If You Weren't Feeling the Holiday Spirit Yet . . .

More Adele: Someone Like You

ADELE 'Rolling In The Deep' (Studio Footage)

'Tis Done

My divorce is final today. Which, even after so many months, was actually a surprise because, due to a clerical error by his attorney, we had expected that it might get pushed into next year. But she was able to fix it and so here we are. 'Tis done.

Some of my friends have offered their congratulations and asked how, or if, I would be celebrating.

I will not be celebrating.

I don't think that the dissolution of a marriage is anything to celebrate, particularly when there are children involved. The thought of yelling, or even saying, "Hooray!" or popping a champagne cork seems . . . immature. Shortsighted. Pointless. For me, at least.

And we didn't just end the marriage, we also managed to shred the friendship in the process. I hear that's pretty common, but it's definitely not how we set out to handle it. So, although divorcing was absolutely the right thing to do, it still marks a failure that affects not only us, but two very beautiful little girl as well. And I didn't just lose the spouse: I also lost his family, who always felt more like my parents than my own parents did. Again: not much cause for celebration there.

As for the other big question:

No, I will not be moving. As expensive as it is to live here and as much competition as there is for jobs, Thomas needs to be here for his work. Even if we did not share custody, I wouldn't think about moving them away from him. He and I sucked at the whole being married thing, but he's a good dad. So I'll be staying here on the Left Coast. I like it here and so I'll find a way to make it work.

Thank you, Home Depot Dudes

Me: “OMG! I am so happy to see you!”

Window Dude #1: "We need to measure first, to see if they fit.”

Me: “No. They must fit. I’ve been waiting since July.”

Window Dude #2: “What the hel . . . er, why have you been waiting since July??”

Window Dude #1: “Yeah, seriously. This window just fell out on my head.”

Me: “The HOA had to vote on it. Apparently, they forgot a couple of times and then the application wasn’t on the proper letterhead.”

Window Dude #1: “Man, that’s total bullshit.”

You are correct sir. Total bullshit. But thank you: I now have new, double-paned windows in three of the five windows in this place, and greatly reduced traffic noise.

Thank you, Home Depot. I won’t stop mocking your company, but I will continue to thank your contractors.

Think you had a bad hair day?

OK, perhaps you did But this is CRAZY hair day. Charlotte and Jack have been looking forward to it for a while now :)




*It's just good luck that they sorta matched.

Back to the Job Hunt—Flattery, Rejection and All

One of the nice things about looking for a job is that you get to hear things like "You are a really talented writer!" and, "Your resume is impressive!" and "You are clearly very intelligent and highly versatile."

The downside is that these lovely, flattering comments often come just before things like "We have a large pool of candidates, and several of them more closely map what we're looking for." Or the dread, "We'll keep your resume on file and if something comes up that we feel is a better fit, we'll give you a call." No, you won't. It's sweet of you to say so, but no, you won't.

But I am talented and versatile, so . . . onward! In the meantime, I would like to thank the hiring managers who write the nice, if-it's-a-form-letter-it-doesn't-look-like-one and don't bother stringing applicants along with the "We'll keep you in mind." Because they can't possibly, with that many job openings and that many resumes, keep in mind anyone who falls below the level of senior management. It might seem like a nice thing to do, but offering hope where there is none isn't actually kind and some people will actually believe it. After all, I suppose I do fall for the "very talented," "intelligent" and "highly versatile" comments* . . . .


* I know—because I am. I also have an excellent sense of humor ;)

For Every Girl, No Matter How Old You Are

A Random Bit of Awesomeness

So, you know that a group of cows is a "herd" (unless there are 12 or more, and then it's a "flink"*), a bunch of sheep is a "flock." and a collection of crows is a "murder." But did you know that a group of ferrets is called a "business?"

So when you hear that someone is "gettin' the bizness . . . "? That's right. They're being swarmed by a band of marauding ferrets.**

And if someone is all up in your business? Suggestions?



* "WTF?" is an excellent question.
**But not the black footed kind--they prefer to fly solo.

Random Question of the Day

Why does non-waterproof mascara come off the eyelashes at the mere hint of moisture, but will not come off your face no matter how much soap and water you use?

I'm sure that's great if you're shooting a music video or movie and she needs to show that she's really, truly been crying, but it's not so great for us normal people. It might smack of desperation in the job interview--not a great place to start, methinks.

(Of course, this could also have been filed as a Dammit, especially as I am out of make-up remover cloths. Dammit!)

I'm Needy. There. I Admit It: I Need You

Not so long ago, a social media guru of my acquaintance sent an email regarding one of my blog posts—the one about me not writing anymore. I’ve felt, for much of the past few months, that I shouldn’t post anything that actually resembled my life, because of the divorce and because there were other people involved. Namely, Thomas and the girls. And because I often find it difficult to write about anything unless it’s something I’m truly interested in or passionate about or getting paid for (sorry I have to say that because it’s my job), I have said nothing. For a long time, I have said nothing.

It has not been as amicable as we had hoped. It has not been as respectful as we had hoped. It has not been something upon which I have hopes that we can eventually re-build a friendship. And so I have said nothing. Because I did not think it something that you wanted to hear, or that I cared to inflict upon you.

But there was this email from the social media guru of my acquaintance. When I wrote, “I don’t write anymore,” he (and one other,) asked, “Why do you need an audience?” It took me a long time to figure out why it mattered.

I need an audience—I need you—because of the way I write. It’s a conversation. When I write in a journal, when I know that it’s only for me, I leave stuff out. I forget words. I sound like a 15 year old, trying to impress my inner self, the self that has already heard the jokes and the one-liners that might make someone else laugh.

But when I write here, I write for both of us, and whether you like it or not, I write for myself and for you. And some of you tell me that that’s OK, that you’re OK with that arrangement. Even those of you who wonder at the liberties that I take with the English language and proper sentence structure.

Writing to you, talking to you, having this conversation with you—some of you for five plus years—has allowed me to become a better writer, and indeed, to better understand myself. I certainly don’t think I’m brilliant, but I know that I am a better writer because of this blog and because of you. I appreciate all of the times you have told me you loved what I wrote, as well as all of the times you’ve told me that I was wrong. And I have been wrong. About a lot of things. But not, I think, about this.

And so, to the Social Media Guru of My Acquaintance I say this: I need an audience because I need people. I like people. I used to be painfully shy; it was hard for me to get to know people. But, in part because of this blog, it’s become easier over time. I like people and I like to feel close to them, even if they are half the world away. I like to know what they think and how they feel and who they are and what makes them . . . well, really, what makes them them. I like talking to them. Talking to you.

I have loved being Left Coast Mom. I have loved writing this blog. And I will continue to write this blog because I am OK admitting that I need you. That I need an audience. All twelve of you (inside joke).

Apartments Are Fun, Part: Ugh

The first time I ran the dishwasher in my apartment, the front of it fell off. Not the entire door, just the face that covers all of the wiring. Fortunately, it was a pretty easy fix, no real harm done. Just a nice little reminder that things certainly aren't what they used to be. So that was my first "Apartments are fun!" moment.

And then, a month or so ago, I posted a photo of my living room window on Facebook. Normally, your basic apartment window wouldn't seem to be remotely interesting (not that everything I FB is interesting, by any means), but this particular window was in the middle of my living room. Still is, in fact. Propped up against the wall, where it's been ever since it fell from the frame when I tried to close it. As much of a pain as it's been to have it where it is, I've been able to see the silver lining: these are the original windows, in all of their steel-framed, single-paned glory. The windows will all be replaced--hopefully before it begins to rain again.

So that got the second "Apartments are fun!" note.

And tonight, "Apartments are fun, Part: Ugh." Because we came home to find teensy gray ants all over the living room and deck. It's a third-floor apartment. But there they were: little ants in a line from the back door, half way across the living room. I don't like killing things, so there was a lot of sweeping up and throwing away. I found their nest under a plant and so threw away the nest, the plant and all of the little buggers I could find. I figured that if I put them all in the dumpster together, they could all just move into a new place and be happy together somewhere that wasn't my living room. Is that weird?

What made it worse was that, after finding them wandering around late, I wondered "Do ants sleep?" According to "The World Almanac for Kids," eh, maybe. Ants don't have eyelids, they do rest, but apparently, hooking them up to the machinery that would allow us to see if they actually sleep would be a bit bothersome to them--no doubt keeping them awake if they were trying to sleep. The World Almanac for Kids also says that "ants display many behaviors similar to ours. For example, worker ants take care of larvae by feeding and washing them." Fantastic. One more reason to not kill them: Who would wash the babies?

So there's your lesson for the day: Apartments are fun, ants may or may not sleep and Melanie is weird.

I Know What This Must Look Like . . . .

. . . but Jack is just fine :)

Life 2.0. Letting Go

I am a selfish person. A bit of a control freak. And I didn't truly see that until the separation/divorce.

Because, until recently, I controlled almost every aspect of the girls' lives.

I know who their doctors are. I know when to schedule their appointments. I know that the only hairdresser who can cut Charlotte's stick-straight hair and Hannah's ridiculously thick hair with the same perfection is Suzy at Beauty Queen in San Carlos. I know that, when it comes to yogurt, Hannah will only eat Yoplait low-fat originals and Charlotte will only eat Trader Joe's non-fat French Vanilla. I scheduled their camps and classes and play dates and birthday parties and doctor's appointments. I helped them choose their clothes and shoes and accessories. I said "No" to the plaid skirt-tie-dyed-shirt-polka-dot-tights combo. I got yelled at for it--by them--but I said "No" anyway. Most of the time. I chose most of their books and toys and puzzles. I helped Charlotte with her speech therapy and physical therapy and occupational therapy. In short, I was the boss.

But now I have to share all of that. And I don't like it.

It's not an easy thing to let go of--not even the half time that Thomas has them. And not even when he's doing such a good job at it.

It's not that I didn't think that he could do it. It's that it hadn't ever really occurred to me that he'd need to. It wasn't supposed to be this way--after all, the SAHM thing was my job for almost eight years. And, while there were times when it was hard to be at home, times when I missed interacting with adults, this was my job. It was a job I wanted. A job I still want. A job I didn't know I guarded so jealously until last night, when I saw the papers for Hannah's new school. The papers that had a name--not mine--at the top. The papers that listed an address--not mine--as her home. Her home is with me only on Wednesdays and Thursdays and every other Friday/Saturday/Sunday. And that's hard. Even when he's doing such a good job.

Between the two of us and the two houses, we've somehow managed it so that the girls actually do chores now. They make their beds (almost) every morning before breakfast. They know how to fold clothes--theoretically, sure, but it's a start. They put away their toys. Sometimes. They take off their shoes when they come in the house. They get up and go to camp and go to bed when someone tells them to. Charlotte does push ups (or tries to), which is really good for her shoulder girdle. Hannah showed me the proper way to do crunches which is, let's face it, really good for my abs.

Next week is the first week of school. And Monday is a particularly important day, as it will be Charlotte's first day of Kindergarten. My baby off to school. All grown up, as she thinks, even if I'm not ready to admit it. And Monday morning isn't my morning to have them, so I won't be the one getting them ready for their first day of school, helping to choose their clothes and do their hair and pack their lunches and get their backpacks ready.

But I will still get to practice the mad rush to be at line-up on time; there's no way I'm going to miss walking with Charlotte to Mrs Baldini's classroom, marveling--as we did with Hannah--that that tiny little person is ready to go to school. And I go to school with Hannah for her first day, too, and try not to worry because I know that math homework at the Smarty Pants school is going to be even harder for me than her second grade algebra and plane geometry were. Fortunately, Thomas is pretty good at math, too.

I don't write anymore . . . .

. . . . and I hate it.

I write for my job, but it's not the same.


But for this, for me, I can't find a space, a voice , a reason.


I don't want to write stuff that would come from Angry-hurt-soon-to-be-divorced woman. Sometimes, what seems reasonable to be angry or hurt about on Monday is totally pointless on Wednesday. But I need to write. It's what I do. I actually dream in chapters and credits.


Really.


Some nights, my dreams will be prefaced with a "Chapter III" page. Some nights, I roll credits at the end of the dream. It doesn't matter if I've actually seen the dream. Credits will roll. Better than Alice in Wonderland, I suppose, when heads roll. But. I had a point.


My point was . . . . ?


Oh yes . . .


I write. I need to write. But I feel like I can't write about the stuff that is closest to my heart these days. I don't want to hurt people who may not deserve it. I don't want to publish things I can't take back. But I'm left feeling as though my tongue were cut out and my hands cut off, with no way to say how and what I feel.

Divorce is an ugly thing, no matter how hard you try to make it otherwise. You spent too many years studying one another, figuring out which button to push and when. And some days, one or the other of you will relish pushing that button, just because you can. And some days, you say things you can't ever take back.

And some days, I remember what Hannah said when she found the DIY divorce book in my room: "What if every page said, "Don't do it?"

It makes me sad, but the answer still has to be, "Sometimes, you just have to do it."

'tis True

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

~Anatole France

Hannah: My Seven-Year-Old Happy Pill

As she watched me get dressed this morning, Hannah looked me over approvingly and said, "Diamonds."

As she knew that I was already wearing the diamond earrings, I asked what she meant.

"If I were a 40 or 41 year old guy, that's what I'd think. You're gorgeous. Like diamonds."

As I'm still working on being less self-deprecating, it was hard not to add "But diamonds are cold and hard."

For once I took the compliment and mentally added, "Yes, like diamonds. Full of unexpected fire." I like that better.

Now I'll just work on believing it.

Hannah-ism, on Sibling Rivalry

The girls were sitting at the counter, finishing dinner, when Hannah challenged Charlotte to a race to the bottom of their milk glasses.

Silly me:

"Hannah, not everything has to be a competition."

Hannah, once again showing a frankness beyond her years:

"Mom, it's been a competition since the day you brought her home from the hospital."

Missing My Girlies

I went in to check on the girls last night, as I have almost every night since they were born. In fact, when I count it up, I think that there were fewer than two dozen nights I’d not been home to slip in, pull up their covers and kiss them good-night before I went to bed.

Hannah is always first, because if I wake Charlotte up, even a bit, I will have to either race from the room before she wakes all the way—meaning that I have to skip Hannah—or I will end up sitting with her until she falls asleep again.

So last night, I climbed up to kiss Hannah. I felt around the bed for her—she likes to make a nest and disappear—and then I remembered. “They’re with Thomas.” Not with me. And, lest you think I’ve completely lost it, it wasn’t that I’d forgotten where they were. It was complete reflex. Muscle memory. Heart memory. Whatever you want to call it.

They spent a couple of days with Thomas last week and Sunday, of course, but I’d been so exhausted from the seemingly interminable move and starting a new job and working late on the nights they were with him and then coming home to unpack boxes and trying to create a bit of order somewhere that, though of course I missed them, I hadn’t had time to notice how quiet and hollow and empty the house felt. How I felt.

I worked late again tonight, but the minute I got home and put the key in the lock I began to cry. That’s one way (though absolutely not recommended) to season your scrambled egg dinner when you can’t remember in which box you packed the salt.

So tonight, I vacuumed. I unpacked more boxes. I worked. I wrote this. I did laundry. And the dishes. And talked to my BIL and to my sister. And unpacked more boxes and worked a bit more. I made Charlotte’s bed so it wouldn’t still look like there was a little person in it, though that seemed like a good idea last night. I put on their bedtime music and tried to convince myself that it will get better. Everyone says it will. Maybe it will. But not today.

Inadvertantly Inappropriate

On the way to speech therapy this morning (not that we can blame this one on the apraxia):

Charlotte: Mommy, guessa me get you for you birday?
Me: I don't know! What are you getting me for my birthday?
Char: Me get you a toy!
Me: Really? What kind of toy?
Char: A GWOWN UP toy!
Me:



Um… How's about flowers?