I owe some updates, some anecdotes, some admissions, and some snark. Here it comes in spades.
I got custody evaluated again this week. We discussed The Manny's online and on-the-road indiscretions, in addition to the hickey aberration, but I was feeling a little frustrated that I didn't have any recent proof of his assholery besides all of the little text stabs we trade. At least that was until I heard a series of unfortunate rumors that resulted in the receipt of an email exchange between The Manny and a woman I happen to know who was hoping to find an encounter of the casual nature on Craigslist. The Manny responded looking for temporary attention of the online variety, which on its own does not trouble me. Par for this crunked up course and everybody needs some attention. However, the fact that I was hunkered down with BMF in a cottage lodged in the woods -- which should indicate to you that my children were not with me -- means that The Manny was looking for backyard love and bourbon with a complete stranger whom he presumably intended to have in. my. children's. home. while they were asleep inside. AGAIN!! Need I continue? I will not, with the exception of saying that I am forced by a power from deep within to refer to The Manny heretofore as Gavin (or Gav) whether by bhlag or to his eyeholes. The sheer squeeeeee! this gives me is positively anti-depressant. I invite you to do the same.
Speaking of BMF, he's still in the blurry picture. We took a weird little mutual breather while everyone assessed our respective personal abilities to enjoy one another's company so thoroughly at such tenuous transitional periods in our lives. Neither of us was/is interested in or capable of participating at the level where things were likely headed if we didn't quit hanging out so much. We both cranked the emergency brake at the same time and kind of spun out on distant courses there for a sec. Dating as an adult is interesting. A giant sociology project trapped inside a self-introspection laboratory. There is an entire book here.
The Squiddoos are perfect, minus the tremendous heartbreak and irritation of having to pass them back and fro over the abysmal chasm that divides the people who made them out of love. I was told last night by Gavin, Mr. Breaking Promises Faster Than He Can Break Hearts or Families, that I am ruining my daughter. Of course this was on the heels of my challenging his manhood and ridiculing his sexual abilities. Divorce sucks infected donkey nuts. It makes you think and say and hear things you could have never could have nightmared during the days when love was waxing. As much love as there was, there is equal and opposite requited hate and vitriol in its stead now. It is heartbreaking business if you have a heart to break. If you are considering it, what's left of my heart goes out to you. I never in all my ever.
When I lost my job last week, I kept a few things: my class, my hospice patients, and everything I have learned in the past four months. I can still work with patients and in aid of the cause, although I will admit that I miss being in the clinic setting and answering calls and questions about the state's program. I'm not giving up my class any time soon if I can help it. It's something that I enjoy thoroughly and I know my students appreciate me because they've come back to tell me so. It's rewarding much in the same way that parenting gives you those diamond crusted moments where you know you did something right and there's living proof right there. I like teaching.
Because my days are free, more or less, I am spending more time doing the things I used to love most: baking, writing, living, and scheming. There is a book I have have sketched out and am feverishly packing meat onto its bones. Its juiciness will be wholly dependent upon how biographical vs genericized it turns out to be. I've also been working on a new non-me related blog that's getting an aesthetic upgrade as we speak. Cracks? All I can say to that is yes, yes, yes. Please stand by. I've submitted a couple of articles to parenting magazines just to see if I have any differentiated content or ability from every other wanna/usedta be writer on the market. My pseudonym, soon to be my legal name, me thinks, is very likable. Although in a utopian world, I'd want to keep the same last name as my children, I'd rather just wash the stink of a love gone wrong off of me now and move forward. Going back to my maiden name is not an option.
Those love letters were burned after reading. I snapped a few shots of the really tear-jerking ones, but really? Hundreds of love letters hand-written over 10 years and thousands more via e-device. Nothing but smoke and ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Scrams and I are still on the regular. I wish I could adequately describe to you the ways in which he completely understands me, which freaks me out entirely because he is a conservative catholic republican. And even so, he respects and appreciates my unconventionality, how different my "case" is from any of his other patients past or present ("you're not mentally ill, but you are incredibly interesting"), and can perfectly package an hour's worth of workshopping into a couple-minute summary. He hears and remembers everything I say. I have never experienced this phenomenon before. But I am sicker than a motherfucker of our soundtrack. We need some new topics.
Granny is haunting me. Just in the hollows of my heart, not as in visual apparitions.
One of my old business plans from a couple of years ago was ripped off by a landowner I showed it to when I considered buying his building. It's been executed to some the specifications that I suggested for a cart yard (but he woefully fucked up on the two most major points - an available-to-rent licensed kitchen and all-weather seating), he claimed it as his own vision, and when I drove by last week, it seems to be working well for him. I would bother wondering "what if" in the event that I would have gotten around to making it happen myself. But I didn't, and I never would have. My new blog should be called "Somebody should ___________." Then people with money can take my seedlings and pay to make them so for themselves. Somebody should.
Uh oh. Skittles are stirring. Bub's ready to rock some banana bread. He's almost got the entire recipe memorized. Sleeping Foo-tie needs to get a brotherly wake up call to join us in the kitchen. She got fierce yesterday after finding out that she slept through the muffin bakery. You would have thought I stole her crayolas she was so pissed.
After baking up breakfast bread, I'll drop the skids at their skools, myself on Scrams' couch, then cart me to the mountains for a meeting, pinch a quick soak in the hot springs, and drive back in time to keep BMF at an emotional arms-length over a bottle of wine and a candlelight dinner before my non-kid-night call to kiss and love mis babies over the phone.
This is easily the most trying time of my life.
But trying is all I know how to do, so on we go.