Like Vodka For The Bitter Divorcée's Soul

One thing I love about being single: having a group of witty, supportive friends who will hold back your hair when you are puking and will send hysterical emails to cheer you up when you are wallowing upon hearing your ex-husband remarried and spawned. Thanks, CKD!

I read your post about the ex. Ok, here are some reasons why you should not feel like a withered old maid.

1.) You are only 30. So young, so much to look forward to.

2.) Jayla Rae is the most fucking retarded name EVER. It sounds like something Britney Spears or an unwed teen mother would name her kid. They probably got it from a soap opera.

3.) You were not ripped a new vag by a human shooting out of it. This is not something to be taken lightly.

4.) You are embarking on so many fabulous adventures and have already made a ton of great new friends since moving to NC.

You are doing great and are fantastic. Seriously. Now enjoy your drink!

Ouch!

Nothing prepares a girl to see this news item while screwing around and haphazardly googling her ex-husband:

New Wife [sic] and Psycho Ex-Husband [sic] of Shit Hole Town in
Washington State [sic], a girl, Jayla Rae , Oct. 30, 2008. Jayla is the granddaughter
of New Wife's [sic] parents Blah Blah and Blah [sic], and Ex-Father-In-Law who
used to drink himself in to a stupor in his workshop [sic] and Ex-Mother-In-Law
who was always hopped up on Prozac [sic] of Nearby Crappy Town [sic].

Crap! I feel like I am going to puke. Knowing Psycho Ex like I do, I guessed he would be so unoriginal as to register at the same story as we did for our wedding. Bingo! The baby registry is still up.

Dammit!

I feel like a withered old maid for sure now.

Do yourself a favor and don't google your ex.

I am off to pour myself a stiff drink.

My Next Boyfriend...

Today I read an interesting article on one of my favorite blogs. The gist of the article was to list things that you expect from your future boyfriend by using the bad behavior of past boyfriends. Things like "my next boyfriend is not going to have children" or "will be emotionally available."

** Must be popular... they updated their list**

Ha! Amateurs!

Here's my stab at it:

My next boyfriend...

- will not be so moody as to have mental breakdowns and threaten to commit suicide. (Looking at you, ex-Mr. Roadtripper)

- will know who the US fought in World War II. (Sorry, Joe, but the correct answer is not England. And... no... Hitler still isn't British, you dumb ass!)

- will be able to address problems in the relationship directly and not have to resort to talking through your cat. (And I still think Fleabag is a idiotic name for a feline, Eric Version 1.0)

- will not have to resort to telling war stories about killing people in order to make up for certain... ahem... inadequacies. (Worst pillow talk EVER, L)

- will not secretly try on my dresses and take pictures when I am not home (Sorry to call you out J/R but that one still stings a little bit!)

- will not freak out at the mere sight of a tampon, throw it on the ground in front of our white-water rafting group and shout "I'm not gonna carry your fucking tampons!" (Eric Version 3.0)

- will come up with a better name for his nether regions than his "junk". (Looking at you again, Eric Version 3.0. Note to self: stop dating guys named Eric)

- will not already have a girlfriend who lives in California who he is planning to move across the country to live with him. (Did you really think you were that slick, Maj. Pain?)

You Cry :: I Smile

Recent text message received from a sleazy ex who was sleeping with me, his live-in girlfriend and half of Northern Virginia:

"Just so u know after 4 combat tours u r the worst thing ever happened to me."

Hmmmm.... guess he is still holding a grudge because I outed him to the poor girl who moved across the country to be with him. I hope he is reading this now so he knows that I think he is a joke. Did he think I would curl up in the fetal position and cry myself to sleep because he hates me now? Nice try, dirtbag, but I rejoice in the fact that you are lying in that lonely proverbial bed that you made for yourself. Thanks for the compliment... now go away!

There Has To Be A Form Of Therapy For This

This is the keep pile... and doesn't include all my flip-flops!

I am nose-deep in boxes now. The hardest part of the day was dragging my shoe collection in to the living room to sort through. I love my shoes. I actually found myself getting sentimental over some of them, even though they are certified torture devices. As an avid watcher of the Style Network's "Clean House", I followed their advice of taking pictures of beloved items that you are giving up so that you can always remember.


I've had these since 2000. I was in the Army stationed at Ft. Huachuca, AZ for AIT. After being stuck wearing only uniforms for several months, we had finally reached the stage of training where we were allowed to wear civilian clothes and go out on the weekends. I was at the mall with the guy I later ended up marrying when I saw these Steve Maddens on display. I actually let out a shriek of joy and almost mowed down an elderly lady to get to them. My ex just shook him head in disbelief... until he saw the $60 price tag and he freaked. That should have been the first sign on why I shouldn't have married him... and besides... they were on sale.

I paraded around in these shoes for several years. They are horribly uncomfortable. All the weight on the bottom is only supported by those thin straps on top, causing for horrible dig marks on the upper foot. The footbed is actually kind of pillow-like but that causes for a horrible hissing sound everytime you put your weight down.



I bought these while visiting Atlanta in 2004. I had found an awesome shirt to wear out to the Buckhead district that night but realized that I had only packed black shoes. These were picked up at Nine West despite the fact that they really are a half size too small. I somehow managed to get up on the bar at Coyote Ugly to dance with these things on. They are, by far, the most uncomfortable things I have ever forced my feet in to. I could barely walk the next day.


Another Nine West purchase that I wore to the Marine Corps Ball in 2004 with an ex-boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend was secretly a cross-dresser who actually tried on my dress the next day while I was at work and took a picture of himself all dolled up in drag. No ill will towards him (who now lives as a her and shall be addressed as she for the rest of this entry). I know she reads my blog so I will say this: no woman can get over seeing someone else looking better in her own dress. The shoes are a little tainted in my mind, even though she didn't have those on in the picture.

No matter how much I tried scuffing up the bottoms of this shoes, they remain super slick and almost send me flying. The heel on them is very skinny and wobbley. Not the easiest shoes to walk in. Plus they kind of make my ankles look fat.


A DSW find that I wore for New Years 2005. Two Army friends came to DC to party so we got all dolled up for a club. The big silly flowers attatched to the shoes can be blamed squarely on Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City. These were killing my feet before we even got to the Metro. Several drinks were spilled on them throughout the night, and I have never been successful at getting the stains out.

I had actually worn these sandals a few times before I incorporated them in to my Greek Goddess Halloween costume in Atlanta again in 2006. They are balanced weird. You always feel like you are tipping forwards while wearing them. Not a good combination when you have been drinking!

Next step in packing? My ridiculous purse collection.

Welcome To The Island: Dwayne Johnson

I've had an unnatural crush on Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson for years; and I can place the blame for this squarely on my ex-husband. The ex had a white trash streak that encouraged his love of wrestling. When he turned the TV on for the latest Smackdown or Rumble in the Desert or what-not, I took to throwing myself on the ground and wailing protests. Wrestling is all fake! It is just a sorry excuse for a man's soap opera! It has low production... oh my!... hellllloooo there... who is that bronzed, tattooed god of a man with the wayward eyebrow who keeps talking about him cooking something and laying the smacketh down?

I'm not sure exactly what a "smacketh" is but I think I'll take two right on my candy ass!

Thankfully, my crush had the good sense to high-tail it out of wrestling and start making some movies. Granted, they are usually the type of movies that I hide behind my Masterpiece Theatre DVDs. He might not win an Oscar anytime soon but who cares? The man is great eye candy; and he seems to have a pretty good sense of humor about himself. He can raise that eyebrow at me any day.

Dear John Letter To My Sofa

The moment I saw you, I had to have you. I had been shopping all day, having hit up four other furniture stores in the fifty mile radius. As a last ditch effort, I stopped by a store close to my place that was known for its marked up prices. There you were... in the back of the store. Someone had already bought the loveseat and chair, so you were in the group of mismatched furniture. Burgundy chenille fabric, modern design, super comfortable... I was already in love before I even saw your $500 price tag. With no hesitation, I slapped the plastic down and bought my first major piece of furniture.

The other love of my life hated you. The ex swore you were too big for our living room. He hated how your sleeks lines contrasted with all the hand-me-downs and bargain furniture that filled our apartment. He continued to sit on his ratty old loveseat that he had saved from the dumpster at work while I languished on my new purchase. Quite the love triangle we made!

Needless to say, you lasted much longer than he did.

It has been seven years. You have seen me through some great times. You followed me on the journey from California to Virginia. I found room for you in that oddly shaped living room in my first Virginia apartment. Thousands of miles separated us while you were in storage and I was overseas in Ukraine. After transferring all my worldly belongings from storage in to my latest apartment, we were reunited again. I jumped on you with glee and rejoiced in the sense of familiarity you brought. Six months abroad sitting on uncomfortable rented Eastern European furniture made me love you even more.

You have provided me with comfort. You have welcomed so many of my friends and family. You have seen me at my best and my worst. You have seen me grow up.

But the time has come for us to part. The move to North Carolina is a new chapter in my life... one that you will not be taking with me. A recent trip to a furniture store showed me that I am looking for something different. We have simply grown apart.

It was a sad day when I dropped you off at Goodwill this Sunday. My first adult purchase was being carted off for some other person to find comfort in. I hope your new owner treats you well.

I do miss you. My new couch won't be delivered until Wednesday. The living room feels so empty without you. But even as I sit here on the floor, I know that I have made the right choice.

With fond memories,

Maggie

Know When To Fold 'Em

Upon arriving at my desk this morning and opening Outlook, I was slammed with the nagging suspicion that I was forgetting something. I kept focusing on today's date... August 12th... did I miss someone's birthday? Did I forget to pay the electric bill? Why does August 12th sound so damn important?

Duh... it was the day I got married. Today would have been our eight year anniversary. What a crazy thought. Eight years ago on this very day, I was standing in line at the Clark County Courthouse Marriage Office in Las Vegas with twenty other nervous couples. The paperwork was nothing. I would take longer filling out an application at McDonald's.

Eight years ago today, I was being swept away in a white limo to be married at a fine establishment called The Chapel of Love. I was wearing a purple sun dress and black sandals. But... hey... it's Vegas, baby.

Classy, isn't it?

Eight years ago, I was having a nervous breakdown in the bathroom of The Chapel of Love, ten minutes prior to the ceremony. I knew it wasn't a good idea. I wanted to run but I tried to convince myself that part of being an adult was to honor your commitments. I was afraid of letting everyone down. After I got divorced, I told my mom about that bathroom breakdown. She told me that her and dad would have grabbed me and walked out; then spent the rest of our time in Vegas partying.

Eight years ago, I was being escorted down the aisle by my father, who was trying so hard to choke back his tears. The ceremony was a blur to me. All I remember is that the guy performing it had a disfigured nose. I stared at it the whole time.

Eight years ago, I kissed Todd and was declared his wife. We were two stupid kids smiling at each other; having no clue what we just did. Love was a word we kicked around a bunch but the two of us never stopped to think about what it really meant. We were convinced that spontaneity and passion were essential building blocks for a long lasting relationship.

Eight years ago, I took the biggest gamble you can in Vegas. I used to swear that Vegas weddings were cursed. It was just too damn easy for couples drunk on love/lust/whiskey to jump in without thinking. Vegas isn't to blame. It may be a city for fools but it is (to steal a line from The King) the fools that rush in.

RIP Sleazy M

You are officially no longer a part of my life
I would have made this claim a few months back
But you were always lurking in the shadows
Trying to engage in combat by glaring
Man of war that you are
I thought you would pick a better weapon

A man of many faces
The upright family man trying to lead the perfect life
With the perfect girlfriend
And the perfect house

Other women saw another face
The lecherous man sitting on a bar stool
Luring women back to your perfect home
Promising them a perfect lay
Cheap thrills
Getting off on the knowledge
You were getting away with a whore
In the damn near marital bed

Then there was the third face
For the girl who was not quite the perfect girlfriend
Not quite the whore
You made me think I was this force you couldn't resist
That I was something special
Something enchanting

But in fact
You just made me another one of your whores

You told me I could never be the perfect girlfriend
And yet you kept sniffing around
Like the dog you are

When the covers got pulled back
And your most frequented whore exposed the truth
You were indignant
How dare the whore have her day!

Now your perfect girlfriend
Is putting the pieces back together
Without you.
She will be fine
And make the perfect girlfriend
For someone else.

Your whore is fine too
Ready to move on
You taught her that she is still capable of feeling something
I can dig through the shards of hatred in my heart
And remember how I felt
That I actually felt
Something
Wasted emotion, yes
But emotion nonetheless

You, on the other hand, are not fine.
Maybe you will realize this next week
Now that the perfect house is sold
And the perfect job is abandoned
Maybe sitting in the cold reality
Of your parents' basement
You will realize that you are a lonely forty year old man
With nothing.

She is fine

I am fine

You are not

Nothing but a forty year old man
With no one to love
No friends
No job
Clinging to a childhood dream of being a super hero
Puffed up with hot air
The only thing to keep you company are
The stories that you think make you the talk of the party
But you live in a basement
Alone

Let this thought ricochet
Through your head
Through what is left of your heart
Through the walls of that lonely basement

She is fine
I am fine
You are alone