Burning down the house.

So far this week I have burned two sheets of cookies, three artichokes, the beginnings of matzoh ball soup, and four pancakes. Not just too-browned burned but call 9-1-1 burned. 

I have divorce-onset ADD (DOADD). In the middle of cooking, I'll suddenly decide that new file folders will fix my life, jump in the car, and drive to the nearest Office Depot only to return to a house full of smoke and a pan so hot it leaves this burn mark on the back deck. 

My son says the inside of our house "smells like Italy." I think he means it smells like the scent of burning leaves that lingered in the valley in Ascoli where we stayed. Either that or there were a lot of Italian women burning the crap out of dinner every night.

Five-second vacations

Several times a day I go to this site: http://sweethomestyle.tumblr.com

 I jump into every image and spin little tales about living there, who I'm living with, what we're having for dinner. I'm taller or tanner or French speaking. I'm never an alcoholic or divorced. I'm full of joie de vivre and ennui. Even my garbage is pretty. 

Prescription for pain

It's all so painful, this pre-loved business. I'm finding that eating two to three of these beauties every day is helping my mood (not necessarily the size of my ass.) I've always been more of a Fudgesicle gal, so this surprises me. I am aware that I can turn anything into an addiction (like the famous pretty underthings spree in spring 2007), but as far as I know nobody has died from eating too many ice cream cones. Or gone broke; they come in an industrial-size box from Costco for $12.99. I think my higher power will be OK with this.

Separated two weeks.

I don't like the label "divorced" or "divorcee." (Besides, I'm not officially divorced; California requires a 6-month waiting period. FYI: in Ireland, the wait is four years and if that doesn't want to make your drown yourself in Guiness, I don't know what would.) Anyway, to me those "d" words conjure an image of a boozy, middle-aged woman who laughs too loud, bares too much cleavage, and wears lipstick that's too dark. (Truth is, I was this woman before I got sober and separated, minus the dark lipstick.) 

So I was driving the kids somewhere, thinking about what to call myself -- pre-married? separated? used wife? -- when I passed a Volkswagen dealer with a 6-foot tall banner announcing they had pre-loved cars for sale. Thank you Volkswagen's ad agency. I'm stealing the idea. I'm a pre-loved woman. Doesn't that sound so much more positive than divorced? I thought so. And it's true: A, the pre-husband, says he loved me for about 16 of the 18 married years plus three years of dating. I can't remember when, exactly, the love began. I also don't know when, exactly, the love ended so let's call it 17 years. Not a bad track record. I feel a smidgeon better if that's possible for a pre-loved woman who feels as if someone is pulsing a Cuisinart in her guts.