One of the questions most frequently asked me, especially by men -- not only the men I've been involved with since my divorce but also male friends, acquaintances, and coworkers -- is, "Why did you marry that guy?"
There are obvious reasons, such as that I got pregnant two months into dating him. But the core question, why was I dating him, is not so obvious. I've had not a few come-to-Jesus moments this year about what in the world I thought I was doing. And there are a bunch of different factors, not least that unrelated personal events that year had left me feeling pretty damn broken and pretty damn alone.
But another question is, conversely, why did he date me? It's obvious that when we met, and he was 23 and I was 30, he was impressed by a)my ass, b)the fact that I had a real, "intellectual" job, c)my coolness and bohemian lifestyle, and d)my literary aspirations. All that makes sense; what doesn't make sense is why, in light of the fact that he has revealed himself to be really not very ambitious and really not very intellectual, at least not in how he chooses to live in the day-to-day, why he didn't early on display the conflict that later destroyed our marriage, which was basically that he ultimately thought I was too conservative, boringly responsible, and not enough of a hedonist, and my lack of appreciation for 'fun' was killing his ability to have same.
(I know that "lack of appreciation for fun" is one of the key characteristics of new motherhood, in general. But even beyond that, I just never liked the things that he liked, i.e. designer alcohol, drugs, being in an altered state. The potheads I know who have kids still smoke pot.)
Anyway, today I figured out why he was attracted to me, and why this caused me to marry a man I eternally regret having to deal with. It all goes back to October 29, 2004. I wrote him an email, which I found by accident today. And in it I discuss not only song lyrics and following the eclipsing moon and the misleadingness of impressions and yada yada yada, but also, and this is key, the fact that I was going with my friend E. to a memorial for her friend who had a)died of a heroin overdose and b)gotten us in to a club where he was doing sound, and hung out having beers with us, shortly before he died.
You see, the ex was impressed by my being more literary and conventional and responsible than him or his peers, but the key was really, I'm convinced, these phrases:
"doing sound"
"heroin overdose"
"got us in to the club"
As E. said on the subject, "He was a romantic. And the fact that you had all this urban glamour and tragedy allowed him to weave about you the idea of a life he might like to imagine."
Seriously. It's all clear to me now. If that poor, conflicted, closeted gay dude and occasional heroin user hadn't died, my ex wouldn't have decided I was "cool" in a way he wanted to get with.
It's a lowering thought. In both directions.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Girl Talk
A snippet from last Thursday's Harper Valley PTA meeting:
"Yeah, because out here, if a man takes his baby to the park people are so impressed it's like he's pushing the stroller WITH HIS PENIS."
"Yeah, because out here, if a man takes his baby to the park people are so impressed it's like he's pushing the stroller WITH HIS PENIS."
Or Maybe I Should Just Shut Up
Hello, internets.
This is going to be a quick one because now both, not one, of my kids are sick and I am back at work. Spring Break is over. And I strongly suspect, from the roiling in my own gut, that I might be getting whatever the kids have, which begs the question of whether I should go to class on Wednesday and possibly vomit on some poor kid's backpack.
However, I am aware that, especially for this nascent blog, it's been too long. Some things I need to address are:
1)How was the ex-in-laws' visit to me?
2)How was the return of The Boyfriend?
3)Why did I buy approximately $150 worth of night cream for said return?
4)How was the experience of having the ex threaten legal action when I wouldn't change plans at last minute on Sunday and THEN decide to show up four hours late anyway?
5)Am I making my son gay by letting him have a maribou-trimmed Easter basket (a present from the neighbors)?
6)Am I kidding myself that Easter eggs and the like are not as Christian as Christmas trees and the like (I know, I know. But we're not Christian and check out the origins of the word "Easter." It's pretty explicitly secular and spring-focused, much more directly so that Baby Jesus day)?
7)What, in fact, did happen at the Harper Valley PTA meeting last Thursday?
All in good time, my friends. All in good time.
In the meanwhile, let me leave you with this tableau:
It's midnight on Saturday. The Boyfriend and I have been talking for three hours or so about some pretty heavy topics: his discomfort with my maintaining a friendship with L. of Like a Virgin fame, possible future plans, etc. My daughter V. has just thrown up twice, in her bed, and I have given her to The Boyfriend to hold, at her request, while I clean up. Then we've put her to bed and I've gone and dumped the dirty sheets in the wash. While down there, I've noticed that my shirt has barf on it, so I return to the kitchen in a bra and jeans.
The Boyfriend is doing my dishes. When I enter the room he tells me he's worried about V. Then, still scrubbing, he gets that slackjawed ogling look that tells me the Titty Center of his brain has just activated and proceeds to leer at me, charmingly, when he scrubs.
I was unfair in my previous rant, is what I'm saying. Because a dude who's doing your dishes, comforting your sick daughter, and glazed with lust all in the space of ten minutes is a dude worth knowing.
Also, he still has a magical penis. Just sayin'.
This is going to be a quick one because now both, not one, of my kids are sick and I am back at work. Spring Break is over. And I strongly suspect, from the roiling in my own gut, that I might be getting whatever the kids have, which begs the question of whether I should go to class on Wednesday and possibly vomit on some poor kid's backpack.
However, I am aware that, especially for this nascent blog, it's been too long. Some things I need to address are:
1)How was the ex-in-laws' visit to me?
2)How was the return of The Boyfriend?
3)Why did I buy approximately $150 worth of night cream for said return?
4)How was the experience of having the ex threaten legal action when I wouldn't change plans at last minute on Sunday and THEN decide to show up four hours late anyway?
5)Am I making my son gay by letting him have a maribou-trimmed Easter basket (a present from the neighbors)?
6)Am I kidding myself that Easter eggs and the like are not as Christian as Christmas trees and the like (I know, I know. But we're not Christian and check out the origins of the word "Easter." It's pretty explicitly secular and spring-focused, much more directly so that Baby Jesus day)?
7)What, in fact, did happen at the Harper Valley PTA meeting last Thursday?
All in good time, my friends. All in good time.
In the meanwhile, let me leave you with this tableau:
It's midnight on Saturday. The Boyfriend and I have been talking for three hours or so about some pretty heavy topics: his discomfort with my maintaining a friendship with L. of Like a Virgin fame, possible future plans, etc. My daughter V. has just thrown up twice, in her bed, and I have given her to The Boyfriend to hold, at her request, while I clean up. Then we've put her to bed and I've gone and dumped the dirty sheets in the wash. While down there, I've noticed that my shirt has barf on it, so I return to the kitchen in a bra and jeans.
The Boyfriend is doing my dishes. When I enter the room he tells me he's worried about V. Then, still scrubbing, he gets that slackjawed ogling look that tells me the Titty Center of his brain has just activated and proceeds to leer at me, charmingly, when he scrubs.
I was unfair in my previous rant, is what I'm saying. Because a dude who's doing your dishes, comforting your sick daughter, and glazed with lust all in the space of ten minutes is a dude worth knowing.
Also, he still has a magical penis. Just sayin'.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I Always Wanted to be a Female Weird Al
I did, too. I spend most of middle school scribbling alternate lyrics to pop songs in my notebooks. I even had a name -- Strange Liz Yankatooth. I don't know why I thought that was funny, but I totally did. Actually, I do know why I thought that was funny: BECAUSE I WAS TWELVE. Now that I am no longer twelve, I find it faintly embarrassing, but in the interest of bloggerly honesty, I'm giving it to you straight.
Anyway, I was inspired by the delightful Sybil Vane of Bitch Ph.D to reprise those days this morning. Professor Vane had the fabulous good taste to put up Philip Larkin's poem "This Be The Verse" today, and I normally never comment, but since a)hey, my blog is totally anonymous and I therefore started with no readers and, you know, maybe my navel-gazing will amuse some of those folks and b)I knew exactly how she felt with the parenting frustration because I feel like that approximately every two minutes, plus c)I really love that poem, which my college boyfriend used to recite to me and which I once wrote out in calligraphy for my best friend, who put it in a place of honor on his bedroom wall in Fort Greene, I put up the Strange Liz version, which I thought I should throw up here for posterity, in case I want to let my kids read this blog when they're older, or hell freezes over. Whichever:
There you have it. I could do shit like that all day. I just realized, though, that I forgot to give it a title. What should I call it? "Bring Me The Hearse"? "Fisting Ain't Worse"? (Okay, maybe not on that last one. I think I used up all my assonance dendrites today, though.)
That's all for now. Maybe I'll dig up the alternate lyrics to Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" that I wrote when my son was a few months old. They're called "Fake Plastic Diaps." I still have to get it together to send them to Thom Yorke.
Anyway, I was inspired by the delightful Sybil Vane of Bitch Ph.D to reprise those days this morning. Professor Vane had the fabulous good taste to put up Philip Larkin's poem "This Be The Verse" today, and I normally never comment, but since a)hey, my blog is totally anonymous and I therefore started with no readers and, you know, maybe my navel-gazing will amuse some of those folks and b)I knew exactly how she felt with the parenting frustration because I feel like that approximately every two minutes, plus c)I really love that poem, which my college boyfriend used to recite to me and which I once wrote out in calligraphy for my best friend, who put it in a place of honor on his bedroom wall in Fort Greene, I put up the Strange Liz version, which I thought I should throw up here for posterity, in case I want to let my kids read this blog when they're older, or hell freezes over. Whichever:
They fuck you up, your progeny
They do not mean to, but they do.
Their egos swell quite monstrously
Until there is no room for you.
They bring to mind your childhood tears,
And all the things you'd like them spared,
And send you screaming to your beer
Whilst growing faults you haven't shared.
They suck away your very life
Until you're passed out on the floor,
They bring cacophony and strife,
And then they waltz right out the door.
There you have it. I could do shit like that all day. I just realized, though, that I forgot to give it a title. What should I call it? "Bring Me The Hearse"? "Fisting Ain't Worse"? (Okay, maybe not on that last one. I think I used up all my assonance dendrites today, though.)
That's all for now. Maybe I'll dig up the alternate lyrics to Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" that I wrote when my son was a few months old. They're called "Fake Plastic Diaps." I still have to get it together to send them to Thom Yorke.
Stinky Boy Update
In case you don't remember, boys are stinky and gross. Everyone knows that. I just like to bring it to your attention.
You may have read the previous post in which I complained about my boyfriend. Just so you don't think I'm a total doormat, I am happy to report the following excerpt from our 3.5-hour Skype conversation of last night. No, I don't know why we had a three-plus hour Skype chat. I was Tweeting with my gay boyfriend at the same time and he kept saying he needed to bring booze over chez me more often. Instead I got tipsy solo and had rambling blatherings with my boyfriend-boyfriend from a café in Shanghai.
He's coming back tomorrow. More on the prep for that later.
And without further ado (slightly edited for clarity):
See how I can harangue and gender stereotype at the same time? I'm like a dog with a fucking bone. And notice how I played the BOO HOO I FEEL UNATTRACTIVE card? Gets 'em every time. I mean, I didn't actually plan to be that manipulative. And it's not precisely true that his telling me various passersby are attractive makes me feel ugly. It's more that it makes me feel like he's trying to make me jealous, which perversely makes me want to go fuck the local pizza guy who always checks me out when I walk by, as if to say, "Oh YEAH? You want to tell me about the hotties in Shanghai? Lemme tell YOU about all the hotties IN MY PANTS."
But my question is: what adjective is he going to replace "attractive" with? If it's any variation on "hot," I'm gonna punch him in the nose.
Or maybe I should've just held my tongue. Should I have just held my tongue? Or been more gentle? But I don't really do gentle. Kind, sometimes. Gentle, not so much.
You may have read the previous post in which I complained about my boyfriend. Just so you don't think I'm a total doormat, I am happy to report the following excerpt from our 3.5-hour Skype conversation of last night. No, I don't know why we had a three-plus hour Skype chat. I was Tweeting with my gay boyfriend at the same time and he kept saying he needed to bring booze over chez me more often. Instead I got tipsy solo and had rambling blatherings with my boyfriend-boyfriend from a café in Shanghai.
He's coming back tomorrow. More on the prep for that later.
And without further ado (slightly edited for clarity):
[3/31/10 11:42:40 PM] Boyfriend: I might nap on this sofa. I'll ask for a blanket and pillow.
[3/31/10 11:42:57 PM] ms. adventure: yeah, just pretend the server is a flight attendant.
[3/31/10 11:43:17 PM] Boyfriend: Not that cute...
[3/31/10 11:43:35 PM] ms. adventure: quit making it obvious to me that you're checking everyone out all the time. it's annoying.
[3/31/10 11:43:54 PM] ms. adventure: unless you are trying to make me feel insecure and unattractive, in which case GOOD JOB.
[3/31/10 11:43:55 PM] Boyfriend: Sorry,
[3/31/10 11:44:06 PM] Boyfriend: Sweetie...
[3/31/10 11:44:36 PM] ms. adventure: your conversation these past few days, since you left your dad, i must say, is RIFE with references to "attractive this" and "attractive that."
[3/31/10 11:44:43 PM] Boyfriend: I'm sorry sweetie.
[3/31/10 11:44:53 PM] ms. adventure: i don't ask you not to notice, but for the love of pete, please be tactful and tell someone else!
[3/31/10 11:45:11 PM] ms. adventure: like someone you can crotchgrab and have burping contests with...
[3/31/10 11:45:15 PM] ms. adventure: if such a person exists. :)
[3/31/10 11:45:22 PM] Boyfriend: I'll switch up adjectives.
See how I can harangue and gender stereotype at the same time? I'm like a dog with a fucking bone. And notice how I played the BOO HOO I FEEL UNATTRACTIVE card? Gets 'em every time. I mean, I didn't actually plan to be that manipulative. And it's not precisely true that his telling me various passersby are attractive makes me feel ugly. It's more that it makes me feel like he's trying to make me jealous, which perversely makes me want to go fuck the local pizza guy who always checks me out when I walk by, as if to say, "Oh YEAH? You want to tell me about the hotties in Shanghai? Lemme tell YOU about all the hotties IN MY PANTS."
But my question is: what adjective is he going to replace "attractive" with? If it's any variation on "hot," I'm gonna punch him in the nose.
Or maybe I should've just held my tongue. Should I have just held my tongue? Or been more gentle? But I don't really do gentle. Kind, sometimes. Gentle, not so much.
Like a Coven of Witches...
Today the Harper Valley PTA is meeting.
You may remember the eponymous movie, song, or TV series. I confess I don't, presumably because I like four years old when it came out, and I wasn't into proto-girlpower media yet. I was more into Bedtime for Frances, which to be fair is one of the greatest books of all time, although it does not star Barbara Eden and there is no cleavage.
However, Claire, the founder of our local HVPTA chapter, is eight or nine years older than I (apparently I'm the baby of the group at 36; I guess I'm precocious to have gotten divorced so quickly and efficiently) and can remember the movie and sing the song, which is apparently a very funny rant about a single mom who dresses tartily and shakes up a small town. So she appropriated the name for an informal group of single mom divorcées who get together, sporadically, for drinks.
(Claire was introduced to me by my friend the polyamorist. I've got a post in the hopper about lunch with him. Stay tuned. I may not get to finishing it until after I have drinks with him, which could be even more interesting. Anyway, Claire is like my twin: biracial, recently divorced, two kids, same job, even, which is why he thought we'd get along. He was right.)
The last time the group got together, there was several great conversations, I drank five spicy lemondrops, and when The Boyfriend picked me up to go to a play we'd prearranged for after, I was Witty and Daring (as one tends to be after five drinks) and probably sexually assaulted him. This time my in-laws will be staying here and I will have just cooked them dinner, The Boyfriend is out of town until tomorrow afternoon, and I'm already knackered from the epic 3.5 hour Skype session we had last night, plus Day Seven of Toddler Vomit. (Yes, she's home again today.) So I don't know how long I'll last. But there are some new members, and it's always interesting to hear their stories, or snippets of them (mostly, I'm amazed at how much more time and investment they had in their marriages than I did in my whirlwind, shotgun, four-years-start-to-finish fiasco).
And I have to get the non-sick kid to school -- so I'll leave you with this highlight from the last time:
Pat, a 42-year-old punk rock student/mom of one, asked, "Is 22 too young?"
"To date or to fuck?" Claire inquired.
"Not to DATE!" Pat looked scandalized. "To, you know..."
"Well," Claire drawled, "as my pal Bob used to say, 'If there's grass on the field...PLAY BALL!'"
I'll just go ahead and leave you to chew on that. Later on, then.
You may remember the eponymous movie, song, or TV series. I confess I don't, presumably because I like four years old when it came out, and I wasn't into proto-girlpower media yet. I was more into Bedtime for Frances, which to be fair is one of the greatest books of all time, although it does not star Barbara Eden and there is no cleavage.
However, Claire, the founder of our local HVPTA chapter, is eight or nine years older than I (apparently I'm the baby of the group at 36; I guess I'm precocious to have gotten divorced so quickly and efficiently) and can remember the movie and sing the song, which is apparently a very funny rant about a single mom who dresses tartily and shakes up a small town. So she appropriated the name for an informal group of single mom divorcées who get together, sporadically, for drinks.
(Claire was introduced to me by my friend the polyamorist. I've got a post in the hopper about lunch with him. Stay tuned. I may not get to finishing it until after I have drinks with him, which could be even more interesting. Anyway, Claire is like my twin: biracial, recently divorced, two kids, same job, even, which is why he thought we'd get along. He was right.)
The last time the group got together, there was several great conversations, I drank five spicy lemondrops, and when The Boyfriend picked me up to go to a play we'd prearranged for after, I was Witty and Daring (as one tends to be after five drinks) and probably sexually assaulted him. This time my in-laws will be staying here and I will have just cooked them dinner, The Boyfriend is out of town until tomorrow afternoon, and I'm already knackered from the epic 3.5 hour Skype session we had last night, plus Day Seven of Toddler Vomit. (Yes, she's home again today.) So I don't know how long I'll last. But there are some new members, and it's always interesting to hear their stories, or snippets of them (mostly, I'm amazed at how much more time and investment they had in their marriages than I did in my whirlwind, shotgun, four-years-start-to-finish fiasco).
And I have to get the non-sick kid to school -- so I'll leave you with this highlight from the last time:
Pat, a 42-year-old punk rock student/mom of one, asked, "Is 22 too young?"
"To date or to fuck?" Claire inquired.
"Not to DATE!" Pat looked scandalized. "To, you know..."
"Well," Claire drawled, "as my pal Bob used to say, 'If there's grass on the field...PLAY BALL!'"
I'll just go ahead and leave you to chew on that. Later on, then.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Word Gets Around
A funny thing happened at my local independent bookstore today.
I had stopped by with V., who's still home sick from school, to pick up an order that had come in. I knew the cashier by sight but not name, so chit-chat was at a minimum, but then Dave walked by.
Dave is one of the book buyers. He's also dreamy. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, handsome, sweet, charming, my age, and -- get this -- raised two children on his own after he and his wife split when they were little and she didn't want them. They're now in their mid-teens, which means he must've been barely out of his when he got hitched the first time.
Amazingly, he almost always seems to be in a good mood. He's one of those people whom everyone loves because he's so nice. His hotness is significant, but even that is overpowered by the sheer force of his goodness. And with a bio like that, he's a single mom's wet dream.
Regrettably for all the voracious single moms like me would've snapped Dave up like coyotes would steak, he's also remarried and the proud papa of a five-month-old boy. Which is great for him, really, and I'm not even shedding tears over it since I (unfortunately) don't tend to go for the nice type. I like them a little mean. Just a little. And I'm not necessarily proud of that fact (more on this later). I'm just hard-wired that way. Guys like Dave I hang out with and love as friends. Guys that make me want to drop trou tend to be a little rougher around the edges.
Anyway, lest you think I'm a crazy, lovelorn bookstore employee stalker (a breed not unknown in this town), let me explain that I know many of the employees of this particular store pretty well because a)I used to work at another branch of same in MY teens and some of my coworkers transferred there, b)my boyfriend way-back-when worked at this store, and c)the ex's uncle-by-marriage works there currently, and we are on cordial terms. Plus, d)my good friend and also long-ago ex W., who is an independent book dealer, is in there a lot. So I get to shoot the shit with these guys without coming across as a desperate former housewife.
Anyway, Dave's cool and I like him. I had quite a few distressed and TMI-filled conversations with him about being a Divorce Survivor while my divorce was fresh. I wanted to know how his single parenting experience was, etc. But I haven't seen him in a while and it's not like I ever talk to those guys outside their work, so I try not to importune them.
Today, though, he was in a mood to talk. And he was laughing. "W. cracked me up the other day," he said, "he told me something funny that your daughter said and I almost spit out my drink."
"Oh yeah?" I asked. I imagined that it was the anecdote about how my daughter turned to W. when he was over one day and, referring to her brother, remarked, "He's stupid." W. thought that was hilarious and called me the next day to tell me about it.
"Yeah," Dave said. "He said that your daughter saw that picture of the Christian Militia that's been making the rounds, pointed at one, and said the name of your ex's girlfriend."
"Oh, that!" I replied. "Yeah, she saw it on my Facebook page, pointed right at it and was all 'Mar-o-lyn, that's Mar-o-lyn.' I told her it wasn't, but she insisted."
"That's awesome!" Dave laughed. "Out of the mouths of babes."
"Shhhh!" I said, "You know my ex comes in here!"
He smirked, took a swig of his coffee.
"So do you think I should tell him?"
That was when we had to get the paper towels.
But despite the damage to my sweatshirt, I have to say that incident buoyed me up for the rest of the morning. And I belatedly realized why: because it means those guys are pulling for me. They're rooting for me. And it's not that they'd ever be rude or insulting to my ex, but they watched us together and they watched when he left and they see me with the kids and him without and nobody there truly dislikes him, but they're also not overcompensating, the way so many mutual acquaintances do, by pretending that the playing field is equal and there are no bad guys and everybody needs validation and blah blah blah insert more of the kids of things my mother-in-law would say here to explain why she was buying presents for the ex's girlfriend, whom he started dating before he left me, just weeks after my father-in-law and I found, aghast, the sexy text messages he'd sent her while still married. (To her credit, she started wooing the girlfriend after she stopped urging me to win him back and buy some condoms against the diseases he might've picked up.)
These guys -- Dave, another guy, Josh, and the ex's uncle Alex -- are in my corner. It's not even that they're against the ex. It's just that they're behind me. And they're not shy to say so.
It's nice to know.
I had stopped by with V., who's still home sick from school, to pick up an order that had come in. I knew the cashier by sight but not name, so chit-chat was at a minimum, but then Dave walked by.
Dave is one of the book buyers. He's also dreamy. Curly dark hair, blue eyes, handsome, sweet, charming, my age, and -- get this -- raised two children on his own after he and his wife split when they were little and she didn't want them. They're now in their mid-teens, which means he must've been barely out of his when he got hitched the first time.
Amazingly, he almost always seems to be in a good mood. He's one of those people whom everyone loves because he's so nice. His hotness is significant, but even that is overpowered by the sheer force of his goodness. And with a bio like that, he's a single mom's wet dream.
Regrettably for all the voracious single moms like me would've snapped Dave up like coyotes would steak, he's also remarried and the proud papa of a five-month-old boy. Which is great for him, really, and I'm not even shedding tears over it since I (unfortunately) don't tend to go for the nice type. I like them a little mean. Just a little. And I'm not necessarily proud of that fact (more on this later). I'm just hard-wired that way. Guys like Dave I hang out with and love as friends. Guys that make me want to drop trou tend to be a little rougher around the edges.
Anyway, lest you think I'm a crazy, lovelorn bookstore employee stalker (a breed not unknown in this town), let me explain that I know many of the employees of this particular store pretty well because a)I used to work at another branch of same in MY teens and some of my coworkers transferred there, b)my boyfriend way-back-when worked at this store, and c)the ex's uncle-by-marriage works there currently, and we are on cordial terms. Plus, d)my good friend and also long-ago ex W., who is an independent book dealer, is in there a lot. So I get to shoot the shit with these guys without coming across as a desperate former housewife.
Anyway, Dave's cool and I like him. I had quite a few distressed and TMI-filled conversations with him about being a Divorce Survivor while my divorce was fresh. I wanted to know how his single parenting experience was, etc. But I haven't seen him in a while and it's not like I ever talk to those guys outside their work, so I try not to importune them.
Today, though, he was in a mood to talk. And he was laughing. "W. cracked me up the other day," he said, "he told me something funny that your daughter said and I almost spit out my drink."
"Oh yeah?" I asked. I imagined that it was the anecdote about how my daughter turned to W. when he was over one day and, referring to her brother, remarked, "He's stupid." W. thought that was hilarious and called me the next day to tell me about it.
"Yeah," Dave said. "He said that your daughter saw that picture of the Christian Militia that's been making the rounds, pointed at one, and said the name of your ex's girlfriend."
"Oh, that!" I replied. "Yeah, she saw it on my Facebook page, pointed right at it and was all 'Mar-o-lyn, that's Mar-o-lyn.' I told her it wasn't, but she insisted."
"That's awesome!" Dave laughed. "Out of the mouths of babes."
"Shhhh!" I said, "You know my ex comes in here!"
He smirked, took a swig of his coffee.
"So do you think I should tell him?"
That was when we had to get the paper towels.
But despite the damage to my sweatshirt, I have to say that incident buoyed me up for the rest of the morning. And I belatedly realized why: because it means those guys are pulling for me. They're rooting for me. And it's not that they'd ever be rude or insulting to my ex, but they watched us together and they watched when he left and they see me with the kids and him without and nobody there truly dislikes him, but they're also not overcompensating, the way so many mutual acquaintances do, by pretending that the playing field is equal and there are no bad guys and everybody needs validation and blah blah blah insert more of the kids of things my mother-in-law would say here to explain why she was buying presents for the ex's girlfriend, whom he started dating before he left me, just weeks after my father-in-law and I found, aghast, the sexy text messages he'd sent her while still married. (To her credit, she started wooing the girlfriend after she stopped urging me to win him back and buy some condoms against the diseases he might've picked up.)
These guys -- Dave, another guy, Josh, and the ex's uncle Alex -- are in my corner. It's not even that they're against the ex. It's just that they're behind me. And they're not shy to say so.
It's nice to know.
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