makeup standpoint) in case there is a knock at the door. No one needs to be greeted by Medusa, and a French twist with a side of mascara and a swipe of lipstick is not a lot of effort to put forth.

I put on the radio and open the wine. I should just stick a straw in the top but I pour a civilized glass.

I finish the first glass on the porch watching the sun set and listening to the birds and the bullfrogs.

After one glass of Chardonnay I call the kids. I want to tell them, while I am still not slurring, that I had a wonderful week with them. That I loved every minute. That I will cherish the memories forever. They are my pride and my joy. And of course I will ask Hil about her period and her shorts and her chocolate supply and her heating pad and if she's feeling hungry or tired or cranky or crampy.

I top off the half empty glass and go sit at the table and set my sights on completing the most complicated 1,000 piece puzzle the kids and I have ever started. I probably have 300 pieces to go. I am sure some of them never made it into the box.

I pour a second glass. A little more generous than the first. I continue to work on the puzzle and think it would have been smart to have brought my readers with me. Of course I didn't. But I care a little less with every sip.

And as Fate would have it, the radio station I can get the clearest reception on is a light rock station, and of course they are playing all sappy love songs and woe is me songs of lament.

And finally a song sad enough to make me cry comes on the radio. And I let myself cry.

Cry about the kids.
Cry about Craig being missing in action.
Cry about being lonely.
Cry about not knowing what the next few weeks and months will bring.
Cry about having nothing to look forward to.
Cry about not having a purpose.

The sad songs keep coming and so do the tears. It feels really good to finally stop smiling for smiling's sake and just be a sniveling pile of hopeless misery.

I eventually dry my eyes, pour another glass and keep working on the puzzle. I shazam a country song about falling in love with the wrong guy. I want to call the artist and tell her she nailed it.

In between wine, sad songs, and bouts of tears, I finish the puzzle. I take a photo and text it to the kids with a happy message. They are so impressed that I finished it. It is good to be Mom.

With the wine gone and the puzzle done, I rinse my glass and turn off the lights. I walk upstairs wishing the cats were at my heels, brush my teeth, wash my tear-stained face, blow my nose one last time and go to bed.

And in the pitch darkness of the cottage nestled under a thick canopy of trees, I nod off telling myself that tomorrow is indeed a whole new day.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Period, The End

With my weekend plan in place, I focus on home. Getting the cats fresh water and fresh bowls of food that will last the weekend. Making sure the kitty litter is pristine for Their Royal Highnesses. Making sure there is a doorstop in every open doorway so that Gidget, in her endless quest to pounce on whatever is under the door (usually nothing) does not inadvertently lock herself in a bedroom. We all know Trinket would not be a good sport and nose the door open for her from the other side.

I drop in on each of the kids in their rooms. They are catching up on Facebook and XBox 360 and making weekend plans of their own. I am glad thay can shift gears on custody hand off days. I am also sad to end such a wonderful week with their undivided company. It had been our first week without guests at the cottage. In years past we'd been joined for a day or two by J. and his girls, or Scott and his girls, or Mom and Bill. This week had been just us and it had been awesome. I wonder how many more there will be. The kids are about that age when they'll blow me off. And I am constantly reminded that I miss 26 weeks of time with them every year as it is. I'm amazed they remember my name.

Soon, all too soon, it is time to get in the car and go. I linger as long as I can. I feel like I am headed to the gallows. And once they've left the car and bounced up the steps into Lars' house, I need to focus. I miss them. I already miss the cats. I need to wallow. But I need to get to the cottage first.

And for that I need gas. I can get gas at the grocery store and while I am there, grab a made to order salad for dinner when I get to the cottage. A shower, little wine, a little lobster salad, a little time on the porch and I should be right as rain.

I make my way through the hellish grocery store experience (It's Friday, people? Where's the mirth?) and pull up to the pumps. While the petrol is flowing, my phone begins to ring.

I answer (I know, it is against all things OSHA) and am shocked to hear unintelligible sobbing from the other end. It is Hil. Evidently, she's gotten her First Period.

I put on my "talk the lunatic off the ledge" voice I have honed in my line of business and ask her to take deep breaths so I can understand what she is saying.

She chokes out that she got her period and she is upset. I want to tell her to get comfortable with the idea. The Big P will be a returning guest for 40 years. Instead I congratulate her on being a young woman. She is not thrilled.

I mentally scrap my plans for the weekend and ask her if she'd like me to come get her. Lars and I have an understanding. If this very thing were to happen, Hil could come to my house for TLC and tutorials on the equipment involved in the care and feeding of ones' menstrual cycle. The New Liza will have no such honor.

She is breathing normally now, and I hear her say that she knows what to do and she does not need me to come get her.

"Do you WANT me to come get you? THAT is my real question."

She is calmer. She says she'll be fine. So I ask her why she is crying. This can be such an exciting time. She is growing up. She'll get boobs. Her hair will thicken. She'll be even more beautiful.

The real bummer she says is that she ruined her favorite shorts. I tell her how to tell Lars how to wash them and ask her if she needs anything from the store. Inclusive of the things Lars will need to wash her shorts, and presumably other articles of clothing that will be wrecked while Hil gets adjusted to her new state of womanhood.

She tells me she has all the things she needs. I ask her if she has chocolate. She laughs and tells me she does. She is going to be just fine.

And with an even heavier heart, I finish pumping my gas and pull away from the station. I am on my way to the cottage with another milestone having flown by.

Friday, November 8, 2013

U - Turn

I could immediately feel myself relax. Again. I had been home from vacation a grand sum total of 90 minutes and was already back to Reality. Yes, with a capital R. As in Raw. But now I could breathe deeply. I could stop wringing my hands. I could gear up for a new battle with Lars. And it would be a battle. Just not for a few days. I had a reprieve.

As is customary when you are the idiot sister in the operation, I called Charlotte to tell her what I'd done. And like so much about all things Domestic Relations, it needed a lot of explaining. You would think that logic would dictate so much more. That changes in income would be snatched from your employer (or in my case, the State in which I was "on the dole") and redo the math and pay whomever whatever amount - unless someone objected and asked for a hearing. Wouldn't that be nice? We can put a man on the moon but somehow it takes The Village People (or something like that) to get the simplest thing accomplished. And evidently puts hundreds of butts in office chairs that would otherwise be vacant.

There was still an active order out there in Domestic Relations Land that said I had to continue to pay Lars Child Support even though I had absolutely no means to do so. From a legal standpoint, I was a deadbeat Mom. Headed to jails unless I started paying up. (Hence all the hand wringing.)

My alarm came from the fact that Lars' lawyer Randee had - bless her little sidewinding heart - promised and sworn on a stack of old testaments and Child Support Code that she would withdraw Lars' order if it got to be July and I was still not working.

Well duh. It's August and my wallet is not any fuller, people. Worse, I'd gotten no response from Randee or Lars to the numerous explicit, imploring emails on the topic.

What are the chances that Randee had gone and done what she'd committed to without patting herself on the back as Lawyer of the Year? And what are the chances that Lars had followed through and insisted it be done? Or done it himself by visiting the Domestic Relations Office?

None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Goose egg. Never would happen.

And my panic came from the fact that nestled in my week old pile of mail was a letter from the State stating that I had racked up a giant pile of arrears and if I did not satisfy the order in five days (With what? My good looks?) a bench warrant would be issued and I'd be arrested and dragged to the pokey. (Oh good! Free food!)

I think my call to Charlotte did more to infuriate and confuse her than to inform and calm her. (Bench warrants have a way of doing that.)

But while we chatted she mentioned that she was taking the train to NYC to see Jack and Gregory (a newly minted Wall Street employee!) and that the cottage would be empty all weekend.

I told her that A) Gidget had made one of the upholstered window bench cushions her own personal toilet and I'd left it out on the porch, and B) I'd like to go back for the weekend.

She was more than happy to oblige. I repacked a bag. I packed up the laptop. I placed a bottle of wine and some snacky stuff in a bag. When I dropped off the kids to Lars an hour or so later, I'd be back on the road. This time solo. I needed the quiet solitude and uncluttered, unhurried existence that being in a remote house you don't own brings. Back to basics. Back to me.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Business End Of Things

The long drive back from the cottage was quiet. Actually, it's more accurate to say that the people in the car were quiet and the cats were meowing in stereo. And in sync. It was enough to scramble my brain.

Unloading from vacation is so much less fun than loading up the car to leave on the trip. I feel like the boxes and bags are made of lead and contain way more stuff than we started with. Sorting laundry and putting things where they belong and reopening the house seems like a cruel reminder that vacation is over.

I know. Vacation from what? I was not even working. But you'd be surprised how much you can need a break from the routine nothingness that unemployment can bring.

While the kids put away their clothes and got on line and generally reacclimated to the house and their lives, I began a Google search for one of the three matrimonial lawyers I'd known. They'd left the firm we'd worked for shortly after I had so I had no idea where to start. I only knew their first names, and I knew they practiced in a neighboring county - but could still give me advice on procedure. That little song and dance has very few versions. And any advice would help. I had no idea what I was doing. Completely clueless.

I found what seemed like a generic directory for matrimonial lawyers in the county and read the description of the first one ----"Personalized service, superior representation, affordable billing plans."

That's me. Personalized, superior and affordable. I wonder if it was one of the ladies?

There was a little green button to press on my smartphone to call directly. Someone answered cheerfully on the first ring. So far we had the personalized part down.

I assumed I was talking to a receptionist so I launched into a diatribe about the reason for my call, expecting to hear "Please hold for Ms. Blahblahblah." But instead the voice said, "Give me a little background information. Who was the judge you went before in May? An older gentleman, white hair, as mean as a snake?"
"YES!!!!" I practically shrieked! And I definitely scared the cats. I had the airborne hairballs to prove it.

I told her the story about his insulting rant and his aggressive behavior toward me. She told me not to take it personally, it is his schtick. He is all about support for the kids and is especially harsh with parents who try to reduce it. She told me a horrifying little tale of woe concerning a carpenter who wanted to get his support order reduced because his business had failed. Hiz Honor had insulted his skills as a tradesman and a business owner. said he'd never hire him himself. Looked him up and down as though her were scum. And didn't reduce his order a cent.

And I realized I was talking not to the receptionist, but my new lawyer. She had answered her own phone on one ring and gave me her undivided attention for an hour. An hour filled with back stories and horror stories and income information and detailed instructions about what I needed to do first thing on Monday morning. She agreed to attend the hearing with me that Wednesday and she'd meet me Monday at the courthouse after I followed through with my instructions. We'd grab a cup of coffee and get all the business out of the way. It would be fun.

Fun?

The train was back on the tracks. And I had a new engineer in the locomotive!

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

I Know Someday You'll Have A Beautiful Life

And in retrospect I did make the best use of the summer. And when my work was done - my work on my lawn, my work on my health, my work on my house, my work on myself, my work on my kids - my work toward a new career paid off.

Just around the time when my viable leads were fizzling out, three new ones magically appeared. And by magically appeared, I mean they seemed to simply fall from the sky.

One was a creative Human Resources Talent Management position. Identifying high potential talent across a broad, far flung organization and closing gaps to between each of the high performers and their next career move. Loads of fun. Very hot to trot company.

Another I stumbled upon by accident. A broad Human Resources role within a boutique firm who never had an HR function before and was sure they were about to wander aimlessly into compliance problems since they'd recently grown in size and surpassed some of the Federal Government regulatory thresholds. They specifically wanted a seasoned, grizzled HR Executive with an English degree and who can write. I was tempted to simply show up and make myself at home in the available desk.

And the last was a huge, household name e-retailer. The headhunter who had placed me in my last job must have felt guilty about leading me to the gates of Hell and had given my contact information to the hiring manager to connect with me. I wasn't even sure when I'd spoken with the woman that she wasn't a headhunter herself. But she was not, and she was lovely. I clicked with her in an instant. We got each other. I wanted to work for her and she wanted to work with me. The second, third and fourth steps came rapidly, and so did the offer. I was over the moon. And I was finally employed!

I had paid my dues and done my work over the summer. It was paying off in spades. I had a sexy new job, an easy commute, a cool, fun, employer, a beautiful office building brimming with really, really smart people. Pinch me.

But there was some unfinished business to resolve. And that would surely take the shine off of things eventually.

Let's back up.

Back in the summer while I was staying at Charlotte and Jack's cottage, I'd had a couple of epiphanies.

First, I'd endured some long silences from Craig. Troubling silences. Silences that made me sad. I heard a Pearl Jam song called "Black" that resonated with me...well the end of it did. It talks about someone being the sun in somebody's sky. And I decided I wanted to be that. The sun in someone's sky. And if not Craig's then someone else's. Sad as the idea was to have it be someone ELSE's sky.

And second, I needed to get my shit in a pile about the pending child support hearing where I could be facing Lars and that dirty-looking lawyer of his and that nasty judge. The hearing was less than a week away. I was petrified and I had no plan, no argument, no leg to stand on.

The end of our vacation is always so sad for me anyway, but as I packed to leave and cleaned and remade beds, and stuffed the cats into their carriers, I was weary. Weary of the world. Weary from not working. Weary of the fight. Weary from wondering what would become of me and all the things in my life that are important.

As I drove home I made two decisions.

I would contact one of the extremely helpful and kind matrimonial lawyers (Yes there is such a thing!) I'd worked with at one time to see if I could get some sage advice about the hearing. How hard could they be to find?

And I would call Charlotte to see if I could turn around and drive back to the cottage alone after I'd gotten the cats settled and the kids back to Lars. I craved a little self-imposed isolation and the cottage would be perfect.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Part of the Plan

So maybe this is what this summer has been about. Maybe there was nothing accidental about any of what has been happening in my life. Maybe it is all part of some big playbook that makes no sense at all until you get to the end zone and you realize what just happened to you makes a lot of sense in a cosmic, big picture way.

When Scott went over the wall last year, I hinted at my misery on Facebook. And since I have a much more buoyant than miserable persona on Facebook and everywhere else, people took notice. They reached out. You know how this happened. I wrote it all down for us both. So horrible it was almost funny. Almost.

And I met some great people, and strengthened some relationships that were only in their infancy until then. Solidified some acquaintances into full-blown, tried and true friendships. And got a little romance of it to boot! And as you may recall, that gave me the emotional edge when Scott came calling again. The edge and the strength to not give in. To not go back. To love myself more than he could ever love me.

And those friendships were tested yet again...when my career took an unexpected detour. Those same friendships (with the exception of Jane who had shown her true colors earlier in the mayhem and whose friendship I decided I needed to live without) came roaring to life even louder, offering support and advice and networking and pats on the back.

My summer of job searching had its ups and downs. I had a lot of first interviews. I had some fourth interviews. I interviewed for some great career opportunities and for jobs that would have been no more than just jobs. I ran into a lot of dead ends.

And with each peak and valley, my friends and my family (at least those that I am on good terms with...) were there for me. Telling me it would happen for me. That I would find my way. That there is a purpose to all of this. There is a plan.

And in hindsight (I have landed a great job...but we'll get to that!) I see what the plan had been all along.

First, I had to get Scott out of my life. The road we were on was leading to nothingness. I couldn't see it then but now I can. He was smart to have made the move for both of us, the cruelty and cowardice notwithstanding.

I needed to realize who my true friends were. The Toms and the Craigs and the Kates and Joys and Tonis and Dels. And my sister and my cousins. Jane can go live her little pathetic life of gossip and pettiness without me. With the friends I have I have no need for pretenders. The friends I have made it obvious that they would step up to the plate every time. Jane made it clear that she would throw a bean ball when you least expect it.

And I needed to leave my toxic, dead end job with the Mean Girl mentality and simmering ethics problems. Who needs to waste their time and energy and good looks on a company that has places no value on you or what you do and is more concerned with whether or not you are wearing pantyhose than if you can accomplish a on time or on budget or at all.

And I needed time. Time to focus on my kids - especially Hil - as they wandered unwittingly into the milestone year. The year that eclipses the age I was when my mother left. I suppose it is a more important time of reflection for me than for them - they have no idea about the significance of the time. But it is meaningful to me to have had the uninterrupted time to devote to them. As if to say to them that I will never ever make my mother's mistakes. I am better than that. I am better than her. They matter to me more than I did to her. Even if I am really only saying it to myself.

And frankly, I needed time for me. Not only to walk miles upon miles in peaceful isolation for my physical well-being, but to use the time in quiet solitude to reflect on my mother's decisions and decide once and for all that her mistakes are no reflection on me. Her mistakes will not be repeated. They will not make me something I don't choose to be. And I will not let her decisions make me question my worth, my worthiness, my strength or my character.

And even now, when her preposterous lack of motherliness makes me scratch my head, it will not strike at my heart. No need to pick the petals from a flower and repeat "She loves me, she loves me not." She loves me not. And that's just fine. I will not chase her around grasping for her apron strings. She was the one to have run. I'll just let her go.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Round Two

And now it was Hil's turn.

Of course, Hil was only seven when I told Lars I would not be hanging around 'til Death do us part. (Unless of course, I decided to go the ground glass in the turkey tetrazzini route and finish him off before a single paper was filed in Domestic Court.)

And Lars and I did not exactly play the separation game any better than my parents had. But to be truthful, they'd had less to argue about.

1 - There was no custody battle. There was nary a custody discussion. Dad said he would die without us. Mom said she had no intention of taking us with her. She was leaving us all, make no mistake. Next issue, please.

2 - There was no dispute about the house. Dad insisted on staying in the house. Mom, for once, made no argument. She would have taken up residence in an appliance carton on Vine Street if necessary in order to get out.

3 - There was no alimony or child support. Any attempt by either party to collect anything from the other would have been offset by a competing claim. Why pay a lawyer to do the math?

And by contrast, Lars had made me the villain. did everything he could to alienate the kids from me, took every penny he could legally squeeze from me (and a few he did nefariously - like draining our bank account on the day I was paid), took every possession from the house right down to the last roll of toilet paper and the last box of cereal when he left, and tried to take the kids away from me entirely. Such a poor loser. But a loser nonetheless. The ground glass idea grew exponentially more appealing.

But there is one thing I am certain I did right, in spite of the cards being stacked against me. I will go to my grave satisfied that I did it right - would implore separating couples to concentrate on doing it right. I am sure I connected with my children about the changes they were facing in their young lives and assured them that no matter what changed, my love for them, my presence in their lives and their presence in my heart, my devotion my connectedness, my very Mom-ism would never, ever diminish. They were the center of my heart; I would always be a safe place. The world would change around us, but "we" would always be "us."

Looking back, however grim the picture, I have generally blamed Lars for a lot. And blamed the fact that he never came to terms with the fact that his mother did not loved any of her children for a lot of what made him the dark brooding father and spouse he eventually became.

And looking back at how it shaped him has made me realize two things:

1 - I never, ever doubted my Dad's love for me. Not for one second. It never crossed my mind. There were no signs to the contrary.

2 - I did however doubt that my Mother ever really loved us in any genuine way. And when she finally left our house, I had the distance and quietness of mind to make observations and decide that she didn't. And the distance and fortitude to begin to care less. The moments when she seemed to take interest or be proud or give a damn about anything were fleeting, and the episodes of rage and inaccessibility and short temperedness and impatience and indifference were bountiful. They could be hurtful, but hurt less and less as time went on and maturity found its footing.

The only thing that irks me now is that she thinks she fooled everyone.

Friday, November 1, 2013

A Walk To Remember

Casey and I got off the bus and began to walk home.

Remember Casey? He was the kid I grew up with who was later my Date from Hell after I broke up with J. The one with the bad jokes and the worse breath. We'd been friends as kids. Even had crushes on each other. But mostly friends - inspite of the fact that he eventually spent all of his time mooning over another girl on the block who looked like a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers. And in spite of all the frequent episodes of neighborhood politics and Mama Drama. (Our mothers were both famous bickerers).

Casey was finishing 9th grade. I was finishing 8th. He had been a little distant recently - feeling like a big shot heading off to high school (even though he still fit in Toughskin jeans from the Boys department at JC Penney).  He normally strutted off the bus and up the block at a record pace. But today he was walking a little more slowly. Slow enough for me to catch up with a little effort (since I felt like I had turned to lead between 7th and 8th period classes).

When I caught up and we'd said our hellos, I asked him, "Did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"My Mom is moving out. I guess my parents are getting divorced, but no one is saying."

"Mine too," he said quietly.

"Your Mom is moving out, too?" I could hardly believe it. It was a conspiracy! His Mom! My Mom! And probably that lady on the next street who made her husband get a perm and who has the checkerboard frosted hair and wears striped toe-sock knee-highs with her platform sandals.

"No. My Dad is. But my parents are splitting up like yours."

"Sucks, doesn't it?"  I say, defiantly using my mother's most hated off-color word.

"Blows."  Casey said. I have no idea how his mother felt about that word.

We walked in relative silence the rest of the way to our street. We crossed to our side of the block. A creepy old guy lived in the house on the corner. He was a well-known Dirty Old Man. Famous for inappropriately touching all the little girls when they came to play in the yard with his grandsons.

"Watch out. Don't let the Bogey Man get you" Casey half joked.

"The real Bogey Man is probably drinking coffee in the kitchen talking to your Mom on the phone."

Casey attempted a smile. We walked toward my house.

I felt like I wanted to keep walking with Casey. Wanted to keep talking even though we weren't really talking. At least not out loud. But we were in a special club together now. We both knew it.

When we got there he looked over at me and said, "Hang in there." 

"You, too," I said back.

I walked up the driveway to the front door knowing my brother and mother would be inside. I wished again that I could have kept walking.