Tag Archives: Life

Everybody Hurts in a Landslide!

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My journey through divorce was not all bravado.  I spent a lot of time curled up in a ball and I started buying those tissues with lotion in them so that I could go to work the next day and not look like Rudolph.  I’m going to tell some sad stories that had funny endings now, so go over to your CD player and put REM’s “Everybody Hurts” on repeat.  Pour yourself a glass of wine.  Now you’re ready.

Hey, Michael! Pass me the mic...c'mon! I'm ready! Michael!!! Dude, pass me the mic.

Hey, Michael! Pass me the mic…c’mon! I’m ready! Michael!!! Dude, pass me the mic.

 
When your day is long and the night 
The night is yours alone
When you’re sure you’ve had enough of this life, well hang on
Don’t let yourself go 
Everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes
 

That was my “Step One” for when I really wanted to get The Sad cranked up to eleven.  I’d close the blinds and sing “Everybody Hurts” into my hairbrush for an hour.

Sometimes everything is wrong 
Now it’s time to sing along
When your day is night alone (hold on, hold on)
If you feel like letting go (hold on)
When you think you’ve had too much of this life, well hang on
 

Stop laughing as if you’ve never…oh shut UP.  I was only 31.  I was a grown woman, so I’d already fed the dogs and done the laundry and paid the bills BEFORE I got the hairbrush out.  It’s not as embarrassing to do this when you paid for the hairbrush, the CD, the stereo, the house and the blinds.

Step Two–I’d put on Stevie Nicks singing “Landslide” and pull myself back up again.  I may or may not have used a scarf as a prop during this portion of my set.

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing 
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you 
But time makes you bolder 
Children get older 
I’m getting older too
 

One night, I pulled into my driveway and hit the button to raise the garage door.  When it opened and I realized that I had still been parking on one side of the garage even though he had been gone for a month, I lost it.  I parked in the middle of the garage then closed the door with the button so there was no chance of the neighbors seeing me crying on the way into the house.  I got inside the foyer and collapsed onto the floor.  My little dachsies, Zoe and Moxie, came running over to welcome me home.  They danced around me, sniffing here and there.  I cried.  And cried.  And cried.  I howled.  They started licking me.  Zoe started on my head and Moxie took an elbow.  Their little tongues darted out to groom me.  They didn’t understand what was going on, but the knew I was hurting so they tended to me.  How can you continue to feel sorry for yourself when two little wiener dogs are daintily fixing your hair?  I got up.

So, take my love, take it down 
Oh climb a mountain and turn around 
If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills 
Well the landslide will bring you down, down
 

That house had a sunken living room, one step down and two ridiculous McMansion columns in the foyer.  That little step between the foyer and the living room was a great place to cry.  Good acoustics, grand scale set dressing, etc.  One night, I plopped myself down there for a good cry.  I was so used up that I flopped right over and rested my face on my knees…too pathetic to even hold my head up.  I cried until I didn’t want to cry anymore then I raised myself back up.  There, on the legs of my white sweatpants, was a perfect Tammy Faye Bakker face made of my cried off makeup!  It was so funny looking that I couldn’t help but laugh.  I looked around for someone to show it to, but I was alone.  So I went back to crying for a while.  Then I got up.

And If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills 
Well maybe the landslide will bring it down 
Oh oh, the landslide will bring it down
 
Next time I get sad, I am buying myself a tambourine.

Next time I get sad, I am buying myself a tambourine.

Dipping down into The Sad was a necessary part of grieving.  It’s the pressure release valve that kept me from exploding.  And even if it seems contrived, sometimes it’s necessary to do the things that crack the facade and let the sad come through.  I’m just glad I never had a crocheted top, feather hat, long-stemmed rose or a tambourine lying around.  Or the internet.    Things could have gotten out of hand.

Hey, if any of you know Mr. Stipe, pass this along so I can tell him “thank you” for writing that song–it saved a 31 year old broken hearted kid.  Or if you know Ms. Nicks, tell her I want my scarf back.

If He’ll Cheat With You…

22 Replies

Back Story:  In September of 1999, I found lipstick on his collar but he said “it was only dinner” and he started going to therapy.  Things got better between us.  Then Fartbuster told me in April of 2000 that he wanted to move out for a while and “get his head straight.”  Three weeks later, he comes clean (on the advice of his therapist) that he had had an affair in the fall.  He said they had run around for a few months, but he ended it in December because he wanted our marriage to work out.  Then there was one teensy leetle slip up in February and now she says she’s pregnant.  Oh, well THANKS FOR TELLING ME.  He was thinking that he could move out, take care of that little situation, then move right back in and we could go on with our lives and I would never be the wiser.  His therapist had said something along the lines of “Bitch, PLEASE.  You need to tell the truth.”  (Actually, his therapist was an older man and had a German accent, so it probably didn’t sound like that, but I can’t say for sure–patient confidentiality and all, y’know.)

(That part was hard to write because I’m having one of those flashbacks to “I can’t tell people that someone cheated on me!  I’ll look gullible and worthless.”)

(But hey, guess what?  I’m still writing and it’s OK!)

(Yep, still here…heart rate returning to normal…)

Yadda yadda yadda.  There is a year’s worth of stories about the ebb and flow and peaks and valleys of trying to decide whether to stay married or not.  There’s the Waffle House Waitress story, the Small of the Back story, the Thanksgiving Phone Call, the Funniest Voicemail Ever…all to come, in due time, Gentle Readers.  But today’s story is about my one and only interaction with this other woman who stepped into my marriage.

I never met her.  I don’t know her name, address, phone number.  At first, I wanted to.  I wanted to scream and rave and all that clichéd stuff from telenovellas, but I was under the care of some pretty wise counselors who said, “What’s that going to fix?”  Then I decided that I wanted all her info in a closed envelope so that IF I ever decided to contact her, I could.  Fartbuster said she didn’t know any details about me, so it would be best if I didn’t know anything about her.  Easier to rebuild.  I let it go.  (Heart rate rising.  Sentences getting shorter.  Breathe.)  My drive to know about her was all about control–this infidelity had made me question everything in my life; my world was out of control and by god I was ready to take some BACK.  But I would have been grabbing at the wind.  In the end, I only knew one thing about her–she was from another country and I knew which one.

Flash forward about 18 months.  I am happily divorced, have moved to another city, have been dating Richard for a while.  Haven’t spoken to Fartbuster in almost a year.  Everything is hunky dory.  

Artist's representation of what I might have looked like on that phone call. Except my hair is shorter. And I'm not a man. Or blond.

Artist’s representation of what I might have looked like on that phone call. Except my hair is shorter. And I’m not a man. Or blond.

I’m sitting at work one afternoon when my phone rings.  I go through the mechanical, “Hi, this is…”  The other voice says, “Is this the person who was married to Fartbuster McCheater?” (not his actual name)  Thinking it’s a telemarketer or collections agent, I answered, “I WAS married to him but I am no longer.”

She took a deep breath and said, “You don’t know me, but…” and THAT’S WHEN I hear the accent.  An accent from that country where she was born!  KABLOOEY.  I shut my office door and said, “I think I DO know who you are!  Is this the woman who had an affair with my ex-husband???”

“Yes, and I’m calling to apologize.  I can’t believe I did that to another woman.”  I was speechless.  And if you know me, you know that is RARE.

Now picture Scooby Doo going “Huh-RUNH?”  That was me. 

She was still talking.  I said, “Look, I don’t really have anything to say to you, but I do respect your wish to apologize.  That’s more than he ever did.  But that’s about all I can think of to say to you.”  I remember shrugging and shaking my head in disbelief.

She wasn’t done talking!  She said, “Oh, I had a feeling you were nice!  He always told me that everything about the divorce was your fault and you were such a bitch but I can tell just by the way you’re treating me that you’re a nice person!  I really don’t deserve your kindness but it’s been bothering me for so long and I wanted to tell you…” 

Ummm…hmmm…I flummoxed, discombobulated and gobsmacked.  So I got honest.  I snorted.  “I really don’t need validation from you…but thanks.  Of COURSE he told you that I was the bitch!  The one thing you knew for sure about him was that he was a liar.” 

Then it hit me.  Why was she calling me NOW after all this was settled and done?  I asked, “Hey, let me guess…he cheated on you, right?” 

She squawked, “SO MANY TIMES!  I’d catch him and he’d apologize and he’d do it again.  I can’t tell you how many times he’s lied to me.  ” 

And that’s when I boiled it down for her.

“If he’ll cheat WITH you, he’ll cheat ON you.”

She got a little quiet but stayed on the line.  I had been ambushed into this conversation but I had reached a point where I felt like wrapping it up.  “Look.  Getting rid of him was the best thing that every happened to me and it will probably be the same for you.  That’s all I have to say.  Goodbye.”

Are you clutching your pearls yet, Gentle Reader?  Can you IMAGINE what was going through my brain as I stared at that phone.  Fartbuster had promised me that this woman knew NOTHING about me.  He and I had different last names.  She knew my name, my phone number, where I worked…I was LIVID.  I suddenly found myself out of control again and I wanted it BACK.  So I called my friend in Telecomm and asked if he could trace a call.  Nope.  Dammit.  There is no *69 on a switchboard.  Why is life not like the movies???  i-dont-know-who-you-are-but-i-will-find-you-and-i-will-kill-you

That night, I told Richard.  He was like, “That was decent of her.  What do you want to do for dinner?”  Men just don’t GET IT. 

I called my girl friend and she was like, “NO WAY!!!!  Girl.  GIRL!  No way.  WHAT?”  That was more like it.  I told her how furious I was that Fartbuster had revealed details about me to this other person.  I hadn’t spoken to him in months, but I was ready to call him up and let him have it. 

I didn’t.  The opposite of love isn’t anger.  It’s apathy.  Here’s what I realized:  if I had called him in a fit of rage, he would have turned it into just another example of me being the bad guy. But if I didn’t say a word, didn’t react, I kept the position of power–apathy.  I knew in my deepest heart that the two of them would argue one day or he would start yammering about me and she would say, out of the blue, “You know what?  I CALLED your ex-wife and I talked to her and she was NICE to me.”  Imagine the stupefaction on his face when he realized THAT had happened and I hadn’t even bothered to call to yell at him. 

Oh?  The other woman?  The one who got cheated on “so many times?”  She married him.  For a while, at least.

Telling the Truth

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I must confess that this weekend has left me in a state of Facebook-induced depression.  While I’ve been sleeping off a migraine brought on by Kraft macaroni and cheese (yesterday) or cleaning up fruit punch and cracker kid barf (today), the rest of you have been out there finishing the color run, going to prom, enjoying the beach, walking about in London, putting in gardens, firing up the grill or getting your hair did.  Except for Craig–I saw him at the Kroger, but we didn’t even get a chance to talk because we both had already paid for frozen stuff.  Ding dang it.

It’s not uncommon–this habit of comparing ourselves to others–but I think social media connections make it even easier to compare my outtake reel to everyone else’s highlight film.  We all put on a mask to go out into the wider world.  Now that I have Facebook, the wider world is right there in the den, along with the whining kids and the toy strewn carpet and the yoga pants that are the only comfortable pants I own.  I couldn’t show this on Facebook…it’s too….true.

Photo courtesy Creative Commons. By Katie Tegtmeyer, 2006.

Photo courtesy Creative Commons. By Katie Tegtmeyer, 2006.

Since I wrote that post called “The Door Mat,” about finding out that my first husband was cheating, I’ve been thinking a lot about telling the truth and how important it is.  Good Lord, when that happened in real life, in real time, I didn’t tell ANYONE.  Now with some distance, I can put it out there for anyone who wants to read it.  It’s the truth and it’s my life and if you are going through something similar, I want you to know that you can tell me.  Or someone else.  It will be OK.  I’ve had many private messages from women who say, “Yep, that’s the same thing that happened to me.”  This is our chance to step into the light.  There is no reason to be ashamed because someone mistreated YOU.  

I felt like a pariah, a failure, an unworthy woman when Fartbuster cheated on me.  How could I have confided in someone???  It was my fault, right?  Good wives don’t have husbands who cheat.  I remember standing in front of a class that I was teaching during this time–I had gone to the whiteboard to write something and as I turned my back to the class, my knees almost collapsed with the fear that someone “could tell” what I was hiding.  I still remember the exact moment and the blue cardigan that I was wearing and the angle of my hand and the color of the marker I was using.  It took everything I had to keep talking normally, to turn back around and go on with the class.  That was the moment when the veil was thinnest–the veil between the image I was trying to maintain and the everyday life I was living.  Have you ever had a secret like that?

When you write a blog post and tag it “infidelity,” you get some heartbreaking links in your “suggested topics” reader.  I read one the other day from a woman who said, “I’m going to cut back on work so I can focus on getting him to value our marriage.”  Oh, honey.  Honey, honey, honey.  There is no way to be married enough for two people.  It’s time to tell the truth.  I read another one from a woman who listed the names of her paramour’s minor children and spurned wife!  That there is “boiling the rabbit” crazy.  The first time I went to see a therapist, she asked why I was there and I said, “Well, my husband wants a divorce.”  She said, “Oh, so you’re getting a divorce.”  I said, “That’s still up in the air…”  “No, you’re getting a divorce.  If one person wants a divorce, you’re getting a divorce,” she said, while looking me right in the eye like it wasn’t the end of the world.  Dang it if she wasn’t RIGHT.

Last weekend, on Easter, I had a gift of a moment that showed me the importance of telling the truth.  I have a beloved person who has struggled with addiction for many many many years.  It was the undiscussed topic for a long time and it stayed in control of her.  Now?  Now she’s telling the truth and it makes my heart believe that she’s going to make it.  She said, “These days (holidays) are my hardest sobriety days.  If I can make it to six o’clock, I’m good.”  She spoke her truth, telling the truth about who she is today (and the implied truth about the shadow of herself that she was all those other days) and it was OK!  I am so proud of her because she’s living in the real world.  It ain’t always pretty and she can’t control every part of it, but she is driving the wagon instead of being dragged behind it.

A simpler example–writing down what you eat leads to losing weight because you finally face all those “well, it’s just one….box of cookies…oh.”  The truth shall set you free because it puts you in charge.  I have learned that I have a limited amount of energy.  I can either spend it maintaining an illusion or I can spend it getting to a healthy place.  Don’t get me wrong–I still maintain plenty of illusions, but I’m a work in progress.

I spent a year feeling embarrassed that my husband cheated on me.  I spent a year feeling like a failure because I was getting a divorce.  My good friend, Andrea, told me that one day in the future, I would quit checking the box on forms for “Divorced” and start marking the one for “Single.”  She was right.  I remember asking Fartbuster, on one of those horrifyingly awkward dinner dates where it was just the two of us (and that other shadow of a woman)–“How is she better than me?  What can I change?”  He said–and I will never forget it because it took me months to understand–“It has nothing to do with you.”  WHAT???  It has EVERYTHING to do with me.  It’s my life that’s being ripped open.  My reality that has to shift to include this storyline.  My fingers that scrub the lipstick out of your shirt.  I finally understood what he meant (with the help of many thousands of dollars worth of therapy from trained professionals)–I wasn’t the cause of his cheating.  I couldn’t have changed it and I couldn’t fix it.

In a very unguarded conversation, after we had spent some time together “putting things back together” but I found a book in his car titled :Should I Stay of Should I Go?,” he said, “I had made such a mess of my life and you kept saving the day.  I just wanted to be the good guy for once.  So I found someone more screwed up than me.”  I think he even used the expression “white knight.”  In a more guarded conversation that showed Fartbuster in his prime, he accused me of being “too supportive.”  Y’know, keeping the mortgage paid and food on the table and stuff.  Pffffft.  What a conniving bitch I was to do that!  There’s a really good reason we call them our EX-HUSBANDS.

This is rambling and disjointed and you know what….it’s the TRUTH!  It’s OK!  It’s me doing my best!  So next time I’ll talk about the one and only phone conversation I had with The Other Woman.  It’s a doozie.  It’s all about owning what you own and not taking on what you don’t own.  For today, I just wanted to talk about telling the truth.  It’s a way to clean the wound.  It all gets better once you start telling the truth.  Because sometimes the truth is, “It’s not your fault.”

Law and Order FPU: K9 Division

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Episode Three

 “In Our Fair City’s war on feral panties, the worst criminal offenders are pursued by the detectives of the Canine Investigations Squad. These are their stories.”

THUNK-THUNK!

904446_10200380527228800_407350337_oDay Four, 9:00am.  Special Agent Huckleberry is on the case.

OK, seriously…I am trying to write but that expression on Huck’s face cracks me up so bad that I can’t think straight.  So that means it’s time for a CAPTION CONTEST!!!  What would you caption that photo of the world’s silliest Greater Pike Hound on the case of the feral panties?  Leave your answer in the comments!

Law and Order FPU: Stakeout

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Episode Two

“In the criminal littering system, panty-based offenses are considered especially heinous. In our fair City, the dedicated bloggers who investigate these underwear felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Feral Panties Unit. These are their stories.”

THUNK-THUNK!

Camouflage

Day Two, 5pm.  The panties are beginning to camouflage themselves as they adapt to their new habit.  We’re 48 hours into this stakeout and the trail is growing cold.  And breezy.  We may have to call in commandos.

THUNK-THUNK!

In the rain

Day Three, 8:30am.  Looks like someone left their cake out in the rain.  The FPU officer suffered an attack of panty pity and shielded the wad of panties with her regulation black umbrella.  It’s hard out here for a pimp.

THUNK-THUNK!

chalk outline

Day Three, 5:15pm.  Feral Panties Unit officer outlined the panty wad in order to prevent further contamination.   From this angle, it’s starting to look like the Rolling Stones lip logo…or have I been looking at this for too long? 

THUNK-THUNK!

If you have no earthly idea what the hell is going on here, click here to read the beginning of the story.

And then the second part of the story.

Then somebody help me get in touch with Ice T to see if he’ll do a guest post.

Law and Order: FPU (Feral Panties Unit)

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“In the Underwear Investigation System the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups. The freaks who leave panties lying about and the Intrepid Bloggers who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.”

THUNK-THUNK!

5pm update...panties still there, shadows growing longer.

Day One, 5pm:  Sunset over the unders.

THUNK-THUNK!

Day Two

Day Two:  Panties still there, but looking a lot more gritty than yesterday.

THUNK-THUNK!

How long will they remain in the parking lot?  I give it until Friday.  We are Southerners and our capacity for ignoring the awkward or unpleasant is legend.

If You Walk Out of Your Panties…

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Yesterday, I shared with you some sage advice about fools from my father’s side of the family.  Today, let’s turn to my mother’s side of the family.  I’d like to share a nugget of advice that my Grandmama Irene told me 30 years ago that I have never forgotten:

“If you ever walk out of your panties, just keep walking.”

 

“Come again?” you might ask, as you clutch your pearls and lean in across your chicken salad plate.  Honey, you heard me.  I don’t stutter and your ears don’t flap.  If you ever walk out of your panties, just keep walking.

Grandmama Irene is 94 and has amassed a wealth of great advice over her years.  I think of her whenever I make a big breakfast because she always said, “Breakfast is the hardest meal of the day to get everything hot at the right time.”  Or when I’m cooking a big meal–“Wash pots as you go along and you won’t have such a mess when you’re finished.”  If it’s too humid, I don’t make divinity candy because she taught me that candy just won’t set if there’s too much moisture in the air.  (Well, to be honest, I’ve never made divinity because it’s too damn hard, but I know to BLAME IT  on the humidity.)  On budgetary matters, I hear Grandmama saying, “Pay your bills THEN buy your groceries.”  She’s right–you can always eat beans if the power bill was high that month.

But no advice compares to the jewel in the crown:  If you ever walk out of your panties, just keep walking.  I think I love this piece of advice so much because it came out of the clear blue.  It’s not like I was walking along with Grandmama Irene when my panties tangled up around my feet and she saved the day with sage advice.  Nope.  We were just puttering around the kitchen, probably cleaning up after a holiday meal, when she grabbed my wrist and said with a great sense of urgency, “Oh!  Ashley!  If you ever walk out of your panties (finger pointing for emphasis), just.keep.walking.”

She was born in 1918, in an age when elastic was…less dependable.  Now, I’m not one to reveal specifics about how this life lesson was learned, but back in the 1940’s on a lovely summer day, a lady might have found herself walking in downtown Atlanta, right past Rich’s department store, when her elastic decided to head south.  Should one find oneself on a sidewalk in a metropolitan area when one detects a certain “breeziness” in her skirt, one must NOT attempt to retrieve said underthings.  LET THEM GO.  Keep walking.  To quote a more modern sage, Obi-wan Kenobi:  “Those are not the panties you are looking for.”  Once they head south, they are no longer your panties and you will compromise your dignity if you stoop to pick them up.  They are feral panties at that point and belong to the street.

Keep Moving! Nothing to see here!

Keep Moving! Nothing to see here!

Why do I share this advice with you today?  Because as I was walking through the parking lot at work this morning, I see a bright pink pair of cotton panties lying right there on the asphalt.  

Someone’s mama has raised her right.  I bet you a dollar those panties are still there at 5pm today.  

If you’re thinking, “That’s good advice, but it’s never going to apply to me.”  Maybe not, but let’s take it from the specific panty-dropping probability and take a more metaphorical perspective.  Just think of the life situations where this applies!

  • Do you have a cheating husband?  Girl, he has walked out of your panties, so just keep walking.
  • Have you been eating right and exercising?  Hey!  You walked out of your panties!  Keep walking!
  • Are you breaking free of the bonds of appropriateness and embracing authenticity?  Sister, it’s time to walk out of those panties.
  • Is it time to leave the past behind?  Walk out of your panties and keeeeeeeep walking.

Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Grandmama Irene, so PLEASE share this advice with everyone you know!  Keep it breezy!

 

gi and vivi

P.S.  Some of you have asked for a photo of Grandmama Irene herself.  Here she is at Vivi’s first birthday luau, talking about cake.  She has been famous for her homemade cakes for half a century!