Wet Feet

the numbered list, #4,999,987

1. The exhibitionism is running rampant over on UnderBelly. Just thought you'd like a heads up, since it's been oh, six months or something since I've posted there. If you want the password, shoot me an email and as long as you are 1. female, 2. not mean and 3. not related to me I'll send you the password. It will also help in your enjoyment if you're into living vicariously through other people's love lives.

2. I've set up a Wet Feet blog network on facebook. You should check it out. And while you're at it, join Moxie's too. Because I am a lemming, when I saw she'd make a network I had to have one. And because I'm a facebook addict, I just can't resist these things.

3. I hesitate to mention the little paypal donate button that went up on the sidebar a few months ago. There have been times when I liked something I've read so much that I've put a few anonymous dollars in someone's online tip jar, and I wanted to make it easy for people to do that for me. The reason I'm saying anything now is because my water heater and my dryer both need repairs and I owe Jul money. I'm in a financial bind of my own creation and I've maxed out the goodness of my friends. So, if you've ever had the inclination to throw something my way, now would be a great time to do so. (The money will most likely go straight over to Jul, so maybe you should see about tipping her directly? Or throwing some love and comments her way since she doesn't seem to have a tip jar?) And you should also know: I love you even if you never tip me, that's never been what having this blog has been about. I am humbled and grateful that I have a place all my own to write publicly. But every little bit helps. So let us never speak of this again.

the ink which ends the era

tonight i was nervous but tried to pretend i wasn't until he showed up at the door. i was more nervous than i'd ever been for any first date.

my mom could see that i was freaking the hell out, even if i couldn't. my daughters also knew, (why am always the last to know?)

anyway. it was the night that my ex-husband and i had settled on to confirm our divorce terms. we'dd had the contract drawn up by our mediator for months, we'd yet to sign it.

which seems silly, being that it's been two years since we separated. we should be divroced by now, right? but we aren't, and that's testament to how lax we both are on things that have anything to do with red tape and paperwork.

he picked me up, i left my girls with my mom (who recognized the gravity of the day even if i didn't) and we thought about where we should go. little pete's? that's special to us, so no. too special. marathon grill? no, also too special. nodding head? okay, special but not special enough. we spent enough drunken nights there but no firsts. so we went to nodding head, (which is a brewpub with awesome beer if you're ever in the neighborhood) and he had the lighter side "monkey knife fight" and i had the stronger triple IPA. and food. we ate food too. he had the jerk chicken; i had the salmon with margarita butter.

after one beer we argued. after two, i cried. after three, we bonded anew.

it was the first time we'd spent alone together since he moved out, i noted, and he nodded. the paperwork was done, the objectives outlines, and all we had to do was talk about how we'd ended and why.

i gave him the trifecta response, without all the baggage i attached to it. i gave him the "dynamic" explanation. i refuse to believe our ending was anyone's fault, per sey. i certainly don't want to believe the fault was mine. I may have pulled the trigger, but the horse was suffering. the marriage was already dead. what i did was a mercy, and he was finally in a place where he could believe that.

he said we never should have married. i used to believe that too. our incompatibilities are obvious to both of us now. it's amazing we got ten years out of something so unpromising, even more amazing that the best of those years were years 6, 7, and 8.

i reminded him of the goodness that came of our early years, as miserable as they were with the grieving and the loneliness. we had our routines, our movie theaters, our restaurants, our common woes; our los angeles days may have been marked with despair but along with that were marked with camaraderie. i won't ever regret marrying him. i couldn't have known that our dynamics wouldn't grow with our needs. they very well may have under other circumstances.

it was the best we could have done. what i regret is waiting until i hated him to end it. the hate is the most corrosive force, as well as the urgency, the desperation, all of which has faded. josh is a wonderful man deserving of all the best life has to offer, i'm just not the woman who can give it to him, and he's not the man for me.

we can move forward now into a world where we don't owe anything to each other, we only owe the best life possible to our girls. i believe they can grow up with the idea of a whole family despite divorce. we are whole; we're just not in a marital union. we are whole in our devotion to our precious offspring. as along as we remain true to their ultimate wholeness (and our own), we'll be fine, come what may.

The Easy Way

"People will tell you divorce is the easy way out. The only people who say that are people who've never gone through it."

So says Moxie, and truer words have never been written.

When I first came out about getting divorced, the reticent, scared emails came pouring in. "How do I know? My marriage is awful but leaving seems impossible..." I hope it's not too much to say that Moxie was one of them, way back when.

It was in response to those emails that I wrote this post. And still, that post generates the same kinds of fearful, tentative comments.

It's time to go when you can't stay anymore. The feeling of being absolutely finished is something you can't imagine until you've been there, and once you're there, there's no unfeeling that feeling. Once you get there, it's like a locomotive going downhill without brakes. Damn the consequences. What's out there can't possibily be as bad as the present reality.

It's been two years now since I ended my marriage and I've gone from the euphoria of newfound freedom to the depths of facing life alone. I've eaten a lot of humble pie. Honestly, it's been harder than I thought. At first is was all unfettered joy, like the dotcom hedonism. And later, it was like the recession that followed. The high gloss was gone, what was gilded became tarnished. And reality hit me harder than a semi carrying a full load of lead pipes.

Staying asleep, ensconced in the state of mind that made my marriage bearable under the circumstances would have been a thousand times easier than waking up. Now that I am awake, I have challenges before me that I would never have seen had I stayed in ignorant sleep. Growth hurts, and getting divorced is an engraved invitation for growth of the most painful kind.

But you never regret growing, even if it hurts. Even if it shows you yourself at your ugliest in the most unflattering of mirrors.

A year ago, if someone asked me point blank if they should leave their marriage, I would have responded without hesitiation that they should: "divorce is GREAT! Joint custody will give you your SELF back!"

Such is the zeal of the convert. Ask me the same question now and I would give a similar answer, but with much less enthusiasm.

For me, it turned out that my SELF wasn't in such great shape as I thought. The problems that I conveniently blamed on Josh were, in fact, my problems. Divorce forced me to deal with these things on  my own. For that I will someday be very grateful. But now? Humble pie tastes like ass, let me tell you. I taste it whenever I make a game of digging through the cushions so we can take the coins to the penny changer so we can buy milk. Not because we are not adequately provided for, but because I am an idiot with money.

Most people don't leave a comfortable, if stifling, marriage when they have no income potential and two children under five. When I think of what I did, I am astounded by my brazen grandiosity. I also remember the desperation of having to leave, like those last seconds under water when you know the surface is right in front of you and your lungs are burning for air. I know I couldn't have done it any other way.

It is desperation that drives the decision to leave, it's frantic panic that leads you to chew off the leg to get out of the trap. Then you run far and fast, and it feels great, until the wound starts to fester and you sit to attend to it. You bandage and manage complications and infections as the wound heals more painfully than you thought. I'd rather not take this metaphor as far as it wants to go, I'd like to think that I'll be whole again someday. But there will always be a part of me left behind, stuck in that trap.

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A lot of this reminds me about adoption. There are striking parallels. Someday I'll write about that too.

dislikes children?

The dating site I favor has an option for your status regarding children: you can choose has 1 child, has children, likes children, likes children bu doesn't want any, or dislikes children. You can also choose to not choose in which case N/A shows up in the field.

This site also has a blogging tool. Which believe it or not I've never taken advantage of. Until today, when I wrote something for the blog that I will first post here. Tell me what you think. I may just post it anyway, because I'm due for a good digital sparring match.

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It's something I continue to run up against: how can I have 0% enemy with someone who chooses "dislikes children" in their profile?

I can certainly sympathize with not *understanding* children, I didn't understand children at all and avoided them at all cost until I had my own. even now, I'm not overly fond of *all* children. I'd be the last person to sugarcoat parenting or idolize the childlike mind. on a date with me, you'll only hear about my kids if you specifically ask. and I'm not the type to whip out pictures (although i carry a few at all times. phones are good for that).

but a blanket "dislikes children"? come ON! save your "dislike" for something truly evil.

*you* were a child once, and I don't care what your memory (or your mommy) tells you, you were a fucking brat for a significant amount of time because most kids are. the people you annoyed are *legion*. and you know what else? those people who you annoyed to pieces might be depending on the taxes *you* contribute to pay for their social security. it all comes full circle eventually.

and when you're old, you might be dependent on the goodwill of people who are now the children who you *actively dislike*, so you end your days in a care facility that doesn't leave you lying helpless in your own feces for hours on end. (think it doesn't happen? you've never been to St. Agnes in Philly then). you won't be able-bodied and young forever. someday you might be (gasp!) dependent.

the child in the checkout line behind you might invent a medication that saves your life. the kid throwing a fit in the post office might one day be wiping your ass in a nursing home. think about that before you're so careless with your "dislike".

don't want to have you own children? FINE! please don't, then! don't want to meet mine? GREAT! the chance was remote anyway. but step off the hate. it's not doing you or anyone else any favors.  N/A will get the point across just fine.

Links to fill the space

Since I've begun this daily posting effort, I've missed two days out of seven. Friday and Saturday saw no new words from me. Part of it is that I just couldn't think of anything to say; by the end of the week I am just not very interesting.

But there is never any lack of filler on the internets for those willing to find it and link to it.

1. Not that I'd EVER classify her as filler material, but y'all should know that Jo's tenacious seed is a GIRL! I knew she would be. Yay Jo and Sean and Sophia! Let the shopping begin!

2. If you've ever wanted to make your own clothes you should check out this website for free patterns and stuff. I've been combing through their pattern adaptations and advice for beginning sewers and eyeing up my old curtains and slightly messed up clothing with a re-constructionist view, a la the Clothes Off Your Back challenge on Project Runway.

3. A blog I've been enjoying lately: Bucking the Wave, specifically the post about the music that made feminism click into place. For her, it was Fiona Apple. (I love Fiona Apple now, but when she arrived on the scene I remembered being very threatened that she was younger than me and also wiser, and I felt like I'd missed some kind of boat. I was insane with jealously. It was the same feeling I'd had toward Claire Danes in My So-Called Life. My thunder had been stolen! Ahhh!)

For me, my feminism was activated by a cocktail: equal parts Liz Phair and Alanis Morisette, with a dash of Thorazine during my brief punk phase (hi, JoAnn!). They all did or said or felt things that made my teenage jaw drop, because I didn't know girls were allowed to feel certain things, or talk about them if they did (Flower, anyone?).

Anyway, go read Bucking the Wave. From the About Us section of the site: "We have found ourselves adrift in the waves of Feminism. Are we a part of the Third Wave?  From what pulpit do we speak from?  Do we even need to label ourselves in order to legitimatize our fight?  And every time we make an exciting step forward, another news anchor shoots our triumph down, reporting that “Feminism is dead.”

grace

It's recently occurred to Naomi that we should be saying grace before dinner. I'm not sure where she got this idea, I think maybe from the scene in Iron Giant, maybe from seeing her relatives give a brief word of thanks to god before eating. We've never done it, even though dinnertime is one of the few daily rituals I make sure to keep because it kicks off the choreographed slide into bedtime.

"We should thank god for our food" Naomi said, her fork poised over her dumplings.

"Why god?" I asked.

"Because that's what you do when you say grace"

"Says who?"

"Tenna-coles says so". Apparently Naomi's best imaginary friend is from a religious family.*

"Does Tenna-coles say what God does exactly to put food on the table?"

"God provides" Now she's talking to me like I'm addled. And I'm starting to feel righteous indignation on the behalf of the people who did provide this food, one of whom was me. God's not getting my credit.

I picked up some edamame and held it in from of her. "Someone grew this out of the ground. Let's thank that person, even though we don't know them"

This made sense to her. We thanked.

"Someone took care of it until it was ready to be picked! An actual person picked this out of the ground and put it in a bag!" She's getting it now. This would not be the moment to tell her that a machine probably did all that. But a person operated the machine, right? So we thanked again.

"And someone took it to a store where we could buy it."

"The nice boy who lets me help, he sold it to us!" She has a favorite Trader Joe's cashier. (Don't we all?) So we thanked him too.

"And then we took it home! And you cooked it and put it on a plate!" She's jumping out of her seat with excitement now. "Thank you, mom!"

I grinned and giggled, I couldn't help myself. She makes me so damn proud. "You're welcome sweetie" I kissed her head. "And now you're shelling them so you can eat them, so thank yourself too"

"Thank you, EVER so!"

*on a related side note, Naomi often obscures the origin of her material with imaginary friends. One time she told me a dirty joke, and after I recovered from the shock I asked her where she heard it. School, probably. Maybe she saw some TV she shouldn't have. "Marley-Milla", she told me, which is the name of her imaginary friend who also wears a sparkly yellow dress with shiny black shoes and in addition to telling Naomi dirty jokes, encourages her to stay up all night and talk back to her mother. I am often annoyed at Marley-Milla's influence, but I have to admit I like her independent spirit.

dream: 8/12/08

i'm small and lost and i'm waiting for something to happen in a huge empty airplane hangar, where i am engulfed by the silence of industrial whiteness.

doors as big as buildings split open wide and i pass through, to a hospital corridor, here everything is sharp and brilliant and much too large. the metal gleams and the floor squeaks and at the end of the hall i can see some people talking and walking, one is using an old-fashioned pay phone.

i follow the corridors until i come to a much dirtier, deserted place (it reminds me of the unanchored section of the westside pavillion in LA, where it bridges over westwood boulevard, where no stores ever stuck around longer than a few months).

i walk through what used to be a roy rogers and remember sitting at a booth with my mother and someone else, eating and laughing. i hear a meow, and i turn around to see a starving tabby cat winding through the table legs. a woman comes through the place i came from and she's older than me and she's holding the same kind of tabby cat, this one is fat and friendly. she walks past, and i follow.

i come out into a bustling mall, and i am on the bottom floor. i wander, taking long ways around to make sure to pass every store. the only store i enter sells linens and fabrics. i become entranced by iridescent blues and silvers. one silver fabric i lift expecting it to be a thick brocade but instead find it be a filmy lame which has an interwoven paisley pattern that sparkles in the bright white light of the store.  i turn the corner, passing someone loading up a cart. i have a flash of jealousy, because i have nothing, and can't buy anything. in the next aisle the blues dazzle me, thick, deep velvets and crisp cottons in cornflower shades.

back in the corridor of the mall i ascend a level by means of a winding staircase under immense skylights. as i do so i remember than i'd had a sweater, i must have put it down while i was looking at the fabrics. i stop, wonder whether to go back, decide to move on and go back later. i have the sense that i need to be on time for something.

i find myself in the top tier of a multi-level church, the congregation is filing in beneath me.

i descend one level and find myself in a choir loft. the stairwells are tight and i begin to panic when i need to pass people. i am suddenly in a hurry. i have decided to go back for my sweater. i am comforted by the fact that everyone who was in the mall is now in the church and so there won't be anyone to steal it. plus, i want to see those fabrics again, and immerse myself in their beauty.

the church smells like incense and decay and i panic and push my way through the last stairwell. finally i see the entrance. the service is just beginning and as i head the wrong way down the aisle i am aware that everyone can see me. i shake it off, decide to not care.

at the door there is a tiny, frail, grey haired old woman wearing an old fashioned aqua-colored hat, and she's tsking at me, lines in her face etched with decades of disapproval. i push open the door to the vestibule and i say out load to no one: "bless me father for i have sinned, it has been twenty-seven years since my last confession".

and then i wake up.

Some Changes Made Here

So I mentioned briefly in my last post my intention to post daily, if only to bury the post that shall not be linked.

But even before that post, I had been thinking of doing this posting every day thing no matter how boring or short or lacking in substance. I'm getting a little tired of this conversation about my blog inevitably leading toward "well, I used to get a pretty respectable number of hits, but lately I haven't been posting, mostly because I'm a big coward, and also kind of lazy and uninspired..."

And I know the best way to get inspired again is to let yourself write utter crap on the internet every day. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm even going to try not to skip Saturdays, traditionally a day of restoration and sleep after a long Friday night. You might get a post that's all one letter, though. Like "NNnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnn". Like I said, I'm not going for quality. I'm going for making all those little links in the sidebar calendar live and clickable.

For awhile I was afraid of posting stuff here because someone I was dating might come across it. Now I know that whoever I date is going to far too much of a narcissistic asshole to ever go looking for my blog. I needn't have worried. And even if they do go looking for it, posting daily will quickly bury anything of interest to them. No one will have the attention span to wade through my disorganized archives. And if they do, they won't last long with me. Anyone halfway decent will probably get sick of my attitude before long, or I'll move on to someone who's more emotionally distant. I love me some self-involved dickheads. They are plentiful and usually pretty hot. And nobody gets hurt.

it must have been because someone blew out my candle

I have to admit I was surprised at the volume of bad poetry I found. I knew there was a lot, but apparently, for a time during junior year of high school, I only wrote poetry, books and books of poetry. Judging from the subject matter and illustrations (I took pictures of a few of these, the one behind the cut is quite...gross), this coincided with the era of candles, razor blades, vampires, nine inch nails, prozac, and my first requited love (an androgynous guyliner-wearing goth boy who was also into candles, razor blades, vampires and nine inch nails, but not prozac).

I am putting the embarrassing business behind the cut. And then I will post every day for a month to bury, bury, bury.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find my Sisters of Mercy tapes.

Read this! It's IMPORTANT!!

Bad Teenage Poetry Blogging Day is August 12th!

I'm going to dig up the "most soul-baring, wrist-slashing, drama-filled poetry/prose from your teenage year" I can find, and it shouldn't be hard, because there's plenty of it. Some of it is astoundingly, terrifically horrible.

Because bad teenage poetry becomes funnier the more of it that there is, you (yes, you!) should unearth some angsty gems of your own and post them for all the world to see and all the RSS feeds to disseminate across the blogosphere. You know you want to. And if you feel bad about how bad your poetry is, just come back here and read mine. I promise I'll make you look like William Blake in comparison.

And no fair posting good poetry and calling it bad. If it doesn't make your stomach lurch and your face redden it's not bad enough.