Point Dume, Malibu | Last sunset of 2018
Last night, I dreamed that the insurance claim I put in following my accident back in November resulted in an 8.9 million dollar payout. To me.
And when I learned this - in my dream - you know what the first thing that occurred to me was?
A reader made this. I feel silly about how much it means to me.
But there you go.
I realized yesterday that I have become a parody; an actual walking, talking movie character. "The New Divorcee In The Cul-de-Sac."
I am Cher in Mermaids, dancing with my kids in the kitchen while the rice burns on the stove. I scrape off the black parts, and we sit down on the floor in the living room and eat with plastic forks. I am grateful they can't hear my heart pounding.
Last night, a new neighbor of mine came over with a basket of pumpkin muffins; I was on the phone with a client when the doorbell rang, and while I ushered her in with one hand, the other clapped over the mouthpiece - sorry, sorry, no no it's fine, come in! - I could see myself as she saw me: disheveled in my boxer shorts and t-shirt, with no bra and a messy bun, cats twining around my legs and kids wanting another Fruit Roll-Up yelling from the kitchen. She mentioned that the pumpkin muffins were made with applesauce instead of oil, in case I was a calorie-counter or healthy eater or some such. No no, I said, I'm currently on the Divorce Diet of Diet Coke and sadness. I could use some muffins.
Where I am, currently.
I've given a few talks over the years - at conferences and such. I know how to do it by now; I've (mostly) gotten over my stage fright, and have a bit of a formula going.
I start with the basic bio, make a few self-deprecating jokes about The Actress Years, and talk about what it was like starting a blog-as-business back in the Dark Ages. I tick off a list of experiences that my site has led to - shows, books, etc. It all makes me sound pretty successful, and pretty together, and at least passably like the kind of person who should be giving A Talk.
Skirt | Shoes | Blouse | Sunglasses
Yesterday afternoon, I sat in my lawyer's office with a huge stack of papers in front of me. I signed, flipped. Signed again. Flipped again. I did this until I'd reached the bottom of the stack, then handed them over, and all of a sudden it hit me:
Wait. I asked her. Was that the thing that people in movies are always refusing to sign and crying about? And usually the person crying and not wanting to sign but signing anyway is played by Diane Keaton?
A few days ago I asked you guys for reader questions over on IG and...ahhh...let's just say there was a theme. Some of the questions (where are you going to live? Where's K going to live? How are you all handling the separation?) I simply can't answer now, either because I don't know what the answers are, or because they're just too sensitive to touch.
Something that's been fascinating to me ever since this process started is the sheer volume of women who've written to me, saying that they're in various stages of the separation process, or saying that they feel like they need to separate from their partners, but don't know why, exactly, and definitely don't know how.
How did you know? they ask.
