Love is...

❤ I concede. I mean Score ❣ I will scoop up some not-even-divorcé rushing the paperwork through for tax purposes. It's not hard to see he cannot be alone, so desperate to plug the one missing piece back into his perfect life. I need the mirage of total control too. So I will glom right on, shove right in, strategically draining the teat while projecting such outwards. I will mask my stench of ketosis with saccharine sayings that all start with, Love is...

Love is...
a Beverly Hills Husband
❣

Love is...
a renovation that rapes the character
from a really great home
❣

Love is...
derivative wedding planning
 House* Styling 

spelled out on mini chalkboards
❣

My real job is to reinforce my husband's stance that he has no inner work to do. We are mirrors. Yes, it's all our exes' fault. Still and always. What if they dated?! Meg's loss she didn't want to rot on the country club circuit. What a weirdo. Extra weird she invited me to breakfast weeks after she moved out and I latched right on. Who does that?

Love isn't someone else's babies, I complain to her over our only meal together. One is still in diapers! I cannot believe my new boyfriend has a kid in diapers! 

This diapered baby boy becomes the target of my misguided rage. I pick on him, disciplining him harshly when I think no one is looking. But he's smart, seeing me for what I am. This makes me even more mad! I will grab his arm, hard until he cries, but deny it. He's late to speak, but when he's ready, it's in full paragraphs and I'm scolded for the arm grabbing, but whatever.

Whatever, I have cool Hollywood friends. Real stars and winners. We play tennis with Borat ❣ And drive to Malibu to see Courtney Cox ❣ Her daughter is friends with my daughter ❣ I even got the Showgirls girl, between bouts of egregious infantilization involving supersized baby bottles of raw goat's milk and SusieCakes cookies, to be the preschool playground bully.

Years will pass and we're way past cracks in the facade. Now when their father travels, I leave them on their own in their rooms. Opposite ends of the house. Too noisy when they play together. And if I hear one on a video chat with his mom, I pop my head in and offer a singsong snack, even though we all know I impart my dis-order one frozen berry at a time.

While their mother's on her "breather" I taunt them with a daily mantra: I would never abandon my kids.

Love is...

a real life fairytale
❣

 *only Houses