A couple of weeks ago, Lawyer called me at work. Since I can't pick up my cell phone at work, I found the nearest land line and called him back.
"What's going on, Lawyer?"
"Almost, have you noticed anyone following you lately?"
"What do you mean?" My palms were starting to sweat since I've been through this before.
"Well, Ex seems to know every detail about you and I don't know how he could possibly know these things if he didn't have someone following you."
I said, "It wouldn't be the first time, Lawyer, but I can't really talk right now, let me call you on my way home."
Several weeks prior to that call, I had undergone an aggressive face peel. Believe me, the stress of divorce takes a toll on your skin and I am bound and determined not to wind up looking like I've been beaten with a sock full of nickels. I have to be honest, the peel that I had was expensive but it's totally worth it. (Forgive me for pimping this peel, but it freaking rocks.) I looked like something out of a Wes Craven movie for a week and I think I made children cry and adults lose control of their bowels when I had to appear in public, but the results were fabulous.
During that week, my girlfriend Anastasia had come over to my apartment. Anastasia is pretty high up in the ranks of law enforcement, but she's probably not the stereotypical kind of officer you'd imagine. She's a complete badass when it comes to arrests and has wrestled men three times her size into submission, but she's also beautiful with an amazing body, although you can't see it when she has her uniform and bullet-proof vest on. We've accompanied one another to preventative treatments at the Medical Spa more than once and she totally understands my desire to come out on the other side of this divorce looking decent.
When I called Lawyer back after work to find out why he thought I was being followed, he asked, "Who knew about your peel and how much it cost you?"
I thought for a moment and replied, "You, Anastasia, Plastic Surgeon, Aesthetician, Lauren, and Shawn. Why?"
"I received a call from Greasy Attorney today and he was ranting about your non-existent trust fund. Then he went on yelling about how you had a $600 face peel. How could he have known about the peel?"
I had no answer. None of the people who were aware of the now Infamous Peel would have given me up, that much I knew. I told this to Lawyer, and he advised me to be on the lookout for anyone that might be following me. I promised him that I would, and we hung up.
I promptly called Anastasia. Her husband Pete and Ex became friends through us when Ex and I were still supposedly happily married. Best friends. In fact, we joke about how they must make out with each other because they're so close. I thought that perhaps Anastasia had mentioned something about the peel to Pete and he'd said something to Ex. When she answered the phone and I explained the situation, she said, "Almost, I have learned never to divulge any information about you whatsoever. I am definitely not the leak, but I do have a story for you. I'm really pissed off."
It turned out that the day before this phone call, Ex and Pete had an 8:30 tee time for a golf game. Pete left their house an hour before the tee time, but returned only an hour and a half later. Anastasia asked, "Didn't you have golf with Ex this morning?"
Pete replied, "Yes, we did. But the golf pro said that some woman called yesterday and canceled our game. Did you tell Almost that we were playing golf today? Did she call and cancel the game to piss him off?"
Apparently, a mystery female had called the previous day and canceled their tee time. I haven't spoken to Ex since a court date in April and know nothing of his daily activities now, but Ex assumed that I had magically found out about the tee time and called the golf course to cancel. He told Pete that he was sure I had undertaken the cancellation in order to ruin their day.
Anastasia was mad. She told Pete, "Of course I didn't tell Almost, why would I do that? In fact, why would she even care?"
She was right. I don't care. Ex can do whatever he wants and I would never interfere in anything, let alone something so trivial as a golf game.
Though Anastasia was angry, I said, "Don't be mad, it's funny! Can you imagine Ex thinking that I care enough to take the time to make that phone call and cancel his tee time? Hilarious!!" She started laughing, too.
I still can't figure out how Ex knows all of these details about my daily life, and that frustrates me. I'd love to know all the details of his life as he apparently knows about mine, but though I would never waste my time canceling a golf game just in order to piss off Ex, I have to say I think Mystery Golf Game Canceling Woman is my new idol. Cheers to you, baby! Now, who the hell are you??
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Unexpected Blessings
Sometimes people come into your life and not only become great friends, but also bring with them unanticipated beneficence. I met my girlfriend Shawn less than a year ago, right before Thanksgiving. I knew almost instantly that she would become one of our group of girls. The first night we met was in New York, where we were both invited by a surgeon friend of ours to do a press conference. We spent the evening before the media appearance at the hotel's bar hearing about each other's lives. From that moment on, we've continued to grow closer.
She has a really interesting history, having worked in the nighttime scene in New York for awhile when she was in her early 20s, modeled for Playboy, then worked for Playboy doing makeup, hair, and layout. On top of that, she's an extremely talented sculptor and graphic designer. Now she's a mother of four and is adding an addition to her home, mostly by hand. She'll send me text pictures of the bathroom floor she just mosaic-tiled by hand or the shower she just installed and I have to sit back and wonder if Bob Vila suddenly morphed into a hot chick.
Along her travels across the country, Shawn has met some really interesting people, some famous, some not, and some infamous. When Shawn called me during the winter to see if I wanted to go visit her longtime friend Tony down south, whom she met while she was working for Playboy, I said an instant yes. The divorce had been filed, I was stressed out, and this was just what I needed to relax for a few days.
She said, "I know you ride motorcycles. You know who Tony is, right?"
"No, but his name sounds kind of familiar."
"Don't you ever watch the Speed Channel? He's on there all the time. He's a famous motorcycle builder!"
I said, "Sorry, I don't know exactly who he is, but maybe I'll recognize him when I see him." It's been a long time since I've read Hot Bike Magazine and even longer since I dated a biker, so I'm not familiar with some of the hot bike builders these days.
She sighed and said, "OK, well whatever, but Tony is flying us down there and taking care of all our expenses."
I was incredulous, but so grateful because I already knew that I would end up motoring through my savings pretty quickly in this ludicrously expensive divorce process. Spending a weekend in warm weather and riding motorcycles for free with my girlfriend? How could life get any better?
So we packed up our bags and off we went. When Tony picked us up at the airport, I still didn't recognize him. He seemed nice enough, really attractive in that dark, dangerous sort of way, but sweet at the same time. While Shawn and Tony were catching up on the way to his shop where we were making a stop, I remained pretty quiet. I became utterly mute when it began to dawn on me that I did know Tony.
As we pulled into his shop, my hands started to shake. I looked at the shop's sign and asked Tony, "This isn't your shop, is it??" Of course it was.
I instantly knew the very famous shop name and realized that I've been wanting one of these bikes for years. He builds bikes that are sleek, shiny, sensual.... they positively scream sex. To me, anyway. I simply could not believe that I was sitting in the car with this bike builder. I was saying a silent thanks to Shawn for inviting me, because of all people who would appreciate this weekend, it was me.
Walking into his shop was like walking the red carpet at the Oscars, with people shouting out from all over, "Tony, over here! Tony, man, I rode all the way from Colorado just to meet you! Tony, will you take a picture with me?" But I barely paid attention because I needed to concentrate on keeping my mouth shut so that I wouldn't drool or perhaps even lick one of those glorious machines gracing his showroom floor. While he was taking care of business, I grabbed Shawn's hand and thanked her profusely, explaining that I knew exactly who Tony was now and I felt I was in the presence of greatness. She laughed mischievously and said, "I thought I told you the name of his shop!"
We eventually headed off to his house and commenced a fabulous weekend on his waterfront deck by the pool with a bottle of Dom. The special, protective relationship between Tony and Shawn quickly became clear to me. They had a fling at some point long ago, but now he looks out for her fiercely and would do literally anything for her. Beneath that tough bike builder is a heart of pure platinum.
We had a wild weekend. Friday night consisted of a wonderful Italian dinner, after which we found ourselves in a strip club. Of course, Shawn got a dance from a super hot blonde, while I was graced with a decidedly unenthusiastic dance from a worn-out, roundish lady who sighed, "Some dude just walked out the door and gave me money to dance for you. So I guess I have to." It was a blast nonetheless, and I bought some shiny trinkets from the bathroom attendant who told me, "May Jesus bless you." Those are words you just don't expect to hear in the bathroom of a strip club.
Tony took us out for a ride in his boat on Saturday and then to dinner at a new, hot restaurant that evening. He told us that we were going to dinner with a famous actor, and asked if I minded. He called the actor by his nickname, so I didn't recognize it, and he asked, "Didn't you see Most Famous Gangster Movie of All Time?" I hadn't. Shawn was dumbfounded. She said, "I can't believe you don't know who we're talking about!"
As soon as we reached the restaurant and met up with Actor and his friend, I recognized him. I still haven't seen Most Famous Gangster Movie of All Time, but I have seen the show of which he's the current star. I liked him right off the bat. We sat next to each other and chatted about marriage, divorce, where we lived, and how his next film should be shot in my city so we could hang out.
The night stretched into the wee hours, throughout which Actor was hounded for autographs as we migrated from club to club. We took some pictures, one of which Actor looked at and said to me, "Should we make this our Christmas card?" When a drunken girl slid over to me and asked, "Hey, can I have a threesome with you and Actor?" Actor put a protective arm around me and replied, "My wife and I are happy with each other, but thank you." Tony pulled me aside and whispered, "You know that I introduced Actor to several of his wives, right?" at which time Shawn and Tony dissolved into hysterics. Since I had been feeling so destroyed for so long, I thoroughly enjoyed the night and the attention, I admit it. It was one of the best nights I'd had in ages.
We weren't leaving until Sunday night, so that afternoon we decided to go out for a ride, Shawn on the back of Tony's bike and me on a loaner from his shop. I was terrified riding one of Tony's bikes, but as soon as I got on and hit the start button, my nerves disappeared. Riding motorcycles for me is like a spiritual experience. Somehow, the wind in my face, the ear-splitting crack of pipes, and the unfettered feeling of two wheels instead of four leaves all of my troubles far behind. For a girl like me, it was the perfect end to a glorious weekend.
During our ride, we stopped to have a late lunch. We had a few mimosas, after which Shawn and Tony began talking about the days when they were involved with each other. Shawn said, "We did some wild things, Almost. I don't remember a lot of it, but you wouldn't have believed some of my antics in those days. Hey, Tony, remember that time with the Heineken bottle?" They both laughed uproariously. I'm not sure I want to know exactly what happened with that bottle, but I can just imagine.
Tony said, "Wait, I thought it was Corona...."
This time, all three of us were laughing uncontrollably.
As lunch drew to a close, we realized that ominous clouds had formed over head, and I thought, "Crap, if I have to ride in the rain, I might lay down Tony's bike and then they'll both be sorry they invited me." I hate riding in the rain because the pavement becomes so slick and the rain stings your skin like tiny needles. Sure enough, the skies opened with a rainfall of torrential proportions.
I rode behind Tony, and indeed, almost laid down the bike, but not because of the rain. I was practically doubled over laughing because there was a huge rooster tail of water spitting up from Tony's back wheel that was giving Shawn a water wedgie like nothing I've ever seen. I watched her frantically try to cover her butt, but her diminutive hand was no match for the 6 foot geyser soaking her entire back and probably giving her an unwanted enema.
By the time we reached Tony's shop, we were all literally dripping wet and laughing at how absurd we all looked. Shawn and I were going to be late for the airport, but we really needed to change because "drowned rat" is too attractive a term to describe our appearances. There was no time for running into the bathroom for privacy because we only had seconds to spare, so Shawn and I stripped down and changed right in front of the plate glass windows of Tony's shop while Tony covered his eyes, shouting, "I'm not looking, I swear!"
The weekend for me was salve on my heart's wounds. Shawn had recognized that I was stretched to the limit of my sanity, and she reached out a helping hand to me by inviting me on this trip. Actor had comforted me by telling me that he'd been through divorce, and yes, you do survive. Tony extended his protectiveness to me in a sense, at one point growling, "Ex is a f*cking assh*le," which seems small, but a little comment like that means the world when you're feeling beaten up. And riding motorcycles, even in the rain, with Shawn and a new friend was the best feeling I'd had in months.
We made our flight, arrived safely back in our city, and called Tony. Shawn handed me her phone when he answered and I said, "Hey, have you had a Heineken lately?" All three of us were laughing once again.
I'm still not sure that Shawn has any idea of the magnitude of that weekend's healing effects on me, but I will always be grateful for her gift of laughter and a few days in which my troubles were a couple thousand miles away.
She has a really interesting history, having worked in the nighttime scene in New York for awhile when she was in her early 20s, modeled for Playboy, then worked for Playboy doing makeup, hair, and layout. On top of that, she's an extremely talented sculptor and graphic designer. Now she's a mother of four and is adding an addition to her home, mostly by hand. She'll send me text pictures of the bathroom floor she just mosaic-tiled by hand or the shower she just installed and I have to sit back and wonder if Bob Vila suddenly morphed into a hot chick.
Along her travels across the country, Shawn has met some really interesting people, some famous, some not, and some infamous. When Shawn called me during the winter to see if I wanted to go visit her longtime friend Tony down south, whom she met while she was working for Playboy, I said an instant yes. The divorce had been filed, I was stressed out, and this was just what I needed to relax for a few days.
She said, "I know you ride motorcycles. You know who Tony is, right?"
"No, but his name sounds kind of familiar."
"Don't you ever watch the Speed Channel? He's on there all the time. He's a famous motorcycle builder!"
I said, "Sorry, I don't know exactly who he is, but maybe I'll recognize him when I see him." It's been a long time since I've read Hot Bike Magazine and even longer since I dated a biker, so I'm not familiar with some of the hot bike builders these days.
She sighed and said, "OK, well whatever, but Tony is flying us down there and taking care of all our expenses."
I was incredulous, but so grateful because I already knew that I would end up motoring through my savings pretty quickly in this ludicrously expensive divorce process. Spending a weekend in warm weather and riding motorcycles for free with my girlfriend? How could life get any better?
So we packed up our bags and off we went. When Tony picked us up at the airport, I still didn't recognize him. He seemed nice enough, really attractive in that dark, dangerous sort of way, but sweet at the same time. While Shawn and Tony were catching up on the way to his shop where we were making a stop, I remained pretty quiet. I became utterly mute when it began to dawn on me that I did know Tony.
As we pulled into his shop, my hands started to shake. I looked at the shop's sign and asked Tony, "This isn't your shop, is it??" Of course it was.
I instantly knew the very famous shop name and realized that I've been wanting one of these bikes for years. He builds bikes that are sleek, shiny, sensual.... they positively scream sex. To me, anyway. I simply could not believe that I was sitting in the car with this bike builder. I was saying a silent thanks to Shawn for inviting me, because of all people who would appreciate this weekend, it was me.
Walking into his shop was like walking the red carpet at the Oscars, with people shouting out from all over, "Tony, over here! Tony, man, I rode all the way from Colorado just to meet you! Tony, will you take a picture with me?" But I barely paid attention because I needed to concentrate on keeping my mouth shut so that I wouldn't drool or perhaps even lick one of those glorious machines gracing his showroom floor. While he was taking care of business, I grabbed Shawn's hand and thanked her profusely, explaining that I knew exactly who Tony was now and I felt I was in the presence of greatness. She laughed mischievously and said, "I thought I told you the name of his shop!"
We eventually headed off to his house and commenced a fabulous weekend on his waterfront deck by the pool with a bottle of Dom. The special, protective relationship between Tony and Shawn quickly became clear to me. They had a fling at some point long ago, but now he looks out for her fiercely and would do literally anything for her. Beneath that tough bike builder is a heart of pure platinum.
We had a wild weekend. Friday night consisted of a wonderful Italian dinner, after which we found ourselves in a strip club. Of course, Shawn got a dance from a super hot blonde, while I was graced with a decidedly unenthusiastic dance from a worn-out, roundish lady who sighed, "Some dude just walked out the door and gave me money to dance for you. So I guess I have to." It was a blast nonetheless, and I bought some shiny trinkets from the bathroom attendant who told me, "May Jesus bless you." Those are words you just don't expect to hear in the bathroom of a strip club.
Tony took us out for a ride in his boat on Saturday and then to dinner at a new, hot restaurant that evening. He told us that we were going to dinner with a famous actor, and asked if I minded. He called the actor by his nickname, so I didn't recognize it, and he asked, "Didn't you see Most Famous Gangster Movie of All Time?" I hadn't. Shawn was dumbfounded. She said, "I can't believe you don't know who we're talking about!"
As soon as we reached the restaurant and met up with Actor and his friend, I recognized him. I still haven't seen Most Famous Gangster Movie of All Time, but I have seen the show of which he's the current star. I liked him right off the bat. We sat next to each other and chatted about marriage, divorce, where we lived, and how his next film should be shot in my city so we could hang out.
The night stretched into the wee hours, throughout which Actor was hounded for autographs as we migrated from club to club. We took some pictures, one of which Actor looked at and said to me, "Should we make this our Christmas card?" When a drunken girl slid over to me and asked, "Hey, can I have a threesome with you and Actor?" Actor put a protective arm around me and replied, "My wife and I are happy with each other, but thank you." Tony pulled me aside and whispered, "You know that I introduced Actor to several of his wives, right?" at which time Shawn and Tony dissolved into hysterics. Since I had been feeling so destroyed for so long, I thoroughly enjoyed the night and the attention, I admit it. It was one of the best nights I'd had in ages.
We weren't leaving until Sunday night, so that afternoon we decided to go out for a ride, Shawn on the back of Tony's bike and me on a loaner from his shop. I was terrified riding one of Tony's bikes, but as soon as I got on and hit the start button, my nerves disappeared. Riding motorcycles for me is like a spiritual experience. Somehow, the wind in my face, the ear-splitting crack of pipes, and the unfettered feeling of two wheels instead of four leaves all of my troubles far behind. For a girl like me, it was the perfect end to a glorious weekend.
During our ride, we stopped to have a late lunch. We had a few mimosas, after which Shawn and Tony began talking about the days when they were involved with each other. Shawn said, "We did some wild things, Almost. I don't remember a lot of it, but you wouldn't have believed some of my antics in those days. Hey, Tony, remember that time with the Heineken bottle?" They both laughed uproariously. I'm not sure I want to know exactly what happened with that bottle, but I can just imagine.
Tony said, "Wait, I thought it was Corona...."
This time, all three of us were laughing uncontrollably.
As lunch drew to a close, we realized that ominous clouds had formed over head, and I thought, "Crap, if I have to ride in the rain, I might lay down Tony's bike and then they'll both be sorry they invited me." I hate riding in the rain because the pavement becomes so slick and the rain stings your skin like tiny needles. Sure enough, the skies opened with a rainfall of torrential proportions.
I rode behind Tony, and indeed, almost laid down the bike, but not because of the rain. I was practically doubled over laughing because there was a huge rooster tail of water spitting up from Tony's back wheel that was giving Shawn a water wedgie like nothing I've ever seen. I watched her frantically try to cover her butt, but her diminutive hand was no match for the 6 foot geyser soaking her entire back and probably giving her an unwanted enema.
By the time we reached Tony's shop, we were all literally dripping wet and laughing at how absurd we all looked. Shawn and I were going to be late for the airport, but we really needed to change because "drowned rat" is too attractive a term to describe our appearances. There was no time for running into the bathroom for privacy because we only had seconds to spare, so Shawn and I stripped down and changed right in front of the plate glass windows of Tony's shop while Tony covered his eyes, shouting, "I'm not looking, I swear!"
The weekend for me was salve on my heart's wounds. Shawn had recognized that I was stretched to the limit of my sanity, and she reached out a helping hand to me by inviting me on this trip. Actor had comforted me by telling me that he'd been through divorce, and yes, you do survive. Tony extended his protectiveness to me in a sense, at one point growling, "Ex is a f*cking assh*le," which seems small, but a little comment like that means the world when you're feeling beaten up. And riding motorcycles, even in the rain, with Shawn and a new friend was the best feeling I'd had in months.
We made our flight, arrived safely back in our city, and called Tony. Shawn handed me her phone when he answered and I said, "Hey, have you had a Heineken lately?" All three of us were laughing once again.
I'm still not sure that Shawn has any idea of the magnitude of that weekend's healing effects on me, but I will always be grateful for her gift of laughter and a few days in which my troubles were a couple thousand miles away.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Green Food Dye and Latex
I didn't intend to discuss any morbid topics on this blog, especially this early, so after last night's somber post I thought it would be good equilibrium to write about something humorous. Since Lauren is a primary source of constant laughs and I'm a tad out of sorts this afternoon, I thought I'd tell you a little story about one of her fabulous revenge tactics. She is the queen of redress! Harmless, of course.
Lauren was with her son's father for about 4 years. During her pregnancy he pulled a Houdini and we pretty much thought that he'd been abducted by Xenu, but in reality he was just running scared. On the night Lauren went into labor, Jay showed up at the hospital to celebrate the joyous event of his son's birth. I believe she uttered something to him along the lines of, "Nice to see you showed up, Father of the Year." But that's a side note.
About 3 months after their son was born, Lauren moved in with Jay. He wanted to get back together and play house, convincingly arguing that he was ready to settle down and that he'd realized the error of his ways. He really seemed sincere in his profuse apologies and promises to make everything up to her. Just a short time later, though, Jay returned from a business trip. He threw down his duffel bag in the bedroom, got into the shower, and called out to Lauren, "Can you go in my bag and get me my shaving cream?"
She went into his bag and, indeed, found the shaving cream. What she also found was a pair of earrings (not hers), a thong (not hers), and a slip of paper with a woman's first name and phone number in the jeans he'd so carelessly left on the bed. Composing herself as she always does, she didn't say a word to him and handed the shaving cream over the shower door, meanwhile hiding the thong, earrings, and phone number.
Over the next couple of days, Lauren did some sleuthing. I swear, that girl has a future in private investigation. Through the wonders of the internet and her own ingenuity, she figured out the full name, home, and business addresses of the mysterious woman from the slip of paper in Jay's jeans.
Packing the woman's belongings in a manila folder, Lauren included their son's birth announcement along with a letter and promptly sent the package. The letter wasn't vindictive. She simply pointed out some of Jay's less-than-finer points and ended by saying, "You can have him!" It's my understanding that the woman was quite surprised to learn that Jay was not only attached, but also had a son and refused to ever see him again.
But Lauren was still mad and she wanted some harmless revenge. She obtained a new syringe (thank goodness we have doctor friends) and filled it with green food dye, which you can't scrub off for days no matter how hard you try. Locating Jay's stash of condoms for his road trips, she injected each separate packet with the dye, being very careful not to pierce the actual condom.
Not too much time passed before Jay showed up after a trip, guilty at being caught red-handed. Or more accurately, make that green-handed.
Lauren was with her son's father for about 4 years. During her pregnancy he pulled a Houdini and we pretty much thought that he'd been abducted by Xenu, but in reality he was just running scared. On the night Lauren went into labor, Jay showed up at the hospital to celebrate the joyous event of his son's birth. I believe she uttered something to him along the lines of, "Nice to see you showed up, Father of the Year." But that's a side note.
About 3 months after their son was born, Lauren moved in with Jay. He wanted to get back together and play house, convincingly arguing that he was ready to settle down and that he'd realized the error of his ways. He really seemed sincere in his profuse apologies and promises to make everything up to her. Just a short time later, though, Jay returned from a business trip. He threw down his duffel bag in the bedroom, got into the shower, and called out to Lauren, "Can you go in my bag and get me my shaving cream?"
She went into his bag and, indeed, found the shaving cream. What she also found was a pair of earrings (not hers), a thong (not hers), and a slip of paper with a woman's first name and phone number in the jeans he'd so carelessly left on the bed. Composing herself as she always does, she didn't say a word to him and handed the shaving cream over the shower door, meanwhile hiding the thong, earrings, and phone number.
Over the next couple of days, Lauren did some sleuthing. I swear, that girl has a future in private investigation. Through the wonders of the internet and her own ingenuity, she figured out the full name, home, and business addresses of the mysterious woman from the slip of paper in Jay's jeans.
Packing the woman's belongings in a manila folder, Lauren included their son's birth announcement along with a letter and promptly sent the package. The letter wasn't vindictive. She simply pointed out some of Jay's less-than-finer points and ended by saying, "You can have him!" It's my understanding that the woman was quite surprised to learn that Jay was not only attached, but also had a son and refused to ever see him again.
But Lauren was still mad and she wanted some harmless revenge. She obtained a new syringe (thank goodness we have doctor friends) and filled it with green food dye, which you can't scrub off for days no matter how hard you try. Locating Jay's stash of condoms for his road trips, she injected each separate packet with the dye, being very careful not to pierce the actual condom.
Not too much time passed before Jay showed up after a trip, guilty at being caught red-handed. Or more accurately, make that green-handed.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Oh, balls.
It's pretty early in my blogging life to lay this one on you, and even for my friends (you know who you are, and the others who are reading are thanks to Barmaid), this is probably the first you're hearing about this.
My cousin offed himself tonight (not afore mentioned Newscaster Cousin, but a different one). Shot himself in the head, apparently, although we don't have all the details yet. He has a baby, too. Had. Sorry.
I'm disturbed, sad, a bit wacked out. My cousin J. and I weren't super close, but he did confide in me once at another cousin's wedding that he felt closest to me because I seemed to understand him. He was sleeved in tattoos and had 4 tongue rings. I suppose that in our family that wasn't the most acceptable of airs, where we're all attuned to appearances, well-educated and well-versed in terms of appropriate etiquette, though I have a couple of piercings and several tattoos as well. Maybe that's why he thought us to be kindred spirits. I'd prefer to think that it's because I genuinely liked him and found him to be a fascinating person.
J. didn't have the most spotless past, having spent time in the joint for a variety of infractions. I can't defend him on those actions - he was clearly wrong. However, I remember J. visiting my family's house when he was little.... a super-sensitive, smart-as-a-whip kid drinking in the love of my family, relishing every second of it. My Mom used to tell me that if anyone would be affected by the wrongs of the world, it would be him.
I didn't return J.'s last calls to me. He had first asked if he could visit. I was afraid of him in my house, given that I own a gun and he had a history of violence, though never with firearms until tonight. He called me 2 months later to announce that he was going to be a proud father soon. I can't believe that I couldn't find 5 minutes out of my day to call him and congratulate him.
I can't begin to fathom what drove him to shoot himself, but I look at my drama with Ex and I have to put things into perspective. Though I'll, of course, continue to post nutjob stories of Ex and my friends' crazy, fun moments, this puts a lot of my own struggle into perspective. I am clearly not facing J.'s level of pain, and I'm grateful for that. I have to take a little time out tonight and hope that J. is in a better place wherein he's found peace. I just wish he had chosen another route. Maybe he didn't think he had a choice.
R.I.P., J. I'm just sorry that you were in so much pain that it ended this way. And I'm really sorry that I never called you back.
My cousin offed himself tonight (not afore mentioned Newscaster Cousin, but a different one). Shot himself in the head, apparently, although we don't have all the details yet. He has a baby, too. Had. Sorry.
I'm disturbed, sad, a bit wacked out. My cousin J. and I weren't super close, but he did confide in me once at another cousin's wedding that he felt closest to me because I seemed to understand him. He was sleeved in tattoos and had 4 tongue rings. I suppose that in our family that wasn't the most acceptable of airs, where we're all attuned to appearances, well-educated and well-versed in terms of appropriate etiquette, though I have a couple of piercings and several tattoos as well. Maybe that's why he thought us to be kindred spirits. I'd prefer to think that it's because I genuinely liked him and found him to be a fascinating person.
J. didn't have the most spotless past, having spent time in the joint for a variety of infractions. I can't defend him on those actions - he was clearly wrong. However, I remember J. visiting my family's house when he was little.... a super-sensitive, smart-as-a-whip kid drinking in the love of my family, relishing every second of it. My Mom used to tell me that if anyone would be affected by the wrongs of the world, it would be him.
I didn't return J.'s last calls to me. He had first asked if he could visit. I was afraid of him in my house, given that I own a gun and he had a history of violence, though never with firearms until tonight. He called me 2 months later to announce that he was going to be a proud father soon. I can't believe that I couldn't find 5 minutes out of my day to call him and congratulate him.
I can't begin to fathom what drove him to shoot himself, but I look at my drama with Ex and I have to put things into perspective. Though I'll, of course, continue to post nutjob stories of Ex and my friends' crazy, fun moments, this puts a lot of my own struggle into perspective. I am clearly not facing J.'s level of pain, and I'm grateful for that. I have to take a little time out tonight and hope that J. is in a better place wherein he's found peace. I just wish he had chosen another route. Maybe he didn't think he had a choice.
R.I.P., J. I'm just sorry that you were in so much pain that it ended this way. And I'm really sorry that I never called you back.
Forgery, The Suspicious Husband's Best Friend
Around December of 2005, Ex asked me if I wanted him to take over my cell phone bill and assume it onto his corporate account. Up until that time, we'd had separate cell phone bills, and it never occurred to me to combine them. When he asked if that would be OK, I shrugged and told him to bring me the paperwork.
I was hesitant. I wasn't stepping out on him or anything of the sort, but I already knew that he had a predilection for suspicion, since I was pretty sure he'd put a private investigator on me during our first year of marriage. I can't prove it since Ex likes to do everything in cash, but let's just say I have good reason to believe that he had me followed. Too bad he came up with a big, fat zero for all that cash. Those PIs are pricey.
So when I was faced with the decision of whether or not I should let Ex assume my cell bill, I was concerned despite the fact that I had absolutely nothing to hide. I figured I'd just let it ride until he presented me with the paperwork and I'd see how I felt about it at that time.
Ex never came up with paperwork, so I figured that he was probably busy and would get around to it at some point. Several months later, I realized that I hadn't received my monthly bill. I called Acme Wireless and inquired about my balance, to which they replied, "This isn't your cell phone number. It belongs to Bug-the-Crap-Out-of-Your-Wife-Until-She-Leaves-You Company."
I was pretty shocked that my wireless company hadn't contacted me to approve the switch and I was even more surprised that they apparently didn't require paperwork. But I didn't protest. I figured, hey, if Ex wants to pay for my cell phone bill, so be it.
Ex was out of the country for a couple of weeks in the fall of 2006. During that time, I went into our joint Intelius account (Intelius, for those of you who don't know, finds owners of phone records, home addresses, and criminal records for a fee). Ex was hiring some new management and had asked me to run a background check on a potential employee.
But when I went into the account, what I found was a list of phone numbers upon which he'd run ownership checks. Phone numbers that I recognized. Numbers that I had called. Within the last month. What I found amusing about the whole thing was that, had he been a little smarter, he would have entered the numbers into his own phone and found 3 out of the 4 numbers were his friends as well. The fourth was Lawyer.
Ex had been tracking me through various means for months by this time (more on that later), and I was already getting fed up, but running my cell phone numbers was really the final straw. I wanted out and I went on a mission to get my cell phone number back under my own name, hoping to get it done before Ex returned from his trip. I called my wireless provider and asked the rep how it was possible that Ex had assumed my cell phone bill without them even contacting me. She was perplexed and told me that a change of ownership requires the signature of both parties. I explained my situation and asked her to please, please, please find the form that must have been signed. Sure enough, within a half hour, Goddess Customer Service Rep emailed me a copy of the form.
Ex had forged my signature. And badly.
To say that I was pissed off was an understatement. By this time, I was already the proud owner of a bug sweeper (yes, it was necessary, believe it or not), I had switched out the highway toll pass he'd given me and purchased my own so he couldn't track my car online, and I'd password-protected my computer so he couldn't read my emails anymore. Now I had to deal with getting my cell phone bill back, and it was no easy task.
Over the course of the next week, I went back and forth with the fraud department, who sent me to the business department, who sent me to the fraud department, who sent me to accounting, who told me to go to the police and press charges. It went on like that ad nauseum.
I was unable to gain ownership of my cell phone bill before Ex arrived back in the States. Upon his return, I showed him the evidence and asked for a separation. That didn't go over too well, but I moved out the next day and regained ownership of my cell phone bill the following week.
Ex has a family history of paranoid behavior, which I unfortunately didn't find out until after we were married. One of his family members takes everything out of the refrigerator before she leaves the house, puts it in a bag to carry along, and padlocks the refrigerator shut because she believes that someone is going to break into her house and take the contents of the fridge. The would-be robbers wouldn't want her jewelry, but they'd definitely want those dozen eggs and half carton of milk. She's also convinced that someone takes her car at night for joyrides, but she says she's OK with that, since they always wash it and fill it with gas. As funny as I found these stories, had I known about them before the I Dos perhaps I would have thought twice before walking down the aisle.
I was hesitant. I wasn't stepping out on him or anything of the sort, but I already knew that he had a predilection for suspicion, since I was pretty sure he'd put a private investigator on me during our first year of marriage. I can't prove it since Ex likes to do everything in cash, but let's just say I have good reason to believe that he had me followed. Too bad he came up with a big, fat zero for all that cash. Those PIs are pricey.
So when I was faced with the decision of whether or not I should let Ex assume my cell bill, I was concerned despite the fact that I had absolutely nothing to hide. I figured I'd just let it ride until he presented me with the paperwork and I'd see how I felt about it at that time.
Ex never came up with paperwork, so I figured that he was probably busy and would get around to it at some point. Several months later, I realized that I hadn't received my monthly bill. I called Acme Wireless and inquired about my balance, to which they replied, "This isn't your cell phone number. It belongs to Bug-the-Crap-Out-of-Your-Wife-Until-She-Leaves-You Company."
I was pretty shocked that my wireless company hadn't contacted me to approve the switch and I was even more surprised that they apparently didn't require paperwork. But I didn't protest. I figured, hey, if Ex wants to pay for my cell phone bill, so be it.
Ex was out of the country for a couple of weeks in the fall of 2006. During that time, I went into our joint Intelius account (Intelius, for those of you who don't know, finds owners of phone records, home addresses, and criminal records for a fee). Ex was hiring some new management and had asked me to run a background check on a potential employee.
But when I went into the account, what I found was a list of phone numbers upon which he'd run ownership checks. Phone numbers that I recognized. Numbers that I had called. Within the last month. What I found amusing about the whole thing was that, had he been a little smarter, he would have entered the numbers into his own phone and found 3 out of the 4 numbers were his friends as well. The fourth was Lawyer.
Ex had been tracking me through various means for months by this time (more on that later), and I was already getting fed up, but running my cell phone numbers was really the final straw. I wanted out and I went on a mission to get my cell phone number back under my own name, hoping to get it done before Ex returned from his trip. I called my wireless provider and asked the rep how it was possible that Ex had assumed my cell phone bill without them even contacting me. She was perplexed and told me that a change of ownership requires the signature of both parties. I explained my situation and asked her to please, please, please find the form that must have been signed. Sure enough, within a half hour, Goddess Customer Service Rep emailed me a copy of the form.
Ex had forged my signature. And badly.
To say that I was pissed off was an understatement. By this time, I was already the proud owner of a bug sweeper (yes, it was necessary, believe it or not), I had switched out the highway toll pass he'd given me and purchased my own so he couldn't track my car online, and I'd password-protected my computer so he couldn't read my emails anymore. Now I had to deal with getting my cell phone bill back, and it was no easy task.
Over the course of the next week, I went back and forth with the fraud department, who sent me to the business department, who sent me to the fraud department, who sent me to accounting, who told me to go to the police and press charges. It went on like that ad nauseum.
I was unable to gain ownership of my cell phone bill before Ex arrived back in the States. Upon his return, I showed him the evidence and asked for a separation. That didn't go over too well, but I moved out the next day and regained ownership of my cell phone bill the following week.
Ex has a family history of paranoid behavior, which I unfortunately didn't find out until after we were married. One of his family members takes everything out of the refrigerator before she leaves the house, puts it in a bag to carry along, and padlocks the refrigerator shut because she believes that someone is going to break into her house and take the contents of the fridge. The would-be robbers wouldn't want her jewelry, but they'd definitely want those dozen eggs and half carton of milk. She's also convinced that someone takes her car at night for joyrides, but she says she's OK with that, since they always wash it and fill it with gas. As funny as I found these stories, had I known about them before the I Dos perhaps I would have thought twice before walking down the aisle.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Best Boyfriend Ever
My best friend Ava and I have known each other for going on 15 years now. We met freshman year of college where she lived across the hall from me. We were destined to become best friends for so many reasons, but for the first month of school we would pass in the hallway and each throw the other a dirty look. I'm not sure why we did that and I can't even recall how we first started talking to each other, but we practically flunked out of freshman year because all we did was stay up all night talking and laughing. Cracking a book was pretty much out of the question.
Over the years, we've developed a completely different language that nobody else can understand. When we use words from our language in front of other people, they generally look at us as if we've sprouted fifth limbs. We call each other MODI, which stands for something we've never revealed to anyone else, but that name has also taken on a life of its own at this point and means so much more than it did originally. She and I laugh about how we're each other's Best Boyfriend Ever, since we've had our share of dysfunctional relationships and the one consistently good relationship we've both had is each other. Don't get me wrong, we don't have a romantic relationship, but we are definitely soul mates and I feel pretty sure we're going to end up in rocking chairs together at the nursing home someday. We laugh when we tell people that we fell in love when we were 18, and they inevitably look at us like we just stepped out of an alien warcraft.
Bizarrely enough, every boyfriend that we've ever had has been jealous of our relationship. The only fight that we've ever had in 15 years was over a boyfriend of Ava's that was so envious, he tried to drive a wedge in between us. He's history. I've had boyfriends who have asked me, "Why aren't we as close as you and Ava?"
Ava and I have been through a million and one different things together, and even though we don't live in the same city, we try to get together once a month or so. She's only a 50 minute flight away, so it's pretty convenient. Our weekends together always end up filled with adventures, late nights, and countless bottles of wine. Our livers and lungs hate us after our visits, but the weekends are so much fun that it's totally worth it.
Late last spring, Ava came to visit me for a weekend. At that time, Ex and I were still living together, and though I was already coming to terms with the fact that I was miserable, I had yet to find out about The Great Email Debacle. Wanting to hang out downtown and refusing to spend our weekend in Suburban Hell, Ava and I rented a hotel room in the city and spent the weekend there.
Ava and I had been planning to get tattoos of our nickname for years, and that Sunday afternoon we chose to do it. She had finally tracked down someone who could phonetically translate MODI into Chinese characters. It turned out that MO was one character and DI was another, so we chose to each get one, and when another 15 years passes, we'll each get the other.
Since Ava wasn't leaving until Monday, I called Ex on Sunday and invited him to come downtown and hang out with us for the afternoon. He asked what we were planning to do, so I told him about the tattoos and our plans to migrate afterwards to Outdoor Bar with great people-watching.
30 full seconds of silence ensued.
I said, "Ex, are you still there?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
"I refuse to spend time in a tattoo parlor. I don't waste my time with lowlifes."
And then he hung up on me.
I turned to Ava and said, "Well, that went well. Let's go."
So we headed off to the tattoo parlor, got our tattoos, and I called Ex as we were walking out the door. I asked, "Are you going to meet us?"
"I'm already here. I've been at the corner of the tattoo parlor for over an hour. I can see you right now."
Creepy. But I said, "OK, well, we're heading to Outdoor Bar, so meet us there."
Click. He'd hung up on me again.
The afternoon was extremely uncomfortable. We were sitting at Outdoor Bar, Ex across from me and Ava next to me. I didn't know who had peed in Ex's Cheerios that morning, but he was all thunder and storm, barely saying a word. He didn't ask either of us to show him our tattoos. To make matters worse, I must have been throwing off some pheromones or something, because as Ex was brooding in his rage and pissing us both off that he was ruining the afternoon, I got hit on more than I have in the past 3 years combined. The guy next to us, who was in town on business from South America, started up a conversation and we ended up speaking in Spanish to one another. He asked me out in Spanish and I laughed, telling him that it was my husband who was sitting across from me. A girl approached a little while later and sat down next to me, saying, "I know this seems kind of creepy, but my friend thinks you're really hot and he's too shy to ask you out, so would you go over and introduce yourself?" Things like this kept happening all afternoon, and Ex was growing more and more..... actually, he was just growing, because when he gets mad I think he actually grows in height to about 10 feet tall. He was enraged. It was exacerbating an already uncomfortable situation, and I still couldn't figure out why Ex was so upset in the first place.
Ava and I went to the bathroom together, and she said, "MODI, I don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my life."
"Me neither. I'm so sorry to end the weekend like this."
"But it's funny how you keep getting hit on and it's making Ex so mad!" We both dissolved into laughter because it was so absurd that it was funny.
We arrived back at the house where Ex and I lived at around 9. Ava went to sleep almost immediately because we had to be up early to get her to the airport on time. I needed to check some emails, so I got on my computer. I spotted an email from a guy I'd met on a recent trip to Europe and saw the little arrow icon that indicates the message had been forwarded. I knew that I hadn't forwarded that email to anyone, so I went into my sent folder, confusion and rage beginning to grow.
The email had been forwarded at 1:42 PM. To Ex. That same day. When Ava and I were downtown.
I wasn't entirely sure that Ex had actually forwarded the email at first. I thought, "He didn't - wouldn't - really do that, right?" Ex was in the basement watching TV, so I went downstairs and asked him, "Ex, were you on my computer today?"
"Of course not. Why would I do that?"
"Are you sure that's your final answer?"
Ex began to cry. He said that he thought I was having an affair and he needed to find out. I told him he had no reason to think that I was having an affair. He wanted to know why the email he'd forwarded to himself was signed "big kisses." I told him that the guy who had emailed me was foreign and they kiss everyone, including other men. I again asked him why he would think I was having an affair.
He said, "How about that Spanish dude you were talking to today? Are you meeting him later? Is he better looking than me? And what about all of that being hit on? Do you enjoy it? Was it fun for you?"
I replied somewhat incredulously, "You're jealous, aren't you?"
He became enraged again. He shouted, "Yes, I'm jealous! I'm jealous of Ava, I'm jealous of the Spanish guy, and I'm jealous of Mr. European Big Kisses! And why did you go off of the birth control pill right before you went to Europe, hmmmm?" dripping with sarcasm and insinuating that I went off of the pill in order to have sex romps with European hotties. His argument made no sense at all because I have never wanted children, and Ex knows this very well.
I actually found this illogical argument funny. "Hellooo, Ex," I thought, "I went off of the pill because we haven't had sex in a year, so what's the point?" I stifled a laugh. I said, "Um, Ex, let's think about this. If I had wanted to have sex with European men, I would have stayed ON the pill."
His look of confusion, then thoughtfulness, then realization was priceless.
He didn't even address his insanely illogical accusation and said something that blew my mind. "But you never asked me for permission to get a tattoo! And you know what else, you never asked me for permission to go off of the pill, either!"
That moment crystallized for me in colors of rage, betrayal, and coldness swimming before my eyes. It was a feeling I can't quite describe, in which time seemed to slow and my thoughts were oddly and serenely concrete. I looked him square in the eye and calmly said, "Since when did you gain ownership of my uterus, or my skin, for that matter?"
Realizing that his suspicion of unfaithfulness was untrue and that the "permission" comments were way over the line, he begged for forgiveness and started punching himself in the head over and over. Frankly, I was frightened. In order to diffuse the situation and hopefully save him from a self-inflicted traumatic brain injury I said, "We'll work this out later. I'm going to bed."
The next morning, Ava took her bag outside and I backed the car out of the garage. I saw in my rearview mirror that Ex gave her a hug and said something. I could see that she looked puzzled. She got in the car and said, "MODI, the weirdest thing just happened. Ex just told me that it was the last time he'd see me because you were probably going to divorce him. What happened?"
I told her the story and said, "MODI, this is just one more reason why you'll always be my Best Boyfriend Ever."
So currently, I'm DI and my Best Boyfriend Ever is MO. Or perhaps I'm Beef and she's Broccoli or I'm Kung Pao and she's Chicken, since we have no way of knowing what these indelibly marked characters really mean. No matter, I'm grateful to have a best friend like her and I'm happy to be Kung Pao to her Chicken.
Over the years, we've developed a completely different language that nobody else can understand. When we use words from our language in front of other people, they generally look at us as if we've sprouted fifth limbs. We call each other MODI, which stands for something we've never revealed to anyone else, but that name has also taken on a life of its own at this point and means so much more than it did originally. She and I laugh about how we're each other's Best Boyfriend Ever, since we've had our share of dysfunctional relationships and the one consistently good relationship we've both had is each other. Don't get me wrong, we don't have a romantic relationship, but we are definitely soul mates and I feel pretty sure we're going to end up in rocking chairs together at the nursing home someday. We laugh when we tell people that we fell in love when we were 18, and they inevitably look at us like we just stepped out of an alien warcraft.
Bizarrely enough, every boyfriend that we've ever had has been jealous of our relationship. The only fight that we've ever had in 15 years was over a boyfriend of Ava's that was so envious, he tried to drive a wedge in between us. He's history. I've had boyfriends who have asked me, "Why aren't we as close as you and Ava?"
Ava and I have been through a million and one different things together, and even though we don't live in the same city, we try to get together once a month or so. She's only a 50 minute flight away, so it's pretty convenient. Our weekends together always end up filled with adventures, late nights, and countless bottles of wine. Our livers and lungs hate us after our visits, but the weekends are so much fun that it's totally worth it.
Late last spring, Ava came to visit me for a weekend. At that time, Ex and I were still living together, and though I was already coming to terms with the fact that I was miserable, I had yet to find out about The Great Email Debacle. Wanting to hang out downtown and refusing to spend our weekend in Suburban Hell, Ava and I rented a hotel room in the city and spent the weekend there.
Ava and I had been planning to get tattoos of our nickname for years, and that Sunday afternoon we chose to do it. She had finally tracked down someone who could phonetically translate MODI into Chinese characters. It turned out that MO was one character and DI was another, so we chose to each get one, and when another 15 years passes, we'll each get the other.
Since Ava wasn't leaving until Monday, I called Ex on Sunday and invited him to come downtown and hang out with us for the afternoon. He asked what we were planning to do, so I told him about the tattoos and our plans to migrate afterwards to Outdoor Bar with great people-watching.
30 full seconds of silence ensued.
I said, "Ex, are you still there?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
"I refuse to spend time in a tattoo parlor. I don't waste my time with lowlifes."
And then he hung up on me.
I turned to Ava and said, "Well, that went well. Let's go."
So we headed off to the tattoo parlor, got our tattoos, and I called Ex as we were walking out the door. I asked, "Are you going to meet us?"
"I'm already here. I've been at the corner of the tattoo parlor for over an hour. I can see you right now."
Creepy. But I said, "OK, well, we're heading to Outdoor Bar, so meet us there."
Click. He'd hung up on me again.
The afternoon was extremely uncomfortable. We were sitting at Outdoor Bar, Ex across from me and Ava next to me. I didn't know who had peed in Ex's Cheerios that morning, but he was all thunder and storm, barely saying a word. He didn't ask either of us to show him our tattoos. To make matters worse, I must have been throwing off some pheromones or something, because as Ex was brooding in his rage and pissing us both off that he was ruining the afternoon, I got hit on more than I have in the past 3 years combined. The guy next to us, who was in town on business from South America, started up a conversation and we ended up speaking in Spanish to one another. He asked me out in Spanish and I laughed, telling him that it was my husband who was sitting across from me. A girl approached a little while later and sat down next to me, saying, "I know this seems kind of creepy, but my friend thinks you're really hot and he's too shy to ask you out, so would you go over and introduce yourself?" Things like this kept happening all afternoon, and Ex was growing more and more..... actually, he was just growing, because when he gets mad I think he actually grows in height to about 10 feet tall. He was enraged. It was exacerbating an already uncomfortable situation, and I still couldn't figure out why Ex was so upset in the first place.
Ava and I went to the bathroom together, and she said, "MODI, I don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my life."
"Me neither. I'm so sorry to end the weekend like this."
"But it's funny how you keep getting hit on and it's making Ex so mad!" We both dissolved into laughter because it was so absurd that it was funny.
We arrived back at the house where Ex and I lived at around 9. Ava went to sleep almost immediately because we had to be up early to get her to the airport on time. I needed to check some emails, so I got on my computer. I spotted an email from a guy I'd met on a recent trip to Europe and saw the little arrow icon that indicates the message had been forwarded. I knew that I hadn't forwarded that email to anyone, so I went into my sent folder, confusion and rage beginning to grow.
The email had been forwarded at 1:42 PM. To Ex. That same day. When Ava and I were downtown.
I wasn't entirely sure that Ex had actually forwarded the email at first. I thought, "He didn't - wouldn't - really do that, right?" Ex was in the basement watching TV, so I went downstairs and asked him, "Ex, were you on my computer today?"
"Of course not. Why would I do that?"
"Are you sure that's your final answer?"
Ex began to cry. He said that he thought I was having an affair and he needed to find out. I told him he had no reason to think that I was having an affair. He wanted to know why the email he'd forwarded to himself was signed "big kisses." I told him that the guy who had emailed me was foreign and they kiss everyone, including other men. I again asked him why he would think I was having an affair.
He said, "How about that Spanish dude you were talking to today? Are you meeting him later? Is he better looking than me? And what about all of that being hit on? Do you enjoy it? Was it fun for you?"
I replied somewhat incredulously, "You're jealous, aren't you?"
He became enraged again. He shouted, "Yes, I'm jealous! I'm jealous of Ava, I'm jealous of the Spanish guy, and I'm jealous of Mr. European Big Kisses! And why did you go off of the birth control pill right before you went to Europe, hmmmm?" dripping with sarcasm and insinuating that I went off of the pill in order to have sex romps with European hotties. His argument made no sense at all because I have never wanted children, and Ex knows this very well.
I actually found this illogical argument funny. "Hellooo, Ex," I thought, "I went off of the pill because we haven't had sex in a year, so what's the point?" I stifled a laugh. I said, "Um, Ex, let's think about this. If I had wanted to have sex with European men, I would have stayed ON the pill."
His look of confusion, then thoughtfulness, then realization was priceless.
He didn't even address his insanely illogical accusation and said something that blew my mind. "But you never asked me for permission to get a tattoo! And you know what else, you never asked me for permission to go off of the pill, either!"
That moment crystallized for me in colors of rage, betrayal, and coldness swimming before my eyes. It was a feeling I can't quite describe, in which time seemed to slow and my thoughts were oddly and serenely concrete. I looked him square in the eye and calmly said, "Since when did you gain ownership of my uterus, or my skin, for that matter?"
Realizing that his suspicion of unfaithfulness was untrue and that the "permission" comments were way over the line, he begged for forgiveness and started punching himself in the head over and over. Frankly, I was frightened. In order to diffuse the situation and hopefully save him from a self-inflicted traumatic brain injury I said, "We'll work this out later. I'm going to bed."
The next morning, Ava took her bag outside and I backed the car out of the garage. I saw in my rearview mirror that Ex gave her a hug and said something. I could see that she looked puzzled. She got in the car and said, "MODI, the weirdest thing just happened. Ex just told me that it was the last time he'd see me because you were probably going to divorce him. What happened?"
I told her the story and said, "MODI, this is just one more reason why you'll always be my Best Boyfriend Ever."
So currently, I'm DI and my Best Boyfriend Ever is MO. Or perhaps I'm Beef and she's Broccoli or I'm Kung Pao and she's Chicken, since we have no way of knowing what these indelibly marked characters really mean. No matter, I'm grateful to have a best friend like her and I'm happy to be Kung Pao to her Chicken.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Christmastime Fun
Christmas fell about a month and a half after I got married. Though the honeymoon was truly a torturous event and Ex and I were already talking about how this might or might not be working out (more on that in the future), we had nevertheless committed to hosting Christmas Eve dinner for both his family and mine, the latter of whom were flying in for the holiday. Tickets were already booked and there was no time to back out of our obligation. Despite my lack of cooking skills coupled with my angry awe that my flowery, naive notions of marriage were quickly dissipating, I was still determined to put on a Christmas dinner that would please and respect everyone.
When I say "respect," I mean that Ex's family members, to whom he seems inextricably bound with apron strings of steel, have very specific traditions. Ex is first-generation American and his parents arrived in the States from Eastern Europe when they were teenagers, so needless to say, the ties to his family's ethnic culture are fierce. On the other hand, my family has been here for many generations and we have a somewhat more casual approach to holidays, wherein we have no problem participating in others' traditions. In fact, we all enjoy learning about other cultures and their practices.
In the spirit of "enjoyment of other cultures," I delved into Ex's traditional holiday practices with enthusiasm. I knew that his family wasn't thrilled that I was not of Ex's same culture and I was painfully aware that they were even less excited that I wasn't Catholic. Christmas Eve, however, was a chance to prove to them that I wasn't a lost cause. I could cook! (I couldn't at that time, but I could still mix a mean drink.) I would show respect for their traditions and they would like me! (I did, and they didn't.) Ex would fall madly in love with me again because his family finally approved! (I can't say anything with regard to the former, but the latter clearly didn't transpire.)
I spent 2 weeks researching their ethnic approach to Christmas Eve online and in the library. I looked up recipes (serving turkey on Christmas Eve surely would have resulted in my theoretical burning at the stake), I looked up prayers in their native language, and I prepared myself for every possible eventuality of which I could conceive. Except for the very formidable, hurricane-force Mother-In-Law.
By the time Christmas Eve had arrived, I had spent close to $800 on food and alcohol and had been cooking for 3 days. My parents had already flown in and my Mom was helping me cook everything that I had spent painstaking hours preparing. The hour soon arrived in which I expected my in-laws to burst through the door with great appreciation that I had gone to such lengths to prepare them an authentic dinner in accord with their traditions.
I had moved to the suburbs (my personal version of Hell) after I was married and the kitchen was at the back of the house, from which point I had a very clear view of the parking area of the driveway. As I was washing off a knife in the kitchen sink, I saw headlights approach and thought, "This is it, they're here. They're actually going to like me now!"
But as I saw my mother-in-law get out of the car and move to her trunk, my heart began sinking. She unloaded a couple of bags of gifts, yes, but she also unloaded a large cardboard box and a few other bags with items inside that I couldn't yet identify. My Mom looked at me and said, "Are you OK?"
"I'm OK, Mom."
"But your hands are shaking."
"I know, Mom, it's a family trait." But my hands weren't shaking because of the family history of hypoglycemia, they were shaking because I was beginning to realize what was happening.
My mother-in-law burst through the door with an enormous cardboard box filled with an entire smoked salmon and countless other preparations and variety of fish, as well as several plastic bags filled with potatoes, vegetables, and specific ethnic foods of their tradition. I was speechless, and for me to have nothing to say is a feat in and of itself. I have to give her props on that one.
My Mom to this day still says to me, "Almost, I'll never forget it. It's like she bumped me out of the way with one hip, bumped you out of the way with the other, and we were instantly irrelevant to the remainder of the evening."
My Mom is right. Mother-In-Law dropped her box and bags on the kitchen table and walked over to the stove where my Mom and I were cooking. She scrutinized the various pots and said, "Well, this is garbage."
I was simply stunned into silence as she proceeded to dump everything that I had been cooking into the trash or garbage disposal and set out the food she had brought in its place. It was if I had been shamed into stone. I couldn't move except to pour myself several glasses of champagne to try and loosen my tongue out of its entombment, but I was still unable to utter a single protest.
I was aware that my Mom was looking at me intently to determine how I was handling this travesty, but if I had looked at her and seen anything resembling concern, I would have lost it. I knew that I had to make it through dinner. And somehow, I did just that.
However, as soon as dinner was over, I left the dishes, left the group that had amassed around the after-dinner drinks, grabbed a bottle of Krug, and went upstairs to the bedroom with my champagne glass.
I took a Xanax (no, I'm not proud of mixing a benzodiazepine with alcohol, but I was desperate) and poured myself another glass of champagne. Soon after, my Mom opened the door to the bedroom and I felt hot tears burning the back of my throat and eyes just at the comforting sight of her. She sat down on the bed next to me, put her arms around me, and said, "Oh, baby girl, I'm so sorry." I spent much of the rest of the evening there with my Mom, whose empathy earned her a tear-stained sweater, and she only left me when Ex came upstairs after the oh-so-festive evening concluded.
I can't fault Ex entirely because I believe he felt badly that night, but he still hadn't stood up for me at all, nor had he said a single word to his mother about the inappropriate nature of her actions. When I was finally on the verge of sleep, I made a promise to myself. The next time I hosted Christmas Eve for the in-laws (or any other holiday, for that matter), I would drink that bottle of Krug before they arrived.
When I say "respect," I mean that Ex's family members, to whom he seems inextricably bound with apron strings of steel, have very specific traditions. Ex is first-generation American and his parents arrived in the States from Eastern Europe when they were teenagers, so needless to say, the ties to his family's ethnic culture are fierce. On the other hand, my family has been here for many generations and we have a somewhat more casual approach to holidays, wherein we have no problem participating in others' traditions. In fact, we all enjoy learning about other cultures and their practices.
In the spirit of "enjoyment of other cultures," I delved into Ex's traditional holiday practices with enthusiasm. I knew that his family wasn't thrilled that I was not of Ex's same culture and I was painfully aware that they were even less excited that I wasn't Catholic. Christmas Eve, however, was a chance to prove to them that I wasn't a lost cause. I could cook! (I couldn't at that time, but I could still mix a mean drink.) I would show respect for their traditions and they would like me! (I did, and they didn't.) Ex would fall madly in love with me again because his family finally approved! (I can't say anything with regard to the former, but the latter clearly didn't transpire.)
I spent 2 weeks researching their ethnic approach to Christmas Eve online and in the library. I looked up recipes (serving turkey on Christmas Eve surely would have resulted in my theoretical burning at the stake), I looked up prayers in their native language, and I prepared myself for every possible eventuality of which I could conceive. Except for the very formidable, hurricane-force Mother-In-Law.
By the time Christmas Eve had arrived, I had spent close to $800 on food and alcohol and had been cooking for 3 days. My parents had already flown in and my Mom was helping me cook everything that I had spent painstaking hours preparing. The hour soon arrived in which I expected my in-laws to burst through the door with great appreciation that I had gone to such lengths to prepare them an authentic dinner in accord with their traditions.
I had moved to the suburbs (my personal version of Hell) after I was married and the kitchen was at the back of the house, from which point I had a very clear view of the parking area of the driveway. As I was washing off a knife in the kitchen sink, I saw headlights approach and thought, "This is it, they're here. They're actually going to like me now!"
But as I saw my mother-in-law get out of the car and move to her trunk, my heart began sinking. She unloaded a couple of bags of gifts, yes, but she also unloaded a large cardboard box and a few other bags with items inside that I couldn't yet identify. My Mom looked at me and said, "Are you OK?"
"I'm OK, Mom."
"But your hands are shaking."
"I know, Mom, it's a family trait." But my hands weren't shaking because of the family history of hypoglycemia, they were shaking because I was beginning to realize what was happening.
My mother-in-law burst through the door with an enormous cardboard box filled with an entire smoked salmon and countless other preparations and variety of fish, as well as several plastic bags filled with potatoes, vegetables, and specific ethnic foods of their tradition. I was speechless, and for me to have nothing to say is a feat in and of itself. I have to give her props on that one.
My Mom to this day still says to me, "Almost, I'll never forget it. It's like she bumped me out of the way with one hip, bumped you out of the way with the other, and we were instantly irrelevant to the remainder of the evening."
My Mom is right. Mother-In-Law dropped her box and bags on the kitchen table and walked over to the stove where my Mom and I were cooking. She scrutinized the various pots and said, "Well, this is garbage."
I was simply stunned into silence as she proceeded to dump everything that I had been cooking into the trash or garbage disposal and set out the food she had brought in its place. It was if I had been shamed into stone. I couldn't move except to pour myself several glasses of champagne to try and loosen my tongue out of its entombment, but I was still unable to utter a single protest.
I was aware that my Mom was looking at me intently to determine how I was handling this travesty, but if I had looked at her and seen anything resembling concern, I would have lost it. I knew that I had to make it through dinner. And somehow, I did just that.
However, as soon as dinner was over, I left the dishes, left the group that had amassed around the after-dinner drinks, grabbed a bottle of Krug, and went upstairs to the bedroom with my champagne glass.
I took a Xanax (no, I'm not proud of mixing a benzodiazepine with alcohol, but I was desperate) and poured myself another glass of champagne. Soon after, my Mom opened the door to the bedroom and I felt hot tears burning the back of my throat and eyes just at the comforting sight of her. She sat down on the bed next to me, put her arms around me, and said, "Oh, baby girl, I'm so sorry." I spent much of the rest of the evening there with my Mom, whose empathy earned her a tear-stained sweater, and she only left me when Ex came upstairs after the oh-so-festive evening concluded.
I can't fault Ex entirely because I believe he felt badly that night, but he still hadn't stood up for me at all, nor had he said a single word to his mother about the inappropriate nature of her actions. When I was finally on the verge of sleep, I made a promise to myself. The next time I hosted Christmas Eve for the in-laws (or any other holiday, for that matter), I would drink that bottle of Krug before they arrived.
Friday, June 22, 2007
"That doesn't look like Lou Ferrigno...."
Several years ago, over cocktails and dinner on one of our nights out, Lauren and I were talking about her wedding. This was prior to my having any firsthand experience with marriage and before I even met Ex, so I was bewildered when she told me that she knew as she was walking down that aisle that she would end up getting divorced. I wondered what on God's green Earth would possess someone to go through with a marriage when they were reasonably certain that it wouldn't end up working out. Obligation? Embarrassment at canceling? The Wicked Witch of Weddings Soon-to-be-Past? Looking back on that conversation, I now realize that she probably had some inkling that not everything with her groom was as it seemed on the surface.
She said, "I drank so much champagne before getting married that I barely made it down the aisle."
To which I replied, "Why did you get tanked before your wedding? Didn't you look wasted in your pictures?"
She shrugged and said, "I didn't care. I knew that if I didn't get drunk, I'd be running in the other direction faster than you can say, 'Hell, no, I don't take this man!'" (This brings up my own thoughts of Valium mixed with champagne - not a combination I recommend - but more about that in the future.)
Lauren got married, probably entirely thanks to the urgings of Mr. Dom Perignon, had a honeymoon that was less than ideal, and wound up living on the third floor of her in-laws' three-flat. Living with your in-laws may sound like being in Dante's Inferno to most of us, but I'm pretty sure that the only reason Lauren's marriage lasted as long as it did is because she and her mother-in-law were instant BFFs. She told me that the only loss she mourned in her divorce was that of her mother-in-law, with whom she would pass evenings smoking Marlboro Lights, drinking coffee, and gossiping. Lucky bitch.
Anyway, for months after the wedding, Lauren's husband, Mike, had been begging her to see a Lou Ferrigno movie that he'd rented, about which he was practically obsessing. Not being the biggest Lou Ferrigno fan on the planet, she kept blowing him off. One morning, Mike went out the door to work and Lauren happened to have the day off. She said to herself, "Oh well, I suppose I'll watch that movie Mike's been bugging me about."
She went over to the TV, found a video entitled "Hilton Head," and, thinking that this was the movie Mike had been asking her to watch for months, popped it into to the VCR.
Mike had forgotten something that he needed for work, and walked back into their apartment just as the movie began to play. He said, "What are you doing?"
Lauren replied, "Watching that Lou Ferrigno movie you've been bugging me about."
She told me that the look of panic on his face matched the look of shock on hers as she spun back to the TV and saw two naked, heavily-muscled men (neither of whom were Lou Ferrigno) engaging in the most intimate act possible for us humans.
In her usual fashion, she turned around to him and said, "Um, that doesn't really look like Lou Ferrigno."
A few months back and after years of no contact with him, Lauren spotted Mike in the grocery store. She exercised her best Charlie's Angels moves, bobbing and weaving through the aisles to hide behind the Starbuck's display, but he had already seen her and tracked her down. After some small talk, she asked him, "So, have you seen any good Lou Ferrigno movies lately?"
She said, "I drank so much champagne before getting married that I barely made it down the aisle."
To which I replied, "Why did you get tanked before your wedding? Didn't you look wasted in your pictures?"
She shrugged and said, "I didn't care. I knew that if I didn't get drunk, I'd be running in the other direction faster than you can say, 'Hell, no, I don't take this man!'" (This brings up my own thoughts of Valium mixed with champagne - not a combination I recommend - but more about that in the future.)
Lauren got married, probably entirely thanks to the urgings of Mr. Dom Perignon, had a honeymoon that was less than ideal, and wound up living on the third floor of her in-laws' three-flat. Living with your in-laws may sound like being in Dante's Inferno to most of us, but I'm pretty sure that the only reason Lauren's marriage lasted as long as it did is because she and her mother-in-law were instant BFFs. She told me that the only loss she mourned in her divorce was that of her mother-in-law, with whom she would pass evenings smoking Marlboro Lights, drinking coffee, and gossiping. Lucky bitch.
Anyway, for months after the wedding, Lauren's husband, Mike, had been begging her to see a Lou Ferrigno movie that he'd rented, about which he was practically obsessing. Not being the biggest Lou Ferrigno fan on the planet, she kept blowing him off. One morning, Mike went out the door to work and Lauren happened to have the day off. She said to herself, "Oh well, I suppose I'll watch that movie Mike's been bugging me about."
She went over to the TV, found a video entitled "Hilton Head," and, thinking that this was the movie Mike had been asking her to watch for months, popped it into to the VCR.
Mike had forgotten something that he needed for work, and walked back into their apartment just as the movie began to play. He said, "What are you doing?"
Lauren replied, "Watching that Lou Ferrigno movie you've been bugging me about."
She told me that the look of panic on his face matched the look of shock on hers as she spun back to the TV and saw two naked, heavily-muscled men (neither of whom were Lou Ferrigno) engaging in the most intimate act possible for us humans.
In her usual fashion, she turned around to him and said, "Um, that doesn't really look like Lou Ferrigno."
A few months back and after years of no contact with him, Lauren spotted Mike in the grocery store. She exercised her best Charlie's Angels moves, bobbing and weaving through the aisles to hide behind the Starbuck's display, but he had already seen her and tracked her down. After some small talk, she asked him, "So, have you seen any good Lou Ferrigno movies lately?"
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Sgt. Baldy, Civilian Special Ops
Baldy and I have been friends for many years and he's truly one of my favorite people in the world. Our relationship has evolved over many baseball games, late nights out on the town, bottles of Santa Margherita, and too many laughs to even count. We once got into a fender bender (my fault, I rear-ended a cab while we were jamming to Ratt, of all things) and somehow found the whole thing so funny that we had to turn our heads away from the cops in order to avoid going to jail for utter and complete disrespect because we couldn't stop laughing. He has this laugh that just makes you dissolve into hysterics where tears run down your face, even if you don’t get the joke. Kind of like a cross between a hyena and the naughty giggle of a junior high kid getting away with smoking cigarettes in the bathroom that he snitched from his dad (and Baldy, you know I mean that in a totally complimentary fashion because your laugh might just be my favorite sound on Earth, at least until I hear those golden words, “Divorce granted.”).
So Baldy, although he is an accomplished, smart, kind, sweet, and hilariously funny man, has had his share of heartache and more than his share of break ups. He’s the kind of guy who just attracts psychotic women. He’s a nutjob magnet, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand. He’s now going through the same process as I, but believe me, he’s gone through Hell and back about a thousand times to get to this point. Some of the things that Mrs. Baldy has done to him over the years make my marriage seem as if I was skipping through a field of daisies humming "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Yet, Baldy has given her so many “one more chance”s that I’ve actually begged him to leave her more times than I can count.
Though he’s now feeling much more peaceful about it, he and Mrs. Baldy have separated over the years on several occasions. At one point, she moved to a town about an hour away and took his car with her, apparently to aggravate him and leave him without transportation. Baldy, the generous man that he is, didn’t protest and simply went and purchased another car. However, after several months of drunken, middle-of-the-night phone calls from Mrs. Baldy wherein she screamed obscenities at him generally accusing him of being a worse husband than O.J. Simpson, he got pissed. Baldy had had enough and proceeded to undertake action for which I think the Army Special Ops should give him a civilian genius award. He took a cab to her building in the middle of the night, slipped unnoticed into the parking garage through means that still aren’t clear to me (though I believe it may have involved squeezing himself through a locked window), jimmied the car lock open with a hanger, HOT WIRED THE CAR and drove it right back to his own garage. Now keep in mind, this is a professional man with no previous experience in this kind of behavior, so I don't know if he was temporarily possessed with the spirit of Grand Theft Auto or what, but I definitely now believe Baldy is some kind of reincarnation of McGuyver. Give him a gum wrapper, a piece of string, and a paper clip, and bam! You get your stuff back. (And yes, the car was in his name so he didn't break any laws.)
I think both Baldy and I would have paid a lot of money to see the look on Mrs. Baldy's face when she realized the car was out of her possession and once again returned to its rightful owner.
So Baldy, although he is an accomplished, smart, kind, sweet, and hilariously funny man, has had his share of heartache and more than his share of break ups. He’s the kind of guy who just attracts psychotic women. He’s a nutjob magnet, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand. He’s now going through the same process as I, but believe me, he’s gone through Hell and back about a thousand times to get to this point. Some of the things that Mrs. Baldy has done to him over the years make my marriage seem as if I was skipping through a field of daisies humming "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Yet, Baldy has given her so many “one more chance”s that I’ve actually begged him to leave her more times than I can count.
Though he’s now feeling much more peaceful about it, he and Mrs. Baldy have separated over the years on several occasions. At one point, she moved to a town about an hour away and took his car with her, apparently to aggravate him and leave him without transportation. Baldy, the generous man that he is, didn’t protest and simply went and purchased another car. However, after several months of drunken, middle-of-the-night phone calls from Mrs. Baldy wherein she screamed obscenities at him generally accusing him of being a worse husband than O.J. Simpson, he got pissed. Baldy had had enough and proceeded to undertake action for which I think the Army Special Ops should give him a civilian genius award. He took a cab to her building in the middle of the night, slipped unnoticed into the parking garage through means that still aren’t clear to me (though I believe it may have involved squeezing himself through a locked window), jimmied the car lock open with a hanger, HOT WIRED THE CAR and drove it right back to his own garage. Now keep in mind, this is a professional man with no previous experience in this kind of behavior, so I don't know if he was temporarily possessed with the spirit of Grand Theft Auto or what, but I definitely now believe Baldy is some kind of reincarnation of McGuyver. Give him a gum wrapper, a piece of string, and a paper clip, and bam! You get your stuff back. (And yes, the car was in his name so he didn't break any laws.)
I think both Baldy and I would have paid a lot of money to see the look on Mrs. Baldy's face when she realized the car was out of her possession and once again returned to its rightful owner.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Ex Has AIDS
Quite some time ago, after the divorce had been filed, Lawyer called me out of the blue.
He said, "Almost Free, Ex has developed AIDS."
Now, keep in mind, Lawyer is 50% therapist, 50% comedian, and 100% shark. At that time, I truly hoped that it was Lawyer's comedian part with whom I was speaking, because his statement shocked me. I frantically flipped through my mental calendar, heart pounding, trying to think of how much time had transpired since Ex and I had sex. I concluded within seconds that it was a fruitless task, since it had been too long for my feeble memory to recall.
In my oh-so-eloquent fashion, I answered, "Ummm.... what???"
He repeated, "Almost Free, I am so sorry, Ex has AIDS. " Then he started to laugh. That's when I knew that it was Lawyer-Comedian talking.
Lawyer continued, "Don't freak out, he either had AIDS or RAIDS, and I'm not sure which one it is yet, but be assured that I will find out."
Several months prior to this phone call, I had found Ex's financial statement. For some reason unknown to me, he left it in our fax machine at the house in which we used to live together. He had faxed it to a bank for one of his businesses and I had the foresight to make a photocopy at the time because I was already certain of the fact that we would divorce within the very near future. Of course, I gave a copy of that statement to Lawyer.
Throughout the process of the divorce filing and subsequent hearings, Ex supplied the court with 3 different financial statements, each one diminishing in net worth. His latest financial statement shows his net worth to be approximately 1/9 of the one I photocopied just 7 months ago. A real Houdini, that one, making millions of dollars disappear over the course of just a few months. (And by the way, no, I am not seeking half or anything even close to that, nor am I seeking to ruin Ex's financial life, but this divorce process does require that both parties disclose all finances, and these just happen to be the facts.)
Though Lawyer was laughing, I still couldn't figure out the reason, so I again said, "Ummm, huh?" I'm a genius word smith, as you can tell.
Lawyer said, "Almost Free, AIDS and RAIDS are fairly common conditions among divorcing couples, and Ex has definitely developed it. It's known in our community as Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome or Recently Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome. I'm very sorry, but don't worry, it's not contagious."
It took a good 20 minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal, but when it did, I raised a glass of good Italian red wine to Lawyer and thanked my lucky stars to have yet another person in this process who makes me laugh (and gets the job done).
He said, "Almost Free, Ex has developed AIDS."
Now, keep in mind, Lawyer is 50% therapist, 50% comedian, and 100% shark. At that time, I truly hoped that it was Lawyer's comedian part with whom I was speaking, because his statement shocked me. I frantically flipped through my mental calendar, heart pounding, trying to think of how much time had transpired since Ex and I had sex. I concluded within seconds that it was a fruitless task, since it had been too long for my feeble memory to recall.
In my oh-so-eloquent fashion, I answered, "Ummm.... what???"
He repeated, "Almost Free, I am so sorry, Ex has AIDS. " Then he started to laugh. That's when I knew that it was Lawyer-Comedian talking.
Lawyer continued, "Don't freak out, he either had AIDS or RAIDS, and I'm not sure which one it is yet, but be assured that I will find out."
Several months prior to this phone call, I had found Ex's financial statement. For some reason unknown to me, he left it in our fax machine at the house in which we used to live together. He had faxed it to a bank for one of his businesses and I had the foresight to make a photocopy at the time because I was already certain of the fact that we would divorce within the very near future. Of course, I gave a copy of that statement to Lawyer.
Throughout the process of the divorce filing and subsequent hearings, Ex supplied the court with 3 different financial statements, each one diminishing in net worth. His latest financial statement shows his net worth to be approximately 1/9 of the one I photocopied just 7 months ago. A real Houdini, that one, making millions of dollars disappear over the course of just a few months. (And by the way, no, I am not seeking half or anything even close to that, nor am I seeking to ruin Ex's financial life, but this divorce process does require that both parties disclose all finances, and these just happen to be the facts.)
Though Lawyer was laughing, I still couldn't figure out the reason, so I again said, "Ummm, huh?" I'm a genius word smith, as you can tell.
Lawyer said, "Almost Free, AIDS and RAIDS are fairly common conditions among divorcing couples, and Ex has definitely developed it. It's known in our community as Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome or Recently Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome. I'm very sorry, but don't worry, it's not contagious."
It took a good 20 minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal, but when it did, I raised a glass of good Italian red wine to Lawyer and thanked my lucky stars to have yet another person in this process who makes me laugh (and gets the job done).
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
60,000 Pennies
My sister Carla is pretty much a badass. I grew up always looking up to her. I actually wanted to BE her for the entirety of my youth. I consistently went into her room and stole her stuff just to try and magically morph into The Mystical Big Sister. Needless to say, this pissed her off to no end. She exacted her revenge once by cutting off all of my hair when I was about 5 years old and we didn't always have the closest relationship (I don't blame her, since I constantly raided her room), but once we hit adulthood we became the type of sisters who would cut off a limb for each other. Carla and I, though we don't have the time to see or talk to each other as often as we'd both like, have each other's backs no matter what.
So when Carla was going through a horrific divorce several years ago, I felt like I was going through it with her. In retrospect, I had no idea what she was enduring, because you can never understand this kind of punishing soul-extraction until you yourself experience it. And she had a young child as well, which I'm pretty sure makes the whole process indeterminately more unbearable. In any case, I was as sympathetic and empathetic as I could possibly be, and I hated the whole process for her.
My sister, the pragmatist of the two of us, has always had this quite practical theory. While she was going through divorce mediation, she said to me, "Almost Free, it's always the person who wants out of the marriage more who ends up paying more."
For Carla, this ended up being very true. Even though Carla's ex, Jack, has a job, she ended up taking the brunt of the financial hit because she made a few more bucks than he. Jack is such a tool you wouldn't even believe it. He put her through so much torment that it would take me a year to even begin to address it, but let's just say that he was the epitome of a horse's ass during that marriage (that dumbass actually asked me to sleep with him while he was still married to my sister). But yet Carla never once bad-mouthed him, comported herself with utter class, and ended up coughing up the bucks in order to end the unholy union. She's not rich by any means, but she just happens to have a good work ethic, so she got screwed.
Carla and Jack ended up sharing joint custody of my nephew, but according to the laws in her state, she had to pay him child support. OK, let's think about this.... joint custody, both have jobs, and SHE has to pay HIM child support?! On top of that, she had to buy their house from him. On top of that, he wanted to have half of her inheritance from our parents, and she had to fight him on that. To say that he has a sense of entitlement that rivals Paris Hilton's is a gross understatement.
Here's where her theory kicked in. I protested, telling her that this was the most appalling agreement I'd ever heard. She said, "Almost Free, I don't care. It's a bitter check that I have to write each month, but I simply consider it the price of freedom."
Now Carla has 6 years before she writes that final check, and we have a plan. On that beautiful day that she's required to deliver that final payment, we're going to have a little get-together in her state. I'm bringing my girls, she's gathering hers, and we're renting an ostentatious limo. It's going to be a scene. I'm bringing my newscaster cousin to film the debacle, we're going to get dressed in our finest designer gowns, pop bottles of Krug Rosè to drink on the way to Jack's house.....
and drop her final payment of $600.00 on Jack's front lawn. In pennies. 60,000 pennies, to be exact.
So when Carla was going through a horrific divorce several years ago, I felt like I was going through it with her. In retrospect, I had no idea what she was enduring, because you can never understand this kind of punishing soul-extraction until you yourself experience it. And she had a young child as well, which I'm pretty sure makes the whole process indeterminately more unbearable. In any case, I was as sympathetic and empathetic as I could possibly be, and I hated the whole process for her.
My sister, the pragmatist of the two of us, has always had this quite practical theory. While she was going through divorce mediation, she said to me, "Almost Free, it's always the person who wants out of the marriage more who ends up paying more."
For Carla, this ended up being very true. Even though Carla's ex, Jack, has a job, she ended up taking the brunt of the financial hit because she made a few more bucks than he. Jack is such a tool you wouldn't even believe it. He put her through so much torment that it would take me a year to even begin to address it, but let's just say that he was the epitome of a horse's ass during that marriage (that dumbass actually asked me to sleep with him while he was still married to my sister). But yet Carla never once bad-mouthed him, comported herself with utter class, and ended up coughing up the bucks in order to end the unholy union. She's not rich by any means, but she just happens to have a good work ethic, so she got screwed.
Carla and Jack ended up sharing joint custody of my nephew, but according to the laws in her state, she had to pay him child support. OK, let's think about this.... joint custody, both have jobs, and SHE has to pay HIM child support?! On top of that, she had to buy their house from him. On top of that, he wanted to have half of her inheritance from our parents, and she had to fight him on that. To say that he has a sense of entitlement that rivals Paris Hilton's is a gross understatement.
Here's where her theory kicked in. I protested, telling her that this was the most appalling agreement I'd ever heard. She said, "Almost Free, I don't care. It's a bitter check that I have to write each month, but I simply consider it the price of freedom."
Now Carla has 6 years before she writes that final check, and we have a plan. On that beautiful day that she's required to deliver that final payment, we're going to have a little get-together in her state. I'm bringing my girls, she's gathering hers, and we're renting an ostentatious limo. It's going to be a scene. I'm bringing my newscaster cousin to film the debacle, we're going to get dressed in our finest designer gowns, pop bottles of Krug Rosè to drink on the way to Jack's house.....
and drop her final payment of $600.00 on Jack's front lawn. In pennies. 60,000 pennies, to be exact.
Father's Day
Yes, I know that Father's Day has already passed, but Ex did something so outrageous on Sunday night that it actually made me laugh once I got past the black, blind rage of fury.
My relationship with my Dad has always been good, but never has he been more of my hero than throughout this grotesque process. When I found out about the granny porn issue, I called my Dad and he made me laugh about it, despite my sadness and disgust. When I fell apart in January and called him in tears (something that I rarely do, because I don't want him to worry), barely choking out the words, "Yes, I need you," he hopped a flight the next day and spent the weekend with me. When Ex financially cut me off 8 months ago and sent me a text message that said something to the effect of, "I'm not giving you a dime, bitch, get a J-O-B," my Dad has always been the first one to ask me if I'm solvent. And by the way, yes, I do have a job.
I'll go into details at some point in the future, but it's sufficient at this point to say that I was insanely stupid enough to let myself become financially dependent upon Ex, even though I was completely independent prior to marrying him. Despite my financial dependence upon him (I think I just felt some bile rise at even having to type those ugly, honest words) as I work my way through a Ph.D. program, he came up with a wildly untrue notion that I have a 5 million dollar trust fund. More about that later, but the fact is, I don't have a 5 million dollar trust fund. In fact, I'm currently pretty much broke.
But Ex thinks that I'm rich. He thinks that I'm so rich that I should pay his legal fees. He thinks that I'm so rich that I'm, in his attorney's words in court a couple of weeks ago, "living the life of a rock star." Because Ex thinks that I'm swimming in pools of Benjamins, he had his attorney subpoena my Dad and the trust fund last week (yes, there is one, but no, my sister and I have no access to it until both of my parents no longer walk this mortal coil, God forbid).
My Dad called me last night and said, "I have a question for you. The trust has been subpoenaed. I have no problem with supplying documents, but how would you like the company to handle it? Does Divorce Lawyer have any suggestions?"
Now, I knew this was coming. I was prepared to testify under oath 4 months ago in court with regard to the nature of the trust, but Ex wiggled out of that one as well. I told Ex's greasy attorney that day that I have no access to that fund, to which he replied, "Oh, we'll definitely find that out, because I'm going to subpoena the records." But despite knowing that it was immanent, I was nevertheless appalled last week when my Divorce Lawyer (heretofore "Lawyer") called me and told me that the fund had been, indeed, subpoenaed.
My approach is this... say whatever you need to say about me, do whatever you need to do to me, but do NOT disrespect my parents, my sister, or any of my friends, for that matter. Disrespecting my Dad is even worse to me than if Ex had punched me in the face (which he did not, never laid a hand on me, in fact). I'm a Leo, and we're fiercely protective of those we love, so dragging my Dad into this and embarrassing him in front of his financial adviser is a big no-no, to put it mildly.
But back to Sunday. At this point, the facts were and are as follows: I'm a broke grad student, my Dad has come to my rescue on more than one occasion because Ex has completely cut me off, and Ex has had the disrespect to subpoena my Dad's financials. The week before Father's Day.
Father's Day had almost passed, and I received a text from Ex. Ex never calls, by the way. He only texts, and because of the nature of the texts and the time at which I receive them, I suspect that he's wasted. That will be relevant in the future, but for now what's important is that shortly before midnight on Sunday, Ex's text arrived. It said....
"If u r with ur dad..wish him a happy f-day from me..i will always have the utmost respect 4 him"
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
My relationship with my Dad has always been good, but never has he been more of my hero than throughout this grotesque process. When I found out about the granny porn issue, I called my Dad and he made me laugh about it, despite my sadness and disgust. When I fell apart in January and called him in tears (something that I rarely do, because I don't want him to worry), barely choking out the words, "Yes, I need you," he hopped a flight the next day and spent the weekend with me. When Ex financially cut me off 8 months ago and sent me a text message that said something to the effect of, "I'm not giving you a dime, bitch, get a J-O-B," my Dad has always been the first one to ask me if I'm solvent. And by the way, yes, I do have a job.
I'll go into details at some point in the future, but it's sufficient at this point to say that I was insanely stupid enough to let myself become financially dependent upon Ex, even though I was completely independent prior to marrying him. Despite my financial dependence upon him (I think I just felt some bile rise at even having to type those ugly, honest words) as I work my way through a Ph.D. program, he came up with a wildly untrue notion that I have a 5 million dollar trust fund. More about that later, but the fact is, I don't have a 5 million dollar trust fund. In fact, I'm currently pretty much broke.
But Ex thinks that I'm rich. He thinks that I'm so rich that I should pay his legal fees. He thinks that I'm so rich that I'm, in his attorney's words in court a couple of weeks ago, "living the life of a rock star." Because Ex thinks that I'm swimming in pools of Benjamins, he had his attorney subpoena my Dad and the trust fund last week (yes, there is one, but no, my sister and I have no access to it until both of my parents no longer walk this mortal coil, God forbid).
My Dad called me last night and said, "I have a question for you. The trust has been subpoenaed. I have no problem with supplying documents, but how would you like the company to handle it? Does Divorce Lawyer have any suggestions?"
Now, I knew this was coming. I was prepared to testify under oath 4 months ago in court with regard to the nature of the trust, but Ex wiggled out of that one as well. I told Ex's greasy attorney that day that I have no access to that fund, to which he replied, "Oh, we'll definitely find that out, because I'm going to subpoena the records." But despite knowing that it was immanent, I was nevertheless appalled last week when my Divorce Lawyer (heretofore "Lawyer") called me and told me that the fund had been, indeed, subpoenaed.
My approach is this... say whatever you need to say about me, do whatever you need to do to me, but do NOT disrespect my parents, my sister, or any of my friends, for that matter. Disrespecting my Dad is even worse to me than if Ex had punched me in the face (which he did not, never laid a hand on me, in fact). I'm a Leo, and we're fiercely protective of those we love, so dragging my Dad into this and embarrassing him in front of his financial adviser is a big no-no, to put it mildly.
But back to Sunday. At this point, the facts were and are as follows: I'm a broke grad student, my Dad has come to my rescue on more than one occasion because Ex has completely cut me off, and Ex has had the disrespect to subpoena my Dad's financials. The week before Father's Day.
Father's Day had almost passed, and I received a text from Ex. Ex never calls, by the way. He only texts, and because of the nature of the texts and the time at which I receive them, I suspect that he's wasted. That will be relevant in the future, but for now what's important is that shortly before midnight on Sunday, Ex's text arrived. It said....
"If u r with ur dad..wish him a happy f-day from me..i will always have the utmost respect 4 him"
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Best Sex Ever
When you're going through a divorce, your girlfriends (and in my case, my parents and sister) are your rock. They see you through grief-stricken tears and somehow turn them into tears of laughter. I'm blessed with an amazing group of girlfriends who are like family to me. Over glasses of wine (ok, bottles) or vodkatinis, we tell each other the latest stories of our complicated lives and inevitably end up doubled over in spasms of laughter, even when circumstances, well, frankly.... suck.
Lauren has been one of my best friends for years and we're like sisters. We've seen each other through a lot of suffering, but we've seen each other through even more side-splitting laughter than I can fathom. She's one of those women who's not only beautiful (both outside and in), but smart, with a quicker wit than I've ever seen in another human being, and she's infamous for her one-liners. She's been responsible for me spitting out whatever I happen to be drinking on more occasions than I care to remember.
Lauren has been divorced for years after a short marriage (replete with hilarious stories of its own, which I will discuss in future posts) and she is wise in matters of contentious situations with men. She and I were chatting the other day and I was telling her the latest saga of Ex's finagling out of having to appear in court yet again, while I took a day off of work and got up at an unearthly hour in order to prepare my documents and make it in time. I was so upset, aggravated and anxious in telling her this story and reliving it in my head for the umpteenth time, but she disarmed the teary lump in my throat with one sentence and turned what was another end-of-the-world moment for me into a cosmic joke.
I have to give you a little history in order for you to understand her comment. In my first post, I mentioned that Ex lost interest in sex. To be specific, he basically refused me for over a year and I later found out that the commencement of my sexual desert (not to be confused with "dessert".... waaaay different) coincided with his porn account registration. OK, seriously, to be refused by your own husband for a year? At my age??? I wondered for awhile if there was something wrong with me.... had I gained weight? (No.) Had I grown a third nipple? (Not that I could find.) And as far as I could tell, I hadn't transformed into some hideously frightening hogbeast from which a man would want to run and cry in his mommy's skirt. Nevertheless, I wasn't getting any.
Funny enough, when I faced the fact that the marriage was deteriorating and that I was miserably unhappy, Ex sensed this (probably because I told him I was unhappy.... that seemed to do the trick) and he suddenly wanted to hop in the sack. That's just a side note, though, and maybe I'll elaborate on that in a future post. The point is, I went for a long period of time without sex. As a married woman. Approaching my sexual peak. Isn't that supposed to be one of the benefits of marriage, that you get to have sex on a regular basis? Well, not for me. Bottom line, we ended up never having sex again.
When I was wailing to Lauren about how horribly anxiety-provoking this process is, and how insanely pissed off I was that Ex had once again wiggled out of a court appearance, she started laughing. Lauren has this infectious laugh that, even in your worst moment, catches you up and you end up laughing uproariously with her. I began laughing even before she delivered her one-liner, but when she did, I had another one of those spit-out-your-drink-and-choke-laughing moments. After she was able to contain herself enough to speak, she said.....
"Almost Free, if you have the chance, you need to say, 'Ex, in all the years we've known each other, the past 7 months have been the best f*ck you've ever given me.'"
Thank God for girlfriends and laughter!
Lauren has been one of my best friends for years and we're like sisters. We've seen each other through a lot of suffering, but we've seen each other through even more side-splitting laughter than I can fathom. She's one of those women who's not only beautiful (both outside and in), but smart, with a quicker wit than I've ever seen in another human being, and she's infamous for her one-liners. She's been responsible for me spitting out whatever I happen to be drinking on more occasions than I care to remember.
Lauren has been divorced for years after a short marriage (replete with hilarious stories of its own, which I will discuss in future posts) and she is wise in matters of contentious situations with men. She and I were chatting the other day and I was telling her the latest saga of Ex's finagling out of having to appear in court yet again, while I took a day off of work and got up at an unearthly hour in order to prepare my documents and make it in time. I was so upset, aggravated and anxious in telling her this story and reliving it in my head for the umpteenth time, but she disarmed the teary lump in my throat with one sentence and turned what was another end-of-the-world moment for me into a cosmic joke.
I have to give you a little history in order for you to understand her comment. In my first post, I mentioned that Ex lost interest in sex. To be specific, he basically refused me for over a year and I later found out that the commencement of my sexual desert (not to be confused with "dessert".... waaaay different) coincided with his porn account registration. OK, seriously, to be refused by your own husband for a year? At my age??? I wondered for awhile if there was something wrong with me.... had I gained weight? (No.) Had I grown a third nipple? (Not that I could find.) And as far as I could tell, I hadn't transformed into some hideously frightening hogbeast from which a man would want to run and cry in his mommy's skirt. Nevertheless, I wasn't getting any.
Funny enough, when I faced the fact that the marriage was deteriorating and that I was miserably unhappy, Ex sensed this (probably because I told him I was unhappy.... that seemed to do the trick) and he suddenly wanted to hop in the sack. That's just a side note, though, and maybe I'll elaborate on that in a future post. The point is, I went for a long period of time without sex. As a married woman. Approaching my sexual peak. Isn't that supposed to be one of the benefits of marriage, that you get to have sex on a regular basis? Well, not for me. Bottom line, we ended up never having sex again.
When I was wailing to Lauren about how horribly anxiety-provoking this process is, and how insanely pissed off I was that Ex had once again wiggled out of a court appearance, she started laughing. Lauren has this infectious laugh that, even in your worst moment, catches you up and you end up laughing uproariously with her. I began laughing even before she delivered her one-liner, but when she did, I had another one of those spit-out-your-drink-and-choke-laughing moments. After she was able to contain herself enough to speak, she said.....
"Almost Free, if you have the chance, you need to say, 'Ex, in all the years we've known each other, the past 7 months have been the best f*ck you've ever given me.'"
Thank God for girlfriends and laughter!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Your Stories?
Do you have some funny, horrible, or simply deliciously scandalous divorce or breakup stories you'd like to share? Email me, and I'll post them (with or without your name - up to you, but I promise you anonymity if that's what you wish). Come on, you know you want to!
LOL!
Much debate has transpired around the country regarding this billboard which was posted in Chicago for a time, but I have to give props to the attorney behind the all of the salaciousness. I think she's hilarious and I love it! She sounds like the type of girl I'd like to share a vokatini with and gossip. Some divorce attorneys seem to think it has set the practice back 30 years, but most of them don't have a sense of humor anyway after constantly having to deal with us divorcing nutjobs. What do you think?
"The Daily Motivator"
Yes, I'm getting divorced. No, I'm not bitter, and no, I am not jaded about relationships in general. In fact, I find the divorce process, although traumatic, quite amusing in certain ways, and I hope that this blog helps anyone reading it who's going through the same thing to find the humor in what could otherwise be devastating. Because, hell, divorce stories are hilarious when you get a little distance!
As my first post, I thought I'd tell you a story that I found amusing. Last summer during a fight when Ex and I were still living in the same house, I found out that he, in his paranoia, was routinely going through my emails and forwarding them to himself for the entirety of our marriage. I felt betrayed and angry, even though there was nothing for me to hide. In response, he screamed at me to go through his email, gave me his password, and said that he wanted me to see that he had nothing to hide. It took me a month to actually go ahead and do it, but at the urging of my friends, I finally did. I found a folder in his online account entitled "The Daily Motivator." Thinking that it was probably a collection of inspirational quotes, Bible verses, or cheesy thoughts for the day, I clicked on it. To my surprise, I found that it was a registration for a porn account. Incidentally, the registration date coincided with the time that he completely lost interest in sex, but that's a story for another time.
Anyway, I was shy about logging into his actual porn account, but yet another month passed and I finally got up the nerve to do so. I was expecting the usual.... Jenna Jameson, Tera Patrick, whatever. But what I found truly shocked me and made me laugh so hard I nearly choked! I won't divulge titles, but let's just say that the collection of porn featuring women and men in their golden years was extensive, and the titles .... well, those creative types behind granny porn have fertile imaginations to say the least! Yes, Granny Porn. There is such a thing.
He still doesn't realize that I have this information, but be assured that he will find out very soon. At least I now know what motivates him daily. And I know to keep him far, far away from my grandmother.
As my first post, I thought I'd tell you a story that I found amusing. Last summer during a fight when Ex and I were still living in the same house, I found out that he, in his paranoia, was routinely going through my emails and forwarding them to himself for the entirety of our marriage. I felt betrayed and angry, even though there was nothing for me to hide. In response, he screamed at me to go through his email, gave me his password, and said that he wanted me to see that he had nothing to hide. It took me a month to actually go ahead and do it, but at the urging of my friends, I finally did. I found a folder in his online account entitled "The Daily Motivator." Thinking that it was probably a collection of inspirational quotes, Bible verses, or cheesy thoughts for the day, I clicked on it. To my surprise, I found that it was a registration for a porn account. Incidentally, the registration date coincided with the time that he completely lost interest in sex, but that's a story for another time.
Anyway, I was shy about logging into his actual porn account, but yet another month passed and I finally got up the nerve to do so. I was expecting the usual.... Jenna Jameson, Tera Patrick, whatever. But what I found truly shocked me and made me laugh so hard I nearly choked! I won't divulge titles, but let's just say that the collection of porn featuring women and men in their golden years was extensive, and the titles .... well, those creative types behind granny porn have fertile imaginations to say the least! Yes, Granny Porn. There is such a thing.
He still doesn't realize that I have this information, but be assured that he will find out very soon. At least I now know what motivates him daily. And I know to keep him far, far away from my grandmother.
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