Mandajuice

The hardest post I've ever written

Stop me if you've heard this before, but when I'm avoiding my blog, it's usually for one reason and one reason only: I AM NOT OKAY. These past few weeks are no exception. I don't think I've ever been this not okay before and I'm long over due to talk about it.

Shortly after I clicked publish on that Super! Happy! Post! about the house and the kids and the Christmas tree and my lovely lover's ridiculous grin, I started to go rather swiftly downhill. I noticed, but tried to ignore the fact that I was suddenly feeling less happy and lots more annoyed.

I think ANGRY is the word I'm looking for here.

It took me a few days to really work up to it, but by that weekend I was basically a walking case of road rage. I have a vivid memory of scrubbing the bathroom floor that Saturday in a fit of murderous, blood-thirsty violence. Of course, since I wasn't exactly in my right mind, I directed all this anger at the easiest target in my life: Joel. How dare he be outside decorating for Christmas with Liza while I'm on my hands and knees cleaning the previous tenant's piss off the floor! (Not that I actually WANTED to be out there helping, mind you, but still.) How dare he insist that Alex clean the mess he made in the yard! How dare he sleep when I can't! How dare he BREATHE!

This was unpleasant, indeed, but it got a lot worse. I had somehow lost the ability to see anything good in my life. Forget the fact that Joel is the best person I have ever known or that I love the crap out of him, the only feeling I had inside me was anger. I finally understand the meaning of the term: BLIND RAGE. (Although only through the benefit of hindsight because at the time I thought it was all perfectly justified.)

By Monday night we were childless and I tried to convince myself that I was feeling better, but mostly I felt restless, like there are spiders crawling in my belly. We planned a nice dinner and drove out together to get the needed ingredients. Joel held my hand and we kissed while picking wine at Trader Joe's. I still didn't feel like myself.

Dinner was magnificent. The wine was perfect, but I drank it too fast and was instantly tipsy. Actually, if I'm being honest, I got drunk. And since I was feeling miserable and my inhibitions disappeared along with the last of the wine, the anger surged back with a vengeance and I unleashed it on Joel, who'd done nothing wrong except make me a damn fine dinner.

I sat there over my empty pasta bowl and berated the love of my life for I don't know how long. Until I ran out of steam. His only response was silence. Deafening, dreadful silence. Later, when he got up and went to bed without saying goodnight to me (which was perfectly reasonable given how badly I'd just hurt him), I totally lost my mind. I went crazy and slammed doors and told him "fuck you" and...

God.

I slept in Genoa's bed that night. Although "sleep" isn't really the right word. It was more like eight hours of silent screaming in my own head. It took more than 24 hours for the fog of that rage to lift. Even then, it took Joel sitting me down the following night and telling me in great detail what I'd done and how it made him feel.

I didn't even remember most of it, which I'd love to attribute to the wine, but I'm a rather professional drinker and rarely ever lose my memory.

It was the rage. I had lost my rational mind to it.

Then, while Joel and I were talking about it, this thing happened to me, which at the time felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me, but which will probably end up being one of the five greatest moments of my entire life:

I saw myself.

And what I saw was a woman who had completely lost control.

Which was a disturbingly vivid image given all the work I've been doing lately to reconcile my childhood crap. I grew up with a mother who was perfectly happy and congenial right up until the moment she wasn't. And when she WASN'T happy and congenial, she was emptying the dishwasher by throwing dishes at my older brother while I hid downstairs protecting my younger siblings from the shrapnel. She was throwing my Nintendo off the back balcony because I didn't come to the dinner table fast enough. She was screaming through the phone that if I went through with my gastric bypass surgery (against her wishes), "all of [my] children were going to be deformed!"

Or she was calling to tell me in explicit detail - on the same day when my blog readers had saved my life and kept my electricity on and paid my rent for a month - everything that was wrong with me and my little family.

So when I finally stepped back and saw myself, I saw my mother too and my mind blurred through a hundred memories of how I had acted exactly like her.

Because if I really think about it, I've done this all my life - gotten so angry that I was not even remotely in my right mind. I did it to Dave on a monthly basis throughout most of our marriage. (Although in his case the rage was justified. He'd earned every red drop of it.)

But Joel?

He does NOT deserve my rage. Not at all.

Neither do my CHILDREN.

Joel would never let anyone talk to me the way I talked to him that night. Because he loves me. And it was his love that allowed me to see myself for the first time. It was his love that made me believe him when he told me that I'm not okay. That I have a lot of work to do.

So I'm doing that work.

But oh my god, you guys, it is so much work.

Christmas in Crazy Town!

It's been a dark, dark December for Mama, but these fools give me constant reason to do the work, as hard as it can be at times. I realize that I've fallen down the rabbit hole of avoidance and it isn't so much intentional as it is that I haven't figured out quite how to talk about it yet.

But my Christmas gift to y'all is that I promise I will. I'm working on it. I mean, seriously, what good is a nervous breakdown if I can't blog my way through it?

In the meantime, I hope you are relishing your holiday, whatever it might entail. It's no secret that this blog LITERALLY kept me alive this year and that's what I'll be reflecting on in celebration of baby Jesus' birth tomorrow. Gratitude does a lot for one's sanity. Well, gratitude and lots and LOTS of crying.

So: THANK YOU. I wish there was some special gratitude font so y'all would know exactly how much I mean it.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Nog on this!

Last night I made eggnog. I'm not gonna lie, I've never made it before and my freshman effort TOTALLY changed my mind about the beverage (which I formerly LOATHED). I made this recipe, except when it called for 1/2 cup of spiced rum, I assumed they meant, like, double* that. The only thing is, you have to stir it A LOT.

Which is kind of a PITA when there's a Christmas tree on top of your car. We put the nog outside in the (literally) freezing air to cool off while we brought in The Beast.

It's hard to tell who's most excited about the tree because the DOG is the only one in this picture who's been celebrating Christmas for more than a decade:

I love that every holiday with Joel is an opportunity to show him just EXACTLY what Over The Top means. I was hoping to appall him with my abundance of Christmas trimmings, but the garage! It has already become my own personal Bermuda Triangle. We only brought in what we could easily reach.

And by "we" I mean THEM. Duh. Obviously. I was busy drinking stirring egg nog.

Meanwhile Joel and I managed to bring in the tree and set it up together without a single word of bickering. I would argue that this is 100% proof that he's my soul mate, but then again, I was wearing a tiny little short plaid skirt and bright red lipstick and the man does own a penis, so, you know, not exactly a scientific control group there.

After we set up the tree, Joel made all of us a dinner of steak and tater tots and I'm not gonna lie: it didn't really hurt his sex appeal AT ALL. Especially when he topped it off by lip-syncing Pavarotti and Sinatra with his daughter.

Of course, after dinner we had to take a trip to Wal-Mart for Christmas lights because almost every strand I had in storage was broken. When we got back, it was DECORATING TIME!

(I love that photo. A lot. Maybe even more than I love my DOG. If Joel ever dies on me and I have to bury him, I'm gonna get one of those gravestones where you can etch a photo into the granite and it will feature THAT PICTURE.) (FOR ETERNITY!)

After dinner, it was TREE TIME! We enlisted the children. At least those with ovaries.

Click on that photo to embiggen it and get a glimpse of our new living room! We sold my fancy leather couch and bought TWO vintage couches, one of which you can see above. It's gold. And rad. And built in 1953. When the vintage shop we got it from bought it at an estate sale, it had a hand gun buried in the far left cushion. THAT's how badass it is.

Also worth noting is the wall color. Which will be the first thing to go in the house. It's almost as if someone was GOING for Tiffany's blue, but totally overshot and ended up in a baby boy's over-exuberant nursery. We're thinking of replacing it with a nice colonial blue. (And by "we," I mean Joel.) (Which is awesome! A man who can decorate LIKE A BOSS! And he isn't gay! How did I get so lucky?!) (Seriously, he has MAD PLANS for this room. Plans that involve 1970's wood paneling and a ban-saw.)

Eventually Alex came out of his room to help us decorate.

I somehow captured his eyelashes in this photo. I only wish it wasn't unbearably blurry because he is so beautiful it almost breaks my heart.

Mostly I just walk around my house in a daze thinking, HOW DID I GET SO LUCKY?

Merry Christmas, indeed.

 

*And by "double," we all know I meant TRIPLE.

First night!

My children are all snug and warm in their VERY OWN BEDS. They went straight to sleep, which is making me want to knock on just about every retirement-aged floor board in this entire house. I'm sure it's just the novelty, but still. STILL. Awesome first night with the kids!

It helps a lot that Joel and I are kicking butt and taking names with the unpacking. I'm TOTALLY caught up on laundry and pretty much everything other than non-necessities is 100% put away in a place we can both find it again.

Then there's the garage, which is another story all together.

It turns out that I was in just the teensiest, tiniest bit of DENIAL when I ended my marriage. I mean, part of me remembers that there were a lot of boxes of paperwork in the garage, but I killed that part of me with a mac truck full of vodka and/or dates with cute bald boys. It took me literally by surprise that the movers needed over an hour to empty my garage into a truck. Then, when the stuff went INTO our garage, it shocked me even more that it took up So Much Space.

I may need an intervention. Because the idea of opening all of those boxes of worms kind of terrifies me.

I also need to find all the boxes labeled CHRISTMAS by Wednesday, when I promised Liza we'd go shopping for a tree.

Somebody hold me.

Or, alternatively, THIS GUY, who mowed all the lawns today, could hold me:

I'm always A-OK with that.

We survived the move!

I'm officially a Portlander now, which feels surprisingly awesome. Especially since the water in Oregon is softer and does good things for my hair.

So far we LOVE the house. Of course, like anything, it has a learning curve. On the first night, we spent half an hour in the muddy back yard searching around by the light of our cell phones trying to find what we thought was a lost chicken. We put the other two in the coop and figured we'd find a body the next morning, but when the sun came up, the lost lady came trotting out with her sisters like she hadn't scared us half to death.

Last night we cooked dinner in the new kitchen for the first time and it's going to take me a while to figure out how to use an electric stove again, not to mention an electric oven (oddly not as hot as gas...). Joel lit a fire in the fireplace and discovered his own learning curve about opening the flue. Let's just say we tested the smoke detectors and it turns out they work great!

I'm still hovering back and forth between extreme bliss and abject fear, but Joel, like always, is a rock. EVERYTHING rolls off his back, so when I got snotty that he texted me about turning off the lights (HELLO MARRIAGE FLASHBACK!) and accused him of getting too husband-y on me, he just laughed and promised he'll never give me a speech if I forget to turn them off. Which was refreshingly un-husband-like!

I miss my kids, though. MAN. I dropped them off at their dads for Thanksgiving and because of the move and the trip to Klamath Falls, I haven't seen them in a week and that is just WAY TOO LONG for me. I was planning to sneak off and have lunch with them at school today, but a last-minute appointment came in and I'm in absolutely no position to turn away work. Fortunately, I pick them up tomorrow for the day and then we all get our first week in the house together beginning on Monday.

I'm not sure why, but there's something about living in a house that makes you feel more like a family. I know people will accuse us of shacking up and neither of my kids will ever call Joel their step-dad (because we refuse to get married), but this is the family I've made for myself and Sweet Lord Baby Jesus, lying there in his little ghost manger, I LOVE IT.

I LIKE TO MOVE IT, MOVE IT.

Things are progressing smoothly at Casa de Mandajuice. Still no name for the new place yet, but we're loving the suggestions (The SANCTUARY!) so keep them coming. Fortunately, I was able to get a little cash by selling my big leather sectional on Craig's list, so we're actually going to all have BEDS when we move in and Joel and I are having a lot of fun looking at cheap vintage furniture together. All my crazy modern furniture just isn't going to work in the new (OLD) house, so we're going do it up fifties style at a significantly reduced cost and make it our own. (Does anyone want to buy a swank dining room set? It's nice!)

We're also planning to paint just about every room in the house, so that'll be fun. Joel has big plans to paint The Birds on our living room wall and just thinking about how invested he is in things like reupholstering old couches and designing bird stencils makes my panties wet. Gah. As if that beautiful bald head wasn't enough. 

Have I mentioned how I love him SO?

It's a little bit ridiculous.

The happy news is that the kids LOVED the house. LOVED. IT. Alex couldn't contain his joy at chasing the chickens around their pen and Genoa thought her very. own. bedroom. was the bees knees. When I was in there asking her where she wanted to put her bed and how she wanted to decorate, I asked, "Isn't it worth it to move to Portland to get your very own room?" and she was all, "We're moving to Portland?" and I was, like, "We're STANDING IN PORTLAND RIGHT NOW!" and she was all, "Really? COOL!"

WIN!

Alex's room has a hand-painted mural of the city of Portland on it, including Mt. Hood and Multnomah Falls and a totally accurate glow-in-the-dark replica of the galaxy on his ceiling, so he's pretty much as stoked as an eight-year-old can possibly be. He wants his bed to just sit in the middle of the room and who am I to say no to that?

Meanwhile, Liza has the basement to herself and her glee can not even remotely be contained. She has her own art table, a sitting rom, a walk-in closet and a door she can LOCK to keep my gremlins out. This is pretty much the best thing that has ever happened to her in her 11 years on planet earth. At least that's what her endless ecstatic jumping up and down would indicate.

Me, I'm just... happy. Like, honestly? THIS IS MY LIFE?! When did that happen? How did I get so lucky?

Oddly enough a recent commenter said a few disturbing things that actually had me questioning said life for approximately six seconds,

I recently caught up with your blog after a couple of years of not reading. I came in search of your cashew chicken recipe (Not bad, but not life altering), and I have to say...it's disappointing to see the direction in which you've taken your life. I'm all for reinvention and finding true meaning for your life after ending an abusive relationship - but I'm not finding much depth in your writing now. Your whole life seems to revolve around vagina...stuffing yours, waxing others...it's just sad, really. It's like you fell in the gutter, felt you didn't deserve any better, and decided to stay there and revel in every base aspect of it.

...but then all I could think about was how sad her life must be that she finds such obvious satisfaction in judging me for mine. Because I have never been happier than I am right now. Maybe my life does revolve around vaginas, but seriously? I LOVE my work. I LOVE my children. I LOVE my man. I love my LIFE. I'm moving into a house that I love, where I can see all of us learning to love each other in new, better, (more spacious) ways.  

I guess what I'm saying is that if shacking up is wrong, I don't want us to be right. 

But then again, neither does Lucy, one of our recently-aquired ladybirds:
 

Day 21: Comments

Joel and I slept till noon this morning. Apparently, with everything that's been going on, we needed it. When I finally rolled over and checked my phone, the first thing in my inbox was this hilarious comment from Janyll:

Let's recap. Mother of two flees abusive marriage, finds true love with bald former Jehovah's Witness, becomes a platinum blond, in part to indulge his Kim Novak obsession, and abandons her profession as a financial planner to become a vagina stylist/self-published romance novelist. Hijinks are sure to ensue as he opens a medical marijuana shop and the two of them rent a house together. Amanda, I must say your life sounds like an ABC sitcom pilot, but best of luck with it all!

And while I'm not GENERALLY a fan of Janyll's comments, which have included everything from accusations of marrying Dave because I was an obese teen with poor self esteem to equating Brazilian waxing to foot binding (WHA!?), but this comment? It was spot on. The only thing she left out was the STALKER. Because DUH! That hasta come up in the pilot episode!

(She even accused me of gushing about Joel like a fifteen year old!) (I love her!)

Things are a bit crazy at Casa de Mandajuice what with us moving in less than ten days and barely being packed and all. Even more fun is that I just put my kids on the 1, 2, 3, Magic! regime and, well, let's just say Genoa isn't such a fan of mom's silence. (OH THE NOT TALKING IS SOOOOOOO HARD FOR ME!!!!) (YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!) I love that we're moving almost at the exact same time as the implementation of the New Regime so it will be that much easier. "In this house.... THAT'S ONE!"

Two other quick items:

1) I need help NAMING our new house. This apartment has vacillated between "Divorce House Rocks" and "Casa de Mandajuice" but the new house will be OURS. Hence, it needs a name that reflects our combined awesomesauce.  So far all we've come up with is "The Gunzmont Estate," but I'm not sure that does us justice. Any ideas?

2) It just occurred to me (tonight) that I really need to write a sex column. I'd like to find a place (other than this blog, which my parents and grandparents read) to talk about real life sex. Real life love. And most importantly what relationships are like in 2011 (ie: poly-amorous, open, bisexual, etc). Who should I pitch this idea to? Because we all know I'm in no position to be writing a sex column FOR FREE.

Back to packing...

Day 17: Shoot! and Score!

I spent most of the day working as a model. For Joel.

AGAIN.

Although I do very much love the part where he takes me shopping* at H&M and tells the sales girls exactly what they need to find for me to try on next. Of course they always know better than to let us into the dressing room at the same time. Bastards.

He hired our good friend, Steve, to take the photo, which will be used in a wide variety of ads for Joel's new clinic. Look for my smiling face in an Oregonian near you! I'll be the "doctor" with the blond hair reminding you that marijuana is, indeed, MEDICINE!

----

I can't believe it's actually happening, but we signed the lease for the house today. We get the keys in a week and we'll be moving in before the first of December. I am still utterly and completely terrified about it, but I'm starting to understand those feelings a little more and that always helps me embrace them. See, it's not just the moving to Portland thing that's freaking me out, it's the fact that Joel and I are moving in together.

I know, I know! We already live together. But we live together in MY apartment. I got to choose where I put the furniture, how I hung the pictures and which appliances went on the counter and which ones went under the sink. But this will be OUR house. TOGETHER. We'll be making all those choices as a couple and I'll be honest: I'm terrified of fucking it up. I'm scared that all my baggage is going to come back to haunt me. That I'll become that hostile, defensive bitch I used to be. That the stress and responsibility of the commitment will ruin the best thing that has ever happened to me.

But then I look over at Joel, who is every bit as scared as me, but 100% as solid and confident as always, and I know he won't LET me fuck it up. All I have to do is trust him. So this is me jumping in with both feet and choosing love. It's a hellova lot more fun than fear, anyway.

We won't need our willow to do any weeping.

 

* On the company's dime, obviously, because every red cent we possess is going toward the fact that HOLY SHIT WE'RE MOVING IN TWO WEEKS!

 

Day 17: A little gray house with a RED door

Dude, you guys. We got the house. Well, the keys aren't in my hot little hands yet, but still. It's ours.

I am seriously freaking out.

Because we are MOVING TO PORTLAND, which has been on my mind for well over a year, even before I met Joel, actually. I have wanted to move there and talked myself out of it so many times that I can't even remember why I was arguing with myself about it in the first place.

But it's very simple: it's where I want my family to live.

I should probably back up and say that I'll be commuting the kids to their current school, so there will be no educational disruption. It's exactly 14 miles each way and the drive (since we won't be fighting any traffic) takes 18 minutes. They're at an excellent school and they can continue to attend it as long as their father (and/or grandmother) lives in the district. I don't know why it took me so long to realize that that didn't mean *I* needed to live so close by. Maybe it was guilt? Maybe that's still there, but Dave gets to control where the kids go to school. When it's my week, I get to control where they live and with whom.

And I want to raise my family in the city. Not just because it's more convenient for me (it isn't) or because the man I'm sharing my life with feels like he's rotting on the vine in Camas (even though he does), but because I actually think it will be good for my children. Living in the suburbs is great - it's safe and clean and friendly and has good schools and even better neighbors - but it's not the real world. It's too pretty! The people are too nice! The real world is gritty and imperfect and it needs a fresh coat of paint and some change for the bus. I want my kids to learn how to see the beauty in all that grit and honestly, how are they gonna know who to give their spare change to if I don't teach them?

All that said, this house isn't that gritty at all. It's exactly old enough to have good character and bad plumbing. It needs paint. It's gonna need furniture. But it has everything else we need and by that I mean one thing: SPACE. Each kid will get their own bedroom. Joel and I will have an office. Liza will have a basement apartment all to herself. The kitchen is huge and there's room for all of us to spread out. We won't feel like we're living on top of each other anymore.

I could go on and on about the garden (enormous! and organic!), the location (2 minutes from the freeway!), the forrest across the street (a 22-acre nature preserve with miles of trails!), or how quiet and safe the neighborhood feels, but instead I'm just going to be honest: I'M TERRIFIED.

This is huge and scary and I have no idea if I'm ready for it.

SEND BOXES.

Day 15: Toilet Paper Karma and Other Delights

If my life took place in a Kevin Costner movie about a silly blond who joined an Indian Tribe, my name would be Changes the Toilet Paper Roll. Because The Universe (capital "U") has decided that if there is an empty roll of toilet paper within a ten mile radius of her person, Amanda P. Westmont is going to need to go to the bathroom and then Amanda P. Westmont is going to be responsible for changing that roll.

It's my calling.

Up until today, I considered this calling a pain in the ass and was generally perturbed and/or annoyed by the fact that NO ONE except me seemed to know how to remove an empty cardboard roll and replace it with a fresh one. But TODAY! Today I had an epiphany: I'm going to explore strange new bathrooms, to seek out empty toilet paper rolls and replace them without hesitation. I plan to boldly GO where no one has gone before.

Instead of letting it anger me, I'm going to delight in the thrill of knowing that at least there is a fresh roll! LET THERE BE TOILET PAPER!

In other news, we absolutely LOVED the rental house we saw today. It's huge! and affordable! I can see my family thriving there - all five of us - and the prospect both terrifies and delights me, which is pretty much how I've felt about every life-changing risk I've ever taken. The Universe may have decided to put me in charge of all the toilet paper, but I'm gonna throw this one back on The Universe and let it decide. If it's meant to be, it will happen.

I kinda hope it does.