Post-Divorce Hunting

I've had to do quite a bit of hunting since my divorce. A place to live. A re-imagined future. I've gone off in search of my sanity, my self esteem, my reason to keep breathing. I've found those things.

More recently, I've been hunting for a house where I can bring my mom to live with me. I think I've done it.

I still need new tires though.

The painting at the top of the post is Guercino's Diana the Huntress

Official Songs, Drinks, and Poems....and a Runcible Spoon!!!

Margaritaville has an official song. That's a no-brainer, right? Ditto with the official drink. But it might need an official poem, too.


How about this one?

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

BY EDWARD LEAR

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

   In a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

   And sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

    What a beautiful Pussy you are,

         You are,

         You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

II

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!

   How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

   But what shall we do for a ring?"

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

   With a ring at the end of his nose,

             His nose,

             His nose,

   With a ring at the end of his nose.

III

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

So they took it away, and were married next day

   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;   

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

   They danced by the light of the moon,

             The moon,

             The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

    When my daughter C. got married back in October and asked me to speak at her wedding, I considered reciting this poem since both she and her husband are professional sailors. I, however, did not think I could pull off, "Oh what a beautiful pussy you are..." so I wrote something myself.

    But there you have it. The discarded wedding speech is now officially declared  Margaritaville's official poem.

   And I declare the kayak to be Margaritaville's official boat.

photo credit: redbubble.com (the owl and the pussycat)

greenzebraaccounting.com  (the kayaks in the moonlight)

Haaaay, Facebook! My blog has a timeline, too!

I revised and updated my blog timeline that has been living rather messily in my sidebar. I like it so much I have also copied it below, into a post.

Timeline in a nuthousenutshell

July 30, 2007: THE CONVERSATION. The Someone announces that our marriage is over, that he’s getting married to someone else, and that he wants the house so he can raise his new family there.

August 6, 2007: The first of thousands of emails is exchanged with my divorce attorneys. Tens of thousands of dollars will be spent. The battle of the division of joint assets will wage for years.

August 10, 2007: Unable to bear the sight of my bed, unable to sleep, and prone to walking in circles in my house, I fly to the east coast to visit my mother and begin a series of travels, visiting anyone who will have me.

November 12, 2007: I move into my new townhouse with dogs Lola and Layla.The H-wrecker moves in with The Someone.

December 27, 2007: Running a fever, rendered nearly mute with laryngitis, and over-medicated with lemon martinis, I begin an MFA program in creative writing.

Some amorphous months in 2008: More travels, anti-depressants, anxiety attacks, huge attorney bills, internet dating, cheap wine, therapy, writing, gin.

July 29, 2008: Final decree of divorce is issued. Financial resolution of joint assets is bifurcated from the dissolution of the marriage.

September 6, 2008: The Someone gets married. The H-wrecker becomes the Little Missus.

September 25, 2008: I sit bolt upright in the middle of the night and decide to start a blog. I know the title, "His Big Fat Indian Wedding," and the pseudonym under which I will write it--"Ex-in-the-City."

October 15, 2008: Temporary alimony finally begins. I stop using the joint credit cards and the joint bank account and get my very own.

December 13, 2008: Online flirting gets personal with a hike in Griffith park. I meet the man who loves me.

Some amorphous months in 2009: See the amorphous months in 2008....without the therapy and the online dating. Add more gin and even bigger attorney bills. Add love.

August 2009: The Kiddo #1 is born to The Someone and his Missus.

January 5, 2010: Graduation Day. I receive my MFA in creative writing.

Some amorphous months in 2010: See the amorphous months in 2008 and 2009...add in bigger anxiety attacks and more therapy. More love. Subtract the gin.

June 2011: I reach The Someone by phone. He agrees to mediation. We go. Twice. We come to an agreement.

July 13, 2011: The complete Stipulation to Divide Joint Assets is signed by both parties.

September 2011: Kiddo #2 arrives.

October 14, 2011: Judgement on "reserved issues" (a.k.a. the financial stuff/joint assets) is officially entered with Los Angeles Superior Court. In addition, I am now under a restraining order that requires me to change the name of my blog, and refrain from mentioning certain persons in it. Hello, Margaritaville!

Somewhere in the amorphous blob known as time, as the daylight hours begin to shorten and the piles of documents reach teetering and confusing heights, my attorneys officially withdraw from the case by our mutual agreement. I am on my own to finish dealing with the QDRO and the attorney who is handling that. The QDRO is amended, at the request of the opposing side, to say that if I die before the QDRO is implemented, my share will not pass to my daughters, but instead will revert to The Someone. Paranoia steps into the ring and gives anxiety a punch in the nose. Anxiety fights back.

January 6, 2012: Stipulated Qualified Domestic Relations Order is filed with Los Angeles Superior Court.

January 10, 2012: I finally take the initiative and close the joint checking accounts and deliver the balance in the form of cashier's checks to The Someone's secretary.

February 1, 2012: I follow the instructions in the QDRO attorney's letter in order to receive my share of the retirement accounts by making the necessary phone call. "The information is being forwarded to the actuaries," I'm told. "It will take a few days." I begin to be more careful when crossing the street.

February 14, 2012: I call again regarding the retirement accounts. "The actuaries have requested more information." But I'm assured I will receive the information this week. I continue to exercise caution. I wear orange when I'm out walking. Then wonder if that just makes me a better target.

February 26, 2012: Realizing there is no motivation for The Someone to close the joint credit card, I do it. I also pay 3,000.00 on the balance in an effort to improve my credit score and to compensate The Someone for the inconvenience.

March 1, 2012: I make yet another call regarding my share of the retirement accounts. Now "it may take several weeks." Whatever "it" is. I wear camoflage when out walking and think about writing a murder mystery.

March 7, 2012: I make another call regarding the retirement accounts. "There are documents that must be produced." I'm assured that I will get the necessary information on the "defined benefit plan" next week. I wear white when walking and am certain to have a copy of my insurance card on me at all times.

March 8, 2012: I email The Someone and ask him what's up with my share of the retirement benefits.


Everything is so much clearer now.

Change Might be the Operative Word

I've had a lot of weird dreams lately. One where I bought a new car that looked like a fire engine--but only on the outside. Dust that turned into blood. An Irish setter that could talk.

Last night it was a fancy party. The women in evening gowns. The men in tuxedos. My friend El was radiant, towering over the crowd in her stilettos, her blond hair like an aura. Later in the kitchen she told me she and her husband were getting divorced. She was laughing and eating cake. As the party wound down, the husband followed me into the hallway and told me he wanted to marry me. But he changed his mind in the dark post-coital hours. It hadn't occurred to him that I was too old to bear children. The next morning he went back to El.

Somehow this rejection segued into a dream about house hunting. The houses were old and interesting. Attics converted to rumpus rooms. Bedrooms a warren of connectedness. Floors that needed leveling. Architectural detail that required shoring up. "This time I'm going to buy the house I want," I shouted at the group of nay-sayers as they murmured  their concerns. I was still wearing pearls and a party dress, everything a bit askew.

The day after tomorrow I really will go house hunting. I hope there won't be any shouting.