Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations

by Jessica Vivian

  20. Treats me like a lady. This is big. I don’t want to be punched in the arm and turned into a dude-friend or roommate to have sex with. The ex and I had much more of a big sister/little brother relationship with lots of fart jokes and “dare me to eat that” and it was gross and exhausting.

  21. Outgoing and friendly – I don’t like to have to carry the conversation when I am out with a friend or date. I like people who can enter the party and go with the flow. I am not into someone needing me to constantly hold up their end of the socializing.

  22 Peace-minded and socially liberal – Jesus is my homeboy. I am not legalistic. I am an ENTP – I will always question the efficacy, logic, and humanism of the rule book. What does the most good for the most people, regardless of “principle”? That's how I roll.

  23. Treats people in service industry with respect - This is really telling, again, of whether or not someone truly believes they are part of the human fabric.

  24.Values experience over trinkets. This is one thing my ex and I had in common and I was aware of how special it was. When people tell me how much their jewelry, purse, or shoes cost, I instantly think, “That could have been airfare to Hawaii” or “That would have been four tickets to a Broadway show.” I just enthusiastically used a chunk of tax return dollars to take my kids to see Cirque du Soleil. I would never enthusiastically drop major dollars on an inanimate object. I begrudgingly do that.

  25. I need something here because “25” is a nice number, but I can't think of anything.

  So that’s the list, but another friend of mine added an addendum. She has a list, too, but it is more of a list of questions to ask herself. I learned recently that no matter how “good” a man is, it doesn’t make him necessarily good for me. So I need to remember to ask myself a few things even if Mr. Awesome meets 20/25 of these requirements:

  Does he make me feel safe, physically and emotionally?

  Am I attracted to him?

  How do I feel when he’s around? Calm, peaceful, energized? Take inventory.

  Does he make me feel desirable?

  Am I holding back around him? Why?

  This is a start.

  I don’t know if I will be as disciplined as CBL with the rules. But I have never had standards before. Ever. I have also never dated someone I would actually be friends with. Ever.

  So this is a start…

  Me time Part 2 – May 2013

  Y'all know I'm always a-frettin' over how I spend my "Me Time." Well, I finally cracked the case.

  The only person who knows how I should spend my free time is ME!!!

  I'm PMSing, y'all, so get ready to hear it. The filter is off.

  The only reason I ever felt like I wasn't doing divorce and self-discovery correctly was when I allowed friends to make me feel like I wasn't doing it correctly. Every few weeks, well-meaning friends, who I know love me, start playing the same old tape.

  "Just go out and do something by yourself."

  "Just go sit in a coffeehouse."

  "Just go take a class by yourself."

  "You need time to yourself. Seriously. You have to have time to yourself."

  Oh God, I must be doing something wrong. There must be something WRONG with me. I don't feel stressed out. I must be too far gone.

  Eventually the "advice" got even more heated. Bossy. Bitchy, even.

  "You are going to turn into a crazy cat lady."

  "I guess you're just rolling over and accepting the end of your life, because you never do anything."

  So I took it to Chris, my best homie 4 lyfe.

  No one...

  ...let me stress this...

  NO ONE knows me better than this guy.

  So I asked him.

  "Chris, my friends here are concerned I'm not taking care of myself or doing enough ‘me time’ - what do you think?"

  Laughter. That was the answer. Surprised laughter.

  The only person who knows what I need to "refresh" or "revive" myself is me...well, and Chris, actually, as he proclaimed that "with three kids, laying around and doing nothing IS you doing something for yourself."

  No one else knows what I need to do with my time, least of all people who have known me less than a year or two – people who have ONLY known post-divorce Jessica.

  I am not introverted, by nature. I do not feel "refreshed" by time alone. Walking around alone, or sitting in a coffee shop alone, or crafting alone does not sound like fun to me.

  I've never been a "pretty" girl. I could give two shits about my nails. Getting my nails done does not sound like fun to me. And who the hell says it should?

  Brainwashed women.

  Women I love and respect. Women I know, and women I don't know, and women I don't like have tattooed the lip service onto their brains of what you're "supposed" to want and "supposed" to need.

  Here's a short list:

  When you get divorced you're "supposed" to get your "groove back." I assume this would be by sleeping with as many people as possible and becoming really fixated on the validation of male attention.

  We are all "supposed" to need "me time" that includes vanity rituals such as getting one's nails done and/or shopping.

  We are all "supposed" to need time alone wandering through the world with our own thoughts? I'm not sure. Again, I'm extroverted so alone time means dick to me.

  We are all supposed to be exhausted by our own children and parenting. Spending the entire day with your kids should be difficult because GAAAWD, kids are JUST so ZANY!

  I'm sorry I'm such a fucking enigma.

  Trust me, it's not the first time a demographic I belong to is bothered by my inability to fit the mold. It was not fun being a ten-year-old black girl in Alabama who listened to Guns N Roses and Talking Heads.

  So here's the deal:

  When the people who have seen me and who know me and who make the fucking effort to know me start worrying, then I'll worry. Otherwise, please take your unsolicited advice on what I "should" be doing and eat it.

  This, I promise, is spoken from a place of love because boundaries are love, right?

  I am aware that people are concerned about my well-being because they love me and they care about me. For that, I am grateful and blessed. But, may I advise you to listen more or take this post as a cheat sheet:

  I am energized and refreshed by people.

  That is why, since I moved here, I have opened my home to friends and visitors at all hours. That is my "sitting alone in a park, getting my nails done." All of y'all who linger in my living room until two and three in the morning running your mouths are the “me time.”

  I'd like to go out and be more social but, again, I am still putting my life together. I have neither the wardrobe nor the disposable income for that sort of social life right now and, frankly, it's okay. I was plenty rowdy when I had the time and money. I am enjoying this time of sobriety and calm.

  As for needing time away from my kids, please don't project your shit onto me. I like my kids. Sure, they get on my nerves like all humans do, but not as much as you'd like to believe. I can spend the entire day with them and be okay. I got it like that.

  And when I do get annoyed with them, I have a big, amazing bathtub to soak in. My kids are finally old enough for me to do so without fear of someone putting their finger in a socket or starting a fire. An hour, bubbles, essential oils, and music is enough to refresh me, probably the way your French manicure does.

  All of these things are things I wasn't allowed to do, for one reason or another, for the last decade. I have worked outside the home, on the opposite schedule as my kids, off-and-on since they were little. I love, love, love that I get that time back. My kids are finally old enough and self-sufficient enough for me to take time to myself. The bubble bath is a Bahamian vacation.

  I'm fine.

  I know doting and mothering is sort of the language of girlfriendship but listen:

  I'm
not the one.

  When I ask for advice, I want it. When I don't, assume I don't want it.

  My new friend, Jenn, said she was a "quick study." And she is.

  In a few short months she learned that I really love bath products.

  I am a sucker for some fizzy bath bombs. She deposits sugar scrubs on my kitchen island every now and then. It's a show of love we both recognize. And she acknowledges my innate rebellion against "the tape."

  The what women/black people/moms-are-supposed-to-do tape that we've all been playing and believing doesn't – the fuck - apply to me.

  So enjoy your glasses of wine, beautifully manicured nails, and long walks on the beach.

  I'm taking care of myself the way I want to, the way that feels good to me, and I'm learning and re-learning constantly to let people's love in, and remind myself that their love comes in many forms, but to always trust myself first.

  And also "letting someone love me" doesn't mean "appeasing their agenda over my own."

  And on that note, time to draw my bubble bath...

  The Book

  True story.

  My ex's parents had this really amazing history book.

  This history book was often found forgotten in the bottom of a closet, but every time I found it, I sat and read it.

  I'm confident that in ten years I'm the only person who ever did.

  It was gigantic and had a huge timeline of major events, aligned by continent.

  Eventually, the amazing history book found its way to their garage beneath a pile of other forgotten and unused items.

  When I was packing to move back to Mobile, I my ex's mom my intentions to either home school or develop an education enrichment center. I asked her for any unused educational materials she might have (she had LOTS) and she told me no. Despite piles and piles of unused Legos, dolls, toys, atlases and books she decided she'd rather keep them in her garage than let them be used by my children.

  So I left, being reminded of my place on the family totem pole, being reassured that leaving was the best thing to do.

  I left that amazing timeline history book behind.

  Today a dear friend, whose children are nearly grown, donated piles and piles and piles of books and materials to me and mine.

  Tucked in with the chemistry books, the literature, the math, the maps, and the magnets was – you guessed it – that amazing timeline history book.

  It came to me anyway...

  I'm not a religious person but every now and then I get a wink, a gift and a "you're doing alright, kid."

  Rescue Mission

  While scanning Freecycle I came across a desperate sounding post:

  Hi! I am in search of baby items, furniture, anything! I have three kids and I just left my abusive boyfriend. I'm living in a trailer my mom had on her property but I don't have any stuff and I'm scared to go back to my old house. I need help.

  Well, you know this didn't sit well with me so I sent her a message with my phone number. She called me back and told me her tale. I asked her the ages and genders of her children and what she needed. Her six-month-old was sleeping in her car carrier because she had no crib. I talked to her mom who said she was relieved to have the trailer available, but she didn't have enough money to furnish it. She lived in a small home with her other children and everyone struggled to fit. All of the clothes and toys were left behind. The guy was a loose cannon. I told her to give me 72 hours.

  I got on Facebook and put out an emergency status:

  Hey folks! I know a single mama. She's young. She has three small children. She ran away from her abusive boyfriend and she has absolutely nothing. For the next few days I will be taking clothing, toys, baby gear, food, and whatever else you can come up with. Share this status. Let's help this woman get on her feet. Help me help her, please and thanks.

  Within minutes my inbox was flooded with messages. Within hours, people I knew, people I sorta knew back in high school, and people I didn't know at all were dropping off furniture and supplies to my house. Plates, baby toys, a crib, clothes, pots and pans, sheets, blankets all piling up in my garage ready to go to their new home.

  I called her back to let her know I had supplies for her and she sobbed. Then her mom took the phone and she sobbed, too. I got their address and planned to bring her stuff at the end of the week.

  I had to postpone, though, because then the gift cards came in. From around the country, thousands of dollars worth of gift cards arrived at my house from friends and strangers.

  It was kind of fucking amazing.

  I called to let her know I was waiting for all the money to come in so I could give her everything at once.

  “You're an angel,” she said with her thick Southern twang.

  “I doubt that, but some ladies helped me when I was in the shit so I'm gonna help you.”

  In addition to the supplies I was able to deliver about $2000 in gift cards to her at her home. Sure enough, she was living in an out of a mostly-empty trailer.

  But not anymore.

  With our help she was able to live on her own and escape a dangerous life.

  See, I'm a conduit.

  I don't have anything but my big, fat mouth and more friends than enemies.

  And with a network of amazing, generous people miracles can happen.

  Male Stripper Syndrome

  The common theme of the last week or so among my single mama friends and lady colleagues has been sexual liberation. But who is really coming out on top?

  I'm a member of several single parent groups online.

  While we probably should be complaining about our exes not paying child support, or the burden of doing everything on our own, or the shame we feel for being blamed for the demise of the nation, what we usually spend time griping about is our sex lives, or lack thereof. There seem to be three views here:

  There are those still smackin' on the nasty aftertaste of fresh divorce who would rather be mauled by lions than even think about being in the room with a real, live naked man.

  There are those who, after years of dedication to their children and soul-searching, are genuinely ready to step into the world of dating and sex with their dignity intact and their boundaries established.

  I am somewhere between those two.

  And lastly, there are the girls who got their groove back. They are serial dating and serial screwing to their heart's delight. They wave a flag of "empowerment,” but from the outside appear more like starving people who have just been released from prison camps, scarfing and tasting every buffet from every restaurant that opens its doors to them.

  Listen, I am not saying one cannot be sexually empowered, and I am certainly not slut-shaming. Everyone has an inner agenda, and everyone has lessons to learn from their paths. But it's easier to spot the ones that match yours. And there was a time, in my former life, when male attention was my nourishment. It was what fueled me. It dictated my personality. I didn't know who I was if I wasn't the prettiest, most intimidating, most man-eating girl in the room.

  But my self-esteem was wobbly, and if I met a girl who was all of those things confidently, I would tuck my tail between my legs and shrink down to nothing. I was all coffee and no omelet, as they say.

  Sexual empowerment is not the number of responses to your OKCupid profile, or the sheer volume of penis pics in your inbox, or the fact that you have a hot date every weekend. It's also standards, dignity, boundaries and self-control. When I think of the lies women believe about sexual empowerment, I instantly think of male strippers.

  In my former life, before marriage and children, back when I was trying to convince myself I wanted to be in college, I knew a lot of strippers. Tampa is a stripper-heavy town, and broke college girls either take to the pole or befriend those who take to the pole to benefit from their soaring incomes.

  I had a brief but interesting friendship with a male stripper named "Almond Delight." I don't
understand his name either.

  I'd met him on '80’s night at da club. He was a good dancer and we formed a quick friendship. Inevitably, I was invited to see him dance nekkid. I dragged a girlfriend with me. We were thrilled. There was something really “girl-power” about the whole experience. There were hoards of women. My friend and I snagged a table near the front, our dollar bills neatly pre-folded and ready to be tucked into the banana hammock of the stripper we liked best. The feeling was, "Now it's their turn. Now we're in control."

  I could not have been more wrong.

  Let me sidebar for a second: I always love a good trip to a strip club. Men or women, I don't care. The bottom line is the camaraderie with my girlfriends and the stories to tell after. That said, going to see male strippers for the first time was slightly horrifying.

  The first dancer was a stocky brute of man. After his entertaining slither down the stage he chose a "lucky lady" from the audience. He sat her down in a chair and proceeded to smack her in the face with his penis.

  No joke.

  And her friends cheered and whooped.

  She giggled maniacally, half from enjoyment and half from the delirium of not knowing what the hell else to do.

  The Brute then flipped her upside down and simulated oral sex on her while her pack of lion friends encouraged her to return the favor. She did, tentatively, and the crowd roared and hollered and the dollar bills rained down. This went on for another five or ten minutes.

  Ragdoll "lucky lady", complete with beet red embarrassed cheeks, was tossed and pretzeled into various positions and dry humped on stage for everyone to see. Whose satisfaction is that for, one wonders? Who is really being objectified? Who is coming out on top?

  I'm no prude, but I was terrified that he would pick me next.