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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”

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

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

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

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

Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”

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

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

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

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

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

Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”

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

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

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

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

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

When It Rains, It Pours.

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.

Don't Drink and Text Part I

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!

Maybe Finally?

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.

Birthday Fun and Don't Drink and Text Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leg Breaking, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh?? What are you talking about?"

"There's a price on my head."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, what do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laid to Rest

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.