I’m not going to start this blog with an apology about how rarely I blog. If I were hitting you everyday and apologizing each time, it would not change the fact that I hit you every day, would it? No. So let us just not speak of it at all.

I am one of those people who spends some time reflecting on New Year’s Eve. I don’t want to be. I have tried not to be. No getting around it, I just am. I’m not severe about it. I mean, I’m not kicking myself all night for not being who I thought I would be when I daydreamed in middle school. Much. Mostly, I take a quick inventory and try to motivate myself to go in one direction or another.

The first time I remember really putting any thought into it I was six months past college graduation and waiting tables at Cha Cha Coconuts. Even if I had been any good at waiting tables, I think that job would have given me cause for self evaluation. As it was, I knew I had to get out of that situation and fast. I stood at the top of the St. Petersburg Pier, watched my customers stumble about, groping and kissing and singing that song while the fireworks went off, and I cried. I cried just enough that it motivated me and I did get out of there. (Briefly, I moved on alright- to a short career as a cover band singer, to a new apartment, and to an abusive relationship. The following New Year I played in that band at a house party for some people who had no teeth but had recently won the lottery. Yeah, that motivated me too.)

So, I’m 41, and it’s about to be a new year. I just had a baby, so resolution or not there will be weight lost. I would like to resolve to keep my mouth shut at work (bwah hah hahah!) That will never be accomplishable. I try that one and fail every year. I would like to resolve to take piano lessons. I don’t have a piano. There are other resolutions I should kick around and shoot down, but I’ll do it on my own time.

Last year I didn’t reflect at all for the first time in many years. Last year on NYE I got engaged. He proposed moments before we left to walk to the party down the street (oh how I miss living a block away from people I love). I said yes, and we happily strolled to our friends’ house. Before midnight struck, way before, we had to leave the party because I wasn’t feeling well. Before midnight struck I was back at home and I knew I was having a miscarriage. I took a lot of Aleve and passed out as James watched the ball drop on his iPhone and told me Happy New Year, and that he loved me.

A month later I realized I was already pregnant again (5% chance, my ass), and we were looking for a new house and starting a new life.

So I didn’t make any resolutions in 2011, but 2011 seemed to sort of make them for me.

I don’t know what I’ll be thinking about as the clock strikes midnight this year. (Maybe a scheme will begin to brew to get a smaller dining room table and squeeze in that piano…) I’m very happy with my new little family. But who out there is ever totally satisfied with the person that they have become? Who doesn’t reflect on that? (All my exes, hah ah aha hah…) No, really. Seriously. I hope I’m struck dumb with realization.

I never wanted anyone to take care of me.

I can’t say that I never needed care, just that I never felt much of a need for it. Maybe I didn’t allow myself a desire for it? Hmm.

In childhood it was available in spurts, the care. My father was absent of the ability, or desire. My mother tried her best, but struggled with depression and her ability to care for herself. Maybe that is saying too much about her, or giving her too little credit. Good thing she doesn’t really understand the internet.

I don’t want to say fully that I learned to not expect it, because I remember early on rejecting it. I remember having no fear. I remember walking a half mile to the creek bed at five years, telling no one where I’d gone, not worried a bit about what might happen, fully expecting to come home whenever I wished and have no one even ask where I’d been for hours. My mother freaked, of course. Insert here many examples of my independence and my mother’s freak outs. She trained me to expect her reactions, but it took years before I understood what she was so worried about. (Funnily, or maybe not, all of the truly horrifying things that happened to me in childhood took place while in the care of supposed responsible adults, never in my absent minded adventures and wandering away.) Hmmm.

In my twenties I was pale and lovely (man, how I wish I’d understood that I was lovely. Oh well.) I lived in Miami, where being pale and lovely was a commodity. I made very little actual money on it, because I found it to be so embarrassing (insert incredibly brief modeling stint here), but I had some very interesting offers. I once had a man (repeatedly, he was a regular at the cafe’ in which I worked) offer me an apartment and a regular rotation of Mercedes (he was a dealer so I would have a different one every month or so) to have sex with him during the week and not tell his wife about it. I had an owner of a nightclub, a guy from France, offer me a ridiculous weekly salary in exchange for working a few nights a week at the club and fooling around with him after close. I was also not supposed to tell his wife. I was offered a boat by a German businessman, and a condo by a guy who just wanted me to be his girlfriend when he was in town on business. At least those two were not married.

I never once considered any of these crazy types of offers. I would like to say that I recognized many of the men I rejected as probable sociopaths, that I was smart enough to know better. But, I dated some dirt poor sociopaths, so throw that theory out.

I think I just didn’t want to trade my independence for money and comfort. (It may be worth mentioning that I had very very little of either of the latter).

Now, in my early thirties, I tried for a while to be a stay at home mom. I did it for eighteen months straight. I was terribly unhappy with about 60% of it. Babies are so freaking awesome, that it’s easy to lose yourself in them. However, when it’s just you and an infant for twelve hours of the day, you can go a bit nuts in your desire for adult conversation alone. And the truth of that job is, you have so few moments to yourself, that it is actually hard to find time to pee. I struggled with the fact that I wasn’t contributing enough to the household economy, but more than that I struggled just to find an hour in the week to be myself, the person I was before I was someone’s wife and someone else’s mother.

What the fuck am I getting at?

Every new decade seems to bring a new struggle with maintaining my autonomy within my personal relationships. I have lived with men, been married to them, and have always wanted to feel as though I was contributing in all of the modern ways. Be the contributions through finances, opinion, whatever.  That’s what I used to think the struggle was.

You know what? I was totally wrong. I’m looking at my life now. I’ve just turned forty. My son is almost five. I’m divorced. I’m engaged. I’m pregnant. I’m happy, and I’m spending a lot of commuting time thinking about how to maintain a balance once the baby arrives and I’m married again. You know what else? I think it will be super hard to be the kind of connected mother that I like to be, to support and nurture the bond in my marriage, and to work full time. But, I like all three of those things so I’m giving it a whirl. You know fucking what else, though? Even if I can balance all of that, if I don’t treat my creative mind with some care as well, I know I won’t pull it off. Fucking Virginia and her damned room! No wonder everything always fell apart.

My major creative outlet currently is making funny comments on my friend’s status updates and trying to entertain everyone with clever updates of my own. I think the truth is that if I can find that small amount of space and time in my own mind, I might just be able to pull this off.

Screw having someone pay all my bills. I just want that room when I can get it to myself, be alone with my thoughts, and make something.

The sending of photos of one’s genitalia to the object of your affection is a beautiful expression of love, desire, and trust. By exposing yourself, you are opening yourself completely to another person. There is nothing so gratifying. There is nothing so perilous. “Here I am, in all my glory,” you are saying. “Accept me, please.”

It takes strength, courage, and genuine affection to express yourself so forthrightly.

Sadly, in our post modern, cynical society, any display of open-hearted and sincere devotion is perceived as weakness. It is something to be attacked, not celebrated. Despised, not praised. One need look no further than the tragic case of the American-style footballing quarterbacker, Brett Favre, and the seemingly beautiful Jenn Sterger, for a prime example of what can happen to a man who makes this romantic gesture.

The man who sends photos of his genitalia to a prospective romantic partner is engaging in a time-honored courtship ritual. Throughout history, man has sought to distinguish himself from other suitors by revelatory bravura. It is as much a part of our evolution as the opposable thumb, or the uvula.

Today’s man, the so-called “evolved” man, lives in a world of heightened angst. Technology has, in many ways, made him redundant. Whereas before a man might prove himself by killing a large, hairy animal, so as to feed his family of soft-toothed Neanderthals, today’s man has simply to go to a fine restaurant and order wild boar, and stuffed quail, and asparagus. At one time, a man could show off for a potential mate by building for her a hut made from sticks and twigs, and perhaps some of his own dung to act as a sort of adhesive. Today, once all the proper building permits and paperwork has been filed, one need only engage the services of a general contractor to build a house for him. In cases of dispute, men of the past might bludgeon one another to death with heavy clubs. Today, they sue one another in court.

In such a world, how is the evolved man to show his affection? How is he to prove his worthiness?

The New York congressman Anthony Weiner has recently found himself in the midst of a burgeoning scandal that throws into stark contrast the awkward predicament of the modern man. A photo of what might or might not be Mr. Weiner’s half-erect penis was posted to his yfrog account.

He claimed that his account had been hacked. He has since slightly amended his story, claiming that he was “pranked.”

Mr. Weiner is no doubt aware of the terrible national hazing that greeted Brett Favre. Not wanting such a fate to befall him, he has attempted to cover his tracks. The yfrog account has been deleted, and he has given an oddly combative press conference. And some awkward interviews. And having finished with that, his staff is now calling the police on reporters who ask him questions about the subject.

He claims he did not send the photo. He claims, also, that he is unable to identify the photo as being one of his own private parts. Whether Mr. Weiner actually sent the photo of his (covered) half-flaccid penis is beside the point.  The point is that it is shameful that, in our modern society, a man cannot send to a woman a photo of his genitalia without being made the subject of scorn and ridicule.

When you are first dating someone you give them all the best stuff, right? Especially if you really hit it off. Because the people you really hit it off with bring out the best in you.  They make you funnier and sexier, and way more relaxed then you really are.

And that’s fine, right? If that didn’t happen, would anyone date at all? If we all started out with a laundry list of why we were such a mess, who would be interested? Well, except for people who are total masochists, or who think they can change you, or believe you will change for them, or are so crazy that they think you’re normal. We all know how relationships with crazy delusional masochists turn out, right? I couldn’t be the only one. Right? Right.

Here I am, swimming along through life with Mr. Tasty Cake, and it’s been kind of a joy marathon. Happiness. Fast. Which is fine, it’s great. Maybe two weeks in we looked at each other and sort of came to the conclusion that everyone in this relationship already knew where it was headed, so we may as well admit it. We were headed for commitment, serious commitment. Nothing scary about it, it was just a happy fact. When you go out on a first date with someone, and their favorite Chinese restaurant in Manhattan is your favorite Chinese restaurant in Manhattan (Sammy’s Noodles- West Village- I would link, but wordpress is not cooperating)- that’s pretty amazing. Especially since neither one of us lives there, and do you know how many Chinese restaurants there are in Manhattan? Anyway, 4 months in, we’re engaged. He puts his house up for sale, it sells in TWO DAYS (yes, when I type in all caps I am meant to be shouting at you). At 6 months we were moving in together.

At 6 months and 5 days I get really sick. I have freaking shingles again. Yes, again. I’m like a shingles celebrity at the doctor’s  now. They were just passing me around yesterday talking about how strange my case of repeat shingles is at my age. Anyway, I’m really sick. Fever, pain, exhaustion, google it. This is just about the worst of me. I’m useless in this state.

So last night I mention that if we had been together longer he would know how I get with stuff like this. Now I feel like I owe him more of a list. He’s stuck with me, right? (I got his grandma’s diamond and he can’t have it back!) Here goes.

I am a terrible patient. I don’t like to let on how sick I am, I expect you to just realize it. I don’t like to ask for things because I feel like a burden, but I wonder why you don’t offer them. If you do offer them, I will likely turn you down because I feel guilty for needing you.  When I say no, you would be smart to ask “really?” at least twice. I bet that is super annoying.

I can argue my way out of A LOT (still shouting) of things, even ridiculous things. I try not to want to win every argument, but, oh, it’s so hard to resist that. I should have gone to law school, we’d be shopping for a bigger house.

When I go to a restaurant, and discover a dish that I really love, I want to order the same thing every time. Sushi Rock? Hawaiian rolls- every time. Some people may read that and think- big deal. But, I know you enough to know that you just shuddered a little bit.

I hate to do dishes- oh, wait, you figured that one out in no time flat.

I need sleep. Less than 8 hours makes me cranky. No, I really need sleep. You need to believe this. When I don’t sleep I am the freaking sea hag.

When pregnant, I am miserable. I hate to be fat. May skin breaks out for the first 3 months and makes me super self conscious. I have a terrible time eating, and when I can eat I want very specific things. Morning sickness lasted 6 months with Owen. Also it makes me even sleepier, and even crankier when I don’t sleep. (Side note, children are always allowed to wake me with no consequence because they need me.)

Wow- I’m starting to think that I should have listed some positive stuff first for good measure. Hopefully you know all that already.

I’m sure there’s more. I can leave an open forum in the comments section for more crap about me, I guess. (Oh, just a thought, what if everyone came with a reviews bubble above them, like when you shop at Target.com? That would be helpful, as long as everyone who ever dated you wrote one, ’cause some people are just bitter, and you want to average out to at least 3.5 stars). Right now we can just focus on the whole bad patient thing. I will try to be better, really I will. And I will get back to normal- in 6-7 days. Then we can move on to the good stuff again. Ok? Ok.

10. The only person who saw you naked was the TSA screener

9. You had to eat at home, because of your date’s ankle bracelet

8. Charlie Sheen made you take a number

7. You found out your date “Stephanie” was really “Stephen”

6. The restaurant you went to was determined by the best coupon he had

5. Your ‘date’ was really a Señor Wences-style puppet drawn on your right hand

4. Your boyfriend’s promise of a seven-course meal turned out to be a bowl of corn chips and a six pack

3. Instead of not having sex, you didn’t have sex three times!

2. Because your date gave you “something special” for Valentine’s Day, you’re now taking Valtrex

1. Your husband thought it would be a good time to tell you about his ‘bromance’
 

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.

10. Although this sonnet’s only ten lines long,

9. And not a sonnet’s needed full fourteen,

8. To call this poem a sonnet would be wrong.

7. So this poem’s dedicated to Maureen.

6. I Love your kindness, wittiness, and grace.

5. I Love the fire burning in your soul.

4. I Love your gorgeous body, lovely face.

3. When we’re together, I at last feel whole.

2. We’ll share Eternal Love, us One together.

1. Or, at the very least, forever endeavor.
 

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.

Valentine’s Day is the perfect holiday for showing your significant other just exactly what you feel about her. A special day trip can add an extra element of fun and excitement, and makes a unique gift. It’s also important to explore and support local events and landmarks; it helps you to feel more connected to the place where you live. I thought I would share one of my own experiences in unique gift-giving, from many years ago. I hope it gives you some great ideas on what you can do to make your own Valentine’s Day extra special.

I spent my college days at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. My moving out to New Mexico to be with her impressed my girlfriend, but she was rarely impressed by anything else I did.  My gift-giving skills were, she told me, consistently disappointing.  For instance, one Valentine’s Day I cooked her a meal consisting of Smack Ramen and Spam, with conversation hearts floating in Jell-O for desert (I was poor).  The year before, I presented her with a Bullwinkle T-shirt I had won by eating 40 Taco Bell tacos in a month (she gave it back to me).

Well, this particular Valentine’s Day, the one I’m discussing right now, I was determined would be different.

We were both interested in exploring different cultures.  One of New Mexico’s great selling points is that it is a state full of representatives of other cultures, including Mexican, Native American, Spanish, African American, Asian American, and white.  There are ample opportunities to explore these cultures.

I could have taken her to see some Anasazi ruins.  I could have taken her to Chaco Canyon, the center of the Native Heritage Trail Scenic Byway.  We could have gone to the restored 1870s Spanish Colonial rancho Casa San Ysidro.  I took her to a cockfight.

Up until 2007, Cockfighting was legal in New Mexico.  For many years, animal rights advocates had tried to get it banned, but there was a great deal of resistance from legislators and from residents who claimed that the sport was part of their culture.  The culture of New Mexico.  The state in which we lived.  The state I had moved to in order to be close to her.  This was my thinking.  By attending a cockfight, we would be learning about New Mexico’s culture.

It was difficult to learn the location of the cockfight, because New Mexicans are fiercely protective of their culture.  Or they were back in the early ’90s.  It was only by chance during a night of dumpster diving that I came upon a tattered copy of “Grit and Steel,” the official magazine of game cocking, which had a list of February events.  By luck, there was a Valentine’s Day special in a rural area about 30 miles from Albuquerque.

On that Valentine’s Day I blindfolded my girlfriend and led her out to my car.  “Where are we going?” she asked, laughing.

“We’re going to have a special New Mexico experience,” I said, excited that I was finally giving her a gift that didn’t totally stink.

“Wow.  Okay, let’s go!”

After we’d been in the car driving for about half an hour she asked me, a bit suspiciously, “Um, how much farther?”

I’d gotten lost on the dusty, unmarked rural roads (they all looked the same to me) but I didn’t want to let her know that.  “Not much farther,” I asserted.

Not long after that I caught sight of a sleek, black truck with chickens in the back, and followed.  Sure enough, within five minutes we’d reached our destination.

As soon as I’d parked the car I pulled off her blindfold and called out “surprise!”  She looked around the dimly lit parking lot at the Hispanic, Asian, and white men (mostly men, but there were a few women), in cowboy boots, overalls and baseball caps, as they walked together in multicultural harmony toward a shabby corrugated metal building.

“Um, Richard, where are we?”

“We’re at a uniquely New Mexican sporting event!”

She gave me a cynical look.  “That’s the kind of thing you say when you’re bullshitting me.  Where are we?”

“We’re at a cockfight!”

“Oh my god, I cannot believe you brought me to a cockfight!”

“It’s New Mexican culture –”

“It’s barbaric!  I can’t believe you thought I would want to see a cockfight!”

“You like New Mexico, and you eat chicken!  What’s the big deal?”

“How can you be so dense?  You actually thought this was a good Valentine’s Day present?  This is your worst present ever!”

“Oh Jesus, you say that every year.”

“And every year it’s true!  Take me out of here now.”

“Come on, let’s just go in for a little bit.  A few minutes.  If you don’t like it, then we can leave.”  Sensing an opening, I continued:  “You can’t judge something before you’ve actually seen it for yourself.  That’s not very tolerant.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that.  It was pretty sweet reasoning – she’d used it herself on those occasions when she’d dragged me to one of those plays in which oppressed vaginas talked to each other for two hours.  I was smiling when she turned to me.  She was not smiling.  “Fine.  But you are an ass.”

Inside the building (there was a sign on the door that had been drawn on a small piece of cardboard that read “Jimmy and Juan’s Game Cockery Farm”) we discovered a world unlike any we’d ever before seen.  The men milled around, loudly talking, making purchases of gaffs and penicillin, and examining the chickens that were in cages along the far wall.  The smell was of mud and sweat, and a little blood and rust.  At the center of the building was a large “pit,” which was approximately 15 feet wide and 15 feet long, surrounded by wire mesh.  Circled round the pit were several rows of long wooden benches on risers.

We approached the cages and surveyed the animals.  They were really quite extraordinary – lean and muscled, with elegant plumage.  “Wow, look at that one,” I said, pointing out a particularly eye-catching chicken whose name was, according to the sign on its cage, “James Featherduster.”  “He’s got a great looking, uh, whatever you call those things that dangle off their beaks.”  (I didn’t know what they were called then and I still don’t know now.)

“I just want to get out of here,” my girlfriend whispered.  I didn’t hear that at the time, though.  She told me later that she’d said that.

“Ya’ll oughter put a few bucks on ol’ James here,” his owner asserted, his leathery face cracking into a toothy smile.  “He’s got the real warrior spirit in ‘im.”

I looked at my girlfriend, whose face had lost all color.  “Let’s put a few bucks on him!” I said.  It seemed like an important part of the experience, and I didn’t want to miss out on it.  James Featherduster’s owner instructed me that bets were placed immediately before the fight, so we made our way back over to the risers and had a seat.  My girlfriend had her hand on my arm, in an ironclad grip, her body close to mine.  I must have been doing something right!

James Featherduster’s handler carried him into the pit, and on the other side another handler carried his own chicken.  As the two men began attaching the gaffs (small metal spikes) to the chickens’ legs, a man wandered into the crowd and we all stood and started placing bets with him.

When I handed over my five-spot and told the bet-taker that I wanted it all on James Featherduster’s nose, one of the other bettors laughed at me.

“What’s funny?” I asked, defensively.

“Cock-A-Doo is going to rip James Featherduster a new one, that’s all!” the man said.

“Cock-A-Doo is that good, huh?”

“James Featherduster looks good,” the man explained.  “But Cock-A-Doo has won eight matches in a row.  He’ll take the Featherduster down!”

“Okay,” I said.  I had no idea what I was doing anyway.  “Put that five on Cock-A-Doo.”

After a few minutes the betting was over and the match started.  James Featherduster and Cock-A-Doo couldn’t wait to get at each other, practically flying across the pit.  They met dead center, about two feet off the ground, pecking with their beaks.  Their feathers flared, and a roar went up from the crowd as they hit the ground.

My girlfriend buried her head in her hands, so she missed the best part, as the two chickens parried, thrashed, and pecked, in movements that brought to mind both the ballet and the slaughterhouse.  Feathers and blood flew.

The chickens were hooked to each other at one point, and had to be separated.  Their handlers came out and pulled them apart.  Then, each did something I thought was strange: they put their mouths on the chicken’s asses and blew.  One of the other spectators helpfully explained to me that doing this helps stimulate the animals.  I joked that blowing on my ass would stimulate me, too, and that got a laugh.  I felt pretty good, like I was really connecting with these people.

I turned to look at my girlfriend, to see if she’d appreciated my humorous remark, but she was turned away, dry heaving.  “We can leave as soon as this fight’s over,” I reassured her.  I thought Cock-A-Doo had a chance, and I might win some bucks.

Well, Cock-A-Doo didn’t win.  At the end of the fight he was a broken, bloody mess; dead but still involuntarily pecking at the air with his lifeless head.  “Well, at least he’s not a quitter,” I said as my girlfriend and I headed out.

“Why are you crying?” I asked her when we were back in the car.

“Because I love you,” she said.  I thought that was the sweetest thing she’d ever said to me.

But I do regret taking that other bettor’s advice and putting my five bucks on Cock-A-Doo.  I should have trusted my first instinct and bet on James Featherduster.  You really should trust your instincts.

I blogged in December, but I didn’t post it.

The blog was vague. I wanted to talk about something, but I didn’t want to jinx it. So, the blog didn’t really make any sense. It was likely pretty darn uninteresting, as well.

At the time, when I first wrote it, I was pregnant. I was trying to come to terms, in a happy way, with the idea that maybe I could go back to re-planning that whole “married with children” lifestyle. It would be a new version, of course, with my new cake husband, and certainly way better than the Bundy version. Not to mention way better than my previous version, one would hope.

I wrote the blog, and it didn’t make any sense, so I re-wrote it. It still didn’t make any sense. I was trying to say that I was so thrilled to be pregnant, and possibly soon to be engaged, without saying anything about either of those things. Ordinarily, I think I’m pretty good with the metaphors, but I just didn’t have one on those two days of writing. I sent Scott (site editor/creator) an email saying that I would rewrite it a third time. I would get it figured out on Wednesday, the 29th. I had the day off and I would work it out in font.

I felt so tired on Wednesday. I couldn’t get out of bed for anything, I didn’t write a word. Then on Thursday morning I woke up bleeding. By the following Tuesday we knew definitively there had been a miscarriage. Somewhere in the middle, before we knew for sure, we got engaged.

My poor cake. He had been planning on asking me to marry him when we went on vacation at the end of January. The pregnancy gave him a jolt of urgency. He decided to bump up the asking time to New Year’s Eve. Maybe we’re old fashioned, but we were thinking it would be nice to announce the engagement first. He asked me before we left for the party, around 6:00 pm. I was hurting too much to hang, we ditched the party at 10:00 pm, by 11:00 pm I was in bed, in excruciating pain.  New Year’s Eve was the height of the most physically painful part of the loss. I was in bed, looking at my ring, wondering how to deal with being incredibly happy and desperately sad at the same time. I’m not sure what he was thinking.

No one has ever really died on me before, unless you count my siamese cat. All the grandparents that were living when I was born are actually still living. (One is so mean, she will probably live forever.) I’ve never been to the funeral of someone that I knew well. Actually, I’ve only been to one funeral. I’ve known plenty of loss, but never really knew from grief.

Now, everyone knows how I bounce. I bounce back on the surface first, but I bounce back pretty completely at some point. I’m pretty effing bouncy. And the whole writing thing usually helps tons. But, I feel like maybe I skipped a step in my bounce this time, because I don’t know how to do this kind of bounce. (Shit, what’s another word for bounce that doesn’t sound all frollic-y? I apologize for my redundancy.) The break-up ritual is:  drink with your girls and talk smack about your ex. I guess the death ritual is a funeral (BTW, I want a party). What is the miscarriage ritual? No one talks about it, right? You just pick up and move on?

In my case, so far, I’ve eaten a lot of cookies, and some cheeseburgers, talked to just a few people, tried to get back on the regular “how to merge two lives” track with Mr. Cake- and man, have I kissed and hugged my poor four year old into infinity. I don’t know what else to do. And I’m still so sad, and there’s still so much to be happy about.

For a spurned ex-fiance, is there any better revenge than hitting your former partner in the wallet?

I almost laughed through my bleary eyes Thursday morning when I woke up and saw Lemondrop.com link to this story about a Chicago woman suing her former life partner-to-be for almost six figures to recover costs from a wedding that was cancelled at the last minute. It’s not the first tale of its kind, but the dollar amount close to $100k drew my attention.

Without a doubt, Dominique B is doing the right thing. Nuptials are serious business with major financial ramifications for those footing the bill. If her man was getting cold feet, he owed it to her to end the relationship before expenses mounted and Dominique’s monetary investment grew to a level close to her emotional one. You’ll be hard pressed to find a better argument in favor of small, quaint ceremonies (read: inexpensive ones).

These kinds of situations should go both ways. If a woman pulls the ‘Runaway Bride’ act, men should drop the legal hammer if they see fit. It’s important for people, regardless of gender, to hit the brakes long before the big day spirals out of control. If their feelings are in doubt, they probably care more about the dollars anyway.

My mother grew up in a farm town in Illinois. She had an older brother and a younger brother, and her parents had double standards. She could only go so far into the woods, she could only swim so far out into the lake, she had to be home before dark — that kind of thing. Her brothers did as they pleased and she was informed that girls were not allowed the same freedom.

I wonder if that’s why she never complained about raising me alone. And I mean alone, no support system whatsoever, no help from my birth father. I wonder if she just decided to prove to everyone that she was strong, and fully capable of being both parents. She was strong, she was capable, but of course she couldn’t be two people. Neither can I.

Fortunately, for the most part, I don’t have to be. Owen’s dad has him more than any other ex-husband has the kids in any of my girlfriends’ lives. We both work hard to maintain that relationship for them.

Unfortunately, I am still exhausted. And the really prevalent memory I have of my mother, after my folks split, is of her forever trying to catch up on sleep. She was always tired. I am always tired. (Sidenote: Being a parent, if you are doing it right, is exhausting even in the best circumstances. But in a two-parent household you can tag each other out and get a nap in sometimes. Ahh, naps, I remember those…)

Me, though, I complain about it. Mostly just to my other mom friends (single amd married). We feel like we have the right. I think my mom’s generation felt like they fought so hard to be able to have their independence, and their career, and their sexual freedom as single women, that complaining would be like saying they couldn’t do it all.

Well, I do a lot. I mean, a lot. And I’m tired, I mean tired. But I can’t do it all! And I don’t have to do this alone.

Tomorrow, one of my best girlfriends is getting married (ditching her single-mom title)! Tonight a bunch of us girls got together and did the “old, new, borrowed, blue” thing with her. All of our kids were there with us, and it is so natural for us all to be together, like family. I feel blessed by their existence in my life.

You see, I have decided that I want to be present with my son in a way that my mother often didn’t have the energy to be. I refuse to not ask for help when I need it (well, mostly). It’s true that my child is partly being raised by the village (I love you guys), my parents, my friends, my ex. It’s true that some of the time while he is with them, or at pre-school, he is wishing he were with me. What he gets in exchange for less time with me, is truly connected time with me. And I’m so proud of that.