Month: March 2026

One of the leftovers from the breakup is The Sofa.
I use caps because it is a thing.
A particular thing.
A thorn-in-my-side thing.

This is The Sofa, in situ.

I have never liked The Sofa. From the first time I went to the Ex’ condo, I didn’t like it. He had good taste in many things; but not The Sofa.

The Sofa is large, deep, conventional in design, and beige.

I am not a fan of beige.
Or conventional design.
Especially when it involves metal studs on beige upholstery.

The Sofa’s seat cushions are shockingly heavy, as if filled with very dense foam and buckshot. Worse, though, the back pillows are attached. Unremoveable. A spectacularly bad idea. How can anyone get them fluffed/shaped right that way? Answer: they can’t. I’ve used fists, a bat, everything I could think of and never could get them right.
The Sofa mocked my attempts.

The Sofa has surprisingly low feet. As Douglas Adams might have said, they are precisely of the height to have everything that falls bounce out of reach under The Sofa, but far too low to be able to get a broom or mop there to fetch the items lost.

The Sofa is, also, surprisingly uncomfortable. Sure, it seems cushy and supportive, but that is just to lull you in. In reality, it causes physical pain. The depth of the seating makes it impossible to sit on like a normal sofa, with your back on the back and your feet on the ground. You must stack pillows behind your back to get close. Whatever you try, your back will let you know how wrong your posture is in no time.

When we bought the house, we moved The Sofa from the condo, with us. It always felt too large for the house’s space. I mean, it fit (see above), but overwhelmed the living room with its beigeness and bulk. And improperly fluffed pillows.

The Ex and I looked for replacement sofas a few times. We could never agree on any. Cost, design, whatever… we just never could settle on one. I think he was insulted I didn’t like The Sofa and held it as a bit of a grudge. Even though he admitted the problems with The Sofa, he defended his purchase as though it was a personal attack to dislike the object: he spent a lot of money on The Sofa; it was made by a reputable company; the attached cushions were a good idea at the time…
Whatever, our inability to replace it was a thing and, arguably, a sign.

When the Ex left, surprisingly to me, he left The Sofa. He had his stated reasons. I think there were others, unsaid. I like to tell myself none of them were about me but, really, only he knows. I only know I wanted him to take the damn thing. He didn’t.

Of course, as in any cohabitational breakup, the divvying up of stuff meant I had to buy a lot of things to replace those that went with him. Some things were more urgently needed, not just wanted; replacing The Sofa was back-burnered to economize. I told myself I could live with it. Better a bad Sofa than none.

I have rued that choice. In fact, since he left just over six months ago, every time I have plopped down to watch TV I have been reminded how uncomfortable The Sofa is. And of him. My back has ached, as did my heart. I groaned every time I stood up from sitting on it and which pain caused that, I’m not so sure. It was a far greater symbol of him and the us that no longer was than I knew, or wanted to admit.

This morning, it has come to an end. Our lovely neighborhood junk hauler man, his wife, and I hefted that thing out of the house and down the front stairs to his truck. It weighed a ton, even without being a sleeper; but I squat-lifted one end like someone much younger than my 60.5 years. I owe thanks to the Canadian whose workouts I have been doing; but I think my strength was mostly fueled by the deep desire to get the thing out.

Now, it is gone.
I paid the hauler more than he asked to remove it; it meant that much to get it out.

I have since swept and mopped the floor, and wiped down the baseboards and wall, in large part to purge the space.

I may even burn some sage, just to be on the safe side, especially since I kept The Sofa’s two beige throw pillows. They were the only thing that didn’t suck about The Sofa, except for their color, which does suck.

But I will re-cover them in a brighter color (blue!) and use them on my new, smaller, simpler orange sofa, delivered later today.

———-
Update: delivery delayed. Oh well.

For the third time in this second Trump administration, the nation protested. I attended the downtown San Diego protest, as I have the other 2. The first one I was still with my Ex and we went together; the last two, I have gone solo.

Last time, my first solo, brought me to tears. It took place shortly after he (finally) moved out and I was still fresh in the heartbreak. By turns, I was also more than a little furious that he had left me alone in this shitshow of a Trump-run USA. Even when things were difficult, just knowing I wasn’t alone made a difference; now, I was alone. At No Kings 2, I saw so many couples, leaning on each other emotionally. I was surrounded by people, and yet so very alone. I ached, in that sea of people. Luckily, dark sunglasses hide tears and yelling chants hides breaks in the voice. I don’t think I spoke directly to anyone. Somehow, I couldn’t.

Yesterday, again, I was solo. However, over the months since NK2, I had done a lot of healing so I wasn’t thinking about him… well, not much. Instead, I was happily looking at people and their signs, giving out compliments and small talk. Just being glad I could participate. I was proud of my fellow San Diegans.

Shortly after arriving at the start location, on the side of the county building that had been dedicated by FDR, and in a sea of people, I ran into a neighbor! She and her partner (wife?) were there with friends (mostly, recently retired science teachers) and they encouraged me to join them. I did for a while, until the sun got to be too much for me (I need to be in the shade more), but while with them I so appreciated being with a group of opinionated and smart women.

Both before and after that, I talked to strangers. I laughed with others waiting at crosswalks, walking to the location from where I parked my Triumph. I shared standing spots and laughs with a couple of old queer punks and a different, mixed-race group of slightly younger gay men (we all had the sense to wait in the shade). We were all of the same tribe, no matter how different our lives may be.

It was a very different experience than the last. When I did think of the Ex, it was to wonder if he had bothered to go to a march, wherever he was. My money is on probably not, but it’s close because he did care about what was happening in the USA. But he was also in a very dark place when he left, so maybe he just couldn’t join the protests. So, I sent him good thoughts then got on with my own participation, being present with the crowd around me.

Later, as I made my way back to my motorcycle for the ride home, it hit me: while once again I was solo, I was so not alone.

I wanted to become a lawyer for years before I could make it happen. In fact, I took the LSATs three times–not because my scores were bad but because they expire after 5 years and I couldn’t afford law school, until I could. I finally got a full scholarship, including books, and had some savings and the financial backing of my then-husband to go. After the marriage blew up at the end of my first semester, I negotiated to have the financial ability to not work at all my first year (a requirement of the scholarship and the school) and very little after that, until I took the bar.

I also had to be very near the top of my class to keep the scholarship. Grades in law school are competitive–the infamous bell curve–so this meant doing the academic work. After my first semester, it seemed unlikely I would be able to keep the scholarship as I had only done okay grade-wise (did I mention the marriage blew up…yeah, a week before my first final); but, somehow, I did the virtually impossible in my second semester and saved it.

Anyway, I loved law school. Apparently that is unusual. But, for me, it was heaven. Hard work, sure, but fascinating and the kind of work that I truly enjoy. Even with all the hiccups I just mentioned, I was happy…more than. I felt like I had found my place in the world. And I looked forward to becoming a licensed attorney.

Before I graduated, my ex-husband lost his mind and sued to overturn our financial arrangement. Of course, I couldn’t afford to hire an attorney so I represented myself…and won (FWIW, the ex’ attorney was an idiot whom he should have sued for malpractice). The judge was kind in her ruling, complimenting my work and wishing me well on my bar exam.

I passed the then 3-day California Bar on my first try (thank the gods, because it was not fun at all) and, after taking it, was more than completely broke. Actually, I had amassed a bit of credit card debt, to survive. But I had work as a paralegal so I chugged along as I waited for my results (and paid my debt). When I passed and took that oath, I felt the words in my bones. It was an honor and the culmination of literally decades of work and dreams.

I didn’t seek a high paying gig; rather I launched right in, representing artists and essentially working for myself in collaboration with other copyright attorneys. It was tight for a while and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, financially; but before too long I got to a comfortable enough income. Importantly, I never sold out. I never even took a case working to defend an infringer, even though that could easily have made me a lot more bank.

So, when I hear about these fuckers helping Trump by perverting the law, I get furious. How dare they! How can they! I mean, how can you throw away the learning, the idea of justice, the faith in the system, and all your ethics. How?!? And just for money/power? Infuriating!

I suspect for many of these lawyers, they didn’t have to struggle to go to law school. They came from money, in other words. Many didn’t really have to work for their degrees much less the jobs that followed, so they didn’t/don’t value it. For others, they sold out early to pay off their loans and make as much bank as possible. That shows a particular willingness to do whatever it takes to “win” and, again, certainly is not valuing the Law.

It simply maddens me. There are many lawyers like me–those who want to help people. Lots of us don’t do it for the money–we just want to make a living and do good. But a whole swath of the worst of the worst are now in power and supporting/enabling the downfall of our whole legal system. Everything we worked for. All for greed and power.

In the end, they will eat themselves. Until we get there, though, it’s hard to watch and live through.

I just had a phone call with a potential date. Someone I have never met. We matched on an app, exchanged a few texts on the app, then he offered his number. Today, I texted him off the app and later he called.

This, talking on the phone before meeting, is an oddity these days. Hell, even texting directly is considered risky by many folk. Most people are terrified to share their phone number with someone they connected with on a dating app. Apps even have extra layers of video chatting, etc., to protect people from having to share their actual phone numbers “too early.”

This, I do not get.

Now, before you get all “but stalkers” at me, I have been stalked and sharing my phone number with a stranger is unlikely to turn into a stalker situation–at least not directly. First of all, most stalking happens to younger people (but it’s still possible for us old farts). The important statistic, though, is that stalkers are not usually strangers but rather someone you have met or been in a relationship with. Overwhelmingly so. Sadly, there isn’t anything you can do to prevent it–outside of never risking sharing any info (and even that won’t necessarily do it).

You can’t meet people without sharing info. It just doesn’t work that way. You can’t begin something based on trust without, well, trusting.

I’m also not freaked out because I’m old enough to have been in the phone book. Remember those? Everyone, practically, was essentially doxxed by the phone company and we all had the books in our homes so we could call people who didn’t even give us their numbers. And we’d get their addresses, too! My point is, sharing my phone number (and even my address–gasp!) doesn’t scare me the way it may someone younger.

Most of all, if someone wants to find that info, they can. It’s not really hard at all in most cases. I have to find people all the time in my work–we leave digital trails all over the place. If someone wants to find you, they (probably) will, no matter what you do to prevent it.

Is it a risk, maybe, but one which I think we should be more willing to take. Treating every other human out there like a threat just doesn’t work for me.

Anyway, so, I had this call. We talked. And it was… nice. Awkward? Sure. A bit. I mean, we didn’t know much about each other except that we both hate Trump, like motorcycles and Vespas, come from the Midwest, have dry senses of humor, and share an ethnic background. That’s not really very much info. But it was pleasant to chat and the call lasted longer than I thought (that is, time flew). There was laughter and we learned a little more about each other (like he still has his Chicago accent). Not sure if it will become anything, of course, but we both thought meeting for happy hour would be a good next step. My choice of location, because he wants me to feel comfortable and safe.

Risky? All of this dating stuff is on one level or another. But we don’t get anything in life without taking some risks. Starting with sharing our digits.

I used to be an awful cynic. Worse than cynical…dark. The kind of dark that could suck all the fun out of a room full of happy people.

I’m not that person any more.

A lot of this is family-of-origin-related stuff. My mother was a very strong personality and she was often super dark (she was actually very likely bipolar, but that’s for another day). She was also very conditional in her loving. You were either with her or against her and against carried the high risk of being excommunicated, cut-off. And she could blame and guilt like a frightening combo of the worst of the Jewish and Catholic mother stereotypes.

Since my parents divorced when I was very young (like 4), back when custody was almost always given to the mom, she was my primary caregiver and influence. As a result, her darkness became my darkness. My next older sibling fully drank that Kool-Aid and between the two of them, a happy-go-lucky Leslie didn’t stand a chance.

It was framed as sophistication; being precocious (in the case of us kids); being smart and witty. In reality, it was just fear wearing a mask. If we put down X or Y then, if we weren’t good at it, that didn’t matter because it was beneath us so pushing ourselves to be better at those things was, well, stupid. We were something special, more, smarter, better. The rules for most people should not apply to us. “Don’t be a sheep!” Mom would often say. We were being trained to become narcissists of some flavor (mostly of the covert variety as we were also told not to be selfish and “just who do you think you are?!” …yeah, confusing!). The world owed us…more, better. If something went wrong, it was not our fault or our doing; the world did it to us. We were victims of a world where everyone and everything was out to get us. Fear, fear, fear.

Luckily for me, I had my darkness (and its snobbery, false victimhood, etc.) called out by a trusted friend. He could see I was miserable and he put the pieces together and kindly mentioned that he thought I was making myself miserable. His simple comment raised my awareness, one day in the studio where we worked together; and it changed my life.

Since then, and with much work and hours on the cushion, I have become a very different person. I am by nature now mostly happy, or at least content. I have been told I am fun to be around (hearing that still makes me blush). I don’t believe the world owes me anything but rather I make choices and accept the ramifications/responsibility arising from those choices. I earn my successes and live with my failures. I am courageous, but I don’t take myself too seriously. When I feel myself struggling, I ask for help (friends, therapists, etc.). I am not transactional in any of my relationships (I give because I want to, not expecting something in return). Most of all, I am incredibly less judgmental than I was in my youth, which is probably my favorite part of all this because it gives me the chance to be, instead, curious, especially about other people. Turns out, I actually like most people!

I’ll tell you what: it’s a hell of a lot better way to be. Shit is going to happen in life–learning from it and looking at what I can do about it (versus obsessing about what I can’t), and not wallowing and blaming, is infinitely better. When bad things happen now, I roll with it (mostly). I even have people tell me how calm I seem in those times! Sure, I still get angry or sad or hurt, but the volume is much lower on any of that than it was in my dark youth.

Am I perfect? Not even close. But I’m better. And every day I’m a little more so. I”m super lucky: at 60, I still get to experience growth.

I have blogged, either personally and professionally, since the 1990s. My first blog was created before there was blogging software; each post meant a bit of re-creating the page. It was a pain in the ass, but I did it and pretty regularly.

On the personal side, it did something for me, mentally, to write about my life and put it out there. I had privately journaled for years (still do)–in pen and in books–but blogging hit some other part of my brain. I didn’t think what I wrote was particularly interesting to outsiders and certainly wasn’t looking to become some sort of proto-influencer or anything. I wrote for me. If someone else got something from it, great; it was an offering to the universe, in some way. Sadly, it wasn’t always a good thing.

More than a year after my early 2009 marriage breakup, my personal blog was used against me by that ex. He made my posts, especially posts about any new guy I was dating, somehow about him. If I said I had fun on a date, he took it as me publicly humiliating him…even though he was never mentioned. When I say used against me, I mean in court–he sued me. It didn’t work (I won!), but it did put a new spin on sharing my life (semi-) publicly. For a while I made all my posts password-protected and only close friends and family got the password. It didn’t feel the same and, over time, I stopped posting.

Today, like the Buddhist meditation teachings tell us to do when our minds wander, I begin again. In this case, I begin personal blogging, again.

I do this with that ex-related backstory because, well, I’m a teeny bit concerned it may happen again. I hope not; but breakups do strange things to people. There is a reason the courts that first got metal detectors were often family/domestic relations courts. People just lose their minds, sometimes.

Let me back up…I had another breakup, in July of last year. This one hit extra hard–worse than any previously. I thought he was my forever person and that we could get through anything and, after 10 years, anyone who knew me knew I was utterly committed. In fact, about six months before the breakup, I had started seeing a wonderful therapist because I wanted to figure out what I could possibly do to be a better partner for my partner. Seriously–that was my stated reason at our first session (they reminded me of that at our last, just before the new year). Obviously, that goal didn’t work out–not because I wasn’t willing to make changes but rather whatever changes I made were not, for him, enough. C’est la vie.

But the therapy helped me re-find myself and my healing was enhanced by my handwritten journaling. Now, I feel the pull to write more. To get back to sending things out to the universe, if you will. But this may carry a small risk.

That said, I don’t plan on talking about the breakup much or directly (and about my ex, even less)–this isn’t about hashing anything out in the relationship or its aftermath. But things may come up in some other context. For example, I may eventually have a date and write about that. Or I may write about something I am doing to the house. Or my struggles to assume the mortgage. Things may arise, as they say. So, while I intend to be careful not to say anything hurtful (because, honestly, I don’t want to hurt him), you just can’t know for sure how someone may react.

So, while I don’t intend to write about him in the future, I do feel the need to address him and me directly in this one post–just to be absolutely clear about what I am doing here. This blog is about me and my life, not him and his. I unconditionally wish my ex well. I wish him joy and peace and love. I hope he finds whatever it is he is seeking and that the rest of his days are no worse than good.

As for me, well, I begin again.