Was Fine, Got Sick, It Sucked

I am pondering the "What's Next?" chapter of my life, having decided that the statute of limitations on my wallowing has expired. The crushing internal noise of my own Greek Chorus is starting to bore me.

After a fifteen-year relationship, and a decade of marriage, I am now in the midst of what is rapidly shaping up to be a brutal divorce. In a past life, many moons ago, I was a family law litigator whose hourly rate now seems so obscene, I am embarrassed to type it here, but one thing I do know from that vocation: there is a way to divorce, and there is a way not to. Guess where I am? The best laid plans ... I am not going to talk about the details here, because 1) They are legal and 2) I don't want to. If I had to sum it up in six words for the curious: Was Fine, Got Sick, It Sucked.

My health is ... well, you know all about that. No sense beating a dead mom ... HORSE! ... dead horse. But since I am not dead yet, must.keep.going. And find a way to matter; the scope of that is kicking around in my head during quiet minutes in the shower, or while driving, but right now, simply remains some thoughts and plans yet to be culminated.

My single goal in all of this, this being my life - complex and heavy though it may be - is to ensure that my son, my adorable, blue-eyed, precocious, complicated, bright little boy, does not end up on America's Most Wanted in ten years. For him, I want love, warmth, and security. I asked the other day whether he thought I seemed happy? He said, yeah, probably ninety-five percent of the time. The other five percent? When the dog eats your favorite shoes, or the dishwasher overflows in to the kitchen. He also continues to assert that I am The Funniest Person He Has Ever Met and during day-to-day exchanges, I routinely make him laugh until chocolate milk snorts out his nose (which makes him laugh harder). So, I am faking it really, really well, for his sake, and if proud of virtually nothing else in my life at the moment, I am proud of the fact that I am strong in a way that I never could have envisioned. As I move forward, I need to take small steps every day. No matter how tiny and trivial those steps might be.

Step One: A new blog life. This space feels so ... weighty, but I still like to write. I don't want to delete my past, but would like a clean, open forum going forward. For my next chapter, whatever that may hold.

Step Two: A new blog name. Am open to suggestions. I've ruled out the following:

Dead Mom Walking (too dark)

A Quart of MILF (too PG-13)

My Stupid-Faced Ex Can Go Screw Himself (too bitter)

Medical Procedures To Avoid (too Discovery Health)

Blonde (since my roots are currently longer than my actual "blonde", I feel like this is false advertising.)

I HEART ANDERSON COOPER !!!! (while true, I feel like that might get me slapped with a restraining order.)

Shiny Happy Mommy (Um, no.)

JENNY! (Again, just ... no.)

I Used To Be Hot, Did I Ever Mention That I Was Homecoming Queen? (Disclaimer: There was considerable controversy during the election process. My best male friend, who harbored an unrequited crush - unrequited not because he was not amazing, because he was, on so many different levels - but because I had a boyfriend that I was obsessed with in that way that only a high-school girl can be, so instead of dating the male friend, we stayed friendly, and would spend hours upon platonic hours together after school in his kitchen, laughing and eating pickles [really eating pickles, not some sort of weird double entendre version of "eating pickles"; pickles were my cuisine of choice because they are fat-free and since I was on a strict 750-calorie-a-day diet in those days, I could eat a full jar and count that as lunch and dinner]. When my lacrosse-playing, Jeep-driving, Homecoming King boyfriend dumped me for that chick with Double Ds and a brand-new Mercedes convertible, the best friend brought me hand-picked pink roses from his garden and warm brownies that he baked himself (!) because he knew the Universal Rule of Jenny Dieting: All calorie bets are off when she gets dumped. He let me cry and cry and cry, the ugly kind of crying where snot goes everywhere and eyes puff so much they swell shut (am a pro at this!), and play "Wonderful Tonight" on my pink cassette boom box for five hours straight. This pattern continued until I got back together with said Lacrosse Player three days later because I was sure, despite his large-breasted, German-engineering proclivities, it was True! Love! Forever! Until he dumped me, again, the day before Prom (said ex and I went on to attend the same college, and after a couple of years and Red Solo cups of a vile mixture of something called "Hop Skip & Go Naked", served from a fraternity-house bathtub, we forged a for-real, actual friendship, despite all the prior dumping). So, the point is, the best friend's feelings for me may or may not have caused him to stuff the ballot box, just like Rachel on Glee, jeopardizing his own future on SGA. But I don't think all that would fit on a blog title header. So, that's out.)

Step Three: Ask all of you to please weigh in on blog title ideas. Clearly, I need some help here. Also, does anyone know where to go to find someone to make their blog pretty? As you can tell, I am well-versed in technical computer language. Honestly, I am surprised Apple has not called by now to offer me Steve Jobs' now-vacant position. Apple, am w-a-i-t-i-n-g-g-g ... I will accept payment in iPads. Let's talk.