If You’ll Forgive Me For This Moment…


Last night, something unexpected happened.

On my way to bed, I went to check on the twins, as I always do, and as I brushed the hair away from Xavier’s face, in the dim light, there was a glimpse of his father in his profile.  It certainly wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed the similarity in the jawline, but for some reason, for the first time, it gave me pause and made me unspeakably sad.

I thought…Do you see this perfect boy?  He is kind and affectionate and honest and generous and loving and horribly sweet.  He gives his allowance to homeless people and sneaks cat food out of the house to feed the strays behind the baseball field. He speaks up for social justice and civil rights, and has gone toe-to-toe with bullies to protect others.  His heart bleeds so much that I am both unspeakably proud of him, and I worry about the effect it will have on him that he cares so deeply. He is so damn smart and funny, and he works so hard. He’s respectful to both authority and peers.  He loves his family with a crazy fervor, and he has no shame in showing it. He is a million wonderful things.

And he’s nothing like you.  He might look a little like you, but he’s nothing like you.

And for the first time, I was struck that instead of being grateful that my son was nothing like his father, I was struck with sadness, because his father could have been all those things…but he wasn’t.

In that moment, I realized that my ex-husband was once a little boy, just like my little boy.  He was healthy and handsome, and probably looked just like this when he slept, with his face still and his hair mussed.  He had things my son will never have; he had a reserve of family money and societal advantages.  He was never told they couldn’t afford something.  He had educational opportunities, vacations, and social connections that boggle the mind.

But, what he didn’t have, was a sober parent.  He didn’t get hugged or kissed or cuddled.  He never had to struggle to earn something, or work very hard.  He was never appropriately disciplined or told “no”.  He was never bathed, fed, or tucked in by someone who wasn’t paid to put up with him.  He never spent a night, on the couch with his mother and siblings, all under one blanket, watching movies, penniless but feeling like the luckiest, richest people alive, because they were together and warm.

Yes, this man has done terrible, terrible things to me and my children, but in that one quiet moment in the dark, my heart broke for him, because he could have been so much more than he became.  He could have been like his son.

I Should Get A Fucking Oscar For The World’s Longest Running Stage Production


Some background…  My ex-husband has this funny habit of not paying his child support, and of canceling the kid’s health insurance without telling us.  He’s a winner…it’s a wonder we didn’t last.

Tracy: “So what was his response to the email about the kid’s insurance?”

Me: (laughing) “That I wouldn’t care about things like the kids being able to go to a doctor, if I moved on with my life, and it was time that I finally got over him.”

Tracy: “Oh, please.  You were over him two years into a nine-year marriage.  Can you think of ANYTHING nice about being married to that asshole?”

Me: (long pause) “Well, when we were together, I thought it would be sort of romantic to keep a secret running count of the number of orgasms he gave me.”

Tracy: “Seriously?”

Me: “Yeah.  After all…how hard is it to count to three?”


(I also deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for not telling him every time he fucks something up…which is all the time.)

At Least He’s Sexier Than Caucasian Buddha?



A conversation that took place at our collective sons’ baseball game, when my friend spotted her ex-husband on the other side of the playing field.  Note…Jessica is black…just so you don’t think she’s a giant racist…

Jessica: “Look at him over there…with those stupid long dreads and those sandals…looking like black Jesus.”

Me: “Jesus was actually probably pretty black.”

Jessica: “Look at him over there…looking like historically accurate Jesus.”


**I’m back on dry land! In the SeaTac airport, heading home!**

I Am a Sentimental Ingrate.



A sad fact which has come back to haunt me, repeatedly, throughout my life, is my inability to return a gift.  Far from being a person who will bald-faced ask you for a gift receipt before the first piece of wrapping paper hits the floor, I will keep pretty much anything you give me, even if it doesn’t fit and/or completely sucks.

Never was this a bigger problem, than when I was getting married, many, many years ago, to whatshisface.  Now, creating a wedding registry is basically like handing people a list of shit that you want them to buy you, because you don’t trust them alone with their own credit cards.  It’s also stressful as hell, because, as the bride, you know damn well that your new in-laws are going to be looking at this thing and judging the crap out of you.  And while you really want those lovely plates that aren’t the cheapest, nor the most expensive things available, you want to make sure that they’re just expensive enough that they’re truly lovely, while not sliding into the “Who the fuck does this girl think she is?” territory.

Now, on the flip side, having a registry is just totally and completely necessary.  How else are your loved ones going to know what serving pieces you’d like to store inside of your most out-of-reach cabinet, never to be seen again, because taking them out terrifies you?  This shit matters…especially when, a decade later, you’re paying your divorce attorney $300/hr to argue over it.  (That’s almost two place settings/hr, goddamn it!)

Now, despite having an airtight registry that contained the things that we really needed (pfffffft!), as the gifts trickled in, we quickly found out that what our loved ones REALLY felt we needed was crystal vases.  Lots of them.  Stunning, expensive, perfectly gorgeous, crystal vases.  And, collectively, they felt that we needed thirteen of them.  Thir.  Teen.  Of which, we had registered for exactly none.

Now, because, as I’ve already stated, I am incapable of returning a gift, mostly out of a sick guilt over the fact that someone GAVE me this treasured item, I refused to let anyone convince me that we should return them, so I could buy, I don’t know…towels.  An eternity of dripping naked in my bathroom was acceptable, but rejecting a $3oo Orrefors vase (worth 1 hr of legal service) was not.

Which is why, now, many, many years later…this is happening…


Don’t feel bad, Limoges, the Waterford bowl is full of tampons, and the Baccarat is currently organizing all the old crayons.

And that’s why I love gift certificates.