With some of us showered and some of us not, we head out to the bar across the way. Close enough that no one has to call a cab, and even better, close enough to sneak out to use the bathroom at the hotel if the ladies room line is as long as it usually gets.
We are in luck. Arrive before the band takes the stage and the cover charge is imposed. Sweet. We head upstairs to the roof top bar to get cocktails and watch the sun set.
This bar used to be the magnet bar for young people when we were young people. Its property reached the dunes and and it had lots of outdoor space and took on the feel of a big beach bash. Then a few years ago, a competing bar with no beachfront space forced the city to enforce a code that disallows drinking on the beach, and the sandy yard by the open air bars was forced to close. It has never been the same.
Since then it attracts older people. Even a little older than us now that we are technically older people. It has finally become fun again. We have finally closed the gap a little between us and the crowd that goes there. No more 22 year olds. No more old fogies. Just us. In the middle. Dare I say, middle-aged. OMG. No, I won't.
We hear the band beginning to warm up and head to the first floor. Take up residence in the area perfectly situated between the bar and the dance floor. Most excellent. And most practical.
We run into some people Kate knows. One we've dubbed Bunny. As in Bunny-in-the-Pot Crazy. The other, Lady Liberty. I know we've been told her name a thousand times, I just can never remember it, the other details about her so overpowering. She's well over 6 feet tall, stunning, dated a famous now dead political figure, and we've never, ever, not even once seen her in anything other than a floor length gown. One that overemphasizes her boobs, but mostly by leaving the entire cross-strap of her bra showing in the back. Hooks and stains and all. Pretty.
We are making polite conversation, as best we can with Bunny and Liberty, when Kate appears next to me.
"I am about to be in a fight, I think."
And it's not even 9 o'clock.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Kate arrives every year, with the 30-pack of beer, but hilariously having not learned from the last.
Or maybe she has. She's learned that an underpacked suitcase merely increases her wardrobe choices, because the rest of us have plenty of choices for ourselves and have graciously thrown in a few items for her as well. And she leaves herself an excuse to shop also. Perfect.
She has often arrived on one of these trips with only one bathing suit...or maybe two, but at least one will be summarily thrown in the trash once we see it. Like the one with the elastic out of the leg which left the fabric dangling away from her body on the verge of indecency. That one, after the photographic proof had been secured, nearly went into the garbage disposal.
Jewelry. I always have jewelry to complete each of my outfits and then a few extra pieces in case I need to loan them out, or change my mind when the outfit is ultimately assembled. Joy too. Kate will be wearing the same earrings she's worn day in and day out for years. To work, to the gym. Dinner with her husband. Lunch with the ladies. Funerals, the delivery room, running a marathon. It's not that she doesn't have lots of jewelry. It just rarely comes out of the jewelry box to play. I don't blame her. Other people's jewelry is so much more fun. Think of the red carpet. What starlet is wearing her own diamonds?
Clothes. Hates her shorts but packed them anyway. Chose a shirt that she likes but not for this. Brought a skirt but feels like a sow in it. Not at all sure about the shoes with any of it. Has short short dress but not the right slip or bra. And there aren't enough choices in the bag to make the changes she wants now that we are here.
At least not in her bag. Joy and I have packed for a small crowd and have lots of wardrobe changes. And jewelry to match. And shoes. Someone will always have a spare pair she can pull the outfit together with. And maybe even a belt, though her belt collection usually doesn't disappoint. It is fun to start shopping for her in your own suitcase. She tries things on until we name a winner. It is a fashion show not unlike What Not to Wear.
Hair products. We could open a salon with the arsenal we have among us. Kate has great hair but rarely a product. One of us usually gets to take a few liberties to sex her up. And has a sharpener for the lip liner that has been worn to a nub and a little bronzer and highlighter. And lotion. And a curling or straightening iron or whatever other contraption is needed. Penny is usually the defacto stylist. She can make her hair or anyone else's do almost anything. And has a wig or two if she can't. We've all taken a turn in front of her mirror.
It is part of the fun. What girls are designed to do. Having a friend wear your clothes and look fabulous in them is a joy to experience. Validating. Intimate. Demonstrates the commitment to your friendship. What fun would it be to segregate the closet space and lock up our jewelry and squirrel away our miracle products? These things are for sharing. Sharing that is done in the spirit of girlfriends. We want eachother to be our best selves. And are happy to donate to the cause.
And all step out for the evening perfectly turned out, even in each other's esteemed opinions.
And it is only the first night. The fun is just beginning.
Or maybe she has. She's learned that an underpacked suitcase merely increases her wardrobe choices, because the rest of us have plenty of choices for ourselves and have graciously thrown in a few items for her as well. And she leaves herself an excuse to shop also. Perfect.
She has often arrived on one of these trips with only one bathing suit...or maybe two, but at least one will be summarily thrown in the trash once we see it. Like the one with the elastic out of the leg which left the fabric dangling away from her body on the verge of indecency. That one, after the photographic proof had been secured, nearly went into the garbage disposal.
Jewelry. I always have jewelry to complete each of my outfits and then a few extra pieces in case I need to loan them out, or change my mind when the outfit is ultimately assembled. Joy too. Kate will be wearing the same earrings she's worn day in and day out for years. To work, to the gym. Dinner with her husband. Lunch with the ladies. Funerals, the delivery room, running a marathon. It's not that she doesn't have lots of jewelry. It just rarely comes out of the jewelry box to play. I don't blame her. Other people's jewelry is so much more fun. Think of the red carpet. What starlet is wearing her own diamonds?
Clothes. Hates her shorts but packed them anyway. Chose a shirt that she likes but not for this. Brought a skirt but feels like a sow in it. Not at all sure about the shoes with any of it. Has short short dress but not the right slip or bra. And there aren't enough choices in the bag to make the changes she wants now that we are here.
At least not in her bag. Joy and I have packed for a small crowd and have lots of wardrobe changes. And jewelry to match. And shoes. Someone will always have a spare pair she can pull the outfit together with. And maybe even a belt, though her belt collection usually doesn't disappoint. It is fun to start shopping for her in your own suitcase. She tries things on until we name a winner. It is a fashion show not unlike What Not to Wear.
Hair products. We could open a salon with the arsenal we have among us. Kate has great hair but rarely a product. One of us usually gets to take a few liberties to sex her up. And has a sharpener for the lip liner that has been worn to a nub and a little bronzer and highlighter. And lotion. And a curling or straightening iron or whatever other contraption is needed. Penny is usually the defacto stylist. She can make her hair or anyone else's do almost anything. And has a wig or two if she can't. We've all taken a turn in front of her mirror.
It is part of the fun. What girls are designed to do. Having a friend wear your clothes and look fabulous in them is a joy to experience. Validating. Intimate. Demonstrates the commitment to your friendship. What fun would it be to segregate the closet space and lock up our jewelry and squirrel away our miracle products? These things are for sharing. Sharing that is done in the spirit of girlfriends. We want eachother to be our best selves. And are happy to donate to the cause.
And all step out for the evening perfectly turned out, even in each other's esteemed opinions.
And it is only the first night. The fun is just beginning.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Queens of the Road
No time to dwell on the details of someone else’s life for now. I have a Girls Weekend to prepare for.
As Girls Weekends go, I consider myself fortunate. What started with an annual pilgrimage to the shore, turned into that plus a Rock Star vacation to a dessert resort out west, to those plus an ad hoc trip to another city or the home of a friend who lives remotely in some desirable fun location. All in the same year. And maybe even one more trip. All with a bevy of beauties I call my dearest friends.
This trip is to the shore. Not that we get to the beach. We rent as many rooms as needed, all in a row, always in the same hotel, for as many as 20 women, but more often than not, the steady ender 5 or 6 that would only miss the trip because of pregnancy, near death experience, or disfiguring flesh-eating disease.
We’ve been doing this for over 20 years – and this year will be no different. At different times during the day, Joy, Penny, Kate, Kelly, Jill and I will take to our cars, each of us buffed, waxed, mani-ed and pedi-ed, with suitcases packed to where the zipper tines are screaming for mercy. All with cell phones affixed to our heads so that we can keep in constant touch and track each other’s ETAs.
Preparing for this trip is quite an undertaking. Some of these girls I see only a few times a year. It is time to get your very best Girl on. Haircut timed so that it is at its peak for the weekend. Hair color similarly timed. Diets and workout regiment strictly adhered to for weeks. And that is to say nothing of the meticulous attention to packing the right outfit choices, the right number of choices, the perfect shoes, jewelry and accessories for each and every anticipated activity.
There is a minimum of three bathing suits – one for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Plan to wear the one that requires the best shape on Friday before the drinking and fatty foods and late night snacking takes its toll on the beach body you’ve whipped into shape for just this occasion. The suits should each be making their Girls Weekend Debut. None shall have made the trip before.
Pool attire worn over the suits should be casual enough to be considered “not trying too hard” but flattering enough that it can make the trip to the beach bar without embarrassing the others.
Outfits. Friday is generally casual. Very casual. I should be prepared to sit poolside drinking canned beer from Kate’s collapsible cooler that makes the trip every year. We could be sitting there all night.
But in case we aren’t, I should have a No Shower Happy Hour outfit planned. One where I ditch the suit and put on something that a) won’t get permanently ruined by my suntan lotion and b) can be worn into the bar with a pair of flip-flops and my hair either in a pony tail or under a hat.
Oh yes, and something for Kate. Her suitcase will not be screaming for mercy. She may not actually have a suitcase.
As Girls Weekends go, I consider myself fortunate. What started with an annual pilgrimage to the shore, turned into that plus a Rock Star vacation to a dessert resort out west, to those plus an ad hoc trip to another city or the home of a friend who lives remotely in some desirable fun location. All in the same year. And maybe even one more trip. All with a bevy of beauties I call my dearest friends.
This trip is to the shore. Not that we get to the beach. We rent as many rooms as needed, all in a row, always in the same hotel, for as many as 20 women, but more often than not, the steady ender 5 or 6 that would only miss the trip because of pregnancy, near death experience, or disfiguring flesh-eating disease.
We’ve been doing this for over 20 years – and this year will be no different. At different times during the day, Joy, Penny, Kate, Kelly, Jill and I will take to our cars, each of us buffed, waxed, mani-ed and pedi-ed, with suitcases packed to where the zipper tines are screaming for mercy. All with cell phones affixed to our heads so that we can keep in constant touch and track each other’s ETAs.
Preparing for this trip is quite an undertaking. Some of these girls I see only a few times a year. It is time to get your very best Girl on. Haircut timed so that it is at its peak for the weekend. Hair color similarly timed. Diets and workout regiment strictly adhered to for weeks. And that is to say nothing of the meticulous attention to packing the right outfit choices, the right number of choices, the perfect shoes, jewelry and accessories for each and every anticipated activity.
There is a minimum of three bathing suits – one for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Plan to wear the one that requires the best shape on Friday before the drinking and fatty foods and late night snacking takes its toll on the beach body you’ve whipped into shape for just this occasion. The suits should each be making their Girls Weekend Debut. None shall have made the trip before.
Pool attire worn over the suits should be casual enough to be considered “not trying too hard” but flattering enough that it can make the trip to the beach bar without embarrassing the others.
Outfits. Friday is generally casual. Very casual. I should be prepared to sit poolside drinking canned beer from Kate’s collapsible cooler that makes the trip every year. We could be sitting there all night.
But in case we aren’t, I should have a No Shower Happy Hour outfit planned. One where I ditch the suit and put on something that a) won’t get permanently ruined by my suntan lotion and b) can be worn into the bar with a pair of flip-flops and my hair either in a pony tail or under a hat.
Oh yes, and something for Kate. Her suitcase will not be screaming for mercy. She may not actually have a suitcase.
Friday, August 26, 2011
The Queen is in her Castle
The kids return to me on Friday and I am thrilled to see them. Take them to see the Glee concert movie. We sing and rock in our seats from beginning to end. I dare you to see it and try not to sing along. It is impossible. Don't bring around a cloud to rain my parade!
The next day, Hil wants to make pancakes. This is an activity still needing supervision and provides a perfect opportunity to take a pulse check on her reaction to the pending marriage. And maybe do a little prying.
"So, sweetie... Oh see the bubbles? That means it's time to flip. Careful. Good! Ok, so tell me. What did you think about Dad's big news?
She turns with a big excited smile and enthusiastically squishes down the pancake with a spatula. I tell her not to turn the light and fluffy little things into frisbees.
"OK" she giggles and is ready to gush about the wedding.
"So they don't know when they are getting married but we have already looked at gowns!"
Clearly Liza has had notions about her Big Day that have festered and percolated for decades without evolving chronologically. A gown at our age is just weird.
But Hil is thrilled with the pageantry so it is fun to hear about.
"And they looked at one country club they like. It's really really nice. Over by the mall."
I had imagined a rain forest by a waterfall and a rainbow, but a country club will do. Lars will have to play along, however unnatural the setting is. It would be like setting down your pet toad in the rose garden.
"And her ring is so beautiful!" I had imagined something with some meaningful crystals. Lars's way of showing his respect for her beliefs while also respecting his wallet, natch.
"It is a big diamond, with 8 other diamonds!" I am shocked. Lars must have found a bag of money somewhere. It's not like him to part with cash for something as frivolous as an engagement ring.
"So, Hil," I say as she pours another pancake into the sizzling pan. "How is Liza able to shop for a dress when she doesn't know what season she is getting married in? What if she likes a summery little thing and ends up with a January wedding date?"
"Well the one she really likes looks just like Kate Middleton's. But she's not going to get it."
"Oh, no? Why not?"
"Because it's $800 and Dad says it's too expensive."
Now, that's more like it.
The next day, Hil wants to make pancakes. This is an activity still needing supervision and provides a perfect opportunity to take a pulse check on her reaction to the pending marriage. And maybe do a little prying.
"So, sweetie... Oh see the bubbles? That means it's time to flip. Careful. Good! Ok, so tell me. What did you think about Dad's big news?
She turns with a big excited smile and enthusiastically squishes down the pancake with a spatula. I tell her not to turn the light and fluffy little things into frisbees.
"OK" she giggles and is ready to gush about the wedding.
"So they don't know when they are getting married but we have already looked at gowns!"
Clearly Liza has had notions about her Big Day that have festered and percolated for decades without evolving chronologically. A gown at our age is just weird.
But Hil is thrilled with the pageantry so it is fun to hear about.
"And they looked at one country club they like. It's really really nice. Over by the mall."
I had imagined a rain forest by a waterfall and a rainbow, but a country club will do. Lars will have to play along, however unnatural the setting is. It would be like setting down your pet toad in the rose garden.
"And her ring is so beautiful!" I had imagined something with some meaningful crystals. Lars's way of showing his respect for her beliefs while also respecting his wallet, natch.
"It is a big diamond, with 8 other diamonds!" I am shocked. Lars must have found a bag of money somewhere. It's not like him to part with cash for something as frivolous as an engagement ring.
"So, Hil," I say as she pours another pancake into the sizzling pan. "How is Liza able to shop for a dress when she doesn't know what season she is getting married in? What if she likes a summery little thing and ends up with a January wedding date?"
"Well the one she really likes looks just like Kate Middleton's. But she's not going to get it."
"Oh, no? Why not?"
"Because it's $800 and Dad says it's too expensive."
Now, that's more like it.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Royal Wedding, Part Two
I am momentarily so distracted by my own reaction to Lars's Big News that I almost forget to wonder about the kids.
Part of me wants to be The Bigger Person and send a lovely sincere Congratulations on Your Engagement card - from me and Scott. But that would not only be suspect, it would be false. I could really not care less. No skin in the game. No horse in the race. No money wagered. Yesterday's news is already tomorrow's fish-n-chips paper, to loosely quote Elvis Costello.
But I am wondering how the kids handled the news. But I'll have to wait for them to return to get the deets. I am sure there would be fierce hairy eyeballs aplenty if either of them were overheard talking about Lars's private matters to the enemy.
In the mean time, I feel compelled to share the update with friends and family.
I send an FB message to friends I worked closely with who had a front row daily ticket to the misadventures of my unraveling marriage. Tell them not to be too heartbroken, Lars was Oh-ficially Off the Market.
The response is universal disbelief that anyone would take on such a charity case, and speculation that Liza is one float short of a parade herself. Straight from the Land of Misfit Toys. A Clearance Bride.
I text Charlotte. Get a prompt "WTF?" followed by "Eeeewwwww." And then finally, "Does this mean you can stop paying so much child support?"
Email my Besties, mentioning the inkling that I had that he was gloating. The responses are supportive and immediate:
"What an ass."
"No seller's remorse there!"
"OMG it's hilarious that you both have the same name. Gross."
My office pals are filled in on Monday. Yoga Liza and His Royal Nastiness would become Mr. and Mrs. Nastiness sometime soon.
Practically rolling on the floor with laughter, they describe their visions of a hippy wedding Liza in a gauzy lace A-line, bell-sleeved get up and a daisy chain in her uncolored, home cut, wildly untamed hair. Lars would be in a Nehru jacket and Birkenstocks, for sure. So flattering on his troll feet.
Through tears of hysteria they imagine bridesmaids all in Chantilly lace dyed in all the colors of the chakras. A barefoot mandolin player. Chanting. Patchouli. Officiation provided by the religion Liza practices that favors doughnuts and bowling.
I realize that this could be great fun to watch my rigid and opinionated yet unprincipled and unconcerned with tradition ex-husband attempt to abide by Liza's life-long dreams for her counterculture hippy-dippy nuptials.
Move over Will and Kate. It is a reality show in the making.
Part of me wants to be The Bigger Person and send a lovely sincere Congratulations on Your Engagement card - from me and Scott. But that would not only be suspect, it would be false. I could really not care less. No skin in the game. No horse in the race. No money wagered. Yesterday's news is already tomorrow's fish-n-chips paper, to loosely quote Elvis Costello.
But I am wondering how the kids handled the news. But I'll have to wait for them to return to get the deets. I am sure there would be fierce hairy eyeballs aplenty if either of them were overheard talking about Lars's private matters to the enemy.
In the mean time, I feel compelled to share the update with friends and family.
I send an FB message to friends I worked closely with who had a front row daily ticket to the misadventures of my unraveling marriage. Tell them not to be too heartbroken, Lars was Oh-ficially Off the Market.
The response is universal disbelief that anyone would take on such a charity case, and speculation that Liza is one float short of a parade herself. Straight from the Land of Misfit Toys. A Clearance Bride.
I text Charlotte. Get a prompt "WTF?" followed by "Eeeewwwww." And then finally, "Does this mean you can stop paying so much child support?"
Email my Besties, mentioning the inkling that I had that he was gloating. The responses are supportive and immediate:
"What an ass."
"No seller's remorse there!"
"OMG it's hilarious that you both have the same name. Gross."
My office pals are filled in on Monday. Yoga Liza and His Royal Nastiness would become Mr. and Mrs. Nastiness sometime soon.
Practically rolling on the floor with laughter, they describe their visions of a hippy wedding Liza in a gauzy lace A-line, bell-sleeved get up and a daisy chain in her uncolored, home cut, wildly untamed hair. Lars would be in a Nehru jacket and Birkenstocks, for sure. So flattering on his troll feet.
Through tears of hysteria they imagine bridesmaids all in Chantilly lace dyed in all the colors of the chakras. A barefoot mandolin player. Chanting. Patchouli. Officiation provided by the religion Liza practices that favors doughnuts and bowling.
I realize that this could be great fun to watch my rigid and opinionated yet unprincipled and unconcerned with tradition ex-husband attempt to abide by Liza's life-long dreams for her counterculture hippy-dippy nuptials.
Move over Will and Kate. It is a reality show in the making.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Enemy Camp
I am privately wigging.
My kids will have another mother figure - only now on an official basis. Not that I am concerned about being upstaged. I have no such insecurities. It is more a matter of trust. I don't really know Liza. What if she asserts some bizarre parenting rites and rituals, and Lars is too pilled out and lazy to object? No one gets grounded. You have to hoola hoop for an hour and recite 18th century poetry.
And Lars is a Pollyanna when it comes to matters with the children. Won't ever face a real problem and foolishly believes everything is just fine while chaos and mayhem erupt all around him. There are going to be changes in the kids' lives as a result of this. Hopefully all good changes, but changes nonetheless. And someone needs to grease the skids. I am worried that Lars will just go on naively believing that his union with Liza is such a magical thing that it will bring pixie dust and moonbeams to all it touches and the kids will go blindly into the maelstrom of Big Change without a competent escort. Shouldn't someone be talking about it? I mean, in more significant terms than "What will we call Liza now that she's sort of your mom?"
And Liza has gone off to Canada recently to become an ordained minister in some fringe religion. Lars, who is too lazy to practice any faith may just delegate matters of faith to her, even though from the moment they were born we have practiced (the kids and I, at least) our Roman Catholic faith. What if there is now some sort of competing faith and it involves doughnuts and bowling and is way more fun?
And my worst fear has come home to roost.
Lars has made a life out of surrounding himself with people who do not conflict with him at any cost. Will not assert a dissenting opinion, will not argue a point, will not share an observation that enlightens. He is so very unpleasant and confrontational to disagree with, about anything however benign or significant, that even his closest friends and confidants do not ever go more than a few steps into a disagreement. It is clear he will happily annihilate you.
And now he's chosen a bride that will fit that mold. She's about my age (I would guess older from her appearance) and has never been married (Hello! Waving the caution flag!) so she has no experience with which to judge Lars as a spouse. I've heard him speaking to her in the background when I've been on the phone with the kids. He has the same harsh, "you're an idiot and I can't believe I tolerate you, get it through your head that I am superior" attitude with her that he eventually took with me. And the kids have shared similar observations. So she is another powerless person tasked with endlessly trying to please him, when it simply can not be done. So when he acts like a kook, and it is her place to call him on it, she won't. No one does.
And since she's never been a spouse or a housewife or a mother, she has no basis with which to challenge his bizarre parenting style - bullying, intimidation, ignoring a problem and hoping it goes away. She's tried and failed. The kids have told me she's interjected when he's been on a tear. Told him maybe he's being too harsh. And he's told her to go fly a kite (or something similar). So she will not conflict with him at her own expense for the benefit of the children. So now there are two misguided parental figures to my one. Two people who will stand up in court and fight me (even if one is there only under duress) if I assert that Lars is the unfit parent he is.
So really, I could not care less who or when or if Lars marries. It is a non-issue as a matter of the heart. But what matters to me most is the change in dynamics for the children. And I worry for them.
I suppose I always will. As they grow up, the worries just evolve, they don't go away. And this is what defines being a parent, I guess. Miles to go before I sleep.
My kids will have another mother figure - only now on an official basis. Not that I am concerned about being upstaged. I have no such insecurities. It is more a matter of trust. I don't really know Liza. What if she asserts some bizarre parenting rites and rituals, and Lars is too pilled out and lazy to object? No one gets grounded. You have to hoola hoop for an hour and recite 18th century poetry.
And Lars is a Pollyanna when it comes to matters with the children. Won't ever face a real problem and foolishly believes everything is just fine while chaos and mayhem erupt all around him. There are going to be changes in the kids' lives as a result of this. Hopefully all good changes, but changes nonetheless. And someone needs to grease the skids. I am worried that Lars will just go on naively believing that his union with Liza is such a magical thing that it will bring pixie dust and moonbeams to all it touches and the kids will go blindly into the maelstrom of Big Change without a competent escort. Shouldn't someone be talking about it? I mean, in more significant terms than "What will we call Liza now that she's sort of your mom?"
And Liza has gone off to Canada recently to become an ordained minister in some fringe religion. Lars, who is too lazy to practice any faith may just delegate matters of faith to her, even though from the moment they were born we have practiced (the kids and I, at least) our Roman Catholic faith. What if there is now some sort of competing faith and it involves doughnuts and bowling and is way more fun?
And my worst fear has come home to roost.
Lars has made a life out of surrounding himself with people who do not conflict with him at any cost. Will not assert a dissenting opinion, will not argue a point, will not share an observation that enlightens. He is so very unpleasant and confrontational to disagree with, about anything however benign or significant, that even his closest friends and confidants do not ever go more than a few steps into a disagreement. It is clear he will happily annihilate you.
And now he's chosen a bride that will fit that mold. She's about my age (I would guess older from her appearance) and has never been married (Hello! Waving the caution flag!) so she has no experience with which to judge Lars as a spouse. I've heard him speaking to her in the background when I've been on the phone with the kids. He has the same harsh, "you're an idiot and I can't believe I tolerate you, get it through your head that I am superior" attitude with her that he eventually took with me. And the kids have shared similar observations. So she is another powerless person tasked with endlessly trying to please him, when it simply can not be done. So when he acts like a kook, and it is her place to call him on it, she won't. No one does.
And since she's never been a spouse or a housewife or a mother, she has no basis with which to challenge his bizarre parenting style - bullying, intimidation, ignoring a problem and hoping it goes away. She's tried and failed. The kids have told me she's interjected when he's been on a tear. Told him maybe he's being too harsh. And he's told her to go fly a kite (or something similar). So she will not conflict with him at her own expense for the benefit of the children. So now there are two misguided parental figures to my one. Two people who will stand up in court and fight me (even if one is there only under duress) if I assert that Lars is the unfit parent he is.
So really, I could not care less who or when or if Lars marries. It is a non-issue as a matter of the heart. But what matters to me most is the change in dynamics for the children. And I worry for them.
I suppose I always will. As they grow up, the worries just evolve, they don't go away. And this is what defines being a parent, I guess. Miles to go before I sleep.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Do Not Adjust Your TV Set
I am not the type to be rendered speechless. Ever. I've made a career out of calmly listening to outrageous statements and showing no visible reaction. When you interview people for a living, this is a skill you get to hone continuously.
Not laughing out loud when the intern says he didn't like where he was assigned so he just started working in another department on his own.
Not rolling your eyes when the candidate offers the "truth" about her termination. It wasn't about being caught in the Radiology changing room with a certain naked MRI tech, it was that the department head was jealous that she is skinny.
And coolly asking for more details, because you are going to need them, when the highly touted, highly recommended, favored candidate launches into a made-for-TV diatribe about boldly and fearlessly making such significant and necessary changes in his last job that he developed a habit of carrying a concealed AK-47 to work at all times because there were threats to his life. And casually making an undetected visual search to see if there might be a weapon under his Brooks Brothers suit even now.
But when Lars made a point of calling me specifically to tell me of his engagement, I have to admit I was standing there in the department store, with an armload of pre-teen sized garments, feeling a little naked without my homework.
When you interview strangers, you expect the unexpected. It is anticipated that some comments will figuratively make your head spin and you will have to forcibly keep it steady while you reply, "How about that! So clever. Did anyone ever find out that you were shredding your timecard to conceal the fact that you were habitually late?"
But to be completely truthful, this was news I never in a million years expected from Lars.
I know my face betrayed me. I am sure Scott noticed the stunned Holy-Shit-the- Pope's-Been-Shot look on my face. And with an audience, the show must go on, so I rallied and never missed a beat.
Without hesitation, I replied, "Really? Congratulations! Lars, that is great news. When are you getting married?" with all the feigned camaraderie I could muster.
"I don't know yet," was all he could reply. I am guessing that he expected a different reaction.
"Well good luck to you. And to Liza. Congratulations to you both."
"OK thanks. Bye." Flat. I assume he expected more drama, less Super-what-else-is-new?
I looked at Scott. A grin was widening across his face. "Aww, honey, I know you're heart broken. Last chance to get him back!"
It is clearly not THAT.
But I am not entirely sure how to label what I feel. There are so many reactions going on at once.
Is it possible to be completely and totally indifferent, yet cringing at the same time?
And I am pretty sure, replaying the brief and idiotic conversation in my head, that I detected a tone from Lars. I am pretty sure he was gloating.
I am sure he's excited. I can't deny him that. But gloating? Really? Are we nine years old? My bike's cooler than your bike? Come on!
At this stage in our divorce, in matters like this, this exchange of information should take the form of a business transaction. Tell me what matters to me because of the children, and tell me dispassionately.
I am moving and here is my address.
I am changing jobs and the impact to the child support situation is X.
I am finally getting that much needed frontal lobotomy and will need you to keep the children an extra day while the swelling goes down.
But with Lars, it is always about winning. Not in life in general. He is a world class loser and is content to remain the lowest paid graduate in his Ivy League class. But in matters that pertain to me, he is always looking to spike the ball.
And he thinks this does that?
There is a part of me that hopes that marriage to Liza will finally distract him from his preoccupation with his hatred of me. But I am still skeptical. He is still so pissed that I dumped him. My not caring that he's given his heart away to another might not quell but exacerbate that. Or maybe not. Crazy people are unpredictable.
Other than that, his message is just one more piece of SPAM in my inbox. One more article of junk mail through the mail slot. One more commercial tuned out.
On the upside, I will get miles of blog out of watching the drama unfold. Stay tuned.
Not laughing out loud when the intern says he didn't like where he was assigned so he just started working in another department on his own.
Not rolling your eyes when the candidate offers the "truth" about her termination. It wasn't about being caught in the Radiology changing room with a certain naked MRI tech, it was that the department head was jealous that she is skinny.
And coolly asking for more details, because you are going to need them, when the highly touted, highly recommended, favored candidate launches into a made-for-TV diatribe about boldly and fearlessly making such significant and necessary changes in his last job that he developed a habit of carrying a concealed AK-47 to work at all times because there were threats to his life. And casually making an undetected visual search to see if there might be a weapon under his Brooks Brothers suit even now.
But when Lars made a point of calling me specifically to tell me of his engagement, I have to admit I was standing there in the department store, with an armload of pre-teen sized garments, feeling a little naked without my homework.
When you interview strangers, you expect the unexpected. It is anticipated that some comments will figuratively make your head spin and you will have to forcibly keep it steady while you reply, "How about that! So clever. Did anyone ever find out that you were shredding your timecard to conceal the fact that you were habitually late?"
But to be completely truthful, this was news I never in a million years expected from Lars.
I know my face betrayed me. I am sure Scott noticed the stunned Holy-Shit-the- Pope's-Been-Shot look on my face. And with an audience, the show must go on, so I rallied and never missed a beat.
Without hesitation, I replied, "Really? Congratulations! Lars, that is great news. When are you getting married?" with all the feigned camaraderie I could muster.
"I don't know yet," was all he could reply. I am guessing that he expected a different reaction.
"Well good luck to you. And to Liza. Congratulations to you both."
"OK thanks. Bye." Flat. I assume he expected more drama, less Super-what-else-is-new?
I looked at Scott. A grin was widening across his face. "Aww, honey, I know you're heart broken. Last chance to get him back!"
It is clearly not THAT.
But I am not entirely sure how to label what I feel. There are so many reactions going on at once.
Is it possible to be completely and totally indifferent, yet cringing at the same time?
And I am pretty sure, replaying the brief and idiotic conversation in my head, that I detected a tone from Lars. I am pretty sure he was gloating.
I am sure he's excited. I can't deny him that. But gloating? Really? Are we nine years old? My bike's cooler than your bike? Come on!
At this stage in our divorce, in matters like this, this exchange of information should take the form of a business transaction. Tell me what matters to me because of the children, and tell me dispassionately.
I am moving and here is my address.
I am changing jobs and the impact to the child support situation is X.
I am finally getting that much needed frontal lobotomy and will need you to keep the children an extra day while the swelling goes down.
But with Lars, it is always about winning. Not in life in general. He is a world class loser and is content to remain the lowest paid graduate in his Ivy League class. But in matters that pertain to me, he is always looking to spike the ball.
And he thinks this does that?
There is a part of me that hopes that marriage to Liza will finally distract him from his preoccupation with his hatred of me. But I am still skeptical. He is still so pissed that I dumped him. My not caring that he's given his heart away to another might not quell but exacerbate that. Or maybe not. Crazy people are unpredictable.
Other than that, his message is just one more piece of SPAM in my inbox. One more article of junk mail through the mail slot. One more commercial tuned out.
On the upside, I will get miles of blog out of watching the drama unfold. Stay tuned.
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