Moving from His Big Fat Indian Wedding to Leaving Divorceville

Boxes. Dust. The pile for Goodwill. The small mountain of trash. Moving is a lot of work. Sometimes things get broken. Or misplaced. And maybe the move doesn't quite work out the way you expected. Let's say you get there, and the lights don't work when the electric  company assured you the power would be turned on. Or the toilets don't flush. Yeah. Like that.

So.... I like it here on the road to Margaritaville, but my flip-flops are nowhere to be found. And the signature that I expected to turn up on a certain document yesterday (after I fulfilled the restraining order by changing the URL and title of my blog) never materialized. My metaphorical feet are killing me.

But I wanted something to celebrate last night, so I just raised a glass to my beating heart. And yeah, I know, it's a martini glass. So things aren't quite perfect, but god, life is fine and good anyway.

And, oh--that is a margarita in the martini glass.

And sorry, but the Links Within don't work anymore. Busted in the move. And my blog list got lost. I'll find you all back again. Don't worry. Really, I like it here.

There is beauty all around me.

This is how a heart breaks

As I read This Article in the L.A. Times this morning I remembered how physically debilitated I felt in the months after Mr. Ex left. The pain in my heart was as real as a migraine or the broken fingers I suffered years ago after catching them in a car door.

The intense legal wrangling has made me feel awful lately. This morning I fought it as if I were coming down with the flu. Jazzercise, then a walk. I took time to notice the little finches in a tree near the post office, their yellow feathers the same yellow as the tree's blossoms. I ate healthily today, dosing myself with  squares of chocolate between the greens and veggies and yogurt. I drank water as though it might wash all of these feelings out of me. I took a hot bath and soaked while I mentally worked through an essay I'm writing. I read while I rested in bed and took two rounds of Advil for all the achiness I'm feeling. I prepped for the workshop I'm going to teach on Thursday, all the while trying to ignore Mr. Ex's characterization of me as "unemployed" in his response to my motion for attorney's fees.

Still, I'm going to bed early and I'm not taking the bottle of premixed margaritas upstairs with me. Only water.