Tequila sunrise and the final exchange of stuff

Tequila sunrise

Oh, the exchange of stuff! When I got divorced, I had to make a list of everything we owned and file it with San Francisco Superior Court. As I tend to be concerned with minutiae, I tried to pass everything by my ex-husband, who understandably was having trouble answering such important questions as, “Do you mind if I take the roasting pan?”

When you’re not married, this part has less paperwork. Today the most recent ex and I exchanged our stuff. SIGH. SIGHSIGHSIGH. This is what he got back:

  • 1 fleece-lined sleeping bag he put in the trunk of my new car to protect it from something, probably his fold-up bike
  • 2 camping chairs, used once on a trip to Crater Lake
  • 1 toiletries bag with 1 razor and 1 deodorant (the only deodorant that works, Herbal Magic® Roll-On Deodorant [unscented])
  • 1 cute black coat

At his apartment he’d boxed all my things. In one box was my kitchen stuff. In the other, he’d neatly (and I mean neatly) folded:

  • 3 dresses
  • 1 blouse
  • 1 sweater
  • 10 shirts
  • 1 pair of pajama pants
  • 1 pair of jeans
  • 4 pairs of socks
  • 1 pair of underwear
  • 2 eye masks

He also dropped in something he must have bought me before we broke up: one of those virtual reality cardboard slots you drop your smartphone into. Because I once said I thought the new VR/smartphone technology looked cool.

So this is what I’ve learned: Breaking up with nice people sucks a lot more than breaking up with alcoholic jazz musicians, compulsive liars, cocaine addicts, and lesbians with anger issues.

Good thing I’m going to Chicago this weekend to visit my parents! There I’ll be able to eat a lot of Italian food, drink a lot of wine, and transfer my ovarian panic onto the only two people who will still call me in the morning.

Yesterday Mom left a voicemail (imagine reading this at warp speed):

“Sometime today or tomorrow, or you can send an email, give us a call, let us know what you’re interested in cooking or making so we can do some grocery shopping this week and have everything here. L., T., and L. will be here Friday evening for dinner, and we have the R.’s for brunch, and of course there will be other meals in between. So, give us a call! And, saw your blog. (Pause.) Good start! Love you! Bye-bye!”

Except for the years 1986 to 2012, my mom is pretty great. I called her last week to talk me through a difficult time, and she gave me a rousing pep talk, after which I thanked her profusely for being there.

Mom: “I’m always going to be here for you.”

Me (sniffling): “Well, not always. You’re 73.”

Saturday was better. A house party in the afternoon, a dinner party in the evening. Lots of friends. And you should be so lucky as to have a former bartender make you a tequila sunrise. Drop a few ice cubes into a glass rimmed with margarita salt. Into that pour:

  • 1 shot 100% agave tequila
  • 1/2 cup orange juice
  • 1/2 cup cranberry juice (if you don’t happen to have grenadine on hand)
Top with a Grand Marnier float and hand to your nearest single, childless 39-year-old who resembles Peter Sellers in Being There and is the new, somewhat chastened owner of a virtual reality sleeve.

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