Girlfriend’s Guide on How to Spot Bullshit

Jake and AbbyIf you’re a woman, and therefore a sucker for anything that Bravo slaps up in prime time, (lest you believe it’s all Downton Abbey and Meet the Press up in this piece, it is not, I assure you, void of terrible TV, and don’t get me STARTED on that goddamned Steven Avery guy…) you’ve seen an episode of the show Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce.  It stars real-life spouses and a smattering of other beautiful people, and, while it has it’s moments of realness, I felt compelled to set the record straight that, contrary to what some in my circles believe, this fictional bonanza does not, in any way, represent an actual divorce, by actual people, with jobs, and bills, and kids, and shit.

I actually like the show, and was a fan of the woman whose books inspired the series, Vicki Iovine, from back in her days of writing about Motherhood.  Her real take offset all the ickyness of that What to Expect nonsense, although neither book series addressed the tribulations of birthing and raising multiples, and I’m still seriously considering cornering that particular parenting market with my book tentatively titled Double Trouble: Yes, You Will Be Sobbing in the Shower, But Not Forever.  Out in paperback, soon!

My first beef about the show came when the husband moved out.  Really?  Unless you’re a family making well into six figures, you discover that sustaining two households is expensive, yo.  Furnishing another place, even an apartment, plus security deposits, cable, electric, etc., it’s financially draining, and yet?  These peeps (who are portrayed as both semi-successful creatives, which is another conversation unto itself) still afford Porsches and fancy private schools, and middle of the day lattes.  Um, no.  It’s coupons and penny pinching and thrift stores and driving to the gas station a bit further away to save an extra 10 cents a gallon.  Insert Family Feud Strike sound effect here.

Next up?  The signing of the divorce papers.  These two, bless their fictional hearts, met for swanky drinks, pens in hand, to toast the end of their marriage.  (Plot twist! They never actually SIGN the papers, and they’re still married!  And hijinks ensue! BARF.)  My experience on this end was certainly atypical, so I’m recusing myself from comparison on the grounds my ex-husband and I walked out of the courthouse the day of our divorce, and both cried as we walked together down the street to a diner, where we had lunch (I had a reuben) and I tried with every fiber of my being NOT to burst out into audible sobs, and there was a Muzak station on in the background playing every fucking sappy song ever made, and I stopped choking on the lump in my throat long enough to say, “Do you HEAR this shit?” and we both cracked up, finished lunch, hugged in the parking garage after tearful goodbyes, and cried alone, in our cars, like you do.  Most real divorced people I know do not experience a smidge of amicability during a divorce, and any negotiations, signing of papers, or other legal shenanigans unfold across a non-descript conference table, in a sterile attorney’s office, who’s charging an astronomical hourly rate to undo your marriage. Not at a bar on Wilshire, in Louboutins, accessorized with a beige envelope clutch full of legal documents.  Strike two…

Lastly, Abby (the main character…keep up, folks!) encounters her first “dating” experience not long after she and her soon-to-be-ex-husband file for divorce, and he’s in his twenties, hot as hell, attentive as all get out, is empathetic and communicative, and just so happens to have a penchant for older women.  I’m going to stop you right there, show runners, because, um, NOPE.  The first guy I dated was chubby and in his 40’s, used FAR too many emojis than a grown ass man should, refused to speak on the phone because who knows why, and took three weeks to realize that I no longer wanted to play his reindeer games.  So, if you’re in the infant stages of considering a divorce, ladies, and you’re of a certain age, don’t expect a flurry of young fluff cougar hunters anxiously awaiting you on Tinder.  Grab your boots and be prepared to trudge through some deep douchery, because that’s reality, my friends.

Listen, I get that it’s entertainment, and there’s a reason Bravo emphatically advertises this show as a “scripted series”, so that it’s not confused with the REAL Bravo shows that reflect actual people in real life, like waitresses in a restaurant or stewards on a charter ship.  But, a high five to the peeps who made this show, to shed light on the fact that divorce can actually not have to suck so epically bad, and while it’s not exactly an accurate representation (I mean, besides me, WHO is actually surrounded by friends that are THAT HOT?), and features not one even remotely chunky character, or anyone rocking an outfit from Target, or shoes from Payless…I’ll take it.

My Original Post Was Preempted by Something Actually Important

Photo credit: Cutestpaw.com
Photo credit: Cutestpaw.com

I had a very different blog post in mind earlier today.

Something snarky and passive aggressive in response to an awful human being I met and with whom I interacted over the weekend, and it was all superficial and small and, well, funny and light.

Instead, I’m fixated on a story.  It’s not mine, but it’s a story that struck me in that inexplicable way things bash you over the head, as if the universe grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me up to a fence to look at a captivating scene off in the distance, to teach me a life lesson, shaking me a bit to ensure I’m paying attention to what’s happening a few hundred yards away.  I’m watching.  And I can’t turn away.

There’s a woman. She’s kind of famous. She and her husband made the kind of team that restores your broken faith in love and soulmates and being a parent and living a good life with a crazy family.

Not long after she and her husband welcomed a new baby, she got sick. And, as it happens all too often, she was sick with cancer.  The good doctors in which she trusted her life and care did all they could to fight the evil , but it won out. Her tiny body stopped responding to treatment.  They’re home.  To spend the rest of her days surrounded by family, and friends.  Living.  Hoping for a miracle that will probably never come, but praying anyway.
I’m not a religious person, but if that’s not faith, I’m not sure what is.

I can’t claim to know anything about much, especially when it comes to cancer.  Over my lifetime, I’ve known friends who’ve fought against the disease, and emerged triumphant.  Others haven’t been so lucky.  Some have held the hands of parents, or children, as they underwent chemo and radiation, some still have hands to hold, some had to let go far too soon.

It’s almost hard for me to say, and I feel bad even saying so, but I’m thankful my family and close, inner circle of friends remain untouched by any such tragic loss, even though statistics probably have other plans, and cast a dark shadow that looms ever closer as years pass.

Until then, we have a choice.  Live, or wait for bad things to happen.

Duh, you might say, of course you’ll choose life.  Well, sure.  But what does that mean?  Filling days shuffling to a job I hate? Attached to ingenuous people? Annoyed by minutia that won’t matter 5 minutes later? Going through the motions and calling it a life?

Fuck that noise.  Nope.  Not on my watch.

I don’t believe in coincidence.  Life unfurls the way it’s meant to flow.  No accidents, no wrong turns.  Others may not share my view, and that’s ok, but that’s what gets me through the day.  That everything happens for a reason. Success, failure, love, loss…our recipe for life is uniquely our own.  I’m meant to be in the place I am right now.  Mothering. Loving and supporting my family and friends. Writing.  Creating.  But that’s just the start.

There’s much unfinished business, more I Love You’s, and I’m Sorry’s to be said, and heard.  More spontaneous road trips and meteor showers and 3am kisses and meeting new people and reacquainting with old friends and learning a new language and taking bad pictures and amazing food and burned dinners and risks and huge rewards and disappointments.  I want to experience everything.  All of it.  The good, the bad, the miscalculations and the happy disasters.

Yeah, I was going to write about how I met an asshole over the weekend who briefly made me question my faith in humanity. So what. This may not be the life I imagined, a life in which a douchebag or two must happen.  But, that’s living. And I will live the shit out of this crazy life, be in the right now, and make the most of it, simply because I can.

To the Douche in the Dunkin Donuts Drive Thru

drivethruMost weekends, you’ll find me working, on the air, at a local radio station.  No, I can’t get you concert tickets, sweet buttery jesus, please stop asking, I don’t ask you for post-its from your office or free food from your restaurant, so just…NO.  Unless, of course, I can get tickets, then by all means you can have them.  It’s a delicate balance.  But, I digress.

Sunday nights, I work until midnight or later, and in order to sound remotely entertaining and upbeat, my body requires copious amounts of caffeine.  Also, smiling when I talk.  Try that little radio trick when you’re on the phone with someone…it really does perk up your voice.  You’re welcome. Part of my routine includes a quick stop at a Dunkin Donuts about 10 minutes from work.  Generally, my spin through the drive thru rarely garners a second thought, save for a screw up in my order.  Otherwise?  No big.

Last night, like clockwork, I stopped at the speaker to place my order for a medium, iced coffee, made light and sweet.  The kids who work at this DD don’t exactly ooze friendliness, but they’re making peanuts to sling donuts and drinks so my expectations are low.  The kid on the other end of the speaker gives the cursory, “Is that all?”  I assure him I’m all set, and he tells me to drive around.  I say, in a bit of a sing-songy, smiley voice, “Thank you!”  Normally, I’d just continue to the pay window, but because I planned to pay for my coffee with an app, I paused briefly to retrieve my phone from my bag.  During that brief stop, I heard the kid who took my order, totally mock my tone of thanks, and say, “You’re welllcome”, then chuckle as if he was laughing with someone else, at my expense.

Aw hell naw, you just did NOT do that, dude.

Just a few years ago, something so minor might send me to tears.  But this day, DD Drive thru douche was about to hear from me.  I drove to the window and said, “Are you the guy I talked to at the speaker?”  He took a coy, slouched stance to get a better look at me and said, “Maybe,” with a shit eating grin that told me he probably thought I was hitting on him.

“That was a total dick move, dude.”
“Huh?” He looked super confused, like, why is the hot cougar not hitting on me and holy shit is someone actually calling me out on something I’ve done because HOW DARE YOU.
“I totally heard you mock me back there, saying ‘You’re welcome!’ in the same tone I said thank you.  Not cool.”
“Are you sure that’s what you heard?”
“Um, yeah.  I’m sure.”
“Because we’ve been having problems with our speaker and people think they’ve heard weird things but, uh, it’s just a weird thing…”
“I know what I heard. That was a total dick move, dude.  Have a good day.”

Here’s the thing.  I come from a long line of black sheep ball busters, so I can take it as much as I dish it out.  On some level, I respect someone who has a quippy sense of humor and commend him on his technique and almost perfectly replicated pitch of my tone.  Well done.  I’m not necessarily upset that he outwardly mocked me, but that when confronted about it, he totally recoiled, like a scared little penis at the sight of water.  A topic I’m sure he knows a little something about.  See, kid, that’s the risk with such behavior, and hopefully you’ll learn this lesson sooner rather than later.  If you get busted, OWN YOUR SHIT.  Don’t deflect and pretend it’s a technological malfunction, because then, whatever points you earned for being witty go down the crapper, and now I just see you for what you really are, a tiny almost-man, who in the face of confrontation would just as well hide behind something as a shield than take your licks like a grown up.  That’s bad form.

This whole scenario should serve you, my douchey friend, as a nice little life lesson, wrapped in a casing of shut the hell up and be nice to people, jerkface, and if you’re going to mock someone, for the LOVE OF GOD, do it away from a live microphone, take it from me, the lady on the radio, I know from experience. So, what I’m saying here is, do your goddamned job and make fun of people on your own time.

The Diary of my Part Time Cat

When I rented my house, my landlord asked, in exchange for a reduction in rent, would I feed the stray cat who lived under the deck.  Of course, I agreed.  I established a regular routine ofcat placing a bowl of food outside, and cat seemed satisfied.  One rainy night, like something out of an ASPCA commercial, complete with Sarah McLachlan
serenading in the background, he sat outside the back door, meowing to be let in.  Oh, he layed it on thick, enough that I was compelled to allow him into the house, and into our lives.

He’s a vocal cat, a tiny little dictator of sorts, which inspired us to name him Chairman Meow.  He comes and goes as he pleases, and there are times I’d hear him scribbling, but I never paid much attention to it.  Turns out, he’s kept a diary of his daily comings and goings. (What? He left it open on the kitchen floor.  Was I just supposed to NOT look at it?  Of course I did.) Apparently, the good Chairman has much on his little mind.

An excerpt from his journal…

September 15th, 2013

Infiltrated the nest.  God, humans are easy.  A handful of meows and a slight tilt in my head to let the few drops of rain run down my nose and they are putty in my paws.  Targeting tiny, boy human.  Food status: mediocre but consistent. 

September 17th, 2013

Lady human loves me. Of course she does…I’m adorable. She thinks it’s a hoot when I meow after she talks, so, I’ll just go with that and see how far it gets me.  

September 20th, 2013

So, today, lady human was talking to me in this crazy, idiotic, high pitched voice, when she produced this tiny, metallic bag.  She shook it, still talking to me about some nonsense.  No, lady…no idea what the fuck is in the bag.  Why don’t you show me.  Then she sprinkled something on the floor that looked like food, but OMG, they’re SO good.  Good enough to endure her shrieking?  Jury is still out.

October 1st, 2013

It’s been a while since my last entry for a few reasons.  First, I decided to explore a bit.  Found boy human’s sleeping space, and damn if it isn’t comfortable.  And, unlike the lady human and girl human, he’s quiet.  And still.  Nice place to nap.  I tried letting someone know I needed to get the hell out of dodge this morning, but my meows fell on deaf ears. Taking a shit on a pile of clothes left on the bathroom floor seemed to get their attention.  It also got me banished from the house temporarily.  Note to self, don’t shit on their stuff.  Humans don’t like that.  Meh, whatever.

October 3rd, 2013

HOLYCRAAAAAAAAAPLADYHUMANGAVEMEATOYANDITSMELLLLSSOOOOOOOOGOOODZOMGGG

October 5th, 2013

Dude.  Cat Nip bender and I lost a few days.  No idea what happened.  All blank, except for waking up on my side and feeling the urge to kick the crap out of whatever was touching my feet.  That’s all I remember.

You Think You Won’t Miss the Snoring

I haven’t shared many details of my divorce with anyone outside of my therapist’s office, mainly because droning on about the end of your marriage elicits a similar reaction to when you swipe left one too many times looking through someone’s pictures on their phone, and you see far too much of Linda and her penchant for nudie Judy’s, and, well, suffice to say listening to someone’s divorce story is a lot like seeing your friend Linda’s naked ass.

Exposed, uncomfortable, and a stark reminder that maybe your own goddamned life isn’t so bad.

The only thing worse than talking about the demise of your marriage is the aftermath, which, at a certain age, likely includes online dating.  Fresh, new, interesting men don’t just flutter into my life like they did in my 20’s, when I met new people on the regular.  At 40, I’m lucky I’m not wearing the same pair of yoga pants for 3 days in a row, and the highlight of my week is making some domestic discovery (this week: Downy UnStoppables.  HOLY. SHIT. They are perhaps the greatest invention of our time) or organizing the crap out of some crevice of my car.

I enjoyed alphabetizing the paperwork in my glove compartment far more than a human should.

But, here I am. And sure, companionship would be lovely.  To include someone in my life, and share the minutia of my day, maybe grab a drink or dinner and a movie on the weekends, someone to hole up with on the couch to explain to me the ridiculousness that is Game of Thrones, to play Twister on some idle Thursday evening, or someone to annoy me with their snoring.

Not a lot. Truly.  Just something, nothing short of a John Hughes plot line.

Dating at 40, so far, equates to learning to drive a stick shift.  It seems so daunting at first, juggling the gas and brake and clutch, then you start to get the hang of it on a nice flat surface, then you get a little cocky and try climbing a hill from a dead stop, then everything goes to hell.  And, you quit briefly, but you try again and you’re so goddamned determined to get it right because there must be some magic, somewhere in the whole process.

I’ve met the married guy, who wanted to “see what else was out there” before he made the decision about staying in his marriage or not.  I went on a few dates with a guy who flatly refused to talk on the phone.  Any and all communication between us happened via text, which made for a shitty dating experience, but hilarious screenshots to my friends.  Then there was the guy, with whom I hit off immediately, who disappeared off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again, I thought, until he contacted me a few weeks later, and when confronted with his odd disappearance, explained he needed to take periodic respites “probably because of (his) complex personality.”

Y’all, I can’t make this shit up.

It’s a weird thing you learn when you’re married for a long time, then suddenly not, that while the sound of your former partner person breathing sent you into fits of rage that would make Alec Baldwin take pause, you simultaneously miss the sounds and warmth and proximity of another human being.  After fighting so hard to be single, you realize how much you miss some of the very things that annoyed the living shit out of you when you were married.  This was an unexpected side effect of divorce.

Sure, there are lonely days. but what I’ve learned in the absence of a partner is how to take an honest look at my existence, and acknowledge how good my life really is.  Like, really good.  I fill my time with a job I love, creating shenanigans and memories with my kiddos, reconnecting with old friends, annoying the crap out of my sister and parents, and rediscovering the joy of eating pizza rolls sans pants.  Wait, what?

In the end, I don’t need someone with whom to share my Hot Pockets, although that is a nice thought, so, in the meantime, I’ll just patiently wait for someone amazing to fall into my lap.  Until then, there’s always Linda.

What I Can Write While Waiting for my Eggs to Boil

Egg salad.

Pretty much the only thing I can eat right now, seeing as I’m sick with the streptococcal bronchaplague of 2015, rendering my throat something akin to steak meeting fiberglass.  And not in the good way.

Plus, as of yesterday, I’m 40. Fuck. 40, man. I distinctly remember celebrating my Dad’s 27th birthday (I was 6, for those following along at home) and thinking, “Shit.  That’s OLD.” Yes, I spoke like a tiny punk, even in 1st grade.  My body isn’t the same shape it was 20 years ago.  It has a shape, sure. Whereas I used to wear fancy, tight pants, now I more resemble Spongebob Squ…do I even really need to finish the joke?  I’m so lazy, I can’t even follow through on true, self-deprecation.  *sad trombone*

At the same time, FUCK YEAH, I’m 40!  Graduating out of my 30’s means so many great things, like…never again apologizing for a Spanx free outing. My once obnoxious demeanor suddenly classified as “sassy”.  Eye cream samples, FOR DAYS. (Because, apparently, upon entering an upscale purveyor of cosmetics, as a woman bearing wrinkles and lines and dark circles, sales peeps of said establishments bestow upon you every…single…emlusion ever made to remove said age markings, and they do it so sweetly, with their perfectly arched brows, and flawless foundation.  Oh, wait, you’re not even wearing any makeup. Whatever, Anya, the Ulta Beauty Brow Bar manager. I do love that you taught me some shit about concealer, though.  Thanks for that!) Also, massive cleavage that makes everyone in the room uncomfortable, except, for once in my life, me!

40? So far, so good.