Tears, Snot and Wedding Photos

I’m not gonna lie. I’m a mess right now. I feel alone. I feel vulnerable. Part of me feels that if he walked through the door right now, I’d take him back. (Just kidding, Mom!)

Most of all I’m sad…and angry…but mostly sad.

I woke up crying. I mean really crying. You know that kind of crying where tears, snot and screeching noises come out simultaneously. The screeching is raw, incomprehensible noise. It’s like you’re trying to communicate with whales.

It’s that kind of crying where you scream his name, curse his name then say it again but softly.

I hate you! I love you!

I want you back! No, I don’t!

I guess I’m just having a bad day. I’ve been alone for two days because the kids are away this weekend.

I think this downward spiral started last night…When I found the wedding photos.

Damn…

I had a dream about the early days. Yup, I went Old School in my dream. Back then, when it was good, it was really good. For the last five years of our marriage, that’s what I longed for. That’s what I held on to.

Sometime this morning, the dream suddenly catapulted me into the present…Wet eyes, snotty nose, heavy heart.   

If my tear-soaked pillow could talk, it would probably say, “Get it together, girlfriend!”

Or maybe it would just roll its eyes and say, “Not this again.”

Damn…

Needing a change of scenery, I forced myself out of bed and into the bathtub…without water. 

And I’ve been in such a good place lately. Actually, I’ve been in a really good place for a few months now, which is why this basket-case scenario is really pissing me off.

OK, so I found the wedding photos. Now what?

Do I burn them? A bonfire with s'mores? 

Mmm, s'mores...

Do I sell them? At least the ones of me… Size 4, tight butt… I look goooooood!

Do I keep them? For when I need a good cry or PMS-ing or PTSD-ing… (Google PTSD)

Damn…

This is not me. I’m the strong one. I’m the rock.

Mmm, The Rock...

“I don’t rattle, kid!” Ugh! That’s a line from one of HIS favorite movies.

Damn…

I guess when you’ve lost the love of your life, days like this can shake you. And my world is an earthquake right now.

Don’t worry… No need to talk me off the ledge. (No, Mom… I don’t need you to come over.)

Gonna pick myself up, dust myself off and move on like I always do.

Now if I could only get out of this damn bathtub…

Derek Jeter is my friend

Start dream sequence...

The doorbell rings in the middle of the night. I jump out of bed to open the door.

It’s Derek Jeter.

He says he needs me… to take him to the hospital.

His right arm is bleeding. 

I say, “Dude, what happened?”

I grab my keys and take my friend, Derek freaking Jeter, to the hospital.

We get to the ER and I -- I repeat -- I offer to call his girlfriend.

“She must be worried,” I tell him. He says, “Yeah, I guess so. You’ve got her number, right?”

Apparently, I do, because I call the skinny wench as if I’ve had her on speed dial all my life.

While the ER doctor tends to Derek freaking Jeter, I wait in the lobby with the skinny wench as if we’re BFF’s.

Jeter finally walks out with his arm in a sling. He’s been stitched up for reasons I still can’t explain. Sorry, but the source of the injury wasn’t unveiled in my dream. (My New York Yankee friends were very upset about this part of my dream. They wanted details. If Jeter hurts his arm this season, I’m toast.)

As Jeter hugs his girlfriend (and the remnants of self esteem disappear), he turns to me and says… “Thank you for being such a good friend.”

A good friend… Derek Jeter is my friend. 

End dream sequence...

So there I was in my new queen size bed with virgin 600-count Egyptian sheets -- loveless, man-less, sex-less.

My dreams should be my escape from the daily stresses of the ex, bills, work and everything that comes along with single mommy-hood.

For the record, I dig a guy in a uniform…A BASEBALL UNIFORM! If you recall the commercial, “Chicks dig the long ball.” Oh yeah, baby, that’s me.

My preference would have been Albert Pujols (Ay, papi!) but on this night, for whatever reason, my dream led me to Jeter. Thanks for nothing, Captain Clutch-less.

After months of riding this emotional roller coaster called divorce (in progress) that comes with a moody ex, two kids and a fish (RIP Kanishiwa), I finally dream of one of the finest boys of summer.  

And we’re friends… We’re freaking friends!

After cussing myself out in front of a mirror in English and in Spanish, I finally stopped and asked myself: What’s wrong with me? 

 

Unable to answer my own question, I did what every single mom living in the “Generation Right Now” does – I took it to Twitter (Shameless plug: You can now follow me on Twitter @TwoKidsandFish).

According to the “Twitterverse,” this dream proves that I’m not ready for a new relationship.

Well, DUH!  

Can’t a girl have some fun in her own dream? Doesn’t she deserve to be uninhibited even with an unavailable man in the privacy of her own subconscious?  

Of course, this was great entertainment for my friends…

*Barry: Which girlfriend? Get it? Cuz he’s a baseball player…

*Katie: **** the Yankees!  

 

*Jenny: Wow, you can’t even get any in your dream. What’s wrong with you? Oh, right, that’s the million-dollar question…

*Angie: You suck at dreaming.

*Sasha: Like the Kardashians say: “Don’t be a bore, be a whore!” If you chant this before bed, you’ll have better dreams.

Well, look at the time, it’s late. Gotta get ready for bed… Mmm hmm… Gonna brush my teeth and put on a little lipstick as I clear my head to make room for Albert "I don't need no stinkin' friends" Pujols. 

Start chanting sequence now… “Don’t be a bore, be a whore! Don’t be a bore, be a whore!”

By the way, if my ex should ever ask, I had my way with Derek freaking Jeter six ways ‘til Sunday… at Fenway! (He’s a Red Sox fan.)  

   

Valentine’s Day letter to my ex

Valentine’s Day 2011 came and went. I didn’t buy myself flowers. I didn’t cry in my chocolate-covered strawberries. I just didn’t think about it until… later that night.

As Feb. 14, 2011, came to close, I found myself thinking about all the things I didn’t miss about being with him on Valentine’s Day. I started talking out loud to him (although he doesn’t live here) in the kitchen, by myself, hoarding the chocolate-covered strawberries. When I asked him a question and he didn’t respond (obviously), I wrote him this letter.  

* * * * * 

Dear Romeo:

Thank you for 12 wonderful years of marriage. I know, I know, we were married for 17 years. Do the math.

Listen, if you ever find another Juliet (God help her if you do!), you really need to step up your game on Valentine’s Day.  I mean, you had a good run there for a while, but you really called in at the end. The planning, the dinners, the quality time -- all good!  

If you ever find yourself in another relationship where you just don’t really give a damn, man up and let her know how you feel. Really, dude, grow a pair.

Signed,

Happily Ever After

* * * * *

Like I said, it finally hit me. What was I really missing out on without him? As it turns out not much! I’ll make this easy to understand using David Letterman’s Top 10 style, but with 5.

So here it is, my Top 5 reasons of why I don’t miss being with him on Valentine’s Day:  

5. Him Faking it – Calm down. Not that kind of faking it. I mean faking, as in pretending that he actually gave a damn. He didn’t.

4.  Promising dinner – It started with: “I promise to take you to dinner.” Then downgraded a few days before to: “I promise to make you dinner.”  By Feb. 14, it would turn into a pitiful, “Get yourself something to eat on the way home.” Via text message!  

3. Wasting time, looking for the perfect card – I absolutely do not miss combing through the “To My Husband” section of the Valentine’s Day cards at Walgreens, Walmart, Target or whatever nearby gas station I happened to stop at. In the last five years of my marriage when it went from “Uh oh, my marriage is in trouble” to “It is so over,” I had yet to find a card that said, “You suck as a husband. Happy Valentine’s Day!” (Note to Hallmark: Make new cards!)

2. “Don’t buy me anything. We don’t have any money.” – He said this so often that I will literally be able to copy and paste this line into future blogs about Christmas, Father’s Day, birthdays, President’s Day, Cinco de Mayo… Of course we didn’t have any money, he spent it all.

1. Me Faking It – Again, as in pretending… Pretending to like the piece of crap he bought on some random corner because it was close to his favorite burrito place and it was buy one get one free plus a bag of shrimp. Cheap, ghetto crap is cheap, ghetto crap with zero resale value even at a yard sale.  

Follow via Twitter @TwoKidsandaFish

Three Witnesses and an Idiot

Despite the divorce in progress, I’m still part of the morning carpool routine with two of my sister-in-laws. Since we take our daughters out of district, it’s a 20-30 minute drive, depending on the traffic.  

When you have three girls – aka witnesses, ages 5, 6 and 9 -- in your back seat on a Monday morning with zero coffee intake, the 20-30 minute drive can sometimes feel like a cross-country road trip to Wally World.

Needless to say, you have to be creative to help pass the time. They love playing “20 Questions.” (i.e., If you have 20 cupcakes and you eat 5 of them, how many do you have left? Yes, almost all questions involve food.)  

On this particular morning, we sat at a red light and continued our “Questions” game… until the driver of the silver SUV started waving hello.

Like an idiot, I waved back. Like an even bigger idiot, I said, “Look girls, the nice man is waving hello.”

Not to be outdone, the driver of the silver SUV proved to be even a bigger idiot than me. With his right hand, he made a gesture (get your heads out of the gutter) as if he was holding a telephone. He then mouthed the words, “Can I call you?”

This sent the three witnesses in the back seat into a frenzy. 

By the way, who hits on someone at a red light at 8:30 in the morning! Seriously, who does that? 

As I shook my head “no” and he shrugged his shoulders with the “Well, I tried look,” the chatter from the witnesses grew to a fever pitch.

To further put him to shame, the witnesses hit the power button of the back seat window. As the tinted window lowered, they pointed and laughed as if the guy had been caught eating his boogers in the cafeteria.

Realizing he had just hit on a woman with three kids in the back seat, the driver of the silver SUV suddenly sat there slumped in shame in his driver’s seat, praying, I’m sure, that the damn light would turn green.

My heart was racing. I couldn’t breathe. I felt light-headed.  

What do I do now? What’s my next move?

At the next red light, I whipped out my cell phone and made a 911 call to my sister-in-law, the mother of the 5-year-old.

As I tried to explain what had just happened, the witnesses chanted:

“Mommy and a stranger sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

As I ended my emergency phone call, a debate had started in the back seat.

“She can’t date yet, she’s still legally married!” said the 5-year-old.

“Oh, yes, she can,” said the 6-year-old.

“Mom, it’s time for you to get out there,” said my 9-year-old.

Oh yes, the back seat of my car had suddenly turned into The Jerry Springer show. Instead of chairs, they flung cheezits at each other.

Note: I’ve actually been on The Jerry Springer Show, in the audience, not a guest, but that’s a whole other blog…

"Mommy’s not crying, sweetie, it’s her allergies"

I’m packing the little one’s duffel bag. Socks…check. Underwear…check. Valentine’s Day cards and candy for 32 classmates…check. Water-filled eyes…check.

It started in the "10 items or less" check out-line at Walmart (I had way more than 10 items, but who’s counting?). The family in front of us was buying a fish for their son. Damn.

She’s on to me. She hears me sniffling.

"Mom, are you OK?"

"Mommy’s not crying, sweetie, it’s her allergies."

So why were we at Walmart at 9 p.m. on a Wednesday? Because around 8:30 p.m. it dawned on me that she needed Valentine’s Day cards, candy and other miscellaneous items TONIGHT in order to be packed with four day’s worth of clothing. And all of this had to be ready to go by the morning.

The ex (we’ll call him Romeo, I love the irony) is finally following a judge ordered visitation schedule and she’ll be with him for the next four days. I know this is "his" time and I’ve been bitching about him refusing to follow the schedule (BTW: special thank you to those who have been putting up with me!).

But now that it’s really happening, the thought of her being away for four days is making my stomach queasy, my eyes water and my heart ache.

The packing will soon become a bi-weekly ritual that I’ll eventually master. By St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll have a color-coded system, a dedicated suitcase and a spreadsheet documenting the process in order to improve the ritual for the next time.

So for the next four days, she belongs to "him" and it stings.    

At least I’ll have her big sister with me. But let’s be honest, she won’t even let me hug her. She hasn’t let me hug her since she was… Well, since never. Fat chance she’ll want to cuddle up on the couch with me under the pink Snuggie to watch TV.

Screw it, I’m asking!

She said no. :/

Tomorrow is big sister’s birthday. There’s no way in hell I’m NOT getting a hug out of this. She can’t deny me a hug on her birthday.

Can she?

OK, so we don’t really have a fish….anymore.

He died about two weeks ago.

To be honest, I don’t know how he lived as long as he did. But things were just starting to turn around for the poor fish – new tank for Christmas; colorful, plastic plants.

It’s a shame, really.

You see, he lived a hard life. Plucked from a fish tank at a nearby Walmart, "Kanishiwa" didn’t come from a broken home…He was taken into one.

Sure, he was fed every day (I think) and his tank was kept clean (most of the time). And as far as I know, there was only one near-death experience. (Kitchen sink, near the drain, long story…It was an accident!)   

In his three, short years, Kanishiwa witnessed a lot from his small, glass home. 

He saw a marriage unravel.... 

He heard the fighting... 

He saw the tears...

The yelling made the water in his fishbowl tremble....

But like I said, things were looking up for Kanishiwa. Mom (that’s me) moved him and the kids into a new house where there was no fighting, no yelling. The water was calm.

There were tears, lots of tears. As time went by, the “damaged” tears turned into “healing” tears.

Although he couldn’t bark or purr, Kanishiwa brought the kids together. Just talking about him changed their moods for the better. They would laugh over where to move his bowl (“Let him look out the window.”) and talk about getting him a friend, a girlfriend.

Kanishiwa was especially important to the little one. In her farewell letter to him, she wrote: 

"There's not a better fish a girl can have because the best just died."  

Sniff, sniff...

I guess the name of this blog doesn’t make a lot of sense now that Kanishiwa is gone. The little one says she’d like to get through her “grieving period” before she can consider getting another fish.

Perhaps we shall meet Kanishiwa II in the near future. A new Kanishiwa! But no broken home for this fish. No, sir! We’re talking a whole, new life. 

No fighting... 

No yelling... 

Some tears...

Calm waters...