Gridlock

After putting it off for weeks, I finally got my hair cut yesterday.

They guy who does my hair isn't very talkative, especially for a hairstylist. I let him work his magic in silence. About halfway through the haircut, though, he asked me how I was doing and inquired about a situation we'd discussed the last time I was there.

I told him it was still the same. 'You know when something really isn't working but you keep doing it because you hope that someday it will?' I asked

'Oh, honey, I stopped running through red lights years ago,' he clucked, and went back to trimming my hair.

Great, my hairstylist knows more about living life than I do.

Lately it seems like everyone does. I'm wallowing in that kind of perpetual low-grade funk that makes everyone else's life seem fantastic by comparison.

Deep down, I know that my life is amazingly blessed, but it just doesn't feel that way right now. I feel flat and tired and like nothing good is going to happen to me ever again. I kind of feel like I'm stuck in rush-hour traffic, frustrated and angry about the delay even though I have nothing to go home to.

Shut up Already

Dear Husband is apparently having some car trouble.

I know this because he emailed me yesterday to complain that I cancelled his Auto Club membership.

DH doesn't seem to know the meaning of the word goodbye. That's what I said to him in my last email explaining why he can't have his stuff back.

A couple of days later, I received a plaintive email that said, 'Is that goodbye forever?'

Silence speaks volumes. Unless you're not listening.

I'm not sure why he thinks I'm still responsible for meeting his emergency roadside assistance needs, or why he expects me to care that he's upset. Or why he thinks he's entitled to use up all four of my Auto Club tows on his junky car.

Or why he thinks he has any right to bitch about anything, especially something as minor as a $49 Auto Club membership. I just found out that my FICO score dropped almost 100 points because DH diddled around so long with paying that hospital bill. But I doubt that DH knows what a FICO score is, so I wouldn't expect him to understand.

Actually, I don't expect him to do anything except shut up already, and leave me alone.

Tying on the Feedbag

My life feels like such shit right now, I did the only thing I could think of to feel better - I went to the store and bought $30 worth of junk food.

I'm not sure why I feel this way, but I've still got a whole lot of emotional crap to wade through. The ramped-up communication with Dear Husband over the past couple of days has taken its toll. I still miss my friends K and Floyd something fierce.

And I found out this week that the "human rights" organization that fired me last year is finally releasing the report into which I poured my heart and soul. A friend slipped me a copy of the embargoed report, and I was a little stunned to see that 14 months later, they've essentially rewritten what I wrote in the same old tired institutional language that I was trying to get away from.

None of this stuff is worth getting upset about, but I'm already feeling a little fragile. And food was my first escape route - before books, cigarettes, sex, alcohol and drugs. It always seems to be my fallback position.

But I know that feeding at the trough isn't going to help me feel better - it's ultimately only going to make things worse. There are no answers to be found at the bottom of an ice cream carton, any more than at the bottom of a bottle or a bag of dope.

At least I don't think there are. I'll let you know when I get to the bottom.

What's Good for the Goose is Good for the Gander

Dear Husband is a little bit peeved.

I strung him along for a couple of days and ignored a few emails before telling him that no, he can't pick up any stuff because I no longer have anything that belongs to him.

I wasn't sure how he'd react. He didn't show up at my door with a loaded gun, which wouldn't have been out of character for him. Instead, he fired off a few emails that were rife with misspellings.

The first suggested that I wanted to keep his stuff out of a perverse desire to keep him in my life. The second one complained about my posting (anonymous) details about him on the internet - this from a man who has nekkid pictures of himself and comments about smoking pot on his myspace page. He also guessed that we probably wouldn't be exchanging Christmas cards this year - a line that was sort of funny the first time he used it but has gotten a little tired.

The third email was either designed to prod me into further dialogue or hit me where I live, or both. It did neither. DH said he hopes I find peace and happiness someday.

What he doesn't know is that I already have. I feel a lot more peaceful and a lot happier knowing that he's out of my life forever. Sometimes all it takes is a little something - say, not having to nag an eternal teenager every day to keep his promises - to achieve nirvana.

Ahh, Sweet Freedom

Dear Husband finally paid off his hospital bill.

He told me this in an email, and in the next paragraph announced that he would be coming over this afternoon to pick up the stuff that I've been holding for ransom. As my brother would say, he's not asking, he's telling.

I guess he was expecting me to clap like a seal and hand over his stuff. But after being jerked around for the past eight months, I think he might have to wait a while. Maybe forever.

Interestingly, he paid the bill yesterday, the same day our divorce was final. I don't think he knows about the divorce date, since he's been unable to drag his ass to the post office anytime since last July to have his mail forwarded. (Note to identity thieves - now that I'm no longer responsible for DH's debts, his ludicrous pre-approved credit card offers will be waiting on top of the mailbox for anyone who wants them)

What all of this means is that I'm finally free of DH forever. It's about time. I need to move on. I need to start seeing this as a learning experience - an expensive, humiliating, extraordinarily painful learning experience.

Fly and be free, DH. I know I will.

The Ides of March

My divorce is finally final today.

Obviously, the significance of the date isn't lost on me. I had always hoped that Dear Husband and I would share a kind of loyalty unsurpassed in my life so far. I never really saw the point of marriage unless it created a partnership that valued the welfare of both individuals above all else.

The kind of loyalty that would, say, preclude activities like advertising on the internet for sex with men and women and then lying about it repeatedly when caught red-handed.

Oh well, as my Beloved Mother always says, my expectations have always been too high. Actually, BM was my first and best teacher about not expecting too much. I just wasn't a very good student.

I should have known better. In the darkest recesses of my heart, I knew that DH wasn't capable of the kind of partnership I wanted and needed. But I ignored the little voice in my head that tried to warn me. I was hopeful. And what is marriage but the ultimate expression of hope?

Et tu, DH?

Letting My Garden Grow

I finally got off my ass and planted my garden this week.

I didn't even know I wanted one until recently. When I wanted to be in a garden, I always went to K's house. But just as it began to sink in that K's magical space was about to be lost forever, fate thrust an opportunity for my own garden right in my face.

Okay, it's not really my own garden. It's actually a three-foot by 10-foot plot in a community garden about a block and a half from my house. The coordinator bought some yard tools at K's massive moving sale, and before I knew it, I was renting the last available plot.

I planted tomatoes, basil, red peppers, sugar peas, daisies, sunflowers and lavender. I'm not sure I have the dedication or patience to be a good gardener, but so far I've been tending my plot with loving care. I can't wait to see the first shoots poke out of the soil.

Even if my garden doesn't thrive, I'm enjoying the process. If I get to eat one good caprese made with my own tomatoes and basil, I'll consider the venture a success. As May Sarton said, "A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself."

Potty Mouth

I had no idea Dear Husband was such a delicate flower.

Two days after receiving no reply to my 999th email about DH's unpaid bill, I sent him the following missive.

"Still.waiting.for.an.answer.about.the.fucking.hospital.bill"

DH replied with astounding speed:

"Don't curse at me. I am tired of you cursing at me."

Wow. You'd think a guy who hangs out with tranny whores could handle that kind of language.

But that's DH - a portrait in contrasts. A devout Catholic who cheats on his wife. A proud dad who is letting his ex-wife and his parents raise his kids. A guy who swears he's going to open his own restaurant within the next two years, but who can't keep a job or meet the most basic financial responsibilities.

I had no idea I married such a complex man. Of course, DH knew he married a woman who swears like a sailor. But I guess he has a point. I've only been trying to get him to pay this bill for eight! fucking! months! There's no need to be uncivilized.