I lost internet connection for a while, then got busy and totally forgot to post the New Year's Eve story!
I don't have time right now, but I'll be back shortly to get that up.
I'm back! And believe it or not, I've been a busy lady.
Christmas came and went uneventfully. Did some soul searching -- a scary prospect for me. But I did it. The day after Christmas, Mailbox Hottie cornered me in the mailbox area. Wanted to know why I wouldn't go out with him.
Yeah, I've turned down dates in the past, but I've never actually had somebody come back and ask why.
Of course, I told him the truth. Bad divorce, celibacy, yadda yadda yadda. We talked for a while, then he asked me out again. This time, he promised no strings. Friendship only.
Yeah, I thought it was a line, too. But he argued with me when I turned him down and I ended up going. And I'm so glad I did.
It turns out, he's a really nice guy. I did read him right, he's a bit of a player. Well, not just a bit. He's a honkin' huge player. But once I made it clear (at least, I thought it was clear) he had absolutely no chance, we had a nice conversation over dinner.
After dinner, he invited me -- as friends! -- to a New Year's Eve party he was planning to go to.
But that's a story for my next entry. And what a story it is!
It's Christmas Eve, and I'm sitting on my sofa, watching The Stepford Wives on Pay Per View and contemplating my first Christmas alone.
My mother called earlier this week, she wanted me to fly out to Omaha and spend the holiday with her. I turned her down. I want to be alone, and have no interest in spending even one minute under my mother's thumb being relentlessly coddled.
Not that being coddled is a bad thing, just nothing I want right now. I'm angry. Mad. Well, part of me is. The other part is thirsty. Maybe I'll get a soda from the fridge.
Anyway, I want to spend this holiday thinking about my mistakes. Figuring out how I'll avoid making them again in the future.
So for now, I'll watch The Stepford Wives while the colorful twinkle of my Christmas tree catches my eye from time to time.
It's a little tree -- 3 or 4 feet, I don't remember. Covered in colorful twinkle lights. Not just plain white lights like EW prefers. No, my tree is covered in reds and blues and greens and golds -- it's happy. Like me.
I know I said I was mad. But that's only part of me. The other part, the thirsty part, is also happy to finally be free to do what I want. And tomorrow, I'll want to sit in my jammies holding a gigungus glass of eggnog.
I've seen Mailbox Hottie a few more times. He's asked me out every time I saw him. I've turned him down every time he asked. Maybe he'll eventually get the hint and leave me alone.
He's a player. I can see that. It's not anything blatant, but I can tell. He's so charming, with that bright smile full of white teeth. And he's entirely too hot. But I'll keep him in mind just in case I have the irresistible urge to get laid.
For some reason, it didn't occur to me that people I don't know would be reading my rants. That fact was pointed out to me in an e-mail I received last night, that said in part:
Why the hell do you call him an electric wok? Is that supposed to mean something?
Oops. I suppose it would help if I explained that, huh? Okay. My ex-husband (yes, officially ex -- the papers finally came through yesterday) was not a fun man. Well, I guess he might have been, once upon a time, but not for a while. I couldn't be silly with him. He'd tell me it was undignified, and not befitting of our status. I always said who gives a shit about our status? This is me, and I'm a little silly once in a while.
Not him. He was about as silly as an electric Chinese wok.
And then I went on to realize that the electric wok description fit him all around. Like a wok, my ex was great for what he was built for, but absolutely useless for anything else.
So there you have it. The reason my ex-husband is known to me as an electric wok, EW for short.
Saw Mailbox Hottie again.
He asked me out.
I turned him down.
Am I nuts?
It's true, I'm the only one in the office today. And yes, I'm finally caught up with my work. And okay, I don't necessarily mind personal phone calls at work. Especially when there's nobody around to overhear what I'm talking about.
But I sure as hell didn't want this phone call.
I just got off the phone with EW. Can you believe it? He called me at work! Said he thinks he might have made a mistake and he wants me back.
I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid. My momma didn't raise no fool. Insert any other cliche here of the same vein.
Of course, I brought up her. You know what he said?
None of them ever meant anything.
None of them? NONE OF THEM? I only knew of one, and now I find out there were more. No wonder he sucked in the sack. He was exhausted!
And while I was still trying to pick my jaw up off the floor and stop banging my head against the desk, he swore he'd do anything to get me back.
Need a new car? He'll buy me one.
New house? It's mine.
Marriage counseling? Make an appointment.
Fat chance. There an opening line to a song that comes to mind: It's independence day, I'm free.
Yup. That's me. Free. Free of EW. Free of the cheating. Free of the lying.
So what if I'm also free of sex. It's not like I was really getting any before, anyway.
Silence. Blessed silence.
Nobody else is in the office today. I'm here by myself, and about to take the opportunity to get caught up on everything before the holiday.
Yesterday, I ran over to the mall on my lunch hour. It's managed to turn frigid in Atlanta (did we really have temperatures in the upper-60s just days ago?) and I couldn't find my gloves, so I bought a new pair. I figured I could run in, grab the gloves, and leave, and still have time to pick up a light lunch.
DUH! insert mental head slap here What was I thinking? There's no such thing as a quick run into a mall the week before Christmas. The parking lot was packed, the mall was packed, the stores were packed. There's a whole year before Christmas -- why does everybody wait until the last minute?
Anyway, as I was waiting in a thirty minute line to pay for my stupid gloves, I overheard two women ahead of me talking.
WOMAN1: . . . and then she said, 'How long are you staying? Jerry didn't say.'
WOMAN2: Staying where?
W1: That's what I was wondering. I didn't know we were going anywhere.
W1: I finally figured out that we're going to Jerry's parents. But I don't know when.
W2: You mean his mother knew before you did?
W1: He still hasn't said anything to me.
At first, I felt bad for this woman. But hearing the conversation made me feel a little better about my own situation. I'm not the only woman who married an asshole! I used to have to eavesdrop on EW's phone conversations just to find out what was going on. His friends always knew when he was goind out of town, when we had plans, etc. I never knew a damn thing.
I wonder if that was by design?
I knew today was going to be a bad one from the moment I got to work. No coffee. Can you believe it? No coffee in the office! I had to leave the executive offices and head down to the facility to get coffee from the cafeteria.
I'm not particularly fond of wandering through the facility. Not that the patients creep me out or anything. I just keep expecting Nurse Ratched to pop out of the shadows and haul me off to a detox room.
Luckily, no Nurse Ratched. Got my coffee. But by the time I got back to my desk, it was cold. I can't win for losing.
Then later, the corporate attorney had me typing up a letter for him. Over and over and over and over again. I'd bring the finished letter to him, then he'd send it back with changes and corrections. I'd make the changes and corrections, bring the letter to him, and he'd send it back with changes to things he'd already approved. And it went on and on and on until I wanted to yank every hair from my head and scream naked in the parking lot.
And since I'm kind of the Executive Administrative Assistant to all the Executive VPs, the others were getting irritated that their reports, memos and general b.s. weren't getting done.
I was so excited when the workday finally ended, I actually considered screaming naked in the parking lot. Instead, I opted to just head home and collapse on my comfy sofa with a Kahlua & Cream (or two or three) and a Sherrilyn Kenyon novel.
Climbed in my car, turned the key in the ignition, shifted into drive, and my cell phone rang. It was my best friend, confirming plans for tonight.
Dammit! I'd forgotten all about it. My friends had planned to take me out to celebrate my divorce. Don't ask me why they chose to do this on a Tuesday rather than waiting for Friday or Saturday. I have no idea. Maybe they were hoping to send me to work tomorrow still drunk. Who knows?
So I ran home, changed clothes, and after throwing a longing glance at Vane on the cover of "Night Play", I headed out the door.
First, let me say that if my friends had hoped I'd hook up with somebody tonight and actually get laid, they probably should have started by picking a better bar. Can you say dive, ladies and gentlemen? Ah, well. At least they accomplished one thing. We were definitely the hottest chicks there.
But now I'm finally home. Finally on my comfy couch and wearing my favorite fuzzy slippers. Finally got Vane in my hot little hands.
Oh, and before you ask -- no. I didn't run into the mailbox hottie today.
So that pretty much brings you up to date. I've shed my electric wok husband (almost -- the finalized papers should be here any day) and I'm alone in this cute little apartment.
I get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, come home, and spend the night snuggled with the TV or a good book. No excitement. And that's just how I like it.
That's not to say my life is boring. I work in a drug rehabilitation facility, and stuff happens there all the time. Of course, I'm administrative, so I don't actually work with the patients. That's probably a good thing. I've got a pretty dry wit, and sometimes people take it the wrong way. And sometimes people take it the right way. Either way, it tends to get me in trouble.
When I came home from work yesterday, I ran into another tenant in the mailbox area. Literally. Turned around after grabbing my fistful of bills and wham!
He was kind of cute -- the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. I didn't get to hear his voice. He didn't say anything. I turned around slammed into him, looked up, and I think my jaw must have dropped to the floor. I mean, WOW. Had to give myself a quick pep talk.
Forget it, D. He's too hot for you. Besides, no more men, remember? You're not getting any. You don't want any. RUN!
So, I mumbled something that closely resembled an apology and scampered like a scared rabbitt before I could make myself look like even more of an ass. Took my non-ass self up to my apartment, threw my bills on the table, and curled up on the couch.
I wasn't going to think about the mailbox hottie. Really. I swear. I was going to think about polar ice caps. Flat tires. Egyptian pyramids.
Nice try, anyway.
After I mopped up the puddle of drool I left on the floor, I headed back out and cleaned the closest convenience store out of chocolate.
So, where was I? Oh, yeah. The confrontation.
We all sat down to dinner. Six of us. Three couples. I waited for the right time. About midway through the meal, when everybody was nice and comfy, I looked at EW and blurted out what I'd heard.
I probably could have toned down my langauge a bit, but I didn't. I wanted to shock. And shock I did. Conversation stopped. Eating stopped. Everything stopped. She looked like I'd just stuck a fork in her butt. And EW. . . EW looked like his eyes might pop out of his head and roll across the table.
At first he tried to deny it, and she had the nerve to look insulted. Somebody else at the table suggested I'd chosen the wrong time to bring the subject up. Nope. Right time. Right place. Right accusation.
I left the restaurant that night, filed for divorce the next day, and here I am. I found a cute little apartment in Atlanta -- thank god I had a job. And savings. And now I have a man-free life.
And I'm happy.
Maybe happy's too strong a word. I'm content. I don't have to fight for the TV remote. There's nobody sprawled on my couch in his shorts, farting and watching the ball game. I don't have to listen to lies. No laundry to do but my own. If there's a mess to clean, it's because I left it.
And I have no trouble finding the laundry hamper. What is it about men and hampers? You can have a hamper, wide open, just waiting for dirty clothes, and a man will throw his stinky socks on the floor next to it.
Ha! No more stinky socks. Not for this chick. I'm free.