On December 30, my friend Batgirl welcomed her son, Dashiell John, into the world. She and her husband, Jeb, were in town for the holidays when they discovered she was in labor about eight weeks ahead of schedule. Dash ended up being born right here in Minneapolis, and although he weighed in at a slight 3 pounds, 2 ounces, he is able to breathe on his own and is healthy enough that he’ll spend the next few weeks in the special care nursery, not the NICU.
After confirming with the new parents that it would be okay, My Ho and I made plans to visit Batgirl and Jeb in the hospital on Tuesday evening. I was very much looking forward to meeting the newest member of Team Batgirl.
Then, on Tuesday afternoon, the DemiGoddesses received a call from my Ex with sad news. We had no longer been expecting that his baby, also a boy, would make it to term, but the hope was that he could hang in there for another few weeks, long enough that surgery might be a viable option. But when my Ex called, it was to tell the Demis that the baby’s heart had stopped beating that morning. There wasn’t anything left to be done but induce labor.
That night at the hospital, I stood next to the incubator as baby Dash slept, pink and tiny and perfect, with one scrawny arm thrown back over his head like he was sunbathing under the bilirubin lights. Watching his little chest move up and down as he breathed, I was in awe and in love, while at that very same moment, I ached over the loss of the one named Henry, whose due date had been within a few days of Dash’s.
Some days life is impossibly wonderful. Some days it is brutally unfair. That day, it was both.
Showing posts with label Adventures with The Ex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adventures with The Ex. Show all posts
Friday, January 05, 2007
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
And Yet, They Look So Cheerful
It's been a very sad few days in the Goddess household.
For months, the DemiGoddesses have been looking forward to the arrival in March of their new baby brother (I am not pregnant. The Ex's wife is.). But now it's looking like this baby was not meant to be.
In spite of all the animosity there has been between the Ex and I, my heart is breaking for him. And for the Demis.
When we got the news on Saturday morning, there wasn't much to be done except pray and wait for someone to call with updates from the hospital. So we went ahead with the baking we had planned, and it helped, a little. Something in the purposeful creaming of butter and sugar, in the application of colored frosting and sprinkles, was a comfort.
We kept on baking, right through Sunday, when it seemed like there might still be hope. And just this afternoon, after the latest news was about as bad as it could have been, the Demis finally finished decorating the last of the cutout sugar cookies.
That photo shows only a portion. The dining room table is full, and there are more in the freezer.
And still, we're really, really sad.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Things That Are Neither People Nor Items, But That I Am Thankful For Nevertheless
I am thankful that even though the holidays will soon make it disappear, this year, I actually have money in a savings account earmarked for Christmas. And damn, does that feel good. My goal for next year is to have a little money still in my savings account on December 26. Dare to dream, ESG.
I am thankful that yesterday, for the first time since I can’t remember when, my ex and I had a phone conversation that was very nearly affable. I’m not 100% ready to make a habit of that, but it is definitely progress.
I’m thankful that this year, everybody in my inner circle is healthy, nobody is under indictment, nobody is being audited by the IRS, and everyone is employed. With benefits, even. (Well, except for Dad, who is “retired,” but he does volunteer work, and he is covered under Mom’s insurance).
And I’m thankful that the only items I am responsible for cooking tomorrow are the creamed onions and the sweet potatoes. And everybody who will be having dinner at my parents’ house should be thankful for that as well. Trust me on that one.
Enough with the gratitude. Let’s eat.
(Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!)
I am thankful that yesterday, for the first time since I can’t remember when, my ex and I had a phone conversation that was very nearly affable. I’m not 100% ready to make a habit of that, but it is definitely progress.
I’m thankful that this year, everybody in my inner circle is healthy, nobody is under indictment, nobody is being audited by the IRS, and everyone is employed. With benefits, even. (Well, except for Dad, who is “retired,” but he does volunteer work, and he is covered under Mom’s insurance).
And I’m thankful that the only items I am responsible for cooking tomorrow are the creamed onions and the sweet potatoes. And everybody who will be having dinner at my parents’ house should be thankful for that as well. Trust me on that one.
Enough with the gratitude. Let’s eat.
(Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!)
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I’d Invite You Over, But You’d Have to Park in Duluth
The street in front of my house has been torn up for a couple of weeks now. What used to be blacktop is now a wide muddy trough full of bulldozers and blinky hazard markers and large men in orange vests. The trough is a good three feet below where the street used to be, and the curbs and driveway aprons are completely gone, so a steep gravel ramp temporarily allows me to get in and out of my driveway. Assuming that an earth mover hasn’t parked in front of my house, that is.
The work is scheduled to continue through the summer, and the thought of that is exhausting, because I never know from one day to the next what I’ll find when I arrive at my street. Some days one end is open, some days that same end has a huge hole full of workers in the middle of it, and I have to circle the block and try the other end. Sometimes that end turns out to have a giant pile of gravel blocking the way, and I have to circle back around and try the other end again. A more evolved individual might find this recurring challenge exciting, but I am not a person who likes having my routine f*cked with. At the end of the day, I just want to get my sorry self home, I don’t want to have to strategize new ways to get into my own blessed driveway on a daily basis.
To make matters worse, the parking lot of the building where I work is also being re-surfaced. Half of the lot looks eerily like the street in front of my house, which means that the number of available parking spaces has been cut in half. Yeah. You do the math. I’ve been arriving early enough in the mornings to find a spot without too much trouble, but on the one day when I made the mistake of leaving for lunch, the only available parking space when I returned was next to a dumpster. In Winnipeg.
Last Friday, after dodging a steamroller and weaving my way through the orange cones, I arrived home from work to find a bright pink notice attached to my front door informing me that, due to some utility work, the water would be turned off for most of the day on Monday. The notice included instructions for filling the bathtub with water, which could then be used to keep the toilet tank flushing until the water was turned back on.
The DemiGoddesses are astonishingly capable young women, but I really didn’t want them to have to deal with that all day. Knowing that one of The Ex’s sisters was in town with her new baby and would be staying at The Ex’s parents’ house, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, and called The Ex’s mother to see if the Demis could spend Sunday night and Monday at her house as well. That way they could visit with their aunt and the baby, and be away from our house until the water was back on.
It seemed like a reasonable plan, except that making the arrangements turned out to involve much more hemming and hawing, taking of votes and general drama than I had anticipated, for reasons that rest entirely on shoulders of The Ex and the Universally Hated Step Psycho. Though the details are highly entertaining and I would very much love to share them, it seems that The Ex has been reading this blog for some time now and has taken issue with a few of the things I have written here. In spite of that, relations of late have been cordial (sort of), and for the sake of the children and my own serenity, I am trying to play nice. So I’m not going to post the specifics of what transpired. If you want the dirt, you’ll have to e-mail me.
In the end, the Demis did spend the night at their grandparents’ house. They had some quality time with their aunt and the baby, and enjoyed a lovely day with their grandmother on Monday, including going out for lunch. So I was feeling pretty good about having handled that mini-crisis until I arrived home from work on Monday to find another notice on my door, informing me that the water was going to be turned off again on Tuesday.
The work is scheduled to continue through the summer, and the thought of that is exhausting, because I never know from one day to the next what I’ll find when I arrive at my street. Some days one end is open, some days that same end has a huge hole full of workers in the middle of it, and I have to circle the block and try the other end. Sometimes that end turns out to have a giant pile of gravel blocking the way, and I have to circle back around and try the other end again. A more evolved individual might find this recurring challenge exciting, but I am not a person who likes having my routine f*cked with. At the end of the day, I just want to get my sorry self home, I don’t want to have to strategize new ways to get into my own blessed driveway on a daily basis.
To make matters worse, the parking lot of the building where I work is also being re-surfaced. Half of the lot looks eerily like the street in front of my house, which means that the number of available parking spaces has been cut in half. Yeah. You do the math. I’ve been arriving early enough in the mornings to find a spot without too much trouble, but on the one day when I made the mistake of leaving for lunch, the only available parking space when I returned was next to a dumpster. In Winnipeg.
Last Friday, after dodging a steamroller and weaving my way through the orange cones, I arrived home from work to find a bright pink notice attached to my front door informing me that, due to some utility work, the water would be turned off for most of the day on Monday. The notice included instructions for filling the bathtub with water, which could then be used to keep the toilet tank flushing until the water was turned back on.
The DemiGoddesses are astonishingly capable young women, but I really didn’t want them to have to deal with that all day. Knowing that one of The Ex’s sisters was in town with her new baby and would be staying at The Ex’s parents’ house, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, and called The Ex’s mother to see if the Demis could spend Sunday night and Monday at her house as well. That way they could visit with their aunt and the baby, and be away from our house until the water was back on.
It seemed like a reasonable plan, except that making the arrangements turned out to involve much more hemming and hawing, taking of votes and general drama than I had anticipated, for reasons that rest entirely on shoulders of The Ex and the Universally Hated Step Psycho. Though the details are highly entertaining and I would very much love to share them, it seems that The Ex has been reading this blog for some time now and has taken issue with a few of the things I have written here. In spite of that, relations of late have been cordial (sort of), and for the sake of the children and my own serenity, I am trying to play nice. So I’m not going to post the specifics of what transpired. If you want the dirt, you’ll have to e-mail me.
In the end, the Demis did spend the night at their grandparents’ house. They had some quality time with their aunt and the baby, and enjoyed a lovely day with their grandmother on Monday, including going out for lunch. So I was feeling pretty good about having handled that mini-crisis until I arrived home from work on Monday to find another notice on my door, informing me that the water was going to be turned off again on Tuesday.
Monday, January 30, 2006
A Glimpse of My Monday
One phone call from Demigoddess the Younger, who forgot to bring her swimsuit for gym class to school this morning. When I said I wouldn't be able to take an hour out of my day to bring it to her at the junior high, she was most eloquently incensed.
Two phone calls from the contractor who started work on my house this morning. The second was to tell me that the needed repairs may be more extensive than he first anticipated, and that insurance may or may not cover all of them. He’ll let me know.
Three e-mails from my lawyer regarding ongoing wrangling with my ex, including a stipulation for me to read and comment on.
Four of the seven PowerPoint presentations for various executives that I have been assigned to make presentable by Thursday morning.
Five phone calls and two desk visits from our CEO’s tech-clueless assistant who would like for me to teach her how to use PowerPoint on this, the head of our company’s first venture into PowerPoint presentations.
One phone call from the school nurse’s office asking me to come fetch Demigoddess the Elder, who was apparently in the throes of an immobilizing stomach ache, followed by a trip to the junior high, to my house, and back to work again.
And all of that?
Was before noon.
Favorite Quote of the Day:
"I can't help you today. I'll tell you that one time nicely. The second time, there will be bludgeoning."
Friday, December 30, 2005
Non-Resolution
Well, that makes 36 Christmases in a row with NO PONY. What the hell?
Fucking Santa! Fuck!
But My Ho did come through on Christmas morning (and he's Jewish, for cripes sake) with a beautiful extra-blingy ring for me.
No, not that kind of ring. Everybody just caaaaaaaaalm down.
While Demigoddess the Younger had been warned in advance of the gift that turned out to be not-that-kind-of-ring, Demigoddess the Elder somehow missed the memo, and therefore experienced a small moment of freaking out when she saw the little box. But it all got straightened out before too long, and I once again assured both the Demigoddesses that, if I ever do decide to get married again, I will inform them about it before I go to Vegas and get hitched at the Graceland Chapel. I will even have them at the wedding. UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE.
For most of this week, the Demis have been with their father, and prior to the opening of the gifts, I had lots of very ambitious plans for my days of solitude. But then I also received the entire first season of LOST on DVD (again, from My Ho) for Christmas, and I have watched 22 episodes since Monday. ‘Nuff said.
The Demis return this afternoon, and tomorrow night we’ll ring in the new year with a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament in our very own Vegas-style dining room/casino (sans the Graceland chapel). I'm confident that one of these days they’ll figure out how unwise it is to play poker with one’s mother. But until that happens, I’m happy to take full advantage of the fact that I can read every thought that passes through their naïve, trusting little heads.
We don’t play with real cash, anyway, and even if we did, I’d only be collecting back money that I gave them in the first place, which is really not all that exciting if you think about it.
I'm not one for making New Year's resolutions, mainly because I have learned not to set myself up for failure. But I do have some ideas for making 2006 better than 2005, at least in the Demis' and my own small corner of the universe. There isn't much I can do about natural disasters, the Alito nomination, domestic spying, or the freaking White Sox. But I have a lot of hope, and I have plans to change a few of the things I can. And that's something, I think.
Have a safe and happy New Year!
Fucking Santa! Fuck!
But My Ho did come through on Christmas morning (and he's Jewish, for cripes sake) with a beautiful extra-blingy ring for me.
No, not that kind of ring. Everybody just caaaaaaaaalm down.
While Demigoddess the Younger had been warned in advance of the gift that turned out to be not-that-kind-of-ring, Demigoddess the Elder somehow missed the memo, and therefore experienced a small moment of freaking out when she saw the little box. But it all got straightened out before too long, and I once again assured both the Demigoddesses that, if I ever do decide to get married again, I will inform them about it before I go to Vegas and get hitched at the Graceland Chapel. I will even have them at the wedding. UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE.
For most of this week, the Demis have been with their father, and prior to the opening of the gifts, I had lots of very ambitious plans for my days of solitude. But then I also received the entire first season of LOST on DVD (again, from My Ho) for Christmas, and I have watched 22 episodes since Monday. ‘Nuff said.
The Demis return this afternoon, and tomorrow night we’ll ring in the new year with a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament in our very own Vegas-style dining room/casino (sans the Graceland chapel). I'm confident that one of these days they’ll figure out how unwise it is to play poker with one’s mother. But until that happens, I’m happy to take full advantage of the fact that I can read every thought that passes through their naïve, trusting little heads.
We don’t play with real cash, anyway, and even if we did, I’d only be collecting back money that I gave them in the first place, which is really not all that exciting if you think about it.
I'm not one for making New Year's resolutions, mainly because I have learned not to set myself up for failure. But I do have some ideas for making 2006 better than 2005, at least in the Demis' and my own small corner of the universe. There isn't much I can do about natural disasters, the Alito nomination, domestic spying, or the freaking White Sox. But I have a lot of hope, and I have plans to change a few of the things I can. And that's something, I think.
Have a safe and happy New Year!
Friday, November 18, 2005
Nope. Can’t Do It.
It seems that there is a limit to the things I will do for my children.
While I understand that their father has encouraged their participation for the past five years, and while I empathize with their disappointment that this year, for some reason, he won’t take them… I’m afraid I’m going to have to play the mean mom card on this one.
I will pick pestilence out of their hair with my bare hands. I will put back the items of clothing I chose for myself in favor of buying Demigoddess the Elder a suit to wear to her debate tournaments. I will, as requested, put honey in Demigoddess the Younger’s tea in the morning so that her voice will be in top form for her school musical audition eight hours later.
But I will not. WILL NOT take them to compete in a White Castle eating contest.
So don't even look at me like that.
Today’s Friday haiku is dedicated to Demigoddess the Elder:
I don’t know why you
Want to compete again when
last year, you threw up.
While I understand that their father has encouraged their participation for the past five years, and while I empathize with their disappointment that this year, for some reason, he won’t take them… I’m afraid I’m going to have to play the mean mom card on this one.
I will pick pestilence out of their hair with my bare hands. I will put back the items of clothing I chose for myself in favor of buying Demigoddess the Elder a suit to wear to her debate tournaments. I will, as requested, put honey in Demigoddess the Younger’s tea in the morning so that her voice will be in top form for her school musical audition eight hours later.
But I will not. WILL NOT take them to compete in a White Castle eating contest.
So don't even look at me like that.
Today’s Friday haiku is dedicated to Demigoddess the Elder:
I don’t know why you
Want to compete again when
last year, you threw up.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Fucking Chickenshit Weak–Ass Bastard
What do you do with a guy who doesn’t want to spend time with his kids?
(In what universe does that question even make sense?)
What do you do when, after spending less than 24 hours with her dad (the only time she has seen him in a month) your 14-year-old child comes home, walks directly into your arms and says, “I’m glad to be home. I like it better here.”
I suppose that’s an improvement over the times she has come home crying, but it doesn’t seem like much of a victory.
Last week she told me she’d discovered that one of her best new junior high friends is in a similar situation. Her friend’s dad moved cross-country after marrying another version of the Universally Hated Step Psycho. She seemed so relieved to have found a friend who understands how it feels to have been significantly demoted on her dad’s list of priorities.
He pushes them away, and then makes the time they do spend with him a misery and a chore, so he can turn around and tell me that they don't want to be with him anyway. That they're better off with me. That he's being a good dad by removing himself from their lives.
I want to rage. I want to condemn. I want to pound on him until he feels every ounce of their heartbreak times ten. I want to shake him until he GETS IT. I want him to suffer and suffer and suffer because I am so, so angry.
But in the end, all I can do is hug her back and say, “I’m sorry, baby.”
(In what universe does that question even make sense?)
What do you do when, after spending less than 24 hours with her dad (the only time she has seen him in a month) your 14-year-old child comes home, walks directly into your arms and says, “I’m glad to be home. I like it better here.”
I suppose that’s an improvement over the times she has come home crying, but it doesn’t seem like much of a victory.
Last week she told me she’d discovered that one of her best new junior high friends is in a similar situation. Her friend’s dad moved cross-country after marrying another version of the Universally Hated Step Psycho. She seemed so relieved to have found a friend who understands how it feels to have been significantly demoted on her dad’s list of priorities.
He pushes them away, and then makes the time they do spend with him a misery and a chore, so he can turn around and tell me that they don't want to be with him anyway. That they're better off with me. That he's being a good dad by removing himself from their lives.
I want to rage. I want to condemn. I want to pound on him until he feels every ounce of their heartbreak times ten. I want to shake him until he GETS IT. I want him to suffer and suffer and suffer because I am so, so angry.
But in the end, all I can do is hug her back and say, “I’m sorry, baby.”
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
I’ve Done My Time In Fast Food Hell
The Arby’s restaurant where I worked during my high school and college years is now a great big greasy hole in the ground. It was recently demolished to make way for some kind of development in the business district of one of the first-ring Minneapolis suburbs.
I worked part-time at that restaurant for five years all together. I can still tell you how many ounces of “meat” went on a regular size roast beef sandwich, and I could probably still build a chicken club sandwich with my eyes closed. Sometimes I have nightmares that I still work there, and usually, in those nightmares, I’m pissed.
My current place of employment is the corporate headquarters of one of the larger fast food chains (which will remain nameless… don’t wanna get Dooced). The corporate office building has a training restaurant where new restaurant managers come to learn the ropes. Corporate employees are sometimes invited to help out in exchange for free food, and when they got around to asking if I would be interested, I declined politely. On the inside I was thinking, it’ll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I start serving up French fries again.
A lot of life-changing shit went down during my fast food tenure. I met my ex during the breakfast shift at Arby’s. He was the cook, and grilled up croissant sandwiches while I stayed in the back and assembled the day’s salads. We didn’t start dating until a few years later, long after he quit working there. But even so, a word of advice to all you unattached gals: Don’t marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Trust me on this one.
I had moved up from salad girl to night manager when my mom’s brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was working the night he died, and a few days later, I couldn’t go to the wake because nobody would cover my shift that night. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Then my relationship with my mother was strained to the breaking point by my out-of-wedlock, still-in-college and most-definitely-unplanned pregnancy. Long months of spectacularly fun drama ensued, much of which went down, you guessed it, at Arby’s. Allow me to amend my advice for you gals: Don’t accidentally get pregnant by and then marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Seriously.
Shortly after Demigoddess the Elder was born, I took a job with a magazine publisher—a job with a desk and a computer and not one single heat lamp or meat slicer anywhere—and my days of peddling fast food were over. Well, mostly.
I guess I still do peddle fast food indirectly, but at least I don’t come home from work smelling like “roast beef” any more.
Last week, when I saw that big ‘ole hole where the Arby’s used to be, it seemed like I should feel sad, or pensive, or something. But in reality, it was more like the way I felt after cleaning out all the closets in my house during the year after my divorce. Something more like unfettered. Unencumbered.
Released.
I worked part-time at that restaurant for five years all together. I can still tell you how many ounces of “meat” went on a regular size roast beef sandwich, and I could probably still build a chicken club sandwich with my eyes closed. Sometimes I have nightmares that I still work there, and usually, in those nightmares, I’m pissed.
My current place of employment is the corporate headquarters of one of the larger fast food chains (which will remain nameless… don’t wanna get Dooced). The corporate office building has a training restaurant where new restaurant managers come to learn the ropes. Corporate employees are sometimes invited to help out in exchange for free food, and when they got around to asking if I would be interested, I declined politely. On the inside I was thinking, it’ll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I start serving up French fries again.
A lot of life-changing shit went down during my fast food tenure. I met my ex during the breakfast shift at Arby’s. He was the cook, and grilled up croissant sandwiches while I stayed in the back and assembled the day’s salads. We didn’t start dating until a few years later, long after he quit working there. But even so, a word of advice to all you unattached gals: Don’t marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Trust me on this one.
I had moved up from salad girl to night manager when my mom’s brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was working the night he died, and a few days later, I couldn’t go to the wake because nobody would cover my shift that night. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Then my relationship with my mother was strained to the breaking point by my out-of-wedlock, still-in-college and most-definitely-unplanned pregnancy. Long months of spectacularly fun drama ensued, much of which went down, you guessed it, at Arby’s. Allow me to amend my advice for you gals: Don’t accidentally get pregnant by and then marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Seriously.
Shortly after Demigoddess the Elder was born, I took a job with a magazine publisher—a job with a desk and a computer and not one single heat lamp or meat slicer anywhere—and my days of peddling fast food were over. Well, mostly.
I guess I still do peddle fast food indirectly, but at least I don’t come home from work smelling like “roast beef” any more.
Last week, when I saw that big ‘ole hole where the Arby’s used to be, it seemed like I should feel sad, or pensive, or something. But in reality, it was more like the way I felt after cleaning out all the closets in my house during the year after my divorce. Something more like unfettered. Unencumbered.
Released.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Not Exactly Ward Cleaver, But I'll Take It
Yesterday afternoon, out of the blue, the ex called for the Demigoddesses, just to say hi and chat a little.
It's a small thing, but it's something.
It's a small thing, but it's something.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Pushing Rocks Uphill
Since Monday, I’ve been involved in an ongoing e-mail exchange with my ex. I use the word “exchange” loosely, it’s really somewhere in the neighborhood of an argument/lecture/airing of grievances that started with one simple question:
“Are you planning to have the kids for Labor Day weekend?”
His response, of course, was “no.”
He has lots of reasons for saying no, which he has outlined for me in a number of subsequent e-mails. Somehow, though, they all sound like very convenient rationalizations to me.
He says he thinks the kids understand his "conscious decision" to leave his "old life" behind and start a new one that doesn’t appear to include them. I think he’s very, very wrong about that.
And the thing of it is, I suspect that the only reason he keeps responding to my e-mails is that, deep down, he's not really buying any of his bullshit, either.
“Are you planning to have the kids for Labor Day weekend?”
His response, of course, was “no.”
He has lots of reasons for saying no, which he has outlined for me in a number of subsequent e-mails. Somehow, though, they all sound like very convenient rationalizations to me.
He says he thinks the kids understand his "conscious decision" to leave his "old life" behind and start a new one that doesn’t appear to include them. I think he’s very, very wrong about that.
And the thing of it is, I suspect that the only reason he keeps responding to my e-mails is that, deep down, he's not really buying any of his bullshit, either.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Thanks! I Needed That!
Every once in a while, the fates will dole out a little dope slap.
A former neighbor, whom I hadn’t seen in two years, appeared out of the blue a few days ago (there seems to be a lot of that happening lately...). Her daughter and my girls had been good friends, and had spent a lot of time together before their family moved to another suburb. We kept in touch for a while after their move, but my last interaction with this woman had been a little bit tense. So I was mildly surprised when she seemed very, very glad to see me. She gave me a great big hug, even.
After the initial, “So good to see you! How have you been!” intro round, she cut quickly to the chase. She confided that her husband has finally agreed to go to AA, and he will be attending his first meeting this week.
Having lived with an active alcoholic for five years, followed by another five with the same one sober, I know a little bit about alcoholism and twelve-step programs. Long before they moved away, I became pretty sure that this woman’s husband was a candidate for the Bill W. club. Years ago, I had given her some of my Al-anon literature to read and invited her to a meeting, but she didn’t seem particularly interested at the time. I didn’t press the issue.
When people who need help finally find the courage to ask for it, it always seems like a joyous miracle. But at the same time, I know very well that the journey to that point is almost always long and almost always deeply painful. So her unexpected revelation brought a flood of mixed feelings.
“What happened?” I gasped, although I could imagine.
“It got so much worse,” she said. “What went on when we were living here, that was nothing.”
I nodded. I didn’t need the details. I knew exactly what she was talking about.
The dope slap part of all of this is that just last weekend I told My Ho that I wanted to get back into the routine of attending my weekly Al-anon meetings. Between the second job, him, the Demigoddesses, Friday night baseball games, and life in general, over the past year I have progressed from spotty attendance at meetings to, for the past couple of months, none at all.
For a while there, I was even mulling over the possibility that maybe I was done with Al-anon. Maybe I was tired of going over and over all the old ugliness again and again and again. Maybe I was through defining myself and my life according to the alcoholics I have known. Perhaps it was time to let it go and move on.
But I gave my notice at Old Navy last week (!!!), which means my weekends are mine again. And the reason I brought it up with My Ho was to let him know that my Friday night priority might be changing back to Al-anon meetings, partly to see if he would be cool with that. Of course, he was very supportive.
He asked me why, after almost nine years of meetings, I still felt the need to attend. What I heard myself say was this:
At this point, I know the steps, I know the slogans, I know the literature. I have the tools I’ve learned and I've become pretty good at using them, without even having to think about it much any more. But regular meetings help keep it all fresh and functioning so that I don’t slip back into trouble. And besides that, a very important part of 12-step programs is being there for other people. I have stockpiled a wealth of life experience, hope, and wisdom that I can share with newcomers who need it. But I need to be at meetings for that to happen.
Hello, former neighbor. Thank you for the smack upside the head. (Seriously.)
I invited her to my meeting tonight, and she said she might check it out. She said she has been to a few in her area, but hasn’t found one yet that feels like a good fit. “That’s really great,” I encouraged. “Try a few. You’ll find one.”
I’ll be there tonight, either way.
A former neighbor, whom I hadn’t seen in two years, appeared out of the blue a few days ago (there seems to be a lot of that happening lately...). Her daughter and my girls had been good friends, and had spent a lot of time together before their family moved to another suburb. We kept in touch for a while after their move, but my last interaction with this woman had been a little bit tense. So I was mildly surprised when she seemed very, very glad to see me. She gave me a great big hug, even.
After the initial, “So good to see you! How have you been!” intro round, she cut quickly to the chase. She confided that her husband has finally agreed to go to AA, and he will be attending his first meeting this week.
Having lived with an active alcoholic for five years, followed by another five with the same one sober, I know a little bit about alcoholism and twelve-step programs. Long before they moved away, I became pretty sure that this woman’s husband was a candidate for the Bill W. club. Years ago, I had given her some of my Al-anon literature to read and invited her to a meeting, but she didn’t seem particularly interested at the time. I didn’t press the issue.
When people who need help finally find the courage to ask for it, it always seems like a joyous miracle. But at the same time, I know very well that the journey to that point is almost always long and almost always deeply painful. So her unexpected revelation brought a flood of mixed feelings.
“What happened?” I gasped, although I could imagine.
“It got so much worse,” she said. “What went on when we were living here, that was nothing.”
I nodded. I didn’t need the details. I knew exactly what she was talking about.
The dope slap part of all of this is that just last weekend I told My Ho that I wanted to get back into the routine of attending my weekly Al-anon meetings. Between the second job, him, the Demigoddesses, Friday night baseball games, and life in general, over the past year I have progressed from spotty attendance at meetings to, for the past couple of months, none at all.
For a while there, I was even mulling over the possibility that maybe I was done with Al-anon. Maybe I was tired of going over and over all the old ugliness again and again and again. Maybe I was through defining myself and my life according to the alcoholics I have known. Perhaps it was time to let it go and move on.
But I gave my notice at Old Navy last week (!!!), which means my weekends are mine again. And the reason I brought it up with My Ho was to let him know that my Friday night priority might be changing back to Al-anon meetings, partly to see if he would be cool with that. Of course, he was very supportive.
He asked me why, after almost nine years of meetings, I still felt the need to attend. What I heard myself say was this:
At this point, I know the steps, I know the slogans, I know the literature. I have the tools I’ve learned and I've become pretty good at using them, without even having to think about it much any more. But regular meetings help keep it all fresh and functioning so that I don’t slip back into trouble. And besides that, a very important part of 12-step programs is being there for other people. I have stockpiled a wealth of life experience, hope, and wisdom that I can share with newcomers who need it. But I need to be at meetings for that to happen.
Hello, former neighbor. Thank you for the smack upside the head. (Seriously.)
I invited her to my meeting tonight, and she said she might check it out. She said she has been to a few in her area, but hasn’t found one yet that feels like a good fit. “That’s really great,” I encouraged. “Try a few. You’ll find one.”
I’ll be there tonight, either way.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Things are Good and It's Freaking Me Out
I just made a reservation to board my dog because I am taking a trip.
A real trip.
A trip that requires taking an airplane to a city I’ve never visited before and staying in a hotel for five days (five days!).
Airplane rides and corresponding hotel stays have happened only four times previously in my entire life, and the last time was five years ago. That time I went east. This time I am going west.
As of right now, the farthest west I have ever been is Waconia, Minnesota, and since I live in Minneapolis, that is not really very far west at all. But in two weeks my Ho and I will be taking a trip to Seattle, and THAT is about as far west as a person can go and still be in the country.
My fabulous cousin Tiffany (the eldest of my sister-cousins) lives in Seattle, and we will be seeing her while we are there. Tiffany happens to have a friend who works for the Seattle Mariners, who happen to be hosting my kinda stinky but nonetheless beloved Minnesota Twins in a three-game series at the VERY SAME TIME that we will be there. What an amazing coincidence.
Mmmmmm. Outdoor baseball.
Now Tiff will be able to stop complaining that no one in the family ever comes to visit her.
While I am touring the space needle and smiling at the harbor seals on Puget sound, the Demigoddesses will be at sleep-away camp, thanks to their grandma (the one who is not my mother, and who is much, MUCH nicer than her son). She not only volunteered to pay for the Demis to go to camp, where they will have such a wonderful time swimming and riding horses that they won't even notice that I am on the other side of the continent, but she also will be handling the two-hour round trip that will deliver my children to said camp. She is an exceptionally kind ex-mother-in-law.
Even knowing all of this good stuff, however, up until Saturday afternoon, I was having some anxiety because money is still a little bit tight. The agreement that my ex and I recently came to has not been signed and filed yet, so I was not counting on anything from him until everything was officially in place. And even though there are frequent flyer miles being used, and my Ho appears to have magical powers when it comes to finding bargain travel arrangements, I was worried about fitting such a flagrant extravagance into my budget. But when I came home from my shift at Old Navy on Saturday, there was a check from the ex in my mailbox. I had to read it three times to comprehend what I was seeing.
I went directly to the bank and deposited that check. Then I went to Costco and bought new glasses for Demigoddess the Elder, who has been wearing broken frames for over a year. After that, we went to my Ho’s house to watch the baseball game, during which I told him about the check, and about the glasses, and while I was telling him that now, not only will I be able to take our Seattle trip without guilt, but I will also be able to give Demigoddess the Younger a nice birthday next month, out of NOWHERE I broke down and started to bawl.
Sometimes the relief just sneaks up on you like that.
A real trip.
A trip that requires taking an airplane to a city I’ve never visited before and staying in a hotel for five days (five days!).
Airplane rides and corresponding hotel stays have happened only four times previously in my entire life, and the last time was five years ago. That time I went east. This time I am going west.
As of right now, the farthest west I have ever been is Waconia, Minnesota, and since I live in Minneapolis, that is not really very far west at all. But in two weeks my Ho and I will be taking a trip to Seattle, and THAT is about as far west as a person can go and still be in the country.
My fabulous cousin Tiffany (the eldest of my sister-cousins) lives in Seattle, and we will be seeing her while we are there. Tiffany happens to have a friend who works for the Seattle Mariners, who happen to be hosting my kinda stinky but nonetheless beloved Minnesota Twins in a three-game series at the VERY SAME TIME that we will be there. What an amazing coincidence.
Mmmmmm. Outdoor baseball.
Now Tiff will be able to stop complaining that no one in the family ever comes to visit her.
While I am touring the space needle and smiling at the harbor seals on Puget sound, the Demigoddesses will be at sleep-away camp, thanks to their grandma (the one who is not my mother, and who is much, MUCH nicer than her son). She not only volunteered to pay for the Demis to go to camp, where they will have such a wonderful time swimming and riding horses that they won't even notice that I am on the other side of the continent, but she also will be handling the two-hour round trip that will deliver my children to said camp. She is an exceptionally kind ex-mother-in-law.
Even knowing all of this good stuff, however, up until Saturday afternoon, I was having some anxiety because money is still a little bit tight. The agreement that my ex and I recently came to has not been signed and filed yet, so I was not counting on anything from him until everything was officially in place. And even though there are frequent flyer miles being used, and my Ho appears to have magical powers when it comes to finding bargain travel arrangements, I was worried about fitting such a flagrant extravagance into my budget. But when I came home from my shift at Old Navy on Saturday, there was a check from the ex in my mailbox. I had to read it three times to comprehend what I was seeing.
I went directly to the bank and deposited that check. Then I went to Costco and bought new glasses for Demigoddess the Elder, who has been wearing broken frames for over a year. After that, we went to my Ho’s house to watch the baseball game, during which I told him about the check, and about the glasses, and while I was telling him that now, not only will I be able to take our Seattle trip without guilt, but I will also be able to give Demigoddess the Younger a nice birthday next month, out of NOWHERE I broke down and started to bawl.
Sometimes the relief just sneaks up on you like that.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
How Can I Keep From Singing?
Two summers ago at this time, my sister Meghan was a few weeks away from getting married. In preparation for the whole bridesmaid thing, at the beginning of the year I had started a get-in-shape routine in earnest. Meghan, who has run the Twin Cities Marathon about six times now, had somehow talked me into signing up to run a half marathon, in spite of the fact that when I registered for the race in March, I literally could not run around the block. But I was committed to doing it, and by July 2003, I could run around Lake Calhoun three times in a row.
I had joined an online diet support group that proved to be the keystone of my new fitness regimen, and as a result had dropped from the plus-size department to the “normal” size women’s department. I was taking writing classes. I wasn’t dating anybody, and I actually kind of liked it that way. My financial situation was beginning to get a little sketchy, but I was optimistic that things would improve soon. I completed the half marathon (verrrrry slowly), and the wedding, it was just beautiful. When I look back on that summer, what I remember most is how great it felt to be outside in the sunshine, running around the lake, seeing the people and the dogs and the sun on the water, feeling strong and amazed that I was actually pulling it off. Who knew?
A year later, everything had changed. The ex had stopped paying child support and had made it clear he wouldn’t be paying any time soon. I gave up the writing classes, and then the online support group when I could no longer afford the dues, or even Internet access, for that matter. My running shoes needed replacing, but the $100 it would cost to buy new ones was absolutely out of the question. So I gave up running, too.
I held on as long as I possibly could, but in the end it came down to a choice between two extremely unattractive options. Either I could sell my house, give away my dogs and move my kids into a rental unit, or I could file chapter 7 bankruptcy. I chose to keep the house, which, a lot of the time, felt like I had chosen to stick my head in a noose and was now standing there waiting for the chair to be kicked out from under me. What I remember about last July is the relentless feeling of desperation that I lived with 24/7. The summer before seemed like a different lifetime. I was on the verge of total surrender. A half-step from hopeless.
So in September I bit the bullet and started working at Old Navy. In October I changed positions at my full-time job to one with much more opportunity, if not more money. By Christmas, my Ho and I had become surprisingly tight, and when he and I toasted the new year, I was not unhappy to kiss 2004 on the ass on its way out. The Demigoddesses had proved to be much more self-sufficient than I had given them credit for. I had a lawyer and a court date, and I had learned a few things about getting by.
When spring arrived, I was working both jobs and shuttling the Demigoddesses to and from wherever their various activities required them to be. My ex had moved away with his new wife, so my girls were seeing their dad only sporadically (and when they did, they frequently came home upset and crying, but don't get me started). Breaks for me were few and far between, and although I still had to be very careful about money, overall, things had come a hell of a long way toward better. I could have afforded to buy a new pair of running shoes, and thought about it. But there was simply no time. My days were fuller than full, and anyway, my left foot had been giving me some painful trouble.
By the time I wrote this post, I didn’t really even need the child support any more. Relations with my ex had changed from desperation to a matter of principle. My kids are entitled to support from their father—financial and emotional. The unfortunate awareness that I can’t do a thing about his deficits in the emotional department had made me that much more dedicated to making damn sure that the financial piece, at least, would happen. Which is why I declined the “deal” he came up with after I wrote that post. He was fairly annoyed about that. He balked at the counter-offer I proposed. And then, just when I thought we were finally headed for court once and for all, yesterday afternoon we reached a compromise. The papers are being drawn up right this minute.
Rather than feeling relieved, though, I spent most of last evening feeling anxious. Had I done the best I could do? Were my kids really getting everything they were entitled to? Should I have fought harder and held out longer? Even the happy thought of submitting my two-week notice at Old Navy didn’t help, and I went to bed feeling unsure.
But last night, I dreamed I was running. I woke up this morning feeling at peace. And now it appears that the problems I was having with my foot are gone. I think it’s really over.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that rock I'm clinging...
Since love is lord of heaven and Earth,
How can I keep from singing?
I think I'm going shoe shopping.
I had joined an online diet support group that proved to be the keystone of my new fitness regimen, and as a result had dropped from the plus-size department to the “normal” size women’s department. I was taking writing classes. I wasn’t dating anybody, and I actually kind of liked it that way. My financial situation was beginning to get a little sketchy, but I was optimistic that things would improve soon. I completed the half marathon (verrrrry slowly), and the wedding, it was just beautiful. When I look back on that summer, what I remember most is how great it felt to be outside in the sunshine, running around the lake, seeing the people and the dogs and the sun on the water, feeling strong and amazed that I was actually pulling it off. Who knew?
A year later, everything had changed. The ex had stopped paying child support and had made it clear he wouldn’t be paying any time soon. I gave up the writing classes, and then the online support group when I could no longer afford the dues, or even Internet access, for that matter. My running shoes needed replacing, but the $100 it would cost to buy new ones was absolutely out of the question. So I gave up running, too.
I held on as long as I possibly could, but in the end it came down to a choice between two extremely unattractive options. Either I could sell my house, give away my dogs and move my kids into a rental unit, or I could file chapter 7 bankruptcy. I chose to keep the house, which, a lot of the time, felt like I had chosen to stick my head in a noose and was now standing there waiting for the chair to be kicked out from under me. What I remember about last July is the relentless feeling of desperation that I lived with 24/7. The summer before seemed like a different lifetime. I was on the verge of total surrender. A half-step from hopeless.
So in September I bit the bullet and started working at Old Navy. In October I changed positions at my full-time job to one with much more opportunity, if not more money. By Christmas, my Ho and I had become surprisingly tight, and when he and I toasted the new year, I was not unhappy to kiss 2004 on the ass on its way out. The Demigoddesses had proved to be much more self-sufficient than I had given them credit for. I had a lawyer and a court date, and I had learned a few things about getting by.
When spring arrived, I was working both jobs and shuttling the Demigoddesses to and from wherever their various activities required them to be. My ex had moved away with his new wife, so my girls were seeing their dad only sporadically (and when they did, they frequently came home upset and crying, but don't get me started). Breaks for me were few and far between, and although I still had to be very careful about money, overall, things had come a hell of a long way toward better. I could have afforded to buy a new pair of running shoes, and thought about it. But there was simply no time. My days were fuller than full, and anyway, my left foot had been giving me some painful trouble.
By the time I wrote this post, I didn’t really even need the child support any more. Relations with my ex had changed from desperation to a matter of principle. My kids are entitled to support from their father—financial and emotional. The unfortunate awareness that I can’t do a thing about his deficits in the emotional department had made me that much more dedicated to making damn sure that the financial piece, at least, would happen. Which is why I declined the “deal” he came up with after I wrote that post. He was fairly annoyed about that. He balked at the counter-offer I proposed. And then, just when I thought we were finally headed for court once and for all, yesterday afternoon we reached a compromise. The papers are being drawn up right this minute.
Rather than feeling relieved, though, I spent most of last evening feeling anxious. Had I done the best I could do? Were my kids really getting everything they were entitled to? Should I have fought harder and held out longer? Even the happy thought of submitting my two-week notice at Old Navy didn’t help, and I went to bed feeling unsure.
But last night, I dreamed I was running. I woke up this morning feeling at peace. And now it appears that the problems I was having with my foot are gone. I think it’s really over.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that rock I'm clinging...
Since love is lord of heaven and Earth,
How can I keep from singing?
I think I'm going shoe shopping.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Dome
After all of yesterday’s borderline-nauseating Pollyanna optimism, it turns out that we never did make it to last night's game. I had too much work, Ho had too much work, the tickets turned out to be not so most excellent after all, and it just wasn’t gonna happen.
I was very grumpy about this last night.
But remember that bit about the Hormel Row of Fame?
Right about the time the Twins were two innings into their THRID WIN IN A ROW (never mind the fact that the Royals pretty much beat themselves, ‘cuz it still totally counts as a win for US), I got an unexpected call from…
Yep.
The ex.
After over a year of conflict, non-resolution, bile, venom, and lawyer’s fees, he called to extend an olive branch. He’s tired of fighting. And he’s scared to go in front of what he called a “man-hating judge.” He wants to make a deal.
I will tell you, it freaked me the hell out.
Bear in mind, my ex is a person whose story changes about every 18.5 minutes. But I am going to take him at his word and call my lawyer this morning.
You just never know.
I was very grumpy about this last night.
But remember that bit about the Hormel Row of Fame?
Right about the time the Twins were two innings into their THRID WIN IN A ROW (never mind the fact that the Royals pretty much beat themselves, ‘cuz it still totally counts as a win for US), I got an unexpected call from…
Yep.
The ex.
After over a year of conflict, non-resolution, bile, venom, and lawyer’s fees, he called to extend an olive branch. He’s tired of fighting. And he’s scared to go in front of what he called a “man-hating judge.” He wants to make a deal.
I will tell you, it freaked me the hell out.
Bear in mind, my ex is a person whose story changes about every 18.5 minutes. But I am going to take him at his word and call my lawyer this morning.
You just never know.
Friday, June 24, 2005
And You Thought I Forgot
Yesterday, during a rerun of that creepy Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes interview, which I so made a point of watching since everyone has been talking about how bizarre it was, and I missed it the first time and I HATE it when everyone is talking about something that I haven’t seen, Oprah said something to Tom that I found quite profound.
She said, “…you can tell a man’s character by the kind of woman who is with him.”
Interesting.
If that’s true, then my ex is an immature, emotionally unstable psycho with bad skin who blames me for every evil in the known universe.
That Oprah. She is SO wise.
(You didn't really think a day was going to go by without some venom for my ex, did you?)
She said, “…you can tell a man’s character by the kind of woman who is with him.”
Interesting.
If that’s true, then my ex is an immature, emotionally unstable psycho with bad skin who blames me for every evil in the known universe.
That Oprah. She is SO wise.
(You didn't really think a day was going to go by without some venom for my ex, did you?)
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Thoughts from a Working Mom
My ex is a deadbeat.
I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that after a year of struggling (and mostly failing) to make ends meet, I decided to take a second job in order to keep the Demigoddesses clothed and fed and sheltered in the manner to which they have become accustomed. So last September began my part-time career at Old Navy.
The job itself does not totally suck, which means that working part-time at Old Navy has exceeded my expectations a great deal. What bites is that putting in 55 hours a week between two jobs makes it hard to do much of anything else. Housekeeping has sorta gone out the window, laundry has become sporadic at best, and the Demigoddess have become remarkably self sufficient, especially regarding that whole “dinner” thing. By Thursday night I am almost always tired and surly and eager to point out to anyone who is within earshot the agonizing minutia of the miseries of my life.
Circumstances have improved dramatically since last fall. I hate to credit Old Navy with changing my life, but once I took that step, a lot of things began falling into place, and not just financially. So lately, I have been toying with the idea of quitting the part-time gig. But I find that I’m not quite ready to drop the axe just yet.
I am blessed with bright, healthy children who are still willing to be seen with me in public, and believe me, for that I am very, very grateful. But I have learned something from this whole experience that I will not soon forget: Knowing that your child needs something, and not knowing how you are going to provide that thing for your child, is a special kind of hell that I never want to live in again.
Plus, you know, I get a sweet discount at the GAP.
I’m seriously quitting before the Christmas shopping season, though. Because that REALLY sucks.
I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that after a year of struggling (and mostly failing) to make ends meet, I decided to take a second job in order to keep the Demigoddesses clothed and fed and sheltered in the manner to which they have become accustomed. So last September began my part-time career at Old Navy.
The job itself does not totally suck, which means that working part-time at Old Navy has exceeded my expectations a great deal. What bites is that putting in 55 hours a week between two jobs makes it hard to do much of anything else. Housekeeping has sorta gone out the window, laundry has become sporadic at best, and the Demigoddess have become remarkably self sufficient, especially regarding that whole “dinner” thing. By Thursday night I am almost always tired and surly and eager to point out to anyone who is within earshot the agonizing minutia of the miseries of my life.
Circumstances have improved dramatically since last fall. I hate to credit Old Navy with changing my life, but once I took that step, a lot of things began falling into place, and not just financially. So lately, I have been toying with the idea of quitting the part-time gig. But I find that I’m not quite ready to drop the axe just yet.
I am blessed with bright, healthy children who are still willing to be seen with me in public, and believe me, for that I am very, very grateful. But I have learned something from this whole experience that I will not soon forget: Knowing that your child needs something, and not knowing how you are going to provide that thing for your child, is a special kind of hell that I never want to live in again.
Plus, you know, I get a sweet discount at the GAP.
I’m seriously quitting before the Christmas shopping season, though. Because that REALLY sucks.
Monday, June 20, 2005
So. Father's Day.
I spent yesterday afternoon at our city pool with my children, getting sunburned and being deeply disappointed (again) by my beloved and, lately, deeply disappointing Minnesota Twins.
And speaking of disappointment, the Demigoddess’ father backed out of taking them for Father’s Day weekend for this reason:
From: Father of the Year
Sent: Friday, June 17, 2005 9:18 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: This Weekend
…The truth is that I just don't have the gas money (or credit available) to drive there or back. I'm totally broke right now. We'll have to schedule something on a future weekend.
He and the new wife have just bought a house, which they are in the process of finalizing financing on. Apparently that’s where all his money has gone.
The children left him a voicemail around noon. He did not return their call. They do not appear to have noticed that he did not return their call. And that is simultaneously a good and a very sad thing.
So. They had fun at the pool. We left in time for us to get home and change, and then stop at the bookstore to pick up a gift for MY Dad ('cuz yeah, I'm exactly THAT organized), and then we had a lovely barbecue at my parents' house, with my sisters, aunt, cousin, and niece. Steak, cherry pie, and a reworking of the lyrics to "You Don't Bring Me Flowers," which reflected the fact that two of my sisters have been roomies for the past year or so. Here's a snippet:
"You don't clean the bathroom,
You only talk about it...
And your boyfriend
nevers closes the kitchen cupboard doors..."
Or something like that. Our family gatherings almost always involve 70's pop music and quotes from the Little House on the Prairie TV series. My brother-in-law, mysteriously, made a fast and early exit.
Dad liked the book. Thanks again for the gift idea, Ho.
--EverydaySuperGoddess
And speaking of disappointment, the Demigoddess’ father backed out of taking them for Father’s Day weekend for this reason:
From: Father of the Year
Sent: Friday, June 17, 2005 9:18 AM
To: EverydaySuperGoddess
Subject: This Weekend
…The truth is that I just don't have the gas money (or credit available) to drive there or back. I'm totally broke right now. We'll have to schedule something on a future weekend.
He and the new wife have just bought a house, which they are in the process of finalizing financing on. Apparently that’s where all his money has gone.
The children left him a voicemail around noon. He did not return their call. They do not appear to have noticed that he did not return their call. And that is simultaneously a good and a very sad thing.
So. They had fun at the pool. We left in time for us to get home and change, and then stop at the bookstore to pick up a gift for MY Dad ('cuz yeah, I'm exactly THAT organized), and then we had a lovely barbecue at my parents' house, with my sisters, aunt, cousin, and niece. Steak, cherry pie, and a reworking of the lyrics to "You Don't Bring Me Flowers," which reflected the fact that two of my sisters have been roomies for the past year or so. Here's a snippet:
"You don't clean the bathroom,
You only talk about it...
And your boyfriend
nevers closes the kitchen cupboard doors..."
Or something like that. Our family gatherings almost always involve 70's pop music and quotes from the Little House on the Prairie TV series. My brother-in-law, mysteriously, made a fast and early exit.
Dad liked the book. Thanks again for the gift idea, Ho.
--EverydaySuperGoddess
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