Mo Livin' Large

"Don't you love a farce? My fault, I fear....

I thought that you'd want what I want -- Sorry, my dear." ~ Stephen Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns"

My first dance as Mrs. Dipshit was to Tony Bennett's version of "The Way You Look Tonight" and ironically, the first dance I had with someone after I became the ex-Mrs. Dipshit was to the Frank Sinatra version of the same song. But I've always attributed Sinatra's "Send in the Clowns" with being the theme song for my divorce.

Yes, I listen to a lot of Sinatra.

Today is August 3, which for many years has been a source of great happiness for me. This year, not so much. You see, August 3rd is the anniversary of my divorce and today it has been seven years since I legally went from Mrs. Dipshit back to Ms. Mandley.

Seven years is a long time.

I was driving into work this morning listening to Classic Sinatra and pondering this... aspect for lack of a better word of my life. I'm not sure if it's because I've been so down lately or if the fact that my life is soooo stagnant has suddenly blinded me, but my usual joy of "Ding dong, Dipshit's gone!" is missing this year (and yes, that song is to the tune of "Ding, Dong, The Witch Is Dead" and I do usually go around singing it every year since 2006). To the point where I was afraid of opening my mouth when I got to work in fear that I would begin sobbing uncontrollably as it occurred to me that I have never experienced true romantic love, been the object of someone's desire, whatever.

My relationship with Dipshit began over the Internet in 1999 while I was living in Royal Oak and he was stationed in Hawaii. We got to know one another through Instant Messenger, emails, letters and phone calls. He came home twice between the time we met and when he was discharged in August of 2000. His first visit was hot and steamy despite the fact that we were alternating between my mom's and his parents' house. The second visit was an emergency week-long visit when his grandmother died; not very romantic to say the least.

Yet by the time he was discharged from the Marines and returned stateside in August, 2000, his ardor had cooled considerably. Between August and November that year, we had both interviewed for new jobs, landed said jobs, moved to Chicago and moved in with each other.

And by January of 2001, Dipshit was telling me he wanted to see other people.

I was devastated. Thinking back, I realize I wasn't as nearly devastated by his wanting to see other people as much as I was by the fact that I couldn't afford the apartment on my own. While it's both a blessing and a sin, I have this amazing capacity to be completely calm and logical in the face of disaster. And so when I began pointing out what he could have and what I'd keep when he moved out, Dipshit quickly clarified a point for me: he wanted to see other people, but I was not going to be seeing other people.

Yes, you read that correctly.

And yes, I still married him almost two years later. A common thread in my blog is the fact that I have low self-esteem.

Anyways... calm and logic went out the window after that little pronouncement and by the end of the argument, we weren't speaking but Dipshit sure as hell knew if he was going to be seeing other people, I sure as shit was too.

Fate oftentimes comes knocking when we're too busy to notice, and no sooner had we had this argument when a few days later, I came down with a migraine at work that rendered me immobile. To the point where I was actually sent home from work and highly encouraged to get a cab rather than wait it out on public transportation.

Never before and never since have I been in a cab with an attractive young man driving for his uncle's cab company while he went to dental school. And "never have I ever" (before or since) been asked out by a cab driver.

In between waves of nausea, I explained the situation I was in with Dipshit. As he handed me my change, he slipped me his phone number. "I'd like to take you to dinner on Friday. Call me to confirm by Thursday, but if I don't hear from you, I wish you all the best."

I wanted to shout with joy but all things being equal, I was just trying to keep my lunch down before I got to my apartment. I nodded and ran into my building, making it a point to cover my mouth so the cabbie wouldn't think I was repulsed by him. On my run into the bathroom, I dumped my keys, my change and the cabbie's number on the hall table and afterwards, went and crashed in the bedroom.

When I awoke later that evening, Dipshit was home from work. I went into the living room and sat on the couch where I saw the cabbie's phone number on the coffee table. "Whose number is this?" Dipshit asked quietly.

"His name is Nick. I met him today. We're going to dinner on Friday."

Apparently, it had never occurred to Dipshit that I was serious about the fact that if he was dating others, so was I. He decided right then and there he didn't want to see other people any more.

Which, if this were a fairy tale, would be the moment where I conclude with, "... and we lived happily ever after."

But it ain't.

I've never quite pinpointed the exact time he started cheating on me anyways, but I do know it was well before we married in 2002, and it was only about six weeks after the wedding when he picked it back up. He had an affair with one of his clients, and several people he met online. I found pictures of both men and women on his profile on our home computer while he was deployed. I don't even want to tell you what I found when I broke into his email account while he was overseas, but let your imagination wander and runaway for a bit and you'll come pretty close, I'm sure.

So suffice it to say, it was very obvious that while he may have loved me at one point, it certainly was never a passionate, explosive, all-encompassing type of love that becomes a story for the ages.

Which I'm still waiting for.

Maybe it won't be explosive, and I'd be really happy if it weren't obsessive, but I'd like to find love again. My biggest fear in life is never finding someone to love, and who will love me back. And if I do find such a love, will I morph again into the person I think he wants me to be instead of being myself?

Will I turn into a clown?

 

 

"Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us."

~ Oscar Wilde

Several weeks ago, I was sitting on my couch, quietly reading a book and I glanced up. My eyes lingered on a Vettriano print I have hanging in the corner and as I began thinking about the painting I realized....

It's gotta go.

"Dance Me To The End of Love" is a beautiful print, as is "The Singing Butler" and "Elegy for the Dead Admiral," both of which hang in my dining area (not that I've gotten a dining room table yet).

But they've all got to go.

They all remind me of Dipshit. They're happy memories, and that's not a bad thing. In fact, it's a good thing. But as I move forward with my life, the more I need to let go of the past.

I thought about simply replacing my current Vettriano's with other Vettriano's but as I scrolled through the offerings on both art.com and allposters.com I realized one thing: every Vettriano print I saw reminds me of Dipshit. I'm not sure why that is. Perhaps it's the style or maybe the romanticism I feel whenever I see a Vettriano, but whatever it is, I always correlate it with Dipshit.

Again, not a bad thing, but it's not a good thing either. To look at all the art work on your walls and immediately think of your ex husband? Makes moving on to bigger and better things a bit difficult, wouldn't you agree?

The irony is that as I sit here typing this post out, I'm wearing my engagement ring. No qualms, no forlorn sighing, no bitter memories.... In fact, one memory I have of this ring is from my bachelorette party. My (ah-mazing) friend Brande' came over the next morning with pictures from the party and there's a glare across the picture. "What's that?" I asked.

"That's your ring, honey," she patiently explained to my blonde self.

"Ooooooo...." I have to hand it to him. For a douchebag, he had great taste in engagement rings.

It's amazing what you associate memories with. A picture hanging on the wall brings back once-happy memories for me while a ring on my finger does nothing.

Songs. Scents even. Movies perhaps. Books.

My sister laughs and laughs because she knows one of my favorite scents ever is fudge and horse manure. Mixed. BEFORE YOU JUDGE ME.... I associate that scent with one of my most favorite spots on earth: Mackinac Island.

I always associate U2's Angel of Harlem with the night I drove into Chicago along Lake Shore Drive with my sunroof open at sunset thinking to myself, "I'm going to live here. I'm going to ace my interview tomorrow and live here in this magnificent city." And I did.

The song "Whoomp There It Is" brings to mind a certain guy from CMU named Travis. Travis was a "country boy" from Manistee who was rooming with a "city slicker" from Chicago named Jason. Now Jason was a definite prep and Travis was a "I don't give a shit" kind of guy and you always knew when Travis was drinking (or not) because he'd just track down Jason wherever he was in the room and scream, or whisper, or say in a normal tone of voice, "Tag team back again...." Over. And over. And over. And over again. Until Jason would run from the room screaming. Literally.

My favorite box to unpack when I moved into my apartment was the one holding my photo albums and such. The first one I grabbed and dug through was the one from Central. And as I sat there flipping through the various photos, I tripped across one of Travis and Jason. Of course, in college, I had a thing for Jason, who had a thing for my roommate Sarah. Right next to it was a picture of Travis. And all I could think almost a full 18 years later was, "What the hell were you thinking, Mo? Travis was HOT!"

Not the brightest lightbulb in the chandelier back then, that's for sure.

Grocery shopping with me is impossible. Everytime I see fingerling potatoes I get the giggles thinking of Brande' quizzing me on just how large (or rather, small) a past.... well, the term lover is adequate but as he wasn't, I don't want to use that word. Y'all are smart; you know where I'm going with that.

Vanilla wafers make me laugh, too. One night, my friend Kony asked if I could pick up some Nilla Wafers on my way to her house where we were going to make rum balls to send to our boys overseas. Blonde that I am, I bought vanilla wafers, not Nilla Wafers. She just sighed, laughed, and said, "Oh, Mo" while I traipsed back to the Jewel to get the right ones.

Archipalego's Bergamot Tobacco scented candle reminds me of my honeymoon. El Producto cigars bring to mind my maternal grandpa and his endless tinkering and eyes always twinkling. Drakkar Noir and Swiss Army cologne remind me of high school and college boys. Men's Speedstick will forever remind me of my father....

I just noticed that the majority of my scented memories, even the ones I don't mention here, are related to men. Hmmmm.....

Movies.... Here's a funny Mandley Family story for you involving movies.

One night, the five of us Mandleys went to Comerica Park to catch a game (that's actually where the pic of my mom and dad I posted a few weeks ago was taken). So as we're leaving, I was walking with my dad and asked, "Hey Dad! What's a better baseball movie? Field of Dreams  or The Sandlot?"

My dad thinks about this for all of five seconds and says, "I don't know. But did I tell you what that shittin' VCR out at school did to my copy of Field of Dreams?"

Now my brother, who had been walking about fifteen feet ahead of us with my mom and sister and many, many other people shouts, "No, Jim! You didn't! But why don't you tell us now?"

And my poor, innocent, and yes, deaf, father looks at me and says, "Am I talking too loud again?"

And my brother of course shouts, "Noooooooo!"

And the crowd laughed. And my Speedstick-smelling dad laughed.

And it was a good memory.

"... the truth will set you free."

~ John, Chapter 8, Verse 32

Recently I've been giving much thought to the truth. Truth in what I say and do, the truth about my past and present so that I can move forward into the future, truth about what's going on in the world.

It's a scary concept, truth.

"The truth will set you free." I've been pondering this for a few weeks now, ever since Sassy Booties and I were discussing human nature, the nature of the discussion being the basis for this post.

It seems to me that the people who embrace the concept of the truth setting one free the most are attorneys, which of course is when it seems to be more of a theory rather than a practice. Examples: OJ Simpson, Al Capone, Casey Anthony... need I continue? We all know the truth, they did it, but due to mishandling of evidence, "solid" alibis, and who knows what else, these people walk free until their next mistake or the IRS catches up with them.

Yet the truth, if we embraced it as being part of human nature, would set so many of us free and for the right reasons. But it's a double-edged sword, isn't it?

Chances are, we already know the truthful answer to the question we're asking. Yes, those jeans make your ass look huge. No, that lipstick does not look good even if orange is the latest trend. Yeah, not going to lie, your kid is a bit spoiled. And no, I do not think your relationship with a married man is a good idea.

You're not looking for the truth when you ask those questions because you instinctively already know the answer. Rather, you're looking for validation.

Just like I instinctively already knew the answer when I questioned my relationship with Dipshit. It wasn't working. I knew that. That was the truth. I didn't want to face it but I knew it. Deep down. What I didn't know, and to some extent still don't know, is why it wasn't working.

And it's in those situations when the truth really would set a person free. Had I known Dipshit was cheating on me before we got married, I would have walked away thereby setting us both free. Had I known why Dipshit was cheating on me perhaps there was something we could have done differently.

Although I'm not so sure about that. I have not ever had, do not currently have, nor shall I ever in the future have a penis.

If perhaps Dipshit had told me my weight was an issue for him, I could have made more of an effort to lose it (to his credit, I have never believed my weight was an issue for Dipshit; others yes, Dipshit, no). Perhaps I could have been more of a freak in the sheets. Or more of a lady on the streets. If he felt my spending was out of control, I could have curtailed it. If he thought I'd be better looking as a brunette, I would have considered it. Why not? I've tried red before, why not brunette?

I'm not perfect, no one is. I know there were areas I could have improved upon. Yet how can someone improve something if they don't know what's wrong in the first place?

I went to the doctor's last month, and they expressed concern over my blood pressure. I immediately made a concious effort to limit my salt intake, cut back on caffeinated tea and a few other nominal changes. Within two weeks, my blood pressure dropped from 142/98 to 130/90.

See? All I have to know is what changes to make and I can make a concerted effort to try incorporating those changes into my life.

But you have to be honest.

And therein lies the rub. Who actually wants to say, "Hey, Mo, the reason you're having trouble finding a man? You're heavy, honey. And not just in the weight department, b ut in the sarcasm department as well."

Just like I don't want to say, "Hey Dipshit.... The reason you have failed relationships? It's because you're a gay narcissitic manipulative liar."

Actually, I do want to say that, not gonna lie.

Digression... your nickname is Mo.

Getting back on point.... Why are we all so hesitant to speak the truth?

I am by no means advocating that we all start telling the complete, unvarnished, raw truth. I'm not about to walk up to my sister and say, "Holy shit, look at that mess on top of your head. Red dreads? Were you high? And that skirt.... My God, did you buy that at Skanks R Us?"

Just for the record, Meagan doesn't have red hair or dreads and pretty much lives in old team t-shirts and sweats. Although if she were considering any of the above, at least she knows where I stand on the idea now.

But the question remains... is there some way to speak the truth? One would need tact, for certain. Integrity, compassion, mindfulness and, to a large extent, courage. Bravery even. As Dumbledore said at the end of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, "There are all kinds of courage.... It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."

 

Yet if we knew there were no negative consequences to be had, how apt would we be to tell the truth? If being honest meant the possible difference between life and death, would we tell the truth? If we thought telling the truth would make a difference in a life choice that may hurt our loved one at first but may ultimately lead to a decision for the betterment in the long run, would it be worth it?

Would the truth be a worthwhile endeavor if it did indeed set us free?

 

An Open Letter From Jen to... well, Everyone!

Jen does an awesome job of introducing herself so without further ado.... My first (though hopefully not only) guest blogger, Jen.

I asked Mo sometime ago if I could post something on her blog and she said "sure". It's long over due I tell the world how amazingly wonderful she is. I've known Mo since I was 4. Most of my memories especially those from the time I can first remember have her in them. We grew up on a street full of kids but because her and I are the same age (one of us is a few months older, not telling which one) we went to elementary, middle and high school together. We were in the same classes, girl scouts, swim lessons, you name it. I know this girl better than she knows herself sometimes and I know she can say the same for me.

To all the men/boys out there who have done her wrong you've got yours coming! Especially you Dipshit. On the flip side, especially to you Dipshit, I get to read all of the stories about your stupidness which is entertaining but you've hurt my Mo. I want you to know Dipshit we make fun of you, put you down and you're not given any credit what-so-ever for being a stand up human being. I realize there are two sides to every story but I pick sides and I pick hers. If our paths ever cross watch out because I'm going to drop kick you in the face so hard you won't know what hit you. (I've been practicing). If it wasn't for you Dipshit, Mo won't end up being on the NY Times best seller list so the only thing I'll thank you for is the millions she will earn someday based on what she writes about you and your stupidness. Have I mentioned you're a moron?

Mo is my oldest, brightest, smartest, witty, humorous, imaginative, fun, adventurous (in her own right), an amazing entertaining writer, always there for you kind of a friend. These kinds of friends don't come around nor hang around for a lifetime. I'm truly blessed. I can call, text, write, holler, scream, yell, tell the honest truth, laugh until my stomach hurts, tears running down my face and know she will always be there. The time we spend together is never boring and she is like a sister to me. 

It frustrates me when Mo sometimes doesn't see what I see. Everyone gets down, everyone isn't always where they want to be at all times in life. Everyone goes through shit in life, some of us more than others.  I know she will get through this just like she's gotten through everything else in life. And it's perfectly ok to be sad. She hears this a lot from me and she's going to hear it again....The Law of Attraction. I know naturally she can't have children but nothing is written in stone saying she won't be a Mom someday. And the most wonderful one at that! Never say Never Mo!! Have hope, dream and dream big!! You may be lonely but you are never alone. I know I can't make it better for you but snap your fingers and I'll be there. We're only 1/8 of the way to having the most fabulous life. Part of the 1/8 for me is having you in my life.

Here is just a taste of some of the text messages we have.

Jen: I've decided I want a fabulous life and I'm only about 1/4 of the way there! Lol! (felt like you're the only one I can share this with)  

Mo: LOL. I feel I'm about 1/8th of the way there. I do after all have intelligence, a sense of humor and mad cooking skills. Jen: I rescue people, have an infectious laugh and I like to sleep. 

All my love to you Mo now and always!! 

P.S  I know stupidness isn't a word but I think it should be ;)

"The good ones screw you, the bad ones screw you,...

... and the rest don't know how to screw you!" ~ Samantha Jones, Sex and the City

The other day Sassy Booties and I were alone in the front office, Water Buffalo off on a vacation day or some such nonsense.

Wait, I should probably back this up a notch.

A week or two ago, I joined Jen and Jeff for dinner at their place. Kind guest that I am, I brought a bottle of Chateau Chantal's Naughty Red Wine with me. Considerate host that Jen is, she purchased a bottle of Grand Traverse's Select Harvest Reisling. She drank mine, I drank hers, and Jeff drank beer. Needless to say, I was a bit tipsy and feeling a little randy shall we say? and so I decided to see if Preston was still up for some adult fun, even though it had been almost a month since he had hit me up for a fling. 

Well, that night didn't work for him, but he was golfing in my neighborhood the next night and would I want to meet up then? I decided I did.

So this post is also something of a catch up post if you haven't noticed.

The next night, a Monday, while I was waiting for Preston to make his appearance, I was texting with Sassy Booties about The Godfather and Robert DeNiro's method acting and Al Pacino and it was just a normal night of texting for us, but should someone else read our texts they would be shaking their heads thinking, "WTH?". My "You've Got Company" alert went off and I texted Sassy, "Preston is here. I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Whaaattt? You better tell me in the morning!" she texted back.

Side note: things with Preston would have went well if he hadn't mentioned the fact he's still dating the other girl in the middle of our fun. Which came as a surprise to me, though given my track record, it really shouldn't.

I just keep hoping that one of these days, I'll meet a guy who ACTS HIS F*ING AGE! But really, two seconds past that thought and it occurs to me that guys who do act their age are the ones already in committed relationships.

Except for Clark. But he's looking. Or was looking. Whatever.

Digressing as usual.

So the next day Sassy Booties and I were, as previously stated, in the front office together when she asked me the age old question: How do you define dating vs. when you're girlfriend and boyfriend?

So here's an excerpt from what Sassy Booties and I were Google chatting about, along with some other things I've since added just to clarify my points.

Mo:  Okay, so Catholic Boy and Preston are dating the other girls. They are the girls who would be invited to attend weddings, parties, go to the movies with, etc. with Catholic Boy and Preston. Whereas I'm apparently the fuck buddy for both.

Mo: Now... that being said....

Mo: Dating I think just means you've been on more than 3 dates and like each other enough to keep seeing one another in a social capacity and then perhaps move into intimate territory.

Mo (again): Now, because I AM apparently (?) in the picture.... Neither Catholic Boy or Preston are truly dating these other girls (though technically I guess I'm the other girl) exclusively for the simple fact that I'm in the picture and so neither girl fits under "girlfriend" status in my opinion because again, it's not an exclusive relationship if your guy is off screwing some other girl (both literally and figuratively).

Mo (still talking): As a woman (or perhaps gay man), you get the title of Boyfriend or Girlfriend when you're introduced as boyfriend or girlfriend because it's always different with women as compared to men because unmarried men are idiots.

Insert Karma note here: Dear Mo: based on your definition above, you were not truly Dipshit's wife either as he was off screwing other men and women while with you. Love, Karma.

Dear Karma: You're a bitch. Albeit one with a great sense of humor. Keep up the good work (even if it means I get what I deserve). Love, Mo.

Can I just again mention I unwillingly became the "other woman" in Preston's relationship?

That being said....

I unwittingly made one massive ass mistake in the Preston foray.

Having (relatively or post-Preston) recently read He's Just Not That Into You, I admire author Greg Behrendt for stating the truth. When a man tells you at the beginning of the relationship that he's not looking for a relationship, BELIEVE HIM! Preston stated in his dating profile he was not looking for a relationship. And I, Mo With Super Powers, thought I could be the one to change his mind.

I *cough cough* quite obviously didn't.

Which explains why Preston thought he could hit me up for a one-nighter.

On the other hand, my profile quite obviously stated I was not looking to get involved with someone who was married, had a significant other, or was otherwise attached. Perhaps because that was in August and this is now April/May Preston thought my feelings may have changed. Yet  you'd think because he knew Dipshit was a cheater, he'd realize those are pretty ironclad rules I have.

Except for Catholic Boy because he's my kryptonite.

Karma: Hi Mo!

Mo: Go. Away.

Don't judge. My bad decisions are part of the reason you love my blog.

So invariably I have learned yet another life lesson from yet another dating and relating fiasco. Always ask if the guy is involved with someone else before you get yourself involved.

Even if he hit you up first.

 

Stuff I Could Not Make Up Even If I Tried

Little vignettes of things that have truly happened to me but aren't worth an entire dedicated post.

My friends Mark and Kony in Chicago had a vegetable garden behind their garage that yielded copious amounts of vegetables. One night, after having dinner together, Mark sent us home with this huge zucchini. It was as big as Dipshit's forearm, I kid you not. Anyways, when Dipshit and I returned home, we had an issue trying to find a parking spot (not unusual in our neighborhood). After a few minutes of driving around aimlessly, I had Dipshit drop me at the corner across the street as I had to use the bathroom quite badly. So there I was, standing on the corner of Sheridan and Lunt (I always had people telling me this joke: There are 3 streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina; Paulina, Melvina and Lunt) waiting to cross and the light turns red. Waiting at the light was a car full of young teenage boys. And there I am crossing a street that rhymes with vagina carrying this HUGE zucchini. By myself. The guys started laughing and one even told me to "Enjoy my night with my special friend." Dipshit thought it was hilarious when I told him the story. And just for the record, my special friend made an excellent zucchini parmesan.

I once went out with a guy who had a sock fetish. Rather than request nudie pics, this guy wanted to see pictures of my feet in my socks. He loved the fact that I have all of these weird, wild socks including Dr. Seuss One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish socks. It was odd, to say the least.

Never in my life have I enjoyed beer. I shotgunned a beer once just to prove I could, and I periodically try new beers such as the new lime beers everyone has started making and the Blue Moon you add orange slices to, but for the most part I am most emphatically not a beer drinker. So a few weeks ago, I swung by my dad's apartment to see him about something. While I had let him know I was coming, he told me he had a few things to do beforehand but that if I beat him there to let myself in, so I did. My dad arrived a few minutes after I did and offered me a beer. I said, "Oh, Dad. You man of perpetual hope!" My dad looked surprised and said, "Coke? You found a Coke in my refrigerator? Really? That can't be any good!"

I once asked a guy if it was in yet. It was. (B, that one was for you).

The other day at work, I received a sales call for a woman that no longer works with us. After politely explaining three times that the person he was looking for no longer works here, the man began spelling her name for me and telling me her position. Finally, completely exasperated, I said, "I know who you're looking for, but she doesn't work here anymore!" The man said, "Fuck you," and hung up on me.

In the days when MySpace was cool, I once had a guy hit on me. After a few phone conversations, I agreed to finally meet him in person at a Borders (yes, desperate times, desperate measures). So we meet. It didn't go well, mainly because he was an idiot. He wanted to open a "We Sell Your Stuff On Ebay" store in 2006 (reason numero uno that you're an idiot) because he had some friends who had opened stores in Chicago. I asked where in Chicago they had opened their stores. He said, "I don't know exactly which city, honey. Chicago is a big state after all." We argued for 15 minutes that not only is Chicago not a state, but it's not even the capital of Illinois. He left for the bathroom shortly thereafter, never to return. Icing on the cake? Some random man who had been sitting nearby said to me, "I don't think he's returning." He paused for a moment and continued, "It's probably a good thing. He's an idiot."

Another "Mo Went Out With This Idiot" Classic. I just want to make my disclaimer right now: I was high for the first time. In college, my friend Shiraz and I got conned into attending a party with our friend Jame-O (he worked with someone who was the roommate of the person attending the party or something like that). At one point, this rather beefy but good looking guy came over and started talking to me. We talked about school (I went to CMU, he went to Grand Valley) and I asked him his major. "Baseball." I shook my head to clear it and said, "No, your major. What's your major?" He responded,  "Baseball" again. I leaned over to Shiraz and said, "Now I know I'm high, but this guy is telling me his major is baseball." God and Shiraz as my witness, I could not make this next part up if I tried. A fellow partier walked by at this moment and "Baseball" said, "If you put that guy in a barrel of oil, you'd come up with a fish! Fish! Fish!" But he was blond, cute, and beefy and sadly, though our conversation never did get any better than this, yes, sadly, I did go out with this guy. And violated Shiraz's beanbag with him as well. 

The last time I smoked was almost a full decade ago. I was in Brooklyn, New York with my friend Brooklyn (name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent). I had a friend Tommy who lived in Queens, and was a Brooklyn cop and we were hoping to finally meet in person (ironically, he had met my friends Gwen and April at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico when they were all vacationing there at the same time). Anyways, Brooklyn was having a bit of a panic attack at being back in New York without the love of her life so we decided to use a holistic approach to calm her down. Not wanting me to feel left out, Brooklyn handed over the joint and I inhaled. Wouldn't you know it? Tommy called RIGHT at that moment. So as we're talking, it's becoming more and more obvious that I just inhaled and suddenly he's yelling, "You're smoking pot right now? On the phone? With a cop? While you're in Brooklyn? SERIOUSLY?" Well, um, yeah.

And if you've wondered why I started my blog, it's because when I tell these stories (and many, many others), people tell me to write these things down. So I'm writing them down.  :)

"They say it's your birthday!" ~ The Beatles

The other day, I was wandering around frantically checking calendars and Facebook because I just KNEW there was someone I knew who had a birthday that day. Around lunch, it hit me. It was Dipshit's birthday.

I've spent many a post disparaging Dipshit's character (for good reason, admittedly, but still), so I thought perhaps I should wave a temporary white flag and tell you some of the good things about him.

This is going to be a short post.

I'm kidding. Maybe.

Isn't it easier to remember the bad things rather than the good based on your level of contempt for a person?

Anyways... digressing again.

• Dipshit wrote wonderful letters. He really did. Never before or since have I met someone whose letter writing skills are comparable.
• He introduced me to the Griffin and Sabine series written by Nick Bantock. If you haven't already had the pleasure of experiencing the books, do so. 
• Dipshit had a way with animals. One day my mom went grocery shopping and bought a new box of Yums (Milkbones) for our dog Guinness. She put the majority of the box in a special Tupperware, and then left the remainder of the box sitting on the kitchen counter. Dipshit grabbed the remainder and "shared" them with Guinness.
• After he and I moved to Chicago, we adopted a bunny, Luca, and in 2002 adopted our cats, Pluto and Cosmo. He used to talk to them in wonderful voices.
• Our first Valentine's Day together, I was sicker than a dog (much like I was for this Valentine's). Dipshit made a lovely dinner of Cornish hens and wild rice pilaf, and got me a gorgeous negligee along with SimCity (yes, I wanted it). I was so sick, neither one of us truly enjoyed it.
• One day, Dipshit called me at work and we had a debate as to what to do for dinner. He volunteered to figure something out. That night, when I got off the elevator, an overwhelming scent of evergreen assaulted my nostrils in the hallway. The closer I got to our apartment, the worse the smell got. Turns out, Dipshit decided to do a rosemary crusted pork tenderloin. Except he made the recipe up himself. When we sat down to eat, the tenderloin was pretty much inedible due to the LARGE amount of rosemary used and we ended up ordering Chinese instead.
• One morning Dipshit and "the bunny" as he called her decided they were going on strike and weren't going to work. So we "all" called in and lounged around the house all day and then went to dinner and a movie later that evening.
• In the beginning he was great at little surprises. I'd come home from work and he'd have bought me the latest Dixie Chicks or Kid Rock cd.
• I have a tendency to spill food and beverages on myself, especially when I'm wearing white. He bought me a bib embroidered with a lamb on it for our wedding. He also made arrangements with our florist to have the clock I had been admiring in the shop wrapped and waiting for me to open at our reception.
• He's the one who insisted we have calla lilies at our wedding even after I told him the cost because he refused to do sunflowers since they were only my "second" favorite flower.
• Our honeymoon wasn't the greatest. The weather was rainy, wet and cold. Our drive home from the honeymoon was a disaster as we had both a tail light and a headlight go out on the trip in the middle of rainstorms. We stopped at a Kmart for replacement bulbs and Dipshit told me to go grab a CD from a new artist, Nora Jones, because he thought I'd like her and it might help us both relax for the duration of the ride. To this day, I smile and think of him (fondly) whenever I hear her voice.
• He once called me at work and asked me to run out to meet him (not an easy feat when you work on the 68th floor of a building). When I finally got out there, he had a bouquet of sunflowers and irises waiting for me that he'd picked up at a farmer's market.
• My great aunt Ruth loved using him as her personal escort. It was funny to watch considering he was 6'4" and my aunt barely topped 5'0".
• He used to laugh at my yelling and screaming and carrying on when we'd go to see the Tigers play the White Sox.
• Dipshit loved marshmallows. He ate them like candy. And he always managed to sniff out the bag no matter where I hid it in the pantry.
• He was a professional ironer. If that's even a word.
• He was smart enough not to let me drive when we drove around the Chicago suburbs and smart enough to toss me the keys when we were driving in Michigan.
• He knew that on our return trips to Chicago, we'd be stopping at Cracker Barrel.
• He was prepared to let me quit my job when things got really really bad at work. I called in one day to write my letter of resignation, but my manager got demoted on the same day so I didn't have to quit (it probably came as a huge relief).
• He was great with kids.
• He knew I couldn't have children and married me anyways.

In writing this post, I paused a lot. I smiled a lot. And I even giggled a time or two. There are even still moments when something will happen and I think, "He'd really get a kick out of this."

And I do wish him the best. Far away from me if possible, but the best.

 

 

"A lifetime's passed by you....

... What would you say?" ~ Dave Matthews Band "What Would You Say"

I'm sure by now most of us have seen the YouTube video Dear 16-Year-Old-Me. And then there's the blog post regarding the Mom whose 7-year-old declared she was fat. So I started thinking. If I could tell my younger self, my daughter, my sister, my niece, my little cousin, my goddaughter, or some random little girl on the street one thing I've learned in my 36 years of living, what would it be? Just for the record, I have no daughter, no niece or goddaughter to whom I could dedicate this post to so I'll dedicate it to my younger self.

Dear 16 Year Old Mo:

At some point today, you probably felt sad. Most likely, it was because of a boy, whether a boy said something mean to you, or because you don't have a boyfriend and have never really been on a date. Perhaps you overheard one of the more popular girls laughing behind your back because you're wearing clothes from 13 Below or Dots. Or maybe it's because you saw one of the cutest boys in school point at you while talking to his friend, who in turn turned around to look at you. And you knew without a doubt that it was you they were talking about because you were the only one in that particular hallway at the time.

You know what? It doesn't matter. Because in high school, everyone cares about the most unimportant stuff. They think you're cool based on the clothes that you wear, the car that you drive, who your friends are, and whether or not you spend your weekends drinking with them.

The truth is, you my dear are like a fine wine. You just get better with age. In college, when you realize no one is judging you on your clothes, your car, your friends, etc., you open your mouth more. And suddenly, people start listening to you. Whether what you've said is funny, thought-provoking, or challenging to the the professor, it doesn't matter. Your teachers look forward to hearing your spin on a topic they've chosen to discuss in class. Your English 101 professor actually publishes one of your papers in one of his books. You become good friends with Dr. Hartman, a David Letterman-like advertising professor who includes you in the small group of students who organize a visit to Central Michigan University's campus by Tom Curley, President and Publisher of USA Today (and who is now the President of the Associated Press). Although you should also note, math and science? Still not your strong suit. Neither are 8:00 a.m. classes.

Occasionally, you'll run into some of your high school classmates. Some will be students at Central with you, some will be there for a visit. They will be in awe of you. Gone is the geeky Monique of high school, who was probably best known for her long hair and timidness. College and beyond Mo comes into her own. She's not afraid of speaking her mind, standing up for herself, and creating her own sense of style. And yes, just for the record, you do start wearing Ralph Lauren, Jones New York and all the other brands you coveted in high school. Though with the exception of a few pieces, most of your "brand name" wardrobe comes after college because you work at Marshall Fields while searching for that first "real job." And just so you know, the Coach and Kate Spade purses? Yeah, you don't get those until you're 35.

Unfortunately, boys turn into men, and they don't get any easier to figure out. Well, they do. It's just that you, my love, are too smart for your own good and you figure them out way before they've even learned your last name. You have no great loves in college, although there's a fling or two thrown in for entertainment. You continue to carry a torch for Rich Sands and Heath (and by the way, dress just a little better and drink just a little less the night of Devin's bachelorette party. You'll thank yourself later when you run into Heath at 3 a.m.).

And then you meet Dipshit. I would love to say run, far and fast in the opposite direction, but the truth is: You will learn more from your relationship with Dipshit than you will from any class, teacher, professor, friend, person, book, etc. you ever come across (well, by the time you're 36 anyways). These are important lessons for you to learn, and though it's been more than 6 years since Dipshit and I have parted ways, I can still assure you that there is no other way for you to learn these lessons without going through the turmoil you go through with Dipshit. And the lessons you learn will be with you a lifetime. And so while you will hurt and be angry and be sad and reach the darkest point in your existence because of him, everything Dipshit puts you through in the end will be well worth it.

There are some behavioral patterns that continue with both young and older Mo. You have a tendency to stray towards promiscuous behavior. This isn't always a bad thing, but more often than not, it can be. As you get older, you realize that having a one (or five) night fling isn't always a bad thing. But younger Mo, you end up getting hurt a lot. That's because your self confidence is such that you believe a boy won't be interested in you unless you sleep with him. THIS IS NOT TRUE! So don't do it. Unless it's California. Because he makes it worth it. No joke.Once you and Dipshit part ways and you begin dating again, make up your own mind regarding whether or not to sleep with someone, but I'll give you this hint: five years after meeting him you still can't figure Catholic Boy out. And it both annoys you and challenges you.

But the most heartbreaking thing of all....

At the age of 18, when you are a freshman in college, you will find out you have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). After spending your entire spring break shuffling between dermatologists, endocrinologists, and gynecologists, you and your mom are sat down in front of the doctor and told that between your hormonal condition and your genetics, you will most likely never be able to have children as you do not ovulate. In addition to this, you will sprout hair in the most embarrassing of places such as your chest, your back, and most obviously your face. Losing weight will be even more difficult for you because your body doesn't process sugars like normal. You will find yourself curled up in bed in the fetal position with horrendous cramps. Your periods... well, when you do have them, it looks like someone spilled grape jelly into your panties.

I am sorry, younger Mo. There is little to nothing we can do about this medical condition as it's something older Mo is still struggling with. Be up front and honest about it though, with everyone you meet. Someone may (okay, does) leave you stranded at a restaurant with both the check and no ride home when you tell him you can't have children, but he wasn't worth it. Make sure the guys you date are open to adoption. Or maybe they'll be divorced or widowed with children. Or maybe we aren't supposed to have children at all. I don't know. As I said, it's something I'm still struggling with twenty years later.

But what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Survival of the fittest as Dad says.

Other things you need to know:

1. Don't skip that semester of college. It was a really really really bad choice.
2. No matter how much he angers you, bothers you, annoys you and just pisses you off, always tell Michael how much you love him.
3. Don't bother trying to involve Mom in wedding planning; she's going through her midlife and you'll probably end up trying to kill her anyways.
4. Mom and Dad do end up getting divorced, so you can start wishing for something else when you blow out the candles on your birthday cake.
5. No matter how counter intuitive it seems, you are far more happy single than you've been with any guy you've dated thus far.

But most of all, the most important thing I can tell you right now is to love yourself. Know that you're funny, smart, well-rounded, stylish, well-adjusted (for the most part), and loved by your friends and family. You, darling Mo, are worth it. Always remember that.

Even if you should have bought a dining room table instead of that Kate Spade purse and wallet the Christmas of 2011.

With all my love,

Mo

"I realize that I'm black, but I like to be viewed as a person...

... and this is everybody's wish" ~ Michael Jordan

I've been having a lot of blonde moments as of late, but this one takes the cake. Even if it happened more than ten years ago.

Michael Jordan's home in Chicago had pink marble in it. Very, very pale pink marble, but pink all the same. How do I know this you ask? Very simple. My ex husband, affectionately referred to as Dipshit, installed his kitchen appliances. Well, the dishwasher and ovens (yes, multiple) at least.

Keeping this in mind....

Dipshit's company Christmas party in 2000 was held at Gibson's Steak House in Chicago. Quick review of the steakhouse: FABULOUS! But anyways.... The dinner was held in one of the restaurant's private dining rooms, which is on the second floor, as are the bathrooms. Two small stairways, one leading to the dining rooms and another leading to the bathrooms, branched off of a small landing at the top of the stairs. This is important to know as....

Yours truly at one point excused herself to make use of the facilities. I did what I needed to do, tipped the bathroom attendant, and went out to rejoin the party.

Instead, I came face to face with a very tall black man wearing a white track suit.

I say face to face and very tall because I was standing on a landing three stairs above the landing the tall black man was standing on.

"Whoa, you're a tall one, aren't you?" I said smiling. He'd startled me but only because of his height.

The man smiled in return. "I suppose I am. But I get that a lot."

"Well, at your height, you're kind of asking for it, aren't you?" I laughed.

The man genuinely laughed. "Well, there's that I guess. And are you enjoying your evening?" he asked.

"I am." I explained that I was attending the Miele (ME-lah) Christmas party and that it was lovely.

"Miele?" the gentleman asked. "The German appliance company?"

"Oh, you're familiar with their products!" I exclaimed.

"I am. I have their oven, confection oven, and dishwasher and a vacuum cleaner or two."

"Or two? Those are a thousand dollars a pop and you've got two? Oh, I'm very jealous." The man smiled. "Well, I'm distracting you from your original intention I know, and I should get back to the party," I said.

"It was very nice chatting with you," the tall, bald black man said.

"Likewise. Enjoy your evening and Merry Christmas!" I responded.

"Why thank you!" he said. He seemed pleasantly surprised at my farewell. We moved to opposite sides of the small staircase and he went up as I went down.

Back in the dining room, Dipshit inquired as to the length of my bathroom visit. "Oh, I wasn't in there all that time. I just was conversing with the bathroom attendant for a minute and then a nice black guy I met on the stairs. He's even taller than you!"

"What did you talk about?" Dipshit asked.

"Believe it or not, Miele!" I told him.

At that moment, the tall, bald black man wearing a white track suit poked his head into our dining room.

"I have it on good authority that this is the Miele Christmas party. I just wanted to say thank you for your superior products, but in addition, thank you for your professionalism and discretion whenever you've been in my home. Juanita and I both thank you. Merry Christmas!" He added a wave and a smile in my direction.

"Is that the black guy you were talking to in the hall?" Dipshit asked me, incredulous.

"Yeah, why?"

"You do realize you just carried on a conversation about appliances with Michael Jordan, right?"

Not. A. DAMN. Clue.

"Anybody who's ever gone through a hard time -

... any outsider's perception, no matter how much information they're given, they have no idea what the person's life is like." - Amy Grant

* Mo note: this is by far and away the most heartfelt post I have ever written, and will be for a very very very long time.

The other day, my cousin Kristyn posted on Facebook about her niece's blog post about Perception. I read it, and it got me thinking. And then I went back to Facebook, read a few more posts from friends and family and thought some more about perception.

"No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true."
- Nathaniel Hawthorne

When I was living in Chicago, so many people thought my ex and I had it made. No kids, two adults with good jobs making an almost six figure salary living one block off of Lake Michigan in a vintage 1,200 sq. ft. apartment. Why wouldn't we have it made?

We put on such a great act for everyone that I think it was hard for each of us to believe we were actually unhappy.

Our reality is that we were maxed to the hilt on credit. It was rather understandable, each of us moving to Chicago with nothing but a bookcase and a dresser between us for furniture and some leftover stuff I had from my apartment dwelling days in college. Mix and match plastic cups and hard plastic dining ware weren't going to cut it for the long haul.

So we opened up a Macy's charge (Marshall Fields back then) and a Target account and had ourselves a little spendfest. I paid cash for our living room furniture (which I still have, thank you very much) but our dishes, linens, household cleaning supplies, household necessities, and everything else we needed went on those two cards. We opened a Sears account to purchase a computer desk. The following month we had to buy a new car when Dipshit totalled his for the second time (he really was an appallingly bad driver those first few months in Chicago). Then we had a line of credit with Dell when we bought our computer. Add that into the undiscovered reality of Dipshit doing a pretty decent job of stringing himself out on credit even before we began dating  along with a loan we took out for our wedding and you'd find the newly married Mr. and Mrs. almost $40,000 in debt.

Sure, I was wearing Ralph Lauren and Jones New York to work; the majority of my wardrobe had been bought and paid for while I was working at Marshall Fields. I bought my mom and I matching DKNY purses and totes for Christmas... at Filene's Basement (a store much like TJMaxx and Marshall's but with slightly higher quality merchandise). And then there was the one lunch hour when I ran out to Marshall Fields and bought 7 pairs of shoes for almost $300.

I can't say I'm perfect. That's what this blog post is about after all.

Of course, in addition to the debt we had, there was also the actual relationship issues Dipshit and I had. He wasn't a big communicator and I'm a yeller. We weren't sexually active (well, he was but I wasn't as it turned out). My wants and needs weren't a priority for him. And I was something of a control freak.

One of us had to be though so that the bills would be paid, food would be on the table, the car would be maintained, the animals healthy, the laundry done, the house cleaned.... You get the idea.

So when I announced the divorce to my friends and family, it would appear the majority of my problems had been shipped over to Iraq.

But in exchange for getting rid of Dipshit, I had a new pile of problems to deal with. The self-doubt that came from the hurt, neglect and anger I'd suffered with during our relationship. The evident self-confidence issues I had as a plus-size woman. The unworthiness I felt because my husband wasn't even willing to work on our marriage because I "wasn't worth it." Direct quote.

And just when I started to feel better about myself and thought, "Okay, I can do this. I can be single again. After all, I live in one of the greatest cities in the world!" my bottom fell out from under me again and I found out I was losing my job. A few months after that, I busted into Dipshit's email accounts and found evidence that he was bi-sexual. He was on "Hot or Not" under "Men Looking For Men." He also had quite a few emails from both men and women that he was planning on hooking up with when he came home on R&R (a few years later, I was having computer issues and was going through some files when I found a huge file full of pictures of naked men and some women. I've never been sure if they were conquests of his or not, nor will I, but....).

Time kept moving on and I lost my job. Despite what I thought was a great resume and applying for up to fifteen, twenty jobs a day, I wasn't getting any interviews. I had an insane week-long bout of insomnia (just a little plug for Miele products - you can vacuum at two in the morning or run your dishwasher and no one is ever the wiser). And then Dipshit came back from Iraq and it got even worse (read my Karma post under the Dipshit category to read how).

After a year and a half of being angry, sad, disappointed, anxious, and overall miserable, I couldn't see an upside. I was three weeks from losing all of my unemployment benefits, my soon-to-be ex was an even bigger ass than he'd been while we were married, and I had absolutely no job prospects in sight. I wasn't even getting interviews. Me, someone who always got the job after the first interview. Reality was hitting me from every direction and I didn't like it. Not one bit. And I couldn't deal with it.

So I attempted suicide.

I sat down naked in the bathtub on July 12, 2005 and tried to slice my wrists. Just for the record, it hurts. A lot. When I couldn't bear the pain any longer, I grabbed a bottle of booze to chase down a bottle of aspirin.

I don't remember much of that night.

I do remember the exact day though. Because it was the very reason I climbed out of the tub and went to get myself help during one of my more lucid moments. I just remember thinking to myself, "If Kony has to tell Katie I killed myself on her 13th birthday, Katie will never be the same again."

I ended up in a psych ward for a few days. And just to inject some humor into this rather morbid post, I am the idiot that told the admittance doctors, "Oh, don't worry. I don't do what they tell me to" when asked if I heard voices in my head. No, I seriously did. It's a wonder they didn't lock me up for life.

And over the three days I spent in the psych ward, I had epiphany after epiphany. With one explanation from the sociologist who was helping me with my after-the-psych-ward-plan, I learned more about what I was going through than I'd ever learned from the year and a half of therapy I'd been in since Dipshit announced he was leaving me.

To summarize: I was married to a gay man, and therefore any problems in the bedroom weren't about me. It was about him. Because my significant other was a compulsive liar and a man with a very dark side to him as his mother said (perhaps even slightly sociopathic, if that's even a word), most of our relationship would always have two very different sides because we would never view the reality as the same. And yes, my entire life was going to change. I'd have to move home and start almost completely from scratch. It was a rough situation, to be sure, and my feelings were very, very real, but it was just that. One situation in my life.

Whereas most of the fellow patients in the ward with me were there because of their psychological problems. My roommate was a young woman, about the same age as my brother, who told her parents at the age of six that she wanted to lie down in front of a train and be run over. Another woman in the ward was a few years older than I was, with a child, living with her parents in a one-bedroom senior living center that couldn't afford her medication for manic depression (bi-polar disorder). A third patient, a young man who again, the same age as my brother, was also a manic depressive alcoholic "rich kid" who wanted desperately to help himself but whose parents were also alcoholics who didn't believe their son had an ongoing mental illness and therefore would toss out his medication after three months. I saw them. This poor kid had a mother who showed up in a psych ward drunk and complaining about the fact that she was missing dinner "at the club."

These people had real problems that unfortunately would follow them for life.

My financial problems would go away in time. I would gain back my self-confidence and believe in my self-worth with time. I would (or will) eventually meet someone new and perhaps spend the rest of my life with him and start a family. All it would take is time.

And for a brief period, some anti-depressants that made me feel very very foggy most of the time. Within three weeks of my suicide attempt, I packed up 90% of that great vintage apartment I had one block off of Lake Michigan and left the rest with Dipshit. I put 80% of what I took from the apartment and placed it in storage. The other 20% came back to my mom's house with me. Also in that three weeks, my unemployment benefits came to an end. And my divorce was finalized.

I had a follow-up examination with a psychiatrist a month after my suicide attempt. I talked. A lot. I know, hard to imagine isn't it? The doctor asked a few questions and I answered them with my usual honesty. At the end he asked how I felt about the meds I was on. "I don't know, doc, am I supposed to feel like I live in a fog?" I asked.

"So you don't like being on them?" he asked me.

"No, not really." I shrugged.

"Then stop taking them. You, Monique, are an astoundingly normal woman. You have one of the best grasps of reality I've seen in a patient in a very long time. You had a terrible situation to get through, that's true. But you know it'll get better. Tell me, what did it for you?"

"Three days in a psych ward and a really great sociologist who explained it all to me with one conversation. And did you just call me normal?"

"I did," the doctor nodded.

Imagine that.