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 Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
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.....
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.....
Monday, February 4, 2008
Quite The Timing.
Last week I received a letter from my Dad. I thought it odd, since he contacts me through snail mail about as often as do my two pets. Intrigued, I opened it and found another envelope, unopened, inside. Taped to the envelope was a return address clearly ripped from a brown padded mailer. On a Post-It, my Dad had written, “Almost, this was forwarded to my office.” Actually, I’m guessing at that last part because my Dad’s writing consists of him putting a chicken in a plastic bag with a piece of paper, some ink, and shaking it.
Since my dad is an attorney, I began to get anxious that perhaps I was embroiled in another legal matter of which I wasn’t aware. Until I saw that the envelope was marked, “To Almost. Personal and Confidential,” in handwriting. Handwriting that I recognized but couldn’t quite place. It was like seeing an irritating old relative whose name you can’t quite recall. You know that you don’t like them, but you can’t remember the reason and you still can’t find their name in your head, dammit.
I sat down at my kitchen island somewhat nervously and opened the envelope. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been more surprised if the letter had gotten out of the envelope, done a dance in drag, and sung its contents to me operatically.
“Almost,
I hope this writing finds you having the happy, peaceful, and joyous life that you are so deserving of. When (and if) you read this, you will in actuality be reading a document that has been more than three years in its’ writing and is a culmination of more than eight years of secrets and deceptions. It is the result of years of thought, progress, pain, and so many other emotions. On this nine-year anniversary of the beginning of our relationship and the 6-year anniversary of the end of it, it is my sincere and most heartfelt intention to apologize to you from the deepest recesses of my heart and my soul. I loved you with so much of myself that I couldn’t even begin to acknowledge any of this until just a few years ago. I live with the belief that I hurt you deeply. I am so very sorry… for everything.
I can only imagine what you have heard and been told since we parted and I left our city [for a state far away]. Many rumors have circulated. Suffice it to say that the consequences of that very convoluted life I lived have been harsh and relentless.
I find myself thinking of you often and remembering what it felt like to be loved by someone as kind and pure of heart as you. I remember the times of joy and the times of pain that we experienced together. Little did I know that those were the feelings of being alive, something that I have not felt since we parted. The love we had that I single-handedly destroyed is the benchmark against which all who have come since are unwittingly measured against, with none ever beginning to scratch the surface of what was the enormity of that love. You were perfect in every way, as the flaws that I exploited were what made you flawless.
The sole purpose of this note is to leave you with a hint of how sorry I am for everything. It is rare to find the greatest love of your lifetime. I squandered mine and I will live with that pain forever.
I pray that your life is a reflection of the beauty and happiness that you put out into the world and of the pure joy and unspoiled humility that is your hallmark. Having loved you is the greatest joy and the most honored privilege that I have… two things that can never be taken from me. I would give my very life for your forgiveness in your heart.
Merry Christmas to you and your family, and a life-long wish that you live immersed in the love that is you.
Respectfully and regretfully,
First Ex”
I’ve only had my heart broken once, and it wasn’t Ex. The first time I fell in love, it was with a slightly pudgy, older, balding man who was a good 3 inches shorter than me when I was in heels. I’ll save you the lachrymose moments and just say that he broke my heart so badly that I went from 120 healthy pounds at 5’7” to 94 pounds in a matter of months. I subsisted on cigarettes and one bagel and one coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts every day. I was bartending full time then, and as soon as I got in my car at the end of my shift, I’d burst into tears. And I don’t cry.
As you might imagine, that letter was from the man who broke my heart. When you first love and you’ve never been hurt, you love with a reckless abandon that, in my experience, never returns for your next loves. I had always tagged First Ex as a sociopath because his lies just mounted to the point where I couldn’t navigate my way through what was a lie and what was half-truth, and he seemed to have no conscience. There was no honesty, so after three years, it was over. I married Ex just over a year later.
Lauren, who has also known him for years, doesn't trust him and told me to write him a letter with no return address indicating that I had forgiven him for myself, not for his sake. My Mom asked how I felt, and I could honestly tell her that I didn't feel anything because I had forgiven him long ago. My Dad was blown away, but basically thought it was touching.
Though I truly don't feel blindsided or emotional about this correspondence in the least, it is bizarre timing. I'm facing a trial in three and a half weeks and the one man who absolutely shattered me came out of the shadows at this very moment.
So I’m left with two questions. Was I blinded into marrying the wrong man because I’d had my heart shattered and I was suffering the repercussions of my own poor judgment? And how do I respond to this letter from First Ex, or do I at all?
P.S. Click on the "Lauren" link to get to her blog. I promise you'll enjoy!
Since my dad is an attorney, I began to get anxious that perhaps I was embroiled in another legal matter of which I wasn’t aware. Until I saw that the envelope was marked, “To Almost. Personal and Confidential,” in handwriting. Handwriting that I recognized but couldn’t quite place. It was like seeing an irritating old relative whose name you can’t quite recall. You know that you don’t like them, but you can’t remember the reason and you still can’t find their name in your head, dammit.
I sat down at my kitchen island somewhat nervously and opened the envelope. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been more surprised if the letter had gotten out of the envelope, done a dance in drag, and sung its contents to me operatically.
“Almost,
I hope this writing finds you having the happy, peaceful, and joyous life that you are so deserving of. When (and if) you read this, you will in actuality be reading a document that has been more than three years in its’ writing and is a culmination of more than eight years of secrets and deceptions. It is the result of years of thought, progress, pain, and so many other emotions. On this nine-year anniversary of the beginning of our relationship and the 6-year anniversary of the end of it, it is my sincere and most heartfelt intention to apologize to you from the deepest recesses of my heart and my soul. I loved you with so much of myself that I couldn’t even begin to acknowledge any of this until just a few years ago. I live with the belief that I hurt you deeply. I am so very sorry… for everything.
I can only imagine what you have heard and been told since we parted and I left our city [for a state far away]. Many rumors have circulated. Suffice it to say that the consequences of that very convoluted life I lived have been harsh and relentless.
I find myself thinking of you often and remembering what it felt like to be loved by someone as kind and pure of heart as you. I remember the times of joy and the times of pain that we experienced together. Little did I know that those were the feelings of being alive, something that I have not felt since we parted. The love we had that I single-handedly destroyed is the benchmark against which all who have come since are unwittingly measured against, with none ever beginning to scratch the surface of what was the enormity of that love. You were perfect in every way, as the flaws that I exploited were what made you flawless.
The sole purpose of this note is to leave you with a hint of how sorry I am for everything. It is rare to find the greatest love of your lifetime. I squandered mine and I will live with that pain forever.
I pray that your life is a reflection of the beauty and happiness that you put out into the world and of the pure joy and unspoiled humility that is your hallmark. Having loved you is the greatest joy and the most honored privilege that I have… two things that can never be taken from me. I would give my very life for your forgiveness in your heart.
Merry Christmas to you and your family, and a life-long wish that you live immersed in the love that is you.
Respectfully and regretfully,
First Ex”
I’ve only had my heart broken once, and it wasn’t Ex. The first time I fell in love, it was with a slightly pudgy, older, balding man who was a good 3 inches shorter than me when I was in heels. I’ll save you the lachrymose moments and just say that he broke my heart so badly that I went from 120 healthy pounds at 5’7” to 94 pounds in a matter of months. I subsisted on cigarettes and one bagel and one coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts every day. I was bartending full time then, and as soon as I got in my car at the end of my shift, I’d burst into tears. And I don’t cry.
As you might imagine, that letter was from the man who broke my heart. When you first love and you’ve never been hurt, you love with a reckless abandon that, in my experience, never returns for your next loves. I had always tagged First Ex as a sociopath because his lies just mounted to the point where I couldn’t navigate my way through what was a lie and what was half-truth, and he seemed to have no conscience. There was no honesty, so after three years, it was over. I married Ex just over a year later.
Lauren, who has also known him for years, doesn't trust him and told me to write him a letter with no return address indicating that I had forgiven him for myself, not for his sake. My Mom asked how I felt, and I could honestly tell her that I didn't feel anything because I had forgiven him long ago. My Dad was blown away, but basically thought it was touching.
Though I truly don't feel blindsided or emotional about this correspondence in the least, it is bizarre timing. I'm facing a trial in three and a half weeks and the one man who absolutely shattered me came out of the shadows at this very moment.
So I’m left with two questions. Was I blinded into marrying the wrong man because I’d had my heart shattered and I was suffering the repercussions of my own poor judgment? And how do I respond to this letter from First Ex, or do I at all?
P.S. Click on the "Lauren" link to get to her blog. I promise you'll enjoy!
Friday, January 18, 2008
Great Ways to Find Out Who Really Loves You
A few days after my last real post, I was working furiously toward an October 31st deadline and was working so hard that I had to contort my body in order to see my computer screen through the avalanche of books and papers that had mounted seemingly out of nowhere. In order to help accomplish my work, I thought it was a wise idea to have a massive accident in my own home, give myself a black eye that would shock Lennox Lewis, and split the skin around my left eye to the bone.
I had been awake for two days straight, working at my kitchen island where the chair is the most comfortable, and finally decided that, since I was probably unable to comprehend A Cat in the Hat at the time, I needed at least a couple hours of sleep. I swiveled in my chair so that I could head to bed when my feet got tangled in the footrests and I went over face first into the corner of the marble topping the kitchen island. That's the last thing I remember for 2 hours, which is probably good because I may have gotten up, looked in the mirror, and believed myself to be a feature character in a Wes Craven movie. Actually, I did that anyway.
Two hours later, I awoke in my bed, wondering how I had gotten there, feeling very disoriented, and looked around to see myself pooled in blood. My hair was entirely matted with blood, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out the source. I started to get out of bed and realized that I had the balance of a Weeble Wobble, only one that would fall down, and stumbled to the bathroom to see three distinct slashes on the ocular bone both over and under my left eye. The entire left side of my face was already black. I was too disoriented to be horrified yet, so I began to try and reconstruct what had happened. My first thought was that someone had broken in and slashed me, but as I weaved my way out to the kitchen and saw a pool of blood right around where I had fallen, I realized I had brilliantly done this to myself. From the size of the blood pool, I figured I was on the floor, knocked out, for about 20 minutes or so. I felt like I was a detective on Law and Order as I examined the blood drops and smears leading to my bed.
I figured that I had way too much work to do to go to Plastic Surgeon's office, which is about 35 miles away, so in my head-injured wisdom thought, "Hey, I work in a hospital, I can fix this." I promptly washed the wounds and then attempted to put a Band-Aid on these actively bleeding wounds. In retrospect, I can't help but giggle at the memory of my thinking that this was going to help in any way. When that didn't work, I tried to superglue the slashes shut (which, by the way, sounds weird, but actually works in emergency situations, but only with more superficial cuts) and that recollection makes me laugh even harder. Here I was, totally disoriented, with a head injury to my left frontal lobe, wondering why, if superglue can keep that dude in the hardhat hanging from a beam in the ads, why can't it keep a few cuts closed?
It took me 2 days to finally call Plastic Surgeon and tell her what had happened. I drove to her office, but my balance was still off and the nature of the injury was such that the swelling had displaced my eyeball and I was seeing double. I drove like any drunk driver with one hand over my left eye. When I walked into her office, she took one look at me and was visibly horrified. She said, "Honey, what have you done? You've always been my Picasso, the one that I want my other patients to look like. Now you actually look like a Picasso!" During the 2 hours in which she stitched and cut necrotic tissue away, she asked why I hadn't called her immediately. When I explained that I just had too much work to do and was afraid that sacrificing the 4 hours I knew it would take was not an option at that time, she stopped for a second, put her hand on my shoulder, looked me directly in the (one good) eye, and said, "Baby, you're one of my best friends. I would have come to your house and done it there, even if it was 3 in the morning." Forty-eight stitches later and after assurances from PS that scar therapy would make the injuries invisible after a few months, I left.
This whole injury and PS's comment about coming to my house spurred my thoughts on other injuries I've had and the people that have either come to my rescue or have turned a blind eye. In 2000, I woke up one morning with what I thought were the worst menstrual cramps of all time, a fever, and vomiting. Thinking that it was just a bad flu combined with the monthly loveliness that is being a woman, I went back to bed. By 6 PM, I knew I had appendicitis. I drove myself to the hospital and called Lauren (who has a blog of her own now), saying, "I need your help. I have appendicitis and my parents are already heading to the airport to come out here. Please go to my apartment, clean out ALL of the cigarettes and hide my birth control pills."
She groaned. "Almost, I went out with some people after work and I've already had 5 margaritas, but f*ck it. I'll do it."
I warned her to be careful and she did exactly what I had asked and then met me at the hospital. She stayed with me until my parents arrived and visited for the next two days in the hospital, bringing flowers, ice cream, and gifts. On top of that, she drove my car back to my apartment since my parents would be taking me back there. I still haven't paid her back for that parking charge and she never asked for it.
Now that's someone who loves you.
In 2005, I began having lower back pain on my right hand side one day. It was uncomfortable, but nothing I couldn't handle. As the days progressed, however, it worsened to the point that I thought I'd rather have a Scientology e-meter up my ass than be going through this. I went to Ex and said, "I don't know what this is, but it's not going away. Do you think I should go to the hospital?"
He looked up from his computer and sighed. "Whatever. I don't know." He looked back down at his computer.
I called Lauren two hours later and described the pain. She said, "Get your ass to the hospital right now. You have either a kidney infection or kidney stones."
I went back to Ex and said, "I need to go to the hospital. Do you think you can drive me?"
As I was bent double, he looked up and sighed once again, but this time he added an eye roll. "Fine," he grunted.
"No, actually, I can do it myself, don't worry about it."
Begrudgingly he said, "I'll do it. Whatever."
When we arrived at the hospital, they immediately put me into an ER exam room while they scheduled a CT scan. Ex was with me, but I could see that he was clearly uncomfortable. I said, "Look, you don't look very happy here, so why don't you just wait in the car?" Of course, I was thinking that there was no way he would actually leave me alone and frightened in the emergency room, but I was wrong. He was gone before I could even say, "See you outside."
Three hours, three Vicodin, and a CT scan later, it was confirmed. I had kidney stones and just had to wait until they passed. I hobbled out to the parking lot, found Ex's car, and got in.
"So, what is it, an attack of the Hormone Monster?" he laughed.
"No, it's three kidney stones." That shut him up immediately.
When you're seriously injured or think you might have something of gravity with which to deal in your body, you quickly figure out who actually loves you. PS would have driven to my house at 3 in the morning. My parents immediately flew to my city when I had appendicitis, even before I was diagnosed. Lauren went above and beyond in caring for me when I was hospitalized, keeping my dirty little secrets away from my parents and doing everything she could to make me feel better despite the fact that she was 5 margaritas into the night. And Ex? I suppose his behavior speaks for itself.
But the one good thing about my latest injury? Because of the manner in which I excoriated the obicularis muscle around my eye, I will never have crow's feet there. That means only half the Botox!
P.S. There's been about as much action in my divorce process as there was in our bedroom for the last year and a half of my marriage, but I did meet with Ex briefly to discuss a resolution. I'm saving that for next time.
I had been awake for two days straight, working at my kitchen island where the chair is the most comfortable, and finally decided that, since I was probably unable to comprehend A Cat in the Hat at the time, I needed at least a couple hours of sleep. I swiveled in my chair so that I could head to bed when my feet got tangled in the footrests and I went over face first into the corner of the marble topping the kitchen island. That's the last thing I remember for 2 hours, which is probably good because I may have gotten up, looked in the mirror, and believed myself to be a feature character in a Wes Craven movie. Actually, I did that anyway.
Two hours later, I awoke in my bed, wondering how I had gotten there, feeling very disoriented, and looked around to see myself pooled in blood. My hair was entirely matted with blood, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out the source. I started to get out of bed and realized that I had the balance of a Weeble Wobble, only one that would fall down, and stumbled to the bathroom to see three distinct slashes on the ocular bone both over and under my left eye. The entire left side of my face was already black. I was too disoriented to be horrified yet, so I began to try and reconstruct what had happened. My first thought was that someone had broken in and slashed me, but as I weaved my way out to the kitchen and saw a pool of blood right around where I had fallen, I realized I had brilliantly done this to myself. From the size of the blood pool, I figured I was on the floor, knocked out, for about 20 minutes or so. I felt like I was a detective on Law and Order as I examined the blood drops and smears leading to my bed.
I figured that I had way too much work to do to go to Plastic Surgeon's office, which is about 35 miles away, so in my head-injured wisdom thought, "Hey, I work in a hospital, I can fix this." I promptly washed the wounds and then attempted to put a Band-Aid on these actively bleeding wounds. In retrospect, I can't help but giggle at the memory of my thinking that this was going to help in any way. When that didn't work, I tried to superglue the slashes shut (which, by the way, sounds weird, but actually works in emergency situations, but only with more superficial cuts) and that recollection makes me laugh even harder. Here I was, totally disoriented, with a head injury to my left frontal lobe, wondering why, if superglue can keep that dude in the hardhat hanging from a beam in the ads, why can't it keep a few cuts closed?
It took me 2 days to finally call Plastic Surgeon and tell her what had happened. I drove to her office, but my balance was still off and the nature of the injury was such that the swelling had displaced my eyeball and I was seeing double. I drove like any drunk driver with one hand over my left eye. When I walked into her office, she took one look at me and was visibly horrified. She said, "Honey, what have you done? You've always been my Picasso, the one that I want my other patients to look like. Now you actually look like a Picasso!" During the 2 hours in which she stitched and cut necrotic tissue away, she asked why I hadn't called her immediately. When I explained that I just had too much work to do and was afraid that sacrificing the 4 hours I knew it would take was not an option at that time, she stopped for a second, put her hand on my shoulder, looked me directly in the (one good) eye, and said, "Baby, you're one of my best friends. I would have come to your house and done it there, even if it was 3 in the morning." Forty-eight stitches later and after assurances from PS that scar therapy would make the injuries invisible after a few months, I left.
This whole injury and PS's comment about coming to my house spurred my thoughts on other injuries I've had and the people that have either come to my rescue or have turned a blind eye. In 2000, I woke up one morning with what I thought were the worst menstrual cramps of all time, a fever, and vomiting. Thinking that it was just a bad flu combined with the monthly loveliness that is being a woman, I went back to bed. By 6 PM, I knew I had appendicitis. I drove myself to the hospital and called Lauren (who has a blog of her own now), saying, "I need your help. I have appendicitis and my parents are already heading to the airport to come out here. Please go to my apartment, clean out ALL of the cigarettes and hide my birth control pills."
She groaned. "Almost, I went out with some people after work and I've already had 5 margaritas, but f*ck it. I'll do it."
I warned her to be careful and she did exactly what I had asked and then met me at the hospital. She stayed with me until my parents arrived and visited for the next two days in the hospital, bringing flowers, ice cream, and gifts. On top of that, she drove my car back to my apartment since my parents would be taking me back there. I still haven't paid her back for that parking charge and she never asked for it.
Now that's someone who loves you.
In 2005, I began having lower back pain on my right hand side one day. It was uncomfortable, but nothing I couldn't handle. As the days progressed, however, it worsened to the point that I thought I'd rather have a Scientology e-meter up my ass than be going through this. I went to Ex and said, "I don't know what this is, but it's not going away. Do you think I should go to the hospital?"
He looked up from his computer and sighed. "Whatever. I don't know." He looked back down at his computer.
I called Lauren two hours later and described the pain. She said, "Get your ass to the hospital right now. You have either a kidney infection or kidney stones."
I went back to Ex and said, "I need to go to the hospital. Do you think you can drive me?"
As I was bent double, he looked up and sighed once again, but this time he added an eye roll. "Fine," he grunted.
"No, actually, I can do it myself, don't worry about it."
Begrudgingly he said, "I'll do it. Whatever."
When we arrived at the hospital, they immediately put me into an ER exam room while they scheduled a CT scan. Ex was with me, but I could see that he was clearly uncomfortable. I said, "Look, you don't look very happy here, so why don't you just wait in the car?" Of course, I was thinking that there was no way he would actually leave me alone and frightened in the emergency room, but I was wrong. He was gone before I could even say, "See you outside."
Three hours, three Vicodin, and a CT scan later, it was confirmed. I had kidney stones and just had to wait until they passed. I hobbled out to the parking lot, found Ex's car, and got in.
"So, what is it, an attack of the Hormone Monster?" he laughed.
"No, it's three kidney stones." That shut him up immediately.
When you're seriously injured or think you might have something of gravity with which to deal in your body, you quickly figure out who actually loves you. PS would have driven to my house at 3 in the morning. My parents immediately flew to my city when I had appendicitis, even before I was diagnosed. Lauren went above and beyond in caring for me when I was hospitalized, keeping my dirty little secrets away from my parents and doing everything she could to make me feel better despite the fact that she was 5 margaritas into the night. And Ex? I suppose his behavior speaks for itself.
But the one good thing about my latest injury? Because of the manner in which I excoriated the obicularis muscle around my eye, I will never have crow's feet there. That means only half the Botox!
P.S. There's been about as much action in my divorce process as there was in our bedroom for the last year and a half of my marriage, but I did meet with Ex briefly to discuss a resolution. I'm saving that for next time.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Every time the phone rings, I jump.
After our surprisingly rational phone conversation last week, I was hesitant to believe that any logical behavior could possibly come out of an inherently illogical person. I hadn't heard from Ex since, so I thought I was correct in believing that he had probably regressed into his old patterns and might be lurking somewhere in the city with a Hubble-sized telescope trained on my every move.
I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)
But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.
Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.
Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.
"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."
I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.
I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.
I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.
Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.
My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."
Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.
So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.
Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.
I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.
I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)
But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.
Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.
Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.
"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."
I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.
I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.
I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.
Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.
My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."
Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.
So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.
Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.
I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I wasn't going to talk about this but....
A couple of weeks ago I spent the evening at Lauren's house. It was Girls' Night, but the other girls were busy and Lauren's mom, Double D, was in town visiting and staying with her daughter. I love Double D so it was the perfect opportunity to catch up with her on a low-key evening and hang with Lauren's son TC, whom I adore.
After TC went to bed, the conversation eventually turned to (put on your big surprise face) sex. It all started because Lauren and I were rehashing a recent conversation we'd had with Anastasia for Double D.
"D, Anastasia still hasn't had the sex talk with her kids and she's freaking out," I said.
"How old are her kids?" Double D asked.
"Fourteen and twelve," Lauren answered.
"And Anastasia asked us to have the birds and the bees talk for her," I added, gesturing between Lauren and myself, "because she's afraid that she's going to be too, 'It's all about YOU, not the other person, so make sure YOUR needs are taken care of,' and she doesn't want to give them the wrong idea."
"Uh, Mom," Lauren announced. Loudly. I knew something was coming. "Speaking of which, you never gave me the birds and the bees talk. Almost, did you get that talk from your parents?"
I almost spit out a mouthful of wine as I looked at Double D's eyes widen with each passing moment. "Oh, geez, my Dad would never have talked about that, but my mom gave me that talk when I was 5 because I asked where babies came from. It was pretty clinical. She even went and got a book from the library. I remember the first page had a dot on it and said, 'You started out smaller than this pencil dot.' Then it detailed the procreation process with clothed stick figures lying in bed together. I swear, I thought I'd get pregnant lying fully clothed next to a guy until I was in college."
"Well," Lauren said dryly, taking a sip of wine and arranging her face into the I'm-about-to-drop-a-Lauren-line-on-you-bitches face. "Thanks to neither of my parents giving me The Talk, I didn't have my first orgasm until I was 35, MOM!!! Thanks a lot."
Double D hooted with laughter while she delivered a line right back, "Well, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW??"
Poor Double D.... although her line cracked me up, I do know her plight. You see, sex with Ex was not that great. Frankly, most of the time it was downright lame. It wasn't that bad before the wedding (it might have actually been good then, but I shudder to think about it as I choke back some bile), but starting Day 2 of the honeymoon, the tracks shifted, directing the bedroom compartment of the marital train through Dullsville with a layover in Rarely City, final destination: Nevertown.
There are specific reasons for this, which I'll discuss soon, but at the time I was simply shocked that a man would reject his new wife for such (to me) insignificant reasons. To be brutally honest (and totally TMI, so Mom, if you're reading this, you can skip over the rest of the paragraph), in our first year of marriage I once went into his office in the house specifically to give him *ahem* uh, non-reciprocated pleasure, and he actually pushed me off of his lap. With force. I landed unceremoniously on my ass and I can only imagine the look of shock on my face. Reliving the memory now makes me giggle, but frankly, at the time it was a tad humiliating.
I had a health scare one year to the day after we were married and that picked things up a bit since he was grateful that I wasn't ill, but the sex dropped off again shortly thereafter and I was once again left to ponder what was wrong with me. (As I said in my first post, did I grow a third nipple? No!)
The evening with Lauren and Double D ended up with D proclaiming that she'd just had a very informative education. This was after the detailed description of what my friend Sarah calls "the battery operated boyfriend." D's face was priceless as we detailed the different models, functions, prices, and places in which you could obtain such "boyfriends."
But the conversation left me wondering about the importance of sex in a relationship. Perhaps in our parents' time it didn't assume the role it does now, for whatever reason. But at this point it's certainly of primary importance. I can say with clarity that deprivation on either party's part is the beginning of the slippery slope. After that transpired, at least in my case (and I'm not assigning directionality, i.e., did the deprivation lead to the dissolve or did the dissolve lead to the deprivation?), the end was nigh.
Well, at least I know what I'm getting Double D for Christmas this year. It's easy to pick out, since I know personally all too well.
After TC went to bed, the conversation eventually turned to (put on your big surprise face) sex. It all started because Lauren and I were rehashing a recent conversation we'd had with Anastasia for Double D.
"D, Anastasia still hasn't had the sex talk with her kids and she's freaking out," I said.
"How old are her kids?" Double D asked.
"Fourteen and twelve," Lauren answered.
"And Anastasia asked us to have the birds and the bees talk for her," I added, gesturing between Lauren and myself, "because she's afraid that she's going to be too, 'It's all about YOU, not the other person, so make sure YOUR needs are taken care of,' and she doesn't want to give them the wrong idea."
"Uh, Mom," Lauren announced. Loudly. I knew something was coming. "Speaking of which, you never gave me the birds and the bees talk. Almost, did you get that talk from your parents?"
I almost spit out a mouthful of wine as I looked at Double D's eyes widen with each passing moment. "Oh, geez, my Dad would never have talked about that, but my mom gave me that talk when I was 5 because I asked where babies came from. It was pretty clinical. She even went and got a book from the library. I remember the first page had a dot on it and said, 'You started out smaller than this pencil dot.' Then it detailed the procreation process with clothed stick figures lying in bed together. I swear, I thought I'd get pregnant lying fully clothed next to a guy until I was in college."
"Well," Lauren said dryly, taking a sip of wine and arranging her face into the I'm-about-to-drop-a-Lauren-line-on-you-bitches face. "Thanks to neither of my parents giving me The Talk, I didn't have my first orgasm until I was 35, MOM!!! Thanks a lot."
Double D hooted with laughter while she delivered a line right back, "Well, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW??"
Poor Double D.... although her line cracked me up, I do know her plight. You see, sex with Ex was not that great. Frankly, most of the time it was downright lame. It wasn't that bad before the wedding (it might have actually been good then, but I shudder to think about it as I choke back some bile), but starting Day 2 of the honeymoon, the tracks shifted, directing the bedroom compartment of the marital train through Dullsville with a layover in Rarely City, final destination: Nevertown.
There are specific reasons for this, which I'll discuss soon, but at the time I was simply shocked that a man would reject his new wife for such (to me) insignificant reasons. To be brutally honest (and totally TMI, so Mom, if you're reading this, you can skip over the rest of the paragraph), in our first year of marriage I once went into his office in the house specifically to give him *ahem* uh, non-reciprocated pleasure, and he actually pushed me off of his lap. With force. I landed unceremoniously on my ass and I can only imagine the look of shock on my face. Reliving the memory now makes me giggle, but frankly, at the time it was a tad humiliating.
I had a health scare one year to the day after we were married and that picked things up a bit since he was grateful that I wasn't ill, but the sex dropped off again shortly thereafter and I was once again left to ponder what was wrong with me. (As I said in my first post, did I grow a third nipple? No!)
The evening with Lauren and Double D ended up with D proclaiming that she'd just had a very informative education. This was after the detailed description of what my friend Sarah calls "the battery operated boyfriend." D's face was priceless as we detailed the different models, functions, prices, and places in which you could obtain such "boyfriends."
But the conversation left me wondering about the importance of sex in a relationship. Perhaps in our parents' time it didn't assume the role it does now, for whatever reason. But at this point it's certainly of primary importance. I can say with clarity that deprivation on either party's part is the beginning of the slippery slope. After that transpired, at least in my case (and I'm not assigning directionality, i.e., did the deprivation lead to the dissolve or did the dissolve lead to the deprivation?), the end was nigh.
Well, at least I know what I'm getting Double D for Christmas this year. It's easy to pick out, since I know personally all too well.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Father's Day
Yes, I know that Father's Day has already passed, but Ex did something so outrageous on Sunday night that it actually made me laugh once I got past the black, blind rage of fury.
My relationship with my Dad has always been good, but never has he been more of my hero than throughout this grotesque process. When I found out about the granny porn issue, I called my Dad and he made me laugh about it, despite my sadness and disgust. When I fell apart in January and called him in tears (something that I rarely do, because I don't want him to worry), barely choking out the words, "Yes, I need you," he hopped a flight the next day and spent the weekend with me. When Ex financially cut me off 8 months ago and sent me a text message that said something to the effect of, "I'm not giving you a dime, bitch, get a J-O-B," my Dad has always been the first one to ask me if I'm solvent. And by the way, yes, I do have a job.
I'll go into details at some point in the future, but it's sufficient at this point to say that I was insanely stupid enough to let myself become financially dependent upon Ex, even though I was completely independent prior to marrying him. Despite my financial dependence upon him (I think I just felt some bile rise at even having to type those ugly, honest words) as I work my way through a Ph.D. program, he came up with a wildly untrue notion that I have a 5 million dollar trust fund. More about that later, but the fact is, I don't have a 5 million dollar trust fund. In fact, I'm currently pretty much broke.
But Ex thinks that I'm rich. He thinks that I'm so rich that I should pay his legal fees. He thinks that I'm so rich that I'm, in his attorney's words in court a couple of weeks ago, "living the life of a rock star." Because Ex thinks that I'm swimming in pools of Benjamins, he had his attorney subpoena my Dad and the trust fund last week (yes, there is one, but no, my sister and I have no access to it until both of my parents no longer walk this mortal coil, God forbid).
My Dad called me last night and said, "I have a question for you. The trust has been subpoenaed. I have no problem with supplying documents, but how would you like the company to handle it? Does Divorce Lawyer have any suggestions?"
Now, I knew this was coming. I was prepared to testify under oath 4 months ago in court with regard to the nature of the trust, but Ex wiggled out of that one as well. I told Ex's greasy attorney that day that I have no access to that fund, to which he replied, "Oh, we'll definitely find that out, because I'm going to subpoena the records." But despite knowing that it was immanent, I was nevertheless appalled last week when my Divorce Lawyer (heretofore "Lawyer") called me and told me that the fund had been, indeed, subpoenaed.
My approach is this... say whatever you need to say about me, do whatever you need to do to me, but do NOT disrespect my parents, my sister, or any of my friends, for that matter. Disrespecting my Dad is even worse to me than if Ex had punched me in the face (which he did not, never laid a hand on me, in fact). I'm a Leo, and we're fiercely protective of those we love, so dragging my Dad into this and embarrassing him in front of his financial adviser is a big no-no, to put it mildly.
But back to Sunday. At this point, the facts were and are as follows: I'm a broke grad student, my Dad has come to my rescue on more than one occasion because Ex has completely cut me off, and Ex has had the disrespect to subpoena my Dad's financials. The week before Father's Day.
Father's Day had almost passed, and I received a text from Ex. Ex never calls, by the way. He only texts, and because of the nature of the texts and the time at which I receive them, I suspect that he's wasted. That will be relevant in the future, but for now what's important is that shortly before midnight on Sunday, Ex's text arrived. It said....
"If u r with ur dad..wish him a happy f-day from me..i will always have the utmost respect 4 him"
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
My relationship with my Dad has always been good, but never has he been more of my hero than throughout this grotesque process. When I found out about the granny porn issue, I called my Dad and he made me laugh about it, despite my sadness and disgust. When I fell apart in January and called him in tears (something that I rarely do, because I don't want him to worry), barely choking out the words, "Yes, I need you," he hopped a flight the next day and spent the weekend with me. When Ex financially cut me off 8 months ago and sent me a text message that said something to the effect of, "I'm not giving you a dime, bitch, get a J-O-B," my Dad has always been the first one to ask me if I'm solvent. And by the way, yes, I do have a job.
I'll go into details at some point in the future, but it's sufficient at this point to say that I was insanely stupid enough to let myself become financially dependent upon Ex, even though I was completely independent prior to marrying him. Despite my financial dependence upon him (I think I just felt some bile rise at even having to type those ugly, honest words) as I work my way through a Ph.D. program, he came up with a wildly untrue notion that I have a 5 million dollar trust fund. More about that later, but the fact is, I don't have a 5 million dollar trust fund. In fact, I'm currently pretty much broke.
But Ex thinks that I'm rich. He thinks that I'm so rich that I should pay his legal fees. He thinks that I'm so rich that I'm, in his attorney's words in court a couple of weeks ago, "living the life of a rock star." Because Ex thinks that I'm swimming in pools of Benjamins, he had his attorney subpoena my Dad and the trust fund last week (yes, there is one, but no, my sister and I have no access to it until both of my parents no longer walk this mortal coil, God forbid).
My Dad called me last night and said, "I have a question for you. The trust has been subpoenaed. I have no problem with supplying documents, but how would you like the company to handle it? Does Divorce Lawyer have any suggestions?"
Now, I knew this was coming. I was prepared to testify under oath 4 months ago in court with regard to the nature of the trust, but Ex wiggled out of that one as well. I told Ex's greasy attorney that day that I have no access to that fund, to which he replied, "Oh, we'll definitely find that out, because I'm going to subpoena the records." But despite knowing that it was immanent, I was nevertheless appalled last week when my Divorce Lawyer (heretofore "Lawyer") called me and told me that the fund had been, indeed, subpoenaed.
My approach is this... say whatever you need to say about me, do whatever you need to do to me, but do NOT disrespect my parents, my sister, or any of my friends, for that matter. Disrespecting my Dad is even worse to me than if Ex had punched me in the face (which he did not, never laid a hand on me, in fact). I'm a Leo, and we're fiercely protective of those we love, so dragging my Dad into this and embarrassing him in front of his financial adviser is a big no-no, to put it mildly.
But back to Sunday. At this point, the facts were and are as follows: I'm a broke grad student, my Dad has come to my rescue on more than one occasion because Ex has completely cut me off, and Ex has had the disrespect to subpoena my Dad's financials. The week before Father's Day.
Father's Day had almost passed, and I received a text from Ex. Ex never calls, by the way. He only texts, and because of the nature of the texts and the time at which I receive them, I suspect that he's wasted. That will be relevant in the future, but for now what's important is that shortly before midnight on Sunday, Ex's text arrived. It said....
"If u r with ur dad..wish him a happy f-day from me..i will always have the utmost respect 4 him"
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
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