Holy Christmas in the Summertime.
Lots has been popping off around here.
The Custody Evaluation: I sat. I talked. I left. I have another appointment next week. You will never see a man or woman as deadpan and non-reactive as a child custody evaluator. It's disconcerting, but necessary. I get that, but I still can't really trust a person who can't crack a smile when I'm keeping it comical. More to come.
I am donating my wedding dress to Brides Against Breast Cancer. I was gonna burn it, but that's dumb. There's plenty of other shit I can burn that didn't cost $3500 and nearly my life (picked it up in NYC at 8.45 am on 9/11/01). Ironically (because it was unintentionally so) and apropos, the gown in which I was meant to step into the best years of my life was returned to me by the man who wanted to see me in it in the first place crammed into a 30-gallon garbage bag. BINGO! Couldn't have said it better myself.
I got an email from my high school boyfriend tonight. We've remained close-ish and I Love You-ish over the past 18 years. What the what? I didn't realize I was that old. His email said that he'd heard some news about me last night and am I OK? He's the only man who ever loved me who has asked me that question in the past 7 months. He's happily married to a girl I knew in junior high with three kids. He lives around the corner from my mother and his dad used to joke that I was a catch too good to pass up. Because of the overpriced baggage that comes with my hometown past, I don't have the heart to respond to him. I am ashamed at the ruins of my marriage. Bagged and tagged. The irony of the news of the divorce lawyer's daughter getting divorced has trickled back to the roost. Cue the bile, chill the Vihno Verde.
Because I have the kids so much more often, I have scaled back my hours at the clinic, although things are starting to get pretty interesting in the world of medical cannabis. I am hoping that my job will be entirely work-from-home in the very nearterm.
I have also taken a second part time jobby job as a sunday brunch back up dancer. I caught shit from The Manny for taking a minimum wage gig when I have a master's degree for feck's sake. Nevermind the state of the local economy, who's going to hire your ex-wife at an ad agency in town now that the word's been out for 7 months among the ad freaks that she is batshit crazee? Suck a bowl of narcissistic dicks. I gots babies to raise and I am lucky to have any jobs at all. Viva la $8.40/hour! Come visit me and I'll try not to schvitz in your mimosa!
I am also baking like a mofo in another commercial kitchen.
In the meantime, the absolute focus of my immediate attention is my young, red lad. I kept him home from school today at his request and we hookied like no mother-son team have ever hookied before. In our hookie-age, we shot an impromptu baking show. It's in the editing bay as I type. Here's the trailer. It's long, but he's money.
If there weren't so much going on, I'd do better at checking in. I have a thousand post storms stewing, and I am getting ready to launch a blogging blitzkrieg of pallatial proportions. Just as soon as I duck out of the editing bay.
Missing you like a narcissist misses himself.