I Drove an Hour to Do This

If you know me IRL, you know this. But for the rest of you (whom I love with all my heart)...

I got divorced today.

Me, I guess.

I didn't know I was getting divorced when I woke up this morning. I literally decided, as I opened my eyes, that I was going to drive 45 minutes to the county courthouse and have a judge sign my paperwork today.

Had I thought about it, planned it, scheduled it, I never would have done it. So when the thought popped into my head this morning, I went with it.

All the papers were properly filled out and signed by my ex and me. I knew that the district judges heard uncontested divorce cases from 8:00 to 9:00 a.m. each day. Literally all I had to do was make the drive and wait my turn.

It was hard, you guys.

To quote the Who, it's very, very, very, very hard.

A number of people were there with their lawyers. Some, like me, were alone. I wanted to hug them all. Because they all had the same look on their face: I can fucking do this. I totally related.

Four or five cases came up before mine. They were just people. People I can never in a million years judge, because my marriage ended up the same. One of the prior cases was a woman who actually got married a year before I did. That made me feel strangely better. I wasn't the only one who made it 25 years but couldn't make marriage work.

Not on topic. Yet on topic, you know?

It took just a few minutes for the judge to sign off on my divorce. She kind of scolded me, you guys, because I didn't request child support or a specific visitation schedule. I held my ground and said I was down with what I had (hadn't) requested. She flat-out told me that if it weren't for Precocious Daughter's age (16 1/2), she would not have approved my decree. And I get that. But I told her (honestly) that I wouldn't have been seeking a divorce if I couldn't support my child by myself, and she relented.

Just like Tina Turner, all I wanted was my name.

Anyway, afterward I told Precocious Daughter that it was done. I apologized for putting her through all this. And she replied, "You haven't put me through anything."

Goddamn, I love my kid.

Bottom line: Hey, Drunkards, I'm divorced. I can finally move on.

Thank you for your support. THANK YOU.

I guess this chapter is closed.

On to posts about Trump and squirrels and vodka and shit.

Maybe give me a day or two, though.

Because I just got divorced.

K thx.

All You Need Is Love. Or Cash. Or Love. I Don't Even Know.

At my IRL job, I have two bosses.

One is the Homunculus. He works in my office and technically manages all of us who are stationed there. He is generally indifferent to the point of dismissiveness of my efforts (even though today I caught a major omission in a staffer's report that he never would have discovered had I not brought it to his attention).

The other works in the corporate office 1,500 miles away and is my boss in that she oversees all the administrative personnel in the company. She is awesome and supportive but unfortunately has little to do with my day-to-day duties/frustrations. Still, it's good to know that she has my back, and we do check in regularly.

Last night, my corporate boss sent me an email saying that I could expect to find a bonus in my bank account this week because of my "exceptional performance" in 2015. I got a similar bonus a year ago, and while it wasn't enough to buy that solid-gold heavy-duty dildo I've been wanting, it certainly was enough to make me genuinely appreciative of the gesture.

Gold Dildo, it's the dildo, the dildo with the Midas touch.
(Dear Shirley Bassey: I am so sorry.)

The point is, tomorrow I'll wake up and check my bank account and find a nice little monetary reward that (I hope) will more than offset the large tax bill I just incurred thanks to my almost-ex being, well, a heavy-duty dildo.

I may use that windfall to further reduce my remaining debt. Or I may use it to replace my old and very terrible smartphone. Hell, I may even splurge on some fun stuff just for me. The point is, while I don't particularly covet wealth, I certainly recognize the benefits of having a few extra bucks at my disposal and intend to take advantage of it.

But you know what? I might almost give up that bonus money if only the Homunculus would simply express his appreciation for my work and/or acknowledge my contributions before the rest of the office.

Almost. It doesn't matter, because it's not going to happen. But still.

I'll let you know what I spend the money on. On what I spend the money. Whatever.

Most of you have no idea what I do at my job, but trust me, I'm pretty good at it. If you have an administrator at your workplace, show him/her a little love. I'll feel it, I promise.

And thanks.

I'll Pay

I've tried, Drunkards.

I've tried to take the high road.

And I'm not even Irish.

I've bent over backwards to shoulder the blame, the responsibility, and the consequences of splitting from my almost-ex. I wanted the split, I initiated it, I've requested not a dime of child support or any other compensation. I just want out.

Even when he insisted we file our taxes jointly one last time, I said OK. After all, married couples are taxed at a lower rate than anyone else. I mean, apart from corporations.

Hello, America, how are you?

To make a very long story short, my almost-ex has informed me that he prefers that we both file our taxes as "married filing separately" for 2015.

It will increase my share of the tax burden.

It will increase his share of the tax burden.

It will increase his considerably more.

But obviously, someone has convinced him I'm a terrible bitch trying to screw him, and he should "stick it to me" by demanding we file separately.

Yep, it totally will increase the taxes I have to pay for 2015.

As well as his. By a lot.

Is it worth a couple of hundred bucks to be free of yet another shared duty/obligation with him?

Oh hell yes.

Just sayin.

Bring it. Bring whatever you've got. I'll take it and more, because very shortly I'll be legally single. I'll be 100% free of any moral, financial, or legal responsibility for you.

And if you can't provide such stability, I can tell you fuck off and not let you spend time with our daughter.

Just, you know, if that's how you want to play it.

I'll take a financial bath on taxes this year.

Way sexier than this, bitches.

And I'll be happy forever. Your move.

Let the record show I was the nice guy for as long as possible.

If I'm a heartless bitch, I trust you guys will let me know in the comments.

Freudian Slip

Precocious Daughter spent Christmas night with her dad, my Almost-Ex. The plan was for me to pick her up this morning.

But when I got to his place, they informed me that they had changed the plan; they were going to go to Panera Bread for brunch, then drop PDaughter at my apartment. Of course, since I was already there, I invited myself to go to Panera with them, then bring our kiddo back home. We eat together as a family every couple of weeks. Because I for one refuse to have an acrimonious breakup and never see him again. Even though I don't want to be married to him, that doesn't mean I don't love him.

It's weird, but it's what it is.

Anyway, we got to the restaurant and began to place our order. At one point the guy at the register asked me if I wanted to add a 99-cent pastry to my order. And my Almost-Ex chimed in, "No, she's just getting a bagel. I'm getting a divorce...I mean, dessert."

I lost it. We all lost it. The guy at the register probably thought we were out of our minds, which wasn't wrong by any means.

Best. Freudian. Slip. Ever.

You guys are seriously making me look bad. *sigh*

So we went on to have a nice brunch, because despite everything we can still laugh together.

Despite the fact that he has called me a bad mother and a terrible wife.

Despite the fact that he promised I could keep the escrow refund from the sale of the house, yet when it arrived (at his place) this week, that promise miraculously became half the escrow refund (to the tune of $1,500 in his pocket and out of mine).

Despite all these things.

Because it's worth it to me to be shut of him. Free from him. Completely done with him. Really.

Am I being played? Probably. What should I be doing differently? Your call, Drunkards.

Let me know.

Update on Dogs (Canine and Human Varieties)

Hey, you guys, I want to thank you for the outpouring of excellent advice regarding my recent dust-up with the almost-ex over funding for Darling Dog's bladder-stone surgery. You gave me a lot to think about, and made points I hadn't considered, which I'm learning is the point of open, honest communication. Who knew?

Not this soon-to-be-divorced person lady.

I still haven't made a decision on whether or not to give in to Almost-Ex's guilt-trip/emotional machinations and actually help pay for the procedure (well, beyond the $200 he already guilted me into turning over). Be that as it may, DDog's surgery is today, and I'm hoping to hear that it went well.

I want to put to rest the concern some of you expressed that my financial contribution was going to determine whether the surgery was going to happen. That was never the case. Almost-Ex may hound me (no pun intended) for the rest of my days about forking over the cash, but not having the stone removed was never - repeat, never - on the table.

My soon-to-be-former spouse is a lover of animals. He gets very attached to his pets. I could not have loved him otherwise. I could not love anyone who isn't devoted to his animals. His grief when our Senior Cat died last year was palpable and heartbreaking.

Trigger alert: I reread the post I just linked to and got teary. Be warned.

.......................

Here's a real-time update. I just got off the phone with my A-E. DDog is out of surgery and recovering from the anesthetic. They removed one large stone and a couple of smaller ones, and he should be OK by tomorrow.

They did find some polyps and areas of inflammation up in his works, and they're going to test those. Possibly they're just artifacts of his bladder/urinary tract/whatever the hell dogs have going on being irritated by the stones and will require only a round of antibiotics to treat. Worst-case scenario, they find doggy-cancer. We went through doggy-cancer with our previous mutt (LOL, not a mutt but a purebred English Setter from a championship line). We can do this.

We will do it together.

I've agreed to pay for the testing and whatever medicines are necessary.

I think that's fair.

And A-E thanked me and graciously allowed that my financial assistance is appreciated but not required.

This is what our pets do for us. They make us better people.

How could I not want this sweet boy to get better?

I miss him so much, Drunkards. Way more than I
miss being married.

What if I did a GoFundMe to help? Would anybody toss in a couple of bucks? I'd totally make it worth your while. Maybe.

Anyway, thanks again for helping me out. Still not sure why you bother. Love you all.

What Would You Do, Drunkards?

Tell me what you think, Drunkards.

Darling Dog - who, to refresh your memory, now lives with my almost-ex - has the canine equivalent of a kidney stone.

OK, sure.

The vet has recommended surgery, as the stone is probably causing DDog some discomfort, and if it were to shift, would become a blockage requiring emergency removal.

DDog has been very healthy over his lifetime. This is really his first health crisis in 11 years of, you know, dogness.

Here's the thing. The surgery will cost $1600. One thousand, six hundred Amerikanski dollars, you guys.

The good news: My almost-ex recently received a significant financial windfall from the sale of our house. He has more than enough money to fund the surgery.

The, um, other news: Because of the circumstances of selling our house (not going into them yet, sorry, still too freaking raw), I received approximately half of what he got. And I have primary custod of, and financial responsibility for, our Precocious Daughter.

None of which has stopped him from shaking me down for "my share" of DDog's surgery.

Seriously, the guilt level is off the charts.

Here's the thing: If anything (God forbid) happened to PDaughter on my watch, or to the Siamese Kitten, of whom I have custody, I would move heaven and earth to fund the remedy for such ailments.  I mean, I would do a fucking Kickstarter, grovel to my parents, whatever it took to make her well. I personally would not emotionally blackmail my almost-ex-spouse to pay for it, because that shit is over.

Yet he is OK with guilting me into contributing my meager share of the house proceeds toward his dog's medical costs. Which I would, if the amount weren't the difference between restoring my credit score and being a broke-ass bitch.

Maybe I'm wrong. I'm wrong about things sometimes.

So I leave it to you.

Do I make a substantial dent in my meager savings to help pay for the dog's surgery? Or do I leave it to him, because that's the hand that fate has dealt him, and if it dealt the same to me, I would handle it myself?

To clarify, I've already given him the $200 that he said was his contribution to PDaughter's 16th birthday gift of a laptop. That's gone. What he wants is $200 or more above that.

Your opinions will honestly weigh heavily on what I decide to do. So don't hesitate to offer them

Thanks, you guys.

Lessons Learned. Can I Get On with My Life Now?

As I may have mentioned earlier, I finally sold my house. It was a clusterfuck from start to finish. I attribute the fact that we couldn't unload the house in the hottest real estate market in years to bad karma, bad decisions, and a few unscrupulous assholes (more on that below).

But the bottom line is, that chapter of my life is finally over, and I can move on (and buy furniture). And, you know, every bad experience is a learning experience. The worse the experience is, the more you learn.

By that standard, I am now a super genius.

Just like Wile E. Coyote.
We even have the same motto.

Here are some things I learned from selling my stupid house.

1. I need to get a new ringtone. For three solid months, I got phone call after phone call bringing bad news, stress, and fear. I came to dread the appearance of any number in my caller ID that wasn't Precocious Daughter's. And now that the stress and fear are finally over, my Pavlovian response to my phone's ringtone is heart palpitations and flop sweat. Not only that, but I've started to think I hear my ringtone everywhere - in the backgrounds of songs on the radio, in random noises my car makes - and it makes me jump every time. Sorry, ringtone, I'm breaking up with you.

2. I had too much stuff. I still have too much stuff. But holy mother of Kermit, I had a lot of stuff. I'm not a materialistic person, but I am sentimental, so once an object is in my possession, I have a hard time letting go. Over the years, that adds up to keeping a shit-ton of things for no particularly good reason. Fortunately (I've decided to go with fortunately on this one), there's nothing like an impending divorce to drastically discount the sentimental value of a lot of items. "But we got this on our anniversary one year" becomes a reason to trash it rather than stash it. It was still hard to part with certain things. But hey, you can't start a new journey without unpacking your baggage from the last one. Right?

3. Home inspectors are lying sacks of shit. The very first contract on the house fell through because the home inspector the buyers hired flat-out told them lies. Like that the location of the water heater was going to cause the house to explode. Yes, really. He also reported that the HVAC system didn't work, even though the air conditioner was running during the inspection. My guess is that his brother-in-law had a plumbing/HVAC company to which he happily would have referred them to make the repairs, had he not scared them off entirely. Another contract fell through because the inspector said we had termites. I don't know what he thought termites look like, but we had Terminix come out and do an inspection, and even to drum up business for themselves they couldn't find any signs of termites or termite damage. Again, I'm sure he ran a pest-control company on the side. Dumbasses.

Mr. Inspector, I'm sure you saw several of these
in my house, but they are not termites.

4. I have terrible communication skills. For someone who writes so much - both professionally and out of love - I'm really not very good at communicating face-to-face with people. Even my almost-ex. Especially my almost-ex. That became glaringly apparent during the long, drawn-out process of selling the house. On the rare occasions that we had open, honest discussions about what we needed to do, shit got done. The rest of the time, we were never on the same page and shooting ourselves in the foot (feet?). I also didn't communicate effectively with realtors, contractors, or bank people. Probably the biggest lesson learned during this debacle is how important it is to say what needs to be said, good or bad, and accept the consequences, good or bad.

5. I'm never buying another house. I don't want to maintain a house, or the land it sits on, or the fence that surrounds it. It's difficult, it's time-consuming, it's expensive, and I don't enjoy it. I know there are all kinds of advantages to home ownership, and lots of ways it's superior to living in an apartment. I was a  homeowner for almost 20 years. It's great to have space and privacy, to have your trash picked up, to be able to paint a wall without asking permission or make a ruckus without disturbing the neighbors. But to me it's no longer worth it. Until you guys make me rich enough to afford a full staff, I'm done with taking care of a place.

6. I survived this. I can probably survive anything. Unless a meteorite lands on me. But you know, other than that, I can probably survive anything. Hey, karma...you could have just sent that lesson in a fortune cookie. But thanks.

Bringing Steely Back

I'm reclaiming Steely Dan.

Mine.

When I was a kid in the 1970s, Steely Dan was really popular. I didn't like them. I'm thinking their music was too sophisticated for my immature brain, which believed that Terry Jacks' "Seasons in the Sun" was the pinnacle of popular music.

My siblings and I used to sing along to "Reeling in the Years" with silly lyrics ("Are you bringing in the cheese? Have you had enough lime?" Brilliant, yeah.) But other than that, they were just another popular band, like Michael McDonald-era Doobie Brothers, that didn't resonate with me.

Then, in 1982, lead singer Donald Fagen released his first solo album, The Nightfly. I fell in love with the song "New Frontier" and especially with its video. A few years later, when I started buying CDs, this was one of the first I bought, and I played the hell out of it. Amazing album.

If you don't know the song and/or video, Imma fix that for you right now.



But I still wasn't a big fan of Steely Dan.The man I married, however, was.

When we began dating, we began listening to music together. A lot of music. Essentially our entire courtship consisted of watching "Doctor Who," hanging out at the video arcade, and listening to music. I give huge credit to my almost-ex for introducing me to Led Zeppelin (which I had always dismissed as the plodding rock of my older brother and his head friends).

He also liked Steely Dan, so we listened to Steely Dan. A lot. And I fell in love. Not just with "Rikki Don't Lose That Number" or "Hey Nineteen," but with their amazing, complex albums like Can't Buy a Thrill and Aja. We listened to them constantly. We even got to see them live several years ago, which was awesome.

In many ways, Steely Dan was the soundtrack to our entire relationship. They were our band.

Unsurprisingly, it's become difficult for me to listen to them. For the last year or so, I've found myself changing the radio station whenever a Steely Dan song comes on. It's a reflex, like kicking when a hammer hits my knee or grimacing uncontrollably when I think of onions.

Dying inside.

But the other day, I started thinking about one of their songs.

It was lurking in back of my head, and I actually had to Google the album it's on to remember the title.

It's called "Any Major Dude."

And what I remembered were these lines.

Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you my friend
Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again
When the demon is at your door
In the morning it won't be there no more
Any major dude will tell you.

I love the song, and the message. It means more to me now than ever.

And it makes me miss Steely Dan.

Dammit, why do I have to surrender custody of a band to my almost-ex?

I don't.

I love Steely Dan, and that's not going to change just because I'm getting divorced.

So I'm taking custody of the band.

He can have joint custody if he wants. I don't care. But I'm not giving up one of my favorite bands just because it reminds me of him.

"Deacon Blues" and "The Royal Scam" belong to me, dammit. I'm going to enjoy them, because I enjoy them, not because of who introduced me to them.

Steely Dan is mine.

You can have Kansas. That was always more your thing.

Just one more way you don't define me.

Music to my ears.

Life, Today

Oh, Drunkards.

The FOURTH contract on my house just fell through. My house has attracted every goddamn flaky buyer and realtor in North Texas. WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? JUST BUY THE FUCKING HOUSE.

My dad has sent me a bit of money to help tide me over until the stupid house finally sells. Also, he sent me a TEXT MESSAGE to let me know he has cancer.

Sure, why not?

My Precocious Daughter has a urinary tract infection, because she promised to tell me when she was going to become sexually active but didn't.

My almost-ex keeps calling me to pour out his heart and troubled soul, using the word "disaster" despite my explicit prohibition on that word. I have my own fucking problems, and having to listen to your problems is one problem I thought I was free of.

Also, he's selling some antique furniture he owns for a pretty penny, yet still wants me to know that he's in dire financial straits. Because let's make everything my fault until the end of time.

In conclusion: My dad has cancer. My daughter is having sex and getting infections. My spouse is using me as his emotional sounding board despite the fact that we are no longer a couple.

Oh, and I'm making $19 an article to write for an online magazine.

So it all evens out, right?

PLEASE you guys, tell me something that is going utterly right in your life. I need to hear it.

...And So Forth

I haven't posted in a couple of days. Sorry about that. There's a lot going on right now.

And not just because Nickelodeon is bringing back H.R. Pufnstuf (which it totally is).

But also because Precocious Daughter's Homecoming is this weekend. And because my goddamn house is under contract for the FOURTH - see that number, mofos? - time in two months. And also, let's not forget, because my almost-ex calls me about four times a day to pour his heart out to me as if we're still somehow a couple.

Annnndddd...my parents offered to send me a little money to help me pay bills until the house finally sells, but of course the check has gotten lost in the bowels of the U.S. Postal Service.

Annnndddd...I still don't have a washer-dryer, so I get to hit up a laundromat this weekend, which is my favorite thing.

Annnndddd...I still don't have any furniture. No biggie. Sofas are overrated. Kitchen tables, too.

Anyway...just busy. Also, I submitted two articles to a new online magazine, and they might actually get published. Links if it happens.

I hope all of you are busy in a good way. Hugs. Come back later and I'll have a real post about squirrels or Donald Trump or some shit. Promise.

Open Letter

Holy shit.

What did you say to our daughter?

You picked her up from her football game and dropped her off here, and she came in uncharacteristically tight-lipped and irritable. She shut herself in her room, and for a while I let her be. But then I got worried and went to see her. And we talked.

Dear God, why would you dump our problems on the head of our 15-year-old daughter?

I know we're broke. You know we're broke. But she should never, ever have to worry about that. She should never feel afraid or unsure of her future or worried about whether we can take care of her.

How dare you put that fear in her.

How dare you make her cry.

Our problems are our problems. They are not her problems. If you haven't cultivated friendships that allow you to vent your frustrations and fears, that's not her fault. DO NOT USE HER AS YOUR SOUNDING BOARD.

Soon - not soon enough, but soon - all of the unpleasantness about splitting up and moving out and selling our home and getting divorced will be behind us. And my entire existence will be devoted to making sure our daughter is happy, and healthy, and psychically OK with what and where she is.

And if you can't keep your goddamn mouth shut and avoid upsetting her when she's with you, then soon enough you'll find that she isn't with you very much at all.

Holy shit.

What did you say to her?

Good and Bad

Good news: Precocious Daughter and I are moved into our new home.

Bad news: The sale of the house has completely fallen apart, and I don't if we can put it back together before financial collapse ensues.

Good news: The Siamese kitten is exploring her new home.

Bad news: She was completely traumatized when we brought her here, and she spent the first 24 hours either yowling miserably or hiding in a drawer.

Good news: My almost-ex has decided to work with me instead of against me, and we're communicating better than we have maybe ever.

Bad news: Everything we're communicating about is sad and stressful, and although we're in agreement, that's not the same as finding a solution.

Good news: I'm finally independent.

Bad news: I'm scared out of my fucking mind.

Good news: Everything works out in the end.

Bad news: Everything doesn't always work out well in the end.

Good news: I'm not relying on vodka to get me through this crisis.

Bad news: I'm not relying on vodka to get me through this crisis.

Remember, I have drama so you don't have to.

Lifestyles of the Obscure and Awkward

For the three of you out there who haven't heard, Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess released her second book today.

Here's a free fucking plug.

I'd attempt to lay out a rational argument that I'm not insanely jealous, except fuck that shit, I'm insanely jealous.

I'm happy for Jenny Lawson, really and sincerely. Because in my own cramped and unheralded way, I'm a writer, and I totally dig how thrilled she must be today. Getting one book published is fantastic. Getting a second published (after the first was a runaway success) is...I don't even know, I can't imagine, it's beyond what my inferior mind can imagine.

I hope she enjoys the shit out of it, for herself and on behalf of those of us who have no hope of approaching, let alone equaling her success.

But hey...it's not as if I don't appreciate what I have, right here in Baudelaire World.

Welcome.

I mean, sure, The Bloggess had a book released today, which is sure to become a best seller, just like her first book. She's getting tons of press coverage and will probably appear on talk shows and whatnot, because people love her and everything she writes.

But I...I...I got a tetanus shot today. And a Pap smear. I got to hear a physician's assistant say, from between my thighs and with a speculum in her hand, "Looks like you may be starting your period."

 I mean, this shouldn't be funny, yet it is.

I got to deal with foundation contractors and cracked concrete and realtors. I got to sign electronic documents that I didn't even read, because I don't even fucking care what they say any more, just sell my goddamn house, please.

I got to stay late at work to download PDFs to individually numbered folders that took me half a day to set up. MY IRL JOB IS GLAMOROUS AS FUCK, YOU GUYS.

Once I got home, I got to listen to my almost-ex whine about co-workers who are not nice people. And then I got to endure berating when I didn't express sufficient sympathy for his problems.

And then I got to hear that clearly we need to divorce because I don't care about his problems enough.

So yeah. I didn't release a book today. After all, The Bloggess is an amazing writer and I'm just a middle-aged bitch who doesn't know what the fuck she's doing.

Probably I'll buy her book in a year, and read it and love it, as I did with her first book.

Best wishes, Jenny Lawson. From the 50,000 or so bloggers who deserve and are waiting for (and most likely will never get) their chance to shine.

Feel fortunate today. Because you are.

I'll keep writing, just in case.

State of Me, By Request

Lovely Drunkard Miss Othmar wants to know how I'm doing.

We thank you, child.

I'm doing pretty craptastic, actually. My realtor significantly overpriced my house, so I'm not getting offers. I can't afford to pay a mortgage and rent on an apartment, so pretty soon my house will be in default, because I will NOT lose my apartment.

Today I did the math, and figured that if I am VERY frugal, I can afford to pay rent and mortgage until the end of September. After that, screw it, the house can  catch on fire, fall over, and sink into the swamp for all I care.

And be the strongest castle in England, yo.

I don't want to write about this because, you know, I like to produce a happy product sometimes. Also, I get tired of complaining all the damn time. Why you all haven't ditched me for the Kardashians, I have no idea.

Guys, my computer refused to recognize this image.
HAVE THEY WON???

My spouse and my gay realtor are conspiring against me. They both live in a fantasy world where my old, crappy, not-updated house should sell at a ridiculous price. My solution is to stop paying the mortgage, and they'll soon find out what the house is actually worth when nobody is making payments on it.

I'll be the bad guy, of course. But it just might be worth it.

Anyway, I need to get to bed. I can't have one of the horrendous nightmares that have been plaguing me if I don't get to sleep, after all. So good night, Drunkards.

Thanks for asking how I'm doing.

Let's Compare To-Do Lists, Mmmkay?

You know how sometimes you say things that are utterly mundane and no different from things you say on a regular basis?

You know, like:

Today I processed accounts payable.

Tonight I'm drinking a bunch of vodka.

Last night I dreamed about penises.

You know, stuff like that.

And maybe you wish you could say something that was really, truly out of the ordinary, like:

Today I won 428 million dollars in the lottery.

Tonight I ate an entire octopus.

Last night Johnny Depp gave me a coconut-oil massage.

Yeah, like that.

Well, I actually have something to say that is different. 

Let me know if any of you can say this:

Tomorrow I will serve my spouse with divorce papers.

If you can commiserate, tell me.

By the way, he's totally expecting it and OK with it.

Our divorce is shaping up to be as unconventional as our marriage.

I just hope it turns out better.

Tell me one thing you did today that was not normal.

I promise I'm good with it.

A "What If" That Is Possibly Less Abstract Than the Usual

Lightning round, Drunkards.

Answer me this.

You're muddling through the dying days of a long-term relationship. One of you is ready to move on. The other is not.

The "other" is getting custody of the Darling Dog.

And makes a veiled threat that, if you leave, he may have no choice but to put Darling Dog to sleep.

Your move.

What do you say/do/feel?

Need opinions rather urgently.

One Tasteful Step for Mankind

My realtor, He-Who-Looks-Like-Anderson-Cooper, and his associate, He-Who-Looks-Like-Zachary-Quinto, came over tonight to stage the house.

After about an hour of watching two gay men judge my shabby possessions, I flaked out and had to flee to the safety of Target, leaving Precocious Daughter to preside over the proceedings.

Because if you can't feel safe leaving your 15-year-old daughter with a couple of gay realtors, who can you feel safe leaving her with?

D'awww. Also, if need be, I'm pretty sure she could kick their butts.

But seriously. I pretty much lost my shit. I can't even get a manicure because I don't want strangers touching my hands. These guys were moving my furniture around and pushing aside my decorations and replacing them with their own tasteful tchotchkes. Oh, you think they didn't actually use the word "tchotchkes"?

If those plants were real, I'd already have found a way to kill them.

So yeah, I seized on PDaughter's comment that she had eaten the last of the peanut butter and sought sanctuary in Super Target. I bought, you know, fruit and Coke Zero and said peanut butter, and by the time I paid for everything, I had nearly stopped hyperventilating.

I got home just as they were leaving. The house, guys, really does look amazing when it's staged (and I have to admit I'm just a bit proud that they found no need to change anything in my bedroom, mostly because there are Army barracks with more warmth and individuality than my room following my massive de-cluttering effort). The challenge will be to keep it that way until Tuesday, when they actually take the listing photos.

A lot can happen in five days.

So, based on what Anderson and Zachary have said and done while prepping my house for sale, here are my Top Five Tips for Staging a House:

1. The decor that will make your house look best is whatever is furthest away from your personal aesthetic, which sucks.

2. Buyers really want to see a house that's empty. If yours isn't empty (because, you know, you want to live somewhere other than the YMCA), your best bet is to distract lookers with abstract art. Ooooh, colors.

3. Once somebody buys a house, they may decide to paint all the walls black and live on yoga mats. But when they're shopping for a house, they want to see cute little vases with rope tied around the neck.

"I worship Bahomet, yet this folksy
stoneware piece really speaks to me."

4. Nobody actually likes the color turquoise, yet people are irrestistibly drawn to houses with turquoise accents.

What decade is it even. I don't know. TURQUOISE.

5. Right now, there are two things in your house that go together perfectly. You've never put them within 20 feet of each other. Your stager will put them together and make you question your entire life.

My grandma's table. My grandma's mirror. This is a
shitty picture (sorry), but they look amazing together.

And here's a bonus item: If you're selling your house because you're getting divorced, having the realtors come in and arrange everything into a sterile, tasteful version of you will absolutely drive the final nail into the coffin of your relationship with your spouse.

Still: potted plants are nice.

A few cubic feet of mulch in the flower beds, and this sumbitch is ready to list.

Tchotchkes sold separately, sorry.

Arrangements

In just a little over two weeks, I start moving into an apartment.

A super-nice apartment, but still...I've lived in a single-family home since 1996.

No problem, right?

My days as a homeowner are about to be behind me. Temporarily? Maybe. But the fact is, in August I become a renter, and Precocious Daughter and I will be apartment-dwellers.

It involves drinking from large coffee cups while
basking in sunlight, I understand.

This is new ground for me, though. So I beg your tolerance as I strive to understand the experience.

Such as:

I can't paint the walls.

I can't change the floors.

I can't install new fixtures in the kitchen/bathroom.

I can't knock out walls to open up the layout.

I can't redo the outdoor space.

I can't make over the closets.

Yikes.

This is what I've signed on for??

OK.

I can handle this.

If I can handle this...

After all, there's no yard work.

No fence repairs.

No worries about plumbing leaks or A/C fails.

No foundation issues.

No property tax increases.

No city code violations.

It's a tradeoff. Like everything else in life.

Maybe...when I'm ready for a spouse...I'll be ready for a house.

Is that how it goes?

I am amazingly OK with this.

But as it stands, I'm about two weeks from moving into an apartment that is half the size of my current single-family residence.

Yet that includes being free of one spouse and all the attendant incompatibilities thereof.

Overall, I'm terribly good with that.

Hey. I hope all of you are good with your living arrangements.

Let me know. OK?

I love hearing from you guys.

On Separation Anxiety and Quality Beards (In One Post, Really)

Tomorrow Precocious Daughter is flying to New York to visit her paternal grandmother for a week.

Which is wonderful for her. She doesn't get to spend enough time with any of her grandparents, and of course any opportunity to spend time in the Big Apple is not to be missed. The last time she was there she visited the Jersey shore, saw a Broadway show, and toured Radio City Music Hall. This time she may hit up MOMA, Ellis Island, and of course, see another Broadway show.

I will miss her terribly.

Also, I will put my house up for sale while she's gone. One less teenager in the house means it will be infinitely easier to keep clean for showings. I sort of wish her father were going away for the same reason.

Aside: Why does it require three butter knives to cook a plate of spaghetti? Because that's just one highlight of what I had to clean up this morning. I don't know if it's wrong to divorce someone for being a slob, but it sure as hell doesn't feel wrong to me.

But I digress.

I would love to book a hotel room and have a bit of a staycation while PDaughter is away. But I just know that if I'm not at the house 24/7, he will sabotage all my efforts to sell it, just by making a goddamn mess, which is his default mode.

Did I already ask if it's wrong to get divorced because you're tired of living in someone else's pervasive, thoughtless filth?

Is it possible to love someone and absolutely not want to spend one more minute living with him?

Back to where I started: PDaughter leaves for New York tomorrow, and I hope she has an amazing time, although I will miss her every moment she's away.

There is a chance, because of the red-hot local real estate market, that the house will be under contract by the time she comes home.

If it's not, I'm going to start to panic, because I sort of require the proceeds from the sale to start the new life I've already set in motion for my kiddo and me.

How freaking ironic would it be if I became financially dependent on my spouse after 25 years of being the breadwinner?

Very ironic, if by "ironic" you mean "horrifying and unthinkable."

On a completely different topic, I'm thinking of creating a "How Wonderful/Terrible Is Your Facial Hair?" quiz for my male Drunkards. I just have to find a code shell and customize it. Do any of my male readers want to know how wonderful/terrible his facial hair is, according to a 100% objective and not subject to my input program?

If you're a bearded lady, same question.

The world is full of wonders.

Almost an Announcement

I signed a lease today.

It was a completely electronic, online transaction, but
let me imagine I signed on parchment with a fountain pen.

I signed a lease. On an apartment. An apartment into which Precocious Daughter and I will be moving come August.

Just us, and the Siamese kitten, and the guinea pig. 

They don't look like this, but isn't it amazing
what Google can find?

The last time I rented was 1996. My spouse and I lived in a condominium in a small, upscale complex in which everybody either owned their unit or rented it from the owner. 

Before that, we lived in a tiny apartment over his mom's garage.

Before that, we lived in a downstairs flat in Milwaukee. It didn't matter that it was an ancient piece of crap, because it was our first place and the landlord didn't care what we did with it.

Before that? Well, the last time I actually lived in an apartment was 1973. I was five.

Representative five-year-old, not me.
I didn't smile that much when I was five.

Still, I'm about to be an apartment-dweller once again. I'm scared to fucking death, Drunkards.

This place is upscale, and hip, and new, and centrally located, and secure, and nigh perfect.

It's at (OK, over) the top of my price range. I decided the price tag was worth it because 1) it's secure, 2) it's too new to be falling apart, and 3) PDaughter loves it. I feel sort of too old, fat, and dorky to live there. But I also feel as if I deserve a place that is super-nice because I've been denying myself nice things for 25 fucking years.

I DESERVE THIS, YO.

I will not regurgitate the conversation between my spouse and me when I told him we'd found a new place to live. Suffice to say, it was bizarre. It involved pet custody and similarly weird topics of conversation. I think it turned out well. I don't know. The bottom line is...I've signed a lease so it doesn't matter one goddamn bit if he approves of my choice or not.

Still, I'm scared. Nervous. Apprehensive. Whatever you want to call it, that's me.

August, you guys. That's the reset button on my life. Wish me luck.

Soon I hope to make a similar announcement on my IRL Facebook page. But not yet. Let me get used to the fate of a fictional character before I admit to relatives and former classmates that my fucking mariage has failed.

Thanks, guys.