Archive | August, 2011

Setting up house…

27 Aug

It’s been a week since I moved into my new 1-bedroom condo. I’ve been super busy buying stuff. Which is fun, but also tedious. This new life is starting from scratch. Yes, I took some basic kitchen items from the house, but that’s pretty much it. I had the foresight to buy a bed and had it delivered on the first day I was here, but that’s about it.

So my week has been filled with tons of online shopping. Every decision I’ve made has been made alone and feels both exciting and scary. But as I press the “BUY IT” button, I’m filled with a sense of peace that each purchase puts me closer to independence and settling into this new life.

And every time the UPS guy knocks on my door, it’s like Christmas morning here. Rubbing my hands with glee, I tear into the boxes and look at all the new shiny objects I’ve bought.

Sticker shock...

But while I’m loving buying new stuff, I also hate it. You see, I gave myself a pretty low budget to set this place up. And every time I buy something it whittles away this seed money of mine. In the past, I didn’t give a rat’s ass how much money I was spending. I wanted something, I bought it. Now, I have to actually pay attention to things like comparison shopping and putting back something I want because I’m on a budget.


But alas, I am. Instead of buying my kitchen table at Ethan Allen, I bought it at a discount furniture place. The chair legs don’t feel that sturdy, but it’s within my budget. Instead of buying teak patio furniture, I bought aluminum zero gravity chairs, which actually are kinda comfy, but not what I’m used to.

I’m not complaining though. Here’s why: I am realizing that I don’t need the things I used to have. And while I might miss my Le Cruset pots, my food tastes just as good cooked in a cheap pot. And as I look around my mostly empty condo, I start to feel like I’m home.

Post Script: I did buy two new pairs of stilettos. Cuz after all, I’m a dirty shoe whore still.


It feels right…

15 Aug

I’ve never lived alone. I married young and moved from my mother’s place to my husbands. And while I’ve been renting a room for the last couple of months, it’s just a room – no kitchen – and is part of the Valley Hillbillies house. So doesn’t qualify in my humble opinion as “living alone”.

But at long last, I found the place that I will call my home for the next year. It’s a condo close to my office and not in the biggity O (for those that have followed my urban vision quest.) My mother is happy knowing that I have reduced the chance of rape and murder. She’s optimistic this way.

Anyhoohaw, I move in this Friday and I’m getting pretty excited. I bought a brand new bed and stuff and plan to cook my first meal that night. Comcast and PG&E are ready to go so I’ll have lights and wifi! Oh, and I’m taking the Jura Capressa Impressa Z5 espresso machine from the hubby. #cuziamacoffeewhore

Possibly the biggest decision I’ll have to make is what the hell to cook for my first night there. Must decide if I splurge before Friday and buy a gas grill for the patio, because I reallyreallyreally want grilled lamb chops (marinated in good olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic, and lemon). And a greek salad. And maybe some chocolate for dessert. I can live without a couch, kitchen table and lamps on day 1 – but must have in no particular order: good food, vodka, coffee. The rest will work itself out over time.

Of course, The Rockstar offered to cook for me, cuz he haz mad skillz in the kitchen. But for my first night, I’ll be pickled and tickled and doing it for me, my way, hell yes. Rockstar can cook Saturday!! (Please and thanks!)

The idea of my very own place, with just me in it, fills me with satisfaction and fear. It’s been a rocky couple of weeks, with the reality of my separation settling in and warring against the newness of not being married and dependent. I’ve been making a good number of decisions lately based on instinct. I’ve been saying “you just know”. I think people need to listen to themselves more and stop questioning so much.

My life. One day at a time. It just feels right.

Don’t hate me…

11 Aug

This sentiment has been bouncing around my blonde head for exactly eleven weeks like a ping pong game, or maybe a game of just pong. Thudding its way back and forth, back and forth with mind numbing delirium.

DON’T HATE ME. I’ve said it out loud to all my former friends, to my estranged husband, to my family. The family forgives, the friends move on, the husband does not. So I say it over and over again, willing him to not hate me. To talk to me. To allow us both to move on.

It takes two to fuck up a marriage. Don’t ever assume because I left that I am the villain, yet most people do. Let me clarify: the people who know ME AS THE WIFE think I’ve lost my marbles and want nothing to do with this new woman who broke up the coupledome. I’m a paraya – insensitive and selfish. Right?

No. Not. Right. I’m getting tired of feeling the need for people not to hate me. Not to judge me. I’m now starting to find myself saying “Go right ahead and do your thing, judge away.

Because at the end of the day, when I’m taking off my makeup and looking at myself in the mirror, unmasked and vulnerable, I do so knowing that I’m living my life and what’s left of it. Finding amazing things about myself and my strength I never would have had I not left, and feeling excited about how I’m changing and seeing things.

So to those who hate me (or women like me) – find a mirror. Strip everything away. And then look yourself in the unmasked eye and see yourself. Do you hate what you see?

Narrowing it down…

9 Aug

So the biggity O tour bus started a couple weeks ago. I’ve been dragging The Rockstar with me who has been patient and courteous and objective. He’ll hate that I shared how nice he’s been, given he wants to be seen as all badass and whatnot. Whoopsies.

Anyhoohaw, we’ve checked out Jack London, Lake Merritt and a whole lotta crappy apartments. NO BUENO. The only one I was tempted to lease has a shit load of steep stairs which, given my tendency to teeter totter and fall down is NO BUENO. Plus, a bus runs down it, and so do vagrants with natty hair.

So this threw me into a tail spin. The Rockstar asked patiently “What do you want in an apartment?”

Me: Ground floor, covered parking, fireplace, patio, in unit washer/dryer, sound proof bathroom…

RS: *raising an eyebrow over the poddy comment*

Me: I think I have to give up my dream of the urban lifestyle.

RS: Lake Merritt is not really urban.

So I gots to thinking about why I wanted urban. I really want to walk out my front door and walk to a cafe – or a bar. Cuz I’m a coffeewhore and a vodkawhore – in that order usually.

There better be coffee there... Or vodka...

Hmmm – now thinking I should look at leasing an apartment in the downtown of a suburb. One that will allow me to avoid breaking a bone, lets me share custody with my dogglies, and walk to a nearby strip mall. For coffee. Or booze. Yeah, maybe that’s the plan.

You know the best part of all of this though – instead of someone telling me what I should do, I was offered the opportunity to figure it out. Of course, this plan must execute soon. I gave my landlord notice on 8/1.