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!
Showing posts with label Lauren. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lauren. Show all posts
Monday, February 4, 2008
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.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Unsettled
When I was bartending in my early 20s, I finished my shift one evening and went out to meet some friends at a bar on the one street in our city that contains the largest string of late-night clubs. Since I had just finished work, I was dressed in attire that was only a half-step above hooker chic, meaning 6-inch platforms (so I could serve drinks over the ridiculously tall bar) and a short skirt. I'd walked from The Bar after work to that street many times, and though it was always populated with sketchy-looking people asking for money, whom I usually obliged, it was well-lit, spilling over with those seeking more nightlife fun, and filled with cops so I never feared for my safety. That night was different.
As I turned the corner to walk a block and a half toward my destination to meet Lauren after her evening shift, a man in a wheelchair with no legs began yelling at me. I have a ton of respect for our veterans (and I can only assume that's how he'd lost his legs), so I would have happily given him money had he been halfway respectful.
However, this guy was not only impolite, he was threatening. He initiated the conversation by screaming, "Hey, bitch, you look like you got some dough! Gimme some!" He was already drinking from a bottle of Gordon's gin.
I was incredulous and didn't respond at all. I kept on my path, head forward, averting my nose from the undeniable stench of urine and other unmentionables emanating from his body.
He began to wheel after me and suddenly morphed into our city's own personal Superman.... faster than a speeding bullet on crank. Within a split second, he caught up with me and kicked me in the back of the leg with the right wheel of his chair.
"F*ckin' stuck-up bitch," he growled. I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I decided on both.
I began to walk faster in my platforms that were clearly not made for land sports, then began to run, as he wheeled even faster after me. In retrospect, it was probably an absurdly funny scene featuring an irrationally screaming guy wheeling himself at warp speed after a girl simultaneously laughing and fleeing, desperately trying to keep her shoes on while onlookers gaped with both amusement and horror.
"Bitch, don't you run away from me! I know you got the cash, a**hole! What the f*ck's your problem, you c*nt? You think looking at your ass running away is good enough for me? That ass don't buy me f*ckin nothin'!"
One of the cops on the street intervened as I slowed my pace and rubbed the grease-stained bruise forming on my calf, finally making it to meet Lauren.
The moral of the story? I think I was more attracted to the guy wheeling after me that night than I was to Ex today.
More on the settlement conference later, but let's just say it was a start. I'm discouraged that I will most certainly not be divorced by the end of 2007 unless Ex has a sudden burst of logic, but I made it through in one piece and even got in a few zingers.
And before we left, Lawyer pulled Greasy Attorney aside and privately said, "It's a good thing that you didn't bring up the guy you think my client is dating. Otherwise, I would have had to disclose the thousands of the, uh, unusual pornographic movies belonging to your client. We don't want that to be public record, do we?"
As I turned the corner to walk a block and a half toward my destination to meet Lauren after her evening shift, a man in a wheelchair with no legs began yelling at me. I have a ton of respect for our veterans (and I can only assume that's how he'd lost his legs), so I would have happily given him money had he been halfway respectful.
However, this guy was not only impolite, he was threatening. He initiated the conversation by screaming, "Hey, bitch, you look like you got some dough! Gimme some!" He was already drinking from a bottle of Gordon's gin.
I was incredulous and didn't respond at all. I kept on my path, head forward, averting my nose from the undeniable stench of urine and other unmentionables emanating from his body.
He began to wheel after me and suddenly morphed into our city's own personal Superman.... faster than a speeding bullet on crank. Within a split second, he caught up with me and kicked me in the back of the leg with the right wheel of his chair.
"F*ckin' stuck-up bitch," he growled. I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I decided on both.
I began to walk faster in my platforms that were clearly not made for land sports, then began to run, as he wheeled even faster after me. In retrospect, it was probably an absurdly funny scene featuring an irrationally screaming guy wheeling himself at warp speed after a girl simultaneously laughing and fleeing, desperately trying to keep her shoes on while onlookers gaped with both amusement and horror.
"Bitch, don't you run away from me! I know you got the cash, a**hole! What the f*ck's your problem, you c*nt? You think looking at your ass running away is good enough for me? That ass don't buy me f*ckin nothin'!"
One of the cops on the street intervened as I slowed my pace and rubbed the grease-stained bruise forming on my calf, finally making it to meet Lauren.
The moral of the story? I think I was more attracted to the guy wheeling after me that night than I was to Ex today.
More on the settlement conference later, but let's just say it was a start. I'm discouraged that I will most certainly not be divorced by the end of 2007 unless Ex has a sudden burst of logic, but I made it through in one piece and even got in a few zingers.
And before we left, Lawyer pulled Greasy Attorney aside and privately said, "It's a good thing that you didn't bring up the guy you think my client is dating. Otherwise, I would have had to disclose the thousands of the, uh, unusual pornographic movies belonging to your client. We don't want that to be public record, do we?"
Thursday, September 27, 2007
T minus 23 hours....
As you probably already know, my settlement conference with Ex is set for tomorrow morning. Lawyer is picking me up and as usual, we'll stop for coffee and then chat about our strategy on the way. Since I'm aware that Ex will take the floor first, attempt to wipe it with my ass, and then sit back in false triumph, my retort is planned down to the last letter. I already ran my proposed response past Lawyer and he looked at me with a mix of horror, fascination, and amusement. He shook his head and said, "Oh, Almost, you are a piece of work." He did, however, give me permission to proceed with my rejoinder and if I actually pull this one off, you'll be able hear a pin drop three counties away.
I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.
Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.
As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!
But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........
I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.
Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.
As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!
But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........
Friday, September 14, 2007
"Where do the batteries go?"
I went to a baseball game on Tuesday night with Anastasia and Lauren. Because it's fairly difficult to catch a cab once the game is over, we joked about flirting with the cab driver on the way there so he'd pick us up on the way back.
When we were setting out for the ballpark, I said to Lauren, "I told Anastasia that we were going to pimp you out and make you take off your shirt in the cab, since you've already done that before."
Lauren laughed and said, "No problem!"
Anastasia looked confused. "What do you mean you've done that before? I need to hear this story!"
Lauren said, "If anything should have warned Almost not to get married, it was what happened on our way to the wedding. It wasn't, uh, the most auspicious of starts."
When we got in the cab, Lauren and I took turns telling Anastasia the story of our antics on the way to my wedding. I had a small destination wedding, during which there was a virtual hurricane, but more about that other harbinger later. Ex flew there the day before I was to arrive and since Lauren and I were on the same flight, we decided to go out for one last wild night together. After several cocktails and staying out way too late, we decided to head back to her house. The cab was coming at 5:30 in the morning and we needed at least a little sleep before we went to the airport.
"Almost, I don't feel too well. I think you should drive."
"That's fine. Do you need a plastic bag or something?"
"No, let's just go."
We weren't too far from her house, so I figured she could make it. I was wrong. Halfway home, she rolled down the window and began throwing up. We all know where vomiting in a moving vehicle ends up, so I pulled over in the first parking lot I could find and yanked her out so she could vomit on the ground instead of in her hair, on the car, in the car, etc. After a few minutes, she seemed OK, so we once again climbed back in, where I found a plastic bag for her, and drove home.
We went up to her bedroom to sleep when we arrived, only in a very un-Lauren-like fashion, she hadn't packed yet. She said, "Almost, I haven't even begun to pack my suitcase. I think I'll take a shower now and pack when I get up in the morning."
"OK, I'm going to sleep now. And by the way, it is morning."
"Don't remind me," she groaned.
I lay down on the bed and heard Lauren start the water. Then I heard her gagging in the shower. I admit it, I thought it was funny that she was still puking until I heard an enormous crash. I ran to the bathroom, flung open the door, and found her lying on the floor, feet still in the shower, laughing hysterically.
"Are you ok?" I asked as I rushed to help her up.
She waved her hand in the air in a Miss USA fashion. "I'm fine, I was just taking a little rest!"
This resulted in peals of laughter from both of us, after which she finally finished up in the bathroom and went to sleep. The next thing I remember is Double D yelling at us that the cab was there and, "Who puked all over the side of your car, Lauren?" Lauren woke up, looked at the clock evilly displaying 5:40 am, and freaked.
"I haven't packed!" she shrieked.
"Just throw some stuff in a bag! All you need is a bathing suit, some shorts, and a dress! Oh, and shoes, you need shoes!" I said, as I scrambled to get in my own clothes, makeup running down my face like Alice Cooper.
Ten minutes later, we were in the cab, headed to the airport.
"Wow, we are two hot messes," I laughed.
Lauren looked at me and grinned, "I know! Your mascara is all over the place, and I'm..." She looked down and rolled her eyes. "Damn, my shirt's inside out."
As I rifled in my handbag in vain to find some magical fix to my black eyes, Lauren pulled her shirt off in one fell swoop, at which time I saw that she wasn't wearing a bra. I looked up at the cab driver, who was intently peering in the rear-view mirror with eyes as big as plates. I was having a hard time stifling my laughter, despite the fact that he almost drove us off the road. These may have been the first boobs he'd ever seen because I don't think he even blinked until she once again put on her shirt.
The cabbie finally delivered us safely to the airport and we laughed all the way onto the plane about how he almost killed us, until Lauren suddenly became serious and looked at me with the same sized eyes as the cab driver when she had performed her impromptu striptease.
"Oh no. Almost, I forgot to pack any bottoms."
"You what?" I asked.
"I forgot to pack any bottoms! I packed tops, but I didn't bring any pants, skirts, or shorts. I only have the ones I have on!"
"Don't worry about it! Just go shopping when we're on the island. They have great shopping there," I assured her.
When we arrived at our destination (still looking like we'd been out partying all night, I'm sure), Lauren set off to find some much needed bottoms. In one store, she tried on a pair of pants with a very flattering fit and asked the salesperson how much they cost. After being told that they were $650.00, Lauren didn't miss a beat.
"But I can't find where you put the batteries in these pants," she said.
The salesperson looked flummoxed. "Excuse me?" she asked.
"Where do the batteries go?"
"I don't understand the question," the salesperson replied, suspicious and clearly perplexed.
"Well, for $650.00, these pants better have a vibrating crotch, so where do the batteries go?"
A good omen for my wedding? Certainly not considering I looked like a washed-up 70s rocker and Lauren was facing a naked-from-the-waist-down weekend, but it still provides me with laughter to this day.
As for the cab driver on the way to the game? He was as unamused as the salesperson when Lauren asked about the batteries. I'm fairly certain he was offended, because he didn't even offer so much as a grunt when we asked him to pick us up. But thankfully cabs are like relationships. After the game was over there was another one that came along when we were ready to go.
When we were setting out for the ballpark, I said to Lauren, "I told Anastasia that we were going to pimp you out and make you take off your shirt in the cab, since you've already done that before."
Lauren laughed and said, "No problem!"
Anastasia looked confused. "What do you mean you've done that before? I need to hear this story!"
Lauren said, "If anything should have warned Almost not to get married, it was what happened on our way to the wedding. It wasn't, uh, the most auspicious of starts."
When we got in the cab, Lauren and I took turns telling Anastasia the story of our antics on the way to my wedding. I had a small destination wedding, during which there was a virtual hurricane, but more about that other harbinger later. Ex flew there the day before I was to arrive and since Lauren and I were on the same flight, we decided to go out for one last wild night together. After several cocktails and staying out way too late, we decided to head back to her house. The cab was coming at 5:30 in the morning and we needed at least a little sleep before we went to the airport.
"Almost, I don't feel too well. I think you should drive."
"That's fine. Do you need a plastic bag or something?"
"No, let's just go."
We weren't too far from her house, so I figured she could make it. I was wrong. Halfway home, she rolled down the window and began throwing up. We all know where vomiting in a moving vehicle ends up, so I pulled over in the first parking lot I could find and yanked her out so she could vomit on the ground instead of in her hair, on the car, in the car, etc. After a few minutes, she seemed OK, so we once again climbed back in, where I found a plastic bag for her, and drove home.
We went up to her bedroom to sleep when we arrived, only in a very un-Lauren-like fashion, she hadn't packed yet. She said, "Almost, I haven't even begun to pack my suitcase. I think I'll take a shower now and pack when I get up in the morning."
"OK, I'm going to sleep now. And by the way, it is morning."
"Don't remind me," she groaned.
I lay down on the bed and heard Lauren start the water. Then I heard her gagging in the shower. I admit it, I thought it was funny that she was still puking until I heard an enormous crash. I ran to the bathroom, flung open the door, and found her lying on the floor, feet still in the shower, laughing hysterically.
"Are you ok?" I asked as I rushed to help her up.
She waved her hand in the air in a Miss USA fashion. "I'm fine, I was just taking a little rest!"
This resulted in peals of laughter from both of us, after which she finally finished up in the bathroom and went to sleep. The next thing I remember is Double D yelling at us that the cab was there and, "Who puked all over the side of your car, Lauren?" Lauren woke up, looked at the clock evilly displaying 5:40 am, and freaked.
"I haven't packed!" she shrieked.
"Just throw some stuff in a bag! All you need is a bathing suit, some shorts, and a dress! Oh, and shoes, you need shoes!" I said, as I scrambled to get in my own clothes, makeup running down my face like Alice Cooper.
Ten minutes later, we were in the cab, headed to the airport.
"Wow, we are two hot messes," I laughed.
Lauren looked at me and grinned, "I know! Your mascara is all over the place, and I'm..." She looked down and rolled her eyes. "Damn, my shirt's inside out."
As I rifled in my handbag in vain to find some magical fix to my black eyes, Lauren pulled her shirt off in one fell swoop, at which time I saw that she wasn't wearing a bra. I looked up at the cab driver, who was intently peering in the rear-view mirror with eyes as big as plates. I was having a hard time stifling my laughter, despite the fact that he almost drove us off the road. These may have been the first boobs he'd ever seen because I don't think he even blinked until she once again put on her shirt.
The cabbie finally delivered us safely to the airport and we laughed all the way onto the plane about how he almost killed us, until Lauren suddenly became serious and looked at me with the same sized eyes as the cab driver when she had performed her impromptu striptease.
"Oh no. Almost, I forgot to pack any bottoms."
"You what?" I asked.
"I forgot to pack any bottoms! I packed tops, but I didn't bring any pants, skirts, or shorts. I only have the ones I have on!"
"Don't worry about it! Just go shopping when we're on the island. They have great shopping there," I assured her.
When we arrived at our destination (still looking like we'd been out partying all night, I'm sure), Lauren set off to find some much needed bottoms. In one store, she tried on a pair of pants with a very flattering fit and asked the salesperson how much they cost. After being told that they were $650.00, Lauren didn't miss a beat.
"But I can't find where you put the batteries in these pants," she said.
The salesperson looked flummoxed. "Excuse me?" she asked.
"Where do the batteries go?"
"I don't understand the question," the salesperson replied, suspicious and clearly perplexed.
"Well, for $650.00, these pants better have a vibrating crotch, so where do the batteries go?"
A good omen for my wedding? Certainly not considering I looked like a washed-up 70s rocker and Lauren was facing a naked-from-the-waist-down weekend, but it still provides me with laughter to this day.
As for the cab driver on the way to the game? He was as unamused as the salesperson when Lauren asked about the batteries. I'm fairly certain he was offended, because he didn't even offer so much as a grunt when we asked him to pick us up. But thankfully cabs are like relationships. After the game was over there was another one that came along when we were ready to go.
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.
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, July 24, 2007
THE RAID
This is one of my favorite stories of all time, and even though it's long, I just can't resist telling it today, especially since Tracy, Lauren, and Lynn just conducted a raid of their own.
My raid was much more dramatic than that one, and I have to say, so filled with laughs that it's nearly impossible to convey in words.
I had moved out of the house in the fall, and Ex and I initially tried to work out our divorce amicably. It clearly was not going well because we had too many assets and it was an insurmountable task to divide them equally. Add to that the many drunk texts I was receiving almost nightly, and it equaled a contentious relationship to say the least. I had already retained Lawyer, so I wasn't surprised when he called me shortly after the New Year one Monday morning and said, "Almost, Ex has filed for divorce against you. Let's get together later today and sign some papers. I already have them drawn up."
The next day while I was at work, I called Lawyer and said, "Listen, I think I should probably go get the rest of my possessions out of the house. What do you think?"
"Absolutely! Get over there as fast as you can!"
As I've already mentioned, Ex is gone during the week for work, and this presented the perfect opportunity to go back to the house and load up what remaining items I could fit into my car. It just so happened that this fell on Girls' Night, which is our weekly get together of whatever members of our girls' club are available, so I called all of the girls and asked a huge favor.
"Lauren, Anastasia, and Shawn, I need to get my stuff out of the house. Can you bring your SUVs and help me tonight? I promise, there will still be wine involved."
The wonderful friends that they are, they agreed and I headed to the house straight after work.
I was nervous while I was driving there because I wasn't entirely convinced that Ex wouldn't be home, but I was enormously relieved when I drove down the driveway and saw that the space in which he usually parked his car was empty.
I was the first to arrive. I traipsed through the inches of snow on the ground to the front door, almost breaking my neck in the Christian Louboutins I had worn to work that day.
I tried my key in the lock. It wasn't working, no matter how much I jiggled it. I was incredulous. Ex had changed the locks.
Again, almost breaking my neck in my heels, I walked to the back of the house and tried my other key. He'd changed those locks as well.
I promptly called Lawyer. I was in a rage. "Lawyer, he CHANGED THE LOCKS ON ME!!"
"Of course he did."
"Am I within my legal rights to break the window or pick the locks to get my stuff back?" I asked, while walking to the sliding glass door in the front of the house.
Just as Lawyer was about to answer me, I tugged on the sliding glass door and began to laugh. It slid right open. For all of Ex's attempts to keep me out, he had forgotten to lock that door and it amused me to no end. Lawyer laughed as well and we said our goodbyes.
The first thing I went to look for was a stash of physical precious metals we had acquired over the course of the marriage, which happened to amount to a substantial sum of money. My intent was to have Lauren photograph the entire stash for insurance purposes and then split it equally. I knew the going price of gold and silver at the time, so it would have been a simple task. It was gone.
Again, in a rage, I called Lawyer. "The gold and silver is gone!"
"Of course it is."
I was becoming irate as the girls started showing up. They were already in hysterics because of the manner in which I gained entry to the house, but I threw my hands in the air in frustration.
"Can you believe this bastard? First, he tries to lock me out of getting my own stuff, and then he steals the gold and silver! What a motherf*cker!"
Anastasia said, "Chill out, Almost. Let's open a bottle of wine while we get your stuff together."
Ex and I had been working on a wine cellar together when I moved out of the house, and by the time The Raid took place, it was finished. There was a key on the table near the entrance to the cellar, and it didn't work. I looked at Anastasia and said, "You're the cop, break in!"
Instead, she went on a hunt for the working key, and to her credit, found it. We began by opening a bottle of Opus One. An old one. A very expensive one, and the first of several that we would finish before the evening was out.
While we went to work packing up the remainder of my clothes, books, and everything else I thought we could fit into our various vehicles, Shawn said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we took all of the toilet paper in the house?"
Shawn didn't know this, but Ex has this thing about toilet paper. If there weren't 800 rolls in the house at once, he'd flip out, go to the nearest 24 hour convenience store and purchase their entire stock of Charmin.
Of course, Lauren was aware of Ex's obsession and the look in her eyes was priceless as she took off on a tear to grab every single roll in the place. On each spindle, she left an empty cardboard roll.
I went to look for a plastic bin containing thousands of photos that I can never replace, and it wasn't in the last place I'd left it. I began to panic because, honestly, of everything I was taking, this was the most important. I thought that perhaps it was in the garage, so I grabbed the garage door opener and went outside.
Ex had told me in November that he'd had my motorcycle taken to the dealership for winter tune-up and storage. I took him at his word and never called the dealership to confirm, so it came to me as a huge surprise when I opened up the garage door and found my bike sitting right there, not moved an inch from the last time I'd taken a ride. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that I couldn't find my pictures, but did find my bike. This whole situation was becoming more and more unbearable.
Immediately, I got on the phone with the dealership. These guys have known me for years, and I knew that even though it was after hours, a little begging might prod them into coming out and picking up the bike. I really needed them to do this because if that bike was still there when Ex came home and realized I had removed my belongings, he'd take a hammer to it. I explained my situation, and sure enough, a half hour later, two of the guys from the dealership showed up with their truck. After loading my baby into the back of their trailer, I invited them inside for some wine and laughs.
By this time, we'd pretty much packed up all of my belongings and we were sitting in the living room working on our third bottle of wine. I went into the wine cellar, picked up two collector's edition magnums of cabernet, and gave one to each of the guys from the dealership.
Anastasia said, "Almost, you should take something of value, since Ex took the gold and silver, tried to deprive you of your own possessions by changing the locks, did something with your photos that you can never replace, and lied to you about the bike."
"You're right. I need collateral, don't I?"
"Sure do."
I promptly added to the pile of belongings the three most expensive paintings we had in the house, as well as Ex's gold Rolex, of course with the intention of returning them eventually.
As the six of us chatted and drank more wine, Lauren got a mischievous look in her eyes. Ex and I had purchased a six foot wooden Cigar Store Native American statue a couple of years back which stood in the corner of the living room. Lauren said, "Wouldn't it be great if we took that thing out on the front lawn and wrapped it in toilet paper?"
We all giggled and the guys from the dealership groaned. They looked at each other and one muttered, "This is why the saying goes that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
I couldn't bring myself to do something like that, but Lauren had another idea. "Almost, why don't we dress up the cigar store dude in some of Ex's clothes?"
I jumped up. "His wedding tuxedo!"
I ran to Ex's closet, brought out the tux, and we proceeded to dress the statue in the clothes. We had no trouble with the shirt and jacket, but we couldn't figure out how to get the pants on because the feet were planted to a rectangular stand.
"Almost, go get some nails," Shawn giggled.
I went into the tool box, found a couple of rusty roofing nails and a hammer, which Shawn promptly grabbed from me and used to affix the pants onto the statue. We were in hysterics while we each took turns taking photos with the statue hilariously dressed in Ex's wedding tuxedo.
I knew that I couldn't leave it like that, so I eventually took off the tux and returned it to Ex's closet, though the pictures still make me laugh.
My boxes and bags were sitting at the door, and I thought it was time to get going. The boys from the motorcycle dealership helped us pack everything in the cars and SUVs, but I was having trouble because I was wearing good shoes that I didn't want to ruin in the snow. While I had been packing, I had come across a cheap, ugly pair of Frederick's of Hollywood mules with feathers on the toes. Though it was cold and snowy, I thought it was better to go in and out of the house in those rather than ruin a nice pair of shoes because truthfully, I'd rather have frostbite than kill expensive shoes.
When we were finished packing everything in the vehicles, Lauren said, "Almost, we have to do one more thing. Sort of like a signature..... hmmm.... oh, I know! Give me those cheap mules you've been wearing!"
"What? Why?" I asked.
She laughed and said, "Trust me on this one. If you like them that much, I'll buy you another pair."
I handed over the mules in question, after which Lauren dangled them from the deer antlers that hung over the main fireplace.
"There. Now Ex will definitely know you've been here," and she took a picture of it.
We were all in hysterics at this point after the toilet paper theft, dressing up the statue in the tux, the mules on the antlers, and 5 bottles of wine.
We slid the sliding glass door closed and left.
A few days later, Lauren was at work and she received a phone call from Ex.
"I want to report a theft. I've been robbed of my Rolex and three paintings."
"No you haven't."
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't been robbed."
"How do you know?"
"I was there."
"You.... you.... what do you f*cking mean you were there?" Ex stammered as he was apparently becoming more and more angry.
"I was there as your insurance agent to ensure that nothing was damaged."
"I still need to report a theft. I've gone to the police. They fingerprinted everything. And you had no right to break into my house."
"I didn't break in. You left the sliding glass door open."
"No I didn't! You broke in, and I want to report this f*cking theft! I have the police report and I'll press charges if I have to!"
"First of all, reporting a theft would be insurance fraud because the other person on the policy is in possession of the items in question. Second of all, you were well aware that it was Almost who came back to get her stuff and she had every right to do so. Lastly, if you want to be such an A**HOLE that you feel the need to bring down all of your wife's friends as well as her, then more power to you!"
"WHAT?? I want to speak to your supervisor!"
"Fabulous. I'll transfer you."
Several minutes later, Lauren's supervisor transferred him back to her.
"Yes, Ex?"
"I just want you to know that I only said good things to your supervisor about you."
"Then why did you want to be transferred in the first place?"
"I'm not a bad person, you know."
"Ex, until today, I probably would have agreed with you."
"Come on, Lauren, tell me who else was there," Ex nearly whimpered.
My own personal queen of one-liners said, "I guess you'll have to wait until the fingerprints come back. Goodbye." Click.
Since that time, I've returned the paintings and the Rolex, while Ex has put the gold and silver in escrow and returned my photos.
But I will always have one of the letters to Lawyer from Greasy Attorney regarding The Raid which states the following and makes me laugh all over again, no matter how many times I read it:
"What is even more upsetting is not only did your client and whatever other people she had in the home at the time, is that they drank 6 bottles of wine and/or champagne and left them at the house, as well as the empty glasses in the sink. Further, they placed a pair of stiletto heels on the deer's antlers which were above the fireplace mantle and removed every single roll of toilet paper, as well as emptying the toilet paper rolls on the dispensers."
The Raid is now forever commemorated in our state's legal system and I still haven't had to buy a single roll of toilet paper since that night.
My raid was much more dramatic than that one, and I have to say, so filled with laughs that it's nearly impossible to convey in words.
I had moved out of the house in the fall, and Ex and I initially tried to work out our divorce amicably. It clearly was not going well because we had too many assets and it was an insurmountable task to divide them equally. Add to that the many drunk texts I was receiving almost nightly, and it equaled a contentious relationship to say the least. I had already retained Lawyer, so I wasn't surprised when he called me shortly after the New Year one Monday morning and said, "Almost, Ex has filed for divorce against you. Let's get together later today and sign some papers. I already have them drawn up."
The next day while I was at work, I called Lawyer and said, "Listen, I think I should probably go get the rest of my possessions out of the house. What do you think?"
"Absolutely! Get over there as fast as you can!"
As I've already mentioned, Ex is gone during the week for work, and this presented the perfect opportunity to go back to the house and load up what remaining items I could fit into my car. It just so happened that this fell on Girls' Night, which is our weekly get together of whatever members of our girls' club are available, so I called all of the girls and asked a huge favor.
"Lauren, Anastasia, and Shawn, I need to get my stuff out of the house. Can you bring your SUVs and help me tonight? I promise, there will still be wine involved."
The wonderful friends that they are, they agreed and I headed to the house straight after work.
I was nervous while I was driving there because I wasn't entirely convinced that Ex wouldn't be home, but I was enormously relieved when I drove down the driveway and saw that the space in which he usually parked his car was empty.
I was the first to arrive. I traipsed through the inches of snow on the ground to the front door, almost breaking my neck in the Christian Louboutins I had worn to work that day.
I tried my key in the lock. It wasn't working, no matter how much I jiggled it. I was incredulous. Ex had changed the locks.
Again, almost breaking my neck in my heels, I walked to the back of the house and tried my other key. He'd changed those locks as well.
I promptly called Lawyer. I was in a rage. "Lawyer, he CHANGED THE LOCKS ON ME!!"
"Of course he did."
"Am I within my legal rights to break the window or pick the locks to get my stuff back?" I asked, while walking to the sliding glass door in the front of the house.
Just as Lawyer was about to answer me, I tugged on the sliding glass door and began to laugh. It slid right open. For all of Ex's attempts to keep me out, he had forgotten to lock that door and it amused me to no end. Lawyer laughed as well and we said our goodbyes.
The first thing I went to look for was a stash of physical precious metals we had acquired over the course of the marriage, which happened to amount to a substantial sum of money. My intent was to have Lauren photograph the entire stash for insurance purposes and then split it equally. I knew the going price of gold and silver at the time, so it would have been a simple task. It was gone.
Again, in a rage, I called Lawyer. "The gold and silver is gone!"
"Of course it is."
I was becoming irate as the girls started showing up. They were already in hysterics because of the manner in which I gained entry to the house, but I threw my hands in the air in frustration.
"Can you believe this bastard? First, he tries to lock me out of getting my own stuff, and then he steals the gold and silver! What a motherf*cker!"
Anastasia said, "Chill out, Almost. Let's open a bottle of wine while we get your stuff together."
Ex and I had been working on a wine cellar together when I moved out of the house, and by the time The Raid took place, it was finished. There was a key on the table near the entrance to the cellar, and it didn't work. I looked at Anastasia and said, "You're the cop, break in!"
Instead, she went on a hunt for the working key, and to her credit, found it. We began by opening a bottle of Opus One. An old one. A very expensive one, and the first of several that we would finish before the evening was out.
While we went to work packing up the remainder of my clothes, books, and everything else I thought we could fit into our various vehicles, Shawn said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we took all of the toilet paper in the house?"
Shawn didn't know this, but Ex has this thing about toilet paper. If there weren't 800 rolls in the house at once, he'd flip out, go to the nearest 24 hour convenience store and purchase their entire stock of Charmin.
Of course, Lauren was aware of Ex's obsession and the look in her eyes was priceless as she took off on a tear to grab every single roll in the place. On each spindle, she left an empty cardboard roll.
I went to look for a plastic bin containing thousands of photos that I can never replace, and it wasn't in the last place I'd left it. I began to panic because, honestly, of everything I was taking, this was the most important. I thought that perhaps it was in the garage, so I grabbed the garage door opener and went outside.
Ex had told me in November that he'd had my motorcycle taken to the dealership for winter tune-up and storage. I took him at his word and never called the dealership to confirm, so it came to me as a huge surprise when I opened up the garage door and found my bike sitting right there, not moved an inch from the last time I'd taken a ride. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that I couldn't find my pictures, but did find my bike. This whole situation was becoming more and more unbearable.
Immediately, I got on the phone with the dealership. These guys have known me for years, and I knew that even though it was after hours, a little begging might prod them into coming out and picking up the bike. I really needed them to do this because if that bike was still there when Ex came home and realized I had removed my belongings, he'd take a hammer to it. I explained my situation, and sure enough, a half hour later, two of the guys from the dealership showed up with their truck. After loading my baby into the back of their trailer, I invited them inside for some wine and laughs.
By this time, we'd pretty much packed up all of my belongings and we were sitting in the living room working on our third bottle of wine. I went into the wine cellar, picked up two collector's edition magnums of cabernet, and gave one to each of the guys from the dealership.
Anastasia said, "Almost, you should take something of value, since Ex took the gold and silver, tried to deprive you of your own possessions by changing the locks, did something with your photos that you can never replace, and lied to you about the bike."
"You're right. I need collateral, don't I?"
"Sure do."
I promptly added to the pile of belongings the three most expensive paintings we had in the house, as well as Ex's gold Rolex, of course with the intention of returning them eventually.
As the six of us chatted and drank more wine, Lauren got a mischievous look in her eyes. Ex and I had purchased a six foot wooden Cigar Store Native American statue a couple of years back which stood in the corner of the living room. Lauren said, "Wouldn't it be great if we took that thing out on the front lawn and wrapped it in toilet paper?"
We all giggled and the guys from the dealership groaned. They looked at each other and one muttered, "This is why the saying goes that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
I couldn't bring myself to do something like that, but Lauren had another idea. "Almost, why don't we dress up the cigar store dude in some of Ex's clothes?"
I jumped up. "His wedding tuxedo!"
I ran to Ex's closet, brought out the tux, and we proceeded to dress the statue in the clothes. We had no trouble with the shirt and jacket, but we couldn't figure out how to get the pants on because the feet were planted to a rectangular stand.
"Almost, go get some nails," Shawn giggled.
I went into the tool box, found a couple of rusty roofing nails and a hammer, which Shawn promptly grabbed from me and used to affix the pants onto the statue. We were in hysterics while we each took turns taking photos with the statue hilariously dressed in Ex's wedding tuxedo.
I knew that I couldn't leave it like that, so I eventually took off the tux and returned it to Ex's closet, though the pictures still make me laugh.
My boxes and bags were sitting at the door, and I thought it was time to get going. The boys from the motorcycle dealership helped us pack everything in the cars and SUVs, but I was having trouble because I was wearing good shoes that I didn't want to ruin in the snow. While I had been packing, I had come across a cheap, ugly pair of Frederick's of Hollywood mules with feathers on the toes. Though it was cold and snowy, I thought it was better to go in and out of the house in those rather than ruin a nice pair of shoes because truthfully, I'd rather have frostbite than kill expensive shoes.
When we were finished packing everything in the vehicles, Lauren said, "Almost, we have to do one more thing. Sort of like a signature..... hmmm.... oh, I know! Give me those cheap mules you've been wearing!"
"What? Why?" I asked.
She laughed and said, "Trust me on this one. If you like them that much, I'll buy you another pair."
I handed over the mules in question, after which Lauren dangled them from the deer antlers that hung over the main fireplace.
"There. Now Ex will definitely know you've been here," and she took a picture of it.
We were all in hysterics at this point after the toilet paper theft, dressing up the statue in the tux, the mules on the antlers, and 5 bottles of wine.
We slid the sliding glass door closed and left.
A few days later, Lauren was at work and she received a phone call from Ex.
"I want to report a theft. I've been robbed of my Rolex and three paintings."
"No you haven't."
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't been robbed."
"How do you know?"
"I was there."
"You.... you.... what do you f*cking mean you were there?" Ex stammered as he was apparently becoming more and more angry.
"I was there as your insurance agent to ensure that nothing was damaged."
"I still need to report a theft. I've gone to the police. They fingerprinted everything. And you had no right to break into my house."
"I didn't break in. You left the sliding glass door open."
"No I didn't! You broke in, and I want to report this f*cking theft! I have the police report and I'll press charges if I have to!"
"First of all, reporting a theft would be insurance fraud because the other person on the policy is in possession of the items in question. Second of all, you were well aware that it was Almost who came back to get her stuff and she had every right to do so. Lastly, if you want to be such an A**HOLE that you feel the need to bring down all of your wife's friends as well as her, then more power to you!"
"WHAT?? I want to speak to your supervisor!"
"Fabulous. I'll transfer you."
Several minutes later, Lauren's supervisor transferred him back to her.
"Yes, Ex?"
"I just want you to know that I only said good things to your supervisor about you."
"Then why did you want to be transferred in the first place?"
"I'm not a bad person, you know."
"Ex, until today, I probably would have agreed with you."
"Come on, Lauren, tell me who else was there," Ex nearly whimpered.
My own personal queen of one-liners said, "I guess you'll have to wait until the fingerprints come back. Goodbye." Click.
Since that time, I've returned the paintings and the Rolex, while Ex has put the gold and silver in escrow and returned my photos.
But I will always have one of the letters to Lawyer from Greasy Attorney regarding The Raid which states the following and makes me laugh all over again, no matter how many times I read it:
"What is even more upsetting is not only did your client and whatever other people she had in the home at the time, is that they drank 6 bottles of wine and/or champagne and left them at the house, as well as the empty glasses in the sink. Further, they placed a pair of stiletto heels on the deer's antlers which were above the fireplace mantle and removed every single roll of toilet paper, as well as emptying the toilet paper rolls on the dispensers."
The Raid is now forever commemorated in our state's legal system and I still haven't had to buy a single roll of toilet paper since that night.
Monday, July 23, 2007
If you tap too much, your hair falls out.
My Godson's 8th birthday was on Saturday, and we had a party at Lauren's ex-boyfriend's house. All of the adults sat around a big table, drinking margaritas and laughing, while the kids contented themselves with jumping on the trampoline and swimming in the pool next door.
I sat next to Tracy, who is, if you recall, the girl with whom Lauren first went to see Pascal. Tracy is a whole bog of her own, but she made me double over in fits of laughter with her story of the demise of the relationship with her last boyfriend, the Tapmaster.
I call him the Tapmaster because he can't seem to get out a sentence without tapping himself in some odd place. He's not even college educated, but this dude is so self-aggrandizing that he told me that he knows more about the psychology of everyone than anyone else. (A little self-disclosure - the Ph.D. I'm working on is in Clinical Psychology. I don't think I know everything about anyone, but I'm not busting my ass in grad school for nothing.) Oh, yeah, and after telling me that "you're spending years in a program to learn about what I know naturally," he told me to secure my tickets to Oprah, because he was going to be on it very soon for his groundbreaking book. He actually sort of was on the Oprah show. Only, he was on Oprah in the capacity of "Over 35 and Single." And his segment was edited out. So he wasn't really even on Oprah.
The one and only time that I met the Tapmaster was an evening of sheer torture. I looked at his long hair, hanging in somewhat greasy strings around his face, and was immediately turned off, but he was clearly proud of his hair since he kept flipping it around. Tracy was really into him at this point, and for her sake I wanted to give him some respect and listen to his sheer and utter soliloquy on the benefits of EFT. (If you don't want to click on the link, and I don't blame you, it's one of those weird things that supposedly cures all of your life's ailments through tapping yourself in odd places.) OMG, was this painful! He truly commandeered this conversation, and none of us were interested while he seemed to tap himself to death. In my academic community, EFT is not only frowned upon, but rather, we laugh at it. It's one of those things like the Raelians. You can claim science until you're blue-faced, but we all know that science seriously thinks you're a nutjob.
So Tracy was telling me at my Godson's party that she'd had enough. She'd found out that the Tapmaster had been cheating on her and grossly enough, had been double dipping. Twice she went to his house when he was gone to pick up her things, first with Lynn, at which time she gathered the dildos. Because the Tapmaster liked to be f*cked in the ass. Sweet.
The second time, she went with Lauren, at which time she took a piece of furniture that she had given him to refurbish. They removed the piece of furniture and left.
But prior to leaving, Tracy went to his computer. She forwarded all of his incriminating emails to herself and deleted all of the evidence that she had done so. I am now in possession of the emails he sent to his other girlfriend, and I believe that Tracy will soon be handing those over to his other girl with a sweet smile and a pretty face with the words, "Honey, we're in the girls' club. If I were in your position, I'd want to know." I'll be with her when this happens, which will be in about a week. I don't take pleasure in others' pain, but I do know that if I were in the Other Woman's position, I'd want to know. This girl, who seems to me to be a truly sweet person, needs to get out of this man's grip.
But the best thing about their raid? When Lauren and Tracy left the Tapmaster's house, Lauren whispered something in Tracy's ear.....
"Tracy, there's Nair in his hair conditioner now."
I sat next to Tracy, who is, if you recall, the girl with whom Lauren first went to see Pascal. Tracy is a whole bog of her own, but she made me double over in fits of laughter with her story of the demise of the relationship with her last boyfriend, the Tapmaster.
I call him the Tapmaster because he can't seem to get out a sentence without tapping himself in some odd place. He's not even college educated, but this dude is so self-aggrandizing that he told me that he knows more about the psychology of everyone than anyone else. (A little self-disclosure - the Ph.D. I'm working on is in Clinical Psychology. I don't think I know everything about anyone, but I'm not busting my ass in grad school for nothing.) Oh, yeah, and after telling me that "you're spending years in a program to learn about what I know naturally," he told me to secure my tickets to Oprah, because he was going to be on it very soon for his groundbreaking book. He actually sort of was on the Oprah show. Only, he was on Oprah in the capacity of "Over 35 and Single." And his segment was edited out. So he wasn't really even on Oprah.
The one and only time that I met the Tapmaster was an evening of sheer torture. I looked at his long hair, hanging in somewhat greasy strings around his face, and was immediately turned off, but he was clearly proud of his hair since he kept flipping it around. Tracy was really into him at this point, and for her sake I wanted to give him some respect and listen to his sheer and utter soliloquy on the benefits of EFT. (If you don't want to click on the link, and I don't blame you, it's one of those weird things that supposedly cures all of your life's ailments through tapping yourself in odd places.) OMG, was this painful! He truly commandeered this conversation, and none of us were interested while he seemed to tap himself to death. In my academic community, EFT is not only frowned upon, but rather, we laugh at it. It's one of those things like the Raelians. You can claim science until you're blue-faced, but we all know that science seriously thinks you're a nutjob.
So Tracy was telling me at my Godson's party that she'd had enough. She'd found out that the Tapmaster had been cheating on her and grossly enough, had been double dipping. Twice she went to his house when he was gone to pick up her things, first with Lynn, at which time she gathered the dildos. Because the Tapmaster liked to be f*cked in the ass. Sweet.
The second time, she went with Lauren, at which time she took a piece of furniture that she had given him to refurbish. They removed the piece of furniture and left.
But prior to leaving, Tracy went to his computer. She forwarded all of his incriminating emails to herself and deleted all of the evidence that she had done so. I am now in possession of the emails he sent to his other girlfriend, and I believe that Tracy will soon be handing those over to his other girl with a sweet smile and a pretty face with the words, "Honey, we're in the girls' club. If I were in your position, I'd want to know." I'll be with her when this happens, which will be in about a week. I don't take pleasure in others' pain, but I do know that if I were in the Other Woman's position, I'd want to know. This girl, who seems to me to be a truly sweet person, needs to get out of this man's grip.
But the best thing about their raid? When Lauren and Tracy left the Tapmaster's house, Lauren whispered something in Tracy's ear.....
"Tracy, there's Nair in his hair conditioner now."
Friday, July 20, 2007
Priceless
This week I've had a lot of time to contemplate the impetus behind my marriage's flaming death. Perhaps too much time. My ultimate conclusion? Ex was an ass. (Profound, I know.) I, of course, had my own participation in The End and I would never be so pious as to suggest otherwise, but those are stories for the future. And believe me, those stories pack a big bang. I admire Barmaid and at some point in the future, I'll have her sense of candor, but I just can't write about that right now. So in the meantime, I've been forced, through this profundity of silence and nature, to mull over the reasons that I really wanted out.
As a distraction, I've been thinking of my friends' funny stories. Of course, Lauren is at the forefront. Months ago, before she was involved with Pascal, she had met a local guy on a dating site and began to see him. His name was Matthew and he truly seemed nice. They had grown quite close in the several months they saw each other and he was already talking serious commitment. I met him once at her house and he struck me as a good person. His mother is a cop in my city and I figured that the son of a single mom cop has to be a decent guy, right? Not so much.
After these months of dating, Matthew had invited Lauren to his company's Christmas party and she was excited. She bought a fabulous new dress that looked ridiculously hot on her, new stilettos, and tried on the ensemble for me. I was drop-jawed. She looked amazing and I told her as much.
Two days before the party, she still hadn't heard from Matthew about the details of the party - when he was picking her up, if she needed to bring a bottle of wine, and whether she needed to pack an overnight bag. Sure enough, he never even called. He did send her a text message in which he indicated that he was "pissed off" for work reasons, but she received no communication from him after that. The evening of the party came and went, at which time we girls went out in our finest, determined to have a fabulous evening despite the fact that Matthew turned out to be a super tool.
The next day, my favorite Queen of Redress pulled one of her classic revenge tactics. Based upon the Mastercard "Priceless" campaigns, she wrote a "Priceless" piece of her own. And faxed it to his company's main fax machine. The one that everyone sees.
It read:
"Priceless
3 MONTH MEMBERSHIP TO AMERICAN SINGLES $ 97.85
TALKING FOR 3 MONTHS TO A "GOOD GUY" $ UPLIFTING
GAS TO GET TO FIRST MEETING AND BABYSITTER FOR CHILD $ 57.23
BEST BLOW JOB HE EVER HAD $ 6 MINUTES
CATCHING HIM ACTIVELY ON AMERICAN SINGLES
WHEN IT HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED THAT WE WERE
TALKING ONLY TO EACH OTHER
$ FEELINGS HURT
BUYING INTO HIS BULLSHIT $ 94 PHONE HOURS
2 YEAR SUBSRIPTION TO GQ (CHRISTMAS PRESENT) $ 25.89
FINDING OUT HE HAS AN OVER INFLATED OPINION
OF HIS SEXUAL PERFORMANCE AND MAN TOOL $ HAHAHAHAHA
DRESS FOR CHRISTMAS PARTY $ 249.37
HAVING HIM BE "PISSED OFF" AND BLOWING ME OFF WHILE
NOT LETTING ME KNOW WHY $ ANNOYING
GIVING HIM A VALID REASON TO BE PISSED OFF. . .
PRICELESS"
Needless to say, Matthew was indeed pissed off and a relationship certainly did not bloom thereafter. Matthew was decidedly embarrassed, but his coworkers loved it. The fax still hangs in the main area of his office.
As a distraction, I've been thinking of my friends' funny stories. Of course, Lauren is at the forefront. Months ago, before she was involved with Pascal, she had met a local guy on a dating site and began to see him. His name was Matthew and he truly seemed nice. They had grown quite close in the several months they saw each other and he was already talking serious commitment. I met him once at her house and he struck me as a good person. His mother is a cop in my city and I figured that the son of a single mom cop has to be a decent guy, right? Not so much.
After these months of dating, Matthew had invited Lauren to his company's Christmas party and she was excited. She bought a fabulous new dress that looked ridiculously hot on her, new stilettos, and tried on the ensemble for me. I was drop-jawed. She looked amazing and I told her as much.
Two days before the party, she still hadn't heard from Matthew about the details of the party - when he was picking her up, if she needed to bring a bottle of wine, and whether she needed to pack an overnight bag. Sure enough, he never even called. He did send her a text message in which he indicated that he was "pissed off" for work reasons, but she received no communication from him after that. The evening of the party came and went, at which time we girls went out in our finest, determined to have a fabulous evening despite the fact that Matthew turned out to be a super tool.
The next day, my favorite Queen of Redress pulled one of her classic revenge tactics. Based upon the Mastercard "Priceless" campaigns, she wrote a "Priceless" piece of her own. And faxed it to his company's main fax machine. The one that everyone sees.
It read:
"Priceless
3 MONTH MEMBERSHIP TO AMERICAN SINGLES $ 97.85
TALKING FOR 3 MONTHS TO A "GOOD GUY" $ UPLIFTING
GAS TO GET TO FIRST MEETING AND BABYSITTER FOR CHILD $ 57.23
BEST BLOW JOB HE EVER HAD $ 6 MINUTES
CATCHING HIM ACTIVELY ON AMERICAN SINGLES
WHEN IT HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED THAT WE WERE
TALKING ONLY TO EACH OTHER
$ FEELINGS HURT
BUYING INTO HIS BULLSHIT $ 94 PHONE HOURS
2 YEAR SUBSRIPTION TO GQ (CHRISTMAS PRESENT) $ 25.89
FINDING OUT HE HAS AN OVER INFLATED OPINION
OF HIS SEXUAL PERFORMANCE AND MAN TOOL $ HAHAHAHAHA
DRESS FOR CHRISTMAS PARTY $ 249.37
HAVING HIM BE "PISSED OFF" AND BLOWING ME OFF WHILE
NOT LETTING ME KNOW WHY $ ANNOYING
GIVING HIM A VALID REASON TO BE PISSED OFF. . .
PRICELESS"
Needless to say, Matthew was indeed pissed off and a relationship certainly did not bloom thereafter. Matthew was decidedly embarrassed, but his coworkers loved it. The fax still hangs in the main area of his office.
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?
Friday, July 13, 2007
Victoria Has a Very Dirty Secret
Quite some time ago, Lauren was dating a guy named Mike. He'd pulled more than his share of stunts during the relationship and when Lauren found out that he'd been sleeping around while simultaneously proclaiming his love only for her, she was not happy. I've already told you that she's the Queen of Redress, and here's just one more reason why she's so deserving of that title.
Lauren found out about his nefarious activities right around Valentine's Day, so for his Valentine's Day gift she decided to do something extra special for him.
She purchased a helium balloon that read, "Just because you're you," and wrote him a sweet poem. She wrapped a Victoria's Secret box beautifully with shiny ribbons and bows and attached the balloon, then taped the poem to the box. I didn't have the opportunity to see the gift firsthand, but I'm sure it looked alluring when she left it on his doorstep on February 14th. I'm also sure Mike didn't know that Lauren had filled the inside of this stunningly decorated box with the used contents of her cat's litter box.
The poem attached to the outside of the box read,
"On this St. Valentine's Day 1996
I wish to celebrate our love with fun and kicks
I haven't known you long, but I'd like to know you better.
I wish to express my feelings through a poem and a letter.
I love you from afar
and want to touch you when you're near.
I have a glorious night planned
JUST FOR YOU MY DEAR.
I searched high and low for a gift especially for you.
I didn't know what you'd like - what's a girl to do?
A man like you deserves the unusual,
A GIFT I COULDN'T BUY
So I am cordially inviting you....."
The rest of the poem lay on top of the cat droppings inside of the Victoria's Secret box. It read,
"TO EAT SH*T AND DIE!!!"
A couple of years ago, Lauren and I went to the restaurant that Mike owns with his sisters. They're still friends, believe it or not, and Mike brought up the Valentine's Day gift. He has quite a sense of humor because he still finds Lauren's creativity amusing. One of his sisters wandered over during our conversation and overheard our discussion.
She doubled over laughing. She said, "Lauren, that was the best gift ever. To this day, my sisters and I still give Mike all of his birthday and Christmas presents in Victoria's Secret boxes."
Thursday, July 12, 2007
I needed this like a hole in the head.
Last night I was feeling under the weather. The stress of court on Monday along with some sort of flu that's going around converged to make me spend my day yesterday shivering with a fever and unable to complete anything related to my dissertation proposal competently (hence the video post yesterday).
Late in the evening, I decided that it was time to go to the pharmacy and pick up some NyQuil so that I could actually sleep. As I was driving back to my place, I followed a police cruiser that was heading in the direction of my apartment. He turned right on a green light at an intersection and I followed.
Suddenly, I heard a thump. OMFG, I had just hit a person. I swear, I hadn't even seen him.
Actually, the guy more or less hit me, since he tapped the trunk of my car and I really don't think that it's possible to "hit a pedestrian," by definition unless you hit them with the front of your car. I could have driven away and I bet I'd never have been caught, but being a responsible citizen who was utterly traumatized, I pulled over and jumped out. There was a couple standing on the street corner waiting for me. According to their clothes and iPod accessories, I assessed that the guy had been jogging with his girlfriend. I ran over to them.
"Are you guys ok?" I asked. I was terrified.
"Yeah, I think so. I'm fine," the guy answered.
"I'm not sure what to do. I've never been in this situation before," I told him.
He half laughed and said, "Me neither. I think we should call the cops."
I apologized over and over. Thankfully, he didn't have a scratch on him, but his girlfriend had already run into the closest building to call the police, and soon an ambulance pulled up. Despite the fact that the guy hadn't hit his head (I asked), the EMTs put him in a cervical collar and took him to the hospital. The ambulance took off, and I was left standing on the street with no cops in sight, not even the one I was following when the accident took place. I decided to go home because the ambulance driver had taken my license and phone number, so I knew that they would get in touch with me soon.
Fifteen minutes later, I received a phone call.
"Hello?"
"Is this Almost? My name is Officer Lentil. You were involved in an accident a few minutes ago, right? You need to come see me, I'm in car 1831 outside of the hospital. I have my lights on."
Long story short, I went to meet the officer at the hospital and we stood on the street, discussing what had transpired. He wasn't only cute (there's something about a man in uniform that I love), but he turned out to be super sweet and very understanding of my horror at having been involved in an accident of this nature. As a matter of course, he had to issue me a citation for failing to yield to a pedestrian, and I understood that. I have a lot of cop friends and no matter how cool they happen to be, they still need to do their jobs.
He asked me to whom was the car registered. I told him that it was registered to my soon-to-be-Ex, which commenced a conversation about divorce and bizarre pornographic addictions wherein he said, "If I had a wife that looked like you, I sure as hell wouldn't be into granny porn." I was appreciative of that comment, since I had just survived my divorce court appearance and now have to go to court again sooner than I thought. It's amazing what a little compliment can accomplish when you're feeling like the world is collapsing around you. He was a doll in so many ways, but I digress.
I chatted with Officer Lentil about the particulars of my appearance in court, and he promised me that he had done his best to ensure that the case would be tossed. In truth, I suppose that I technically didn't yield to a pedestrian, however, I hadn't even seen the guy and there was no damage to my car, which indicates that there wasn't even a hit. I did hear a thump, as I said, but it was most certainly in the back of my car, considering that I had the convertible top down and he would have landed in my back seat had I actually hit him in the conventional sense. That aside, I was and am still shaken.
I've only had one car accident in my life, and that was scary enough. This one really freaked me out because the pedestrian, though he told me he was fine at the scene, suddenly started complaining of back and neck pain in the hospital. This is one situation in which I wish I drove an AMC Pacer instead of a BMW. Or lived in New York and just took cabs. The guy probably thinks I'm loaded.
Officer Lentil was the one who informed me that he was complaining of these injuries in the hospital.
"We live in a litigious society, Officer," I told him.
"Yes, we do. You may want to contact your insurance company just to tell them of the incident. Will you be filing a claim?"
"For what?" I grabbed his hand and dragged him around the car. "Do you see any damage?"
"OK, no, but call your insurance anyway. I'm sure this guy is going to sue."
I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. The guy is fine and he'll probably get a hefty insurance settlement. Perhaps he needs it to pay bills and I'm sure he'll be happy that this happened, but unfortunately, Lauren is my insurance agent and she'll have to suffer the consequences because her annual bonus is based on the claims of her insureds. When her annual bonus is assessed, I'll be cutting her a check for her losses. For all of the times she's made me laugh when I'm about to cry, it's the least I can do.
And I'm blessed to have had Officer Lentil as the attending cop last night. He knew that this was sheerly an accident and he was kind to me. I suspect he also knows that the guy is fine and is now out for some insurance payback. Whatever the case may be, we're destined to become friends, since I'll be seeing him in court in less than a month. Cheers to you, Officer, and thanks for making what could have been an truly awful situation bearable.
Late in the evening, I decided that it was time to go to the pharmacy and pick up some NyQuil so that I could actually sleep. As I was driving back to my place, I followed a police cruiser that was heading in the direction of my apartment. He turned right on a green light at an intersection and I followed.
Suddenly, I heard a thump. OMFG, I had just hit a person. I swear, I hadn't even seen him.
Actually, the guy more or less hit me, since he tapped the trunk of my car and I really don't think that it's possible to "hit a pedestrian," by definition unless you hit them with the front of your car. I could have driven away and I bet I'd never have been caught, but being a responsible citizen who was utterly traumatized, I pulled over and jumped out. There was a couple standing on the street corner waiting for me. According to their clothes and iPod accessories, I assessed that the guy had been jogging with his girlfriend. I ran over to them.
"Are you guys ok?" I asked. I was terrified.
"Yeah, I think so. I'm fine," the guy answered.
"I'm not sure what to do. I've never been in this situation before," I told him.
He half laughed and said, "Me neither. I think we should call the cops."
I apologized over and over. Thankfully, he didn't have a scratch on him, but his girlfriend had already run into the closest building to call the police, and soon an ambulance pulled up. Despite the fact that the guy hadn't hit his head (I asked), the EMTs put him in a cervical collar and took him to the hospital. The ambulance took off, and I was left standing on the street with no cops in sight, not even the one I was following when the accident took place. I decided to go home because the ambulance driver had taken my license and phone number, so I knew that they would get in touch with me soon.
Fifteen minutes later, I received a phone call.
"Hello?"
"Is this Almost? My name is Officer Lentil. You were involved in an accident a few minutes ago, right? You need to come see me, I'm in car 1831 outside of the hospital. I have my lights on."
Long story short, I went to meet the officer at the hospital and we stood on the street, discussing what had transpired. He wasn't only cute (there's something about a man in uniform that I love), but he turned out to be super sweet and very understanding of my horror at having been involved in an accident of this nature. As a matter of course, he had to issue me a citation for failing to yield to a pedestrian, and I understood that. I have a lot of cop friends and no matter how cool they happen to be, they still need to do their jobs.
He asked me to whom was the car registered. I told him that it was registered to my soon-to-be-Ex, which commenced a conversation about divorce and bizarre pornographic addictions wherein he said, "If I had a wife that looked like you, I sure as hell wouldn't be into granny porn." I was appreciative of that comment, since I had just survived my divorce court appearance and now have to go to court again sooner than I thought. It's amazing what a little compliment can accomplish when you're feeling like the world is collapsing around you. He was a doll in so many ways, but I digress.
I chatted with Officer Lentil about the particulars of my appearance in court, and he promised me that he had done his best to ensure that the case would be tossed. In truth, I suppose that I technically didn't yield to a pedestrian, however, I hadn't even seen the guy and there was no damage to my car, which indicates that there wasn't even a hit. I did hear a thump, as I said, but it was most certainly in the back of my car, considering that I had the convertible top down and he would have landed in my back seat had I actually hit him in the conventional sense. That aside, I was and am still shaken.
I've only had one car accident in my life, and that was scary enough. This one really freaked me out because the pedestrian, though he told me he was fine at the scene, suddenly started complaining of back and neck pain in the hospital. This is one situation in which I wish I drove an AMC Pacer instead of a BMW. Or lived in New York and just took cabs. The guy probably thinks I'm loaded.
Officer Lentil was the one who informed me that he was complaining of these injuries in the hospital.
"We live in a litigious society, Officer," I told him.
"Yes, we do. You may want to contact your insurance company just to tell them of the incident. Will you be filing a claim?"
"For what?" I grabbed his hand and dragged him around the car. "Do you see any damage?"
"OK, no, but call your insurance anyway. I'm sure this guy is going to sue."
I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. The guy is fine and he'll probably get a hefty insurance settlement. Perhaps he needs it to pay bills and I'm sure he'll be happy that this happened, but unfortunately, Lauren is my insurance agent and she'll have to suffer the consequences because her annual bonus is based on the claims of her insureds. When her annual bonus is assessed, I'll be cutting her a check for her losses. For all of the times she's made me laugh when I'm about to cry, it's the least I can do.
And I'm blessed to have had Officer Lentil as the attending cop last night. He knew that this was sheerly an accident and he was kind to me. I suspect he also knows that the guy is fine and is now out for some insurance payback. Whatever the case may be, we're destined to become friends, since I'll be seeing him in court in less than a month. Cheers to you, Officer, and thanks for making what could have been an truly awful situation bearable.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Court Dismissed
Yesterday is behind me, thank God, and I don't have another court date until mid-fall. I really need to stop working myself into such a nervous, edgy frenzy over these things because they never end up being as awful as I thought.
Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.
I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.
Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.
The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."
"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"
"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."
"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."
"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."
After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.
We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.
Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.
"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"
"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.
"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.
"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"
I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.
"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.
But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."
Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."
Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.
Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.
Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.
With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"
P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.
Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.
I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.
Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.
The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."
"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"
"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."
"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."
"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."
After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.
We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.
Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.
"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"
"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.
"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.
"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"
I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.
"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.
But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."
Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."
Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.
Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.
Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.
With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"
P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Court is Now in Session
Court is this afternoon and I'm crapping a brick for some reason. Typically I don't mind the spotlight, but I'm very uncomfortable with it in this sense. I feel as though I'll be under one of those hot lights in a police interrogation room, rivulets of sweat dripping down my cleavage, hair clinging to my forehead in wet strands, with someone yelling at me to tell the truth, dammit! (I've never experienced that, by the way, but I've watched enough Law & Orders to know that I don't want Vincent D'Onofrio bobbing and weaving around my face using his psychological trickery to draw me into his web.)
In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.
I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.
I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.
In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.
I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.
I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
"Hi, boys! Remember me?"
I have a pretty important court date coming up on Monday and frankly, I'm really nervous, so I need to tell a story that's making me laugh and that isn't about Ex.
Lauren has been talking to this guy online for about 6 or 7 months now. He lives several states away and until last week, they hadn't met. They had already become quite intimate via IM and video chatting, but she has wanted a face-to-face meeting for months now. When I say that they've become intimate, I don't mean just talk. I mean down and dirty naked intimacy, complete with adult toys with which I'm completely unfamiliar. Lauren had to explain their uses detail by detail to me because they are not your run of the mill Rabbit.
A couple of months ago, she went for a long weekend to his state with her girlfriend Tracy and Tracy's boyfriend, at which time she was supposed to meet up with Internet Man, who we'll call Pascal. He had asked Lauren to pack all of her various exotic toys for the weekend and she agreed. I was incredulous, not because of the fact that she was taking them, but rather because I was wondering about the logistics of getting through security.
"You're not carrying your baggage on the plane, are you?" I asked.
"No, of course not! Don't you remember that story with the woman whose vibrator went off in the security line and the guard had to fish it out and hold it up for the whole airport? I'm checking bags."
That weekend Pascal had a family emergency and they never ended up meeting, so she packed the toys for naught. However, when Lauren arrived in his state and unzipped the bag she had checked, she found a note from the ATF indicating that her entire bag had been emptied and the contents inspected. I laughed so hard at the thought, I could barely breathe.
"Can you imagine the faces on those security guys when they saw what you'd packed?"
"I don't even want to think of it."
"What do you want to bet that they took pictures with your toys that are now hanging on the wall at City Airport Security Office?"
We were both in hysterics with the mental image of Butch from the ATF posing with a strap-on and giving the old thumbs-up.
Last week, Lauren did meet Pascal. Before she left, I asked her if she was packing the same items and she responded in the affirmative. I have yet to hear all of the details of the encounter, but I did hear what is probably the funniest bit of information. Because she was flying out of the same airport on the same airline as she did previously and figured that her luggage would inevitably be searched again, she decided to include a note inside her checked bag.
It read, "Hi, boys, remember me?"
When she arrived at her destination and unzipped her bag, she had yet another ATF notice. This time, it had a handwritten addition.
"Sure do. Nice to see you again!"
Lauren has been talking to this guy online for about 6 or 7 months now. He lives several states away and until last week, they hadn't met. They had already become quite intimate via IM and video chatting, but she has wanted a face-to-face meeting for months now. When I say that they've become intimate, I don't mean just talk. I mean down and dirty naked intimacy, complete with adult toys with which I'm completely unfamiliar. Lauren had to explain their uses detail by detail to me because they are not your run of the mill Rabbit.
A couple of months ago, she went for a long weekend to his state with her girlfriend Tracy and Tracy's boyfriend, at which time she was supposed to meet up with Internet Man, who we'll call Pascal. He had asked Lauren to pack all of her various exotic toys for the weekend and she agreed. I was incredulous, not because of the fact that she was taking them, but rather because I was wondering about the logistics of getting through security.
"You're not carrying your baggage on the plane, are you?" I asked.
"No, of course not! Don't you remember that story with the woman whose vibrator went off in the security line and the guard had to fish it out and hold it up for the whole airport? I'm checking bags."
That weekend Pascal had a family emergency and they never ended up meeting, so she packed the toys for naught. However, when Lauren arrived in his state and unzipped the bag she had checked, she found a note from the ATF indicating that her entire bag had been emptied and the contents inspected. I laughed so hard at the thought, I could barely breathe.
"Can you imagine the faces on those security guys when they saw what you'd packed?"
"I don't even want to think of it."
"What do you want to bet that they took pictures with your toys that are now hanging on the wall at City Airport Security Office?"
We were both in hysterics with the mental image of Butch from the ATF posing with a strap-on and giving the old thumbs-up.
Last week, Lauren did meet Pascal. Before she left, I asked her if she was packing the same items and she responded in the affirmative. I have yet to hear all of the details of the encounter, but I did hear what is probably the funniest bit of information. Because she was flying out of the same airport on the same airline as she did previously and figured that her luggage would inevitably be searched again, she decided to include a note inside her checked bag.
It read, "Hi, boys, remember me?"
When she arrived at her destination and unzipped her bag, she had yet another ATF notice. This time, it had a handwritten addition.
"Sure do. Nice to see you again!"
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Green Food Dye and Latex
I didn't intend to discuss any morbid topics on this blog, especially this early, so after last night's somber post I thought it would be good equilibrium to write about something humorous. Since Lauren is a primary source of constant laughs and I'm a tad out of sorts this afternoon, I thought I'd tell you a little story about one of her fabulous revenge tactics. She is the queen of redress! Harmless, of course.
Lauren was with her son's father for about 4 years. During her pregnancy he pulled a Houdini and we pretty much thought that he'd been abducted by Xenu, but in reality he was just running scared. On the night Lauren went into labor, Jay showed up at the hospital to celebrate the joyous event of his son's birth. I believe she uttered something to him along the lines of, "Nice to see you showed up, Father of the Year." But that's a side note.
About 3 months after their son was born, Lauren moved in with Jay. He wanted to get back together and play house, convincingly arguing that he was ready to settle down and that he'd realized the error of his ways. He really seemed sincere in his profuse apologies and promises to make everything up to her. Just a short time later, though, Jay returned from a business trip. He threw down his duffel bag in the bedroom, got into the shower, and called out to Lauren, "Can you go in my bag and get me my shaving cream?"
She went into his bag and, indeed, found the shaving cream. What she also found was a pair of earrings (not hers), a thong (not hers), and a slip of paper with a woman's first name and phone number in the jeans he'd so carelessly left on the bed. Composing herself as she always does, she didn't say a word to him and handed the shaving cream over the shower door, meanwhile hiding the thong, earrings, and phone number.
Over the next couple of days, Lauren did some sleuthing. I swear, that girl has a future in private investigation. Through the wonders of the internet and her own ingenuity, she figured out the full name, home, and business addresses of the mysterious woman from the slip of paper in Jay's jeans.
Packing the woman's belongings in a manila folder, Lauren included their son's birth announcement along with a letter and promptly sent the package. The letter wasn't vindictive. She simply pointed out some of Jay's less-than-finer points and ended by saying, "You can have him!" It's my understanding that the woman was quite surprised to learn that Jay was not only attached, but also had a son and refused to ever see him again.
But Lauren was still mad and she wanted some harmless revenge. She obtained a new syringe (thank goodness we have doctor friends) and filled it with green food dye, which you can't scrub off for days no matter how hard you try. Locating Jay's stash of condoms for his road trips, she injected each separate packet with the dye, being very careful not to pierce the actual condom.
Not too much time passed before Jay showed up after a trip, guilty at being caught red-handed. Or more accurately, make that green-handed.
Lauren was with her son's father for about 4 years. During her pregnancy he pulled a Houdini and we pretty much thought that he'd been abducted by Xenu, but in reality he was just running scared. On the night Lauren went into labor, Jay showed up at the hospital to celebrate the joyous event of his son's birth. I believe she uttered something to him along the lines of, "Nice to see you showed up, Father of the Year." But that's a side note.
About 3 months after their son was born, Lauren moved in with Jay. He wanted to get back together and play house, convincingly arguing that he was ready to settle down and that he'd realized the error of his ways. He really seemed sincere in his profuse apologies and promises to make everything up to her. Just a short time later, though, Jay returned from a business trip. He threw down his duffel bag in the bedroom, got into the shower, and called out to Lauren, "Can you go in my bag and get me my shaving cream?"
She went into his bag and, indeed, found the shaving cream. What she also found was a pair of earrings (not hers), a thong (not hers), and a slip of paper with a woman's first name and phone number in the jeans he'd so carelessly left on the bed. Composing herself as she always does, she didn't say a word to him and handed the shaving cream over the shower door, meanwhile hiding the thong, earrings, and phone number.
Over the next couple of days, Lauren did some sleuthing. I swear, that girl has a future in private investigation. Through the wonders of the internet and her own ingenuity, she figured out the full name, home, and business addresses of the mysterious woman from the slip of paper in Jay's jeans.
Packing the woman's belongings in a manila folder, Lauren included their son's birth announcement along with a letter and promptly sent the package. The letter wasn't vindictive. She simply pointed out some of Jay's less-than-finer points and ended by saying, "You can have him!" It's my understanding that the woman was quite surprised to learn that Jay was not only attached, but also had a son and refused to ever see him again.
But Lauren was still mad and she wanted some harmless revenge. She obtained a new syringe (thank goodness we have doctor friends) and filled it with green food dye, which you can't scrub off for days no matter how hard you try. Locating Jay's stash of condoms for his road trips, she injected each separate packet with the dye, being very careful not to pierce the actual condom.
Not too much time passed before Jay showed up after a trip, guilty at being caught red-handed. Or more accurately, make that green-handed.
Friday, June 22, 2007
"That doesn't look like Lou Ferrigno...."
Several years ago, over cocktails and dinner on one of our nights out, Lauren and I were talking about her wedding. This was prior to my having any firsthand experience with marriage and before I even met Ex, so I was bewildered when she told me that she knew as she was walking down that aisle that she would end up getting divorced. I wondered what on God's green Earth would possess someone to go through with a marriage when they were reasonably certain that it wouldn't end up working out. Obligation? Embarrassment at canceling? The Wicked Witch of Weddings Soon-to-be-Past? Looking back on that conversation, I now realize that she probably had some inkling that not everything with her groom was as it seemed on the surface.
She said, "I drank so much champagne before getting married that I barely made it down the aisle."
To which I replied, "Why did you get tanked before your wedding? Didn't you look wasted in your pictures?"
She shrugged and said, "I didn't care. I knew that if I didn't get drunk, I'd be running in the other direction faster than you can say, 'Hell, no, I don't take this man!'" (This brings up my own thoughts of Valium mixed with champagne - not a combination I recommend - but more about that in the future.)
Lauren got married, probably entirely thanks to the urgings of Mr. Dom Perignon, had a honeymoon that was less than ideal, and wound up living on the third floor of her in-laws' three-flat. Living with your in-laws may sound like being in Dante's Inferno to most of us, but I'm pretty sure that the only reason Lauren's marriage lasted as long as it did is because she and her mother-in-law were instant BFFs. She told me that the only loss she mourned in her divorce was that of her mother-in-law, with whom she would pass evenings smoking Marlboro Lights, drinking coffee, and gossiping. Lucky bitch.
Anyway, for months after the wedding, Lauren's husband, Mike, had been begging her to see a Lou Ferrigno movie that he'd rented, about which he was practically obsessing. Not being the biggest Lou Ferrigno fan on the planet, she kept blowing him off. One morning, Mike went out the door to work and Lauren happened to have the day off. She said to herself, "Oh well, I suppose I'll watch that movie Mike's been bugging me about."
She went over to the TV, found a video entitled "Hilton Head," and, thinking that this was the movie Mike had been asking her to watch for months, popped it into to the VCR.
Mike had forgotten something that he needed for work, and walked back into their apartment just as the movie began to play. He said, "What are you doing?"
Lauren replied, "Watching that Lou Ferrigno movie you've been bugging me about."
She told me that the look of panic on his face matched the look of shock on hers as she spun back to the TV and saw two naked, heavily-muscled men (neither of whom were Lou Ferrigno) engaging in the most intimate act possible for us humans.
In her usual fashion, she turned around to him and said, "Um, that doesn't really look like Lou Ferrigno."
A few months back and after years of no contact with him, Lauren spotted Mike in the grocery store. She exercised her best Charlie's Angels moves, bobbing and weaving through the aisles to hide behind the Starbuck's display, but he had already seen her and tracked her down. After some small talk, she asked him, "So, have you seen any good Lou Ferrigno movies lately?"
She said, "I drank so much champagne before getting married that I barely made it down the aisle."
To which I replied, "Why did you get tanked before your wedding? Didn't you look wasted in your pictures?"
She shrugged and said, "I didn't care. I knew that if I didn't get drunk, I'd be running in the other direction faster than you can say, 'Hell, no, I don't take this man!'" (This brings up my own thoughts of Valium mixed with champagne - not a combination I recommend - but more about that in the future.)
Lauren got married, probably entirely thanks to the urgings of Mr. Dom Perignon, had a honeymoon that was less than ideal, and wound up living on the third floor of her in-laws' three-flat. Living with your in-laws may sound like being in Dante's Inferno to most of us, but I'm pretty sure that the only reason Lauren's marriage lasted as long as it did is because she and her mother-in-law were instant BFFs. She told me that the only loss she mourned in her divorce was that of her mother-in-law, with whom she would pass evenings smoking Marlboro Lights, drinking coffee, and gossiping. Lucky bitch.
Anyway, for months after the wedding, Lauren's husband, Mike, had been begging her to see a Lou Ferrigno movie that he'd rented, about which he was practically obsessing. Not being the biggest Lou Ferrigno fan on the planet, she kept blowing him off. One morning, Mike went out the door to work and Lauren happened to have the day off. She said to herself, "Oh well, I suppose I'll watch that movie Mike's been bugging me about."
She went over to the TV, found a video entitled "Hilton Head," and, thinking that this was the movie Mike had been asking her to watch for months, popped it into to the VCR.
Mike had forgotten something that he needed for work, and walked back into their apartment just as the movie began to play. He said, "What are you doing?"
Lauren replied, "Watching that Lou Ferrigno movie you've been bugging me about."
She told me that the look of panic on his face matched the look of shock on hers as she spun back to the TV and saw two naked, heavily-muscled men (neither of whom were Lou Ferrigno) engaging in the most intimate act possible for us humans.
In her usual fashion, she turned around to him and said, "Um, that doesn't really look like Lou Ferrigno."
A few months back and after years of no contact with him, Lauren spotted Mike in the grocery store. She exercised her best Charlie's Angels moves, bobbing and weaving through the aisles to hide behind the Starbuck's display, but he had already seen her and tracked her down. After some small talk, she asked him, "So, have you seen any good Lou Ferrigno movies lately?"
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Best Sex Ever
When you're going through a divorce, your girlfriends (and in my case, my parents and sister) are your rock. They see you through grief-stricken tears and somehow turn them into tears of laughter. I'm blessed with an amazing group of girlfriends who are like family to me. Over glasses of wine (ok, bottles) or vodkatinis, we tell each other the latest stories of our complicated lives and inevitably end up doubled over in spasms of laughter, even when circumstances, well, frankly.... suck.
Lauren has been one of my best friends for years and we're like sisters. We've seen each other through a lot of suffering, but we've seen each other through even more side-splitting laughter than I can fathom. She's one of those women who's not only beautiful (both outside and in), but smart, with a quicker wit than I've ever seen in another human being, and she's infamous for her one-liners. She's been responsible for me spitting out whatever I happen to be drinking on more occasions than I care to remember.
Lauren has been divorced for years after a short marriage (replete with hilarious stories of its own, which I will discuss in future posts) and she is wise in matters of contentious situations with men. She and I were chatting the other day and I was telling her the latest saga of Ex's finagling out of having to appear in court yet again, while I took a day off of work and got up at an unearthly hour in order to prepare my documents and make it in time. I was so upset, aggravated and anxious in telling her this story and reliving it in my head for the umpteenth time, but she disarmed the teary lump in my throat with one sentence and turned what was another end-of-the-world moment for me into a cosmic joke.
I have to give you a little history in order for you to understand her comment. In my first post, I mentioned that Ex lost interest in sex. To be specific, he basically refused me for over a year and I later found out that the commencement of my sexual desert (not to be confused with "dessert".... waaaay different) coincided with his porn account registration. OK, seriously, to be refused by your own husband for a year? At my age??? I wondered for awhile if there was something wrong with me.... had I gained weight? (No.) Had I grown a third nipple? (Not that I could find.) And as far as I could tell, I hadn't transformed into some hideously frightening hogbeast from which a man would want to run and cry in his mommy's skirt. Nevertheless, I wasn't getting any.
Funny enough, when I faced the fact that the marriage was deteriorating and that I was miserably unhappy, Ex sensed this (probably because I told him I was unhappy.... that seemed to do the trick) and he suddenly wanted to hop in the sack. That's just a side note, though, and maybe I'll elaborate on that in a future post. The point is, I went for a long period of time without sex. As a married woman. Approaching my sexual peak. Isn't that supposed to be one of the benefits of marriage, that you get to have sex on a regular basis? Well, not for me. Bottom line, we ended up never having sex again.
When I was wailing to Lauren about how horribly anxiety-provoking this process is, and how insanely pissed off I was that Ex had once again wiggled out of a court appearance, she started laughing. Lauren has this infectious laugh that, even in your worst moment, catches you up and you end up laughing uproariously with her. I began laughing even before she delivered her one-liner, but when she did, I had another one of those spit-out-your-drink-and-choke-laughing moments. After she was able to contain herself enough to speak, she said.....
"Almost Free, if you have the chance, you need to say, 'Ex, in all the years we've known each other, the past 7 months have been the best f*ck you've ever given me.'"
Thank God for girlfriends and laughter!
Lauren has been one of my best friends for years and we're like sisters. We've seen each other through a lot of suffering, but we've seen each other through even more side-splitting laughter than I can fathom. She's one of those women who's not only beautiful (both outside and in), but smart, with a quicker wit than I've ever seen in another human being, and she's infamous for her one-liners. She's been responsible for me spitting out whatever I happen to be drinking on more occasions than I care to remember.
Lauren has been divorced for years after a short marriage (replete with hilarious stories of its own, which I will discuss in future posts) and she is wise in matters of contentious situations with men. She and I were chatting the other day and I was telling her the latest saga of Ex's finagling out of having to appear in court yet again, while I took a day off of work and got up at an unearthly hour in order to prepare my documents and make it in time. I was so upset, aggravated and anxious in telling her this story and reliving it in my head for the umpteenth time, but she disarmed the teary lump in my throat with one sentence and turned what was another end-of-the-world moment for me into a cosmic joke.
I have to give you a little history in order for you to understand her comment. In my first post, I mentioned that Ex lost interest in sex. To be specific, he basically refused me for over a year and I later found out that the commencement of my sexual desert (not to be confused with "dessert".... waaaay different) coincided with his porn account registration. OK, seriously, to be refused by your own husband for a year? At my age??? I wondered for awhile if there was something wrong with me.... had I gained weight? (No.) Had I grown a third nipple? (Not that I could find.) And as far as I could tell, I hadn't transformed into some hideously frightening hogbeast from which a man would want to run and cry in his mommy's skirt. Nevertheless, I wasn't getting any.
Funny enough, when I faced the fact that the marriage was deteriorating and that I was miserably unhappy, Ex sensed this (probably because I told him I was unhappy.... that seemed to do the trick) and he suddenly wanted to hop in the sack. That's just a side note, though, and maybe I'll elaborate on that in a future post. The point is, I went for a long period of time without sex. As a married woman. Approaching my sexual peak. Isn't that supposed to be one of the benefits of marriage, that you get to have sex on a regular basis? Well, not for me. Bottom line, we ended up never having sex again.
When I was wailing to Lauren about how horribly anxiety-provoking this process is, and how insanely pissed off I was that Ex had once again wiggled out of a court appearance, she started laughing. Lauren has this infectious laugh that, even in your worst moment, catches you up and you end up laughing uproariously with her. I began laughing even before she delivered her one-liner, but when she did, I had another one of those spit-out-your-drink-and-choke-laughing moments. After she was able to contain herself enough to speak, she said.....
"Almost Free, if you have the chance, you need to say, 'Ex, in all the years we've known each other, the past 7 months have been the best f*ck you've ever given me.'"
Thank God for girlfriends and laughter!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
