Sofia the First; and Other Tales of Divorce

I'm a couch potato.  Anyone who knows me knows that I can waste a good four hours in front of the television.  Some people garden.  Some read.   I watch mind-numbing trash in an effort to escape my reality.  My genre of choice is reality housewives or psychic housewives.

Lately I've gone against type.  I've been enjoying a more thought-provoking, scripted show.    A work of fantasy that makes me contemplate life.   The show, nay, masterpiece, is Sofia the First.  It's on Disney Junior and I go to bed early Thursday nights so I can wake up Friday mornings at 6:30  to watch.

It's about a "village girl" named Sofia who's  "doin' all right"  who  "became a princess overnight"  when her seamstress mother marries the King.  So sayeth the opening title song.

It's a Disney fairytale and for 22 minutes I suspend disbelief and attend a royal slumber party. (Not pass out in my sweats with a toddler's foot in my face. )  I ride a flying horse.  (Not a filthy car with an unexplained b.o. escaping through the air conditioning.)  And  I make music with the local trolls. (Not alone at my piano contemplating my operatic comeback at age 37.)  Friday mornings at 6:30  I'm not a couch potato mom in need of a root touch-up and a manicure.  I am Princess Genna.

But here's where they lose me.

Never has Sophia mentioned her father.  Not once.  In fact, the moment her mother marries the King she immediately calls him Dad.  That's not her Dad.  Where is Sofia's father?  Why is there no mention of him? 

Okay, so maybe,  just maybe,  and this is just me spitballing...

Sofia's father cheated on her mom with many,  but ultimately left the mom, Miranda,  for some local hotsy-totsy.  So the King, known for being "down with the villagers,"  takes pity on her.  He drops in on Miranda's little shop just to let her know that the whole kingdom is behind her and that she'll be "doin' alright" in no time.

Their eyes lock.   There's heat, but he's the King and married, and she's certainly not going down that road.  

The King and Miranda see each other from time to time at local ribbon-cutting ceremonies and Best Pet in the Kingdom competitions.  Things like that.

At some point, the Queen notices their mutual attraction and in an attempt to control the situation commissions Miranda to make her a gown to be worn at the big Inner-Village Peasants and Noble People Ball like they have at Downton Abbey.  

Knowing this is the job opportunity of a lifetime, Miranda slaves for days over the gown.  She works her fingers till they bleed.  She calls in the local woodland creatures to help.  The gown is a masterpiece.

Miranda shows up at the ball knowing she has ensured a better life for herself and Sofia, only to find that the Queen has done a full switch-a-roonie.  She's wearing some other local designer's gown.  The Queen whispers in Miranda's ear, "Stay away from my husband, you whore."

Miranda runs out of the ball in tears.  Is it not humiliation enough that her scumbag village photographer husband left her for a young circus clown?  Must she endure the humiliation of the Queen as well?  The King sees her leaving and runs after her.  He takes her hand and apologizes for his wife's behavior.  He explains that she struggles with bipolar disorder and is hideously unattractive. He apologizes because he knows he has been inappropriate with his advances.  He begs her forgiveness and gently kisses her wet hand.   It's raining.

The Queen watches the exchange and comes charging after Miranda but a mischievous woodland creature trips the Queen and she falls in a mud puddle.  The poor Queen has humiliated herself in front of the entire Kingdom of Enchancea.

That night, in an act of great selflessness, the Queen hangs herself.  The King is beyond thrilled to find her lifeless body dangling and immediately heads to the village to claim the seamstress and her, let's face it,  bastard child.  The King's teenage children are told never to mention their mother's name again and poor little Sofia, the kindly bastard child of the local seamstress is now Sofia the First with a talking pet rabbit named Clover,  played by American treasure Mr. Wayne Brady.

That's just one possible theory.  There could be a different back story but I highly doubt it.

Yes.  It's my favorite show but that doesn't mean it gets a free pass.

To this day, I  struggle with  what happened to Carole and Mike Brady's spouses.  There's no "every other weekend" for that Bunch.  Cindy never went to  behavioral therapy because her father abandoned her.  If Mr. Brady's wife had died why didn't they discuss her?  What?   She dies and they all just pretend she never existed?   And none of the girls rebelled?  Their father up and leaves Mrs. Brady for some chicky and gives up all custody of his kids?  He's got some new young trick who spends all his money and the kids are all cool with that?  Please.  That's not real life.  In real life, those Brady girls are slutbags.

Here is real life.   You marry.  You have the best of intentions. You try your hardest.  Sometimes it ends.  You share your kids with people who have hurt you in ways you can never describe.  You smile through it, cause you're "doin' alright."  You watch your young boys love another woman.  It hurts. You smile.  You make the best of things.  You cry when you don't get to spend Mother's Day with them.  You pray that only kind words are said about you and you do the same, though it kills you inside.  You meet a good man.  A kind man.  A man of integrity.  They call him Zack, not Dad.  You lead your children by example and you carry on.

And every Friday morning, you wake up at 6:30 to watch the fantasy version of divorce and mixed families with your two young boys.  You force them to sing the opening song with you.  Sometimes you wear costumes.  You squeeze them and hold on for dear life because you know these days of fantasy are fleeting and soon there will be real questions to answer.  The holes in the story will need to be filled and they will realize that life is not a fairytale after all.

Man-Jewelry, Scientology and Two-Buck-Chuck

I'm pretty sure I'm not as great as I think I am. Though it's up for discussion.

Divorced life is different from married life in a lot of ways. For one, you have no husband. You share your kids with someone you don't particularly care for. You are forced to move from your home. Your lifestyle changes. But most apparent, you shop exclusively at Trader Joe's.

It's a pretty good bet that on any given day I'm at the grocery store. I'm not a planner. I can't buy for the week and make that work for me like so many savvy mommies. I know my limitations. Organization is one of them. Also, diet, exercise, relationships, reading, spelling, learning stuff and follow through. Other than that I'm perfect.

Pre-humiliating-divorce, I would hit the local Gelson's for a this or a that, drop a couple hundred and think nothing of it. As a boost to my self esteem, I would run into Trader Joe's to visit with the commoners. I'd watch them buy Charles Shaw wine thinking to themselves, "It's so good and yet so reasonably priced." I'd think, how quaint. Their lips have never touched the ambrosia that is truly excellent wine and therefore they have no desire for it. I wasn't judging exactly, but I was judging.

Just last night I enjoyed a bottle of Charles Shaw. Alone. And I thought, "This isn't half bad for $2.99." I have joined the commoners. The riff raff. I'm not complaining. There are starving children in Africa who've never heard of Charles Shaw.

My point is this. Divorce changes things.

The other day I took a drive through my old hood. I drove up my street and passed the house I spent eight years of my life in. I felt nothing. No sadness. No regret. Nothing.

I then took that oh-too-familiar drive down the street...and there it was. My old grocery store. Gelson's. With it's over-priced food and over-ripe fruit. I wept. It was as though my car steered itself into the parking lot. Like I was driving Kitt from Knight Rider. Which would be rad. I was home, once again part of the grocery shopping elite. The lucky few who purchased Pirates Booty and pre-washed lettuce across the street from the Scientology Celebrity Center. Was this the day Tom Cruise would take a break from brain washing people to get a pint of Gelson's Famous Dill Tuna Salad? One never knew. Perhaps Giovanni Ribisi would stroll in to grab a Victor Benes' cookie before hooking himself up to the crazy alien meter so popular with Scientologists around the world. But today, there was no John Travolta or that crazy girl "what's her face" who was in all those movies and now is in a band...Juliette somebody. Oh no.

Ryan Gosling was there.

Let it be known that I'm not a Ryan Gosling fan. He wears too much man-jewelry for my taste. I like a man to be a man. I don't like a man who thinks the new trend of "friendship bracelets" is unisex. In real life, Ryan Gosling is as majestic as he is masculine, friendship bracelets and all. Ryan Gosling is the only exception to the man-jewelry rule.

I knew immediately Ryan was my destiny. I had been led back to Gelson's by a force greater than my own. Perhaps the alien Gods of Scientolgy had planned our meeting and so I did what any sane and rational woman would do. I casually followed Ryan Gosling around Gelson's with the intent to go home with a man who looks better in jewelry than I. It seemed as though it was, "in the bag." Grocery humor.

I used all my old tricks. The ones that worked ten years earlier when I was on the market. Now, I was on the market in the market and I was bringing the moves back. All of them. I did that thing with my lip where I casually bite it like I'm thinking, "Do I want the whole grain or the potato bread."

I was desperate for Kosher salt. The problem? It was right where Ryan Gosling was standing. Also, I didn't need Kosher salt at all. "Sorry, " I smiled. Lip bite. Tippy-toe reach. Slight sexy grunt. Hair swing. He asked if he could help. "I'm fine." Lip bite. Coy glance.

It was at this point that I decided to bring back the "fake phone call," a move that served me so well years earlier. I had an animated conversation complete with inside jokes with no one on the other line. This let Ryan Gosling know a few things about his would-be lover. A) I was funny. B) Sexy. C) Extremely important and D) Not crazy because someone called me on the phone and crazy people don't have friends.

At some point in my fake conversation my Ray Ban sunglasses made their way on my face. I was wearing dark sunglasses in the grocery store and I was awesome. I shopped my face off. I bought everything I could think of. I wasn't at Trader Joe's today. Oh no. I was shopping with my people at Gelson's, always one aisle away from Ryan, strategically placing myself where we would "run into" each other. At one point, I accidentally on purpose ran my cart over his foot. He loved me.

I was going to use him. Just long enough for everyone to realize that I'm doing great. I may be a tragic divorcee but I have taken Ryan Gosling as a lover.

"We have to stop running into each other like this." I said with an eyebrow raise and a dramatic hair toss. People were starting to notice our intense chemistry. Our heat. Suckers.

It was at this point Eva Mendes walked up to my boyfriend and the two began to inappropriately make-out in the deli section where I was about to buy the Gelson's Famous Dill Tuna. I thought...oh, he has a type. You know. Cause I look just like Eva Mendes. Like twins. They called his number. 47. I was 48. And this is when Ryan Gosling looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Go ahead, Ma'am."

Reality hit me like a case of Charles Shaw Chardonnay. Ryan wasn't flirting with me. He was being nice to the shlubby old mom with tampons and diapers at the top of the cart who was following him around the market like a deranged fan. The crazy woman who was wearing dark sunglasses and too-tight jeans. The woman sporting a hint of a moustache. I didn't belong at Gelson's anymore. I'm a Trader Joe's kinda person. I like to shop where hippies have no idea, nor do they care how old I am. Where I can buy vacuum-packed lentils and beets, frozen appetizers and Trader Joe's-brand organic milk. Where I can delight in two-dollar wine, confident no one is judging.


The following Monday, Leo and I were heading down an elevator. A woman joined us on the second floor. We acknowledged each other with a smile. Then, she asked me the following question. "Is he your grandson?"

The next day, my sister Vanessa and I were parking at the mall when the parking guy asked me if my 29-year-old sister was my daughter. Just out of the blue. "Is she your daughter?" Had my car actually been Kitt from Knight Rider and I could have told Kitt to run the man over, but alas, my car is not Kitt. It's just a plain old regular car.

I'm pretty sure I'm not as great as I think I am. No...I am. I'm pretty great.

Oprah

There are a few rules to “fitting in” in the cut-throat pre-school mommy world. Always act busier than you are. Always be in workout clothing. Buy organic and finally, volunteer to bring home the class pet on weekends and holidays. Van’s class pet is Dylan the Guinea Pig.

A guinea pig is neither pig nor fat person from the Republic of Guinea. A guinea pig is a giant, lazy rat that does absolutely nothing. Zero. Just lays there. Which sounds like a dream come true to me. In fact, in my next life I want to come back as a guinea pig. Sadly, with my luck I’ll come back as a fat person from the Republic of Guinea.

The other mommies at Van’s school have yet to catch on that I’m a complete mess on the verge of a total nervous breakdown the likes of which Anne Heche could not dream of. They think I’ve ”got my shit together” and am “the strongest woman they know.”

When life hands you lemons, say for example your husband leaves you out of the blue and tells you your whole marriage was a sham, you can do one of several things.

One:
Chop off his penis and be hailed a hero by women around the world only to wind up in jail the rest of your life forced to turn lesbian with a cellmate named Rosie who treats you like a slave and cheats on you with a be-tattooed Latina inmate named Yessica who spits in your cornrows every time you walk past her.

Two:
Commit suicide but first buy a full page ad in Variety for your suicide note which is written to your ex explaining that your blood is on his hands. That your children are motherless because of his selfishness. Outline every embarrassing moment making it impossible for him to ever show his face in public without being ridiculed by the whole of humanity.

Three:
Take life’s shitty lemons and make some lemonade. Pretend that “everything happens for a reason” and “time heals all wounds” and “bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, be the bigger person, bullshit.”

I have chosen option three though contemplate one and two seven to eight times per hour.

Since choosing lemonade, I have a new life philosophy. Say yes to everything. But not really everything because if I said yes to everything I would be holed up in a motel with the skeevy Persian man who leased me my new car.

So, when asked if I would take Dylan the Guinea Pig Rat Monster for a few days I gave my new go-to answer. YES! Because that’s what healthy, well-adjusted, scorned moms do while drinking rancid lemonade.

When I was eight, I needed a bunny. It was all that I wanted in the whole world. I begged. I pleaded. And finally, I got my bunny. His name was Fluffy. Or Furry. Or something ridiculous and we were in love. For three days. Until he started to smell. So I put his cage behind the house and would bring him food and water once a day. For three more days. And then I kinda forgot that I had a bunny living behind the house. And when I remembered, he was gone. Not dead. Just missing. Fluffy, or Boots or What’s His Name was somewhere out in the cold mean world trying to survive. And it was all my fault. And then I realized that the disappearance of Mr. Fuzz was not my fault at all. It was my mom’s fault because I was too young to be responsible for a living creature. I forgave myself. I blamed my mom. As I do most things.

As I placed Dylan the Guinea Pig in my brand new car I cursed the “yes girl” I had become. He wreaked of urine, rat poo, hay and seaweed.

I zipped up my Lululemon uniform. Looked at my watch, which hasn’t worked for four years, and said, “I’m so late. Gotta run to Whole Foods then I have a conference call.” All lies. First clue? I’m too cheap to buy organic. Then I joked, “Say goodbye to Dylan. You know I’m gonna kill him. I’m so not an animal person.”

The mommies laughed. It wasn’t really funny but I find when you are going through a rough patch people laugh at anything you say. It’s the wrong approach with me because the sad, fat girl living inside me believes that I’m actually funny. Is this thing on?

My kids were moderately excited to see Dylan. Van waved at him through the cage then ran off to play with, “a weely verwy cwoss dinosaur in the wiving woom.” I smell speech therapy. Leo, however, jumped at the opportunity to hold Dylan, mostly because Leo thought that Dylan was food as he probably is in his ancestral home of the Republic of Guinea.

I went to bed longing for the controlling arms of Rosie my prison cellmate. When I woke the next morning, Dylan was dead.

And though I’m sure it was natural causes that took this creature out of our world, I felt responsible somehow. Am I so powerful that just me saying something makes it so? I've always suspected. I felt horribly guilty. It was Fluffy all over again. And then I thought about how Fluffy was certainly not my fault. In fact, I’m pretty sure nothing has ever been my fault in my whole life. Ever.

How irresponsible of the other mothers to allow Dylan to go home with me.

As Oprah always said, people tell you who they are. You just have to listen. These mommies didn’t listen. I told them all, “I’m going to kill Dylan.”

I forgive myself. I blame the mommies.

God I miss Oprah.