I'm In Love With a Robot

The Roomba has arrived.

I ordered my robot vacuum cleaner during my recent buying binge, and couldn't be more pleased. My hatred of vacuuming may be a remnant from my long-ago stint as a maid at the Lake Arrowhead Hilton (motto: Don't Touch the Bedspread) and as a housecleaner, when I vacuumed more in two years than most people do in a lifetime. Or maybe it's just because I'm lazy.

I have a few problems with the Roomba, none of which have anything to do with the machine itself. The biggest problem is Cosmo - he declared it his sworn enemy before I even turned it on. Whenever I start it up, he becomes even more neurotic than usual and attacks the Roomba with ineffectual little bites to its flank.

The second problem is a lack of accessories - I need another robot to pick up the clothes on my bedroom floor.

But all in all, it was money very well spent. If they would only invent a robot that writes websites, I'll be all set.

The Zen of Bath

Something miraculous happened today.

No, not Cheap Landlord fixing something inside my apartment, although that's a miracle too. No, today I rediscovered the joy of taking a bath.

My apartment is pretty decent, but I've never liked the bathroom - it's small and always seemed kind of scuzzy. The bathtub was its worst feature - years ago, CL installed icky mirrored shower doors that were slightly too large for the opening, and the constant pressure slowly shifted the tiled tub foot to the south. Each time this happened, CL applied a thick layer of plaster to the tub foot until, by the time I moved in, it looked like a plaster cast put on at a back-alley medical clinic by a doctor who had lost his license to practice medicine.

In mid-November, the plaster cracked again, and after just six weeks of nagging CL daily and finally threatening to withhold my rent, a worker came today and demolished my bathroom. To my great joy, he removed the hated shower doors and the rotten tub foot.

He left without finishing the job, and the bathroom still looks like it belongs in a crackhouse, but in just a few short hours, he feng shui'd my bathroom in a way I never thought possible, and unblocked my bath chi. The bathroom now feels much more open and airy, and I immediately scrubbed his footprints out of the tub and filled it with hot water.

I'd forgotten how restorative it is to lounge in a hot bath. I spent an enjoyable hour lolling in the tub with a magazine, and when I got out, I felt like a new woman.

It's Go Time!

When I collected my mail yesterday, my respect for Dear Husband hit rock bottom and started to dig.

It turns out that DH hasn't paid a single dime toward the $500+ hospital bill he incurred last summer after the calcium deposits in his brain leached down to his kidneys and formed a stone. The debt has now been sent to a collection agency, and as the person who actually has the insurance, guess who's going to debtor's prison? That's right. Moi.

Although I can't possibly repay DH all the grief he's given me, I'm certainly willing to try. I've already begun to slake my thirst for revenge. It's amazing what one incredibly pissed-off woman can accomplish in one afternoon with an internet connection, a phone, and a wallet full of credit cards with ridiculously high limits.

I used to feel sorry for First Wife because she was so bogged down with anger toward DH. But the impossible has happened - I now understand where FW is coming from. My old zenlike desire to replace my rage at DH with loving forgiveness now seems a little quaint.

Anyway, it's hard to feel serene when you have flames shooting out of your head. I suppose I'll start working on my spiritual life again soon. But right now, I have, um, things to do. The less you know about it the better.

Thank God it Only Happens Once a Year

I tried my best to ignore Christmas this year.

It's no secret that it's my least-favorite holiday. It really has nothing to recommend it - it's where unpleasant family obligations, crazed overeating, ugly decorations, and rampant spending collide. The worst thing is that the whole dog and pony show starts in October now, and the last decorations don't come down until the middle of January, so that's three months of the year that I get to enjoy Christmas. One day out of four.

It's been something I tolerated for as long as I can remember, but last year Christmas and I reached a sort of uneasy detente. Dear Husband and I hosted a really lovely Christmas Eve get-together for a bunch of friends and had another big group over for Christmas Day brunch. It was a really happy couple of days that threatened to redeem Christmas once and for all.

This year promised to be less than festive, so I got my shopping done early and decided to completely ignore the holiday. Christmas Eve day dawned sunny and warm, and promised to behave like any other day. I planned to take the dogs to the park, clean my apartment, and spend a couple of hours reading a good book.

But there were immediately a couple of kinks in my plan. The first one came early - I received a big bag of really lovely presents that were lovingly chosen just for me. The crown jewel of this fantastic bag of booty was a sock-monkey mermaid. I've already learned that there are people in the world who are unable to appreciate that this is the most fabulous present ever. But they are just jealous, because they did not receive a sock-monkey mermaid themselves.

The second event occurred just a few hours later. I was at the park with the dogs, mindlessly throwing the ball over and over like I do every day, when a group of about 10 people straggled into the park and started singing Christmas carols. They didn't seem to mind that their entire audience consisted of three homeless guys, two dogs, and me. Their thready voices reached me all the way on the other side of the park, and I was surprised to realize that I knew the words to every song. I got a little teary-eyed.

I realized why Christmas always makes me feel so sad - it usually reminds me of everything I've lost, everything that's missing, everything I think I want and don't have. But I need to remember the pagan roots of this holiday - it's a time of renewal, rebirth, a reminder that spring will come again. It's a time to embark on a new path, and to leave things behind that are no longer useful.

So it's turning out to be not so bad a holiday after all. I'm trekking my friend K out to the insanity at G's house in Palm Springs, which is always entertaining. I haven't lost much that's worth keeping, and spring is on the way. And most importantly, I have a sock-monkey mermaid. Life is good. Merry Christmas.

Whoops

Everyone who knew it was a bad idea to email Dear Husband yesterday, please raise your hand.

Ok, you can all put them down now. Needless to say, my initial email sparked an ugly exchange of words that would have been better left unsaid. About 20 messages later, we really took the gloves off - he was a congenital liar with no conscience, and I was a syphilitic whore.

After a much-needed cooling-off period, I decided to let it end there. DH got the last word. In a middle-of-the-night moment of contrition, I sent him a farewell apology, and wished him well. Again.

I regret sending him that first email, and shouldn't have been snooping around his MySpace page in the first place. But I truly wasn't expecting to find what I found - a picture of DH cuddling naked with his Next Victim, a woman whom even her brief internet biography proves is clearly too good for him.

With a little prodding, I realized what the true purpose of my email had been - I was trying to tell DH, yet again, how completely he had crushed my spirit. Again, he chose not to hear. In fact, DH truly believes, or wants to believe, or wants me to believe, that I am the one who destroyed our marriage.

So be it. As one of my evil bosses at my last job used to say when her actions were totally indefensible, it is what it is.

Maybe I am the one who destroyed our marriage - through my inability to accept DH's dishonesty, emotional unavailability and lack of trust, through my unwillingness to succumb to slow emotional death by strangulation.

Either way, it's probably good that we're no longer together now that we know how we truly feel about each other.

The Cycle Begins Again

Well, it's official - Dear Husband has snared his Next Victim.

I learned this when I was (not so) innocently browsing the Internet and came across DH's MySpace page. I saw that he's divorced already (Los Angeles County must have processed his paperwork more quickly than mine). I saw that he's suddenly developed ambition. And then I saw NV listed as one of DH's few interests.

Of course I couldn't help but mosey over to NV's MySpace page to check her out. I instantly saw the source of DH's newfound ambition - NV likes people who are ambitious! She also wants a relationship with someone who values trust, honesty, integrity and character as much as she does.

WTF? She wants someone with character and she chose.....DH???? I was flabbergasted. Then I remembered how sincere DH can seem when you want to see him that way. I hope she sees him for what he really is before she gets in too deep.

But obviously my concern for her isn't entirely altruistic - not even close. I'm bitter. And jealous. And catty. And a major hypocrite. And still very, very angry.

I was instantly tempted to fire off a warning email to NV, but I managed to restrain myself. But I couldn't help sending him a flaming missive. Of course I'm sorry now. NV will become another stop on DH's Trail of Tears, or she'll see him for what he really is. Either way, it's none of my business.

Spending Is Patriotic, Right?

If so, I may be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Normally I avoid consumer spending like the plague. Except for my periodically self-indulgent trips to Target, I usually find that I just don't want or need any more stuff.

But lately I'm like a crow who fixates on bright shiny things. It all started with the new car. Then it was a pair of glossy knee-high black leather boots that I needed to go with the car. Then I started Christmas shopping with abandon, and actually managed to purchase some gifts for other people along the way. But when I bought an MP3 player today, I knew I'd lost my mind.

See, I didn't even know I wanted an MP3 player until I saw it. I certainly don't need one. The truth is, I'm such a committed luddite that I don't even know how they work, and probably won't be able to figure it out. But there it was, with its shiny metal case, and suddenly I had to have it. I swooped down upon it and snatched it into my beak without even thinking.

Unfortunately, this isn't the first time I've been caught in the grip of rampant consumer greed. Every time it's happened in the past has been during times of tremendous loss, not unlike what I'm going through right now. In fact, the last time I suffered a loss as staggering as my split with Dear Husband, I ended up with a new car, some black leather boots, and a new music player.

You don't have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out what all this means. But unfortunately, self-awareness doesn't always equal enlightenment. I hope I come to my senses before my bank account is empty and my credit cards are maxed out. But at least I'm doing my part to stimulate the economy.

Make it Stop Please

I have an excellent relationship with the neighbors across the walkway 11 months out of the year. Queridos Vecinos are a couple of Latino queens who are generally fabulous neighbors - friendly, considerate, and quiet enough.

But every December, I fantasize about killing them. In the first week of December, they hang their lighted, musical Christmas wreath on their front door, and visions of violence start to dance in my head.

The wreath plays fluty nasal versions of Christmas songs that drill into my brain whether my front door is open or closed. Early on, I found a volume button for this monstrosity that was luckily located on the outside of their front door. I've gotten into the habit of slipping over in the dark to restore peace to the apartment complex.

But apparently, Queridos Vecinos can't live without their tinny ice-rink yuletide noise. They come outside several times each night to readjust the volume. Last night I heard their noise pollution at 1 am as I was trying to go to sleep.

I made another trip over to their door in my bathrobe to make things right. But when I returned to bed, I could still hear the music in my head. I thought I was going to lose my mind.

Let me explain. You know about that phenomenon known as 'ear worm' when you can't get a song out of your head? I suffer from ear worm to a much greater degree than most people. Sometimes annoying tunes bounce around in my skull for days or even weeks. Christmas music is the worst.

The problem may be compounded by the post-traumatic stress disorder I suffer from my first job as a pixie to a drunken and deranged Santa at a third-rate Christmas-themed amusement park. I haven't worked there for 22 years, but the nightmares just stopped recently.

So now I'm contemplating a more permanent solution to my problem. I know, I know - vandalism is a crime. But as A says, no jury would ever convict me.

Just F#&@ing Do It Already

I've been meaning to go to the gym. Every day. For about the last six months.

While I've been avoiding the gym, I've also managed to give up my nearly lifelong habit of walking every day, and I've gained back the 10 pounds I lost after giving Dear Husband the boot, plus about five more. Factor that into the 18 hours or so I spend sitting in front of the computer every day, and I've basically turned into a blob.

This fact was driven home last Saturday when I spent the day shopping with my mother. Even though she's 65, Beloved Mother spends more hours at the gym each day than Arnold Schwarzenegger and never lets her weight fluctuate by more than two pounds. Seeing our reflections side by side in all those full-length mirrors was hard, especially since we were roughly the same size for a lot of years.

So today I finally took a tiny step in the right direction. I went to the gym for an hour. I pounded one of those elliptical trainers for half an hour even though I was bored outta my skull after 30 seconds, and did a half-hour of weight training.

I'm going to try for a repeat performance tomorrow, even though my gym makes me feel especially blobby - it's in Hollywood and is packed with 98-pound out-of-work actors that provide even more contrast than Beloved Mother.

I don't know if I'll lose any weight, because I have a marked predilection for tying on the feedbag. But I know I'll feel a lot better both physically and emotionally if I exercise every day. If I can stare down the emaciated actors and my own lack of motivation, it'll be worth it.

It's Not the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I really hate this time of year.

I start my downward spiral every year in mid-October, when I can no longer kid myself that daylight savings time might be extended through the winter. The shorter days, the relatively cold weather, the impending holidays, and my chronic inability to dress for winter in a way that's fashionable or even adequate all contribute to my malaise.

Unfortunately, external factors usually dictate how bad my autumnal doldrums will be, and this year is proving to be difficult. The split with Dear Husband, my friend K's health problems, and Bob's sad demise are all contributing to a chronic case of even worse-than-usual pre-winter blues.

Luckily there are bright spots that I can bask in like unexpected shafts of sunlight. My friendship with A nurtures and fulfills me in ways that I never imagined. The staples of my usually satisfying life - sobriety, friendship, and dogs - continue to sustain me. And on the shallow side, my new car continues to give me the kind of pleasure I should never get from material things but still do.

But I'm still struggling. The late afternoons, when it already seems to be getting dark at 3 pm, are the worst. It's just that time of year when I want to wrap myself in velvet and hibernate until spring. Robert Frost was wrong about April being the cruelest month. It's definitely December.