What's To Come

Milwaukee

Charles drove me to Milwaukee this morning.  He had to fly to Baltimore today, so it saved Mom another trip to the airport.  He advised me to take Si up on the offer of the newer Tacoma as part of the divorce settlement.  He regaled me (doesn't he always?) along the way with his experiences doing marketing for Harley Davidson, which is one of his main gigs.  The new bike designs for younger, edgier riders.  How they market to women; to Blacks; to Latinos. 

Part of me can't wait to get home.  I handle trouble better when I'm busy.  Down time leads to wool-gathering. 

Part of me wishes I could stay here and hide out a little longer.  Away from the hostility, frustration, doubt, fear and heartache at home.  The dark circles are gone from under my eyes.  I have temporarily lost that pinched, wizened look.  I look good!  I feel rested!

Mostly, though, I'm worried.  Mom cried when I left this morning.  "Don't worry," I said as I hugged her good-bye.  "I'll be OK!"  Remembering something C. had said once, I told her, "I'll be poorer, but I'll be happier."  Do I truly believe that?  Well, depends on the day.  And the time of the day.

Tomorrow, it will be a month since I have seen C.  I have managed pretty well, I think! I moved ahead with the divorce process; I got my professional life back under control; I dragged my ass out of a sad place to a happier one; I have dated a little bit.  I have missed C. horribly; but since he needed this time and more, I haven't looked for him or hoped for him.  All in all, not a good month, but tolerable.  I made it.  My therapist is pleased! 

But the next month?  Ooof.  I try to find a favorable angle from which to view it, but... it's going to suck.  All my risk is about to come home to roost. In 30 more days, what will become of me? 

During this time I need to get a financial settlement hammered out with Si.  I need to have found a place to live and actually moved into it.  I need to start living without my kiddos.  I need to find counseling for them.  I need to establish myself alone. I need to hold things together at Guadalupe.  I still don't have a replacement for Mark:  my earlier prospect has fallen through.  I have two grants to write.  And somehow I have to stay happy and focused and brave and forward-looking.  It seems a lot to manage, emotionally. I'm dreading it. 

And I dread that, through it all, there will be the waiting and the hope/doubts/faith/fear that will tighten in my chest as one month stretches toward two.  Life with him in it?  Life without him in it?   The trip to San Luis Obispo will come right at the end of this period of time, punctuating the second month the way that Wisconsin did  the first month.  I have no idea what my life or mental state will be like when we pull out of SLC, headed for CA; but if it isn't good, I need to be ready with a brave face for this trip.  I need to be 100% great for Sara's sake. Then we will get home, and that... will be all.  My old life will be over and I will not be returning to it.  And I will make the best of it.  Make the most of it?  At least I will finally be able to say, "Now, I know."

["All rows now boarding for Denver."]

I can hesitate and drag my feet, but my flight will leave on time, regardless.  Better get on it and see what comes next.

The Day's Balance Sheet

What day are we on?
Nine.
Are you fucking KIDDING me?  That's all?
Yep!  'Fraid so.

It's the end of a long day.  I am surveying the destruction of my desk.    Four dirty coffee mugs.  This is a sure sign of turmoil, because it means that people have been bringing me coffee before I get up and fetch it from the staff room myself.  Hmmm... One of these had chicken soup in it, not coffee...  How long ago did I have chicken soup?

I really should just stay here and work on administrative stuff.  Maybe I will, maybe I won't.

Let's see... what was good and bad about today?

Good:  Nate is ready to recite his poem for his book report tomorrow.  He knows it all and is adorably dramatic when he does it. "Spaghetti, spaghetti all over the place. Up to my elbows, up to my face!"

Bad:  Very short run.  No time for more. 

Bad:  Didn't eat at all until 2 PM.  Very unusual for me to skip breakfast. 

Good:  I went to see my counselor today.  The last little while has been dreadful and it helped to talk about it.  She thinks I am handling things reasonably well.  This surprises me.

Bad:  The weather.

Good:  Jokes from Chad in my e-mail.  I reminded him that we had said we would get together for a cuppa and asked what it takes to get a busy attorney out of his office?  Did I have to book him via his secretary? (That's pathetic, Chad!) Bomb scare?  Forklift?

Bad:  I had to go up to University of Utah to help conduct some job interviews.  I swear:  every time I go up there, they have rearranged the campus.  Wait! Was this road always here?  I also got every red light on 400 South.

Good:  I enjoyed doing the job interviews, once I got there.  I like college students.

Bad:  I left my planner up at the Union building.

Good:  One of my volunteers was studying at the Marriott Library right near the Union and was happy to retrieve it for me and bring it when he came to tutor. Thanks, Jeff!  What kind of cookies do you want me to bake you?

Good:  I got my first bit of corporate contract work.  A company out of New Hampshire wants me to assess the verbal English of one of their Utah-based salesmen.  Customers are complaining that they have trouble understanding him. He called me a little later in the day to set up an appointment with me - I thought his English sounded really good!  Sometimes, I think people can just be bull-headed where accents are concerned.  I think I'll give him my usual assessment that I use, but I will  also probably have him do a  few intonation exercises for me.  At any rate: money, money.

Good:  Hug from Zina - I needed it.

Bad:  I think my upcoming Tutor Boot Camp is going to be sparsely attended.  We just didn't add very many new volunteers this quarter.  More people = more fun.

Bad:  The student Adi did return to school today and was very, VERY angry that I have banned her from the childcare.  Mark was unable to reason with her so he brought her to me; he hates being the "bad cop".  This was not difficult:  "Threatening the babysitter is not OK."  Except that I don't actually know the word for "threaten" in Spanish, and my workaround ("saying a bad thing about your plan to do a future bad thing") was a little, uh, clumsy.

Good:  We had a fun student assembly tonight.  The choice was to crowd into the tiny, hot cafeteria or be cold out on the front lawn.  I chose the front lawn, finally.
   

 Student assemblies can have any sort of agenda.  We have done interviews, speeches, games, songs, reports, role plays, graduations, awards, whatever.  Tonight, we had a group of students interview Laura, the new teacher.  She has been an excellent addition.  I'm so happy with her work!  The students think her language background is a little odd.  "What languages do you speak?"  "German."  "WHY!?"  Here she is sitting on the fallen tree outside the school.  I wanted her to pose with it because it fell over in the wind storm on Thursday, just as she was driving into the parking lot - almost smashed her car.  You can see that it completely demolished our picket fence.  While we waited for everyone to get outside, I was amusing some of the students by jumping off the log in fake gymnastic poses.  Aaaaand, she NAILS that landing!

 Next on the agenda was a visit by a couple of pit bulls.  Rai talked to the students about socializing pit bulls, and about spaying/neutering.  Pit bulls are a popular breed in this neighborhood.  It was getting dark, so this is a really bad pic. 

 This one is better.  The owners took the dogs into the childcare room so the kids could play with them.

  Last item ion the agenda:  lots of jobs available with a custodial company.  They just got a contract to clean all the floors in one of the big new buildings downtown.  You have to be documented and you have to have a security check, but a lot of students were interested.  I'm holding the ads in my hand.  Amina wanted one for her husband, then wanted a photo with me for no particular reason.

As usual, my students saved the day for me. They have no idea how much they can move my daily balance sheet from "bad" to "good".

Time to Have a Quick Gaze at my Navel

So I use my blog for a couple of different things:  as a place to record my observations and feelings; but also (and this is a little more complicated) to examine myself and try to learn a few things.  I go back and read old blog entries from time to time to see how I handled an issue in the past.  The reason that this blog is called “There Once Was a Woman” is that I want to get through his very difficult period in my life but still hang on to all the things I like about myself:  gotta manage a steep learning curve; gotta use my head to safely navigate an enormous love; gotta stand up for myself and stop being a doormat.  Yet, I still want to be sweet and compassionate and considerate and fun.

Can I be both of these women?  NO.  It’s all one woman.  Divorce does funny things, and I don’t mean the funny ha-ha kind.  I have to live with intense longing but still maintain a sense of humor.  I feel like hiding my head when I think about managing my investments, but I need to be focused on the needs of my kids and my students.  I CAN stop apologizing for sticking up for myself, and still be loyal.  I have heard such balancing acts called “threading the needle”.  I used to be better at it than I am right now.  It seems like a lot of aspects to pull together and balance properly right now. 

As I move through my time away from CB, I am becoming more focused on the issues that have driven wedges into my marriage for a long time.  However, I have removed some writing from my blog in which I focused on these wedges.  Its veracity is not the issue.  Its loyalty?  Questionable.  Not what I want from myself.  When this divorce is over, I want to be changed, but only for the better.  That’s why I’m doing it.  I don’t need to pick it to pieces:  suffice to say, “We tried, and it worked for a while. Culture and temperament and time wore it down.  I am not happy.  I want to be.”  When I’m hurting, it feels so good to vent, but I need to be more circumspect.  I came over to hide out on this blog so I could lay it on the line, but I’ll draw a line on that…line (we’re getting a lot of lines, here…) and try to be more considerate of Si.  Can I learn when I’m afraid?  Can I love passionately and think clearly?  Can I be firm and soft?  Is this a mattress advertisement?  Have I muddled my metaphors again?

Light at the end of the tunnel?  Aaaarrrrgh.  Yes.  I have faith.  Hold on:  which pocket did I put it in? 

The Mediator

So, Simon and I are mediating our divorce, which basically means that we are trying to avoid paying lawyers, if we can manage it.  Saves money, saves time and is a little friendlier.  Today was our first meeting with the mediator.

She was half an hour late, which didn't impress me; and when she walked into the office, my left eyebrow went up.  Imagine an explosion at a potpourri factory.  Visualize a woman being eaten alive by the trappings of her femininity.  She tottered on five-inch stilettos.  Ruffly mauve skirt with equally ruffly blouse.  French manicure (of course) and a sparkly rhinestone necklace that I might wear to a dinner party or something.  Sara Palin designer glasses; bleach-blonde hair all piled up on top of her head;  eyeliner drawn out onto her temples, a la Cleopatra.  She led us into her office, scented by aromatherapy candles and accessorized with a little tray containing perfume, body spray, hand lotion, etc....  Elementary, my dear Watson!  We zigged when we should have zagged and have wandered into the office of an Avon representative.  Or (for you Harry Potter fans) Dolores Umbridge.

"Sorry to be late," she said, dropping into her chair.  "I needed to go to my mother's house and put in her IV."  "You have to set your mom's IVs?  Yourself?"  "Uh-huh."  OK, I started to like her.  Then she rattled her biscotti jar and said, "I'm arriving too late to make coffee for you, but would you like a biscotti anyway?"  She unwrapped one for herself and I took one, too.  We both sat there during the meeting, gnawing biscotti in a very unladylike way.  I decided that her necklace was perfectly OK for daytime wear. 

I will maintain my divorce attorney relationship with Chad, but mainly as a check and a balance for this process. 

The mediator says that, if we don't hit any major snags in the negotiations, she can complete the divorce in about 6 weeks.  Three sessions, two hours each. We are going in for the first of these sessions already next week.  She wants to meet us once a week for three weeks, then get the papers drawn up and move forward.

Six weeks.

I thought it takes months?  Not if the wheels roll smoothly, I guess.  So, am I experiencing cold feet?  No.  I don't want our marriage back.  I am scared to death, though.  So scared that my knees feel weak.  A while ago, I listed all the things I could think of that scared me.  What were they?

Poverty. Yep.  That still scares me.

Where I will live.  Yes, this scares me, but less than it did. I will not end up under the Fourth South viaduct. I will find something. Just hope it's not a fixer-upper, because I'm not very fixy-uppity.  On the other hand, my friend Aimee learned all sorts of things by simply Googling how to do them.  If Aimee can take out a toilet and put in a new one, so can I.

Loneliness.  Maybe I will be too busy learning the basics of plumbing to be lonely.  I'm not afraid of the "time on your own" loneliness.  I am scared that I will miss the kiddos horribly when I don't have them.  I won't miss getting affection (since there wasn't much) as much as will miss giving it.  Not being needed will make me lonely.

Dating.  That doesn't scare me much any more. I'm feeling a bit fatalistic about it at this point.  I still keep hoping that my stray dog of a heart will  come home.  My friends roll their eyes and say, "Oh, for Pete's sake, Kate!  Just go to the Humane Society and get a new one."  "Guys, the dog is not a real dog.  It's a metaphor!"  "Then this is a metaphorical Humane Society."

Regarding the state of my heart, I try to be good. No contact with CB.  Gifts and reminders put away.  I am trying to spare my friends the role of Breakup Buddy.  I ran today. I wore my favorite silk skirt.  No backsliding!  It's so hard, though.  At least 14 times a day, I think of how I have backed off and wonder whether I have made a huge mistake.  How, if we never bridge this gap, maybe it'll be my fault.  When I get to thinking this way, my fingers itch for the phone.  But I don't do it.  I mean, holy shit!  Let's have some dignity, here!  If nothing else will pull me through, please let my ego save the day.

Which gets me to, "Please".  This is what the voice in my head says all fucking day.  I muffle it by trying to engage myself in different things.  I made Red Flannel Hash for supper!  I let Sara have a friend to sleep over!  I listened to Real Salt Lake vs. Monterrey on the radio!  I weeded the front garden (until I got rained out of that activity)!  I worked hard all day!  I bought picnic supplies for our weekend at Bryce NP.  But still, I found myself sitting in the truck or frozen with my hand on a cupboard handle;  at those times, all I am thinking is, "Please."

Please WHAT?!?  Whom am I asking for help?  Not God, 'cause I don't believe in God.  Am I begging myself for something?  Is it just a plea to myself to be tough?  To stay focused?  To find the beauty in radishes again?

I need to figure it out.  [Sigh]  Ah, well. One thing I know I am not begging the universe for:  peaches.  I have thawed a bag of them that I picked from the tree last fall and ate some with plain yogurt, a sprinkling of brown sugar and a few pecans.

Tomorrow, I'll make smoothies for  for the kids' breakfast.  And it will be a new day, maybe one that will hurt less than today.  Please.

Memo

To:  The World
From:  Kate
Re:  My current emotional state and the need to be nice to me

Day 2 of Detox is over and we are embarking upon Day 3.  All I can say for Day 2 was that it was busy.  I kept hoping that being busy would help me feel better.  Nope.  Welcome to my world.  Jump and shout.

It was an overall sucky day, which is why being busy didn't help. 

Simon is now barely speaking to me, which creates a really nasty atmosphere in the house.  I have hated this for 18 years and continue to hate it.

The server for Rosetta Stone is still down.

Eleven tutors called in absent.

I had to go through my e-mails and delete everything to and from CB.  There were a  couple that were so happy and sweet that my finger did NOT want to press down.  I thought, "Maybe I'll just save these two. No! I can't. Uuuuugggghhhhh. Maybe I'll open this one and read it just once more."  Get a grip, Kate.[Delete]

The chronically loose screw in my keyboard tray has fallen out and disappeared, so I'm holding it together with a paperclip.

We finally heard back from the Migration Policy Institute about the Immigrant Integration Awards.  We were not selected.  Remember how I spent most of the month of December banging my head against the wall, shouting, "I can't do that right now!  I'm writing MPI!"?  I didn't really expect that we would get it; but it was a little spark that persisted.  The money reeeeaaaaallllly would have helped us.

Administrative Staff spent an hour in the morning and another hour or so in the afternoon trying to hash out the budget for next year.  Let's just say that it wasn't pretty.  I was home with my kids during the morning (spring break), so was "conferenced in" for the morning skirmish.  Since my hands-free headset is kaput, I was trying to hold the handset and dry off from my shower, towel my hair and deal with this very important conversation (naked, because it is hard to get dressed without putting the phone down...) from a distance while my kids and their friends were playing that mysterious game which involves lots of banging in Nate's room.   Plus, it meant didn't get to run.


A double hug from volunteer Bill S.:  one from him and an extra, proxy hug from my friend Naomi, whom he saw at the university today, and who sends her love.

Store signs forwarded to me from my friend Diane, courtesy of http://www.chinglish.com/.

The State Office of Education called and asked me to do another training for them this spring.  That is three trainings in the space of only a few weeks, and that means MONEY, for a girl who needs it.  Plus, judging by the speed with which the State Office pays its contractors, the checks won't arrive until my divorce is final.  I believe that means that it is MY money.

When I came into the office and told the staff that we needed to come up with solutions to the budget issue, everyone who was here spun her chair around and started brainstorming without complaint.

I am getting to know Laura, our new teacher.  She is also going through a divorce, loves camping and drinks beer. I wonder if she would come down to the Swell next month...

Nate has had a dry bed every night for nearly two weeks.  When I praised him for his success, he said, "I've gotta do it, Mom.  If I wet the bed, how am I gonna get a girl?"

Memory Box

[Yes, I realize that a scant 24 hours ago, I thought I was too fucked up to write.  I still am! Welcome to my fucked up little blog.  And now, a word from our sponsors:  Kate's spongy, fogged-up mind and Kate's emotion-fatigued fingers. Fact is, I do better if I write.  I had better keep on.]

So, I have finally landed in front of my computer where I am allowing my toenail polish to dry (Orchid!  Very pretty!  Doesn't improve my mood just now, but effectively covers the very black toenail that I bruised running the Salt Lake Half.  Soon, it will come off.  In the meantime, it will be Orchid.) and drinking a cup of tea.  Earlier in the evening, I decided to waste some of my precious time weeding out my memory box.  This is a foot locker in which I hold my clabber. I try not to be TOO much of a pack rat, so when the foot locker gets so full the lid won't close, I go through it.  I often find Precious, Precious Treasures, so precious that I have forgotten their provenances.  And WAY too many t-shirts. 

My memory box contains all the same stuff you have in yours:  programs, graduation tassels, certificates, diplomas, key rings, pins, passports, maps, letters, t-shirts, junk jewelry... But here are ten things I found that I'm figuring NO ONE else has in his/her memory box.  If I am wrong, and you have any of these things, please comment and I will stand corrected.  And I will ask to meet you.

1. A silver teaspoon with a porcelain handle, upon which is painted a portrait of Calvin Coolidge.
2. A likeness of Nicolas Copernicus, rendered from gingerbread (now a little fuzzy and dusty).
3. A child's dress-up dress from Chile.  A few years ago, when I went to Concepcion to do some volunteer work, I stayed with a host family that had a 7 year-old girl.  The family was not well-off:  there were seven of them living in three tiny rooms.  They were so happy, though, to squeeze me in for a few weeks and make me part of the family.  The little girl had an old cast-off dress that she played dress-up in constantly.  She presented it to me as a parting gift.  
4. Four wisdom teeth, strung as a necklace on a piece of dental floss.  My dentist's idea of a little joke.
5. Microscope slides, assembled in a box labeled "Katie's Box of Small Wonders".
6. A Singapore Airlines flight attendant uniform shirt.
7. A brown paper bag with a handful of little felt, shield-shaped patches.  School crests from the high school where I taught in Poland.
8. A little photo book made by my dad, commemorating the bumper local harvest in my hometown one year:  CORN '99! 
9. A ginormous pair of wrestling shoes.  These were way down in the bottom of the box, due to their awkward size, and my throat tightened when I pulled them out - I hadn't seen them in many years.  They were a parting gift (yeah, I know - I get some very odd parting gifts) from one of the high school boys I taught in Poland.  You know, I should write this story down.  I'll give it a blog entry of its own tomorrow.  Michal J. and I had a perilous adventure in which blood was spilled and I decided I was meant to be a teacher.  If the house caught fire, I would try to save these shoes.
10. Dutch paratrooper's wings. Filthy and frayed because for many years they kept company with a bunch of other patches I had sewn to my ratty day pack that traveled the world with me.  I have written about my Dutch pen pal in the past.  When we "broke up" (for lack of a better word, since we had never really managed to be together), I sent his paratrooper's wings back to him.  He sent them back to me again.  He thought that, maybe someday, I would miss having them. 

And since he was right about that, maybe I can make room in my memory box for two action figures, two Nerf swords and a very short note?

Yes, to the relief of sensible people everywhere, I have gone back into Detox. 

[Sigh!]  Day ONE, I'm afraid.  Today was not too awful...at first.  But the miserable reality of it is starting to sink in.  I found myself back on the rim of the bathtub for the first time in a while. 

This is not because of anything CB did wrong.  He has never lied to me or deceived me about how hard this is.  He hasn't prevaricated or obfuscated or done any other big words.  He has been ridiculously steadfast. He's just not a single man, and not in a position to be in a relationship with me.   At first, I was just so glad to see his face and hear his voice that I thought I could have him in my life while he continued to work through  a lot of difficult stuff. But I can't.  I would be elated at times, but would then become sad.  We can't really spend time together, so we can't explore the potential of the relationship.  And since the little bits if the relationship that we had were so fabulous, this frustrated me. I kept hemming and hawing about what would be a better choice:  staying close to him or backing away. 

It was the Salt Lake City Half Marathon that decided me.  CB insisted on coming to meet me after the race.  No, no, no.  Not necessary.  It's crowded at the finish area.  Hard to park.  He has other things to do.  I wasn't sure exactly when I would finish.  I don't want a man that I'm interested in to see me with sweat-salt crusted in my hair.  And no one ever meets me after races.  Simon has never been to any of mine.  Anyway, the kids had soccer.  Heedless of my objections, he was waiting for me when I got in.  He had a thermos of sugary chai.  He put his hoodie on my sweaty, nasty, crusty wet self when I got chilled and shivery.  He walked back to my truck with me.  And I thought, "Geeze, I love this guy.  Every time I am with him, I love him more."  And then [cue the sinister music] I thought, "You are setting yourself up for an absolute fucking train wreck of a heartbreak.  Run away now!  CB is not available to be your guy." 

It was very hard to turn away from him.  Easier than last time, because we both know that we aren't mad at each other.  Harder than last time, because I felt that I had a choice, even though the choice SUCKED!  And harder because the few times we were able to see each other during the last couple weeks were so great.  Conversations about the future.  It's hard to pack it all up and really lock it away.

CB maintains that he will be back. "A month or two", he needs. 

I maintain that I will not be seeing him again.  Bleak?  Necessary.  Know what happens if I hope?  I wait.  Detox is all about recovering and moving on.  Not about waiting.  My job is to get on with it.  Maybe he'll come and find me and tell me he's ready.  Or maybe he'll decide not to. In the meantime, if even ONE PERSON says that horrible junior high cliche about how if you love something, you should set it free?  I will blow snot on that person's shoe.  I will put a blackening banana peel under the driver's seat of that person's car.  Fuck the inspirational posters with pictures of fucking sea gulls. 

SO... remember the rules? 

1. Don't see him or talk to him.  I'll block my phone tomorrow.  I don't think he'll try to contact me, but it will keep me from getting the DTs every time I get a text.
2. Get yourself a breakup buddy.  I have several.
3. Get your ass in motion every day.  Back to the gym tomorrow, now that my quads have recovered from the race.
4. Don't wear your breakup out into the world.  Both my fingers and toes are now Orchid.  I'm meeting a nice guy for drinks tomorrow night after work.  I think I remember how to flirt.  If not, I'll check the handbook
5. NO backsliding.  If I see CB before the detox is over, it'll mean that he wants to be with me and I will gladly walk away from the detox.    
6. Remember to put YOU first.  Well, shit.  That's what I'm trying to do.  Are we having fun, yet?  [Gasp!]  FUN!  Time to reconvene the Eleanors.  I wonder if I could get a group of folks who want to go down and do some camping in the San Rafael Swell in a few weeks.  Planning a camping trip would distract me.  And I LOOOOOVE the Swell. "Course, I'd love it more if I were there with him, but... we will soldier on, regardless.
7. Get rid of the things that remind you of him.  OK, I checked the fine print.  It is all right to keep a few things, if you put them away.  The action heroes, swords and little note can go in the remodeled, spacious memory box.  Because there is an idiot inside me who dares to hope a little.  Just a little

What about your memory box?  What are five things you have stashed away?  Tell us about them in the comments section, if you feel like it.

Doctor Unapproachable

It is 1:39 AM.  I slept all day today, so I have no idea why I am tired; but I know that as soon as my head hits the pillow, I will be asleep.

Saturday was pretty good!  I felt fairly happy. Got household chores done, made a job offer, called a bunch of students for the new term, went out to dinner.  The girl I saw in the mirror was smokin' HOT!

Today?  Forget it.  Thought about CB all day... when I was awake.  That's why it was nice to stay asleep. 

I remember altering my view of "progress" a couple years ago, when I was sick.  I learned not to compare today with yesterday.  Better to compare today with last week; in which case, I am doing better. 

I had my appointment with Dr. Perfect the other day.  The verdict on why Leftie hurts? I'm finally getting some feeling back on that side and I'm not used to it.  For real?  We spent a little time bullshitting each other, then I asked him about depression (although I hesitate to call what I have depression - can't I just be sad?) in cancer survivors.  I asked whether he has had patients over the years who have struggled with depression a long while after the immediate problem has cleared up.  I was hoping he would say, "Yes.  Happens all the time." 

He looked stumped!  It was kind of funny to see him at a loss.  "Well, could be. But people don't talk to me much about how they feel.  I mean psychologically."

He is a very intimidating person in some ways.  Friendly and polite, yes.  Kindly, no.  A little too handsome.  A little too suave.  He does not invite confidences. He has a softer side, but it is well varnished over. 

I remember when I was in the hospital...for...the mastectomy I guess.  One of those times. I was WAY drugged up when he stopped in on his rounds.  He POPPED in the door and cried, "HI THERE, MS. KATE!"  Scared the hell out of me!  I hollered ("AIGH!!") and jumped, which hurt; which made me holler again.  Which made him holler.  He learned his lesson about popping out at me, though.  The next time I was an in-patient, I remember he did his rounds very late at night. I was trying to sleep, but not succeeding because... well, my chest hurt and hospitals are just not all that restful, y'know? I was lying there in jthe light from the street outside when he tiptoed in.

"Hey, Doc."
He whispered, "Hey, Ms. Kate. Still awake?"
"Does anyone really sleep in the hospital?  You're here late."
"Yeah, I went up to the U. to swim laps in the pool."
"Ah.  That's why I smell chlorine."

He didn't turn the light on: just checked to make sure that the bandages were in the right place, and that I hadn't been disobedient and removed the goddamn pressure stockings.  I called him a TED Hose Nazi once.  He didn't think it was funny. 

"Do you like the new bra I got you for your lingerie collection?"
This was a long-running joke between us - I would always wake up with a new, hospital issue bra.
"Sexy!  Thanks!"
"Look!" He pointed out a tiny bit of embroidery.  "It even has a flower!" 

I guess I'm trying to say that he can be a regular human; but it's important not to be too deferential.

He has occasionally told me that I am one of his favorite patients because I tell him what I really think. This might be because my dad was a doctor, so I know that when he's done being Mr. Hot-Shot Plastic Surgeon, he goes home and watches reality TV shows or trims his nose hairs or something.

In this case, though, he was nonplussed.
"Do you need me to refer you to someone for counseling?"
"No, I'm seeing someone, thank you."
"I could write you a prescription for something...."
"Thanks, but no.  I really don't want to do that."
"Well, that's good."  He looked relieved. "Too many people popping 'Sandy candy' as it is."

We agreed that I would see him in July for a graft procedure; but until then, I'm good, unless my mammo comes back lumpy.

After he left, his nurse Patty came to stand beside me while I got dressed. 

"His patients don't talk to him much.  But I can tell you what I see.  It's you tough girls that end up with this problem.  All through the treatments and the surgeries, you say, 'I'm good!  I'm fine!'  Then you crash a couple years later.  He doesn't see it, but it is a pattern."  Wow.  Patty thinks I'm a tough girl.  Pffft.

You would think I would know by now:  talk to the nurses.  They are the ones who know. 

Repossession

Courtesy of Matchbox Twenty:

She grabs her magazines

She packs her things and she goes

She leaves the pictures hanging on the wall, she burns all

Her notes and she knows, she’s been here too few years

To feel this old.

Whoever “she” is, she’s smart.  Well, or who knows?  Maybe like me, she is still left with some traces and memories that are harder to expel than others. 

Some of my friends are getting impatient with me, because I still have a few chinks in my armor regarding CB.  Tsk!  Yeah, it’s been a whole… 17 days.  And seeing him at the rec center has been a big setback, because now I know that he wants to tell me something and that he is scared to do it.  Which probably means (given how stubborn he is) that he will reappear at some point.  I try not to obsess about it, but have a little mercy!  Look at all the things I have been doing right!  Catch me being good, huh? 

No contact of any kind!  All gifts and objects removed!  I am running and lifting weights!  I am wearing nice clothes and even a little makeup every day!  I am dutifully going to counseling, even though the therapist is mean to me. (Oooh…  I need to blog about HER soon. She is seriously amusing, in a dark kind of a way…) Another poker night planned!  And I booked the “Fuck You, CB” canoe trip today.  So cut my heartache a little slack!

I’ve got Matchbox Twenty playing in the truck at the moment.  I had been playing the soundtrack to the movie “Away We Go” for a long time, trying to reclaim it as my own and not have to share it with any memories anymore.  I have failed badly, though.  I surrender.  I’ll have to put it away until the 60 days are over and try listening to it again after that.

I need a repo man.  Despite the fact that I have disposed of EVERYTHING CB gave me, there are a few of my own possessions that no longer belong to me fully any more. 

I want to repossess…

NPR!  I used to listen constantly, but we listened to a lot of it together.  Diane Rehm had the Utah Attorney General on her show today, discussing immigration reform.  Normally, CB would have texted me to find out if I had tuned in.

Beans & Brews, where we always got chai.

Chai!

My favorite, butter-soft, cotton quilt.

My Lava Hot Springs coffee mug.

My good Henkel bread knife which, because it is serrated, has circular marks from CB’s sharpening stone on it.

 My old blog!  I’m homesick for it.  It gave a little context to my present gloom by containing a long history of happy posts. 

My windshield wipers.

[I am prolific today!  I have at least three blog entries waiting in my fingertips, and they aren’t even all bleak!  Just this one. ]

10 Fine Things

I struggled again today.  Let's see, what day are we on?  Day 15!  A benchmark day!  25% done!  45 days left before I'm supposed to be myself again, only better!  I hope the new version of me is going to be thinner!  Get more than three hours of sleep each night.  Drink more water.  Exercise every day.  Stop pulling her hair.  Stop thinking about that asshole.  Have lots of amazing adventures.   Since we are deluding ourselves, let's just go all the way: the Adult Education program will win Best of State, and Barack Obama will drop everything to travel to Utah and award this honor, 'cause he had heard that I'm such a well-hydrated hottie;  I will plant hydrangeas out front and they will live;  I will run the Salt Lake Half in under two hours.

While we wait for Kate Version 2.0 to show up, let me just confess the reality:  I looked for CB at the rec today, because he had been there yesterday; I went to bed at 3:00 AM last night; I am eating Girl Scout cookies while I write. 

I need to think of some happy stuff.  Can I think of ten things?

1. Lunch at California Pizza Kitchen (BBQ Chicken Chopped Salad!!) with an acquaintance, chatting and getting to know each other better.
2. Martina gave me a gorgeous scarf that she is tired of. 
3. Mark was heard tonight, answering the phone, "Guadalupe School.  Kate speaking."
4. I have taken off my high-heeled boots and am now sitting here with a cup of tea, three girl Scout cookies and my fuzzy slippers.
5. Sara babysat for Nathan tonight so I could work.  I got home at 9:30 and found them both in bed, where they are supposed to be.
6. I am not miserable right this moment.
7. I helped Laura Guerrero practice her luncheon speech tonight.  
8. Nathan's woodland diorama scene for his book report, due tomorrow, looks super-cool.. 

Uh...Two more...?

Uh...

9.  My toenails are painted my favorite shade of green....
10.  My bed is waiting in my softly lit room, waiting for me to finally surrender to my sleepiness and try to do better tomorrow.

Truly. I am dozing off as I sit here.  Good night!

T. M. I.

Too Much Information today.  Makes me feel the need to eat almond M&Ms. 

There.  Now they are gone, and can no longer torment me.

Why do people have to submit resumes that are pages long, and contain no relevant information? 

Here's one:  This guy has worked as a call center manager, a credit account manager, a Radio Shack manager and a twisty balloon entertainment guy.  He has no qualifications or experience in the field for which I am hiring. 

Or this other guy's cover letter says, "I love talking...when I saw this [posting] my heart skipped a beat...I know quite well that it may not be easy, but it will be worth it...".  Y'know, drama-applicant, it really WON'T be easy when you have no qualifications, have never taught, and have an experience history specializing in home security system sales and service.  And it won't be worth it to ME.

Furthermore, I love (I really do love) people calling school and confiding in me about the details of their lives.  This happens to me a lot for some reason.  

One woman called to find out more about volunteering with us and started off the conversation with, "You may not want me - I'm OLD!"  Hmmm... I probed that a little. She's only 66, for Pete's sake.  What she really meant was that she had a bilateral mastectomy and major chemo, which caused her to lose her hair and her teeth.  She is self-conscious about how she looks and seldom leaves the house. I told her (in so many words) that she needs to come down to Guadalupe right away. 

And one of the candidates for the job for which I am hiring called me up to make sure that I had received his resume.  He then started a RANT!  A full-blown RANT! about his experiences in the meat grinder of the Utah educational system.  I can't say that I disagree with him, but.. he went on for half an hour.  I thought, "If I hired him, would he EVER shut up and do his work?"

One incident about which I have insufficient information, though, is the alleged sighting of CB at the rec center today.  Very weird. 

I work out at pretty much the same time every day.  CB knows this.  A person seeking to avoid me (or seeking to break into my house and steal the stereo) knows that in the 9:00 AM-10:00 AM time frame, I am usually at the rec.  CB knows my truck.  I always park in about the same place.
 
So I just had time for a short run today.  I was in the rec from about 9:00 to about 9:30.  Then I put on my hoodie in the vestibule and went out.  I was starting to trot down the stairs, simultaneously messing about with my scarf, phone, swipe card, etc..., when a sudden movement  a short distance from the bottom of the stairs caught me eye - it was the movement of a man turning on his heel and heading back in the direction from which he came.  It caused me to glance up  just in time to see this person finish his about face and walk nonchalantly away, hands in his pockets.  I did not see his face; but CB has that identical hair, jacket, butt, pants and walk.  Since I was only 90% sure it was him; and since I'm not supposed to talk to him; and since he seemed to be very interested in avoiding me... I calmly walked back to my truck as if I had not a care in the world.  I did not drive off with a squealing of tires.  I took the time to remove my iPod, put my swipe card away, etc... (Look at me, CB!  Panic free!  I didn't even notice you.] As I dove away, I looked for his distinctive car, but didn't see it.  Of course, this mystery guy was probably parked in the other parking area, judging by the direction he headed. 

Soooo...  CB accidentally encountered me there and beat a hasty retreat?  NOT.  He must have known I was there.  My regular time, my regular vehicle. 

Uh... CB was on his way to work out, because he forgot it was my work-out time?  NOT.  No gym bag, no work out clothes.  Hard to exercise in a pair of Carhart work pants.

So he knew I was there.  Why was he coming inside?  Did he want to tell me something?  But he chickened out?  But didn't leave a note on my truck, as he has done in the past?  Why turn chicken when I walk out of the building, and not before?  What did he plan to do, that I foiled by leaving a bit early?  What on earth could he possibly have to say to me?  I mean, that I wold bother listening to?  And if it was so compelling that he came to the rec to confront me, why didn't he do it? 

Just when I was making a little progress. 

 Have the perfect solution to this riddle. It wasn't him.  It was some other guy who dresses in a similar manner, with about the same height, build and hair.  Mystery guy was walking into the rec to go for a run or something, but then remembered that he left his gym bag in his car and abruptly turned to retrieve it at the exact moment I left the rec. 

Naturally.

Poker

[By the way, is it me, or are there problems uploading photos?]

 OK!  We toasted the inaugural goof-off the Eleanors and learned to play poker, thanks to the patience and perseverance of our teacher Jeff, who also brought the table and real Vegas chips.  Of course, we ate; and Moira stayed afterward to smoke a cigar with me. 

So, can I play, now?  If I can use my cheat-sheet, yes.  Except all the betting stuff:  see, check, call, raise...erk!  We need practice.  I need to have some folks over to just play.

What day are we on?  Day 12.  Forty-eight more days to get my shit together.  I am actually getting a little worse, rather than better.  This doesn't surprise me, somehow.  The shock is wearing off; and I am facing the fact that I am bummed about several things, not just CB (bastard!).  Now that the acute breakup pain is starting to ease up a little, I have to deal with all the rest of it.  Poker night last night helped temporarily.  Today, I mostly just lay on the sun porch staring or dozing.  Tomorrow I have to do better.  Simon is leaving for Vail and I have responsibilities.  I'll write down what I would like to accomplish tomorrow, then I'll see what I manage.

Go out to breakfast as a family at Lazy Day cafe before Simon hits the road;

Facial;

Finish laundry;

Household chores;

Input testing data for Guadalupe;

Run 9 miles;

Make tilapia with orange salsa;

Contact outfitter for summer canoe trip;

Mend chair cushions.

Let's say that, if I manage to do 5 of those things, I will congratulate myself. 

Something is Still Missing

Day 10:  finished.  Fifty days left. 

Today was a roller coaster.  The good news? There were stretches of several minutes at a time when I didn't think of CB at all. And times when I thought of him with terrible anger.  It's like that passage from Harry Potter 7, when Ron opens the horcrux and Harry and Hermione emerge.  He says that Hermione, "was more terrible and more beautiful than the real Hermione".  I have transformed CB into a cruel, mocking entity who never gave a shit about me.  At other times I thought of him and took Luz's advice, "Give him love, give him light, let him go."  But most of the time, I continue to think of him with intense longing. Today was hard that way.  This time of night, when everyone has gone home from school and only the night janitors are here, CB often contacted me via IM:

"Hello, Darling!  Are you packing up and getting ready to leave?  Remember, you need 7 hours of sleep for a healthy immune system."

"Yeah, I'll be ready to go in a bit.  I just have a couple more things I want to do..."

"I'm starting to feel all protective about you."

He was of the opinion that I didn't sleep enough and made it his personal mission to IM or text me many nights each week with reminders to go to bed.  So I miss him in the late evenings.  

I also miss him because tomorrow night is my poker party:  the first attempt at my "Eleanor" concept.  He liked this idea when I originally described it to him.  I think he knows how to play poker; but anything that was social and would bring more friends into his world appealed to him.  I think he would have enjoyed channeling his inner Eleanor.  And he was a very adventuresome person who would have added a lot of new ideas to the group.



Stillwater Canyon, Green River



And I'm starting to read up on the Stillwater Canyon trip that I want to do at the end of the summer.  I hope like hell that, by the time this trip comes off, I am over him.  I have imagined him being with me on this trip so many times.  It's hard to remove him from the picture, a la Trotsky, and repopulate it with other friends. 

Finally, he loved hearing about little triumphs at work.  He liked my Guadalupe stories.  Here's the latest.

Every spring, we have a fund-raising luncheon for the school. My job is to provide a speaker from among the adult education students.  This is not easy.  My students are mostly lower level English as a Second Language students.  I have to find someone who is able (and wants to) write, revise and practice a five minute speech,then give the speech to 400 potential donors at the luncheon.  I sweat about this every year.  Way back in mid-February, we asked a student if she would tell her story and she agreed to do it.  Unfortunately, she got cold feet and backed out, with only 2 weeks to go.  I was a little freaked out (although the up-side of my current difficulties? Most other things seem small and don't rattle me.), but another student, Laura G., agreed to do it in spite of the short time-frame. Reading her rough draft tonight was one of my better moments as an adult educator.  The speech below has had some grammar corrections and a few wording changes to help it flow.  But 99% is just as she wrote it, including the transitions, introduction and conclusion.  For a student at our school, this speech is a remarkable piece of work.  I'm looking forward to the luncheon, now, because Laura G. is going to BLOW THE AUDIENCE AWAY.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  My name is Laura Guerrero.  I have been a student in the Adult Education program of Guadalupe School since 2007.  I want to tell you a little bit about me and my family.

We came from Mexico about 14 years ago.  The reason we came here is that my daughter Alin is disabled.  She was born with Cerebral Palsy.  She was a patient at Shriner’s Hospital.  The doctors from Shriner’s Hospital used to go to Ciudad Juarez in Mexico every six months to check on children with different disabilities.  This was a free service that they offered.  Whenever a child needed equipment, they provided it.  They helped pay expenses when families needed to travel to Utah for a child’s surgery.  And they support the family while the child is recovering.  My daughter went to many appointments with these doctors.  The first time she needed surgery on her legs, she couldn’t come to Utah, and she had the surgery in Mexico.

Some years later, my husband came to Utah for a few months.  He called me and asked if I would like to come to Utah.  He told me it is a very quiet and  pretty place.  My daughter Alin needed another surgery.  After talking about it, we decided to come.

It was good to be close to Shriner’s Hospital.  My daughter had the opportunity to get therapy every month.  She was able to have a second surgery when she needed it.  She was a patient at Shriner's until she was 18.  She didn’t want to go back to Mexico.  She loved this country right away.  She loves school. She loves to go out, especially to restaurants.

Shriner’s Hospital is an organization that is supported by many donors.  We have another great organization that needs help from donors:  Guadalupe School.  This school couldn’t exist without the generosity of many people from the community. 

The Adult Education program at Guadalupe offers English for adults in a way that makes them feel comfortable.  When I started in this school, I got the feeling that the students are so important to the teachers and staff.  They want to make sure that the students get the best possible education from their classes.  Being in this program has helped me in my life.  It has helped me to understand my children and my children’s teachers.  I never have to ask myself, “What are my children talking about?” I can get involved in their activities.  Now I’m not afraid to go anywhere, because I understand the language.  I don’t have to ask for an interpreter in clinics or hospitals.

To learn English wasn’t easy for me.  It has taken a long time for me to learn, to understand it and to communicate.  I still have difficulties with conversation.  I have been in many English programs before, but I was always confused because there was one teacher with about 20 students.  The teacher couldn’t give the students much attention.  But since I started at Guadalupe School, all my confusion is gone because this is a very good program.  The Adult Education program is made up of a director, teachers, volunteers and students.  There are many small student groups with 3 or 4 students and each teacher is in charge of some of these small groups.  The volunteers teach the students.  Being in a small group means that we can ask our questions and understand the lesson.  There is time for all of us.  It helps us to learn fast, and we can also choose what we want to learn.  The teachers want us to get ahead. 

Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I ask you humbly to help Guadalupe School keep his great program in our community.  We need donations from people who love this King of Programs.  We need supporters who love our community and adult education.  Don’t be afraid to donate.  The program will spend your money wisely and the students will be very grateful and dedicated to their studies. 

Thank you, from the adult students at Guadalupe School. 

OUCHOUCHOUCH

What day are we on? 

OK (deep breath):  Day 8.  Fifty-two more to go.

I've been trying to think of something else that entertained me today, so I can blog about something besides this IDIOT!  This ASSHOLE!  Who has professed his eternal love, then dumped my ass!  I think 8 days is plenty!  I should hate his guts by now!

I miss him.

Or I miss something.

One of my friends said today that I'm missing a fantasy. Am I missing feelings, rather than missing a person? 

Argh...  I need to re-focus.  Tomorrow....  Anything to look forward to tomorrow?  Getting my hair done.  Girls on the Run.  Uh...

Sixty Day De-Tox

Some heartbreak cures work, and some don't.  A friend suggested yoga, at which I crinkled my nose.  Another friend caught my expression and said, "Kate can't do yoga.  It's not fast enough."  Meditation?  Just gives me lots of quiet time to contemplate lost love. 

Here's Grandpa Mario's suggestion.  Despite my protests that I am an atheist ("Atea, Mario!  Soy atea!"), Mario is sure that I will be restored if I read the daily Novena included in this little pamphlet he gave me.  It is entitled (I'm translating, here), "Novena: to Our Lady of Guadalupe, Patron Saint of the Americas".  I did read the first Novena, to make Mario happy.  I'm not restored, but I did learn some new words in Spanish. He wants me to find God and all I end up with is a kick-ass vocabulary list.

If you are trying to recover from a broken heart, I would recommend THIS be your Bible for the next couple months:  "It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken".  This is where I found out about the ring tones.  It is this book which promises me that after 60 days, my heartache will be gone.  Today was Day 4. 

This little manual is chock full of good advice, like:  not making late-night, drunk phone calls; avoiding self-destructive behavior (like the way I stay up all night so I won't lie in bed and think about Boyfriend); not whining too much to your friends; staying productive at work; accepting the new reality that the man you love is really a SCHOOB; understanding that he is off having a good time and living his life with nary a backwards glance. Therefore, I should do the same.

Let's turn to "Part 2: The Breakover (Or, How to Become a Superfox Breakup Warrior with Lustrous Hair and a Whole Bunch of Self-Worth"). This contains the 7 Commandments for the 60 days.  I have my marching orders!  They are:

1. Don't see him or talk to him for 60 days.    Since the clean break I would have preferred was badly fumbled, I have had some practice in this area.  And I don't think he plans to be in touch.  I have been exceptionally disciplined about staying away.  Early in the roller coaster ride, I "unfriended" him on Facebook and took his "Contact" off my Yahoo IM.  Not because I was mad, but so I wouldn't suffer while seeing him live his life without me.  Four days ago I canceled my Yahoo account altogether and blocked his number from my phone.  This felt GREAT, but not because I think Boyfriend is going to stalk me.  I did it so that I would STOP obsessively opening Yahoo, hoping for an e-mail.  And now when I hear the little "boopity-bip" that means I have a text?  My knees no longer go weak while I reach for the phone like one of Pavlov's dogs.  (OK, those dogs never reached for the phone.  Stop smirking at my syntax.  Can't you see I'm infirm?)  I KNOW it will be from someone else.
2. Get yourself a breakup buddy.  Well, I didn't do that, because I am not the kind of person who is going to call one of my friends late at night to snivel.  I have to say that I do have a few friends that would tolerate that, at least for a couple days.  Thanks, friends! XXX
3. Get rid of his stuff and the things that remind you of him.  I started this in January by returning things he had loaned me.  Then in February, I got rid of pictures, small gifts, the pencil holder he made for me out of walnut... I even threw out the little tin clicker that had belonged to my grandfather.  I had given one to Boyfriend and kept one for myself (Don't ask why, we will just digress)  (I never digress, right?). As of four days ago, I only had a few things left - the most precious things:  a bottle of single-malt Scotch; a bicycle; a crate on wheels with a handle, so I can haul all my paperwork back and forth more easily.  It took me two days, but I got rid of the bicycle.  No longer sitting in the garage, taunting me with a future that isn't going to happen.  Anybody want the Scotch?  Stake your claim...
4. Get your ass in motion every day.  This is not too hard for me, although some days I only do half my run before I just feel too sad to keep going. Today I managed about four miles when I should have done five...
5. Don't wear your breakup out into the world.  I bought a super-sparkly ring on Tuesday.  I wore a fun chain-belt on Thursday.  I'm getting my hair done next week.  I will continue to keep my eyebrows tidy.  Maybe I will finally make that shopping trip to the "good" DI and see if I can find some cute treasures.
6. No backsliding!  No worries: I'm tough, and I have a giant ego that is way too proud to allow me to type THAT e-mail address or call THAT number. 
7. It won't work unless YOU are number one!  Which basically means that if I remain proactive in getting over it, I will be even MORE OF A ROCK STAR than I was before!  (This book really likes capitalization and exclamation points.)  It's a little hard to believe now, as I look in the mirror and see dark circles, cloudy complexion, furrowed brow.  Perhaps I shall go drink some water and get a good night's sleep.

Uh, yeah.... It's 2 AM again...

No WAY is This a Depression Blog

We make depression fun!

And, as always, I have a plan.  This is the 60-day-get-your-shit-together plan.  After 60 days, I am going to be well again and get back to blogging about Nathan's boogers.

[By the way, I'm bummed about moving.  My old place was comfy.  I really need to change the wallpaper over here and some other things.  Pardon my dust.]

Signs that I have reached rock bottom:

• I huddle in my bed in the mornings in the fetal position;
• Monday, when Grandpa Mario dropped by the office to worship me, as he often does, I broke down and he ended up clutching my head to his argyle sweater vest while I sobbed.  He stroked my hair and whispered Spanish platitudes in my ear;
• I am seeking counseling.  To a child of the Upper Midwest, this is a horrible weakness.  We prefer to solve our problems with extra ketchup.

That's bad.  How did I end up in this tar-pit? I have never before in my life been depressed.  It is SO not me!  Before, on my other blog, which could be read by people I couldn't necessarily 'fess up to, I was circumspect.  Not any more...  I am taking a huge risk even here.  Some people I have given this URL to are going to read things about me that they will not like and they will be disappointed in me.  But I'm going to be brave.  At least 94% brave.  I love a list.  Let's call this list, "My Sorry Descent into Madness and How It Came About" (very Lemony Snicket).

1. Accidents of birth!  For example, I'm a dreamer and a malcontent.  When I was young and unattached, I dealt with these qualities by throwing a backpack into the belly of a plane and going to live somewhere else.  No more.
2. More birth defects!  I am a romantic; passionate with equal chances of wild sex or soapbox rants; a little eccentric.  This stuff, I have boxed up.  My mom says that when comparing people to the four elements, I am the only person she knows who is 100% fire.  "Fire Woman", she called me once.  Unboxed?  I would be impossible to hang out with. Intolerable.
3. Yet another ingrained trait:  Prima Donna!  Big show off!  Loose cannon.  Look at me!  Teaching ESL is the perfect job for me.
4. I love to fix problems.  To be needed and nurture.  I love lost souls, which is why I'm drawn to immigrants:  they're wanderers; seekers. I want to change the world.  I've trained myself to be contented with a postage-stamp-sized portion of it.  For these reasons, Guadalupe is my muse.  Or it was, until I lost my fucking mind.
5. Now we get into the stuff I did.  Let's start with marrying a man I did not know well.  He's a Brit, and it was nobody's fault that we only saw each other when we were on vacation.  We were a couple for six years before we got married, but during most of that time, we would spend a week together twice a year or something.  The only way to solve the problem?  Get married!  I was willing to overlook some red flags, because they didn't pop up very much  They didn't pop up very much because we were almost never together.  Ladies, should we marry a guy who won't tell us he loves us?  Sure:  what the heck?  Simon never said the word "love" until after the wedding.  And should we marry a man who is generally nice but, when he gets mad, has a vicious, cruel streak?  Sure!  Because we're not going to fight.  And he's probably a lost soul.  I like those!  I will soothe him with my love.
6. So, after a few months of marriage, I discovered that we had a big, fat conflict resolution problem on our hands.  I could not fix it nor resign myself to it.  Eighteen years of marriage, and we are still stuck on the same treadmill. 
7. Then a few years into it, I realized that a girl like me needs a little bit of romance, affection and occasional adoration.  He couldn't give that.  When I chafed, he would ask me for specific instructions for adoring me.  That kind of wrecks it.
8. We sold the old place and moved out of the mountains into town.  I wish I had known about blogging when we lived up there.  The cabin made my life special.  Something interesting happened almost every day:  moose on the porch; eight-foot snowstorms... Now, selling was a smart decision.  That lifestyle (no winter road access; wood heat; elevation 8,900 feet) got to be a huge burden.  But I always said I would never live on some dumb suburban cul-de-sac with a sprinkler system and a two-car garage.  And here I am. 
9. Can-cer... Get up off the sofa and find the world has suddenly filled with imperatives.  Have it at age 41, when you're due for a mid-life crisis anyway?  And you still want to be all hot and sexy?  Kiss of death.
10. Speaking of death, we lost our dear friend Edie to the same type of cancer at that same time. That has been especially hard on me because of what I hear called "survivor's guilt".  
11. Let's skip back to the conflict resolution issues with Simon, and having one of my attempts at dealing with it turn into a minor domestic abuse incident.  Bad enough to wind me up under the table, but not at the shelter.... 
12. ...followed by my descent into total marital passiveness.  Yes, TOTAL.  As in, we didn't argue for over a year, because I just acquiesced to EVERYTHING.  Guess  what?  That doesn't make you a saint, it makes you resentful.  Simon didn't notice.
13. Quick break in our regularly scheduled programming for Dad's death.
14. Followed by the realization this past September, triggered by yet another mean spell, that I didn't love this guy.  Didn't care whether or not I hurt him; didn't want to have sex with him; dreamed of divorcing him. 
15. (Can you all see it coming a mile away?)  The inevitable:  an affair.  A man I adored.  To make it worse, it was like fate was sealed almost from the word "go".  I'm not kidding!  When we were together, it was like being in the eye of a hurricane.  He said I was "cocaine".  Would try to resist being in touch with me and not manage 24 hours.  Would send me text after text, describing every facet of my eye color from the pupil on out.  Does this sound like fun?  NO!  I'm married!  He's in a relationship with a long-time girlfriend with some serious mental health issues.  She drives him up the wall and exhausts him; but he kind of gets off on being the noble care-giver.  Wow.  Not only is he sexy, cute, a perfect intellectual and emotional match (and an inventor, a mechanical engineer, a river runner, paragliding guide, climber, free-heeler...) he's needy!  Si never needs anything from me.  This guy calls me his "bastion of sanity".  He loves my blog and brags about it to other people.  He admires the work I do.  He thinks I'm pretty. He would insist on holding my hand.  If I let go for some reason, he would remind me that he wanted it back.
16. Did I mention that I ADORED him?  Would have robbed a bank for him?  I occasionally even took a day off work to hang out with him.  For me, that's MAJOR.  He and his partner lived in the canyon, as well.  In a barn that he hauled out here from Iowa and made into a beautiful home that he built by hand.
17. The more I hung around with my calm, placid, affectionate boyfriend, the more I resented Si for not being like him.  I start REALLY wanting to leave him.  This was partly fueled by some hope that I could end up with my boyfriend, but not entirely.  Mostly what I wanted was a chance to start again.  Find a man who is nicer. Who made me feel loved. 
18. And of course, the story ends with the man I adored dumping me.  SLOWLY.  And PAINFULLY. Not maliciously, but because he was self-centered and weak.  I'll tell about it another time.  You will be amazed.  It's a great story.  The boyfriend gets his own blog entry as soon as I get a backhoe and clear out all these used Kleenexes.

OK, you can hate me now.  I know - I have done a bad thing.  I fell in love with a man who is not my husband.  The worst part is that I don't even regret it.  Not the love part.  The heartbreak part, yes. 

Which gets me back to Mario's tear-soaked sweater vest.  And the realization that somehow, I have gone a little bit psycho.  It was an accident!  So I finished sobbing (for that time - there' s been plenty more sobbing since then).  I may be crazy, but I'm not yet so crazy that I don't know when to pause the downward spiral.  So we're going to have a 60-day Detox.  Or more appropriately, a "he"-tox.  No more decisions stemming from heartbreak.  I'm going to get over the affair before I do any more dumb stuff.  Sixty days, during which I will stop divorce proceedings; during which I will get counseling; during which I will try to find something besides contempt for Simon; during which I will deal with my shit. 

And then?  If we still feel like we should split up, we can continue this discussion.  But not right now when I'm a sniveling dung ball.

I meet with a counselor in the morning.  She has probably heard it all before...