Bad News/Good News

There were many bitter things about my divorce.
I especially resented that Mr. Ex didn't fess up and tell me that I could have gone to grad school on the moon. His secret romance was in full bloom by the time I came to my geeze-the-nest-is-nigh-unto-empty senses and began applyingto MFA programs. Depite the fact I had teachers who wanted me to shoot for a full on residential program at UC Irvine, I couldn't see how that would fit into my married life. Low res seemed like the wifely thing to do. I applied to 3 programs and got into all of them, but I once again went with the wifely option and chose a program in Mr. Ex's home state of Nebraska.  A new-ish rather unproven program.
When I left for my first residency the day after Christmas I was still living without furniture in my new place. I had a wall unit made from moving boxes and two blue nylon camp chairs in my living room. I was sick by the time the plane landed. My throat felt like it had a dirty sock lodged in it, and I couldn't breathe through my nose. I downed two Lemon Drops in the bar and bought dried mangoe slices coated with chili pepper  during my layover in Vegas and added an upset stomach to my aliments. I thought the tonic part of the gin and tonics might soothe my stomach on the plane ride to Omaha.
I did not want to be in Nebraska.
I couldn't talk because my throat was sore. I couldn't think  or read because my brokeness had traveled north from my heart and rented a room in my  brain. I couldn't write.
But things got better. Friends. Amazing mentors. A realization that my metaphors still live in the midwest.
And now this: the program I chose solely because of Mr. Ex comes in at #11 http://www.pw.org/content/2011_mfa_rankings_the_top_ten_lowresidency_programs in a new set of rankings.
And I graduated from there, quite happily. So, gee, Mr. Ex, thanks!

I do think it would be damn decent of Mr. Ex to reimburse me for my tuition though. I worked two jobs to put him through UCLA law school.

Sometimes Writing Freaks Me Out

I'm alone in my room at the Squaw Valley Lodge. Since 3:00 this afternoon, I've been combing through my memoir manuscript--taking out, putting in, doing what writers do.
It's been a while since I've gone all the way through this manuscript. It was confined to the armoire in my study for the two years I was in grad school working on a novel for my MFA in fiction.
Sometimes I forget the things I've written, and when I go back to them, I'm surprised. Undone even.

I found the third lost child, a little boy in sneakers, when C. was about two.  I had taken her to the mall for a new pair of shoes.  She was in her stroller, and we were wheeling toward Haagen-Dazs when he came running toward us.  It was a weekday, and we’d gotten there just as the stores were opening.  The mall was practically deserted.  Only a couple of other people were around, and they watched as the little boy ran right to me.

              “Uh-oh,” I said to my daughter, “This little boy needs to find his mommy.”  I bent down to him, and he practically leapt into my arms.  He fit nicely on my hip as I curled one arm around his back, using my free hand to maneuver my daughter and her stroller.  We turned immediately into a small specialty store that sold popcorn.  I asked the young woman behind the counter to call security.  She was about to pick up the phone when a mall security officer just happened to walk by and asked me to bring the child and follow him.  The little boy was still perched on my hip, his legs dangling while his miniature versions of expensive adult athletic shoes kicked against my thigh.

Just as the four of us started to walk away from the popcorn store, I heard a woman begin to wail.  I recognized the Spanish word, "Dios," as her voice rocketed into an alarmed crescendo.  A moment later a beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties emerged from an upscale boutique,  a diaper bag and an expensive purse clutched in her arms.  A much older man was at her side, and they both appeared terror-stricken until their darting eyes landed on the boy in my arms.  They reached out to him, simultaneously wailing and kissing first him and then each other, all the while managing to thank the security guard and me.  The man reached out to shake my hand and said in accented English, “Thank you, Missus! My little son is just now nine months old, but he is very fast for me.”

I pondered the man’s words and thought of my own dad who had been an older father.  My parents owned a grocery store then, and they took me to work with them.  My mother tied bells to my shoelaces so she could hear me as I walked through the aisles.  I wondered for a minute if I should tie bells to my daughter’s new shoes. 

The adrenaline generated by finding the little lost boy had made me hungry.  Instead of having ice cream, I decided C. and I would have an early lunch.  She liked the fruit tarts at a little café at the other end of the mall.  We could get some soup first, and then have the tart for dessert.  I was still sipping my coffee when I saw the little boy in the sneakers run past the café doorway.  I leapt up from the table to intercept him, but saw that his father was just a few paces behind him.

Hey Mr. Ex, the Older Father appears to be one of the recurring images in my life.  Good luck to you.  Really.

Meanwhile,  here in Writer's Conference Land it's all blue skies, rainbows, and party lights.

If I'm dreaming, please don't wake me up.

Divorce and Leprosy

I need a colony. Other divorced people. People who are failing at divorce. People whose ex-spouses won't communicate with them.  No returned calls. No answered emails.  Letters unacknowledged. Won't divide the joint assets.  People who've been expunged from the consciousness of the person they once loved.

Our friends are sick of our oozing unfinished business. Acquaintances avert their eyes on the street and in the supermarket. The rotting stench of leftover grief and anger and eroding self-esteem might as well be stumps of fingers or leftover nubbins of noses and lips. Not fit for polite society.

Our attorneys are sick of us too.  Or sick of our cases anyway. They've tried. They've taken our money. They want a colony too.

Could the colony be in Hawaii? Please?

In this email is a letter to you

Crickets are chirping on my patio. Candles blaze in my living room while my dogs dream, stretched out on the rug at my feet. My wine glass beckons.
I just sent Mr. Ex the letter I have been working on for two weeks.

             Mr. Ex,

             I am writing to thank you for agreeing to divide some of our joint assets.  I hope we continue to make progress toward a final settlement. 

             I wrote these beginning lines to you, as I was en route to Nebraska where I attended the graduation of some friends at UNO.  I also visited your family.  That  visit brings me to the reason I am continuing this rather difficult project of writing to you.  We have important family milestones approaching, Ex.  M. will graduate in May of 2011, and C. and N. (the latest intelligence reveals) may have their wedding in the fall of 2012.  My hope you is that you and I will both attend these events and be able to look each other in the eye and share in our daughters’ joys.  I do not want either of them to fear any drama between you and me.  I think wrapping up our division of joint assets and signing off on our final agreement would, for me, be a big step in that direction.  

             I want you to know that at this point, just over three years from the day you told me our marriage was over, I am ready for some version of peace.  The heartbreak is behind me now.  It’s tough to be rejected, to be “un-chosen,” but I really want to get on with my life, concentrate on my writing, and be at my mom’s side whenever she needs me.  You have a wife, a son, and perhaps more children (and grandchildren) in your future.  You are, and always will be, C. and M.’s dad.  The four of us are no longer a family, and while I do continue to mourn that fact, I realize there is no point dwelling on it.  I want to go forward, not remain stuck in our current limbo with our unresolved financial matters digging a hole of resentment deeper and deeper.

            And so the last verse is the same as the first.  Let’s wrap things up, Ex.  We’ve verbally agreed on what the division of assets should be.  There’s been a draft of an agreement on the table for years.  If you have comments on that agreement, my attorney and I need to hear from you.  I’ve spent more than $40,000.00 in attorney’s fees.  Continuing to drag out our financial settlement is most definitley an impediment to future peace. 

            As a final thought, I ask you to ponder the last lines of a Robert Frost poem that I’ve heard you quote many times:

                      The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

                  But I have promises to keep,

                  And miles to go before I sleep,

                  And miles to go before I sleep.

         Let us tend to the work required of us.  Though we are no longer promised to each other, let’s keep the implied promise inherent in our relationship to  two people we both love.

                                    Sincerely,

                                    Ex-in-the-City