Wednesday, August 1, 2012

This ain't no effing divorce blog either.

Errrr... maybe it is. For now. Has it been done? Probably. There are blogs for every stupid idea in the Universe*. It sounds like it would be high drama. Or a place for lonely, man-hating women to come and bash their ex's all day for not ever buying them a Pandora bracelet. Because only good husbands buy their wives Pandora bracelets.

Back to ME.

Because I am a woman scorned, I have contacted the Child Support Enforcement Agency. Court date is September 5. I'm not going to elaborate on that much because it's just not all that interesting and because I really don't want to be (or sound like) the furious ex wife. The divorce thing has been over for nearly a year and it would be super great if the rest of it could be over, too.

I have people (in my crazy family mostly) telling me that I shouldn't allow my ex to see my son. That just isn't my thing. Grudges ain't my thing. I'm very happy to not be a holder of grudges.

Onto more fun things....

I like telling stories. Stories about me. Stories about family or people I know. (Or stories about people that I don't know that are entirely made up.) So here's some stories.

About 2 months ago, my cousin moved in with me. We'll call him R, for the time being. R moved in because he and his wife were separating. Their divorce was pretty quick. It's already over and done with.

R and I were always close. We're a lot alike. We talk the same way. Laugh at all of the same shit. Like all of the same everything. Except he really likes monogamy. So much so that he had a full-time girlfriend right away. He once described himself as a "serial monogamist". One serious relationship ends and he's right back into a new one before the other is completely finished. He's been divorced for less than 2 weeks and is already talking marriage with the next one. I think he's insane. Or maybe I'm just bitter? A mixture of both, I bet.

But anyway -- the point of my mentioning R is that I'm glad he's moved in. I spent a lot of time at my parents house because I just wasn't used to the quiet of my own house. Going home to silence is great and I do crave that sometimes but not always. I wasn't raised in quiet surroundings. My family is large and Italian.  That means LOUD by default. Everyone in our old neighborhood was loud. Nobody really lived alone unless they were old and crazy. Dinner is and always has been a nightly family event. You sit at the god-damned table or you don't eat. And you eat all of your friggin' food, too. Everyone is usually swearing or badmouthing someone else (usually an absent family member.) That's what I'm used to.

So now that R and his 2 whippets, who are mostly quiet, have moved into the basement -- our house has some noise. And usually more available alcohol.

*The Universe -- capitalized as a tribute to my dear friend Chris who depends on it to tell him what his next move in life should or should not be. 

Monday, July 2, 2012


Disclaimer:  there may be some material here that could be considered sensitive to some readers. I'm making it a point to not censor myself. I'm not talking about graphic sexual content. I'm talking about REAL LIFE drama here. Things that really happened. Private things that some people have told me to keep to myself. But I'm not going to tip-toe around shit. I don't know how to do that. I can't write about life that way -- leaving big gaps or skipping over things like they were just in my imagination. It's important that  I say this: I'm not going to go out of my way to badmouth my ex husband. That's just ugly and I'm so over being negative or hurtful on purpose. That said, there are certain things that may sound like I"m trying to be hurtful. I assure you, that is not my intention.

Back in 2005, I got married. We were in love. We were happy. We never fought. There were tiny disagreements here and there -- like how his mom did things differently than me in the kitchen or how he hated that I am always barefoot. Nothing big. Most of it was new-couple-just-moving-in-together stuff. We always seemed to work through things quickly and easily. I always like to say that I was more Bohemian then. I didn't care about what a lot of my girlfriends cared about. Nice cars, houses, money, things. I was okay with being poor and being happy. (I'm still pretty okay with that, by the way. But more money would be nice for paying bills and stuff.)

But I did have doubts. 

A few weeks before the wedding I remember getting home from work, laying down in bed, and crying my eyes out. I was worried that I was making the wrong decision. We all have doubts but I see that mine were valid now and I probably should have listened to that voice in my head. And I probably should have listened to my mother. (Yep, you read that correctly.) I remember my mother sensing something wasn't quite right during the planning phase of that damned circus wedding. One particular evening, while I was fretting over something or other, she blurted out, "You don't have to get married you know." I will never forget those words. 

And I did know that. But I WANTED A WEDDING, dammit!!

Besides that, I couldn't imagine the horror of calling it off. We had invited over 400 people. It was mostly  paid for. I  knew my parents weren't all that fond of him. They would never come out and say it until much later. I respect them for that now. Despite that, they were happy for me. And my mother completely immersed herself into the wedding planning. She was Momzilla. Literally.

So we had our little (big) wedding and then went on our Mexican honeymoon. We had a blast, really. I look back on that and remember it being a great time. And I also look back and realize how genuinely fucked up I was. I made out with some random bartender down there. My husband allowed it. He acted like it didn't bother him. He even laughed about it. Talked to the guy. I  had always talked about wanting an "open marriage". (Was it because I knew deep down that we just wouldn't last?) He seemed okay with the idea but I knew he wasn't completely sold either. I didn't care. I wouldn't have minded if he had done the same. I encouraged it. But now, I can't help but think that I was a frickin' lunatic asshole. And I still have some of that in me. So yes, I certainly have my faults. Plenty of them. 

Two years of marriage had gone by. We had fights here and there. Sometimes they were big. Usually they involved my getting upset about my husband not taking care of himself. Diabetes (and several other health problems now.) He was always sick. He missed a lot of work. Because of that, he couldn't keep a job. He was also severely depressed. I tried to be understanding, helpful, supportive. We moved. Things were better. We talked about having a baby. And then we did have a baby. We were excited and happy. Our parents were ecstatic. Baby boy came and then things quickly started to go downhill. It had nothing to do with our wonderful new baby. The husband wasn't working much. He wasn't interested in working either. I was working and feeling guilty for not being with my baby enough. He was always extremely angry, I was angry. We started to resent each other. We started to say hurtful, horrible things to each other. Things were just too far gone for us to get back to where we started.

January 17, 2009 -- one day after my son's first birthday party, one day after my husband's 32nd birthday, during an intense argument, I grabbed our son in the middle of his dinner. Put him in the car as fast as I could. It was January in Ohio. The dead of winter. I had no diapers, no extra clothing, no boots or shoes on his feet. Neither one of us had a coat on. My baby was one year old, crying because of the shouting his parents were doing, and strapped into a car seat in the freezing cold without a coat. I had thought enough to put a hat on his head at least. While I was strapping him into his car seat, my husband ran outside. He was shouting and pleading with me to not leave and that I couldn't take our son. I ignored him. We left.

We went to my parents house close by. I walked into the house and my mom knew something was up. So I sat down and spilled my guts to my mother, my sister, and my step-father. I had been silent about what was going on in my life for several years. No one knew what my relationship was really like. I did what plenty of people do. Pretended that everything was fine. Acted as if we had tiny problems just like everyone else. We would work through them. Everyone had issues with their marriage. It's just part of the deal, right?

I was miserable. I had been miserable for years. There were many days, since 2006, that I would cry in the car on my way home from work knowing that I would be going home to such negative energy. Each day just seemed to be filled with dread. I know this all sounds dramatic But really, that was my life. And I hated myself for not doing something, for pretending, for worrying about what everyone else would think. I was afraid of the embarrassment of a failed marriage. I didn't want anyone to hate me or to hate my husband. It took a lot for me to finally wake up and say, "WHO THE FUCK CARES what anyone else thinks?! I'm not happy and I WANT TO BE HAPPY!!!"

That was the day that I decided I couldn't do it anymore. I called my credit card company and bank and said my cards were lost so that nothing could be charged on them. (That was another big issue in my marriage.) I opened new accounts. That was the beginning of my new life. It wasn't that simple, of course.

The house was in my name. My parents said they weren't letting me go home until he was out. He wasn't going to leave easily. I had to get his parents involved. It was terrible. They came the next day and moved him out. There were lots of tears and the pain was written on all of our faces.

A lot happened in the following year and a half that we were "separated". He sort of moved back in for a few months. Nobody knew it. We were hiding it. If my parents were going to come over, he would leave and all evidence that he was there was hidden from sight. It was ridiculous. But for some reason, I just couldn't let go. We were getting along okay. I had no intentions of actually remaining married but I just felt safe when he was there. I guess I was just afraid of being alone. And then one day, I had to ask him to leave. Again. I called his dad and told him, "please come and get him. And I don't want him back this time."

One year after that, we were divorced. September 13, 2011.

My ex has no legal rights to our son. He doesn't work. Has no car. Lives in his parents basement. Naturally, due to all of that, I get no child support.

But I'm usually pretty happy. There's no negative energy in my house. I like going home. Peace at home is something that I'm sure plenty of people take for granted. Home is supposed to be your safe place. Home should be your refuge. I will never let my home be anything more than home.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

This ain't no effing mommy blog.

So. I'm beyond tired of writing about food/restaurant/bar experiences on Yelp. I feel embarrassed about being a Yelper most of the time and I don't even want most people to know that I do it. Yet, I still write the most ridiculous, attention-grabbing shit on there. Like today, I wrote about a bad "date" that I went on last weekend. It wasn't really a date so much as a meeting. Essentially, I was yelping about the guy as if he were a business. I even titled it "Dude I met last Friday night" and made up my own business listing for him. I gave him 2 stars.

If that isn't a sign that I need to write elsewhere then I'm not sure what is. (I was going to say "take my talents to _____" but damn that shit is so played out.)

I'm self conscious about writing. Mostly because there are so many good writers out there that I'm reading everyday. There are also some terrible writers that I'm reading everyday. So fuck it. Why should I censor myself?

Okay, okay. One of the biggest reasons that I have stayed away from public blogging is because I feared that any blog I started would become a mommy blog or just become KNOWN as one. There are more than enough mommy bloggers out there. Most people don't care about other peoples kids. And yes, I'm included in that category.

I'll talk about my kid here and there. But I promise, I ain't gonna be posting pictures of him everyday and shit like that. I do that enough on Facebook and I'm sure people hide me now.

I know this is going to sound gay but -- in the next installment of "It's All In Her Mind" I'll be posting a bit of background information on myself and how I got to be where I am currently.

Embrace the cheese.