In order to quash any rumors of my death, and because the best way to break in a new handheld is to coat it with a fine Coppertone sheen, I'm indulging in a little Beachside Berryblogging. I'm in charge this week while Mom is out of town, and the boys are digging to Pompeii. If we come across any entombed prostitutes, I'll let you know.
You know when you're walking down the street, minding your own business, and then suddenly you buy an [eponymous broadband handheld that is not so much a berry as a drupelet]? Well, it happened to me. My old flip-phone was perfectly fine, except it was so old that people used to gape in amusement and say "Awwwww" whenever I used it. Plus, it needed recharging every 45 minutes. So the other day I was walking past a wireless storefront (and thinking what a blight they are on our community) when it sucked me in and made me buy this thing that lets you check e-mails and web-surf and alter airline flight patterns from the palm of your hand. I can also blog with it, which means I can social-network from the bathroom in far greater detail.
Take a moment to calm yourself.
Summer mode officially takes hold today, when Robert finishes his last day of kindergarten. I've looked upon this day with mixed emotions, because as proud as I am of him, and happy that he can begin his life of leisure, summer also meant moving out. The plan throughout was to move as early in the summer as possible, in hopes that seeing me come back to the apartment and care for them every weekday would help build their faith that I'll still be a big part of their lives. Plus, now that the wounds of this experience were scabbing over, sooner or later I'd have to rip off the Band-Aid.
That left only the simple job of navigating the New York real estate market, and the opportunistic scumbags therein, to find a place. I'm a big believer in real estate karma, and since it took me one day to find the apartment I'm in now I was convinced I was due for a long, hard slog through shabby closets, stifling cologne, and a four-figure broker fee steep enough to cause sharp pains in the bowels for weeks to come.
Then, out of the beautiful blue, a friend phoned to say his neighbors had just moved out. A 600-foot one-bedroom (truly! not just a studio with sheet stapled to the ceiling!), EIK, courtyard views, in the quiet back of the building. And since it wasn't listed yet, there would be no fee.
TwoBert and I were there in 20 minutes. I met the super. I met the neighbors. I ate lunch in the new coffee bar the next block over. I applied that afternoon, and the next morning, bam. I was approved. My lease starts Tuesday.
I had been wincing at that Band-Aid for months. And now, with the aid of some mystical serendipity, it's off.
I have an interesting conundrum regarding my imminent matrimonicide: I don't know who knows about it. I'm sure there are people who don't know about it who should know about it, and plenty of those who do know about it who haven't told others who should know about it. If you read this space regularly, then you know about it.
But what about the others, the people I encounter in my daily dailyism? Most people at work know about it, but one unlucky soul recently approached me at a workthing and asked me where my wife was. I told him about it as gently as I could, and he shrank into himself and liquefied into rivulets that ran out to the curb and down the storm drain.
Then there are the parents of the boys' friends, classmates, teammates, etc., whom I see often at the playground, or when I pick up at school. They know they rarely see the four of us together, but that's no guarantee that they know about it. Some of them act as if they know about it, and gossip being what it is, I usually assume they know about it. It's completely narcissistic to think that, given that most people are too consumed by their own dramas to concern themselves with mine. And I thought everyone at work knew about it before that poor soul turned into awkward soup.
Worse still, there are those who actually know me, who share my bloodline, who don't know about it. One such person is one of my favorite second cousins, who e-mailed me over the weekend to say she was catching up on my archives and read the announcement. Immediately I felt very bad, because my first thought was: "Where you been, sister?" My second was: How the hell had she not known about it until now?
It's true I don't have as close a relationship with my extended family as I'd like, but this particular kinswoman has always stood out among the group. She is lovely, kind, funny, grounded, and mostly sane, and I see her often because her parents and mine are summer neighbors. Yet here it was, an eternity since the schism, and she was just finding out about it. From my blog.
I should have told her myself. But she had to read about it. Like a reader. And with all due respect to all readers out there, a cousin who writes so sweetly and eloquently about how she loves both of us and wants to help us all weather this storm (and who also routinely invites us to her home for beer and lobster) deserves a greater level of intimacy.
[I'm sorry, J. You deserved better.]
How do you tell people about it so everyone knows it's out there, and you don't have to wonder if this person is either pussyfooting or genuinely ignorant?
I'm thinking of having cards made. And why not? Marriages and births are as much life events as divorces are. Therefore, they deserve equal marketing:
You think Emily Post would approve?
