8/21/18

Words vs Actions and all that matters



Warning: I'm in a mood.

Why? I can't really tell you. I'm enjoying a rare day off. The summer school office gig ended yesterday and there are a few days before the Back To Life/Back To Reality 2018 tour begins. School secretaries are a good-natured bunch but we do have a reentry process that sometimes involves salty ire.

So yes. I'm in a mood.

And while in this mood, I happened to be looking through a pile of mail that one of my roommates/offspring brought in and left in the living room.

A J Jill catalog (WE MISS YOU JENNY lolol I bet you do, Jill)
A once-in-a-lifetime-offer from Xfinity (maybe once in my lifetime you can offer internet that doesn't blow, xfinity!)(also that doesn't cost a metric shit-ton of cash)
Oh! And what's this?
A letter from the University of Minnesota. Addressed to my ex-husband.

We've been divorced for a long, long time. Almost as long as we were married! And this wasn't an important letter. It was an advertisement, really.

But it was addressed to him. He's never lived here. I don't want to get into all the psychological stuff about moving on and getting over it, but I will say that it does feel good to be able to finally see his name and not feel anything other than annoyance. His presence in my life has gone from scary brain eating zombie to small mosquito and like Kramer going commando, I'm lovin every minute of it.

So no, seeing his name on a piece of paper in my quiet, peaceful and love-filled home didn't push me down a rabbit-hole of sadness and anger like it used to do. It did, however, cause my eyes to roll a tiny bit and for my mouth to open and the following mutterings to tumble out:

why am i still getting that dipshit's mail?

These words were spoken softly and without intention to be shared with any other living being besides my faithful pooch who shadows me on these days off like it's his job.

I didn't realize one of those aforementioned roommates/offspring were awake and within earshot. Oops.

For a second the shrill judge and jury voices of the Greek internet chorus rang through my brain.

omg jenny that's their FATHER you're talking about
never ever ever ever badmouth the other parent it will guarantee that your children will be irreparably damaged and probably become terrible humans
oh honey you gotta love your kids more than you hate your ex
high road high road high road high road infinity

They rang for a sec and then I shooed them outta there.

My kids are all chronologically grown. They are all over 18. I did a good job of holding my tongue for many years.

One dipshit does not equal years of badmouthing. So I let it go. I told those voices to leave and I also told them this...

The fact that someone's sperm found an egg and fertilized it does not make them a saint. Nor does being the owner of that egg and growing a human being. The title of Mom or Dad does not equal Superhero, folks. If it did, we'd not be able to exhale without breathing on one.

I am one hundred percent behind the whole "watch what you say around the kids" sentiment. It's truth. Speaking as a child of divorce, I can testify to it! My own mom, rest her soul, used to say some pretty awful things about my dad. And I can remember every single syllable. So I took that experience and tried my damnedest to not hit "rewind" on history. And I think I did a passable job*.

I am also one hundred percent behind the whole "actions speak louder than words" sentiment. It's truth. Speaking as a child of divorce, I can testify to it! My own dad, who is alive and kicking, never said one bad thing about my mom. Nothing. And if anyone had the right to complain, it was him. He fought for custody and lost, and then saw his ex and her lover ride off into the sunset with two confused kids. He took in one of those confused kids when she got tired of being hit and needed a safe place to live. My dad and I aren't as close as we should be but that's because I'm a messed up human and not because of anything he did or said.

My mom was a good person. I loved her. But she wasn't a saint. My dad had his faults too but he wasn't deserving of the awful things my mom said about him. As I grew up and lived more life I realized these things. Realization came a little late and it will haunt me for the rest of my days. There were years I took my mom's words as the gospel truth. I don't hate her for it. I know she was flawed as we all are.

But now I see those past words and actions and I know better.

*I haven't been perfect. I have made mistakes, some huge ones, many small ones. But I know better and so I try to do better.

There are many of you who are in the beginnings of your divorce story. You will receive lots of advice, whether you want to, or not. Oh you'll get it.

If there's one thing I can add to that avalanche of warnings and proselytizing and inspo, it's this:

Watch your mouth. But watch your actions just as closely.

Both matter. And both will leave an impression.



8/3/18

Lonely Head Seeks Chest



You know how it is when you read something that creates such a vivid mental picture it actually freaks you out a little bit? Like, whoa, where has this jabby shard of melancholia been hiding?

I'm just about done with the first true page-turner I've read this summer, "Final Girls" by Riley Sager, and there is a short passage in it that shook me right to my spinster core. It's a scene where the protagonist is seeking comfort from her almost-fiance:

"I press myself deeper into Jeff's chest, his tie slick on my cheek. He mistakes it for distress, which I suppose it is, and holds me tighter. I let myself be held, turning inward..."

That's all it took to send me into a semi-hypnotic state, momentarily, while my brain traveled back in time. Which time? I'm not sure it was any specific one, it almost felt like a "best of chest resting" collection. All the times I was close enough to someone to feel their heartbeat in my bones, hear the warm comfortable rumble of a deep voice at its wellspring. Maybe it was some sort of throwback to childhood and the memory of my dad picking me up, carrying a sleepy little me from the car to my bed. Or the countless times, over the years, of falling into a blissful slumber accompanied by the cadence of a lover breathing in and out.

Whatever it was, it was so clear and so strong and left me so specifically LONGING. Normally this stuff hits me with a little generalized angst, you know? Like a vague sort of wanting, missing.

It dawned on me that the act of resting my melon on a man's chest is something I really love to do and something I apparently miss. Quite a bit. Reflecting on the spastic attempts I've made to mate over the past few years, it occurred to me that I do sometimes attempt this maneuver but am usually thwarted by a: a reluctant/non-compliant chest (or else we're sitting up which is just kind of awkward) or b: focusing too hard on being quiet (the hazards of cohabitation with adult offspring and one overprotective dog).

It's almost enough to lure me back into the dating scene. Almost. Just the thought of finally having a home plate again, having that security and hearing the vibrato of something that's not running on two AA batteries...but then I remember.

Fun single gal looking for dude with chest


I remember that in Dating Years I am approximately the same age as Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula and I remember all of the horror stories about men my age who will not even glance at a woman unless she's barely into her thirties. And the all-too-familiar tale of married guys who are just looking for a piece on the side or the ones who seem like they're all that and the proverbial bag of chips but then end up ghosting you.

I remember all of that and it suddenly seems like so much work for such little reward. Finding someone in my age range who isn't just a player or who isn't married or who isn't an emotionally stunted scaredy cat is akin to finding that perfect pair of jeans: we all know they're out there, dammit. They're just so hard to locate!

There's this old song by the group Cracker, it's called Low and I will admit it to you all, I love it (oh early 90's you were so awesome). It pops up regularly in my ears while working out and I hardly ever skip it. My favorite verse in the song is this one:

A million poppies gonna help me sleep
With just one rose that knows your name
The fruit is rusting on the vine
The fruit is calling from the trees

"The fruit is rusting on the vine", my goodness I don't know if there's ever been a more apt description of what it's like to be a middle aged single woman. Sometimes I wonder if that's just how it's going to be, me hanging here, going from ripe to withered to dead on the vine without being able to share it all with someone (god help me for using this word) special.

It makes me think about our time we have on this planet and how we choose to spend it. Perhaps that temporary longing is something I just have to learn to live with. Or maybe it's something I just have to heed.

Yes, my friends, I got all of this from reading a tiny snippet of words in a book about serial killers.

It is exhausting being me.



 





 

7/29/18

How You Like Me Now? No really. How?

Women tend to go through what I call "The Invisibling". It starts around your late thirties, picks up speed through the forties and by the time your fifties roll around it's full strength. It's like we are wearing invisibility cloaks. God only knows what will happen in the next decade: do we become like vampires who can't even see our own reflections? Do we just become columns of vapor moving in and out of society like gaseous ghosts? Pretty soon only dogs and the very young will be able to see me. Lassie? What's wrong girl? Did Timmy fall down the well or is there a 50 year old woman nearby?

In a way, it's understandable. I mean, you know how it is, zoos will have a baby animal exhibit and people go nuts but if they had one featuring tired cows with dried up udders, would anyone go? (heck yeah I would because cows are amazing but that's just me)(really they are kind of like huge dogs)

Society tends to fawn over the young. The fresh. The collagen-rich. Middle aged and up women? Not so much.

And try being a fat woman. You might as well not exist at all. Cripes. A lot of clothing brands can't even be bothered to carry plus sizes in their actual stores, only online. Like, fine okay we will make clothes that might fit you gals but you do not get to try that shit on before you buy it. Hello, Old Navy. I'm talking to you!

So as I continue on with this fitness experience, I'm noticing a few things. And one of those things is that, for the first time in ages, other people are actually noticing me. Men, specifically.

A few glances now and then, some actual banter at the gym. Friendliness. Smiles. Eye contact.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT. 

I go to the gym almost every day. My summer hours at work are 6:30-2:30. It's so laid back, and so casual, that I am able to wear my workout clothes and just head to the YMCA when it's quitting time. Now I'm part of that little crowd of late-afternoon regulars. I lift weights for about thirty minutes, and then head to the track for an hour of what I have dubbed walkrunning. I blast my music and think and walk like it's my job. I don't stop until I hit at least 12k steps.

There's this guy who is often there at the same time. He's approximately my age (late 40's-early 50's) and kind of cute in that way middle aged men can be sometimes. It may just be that most everyone else who is there at that time is 70+ so there's that, but...

We've smiled and exchanged some pleasantries. This is the point in the post where I hit pause, and the record scratch sounds rings out loud and clear.

REMEMBER that I am awkward and have very cavewoman-like social skills. Chances are real good that Gym Dude is just a nice guy who sees a fellow exerciser and is being a normal kind human. In my head, though, any interaction is either an advance or an intrusion. There's really no in-between with me and that makes life puzzling and also kind of like a Rubik's cube. Everyone else can get all the colors together and there's Jenny in the corner pretending she has some great master plan technique but in reality I'm screaming internally and trying to not smash the gd cube against the floor.

So I respond to his smiles and chat with what is probably a threatened chimpanzee baring-of-the-teeth-smile/grimace and some kind of strained vocal activity. Why am I still single?

Of course this newfound and somewhat unsettling attention provokes a little righteous indignation with me.

I am the same person. Even though there's less of my physical being, I am the same freaking person I was a few months ago.

Or am I?

Discussing all of this with a friend made me look at it from a different perspective. I had mentioned the guy at the gym, and also a couple other instances where a man who didn't have any obligation to acknowledge me, did. And did so in a flattering kind of way.

"It makes me crazy, you know?" I said. "People are really shallow. Men especially. I am the same Jenny now that I was before I started this thing back in March."

My friend smiled and looked at me: "But are you really the same person? Think about it. Yeah there's like 50 pounds less of you but you've definitely changed in other ways. You wear different style clothes, you smile more, YOU are the one who is making eye contact now, where before you either just looked straight ahead or even worse, down at the floor. Maybe these dudes were looking at you but you just didn't notice."

I was all ready with my standard THEY JUST WANT YOUNGER AND SKINNIER LADIES rant when she continued:

"And yeah, maybe it is because your body is smaller. Aren't you the one who only likes tall guys, Jenny? Think of all the cool short men you've been literally overlooking for the past decade. Don't tell me if one of them suddenly became 6' 3" you wouldn't notice."

I looked for some ointment to put on the savage burn and reluctantly agreed.

This also came up when discussing the poor soul who was fixed up with me a few times earlier this year. I was so excited to go out on a date because I had lost 17 pounds and felt like a new person. Things didn't work out with us (it was mutual and not gross or unfriendly at all) but another friend said "Wow, I wonder what he'd think if he saw you now?" And I was all "BUT I AM ME STILL AND IF HE DIDN'T LIKE ME THEN WHY WOULD HE LIKE ME NOW" because there still is truth in that statement.

On our dates we had really good conversation, we had mutual likes and dislikes and I even told him how to roast asparagus. But we just didn't click and despite all of my positive self-talk of there's no shame in admitting someone doesn't turn your crank, it doesn't make them an asshole Jenny. not every guy is your ex, there was still doubt. Was it my weight?

Maybe it was. I don't know. He was in great shape and I still didn't get any butterflies but then again I am a woman and there's been science stuff that has shown us, over and over, that the guys are visual and we ladies are more about what's on the inside.

Or are we? This whole experience has led to some deep thinks for yours truly. And it has me questioning my own prejudices and desires.

It also has me wondering if I'm finally ready to start thinking about dating again. I mean, actually trying instead of creating lunatic scenarios in my head when someone tosses a benign how you doin' my way.

I will close this therapy session with a progress photo. It's with great reluctance that I do this, since I am very sensitive about what I let the world see.

When the Today show video came out, the one about how being a stay at home mom didn't prepare me for life post-divorce, something in me changed. I have only watched it once and that was when I decided to start working on getting healthier. It's a beautiful video with a great message but it was a jolt of reality regarding my body size. (here's the link if you want to see it. I suggest just turning the volume up and not looking at it)

Also helpful (LOL) was the guy who commented on the video "maybe if Jennifer didn't eat like a sea lion there would've been more money to feed her family".

Sea lion? Maybe. But like a kind person replied: "Sea lions are badass."

Here's where I'm at (well, the gym bathroom picture was taken a couple weeks ago, there have been a few new muscles since then I think). It's very important that I point out to you what you CANNOT see in these photos: how I felt/feel. My anxiety has lessened considerably. I sleep better. There is zero heartburn. My knees don't hurt. My back doesn't hurt. I can walk faster and longer and lift insane heavy weights. Our outer shells are just one aspect to us, and that's all you can see in pictures. Weight is a touchy subject and I don't want anyone to think this is a shaming thing.

It's me in both pics. Just remember that. Still me.





7/25/18

We Need To STOP Normalizing Infidelity



I'm writing this with tears in my eyes and a raging fire in my heart. A member of a private facebook group I run just shared her heartbreaking story. Without giving away any clues to her or her ex-husband's identities, here's the breakdown:

Husband, after several years and a few kids, gets restless. He finds his (lol) soulmate and starts a big time relationship with her. While, of course, still under the guise of being "happily" married to his wife. You know how it goes...like a cheating ass mullet he was all AwesomeHubbyDad in the front and ClandestineSecretLovah in the back. Eventually, he has to choose between the two ladies and despite that old axiom "they never leave their wives" that's exactly what this dude did. Left his wife, left his kids and left the home. Left a partner with whom he had promised to build and maintain a life, and not only left her but did so as so many of them do: with an attitude.

Look, being left for someone else is never going to be an enjoyable experience but I imagine it would be a whole lot more palatable if the one who is doing the leaving would show some, any, freaking remorse. If they would own their part in it. But I, and millions of others who have been left can tell you that it rarely goes down that way.

For some reason the ones who do act out this tired old cliche tend to do it with a weird sort of vengeance. An oddly misplaced anger towards the one they are leaving, as if she/he somehow pushed them towards this seedy fate. Like the choleric farmer who gets his mask ripped off being all pissed at the Scooby gang. "And I would've gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for my meddling spouse!"

Instead of expressing sorrow for the way things ended, and wanting to do the human thing of, you know, ensuring that the family they left in shards will be able to survive, they end up doing practically the opposite. Some of them seem bent on not only making life harder for their soon-to-be former spouse, but downright impossible.

It's all a shit sandwich, of course, but the secret sauce in it just may be how the people in their world, how society in general, doesn't seem to find it as appalling as they should. Where is the outrage? Where is the disappointment?

I'm not saying we should start doling out scarlet letters or reviving the stocks/pillory system, but damn. Part of me still wonders what if? 

What if one of the dozens of coworkers/friends who knew about my husband's affair had spoken up? "uh you guys better hope HR doesn't find out about this, just sayin"

What if one of her friends, instead of giggling with her about the naughty married dude, had said "you sure this is cool?" or "wait- doesn't he have, like, four kids??"

What if someone, ANYONE, in either of their families had taken them aside and said "what you're doing is shitty and mean and wrong. Stop it."

Yeah yeah. I know. Water under the bridge and all that. And yes, with the benefit of years passing I do know that in my personal case, if it hadn't been her it would've been someone else.

What am I trying to say here? That the people who choose to be part of infidelity should be punished? That they be shunned or ostracized or sent to their own gross island? No. Of course not. At the beginning of my journey-through-hell, my own stepmom warned me: "Be ready to lose friends and family. Blood is thicker than water." And it did happen, much to my dismay. I mean, let's be real, we don't expect them to be kicked out of the family or anything but it hurts to be photo-shopped out of that world and seeing someone else so seamlessly taking your place.

*I am incredibly lucky to still be on very good terms with most of the ex-in laws. And I got to keep most of the friends, too 😉 but many aren't as fortunate, and end up being outcasts at events where the whole big happy family congregates*

I hear these stories, you guys, every.single.day. You'd think there would be some sort of callousness on my part, some desensitization to it. You'd think that whenever a new email popped into the ol' inbox, laying it all out, it might become almost redundant...the names and other details may change but the story is almost always the same.

Instead of growing numb, I seem to be growing even more empathetic, despite having been there, done that AND getting the damn t-shirt.

Too bad the rest of the world can't say the same.

    






7/18/18

The Windfall



Did I ever tell you guys about my foreclosure windfall?

I got $3,000 as part of a nationwide settlement against some of the banks behind the spate of foreclosures that steamrolled a bunch of Americans between the years of 2008-2010, mine included.

Of course, since the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the check went to my ex-husband. One night I was downstairs, doing laundry, when William came prancing down and announced, "Our dad is at the front door. He wants to see you." I thought he was kidding at first, but when I trudged upstairs and warily peeked out at the front stoop, lo and behold..there he was, goatee on his face and a couple of damp pieces of paper in his hand (it was drizzling out).

"Hey!" he said, like we were old friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. "Hey! I don't know if you've heard about this settlement thing, for people who lost their homes?"

I looked at him. I wanted to say, "Oh you mean PEOPLE LIKE ME? Like your KIDS? YEAH I'VE HEARD A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THAT". But instead I just said, "Yeah, I have." He held up one of the pieces of paper, which was a check, and said, "For some reason this came to my house, and it's made out to both of us." I squinted in the dim porch lantern light. Yep. There we were. The both of us.

He spoke again: "I will sign it, but first I need you to sign this little note I drew up." He passed over a handwritten document that said something about how me, the undersigned, absolved he, the other guy, of any taxes or other fees that would come of this financial bounty. "You're going to have to pay taxes on this next year," he explained to me, slowly and carefully as if explaining to a feeble old lady how she's going to be placed in a nursing home but not to worry.

So of course I signed it, knowing that this was all I was ever going to see as far as losing my house was concerned. Knowing full well that this $3,000.00 was going to cost me about $1,500.00 on my taxes the next year, which left me with $1,500.00 of hush money to spend as I saw fit. Because I have a bunch of kids and money is money, you know? I guess in the end it means that in exchange for losing my home, going bankrupt and having my credit ruined I got $1,500.00. Sounds like a heckuva deal to me!

I hated him at that moment. I hated the fact that he was holding this money over my head, like you hold a treat over a dog in order to get her to sit or roll over. I hated seeing his handwriting, hated seeing the "X" he drew, pointing out where I was supposed to sign.

Hated myself because at that moment, one of the seventy bajillion things I was thinking was, "I look so fat and ugly right now".

So I took that check and put it in the bank. I spent $250 of it on a Samsung Chromebook. Because my laptop was dying.  I hate spending money, have I ever mentioned that? It kills me to do it. The whole time the guy at Best Buy was ringing me up (isn't that a quaint term now, 'ringing me up'?) I kept thinking "Oooh jeeze I shouldn't spend this. I shouldn't spend this." Being broke does a number on your mind. Makes you kind of kooky as far as money is concerned.

Now I have the Chromebook, and while it's light-years better than my old dying Dell, it leaves a lot to be desired. But it's tiny and I can now sit in bed, watch Netflix and get all writery. To quote the kind old farmer in Babe:

That'll do, pig.  That'll do.

It will do for now.


(yes this is recycled material, I'm currently picking the bones of the blog and pulling out pieces here and there to clean up/tweak for the potential essay collection...whaddya think about this one? Yay or nay???)

7/16/18

Weight for it...



Oh you knew it was coming. Of course I'm going to write about Weight Watchers! But first, a disclaimer of sorts.

A couple of weeks ago I was scrolling through facebook and happened upon a discussion taking place on a friend's page. She made a comment regarding people who posted anything weight-related, basically saying they were immediately blocked or unfollowed. Several others posted similar sentiments, some insinuating that there are more important things going on in the world and nobody wants to hear about your exercise routine. One in particular has been stuck in my head, it went something like yeah I'm over here punching Nazis, nobody cares about your run Karen.

Fair enough.

I get it. I understand, way too well, that some things can be triggering. Or just plain annoying. I also know how uncomfortable it can get when people try to sell you the latest shake or patch, or how they can appear to be so very one-dimensional based on what they choose to share via social media.

The beauty of social media vs. actual face to face conversations is that we can roll our eyes, groan, flip them off and/or click unfollow, unfriend or if you're really not feeling it, BLOCK.

That's why I don't post a lot about the weight stuff on facebook or instagram or wherever. Because while I am fascinated by the changes happening to my body and frustrated by the challenges, I know the majority of my friends/followers aren't. I also don't want anyone to think that I'm making judgment calls about ANYBODY'S body or weight. Haven't we all seen those statements from people who have found their fitness groove- "I did it with three little kids, what's your excuse?" "gosh I can't find my excuse, maybe I ate it you smug shrew."

If you've been reading this blog for a while you know that I collect struggles like some people collect agates or fridge magnets. I have a lot of them and my weight is one that has been with me a looong time.

Key word here: MY.

My weight is my issue. I'm not sitting here in judgment of anyone else. I believe, very strongly, that what we do with our bodies is our business (in every way) and unless what we're doing with our bodies has a negative impact on other people we don't get to have a say in it. At all.

I read another article, about how we need to stop complimenting people on weight loss. This one had some fair points: you never know what's behind a noticeable change in a person's weight.

If someone's weight has noticeably changed, they may be going through something that isn't fun. They may be ill, they may be under a mountain of stress, they may not know what the hell is happening and are worried about it and hearing something about their change in appearance would only compound that worry.

But many people are intentionally changing their weight. They are totally on purpose exercising more and making different choices about what they're eating. And I cannot speak for all of us who are doing these things but as far as I'm concerned YESSSS please do say something! I am busting my formidable ass and there are days it feels like nothing is working and hearing even a simple "hey looking good, friend" can give me just enough of a nudge that I do go for a walk or I don't say eff it and eat a few handfuls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. 

So yeah, it's for sure advisable to keep your mouth shut if you don't know for a fact that the person is intentionally making changes to their body. But to suggest that we stop complimenting people? Phooey. No. Especially when we know the person is making a herculean effort to lose weight/bulk up/tone up. I tell people all the time "hey that color is so beautiful on you!" but it doesn't mean I think they look like shit in all the other colors they wear. And if you tell someone that they are looking good now it does not mean they looked like a dumpster fire before. It just means that this version of them is also lovely.

I've also discovered that you can hate Nazis and work on your health at the same time!! Yes it is entirely possible to do many things simultaneously. Some of us in the resistance need to take little breaks now and then. I myself enjoy watching tv (omg Handmaid's Tale, and now I'm finally watching The Sopranos and of course have developed an oddball and obviously forever unrequited crush on James Gandolfini 😭), going to movies (five dollar Tuesday nights, baby!) and yes, going for a nice run or walk or lifting a bunch of weights. Making fun of someone for posting about a run or a good workout or a relaxing yoga class, implying that typing out "I had a great run today" is akin to "I'm pretty much okay with the nightmare that is happening in our country" is super insulting and also laughable. Cripes.

Okay. Rant over...here's where I'm at with the Weight Watchers. Almost 50 lbs. down (46 and some change as I type this). It feels incredible. You know what else feels incredible? MUSCLES. I've always had a big ol' butt (ass for weeeeeeeks to quote Ice Cube) and I still do but now it's less fluffy feather pillow and more memory foam. If only it had something fun to remember, right? LOL.

I have before and during pics but I'm still scared to share them on a public platform. I will share that I've gone down about 3 or 4 sizes in everything. Yes, everything. Even my glasses are too big now. The past few weekends have been spent going through closets and drawers and so far I've donated about 10 garbage bags full of clothes.

If you ever see me even considering buying another poncho sweater, please lay a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder and whisper "Jenny, no."

But what I'm really geeked out about is my resting heart rate: you guys, it's now 49 bpm. I have a physical scheduled at the end of July and I cannot wait to see the results. Even at my biggest I had remarkably good numbers, they should be crazy good now.

Oh yeah and remember how I was convinced that I have a gluten allergy? I got stomach aches and really intense heartburn after eating it? Well. Apparently it wasn't a gluten sensitivity. It was the fact that my body was sensitive to a bunch of extra weight. I haven't had heartburn in so long I can't remember the last time I dug through my purse for a Tums.

I think I mentioned that two of my friends are doing this with me...I have to give them a huge shout out: Danielle and Joyce, you two are my rocks. They have the very dubious honor of listening to me cry about bad weigh ins, fielding texts about trying to not soil my pants while running on the track at the gym and counseling me when my Pirate's Booty consumption becomes problematic (which it always is, you guys. God help me I am powerless over the booty.)

Of course, I have been down this road before. The last time my weight changed so dramatically, I had just been dumped by my husband and was desperately doing the Pick Me dance. "Maybe if I lose weight, he'll come back" was playing on a loop in my grieving mind and we all know how that ended.

It ended with me gaining all of the weight back and gaining exactly zero husband back. One of those things wasn't good. 

Since the divorce and all of the fallout that followed it, I have lived in a nauseating state of limbo- waiting for the other shoe to drop, basically, despite the fact that about fifty or so other shoes have already fallen from the sky and bounced off my head. But when you live through something like a surprise breakup followed by what can only be described as financial abuse, you develop a very unpleasant habit of living in fear.

Maybe the fat I encased myself in was a barrier of sorts; put there as a buffer between me and everything bad and scary. The problem with that is, it was also a buffer between me and other things. Things like being strong(er), being able to run and move big heavy things, being able to wear pants with zippers and being able to make eye contact with that shy weirdo who lives in my bathroom mirror.

In summary: I'm not going to bore you with an overload of weight-related posts. But if I do slip up and mention it, please know that I'm also still actively working to make this world a better and kinder place.

And if you want to give me a compliment the next time we see each other, go for it.





















7/2/18

Well Hey There!

Is anyone here? Hello?

As my kids say, I haven't written here in a minute. Many minutes. In fact, looks like the last time we chatted, it was snowing in April.

Now I'm sweating in July.

Come sit. Right here. Can I get you something to drink? A snack? Okay. Your hair looks good.

Let's gab, shall we? Get allll caught up so we can swear to each other that it won't be so long between conversations next time, alright?

I'll go first.

Cripes, where do I start? The job is the same, still the elementary school secretary who brings the heart to work with her every damn day. My summer gig is in full swing now, where I'm still the elementary school secretary, still dragging that heart around, but at a different office and with very little to do after the morning rush is over.

So I read. A book every couple of days (currently on The Woman in the Window by AJ Finn). And it occurred to me that I could be sitting here writing. Which I'm doing right now. Hopefully, I'll finish this and hit publish and seven of you will see this and maybe say HI and I will be less rusty and less awkward and actually start writing more. Because I miss this and I miss you.

I was going to revert the whole damn blog to draft mode, put it away from public view but changed my mind (for now). The book thing I've been blathering on about for the last 800 years is still front and center in my disorganized, fanciful brain and while I want to tuck this blog away and curate some of it for the book I also need a place for potential agents/editors/publishers/Reese Witherspoon/HBO series developers to find my stuff.

So for now the blog stays. I might hide a few posts here and there but I'd really love to get back to regular posting. Even if some people say blogs are dead. I believe they have a little bit of life left.

Let's see...we've covered the job, covered the blog. What's left? KIDS.

Oh my kids. My loves. They are all doing well. The baby just graduated from high school (well, full disclosure, he's in summer school doing what my friend Whitney dubbed "credit recovery" which sounds like a debt solution biz but is actually him making up for a few less than wise choices during his senior year). Yes, you read it correctly, all of my kids are technically adults now.

HOW IN THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN.

I was at a baby shower this weekend and the mom-to-be was opening her gifts. She unwrapped a copy of Pat the Bunny and all of sudden my vision wavered. Pat the freaking Bunny. Whooooosh. I was back in time, about 20 or so years, sitting with a small person who smelled like Johnson and Johnson No More Tears and guiding their tiny soft hand to put their even tinier, softer little finger through mummy's ring. We all end up saying it, but really, time is a sneaky bitch.

So my babies are all big. And all living at home, for the moment. The biggest one is moving out (again), into a house with two lifelong friends. The second one, my beautiful daughter, took the infamous "year off" of college and is working full time. Every time I say the year off thing, I hear the line from that ancient song Welcome to the Boomtown: handsome Kevin got a little off track, took a year off from college and he never went ba-ack. Please don't be like handsome Kevin, my daughter. Because now he's got a permanent ha-ack.

The third kid just finished his sophomore year of college (and is going back, phew). He's made the Dean's List every semester and has pretty much a full ride thanks to his grades and also having a dirt poor parent. He's going to be a teacher which absolutely rocks my world but also makes me sad because of the way our education system is teetering on the brink. But it's what he's wanted to do since junior high.

And I already told you about the fourth kid. Credit recovery and all that jazz.

So, full house. All we're missing is a creepy middle aged guy with a mullet. i'm working on it

Oooh! And the dog! Walter is still kicking. Twelve years old, absolutely riddled with fatty lipomas but still very puppy-like in almost every way. Always up for a walk and currently fixated with the greenie dog treats from Costco.

What else. We're still in our sweet rental home, over eight years now, and I am still delusional enough to fantasize on the regular about buying it. The incredible Landlord is still incredible but he's no dummy. The housing market in our city is going nuts and the property alone is worth a ton. The house itself is at best a fixer upper but in all likelihood will ultimately be purchased by one of the godforsaken developers who have infested our quaint little burb with ticky tacky, crammed together McMansions. And so I sit out on the porch, or on the back deck, and watch the majestic craggy trees which have been a canopy over my little family for so long sway in the wind and count the minutes we still have left here. In my more deranged fugues I make lists of what I'd do to each room if the house really did belong to me and money was plentiful: well, this tired carpet would be the first to go and we'd put in some sweet sweet hardwood. Oh my god this kitchen...we'll make this whole back wall windows, knock out that weird bar thing and put french doors out to the backyard. 

Sometimes I think it would be hilarious to have a dictation machine linked to my brain just to see what goes through there every day. Scratch that. It would actually be kind of scary.

I joined Weight Watchers in March, after my homie Danielle sent a text at 8:00 p.m. saying "I just joined Weight Watchers". I had no choice but to join her because she's the one with whom I do the majority of my Fun Eating. Our other muskateer, Joyce, joined the day after and together we are making some incredible metabolic magic. We are all down about 45 pounds each and it hasn't been that hard. Oh sure, I was a complete bitch for the first month, because I was straight up GRIEVING the loss of all that delicious food seasoned with feelings. But somehow, we've stuck with it.

Truth be told it was hard for me to sign up because of the money. It's $18 a month (i'm doing the online only) but it was still an agonizing decision. Now I'm glad I did it but the guilt is still there.

Rest assured I'll write more about it. And yes, those of you who have been around here a while, this isn't my first foray into Weight Watchering. Only this time, it's working. I have the best "Before" picture...when I hit the 50 lb mark maybe I'll share it.

LOVE. I still haven't found it. I mean, honey I have all the love I can handle from kids and dog and friends but the kind that is romantic and sexy is still eluding me. There were a few dates with this one guy, we met in one of those old timey organic ways (a set up). I was a psychotic whirling dervish for the week leading up to our first date. My poor friends! Joyce and Danielle helped me with the outfit (that was two or three sizes ago!) and my beautiful benevolent friend Kathryn transformed my Hagrid tresses into a lovely sweet smelling almost-human mane.

The dude? He was great! Tall and good looking and laughed at my inane attempts at humor. What was missing was any sort of spark. Like, I could see us as friendly acquaintances but not once during our time spent together did I look at his hands and wonder what they'd feel like giving my hair a good pull. And this was after a martini or two at Yard House.

It would appear that he also was having a hard time imagining anything beyond a casual friendship so all's well that ends well and once again I'm back to my spinstery ways of coarse ringlets, lots of girl's nights out and basically zero shits given about dying alone.

Although I did have one really weird night where the thought of being alone forever almost overwhelmed me. I'm usually really blase about it, you know? "If it's meant to be, it will be" and all that, and being fairly comfortable with how things are. But on a Saturday not too long ago, I felt every last bit of that singleness and the best word I can think of to describe it would be hollow. It was a little scary, the depth of that hollow feeling and for the first time in ages I found myself longing for companionship.

Luckily, it passed.

PHEW. Are we all caught up now? How about you? You good? I hope so. Let's do this again, sooner rather than later.

I will wrap up this literal purge with some pics of the raccoon family that lives in our backyard. I am capital O obsessed with them.















  




4/3/18

April Snow



I’m not one to wallow in the singleness. Really- it’s not something I obsess about or spend huge chunks of time turning over in my mind. It is what it is, as they say. I enjoy my kids, my friends, my dog and for the most part, my life. 

But sometimes, that singleness, it comes out of left field and blindsides you with a hard, open-hand smack to the head. 

Like when it snows in April. 

We got hit with a pretty impressive spring snowstorm here in Minneapolis. It started yesterday, and then kicked it up a notch overnight and all day today. 

We are a hardy bunch, us Minnesotans. Grin and bear it, ya you betcha, dontcha know. 

As we are wont to say in a late-season snowstorm, “what can ya do?”. You drive slow(er). You do the penguin shuffle on the icy pavement. And you shovel.

Being Minnesotan trained me well for life post-divorce. After all, isn’t it a lot like a weird April blizzard? Not entirely expected and it leaves a mess but you know the end is in sight. You know the slippery, blowing white crap will soon succumb to the slowly warming sunshine. 

Tonight, though, it snuck up on me. No, not the snow. I worked in the office all day and watched it come down and commisserated with everyone grumbling about it. Heard the swish of snowpants and the unmistakable clomp of winter boots in a school hallway. The snow wasn't sneaky.

Tonight, the aloneness hit. 

My janky car is a good and faithful runner despite the battered exterior. Like me, it’s tougher than it looks and doesn’t require much attention or maintenance. But it’s no match for several inches of snow combined with our long narrow driveway.

After work, I drove home, carefully and hopefully. Careful of the rutted, slippery streets and hopeful that the guy my landlord gets to plow for us had beat me home. 

He hadn’t. Tucked in next to a busy street, the only option we have on these inclement weather days is to say a little prayer and drive as fast and as far up the drive as we (and our cars) are able. 

I almost made it! Used the clicker to open the garage door and aimed the old Ford Focus and let it rip. We got so close. The nose of the car almost passed the threshold of the garage when gravity and nature laughed and said “not today, sucka!” and my decrepit silver bullet slid, helplessly, down the driveway and into a drift. 

I didn’t have it in me to start the arduous excavation process. I left the car there, knowing the plow guy would soon appear and because of the marooned vehicle, be unable to get much plowing done. 

It’s April, for Pete’s sake. I’m done.

The plow guy came, not much later, and did what he could. I sighed and zipped up my parka and put on the woolen hat and the mittens and the boots and grabbed a shovel and headed out. What can ya do, right? 

I scooped and threw and scraped and shoved and moved snow for about an hour. It was light snow, so I didn’t spend too much time imagining who would find me out there, partially obscured by the piles of accumulation after succumbing to a heart attack. 

My arms ached and my cheeks were warm. I got a lot of it taken care of. It was time to try and get the car out.

The sun was almost completely set and the wind had picked up a bit. The last desperate throes of our springtime storm swirled in the air, through the boughs of trees already heavy with the weight of a billion snowflakes. I entered the challenged chariot, turned the key and slowly made my way out of the stuck. 

That was when it hit me. Sitting in my car, sweaty inside the heavy coat, melting ice crystals clinging to my eyelashes. The singleness, the aloneness, all of it. Just for a moment-

I felt it. All of it. The depth and the breadth of it. I felt it as I backed out of the now-clear driveway, slowly at first and then speeding up, I felt it. 

I was tired and could feel my arm muscles curling up into sore T-Rex configurations and I was so very alone. 

For a minute I thought of the old timey snowstorms, back when I was a young mom and the kids were little and we’d play inside the warm coziness while the man of our house, the man in our lives, shoveled and moved cars and got red-cheeked and sore. 

We’d make hot chocolate for him. We’d watch and wave from the big picture window as the driveway was cleared and the man of our house, the man in our lives, cleared the way as he cleared the snow.

For a minute I sat there, the last of the day fading behind me and the darkness and stillness dimming the settling snow globe outside. I felt the aloneness. 

But I was okay. I maneuvered the car just right and made my way to the other side of the drive, clearing the way for the plow guy should he happen to come by a second time.

I walked towards the house, laughing at the ecstatic stupid/sweet dog watching from the big picture window and I felt the aloneness slowly melting away. Like April snow, it won't last long.

1/1/18

The Meal



Uptown Minneapolis. Early May in 1993, approx. 2 a.m.: two female roommates in a third-floor walk up apartment are squatted in front of the the fridge, scavenging for post-bar munchies. The women, both in their mid-twenties and cosmetic counter ladies at the flagship store of the iconic Minnesota Dayton's chain, were starving. They were also retail workers so the contents of the refrigerator were sparse and eclectic. Beer, bagels, cheese, condiments. One of the women, a reed-thin brunette named Amy (she worked for Origins) took out the bagels, the sliced Muenster cheese and a bottle of French's mustard. The other woman, a not-reed thin brunette named Jenny (her counter was Prescriptives) watched in tipsy anticipation as Amy placed the foodstuffs on a plate and then placed them in the microwave.

The Meal was born.

The list of things I won't eat isn't very long:

Beets
Raw tomatoes
Veal/lamb
Saurkraut
Polish sausage
Walnuts (okay, technically they'll kill me but still)

Also circus peanut candy and raisins either solo or embedded like sneaky moist landmines in otherwise delicious food.

But the things I will eat? That list is long and varied and thanks to how my strange brain is wired, inexorably braided with emotions. Certain foods evoke old, familiar feelings: mom's wild rice casserole. Stale Red Vines. Curry chicken. And, oddly enough, The Meal.

The Meal never changes. It's always white bagels, sliced Muenster cheese, and yellow mustard. No substitutions can be made. The cheese is cut or torn to fit on the bagels, the mustard is squirted on top in a swirly pattern and then it's microwaved until the cheese is slightly melted.

My kids have seen The Meal being prepped and are always repulsed. "Really, Mom? The Meal?" They know it by name but have never partaken of it. They will, however, eat the cheese without hesitation.

It's comfort food, no matter how gross the combination. I don't know exactly why it comforts me, though. I do know it's a rare thing, for a few reasons. Number one reason is there's no way in hell I'd eat this in front of anyone besides my captive audience (aka, children). Number two is the gluten thing. Thank God and the amber waves of grain, I do not have Celiac Disease but I do have gluten issues. Namely stomach aches, brain fog and inflammation stuff, but nothing incapacitating. So I go through phases where I'll happily put up with agonizing reflux and headaches in order to enjoy stuffing all things wheaty into my piehole. Until I stop and remember how nice it is to not be sick all the time. (I'm not real bright)

I made the meal today, the first day of 2018. Not sure why, but the ingredients were all there in the fridge, the house was silent and one minute I was standing in the kitchen, the next I was back in that Uptown apartment with Amy, dissecting the evening spent at Urban Wildlife and devouring The Meal.

1993...we were young and oh so free and had no idea what the future would hold for us. We did know a few things: the song "Connected" by Stero MCs was hella sexy, Andy and Ethan, the guys in the apartment across the way, were definitely hitting on us and The Meal was just what we needed to soak up the last of the tequila in our systems.

I'm no longer young, my freedom is very subjective and the only thing in my system this morning is coffee. But The Meal, man. Sometimes it's still just what I need.















12/26/17

Christmas Hookies

So much for meh.

In the wise and blunt words of my friend and fellow divorce writer, Chump Lady, the mecca for all of us who have been through the nightmare of infidelity is called "MEH". It's the magical land of not giving a shit. The place where we really need to be, after enduring the psychological warfare and injurious degradation of being cheated on, lied to, and for some of us, left.

It's the place we really need to be after having our lives not only turned upside down, but also turned inside out and set on fire and then left to burn while the ones who did the turning and burning walk away, unscathed and unbothered.

I've been there! I swear! In fact, probably 89% of my time is spent in Meh. It's lovely. All of my friends live there and yes, the grass really is greener.

Sometimes, though, I take a wrong turn and find myself standing on the outskirts of town. On the other side of the tracks. In that painful place where past indignities have left muddy ruts in the road.

Thankfully my trips to that land are few and far between. And when I do slip up and go there, my heart and what's left of my brain know exactly how to put it in reverse and get the hell out.

But not before I take a look around. Breathe in that old air and the old smells. No matter how long between visits, it all comes rushing back.

I left MEH for a bit. On Christmas, of all days.

I know, I know. "Come on Jenny! Seriously? GET OVER IT." I hear ya, and if it's any consolation the one screaming those words the loudest is me. Every single time I feel the tug of the old anger, of the resentment and the pain, I put those words on autoplay and try my damnedest to heed them.

Count your blessings. Be glad you're free. He did you a favor. Look at your kids. Pet your dog. 

All of these things. They're the truth, and my rational self knows that. But there's another part of me that can't help but go back every now and then. Despite the healing, despite the love, despite the growth and the time spent in Meh, part of me shrugs off the hands holding me in this good and peaceful place and heads back down that dark lane.

It looked as though I'd avoid it this time, at first. The kids and I had a glorious and quiet and calm Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. I had a surprise visit from the Barf Fairy on Saturday...no huge surprise since I work in a school where she practically has an office, but still. Gross. According to my Fitbit, I was for all intents and purposes dead on that Saturday before Christmas. Eighteen hours spent prone and lifeless, the other six spent either running to the bathroom or hunched over the commode, trying really hard to not pee my pants while barfing and just between you and me, failing spectacularly (cleaning up after a kid with the pukes is bad enough, let's not discuss cleaning up after a middle aged lady who has had four giant fetuses tap-dancing on her pelvic floor, mmkay?).

As is tradition, there were no real solid plans made between the children (okay, the young adults who are my kids) and their father. He and the missus were having a holiday open house, which I guess is something you do when you're still getting situated in your million dollar house. Easy now, girl. Steady.

Anyhoo. Where was I? Ah...yes. The kids took a vote and decided to head over mid-afternoon. We'd had our Christmas: presents were opened, ham and roadside potatoes prepared and consumed, many laughs were had. When they bundled up and headed out into the frigid winter's day, that little nudging thing happened, the whispered utterance that I can barely hear these days: there they go. this isn't normal. this isn't what was supposed to be. Listen, as far as the voices go, that one is easy to blow off. An empty house is something I rarely get these days, and so I relish it when it happens. Of course, I didn't do anything wild or crazy, in fact I ended up sitting there eating candy canes and watching The Santa Clause. Seriously. BUT THE HOUSE WAS EMPTY WHILE I DID IT. Also, Tim Allen has always given me the creeps. Anyone else?

The offspring returned approximately one hour later. This reminded me of the olden days when they'd leave with him and not return for a whole day. Or two! Now that was an empty house I most certainly did not relish, friends. Oh, it was okay at first. Kind of how I imagine solitary confinement would be nice for a few hours. But when you've lived with a home filled to the brim with noise and activity and the relative chaos that comes with four growing human beings, their absence is a huge and unnatural void. A void you eventually come to peace with, for the sake of sanity, but a void nonetheless.

One of the advantages of kids growing up is that they begin to call some of their shots, and one shot my kids have claimed is their time with Dad is limited. Not out of malice or dislike, I don't think. It's more a matter of putting in their time with a person who only makes so much time for them. You get what you give, people. It's taken me half a century to figure that one out and seeing it manifest in front of you is a sobering display. You get what you give.

They piled in the front door, cheeks red, hands clutching packs of socks from Costco and Amazon gift cards. One of them also carried a plastic container. The one holding this vessel plopped it down on the hutch in the living room and said, "Here's some Christmas cookies they sent with us."

Now, when I do leave Meh it's usually triggered by something. It's never spontaneous. I can tell you it never happens while I'm out with my lady friends or reading a book or sitting in the office at work. No, it's always brought on by something, big or small, that for some reason opens up the portal and sends me slip-slidin' away.

This time, it was Christmas cookies. Go figure.

Look. I don't even know who made the freaking things. All I know is that they showed up, in my little ramshackle rented home, direct from the formidable manse where the father of my kids now dwells. They were innocuous enough, in the blue-lidded Glad container. They meant no harm, I told myself. In fact, maybe it was a sign of humanness, glad tidings and good cheer and all that festive jazz.

But damn. As I cleaned up the remnants of our celebration; flattened boxes (putting them away to keep for next year because I will not be sitting there at 2:15 a.m. next Christmas Eve turning a tampon box inside out, dammit), putting gifts in separate piles under the tree...my gaze would settle on that container.

How nice. I thought to myself, how nice of them to send some cookies. And then I thought how nice it must be to pack a doggie bag for your kids in your beautiful huge kitchen of your stunning new house and send them back home. This is when I also thought jesus christ Jenny. Stop. THEY'RE JUST COOKIES, NOT A GAUNTLET. 

This is where I leave you, Meh. This is where I bid adieu to rationale and sense and sanity and get swallowed up in the gaping, dripping black maw of everything that is opposite of Meh.

Those cookies were a middle finger flipped right up at me, a defiant eff you from both of them, the man who changed the course of my life and the woman who held the wheel while he did it. The anger I've held back since learning of their sudden prosperity, just a few months before our youngest kid turns 18, bore first one small hole and then another and another in the dam I've worked so hard to build and maintain. I dubbed those cookies "hookies" for a few less-than-mature reasons and despite hating that immature, bitchy junior high girl who resides in my heart, I laughed a little.

I thought of what it must feel like to close on a house worth more than I will make in thirty years, thought of what a sense of stability and security must feel like. Thought of how my dear sweet landlord informed me that he and his wife will be selling this house, our house, our safety net, our home, in the next few years and how every single day, every hour of every day since he told me that I've grieved and mentally prepared myself and in my more delusional moments, fantasized about somehow buying it from them and never having to leave. Never having to uproot again, never having to explain my shitty credit or lack of savings or just how I ended up here to anyone, ever again.

Yes. All of this from cookies, folks. My mind is a many-leveled place, most of it considered "unfinished basement".

So I thought all of that and then I opened up the box and plucked out a cookie, the kind where a mini Reese's peanut butter cup is nested in a crystal-sugared dough. I ate it because it felt like a less defiant middle bird back at them and also because I am powerless over food, especially when my brain is doing an Elaine Benes dance of rehashing the past and stoking the coals of angst.

The cookie tasted like nothing. It was pretty, cookbook-perfect, but had no taste. Like an old timey Christmas window display, it was lovely to look at but empty inside.

I felt the reins loosen. My thoughts stopped churning. I felt the axis of my world reset, head back to Meh.

I picked up the hookies and I dumped them in the garbage. Not to worry, with the full go-ahead from the kids. Thanks to friends and coworkers, we are well-stocked with cookies that taste good. That taste like love. Life is too short to eat bland stuff. Make it count. Make it worth every bite.



Later that night, I took a picture of the trash can contents and showed them to a far away friend, a comrade in the divorce world. I asked if it was petty, and she said no. She said, and I quote, "Good for you."

Sometimes the detours take us to ugly places. Thankfully, we make it back.

Back to Meh.

I hope your holiday, if you partake in holidays, was a good one. If not, I hope today finds you at peace.






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