Friday, August 21, 2009


My dad never commented on the tributes that my sister and I wrote for him and then left for him at his birthday party (since we never actually had an opportunity to read them to him). In fact, he hasn't commented on much of anything lately since he won't return my calls. Or emails.

It's a very sad position to be in when you relentlessly call your parent for approval, love, whatever...and the parent can't reciprocate. Or at least return your phone calls. Or your emails.

So you decide to use your cute child as leverage and you email an update with pictures from the first day of school and news of soccer starting. Yet, nothing.

You wonder how long this is going to last. You start to think that therapy might be in your future. You lose some sleep. You just don't know what the fuck to think.

But what you do know is this: You won't be the kind of parent to Ben that your dad is to you. No matter what Ben might do to fail you or to disappoint you, you'll always be there for him. You'll call him back if he wants to talk. You'll read his emails and you'll also text him. You'll be there for him. And he'll never doubt that. Not for one single minute.

Monday, August 17, 2009


I posted this entry on the wrong 'effing blog initially. On my business blog, no less. This is the problem with maintaining more than one blog!

My ex-husband lives his life in a pattern. It goes something like this:

Meet a girl.
Get serious with said girl.
Circle back to me and announce that he wants to get back together.
Cause major insecurity on the part of the new girlfriend.

And so it goes. We've been doing this dance for the last three years. I've (almost) become used to it. It's the same cycle; as predictable as the German train.

So it should have been no surprise when our conversation, while doing a "Ben swap" took this turn:

Me: "I need to ask you something. But I can't remember what it is. Shoot, my memory is seriously going...what the heck did I need to ask you?"

Kevin: "That you want to know if I'll marry you again? I would, you know."

Then he gives me a long, deep look.

At which point I roll my eyes and tell him to take Ben and let me start my weekend.

I am always surprised when he drops this bomb. Admittedly, I do start thinking to myself, "What would that be like? Really?" And then I have to re-program my mind and my heart, once again.

Something tells me we'll be spiraling in this vortex of regrets and "what ifs" for a very, very long time.

Sunday, August 9, 2009


It's 4:20am. I haven't been to sleep yet. No, not for one minute.

The reason? I have a stepmonster and thoughts of how to manage this familial situation are pounding my head.

I'm fairly certain that my dad will never find this blog so I'm going to share the details of my evening here in the hopes of clearing some space in my brain for some much-needed rest. Especially since Ben will be up in two (ouch!) hours.

My dad married the wicked witch of the west and that, to be sure, is putting it kindly. Now, to be fair, occasionally the witch (I better call her T just to be safe) does throw on her tiara and is the nicest, Glenda type fairy godmother that you could ever imagine. It just seems like recently, give or take 10 years, that the witch has been around much more than Glenda. And I've pretty much had it.

After forgetting my dad's birthday and attempting to make amends by finishing work, dashing home, packing up Ben and scurrying to to his house for what I hoped would be good family time before the big birthday bash, I quickly found T working in the backyard, feverishly preparing for the party. "Hi!" I said. "Everything looks great!" I added emphatically. "What can I do to help?" "Stay away from me," she replied. "I'm in a bad mood."

Well, hello to you too. And lovely to see you, I might add.

No sooner could I digest this greeting, when the gossipy aunt grabs me by the elbow and pulls me into the bathroom. "We need to talk," she says." "Your dad showed Teresa your blog. She is not happy."

I had recently posted a tongue-in-cheek re-cap of the notoriously HUGE event of me forgetting my dad's birthday.

I looked at my aunt. "So?" I said. "That's my dad's business, not mine. Teresa doesn't even know what a blog is."

My aunt goes on: "Well, you really hurt her feelings, blah blah blah blah blah blah..." At which point I cut her off: "She's hurt my feelings more than I've ever admitted in the last 10 years. This isn't about her. I could really care less."

I turned around, flung open the door and there was Teresa. Perfect timing. But the thing was, I really didn't care. How many times have I arrived at their house, only to have my dad tell me, "Teresa's in a really bad mood today. You need to be extra kind, extra helpful." Right, and when am I anything but all this? And more?

Ben wanted me to swim with him. So I stayed clear of the adults and enjoyed my time with him. The adults also steered clear of us and by the time we went in to dry off and get ready for the party, there was a chilly silence among the cousins who had come in for the night. I caught a few looks of disapproval and that was enough for me.

I got the hell out of the kitchen and found my brother and his kids. My sister showed up shortly thereafter and I felt much more protected, secure.

Teresa had another outburst about us not staying over.

My sister and I never did have an opportunity to present our respective tributes to our dad. It was pretty obvious that any kind of sentiment was not part of Teresa's agenda.

Then she and the cousins all sat on their butts, on the porch, while I took Ben on the rounds to say goodbye. No one spoke to me, no one made even the slightest attempt to touch my hand in a goodbye gesture, certainly no hugs were attempted. I couldn't wait to get the fuck out of there.

Ben cried for 40 minutes on the way home. Wailing about how tired he was. My head started to hurt. Then it began to throb. Then I thought I was going to throw up.

We finally arrived home at 11:30pm. I took two prescription strength pain killers and sobbed for hours. It did nothing for my head pain so I took two more. Obviously, I must have some type of great tolerance to meds because here I am, at 4:45am, still nursing the headache and not a bit tired.

I need a break from Teresa. I have absolutely had it with her back-stabbing ways. And most particularly, with her "triangulating", that is, bouncing from one daughter to the other, depending on whom is the greater threat to her at any given time.

It comes right down to being unhealthy and toxic. And a situation that I'd best avoid for a while. After all, she definitely took the lead on this one by saying: "Stay away from me." Okay, Teresa, that I will do. May I offer you some advice for the future: be careful of what you demand.

Monday, August 3, 2009


I had a date last Friday night. With a 30-something cutie. Well, truth be told, drop the "something" and that's his actual age. Yep, that right. He's 30. Years. Old.

A baby, is what he is. And he looks 25. And he is darling.

We met a couple of weekends ago, casually on the street. I gave him my business card under the ruse of potentially teaching at his dance studio. Oh yeah, did I mention that he's a Latin guy? And a dancer? And a lawyer? And fluent in three languages with an accent to die for? He is a package of sweetness, that much I know.

Am I out of my element? Clearly. Am I having fun? Definitely.

My cute boy, R, apparently likes "older" women, in which case, I definitely qualify. He writes me long, sweet email messages and sends me several text messages a day. He drops a few Spanish and French lines in his notes and tells me everything I want to know about his past relationships.

I've never dated a 30-year-old. Or man in his 30s; at least, not in the last decade.

It's kinda fun, trying on this cougar role and being the older, wiser woman for once.

Although, he's about to find out that I am certainly on the old, old side of 30. Here it is 10pm and a text shows up: "Put on a dress and your salsa shoes. Pick you up in 15. We'll dance all night." HA! He's lucky that I even saw the text since the only things that I see at 10pm, generally, are the backs of my two eyelids.

Nevertheless, this could be a fun little adventure. The claws are out, my whiskers are twitching and I'm feeling like quite the cat on the prowl...