I got divorced today,



over the phone. Swear to heaven, we called it in; no face time, no skype, nothin’ but phone. How crazy is that? To be clear, today’s conference call with my husband and an Annapolis attorney was just the divorce filing–the divorce will not be final for another thirty days. But, yes, for me, today was D day, and I don’t have to fly to MD for future hearings and my husband and I will remain friends. I am not at all sure how to put into words how I felt, but I can say with certainty that I didn’t feel nearly as sad as I thought I should have been feeling. I went through the day reflective and quiet, but unconcerned, almost apathetic, to the point where I searched for poignant memories of love and life but nothing of any significance came to mind. I wanted a revelation, but in reality, revelation came many months ago.

I went to the beach. It seemed the right place for reflection and gratitude, and dunking my head in an ocean has always been a steadfast remedy for overthought and other over-indulgences. The water temperature here is cooler, more refreshing than the hot-tub temps of the Gulf, there’s plenty of shade, and I continue to marvel at how fortunate I am that it’s only a fifteen minute bike ride to the Atlantic. But it wasn’t quite right; a bit too hot, too bright, too crowded—I wanted to be in my house, my sanctuary, where it’s cool and comforting, where the nurturing arms of home trump the mother-love of the ocean. I biked home and had leftover mahi for lunch, I did laundry, cleaned toilets, I walked to the convenience store for smokes and cookies, I bought a baby blanket from the beautiful boutique on the corner. I told myself over and over that it was an ordinary day—and it was—except that it was also quite extraordinary. Pardon the polyanna in me (or my inner cheerleader, as my former boss used to say), but it was not a day where something ended—rather a day where something began.

And since I’m in that Dear Diary kind of mood, I must tell you, dear followers, I broke up with my former lover this week for the 2, 419th time. Yes, he still calls, yes, I on occasion get sucked in. But not today—nobody got the better of me today. A final thought on the divorce filing—the attorney asked that I raise my right hand and swear that my testimony was true, acknowledging of course, that he couldn’t see me. What is to say that I didn’t give him the middle finger of my right hand? Nah…wouldn’t do that.


photo credit: WSAZ.com


a letter to ivanka

portions of this post were previously posted on 1/14/17



Dear Ivanka,

I’ve been troubled over your recent comments on the “level of viciousness” you are experiencing regarding your father and on a personal level. I believe the current wave of national viciousness you speak of is not limited to the media and is of concern to us all (and by the way, I don’t believe that the press is the problem, nor banning them the solution). I would like to pass along an anecdote shared at the 2017 Key West Literary Seminar by Gail Collins, novelist and Op-Ed columnist for the New York Times. It took place in the ’80’s, when Ms. Collins was writing for the New York Daily News or Newsday (I can’t remember which) and your father was struggling with finances and marriage. Collins was reporting on dad’s appearance before the New York City Council or some finance related board, and in her piece she referred to poppa as a “thousandaire.” As you might imagine, Daddy was outraged, and in response to the article, sent the offending news piece back to Ms. Collins which she framed and hung on her office wall. Pops had circled her face in pen several times and wrote on the paper, “You are a dog with the face of a pig and if I were as ugly as you I would be angry to,” too spelled incorrectly, of course.

Well! Now that puts an entirely different spin on the subject of “viciousness,” don’t you think? You see, dear Ivanka, the viciousness you are experiencing begins with, guess who? The President of the United States! That’s right, Big Daddy! It starts at the top, dolly, and there’s a whole lot of rhetoric trickling down from dear old Dad: Yay! Hate and ignorance have come out of the closet! And I could share more stories about your father’s bad behavior, Ms. Ivanka, but I suspect you don’t need to be reminded of all the ugly acts and words generated by your father since the Ms. Collins news article, not to mention the ugly acts and words of the past two years. Not too surprising, is it, that your step mother (the current one), the First Lady of the United States (the current one), dropped her initiative on anti-bullying. You’re beyond complicit, Ivanka. You’re moving from looking like a fool, to becoming the fool.

I understand that someone in that loony-bin White House has to be in charge of all things positive (and poor you, drew the short straw on that one, didn’t ‘ya), but enough of the Susie-Cream-Cheese bit, Ivanka. It’s unfortunate that you have no experience in government, governing, or international relations, that you have no grasp of history or of the non-profit/public service world, but you wanted to play hard ball so suit up, baby girl. And it’s also unfortunate that you immediately fall into the “guilt by association” category, but be a woman of substance, a voice of and for truth, for cryin’ out loud; drop the whiny rich girl crap and enough of the lame appeals on behalf of factory workers and poverty stricken mothers. Causes you picked out of a hat–do you really think these people believe in you, that they trust in you to fight their fight? Good luck with that. And I had such high hopes for you—I used to sell your clothes at Lord & Taylor. I pushed your dresses and even bought one which I loved, fit me perfectly but long ago went to Goodwill. Sigh…go back to fashion, little Trump minion. But, just a heads up, I heard they’re kinda vicious over there, too.

As respectfully as I could muster,

Pamela Naruta


photo credit: fullredneck.com