Can Someone Hand Me the Benzodiazepines Now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smart Women Who Just Seem to Love Asshats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think she went to the bathroom.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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