Just like I can’t seem to explain what anyone does for a living (”um, he…well…it’s kind of like…computers, sort of, but not, you know, the kind of person who knows, like, how to pronounce ‘Linux’” or, you know”), I am clueless about house stuff.

This is me being clueless about house stuff:

The state of Massachusetts sent a team of, um, you know, guys who check the things that burn, like, oil, or gas, or whatever, to my house. They were there to check the…the thingy. For, like, EFFICIENCY.

Always—but especially since the divorce—I am certain that any men who show up at my door (often including the ones I’ve dated) mean me no good, NO GOOD WHATSOEVER. Every time a serviceman shows up, I have the urge to ask him for five minutes so I can finish my will on LegalZoom.com and to then tell him I prefer a nice sharp quick stabbing with my own cleanish chef knives, as opposed to bludgeoning by unsanitary windowless-van serial-killer tools.

These guys, the heating efficiency guys, they had name tags sewn onto their shirts. My first thought was, “OH, THEIR MOTHERS ARE IN ON IT, TOO.”
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So 2011 was a bit of a ride in the relationship department, in case you hadn’t heard. Facebook doesn’t yet have a diagram that would accurately convey my relationship status changes for 2011, or I’d copy it here. I’m thinking it would look something like a squiggly fat black line scrawled by a hyperactive toddler, a dark surly maze of crayon scribble. I went from attached to single to dating to attached to engaged to confused to more confused to oh crap to single again to single forever to time to revisit dating women to dating that’s not really dating to single again.

Whew.

I’d like to think that everything happens for a reason. It sounds good and it’s reassuring, and if you say it with enough certainty at a dinner party or in the checkout line at the supermarket, whoever you’re talking to might just leave you alone about the miserable, sordid, mortifying details of what went down.

When the engagement became unengaged in late 2011 (like a car out of gear, drifting backwards down a hill, slipping into a dark lake, never to be seen again), my first reaction was OH THAT’S JUST SWELL, THAT’S AWESOMESAUCE. Because, really, there’s only so much character a 40something single mama can take. At a certain point, character-building becomes overkill, and you wind up wishing to God and the Universe to back the hell off so you can attempt life as a happy, shallow bee-yotch. BUT NO. For nearly five years, I’ve felt like an unlucky foie gras goose, being force-fed Character and Very Unwanted Wisdom. I’m sick of the stuff. JUST EAT MY F@CKING LIVER, ALREADY. Like most single mothers, I am now so full of character, I can practically puke it up onto crackers on demand.
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I need a new mouthguard, she says. We have a lacrosse game tomorrow.

This is perhaps the oddest thing about single parenting: when your kids return from your co-parent’s house two inches taller and needing equipment for a sport you have never before heard them mention.

Lacrosse? I ask. I gulp. I am still adjusting to her playing field hockey with howling banshees twice her size.

She shrugs. I decided to give it a try.

Alrighty then, I say. I admire her willingness to run with sticks.

At the sporting goods store, she hunts for mouthguards while I browse running shoes for my upcoming muddy, wet 5K. I always feel like an imposter in the running shoes section. I hate running. I mean, I really, really, really hate running. And I get the feeling the sport hates me for pretending to be a runner. We are leery of each other, me and running.
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I’m in San Diego, helping him move.

Like any move, it’s a spectacular pain in the ass. He’s downsizing, from a 1200 sq. ft. Craftsman bungalow to a teeny-tiny beach cottage two blocks from the ocean. He’s had to sell or give away at least 3/4 of everything he owns so far to make this move happen, and he’s not done yet.

I’ve never seen him happier.

His son, who’s 7, has been amazing about letting go of all of the toys he no longer plays with. He’s excited that he and his dad will be so close to the Pacific. Now they can walk to the grocery store or to the ice cream shop. There won’t be much room for toys—for either of them—but the quieter life in Ocean Beach is a new start that they’re both looking forward to.

I have never been so motivated.
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9:02. I am sitting at Gate 20 in Terminal A of Bradley International Airport, not because it is my gate (it isn’t), but because Gate 20 is home to the only electric socket that I have found in the entire airport. I consider peeing on it, to mark my territory. I plan to Get My Internet On for a few hours until my flight departs at 12:10. Three hours early: I like it like that. I love to be excessively early. It makes me feel accomplished, adult, less like the harried single mother I am most of my days, and more like the Career Woman Lite that I once was.

I am not traveling for business, but I try to pretend I am, with my laptop and smart glasses—the extent of my writer costume. All around me, people are reviewing notes in binders and presentations on computer screens. They discuss in grim tones whether or not they’re “on target” for their clients and how their “plates are full.” The men wear clever ties and sharp suits and shiny sensible shoes. The women sport classic bobs, perfect highlights, crisp blouses, pencil skirts, black pantyhose (without fail), and gleaming pumps.

I have never owned a suit, and there doesn’t seem to be a reason to procure one now. My stint as an official copywriter and career-chaser in New York City was relatively brief before I got knocked up and all bets were off. I never had The Look that these folks pull off with such ease. One purple velveteen blazer from The Limited, a few pairs of pants, a few dresses, one pair of stacked-heel black oxfords: that did the trick, in my case. Nobody expects much from writer-types in the way of Business Chic. As a literary agent once told me, “You’re the talent. It makes them nervous if the talent doesn’t look like the talent. Wear jeans and big glasses and a coffee stain.”
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