And then there was the big, bedazzled divorceabration

There was a lot to celebrate, well beyond the binder full of paper signed off by a stern judge in January and followed by the paragraph of auctioneer-paced legal jargon and ended with, "The marital union is dissolved. Ms. Ashley, good luck."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. It has taken years for the divorce to take place. It has taken a lifetime to get here. What my mom had in mind when she planned this event all came from a silly conversation we had somewhere in all of the muck and the mire. We needed to laugh and so we started talking about all of the sassy, evil, fun, raw, overdone ways we could get together a bunch women to be happy that I was free of everything that made me (and us) cry, rant, unable to sleep or eat for months, lash out, and eventually leave for good.

Maybe a dance-around bonfire to burn the bouquet? Possibly a dinner party to finally crack open the wedding china? A swanky something? A silly soiree? Whatever it was, it was going to be packed full of grrrl power.

It was a good plan, it was the same reason we were laughing so hard when the pain was the greatest. It would be something to look forward to, it would be a break from the binder, it would be a reminder that life would (eventually) go on. That there would be happy dancing somewhere in the great beyond.

 

The only thing I knew for sure was that I'd be wearing my wedding tiara. Mostly as a sparkly "Goodbye, lovahhh, you so pretty and shiny on my head."

We didn't know how fucking long it would take to arrive in that great beyond, but last Friday, it finally arrived. (It hasn't actually taken me this long to recover...I'm just lazy.) If this all sounds a bit too lovely, do know that the name of the whole shebang was nothing but. 

It started with buttons labeled Vamp, Feisty, Lucky and other great tags. My mom said everyone could pick their own. Except me. Since there wasn't Shoe Whore, I was Too Hot. (Thanks, Mama)

 

Yes, my mother insisted we serve this appetizer she enjoyed calling "Cut Your Own Sausage."

Thanks my friend Viola who I met in drama club in high school (go The Crucible senior play!), we called our night of spa-liciousness and drinks...

...wait for it...

[it's after the jump, swearsy]

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Before the divorceabration, there was all of this

This weekend, there was a big party that marked a fresh start for me. But before we get into all of that, I thought I would once (and this is it, and this time I mean it) provide some context. Here's the rundown:

In April 1972, I was born. Stop calculating. I'm on the downslope of my 30s.

At some point in 1975, I had my first big crush. His name was Antoine. We called him Twany. His killer afro has a role in many of my preschool memories.

In the fall of 1977, I sat on the circle painted on the floor in my kindergarten class next the boy I assured I would be the stewardess on the plane he was determined to pilot. It's all good -- I was wearing a hot pink Ms. magazine t-shirt.

During the school year of 1983, I went to a sock hop at school. With a boy as my sort of date. We were so nervous, we never did dance together.

In April 1986, I had my first real kiss. He had braces. It was thrilling and sloppy.

In October 1986, I went on my first real date. The boy was 6 good inches shorter than me. Really.

In April 1987, I went on my first date with an older boy. A senior. He spent all of his money on a cab getting to my house since my parents insisted on meeting him before we went out. My dad drove us to Water Tower Place to see a movie and I paid (he should have taken the train) and when I dropped popcorn on my itty bitties, he grabbed it and ate it and laughed. Later he kissed me (much better without braces) and asked me to prom. The prom thing never materialized. I went home both thrilled and mortified.

In November 1988, I went to an all-ages show and met the boy who would become my first real boyfriend. Swoon. I was in love. Big time. I laughed, I sighed, I made mix tapes. It was so good for a moment in time. Until...oh, you know how teen love turns out. [So much more after the jump.]

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Oh, the thrill of it all: This season's first t-ball game

After coaching last year (shush it), I am very excited to spend a few hours on the field each week just cheering my boy on while he bats, runs toward the big pile of preschoolers trying to retrieve the ball, and dances on second base.

He's got a good cheering section, this kid. My parents live across the street from the field, so we go together to practices and games.  His dad is there, too, and there are two other fathers coaching who are so kind and encouraging and calm with every child on the team.

Just watching the sheer thrill pass over his face as he slides across the grass or slams the ball off the tee as hard as he can, delights me as well. That joy, I know that joy. I've felt it myself. And it makes me so proud, so happy, and so giggly to see him have it, too.

He's a thinker. A processer. Sensitive. And that makes these moments even sweeter. There are a lot of lessons in this game, clearly. There's teamwork and gross motor skills and taking turns. But there's also the lesson of taking the time and making the priority to do the things that thrill you. I want him to learn that, to know that, too. Here are a few more of my favorite shots (yup, after the jump).

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