Maybe its the sunburn or the PMS or the general over-stimulation, but I have reached my limit. Two weeks of almost full-time Kinder around and I am on the brink of a mini-meltdown. Or at least a good pouting session. Talk about initiation by fire. Please someone tell me why a five year old won’t act like a competent adult. What is his problem? He’s around them all day. Haven’t we heard of modeling, people? By the way, I don’t care if you don’t want to eat the rice. I don’t friggin care. That just means you won’t get dessert. Oh wait, I don’t care. And can I just wake up one morning with only two people in my bed, without some munchkin fingering my fingers or hovering over me suggesting that I should wear a bikini? Is that too much to ask? Ask your cousin, for fuck’s sake.

Someone needs her coffee and some people are not old enough to make it for her yet. The day the seven year old learns to make me my morning cappuccino is the day that I reevaluate the having a kid of my own thing.

They had better be, or it will not justify me NEVER having sex EVER. AGAIN.

Today, we barbecued. One of the great pleasures of being in American suburbia is the opportunity to stand in a backyard, eyes full of smoke, fanning Mexican charcoal and sucking on a German beer. Pure delight. Despite an almost tragic charcoal outage incident, and the nearly-unspoken blame game it generated, we managed to grill chicken breasts, sausages, ribs, vegetable brochettes, and corn on the cob. Homemade guacamole with blue corn tortilla chips and strawberry popsicles rounded out the meal. As I was preparing the marinade for the chicken, the five year old announced that he wanted to help cook, tied on his apron, and skewered the shit out of the zucchini and cherry tomatoes. The seven year old joined in and decided to make Sprite (huh?) and squash the guacamole. It was then that I realized I could use my powers for good, quietly turn them into chefs (who someday soon will make me my morning cappuccino, or what good are they, really?) and help them become self-sufficient, cooperative, capable little people. They were thrilled with the whole process, setting the patio table for six themselves, and even cleaned up afterwards without complaint.  It was a great day. Today made me feel like I can totally do this.

Last night I went out with the liebling, his bookkeeper and her husband; all adults, all night. She’s German and he is Indian via Kenya and London, but have been living in Santa Barbara for twenty years. They seemed to know every restaurant in town and every bartender by name, quite convenient now that I am a recovering non/not very much-alcoholic. Very, very sweet people, and loyal to the end to the sweet potato, but the conversation mostly revolved around the attributes of the various high-end private schools in town, and how utterly exasperating it is to find a decent gardener these days. Good thing I was decently crunk and that generally, my sense of direction is poor, or I might have started running and not turned back. This, this I don’t think I can do.

Dinner, sort of Mexican inspired, as many meals are in this part of the country. You know, take about five ingredients, chop ‘em up, and serve them forth in different combinations:

chicken breasts -marinated in olive oil, crushed garlic, lime and cilantro, s&p. Could have marinated longer.

wurst -chicken and basil, lamb and mint, turkey bratwurst, ready-made from Lazy Acres

vegetable brochettes- red onion, pattypan and yellow squash, zucchini, cherry tomatoes, and one kosher hot dog (not my idea), brushed with olive oil, dried rosemary and thyme, s&p. Next time will get my shit together enough to use the fresh rosemary from the yard as skewers.

corn on the cob- soaked and roasted with husks on, then rubbed with garlic butter, lime, and rolled in cotija cheese)

guacamole- avocados, tomato, garlic, red onion, cilantro, lime, dash of ground cumin, s&p, you know the drill

homemade Sprite!- not my idea, but fantastic- one tablespoon lime juice, one tablespoon simple syrup, add sparkling water over ice, and viola! Delicioso, and a great way to use up the extra citrus. 

strawberry popsicles- over-ripe strawberries and squirt of lime, in blender. That’s it. 

corn tortillas- moldy, as it turned out, so into the trashcan they went. Oh, well.

Last night I sat at the dining room table completely overwhelmed by the high-pitched screams and sounds of bodies thunking against the walls of the boy’s room. I wonder if I can do this. I wonder if I’m getting a bit depressed.

Yesterday afternoon at Trader Joe’s the sample lady sneered at the seven year old when he reached for a cup of chips and salsa. “Are you with an adult?” she said, his eyes big, his hand hovering over the cup uncertainly. “Where’s your adult? Where’s your adult?” “Here” I answered curtly from the soy milk section. Bitch softened her tone (which maybe she should have considered using for the child) and asked “did mom get to try it too?” Popping out of my mouth: “yes.”

I never thought that approval from a seven and a five year old could mean so much, but I really needed it, and besides, it could change any minute, so I’m holding on to this for as long as I can.

This could not have been a worse weekend for me to come up to Santa Barbara, what with the UCSB graduations and tourists and traffic and the hot hot weather, but I did. It’s really expensive for me to be here now, but I have to look for a place for us to live, and the sooner the better: he needs to get out from under the grip of certain not-so-passively-aggressive people, and I need to stop relying on the kindness of my relatives, and instead begin relying on that of my boyfriend. Relationships are about compromise. Compromise, people.

So far, the results have not been encouraging, and I think it’s going to take a win at the Mega Millions for us to be able to afford a livable place here. Interestingly enough, he already has a very livable place here, very convenient, except for the fact that he can’t live there. Because someone won’t leave. His house. That he paid for. Do you know how guilty it makes me feel after we walk out of an exorbitantly expensive shack of a rental to think that he has to move away from his lovely, funky, rambling home on the hill to live with me in the ghetto? Meanwhile, the reality is that we can’t live in the ghetto because then his children wouldn’t be able to come over because it’s not safe and would they want to anyway? These children who just spent the end of the week at the Ritz Carlton where they go so often that the staff know them by name?

Which hasn’t (so far) kept them from being sweet, which is what I have been told for months now. Yesterday the Liebling and I went down to the harbor to meet them (and their mother, who insisted on HUGGING me AGAIN. TWICE.) and they were just lovely and sweet and polite and just a little bit shy. They were busy filling up the harbor a handful of rocks at a time, and I thought, hey I can do that. Casting stones is in my repertoire, so we went down to the water’s edge and tossed rocks and fished for rope and kelp and scuttling crabs. I was greeted by an open and friendly “Hi, Desyl!” from the seven-year-old, which set me at ease, and I had a lovely time with him at the Maritime Museum answering treasure hunt questions and enduring a long lecture on the inner workings of a steam ship engine, which was a bit confusing, but maybe he can explain it to me again sometime.

I was a little concerned about the youngest, who seems to be doing everything he can to keep his family as he knows it together, and while friendly and caring, is a bit confused by it all. I really feel for these little ones with their golden cheeks and their innocent hugs and high-decibel singing voices, and wonder what this is all going to look like when the divorce starts looking like a divorce and there is a real sense of seperation for them. Hopefully I’ll be able to act like an adult enough to deal with all the uncorralled energy and the wiggliness that is now, and the fear and resentment that is sure to surface.

So, I’d better get back to it then. I need to retrieve the listings and the map from the Sweet Potato, which means going up to the house, where there is a play date with little french children happening. I don’t think I ever expected those words to part of my working vocabulary so soon, but there they are: french children. play date. I’m guessing its not too late to freak out- I think that’s still allowed, but it’s probably time to start doing it quietly, and not in front of the children.

Sooo so so so so. You wanna know? Here it is.

First, for those of you that don’t know, California is warm. And sunny. Which translates into 100 degrees F in the Inland Empire which is I don’t know what in C but is daaamn hot. And people are tan here and not ghostly greenish yellow pale like some eurasians fresh from Europe I know. And? People are fat. I won’t slip into wallowing self pity and say I blend, but at least I know that I can probably find a pair of jeans that fit at the Goodwill or that bastion of sophisticated style Old Navy if I took the time to look. I got to see my lady loves in the O.C. and revelled in their professional and personal progressions and was filled with pride and love for them and their accomplishments but being back in that place made me realize that I did the right thing by leaving it behind me when I did.

But! You haven’t been obsessively checking this blog to hear about all that, have you? Your greedly little eyes want to read about the you-know-who. Well. Last week I drove down off the mountain to meet the sweet potato in LA- there was a premiere and party to go to where he had to show face to the bosses and I wanted to not watch the O’Reilly Factor at top volume with gMom. The show was great, the party was great, we drank buttery nipples excessively and the Principal from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was there! Ahhh!! Close enough I could have licked him! He plays the press guy on the show but all I could think about was *bomp bomp, chick chick… chick-a-chica.* Awesomeness. Also awesomeness was this dude from HBO addressing my high cheekbones (! wha?); a comment I clung to with grappling hooks and chose to interpret as a compliment as I was feeling not the most secure about the next day’s activity: lunch with the ex-wife.

Why, you ask, was I feeling discombobulated about this? Well, for starters, I left all my carefully chosen clothes for this little trip conveniently hanging in a garment bag in my bedroom in the mountains. See where this is going? All I had with me was underwear and a blowdryer shoved into a ho-bag and by the time I got to Hollywood I had to immediately find something cheap and fast for the premiere and then, well, hey I’m unemployed so tomorrow is getting today’s sweaty driving clothes and I will just have to deal. Of course we left the hotel late the next morning so I had my hair up from before I took a shower and my black hippie skirt and my sweaty t-shirt and my brown clogs and this is how I showed up to the fancy Santa Barbara restaurant to have lunch. What about her? Well, short, little body, with a big head that was better looking than what I had previously seen in pictures. Dressed all in black with dramatic jewelry and fanciful scarves thrown jauntily over the shoulder. Hmm, marginally greenish bedroom-haired clog-wearing girl v. dramatic jaunty scarfiness. Fuck. I make an awesome first impression. She probably had deodorant on too, that bitch.

We all had lunch, and I thought I was not nervous until I heard the squeaky words warble out of my mouth when I announced my order. Then I realized that frankly, I didn’t really care about her deal, and spent the rest of the meeting smiling and nodding and being pleasant while examining the insanely compelling art on the wall. Perceptible boredom as defensive measure? Maybe. Interesting to listen to her and know that she sounds entirely reasonable to the uninitiated, but subconciously or not let slip those little things that point to the whack-jobiness that is the woman my boyfriend once married. Example #1 (of many): “[the 7 year old] wants to know when we are going back to the Ritz Carlton, I think I’ll take him for his birthday, not for the whole week, of course. Ha ha!” Uh, how many little boys ask to spend their birthday at the Ritz? Project much? Example #2, simply- “None of us here are crazy. I can assume that right? Ha ha!” Umm, well, you with the diagnosed personality disorder aren’t technically quite there yet, so yes, you can assume that none of here are crazy.  But wait a minute, I can hear all you in out there in the internets say, “isn’t it a bit trite for the new girlfriend to call the ex a headcase?” A well-worn critique from the interloper, I’m sure, but this time I have the DSM-IV to back my shit up.

Okay, so that’s a bit harsh, but I’m defensive girl right now. I miss my boyfriend and want this to all be over and know that really, it will never be trully finished. Even after jumping through all the hoops, because of the children, she will still be lurking about, and I’m just going to have to accept that. Finally this little torture scenario came to a close and in the end she stood up, walked over to me with her arms outstretched and said “so, we’re going to be in each other’s lives from now on! Might as well!” and gave me a BIG ass HUG. You know I don’t even like being touched by people I love so you can imagine what it took for me to not loose my shit completely when she grabbed me like that. I wanted to claw my eyes out from the horror of it all, but in my stunned haze only mananged to smile weakly and mumble something incoherent. I’m awesome.

What’s next, you ask? Meeting za Kinder, of course. She suggested that this transpire en famille, (you know, mama, papa, babies, and the horrible woman your daddy is leaving me for) so that the children can see that she and I don’t hate each other and they can like both of us and that’s okay. So next weekend, off to the zoo for me. I was told to wear comfortable walking shoes. Hope I can remember to bring them.

Hypochondriacal freakouts, as pleasurable as they might be, never seem to last long, and the last one passed in about two days (although to my credit it did seem to get worse as the days progressed, and then overnight, disappeared almost completely). So, none of you on the Left Coast are going to have to see me spotty or striped or in any other variation from the norm. 

 Yay! Girlfriends! Pretty much the norm. (from Maya’s flickr)

This turn of events left me with no excuse but to socialize. Outside my home. With other people. So yesterday I went to lunch with Rowain, who is typically very reserved in a formal Singaporean kind of way, but turned out to be hungry for female companionship, and almost immediately launched into some pretty personal talk. Lots in common, with us both involved with Germans with confusing exes, trying to negotiate this culture and the isolation that comes along with language barriers and lack of a social network outside of our Mann’s friends (not such an issue for me as I know I will return tout suite, but she’s here for the long haul). I was really touched by this attempt to connect and feel really sorry that I can be so terrible about my tendency to withdraw from the world for no particular reason.

We will be moving back to
California next week, and while I am looking forward to seeing friends (and the sun) again when I return, I am absolutely losing my shit over what must transpire when I get back. First, find housing. Then, little technicalities like getting a job (not career, mind you, a job like in how about some yard duty for money, and can I wash your car, too?), renewing my driver’s license, fighting with 24 Hour Fitness, and meeting the ex-wife. Oh, honeys, I am sooo looking forward to this moment in the falling-in-love-with-an-older-man saga. After all I have heard- and not just from disgruntled husband but from former mutual friends who have come clean with their real opinions about this person- I am so anxious that I am likely to have some sort of meltdown involving a little bit of barfing when it actually happens.

Will this blog turn into a ”can you believe what the ex-wife is trying to do this time?” blog? Not likely. While that might be entertaining in a melodramatic voyeuristic sort of way, I won’t succumb to that urge. No, not at all. Or maybe. What it may very well turn into is a “now what am I supposed to do with these two very small moving things he calls his sons and how do I prevent myself from becoming the evil-daddy’s girlfriend” blog. Sort of a mommy blog as viewed from the other side of the wormhole type thing. Ack. I don’t know how to do children. Yes, I babysat when I was a teen, but since then my interaction with kids has been limited to using my authority as a science teacher to announce that they should be careful not to jump too high- they may fly off the earth because it does spin awfully fast and gravity is just not that strong higher up there.

Someone once told me that my blog used to be good, even almost as good as dooce, and I had to agree. I used to be funnier when my life was in a bit of turmoil. This spate of happy months has rendered me quite a boring blogger indeed (I’m secure in my belief that yes, posting pictures of what I’m watching on TV is remarkably clever). If you are at all curious, I would encourage you to go through the archives of my first few months of blogging when I was a cold and hungry and sleep deprived grad student getting dumped all the time. It was hilarious! And heartwarming! And packed with life lessons! (And self-indulgent and just a bit masturbatory, but isn’t that what blogging is for anyway?)

So, we all get older, and life gets more complicated, and that’s what being an adult is all about. So there. Of course, I will attempt to hold my shit together and project a stoic maturity and strength of character so as not to be outwardly traumatized by forthcoming events, but on the inside my tummy will be doing flip-flops and I’m guessing that some of that neurotic angst-ridden craziness that is bound to be stewing in my little brains will seep into the writing here, lucky for you all.

P.S. There is an overabundance of alcohol here so if we decide to have a drink-our-cupboards-bare evening before we leave I’ll keep you posted.

About a week ago I started taking sulfa drugs in combination with other stuff to take care of some issues with my ladyparts which I won’t go into as that which I just wrote is already too far into the realm of Too Much Information. So, a few days ago I noticed that I had a little red spot on my side. It itched a little. No big deal. Last night I went to a housewarming party in Haidhausen (in which I made only one desperate call to the sweet potato to please come now, and hid in the bathroom just once) and there were so many people there I had to peel of layers and I was still sweating up a storm. I got very itchy where the perspiration made my camisole cling to my back, but I just chalked it up to scabies or lice or my hair just being very thick and heavy against my neck.

When I got home I peeled off my clothes to shower and noticed that my entire torso was covered in giant red welts all over. Hives! Everywhere! And irresistably itchy! I slept through the night, but must have been busy between REM cycles because I woke up covered in what looks like a slight sunburn, with scratchmarks and welts and broken blood vessels and other things in places that make me look like I didn’t charge enough for the weekly bondage session. I’m a complete mess, and I didn’t even get to enjoy any of it.

This morning I went to Web MD, where I self-diagnose all my Munchausenistic problems, and found that it’s going to take 7-14 days after I stopped my sulfa regimine for the allergic reaction to go away. Meanwhile, God, I’m beautiful!

Today is not the only day on which I celebrate your utter hotness.