September 29, 2000
Decreed Times Three


When it rains, it pours.

In the past couple of days I have received not one ... not two ... but THREE separate copies of the missing divorce decree. It's sort of like being divorced all over when it rains it pours again.

And again.

And again.

This means, of course, that I owe my ex-husband a huge apology. What was I thinking? OF COURSE he would have filed the divorce papers in a timely and legal fashion! He was just as anxious to be not-married, at that point, as *I* was! (Probably more so, even. I'm sure that as far as he's concerned, I should probably be fully decomposed under a big clump of seaweed, right about now.)

So: I'm sorry. I was wrong. I doubted. I apologize.

It also means that now I can quit worrying about this especially-pointless, especially-stoopid non-issue, and fully concentrate on the OTHER 43,897,621 pointless, stoopid non-issues currently cluttering my *Personal Anxiety List.*  Like impending grandmotherhood. And impending menopause. And finding a better job. And finding a pair of shoes that fit. And finding time to write my book/answer my e-mail/redesign my archives/fix my laptop/get my California State ID. And slow modems, and fast ninth grade girls, and ants in the bathroom, and letters from the Vice Principal, and ingrown toenails, and broken molars, and basketball-bouncing teenagers outside our bedroom window, and postponed Army physicals, and "Now and Again" not appearing on the fall TV lineup ...

... and that single, wiry black hair that keeps re-sprouting in the middle of my neck, over and over again, no matter how often I pluck it/shave it/depilatorize it/yell at it ...

... and -- of course -- our Unfortunate Temporary Financial Woes.

David was visibly more relaxed by the time he picked me up from work last night.

(And there *I* was, prepared to comfort him with blowjobs and chocolate ice cream, just to help him forget about our Unfortunate Temporary Financial Woes.)

(David: "Say WHUT?")

Since I wrote yesterday's despondent little journal entry, the two of us have had a chance to sit down and look at the Big Picture together. Rationally. Calmly. With an eye to a shared, blissful, ultimately carefree future. We've examined our individual and joint finances, and looked at the bills that need to be paid, and discussed our personal and mutual financial goals and how we want to work together to achieve them ... and here is our careful, measured assessment of the situation:

We're broke.

But just for a little while.

Just until David accumulates a little managerial experience on his résumé and moves on to something more lucrative ... or until I finally get tired of Franz hacking up that lung into my voicemail forty-seven times a day ... or until I find myself plugging *FootNotes: The Movie* on Oprah ...

(Oprah: "I want to play the part of FifiOToole, OK?")

... or until we inherit that vast Ю僱êrvØ¡ spaghetti fortune.

But in the meantime, at least we've got each other. And chocolate ice cream.

(David: "HEY! Whut about ...?")

I'm heading off now for another hard-won, long-anticipated, much-deserved weekend. David and I both feel we've sorta been through the wringer, the past month or so. Weekends have become our little island of peace and sanity and reconnection to each other.

Here are our EXCITING WEEKEND PLANS so far!

  • Library! (maybe)
  • Laundry
  • Absolutely NOTHING ELSE! 

Frankly, I think this is the very best kind of weekend: no schedule ... no obligations ... no alarm clocks ... no undergarments ... and absolutely NO reason to plug the phone in. Unless we want to.

(And yeah, OK ... no money, either. But you know what? At least when you don't have any money, you can't innocently walk into Amoeba Records on a sunny Saturday afternoon, intending to merely check and see if they've got a copy of "Have A Nice Day: Volume Five" on the shelf  ...  not to BUY it, but just to see if it's there ... only to find yourself walking out forty-five minutes and minus $156.75 later with two Jill Sobules, a Kingston Trio retrospective, a three-CD Led Zeppelin import, and something called "Faire Celt: Women's Celtic Voices," which will be played once and immediately relegated to the *chick music* section of the CD bookcase, never ever to be heard from again. So there you go. Poverty CAN be a good thing.)

Have a great weekend, everybody.

P.S. Thanks, Mom.

P.P.S. Thanks, nice people at the Dept. of Health AND the Department of Records in TicTac, WA.  Glad to see the coma wasn't permanent. (Sheesh.)

P.P.P.S. A special *congratulations* to my old Boomer pal Brucie and his lovely Rachael on their impending nuptials! That's so wonderful that the two of you found each other!!!! Of course ... I'm somewhat concerned about the fact that you met ONLINE. We all know how dangerous these CYBER RELATIONSHIPS can be. 

P.P.P.P.S. Hiya, Wally! Guess you don't remember all the times that Rachel Pettit and I followed you and Mike Woolsey into Mr. Sahli's math portable during lunch, every single day, and pretended we were "doing homework," when ACTUALLY we were looking at you, in your groovy red windbreaker, and wishing you would notice us. (Or ask us to the PROM, maybe.)  

P.P.P.P.P.S. Yo! Mr. Caves! A tip of the blogger noggin to you, too, matey! And seeya in November.  Bring me a pair of panda testicle earrings, OK?

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. This week we are looking for names that rhyme with "Wyznyckyj." Thankyou.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. EDMUND KAZ!!! Where the fudk ARE you??? I'm going to mail this tape to IRONBIKR in about thirty seconds if I don't hear from you RIGHT NOW I MEAN IT.

throw a rock