She is a CPA.

She has parted the red sea of my despair.

All of this garnishment stuff definitely got to me (as you could maybe guess.) In some ways, too, that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Since I had never done the taxes while we were married and before that I had been able to complete the 10W-EZ for my paltry $5,000/year Outward Bound income, filing as a single mother with a foreclosure and cashed out retirement fund was extremely intimidating.

And when I get overwhelmed, I stall out.

I had everything together, ready to go; had every intention of filing – it’s not that I was trying to pull anything off that was illegal – I just kept freaking out and putting the folder back under the folder of bills to pay.

But this recent “incident” with the State motivated me. I was so outraged that he hadn’t filed – you pay your taxes, dammit – yet here I was a few years behind.

Hypocrite.

So I decided to sit down and do it. Took a nap instead.

Went to H&R Block. Apparently I have to sit there with them while they do it – and write a check on the spot. Wasn’t going to work for me.

So then I decided to do what regular people often do…I found myself a CPA. I took everything to her, cried my little overwhelmed and extremely guilt-ridden heart out, then said, “call me when it’s done.”

Call me she did. When she first called, she let me know that I might owe some money – not too much, much less than I had feared given the IRA and the fact that I hardly have anything taken out of my paychecks because I need every penny possible. I was so relieved that it wasn’t worse that the amount that I did owe seemed worth celebrating.

Then she worked a little more magic – dependents, earned income credit, and a few other things that apparently a single mom with almost no income can use, and…

Voila! 

A refund.

Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

Enough, even, to cover the (very large) amount of money that I owe her.

Which is totally and unquestionably worth it because of the guilt relieved and the peace of mind restored. I am no longer a hypocrite and can return to looking down my nose at him for not fulfilling his civic duty (and legal responsibility) that comes with living in a free country.

After this garnishment deal is over with, I will be completely in the clear and I won’t have to worry about getting pulled over for a broken tail light and ending up in federal prison for tax evasion.

Yes, my mind does have a tendency to head towards worst case scenario.

Lesson learned: pay taxes.

I applied for Innocent Spouse Status and was really counting on that – since he told me that he had paid the taxes and I had no clue that he was lying until the State contacted me to let me know that actually, he hadn’t.

I thought that I would be immune to any embarrassment because this wasn’t my doing. I also believed that somehow, financially, it wouldn’t be that bad.

I was wrong on all of it.

When I received my paycheck yesterday I just stared at it in disbelief. I made a joke and acted as if this wasn’t the end of the world, while inside my heart was racing and sweat started pouring down my sides. I had thought about how much 25% was, but I hadn’t done the math to fully comprehend how much 75% is.

Not very much.

And you know what, it actually is embarrassing, humiliating and shameful. I may not be the one who lied, but I am certainly the one who didn’t bother to check. No matter how you look at it, since we were still married at the time, it is a “we” thing.

The State of Colorado certainly sees it that way.

Then I received that call that informed me that states don’t grant Innocent Spouse Status, the IRS does, and since we didn’t owe anything to the IRS, I was denied.

You’d almost think he planned it that way, but even he’s not that smart.

And not even an acknowledgement, let alone an apology from him. And I can’t even begin to hope that he will take responsibility and help out for the kids’ sakes.

I will manage, I know that I will – I have been through some seriously desperate financial times before.  There is even a sense of pride in surviving it, even though it may take months to recover. I am not going to let this (and therefore him) get the best of me.

But this better not happen again.

25% of each paycheck until “our” debt to the State of Colorado is paid off.

Like I can afford to have that taken out of my paycheck.

Apparently, when we were still married, “we” blew off paying the State one year; totally unbeknownst to me because once I handed over my W2, I relieved myself of anything to do with taxes.

Obviously a mistake, in hindsight, but that was one of those division of labor pieces that happen in a marriage.

When I heard of it (by receiving a letter from the State) I tried to deal. I needed information that I didn’t have (i.e. the Federal return from that year) and I was shut down. Was told it wasn’t a priority and then ignored.

So here I am, my ass is chapped and there is nothing that I can do except try to squeak by on 75% of my paltry income and try to not get eaten up by resentment.

Divorce – the gift that keeps on giving.

The party went as parties tend to go; lots of chatter, great enthusiasm for meeting new people and an ability to be vivacious and even a little bit funny.

And as the night went on, things, as they naturally tend to do, began to wind down.  Lots of the less familiar faces went on to other gatherings or just went home. I surveyed the scene and breathed a sigh of relief that we were down to a few well-known folks, those with whom you don’t need to make chit-chat, with whom you don’t need to be “on.”

So I sat with the gals and we dove right into parenting teenagers, grandparenting, and matters of children’s hearts.

“Well, Camille, you know…”

Who the fuck is Camille?

I must have mis-heard that.

So Camille, the program that you work for…”

Camille?

Is she actually calling me Camille?

No.

I’ve known her for years – not well, but I’ve been to her house more than once and we went to a Christmas concert together. Our work paths cross. She’s given me parenting advice.

In other words, we’ve shared time and space.

So I listened, still not quite believing that she meant me when she used that C word.

“Camille…”

Dang, she said it again – I really think that she thinks my name is Camille.

“Now wait, I’m confused, Camille…?” says the other gal in the conversation.

“Yes, Camille works at _________.”

This is accompanied with a general hand wave in my direction.

But see, the problem is NOT that she kept calling me Camille – I forget people’s names all of the time and Camille is a pretty great name.

The problem is that I am too big of a weenie to say something.

I went with Camille.

Apparently I would rather be called the wrong name, over and over again, by someone with whom I have broken bread rather than simply say, “My name is actually, Suzanne.”

How lame is that?

Really lame. Absurdly so.

Now, when she figures out that she had my name wrong – I really will be the big fat looser who didn’t say anything. So if I was worried about embarrassing her, I don’t have to any more, now I can just worry about what an idiot I appeared to be.

Later, I pulled the other gal aside because it was clear that she had yet to figure out who this Camille gal is. I said, “’tis I.”

And she asked the obvious, “Well, Suzanne, why didn’t you correct her?”

Duh.

So, you can call me Camille from here on out (or anything else you choose) and I obviously won’t say anything

Translated: “It would work best for me and I don’t give a shit how it might inconvenience you, the children or anyone else involved.”

Amazing children

Love

Sunshine

Catfishing

Milkshakes

Raven, Ibis, Herons

Big horn sheep

Contentment

Siestas in the shade

Wonderful company

Laughter

Who says getting older isn’t any fun?

Right?

Oh yeah, for those of you in the know, I don’t have to say another word.

For those of you who aren’t, it’s a train. But not just any train – it is the best train ever and was a huge, no HUGE, part of my childhood.

Tweetsie was an entire world unto itself.

Mountains of North Carolina; you drove up into the hills and suddenly you were in an old western town, with cowboys, stagecoaches and a “saloon.”

No different, really from where I live now.

And there was Tweetsie – standing proudly, shiny and green, steam billowing out, waiting for me. My brother and I would actually shake in anticipation – and a little bit of fear because we knew the hazards of riding a train through the hinterlands of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Bears, indians (white ones of course – this was the South), train robbers. Guns, arrows and the cavalry, thank the Lord.

Kent and I would sport our very best hats and boots, holsters with pop guns around our waists. One year, my brother got so scared trying to protect our family from the thieves that he held the gun backwards, sweat pouring down his face, and shot himself.

Good thing it was only a toy.

But it scared him so badly I think he still has nightmares.

After the train ride, you could either have lunch at the saloon, get a sepia photo taken of you and your family or go up the mountain to The Giant’s Castle and see the big guy asleep and snoring in his bed.

Terrifying – everyone whispered for fear of waking him up.

There were a few kid-sized rides and lots of bright colors.  But it paled in comparison to the old-tyme world down below.

My grandparents lived on a mountainside across the valley from Tweetsie’s. There was a deck on the back of the house from which I could see the smoke from her stack as she circled the lush, green peak around which her route lay.

Hours. I would watch for hours from that deck. I could see when Tweetsie was stopped at the station. I knew how long it would take for her to get moving again. I saw the smoke stand still, indicating that the train had stopped and was in the process of being attacked by “redskins.”  Then, the plume would disappear behind the hill.

I counted the minutes in anticipation, knowing exactly how long it would take for the train to round the bend and make her way back towards the station.

And every damn time I worried that she wouldn’t round the bend because they’d all been killed during the robbery.

It never got old.

Periodically, I talk to someone who knows about Tweetsie, whose childhood also included that magical world and it creates and instant, ever-lasting bond.

So I am not finding humor in being treated poorly tonight. I feel ganged up upon, taken for granted, disrespected and disappointed because I was going to make a really nice dinner and have a lovely evening and I just cancelled it.

All about chores. It’s the usual; they have a list to tick off on Sundays. I remind them of it at some point midday and give them a time by which everything must be completed and then when I get upset when they are sitting on their asses at the established time, I am the bad guy.

“We were just about to get up.  We did the chores. (Yes, but not all of them.) I didn’t know we had to do that? (It’s on the GIANT white board in the kitchen.) You can’t expect me to look at that. Why do they have to be done on your time frame? Mom, all you do is flip out for no reason. I swear if you get mad at me when I haven’t done anything wrong, I’ll be really pissed. Mom, I haven’t done anything wrong – you’re just too strict. Why do we have to spend our Sundays doing chores? Excuse us for being human beings and making mistakes.”

And on and on ad nauseam.

I feel so fucking alone and frustrated.

What I really want in this moment is someone who will say to them, “Gentlemen, you do not get to treat your mother this way,” and, “Just buck up and help out around here and quit sniveling.”

Is that too much to ask?

But, you can’t just ask the person who was supposed to be here for dinner to do that.  It’s not their place and if there is any hope of that person truly becoming part of your family, then that won’t be a good early step.

I don’t have any clue when the other person does have that right, can take that role without it completely backfiring, but I know that it’s not early on and it’s not a step to be taken lightly.

K or D could say that to my guys if they were here and it was going on, but chances are, if they were here, it wouldn’t be going on.

The other day, a friend said that what she found to be the hardest, in the dating evolution, was when her children treated her poorly in front of the man.  He had (has) a really difficult time watching that, witnessing someone being disrespectful to the woman he loves.

And that’s just when I want someone to not only witness but make it stop.

In oder to be able hear that from someone, especially a man, my kids absolutely have to respect that man and care about what he thinks and feels. BUT they aren’t going to respect him if he jumps to my defense too soon.

Tricky.

And they aren’t going to get it from their dad because when they talk to him about it they make me out to be the cranky bitch and he ends up siding with them.

So if you want to take on a mom, know that you are going to have to figure this out – very carefully and thoughtfully – no sudden, impulsive lectures or discipline.

If you are the mom (or dad), know that when the relationship gets rich enough for you to actually start emotionally depending on that other person, when you really need support, you might not be able to get it.

And periodically, someone will ask, “When is it time to start dating?” or, “How do you know this is a good person?”

Both good questions, both made that much more complicated if there are children involved.

And both I learned the lesson to, the hard way, so my initial response is, “Never. There aren’t any.”

Nope, not bitter or cynical at all.

And it’s so interesting because I did all of the reading, checked in with the available “experts” and still made my own decision based on what felt right to me at the time.

Who I should have checked in with, and really listened to, is my children.

They seem to have WAY better douchebag detectors than their mother.

If only they’d been there when I said “Yes.”

But actually, this isn’t meant to be about my stupid mistake.  This is about when and who.

Because, from what I’ve seen, those folks who get immediately involved with someone else, usually end up with a broken heart. Not always, mind you, but certainly more often than not.

Divorce sucks. There’s no way around that, even when you are the person who can’t wait to get out of the marriage. Even if it’s amicable, mutual and respectful. It just plain old sucks.

So then, you (I) get involved with someone who is most likely vastly different from the person to whom you were married and not only is it wonderful to feel loved and probably have an active sex life once again, but because this person seems to be all that your spouse wasn’t, you feel like you’ve grown, evolved and learned.

And maybe you have, and maybe with this person, you actually will have the opportunity for a lot of growth and self-exploration. But, from my experienced and expert perspective, if you haven’t taken that time to be alone, to feel the agony of the divorce and to truly rediscover who you actually are as a person, the relationship is doomed.

Because seriously, you are not the same person you were when you walked down the aisle and you won’t be the same person that you were in a shitty marriage – if you give yourself recovery time.

I didn’t and ended up with someone even more destructive than my former husband.

And we won’t even talk about what’s happened to my ex.

The thing is, that time to figure out me was basically forced on me in an incredibly mean way, and every single day, I am thankful for it. Who I am today and who I was for the last 40 some odd years are barely even the same gal.

This gal wouldn’t make those same stupid stupid stupid mistakes.

This gal can figure out who’s a good person.

And this gal can walk away from someone who isn’t.

So the answer to the questions…

“If you have to ask, then not yet, and (s)he’s not.”