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.
Showing posts with label Ava. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ava. Show all posts
Monday, November 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
"I've been dating the same guy my entire life, he just keeps changing his name."
It never ceases to amaze me how we can make such bad decisions in choosing partners and fail to a. learn from our mistakes, and b. listen to our friends' advice. You can always see the mistakes your friends are making, but when it comes to evaluating your own, many of us have horse blinders firmly attached to the sides of our heads and the sage advice from people who care about us falls on deaf ears. When fall hits, I always have a sense of needing to take stock of my life and since it's fall now, that inevitably means talking to my friends about our dating and marriage disasters, and this year, hopefully learning from their mistakes as well as my own. As Lauren says, "I've been dating the same guy my entire life, he just keeps changing his name," but I think we all want to break the pattern.
I called Ava on Saturday and we had a chat about her latest dating disaster. It wasn't actually dating, since the guy tried to pick her up in a very sneaky fashion, although she certainly has had her share of traumatic moments with men. She went out with Stavros (who turned out to be bisexual, if not truly gay) for two years, and the only fight we've ever had in our long friendship was about him. She also dated one guy who, when we were all out to dinner together, began clapping out of the blue. I asked him why he was clapping and he said, "Handclap to God! I gotta give props to God. He was having a really good day when he made me." He was serious, too.
Back to the story at hand, though, Ava had gone out to dinner last week with a friend of hers to a new spot in their city. The waiter asked them if they wanted to be on the VIP list for future events, and both replied in the affirmative. Ava didn't have a business card on her, so she wrote down her phone number. The next morning, she received a voicemail from the waiter, asking her to have drinks with him over the weekend. Realizing that the VIP list didn't exist, she called her friend with whom she'd gone to dinner and they jointly decided that this guy was sketchy. They set about Googling and checking offender databases and discovered that the waiter had several convictions for assault and battery, as well as a lengthy prison term for road rage in which he attacked a driver with brass knuckles, leaving the victim with metal plates and screws in his face. (Really, who drives around with brass knuckles in their car?) Adding to the absurdity is the fact that you can easily rhyme his last name with "retarded."
"Poor MODI," I told her. "You really do know how to pick them, don't you?"
She laughed. "First I turn guys gay, and now I'm attracting felons. Who do you think wins the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award, me or Lauren?"
That made me hoot, because Lauren has a couple of felons in her past, as well as the gay porn loving ex-husband. For a time, she dated a guy with a very long rap sheet who had schizophrenia to boot. When he wasn't taking his meds, he'd go for weeks without showers or brushing his teeth, but Lauren loved the person that he had been in the beginning and she stuck it out for a time. (Again, the only fight I've ever gotten in with Lauren was over this dude. I think there's a pattern here.) He continued his nefarious activities and, though Lauren wasn't involved, she was aware of it. Once they were driving in the car together and she was putting on lipstick in the mirror. He asked, "What are you doing, getting ready for your mugshot?" When she was finally ready to date again, she put up a profile on a dating website and ended it with, "I'd prefer if you didn't have a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper the Great Wall of China."
Of course, I'm in the running for the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award myself. On top of my painfully apparent poor decision making skills in choosing a marriage partner and a stubborn refusal to listen to my friends' concerns, I dated a sociopath before Ex who was my first real heartbreak. I was so anxiety-ridden over him that I couldn't eat for months. I lost a tremendous amount of weight, becoming so skeletal that when I got on the scale it would just flash, "Eat a sandwich!!" I also briefly dated a much older dethroned mayor and talk show host with a history of bouncing checks at massage parlors. His first line to me when he picked me up for our first date was, "Am I older than your father?" He is. Oh, and did I mention the Senate hopeful whose dreams were dashed when his divorce records were unsealed, revealing that he'd forced his beautiful and famous ex-wife to attend sex clubs with him? I see that award looming on my personal horizon.
All of this to say that despite the collective mistakes that Ava, Lauren and I have committed and continue to commit, I still believe in learning experiences. The arduous divorce process, which is stalled for me until the end of the month when I have a conference with Ex, is teaching me that even serious lapses in judgment that result in litigation transpire for a reason. I just hope I can detach my blinders on the next go-around. This time, I'll listen when my friends give me advice.
I 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.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Pardon Me, While I Remove This Knife From My Back
My fingers have been itching to write about this for 2 weeks, but I've been so insanely pissed that my eyes were crossed and it took me some time to get sufficiently clear-headed in order to put it in words. Now that I've banged my head against the wall a few times in frustration, I'm finally ready.
Awhile back, I wrote about how I had called Anastasia, wondering how in the world Ex found out about my $600 face peel. I was absolutely positive that Plastic Surgeon and her staff wouldn't have disclosed that information, not only because it's covered by HIPAA, but also because PS and I have been friends for several years now and she loathes Ex sometimes more than even I.
What I failed to mention in that post was that PS had been looking for help in her office, and I had a "friend" (I use that term loosely with her now) with whom I used to bartend. I've known B.B. (can you guess what that stands for?) since 2001 and we've always been friendly. She used to tell me how she looked up to me and wanted to learn my secrets of making great cash from being a good bartender. She is a very sweet-seeming girl, strikingly pretty, and very personable. For the last couple of years, B.B. and I have had occasional lunches together, many nights in which I'm a patron at her bar, and late-night phone calls where I'm comforting her on the latest heartbreak, of which there have been many. Of course, during the course of our "friendship," I disclosed things as well. I never had any reason not to take her at face value, so when PS asked if I knew anyone who was looking for this particular position (which B.B. was) I didn't hesitate to recommend her even though she wasn't truly experienced enough for the position.
After B.B. promised PS that she possessed a desire to learn the medical approach to skin care, wanted a long-haul position and was ready to hang up her wine key, she was hired and thus began what would have been a lucrative career for her. She continued to tend bar for awhile until she built up her own clientele at PS's office and I, of course, continued to see her on an almost-weekly basis. She seemed so grateful, always telling me how much she loved working for PS when I'd see her at the bar, and she even took me out one evening for dinner and drinks to thank me.
Unfortunately, I found out that B.B. quit her job with PS after only 6 months and gave her a paltry 2 week notice when a month is standard in her industry. I apologized to PS because I felt so responsible, to which she assured me that it wasn't my fault.
Fast forward to two weekends ago, when Designer threw his party back in my city after our trip to Greece. I took the group that wanted to go out afterwards to a new club in town owned by my old boss from The Bar. B.B., who worked there at the time, bounded up to me and threw her arms around me.
"Almost! Why aren't you at my bar? I'm moving to Hawaii with a new boyfriend who's going to be on Lost! Ya know, the TV show?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Ohmigosh, are you mad at me? PS told you I'm leaving, didn't she? Is she sooooo mad at me? Please don't be mad, I'm in love!"
"I'm not mad, B.B., that was your business between you and PS. As far as I'm concerned, after I recommended you I was out of the situation."
"Oh, good!" she squealed, "Then you can come to my going away party next weekend!"
I mumbled something into my champagne and squirmed out of her embrace to go talk with someone else. Truth be told, I was kind of irritated because I felt that her lack of respect for PS in not giving sufficient notice reflected on me and I was embarrassed. I also thought it was fairly naive to uproot and move to Hawaii after dating some random dude for 3 weeks, who's going to work on a show that's probably going to be canceled in a month anyway. But worse was yet to come. The kind of worse that made me not go out for the last 2 weeks to avoid seeing her and ending up in jail for assault. I'm not the least bit violent, but I may have been just infuriated enough to haul off and uppercut her in front of all her bar patrons.
The next day, I went to a beautiful outdoor lunch with Ava, Anastasia, Designer's business partner Regan, and a few other people. During the course of the lunch, I came to find out that Anastasia's husband had disclosed something to her which was about to make me want to grab the Santa Margherita from the ice bucket and drink right out of the bottle.
Ex recently told Anastasia's husband that he had found out all of his information about me from B.B. on nights when he would hang at her bar alone for hours. Upon his giving her astronomical tips (the kind where, had Ex not been there, she wouldn't have walked out that night with even close to as much.... the thousand dollar kind), she would share critical information about my whereabouts, my associates, what I was wearing, if anyone had kissed me on the cheek, how much money I was spending when I was out, and of course, the $600 peel. Anastasia, in her wily ways, had finagled this out of her husband and then told me.
Shouldn't that type of bartending prostitution/betrayal of your "friend" & former colleague be illegal in all states? I'd like to lobby in front of Congress on that one.
I consulted my friends and eventually decided that I would do nothing. Stooping to her level was not going to earn me any karma brownie points, so I thought the better route would be to just let it go. Until PS called me yesterday and I told her the story.
"Almost, why aren't you reporting her to the State Board? She violated HIPAA."
"Because I didn't want it to reflect badly on you in any way and I wasn't sure what it would do to you."
"It does nothing to me. You of all people know that's a serious violation," PS said. "That's what I'd do if I were in your position."
I submitted my online complaint to the State Board yesterday and expect a phone call from them on Monday. At least I know that she won't be able to betray anyone else in this state when she inevitably moves back. And when she is back? I suppose I'll keep my friends close and my enemies as f*cking far away from me as possible.
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
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."
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."
Monday, July 30, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Stranger Danger
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.
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.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Break the Law, Make a Friend
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?
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?
Monday, June 25, 2007
Best Boyfriend Ever
My best friend Ava and I have known each other for going on 15 years now. We met freshman year of college where she lived across the hall from me. We were destined to become best friends for so many reasons, but for the first month of school we would pass in the hallway and each throw the other a dirty look. I'm not sure why we did that and I can't even recall how we first started talking to each other, but we practically flunked out of freshman year because all we did was stay up all night talking and laughing. Cracking a book was pretty much out of the question.
Over the years, we've developed a completely different language that nobody else can understand. When we use words from our language in front of other people, they generally look at us as if we've sprouted fifth limbs. We call each other MODI, which stands for something we've never revealed to anyone else, but that name has also taken on a life of its own at this point and means so much more than it did originally. She and I laugh about how we're each other's Best Boyfriend Ever, since we've had our share of dysfunctional relationships and the one consistently good relationship we've both had is each other. Don't get me wrong, we don't have a romantic relationship, but we are definitely soul mates and I feel pretty sure we're going to end up in rocking chairs together at the nursing home someday. We laugh when we tell people that we fell in love when we were 18, and they inevitably look at us like we just stepped out of an alien warcraft.
Bizarrely enough, every boyfriend that we've ever had has been jealous of our relationship. The only fight that we've ever had in 15 years was over a boyfriend of Ava's that was so envious, he tried to drive a wedge in between us. He's history. I've had boyfriends who have asked me, "Why aren't we as close as you and Ava?"
Ava and I have been through a million and one different things together, and even though we don't live in the same city, we try to get together once a month or so. She's only a 50 minute flight away, so it's pretty convenient. Our weekends together always end up filled with adventures, late nights, and countless bottles of wine. Our livers and lungs hate us after our visits, but the weekends are so much fun that it's totally worth it.
Late last spring, Ava came to visit me for a weekend. At that time, Ex and I were still living together, and though I was already coming to terms with the fact that I was miserable, I had yet to find out about The Great Email Debacle. Wanting to hang out downtown and refusing to spend our weekend in Suburban Hell, Ava and I rented a hotel room in the city and spent the weekend there.
Ava and I had been planning to get tattoos of our nickname for years, and that Sunday afternoon we chose to do it. She had finally tracked down someone who could phonetically translate MODI into Chinese characters. It turned out that MO was one character and DI was another, so we chose to each get one, and when another 15 years passes, we'll each get the other.
Since Ava wasn't leaving until Monday, I called Ex on Sunday and invited him to come downtown and hang out with us for the afternoon. He asked what we were planning to do, so I told him about the tattoos and our plans to migrate afterwards to Outdoor Bar with great people-watching.
30 full seconds of silence ensued.
I said, "Ex, are you still there?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
"I refuse to spend time in a tattoo parlor. I don't waste my time with lowlifes."
And then he hung up on me.
I turned to Ava and said, "Well, that went well. Let's go."
So we headed off to the tattoo parlor, got our tattoos, and I called Ex as we were walking out the door. I asked, "Are you going to meet us?"
"I'm already here. I've been at the corner of the tattoo parlor for over an hour. I can see you right now."
Creepy. But I said, "OK, well, we're heading to Outdoor Bar, so meet us there."
Click. He'd hung up on me again.
The afternoon was extremely uncomfortable. We were sitting at Outdoor Bar, Ex across from me and Ava next to me. I didn't know who had peed in Ex's Cheerios that morning, but he was all thunder and storm, barely saying a word. He didn't ask either of us to show him our tattoos. To make matters worse, I must have been throwing off some pheromones or something, because as Ex was brooding in his rage and pissing us both off that he was ruining the afternoon, I got hit on more than I have in the past 3 years combined. The guy next to us, who was in town on business from South America, started up a conversation and we ended up speaking in Spanish to one another. He asked me out in Spanish and I laughed, telling him that it was my husband who was sitting across from me. A girl approached a little while later and sat down next to me, saying, "I know this seems kind of creepy, but my friend thinks you're really hot and he's too shy to ask you out, so would you go over and introduce yourself?" Things like this kept happening all afternoon, and Ex was growing more and more..... actually, he was just growing, because when he gets mad I think he actually grows in height to about 10 feet tall. He was enraged. It was exacerbating an already uncomfortable situation, and I still couldn't figure out why Ex was so upset in the first place.
Ava and I went to the bathroom together, and she said, "MODI, I don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my life."
"Me neither. I'm so sorry to end the weekend like this."
"But it's funny how you keep getting hit on and it's making Ex so mad!" We both dissolved into laughter because it was so absurd that it was funny.
We arrived back at the house where Ex and I lived at around 9. Ava went to sleep almost immediately because we had to be up early to get her to the airport on time. I needed to check some emails, so I got on my computer. I spotted an email from a guy I'd met on a recent trip to Europe and saw the little arrow icon that indicates the message had been forwarded. I knew that I hadn't forwarded that email to anyone, so I went into my sent folder, confusion and rage beginning to grow.
The email had been forwarded at 1:42 PM. To Ex. That same day. When Ava and I were downtown.
I wasn't entirely sure that Ex had actually forwarded the email at first. I thought, "He didn't - wouldn't - really do that, right?" Ex was in the basement watching TV, so I went downstairs and asked him, "Ex, were you on my computer today?"
"Of course not. Why would I do that?"
"Are you sure that's your final answer?"
Ex began to cry. He said that he thought I was having an affair and he needed to find out. I told him he had no reason to think that I was having an affair. He wanted to know why the email he'd forwarded to himself was signed "big kisses." I told him that the guy who had emailed me was foreign and they kiss everyone, including other men. I again asked him why he would think I was having an affair.
He said, "How about that Spanish dude you were talking to today? Are you meeting him later? Is he better looking than me? And what about all of that being hit on? Do you enjoy it? Was it fun for you?"
I replied somewhat incredulously, "You're jealous, aren't you?"
He became enraged again. He shouted, "Yes, I'm jealous! I'm jealous of Ava, I'm jealous of the Spanish guy, and I'm jealous of Mr. European Big Kisses! And why did you go off of the birth control pill right before you went to Europe, hmmmm?" dripping with sarcasm and insinuating that I went off of the pill in order to have sex romps with European hotties. His argument made no sense at all because I have never wanted children, and Ex knows this very well.
I actually found this illogical argument funny. "Hellooo, Ex," I thought, "I went off of the pill because we haven't had sex in a year, so what's the point?" I stifled a laugh. I said, "Um, Ex, let's think about this. If I had wanted to have sex with European men, I would have stayed ON the pill."
His look of confusion, then thoughtfulness, then realization was priceless.
He didn't even address his insanely illogical accusation and said something that blew my mind. "But you never asked me for permission to get a tattoo! And you know what else, you never asked me for permission to go off of the pill, either!"
That moment crystallized for me in colors of rage, betrayal, and coldness swimming before my eyes. It was a feeling I can't quite describe, in which time seemed to slow and my thoughts were oddly and serenely concrete. I looked him square in the eye and calmly said, "Since when did you gain ownership of my uterus, or my skin, for that matter?"
Realizing that his suspicion of unfaithfulness was untrue and that the "permission" comments were way over the line, he begged for forgiveness and started punching himself in the head over and over. Frankly, I was frightened. In order to diffuse the situation and hopefully save him from a self-inflicted traumatic brain injury I said, "We'll work this out later. I'm going to bed."
The next morning, Ava took her bag outside and I backed the car out of the garage. I saw in my rearview mirror that Ex gave her a hug and said something. I could see that she looked puzzled. She got in the car and said, "MODI, the weirdest thing just happened. Ex just told me that it was the last time he'd see me because you were probably going to divorce him. What happened?"
I told her the story and said, "MODI, this is just one more reason why you'll always be my Best Boyfriend Ever."
So currently, I'm DI and my Best Boyfriend Ever is MO. Or perhaps I'm Beef and she's Broccoli or I'm Kung Pao and she's Chicken, since we have no way of knowing what these indelibly marked characters really mean. No matter, I'm grateful to have a best friend like her and I'm happy to be Kung Pao to her Chicken.
Over the years, we've developed a completely different language that nobody else can understand. When we use words from our language in front of other people, they generally look at us as if we've sprouted fifth limbs. We call each other MODI, which stands for something we've never revealed to anyone else, but that name has also taken on a life of its own at this point and means so much more than it did originally. She and I laugh about how we're each other's Best Boyfriend Ever, since we've had our share of dysfunctional relationships and the one consistently good relationship we've both had is each other. Don't get me wrong, we don't have a romantic relationship, but we are definitely soul mates and I feel pretty sure we're going to end up in rocking chairs together at the nursing home someday. We laugh when we tell people that we fell in love when we were 18, and they inevitably look at us like we just stepped out of an alien warcraft.
Bizarrely enough, every boyfriend that we've ever had has been jealous of our relationship. The only fight that we've ever had in 15 years was over a boyfriend of Ava's that was so envious, he tried to drive a wedge in between us. He's history. I've had boyfriends who have asked me, "Why aren't we as close as you and Ava?"
Ava and I have been through a million and one different things together, and even though we don't live in the same city, we try to get together once a month or so. She's only a 50 minute flight away, so it's pretty convenient. Our weekends together always end up filled with adventures, late nights, and countless bottles of wine. Our livers and lungs hate us after our visits, but the weekends are so much fun that it's totally worth it.
Late last spring, Ava came to visit me for a weekend. At that time, Ex and I were still living together, and though I was already coming to terms with the fact that I was miserable, I had yet to find out about The Great Email Debacle. Wanting to hang out downtown and refusing to spend our weekend in Suburban Hell, Ava and I rented a hotel room in the city and spent the weekend there.
Ava and I had been planning to get tattoos of our nickname for years, and that Sunday afternoon we chose to do it. She had finally tracked down someone who could phonetically translate MODI into Chinese characters. It turned out that MO was one character and DI was another, so we chose to each get one, and when another 15 years passes, we'll each get the other.
Since Ava wasn't leaving until Monday, I called Ex on Sunday and invited him to come downtown and hang out with us for the afternoon. He asked what we were planning to do, so I told him about the tattoos and our plans to migrate afterwards to Outdoor Bar with great people-watching.
30 full seconds of silence ensued.
I said, "Ex, are you still there?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
"I refuse to spend time in a tattoo parlor. I don't waste my time with lowlifes."
And then he hung up on me.
I turned to Ava and said, "Well, that went well. Let's go."
So we headed off to the tattoo parlor, got our tattoos, and I called Ex as we were walking out the door. I asked, "Are you going to meet us?"
"I'm already here. I've been at the corner of the tattoo parlor for over an hour. I can see you right now."
Creepy. But I said, "OK, well, we're heading to Outdoor Bar, so meet us there."
Click. He'd hung up on me again.
The afternoon was extremely uncomfortable. We were sitting at Outdoor Bar, Ex across from me and Ava next to me. I didn't know who had peed in Ex's Cheerios that morning, but he was all thunder and storm, barely saying a word. He didn't ask either of us to show him our tattoos. To make matters worse, I must have been throwing off some pheromones or something, because as Ex was brooding in his rage and pissing us both off that he was ruining the afternoon, I got hit on more than I have in the past 3 years combined. The guy next to us, who was in town on business from South America, started up a conversation and we ended up speaking in Spanish to one another. He asked me out in Spanish and I laughed, telling him that it was my husband who was sitting across from me. A girl approached a little while later and sat down next to me, saying, "I know this seems kind of creepy, but my friend thinks you're really hot and he's too shy to ask you out, so would you go over and introduce yourself?" Things like this kept happening all afternoon, and Ex was growing more and more..... actually, he was just growing, because when he gets mad I think he actually grows in height to about 10 feet tall. He was enraged. It was exacerbating an already uncomfortable situation, and I still couldn't figure out why Ex was so upset in the first place.
Ava and I went to the bathroom together, and she said, "MODI, I don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my life."
"Me neither. I'm so sorry to end the weekend like this."
"But it's funny how you keep getting hit on and it's making Ex so mad!" We both dissolved into laughter because it was so absurd that it was funny.
We arrived back at the house where Ex and I lived at around 9. Ava went to sleep almost immediately because we had to be up early to get her to the airport on time. I needed to check some emails, so I got on my computer. I spotted an email from a guy I'd met on a recent trip to Europe and saw the little arrow icon that indicates the message had been forwarded. I knew that I hadn't forwarded that email to anyone, so I went into my sent folder, confusion and rage beginning to grow.
The email had been forwarded at 1:42 PM. To Ex. That same day. When Ava and I were downtown.
I wasn't entirely sure that Ex had actually forwarded the email at first. I thought, "He didn't - wouldn't - really do that, right?" Ex was in the basement watching TV, so I went downstairs and asked him, "Ex, were you on my computer today?"
"Of course not. Why would I do that?"
"Are you sure that's your final answer?"
Ex began to cry. He said that he thought I was having an affair and he needed to find out. I told him he had no reason to think that I was having an affair. He wanted to know why the email he'd forwarded to himself was signed "big kisses." I told him that the guy who had emailed me was foreign and they kiss everyone, including other men. I again asked him why he would think I was having an affair.
He said, "How about that Spanish dude you were talking to today? Are you meeting him later? Is he better looking than me? And what about all of that being hit on? Do you enjoy it? Was it fun for you?"
I replied somewhat incredulously, "You're jealous, aren't you?"
He became enraged again. He shouted, "Yes, I'm jealous! I'm jealous of Ava, I'm jealous of the Spanish guy, and I'm jealous of Mr. European Big Kisses! And why did you go off of the birth control pill right before you went to Europe, hmmmm?" dripping with sarcasm and insinuating that I went off of the pill in order to have sex romps with European hotties. His argument made no sense at all because I have never wanted children, and Ex knows this very well.
I actually found this illogical argument funny. "Hellooo, Ex," I thought, "I went off of the pill because we haven't had sex in a year, so what's the point?" I stifled a laugh. I said, "Um, Ex, let's think about this. If I had wanted to have sex with European men, I would have stayed ON the pill."
His look of confusion, then thoughtfulness, then realization was priceless.
He didn't even address his insanely illogical accusation and said something that blew my mind. "But you never asked me for permission to get a tattoo! And you know what else, you never asked me for permission to go off of the pill, either!"
That moment crystallized for me in colors of rage, betrayal, and coldness swimming before my eyes. It was a feeling I can't quite describe, in which time seemed to slow and my thoughts were oddly and serenely concrete. I looked him square in the eye and calmly said, "Since when did you gain ownership of my uterus, or my skin, for that matter?"
Realizing that his suspicion of unfaithfulness was untrue and that the "permission" comments were way over the line, he begged for forgiveness and started punching himself in the head over and over. Frankly, I was frightened. In order to diffuse the situation and hopefully save him from a self-inflicted traumatic brain injury I said, "We'll work this out later. I'm going to bed."
The next morning, Ava took her bag outside and I backed the car out of the garage. I saw in my rearview mirror that Ex gave her a hug and said something. I could see that she looked puzzled. She got in the car and said, "MODI, the weirdest thing just happened. Ex just told me that it was the last time he'd see me because you were probably going to divorce him. What happened?"
I told her the story and said, "MODI, this is just one more reason why you'll always be my Best Boyfriend Ever."
So currently, I'm DI and my Best Boyfriend Ever is MO. Or perhaps I'm Beef and she's Broccoli or I'm Kung Pao and she's Chicken, since we have no way of knowing what these indelibly marked characters really mean. No matter, I'm grateful to have a best friend like her and I'm happy to be Kung Pao to her Chicken.
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