I'm in the midst of a huge crunch with my schoolwork and with a deadline of October 31st hanging over my head and my complete unpreparedness for that dreaded day, I'm pretty much working around the clock. Once in awhile, when I need a break from mind-numbing textbooks and research, I play this stupid online game where you have to look for words in a grid that are based on a particular topic. Dumb, I know, but sometimes I just need to not think for a few minutes.
A couple of nights ago, I took one of my brain-breaks and ended up playing a game with words related to baby shower gifts. I kid you not when I tell you that I found the words "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram." I know they were spelled wrong, but I think those cheeky people making up the game were having a little fun. If I'd been creating that game, I would have added "vasectomy," and "IUD," but I've never been much of a kid person.
As with any split, people have asked me over the past 18 months what happened that landed us in divorce court, shooting each other looks that might just have the ability to kill. Although the marriage ended up being complicated and fraught with so many issues that led us to the demise, initially, there were only two matters of contention.
Right after Ex asked me to marry him, I sat him down and told him that there were two potential problems he might have with me, and if he couldn't handle them, I'd give him the ring back and we would just be friends.
First, I told him that I wasn't going to change my last name. I don't have anything against name changing in theory, but frankly, I have a last name fit for a porn star or exotic dancer and I love it. Really concreting my decision was the fact that, to this day, I still can't pronounce his last name right.
The second issue was that I knew categorically that I didn't want children. But Ex is a family-oriented guy, and I thought he should know that the woman he intended to marry insisted that her womb perpetually flash "vacancy."
His reaction surprised me, actually. He really didn't even bat an eyelash as he said, "As long as I have you, I don't care about those things. You're all that matters, and if we don't have children and you want to keep your name, that's fine with me."
Thinking that I had the greatest man on earth, I obviously went ahead with the wedding. And knew without a doubt on day two that I had made a monstrous mistake.
As I said before, we had a small destination wedding on a lovely island, so we chose to stay there for 8 more days following the ceremony. Two days after we were wed, he was teasing me, calling me "Mrs. [insert insanely long and unpronounceable name here]," so I teased him back, calling him "Mr. [porn star name]." He began to get angry and asked me why I was calling him that. So I, still thinking that he was kidding, joked that if he insisted on calling me by his mother's name, I'd call him by my Dad's name.
"That's not my mother's name, that's your new name. You ARE changing it when we get back home."
I was confused. "But we talked about this," I said. "I told you right after we got engaged that I wasn't going to change my name."
"And I thought that once we got married, you'd change your mind. Does this mean that you're not going to have babies, either?" he asked, voice beginning to rise in wrath.
The tempest that blew up between us rivaled the near-hurricane that had almost forced us to cancel the outdoor wedding and wound up with him curled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying. For 4 hours.
At that point, I was torn between wanting to comfort him because I loved him and wanting to kick him in the nuts for thinking that marriage had some sort of magical quality that would turn me from the independent, self-directed, sometimes stubborn-as-hell person I am into Little Miss Homemaker. I was pretty sure that he'd spent our courtship dreaming of bare feet and a distended belly with a little alien wriggling around inside. (OK, I admit it, pregnancy freaks me out. And so do little kids. Sorry, I'm weird like that.)
There was no reasoning with him and no comforting him, since all he would say while he was curled up was, "You've cut my balls off. You've cut my balls off." Over and over and over. Imagine listening to that for 4 hours and trying not to go insane yourself.
Seeing the crazy emerge for the first time was frightening and confusing to me, but I gradually began to get angry because we had talked about this and I had been completely honest. After he finally got up off of the floor, he went into the bedroom without a word even after I begged him to talk it out with me.
And without a word pretty much describes the rest of our honeymoon, which was not the flowers and champagne and sexy time ideal I'd previously envisioned.
The entire first year of our marriage was spent arguing over the name change and babies. With Ex's dysfunctional relationship with his parents, he never even told them that I didn't want children. I've already mentioned how members of his family would grab me in very inappropriate places and ask when I was going to have a kid, so that made for even more fun in the already excruciating obligatory functions with the outlaws.
So when I highlighted "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram," on that little game the other night, I was disappointed when they weren't the right answers. But it still gave me a laugh.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Court is not in session. Today, anyway.
Not surprisingly, I haven't heard a (spoken) word from Ex since he claimed that he would call soon. Conversely, though, I was surprised when I received two phone calls from Lawyer yesterday. I ignored the first one because my stomach cramped the way it always does when I see his number on caller ID or get Salmonella.
I'm probably the world's most accomplished procrastinator, so I also ignored the second phone call, brilliantly thinking that I would just pick up the voicemails and deal with him in the morning. I knew that I had a court date at some point in October, but I thought it was late in the month, so imagine my sheer delight as I listened to his messages at 10 PM to learn that the court date was today!
Ex sent me a random text last week about something banal and hadn't mentioned that he'd see me in court this week, so I had a sneaking suspicion that he either wasn't aware of the appearance or just didn't care and wasn't going to show. Ex has wriggled out of 3 important hearings in the past, all of which resulted in serious distress on my part and a tearful exit from the courthouse on one occasion. Making headway in a divorce when one party refuses to show up to a hearing is about as successful as a monkey trying to f*ck a football, so I did a little online digging to see if I could save myself some time, money, and wrinkles.
I still have access to his highway toll pass account, so I logged in to see where he'd been. I know I sound like a stalker, but I honestly haven't done that in months and months. The last time I did was to try and find out who was giving him all of the information he had on me, but I creeped myself out a bit anyway as I logged into his account. What I saw was that his last toll was heading into City Airport early yesterday morning and no further activity.
So I did morehacking digging. I still have his login information to his favorite airline and logged in there to find that he had flown halfway across the country and is not returning until 11 PM tonight. Unless he planned to break the time-space continuum, he wasn't going to appear in court, meaning Lawyer and I would drag our asses all the way out to the suburbs once again for no reason. In my twisted logic, that means it's costing me a year's worth of facial peels in order to make absolutely no progress.
I shot Lawyer a text at about 1 am, briefly explaining the situation and telling him that under no circumstances should he reveal that I know Ex is out of town. After all, if Ex changes those passwords, I'll lose my opportunity to creep myself out in the future. A back and forth exchange occurred all morning between me, Lawyer, and Ex's Greasy Attorney, who, by the way, likes to wear white tube socks with black rubber shoes and a charcoal suit to court. I know I've mentioned that before, but that just tickles me.
Anyway, long story short, I didn't have to go to court, thank the good Lord. Unfortunately, Lawyer did end up revealing that we knew Ex was traveling as well as his destination and that probably means that soon I won't be able to track his travel anymore. Which is probably good, because I'm beginning to feel more like that macadamia that just got arrested for stalking Uma Thurman than a modern-day Agatha Christie.
Our trial date is set for early December, although Lawyer promises me that it will get bumped up at least twice because there are no children involved, and those cases take precedence. The earliest I'll probably be in court again is January, but I'm sure I'll see Ex for another settlement conference before that. Uh oh, those bees I accidentally swallowed just began their tango in my stomach again.....
I'm probably the world's most accomplished procrastinator, so I also ignored the second phone call, brilliantly thinking that I would just pick up the voicemails and deal with him in the morning. I knew that I had a court date at some point in October, but I thought it was late in the month, so imagine my sheer delight as I listened to his messages at 10 PM to learn that the court date was today!
Ex sent me a random text last week about something banal and hadn't mentioned that he'd see me in court this week, so I had a sneaking suspicion that he either wasn't aware of the appearance or just didn't care and wasn't going to show. Ex has wriggled out of 3 important hearings in the past, all of which resulted in serious distress on my part and a tearful exit from the courthouse on one occasion. Making headway in a divorce when one party refuses to show up to a hearing is about as successful as a monkey trying to f*ck a football, so I did a little online digging to see if I could save myself some time, money, and wrinkles.
I still have access to his highway toll pass account, so I logged in to see where he'd been. I know I sound like a stalker, but I honestly haven't done that in months and months. The last time I did was to try and find out who was giving him all of the information he had on me, but I creeped myself out a bit anyway as I logged into his account. What I saw was that his last toll was heading into City Airport early yesterday morning and no further activity.
So I did more
I shot Lawyer a text at about 1 am, briefly explaining the situation and telling him that under no circumstances should he reveal that I know Ex is out of town. After all, if Ex changes those passwords, I'll lose my opportunity to creep myself out in the future. A back and forth exchange occurred all morning between me, Lawyer, and Ex's Greasy Attorney, who, by the way, likes to wear white tube socks with black rubber shoes and a charcoal suit to court. I know I've mentioned that before, but that just tickles me.
Anyway, long story short, I didn't have to go to court, thank the good Lord. Unfortunately, Lawyer did end up revealing that we knew Ex was traveling as well as his destination and that probably means that soon I won't be able to track his travel anymore. Which is probably good, because I'm beginning to feel more like that macadamia that just got arrested for stalking Uma Thurman than a modern-day Agatha Christie.
Our trial date is set for early December, although Lawyer promises me that it will get bumped up at least twice because there are no children involved, and those cases take precedence. The earliest I'll probably be in court again is January, but I'm sure I'll see Ex for another settlement conference before that. Uh oh, those bees I accidentally swallowed just began their tango in my stomach again.....
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Every time the phone rings, I jump.
After our surprisingly rational phone conversation last week, I was hesitant to believe that any logical behavior could possibly come out of an inherently illogical person. I hadn't heard from Ex since, so I thought I was correct in believing that he had probably regressed into his old patterns and might be lurking somewhere in the city with a Hubble-sized telescope trained on my every move.
I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)
But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.
Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.
Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.
"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."
I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.
I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.
I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.
Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.
My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."
Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.
So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.
Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.
I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.
I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)
But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.
Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.
Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.
"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."
I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.
I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.
I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.
Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.
My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."
Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.
So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.
Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.
I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Leg Breaking, Part II
The day following the drunk texts, I raced to to airport to meet up with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn. I drank a pot of coffee at home and another venti Starbuck's pumpkin spice latte (which was my favorite until I realized that it has more calories and fat than a Big Mac. From now on, I'm just grinding one of those up in a blender and drinking it from a Starbuck's cup.). I found them at the gate just as boarding began.
Tickets had been booked last-minute, so none of our seats were together. I settled into my seat and took one last look at my phone. A text came through from Sam, and we had a short conversation.
The first one from him said, "Almost, I am so sorry. All this time, I didn't understand what you were going through and I haven't been a good friend to you, but now I know first hand what you've been talking about."
Confused, I wrote back, "You've been a great friend to me, what do you mean?"
"I mean that I haven't been supportive of your situation and have only concentrated on business. I didn't realize how hard it must have been to get this company off the ground and deal with the personal stuff, too. But now I get it and I'll be a better friend to you."
"Huh?? What are you talking about?"
"There's a price on my head."
"A what?! What does that even mean?"
"I mean that I almost got jumped last night because the personal space invader put a price on my head." (I used to call Ex the Personal Space Invader, but at this point, couldn't quite process what I was reading.)
At that precise moment, the flight attendant told us we had to turn our phones off to prepare for takeoff. "Oh, this is just perfect," I thought. "Now I have hours to ruminate over what the f*ck is really going on here with nobody to ask for advice." Which is exactly what I did.
For the next several hours, I vacillated between kicking myself in the ass for my phone phobia, because if I had just called Sam when I received his first text I would have already been in the know, and wondering, could it be? Could Ex really have done something like that? No.... but would he? He's crazy, but he's not that crazy.... right? And what does, "price on my head," even mean?
We landed in New York and I checked voicemail. The first message was from a friend of mine who had been in the bar with Ex and B.B. (who was bartending) the night before. He said, "Almost, I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I overheard something last night and you have to call me back. I think someone is in danger. Call me." The second one was from the club owner, a long-time friend, and he said, "Almost, I need to talk to you ASAP. Something bad went down last night with Ex and I need to warn you."
We all took the same cab to the hotel, so I was trying to put on a front like everything was fine, but PS, damn her, is so perceptive that she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was that she could see my heart uncomfortably lodged in my neck. I explained what I knew. She didn't look surprised.
"I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tell you this. I did not like that man from the moment I met him. I had a terrible vibe from him. You have 10 minutes once we check in to figure out what's happening and meet back in the lobby for dinner with the other surgeons and the PR reps. Try and figure it out and we'll talk about it on the way to dinner."
I was already dialing Sam's number on the way up to my room. When he answered, I didn't even say hello. "What in HELL is going on here?"
He explained to me that, at 3:30 am the night before, he'd received a phone call from the (very large) bouncer at the club who said he'd been hired to break Sam's legs because "my client thinks you're screwing around with his wife." Thankfully, Sam and Bouncer have a mutual friend, whom Bouncer had called first. The friend said he'd known Sam for years and that he certainly wasn't the type to screw with someone's wife, so he'd better get his story straight.
I was listening to this with my jaw hanging to my knees, while simultaneously trying to get out of my flight clothes and into something presentable for dinner, hopping on one foot, thinking, "OK, dress on, crap, backwards. Can this really be happening? Ouch! Shoe on wrong foot. Holy sh*t, he really paid someone to break this guy's legs?"
I had to wrap up the conversation because I was due downstairs, but I asked Sam if he was OK.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I was freaked out at first, but eventually, I found it so absurd that it's now kind of funny. Bouncer and I talked for about a half hour and I explained that I'm not interested in you like that and that it's purely platonic. But you needed to know. Ex asked him to make sure I never walk again, and if he'd hire someone to do that to me, I'm worried for your safety."
I told him I'd call him later and ran downstairs to meet Shawn and PS. We had a 2 block walk to the restaurant, at which time I realized that my hasty dressing resulted in Olsen-twin homeless chic without the chic part. On the way, PS said to me, "We have about 3 minutes. Tell me and tell me quickly."
I told her and asked, "What should I do?"
"Almost, I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow, so please don't deal with any of this until we return home. Don't call, don't text, nothing. Put it out of your head. And by the way, honey, what are you wearing?" That was enough to make me laugh and forget about this mob movie in which I was caught, so I was actually focused during dinner.
And I did put my own personal Godfather: Almost Edition out of my head for our time in New York. Well, sort of, since I filled Shawn in on the details of the debacle over an after dinner drink at the top of our hotel. Since this was our first meeting, I was surprised she didn't throw herself off of the balcony to get away from me or yell, "Check please," and run like FloJo. And aside from returning the two phone calls I'd received earlier in the day to confirm the events (which they'd both overheard at the bar), I put the situation aside.
We did our media interviews the next day and, thanks to the marvels of spackled-on makeup I don't think I looked as if I'd come from a night of hooking, and headed back to our city. PS walked back to my seat during the flight back and asked, "Are you going to be OK, honey?" I answered in the affirmative. "Well, just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. And make sure you stay in touch with me on the phone to let me know you're safe."
I agreed. After landing and saying our goodbyes, I headed to my car. It was the moment that I actually began to feel something about the situation, and it was a rage that supersedes words. My jaw was clenching and unclenching as I paid my ticket to get out of the garage, already dialing Ex.
When he picked up the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Is there something you want to tell me about Saturday night?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"I mean, is there something that happened that maybe you woke up the next day and regretted? Or weren't that proud of?" I prodded.
His voice began to shake and I could tell his mouth was dry. "N-n-no. I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded like he was about to cry.
I tried every trick in the book to get him to just tell me, but to no avail. And then it hit me. I lost it. Blacked out. I don't even remember the trip back downtown because I was screaming so loudly. And I'm not one to raise my voice in a confrontation, so this shocked even me. I recall a few things I shouted.... "Who died and left you f*cking Tony Soprano?" "What, do you think you're Johnny Goombah now?" "I have 3 separate people who don't even know each other who confirmed this story!" "Are you out of your f*cking mind?! The ONE PERSON WHO COULD HAVE PUT THIS COMPANY ON THE MAP AND YOU WANT TO BREAK HIS LEGS SO HE NEVER WALKS AGAIN?!?!" "Drinking is not a f*cking excuse! I laugh when I drink, I don't hire thugs to go out and break people's legs!"
The entire time he was crying, denying, saying, "I was drunk, but I would never do something like that." "Almost, it's not even possible for me to do anything like that." "I don't remember, I was wasted." "It's just not in my nature."
Though I don't remember the drive downtown, the moment that he said this, I remember with crystal clarity that I was just about to drive into the parking garage at my condo. The automatic arm was just lifting to let me in when he said, "But I didn't mean it." And then he admitted the whole thing. "B.B. told me that he saw you at The Doc's party while I was overseas and that Sam was there. She saw him kiss you on the cheek. She said she was sure you were screwing." Ah, so that explained the text saying, "Just so you know, I know more than you think I know."
(As a little side note here, B.B. had once again sold me out because I had sent her a few texts on the Saturday night in question, asking her to please make Ex get a hotel room and not to overserve him. She told me she'd take care of him. She took care of him alright, and almost had Sam "taken care of.")
At that moment, I was like one of those sad, deflated helium balloons. The rage that had me so furiously high just moments before drained with amazing rapidity and I sagged back in the car seat, feeling like someone had just pricked me with an industrial sized pin. I shut down.
I told him I couldn't talk anymore and had to go. Ex disappeared for 6 days over the Thanksgiving holiday. I found out in court that he had gone to Vegas and lost $30K. When he returned, we agreed to meet. I knew already that the final, rusty nail - the one that had been waiting atop the coffin for me to swing the hammer that was just out of my reach - was now ready to be driven into place.
We met at the house where we'd lived together. I didn't even have to say a word to him. I sat down on the couch and looked at him.
He said, "How do you want to do this? Should we get lawyers involved or do you want to try and divorce amicably?"
Tickets had been booked last-minute, so none of our seats were together. I settled into my seat and took one last look at my phone. A text came through from Sam, and we had a short conversation.
The first one from him said, "Almost, I am so sorry. All this time, I didn't understand what you were going through and I haven't been a good friend to you, but now I know first hand what you've been talking about."
Confused, I wrote back, "You've been a great friend to me, what do you mean?"
"I mean that I haven't been supportive of your situation and have only concentrated on business. I didn't realize how hard it must have been to get this company off the ground and deal with the personal stuff, too. But now I get it and I'll be a better friend to you."
"Huh?? What are you talking about?"
"There's a price on my head."
"A what?! What does that even mean?"
"I mean that I almost got jumped last night because the personal space invader put a price on my head." (I used to call Ex the Personal Space Invader, but at this point, couldn't quite process what I was reading.)
At that precise moment, the flight attendant told us we had to turn our phones off to prepare for takeoff. "Oh, this is just perfect," I thought. "Now I have hours to ruminate over what the f*ck is really going on here with nobody to ask for advice." Which is exactly what I did.
For the next several hours, I vacillated between kicking myself in the ass for my phone phobia, because if I had just called Sam when I received his first text I would have already been in the know, and wondering, could it be? Could Ex really have done something like that? No.... but would he? He's crazy, but he's not that crazy.... right? And what does, "price on my head," even mean?
We landed in New York and I checked voicemail. The first message was from a friend of mine who had been in the bar with Ex and B.B. (who was bartending) the night before. He said, "Almost, I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I overheard something last night and you have to call me back. I think someone is in danger. Call me." The second one was from the club owner, a long-time friend, and he said, "Almost, I need to talk to you ASAP. Something bad went down last night with Ex and I need to warn you."
We all took the same cab to the hotel, so I was trying to put on a front like everything was fine, but PS, damn her, is so perceptive that she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was that she could see my heart uncomfortably lodged in my neck. I explained what I knew. She didn't look surprised.
"I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tell you this. I did not like that man from the moment I met him. I had a terrible vibe from him. You have 10 minutes once we check in to figure out what's happening and meet back in the lobby for dinner with the other surgeons and the PR reps. Try and figure it out and we'll talk about it on the way to dinner."
I was already dialing Sam's number on the way up to my room. When he answered, I didn't even say hello. "What in HELL is going on here?"
He explained to me that, at 3:30 am the night before, he'd received a phone call from the (very large) bouncer at the club who said he'd been hired to break Sam's legs because "my client thinks you're screwing around with his wife." Thankfully, Sam and Bouncer have a mutual friend, whom Bouncer had called first. The friend said he'd known Sam for years and that he certainly wasn't the type to screw with someone's wife, so he'd better get his story straight.
I was listening to this with my jaw hanging to my knees, while simultaneously trying to get out of my flight clothes and into something presentable for dinner, hopping on one foot, thinking, "OK, dress on, crap, backwards. Can this really be happening? Ouch! Shoe on wrong foot. Holy sh*t, he really paid someone to break this guy's legs?"
I had to wrap up the conversation because I was due downstairs, but I asked Sam if he was OK.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I was freaked out at first, but eventually, I found it so absurd that it's now kind of funny. Bouncer and I talked for about a half hour and I explained that I'm not interested in you like that and that it's purely platonic. But you needed to know. Ex asked him to make sure I never walk again, and if he'd hire someone to do that to me, I'm worried for your safety."
I told him I'd call him later and ran downstairs to meet Shawn and PS. We had a 2 block walk to the restaurant, at which time I realized that my hasty dressing resulted in Olsen-twin homeless chic without the chic part. On the way, PS said to me, "We have about 3 minutes. Tell me and tell me quickly."
I told her and asked, "What should I do?"
"Almost, I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow, so please don't deal with any of this until we return home. Don't call, don't text, nothing. Put it out of your head. And by the way, honey, what are you wearing?" That was enough to make me laugh and forget about this mob movie in which I was caught, so I was actually focused during dinner.
And I did put my own personal Godfather: Almost Edition out of my head for our time in New York. Well, sort of, since I filled Shawn in on the details of the debacle over an after dinner drink at the top of our hotel. Since this was our first meeting, I was surprised she didn't throw herself off of the balcony to get away from me or yell, "Check please," and run like FloJo. And aside from returning the two phone calls I'd received earlier in the day to confirm the events (which they'd both overheard at the bar), I put the situation aside.
We did our media interviews the next day and, thanks to the marvels of spackled-on makeup I don't think I looked as if I'd come from a night of hooking, and headed back to our city. PS walked back to my seat during the flight back and asked, "Are you going to be OK, honey?" I answered in the affirmative. "Well, just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. And make sure you stay in touch with me on the phone to let me know you're safe."
I agreed. After landing and saying our goodbyes, I headed to my car. It was the moment that I actually began to feel something about the situation, and it was a rage that supersedes words. My jaw was clenching and unclenching as I paid my ticket to get out of the garage, already dialing Ex.
When he picked up the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Is there something you want to tell me about Saturday night?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"I mean, is there something that happened that maybe you woke up the next day and regretted? Or weren't that proud of?" I prodded.
His voice began to shake and I could tell his mouth was dry. "N-n-no. I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded like he was about to cry.
I tried every trick in the book to get him to just tell me, but to no avail. And then it hit me. I lost it. Blacked out. I don't even remember the trip back downtown because I was screaming so loudly. And I'm not one to raise my voice in a confrontation, so this shocked even me. I recall a few things I shouted.... "Who died and left you f*cking Tony Soprano?" "What, do you think you're Johnny Goombah now?" "I have 3 separate people who don't even know each other who confirmed this story!" "Are you out of your f*cking mind?! The ONE PERSON WHO COULD HAVE PUT THIS COMPANY ON THE MAP AND YOU WANT TO BREAK HIS LEGS SO HE NEVER WALKS AGAIN?!?!" "Drinking is not a f*cking excuse! I laugh when I drink, I don't hire thugs to go out and break people's legs!"
The entire time he was crying, denying, saying, "I was drunk, but I would never do something like that." "Almost, it's not even possible for me to do anything like that." "I don't remember, I was wasted." "It's just not in my nature."
Though I don't remember the drive downtown, the moment that he said this, I remember with crystal clarity that I was just about to drive into the parking garage at my condo. The automatic arm was just lifting to let me in when he said, "But I didn't mean it." And then he admitted the whole thing. "B.B. told me that he saw you at The Doc's party while I was overseas and that Sam was there. She saw him kiss you on the cheek. She said she was sure you were screwing." Ah, so that explained the text saying, "Just so you know, I know more than you think I know."
(As a little side note here, B.B. had once again sold me out because I had sent her a few texts on the Saturday night in question, asking her to please make Ex get a hotel room and not to overserve him. She told me she'd take care of him. She took care of him alright, and almost had Sam "taken care of.")
At that moment, I was like one of those sad, deflated helium balloons. The rage that had me so furiously high just moments before drained with amazing rapidity and I sagged back in the car seat, feeling like someone had just pricked me with an industrial sized pin. I shut down.
I told him I couldn't talk anymore and had to go. Ex disappeared for 6 days over the Thanksgiving holiday. I found out in court that he had gone to Vegas and lost $30K. When he returned, we agreed to meet. I knew already that the final, rusty nail - the one that had been waiting atop the coffin for me to swing the hammer that was just out of my reach - was now ready to be driven into place.
We met at the house where we'd lived together. I didn't even have to say a word to him. I sat down on the couch and looked at him.
He said, "How do you want to do this? Should we get lawyers involved or do you want to try and divorce amicably?"
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Don't Drink and Text Part III, and Leg Breaking Part I
This is a longer story than Anna Karenina (which I still haven't finished), so I'm sorry that it has to be told in two parts. Please bear with me.
PART I
Driving to City Airport in November of last year, I flipped down the vanity mirror in my car and groaned. Pete Doherty on a 3-day bender looks better than I did that day, and I was on my way to do media interviews in New York with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn about the FDA’s approval of silicone breast implants. I prayed for a sympathetic makeup artist with industrial strength tools. I was pretty sure the media wanted to see slutty-looking women who had been awake for a week. Those are some good ratings, after all. Despite my business suit, I still looked like I fit into the "gross, dumb blonde who wants big boobs," category.
But I’m not slut (at least I don't think), and I hadn’t been up for a week – only one night, in fact, thanks to Ex’s drunk texts.
As a little background, Ex and I started a company together a few years back. We needed sponsors - big ones - and coincidentally, I’d met a man named Sam that previous July. He is brilliant, ridiculously accomplished, connected, self-effacing, and helpful to boot. I didn’t intend to tell him about our company, but it came up in conversation when he asked what I did for a living aside from graduate school. He immediately offered his support, and thus began what would have been a mutually profitable relationship.
In order to promote the company, Sam put me in front of Fortune 50 companies, worldwide PR firms, and offered to put his personal name on the line, should it help our organization. Because Ex and I are small fries and didn’t have the access to these types of firms, Sam was integral in putting our company on the map. I once asked Sam why he was willing to help us out in this way. He shrugged his shoulders. “I like to see worthy companies and worthy people succeed. Your company is the future. If I’m lucky enough to help you contribute, I consider it an honor.”
Back to November and my trip to the airport, I couldn’t help but relive the previous evening, during which I had no sleep.
Long story short, The Doc and I had gone out to dinner the evening before and had run into Ex while we were out. And it turned fairly ugly. Ex sent us a bottle of champagne and, while we appreciated it, my flight was leaving early the following morning and I needed to head home soon. The Doc bounded over to Ex before I could do anything and thanked him while I was frozen in shock. I’d already moved out of the house and just wasn’t sure what to do with this situation. After The Doc returned from speaking with Ex, I made my approach to thank him for the gesture and invite him over to join us. He turned his back on me and muttered, "Ungrateful bitch."
I returned to The Doc and told him that I was about as uncomfortable as a whore in church and that we had to leave soon.
Text messages ensued. They began while The Doc and I were still in the bar, but continued far into the night. Texts that became clearly more and more drunk as the night and morning wore on.
Forgive me. This may be long, but I hope it’s worth it.
Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:
Ex: 12:35 am: “Honey I can see how much you luv me..u wont even come over..thats okay..i just going to get fcked up.” (I had already asked him to join us.)
I didn’t respond via text. In fact, I went over to try and rectify the mess... again. He turned his back on me once more and uttered, "Slut." I was stunned because The Doc is probably more interested in sex with anteaters than with women. I went back to the Doc and told him we had to go. Doc and I headed toward the door, and despite the slight from Ex, I went back and thanked Ex again.
I returned home and then the texts proliferated. (I’m just going to alert you to all of the [sic]s here, because there are too many to add. The typos are not mine, I assure you.
Ex: 1:02 am: “Goodnite…sorry I wrecked your nite..i would have went somewhereelse..i am going 2 stay here & get fckd up..4th martini..”
I sent him a text, urging him to stop drinking and either get a hotel room or go home.
Ex: 1:18 am: “it is not that far…have a good nite…please do not worry about me.. u did this for awhile precondo..Ill be fine..I need it…” (I think he was referring to the short time I bartended while we were married and I had a commute to our home in the suburbs.)
Ex: 1:27 am: “honestly honey I wish you would have tapped my shoulder and not Doc..honestly..i was excited until I saw Doc and not u..i sent Cristal b/ci am very sad.”
Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”
I responded that if he needed me to go back to the house and take care of the animals, I’d do it happily.
Ex: 1:34 am: “I will be fine and take care of the cats. YOU do not have to go back…prepare 4 tomorrow/Monday”
Ex: 1:40 am: “sorry I interrupted your talking..please do not worry..i will feed the cats..sorry I know your very busy and have a lot on your plate”
Ex: 1:42 am: “U know honey I texted u 3 times earlier and u did not answer.. I missed u and wanted 2 express and u did not answer”
Ex: 1:52 am: “I am on #7 and feeling fine…see? i am ok @%^$*””
At this point, I sent him a text, asking him to PLEASE get a hotel room. Clearly, this was not a rational man.
Ex: 1:54 am: “NO…..am on the payroll now…”
Ex: 1:55 am: “Having a shot with B.B…… YEAH!!!!!”
Ex: 1:56 am: “play by play of my nite..please shut your phone off”
Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”
Ex: 2:13 am: “#10..just starting w feel a buzz..must hve tolerance from my wife…..ur still my wife…oh boy..what a nite”
Ex: 2:17 am: “U can thank B.B…she asked if I was driving..I said I am OK”
Ex: 2:24 am: “go to sleep honey..u have busy couple of days ..thanks 4 sending Doc instead of you. Cool. I am actually on # 10..what is the record? Do you know?”
Ex: 2:28 am: “just so u know honey, u destroyed me by sending Doc..i did not know you were here but anyways why was I invited.. I was not on the list..that is ok…remember I luv u”
Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text
Ex: 2:30 am: “I am bawling inside..but showing pretty well.”
Ex: 2:56 am: “I am going late nite..benn a long time..just an fiy” (Umm, FYI, maybe?)
EX: 2:59 am: “u r probaby sleping..that is good”
Ex: 3:05 am: “u r in the mix..i am fck up”
Ex: 3:08 am: “since u carwe.so much
Please dont contact me”
Ex: 3:12 am: “hopefully.. u r sleeping well..do not contact me tonite..i am fckd up”
Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”
Ex: 3:19 am: “just so u know I know more than u know” (This is important later with Sam - integral in the topic of the next post)
Ex: 3:20 am: “there will be no [business that we started together]…I am backing out tomorrow..i do not need it…thanks honey..”
Ex: 3:21 am: “handle it yourself..it is over..thanks 4 not coming over…sending Doc”
Ex: 3:23 am: “do not contact me anymore unless u truly luv me”
Ex: 3:26 am: “I am so fckd up..i can even see dtright..call insurance agent just in case”
Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”
Ex: 4:58 am: “hoe u r sleeping well right now…
Ex: 6:20 am: “5:25 am heading 2 another bar on the way home” (5:25, but I received the text at 6:20?!)
Ex: 7:21 am: “bottom line..we need a big talk and definitely our business is at risk..i do not want any of Sam’s connections…I do not care howbig… I willl tell [Fortune 5} company no go”
I didn't respond to most of these texts because I needed to try and sleep, but with each "ding" of the phone, I was woken up so I didn't sleep a wink. Like I said, Pete Doherty on a bender. Except I wasn't having any fun....
If these texts don't seem like a big deal to you, just wait. The second part to this story will follow soon and hopefully won't disappoint. I promise, this is all leading to a mobster movie scene. After all was said and done (and the final, rusty nail of the coffin was hammered), I think my response to Ex was, "Who died and left you Tony Soprano?"
PART I
Driving to City Airport in November of last year, I flipped down the vanity mirror in my car and groaned. Pete Doherty on a 3-day bender looks better than I did that day, and I was on my way to do media interviews in New York with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn about the FDA’s approval of silicone breast implants. I prayed for a sympathetic makeup artist with industrial strength tools. I was pretty sure the media wanted to see slutty-looking women who had been awake for a week. Those are some good ratings, after all. Despite my business suit, I still looked like I fit into the "gross, dumb blonde who wants big boobs," category.
But I’m not slut (at least I don't think), and I hadn’t been up for a week – only one night, in fact, thanks to Ex’s drunk texts.
As a little background, Ex and I started a company together a few years back. We needed sponsors - big ones - and coincidentally, I’d met a man named Sam that previous July. He is brilliant, ridiculously accomplished, connected, self-effacing, and helpful to boot. I didn’t intend to tell him about our company, but it came up in conversation when he asked what I did for a living aside from graduate school. He immediately offered his support, and thus began what would have been a mutually profitable relationship.
In order to promote the company, Sam put me in front of Fortune 50 companies, worldwide PR firms, and offered to put his personal name on the line, should it help our organization. Because Ex and I are small fries and didn’t have the access to these types of firms, Sam was integral in putting our company on the map. I once asked Sam why he was willing to help us out in this way. He shrugged his shoulders. “I like to see worthy companies and worthy people succeed. Your company is the future. If I’m lucky enough to help you contribute, I consider it an honor.”
Back to November and my trip to the airport, I couldn’t help but relive the previous evening, during which I had no sleep.
Long story short, The Doc and I had gone out to dinner the evening before and had run into Ex while we were out. And it turned fairly ugly. Ex sent us a bottle of champagne and, while we appreciated it, my flight was leaving early the following morning and I needed to head home soon. The Doc bounded over to Ex before I could do anything and thanked him while I was frozen in shock. I’d already moved out of the house and just wasn’t sure what to do with this situation. After The Doc returned from speaking with Ex, I made my approach to thank him for the gesture and invite him over to join us. He turned his back on me and muttered, "Ungrateful bitch."
I returned to The Doc and told him that I was about as uncomfortable as a whore in church and that we had to leave soon.
Text messages ensued. They began while The Doc and I were still in the bar, but continued far into the night. Texts that became clearly more and more drunk as the night and morning wore on.
Forgive me. This may be long, but I hope it’s worth it.
Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:
Ex: 12:35 am: “Honey I can see how much you luv me..u wont even come over..thats okay..i just going to get fcked up.” (I had already asked him to join us.)
I didn’t respond via text. In fact, I went over to try and rectify the mess... again. He turned his back on me once more and uttered, "Slut." I was stunned because The Doc is probably more interested in sex with anteaters than with women. I went back to the Doc and told him we had to go. Doc and I headed toward the door, and despite the slight from Ex, I went back and thanked Ex again.
I returned home and then the texts proliferated. (I’m just going to alert you to all of the [sic]s here, because there are too many to add. The typos are not mine, I assure you.
Ex: 1:02 am: “Goodnite…sorry I wrecked your nite..i would have went somewhereelse..i am going 2 stay here & get fckd up..4th martini..”
I sent him a text, urging him to stop drinking and either get a hotel room or go home.
Ex: 1:18 am: “it is not that far…have a good nite…please do not worry about me.. u did this for awhile precondo..Ill be fine..I need it…” (I think he was referring to the short time I bartended while we were married and I had a commute to our home in the suburbs.)
Ex: 1:27 am: “honestly honey I wish you would have tapped my shoulder and not Doc..honestly..i was excited until I saw Doc and not u..i sent Cristal b/ci am very sad.”
Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”
I responded that if he needed me to go back to the house and take care of the animals, I’d do it happily.
Ex: 1:34 am: “I will be fine and take care of the cats. YOU do not have to go back…prepare 4 tomorrow/Monday”
Ex: 1:40 am: “sorry I interrupted your talking..please do not worry..i will feed the cats..sorry I know your very busy and have a lot on your plate”
Ex: 1:42 am: “U know honey I texted u 3 times earlier and u did not answer.. I missed u and wanted 2 express and u did not answer”
Ex: 1:52 am: “I am on #7 and feeling fine…see? i am ok @%^$*””
At this point, I sent him a text, asking him to PLEASE get a hotel room. Clearly, this was not a rational man.
Ex: 1:54 am: “NO…..am on the payroll now…”
Ex: 1:55 am: “Having a shot with B.B…… YEAH!!!!!”
Ex: 1:56 am: “play by play of my nite..please shut your phone off”
Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”
Ex: 2:13 am: “#10..just starting w feel a buzz..must hve tolerance from my wife…..ur still my wife…oh boy..what a nite”
Ex: 2:17 am: “U can thank B.B…she asked if I was driving..I said I am OK”
Ex: 2:24 am: “go to sleep honey..u have busy couple of days ..thanks 4 sending Doc instead of you. Cool. I am actually on # 10..what is the record? Do you know?”
Ex: 2:28 am: “just so u know honey, u destroyed me by sending Doc..i did not know you were here but anyways why was I invited.. I was not on the list..that is ok…remember I luv u”
Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text
Ex: 2:30 am: “I am bawling inside..but showing pretty well.”
Ex: 2:56 am: “I am going late nite..benn a long time..just an fiy” (Umm, FYI, maybe?)
EX: 2:59 am: “u r probaby sleping..that is good”
Ex: 3:05 am: “u r in the mix..i am fck up”
Ex: 3:08 am: “since u carwe.so much
Please dont contact me”
Ex: 3:12 am: “hopefully.. u r sleeping well..do not contact me tonite..i am fckd up”
Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”
Ex: 3:19 am: “just so u know I know more than u know” (This is important later with Sam - integral in the topic of the next post)
Ex: 3:20 am: “there will be no [business that we started together]…I am backing out tomorrow..i do not need it…thanks honey..”
Ex: 3:21 am: “handle it yourself..it is over..thanks 4 not coming over…sending Doc”
Ex: 3:23 am: “do not contact me anymore unless u truly luv me”
Ex: 3:26 am: “I am so fckd up..i can even see dtright..call insurance agent just in case”
Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”
Ex: 4:58 am: “hoe u r sleeping well right now…
Ex: 6:20 am: “5:25 am heading 2 another bar on the way home” (5:25, but I received the text at 6:20?!)
Ex: 7:21 am: “bottom line..we need a big talk and definitely our business is at risk..i do not want any of Sam’s connections…I do not care howbig… I willl tell [Fortune 5} company no go”
I didn't respond to most of these texts because I needed to try and sleep, but with each "ding" of the phone, I was woken up so I didn't sleep a wink. Like I said, Pete Doherty on a bender. Except I wasn't having any fun....
If these texts don't seem like a big deal to you, just wait. The second part to this story will follow soon and hopefully won't disappoint. I promise, this is all leading to a mobster movie scene. After all was said and done (and the final, rusty nail of the coffin was hammered), I think my response to Ex was, "Who died and left you Tony Soprano?"
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Can someone please give me the opportunity to punch this man?
This has nothing to do with my typical posts, but I love animals and this Michael Vick thing pisses me off to no end. (Though I'm no criminal, I'd love to take my Sig Sauer .40 and shoot both dog fighting promoters and those evil seal hunters in Canada, given the chance. No offense to my Canadian friends - I know you're great people, minus the seal-beating bastards.)
So here's the link to my friend Michael K's brilliant post on Michael Vick's whopping 8-hour class on proper dog treatment. Thank God he finished that 8-hour class! Now he must really know all about loving animal care! After what he's done, I'd like to put him in a ring with Chuck Liddell or some other batshit fighting dude, along with three or four of the dogs he's trained to fight, and then watch who winds up toothless.
If you're an animal lover, please visit the Anti-Cruelty society and contribute or volunteer.
Back to divorce drama tomorrow, I promise, but this one just broke my heart so I had to write about it.
So here's the link to my friend Michael K's brilliant post on Michael Vick's whopping 8-hour class on proper dog treatment. Thank God he finished that 8-hour class! Now he must really know all about loving animal care! After what he's done, I'd like to put him in a ring with Chuck Liddell or some other batshit fighting dude, along with three or four of the dogs he's trained to fight, and then watch who winds up toothless.
If you're an animal lover, please visit the Anti-Cruelty society and contribute or volunteer.
Back to divorce drama tomorrow, I promise, but this one just broke my heart so I had to write about it.
Monday, October 1, 2007
What?! Has hell frozen over and I just wasn't aware?
One hour ago.
Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."
(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)
Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."
My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"
Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."
Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)
Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."
Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."
The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.
This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.
Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.
Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.
If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.
And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.
Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!
Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."
(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)
Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."
My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"
Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."
Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)
Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."
Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."
The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.
This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.
Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.
Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.
If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.
And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.
Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!
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