For a cause close to my heart, and a way to raise money for Ovarian Cancer research, please head over to the review page of my blog here. 

A neighbor caught wind of the “situation” in our household (wonder what that wind smelled like?) and wanted to know if Mike and I were selling soon, because she had a friend just DYING to get into this neighborhood and could she give her my number?  I said yes, and less than 24 hours later, a Kate-Gosselin look-alike with more weathered skin and highlights was standing on my front porch.  Downsizin’, y’all!  She just couldn’t wait to get into the house and start tearing it apart.

Reason #243,862 I don’t want to list my own house:  having to listen to the people walking through your house make inane comments. 

This woman, poor thing, became the living, breathing effigy of everything I hate about the Far West End.  In her tiny little package, North Face jacket, Ugg boots and Coach handbag, her manicured acrylics flailed around her as she pointed in disgust about the things that perplexed her. 

The kitchen is too small.  Too dark. The island would HAVE to be enlarged.  The sunroom - who needs it?  Make it a morning room. Bump out the ceiling into a cathedral ceiling, round the walls, add a chandelier.  Rip down a wall, get rid of those RIDICULOUS closets on the third floor.  Her builder would definitely have to be called; last time they looked at a house “like ours”, it was a mere $80K (it was cheap, she exclaimed) to renovate. 

We have a pretty nice house.  It’s big to me - but apparently 3600 square feet of living space and 3 1/2 bathrooms is just a bit confining to her.  Only 2 bathrooms on the 2nd floor?  Whatever would she and her 3 other family members DO?  It must be hard downsizing from 6,000 square feet to a measly 3600, not to mention the horror of 3 1/2 bathrooms and no built in fireplace on the patio.  I’m not sure how I’ve lived this long in this dump of a house - it’s really quite distressing. 

She was horrified when she asked who our “cleaning lady” was and what “lawn service” we used; I had no answer, because we use neither.  We cut our own grass and clean our own toilets. Quelle horreur! 

Why does she want to move?  Aside from buying a vacation property, they are unhappy with their current neighborhood.  Too many “ethnic” types.  I felt like telling her a dirty Mexicana owned this house, and would she mind all the grease and poverty we give off?  She couldn’t WAIT to get into a proper neighborhood, devoid of any undesirables.  They are already members of the swanky golf club here (we only belong to the “hood” version of it), it’s just so perfect, she loves all the women on my street.  She’s blond, big boobs, and already has the designer jeans necessary to get onto our street.  It’s a perfect fit.  The whole time I heard, “You must be so sad to be forced to move from this neighborhood”, I nodded emphatically, internally screaming, “THANK YOU GOD GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

Let’s hope she buys it.  I might even PAY her to buy it.  I shouldn’t joke, because that’s exactly what’s going to have to happen in order to shed my suburban neighborhood skin. 

I’ve always had mad envy for the RVA Internet Awards.  Sure it’s local, and doesn’t feature Dooce in any category - and that’s why I love it so much.  I’ve enjoyed nominating and voting in past elections - some of my friends are recipients of the awards, and some of my favorite writers who wouldn’t deign to speak to me are, too. 

I got nominated this year and actually made it to the ballot, which fills me with a ridiculous amount of joy.  You LOVE me.  YOU REALLY REALLY LOVE ME.  Nah.  A couple of people who read me nominated me obviously, and there is the magic of landing on the ballot. 

I’m up for “Best Kept Secret” - basically blogs that have no readers yet   Since I’ve been blogging since 2003, I’m wondering if this should bother me.  I checked.  Nope, doesn’t bother me.

If you love me - REALLY REALLY LOVE ME - you can take a second to vote for me.  If you are not in RVA and have no idea what this is all about, you can still vote. 

Either way, Imma Be Bloggin Anyway.

In Michigan, it took a blizzard of epic proportions to keep kids out of school.  I clearly remember my dad fishtailing his way up the giant hill to Junior High cheerfully blasting NPR and giving me a hearty “Have a great day, Sweetheart!” at the top of his lungs while I considered the repercussions of flipping him, and the school system, the bird. 

When we did have snowstorms of epic proportions, school would be canceled one or two days at the max.  If we got the second day, I can still recall the pure joy burning through my veins - TWO DAYS in a ROW!!!  Later, when I could drive, my diesel Rabbit would be unplugged from the power source that enabled it to start on cold days and my friends would pile in.  Donuts in the high school parking lot (the kind that don’t make you fat), specifically looking for icy roads so we could spin out - it’s no wonder I still remember how to drive in terrible conditions.  Is it possible my parents actually let me drive in that stuff?  They were probably so fed up with me, they would have let me drive the Rabbit across West Bay just to get me out of their hair.  The ice was so thick I could have anyway.  Not that I ever tried it. 

It is true that every 4th vehicle in my hometown of Traverse City, Michigan was either a snowplow, sand truck or a very large 4 x 4 truck with two pieces of triangular metal welded to the front - the makeshift redneck snowplow.  Therefore, it was rare that that the buses couldn’t get anywhere on the days it snowed very hard.  The entire population of hearty corn-fed Michiganders banded together in an ice-fueled festival of “CLEAR THE ROADS!” and got out there, shoveling, snowblowing, welding metal to their cars, and making sure their precious kiddies never missed a day of edu-macation.  I’m sure I’m making this up but I wouldn’t be surprised if Grand Traverse County voted unanimously to outfit all school buses with chains during the winter months of September through May. 

I’m not going to launch into a tirade about Virginia, or Henrico County, or the lack of snowplows and budgets.  It’s rare we get snow like this so okay, I get it, but that doesn’t help the insanity that sets in.  I have to ask:  why is it that the first time in nearly a year, I have a paid contract job and my kids are suddenly home, crazy from cabin fever, and crawling all over me like ants on syrup?  I get that every single solitary freakin’ back road in the entire county has to be cleared before the buses can run because if a single child can’t be bussed in to school, then dammit, no kids will suffer the misery of education! 

I think even the kids are starting to miss school.  And that’s saying a lot. 

Last week was “my” week with the kids.  No school Monday through Wednesday.  Lily went half day on Thursday; anytime there is a half-day Arden’s preschool is cancelled.  Based on the threat of bad weather, schools closed again on Friday.  Yep.  The threat.  Not only does forecasting bad weather send everyone streaming into stores for milk and bread (and according to Nicole and Dan, Rainbow Cookies from Ukrops), it sends the schools into a frenzy of OMG OMG OMG we need to preemptively close schools. 

I know.  Safety first.  But can we mix in a healthy dose of reality?  The rest of the Virginia universe drove around, to work and to Ukrops for more Rainbow Cookies - all week long.  Most were miserable and stressed out, going either 104 mph in their Suburbans and Lexus SUVs.  The rest drove 3 mph and randomly stopped in the middle of the roads.  Oh and by the way?  Did you know that snowplows don’t have to follow basic traffic rules, like stopping for red lights?  Yeah, we were almost creamed by one yesterday.  I even saw a snowplow in a ditch in the middle of 64 over the weekend - that had to be embarrassing. 

We had another wicked snowstorm this weekend.  I’d venture a guess and say it was worse than the one we had last weekend.  If my calculations are correct, this will mean the kids will be out of school for the next week entirely.  And there may be some freezing rain mid-week, the threat of which may cause them to cancel school for a third week in a row.  Did I mention the paid contract due at the end of this month?  Did I mention the ants in syrup reference previously? 

Yesterday the fighting and nitpicking reached a fever pitch.  I clearly recall saying, “I’m going to lock you both in a dark room with soundproofing and feed you through a slot in the door if you don’t knock it off.”  I also lost it entirely when Arden was screaming and crying because she was “cold”.  She was “cold” because I’d let her use my bathtub as a pool and she’d stayed in for nearly 90 minutes.  Why would Arden be cold?  She was running around the house buck naked refusing a towel and screaming at me that she was cold.  It was refusal of towels that caused a psychotic break in me.  We both survived the cold incident, but just barely. 

I have meetings this week that will be canceled.  I’ve already abused my regular babysitter with favors; time to start hitting up the neighbors or just standing on the side of the road with a billboard advertising Two Sometimes Well Behaved Children In Need of Entertainment. 

To those parents like me - hanging onto their sanity by their fingernails - I salute you.  And I actually feel a tiny bit of guilt for the joy I felt when schools closed.  My poor mother.  If it makes you feel any better, mom, I’m paying it back in spades now. 

Every time I think I’ve had one of the hardest days of my life, or hit the biggest speedbump, I can be sure that there is another larger, bumpier and sharper one up ahead.  It’s good to have this mindset because life is definitely a journey, and it’s not always smooth. 

Ever heard of collaborative divorce?  Now you have. 

Mike and I had our first meeting with a “divorce coach” this morning.  If we proceed down the collaborative path, she will be our main point of contact.  Involved in the collaborative process will be a child specialist, a financial analyst, and two lawyers trained in the collaborative approach.

I could go into the details of how it’s supposed to work, but I’m really quite raw and very tired from this morning and I don’t feel like it.  If you’re curious you can read all about it at the link above.  One thing I came away from the meeting with:  if divorce is a shit sundae, collaborative divorce is a scoop of ice cream with shit sprinkles.  It puts the family first, especially the kids, and contractually binds you to negotiate the terms of the divorce in the most reasonable way possible.  There were a lot of tears during the meeting.  There’s nothing like saying the words outloud to make reality set in and force you to face what you may have been avoiding.  It was not easy and it was more than a little bit heart-wrenching, but we took that first step and it was a doozy.

Someone once remarked to me that ending a relationship is a series of tiny steps.  The doubt in your head, the acknowledgement of issues between you, the first vocalization that something is not right - they are all tiny steps in one direction.  Sometimes they can be repaired and turned back.  Sometimes they can’t. 

After all the head shaking and confused looks we’ve gotten after explanation how we are doing our separation, it was very validating to be commended by the divorce coach. She commended us for truly putting the kids first even though she can tell we are both suffering from our living situation.  For those who aren’t aware, the girls stay put in our house and the parental units rotate in and out of it.  We rent a small room about 25 minutes away from here where we stay on alternating weeks.  It is difficult even at its best; for Mike who hates change in any shape or form, it’s incredibly difficult.  She also told us that if the kids are still not acting out in school, we are doing something right.  The Child Specialist will help us to determine how they are actually doing and suggest therapists for them if it comes to that.  In the meantime we try to be open with them, answer the questions we are asked, and reassure them that we love the hell out of them. 

Divorce is a terribly sad thing, no matter what.  Mike and I still remain calm and mostly quiet with each other.  It makes it worse.  Neither of us seems to want to fight about things - at least not yet - and that makes it worse. There is no anger to propel me forward.  I’m sure there will be on his side, sooner rather than later, but I just have a large empty hole of sadness and it makes me want to take very long naps. 

This whole process will be draining, financially and emotionally.  It adds another layer of guilt onto a sandwich that is already piled precariously high with guilt meat and mustard and shamed lettuce and pickles.  This process is going to be expensive.  The divorce coach and child specialist run around $175/hour.  The lawyers require retainers.  If we both end up with a divorce coach instead of using one, it will be twice as much.  The financial analyst takes a retainer too. Emotionally the costs are not countable, at least not now.  We fumble toward some resolution, mostly in the dark, trying not to fall down.