I answered the phone to the Texas Department of Corrections. H was on the phone, making things up, telling me this was all a mistake that would blow over. He’d be out in no time, don’t worry. Could I please get to the bank and withdraw some funds for myself as soon as possible? I asked questions, obviously. According to him it was really important that I go get the money out so I’d have some funds to live on. In hindsight, I’m sure it was him being selfish and trying to cover shit up, I’m sure, at my expense. I rolled into the bank looking like Britney Spears circa 2007, pre head shave.
Andrew, the kind and wonderful banker, explained to me after almost an hour of issues that the account had been frozen and there was strange activity on it and could they please talk to H as soon as possible please? I couldn’t believe this was real life.
Then, my mom called to tell me her flight was booked into LAX instead of the airport right by my house. Not a problem, but I had to figure out how to ditch Andrew and his robot bank speech, because my five-minute drive just turned into an hour. I rushed home, fed my poor, neglected new cuddle buddy, and raced to the airport.
While I waited there for her to arrive, I tried my best not to have a mental friggin’ breakdown. Waiting in silence with a bunch of strangers and thinking about WHY my mom was coming just made random sobs come. Not the sexy kind, more like “a donkey dying and people next to you moving away in fear that you are narcotics” type of sobs. Seeing several tourist women arrive into LAX wearing short shorts, high heels, and tube tops waiting to be discovered did help with some comic relief a little bit. Then I thought, “Give me six months, and I will probably be there myself.” FML.
The minute she arrived, I felt human again for about three hours. She bought me an early dinner, some laughs, a margarita, and we came home and watched Netflix.
It was a funny show about these two divorced older women, and they were just getting back into the dating world. I swiftly realized that could be me. Probably not anytime soon, but eventually. Even if my husband and I did reconnect after his 14-year sentence, we would both be different people. We would have to start all over. As I mentioned before, I think, unfortunately, a devorche (that’s divorce in fancy terms) was a must for protective purposes alone. Not to mention the recent infidelity issues.
That was when it hit me. I hadn’t been on a date in over seven years. Did I even know how to do it anymore? Then, all I could think about were my dates with him, all the good times, because, hey, we could all use some extra torture. Last time I was on the dating scene, Internet dating was still for old people. Or, divorced people. Oh wait, that was me now. Or, soon to be. When was I supposed to take my ring off, anyway? My new sparkling wedding ring that he had surprised me with when things were normal. It didn’t feel right yet, but I knew it would have to happen sooner or later. My spouse wasn’t coming home until my eggs were 90 percent depleted. So, like, yeah. It had to happen.
Then there was this nagging feeling of “I should be doing something or making some sort of decision with my life, but I can’t because I am overwhelmed and really there is nothing to do, and yet I feel I need to get started on them, but they would all be awful ideas I am sure.” Seriously though, at 27, what did I want to be when I grew up? Where did I want to live? I thought I’d be knocked up by now putting a down payment on my dream home.
My mom already started in on how I should just move home for a while. ‘Cause there is nothing like going from everything you have known in life for 10 years, to living with your parents in one of the coldest places in America that you left as soon as you could, to really remind you how well your life is turning out. Honestly though, bless her for it. It was nice knowing that I didn’t have to be alone, that I had support and/or I wouldn’t be a transient. So, some things were looking up.
It really was odd facing these kinds of decisions alone. Normally, I would just bring it to my spouse, and we would figure it out together. So, I tried calling him, but Texas Corrections doesn’t take incoming calls. Commie whores. The realization that I would be making all major life decisions alone from here on out made me feel like my bum was in my throat. Except my bum wasn’t my bum. It was the size of Nikki Minaj’s.
Chapter 7:
Everybody Else Knows What’s
Best for You
Today was a better day. I sold my husband’s diamond-encrusted midlife crisis Rolex watch to the jeweler we used to actually purchase jewelry from. The jeweler looked at me in a concerned way and said, “Will your spouse be mad that you are getting rid of this?”
“No, he knows I’m here,” which was true.
But he did look at me with slightly concerned eyes, like, “Is this bitch selling his shit behind his back? Oh well, it’s a nice watch.” Then, he gave me a decent price for it, and I was grateful he didn’t ask too many questions.
My mom loves jewelry and had a blast looking through all the pieces they had in the store. She fell in love with this really cool, unique ring and bought it for herself. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad she spoiled herself, because she rarely does. At the same time, though, it was kind of depressing to sell your shit while someone was shopping for something sparkly. Such is life!
I texted a girlfriend about my thoughts the day before, on whether or not jumping back into the dating world would be the worst thing ever someday. The thought that I could be divorced and useless at dating before I even turned 30 was somewhat amusing but mostly awful. I couldn’t think about anything but my present situation, so maybe I would just collect a gaggle of dogs and be the old/young pug lady. I also learned recently that a gaggle of pugs is called a “grumble.” Sounds legit.
My girlfriend, who was currently with child, texted me back and said, “Not to worry! I will just raise my future baby son to your specifications.”
Me: “What?”
Her: “You know, I will teach him to talk the way you want him to talk. I can raise him specifically for you so when you are ready to date again you have the perfect man! You can even pick his name.”
Me: “I will not be a cougar Rumpelstiltskin.”
Throughout the day, I had several message exchanges with different concerned friends.
Friend One: “Why don’t you just move back to LA? I will find you a place, you can live nearby and even though it’s for my own selfish reasons, it is exactly what you should do. Worry about work later.”
Friend Two: “You can stay in our guest room, we can lease your apartment, we can figure it out! We need to get you working as much as possible and get you some more money coming in. It’s best to stay busy.”
My mom: “Come home for a few months. Or stay in the Lake Havasu house. Don’t do anything for a while. Give yourself a break and mourn the loss of your relationship. You need to relax and move forward but don’t decide anything too quickly. You need time to process things.”
My sister: “Come home.”
My dog: “Woof.”
Basically, everyone had ideas on what I should be doing. Yet, I had no clue. How does that work? I had dinner with a friend and my mom this evening, which, can I just say, was delicious and wonderful; however, it kind of reminded me of the scene in Pirates of the Caribbean when the bad pirates try to eat and the food turns to ash, and they can’t enjoy it because they are dead. The things you normally appreciate seem pretty useless when you’re in a state of shock and disarray. But the food smelled good, and a martini never hurt anyone.
They both kept saying different things. One suggested removing my husband’s things but hanging onto them in case something changed. Have hope! The other would then suggest moving on quickly. Sell all his stuff. Throw the rest out. Get what you can for it. He’s fucked.
Then H’s mother called and told me that I was supposed to put his clothes in his car, and, if he ever got paid some money back from some past things he was owed, that I was supposed to send her said money so she could fly here and retrieve his things and drive back. And because his father didn’t have a car, I imagine he would
start driving it every day and it would be basically shot by the time H got out anyhow. The thing had more miles than Charlie Sheen already. So, it seemed my spouse had his own plan for what I was supposed to do as well. Not to mention, I would probably be expected to babysit said car and clothes until this phantom money showed up. Just another thing to deal with.
I was just a simple gal, living a simple life, one that involved collect jail calls, frozen accounts, my spouse’s IRS audits, a bunch of items that belonged to a man who I happened to be in love with, who no longer lived here, and I was trying to get by with more bills than Hillary. I think I was currently the epitome of success. People of the world, take note!
Chapter 8:
You’re Moving Down in the World
(and Fast)
I showed my girlfriend a room for rent today. My room, in fact, with my California-king-sized-hand-carved-dark-wooden-beautiful-one-of-a-kind-bed. Above it hangs the white chandelier from Australia I bought one night on eBay after a little too much wine, only to find out that they didn’t even make the right kind of light bulbs in America. Long story short, I was swiftly moving down in the world. It’s okay. I would live in my guest room. Things could be worse. My lease wasn’t up for months, and it would be dumb to try to pay rent on my own. But it was hard to rent out a home you’d worked for almost a decade to build, even if it was the best choice possible.
Let’s get one thing straight—I am not bragging. I wasn’t super rich with my husband. It’s not as if I never worried about money. Yes, we had two incomes, but I wasn’t ballin’ out of control in fast cars and using a bidet and stuff. Sure, I rode in cars I never even imagined seeing as a child, but in this neck of the world, that’s not obscene. Our life was good, though. We had fun, flexibility, some nice things we had acquired together. More than that, we had each other. I had someone that legitimately adored me (or at least that’s how I perceived it at the time). He treated me well, opened doors for me. Hell, he even planned my bachelorette party with my gay best friend and paid for everyone to fly there and surprise me on Valentine’s Day. He didn’t even go, as he didn’t want to intrude on the “girl” fun. Probably because he had plans with another girl at the time, but I couldn’t comprehend that then. I didn’t know enough.
I don’t want to make this about him, either bashing him or remembering him with overly rose-colored glasses. The man could be a badass at times. So yeah, giving away his things, or selling them, was hard. But, all of this is to say that I was not starting my life over with a fat bank account and a plan. I wish I had been more gold digger than that. I didn’t have the time or information to realize the situation I was facing. Trust me, there were times when I could have left scot-free with a lot of money and never worried about another thing. So, reading his letters about how I was abandoning him because he’s in a tough spot was hysterical to me. I was distancing myself, because he was not a truthful person. At the same time, watching people tour my bedroom, or selling his watch, all of these things that we had worked toward together, was extremely difficult. I felt like he was dead. Until he called.
The next day, I went to church with my mom. I usually don’t love church (I find God more in nature, personally), but the one we went to with Pastor Rick Warren at Saddleback was pretty cool. I don’t love their “give the church all your money if you have faith” vibe, but besides that, there was good stuff in the service. He talked about what to do in the trials of life, the waiting periods, how to have faith, how to set goals and believe in yourself, how things are rough for everyone, and how we can come out on top if we just act as if our prayers are already answered. I took my mom for some authentic Vietnamese pho after, and she got teary-eyed several times and told me that she hadn’t been sleeping well. I guess I hadn’t realized how much the awful things that I was going through affected my family. Sometimes, I felt as if the Universe was somehow conspiring against me, which I know sounds doubtful, but hear me out.
Our apartment building once caught fire (the whole 10th floor- we lived on the 20th), and of course my husband was out of town at the time. The alarms didn’t go off but luckily I saw the billows of giant smoke floating in front of our window, so I had to run our pug down 20 flights of stairs inside my sweater. People ask you what you would take if your house was burning down. Well, now I know. My purse and my pug. That’s it. I told H about it when he called right after and he thought I was being dramatic as I sat outside our home watching the building engulfed in flames, thinking we had lost everything, until he later saw it on the news. As I drove away, the movie theater two blocks over had the placard on the front entitled, “Burn, Baby Burn.” I can’t make this shit up. I don’t say this to make you feel sorry for me but to show that life is never perfect, and when things go to shit, the best you can do is claw your way back up.
I’ve had unimaginably amazing times and have achieved things I never even dreamed were possible, but I’ve also been through many a tumultuous moment that tested my strength and determination. We all go through times like that, but nobody likes to post “wow my life sucks sometimes” on Facebook. And if you are that person, please stop. Everyone hates it.
Anyway, here I am, left with an extremely overpriced apartment I can’t afford (and didn’t want in the first place), selling shit that belongs to someone else, and I am on my own again. And my spouse wondered why I refused to move in with him after several years of dating. I had my own shit, and, even though it wasn’t spectacular, it was mine. No one was taking it from me. Some good that resistance did. It makes me think of the naive and the ignorant, and I actually envy them. Thinking too much in times like these can make you your own worst enemy. I wish I could think, “oh, my spouse isn’t here anymore, it’s just adventure time!” #richkidsofbeverlyhills
Seriously though, not to harp on it, but I come home and turn on Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and I seriously wonder what the obsession with them is. I get it, I find them pseudo interesting myself, and yet they have no real problems. Yeah, Bruce wants to be a girl. He lives in a mansion in Malibu and can afford a sex change and got a TV show from announcing said sex change, which he was paid very handsomely for. It took courage, I am sure. But things could be worse. Kourtney is only ever mad at Scott, and doesn’t seem to do much but stay home, bitch about him, and drop kids out of her womb. Kim just talks about her awesome friends and her awesome this and awesome that. Their problems never go deeper than the surface, and their good times and bad ones are reflected in this. Their children will never have to worry where to live or what to do for work if something bad happens.
I want this for myself. I want this for my kids. Sure, my husband wasn’t Ray Jay or a professional athlete, but he was better looking than them, and we built several businesses together. Businesses that I now wanted nothing to do with. We owned part of a restaurant in Beverly Hills, a medical device company, and a marketing company, all of which I contributed to and helped build. But I was filing for a default divorce or annulment, and I was requesting none of it. I would literally only walk away with the debts he left me with, because I distrusted him so much, I wanted nothing to do with him, nothing in common, no ties, nada.
Seven years of blood, sweat, and tears, and our finances are leveled. Bye bye. And I didn’t even care because I just wanted to be rid of him. So, don’t even start with me about the Kardashians—no, I did not want to be like them. Yet, you can’t help but admit that they have built a substantial empire based on being some version of themselves that most everyone in their family can rely on at some time. Now, why the fuck am I talking about the Kardashians? As I said, when you watch their weirdness and it looks more appealing than yours, you know you are moving down in the world (and fast). So, how did I pick myself back up?
Chapter 9:
You Aren’t Doing Misery Correctly
A friend of mine texted me to ask me what I had planned for the future, now that I was more or less married to Charlie, the voice from Charlie’s Angels. I told him I was worki
ng on doing some real estate with my friend Paula while I brainstormed what kind of business I actually wanted to build for myself. He asked me what I thought about going back to work doing hair. Listen, I am in no way demeaning the hair industry or the people that work in it—I did myself for almost six years— but I was like, uh, I owned a hair business before and worked for myself. I learned quickly, built my way to the top, and accomplished everything I could have ever hoped for. I even got to do hair for Paris Fashion week once, in friggin’ Paris! How cool is that. Just because I’d lost everything, didn’t mean I needed to backtrack to square one in EVERYTHING.
He said, “Why not? At least it’s something solid to do.” So, working a career short term that I knew I didn’t want to follow through with in the long term was the best idea possible, because I couldn’t do any better, right? I mean, maybe at some point, but I’d do it on my own terms instead of starting from square one. Believe me, I knew this person had my best interest at heart. I knew all of my friends and family did. It just seemed like they forgot that I had survived for a long time by myself before I met H. I did have a life before this, and I would have one again. I had my sights set on bigger things. What can I say, I’m a dreamer.
I talked to another friend tonight who couldn’t get a hold of H and wanted to know if everything was okay. I finally told him what had happened, because he was a close friend and former business partner of his, and I thought I should inform him at least for clerical reasons. While we were talking on the phone, he told me that it was okay to break down and be upset and stuff. It seemed like I disappointed people if I was too upset, and I also disappointed people if I was not upset enough. So, everyone had their opinions. Friends asked me what I was going to do now. Should I stand by him? Wait it out? Was I riding off into the sunset with Val Kilmer like it was a 1980s movie, wind blowing in the hair? No. It doesn’t work that way.
Divorce, Drinking and Dating Page 6
