Do you ever wonder about “brilliant ideas”?

Don’t think of “wonderful inventions” or “life-saving devices” or even “I don’t know how we lived without that!” Think “brilliant idea” in that “dripping with sarcasm” voice -

- like when your sister decided that it was a “brilliant idea” to give your son one of those books with the buttons on the side that make noises for certain words? And a drum. And a toy ambulance that makes “REALISTIC SOUNDS!”

- like when your 16-year-old brother discovered the joy of “vodka watermelon - prepared by boring a hole into a watermelon, pouring a bottle of vodka into the hole, refrigerating to an icy-cold freshness, and then enjoyed on a hot, humid day sitting in the sun on Belle Isle.

- like when you signed up for the Firecracker Mile which started at 8 oh-shit-it’s-early the morning after the “Best Next Door Neighbors in the World” had their annual 4th of July drunk-fest party. (Hey, I medaled. Mr. Hot, though, was trying to determine whether to just puke in the street or pretend he pulled a hammie about 1/4 mile in.)

- like when your 48-year-old husband decided he, too, could go down the ramp at the skate park with the neighborhood kids. Y’know - the big ramp. The one that even an 11-year-old that has been inline skating since his 4th birthday pauses at the top of? Yea, that one.*

Then there are the work-related “brilliant ideas”. Those things that make no sense to anyone at all. In fact, you’d have to try hard to even come up with something so asinine. Like today’s fun.

I received an email notifying me that our Accounts Payable department was missing one of the forms needed to process a $39.99 invoice that had been submitted for a partial month of DSL service for an ex-employee.

I picked up the phone and called the number at the bottom of the email. (The email which said, very clearly, “Do NOT reply to this email address” on it.)

Hi! This is the Hotfessional. I received an email regarding invoice #29853-42A for $39.99. It said you never received the SWTF form you need to process the invoice. I can send you an electronic copy of it - what’s the email address?

We don’t accept email copies of that form.

Oh, well, okay, I’ll fax it to you. What’s the fax #?

We don’t accept faxes either.

But I don’t have the original. It was sent to you and apparently got lost. I only have an electronic copy. The person that had the original is no longer with the company.

You can send what you have through Interoffice mail. We don’t need the original.

Wait. You don’t need the original? And you can send emails, but you can’t receive emails? You have a fax machine for expense reports, but I can’t fax you the SWTF form for a vendor invoice? You can accept a copy of a copy of a faxed copy, but only if you open an interoffice email envelope to get it. Which means I have to drive over to an office and ask someone to put it into Interoffice Mail. Then, after I get to create an expense account entry for the use of my personal vehicle, I have to fax you the expense report form to get reimbursed the mileage?

Yes ma’am.

And you don’t see anything strange about this?

No ma’am. That’s the way our process works.

That, my friends, is a brilliant idea, that process. Abso-fuckin-lutely brilliant.

So, I hopped in the car, headed over to an office nearby, and asked someone to stick the envelope into outgoing interoffice mail. Then I hopped back into my car and drove on home. Y’know, my HOME office, where they don’t come pick up interoffice mail?

Speaking of which, oh mah holy hell, y’all, I am writing a weekly column about working from home over at Blissfully Domestic - the online magazine devoted to, oh, everything. Come see my first article, look around at the other wonderful people who play there, and find some new friends.

—- *In order to provide proof that this really did happen, I am willing to show my husband’s thigh on the web. —-

Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3
Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7

We’re in the home stretch!

Mr. Hot and I talked about wedding dates. We knew we didn’t have a lot of time, and since we weren’t planning on a church wedding (snort. and snirk. and hahahahahaha!), we figured it would be easy enough to plan.

I wasn’t thrilled about an early June wedding. That would have been too close to Mr. Hot’s previous anniversary. (I wanted to make it easy on him, but I did not want him to mix up my date with hers.) Nothing was available in late June or early July. We were scheduled for July 22nd. My grandmother’s birthday. She would have adored Mr. Hot.

First, though, we had to get through all of the pre-wedding crappe. There was the blood test. Then the license. In West-by-gawd-Virginia, when you applied for a license, they ran the bride and grooms name in the newspaper. I guess so that “if anybody knows if any reason these two should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace”. Oh Mah Holy Hell, y’all. Think about it. The home town newspaper publishing that “Ree Maidenname” and “Mr. Hot” were going to get married on such-and-such a date.

I had visions of the locals gathering up wood to use as torches. I had nightmares about the scene from Frankenstein where the mob stormed the castle. Our house wasn’t made of stone. To mix metaphors, it was made of straw - like the first little pig’s house. And the entire town was going to huff and puff and blow it right-the-fuck down.

Karen took the kids down to their usual beach vacation spot with her parents. They were gone for two weeks at the end of June/beginning of July. It would have been the ideal time to get the license and have that notice printed, but it was too far away from our date with the Judge. There was a time requirement (2 weeks prior maybe?) - and we were outside that.

************************

We Mr. Hot received a postcard while Karen and the kids were away. It said, “We miss you Daddy. Wish you were here.” And then in Karen’s handwriting, “I can’t believe you’re not here with us this year. Next year, I have faith, we’ll be together again.”

She really believed that they were going to reconcile. Even two months after the divorce was final, she believed that he’d come home.

************************

Our day was quickly approaching. My mother sent me a beautiful maternity dress. It was a soft dark green - she said it would bring out the green in my eyes. I laughed. “Mom, I wear glasses. No one ever sees my eyes.”

My sister made plans to come visit and bring her son who had just turned 18 months. She was going to come down for the wedding - to be my witness. I was so excited to see them both.

We finally got to the point where we had no choice but to go file for our license. If we waited one more day, we’d miss the deadline. My classes were over early in the afternoon. Mr. Hot had a later class, but it wouldn’t be any problem to get over to the courthouse afterwards. They were open until 5 and his class ended at 3.

Guess who didn’t come home until 7? Drunk as a fuckin’ skunk?

Mr. Hot had turned into Mr. Cold Feet.

Between 3:30 and 7 - I had imagined every possible scenario. He’d been in a car wreck. Practice had killed him. He’d gone back to Karen. He’d met someone else.

I tried to think. What would I do? I had a friend who had moved to San Francisco. I’d go live with her. I obviously couldn’t stay in Huntington - I was 6 months pregnant with my lover’s baby. I was divorced from my husband. My remaining settlement money was dwindling fast, eaten up by tuition payments and the difference in rent. I’d have to decide soon - I found a really old pack of cigarettes and told myself I’d have one. They were the stalest, nastiest, make-me-barf things I had ever had. It was exactly what I needed at that second.

And then he walked in the door.

He kneeled next to me while I cried great, heaving, gulping sobs. “Why didn’t you just tell me that you didn’t want to get married? I can live with that. I can’t live with the thought that you would leave me”, I managed to squeeze out the words between breaths. “Or did you just come to get some stuff? Please, can I stay here until I figure out what to do? And can our baby have your last name?”

He gathered me up into his arms and said, “I just need a little more time. I need to talk to the kids. I’m not leaving you.”

The phone rang. It was Karen. (Her timing was always, always impeccable.) When Mr. Hot cut her off - told her he couldn’t talk, her next question was, “Oh, are you and Ree fussin’? You can come sleep here if you’re having a fight.”

Sigh.

I went with him on his route that night. I wasn’t letting him out of my sight.

************************

Just like I didn’t want to get married in June, I wasn’t thrilled about getting married in August. That was MY anniversary month. Besides, I’d decided that I wasn’t mentioning marriage again. I had never had a single patient bone in my body, but I was sitting tight on this one. No mention of weddings. No mention of judges or licenses or another freakin’ blood test. It was going to be his timeline. His decision. (If you ask him now about this, he will tell you, in no uncertain terms, that even though he’s known me for nearly 18 years, this is the ONLY time I’ve done this. And he would be right.)

One day, we were sitting in the living room, studying, and he said, “I talked to 24 today. I told him I thought it was time that I married Ree. He told me ‘Whatever makes you happy Dad.’”

I looked up from my book. “That’s good.” and I smiled.

************************

The kids had spent the night or the weekend at our house many times. They thought we were roommates. Whenever they spent the night, Mr. Hot would sleep on the living room floor with them. I would sleep in our bedroom. When he left at 2-OMFG-thirty, he’d carry them into our bed or leave them sleeping on the floor and come into tell me he was going. Karen wasn’t thrilled with the idea of me being alone in our house with her kids, but there was nothing she could do about it either. I learned I could handle getting puked on at 4 am.

************************

At the beginning of September, I was sitting in our mudroom grading papers. I had gotten a job as an instructor for Computer Science 101. Teaching a 3-credit class for a semester equaled a semester’s tuition. Even up. I was sitting at my desk. Mr. Hot was sitting behind me, playing on his Atari - and talking. I kept losing track of what I was reading. Let’s face it, reading paragraphs on good directory structure rules is not the most compelling thing to read. Add heat, humidity, no air conditioning and being 8 months pregnant. (Did I mention he does this to this day? If I’m trying to read something, he talks to me? Well, he does.)

“The Herd schedule came out today. The new football stadium is opening September 7th. I can’t believe we’ve watched that thing being built. It’s going to be great to see them actually play there.”

“I can’t wait. I love football season. Maybe we can have some people over before the game? At least Matt and Annette.” (Matt and Annette were our newlywed neighbors. They lived in the other half of the house in a much smaller flat.)

“Sure, maybe some of the professors too. We’ll grill hotdogs, whoever shows up can bring whatever.”

“Alright, I have to finish grading these now. Gawd, these kids can’t write.”

“Wait, let me interrupt you again.”

“huh?” (I was not really paying attention. These things were killers to read.)

“They’re playing Brown on the 28th. We could go get married in Russell before the game. It’s a night game.”

“Uh, okay. That’s fine.”

And then it hit me - what he really had said. And I turned around and said, “Wait? You really mean it?”

“Yea, I told you that I just had to talk to the kids. And that we’d get married before he’s born.” He pointed at my belly.

Russell, Kentucky. Bring your blood test. No license wait period. A Justice of the Peace on every corner. On the banks of the Ohio River.

That’s where it happened. That’s where The Hot Affair became The Hot Marriage. Eighteen days later, this happened.

September 28, 1991

—- Thank you all so very much for traveling on this little journey with me. I’ve enjoyed re-living the amazing twelve months of my life from September 1990 through September 1991. I hope I’ve made you giggle a little on the way. I hope that if you are in love, this helps you remember all of the wonderful things about your partner. I hope that if you’re looking for love, this proves that fairy tales can come true. —-

I’m so sorry for subjecting you all to that nonsense, but y’know, I had to show you that it’s not ALL honey and roses and wine in my life. Snort. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.
Part 1 — Part 2
Part 3 — Part 4
Part 5 — Part 6

And then there was 2.11 of us. I was an unwed undivorced, married to the wrong guy, mother-to-be. With no money.

Karen filed for divorce from Mr. Hot. In order to save costs, they used the same lawyer. The lawyer acted fairly and tried to protect the interests of both sides. Mr. Hot gave up his part of their house and really got nothing but a child-support bill and his clothing. He left his tools (which he misses to this day) and his telescope. I’m sure that there was so much more - but he never complained (well, except about his tools). He was sorry that he hurt Karen, and he wanted his children’s lives to be as unchanged as possible. They continued to live in the family home, follow their routines - but their Dad didn’t live there anymore.

I started looking for a divorce lawyer. I had no money to hire someone. The lawyer that the girlfriends recommended wanted way too much, and after I refused to follow their advice, I couldn’t go ask either of them for a loan. I probably wouldn’t have been refused, but I couldn’t do it. So, I let my fingers do the walking.

I finally found a guy willing to take a $75 deposit - and the rest of his fee out of the money from my settlement.

In March, I had to talk to Practice about getting my clothes. I was still wearing the same things that I took when I left back in January. Early January. And although Huntington, West-by-gawd-Virginia doesn’t have the kind of frigid winters that we have here in the midwest, I couldn’t keep wearing sweaters. (Although with my boobs growing, Mr. Hot’s t-shirts weren’t huge…just long)

We arranged to meet at his church. He told me he attended Mass every.single.day. (Believe me, it was a change. We did go to church, but it was usually once or twice a month and on Christmas. We weren’t active members of any parish by any means.) It was raining when I pulled up behind his car.

“I need you to sign the tax forms, too. We owe money. I’m paying out of what I have deposited in Michigan”, were the only words he spoke. “That’s fine”, I replied, and signed.

Then he took my clothes out of the trunk - clothes that he had shoved into black garbage bags - and threw them into the street. Into the gutter. Where the rain was running into the drains. And then he got in his car and left.

I had gone alone, because I didn’t want any problems between Mr. Hot and Practice out on the streets of Charleston, W-b-g-V. In front of the only Catholic church in the county. So, I picked up the bags, and put them in the back of Mr. Hot’s Bronco II. And drove home. I was soaked. At least only a couple of the bags had ripped while he was tossing them to the ground.

It was strange that the first bag I selected to open contained my wedding gown and veil.

Six weeks had gone by without a peep from my lawyer. Mr. Hot and Karen had a court date. She was going in front of the Judge, he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to contest anything. I remember sitting in a Systems Analysis class one day and he kept looking at his watch. I knew what he was waiting for and yet, I didn’t want to ask. I only knew that it was the day. I didn’t know the time. Finally, he leaned over and whispered, “I’m divorced. It has to be over by now.” It was mid-April. They had filed in early February.

My pregnancy was easy. Truly, amazingly easy and I know that many, many of you out there will shake your heads and hate me and/or envy me. I never (not once) threw up. I didn’t crave any strange foods. I gained weight very slowly and the doctor kept telling me I was right on target. The only way I even knew I was pregnant was my Oh Mah Holy Hell inability to stay awake from 2 pm until about 4. I did have to have a diabetes screening (another Oh Mah Holy Hell moment, I hated that orange drink…and I couldn’t hold my pee BEFORE I got pregnant, what the fuck made me think I could walk the four blocks to the clinic without pissing my pants?). I had to call my Economic Math professor to tell him I wouldn’t be in class that day, that I was going to have some tests done. “Are you ill, I notice you tend to nod off during my class?” I wanted to say, “Duh. You teach Economic.Math. Bor-ing.” I said, “Actually, I’m pregnant. It’s just a really bad time of day for me.”

I did miss smoking though. Oh Gawd, how I missed smoking.

Finally, in May, my lawyer came through with a court date. It was scheduled for the end of May. I dressed in a dress that covered my tiny baby bump. I walked into the courtroom. Practice was there. We sat down and went through the documents. The Judge asked if I wanted to return to my maiden name. I lowered my head and said, “Yes”.

One page of the divorce decree had to be changed because I wanted my old name back. Other than that, it was done.

I drove home from the divorce hearing, walked in the door, and introduced myself to Mr. Hot. “Hi. I’m Ree Maidenname.” He opened his arms, much the same as I did the day I called him back to my car. And then, I cried. I cried for us. I cried in relief. I cried for the past and for the future. I cried for the baby I was carrying.

I had to make arrangements to pick up my furniture and the rest of my belongings from Practice’s house. Mr. Hot and I rented a U-Haul and arranged a pickup time. It was Memorial Day weekend. When we got there, Practice was gone, but he had two of his friends there to make sure that I didn’t take anything to which I wasn’t entitled. Some things were broken (the antique frame my parent’s had given us as a wedding present - containing our wedding picture, the side piece to my desk - the one he hadn’t wanted to give me in the settlement), but nothing was missing.

Only one of the friends (the watchers), offered to help. Practice knew I was pregnant (late library book notice sent to my old address - “Pregnancy and Childbirth”), so I’m sure that these friends did as well. This kid (who I later found out was also a Narcotics Anonymous member) helped Mr. Hot load the heavy stuff onto the truck. He was a sweet kid, and I really hope that he made it through the program and is doing well.

We were also moving from our little 1-bedroom Camelot to a 2-bedroom flat across the street. Our apartment landlord owned both properties, and offered us the house for little more than the apartment. Everything suddenly started moving very fast.

…to be continued…

—- MomandDad met Mr. Hot for the first time after we were both divorced and we had moved into the house. Mom was, as usual, her loving and welcoming self. Dad, understandably and characteristically, was reserved and politely interested. We went to dinner. They took me shopping for maternity clothes. Nowdays, they call him more than they ever call me. —-

I need to clarify something from the previous chapter. As far as I know, Tom was not killed in the first Gulf War. We just never saw him after all of this happened.

Part 1 — Part 2
Part 3 — Part 4
Part 5

The weeks after we moved in together are a blur, but there are a few things that stand out.

• I had a couple pairs of jeans. Some sweaters. I wore a lot of Mr. Hot’s clothes.

• I didn’t have any money. I refused to take any money from my accounts with Practice. He, of course, wasted no time in emptying them out. He called his parents. He called my parents. Told everyone I’d left him. He went to Michigan with a check for over $20,000 and all of my jewelry. When he got there, his father said, “Wow, you had all that money and she didn’t pay your student loan payment?” (Told you he didn’t believe me). His mother said, “I didn’t think she would leave without her jewelry.” (She apparently thought I had married him because he gave me gold.)

• Mr. Hot and I started back to school for the Winter/Spring semester. The ex-Mrs. Hot (we’ll use the alias Karen, okay? not her real name) was a teacher and so had been off on Christmas break with the kids. Once school started back though, things had to change. The alarm still went off in our bedroom at two-OMFG-thirty every morning. Mr. Hot still kissed me awake, I still told him to “Be careful”. Now, though, he’d run home to me for a quick breakfast after finishing his route. Then he’d head over to Karen’s house. She taught in a tiny little town in coal mining country - he watched the kids after she left; took 24 to school, and then he’d drop 20 off at his parents’ house. Depending on the day of the week, we’d either pass each other coming and going, finally meeting up for lunch; or we’d end up sitting in class together.

• We had to install the phone, no longer could we hide away in our little world. Every morning, after Mr. Hot had gone to work, Practice would call me. It’s funny, I don’t remember a lot of the discussions, but I remember the phone ringing every day at 3 or 3:15. One time, he told me that he had started attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings. He said, “They told me that we may not be able to have kids because I smoke so much pot.” I reminded him that I had told him that many times before. He cried.

• I remember Karen calling one time and telling Mr. Hot that she thought she was pregnant because she missed a period. In the next breath, she told him her gynecologist told her it was probably because she was under a lot of stress. I started breathing about 6 hours after they hung up.

• We lived in the town that Mr. Hot grew up in. Karen grew up there, too. Her parents were “important social people” in town. They had “standing”. They had “status”. They had spies. It seemed that everything we did or said was reported back to Karen. If we walked down the street holding hands, we were “rubbing it in”. If we were spotted talking, we were “having a fight”. Once, oh mah holy hell y’all, we got into line at the grocery store and kissed. I looked up to see Mr. Hot’s eyes get wide. Karen was in the aisle next to us. I felt surrounded by hatred.

• Mr. Hot’s mother refused to let me into her house. She refused to mention my name. His father hadn’t been completely healthy for years, although he worked as a driver for one of the hotels after he retired from his manufacturing job. She was afraid the mention of my name would cause him to have another heart attack. My father wouldn’t talk to me, but he wrote me a very long letter telling me how I was screwing up my life. My mother would call when she could. She seemed to understand - she told me I hadn’t been myself for years. I told her all of the sordid details of my marriage.

• The girlfriends came by one evening. The four of us sat in our very small living room and discussed options. Neither one of them thought that I should have moved in with Mr. Hot. The Lawyer talked about the inability for me to get a settlement or alimony if I was living with another man. The Engineer (who I had met ONLY because of Practice - they worked together) agreed vehemently with her. She wanted me to get as much as I could. I had no reason to want anything except half of that cash that he had taken back to Michigan and my own personal belongings - things I brought into the marriage. I knew arguing with Practice about property and money would only delay my freedom. It was one of the last times I spoke to the Engineer (my best friend until Mr. Hot ended up in my life) for about 10 years.

• The first Gulf War started on January 16th, 1991. Mr. Hot came running home from campus where he had a 6 pm class. We listened to Peter Arnett, John Holliman, and Bernard Shaw reporting. We fell asleep in the living room in front of the television after bringing the alarm clock out. About a week later, our friend Tom got a call - his reserve group had been called up. We never did get to thank Tom for introducing us, but I’m sure he never, ever, expected it to turn out the way it did.

• Practice asked me to come make dinner for him on his birthday. He insisted on picking me up, taking me to the grocery store to get the ingredients and asking me to make lasagne. Not exactly the fastest meal, right? I was still stupid enough to figure that I owed him that much. When we were in the checkout line, the cashier asked me something. I have no idea what. I don’t remember what I responded. I do remember him telling her, “Don’t believe anything she tells you, she’s a liar.” Mr. Hot was asleep when I got home. I’m not sure he expected me to come back.

• On February 13th, Mr. Hot said, “When was the last time you had your period?” I looked at him. “Oh, heck, it was, um, when I was up in Michigan - Christmas time.” He looked back at me. “Do you think we should go to the drugstore?” We came back with a pregnancy test, and I went into the bathroom. After peeing on my hands as much as the stick, I left it in the bathroom and came back out to curl up on the couch. “I can’t stand it. I can’t sit in there and wait.” He laughed and went to pick it up out of the bathroom. He came back out and stood in front of me. “I can’t read this thing”, he said and stuck it right into my face. I opened my eyes and started sobbing immediately. Sobbing, laughing, reaching out for the man that was the father of the baby I was carrying.

—- Who knew it was so easy for me to get pregnant? Apparently, there was a “Just Add Sperm” sign on my uterus and I never suspected. It was time for us to find lawyers and get this whole process started. We had nine months to get divorced and marry each other. —-

Previous Parts

It became a routine. Every morning at two-OMFG-thirty, Mr. Hot’s alarm would go off. He’d lean over and kiss me and whisper, “I love you. Be back soon.”

I’d struggle to the surface of consciousness long enough to mutter, “Be careful.” (The “Be careful” to any loved one leaving my house continues to this day. We all do it. Come visit and you’ll see!)

And then he’d be gone - delivering papers on a rural route in the hills of West-by-gawd-Virginia for three hours. He’d come home around 6; we’d eat breakfast and hang around the apartment. We’d read or watch television. Go for walks. Make love.

Around dinnertime, we’d drive the forty-five miles to my house and wait for the phone to ring so I could keep up the pretense with Practice. Our conversations were stilted, to say the least, but I wasn’t supposed to say anything about the future until he got home. He made sure that it was always his way.

*********************

There were two conversations I remember while we played this fucked-up game.

I had, somehow, managed to get straight A’s that Fall semester. I had Calculus 2, Physics, C-Programming, Assembler (another programming language) and Engineering Graphics. It was the one thing I wanted to gloat about. Practice never thought that I was very bright - and yet, I managed to four-point my first full semester back in school. He immediately took the credit. “Yea, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without my help.” He summed up his view of our relationship pretty neatly in that one sentence.

The second conversation was with Practice’s father. Mr. Hot and I had fallen asleep at my house. Well, he had fallen asleep and I was watching him pretty intently. (And liking what I was seeing - but I suppose that goes without saying.) The phone rang around 8 p.m. Practice’s dad says to me, “I got a notice that you didn’t pay Practice’s student loan payment last month. What’s going on?” I explained that I had run out of checks and had ordered new ones, but they hadn’t arrived yet. Probably because of the holiday. I could tell he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth.

*********************

We had less than a week in our 1-bedroom Camelot. I had “moved in” on the 27th. Practice was due back on New Year’s Day.

On the 31st, Mr. Hot and I went out to dinner. We couldn’t celebrate the coming of 1991 - we didn’t know if there would be anything to celebrate. Afterwards, we went back to what we now called home and spent one last night together. When he got up to deliver papers the next morning, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I waited for him. I paced. I cried. I couldn’t believe it was over already - and I had to go back to Practice’s house that night. I got the feeling that Mr. Hot thought I was leaving for good. Nothing I could do or say convinced him otherwise.

The worst part was I had to drive back to the airport in Ohio. The flight was landing in the afternoon and I had a five hour drive. I wanted to stay with Mr. Hot as long as I possibly could, so I left the cats with him - I couldn’t take the time to drop them off at the house. I would think of an excuse on the way.

*********************

These were the days when you could still get through security without a boarding pass and go directly to the gate to wait for someone. I was sitting next to the door, my head leaning on the cinderblock wall with my eyes closed when the flight landed. Soon the passengers were off the plane and Practice was standing in front of me. He grabbed me to pull me up from the seat. I resisted at the same time. As I fell back into the chair, my head slammed back into the cinderblock. Immediately a knot rose on the back of my head and I had an instant headache.

*********************

Once we dropped R off, and headed down the road, the questions came.

“Where were you last night? I called several times. The florist said the flowers I sent you were left at the neighbors.”

I told him that I had gone to a girlfriend’s house. My head was throbbing and I was concentrating on staying awake and as alert as I could. I knew if I did tell him where I had been, I ran the risk of him driving off the road - and I was in no shape at that point to prevent anything from happening. He told me that he knew I was lying, he’d called that girlfriend’s house. I told him I was at Mr. Hot’s apartment. (He still didn’t know that this was the man I was in love with. He thought he was just the cat sitter.) For some reason, that shut him up.

When we finally made it back home, I told him I was going to bed. I took some Tylenol and slept.

The next morning, I told him everything. I told him I was in love with Mr. Hot. I told him I’d spent the entire week at his apartment and that everything was over between he and I. He argued with me. He cried. He swore that things would be better.

The phone rang.

Practice picked it up and yelled Mr. Hot’s name into the mouthpiece. I lunged for the phone. Whoever it was had hung up. There was only a dialtone on the other end. I knew Mr. Hot hadn’t yet hooked up the phone. I had no way of calling him back if it had, indeed, been him calling. I felt completely helpless - but at that point, right then and there, I knew what I was going to do.

I didn’t need anything. I took off my wedding rings. I took off the emerald he’d bought for my birthday the year before. I told him I’d take the old car - the one that was paid off - and I left. It was the last night I ever spent in that house.

…to be continued…

—- It ended up that the mysterious caller was the girlfriend Practice had called on New Year’s Eve. The one that told him she hadn’t seen me. She heard him yell Mr. Hot’s name into the phone and hung up to call a mutual friend of ours who was a lawyer. By the time she called back with an offer of someplace to stay and the name of a divorce attorney, I was long gone. —-

Edited: Aw, hell, y’know what y’all? Screw it. Flay away. (And that’s not Bobby, Lys!) It’s my story, it’s why I’m me. Read, comment, tell me I’m a soul-less homewrecker. I’ll still love you. I’ve opened the posts back up. Part 4 right below this one.

Dear All of you,

We’re getting to the part of the story where some people may be a bit, um, taken aback by the whole thing. I’m going to take this story private now. If you’d like to continue reading, please send me an email. I’m happy to give you the password. I don’t plan on making this a habit. I may open it all back up eventually, but I’m getting a bit antsy over the next few ‘chapters’ and I know that I will open myself up to the possibility of some real disapproval.

I’ve been judging myself throughout the past 18 years. I can handle being judged. What I don’t really want is to have others read any judgemental comments I get. I don’t know if password protecting is the answer, or closing comments, or what. I’m new at spilling my guts to the world.

So, we’ll try this, and see how it goes. I’d rather do this than take the stories down.

Much love,

Ree

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

After 10 days with my parents and Practice’s parents, it was time for us to leave. I had a feeling that my mother could tell something was going on, but she never asked. Practice’s parents were completely focused on Christmas. Theirs was a holiday that lasted three days.

It felt very “don’t ask, don’t tell”.

The day after Christmas, we left Michigan for the drive to drop Practice off at his friend’s house in Ohio - from there, they would leave for their ski week. We spent the night at the friend’s house, and then I took off after dropping them both off at the airport.

Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. I drove straight to Mr. Hot’s apartment.

We hadn’t been able to talk the entire time I was gone. He didn’t hook up a phone, there was no email. The last time I’d seen him was when I dropped off the cats. As far as I knew, he’d thrown the cats out on the street or taken them to a shelter and moved back in with his wife.

As I was getting closer, this song came on the radio. I took it as a sign.

“I got fifteen miles to go now
And I can hear my baby calling my name”

I parked and ran, full speed, up to the second floor. I knocked. And oh mah holy hell y’all, he opened the door.

“Sorry it took me so long to get the door opened, J.R. was asleep on my chest and I didn’t want to wake him up.”

This was the man who told me that he had no way of relating to cats…that he’d never had one, and didn’t especially like them. And now, my J.R. was laying on his chest.

“Where’s Riski?” I said, looking deep into his eyes.

“Probably on top of the kitchen cabinet. She only comes down to eat and poop.” Neither one of us had moved. I was standing just inside the doorway.
“We need to talk. I came here right from Ohio. I haven’t been home. I have everything with me, but Practice is going to be calling me every night. If I don’t answer the phone, he’s going to probably get on a plane and come home. He doesn’t love me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me. I don’t want to be married to him anymore, but we’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do. I won’t have any money. You have kids. I told him I was in love with someone else, but I didn’t tell him who.”

I said all this in a rush, without a breath. Mr. Hot put his hands on my shoulders. “You told him what?”

“I told him, right before we left for Michigan, that I was in love with someone else. I was laying on the couch and he was getting stoned again, and I just blurted out, ‘I don’t know why we’re married. It’s obvious you don’t love me. I don’t love you, and I don’t know why we got married. I finally figured out what love is when I fell in love.’”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘What do you mean you fell in love?’ and I said, ‘I’m in love with someone and that’s how I know I don’t love you and you don’t love me. ‘ And then he got up and walked over to the couch. He picked up the end of the couch where my feet were and acted like he was going to tip it over on top of me. I took off my rings and threw them at him.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He walked off, and I stayed on the couch. Then he came back into the room and said, ‘We’re still going to Michigan for Christmas, and we’re going to pretend that none of this happened. Then I’m going skiing with R. We’ll talk about this when I get back.’ And that was it. We left the next day and never talked about it the entire way. Six and a half hours; 300 miles. Not a word.”

***************************

I was never one to make waves. I knew I was in love with Mr. Hot, but I would never, ever ask him to leave his children. I was scared of driving up to Michigan with Practice - I didn’t know what he would do. I knew what his temper was like, and although I can’t believe that he would have ever lifted a finger to me, he wasn’t above hurting himself.

I remember one argument where he bit a hole through his lip - blood poured down his chin - I always thought that it was solely to prevent himself from hitting me. He turned the anger inward.

I didn’t want to ruin his parents’ holiday. I wanted to spend some time with my MomandDad - they would never understand this. No one they knew got divorced; no one in our family got divorced. You married for life - happily or not. Suck it up.

I wanted Practice to go out west so that I could have some time alone when the holidays were over. I wanted to be able to think through what I needed to do, with or without Mr. Hot in the picture.

I needed to think.

***************************

“Sit down”, he whispered as he took his hands off of my shoulders. He moved his book off of the couch. “You’re freezing”, he handed me a blanket. “Here.”

I curled up on the corner of his couch. J.R. started head-bumping my hand and I scratched him. Riski appeared from the kitchen. She jumped onto the arm of the couch. I looked at my cats. I looked at the man I loved. As silly as it may sound, this felt familiar. And safe.

“What have you been doing?”, I asked. Wanting to know, but not wanting to know, if he had really moved out. How his wife was reacting. How his children were. Most of all, how his children were.

And so we talked. And as we talked, and he held my hands, he told me that he didn’t want to be alone. He loved me and wanted to spend his life with me. His kids were young, and yes, divorce would hit them hard, but he’d make it work. He and his wife lived like brother and sister. They were together out of convenience, not because they had anything in common. But he was sure that she’d take him back; she’d always loved him way more than he loved her; if I felt like I had to stay with my husband. He’d understand. But he wanted me to know he was serious about this, and it was up to me. He wanted me, but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life alone.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So much of what I was hearing was the typical “we never have sex” story that men told their mistresses. And yet, he’d already moved out. This wasn’t some “after the kids are older” or “I can’t divorce her because she’ll take me for everything I’ve got”. He had already given up his life for me. Because how can anything be “normal” after that? You can’t undo what he’d done.

Instead of laughing or crying, I took my hands out of his and got up from the couch. I reached for his hands, and pulled him to a standing position.

“I still have to be at my house to answer the phone. They’re supposed to land in a couple of hours. He’ll call once they get to R’s house. Once he calls, I’ll pack some clean clothes, some more food for the beasts, and I’ll grab a bottle of wine. Then I’ll come home.”

He put my hands around his back. In doing so, he pulled me closer to his chest and kissed me on my forehead. I looked up again. He smiled (fuckin’ dimple) and kissed my lips. For a very.long.time.

“I’ll go with you. And then we’ll come home.”

…to be continued…

—- It took us another hour to get out of there. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. I had never felt so loved, so warmly protected, so sexy. And yet, I still had to tell everyone in my life that my marriage was over. Including my husband. —-