New Name, New Furniture, New Life

My ex had a night a couple of weeks ago where he found it necessary to finally push me too far, up to and including accusing me of trying to kill him in a coma. Okay, wake up and smell the stinky signs of "ain't gonna be friends for a decade or so" and "stop treating this man like he's the delicato and yourself like teflon." Or it could be the progressive accumulation of Al-Anon meetings. But I doubt it - only because I didn't detach with love, I detached with an amputational swipe. "No more!" she cries, sword in hand. I shall no longer be the recipient of your refuse, the receptacle of your trash. How dramatic!

Actually, I did it all with one little email:

"...1. I will speak with you about Sasha [our daughter] and everything and anything having to do with her.
2. I will speak with you about any lawsuit and anything having to do with any of them.
3. I will speak with you about anything having to do with the house.

And that’s about it. I’m done being anyone’s punching bag. I’m afraid you will have to work through your need to dump with someone else..."

With these boundaries I thee unwed. Along came a fantastic flush of peace, and I knew all would be well. Last week I found out that my brother's ex-wife, also a Nancy, has taken back her maiden name, which frees up my REAL name for me. And so I'm taking it back. The first time I signed it I had a rush of gratitude and a new/old recognition of a Nancy I had only glimpsed a long time ago. Go ahead, wave to that cute little blonde. Okay, she does look a little different now, but still recognizable...

All right, now I get this idea in my head that I need to sell off the "things" in my house that remind me of my former life. These "things" need to go now that I've thought of this, mainly because I don't have a job still and I have nothing else to think about. So I utilize the infamous craigslist and start listing: table and chairs (the worst offenders of former insanity) go first, then computer equipment, living room chairs (don't ask), a desk, a couch, etc., etc. Bub-byeeee. And with this money, I replace everything: table and chairs, living room chairs, etc. What did George Carlin say: "Why is it that our shit is everyone else's stuff and their shit is our stuff?" Well I am living this saying and it's feeling good. Real good.

Next I'm adding a deadbolt, just because a psychic told me to. See future post, "The Psychic Told Me There's Never Enough Locks On Your House."

At Barnes & Noble every year they have a promotion in January called "New Year, New You." I'm thinking that this year I'm having that promotion too.

Today I'm grateful to be Nancy [what's-her-name].

Love Is That Sync-ing Feeling

This subject has come up over and over again in the last week. And believe it or not, it's come up with more than five people in my life. But I'll start with one.

I have a girlfriend who is on her way to 40 and never been married. Let's call her Frida, since I'm staring at a photo of Frida Kahlo on the TV Guide. Frida thinks that having a baby is The Goal, that she has so much love to give and that she will receive all that love back as a result of giving it to this proposed child. She may be right.

She is a dating maniac, or, as I call my brother, a serial dater. Frida has a goal in mind, a position to fill and she's looking for someone to fill it: father. She wants to be a mom. So, she kind of interviews these guys, checks them out, checks them off, moves on to the next. Again, I do not stand in judgment, necessarily, with her methodology - I just wonder where the love went.

Frida also has a man in her life, we'll call him Diego, who has recently been soulfully connected with her, who would practically harness the moon for her. He does not want children, and he's sure enough about that that he got a vasectomy years ago. He's a good person, he just wants to work as hard as he can to be the best he can be and to love his life, and to share it with his companion/wife. He does not believe he can do this with kids in his house. And, thank god, he doesn't just do it anyway, because the world certainly doesn't need any more delinquents on the street; delinquents being created by persons who don't want kids in their house but have them anyway. Or think they want them and then find out that you have to take care of them 24/7 for at least 18 years. Right? Hey, it's my blog!

Frida is certain she loves Diego with all her heart but wants to have a kid. So she has decided to "find a father" and let this man go by the wayside. I guess she feels she needs part of her heart back, so she'll take it all. I asked her what she was going to do with the rest of her heart after she finds the father of her child. She says she'll consider giving it to him if he's worth half of what Diego's worth. Wow. Is it a tiny bit chilly in here?

I have another friend, what should we call her? How about Aveda, after the hand lotion on my desk. Aveda is married to...Tully. They have a great marriage, having traveled the world, skiing, surfing, homeowning, friending, caring, etc. Tully wants kids. Period. He was raised catholic, comes from a big family and believes it's his thing to do. Aveda is reluctant. She loves her husband tremendously, as does he love her, and they have what I would definitely want in a marriage - a true partnership with another human being. Very cool.

So Aveda tells me one day that because she loves Tully, she's agreed to get pregnant. But life isn't that easy, of course, and they have been trying to get pregnant for 2 years now. Everyone's been tested and everyone's fine and the extra ooompfs have been added to make the guys swim faster and the eggs drop farther but, nope, no go yet. They are about to start IV therapy, which is about $10K a pop and has no guarantee at all whatsoever.

And what, pray tell, has happened to their loving, thriving relationship? It's gone to hell in a handbasket. It doesn't appear to me that either one of them knows what result they're looking for anymore, other than the little "plus" sign after Aveda pees on the stick. No traveling, no parties in their home, no neighbor kids over for desserts that they used to try out and games to play afterward. No. It doesn't look to me like they even like each other any more. So even if they do get pregnant, they will not have the heart to do for each other or for their child what needs to be done - LOVE each other with all their hearts.

Interesting last minute observation: Frida had an abortion many years ago. And Tully's girlfriend in high school had an abortion too. When I ask either if they think this has anything to do with their hard-driving pursuit to have a child, that remorse might creep into this picture, that they think this could be absolution, both say - NO! Just no, then the conversation changes.

I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions on that one. But I'm here to tell you that it doesn't work anyway. I know.

My friends Aveda and Tully are hanging on by a thread these days. I know Aveda agreed to try until she was 45, but they've both become compulsive eaters and couch potatoes in their unhappiness. Aveda tried as best she could to encourage Tully to finish his degree online and get his teaching certificate - to become a grade school teacher and love as many children as the Power That Is would put through that school over the years and maybe stop the obsession for a "blue-eyed, redheaded version" of himself. Alas, he is too depressed now to even answer her. Where did the love go? I wish them well.

I read a statistic recently that married persons that decide to have a child before they are married at least 7 years have a 72% chance of ending up a single parent. The divorce rate is astounding.

I would like to think that if I fell in love with someone who did not want kids, it would be because this might not be my incarnation for motherhood. I tell you, I would like to think that if I had what my aforementioned friends once had, I would hang onto it and water it and nurture it and grow it and love it with all my willing soul. And hopefully I will one day.

Today I'm grateful to have been through what I've been through and to have come a little closer to knowing what I think love is. As my mom said in her last days in hospice, "It's all about relationships, it's all about love. That's It."

Bank of America Bites

Once a week, every single week, for the last year:

Ring...ring...ring...

"Hello?"
"Yes is David [xyz] there please?"
"No, he doesn't live here anymore. Who's calling?"
"May I speak with a Nancy [xyz] then?"
"This is actually THE Nancy [xyz]. Who's calling please?"
"This is Bank of America calling..."
"Do you have my file pulled up in front of you?"
"...I am required by law to tell you that we are calling in an attempt to collect a debt owed..."
"I know, I know, can you pull up my file please?"
"...in the amount of [fill in the blank], owed since..."
"I speak with you guys every week..."
"...January of 2009."
"...and tell you the same thing. Please just pull up the file..."
"Have we yet given you the numbers for HUD?"
"...and read it so you can - what?"
"The numbers for HUD and [some other gov't agency]"
"Yes, of course, you give them to me once a week. I've already got a workout in the works with BoA and if you'd just read my file..."
"I have that you are past due on your mortgage in the amount of [HELP]. What manner of payment will you be using today to remedy this delinquency?"
"Hahaha!"
"Hello? What credit card will you be using?"
"Listen, pull up my file and I'll talk with you. Just read it and I'll wait."
"We also accept certified..."
"READ IT. I'll wait."
"...bank checks and certified money orders."
"Well, I've been saving up my Welfare checks for a couple of months, will you take those?"
"Pardon me?"
"Listen, just a take a minute and read - ok. Here it is. We bought this house, my then-husband had a catastrophic illness 3 months later, wound up in a coma for four months, I lost my job, he's legally blind on a stomach tube now so obviously he lost his, I'm looking for work and not finding it, you gave me a Making Home Affordable loan and reneged on it and now I'm waiting to hear back from a woman who's handling our workout."
"I also wish to tell you that this call is being recorded for the purposes of..."
"HELLO!?"
"Well, that certainly doesn't stop the collection process. You are still in arrears."
"Have you ever heard of Lisa [abc]. She is working on our loan."
"I am not with the department that refinances. I am attempting to collect a debt."
"Do you guys never speak with each other?"
"The department you speak of is more than likely in Pittsburgh. I'm in Texas and I would like to know what form of payment you will be using today."
"Well, Texas explains a lot."
"Pardon me?"
"Nothing. Please hand me over to your supervisor if you're not going to read my file."
"All right, your file in now up on my screen. Oh. My. Well. May I put you on hold for a moment?"
"Need a little time NOW, don't we?"
"I'll be right back. Please hold."

**WTF, where do they get these jingles that play on a loop like this? Is there someone who studies these things somewhere, testing them on lobotomy patients to see if they play them over and over a hideous number of times they will be able to get them to fork over their life savings?**

22 MINUTES LATER

"Yes, Mrs. [xyz]? Are you still there?"
"Of course."
"I see that you were delinquent on your loan modification paperwork."
"Here we go. Are you listening?"
"Of course."
"... - You made a deal with us. You sent paperwork to me. It needed to be signed in front of notary. My ex-husband is severely disabled and I could not get him to a notary until the last day of the time period, which by the way was too short, like stoopid fresh, aight?"
"Pardon me?"
"Nothing. I called your number and spoke with Kathy. Do you know Kathy?"
"Maam, there are any number of people here who..."
"Oy, never mind! I told Kathy that the papers were going to be late by less than a day and she said, "GO GO GO," to the BoA by my house, have them signed, notarized, etc. So that's what I did. I had the guy fax them to you and I also Fed Exed the originals the same day."
"And?"
"And you cashed my first payment check but sent back the paperwork saying that it was several hours later than the cut off period so the deal was a no go."
"Right. How would you like to pay off your arrears."
"Don't you see the note in my file from Kathy saying that it's okay for the papers to be late?"
"Yes, I see the note. But we didn't honor it. How will you be paying today?"
"Give me your fucking supervisor."
"Please hold."

**Mindless Muzak Again**

"I sent a note to my supervisor with your situation. He is not in at the moment. I would advise you to call back our 800 number and speak with a supervisor in a couple of hours."
"Have you lost your mind? I'm not calling back the 800 number. I'll go postal - you have him call me."
"We don't do that maam."
"You just did. You just now are...never mind! Can I ask you, why did they cash my check for the new amount for the mortgage if the deal is off?"
"Well, maam, it is a check."
"You cashed it because it's a check? Like generically speaking?"
"It was a check made out to us. We cash those."

"What's your name?"
"My name is Mindy."
"Well then, bub-bye Mindy."
Click!!

Rinse and repeat next week. Today I am grateful to still be squatting in my own home.

This Is Why I Am No Longer Married, Part Negative One

Here is today's thought for the day: "Unhappiness is 99% selfishness."

Wow. Take a moment to let that one settle. Simple and yet...TRUE. Except I would probably bring the 99 down a couple of notches, to like say 98.3%. Just because it's my blog and I can if I want to.

I married an unhappy guy. We met, married and lived in New York City in the 90s where being discontent and disenfranchised was hip and part of the East Village/CBGBs mentality. He was the first seemingly "available" man I had ever met. He looked right at me and held my gaze, which is not easy for me to do. He told me he liked me and that he thought I was funny in the very first conversation we had. He said he would call, he told me when (the next day), and HE DID (holy crap). He did not attempt to make me jealous when he felt insecure by checking out or flirting with other women. When it came to me, there wasn't a game in the console slot of his person - he just dived in head first and, I guess, hoped for the best. How attractive is that, I ask you?

It was scary too - I needed a lot of help from my girlfriends. But wow. Such a compliment, a man who is blindly willing to trust that you're a good enough person not to stomp on his heart; who moves forward despite all the wiggy freak-out that shows up in one's head with new beginnings. Sounds about perfect, right?

Yet, if disgruntlement with the world at large was the badge of the very hip, then he was the Sheriff of the hipster posse. Okay, I was hip, but I wasn't very good at it. My glass has always been half full, even though I wore all black, berets and smoked with a cigarette holder. He was MASTER of hip, particularly when it came to disgruntlement. His glass was half empty - wait, no - three-quarters, dammit! People sucked, places sucked, things sucked. And, according to him, all of it sucked on purpose, like a plot to victimize all suckees. Just to fuck with your reality.

You think I'm exaggerating, don't you? I'm really not. Here's a regular day: We get up, it's too cold and the super in our building has made it that way because he's anti-semitic. We get dressed and the dry cleaner has not sufficiently cleaned his shirt. They don't like him because he doesn't tip. We walk to the subway and it screetches too loudly, because our tax dollars are used to line the pockets of the mayor so that he can take his mistress to the opera.

Are you feeling like tuning out? Because we're not even to work yet. The coffee guy put sugar in his coffee because he's jealous of his good looks, the elevator's too small because they didn't know how to build them in the 1940's, the bosses hate him because he knows the right thing to do before they do, blah, blah, blah - lunch. Which sucks. Meetings suck, rides home suck, dinner sucks, etc. I think that's probably enough for now, because in simple remembrance of these days my fingers have become depressed and are not willing to continue typing to finish out the example day.

In the beginning, of course, I attempt to counter all this suckiness by suggesting simple explanations or derailing the downer. The super himself is Jewish, I have never tipped the dry cleaner and grape juice stains for life, the mayor broke up with his mistress. Hey, look, the sun's out, there's your best friend, they cleaned up the park. But these things that I think are going to soothe and help make positive situations out of negative ones are lost on him and actually make him despise me for my light touch.

I think what's most amazing about my part in the whole marriage is that I couldn't see this simple fact for well over ten years: My ex is very, very comfortable in his discomfort - and really doesn't want life to feel any better. It would totally negate everything he has ever said and thought and he would then feel lost or like a complete horse's arse. But a curmudgeon he is and that is what he'll stay. And I wish him well in his preferred state of unhappiness.

Today I am grateful that I can hear the surf and feel the wind on my face and love my friends and family - and maybe even a man again, if only from afar. For today anyway.

Sleep Junkie Withdrawal, Night Six

Wow. I am by nature a sleep junkie. See former post "Sleep Is My Drug Of Choice." It’s taken me several decades to finally have any kind of sympathy for friends of mine who complain of insomnia – something that’s really never been a problem for me for more than one or two nights, tops. And yet, here it is. Payback’s a bitch.

I do not like this, Sam I Am. Nope, not at all. I called my daughter by my dog's name. Sasha sounds nothing like Gus, nor do they resemble each other in the least. Drove through a red light because I got lost in my own singing TO A MILEY CYRUS SONG (I'm truly insane), only to have a mom with triplets in a van follow me, demanding that I pull over, which I didn't. Mainly because I don't appear to have a very good command of the English language right now and what the hell, was she going to do - make me walk a straight line while touching my finger to my nose?

Oops, maybe I knew her from high school and she wanted to say hi...? Nah.

I met with a colleague today at Barnes & Noble to talk about setting up self-employment and about the book I'm writing. We sat in those comfy chairs that you sink down in (the ones that probably have cooties in them) and I caught my head bobbing while she was talking, like, with a little bit of drool burbling down from the left side of my mouth. I sure wish I would have taped that meeting. And, ech, now I'm itching all over...

I'm exhausted, ready for bed, it's 9:30, right? I will fall asleep around 11:00ish and the quality will be somewhat light in nature and then 2:30 or 3:00 will come and WHAP, I'm done. My eyes flip up like curtains being yanked open by a drawstring and that's it. I read, I write, watch TV, I play Samurai Sudoku, and, let me tell you, my fantasy life is getting a freaking workout, you know?

These visitations from the P.M. Wide Awake Fairy better be over soon or I'm going to end up sitting at Game Night with my friends in a wheelchair grunting spittle-laden answers from a dark corner of the room.

I just want to take this opportunity to apologize to all my insomniac friends who have attempted to get my attention with stories of their suffering while I ordered yet another cup of coffee at dinner, smiling my way home to bed. This sucks.

Today, I can't wait to be grateful again for sleep.

My Apple Did Not Fall Far From My Tree

Dora The Explorer:



That's for those of you who may not know or remember our little Hispanic friend from television on Nick Jr. She is a little cartoon girl, traveling with a monkey "Boots", a map that sings, a backpack with a hyper-smile and googley eyeballs and is perpetually being followed by a creepy looking fox named "Sniper" who hides in trees and bushes, etc., trying to steal from her. The map sings to her about where to go and she has to clear a bunch of obstacles along her way. She is always alone and is more than likely about five years old. When she arrives at her destination, she sings a lot, in both English and Spanish, and we never really find out why she's so happy about where she has found herself.

For her composition classes, my 13 year old daughter, Sasha, chose to write her theory on Dora and read it in front of the class:

"Dora The Explorer's story: At age five, Dora's parents were both drug dealers. They were illegal immigrants in the USA. Her parents got caught and deported, so she runs by herself to deliver the drugs for them with the help of Boots and Backpack and the Drug Map. She imagines her inanimate friends talk to her cuz she is extremely wasted, from smoking her own stash. Swiper, the fox, is an undercover cop trying to confiscate the drugs and the map and arrest Dora to return her to Mexico to stand trial with her parents."

Okay. Did I hear a phone ring? Why, yes I did. "Hello, Ms. [Eckstein Middle School teacher]. Yes, this is Sasha's mom. She what? Well, heh, heh, wow, isn't she just a creative kid? I'm sorry, what's that? Oh my, well, that's unfortunate timing, isn't it? No, I doubt that she knew the presentation of her story was going to be on the same day as the Seattle Police's school assembly on drug and alcohol abuse. Yes, well, 7th graders will laugh at just about anything, won't they? No? You don't think so?..."

You're catching the drift, right?

I've often wondered whether I've been saving for college or rehab - both of her parents being in recovery make which shore she will wash up on a bit of a mystery. Either way...at least she's got a head start with a sense of humor...?


Today I'm grateful to have already been there and done that.

Bravo - To The Only Game In Town

I have a friend who's just gotten his heart broken. This is how he says he feels today in a note:

"Some people have suggested that I "get back in the game." Apparently, getting back in the game means dating a bunch of people. "Playing the field." On the ground that means shredding 4 or 5 or 10 hearts. Then, apparently, I can decide that number 3 is the gal for me. News flash! A shredded heart will never open to you again. "Once bitten, twice shy" is not a pretty song lyric, it is an accurate assessment of our survival mechanisms at work. I'm not getting back in the game. I guarantee that anyone who suggests you do is not in a healthy relationship. Or they have not thought through what they are saying. [...]"

Certainly understandable, as it was yesterday or today that he felt rejected. My other friend then said this:

"Or maybe, they have learned that a broken heart does NOT actually kill you even though you may think you will die because of the pain. Speaking from the place of having my heart broken so many, many times, I am so profoundly glad that I have the ability to try again and again because the ONLY way I can truly experience GOD in my life is by loving other people and being open to love. Moving through life's trials with an open heart has been my goal the past few years. Sometimes it works, sometimes not...but it's so much better being open than closed. This too shall pass....Courage does not come from the lack of fear, but the ability to keep moving through the fear. [...]"

Bravo to my beautiful friends, yes?

The human heart's an amazing thing. I have found that the more heartache I've gone through (of every kind), the more love I have to give. Maybe not right at the moment it breaks (and no, it does NOT have to shred, not unless I decide to dive head-first into MY PAIN), but in the healing process. And the healing process includes just that - giving love; to my friends, my family and even to the depressed-looking guy packing my groceries. And then comes the AHA! Love comes right back at me, in the form of a smile from a previously sad face, being included on a trip to a mountain with friends, an unexpected visit from my brother.

The other thing that I've learned is that love often comes in a package I don't necessarily recognize. Because I've had such a preconceived notion of what it is that's going to Completely Satisfy my Love Requirements. The right height, the right background, the right age, the right gene pool...

I married what many would (and did) consider the right package. Attractive, well-educated, ambitious, creative, witty, ready-to-get-married. And it didn't work. Shit happens. Whether you like it or not.

And sometimes I think about how much I may have missed out on, having made my list and checked it twice and setting my ideal firmly of what I think I am supposed to be holding out for. How sad, not only for me, but for those who have wanted to love me but couldn't get in.

Which may be why our hearts continue to break. To crack them open wider and let the real love in.


I am not resigning from the game - oh, no! And I really don't think the game is probably all that hard. So I pray, on a daily basis, to see what is right in front of my face. Because I truly believe that all I need and all I want is well within my reach. And more than likely, it's just too easy for me to take seriously.

Bravo, I say, to life - to the only game in town! For this I am grateful.

Gusgus In The Can

Dogs. You can't live with 'em...and yet you can. Or CAN you?!


My dog's name is Gus, sometimes Gusgus, sometimes Gustauvo and then again, sometimes Brigitta (from The Sound of Music. I flatten his ears on top of his head and make him sing, "So Long, Farewell, Aufweidersein, Adieu." No animals are harmed in this performance). And I am convinced that Gusgus is my stoner brother, Gary, reincarnated.

My brother Gary was sweet, very, yet definitely not a rocket scientist. Gus=same. Gary had red hair with blond running through it. Gus=same. Gary could talk you into giving him your dessert. Gus=same. Gary smoked pot daily. Gus=I suspect same. I'm putting a tail on him. So to speak.

Gusgus insists on making himself known whether he's in the room or not. If he doesn't think he's getting enough attention, he goes into the bathroom. Since the door only swings one way, and he can't seem to remember this, once he's in the bathroom he can't get back out again. So he whines - stuck in the can again. Wow...so did Gary.

Gus needs to make sure he's known even if he's not in the same city, state or zip code, really. He runs about depositing hair everywhere, particularly on clothes and most particularly if they're black. This hair does not budge, not onto the average sticky roller or the magic lint-away. I couldn't even get it out from between my teeth the other day while I was interviewing at Target. Hmmmm, how...anti-cultural...? Please see former post. You know which one.

Gary had long red that hung all the way down to his bum. So does Gus. Gary took medication every day. So does Gus. Gary used to kick me under the dinner table when he was high, trying to get me to laugh with him. Jeez! So does Gus!

Gary was my best friend, who loved me no matter what. So is Gus.

Today I am grateful to have him...back.

I Shall Return

Wow. I'm back and I have little to report, really.

Other than to say this: I feel like life bitchslapped me through December and backhanded me into the blank wall that has been January thus far. That pretty accurately sums it up.

And this is where I've been. Staring at craigslist with bullseye target eyeballs, wondering what to click on next. Stunned - post Target, Hanukkah, Christmas, a birthday and a really bad date. Really. Bad.

But I am back. Look out January. I am fully dedicated and legally medicated and ready to take life on again. And for that I'm grateful.