Serafina

What a great night.
Thirteen years ago this Seafair Saturday, I got married. I was 23, young, new to Seattle and, although I would have disputed it at the time, had no freaking clue of who I was or who I wanted to become. I thought about my wedding day a lot today and recalled some of the ambivalence I felt at the time. Not about B, to be sure, although there were misgivings. Mostly, ambivalent about getting married. I wasn't one of those girls who dreamed about their wedding. I wasn't a Bridezilla and I certainly wasn't bogged down in the planning. I just wanted a kickass meal, great wine and drinks and for everyone to have a memorable time. We accomplished that, without question.

I just didn't really give the whole marriage thing the right kind of analysis, although at 23, I doubt I could have anyway. I loved B, believed in him, loved how much he taught me and how I seemed to think differently and better because of him. I don't regret marrying him by any stretch of the imagination and, hopefully, I will again meet someone who opens my eyes to new ways of seeing things. Am so much richer for the experience of having known and loved him as he was when we got together.

But I am le tired of that conversation. Tonight, my friend the P and I went to see a movie (the latest Bourne one - review to come later) and then went to dinner. Serafina is the quintessential neighborhood bistro - a place for the locals, who never mention it to the tourists - and one that no city person should ever, ever take for granted. This was something of an event for me, as it was mine and B's place for a while. In fact, when I gave my name for the reservation, the hostess gave a little squeal and said "wow, K, we can't wait to see you!"

Serafina is everything I want in a place to really dine and enjoy great food and drinks. The atmosphere is utterly perfect - a slice of Italy in the city - and everyone from the bartender to the hostess to the server executes their roles flawlessly. It is, without question, the most intimate place to dine in Seattle, as the moment you enter the place, you are completely transported and welcomed as a family friend.

Our table in the back courtyard was not yet ready, so we had a cocktail in the city's best bar (all respectful deference to the Fireside Room at the Sorrento Hotel). It is a small, intimate bar - the kind of place that immediately comes to mind when, after a great date, you are not yet ready to end the evening and want to savor a drink with someone whose words you want(and can) hear. We were eventually led to our table in the courtyard, which, if your belief wasn't already suspended, would lead you to believe you were dining in Italy on an early summer's evening.

We ordered two apps - the cured pork belly and the crostini with mozzarella and arugula. Both were outstanding, but the pork belly, on its bed of creamed corn salad, really stole the show. I have had it many times, and each time, I usually ended up ordering a second helping as my dinner entree. It is the best, most flavorful and tender pieces of roasted pork whose edges are perfectly crispy. It melts in your mouth and reminds you that sometimes? You can and should rejoice simply amazing food. The crostini was also astounding - leafy pieces of arugula atop thick slices of buffalo mozzarella, atop herbed toasted rustic bread brushed with fruity olive oil.

By the end of the appetizer course, me and my no appetite-having self were full, but I was so tantalized by the flavors that I wanted to have one bite of everything on the menu. We settled on the Kobe beef special for me (medium rare, of course), and P got the pork chop (see, e.g. the menu. We ordered a side of pasta called the plin (Handmade agnolotti filled with braised pork shoulder, savoy cabbage, and Reggiano; finished with chive butter).

Oh my holy fuck. I know we all have our extravagances and hobbies and value things differently. I am a lover of great food, wine and conversation. I could live without television, internet, computers and all that and put my foregone expenses into great meals with interesting companions. Tonight's meal reminded me of that, as with every bite, I was truly contented. The executive chef actually helped serve our meals and recommended an amazing red varietal wine as a complement. P and I were just wide eyed and gobsmacked at how utterly delicious the food was and how clearly studied this kitchen is at creating a lasting dining experience.

I honestly didn't want to leave. I was ready to move in and just watch them cook and create meals that you really remember. We shared a dessert of berries and figs (NB: we don't like figs, but it was still tasty) and, as we left, the staff wrote down the wine we had and thanked us for coming in. I complimented the chef and told him that I had not had a dining experience like that in a long, long time and I could tell that the highest compliment he could be paid. I hugged the hostess, who probably (and hopefully) isn't privy to the days of B&K lives, and she asked me if now, they would be seeing more of me.

That would be a "fuck yes," for $100, Alex.

Something To Talk About

A few friends got together tonight for a much needed happy hour and we broke out of usual mold and went to a a sake bar in Belltown. Great apps (the rule of the short ribs* remains in place), nice sake cocktails and good times with great friends. This post may be blogging under the influence, as the aforementioned sake cocktails were, in fact, outstanding, but as of yet, my laptop lacks a breathalyzer prior to posting. That really needs to be invented.

There was a conversation early about strained communication in a relationship and it has stayed with me. I am hardly a guru on successful relationships, but I have learned quite a few things along the way. I am a veteran of relationships thwarted by poor communication and I have to believe I am wiser for the experiences.

As an aside, the whole cliche about communication being the lifeline of any relationship is true, but that entire expression is kind of bullshit. It is therapy-speak, to some degree. "We just stopped communicating" is a bullshit excuse and, truthfully, code words for a bigger problem. You didn't stop communicating, you stopped saying what was on your mind. You opted for quiet over arguing, avoidance over dealing with the purple elephant in the room, and a good night's rest over resolution. I know all about this and am guilty of the same offenses.

Few people truly enjoy conflict, although there are many who are comfortable with it in their daily dynamic. Thing is, in the best parts of my past relationships, conflict was about 10% of the relationship and a necessary part of it. I am a firm believer in a "pick your battles" type of strategy when it comes to maintaining the precarious harmony of a long term relationship. I only fought the battles I really cared about and usually deferred to the ones I wasn't invested in. At least with B, the one thing (heh - like there was only one) I fucked up on was not seeing my battle through to the resolution I wanted. I stupidly thought that just by voicing my objections, he would understand that, since I wasn't naturally combative, when I got my panties in a bunch, it was important.

Not the case. B and I had the same arguments over the years, and of those that I actively waged, none of the behavior I complained about changed. I became quite adept at hearing the subtext to unpleasant outbursts and taught myself the translations. When he was trying to provoke a fight, I knew he was tired, frustrated and felt guilty at not giving us 100%. I would respond accordingly ("hey B, I can tell you had a shit day and don't want to argue, so let's not. You get a "get out of jail free" card tonight and hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day.")

Thing is, he didn't reciprocate and, after time, I grew resentful and withdrew and stopped saying what was on my mind. Hell, I did almost anything to avoid the big talks towards the end, as the gulf between us was so vast, especially compared to how aligned we once were. Like many couples, I assumed that we would work to repair the gulf, but, alas, we didn't. Neither of us did. I can't lay all that blame on B.

In any event, what struck me tonight is how fucking good I am at communication, and not destructive communication. I know how to read between the lines and to interpret what the other person isn't saying, but really means. I argue when it really matters to me, not out of a defensive posture or to play mind games. I am completely gobmsmacked by the folks who cannot confront an unpleasant situation and tell you directly what is on their mind and why they believe you have wronged them. I am likewise gobsmacked by the folks who think they can bury it all in the sand.

Hello? Have you not seen Poltergeist? Buried corpses are scary and turn stuffed clowns into the stuff of adult nightmares.

I don't know my fate or what lies ahead, but I do know this. B and I had a very frank style of communication for most of our marriage, because we were like minded on the purple elephant situation. We ended because we both dodged the hard conversations, even though we never dragged those out. If and when I get into another relationship, it will need to be with someone who can say anything to me, but also needs to say everything to me in his time. I have said this a million times, but I need a courageous man --- a man as willing to say what he thinks and means as I am -- and a man who can read between my own lines and do some introspection.

This whole post made no sense. Unrelated: If you haven't read the Gawker.com story about "Pulitzer-prize" winning author Butler, go there. Now. What a cautionary tale about the ease of forwarding sensitive email and how you should never, NEVER, send sensitive information on the internets.

* The rule of the short ribs, I learned at Tra Vigne in Napa. As told to me by their executive chef, when presented with a daunting menu with a host of palatable options, always go with the short ribs -- you can never go wrong and will likely get the best thing in the house.

Five Dollar Shake

I woke up yesterday morning full of energy, as I had a laundry list of shit to get done before heading to LA. I thought I was leaving tonight, so I had but a day to get all of my errands done. As it turns out, I think I am leaving sometime this weekend and will be in LA most of next week. The whole trip is a kamikaze mission to get a case settled and I am completely winging it. My client wants this goddamn thing settled, quite understandably, as his company was sued for purely anticompetitive reasons.

One of the more bullshit things about practicing law is seeing the "good" cases get fucked by bad judges and attorneys, while the "bad" cases (frivolous, bad faith claims) somehow manage to stay in the system. This case is 180% the latter kind and it is maddening that it hasn't settled. The reason, of course, is a stubborn, petty company owner and his fuckwit of an attorney. In two years, they have put out a dozen press releases, slamming my client to his customers, but in the same period, haven't deposed a single witness in support of their claims. Utter madness.

We are supposed to go to trial in October (it was originally calendared for January, then April, now October - all delayed by the court, not the parties). There is virtually no chance that the bad guys will prevail, but the stress of litigation and compelling business reasons have prompted my client (who was wrongfully sued) to be aggressively seeking a settlement. I got the vote of confidence from all the attorneys involved as being the most likely to obtain a resolution, so next week, I am on a mission to settle a case that should never have been filed. Worse, my client will likely pay a tidy sum to make it go away, even though he truly did nothing wrong. This is the state of the civil justice system - litigation is just a cost of doing business. Madness.

Among my many errands was an almost obsessive need to get my hair cut. This happens fairly frequently - I wake up one day and realize I have bad 80's hair band hair. My hair doesn't grow long, it grows out, and it seems to happen overnight. I woke up looking like Eddie Van Halen and I knew I couldn't very well negotiate a settlement sporting Van Halen hair. Also, I am the only female attorney involved in the case (and there are eight other attorneys involved) and am the youngest by a few decades. No, Van Halen hair wouldn't help the settlement situation.

Of course, my stylist - who, irritatingly, just left her downtown salon for a salon near the U - took the day off. She is probably my favorite stylist ever and I am nothing if not loyal, but again, the Van Halen hair was a pressing concern. I decided that I was going to "cheat" on her, just this once and started calling around. Absolutely no one was available. Fuck.

I called the Seven salon I went to a few years ago - great stylist, just no real chemistry (and yes, this is important in a stylist-client relationship) - to see if there were any openings for a cut and color. I made the big mistake a few years ago of adding highlights to my hair, all because I hated seeing my few lone gray hairs stand out against my jet black hair. Nearly everyone told me not to do it, but vanity, she is a cruel mistress, and I am now in the vortex of suck that is hair color maintenance. Annie, my regular stylist, she has had me on a plan to get me back to my proverbial roots, so I was willing to just get a cut. Just rid me of my inner Eddie.

The receptionist at Seven excitedly told me that there had JUST been a cancellation for "Billy," and the marvelous tone in his voice told me that this was a freak occurrence and clearly my destiny. Setting aside the obvious red herring (Billy? Really?), I agreed to be there in an hour. When I arrived, the eager receptionist could barely contain his glee ("can you believe it? Billy....on an hour's notice? This is your lucky day") and I met my temporary stylist, Billy.

Seven prides itself on customizing haircuts to the client and Billy spent a good twenty minutes talking to me about my routine. He fingered nearly every strand of my hair and asked a great deal of questions. By the end of that conversation, I considered him a friend. He told me that he was going to do an all over color (to my original shade, to cover those rogue gray hairs), a few natural highlights, and that I needed to take some of the weight off my hair.

Fucking A, my hair needed to lose weight? God, the pressure in this country to be sleek and thin!

Thing is, I had been wanting to cut my hair for a while, but resisted because of the whole "break up and cut your hair" cliche. Worse, I didn't want to get, in the words of Drew, the "crazy chick" haircut - drastic, random and just plain weird. Still, I have this philosophy about hairstylists, namely, that they know what the hell they are doing and have a much better sense of what cuts look best on people. I usually plop down in the chair, exchange a few words about what I like and my routine, then declare "I trust your judgment - do what you think is best." I basically told Billy the same thing, as he had put so much thought and effort into considering my hair.

Two and a half hours later, I had shed a few inches of hair and had most of my original color restored. I was pleased. I also had two great hours of conversation with him - unbelievably well versed about a whole host of things. But two hours? Holy shit, Batman. I contemplated my own (obscene) hourly rate and then briefly wondered if I should have at least asked what his rate was.

I got my answer a few minutes later. $400, with tip. Oh my holy fuck. I had snagged a date with the top stylist in town and certainly the most expensive. Billy's card doesn't even have a last name - he is just Billy. $400. Because I am not the type to ever dispute charges, I smiled gamely and paid the man (as I mentally recalculated my budget for the month). As I signed the slip, the excitable receptionist told me that Billy wanted to add me as a regular client and did I know that he hadn't taken a new client in two years and wow, this really was my lucky day, wasn't it? He told me that I needed to book all of my appointments right then, as Billy books out three months and when would lightning ever strike again and all that.

I told him that I needed to check my work calendar and would call him later, but truthfully, I knew my affair with Billy was a one-day stand. $400? Fuck that noise, out loud and proud. It is a good cut, to be sure, and the color is pleasing, but I am not a former president who can spend $400 for a cut and color. I'm going back to Annie, full of apology at my betrayal, and will somehow soldier on with haircuts and color at half the price.

While I rarely post pictures, this overlong and banal post is worthless without pics. Here is what $400 buys you in the way of hairstyles:



Too serious? I can laugh at being an idiot who paid $400 for this look:

Looking Both Ways

I haven't been driving into work that much as of late, especially since I am getting Tom Douglas setups on my walk in. However, sometimes it is necessary given the tasks of the day. On those days where I drive and have to pick Darbs up from doggie day care, I end up taking this route that puts me on the freeway for one exit - somehow, this is faster than winding through the post-work traffic downtown. After exiting the freeway, I wind my way through South Lake Union to get the dog.

There is this intersection - of Westlake and some side street, where nearly every day, a car runs the red light just as my light turns green. The first time it happened, the car in front of me was nearly t-boned (that is probably not the correct expression, but whatever). Had I been the first car, I would have been hit hard and been seriously injured. I thought it was a fluke that one time, but it has since happened so many times that it can now be considered routine.

It happened again today and I realized that sometimes you need to be reminded to turn off your auto pilot and really pay attention. I am a very defensive driver and all that, but there is a false sense of security that comes of a society defined by laws and rules. We (or at least I) tend to be lulled into a state of complacency by thinking that everyone is operating under the same set of rules and are abiding by them in the same manner. In reality, while everyone may be bound by the same set of laws (rich white people, your mileage certainly varies), people have wildly different perceptions of how those laws apply to themselves, and these perceptions often fluctuate among different situations.

Since I am all about big picture thinking these days (again, watch this space for personal growth), I immediately recognized the metaphor for non-traffic situations. I have long operated under an assumption that my people - the family I have and the friends I have chosen (rightly or wrongly) as my family - abide by the same set of core beliefs that make me tick.

What a spectacularly stupid assumption (yes, ass and me and all that). Could that *be* any stupider (yes, say that in your best Chandler voice)? Holy shit, I am about ready to publish an epiphany-of-the-day calendar. I think that every heartbreak I have ever had stemmed from the realization (perhaps not at the time, but upon reflection) that someone had played by a very different rulebook different from mine. At the heart of mine is the golden rule of treating people the way you want to be treated, no matter the circumstance. This is especially true if you have hurt, or been hurt by, someone -- if you have fucked up, or you have been fucked over. I don't ask what Jesus would do. I consider what I would want me to do if I were in the other person's shoes.

I have been on auto pilot on a lot of relationships, erroneously assuming that everyone thinks like me and will behave accordingly. I have been t-boned by this stupid assumption because I never bothered to really pay attention and look both ways before crossing the street. It was probably quite arrogant to operate that way, to say nothing of being hazardous to my mental health. Hell, upon thinking about it, nothing is more arrogant and self-destructive than to believe that the people in your life think just like you and will treat you just as you will treat them. I certainly don't profess to know the right way and it is more than likely I don't.

The wild card is trust. When you trust someone - a friend, a lover, a family member - you really get into the stupid assumptions. As past posts have plainly revealed, when I trust someone in my bones, I tend to assume they share my values of confidence. What happens in the relationship stays in the relationship, so to speak. I tend to subscribe to the idea that relationships are governed by an unspoken nondisclosure agreement and have been badly burned by that assumption.

I guess what it is on my mind is how to readjust and realign the thinking. Can you have a real relationship and that all-important and necessary trust with someone without the stupid assumption? Fuck, I have no idea. I tend to not think so, but then how do you avoid the t-boning (heh - boning) if you assumed incorrectly? Maybe heartbreak is just that -- discovering that you (perhaps stupidly, perhaps on good faith) assumed that you had a relationship with someone who didn't actually share your value and respect for that relationship.

It is probably just that simple.

Cleaning House

It appears as though the B drama is nearly over and I can almost sense peace ahead. He left me a voice message today, indicating that he was not going to fight me on anything. It was a strange feeling to know he capitulated, but I got the sense that he is weary from other things.

We've been separated for almost three years now and I still find myself worrying about him from time to time, even when I know that he is far from the man I shared my life with for all those years. I think we are both better and both worse off from the whole divorce thing, which is probably almost always the case.

I resolved to come home tonight and really look at the "stuff." Am I really entitled to all of it? No. Hell no. And it is probably time to do some serious inventory of what really matters to me. What I truly treasure and pleases me and brings value to my life. And my home. So tonight, I am looking at the material stuff differently and asking myself some honest questions.

The truth of the matter is that little of it means much to me. Shit, that is hard to write, seeing as I have been so hell bent on not letting come in here and pick and choose what he wanted. Am I really so petty and stubborn that I refused to consider an equitable division of our personal property because I didn't like his attitude of entitlement? It would appear that it is decidIedly so. I think I just needed to come to this realization on my own terms and make the determination on my own terms. I didn't want to be bullied into any decisions as I have for so long where B is concerned. Maybe that is being petty, maybe I have been immature and stubborn, but I am thinking my way out of that.

I am not a material person, at least, for the most part. I am honestly trying to think of my most valued material possession. I don't think I can count my neurotic dog, as I have come to believe that I am her possession. I like most of the artwork in the condo and I enjoy admiring it, but if it was all stolen tomorrow? Yeah, I would cash the insurance check and probably only replace a few things.

Looking at it through that prism is illuminating when it comes to giving B some of our personal effects. It also makes me consider what B would willingly repurchase if given the funds. Replacement costs. Sunk costs. I look at almost everything through an equitable eye. I need to be more fair in terms of giving him some of our personal property, even though I know he isn't going to fight me for any of it. That just takes the pressure off, but doesn't relieve me of my obligation to do what I know in my heart is right. This is really about doing the right thing by me, not by him, although I have always done right by him and am nothing if not consistent.

Oddly enough, one of the few things he specifically said he wanted was the contents of our bar. I took a good look through it and had to admit that I myself will probably never drink those bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue, or the bottles of Bombay Sapphire, or single malt scotches, or the rare tequilas. Hell, I haven't touched them in three years. Still, I like knowing they are there for cocktail parties and get togethers and hell, when would I ever buy a $500 bottle of liquor? B hates to entertain, so the only reason he would have it is for himself or decoration. Who has the better claim?

I guess what I realized is that none of this material bullshit matters deeply to me and if I can step back from the situation, I should probably use some of my lawyerly sense of equitable distribution. I think that ridding myself and my home of things that don't really matter deeply to me is what needs doing. After the paperwork is signed and filed, I will do just that. It is long past time to focus on the stuff that makes me happy.

Weekly Round Up

The week's roundup of unrelated thoughts.

Loyalty. I realized that loyalty is what killed B and me. I still don't believe that B would sell me out entirely (and, again, I have no skeletons where he is concerned), but that is probably just optimistic projection. B has sold me out over the past few years by not being the man -- or, better said -- not demonstrating the character -- that he once had. I compromised my loyalty once, and never again. There was that silly Seinfeld episode about "the vault." I subscribe to that newsletter and will not violate it any more than I have in the past. Loyalty, in my most simple definition, is honoring a friendship and relationship after the expiration date. Sure, you may no longer be friends, lovers, etc. But that doesn't give you license to divulge private information you gleaned over the course of that friendship/relationship. It doesn't. To do otherwise is, in my estimation, a complete absence of character. I suspect that those kinds of folks have very superficial relationships. No thanks.

Dating vs. Relationships. Jury is out on this. I don't know how to realign my thinking and am not sure I want to anyway. I would rather love deeply and lose it, rather than have a host of superficial relationships that didn't fulfill me. At the bullseye is my family, who have demonstrated their unconditional loyalty, even when I haven't earned it. In the closest concentric circle, I have a handful of close friends, all of whom would lay down in traffic for me. Moving outward, I have a second, concentric ring of friends on the periphery who would probably do the same, but I just haven't developed those relationships. The third concentric circle is the acquaintances and casual friends. I am lucky to have all of this.

Lindsay Lohan. I want so badly to have sympathy, but she is in the vortex of suck that is the current crop of being famous for being a fuckup, and she courts it. I have no idea why people keep describing her as talented, as she is average in a weak field. You want talented? Robert Downey Jr. She isn't fit to hold his (now not wanted) pipe. Not to be an ass, but LL brought all of this on herself because she is addicted to fame - -seeing her name in print and on TMZ. I still don't think the girl has an addiction to anything but attention whoring. And again, who the fuck would want to be famous? Take a long look at Matt Damon, George Clooney, Reese Witherspoon, Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon -- the really great actors (ignore the Reese part in that example) - they aren't courting the press by partying out loud. These chicks get off on seeing their mugs on websites and the hits thereupon. I will save my sympathy for folks without an entourage.

Courage. I want and need to know more courageous people. Courage is having the sack to voice concerns directly and honestly, and being able to own the consequences of your actions. I am a courageous person, for the most part. I don't ignore emails, I don't send text messages or emails when a face to face is called for, and I certainly don't hide. I own every fuck up I have ever made. I hold others to that standard and also require my friends -- those I respect -- to have the sack to deal directly. I am allergic to false bravado and weakness, which the internet breeds like rabbits. You have a problem? Sack up and deal with it directly. Hiding in your computer is just bad form and you aren't nearly as tough as you think you are. My inner circle has more courage than most of the internet. Chickenshits in a modem. The new Snakes on a Plane.

Alberto Gonzales. This man was promised a Supreme Court justice position and now, has (at best) a job for a year. If he had a lick of sense about him, he would renounce the current administration and hope for the AG job in the next election. He isn't really a bad guy, just had misguided loyalty to the WH, who sells him out daily. He sucks, to be sure, but he doesn't suck as bad as the WH. He just has no job after 2008, and he signed on, thinking he had a job for life (SC justice).

Next Love. You will need to have a strength of character that far exceeds the Norm. You need to be a MAN. I am 180% female, but a strong one at that, so you will need to be stronger and surer (not possible) of your convictions. I absolutely loathe weakness in character and chickenshitness. You have to challenge me on every level and not retreat if you feel daunted. I want a running partner, to be sure, but someone who has the self-confidence to make and stick to decisions and behave like someone who walks the talk. I cannot respect anything less.

Family. Is there nothing you cannot do?

Tom's Diner

Walking into work again this morning, I had some weird spring in my step. Might have been the music, might have been that it wasn't so damn warm (NB: warm to me is over 60 degrees when I am walking to and from work), might have been a good night's sleep. My condo is about 3.5 miles from my building and I am utterly incapable of walking in a normal fashion. I have only met one person who walks faster than me, or at least, she did this one time in Vegas when I found myself actually having to keep up with someone. In any event, I am a Manhattan walker, through and through, which, combined with my need to push any physical activity to my personal limits, means I end up trucking the whole way there. And getting sweaty in the process.

Random aside - I love to sweat. I love the feeling, post-workout, of being physically drained and sweaty. It gives me a sense of accomplishment and that I flushed out what needed flushing. This is ideal at the gym or after a good run. This is less than desirable when you are expected to change into work clothes and sit in an air conditioned office all day. This week, I got a pass for the gym across the street from my office, where I showered and changed, but I am thinking that I am not going to walk in anymore. At least, not the whole way. I'll save the power walk for the commute home.

In any event, I was bouncing right along, powering down Fourth Avenue, about the final mile to my building, when I approached Lola's. That entire intersection is Tom Douglas Central, as Dahlia, Dahlia Bakery, Serious Pie, Lola's and Palace Kitchen are all within a block of each other. Tom Douglas is a metaphor for all that I love about Seattle. His food is amazing, the presentation tantalizing, the atmosphere perfect at each joint and he is just a great guy. He recently competed on the Iron Chef and kicked ass with the secret ingredient of wild salmon. Had he lost, I would have been crushed.

I have met Tom several times, almost always in the context of B's job (he is friends with B's boss). I would hardly call him a friend, just a semi-regular acquaintance. Truthfully, he never seemed to remember me specifically, just that I am a fan of his and his Seattle restaurant empire. Anyway, as I was striding past Lola's, music blaring on the ipod (American Girl, Tom Petty), I saw Tom sitting outside, laptop on the table, talking with a few staffers. We made eye contact and I smiled and said "hey Tom" and kept walking. About two paces later, I heard this loud "HEY!" I turned around and Tom was standing up, waving to me.

Did I mention the sweaty? Because yes, I had sprinted a couple of blocks and was unusually peppy. Also, Tom never remembers me specifically and the fact that he didn't yell my name confirmed the routine. I pulled the ipod out of my ears and smiled and said "Good morning, Tom." He extended his hand and said "long time,no see. You haven't been walking to work in months. Missed seeing you." I was surprised, to say the least, although I did used to see him once a week when I was walking to work every day. I stammered something about shedding bad habits and resuming simple pleasures and then introduced myself (or, better said, reminded him of my name).

He said "Even though I don't always remember your name, I always remember your face. You have a really memorable face." I could have taken that as a backhanded slam, but I scored it as a compliment, smiled widely and said "so do you, Tom." He invited me to sit down and we chatted for a bit about the developments in his mini-empire and his wife and daughter. I told him about my recent experiences at his restaurants and we had a pleasant conversation about random things. Then, out of nowhere, he says "Jackie [his wife] and I are having a dinner party and I would love it if you would come."

I about died. Holy shit, yes. Fuck yes. I smiled even more broadly and told him I would love that. He told me the date and asked if B and I were available. Fuck. Shit. Here we go again. I am sure my face fell a bit at this inquiry, but I manned up and said "well, I don't speak for B anymore, as our marriage came to a successful conclusion, but I think I am going to be in town that night." Tom threw his head back, laughed and said "yeah, I know, K, I just wanted to see if you were okay and over it. Clearly, you are. Great answer - you always could think on your feet. We would love to have you."

A different person would have been pissed. I loved him for the test and the directness of his approach. God, I love direct. Fuck, I hate passive aggressive, chickenshit. I laughed hard and said "well, I'd love to be there. Please let me arrive an hour or so before anyone else so I can watch the cooking." [I love watching people cook. That is how I learned how to do it myself. I would give my nonexistent right nut to watch him and Jackie cook.]

He said that was fine and asked if I would be bringing a date. I lightheartedly told him "oh, I am not dating until next year and besides, I will be watching you two and playing with Loretta [daughter]." Tom got this odd look on his face and asked "why aren't you dating?" Fair question and one for which I didn't have a pithy answer. I just told him that I had no interest in getting involved in another relationship and was enjoying the alone time, blah blah, blah. He kept that quizzical dog look and said "K, there is a difference between dating and getting in a relationship. You should be dating. You are beautiful, smart, funny and you appreciate good food. Date like minded people. Have fun. You don't have to get into a serious relationship, just have fun."

I sort of dismissed that and we had a few more minutes of pleasant talk, after which I gave him a business card and told him to email me with the details. As I walked the final mile to my office, however, I thought about what he said. And realized something. Fuck, I am starting to sound like a fortune cookie,but truthfully, I don't know how to date. I am a serial monogamist. I have never dated more than one person at a time. I have never accepted a second date with someone I wasn't really interested in. I am the same way with books. I don't have two going at a time. When I start a book, I usually finish it in one sitting. I don't do a few chapters a night. All or nothing. I go up to eleven in my reading and relationships.

When I meet someone I like, I want to know everything about them and am pretty quick to reveal my innards as well. That is just how I roll. I am certain there are scores of books out there that caution otherwise, but fuck it, that is how I am. When I meet someone who stirs that indescribable thing inside me, I want to know it all. I want to finish the book and start the sequel. I cannot imagine starting the same process with someone else. And to me, that is what dating multiple people is all about. Having several books going, some of lesser interest than others, and trying to remember the plot lines in each. I am just not built that way.

All that said (and fuck, this is a long ass entry), there is something to be said for pacing yourself. When you speed read, you miss a few important details and plot suggestions. You start pre-supposing the outcome, to some degree. Maybe there is something to pacing yourself and just letting things unfold in a more natural timeframe. Maybe you shouldn't assign attributes to your characters and let them unfold in a more natural way. Maybe you should just let the story evolve.

Not thinking of dating, but I did get an email from Tom this afternoon:

"Dinner at 8. You should arrive at 6 to catch up with [wife and daughter]. The menu, as well as your dinner date, will remain a mystery until you get here."

Courage of Conviction

Could not be more over myself if I tried. Where the fuck have I been this year? We will just chalk up 2007 as the year of transition and be done with it. Holy hell. I should have worn a helmet. Lord knows, I was riding the short bus.

Logged in 10 miles today -- walking or running. I went to this kickass class this morning that was equal parts kick boxing and ballet. At my advanced age, it takes a lot of effort to get back to your self, but am very much on the way. I highly recommend against the depression diet, as I dropped at least ten pounds and most of that was probably hair and water. Am loving my spinning class as well, and have a soccer game on Friday and a softball game on Saturday. God love the PacNW in the summer.

Am awed at the response to the girls' weekend in Vegas. I haven't even alerted the locals and we're already up to 20. I rented a kickass suite for the Grand Central Station of it all. In November. An early celebration of what we are thankful for and what we intend to honor. Friends are the family you choose and all that.

I signed four new clients in July. Fun, interesting clients. I also landed a major studio (that wanted me in house) as their of-counsel, which, given the Vancouver connection, keeps me busy.

I got asked out tonight at Greenlake. I smiled, thanked him for his attention, but said that I won't be dating until 2008. Am in no shape for a relationship with anyone other than myself. I do hope I made a new friend. I am in no condition to start a relationship with anyone but myself and I am cool with that. So very cool. I was pretty goddamn selfless for a number of years and have no qualms about taking some time for me. And my neurotic dog.

This is progress -all of it. I am utterly in charge of what I want and I have no idea what that is right now. I feel hopeful for the first time in a while and have realized that I am my own best date and friend. I have no need for weak characters or chickenshits. I am a lot of things, but chickenshit isn't one of them.

Oh, and B is trying to play nice. He has petitioned the court to invalidate our divorce, but he is doing it stupidly and pro se. I know that if a court reviews our prior settlement agreement, they will see that I gave up over $100K, and that is just in past earnings, not retirement. B was all bark and no bite. So lame.

One of the things I have come to realize is that I need more than a bark. I don't bullshit, I don't make promises I can't keep. I need, if I actually need a man, I need someone stronger than me. I am so utterly bored with those who cannot do what they say.

Winston the Wolf

To steal the line from Talix, I am so over me. Jesus Christ. How self involved can a person get?

Yoda (boss) made an interesting observation today and one that has stayed with me for most of the day. Life with B was something of an alternate universe. Although I didn't appreciate it at the time, it was often a whirlwind, chaotic, choose-your-own-adventure type of existence. I was the rational, reasonable, stable one amidst the chaos and that gave me a false sense of calm and control. My role was clearly defined - keep the peace, keep B stable, be the grounded one, be the one that stays cool in a crisis. If B got bent out of shape, I put him back together. If the shit hit the fan, I swooped in with my calm, cool and collected self and found the escape route. I was impervious to the drama, as it was my job to resolve it and smooth things over. Never any drama of my own, just tending to that in our life. Other people's drama.

Fuck if I haven't made up for lost time. When I am cutting myself some slack, I allow for the possibility that the pendulum had to swing back in my direction and I took a half year of quality self-centered time. Perhaps that is one explanation. Sure beats the other explanations (self-destructive, escapist, immature, irrational, etc.) Fact of the matter is that I cannot erase any of it and cannot spend the next half of the year looking backward over my shoulder. Nobody ever gets to where they want to go with their head, heart and mind rubbernecking the past. Plus, you end up with a ridiculously whiny attitude and write unmercifully verbose emails to your ex that (mercifully), you never send. What a waste of energy, at least most of the time.

I am pretty much done with that. I know where I want to go and only I have the legs to get me there. I am not going to jump ship in the near term, especially after the partnership talk today. I don't want to live in LA and I am probably not the person to be living part time in Mountain View (although I am going to to see the Google opportunity all the way through, because hello? YouTube? Fun.). I am going to continue to train for the half marathon in November (because, quite frankly, I have no desire to run 26 miles). I am going to continue to play soccer and softball and, in my spare time, take a few tennis lessons and hike with Darbs. I am going to have as little contact with B as possible and remember that I no longer live in that alternate universe.

I am going to take at least one weekend a month outside of Seattle. First stop is LA this month, then probably Austin next month. NYC is September, and hopefully Boston in October. November is usually pretty nutty, but I am just now starting to plan a girls' weekend in Vegas. So overdue. My brother is getting married on NYE, so no trips in December, but am strongly leaning towards a European adventure in January. I have plenty of vacation time to roll over, so it will probably be two glorious weeks. Am leaning towards Spain and Portugal, but I may cop out and go someplace nice and tropical. We shall see.

The RX to avoid the drugs is two hours at the gym. I am being really careful about not hurting myself and it seems to be working out (ha!). I have been running with Darbs every morning and that does us both good. My body is getting back into the shape I like it and the mind is following. Mostly, I am grateful to not have the self-defeating thoughts 24/7 and am regaining my perspective. Again, just getting the fuck over myself. It sounds so goddamn trite to say this, but just living honestly and deliberately is a luxury of those who have the time to worry about self-fulfillment. Seriously. Not to harken back to B, but if this is the scope of my troubles, I live a very sheltered existence.

Also, and completely unrelated, what the fuck with Lindsey Lohan? I don't even believe the girl is a drug or alcohol addict -- she is a fame addict. I don't have much sympathy for her, as she has stated in interviews that she craves the fame and courts and teases the paparazzi. I will go to my grave not understanding the desire to be famous. Successful, yes. Acclaimed, yes. Revered and respected, yes. Famous? No. Not at all. Fame appears to be more addictive than any drug I can think of, and more destructive as well. Why anyone would want public scrutiny of their private life is completely beyond me.

Property Settlement Wars, Part II

Ed. Note: No one - absolutely no one - thinks I should continue to engage B on any topic. I probably won't send this, because B is no longer capable of thinking like the man I once knew. I just wanted to write this

B:

First things first. Read my words. Read them carefully and try to read them openly and objectively. I think this is probably my last ditch effort to get you to really listen to me. I have more than earned the right to ask you to listen to me.

It is nothing short of ridiculous for us to go to war. Neither one of us is invested in the property we are fighting about and this is really about you not liking me telling you to dance according to my prearranged steps. You have never done well on other people's terms and you freak the fuck out when you feel ordered.

On paper and in your proclamations to others, I know you can sell our breakup as you being generous and magnanimous. I got the condo, you bought my car, I got all the personal property. I know that is how you see it most days and it was your penance for how you wronged me. I know that. Hell, that is how I would frame it for you if we were still together.

That ignores a shitload of history. I didn't wrong you. I was your best friend and most loyal supporter. Still am, although that is waning. I was the person who went to every soccer game you coached because I supported you. I was the person who befriended your mother and took her to bingo and anywhere else she wanted to go because you had no patience for her. I visited her without you, as did my brothers - independent of me. I was, in every sense, the most supportive and loyal spouse anyone could hope to have. I have never betrayed you or our relationship. That has been unthinkable to me.

On the other hand, you have not been loyal to me in many years. You didn't return my loyalty to you and, in fact, have thrown me under the bus to save yourself. You sacrificed me and my law firm for your professional cowardice. You did that because you could rely upon my loyalty to you. I ran to your side when the going got tough. You never even considered how that whole thing would affect me. It does and will for the rest of my professional life. But what killed me the most -- when I realized we were really done -- is you never gave a second thought as to how that whole press drama would affect me.

You didn't know that the night after I came running to you and assured you -- that for the entire week after -- I was dealing with personal and professional fallout and completely devastated. You couldn't think outside your own little world. It was all about you. That is when I really came to understand that you were not loyal to me at all.

What kills me is that is what what made you so attractive to me back in the day -- your sense of loyalty. I learned that from you and it is the best thing I took from our marriage. It pains me to think that I am a better person for having married you, and yet you are so different from the man I married. Absolutely no one would describe you as loyal anymore.

I have no intention of ever betraying you or our relationship, yet you seem so bent on discarding all of it. I will try to honor our relationship and all of our shared history, even though you checked out so long ago. You seem to think that you can right the wrongs of us by being a bully to me and becoming some other person in your new life. I have the benefit of history and knowing you as well as I do.

You are at a crossroads, B. You can either be an asshole for asshole's sake (and fight a losing battle), or you can man the fuck up. You fucked up our relationship and you don't have the sack to own up to that (aside from a few random text messages). You fucked us up and negated a decade's worth of unconditional support. You did that. You can either own it or be an asshole. One way delivers you peace, the other just perpetuates drama. Please try to be the man I once thought you were.

If we have to go to war, so be it. I don't have skeletons in my closet and I have always been loyal to you. I don't want anything from you aside from peace. You really need to have a moment of introspection where you fully get how badly you fucked our relationship and, it needs to be said, HOW COOL I HAVE BEEN. If I have to go to war, I will fight the way you taught me and no one needs that. We don't want to be together. There is so little to fight over. Just let me go, B. We aren't going to be friends anytime soon. Let me go and let's get this over with.

Whirrled Peace

I would give my nonexistent left nut for a little goddamn peace.

Talked to my attorney today and got the prognosis on my potential for peace in the near term. Some of it is good, some of it not so good. He can cause me a great deal of turmoil in the upcoming months. An oversight by my attorney may enable him to push open a door I believed firmly closed. Shit happens. Hopefully, his unwillingness to pay for professional intimidation will hasten his desire to go to war with me. He would much rather do the intimidating himself, I suspect, seeing as how effective that strategy has been over the past fourteen years. I am so counting on that arrogance.

In the meantime, I am trying very hard not to fear the unannounced show up at the office (which he has threatened twice already) or worse, the scaling of the condo building onto my deck. It has been a while since he has done that, so here's hoping. I will call the cops if he does it, which really challenges my sense of loyalty.

And that is what I have been thinking about all weekend. Loyalty. I am often asked what went wrong between us or what changed about B that made our marriage unworkable. The answer - in its simplest form - is that B stopped being loyal to me. I don't equate loyal to faithful, although that is certainly part of it. But loyalty is so very much more than fidelity. It really is. Loyalty has, at its core, profound respect for another human being and for your relationship with that human being. I think you can divorce someone to whom you are and will remain loyal. That is what I believed I did.

I remained loyal to B throughout this process, at least for the most part. Hell, I actually felt disloyal at times, especially when I told some friends about his misdeeds throughout the marriage. That was a betrayal worse than infidelity, at least to me. Whatever sins were committed against each other, I was not about to use inside knowledge against him. I still cannot do it to B to this day. I still protect him. I have not told anyone the whole truth.

Random aside - I have lost a few friendships in my lifetime, and I am thinking now of a few female friendships. The two that immediately spring to mind concern acts of disloyalty by women I considered friends. Looking back at the relationships that I fucked up, they weren't marked by disloyalty. Carelessness, insensitivity, selfishness, self-aggrandizement, wholesale "fuckedupness" -- sure. Absolutely. I own each and every one of those. But I have never tread upon the realm of disloyal. I have never used private information learned in the course of a friendship against a friend.

(Well, shit, yes I did. Law school. A "friend" (we really weren't tight - she knew I was close with the guy she was dating) told me something that I am certain she wanted and believed would be kept confidential. She had an incurable STD (herpes) that she got from a sexual assault years earlier. Whatever her motivations were to befriend me, I know she trusted me when she told me that. Months later, she had a pregnancy scare with the aforementioned friend of mine. I was gobsmacked - how could she be having unprotected sex with him? He wouldn't have risked contracting herpes. When I asked her if he was worried about herpes, she said "oh, I haven't had an outbreak in years. I am as cured as I can be."

She hadn't told him? Holy fuck. He and I were much, much closer than she and I were and I didn't know what to do. They had broken up and he was already dating someone else - someone he cared for quite a bit. I should have told her "hey look, either you tell him or I do." I didn't. I struggled with it for a day or so and, goaded by a mutual friend who knew the situation (one of the two aforementioned female relationships that ended because of another's disloyalty), I told him - my friend. I didn't want him to unknowingly infect someone else and all that. He got tested and mercifully, had dodged the herpes bullet.

But to my "friend"? Yeah, I was persona non grata, and understandably so. I deserved that stigma. It was a shitty thing to do, even though I am not entirely certain I would have done things differently. She told a great deal of our mutual friends of my betrayal (never the exact circumstances, just that I told him something profoundly personal that she had told me in confidence) and, out of respect for her, I never divulged the details, either. I couldn't defend myself, assuming, of course, there was anything to defend. The mutual friend who goaded me into telling him? Yeah, she played dumb.)

In any event, and that random confession aside, I learned a great deal from that experience. All you have is who you offer in a relationship, be it friendship or lovers or whatever. I believe you owe it to yourself and your friend/lover/whatever to be loyal. What you learn or discover about a person in the course of a relationship is private and was shared to you under a blanket of trust. Relationships often end. But if you betray that trust? If you use it for your own gain? Fuck, that is the worst kind of betrayal. That betrays yourself and your former friend/lover/whatever. You lack character. You are an opportunist who will sell out if it suits your perceived needs.

I live with the guilt and shame of having betrayed a "friend." No matter how unimportant that relationship was to me, I betrayed her in the worst possible way. As a result, I haven't done it again. Since then, I have lost friends and ended relationships and at least one marriage, but I haven't betrayed anyone again. I have even resisted the urge to defend myself because it would mean betrayal of certain confidences.

And, coming full circle on this random outpouring of thoughts, I cannot betray B. I cannot. And what really sucks is that he has no loyalty to me (or anyone else). I am holding myself to a standard that he no longer knows exists. I don't have any skeletons in my closet that he can exploit, so it isn't a fear of him revealing my secrets or misdeeds. But he doesn't have a sense of loyalty to me to honor the relationship we had, no matter how far done and gone it is. He is not loyal to me, or respectful of the relationship we once had, or the loyalties that I have demonstrated to him. He is all about getting whatever he wants without regard to that and winning at any cost. And nothing sucks more than knowing you are playing by a rule that the other team willfully disregards.

Oh Fuck Off

His response to the email I sent (and posted)?

"Fuck you."

He followed that up with a voice mail that was positively seething, telling me he was going to "contest the divorce" and "bust open everything." Cupcake isn't thinking this one all the way through, as I walked away from a considerable amount of money. This is so goddamn stupid, and the only reason he is bent is because I tried to tell him what to do.

I played his voice mail message to my mom, dad, aunt and everyone else around the table. I had never done that. Never. I kept his batshit secret because I was loyal. If I knew how to convert voice messages to MP3's, I would fucking post it now. I am finally, FINALLY at the point of fighting back. Yes, he will probably end up fucking with me and hurting me in every way he knows how, but fuck it. This is my line in the goddamn sand. Fuck it. I'll go down fighting.

It was a good night with the family. I have so taken mine for granted and I am never going to do that again. I am so very lucky to have mine.

Also, the 'rents took us to a truly shitty movie. Something to talk about tomorrow. Jesus H. Christ. Adam Sandler just isn't my kind of funny anymore.

It Begins at Home

One of the funny things about depression and loss -- people give the same advice. Exercise, take classes, volunteer, whatever. All of it is good advice. Some of it is more practical than other alternatives.

I miss him. Fuck, I miss my friend, my lover, my best confidant, my other part. I miss him. I miss him almost every hour of the day. ANYWAY.

It was the volunteering thing that got me thinking. I should volunteer with the Big Brothers/Sisters of King County. I need perspective. Giving of myself will offset whatever self-indulgent crap I have in me. That makes sense. Except for one thing.

I am a shit aunt to my niece. My sister's daughter. I am a pathetic excuse for an aunt. Which is inexcusable, knowing that I relied upon my own aunt A quite heavily growing up and into adulthood. My aunt A was my mother in many ways, although I have failed as her niece in the recent past. I have failed in many ways. My niece doesn't know me as anything other than the occasional family member. She deserves so much more. My sister has raised a wonderful child that I have not bothered to really get to know. I suck as a human being for that. I want to be more to her. I want to be her "A," although that is grandstanding and unlikely. God, I am such a self-absorbed asshole.

I have to go to LA next week. I am combining professional and personal stuff with all that. I am interviewing with studios in my spare time, but the whole trip is for a client that I need to help. I am pretty sure I have the offer I want for one studio, but that is incidental to my visit. I want to solve my client's woes and, in my spare time, make up for all of the crappiness that was my MO as an aunt. I want to apologize for being the world's worst aunt and start anew.

I want to know her and love her and have her love me because I have built and nourished our relationship. I want to become her favorite aunt* because of our relationship, not circumstances. I have a lot of makeup work to do. I can't tell my sister about coming there until I am on the plane. I have bullshit and promised her too many times. But my hope is that I can lay the foundation to be the aunt my sister always wanted me to be. I hope so. Also, am looking forward to taking my niece on a few rollercoasters. I think it would be a refreshing change to ride a real one.

*Am technically her only aunt, but whatever.

Property Settlement Wars, Part I

[Ed. Note: B wants to come to my condo and do a "final walk through." As you can see, I have strong feelings about that.]

I seem to do better in written form, so here goes.

As I have explained to you, I am very uncomfortable at the idea of you coming into my home and "shopping" for furnishings for your new place. Although I understand that you believe you have a right to come in and do a "final walk through" and lay claim to certain items, I disagree. This has been my exclusive home for damn near three years, and (as I type this, I can feel your dismissive eye-rolling) it has been the only place I have felt safe and secure in all of this. Just as you don't want me rummaging about in your private life, nor do I want you to invade mine.

The only things you want to lay claim to are material objects that you can replace. As I said last night in the text message, the only thing you can't replace is me. The "stuff" didn't matter to you for the past three years, as you have already been here and retrieved items that you wanted. None of this was important to you until you suddenly had a new place that you wanted to decorate and now you seem to want to do it without regard to the reality of the past three years. This condo wasn't your storage unit. I have moved those items that were clearly not "ours" or otherwise part of our home (as well as your few personal items) into a separate storage unit and I look forward to assigning that obligation to you. But please try to understand that it is patently unfair to think you now have the right to come in and pick and choose those artifacts from our former life together with which you want to accessorize your new life.

Divorce is all about rebuilding and replacing. You took our former social life in the divorce, leaving me to wear a brave face in public when the subject of us came up. You didn't ever stop to think how your wholesale substitution of me would affect me personally or socially. You never even bothered to tell me the truth - the whole truth - and are still bullshitting me to this day. I deserve so much more than that, but that is your cross to bear.

All of that said, I think we need to strike a compromise so that this bullshit doesn't keep rearing its ugly head. I don't want a phone call from you two years from now, wanting another walk through to see if there is anything else you want from our years together. So here we go. Here is my compromise. These are my terms.

1. This is a one-shot deal. Come prepared and be on time. Rent a truck, bring boxes, and a friend to help, as this cannot be an all-day affair.
2. Clear out the storage unit in the condo building first. All of that is your random stuff and I haven't touched it. Toss it, keep it, whatever. Get it all out.
3. BEFORE YOU GET HERE - email me a list of things you want from the condo itself. Please don't feed me that bullshit about not remembering what is here. Sell that bullshit elsewhere, I have known you too long. You know every goddamn piece of artwork in this condo, seeing as you picked it all out. Sure, you might not remember the no-name pieces, but you know the bulk of it. You are not expected to remember each and every piece, but please don't act stupid or unknowing. Just tell me what you want and I promise you that I will be reasonable in each and every consideration.
4. When you are here at the condo, doing your "walk through" - you don't get to take anything unless I hand it to you. As I said, and as you know, I am remarkably reasonable, but expect nothing and you won't be disappointed. Together with the list you will send AHEAD of time, I will then have a good understanding of what material objects you want to take from our marriage. I will be cool like Fonzie.
5. After you leave with whatever I give you at that time, I will be reasonable in considering whatever requests you have. I will round up whatever it is that I am willing to part with and I will have Damian deliver them to you within a few days.

I can still feel you rolling your eyes and I don't give a shit. I have long since adapted to the reality that you don't want to see anything from my perspective. I am not remotely interested in being a ball buster or a vindictive ex-wife -- quite the contrary, as history clearly shows -- I just feel really fucking strongly about this. It takes an inordinate amount of gall to even request what you are asking. That said, I can appreciate that you don't think you are being unreasonable. I hope this compromise works for you.

--K

The Year of Deliberate Thinking

As I am wont to do, I will fuck up the cliche and just say that sometimes you have to take a few steps backward to move a couple of inches forward. Today was a better day. I am more hopeful that I will navigate through this ordeal on my own terms and by my own strength and resolve.

On an aside, one of the more infuriating things B used to do was to minimize whatever problem I had with a token "if this is all you have to worry about, you lead a charmed life." As maddening as that was at the time, there is truth at the heart of it. If my biggest problem right now is that I am licking the wounds from a recently concluded meaningful relationship, then I am, in fact, a very fortunate woman. People have fallen, then lost, loves throughout history and I am not a unique snowflake in that. Marriages and relationships end every day. That doesn't mean that the experience won't shred your innards and fundamentally alter the way you think and feel. It often does. Hell, it should, lest you learn nothing from the experience.

I'm starting to believe that is the whole point of loving someone. Learning more about what makes you tick (both good and bad) and what makes another person tick as well. When it ends, the trick, at least as far as I can tell, is to balance the grief at having "lost" a great love -- and all of what comes with that -- with the ambition to become wiser for the experience by taking the lessons forward. It is when you upset that balance -- either by wallowing in the grief or by pushing it out of your mind with willful blindness -- I think that is where you risk a sorrowful existence.

Of course, without a sorrowful existence, we would not have great art, literature and terrible country music songs. I am having the kind of day where I believe a little bit of a tortured sorrowful existence may be good for the creative soul. Lil' bit. In all things, balance.

I didn't really rebuild after B and I separated, or do much in the way of moving forward. Kind of the opposite. I spent a good two and a half years in a stupor, both literally and figuratively. What a waste of time, in retrospect. How I would love to be three years younger and with this kind of self-awareness, but alas, time (and timing), she is a cruel mistress. At the time, I just couldn't imagine my life differently, even though I knew in my bones that it was no longer where I wanted to be. I was scared and cowardly -- afraid to imagine a life that was fundamentally different from what I knew. Afraid, I think, to live, or even imagine, a life that was defined by what I wanted, not by what I thought expected of me. If I wasn't bound by those definitions, well then fuck. I would be ultimately responsible for my happiness, satisfaction, contentedness and fulfillment in my life. I would have no one or anything else to blame. Just my choices. I would have to be the ultimate architect of the good and the bad in my life. Daunting.

Tonight, I am no longer daunted by that. Quite the opposite. I use the Thoreau phrase "living deliberately" all the time. As a teenager, that phrase really resonated with me, although I wasn't certain I understood the true meaning. Now, decades later, I am still not entirely sure I know what it means, as it is an elusive concept. Maybe it is something like the Supremes say about obscenity -- you know it when you see it (or experience it).

All I know right now is that is where I am trying to go. To live deliberately. I think -- no, I have to believe -- that if you live your life deliberately, with pure satisfaction and self-fulfillment in the choices you make for yourself -- then you will live the kind of life that you always wanted for yourself. If you fuck up along the way and fall in love at the wrong time, or let a love that you once had fade away, or corrupt a relationship that mattered to you, well, at least you did it deliberately. Mistakes and missteps are what make us all interesting. When have you ever read a great book about someone who didn't fuck up? The interesting stories are when the person made conscious mistakes, but borne out of a good soul.

Are there really any mistakes or sins beyond forgiveness? You know what? I haven't encountered one. I just need to remember that. Hell, everyone needs to remember that.

Fuck, if this is the worst thing humanity has to worry about, we live a charmed life.

All the Drugs

Continuing along series of personal failures in the recent past, I think I am going to have to surrender to drugs. Antidepressants, that is.

Fuck, I have no judgment against others who use them. This is something much more personal for me. I have always been able to think my way out of a tough situation. Always. With the proper amount of mental and physical discipline, I could handle my shit and overcome whatever obstacles I encountered.

It is still pretty early and raw and all of that, but I don't know how much longer I can take this. Randomly weepy, but never able to get a good cry on. Distracted and having a very hard time focusing, and at the worst possible professional time. No appetite whatsoever and going days (unintentionally) without eating. This latter symptom is contributing to an inordinate amount of hair shedding, which scares the shit out of me. The inexplicable panic attacks (or anxiety attacks - not sure what they are) are daunting as well. I feel horrible that I never understood others who complained of depression and these kinds of panic/anxiety attacks.

I had a therapist who referred to antidepressants as "reliable shortcuts." I fired her shortly thereafter because she didn't understand my resistance to altering the chemistry of my body and mind. Thing is, I need some help getting through this and I really don't know how to get it. I am going to sweat it out for the rest of the month and see if my usual self routine of exercise and meditation and writing help me gather some emotional momentum. I have a decent therapist who isn't jonesing for me to get on the drugs, although he does think I would benefit from them.

I feel almost paralyzed at times and I can't talk to the person I most want to talk to. I lost one of my closest friends and the only person who could really understand this.

Feh. Even as I type this, I am ashamed. I could be living in Danfur. I could be serving in Iraq. I could be Courtney Love. This all seems so incredibly self-indulgent and melodramatic. I am not that person. I just can't seem to find my way back yet and am incredibly uncomfortable in this place.

Urban vs. Suburban Mouse

Wordy today, it would appear.

I often make the joke that I don't do bridges, tunnels or freeways. My fellow urbanites proudly refer to ourselves as "City Snobs," and I? I am the patron saint of the City Snobs. It isn't that I don't get the suburbs. It is much worse. I am positively allergic to them. I get tense when I am in them and I am utterly dumbstruck by those who choose to live there.

It would be easy to explain this burb-hate to my upbringing abroad, and, given the similar experiences of my urbanite siblings, it certainly had an influence. My youngest brother just rented his first apartment in downtown Seattle, even though his new employer is based about 20 miles away in a decidedly suburban city. It never occurred to him to rent an apartment over there, even though his commute is going to suck out loud - it will be interesting to see if his love of all things urban will withstand his hatred of an hour commute.

Funny aside (and perhaps counterpoint to this argument): My parents, who have lived overseas for over 30 years, are the quintessential suburban types. The own a McMansion in the very best Houston suburb that they rent out while abroad. They have a house on a golf course about an hour and a half north of here. When they come home for the summer, they suggest restaurants such as the Outback Steakhouse and any other chain restaurant they know. They hit the big box stores with a vengeance and buy their groceries in stores that sell everything from power tools to tortilla chips.

The other easy argument that I don't have children and, if I did, I would want them to go the the Very Best Schools and live in a Very Safest Neighborhood. Those two phrases are heavily loaded to me. To me, they carry the true meaning of "we want our kids to go to school with people Just Like Us" and "live in a neighborhood full of people Just Like Us." Which is, almost always, upper white middle class. We want to live and mingle with people who are Just Like Us and who would therefore never hurt us.

Quite frankly, that is exactly why I hate the suburbs. I have no interest in living among people who are just like me. I loathe the idea of living in an environment where all of the houses look exactly alike and everyone follows the same HOA rules to make sure everything looks the same. It is a fundamental difference in values. I like diversity in everything - the people I see on the street, the incomes, the cultural backgrounds, the life experiences, the ambitions, the creativity - hell, I require that kind of backdrop.

The suburban existence holds no appeal to me. Seeing the same people, day after day, living the same lives, living in the same house, following the same routines? Yeah, that would be my version of hell. And if I do have children? No way would I want them raised in that environment. The Very Best Schools aren't in the suburbs, at least in my mind, and I would not want my hypothetical child educated among people just like him or her. That is not the education I received and certainly not one I would advocate.

Two random stories: when I went to law school, there were two African American students and two Asian students*. The rest of the class was primarily suburban raised, upper white middle class students whose first real job was the summer associate position they took after their second year of law school (earning between $5-7K a month). It was, without question, the least stimulating learning environment I have ever been in. I was, at all times, called upon as the "liberal" voice in the room, seeing as I was from urban Seattle and a little older (and therefore had "life experience"). In retrospect, any state school in the country would have provided me with a better education. The most interesting person (and the one from whom I learned the most) was one of the two African American students, whose personal background (and opinions on Historically Black Colleges) made for the most thought-provoking conversations I had in my three years there.

The other random story is more local. Ballard is a Seattle neighborhood that is historically Scandanavian (read: white), and, as housing prices rose in the 90's and early 00's, became the place that young, white urbanites snatched up houses to raise their kids in-city. Seattle has a long history of forced desegregation school busing, such that kids from the poor neighborhoods (read: black) were bussed to the wealthier areas of town in order to avoid the "white school" syndrome. As Ballard became more wealthy (white), more disadvantaged kids (black) wanted to go there.

Oh, but this pissed off liberal minded Ballard folks, who wanted their kids to go to the neighborhood (white) school. It also pissed off the neighboring and equally liberal minded Magnolia (a neighborhood where homes start at $600K) families, who finally had a (white) school nearby. Incidentally, the joke was on them, since the Very Best School in Seattle wasn't in the suburbs or even in Ballard, but was rather at Garfield, which is in one of the few racially diverse neighborhoods in Seattle. See, it wasn't about the Very Best School. It was about the whitest, most convenient school.**

These "progressive" parents took to the courts and ultimately, successfully convinced the Supreme Court that their kids were being harmed by not being able to go to the local (white) school and now, their kids can go to school with kids Just Like Theirs.

Who the fuck are these people who want that for their kids? My boss, who has owned his law firm for 20 years and lives in a house that is now worth several millions of dollars - you know where his kids went to school? Garfield - the alma mater of Jimi Hendrix and Quincy Jones. His kids are the most well adjusted, smartest, wonderful kids I have ever known. His daughter just left Garfield after her sophomore year because she has enough credits to start college at the UW. They both took AP classes and played in the orchestra and did all of the things promised by the suburb schools, yet neither one is a binge drinker or drug user or gang banger. They are also the kind of kids that see a crazy person on the bus while navigating public transportation and feel compassion and empathy for people who don't have it as good as they do. That is true of almost every inner city kid I have ever met.

Living in this city is expensive as all hell and I was lucky that I got in on the real estate market when I did. That said, I live in a one-bedroom + condo that doesn't lend itself well to raising a family. If my circumstances changed and I met someone who had kids or wanted to start a family (and I was of a like persuasion)? The suburbs wouldn't be an option for me. I would rather live in a cramped condo or smaller house with sidewalks and public transportation and options beyond McDonalds and Subway. I couldn't abide by a suburban existence and passing that along as the desired way of living. I couldn't model that.

It truly is a difference in values and a very blunt cultural difference. It is cruise vacations vs. traveling abroad, WalMart vs. neighborhood store, PF Changs vs. the local Wok-n-Go, cineplex vs. indie movie houses, SUV vs. hybrid and Starbucks vs. corner coffee shop.

And yes, I fucking love Starbucks. They're local.

* True story. In law school, I had a professor that prided himself on dazzling the 100+ student class that he could learn all of our names (by studying the seating chart, which had our individual photographs) by the second day of class. On that day, he went around the room, staring at our faces and triumphantly recounting our name. When he got to one of the two Asian students, he said, and I fucking quote, "well, I have a 50-50 chance here." I was told by my classmates that I was alone in my personal outrage.

** The most strident opponent I knew of the Ballard-Magnolia parents was a white Magnolia woman married to one of the only African-American men in Magnolia (who is the editor of a local paper). As the parent of a bi-racial child, living in the whitest neighborhood of Seattle, she understood the value of a multi-racial, diverse (socio-economically speaking) student body and was all too willing to send her son to the "bad neighborhood" if it meant getting a real education. She was considered a pariah during all of this and wrongfully maligned. It was a brunch with her today that brought out this rant.

Mementos

I have two competing thoughts that I am trying to work out in my head and I am going to try to get at least one fully fleshed out.

In my bedroom, underneath one of the nightstands, is a large box containing a very thick album. Specifically, my wedding album. Pictures of a day in August in 1994. We actually had three albums made - two smaller ones for each of our families and one big one for us. B's mother still has hers (although where, I don't know) and I think my parents have theirs, and the complete anthology currently gathering dust underneath my nightstand was over at my aunt's for almost all of our marriage. I don't remember if I brought it back over here before or after B moved out.

I don't know what to do with it now.

I am not a picture person. Most people who know me know I hate having my picture taken and loathe looking at pictures of myself. That observation alone is interesting, as my sister - who is much more socially shy than I am and, ostensibly, has lower self esteem - she likes getting her picture taken and likes most pictures of herself. I admire that and probably should learn something from that observation, but I am on another topic. Also odd is that I love photography generally. I don't myself take pictures, but I can stare at other people's photographs for hours.

I have never been a picture person. That is, I wasn't the type to make scrapbooks (although I think I did do one after high school, but it was never completed and I couldn't tell you where it is). If my mother made a photo album of me growing up, I am unaware of it. I remember seeing pictures of us growing up, but I wasn't particularly attached to them. I couldn't tell you if I have a single picture from high school or college in my place, and the few I have from law school are buried in a briefcase. There are pictures tacked on my refrigerator, but I rarely look at them. They are there because they make the house seem homier, especially since B and I split up ("they just make the fridge look cluttered, K"). They are there because you are supposed to have pictures on your fridge.

I can probably count on one hand how many pictures I have of B and I (not including the aforementioned wedding album). We didn't take them, nor did we hang framed pictures of us all over the condo. We had one from our honeymoon, on the beach, that was never framed, but was displayed in a closed cabinet. I can tell you that there are at least five disposable cameras in the aforementioned cabinet that contain pictures (some racy, I think) of our honeymoon. We never had them developed. I think there was a period when B had a picture of me and my niece on his desk, but I never displayed one of him on mine. Suffice to say, we were of like minds on the whole picture thing.

When I at Kathy's wedding in Mexico, I was struck how much time everyone spent taking and posing for pictures. When they weren't doing that, they were reviewing the pictures they took on their digital cameras. It was a surreal sight to me. Here we are, in the moment, and everyone is looking at a snapshot of the recent past. Maybe it is just the immediacy of the digital photography technology, I don't know - the instant gratification of seeing the moment you just recorded. It doesn't make sense to me.

When I try to understand this apathy towards photographs, I have two quasi-related thoughts. The first one is that I don't need photographs to preserve a memory. That photographs rarely reflect the memory I have of a particular event, nor do snapshots of friends capture the essence of the people in them. The other thought is that I am just not a particularly visual person. I have long known this. I am wordy - both verbally and in writing. I can remember verbatim things that have been said to and by me, and things that I have read and written. I can pick up a card that was written to me years ago and remember exactly how I felt when I read it and what I understood those words to mean.

Which brings me back to a current dilemma. What do I do with that wedding album? The honeymoon picture in the closed cabinet? (I know what I am doing with the undeveloped ones.) The assorted pictures of B that are scattered about in no meaningful sense? Do I toss them out, seeing as they have limited utility to me? Does throwing them away mean I am trying to erase the past or rewrite history? And if I do toss them out, will I regret it, years later, when my memories have faded or worse? If they don't capture my memories now, will they become more accurate later? What the fuck do I do with those pictures?

Related: early on in the separation, when the wounds were much more raw, I went looking for something to remind B of where we had been - where we came from - what we had been like before we had become broken. I don't think I ever really wanted to get back together with him, just wanted some acknowledgment from him that he understood, as much as I did, the magnitude of what was lost. I found an old card he had given me while we were still dating. I am not a hoarder of past mementos and, until recently, not particularly sentimental, but I saved that card for over a decade. It wasn't even that sappy of a card, but I remember exactly what it said:

Front: "I love you more today than I did yesterday"
Inside: "Yesterday, you really got on my nerves."
Inscription: "I love you. Sorry for not always making time for us. You are what matters most. I would kiss you, but I have a cold." (the latter statement being one of our many inside jokes)

(I put that card in his sack of mail and hoped he would see it and have That Moment. Not even a Grand Gesture, just That Moment. Instead, he somehow managed to pull it out of a sizable bag of mail and said, "what, are you returning my cards to me?" B was also, quite clearly, not a man who relished words.)

Which, of course, brings me to a second dilemma. The relationship that just ended was marked by words. Thousands of emails, IMs, and some handwritten communications. What do I do with those? Do I nuke all of the messages in the account and start over? Isn't that, too, just digitally erasing history? Once they are erased, they are gone forever. Is that what I should do? Is that part of clearing my head and my heart to make room for something else? I can make a strong argument for that. But on the other hand, given my trust in words to capture a memory, shouldn't I keep them? Then again (third hand?), do I need words to capture any memory?

I don't have the answers to that one yet. I am going to try to figure out what to do with the pictures first and make my way to the words after that.

I also have to flesh out another, entirely unrelated issue that is just nagging at me.

I also just read another book that changed my life. Huzzah to moving forward, God bless momentum, and fuck mementos.

Dallas, the series, circa 1985-86

Apparently, that is how things should roll. It never happened. *waves Jedi hands* *not the droids*

I realized tonight (Ed. Note: this was last night) that I was always cautioning him on how he might feel and he was always cautioning me on how I might feel about him. Absolutely no one was paying attention to what might happen to each other. The more astute would realize that this was probably projection of some sort, or at least two smart people who knew that the whole "riding off into the sunset" had more than a few complications for both of our lives.

On an aside - and I know I have a small audience and I owe no explanations - here's the thing. I fell in love with a truly remarkable person at a remarkably bad time. If I told all the sordid details, you would be able to point out the red flags. I know, I saw them, too. I wouldn't have listened to you then, either, just as I didn't listen to myself while I freaking saluted those flags. It was something I had never, ever experienced and something I cannot bring myself to regret.

I am writing this post for purely selfish reasons. With time comes the inevitable self-rationalization and revision (if not wholesale rewriting) of history, and I have no doubt that in a few weeks, months, whatever -- I will be able to speak of the whole thing rationally. I will be able to understand and perhaps explain that this was all my fault and it wasn't what it seemed and it is quite explicable with hindsight and all that. It will be another mistake that I will acknowledge and own and vow to learn from. Perhaps a learned therapist will deconstruct the whole thing for me and show me how, despite what I knew and felt in my bones at the time, was really nothing more than a cliched story with invented meaning. I think that is how we are programmed to deal with emotional strife and bullshit. I don't claim to be above that, and, again, watch this space for personal growth.

But tonight (and this was started last night, so I am clearly posting from the past), I want to be honest with myself. No matter what vortex of time and space and introspection lies ahead, right now, I am going to call it as it was. I fell in love in every sense of the word. It felt like falling most of the time. I was scared to death of it and tried to stop it out of pure fear. The fear was knowing and loving a person that you could not believe existed - a Mr. Snuffleupagous, if you will. That sounds so hokey, as if he were the perfect man. Not the case. He could and did irritate me. Even that was endearing.

But who I knew him to be in his bones? Yeah. I definitely fell for that person. That was all real and honest and, quite frankly, the love of a lifetime. No matter how I will spin it later, trying to justify what was surely a mistake of nuclear proportions, it was utterly real. Tonight, it wasn't a mistake at all. It wasn't what, I am sure, I will later characterize as an infatuation, or an addiction, or a diversion, or whatever rationalization I eventually label it. I am certain that it will eventually be chalked up to "situational circumstances" and filed it away as a "important lesson learned." Huzzah to personal growth and acceptance - can't wait to get there.

But for tonight? I am a better person for having known and loved this person and although I know all of the labels to put on it later in order to move past it? Not gonna do it. Wouldn't be prudent. It was absolutely everything we both acknowledged and knew it to be, no matter how we now both manage to move past it. It was, in his words, one in a million. It was. As painful as it was to end it, I never, ever want to lose sight of that, even as I know I will probably make every effort to do just that.

At the end of the day, I would rather admit what I knew it to be and deal with the very real fallout from that than pretend it didn't happen. So fuck you, Dallas, and your convenient ruse of pretending it didn't exist. I don't live in the nighttime soap realm and I am never going to pretend it was all a dream. I was there and I was awake, and, in any event, I know how that hand works out - you lose.

I hate to say this fucking phrase, but I am back in my Thoreau days of living deliberately.

Sofa King Awesome

a treatise on the 'Manamana' song

It is a hell of an internet out there.