Snowbound

For those of you who have been without TV, telephone, Internet, Twitter or Facebook access the last few days, Chicago just experienced its worst snowstorm in forty years. It does not make me happy that I remember the ones that were worse; that just makes me old.

At any rate – here we are, on the day after the blizzard.

This was the first storm like that that I’ve experienced on my own. I felt like I was okay. I stocked up on important things like Diet Coke and knew that I would be grateful for my seasonal snow plow contract. I’ve been home for a few days with a bad back anyway, so I looked forward to the opportunity to continue to nurse my aching back and get another day or two off from school.

Wednesday I kept getting phone calls from people wanting to make sure I was okay. It kind of made me feel like I was in a Cormac McCarthy novel… single woman, two dogs, trapped in a house waiting for the snowplow…

My aging border collie has been sick, too, so, alone in my bed hearing the wind whip I started to obsess about that a little. Interesting word – aging. Why do we use it to talk about those getting old? Aren’t we all aging starting at day one? You never hear anyone say “the aging three-year old struggled with toilet training…” Sorry – I digress.

Back to obsessing over the dog. What if she passed during the storm? What would I do if I couldn’t get to the vet with the body? Would I put it in cold storage of some kind? That just made me feel like I was in a novel by Stephen King.

In the morning, in the aftermath of the storm, I watched my neighbors outside digging out. Families, husband and wives, moms and dads, kids. Shoveling, clearing paths to mailboxes, playing with the dogs. It definitely fell into one of the moments of feeling alone.

Snowbound makes you feel alone. Alone like vulnerable, alone like “I wish I had someone here to drink a hot cocoa with,” alone like “there’s nobody here who cares that we’re stuck in the house.”

Some days feel more divorced than others. Like when I had to put Ben Gay on my own aching back. Or when the vet says “I think her liver is more enlarged.” And when the weatherman says “it’s going to be one for the history books, folks.”

We’re divorced already!!

Last week was my week to work on saving some money. Not that every week isn’t a week to save some money, but I dedicated time last week to calling my suppliers – AT&T, ADT, etc., and negotiating lower bills.

AT&T had a little bundle they pitched, which involved switching from Dish Network to DirecTV. That’s cool. I’ve had Dish for a long time and I knew that by switching I’d be saving some serious cash for the next year.

So, DirecTV was all installed yesterday and I called Dish to cancel. Or, at least, I tried to call Dish to cancel.

Sorry, Mr. Ex needs to call. The account is in his name.

I replied, “Well, it’s been billed through AT&T for years, and the AT&T account is in my name…”

Dish: We’re sorry, Mr. Ex will have to add you as an authorized user.

Of course, the easiest thing to do is to email Mr. Ex to ask him to do it, which I’ve done, and I’m sure he will, but this is very frustrating. We never ordered the service through Dish, we’ve never paid for the service through Dish, and it shouldn’t be my problem that AT&T didn’t change the account when we changed the AT&T account to my name.

I hate bureaucrats.

There are times

When you feel more divorced than others. Today, as I sat in the emergency vet’s office for 3+ hours waiting for them to do X-rays on my 13-year old border collie, was one of them.

And then, when the vet went over the results with me, recommending an ultrasound to see if what looks like an abdominal mass is on the liver or spleen, was one of them.

And then, coming home and sitting looking at these sweet dog who’s been with us – and now, me – for almost 13 years is one of them.

I have wonderful children and friends who are only a phone call away, but, in the end, the decision is mine.

And I’m not loving making it by myself.

Lonely at Ikea

Ikea is not for the faint-of-heart in any instance. The lines; the cart-only escalator; the miles and miles of lamps, bowls, desks, linens and things-you-didn’t-know-you-needed can make anyone turn on her heels and head for the nearest mom-and-pop furniture store (are there any of those left?). And you really want to make Ikea a miserable shopping experience? Go by yourself.

Yesterday I was in the Ikea neighborhood and headed there for a desk. A simple desk. No drawer, no keyboard drop, no hutch. Essentially a tabletop with legs. Nothing too deep, nothing too long. Ikea had just the thing, I discovered via the Internet, and the price was right. I also wanted a small nightstand lamp, and we all know that Ikea can’t be beaten for cheap lighting.

So I went there. Alone. I think I was the only single person there.

First, it’s the choosing. To be honest, going to a grocery store post divorce was kind of weird too. I looked with sadness at the old people strolling the produce aisles holding hands. I couldn’t get used to buying food just because I wanted it. No reading labels to make sure it was suitable for Mr. Ex the vegetarian to eat. No thinking about what the kids would eat for lunch or what the family would share for dinner. Nope, just me. But I got over it. And, to be honest, there are always lots of alone people at the grocery store.

At the grocery story, though, it’s not like you see a bunch of people standing around discussing the relative merits of Gala apples over Honeycrisp.

Not Ikea. Everything at Ikea is a discussion. White table legs or silver? Red bowls or blue? And everywhere you look there are couples and families trying to figure out if it will fit, get home in the car and if it’s really that easy to put together.

And then there’s the pulling off the shelves and getting the item into the cart with nobody else to hold it steady. I bet you never appreciated that extra person before, right? Go ahead and do it yourself without looking like your cart was taken hostage by Candid Camera. Whoops – there it goes down the aisle while the divorced lady chases after it with a tabletop in her arms.

Then it’s the buying. They don’t bag at Ikea (they don’t even give you bags – you have to buy them now). They just take your money. And since most people use plastic in some way, they really just scan and give you a slip of paper with numbers on it. So you’re stuck bagging after you’ve paid, if you’re alone. While the people behind you stand tapping their feet because you’re now in their space.

Then there’s the dreaded holding area. The pickup zone (I don’t mean that in a good way). The leave-your-cart, get-your-car zone.

I may be overly suspicious, but I’m not happy about spending a lot of money for stuff and then leaving it alone so I can run and get the car. And I didn’t do it yesterday. Luckily I know I’m suspicious, so I planned ahead (I do that occasionally) and chose a parking space that was fairly convenient to the pickup zone. And my purchases weren’t that heavy (and, of course, I had my new, 59 cent Ikea bag), so I grabbed them out of the cart and carried them to the car myself. And even got the 48-inch tabletop in the trunk first try.

All-in-all, it was a pretty miserable shopping experience. The exciting news is that I got the purchases home and managed to put everything together from the no-words, goofy pictures instructions.

But I’m not excited to do it again any time soon.

“Good enough”

This post was inspired by an article by my friend Deborah Reigel – who is, without question – the greatest life coach, motivational speaker, Jewish mamma eva.

Now that I’m mowing my own lawn, I’ve developed the mantra “it’s not a golf course.” In other words, so what if there are a few stray blades that didn’t make it under the mower this time? So what if I don’t trim the edges? If there are weeds? My favorite sister-in-law, by the way, tells me weeds are necessary for a healthy lawn. And she’s an environmentalist, so I trust her.

Since having 100% responsibility for the house, the car, the dogs, I’ve had to learn to silence my inner perfectionist and let some things go. It’s been hard. For much of my life, good enough was never less than 100% perfect.

Not too long ago, I had a lot of work done in my house. I had ceilings replaced, the entire house painted – expensive stuff. As soon as it got warm and humid, I noticed some nail pops in the newly-done ceiling in the living room. I was devastated. Okay, I was devastated as soon as I got over being worried that the house was going to come down around my ears. But I was devastated – here I had just spent all this money on the work, and it wasn’t perfect any more.

Unperfection happens.

And I’m gettin’ okay with it.

Just sayin’ – general observations

Upon living alone and mr-less…

Tires need filling? Seriously?

All light bulbs look the same when you’re standing in Home Depot. Better to bring one.

When you live alone and misplace something, there is nobody to blame but yourself. “He” did not move it. “He” did not use it and put it back in the wrong place. “You” are going crazy; that is the only explanation.

Traps that catch mice need to be either (a) emptied and re-baited or (b) thrown away if they’re disposable. Disposable ones are totally worth the money. So’s Terminix.

When the light goes out over the kitchen sink, you will have to be the one to get on the stepladder (which, coincidentally, is upstairs), snake your hand up through the pot rack that’s hanging below it, untwist the old light bulb and replace it. Then you will be the one who has to climb down the stepladder and turn on the light. Then you will be the one who has to call the electrician when it still doesn’t work.

When 18 people are coming for Thanksgiving, you are the one who has to clean the house. Of course, it there’s no mess to start with, you can just clean it without cleaning up first.

In summary, there’s lots that’s different. But it’s just different this year, not bad.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pillow Case Reminder For Your One Night Stand

Maybe I should think about getting one of these…

Pillow Case Reminder For Your One Night Stand

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Nothing

A general observation about doing nothing.

When I was married, I never minded not having plans because there was always someone to do nothing with. When you’re sitting with another person, watching TV or whatever, it seems to be more valuable because you’re spending time together – even if you’re not really communicating.

It’s interesting how my perspective has changed now that being home means being home alone. I find myself making plans well in advance just to make sure that I have them. Staying home is no longer the default; it’s become something that I made a conscious decision to do. Or not do, as it goes.

The problem is that I like being home. I’m starting to like my house; I’m exhausted from teaching all week; I have lots of interests that are home-based, such as drawing, calligraphy, painting, knitting, sewing. I don’t always want to be out, but I don’t always want to be alone.

And laughing is weird. Seriously. When I find myself laughing uproariously at something in a movie, for instance (or tonight, when I was watching the season premiere of The Office), sometimes I stop myself and thing that it’s weird that I’m laughing by myself. Like talking to myself. I know it’s not the same, but it felt strange at first.

Elul reflections

We are in the month of Elul, the last month of the Jewish calendar. As we prepare for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, we take time during Elul to reflect on the waning year and to prepare for the time of renewal that the High Holy Days bring.

As I reflect on the last year – and on the previous 30 years – I’m trying to use this as a road map for the coming year.

I don’t regret doing the things I did to give my children as wonderful a childhood as I could. And I am reaping the richness of doing so; my daughters are amazing individuals who live their lives with integrity, purpose, kindness and conviction. I stayed in my marriage because I thought that was best for my family and, even though the marriage has ended, I still believe that it was a good decision (btw – it’s taken almost a year of therapy to say that). I also benefited from my decision in many ways; I have a career I love, with colleagues I love, and have found ways to earn a reasonable living doing it. I developed a strength that I may not have developed in a different relationship – a strength that serves me well today.

Of course I have some regrets. I worry that the strength I nurtured will make it difficult for me to ever enter into a relationship with a real man. Not a real man as opposed to a fantasy man, of course, but a mature, responsible man with a genuine sense of self. I worry that my “guard” will be too hard to break down. But I’m starting to understand that that will take time – and the right person – to address.

My more immediate regret is that I subjugated myself in so many ways. And I see this same subjugation in many of my friends. Because we moms and wives put everyone else’s needs in front of our own, we forget who we are and ignore the things that nurture us.

In my own case, I’m talking about my creative energy. Over the last year I realized that my energy went into my family; making the best home I could with limited resources, giving my girls things like camp, and propping up my husband for thirty years. Again – I have no regrets. I made these choices as a free woman and I would do it all over again (although I do think that I would have ended the marriage five years ago, rather than working so hard to repair it at that point).

All the things that bother me about my home seem to stem from the lack of creative appearance. I want color, texture and inspirational surroundings. My wardrobe is the same – I want to wear what reflects on the outside what’s on the inside (rather than what, sadly, fits and is affordable). I want to entertain creatively and live creatively, too.

I’m going to start a creative journal – one in which I reflect each day how I’ve done something creative to enhance my home, my wardrobe and my social life. I think it may have to be unelectronic, because I’d like to use watercolors and ink, but I’ll try to scan pages where I can.

In closing, I quote the great American prophet, Tina Turner. Seriously – can you imagine anyone better to look to when transforming your life?

Sometimes you’ve got to let everything go – purge yourself. If you are unhappy with anything . . . whatever is bringing you down, get rid of it. Because you’ll find that when you’re free, your true creativity, your true self comes out.

You’re fired . . .

Image by late night movie via Flickr

I just finished watching Tory Johnson on GMA (Good Morning America. I guess I just negated the use of the acronym). She’s their getting back to work features person. Tory started a successful company running recruiting events for women after being fired from a lucrative position in PR. Well, she held a couple of intermediate jobs, but then decided to go after her passion and start the company she was meant to create. In addition to running her successful company, she’s also featured on GMA (ah – now the acronym has merit) and writes columns for a number of media outlets.

Anyway, as I was watching Tory and checking out her bio, it occurred to me that getting divorced – especially in my case, where I did not initiate the split – is quite like getting fired. I mean, there are the obvious similarities such as sending out resumes, signing up for online job resources and networking. But I’m also interested in the whole reinventing yourself angle. Tory talks about that in her quest to become an entrepreneur.

I’m going to explore this more over the next few days, but what first hit me was the whole living with passion thing. Whenever I read anything about people who successfully started their own businesses it strikes me that it’s all about passion. Quite often it’s a story about women who faithfully dragged themselves (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating with ‘dragged’) to mediocre jobs that didn’t give anything back to them besides a paycheck. Then one day – whether it was because they were fired, the company went under, or they just had that “I can’t do this any more” epiphany – they went out on their own. And succeeded. And now, looking back, they can’t believe that they stuck it out in that crappy job as long as they did.

I realize my imagery – and my attempt to connect getting fired with getting divorced – isn’t exactly subtle. But it’s early and I haven’t had enough coffee yet. Sorry.

So . . . here you go. My goal is not just to survive being divorced, but to use this as an opportunity to reinvent myself, find the passion, and to look back one day and think, “I can’t believe I stuck it out as long as I did.”

See ya later.