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Monday . . . I have returned. Reading my column above I find it hard to believe that it's been over a month since I ran into the lovely creature mentioned in it. I guess I'm not as anxious to get back into the hunt as I write. And get this, remember the dating service I unsubscribed to? All of a sudden they come up with eight 'matches' for me and only one doesn't include a photo. So how many did I even bother to check out? None. It's not like I'm scared as much as I'm just worn out. Tired. In any case I'm too old to be scared, aren't I?
Wednesday . . . 10am sitting at my Starbucks. What great weather. I'm outside with the smokers enjoying the probably low 60F degree surroundings. Too loud inside the store. I hear a "Hi Dad!" and realize that today is my only daughter, Aili, birthday. The immense fat-ass from the close-by '$25 and up cigar store', stuffed into a really nifty black pin-stripe suit, just barely scooted by my cold green round metal table. A cigar smoking, morbidly obese poker player who is not long for this world. Not too many months ago I would be paying $200 a month for weather this nice inside my tony Town of Paradise Valley apartment. And now, in December it's free. I came here to read Towing Jehovah and instead, I'm writing. Sigh. So many people dressed so nicely all ready to go to work and squeeze their brains out various orifices along with the ends of their fingers. I am so fortunate to be their appointed observer and judge <grin>. I slept eighteen out of the last twenty-four hours, so something still isn't quite right with my medications. I also needed to write today about pain. The pain of editing Mainio's (my youngest son) 2nd printing of his only published book. A school friend of his, the class Valedictorian, had done it before it was sent off to the publisher the first time and he missed far too many misspellings and other grammaticals. My own journey into editing made it to chapter five of his thick 435-paged fabrication. It was too tough. I couldn't handle it. With a hand-trimmed bookmark stabbed at page thirty-eight, I carried his book in my stylish blue denim bag for months. What was so tough about the editing was the realization that this supposedly fiction book had far too much fact in it. Facts experienced from the months of torment during my divorce encounter with the Mrs.Dr.Malamud. In my own selfishness I had assured myself I was the only one being hurt. But as I read Mainio's monograph, virtual tears trickled down my weathered cheeks as I lived for the first time the singeing hell the then teen Mainio himself had dragged himself through. The other day the postman dropped off a three and one-half-inch thick legal-sized envelope for Mainio. Return address: the ex-Mrs.Dr.Malamud. Later that day, I received an e-mail from the same stating that she had re-edited Mainio's book prior to the 2nd printing. She typed that is was really difficult work as it was written "... when I left for ..." So, she does have a heart. I knew it was there somewhere.
Thursday . . . The eleventh of February is our 30th wedding anniversary. Or would be our 30th, if the ex-Mrs.Dr.Malamud-generated-divorce had not cleared the courts on December 7th of two thousand and four; a day which will live in infamy. All I can say is thank God for Wellbutrin XL and its ability to regulate my mood by regulating my brain chemicals. I've been wondering heavily if I'm using the drug too much for a crutch to feel bad without actually feeling 'bad.' Because the 'feeling bad' part is what typically spurs a change in behavior. But the more I've pondered my accusations of avoidance, the more I believe I use the prescription to stabilize my serotonin at the levels most normal people enjoy. Wellbutrin XL isn't perfect though, because I believe it dulls too many brain receptors and causes me to unconsciously and without knowing, behave in ways I would normally not. (Like leaving my car door wide open while I run inside to avoid the rain, take a three hour nap and awake to find the interior of my Peugeot wetter than Senator Byrd's Depends® after a twenty hour filibuster. Or locking my keys inside the car. Or proving the Theory of Relativity and when asked to "Save Changes?" hit the NO button.) Why did I write 'thank God' earlier? Because in this new year of 2007, every single song I hear on the non-H.D.F.M. car radio shoots memories through me that reverberate with involuntary rushes of soul rumbling nostalgia. Twenty-seven years is a long time to spend with someone and now it's what? Gone? Vanished? How does one as 'sensitive' as your Dr.Malamud respond to these tune-evoked emotions? Rather than moving on, I can't help but dwell on how depressed I would be without my SSRI Rx. And that empowers me to ... do ... nothing. Which isn't good. You know you're old when you take into account your probable life span. How weird is that? I never, ever used to ponder over the fact that I will probably die within the next thirty years. I think the part of me that hasn't yet given up continues to urge me to do something, anything, before I leave this corporeal realm.
Mainio is making mumblings of moving out. I'm sure he's concerned both about leaving me absolutely alone and the fact that he will, for the first time in his life, have to financially fend for himself. Well, all but his health and car insurance payments. I need to get a dog. And there is only one kind of dog to get and that is an English bulldog. But I cannot have a dog, not because of any apartment restrictions (I chose a pet-friendly complex before I put both of our dogs to sleep) but because my work-schedule is so unusual. Every thing depends on my finding a decent job with a predictable schedule, while I pursue my true calling, which is some form of self-employment whether it involves acting, writing or teaching or all three. I contacted my director/producer employer and she confirmed the movie I was cast as a lead in in year 2000 will be produced in year 2010. I'm at my Barnes & Noble Café, sipping a mug of stout Starbucks coffee, while enjoying the scenery of too many females. Most of them are studying and younger than my daughter, but what the hey, I'm not thinking evil thoughts. I'm stuck thinking about how their inborn interests are so much different from that of men. I'm looking at how carefully their hair is colored and cut. A young girl directly in front of me sports a set of intricately woven pig tails so that she looks like a Dutch girl. Another girl closer to me is overweight by thirty pounds but still quite pretty. Ah, that's what happens, isn't it. The lonely guy looks at all these women who are so attractive at first sight and then as the attraction grows and becomes mutual the same guy begins to tear the woman down. What bastards.
Tuesday . . . I was going to begin this posting with a roll-call of swear words. With every song slapping me in the face with memories of lost love, I have been feeling unusually melancholy lately. The dark clouds and rain were not helping since they remind me of the city where she moved to. Today laying on a table, I discovered a recent prescription with the ex-Mrs.Dr.Malamud's name on it. It had a local address on it. It was her sister's house. Apparently eMDM had purchased it in her name and given it to Mainio, since he, most likely, was afraid to ask me for money to buy it since I knew he was blowing his money on frivolous things. I checked for the Christmas present that Mainio had purchased for her last month and it too was gone. A tear ran down my cheek as I realized she was back in town. <Insert 'roll-call' of swear words here> My soul momentarily sunk into deep depression only to bob back up in a few moments when I realized (hoped?) that she hadn't visited me because it would hurt her as bad as it hurt me. More likely, she just didn't want to hurt me. I can only imagine the turmoil young Mainio is feeling enjoying lunch at expensive locations with his mother and feeling he can't or shouldn't tell me. I know this divorce had to happen but I keep petitioning God, "Why? Why?"
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