Family Planning, Brady Bunch Style.

Luke's graduation is over a month away and I'm still not sure what we're doing for the occasion. My thought (in tandem with Luke's wishes) was to have a cake/coffee at our house after the ceremony, as the whole class is boycotting the LUSA reception at Messiah Lutheran, a church largely unaffiliated with either of his school's campuses. We tried our best, parents and students alike, and since the kids protested (with their parents en masse) having the graduation at Messiah instead of the campus where they've attended since they were in Pull-Ups training pants, St. Paul was ruled out, though we hope to take pictures there before the ceremony. Messiah is a dark and dingy old building with no handicapped access. It sucks.

Administration be damned, that was really all Luke wanted for his graduation--a small reception at home. Enter Dad and worse yet, THE OTHER GRANDMA, whom Luke won't even acknowledge as his "grandma," because, dare I say, she's more vile than...well. That goes without saying. Luke didn't win the grand prize in the grandmother department. Both of his grandpas would love him to bits and do anything to make him happy. Sadly, they're both dead. :(

His father's side wants to host a party-party at their Hoarders-worthy house (which the other grandma flatly admits, needs "some renovation"), never mind that it's impossible to find, and there's nowhere to park, and Luke doesn't want to have a party there. That's immaterial, according to his dad and dad's new wife. I think we should do whatever Luke wants in this circumstance, but I have to say, it's grating on my last nerve.

I also don't know what in hell is going on with Guy and my birthday. That's most unnerving, given I ordered the second of his two birthday gifts today, while he probably hasn't put one iota of attention into my celebration yet whatsoever. I found these great descriptions of what life must be like for him at home with Lady GuyGuy:

Alrighty then! Maybe once every few months, oddly, they utter something like this, which I personally find totally hysterical:

Meanwhile, he's missing out on what we used to have at the office, where all the action happened, and I was the apple of his wandering eye:

Then I've got this teenager at home, and while we can watch raunchy Louis CK standup together, I can't help but squirm when I think. Every time we go to the pediatrician, he picks up the latest copy of "Puberty for Boys," as if something has changed in the last 6 months:

I'm cool with whatever Luke's got going on--I'm an open-minded mom, but I have to draw the line somewhere:

But back to Guy and Lady GuyGuy. I'm sure he's uttered this more than once in 30+ years, on the off nights when he doesn't fall asleep in the living room watching "The Daily Show With Jon Stewart."

After all, they did procreate 3 times. How, I do NOT know. All I can think of are these:

Certainly, I know for sure that his kids, or somebody, has been on the blog and has seen more than he/she wishes to have seen, and thinks this of me:

It started out as innocent fun, truly, it did. We were work husband and wife. And everybody's got to have one of those, you know? It's SO commonplace now, it's innocuous. 

I highly doubt Lady GuyGuy thinks this about him anymore; meanwhile, my wily libido aches:

Though it's certainly not something I'd discuss with my housekeeper, assuming I had one, which I don't, and never will. I'll be lucky to escape the jail in which I live now:

Some things are on a need-to-know basis:

Good gawd, I miss Guy. I went so far as to text him an actual "I miss you" last night, to which he didn't respond. I pretty much expected so..

I don't expect him to get me a birthday gift, certainly not, given I don't know if I'll even see him on my birthday. 

I try to remember Carol Brady's wisdom when I yearn for Guy time....if only he'd comply !

It seems like all I get from Guy is this:

Ugh.

Yes, I'd love to share this with Guy and Guy with me, though my stories are no doubt more colorful:

On the off chance he remembers my birthday, and we go out,  I might utter this:

In any event, I'll always think of him this way, remembering times gone by, when we were still close:

I miss you, Guy, but you already know that.

Turn On, Tune In and Drop Out

This past week was my first week of a 2-week sabbatical before Summer Term, which is packed and I'll be extremely busy for the next 9 weeks, I think it is.

My son was also home for Spring Break, which coincided with the Easter holiday, as he goes to a Christian school. It started with Easter with my brother and his son, at a traditional Polish restaurant for a Polish Catholic meal. Universally enjoyed, no one managed to have an eye poked out the whole day, though it hurt a little to overhear my mom laughing heartily with my brother in living room and her saying a boisterous, "Oh, Steve, I LOVE you!" When she says it to me, it seems an obligatory gesture such as saying "God Bless you" when someone sneezes.

I could've spent more time writing, but I slept...a lot. Apart from a trip to Chinatown (you don't want to know, but I'll tell you later) in Chicago with my mom and my son, I essentially slept. Why? It wasn't that I wasn't sufficiently rested, though my brain did need a serious break. This was the first term SINCE my first term when I managed to get all of my work in on time, without needing incompletes or extensions due to my constantly fluctuating moods. I did papers on the fly, and got A's on them the night before they were due. And that was in a depressive mood! I think it's been that way the whole term.

I didn't get a chance to go out with any of my friends over the last week, and won't until Meg and I go out on Cinco de Mayo, which is also Guy's birthday (though we won't cross paths). That means a whole extra week at home with my mother, trying to stay out of her distance so I don't get the shit kicked out of me. I should've made the call to find a new therapist, but I didn't get around to it, which I needed to. It was a most un-productive week overall. This week, I have doctor appointments and should get a haircut, and should straighten out some bullshit paperwork with school and with Medicaid.

It's most likely because of depression. When I'm depressive, I need almost 20 hours of sleep a day. No joke. Today, for example, I slept until noon but was nodding off again by 1:30 pm, yet dragged my ass up and drove to DuPage county for gas & cigarettes (they're much cheaper there). I lied down for about 45 minutes after I got home, but never fell completely back asleep. At present, I'm exhausted.

Things haven't been made helpful at home by my mom, who keeps telling people on the phone (hell if I know who she's talking to) about my extensive medical condition and how tremendously fat I've gotten. The Synthroid hasn't really kicked into full gear yet, and I'm still puffy all over with water weight gain. She went so far last night out to dinner to nix my choice of the family appetizer because "that's not good for you." Because I'm heavy. That hurt my feelings pretty badly.

Things are so out of hand--last weekend--I think--that I started cutting again. I used a steak knife to cut across my abdomen. There, because nobody will ever see it. No one will ever see me naked, so who cares? I was on an almost 5-year hiatus from cutting, but I needed the release.  I can't shift the blame on any one particular person; rather, it was the culmination of ignorance, mocking, snide remarks and oversight of too many people in my life and those who are choosing to revel in their victories, rubbing them in all over like salt in a wound. I did 2 rounds of abdominal cutting, neither of which drew blood, and I'd wished I'd gone deeper, but I didn't. It didn't scar for more than a few days. And you know what? I don't give a shit if it did.

I've been catching flack lately because I've been telling everyone I'm a potato. I mean that in all sincerity. It's what my shape looks like now. I used to be rail thin and beautiful. Now I'm a potato. Everyone says, "Just eat right and exercise!" HI. I CAN'T. The only physical exercise I've been cleared to do medically is swim and thyroid weight doesn't just disappear. I don't eat any more or less than I did when I was anorexically thin. I've only been on the medication for 5 weeks, for crying out loud. If only a miracle could happen and I could look like I did when I turned 40, I'd be happy as a clam. Alas...

Furthermore, while Guy has been decent about responding to texts, I still don't have an email where I can reach him nor do I know where in the county to which he moved. I asked him out for my birthday on May 9th over a month ago, and he's still wishy-washy about it. I HATE THAT. Make a decision. Meg's my backup plan, even though we're slated to go out for a girls' night on Cinco de Mayo as well. God bless Meg--she doesn't want me to be alone, or worse, with my family, on my birthday. (My family will celebrate on May 10th, a Saturday when I play drums, and my brother is coming to see me. Hi, nerves! Stagefright! We're also celebrating Mothers Day.)

I miss Guy terribly. He hasn't called in over a month (since March 21st, I looked at my phone), and I haven't seen him in 3-4 months. I know I'm a the bottom of the priority list, but a check-in once in a while (to say, "Hi, yeah, I'm cutting again!") would be nice of him. I understand, he just moved, blah, blah blah, but he could call during his lengthy commute home from work like he used to, right?

I did find Guy's birthday present in Chinatown, It's small and probably insignificant, but I liked it, and it was blessed by an actual Buddhist monk. And Luke and I bought matching pairs of nunchucks to fight one another with, which is always a good mom/son activity ( I won match #1, easily....his wrists are too limp!). Never having been to Chinatown, I didn't realize how scuzzy and unkempt it is, and how much it stank, nor how many shops full of junk there would be. The food at the widely recommended restaurant? I've had better in my neck of the woods, and then there was that whole experience of taking Luke for a bubble tea at a Communist-run tea shop, the workers in army-green shirts with red lapel patches, a giant map of China on the wall (obviously) and a huge framed picture of Chairman Mao adorning the wall. Me, dressed in a sweatshirt bearing the Polish flag, needed and wanted to get out of there as soon as was humanly possible. With some hand sanitizer, my family and I made it back to the safe confines of our own ghetto.

Next week, no sleeping in. Luke goes back to school and needs a ride early in the morning. I have a significant amount of tasks to accomplish which I put off all of last week in favor of sleep.

This picture is part truth and part fib. Yes, some of us (like potatoes) have to resign ourselves that our lives will entail just ourselves, our work and/or our kids, who'll abandon us for adulthood in less than a decade. I suppose you just have to grow comfortable being by yourself for the rest of your life...no sex, no intimacy, no love (of that kind). Still, as I've probably mentioned before, affection from the opposite sex is an inherent craving. (Or same sex, whatever you're into.) It literally hurts to be this alone and while friends and family's hugs help, it's not the same thing.

But it's still a lonely existence as it surely must be for at least some men.  Still, it's reality. The person I want to grow old with has already grown old without me, which pains me like you can't imagine. I honestly could give 2 shits (or go to great lengths to let everyone and their Uncle know about it) about how well others' relationships are going, how much love they're receiving that they don't appreciate and how they claim they still want more out of life. Walk a day in my unrequited shoes, gals, and stop rubbing your stink in my virgin face. If you're happy, congrats. There's no need to smear it all over social media, in my opinion. Some modicum of tact is decent. My clairvoyant sees a future for Guy and myself, and to date, she's never been wrong, but I think in this case, she might be. I try to have faith that it'll work out, really.

But it won't. Because, in the words of my favorite comedian, Louis CK...

Guantanamo Bay: Well, At Least It's Warm There.

As you know, I live with my living parent, not by choice, but out of a coin toss between here and my SUV. It's another seemingly subzero mid-April Chicago day, yet I believe nary anything colder runs than the blood through some people's veins. Me? No. I'm not a screeching temper-loser. I don't yell. (Hi, Valium!) I either silently cold-shoulder a conflict, out-intellectualize purposefully, passive-aggressively retort or, you know, write. If I'm vehement or impassioned about a stance on a topic of debate or discussion, I might raise my voice, but it's never out of disrespect or ill-spirit. Conversely, if I feel belittled for no valid reason, or accused of something unjustly, at times I'll speak more vigorously.

My son lives here much of this time as well, more so now that his father's job schedule hours have changed. While my parent keeps threatening to throw us out if we don't abide by her iron fist regulations and demands, and agree with her sociopolitical, narrow-minded, homophobic, conservative viewpoints about the world (apparently, she's going to heaven and I'm not), my strongest impetus is to believe that when the day finally comes when Luke and I are able to and DO, in fact, leave, she will mentally shatter. Which, of course, will be all my fault, because her personality type is (which I may have alluded before) to blame every ill of the world on anyone but herself. In a standard two-faced manner, one day I'll be told to pack my bags and the next day told that I am so incapable, incompetent and sick that I'll never be able to live independently and thus will require round-the-clock care.

Not having seen my son since Monday morning, I wanted to catch up with him as we went upstairs after picking him up from school, when I was dead-tracked and, when asked to stop what I was doing and listen to a 10-minute Pavarotti classical aria, and I said I didn't want to at the moment, was told, "You know, fuck you. Never mind. You're never interested in anything I like. Go on, go upstairs. Go do your thing." I didn't snap my "No." I factually, simply stated that I didn't feel like hearing the music. (It's nothing personal. I'd say the same thing to Luke if he asked me to listen to a Biggie Smalls CD.) Meg and I had to laugh just a little because I asked her if I was a prisoner at Guantanamo Bay and she said, "Maybe solitary confinement would be nicer!" I said, "Why do you think I'm in my room?"

It was made both worse and better by Luke's presence. On the one hand, she typically picks fights with me when he's not home, because 90% of the time, he completely Papa Bear's me. On the other hand, it's a minus because she could hear us both laughing when I finally escaped her vulturous clenches of rage and escaped to the safety of the house's upper floor. Then we both got yelled at. Then stuff was being banged around downstairs and we could hear her blowing her nose loudly and obviously.

Luke and I get in trouble and screamed at and verbally assaulted for some of the pettiest, stupidest, most trivial nonsense (please, must I use ad hominem twice in 2 situations in one week?) one could ever imagine in the transoms of the universe, because my psychiatrist and I have come to the conclusion that my parent, who in addition from being chronically depressed, has Borderline Personality Disorder. We first thought Narcissistic Personality Disorder, but after reviewing the criteria for both, it's not the latter in significance, though there are elements of it interspersed in her ritualistic negative undertones.

I have my own mental illnesses (bipolar disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, still some PTSD) yet have only studied other mental illnesses at length for the last 2 years in grad school. While I *did* get an A in the class on diagnostics, truer words were never spoken than when Guy said, as a doctor, sometimes it's the hardest to treat the ones you love. Mental illness runs rampant on my maternal side of the family--paranoid schizos, OCD's, depression, substance abuse, and most recently, a suicide. (Or, as my mother says, so-and-so was "a little off," or "not all with it," or "off her rocker.") After dinner one night, as I was covering which-relative-had-what, my mother asked me if I thought she was mentally ill. I chickened out and only told her that I knew she had depression, which she kind of denied. She's plateaued on the same low dose of an anti-depressant her PCP gave her like 20 years ago, which does nothing.

What's the DSM-5 criteria for Borderline, you ask? To make the diagnosis, the person must identify with at least 5 of the 9 demarcated characteristics, so these are the ones that stand out to me:

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. (See above.)

2. A pattern of unstable and an intense interpersonal relationship characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation. (Example: My mother, who only has a high school diploma, raves to friends and other family that I'm studying at a swanky graduate school, and how proud she is, but puts me down about my school and schedule, the financial aid, and has told me more than once to just quit the program and get a job.)

3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self. ("I'm just your slave!" "All anyone ever does is take advantage of me." Desperate attempts to completely control not only her environment but the people around her.)

4. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g. intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days). (Example: MAJOR mood swings and shifts of personality display.Very easily startled. Will stay on task or work quietly unless someone is within earshot, at which point, she'll wince, moan and become markedly agitated.)

5. Chronic feelings of emptiness. (Self-explanatory. While she volunteers at her church, our suggestion is that she adopt a more altruistic AND TIME CONSUMING cause so that she is not so perpetually wrapped up in her own thoughts. Something to give her meaning outside of the home and not having to do with the family. I'm wondering if my pastor can pull something out for her to do.)

6. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g. frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights). (I've been slapped twice, called a bitch, told "Fuck you," am persistently insulted and demeaned, and lest we forget the smashing of dishes which I photographed, and vulgar outbursts over inconsequential things, accompanied by irrationality and crying outbursts.)

7. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe disassociative symptoms. (She literally thinks her life is the product of bad luck, others' maltreatment of her/us, my treatment of her, Luke or my disrespect, or the usual scapegoat, Dad. Something is everyone's fault.)

It's sad. It's very sad. If I even begin to suggest she visit an actual psychiatrist for proper medical treatment or see a real counselor on a regular basis, oh my, the stigma latches on. It's ironic and probably unnerving for her that I'm in the field of psychology because she's so anti-psychology, mostly a generational regurgitation passed from the beak of bird to bird to bird in her family tree's nest.

One might argue, "Why don't you/didn't you just take the time out to sit and listen to the aria?" In a word: autonomy. A different agenda. Yes, agreeably for all that my mother does to feed and house me in a clean, safe place (her summer garden decorations notwithstanding, which I trip and fall over constantly), I should probably be more gracious in resigning to her requests, whether they be insignificant or significant, timely or untimely. Still, I am a 41-year old woman with a packed schedule and a child with whom I like to spend time (usually). I have friends I want to see. I have a lot of work to do. My methods of decompression do not mesh with hers. Mostly, Luke and I just try to stay out of the line of fire.

I finished, ironically, Family and Couples Therapy today and decided it's definitely NOT the specialty I want to burst through. What did I learn the last 15 weeks? That every family is dysfunctional in some way. Some worse than others. A friend asked, "What happened to 'Can't we all just get along?'" to which I responded, that compassion can only take place after everyone gets their hands off of one another's choking throats.

But she said I'd make a great divorce mediator. With today's lush marriage crumbling market (it's up to 75% fail rate!), it makes perfect sense. Seek therapy, mediate with the divorce mediator (who might also counsel) to work out the details, visit the accountant, use the lawyer's services only to draw up legal papers for court, then buy yourself a funeral plot. Then take a tropical vacation to Guantanamo Bay. It can't be any worse than living with your parents when you're middle aged or getting a messy divorce.

Laid.

WARNING: NOT SAFE FOR WORK (unless, you like, work alone in your office after hours, or can close a door, or you know, no one else is around...)

It's not terribly often you'll hear The Offbeat Drummer talk frankly about S-E-X. Why not?

Old story. What, 4 years ago? I ended an abusive relationship in which a large part of it was me being forcibly sexually assaulted, for the greater part of 3 years. "NO's" were not adhered, ghastly crap went down, and it is safe to say it damaged my psyche pretty badly, emotional, physical and verbal abuse too. Through a lot of therapy and gentle friends (male and female), though, I am in a much better place about intimacy now than I was then. I was literally so scared that there were only a handful of men whom I'd allow near me, much less NEAR me. In the interim time from then until now, I had one sexual encounter with one man in the course of one morning, he knows who he is, and it was everything it should've been and was entirely cool and a long time coming (no pun intended).

Read: Ready to green light more than a little slithering (damnit, cues I missed to get closer, damn damn damn!) and butterfly kisses (I should've just gone for it). I have been for a while, I'm just only vocal about it with certain trusted friends (and now, the universe). Why so timid? Lots of reasons: Fear of rejection, Self-esteem crises, lack of opportunity, reciprocated crushes that cowered distantly, logistics, and new crushes I can't figure out of which their orientations or availability might sway, and a general lack of man-to-woman social interaction.

Celibacy is beginning to suck royally and not literally.

It didn't help that I had my annual (er, semi-annual, with my history, my bad) checkup with the gynecologist this morning. I haven't been back since the surgical re-check on my hysterectomy 2 years ago, though with my penchant for growing budding cancer in that "area," I was supposed to go every 3 months (which should clue you in on the value upon which I place my life!), and had all the standard chick stuff done, including a pap smear. (Guys, man up.) The nurse, during her inquisition, asked me if I'm sexually active and I actually sort of rattled off a pissed off "NO! BUT THANKS FOR THE REMINDER, TWATWAFFLE!" In any event, I told the doctor I hate her today a) because not only does she call me 3 days after every exam I have to tell me there's something drastically wrong with me I need to "come in and talk to her about," but also that she knocked me out and removed all my piercings. (Still not over that.) Otherwise, everything superficially seems normal, except for the fact that I should probably do more Kegel exercises, though, like, for what?

Then I got home and my friend had posted this video that Upworthy also found prudent enough to post, about the notion of "consent" in a physical/romantic or sexual relationship or encounter. Apparently, according to my friend, it's popular on the West coast, but it hasn't made it as far east as Chicago. "Can I/May I hug you?" "Can I/May I kiss you?" Much of it I can understand as a survivor of sexual abuse, but my golly goodness, is it taken to the extreme. OK, you have to stomach this video clip for it to be in context before I continue my rant. Trust me, by the end, you'll want to wire this Trixie girl's jaw shut forever as much as I do. Take it away, Laci Underalls!

:37 seconds in: She implies that if a man with whom I'm being romantic leans over for a gentle kiss, he's committing sexual assault and violating a "mandatory" consent on my part. 

FAIL!

I've been raped, Laci Underalls. Trust me, sweetums, it ain't the same thing.

But go on...

1:01: "Sexual coercion is often seen as acceptable." 

BRING IT ON! I'VE BEEN WAITING!

But you were saying...

1:22: Suggestions on asking for consent, with Laci Underalls camera-positioned on top of her supposed partner, asking him (her?) SIX THOUSAND QUESTIONS about the experience in the moment.

AT WHICH POINT, YOUR PARTNER GRABS A HANDY CAN OF PEANUT BRITTLE STRATEGICALLY PLANTED ON THE NIGHTSTAND AND SAYS, "HONEY, WILL YOU CHEW ON THIS? I'D *REALLY* LIKE THAT BECAUSE THE INCESSANT JIBBA JABBA OF YOUR INTERROGATION IS DRIVING ME APESHIT CRAZY AND I'D LIKE IT VERY MUCH, IT'D TURN ME WAY ON IF YOU'D SHUT THE FUCK UP, CHEW LOUDLY AND DROWN YOURSELF OUT BECAUSE I'M ALREADY LOSING IT!"

FAIL.

2:42: "Consent is a clear 'Yes!' 'Enthusiastic!' Out loud!'"

RAH, RAH, SISS BOOM BAH! HIT HIM IN THE HEAD WITH A KIELBASA! I DIDN'T REALIZE WE WERE AUDITIONING FOR A SPOT ON THE CHEERLEADING SQUAD.

FAIL.

3:10: I will agree with her that overt utterances of "Stop," "No," "I don't like this," "You're hurting me," etc are all appropriate and necessary ways to halt an otherwise uncomfortable romantic or sexual situation. 

***

The next blah-blah couple of minutes: How you should iterate that no means no, and she gets all pouty and nauseating. She also rattles off a list of people you shouldn't have sex with and why. I agree with some and disagree with some. Except doctors and rock stars. You should always sleep with doctors and rock stars.

**

5:26: "Consent Culture"

My guess this is in response to what is being purported as "rape culture," as a counterpoint. Dandy.  But it's a bit over the top, and in my opinion, takes a hell of a lot of romance out of romance. Passion out of passion. Lust and love out of lust and love. Expression out of expression. Affection out of affection. And straight up, what kind of flat, operational, contractual, "sign-here-and-let's-get-down" bullshit is THAT? If, in the remote impossibility I was finally, by a miracle of God, in a situation with any one of the people to whom I'm attracted enough to want to at least kiss at a relatively moderate level, I'd be bonkers in the back of my mind wondering if ALL OF THIS is ALRIGHT WITH HIM. (Yes, have a scotch! Jesus!) 

Now that you've seen Laci Underalls and listened to her consent diatribble (she speaks at colleges? Don't people throw watermelons at her like Gallagher? I would...), can you see why this whole thing peeves me?

I'm not saying just shut up, lie there and get it over with as soon as possible. That's no fun. That's what you do when you're married and the passion is gone. And, as Chekhov said, "If you are afraid of loneliness, do not marry." (Married people, believe it or not, masturbate far more frequently than single people do. Why? You have to bloody ask?)

There are hundreds of ways and sounds and caresses and means by which you can show your partner you are or aren't enjoying your romantic or sexual encounter without reciting the Stations of the Cross, your SAT scores or an extensive explanation of how you organize your shoes in your closet. You don't need to enter into an intercourse discourse about changing positions. Just fucking do your fucking (or making love, depending on what your thing is with your person). Save the conversation for dinner, foreplay or pillow talk. 

My suggestion, in fact, Laci Underalls, is that if you're going to have one of these obligation questionnaires, VOICE them before ("Would you like?") or after ("Did you like?") but for crissakes, not during. Enjoy the experience for what it is. Or don't enjoy it for what it isn't and put an end to it. Bang.

For me, personally, I love a learned man. An educated man. A well-read man. A smart man who makes me laugh at silly, stupid things, listens to music, can exchange intellectually, is a good listener, has a compassionate heart, is friendly, has facial hair, a nice smile, doesn't live with his mom, is passionate and likes to kiss and hug, knows philosophy, and will treat me with respect and be communicative. There, I've just described not one, but all the men to whom I'm currently attracted. So there, Guy(s). You're all as sexy as hell. 

More Exciting Divorce News! Women are "Right Here Waiting!"

I can't imagine why, but I'm a complete fan of marriages that end after 20+ years of marriage (my most recent gush was the Captain & Tennille). Surprisingly, another long-term married couple (who live here in swanky North Shore suburban Chicago, a stone's throw away from Guy!) are calling it quits.

Cynthia Rhodes, 57, was a popular professional dancer who appeared in such films as "Dirty Dancing." She first met Marx on the set of the dreadful sequel to "Saturday Night Fever," "Staying Alive," starring John Travolta. She worked with Richard "It Don't Mean Nothing" Marx, 50, on a video and BAM! they started dating and got married, 25 years ago.

See? You totally CAN get a divorce after 50, with a fuckton of assets to divide (hey, these were famous people) and come out relatively unscathed if you have a good attorney. Oh? And their 3 sons are grown (23, 21 & 20)? Totally doable.

Oddly, my only personal experience with Richard Marx was body slamming into him in the hallway with beers in our hands (he with Rhodes at his side and I with a friend, or Craig, probably, I don't remember) at the United Center during an Eric Clapton concert in the early 90's. (Marx is pretty short, by the way.)

I'm not a fan of Richard Marx, never was, but have to give him snaps to what he said to Katie Couric recently, which, in response to how he's handling his separation and divorce, said, "It's all brand new to me, so I'm just having fun!" Now, that's the spirit, Richard!

I Was Born With a Plastic Spoon in My Mouth....

There's a key point I think all of you seem to be missing which seemed perfectly obvious after visiting my psychiatrist this afternoon.

My grave mental illness, hapless lack of common sense, unhealthy lifestyle, relentless medical problems, utter stupidity, life mismanagement and affection starvation will only help get rid of me faster...and isn't that really the goal, kinda?

I know for sure that's what one person in particular is thinking. (UPDATE: I stand corrected. There is more than one person trying to get rid of me quickly, and he's doing a FABULOUS job of it! Lesson learned: Don't try to make plans, because if you're crafty and desperate enough, there doesn't always have to be a tomorrow.)