Too Busy Having a Wonderful Time

There's been nothing going on in the blog for awhile. I actually have to spend some of my blogging time jotting down witticisms for work, which isn't really the favorite part about my job, because it's writing about things I don't give much of a shit about - fashion, style and the latest trends of shoes. Which isn't to say I don't love my job - I do. But I would never be confused with someone who spends their free time reading Vogue.

All that aside, there really just hasn't been a lot of time to blog, because life has just been too wonderful. I'm too busy having a fantastic time to be sitting around writing about it (which, I think can be considered a perfect microcosm for blogging in general: if you're spending all your time in front of a computer jotting commentary or navel-gazing - and you're not getting paid for it, there's some serious re-examination needed in your life).

That said, last night I attended another amazing concert with L. Our fourth in the last two months, from Death Cab for Cutie to Tears for Fears to a side-splitting show by Patton Oswalt and Louis C.K. that left my stomach hurting for the next day from laughter. We have U2 coming up in October.

This one was a longtime favorite: Hall & Oates. Playing at the gorgeous, though acoustically-challenged Nokia Live in downtown LA. This is probably my sixth or seventh show of theirs over the years, a fact that I long ago stopped apologizing for, but Daryl was in amazing vocal/performance form, while John still looks a little too swarthy and gruff without the 'ol stash.

L couldn't give two craps about H&O, but she's an astounding sport about pretty much everything, and she's a huge music lover, so she was delighted to go. But not only did she find it entertaining and fun from the nostalgia/semi-kitsch factor, she genuinely loved the show, and discovered perhaps for the first time what a captivating, amazing performer Daryl Hall is (which, for people who have stuck with H&O all these years, is a primary motivator). She also has an "out" to have sex with him, given the opportunity. He is a sexy, sexy man. John Oates... not so much.

And she pointed out that "No Can Do (I Can't Go For That)" was probably written about anal sex. A very interesting observation. Judge for yourself.

We'll see if there's more time for scribbling in the coming month. But if I keep having such a remarkable time every day... well, don't blame me.

New Kinds of Scary

Life has been good to me this year. New professional challenges, and the wonders of L. Zach has done an amazing job of developing this year - intellectually, emotionally, behaviorally, developing a pretty solid baseball swing. I'm beyond proud of him.

That being said, sometimes life is still incredibly scary. My ex still doesn't have her shit together, with life throwing curveballs at her faster than she can swing the bat. Maybe she never learned how to hit a sinking curveball. Then again, I don't think I know how to hit one either... sometimes I feel like I just fake it.

And my own life sometimes scares me. Things with L are so incredibly wonderful that it feels like the stakes have been raised to a certain degree. I don't want to lose her, ever, and I want to do everything right. I want to be the perfect man. And that's impossible. No one is perfect. This past weekend, I demonstrated how I'm not the perfect man, and it ruined a potentially lovely day. We fixed things, and in fact got back on track better than ever, but it's intimidating. How do I continue to measure up? To be better than normal and everyday, when ultimately, life is normal and everyday?

I suppose that it's inevitable that my insecurities would always be just under the surface, even though L is amazing... or perhaps exactly because of that fact.

Playing to the Back Row

I'm a creative person, but I don't flex those muscles on a daily basis. I do enough to keep me satiated, and frankly, my life is too complicated and busy to frequently feel the driving desire to be some sort of artiste.

For the past six months, I've been relatively creative in the workplace, as we've been building a new website for the past five months. It's been professionally satisfying, and this week led up to the public debut of our new URL. The CEO asked that we plan an event at our quarterly all-company meeting in its honor, and we ended up deciding on a "behind the scenes" farce video of the making of the new site.

Somehow, I found myself offering to write the script, knowing that too many cooks in the kitchen would lead to paralysis, and we had less than a week. A 7 page script was churned out that day, followed by rallying the entire team for two-days of shooting between meetings. Everyone felt silly and there was some initial skepticism, but people started to loosen up, and once the footage hit iMovie, I hit my stride.

If I would've considered other avenues in Hollywood beyond writing, I would've been an editor. I have a nice sense of rhythm, and screenwriting is its own form of editing. I used to cut on film, and though I spent a number of seasons in reality TV show editing rooms giving instructions and feedback, I was always in the producer's chair behind the editor and not behind the controls, clicking the buttons. My actual digital editing was limited to a few clip packages I threw together for awards shows over the years. But I certainly don't know the (better) technology like Avid to any real degree, and when it came to the user-friendly, for the masses iMovie, I didn't even know how to trim a shot four days ago.

Needless to say, iMovie is very user friendly, even with its somewhat limited toolbox, and it perfectly suited my needs. What was intended to be short, single shot scenes became multi-angle, cutaway-rich, audio-varied little vignettes. Not all of the scenes are good, but they generally click and shimmy, delivering the laugh lines I intended, and numerous ones that I didn't. Part of the fun became editing around the amateur actors. Not that I'm any kind of a pro, but storytelling was at one time my job, whereas none of these people wanted to be behind a camera.

By the end of the week, showing rough cuts to the team was garnering big laughs, excitement, and buy in for the final scenes. So I worked even harder on it. I put in a minimum of 2o-25 hours of editing for a seven minute piece, and the big debut was at an all-company meeting of 250+ people. And... it played. There was consistent energy in the room, chuckles and titters, and a number of scenes that got all-out belly laughs. The CEO loved it, and wanted it on YouTube, even though it playfully tweaks the execs rather than glamorizes them.

A creative itch was scratched, and I had an actual audience. An audience that liked and appreciated it. It was a good moment. One of those Mozart Moments.

This isn't to say that I'm spending my time dying to be endlessly creative, writing scripts, all that kind of stuff... but it was nice for a few days.

And, most importantly, the new site is pretty damn cool.

What kind of parent do you want to be?

I was sitting at the pool, having a rare moment of quiet and solitude. Reading a book about marketing on a Sunday afternoon after a short, relaxing swim.

Two thirty-something guys in wife-beaters with jellyroll bellies stroll up to the pool with a pudgy 6 year old. The boy stares into the deep end of the pool when Mr. Pork-Pie Hat and picks him up from behind and just tosses him into the 8-foot-deep end of the pool. The boy is clearly in the early stages of learning to swim, and struggles to keep his head above water, gulping down glassfuls. Porker #2 casually jumps into the pool, grabs the flailing boy and drags him to the side, where the boy grabs onto the ladder for dear life. Sobs and water spitting out of his mouth.

Mr. Pork-Pie says, "You wanna hang out with the big boys, you gotta swim in the deep end!"

"I don't want to be in the deep part. I'm not ready!" The boy stands there, sobbing, as Pork-Pie takes a picture to "send to your momma", talking about how he's going to turn the kid into a real man. The boy slinks over to the hot tub, as Pork-Pie emails the picture. "That's where the little girls hang out. You a little sissy girl?". The boy doesn't respond, as Pork-Pie takes a swig of his Coors Light.

And so I sit there, considering the divide between developing confidence in our children and getting them ready for the world. Looking at this little boy, fear in his eyes, and not meeting the eyes of these two men, what is he being prepared for in life? He's being taught that uncertainty and trepidation is akin to femininity and worthlessness, and that he shouldn't trust his instincts. This strikes me as the kind of behavior that turns boys aggressive, seeking to compensate for their own fears that they aren't meant to acknowledge.

I think about Zach's fear of swimming, and the little baby steps he makes in this regard, and how he'll climb to the top of a mountain if you let him. He'll run up to a total stranger running an outdoor theater to ask what the name of the next play is. He is aware of his limitations, and deeply cognizant of what he can do. Maybe I wish he could do it all - or would do it all - tapping into that seemingly limitless power the boy has. But I also have to remind myself that he's figuring it all out, and shoving him into the deep end isn't going to make him ready for the world any faster.

I feel that I generally respect this, and am aware of these subtleties, and it's distressing to watching parenting that seems wholly unconcerned with such "sissy" matters.

The Rock Wall

It's not often that a parent feels like they've really got it nailed. That they said the right thing, did the right thing... all those things that are important to create a next generation that's more evolved, more competent than we feel. 

Not that I feel like a fuck up as a parent. On the contrary, I think I'm doing a decent enough job, but it's so easy to hold the mistakes you make against yourself. The times you lose your temper, that you don't put enough effort into storytime, that you express just a little more dissatisfaction than is necessary. These moments add up, and part of parenting is grappling with the question: is it adding up more for your child... or for you?

I'd like to think it's the latter, but you don't know. Because, if it is the latter, maybe moments like today won't make the impact on Z that they had on me.

We had an evening at the park. Me, Z and L. It gives me no end of pleasure just how much Z wants to spend time with L, although there's no question, that brings up certain concerns as well. How much attraction is too much? How much intimacy? What should that relationship be like? As it plays out, it's absolutely wonderful, but I just want to be cognizant that both of them - all of us - are treading in previously uncharted waters (for us, at least). 

Z was climbing a rock wall. Not the typical park rock wall for kids, with its plastic hand and foot-holds, blazing like neon signs for where to step. Rather, this newly designed park (ironically, it's always been known to Z as "New Park") installed a faux-rock climbing wall. With gritty hand-holds and grooves, which really force children to figure things out on their own. 

Z failed to figure it out the first time, getting halfway up before calling plaintively to be helped down. A while later, he climbed to the top, but then realized that was quite a predicament - the pride of accomplishment was replaced by the fear of the unknown. Dad needed to scale his way to the top and one-arm Z down to another father. Crisis averted.

But, Z being Z, the first thing he did was climb right back up. This time, when he got to the top, I warned him not to crab-walk to the same place he got stuck last time. So he didn't. He made it halfway down the other side of the wall, my pride surging, until I needed to lift him off the remaining section. 

But, Z being Z, he wasn't done. Another trip to the top, and this time the allure of the crab-walk was too much for him to resist, even though I specifically told him this would end badly, and that I wasn't going to rescue him. I muttered to L that I knew where this was going, and I wasn't sure what the parenting response should be.

He did it anyway. And, predictably, he got caught exactly where I said he would. His eyes welled with tears, and he asked me to get him down. I told Z that this is exactly what I warned him of, and I couldn't help him. He looked right at me and said, "But you're a hero". If that isn't a moment that both swells and crushes your parenting instincts, I don't know what is. 

So I told him that I couldn't help him. He got himself into this mess, and he had to figure out how to get himself out of it. I helped point out areas that would be easier for him to cope with. He carefully - and oh-so-dangerously - shifted his body weight around, and skittered down an edge that he could easily fall off, but which led him to a slightly lower outpost... only 8 feet high, rather than 10. It was one of those scary parent moments, but one that I knew I couldn't rescue him from (unless things got legitimately dangerous for him), because all I'd be doing is proving that he can call on me for anything... even when he is the one who screwed up. Instead, I was trying to teach him that when you screw up (even in such a self-consciously belligerent way as he had just proven), it's often all on you to figure out how to solve the problem. 

And he did. He made it to the 8 foot outcropping, and... Z being Z, jumped off into the sand.  A perfect landing, incidentally. When he landed, he was clearly proud of himself, but I quickly got down on one knee and said, "Z, tell me... who was the real hero?. He beamed, and said, "I was", and ran off, excited just to be a kid.

The moment probably passed for him, unremarkable and forgotten. For me, it might be a moment that I'll treasure for the rest of my life. 

No June Gloom Here

Residents of Los Angeles have spent much of the past month bemoaning the "June gloom", which basically means, any weather less than 80 degrees in the second quarter of the year. Personally, as a guy who tends to break a sweat easily and likes any break from the sunny monotony, this is a welcome weather pattern, so no complaints here.

Yet, there's been a pleasant monotony to my own life, which has certainly impacted the frequency of my writing. Or, I should say, caused the infrequency of jotting down my thoughts. The word monotony generally has a negative connotation to it, but I don't use the term here in that way at all. Rather, the sameness of my life has been a sameness of satisfaction, where each day has been just as enlivening, enthusiastic, and energetic as the last.

This is due, of course, to L. Our relationship continues to grow deeper and richer, and we simply can't get enough of each other. Never have I been so endlessly ecstatic to see someone - and to be seen. We continue to find that we can do absolutely anything together, whether it's taking Z to the swimming pool, seeing childhood favorite movies in a cemetery, or celebrating her birthday in spectacular fashion at a 1920s inspired nightclub, the Edison Downtown.

This past weekend even featured our first trip away, where we made love in an actual bed for the first time (it had posts and everything), which is kind of comically absurd for a 35 year old, but due to a miscommunication with an ex-boss that actually left me without a bed frame (a minor anecdote not worth repeating here). We had an amazing time whitewater rafting on the Kern River with some fantastic coworkers. We jumped off a goddamned cliff together. We even had our first fight, a combination of alcohol and miscommuncation on both of our parts, but found that setbacks like these are minor, quickly forgotten speed bumps rather than full-blown car wrecks.

So, for all of those complaining about the June gloom, I say, try smiling for a change. There's nothing gloomy about this June. It's been a month of Mozart Moments.

Thunderstorms and Sunshine

Summer is officially here, though it kicked off in a singularly ominous fashion. A long-awaited trip to see my family at their yearly timeshare in Hilton Head, SC began with an absurdist comedy of traveling errors, which was followed by Z getting Strep Throat. An ER visit in the humid sunshine of South Carolina fixed my ailing boy, but a poorly timed tickle in my throat promised that I was going to return for an ER visit of my own. I was getting to be on a first name basis with the intake clerk. 

This cast a pall on the start of the vacation, and Z didn't help matters by being cranky and whiny for the majority of the trip. Worse, I had to finish a week of sickness and stress with a three day stay with my soon-to-be-ex-in-laws. The ex is currently estranged from her father, a man who doesn't seem to notice an odd trend that both of his children have gone long stretches without talking to their father. Interestingly, his own brother has barely spoken to his parents for the past 30 years. What's wrong with this picture? 

Fortunately, we avoided all delicate topics for the visit, and my sister-in-law showed a sweet solidarity by traveling with her daughter to come see me and Z. Perhaps the highlight of the whole trip was getting roaringly drunk, dishing dirt on just how tremendously fucked up my ex's family is. Not that everyone's family isn't a mess of neuroses and petty grievances, but the ex's family seems to make an art of it.

Throughout the trip, I veritably itched with loneliness for my love, L, who was similarly gripped by her own sense of loss and boredom. Perhaps our constant synergies went too far, however, as she was sick on the exact same day as me, also with a throat ailment. For a pair that is rarely apart for more than 24 hours at a stretch, this was something of a strain, with both of us trying to buoy our emotional neediness with a steady stream of text messages, emails and plaintive wails that would probably cause the average 15-year-old girl to cringe in embarrassment. Yes, we can be that kind of sickening couple. 

The trip wasn't all bad, however, as I closed a major loop in my life by having an in-depth talk with my father about my dead mother, a subject that he's made an art of avoiding for most of the past 30 years. I learned many things about her that I didn't know, such as how she reacted to the onset of her mental illness, how much she loved my brother and I, and how my father was advised to divorce her, ostensibly to give her the life choice of descending to rock bottom and dying, or to find a way to crawl from the hole and live. She died anyway, and who's to know what would've happened if he would have divorced her. She probably would've died, which would've made him feel an even greater, heavier guilt all these years. Wonderfully, the whole talk was cathartic for my father, who I believe appreciated my reaching out to ask those questions that I had always respectfully avoided, and he was too pained to bring up on his own. It was probably the highlight of the trip.

The night before we left, Z was treated to bone-shaking thunderclaps that shook the entire condo. He's never heard such sounds before, having grown up on the West Coast. Strangely, when we returned to Los Angeles, we were treated to thunderclaps and rainstorms of our own. Strange how so many things of the last week - illness on both coasts, two cases of Strep Throat, thunderstorms west and east, family secrets and histories being exposed - seem to feel circular and complete, as if things are being resolved. The most satisfying resolution was falling into L's arms at the airport, embracing with such relief and joy; we were both positively aglow. 

This leaves me feeling that the summer has now officially started. Memorial Day was just an unfortunate tease, but now the summer sun is arriving, with all sorts of treats and pleasures in store for the next few months: whitewater rafting, golfing in the evening, concerts at the Bowl, and lots and lots of rolling around the sheets... 

It's great to have the thunderstorms behind, and to be looking forward into the sunshine.

Collisions

I have no real understanding of what post-separation dating as a single parent is supposed to be like. L is so unbelievably wonderful and understanding, and my relationship with the ex is generally so... even (that's the charitable word I can come up with now) that the early period has been a road of only minor bumps and inconveniences: "No, I can't do that because I have this... Hey, can we get together at time A because of event B?". These are the rhythms of parenting life that I got used to for years before becoming separated, so handling them post-separation isn't jarring in and of itself.

But coming into it unprepped, unprepared and inexperienced at those rhythms? That has to be a difficult thing for L, and she has been an amazing cohort, confidant and champion the whole time we've been together. That peaked last week, when she proactively suggested, "I want to meet A. I want to show her that I'm not something to be afraid of". 

This came from A's repeated resentments over my parenting choices in terms of spending time together with Z and L. When A learned that a group of us - L and Z included - were going camping, she expressed her extreme displeasure. Weather concerns led us to cancel the trip, and instead a group of us went to a Renaissance Faire. This sent A into a tizzy, still reeling from the fact that her son dyed Easter Eggs with L weeks earlier. Perceived threats and maternal insecurities were bubbling to the surface, and I'm not at all going to say those aren't valid or understandable fears, but it's so easy for the conception and the idea to take root that it obliterates any form of the reality. L quickly recognized this, and decided that the best way to mitigate this was to introduce herself to A. She suggested a phone meeting, but A upped the ante with coffee, and after some consideration, L couldn't wait for it to take place.

When my friend V heard the news, his eyes practically jumped out of his head, and everyone who heard this - especially me - couldn't help but look at L with total admiration for her class, guts and gumption. For me, it was the class most of all, and it demonstrated just how committed she is to me, and respectful she is of Z's situation. It was an amazing gesture, and I was deeply touched, which is how I suspect L felt when I confronted her ex-boyfriend to say that I was dating the girl that he was with not so long ago.

The  meeting went exceptionally well, with L hearing A's litany of concerns, listening to her history of resentment over her own parents' parade of boyfriends and girlfriends, and expressing how she has Z's best interests in mind, and it dictates how she acts with him. Amazingly, she told A that all the things about me that A hated were probably the things that she adored about me. A said she was "almost certain" that I wouldn't have any interest in getting back together with her - that I've moved on - and L had to bite her tongue to keep from forcibly removing the word "almost". I would've liked to have done that for her. It was only 8 months ago or so that I thought I could rescue our marriage - or that I should at least try - but now it seem so utterly foreign to me. What was I trying to rescue, anyway?

The meeting ended with the two women expressing that they actually liked each other, and was followed by A even throwing out the potential idea of L picking up Z from pre-school if necessary. A mutual show of respect and understanding, and everyone felt great about it, presumably. 

This weekend was a slightly different story.

It started on Saturday, where A's never-ending habit of being late reared its head before plans L and I had. No matter how many times I established that I needed to be out of the house by 5, A showed up 25 minutes after that, and didn't apologize for the major inconvenience. To be fair, I was so irritated that I didn't give her much time to apologize, but I would think that reaching out over that issue would be a natural human response. Yet, I don't think that A feels any need to justify any inconvenience shown me. I think she somehow feels that being married to me was such a hardship that she's owed back taxes for the misery of being my partner.  

Four year old Z started ice hockey last week, and it was a debacle, with him sobbing about wanting to get off the ice, being afraid of getting hurt, etc, etc. Then A and I took him to the ice rink for figure skating, and he fell in love with being on skates. He was great at it when he just believed in himself - something that comes up on a near-daily basis. Still, he insisted he didn't want to go to hockey again. He did, however, and apparently was fantastic. When I called A to ask how it was, I got a shit-filled guilt trip over the fact that I wasn't there, and by the way, "we're going again tonight" and that I should be there. I say that I'm with L and hear in return that, "you were with her last night, so clearly you have your priorities". 

So now I've been put into the unenviable camp of being an absent father if I don't show up, so of course I do. So now I have been guilted into attending night skating, even though I had previous plans. L points out that A, basically, has my balls in a box on her shelf. I try to explain the fact that there are some hills that I want to charging into battle to tackle, and some that are not worth the effort. But, yes, she has a very good point.

We agree that I should go, and from moment one, it's tense and ugly. I don't pay for A, and this clearly pisses her off to no end. It's not long before I express that her "passive aggressive guilt trip approach" to getting me here was, frankly, bullshit. She denies it, and then says that Z was so upset that I wasn't there to see him that morning. Again, turn me into the deficient father. 

I return home to find that L has not taken this turn of events well. She has finished a bottle of wine, and she's more than a little resentful about the fact that my parenthood is a constant factor in our relationship. But not via Z, but through A. To L my ex is an ever-present shadow - something like Mozart's father with his big, outstretched black cloak that envelops and overwhelms. And, for the first time, it seriously tweaked her out. I think that given the incident itself, her reaction was severe, but it was the culmination of many little events that led to this frank, open discussion of the reality of someone dating a single parent whose child's mother is still in the picture. And mothers inevitably hold a good deal of power in this relationship, with that trump card that can be thrown down at any moment that a father doesn't necessarily have any fair defense for. 

And L is right about setting boundaries, and A's need to control the situation, and at the same time, she can't understand just how fucking hard it is to try to keep a child happy, and a tenuous relationship with my ex-wife from tipping onto the wrong side of the emotional ledger that will have larger repercussions than any short term satisfaction that winning any given skirmish has. A wraps herself in a cloak of self-righteousness about virtually everything, and continually accuses me of being selfish, while remaining willfully ignorant of how thoughtless she is about so many things, demanding my time, my attention, my money, whenever is suits her. And what on earth has she given me through all of this process, aside from the (much appreciated) respect not to try to completely screw me in a separation? She can be often be cordial and diplomatic, but how often do I inconvenience her versus the amount of time I spend attending to her needs? It's not a very even ledger, although I'm 100%, completely certain she would characterize it as something radically different. We just don't see the world - or each other - in remotely similar ways.

Tonight ultimately had a certain purging flavor to it, and I think that L needed to get a lot out about the situation as a whole moreso than the events of the evening itself. Because these events are going to seem mild by larger issues that will inevitably arise as time goes by. It's incredibly hard raising kids as a couple, much less as single parents who must deal with and find common ground with the other parent. Especially when you don't want to be around that parent at all. 

L will accuse me of lacking some testicles, certainly, but I truly believe that there is limited upside to handle certain issues in certain ways. It's very easy to win the battle and lose the war. I feel that A works on a daily basis to win those battles - perhaps because she feels that so much of the world is beating her down - but that, to my mind at least, she is losing the war. I used to respect her a great deal - and there are many ways I still do - but that respect is draining away in so many interactions I have with her now. But I would rather be the one to take the irrational right jabs now rather than the knockout punch. Or at least I'd rather be the one who didn't sink to shots below the belt, like A telling L that "you shouldn't expect him to take you out to dinner". Not the classiest of moves, for so many reasons. 

It completely ruined L's night, and that breaks my heart. Yet, our conversation feels like one that will, long-term, be constructive and foundational rather than destructive. L could tell me just how difficult things sometimes are for her, and in the next breath say just how lucky she is and how much she loves me. Wow. That's a healthy, honest, integrity-filled relationship. Though I wish she had been able to let some of this roll off her back tonight, I have such admiration for her in so many ways. 

Eveyrthing about our relationship has been absolutely perfect. I am sorry that, for perhaps the first moment, our expectations and hopes didn't live up to the reality.

It's official

Despite the emotional upheaval of separation and divorce, from a purely practical standpoint, selling my home - a large but aging condo located in a desirable section of Los Angeles - has scared me more. Perhaps it's the fact that I know my ex and I are both reasonable people, and she's not going to try fucking me over, and I have proven again and again that I'm going to take the high road through all of this. 

But selling a condo in a down market, with all of that pent up fear that my home had come to represent, was crippling. It kept me from putting it on the market until after the holidays, and then this horrible, gut-wrenching process taking 12 weeks seemed to put me in an interminable limbo. Even though we found a buyer quickly, the daily uncertainty, the serpentine regulations was even more challenging than I envisioned the whole thing to be. I don't think I would've been able to handle it without L, who was just a complete buoy in so many ways. 

And today it's done. Kind of a Mozart Moment.

I no longer own property, and I now have a very large sum of money in my bank account. It's not large by Los Angeles standards, and the sad irony is that it's not even enough for me to go jump into another property if I wanted to (which I very much DON'T right now), but it's more money than I've ever personally had in my life. An interesting feeling, though also kind of a nervous one, because I want to kind of nurture that egg so it can be of greater use down the line. It's not something to crack open, though maybe I'll rub it a little bit here and there.

I can't even begin to express the relief I feel being on the other side of this. I am so colossally happy about everything right now, and most of it is because of L. Being on the other side of the house is just icing on the cake. Of course, I'd like to be on the other official side of the marriage too, but that feels trivial by comparison. Getting two people who philosophically agree on most things to sign a bunch of papers seems a lot less daunting than finding a total stranger in a colossally nightmarish economy to buy the home that often gave you nightmares for much of the last six years. Getting a divorce seems like a dance party in comparison. At the same time, as I told my brother, it's not high on my list of things to do right now. I feel like I just climbed a treacherous, ice-slicked mountain, and the last thing I feel like doing is strapping on some snowshoes. 

I'd rather relax, smile, be happy, be in love, and live. That sounds much better to me. And it feels just a little bit easier today.

The new view

I found myself home this weekend. In a building I've never lived in before. 

From the moment my separation went from undecided to permanent, the notion of selling our condo was a massive, looming crisis in my mind, representing many things: the removal of the pride of ownership; the emotional, physical and financial investment that went into it; the physical manifestation of my failures, and ours; the loss of the only home my son has ever known. Hanging over all of that was the increasingly fractured economy and the knowledge that we'd already lost 20% of the value of the home in 12 months. Putting off selling was a way to avoid the inevitable financial disappointment, even though the separation of our one primary asset was key to moving onward. 

Eventually, the passage of time and the unspoken calamity of my ex's financial problems pushed me into action, fearing the worst. The asking price, jarring. The market, depressing. Yet, we found a buyer in six days, close to our price. What a relief! 

Then the American banking system kicked in. Our well-heeled buyer couldn't get a loan with 5% down, unless we got our condo an FHA approval, which means that a government backed loan could be acquired. A two-week process formality, I was told. We'll still make the 30 day escrow, the realtor opined. What no one anticipated was that virtually every buyer in America (few though they may be) were trying to do the same thing. Run for cover under the patriarchal umbrella of the US Treasury. 2 weeks stretched to 4 and groaned into 6. The ex's financial calamity turning into a full-blown Katrina, as I help out in any way possible while trying to maintain a positive attitude and not hold it against her (which I successfully did).

Meanwhile, my transition period became an emotionally chaotic limbo. I had to search for places to live, but couldn't commit. A place I adored held out for me, but had to move on after 3 weeks, which felt like 3 years. The inventory of apartments turned completely over during a month. Nights on Westside Rentals and days on Craigslist led to information overload and apartment apathy. Everything came to look the same, everything felt stale. 

The only thing making it bearable was L. A constant fountain of positivity and support, I found myself wanting to include her in this process, and gaining her implicit approval of where I was going was niggling in the back of my mind. One of the things you lose with the end of a relationship is a sense of perspective. Even if you have relatively good taste (mine isn't impeccable, but it's generally solid in most things), when you find yourself alone, faced with all those decisions, there's a gnawing sense of inadequacy and fear - if I can't hold a relationship together, can I really decide what I should be having for dinner, much less where I should live, where I should raise my child? And schools, overpriced rents, geographic enclaves of the westside... it all felt overwhelming. Even as I feel more content and secure in my life, there's that slight scent of fear behind your plastered smile of confidence. 

Having L go through this with me was both empowering, and also a romantic ritual in which we were gauging each other in unique ways that gave each of us perspective in how we see the world and our places in it. Her insight was invaluable, and to walk into a standard-issue Santa Monica apartment and put myself in the shoes of, "well, I could make this work..." and have her look at me and shake her head - "no way" - was such a clear, demonstrable demonstration of confidence and faith that it made me adore her all the more. We were learning each other's tastes and preferences, which is both illuminating and also important. Crucially, we were finding that we have very similar perspectives on many, many things. As crunch time neared, and I had to view a key property without her, it felt as if I had only seen it with one eye.

Because, deep down, I know there is something special and intense taking place, and wherever I find myself has to be a place that is emotionally expansive. It needs to satisfy me, and Zach, of course. But there's this new influence in my life, one of exceptional taste and grace and competence, and that place needs to fit those emotions and perspectives.

I finally got the call that took 8 weeks - the approval came in. GO!

I race to choose where to live, but at that point, there was only one contender in El Segundo, a very unique 3 bedroom that happened to be in the middle of a parking lot, and a new entry in Mar Vista, that seemed intriguing. A week prior, Mar Vista and it's shitty school system wasn't even on the map, but Zach's presumed acceptance into a charter school nearby removed the geographic limitations that I'd faced. A tasteful two bedroom condo in a quiet, relatively upscale community with a pool and a hot tub. Big rooms, giant closets, and a strong, confident color palette on the walls. Though it wasn't in El Segundo, it stacked up over the Parking Lot. I chose it, and then endured 48 hours of the landlord deciding whether it should be me living in her property. As a homeowner myself, I think I understand the grappling. 

My landlord mojo held true, and I got the place. Literally 24 hours later I was moving in a blitzkrieg of energy that lasted for 3 straight, exhausting days. One alone, one with energetic friends and hired movers, and one with L and her sense of style, unending helpfulness, and an uniquely OCD sense of organization (I always felt I was an 7 on the organized scale, but she's well past a 10). 

But a funny thing happened on that first day of the move. The moment I carried in those first boxes of belongings, all alone, I felt a funny, funny feeling. 

I was home. 

A home that I didn't own, but one in which I felt liberated. One in which I felt my life was starting over in an open, honest and meaningful way. Full of potential and opportunity, and a new love that I can only pray never dies. During the entire move, I couldn't stop driving myself, pushing myself, because I wanted to get it done, get it finished, but also, I wanted everyone out so that I could bring L in and have her feel that same sense. 

And she did. There's something absolutely electric, and yet utterly calming, between us, where we both somehow understand what all this means, and what it could be. We sat in the hot tub together, relaxing after an exhausting day of moving, and it was pure perfection. In the four days since I've moved, I haven't thought about my own condo once, aside from the irritating, major detail that we haven't yet been paid for it - and won't be until next week. I put so much time and effort into turning that condo into my home, but it had become as dead to me as the relationship within it. People frequently asked me how I feel about selling, and today, I can only smile, and in all genuineness say that I feel great about the whole thing. 

I feel reborn in this new home of mine, and to have Zach tell me that he wants to "live here for the rest of my life until I die" only confirms that my instincts were true, my judgment was right, and my future looks much, much more inspiring than it had two months before.

And at this moment, I only wish L was here to share it with me.