Why I Still Love My Ex

Now, I do desperately love my Unsupportive Louse, despite any minor flaws he may, at some inopportune moments, exhibit. The thing is, he’s very different from the previous Mr. Penney…VERY different – macho vs nerdy, clean-shaven vs scruffy, illiterate vs bookwormy, lightweight vs alcoholic, EAE sports player vs role playing gamer. So many important ways that they’re so very different. But really, on almost all counts, the Unsupportive Louse is a better pick, and I’m not just saying that because he might deign to read my measly little blog one of these days, no, it’s really true.

However…the Macho ex-Jerk was far and away (I mean, by like…a billion times) better at communicating. Oh yeah, I know, I went to marriage counseling, I KNOW communicating is one of the MAJOR “needs be” of marriages…the Unsupportive Louse just happens to suck at it. He does try, he really does, but when you start from next to nothing, trying doesn’t get you much better too fast. And the thing is, the Macho ex-Jerk LOOOVED to talk. He was one of those who’d call me on his way home from work (which was a 10 minute drive) because he had SOOO much to talk about (even though he’d called me three times throughout the day), and then he’d still be talking to me as he walked in the door and never stop while he hung up his phone. We talked about anything and everything and anyone and everyone and all their anything and everythings too. Now, I’m not saying we never fought, cause that’d be just one huge f-ing lie, but we’d talk about it afterwards anyway.

So every once in awhile I start to question myself, if I couldn’t make a marriage work with this guy who was GREAT at communicating (though, as it turns out, talking doesn’t necessarily equate to communicating…), why oh why do I ever think I can make it last with one who is just absolutely terrible at it? Which gets me into the what-ifs. What if it was actually all my fault? (which, clearly, it isn’t, since after all, nothing is…but for the sake of argument, I let my brain ramble on occasion.) What if I had realized sooner that he’d stopped talking so much; what if I’d realized that the lack of talking was a sign of distress in the relationship and not just due to the overuse of his cell phone minutes that I bitched him out about a time or two? And what if, on some very critical day six years ago (because this kind of willpower couldn’t have lasted longer than a day), I had decided NOT to be a demanding, obsessive compulsive bitch…would that have changed everything? Would I have never had to go through the devastation and depression of that divorce? And if I hadn’t…would I be happy now?

And now, that’s the key question. Where my what-ifs really get me. Could I have been happy forever with the Macho ex-Jerk if things had just been a little different? Because the thing is, I’m not a quitter. I’d have never left even if I was slit my wrists miserable (and I was close there near the end), but it’s just not my way. I’m damn stubborn when I want to be, and getting divorced?? NOT on my list of things to do. I HATE the fact that I’m divorced. Even though I’m happily married again, I can’t stand anyone knowing this huge failure in my past. Plus, I did actually love the dipshit. So I’d still be there if he hadn’t made his fateful pronouncement one gloomy night…

So my damn overactive brain starts wondering the what-ifs on occasion and my damn overactive guilty conscience (thanks, Mom) starts telling me I’m an ungrateful wife for even considering the what-ifs (because, believe me, I’m much happier now than I ever could have been stuck on Long Island – forgive me if you’re unfortunate enough to live there – with the Macho ex-Jerk for the rest of my life.)

Recently I had the wonderful fortune of remembering all over precisely why I still love the Macho ex-Jerk so much.

The Macho ex-Jerk’s best friend, the best man at our wedding, the only guy to do more than slap him on the back when he told him we were getting married, the guy close enough to him that they both asked each other to check up on their wives while they were sent to die in Afghanistan (don't worry, they didn't die), the guy who actually teared up at our goodbye party… just had a baby. Let me add here that he totally cussed the Macho ex-Jerk out for his dumbassed-ness when we were separated, and TOTALLY chose me when we divorced (you KNOW you have to split up your friends in the divorce papers as well as the towels, the photo albums, the gigantic plastic souvenir cups, the toothpaste...)

So, MeJ’s best friend had a baby who came 8 weeks early and weighs only 2lbs13oz, is doing well considering, but they’re asking for everyone’s thoughts etc. (And by the way, he e-mailed me to tell me, because I still have custody of his friendship, even if I no longer have the towels, photo albums, toothpaste or gigantic plastic souvenir cups.) I think to myself, perhaps the Macho ex-Jerk would like to know this, would like to send his wishes. So I forward the e-mail. What a nice person I am. I’ve done my good deed of the day. I pat myself on the back and begin to think some what-ifs just to get a healthy dose of guilt.

Macho ex-Jerk e-mails back, (and I quote)

“That’s nice. We don’t talk anymore.”

Because I can’t handle such a stupid response, and certainly can’t let sleeping dogs lie, I write back
“Uh, duh, that’s the point, I thought you might like to send your regards to your BEST FRIEND. Fuckhead.”

“I’m glad he’s doing well, but I’ve moved on in my life.”

Yes, and moving on definitely means you can’t be a nice person for three goddamn seconds and send well wishes to the best friend you ever had when his first child is in danger of DYING*. And all because he told you you were a dipshit for divorcing your gorgeous, intelligent, far too good for you wife five years ago. (And since MeJ’s best friend is now my property, I know from him that this is indeed the only rift that caused their best friendship to completely crumble.) What an asswipe.

And this makes me realize what a good man the Unsupportive Louse truly is, who would not only never be stupid enough to divorce his gorgeous, intelligent, maybe not quite too good for him wife, he would also never give up his best friend in the divorce (unless, of course, I really wanted her) and even if he did, he’d never be so much of a dick as to ignore the peril of her as yet unborn children. Which is why I love the Macho ex-Jerk so – he’s able to remind me how much better my life is now and how absolutely miserable I would have been if all the “what ifs” were “indeed trues.”





*Author' note - Baby is actually doing great, not dying, just a bit of overdramatism. I'm sure you're not used to it, since it so infrequently occurs in my blogs.

OCD - Obsessive Compulsive Dogsitting

We’ve been dogsitting for some friends…we’ll call them Mr. Communicative and Mrs. Cleanly (I’m actually laughing out loud as I type that…even though I’ve known I was going to type it...)

Anyway, Mr. Communicative and Mrs. Cleanly’s house…well, let’s just say Mrs. Cleanly is ironic. Very, very, very ironic.

But as I’m looking around at the disaster that is their home, I think…my God, this could happen to anyone! One day the shirt you throw at the laundry basket tumbles off the top of the pile, the next day the closest door won’t close, and then suddenly half the room is full of clothes. So many clothes that even when you do a load or two, you’re overwhelmed and can’t even convince yourself to finish folding them all. Or maybe you don’t have time to because your two-year old is being anything but helpful and quite enjoying strewing the newly cleaned clothes around the remaining uncluttered sections of floor. So you stop. And then they’re covered with dog hair and wrinkled and pretty much dirty again anyway.

And the day you’d thrown that first shirt that overflowed the laundry basket was the day of your child’s birthday party, and at that party he received such an inordinate number of gifts that you literally don’t have room to store them all in your home, and your living space is quickly being encroached upon by toys that are actually “away.” Not to mention the toys that are quickly and easily dumped by joyous hands: blocks, cars, balls…everywhere.

And while you’re busy worrying about the tragedy that is your laundry situation, suddenly the kitchen rebels from lack of attention and the dishes overflow the sinks, the counters are covered with food stains, the stove is protesting by flinging grease and garbage, paraphernalia, crap piles any open space. (The easiest thing to do in this instance is blame your husband, of course, and try to convince HIM to clean it, thus washing your hands of the situation altogether...)

And suddenly your house looks just like theirs. And then maybe some evil “friend” will write a nasty blog to nationally publish your disgrace as a housekeeper too.

Needless to say, I came home from feeding the dogs and began organizing toys, scrubbing counters, cleaning the stove, polishing the table, swiffer-ing the floor, and yelling at the Unsupportive Louse for letting things get SO out of control. (After all, it is CLEARLY his fault.) He raised his eyebrows at me and went back to his video game.

Quote of the Week

My favorite quote of the week – The Mooch asks “Where’s The Walking Guilt Trip?”

I answer “Omm…she’s laying out on the dock…been there for awhile…she kinda looks dead.”

The Princess - “Think we should make sure she’s okay?”

Me - “I don’t know, she’s probably fine.”

The Mooch – “She already paid?”

Me - “Yup.”

The Mooch – “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Please Excuse My Absence

The Unsupportive Louse and I took the Energizer Bunny (after a full day of jumping off the dock, throwing rocks, swimming, building a bonfire and roasting marshmallows, an hour and a half past his bedtime, our two year old says, "No mommy, no nigh' nigh'. I go 'wimming.") to a cabin on a lake close to Lake Michigan this past week, with my mother (The Walking Guilt Trip - never had a guilty conscience? Don't believe that my sweet little mother could give you one? I DARE you to try to avoid one. Double dog dare you.), my brother (The Mooch - we'll just say something seems to come up quite frequentlywhen the rent is due...) and my half-sister* (The Princess - it's not her fault, would you NOT accept being lavished with gifts? No, you'd probaly greedily take any gifts sent your way, and the more gifts you got, the more used to getting gifts you'd become.).

Top 10 Things I learned at the lake:

1. Teaching a two-year old to skim rocks is really just teaching a two year old that it’s okay to throw rocks.

2. I hate the TV…hate, hate, hate the TV. (Now, I knew previously that I didn’t like having the TV on all the time; would prefer to do something productive or exercise-y…but now I know that I HATE having the TV on in the background constantly. I hate thinking whatever the chauvinistic doctor on MASH said is more important than what I’m saying.)

3. The water in the lake will stay the same temperature two days in a row, but will feel shockingly colder when it’s 83 degrees and breezy than it did when it was 61 degrees and raining.

4. It is smart not to dive into a lake while wearing a bikini, with mother, brother, sister, and two year old watching. No worries about the husband watching.

5. When I am with my siblings and my mother, I will always revert to pre-pubescent behavior. It does not matter how old I will get, how many children I have or how mature I become in my “normal” life.

6. It would be stupid, ridiculously, undeniably stupid, to forget to bring bug spray (or DEET as you non-California types call it) to a cabin by a tiny inland lake. Stupid.

7. Black labs are thieves.

8. It is best to go skinny-dipping when you are certain no one is watching.

9. Leeches come in many sizes. They are not all huge “as seen on TV.” And the microscopic ones can make it pretty much anywhere.

10. You can’t catch fish if you’re terrified of worms.


*growing up, she was my sister, now she is my half-sister. The change occurred when her father realized that I since I had moved far away (to NY with the ex) and was all but out of my sister’s life, he no longer needed to pay me any attention and my sister determined he was right, he is, after all, not my father. She also loved my first husband. When we divorced, I think the other half of her went with him.

Know a Good Lawyer?

I have had my first official bike accident.

The good news - It wasn't July 16th.
I was riding on the sidewalk.
I hit them, they didn’t hit me.

The bad news – I hit a pedestrian.

It was totally her fault – she was one of those weavers; the ones who can’t decide which part of the sidewalk they really want to claim. I find these types tend to scare easily. Don’t ask me ask…stuck in their daydreams maybe? So I followed my normal protocol, and using my “indoor voice” I said “On your right.”

She responds not.

“On your right.”

She begins to veer to the right, completely unaware of me. Shit.

“ON YOUR RIGHT!” The distance between us becoming dangerously small, not leaving me enough time to change to an “on your left,” I felt the need to yell at her.

The dumbass jumped a mile as if there was no warning, no groaning rusty tires, no squeaking breaks, no previous mention of “on your right…”


Landing from her short flight, she threw herself to the right. Of course. And I mean THREW herself, clearly trying to avoid certain peril and instead throwing herself directly in it’s path – the path of my bike.

As I flew over my handlebars, the only thing I could think was whether one could be sued for hitting a pedestrian with their bike.

Yet the first words out of my mouth were: “That would be your right.”

Obviously I had a concussion. I would never say such a thing under normal circumstances. (I swear.)

As I then contemplated the bump on my head, the grass in my hair and the dirt in my pedals, it occurred to me that I had too much work to do to spend the day in the ER, and decided to go the way of Natasha Richardson*…which required me appearing sane, if only momentarily.

“Are you okay?” I was still staring at the sky, not having the energy to force my muscles upright again. But after a few minutes of addressing the sky with the reciprocated polite concern and personal bone palpation, I decided she was not the suing type. I road my bike on the street (almost) the rest of the way to work. I figured God couldn’t hate me enough to let me have two accidents in one day… Perhaps that was pushing it…but again, obviously I had a concussion.



*I know it's dumb to use a pop-culture reference in a blog, especially one that is ALREADY out dated, but whatever - so if you don't remember, she's the English actress, married to some other unknown European actor that fell and hit her head skiing, told the paramedics to shove it, and later died of a brain injury. Now you're all caught up.

Vampire Porn

I don't like science fiction. I don't like it (most of it...I'm certain the Unsupportive Louse will out me for liking some of it if I don't fess up) because there's no good explanation. Aliens look like blue people. Yes, I'm sure the life that developed on a completely different planet looks exactly the same for us except those three eyes and that pesky blue colored skin. Dumb. Just dumb.

I especially hate vampires. I think whoever invented vampires was an uneducated, wholly unimaginative retard. (I know, I know, I should say what I really mean...I'm always trying to be so nice to people, I swear.) But really, they're a separate species from humans, right? That happens to be exactly the same except for elongating teeth and a propensity for blood. Uh huh. And don't forget their undead human slayers. 'Cause that makes them more believable. By the way, teeth are a calcified solid - how exactly do they elongate? And what does drinking blood do? And why vampire blood? They've already got the shit in their veins - why can't they just drink their own? Really, how does this make any sense? And what's the deal with the sun? I mean, I'd believe it if they told me they'd get really burnt really fast, but die immediately? Incinerate on contact? Turn straight into ash? REALLY?? So whatever, they're dumb, but you can like 'em if you must, that's fine.

On a very related note (oh, it is, you'll see) I also hate romance novels. I mean, every once in awhile I enjoy me a little romance slumming, but Danielle Steel-esque romance? BLOWS. I mean, middle aged women, done nothing with her life but serve her husband and pop out some babies and now her husband is leaving her for a ridiculously younger woman (who, in the end, will discover that he's a douchebag after all and leave him all alone, only to realize that his first wife might have been the one he wanted all along...) and first wife has since moved on to find a man and a career. Barf. Just barf. And every one is exactly the same barf. (ah, whatever, she's got enough followers, I'm not hurting her business any)

So...a few months ago, a friend of mine (who we will call "Creative" because...well, she's creative) sent me a box of books. I asked the Unsupportive Louse to grab me a book from the box, and he comes up with a vampire romance novel. For real. A friggin' vampire sex book. Oh hell no. If I hadn't momentarily grown a conscience and not wanted to send him back downstairs for a different one, I might have just burnt the book right then and there. I suppose I probably did as much with my mocking comments for the first three chapters.

But...uh, as it turns out? I like it. Oh, fine, fine, I love the stupid things. I even went out and bought a few more. Told my husband it would be a good thing if I got a few for my birthday. Really crazy stuff. Like, can't put it down, considering sending out mass e-mails to see if anyone has the ones I skipped in between. But that would be tantamount to admitting I maybe kinda sorta liked the thing... (and while clearly a TOTAL understatement) I've been a feminist science fiction hater for far too long to take it all back now.

But JR Ward? You can consider this your shout out. Your writing must be awesome, because I hate vampires and I'm not too keen on romance and I LOVE your damn vampire porn!

July 16...

Only two little ants in the kitchen this morning...I'm going to assume this is a good sign...I think. And I made it to work alive. Even braved riding my bike.

But today is the lab picnic. And the lab picnic happens to be in Dexter. Where my dad grew up. Where my dad is now buried. (We were living in California when he died.) How ironic would it be for my little evil fairy godmother to have me knocked off right next to his grave??

Or perhaps that's just too much coincidence.

Superstitious

I'm educated, I'm intelligent, I'm liberal, I'm a scientist, I'm trained to question anything I haven't seen supporting data for. But I'm superstitious.

Not COMPLETELY superstitious; it's not like I think I need to throw salt over my shoulder to avoid bad luck or that saying "Bloody Mary" three times fast at midnight will cause Bloody Mary herself to pop out of the mirror and come get me (...not that I would try it...) I'm ridiculously superstitious on just one point. It's not one that you've ever heard of, I promise. But I'm sure this one is true.

I'm pretty damned sure that if there is an invasion of ants in my kitchen on the morning of July 16 (yup, tomorrow) I am going to die. I know, you're a little shocked. You thought it was going to be something little and amusing. Well, it is amusing really, but the whole death thing is a little over the top, don't you agree?

Here's the deal. 28 years ago, on July 16 1981, after my mother discovered a massive ant infiltration in the kitchen, my father left the house to ride his bike to work. He'd had a meeting scheduled that morning, so despite my mother's pleas for him to stay and help clean up the nasty little buggers, he left. And never made it to that damn meeting.

Now you agree I've got a pretty good reason for this stupid, overly dramatic superstition, huh?

Want to know why it's even worse? Every year, every single freaking year after that, there were ants in our kitchen on July 16. Like a little reminder. Like some cruel supernatural being was having a little laugh somewhere.

There were three little scavenger ants in my kitchen today. If they find anything, a single damn crumb (and I'd like to point out that I'm sitting here writing my mandatory blog and therefore NOT cleaning...rather leaving the scrubbing to the Unsupportive Louse who, true to his name, does not understand my ridiculous superstition), there's sure to be a mass attack tomorrow. And then I'm going to die. Possibly on my bike on my way to work. Or perhaps that vindictive little god will laugh in my face and crash my bus when I try to avoid destiny by not riding my bike.

But here's the thing, if I were a malicious celestial being, I'd wait until it was really appropriate. And when my dad died, he had TWO kids, my older brother and I. I've still only got the one. So perhaps my three little scavenger ants are just a friendly warning to enjoy life while I'm here and I won't in fact die this year, but possibly next year, or maybe two years from now...

But if there are no future blogs, you'll know why.