Spring 2015 update: roller derby, rape, and more.

As I mentioned in my last post in 2014, I got involved in roller derby a few years back.  That,along with divorce, two job changes, two moves, two cancer diagnoses (not me), and regular life stuff have been keeping me pretty busy.  So busy, in fact, that I have not even thought about updating this blog.  I apologize, dear readers, for my inattention.  Surely, there hasn't been enough out there in the Internet to read without my pearls of wisdom.  I hate to disappoint, but I am afraid I must.  I am busy dealing with this right now, and so my time and energy is pretty much sapped.

An open letter about rape.

Fear not.  I promise to return.

Update Fall 2014.

Well, folks, it's been years.  I have no clue if anyone out there still reads these ridiculous posts.

I logged into this blog for the first time in several years and moderated about 30 comments.  And then it hit me: I should WRITE again!  So much time has passed and so much stuff has happened.  These days, I'm considering taking my show on the road and trying out stand up comedy. I've got a decade's worth of public defenders war stories, more musings on relationships, and something new to discuss: ROLLER DERBY OFFICIATING.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, check out my most recent (and defunct) project: The Block Docket, tales of cops and robbers, depicted in LEGO (tm)!

No one wants to eat an anus.

I lived in Boston from 1997 until 2003.  On Charles Street, a few blocks from my college dorm that straddled Boston's Back Bay and Beacon Hill communities, was a small market called Deluca's.  Deluca's had it all: a basement wine cellar, specialty items (like mango juice), sushi made on-site, and--of course--the deli section.  Like most smaller markets, the deli featured premium meats as well as homemade salads, soups and stews.

For four years, I would giggle whenever I passed the deli section and noticed the sign for Deluca's homemade "Black Anus Beef Stew."  For four years, the sign never changed.  And for four years, I never saw anyone buy that homemade anus beef stew.

Finally, a month before I graduated from college in 2001, I finally pointed out the spelling mistake to a guy behind the deli counter.  He happened to be the owner's son.

"Man!" he exclaimed.  "My dad has been wondering for years why NO ONE ever bought that stew."

Life goes on.

An update of sorts.

A bit over a year ago, the Former Mr. Vixen experienced his all-out relapse. He had been secretly stealing my prescription medication (it can get you high if you take a lot) since August 2010. In January, he decided that after five years of sobriety (quasi-sobriety because of the medication-stealing) he was going to drink a glass of wine to ring in the New Year. I was uncomfortable about it, and told him that I didn't approve. At the same time I recognized that I cannot control other people's actions. He promised it would be just one glass. He wouldn't even try another for at least three months.

The next day I found a nip of vodka (that I'd already had half of) in his desk drawer while I was looking for Scotch tape. He told me he'd only wanted to taste it. I pointed out that he had hidden it. "But it was such a small amount," he said. That, of course, wasn't the point. The drinking and hiding of the bottle was the point.

I came home from work one VERY snowy night in February 2011 and got stuck in my driveway. When I went into the house to ask him for help, I saw a frying pan of burnt cabbage on my gas range, the gas still on. A cooking utensil was on his floor, along with his glasses. When I finally roused him from bed, he was disoriented to time and place. He flew into a rage. I went outside with my dogs and called 911. He ended up in detox and residential placement for about five days.

During my search of the house during that time, I found he had consumed the following: about 60 tabs of Xanax, half a bottle of Bacardi, half a bottle of wine, 11 beers, and one bottle of cough syrup. I packed his clothing into bags. He begged for another chance, and I gave it to him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In April, a repeat of the February relapse happened again. I kicked him out for good, gave him half the savings, and eventually filed for divorce.

In the summer, I started dating again. I learned a few things: Most men in their thirties and forties want children if they've not already had them. I don't. In order to date these days, you need to be willing to text people rather than talk to them. I find this ridiculous. Many men expect women to act a certain way, and when you don't act that way (e.g., play passive aggressive mind games), they think you're hiding something. A friend bought me a eHarmony membership as a Divorce Gift. The few people I went on dates with had lied by omission(like the gentleman who was twice divorced over the course of seven years and had two children he neglected to mention).

In August, a close friend of mind posted an online dating profile on Plenty of Fish and urged me to do the same. I lasted about a week on that site. (Tip to single gentleman: It takes more than "You're beautiful" or "I'd love to fuck you" to get a woman interested in you).

In December, another friend bought me a membership to Match. (My friends, for whatever reason, seem to really want me NOT to be single. I am perfectly happy being a single 30-something woman; apparently no one believed me when I explained this.) I accidentally set my birth year incorrectly so that it listed me as 92 instead of 32 years old. I didn't notice. Suffice to say, they men who did contact me were in their seventies and eighties, and I was a bit creeped out. I would have started to develop a complex if I'd even cared. But when I finally figured it out, I changed my age.

And that's when I got a message from a gentleman that started off with, "I'm probably too old for you, but..." Boredom will do strange things to people. It will make people write back out of nothing more than morbid curiosity.

We corresponded and I agreed to meet him at a local pub for a drink. I mean, after all the horrible dates I'd been on, what was another? We've been together since.

Even though I wished to remain single, to be accountable to no one but myself, to be free to eat ice cream and chocolate for dinner at will, I find myself paired with someone, a year after my nearly-three-year marriage ended.

It appears that no matter what your plans, life just... goes on. And we're just along for the ride.

Euphemism.

Today.

In which I take part in an online chat with a 47-year-old I've not met. He opens with a story of how he's been invited to have sex with a woman and her husband.

An excerpt:

ME: I don't judge people who swing. But sex with near-strangers is NOT my thing.

HIM: I've not experienced that....but would imbibe

ME: "imbibe" means "to drink"

HIM: I know......:)

ME: uh huh

HIM: drink from the secret, forbidden elixir in this case

ME: are you always so prosaic?

ME: because it's not secret, forbidden elixir.

ME: it's just fucking some guy's wife.

HIM: haven't thought of that.....perhaps....

I blocked him; he no longer has the ability to write or chat with me.

A brief First Amendment lesson.

It has come to my attention that folks out there may be confused about our rights under the First Amendement, as well as what the definition of "defamation" is.

Since I am an attorney (and have studied First Amendment jurisprudence at length), I shall give you all this Brief Lesson in Three Paragraphs:

1. The Black Letter law is clear. Defamation is defined as "an intentional false communication that harms a person's reputation."

2. A statement of opinion is not defamatory. See Gertz v. Robert Welch, Inc., 418 U.S. 232 (1974). ("Under the First Amendment there is no such thing as a false idea. However pernicious an opinion may seem, we depend for its correction not on the conscience of judges and juries by on the competition of other ideas.")

3. Though private citizens (rather than public figures or limited public figures) need not prove "actual malice" in order to succeed on a claim of defamation, the truth (i.e., that which was published if factually true) is an absolute defense against defamation. Because defamation, by definition, is limited to false statements, true statements (written or oral) are protected by the First Amendment.

Untitled.

September 24, 2005--1.40 p.m.

I realized something last night. It never stops. Love. Once you love someone, you don't fall out of love. It's always there and it's a part of you. So instead of trying to desperately fall out of love and stop caring, it's far simpler just to let that love go. Release it rather than fight against it. And remember how good it felt when it was a part of you and not just something that existed in a buried cavern inside yourself. Those people that I have loved... That love isn't gone. It's just faded, and I remember it as I'd remember a trip to the circus when I was five years old. A memory, dull, washed out, yet still alive.

I wrote that over six years ago in my journal. In retrospect, I am not sure who I was writing about. I suppose the most likely explanation would be that I was writing about Mike. Best Friend Mike, who has appeared in my ramblings since 2005. In fact, he appeared in my very first blog entry, Writing Without a Purpose. I wrote about him after our breakup-of-sorts. Apparently, I even wrote about this very journal passage back in 2006.

Mike has been my only love. I don't mean this in a love-is-unicorns-shitting-rainbows sort of way. There are no fairy tale endings. In real life, the prince rarely saves the damsel in distress and teen love grows into 40-something resentment. Life is strange and unpredictable and love follows life's path. Mark Twain put it best when he said, "Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense."

Nothing about my relationship with Mike ever made sense. Since our breakup six-plus years ago, I've gotten married, been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, been medicated, underwent therapy, realized the truth about addiction, kicked out my husband and filed for divorce. For the first time in my life, I am happy. I am content with my life and take solace in the day-to-day monotony as well as the little adventures that happen to everyone.

Mike and I spent this past Saturday together. It was the first time we've seen each other (or even really talked) in three years. It's the first time we've connected since I got married. The talk, the humor, the level of connection was not the same as it used to be.

It was stronger.

He is happy, too, no longer emotionally sapped from a brutal 14-year-marriage and terrible, wicked divorce from the first girl with whom he ever had sex. Like me, he is content with his life. He spends his evenings making art or pondering science and has his own little adventures. In 2005, we spent about a year together, unhappy as individuals and afraid to let ourselves be vulnerable, preferring to be numb, feeling better about it because each of us, in our misery, had company.

We are both happy now and therefore more at ease with ourselves and each other. The took a leap back into the friendship we'd had, but without the negative energy and the need to fight and the need to over analyze ever word we said to each other. We let ourselves be ourselves and enjoyed our time together.

He has tough work hours, though we have promised to see more of each other. We spoke on the phone last night for hours, like we used to, not realizing we'd talked for so long until both realizing it was past time to go to bed.

For the first time ever in our relationship (and perhaps in my life), I have let go of my fatalism. I am not concerned that things won't end well. I'm not looking to define our relationship with any specific labels or agenda. I am simply looking forward to seeing where this ride will take us.

My wish for everyone is a wonderful ride, wherever it leads.

The story of my life.

An online stranger told me that I should write an autobiography. He knows nothing more of me than what I've put on some online profile and words we've exchanged via instant messenger.

"No one would read it," I told him.

"I would," he replied.

To which I said, "I was born to a middle class family on Long Island. I had three birthday parties at Hot Skates in Great Neck. Not much of a hook there."

"I have your hook," came his retort. "Are you ready for it?"

"Go on," I sighed, not expecting much.

And then he copied and pasted my own words--words I'd typed to him minutes before--and sent them back to me.

I tell dirty jokes, I don't leave the room to fart, I don't care about designer clothing or being a trophy wife. I clean up really well, but I'm definitely not high society. I'm too scrappy. Oh, and I used to be a slut and I've had sex with women. So there's that.

Perhaps my life is more interested than I'd originally thought.

A note to my hair stylist...

...who has forgotten how much I love the '80s.

So I just made an appointment for October 18th to get my hair cut. I am writing to remind you not to forget your fucking crimper this time. If I am not crimped, I will be very, very angry. Do you really wanna see this broad angry?

Not to worry, though: I'll be sure to remind you as the 18th approaches.

Saucy Vixen

How difficult is it to get one's hair crimped these days?

After my appointment is over, I plan to play with My Little Ponies and Rainbow Bright for the rest of the day.

On addiction and divorce.

Yes, dear readers, it has been a while. A long while. Far, far too long.

My life has changed quite a bit and I suppose those few of you left out there may be vaguely interested to know what's been going on. So I shall cut to the chase: I am getting divorced. I will be legally unmarried in early December. It's been a rather long time coming (almost half the time we've been married), and we've been a part for a while now. I took some time to file only because I was trying to work through some legal loopholes insofar as medical insurance (for him) was concerned.

Do not pity me or tell me you are sorry to hear of it. Be advised that I am quite content and happier than I was. See, marrying an addict can take a lot out of a person. In entries that are years old, you may remember my having stated that I would never date an addict. For reasons still oddly unknown, I overlooked that criterion when I chose to marry The Former Mister Vixen only a month after he proposed; nine months after we met.

When the relapse started in August 2010. There are details. Many, many, sordid and dirty little details that are of no consequence at this juncture. Suffice to say, enough became enough, and I found myself living alone once again.

I am the happiest I've been in a few years. I no longer have anyone financially or emotionally dependent on me. I no longer need to worry about the husband I didn't really love winding up dead in a gutter somewhere. I now have money to spend on myself (for instance, three years after losing 50 lbs, I finally bought myself a new wardrobe this past Saturday). My dogs (expensive as they are) keep me company. I meet new people and make new friends. The shyness of my youth has died and I find myself talking to strangers on an extremely regular basis. I meet people. I have fun. I contemplate my next move.

And as it once was, and is again, I cannot wait to see what happens next. My spirit of adventure has risen again and I intend to put it to good use. If anyone out there cares to join me, you are all welcome.