Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Twelve)

It's day twelve and I can't be sure, but I think I feel a little bit of sadness underneath my anger which is hidden under my shame. For someone who's spent her whole life dealing with an emotion, the mixture of all three is like being hungry while wanting to puke and somehow still craving Indian food.

So, essentially, my break up currently feels like morning sickness. And if I had my relationship's baby I'm pretty sure it would be Courtney Love. Which is disheartening to say the least.

I hate the baby.

I guess it also feels a little bit like a hangover, but to me, a hangover implies that there was a good time first which led to the hangover. Unless you were roofied.
Let's go with that. Assface roofied me into a relationship and now I'm hungover.

In order to get through this ridiculous cocktail of feelings, I've been listening to some guided meditations by a guy named Martin L. Rossman. You can find some of his stuff here: http://www.thehealingmind.org/

Once you get past his name, the sound of his voice, the use of the phrase "wet noodle", his enthusiasm for stairs, the way he reassures you so often you start to feel a little nervous and a few other minor details, he really is helpful in putting me to sleep.

And that, dear readers, is what I've learned meditation is all about- feeling enlightened because you're one of the 12 Americans out there that get enough sleep. People can say whatever they want about aligning their chakras and finding their spirit guide while they meditate, but the point of meditation is to relax the body completely, tune out the world and concentrate on nothing. Which is sleeping.

Yes, it's sleeping in a siting position. But it's easy to learn that. It doesn't even take meditation, you just have to watch "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy".

One of the most famous statues of Buddah. Showing him do his thang. Sleeping.

I think there's a whole lot of jealousy going on inside of me as well. Assface just got the best deal ever- increased paycheck, free time all the time, a sweet in-city apartment, and the TV. I'm a little bummed to be the one sitting here a solid 25 minutes away from the city and listening to a dude named Martin sweet-talk me into night-night time.

Anatomy of a Break Up (Day Eleven)

The Bruins lost the series today. That officially eliminates the only other source of happiness in my life besides my daughter.

I feel like I'm disrespecting all of Boston right now, but I have to say it's an appropriate ending to the season. They played like they still had the Cup in their hands. I know players throughout the league are getting called out left and right for hits that are borderline dirty at best, but we're best when we're borderline dirty. That's when we get it done. We have a team with an insane amount of talent but the whole season felt out of synch. When one guy was on the other was off.

Looch and Thorton needed to beat the everliving out of a guy or two (Ovechkin comes to mind), Timmy needed to step up his game (I know he can't have last year's stats every year, but still) and Krejci needed to be...where the hell was Krejci this whole time?

Still, I feel the need to say that they were dealing with a lot of injuries and a couple of guys still brought their A-game. I also need to post this:

Everything in this picture is a good thing.

And this:

The Improper Bostonian knows deep down, Marchand is a good guy in a suit.

My daughter was scheduled to do dinner with my ex before the game. They were going to chat and pretend like he wasn't the kind of guy to peace-out on her the second he manages to BS his way into another relationship with his whole "I love kids" and "you could never push me away" and "I'm financially stable" lies.
She bailed.
Kid's 8 and she can tell he's insincere.

To top it off, Assface did the accidental text thing. Without any prompting, after the B's lost, this sweet convo happened via text:

Assface: Maybe 10 for me.
Me: ?
Assface: Sorry wrong recipient. Meant to text Hatch.
Assface: 8 AM seems close
Me: ?
Assface: Sorry. Went out for the game and am a little buzzed. I meant to give Hatch shit that I'd be late. How are you?

Me: Yeah, like I'd respond to that. What a dick. I know he has an iphone (totally turned Apple because of me) and they auto correct and adjust and can be touchy, but his use of the word "recipient" while so inebriated is a little shady.

And then to do it again? It's not like he has paws or can't find a way to touch Hatch's name on the text list instead of mine. Also, I'm the resident sports related alcoholic/ just plain alcoholic in the (now abolished) relationship. This guy got buzzed maybe 4 times in the 1.5 years we were together.

Now that I think of it, those were the 4 times I really thought we had potential. He can be fun when he's drunk.

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Ten)

It's day ten and I've decided that I will go on with this whole I'm-so-sad thing until I reach day 26. You're welcome.

My decision to rock 26 days of sadness before getting over it was derived, in part, from the tedious calculations outlined in the half time rule. For those of you who are socially retarded, this rule states: the amount of time spent getting over any relationship is exactly equal to one half of the amount of time spent in the relationship. Assface and I were together roughly 1.5 years, so by that rule's standards I would spend 9 months getting over him.

Let's put that in perspective: 

You could pump out a human in that amount of time.

Or whatever she's having.

If all the conditions were lined up just right, you could make a one-way trip to Mars.

In nine months, this dude made this weird, yet constructive, art project:

Logan Mankins, an offensive guard for the New England Patriots, just had surgery for a torn ACL. Recovery from such an injury usually takes right around...that's right, 9 months.

This is not Logan Mankins.
 But this picture evokes painful feelings that breaking up with Assface never even came close to.

There is no way I am wasting 9 months of my pretty on that guy.

Ergo, I took into account the second law of break ups: one person always cares less. This law states that the person who was least invested in the relationship is allowed to cut their mourning time (set by the first rule) in half again. Which means I have about 4.5 months of bitching before I have to officially shut up.

One person always cares less

Unfortunately, that takes me all the way through the summer. And someone famous once said

"If a June night could talk, it would probably boast that it invented romance". 

Which is a poetic way of saying summer is meant for flings and exposed skin and deck drinking, and I refuse to spend a whole summer pining over something that, deep down, I never really wanted. So I decided to hit up a lesser known bylaw called the combo rule. This bylaw states that a person may further reduce their period of grief, again by half, if they have done a minimum of 3 of the following:

- stolen a bus
- shot a human being with a dart gun at close range due to terrible impulse control
- attempted to heal their chi through acupuncture
- performed a case race
- accepted a marriage proposal and changed their mind later in the afternoon
- spent over 3 years of their life with a straight bourbon being their go-to drink
- married a celebrity
- made up a drinking game to "Dora the Explorer"
- owned an LL Cool J tape or CD
- got knocked up during any spring break but somehow never had a baby
- have the first name "Destiny" or "Bret"
- caught herpes not because their ex cheated, but because they're really, really dirty
- started a fight over anything sports related
- dated someone in every branch of the Armed Forces, twice
- stepped foot in any area of Mexico that is not official resort territory
- never lost a round of "I Never"

I am one of the unfortunate souls who can check three of these horrible truths off my list of shame. I'm not proud of it (well, kinda), but it reduced my time from 4.5 months to roughly 2 months. Which is still a little much.

So then I just decided to cap it at 26 because I like the number. It's even, it has a six in it. It's just a great number. And if I'm still crying by then, someone needs to turn on "Dora the Explorer", pour me a glass of bourbon, pull out my acupuncture needles and stab me to death with them, because that's just pathetic. 

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Nine)

Sleeping with LaFayette on the couch wasn't so bad.

In fact, I awoke today with a lighthearted and open feeling radiating through me. Most likely due to the new open space concept I had going on in my room and living room from the big move. But I knew when I turned and rolled off the couch and onto the floor and looked at my empty bedframe that today marked the day of some seriously minor, but kinda important, emotional breakthroughs. I also knew I needed a goddamn mattress.

I had a new outlook, so when Assface text me this link: http://www.barstoolsports.com/boston/super-page/who-is-the-gayball-paperboy-with-gisele/  and then followed up with: it's the waterslide off-season all over again, I didn't freak out.

Instead, I did just what my shrink said to do. I sat with my shame. Which means I just sat on my couch with this image in my head:

Lo and behold, after about 3 minutes of thinking about that sad, sad day, I stopped thinking about Assface altogether. I remembered what was really important in the world- things like my daughter, taking out Rex Ryan and Manning with a sniper rifle, and the Bruins next playoff game.

Not only was I cured from my constant Assface thoughts, but remembering the day the Pats lost made me a more tolerant person in general. I didn't backhand my niece when she accidentally turned on the Wii while the Bruins were battling the Caps in the third period.

I didn't tackle my sister when she asked who the "really tall guy" on the B's team was. (To be fair, when I glanced at my daughter her little face was contorted with rage and I was pretty sure she was going to take down my sister. She knows the Bruins line-up better than I do and her love for Chara is undying. She talks about him incessantly. I had to look away because the stinkeye she was throwing at her Auntie was messing with my mellow vibe.)

And when the Bruins took it in OT, I honestly believe that was god's way of saying "Good for you, sitting with your shame and all" in his Morgan Freeman voice.

I can't be sure, but if this is what comes of shame sitting, I'm fucking in.

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Eight)

Today was the big move.

Here is my day summed up in Haiku:

you took the TV asshole

the Bruins lost to the Caps again

had to watch online stream

Here is what I thought of when I told him that I wouldn't actually be there to help him move like we had planned, back when I thought he was a decent person, again in Haiku:

hope your spine severs fuckstick

it is good you are moving alone

maybe you'll lose some weight

Many, many moons ago, I was pretty easy going with this split. I realize that I may have played a small role in it and I am acutely aware that it must be hard for Assface, getting on with his life after me. I also truly believed Assface deserved to be happy, and our stupid conversations were so polite even I couldn't figure out how to get a few blows in. Those days are gone.

Originally, when he mentioned needing help moving out, I offered to be there for him. When he asked if I was cool with him bringing a bunch of friends over to rifle through our things so that he could rip them violently out of my possession, I told him bring a caravan for all I cared. I even told him to bring his little work girl-friend who weighs a solid 82 I-don't-do-drugs pounds, and who would be able to help him lift exactly nothing. No longer my not-friend. 

Today I called and informed him that I would be taking my daughter to the family camp for moving day- a completely reasonable idea. I don't think she should have to witness that type of move. As a child, it's one thing to know the main father figure in your life is leaving you, but it's a whole different thing to actually watch him leave.

I decided I would pick up a friend of my daughters' and then take the girls to the camp where my sister and her little fam were. I also told Assface that, while I didn't mind him being at our house without me, there was no reason for crackhead-McGee to be there,  because she'd be/is useless.

Can you help me grab the...never mind. You just sit there with that crack pipe...I got this.

I also told him to ixnay the 14 buddies and stick with 1. All the heavy crap we had other than the TV and mattress was mine and if he couldn't move it by himself then he should work out more. Fatty.

He came earlier then I had hoped, which I should have known would happen. Him coming to early was a recurring issue in our relationship.

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Seven)

Reread yesterday's post. Add 5 drinks (B's lost yesterday), an attempt to master meditation, and looking up the word "shame" in the dictionary. Subtract therapy session.

That was day seven.

Anatomy of A Break-Up (Day Six)

Today is day six and my sister decided to make the trek to our house. She couldn't understand why I was still bitching about Assface when my normal slogan is "move on and move up". I have a suspicion she didn't believe I was actually crying over him and came to investigate the real reason I sounded all sad and snuffly on the phone.
Turns out she was kinda right...

I woke up with my new-found anger which was nice, but I couldn't inhale without smelling garbage, which was lame. So I went to the doctor and sure enough I had a sinus infection. I was pretty relieved- it proved that my lethargy and general shitty feeling wasn't so much from Assface peacing out as it was from my body mutinying against me. I'll take it.

I heeded the doctors advice and went home to rest the only way a single mama can- by letting my sister do all the work. So I lounged on the couch, watching her chase my 18 month old niece and 8 year old daughter around the living room, trying unsuccessfully to get the Sharpies and dog bones out of their mouths. And as I recounted the events of the past few days in agonizing detail, my sister and I made a startling discovery: now that Assface really is out of the picture, I have to find a job. Or go to school to get another degree to help me find a job. This break-up was getting worse by the day, when it should be the opposite.

Fun Fact: I have a degree in anthropology and a degree in geography- the most unemployable fields ever. Now that Assface and I are over I have to face reality.

I was hoping to leech money from a dude and never work.
Like these hookers, only while being pretty in a way that doesn't involve a scalpel.

There isn't really a part of me that ever felt bad about my work situation. Assface funding most everything when we were together kinda went hand and hand with the fact that he's the "reacher" and I'm the "settler" (a close friend's terms for the one who reaches above his number rating and the one who settles for under her number rating). I'm not naming exact numbers, but there was a solid 3 point differential between us. I was the higher digit.

Actually, the above statement isn't totally true. There was definitely a period of time when I felt bad about the work situation between Assface and I- when we lived in Eastie I had a job for 4 months or so and I hated it.

But the past is the past, and my glory days are over until I find Mr. Boat Shoes. Ergo, I desperately need to find a (temporary) job.

So I began a half-halfhearted search. Which means I looked at all the hilarious jobs on Craigslist. I even applied to 4 of the postings under "gigs"; 3 of which involved musicians in some way and 1 of which involved just an instrument. In between prying her kid off the top of the bannister and telling my kid we already know what B.S. stood for, my sister managed to look over my shoulder and point out all the jobs that she deemed acceptable. I found them all to "worky" and had to veto them. Since I didn't meet the qualifications necessary to land a job on freaking Craigslist, I decided to look at possible graduate programs.

Let me break this down: I need to use my degrees to find a school that will take my degrees and shape them into a single, better degree, so I can get a grown-up job. Lame. All this graduate school crap was getting to me. After all, I never wanted to be a surgeon, I wanted to be with a surgeon.

The following list depicting typical ER doctors illustrates why being with a surgeon is a great idea:

Dr. Jackson Avery sure as hell isn't thinking about being broke. He's weighing the pros and cons of buying property in Monaco. He'll decided to go with the pros.




Dr. Sloan and Dr. Shepherd clearly have that educated-judgmental-making-a-bet-on-hitting-that-later look going for them. No one knows why that's hot, but it is. They're also intimately familiar with the human body and that can only be a good thing.

 Dr. Karev works long hours and he also works out. That type of dedication requires tons of time away from home. As in no listening to a husband yammering away. As in spending his cash in blissful silence.

I want to play doctor with Greg Campbell so badly. So, so badly. I mean I really want to hit that. Otherwise this picture is unrelated.






But no surgeons or trust funds in sight right now, so onward with the grad school idea. I was thinking of a field that would put me a little closer to Mr. Boat Shoes, something like nursing or accounting (so I could be a teller in a Swiss Bank, obviously). But as luck would have it, all the deadlines passed months ago so I'll need to wait until next year to apply to any grad program. And as more of the same luck would have it, next year is right around the time when all my student loans will be in default and I can't even kind of fund grad school.

WAY to many dead ends, and the doctor said I should be resting, so I stopped thinking about everything. I can always come back to the whole job idea later.

Or I could ditch the school and just buy the uniform.
I'm talking to you, Greg Campbell.

I was pumped my sister was staying for a while, but between the sinus infection, knowing how badly my daughter felt about my split with Assface, and the realization that I needed to get a job- ON TOP OF THE BRUINS SUCKING ASS TO THE CAPITALS- my anger was starting to get the best of me. When my niece didn't want to eat the mac and cheese I made her, I told her I was over her attention-sucking ways and held her lovey over her head and out of her reach for a solid minute. I needed to vent. Thank god it was therapy day.

And what a fabulous session it was.

I definitely hadn't been counting on my therapist telling me that my anger and sadness were really covering a sense of shame, yet the second she said those words it all made sense. This truly is an ego issue. I am ashamed that Assface had the strength to pull the plug when I was the one who had wanted to do it for so long. I was ashamed that I had let my daughter down. I was ashamed that I was financially unstable without him. I was ashamed that I became so dependent on him as a friend. I was ashamed I dated someone who wore really short sweatpants, even around the house.

I feel like the next step would have been white Velcro sneakers.

The hard part came after my shrink and I discussed primary versus secondary emotions (which sounds a lot like my anger isn't actually my fault- I shall keep that in my mental vault). She told me that in order to ditch of my shame, I first needed to sit with my shame.

My Thought Sequence:
1- I thought I'd been sitting with my shame my whole life.
2- Clearly I was wrong, so how does one go about sitting with their shame?
3- Is my therapist really giving me a print out of anger pressure points and a couple of guided meditations? Is she honestly telling me that only I can know how to sit with my shame?
4- Awesome time for her to go Kung Fu Panda/every Japanese movie with a wise dude on my ass.

Ultimately, I decided to hang on to my anger for the time being. I still plan on sitting with my shame because that sounds hilarious and who knows (I do)? Maybe it will help (uh-uh). Right now, I hate Assface for hurting my daughter and for injuring my ego and taking the TV. But perchance I don't hate him completely. I certainly don't like the guy right now, and something about the whole break up is really eating at me. Something suspicious is going on and until I know what it is, I'm hoarding all the anger I have inside of me in case I need it. Just like a good Kennedy would.

Anatomy of a Break-up (Day Five)

Today was horrifying.

It was absolutely beautiful out and my daughter and I played Frisbee and football in the yard in an attempt (by both of us) to act like all was well in the world. Assface was scheduled to stop by around 1:00 and as usual he was annoyingly early. At 12:23 he shot me a text saying he was "in the area".

I'm going to take a second to say this: I fucking hate early people. Do you know what kind of people are always early? The same people who listen to sports radio when they could actually be watching the game because "the play-by-plays boost their imagination and enhance the game intellectually". The same people who have Post-It notes all over their homes with to-do lists that actually get done and positive affirmations they actually believe. The same people who like cats better than dogs and wouldn't want a dragon as a pet. Arrive 10 minutes early to everything? Congrats. Now you can sit and wait for people like me to finish checking our email and the final scores on a couple games.

This is what I'm doing while you're checking your watch.

Or I may be looking at pictures of Brady online. 

I could be hunting muskrats. But you know what I'm not doing? Waiting for you.

I digress.

The goal of the day, for both of us- other than him getting some small crap that he needed before the big move in a few days- was to talk to my daughter. She's 8 and she's the one who got screwed out of this whole deal. Period. Well, her and my dog, who really loved Assface.  But when he proposed the idea of talking to her about her feelings when he came over, I knew it would be fruitless. My child takes forever to process crap. Once, after a big cross-country move to the East Coast when she was 4, she acted like we had just switched apartment buildings or something- she was so cool about it. Then suddenly, two months later she started peeing on the welcome mat outside of the back door. She said it was because she didn't like it as much as the one at our old place. Dually noted.

Regardless, I'm so glad he had to suffer some of the awkward I'd been dealing with since the second we split.

My daughter's the type of kid who is badass by nature. I want to take credit for her, I really do, but she's just herself. In a way that is amazing. If you ask her a question, it takes her forever to answer it. But the answer is just what she wants it to be and almost always way cooler then you expected coming from an 8 year old. So essentially, you have an 8 year old who out-thinks you while giving you ample time to realize she's out-thinking you.

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Four)

I woke up this morning to my daughter bringing me breakfast in bed. Are you kidding? She's 8 and she already knows how much mama needs carbs in the morning when she's in such a state. Clearly I've done something right. We talked a little about her side of things and tried to figure out if she wanted to continue to see my ex (our ex?) every week or so. She's not sure because in her infinite little girl wisdom she realized it may be smarter to just rip off the band-aid. We decided that she didn't need to decide right then and there. If there's something that this mama's good at, it's teaching my daughter to procrastinate.

Then she ditched me to go off with a friend. The same friend she went with yesterday. I'm pretty sure that this friend's mom knows what's going on and that my daughter may be milking the fact that she's down a positive male role model to score some sweet play-dates. She's smart. Like that "Little Man Tate" kid, only cooler.

To be fair, no one is cool when they're being hugged by Jodie Foster.

Another bit o' bio: I live with my mom. And her weird boyfriend. And obviously, my daughter. And at one time, my boyfriend. And I'm so not okay with that. Unfortunately, my massive student loans and complete lack of enthusiasm for finding any job other than substituting has left me little choice. On the upside, the house is huge, there's an awesome in-ground pool (and there's not a ton of those in this state...) and I have the downstairs level to myself. Plus, my daughter has a huge yard to play in. And she's close to my mom- which strengthens their bond and gives me a free babysitter. Back when I was dating, I just told guys that I owned the house and let my mom live there because she was so old. I have a B.A. in anthropology so obviously they believed me- it's the whole implied bleeding-heart liberal thing that goes with saying you have a B.A. in such a ridic field. Though you might think that living with my mom would make me feel a little lame or insecure, you should read the blog more closely. I regard myself highly. Student loans aren't my fault- they're the governments fault. Some people occupy streets, I occupy a large house with an in-ground pool. 

Guess who's smarter? 99% smarter.

After my daughter left I hopped in the shower and realized that I hadn't cried today. I was extremely proud of myself. Then I started to sing Wilson Phillips' "Hold On" while lathering up and a tear or two may have escaped. However, that's a pretty empowering song, so I'm going to say that those were happy tears.

"I know that there is pain, but you hold on for one more day"... it's just so true

I too wanted to break free from my chains, and I was going to start today. I decided it was time for a change. I also decided that the change should be something simple because one shouldn't overexert themselves in times of crisis. That's when it hit me- my hair. I've spent years trying to get J-Aniston's hair color and I was damn close. Only instead of Aniston short, my hair is Kardashian long. What a combo, right? But today was the day to let it go. As W.P. girls preach, no one can change my life except for me. And Ashley, my hair girl, but still.

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Three)

Day three.
My daughter went with her friend to get her nails done because she's just like mama- mani/pedi's can cure pretty much everything. Then, when she realized I probably wouldn't be getting out of bed for many hours, she spent the day at her friend's camp- after deeming me the lamest mom alive.

Surprise kid...not even close.

My room looked like a 13 year-old boys room- used tissues everywhere. But I felt like I had accomplished something. I didn't call him.

Necessary background info that makes this blog more understandable and thus meaningful to you, the reader:
I'm not the girl that calls. I don't beg. 
I take all my feelings and shove them waaaayy down inside where they should be. I'm very Kennedy in that way. (And in the way that I'm super pretty.) When my feelings do bubble over, they take on the form of anger. The last time I broke up with a long term guy I took a pickaxe to his motorcycle. Granted, I didn't exactly go out like Jackie O. on that one but it was kinda justified and if you think about it, I still resemble a Kennedy. Only it was Ted Kennedy. Who "accidentally" drove that chick into a lake. Probably because they'd just broken up.

Facts that do nothing to make things more understandable to you but serve solely to make me feel good:
 I'm smart and know a ridiculous amount of trivia, which is cool. I'm very, very good at Uno. I have almost as much confidence as I have swagger.

After surveying my room, I realized that I should be ashamed at how much I'd cried over the last few days. And that made me think. If I wasn't over it, then he couldn't possibly be over it. I knew for a fact that I should call him and make things work. Which is exactly how I knew that I shouldn't call him and make things work. Because my gut instinct is always wrong. Always.

Seriously, always.

So instead, I thought of the very best ways to screw Assface over. After all, everything of his was still at our house. He only took a bag of stuff with him to house-sit before officially moving out. I have his credit cards, an old license, tax documents, ex-girlfriend pictures he thinks I don't know about, all his HD porn, his old cell phone with all his contacts, all his precious hockey memorabilia, work forms...

Seriously, I could ruin this kid.

Cry it out, bitch. You're fucked. And way less pretty than this guy.

Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day Two)

Today I woke up and I started to cry. And in what can only be explained as an attempt by my body to release all the excess tears I have built up over the years by just hating and/or laughing at people instead of crying over them, I couldn't stop.

My 8 year-old daughter jumped on my bed. I cried.
We tried to do a puzzle together. I cried.
I attempted to get dressed after standing naked and wet by the shower door for 12 minutes because I smelled his body wash which he cruelly left in the shower and I cried.

Who knew Matterhorn smelled like lost love?

After the bed and the puzzle incident, my insanely intelligent daughter started keeping an eye on me. So when she caught me standing by the shower bawling over the scent of Old Spice, I knew the jig was up.

I had to tell her, but I had to be tactful. I couldn't just yell "Guess which asshole just ditched us!?" so I tried explaining things to her like my therapist had advised.**

**Yes- that means I'd already talked to my therapist a few months back about how best to explain things to my daughter because I was already done with the relationship. I tried to convey in my previous post that I'm pretty sure I broke up with Assface months ago- that doesn't mean we can't join together and feel sorry for me right now. Also: I had already told my daughter's therapist because I wanted ideas from her about how best to deal with such a delicate sitch. Additionally: there's nothing wrong with my 8 year old having a therapist. It's called prevention over treatment, and if more people tried it then I wouldn't have to hear an ambulance whiz by every 2 minutes to resuscitate another pregnant, STD-ridden 12 year old, who just had a heart-attack because she exerted herself trying to reach her diabetes meds.

So I tried to mesh together the advice from our two shrinks: sometimes two people fall in love as boyfriend and girlfriend and everything goes really well for a while, but then they realize that they love each other more as really good buddies and decide to go their separate ways. That way, no one ends up really upset and everyone can stay super good friends.

 Such. A. Load. Of. Shit.

Pretty sure this guy could have phrased it better.

This is what I said in my mind: Sometimes two people are really into each other and like getting it on, so they move in together to save on cash and inadvertently involve a sweet little girl. Everything feels like it's going well for a while, but then the mommy realizes she's wasting all her pretty (and the few years she has left to snag Mr. Boat Shoes) on a boyfriend who has zero motivation, makes barely enough cash to keep mommy stocked on rum, and likes to talk about his feelings. The boyfriend simultaneously realizes that the mommy more closely resembles a robot than a human when it comes to expressing feelings or emotions. (Right here I'd like to point out that I'd rather have a non-whiny robot reppin' me in almost any situation rather than some emotional chick who cares if her boyfriend had a rough day or can't relate to an article in the New Yorker.) That's when they realize that they make awesome roommates but they don't love each other like that anymore and decided to go their separate ways. That way the mommy doesn't hurt the boyfriend physically and break him emotionally and the boyfriend can start saving his meager earnings again. All of this makes the little girl really, really sad and the mommy feels like shit for that. But the mommy also secretly hopes that the little girl is going to one day make use of all this pain by using it as material in her essay for early acceptance into Harvard, where the little girl will go on to fulfill all the broken dreams the mommy once had for herself.

The Anatomy of a Break-Up (Day One)

Oh, the sweet and bitter romances of the Kennedy women. Their husbands were rarely faithful and their paramours were usually stunning actresses or socialites, which had to make it so much worse. (Although the argument can be made that your husband hitting the skins with an ugly chick could be equally disturbing...Does that make you ugly, too? Is your personality so bad that your pretty can't make up for it?)

Thank god some of the Kennedy chicks made divorce a legitimate out for women everywhere. Most of them were poster-ladies for the Catholic church at some point, and their respectable pantsuits and old money gained them the love of American's and made legalizing a separation a little less taboo. Others chose to drink and medicate their way through life (personal fave). Some Kennedy women went as far as paying people to shoot their husbands under the guise of an assassination (personal theory).

In short, they dealt with broken romances like the rich, well-bred darlings they were, with a little bit of the crazy bitches from "Snapped" mixed in.

Why in do they always keep the murder weapon?

I can't really introduce my personal break-up style any better than that. So here are some facts:

1.) I broke up with my boyfriend- let's play nice and call him Assface- a few nights ago. Which means I suffered 1.5 years of listening to him bitch like a tween about everything, for nothing.

2.) According to Assface, we were "officially" over long ago, though I'm still not clear on when we were totally done. And even though we lived together until, like, a week ago. And even though neither of us ever said the words that magically turn a relationship into dust: we are over.

3.) To his credit, I may have facilitated the break-up. About a week ago he agreed to help a buddy out by house-sitting for him this week, and I said we should make it kinda like a trial separation. Then we both laughed and agreed that we already knew it was over. Then I said "I'd given up on us" months ago and "it's like we're just really awesome roommates" and fell asleep. Sure, this happened. But I'd like to point out the obvious- I was really sleepy. And nothing you say, or do, counts when you are drunk, in labor, within your birthday week, during Bruins playoffs, during a Patriots game, or really sleepy. I was sleepy.

4.) I refused to believe he signed a year lease and was truly moving out and on until I met with him face to face at the bar 2 days ago. In a style true to myself, I:

          * Walked in with full swagger, completely ready to accept his apology (after he started forking over his cash to the Coach lady for a bag with a color that said late-spring instead of early-spring) even though he had text me 15 minutes prior to explain that- while we could meet up- he wasn't changing his mind.

          * Was so sure he was going to remember how in love with me he was the very second he saw me, that I started laughing to myself at the bar like Cruella Deville thinking about her next puppy coat.

          * Attempted to disabuse him with comments like, "I know you. You can't possibly be over me." and "Let's just go back to your place and remember why you love me."

Like any intelligent male, he jumped at that one. His only caveat was that we weren't getting back together afterwards. Luckily, I totally knew better, so we got our food to go and headed back to his buddy's house, where he was house-sitting until he "moved into his new place".

I have to admit, at this point my feelings were all over the place, and I had this weird gooey sensation in my stomach, like maybe I didn't have the upper hand. I was a tad confused because he was sticking to his guns all of the sudden. That never happened. Ever. Plus I had gotten drunk, which always happened. Always.

Regardless, I knew going back to his buddy's house would be fun; like a hotel date where we could be out of our house and away from my daughter, but with that added benefit of being able to forever look at your friend and know you banged someone all over their kitchen table.

When we arrived and were all settled, and I had pretended to give a shit about his buddy's pets and house, and we had playoff hockey on TV for that perfect background ambiance to accompany our mad make-up sex, I looked at Assface and said, "I know we aren't over, because I'm not ready to be". He said something along the lines of "blah, blah, I can't live with you anymore, bleh, bloo, blee, you make me crazy because you are crazy, blah, blah", and I started to get the feeling that he was really willing to end this.

No reason to panic. My daughter was safely asleep at home with a sitter so I decided to (and this is gross, so don't judge me) cuddle for a minute and make the following points:

1.) Hockey playoffs were in the first round and I wouldn't have anyone to watch the Bruins with because the only chick I know who's even remotely into hockey is a freaking Colorado fan. Out of the whole Bruins lineup, she can only name Chara.**

     **Just so we're clear, the B's lost today in double OT. I really shouldn't be dealing with this kind of stress at a time like this.

2.) If he moved out, I'd have no big screen and no Direct TV. I can't afford that on my own. And I'd just started getting into "Game of Thrones", which HE got me hooked on. Plus, "True Blood" was going to be back on air soon, I needed a big screen to look at Ryan Kwanten.

You can't do this justice on anything without HD.

3.) I'd lose about 1/2 of all my income.

4.) He had just bought a new mattress. As in, HE bought it. As in, I'D have no mattress.

5.) I'd have to put effort into getting laid (well, as much effort as a girl has to put in, so, none really).

Now, keep in mind I was still pretty sure that we would be back together and banging on the dining room table within the hour, but as I declared my reasons for staying together out loud, I realized I wasn't as invested in Assface as I was in how easy it was to be with Assface. And we had both known about this forever.

By then I was just annoyed. So in a last ditch effort I decided I shouldn't drive and we should "sleep it off" (by which I meant that I'd sleep with him and capitalize on his pathetic niceness, leaving him no choice but to come back home and renew the Direct TV subscription). I took off my clothes and crawled into bed with him. I waited the normal .25 seconds for him to start doing a horrible job at figuring out what a girl wants and...nothing. By the time we hit the solid 3 second mark, I figured it out.

We were over.

So I stood up, put on my jeans, and drove home to a bigger bed. That was Day 1.

Mr. Boat Shoes

"THE TIME WILL COME WHEN IT WILL DISGUST YOU TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR."

- ROSE KENNEDY 

I've always known I should have been a Kennedy. I have everything I need to make the grade: high aspirations, a penchant for pills and alcohol, an enchanting smile and captivating persona to aid me in talking my way out of trouble and charming lovers into my bed, a deep appreciation for simple New England beach-front cottages that resemble mansions, an inherently selfish nature and a love for any boy that smells like a large trust fund and boat shoes.

His pants are the same color as what I'm after. 

That said, I decided to start this blog after I recently read a few snippets from the notes and diary entries written by Rose Kennedy and donated to the John F. Kennedy library and museum. Rose had 9 kids and an asshole for a husband so she clearly was short on time, but she made the effort to chronicle her life using whatever was around. Some of the best stuff she wrote was scribbled on a calendar.

How do you not want to emulate a chick who makes this her Christmas card?

Rose was no idiot. She knew what she had going on with her family. She knew they were batshit and she knew they were sparkly and she knew they had that je ne sais quoi.

Ditto.

Yes, I may be lacking the Kennedy DNA. And large sums of cash. And the ability to buy Chanel in bulk. And the cult following. But only for now.

And what I lack in the financial area, I make up for in life experiences. Everyone in my family, immediate or distant, is derailed; completely unpredictable and ridiculously narcissistic. All of us. No exceptions. Not one. We are the Kennedy's, minus the plane crashes and the Shrivers and the political crap.

And minus the little beach-front cottage.

And if Rose could find the time to write down her little pieces of wisdom and immortalize parts of her life, then why can't I? And why shouldn't you read it? 

I can and you should.

This blog something I've wanted to do for a long time, and yesterday, when I came across the five drillionth Facebook post advising young people like myself on what to do with regret- right after reading Rose's diaries- I knew it was time. The awesome regret post looked a whole lot like this:

Recognize it? No? Because it's everywhere.

Not to be mistaken for this lovely little sentiment:

What if that "something" was first-degree manslaughter?

Or this one:

Shut. Up.

I am acutely aware that Facebook is awash with corny crap like this and that's why we should all delete our accounts immediately. But the "no regrets" posts are really killing me. I understand the fundamental idea behind them. I know all the wistful, pretend hippie/hipster lovelies out there want us to remember that everything happens for a reason; that I should live confidently with my decisions, knowing that I made the best choices I could and gave life my all.

SUCH A LOAD OF CRAP.

Anyone who is severely lacking in the regrets department is/was also a patient in a maximum-security psych ward. Charles Manson? He had no regrets. Ted Bundy? Could care less.

But maybe there is something to be said for seizing the moment; writing down the little crap that makes my life as hilarious and tragic as an old Judd Apatow movie. When I'm old and lay dying on my Cali-king bed in Manhattan, surrounded by the sweet scent of rich and the few loved ones I haven't managed to alienate, I want to know that some museums are fighting for the sole rights to display my life story.

A life story absolutely brimming with regrets.

So I'm jumping on the Rose Kennedy train and chronicling all the ridiculousness that is my life. Which is due to increase monumentally at exactly...now. I just broke up with my boyfriend, and as any Kennedy lady can attest, if they had 99 problems, asshole men were at least 97 of them. But guess what else they can tell you? A man down often equals a newer, shinier dude.

JFK was worth an estimated $30-90 mill when he died. Most of which was tied into a trust fund. With his siblings.

Aristotle Onassis? $500 million of his very own dollars at the time of his death.
Well done, Jakie O., well done.

Long story short? Now that I'm single it's time to start acting like the Kennedy broad I should have been: try to find some inner peace, present a facade of dignity, start a freaking charity and snag my own personal Mr. Boat Shoes. Game on.