We watched the movie Premonition last night. Sandra Bullock jumps through time to days leading up to and after her husband dying in a car accident. Sandra learns her husband was planning to have an affair, but because she can go back in time, she rekindles their love. The love scene starts with Sandra kneeling in front of him. I’m watching with the kids and dreaded having to explain what a BJ is, but the intimate scene was her removing his shoes, like a servant.
My kids were dual-screening, playing games on their iPads while watching, so they weren’t as invested in the story, but they didn’t mind that I spent the last fifteen minutes screaming at Sandra, giving her great advice she couldn’t hear.
While deciding on the movie, I suggested Last of the Mohicans. We watched the trailer, and Geoffrey immediately said no because it looked too old, and my gosh, he was right. The movie looked like it was filmed in the 1950’s.
Shutterfly sent me an email with a picture from eight years ago. It was Geoffrey drinking a milkshake, and I remember that day very well because it was the day after his dad came home from a work trip and dumped my ass like a bitch. I couldn’t believe how much time passed. The picture didn’t look Last of the Mohicans old; it looked like it just happened.
I was having a “You’ve come a long way, baby” moment without the Virginia Slim, thinking about the last eight years. There are stages to post-divorce life. The first stage is fun and games. I’ll call this the return to party girl. A woman unleashed, all of a sudden having two days off a week, and dives into slutting and drinking.
Once that ended, because a mid-thirties party girl isn’t sustainable, I entered the second stage, where I became delusional and said things like, my ex is my best friend.
This is quite common, and I hear plenty of celebrities regurgitate this garbage in post-divorce interviews. It is said with the best intentions to help the kids, but it most likely leads to confusion. What do kids think when the two people raising them reiterate how they are great friends? They’re probably like, “Oh great, best friends, perfect, now you both can stop making me pack up my life every three days to go back and forth from houses.”
I don’t think I should have said something extremely negative, like, “We're divorced because I find him to be a dishonest you-know-what-sucker. But that’s just me.”
When my daughter was in therapy, her therapist told her, “Your parents don’t like each other.” I think that was the first time she heard that. I know now I should have straight-up said this to my daughter early on. I’ll make better choices during my second divorce.
After hearing me argue with his dad, Geoffrey asked me if I hated his dad. I told him, “Your dad gave me the most beautiful life. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have my kids, so I don’t hate him and never could hate him. He’s just grouchy, and I’m not here for it.”
Some honesty. I didn’t say grouchy you-know-what-sucker, just grouchy.
I don’t know what to call the next stage, commit to the life I dreamed up as an eight-year-old but was derailed from teenage psychosis. Life goals are great, but they are tested by the brutal relentlessness of February.
Poor G had the worst flu; it lasted two weeks. He lost ten pounds, going from skinny to emaciated. Stressed out by his loss of appetite, I fixed him snacks all day long. He’d be repulsed by the sight, so I’d eat it, sitting in front of him and describing the flavors trying to entice him.
Needless to say, all my clothes shrunk because of eating all the snacks I was making G. If I had Sandra Bullock’s time jumping powers, I’d go back to advise my slimmer self to size up when buying cute clothes.
After G rejected a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I presented it to Kiki, she waved it off and said, “I won’t eat peasant food.”
A thirteen-year-old is going to come at you with some crazy shit, but I was thinking this might be evidence of reincarnation. I asked her, “Where on earth did you hear such a thing because around here, we don’t call a PBandJ peasant food, it’s just called food?”
She said, “It was in Ratatouille.”
I must have been dual-screening because I missed that line.
Kiki stays with me more lately; maybe it's the 13-year-old energy not vibing with the grouchy energy. We get lots of girl time; she plays me Taylor Swift songs, explaining the back stories and how they're intertwined. Sometimes, she tears up from the songs. Then I tear up because I’m loving the moment.
Every other week, we go to Kingsley’s confirmation class. She goes to her class, and the parents have a separate class. I like it, I’m learning more about the church than I ever did, and the ladies I sit with are hilarious.
In the class, we learn about mass, catholicism, and prayers. I’ve been Catholic my entire life and did all the things, but I don’t know much. Sometimes, our teacher gives us a lesson standing at the podium, but other times, she plays YouTube videos.
My jaw dropped the first time she played one; the priest was smoking hot. There’s a slew of videos with these hot priests. I told my table during the group discussion, “I’ve never seen a priest that looks like that.”
My little sister knew of the hot priest, she has his app and listens to his homilies. I described the distinction between the video priests and the ones I’ve seen in real life. Most priests I’ve seen in real life sound like contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race. I told Becky how last year I went to my church on a weekday to drop off paperwork; our priest was walking the grounds holding a parasol above his head and carrying a small wicker basket in the other hand. He wasn’t skipping and swinging the basket like one might expect a contest would on Queen of the Universe, but it was still a sight to behold.
My sister covered her mouth and gasped. Her face reddened, she did the sign of the cross and said, “I don’t think you should say that.”
Lent kicked off, and I did my usual Lenten sacrifice: I gave up alcohol. This irritated my older sister, who said, “You’re sober, you can’t do that.”
I told her to stop being so jealous of how pious I am, sacrificing all year round.
That’s the phase I’m in now: choosy about my sacrifices. Thank God my daughter schools me on music, my son is healthy, and for hot priests because February is over, and it’s time to take in the sunshine.