I'm in the midst of a huge crunch with my schoolwork and with a deadline of October 31st hanging over my head and my complete unpreparedness for that dreaded day, I'm pretty much working around the clock. Once in awhile, when I need a break from mind-numbing textbooks and research, I play this stupid online game where you have to look for words in a grid that are based on a particular topic. Dumb, I know, but sometimes I just need to not think for a few minutes.
A couple of nights ago, I took one of my brain-breaks and ended up playing a game with words related to baby shower gifts. I kid you not when I tell you that I found the words "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram." I know they were spelled wrong, but I think those cheeky people making up the game were having a little fun. If I'd been creating that game, I would have added "vasectomy," and "IUD," but I've never been much of a kid person.
As with any split, people have asked me over the past 18 months what happened that landed us in divorce court, shooting each other looks that might just have the ability to kill. Although the marriage ended up being complicated and fraught with so many issues that led us to the demise, initially, there were only two matters of contention.
Right after Ex asked me to marry him, I sat him down and told him that there were two potential problems he might have with me, and if he couldn't handle them, I'd give him the ring back and we would just be friends.
First, I told him that I wasn't going to change my last name. I don't have anything against name changing in theory, but frankly, I have a last name fit for a porn star or exotic dancer and I love it. Really concreting my decision was the fact that, to this day, I still can't pronounce his last name right.
The second issue was that I knew categorically that I didn't want children. But Ex is a family-oriented guy, and I thought he should know that the woman he intended to marry insisted that her womb perpetually flash "vacancy."
His reaction surprised me, actually. He really didn't even bat an eyelash as he said, "As long as I have you, I don't care about those things. You're all that matters, and if we don't have children and you want to keep your name, that's fine with me."
Thinking that I had the greatest man on earth, I obviously went ahead with the wedding. And knew without a doubt on day two that I had made a monstrous mistake.
As I said before, we had a small destination wedding on a lovely island, so we chose to stay there for 8 more days following the ceremony. Two days after we were wed, he was teasing me, calling me "Mrs. [insert insanely long and unpronounceable name here]," so I teased him back, calling him "Mr. [porn star name]." He began to get angry and asked me why I was calling him that. So I, still thinking that he was kidding, joked that if he insisted on calling me by his mother's name, I'd call him by my Dad's name.
"That's not my mother's name, that's your new name. You ARE changing it when we get back home."
I was confused. "But we talked about this," I said. "I told you right after we got engaged that I wasn't going to change my name."
"And I thought that once we got married, you'd change your mind. Does this mean that you're not going to have babies, either?" he asked, voice beginning to rise in wrath.
The tempest that blew up between us rivaled the near-hurricane that had almost forced us to cancel the outdoor wedding and wound up with him curled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying. For 4 hours.
At that point, I was torn between wanting to comfort him because I loved him and wanting to kick him in the nuts for thinking that marriage had some sort of magical quality that would turn me from the independent, self-directed, sometimes stubborn-as-hell person I am into Little Miss Homemaker. I was pretty sure that he'd spent our courtship dreaming of bare feet and a distended belly with a little alien wriggling around inside. (OK, I admit it, pregnancy freaks me out. And so do little kids. Sorry, I'm weird like that.)
There was no reasoning with him and no comforting him, since all he would say while he was curled up was, "You've cut my balls off. You've cut my balls off." Over and over and over. Imagine listening to that for 4 hours and trying not to go insane yourself.
Seeing the crazy emerge for the first time was frightening and confusing to me, but I gradually began to get angry because we had talked about this and I had been completely honest. After he finally got up off of the floor, he went into the bedroom without a word even after I begged him to talk it out with me.
And without a word pretty much describes the rest of our honeymoon, which was not the flowers and champagne and sexy time ideal I'd previously envisioned.
The entire first year of our marriage was spent arguing over the name change and babies. With Ex's dysfunctional relationship with his parents, he never even told them that I didn't want children. I've already mentioned how members of his family would grab me in very inappropriate places and ask when I was going to have a kid, so that made for even more fun in the already excruciating obligatory functions with the outlaws.
So when I highlighted "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram," on that little game the other night, I was disappointed when they weren't the right answers. But it still gave me a laugh.
Showing posts with label drama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drama. Show all posts
Friday, October 19, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Every time the phone rings, I jump.
After our surprisingly rational phone conversation last week, I was hesitant to believe that any logical behavior could possibly come out of an inherently illogical person. I hadn't heard from Ex since, so I thought I was correct in believing that he had probably regressed into his old patterns and might be lurking somewhere in the city with a Hubble-sized telescope trained on my every move.
I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)
But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.
Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.
Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.
"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."
I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.
I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.
I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.
Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.
My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."
Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.
So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.
Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.
I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.
I was wrong, though. Sort of. It turns out that Ex sent me 2 texts on Monday, which I didn't receive until today thanks to the fact that my Motorola Q is a piece of crap. No offense to crap, by the way. That phone is like the AMC Pacers of smartphones. (If you don't know what an AMC Pacer was, it was the kind of car that you had to stick your feet through the floor to make it move. Or if you were lucky enough to get one of the good ones, there were a few hamsters on wheels under the hood to give you an extra push.)
But back to the point, Ex sent me two generally cordial text messages and I can't figure out if he's genuinely trying to come to a resolution, manipulate me into giving him stuff, or a mix of both. I'll have to go with the latter on this one. At the end of the second text, he said something very nice about my father, whom he knows I adore, so that's what tips the scales in the direction of one of his heartstring-tugging machinations that he hopes will make me forgive or forget his lunacy.
Reading that one line about my Dad made me think of the last Christmas Eve we'd spent together as a married couple. I had really learned to cook at that point, so I'd made dinner for his family and mine, who had flown in the day before. I'd had enough experience with his family by that time to know that I had to make the call to his mother myself and ever so sweetly suggest that she need not bring an entire fish, head and all, to our home because I had taken care of everything.
Things began to get stressful when the outlaws (oops, typo. I meant inlaws.) were a half hour late and the phone rang. I heard Ex begin to get upset, and when he returned to the kitchen, I asked him what was wrong.
"Almost, my parents just had a car accident. They don't know if they can make it. The car is destroyed and they might go to the hospital."
I was genuinely concerned despite my dislike of them, but another half hour passed and they showed up at the front door. My family crowded around them as if Joseph and Mary themselves had arrived, asking if they were ok. As soon as I assessed that there were no broken bones, bloody stumps, or evidence of traumatic brain injury (aside from their normal nutjob behavior), I seated them, brought them drinks, and then clandestinely crept outside to look at their car.
I'm not even kidding when I tell you that there was a 2 inch scratch on the rear quarter panel. That was it. I actually doubled over in the driveway and as soon as I stopped the tears of laughter flowing down my cheeks, quietly stole back into the house.
I figured that Ex's mother was pretty pissed that she wasn't the star of the show since she wasn't cooking or hosting, so she had to pull some kind of stunt to get attention. I was sure they didn't plan this "massive accident," but I also knew that telling Ex that the car was destroyed and that they had to go to the hospital was a blatant plea for the spotlight.
Dinner progressed and, thanks to the bottle of Dom I'd already ingested, was not unbearable. Until I looked over at the sink as I was cleaning the kitchen. And saw globs of an unknown, but ungodly, substance flowing like lava from the cabinet beneath the garbage disposal. I quickly called Ex over, we opened the cabinet doors to a virtual detonation of goo, and the utter and total chaos that ensued was beyond hysteria.
My mother outlaw (damn, there goes my typing again.) was shrieking, "You shouldn't have put celery down the garbage disposal! Don't you know anything?" while Ex and my Dad attempted to stanch the flow of the putrid fluid quickly filling the kitchen floor. At one point, Ex pulled me aside and growled at me, "This is all your fault. Thanks a lot for ruining Christmas."
Long story short, Ex and my Dad went to work fixing the problem. After over an hour of toiling beneath the sink, they actually did a pretty good job in preventing any further explosions until we could get a plumber to ensure that the garbage disposal would no longer blow our house into the stratosphere.
So while Ex was clapping my Dad on the back and they were laughing about what a good job two executives were doing at something about which they should know nothing, Ex was periodically pulling me aside and cussing me out or generally blaming me for everything from the garbage disposal to global warming. At one point, he dragged me into the garage and made me cry when he said so many "F*ck you!!"s that I lost count at 12. All the while, building his camaraderie with my Dad.
Hence, my suspicions of manipulation here. I don't think that Ex is a necessarily a bad person, but I think he's probably a sick person. His parents, with their accident and desire for undeserved sympathy, are true masters in the art of manipulation. (One night, his parents were having a screaming match. They called Ex on their speakerphone in the middle of it and he, in turn, put our phone on speaker so I could hear them. For 45 minutes, they called each other unspeakable names and demanded that Ex take a side. For that, I have true sympathy for the manipulation to which Ex has been exposed over the years.) Maybe it's some chromosomal abnormality or maybe it's learned, but Ex inherited their expertise. I think on that Christmas Eve, he knew I wouldn't say anything to my Dad about the way he'd treated me because truth be told, my Dad had a great time fixing the plumbing and had a great time with Ex. They were BFFs by the end of the debacle. The only person who seemed to be miserable was me. Well, and my mom, who saw that I was in some sort of distress and helped me tremendously by entertaining Ex's mother, keeping her away from me, but subjecting herself to the verbal diarrhea inevitably spewing from that woman's piehole.
I suppose time will reveal his motives. When I responded to his texts today, he said that he'd call soon so that we could continue to work towards a resolution. But I'm not sure if I'll be facing someone rational or just another explosion of goo with a few "F*ck you"s thrown in for good measure.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Leg Breaking, Part II
The day following the drunk texts, I raced to to airport to meet up with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn. I drank a pot of coffee at home and another venti Starbuck's pumpkin spice latte (which was my favorite until I realized that it has more calories and fat than a Big Mac. From now on, I'm just grinding one of those up in a blender and drinking it from a Starbuck's cup.). I found them at the gate just as boarding began.
Tickets had been booked last-minute, so none of our seats were together. I settled into my seat and took one last look at my phone. A text came through from Sam, and we had a short conversation.
The first one from him said, "Almost, I am so sorry. All this time, I didn't understand what you were going through and I haven't been a good friend to you, but now I know first hand what you've been talking about."
Confused, I wrote back, "You've been a great friend to me, what do you mean?"
"I mean that I haven't been supportive of your situation and have only concentrated on business. I didn't realize how hard it must have been to get this company off the ground and deal with the personal stuff, too. But now I get it and I'll be a better friend to you."
"Huh?? What are you talking about?"
"There's a price on my head."
"A what?! What does that even mean?"
"I mean that I almost got jumped last night because the personal space invader put a price on my head." (I used to call Ex the Personal Space Invader, but at this point, couldn't quite process what I was reading.)
At that precise moment, the flight attendant told us we had to turn our phones off to prepare for takeoff. "Oh, this is just perfect," I thought. "Now I have hours to ruminate over what the f*ck is really going on here with nobody to ask for advice." Which is exactly what I did.
For the next several hours, I vacillated between kicking myself in the ass for my phone phobia, because if I had just called Sam when I received his first text I would have already been in the know, and wondering, could it be? Could Ex really have done something like that? No.... but would he? He's crazy, but he's not that crazy.... right? And what does, "price on my head," even mean?
We landed in New York and I checked voicemail. The first message was from a friend of mine who had been in the bar with Ex and B.B. (who was bartending) the night before. He said, "Almost, I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I overheard something last night and you have to call me back. I think someone is in danger. Call me." The second one was from the club owner, a long-time friend, and he said, "Almost, I need to talk to you ASAP. Something bad went down last night with Ex and I need to warn you."
We all took the same cab to the hotel, so I was trying to put on a front like everything was fine, but PS, damn her, is so perceptive that she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was that she could see my heart uncomfortably lodged in my neck. I explained what I knew. She didn't look surprised.
"I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tell you this. I did not like that man from the moment I met him. I had a terrible vibe from him. You have 10 minutes once we check in to figure out what's happening and meet back in the lobby for dinner with the other surgeons and the PR reps. Try and figure it out and we'll talk about it on the way to dinner."
I was already dialing Sam's number on the way up to my room. When he answered, I didn't even say hello. "What in HELL is going on here?"
He explained to me that, at 3:30 am the night before, he'd received a phone call from the (very large) bouncer at the club who said he'd been hired to break Sam's legs because "my client thinks you're screwing around with his wife." Thankfully, Sam and Bouncer have a mutual friend, whom Bouncer had called first. The friend said he'd known Sam for years and that he certainly wasn't the type to screw with someone's wife, so he'd better get his story straight.
I was listening to this with my jaw hanging to my knees, while simultaneously trying to get out of my flight clothes and into something presentable for dinner, hopping on one foot, thinking, "OK, dress on, crap, backwards. Can this really be happening? Ouch! Shoe on wrong foot. Holy sh*t, he really paid someone to break this guy's legs?"
I had to wrap up the conversation because I was due downstairs, but I asked Sam if he was OK.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I was freaked out at first, but eventually, I found it so absurd that it's now kind of funny. Bouncer and I talked for about a half hour and I explained that I'm not interested in you like that and that it's purely platonic. But you needed to know. Ex asked him to make sure I never walk again, and if he'd hire someone to do that to me, I'm worried for your safety."
I told him I'd call him later and ran downstairs to meet Shawn and PS. We had a 2 block walk to the restaurant, at which time I realized that my hasty dressing resulted in Olsen-twin homeless chic without the chic part. On the way, PS said to me, "We have about 3 minutes. Tell me and tell me quickly."
I told her and asked, "What should I do?"
"Almost, I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow, so please don't deal with any of this until we return home. Don't call, don't text, nothing. Put it out of your head. And by the way, honey, what are you wearing?" That was enough to make me laugh and forget about this mob movie in which I was caught, so I was actually focused during dinner.
And I did put my own personal Godfather: Almost Edition out of my head for our time in New York. Well, sort of, since I filled Shawn in on the details of the debacle over an after dinner drink at the top of our hotel. Since this was our first meeting, I was surprised she didn't throw herself off of the balcony to get away from me or yell, "Check please," and run like FloJo. And aside from returning the two phone calls I'd received earlier in the day to confirm the events (which they'd both overheard at the bar), I put the situation aside.
We did our media interviews the next day and, thanks to the marvels of spackled-on makeup I don't think I looked as if I'd come from a night of hooking, and headed back to our city. PS walked back to my seat during the flight back and asked, "Are you going to be OK, honey?" I answered in the affirmative. "Well, just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. And make sure you stay in touch with me on the phone to let me know you're safe."
I agreed. After landing and saying our goodbyes, I headed to my car. It was the moment that I actually began to feel something about the situation, and it was a rage that supersedes words. My jaw was clenching and unclenching as I paid my ticket to get out of the garage, already dialing Ex.
When he picked up the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Is there something you want to tell me about Saturday night?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"I mean, is there something that happened that maybe you woke up the next day and regretted? Or weren't that proud of?" I prodded.
His voice began to shake and I could tell his mouth was dry. "N-n-no. I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded like he was about to cry.
I tried every trick in the book to get him to just tell me, but to no avail. And then it hit me. I lost it. Blacked out. I don't even remember the trip back downtown because I was screaming so loudly. And I'm not one to raise my voice in a confrontation, so this shocked even me. I recall a few things I shouted.... "Who died and left you f*cking Tony Soprano?" "What, do you think you're Johnny Goombah now?" "I have 3 separate people who don't even know each other who confirmed this story!" "Are you out of your f*cking mind?! The ONE PERSON WHO COULD HAVE PUT THIS COMPANY ON THE MAP AND YOU WANT TO BREAK HIS LEGS SO HE NEVER WALKS AGAIN?!?!" "Drinking is not a f*cking excuse! I laugh when I drink, I don't hire thugs to go out and break people's legs!"
The entire time he was crying, denying, saying, "I was drunk, but I would never do something like that." "Almost, it's not even possible for me to do anything like that." "I don't remember, I was wasted." "It's just not in my nature."
Though I don't remember the drive downtown, the moment that he said this, I remember with crystal clarity that I was just about to drive into the parking garage at my condo. The automatic arm was just lifting to let me in when he said, "But I didn't mean it." And then he admitted the whole thing. "B.B. told me that he saw you at The Doc's party while I was overseas and that Sam was there. She saw him kiss you on the cheek. She said she was sure you were screwing." Ah, so that explained the text saying, "Just so you know, I know more than you think I know."
(As a little side note here, B.B. had once again sold me out because I had sent her a few texts on the Saturday night in question, asking her to please make Ex get a hotel room and not to overserve him. She told me she'd take care of him. She took care of him alright, and almost had Sam "taken care of.")
At that moment, I was like one of those sad, deflated helium balloons. The rage that had me so furiously high just moments before drained with amazing rapidity and I sagged back in the car seat, feeling like someone had just pricked me with an industrial sized pin. I shut down.
I told him I couldn't talk anymore and had to go. Ex disappeared for 6 days over the Thanksgiving holiday. I found out in court that he had gone to Vegas and lost $30K. When he returned, we agreed to meet. I knew already that the final, rusty nail - the one that had been waiting atop the coffin for me to swing the hammer that was just out of my reach - was now ready to be driven into place.
We met at the house where we'd lived together. I didn't even have to say a word to him. I sat down on the couch and looked at him.
He said, "How do you want to do this? Should we get lawyers involved or do you want to try and divorce amicably?"
Tickets had been booked last-minute, so none of our seats were together. I settled into my seat and took one last look at my phone. A text came through from Sam, and we had a short conversation.
The first one from him said, "Almost, I am so sorry. All this time, I didn't understand what you were going through and I haven't been a good friend to you, but now I know first hand what you've been talking about."
Confused, I wrote back, "You've been a great friend to me, what do you mean?"
"I mean that I haven't been supportive of your situation and have only concentrated on business. I didn't realize how hard it must have been to get this company off the ground and deal with the personal stuff, too. But now I get it and I'll be a better friend to you."
"Huh?? What are you talking about?"
"There's a price on my head."
"A what?! What does that even mean?"
"I mean that I almost got jumped last night because the personal space invader put a price on my head." (I used to call Ex the Personal Space Invader, but at this point, couldn't quite process what I was reading.)
At that precise moment, the flight attendant told us we had to turn our phones off to prepare for takeoff. "Oh, this is just perfect," I thought. "Now I have hours to ruminate over what the f*ck is really going on here with nobody to ask for advice." Which is exactly what I did.
For the next several hours, I vacillated between kicking myself in the ass for my phone phobia, because if I had just called Sam when I received his first text I would have already been in the know, and wondering, could it be? Could Ex really have done something like that? No.... but would he? He's crazy, but he's not that crazy.... right? And what does, "price on my head," even mean?
We landed in New York and I checked voicemail. The first message was from a friend of mine who had been in the bar with Ex and B.B. (who was bartending) the night before. He said, "Almost, I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I overheard something last night and you have to call me back. I think someone is in danger. Call me." The second one was from the club owner, a long-time friend, and he said, "Almost, I need to talk to you ASAP. Something bad went down last night with Ex and I need to warn you."
We all took the same cab to the hotel, so I was trying to put on a front like everything was fine, but PS, damn her, is so perceptive that she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was that she could see my heart uncomfortably lodged in my neck. I explained what I knew. She didn't look surprised.
"I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tell you this. I did not like that man from the moment I met him. I had a terrible vibe from him. You have 10 minutes once we check in to figure out what's happening and meet back in the lobby for dinner with the other surgeons and the PR reps. Try and figure it out and we'll talk about it on the way to dinner."
I was already dialing Sam's number on the way up to my room. When he answered, I didn't even say hello. "What in HELL is going on here?"
He explained to me that, at 3:30 am the night before, he'd received a phone call from the (very large) bouncer at the club who said he'd been hired to break Sam's legs because "my client thinks you're screwing around with his wife." Thankfully, Sam and Bouncer have a mutual friend, whom Bouncer had called first. The friend said he'd known Sam for years and that he certainly wasn't the type to screw with someone's wife, so he'd better get his story straight.
I was listening to this with my jaw hanging to my knees, while simultaneously trying to get out of my flight clothes and into something presentable for dinner, hopping on one foot, thinking, "OK, dress on, crap, backwards. Can this really be happening? Ouch! Shoe on wrong foot. Holy sh*t, he really paid someone to break this guy's legs?"
I had to wrap up the conversation because I was due downstairs, but I asked Sam if he was OK.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I was freaked out at first, but eventually, I found it so absurd that it's now kind of funny. Bouncer and I talked for about a half hour and I explained that I'm not interested in you like that and that it's purely platonic. But you needed to know. Ex asked him to make sure I never walk again, and if he'd hire someone to do that to me, I'm worried for your safety."
I told him I'd call him later and ran downstairs to meet Shawn and PS. We had a 2 block walk to the restaurant, at which time I realized that my hasty dressing resulted in Olsen-twin homeless chic without the chic part. On the way, PS said to me, "We have about 3 minutes. Tell me and tell me quickly."
I told her and asked, "What should I do?"
"Almost, I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow, so please don't deal with any of this until we return home. Don't call, don't text, nothing. Put it out of your head. And by the way, honey, what are you wearing?" That was enough to make me laugh and forget about this mob movie in which I was caught, so I was actually focused during dinner.
And I did put my own personal Godfather: Almost Edition out of my head for our time in New York. Well, sort of, since I filled Shawn in on the details of the debacle over an after dinner drink at the top of our hotel. Since this was our first meeting, I was surprised she didn't throw herself off of the balcony to get away from me or yell, "Check please," and run like FloJo. And aside from returning the two phone calls I'd received earlier in the day to confirm the events (which they'd both overheard at the bar), I put the situation aside.
We did our media interviews the next day and, thanks to the marvels of spackled-on makeup I don't think I looked as if I'd come from a night of hooking, and headed back to our city. PS walked back to my seat during the flight back and asked, "Are you going to be OK, honey?" I answered in the affirmative. "Well, just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. And make sure you stay in touch with me on the phone to let me know you're safe."
I agreed. After landing and saying our goodbyes, I headed to my car. It was the moment that I actually began to feel something about the situation, and it was a rage that supersedes words. My jaw was clenching and unclenching as I paid my ticket to get out of the garage, already dialing Ex.
When he picked up the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Is there something you want to tell me about Saturday night?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"I mean, is there something that happened that maybe you woke up the next day and regretted? Or weren't that proud of?" I prodded.
His voice began to shake and I could tell his mouth was dry. "N-n-no. I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded like he was about to cry.
I tried every trick in the book to get him to just tell me, but to no avail. And then it hit me. I lost it. Blacked out. I don't even remember the trip back downtown because I was screaming so loudly. And I'm not one to raise my voice in a confrontation, so this shocked even me. I recall a few things I shouted.... "Who died and left you f*cking Tony Soprano?" "What, do you think you're Johnny Goombah now?" "I have 3 separate people who don't even know each other who confirmed this story!" "Are you out of your f*cking mind?! The ONE PERSON WHO COULD HAVE PUT THIS COMPANY ON THE MAP AND YOU WANT TO BREAK HIS LEGS SO HE NEVER WALKS AGAIN?!?!" "Drinking is not a f*cking excuse! I laugh when I drink, I don't hire thugs to go out and break people's legs!"
The entire time he was crying, denying, saying, "I was drunk, but I would never do something like that." "Almost, it's not even possible for me to do anything like that." "I don't remember, I was wasted." "It's just not in my nature."
Though I don't remember the drive downtown, the moment that he said this, I remember with crystal clarity that I was just about to drive into the parking garage at my condo. The automatic arm was just lifting to let me in when he said, "But I didn't mean it." And then he admitted the whole thing. "B.B. told me that he saw you at The Doc's party while I was overseas and that Sam was there. She saw him kiss you on the cheek. She said she was sure you were screwing." Ah, so that explained the text saying, "Just so you know, I know more than you think I know."
(As a little side note here, B.B. had once again sold me out because I had sent her a few texts on the Saturday night in question, asking her to please make Ex get a hotel room and not to overserve him. She told me she'd take care of him. She took care of him alright, and almost had Sam "taken care of.")
At that moment, I was like one of those sad, deflated helium balloons. The rage that had me so furiously high just moments before drained with amazing rapidity and I sagged back in the car seat, feeling like someone had just pricked me with an industrial sized pin. I shut down.
I told him I couldn't talk anymore and had to go. Ex disappeared for 6 days over the Thanksgiving holiday. I found out in court that he had gone to Vegas and lost $30K. When he returned, we agreed to meet. I knew already that the final, rusty nail - the one that had been waiting atop the coffin for me to swing the hammer that was just out of my reach - was now ready to be driven into place.
We met at the house where we'd lived together. I didn't even have to say a word to him. I sat down on the couch and looked at him.
He said, "How do you want to do this? Should we get lawyers involved or do you want to try and divorce amicably?"
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Don't Drink and Text Part III, and Leg Breaking Part I
This is a longer story than Anna Karenina (which I still haven't finished), so I'm sorry that it has to be told in two parts. Please bear with me.
PART I
Driving to City Airport in November of last year, I flipped down the vanity mirror in my car and groaned. Pete Doherty on a 3-day bender looks better than I did that day, and I was on my way to do media interviews in New York with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn about the FDA’s approval of silicone breast implants. I prayed for a sympathetic makeup artist with industrial strength tools. I was pretty sure the media wanted to see slutty-looking women who had been awake for a week. Those are some good ratings, after all. Despite my business suit, I still looked like I fit into the "gross, dumb blonde who wants big boobs," category.
But I’m not slut (at least I don't think), and I hadn’t been up for a week – only one night, in fact, thanks to Ex’s drunk texts.
As a little background, Ex and I started a company together a few years back. We needed sponsors - big ones - and coincidentally, I’d met a man named Sam that previous July. He is brilliant, ridiculously accomplished, connected, self-effacing, and helpful to boot. I didn’t intend to tell him about our company, but it came up in conversation when he asked what I did for a living aside from graduate school. He immediately offered his support, and thus began what would have been a mutually profitable relationship.
In order to promote the company, Sam put me in front of Fortune 50 companies, worldwide PR firms, and offered to put his personal name on the line, should it help our organization. Because Ex and I are small fries and didn’t have the access to these types of firms, Sam was integral in putting our company on the map. I once asked Sam why he was willing to help us out in this way. He shrugged his shoulders. “I like to see worthy companies and worthy people succeed. Your company is the future. If I’m lucky enough to help you contribute, I consider it an honor.”
Back to November and my trip to the airport, I couldn’t help but relive the previous evening, during which I had no sleep.
Long story short, The Doc and I had gone out to dinner the evening before and had run into Ex while we were out. And it turned fairly ugly. Ex sent us a bottle of champagne and, while we appreciated it, my flight was leaving early the following morning and I needed to head home soon. The Doc bounded over to Ex before I could do anything and thanked him while I was frozen in shock. I’d already moved out of the house and just wasn’t sure what to do with this situation. After The Doc returned from speaking with Ex, I made my approach to thank him for the gesture and invite him over to join us. He turned his back on me and muttered, "Ungrateful bitch."
I returned to The Doc and told him that I was about as uncomfortable as a whore in church and that we had to leave soon.
Text messages ensued. They began while The Doc and I were still in the bar, but continued far into the night. Texts that became clearly more and more drunk as the night and morning wore on.
Forgive me. This may be long, but I hope it’s worth it.
Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:
Ex: 12:35 am: “Honey I can see how much you luv me..u wont even come over..thats okay..i just going to get fcked up.” (I had already asked him to join us.)
I didn’t respond via text. In fact, I went over to try and rectify the mess... again. He turned his back on me once more and uttered, "Slut." I was stunned because The Doc is probably more interested in sex with anteaters than with women. I went back to the Doc and told him we had to go. Doc and I headed toward the door, and despite the slight from Ex, I went back and thanked Ex again.
I returned home and then the texts proliferated. (I’m just going to alert you to all of the [sic]s here, because there are too many to add. The typos are not mine, I assure you.
Ex: 1:02 am: “Goodnite…sorry I wrecked your nite..i would have went somewhereelse..i am going 2 stay here & get fckd up..4th martini..”
I sent him a text, urging him to stop drinking and either get a hotel room or go home.
Ex: 1:18 am: “it is not that far…have a good nite…please do not worry about me.. u did this for awhile precondo..Ill be fine..I need it…” (I think he was referring to the short time I bartended while we were married and I had a commute to our home in the suburbs.)
Ex: 1:27 am: “honestly honey I wish you would have tapped my shoulder and not Doc..honestly..i was excited until I saw Doc and not u..i sent Cristal b/ci am very sad.”
Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”
I responded that if he needed me to go back to the house and take care of the animals, I’d do it happily.
Ex: 1:34 am: “I will be fine and take care of the cats. YOU do not have to go back…prepare 4 tomorrow/Monday”
Ex: 1:40 am: “sorry I interrupted your talking..please do not worry..i will feed the cats..sorry I know your very busy and have a lot on your plate”
Ex: 1:42 am: “U know honey I texted u 3 times earlier and u did not answer.. I missed u and wanted 2 express and u did not answer”
Ex: 1:52 am: “I am on #7 and feeling fine…see? i am ok @%^$*””
At this point, I sent him a text, asking him to PLEASE get a hotel room. Clearly, this was not a rational man.
Ex: 1:54 am: “NO…..am on the payroll now…”
Ex: 1:55 am: “Having a shot with B.B…… YEAH!!!!!”
Ex: 1:56 am: “play by play of my nite..please shut your phone off”
Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”
Ex: 2:13 am: “#10..just starting w feel a buzz..must hve tolerance from my wife…..ur still my wife…oh boy..what a nite”
Ex: 2:17 am: “U can thank B.B…she asked if I was driving..I said I am OK”
Ex: 2:24 am: “go to sleep honey..u have busy couple of days ..thanks 4 sending Doc instead of you. Cool. I am actually on # 10..what is the record? Do you know?”
Ex: 2:28 am: “just so u know honey, u destroyed me by sending Doc..i did not know you were here but anyways why was I invited.. I was not on the list..that is ok…remember I luv u”
Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text
Ex: 2:30 am: “I am bawling inside..but showing pretty well.”
Ex: 2:56 am: “I am going late nite..benn a long time..just an fiy” (Umm, FYI, maybe?)
EX: 2:59 am: “u r probaby sleping..that is good”
Ex: 3:05 am: “u r in the mix..i am fck up”
Ex: 3:08 am: “since u carwe.so much
Please dont contact me”
Ex: 3:12 am: “hopefully.. u r sleeping well..do not contact me tonite..i am fckd up”
Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”
Ex: 3:19 am: “just so u know I know more than u know” (This is important later with Sam - integral in the topic of the next post)
Ex: 3:20 am: “there will be no [business that we started together]…I am backing out tomorrow..i do not need it…thanks honey..”
Ex: 3:21 am: “handle it yourself..it is over..thanks 4 not coming over…sending Doc”
Ex: 3:23 am: “do not contact me anymore unless u truly luv me”
Ex: 3:26 am: “I am so fckd up..i can even see dtright..call insurance agent just in case”
Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”
Ex: 4:58 am: “hoe u r sleeping well right now…
Ex: 6:20 am: “5:25 am heading 2 another bar on the way home” (5:25, but I received the text at 6:20?!)
Ex: 7:21 am: “bottom line..we need a big talk and definitely our business is at risk..i do not want any of Sam’s connections…I do not care howbig… I willl tell [Fortune 5} company no go”
I didn't respond to most of these texts because I needed to try and sleep, but with each "ding" of the phone, I was woken up so I didn't sleep a wink. Like I said, Pete Doherty on a bender. Except I wasn't having any fun....
If these texts don't seem like a big deal to you, just wait. The second part to this story will follow soon and hopefully won't disappoint. I promise, this is all leading to a mobster movie scene. After all was said and done (and the final, rusty nail of the coffin was hammered), I think my response to Ex was, "Who died and left you Tony Soprano?"
PART I
Driving to City Airport in November of last year, I flipped down the vanity mirror in my car and groaned. Pete Doherty on a 3-day bender looks better than I did that day, and I was on my way to do media interviews in New York with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn about the FDA’s approval of silicone breast implants. I prayed for a sympathetic makeup artist with industrial strength tools. I was pretty sure the media wanted to see slutty-looking women who had been awake for a week. Those are some good ratings, after all. Despite my business suit, I still looked like I fit into the "gross, dumb blonde who wants big boobs," category.
But I’m not slut (at least I don't think), and I hadn’t been up for a week – only one night, in fact, thanks to Ex’s drunk texts.
As a little background, Ex and I started a company together a few years back. We needed sponsors - big ones - and coincidentally, I’d met a man named Sam that previous July. He is brilliant, ridiculously accomplished, connected, self-effacing, and helpful to boot. I didn’t intend to tell him about our company, but it came up in conversation when he asked what I did for a living aside from graduate school. He immediately offered his support, and thus began what would have been a mutually profitable relationship.
In order to promote the company, Sam put me in front of Fortune 50 companies, worldwide PR firms, and offered to put his personal name on the line, should it help our organization. Because Ex and I are small fries and didn’t have the access to these types of firms, Sam was integral in putting our company on the map. I once asked Sam why he was willing to help us out in this way. He shrugged his shoulders. “I like to see worthy companies and worthy people succeed. Your company is the future. If I’m lucky enough to help you contribute, I consider it an honor.”
Back to November and my trip to the airport, I couldn’t help but relive the previous evening, during which I had no sleep.
Long story short, The Doc and I had gone out to dinner the evening before and had run into Ex while we were out. And it turned fairly ugly. Ex sent us a bottle of champagne and, while we appreciated it, my flight was leaving early the following morning and I needed to head home soon. The Doc bounded over to Ex before I could do anything and thanked him while I was frozen in shock. I’d already moved out of the house and just wasn’t sure what to do with this situation. After The Doc returned from speaking with Ex, I made my approach to thank him for the gesture and invite him over to join us. He turned his back on me and muttered, "Ungrateful bitch."
I returned to The Doc and told him that I was about as uncomfortable as a whore in church and that we had to leave soon.
Text messages ensued. They began while The Doc and I were still in the bar, but continued far into the night. Texts that became clearly more and more drunk as the night and morning wore on.
Forgive me. This may be long, but I hope it’s worth it.
Prior to leaving the bar, I began receiving this:
Ex: 12:35 am: “Honey I can see how much you luv me..u wont even come over..thats okay..i just going to get fcked up.” (I had already asked him to join us.)
I didn’t respond via text. In fact, I went over to try and rectify the mess... again. He turned his back on me once more and uttered, "Slut." I was stunned because The Doc is probably more interested in sex with anteaters than with women. I went back to the Doc and told him we had to go. Doc and I headed toward the door, and despite the slight from Ex, I went back and thanked Ex again.
I returned home and then the texts proliferated. (I’m just going to alert you to all of the [sic]s here, because there are too many to add. The typos are not mine, I assure you.
Ex: 1:02 am: “Goodnite…sorry I wrecked your nite..i would have went somewhereelse..i am going 2 stay here & get fckd up..4th martini..”
I sent him a text, urging him to stop drinking and either get a hotel room or go home.
Ex: 1:18 am: “it is not that far…have a good nite…please do not worry about me.. u did this for awhile precondo..Ill be fine..I need it…” (I think he was referring to the short time I bartended while we were married and I had a commute to our home in the suburbs.)
Ex: 1:27 am: “honestly honey I wish you would have tapped my shoulder and not Doc..honestly..i was excited until I saw Doc and not u..i sent Cristal b/ci am very sad.”
Ex: 1:28 am: “but I will be ok.”
I responded that if he needed me to go back to the house and take care of the animals, I’d do it happily.
Ex: 1:34 am: “I will be fine and take care of the cats. YOU do not have to go back…prepare 4 tomorrow/Monday”
Ex: 1:40 am: “sorry I interrupted your talking..please do not worry..i will feed the cats..sorry I know your very busy and have a lot on your plate”
Ex: 1:42 am: “U know honey I texted u 3 times earlier and u did not answer.. I missed u and wanted 2 express and u did not answer”
Ex: 1:52 am: “I am on #7 and feeling fine…see? i am ok @%^$*””
At this point, I sent him a text, asking him to PLEASE get a hotel room. Clearly, this was not a rational man.
Ex: 1:54 am: “NO…..am on the payroll now…”
Ex: 1:55 am: “Having a shot with B.B…… YEAH!!!!!”
Ex: 1:56 am: “play by play of my nite..please shut your phone off”
Ex: 2:05 am: “#9”
Ex: 2:13 am: “#10..just starting w feel a buzz..must hve tolerance from my wife…..ur still my wife…oh boy..what a nite”
Ex: 2:17 am: “U can thank B.B…she asked if I was driving..I said I am OK”
Ex: 2:24 am: “go to sleep honey..u have busy couple of days ..thanks 4 sending Doc instead of you. Cool. I am actually on # 10..what is the record? Do you know?”
Ex: 2:28 am: “just so u know honey, u destroyed me by sending Doc..i did not know you were here but anyways why was I invited.. I was not on the list..that is ok…remember I luv u”
Ex: 2:30 am: Blank text
Ex: 2:30 am: “I am bawling inside..but showing pretty well.”
Ex: 2:56 am: “I am going late nite..benn a long time..just an fiy” (Umm, FYI, maybe?)
EX: 2:59 am: “u r probaby sleping..that is good”
Ex: 3:05 am: “u r in the mix..i am fck up”
Ex: 3:08 am: “since u carwe.so much
Please dont contact me”
Ex: 3:12 am: “hopefully.. u r sleeping well..do not contact me tonite..i am fckd up”
Ex: 3:17 am: “I am fuked up”
Ex: 3:19 am: “just so u know I know more than u know” (This is important later with Sam - integral in the topic of the next post)
Ex: 3:20 am: “there will be no [business that we started together]…I am backing out tomorrow..i do not need it…thanks honey..”
Ex: 3:21 am: “handle it yourself..it is over..thanks 4 not coming over…sending Doc”
Ex: 3:23 am: “do not contact me anymore unless u truly luv me”
Ex: 3:26 am: “I am so fckd up..i can even see dtright..call insurance agent just in case”
Ex: 4:22 am: “the world sucks”
Ex: 4:58 am: “hoe u r sleeping well right now…
Ex: 6:20 am: “5:25 am heading 2 another bar on the way home” (5:25, but I received the text at 6:20?!)
Ex: 7:21 am: “bottom line..we need a big talk and definitely our business is at risk..i do not want any of Sam’s connections…I do not care howbig… I willl tell [Fortune 5} company no go”
I didn't respond to most of these texts because I needed to try and sleep, but with each "ding" of the phone, I was woken up so I didn't sleep a wink. Like I said, Pete Doherty on a bender. Except I wasn't having any fun....
If these texts don't seem like a big deal to you, just wait. The second part to this story will follow soon and hopefully won't disappoint. I promise, this is all leading to a mobster movie scene. After all was said and done (and the final, rusty nail of the coffin was hammered), I think my response to Ex was, "Who died and left you Tony Soprano?"
Monday, October 1, 2007
What?! Has hell frozen over and I just wasn't aware?
One hour ago.
Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."
(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)
Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."
My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"
Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."
Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)
Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."
Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."
The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.
This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.
Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.
Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.
If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.
And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.
Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!
Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."
(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)
Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."
My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"
Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."
Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)
Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."
Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."
The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.
This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.
Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.
Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.
If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.
And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.
Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!
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?"
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Pardon Me, While I Remove This Knife From My Back
My fingers have been itching to write about this for 2 weeks, but I've been so insanely pissed that my eyes were crossed and it took me some time to get sufficiently clear-headed in order to put it in words. Now that I've banged my head against the wall a few times in frustration, I'm finally ready.
Awhile back, I wrote about how I had called Anastasia, wondering how in the world Ex found out about my $600 face peel. I was absolutely positive that Plastic Surgeon and her staff wouldn't have disclosed that information, not only because it's covered by HIPAA, but also because PS and I have been friends for several years now and she loathes Ex sometimes more than even I.
What I failed to mention in that post was that PS had been looking for help in her office, and I had a "friend" (I use that term loosely with her now) with whom I used to bartend. I've known B.B. (can you guess what that stands for?) since 2001 and we've always been friendly. She used to tell me how she looked up to me and wanted to learn my secrets of making great cash from being a good bartender. She is a very sweet-seeming girl, strikingly pretty, and very personable. For the last couple of years, B.B. and I have had occasional lunches together, many nights in which I'm a patron at her bar, and late-night phone calls where I'm comforting her on the latest heartbreak, of which there have been many. Of course, during the course of our "friendship," I disclosed things as well. I never had any reason not to take her at face value, so when PS asked if I knew anyone who was looking for this particular position (which B.B. was) I didn't hesitate to recommend her even though she wasn't truly experienced enough for the position.
After B.B. promised PS that she possessed a desire to learn the medical approach to skin care, wanted a long-haul position and was ready to hang up her wine key, she was hired and thus began what would have been a lucrative career for her. She continued to tend bar for awhile until she built up her own clientele at PS's office and I, of course, continued to see her on an almost-weekly basis. She seemed so grateful, always telling me how much she loved working for PS when I'd see her at the bar, and she even took me out one evening for dinner and drinks to thank me.
Unfortunately, I found out that B.B. quit her job with PS after only 6 months and gave her a paltry 2 week notice when a month is standard in her industry. I apologized to PS because I felt so responsible, to which she assured me that it wasn't my fault.
Fast forward to two weekends ago, when Designer threw his party back in my city after our trip to Greece. I took the group that wanted to go out afterwards to a new club in town owned by my old boss from The Bar. B.B., who worked there at the time, bounded up to me and threw her arms around me.
"Almost! Why aren't you at my bar? I'm moving to Hawaii with a new boyfriend who's going to be on Lost! Ya know, the TV show?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Ohmigosh, are you mad at me? PS told you I'm leaving, didn't she? Is she sooooo mad at me? Please don't be mad, I'm in love!"
"I'm not mad, B.B., that was your business between you and PS. As far as I'm concerned, after I recommended you I was out of the situation."
"Oh, good!" she squealed, "Then you can come to my going away party next weekend!"
I mumbled something into my champagne and squirmed out of her embrace to go talk with someone else. Truth be told, I was kind of irritated because I felt that her lack of respect for PS in not giving sufficient notice reflected on me and I was embarrassed. I also thought it was fairly naive to uproot and move to Hawaii after dating some random dude for 3 weeks, who's going to work on a show that's probably going to be canceled in a month anyway. But worse was yet to come. The kind of worse that made me not go out for the last 2 weeks to avoid seeing her and ending up in jail for assault. I'm not the least bit violent, but I may have been just infuriated enough to haul off and uppercut her in front of all her bar patrons.
The next day, I went to a beautiful outdoor lunch with Ava, Anastasia, Designer's business partner Regan, and a few other people. During the course of the lunch, I came to find out that Anastasia's husband had disclosed something to her which was about to make me want to grab the Santa Margherita from the ice bucket and drink right out of the bottle.
Ex recently told Anastasia's husband that he had found out all of his information about me from B.B. on nights when he would hang at her bar alone for hours. Upon his giving her astronomical tips (the kind where, had Ex not been there, she wouldn't have walked out that night with even close to as much.... the thousand dollar kind), she would share critical information about my whereabouts, my associates, what I was wearing, if anyone had kissed me on the cheek, how much money I was spending when I was out, and of course, the $600 peel. Anastasia, in her wily ways, had finagled this out of her husband and then told me.
Shouldn't that type of bartending prostitution/betrayal of your "friend" & former colleague be illegal in all states? I'd like to lobby in front of Congress on that one.
I consulted my friends and eventually decided that I would do nothing. Stooping to her level was not going to earn me any karma brownie points, so I thought the better route would be to just let it go. Until PS called me yesterday and I told her the story.
"Almost, why aren't you reporting her to the State Board? She violated HIPAA."
"Because I didn't want it to reflect badly on you in any way and I wasn't sure what it would do to you."
"It does nothing to me. You of all people know that's a serious violation," PS said. "That's what I'd do if I were in your position."
I submitted my online complaint to the State Board yesterday and expect a phone call from them on Monday. At least I know that she won't be able to betray anyone else in this state when she inevitably moves back. And when she is back? I suppose I'll keep my friends close and my enemies as f*cking far away from me as possible.
Awhile back, I wrote about how I had called Anastasia, wondering how in the world Ex found out about my $600 face peel. I was absolutely positive that Plastic Surgeon and her staff wouldn't have disclosed that information, not only because it's covered by HIPAA, but also because PS and I have been friends for several years now and she loathes Ex sometimes more than even I.
What I failed to mention in that post was that PS had been looking for help in her office, and I had a "friend" (I use that term loosely with her now) with whom I used to bartend. I've known B.B. (can you guess what that stands for?) since 2001 and we've always been friendly. She used to tell me how she looked up to me and wanted to learn my secrets of making great cash from being a good bartender. She is a very sweet-seeming girl, strikingly pretty, and very personable. For the last couple of years, B.B. and I have had occasional lunches together, many nights in which I'm a patron at her bar, and late-night phone calls where I'm comforting her on the latest heartbreak, of which there have been many. Of course, during the course of our "friendship," I disclosed things as well. I never had any reason not to take her at face value, so when PS asked if I knew anyone who was looking for this particular position (which B.B. was) I didn't hesitate to recommend her even though she wasn't truly experienced enough for the position.
After B.B. promised PS that she possessed a desire to learn the medical approach to skin care, wanted a long-haul position and was ready to hang up her wine key, she was hired and thus began what would have been a lucrative career for her. She continued to tend bar for awhile until she built up her own clientele at PS's office and I, of course, continued to see her on an almost-weekly basis. She seemed so grateful, always telling me how much she loved working for PS when I'd see her at the bar, and she even took me out one evening for dinner and drinks to thank me.
Unfortunately, I found out that B.B. quit her job with PS after only 6 months and gave her a paltry 2 week notice when a month is standard in her industry. I apologized to PS because I felt so responsible, to which she assured me that it wasn't my fault.
Fast forward to two weekends ago, when Designer threw his party back in my city after our trip to Greece. I took the group that wanted to go out afterwards to a new club in town owned by my old boss from The Bar. B.B., who worked there at the time, bounded up to me and threw her arms around me.
"Almost! Why aren't you at my bar? I'm moving to Hawaii with a new boyfriend who's going to be on Lost! Ya know, the TV show?"
"Yes, I heard."
"Ohmigosh, are you mad at me? PS told you I'm leaving, didn't she? Is she sooooo mad at me? Please don't be mad, I'm in love!"
"I'm not mad, B.B., that was your business between you and PS. As far as I'm concerned, after I recommended you I was out of the situation."
"Oh, good!" she squealed, "Then you can come to my going away party next weekend!"
I mumbled something into my champagne and squirmed out of her embrace to go talk with someone else. Truth be told, I was kind of irritated because I felt that her lack of respect for PS in not giving sufficient notice reflected on me and I was embarrassed. I also thought it was fairly naive to uproot and move to Hawaii after dating some random dude for 3 weeks, who's going to work on a show that's probably going to be canceled in a month anyway. But worse was yet to come. The kind of worse that made me not go out for the last 2 weeks to avoid seeing her and ending up in jail for assault. I'm not the least bit violent, but I may have been just infuriated enough to haul off and uppercut her in front of all her bar patrons.
The next day, I went to a beautiful outdoor lunch with Ava, Anastasia, Designer's business partner Regan, and a few other people. During the course of the lunch, I came to find out that Anastasia's husband had disclosed something to her which was about to make me want to grab the Santa Margherita from the ice bucket and drink right out of the bottle.
Ex recently told Anastasia's husband that he had found out all of his information about me from B.B. on nights when he would hang at her bar alone for hours. Upon his giving her astronomical tips (the kind where, had Ex not been there, she wouldn't have walked out that night with even close to as much.... the thousand dollar kind), she would share critical information about my whereabouts, my associates, what I was wearing, if anyone had kissed me on the cheek, how much money I was spending when I was out, and of course, the $600 peel. Anastasia, in her wily ways, had finagled this out of her husband and then told me.
Shouldn't that type of bartending prostitution/betrayal of your "friend" & former colleague be illegal in all states? I'd like to lobby in front of Congress on that one.
I consulted my friends and eventually decided that I would do nothing. Stooping to her level was not going to earn me any karma brownie points, so I thought the better route would be to just let it go. Until PS called me yesterday and I told her the story.
"Almost, why aren't you reporting her to the State Board? She violated HIPAA."
"Because I didn't want it to reflect badly on you in any way and I wasn't sure what it would do to you."
"It does nothing to me. You of all people know that's a serious violation," PS said. "That's what I'd do if I were in your position."
I submitted my online complaint to the State Board yesterday and expect a phone call from them on Monday. At least I know that she won't be able to betray anyone else in this state when she inevitably moves back. And when she is back? I suppose I'll keep my friends close and my enemies as f*cking far away from me as possible.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Birthday Fun and Don't Drink and Text Part II
My birthday just passed and I am so relieved because I hate that day. It has nothing to do with aging, since I've hated it for as long as I can remember. The year that I turned 11, my mother threw a surprise birthday party for me, at which time I locked myself in my room and refused to reemerge until everyone was gone. My poor mother - she really had her hands full with me.
Actually, this year's birthday wasn't too traumatic, since I spent the evening with friends at Scarlet and Guido's restaurant and wound up the night attending a drag queen show that I've been dying to see for years.
But since it's that dreaded time of year for me again, I can't help but dredge up my horrific birthday from last year. Ex had gotten the not-so-bright idea to throw me a surprise party despite the fact that he knew very well how much I hated them. This was during the period of time when he realized that the marriage was deteriorating faster than Britney on a coke and vodka binge, so he was going all out to try and do everything he could to save it.
Ava called me and tipped me off so that we could avoid the disastrous consequences, and we collaborated to get Ex to understand this plan was about as good as booking a ticket on the Titanic. Long story short, we ended up going to Vegas with the Doc, Ava, Anastasia, and a few other people so that I had a buffer.
The weekend was not progressing well. Ex and I weren't getting along and by the night of my birthday dinner, our last evening in Vegas, The Debacle began.
At some point during the weekend, Ex had gone through my purse and had found a business card from an attorney in Ava's city. I had spent the previous weekend with Ava attending a concert, and we ran into some of her old law school friends. We had hung out with them for a bit, and one of them ended up giving me his business card. I didn't think anything of it and just put it in my purse. When Ex went through my purse in Vegas and found the card, he assumed that I was having a torrid fling with the mystery attorney from Ava's city.
As we were walking to dinner, Ex apparently grabbed both Ava and Anastasia and growled, "I know that both of you are helping my wife have an affair," to which they were both too stunned to even respond.
Unfortunately I didn't hear about this until later in the night, or I might have just called off the dinner altogether. When we were seated in the restaurant, Ex began flipping through the pictures in my digital camera. He came across one from the previous weekend of me with Ava's attorney friend, which featured us simply sitting next to each other, not even touching. Though nothing inappropriate had happened and the picture was utterly innocent, he threw the camera at Ava and stormed away from the table. The first course hadn't even been served. And he never came back.
It turned out that he was taking turns pacing the hallway and sitting at the bar, crying and becoming increasingly drunk while smoking cigarettes like he was going to the electric chair. When dinner was over, I found him at the bar and thanked him for the lovely dinner. He responded, "You should be thankful. It was two thousand dollars."
I had become accustomed to comments like that, so I just sighed and suggested that we go to Pure for some cocktails and dancing. As we entered the club, I headed for the back bar and soon realized that I was alone. Turning around, I saw our entire group still at the entrance, featuring Ex wagging his finger right in Ava's face and screaming something. I returned to where they were standing and heard Ex finish his rant with, "F*ck you, and f*ck your friend!" She stood rooted to the floor in shock, looking at him wide-eyed.
He turned to me and followed me around in a little circle at the entrance of the club screaming various things at me and accusing me of sleeping with the guy from Ava's city, to which I replied, "Yeah, I always keep business cards from my sexual conquests. Sort of like a memoir," which of course, enraged him even more. I kept trying to walk away from him, but he wouldn't let me, screaming, "You always f*cking walk away from me! You're not going to f*cking walk away from it this time!"
By that point, my friends were looking on horrified and a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the spectacle. I was mortified. And scared. I hadn't seen him that out of control in public before. I tried everything I could to calm him down, but he was in an unstoppable rage. After 10 minutes that seemed like an eternity, he took off his wedding ring and shoved it at me.
"Here, Almost, I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce."
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK." I put the ring in my purse and said, "Come on, girls, let's go have some fun."
I was not about to let him ruin the evening, so Ava, Anastasia, my friend Kay who lives in Vegas, and I went to get drinks at another bar in the casino. We were having a nice evening, despite the drama that had already unfolded when I began to receive texts.
Over the next several hours, I received over 50 text messages and one very crazy phone call. Unfortunately, at the time I had a phone that only held 10 messages, so they're all gone now but I do recall the nature of the texts. They began with groundless accusations, to which I didn't even respond. Along with the usual accusations that I was getting it on with every man who had ever existed except for him, bizarre accusations began to emerge. At one point he accused me, Ava, and Anastasia of laughing at his man boobs. None of us had ever laughed at his man boobs, but the text itself did make us giggle.
As the evening wore on, the texts became cruel, replete with name calling and yet more bizarre accusations. When he realized that I wasn't going to respond to any of them, he chose another tactic. He sent me a text that said, "I'm leaving tonight," to which I responded, "OK, understood. Have a safe trip."
A few minutes later, I received another text. "At the airport."
I looked over my shoulder and saw him sitting at the blackjack table about 20 feet away, which made all of us girls howl with laughter.
I sent him one back and said, "Safe flight - let me know when you land."
This continued until 6 am, with text messages flooding my phone that insisted he was at the airport and me watching him type furiously on his phone just 20 feet away. It was not the show I expected to see in Vegas, but it was a show nonetheless.
I finally went back up to the suite, exhausted and sick of dealing with the situation. Anastasia had a 6 am flight home so she had already left, but when I got up to the room she forwarded a text to me as she sat on the runway.
Much to my surprise, Ex had been text stalking her as well, and his final text to her read, "Thanks for all of your support tonight... NOT."
Imagine my shock this year when I received only one text from him. It simply said, "Happy birthday."
Actually, this year's birthday wasn't too traumatic, since I spent the evening with friends at Scarlet and Guido's restaurant and wound up the night attending a drag queen show that I've been dying to see for years.
But since it's that dreaded time of year for me again, I can't help but dredge up my horrific birthday from last year. Ex had gotten the not-so-bright idea to throw me a surprise party despite the fact that he knew very well how much I hated them. This was during the period of time when he realized that the marriage was deteriorating faster than Britney on a coke and vodka binge, so he was going all out to try and do everything he could to save it.
Ava called me and tipped me off so that we could avoid the disastrous consequences, and we collaborated to get Ex to understand this plan was about as good as booking a ticket on the Titanic. Long story short, we ended up going to Vegas with the Doc, Ava, Anastasia, and a few other people so that I had a buffer.
The weekend was not progressing well. Ex and I weren't getting along and by the night of my birthday dinner, our last evening in Vegas, The Debacle began.
At some point during the weekend, Ex had gone through my purse and had found a business card from an attorney in Ava's city. I had spent the previous weekend with Ava attending a concert, and we ran into some of her old law school friends. We had hung out with them for a bit, and one of them ended up giving me his business card. I didn't think anything of it and just put it in my purse. When Ex went through my purse in Vegas and found the card, he assumed that I was having a torrid fling with the mystery attorney from Ava's city.
As we were walking to dinner, Ex apparently grabbed both Ava and Anastasia and growled, "I know that both of you are helping my wife have an affair," to which they were both too stunned to even respond.
Unfortunately I didn't hear about this until later in the night, or I might have just called off the dinner altogether. When we were seated in the restaurant, Ex began flipping through the pictures in my digital camera. He came across one from the previous weekend of me with Ava's attorney friend, which featured us simply sitting next to each other, not even touching. Though nothing inappropriate had happened and the picture was utterly innocent, he threw the camera at Ava and stormed away from the table. The first course hadn't even been served. And he never came back.
It turned out that he was taking turns pacing the hallway and sitting at the bar, crying and becoming increasingly drunk while smoking cigarettes like he was going to the electric chair. When dinner was over, I found him at the bar and thanked him for the lovely dinner. He responded, "You should be thankful. It was two thousand dollars."
I had become accustomed to comments like that, so I just sighed and suggested that we go to Pure for some cocktails and dancing. As we entered the club, I headed for the back bar and soon realized that I was alone. Turning around, I saw our entire group still at the entrance, featuring Ex wagging his finger right in Ava's face and screaming something. I returned to where they were standing and heard Ex finish his rant with, "F*ck you, and f*ck your friend!" She stood rooted to the floor in shock, looking at him wide-eyed.
He turned to me and followed me around in a little circle at the entrance of the club screaming various things at me and accusing me of sleeping with the guy from Ava's city, to which I replied, "Yeah, I always keep business cards from my sexual conquests. Sort of like a memoir," which of course, enraged him even more. I kept trying to walk away from him, but he wouldn't let me, screaming, "You always f*cking walk away from me! You're not going to f*cking walk away from it this time!"
By that point, my friends were looking on horrified and a group of onlookers had gathered to watch the spectacle. I was mortified. And scared. I hadn't seen him that out of control in public before. I tried everything I could to calm him down, but he was in an unstoppable rage. After 10 minutes that seemed like an eternity, he took off his wedding ring and shoved it at me.
"Here, Almost, I don't want to be married to you anymore. I want a divorce."
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK." I put the ring in my purse and said, "Come on, girls, let's go have some fun."
I was not about to let him ruin the evening, so Ava, Anastasia, my friend Kay who lives in Vegas, and I went to get drinks at another bar in the casino. We were having a nice evening, despite the drama that had already unfolded when I began to receive texts.
Over the next several hours, I received over 50 text messages and one very crazy phone call. Unfortunately, at the time I had a phone that only held 10 messages, so they're all gone now but I do recall the nature of the texts. They began with groundless accusations, to which I didn't even respond. Along with the usual accusations that I was getting it on with every man who had ever existed except for him, bizarre accusations began to emerge. At one point he accused me, Ava, and Anastasia of laughing at his man boobs. None of us had ever laughed at his man boobs, but the text itself did make us giggle.
As the evening wore on, the texts became cruel, replete with name calling and yet more bizarre accusations. When he realized that I wasn't going to respond to any of them, he chose another tactic. He sent me a text that said, "I'm leaving tonight," to which I responded, "OK, understood. Have a safe trip."
A few minutes later, I received another text. "At the airport."
I looked over my shoulder and saw him sitting at the blackjack table about 20 feet away, which made all of us girls howl with laughter.
I sent him one back and said, "Safe flight - let me know when you land."
This continued until 6 am, with text messages flooding my phone that insisted he was at the airport and me watching him type furiously on his phone just 20 feet away. It was not the show I expected to see in Vegas, but it was a show nonetheless.
I finally went back up to the suite, exhausted and sick of dealing with the situation. Anastasia had a 6 am flight home so she had already left, but when I got up to the room she forwarded a text to me as she sat on the runway.
Much to my surprise, Ex had been text stalking her as well, and his final text to her read, "Thanks for all of your support tonight... NOT."
Imagine my shock this year when I received only one text from him. It simply said, "Happy birthday."
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Stranger Danger
During the time when I was just beginning to realize that I was desperately, breath-stealingly unhappy in my marriage, I decided to take a trip to see Ava for the weekend. I needed to see her. We all have this deceptive veil through which we see our own problems, and she has this amazing ability to untangle my convoluted issues and lift the veil, giving me clarity. I booked the trip figuring that it would allow me a weekend of a ridiculous amount of laughter as well as some sort of catharsis and perhaps resolution. (It did, but that's not the point of the story.)
On my way out to see Ava, I was in City Airport at one of those booksellers to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of water and the line snaked out the door, stretching halfway to the next bookseller. After what seemed like hours in line (ok, 10 minutes) I finally approached the cashier, at which time a man dressed in a ratty, hole-ridden tank top and stained khaki shorts practically pushed me out of the way to get there first. The cashier seemed to know him and the sparkling stars in her eyes were almost tangible as she went into her dreamy celebu-trance, forgetting about everyone else in line.
I'm no shrinking violet and I was not in a mood to be pushed out of the way by some homeless dude after waiting 10 whole minutes to pay a million stinking dollars for a bottle of water, so I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around.
"Um, no," I said to him. "Why don't you be a gentleman and wait your turn like everyone else."
And then I realized that this was a man I grew up with, a guy I idolized as a kid, watching him jump in and out of his white van as he saved the day.
It was Mr. T.
I wasn't star-struck by any means, since I've had my share of celebrity run-ins especially in my bartending years, but I giggled like an idiot anyway.
"Mr. T! I just heard you on Howard Stern, you were great!"
"Well, thank you, little lady. You mind if I go ahead of you? I'm late for my flight." He speaks in person exactly as he speaks on TV and radio. It tickled me.
"Sure, I understand." I had another hour before my flight left. I supposed it was no skin off of my back and the other people in line were whispering and smiling, so I figured they didn't mind either.
As the cashier rang up his purchases, he turned to me and said, "You a very beautiful lady. You married?"
"Thanks. And yes, I am."
"Well, I hope your husband appreciates you. He a lucky man."
"Thank you. He does," I lied.
"Have a nice flight, pretty lady."
"You too, Mr. T."
As I turned to leave the bookseller's, I couldn't figure out why I was dangerously close to tears and had such a lump in my throat. I figured it was something akin to stranger danger, because it's funny how a single statement from a person wholly unknown to you can crystallize your heartbreak and bring it to the surface after you've been fighting, denying and pushing it down for so long.
But at least Mr. T had turned out to be a gentleman in the end. He bought the bottle of water for me.
On my way out to see Ava, I was in City Airport at one of those booksellers to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of water and the line snaked out the door, stretching halfway to the next bookseller. After what seemed like hours in line (ok, 10 minutes) I finally approached the cashier, at which time a man dressed in a ratty, hole-ridden tank top and stained khaki shorts practically pushed me out of the way to get there first. The cashier seemed to know him and the sparkling stars in her eyes were almost tangible as she went into her dreamy celebu-trance, forgetting about everyone else in line.
I'm no shrinking violet and I was not in a mood to be pushed out of the way by some homeless dude after waiting 10 whole minutes to pay a million stinking dollars for a bottle of water, so I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around.
"Um, no," I said to him. "Why don't you be a gentleman and wait your turn like everyone else."
And then I realized that this was a man I grew up with, a guy I idolized as a kid, watching him jump in and out of his white van as he saved the day.
It was Mr. T.
I wasn't star-struck by any means, since I've had my share of celebrity run-ins especially in my bartending years, but I giggled like an idiot anyway.
"Mr. T! I just heard you on Howard Stern, you were great!"
"Well, thank you, little lady. You mind if I go ahead of you? I'm late for my flight." He speaks in person exactly as he speaks on TV and radio. It tickled me.
"Sure, I understand." I had another hour before my flight left. I supposed it was no skin off of my back and the other people in line were whispering and smiling, so I figured they didn't mind either.
As the cashier rang up his purchases, he turned to me and said, "You a very beautiful lady. You married?"
"Thanks. And yes, I am."
"Well, I hope your husband appreciates you. He a lucky man."
"Thank you. He does," I lied.
"Have a nice flight, pretty lady."
"You too, Mr. T."
As I turned to leave the bookseller's, I couldn't figure out why I was dangerously close to tears and had such a lump in my throat. I figured it was something akin to stranger danger, because it's funny how a single statement from a person wholly unknown to you can crystallize your heartbreak and bring it to the surface after you've been fighting, denying and pushing it down for so long.
But at least Mr. T had turned out to be a gentleman in the end. He bought the bottle of water for me.
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.
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.
Friday, June 29, 2007
"Hello? I'd like to cancel a tee time, please."
A couple of weeks ago, Lawyer called me at work. Since I can't pick up my cell phone at work, I found the nearest land line and called him back.
"What's going on, Lawyer?"
"Almost, have you noticed anyone following you lately?"
"What do you mean?" My palms were starting to sweat since I've been through this before.
"Well, Ex seems to know every detail about you and I don't know how he could possibly know these things if he didn't have someone following you."
I said, "It wouldn't be the first time, Lawyer, but I can't really talk right now, let me call you on my way home."
Several weeks prior to that call, I had undergone an aggressive face peel. Believe me, the stress of divorce takes a toll on your skin and I am bound and determined not to wind up looking like I've been beaten with a sock full of nickels. I have to be honest, the peel that I had was expensive but it's totally worth it. (Forgive me for pimping this peel, but it freaking rocks.) I looked like something out of a Wes Craven movie for a week and I think I made children cry and adults lose control of their bowels when I had to appear in public, but the results were fabulous.
During that week, my girlfriend Anastasia had come over to my apartment. Anastasia is pretty high up in the ranks of law enforcement, but she's probably not the stereotypical kind of officer you'd imagine. She's a complete badass when it comes to arrests and has wrestled men three times her size into submission, but she's also beautiful with an amazing body, although you can't see it when she has her uniform and bullet-proof vest on. We've accompanied one another to preventative treatments at the Medical Spa more than once and she totally understands my desire to come out on the other side of this divorce looking decent.
When I called Lawyer back after work to find out why he thought I was being followed, he asked, "Who knew about your peel and how much it cost you?"
I thought for a moment and replied, "You, Anastasia, Plastic Surgeon, Aesthetician, Lauren, and Shawn. Why?"
"I received a call from Greasy Attorney today and he was ranting about your non-existent trust fund. Then he went on yelling about how you had a $600 face peel. How could he have known about the peel?"
I had no answer. None of the people who were aware of the now Infamous Peel would have given me up, that much I knew. I told this to Lawyer, and he advised me to be on the lookout for anyone that might be following me. I promised him that I would, and we hung up.
I promptly called Anastasia. Her husband Pete and Ex became friends through us when Ex and I were still supposedly happily married. Best friends. In fact, we joke about how they must make out with each other because they're so close. I thought that perhaps Anastasia had mentioned something about the peel to Pete and he'd said something to Ex. When she answered the phone and I explained the situation, she said, "Almost, I have learned never to divulge any information about you whatsoever. I am definitely not the leak, but I do have a story for you. I'm really pissed off."
It turned out that the day before this phone call, Ex and Pete had an 8:30 tee time for a golf game. Pete left their house an hour before the tee time, but returned only an hour and a half later. Anastasia asked, "Didn't you have golf with Ex this morning?"
Pete replied, "Yes, we did. But the golf pro said that some woman called yesterday and canceled our game. Did you tell Almost that we were playing golf today? Did she call and cancel the game to piss him off?"
Apparently, a mystery female had called the previous day and canceled their tee time. I haven't spoken to Ex since a court date in April and know nothing of his daily activities now, but Ex assumed that I had magically found out about the tee time and called the golf course to cancel. He told Pete that he was sure I had undertaken the cancellation in order to ruin their day.
Anastasia was mad. She told Pete, "Of course I didn't tell Almost, why would I do that? In fact, why would she even care?"
She was right. I don't care. Ex can do whatever he wants and I would never interfere in anything, let alone something so trivial as a golf game.
Though Anastasia was angry, I said, "Don't be mad, it's funny! Can you imagine Ex thinking that I care enough to take the time to make that phone call and cancel his tee time? Hilarious!!" She started laughing, too.
I still can't figure out how Ex knows all of these details about my daily life, and that frustrates me. I'd love to know all the details of his life as he apparently knows about mine, but though I would never waste my time canceling a golf game just in order to piss off Ex, I have to say I think Mystery Golf Game Canceling Woman is my new idol. Cheers to you, baby! Now, who the hell are you??
"What's going on, Lawyer?"
"Almost, have you noticed anyone following you lately?"
"What do you mean?" My palms were starting to sweat since I've been through this before.
"Well, Ex seems to know every detail about you and I don't know how he could possibly know these things if he didn't have someone following you."
I said, "It wouldn't be the first time, Lawyer, but I can't really talk right now, let me call you on my way home."
Several weeks prior to that call, I had undergone an aggressive face peel. Believe me, the stress of divorce takes a toll on your skin and I am bound and determined not to wind up looking like I've been beaten with a sock full of nickels. I have to be honest, the peel that I had was expensive but it's totally worth it. (Forgive me for pimping this peel, but it freaking rocks.) I looked like something out of a Wes Craven movie for a week and I think I made children cry and adults lose control of their bowels when I had to appear in public, but the results were fabulous.
During that week, my girlfriend Anastasia had come over to my apartment. Anastasia is pretty high up in the ranks of law enforcement, but she's probably not the stereotypical kind of officer you'd imagine. She's a complete badass when it comes to arrests and has wrestled men three times her size into submission, but she's also beautiful with an amazing body, although you can't see it when she has her uniform and bullet-proof vest on. We've accompanied one another to preventative treatments at the Medical Spa more than once and she totally understands my desire to come out on the other side of this divorce looking decent.
When I called Lawyer back after work to find out why he thought I was being followed, he asked, "Who knew about your peel and how much it cost you?"
I thought for a moment and replied, "You, Anastasia, Plastic Surgeon, Aesthetician, Lauren, and Shawn. Why?"
"I received a call from Greasy Attorney today and he was ranting about your non-existent trust fund. Then he went on yelling about how you had a $600 face peel. How could he have known about the peel?"
I had no answer. None of the people who were aware of the now Infamous Peel would have given me up, that much I knew. I told this to Lawyer, and he advised me to be on the lookout for anyone that might be following me. I promised him that I would, and we hung up.
I promptly called Anastasia. Her husband Pete and Ex became friends through us when Ex and I were still supposedly happily married. Best friends. In fact, we joke about how they must make out with each other because they're so close. I thought that perhaps Anastasia had mentioned something about the peel to Pete and he'd said something to Ex. When she answered the phone and I explained the situation, she said, "Almost, I have learned never to divulge any information about you whatsoever. I am definitely not the leak, but I do have a story for you. I'm really pissed off."
It turned out that the day before this phone call, Ex and Pete had an 8:30 tee time for a golf game. Pete left their house an hour before the tee time, but returned only an hour and a half later. Anastasia asked, "Didn't you have golf with Ex this morning?"
Pete replied, "Yes, we did. But the golf pro said that some woman called yesterday and canceled our game. Did you tell Almost that we were playing golf today? Did she call and cancel the game to piss him off?"
Apparently, a mystery female had called the previous day and canceled their tee time. I haven't spoken to Ex since a court date in April and know nothing of his daily activities now, but Ex assumed that I had magically found out about the tee time and called the golf course to cancel. He told Pete that he was sure I had undertaken the cancellation in order to ruin their day.
Anastasia was mad. She told Pete, "Of course I didn't tell Almost, why would I do that? In fact, why would she even care?"
She was right. I don't care. Ex can do whatever he wants and I would never interfere in anything, let alone something so trivial as a golf game.
Though Anastasia was angry, I said, "Don't be mad, it's funny! Can you imagine Ex thinking that I care enough to take the time to make that phone call and cancel his tee time? Hilarious!!" She started laughing, too.
I still can't figure out how Ex knows all of these details about my daily life, and that frustrates me. I'd love to know all the details of his life as he apparently knows about mine, but though I would never waste my time canceling a golf game just in order to piss off Ex, I have to say I think Mystery Golf Game Canceling Woman is my new idol. Cheers to you, baby! Now, who the hell are you??
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Christmastime Fun
Christmas fell about a month and a half after I got married. Though the honeymoon was truly a torturous event and Ex and I were already talking about how this might or might not be working out (more on that in the future), we had nevertheless committed to hosting Christmas Eve dinner for both his family and mine, the latter of whom were flying in for the holiday. Tickets were already booked and there was no time to back out of our obligation. Despite my lack of cooking skills coupled with my angry awe that my flowery, naive notions of marriage were quickly dissipating, I was still determined to put on a Christmas dinner that would please and respect everyone.
When I say "respect," I mean that Ex's family members, to whom he seems inextricably bound with apron strings of steel, have very specific traditions. Ex is first-generation American and his parents arrived in the States from Eastern Europe when they were teenagers, so needless to say, the ties to his family's ethnic culture are fierce. On the other hand, my family has been here for many generations and we have a somewhat more casual approach to holidays, wherein we have no problem participating in others' traditions. In fact, we all enjoy learning about other cultures and their practices.
In the spirit of "enjoyment of other cultures," I delved into Ex's traditional holiday practices with enthusiasm. I knew that his family wasn't thrilled that I was not of Ex's same culture and I was painfully aware that they were even less excited that I wasn't Catholic. Christmas Eve, however, was a chance to prove to them that I wasn't a lost cause. I could cook! (I couldn't at that time, but I could still mix a mean drink.) I would show respect for their traditions and they would like me! (I did, and they didn't.) Ex would fall madly in love with me again because his family finally approved! (I can't say anything with regard to the former, but the latter clearly didn't transpire.)
I spent 2 weeks researching their ethnic approach to Christmas Eve online and in the library. I looked up recipes (serving turkey on Christmas Eve surely would have resulted in my theoretical burning at the stake), I looked up prayers in their native language, and I prepared myself for every possible eventuality of which I could conceive. Except for the very formidable, hurricane-force Mother-In-Law.
By the time Christmas Eve had arrived, I had spent close to $800 on food and alcohol and had been cooking for 3 days. My parents had already flown in and my Mom was helping me cook everything that I had spent painstaking hours preparing. The hour soon arrived in which I expected my in-laws to burst through the door with great appreciation that I had gone to such lengths to prepare them an authentic dinner in accord with their traditions.
I had moved to the suburbs (my personal version of Hell) after I was married and the kitchen was at the back of the house, from which point I had a very clear view of the parking area of the driveway. As I was washing off a knife in the kitchen sink, I saw headlights approach and thought, "This is it, they're here. They're actually going to like me now!"
But as I saw my mother-in-law get out of the car and move to her trunk, my heart began sinking. She unloaded a couple of bags of gifts, yes, but she also unloaded a large cardboard box and a few other bags with items inside that I couldn't yet identify. My Mom looked at me and said, "Are you OK?"
"I'm OK, Mom."
"But your hands are shaking."
"I know, Mom, it's a family trait." But my hands weren't shaking because of the family history of hypoglycemia, they were shaking because I was beginning to realize what was happening.
My mother-in-law burst through the door with an enormous cardboard box filled with an entire smoked salmon and countless other preparations and variety of fish, as well as several plastic bags filled with potatoes, vegetables, and specific ethnic foods of their tradition. I was speechless, and for me to have nothing to say is a feat in and of itself. I have to give her props on that one.
My Mom to this day still says to me, "Almost, I'll never forget it. It's like she bumped me out of the way with one hip, bumped you out of the way with the other, and we were instantly irrelevant to the remainder of the evening."
My Mom is right. Mother-In-Law dropped her box and bags on the kitchen table and walked over to the stove where my Mom and I were cooking. She scrutinized the various pots and said, "Well, this is garbage."
I was simply stunned into silence as she proceeded to dump everything that I had been cooking into the trash or garbage disposal and set out the food she had brought in its place. It was if I had been shamed into stone. I couldn't move except to pour myself several glasses of champagne to try and loosen my tongue out of its entombment, but I was still unable to utter a single protest.
I was aware that my Mom was looking at me intently to determine how I was handling this travesty, but if I had looked at her and seen anything resembling concern, I would have lost it. I knew that I had to make it through dinner. And somehow, I did just that.
However, as soon as dinner was over, I left the dishes, left the group that had amassed around the after-dinner drinks, grabbed a bottle of Krug, and went upstairs to the bedroom with my champagne glass.
I took a Xanax (no, I'm not proud of mixing a benzodiazepine with alcohol, but I was desperate) and poured myself another glass of champagne. Soon after, my Mom opened the door to the bedroom and I felt hot tears burning the back of my throat and eyes just at the comforting sight of her. She sat down on the bed next to me, put her arms around me, and said, "Oh, baby girl, I'm so sorry." I spent much of the rest of the evening there with my Mom, whose empathy earned her a tear-stained sweater, and she only left me when Ex came upstairs after the oh-so-festive evening concluded.
I can't fault Ex entirely because I believe he felt badly that night, but he still hadn't stood up for me at all, nor had he said a single word to his mother about the inappropriate nature of her actions. When I was finally on the verge of sleep, I made a promise to myself. The next time I hosted Christmas Eve for the in-laws (or any other holiday, for that matter), I would drink that bottle of Krug before they arrived.
When I say "respect," I mean that Ex's family members, to whom he seems inextricably bound with apron strings of steel, have very specific traditions. Ex is first-generation American and his parents arrived in the States from Eastern Europe when they were teenagers, so needless to say, the ties to his family's ethnic culture are fierce. On the other hand, my family has been here for many generations and we have a somewhat more casual approach to holidays, wherein we have no problem participating in others' traditions. In fact, we all enjoy learning about other cultures and their practices.
In the spirit of "enjoyment of other cultures," I delved into Ex's traditional holiday practices with enthusiasm. I knew that his family wasn't thrilled that I was not of Ex's same culture and I was painfully aware that they were even less excited that I wasn't Catholic. Christmas Eve, however, was a chance to prove to them that I wasn't a lost cause. I could cook! (I couldn't at that time, but I could still mix a mean drink.) I would show respect for their traditions and they would like me! (I did, and they didn't.) Ex would fall madly in love with me again because his family finally approved! (I can't say anything with regard to the former, but the latter clearly didn't transpire.)
I spent 2 weeks researching their ethnic approach to Christmas Eve online and in the library. I looked up recipes (serving turkey on Christmas Eve surely would have resulted in my theoretical burning at the stake), I looked up prayers in their native language, and I prepared myself for every possible eventuality of which I could conceive. Except for the very formidable, hurricane-force Mother-In-Law.
By the time Christmas Eve had arrived, I had spent close to $800 on food and alcohol and had been cooking for 3 days. My parents had already flown in and my Mom was helping me cook everything that I had spent painstaking hours preparing. The hour soon arrived in which I expected my in-laws to burst through the door with great appreciation that I had gone to such lengths to prepare them an authentic dinner in accord with their traditions.
I had moved to the suburbs (my personal version of Hell) after I was married and the kitchen was at the back of the house, from which point I had a very clear view of the parking area of the driveway. As I was washing off a knife in the kitchen sink, I saw headlights approach and thought, "This is it, they're here. They're actually going to like me now!"
But as I saw my mother-in-law get out of the car and move to her trunk, my heart began sinking. She unloaded a couple of bags of gifts, yes, but she also unloaded a large cardboard box and a few other bags with items inside that I couldn't yet identify. My Mom looked at me and said, "Are you OK?"
"I'm OK, Mom."
"But your hands are shaking."
"I know, Mom, it's a family trait." But my hands weren't shaking because of the family history of hypoglycemia, they were shaking because I was beginning to realize what was happening.
My mother-in-law burst through the door with an enormous cardboard box filled with an entire smoked salmon and countless other preparations and variety of fish, as well as several plastic bags filled with potatoes, vegetables, and specific ethnic foods of their tradition. I was speechless, and for me to have nothing to say is a feat in and of itself. I have to give her props on that one.
My Mom to this day still says to me, "Almost, I'll never forget it. It's like she bumped me out of the way with one hip, bumped you out of the way with the other, and we were instantly irrelevant to the remainder of the evening."
My Mom is right. Mother-In-Law dropped her box and bags on the kitchen table and walked over to the stove where my Mom and I were cooking. She scrutinized the various pots and said, "Well, this is garbage."
I was simply stunned into silence as she proceeded to dump everything that I had been cooking into the trash or garbage disposal and set out the food she had brought in its place. It was if I had been shamed into stone. I couldn't move except to pour myself several glasses of champagne to try and loosen my tongue out of its entombment, but I was still unable to utter a single protest.
I was aware that my Mom was looking at me intently to determine how I was handling this travesty, but if I had looked at her and seen anything resembling concern, I would have lost it. I knew that I had to make it through dinner. And somehow, I did just that.
However, as soon as dinner was over, I left the dishes, left the group that had amassed around the after-dinner drinks, grabbed a bottle of Krug, and went upstairs to the bedroom with my champagne glass.
I took a Xanax (no, I'm not proud of mixing a benzodiazepine with alcohol, but I was desperate) and poured myself another glass of champagne. Soon after, my Mom opened the door to the bedroom and I felt hot tears burning the back of my throat and eyes just at the comforting sight of her. She sat down on the bed next to me, put her arms around me, and said, "Oh, baby girl, I'm so sorry." I spent much of the rest of the evening there with my Mom, whose empathy earned her a tear-stained sweater, and she only left me when Ex came upstairs after the oh-so-festive evening concluded.
I can't fault Ex entirely because I believe he felt badly that night, but he still hadn't stood up for me at all, nor had he said a single word to his mother about the inappropriate nature of her actions. When I was finally on the verge of sleep, I made a promise to myself. The next time I hosted Christmas Eve for the in-laws (or any other holiday, for that matter), I would drink that bottle of Krug before they arrived.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Sgt. Baldy, Civilian Special Ops
Baldy and I have been friends for many years and he's truly one of my favorite people in the world. Our relationship has evolved over many baseball games, late nights out on the town, bottles of Santa Margherita, and too many laughs to even count. We once got into a fender bender (my fault, I rear-ended a cab while we were jamming to Ratt, of all things) and somehow found the whole thing so funny that we had to turn our heads away from the cops in order to avoid going to jail for utter and complete disrespect because we couldn't stop laughing. He has this laugh that just makes you dissolve into hysterics where tears run down your face, even if you don’t get the joke. Kind of like a cross between a hyena and the naughty giggle of a junior high kid getting away with smoking cigarettes in the bathroom that he snitched from his dad (and Baldy, you know I mean that in a totally complimentary fashion because your laugh might just be my favorite sound on Earth, at least until I hear those golden words, “Divorce granted.”).
So Baldy, although he is an accomplished, smart, kind, sweet, and hilariously funny man, has had his share of heartache and more than his share of break ups. He’s the kind of guy who just attracts psychotic women. He’s a nutjob magnet, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand. He’s now going through the same process as I, but believe me, he’s gone through Hell and back about a thousand times to get to this point. Some of the things that Mrs. Baldy has done to him over the years make my marriage seem as if I was skipping through a field of daisies humming "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Yet, Baldy has given her so many “one more chance”s that I’ve actually begged him to leave her more times than I can count.
Though he’s now feeling much more peaceful about it, he and Mrs. Baldy have separated over the years on several occasions. At one point, she moved to a town about an hour away and took his car with her, apparently to aggravate him and leave him without transportation. Baldy, the generous man that he is, didn’t protest and simply went and purchased another car. However, after several months of drunken, middle-of-the-night phone calls from Mrs. Baldy wherein she screamed obscenities at him generally accusing him of being a worse husband than O.J. Simpson, he got pissed. Baldy had had enough and proceeded to undertake action for which I think the Army Special Ops should give him a civilian genius award. He took a cab to her building in the middle of the night, slipped unnoticed into the parking garage through means that still aren’t clear to me (though I believe it may have involved squeezing himself through a locked window), jimmied the car lock open with a hanger, HOT WIRED THE CAR and drove it right back to his own garage. Now keep in mind, this is a professional man with no previous experience in this kind of behavior, so I don't know if he was temporarily possessed with the spirit of Grand Theft Auto or what, but I definitely now believe Baldy is some kind of reincarnation of McGuyver. Give him a gum wrapper, a piece of string, and a paper clip, and bam! You get your stuff back. (And yes, the car was in his name so he didn't break any laws.)
I think both Baldy and I would have paid a lot of money to see the look on Mrs. Baldy's face when she realized the car was out of her possession and once again returned to its rightful owner.
So Baldy, although he is an accomplished, smart, kind, sweet, and hilariously funny man, has had his share of heartache and more than his share of break ups. He’s the kind of guy who just attracts psychotic women. He’s a nutjob magnet, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand. He’s now going through the same process as I, but believe me, he’s gone through Hell and back about a thousand times to get to this point. Some of the things that Mrs. Baldy has done to him over the years make my marriage seem as if I was skipping through a field of daisies humming "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Yet, Baldy has given her so many “one more chance”s that I’ve actually begged him to leave her more times than I can count.
Though he’s now feeling much more peaceful about it, he and Mrs. Baldy have separated over the years on several occasions. At one point, she moved to a town about an hour away and took his car with her, apparently to aggravate him and leave him without transportation. Baldy, the generous man that he is, didn’t protest and simply went and purchased another car. However, after several months of drunken, middle-of-the-night phone calls from Mrs. Baldy wherein she screamed obscenities at him generally accusing him of being a worse husband than O.J. Simpson, he got pissed. Baldy had had enough and proceeded to undertake action for which I think the Army Special Ops should give him a civilian genius award. He took a cab to her building in the middle of the night, slipped unnoticed into the parking garage through means that still aren’t clear to me (though I believe it may have involved squeezing himself through a locked window), jimmied the car lock open with a hanger, HOT WIRED THE CAR and drove it right back to his own garage. Now keep in mind, this is a professional man with no previous experience in this kind of behavior, so I don't know if he was temporarily possessed with the spirit of Grand Theft Auto or what, but I definitely now believe Baldy is some kind of reincarnation of McGuyver. Give him a gum wrapper, a piece of string, and a paper clip, and bam! You get your stuff back. (And yes, the car was in his name so he didn't break any laws.)
I think both Baldy and I would have paid a lot of money to see the look on Mrs. Baldy's face when she realized the car was out of her possession and once again returned to its rightful owner.
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