Baby is a four letter word

I'm in the midst of a huge crunch with my schoolwork and with a deadline of October 31st hanging over my head and my complete unpreparedness for that dreaded day, I'm pretty much working around the clock. Once in awhile, when I need a break from mind-numbing textbooks and research, I play this stupid online game where you have to look for words in a grid that are based on a particular topic. Dumb, I know, but sometimes I just need to not think for a few minutes.

A couple of nights ago, I took one of my brain-breaks and ended up playing a game with words related to baby shower gifts. I kid you not when I tell you that I found the words "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram." I know they were spelled wrong, but I think those cheeky people making up the game were having a little fun. If I'd been creating that game, I would have added "vasectomy," and "IUD," but I've never been much of a kid person.

As with any split, people have asked me over the past 18 months what happened that landed us in divorce court, shooting each other looks that might just have the ability to kill. Although the marriage ended up being complicated and fraught with so many issues that led us to the demise, initially, there were only two matters of contention.

Right after Ex asked me to marry him, I sat him down and told him that there were two potential problems he might have with me, and if he couldn't handle them, I'd give him the ring back and we would just be friends.

First, I told him that I wasn't going to change my last name. I don't have anything against name changing in theory, but frankly, I have a last name fit for a porn star or exotic dancer and I love it. Really concreting my decision was the fact that, to this day, I still can't pronounce his last name right.

The second issue was that I knew categorically that I didn't want children. But Ex is a family-oriented guy, and I thought he should know that the woman he intended to marry insisted that her womb perpetually flash "vacancy."

His reaction surprised me, actually. He really didn't even bat an eyelash as he said, "As long as I have you, I don't care about those things. You're all that matters, and if we don't have children and you want to keep your name, that's fine with me."

Thinking that I had the greatest man on earth, I obviously went ahead with the wedding. And knew without a doubt on day two that I had made a monstrous mistake.

As I said before, we had a small destination wedding on a lovely island, so we chose to stay there for 8 more days following the ceremony. Two days after we were wed, he was teasing me, calling me "Mrs. [insert insanely long and unpronounceable name here]," so I teased him back, calling him "Mr. [porn star name]." He began to get angry and asked me why I was calling him that. So I, still thinking that he was kidding, joked that if he insisted on calling me by his mother's name, I'd call him by my Dad's name.

"That's not my mother's name, that's your new name. You ARE changing it when we get back home."

I was confused. "But we talked about this," I said. "I told you right after we got engaged that I wasn't going to change my name."

"And I thought that once we got married, you'd change your mind. Does this mean that you're not going to have babies, either?" he asked, voice beginning to rise in wrath.

The tempest that blew up between us rivaled the near-hurricane that had almost forced us to cancel the outdoor wedding and wound up with him curled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying. For 4 hours.

At that point, I was torn between wanting to comfort him because I loved him and wanting to kick him in the nuts for thinking that marriage had some sort of magical quality that would turn me from the independent, self-directed, sometimes stubborn-as-hell person I am into Little Miss Homemaker. I was pretty sure that he'd spent our courtship dreaming of bare feet and a distended belly with a little alien wriggling around inside. (OK, I admit it, pregnancy freaks me out. And so do little kids. Sorry, I'm weird like that.)

There was no reasoning with him and no comforting him, since all he would say while he was curled up was, "You've cut my balls off. You've cut my balls off." Over and over and over. Imagine listening to that for 4 hours and trying not to go insane yourself.

Seeing the crazy emerge for the first time was frightening and confusing to me, but I gradually began to get angry because we had talked about this and I had been completely honest. After he finally got up off of the floor, he went into the bedroom without a word even after I begged him to talk it out with me.

And without a word pretty much describes the rest of our honeymoon, which was not the flowers and champagne and sexy time ideal I'd previously envisioned.

The entire first year of our marriage was spent arguing over the name change and babies. With Ex's dysfunctional relationship with his parents, he never even told them that I didn't want children. I've already mentioned how members of his family would grab me in very inappropriate places and ask when I was going to have a kid, so that made for even more fun in the already excruciating obligatory functions with the outlaws.

So when I highlighted "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram," on that little game the other night, I was disappointed when they weren't the right answers. But it still gave me a laugh.

Court is not in session. Today, anyway.

Not surprisingly, I haven't heard a (spoken) word from Ex since he claimed that he would call soon. Conversely, though, I was surprised when I received two phone calls from Lawyer yesterday. I ignored the first one because my stomach cramped the way it always does when I see his number on caller ID or get Salmonella.

I'm probably the world's most accomplished procrastinator, so I also ignored the second phone call, brilliantly thinking that I would just pick up the voicemails and deal with him in the morning. I knew that I had a court date at some point in October, but I thought it was late in the month, so imagine my sheer delight as I listened to his messages at 10 PM to learn that the court date was today!

Ex sent me a random text last week about something banal and hadn't mentioned that he'd see me in court this week, so I had a sneaking suspicion that he either wasn't aware of the appearance or just didn't care and wasn't going to show. Ex has wriggled out of 3 important hearings in the past, all of which resulted in serious distress on my part and a tearful exit from the courthouse on one occasion. Making headway in a divorce when one party refuses to show up to a hearing is about as successful as a monkey trying to f*ck a football, so I did a little online digging to see if I could save myself some time, money, and wrinkles.

I still have access to his highway toll pass account, so I logged in to see where he'd been. I know I sound like a stalker, but I honestly haven't done that in months and months. The last time I did was to try and find out who was giving him all of the information he had on me, but I creeped myself out a bit anyway as I logged into his account. What I saw was that his last toll was heading into City Airport early yesterday morning and no further activity.

So I did more hacking digging. I still have his login information to his favorite airline and logged in there to find that he had flown halfway across the country and is not returning until 11 PM tonight. Unless he planned to break the time-space continuum, he wasn't going to appear in court, meaning Lawyer and I would drag our asses all the way out to the suburbs once again for no reason. In my twisted logic, that means it's costing me a year's worth of facial peels in order to make absolutely no progress.

I shot Lawyer a text at about 1 am, briefly explaining the situation and telling him that under no circumstances should he reveal that I know Ex is out of town. After all, if Ex changes those passwords, I'll lose my opportunity to creep myself out in the future. A back and forth exchange occurred all morning between me, Lawyer, and Ex's Greasy Attorney, who, by the way, likes to wear white tube socks with black rubber shoes and a charcoal suit to court. I know I've mentioned that before, but that just tickles me.

Anyway, long story short, I didn't have to go to court, thank the good Lord. Unfortunately, Lawyer did end up revealing that we knew Ex was traveling as well as his destination and that probably means that soon I won't be able to track his travel anymore. Which is probably good, because I'm beginning to feel more like that macadamia that just got arrested for stalking Uma Thurman than a modern-day Agatha Christie.

Our trial date is set for early December, although Lawyer promises me that it will get bumped up at least twice because there are no children involved, and those cases take precedence. The earliest I'll probably be in court again is January, but I'm sure I'll see Ex for another settlement conference before that. Uh oh, those bees I accidentally swallowed just began their tango in my stomach again.....

Every time the phone rings, I jump.

After our surprisingly rational phone conversation last week, I was hesitant to believe that any logical behavior could possibly come out of an inherently illogical person. I hadn't heard from Ex since, so I thought I was correct in believing that he had probably regressed into his old patterns and might be lurking somewhere in the city with a Hubble-sized telescope trained on my every move.

I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)

But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.

Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.

Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.

"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."

I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.

I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.

I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.

Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.

My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."

Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.

So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.

Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.

I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.

Leg Breaking, Part II

The day following the drunk texts, I raced to to airport to meet up with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn. I drank a pot of coffee at home and another venti Starbuck's pumpkin spice latte (which was my favorite until I realized that it has more calories and fat than a Big Mac. From now on, I'm just grinding one of those up in a blender and drinking it from a Starbuck's cup.). I found them at the gate just as boarding began.

Tickets had been booked last-minute, so none of our seats were together. I settled into my seat and took one last look at my phone. A text came through from Sam, and we had a short conversation.

The first one from him said, "Almost, I am so sorry. All this time, I didn't understand what you were going through and I haven't been a good friend to you, but now I know first hand what you've been talking about."

Confused, I wrote back, "You've been a great friend to me, what do you mean?"

"I mean that I haven't been supportive of your situation and have only concentrated on business. I didn't realize how hard it must have been to get this company off the ground and deal with the personal stuff, too. But now I get it and I'll be a better friend to you."

"Huh?? What are you talking about?"

"There's a price on my head."

"A what?! What does that even mean?"

"I mean that I almost got jumped last night because the personal space invader put a price on my head." (I used to call Ex the Personal Space Invader, but at this point, couldn't quite process what I was reading.)

At that precise moment, the flight attendant told us we had to turn our phones off to prepare for takeoff. "Oh, this is just perfect," I thought. "Now I have hours to ruminate over what the f*ck is really going on here with nobody to ask for advice." Which is exactly what I did.

For the next several hours, I vacillated between kicking myself in the ass for my phone phobia, because if I had just called Sam when I received his first text I would have already been in the know, and wondering, could it be? Could Ex really have done something like that? No.... but would he? He's crazy, but he's not that crazy.... right? And what does, "price on my head," even mean?

We landed in New York and I checked voicemail. The first message was from a friend of mine who had been in the bar with Ex and B.B. (who was bartending) the night before. He said, "Almost, I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I overheard something last night and you have to call me back. I think someone is in danger. Call me." The second one was from the club owner, a long-time friend, and he said, "Almost, I need to talk to you ASAP. Something bad went down last night with Ex and I need to warn you."

We all took the same cab to the hotel, so I was trying to put on a front like everything was fine, but PS, damn her, is so perceptive that she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was that she could see my heart uncomfortably lodged in my neck. I explained what I knew. She didn't look surprised.

"I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tell you this. I did not like that man from the moment I met him. I had a terrible vibe from him. You have 10 minutes once we check in to figure out what's happening and meet back in the lobby for dinner with the other surgeons and the PR reps. Try and figure it out and we'll talk about it on the way to dinner."

I was already dialing Sam's number on the way up to my room. When he answered, I didn't even say hello. "What in HELL is going on here?"

He explained to me that, at 3:30 am the night before, he'd received a phone call from the (very large) bouncer at the club who said he'd been hired to break Sam's legs because "my client thinks you're screwing around with his wife." Thankfully, Sam and Bouncer have a mutual friend, whom Bouncer had called first. The friend said he'd known Sam for years and that he certainly wasn't the type to screw with someone's wife, so he'd better get his story straight.

I was listening to this with my jaw hanging to my knees, while simultaneously trying to get out of my flight clothes and into something presentable for dinner, hopping on one foot, thinking, "OK, dress on, crap, backwards. Can this really be happening? Ouch! Shoe on wrong foot. Holy sh*t, he really paid someone to break this guy's legs?"

I had to wrap up the conversation because I was due downstairs, but I asked Sam if he was OK.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was freaked out at first, but eventually, I found it so absurd that it's now kind of funny. Bouncer and I talked for about a half hour and I explained that I'm not interested in you like that and that it's purely platonic. But you needed to know. Ex asked him to make sure I never walk again, and if he'd hire someone to do that to me, I'm worried for your safety."

I told him I'd call him later and ran downstairs to meet Shawn and PS. We had a 2 block walk to the restaurant, at which time I realized that my hasty dressing resulted in Olsen-twin homeless chic without the chic part. On the way, PS said to me, "We have about 3 minutes. Tell me and tell me quickly."

I told her and asked, "What should I do?"

"Almost, I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow, so please don't deal with any of this until we return home. Don't call, don't text, nothing. Put it out of your head. And by the way, honey, what are you wearing?" That was enough to make me laugh and forget about this mob movie in which I was caught, so I was actually focused during dinner.

And I did put my own personal Godfather: Almost Edition out of my head for our time in New York. Well, sort of, since I filled Shawn in on the details of the debacle over an after dinner drink at the top of our hotel. Since this was our first meeting, I was surprised she didn't throw herself off of the balcony to get away from me or yell, "Check please," and run like FloJo. And aside from returning the two phone calls I'd received earlier in the day to confirm the events (which they'd both overheard at the bar), I put the situation aside.

We did our media interviews the next day and, thanks to the marvels of spackled-on makeup I don't think I looked as if I'd come from a night of hooking, and headed back to our city. PS walked back to my seat during the flight back and asked, "Are you going to be OK, honey?" I answered in the affirmative. "Well, just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. And make sure you stay in touch with me on the phone to let me know you're safe."

I agreed. After landing and saying our goodbyes, I headed to my car. It was the moment that I actually began to feel something about the situation, and it was a rage that supersedes words. My jaw was clenching and unclenching as I paid my ticket to get out of the garage, already dialing Ex.

When he picked up the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Is there something you want to tell me about Saturday night?"

"No, what do you mean?"

"I mean, is there something that happened that maybe you woke up the next day and regretted? Or weren't that proud of?" I prodded.

His voice began to shake and I could tell his mouth was dry. "N-n-no. I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded like he was about to cry.

I tried every trick in the book to get him to just tell me, but to no avail. And then it hit me. I lost it. Blacked out. I don't even remember the trip back downtown because I was screaming so loudly. And I'm not one to raise my voice in a confrontation, so this shocked even me. I recall a few things I shouted.... "Who died and left you f*cking Tony Soprano?" "What, do you think you're Johnny Goombah now?" "I have 3 separate people who don't even know each other who confirmed this story!" "Are you out of your f*cking mind?! The ONE PERSON WHO COULD HAVE PUT THIS COMPANY ON THE MAP AND YOU WANT TO BREAK HIS LEGS SO HE NEVER WALKS AGAIN?!?!" "Drinking is not a f*cking excuse! I laugh when I drink, I don't hire thugs to go out and break people's legs!"

The entire time he was crying, denying, saying, "I was drunk, but I would never do something like that." "Almost, it's not even possible for me to do anything like that." "I don't remember, I was wasted." "It's just not in my nature."

Though I don't remember the drive downtown, the moment that he said this, I remember with crystal clarity that I was just about to drive into the parking garage at my condo. The automatic arm was just lifting to let me in when he said, "But I didn't mean it." And then he admitted the whole thing. "B.B. told me that he saw you at The Doc's party while I was overseas and that Sam was there. She saw him kiss you on the cheek. She said she was sure you were screwing." Ah, so that explained the text saying, "Just so you know, I know more than you think I know."

(As a little side note here, B.B. had once again sold me out because I had sent her a few texts on the Saturday night in question, asking her to please make Ex get a hotel room and not to overserve him. She told me she'd take care of him. She took care of him alright, and almost had Sam "taken care of.")

At that moment, I was like one of those sad, deflated helium balloons. The rage that had me so furiously high just moments before drained with amazing rapidity and I sagged back in the car seat, feeling like someone had just pricked me with an industrial sized pin. I shut down.

I told him I couldn't talk anymore and had to go. Ex disappeared for 6 days over the Thanksgiving holiday. I found out in court that he had gone to Vegas and lost $30K. When he returned, we agreed to meet. I knew already that the final, rusty nail - the one that had been waiting atop the coffin for me to swing the hammer that was just out of my reach - was now ready to be driven into place.

We met at the house where we'd lived together. I didn't even have to say a word to him. I sat down on the couch and looked at him.

He said, "How do you want to do this? Should we get lawyers involved or do you want to try and divorce amicably?"

Don't Drink and Text Part III, and Leg Breaking Part I

This is a longer story than Anna Karenina (which I still haven't finished), so I'm sorry that it has to be told in two parts. Please bear with me.

PART I
Driving to City Airport in November of last year, I flipped down the vanity mirror in my car and groaned. Pete Doherty on a 3-day bender looks better than I did that day, and I was on my way to do media interviews in New York with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn about the FDA’s approval of silicone breast implants. I prayed for a sympathetic makeup artist with industrial strength tools. I was pretty sure the media wanted to see slutty-looking women who had been awake for a week. Those are some good ratings, after all. Despite my business suit, I still looked like I fit into the "gross, dumb blonde who wants big boobs," category.

But I’m not slut (at least I don't think), and I hadn’t been up for a week – only one night, in fact, thanks to Ex’s drunk texts.

As a little background, Ex and I started a company together a few years back. We needed sponsors - big ones - and coincidentally, I’d met a man named Sam that previous July. He is brilliant, ridiculously accomplished, connected, self-effacing, and helpful to boot. I didn’t intend to tell him about our company, but it came up in conversation when he asked what I did for a living aside from graduate school. He immediately offered his support, and thus began what would have been a mutually profitable relationship.

In order to promote the company, Sam put me in front of Fortune 50 companies, worldwide PR firms, and offered to put his personal name on the line, should it help our organization. Because Ex and I are small fries and didn’t have the access to these types of firms, Sam was integral in putting our company on the map. I once asked Sam why he was willing to help us out in this way. He shrugged his shoulders. “I like to see worthy companies and worthy people succeed. Your company is the future. If I’m lucky enough to help you contribute, I consider it an honor.”

Back to November and my trip to the airport, I couldn’t help but relive the previous evening, during which I had no sleep.

Long story short, The Doc and I had gone out to dinner the evening before and had run into Ex while we were out. And it turned fairly ugly. Ex sent us a bottle of champagne and, while we appreciated it, my flight was leaving early the following morning and I needed to head home soon. The Doc bounded over to Ex before I could do anything and thanked him while I was frozen in shock. I’d already moved out of the house and just wasn’t sure what to do with this situation. After The Doc returned from speaking with Ex, I made my approach to thank him for the gesture and invite him over to join us. He turned his back on me and muttered, "Ungrateful bitch."

I returned to The Doc and told him that I was about as uncomfortable as a whore in church and that we had to leave soon.

Text messages ensued. They began while The Doc and I were still in the bar, but continued far into the night. Texts that became clearly more and more drunk as the night and morning wore on.

Forgive me. This may be long, but I hope it’s worth it.

Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:

Ex: 12:35 am: “Honey I can see how much you luv me..u wont even come over..thats okay..i just going to get fcked up.” (I had already asked him to join us.)

I didn’t respond via text. In fact, I went over to try and rectify the mess... again. He turned his back on me once more and uttered, "Slut." I was stunned because The Doc is probably more interested in sex with anteaters than with women. I went back to the Doc and told him we had to go. Doc and I headed toward the door, and despite the slight from Ex, I went back and thanked Ex again.

I returned home and then the texts proliferated. (I’m just going to alert you to all of the [sic]s here, because there are too many to add. The typos are not mine, I assure you.

Ex: 1:02 am: “Goodnite…sorry I wrecked your nite..i would have went somewhereelse..i am going 2 stay here & get fckd up..4th martini..”

I sent him a text, urging him to stop drinking and either get a hotel room or go home.

Ex: 1:18 am: “it is not that far…have a good nite…please do not worry about me.. u did this for awhile precondo..Ill be fine..I need it…” (I think he was referring to the short time I bartended while we were married and I had a commute to our home in the suburbs.)

Ex: 1:27 am: “honestly honey I wish you would have tapped my shoulder and not Doc..honestly..i was excited until I saw Doc and not u..i sent Cristal b/ci am very sad.”

Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”

I responded that if he needed me to go back to the house and take care of the animals, I’d do it happily.

Ex: 1:34 am: “I will be fine and take care of the cats. YOU do not have to go back…prepare 4 tomorrow/Monday”

Ex: 1:40 am: “sorry I interrupted your talking..please do not worry..i will feed the cats..sorry I know your very busy and have a lot on your plate”

Ex: 1:42 am: “U know honey I texted u 3 times earlier and u did not answer.. I missed u and wanted 2 express and u did not answer”

Ex: 1:52 am: “I am on #7 and feeling fine…see? i am ok @%^$*””

At this point, I sent him a text, asking him to PLEASE get a hotel room. Clearly, this was not a rational man.

Ex: 1:54 am: “NO…..am on the payroll now…”

Ex: 1:55 am: “Having a shot with B.B…… YEAH!!!!!”

Ex: 1:56 am: “play by play of my nite..please shut your phone off”

Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”

Ex: 2:13 am: “#10..just starting w feel a buzz..must hve tolerance from my wife…..ur still my wife…oh boy..what a nite”

Ex: 2:17 am: “U can thank B.B…she asked if I was driving..I said I am OK”

Ex: 2:24 am: “go to sleep honey..u have busy couple of days ..thanks 4 sending Doc instead of you. Cool. I am actually on # 10..what is the record? Do you know?”

Ex: 2:28 am: “just so u know honey, u destroyed me by sending Doc..i did not know you were here but anyways why was I invited.. I was not on the list..that is ok…remember I luv u”

Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text

Ex: 2:30 am: “I am bawling inside..but showing pretty well.”

Ex: 2:56 am: “I am going late nite..benn a long time..just an fiy” (Umm, FYI, maybe?)

EX: 2:59 am: “u r probaby sleping..that is good”

Ex: 3:05 am: “u r in the mix..i am fck up”

Ex: 3:08 am: “since u carwe.so much
Please dont contact me”

Ex: 3:12 am: “hopefully.. u r sleeping well..do not contact me tonite..i am fckd up”

Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”

Ex: 3:19 am: “just so u know I know more than u know” (This is important later with Sam - integral in the topic of the next post)

Ex: 3:20 am: “there will be no [business that we started together]…I am backing out tomorrow..i do not need it…thanks honey..”

Ex: 3:21 am: “handle it yourself..it is over..thanks 4 not coming over…sending Doc”

Ex: 3:23 am: “do not contact me anymore unless u truly luv me”

Ex: 3:26 am: “I am so fckd up..i can even see dtright..call insurance agent just in case”

Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”

Ex: 4:58 am: “hoe u r sleeping well right now…

Ex: 6:20 am: “5:25 am heading 2 another bar on the way home” (5:25, but I received the text at 6:20?!)

Ex: 7:21 am: “bottom line..we need a big talk and definitely our business is at risk..i do not want any of Sam’s connections…I do not care howbig… I willl tell [Fortune 5} company no go”

I didn't respond to most of these texts because I needed to try and sleep, but with each "ding" of the phone, I was woken up so I didn't sleep a wink. Like I said, Pete Doherty on a bender. Except I wasn't having any fun....

If these texts don't seem like a big deal to you, just wait. The second part to this story will follow soon and hopefully won't disappoint. I promise, this is all leading to a mobster movie scene. After all was said and done (and the final, rusty nail of the coffin was hammered), I think my response to Ex was, "Who died and left you Tony Soprano?"

Can someone please give me the opportunity to punch this man?

This has nothing to do with my typical posts, but I love animals and this Michael Vick thing pisses me off to no end. (Though I'm no criminal, I'd love to take my Sig Sauer .40 and shoot both dog fighting promoters and those evil seal hunters in Canada, given the chance. No offense to my Canadian friends - I know you're great people, minus the seal-beating bastards.)

So here's the link to my friend Michael K's brilliant post on Michael Vick's whopping 8-hour class on proper dog treatment. Thank God he finished that 8-hour class! Now he must really know all about loving animal care! After what he's done, I'd like to put him in a ring with Chuck Liddell or some other batshit fighting dude, along with three or four of the dogs he's trained to fight, and then watch who winds up toothless.

If you're an animal lover, please visit the Anti-Cruelty society and contribute or volunteer.

Back to divorce drama tomorrow, I promise, but this one just broke my heart so I had to write about it.

What?! Has hell frozen over and I just wasn't aware?

One hour ago.

Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."

(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)

Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."

My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"

Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."

Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)

Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."

Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."

The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.

This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.

Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.

Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.

If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.

And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.

Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!

Unsettled

When I was bartending in my early 20s, I finished my shift one evening and went out to meet some friends at a bar on the one street in our city that contains the largest string of late-night clubs. Since I had just finished work, I was dressed in attire that was only a half-step above hooker chic, meaning 6-inch platforms (so I could serve drinks over the ridiculously tall bar) and a short skirt. I'd walked from The Bar after work to that street many times, and though it was always populated with sketchy-looking people asking for money, whom I usually obliged, it was well-lit, spilling over with those seeking more nightlife fun, and filled with cops so I never feared for my safety. That night was different.

As I turned the corner to walk a block and a half toward my destination to meet Lauren after her evening shift, a man in a wheelchair with no legs began yelling at me. I have a ton of respect for our veterans (and I can only assume that's how he'd lost his legs), so I would have happily given him money had he been halfway respectful.

However, this guy was not only impolite, he was threatening. He initiated the conversation by screaming, "Hey, bitch, you look like you got some dough! Gimme some!" He was already drinking from a bottle of Gordon's gin.

I was incredulous and didn't respond at all. I kept on my path, head forward, averting my nose from the undeniable stench of urine and other unmentionables emanating from his body.

He began to wheel after me and suddenly morphed into our city's own personal Superman.... faster than a speeding bullet on crank. Within a split second, he caught up with me and kicked me in the back of the leg with the right wheel of his chair.

"F*ckin' stuck-up bitch," he growled. I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I decided on both.

I began to walk faster in my platforms that were clearly not made for land sports, then began to run, as he wheeled even faster after me. In retrospect, it was probably an absurdly funny scene featuring an irrationally screaming guy wheeling himself at warp speed after a girl simultaneously laughing and fleeing, desperately trying to keep her shoes on while onlookers gaped with both amusement and horror.

"Bitch, don't you run away from me! I know you got the cash, a**hole! What the f*ck's your problem, you c*nt? You think looking at your ass running away is good enough for me? That ass don't buy me f*ckin nothin'!"

One of the cops on the street intervened as I slowed my pace and rubbed the grease-stained bruise forming on my calf, finally making it to meet Lauren.

The moral of the story? I think I was more attracted to the guy wheeling after me that night than I was to Ex today.

More on the settlement conference later, but let's just say it was a start. I'm discouraged that I will most certainly not be divorced by the end of 2007 unless Ex has a sudden burst of logic, but I made it through in one piece and even got in a few zingers.

And before we left, Lawyer pulled Greasy Attorney aside and privately said, "It's a good thing that you didn't bring up the guy you think my client is dating. Otherwise, I would have had to disclose the thousands of the, uh, unusual pornographic movies belonging to your client. We don't want that to be public record, do we?"

T minus 23 hours....

As you probably already know, my settlement conference with Ex is set for tomorrow morning. Lawyer is picking me up and as usual, we'll stop for coffee and then chat about our strategy on the way. Since I'm aware that Ex will take the floor first, attempt to wipe it with my ass, and then sit back in false triumph, my retort is planned down to the last letter. I already ran my proposed response past Lawyer and he looked at me with a mix of horror, fascination, and amusement. He shook his head and said, "Oh, Almost, you are a piece of work." He did, however, give me permission to proceed with my rejoinder and if I actually pull this one off, you'll be able hear a pin drop three counties away.

I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.

Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.

As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!

But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........

It's Pronounced "Goo-chee"

My settlement conference is set for Friday, and per usual when I'm facing an interaction with Ex, I'm a bundle of nerves. I'm jumpier than an agoraphobic in the middle of the Times Square New Year's Eve celebration. At this point, I think I'd rather be tied to a tree, covered in honey while facing a pack of starving black bears, but since that's not an option I'm going to head out with Anastasia this evening for a night of laughs and wine. Lots and lots of wine.

Although I wasn't this nervous last week, I went out (for lots of wine) with an old friend of mine, Bob, from my bartending days. He and I have remained friends for the years since I hung up my wine key and see each other every so often for dinner. After dining outside at one of our city's new restaurants, we headed over to a bar where my old bartending friend Nicole now works. I tended bar with her often when Bob would hang with us for the night, and I hadn't seen her in quite awhile so the three of us reminisced about funny stories from the many evenings we spent together at The Bar.

Bob recalled, "Hey, Almost, remember that time Marcus Allen came in and kept asking for your number?"

I laughed, "Yeah, and remember what happened when he almost forgot his credit card at the bar?"

The three of us dissolved into peals of laughter, because Marcus said something that made Nicole double over in laughter and Bob snort his Beam and diet out of his nose. Marcus had walked away from the bar to leave after hounding me for my phone number, too drunk to remember that I still had his credit card for his tab. I called after him, and when he turned I said, "Marcus, aren't you forgetting something?" I waved his credit card in the air.

As he staggered back to the bar, I teased, "If you don't take this with you, I just might go on a shopping spree tomorrow."

He garbled, "Baby, if you'd give me your digits, I'd take you to Guh-key and buy you anything you wanted."

I was genuinely confused. "Guh-key? What's that?"

"You mean no man has ever taken you to Guh-key and spoiled you like the princess you should be? Shoes, bags, clothes, whatever you want, baby, just give me those magic numbers," he slurred.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Well, no, I've never been spoiled at Guh-key, although I've bought myself some items at Gucci," I winked at him.

Clearly embarrassed, he signed his tab (with a nice tip, to his credit) and stumbled away.

As we laughed last week over Marcus' mispronunciation, Nicole mused, "Isn't it funny how men think that they can buy you stuff and you'll suddenly be fawning all over them? It's like they think we can be bought as if we're livestock or something."

Which made me think. As my marriage began its final stage of deterioration, Ex began shopping. Now keep in mind that when I first married Ex and moved in, I realized that he liked to shop to the point that it was almost an addiction. He had over 250 pairs of shoes at that time and every closet in the house was stuffed with clothes, many with tags still attached. It took me months to go through all of his possessions and when all was said and done, I donated 17 garbage bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories to Goodwill.

But he didn't shop for himself when our marriage began its final descent, he shopped for me, thinking that material possessions would impart some desire upon me to stay in the marriage. Don't get me wrong, I was quite grateful for the gifts and I like clothes, shoes, and handbags as much as the next girl, but material possessions were not the missing component in the relationship. I protested the gifts when they became overwhelming and tried to inform him of what was truly absent in our marriage. What was missing was trust, respect, and communication and unfortunately, an Yves St. Laurent handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choos can't replace those intangibles. Somehow, a Roberto Cavalli dress just couldn't make up for the GPS unit clandestinely installed on my car, drunk texts, and forgery.

I'm pretty sure that I'll hear a diatribe about all of the items Ex purchased for me during the months before I moved out of the house in the settlement conference Friday. Many of the arguments we've had over the past 18 months have ended with, "But I bought you thousands of dollars worth of designer clothes," as if that should have solved everything. According to Lawyer, I have to be mentally prepared to be yelled at for at least 45 minutes.

"This has certainly been an education," Bob announced. "Although I must say, I never believed in trying to either get a girl or save a relationship by spending ridiculous amounts of money."

Bob is on the right track. But unfortunately, what Ex and Marcus just didn't realize was that a handbag from Guh-key can't buy or save love.

World's Shortest Fairytale

Minding my own business this morning over a cup of coffee, my phone began to ring at the unearthly hour of 8:30. Anyone who knows me well knows not to call me, unless it's a work day, until after 10 or they find themselves speaking with the only known human Chupacabra. So I rolled my eyes thinking that it was probably a salesperson pitching penis enlargement pumps or telling me that I have a relative in Nigeria who just died and they needed money to release the estate.

I was thinking up snarky comebacks as I fumbled for my phone, but as soon as I looked at the caller ID, I experienced an irritation of a whole different kind. The kind of irritation that churns the pit of my stomach so furiously that I'm pretty sure I've swallowed an entire beehive and they're all dancing the tango down there.

It was Lawyer's office number.

I stared at the phone with total terror, since he's often the bearer of bad news, and raced through the potential disasters I could possibly be facing. My conference isn't until the end of the month and things are relatively quiet until then (at which time I fully expect Ex to spend an hour screaming at me, and that's great since it only costs an arm and a leg to do so, while picking up the phone would be a much more cost-effective route. Oh, my mistake. Picking up the phone might require balls.). I have a court date in October, and other than that, I couldn't think of anything that could be on the immediate horizon.

I finally picked up the phone to hear one of Lawyer's assistants asking me if I was going out of town in November.

"I don't have any plans at the moment, why?" I asked her.

"We're scheduling your trial date during that month and Lawyer wanted to ensure you're in town," she said.

I hesitated for a few seconds. Could it be? Is it true? Could the final nail destined for the doomed wedding coffin be almost within my reach? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel that doesn't happen to belong to a freight train?

"Uh, you mean, like, the final trial? As in the I'm-going-to-be-divorced-after-this-is-over trial? As in I might be free by the end of 2007?" I stammered, glee hovering just beneath the surface.

"Yes, that's the one," she laughed. "I'm glad you're having this reaction. Sometimes when I call clients to schedule trial dates, they cry and freak out on me."

"Oh, no, not this client! I'm going to run outside and do naked back flips down the street to celebrate!"

We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I looked at the phone as if it were a genie who had just popped out of a bottle and given me three wishes. Though it's still a couple months away, I was left with a lingering feeling of freedom already. I haven't felt this light since I dated the sociopath and weighed double digits for the first time since 6th grade. I already feel like a single person again! Premature, yes, but I don't give a rat's ass. It's the best feeling I've had since this whole mess started over a year ago.

I posted this in the comments section of Lemon Gloria the other day, so forgive me if you've already read it, but it's just so appropriate. My sister Carla sent me an email a couple of weeks ago and it's pretty much my theme story now.

"Sent: August 31, 2007 8:50 AM
Subject: World's Shortest Fairytale

Almost, couldn't help but think of you when I read this.

XOXO,
Carla

Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, 'Will you marry me?'
The guy said, 'No,' and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a clean house,
never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes and handbags,
stayed skinny, and was never farted on.

The End "

Update: Sorry about the technical difficulty if you saw the accidental post. ;)

"Where do the batteries go?"

I went to a baseball game on Tuesday night with Anastasia and Lauren. Because it's fairly difficult to catch a cab once the game is over, we joked about flirting with the cab driver on the way there so he'd pick us up on the way back.

When we were setting out for the ballpark, I said to Lauren, "I told Anastasia that we were going to pimp you out and make you take off your shirt in the cab, since you've already done that before."

Lauren laughed and said, "No problem!"

Anastasia looked confused. "What do you mean you've done that before? I need to hear this story!"

Lauren said, "If anything should have warned Almost not to get married, it was what happened on our way to the wedding. It wasn't, uh, the most auspicious of starts."

When we got in the cab, Lauren and I took turns telling Anastasia the story of our antics on the way to my wedding. I had a small destination wedding, during which there was a virtual hurricane, but more about that other harbinger later. Ex flew there the day before I was to arrive and since Lauren and I were on the same flight, we decided to go out for one last wild night together. After several cocktails and staying out way too late, we decided to head back to her house. The cab was coming at 5:30 in the morning and we needed at least a little sleep before we went to the airport.

"Almost, I don't feel too well. I think you should drive."

"That's fine. Do you need a plastic bag or something?"

"No, let's just go."

We weren't too far from her house, so I figured she could make it. I was wrong. Halfway home, she rolled down the window and began throwing up. We all know where vomiting in a moving vehicle ends up, so I pulled over in the first parking lot I could find and yanked her out so she could vomit on the ground instead of in her hair, on the car, in the car, etc. After a few minutes, she seemed OK, so we once again climbed back in, where I found a plastic bag for her, and drove home.

We went up to her bedroom to sleep when we arrived, only in a very un-Lauren-like fashion, she hadn't packed yet. She said, "Almost, I haven't even begun to pack my suitcase. I think I'll take a shower now and pack when I get up in the morning."

"OK, I'm going to sleep now. And by the way, it is morning."

"Don't remind me," she groaned.

I lay down on the bed and heard Lauren start the water. Then I heard her gagging in the shower. I admit it, I thought it was funny that she was still puking until I heard an enormous crash. I ran to the bathroom, flung open the door, and found her lying on the floor, feet still in the shower, laughing hysterically.

"Are you ok?" I asked as I rushed to help her up.

She waved her hand in the air in a Miss USA fashion. "I'm fine, I was just taking a little rest!"

This resulted in peals of laughter from both of us, after which she finally finished up in the bathroom and went to sleep. The next thing I remember is Double D yelling at us that the cab was there and, "Who puked all over the side of your car, Lauren?" Lauren woke up, looked at the clock evilly displaying 5:40 am, and freaked.

"I haven't packed!" she shrieked.

"Just throw some stuff in a bag! All you need is a bathing suit, some shorts, and a dress! Oh, and shoes, you need shoes!" I said, as I scrambled to get in my own clothes, makeup running down my face like Alice Cooper.

Ten minutes later, we were in the cab, headed to the airport.

"Wow, we are two hot messes," I laughed.

Lauren looked at me and grinned, "I know! Your mascara is all over the place, and I'm..." She looked down and rolled her eyes. "Damn, my shirt's inside out."

As I rifled in my handbag in vain to find some magical fix to my black eyes, Lauren pulled her shirt off in one fell swoop, at which time I saw that she wasn't wearing a bra. I looked up at the cab driver, who was intently peering in the rear-view mirror with eyes as big as plates. I was having a hard time stifling my laughter, despite the fact that he almost drove us off the road. These may have been the first boobs he'd ever seen because I don't think he even blinked until she once again put on her shirt.

The cabbie finally delivered us safely to the airport and we laughed all the way onto the plane about how he almost killed us, until Lauren suddenly became serious and looked at me with the same sized eyes as the cab driver when she had performed her impromptu striptease.

"Oh no. Almost, I forgot to pack any bottoms."

"You what?" I asked.

"I forgot to pack any bottoms! I packed tops, but I didn't bring any pants, skirts, or shorts. I only have the ones I have on!"

"Don't worry about it! Just go shopping when we're on the island. They have great shopping there," I assured her.

When we arrived at our destination (still looking like we'd been out partying all night, I'm sure), Lauren set off to find some much needed bottoms. In one store, she tried on a pair of pants with a very flattering fit and asked the salesperson how much they cost. After being told that they were $650.00, Lauren didn't miss a beat.

"But I can't find where you put the batteries in these pants," she said.

The salesperson looked flummoxed. "Excuse me?" she asked.

"Where do the batteries go?"

"I don't understand the question," the salesperson replied, suspicious and clearly perplexed.

"Well, for $650.00, these pants better have a vibrating crotch, so where do the batteries go?"

A good omen for my wedding? Certainly not considering I looked like a washed-up 70s rocker and Lauren was facing a naked-from-the-waist-down weekend, but it still provides me with laughter to this day.

As for the cab driver on the way to the game? He was as unamused as the salesperson when Lauren asked about the batteries. I'm fairly certain he was offended, because he didn't even offer so much as a grunt when we asked him to pick us up. But thankfully cabs are like relationships. After the game was over there was another one that came along when we were ready to go.

"I've been dating the same guy my entire life, he just keeps changing his name."

It never ceases to amaze me how we can make such bad decisions in choosing partners and fail to a. learn from our mistakes, and b. listen to our friends' advice. You can always see the mistakes your friends are making, but when it comes to evaluating your own, many of us have horse blinders firmly attached to the sides of our heads and the sage advice from people who care about us falls on deaf ears. When fall hits, I always have a sense of needing to take stock of my life and since it's fall now, that inevitably means talking to my friends about our dating and marriage disasters, and this year, hopefully learning from their mistakes as well as my own. As Lauren says, "I've been dating the same guy my entire life, he just keeps changing his name," but I think we all want to break the pattern.

I called Ava on Saturday and we had a chat about her latest dating disaster. It wasn't actually dating, since the guy tried to pick her up in a very sneaky fashion, although she certainly has had her share of traumatic moments with men. She went out with Stavros (who turned out to be bisexual, if not truly gay) for two years, and the only fight we've ever had in our long friendship was about him. She also dated one guy who, when we were all out to dinner together, began clapping out of the blue. I asked him why he was clapping and he said, "Handclap to God! I gotta give props to God. He was having a really good day when he made me." He was serious, too.

Back to the story at hand, though, Ava had gone out to dinner last week with a friend of hers to a new spot in their city. The waiter asked them if they wanted to be on the VIP list for future events, and both replied in the affirmative. Ava didn't have a business card on her, so she wrote down her phone number. The next morning, she received a voicemail from the waiter, asking her to have drinks with him over the weekend. Realizing that the VIP list didn't exist, she called her friend with whom she'd gone to dinner and they jointly decided that this guy was sketchy. They set about Googling and checking offender databases and discovered that the waiter had several convictions for assault and battery, as well as a lengthy prison term for road rage in which he attacked a driver with brass knuckles, leaving the victim with metal plates and screws in his face. (Really, who drives around with brass knuckles in their car?) Adding to the absurdity is the fact that you can easily rhyme his last name with "retarded."

"Poor MODI," I told her. "You really do know how to pick them, don't you?"

She laughed. "First I turn guys gay, and now I'm attracting felons. Who do you think wins the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award, me or Lauren?"

That made me hoot, because Lauren has a couple of felons in her past, as well as the gay porn loving ex-husband. For a time, she dated a guy with a very long rap sheet who had schizophrenia to boot. When he wasn't taking his meds, he'd go for weeks without showers or brushing his teeth, but Lauren loved the person that he had been in the beginning and she stuck it out for a time. (Again, the only fight I've ever gotten in with Lauren was over this dude. I think there's a pattern here.) He continued his nefarious activities and, though Lauren wasn't involved, she was aware of it. Once they were driving in the car together and she was putting on lipstick in the mirror. He asked, "What are you doing, getting ready for your mugshot?" When she was finally ready to date again, she put up a profile on a dating website and ended it with, "I'd prefer if you didn't have a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper the Great Wall of China."

Of course, I'm in the running for the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award myself. On top of my painfully apparent poor decision making skills in choosing a marriage partner and a stubborn refusal to listen to my friends' concerns, I dated a sociopath before Ex who was my first real heartbreak. I was so anxiety-ridden over him that I couldn't eat for months. I lost a tremendous amount of weight, becoming so skeletal that when I got on the scale it would just flash, "Eat a sandwich!!" I also briefly dated a much older dethroned mayor and talk show host with a history of bouncing checks at massage parlors. His first line to me when he picked me up for our first date was, "Am I older than your father?" He is. Oh, and did I mention the Senate hopeful whose dreams were dashed when his divorce records were unsealed, revealing that he'd forced his beautiful and famous ex-wife to attend sex clubs with him? I see that award looming on my personal horizon.

All of this to say that despite the collective mistakes that Ava, Lauren and I have committed and continue to commit, I still believe in learning experiences. The arduous divorce process, which is stalled for me until the end of the month when I have a conference with Ex, is teaching me that even serious lapses in judgment that result in litigation transpire for a reason. I just hope I can detach my blinders on the next go-around. This time, I'll listen when my friends give me advice.

I wasn't going to talk about this but....

A couple of weeks ago I spent the evening at Lauren's house. It was Girls' Night, but the other girls were busy and Lauren's mom, Double D, was in town visiting and staying with her daughter. I love Double D so it was the perfect opportunity to catch up with her on a low-key evening and hang with Lauren's son TC, whom I adore.

After TC went to bed, the conversation eventually turned to (put on your big surprise face) sex. It all started because Lauren and I were rehashing a recent conversation we'd had with Anastasia for Double D.

"D, Anastasia still hasn't had the sex talk with her kids and she's freaking out," I said.

"How old are her kids?" Double D asked.

"Fourteen and twelve," Lauren answered.

"And Anastasia asked us to have the birds and the bees talk for her," I added, gesturing between Lauren and myself, "because she's afraid that she's going to be too, 'It's all about YOU, not the other person, so make sure YOUR needs are taken care of,' and she doesn't want to give them the wrong idea."

"Uh, Mom," Lauren announced. Loudly. I knew something was coming. "Speaking of which, you never gave me the birds and the bees talk. Almost, did you get that talk from your parents?"

I almost spit out a mouthful of wine as I looked at Double D's eyes widen with each passing moment. "Oh, geez, my Dad would never have talked about that, but my mom gave me that talk when I was 5 because I asked where babies came from. It was pretty clinical. She even went and got a book from the library. I remember the first page had a dot on it and said, 'You started out smaller than this pencil dot.' Then it detailed the procreation process with clothed stick figures lying in bed together. I swear, I thought I'd get pregnant lying fully clothed next to a guy until I was in college."

"Well," Lauren said dryly, taking a sip of wine and arranging her face into the I'm-about-to-drop-a-Lauren-line-on-you-bitches face. "Thanks to neither of my parents giving me The Talk, I didn't have my first orgasm until I was 35, MOM!!! Thanks a lot."

Double D hooted with laughter while she delivered a line right back, "Well, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW??"

Poor Double D.... although her line cracked me up, I do know her plight. You see, sex with Ex was not that great. Frankly, most of the time it was downright lame. It wasn't that bad before the wedding (it might have actually been good then, but I shudder to think about it as I choke back some bile), but starting Day 2 of the honeymoon, the tracks shifted, directing the bedroom compartment of the marital train through Dullsville with a layover in Rarely City, final destination: Nevertown.

There are specific reasons for this, which I'll discuss soon, but at the time I was simply shocked that a man would reject his new wife for such (to me) insignificant reasons. To be brutally honest (and totally TMI, so Mom, if you're reading this, you can skip over the rest of the paragraph), in our first year of marriage I once went into his office in the house specifically to give him *ahem* uh, non-reciprocated pleasure, and he actually pushed me off of his lap. With force. I landed unceremoniously on my ass and I can only imagine the look of shock on my face. Reliving the memory now makes me giggle, but frankly, at the time it was a tad humiliating.

I had a health scare one year to the day after we were married and that picked things up a bit since he was grateful that I wasn't ill, but the sex dropped off again shortly thereafter and I was once again left to ponder what was wrong with me. (As I said in my first post, did I grow a third nipple? No!)

The evening with Lauren and Double D ended up with D proclaiming that she'd just had a very informative education. This was after the detailed description of what my friend Sarah calls "the battery operated boyfriend." D's face was priceless as we detailed the different models, functions, prices, and places in which you could obtain such "boyfriends."

But the conversation left me wondering about the importance of sex in a relationship. Perhaps in our parents' time it didn't assume the role it does now, for whatever reason. But at this point it's certainly of primary importance. I can say with clarity that deprivation on either party's part is the beginning of the slippery slope. After that transpired, at least in my case (and I'm not assigning directionality, i.e., did the deprivation lead to the dissolve or did the dissolve lead to the deprivation?), the end was nigh.

Well, at least I know what I'm getting Double D for Christmas this year. It's easy to pick out, since I know personally all too well.

Inappropriate Touching

I had a quite entertaining phone conversation with Regan the other night. What did we talk about? After catching up on the minutiae of our working lives we talked about boys, of course.

"Dude, I've met someone," she said.

"Really, who? And where?"

"We met at a coffee shop and then I went on a date with him. I really like him."

"Tell me about him!"

"A semi-retired tech guy, nice house, does photography for a hobby, and is an Iron Man triathlete. Can you Google him? You don't think he's a stalker, do you?"

So while I was Googling and reading New Boyfriend's marathon and triathlon stats to her while trying to stifle my laughter over her stalker concerns, I asked her one more crucial question.

"So, Regs, is he a good kisser?"

"Oh.... my.... gosh..... yes. And he doesn't make me itch."

"Uh, what?"

"He doesn't make me itch!"

"What do you mean, itch?" I asked.

"You know, when a guy kisses you and then your face itches? I mean, I'm like, dude, I just put foundation on and now it's flaking. That's not cool."

Thus began a conversation about unnecessary kissing, inappropriate touching and personal space invaders. Regan lives much of the time in Italy where she encounters people who constantly want to kiss on both cheeks and touch entirely too much for our more staid American upbringing. It bothers her that people constantly kiss her, leaving stringy drool stains on her cheeks, and I don't blame her.

"I mean, seriously, is it necessary to constantly kiss everyone? It's just so.... gross! Unhygienic or something," she groaned.

Our conversation reminded me of my own thoroughly unpleasant encounters with saliva-ridden kisses, inappropriate touching and personal space invading during my marriage to Ex.

Ex's family, being from a foreign culture, had a habit of always kissing on both cheeks and touching inappropriately even if you had never met the person before. Literally, I would witness his family members meeting someone on the street for the first time, and while still holding the person's right hand in the handshake, planting wet kisses on each cheek of the newfound acquaintance. I have nothing at all against other cultures' practices, but I'm originally from the northeast. We don't do that there. Ever.

I told Regan that I knew with great pain exactly what she was talking about and could actually one-up her on that score. During the first month that Ex and I were married, we had Christmas at his aunt's house. I walked into the house when his aunt, whom I'd not met until that time, opened the door and I was immediately barraged with wet kisses on both of my cheeks. In and of itself, that wasn't so bad despite my surprise at the kissing thing, but what followed truly horrified me. As I entered the front hallway, Ex's aunt put her hand on my uterus. My uterus!

She exclaimed, "You too skinny! Are you pregnant yet? I know my brother wants to be grandpa!"

I froze in awe-struck shock. Not only was I just one month into the already deteriorating marriage, but I have never wanted children and a strange, beehive-haired woman had her hand dangerously close to The Goods and I was still wiping saliva off of my face, bringing along with it my makeup. In retrospect, I believe that I must have stood there with my jaw literally hanging open as I swiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand because the aunt looked at me with what I can only guess was suspicious consternation and meandered off to the kitchen, never to speak to me again during the evening (except when I almost shattered her ice bucket, but that's another story).

Later in the relationship, I was forced to go to a holiday BBQ at Ex's parents' house. The home was filled with random people I'd never met, but all were apparently relatives. I was inevitably the odd person out at these gatherings because I didn't speak their language, so I usually sat at the kitchen table alone and waited the day out. At this particular gathering, one of Ex's many cousins came over and sat with me. After the unavoidable sloppy kiss on each cheek, she put her hand on my stomach and admonished, "You have been married way too long to not have baby. Why you no have baby? You have problem with plumbing?"

"I don't want a baby." I was too astonished to even address the plumbing comment.

At this revelation, she practically fainted. "How you don't want baby? Every woman want baby! Look at my beautiful baby here. He's three months. Isn't he most gorgeous thing you ever see?"

I'm pretty sure that my attempt at an "I like babies" face fell flat.

Later in the marriage, I attended one of Ex's family functions in which his grandmother approached me. Obligatory wet kisses ensued, after which she grabbed my right boob and, manipulating it while I was sewn to the floor in shock, announced, "Is good for to make milk for baby."

I told Regan these stories on the phone as she laughed uproariously and said, "Shut up! You're making this up!"

File this under I Couldn't Make This Up if I Tried, because it's all true. When Regan soon returns to Italy and faces the inevitable kissing onslaught, I hope she remembers that at least she isn't getting felt up by New Boyfriend's family for baby making potential. Wiping a bit of drool off of your cheek? Child's play. Graciously excusing yourself when your in-laws are your personal space invaders with a penchant for grabbing your baby maker? That takes some skill.

Pardon Me, While I Remove This Knife From My Back

My fingers have been itching to write about this for 2 weeks, but I've been so insanely pissed that my eyes were crossed and it took me some time to get sufficiently clear-headed in order to put it in words. Now that I've banged my head against the wall a few times in frustration, I'm finally ready.

Awhile back, I wrote about how I had called Anastasia, wondering how in the world Ex found out about my $600 face peel. I was absolutely positive that Plastic Surgeon and her staff wouldn't have disclosed that information, not only because it's covered by HIPAA, but also because PS and I have been friends for several years now and she loathes Ex sometimes more than even I.

What I failed to mention in that post was that PS had been looking for help in her office, and I had a "friend" (I use that term loosely with her now) with whom I used to bartend. I've known B.B. (can you guess what that stands for?) since 2001 and we've always been friendly. She used to tell me how she looked up to me and wanted to learn my secrets of making great cash from being a good bartender. She is a very sweet-seeming girl, strikingly pretty, and very personable. For the last couple of years, B.B. and I have had occasional lunches together, many nights in which I'm a patron at her bar, and late-night phone calls where I'm comforting her on the latest heartbreak, of which there have been many. Of course, during the course of our "friendship," I disclosed things as well. I never had any reason not to take her at face value, so when PS asked if I knew anyone who was looking for this particular position (which B.B. was) I didn't hesitate to recommend her even though she wasn't truly experienced enough for the position.

After B.B. promised PS that she possessed a desire to learn the medical approach to skin care, wanted a long-haul position and was ready to hang up her wine key, she was hired and thus began what would have been a lucrative career for her. She continued to tend bar for awhile until she built up her own clientele at PS's office and I, of course, continued to see her on an almost-weekly basis. She seemed so grateful, always telling me how much she loved working for PS when I'd see her at the bar, and she even took me out one evening for dinner and drinks to thank me.

Unfortunately, I found out that B.B. quit her job with PS after only 6 months and gave her a paltry 2 week notice when a month is standard in her industry. I apologized to PS because I felt so responsible, to which she assured me that it wasn't my fault.

Fast forward to two weekends ago, when Designer threw his party back in my city after our trip to Greece. I took the group that wanted to go out afterwards to a new club in town owned by my old boss from The Bar. B.B., who worked there at the time, bounded up to me and threw her arms around me.

"Almost! Why aren't you at my bar? I'm moving to Hawaii with a new boyfriend who's going to be on Lost! Ya know, the TV show?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Ohmigosh, are you mad at me? PS told you I'm leaving, didn't she? Is she sooooo mad at me? Please don't be mad, I'm in love!"

"I'm not mad, B.B., that was your business between you and PS. As far as I'm concerned, after I recommended you I was out of the situation."

"Oh, good!" she squealed, "Then you can come to my going away party next weekend!"

I mumbled something into my champagne and squirmed out of her embrace to go talk with someone else. Truth be told, I was kind of irritated because I felt that her lack of respect for PS in not giving sufficient notice reflected on me and I was embarrassed. I also thought it was fairly naive to uproot and move to Hawaii after dating some random dude for 3 weeks, who's going to work on a show that's probably going to be canceled in a month anyway. But worse was yet to come. The kind of worse that made me not go out for the last 2 weeks to avoid seeing her and ending up in jail for assault. I'm not the least bit violent, but I may have been just infuriated enough to haul off and uppercut her in front of all her bar patrons.

The next day, I went to a beautiful outdoor lunch with Ava, Anastasia, Designer's business partner Regan, and a few other people. During the course of the lunch, I came to find out that Anastasia's husband had disclosed something to her which was about to make me want to grab the Santa Margherita from the ice bucket and drink right out of the bottle.

Ex recently told Anastasia's husband that he had found out all of his information about me from B.B. on nights when he would hang at her bar alone for hours. Upon his giving her astronomical tips (the kind where, had Ex not been there, she wouldn't have walked out that night with even close to as much.... the thousand dollar kind), she would share critical information about my whereabouts, my associates, what I was wearing, if anyone had kissed me on the cheek, how much money I was spending when I was out, and of course, the $600 peel. Anastasia, in her wily ways, had finagled this out of her husband and then told me.

Shouldn't that type of bartending prostitution/betrayal of your "friend" & former colleague be illegal in all states? I'd like to lobby in front of Congress on that one.

I consulted my friends and eventually decided that I would do nothing. Stooping to her level was not going to earn me any karma brownie points, so I thought the better route would be to just let it go. Until PS called me yesterday and I told her the story.

"Almost, why aren't you reporting her to the State Board? She violated HIPAA."

"Because I didn't want it to reflect badly on you in any way and I wasn't sure what it would do to you."

"It does nothing to me. You of all people know that's a serious violation," PS said. "That's what I'd do if I were in your position."

I submitted my online complaint to the State Board yesterday and expect a phone call from them on Monday. At least I know that she won't be able to betray anyone else in this state when she inevitably moves back. And when she is back? I suppose I'll keep my friends close and my enemies as f*cking far away from me as possible.

Birthday Fun and Don't Drink and Text Part II

My birthday just passed and I am so relieved because I hate that day. It has nothing to do with aging, since I've hated it for as long as I can remember. The year that I turned 11, my mother threw a surprise birthday party for me, at which time I locked myself in my room and refused to reemerge until everyone was gone. My poor mother - she really had her hands full with me.

Actually, this year's birthday wasn't too traumatic, since I spent the evening with friends at Scarlet and Guido's restaurant and wound up the night attending a drag queen show that I've been dying to see for years.

But since it's that dreaded time of year for me again, I can't help but dredge up my horrific birthday from last year. Ex had gotten the not-so-bright idea to throw me a surprise party despite the fact that he knew very well how much I hated them. This was during the period of time when he realized that the marriage was deteriorating faster than Britney on a coke and vodka binge, so he was going all out to try and do everything he could to save it.

Ava called me and tipped me off so that we could avoid the disastrous consequences, and we collaborated to get Ex to understand this plan was about as good as booking a ticket on the Titanic. Long story short, we ended up going to Vegas with the Doc, Ava, Anastasia, and a few other people so that I had a buffer.

The weekend was not progressing well. Ex and I weren't getting along and by the night of my birthday dinner, our last evening in Vegas, The Debacle began.

At some point during the weekend, Ex had gone through my purse and had found a business card from an attorney in Ava's city. I had spent the previous weekend with Ava attending a concert, and we ran into some of her old law school friends. We had hung out with them for a bit, and one of them ended up giving me his business card. I didn't think anything of it and just put it in my purse. When Ex went through my purse in Vegas and found the card, he assumed that I was having a torrid fling with the mystery attorney from Ava's city.

As we were walking to dinner, Ex apparently grabbed both Ava and Anastasia and growled, "I know that both of you are helping my wife have an affair," to which they were both too stunned to even respond.

Unfortunately I didn't hear about this until later in the night, or I might have just called off the dinner altogether. When we were seated in the restaurant, Ex began flipping through the pictures in my digital camera. He came across one from the previous weekend of me with Ava's attorney friend, which featured us simply sitting next to each other, not even touching. Though nothing inappropriate had happened and the picture was utterly innocent, he threw the camera at Ava and stormed away from the table. The first course hadn't even been served. And he never came back.

It turned out that he was taking turns pacing the hallway and sitting at the bar, crying and becoming increasingly drunk while smoking cigarettes like he was going to the electric chair. When dinner was over, I found him at the bar and thanked him for the lovely dinner. He responded, "You should be thankful. It was two thousand dollars."

I had become accustomed to comments like that, so I just sighed and suggested that we go to Pure for some cocktails and dancing. As we entered the club, I headed for the back bar and soon realized that I was alone. Turning around, I saw our entire group still at the entrance, featuring Ex wagging his finger right in Ava's face and screaming something. I returned to where they were standing and heard Ex finish his rant with, "F*ck you, and f*ck your friend!" She stood rooted to the floor in shock, looking at him wide-eyed.

He turned to me and followed me around in a little circle at the entrance of the club screaming various things at me and accusing me of sleeping with the guy from Ava's city, to which I replied, "Yeah, I always keep business cards from my sexual conquests. Sort of like a memoir," which of course, enraged him even more. I kept trying to walk away from him, but he wouldn't let me, screaming, "You always f*cking walk away from me! You're not going to f*cking walk away from it this time!"

By that point, my friends were looking on horrified and a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the spectacle. I was mortified. And scared. I hadn't seen him that out of control in public before. I tried everything I could to calm him down, but he was in an unstoppable rage. After 10 minutes that seemed like an eternity, he took off his wedding ring and shoved it at me.

"Here, Almost, I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce."

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK." I put the ring in my purse and said, "Come on, girls, let's go have some fun."

I was not about to let him ruin the evening, so Ava, Anastasia, my friend Kay who lives in Vegas, and I went to get drinks at another bar in the casino. We were having a nice evening, despite the drama that had already unfolded when I began to receive texts.

Over the next several hours, I received over 50 text messages and one very crazy phone call. Unfortunately, at the time I had a phone that only held 10 messages, so they're all gone now but I do recall the nature of the texts. They began with groundless accusations, to which I didn't even respond. Along with the usual accusations that I was getting it on with every man who had ever existed except for him, bizarre accusations began to emerge. At one point he accused me, Ava, and Anastasia of laughing at his man boobs. None of us had ever laughed at his man boobs, but the text itself did make us giggle.

As the evening wore on, the texts became cruel, replete with name calling and yet more bizarre accusations. When he realized that I wasn't going to respond to any of them, he chose another tactic. He sent me a text that said, "I'm leaving tonight," to which I responded, "OK, understood. Have a safe trip."

A few minutes later, I received another text. "At the airport."

I looked over my shoulder and saw him sitting at the blackjack table about 20 feet away, which made all of us girls howl with laughter.

I sent him one back and said, "Safe flight - let me know when you land."

This continued until 6 am, with text messages flooding my phone that insisted he was at the airport and me watching him type furiously on his phone just 20 feet away. It was not the show I expected to see in Vegas, but it was a show nonetheless.

I finally went back up to the suite, exhausted and sick of dealing with the situation. Anastasia had a 6 am flight home so she had already left, but when I got up to the room she forwarded a text to me as she sat on the runway.

Much to my surprise, Ex had been text stalking her as well, and his final text to her read, "Thanks for all of your support tonight... NOT."

Imagine my shock this year when I received only one text from him. It simply said, "Happy birthday."

The Ridicule of Appearances

Appearances are so deceiving. I know that's a grossly obvious statement (I do have the dubious talent of observing the blatant), but I've been pondering that notion for several reasons.

Thanks to the hilarious Michael K of DListed, I came across a photo retouching company called iWANEX, and if you visit their site, click on "portfolio," and run your cursor over each celebrity's picture, you'll see the wonders of Photoshop in all of its glorious, glaring clarity. I entertained myself mindlessly for about 20 minutes yesterday doing just that and decided that if I ever purchase another fashion magazine, I'm sending myself to Promises for Idiot Rehab. Or hiring a permanent team of retouchers and lighting techs to follow me every second of every day. Since my legal fees are approaching the cost of a Bentley (ok, I might be exaggerating just a tad) and I can't afford rehab or a make-me-hot team, I think I'll wear a string of garlic and a Fiddy-Cent sized cross around my neck to ward off the temptation at the checkout stand.

In any case, iWANEX's site also recalled something that I learned in Greece, and that is the extent to which appearance can so often be wrong, both for me and about me. I wasn't acquainted with too many of the people who attended the party prior to the trip, but I was aware that they were, for the most part, members of the Fabulous Crowd. What I mean by that is that many are in the fashion and design business, so I was expecting some supercilious attitudes that my shoes were from two seasons ago and that my attire was from (*gasp*) three seasons ago. Instead, what I found was a fascinating mix of people who were, indeed the Beautiful People, but who were also intelligent, intuitive, genuine, and after some ice-breaking, had much more going on below the surface than the pretty façade.

Take Alexis, for example. She's quite famous in her own right, having traveled the circuits of the most fabulous designers on the planet for a high-profile job. Alexis looks the part: her clothing is impeccable, hair is flawless, and accessories green-with-envy-worthy. You might think that she would refuse to engage with anyone less fabulous than she, but rather, she's a down-to-earth entrepreneur who upped and moved from one of the fashion capitals of the world and is forging out on her own, unaided. She surprised me with her perspicuity as well, being someone forthright with her depth of personal matters apart than just details of her new venture.

Aside from my own misjudgment, I was also misread in a way that made me laugh until I cried. These are some of the questions I had to answer early in my trip until people actually got to know me:

"Yes, I know I have a stripper name, but no, I've never been an exotic dancer and yes, this is my birth name."

"No, I have never been a porn star." (I'm pretty sure this one was based on the name as well, since my assets aren't quite what's required for such a task.)

"No, I am not a sex therapist."

"A sex surrogate?! Uh, no."

The genesis of these rumors remains a mystery to me, but they amused me nonetheless and were proof positive that anyone can misjudge upon first making another's acquaintance.

Then there was a couple in Greece, Scarlet and Guido, who just opened a restaurant in my city. I met Scarlet quite some time ago, but only had the opportunity to really get to know her on our trip. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in person and you might expect her to be shallow, simply based upon her looks. However, once you sit down with her and really talk to her, you realize that she's talented and beautiful on the inside as well. The restaurant that she and her husband just opened hosted the party for Designer on Friday night, and the walls were fully decorated with her artwork. She had told me of some of her work in Greece, but I never anticipated the beautiful torture she expressed in every piece. I think I bugged the crap out of her, making her take an hour to tell me about each piece and her exact process in creating them, but they were such striking paintings that I couldn't hear enough about them.

What's more, I had my court date for my pedestrian run-in the day after I returned from Greece. The case was dismissed (thank God!!!) and Officer Lentil and I ended up having an hour-long conversation in the courthouse hallway afterwards. Initially he exclaimed, "Hey, Almost, I had another pedestrian run-over the other day and I thought of you!" But subsequently, we spoke about other matters that didn't make me feel like the city's moniker for Morons Who Run Over Joggers. I pegged him for being a kind and very funny man, but I also misjudged him, thinking that a man in blue probably spends his free time watching the idiot box or hanging out at a bar and I could not have been more wrong. (This is not a discriminatory statement, by the way, it's just that I know cops see too much horror on their jobs and need to decompress somehow.) Officer Lentil spends his free time finding relics from churches that are being torn down in our city and dedicating months to restoring them to the gleaming beauty they once boasted. He scours antique shops and flea markets to find that one piece that speaks to him and asks him for help to return it to its original elegance. And he went to a very prestigious art school. I'm ashamed to say that I never would have guessed, but it was quite a pleasant surprise.

And perhaps this is just me, but even after knowing someone intimately for a substantial period of time, the well-practiced appearance can still mask the gruesome reality. I've already told just a few of the stories of how Ex snowed me in certain ways (forgery, Levitra, and Granny Porn, anyone?), but I secreted away things of my own. In that sense, both Ex and I had our own permanent staff of retouchers and lighting techs who glossed over the flaws and created a poreless quality to the marriage, at least to the outside world. Not always, but appearances can deceive to the point of ridiculing what you thought was your own accurate judgment, even after years.

And to answer the other question I first faced in Greece? No, I'm not a dominatrix, either, although I hear they make a very good living.