Dump the Chump

Sometimes It's Amazing

2008-11-17T00:13:00.000-08:00

Some marriages work. Some are these amazing, magical best friendships that you just can’t seem to fathom would be possible, where you see these two people wanting to spend every waking moment with each other, and each can’t imagine a life without the other. Obviously, that was not the case with me because I was running from Ex like he was a hungry lion in Africa and I was the only warm body for miles. You could promise me Donald Trump’s entire estate if I would marry again and I still wouldn’t do it, but I’m not jaded enough to think that this kind of beautiful relationship is not possible.

However, when this impossible love does happen on those rare occasions, sometimes tragedy steals all of that in such a cruel way that you can’t fathom that, either. The relationship I'm about to write about was one of those unimaginable, lifelong love relationships with both spouse and children that is difficult to even conceptualize.

I just returned home from my best friend Ava’s city, in which we attended her father’s funeral and then spent our days with her Mom.

In order to understand this, you have to know that her parents were my second parents. We’ve been friends for more years than we wish to admit, since that means we have to disclose our real ages. So actually, we met when we were fetuses. Maybe not genetically, but we are sisters and we have nicknames for each other that I’ve mentioned in the past – MODI. Her Dad was Dad MODI and her Mom is Mom MODI to me. I love them as if they are family, but actually, they are my family.

I’ll spare you the gory details, because, quite frankly, I can’t even write about Dad MODI without sobbing, and I’ve not only done that for 6 days straight, but it blurs my contact lenses and then I can’t type. Point being, he had a heart attack Friday and died on Tuesday morning.

The majority of us will say nice things about the dead because we think we're going to have some bad karma or something if we speak the truth about what kind of a craphead this deceased person was. Let’s face it. Most people are buttheads and a pain in the ass (I know I am), and then, doesn’t it strike you oddly when everyone speaks about them as if they were angels? Well, I’m not one of those people because I’ll be the first to tell you that my Grandma, who I loved dearly, was the hugest bitch on the planet. She’d tell you the same thing as well. She loved to proclaim what a bitch she was, and she was a born-again Christian! And I hope that at my funeral, people talk about what a huge pain in the no-no hole (thank you Michael K for the terminology) I was! So I’m telling the truth and I don’t have to lie at all when I say that Dad MODI was an amazing, selfless, caring person who put everyone before himself. He was a world-renowned physician and inventor, but aside from all of that, he was in love with his wife and children for his whole life. I’m doing Dad MODI no justice with these words because words just cannot describe this man. I know, I know, you’re rolling your eyes thinking that I must be exaggerating, but I am not exaggerating in the least. I love my own Dad more than wine (which is saying a lot), and I’d rather live a life without wine than a life without my Dad. And I felt the same way about Dad MODI. I’d give up Opus One in a second if we could have him back here, so I can’t even begin to imagine what Ava is feeling right now.

The worst part (or one of them, because there are so many), is that Ava is getting married in 5 months. Dad MODI can’t walk her down the aisle, and that is a ridiculous injustice, since my Dad walked me down the aisle and my marriage, quite frankly, sucked! Dad MODI should have been able to walk her down the aisle because she’s marrying a good man, and honestly, that pisses me off. My poor Dad had to marry me off to a dude who loved granny porn!

In any case, I met Ava’s soon-to-be-husband under these circumstances this week for the first time, which is not how I wished to have met him. But what I can say, happily? Is that he is an absolute gem, never left her side at the hospital for 5 days, loves her completely, and he’s totally cute to boot. This is the first one she’s ever dated that I’ve even been able to tolerate! But I actually even like him! We stayed up one night until 5 in the morning drinking wine and talking. My kind of guy.

I’m devastated that Ava has to have her wedding without her beloved Daddy. They had one of those best friend father-daughter relationships that was so special and close, but I’m so happy that she’s marrying a good man who I know will honor Dad MODI’s memory. Since I’m speaking at her wedding, I’m thrilled that I actually love this guy, because otherwise, I’d just have to raise a glass and say, “I love you, MODI, and you look beautiful, but too bad I can’t stand your new husband, and too bad that Dad MODI is looking at us from heaven thinking what an asshat you've just married!” And don’t think for a second that I wouldn’t actually say that. I can now speak from the heart, which will probably start the tears flowing again for me. And tears make me just so ridiculously pretty. Me and crying don’t get along well. I need to see Plastic Surgeon for major surgery when I cry. Thank God I’m going back to work this week so I can run by her office at the hospital and get some work done.

So everyone, raise a glass to Dad MODI, celebrate his life, all that he did to save lives, heal pain, and most of all, how much he loved Mom MODI, Ava, and her brother, who we’ll call Peal! Cheers, Dad MODI, I love you so much and I miss you.

I’m still never getting married again, but right now, I’m also (unbelievably, I know) raising a glass to marriages that are beautiful, happy, and loving.

Naked Backflips for Everyone!

2008-02-27T12:15:00.000-08:00

It's still Black History Month, so I'll quote Dr. Martin Luther King and say, "Free at last, free at last!"

More to come very soon.....

Maybe Finally?

2008-02-24T18:49:00.000-08:00

I walked into the deposition last Monday unable to control my trembling hands, despite a thorough set of instructions from Lawyer, assurances that this wouldn’t be too harsh a process for me, and a Valium. The depositions were held at Greasy Attorney’s office and I tried to find amusement at the fact that it looks like something out of the set of Miami Vice, but laughter wasn’t coming easily. I was somewhat comforted by the fact that Ex was going first so I could see what to expect, ignorant of the fact that it was futile since our depositions ended up being conducted very differently.

I kept my hands in my lap during Ex’s 4 ½ hour dep to hide the tremors, initially watching intently, then feeling fidgety because it was lasting longer than church when you have your favorite monthly visitor and you think your tampon is leaking. His dep consisted of Lawyer going through each business’s tax return line by line. It was an unbelievably tedious process, since Ex’s business practices are insanely convoluted. As Lawyer wound his way through the English garden maze of transfers, intra-company loans, and infusions of money out of thin air in an attempt to smoke out whatever place in which he may be hiding assets, I realized that Ex had perjured himself more times than I could count.

After his dep was over, we took a break. Ex went into another room while Lawyer and Greasy Attorney conferred in a different room and I picked up a dictionary from the shelf, beginning to thumb through it. It’s inane, but I like to take a dictionary, close my eyes, stick my finger into a random page and read it. The first page I selected was in the “M,” section. About halfway through, I came upon the words, “marriage,” “marriageable,” and “marriage minded.” I rolled my eyes and picked another page randomly. It was in the “L,” section. A few words down the page, I came across the word, “love.” I sighed and slammed the book shut, opening it again to another section. This time I was in the “C”s. You guessed it, it was the page with “commit,” “commitment,” and “common-law marriage.” Thinking that the book may have been possessed by the Devil himself, I returned it to the shelf and backed away from it just in time for everyone to return.

I began my own deposition scared, but that quickly turned to an irritation similar to that of wearing underwear made from glass shards. Whereas Lawyer showed Ex the utmost respect despite his clear perjury, Ex’s Greasy Attorney didn’t return the favor.

He asked, “You have a house cleaning service?”

“Yes.”

He sneered sarcastically as he leaned across the table. “What, are you too good to clean the floor or scrub a toilet?”

I looked at Lawyer in confusion because I wasn’t expecting to be treated as such. Lawyer wrote me a note under the table that said, “Just be cool. He’s a hack and he knows it.”

I wrote back, "D*CK!!!"

Later, as he was going through my financial disclosure statement, he said, “You listed quite a bit of money for your monthly doctor’s fees. Care to explain that?”

“If I must, I took an aggregate of the last 12 months of doctor’s fees and divided it by 12.”

“And just who are these doctors?” he asked.

“I’m not under any obligation to answer that, since it violates doctor-patient confidentiality, not to mention the fact that Lawyer never asked your client about that. If you insist, though, Dr. G treated me for my fractured calcaneous, Dr. E is my PCP, and I receive care from Dr. [Plastic Surgeon’s name].”

“What kind of medicine does she practice?”

“She’s a plastic surgeon,” I answered, knowing where this line of questioning was going.

“Ohhhh,” he answered, leaning back in his chair with a smirk on his face while he twisted his pencil back and forth. “Well, now, you’ve had plastic surgery?” he asked mockingly.

“Um, Greasy Attorney,” I stated, leaning across the table and coolly looking him directly in the eye, “since you specifically asked for my medical records from her prior to this deposition, I can only assume that you’re trying to trip me up and I don’t appreciate it, nor will I fall for your trickery. And furthermore, of course I’ve had plastic surgery!”

While the court reporter stifled a giggle, his face twisted into a grimace. “Moving on,” he said. “So what are all of these expenses for social clubs and entertainment?”

I listed all of my academic memberships and then told him that I had a once-weekly Girls Night and a once-weekly date with The Doc.

“Now, just what is the nature of your relationship to The Doc?” he said, smirking in self-satisfaction once again.

“Well, not that it’s relevant to these proceedings in the least, but he’s my Main Gay.” The room erupted in laughter. Actually, Lawyer, the court reporter, and I erupted into laughter.

True to what the P.A. had told me, it was 2 hours of him attempting to trick me into perjuring myself, but to no avail because I don’t have any tracks to cover. Finally, it was over and the time to start settlement discussions commenced. It was arduous and escalated into anger at times, but we finally hammered out a basic agreement after 9 (!!) hours and set a date to meet on Saturday to finalize it in order to avoid trial.

This past Saturday I walked into Greasy Attorney’s office, once again expecting Crockett and Tubbs to spring out from behind one of the plastic palm trees. I wasn’t as nervous as Monday, but I was still anticipating a potential break down of talks in light of Ex’s past nutty behaviors.

Talks almost did break down, but we finally came to an agreement. I’m not happy with it. Ex isn’t happy with it. As my Dad always says, though, a good settlement consists of both parties walking away unhappy.

The agreement still needs to be signed and there’s a chance that Ex will have a change of heart and back out, preferring trial, but I have every finger, toe, and internal organ crossed that it won’t happen. Despite my disagreement with much of the settlement, I just want this whole acrimonious, Dante’s Inferno of divorces to be over so that I can move on. If all goes according to plan, I will be officially, well, Free on Wednesday afternoon. No more Almost, but rather, Finally.

When It Rains, It Pours.

2008-02-17T16:14:00.000-08:00

Last week at work, I ran into one of the P.A.s in the hallway with whom I work in our clinic’s office. I knew that she’d had a deposition the previous week for a work-related case, but I hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it, so I stopped her and inquired about her experience.

“Almost, it was the worst three and a half hours of my life. I mean, this guy was insanely rude, sarcastic, and he tried to trick me and trip me up the entire time,” she answered as she sagged against the wall.

Since I’ve been in panic mode for several weeks, this didn’t serve to quell the Category 5 hurricane that’s been taking a tour of my G.I. tract for so long, but I wanted to know what I’ll be facing so I asked for details. She told me that one of the doctors deposed actually stood up and told the attorney that he refused to be treated with that kind of disrespect and left the room. The ugly specifics of her experience, which I obviously can’t discuss for HIPAA and legal reasons, made my hair stand on end. I was pretty sure I looked like one of those people with their hand on the electricity ball at the science museum.

When Lawyer called Friday morning to confirm the deposition for Monday, I was immediately seized with terror. Filling him in briefly on what the P.A. had undergone, I asked him if I’d be dealing with the same kind of trickery, even though I have nothing to hide.

“No, that’s a totally different situation. I know you’re nervous, but I’m right there, and if there’s a question I don’t want you to answer, I’ll direct you not to answer, “ he replied.

With a promise that he’d call me Sunday night to talk about a few last-minute details, we said goodbye. At 4:40 in the afternoon Friday (of a holiday weekend, no less), I received an email from Lawyer’s paralegal with a rider from Ex’s Greasy Attorney demanding a Mount McKinley of documents for Monday’s deposition, including my medical records, specifically mentioning Plastic Surgeon and The Doc, the latter of whom is only a friend and doesn’t even treat me. Not only were his demands entirely impossible for time reasons, but I was also really pissed at the part about my medical records.

I called Lawyer, and he actually laughed through my whole rant about how my medical records aren’t any of Ex's f*cking business, not to mention that it violates doctor-patient confidentiality and HIPAA, and what the f*ck does he think he’s doing, since The Doc has never treated me and did treat Ex for his f*cked up mental health?

“Almost, take a breath!” he exclaimed. “He knows that you can’t produce those documents, and he’s in a load of hot water because we made our document demands months ago, but he’s dropping the ball in doing this to you at the 11th hour. The court will see it, too, and as for the medical records? Don’t even worry about it, that’s none of their business, and it’s irrelevant.”

My heart rate began to drop down, and I hung up with him. I was still angrier than a bodybuilder in the midst of ‘roid rage, though, because I can produce some of the documents, and that leaves me with a crapload of work to do tonight.

I would have gotten to work on it sooner, but I’ve had to work at the hospital all weekend on this ridiculously large project and haven’t had time until just now. This morning, my coworker called me and asked me to pick her up on my way. I agreed, picked her up, and we set off for work.

On the way, I found myself in a predicament. I had the choice of hitting a pothole the size of Rhode Island or hitting the person driving next to me. I chose the former and immediately got a flat tire, the second one I’ve had in the span of 6 weeks because the potholes here have proliferated faster than rabbits in heat. Thankfully, my coworker’s husband came and changed the flat for us, so now I’m driving on a super sexy doughnut for God knows how long, since the rim of the wheel in question is clearly bent. At least Lawyer is driving both of us to the dep.

So tomorrow, Monday, I guess I’ll be grilled and tricked and tripped. There’s an Argentinean television show called “El Peor Dia de Tu Vida,” (The Worst Day of Your Life) in which they play all kinds of horrible tricks on someone and it’s literally the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, even though I feel sorry for the poor victim. Tomorrow may just be my personal Peor Dia de Mi Vida, though I haven’t gone to trial yet, so that kind of leaves the door open to more sh*tastic experiences. And I don't think being deposed will be nearly as amusing to me as the show.

The cosmos must have wanted to make the day both metaphorical and literal, because when my coworker and I finally made it to the hospital, the skies opened in a downpour of rain, sleet and hail like I’ve never seen.

Giggling on the Couch

2008-02-13T18:42:00.000-08:00

I began the week thinking that I was going to give a deposition tomorrow in preparation for trial at the end of the month. It has made my stomach knot so badly that I think I’ve given myself my own gastric bypass, even though I need to gain weight instead of losing it. I want an ass again instead of two pancakes. But I digress.

I was heading toward the elevator this morning to begin work when I looked up from furiously text messaging to see that Dr. X was holding the elevator for me. I sped up my pace and thanked him for holding the door.

“So how are you?” I asked.

Though I didn’t mean to insinuate anything about his split, he answered with a half-chuckle, “Just fine, as you well know. Pasting that smile on my face and pretending that everything is terrific. How about you?”

“Oh, fan-freakin’-tastic!” I laughed.

We joked about our respective problems on the short ride up, sharing brief horror stories, laughing, and telling each other to hang in there when we exited the elevator and went to our separate clinics. It spurred me to think about how I can genuinely laugh about this horrific situation with certain people, and more specifically, the absurdities that make me laugh.

With Dr. X, I can laugh because I know his soon-to-be-ex is making his life a living hell and needling him for more than that to which she is entitled. I can commiserate on both levels.

With respect to the latter, that being the Ex needling for more than that to which he or she is entitled, I live it each day. Not only is Ex vying for half of my trust fund, but since I moved out, he’s refused to either split the furniture in the house with me or to reasonably furnish the condo. Both bedrooms in my place were furnished and there were bar stools at the kitchen island along with a couple of coffee table chairs when we separated, but dining room table and chairs? No. Couch? No. Coffee table or storage for books? No. You get the idea. Seriously, who doesn't have a couch? I'm not an 18-year-old undergrad anymore, so that makes the situation simply unexplainable and untenable.

I’ve already mentioned how I’m still a partner in and started one of Ex’s (very visible) businesses from which I never drew a salary, how I started two of his other companies for him, as well as how I’m a poor graduate student. My job doesn’t pay that well and the bartending gig is only one night a week. Really, is it too selfish to ask that the condo be furnished after living here for a year and a half and being his business partner for 5 years? I mean, I know I can be a selfish bitch sometimes, but in truth, that only happens if someone wants me to donate my motorcycle to them because they just really want it or perhaps make me foot the entire bill for a $3,000 night out. That being said, I’d give you my kidney if you needed it, even if I didn't know you. To boot, the law in our state dictates that we split the marital assets in half, of which furniture is one, and I asked for not even one quarter of that. Apparently, that’s too much, because he refused.

Lawyer called me today at work and said that the deposition had been postponed, potentially for Monday, but he wanted me to provide him with some photos in preparation. I was just thrilled that I’d been vomiting a little in my mouth all week for nothing. Regardless, he needed photos of all vehicles in question, which, if you count the motorcycles, ends up being 7. He also wanted photos of the house as well as those of the half-furnished condo.

I have photos of most of the vehicles and the house, and also have photos of the half-furnished condo that I took about a year ago, thankfully.

I say, “thankfully,” because someone helped me furnish the condo several months ago and current photos would not reflect the previously half-assed furnishings. This person is kind, generous, and sensitive. Sometimes air-headed, but the good things make up for that in spades. Again, I digress.

I was thanking my lucky stars for having the foresight to take those photos before the benevolent person to whom I referred helped me furnish this place. And then I thought about how I was able to laugh at the absurdity of not having furniture for so long, as well as laugh at the general incongruity of a contentious divorce like mine. It’s not that I now have furniture, because I laughed before that when the gorgeous Ms. Lemon Gloria Lisa visited and had to endure a night at my echoingly empty condo. It's not that I'm getting closer to a resolution, either.

I laugh because the sheer absurdity of the machinations of divorce confound me. I laugh because it takes so long. I laugh because sometimes I want to jump off of my balcony, and I’m not a suicidal person at all.

Then again, I think maybe Dr. X laughs for the same reason as this one. I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll cry.

And I laugh because….

Valentino and Dry Cleaning: Perfect Together

2008-02-07T16:04:00.000-08:00

Consider this scenario for a moment. You’ve been one of my closest acquaintances, I started 3 businesses for you and asked nothing in return (because your grammar is that of a third-grader and you can’t write competent content for any publications, let alone letters to Senators), and we're roommates. (Since there was no sex for God knows how long, I considered us solely roommates, alas, roommates who once had sex and are legally entangled.) Even though I promised you an amicable split, one day, I tell you that you suck, you’re ugly, you’re worthless, and then I seal the deal by spitting red wine on your Valentino top. Which you can never replace since the brilliance that is Valentino is now retired, much to my dismay.

Well, that’s the equivalent of Ex’s and his attorney’s response to our settlement offer.

I spent almost an hour (watch that money mount! It’s like Kilimanjaro!) on the phone with Lawyer last night going over the response to our very fair settlement offer point by point. He prepared me by saying, “Almost, you’re going to freak out, but please don’t. Just listen to me and don’t say anything, no matter how angry you become.”

I agreed. And it was harder to keep my mouth shut than it is for Paris Hilton to keep her legs closed in front of the paparazzi when she’s not wearing undergarments.

After hearing the 14-point response and realizing that my blood pressure was approaching the level of death by automatic self-immolation, I asked him if, indeed, I had to give a deposition on Friday.

“Looks like it, but I’m going to retain a forensic accountant and an expert to review all of his many businesses. And don’t worry, I’m going to prep you and I’m also asking the judge for a continuance,” he answered.

“Lawyer, that’s going to take months! Forensic accountants?! That means I’ll still be married forever! I want out now! It’s already been over a year!” I exclaimed in a panic.

“I know, but we’re going to take him to the f*cking cleaners.”

“I don’t want that, I already have a good dry cleaner and house cleaner. I just want to get out with what I came in with,” I answered, my voice rising to the level heard only by dogs. (Pardon the hanging participle. I wasn’t really thinking last night because my anger took over my brain like some alien pod. I’m pretty sure an MRI at that moment would have come back completely fiery red through all lobes of my brain. Or blown up the MRI machine. One of the two.)

Lawyer had a cardiology appointment and potential emergency angioplasty today, so I haven’t heard from him. However, he did dictate an email for me last night to send to Ex, and it was hardcore, badass, take no prisoners. I was nervous about sending such a harsh email, but Lawyer insisted and I complied.

And thank God!! As I was writing this post, Lawyer called me. His cardiology appointment revealed no blockages or problems, so it seems that he’s fine. After filling me in on his test results, he told me that I don’t have to give a deposition tomorrow, but he has to show up for a pretrial meeting with Ex’s lawyer and the Judge.

And Ex? I’ve not heard a word back from him in response to my email. Let me put on my big surprise face. And take my Valentino corset to the cleaners.

(BTW, if you're not a New Jersey native, you won't get the reference of the title. Sorry about that, but think Tom Keane and his famous commercial when he was the Governor of NJ.)

Can Someone Hand Me the Benzodiazepines Now?

2008-02-06T16:40:00.000-08:00

I spent last evening bartending the grand opening of a new, fabulous place in my city that’s owned by former supervisors of mine when I was toiling full-time behind the bar. They called me last minute and I was more than happy to oblige because I love these people and I knew that the crowd would be my style. Well-heeled, well behaved, and ready to spend. Well, the former two are my style because I still have my almost-Imelda-Marcos shoe collection and I behave in public, but the last is in question since Lawyer’s fees are now exceeding those of building the Space Shuttle.

It was insanely busy last evening and, indeed, the crowd met my expectations, replete with entrepreneurs, old money, and the financial geniuses that have navigated their way through this market successfully. And Lawyer. I knew he was coming, but I didn’t know what was coming.

He pulled me to the side of the bar and said, “Almost, I know you’re busy, but let me just say this quickly. Of course, you know we haven’t received a response to our settlement offer from Ex’s attorney, except that he asked me to have you ready for a deposition on Friday. Can you get free Friday afternoon?”

So I downed a bottle of prosecco right out of the neck. OK, no, I didn’t, but I wanted to do just that.

My Dad has spoken of depositions for years but I suppose I just never thought I’d be the subject of one. Quite frankly, I’m more panicked than the Fed in the January market crash before they discovered Jerome Kerviel’s (of France’s Societe Generale Bank) contribution to the market meltdown.

Speaking of meltdowns, I’m actively trying to prevent my own. I will be thrilled to be finally divorced, but at this point, I feel like a figure at Madam Tussaud’s during a five-alarm fire. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is all worth it and I'll still be doing naked backflips down the equivalent of Madison Avenue in my city when all is said and done, but who knew I’d be more scared of trial than Britney Spears facing the notion of 14 days without In ‘N Out Burger? (Which, by the way, is my theory on why she busted out of the psychiatric facility.)

P.S. Just received a phone call from Lawyer and he received a response. He said he read the first line and put it down in disgust. He'll be calling me later tonight, so more to come soon.....

Quite The Timing.

2008-02-04T18:53:00.000-08:00

Last week I received a letter from my Dad. I thought it odd, since he contacts me through snail mail about as often as do my two pets. Intrigued, I opened it and found another envelope, unopened, inside. Taped to the envelope was a return address clearly ripped from a brown padded mailer. On a Post-It, my Dad had written, “Almost, this was forwarded to my office.” Actually, I’m guessing at that last part because my Dad’s writing consists of him putting a chicken in a plastic bag with a piece of paper, some ink, and shaking it.

Since my dad is an attorney, I began to get anxious that perhaps I was embroiled in another legal matter of which I wasn’t aware. Until I saw that the envelope was marked, “To Almost. Personal and Confidential,” in handwriting. Handwriting that I recognized but couldn’t quite place. It was like seeing an irritating old relative whose name you can’t quite recall. You know that you don’t like them, but you can’t remember the reason and you still can’t find their name in your head, dammit.

I sat down at my kitchen island somewhat nervously and opened the envelope. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been more surprised if the letter had gotten out of the envelope, done a dance in drag, and sung its contents to me operatically.

“Almost,

I hope this writing finds you having the happy, peaceful, and joyous life that you are so deserving of. When (and if) you read this, you will in actuality be reading a document that has been more than three years in its’ writing and is a culmination of more than eight years of secrets and deceptions. It is the result of years of thought, progress, pain, and so many other emotions. On this nine-year anniversary of the beginning of our relationship and the 6-year anniversary of the end of it, it is my sincere and most heartfelt intention to apologize to you from the deepest recesses of my heart and my soul. I loved you with so much of myself that I couldn’t even begin to acknowledge any of this until just a few years ago. I live with the belief that I hurt you deeply. I am so very sorry… for everything.

I can only imagine what you have heard and been told since we parted and I left our city [for a state far away]. Many rumors have circulated. Suffice it to say that the consequences of that very convoluted life I lived have been harsh and relentless.

I find myself thinking of you often and remembering what it felt like to be loved by someone as kind and pure of heart as you. I remember the times of joy and the times of pain that we experienced together. Little did I know that those were the feelings of being alive, something that I have not felt since we parted. The love we had that I single-handedly destroyed is the benchmark against which all who have come since are unwittingly measured against, with none ever beginning to scratch the surface of what was the enormity of that love. You were perfect in every way, as the flaws that I exploited were what made you flawless.

The sole purpose of this note is to leave you with a hint of how sorry I am for everything. It is rare to find the greatest love of your lifetime. I squandered mine and I will live with that pain forever.

I pray that your life is a reflection of the beauty and happiness that you put out into the world and of the pure joy and unspoiled humility that is your hallmark. Having loved you is the greatest joy and the most honored privilege that I have… two things that can never be taken from me. I would give my very life for your forgiveness in your heart.

Merry Christmas to you and your family, and a life-long wish that you live immersed in the love that is you.

Respectfully and regretfully,
First Ex”

I’ve only had my heart broken once, and it wasn’t Ex. The first time I fell in love, it was with a slightly pudgy, older, balding man who was a good 3 inches shorter than me when I was in heels. I’ll save you the lachrymose moments and just say that he broke my heart so badly that I went from 120 healthy pounds at 5’7” to 94 pounds in a matter of months. I subsisted on cigarettes and one bagel and one coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts every day. I was bartending full time then, and as soon as I got in my car at the end of my shift, I’d burst into tears. And I don’t cry.

As you might imagine, that letter was from the man who broke my heart. When you first love and you’ve never been hurt, you love with a reckless abandon that, in my experience, never returns for your next loves. I had always tagged First Ex as a sociopath because his lies just mounted to the point where I couldn’t navigate my way through what was a lie and what was half-truth, and he seemed to have no conscience. There was no honesty, so after three years, it was over. I married Ex just over a year later.

Lauren, who has also known him for years, doesn't trust him and told me to write him a letter with no return address indicating that I had forgiven him for myself, not for his sake. My Mom asked how I felt, and I could honestly tell her that I didn't feel anything because I had forgiven him long ago. My Dad was blown away, but basically thought it was touching.

Though I truly don't feel blindsided or emotional about this correspondence in the least, it is bizarre timing. I'm facing a trial in three and a half weeks and the one man who absolutely shattered me came out of the shadows at this very moment.

So I’m left with two questions. Was I blinded into marrying the wrong man because I’d had my heart shattered and I was suffering the repercussions of my own poor judgment? And how do I respond to this letter from First Ex, or do I at all?

P.S. Click on the "Lauren" link to get to her blog. I promise you'll enjoy!

It's Not as Easy as Everyone Thinks

2008-02-01T09:03:00.000-08:00

I was at work in November, just getting back into the swing of things, when my closest coworker said something to me that left me as surprised as if neon monkeys had just flown out of her ass. I overheard her saying something to a nurse about how Dr. X had gotten a divorce in 3 months after a 20-something year marriage and had subsequently moved downtown. I interrupted her to ask what she was talking about.

“Almost, I know you’ve been gone for awhile,” she said, “but yes, Dr. X got a divorce in 3 months and moved downtown immediately. How come you can’t get divorced that fast?”

I felt like someone had just whacked me upside the head with a smoked meatstick, I was so flabbergasted. How could he, with a two-decades-long marriage and children, get divorced so quickly while I was mired in lawyer’s fees, text messages, and middle of the night phone calls?

As a little background, I work with Dr. X only on rare occasions. We’re on the same floor, we’re generally in the same line of medicine, and I pass him often in the hall, but his program is separate so we don’t really interact too much except to exchange pleasantries or talk about a particular patient that we share. I wanted to find out how he’d gotten divorced faster than Superman could catch a speeding bullet, but I have a tremendous amount of respect for Dr. X and I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. After all, I am all too aware of the sensitive nature of these issues and I wasn’t sure of the circumstances that contributed to the demise to his marriage.

However, I also knew that he and Plastic Surgeon have been friends for years and share a great mutual respect. They’re very much alike. Both are literally world-renowned in their fields, brilliant, and innovators, but they also have great personalities and love to have a good time, i.e., put down more vodka than Jeff Conaway and raise some hell. Fun hell! FYI, some super-smarties have the social skills of a Q-tip. These two break the mold.

Of course, the first person I called when I returned home that evening was Plastic Surgeon. They work in separate parts of the hospital, so I wasn’t sure if she’d heard the news.

“PS, did you know that Dr. X got a divorce and has already moved downtown?”

“WHAT?!” she exclaimed. “No, I didn’t know that. It’ll be fabulous to hang out with him downtown now! When are we taking him out? How in the world did he get divorced so fast, and why can’t you do the same?”

Again, I had my own Casper of a question haunting me, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go into Dr. X’s office, slap him on the shoulder in camaraderie and say, “Hey, heard your marriage broke up and you’re my neighbor now! So tell me, what’s the secret to getting unhitched so quickly?”

Yesterday, though, I finally ratcheted up the courage. I was on my way to a lunch meeting when I walked by his office and saw him alone. I passed, but quickly turned back without even thinking, knocking on the frame of his open door softly.

He looked up. “Oh, hi, Almost!” he said, sliding his reading glasses down his nose. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in awhile!”

After some small talk, I said, “Hey, I hear we’re neighbors now. I keep looking around when I’m out downtown to see if you’re there, but I haven’t seen you yet. PS wants us all to go out sometime, are you up for it?”

He looked puzzled. “You live downtown?”

“Yes, when my divorce started, I moved. I couldn’t wait to get out of the ‘burbs.”

The look on his face was a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and relief. “I had no idea. I didn’t even know that you were divorced.”

“Not divorced, Dr. X, getting divorced,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a long process for me. You’re lucky you got it over with so quickly.”

“Hah!” he laughed. “Quickly?! I’m in the midst of a sh*tstorm. And the attorney’s fees? Don’t even get me started on that!”

We shared mutual horror stories for a few minutes, which prompted him to proclaim at one point, “They should make it harder to get married than to get divorced. Both parties should have to undergo rigorous psychological testing in order to get married. The divorce should be the easy part.”

So there I had it. He hadn’t gotten divorced as quickly as everyone thought and he admitted a few minutes later that he’s still going through the same hell that I am.

"Almost, there are times that I get back to my place, sit on the couch, and I just feel that I can't even move. I'm just paralyzed." My heart went out to him, because, though I'm past that part, I've really been there.

We chatted for a few minutes, and I said, “Well, PS and I will call you the next time we’re out downtown.”

He responded, “I’d love to join you girls. You don’t know how fun an evening like that would be for me.”

I departed for my meeting and somehow, felt a little bit better. I would never want Dr. X to suffer a protracted divorce as I have, but at the same time, I was comforted by the fact that I didn’t miss some magical “hey, you can get divorced in 3 months, you dumbass,” rule. And if a brilliant, accomplished doctor feels also feels the paralyzing, depressing nature of a divorce, I don't feel as badly about going through the same thing.

I’ve heard quite a few stories about how someone’s gotten divorced in a matter of weeks, but I’m inclined at this point to call bullsh*t. And even if one does get divorced in a matter of months? Perhaps it’s just that much more hell packed into a shorter period of time. But for the time being, I’ll think that it’s a fairy tale quietly and conveniently enclosed in a Mother Hubbard tale.

Hold On, I'm Opening a Bottle of Wine....

2008-01-29T16:28:00.000-08:00

In late November, Ex emailed me and asked me to meet with him so that we could come to a resolution in this divorce without going to trial. I agreed, albeit hesitantly, to get together in public. I wasn’t sure if he was going to abduct me and lynch me or if he might just shoot me in plain sight. Or perhaps he’d gotten a girlfriend, was over me, and would be rational (please, God!). I’m not sure to this day that it was any of the above.

The meeting took place on a late Sunday morning (with my long bangs firmly in place over my left eye to hide my injuries) in a well-known restaurant in my city and it began with chit chat about what was happening in our respective lives. Initially, I was puzzled with regards to the nature of the conversation because it was as surreal as chatting about the weather with Osama Bin Laden. I wanted to spend about as much time with him as I would with Charles Manson, so I wasn't interested in Britney Spear’s latest meltdown and whether or not Suri is actually a product of L. Ron Hubbard’s frozen sperm. I felt like I had just fallen down the rabbit hole. Or taken a hit of LSD (which I've never done, by the way, but I can only imagine after watching one of my distant cousins take it and then roll around on the asphalt in front of a gas station pump screaming, "I'm a bear! I'm a bear! Grrrrrrrr!").

Finally, nearing the end of the brunch, he handed me a piece of paper and said, “This is my offer.”

After looking it over, I said, “I’ll have to talk to Lawyer about this, of course, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

He agreed. Then he said, “Oh, and by the way, I have 12 bottles of wine from the wine cellar for you in my car. I want to give those to you before we go.”

Conveniently, half of the wine in the wine cellar was left off of the settlement offer. I was already feeling suspicious of the genial way he presented himself, so this just served to increase my suspicions tenfold. After all of the nutty behavior, believing that he was actually a logical person was as difficult for me as believing that Xenu actually flew DC-10s filled with aliens here 10 billion years ago. I wondered, was he trying to bribe me with a case of wine, and if so, did he actually believe that would work? Sure, I love good wine, but I’d rather go a lifetime without Opus One than let myself get screwed over in the divorce as I already had in the marriage. Or was he really being genuine, truly desiring a friendly resolution? The fact that the settlement offer was lacking, to put it mildly, gave me the impetus to lean toward the former, but I still haven’t quite made an assessment on that one.

Lawyer and I haven’t had much time together lately, partially due to my genius self-inflicted facial injury and traumatic brain injury, and partially due to his busy schedule, but I did finally get together with him in early January. I gave him the paper that Ex had given me.

“Well, we agree on certain things, but absolutely not on others,” he said.

We were out to dinner with his cousin and Anastasia, so I said, “Let’s get together later and really go over this to come up with a response.” He agreed.

Needless to say, the catch up game I’ve been playing since I f*cked up my face and brain in October has been more brutal than swimming the English Channel in a g-string and bedazzled pasties in February, so we hadn't gotten together yet.

A few days ago, I called Newscaster Cousin. I hadn’t spoken to him since my injury, which is unusual because we typically talk or see each other at least once a week, and he was initially pissed that I had gone into hiding. After I ran the gauntlet with him, metaphorically flogged myself repeatedly, did my penance, explained what had happened to me, and gained forgiveness, he began to disclose.

“Almost, Ex called me three weeks ago. He wants me to vote for him for some award that he’s up for and then he asked me if he could take me and my boyfriend to dinner.”

“You said no, didn’t you?” I asked, aghast.

“Of course I said no. I was pissed at you, but I’m still loyal to you. Even though you’re a bitch. And why in hell didn’t you call me when you injured yourself? I would have been there in a second,” he growled.

“Wait, let’s get back to the subject. Ex asked you and your boyfriend out to dinner? And by the way, you’re never this much of an a**hole on the air.”

He laughed. “I can’t be an a**hole on the air, but I can be to my beloved cousin who doesn’t call me for three months. Anyway, yeah, I think Ex is trying to get custody of me in the divorce. And plus he told me that you’re going to trial. I thought that trial was only for, like, the Heather Mills/Paul McCartney kind of divorce. What’s going on?”

I was silent. Blown away. He thought we were going to trial? It had only been a month and a half since we’d discussed settlement! Granted, he didn’t know that I almost either killed or permanently disfigured myself, but still, I thought he’d be more generous with the time factor.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered Cousin. “I have to call Lawyer and deal with this right this second, I suppose.”

“Yeah, you do, because Ex is a freak and he’s nuts.”

I hung up with Cousin and immediately called Lawyer, telling him what happened. He said, “My week is totally jammed, but how about a dinner on Monday night?”

I sent Ex an email, letting him know that he’d receive our response today, to which he replied that he has been preparing for trial and will continue to do so. I rolled my eyes because I know that he hasn’t even spoken to his lawyer in months, so that statement is about as true as if I were to assert that I’d just grown a third breast.

My meeting with Lawyer last night went just as I thought. We laughed, caught up, and finally went over our business, coming up with the same proposal that we had set forth months ago when we had a settlement conference with Ex and his attorney. We laughed about the total lack of progress in the case, but then Lawyer became serious.

“Almost, Ex would be a fool not to take this offer,” he said. “You’ll get a lot more if we go to trial.”

“I don’t want to go to trial and I don’t want more, you know that. The depositions, the witness stand…. all of that stuff makes me more nervous than a virgin in a supermax prison.”

He laughed. “Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m ready, and you really won’t have to do that much. And you know what? If they want to be fools, f*ck it, I’ll tear them apart in court.”

Trial is set for the end of February and Ex has a week to respond to our offer. Perhaps his response will answer the questions with which I was left after I met him alone to discuss settling this mess. If he accepts the offer or is willing to discuss it out of court, maybe he really has become somewhat rational. If he rejects it and we go to trial, I’ll know that he tried to bribe me with a case of wine and a friendly façade.

I think I’ll open a bottle of that Opus One tonight. I have a feeling that I’ll be sworn to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth in a matter of weeks.

Smart Women Who Just Seem to Love Asshats

2008-01-26T10:54:00.000-08:00

Initially I planned to write about my last meeting with Ex, which I will address soon, but what’s looming in my head today is something entirely different.

I decided to go back to bartending a month ago when my old boss called me at the hospital and said, “I need you desperately tomorrow night. Can you work at this new club I just opened?”

Since my social life has been as dead as Jimmy Hoffa’s lately, I agreed. It was time to get back into society and reconnect with my old customers and friends. But just one night a week. So far.

I now work Fridays, and I received a text from Anastasia yesterday morning saying, “Ex is coming over tonight. I need to get out of the house. Are you working?”

Anastasia’s husband is Ex’s only friend and I’m pretty sure that they’re in love with each other. They sit around and talk about gas prices, energy savings, solar panels, how Al Gore is God, and then afterwards, they make out. Well, that last part isn’t true to my knowledge, but Anastasia and I giggle about it anyway.

Last night was busy. I had a lot of friends in, gathered around my section of the bar, since I’ve now been back to this for a month and word is starting to get out that I’m back. Next to them were three people, a married couple and a single guy, all clearly veteran drinkers. Eventually, the married guy requested a bottle of Cristal. I was more than happy to oblige, since it was my first Cristal sale since I’d been back to bartending.

I chatted them up while I was doing the whole bullsh*t presentation of a $600 bottle of champagne and found out that married guy’s wife is a doctor. I complimented her genuinely on being both beautiful and smart, and she blushed while she looked in her lap.

I poured the champagne and the single guy took one sip, saying, “This champagne is fabulous, but I have to jet. I have to be in the next state at 8 am. Let me check out.” I closed their tab, thanked them, and walked away to talk to my friends gathered next to them. Ten minutes later, Anastasia grabbed me and said in my ear, “Almost, the guy with the champagne just punched the girl in the face.”

“What?! That’s his wife! Are you sure? Where’s the single guy that was with them?”

“Yeah, he just flat out turned around and punched her with a closed fist. No open-fist slap, closed-fist to the eye. And the single guy already left.” Anastasia, as I’ve said, is a Sergeant, soon-to-be Lieutenant, in the police force, so she’s always detail oriented.

“Where is she?” I asked, while I turned around, unable to find her in the crowd.

“I think she went to the bathroom.”

“I need to find her and make sure she’s ok,” I said.

“I’m going with you,” Anastasia announced. I wasn’t going to protest because I’ve seen this 120-pound gorgeous girl put an out-of-control professional football player through a wall. If I needed backup, I wanted her.

Just as we were heading to the bathroom, Doctor Wife emerged. I put my arm around her. “Are you ok, honey?” I asked.

“I’m fine, will you people please stop making a big deal about this? I’m fine, now where’s Timmy? He’s giving me a ride home.” Her whole body shook and tears slid down her cheeks as she proclaimed that she was "fine."

I have no idea who Timmy is, but apparently he’s acquainted with the promoter, because the promoter said, “He’s on his way, just hang on.”

The lights were about to come up, so still with my arm around her, I said to Doctor Wife, “Come up to the roped off area, hon. Do you smoke? Do you want a cigarette?” (Shocker – I work in a hospital and guess what? Half of your doctors who tell you not to smoke…. smoke.)

“Yes, please. And keep my husband away from me.” He was sitting at the bar, about to fall off of his bar stool from sheer wastedness, so it was easy to get her a cigarette and keep him in his state of idiocy. Though he requested another drink, I suggested water and an intervention with a 90-day rehab program specifically designed for a**hole rehabilitation.

Two minutes later, Timmy pulled up and Doctor Wife took off with him. The bouncer then put a**hole wife-puncher in a cab and we called it a night.

I began to think about my own marriage and abuse. Ex never laid a hand on me, though I can say that he abused me emotionally and mentally. Often in my day business, I come across spousal abuse and the stories always vary. The emotionally abused wives (or sometime husbands) say it’s worse than being hit. The physically abused ones assert that they’d rather be emotionally or mentally abused. I suppose it’s a phenomenological experience for everyone in the sense that you can’t ever judge what’s worse for another since we can never wear their shoes and experience what they experience firsthand. It's a conundrum that will probably never be definitively answered. One thing I do know is that when I realized I was in an abusive situation, I left. It took me too long, but I finally did it.

But I’m left with one question. What makes a smart, beautiful woman wind up with an abuser? And stay with him.

Great Ways to Find Out Who Really Loves You

2008-01-18T18:52:00.001-08:00

A few days after my last real post, I was working furiously toward an October 31st deadline and was working so hard that I had to contort my body in order to see my computer screen through the avalanche of books and papers that had mounted seemingly out of nowhere. In order to help accomplish my work, I thought it was a wise idea to have a massive accident in my own home, give myself a black eye that would shock Lennox Lewis, and split the skin around my left eye to the bone.

I had been awake for two days straight, working at my kitchen island where the chair is the most comfortable, and finally decided that, since I was probably unable to comprehend A Cat in the Hat at the time, I needed at least a couple hours of sleep. I swiveled in my chair so that I could head to bed when my feet got tangled in the footrests and I went over face first into the corner of the marble topping the kitchen island. That's the last thing I remember for 2 hours, which is probably good because I may have gotten up, looked in the mirror, and believed myself to be a feature character in a Wes Craven movie. Actually, I did that anyway.

Two hours later, I awoke in my bed, wondering how I had gotten there, feeling very disoriented, and looked around to see myself pooled in blood. My hair was entirely matted with blood, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out the source. I started to get out of bed and realized that I had the balance of a Weeble Wobble, only one that would fall down, and stumbled to the bathroom to see three distinct slashes on the ocular bone both over and under my left eye. The entire left side of my face was already black. I was too disoriented to be horrified yet, so I began to try and reconstruct what had happened. My first thought was that someone had broken in and slashed me, but as I weaved my way out to the kitchen and saw a pool of blood right around where I had fallen, I realized I had brilliantly done this to myself. From the size of the blood pool, I figured I was on the floor, knocked out, for about 20 minutes or so. I felt like I was a detective on Law and Order as I examined the blood drops and smears leading to my bed.

I figured that I had way too much work to do to go to Plastic Surgeon's office, which is about 35 miles away, so in my head-injured wisdom thought, "Hey, I work in a hospital, I can fix this." I promptly washed the wounds and then attempted to put a Band-Aid on these actively bleeding wounds. In retrospect, I can't help but giggle at the memory of my thinking that this was going to help in any way. When that didn't work, I tried to superglue the slashes shut (which, by the way, sounds weird, but actually works in emergency situations, but only with more superficial cuts) and that recollection makes me laugh even harder. Here I was, totally disoriented, with a head injury to my left frontal lobe, wondering why, if superglue can keep that dude in the hardhat hanging from a beam in the ads, why can't it keep a few cuts closed?

It took me 2 days to finally call Plastic Surgeon and tell her what had happened. I drove to her office, but my balance was still off and the nature of the injury was such that the swelling had displaced my eyeball and I was seeing double. I drove like any drunk driver with one hand over my left eye. When I walked into her office, she took one look at me and was visibly horrified. She said, "Honey, what have you done? You've always been my Picasso, the one that I want my other patients to look like. Now you actually look like a Picasso!" During the 2 hours in which she stitched and cut necrotic tissue away, she asked why I hadn't called her immediately. When I explained that I just had too much work to do and was afraid that sacrificing the 4 hours I knew it would take was not an option at that time, she stopped for a second, put her hand on my shoulder, looked me directly in the (one good) eye, and said, "Baby, you're one of my best friends. I would have come to your house and done it there, even if it was 3 in the morning." Forty-eight stitches later and after assurances from PS that scar therapy would make the injuries invisible after a few months, I left.

This whole injury and PS's comment about coming to my house spurred my thoughts on other injuries I've had and the people that have either come to my rescue or have turned a blind eye. In 2000, I woke up one morning with what I thought were the worst menstrual cramps of all time, a fever, and vomiting. Thinking that it was just a bad flu combined with the monthly loveliness that is being a woman, I went back to bed. By 6 PM, I knew I had appendicitis. I drove myself to the hospital and called Lauren (who has a blog of her own now), saying, "I need your help. I have appendicitis and my parents are already heading to the airport to come out here. Please go to my apartment, clean out ALL of the cigarettes and hide my birth control pills."

She groaned. "Almost, I went out with some people after work and I've already had 5 margaritas, but f*ck it. I'll do it."

I warned her to be careful and she did exactly what I had asked and then met me at the hospital. She stayed with me until my parents arrived and visited for the next two days in the hospital, bringing flowers, ice cream, and gifts. On top of that, she drove my car back to my apartment since my parents would be taking me back there. I still haven't paid her back for that parking charge and she never asked for it.

Now that's someone who loves you.

In 2005, I began having lower back pain on my right hand side one day. It was uncomfortable, but nothing I couldn't handle. As the days progressed, however, it worsened to the point that I thought I'd rather have a Scientology e-meter up my ass than be going through this. I went to Ex and said, "I don't know what this is, but it's not going away. Do you think I should go to the hospital?"

He looked up from his computer and sighed. "Whatever. I don't know." He looked back down at his computer.

I called Lauren two hours later and described the pain. She said, "Get your ass to the hospital right now. You have either a kidney infection or kidney stones."

I went back to Ex and said, "I need to go to the hospital. Do you think you can drive me?"

As I was bent double, he looked up and sighed once again, but this time he added an eye roll. "Fine," he grunted.

"No, actually, I can do it myself, don't worry about it."

Begrudgingly he said, "I'll do it. Whatever."

When we arrived at the hospital, they immediately put me into an ER exam room while they scheduled a CT scan. Ex was with me, but I could see that he was clearly uncomfortable. I said, "Look, you don't look very happy here, so why don't you just wait in the car?" Of course, I was thinking that there was no way he would actually leave me alone and frightened in the emergency room, but I was wrong. He was gone before I could even say, "See you outside."

Three hours, three Vicodin, and a CT scan later, it was confirmed. I had kidney stones and just had to wait until they passed. I hobbled out to the parking lot, found Ex's car, and got in.

"So, what is it, an attack of the Hormone Monster?" he laughed.

"No, it's three kidney stones." That shut him up immediately.

When you're seriously injured or think you might have something of gravity with which to deal in your body, you quickly figure out who actually loves you. PS would have driven to my house at 3 in the morning. My parents immediately flew to my city when I had appendicitis, even before I was diagnosed. Lauren went above and beyond in caring for me when I was hospitalized, keeping my dirty little secrets away from my parents and doing everything she could to make me feel better despite the fact that she was 5 margaritas into the night. And Ex? I suppose his behavior speaks for itself.

But the one good thing about my latest injury? Because of the manner in which I excoriated the obicularis muscle around my eye, I will never have crow's feet there. That means only half the Botox!

P.S. There's been about as much action in my divorce process as there was in our bedroom for the last year and a half of my marriage, but I did meet with Ex briefly to discuss a resolution. I'm saving that for next time.

Abducted

2008-01-16T18:32:00.000-08:00

No, I wasn't abducted by aliens, but close. Sorry for the lapse in posts, everyone, but I had what can only be described as a Traumatic Brain Injury right after my last post. I promise I will post this weekend and yes, I am still getting divorced, though I hear that some think I may be getting back together with Ex. Not true.

Thank you to all of you who have still been reading and I'll see you in a couple of days.

Baby is a four letter word

2007-10-19T12:37:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Court is not in session. Today, anyway.

2007-10-15T12:19:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every time the phone rings, I jump.

2007-10-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leg Breaking, Part II

2007-10-05T08:25:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh?? What are you talking about?"

"There's a price on my head."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, what do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-10-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”

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

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

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

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

Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-10-02T20:26:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

2007-10-01T21:33:00.000-07:00

One hour ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unsettled

2007-09-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

T minus 23 hours....

2007-09-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

It's Pronounced "Goo-chee"

2007-09-24T10:31:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World's Shortest Fairytale

2007-09-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

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

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

It was Lawyer's office number.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO,
Carla

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

The End "

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

"Where do the batteries go?"

2007-09-14T10:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

Lauren laughed and said, "No problem!"

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

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

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

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

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

"No, let's just go."

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

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

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

"Don't remind me," she groaned.

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

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

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

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

"I haven't packed!" she shrieked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You what?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

"Where do the batteries go?"

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

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

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

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

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

2007-09-11T11:50:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-09-05T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

"Fourteen and twelve," Lauren answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inappropriate Touching

2007-08-29T12:45:00.001-07:00

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

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

"Really, who? And where?"

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

"Tell me about him!"

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

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

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

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

"Uh, what?"

"He doesn't make me itch!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pardon Me, While I Remove This Knife From My Back

2007-08-25T16:07:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I heard."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birthday Fun and Don't Drink and Text Part II

2007-08-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ridicule of Appearances

2007-08-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I am not a sex therapist."

"A sex surrogate?! Uh, no."

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing on the Tabletop with a Married Woman Does Not Earn Points With the Greek Mafia

2007-08-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Greece after an indescribably fabulous week which culminated in a party in my city for Designer and his mother's birthdays this past weekend. I did not think about Ex once, which was a welcome relief. I don't feel rested in the least, but it was utterly worth it. I had planned on posting at least every other day from Greece, but was unable to follow through for a variety of reasons.

First of all, when you log on to Blogger in Greece, everything on the page is in Greek. I could not for the life of me figure out how to change the language back to English, so I just gave up. Actually, chalk it up to sheer laziness because every day I lounged at the pool, drank wine with my friends, and allowed my good intentions to float away on the Mykonian breeze.

Secondly, there's a sense of impossibility in attempting to capture the essence of the trip, Designer's party, and the amazing people who flew all the way there to celebrate with him. I feel so honored to have met some of the most brilliant, creative people I've ever known and to have had the chance to get to know them. It was truly a fabulous collection of people.

However insurmountable the task to describe the events, there are a few funny stories that just have to be told.

To grasp the craziness of this trip, you have to understand the schedule. Generally, you wake up around noon, go to the pool or beach, and begin with some lunch, mimosas, and chat with your friends. Around 7:30, you return to your hotel room, nap until 10, then ready yourself for dinner around 11:30. Dinner ends at about 2 am, then you dance until 7 am, go back to sleep and do it all over again. I believe that this is a regular schedule for all in Greece, at least during their 6 weeks of tourism in which they make all of their money for the year.

I'm pretty sure at this point that my liver is laying somewhere in an alley in Mykonos, crying out for mercy. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only one whose liver absolutely forbids them to ever return to Greece.

One evening, a group of about 35 of us went to a beautiful outdoor restaurant situated right on the water. We were all forewarned that the music would gradually become louder and that by the end of the night, everyone would be dancing on the tables. I frankly didn't believe the notion, but indeed, that is exactly what transpired.

After a wonderful dinner replete with many bottles of wine, big plates of fresh watermelon and ouzo showed up. Matthew, one of the most entertaining people in the party, proceeded to drink his way into utter oblivion. He, being one of the few straight men in attendance, was entertaining everyone with his grabbing of random women to dance on tabletops with him. Unfortunately, Matthew grabbed the wrong woman to dance with him toward the end of the evening. Correction: toward the beginning of the morning, since it was about 4 am.

He drew out a woman from a completely different party than ours, not realizing that she was not part of Designer's group. The two of them were dancing quite fabulously on top of one of the tables when Matthew lost his balance, grabbed the woman for support, and proceeded to take the two of them down. They fell onto the floor, knocking over all of the chairs within a 10 foot radius, both laughing hysterically.

As we all looked on giggling (because they weren't hurt), a quite intimidating looking man materialized out of nowhere and grabbed the woman, yanking her to her feet. It turned out that the woman was married and her husband had observed the entire debacle. To say that he appeared livid would be a gross understatement. Matthew is a really good guy, so he wouldn't have undertaken any of these actions had he known she was married and not part of our group. Or had he been sober. Or perhaps both.

In any case, the woman's husband was displeased to say the least. His wife walked back to her table while the husband took a swipe at Matthew's chin, just barely grazing him. Matthew apologized profusely and the husband growled something in Greek, which I think might translate to, "I'm in the Greek mafia, motherf*cker, so if you ever touch my wife again, you'll have free swimming lessons with a cement kickboard." But that's pure speculation. (And as a disclaimer, I don't know if he was in the Greek mafia or if such a thing even exists, but he appeared to me as the Tony Soprano of Mykonos.)

The next day, we were rehashing the prior evening's events. I jabbed Matthew in the ribs and said, "You were so funny last night when you fell off the table!"

"What? I didn't fall off the table. What are you talking about, Almost?"

We ended up having to retell him the story, of which he had no recollection. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Hmmmm. I was wondering where all of those bruises came from."

Uproarious laughter ensued from all of us, and then we toasted Matthew's near-miss with some champagne.

That is just one of many stories from our trip, and more will come in future posts, but cheers to you, Matthew. And may you get your luggage back soon, since you've had no clothes for the past 2 weeks. At least you escaped the wrath of the Greek mafia and looked fabulous doing it.

Laid to Rest

2007-07-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

I flew to Rhode Island on a 6 am flight on Friday morning in order to attend my grandparents funeral. After much trauma with renting a car and getting lost for a ridiculous period of time in sketchy neighborhoods trying to find my aunt and uncle's house, wondering why I hadn't taken the GPS unit when the rental company offered it, I finally made it.

The service was beautiful. My grandfather, who I positively adored, died several years ago, but we waited to bury his ashes until my grandmother had also passed away. My uncle made two beautiful teak boxes for their ashes by hand and mounted them to a piece of my grandfather's beloved sailboat, the Night Wind. Their ashes were lowered into the ground with chains taken from his boat. We had a beautiful, tear-filled ceremony and laid them to rest, each of us throwing a shovel full of dirt on top of the boxes. I felt like they were finally in peace together.

During the ceremony, we all took turns telling stories about Grandma that meant something to us. Many of them were funny because my grandmother was quite the character, but I had both an amusing tale and one that was more serious. When I first married Ex, my grandmother, then in her mid-80's, said to me, "Almost, I'm worried about something."

"What is it, Grandma?"

"Well, you're so tiny, and Ex is so huge. I mean, how does the sex work? Is it actually possible? Doesn't he hurt you?"

I laughed. The comment was so typical of Grandma, who used to vacuum in the nude and trail behind my grandfather's boat on the Long Island sound attached to a rope, also sans clothes. She used to complain to me that my grandfather wasn't interested in sex regularly enough for her taste. When she was 86, my mother and I visited her in her assisted living facility. She was raving about the classical musician Andre Rieu, and told us that she wouldn't want to marry him, but he was so handsome that she'd just want to "do" him.

These aspects about my grandmother are incongruous when you consider that she was a very Bible-believing woman and truly centered her life around her faith. On the flip side, she was so realistic about life and sex that she was one of the few Christians I could tolerate being around. When Ex and I were on the slippery slope to divorce, I told my grandmother all of the details including my tawdry part in the marriage's demise. I fully expected her to give me a lecture on the Christian way to approach marital problems, i.e. a "you made a promise before the Lord, so you have to stick through it no matter what" type of diatribe.

Instead, she said, "Oh, honey, life is too short to go through it in this kind of misery. I totally understand where you're coming from. You're young and have your whole life ahead of you. Dump him."

Not words I anticipated from a Bible-thumping woman in her 80's whose favorite song was "The Majesty and Glory of Your Name," but healing words that made me laugh because of their candor and words I appreciate to this day.

Although I was supposed to return home that same night, my flight was re-routed through Ava's city, which wound up being fabulous since I was able to spend a fun evening with her and catch the first flight home the next morning. On my way there, we flew over a series of thunderstorms with lightning firing up the night sky beneath us. Overhead was an almost-full moon casting a silvery pall on the tops of the clouds below. It was breathtaking.

My grandfather was a pilot for many years, retiring from the commercial airline in the 70's, and his last private flight was when he was in his 80's. That one made the paper. Flying was his number one passion, and he loved the calm and peace of guiding a big silver bird over storms, feeling tranquility and smooth air despite the turbulence visible below.

I had laid my grandparent's ashes to rest that day, and my flight reflected another thing I'm learning to lay down. Though I still have my moments of panic, I'm beginning to ascend through the storm into that serene place between the pale moon and the squalls transpiring beneath me. I'm learning how to lay to rest my own tempests and watch them from above, enjoying gliding through the smooth air and appreciating the beauty of an uproar from afar, just like my grandfather. At some point, I will be able to lay the ashes of my marriage to rest and throw a handful of dirt on top. I hope I will feel that I've laid it to rest in peace and can look back upon it with no malice, but rather with fondness for the times that were good and with appreciation of all that I learned from it, just as I've done with my grandparents.

P.S. I'm heading off to Greece for a week tomorrow with Ava, the Doc, and Ava's friend Erica. I'm bringing my computer and I fully expect to be posting, not about divorce drama, but rather about the hilarity that is sure to ensue. I will spend a glorious, sun-filled week immersing myself in hedonistic pleasures and I refuse to think about Ex or anything related to this divorce. We're going for my fabulous and gorgeous Designer Friend's 40th birthday party, so expect some craziness and fun in the days to come.

Stranger Danger

2007-07-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

During the time when I was just beginning to realize that I was desperately, breath-stealingly unhappy in my marriage, I decided to take a trip to see Ava for the weekend. I needed to see her. We all have this deceptive veil through which we see our own problems, and she has this amazing ability to untangle my convoluted issues and lift the veil, giving me clarity. I booked the trip figuring that it would allow me a weekend of a ridiculous amount of laughter as well as some sort of catharsis and perhaps resolution. (It did, but that's not the point of the story.)

On my way out to see Ava, I was in City Airport at one of those booksellers to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of water and the line snaked out the door, stretching halfway to the next bookseller. After what seemed like hours in line (ok, 10 minutes) I finally approached the cashier, at which time a man dressed in a ratty, hole-ridden tank top and stained khaki shorts practically pushed me out of the way to get there first. The cashier seemed to know him and the sparkling stars in her eyes were almost tangible as she went into her dreamy celebu-trance, forgetting about everyone else in line.

I'm no shrinking violet and I was not in a mood to be pushed out of the way by some homeless dude after waiting 10 whole minutes to pay a million stinking dollars for a bottle of water, so I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around.

"Um, no," I said to him. "Why don't you be a gentleman and wait your turn like everyone else."

And then I realized that this was a man I grew up with, a guy I idolized as a kid, watching him jump in and out of his white van as he saved the day.

It was Mr. T.

I wasn't star-struck by any means, since I've had my share of celebrity run-ins especially in my bartending years, but I giggled like an idiot anyway.

"Mr. T! I just heard you on Howard Stern, you were great!"

"Well, thank you, little lady. You mind if I go ahead of you? I'm late for my flight." He speaks in person exactly as he speaks on TV and radio. It tickled me.

"Sure, I understand." I had another hour before my flight left. I supposed it was no skin off of my back and the other people in line were whispering and smiling, so I figured they didn't mind either.

As the cashier rang up his purchases, he turned to me and said, "You a very beautiful lady. You married?"

"Thanks. And yes, I am."

"Well, I hope your husband appreciates you. He a lucky man."

"Thank you. He does," I lied.

"Have a nice flight, pretty lady."

"You too, Mr. T."

As I turned to leave the bookseller's, I couldn't figure out why I was dangerously close to tears and had such a lump in my throat. I figured it was something akin to stranger danger, because it's funny how a single statement from a person wholly unknown to you can crystallize your heartbreak and bring it to the surface after you've been fighting, denying and pushing it down for so long.

But at least Mr. T had turned out to be a gentleman in the end. He bought the bottle of water for me.

THE RAID

2007-07-24T11:10:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite stories of all time, and even though it's long, I just can't resist telling it today, especially since Tracy, Lauren, and Lynn just conducted a raid of their own.

My raid was much more dramatic than that one, and I have to say, so filled with laughs that it's nearly impossible to convey in words.

I had moved out of the house in the fall, and Ex and I initially tried to work out our divorce amicably. It clearly was not going well because we had too many assets and it was an insurmountable task to divide them equally. Add to that the many drunk texts I was receiving almost nightly, and it equaled a contentious relationship to say the least. I had already retained Lawyer, so I wasn't surprised when he called me shortly after the New Year one Monday morning and said, "Almost, Ex has filed for divorce against you. Let's get together later today and sign some papers. I already have them drawn up."

The next day while I was at work, I called Lawyer and said, "Listen, I think I should probably go get the rest of my possessions out of the house. What do you think?"

"Absolutely! Get over there as fast as you can!"

As I've already mentioned, Ex is gone during the week for work, and this presented the perfect opportunity to go back to the house and load up what remaining items I could fit into my car. It just so happened that this fell on Girls' Night, which is our weekly get together of whatever members of our girls' club are available, so I called all of the girls and asked a huge favor.

"Lauren, Anastasia, and Shawn, I need to get my stuff out of the house. Can you bring your SUVs and help me tonight? I promise, there will still be wine involved."

The wonderful friends that they are, they agreed and I headed to the house straight after work.

I was nervous while I was driving there because I wasn't entirely convinced that Ex wouldn't be home, but I was enormously relieved when I drove down the driveway and saw that the space in which he usually parked his car was empty.

I was the first to arrive. I traipsed through the inches of snow on the ground to the front door, almost breaking my neck in the Christian Louboutins I had worn to work that day.

I tried my key in the lock. It wasn't working, no matter how much I jiggled it. I was incredulous. Ex had changed the locks.

Again, almost breaking my neck in my heels, I walked to the back of the house and tried my other key. He'd changed those locks as well.

I promptly called Lawyer. I was in a rage. "Lawyer, he CHANGED THE LOCKS ON ME!!"

"Of course he did."

"Am I within my legal rights to break the window or pick the locks to get my stuff back?" I asked, while walking to the sliding glass door in the front of the house.

Just as Lawyer was about to answer me, I tugged on the sliding glass door and began to laugh. It slid right open. For all of Ex's attempts to keep me out, he had forgotten to lock that door and it amused me to no end. Lawyer laughed as well and we said our goodbyes.

The first thing I went to look for was a stash of physical precious metals we had acquired over the course of the marriage, which happened to amount to a substantial sum of money. My intent was to have Lauren photograph the entire stash for insurance purposes and then split it equally. I knew the going price of gold and silver at the time, so it would have been a simple task. It was gone.

Again, in a rage, I called Lawyer. "The gold and silver is gone!"

"Of course it is."

I was becoming irate as the girls started showing up. They were already in hysterics because of the manner in which I gained entry to the house, but I threw my hands in the air in frustration.

"Can you believe this bastard? First, he tries to lock me out of getting my own stuff, and then he steals the gold and silver! What a motherf*cker!"

Anastasia said, "Chill out, Almost. Let's open a bottle of wine while we get your stuff together."

Ex and I had been working on a wine cellar together when I moved out of the house, and by the time The Raid took place, it was finished. There was a key on the table near the entrance to the cellar, and it didn't work. I looked at Anastasia and said, "You're the cop, break in!"

Instead, she went on a hunt for the working key, and to her credit, found it. We began by opening a bottle of Opus One. An old one. A very expensive one, and the first of several that we would finish before the evening was out.

While we went to work packing up the remainder of my clothes, books, and everything else I thought we could fit into our various vehicles, Shawn said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we took all of the toilet paper in the house?"

Shawn didn't know this, but Ex has this thing about toilet paper. If there weren't 800 rolls in the house at once, he'd flip out, go to the nearest 24 hour convenience store and purchase their entire stock of Charmin.

Of course, Lauren was aware of Ex's obsession and the look in her eyes was priceless as she took off on a tear to grab every single roll in the place. On each spindle, she left an empty cardboard roll.

I went to look for a plastic bin containing thousands of photos that I can never replace, and it wasn't in the last place I'd left it. I began to panic because, honestly, of everything I was taking, this was the most important. I thought that perhaps it was in the garage, so I grabbed the garage door opener and went outside.

Ex had told me in November that he'd had my motorcycle taken to the dealership for winter tune-up and storage. I took him at his word and never called the dealership to confirm, so it came to me as a huge surprise when I opened up the garage door and found my bike sitting right there, not moved an inch from the last time I'd taken a ride. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that I couldn't find my pictures, but did find my bike. This whole situation was becoming more and more unbearable.

Immediately, I got on the phone with the dealership. These guys have known me for years, and I knew that even though it was after hours, a little begging might prod them into coming out and picking up the bike. I really needed them to do this because if that bike was still there when Ex came home and realized I had removed my belongings, he'd take a hammer to it. I explained my situation, and sure enough, a half hour later, two of the guys from the dealership showed up with their truck. After loading my baby into the back of their trailer, I invited them inside for some wine and laughs.

By this time, we'd pretty much packed up all of my belongings and we were sitting in the living room working on our third bottle of wine. I went into the wine cellar, picked up two collector's edition magnums of cabernet, and gave one to each of the guys from the dealership.

Anastasia said, "Almost, you should take something of value, since Ex took the gold and silver, tried to deprive you of your own possessions by changing the locks, did something with your photos that you can never replace, and lied to you about the bike."

"You're right. I need collateral, don't I?"

"Sure do."

I promptly added to the pile of belongings the three most expensive paintings we had in the house, as well as Ex's gold Rolex, of course with the intention of returning them eventually.

As the six of us chatted and drank more wine, Lauren got a mischievous look in her eyes. Ex and I had purchased a six foot wooden Cigar Store Native American statue a couple of years back which stood in the corner of the living room. Lauren said, "Wouldn't it be great if we took that thing out on the front lawn and wrapped it in toilet paper?"

We all giggled and the guys from the dealership groaned. They looked at each other and one muttered, "This is why the saying goes that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

I couldn't bring myself to do something like that, but Lauren had another idea. "Almost, why don't we dress up the cigar store dude in some of Ex's clothes?"

I jumped up. "His wedding tuxedo!"

I ran to Ex's closet, brought out the tux, and we proceeded to dress the statue in the clothes. We had no trouble with the shirt and jacket, but we couldn't figure out how to get the pants on because the feet were planted to a rectangular stand.

"Almost, go get some nails," Shawn giggled.

I went into the tool box, found a couple of rusty roofing nails and a hammer, which Shawn promptly grabbed from me and used to affix the pants onto the statue. We were in hysterics while we each took turns taking photos with the statue hilariously dressed in Ex's wedding tuxedo.

I knew that I couldn't leave it like that, so I eventually took off the tux and returned it to Ex's closet, though the pictures still make me laugh.

My boxes and bags were sitting at the door, and I thought it was time to get going. The boys from the motorcycle dealership helped us pack everything in the cars and SUVs, but I was having trouble because I was wearing good shoes that I didn't want to ruin in the snow. While I had been packing, I had come across a cheap, ugly pair of Frederick's of Hollywood mules with feathers on the toes. Though it was cold and snowy, I thought it was better to go in and out of the house in those rather than ruin a nice pair of shoes because truthfully, I'd rather have frostbite than kill expensive shoes.

When we were finished packing everything in the vehicles, Lauren said, "Almost, we have to do one more thing. Sort of like a signature..... hmmm.... oh, I know! Give me those cheap mules you've been wearing!"

"What? Why?" I asked.

She laughed and said, "Trust me on this one. If you like them that much, I'll buy you another pair."

I handed over the mules in question, after which Lauren dangled them from the deer antlers that hung over the main fireplace.

"There. Now Ex will definitely know you've been here," and she took a picture of it.

We were all in hysterics at this point after the toilet paper theft, dressing up the statue in the tux, the mules on the antlers, and 5 bottles of wine.

We slid the sliding glass door closed and left.

A few days later, Lauren was at work and she received a phone call from Ex.

"I want to report a theft. I've been robbed of my Rolex and three paintings."

"No you haven't."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't been robbed."

"How do you know?"

"I was there."

"You.... you.... what do you f*cking mean you were there?" Ex stammered as he was apparently becoming more and more angry.

"I was there as your insurance agent to ensure that nothing was damaged."

"I still need to report a theft. I've gone to the police. They fingerprinted everything. And you had no right to break into my house."

"I didn't break in. You left the sliding glass door open."

"No I didn't! You broke in, and I want to report this f*cking theft! I have the police report and I'll press charges if I have to!"

"First of all, reporting a theft would be insurance fraud because the other person on the policy is in possession of the items in question. Second of all, you were well aware that it was Almost who came back to get her stuff and she had every right to do so. Lastly, if you want to be such an A**HOLE that you feel the need to bring down all of your wife's friends as well as her, then more power to you!"

"WHAT?? I want to speak to your supervisor!"

"Fabulous. I'll transfer you."

Several minutes later, Lauren's supervisor transferred him back to her.

"Yes, Ex?"

"I just want you to know that I only said good things to your supervisor about you."

"Then why did you want to be transferred in the first place?"

"I'm not a bad person, you know."

"Ex, until today, I probably would have agreed with you."

"Come on, Lauren, tell me who else was there," Ex nearly whimpered.

My own personal queen of one-liners said, "I guess you'll have to wait until the fingerprints come back. Goodbye." Click.

Since that time, I've returned the paintings and the Rolex, while Ex has put the gold and silver in escrow and returned my photos.

But I will always have one of the letters to Lawyer from Greasy Attorney regarding The Raid which states the following and makes me laugh all over again, no matter how many times I read it:

"What is even more upsetting is not only did your client and whatever other people she had in the home at the time, is that they drank 6 bottles of wine and/or champagne and left them at the house, as well as the empty glasses in the sink. Further, they placed a pair of stiletto heels on the deer's antlers which were above the fireplace mantle and removed every single roll of toilet paper, as well as emptying the toilet paper rolls on the dispensers."

The Raid is now forever commemorated in our state's legal system and I still haven't had to buy a single roll of toilet paper since that night.

If you tap too much, your hair falls out.

2007-07-23T11:53:00.000-07:00

My Godson's 8th birthday was on Saturday, and we had a party at Lauren's ex-boyfriend's house. All of the adults sat around a big table, drinking margaritas and laughing, while the kids contented themselves with jumping on the trampoline and swimming in the pool next door.

I sat next to Tracy, who is, if you recall, the girl with whom Lauren first went to see Pascal. Tracy is a whole bog of her own, but she made me double over in fits of laughter with her story of the demise of the relationship with her last boyfriend, the Tapmaster.

I call him the Tapmaster because he can't seem to get out a sentence without tapping himself in some odd place. He's not even college educated, but this dude is so self-aggrandizing that he told me that he knows more about the psychology of everyone than anyone else. (A little self-disclosure - the Ph.D. I'm working on is in Clinical Psychology. I don't think I know everything about anyone, but I'm not busting my ass in grad school for nothing.) Oh, yeah, and after telling me that "you're spending years in a program to learn about what I know naturally," he told me to secure my tickets to Oprah, because he was going to be on it very soon for his groundbreaking book. He actually sort of was on the Oprah show. Only, he was on Oprah in the capacity of "Over 35 and Single." And his segment was edited out. So he wasn't really even on Oprah.

The one and only time that I met the Tapmaster was an evening of sheer torture. I looked at his long hair, hanging in somewhat greasy strings around his face, and was immediately turned off, but he was clearly proud of his hair since he kept flipping it around. Tracy was really into him at this point, and for her sake I wanted to give him some respect and listen to his sheer and utter soliloquy on the benefits of EFT. (If you don't want to click on the link, and I don't blame you, it's one of those weird things that supposedly cures all of your life's ailments through tapping yourself in odd places.) OMG, was this painful! He truly commandeered this conversation, and none of us were interested while he seemed to tap himself to death. In my academic community, EFT is not only frowned upon, but rather, we laugh at it. It's one of those things like the Raelians. You can claim science until you're blue-faced, but we all know that science seriously thinks you're a nutjob.

So Tracy was telling me at my Godson's party that she'd had enough. She'd found out that the Tapmaster had been cheating on her and grossly enough, had been double dipping. Twice she went to his house when he was gone to pick up her things, first with Lynn, at which time she gathered the dildos. Because the Tapmaster liked to be f*cked in the ass. Sweet.

The second time, she went with Lauren, at which time she took a piece of furniture that she had given him to refurbish. They removed the piece of furniture and left.

But prior to leaving, Tracy went to his computer. She forwarded all of his incriminating emails to herself and deleted all of the evidence that she had done so. I am now in possession of the emails he sent to his other girlfriend, and I believe that Tracy will soon be handing those over to his other girl with a sweet smile and a pretty face with the words, "Honey, we're in the girls' club. If I were in your position, I'd want to know." I'll be with her when this happens, which will be in about a week. I don't take pleasure in others' pain, but I do know that if I were in the Other Woman's position, I'd want to know. This girl, who seems to me to be a truly sweet person, needs to get out of this man's grip.

But the best thing about their raid? When Lauren and Tracy left the Tapmaster's house, Lauren whispered something in Tracy's ear.....

"Tracy, there's Nair in his hair conditioner now."

Priceless

2007-07-20T11:46:00.000-07:00

This week I've had a lot of time to contemplate the impetus behind my marriage's flaming death. Perhaps too much time. My ultimate conclusion? Ex was an ass. (Profound, I know.) I, of course, had my own participation in The End and I would never be so pious as to suggest otherwise, but those are stories for the future. And believe me, those stories pack a big bang. I admire Barmaid and at some point in the future, I'll have her sense of candor, but I just can't write about that right now. So in the meantime, I've been forced, through this profundity of silence and nature, to mull over the reasons that I really wanted out.

As a distraction, I've been thinking of my friends' funny stories. Of course, Lauren is at the forefront. Months ago, before she was involved with Pascal, she had met a local guy on a dating site and began to see him. His name was Matthew and he truly seemed nice. They had grown quite close in the several months they saw each other and he was already talking serious commitment. I met him once at her house and he struck me as a good person. His mother is a cop in my city and I figured that the son of a single mom cop has to be a decent guy, right? Not so much.

After these months of dating, Matthew had invited Lauren to his company's Christmas party and she was excited. She bought a fabulous new dress that looked ridiculously hot on her, new stilettos, and tried on the ensemble for me. I was drop-jawed. She looked amazing and I told her as much.

Two days before the party, she still hadn't heard from Matthew about the details of the party - when he was picking her up, if she needed to bring a bottle of wine, and whether she needed to pack an overnight bag. Sure enough, he never even called. He did send her a text message in which he indicated that he was "pissed off" for work reasons, but she received no communication from him after that. The evening of the party came and went, at which time we girls went out in our finest, determined to have a fabulous evening despite the fact that Matthew turned out to be a super tool.

The next day, my favorite Queen of Redress pulled one of her classic revenge tactics. Based upon the Mastercard "Priceless" campaigns, she wrote a "Priceless" piece of her own. And faxed it to his company's main fax machine. The one that everyone sees.

It read:

"Priceless

3 MONTH MEMBERSHIP TO AMERICAN SINGLES $ 97.85

TALKING FOR 3 MONTHS TO A "GOOD GUY" $ UPLIFTING

GAS TO GET TO FIRST MEETING AND BABYSITTER FOR CHILD $ 57.23

BEST BLOW JOB HE EVER HAD $ 6 MINUTES

CATCHING HIM ACTIVELY ON AMERICAN SINGLES
WHEN IT HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED THAT WE WERE
TALKING ONLY TO EACH OTHER
$ FEELINGS HURT

BUYING INTO HIS BULLSHIT $ 94 PHONE HOURS

2 YEAR SUBSRIPTION TO GQ (CHRISTMAS PRESENT) $ 25.89

FINDING OUT HE HAS AN OVER INFLATED OPINION
OF HIS SEXUAL PERFORMANCE AND MAN TOOL $ HAHAHAHAHA

DRESS FOR CHRISTMAS PARTY $ 249.37

HAVING HIM BE "PISSED OFF" AND BLOWING ME OFF WHILE
NOT LETTING ME KNOW WHY $ ANNOYING

GIVING HIM A VALID REASON TO BE PISSED OFF. . .

PRICELESS"

Needless to say, Matthew was indeed pissed off and a relationship certainly did not bloom thereafter. Matthew was decidedly embarrassed, but his coworkers loved it. The fax still hangs in the main area of his office.

Forced Contemplation

2007-07-16T11:49:00.000-07:00

I'm in upstate New York right now for my family's annual Adirondack adventure, and this is pretty much the view from my cabin. It's not so much an adventure, since we stay in cabins (albeit rickety ones) on the grounds of an old, great Adirondack Park resort, although I think braving the steep terrain to my cabin in 5 inch stilettos is pretty adventuresome. This used to be the vacation spot for the wealthy urban - the used-to-be Hamptons - but it's now a destination spot only for die-hards like us.

Because it's not the hot spot of old, the silence here is utterly and deafeningly profound when the sun slips behind the towering blue mountain to the west, the one that looks like a giant, sleeping whale. Last night, I sat on my porch to watch the sunset and listened to the waves lapping gently on the shore. And I kind of panicked.

Carla just had a baby a few months back and can't be here with us, though her older son is staying with me here. I miss her terribly and her absence has left me unable to subjugate my own thoughts about what has transpired since my most recent visit here, about this time last year. On our annual trips here, Carla and I always stay up late, drink wine, gossip, and above all, laugh nonstop. My nephew said to me last night, "Aunt Almost, I wish Mom was here. Nobody makes her laugh like you."

I used to beg Ex to come here with me when we were married and he always refused, as he did with most of my social invites, except for once. Last year at this time, I was already aware that I wanted out of the marriage. Of course, since Ex was aware of that as well, it was the first time he asked me if he could accompany me because he knew how important this place is to me. I said no. Carla and I had a blast. She had accidentally gotten knocked up, and when I'd sneak outside to smoke a cigarette, she'd whisper out the window, "Almost, dammit, blow some of that smoke over here. I swear, this kid is going to be the next Tommy Lee because he already loves cigarettes and it feels like he's playing the drums in there."

This year, I don't have Carla's craziness to make me giggle and the silence is an invisible prod, forcing me to deal with issues that I usually drown out with the sounds of the city outside of my door. My mom just asked me a few minutes ago, "What do you think about the nature of marriage?", which was ironic because I had just spent the previous evening staring at the lake and unpacking painful memories to examine in order to truly understand the demise of my marriage.

I hooted and shot her an incredulous look. "What do you think I think about it, Mom?"

She laughed. "Remember the guy who used to be our house painter back when we lived in New Jersey? He was with the same woman for 16 years and they had 2 kids, but they had never married. The kids were embarrassed and urged them to tie the knot. Do you know that they went from a blissful relationship to being divorced within 6 months of getting married? Why do you think that happens?"

"Because all of a sudden, you're not with that person because you want to be, you're with them because you're have to be. You're inextricably bound."

She looked thoughtful and said that she wanted to talk more about it over dinner. I'd rather not, because what I said to her today is my all-encompassing view on marriage. That, and the fact that I know I will never again get married.

There's one other factor that's making it nearly impossible for me to ignore contemplating the changes in my life since July of last year. The genius that I am, I forgot to bring my computer plug and I currently have 18% battery. I can't even entertain myself with mindless web browsing or bothering my friends with an avalanche of emails.

I'm cooking dinner tonight for the family and I think that afterwards, I will go in search of something entertaining so that I may once again subjugate these thoughts, if only temporarily. Perhaps I won't have to search too far, because my 12 year-old nephew has gotten into asking me and my mom sex questions these days. The latest were, "What's a no-tell motel?", "What's a lot lizard?", and "Have you ever gotten waxed? Where? Why would you wax there??"

I'm looking forward to his next set of questions, which I have a feeling will be about transgender issues, since I threatened to turn him into a full-on drag queen this evening if he didn't stop sucking in candy like a black hole sucks light.

But when my nephew goes to bed, I will be alone with my thoughts again on a quiet lake with pine-scented air, both of which silently scream at me to stop pushing thoughts and feelings into a deep, dark place. And I will probably once again miss Carla. And then bring out more memories that I so carefully packed away so they wouldn't hurt so badly. Like last night, I will probably symbolically turn them over in my hands, and the mere act of almost tangibly experiencing them again will make them less painful. I will repack them, yet in a place closer to the surface. Perhaps forced introspection isn't such a bad thing after all.

Break the Law, Make a Friend

2007-07-14T09:34:00.000-07:00

I've come to learn that I meet new friends in the oddest of ways. Ava and I couldn't stand each other when we first met, but yet, we ended up being best friends after we stopped throwing each other the stink eye in the hallway of our dorm. When I moved to this city, I initially worked in a restaurant and met Lauren on my first day, who made quite the impression on me because of her huge smile and even more impressive bust (they were brand new back then). She and I weren't even formally introduced until months later, but I remembered her from that night in the restaurant ("Weren't you wearing that red chenille sweater?") and she remembered me as well ("My first thought when I looked at you was, 'are they real or real expensive?'"). Shawn and I met when Plastic Surgeon friend took us to New York to discuss our silicone hooters on national television ("Why, yes, Ms. Couric, I enjoy my silicone tatas very much." Try keeping a straight face on that one.). I met Plastic Surgeon when I had a benign tumor that took up residence in my right boob and had to have my old funbags replaced, and we ended up becoming great friends.

Point being, I tend to become friends with people through some odd circumstances and they have been a huge part of my ability to get through this divorce. They have all made me laugh and prevented me from losing my mind somewhere between the drunk texts and Lawyer's fees, which quite frankly, are so high that I think they're probably the GDP of some small countries.

Now I think I have a new friend who's making me laugh hysterically and realize that my accident the other day may have resulted in more than just me curled up in the fetal position with visions of shackles and an orange jumpsuit. When I wrote about my mishap the other night, I didn't mention how I sent Officer Lentil a text after I went home, thanking him for being so kind. He responded with an equally kind text, and we've been sending each other texts off and on since.

After I wrote about the accident, I received several emails from ladies across the country that went something like this:

"Dear Almost,

A cute guy in uniform who also has social skills?? Is he single? Please, please, please tell me what city you live in because I want to hunt down car 1831!

Signed,
Single Girl Willing to Break Any Law to Be Handcuffed by Officer Lentil"

The answer to your question, ladies, is yes, I believe he's single. However, he doesn't want to meet you, thanks to me.

I sent him a text yesterday to tell him that it seems he has some fans who want to get to know him. I was drinking a bottle of water at the precise moment that I read his reply and promptly spit it all over myself in choking laughter.

"Great, Almost. That's all I need. Women from around the country running over joggers on my beat. Paperwork from hell. Thanks a lot."

Once again, I have met a new friend under bizarre circumstances who's already providing me with laughter. And hey, what's a little pedestrian run-in or an orange jumpsuit when you get a new friend out of it anyway?

Victoria Has a Very Dirty Secret

2007-07-13T06:16:00.000-07:00

Quite some time ago, Lauren was dating a guy named Mike. He'd pulled more than his share of stunts during the relationship and when Lauren found out that he'd been sleeping around while simultaneously proclaiming his love only for her, she was not happy. I've already told you that she's the Queen of Redress, and here's just one more reason why she's so deserving of that title.

Lauren found out about his nefarious activities right around Valentine's Day, so for his Valentine's Day gift she decided to do something extra special for him.

She purchased a helium balloon that read, "Just because you're you," and wrote him a sweet poem. She wrapped a Victoria's Secret box beautifully with shiny ribbons and bows and attached the balloon, then taped the poem to the box. I didn't have the opportunity to see the gift firsthand, but I'm sure it looked alluring when she left it on his doorstep on February 14th. I'm also sure Mike didn't know that Lauren had filled the inside of this stunningly decorated box with the used contents of her cat's litter box.

The poem attached to the outside of the box read,

"On this St. Valentine's Day 1996
I wish to celebrate our love with fun and kicks
I haven't known you long, but I'd like to know you better.
I wish to express my feelings through a poem and a letter.
I love you from afar
and want to touch you when you're near.
I have a glorious night planned
JUST FOR YOU MY DEAR.
I searched high and low for a gift especially for you.
I didn't know what you'd like - what's a girl to do?
A man like you deserves the unusual,
A GIFT I COULDN'T BUY
So I am cordially inviting you....."

The rest of the poem lay on top of the cat droppings inside of the Victoria's Secret box. It read,

"TO EAT SH*T AND DIE!!!"

A couple of years ago, Lauren and I went to the restaurant that Mike owns with his sisters. They're still friends, believe it or not, and Mike brought up the Valentine's Day gift. He has quite a sense of humor because he still finds Lauren's creativity amusing. One of his sisters wandered over during our conversation and overheard our discussion.

She doubled over laughing. She said, "Lauren, that was the best gift ever. To this day, my sisters and I still give Mike all of his birthday and Christmas presents in Victoria's Secret boxes."

I needed this like a hole in the head.

2007-07-12T08:56:00.001-07:00

Last night I was feeling under the weather. The stress of court on Monday along with some sort of flu that's going around converged to make me spend my day yesterday shivering with a fever and unable to complete anything related to my dissertation proposal competently (hence the video post yesterday).

Late in the evening, I decided that it was time to go to the pharmacy and pick up some NyQuil so that I could actually sleep. As I was driving back to my place, I followed a police cruiser that was heading in the direction of my apartment. He turned right on a green light at an intersection and I followed.

Suddenly, I heard a thump. OMFG, I had just hit a person. I swear, I hadn't even seen him.

Actually, the guy more or less hit me, since he tapped the trunk of my car and I really don't think that it's possible to "hit a pedestrian," by definition unless you hit them with the front of your car. I could have driven away and I bet I'd never have been caught, but being a responsible citizen who was utterly traumatized, I pulled over and jumped out. There was a couple standing on the street corner waiting for me. According to their clothes and iPod accessories, I assessed that the guy had been jogging with his girlfriend. I ran over to them.

"Are you guys ok?" I asked. I was terrified.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm fine," the guy answered.

"I'm not sure what to do. I've never been in this situation before," I told him.

He half laughed and said, "Me neither. I think we should call the cops."

I apologized over and over. Thankfully, he didn't have a scratch on him, but his girlfriend had already run into the closest building to call the police, and soon an ambulance pulled up. Despite the fact that the guy hadn't hit his head (I asked), the EMTs put him in a cervical collar and took him to the hospital. The ambulance took off, and I was left standing on the street with no cops in sight, not even the one I was following when the accident took place. I decided to go home because the ambulance driver had taken my license and phone number, so I knew that they would get in touch with me soon.

Fifteen minutes later, I received a phone call.

"Hello?"

"Is this Almost? My name is Officer Lentil. You were involved in an accident a few minutes ago, right? You need to come see me, I'm in car 1831 outside of the hospital. I have my lights on."

Long story short, I went to meet the officer at the hospital and we stood on the street, discussing what had transpired. He wasn't only cute (there's something about a man in uniform that I love), but he turned out to be super sweet and very understanding of my horror at having been involved in an accident of this nature. As a matter of course, he had to issue me a citation for failing to yield to a pedestrian, and I understood that. I have a lot of cop friends and no matter how cool they happen to be, they still need to do their jobs.

He asked me to whom was the car registered. I told him that it was registered to my soon-to-be-Ex, which commenced a conversation about divorce and bizarre pornographic addictions wherein he said, "If I had a wife that looked like you, I sure as hell wouldn't be into granny porn." I was appreciative of that comment, since I had just survived my divorce court appearance and now have to go to court again sooner than I thought. It's amazing what a little compliment can accomplish when you're feeling like the world is collapsing around you. He was a doll in so many ways, but I digress.

I chatted with Officer Lentil about the particulars of my appearance in court, and he promised me that he had done his best to ensure that the case would be tossed. In truth, I suppose that I technically didn't yield to a pedestrian, however, I hadn't even seen the guy and there was no damage to my car, which indicates that there wasn't even a hit. I did hear a thump, as I said, but it was most certainly in the back of my car, considering that I had the convertible top down and he would have landed in my back seat had I actually hit him in the conventional sense. That aside, I was and am still shaken.

I've only had one car accident in my life, and that was scary enough. This one really freaked me out because the pedestrian, though he told me he was fine at the scene, suddenly started complaining of back and neck pain in the hospital. This is one situation in which I wish I drove an AMC Pacer instead of a BMW. Or lived in New York and just took cabs. The guy probably thinks I'm loaded.

Officer Lentil was the one who informed me that he was complaining of these injuries in the hospital.

"We live in a litigious society, Officer," I told him.

"Yes, we do. You may want to contact your insurance company just to tell them of the incident. Will you be filing a claim?"

"For what?" I grabbed his hand and dragged him around the car. "Do you see any damage?"

"OK, no, but call your insurance anyway. I'm sure this guy is going to sue."

I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. The guy is fine and he'll probably get a hefty insurance settlement. Perhaps he needs it to pay bills and I'm sure he'll be happy that this happened, but unfortunately, Lauren is my insurance agent and she'll have to suffer the consequences because her annual bonus is based on the claims of her insureds. When her annual bonus is assessed, I'll be cutting her a check for her losses. For all of the times she's made me laugh when I'm about to cry, it's the least I can do.

And I'm blessed to have had Officer Lentil as the attending cop last night. He knew that this was sheerly an accident and he was kind to me. I suspect he also knows that the guy is fine and is now out for some insurance payback. Whatever the case may be, we're destined to become friends, since I'll be seeing him in court in less than a month. Cheers to you, Officer, and thanks for making what could have been an truly awful situation bearable.

"I will beat a bitch's ass."

2007-07-11T09:35:00.000-07:00

Newscaster Cousin emailed this video to me yesterday and I nearly spat tea all over my keyboard because I laughed so hard. I saw Hillary Clinton speak at my university when I was in undergrad and her husband was in his second term of office. I will never forget looking at her face and recoiling in terror because she looked like she was going to pull a Kimora Lee Simmons and "beat a bitch's ass." This may not seem like it fits into a Dump the Chump type of post, but Bill and Hillary have had their share of marital drama so this clip deserves inclusion here for so many reasons.

The look I saw on Hillary's face when she spoke at my university was much like this look....

Court Dismissed

2007-07-10T08:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday is behind me, thank God, and I don't have another court date until mid-fall. I really need to stop working myself into such a nervous, edgy frenzy over these things because they never end up being as awful as I thought.

Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.

I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.

Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.

The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."

"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"

"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."

"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."

"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."

After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.

We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.

Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.

"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"

"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.

"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.

"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"

I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.

"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.

But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."

Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."

Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.

Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.

Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.

With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"

P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.

Court is Now in Session

2007-07-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

Court is this afternoon and I'm crapping a brick for some reason. Typically I don't mind the spotlight, but I'm very uncomfortable with it in this sense. I feel as though I'll be under one of those hot lights in a police interrogation room, rivulets of sweat dripping down my cleavage, hair clinging to my forehead in wet strands, with someone yelling at me to tell the truth, dammit! (I've never experienced that, by the way, but I've watched enough Law & Orders to know that I don't want Vincent D'Onofrio bobbing and weaving around my face using his psychological trickery to draw me into his web.)

In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.

I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.

I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.

Levitra: No Flirting Necessary

2007-07-06T08:18:00.000-07:00

I said yesterday that I have a court date on Monday and that I was really nervous. I remain so, but a little less today, so I feel all right writing about Ex. I hope this trend continues so I'm not jittery when I have to take the stand.

I've already mentioned that Ex hadn't wanted to have sex for at least a year when The Great Email Debacle occurred, but after that confrontation, he suddenly wanted a roll in the hay all the time. He said that he realized that he'd been totally inattentive and absent (he was), and somehow I think he extrapolated that realization into thinking that sex would cure all of our marriage's ailments. My trust in him was completely destroyed at that point, so the thought of sex with Ex honestly made me sick to my stomach and after that, it was I who refused. Several months later, Ex and I had a fight. He was screaming at me and somewhere between the "f*ck you"s, he blurted out, "And I have to jack off 5 times a day because you won't have sex with me!"

Time stopped. I was dumbfounded. A 10 second silence ensued which seemed to stretch into eternity, after which I stammered, "F-five.....times....a day?? I wish I had that much time on my hands."

He tried to backpedal, but it was too late. The truth has a way of bursting forth when you're angry and your brain's censorship level is low.

My birthday came around about a month after that fight and it was a disaster of epic proportions, but that's another one of my favorite stories that I'm saving for later. After that horrific weekend passed, Ex danced every which way to try and explain his behavior. When he left for work that week (he was always gone most of the week and home on the weekends), the texts began pouring in. These weren't even drunk texts, they were just plain odd.

Keep in mind, at this point, I had not yet found out about the Granny Porn, so I was taking his explanations at face value.

"maybe some day i will tell u what else i have been taking..i think that led 2 my frustration/insecurity and let down..i did 2 myself"

I must have asked him what he was taking.

"please do not think i am crazy..i have been reading maxim magazine 4 tips and taking levitra hoping 2 give u some crazy sexual extacy sp ?..i guess i was thinking in my head..fantasy..just maybe..i know i am crazy..but i think it freaked me out...this is not something i can really explain over text"

I have no idea what I replied, but I do remember thinking, "Levitra?! For what??" And then it hit me. He'd been reading Maxim and taking Levitra so that he could, in his words, "jack off 5 times a day"? I was getting warmer, but of course, didn't hit the jackpot until I later discovered he was taking the performance enhancing drug so that he could get off to Grandpa Gets a Woody, among other equally edifying flicks. The thought still makes me shiver.

So when Ex left to go overseas last fall, I was relieved. I had 2 weeks in which I wouldn't feel as though a chloroform-soaked rag was being theoretically held over my face. At one point during the reprieve, I took Ex's car to run errands because I had just washed mine and it was raining. I spotted flashing lights in the rear view mirror. "Damn," I muttered to myself, "just when I thought I'd be drama free for a couple of weeks."

The cop came up to the window looking grumpy, but I suppose I'd feel the same way if I had to stand in the rain while some chick fumbled in her purse for her license.

"License and insurance, please."

This guy was all business. Not even a hello or a, "Do you know what you were doing wrong?" I quickly assessed that I would most certainly not be flirting my way out of this ticket.

"Here's my license, sir. This isn't my car, but I think the insurance is probably in the glove box."

"Ok, ma'am."

I opened the glove box and much to my surprise and horror, about 12 prescription pill bottles tumbled out. I was frozen.

"Ma'am, are those your prescriptions?"

"Uh, no, uh, officer. You see, this is my uh.... er.... husband's car, and I never drive it. He's out of town and uh, I mean, out of the country...."

"Ma'am, step out of the car, please."

I had no idea what the bottles were, so I meekly did as I was told and stood on the passenger's side. The officer opened the passenger door and I watched him pick up bottle after bottle, turning them over in his hands and grunting to himself, "Hm, Levitra..... Levitra..... huh, Levitra.... Levitra?!"

He left the bottles on the floor of the car, shut the door and turned to look at me. I thought I saw him try to suppress a laugh. He tipped his hat, looked me up and down, and said, "Have a nice day, ma'am," as he handed me my license.

I watched him walk to his squad, rooted to the ground in the pouring rain. It wasn't until he got into the car and shut his door that he let out a huge guffaw and got on his radio. I can only imagine what he must have been saying to his buddies working the afternoon shift.

I got back into the car and picked up the bottles to shove them back in the glove box. They were all empty. Ex's Levitra habit didn't do anything to save our marriage, but it sure saved me from a speeding ticket. As far as I was concerned, it was a job well done.

"Hi, boys! Remember me?"

2007-07-05T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have a pretty important court date coming up on Monday and frankly, I'm really nervous, so I need to tell a story that's making me laugh and that isn't about Ex.

Lauren has been talking to this guy online for about 6 or 7 months now. He lives several states away and until last week, they hadn't met. They had already become quite intimate via IM and video chatting, but she has wanted a face-to-face meeting for months now. When I say that they've become intimate, I don't mean just talk. I mean down and dirty naked intimacy, complete with adult toys with which I'm completely unfamiliar. Lauren had to explain their uses detail by detail to me because they are not your run of the mill Rabbit.

A couple of months ago, she went for a long weekend to his state with her girlfriend Tracy and Tracy's boyfriend, at which time she was supposed to meet up with Internet Man, who we'll call Pascal. He had asked Lauren to pack all of her various exotic toys for the weekend and she agreed. I was incredulous, not because of the fact that she was taking them, but rather because I was wondering about the logistics of getting through security.

"You're not carrying your baggage on the plane, are you?" I asked.

"No, of course not! Don't you remember that story with the woman whose vibrator went off in the security line and the guard had to fish it out and hold it up for the whole airport? I'm checking bags."

That weekend Pascal had a family emergency and they never ended up meeting, so she packed the toys for naught. However, when Lauren arrived in his state and unzipped the bag she had checked, she found a note from the ATF indicating that her entire bag had been emptied and the contents inspected. I laughed so hard at the thought, I could barely breathe.

"Can you imagine the faces on those security guys when they saw what you'd packed?"

"I don't even want to think of it."

"What do you want to bet that they took pictures with your toys that are now hanging on the wall at City Airport Security Office?"

We were both in hysterics with the mental image of Butch from the ATF posing with a strap-on and giving the old thumbs-up.

Last week, Lauren did meet Pascal. Before she left, I asked her if she was packing the same items and she responded in the affirmative. I have yet to hear all of the details of the encounter, but I did hear what is probably the funniest bit of information. Because she was flying out of the same airport on the same airline as she did previously and figured that her luggage would inevitably be searched again, she decided to include a note inside her checked bag.

It read, "Hi, boys, remember me?"

When she arrived at her destination and unzipped her bag, she had yet another ATF notice. This time, it had a handwritten addition.

"Sure do. Nice to see you again!"

Don't Drink and Text Part I

2007-07-04T10:13:00.000-07:00

Drinking and texting has traditionally been one of Ex's favorite pastimes since our separation. I can always tell that he's been doing some imbibing when I receive the texts because they typically arrive around 3:30 in the morning, are generally nutty and are terrifically misspelled. There have been occasions where I've received anywhere from 10 to 70 drunk texts in a night. As far as I know, Ex hasn't sprouted a third hand, so it takes talent to hoist a martini with the left and shoot off 70 drunk texts with the right.

Yesterday I posted about how at the end of our very long liquid lunch on Monday, a former NFL player who used to be one of my customers when I was bartending joined our table along with his friend. They had been sitting next to us, but I didn't immediately recognize my old friend until The Mayor shot their table with a champagne cork and subsequently bought them a round of drinks to apologize.

They ended up pulling their chairs over to our table and we started catching up on old times. I hadn't seen Jerry for years, so it was great to hear what was going on in his life and rehash our fun times together. His friend, P., said to me at one point, "You look really familiar to me. Have we met?"

"I can't quite pinpoint it, but you look really familiar to me, too. Did you ever come into Bar with Jerry?"

P. said, "No, but I might look familiar because I used to play football."

I told him that I'm not a football fan by any means and wouldn't know a player if I fell over one, so P. said, "Well, I'm also the latest American Idol winner's father."

None of us actually believed him, and the only credibility he had was that we knew that the Idol winner's father was a retired NFL player. Since he was with another player, we thought hey, maybe he really is who he claims. After Googling him on our phones for pictures, making him show us his license, and quizzing him on his wife's name and daughter's birthday, we believed him. I'm surprised we didn't ask him for a urine sample.

Then it began to dawn on me how I recognized him and it reminded me of just one of many of the drunken text debacles that have happened over the past year. Last year I attended a fundraiser with my closest guy friend, The Doc. The fundraiser included a silent auction and most of the items offered were not of my taste, but when we hit the ballroom where there were more items for sale, I saw what I wanted. Four tickets to a 2007 American Idol final 12 show. Cheesy, I know, but what can I say? I'm a pop culture whore sometimes. I won the auction and was given a piece of paper with instructions on who to call to arrange the date and pick up the tickets.

Many months later, I finally got around to calling the production company to set up a date. Of course, by this time, I had long moved out of the house and clearly did not want to attend the show with Ex since the divorce had been filed and was already becoming ugly. The Doc was on a vacation during the taping, so I wound up going to the show with Newscaster Cousin, Anastasia, and Cousin's friend who lives in L.A.

I received a phone call from Anastasia the week before our trip to L.A. She told me that Pete informed her that the only reason Ex didn't contest the tickets and demand two of them in our previous court date was because I was taking Anastasia and he respected that. Actually it was more like Ex had almost gotten Anastasia fired at one point and wanted to do something that would save his friendship with Pete, but that's one of my favorite stories and I'm saving it for a future post.

I just rolled my eyes. I've already said at this point that I don't care what Ex does anymore, despite the fact that he aggravates me at times. He could do naked back handsprings down our city's main drag during rush hour and I'd say, "More power to you, pal."

We all attended the taping and had a great time. At points, they would show contestants' family members on one of the big screens in the studio, and I realized that's how I recognized P. He said to me, "Weren't you sitting on the first riser by the teleprompter next to the guy with those crazy signs for all of the contestants? I remember you!"

I laughed. "Yes, that was me and Cousin. He really wanted to get on national television so he could use the clip for a broadcast back home."

We traded some more stories of the taping, finally finished up our long afternoon and I headed home.

Though the trip to L.A. had gone off without a hitch, two days before I left I received a text at 4:14 am from Ex. It was clearly an empty threat and it made me laugh, but it's Dump The Chump's Lesson Number One on why drunk texting is embarrassing and should be avoided at all costs. It's yet another one of those things that I just couldn't fabricate if I tried.

"fyi..i know idol is this week..i called..u may have a hard time w/2 of the tickets..u shoulder of told me"

I guess I "shoulder of told" Ex that sometimes it's a good idea to hand over your phone along with your keys to the bartender before you tie one (or 14) on.

P.S. Happy 4th of July to everyone! Remember, don't drink and text!

LOL again!

2007-07-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

OMG, do I love her!! Corri Fetman is at it again with yet another ad campaign that's making me giggle. I admit it, I looked her up online and read her CV after reading about her on CNN's website. I swear, somehow I'm going to track this woman down and force her to drink martinis with me and tell me funny stories. She freaking rocks and I don't care that other divorce attorneys think she's a scandalous bottom feeder just because she happens to have a sense of humor. I bet she'd have some good dating rules.

Dating Rules

2007-07-02T08:29:00.000-07:00

I returned Sunday night from my cousin J.'s funeral after several days that were fraught with emotion. It was a difficult weekend, but all of us cousins managed to have some fun on Saturday night at Random Bar catching up on each other's lives and exchanging the good memories we have of J. I was wiped out when I finally arrived back home, probably thanks in part to the tequila shots we drank in J.'s honor.

Since I'm off from work until Thursday for the holiday and I really needed to decompress from the weekend, I went to have a leisurely outdoor lunch today with my girlfriend Jasmine with whom I used to bartend. She bears a striking resemblance to Gabrielle Union and she's gorgeous, so when men would walk into our bar they would often exclaim, "Ebony and Ivory! Something for everyone!" I would recoil at comments like that because they struck me as racist, but Jasmine would just laugh and get them to buy bottle upon bottle of Cristal as our tip jar grew increasingly full.

Jasmine is now the sidekick on our city's most popular morning radio show and she's a local celebrity. We went out about a month ago, and our cab driver nearly drove off the road when he realized that this was the Jasmine of the X and X Show. She still bartends once in awhile, only now it's in the capacity of "startender," and she's nice enough to give all of her tips to the regular bartenders at each place. Listening to her on the radio is a bizarre experience for me. She still mouths off the same way she did when we worked together, only now I can't toast her with a glass of champagne when she says something witty.

But today I was able to toast her with many (and I do mean many) glasses of champagne as we sat outside at a restaurant located on our city's most popular corner. We ended up being joined by several friends, which is what typically happens in our city when the weather is warm and you're sitting outside at one of the country's most famous restaurants. First, The Mayor joined us. He isn't actually our mayor, he's simply the most connected man in town. It's not unusual to hear him say, "Honey, you having problems? Tell me the problem, I'll take care of him," and when a garbage truck passes, he'll laugh and say, "I'll put him in one of those." Then we were joined by Jake, a former NHL player with whom I have a long and somewhat sordid history, but we're just friends now and he's a fabulous person. A few cocktails later, Silvia joined us. She's Jasmine's best friend and now an attorney, but she also used to be a bartender when Jasmine and I were working together.

The conversation turned to marriage, divorce, love and sex. The sex part came when Jake burst out and said, "I just had sex 2 hours ago!" The rest of us looked at him with slack jaws. The Mayor responded with a toast and said, "Here's to you, kid!"

Jasmine bragged, "I had sex last night."

Silvia and I looked around the table and I think we both had a look of disgust. She shook her head and said, "I hate you people."

The Mayor, Jake, and I are divorced (OK, I'm not yet, but I really hope to be soon), Jasmine just happily celebrated her 1 year wedding anniversary, and Silvia is an old maid.

When I say that Silvia is an old maid, I'm repeating her words exactly even though she's only 27. Silvia, like Ava, is Indian and their parents were born and raised in India. Their parents expected them to be married by the age of 25 and thought they'd have at least one child by now. I asked Silvia if her parents had tried to introduce her to acceptable men and marry her off, as have Ava's parents.

"Yes, they tried introducing me to several guys who would come over to our house and bring their entire families."

The rest of us were curious and asked what had happened.

Silvia said, "Thankfully, my mom gave me the heads-up and I made sure I was never there."

We all laughed and started talking about reasons to get married and who not to date, since 4 of the 5 of us are single and do have to think about dating strategies. We all pretty much agreed that the only reason to get married is to have children and other than that, just dating is preferable.

Jasmine said, "My dad told me not to date athletes, no offense, Jake."

He replied, "None taken. If I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her dating one of us either. The opportunity with other women is just too great. I'm glad I have a son."

I said, "My Dad forbade me from dating Actor after he looked him up on Wikipedia."

Silvia said, "I don't think my parents care who I date as long as I get married."

"I date anyone I can as long as they have a great ass. Hey, you two look good on my arms," The Mayor exclaimed while clasping Silvia and Jasmine around their shoulders.

Again, we were all laughing and I asked Jasmine, "Who else did your dad say you could never date?"

We girls started comparing our dads' rules and along with input from Jake and The Mayor, we compiled a list.

1. Never date an athlete.
2. Never date an actor.
3. Never date a club DJ.
4. Never date a military man.
5. Never date a cop.
6. Never date a trader.

Though this really narrowed the selection of men, the final dating rule expanded it by one since it came from The Mayor.

7. Dating The Mayor is the way to go.

We ended up being joined later in the afternoon by the latest American Idol's father and another retired NFLer who used to be a regular at my bar, but that's a story for another time.

Oh, and P.S., many thanks to The Mayor for footing the hefty bill.

"Hello? I'd like to cancel a tee time, please."

2007-06-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

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??

Unexpected Blessings

2007-06-28T08:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Green Food Dye and Latex

2007-06-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Oh, balls.

2007-06-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Forgery, The Suspicious Husband's Best Friend

2007-06-26T06:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Best Boyfriend Ever

2007-06-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Christmastime Fun

2007-06-23T15:20:00.000-07:00

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.

"That doesn't look like Lou Ferrigno...."

2007-06-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

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?"

How to Stab Your Ex Without Doing Hard Time

2007-06-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

Sgt. Baldy, Civilian Special Ops

2007-06-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Ex Has AIDS

2007-06-20T18:01:00.001-07:00

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).

60,000 Pennies

2007-06-19T23:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Father's Day

2007-06-19T10:32:00.000-07:00

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.

The Best Sex Ever

2007-06-18T10:56:00.001-07:00

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!

Your Stories?

2007-06-14T13:59:00.001-07:00

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!

2007-06-14T13:53:00.000-07:00

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"

2007-06-14T13:01:00.000-07:00

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.