As I have mentioned before, I don't go to church, but I do pray at least twice a day. The other day, somewhere in between the Gratitudes du Jour and the Everyman Pleas for health, happiness and safety, I asked for a sign. I had been struggling with a work issue for a few days -- they had asked me to pretty please increase my work hours by a mere 100 percent -- and, of course, I have been struggling with The Marriage issue for ... oh, about 100 years.
I pray all the time for guidance, but this time I was really feeling desperate for something a little more ... obvious.
So I go about my day. I coerce my son into some grocery shopping, and we go to a store we don't normally go to. (I had an ulterior motive for this -- I had my husband's debit card for groceries, and I wanted to print out a bank statement at the ATM there, since I never see them otherwise. They no longer are mailed to the house. I have no idea where they are mailed.)
Anyway, we get our grub. (The statement was maddeningly vague, and I didn't want to stand there and push ATM buttons all afternoon with my son wondering what in the blazes I was doing.)
In the parking lot, we debate whether we should stop to pick up some photos on the way home, or go later in the day. We decide to go sooner rather than later, down a road we don't normally take.
On the way, my son says, "There's Dad's truck." I have no idea what he's talking about. But he thinks he saw it in the parking lot of a semi-abandoned natural-gas-power-whatever plant. I think he's kidding. Or mental. But he's not.
"Turn around!" he says. "I saw his license plate." How he could do this, at 40 mph, I'll never know, but he's sure.
I turn around, and we pull into the parking lot.
He's right.
My husband's truck is parked at a power plant in the middle of the work day. My son thinks it's funny. I know it's not. (Back story: When my husband's affair first came to light, my son spotted Dad's truck in the local Park And Ride lot. And no, I don't know why or how he can pick that thing out so easily. It's just a stupid blue truck. Turns out my husband was "car pooling" to work with his adulterous mistress. Later, for some reason, he said they had to stop -- I think this was an attempt to soothe me -- because people at work were talking.)
Anyway, back to the parking lot. We try to call my husband at work, but he doesn't answer. I am shaking. It's like I just discovered The Affair all over again, and everything has come crashing back -- the betrayal, the lies, the sneaking and the arrogance and the unbelievable stupidity.
Amazingly, I do not share any of this with my son. This might be one of my proudest accomplishments ever. It would have been SO easy to tell him everything right then -- that Dad is NOT car-pooling with his buddy J; instead, he's been lying to both of us for more than 3 years, and here is further proof -- and not only that, but he has left it parked here for YOU to discover.
(Which leads to this overwhelming thought: Now when I DO finally divorce my husband, my son will think it's all his fault for seeing the truck parked where it shouldn't be.)
Somehow we make it to pick up the pictures, and I reach The Cheating Dickwad on the phone at work. He's a little surprised when I ask him what time his "car pool buddy" will be bringing him back to his truck at the power plant. He's even more surprised when I tell him we'll be there, waiting, so he can explain this situation to his son. (No. I would not. And did not. But I did enjoy letting him think I might.)
Anyway, after I get home, take half of a happy calming pill and call my mother, it hits me: You want a sign, Hon? How about an empty adulterous truck? Yes, that'll do. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
(Anti-climatic, anti-dramatic denouement: My son asks Dad why his car was parked there, and Dad says he's car pooling to save gas, and, upon further questioning -- I just love it when my son shows sparks of that journalism gene -- gives up that it was with a friend from work named P. My son says, "What's his name again?" Bless his heart. I am relieved to learn from this that he has not met The Mistress.)
I have Book Club that night, and although I'm still kind of a wreck, I decide to go for the distraction and for normalcy's sake. We're talking about "The Lovely Bones." Somehow we get on the topic of marriage and hardship. The leader of the book club says, "You know what the right thing is, of course -- for better or for worse." Everyone nods and agrees wholeheartedly.
Yes, I get it, in all its delicious irony. It's another sign. And it's pointing in the opposite direction.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The big honkin' update
It's been a long time since I've written. I guess it's been a long time since I felt like I had to.
But today I woke up feeling like I just Do Not Fit In Anywhere. And writing usually helps.
Here goes.
Since my last post:
1) I have been to Las Vegas, on a girls' getaway, which was probably fun, but I really needed a vacation after my vacation. I went with my mom; my childhood friend and her mom; and my two aunts, who kind of nudged their way into our "reunion."
My friend has evolved in a very surprising way. She used to wear leg braces and eat her own boogers while watching "I Dream of Jeanie." She since has married three times, including a millionaire in the middle who might have turned her into a Stepford Trophy, unless she was already on her way there by marrying him in the first place. She now has fake teeth, fake boobs, fake eyebrows, fake hair, real Botox and ... yes, here's where the envy comes in .. the body and confidence of a supermodel. That's not the problem; I love her deeply enough not to hate her because she's beautiful. The problem is that at some point she lost her real self, and her sincerity.
She brought along a video of her newest wedding, which was, in all seriousness, the perfect commercial for Love-brand Love. Every look, every loving gaze (into the camera), every pose was perfectly coordinated, and precisely planned. She was stunning. But I'm not sure how much of my old friend was left in that polished Shell of Love.
It really threw me. Would I like this woman if I just met her today? How much of myself do I want to invest in something that feels so unreal? How much do I value our history and our lore and our bond? And why haven't I faked myself up to perfection???
Anyway, the weather was nice.
2) About 8 years ago, I caused a giant earthquake. I am sorry if your dishes broke.
My husband's family took us all to Europe for their 50th anniversary. It was a huge, grueling, intense trip. There were 11 people in our group, and we were on a bus most of the time with another 30 or so South Africans. Sometime during the trip, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law had a huge fight, and didn't speak for about 6 months afterward. I didn't notice because I was too busy falling in major love with our tour guide.
In retrospect, it might have been a bit, shall we say, inappropriate.
I don't consider myself a religious person, but I do think I'm spiritual. I pray twice a day, sometimes more. I believe in God, and I hardly ever, ever use the Lord's name in vain.
But when I saw this tour-guide man for the first time, I had no control. "Jesus," I sputtered.
He had magical, mystical, mesmerizing eyes. He had an Australian accent. He spoke eloquently, and with deep knowledge, and humor, and insight. And yowza -- he had nice shoulders.
As luck would have it, I was writing a story on our trip and thought it'd be "helpful" to interview him. As luck would have it, he harbored a secret desire to write stories. Ding!
We emailed after the trip. Soon it grew a little flirty. I told him my marriage stunk (can you see the red flag from there???). He listened, he gave great advice and he encouraged me. We wrote our stories and edited each other's work. I called him a few times. He told me about his parents, his brothers and sisters, his childhood, his travels. I was completely, COMPLETELY, smitten. I was sure this was My Fate -- to meet my REAL soulmate on a journey with my husband's family.
Then something happened that I can't yet bring myself to write. Suffice it to say, I "found out" that he was carrying on this kind of "relationship" with several other women, all over the world. I'm sure they were his soulmates, too. I was truly, deeply shaken.
And the next day, we had a 6.8 earthquake. Again, sorry about that.
Anyway, I never told him what I'd learned. He kept emailing, and asked me to meet him in LA, and, thank God, I couldn't do it. We eventually tapered off our conversation, until I finally thanked him for helping me learn some things about myself (I am not an adulterer, although, technically, I'm sure this was an "emotional e-affair.")
I hadn't heard from him for 7 years.
Then, in the mail, totally random, we got an envelope from my father-in-law. He had recorded the whole trip -- including all of the tour-guide narration -- and transferred it to CDs for all of us. Including the tour guide himself. He had used the same old email address, and learned that Mr. Tour Guide did indeed remember us, so he sent him the CDs, too.
Imagine my surprise to see his name after so long. I always wondered how I would handle it if his name or memory resurfaced. And, I am thrilled to report, I just smiled ... a simple, happy, nostalgic, "wasn't that something?" kind of smile.
And then I emailed him, out of nowhere, with so much less emotion, so much less need, so much less desperation, and asked how he was doing. I also said I hoped he had had a daughter by now, if there is any Karma in the universe.
He wrote back the same day. Of course he remembered us, he said; how could he forget? He said he had very fond memories. My heart didn't race, my throat didn't clinch, my hands didn't shake -- and the Earth didn't tremble.
He was back, if only for a minute, and I was OK. I wrote him back, one last time, and thanked hiim again for everything he'd done for me. I wished him well, and I meant it. His wife is having their second baby this fall. It's another daughter.
Thank you, Jesus.
But today I woke up feeling like I just Do Not Fit In Anywhere. And writing usually helps.
Here goes.
Since my last post:
1) I have been to Las Vegas, on a girls' getaway, which was probably fun, but I really needed a vacation after my vacation. I went with my mom; my childhood friend and her mom; and my two aunts, who kind of nudged their way into our "reunion."
My friend has evolved in a very surprising way. She used to wear leg braces and eat her own boogers while watching "I Dream of Jeanie." She since has married three times, including a millionaire in the middle who might have turned her into a Stepford Trophy, unless she was already on her way there by marrying him in the first place. She now has fake teeth, fake boobs, fake eyebrows, fake hair, real Botox and ... yes, here's where the envy comes in .. the body and confidence of a supermodel. That's not the problem; I love her deeply enough not to hate her because she's beautiful. The problem is that at some point she lost her real self, and her sincerity.
She brought along a video of her newest wedding, which was, in all seriousness, the perfect commercial for Love-brand Love. Every look, every loving gaze (into the camera), every pose was perfectly coordinated, and precisely planned. She was stunning. But I'm not sure how much of my old friend was left in that polished Shell of Love.
It really threw me. Would I like this woman if I just met her today? How much of myself do I want to invest in something that feels so unreal? How much do I value our history and our lore and our bond? And why haven't I faked myself up to perfection???
Anyway, the weather was nice.
2) About 8 years ago, I caused a giant earthquake. I am sorry if your dishes broke.
My husband's family took us all to Europe for their 50th anniversary. It was a huge, grueling, intense trip. There were 11 people in our group, and we were on a bus most of the time with another 30 or so South Africans. Sometime during the trip, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law had a huge fight, and didn't speak for about 6 months afterward. I didn't notice because I was too busy falling in major love with our tour guide.
In retrospect, it might have been a bit, shall we say, inappropriate.
I don't consider myself a religious person, but I do think I'm spiritual. I pray twice a day, sometimes more. I believe in God, and I hardly ever, ever use the Lord's name in vain.
But when I saw this tour-guide man for the first time, I had no control. "Jesus," I sputtered.
He had magical, mystical, mesmerizing eyes. He had an Australian accent. He spoke eloquently, and with deep knowledge, and humor, and insight. And yowza -- he had nice shoulders.
As luck would have it, I was writing a story on our trip and thought it'd be "helpful" to interview him. As luck would have it, he harbored a secret desire to write stories. Ding!
We emailed after the trip. Soon it grew a little flirty. I told him my marriage stunk (can you see the red flag from there???). He listened, he gave great advice and he encouraged me. We wrote our stories and edited each other's work. I called him a few times. He told me about his parents, his brothers and sisters, his childhood, his travels. I was completely, COMPLETELY, smitten. I was sure this was My Fate -- to meet my REAL soulmate on a journey with my husband's family.
Then something happened that I can't yet bring myself to write. Suffice it to say, I "found out" that he was carrying on this kind of "relationship" with several other women, all over the world. I'm sure they were his soulmates, too. I was truly, deeply shaken.
And the next day, we had a 6.8 earthquake. Again, sorry about that.
Anyway, I never told him what I'd learned. He kept emailing, and asked me to meet him in LA, and, thank God, I couldn't do it. We eventually tapered off our conversation, until I finally thanked him for helping me learn some things about myself (I am not an adulterer, although, technically, I'm sure this was an "emotional e-affair.")
I hadn't heard from him for 7 years.
Then, in the mail, totally random, we got an envelope from my father-in-law. He had recorded the whole trip -- including all of the tour-guide narration -- and transferred it to CDs for all of us. Including the tour guide himself. He had used the same old email address, and learned that Mr. Tour Guide did indeed remember us, so he sent him the CDs, too.
Imagine my surprise to see his name after so long. I always wondered how I would handle it if his name or memory resurfaced. And, I am thrilled to report, I just smiled ... a simple, happy, nostalgic, "wasn't that something?" kind of smile.
And then I emailed him, out of nowhere, with so much less emotion, so much less need, so much less desperation, and asked how he was doing. I also said I hoped he had had a daughter by now, if there is any Karma in the universe.
He wrote back the same day. Of course he remembered us, he said; how could he forget? He said he had very fond memories. My heart didn't race, my throat didn't clinch, my hands didn't shake -- and the Earth didn't tremble.
He was back, if only for a minute, and I was OK. I wrote him back, one last time, and thanked hiim again for everything he'd done for me. I wished him well, and I meant it. His wife is having their second baby this fall. It's another daughter.
Thank you, Jesus.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The View from the Bottom. An Update.
Long time, no blog. I missed it, but I didn't miss Thinking Deeply, which I automatically start to do as soon as my fingers get a' typin'.
Let's see ... since the last post, I:
1) Was diagnosed as "moderately depressed" and given some handy little happy pills. That was about 3 weeks ago, and I haven't taken one yet. It took almost an entire day for Homeland Security: Pharmacy Division to clear the stupid prescription.
I literally felt better the day I went in to the Dr. Naturally. And I've pretty much felt better since. Personally, deny-ally, I'm thinking it's more temporary SAD than permanent BAD sad. We'll see.
2) Had a huge blowout w/ T, the adulterous husband. I was literally shaking, and for a minute there I thought I might faint. That's a blowout. He claims he has hated me since I quit working full-time, which was about 8 years ago. This is the first I've heard it. That's quite a grudge.
My main point was that he really shouldn't continue to live here while carrying on his adulterous affair. Isn't discretion the entire point of an affair?? I also was trying to figure out whether the adulterous mistress is, otherwise, besides that one giant lapse of judgment, a good person. Just in case she has some sort of relationship/influence with my son ... in the future. My point here: A good person tends not to drive up to her lover's house and honk for him while the rest of the family is inside.
Not sure how well that point came across, but I was happy to find I've gotten something out of my assorted bouts w/ therapy. When T claimed I was his only problem on the planet, I told him that I can't cause his problems -- only he can cause his problems. That'll be $150, please.
3) Planned a Spring Break trip w/ my son. No T. He doesn't want to go. Usually he does come around and go w/ us somewhere -- family appearances, I guess. But not this year.
4) Had a Moment of Panic when I got an email from my son's math teacher saying that my son's grades were slipping, and he was acting "inappropriately immature" in class. The worst part was my son's response: He told me I had no right to reply to that, because it wasn't my problem. I truly feared he had slipped over to the dark side and I had lost him. But later, when he wasn't so defensive and I wasn't so freaked out, he cried, and I could tell he was really thinking. And the next day, he made up his missing assignments and made, according to the teacher, "dramatic improvement." Apparently the whole class had gone bonkers after having a sub in the class before. Another teacher told me the math dude just totally lost control of everyone. Yes, misery does love company -- it helped a lot to know it wasn't just my kid. And that my kid is still, at heart, my kid.
5) Lived through my mom's surgery, long-distance. It wasn't a big deal, but it was surgery, and she had to spend the night in the hospital. My dad is not the world's best caretaker, but he's doing a good job, and he did a really good job keeping me informed (they kind of know I tend to worry). My mom had forbidden me from coming -- she even sent a note from the Dr. saying she wouldn't need help -- but it's very, very hard to be far away and wait and worry. She's now, she reports, 90% better, and very much enjoying the guilt-laden flowers and goody box I sent.
6) Lived through the worst birthday in the history of the planet. I popped out of bed early, went into my son's room and tried to grab his gecko so he could join us in a rousing round of "Happy Birthday." The damn thing chomped me on the thumb. I dropped him. He scurried behind his big rock and got stuck. My son freaked out, thinking he had broken his leg. Then T came up with a tray of oatmeal for me to eat in bed, but I'd been up so long, I'd already taken off the sheets to wash.
For a minute, I had a present: a steam carpet cleaner. Until T realized it wasn't really steam and decided we should take it back. So the plan was to go out to birthday lunch, exchange the gift and get home in time to change for Birthday Dinner.
Except for the gecko. My son was still freaking. He decided he'd better take it to the emergency vet. He and T did that, and naturally it took all afternoon. His sprained-gecko-ankle medicine cost $107, almost 4 times the original cost of the fricking gecko, which led T to declare that Birthday Dinner was off.
Then they decided to exchange my gift -- but forgot the "exchange" part. They returned it.
I got no present, no dinner, no singing, no cake. I finally took my son out to dinner and paid for it myself. He promised me the next day would be a "real" birthday -- we'd go to a movie, and play tennis, and go out to dinner, and buy a cake -- but when we got home, he had a message from a friend who wanted him to go skiing the next day.
And I'm only "moderately depressed."
7) Lived through 2 social-anxiety challenges: I led the book (or the club?) at Book Club, and visited my son's class to give a guest lesson on writing. Things like that always make me antsy beforehand, and then always tend to go OK once they're finally under way. Of course, it helps to bribe kids w/ candy. Then they're nice to you.
8) Started to try to exercise more. Except this morning, I "mall-walked" after dropping my son off at school, and I think I overdid it. I was taking a few steps at a time, trying to work up a sweat, and now I have a headache and a sore neck. But I'm sure I dropped at least 10 extra lbs. with that two-steps-at-a-time jig.
9) Got an assignment from my therapist to help stop my negative thinking patterns. I'm supposed to recognize and write my negative thoughts (I am stuck in a pathetically rotten marriage), then write the facts about that thought (My marriage is pathetically rotten.), then write a "counter" thought to replace the negative one. (I am not literally stuck. My feet still move.) I guess I need to work on that a bit.
I also need to type more. Very therapeutic.
Let's see ... since the last post, I:
1) Was diagnosed as "moderately depressed" and given some handy little happy pills. That was about 3 weeks ago, and I haven't taken one yet. It took almost an entire day for Homeland Security: Pharmacy Division to clear the stupid prescription.
I literally felt better the day I went in to the Dr. Naturally. And I've pretty much felt better since. Personally, deny-ally, I'm thinking it's more temporary SAD than permanent BAD sad. We'll see.
2) Had a huge blowout w/ T, the adulterous husband. I was literally shaking, and for a minute there I thought I might faint. That's a blowout. He claims he has hated me since I quit working full-time, which was about 8 years ago. This is the first I've heard it. That's quite a grudge.
My main point was that he really shouldn't continue to live here while carrying on his adulterous affair. Isn't discretion the entire point of an affair?? I also was trying to figure out whether the adulterous mistress is, otherwise, besides that one giant lapse of judgment, a good person. Just in case she has some sort of relationship/influence with my son ... in the future. My point here: A good person tends not to drive up to her lover's house and honk for him while the rest of the family is inside.
Not sure how well that point came across, but I was happy to find I've gotten something out of my assorted bouts w/ therapy. When T claimed I was his only problem on the planet, I told him that I can't cause his problems -- only he can cause his problems. That'll be $150, please.
3) Planned a Spring Break trip w/ my son. No T. He doesn't want to go. Usually he does come around and go w/ us somewhere -- family appearances, I guess. But not this year.
4) Had a Moment of Panic when I got an email from my son's math teacher saying that my son's grades were slipping, and he was acting "inappropriately immature" in class. The worst part was my son's response: He told me I had no right to reply to that, because it wasn't my problem. I truly feared he had slipped over to the dark side and I had lost him. But later, when he wasn't so defensive and I wasn't so freaked out, he cried, and I could tell he was really thinking. And the next day, he made up his missing assignments and made, according to the teacher, "dramatic improvement." Apparently the whole class had gone bonkers after having a sub in the class before. Another teacher told me the math dude just totally lost control of everyone. Yes, misery does love company -- it helped a lot to know it wasn't just my kid. And that my kid is still, at heart, my kid.
5) Lived through my mom's surgery, long-distance. It wasn't a big deal, but it was surgery, and she had to spend the night in the hospital. My dad is not the world's best caretaker, but he's doing a good job, and he did a really good job keeping me informed (they kind of know I tend to worry). My mom had forbidden me from coming -- she even sent a note from the Dr. saying she wouldn't need help -- but it's very, very hard to be far away and wait and worry. She's now, she reports, 90% better, and very much enjoying the guilt-laden flowers and goody box I sent.
6) Lived through the worst birthday in the history of the planet. I popped out of bed early, went into my son's room and tried to grab his gecko so he could join us in a rousing round of "Happy Birthday." The damn thing chomped me on the thumb. I dropped him. He scurried behind his big rock and got stuck. My son freaked out, thinking he had broken his leg. Then T came up with a tray of oatmeal for me to eat in bed, but I'd been up so long, I'd already taken off the sheets to wash.
For a minute, I had a present: a steam carpet cleaner. Until T realized it wasn't really steam and decided we should take it back. So the plan was to go out to birthday lunch, exchange the gift and get home in time to change for Birthday Dinner.
Except for the gecko. My son was still freaking. He decided he'd better take it to the emergency vet. He and T did that, and naturally it took all afternoon. His sprained-gecko-ankle medicine cost $107, almost 4 times the original cost of the fricking gecko, which led T to declare that Birthday Dinner was off.
Then they decided to exchange my gift -- but forgot the "exchange" part. They returned it.
I got no present, no dinner, no singing, no cake. I finally took my son out to dinner and paid for it myself. He promised me the next day would be a "real" birthday -- we'd go to a movie, and play tennis, and go out to dinner, and buy a cake -- but when we got home, he had a message from a friend who wanted him to go skiing the next day.
And I'm only "moderately depressed."
7) Lived through 2 social-anxiety challenges: I led the book (or the club?) at Book Club, and visited my son's class to give a guest lesson on writing. Things like that always make me antsy beforehand, and then always tend to go OK once they're finally under way. Of course, it helps to bribe kids w/ candy. Then they're nice to you.
8) Started to try to exercise more. Except this morning, I "mall-walked" after dropping my son off at school, and I think I overdid it. I was taking a few steps at a time, trying to work up a sweat, and now I have a headache and a sore neck. But I'm sure I dropped at least 10 extra lbs. with that two-steps-at-a-time jig.
9) Got an assignment from my therapist to help stop my negative thinking patterns. I'm supposed to recognize and write my negative thoughts (I am stuck in a pathetically rotten marriage), then write the facts about that thought (My marriage is pathetically rotten.), then write a "counter" thought to replace the negative one. (I am not literally stuck. My feet still move.) I guess I need to work on that a bit.
I also need to type more. Very therapeutic.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
The Medical Report. Diagnosis: Epiphany
Exhibit A, the dentist's chair: My back teeth, says the dentist, look 70 years old. (I am 44.) I take good care of them, and brush and floss and brush some more, but apparently, I also grind them to a pulp in my sleep. Asks the dentist: Are you under stress?
Exhibit B, the gastrointestinal specialist's office: I am here because I have way too many stomach problems for a 44-year-old woman, and my regular Dr. thinks it's time for an endoscopy. But first I must stop here and spend a little extra money on a bonus office visit. The nurse practitioner thinks I might have a slow-bleeding ulcer, which would tidily explain both my anemia and my after-breakfast nausea. She sweetly asks: Are you, by any chance, under stress?
Exhibit C, lunch with a friend: C has suffered migraines for years. I mention to her that I've been getting days-long headaches lately, too. No shit, she says: Stress will do that.
Ding. Helll-ooo!
Whadya know: I'm thinking I might be stressed. Not just irritated, but stressed to the point of actual physical harm.
Certainly I realize that I can't control what people do to me, or how people treat me; I can control only how I react.
But I need a little positive-reaction reminder. I think I'll look into yoga. Last night, I did some deep breathing before falling asleep (this used to me my favorite time of the day, but now I lie in bed -- likely clenching my teeth -- and listen for the telltale mistress honk), and it helped for a while. But then I woke up in a panic when I heard a door squeak. Plus, one little extra intake of oxygen ain't a-gonna fix my teeth, my guts and my noggin. Would drugs? Would divorce?
Could be.
(PS: Unrelated adendum: I tried to see Barack Obama at a campaign appearance this week, but I couldn't get in because it was absolutely, totally packed. So just let me say: Even if this man does not win, he has already changed the heart and soul and face of American politics. There were thousands and thousands of people there -- not just to get on TV like the literal rejects on "American Idol" -- but to participate. They are eager to believe, determined to make a difference and longing to belong. So thanks for that, hunky presidential dude. And to those who think we can't say he's hunky and admire his inspirational brand of politics: Yes, we can. )
Exhibit B, the gastrointestinal specialist's office: I am here because I have way too many stomach problems for a 44-year-old woman, and my regular Dr. thinks it's time for an endoscopy. But first I must stop here and spend a little extra money on a bonus office visit. The nurse practitioner thinks I might have a slow-bleeding ulcer, which would tidily explain both my anemia and my after-breakfast nausea. She sweetly asks: Are you, by any chance, under stress?
Exhibit C, lunch with a friend: C has suffered migraines for years. I mention to her that I've been getting days-long headaches lately, too. No shit, she says: Stress will do that.
Ding. Helll-ooo!
Whadya know: I'm thinking I might be stressed. Not just irritated, but stressed to the point of actual physical harm.
Certainly I realize that I can't control what people do to me, or how people treat me; I can control only how I react.
But I need a little positive-reaction reminder. I think I'll look into yoga. Last night, I did some deep breathing before falling asleep (this used to me my favorite time of the day, but now I lie in bed -- likely clenching my teeth -- and listen for the telltale mistress honk), and it helped for a while. But then I woke up in a panic when I heard a door squeak. Plus, one little extra intake of oxygen ain't a-gonna fix my teeth, my guts and my noggin. Would drugs? Would divorce?
Could be.
(PS: Unrelated adendum: I tried to see Barack Obama at a campaign appearance this week, but I couldn't get in because it was absolutely, totally packed. So just let me say: Even if this man does not win, he has already changed the heart and soul and face of American politics. There were thousands and thousands of people there -- not just to get on TV like the literal rejects on "American Idol" -- but to participate. They are eager to believe, determined to make a difference and longing to belong. So thanks for that, hunky presidential dude. And to those who think we can't say he's hunky and admire his inspirational brand of politics: Yes, we can. )
Monday, February 4, 2008
The Supporting Cast: Adulterous Mistress
This was a tough one. I couldn't decide whether to kick off with this chick ... or my equally perplexing, complex mother-in-law. But Mistress wins because she is more on my mind today. Last night, when she pulled up to the end of our driveway and honked for Big Boy, our faithful dog barked. Then stopped. Which made me realize: When she picks up T and drives him off for adulterous fun and frivolity, she is also taking my dog. Which is infinitely worse than taking my husband.
Then ... today, as we were watching the morning news for snow-delay info, a Dr. Phil commercial came on. The topic: Wife's lover DRIVES UP TO HER HOUSE AND HONKS FOR HER TO COME OUT. Out of respect, she says. You're sick, Phil says. I am not a Phil fan, but damn straight I am taping his show today.
So here's what I know about my husband's adulterous mistress. T has told me nothing. But as a journalist, I have some pretty sweet access to public records. I also know the one and only solid defense for libel: the truth. So I feel pretty secure on both counts.
1) She has very poor judgment. Exhibit A: When she and T began their affair, T was her boss. Exhibit B: Of all the cheating men in the world, she chose T as her adulterous lover.
2) She divorced her husband last year, sold their house and moved (as I have mentioned before) to within 15 minutes of our house. She is a mother.
3) In the process of her year-long divorce, someone filed a restraining order against someone. That means a) she is a lunatic; b) the order was against T, which would be a juciy nugget of knowledge; or c) her husband found out about T and made, as they say, a scary stink.
4) She thinks it's OK to honk at the end of our driveway every night. And call and hang up. And befriend my dog.
5) She is 42, 5-foot-2 and 120 pounds. Which means I could take her -- especially with my dog on my side.
But I am afraid of her. Even if I hadn't seen "Fatal Attraction." She is getting more and more brazen. And I am in her way. And the best way to hurt me is through my son.
I slept maybe 2 hours last night. I hear creaks in the floor, and think it's her. I see a shadow outside the door, and think it's the hit man she has hired. I get up during the night to check on my son, then double-check.
Two weeks ago, I was convinced I should call her (naturally, I have her cellphone number, since it showed up on our bill 8 billion times). Ask her whether she poses a real, physical threat to us. Talk to her mama-a-mama. I almost did it. Until my anchor of a counselor suggested it might not be such a bright idea. Yeah, yeah. She was right.
But what can I do? Hide in the woods and scare her when she honks? Drive to her house & honk in her driveway? Train my dog to lunge at her?
And is it delusional paranoia if they really are out to get you?
Then ... today, as we were watching the morning news for snow-delay info, a Dr. Phil commercial came on. The topic: Wife's lover DRIVES UP TO HER HOUSE AND HONKS FOR HER TO COME OUT. Out of respect, she says. You're sick, Phil says. I am not a Phil fan, but damn straight I am taping his show today.
So here's what I know about my husband's adulterous mistress. T has told me nothing. But as a journalist, I have some pretty sweet access to public records. I also know the one and only solid defense for libel: the truth. So I feel pretty secure on both counts.
1) She has very poor judgment. Exhibit A: When she and T began their affair, T was her boss. Exhibit B: Of all the cheating men in the world, she chose T as her adulterous lover.
2) She divorced her husband last year, sold their house and moved (as I have mentioned before) to within 15 minutes of our house. She is a mother.
3) In the process of her year-long divorce, someone filed a restraining order against someone. That means a) she is a lunatic; b) the order was against T, which would be a juciy nugget of knowledge; or c) her husband found out about T and made, as they say, a scary stink.
4) She thinks it's OK to honk at the end of our driveway every night. And call and hang up. And befriend my dog.
5) She is 42, 5-foot-2 and 120 pounds. Which means I could take her -- especially with my dog on my side.
But I am afraid of her. Even if I hadn't seen "Fatal Attraction." She is getting more and more brazen. And I am in her way. And the best way to hurt me is through my son.
I slept maybe 2 hours last night. I hear creaks in the floor, and think it's her. I see a shadow outside the door, and think it's the hit man she has hired. I get up during the night to check on my son, then double-check.
Two weeks ago, I was convinced I should call her (naturally, I have her cellphone number, since it showed up on our bill 8 billion times). Ask her whether she poses a real, physical threat to us. Talk to her mama-a-mama. I almost did it. Until my anchor of a counselor suggested it might not be such a bright idea. Yeah, yeah. She was right.
But what can I do? Hide in the woods and scare her when she honks? Drive to her house & honk in her driveway? Train my dog to lunge at her?
And is it delusional paranoia if they really are out to get you?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
The Reality Check
So today it strikes me that I've been writing rather pretentiously -- self-consciously, maybe -- which is weird, because that never happens when I'm writing for the paper and it's a GIVEN that half-a-million people could read it. Wonder why that is.
At any rate, I will now stop doing that. :)
Today is One Of Those Days. An orbiting headache just waiting to burst thru my own personal atmosphere. An unsettled "whateverness." Too many clouds, and I can't even win a stupid game of Spider Cell solitaire. All that, and it's Super Bowl Sunday. Whoo-fucking-hoo.
Today is also One Of Those Days when I just know it's time to scuttle the sinking S.S. Marriage ship. So, being the proactive blob that I am, I just looked up houses, and jobs, and now I feel even worse. If I were to actually BE proactive, and move out, I could look forward to middle age in a lovely 2-bedroom shithole with moldy carpet and bleached-wood cabinets, which is all I could afford "on my own." (T, the errant husband, has vowed never to pay spousal support -- as I have mentioned, money is His Issue.) And now, apparently, it is mine.
On Days Like These, I try to remind myself that at least, at one point, I did have A Life. I have been deeply, madly, passionately In Love -- twice. I just forgot to marry either one of them.
I thought I was acting very grown-up when I married T. We were buddies. Drinking buddies, bonging buddies, OK-but-not-great sex buddies. What a solid foundation! What a mature decision! I would never once have to worry about intense passion melting away.
Yeah, that was a good idea.
These days, sex is like accepting an Oscar -- it's just one of those things that other people do.
Thank God, I have other habits to occupy my time. On a Day Like Today, it's moping. Sigh.
At any rate, I will now stop doing that. :)
Today is One Of Those Days. An orbiting headache just waiting to burst thru my own personal atmosphere. An unsettled "whateverness." Too many clouds, and I can't even win a stupid game of Spider Cell solitaire. All that, and it's Super Bowl Sunday. Whoo-fucking-hoo.
Today is also One Of Those Days when I just know it's time to scuttle the sinking S.S. Marriage ship. So, being the proactive blob that I am, I just looked up houses, and jobs, and now I feel even worse. If I were to actually BE proactive, and move out, I could look forward to middle age in a lovely 2-bedroom shithole with moldy carpet and bleached-wood cabinets, which is all I could afford "on my own." (T, the errant husband, has vowed never to pay spousal support -- as I have mentioned, money is His Issue.) And now, apparently, it is mine.
On Days Like These, I try to remind myself that at least, at one point, I did have A Life. I have been deeply, madly, passionately In Love -- twice. I just forgot to marry either one of them.
I thought I was acting very grown-up when I married T. We were buddies. Drinking buddies, bonging buddies, OK-but-not-great sex buddies. What a solid foundation! What a mature decision! I would never once have to worry about intense passion melting away.
Yeah, that was a good idea.
These days, sex is like accepting an Oscar -- it's just one of those things that other people do.
Thank God, I have other habits to occupy my time. On a Day Like Today, it's moping. Sigh.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Backstory
I have been married 16 years. The first two or three were ... somewhat happy. The last baker's dozen ... have not been. Things started to go downhill when we veered onto the path to impregnation. Apparently, it is a steep path.
I got pregnant almost right away. And I miscarried just as quickly. T, I think, did not really believe I had ever been pregnant. I say "I think" because he never once said a word about it. Which is ... typical.
I got repregnant quickly, too. Since T's main source of power/pleasure/motivation has always been money, I thought I'd share The News with him accordingly. I put the positive home pregancy test in an envelope with an IRS return address. Inside was a note congratulating him on his new tax deduction. He was not amused. He yelled, "Is there PEE on this?" and threw it across the room.
Perhaps you can hear the alarm bells from there.
I have since learned that I was meant to be a mother. Not so much a wife.
Blame partially accepted, let's move on. T is now having an affair. Has been for at least 2 years, probably more. He decided to have an affair -- no shit -- while we were sitting in the marriage counselor's office. Apparently he figured that was A Major Sign that things had gone bad.
His adulterous mistress (which is how I always refer to "her," so T is reminded that he is, indeed, commiting a mortal sin) is his employee. Not his secretary, which would be so perfectly typical that it would be cool. But he is her boss.
Since their affair began (I learned about it via the cellphone bill, which was 8 times its usual thickness thanks to the 20,938 text messages between them), she has since divorced her husband and moved within 15 minutes of our house. This is especially handy when she wants to rendezvous after the rest of us have gone to bed, since she can simply pull into our driveway at will and honk for her bloated paramour.
The central dilemma of this entire blog -- the "discovery" of the title -- is to discover why I cannot leave him and/or boot out his cheating ass (and weiner). I almost did once, just over a year ago. I got to the lawyer's office -- twice -- and thought I had all my divorce ducks in a row, but when push came to shove, I could not shove.
I know I am not happy. I know we are osmosis-ing unhappiness onto our kid.
But ...
1) I have this thing about commitments. I tend to keep them. I have a very, very hard time breaking my promise, my vow, my word.
2) I have a son. The way I see it, the second I gave birth, I promised to put him above everything else. Does that make me a martyr? Yeah, fuck. Probably.
3) No one can assure me it's the right thing to do. Unlike my friends who have divorced (some more than once), I do not have a backup dude. I do not have a safety net. I do not have A Plan.
So I have a cheating husband. And a son who loves him. And a brainload o' indecision. And now, finally -- yay! -- I have a therapist. And on this voyage of Discovery, I could use a little personal GPS.
I got pregnant almost right away. And I miscarried just as quickly. T, I think, did not really believe I had ever been pregnant. I say "I think" because he never once said a word about it. Which is ... typical.
I got repregnant quickly, too. Since T's main source of power/pleasure/motivation has always been money, I thought I'd share The News with him accordingly. I put the positive home pregancy test in an envelope with an IRS return address. Inside was a note congratulating him on his new tax deduction. He was not amused. He yelled, "Is there PEE on this?" and threw it across the room.
Perhaps you can hear the alarm bells from there.
I have since learned that I was meant to be a mother. Not so much a wife.
Blame partially accepted, let's move on. T is now having an affair. Has been for at least 2 years, probably more. He decided to have an affair -- no shit -- while we were sitting in the marriage counselor's office. Apparently he figured that was A Major Sign that things had gone bad.
His adulterous mistress (which is how I always refer to "her," so T is reminded that he is, indeed, commiting a mortal sin) is his employee. Not his secretary, which would be so perfectly typical that it would be cool. But he is her boss.
Since their affair began (I learned about it via the cellphone bill, which was 8 times its usual thickness thanks to the 20,938 text messages between them), she has since divorced her husband and moved within 15 minutes of our house. This is especially handy when she wants to rendezvous after the rest of us have gone to bed, since she can simply pull into our driveway at will and honk for her bloated paramour.
The central dilemma of this entire blog -- the "discovery" of the title -- is to discover why I cannot leave him and/or boot out his cheating ass (and weiner). I almost did once, just over a year ago. I got to the lawyer's office -- twice -- and thought I had all my divorce ducks in a row, but when push came to shove, I could not shove.
I know I am not happy. I know we are osmosis-ing unhappiness onto our kid.
But ...
1) I have this thing about commitments. I tend to keep them. I have a very, very hard time breaking my promise, my vow, my word.
2) I have a son. The way I see it, the second I gave birth, I promised to put him above everything else. Does that make me a martyr? Yeah, fuck. Probably.
3) No one can assure me it's the right thing to do. Unlike my friends who have divorced (some more than once), I do not have a backup dude. I do not have a safety net. I do not have A Plan.
So I have a cheating husband. And a son who loves him. And a brainload o' indecision. And now, finally -- yay! -- I have a therapist. And on this voyage of Discovery, I could use a little personal GPS.
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Disclaimer II: The Sequel
One more thought on the whole authenticity thing: Because I am a journalist and have been ingrained to hate plagiarism, and because I am blessed with a pesky Midwestern set of internal ethics, I also promise that every thought, idea, rambling, muse, opinion, whatever, will come strictly from my squirrely noggin. Of course, since I am so fricking typical, I can promise only that they will originate with me, not that they will necessarily be original.
For example: I saw "Atonement" yesterday. Blah. My first thought: I would be allergic to that entire movie. Too much cigarette smoke; too many overflowing English gardens and flowering weeds; too much old, moldy-looking paneling and wallpaper in the ancient, mildewy brick manor. Claritin should have paid for some product placement.
Also, speaking of unoriginal, the whole movie was basically "Cold Mountain," circa WWII. While Sonny Boy was headed off to war, I just kept thinking, "Please don't let Keira say, 'Come back to me.' " She did. A couple times. Speaking of her: She should maybe set down the smokes and pack in a few Twinkies.
I'm sure no one else has thought of that.
For example: I saw "Atonement" yesterday. Blah. My first thought: I would be allergic to that entire movie. Too much cigarette smoke; too many overflowing English gardens and flowering weeds; too much old, moldy-looking paneling and wallpaper in the ancient, mildewy brick manor. Claritin should have paid for some product placement.
Also, speaking of unoriginal, the whole movie was basically "Cold Mountain," circa WWII. While Sonny Boy was headed off to war, I just kept thinking, "Please don't let Keira say, 'Come back to me.' " She did. A couple times. Speaking of her: She should maybe set down the smokes and pack in a few Twinkies.
I'm sure no one else has thought of that.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The Disclaimer
There are two inherent problems with blogging, as far as I can tell:
1) As much as you want other people to share your blog, do you really want everyone to know who you are? It's one thing if you're blogging about your precious Shih Tzu and her meteoric rise to fame in the dog-show world, but if you're blogging from your slightly damaged soul??? Yikes. So, until I get more comfortable with this, or until I'm outed, I'm going to cushion true identities by using only initials. Say ... now that is clever. :)
I promise that everything will be true, and honest, and authentic ... but just not obvious.
2) It's addictive. Crap.
1) As much as you want other people to share your blog, do you really want everyone to know who you are? It's one thing if you're blogging about your precious Shih Tzu and her meteoric rise to fame in the dog-show world, but if you're blogging from your slightly damaged soul??? Yikes. So, until I get more comfortable with this, or until I'm outed, I'm going to cushion true identities by using only initials. Say ... now that is clever. :)
I promise that everything will be true, and honest, and authentic ... but just not obvious.
2) It's addictive. Crap.
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Introduction
I hate being typical. I know. How fricking typical is that? (Prude disclaimer: I am in no way opposed to the word "fucking"; in fact, I had it in there first. But I am a journalist, and "fricking" just sounds so much better.)
Anyway, so here I am, on typical Google, for God's sake, typing a typical blog like 4 billion other typical chicks screaming toward middle age on a well-lubed luge.
I also:
1) Have "issues" with my mother-in-law.
2) Have bigger "issues" with her son.
3) Wonder whether I'll ever fit in.
4) Could stand to "tone up" in 89 specific spots.
5) Am blogging for therapy.
Fucking, fricking typical.
Until I tally the counterstrikes:
1) I do not think Tom Hanks is a good actor.
2) I work, as they say, at "a major metropolitan daily" that actually prints a newspaper, which is probably a lot like heading up Bush's Nobel Peace Prize application process -- not a lot of bright, shiny prospects there.
3) I am a natural blond (but not everywhere).
4) I have the planet's most sensitive nose.
5) I am not divorced. Or having an affair. Or looking.
So I'm torn. Can you be atypical and still fit in? Can you be so atypical that you're typical? Can you be atypical on purpose?
But, most importantly, can a blog bring you self-definition, catharsis, insight, constructive feedback and some degree of happiness? Or a book deal?
Let's find out.
Anyway, so here I am, on typical Google, for God's sake, typing a typical blog like 4 billion other typical chicks screaming toward middle age on a well-lubed luge.
I also:
1) Have "issues" with my mother-in-law.
2) Have bigger "issues" with her son.
3) Wonder whether I'll ever fit in.
4) Could stand to "tone up" in 89 specific spots.
5) Am blogging for therapy.
Fucking, fricking typical.
Until I tally the counterstrikes:
1) I do not think Tom Hanks is a good actor.
2) I work, as they say, at "a major metropolitan daily" that actually prints a newspaper, which is probably a lot like heading up Bush's Nobel Peace Prize application process -- not a lot of bright, shiny prospects there.
3) I am a natural blond (but not everywhere).
4) I have the planet's most sensitive nose.
5) I am not divorced. Or having an affair. Or looking.
So I'm torn. Can you be atypical and still fit in? Can you be so atypical that you're typical? Can you be atypical on purpose?
But, most importantly, can a blog bring you self-definition, catharsis, insight, constructive feedback and some degree of happiness? Or a book deal?
Let's find out.
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