We journeyed to Kitty Hawk because Theresa (from Allergy Apparel fame) and Gina (famous in her own right for being the hottest pregnant woman on the planet) let me and the girls tag along.  Their husbands put up with us nicely as well, especially when the Great Spider Scare of 2010 forced Lily and Arden (okay, and me) upstairs.  The bottom “section” of the beach house was, um, well.  It was . . .damp.  Theresa and Todd and the burly boys ended up stay down there - in twin bunk beds - while I got to stay upstairs in a slightly warmer but much drier bed while the girls snoozed with Landis.  I can’t thank them enough, even though I kept trying to force them back upstairs.  I think Theresa secretly enjoyed sleeping in a twin bed with her hubby.  Then again, maybe not. 

I loved vacationing with Theresa and Gina’s families because they actually know how to relax.  We sat on the beach.  We packed lunches.  We cooked most nights.  When we weren’t cooking, we were eating pizza.  We flew kites.  We took turns watching the kids so that long bike rides could be completed (I think Mark easily surpassed 100 miles on his bike during the week there), runs could be done (Theresa “ran” with me one night - which meant I was able to keep her ass in sight for all of about 3 minutes).  We took naps.  Todd played surrogate father and uber cool uncle to my girls, playing with them in the waves, dragging them around on their boogie boards, and bandaging random wounds.  He also broke up a lot of fights.  Arden and Blue Sky are quite headstrong.  The two of them together negates any country needing a nuclear weapon - their mixture is potent and all-powerful. 

It was weird.  Since I hadn’t really relaxed, the Homestead prior got me in this sort of sloth-like trance that was hard to shake.  Even watching Theresa frantically work did little to motivate me, and usually one needs a crowbar and threats of death to separate me from my shitty old Dell notebook. 

What was weird, too, was being on my first “single mom” vacation.  Being on duty 24/7 was interesting, to say the least, but having the other families around and all the kids helped dull the major absence of male companionship/help.  There were actually a couple of victorious moments where I said, “YEAH MAN, I can TOTALLY DO THIS!!!”  in sort of a Matthew McConaughey/Jack Johnson surfer voice. 

I’m really glad I went.  Leaving during nap mat season was difficult, but WiFi in the beach house made it do-able, and by Friday of this week I might be sort of caught up.  If not, there’s always next week. 

There are lots of concerned people in my life and I’m super grateful for the fact that those people still care enough to ask.  But I hate never having new information to give.  It makes me a little more cuckoo than usual.

Nope, no closing.  An excerpt from the voicemail I left for Citi yesterday:  “You are about to lose what amounts to a half million dollar deal over $6500.  Either work this out, or come and foreclose.  There are no other options.”  I was NOT nice.  Between the lawyers calling and the realtors calling, my voicemail was #6 for yesterday.  Squeaky wheel, anyone?  It’s so insane that we are this close ... and yet, nothing.  Both banks are digging in their heels.  Neither is giving.  Neither is talking.  The rest of us are running around, trying to tell the two petulant children we have in our lives to please play nicely or we’re all going down in flames.  So far, threats of time outs and no stories at bedtime have not worked. 

We have no leverage, no ability to say no. The worst part about this process has been that we are at the buyer’s mercy.  We have no alternatives, they know we are backed into a corner.  I can feel the glee emanating from their corner of the world.  Tomorrow they take possession of the house, without paying rent.  If something breaks or they decide they are unhappy with something else (and there’s been plenty so far), we are on the hook for it.  In the meantime, Citi’s collection department calls me no less than 8 times per day (including Sundays!) wanting their mortgage payment.  Oh, the irony!!!  We’d LOVE to give you the money owed if you guys would get your heads out of your rectums long enough to let us close. 

In a “normal” situation, as the seller, making money off the deal, we could have said long ago, “take your money and pound salt”.  Because they are actually negotiating with the banks, we have no say in just about anything.  Every time I want to dig my heels in, my realtor tells me to take a time out or threatens to verbally spank me.  If we call their bluff, we could end up in foreclosure.  And to be this close - for all of us - and still end in foreclosure - well, let’s just say that there will be a lot of angry tears over the situation.  Especially for the buyers and the realtors.  We have no money to make, so it’s a bitter-making potion for us that everyone else is getting the benefits of the disaster that is our life right now.

I don’t know.  I want to be positive - I really do - but I would like to see something become final.  I would like to be able to go away this weekend knowing that the house in Wyndham is gone, baby, gone, and I never, ever have to go back there unless I want to.  I would like the weight of this house off my shoulders for the first time since January, and I would like to sit in the hot springs of Virginia alone with my thoughts about anything - literally anything - other than the house. 

PS.  It was extremely difficult to let anyone film me, even down 30 pounds.  I still look like a middle-aged mom, which I guess is exactly what I am. 

I know we haven’t been talking much these days.  Hell, we haven’t been communicating in years.  I know you are angry at me, and I understand that anger.  It’s unfortunate that you can’t just scream at me or throw something and be done with it.  Understand that I too am angry.  Very angry. I am angry despite you thinking I have no right to be angry. 

See, I don’t mind cleaning up my own mess.  I say this even though I tell the girls that I don’t care who made the mess in the crayon drawer - it’s up to both of them to clean it up.  Okay, I’ll clean it up by myself because it’s my mess, and I “wanted” this. 

This mess has taken me literally months to clean up.  While you floated through your days, at work, spending your energy hating me, I was negotiating with people who make me sick to my stomach, fielding phone calls from collection agencies, begging, pleading, cajoling everyone involved in this process to please help, to work together, to make this go.  At the 11th hour, we are nearly there and are going to escape this (relatively) unscathed. 

For a month and a half, I spent my evenings tearing through the wreckage of our life.  I packed boxes that tore me to shreds.  I had to decide what things to toss and what things to keep for the kids, even though I felt like I was being burned at the stake looking through some of the scrapbooks and remnants of my now-previous life.  I found your wedding ring shoved into a toothbrush cover.  It was about to go into the trash; I heard it rattling and realized what it was.  I know it was your way of saying to me:  Go To Hell and Take Your Trash With You.  Message received.  Note taken. 

After the packing and the moving and more negotiating with a slew of extremely demanding and unsympathetic people, I spent more time unpacking, fixing, redoing.  I thought about the girls and the chaos and upheaval.  I didn’t sleep much, because I wanted to make things as okay for them as I could.  The weekends you had them, I unpacked and painted and scrubbed.  You probably spent more time hating me then too - throwing all that hatred into the pool as you soaked in the sun and watched the children we had together splash.  I know some of the hatred was obvious even to our children when Lily asked me about it, catching me unprepared as always when she drops those questions during a car ride. 

So it must be nice.  It must feel great for you.  It must be heaven to sit across from me in a lawyer’s office, signing documents that will relieve us of the biggest financial obligation or anchor we have, and looking me in the eye as you tell me you won’t help me.  As you stick it to me, you have legitimized your right to be angry and to make me “fix it”.  All the years of me fixing everything came rushing into that lawyer’s office and I nearly exploded.  The words out of my mouth were measured but you know me well enough to also know that there was fury behind them, mixed with exhaustion, mixed with desperation.  It’s FINE.  I will take care of it.  Put the nails through my hands and feet; I’m a martyr, and I’ll fix this like I always fix the messes.  You sit down, sip your beer.  I’ll take care of it. 

I wonder what would happen if I adopted your attitude.  If I stopped caring.  If I told everyone - realtors included - to go screw themselves and see what happens.  If the closing were to fall through, would you help out then?  Would the realtors step up?  Would anyone do anything to make the deal go?  It must be nice to shrug your shoulders and say, “You did this, now you take care of it.”  I’d like to say that to you as well.  You did this, now you fix it.  All that yammering in marriage counseling about taking responsibility - taking two to tango - taking two to destroy a marriage.  I think those were words designed to make me think you actually believed it.  You don’t.  This is squarely on my shoulders.  It is my spilled milk to clean up.  I’ll clean up yours, because it’s there too, mixed and curdling.  It’s too much effort to figure out where to divide the mess, and make you clean up your portion of it. 

I used to feel such huge amounts of guilt.  I used to think you were the victim and I was a terrible person for making decisions that were best for me.  I don’t anymore - or at least not today.  We both built this life, and we both ruined it too. At some point you will emerge from your rage and start rebuilding your life, as I have done with mine.  Maybe you’ll take a hard look at yourself and attempt to avoid the mistakes you made with me, just as I’ve done - tearing myself into tiny bite-sized pieces so I can make myself a better person.  Maybe you won’t.  At this point, I’m beyond feeling badly about it. 

Today, I know you’re feeling good.  The house is nearly gone, your wife is nearly an ex, and you only have to stomach seeing me through car doors or apartment windows.  Standing the elevator together, I could feel the hate steaming from your skin.  Where once we were magnets, the poles have been reversed.  We stood on opposite sides, as far apart as possible.  When we said goodbye, it was code for “screw you”.  Today, you stuck it to me.  You enjoyed the power of making me suffer, even if it’s just a little bit.  You can have that.  Enjoy it while it lasts.  One day I’ll be in the same position you are, and I’ll remember this, and I’ll do the right thing instead of letting my anger control me and turn me into the lowest kind of person. 

It must be nice.  For you.