Labor Day/ The story of two working lives

My mom and me a few years back, doing one of the things we did best.

We got 5 cents for picking the bugs off the potatoes, she says. That was if we did it for the neighbors. On our own crops, we did it free. Babysitting all night paid a quarter, she says. Which wasn't so bad, because you could sit in the movies all day for that--and buy candy, too.

My mother’s education only went as far as the 8th grade and then she went to work. She began her first full-time job at the age of fourteen, living with a doctor, his wife, and their newborn. Never leave the mother alone with the baby, she was cautioned. In the middle of one night, my mother awoke to a commotion, and was told that the mother had tried to kill the baby even though the husband had been right there with her. In the morning, the wife was packed off to an asylum, the baby went to live with relatives, and my mother found herself out of a job. 

After that she and her twin sister worked in the cafeteria a Catholic men's college. She remembers putting the cherry just-so in the center of the grapefruit halves for the priests. They were given rooms there on campus, and there were rules. You couldn't stay out late or the door would be locked. They never missed curfew, she says. 

Then they were a waitresses in Dubuque, Iowa at Diamond’s Bar and Grill and at the Triangle Café. Thank god, they got a free meal, she says. There were no tips in those days. Except from one guy who always tipped a quarter. The waitresses would trip over each other trying to get to him, she says. They walked to and from work since they didn't have a car. Their feet were always killing them.

Somewhere in there, there was a stint at Betty Jane Candies hand dipping chocolates. Eat as much as you want, she says her boss told her. The eating with abandon only lasted a day or two. And she sold cigarettes and smoking paraphernalia at a fancy department store in downtown Dubuque. (Imagine that.) The cigarettes were in a locked cabinet, she said, but still packs would disappear. She wasn't the only one with the keys.

Then she worked in a club across the river in East Dubuque, the seamier of the two sister cities straddling the Mississippi. She worked as a dice girl in the game "twenty-six." Her sister spun the roulette wheel. One night their parents walked in, surprised to see their daughters there. My mom and her sister were just as surprised to see them.

My mom’s twin sister went out to Baltimore first. They had a girlfriend named Janice, whose parents decided to move the whole family east because they could get good paying jobs at the Glenn L. Martin, a company going full throttle in the manufacture of aircraft for World War II. My mom borrowed money from a friend to send Millie out first in the spring of ’43 and then they both worked to save money, and my mom joined her sister in the fall. In 1943 My Aunt Millie started as a riveter, and when my mom went to join her, she worked for Glenn L. Martin as a file clerk.

Then came the jobs that I envy. If I could go back in time and be my mother for a couple of months, this would be it. I'd be a hat check girl at the Chanticleer, or the Band Box, or the Club Charles. I'd live in Baltimore and hear every fabulous band and collect all the autographed headshots of the stars. I'd be the photo girl snapping souvenir pictures, remembering to ask first if the gentleman and his date would like a photo--because you never know, the gorgeous girl on his arm might not be his wife. 

A couple of things happened next. I'm not sure in what order. My mother had a boyfriend, a grocer, who was shot and killed one night when he went back to check on his store. Her sister got married to a guy who didn't especially like her. She went back home.

After my mother returned to Iowa, she worked as a hostess at a bar called The Circle where the bartender introduced her to a snazzy older man with blue eyes so beautiful, you could dive in and never want to come back up. They eloped. 

My father didn't want my mom to work--though she worked in his grocery store for a couple of years until he sold it. She lived in two different little Iowa towns after that. Cooking, baking to satisfy my father's insatiable sweet tooth, canning, filling our back porch with crocks of pickles, sewing our clothes. I'd call that work.

After he died and she was swindled out of his life insurance, she went back to work. She was 51 years old, had an 8th-grade education, and had been out of the workforce for almost 20 years. She made parts for machinery. She worked at a factory that had something to do with fabric, and one year there was a small fire and came home with bolts of salvaged flannel. Nightgowns for everyone!  She made plastic buckets at two different factories, getting paid minimum wage. Her big break came after she got laid off and heard about a union job at the John Deere plant. She got hired. She drove a fork truck, worked on the assembly line doing whatever job they asked her to for more than 9 years--until she was laid off just a month or so before she would have qualified for a pension.

She took care of an old woman, keeping her company and preparing her food. She worked in a bakery in a town so far away that her wages barely kept pace with the cost of her gas. She had another minimum wage factory job or two. 

When her twin's husband died, my mother moved back to Baltimore where she worked for the City of Baltimore as a custodian cleaning office buildings. She retired with a pension that was not quite large enough to cover her supplementary health insurance. 

                                                                            ********

My first job was at the town drive-in. I was 14 and the wage was 50 cents an hour plus tips. An exceptional night was five bucks. Hardly worth the suffering when the wild boys drove up and ordered fried ovaries or fried tits. But even before that I think I began sweeping the floors in my high school my freshman year. Friends went across the street to the Tasty Freeze while I pushed a mop as wide as the hallways. The next year I laundered towels and and practice jerseys for the football team. I can't remember how long that lasted. 

When I was 16--legally employable, I worked summers and holiday breaks at the local toy factory on the assembly line, and did that job during the summers partway through college. Probably my best day there was the day I ran a giant box staple through my thumb. After the tetnus shot, my mom and I met for drinks at the bowling alley bar. 

During college I worked in the dish line, dusting (reading) books in the library, as an art model, and as a technical assistant at the arts center, setting up for shows and running sound and lights. During a brief hiatus from college, I sold blood plasma until that went wrong and I did more art modeling at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. The Bible Belt modesty caught even this midwestern Catholic by surprise. I wore a leotard with a chalk mark over my navel for the freshman classes. My last job before leaving the midwest for California was waiting tables at a fancy supper club on the Sauk River. I was made to shorten my uniform skirt twice. The trays filled with platters of surf and turf were too heavy for me and I was the recipient of more mercy tips than I would like to admit. 

In L.A. I narrowly missed getting a respectable receptionist job for 800 a month (1975) and instead got job for half that answering phones at a vocational school while wearing a nurse's uniform. Government Basic Grant money pretty much funded all our paychecks. There was a get rich and work for yourself scheme for a while where my husband and two friends and I made fiberglass automotive spoilers. It was a scam. I taught English as a foreign language at the Berlitz schools which was a wonderful gig in a bunch of ways. I met a man there who invited me to be his mistress in Buenas Aries. He has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen and I still said no. I worked enough as an actress to get my health insurance--thanks to the kindness of friends. I got my Equity card and made enough to put my husband through law school. 

I stopped working when my older daughter was born and never went back. There was a raft of volunteer jobs and the marriage and mothering seemed like very hard work. The house was well-kept and the yard was beautiful. Roses, fruit trees, herbs, tomatoes, and a summer of endless squash that my daughters still talk about regretfully. 

I fought for more than a year after the marriage broke up to get temporary alimony. Then another two years to finalize the division of joint assets and a "permanent" alimony judgement. I think of it as my 401K. I've learned a bit about investing. I make some pocket change writing. I have a lot of contributor copies of literary magazines where I've been published. I took care of my mom for more than three years. I became a T'ai Chi Chih instructor a year or so ago and make a little more pocket change doing that. In another two years, there will be Social Security. 

I don't have a career. I'm only marginally useful in this world where money changing hands often seems like everything. I've been really, really lucky. 

Where is the @%$&*#$ Beach Report?

I'm not quite sure when I was last at the beach.

As my mom's savings erode,  I've been considering our options. It seems like getting a housemate is the easiest option. Of course, I want a quiet, non-smoking, non-drug using, mostly absent, without furniture housemate who is a very nice, very kind person. The universe sent me someone like that when I needed a housemate a few years back, so I don't know if I'm entitled to another one.

With all of my kids and grandkids here over the 4th of July, there were 11 of us here, but keeping space open for those 2 or 3 times a  year gatherings is a luxury. I need to be practical--and so instead of going to the beach I did a massive clean out of my garage so that I can upgrade half of that space to an almost proper grown-up guest room. I've also cleaned out and painted my laundry room which is right next to the garage so that the garage guests can actually find the sink in there for face washing and tooth brushing. I can now hang lingerie to dry in there somewhat discreetly and it's no longer a complete obstacle course to travel from the kitchen through the laundry room to the garage.

I also painted my front door blue while I was at it.

So that's one of the things I've been doing instead of walking on the beach. And hauling crap to Goodwill. And hauling crap to the household toxic waste drop-off (which does not take everything-- so WTF am I supposed to do with half empty cans of butane and solidified silver polish and medical needles? People have this shit. It's not like it's spent uranium fuel rods. Give me a place to take it dear sultans of city and county waste.)

But before you get all aw hell no, this woman should be walking on the beach, I'll also say that I'm spending a very nice portion of my day communicating with a friend who has become more than a friend. We'd be walking on the beach together except he lives in the Midwest and it's hard to do that from there. It's hard to do lots of things when he's there and I'm here, but there's Skype and email and the phone, and while I have no fresh photos of the beach to share with you, I am well and happy. My mom is doing okay. I'm still going to yoga and T'ai Chi Chih, and dancing. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm better than fine and good. Hope you are too.

Amen.

I had already received the New Year's Eve email from The Someone informing me that, due to his declining income, my alimony would be less in 2013. Ooookay. Not much of a heads up, but I'm hardly a candidate for foodstamps, so while one part of my brain is Googling shit like, "how to find out if your ex-spouse has an off-shore bank account,"the other is telling me to deal with it. Still, I whittle away hours reading about asset protection trusts and law firm gossip, wondering if it really would be worth it to hire a forensic accountant. No? Yes? No. But then I check my bank balance and find that the auto deposit for my last big fat alimony check for 2012 is one cent. That's right. A penny. My bank account is a trampoline  now. I spend an afternoon on Trulia and Realtor.com house shopping in Dubuque, Iowa. I was born there, I reasoned. Why not die there? That bridge that terrified me as a child? Well.

I might have to move, I tell the man who loves me. Nope--60 miles wasn't far enough, now I'm contemplating two thousand. But it's okay, I continue. I might die. You might die. Anything can happen, I tell him.  I fantasize that he will come visit me, knowing that is nigh unto impossible. I fantasize that I will find a historic house with a view of the Mississippi at a tiny fraction of the cost of living in southern California, that I will reconnect will my long lost cousins, that my mom and I will never eat dinner again without someone else at the table, that daily zillions of  people are  struck by tragedy, and this probably doesn't qualify. But still, here I am in Margaritaville. The house. The birds. The ocean. The air. Space for the daughters to come visit and stay awhile. A kayak on the horizon. Well, there's nothing like the specter of loss to make you love what you've got.

Today the regular alimony amount appeared in my account. At this point, it's still "pending."But hey, it looks like I get to keep the extra penny. A found penny is good luck, right?

photo credit: voices.yahoo.com

Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones and Paper Slashes My Heart

Whew. There it is The divorce paperwork neatly stashed back into its box. A bunch of lavender atop it to deodorize its stench. I stayed up late last night organizing it...until I felt "divorce sickness" come over me. Perhaps the box will never be opened again, so does it matter if it's not in chronological order? Hell, no.

And the check came today. A man of his word.

Once upon a time he was my everything. I'm not even sure where that phrase comes from...a song, a movie? Not important.

These photos were on my camera (my son and his family were here this past weekend) and I loaded them onto my laptop with the one above. They tell a story that could begin with "Once upon a time," too.

The princess looks a bit wistful, doesn't she?

Maybe because her sweet prince turned out to be an evil sorcerer, and he's going to grind her heart to bits.

Oh dear sweet children, I wish you the minimum amount of heartbreak in your lives. If grandmothers could cast spells, maybe that would be the one I would choose.

Or does heartbreak make us more compassionate?

I'm glad to be still basking in the hugs and the love from their visit, as well as  the afterglow of my weekly sixteen-hour sojourn with the man who loves me.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I think I'll run all the way to the bank.

A Pen and Poison. But Not a Poison Pen.

1) Overheard on the Gold Line between Mission and Chinatown. Night.

A guy: There's a million dollars in this cup. All you have to do is drink the poison to get to it. Do you know how much a million dollars is? C'mon all you have to do is drink the poison. It's a million dollars!!! Right here in this cup. Just drink the poison and it's yours! You can do it. Just drink the poison and the million dollars is yours.




2) Valentine's Day. San Pedro and 4th, downtown Los Angeles

Guy #1: (stepping out of a beat-up van) M'am, excuse me, do you have a pen I can borrow? Just for a second? I have to write a note.
Me: Let me see. (formerly striding down the sidewalk, but now stopped and rummaging in purse) Here's a pencil. Just keep it. (striding again)
Guy#1: Thank you very much!
Guy #2: (walking a few paces behind me, now catching up and holding out a pen to me) You can have my pen.
Me: That's okay. You might need it. 
Guy #2: I doubt that. You're the one who might need a pen. 
Me: Nope. Keep it. It's Valentine's Day. You might have to write someone a note.
Guy #2: (laughing) That's not gonna happen.
Me: You never know.
Guy #2: Did someone write you a note?
Me: Yes, as a matter of fact, someone did.
Guy #2: I thought so. You seem like a very nice lady.
Me: Thanks! (Guy #2 turns the corner, while I keep heading straight, but he walks backwards for a couple of steps as he blows me a kiss.)

Scenes from the City of Angels...and devils.

Checks and Un-Balances

"I guess this isn't all that unusual" the young bank teller at bank # 2 said. He was wearing a pullover sweater that seemed a bit vintage. A sweater like a boy in my high school might have worn. "Just last week there was a woman who closed a joint checking account ten years after her divorce," he said, wide-eyed as if he were at the zoo trying not ogle some exotic beast. I'm glad I'm not that woman. It took me half that long to realize I had to be the pro-active one. It was quite simple, really. A cashier's check drawn at each of the two banks where the joint checking accounts were held.

The teller at the first bank was more worldy. Middle-aged with crew-cut, shiny with product. A beautiful pink shirt and a co-ordinating tie. He explained how he was printing out the transaction. Proof that the amount of the cashier's check equalled the amount of the current balance. Well...minus this bank's 10.00 fee (!!!) for the cashier's check. "You have to be careful," he said.

"I have two cashier's checks for you," I said when I called The Someone. I said I'd be downtown today, but without a car, and he could meet me in Little Tokyo or at Union Station. Or somewhere after I got home tonight. He'd be in his office all day, he said. I did not offer to walk several blocks and deliver the checks to his office door. "I won't have a car" I said. "Union Station," I repeated, and he agreed.

When I got there, I decided to treat myself to dinner. A glass of red was set down in front of me just as he called. "I'm eating alone," I told him. "I don't want to walk away from my table. Can you park and come in?" He laughed. Then told me he'd send his secretary in. "I'm giving her a ride to the train," he said. Then there she was, breathless and rushed, but just as congenial as ever. I gave her the envelope. "What would he do without you?" I said.
"Can you believe I've worked for him for 26 years?" she said.
"Almost as long as I was married to him," I said. And then she mentioned her train. We hurriedly wished each other happy New Year.

I had a second glass of wine. A chocolate pot de creme. I won't eat the whipped cream, I said to myself, but somehow I did.

And as I walked through the station to catch my train, in front of me there was a father with two little girls. They held his hands, the younger girl blond and the older one dark-haired, looking up at him as if he was everything.

photo credit: the writer of the above check which I found somewhere on the Internet ages ago and laughed my self silly.

The Wedding or the Check?

I'm a thrifty person. After I graduated from college my career aspirations included joining a commune, doing street theatre and living on hand-outs, traveling the world, and going to grad school. I never fantasized about marrying a doctor or a lawyer even when I discovered I could not afford grad school, but still, being broke in L.A. and driving an ancient car got old after a decade.

After I became an attorney's wife some of my favorite clothes still came from thrift stores. Which isn't to say I didn't enjoy the money. A house. Private school for the daughters. Travel. Lots of theatre tickets. But even then I didn't want all the trappings--diamonds and Rolex's and luxury cars just seemed like a waste to me. Weddings were one of the items I put in the category of unnecessary extravagance. Whenever we took our daughters to a big wedding, I told them that they, too, could have a fancy wedding. Or they could have a check. Eventually, those discussions were abbreviated to simply, "The wedding or the check, girls." I'm pretty sure they knew I wanted them to choose the check--or at least a very modest celebration matched with a modestly-sized check.

C. and her fiancé hovered between running off to Vegas and having a more traditional wedding. She was calm and happy when I spoke to her yesterday after their shopping spree at thrift shops and bargain stores to hunt down the necessary pieces and parts to make centerpieces. She was glad they were having a wedding, she said. She learned a lot--and one of the things she learned is that there are a lot of people she likes and wants to party with. Me, too. I'm thrilled there'll be a wedding. It takes a big event to gather our far-flung family together. Of course, not absolutely everyone we love will be able to make it, but big milestones are meant to be shared, I think. To be witnessed. To be celebrated. And the words "celebrate" and "alone" seem like they wouldn't want to be at the same party.

Me, I'm ready to party. I look forward to meeting more of N.'s family. To traveling to a beautiful place I haven't been. To seeing a bunch of my ex in-laws. And I want to draw the circle tighter around my daughters and my son, the people they love, and me and the man who loves me. This will require some effort and concentration, since we currently inhabit four different states. That geography might shift a bit in the coming year. But no matter how that shakes out, I'm aiming for a state of togetherness on a more regular basis. It will be easy to think about that this coming week as we revel in a state of fuzzy family love.

Love, Money, and Mink

I recently took my mother back to the apartment where she used to live with her sister until health problems forced them both to move a couple of years ago. Because the place is in the basement of my cousin's house a lot of their things are still there, time-capsuled as if they might someday return and resume where they left off.

"Do you suppose this gin is still good?" my aunt might ask as she leans down from her wheelchair and peers into the cabinet.

"Of course it's good," my mother would respond, opening the fridge. "But I don't know about these olives." They'd discuss the pros and cons of a martini without olives then, but they'd make the drinks anyway and sit at their table, a cumulous cloud of smoke forming under the low ceiling. They'd sip. And talk about how good it was to be back. 

Could happen. But probably not. My aunt lives in a nursing home now, both legs lost and her memory chasing after them.

What did happen was that my mother opened every drawer and each of her  little wooden boxes (many of which most likely came from thrift store or trash picking treasure hunts.) She looked through her closet and her jewelry box and stood in front of her bookshelves . "Take this," she'd say when I exclaimed over something. "It needs fixing, but..." We found earrings that have been in her jewelry box ever since I can remember. She still had the little golden expandable chignon-style hair clasps that I used to set on top of my head as crowns when I played dress up, her father's watch chain, and the crystal rosary in the pouch personalized with her name in gold across the white leather that her mother presented to her as a wedding gift.

I thought I was familiar with each and every one of my mother's treasures, but there was a surprise. "Is that mink?" I asked. The fur was soft as a kitten's, not marred at all by time, although the satin rose was maybe a bit faded with a hint of fray.

"Your father gave that to me for Christmas the year I asked for a mink coat," she said.  

My parents never had any money. The way I remember it, the only thing they ever fought about was money, and that was because there wasn't  any. I was touched by the story because my father heard what his young, poor-all-her-life wife wanted, and with, I imagine, a rather stylish sense of humor, he delivered mink.

And now the mink and satin rose is with my mother at my brother's house where she lives with him and his girlfriend.  My father has been dead for almost thirty years, and my mother looks back almost as much as she looks forward. Tucked-away treasures bring the past and the present together. I like that.

Rainy Day

I just bought yogurt with a hundred dollar bill. Money I was saving for a rainy day. Last night I dug through my bathroom cabinet and pulled it from a half-crushed box that once held some beauty product that undoubtedly promised to make me younger or thinner or more beautiful. That hundred dollars survived most of the last decade, and then last evening as I pulled up to my local bank I discovered my ATM card was missing just hours before I'd be leaving on a trip.

I went home and called my bank and waited briefly on hold while I read yet another maddening email from my attorneys asking for information I've already detailed for them. I cancelled the card and came close to canceling the attorneys as well.

The ATM card and the attorneys are dominos. Things are falling down. Yesterday was a tumble of phone calls:
The guy who's appraising the farmland got two calls, neither of them returned just as the two or three others I've made to him in the last couple of weeks weren't returned. He has my money. I don't have his appraisal. Which is needed in order to calculate how much dough Mr. Ex owes me.
I called the investment bank too. They have even more of my money. A check gone missing.
I called the bar association. They don't have my money, but some of their members have cascades of it. If that money were rain, we'd be hovering around the TV watching some meteorologist yammer on about The Storm of the Century. I'm getting something for that phone call. A complaint form I can fill out.

My Internet also went missing yesterday. More money dispensed for a service I don't actually receive. Every day or two, I'm on my knees under my desk plugging and unplugging, shutting down and starting up. "I don't want you to shut down," my therapist says about my grief and anger. I plug myself into her words and try to stay up and running.

Mr. Ex says the money I used in the 14 months before my attorneys managed to wrench alimony out of him (why o fucking why did they wait so long?) is money that I "took." In his narcissistic book of life, it's not support, and now I owe him. I don't owe him anything. He was "the taker."

Took. Taken. I have. I was.
Taken when we were on our final family vacation and he had no time for family. I was taken by him while he was taken with the Soon to be Little Missus and slinking off to see her. I was taken while I sat next to him at our daughter' graduation. Taken in by his charade as the perfect dad. "He's divorcing you the same way he was married to you," my therapist said. A point well taken. "He ignored you during your marriage and now he's ignoring you in your divorce." Going on four years of ignoring.

I can't take it any more.

So.

I just went ahead and took the money. Take that, Mr. Ex.

Now I have it for the next rainy day.

Here Comes the Sun

After six days of weather that made me think the perfect man might be a builder of arks, the sun came out yesterday morning.

The aftermath of the storm is that my street now looks like a papier maché project.















"Did you notice the mountains?" I asked a little old lady I encountered while walking my dogs.
"No English," she told me. (I think she was Chinese).
"Snow," I said and pointed to the hills behind her.
"No," she said, nodding her head yes.
"Snow," I said, trying again as I fluttered my fingers delicately and let my hands drift downwards. "Snow on the hills. Look." But I couldn't get her to turn around. It was startling to see the snow so close and it made me giddy to have no one to share it with. I restrained myself though as I finished my walk. I did not bound through the neighborhood embarrassing my dogs exclaiming about the snow.

Today, the second day of sunshine, there are still rogue puddles in the park that look like small lakes. But my patio  is now no longer a cesspool of floating dog poo. It's clean and dry, and the sandbags have been moved to the side so I can use my back doors again. Inside, my floors inside have been Roomba-ed for about the 50th time (does anyone else love their Roomba so much they talk to it? I think if they made little outfits for Roombas like they do for those plastic lawn geese, I might dress mine up.)

I'm so happy about the sun that I don't even care that Mr. Ex did not return my latest phone call which I made to him after my attorney emailed me on Friday, telling me that Mr. Ex and his attorney are still refusing to address the issues of his bonuses & reimbursing me for half my attorney fees-- and that they are still trying to divide the irrevocable trust. I'm not sure if it was desperation or optimism, but I called Mr. Ex up and asked him out for a drink so we could talk. Maybe mold spores have taken hold of my brain, but I really think if we were seated in a dark bar with Margaritas in our hands we could work this out.

Monet-ize

I might have thought the word "monetize" had something to do with Monet before I started blogging. I ignored the possibility of blogging for bread for a long time, but succumbed after I got anxious about paying my taxes. (I have no idea yet if I've made a single penny.) I like seeing which ads show up on the two of my three blogs that I've monetized. At first, His Big Fat Indian Wedding had ads pertaining to weddings--which was amusing. And there are always ads that might interest writers--which I like a lot. Today, for a short while there was an ad for a divorce lawyer. Now I'm fascinated. Wouldn't it amazing if Mr. Ex's law firm actually had an ad on my blog? I'll need to work some appropriate key words into future posts!

My French Underpants has quite a few ads actually in French!--which I think gives me a lot of credibility as a blogger writing about France. Of course that also means I can't actually read every word on my own blog which is weird. But I might learn a little more French that way.

My third blog, which I won't even name here out of fear that the title could be used as a key word for ad targeting is not monetized. I know what would be hawked there.

waiting

I'm waiting. Waiting for my mom to be taken off the ventilator. Waiting to hear her voice once that damn tube is out of her throat. Waiting to see her moved from ICU to the regular post-surgical ward, waiting to take her home. And I'm waiting for Mr. Ex to get his asinine self together and do what it takes to divide our joint assets. The marriage has been over for more than two years. We worked for thirty-two years, building our future together, thinking about financial security, how we'd take care of our mothers when they were old and where we'd live when our daughters were grown. Of course for some undetermined amount of time he was bullshitting me, stringing me along until our younger daughter was eighteen so he could leave and he wouldn't have to pay child support.

I still have no idea how long he lied to me.

And I have no idea if I really will hear my mother's voice again.

And I have no idea if the joint assets will ever be divided--or if Mr. Ex has a slimy big-shot L.A. lawyer scheme he's working on to screw me and deliver another gut-wrenching nasty surprise.

I'm waiting.

Dinner with Mr. Ex

I'm dining with Mr. Ex tonight.  I want to come to an agreement on my spousal support without going to trial and I'm hoping this face-to-face meeting will do it. We've batted my proposal back and forth a couple of times and I think we might be ready to agree. It's almost two years since he left me. He and his new wife are having a baby in the fall. I think it's time for the crawl out of divorce limbo--time for each of us to concentrate on ascending to our own separate versions of some new paradise.  I'm ready.

It's surprising how little pain is left. Now I just shake my head and ask myself why I wouldn't give up on a man who didn't want to be with me. I should have given up. But I guess we were both courageous in our separate ways. Him for pulling the plug and me for insisting that things might turn around tomorrow or next week or next year.

I don't want to be negative in any way tonight.  I don't want to utter a single syllable of sarcasm. I hope that no vein of sadness or anger opens up and spills forth tears or venom. I'm trying not to have a plan, to not rehearse what I want to say.  I want to stay open, moment by moment listening and thinking and responding.  As the day counts down, I'm visualizing a door flung open, upturned palms, a rose showing its insides.

Proposal

I've recently sent my Mr. Ex a proposal to settle our financial affairs before our attorney costs whittle our bank accounts down to the bone. I have a sick feeling when I think of what we are spending to leave one another in this time when so many people are struggling to keep their homes. Divorce and the dragging out of our financial affairs feels like a sordid addiction or a luxury so extravagantly unnecessary that even the desire for it dirties us.  

But he hasn't responded to my email and today when I worked up the nerve to call him and ask him about some things I needed to know in order to file my taxes, I took a deep breath and said, "Oh--did you get my email?"  

"I'm chewing on it," he said.  Chewing.  A rivulet of vomit worked its way up my throat.  The image of some rapacious monster devouring a village, Marie Antoinette and her cake, greedy bankers and fund managers and people reduced to beggars, people who need really need basic things just to stay alive plopped from my mind right into the pit of my stomach. What I am involved in with this man I once loved makes me sick.  

Chewing.  I can't stop thinking about it.  The animal caught in a trap gnawing off  its leg.  The cow with its chambered stomach senseless in  its pasture.  

I think I use this blog to pray.  Cyberspace, for me, conjures an image similar to  heaven. Clouds streaked with the energy  of people's prayers as they rise from earth seeking fulfillment.

Please.  I feel dirty and greedy and I want to be clean.

Shake that Money Maker

I have a financial consultant who, now that I'm about to become a fully enfranchised adult with a regular income, is helping me invest some money.  I want to be able to take care of my mother as she becomes more frail.  I want to give my son and his family a little boost that will help them buy a bigger house that has a guest room for me.  My daughters will take care of me someday when I'm old, but I want long term care insurance too, because probably by then they will have families of their own.  And who knows...maybe I want to continue my education. A masters degree at 57. Why not a PhD at 60? Of course, I already have a PhD in him.  I had no idea it would turn out to be worthless. But who knows? Maybe I'll thank him someday.

Meanwhile, I have meetings with the financial guy.  He brings me pastry and I make him a latte. He exlplains how the world of investing goes 'round and I get on board, hoping for the best.