Catch and well needed release.

Not even brand new, sinfully luxurious, chunky baby alpaca in a deep saucy crimson could keep it from finally coming to a head. I curled up like an infant around the warmth and loyalty of my sweet dogface and muffled my sobs in her flank, overwhelmed with the feelings I've been denying myself, perhaps since I wiped the last tears, and final heartbreak of my marriage, off my face on the plane from Buffalo to San Jose, over a year ago. Primal envy that it was supposed to be me that he's so over joyed to procreate with, even though I'm eternally grateful it's not. Appall that he's carrying on his cycle of pathological lying to his new girl, even though she's pregnant with his baby, and I was just his wife and we were so young, and the unsinkable notion instilled in me, not only by his actions but by my own insecurity, that maybe it was just me that was unworthy of his honesty, his sincerity, his humanity, or his love. Even sick satisfaction, and the coinciding shame, of realizing outwardly what I've known in my ever more confident, and intelligent, subconscious; that it never was just me. Jealousy that he has someone to hold at night, to hold him, to defend him, to soothe him, even if he did have to pay the price of jumping into a relationship and ultimately being tied to it for the rest of his life, even after the shine rubs off, due to his own irresponsibility, it all poured through me, and hopefully out of me, in the...paws, of someone who cares. I do know true love. I found in a dog what I could never find in my marriage. Loyalty, security, and someone that will let me cry on their shoulder, even if they're scared. Even if they'd rather go chew the eyes off of a stuffed owl. Even if they're old and crotchety and I'm getting their coat wet.

After I got up to make myself some chai, and decided instead to document the current state of my emotional affairs a la the 21st century, she began to whimper in her sleep, tucked under layers of blankets in the bed. I pet her head, told her it was a bad dream, and returned the favor.

Widmertastrophy.

Three pink lemonades. Two Singapore Slings. Two pitchers of the Hef. One Sex on the Beach. Two fresh 21 year olds. And a Karaoke Bar. The recipe for a magnificent celebration of being single, young, and not pregnant.

I woke up in yesterdays clothes, scrapping the taste of fermenting squirrel off my tongue, to a set of pictures commemorating getting far too drunk in public, around microphones, and an extensive list of nostalgic songs from the 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's, and 90's. Flashes of memory include singing energetic (and crowd pleasing) renditions of both Baby Got Back, and Bohemian Rhapsody with male strangers, the latter of which was a duet with a tall young college student that was fond of pulling me close for prolonged singing into each others eyes, and apparently pelvic thrusted at my leg when I closed my eyes. Leaving the Karaoke bar with my best friend and ...galloping like horses back to her house... to wait for my DD to pick me up.

I didn't puke in the car.

Unacceptable use of pop culture references.

As per usual on chilly Sunday nights, tonight I found myself swathed in a heap of blankets, feet nestled cozily into the gratuitous under belly of an immobile lump of dog, with a pair of knitting needles in hand and a movie on in the background. The making of a fine evening if you ask me, so I guess I really only have myself to blame for ruining it by checking my Facebook (aka StalkerRoster). On my news feed were the not quite immortal, not quite verbatim, words of Chris Rock a la Lethal Weapon 4, "My baby is having my baby." Next to a picture of my (semi)recently separated from husband. Separated for just over a year, we haven't talked in the past six months, and all of the information I've managed to squirrel away (i.e. the addition of a new girlfriend, and now apparently a baby a'brewin) has been gathered through Facebook, where I keep watchful eye on him, just in case I ever needed to spring a surprise divorce on him since he still lives in Canada where I left him, our old number has been changed, and he refuses to respond to e-mails. Well, the time is apparently now, tacky, yet slightly emotionally satisfying, I left him a public wall post (Welcome back to high school, please enjoy your stay!) that said congratulations, and I think it's time for a divorce, and left him my number. I feel slightly justified in doing such a cuntastic thing in that I tried to call his cellphone, and received a woman's answering machine and thus really had no other choice...except to maybe not do it publicly, but honestly if I have to find out such drastic things about someone I'm still legally bound to through an internet social network, I don't feel as if I should give him the benefit of keeping my distaste and interest in starting divorce proceedings a secret, something that in the given situation he should be initiating. As my friend said, "Having a baby out of wedlock is one thing. Having a baby in wedlock with someone else is entirely different, and fucked up."

I dedicate the rest of the night to Dirty Dancing, knitting, chain smoking, and shoving my face with 99 cent Jack in the Box tacos, also thanking the ever sweet baby Jesus that it's not my womb.