And the gold goes to...

Hey everyone, happy to announce that my wee little children's book won a gold medal in this year's Florida Authors and Publishers Association Book Awards. Whoa, I've never won a gold medal in anything before! But better late than never, right? Meanwhile, check me out over at the Ambivalent Part-Time Expat (also an award winner!) where I do all my blogging these days. 

News tidbits

 Hey peeps, if you haven't checked out my other blog yet - The Ambivalent Part-Time Expat, it recently won an award! It got honorable mention in the National Society of Newpaper Columnists 2022 writing contest, in the online humor category. Check out some of the other winners in this category cuz they are even funnier than me. 

In other exciting news, my story "Hazel Down the Rabbit Hole," published in Cricket Magazine in 2020, was turned into a standalone book by educational publisher Pioneer Valley Books. You can read it online here! (Or even order a copy). If you're a teacher living in WA state and you want me to come read in your classroom, I'd be happy to pay you a visit. 

Essay publication: I'm looking for a campervan, not another man

 Hello all! Thought I'd drop in here to share my latest publication with you in The Globe and Mail: I'm looking for a campervan not another man.  If you get a message saying you need a subscription to open that link, you can use this one instead, which links to a PDF, and has the advantage of showing you what the piece looked like in an actual, physical newspaper! 

Also, just a friendly reminder that I now blog regularly over at the Part-Time Ambivalent Expat. Join me there! If you subscribe (it's free), you get a handy email in your inbox every time I post.  

New gossipy blog and newsletter from Mexico: The Ambivalent Part-Time Expat

Hello peeps! Note that I am now blogging/writing a newsletter at Substack, called The Ambivalent Part-Time Expat. Every two weeks, I write about the weird and wonderful from Mexico and beyond . And even better, you can subscribe for free so that you don't miss an issue! Soo exciting, I know!

Meanwhile I'll keep posting here occasionally.

xo
Rebecca

Essay publication: "To the guy who saved us from sleeping in our car"

Oh, it was so sweet to finally write this essay about the time I was with my ex-husband and our car got stuck in the snow in Winthrop, Washington and Leonard saved our sorry asses.

 (Leonard, whose last name I never learned, I hope you read this although I know you won't!)

And yes, he is my ex, despite the "happy" ending of the essay.

Anyway, it was a pleasure writing for Off Assignment, because their editor really helped me to streamline this essay and punch it up. I'm proud to see it online in such a high-quality publication.

On wildflowers and dog custody battles

My favorite volcano, Mt. Rainier

Returning to Seattle is so bittersweet. There are so many things I love about it (the mountains, the clean streets, the way people are so nice to pedestrians).

The fact that I can teach writing classes at Hugo House again, drink Peet's Coffee, walk around Greenlake, ride my bike with less fear of getting run over.

And so many other things.

Yet, there is a lot more crapola I have to deal with here than when I'm in Mexico. A million doctors appointments and -oscopies and -grams to make up for the ones I didn't do to in Mexico. Spending  fortune on my poor, aging car. Avocadoes that cost $3 piece.

Worst of all, perhaps, is dealing with my ex.

Now my ex, deep down, is a nice person. A kind, empathetic, loving person. But in the latter years of our marriage, he did not act that way for various reasons.

He definitely has not acted that way in the last few months, because since my return to the U.S. in April, he hasn't let me see my dog, Sugar.

Legally, we share Sugar. Up until recently, we have more or less amicably shared her, trading weeks with her when I am in town. And she, being the cutest pug (and possibly the cutest dog) on earth, is one of my greatest joys.

She is smart, fun, cuddly, friendly. Sugar is also much more bonded to my ex than she is to me, and it was like that even before we got divorced, but no matter.

I love her and I miss her so much when I am gone. I look forward to returning to Seattle so I can see her and walk her and hug her and kiss her and play with her.

Now, instead, I am in a legal battle with my ex just so I can see her.

Many wise people have told me just to walk away. To give up. That's it would be better not to have him in my life anyway.

They are right. I probably should. But I haven't been able to.

I have also been asking my mom, in her ethereal state, what I should do. And even she thinks I should walk away. She who loved dogs very much and was never without one.

So along with all the good things about life here: stunning strolls in the mountains, Shakespeare in the park, walking around Greenlake, catching up with friends, camping on islands, and biking on lovely bike paths, I'm gonna be fighting my f*cking ex in court. And missing my lovely little dog so much.

But that's just life isn't it? Always the mixture, the bitter, the sweet, the good, the bad.

In Mexico, it's just a different mix of stuff, maybe a little more on the habanero-chile-flavored side. At least there, I can pretend like the bitter aftermath of this divorce isn't happening.

Here, at least lately, I come face to face with it every day. Not only in with the load of memories that press down on me when I'm here, but now with the glaring absence of Sugar.

Avalanche lilies at Mt. Rainier 

Oh well.

As I battle my ex and miss my dog, I'll try to keep appreciating the good.

Like wildflowers, which almost always boost my mood.

The ambivalent part-time expat (that's me)

 Vallodolid, Yucatan, MX

A few years ago, I had this fantasy that if I could just move to Mexico for six months I would become 1)nearly fluent in Spanish and 2)a more relaxed person who could  3)salsa dance up a storm.

OK, goals two and three are still in progress. But I am happy to report that I am nearly fluent in Spanish. That's because, since 2016, I have spent about a year and a half all-told hanging out down here.

And that, as most of you know, is because I fell in love with a Mexican. Which is really by far the best way to learn Spanish. And though my relationship with him appears to be flourishing, my relationship with Mexico is more tortured. 

Laguna Bacalar, Quintana Roo, MX

I love it on the one hand, because it is absolutely beautiful. The country bursts with natural and cultural treasures. Mountains, lakes, hot springs, charming towns, white-sand beaches, vibrant indigenous culture, gorgeous folk art, a fascinating history that's represented in many well-preserved ruins and archaeological sites.

Then there's the food. Mangos, avocados, tacos al pastor, sopa tarasco, habanero salsa, cemitas, tamales, pan dulce, pan de queso, tlacloyos, chiles en nogada...I could go on listing my favorites. Just know that every region in Mexico has its own twist on these foods, its own specialties, and every region in Mexico thinks it has the best food in all of Mexico. 

Lago de Patzcuaro, Michoacán, MX

And they are probably all right. 

I have been so lucky to travel all over this country. But what I've realized, now that I have spent time living here off and on, is that I much prefer traveling in Mexico to living here. 

Because I am a spoiled American at heart. I know there are many expats who love being here, who have no desire to return to the U.S. - because of its politics, because it's so expensive, because the pace is so hectic, because of many things. 

I don't think I'm one of them though. My heart  belongs to the USA. To Seattle and the northwest. I am a spoiled American at heart and there many things I miss.

Here are just a few of them:

Pachuca, Hidalgo MX

Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. Soy creamer. Peet's Coffee. Thai food. National parks with well-marked trailheads. Composting and recycling. Showers with water pressure and reliable hot water. Knowing that if I have a heart attack in my house, an ambulance will be there promptly to try to save me. People who speak my language. My dog. My car. Artsenal doughnuts.

And yet...
I've been here for four months this time around, and while I want to go home, I also don't want to go home.

Here I can actually afford my life. When I go back to Seattle, this time with my boyfriend in tow (who has miraculously acquired a visa to stay for a while),  I will need to get a better-paying job to pay the rent. Or else I will need to go to a cheaper city where the rents aren't so high, of which there are many, but my heart belongs in Seattle...

Tepoztlan, Morelos MX

Or maybe my heart belongs in Mexico. I don't know. All I know is that being a part-time expat is confusing. It's like I don't exactly know where my home is anymore.

And that's OK for now. After all, as a Gemini, ambivalence is my constant state of being anyway.

Plus, look at all the  cool stuff I've gotten to see in the last four months!

(And if you think this post is really just an excuse to show off some of my recent photos of Mexico, you'd be right). 

Essay publication! "My Mother-In-Law Was Like a Second Mom, and Then I Got Divorced."

Image by  Sammiches  & PsychMeds

Thanks to Sammiches & PsychMeds for publishing my essay My Mother-In-Law Was Like a Second Mom, and Then I Got Divorced.

I wrote that essay about a year ago, when the wounds of my divorce were even fresher. I tried to get it published a few places, but when I didn't, I posted it here on my blog for Mother's Day last year.

When 2019 rolled around and I realized I hadn't PUBLISHED A SINGLE THING in 2018, I told myself I needed to try a little harder . I spend a lot of time writing and most of my stuff never sees the light of day (at least now that I'm not a prolific blogger like I used to be back in the good old Breakup Babe days).

So I tried again to publish this essay, using the likes of Duotrope to help me find markets (a tool I hadn't used before, but which I now highly recommend). At first Sammiches & PsychMeds rejected me, but they did say they liked the idea and if I expanded the essay, they might consider publishing it. 

This made me despair. I mean, it was a compliment, of course. They liked the idea! But it is so hard to go back and edit stuff  that you have already slaved over and "finished" to your own satisfaction. 

But it being a brand new year, I had a little extra energy and drive, and even though the revision process was not pleasant, I went and I did it. And you know what? I think they were right, the essay is better for the stuff I added to it. 

Their editors made me think harder about how losing my mother-in-law has affected my life. There was a lot of crying during this rewrite, which surprised me, because I thought my wounds were healing up. But they are still plenty raw. 

Which makes for the best writing, right? As various famous writers have said, the best writing happens when you bleed onto the page. 

So thanks again to Sammiches and PsychMeds for encouraging me to bleed a little bit more. 

Mountains and wildflowers in Hidalgo state

Colorful staircase in Pachuca

This weekend, we  took a little getaway to the state of Hidalgo, which borders the state of Puebla (which is where I am currently hanging out, avoiding Trump's America and the hordes of fans that stalk me at home, demanding a sequel to BreakupBabe).

You don't hear about Hidalgo much. Which is probably a good thing - it's not in the news for drugs and violence. It's also definitely not on the gringo tourist trail, and perhaps not much on the Mexican tourist trail, except for  people who live nearby.

But I was looking for a place to go over Thanksgiving break that wasn't far and that would serve up some nature - something that's sorely lacking here in the traffic-choked city of Puebla. More than anything when I'm here, I miss the green spaces of Seattle, the lakes, the Puget Sound, the snowy peaks (sob).

And so, on Thanksgiving Day, we bound a bus for the city of Pachuca. The capital of Hidalgo state, it's not too famous for much of anything except soccer and "pastes" (aka Cornish pasties), both brought by Cornish miners who went there to work the silver mines in the 1900s.

We did stuff ourselves with pastes,  but what we enjoyed most in Pachuca was "Las Palmitas." It's a once-sketchy neighborhood perched on a hillside that - thanks to a community effort - was turned into one big eye-poppingly colorful mural. (The Guardian published an article about it a few years ago).

We were the only ones around

You'd expect such a pretty place to be full of tourists, but we were the only ones wandering around taking pictures. (In fact, we were practically the only ones wandering around at all).

And one resident, when she saw me take a picture, got very grumpy and started ranting about how I shouldn't take pictures because I didn't live there, and the neighborhood belonged to the people who did.

This has never happened to me before in Mexico, but then again, I guess I'm usually in more touristy places. You'd expect this place to be more touristy. If Las Palmitas was, say, in a neighborhood in San Francisco, CA, it would be  packed with tourists drinking $8 lattes, $15 glasses of wine, and buying t-shirts.

Mural in Comuna 13, Medellin

In fact, it reminded me of a similar - but much more vibrant -  neighborhood I visited last year in Medellin called "Comuna 13". Comuna 13 also used to be a violence-ridden place until the Colombian government cleaned it up (ahem, using some violent methods of their own). Now it's a safe, bustling neighborhood bursting with murals, souvenir shops, and people taking pictures.

 In any case, there were no lattes or souvenir shops to be found, just empty, colorful streets - a little on the haunting side in their loneliness.

Into the mountains to Mineral del Chico

After a night in Pachuca, we hopped on one of the passenger vans that ferries people up into the mountains. After a sinuous 40-minute drive, we arrived in the picturesque mining town of Mineral del Chico. It's one of Mexico's mostly recently-designated pueblos magicos - or "magic towns."

What makes this one "magic?" Well, it's got a beautiful old church, of course. It's also set in the middle of a national park, which means that many of the vistas from the town included striking rock formations and acres of forest.

And luckily, we found the perfect hike to do amidst this wilderness. I say "luckily" because it's not always a given that you'll find such things as "maps" in a national park in Mexico. In fact, there were no maps to be found in Mineral del Chico, but there was a bright red information booth, and even though it opened late (eye roll), there was a friendly person in there who dispensed advice.

This guy enjoyed the view too

We hiked up and up, first to a mirador called La Pena del Cuervo, which offered a 360-view of the surrounding scenery and the valley below. Then, encouraged by a friendly Hidalgo couple we met there,  we hiked up further to an abandoned lookout, which we had to ourselves and which was surrounded by wildflowers.

I was so excited to see wildlflowers! I thought I'd seen the last of them in August, when I hiked at Mount Rainier. But no, here they were in late November, and suddenly, for the half an hour that I wandered around on this little peak, surrounded bursts of white, yellow, and red flowers, I felt at home for the first time since I came to Mexico over a month ago. 

That alone made the trip worth it.

Not that the trip was difficult. It just had minor annoyances, like trips tend to do. But they were so minor they are not even worth going into (much as I'd like to bitch about the couple that was constantly having sex above us in our otherwise peaceful lodging in Mineral del Chico. I mean, people, once a week is enough for most couples. Do you really need to be having sex several times a DAY?).

So, instead, I won't gripe. I'll leave you with this image. Mountains. Flowers. Sunshine. Blue sky. Much as I miss for Seattle and long for it when I'm gone, you're certainly not gonna find a scene like this there in late November. Viva Mexico! 

Just another day in Mexico

Mexico is such a land of contrasts.

It has a vibrant culture, systemic corruption, a joyous spirit, abject poverty.

The feelings that it stirs up in me are a jumble of contrasts too. Love, hate, annoyance, longing, disgust, sadness, admiration.

I love it because it's beautiful and welcoming and epic, and because Ian is here. I hate it at times because...well, I'm a spoiled American and things don't always go the way I want.

Let's take Monday, for example. I was in Mexico City to see some friends who were visiting from the States. Our big plan for the day was to dine at Pujol, the #13 rated restaurant on the oh-so-trendy list of the world's top 50 restaurants.

Because I had to work  til lunchtime, my plan was to go to the café-bookstore right near the restaurant and work from there until it was time to eat. Although I had never been to this particular café, it has several locations in Mexico City, and I always like to work from there when I'm in town because of the great food, welcoming vibe, and stable Internet.

I managed the Metro ok. This in itself was a bit of a triumph because the metro in Mexico City used to make me claustrophobic and panicky. Now I can handle it with mostly no problem AND actually get places I need to go (which is no small feat for someone as directionally challenged as me).

Then came the first annoying part of the day. For this, I have no one to blame but myself. I popped out of the metro in the swanky neighborhood of Polanco and started following Google maps to the bookstore/café. I saw a panaderia and popped in for a concha, my favorite pan dulce. 

Conchas, mmm

Unfortunately, the concha was both terrible AND overpriced. But that wasn't the annoying part.  (At least with an overpriced pastry in Mexico, you're talking $1.50 instead of $7).

The annoying part was that 1)I left my jacket in the bakery 2)realized it almost right away  3)but then couldn't find the bakery again even though - I SWEAR - it was right around the corner. Mexico City is not always the easiest place to navigate!

I knew I would find it eventually but the problem was I had to start work ASAP.  After searching fruitlessly for the panaderia for 10-15 minutes, I was threatening to make myself late. OK, fine. I would find my jacket later. Hopefully no one would have stolen my jacket by then (because that concha really wasn't worth it!) 

Then I got a little lost trying to find the bookstore. When I rushed in, it was about 11:01. I was one minute late for work. I logged on, worked for two whole minutes, and then - BAM - there was no Internet. 

"Oh, the Internet isn't working right now," the server said to me casually when she brought me my coffee. 

*&$!*! %$ 

The Internet continued to not work and not work. For the whole two hours I was supposed to be working, I got online for maybe 10 minutes total, thus losing a a bunch of money because I could not bill for that time. This I blame squarely on Mexico. 

Thank you Mexico and your terrible Internet. 

So that was the morning. But then there was lunch. 

And lunch was a miracle of deliciousness and beauty. None of the hustle-bustle and heat of Mexico City or the country's problems was to be found in Pujol.

Blissful dining in Pujol

No, Pujol represents only the best of Mexico: fresh Mexican ingredients welded into amazing lovely-to-behold creations. Attentive service. An architectural design that makes you feel both energized and relaxed.

Then, after three hours, it was over. I was dumped back out onto the street with the hoi polloi. I proceeded to have an experience that was almost the exact opposite of my decadent, leisurely interlude in Pujol.

I went to the doctor.

I had a female problem. And, it became obvious during lunch when I visited the bathroom five times, that I needed to get it looked at urgently. And so I did what a lot of Mexicans do when they need to see someone quickly and cheaply, and they don't have health insurance: I went to a farmacia.

When you go to a pharmacy, you pay $0 to $3 to see the doctor, and then you inevitably go into the actual pharmacy and spend a lot of money on whatever they prescribed to you. And they always prescribe something because the doctors who work there are subsidized by the pharmacies.

Anyway, at this particular pharmacy, the waiting room was broiling hot and packed with people. To make matters worse, due to my female problem, I had to pee like a mo' fo but there were no public bathrooms available.

So I waited. And waited. And sweated. And waited. Finally I got into see the doctor, who turned out to be a lovely, friendly overworked young woman stuffed into a stinky, windowless and dirty office.  Even though I liked this doctor very much and was relieved she was a woman, I did not like wondering what the pinkish-reddish stains on the walls and floors were.

Was it BLOOD?

I tried not to think about it as she examined me. As she wrote up my prescriptions, I wished for her a better job - something less hectic, more peaceful, where she at least at time to clean up the bloodstains (or juice stains), look out a window, or let a breath of fresh air in the office before the next patient.

Then I ran back to my AirBB, trying not to pee in my pants. Meanwhile, I passed by Parque Mexico, one of the loveliest and most peaceful urban parks anywhere (and even though I wasn't in the best frame of mind to enjoy it, there was still part of me appreciating it just like I always did).

So, really, it was just another typical day in Mexico for me.

OK, so maybe going to one of the world's best restaurants isn't exactly typical. But the way the day encompassed both beautiful and ugly, hectic and calm, warm and difficult -- all these contrasts, for me, are Mexico in a nutshell.

(Oh, and by the way, I did find my jacket again.)

A fresh ground story, coming right up

In June of this year, I achieved a big goal of mine, which was to speak at a live storytelling event. The event I spoke at was Fresh Ground Stories, a once-monthly get-together that happens at a coffeehouse in Seattle. It's very popular! The place was packed, and the audience very supportive.  The theme for this evening was "Under the illusion." I was thrilled that I got a chance to get up there and tell my story. You all know I love me some spotlight. You can listen to it here.

Celebrating my ex mother-in-law on Mother's Day

With my stylish MIL in happier times

My mother-in-law literally used to give me the clothes off her back.

It happened more than once that she’d be wearing a stylish shirt or sweater and I’d say, “M-, I love that sweater.”

“Do you want it?” she’d say. “Take it!” Then she’d hand it to me despite my (feeble) protests, saying something like “I have so many others” or “But it looks better on you than it does on me.”

It would then inevitably become one of my favorite and most-complimented sweaters because she was one of the most stylish people I knew.

Her generosity took other forms too. Like the elaborate meals she used to cook for us, not permitting us to lift a finger in the preparation or the clean-up.

“I’ll do the dishes tomorrow!” she used to say, though she was 78 with MS, and we were fit and mid-40s and very capable of washing dishes (even if we were stuffed with chicken piccata and chocolate cake). I’m embarrassed to say we always obeyed. 

I used to say I won the “mother-in-law lottery.” Instead of a mother-in-law who didn’t think I was good enough for her son, or who was crazy, or just plain annoying, I got a mother-in-law who made me feel special, beautiful, and brilliant.

She had a talent for making people feel good.

Also a talent for looking good. If once I’d thought getting older meant letting myself go or falling out of step fashionwise, she taught me that didn’t have to be the case. Her hair was usually a perfect honey-blonde, her outfit something hip from Nordstrom’s.

And yet, her sister – also a beloved figure in my life – presented a contrasting yet equally vibrant picture of old age. She had a head full of unapologetic white hair, wore track suits so bright they hurt your eyes, and was full of energy in her 80s.

They were fun to be around. They made me feel like getting old was possible, and possibly not so bad. In my own family, everyone died before 70. My dad and my grandparents were all long gone by the time I met my mother-in-law in 2007. So I needed older and wiser people like her in my life.

Especially after my mom died in 2012 at 68. The pampering presence of my mother-in-law became even more of a comfort to me then. So did her own hard-won perspective on life and loss. 

Occasionally I thought of her as a second mom, but in reality, she acted more like a grandmother – never criticizing, always adoring, lavishing love and attention on me.

Then, in late 2016, my husband and I split up.  I had naïve hopes that my relationship with her would survive the messy divorce. That once the dust settled, we’d get back to the business of being besties.

So I reached out to her with cards and email. Tried to stay in touch. But the divorce became final a year ago, and more time than that has passed without a response from her. And I’m just starting to accept that our relationship is a thing of the past.

It hurts, of course, but I understand. And when it hurts a lot, I remind myself of something she said to me at the beginning of the divorce process, before I moved away.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” she said. It was quick and whispered. She said it almost in passing, when she was helping my ex move out of our house.

She had never called me her little girl before. But of course I was. I was the daughter she’d never had, plus adoring granddaughter rolled into one.

Which is why, although I might not be in her life anymore, I like to think I’m still in her heart. In my own special room, eating homemade chocolate cake and staying forever warm in a spontaneously gifted sweater from Nordstrom’s. 

Am I too old for him?

I recently published an essay in The Globe and Mail - whoohoo! It' s about dating someone much younger than me, and the insecurities (and occasional mean looks) that go along with it.

Dear Mom, I miss you.

Dear Mom,

I hope you’re doing well where you are. When I saw you, over a year ago now in that dream, you looked great. I carry that image of you smiling at me wherever I go. 

I’m really annoyed that you’re dead. I still need you so much. Although I often wonder what the "flesh-and-blood" you would think of the choices I’m making now.

Dating someone half my age from a different culture. Travelling all the time. Living in Mexico, where someone else prepares my meals and cleans my apartment, and my only responsibility is working a few hours a week at my easy Internet job.

Not exactly what you pictured for me at this age, was it?  

First, of course, before you could attempt to come to terms with my age-inappropriate lifestyle, you would have to get over the shock of my divorce.

You loved my ex so much, I know. So did I.

But I also know you would have supported me in getting a divorce, given the circumstances. You might even have encouraged me to do it sooner than I did.

Still, it sucks, I know. I was supposed to be the parent of an adopted kid by now, living a life of domesticity in my big house with its garden and the fancy food processor and the two pugs. Finally “settled down.”

But nothing ever really works out as planned, does it? Thanks anyway, for paying for the wedding. It was beautiful. I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it. We read one of your poems and talked about you.  

I do think that the "flesh-and-blood" you would approve of some of the other things I’m trying to do. Like becoming an ESL teacher and an interpreter.

(And of course publishing another book. Sorry I couldn’t make that happen before you left. At least you got to see me publish one. Thanks for coming all the way to Seattle for my book launch party. That was great, wasn’t it?).

And I know the "flesh-and-blood" you would have already been down here to Mexico visit me at least once or twice because that’s how we Agiewiches roll. Travel is in our DNA, at least ever since Dad got sick and decided life was too short to sit at home watching TV.

In real life you were awesome, don’t get me wrong. You were the best mom anyone could ask for. You helped make me the person I am, who is mostly strong, confident, and unafraid (Well I’m afraid all the time but I’m good at hiding it).

I soldier on no matter what, just like you always did, even though I often just wish I could melt down completely.

With dad getting sick and then dying so young, your life didn’t turn out exactly as planned either. But that didn’t stop you. You cared for him, you cared for us, and meanwhile you got on with things – making new friends, writing, helping people, traveling.

I hope I’m a little bit like you, mom.

Anyway, now that you’re ethereal and all-knowing, I know that you’re totally down with all the stuff I’m doing. Young boyfriend, vagabond lifestyle, and all. You’re not burdened by earthly expectations or judgements anymore.

“It’s all good,” you’re saying, which is something you would never say in real life.

At least, when I saw you in that dream a year and a half ago, when you couldn’t stop smiling at me, that’s what you seemed to be saying. And even now, thinking of that smile, so much more vivid than anything I can remember from when you were alive, I feel your warmth and your unconditional love.

I love you and I miss you more than you could ever know, mom. Come visit again soon.

Happy anniversary to me

All photos by Sara Tro

So, last night in honor of my upcoming five-year wedding anniversary I watched a bunch of old videos of me and my ex, drank some tequila, and cried myself to sleep.

Because not only would August 25th be my five-year anniversary, it is also the one-year anniversary of the day I asked for a divorce.

Somehow, without planning it, I ended up asking for a divorce on our anniversary- a moment that's burned into my brain for the relative lack of drama with which it occurred and all the drama it unleashed soon thereafter.

Weddings small and big

We actually had two weddings. The first was on August 25th, at my mom's house in California. That was our legal wedding. On September 1st, we had a wedding and reception in Seattle.

It wasn't supposed to be that way. There was only supposed to be one wedding - in Seattle - and my mom was supposed to be there. When we'd announced our engagement 7 months earlier, in February 2012, my mom had been thrilled.

She loved my ex. She had lung cancer. She liked the idea of me finally tying the knot.

So she offered to pay, and we immediately set about planning the wedding together. We picked the venue, the caterer, quibbled over the invitations. Then her health took a dramatic turn for the worse and she couldn't help me anymore. But the wedding planning kept me afloat as I watched her go downhill, the cancer creeping into her brain.

I wondered, many times, selfishly, if I would have to cancel the wedding. Couldn't she live long enough for me to have my big day? It turns out she did.

But by late August of 2012, she wasn't well enough to travel. She wasn't going to get to enjoy the beautiful venue that I'd found (with her help), a rowing club on Lake Union.

And so we had a very small ceremony at her house, with a rabbi. It was beautiful in its own way. I'm not even sure my mom fully understood what was going on by that point. But I think she knew it was a momentous and happy occasion. She seemed happy, anyway.

We were too. Nervous but happy. Hopeful. And so were my sister and brother in law, the only other ones there.

The wedding in September was beautiful too. Everything I ever dreamed a wedding should be. A handsome husband, a gorgeous locale, many smiling friends. Champagne. Karaoke.

A dream.

The only thing missing was my mom.

A month and a half after the wedding, she died.

The divorce years

And things went downhill after that, as they have a way of doing. Two years later, my sister and her husband of 12 years had split up. Two years after that, it was us.

I'd like to say that I'm glad that  my mom doesn't know.

But I think she actually does. Because she came to me once in a dream, six months before my ex and I split up, to reassure me that everything was going to be OK.

She didn't say anything. She just smiled. A lot.

That's how I knew something big and scary was coming. And that I was going to survive it.

How well I'm surviving depends on the day. Last night, as I watched old videos of us from seven or eight  years ago, I felt like a jealous interloper spying on my old life. (Because of course all old videos are happy. Who ever videos the screaming fights? The throwing of the Xbox controller ? The tears?)

Look how happy we were sitting on the couch with our old pug, Snuffy. Playing guitar, singing songs together, not doing much of anything.

Look at how he looks at me. So lovingly.

Look how pretty and happy I look.

Look how you can see the lights of Seattle in my old condo.

I miss that condo.

I miss Snuffy.

I miss my mom.

I miss...

This could be the last time, maybe the last time, I don't know...

Lately I've been thinking about last times.

More specifically I've been thinking about last times that I knew were last times, which made them even more sad.

Like the last time my mom kissed me.

In the summer of 2012, she was dying of lung cancer, which had spread to her brain. There are so many things to say about that time, of course, including how she was dying as I was on the verge of getting married, and how bittersweet that was, and how hard it was to see her lose the ability to speak, read, and write (My mother!!! To whom, like me, speaking, reading, and writing were everything).

But if I go into all that right now, I will never get to the point.

Maybe a week or so before she died in October  2012, I was getting ready to go out and meet a friend for dinner. I'd been at her apartment all day, during which time she'd hardly been conscious at all. As it turned out, she chose the exact moment I was leaving to wake up.

She wasn't talking much by that point (if at all). Mostly she slept. By this time, she was in bed for the last time and hadn't moved in a while. At least she didn't seem to be in pain.

I went to say goodbye to her this night - I remember it was a pleasant, balmy night (as it often is in Palo Alto, California) -- thinking I would kiss her on the cheek and leave her to her ever-deepening sleep.

Instead, she opened her eyes when I said goodbye. And I immediately felt guilty for leaving. And for wanting to leave, even now that she was awake, because watching over someone's deathbed all day is nothing if not draining.

I said something like "Mom, I'm going to go over to Katie's for dinner now, OK?" Then I went to kiss her on the cheek.

To my surprise, she bolted semi-upright and kissed ME on the cheek. A full, hearty kiss. Just like she had done every night when I was little kid, and every night when I was an adult too, if I happened to be visiting with her. My mom never failed with the goodnight kiss.

But of course, she hadn't done that in quite a while. Like I said, she couldn't really move anymore. It must have taken every last ounce of energy she had to sit up and kiss me that night.

She fell back down on her pillow after that, exhausted. She might have croaked out the word "goodbye." Probably not.

Startled, sad and yet uplifted, I left the house to go have dinner with my friend. I knew deep down, somewhere, that it was the last time she would kiss me. But I didn't let myself feel the enormity of it at that moment. I still had the whole business of her actual death to get through (Which is something I thought I was prepared for after her semi-prolonged illness, but I was totally not.)

But now, four years later, I think often about that moment. How she must have known she was dying because she made that last effort to let me know just how much she loved me.

Four years later the thought of that kiss both sustains me and also makes me weep uncontrollably.

I also often feel an intense anger at myself for not writing down every word of this exchange in my journal right after it happened. For example, I don't know the exact date that last kiss happened.  What kind of writer am I? What kind of daughter am I?

When the anger passes, though, I realize I wasn't such a bad daughter. Oh sure, I was completely self-involved and constantly caught up in my own dramas. But despite our occasional squabbles and screaming fights (remind me to tell you about the time I threw a spoon at her at Thanksgiving), my mom and I were the best of friends. And that made both our lives so much better.

I like to think that it made her death a little better too.

And even if I didn't write down the stupid date or exactly what we said (which is what my mom would have done if she'd been able to write in her journal), I will never forget that kiss.

The Summer of my Discontent

Must. Have. Fun.

Summer has always been a challenging time for me. As an adult, anyway. So much pressure to have fun.

No one (at least in Seattle) ever says "Have a great winter!" or "How's your fall going?" Oh no. Summer is THE moment! That glorious time when Seattleites crawl out of their caves and blind you with their pasty white skin.

As my  erstwhile alter ego Breakup Babe the Younger put it, summer is the "moment when everyone else is living out a sun-drenched Coke ad, and you're a broken-hearted, miserable wretch."

(She was good at whining, that BBTY).

Breakups always seem to happen for me right on the precipice of summer, too. So that instead of looking forward to the endless days and balmy nights, I'm cowering in dread.

HOWEVER. We are in a slightly different situation now.

Seen in upstate NY

The edge of The Abyss

My breakup happened 10 months ago.

And then, well, I figured once that happened there would be The Abyss. That I would fill with anti-depressants, crying jags, cocktails, dating apps, and  men equally crippled by emotional baggage. Kinda like my younger self did (but without the apps or the fixation on marriage [gag!]).

That did not happen.

Instead someone decidedly not crippled showed up. At a time when the last thing I expected was to fall in love. At a time when I probably shouldn't have fallen in love because I hadn't yet escaped the towering inferno that was my marriage.

But, there he was,  like a sexy fireman, pulling me out of the wreckage in his strong, tanned arms. And. I. Could. Not. Resist.

Girlfriends on the more sensible end of the spectrum (that is, my complete opposites) counseled me not to rush into anything new. If you get your heart broken now, it will only make things that much worse.

I know, I know! Don't you think I know??

But because I'm not sensible, I fell hard into his waiting arms. (a story I'm still figuring out how to tell).

 For now, I'll just say that this relationship  has sustained and grounded me through a period that would have otherwise been complete SH*T. (Remember when I said the last six months were the most bittersweet of my life? Now you know where the "sweet" comes from.)
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Now suddenly, however,  I'm alone, because he's working all summer in a camp upstate New York and I have so much baggage around effing summer camps, but let's not even go there right now. Because it's IRRELEVANT, ok?

Comes a time when you're drifting, comes a time when you settle down...

Leaving Seattle

Anyway, without him, I feel very...displaced. Not at home anywhere. Except airports, airplanes (kind of) and other liminal spaces that have to do with travel. I feel comfortable traveling between places, but once I'm there I pretty quickly feel out of place.

That's because he was my home for the last six months. Not Mexico. He was in Mexico, which made it a warm safe place for me to be. A place where, for a while, I just relaxed and forgot about my identity crisis.

Who am I now if not a wife, a home owner, a soon-to-be adoptive parent?

Bring it on, summer. I can take you.  

Now the identity crisis is back, thanks very much. Which isn't a bad thing. It is what it is. In fact, I'm sure it's HEALTHY for me to be ALONE for the SUMMER figuring out who the f*ck I am and where I belong.

Meanwhile, I at least temporarily have the freedom (thank you, flexible job!) to jet around feeling uncomfortable in various places. So I don't have to be stuck in just one! So far this summer, I've been in two different countries, 3 different states and five difference cities, seeing friends and dogs and spending insane amounts of money on AirBBs.

Also, drinking way too much coffee, not exercising, crying less than I thought I would (but still enough), and looking out the windows of various modes of transportation at the ever-surprising, usually-beautiful U.S. countryside.

Speaking of which...I'm just about to get on another bus (aah, my comfort zone) to drift a little more.

*OK it's totally not undisclosed. All you have to do is look at my Instagram feed to know where I am.

Weirdly mustachioed ex-husband denies pug visitation rights

Getting divorced is so much fun! I wish someone would have told me how fun it was because I would have done it much sooner.

Just the other day, for example, my ex-husband (who is now weirdly and apparently un-ironically handlebar mustachioed) TURNED ME AWAY when I went to pick up my pugs for a visit.

Yes! Those two snuggly pugs that we legally share custody of. And whom I have not seen in three months. Who are the lights of my life. The whole reason, practically, that I came back to Seattle for a visit, smooshed between two huge dudes on a middle seat in a germ-infested aluminum tube.

I LOVE MY PUGS.

They are the only family I have left in this city. And YET. My ex, the professional victim, decided to take his revenge on me for all evil I've wrought, by denying me opportunity to see my dogs.

Even for him -- an accomplished bully - this was a low and unexpected blow.

And yes. I thought of fighting back somehow.  Of calling the police. Of harassing him somehow. Of yelling and screaming and causing a scene.

But here's the thing. He has guns. A lot of them. And, at the moment, he's clearly full of self-righteous anger. He is, in fact, scary just to look at because the anger just pours out of him, infecting the air around him.

Turns him into this hard, flinty person and smothers everything that is soft and (yes) beautiful about him.

Yes, yes, I'm angry too! Everyone's angry in a divorce! You disappointed me too, you know!  But I deal with my anger in a healthy fashion! By crying and writing vicious blog posts and bitching to my friends and running off to Mexico! Not by being deliberately cruel!

So I did not chase him down or harass him or even write him a scathing text message. All I could do was call my lawyer and seethe.

Meanwhile, in his  anger-infested state, my ex is undoubtedly basking in his victory, feeling very smug that he both surprised me and deprived me of something I loved. That will teach her.

Not only that, he invited a friend over to witness the whole thing, some fat gun-freak looking guy named "Gil"  who looked on with prurient interest while my ex shouted down to me from his balcony and left me standing there empty-handed and stunned in the chilly Seattle twilight.

Yes, I can take him to court. No, I can't do it now because I'm only here for two weeks.

Is it worth it?

I don't know.

And yes, this divorce is sucking more than I ever imagined possible. Even though I'm well aware it could be MUCH WORSE.