I had a quite entertaining phone conversation with Regan the other night. What did we talk about? After catching up on the minutiae of our working lives we talked about boys, of course.
"Dude, I've met someone," she said.
"Really, who? And where?"
"We met at a coffee shop and then I went on a date with him. I really like him."
"Tell me about him!"
"A semi-retired tech guy, nice house, does photography for a hobby, and is an Iron Man triathlete. Can you Google him? You don't think he's a stalker, do you?"
So while I was Googling and reading New Boyfriend's marathon and triathlon stats to her while trying to stifle my laughter over her stalker concerns, I asked her one more crucial question.
"So, Regs, is he a good kisser?"
"Oh.... my.... gosh..... yes. And he doesn't make me itch."
"Uh, what?"
"He doesn't make me itch!"
"What do you mean, itch?" I asked.
"You know, when a guy kisses you and then your face itches? I mean, I'm like, dude, I just put foundation on and now it's flaking. That's not cool."
Thus began a conversation about unnecessary kissing, inappropriate touching and personal space invaders. Regan lives much of the time in Italy where she encounters people who constantly want to kiss on both cheeks and touch entirely too much for our more staid American upbringing. It bothers her that people constantly kiss her, leaving stringy drool stains on her cheeks, and I don't blame her.
"I mean, seriously, is it necessary to constantly kiss everyone? It's just so.... gross! Unhygienic or something," she groaned.
Our conversation reminded me of my own thoroughly unpleasant encounters with saliva-ridden kisses, inappropriate touching and personal space invading during my marriage to Ex.
Ex's family, being from a foreign culture, had a habit of always kissing on both cheeks and touching inappropriately even if you had never met the person before. Literally, I would witness his family members meeting someone on the street for the first time, and while still holding the person's right hand in the handshake, planting wet kisses on each cheek of the newfound acquaintance. I have nothing at all against other cultures' practices, but I'm originally from the northeast. We don't do that there. Ever.
I told Regan that I knew with great pain exactly what she was talking about and could actually one-up her on that score. During the first month that Ex and I were married, we had Christmas at his aunt's house. I walked into the house when his aunt, whom I'd not met until that time, opened the door and I was immediately barraged with wet kisses on both of my cheeks. In and of itself, that wasn't so bad despite my surprise at the kissing thing, but what followed truly horrified me. As I entered the front hallway, Ex's aunt put her hand on my uterus. My uterus!
She exclaimed, "You too skinny! Are you pregnant yet? I know my brother wants to be grandpa!"
I froze in awe-struck shock. Not only was I just one month into the already deteriorating marriage, but I have never wanted children and a strange, beehive-haired woman had her hand dangerously close to The Goods and I was still wiping saliva off of my face, bringing along with it my makeup. In retrospect, I believe that I must have stood there with my jaw literally hanging open as I swiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand because the aunt looked at me with what I can only guess was suspicious consternation and meandered off to the kitchen, never to speak to me again during the evening (except when I almost shattered her ice bucket, but that's another story).
Later in the relationship, I was forced to go to a holiday BBQ at Ex's parents' house. The home was filled with random people I'd never met, but all were apparently relatives. I was inevitably the odd person out at these gatherings because I didn't speak their language, so I usually sat at the kitchen table alone and waited the day out. At this particular gathering, one of Ex's many cousins came over and sat with me. After the unavoidable sloppy kiss on each cheek, she put her hand on my stomach and admonished, "You have been married way too long to not have baby. Why you no have baby? You have problem with plumbing?"
"I don't want a baby." I was too astonished to even address the plumbing comment.
At this revelation, she practically fainted. "How you don't want baby? Every woman want baby! Look at my beautiful baby here. He's three months. Isn't he most gorgeous thing you ever see?"
I'm pretty sure that my attempt at an "I like babies" face fell flat.
Later in the marriage, I attended one of Ex's family functions in which his grandmother approached me. Obligatory wet kisses ensued, after which she grabbed my right boob and, manipulating it while I was sewn to the floor in shock, announced, "Is good for to make milk for baby."
I told Regan these stories on the phone as she laughed uproariously and said, "Shut up! You're making this up!"
File this under I Couldn't Make This Up if I Tried, because it's all true. When Regan soon returns to Italy and faces the inevitable kissing onslaught, I hope she remembers that at least she isn't getting felt up by New Boyfriend's family for baby making potential. Wiping a bit of drool off of your cheek? Child's play. Graciously excusing yourself when your in-laws are your personal space invaders with a penchant for grabbing your baby maker? That takes some skill.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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."
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Ridicule of Appearances
Appearances are so deceiving. I know that's a grossly obvious statement (I do have the dubious talent of observing the blatant), but I've been pondering that notion for several reasons.
Thanks to the hilarious Michael K of DListed, I came across a photo retouching company called iWANEX, and if you visit their site, click on "portfolio," and run your cursor over each celebrity's picture, you'll see the wonders of Photoshop in all of its glorious, glaring clarity. I entertained myself mindlessly for about 20 minutes yesterday doing just that and decided that if I ever purchase another fashion magazine, I'm sending myself to Promises for Idiot Rehab. Or hiring a permanent team of retouchers and lighting techs to follow me every second of every day. Since my legal fees are approaching the cost of a Bentley (ok, I might be exaggerating just a tad) and I can't afford rehab or a make-me-hot team, I think I'll wear a string of garlic and a Fiddy-Cent sized cross around my neck to ward off the temptation at the checkout stand.
In any case, iWANEX's site also recalled something that I learned in Greece, and that is the extent to which appearance can so often be wrong, both for me and about me. I wasn't acquainted with too many of the people who attended the party prior to the trip, but I was aware that they were, for the most part, members of the Fabulous Crowd. What I mean by that is that many are in the fashion and design business, so I was expecting some supercilious attitudes that my shoes were from two seasons ago and that my attire was from (*gasp*) three seasons ago. Instead, what I found was a fascinating mix of people who were, indeed the Beautiful People, but who were also intelligent, intuitive, genuine, and after some ice-breaking, had much more going on below the surface than the pretty façade.
Take Alexis, for example. She's quite famous in her own right, having traveled the circuits of the most fabulous designers on the planet for a high-profile job. Alexis looks the part: her clothing is impeccable, hair is flawless, and accessories green-with-envy-worthy. You might think that she would refuse to engage with anyone less fabulous than she, but rather, she's a down-to-earth entrepreneur who upped and moved from one of the fashion capitals of the world and is forging out on her own, unaided. She surprised me with her perspicuity as well, being someone forthright with her depth of personal matters apart than just details of her new venture.
Aside from my own misjudgment, I was also misread in a way that made me laugh until I cried. These are some of the questions I had to answer early in my trip until people actually got to know me:
"Yes, I know I have a stripper name, but no, I've never been an exotic dancer and yes, this is my birth name."
"No, I have never been a porn star." (I'm pretty sure this one was based on the name as well, since my assets aren't quite what's required for such a task.)
"No, I am not a sex therapist."
"A sex surrogate?! Uh, no."
The genesis of these rumors remains a mystery to me, but they amused me nonetheless and were proof positive that anyone can misjudge upon first making another's acquaintance.
Then there was a couple in Greece, Scarlet and Guido, who just opened a restaurant in my city. I met Scarlet quite some time ago, but only had the opportunity to really get to know her on our trip. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in person and you might expect her to be shallow, simply based upon her looks. However, once you sit down with her and really talk to her, you realize that she's talented and beautiful on the inside as well. The restaurant that she and her husband just opened hosted the party for Designer on Friday night, and the walls were fully decorated with her artwork. She had told me of some of her work in Greece, but I never anticipated the beautiful torture she expressed in every piece. I think I bugged the crap out of her, making her take an hour to tell me about each piece and her exact process in creating them, but they were such striking paintings that I couldn't hear enough about them.
What's more, I had my court date for my pedestrian run-in the day after I returned from Greece. The case was dismissed (thank God!!!) and Officer Lentil and I ended up having an hour-long conversation in the courthouse hallway afterwards. Initially he exclaimed, "Hey, Almost, I had another pedestrian run-over the other day and I thought of you!" But subsequently, we spoke about other matters that didn't make me feel like the city's moniker for Morons Who Run Over Joggers. I pegged him for being a kind and very funny man, but I also misjudged him, thinking that a man in blue probably spends his free time watching the idiot box or hanging out at a bar and I could not have been more wrong. (This is not a discriminatory statement, by the way, it's just that I know cops see too much horror on their jobs and need to decompress somehow.) Officer Lentil spends his free time finding relics from churches that are being torn down in our city and dedicating months to restoring them to the gleaming beauty they once boasted. He scours antique shops and flea markets to find that one piece that speaks to him and asks him for help to return it to its original elegance. And he went to a very prestigious art school. I'm ashamed to say that I never would have guessed, but it was quite a pleasant surprise.
And perhaps this is just me, but even after knowing someone intimately for a substantial period of time, the well-practiced appearance can still mask the gruesome reality. I've already told just a few of the stories of how Ex snowed me in certain ways (forgery, Levitra, and Granny Porn, anyone?), but I secreted away things of my own. In that sense, both Ex and I had our own permanent staff of retouchers and lighting techs who glossed over the flaws and created a poreless quality to the marriage, at least to the outside world. Not always, but appearances can deceive to the point of ridiculing what you thought was your own accurate judgment, even after years.
And to answer the other question I first faced in Greece? No, I'm not a dominatrix, either, although I hear they make a very good living.
Thanks to the hilarious Michael K of DListed, I came across a photo retouching company called iWANEX, and if you visit their site, click on "portfolio," and run your cursor over each celebrity's picture, you'll see the wonders of Photoshop in all of its glorious, glaring clarity. I entertained myself mindlessly for about 20 minutes yesterday doing just that and decided that if I ever purchase another fashion magazine, I'm sending myself to Promises for Idiot Rehab. Or hiring a permanent team of retouchers and lighting techs to follow me every second of every day. Since my legal fees are approaching the cost of a Bentley (ok, I might be exaggerating just a tad) and I can't afford rehab or a make-me-hot team, I think I'll wear a string of garlic and a Fiddy-Cent sized cross around my neck to ward off the temptation at the checkout stand.
In any case, iWANEX's site also recalled something that I learned in Greece, and that is the extent to which appearance can so often be wrong, both for me and about me. I wasn't acquainted with too many of the people who attended the party prior to the trip, but I was aware that they were, for the most part, members of the Fabulous Crowd. What I mean by that is that many are in the fashion and design business, so I was expecting some supercilious attitudes that my shoes were from two seasons ago and that my attire was from (*gasp*) three seasons ago. Instead, what I found was a fascinating mix of people who were, indeed the Beautiful People, but who were also intelligent, intuitive, genuine, and after some ice-breaking, had much more going on below the surface than the pretty façade.
Take Alexis, for example. She's quite famous in her own right, having traveled the circuits of the most fabulous designers on the planet for a high-profile job. Alexis looks the part: her clothing is impeccable, hair is flawless, and accessories green-with-envy-worthy. You might think that she would refuse to engage with anyone less fabulous than she, but rather, she's a down-to-earth entrepreneur who upped and moved from one of the fashion capitals of the world and is forging out on her own, unaided. She surprised me with her perspicuity as well, being someone forthright with her depth of personal matters apart than just details of her new venture.
Aside from my own misjudgment, I was also misread in a way that made me laugh until I cried. These are some of the questions I had to answer early in my trip until people actually got to know me:
"Yes, I know I have a stripper name, but no, I've never been an exotic dancer and yes, this is my birth name."
"No, I have never been a porn star." (I'm pretty sure this one was based on the name as well, since my assets aren't quite what's required for such a task.)
"No, I am not a sex therapist."
"A sex surrogate?! Uh, no."
The genesis of these rumors remains a mystery to me, but they amused me nonetheless and were proof positive that anyone can misjudge upon first making another's acquaintance.
Then there was a couple in Greece, Scarlet and Guido, who just opened a restaurant in my city. I met Scarlet quite some time ago, but only had the opportunity to really get to know her on our trip. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in person and you might expect her to be shallow, simply based upon her looks. However, once you sit down with her and really talk to her, you realize that she's talented and beautiful on the inside as well. The restaurant that she and her husband just opened hosted the party for Designer on Friday night, and the walls were fully decorated with her artwork. She had told me of some of her work in Greece, but I never anticipated the beautiful torture she expressed in every piece. I think I bugged the crap out of her, making her take an hour to tell me about each piece and her exact process in creating them, but they were such striking paintings that I couldn't hear enough about them.
What's more, I had my court date for my pedestrian run-in the day after I returned from Greece. The case was dismissed (thank God!!!) and Officer Lentil and I ended up having an hour-long conversation in the courthouse hallway afterwards. Initially he exclaimed, "Hey, Almost, I had another pedestrian run-over the other day and I thought of you!" But subsequently, we spoke about other matters that didn't make me feel like the city's moniker for Morons Who Run Over Joggers. I pegged him for being a kind and very funny man, but I also misjudged him, thinking that a man in blue probably spends his free time watching the idiot box or hanging out at a bar and I could not have been more wrong. (This is not a discriminatory statement, by the way, it's just that I know cops see too much horror on their jobs and need to decompress somehow.) Officer Lentil spends his free time finding relics from churches that are being torn down in our city and dedicating months to restoring them to the gleaming beauty they once boasted. He scours antique shops and flea markets to find that one piece that speaks to him and asks him for help to return it to its original elegance. And he went to a very prestigious art school. I'm ashamed to say that I never would have guessed, but it was quite a pleasant surprise.
And perhaps this is just me, but even after knowing someone intimately for a substantial period of time, the well-practiced appearance can still mask the gruesome reality. I've already told just a few of the stories of how Ex snowed me in certain ways (forgery, Levitra, and Granny Porn, anyone?), but I secreted away things of my own. In that sense, both Ex and I had our own permanent staff of retouchers and lighting techs who glossed over the flaws and created a poreless quality to the marriage, at least to the outside world. Not always, but appearances can deceive to the point of ridiculing what you thought was your own accurate judgment, even after years.
And to answer the other question I first faced in Greece? No, I'm not a dominatrix, either, although I hear they make a very good living.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Dancing on the Tabletop with a Married Woman Does Not Earn Points With the Greek Mafia
I'm back from Greece after an indescribably fabulous week which culminated in a party in my city for Designer and his mother's birthdays this past weekend. I did not think about Ex once, which was a welcome relief. I don't feel rested in the least, but it was utterly worth it. I had planned on posting at least every other day from Greece, but was unable to follow through for a variety of reasons.
First of all, when you log on to Blogger in Greece, everything on the page is in Greek. I could not for the life of me figure out how to change the language back to English, so I just gave up. Actually, chalk it up to sheer laziness because every day I lounged at the pool, drank wine with my friends, and allowed my good intentions to float away on the Mykonian breeze.
Secondly, there's a sense of impossibility in attempting to capture the essence of the trip, Designer's party, and the amazing people who flew all the way there to celebrate with him. I feel so honored to have met some of the most brilliant, creative people I've ever known and to have had the chance to get to know them. It was truly a fabulous collection of people.
However insurmountable the task to describe the events, there are a few funny stories that just have to be told.
To grasp the craziness of this trip, you have to understand the schedule. Generally, you wake up around noon, go to the pool or beach, and begin with some lunch, mimosas, and chat with your friends. Around 7:30, you return to your hotel room, nap until 10, then ready yourself for dinner around 11:30. Dinner ends at about 2 am, then you dance until 7 am, go back to sleep and do it all over again. I believe that this is a regular schedule for all in Greece, at least during their 6 weeks of tourism in which they make all of their money for the year.
I'm pretty sure at this point that my liver is laying somewhere in an alley in Mykonos, crying out for mercy. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only one whose liver absolutely forbids them to ever return to Greece.
One evening, a group of about 35 of us went to a beautiful outdoor restaurant situated right on the water. We were all forewarned that the music would gradually become louder and that by the end of the night, everyone would be dancing on the tables. I frankly didn't believe the notion, but indeed, that is exactly what transpired.
After a wonderful dinner replete with many bottles of wine, big plates of fresh watermelon and ouzo showed up. Matthew, one of the most entertaining people in the party, proceeded to drink his way into utter oblivion. He, being one of the few straight men in attendance, was entertaining everyone with his grabbing of random women to dance on tabletops with him. Unfortunately, Matthew grabbed the wrong woman to dance with him toward the end of the evening. Correction: toward the beginning of the morning, since it was about 4 am.
He drew out a woman from a completely different party than ours, not realizing that she was not part of Designer's group. The two of them were dancing quite fabulously on top of one of the tables when Matthew lost his balance, grabbed the woman for support, and proceeded to take the two of them down. They fell onto the floor, knocking over all of the chairs within a 10 foot radius, both laughing hysterically.
As we all looked on giggling (because they weren't hurt), a quite intimidating looking man materialized out of nowhere and grabbed the woman, yanking her to her feet. It turned out that the woman was married and her husband had observed the entire debacle. To say that he appeared livid would be a gross understatement. Matthew is a really good guy, so he wouldn't have undertaken any of these actions had he known she was married and not part of our group. Or had he been sober. Or perhaps both.
In any case, the woman's husband was displeased to say the least. His wife walked back to her table while the husband took a swipe at Matthew's chin, just barely grazing him. Matthew apologized profusely and the husband growled something in Greek, which I think might translate to, "I'm in the Greek mafia, motherf*cker, so if you ever touch my wife again, you'll have free swimming lessons with a cement kickboard." But that's pure speculation. (And as a disclaimer, I don't know if he was in the Greek mafia or if such a thing even exists, but he appeared to me as the Tony Soprano of Mykonos.)
The next day, we were rehashing the prior evening's events. I jabbed Matthew in the ribs and said, "You were so funny last night when you fell off the table!"
"What? I didn't fall off the table. What are you talking about, Almost?"
We ended up having to retell him the story, of which he had no recollection. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Hmmmm. I was wondering where all of those bruises came from."
Uproarious laughter ensued from all of us, and then we toasted Matthew's near-miss with some champagne.
That is just one of many stories from our trip, and more will come in future posts, but cheers to you, Matthew. And may you get your luggage back soon, since you've had no clothes for the past 2 weeks. At least you escaped the wrath of the Greek mafia and looked fabulous doing it.
First of all, when you log on to Blogger in Greece, everything on the page is in Greek. I could not for the life of me figure out how to change the language back to English, so I just gave up. Actually, chalk it up to sheer laziness because every day I lounged at the pool, drank wine with my friends, and allowed my good intentions to float away on the Mykonian breeze.
Secondly, there's a sense of impossibility in attempting to capture the essence of the trip, Designer's party, and the amazing people who flew all the way there to celebrate with him. I feel so honored to have met some of the most brilliant, creative people I've ever known and to have had the chance to get to know them. It was truly a fabulous collection of people.
However insurmountable the task to describe the events, there are a few funny stories that just have to be told.
To grasp the craziness of this trip, you have to understand the schedule. Generally, you wake up around noon, go to the pool or beach, and begin with some lunch, mimosas, and chat with your friends. Around 7:30, you return to your hotel room, nap until 10, then ready yourself for dinner around 11:30. Dinner ends at about 2 am, then you dance until 7 am, go back to sleep and do it all over again. I believe that this is a regular schedule for all in Greece, at least during their 6 weeks of tourism in which they make all of their money for the year.
I'm pretty sure at this point that my liver is laying somewhere in an alley in Mykonos, crying out for mercy. I'm also pretty sure that I'm not the only one whose liver absolutely forbids them to ever return to Greece.
One evening, a group of about 35 of us went to a beautiful outdoor restaurant situated right on the water. We were all forewarned that the music would gradually become louder and that by the end of the night, everyone would be dancing on the tables. I frankly didn't believe the notion, but indeed, that is exactly what transpired.
After a wonderful dinner replete with many bottles of wine, big plates of fresh watermelon and ouzo showed up. Matthew, one of the most entertaining people in the party, proceeded to drink his way into utter oblivion. He, being one of the few straight men in attendance, was entertaining everyone with his grabbing of random women to dance on tabletops with him. Unfortunately, Matthew grabbed the wrong woman to dance with him toward the end of the evening. Correction: toward the beginning of the morning, since it was about 4 am.
He drew out a woman from a completely different party than ours, not realizing that she was not part of Designer's group. The two of them were dancing quite fabulously on top of one of the tables when Matthew lost his balance, grabbed the woman for support, and proceeded to take the two of them down. They fell onto the floor, knocking over all of the chairs within a 10 foot radius, both laughing hysterically.
As we all looked on giggling (because they weren't hurt), a quite intimidating looking man materialized out of nowhere and grabbed the woman, yanking her to her feet. It turned out that the woman was married and her husband had observed the entire debacle. To say that he appeared livid would be a gross understatement. Matthew is a really good guy, so he wouldn't have undertaken any of these actions had he known she was married and not part of our group. Or had he been sober. Or perhaps both.
In any case, the woman's husband was displeased to say the least. His wife walked back to her table while the husband took a swipe at Matthew's chin, just barely grazing him. Matthew apologized profusely and the husband growled something in Greek, which I think might translate to, "I'm in the Greek mafia, motherf*cker, so if you ever touch my wife again, you'll have free swimming lessons with a cement kickboard." But that's pure speculation. (And as a disclaimer, I don't know if he was in the Greek mafia or if such a thing even exists, but he appeared to me as the Tony Soprano of Mykonos.)
The next day, we were rehashing the prior evening's events. I jabbed Matthew in the ribs and said, "You were so funny last night when you fell off the table!"
"What? I didn't fall off the table. What are you talking about, Almost?"
We ended up having to retell him the story, of which he had no recollection. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Hmmmm. I was wondering where all of those bruises came from."
Uproarious laughter ensued from all of us, and then we toasted Matthew's near-miss with some champagne.
That is just one of many stories from our trip, and more will come in future posts, but cheers to you, Matthew. And may you get your luggage back soon, since you've had no clothes for the past 2 weeks. At least you escaped the wrath of the Greek mafia and looked fabulous doing it.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Laid to Rest
I flew to Rhode Island on a 6 am flight on Friday morning in order to attend my grandparents funeral. After much trauma with renting a car and getting lost for a ridiculous period of time in sketchy neighborhoods trying to find my aunt and uncle's house, wondering why I hadn't taken the GPS unit when the rental company offered it, I finally made it.
The service was beautiful. My grandfather, who I positively adored, died several years ago, but we waited to bury his ashes until my grandmother had also passed away. My uncle made two beautiful teak boxes for their ashes by hand and mounted them to a piece of my grandfather's beloved sailboat, the Night Wind. Their ashes were lowered into the ground with chains taken from his boat. We had a beautiful, tear-filled ceremony and laid them to rest, each of us throwing a shovel full of dirt on top of the boxes. I felt like they were finally in peace together.
During the ceremony, we all took turns telling stories about Grandma that meant something to us. Many of them were funny because my grandmother was quite the character, but I had both an amusing tale and one that was more serious. When I first married Ex, my grandmother, then in her mid-80's, said to me, "Almost, I'm worried about something."
"What is it, Grandma?"
"Well, you're so tiny, and Ex is so huge. I mean, how does the sex work? Is it actually possible? Doesn't he hurt you?"
I laughed. The comment was so typical of Grandma, who used to vacuum in the nude and trail behind my grandfather's boat on the Long Island sound attached to a rope, also sans clothes. She used to complain to me that my grandfather wasn't interested in sex regularly enough for her taste. When she was 86, my mother and I visited her in her assisted living facility. She was raving about the classical musician Andre Rieu, and told us that she wouldn't want to marry him, but he was so handsome that she'd just want to "do" him.
These aspects about my grandmother are incongruous when you consider that she was a very Bible-believing woman and truly centered her life around her faith. On the flip side, she was so realistic about life and sex that she was one of the few Christians I could tolerate being around. When Ex and I were on the slippery slope to divorce, I told my grandmother all of the details including my tawdry part in the marriage's demise. I fully expected her to give me a lecture on the Christian way to approach marital problems, i.e. a "you made a promise before the Lord, so you have to stick through it no matter what" type of diatribe.
Instead, she said, "Oh, honey, life is too short to go through it in this kind of misery. I totally understand where you're coming from. You're young and have your whole life ahead of you. Dump him."
Not words I anticipated from a Bible-thumping woman in her 80's whose favorite song was "The Majesty and Glory of Your Name," but healing words that made me laugh because of their candor and words I appreciate to this day.
Although I was supposed to return home that same night, my flight was re-routed through Ava's city, which wound up being fabulous since I was able to spend a fun evening with her and catch the first flight home the next morning. On my way there, we flew over a series of thunderstorms with lightning firing up the night sky beneath us. Overhead was an almost-full moon casting a silvery pall on the tops of the clouds below. It was breathtaking.
My grandfather was a pilot for many years, retiring from the commercial airline in the 70's, and his last private flight was when he was in his 80's. That one made the paper. Flying was his number one passion, and he loved the calm and peace of guiding a big silver bird over storms, feeling tranquility and smooth air despite the turbulence visible below.
I had laid my grandparent's ashes to rest that day, and my flight reflected another thing I'm learning to lay down. Though I still have my moments of panic, I'm beginning to ascend through the storm into that serene place between the pale moon and the squalls transpiring beneath me. I'm learning how to lay to rest my own tempests and watch them from above, enjoying gliding through the smooth air and appreciating the beauty of an uproar from afar, just like my grandfather. At some point, I will be able to lay the ashes of my marriage to rest and throw a handful of dirt on top. I hope I will feel that I've laid it to rest in peace and can look back upon it with no malice, but rather with fondness for the times that were good and with appreciation of all that I learned from it, just as I've done with my grandparents.
P.S. I'm heading off to Greece for a week tomorrow with Ava, the Doc, and Ava's friend Erica. I'm bringing my computer and I fully expect to be posting, not about divorce drama, but rather about the hilarity that is sure to ensue. I will spend a glorious, sun-filled week immersing myself in hedonistic pleasures and I refuse to think about Ex or anything related to this divorce. We're going for my fabulous and gorgeous Designer Friend's 40th birthday party, so expect some craziness and fun in the days to come.
The service was beautiful. My grandfather, who I positively adored, died several years ago, but we waited to bury his ashes until my grandmother had also passed away. My uncle made two beautiful teak boxes for their ashes by hand and mounted them to a piece of my grandfather's beloved sailboat, the Night Wind. Their ashes were lowered into the ground with chains taken from his boat. We had a beautiful, tear-filled ceremony and laid them to rest, each of us throwing a shovel full of dirt on top of the boxes. I felt like they were finally in peace together.
During the ceremony, we all took turns telling stories about Grandma that meant something to us. Many of them were funny because my grandmother was quite the character, but I had both an amusing tale and one that was more serious. When I first married Ex, my grandmother, then in her mid-80's, said to me, "Almost, I'm worried about something."
"What is it, Grandma?"
"Well, you're so tiny, and Ex is so huge. I mean, how does the sex work? Is it actually possible? Doesn't he hurt you?"
I laughed. The comment was so typical of Grandma, who used to vacuum in the nude and trail behind my grandfather's boat on the Long Island sound attached to a rope, also sans clothes. She used to complain to me that my grandfather wasn't interested in sex regularly enough for her taste. When she was 86, my mother and I visited her in her assisted living facility. She was raving about the classical musician Andre Rieu, and told us that she wouldn't want to marry him, but he was so handsome that she'd just want to "do" him.
These aspects about my grandmother are incongruous when you consider that she was a very Bible-believing woman and truly centered her life around her faith. On the flip side, she was so realistic about life and sex that she was one of the few Christians I could tolerate being around. When Ex and I were on the slippery slope to divorce, I told my grandmother all of the details including my tawdry part in the marriage's demise. I fully expected her to give me a lecture on the Christian way to approach marital problems, i.e. a "you made a promise before the Lord, so you have to stick through it no matter what" type of diatribe.
Instead, she said, "Oh, honey, life is too short to go through it in this kind of misery. I totally understand where you're coming from. You're young and have your whole life ahead of you. Dump him."
Not words I anticipated from a Bible-thumping woman in her 80's whose favorite song was "The Majesty and Glory of Your Name," but healing words that made me laugh because of their candor and words I appreciate to this day.
Although I was supposed to return home that same night, my flight was re-routed through Ava's city, which wound up being fabulous since I was able to spend a fun evening with her and catch the first flight home the next morning. On my way there, we flew over a series of thunderstorms with lightning firing up the night sky beneath us. Overhead was an almost-full moon casting a silvery pall on the tops of the clouds below. It was breathtaking.
My grandfather was a pilot for many years, retiring from the commercial airline in the 70's, and his last private flight was when he was in his 80's. That one made the paper. Flying was his number one passion, and he loved the calm and peace of guiding a big silver bird over storms, feeling tranquility and smooth air despite the turbulence visible below.
I had laid my grandparent's ashes to rest that day, and my flight reflected another thing I'm learning to lay down. Though I still have my moments of panic, I'm beginning to ascend through the storm into that serene place between the pale moon and the squalls transpiring beneath me. I'm learning how to lay to rest my own tempests and watch them from above, enjoying gliding through the smooth air and appreciating the beauty of an uproar from afar, just like my grandfather. At some point, I will be able to lay the ashes of my marriage to rest and throw a handful of dirt on top. I hope I will feel that I've laid it to rest in peace and can look back upon it with no malice, but rather with fondness for the times that were good and with appreciation of all that I learned from it, just as I've done with my grandparents.
P.S. I'm heading off to Greece for a week tomorrow with Ava, the Doc, and Ava's friend Erica. I'm bringing my computer and I fully expect to be posting, not about divorce drama, but rather about the hilarity that is sure to ensue. I will spend a glorious, sun-filled week immersing myself in hedonistic pleasures and I refuse to think about Ex or anything related to this divorce. We're going for my fabulous and gorgeous Designer Friend's 40th birthday party, so expect some craziness and fun in the days to come.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Stranger Danger
During the time when I was just beginning to realize that I was desperately, breath-stealingly unhappy in my marriage, I decided to take a trip to see Ava for the weekend. I needed to see her. We all have this deceptive veil through which we see our own problems, and she has this amazing ability to untangle my convoluted issues and lift the veil, giving me clarity. I booked the trip figuring that it would allow me a weekend of a ridiculous amount of laughter as well as some sort of catharsis and perhaps resolution. (It did, but that's not the point of the story.)
On my way out to see Ava, I was in City Airport at one of those booksellers to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of water and the line snaked out the door, stretching halfway to the next bookseller. After what seemed like hours in line (ok, 10 minutes) I finally approached the cashier, at which time a man dressed in a ratty, hole-ridden tank top and stained khaki shorts practically pushed me out of the way to get there first. The cashier seemed to know him and the sparkling stars in her eyes were almost tangible as she went into her dreamy celebu-trance, forgetting about everyone else in line.
I'm no shrinking violet and I was not in a mood to be pushed out of the way by some homeless dude after waiting 10 whole minutes to pay a million stinking dollars for a bottle of water, so I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around.
"Um, no," I said to him. "Why don't you be a gentleman and wait your turn like everyone else."
And then I realized that this was a man I grew up with, a guy I idolized as a kid, watching him jump in and out of his white van as he saved the day.
It was Mr. T.
I wasn't star-struck by any means, since I've had my share of celebrity run-ins especially in my bartending years, but I giggled like an idiot anyway.
"Mr. T! I just heard you on Howard Stern, you were great!"
"Well, thank you, little lady. You mind if I go ahead of you? I'm late for my flight." He speaks in person exactly as he speaks on TV and radio. It tickled me.
"Sure, I understand." I had another hour before my flight left. I supposed it was no skin off of my back and the other people in line were whispering and smiling, so I figured they didn't mind either.
As the cashier rang up his purchases, he turned to me and said, "You a very beautiful lady. You married?"
"Thanks. And yes, I am."
"Well, I hope your husband appreciates you. He a lucky man."
"Thank you. He does," I lied.
"Have a nice flight, pretty lady."
"You too, Mr. T."
As I turned to leave the bookseller's, I couldn't figure out why I was dangerously close to tears and had such a lump in my throat. I figured it was something akin to stranger danger, because it's funny how a single statement from a person wholly unknown to you can crystallize your heartbreak and bring it to the surface after you've been fighting, denying and pushing it down for so long.
But at least Mr. T had turned out to be a gentleman in the end. He bought the bottle of water for me.
On my way out to see Ava, I was in City Airport at one of those booksellers to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of water and the line snaked out the door, stretching halfway to the next bookseller. After what seemed like hours in line (ok, 10 minutes) I finally approached the cashier, at which time a man dressed in a ratty, hole-ridden tank top and stained khaki shorts practically pushed me out of the way to get there first. The cashier seemed to know him and the sparkling stars in her eyes were almost tangible as she went into her dreamy celebu-trance, forgetting about everyone else in line.
I'm no shrinking violet and I was not in a mood to be pushed out of the way by some homeless dude after waiting 10 whole minutes to pay a million stinking dollars for a bottle of water, so I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around.
"Um, no," I said to him. "Why don't you be a gentleman and wait your turn like everyone else."
And then I realized that this was a man I grew up with, a guy I idolized as a kid, watching him jump in and out of his white van as he saved the day.
It was Mr. T.
I wasn't star-struck by any means, since I've had my share of celebrity run-ins especially in my bartending years, but I giggled like an idiot anyway.
"Mr. T! I just heard you on Howard Stern, you were great!"
"Well, thank you, little lady. You mind if I go ahead of you? I'm late for my flight." He speaks in person exactly as he speaks on TV and radio. It tickled me.
"Sure, I understand." I had another hour before my flight left. I supposed it was no skin off of my back and the other people in line were whispering and smiling, so I figured they didn't mind either.
As the cashier rang up his purchases, he turned to me and said, "You a very beautiful lady. You married?"
"Thanks. And yes, I am."
"Well, I hope your husband appreciates you. He a lucky man."
"Thank you. He does," I lied.
"Have a nice flight, pretty lady."
"You too, Mr. T."
As I turned to leave the bookseller's, I couldn't figure out why I was dangerously close to tears and had such a lump in my throat. I figured it was something akin to stranger danger, because it's funny how a single statement from a person wholly unknown to you can crystallize your heartbreak and bring it to the surface after you've been fighting, denying and pushing it down for so long.
But at least Mr. T had turned out to be a gentleman in the end. He bought the bottle of water for me.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
THE RAID
This is one of my favorite stories of all time, and even though it's long, I just can't resist telling it today, especially since Tracy, Lauren, and Lynn just conducted a raid of their own.
My raid was much more dramatic than that one, and I have to say, so filled with laughs that it's nearly impossible to convey in words.
I had moved out of the house in the fall, and Ex and I initially tried to work out our divorce amicably. It clearly was not going well because we had too many assets and it was an insurmountable task to divide them equally. Add to that the many drunk texts I was receiving almost nightly, and it equaled a contentious relationship to say the least. I had already retained Lawyer, so I wasn't surprised when he called me shortly after the New Year one Monday morning and said, "Almost, Ex has filed for divorce against you. Let's get together later today and sign some papers. I already have them drawn up."
The next day while I was at work, I called Lawyer and said, "Listen, I think I should probably go get the rest of my possessions out of the house. What do you think?"
"Absolutely! Get over there as fast as you can!"
As I've already mentioned, Ex is gone during the week for work, and this presented the perfect opportunity to go back to the house and load up what remaining items I could fit into my car. It just so happened that this fell on Girls' Night, which is our weekly get together of whatever members of our girls' club are available, so I called all of the girls and asked a huge favor.
"Lauren, Anastasia, and Shawn, I need to get my stuff out of the house. Can you bring your SUVs and help me tonight? I promise, there will still be wine involved."
The wonderful friends that they are, they agreed and I headed to the house straight after work.
I was nervous while I was driving there because I wasn't entirely convinced that Ex wouldn't be home, but I was enormously relieved when I drove down the driveway and saw that the space in which he usually parked his car was empty.
I was the first to arrive. I traipsed through the inches of snow on the ground to the front door, almost breaking my neck in the Christian Louboutins I had worn to work that day.
I tried my key in the lock. It wasn't working, no matter how much I jiggled it. I was incredulous. Ex had changed the locks.
Again, almost breaking my neck in my heels, I walked to the back of the house and tried my other key. He'd changed those locks as well.
I promptly called Lawyer. I was in a rage. "Lawyer, he CHANGED THE LOCKS ON ME!!"
"Of course he did."
"Am I within my legal rights to break the window or pick the locks to get my stuff back?" I asked, while walking to the sliding glass door in the front of the house.
Just as Lawyer was about to answer me, I tugged on the sliding glass door and began to laugh. It slid right open. For all of Ex's attempts to keep me out, he had forgotten to lock that door and it amused me to no end. Lawyer laughed as well and we said our goodbyes.
The first thing I went to look for was a stash of physical precious metals we had acquired over the course of the marriage, which happened to amount to a substantial sum of money. My intent was to have Lauren photograph the entire stash for insurance purposes and then split it equally. I knew the going price of gold and silver at the time, so it would have been a simple task. It was gone.
Again, in a rage, I called Lawyer. "The gold and silver is gone!"
"Of course it is."
I was becoming irate as the girls started showing up. They were already in hysterics because of the manner in which I gained entry to the house, but I threw my hands in the air in frustration.
"Can you believe this bastard? First, he tries to lock me out of getting my own stuff, and then he steals the gold and silver! What a motherf*cker!"
Anastasia said, "Chill out, Almost. Let's open a bottle of wine while we get your stuff together."
Ex and I had been working on a wine cellar together when I moved out of the house, and by the time The Raid took place, it was finished. There was a key on the table near the entrance to the cellar, and it didn't work. I looked at Anastasia and said, "You're the cop, break in!"
Instead, she went on a hunt for the working key, and to her credit, found it. We began by opening a bottle of Opus One. An old one. A very expensive one, and the first of several that we would finish before the evening was out.
While we went to work packing up the remainder of my clothes, books, and everything else I thought we could fit into our various vehicles, Shawn said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we took all of the toilet paper in the house?"
Shawn didn't know this, but Ex has this thing about toilet paper. If there weren't 800 rolls in the house at once, he'd flip out, go to the nearest 24 hour convenience store and purchase their entire stock of Charmin.
Of course, Lauren was aware of Ex's obsession and the look in her eyes was priceless as she took off on a tear to grab every single roll in the place. On each spindle, she left an empty cardboard roll.
I went to look for a plastic bin containing thousands of photos that I can never replace, and it wasn't in the last place I'd left it. I began to panic because, honestly, of everything I was taking, this was the most important. I thought that perhaps it was in the garage, so I grabbed the garage door opener and went outside.
Ex had told me in November that he'd had my motorcycle taken to the dealership for winter tune-up and storage. I took him at his word and never called the dealership to confirm, so it came to me as a huge surprise when I opened up the garage door and found my bike sitting right there, not moved an inch from the last time I'd taken a ride. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that I couldn't find my pictures, but did find my bike. This whole situation was becoming more and more unbearable.
Immediately, I got on the phone with the dealership. These guys have known me for years, and I knew that even though it was after hours, a little begging might prod them into coming out and picking up the bike. I really needed them to do this because if that bike was still there when Ex came home and realized I had removed my belongings, he'd take a hammer to it. I explained my situation, and sure enough, a half hour later, two of the guys from the dealership showed up with their truck. After loading my baby into the back of their trailer, I invited them inside for some wine and laughs.
By this time, we'd pretty much packed up all of my belongings and we were sitting in the living room working on our third bottle of wine. I went into the wine cellar, picked up two collector's edition magnums of cabernet, and gave one to each of the guys from the dealership.
Anastasia said, "Almost, you should take something of value, since Ex took the gold and silver, tried to deprive you of your own possessions by changing the locks, did something with your photos that you can never replace, and lied to you about the bike."
"You're right. I need collateral, don't I?"
"Sure do."
I promptly added to the pile of belongings the three most expensive paintings we had in the house, as well as Ex's gold Rolex, of course with the intention of returning them eventually.
As the six of us chatted and drank more wine, Lauren got a mischievous look in her eyes. Ex and I had purchased a six foot wooden Cigar Store Native American statue a couple of years back which stood in the corner of the living room. Lauren said, "Wouldn't it be great if we took that thing out on the front lawn and wrapped it in toilet paper?"
We all giggled and the guys from the dealership groaned. They looked at each other and one muttered, "This is why the saying goes that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
I couldn't bring myself to do something like that, but Lauren had another idea. "Almost, why don't we dress up the cigar store dude in some of Ex's clothes?"
I jumped up. "His wedding tuxedo!"
I ran to Ex's closet, brought out the tux, and we proceeded to dress the statue in the clothes. We had no trouble with the shirt and jacket, but we couldn't figure out how to get the pants on because the feet were planted to a rectangular stand.
"Almost, go get some nails," Shawn giggled.
I went into the tool box, found a couple of rusty roofing nails and a hammer, which Shawn promptly grabbed from me and used to affix the pants onto the statue. We were in hysterics while we each took turns taking photos with the statue hilariously dressed in Ex's wedding tuxedo.
I knew that I couldn't leave it like that, so I eventually took off the tux and returned it to Ex's closet, though the pictures still make me laugh.
My boxes and bags were sitting at the door, and I thought it was time to get going. The boys from the motorcycle dealership helped us pack everything in the cars and SUVs, but I was having trouble because I was wearing good shoes that I didn't want to ruin in the snow. While I had been packing, I had come across a cheap, ugly pair of Frederick's of Hollywood mules with feathers on the toes. Though it was cold and snowy, I thought it was better to go in and out of the house in those rather than ruin a nice pair of shoes because truthfully, I'd rather have frostbite than kill expensive shoes.
When we were finished packing everything in the vehicles, Lauren said, "Almost, we have to do one more thing. Sort of like a signature..... hmmm.... oh, I know! Give me those cheap mules you've been wearing!"
"What? Why?" I asked.
She laughed and said, "Trust me on this one. If you like them that much, I'll buy you another pair."
I handed over the mules in question, after which Lauren dangled them from the deer antlers that hung over the main fireplace.
"There. Now Ex will definitely know you've been here," and she took a picture of it.
We were all in hysterics at this point after the toilet paper theft, dressing up the statue in the tux, the mules on the antlers, and 5 bottles of wine.
We slid the sliding glass door closed and left.
A few days later, Lauren was at work and she received a phone call from Ex.
"I want to report a theft. I've been robbed of my Rolex and three paintings."
"No you haven't."
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't been robbed."
"How do you know?"
"I was there."
"You.... you.... what do you f*cking mean you were there?" Ex stammered as he was apparently becoming more and more angry.
"I was there as your insurance agent to ensure that nothing was damaged."
"I still need to report a theft. I've gone to the police. They fingerprinted everything. And you had no right to break into my house."
"I didn't break in. You left the sliding glass door open."
"No I didn't! You broke in, and I want to report this f*cking theft! I have the police report and I'll press charges if I have to!"
"First of all, reporting a theft would be insurance fraud because the other person on the policy is in possession of the items in question. Second of all, you were well aware that it was Almost who came back to get her stuff and she had every right to do so. Lastly, if you want to be such an A**HOLE that you feel the need to bring down all of your wife's friends as well as her, then more power to you!"
"WHAT?? I want to speak to your supervisor!"
"Fabulous. I'll transfer you."
Several minutes later, Lauren's supervisor transferred him back to her.
"Yes, Ex?"
"I just want you to know that I only said good things to your supervisor about you."
"Then why did you want to be transferred in the first place?"
"I'm not a bad person, you know."
"Ex, until today, I probably would have agreed with you."
"Come on, Lauren, tell me who else was there," Ex nearly whimpered.
My own personal queen of one-liners said, "I guess you'll have to wait until the fingerprints come back. Goodbye." Click.
Since that time, I've returned the paintings and the Rolex, while Ex has put the gold and silver in escrow and returned my photos.
But I will always have one of the letters to Lawyer from Greasy Attorney regarding The Raid which states the following and makes me laugh all over again, no matter how many times I read it:
"What is even more upsetting is not only did your client and whatever other people she had in the home at the time, is that they drank 6 bottles of wine and/or champagne and left them at the house, as well as the empty glasses in the sink. Further, they placed a pair of stiletto heels on the deer's antlers which were above the fireplace mantle and removed every single roll of toilet paper, as well as emptying the toilet paper rolls on the dispensers."
The Raid is now forever commemorated in our state's legal system and I still haven't had to buy a single roll of toilet paper since that night.
My raid was much more dramatic than that one, and I have to say, so filled with laughs that it's nearly impossible to convey in words.
I had moved out of the house in the fall, and Ex and I initially tried to work out our divorce amicably. It clearly was not going well because we had too many assets and it was an insurmountable task to divide them equally. Add to that the many drunk texts I was receiving almost nightly, and it equaled a contentious relationship to say the least. I had already retained Lawyer, so I wasn't surprised when he called me shortly after the New Year one Monday morning and said, "Almost, Ex has filed for divorce against you. Let's get together later today and sign some papers. I already have them drawn up."
The next day while I was at work, I called Lawyer and said, "Listen, I think I should probably go get the rest of my possessions out of the house. What do you think?"
"Absolutely! Get over there as fast as you can!"
As I've already mentioned, Ex is gone during the week for work, and this presented the perfect opportunity to go back to the house and load up what remaining items I could fit into my car. It just so happened that this fell on Girls' Night, which is our weekly get together of whatever members of our girls' club are available, so I called all of the girls and asked a huge favor.
"Lauren, Anastasia, and Shawn, I need to get my stuff out of the house. Can you bring your SUVs and help me tonight? I promise, there will still be wine involved."
The wonderful friends that they are, they agreed and I headed to the house straight after work.
I was nervous while I was driving there because I wasn't entirely convinced that Ex wouldn't be home, but I was enormously relieved when I drove down the driveway and saw that the space in which he usually parked his car was empty.
I was the first to arrive. I traipsed through the inches of snow on the ground to the front door, almost breaking my neck in the Christian Louboutins I had worn to work that day.
I tried my key in the lock. It wasn't working, no matter how much I jiggled it. I was incredulous. Ex had changed the locks.
Again, almost breaking my neck in my heels, I walked to the back of the house and tried my other key. He'd changed those locks as well.
I promptly called Lawyer. I was in a rage. "Lawyer, he CHANGED THE LOCKS ON ME!!"
"Of course he did."
"Am I within my legal rights to break the window or pick the locks to get my stuff back?" I asked, while walking to the sliding glass door in the front of the house.
Just as Lawyer was about to answer me, I tugged on the sliding glass door and began to laugh. It slid right open. For all of Ex's attempts to keep me out, he had forgotten to lock that door and it amused me to no end. Lawyer laughed as well and we said our goodbyes.
The first thing I went to look for was a stash of physical precious metals we had acquired over the course of the marriage, which happened to amount to a substantial sum of money. My intent was to have Lauren photograph the entire stash for insurance purposes and then split it equally. I knew the going price of gold and silver at the time, so it would have been a simple task. It was gone.
Again, in a rage, I called Lawyer. "The gold and silver is gone!"
"Of course it is."
I was becoming irate as the girls started showing up. They were already in hysterics because of the manner in which I gained entry to the house, but I threw my hands in the air in frustration.
"Can you believe this bastard? First, he tries to lock me out of getting my own stuff, and then he steals the gold and silver! What a motherf*cker!"
Anastasia said, "Chill out, Almost. Let's open a bottle of wine while we get your stuff together."
Ex and I had been working on a wine cellar together when I moved out of the house, and by the time The Raid took place, it was finished. There was a key on the table near the entrance to the cellar, and it didn't work. I looked at Anastasia and said, "You're the cop, break in!"
Instead, she went on a hunt for the working key, and to her credit, found it. We began by opening a bottle of Opus One. An old one. A very expensive one, and the first of several that we would finish before the evening was out.
While we went to work packing up the remainder of my clothes, books, and everything else I thought we could fit into our various vehicles, Shawn said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we took all of the toilet paper in the house?"
Shawn didn't know this, but Ex has this thing about toilet paper. If there weren't 800 rolls in the house at once, he'd flip out, go to the nearest 24 hour convenience store and purchase their entire stock of Charmin.
Of course, Lauren was aware of Ex's obsession and the look in her eyes was priceless as she took off on a tear to grab every single roll in the place. On each spindle, she left an empty cardboard roll.
I went to look for a plastic bin containing thousands of photos that I can never replace, and it wasn't in the last place I'd left it. I began to panic because, honestly, of everything I was taking, this was the most important. I thought that perhaps it was in the garage, so I grabbed the garage door opener and went outside.
Ex had told me in November that he'd had my motorcycle taken to the dealership for winter tune-up and storage. I took him at his word and never called the dealership to confirm, so it came to me as a huge surprise when I opened up the garage door and found my bike sitting right there, not moved an inch from the last time I'd taken a ride. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that I couldn't find my pictures, but did find my bike. This whole situation was becoming more and more unbearable.
Immediately, I got on the phone with the dealership. These guys have known me for years, and I knew that even though it was after hours, a little begging might prod them into coming out and picking up the bike. I really needed them to do this because if that bike was still there when Ex came home and realized I had removed my belongings, he'd take a hammer to it. I explained my situation, and sure enough, a half hour later, two of the guys from the dealership showed up with their truck. After loading my baby into the back of their trailer, I invited them inside for some wine and laughs.
By this time, we'd pretty much packed up all of my belongings and we were sitting in the living room working on our third bottle of wine. I went into the wine cellar, picked up two collector's edition magnums of cabernet, and gave one to each of the guys from the dealership.
Anastasia said, "Almost, you should take something of value, since Ex took the gold and silver, tried to deprive you of your own possessions by changing the locks, did something with your photos that you can never replace, and lied to you about the bike."
"You're right. I need collateral, don't I?"
"Sure do."
I promptly added to the pile of belongings the three most expensive paintings we had in the house, as well as Ex's gold Rolex, of course with the intention of returning them eventually.
As the six of us chatted and drank more wine, Lauren got a mischievous look in her eyes. Ex and I had purchased a six foot wooden Cigar Store Native American statue a couple of years back which stood in the corner of the living room. Lauren said, "Wouldn't it be great if we took that thing out on the front lawn and wrapped it in toilet paper?"
We all giggled and the guys from the dealership groaned. They looked at each other and one muttered, "This is why the saying goes that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
I couldn't bring myself to do something like that, but Lauren had another idea. "Almost, why don't we dress up the cigar store dude in some of Ex's clothes?"
I jumped up. "His wedding tuxedo!"
I ran to Ex's closet, brought out the tux, and we proceeded to dress the statue in the clothes. We had no trouble with the shirt and jacket, but we couldn't figure out how to get the pants on because the feet were planted to a rectangular stand.
"Almost, go get some nails," Shawn giggled.
I went into the tool box, found a couple of rusty roofing nails and a hammer, which Shawn promptly grabbed from me and used to affix the pants onto the statue. We were in hysterics while we each took turns taking photos with the statue hilariously dressed in Ex's wedding tuxedo.
I knew that I couldn't leave it like that, so I eventually took off the tux and returned it to Ex's closet, though the pictures still make me laugh.
My boxes and bags were sitting at the door, and I thought it was time to get going. The boys from the motorcycle dealership helped us pack everything in the cars and SUVs, but I was having trouble because I was wearing good shoes that I didn't want to ruin in the snow. While I had been packing, I had come across a cheap, ugly pair of Frederick's of Hollywood mules with feathers on the toes. Though it was cold and snowy, I thought it was better to go in and out of the house in those rather than ruin a nice pair of shoes because truthfully, I'd rather have frostbite than kill expensive shoes.
When we were finished packing everything in the vehicles, Lauren said, "Almost, we have to do one more thing. Sort of like a signature..... hmmm.... oh, I know! Give me those cheap mules you've been wearing!"
"What? Why?" I asked.
She laughed and said, "Trust me on this one. If you like them that much, I'll buy you another pair."
I handed over the mules in question, after which Lauren dangled them from the deer antlers that hung over the main fireplace.
"There. Now Ex will definitely know you've been here," and she took a picture of it.
We were all in hysterics at this point after the toilet paper theft, dressing up the statue in the tux, the mules on the antlers, and 5 bottles of wine.
We slid the sliding glass door closed and left.
A few days later, Lauren was at work and she received a phone call from Ex.
"I want to report a theft. I've been robbed of my Rolex and three paintings."
"No you haven't."
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't been robbed."
"How do you know?"
"I was there."
"You.... you.... what do you f*cking mean you were there?" Ex stammered as he was apparently becoming more and more angry.
"I was there as your insurance agent to ensure that nothing was damaged."
"I still need to report a theft. I've gone to the police. They fingerprinted everything. And you had no right to break into my house."
"I didn't break in. You left the sliding glass door open."
"No I didn't! You broke in, and I want to report this f*cking theft! I have the police report and I'll press charges if I have to!"
"First of all, reporting a theft would be insurance fraud because the other person on the policy is in possession of the items in question. Second of all, you were well aware that it was Almost who came back to get her stuff and she had every right to do so. Lastly, if you want to be such an A**HOLE that you feel the need to bring down all of your wife's friends as well as her, then more power to you!"
"WHAT?? I want to speak to your supervisor!"
"Fabulous. I'll transfer you."
Several minutes later, Lauren's supervisor transferred him back to her.
"Yes, Ex?"
"I just want you to know that I only said good things to your supervisor about you."
"Then why did you want to be transferred in the first place?"
"I'm not a bad person, you know."
"Ex, until today, I probably would have agreed with you."
"Come on, Lauren, tell me who else was there," Ex nearly whimpered.
My own personal queen of one-liners said, "I guess you'll have to wait until the fingerprints come back. Goodbye." Click.
Since that time, I've returned the paintings and the Rolex, while Ex has put the gold and silver in escrow and returned my photos.
But I will always have one of the letters to Lawyer from Greasy Attorney regarding The Raid which states the following and makes me laugh all over again, no matter how many times I read it:
"What is even more upsetting is not only did your client and whatever other people she had in the home at the time, is that they drank 6 bottles of wine and/or champagne and left them at the house, as well as the empty glasses in the sink. Further, they placed a pair of stiletto heels on the deer's antlers which were above the fireplace mantle and removed every single roll of toilet paper, as well as emptying the toilet paper rolls on the dispensers."
The Raid is now forever commemorated in our state's legal system and I still haven't had to buy a single roll of toilet paper since that night.
Monday, July 23, 2007
If you tap too much, your hair falls out.
My Godson's 8th birthday was on Saturday, and we had a party at Lauren's ex-boyfriend's house. All of the adults sat around a big table, drinking margaritas and laughing, while the kids contented themselves with jumping on the trampoline and swimming in the pool next door.
I sat next to Tracy, who is, if you recall, the girl with whom Lauren first went to see Pascal. Tracy is a whole bog of her own, but she made me double over in fits of laughter with her story of the demise of the relationship with her last boyfriend, the Tapmaster.
I call him the Tapmaster because he can't seem to get out a sentence without tapping himself in some odd place. He's not even college educated, but this dude is so self-aggrandizing that he told me that he knows more about the psychology of everyone than anyone else. (A little self-disclosure - the Ph.D. I'm working on is in Clinical Psychology. I don't think I know everything about anyone, but I'm not busting my ass in grad school for nothing.) Oh, yeah, and after telling me that "you're spending years in a program to learn about what I know naturally," he told me to secure my tickets to Oprah, because he was going to be on it very soon for his groundbreaking book. He actually sort of was on the Oprah show. Only, he was on Oprah in the capacity of "Over 35 and Single." And his segment was edited out. So he wasn't really even on Oprah.
The one and only time that I met the Tapmaster was an evening of sheer torture. I looked at his long hair, hanging in somewhat greasy strings around his face, and was immediately turned off, but he was clearly proud of his hair since he kept flipping it around. Tracy was really into him at this point, and for her sake I wanted to give him some respect and listen to his sheer and utter soliloquy on the benefits of EFT. (If you don't want to click on the link, and I don't blame you, it's one of those weird things that supposedly cures all of your life's ailments through tapping yourself in odd places.) OMG, was this painful! He truly commandeered this conversation, and none of us were interested while he seemed to tap himself to death. In my academic community, EFT is not only frowned upon, but rather, we laugh at it. It's one of those things like the Raelians. You can claim science until you're blue-faced, but we all know that science seriously thinks you're a nutjob.
So Tracy was telling me at my Godson's party that she'd had enough. She'd found out that the Tapmaster had been cheating on her and grossly enough, had been double dipping. Twice she went to his house when he was gone to pick up her things, first with Lynn, at which time she gathered the dildos. Because the Tapmaster liked to be f*cked in the ass. Sweet.
The second time, she went with Lauren, at which time she took a piece of furniture that she had given him to refurbish. They removed the piece of furniture and left.
But prior to leaving, Tracy went to his computer. She forwarded all of his incriminating emails to herself and deleted all of the evidence that she had done so. I am now in possession of the emails he sent to his other girlfriend, and I believe that Tracy will soon be handing those over to his other girl with a sweet smile and a pretty face with the words, "Honey, we're in the girls' club. If I were in your position, I'd want to know." I'll be with her when this happens, which will be in about a week. I don't take pleasure in others' pain, but I do know that if I were in the Other Woman's position, I'd want to know. This girl, who seems to me to be a truly sweet person, needs to get out of this man's grip.
But the best thing about their raid? When Lauren and Tracy left the Tapmaster's house, Lauren whispered something in Tracy's ear.....
"Tracy, there's Nair in his hair conditioner now."
I sat next to Tracy, who is, if you recall, the girl with whom Lauren first went to see Pascal. Tracy is a whole bog of her own, but she made me double over in fits of laughter with her story of the demise of the relationship with her last boyfriend, the Tapmaster.
I call him the Tapmaster because he can't seem to get out a sentence without tapping himself in some odd place. He's not even college educated, but this dude is so self-aggrandizing that he told me that he knows more about the psychology of everyone than anyone else. (A little self-disclosure - the Ph.D. I'm working on is in Clinical Psychology. I don't think I know everything about anyone, but I'm not busting my ass in grad school for nothing.) Oh, yeah, and after telling me that "you're spending years in a program to learn about what I know naturally," he told me to secure my tickets to Oprah, because he was going to be on it very soon for his groundbreaking book. He actually sort of was on the Oprah show. Only, he was on Oprah in the capacity of "Over 35 and Single." And his segment was edited out. So he wasn't really even on Oprah.
The one and only time that I met the Tapmaster was an evening of sheer torture. I looked at his long hair, hanging in somewhat greasy strings around his face, and was immediately turned off, but he was clearly proud of his hair since he kept flipping it around. Tracy was really into him at this point, and for her sake I wanted to give him some respect and listen to his sheer and utter soliloquy on the benefits of EFT. (If you don't want to click on the link, and I don't blame you, it's one of those weird things that supposedly cures all of your life's ailments through tapping yourself in odd places.) OMG, was this painful! He truly commandeered this conversation, and none of us were interested while he seemed to tap himself to death. In my academic community, EFT is not only frowned upon, but rather, we laugh at it. It's one of those things like the Raelians. You can claim science until you're blue-faced, but we all know that science seriously thinks you're a nutjob.
So Tracy was telling me at my Godson's party that she'd had enough. She'd found out that the Tapmaster had been cheating on her and grossly enough, had been double dipping. Twice she went to his house when he was gone to pick up her things, first with Lynn, at which time she gathered the dildos. Because the Tapmaster liked to be f*cked in the ass. Sweet.
The second time, she went with Lauren, at which time she took a piece of furniture that she had given him to refurbish. They removed the piece of furniture and left.
But prior to leaving, Tracy went to his computer. She forwarded all of his incriminating emails to herself and deleted all of the evidence that she had done so. I am now in possession of the emails he sent to his other girlfriend, and I believe that Tracy will soon be handing those over to his other girl with a sweet smile and a pretty face with the words, "Honey, we're in the girls' club. If I were in your position, I'd want to know." I'll be with her when this happens, which will be in about a week. I don't take pleasure in others' pain, but I do know that if I were in the Other Woman's position, I'd want to know. This girl, who seems to me to be a truly sweet person, needs to get out of this man's grip.
But the best thing about their raid? When Lauren and Tracy left the Tapmaster's house, Lauren whispered something in Tracy's ear.....
"Tracy, there's Nair in his hair conditioner now."
Friday, July 20, 2007
Priceless
This week I've had a lot of time to contemplate the impetus behind my marriage's flaming death. Perhaps too much time. My ultimate conclusion? Ex was an ass. (Profound, I know.) I, of course, had my own participation in The End and I would never be so pious as to suggest otherwise, but those are stories for the future. And believe me, those stories pack a big bang. I admire Barmaid and at some point in the future, I'll have her sense of candor, but I just can't write about that right now. So in the meantime, I've been forced, through this profundity of silence and nature, to mull over the reasons that I really wanted out.
As a distraction, I've been thinking of my friends' funny stories. Of course, Lauren is at the forefront. Months ago, before she was involved with Pascal, she had met a local guy on a dating site and began to see him. His name was Matthew and he truly seemed nice. They had grown quite close in the several months they saw each other and he was already talking serious commitment. I met him once at her house and he struck me as a good person. His mother is a cop in my city and I figured that the son of a single mom cop has to be a decent guy, right? Not so much.
After these months of dating, Matthew had invited Lauren to his company's Christmas party and she was excited. She bought a fabulous new dress that looked ridiculously hot on her, new stilettos, and tried on the ensemble for me. I was drop-jawed. She looked amazing and I told her as much.
Two days before the party, she still hadn't heard from Matthew about the details of the party - when he was picking her up, if she needed to bring a bottle of wine, and whether she needed to pack an overnight bag. Sure enough, he never even called. He did send her a text message in which he indicated that he was "pissed off" for work reasons, but she received no communication from him after that. The evening of the party came and went, at which time we girls went out in our finest, determined to have a fabulous evening despite the fact that Matthew turned out to be a super tool.
The next day, my favorite Queen of Redress pulled one of her classic revenge tactics. Based upon the Mastercard "Priceless" campaigns, she wrote a "Priceless" piece of her own. And faxed it to his company's main fax machine. The one that everyone sees.
It read:
"Priceless
3 MONTH MEMBERSHIP TO AMERICAN SINGLES $ 97.85
TALKING FOR 3 MONTHS TO A "GOOD GUY" $ UPLIFTING
GAS TO GET TO FIRST MEETING AND BABYSITTER FOR CHILD $ 57.23
BEST BLOW JOB HE EVER HAD $ 6 MINUTES
CATCHING HIM ACTIVELY ON AMERICAN SINGLES
WHEN IT HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED THAT WE WERE
TALKING ONLY TO EACH OTHER
$ FEELINGS HURT
BUYING INTO HIS BULLSHIT $ 94 PHONE HOURS
2 YEAR SUBSRIPTION TO GQ (CHRISTMAS PRESENT) $ 25.89
FINDING OUT HE HAS AN OVER INFLATED OPINION
OF HIS SEXUAL PERFORMANCE AND MAN TOOL $ HAHAHAHAHA
DRESS FOR CHRISTMAS PARTY $ 249.37
HAVING HIM BE "PISSED OFF" AND BLOWING ME OFF WHILE
NOT LETTING ME KNOW WHY $ ANNOYING
GIVING HIM A VALID REASON TO BE PISSED OFF. . .
PRICELESS"
Needless to say, Matthew was indeed pissed off and a relationship certainly did not bloom thereafter. Matthew was decidedly embarrassed, but his coworkers loved it. The fax still hangs in the main area of his office.
As a distraction, I've been thinking of my friends' funny stories. Of course, Lauren is at the forefront. Months ago, before she was involved with Pascal, she had met a local guy on a dating site and began to see him. His name was Matthew and he truly seemed nice. They had grown quite close in the several months they saw each other and he was already talking serious commitment. I met him once at her house and he struck me as a good person. His mother is a cop in my city and I figured that the son of a single mom cop has to be a decent guy, right? Not so much.
After these months of dating, Matthew had invited Lauren to his company's Christmas party and she was excited. She bought a fabulous new dress that looked ridiculously hot on her, new stilettos, and tried on the ensemble for me. I was drop-jawed. She looked amazing and I told her as much.
Two days before the party, she still hadn't heard from Matthew about the details of the party - when he was picking her up, if she needed to bring a bottle of wine, and whether she needed to pack an overnight bag. Sure enough, he never even called. He did send her a text message in which he indicated that he was "pissed off" for work reasons, but she received no communication from him after that. The evening of the party came and went, at which time we girls went out in our finest, determined to have a fabulous evening despite the fact that Matthew turned out to be a super tool.
The next day, my favorite Queen of Redress pulled one of her classic revenge tactics. Based upon the Mastercard "Priceless" campaigns, she wrote a "Priceless" piece of her own. And faxed it to his company's main fax machine. The one that everyone sees.
It read:
"Priceless
3 MONTH MEMBERSHIP TO AMERICAN SINGLES $ 97.85
TALKING FOR 3 MONTHS TO A "GOOD GUY" $ UPLIFTING
GAS TO GET TO FIRST MEETING AND BABYSITTER FOR CHILD $ 57.23
BEST BLOW JOB HE EVER HAD $ 6 MINUTES
CATCHING HIM ACTIVELY ON AMERICAN SINGLES
WHEN IT HAD BEEN ESTABLISHED THAT WE WERE
TALKING ONLY TO EACH OTHER
$ FEELINGS HURT
BUYING INTO HIS BULLSHIT $ 94 PHONE HOURS
2 YEAR SUBSRIPTION TO GQ (CHRISTMAS PRESENT) $ 25.89
FINDING OUT HE HAS AN OVER INFLATED OPINION
OF HIS SEXUAL PERFORMANCE AND MAN TOOL $ HAHAHAHAHA
DRESS FOR CHRISTMAS PARTY $ 249.37
HAVING HIM BE "PISSED OFF" AND BLOWING ME OFF WHILE
NOT LETTING ME KNOW WHY $ ANNOYING
GIVING HIM A VALID REASON TO BE PISSED OFF. . .
PRICELESS"
Needless to say, Matthew was indeed pissed off and a relationship certainly did not bloom thereafter. Matthew was decidedly embarrassed, but his coworkers loved it. The fax still hangs in the main area of his office.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Forced Contemplation
I'm in upstate New York right now for my family's annual Adirondack adventure, and this is pretty much the view from my cabin. It's not so much an adventure, since we stay in cabins (albeit rickety ones) on the grounds of an old, great Adirondack Park resort, although I think braving the steep terrain to my cabin in 5 inch stilettos is pretty adventuresome. This used to be the vacation spot for the wealthy urban - the used-to-be Hamptons - but it's now a destination spot only for die-hards like us.
Because it's not the hot spot of old, the silence here is utterly and deafeningly profound when the sun slips behind the towering blue mountain to the west, the one that looks like a giant, sleeping whale. Last night, I sat on my porch to watch the sunset and listened to the waves lapping gently on the shore. And I kind of panicked.
Carla just had a baby a few months back and can't be here with us, though her older son is staying with me here. I miss her terribly and her absence has left me unable to subjugate my own thoughts about what has transpired since my most recent visit here, about this time last year. On our annual trips here, Carla and I always stay up late, drink wine, gossip, and above all, laugh nonstop. My nephew said to me last night, "Aunt Almost, I wish Mom was here. Nobody makes her laugh like you."
I used to beg Ex to come here with me when we were married and he always refused, as he did with most of my social invites, except for once. Last year at this time, I was already aware that I wanted out of the marriage. Of course, since Ex was aware of that as well, it was the first time he asked me if he could accompany me because he knew how important this place is to me. I said no. Carla and I had a blast. She had accidentally gotten knocked up, and when I'd sneak outside to smoke a cigarette, she'd whisper out the window, "Almost, dammit, blow some of that smoke over here. I swear, this kid is going to be the next Tommy Lee because he already loves cigarettes and it feels like he's playing the drums in there."
This year, I don't have Carla's craziness to make me giggle and the silence is an invisible prod, forcing me to deal with issues that I usually drown out with the sounds of the city outside of my door. My mom just asked me a few minutes ago, "What do you think about the nature of marriage?", which was ironic because I had just spent the previous evening staring at the lake and unpacking painful memories to examine in order to truly understand the demise of my marriage.
I hooted and shot her an incredulous look. "What do you think I think about it, Mom?"
She laughed. "Remember the guy who used to be our house painter back when we lived in New Jersey? He was with the same woman for 16 years and they had 2 kids, but they had never married. The kids were embarrassed and urged them to tie the knot. Do you know that they went from a blissful relationship to being divorced within 6 months of getting married? Why do you think that happens?"
"Because all of a sudden, you're not with that person because you want to be, you're with them because you're have to be. You're inextricably bound."
She looked thoughtful and said that she wanted to talk more about it over dinner. I'd rather not, because what I said to her today is my all-encompassing view on marriage. That, and the fact that I know I will never again get married.
There's one other factor that's making it nearly impossible for me to ignore contemplating the changes in my life since July of last year. The genius that I am, I forgot to bring my computer plug and I currently have 18% battery. I can't even entertain myself with mindless web browsing or bothering my friends with an avalanche of emails.
I'm cooking dinner tonight for the family and I think that afterwards, I will go in search of something entertaining so that I may once again subjugate these thoughts, if only temporarily. Perhaps I won't have to search too far, because my 12 year-old nephew has gotten into asking me and my mom sex questions these days. The latest were, "What's a no-tell motel?", "What's a lot lizard?", and "Have you ever gotten waxed? Where? Why would you wax there??"
I'm looking forward to his next set of questions, which I have a feeling will be about transgender issues, since I threatened to turn him into a full-on drag queen this evening if he didn't stop sucking in candy like a black hole sucks light.
But when my nephew goes to bed, I will be alone with my thoughts again on a quiet lake with pine-scented air, both of which silently scream at me to stop pushing thoughts and feelings into a deep, dark place. And I will probably once again miss Carla. And then bring out more memories that I so carefully packed away so they wouldn't hurt so badly. Like last night, I will probably symbolically turn them over in my hands, and the mere act of almost tangibly experiencing them again will make them less painful. I will repack them, yet in a place closer to the surface. Perhaps forced introspection isn't such a bad thing after all.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Break the Law, Make a Friend
I've come to learn that I meet new friends in the oddest of ways. Ava and I couldn't stand each other when we first met, but yet, we ended up being best friends after we stopped throwing each other the stink eye in the hallway of our dorm. When I moved to this city, I initially worked in a restaurant and met Lauren on my first day, who made quite the impression on me because of her huge smile and even more impressive bust (they were brand new back then). She and I weren't even formally introduced until months later, but I remembered her from that night in the restaurant ("Weren't you wearing that red chenille sweater?") and she remembered me as well ("My first thought when I looked at you was, 'are they real or real expensive?'"). Shawn and I met when Plastic Surgeon friend took us to New York to discuss our silicone hooters on national television ("Why, yes, Ms. Couric, I enjoy my silicone tatas very much." Try keeping a straight face on that one.). I met Plastic Surgeon when I had a benign tumor that took up residence in my right boob and had to have my old funbags replaced, and we ended up becoming great friends.
Point being, I tend to become friends with people through some odd circumstances and they have been a huge part of my ability to get through this divorce. They have all made me laugh and prevented me from losing my mind somewhere between the drunk texts and Lawyer's fees, which quite frankly, are so high that I think they're probably the GDP of some small countries.
Now I think I have a new friend who's making me laugh hysterically and realize that my accident the other day may have resulted in more than just me curled up in the fetal position with visions of shackles and an orange jumpsuit. When I wrote about my mishap the other night, I didn't mention how I sent Officer Lentil a text after I went home, thanking him for being so kind. He responded with an equally kind text, and we've been sending each other texts off and on since.
After I wrote about the accident, I received several emails from ladies across the country that went something like this:
"Dear Almost,
A cute guy in uniform who also has social skills?? Is he single? Please, please, please tell me what city you live in because I want to hunt down car 1831!
Signed,
Single Girl Willing to Break Any Law to Be Handcuffed by Officer Lentil"
The answer to your question, ladies, is yes, I believe he's single. However, he doesn't want to meet you, thanks to me.
I sent him a text yesterday to tell him that it seems he has some fans who want to get to know him. I was drinking a bottle of water at the precise moment that I read his reply and promptly spit it all over myself in choking laughter.
"Great, Almost. That's all I need. Women from around the country running over joggers on my beat. Paperwork from hell. Thanks a lot."
Once again, I have met a new friend under bizarre circumstances who's already providing me with laughter. And hey, what's a little pedestrian run-in or an orange jumpsuit when you get a new friend out of it anyway?
Point being, I tend to become friends with people through some odd circumstances and they have been a huge part of my ability to get through this divorce. They have all made me laugh and prevented me from losing my mind somewhere between the drunk texts and Lawyer's fees, which quite frankly, are so high that I think they're probably the GDP of some small countries.
Now I think I have a new friend who's making me laugh hysterically and realize that my accident the other day may have resulted in more than just me curled up in the fetal position with visions of shackles and an orange jumpsuit. When I wrote about my mishap the other night, I didn't mention how I sent Officer Lentil a text after I went home, thanking him for being so kind. He responded with an equally kind text, and we've been sending each other texts off and on since.
After I wrote about the accident, I received several emails from ladies across the country that went something like this:
"Dear Almost,
A cute guy in uniform who also has social skills?? Is he single? Please, please, please tell me what city you live in because I want to hunt down car 1831!
Signed,
Single Girl Willing to Break Any Law to Be Handcuffed by Officer Lentil"
The answer to your question, ladies, is yes, I believe he's single. However, he doesn't want to meet you, thanks to me.
I sent him a text yesterday to tell him that it seems he has some fans who want to get to know him. I was drinking a bottle of water at the precise moment that I read his reply and promptly spit it all over myself in choking laughter.
"Great, Almost. That's all I need. Women from around the country running over joggers on my beat. Paperwork from hell. Thanks a lot."
Once again, I have met a new friend under bizarre circumstances who's already providing me with laughter. And hey, what's a little pedestrian run-in or an orange jumpsuit when you get a new friend out of it anyway?
Friday, July 13, 2007
Victoria Has a Very Dirty Secret
Quite some time ago, Lauren was dating a guy named Mike. He'd pulled more than his share of stunts during the relationship and when Lauren found out that he'd been sleeping around while simultaneously proclaiming his love only for her, she was not happy. I've already told you that she's the Queen of Redress, and here's just one more reason why she's so deserving of that title.
Lauren found out about his nefarious activities right around Valentine's Day, so for his Valentine's Day gift she decided to do something extra special for him.
She purchased a helium balloon that read, "Just because you're you," and wrote him a sweet poem. She wrapped a Victoria's Secret box beautifully with shiny ribbons and bows and attached the balloon, then taped the poem to the box. I didn't have the opportunity to see the gift firsthand, but I'm sure it looked alluring when she left it on his doorstep on February 14th. I'm also sure Mike didn't know that Lauren had filled the inside of this stunningly decorated box with the used contents of her cat's litter box.
The poem attached to the outside of the box read,
"On this St. Valentine's Day 1996
I wish to celebrate our love with fun and kicks
I haven't known you long, but I'd like to know you better.
I wish to express my feelings through a poem and a letter.
I love you from afar
and want to touch you when you're near.
I have a glorious night planned
JUST FOR YOU MY DEAR.
I searched high and low for a gift especially for you.
I didn't know what you'd like - what's a girl to do?
A man like you deserves the unusual,
A GIFT I COULDN'T BUY
So I am cordially inviting you....."
The rest of the poem lay on top of the cat droppings inside of the Victoria's Secret box. It read,
"TO EAT SH*T AND DIE!!!"
A couple of years ago, Lauren and I went to the restaurant that Mike owns with his sisters. They're still friends, believe it or not, and Mike brought up the Valentine's Day gift. He has quite a sense of humor because he still finds Lauren's creativity amusing. One of his sisters wandered over during our conversation and overheard our discussion.
She doubled over laughing. She said, "Lauren, that was the best gift ever. To this day, my sisters and I still give Mike all of his birthday and Christmas presents in Victoria's Secret boxes."
Thursday, July 12, 2007
I needed this like a hole in the head.
Last night I was feeling under the weather. The stress of court on Monday along with some sort of flu that's going around converged to make me spend my day yesterday shivering with a fever and unable to complete anything related to my dissertation proposal competently (hence the video post yesterday).
Late in the evening, I decided that it was time to go to the pharmacy and pick up some NyQuil so that I could actually sleep. As I was driving back to my place, I followed a police cruiser that was heading in the direction of my apartment. He turned right on a green light at an intersection and I followed.
Suddenly, I heard a thump. OMFG, I had just hit a person. I swear, I hadn't even seen him.
Actually, the guy more or less hit me, since he tapped the trunk of my car and I really don't think that it's possible to "hit a pedestrian," by definition unless you hit them with the front of your car. I could have driven away and I bet I'd never have been caught, but being a responsible citizen who was utterly traumatized, I pulled over and jumped out. There was a couple standing on the street corner waiting for me. According to their clothes and iPod accessories, I assessed that the guy had been jogging with his girlfriend. I ran over to them.
"Are you guys ok?" I asked. I was terrified.
"Yeah, I think so. I'm fine," the guy answered.
"I'm not sure what to do. I've never been in this situation before," I told him.
He half laughed and said, "Me neither. I think we should call the cops."
I apologized over and over. Thankfully, he didn't have a scratch on him, but his girlfriend had already run into the closest building to call the police, and soon an ambulance pulled up. Despite the fact that the guy hadn't hit his head (I asked), the EMTs put him in a cervical collar and took him to the hospital. The ambulance took off, and I was left standing on the street with no cops in sight, not even the one I was following when the accident took place. I decided to go home because the ambulance driver had taken my license and phone number, so I knew that they would get in touch with me soon.
Fifteen minutes later, I received a phone call.
"Hello?"
"Is this Almost? My name is Officer Lentil. You were involved in an accident a few minutes ago, right? You need to come see me, I'm in car 1831 outside of the hospital. I have my lights on."
Long story short, I went to meet the officer at the hospital and we stood on the street, discussing what had transpired. He wasn't only cute (there's something about a man in uniform that I love), but he turned out to be super sweet and very understanding of my horror at having been involved in an accident of this nature. As a matter of course, he had to issue me a citation for failing to yield to a pedestrian, and I understood that. I have a lot of cop friends and no matter how cool they happen to be, they still need to do their jobs.
He asked me to whom was the car registered. I told him that it was registered to my soon-to-be-Ex, which commenced a conversation about divorce and bizarre pornographic addictions wherein he said, "If I had a wife that looked like you, I sure as hell wouldn't be into granny porn." I was appreciative of that comment, since I had just survived my divorce court appearance and now have to go to court again sooner than I thought. It's amazing what a little compliment can accomplish when you're feeling like the world is collapsing around you. He was a doll in so many ways, but I digress.
I chatted with Officer Lentil about the particulars of my appearance in court, and he promised me that he had done his best to ensure that the case would be tossed. In truth, I suppose that I technically didn't yield to a pedestrian, however, I hadn't even seen the guy and there was no damage to my car, which indicates that there wasn't even a hit. I did hear a thump, as I said, but it was most certainly in the back of my car, considering that I had the convertible top down and he would have landed in my back seat had I actually hit him in the conventional sense. That aside, I was and am still shaken.
I've only had one car accident in my life, and that was scary enough. This one really freaked me out because the pedestrian, though he told me he was fine at the scene, suddenly started complaining of back and neck pain in the hospital. This is one situation in which I wish I drove an AMC Pacer instead of a BMW. Or lived in New York and just took cabs. The guy probably thinks I'm loaded.
Officer Lentil was the one who informed me that he was complaining of these injuries in the hospital.
"We live in a litigious society, Officer," I told him.
"Yes, we do. You may want to contact your insurance company just to tell them of the incident. Will you be filing a claim?"
"For what?" I grabbed his hand and dragged him around the car. "Do you see any damage?"
"OK, no, but call your insurance anyway. I'm sure this guy is going to sue."
I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. The guy is fine and he'll probably get a hefty insurance settlement. Perhaps he needs it to pay bills and I'm sure he'll be happy that this happened, but unfortunately, Lauren is my insurance agent and she'll have to suffer the consequences because her annual bonus is based on the claims of her insureds. When her annual bonus is assessed, I'll be cutting her a check for her losses. For all of the times she's made me laugh when I'm about to cry, it's the least I can do.
And I'm blessed to have had Officer Lentil as the attending cop last night. He knew that this was sheerly an accident and he was kind to me. I suspect he also knows that the guy is fine and is now out for some insurance payback. Whatever the case may be, we're destined to become friends, since I'll be seeing him in court in less than a month. Cheers to you, Officer, and thanks for making what could have been an truly awful situation bearable.
Late in the evening, I decided that it was time to go to the pharmacy and pick up some NyQuil so that I could actually sleep. As I was driving back to my place, I followed a police cruiser that was heading in the direction of my apartment. He turned right on a green light at an intersection and I followed.
Suddenly, I heard a thump. OMFG, I had just hit a person. I swear, I hadn't even seen him.
Actually, the guy more or less hit me, since he tapped the trunk of my car and I really don't think that it's possible to "hit a pedestrian," by definition unless you hit them with the front of your car. I could have driven away and I bet I'd never have been caught, but being a responsible citizen who was utterly traumatized, I pulled over and jumped out. There was a couple standing on the street corner waiting for me. According to their clothes and iPod accessories, I assessed that the guy had been jogging with his girlfriend. I ran over to them.
"Are you guys ok?" I asked. I was terrified.
"Yeah, I think so. I'm fine," the guy answered.
"I'm not sure what to do. I've never been in this situation before," I told him.
He half laughed and said, "Me neither. I think we should call the cops."
I apologized over and over. Thankfully, he didn't have a scratch on him, but his girlfriend had already run into the closest building to call the police, and soon an ambulance pulled up. Despite the fact that the guy hadn't hit his head (I asked), the EMTs put him in a cervical collar and took him to the hospital. The ambulance took off, and I was left standing on the street with no cops in sight, not even the one I was following when the accident took place. I decided to go home because the ambulance driver had taken my license and phone number, so I knew that they would get in touch with me soon.
Fifteen minutes later, I received a phone call.
"Hello?"
"Is this Almost? My name is Officer Lentil. You were involved in an accident a few minutes ago, right? You need to come see me, I'm in car 1831 outside of the hospital. I have my lights on."
Long story short, I went to meet the officer at the hospital and we stood on the street, discussing what had transpired. He wasn't only cute (there's something about a man in uniform that I love), but he turned out to be super sweet and very understanding of my horror at having been involved in an accident of this nature. As a matter of course, he had to issue me a citation for failing to yield to a pedestrian, and I understood that. I have a lot of cop friends and no matter how cool they happen to be, they still need to do their jobs.
He asked me to whom was the car registered. I told him that it was registered to my soon-to-be-Ex, which commenced a conversation about divorce and bizarre pornographic addictions wherein he said, "If I had a wife that looked like you, I sure as hell wouldn't be into granny porn." I was appreciative of that comment, since I had just survived my divorce court appearance and now have to go to court again sooner than I thought. It's amazing what a little compliment can accomplish when you're feeling like the world is collapsing around you. He was a doll in so many ways, but I digress.
I chatted with Officer Lentil about the particulars of my appearance in court, and he promised me that he had done his best to ensure that the case would be tossed. In truth, I suppose that I technically didn't yield to a pedestrian, however, I hadn't even seen the guy and there was no damage to my car, which indicates that there wasn't even a hit. I did hear a thump, as I said, but it was most certainly in the back of my car, considering that I had the convertible top down and he would have landed in my back seat had I actually hit him in the conventional sense. That aside, I was and am still shaken.
I've only had one car accident in my life, and that was scary enough. This one really freaked me out because the pedestrian, though he told me he was fine at the scene, suddenly started complaining of back and neck pain in the hospital. This is one situation in which I wish I drove an AMC Pacer instead of a BMW. Or lived in New York and just took cabs. The guy probably thinks I'm loaded.
Officer Lentil was the one who informed me that he was complaining of these injuries in the hospital.
"We live in a litigious society, Officer," I told him.
"Yes, we do. You may want to contact your insurance company just to tell them of the incident. Will you be filing a claim?"
"For what?" I grabbed his hand and dragged him around the car. "Do you see any damage?"
"OK, no, but call your insurance anyway. I'm sure this guy is going to sue."
I suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is not a big deal. The guy is fine and he'll probably get a hefty insurance settlement. Perhaps he needs it to pay bills and I'm sure he'll be happy that this happened, but unfortunately, Lauren is my insurance agent and she'll have to suffer the consequences because her annual bonus is based on the claims of her insureds. When her annual bonus is assessed, I'll be cutting her a check for her losses. For all of the times she's made me laugh when I'm about to cry, it's the least I can do.
And I'm blessed to have had Officer Lentil as the attending cop last night. He knew that this was sheerly an accident and he was kind to me. I suspect he also knows that the guy is fine and is now out for some insurance payback. Whatever the case may be, we're destined to become friends, since I'll be seeing him in court in less than a month. Cheers to you, Officer, and thanks for making what could have been an truly awful situation bearable.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
"I will beat a bitch's ass."
Newscaster Cousin emailed this video to me yesterday and I nearly spat tea all over my keyboard because I laughed so hard. I saw Hillary Clinton speak at my university when I was in undergrad and her husband was in his second term of office. I will never forget looking at her face and recoiling in terror because she looked like she was going to pull a Kimora Lee Simmons and "beat a bitch's ass." This may not seem like it fits into a Dump the Chump type of post, but Bill and Hillary have had their share of marital drama so this clip deserves inclusion here for so many reasons.
The look I saw on Hillary's face when she spoke at my university was much like this look....
The look I saw on Hillary's face when she spoke at my university was much like this look....
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Court Dismissed
Yesterday is behind me, thank God, and I don't have another court date until mid-fall. I really need to stop working myself into such a nervous, edgy frenzy over these things because they never end up being as awful as I thought.
Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.
I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.
Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.
The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."
"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"
"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."
"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."
"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."
After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.
We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.
Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.
"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"
"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.
"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.
"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"
I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.
"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.
But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."
Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."
Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.
Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.
Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.
With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"
P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.
Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.
I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.
Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.
The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."
"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"
"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."
"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."
"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."
After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.
We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.
Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.
"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"
"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.
"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.
"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"
I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.
"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.
But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."
Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."
Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.
Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.
Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.
With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"
P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Court is Now in Session
Court is this afternoon and I'm crapping a brick for some reason. Typically I don't mind the spotlight, but I'm very uncomfortable with it in this sense. I feel as though I'll be under one of those hot lights in a police interrogation room, rivulets of sweat dripping down my cleavage, hair clinging to my forehead in wet strands, with someone yelling at me to tell the truth, dammit! (I've never experienced that, by the way, but I've watched enough Law & Orders to know that I don't want Vincent D'Onofrio bobbing and weaving around my face using his psychological trickery to draw me into his web.)
In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.
I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.
I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.
In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.
I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.
I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Levitra: No Flirting Necessary
I said yesterday that I have a court date on Monday and that I was really nervous. I remain so, but a little less today, so I feel all right writing about Ex. I hope this trend continues so I'm not jittery when I have to take the stand.
I've already mentioned that Ex hadn't wanted to have sex for at least a year when The Great Email Debacle occurred, but after that confrontation, he suddenly wanted a roll in the hay all the time. He said that he realized that he'd been totally inattentive and absent (he was), and somehow I think he extrapolated that realization into thinking that sex would cure all of our marriage's ailments. My trust in him was completely destroyed at that point, so the thought of sex with Ex honestly made me sick to my stomach and after that, it was I who refused. Several months later, Ex and I had a fight. He was screaming at me and somewhere between the "f*ck you"s, he blurted out, "And I have to jack off 5 times a day because you won't have sex with me!"
Time stopped. I was dumbfounded. A 10 second silence ensued which seemed to stretch into eternity, after which I stammered, "F-five.....times....a day?? I wish I had that much time on my hands."
He tried to backpedal, but it was too late. The truth has a way of bursting forth when you're angry and your brain's censorship level is low.
My birthday came around about a month after that fight and it was a disaster of epic proportions, but that's another one of my favorite stories that I'm saving for later. After that horrific weekend passed, Ex danced every which way to try and explain his behavior. When he left for work that week (he was always gone most of the week and home on the weekends), the texts began pouring in. These weren't even drunk texts, they were just plain odd.
Keep in mind, at this point, I had not yet found out about the Granny Porn, so I was taking his explanations at face value.
"maybe some day i will tell u what else i have been taking..i think that led 2 my frustration/insecurity and let down..i did 2 myself"
I must have asked him what he was taking.
"please do not think i am crazy..i have been reading maxim magazine 4 tips and taking levitra hoping 2 give u some crazy sexual extacy sp ?..i guess i was thinking in my head..fantasy..just maybe..i know i am crazy..but i think it freaked me out...this is not something i can really explain over text"
I have no idea what I replied, but I do remember thinking, "Levitra?! For what??" And then it hit me. He'd been reading Maxim and taking Levitra so that he could, in his words, "jack off 5 times a day"? I was getting warmer, but of course, didn't hit the jackpot until I later discovered he was taking the performance enhancing drug so that he could get off to Grandpa Gets a Woody, among other equally edifying flicks. The thought still makes me shiver.
So when Ex left to go overseas last fall, I was relieved. I had 2 weeks in which I wouldn't feel as though a chloroform-soaked rag was being theoretically held over my face. At one point during the reprieve, I took Ex's car to run errands because I had just washed mine and it was raining. I spotted flashing lights in the rear view mirror. "Damn," I muttered to myself, "just when I thought I'd be drama free for a couple of weeks."
The cop came up to the window looking grumpy, but I suppose I'd feel the same way if I had to stand in the rain while some chick fumbled in her purse for her license.
"License and insurance, please."
This guy was all business. Not even a hello or a, "Do you know what you were doing wrong?" I quickly assessed that I would most certainly not be flirting my way out of this ticket.
"Here's my license, sir. This isn't my car, but I think the insurance is probably in the glove box."
"Ok, ma'am."
I opened the glove box and much to my surprise and horror, about 12 prescription pill bottles tumbled out. I was frozen.
"Ma'am, are those your prescriptions?"
"Uh, no, uh, officer. You see, this is my uh.... er.... husband's car, and I never drive it. He's out of town and uh, I mean, out of the country...."
"Ma'am, step out of the car, please."
I had no idea what the bottles were, so I meekly did as I was told and stood on the passenger's side. The officer opened the passenger door and I watched him pick up bottle after bottle, turning them over in his hands and grunting to himself, "Hm, Levitra..... Levitra..... huh, Levitra.... Levitra?!"
He left the bottles on the floor of the car, shut the door and turned to look at me. I thought I saw him try to suppress a laugh. He tipped his hat, looked me up and down, and said, "Have a nice day, ma'am," as he handed me my license.
I watched him walk to his squad, rooted to the ground in the pouring rain. It wasn't until he got into the car and shut his door that he let out a huge guffaw and got on his radio. I can only imagine what he must have been saying to his buddies working the afternoon shift.
I got back into the car and picked up the bottles to shove them back in the glove box. They were all empty. Ex's Levitra habit didn't do anything to save our marriage, but it sure saved me from a speeding ticket. As far as I was concerned, it was a job well done.
I've already mentioned that Ex hadn't wanted to have sex for at least a year when The Great Email Debacle occurred, but after that confrontation, he suddenly wanted a roll in the hay all the time. He said that he realized that he'd been totally inattentive and absent (he was), and somehow I think he extrapolated that realization into thinking that sex would cure all of our marriage's ailments. My trust in him was completely destroyed at that point, so the thought of sex with Ex honestly made me sick to my stomach and after that, it was I who refused. Several months later, Ex and I had a fight. He was screaming at me and somewhere between the "f*ck you"s, he blurted out, "And I have to jack off 5 times a day because you won't have sex with me!"
Time stopped. I was dumbfounded. A 10 second silence ensued which seemed to stretch into eternity, after which I stammered, "F-five.....times....a day?? I wish I had that much time on my hands."
He tried to backpedal, but it was too late. The truth has a way of bursting forth when you're angry and your brain's censorship level is low.
My birthday came around about a month after that fight and it was a disaster of epic proportions, but that's another one of my favorite stories that I'm saving for later. After that horrific weekend passed, Ex danced every which way to try and explain his behavior. When he left for work that week (he was always gone most of the week and home on the weekends), the texts began pouring in. These weren't even drunk texts, they were just plain odd.
Keep in mind, at this point, I had not yet found out about the Granny Porn, so I was taking his explanations at face value.
"maybe some day i will tell u what else i have been taking..i think that led 2 my frustration/insecurity and let down..i did 2 myself"
I must have asked him what he was taking.
"please do not think i am crazy..i have been reading maxim magazine 4 tips and taking levitra hoping 2 give u some crazy sexual extacy sp ?..i guess i was thinking in my head..fantasy..just maybe..i know i am crazy..but i think it freaked me out...this is not something i can really explain over text"
I have no idea what I replied, but I do remember thinking, "Levitra?! For what??" And then it hit me. He'd been reading Maxim and taking Levitra so that he could, in his words, "jack off 5 times a day"? I was getting warmer, but of course, didn't hit the jackpot until I later discovered he was taking the performance enhancing drug so that he could get off to Grandpa Gets a Woody, among other equally edifying flicks. The thought still makes me shiver.
So when Ex left to go overseas last fall, I was relieved. I had 2 weeks in which I wouldn't feel as though a chloroform-soaked rag was being theoretically held over my face. At one point during the reprieve, I took Ex's car to run errands because I had just washed mine and it was raining. I spotted flashing lights in the rear view mirror. "Damn," I muttered to myself, "just when I thought I'd be drama free for a couple of weeks."
The cop came up to the window looking grumpy, but I suppose I'd feel the same way if I had to stand in the rain while some chick fumbled in her purse for her license.
"License and insurance, please."
This guy was all business. Not even a hello or a, "Do you know what you were doing wrong?" I quickly assessed that I would most certainly not be flirting my way out of this ticket.
"Here's my license, sir. This isn't my car, but I think the insurance is probably in the glove box."
"Ok, ma'am."
I opened the glove box and much to my surprise and horror, about 12 prescription pill bottles tumbled out. I was frozen.
"Ma'am, are those your prescriptions?"
"Uh, no, uh, officer. You see, this is my uh.... er.... husband's car, and I never drive it. He's out of town and uh, I mean, out of the country...."
"Ma'am, step out of the car, please."
I had no idea what the bottles were, so I meekly did as I was told and stood on the passenger's side. The officer opened the passenger door and I watched him pick up bottle after bottle, turning them over in his hands and grunting to himself, "Hm, Levitra..... Levitra..... huh, Levitra.... Levitra?!"
He left the bottles on the floor of the car, shut the door and turned to look at me. I thought I saw him try to suppress a laugh. He tipped his hat, looked me up and down, and said, "Have a nice day, ma'am," as he handed me my license.
I watched him walk to his squad, rooted to the ground in the pouring rain. It wasn't until he got into the car and shut his door that he let out a huge guffaw and got on his radio. I can only imagine what he must have been saying to his buddies working the afternoon shift.
I got back into the car and picked up the bottles to shove them back in the glove box. They were all empty. Ex's Levitra habit didn't do anything to save our marriage, but it sure saved me from a speeding ticket. As far as I was concerned, it was a job well done.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
"Hi, boys! Remember me?"
I have a pretty important court date coming up on Monday and frankly, I'm really nervous, so I need to tell a story that's making me laugh and that isn't about Ex.
Lauren has been talking to this guy online for about 6 or 7 months now. He lives several states away and until last week, they hadn't met. They had already become quite intimate via IM and video chatting, but she has wanted a face-to-face meeting for months now. When I say that they've become intimate, I don't mean just talk. I mean down and dirty naked intimacy, complete with adult toys with which I'm completely unfamiliar. Lauren had to explain their uses detail by detail to me because they are not your run of the mill Rabbit.
A couple of months ago, she went for a long weekend to his state with her girlfriend Tracy and Tracy's boyfriend, at which time she was supposed to meet up with Internet Man, who we'll call Pascal. He had asked Lauren to pack all of her various exotic toys for the weekend and she agreed. I was incredulous, not because of the fact that she was taking them, but rather because I was wondering about the logistics of getting through security.
"You're not carrying your baggage on the plane, are you?" I asked.
"No, of course not! Don't you remember that story with the woman whose vibrator went off in the security line and the guard had to fish it out and hold it up for the whole airport? I'm checking bags."
That weekend Pascal had a family emergency and they never ended up meeting, so she packed the toys for naught. However, when Lauren arrived in his state and unzipped the bag she had checked, she found a note from the ATF indicating that her entire bag had been emptied and the contents inspected. I laughed so hard at the thought, I could barely breathe.
"Can you imagine the faces on those security guys when they saw what you'd packed?"
"I don't even want to think of it."
"What do you want to bet that they took pictures with your toys that are now hanging on the wall at City Airport Security Office?"
We were both in hysterics with the mental image of Butch from the ATF posing with a strap-on and giving the old thumbs-up.
Last week, Lauren did meet Pascal. Before she left, I asked her if she was packing the same items and she responded in the affirmative. I have yet to hear all of the details of the encounter, but I did hear what is probably the funniest bit of information. Because she was flying out of the same airport on the same airline as she did previously and figured that her luggage would inevitably be searched again, she decided to include a note inside her checked bag.
It read, "Hi, boys, remember me?"
When she arrived at her destination and unzipped her bag, she had yet another ATF notice. This time, it had a handwritten addition.
"Sure do. Nice to see you again!"
Lauren has been talking to this guy online for about 6 or 7 months now. He lives several states away and until last week, they hadn't met. They had already become quite intimate via IM and video chatting, but she has wanted a face-to-face meeting for months now. When I say that they've become intimate, I don't mean just talk. I mean down and dirty naked intimacy, complete with adult toys with which I'm completely unfamiliar. Lauren had to explain their uses detail by detail to me because they are not your run of the mill Rabbit.
A couple of months ago, she went for a long weekend to his state with her girlfriend Tracy and Tracy's boyfriend, at which time she was supposed to meet up with Internet Man, who we'll call Pascal. He had asked Lauren to pack all of her various exotic toys for the weekend and she agreed. I was incredulous, not because of the fact that she was taking them, but rather because I was wondering about the logistics of getting through security.
"You're not carrying your baggage on the plane, are you?" I asked.
"No, of course not! Don't you remember that story with the woman whose vibrator went off in the security line and the guard had to fish it out and hold it up for the whole airport? I'm checking bags."
That weekend Pascal had a family emergency and they never ended up meeting, so she packed the toys for naught. However, when Lauren arrived in his state and unzipped the bag she had checked, she found a note from the ATF indicating that her entire bag had been emptied and the contents inspected. I laughed so hard at the thought, I could barely breathe.
"Can you imagine the faces on those security guys when they saw what you'd packed?"
"I don't even want to think of it."
"What do you want to bet that they took pictures with your toys that are now hanging on the wall at City Airport Security Office?"
We were both in hysterics with the mental image of Butch from the ATF posing with a strap-on and giving the old thumbs-up.
Last week, Lauren did meet Pascal. Before she left, I asked her if she was packing the same items and she responded in the affirmative. I have yet to hear all of the details of the encounter, but I did hear what is probably the funniest bit of information. Because she was flying out of the same airport on the same airline as she did previously and figured that her luggage would inevitably be searched again, she decided to include a note inside her checked bag.
It read, "Hi, boys, remember me?"
When she arrived at her destination and unzipped her bag, she had yet another ATF notice. This time, it had a handwritten addition.
"Sure do. Nice to see you again!"
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