The Act

And the Oscar goes to… What’s-Her-Name and What’s-His-Face. Fabulous, fabulous; couldn’t be happier for you, really. But let’s talk about acting for a moment. Actors get jobs and then they act for as long as their union contracts stipulate; so many hours a day for so many months. Then the job ends. They drop the façade, go back to their lives, pop open a Tab and finish their games of Angry Birds or Words with Friends, or texting angry words with friends. But what if the acting gig never ended? What if you found yourself in a situation where you had to act intermittently, but all the time, day or night? You have to be always ready to be “on” and the job will never end? And the acting you have to do is truly important and will affect others’ lives deeply and permanently? Know what I’m getting at? Do you see where this is heading?

No one has worked harder at acting than the divorcing parent with his or her children. There is a no more seminal performance necessary than when Mom goes to the ATM and suddenly discovers that her joint bank account has been cleaned out. What does she do when she gets back to the car with her kids in the backseat? She acts. And when the husband arrives home unexpectedly to find another man’s car in the driveway? And the ensuing argument wakes the sleeping child? You better believe he needs to act. Because when those parents can put a tourniquet—not a Cub-Scout-first-aide-lesson tourniquet, but a stranded-in-the-Alaskan-frontier-without-a-flare-gun tourniquet—on their true emotions and look into their child’s face and say—WITH A SMILE—“Everything’s okay,”—man, oh, man, that’s acting. And to be that convincing takes Herculean Lawrence Olivier ability.

Because every fiber of your being is screaming with desire to tell your precious cherub what a stinker her parent is. Your misery wants company so badly that your body aches to sit your children down and tell them all the nasty little details of who had the nerve to do what to whom. But you don’t. In stead, you act. Because if you’re a good parent—which is code for selfless parent-- you will pretend to your child every time he comes breathlessly in the back door with blithe spirit and flushed cheeks, that the crisis you are in isn’t happening to him. Because, in fact, it isn’t. Your marriage is just that-- yours. So you must act your little heart out when she asks if Daddy can come to her birthday party or Mom can come to his big game. You smile, and you say yes, and then you act for the duration of the meal, chewing the inside of your cheek if you must to remain on task and not let the little barbs lined up in your tear ducts fire from within every time you look at him. You act that you’re happy to be on the same set of bleachers with your disloyal wife in front of your knowing community, because all that acting—in the long run—will bear the fruit of confidence in your child. All your acting will allow your children to grow up and not have to act; so that your sons can be their most relaxed self, and your daughters can feel precious and loved.

Because the whole name of the divorce game is love, and if your kids don’t feel that they have permission to love both their parents equally, they’ll take you down as teenagers and most likely take themselves down as adults. So, you act. You act your heart out. And when your daughter gets dropped off from a vacation with Daddy wearing earrings that his new girlfriend picked out for her, you smile and tell her how great they look. And when your son arrives home telling you how mom’s new husband was really helpful with his science fair project—because he’s sooo smart-- you beam. “What a great guy,” you even say out loud because for you, divorced parent, Oscar season never ends.

So, as impressed as I am with Meryl and Jean Dujardin, I am so very in awe of you. When your children are older and well adjusted; you’ll know when the time is right. When they’ve asked you for the hundredth time or perhaps for the very first time to tell you what happened; then you can be honest. And that will be your acceptance speech. Keep it brief, and list all the reasons you're grateful and thank all the people who helped you through. Until then, though, whatever you do and however you’re feeling-- no matter what-- keep acting.

Root Problem

Just yesterday I had a root canal. Cozied into the naugahyde chair, ipod set to shuffle; I thought to myself, this is heaven compared to working on my divorce. Reclined back, eyes closed, I tried to relax; losing myself in the dulcet tones of my endodontist leaning into my upper right molar (number three) with her full body weight, grinding away at my tooth, it sounded as if a small, mechanical ferret was being throttled next to my head. And as the squealing and screeching echoed in the space under my right frontal lobe-- weeeeeeeeerrrrreeeeeeeee-- I did my best to focus on Bix Biderbeck's lilting melody, relieved not to be reading over the latest draft of my property settlement agreement for questions or comments to my attorney. It felt like a vacation.

The encumbrance brought on by the festering discomfort and ensuing removal of a person from one's life who leans on ones last nerve is an emotional discomfort to be sure. The constant throbbing brought on by the lists and sub-lists of what must be located, recorded, reviewed, transferred, re-assigned and remembered; split, packed, stored and negotiated results in a throbbing that can take months to die down. Whereas the actual discomfort I was in from my tooth being gnawed at by the electrified prosthetic of the chipper sadist hovering above me-- the festering sort of pain, which is caused by the removal of an actual nerve-- had a finite resolution. I knew that the throbbing would end. My divorce proceedings, however, linger on.

The endodontist finally wheeled her chair back, finishing with a flourish and what I thought to be a smattering of applause from my lower molars. The office lady handed me a xeroxed hand-out which gave me directions for home pain management-- the option of vicadin crisply crossed out. I considered the vast oeuvre of pain management I’d used in the last two years as an average divorcing spouse. The obvious balm—therapy—was a given. But I’ve also sampled Benadryl (only a half) for sleeping, and The Onion and YouTube for quick laughs; church for forgiveness, yoga and CoDA for letting go, and babysitting for the explicit use of movie house escape. My mother has taken me shopping, my father gave me hugs, and for a while-- over the winter-- I ate a sleeve of Mallomars every night before bed. Yummy. And if I thought that taking 3 ibuprohin and 1 Tylenol every 5-6 hours for the last two years would have eased my pain, I would have mainlined the stuff. But that was all that was prescribed for my root canal; so simple, unfussy and clean. I cursed the office lady for not taking out the vicadin line from the hand-out altogether. Must we be reminded of what we could have had?

Stepping into the sun’s hot glare wif a smollen mowf, I was thankful that my divorce, at least, didn’t smell like my root canal. The inescapable odor of vibrating metal on burning enamel had nestled into my nasal passages as I lay helpless in the chair, it’s tinge teasing my nostrils with the suggestion of decay; pervasive like the smell of sawdust, but without the comfort. Breathing fresh air again as I walked to my car, I cleared out my nose, ears and lungs as I wondered about my eventual divorce decree’s odor. Would it smell like passing lilacs? Like morning’s buttered toast? Probably not. But it will smell like victory.

Brave Heart

It was the morning of my four-way with our attorneys, which, if you haven't already guessed, is the very definition of the opposite of sexy. I was a nervous wreck getting dressed, and although I hadn't had any trouble deciding what to wear, I felt naked. So I thought I'd bring a talisman or two to give me strength. It’s not that I didn’t think I could get through this day alone, I knew I couldn’t get through this day alone.

I grabbed the little Lego Princess Leia my son had given me off my dresser and found a necklace given to me by a childhood girlfriend. While rooting around in my jewelry box I found the phalanx of saints pendants I'd been given by my Catholic contingency while trying to get pregnant and strung them all on a chord and fastened it around my neck. That reminded me of the little flowered blanket that a random nun in Florida had sewn for me—also in the name of fertility-- and so I shoved that into my attaché. Then I went back to my jewelry box and grabbed every necklace, bracelet or brooch any girlfriend had ever given to me and threw them into a zip-loc bag. I put on a ring from my sister and a bracelet from my parents then remembered the children's book of zen parables that I thought would be a good reminder. Grabbing that, too, I flew downstairs; my bag now comically bulging.

In the kitchen I picked up a fortune cookie fortune that said my luck would change today—no kidding-- and ripped out the back page of prayers from an old church bulletin I found. On the way to get my coat I noticed a small, plastic Cat Woman sitting atop my son's warrior tin of action figures. I grabbed her plus a teeny plastic light saber even though I knew they flew in the face of zen teachings but had no time to debate the merits of letting go versus gearing up for battle. I figured I had a right, on this day, to both.

The bag was ridiculously heavy and to the average joe-on-the-street looked weighted with serious documents. I wondered how many leather briefcases I'd seen going into important meetings were secretly crammed with old Mad Magazines, baseball cards, golf scores and super balls then decided probably not that many. Just before and occasionally throughout our four-way I peeked into my bag and felt relaxed in the company of my support group and the love of my peeps. I listened and took notes. I let my attorney do the talking. I was calm. I felt strong. It was definitely worth the weight.

The second most terrifying day of my divorce was our first meeting with the judge. On my way to Newark I realized I'd left the zip-lock bag of strength and charms at home. Panicking, I looked around for something in the car-- anything to get me thought this day. I saw my son's turquoise terrycloth Pokemon wrist sweatband and put it on, tucking it up under the cuff of my blouse. I was glad that I'd happened to wear long sleeves that day, but would have worn the wristband regardless. Some things are more important that fashion, I thought, as I met the man who would eventually divorce me.

Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to our case and felt taken care of in a weird way. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. I was certain that he would have appreciated my turquoise Pokemon wrist sweat band, but resisted the urge to roll up my sleeves and show it to him. We were here to get the ball rolling. We were here to do this thang. We’d all rolled up our sleeves enough.

Not Funny

You know what's funny about getting divorced? Nothing. Nothing's funny about getting divorced.

I keep trying to find the humor, the ridiculous, the sublime, but it's just one gooey, mucky mess of self-help books and Mallomars, hairy legs and burning eyes, weepy mornings and lonely nights. God, it's lame and I'm the lamer for it.

Crying through church, therapy, yoga class and my 12 step program has become a sort of homage to Mary Tyler Moore in my own fashion. You remember at the end of the funeral episode when Peanuts the Clown is crushed by the elephant and Mary's relentless giggles are replaced, a bit too tardy perhaps, by hysterical sobs? That would be me. All the time. But with out the canned audience laughter. Jest me, hogging the Kleenex box, puffy and bleary eyed. Blechhh. Gross. How gross? Gross me out the door, that's how.

I'll keep you posted when things start to get hilarious, though. I was at the ready during my first meeting with my divorce attorney, but, nope. Nothing funny there. I was poised for puns when my son's kindergarten teacher told me that he was, "acting out lately." Wait, maybe... Naw. Children of divorce are decidedly not funny. I've stopped going to weddings, so there's no chance of self-piteous hijinx there. And the staggeringly impressive arsenal of humorless self-help books stacked at my bedside ensures that I go to sleep every night with a perfect frown on my face. Just like Nixon.

On the up side, I'll probably lose more weight. Fewer disposable razors to buy and fewer presents to wrap at Christmas. I'll get to flex those "bitter muscles" that have been on brief hiatus since my adoption fell apart and my husband moved out. And I'll just keep waiting for the hilarious to present itself to me. Whether it's hashing out a custody arrangement or looking for gainful employment in our New Stinkin' Economy, I'll be ready. And to be honest, it could be much worse. Like, daylight savings could end or I could find out that I have cancer. But daylight savings isn't for... oh, really? Shit. Well, I don't have cancer, knock wood. I'm healthy and my son's healthy and this is just gonna suck for a while, that's all.

As someone said to me not that long ago, "It'll be exhilarating!"

Right. Exhilarating the way water-boarding is exhilarating. Sure, there's that. Meantime, for the love of God, somebody step on a banana peel, will ya? I'm dyin' here.

Nice Belt

When one is separated and divorce is imminent, one of the topics bandied about by well meaning well-wishers is, "Don't worry, you won't stay single for long."

"Really?" me thinks, "You mean I'll soon get another chance to date forty seven wrong guys before finally honing in on the most best wrong guy before launching into the cringe-worthy world of relationship re-entry?" Oooh, goody. Sign me up. I am positively chomping at the bit to saunter down the well trod path of Will He Like My Cooking? And When Is It OK to Pee in Front of Him? again. Throw in Getting To Know His Parents and His Favorite Foods and Pet Peeves and I pretty much want to throw up. But not on him, goodness, no. Wouldn't want to diminish my chances at "'Til Death Do We Part -- The Sequel."

Which isn't to say that dinner isn't fine. I'll have dinner 'til the cows come home, but that's as far as I'll go for now. Just chit-chat and cloth napkins and who am I kidding? Who the hell am I going to have dinner with? Please. Looking beyond the fact that I don't want to be dating, I shouldn't be dating. Even if I wanted to, which I don't. I have towers of riotous self-help books all over my bedroom waiting for my somber attention like literary stalagmites, the likes of which have brought an unusual topgraphy to my bedroom sanctuary. And I have more crying to do. Certainly a first date isn't the place for an onslaught of heaving sobs, unless of course, we catch a little local Ibsen before dinner and I want to appear deeply affected, moved really, by The Theater. Which brings me to sex.

Here's my sales pitch for a patent pending number on this really great little gadget you just gotta check out. It's not a chastity belt, per se. Chastity belts went out with lemon wedges as tampons sometime after the Crusades. No, this is for the modern woman with a rice paper defense who just might need to be reminded after a glass and a half of wine that her dinner date should end at, "Check, please."

You remember, those bulky home-forged nuisances made of rusty iron? The ones that had padlocks and no spare keys? Well, I'm talking about a chastity belt for today's demanding woman. Something cozy and breathable, made with a cotton/lycra blend that a modern woman can slip on and lock up to remind her that she is in no condition whatsoever to even consider the possibility of sex until she gets her ducks in a row. And I mean all of them.

It's called the "Me Time Belt." It comes in six fashion colors and has a touch pad lock with re-programmable passcode. I would offer it in a barely-there reinforced brushed cotton for the warmer months-- something in a 320 thread count for durability while allowing for a smooth sillouette under summer skirts, and a fleecy warm silk and satin blend for colder climes. That one, called the Shiver Me Timbers, would come with a built in dial for "Warming your cockles when there's no chance of cock!" during those seemingly endless cold, dark winter afternoons.

Wikipedia says: "On February 6, 2004, USA Today reported that at Athens airport in Greece, a woman's steel chastity belt had triggered a security alarm at the metal detector. She was allowed to continue her flight to London on the pilot's authority."

I think she would make a good spokesperson or at the very least, my first customer, don't you?