I’m doing this thing right now where I sit on my parent’s sofa in Philadelphia at two in the morning because I fell asleep at 8 pm and woke up at 10 completely missing Masterpiece Theater’s Casanova on one of the five channels (via antenna!) my parents get on their tv and now I’m not going to fall asleep until four o’clock in the morning. Why am I here? Because there is more dying. I guess this is what happens to people around you when you become older but it seems that there is just so much cancer in my family right now that it makes me wonder if this is how we are all going to go in the not too distant future.

I got here too late. The person that I knew was already gone- in a morphine coma, not dead yet- but nothing like the person he was, and although I knew to expect that from past experience, it is still so upsetting to see. There is guilt of course, for moving away and not seeing him more often, and anger and a bit of jealousy, because I didn’t get to see him like I knew him again. Also helplessness, and something else I can’t pinpoint. So tomorrow, I guess I can cook, or clean or something to help out, and try not to feel selfish because I don’t want to be here. I don’t have to go back to the hospital again, but I’d rather be at home, of course. I’d just rather be at home.

This past month has been approximately 50% horrible, 50% okay and 25% confusing. Some of the problems I had anticipated are actually worse than I thought they would be, most likely exacerbated by my poor expectations and the hypertense state that accompanies them. Other issues, like coming to terms with things like I’m kind of living with children, are equal parts pleasure and pain. For every morning I’m woken up at an ungodly hour there are moments that sort of make up for it. Like our recent back-to-school preparations:

mohawking the children

Slowly this place is starting to feel like mine, and this town? I feel like I am hovering above it, circling in a landing pattern with every intention to touch wheel to ground, but I’m not quite there yet. The change of address form was submitted yesterday, so that’s one step in the right direction. Almost everything is unpacked and there is a gigantic why have I been lugging this around for so long purge in progress. But still, I’m in seclusion mode, trying to get a grip on the immediate world around me. Things are better today and reconnecting with family has been helpful, but I’ve missed two important birthdays and professionally I’m at a stand-still. Soon I will face the email, return the calls, resume the base-line level of self-flagellation and all will be back to normal.

Also: I’ve got stuff. A lot of stuff that I’ve truly missed, a lot of stuff I’ve forgotten I had, and a lot of stuff that can just go. If anyone is interested in giant IKEA bags full of purses, shoes, professional clothes, or kitchen paraphenalia, let me know. There’s nothing like a mild depression to make you not care about things you own. Out it goes.

click on the photo and have some fun.

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.

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.

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