Needles around my nose and a three-drumstick day.

I have a beautiful niece, well I have four of them, but the one I'm talking about is the one who wrangles a couple of plastic surgeons in Palo Alto. She was looking for a "model" to test a new facial filler, which is like spackle applied with a needle. I pictured this being applied to erase years of worry from my deeply lined forehead. Nope. This particular filler is intended for marionette lines -- the ones the go from nose to mouth a la a wooden, hinged-mouth puppet. I'm open to new experiences so I agreed to be a guinea pig. (Ten minutes later I tried to back out--"Too bad; I don't have puppet lines."--and threw out the names of a few friends who were more likely candidates. Sorry J, J, and A. I didn't mean it. I was just scared.)

In the receptionist room there were three of us: me, another woman like me, and a tannish, thin man who looked like he was no stranger to Botox since his face lacked any signs of life. We signed release forms then I was taken to the injection room. My niece introduced me to the doctor and said he was the best injectionist and that, as a bonus, he would Botox my forehead when he was finished with the filler. I was grateful. I noticed that I was the only person in the room with wrinkles on my face. The doctor and I initialed another release form that I was too nervous to read but which probably stated that should I die or, worse, become horribly disfigured he would not be responsible because, after all, he's never used this product before. To further drive the point home, the drug rep stayed in the room and discussed doses and viscosity and mid- to deep-derma positioning and adverse patient reactions the whole time.

I don't have a thing about needles but after he injected me about thirty times I started to feel jittery and clammy, a bit like I was going to projectile vomit the two cups of coffee I had for breakfast. I was sweating so much I started to slide around on the vinyl dental chair. The nurse dabbed my forehead and my niece put ice packs wherever she could find exposed skin. The doctor decided to give me break and while he was gone the nurse said that when he came back he should fill that deep line in my chin. She handed me a mirror. I do have a deep line on my chin! It's hideous. I couldn't wait for him to erase it. We waited. My color returned. My face started to ache but my stomach unclenched. I was thinking, OK doc; I'm ready for my Botox. But he decided I'd had enough and moved on to the tan man. I could hear them laughing in the next room. 

Plastic surgery is a lot like divorce -- expensive, quasi-elective, self-inflicted pain and suffering. As I walked to my car, the staff told me to ice my face all day to keep the swelling down. I ate ice cream instead.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Image snatched from Sweet Home Style. Can you imagine living in a place so beautiful? I have to remind myself that even surroundings as stellar as this do not protect one from divorce, aging, high cholesterol or death. 

Beauty and mysteries

This is a corner of my friend D's backyard. If I were a better photographer, you would be feeling very serene and peaceful right now. There isn't a lawn to speak of. I ripped mine out of the front yard and if I didn't have children I'd rip out my back lawn (or what's left of it) too. Lawns fall under the category of what Big Guns calls "man shit." Gutters I can do; lawns remain a mystery and mine, like my marriage, is mostly dead. It makes me sad if I think of each blade of grass as a little plant suffering out there so I wont.

Anyway, my mother and niece came over a few days ago and made us dinner -- roast chicken, asparagus risotto, mashed cauliflower and key lime tart. My mother burnt the crap out of the cauliflower. I'm telling you this because she is not getting divorced nor does she have ADD. Maybe my pans are cursed or my kitchen is being haunted by some woman who died burning dinner? Like lawns, another mystery to ponder.

hugs not drumsticks

As promised, a new therapy: getting hugged by these arms and having coffee with the guy attached to them is as good as or better than ice cream. And those sundaes I like that I couldn't remember the non-generic name of? This guy -- let's call him Big Guns -- reminded me they are called drumsticks. He's so so helpful.

Two-cone days and shallow regrets

Last week I had a few one-cone days and was feeling optimistic but the weekend sent me back to the freezer. All this negotiation about who takes the children and when and me judging whether a poetry reading is more important that seeing your boys. Saturday was a three-cone day.

So, besides the obvious good and bad life changes that accompany divorce -- like getting the whole bed to myself but also having to find a job in the worst economy since the great depression -- I'm missing my rings. It's shallow but I love them still. This picture doesn't do them justice. It's like losing a limb. I know some women have the diamonds re-set into divorce pendants and brooches but I don't love the diamonds, I love the whole package. Is it bad luck to pass on a pre-loved ring to your children or nieces? Does it carry bad mojo? Some kind of divorce curse? Should I sage stick them?

Stay tuned. Tomorrow I'm going to post a picture of a distraction that's even better than ice cream cones. 

Divorce-onset ADD but optimistic.

Here is what is on my night stand at the moment. Apparently I don't have the attention span to cook a full meal or finish a book. This truth doesn't stop me from trying. I picked up two new books at the library today and I'm cooking dinner this very minute. (So far, I've only charred one side of the sausages, easily hidden in the "plating up.")

On a side note, yesterday I went to pick a piece of leafy detritus off my bedroom floor that was dragged in on the cat's tail and, maybe because I was wearing really cute 4-inch Marc Jacob platforms and tight bell bottom jeans, something tweaked in my lower back. Now I'm walking around like my father after a long day of gardening -- the hunched-over, old-man shuffle. It's not helping my mood. My friend D said that the lower back is the center of financial insecurity. No shit. While I wait to win the Lottery, I'm taking Aleve. 

Tina was right.

What's love got to do with it? Nothing. Divorce is about money.

I think that people fall in and out of love during marriage all the time. At some point, you make a choice whether you can or want to continue doing this with your wife, that woman who smacks her lips when she eats and has too many keys on her key ring and stuffs the refrigerator cheese drawer so that it's difficult to open."*

After you decide these things are intolerable, it comes down to money. Money is power and divorce is about getting power. This is how it's settled in California: the mediator plugs money coming in and percentage of time the children spend with each parent into a program called the "dissomaster." The all-knowing dissomaster then spits out a figure, my monthly allowance. It does not take into account expenses, of which mine are far greater. 

A has graciously allowed me to stay in the house with the boys for a few years or until he remarries or needs money. I'm grateful, really, truly grateful, but this also means I pay the mortgage and the property taxes and the pet bills and the water and PGE. Yes, I have more space and a yard and a gas stove but I also have gutters to clean and a lawn to mow and -- oh yeah -- no job.

In parenting therapy this morning I was kind of bitching and moaning about money because I'm scared. No scared isn't the right word; I'm a hair shy of head-in-paper-bag panic attacks. The therapist sympathized with me then mentioned that A felt lighter to her, which is when a little explosion went off in my head. 

Even though I'm glad that I'm in my home, I'm also aware that A has walked away with a few boxes of hand-picked essentials. His old term papers are housing mice in our attic. His old Mac is in the garage rafters. There's a broken lawn mower on the side of the house and an unwanted winter coat in the closet. I feel these things. They are heavy. I mentioned that this may be why A feels lighter -- (It delights him so much when I share my insights into his psyche.) -- because he actually is lighter. He replied that it has been difficult for him, too, that when he went to make pancakes for the boys Saturday morning he realized that he didn't have vanilla. "Right," added the therapist, "you have to set up an entire pantry!" Are these people kidding me? My angst about money is being compared to having no vanilla extract? Am I crazy?

*actual marital complaints.

Pre-pre-loved these would have come home with me.

Two of today's kittens, not from the same litter. I was thinking of getting a dog before the Big D and maybe more kitties at the same time. These would have been perfect. Me needs to find a job first and when me finds a job, me won't have time for any more kittens or a puppy. Alas.

(Oh, these bad boys will be available for adoption soon at the Peninsula Human Society in San Mateo.)

Playing the role of angry father...

Meet Kelpie and Comet, temporary roommates. I'm about to give them a cookie, which is the dog equivalent of my ice cream cone sundaes and explains that desperate, pre-fix look on their faces. (I just tried, unsuccessfully to upload the after photo of their glazed faces.) Anyway, they are staying with me for a week while their person, my friend D (who is even older than me!), is away being hedonistic and artistic at Burning Man. What I love about animals and especially dogs is they so clearly understand their roles: protect house, beg for food, love the person who feeds you like that person has never been loved before. I, too, have been playing a role in my marriage; I was given the part of my ex's angry dad and I played it with gusto. I played it until it hurt. It's what happens when a person has fuzzy boundaries. To wrap this all up a la Anne Lamott, if I'd been a dog, there wouldn't have been enough dog biscuits in the county to satisfy me. I was that good.