Life is like a box of chocolates...

Ahhh.. almost February. Valentine's month. Ironically the perfect time for chocolate and heartache. Yup. I'm nursing a broken heart. The details don't matter. The bottom line is, after a two year love affair, he was not honest and not moving on and he lied and lied and lied and then lied about the lie. And you know how I feel about lies. Ugh. It was like the sweetest candy, with the worst after-effects. 

But, hey! I'm back out there. Nothing says 40 and divorced like plopping my ass in front of eHarmony with a glass of wine on a chilly Saturday night. It's been about a week and already I'm tired of "Garrett and Anastasia"'s picture at the login screen. I never met a Garrett OR an Anastasia. Have you? I don't think they exist. False advertising. And if you saw what is there to browse, you'd agree. No one even comes close to these two. If I didn't consider it mostly entertainment, I wouldn't have the stomach for it. 

I sound so bitter. Truth be told (and did I mention my feelings on being truthful?) I am really ok. I've got everything and whatever is next will be icing on the cake. That said, I'm making a Valentine's Day Resolution. 

I'm NOT going to feel sorry for myself. No boo hoo-ing. I am ready to reach into life's box of chocolates with anticipation of something delicious, something savory and down right yummy. I don't want to be one of those bitter women that hates men and has lost faith. I will humorously eHarmonize, and drink wine, and visit friends, and smile until I find it. Or until I forget I thought I almost had it... Whichever comes first.

Between the Lines

I'm really good with boundaries. Super-hero good, actually.

Respect!
Consideration!
Personal space!...
...You are all safe with me!

If you asked anyone in my life (be it friend or foe) they would agree. I am pretty respectful of the lines. I'm just not programed to cross them. Come to think of it, when I color with my kids, I actually trace over (with vibrant color, of course) all the lines first so that they are thick and brightly clear to me (and everyone else) and easy to stay in. Hmmm.... interesting self-analysis there. I digress...

I can think of only two times in my life where I crossed a line. I am absolutely sure of these two isolated incidents because I hated the feeling of them. Staying inside the lines is a trait that I am proud of. Sure, it can lend itself to being viewed by others as "too serious" and "defensive", but I believe the benefits have greatly outweighed the risks. I am fiercely protective of what lies between the lines in my life. I've been told I am like a pitbull when it comes to securing my space and of those I love. You can trust me. I've got your back. (Low growl....!)

I walk around this world respectfully navigating boundaries. I look for them on people's faces, or in the way they carry themselves, and in their words, (or the lack there of) in a conversation, text or on facebook. In my mind I know, "Ok, that's off limits. I get it". It's all about respect.

That said, I never fail to be stunned when someone is blind to boundaries, especially mine. I mean, come on people! They are thickly traced over practically neon! Why do you insist on ignoring them? I know these people see my lines. Do they just not care? Or worse, do they believe they can change me? Wrong. Nuh-uh. Not happening. Rrruff! Ruff! (baring my teeth and snarling..).

Twice today my boundaries were crossed and I am pissed. Growl. "Back OFF!" Someone please explain this blatant disregard to me because I have had it up to HERE!

Rrrruff! Growl! Snarl!

Home Is Where The Heart Is... (or so they say)

I hate my house.

I'm no hater. And I don't hate a lot of things...but boy OH boy do I hate my house. To most, it's pretty much like every other suburban cookie-cutter cape house on Long Island. Vinyl siding. Decorative window shutters. Small kitchen. Two baths. Postage stamp-size lawn. One car garage. Chrysanthemums and tomato plants popping up in a micro-miniature patch of garden in the yard. I should love my house. Anyone else would love my house. But I don't. And I make no apologies.

"It's a good house" friends say. "You could dormer/do a kitchen/put in a deck..." they envision, all starry-eyed. Me? I day dream of the family that will live here next. Like a puppy you hope to find a good family for, I just cannot give my house the life it deserves to have living in it.

I moved into this house with my parents in 1976. I was five. My younger brother was born here. Took his first steps in the living room. I painted the walls of my teenage bedroom (now my oldest son's blue room) lavender with flowers, here. Watched my mom make family dinners while heroically fighting cancer here. I cranked up my stereo here. Had my first kiss here. Hosted glitzy pre-prom parties here. Drove away to college from here. I lived here. Mom died here. I left here.

For eight years I lived away, created a fresh new life, while the house was left with a fractured part of our family in it. Then one day the house was an opportunity. "It's a good house" he said. "I want something new" I said. "We could dormer/do a kitchen/put in a deck" he said. "I want to start fresh", I said. "But it's a good house" he said. "Okay. But we won't stay for long", I said.

That was twelve years ago. The kitchen is the same, but older and now much more outdated. There's no dormer. No deck. Yes there are good memories for me and my kids in this house, like first steps, the birth of my youngest, but they collide with the ones of my own childhood. It's not nostalgic like some would imagine. It's memory overload. If memories could be like the mall on Christmas Eve, that's what it's like for me living behind these walls. It's crowded.

I actually re-purchased the house for a second time in my life last November. One of the many ridiculous things that has happened because of divorce. I did not want to uproot my kids so I did it for them, but it's ironic all the same.

Of course I know how lucky I am to have a warm and secure place to live and even though I don't have the means or motivation to renovate or enhance it, I focus instead on the heart of my home - -my kids. I substitute dormers and granite counter tops for miniature vegetable gardens and a few flower beds. I fix what needs to be fixed. Do what needs to be done. It is my obligation to my family. And best of all, I move about these walls with the comfort and security of my children always in the forefront of my mind. I dream of the family that will get to live here next... Because, I'm told, it's a good house.

But I still hate it.

The Dreams Were Your Ticket Out...

Welcome back!

.....And that's all I should say about that.

But I won't. Ahhh... Dreams! I could quote all my favorites here, from hokey 70's TV show theme songs to the haunting words of Langston Hughes who questioned the perils of living with dreams deferred. Dreams. They are so many things to so many people. For the middle-class, middle-aged mostly-comfortable woman like me, they are the essence of selfishness. The epitome of ego. Secret lives we live in moments of desperate longing. Terrible, horrible, spoiled moments of daring to want more. Oh the guilt!

Therefore, I have relinquished the idea of a "dream". I think we should keep "dream" solely as a sleep event. Dreams are things that happen in our heads at night; images and vivid pictures that we have no control over. Some are wonderful. Some are horrid. They are involuntary and they happen during sleep. I do not "dream" of my life. No sir. No mam. I have changed my dream diet. Instead of feasting on the glutenous selfishness of "dreams" by day, I serve up a deluge of hope. I aspire. I expect. I aim. I design. I plan. I trust. I believe. I promise. I wish....

I wish.

Liar Liar...

The last thing I am is a liar. I am probably the straightest-straight talker I know. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I'm unashamed of who I am. I have always believed that to lie is to deny yourself and others of yourself. I abhor lies. They make me feel riddled with guilt. Guilt that sloshes around in my soul like sour milk.

Yet here I am - - ex-wife in waiting - - having discovered that the life I was leading for many many years wasn't authentic at all. It wasn't me. Was I a liar? Did the non-liar actually lie to herself for so long and so well that she became what she despises the most? Now, let me say what I know you are thinking....Yes - I think that there are degrees of lying. When I really contemplate what I did, I know that my pain came from a place of wanting, of doing good, of being righteous. It was not lying out of deception, even though the end result was hurt and shock. I lied to protect myself and to protect my family.

That said, my life has completely changed. But lies still exist and seem to be more obvious and, dare I say it, necessary. There are just some actions and thoughts that I can't divulge to people, or to my family, mostly for fear of judgment or unnecessary repercussions. The price I pay is the guilt. The guilt is always the same, if not worse when lies are blatant. I risk hurting others with my lies but there are just some things that I'd like to keep to myself right now. If you see my previous post about the importance of things, some of my lies protect these precious "things" - - They are self-serving but they also heal me. Maybe it's not the way others would heal themselves, but it's working for me right now.

I feel as if I've sailed..

"over a year, in and out of weeks and through a day..." and ended up right back where I started. The irony is not lost on me at all.

I am not so sure that my wild rumpus over the years was really so wild as it was just plain wildly emotional. I embodied every emotion - every wild thing, except that I was never Max. I was never that child who could get lost in moment of blissful fantasy. So that's where I am right now.

I have been lucky over the last few months to reconnect with life long and dear friends, people who knew me when I was actually a real child. They've shared stories with me, told me about me, things that I've long forgotten. The essence of me. And the remarkable thing, the thing that I had forgotten is that I was a great kid - a lovable and friendly child who was happy and seemed to make people happy. For years I only saw myself through the eyes of the miserable and judgmental people around me. I simply began to believe them.

Hearing these endearing stories of my past has helped me find myself again. It feels right. It's like coming back home.

I've Got Everything.

I found out this week that the soon to be ex would like me to pay him half of value of our 2nd car, the car that I use. My car. I assure you, it is not a very valuable car - a small, economy vehicle. At first I was deeply disturbed by this request. It was just another "thing" in our life that I didn't lay claim too. On the surface, it appears that most of our "things" are not mine at all, but his. Paid for with his money. As a stay at home mom, I did not contribute in a measurable way. I didn't have a personal saving account, or my own credit card. I didn't buy gifts or household items with money I personally worked for. These things were basically on loan. This latest request for my car clearly reinforced the notion that I possessed little value in that previous life. I had not even earned my way towards a Honda Civic. This situation got me thinking this week...

All these "things" can be replaced. The car, the pots and pans, dishes and glasses, sofa, TV, etc.. They are just things. What is really of value to me right now which can not be taken from me are the new "things" I have discovered in myself and my life: wonderful people, intense passion and inner peace. When I really stop and think about what makes me feel the happiest, it is these things that top my list. Having confidence in myself to take the risk and get out there and be with people, to flaunt my passions, and to sit unworried about my future are the real things. The right things. The irreplaceable things.

So, car or no car, dishes, plates, Tivo, whatever it is that this divorce might take, it's the person I'm becoming with the life I'm living that can never ever be taken. I've got everything.