Therese did it again.

I just love the stuff this lady posts.

I did it again. Or why should engaged people have all the fun?

I just lost an hour looking at effing wedding blogs. Granted, they were irreverent, amusing wedding blogs but I still know more about veils and dresses and wedding accessories than I ever wanted to. Why aren't there any entertaining divorce blogs? The ones that exist are dry and legal and horrific. From now on, I vow to make this blog about how to have fun while divorcing. What to wear while divorcing. What to do with all the empty shelf space after your ex takes a trailer-load of books. 

My first piece of post-divorce advice: Have cheap fun.

Yesterday, I reluctantly accompanied Big Guns to Fisherman's Wharf. I wanted to go to Hayes Valley or the Mission where all the hipsters like me hang out but when BG asked what we'd do there besides shop (which is expensive even at thrift stores and falls into the realm of chick fun) I drew a blank. (Even though he's covered in tattoos, it's not like we can sit in a bar, drink Pabst and smoke cloves cigarettes.) And that's how I found myself in a melee of frozen tourists speaking numerous languages like the Tower of Babel in the Antarctica.

We stopped and watched a group of strapping young street performers break dance. This art form has come a long way from spinning around on the top of your head. These guys could put any suburban yoga guru to shame! Cost: free if you can live with the guilt but I put a couple bucks in the hat.

Then we visited the sea lions -- always a good time -- and saw a very fat, middle-aged street performer (kind of shaped like a sea lion come to think of it) escape from the chair he was tied to while the hokey pokey played on his Ipod. The best part of this show was watching the looks of horror on the faces of his audience. Cost: free and I didn't feel guilty.

In a contrived candy store with false bottomed-barrels, we purchased a bag of chick-o-sticks and caramel licorice. Cost: $6.00.

Then we stood in a long, multicultural line at Starbuck's where the Barrista raised his nasally, American voice at every non-English speaker: "WHAT KIND OF COFFEE DO YOU WANT?" We sat and watched a homeless woman eat the rest of a candy bar somebody left on a table. Being in the proximity of so many vacationers made me feel like one. Cost: $7.50 for two lattes.

The view from Starbucks.

Parking was expensive, but we got there late in the day so we only had to feed the meter for an hour. Luckily I had a lot of quarters in my heavy purse. Cost: $3.00.

Total for the day: $18.50.

Excitement, anxiety, and depression.

My former drinking buddy beat me into recovery and I remember her telling me (not in a proselytizing way) how calm her life felt after she was sober and how much she liked it. I then remember thinking "How boring; I'd rather be dead." For me (and other drunks and junkies I imagine), I only felt alive when I was immersed in drama and chaos and would create it out of nothing if needed.
Some people come by peace naturally. I have to work at it, trying to temper my highs and lows. Even good excitement can be detrimental. The most recent example of this is how the thrill of decorating Big Gun's apartment took me out of my life for a couple of weeks. One of the first times (and this is embarrassing to admit) was in high school when I lost a few nights of sleep executing plans for my Keywanette buddy and that was before I had taken a drink or drug.
Clearly, this trait had a hold on me before addiction did. Only later did alcohol and drugs became my tools to control my disruptive impulses. Mario, too, is prone to exaggerated behaviors and hopefully I will be able to provide him with better tools to cope, although getting a 12-year-old boy to meditate is difficult.

Underpaid, glorified nanny

Blame it on my "pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps/your -father-put-himself-through-college-and-barely-spoke-English upbringing, but I don't like feeling like a parasite living off my ex. (This is where the voice of my counselor comes in: "So you're saying the state of California has it wrong and your ex shouldn't pay you child support?")

During one of the unused hours in my underemployed days I calculated (based on my niece's nanny rate of $15/hour) how much ex would have to pay a nanny to take care of our children and it turns out I'm underpaid by about $1K a month. I don't know; maybe I should write the state of California.

Love/hate relationship with boredom

Boring old married life. Comforting old married life. I hated the same old but sometimes I miss it, especially in the midst of Big Gun's chaos. This week I would have gladly traded the roller coaster for the merry-go-round of my safe, boring, quiet, sad marriage.

There are bad, bad people out there.

I have lived a sheltered life. In fact, compared to what Big Guns is going through I feel like Snow White surrounded by harmless dwarfs and talking animals. Snow White did have that horrible wicked witch/stepmother but it all worked out in the end. And this is not a Disney movie! Big Guns was riding motorcycles with -- let's call them the Lesser Companions, or angry, entitled two-year-olds or assholes with really small dicks. When BG was done playing and wanted to go home, the Lesser Companions threw a collective royal tantrum and took all of BG's toys. ALL of them. I have never seen anything like it. Nor have I ever felt so impotent and powerless. It's been a horrible experience. It's not that I didn't think there were people like that in the world -- Hitler, Pol Pot, George Bush and BP -- I just didn't think I'd ever know any of them personally and that they could first be your friend and then turn on you. How naive am I? The little part of me that trusts people is taking a long vacation.

Blech and blah.

It's one of those weeks where I don't really feel like getting out of bed. Seriously. It's unfortunate because the boys were on vacation with their dad last week when it would have been easier for me to ignore my life. Thank God the boys are big enough that I can ignore them until dinner time and lay under the covers all day and mentally beat myself up. It goes like this: you are a very bad person because you're not writing or sending out finished work like (insert names of all my famous friends here). You don't even post on your blog like that woman you just read about who posted 100 times her first month and already has 600 followers after a year AND is a successful lawyer. Then I get up briefly to get a 1/2 gallon of ice cream to bring back to bed with me.

Today I ran into a mortgage-broker friend of mine at the gym who got me all excited about refinancing. Rates are in the 4%s! OMG! She thought I could knock a whole point off my loan until I mentioned that I was getting divorced. The rates may be low but the banks are stingy.

It sounds like it's time for a gratitude list. What's good in this pile of crap I call my life? Health. We are all filthy with health in my household. We still have a house to live in. My tomato plants are full of green tomatoes. I have enough money to buy ice cream and cinnamon-raisin bread and butter. I think the raccoon who was coming into my house at night and eating my cat's food and growling at me got hit by a car.

And stuff breaks.

Yesterday, right after the nice Russian man left with a $260 check for fixing the washing machine, the microwave crapped out. As I was reheating my coffee on the stove, it dawned on me that the marriage was just the first of a long line of broken shit; it was followed by my heart, the water heater, the ice maker, the washing machine and now the microwave. What is going on here? There is some bad chi flowing through my house. I suppose I should go get a mammogram.

Things fall apart.

Specifically, Big Gun's life. He's having an even harder time than this pre-loved, divorcing gal and it is effecting me. I was informed by my trusted counselor therapist that this is because I'm deep in a co-dependent addiction and needed to get to an Al Anon meeting yesterday. Is there any addiction out there that I don't have? F.

Sometimes it is hard to see the good in a heap of crumbled trash and so I shall re-post this parable from one of my favorite bloggers, Therese Borchard of Beyond Blue. It helps to remember that I unnecessarily attach judgment to situations when I don't know -- never will know -- the full story. I will try to be like the poor old man. I was about to say that I have the "poor" part down but that's a judgment and, compared to most of the rest of the world, I'm wildly rich. Progress not perfection...

It takes a big man to have such little dogs.

But at 3.5 pounds a pop, anybody can bathe them. Behold, Bella and Shorty:

 

Big Guns has two chihuahuas and, yes, it was almost a deal breaker. IMHO, chihuahuas are not dogs but stiff, needy cats. My friend Susan says they were originally used by Mexicans for food on long trips. I can see the benefit -- they only eat about a tablespoon of food a day, they readily jump into overnight bags or purses, they have teeny poops and they would stay fresh until you got peckish. I did a bit of chihuahua-sized research and Wickipedia can't confirm Susan's story. They do suggest that, along with spaghetti and mah jong, we can thank the Chinese for the breed. 

I'm an animal lover and it's hard for me to understand why it's taking me so long to fall for these dogs. They don't bark incessantly or shiver timidly. They are cute, too cute. There is nothing to fear about them and that's part of the problem. (Even Shorty's occasional growl makes me laugh.) These dogs can't even get their mouths around a tennis ball. (Which basically voids the quintessential dog game of catch.) The most harm they could inflict would be to take a pea-sized hunk of flesh from my ankle.

And talk about boundary issues -- Bella and Shorty violate my personal space all the time. They follow me from room to room and as soon as I stop moving they are on me like white on rice. They also have entitlement issues and have claimed all the beds, soft blankets, pillows and comfy furniture in my house.

They are like newborns that never grow up. My cats could survive without me and occasionally bring home their own mouse takeout dinner to remind me of that fact. I find this as reassuring as when my boys starting peeing in the toilet. But Bella and Shorty would DIE without a human. They can't even jump on the bed without assistance. I realize that some people like this, which is why chihuahuas aren't extinct. 

Chihuahuas are vulnerability incarnate. It's possible that on a deeper level, they trigger unresolved childhood issues in me about feeling helpless. Maybe I am the chihuahuas? Maybe I will never be healed and whole until I am able to embrace Bella and Shorty with compassion and empathy. Or maybe I'm just a pit bull kind of gal.