Day 14. This is the grand finale. I really want to stick it to Steven one last time. And I wanted to make sure he was going to have plenty of time to contemplate what has happened to him and why.
And he’ll have the time while on hold, waiting for countless automated services and operators… See, the first thing I did was cancel all his credit cards by calling in and saying they were stolen. Same with his cell phone. Same with his online DVD membership. Same with his gym membership. I went online and changed the password to our bank account and changed the pin number to our ATM cards. I canceled Steven’s car insurance and reported his car stolen. I put an ad in a newspaper with Steven’s work phone, saying he had a fabulous 750 square foot studio apartment in Soho available for a steal--$300/month and to call him 24/7—can only imagine the message overflow! I made sure the post office will now forward all of Steve’s mail to an old folk’s home. And I signed him up for dozens of magazine subscriptions, such as “Guns and Ammo,” “Girls and Corpses,” “Creative Knitting” and “Boy’s Life,” to be sent to his office and I checked the “bill me later” box.
These past 14 days, I’ve done everything to make Steven’s life a living hell. It’s definitely been cathartic but I also realize I haven’t had much time to simply work all of this out in my own mind. To really absorb what’s happened to me. So I’m sure I’ll still be sad sometimes. But at least I’ll know I never took it sitting down.
I want to thank all of you for your support during my campaign against a cheating husband. It’s been an emotional rollercoaster and I’m just trying to make the best of it. So often, people are hurt by the infidelity of a loved one, and there’s no easy way to mend that pain. The last two weeks was only meant to embolden those betrayed to speak out, stand up for themselves, and find the strength and self-confidence to move on.
I hope this blog helps anyone who’s ever been hurt, humiliated or scorned. Helps anyone who has invested feelings in someone and then had them turned upside down and inside out. Hopefully, through my campaign, there are people who now better understand how much pain, anguish and grief is involved when you decide to hurt someone by being unfaithful. Also, if you think someone is cheating on you, I definitely recommend the private investigator my brother used, Vinny Parco from Intercontinental Investigations. He’s a real straight shooter – he showed me what I needed to know but he did it with real sensitivity and compassion. I think he has a show on Court TV. But no matter how you found out, I hope that those who have been hurt can at least live vicariously through me.
I’m signing off for now… but one final word: next time you’re tempted to cheat, think once, twice or however many times it takes – and if you need to, think of that girl Emily.
One thing that really turned me on about Steven when we first met were the flowers he’d buy me. It’s something that I don’t think happens that often today, men buying women flowers. I don’t think any other guy I dated before Steven ever bought me flowers. It’s as if guys forgot forget that every girl, no matter what they say, loves getting flowers. There’s just something so purely romantic about it. And even after we married, Steven bought me flowers every two weeks. He promised he’d always do that, so that our marriage would always be as fresh as the flowers in our home. After about a couple of years, he forgot about that promise. But I didn’t remind him because I had been so grateful for all those flowers he bought me before., but I let it go and he’d still surprise me every now and then.
So yesterday, I thought it would be nice to remind Steven of his sweet ole ways and that it’d be even nicer if every woman in Steven’s office knew just what a romantic prick he really was. I used his credit card and ordered every woman in his office a dozen roses each, and had a note attached to them that said, “I’m a cheating bastard and I’d love to get in your pants too. Love, Steven.” I think I also accidentally sent a few dozen roses to a couple of guys in the office as well (oops!)! Anyway, I had them delivered yesterday, late Friday afternoon so everyone could take the roses home with them and enjoy fresh for the weekend.
So yesterday, I thought it would be nice to remind Steven of his sweet ole ways and that it’d be even nicer if every woman in Steven’s office knew just what a romantic prick he really was. I used his credit card and ordered every woman in his office a dozen roses each, and had a note attached to them that said, “I’m a cheating bastard and I’d love to get in your pants too. Love, Steven.” I think I also accidentally sent a few dozen roses to a couple of guys in the office as well (oops!)! Anyway, I had them delivered yesterday, late Friday afternoon so everyone could take the roses home with them and enjoy fresh for the weekend.
I took a friend to see my billboard and we stopped by Katz’s Deli since it was right there on Houston. We somehow ended up chatting with the owner, who loved the billboard and was a huge supporter. He got an earful as I spilled my guts about my saga with Steven. He was so sympathetic, he offered me something I couldn't refuse: a custom-made sandwich to support the public humiliation of my cheating prick of a husband!
He decided to make the “Cheatin’ Steven” sandwich a HARD salami Reuben. There was a cute guy at the counter who overheard us and told me that he’d also like to make a sandwich in my honor – an “Emily’s Revenge.” I can’t wait to see what’s in it – I’m sure it will be delicious! That way, anyone can taste the pain and suffering by sinking their teeth into a “Cheatin’ Steven” or delight in relishing in an “Emily’s Revenge.” The cute guy made me blush when he said he couldn’t wait to taste “Emily’s Revenge”… I may have to come back here for lunch again soon! I can’t believe I got a sandwich named after me – it feels like I’m famous! How cool is that?!
By the way, I wrote earlier about how I dumped Steven’s stuff all over the street on Tuesday. I guess someone caught it on camera and put it online because a friend of mine saw it and forwarded to me. Wow, I really looked like a nutjob! And to the guy who got the TV—you deserve it more than my bastard husband! Anyway, here’s the link, check it out!
He decided to make the “Cheatin’ Steven” sandwich a HARD salami Reuben. There was a cute guy at the counter who overheard us and told me that he’d also like to make a sandwich in my honor – an “Emily’s Revenge.” I can’t wait to see what’s in it – I’m sure it will be delicious! That way, anyone can taste the pain and suffering by sinking their teeth into a “Cheatin’ Steven” or delight in relishing in an “Emily’s Revenge.” The cute guy made me blush when he said he couldn’t wait to taste “Emily’s Revenge”… I may have to come back here for lunch again soon! I can’t believe I got a sandwich named after me – it feels like I’m famous! How cool is that?!
By the way, I wrote earlier about how I dumped Steven’s stuff all over the street on Tuesday. I guess someone caught it on camera and put it online because a friend of mine saw it and forwarded to me. Wow, I really looked like a nutjob! And to the guy who got the TV—you deserve it more than my bastard husband! Anyway, here’s the link, check it out!
There was one thing that really enticed Steven to move out to the 'burbs oh, so long ago. No, it wasn't so that he could carry on an affair in the city, where I'd be far enough away during the day that I couldn't catch him – or so he thought. Or maybe it was. Anyway, at the time, the biggest upside to moving into the suburbs was that he could finally buy a car. If you live in New York City there’s no need for a car and you'll pay through the nose for parking. Plus, the kind of car Steven wanted was too fast for the city streets. Suffice to say, we never had one when we lived in the city.
But in the 'burbs, you can't live without a car. So when we were deciding if we should move out of the city and start seriously planting our roots, building a future together (hah! those conversations today seem so surreal!), Steven sheepishly asked me if he could get whatever car he wanted. I said yes. So he got himself got himself a BMW - he'd always wanted a Beamer. It wasn't exactly the model he wanted but it’s what we could afford to finance at the time. But earlier this year, he upgraded to a brand new silver BMW 530i. He was so ecstatic about having this car. He had a Saturday morning ritual: coffee, newspaper, car wash. You couldn't even think about drinking or eating in that car. And one time on a road trip, he even tried to make me spit out my gum.
Well, the car you're looking at in this photo is the BMW 530i. Steven’s BMW 530i. I snuck into the lot where Steven parks in the city with my friend who served as the lookout. I brought a can of black spray paint and went to town while she took these photos. I saw some people staring in total disbelief at what we were doing but luckily they just kept walking. I would’ve given anything to see the look on Steven’s face when he saw his precious baby with a fresh coat of paint but we had to get out of there before someone grabbed us. I wanted to give Steven a good look at what it truly means to wreck your marriage. To get your marriage up to cruising speed and then slam it into a wall without your passenger wearing a seatbelt. The bird shit on top was icing.
But in the 'burbs, you can't live without a car. So when we were deciding if we should move out of the city and start seriously planting our roots, building a future together (hah! those conversations today seem so surreal!), Steven sheepishly asked me if he could get whatever car he wanted. I said yes. So he got himself got himself a BMW - he'd always wanted a Beamer. It wasn't exactly the model he wanted but it’s what we could afford to finance at the time. But earlier this year, he upgraded to a brand new silver BMW 530i. He was so ecstatic about having this car. He had a Saturday morning ritual: coffee, newspaper, car wash. You couldn't even think about drinking or eating in that car. And one time on a road trip, he even tried to make me spit out my gum.
Well, the car you're looking at in this photo is the BMW 530i. Steven’s BMW 530i. I snuck into the lot where Steven parks in the city with my friend who served as the lookout. I brought a can of black spray paint and went to town while she took these photos. I saw some people staring in total disbelief at what we were doing but luckily they just kept walking. I would’ve given anything to see the look on Steven’s face when he saw his precious baby with a fresh coat of paint but we had to get out of there before someone grabbed us. I wanted to give Steven a good look at what it truly means to wreck your marriage. To get your marriage up to cruising speed and then slam it into a wall without your passenger wearing a seatbelt. The bird shit on top was icing.
For shits and giggles, today I tried out Steven’s password for remote access to his work email. I couldn’t believe it: the moron didn’t change his password, even after the fantasy baseball sabotage!
Now, I usually hate getting email blasts, but I felt it was time for Steven to reach out to his contact list. Let them know about what was going on in his personal life. After all, a solid support structure means a stable life. At least I didn’t send attached pictures of kittens sleeping next to dogs, a stupid chain email (actually, it would be great if they all passed it on to ten friends), or a link to save the monarch butterflies.
What did I do? I sent a simple little email to everyone in his contact list, business and personal:
Hi all,
I have gonorrhea. Just an FYI.
-Steven
President, Small Dicks Club
Now, I usually hate getting email blasts, but I felt it was time for Steven to reach out to his contact list. Let them know about what was going on in his personal life. After all, a solid support structure means a stable life. At least I didn’t send attached pictures of kittens sleeping next to dogs, a stupid chain email (actually, it would be great if they all passed it on to ten friends), or a link to save the monarch butterflies.
What did I do? I sent a simple little email to everyone in his contact list, business and personal:
Hi all,
I have gonorrhea. Just an FYI.
-Steven
President, Small Dicks Club
Okay, today I got mad. I mean, really mad. I found out something that really got under my skin. See, about two months ago, I went to the city to spend the night at a friend’s house, my friend Violet who had just found out she suddenly got laid off, was freaking out and she didn’t want to be alone. It was a Saturday night and Steven said he’d just stay at home and watch some game that was. Well, what was on was Steven and Laura IN MY BED. Yes. My husband and my best friend were having sex in my matrimonial bed of seven years! And they were doing this while I was consoling my friend. I remember now that Steven had mentioned that Laura called to see if she could come over but then didn’t because I wasn’t there. And now I find out my neighbor SAW that slut over that night, thinking she was staying with me! She had no idea what was going on!
I was livid. I’m still livid. I didn’t even know what to do with myself. So I let my instincts take over and I dragged whatever I could find that belonged to Steven out of the house and into the car. I shoved as much as I could in. I emptied out his “study” and locked in on the knickknacks that meant the most to him. Flat screen TV. His laptop. His IPOD. His TriSpec golf clubs. His ties. His shirts. His favorite Mets jersey and all his autographed baseball cards. And I topped it off with the sheets on our bed that the nasty skank slept in with my husband.
I drove straight out to the city like a maniac. Don’t know how I didn’t get pulled over for speeding. I wanted to get up close to his office but I couldn’t pull over anywhere so I slid into the first open spot I could find. I opened the door and just started pulling everything out. People ran in from all directions to see what I was doing, to see what was up for grabs. Someone tried to reason with me but I don’t really remember what I said. I think most of the stuff was gone by the time I was done dumping it all. But I didn’t care. I was in meltdown anger mode. I just wanted his crap out of my car, my house, my life. I wanted to be purged of him. I wanted him out.
I was livid. I’m still livid. I didn’t even know what to do with myself. So I let my instincts take over and I dragged whatever I could find that belonged to Steven out of the house and into the car. I shoved as much as I could in. I emptied out his “study” and locked in on the knickknacks that meant the most to him. Flat screen TV. His laptop. His IPOD. His TriSpec golf clubs. His ties. His shirts. His favorite Mets jersey and all his autographed baseball cards. And I topped it off with the sheets on our bed that the nasty skank slept in with my husband.
I drove straight out to the city like a maniac. Don’t know how I didn’t get pulled over for speeding. I wanted to get up close to his office but I couldn’t pull over anywhere so I slid into the first open spot I could find. I opened the door and just started pulling everything out. People ran in from all directions to see what I was doing, to see what was up for grabs. Someone tried to reason with me but I don’t really remember what I said. I think most of the stuff was gone by the time I was done dumping it all. But I didn’t care. I was in meltdown anger mode. I just wanted his crap out of my car, my house, my life. I wanted to be purged of him. I wanted him out.
So I’ve never gotten into baking. Cakes, cookies, pies, etc. Just too much temptation. I always end up eating way too much batter and then doing a double-whammy of Pilates to not feel so guilty—which I still do when I get on the scale. But Steven’s always had a serious sweet tooth – and that bastard’s in perfect health, low cholesterol, ridiculously low body fat. I put on five pounds just watching him put away a pint of ice cream a night!
I decided to make Stevey-poo one of his favorite guilty pleasures: brownies. I made them from scratch! I always love playing around with ingredients when I cook, throwing in a little extra this or that. So this time, I decided to spice up the batch with some laxatives. I started with just one crushed tablet, to add some flavor. But then I decided to go the whole nine yards and crush ‘em all and mix ‘em in. No batter for Emily this time! I’m quite regular. I caught up with some phone calls to my brother and sister and mother who keep wanting to know what’s the latest while I waited for the brownies to bake and cool. Then, I carefully cut all of them into neat squares and packed them up and shipped them off to Steven’s office to arrive first thing this morning. I didn’t forget a note either: “Dear Steven, I know it’s been rough but at least we have each other. We’ll get through this. I love you, Laura.”
I just hope the whole office doesn’t share Steven’s sweet tooth or else everyone will be running (literally!) to the bathrooms!!
I decided to make Stevey-poo one of his favorite guilty pleasures: brownies. I made them from scratch! I always love playing around with ingredients when I cook, throwing in a little extra this or that. So this time, I decided to spice up the batch with some laxatives. I started with just one crushed tablet, to add some flavor. But then I decided to go the whole nine yards and crush ‘em all and mix ‘em in. No batter for Emily this time! I’m quite regular. I caught up with some phone calls to my brother and sister and mother who keep wanting to know what’s the latest while I waited for the brownies to bake and cool. Then, I carefully cut all of them into neat squares and packed them up and shipped them off to Steven’s office to arrive first thing this morning. I didn’t forget a note either: “Dear Steven, I know it’s been rough but at least we have each other. We’ll get through this. I love you, Laura.”
I just hope the whole office doesn’t share Steven’s sweet tooth or else everyone will be running (literally!) to the bathrooms!!
It's Sunday, day 7, and like I once said before, even God took a break. Well, those rules don't apply to a scorned woman who's on a mission of making sure her cheating, (soon-to-be-ex) husband's life is in constant turmoil - and always keeping him on his toes.
Speaking of family relations, I've been close to Steven's parents. Real simple, nice people. I had it good with the in-laws (unusual, compared to all my friends who deal with psycho mother-in-laws!), mainly because Steven was their golden child and he could do no wrong. Which meant he could do no wrong about finding the right wife. Only problem with them is that they're super-conservative so when they found out we had moved in together (pre-marital sex - a big no-no!), they nearly had heart attacks! But they got over it when they heard their son was going to marry! Then, they accepted me with open arms. Their only problem with me was that I hadn't produced any grandchildren for them yet. Talk about fate! Imagine those poor kids today! Less than ten years old and fatherless!
So it was with great satisfaction that I carefully packed Steven's entire porn collection. A collection that had grown substantially since I had first found out about it. When I had confronted him, he managed to convince me I was an idiot to think he was the only married man watching that stuff. If anything, I should consider incorporating it into our sex life. I didn't - it's just not me and we didn’t need that kind of inspiration (at least not before he started banging my best friend). I wonder if Steven's slut gave into watching.
But getting back to my point. I packed the porn and even threw in an old polaroid of Steven in our early years, before we were married, I think - one of him in bed, tied up to four bedposts, naked. I’m going to have a friend drop it off on their doorstep tonight. I can only imagine the looks on his parents' faces when they open the package. Oh and honey? Don't worry - I remembered to put a note in it from you: “Mom & Dad, I hope you don't mind storing my things for a while. Feel free to watch some at your leisure.
Love, Steven.”
I'm sure they'll forgive him soon enough.
Speaking of family relations, I've been close to Steven's parents. Real simple, nice people. I had it good with the in-laws (unusual, compared to all my friends who deal with psycho mother-in-laws!), mainly because Steven was their golden child and he could do no wrong. Which meant he could do no wrong about finding the right wife. Only problem with them is that they're super-conservative so when they found out we had moved in together (pre-marital sex - a big no-no!), they nearly had heart attacks! But they got over it when they heard their son was going to marry! Then, they accepted me with open arms. Their only problem with me was that I hadn't produced any grandchildren for them yet. Talk about fate! Imagine those poor kids today! Less than ten years old and fatherless!
So it was with great satisfaction that I carefully packed Steven's entire porn collection. A collection that had grown substantially since I had first found out about it. When I had confronted him, he managed to convince me I was an idiot to think he was the only married man watching that stuff. If anything, I should consider incorporating it into our sex life. I didn't - it's just not me and we didn’t need that kind of inspiration (at least not before he started banging my best friend). I wonder if Steven's slut gave into watching.
But getting back to my point. I packed the porn and even threw in an old polaroid of Steven in our early years, before we were married, I think - one of him in bed, tied up to four bedposts, naked. I’m going to have a friend drop it off on their doorstep tonight. I can only imagine the looks on his parents' faces when they open the package. Oh and honey? Don't worry - I remembered to put a note in it from you: “Mom & Dad, I hope you don't mind storing my things for a while. Feel free to watch some at your leisure.
Love, Steven.”
I'm sure they'll forgive him soon enough.
So while I was waiting for Whiskey to get groomed today (he was in dire need of a haircut - and I’m not going to neglect my pup, he’s too damn cute), I stopped by a jewelry shop that I know buys back used jewelry. I’d decided to get my engagement ring appraised. I gotta say, I was flattered for a moment. I found out the ring, which is a 2-carat emerald-cut diamond with baguettes, is worth $14,000. The store told me it’d give me about 40 percent of its value, so I ended up getting just over $5,000. A shame it couldn’t be the whole amount but easy come, easy go.
So I pawned the ring that once made me so proud, made my girlfriends so jealous, made my life seem like it was totally together – but that same ring was a big lie. So to hell with it. And now I have something that is no lie: cold, hard cash.
Now, what can cash buy?
On the way home I stopped at the mall and treated myself to some new clothes. When I got home, I made a few calls: I hired a private Pilate’s instructor to come over every other day for the next month. Then, I called this supposedly gorgeous male masseuse who does house calls, and by house calls I hope that includes “happy endings.” I booked him to come right after the Pilates sessions. Then, I called the electronics store and had a brand new 40” flat screen TV for the bedroom delivered. It’s gorgeous. Fully equipped with recordable DVD, DLP, HD, LMNOP…and any other technology they offered. Steven had always wanted a TV in the bedroom. But I read an article that TVs in the bedroom cut the amount of sex a couple has nearly in half. Even though he complained about not having a TV, I always refused, saying it’d never happen. Funny how times change.
You know, now that I think about it there are some other jewelry pieces Steven gave me that I could do without. And with the cash, I could get that boob job he always wanted me to get. Steven always said I was one cup size away from a perfect body. Isn’t that sweet? But I would never really do that. I’ll find better ways to spend that money.
I then wrote a letter to Steven telling him that I wanted to give him back the engagement ring. I going to stuff an envelope with copies of the receipts and mail it to his office. It’s amazing what a diamond engagement ring turns into. Steven told me that it was an investment. Boy, was he right!
So I pawned the ring that once made me so proud, made my girlfriends so jealous, made my life seem like it was totally together – but that same ring was a big lie. So to hell with it. And now I have something that is no lie: cold, hard cash.
Now, what can cash buy?
On the way home I stopped at the mall and treated myself to some new clothes. When I got home, I made a few calls: I hired a private Pilate’s instructor to come over every other day for the next month. Then, I called this supposedly gorgeous male masseuse who does house calls, and by house calls I hope that includes “happy endings.” I booked him to come right after the Pilates sessions. Then, I called the electronics store and had a brand new 40” flat screen TV for the bedroom delivered. It’s gorgeous. Fully equipped with recordable DVD, DLP, HD, LMNOP…and any other technology they offered. Steven had always wanted a TV in the bedroom. But I read an article that TVs in the bedroom cut the amount of sex a couple has nearly in half. Even though he complained about not having a TV, I always refused, saying it’d never happen. Funny how times change.
You know, now that I think about it there are some other jewelry pieces Steven gave me that I could do without. And with the cash, I could get that boob job he always wanted me to get. Steven always said I was one cup size away from a perfect body. Isn’t that sweet? But I would never really do that. I’ll find better ways to spend that money.
I then wrote a letter to Steven telling him that I wanted to give him back the engagement ring. I going to stuff an envelope with copies of the receipts and mail it to his office. It’s amazing what a diamond engagement ring turns into. Steven told me that it was an investment. Boy, was he right!
Sorry this one's so late! I've been slacking but I HAD to show some houses today! Last thing I want is to become unemployed because of these 14 days!
Anyway, I was thinking about those first dates with Steven, some nine years ago, when I was just gaga about him. I remember being so touched when he showed me his box of old crap that he keeps - you know, childhood trophies, his first love letter, and I especially remember this one teddy bear he pulled out, a bear he got when he was all of two-years-old. His moth-ball grandmother had given it to him one Christmas. He supposedly carried it with him everywhere, even after he was growing pubic hair. At first, he couldn't pronounce “bear.” So he said, “Baw-wee” and the name stuck.
Now, 32 years later, big Steven still has Baw-wee. Even though he doesn't cuddle with him, he does keep him in the storage closet. Baw-wee's still that special to Steven. Anyway, I wouldn't want him not to get his precious Baw-wee back. I am not by nature a violent person (even if we're just talking about a stuffed animal), so I needed to re-watch one of Steven's favorite movies, Reservoir Dogs, for inspiration, and it's given Mrs. Blonde a few ideas. So, I'll be mailing Baw-wee to Steven, except Baw-wee won't be coming in just one package. I'll be sending the bear back to Steven ... in installments.
Anyway, I was thinking about those first dates with Steven, some nine years ago, when I was just gaga about him. I remember being so touched when he showed me his box of old crap that he keeps - you know, childhood trophies, his first love letter, and I especially remember this one teddy bear he pulled out, a bear he got when he was all of two-years-old. His moth-ball grandmother had given it to him one Christmas. He supposedly carried it with him everywhere, even after he was growing pubic hair. At first, he couldn't pronounce “bear.” So he said, “Baw-wee” and the name stuck.
Now, 32 years later, big Steven still has Baw-wee. Even though he doesn't cuddle with him, he does keep him in the storage closet. Baw-wee's still that special to Steven. Anyway, I wouldn't want him not to get his precious Baw-wee back. I am not by nature a violent person (even if we're just talking about a stuffed animal), so I needed to re-watch one of Steven's favorite movies, Reservoir Dogs, for inspiration, and it's given Mrs. Blonde a few ideas. So, I'll be mailing Baw-wee to Steven, except Baw-wee won't be coming in just one package. I'll be sending the bear back to Steven ... in installments.
Before I met Steven, baseball was the last thing I'd ever make time for. It's not that I hated America's pastime; I'd just rather watch an insurance seminar or paint dry. He's so enamored with baseball that virtually every evening of the season (we're talking, half a year), I'd hear how every game was so unique, groundbreaking, history-making. He even quotes batting averages on guys who played twenty years ago.
Anyway, I learned to spend “quality time” with Steven and go to the ole ballgames with him, wasting ten dollars on a urine sample-sized beer. I even let him watch baseball while we had sex on the couch - otherwise, I knew he'd get to bed too late and there wouldn't be any more extra innings.
Steven introduced me to the "fascinating world" of fantasy baseball. Can you believe these boys sit at home on the computer and draft pretend teams and play pretend ball? Not only that, they're pretty damn serious about it. Especially Steven. Steven's had one too many fantasies lately.
Over the years, you tend to figure out your companion's passwords. So I decided to enter Steven's fantasy baseball world. I finally connected with the league he's been on proudly for six years now. I tried to figure out the rules and finally gave up. So I waived some of his players (in fantasy baseball, that means fired… I think). I waived the guys whose names stuck in my head - like A-rod, Beltran and Pujols. I think I got rid of them. But then it just became so confusing since I don't really know who's good and who's bad. So I simply got rid of all the players and I picked up a bunch of guys on the disabled list. Now, Steven can “waive” goodbye to his fantasy team.
See you all tomorrow: “Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!”
Anyway, I learned to spend “quality time” with Steven and go to the ole ballgames with him, wasting ten dollars on a urine sample-sized beer. I even let him watch baseball while we had sex on the couch - otherwise, I knew he'd get to bed too late and there wouldn't be any more extra innings.
Steven introduced me to the "fascinating world" of fantasy baseball. Can you believe these boys sit at home on the computer and draft pretend teams and play pretend ball? Not only that, they're pretty damn serious about it. Especially Steven. Steven's had one too many fantasies lately.
Over the years, you tend to figure out your companion's passwords. So I decided to enter Steven's fantasy baseball world. I finally connected with the league he's been on proudly for six years now. I tried to figure out the rules and finally gave up. So I waived some of his players (in fantasy baseball, that means fired… I think). I waived the guys whose names stuck in my head - like A-rod, Beltran and Pujols. I think I got rid of them. But then it just became so confusing since I don't really know who's good and who's bad. So I simply got rid of all the players and I picked up a bunch of guys on the disabled list. Now, Steven can “waive” goodbye to his fantasy team.
See you all tomorrow: “Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!”
So I'm back from “fun in the sun” - and no, not the beach. In the crazy busy New York City streets, where I spent all day handing out the flyers. Got a great reception too! Who says New Yorkers aren't friendly? Anyway, for all of you who missed it, here's what a cheating lying dog looks like.
Well, I'm off to bed. I'm exhausted. Big day tomorrow.
Day 3. Things are just heating up for Steve-o. Lots more to come. I’ve been pounding the pavement all morning passing out flyers about Steven and just popped into a friend’s office (a real friend, not a “friend” like that slut Laura) to get a break from the heat. Plus, I needed to make more copies - I had no idea they'd be such a hit! Pretty clever flyer if I do say so myself. I’ll figure out a way to post it tonight when I get home.
Before I forget, I’ve received a ton of emails (sorry, too many to respond to) and really want to say thanks for all your support! It really keeps me going!
Before I forget, I’ve received a ton of emails (sorry, too many to respond to) and really want to say thanks for all your support! It really keeps me going!
Steven and Laura
It's Tuesday night and nothing's better than a bucket of popcorn, a bottle of wine (I did keep a few good ones for myself) and a great romantic movie. Don't you think? I've got a great, new romantic movie the private investigator made – just some highlights. I watched it 14 times last night. Steven and Laura. Holding hands, kissing, going to a HOTEL. Do you charge by the hour, Laura? Bitch.
Anyway, I uploaded it, so check it out for yourself.
I think I’m going to puke.
It's Tuesday night and nothing's better than a bucket of popcorn, a bottle of wine (I did keep a few good ones for myself) and a great romantic movie. Don't you think? I've got a great, new romantic movie the private investigator made – just some highlights. I watched it 14 times last night. Steven and Laura. Holding hands, kissing, going to a HOTEL. Do you charge by the hour, Laura? Bitch.
Anyway, I uploaded it, so check it out for yourself.
I think I’m going to puke.
I had no idea this billboard would go over so well! Many of you enjoyed my “letter” to Steven and thank you for your support. So here's the latest… I've changed the locks on our house. Steven's been by once and called a bunch of times. I don't know if he's more angry about what the billboard says or what the billboard costs. I mean, the joint bank account was his idea. And let's just say he's not too happy about “our” expenditures this quarter. He should have thought about that before he deposited his principal into my best friend's money market. But numbers bore me.
I've had a busy day. I began the heart-breaking process of clearing Steven's crap out of the house. It's not what you think. His belongings will not be stuffed into the garage. I will take meticulous care with his valued goods. Starting with his extensive wine collection. His pride and joy. His baby. I remember when we were looking at houses and how this one was the “one” because it had room for a wine cellar. He had the racks custom-made and filled them up with countless bottles. Some nights, I found him sitting down there listening to his jazz with a glass of his favorite vintage. Kinda spooky, actually.
Steven's always been big into charities. For me, there's something about charity that scares me. But I do like to give. So I drove around the neighborhood and personally donated a bottle of wine to all the hard-working landscapers. The smiles on their faces were priceless! It felt so good to just give. Oh and, Steven-honey? That Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion that you've been saving for just the right moment - well that moment finally arrived! We may not be able to write this off, but can't you feel the goodness manifest in your heart. I'll be curious if they can tell the difference between the Henschke and the Bettenelli Cabernet Sauvignon. I couldn't. I think it's because I have, what Steven likes to refer to as, an “unsophisticated palette.”
Oh, and I’m going to hit the streets tomorrow to personally tell the world about the dirty, sneaky immoral, unfaithful, poorly-endowed slimeball!
I've had a busy day. I began the heart-breaking process of clearing Steven's crap out of the house. It's not what you think. His belongings will not be stuffed into the garage. I will take meticulous care with his valued goods. Starting with his extensive wine collection. His pride and joy. His baby. I remember when we were looking at houses and how this one was the “one” because it had room for a wine cellar. He had the racks custom-made and filled them up with countless bottles. Some nights, I found him sitting down there listening to his jazz with a glass of his favorite vintage. Kinda spooky, actually.
Steven's always been big into charities. For me, there's something about charity that scares me. But I do like to give. So I drove around the neighborhood and personally donated a bottle of wine to all the hard-working landscapers. The smiles on their faces were priceless! It felt so good to just give. Oh and, Steven-honey? That Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion that you've been saving for just the right moment - well that moment finally arrived! We may not be able to write this off, but can't you feel the goodness manifest in your heart. I'll be curious if they can tell the difference between the Henschke and the Bettenelli Cabernet Sauvignon. I couldn't. I think it's because I have, what Steven likes to refer to as, an “unsophisticated palette.”
Oh, and I’m going to hit the streets tomorrow to personally tell the world about the dirty, sneaky immoral, unfaithful, poorly-endowed slimeball!
This photo is what I’ve been talking about, the favors that I called in for. Brilliant, isn’t it? I think so. I ran out early this morning to beat the rush hour traffic (didn’t quite go as planned but at least it wasn’t standstill) and got a picture of my billboard. My way to tell the world about the lowlife I’ve just wasted so many years on.
I put it near Steven’s office so his co-workers and friends could see exactly what a cheating scumbag he is. And of course, for all of you to see as well. I’ve decided to do what so many quiet, back-stabbed wives don’t -- take charge, make my whoring, cheating, adulterous, fornicating husband know what it feels like to be humiliated. And do it with many decibels.
It’s a personal message for everyone to read. Thanks goes out to my husband who chipped in on the price tag. Golly gee honey, I would’ve never been able to tell the world about your exploits with my best friend without your contribution! Gotta love joint bank accounts. Oh, sorry Steve, I had to splurge on the lights, too. Some people work late, like you. And they’re always driving home when it’s dark. Burning that midnight oil, Steve-o. Just like you.
So for the next two weeks, starting with today, I will exact revenge on my whoring husband. And who knows what a disparaged woman with lots of resources at her disposal might do?!
It’s going to be 14 days of vengeance. 14 days of unbridled revenge. 14 days of Steven looking over his back to see what’s coming next. Because I’ve decided that 14 days is precisely the amount of time I’ll still devote to that faithless and deceitful husband before I wash my hands of him completely. These 14 days will be a message to all of those nut-sacks who betray their family. Remember in Jamaica, on our honeymoon, when you said we were now a family? Me and you. Oh, you remember! It was on the terrace, in our white satin robes, right after you came prematurely. (Shoulda seen that pattern!) 14 days of misery for Steven, 14 days of reprisal for me, and 14 days of fun for all of you reading this blog!
Welcome to Emily’s 14 Days of WRATH! Wait till you see what I’ve got in store for Steven tomorrow – a wine tasting party with a twist!
So my favors have come through. People say don’t burn bridges because you never know when you’ll need someone or something again. And it’s all about connections in the end. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I used to work in media! Because not only my ex-boss, but others connected to him, have agreed to help me out. Because now, I’ll be able to get even. Even with Steven. Even, Steven.
Because of what happened yesterday, I figured I should be in a new Pilates class. I’ve wiped my schedule clean of any house showings – I can’t imagine what those poor clients would go through if I were their agent today. I’m staying at home, ignoring the hang ups on the answering machine which I’m sure are from Steven, and concocting all sorts of wonderful activities for dear Steven and that ho-bag once called my best friend, Laura.
In the last few days, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve done some number crunching. I’ve done some brainstorming. I’ve made some phone calls. I’ve thought about what the rest of my life will entail. And the rest of my life starts tomorrow. Tomorrow, the world will bear witness to a woman scorned. After tomorrow, husbands all over the country will think twice before inviting their divorcee secretaries out for a mojito. They’ll check themselves before they wander into online singles chat rooms. After tomorrow, husbands will be rubbing one out in the shower, instead of signing the room check for their mistress at the Plaza. Steven and Laura have been doing a lot of fucking lately. Now, it’s my turn.
Because of what happened yesterday, I figured I should be in a new Pilates class. I’ve wiped my schedule clean of any house showings – I can’t imagine what those poor clients would go through if I were their agent today. I’m staying at home, ignoring the hang ups on the answering machine which I’m sure are from Steven, and concocting all sorts of wonderful activities for dear Steven and that ho-bag once called my best friend, Laura.
In the last few days, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve done some number crunching. I’ve done some brainstorming. I’ve made some phone calls. I’ve thought about what the rest of my life will entail. And the rest of my life starts tomorrow. Tomorrow, the world will bear witness to a woman scorned. After tomorrow, husbands all over the country will think twice before inviting their divorcee secretaries out for a mojito. They’ll check themselves before they wander into online singles chat rooms. After tomorrow, husbands will be rubbing one out in the shower, instead of signing the room check for their mistress at the Plaza. Steven and Laura have been doing a lot of fucking lately. Now, it’s my turn.
I’ve decided I am going to remain calm today. I’m not going to cry anymore. I’ve run out of hemorrhoid cream. I’ve pulled myself together, doused myself with Preparation H (yes, those butt creams do the trick to puffy eyes) and put on my work-out gear.
I talked to my brother every hour. I’ve gone through a rollercoaster of emotions with him but I’m glad he hired that PI. Took a lot of guts for him to do that for me. He told me that he walked out of work late one night and thought he saw Steven and Laura getting in a cab. The two of them… I’m going to get back at them. They committed marital treason. They think I’m stupid.
I made myself go to Pilates again. Just because Steven’s out of my life doesn’t mean I have to let myself go. As a matter a fact, I’m going to look hotter than he’s ever seen me. What a mistake it was for that newbie to show up.
The newbie – yes, she was wearing her same ole headband. Now, on a more rational day, I would’ve gone to the back of the room and dealt with her after class. But today, I was in no mood. I mean, my husband is cheating on me. No ana-mia wanna-be Pilates bitch is gonna take my spot. Late or not, I needed my “regular” status right now. So I walked up to her and squeezed my way next to her so that she didn’t have much room left to stretch in. Neither did I but I didn’t care. I was home: front row, second person from the window, perfect mirror view, just the right amount of direct sunlight.
I think the teacher chose to ignore me because I was determined not to move. Anyone could see it in my face. The newbie continued doing the stretches but after I kept “accidentally” elbowing her, she finally gave up, glared at me and moved to the back. I got a few looks. Maybe I should’ve screamed out, “My husband is cheating on me!” and then they would’ve understood. But I didn’t.
Steven’s not going to get away with this. I’m going to turn his world upside down like mine is now.
I talked to my brother every hour. I’ve gone through a rollercoaster of emotions with him but I’m glad he hired that PI. Took a lot of guts for him to do that for me. He told me that he walked out of work late one night and thought he saw Steven and Laura getting in a cab. The two of them… I’m going to get back at them. They committed marital treason. They think I’m stupid.
I made myself go to Pilates again. Just because Steven’s out of my life doesn’t mean I have to let myself go. As a matter a fact, I’m going to look hotter than he’s ever seen me. What a mistake it was for that newbie to show up.
The newbie – yes, she was wearing her same ole headband. Now, on a more rational day, I would’ve gone to the back of the room and dealt with her after class. But today, I was in no mood. I mean, my husband is cheating on me. No ana-mia wanna-be Pilates bitch is gonna take my spot. Late or not, I needed my “regular” status right now. So I walked up to her and squeezed my way next to her so that she didn’t have much room left to stretch in. Neither did I but I didn’t care. I was home: front row, second person from the window, perfect mirror view, just the right amount of direct sunlight.
I think the teacher chose to ignore me because I was determined not to move. Anyone could see it in my face. The newbie continued doing the stretches but after I kept “accidentally” elbowing her, she finally gave up, glared at me and moved to the back. I got a few looks. Maybe I should’ve screamed out, “My husband is cheating on me!” and then they would’ve understood. But I didn’t.
Steven’s not going to get away with this. I’m going to turn his world upside down like mine is now.
I confronted Steven last night. I drank a bottle of wine and told him I know. He says I can’t know because there’s nothing to know. I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to tell me it’s a mistake. That the PI screwed up. But I couldn’t. I told him not to bullshit me, that I know. I have proof. And if he really wanted, I could show it all to him. I thought he was going to get on his knees and say he was sorry. Beg me, tell me it was a huge mistake and it’ll never happen again. But he didn’t kneel. He just stood there and finally started mumbling that it didn’t mean anything, that things have been weird with us lately. Weird with us? Wo-aw—I am not part of this equation, that’s for sure! That pissed me off even more. I didn’t even give him the time to finish. I told him to get the hell out. That he’d regret every minute he spent with her.
Now, I don’t know where he is. He took a knapsack of essentials. His new Calvin Klein underwear he “bought recently” – he’s never bought his own underwear before. Bastard. I was so blind. He’s probably holed up at that slut’s apartment. In all of her 700 square feet in a fifth floor walk-up. I hope her air-conditioning is still broken. Just the two of them.
You see, everyone, my husband of seven years has been putting his small, little tool into another woman’s toolbox. Not mine. My best friend’s, to be precise. Not only have they been trading reproductive juices, they’ve been doing it right under my nose. Can you say: adultery! And let’s just say that adultery is highly incriminating in divorce court.
They think they can just walk away from this. Their games have been played for the last month. Months? My games are just starting. They don’t know what kind of shit they’ve just stepped in. Flies everywhere. I have friends in high and low places. It’s time to call in some favors. It’s time to draw up my own games. It’s time for them to feel what I’m feeling. Everyone reading this blog will have front row seats.
Now, I don’t know where he is. He took a knapsack of essentials. His new Calvin Klein underwear he “bought recently” – he’s never bought his own underwear before. Bastard. I was so blind. He’s probably holed up at that slut’s apartment. In all of her 700 square feet in a fifth floor walk-up. I hope her air-conditioning is still broken. Just the two of them.
You see, everyone, my husband of seven years has been putting his small, little tool into another woman’s toolbox. Not mine. My best friend’s, to be precise. Not only have they been trading reproductive juices, they’ve been doing it right under my nose. Can you say: adultery! And let’s just say that adultery is highly incriminating in divorce court.
They think they can just walk away from this. Their games have been played for the last month. Months? My games are just starting. They don’t know what kind of shit they’ve just stepped in. Flies everywhere. I have friends in high and low places. It’s time to call in some favors. It’s time to draw up my own games. It’s time for them to feel what I’m feeling. Everyone reading this blog will have front row seats.
I still haven’t slept. Not really. Dozed off on the couch a few times. Couldn’t get back into bed with Steven. I made sure I was out with Whiskey when he got up and went to work. I still can’t believe this is happening. I don’t know how I let this happen. What did I do wrong? It was so hard for me to walk back inside the house.
This is what happened yesterday. I went to see the PI. He told me that Steven has a private credit card I don’t know about. A credit card I’m not supposed to know about. It’s been piling up hotel charges. Hotels in the city. Hotels I’ve never been to. Usually, when Steven goes out on company meals, a credit card for expense accounts is brought along. No one every pays with their own. Steven’s private credit card had numerous restaurants charged on it. Restaurants I’ve always wanted to go to. Restaurants I’ve never been to. The PI called Steven “sloppy.” Not the modifier I’d use. Steven’s phone records show he’s been dialing a number that’s not work. That all those times while we were in Nantucket, when he had to go to town and get service for his cell, he wasn’t calling work. He was calling another number. Residential.
When the PI told me the number, I was relieved at first. I know that number! It’s Laura’s! I said with a smile, “Of course, it’s my best friend, Laura’s.” So that’s definitely not who he’s been secretly calling. The PI said he saw Steven and a brunette, about 5’7, holding hands, enter a hotel at around 7PM. He then said, Steven and the girl exited the hotel about two hours later. He showed me some photos.
I looked at the pictures: oh, there’s Steven and Laura. Then it hit me: there’s Steven and Laura. Steven and Laura are having an affair. The two people closest to me in the world. The two people I trusted most. Laura, the one woman I’d never be jealous of if she spent time with Steven without me. Because you can always trust your best friend. And that's why they were able to do it. Because they knew I trusted them. That's why Laura hasn't been so available lately. It never occurred to me that she was fucking my husband. Why would it? Best friends don’t fuck your husband, right? Not my best friend. My bridesmaid (she would’ve been maid-of-honor if I didn’t have a sister!). Not my confidant.
This is what happened yesterday. I went to see the PI. He told me that Steven has a private credit card I don’t know about. A credit card I’m not supposed to know about. It’s been piling up hotel charges. Hotels in the city. Hotels I’ve never been to. Usually, when Steven goes out on company meals, a credit card for expense accounts is brought along. No one every pays with their own. Steven’s private credit card had numerous restaurants charged on it. Restaurants I’ve always wanted to go to. Restaurants I’ve never been to. The PI called Steven “sloppy.” Not the modifier I’d use. Steven’s phone records show he’s been dialing a number that’s not work. That all those times while we were in Nantucket, when he had to go to town and get service for his cell, he wasn’t calling work. He was calling another number. Residential.
When the PI told me the number, I was relieved at first. I know that number! It’s Laura’s! I said with a smile, “Of course, it’s my best friend, Laura’s.” So that’s definitely not who he’s been secretly calling. The PI said he saw Steven and a brunette, about 5’7, holding hands, enter a hotel at around 7PM. He then said, Steven and the girl exited the hotel about two hours later. He showed me some photos.
I looked at the pictures: oh, there’s Steven and Laura. Then it hit me: there’s Steven and Laura. Steven and Laura are having an affair. The two people closest to me in the world. The two people I trusted most. Laura, the one woman I’d never be jealous of if she spent time with Steven without me. Because you can always trust your best friend. And that's why they were able to do it. Because they knew I trusted them. That's why Laura hasn't been so available lately. It never occurred to me that she was fucking my husband. Why would it? Best friends don’t fuck your husband, right? Not my best friend. My bridesmaid (she would’ve been maid-of-honor if I didn’t have a sister!). Not my confidant.
Somehow, I managed to pass out but now I can’t sleep. I woke up a few minutes ago to Steven zonked out next to me. I sat up in bed and just stared at him. He looked so peaceful. And I realized: I despise him. The lying, cheating bastard. I still feel sick to my stomach. It’s cliché, but it feels like a nightmare right now and I can’t wake up. I can’t believe my husband did this to me. It came so fast and feels so horrible. All those fucking Pilates classes to tone down for him. To look good for him. To turn him on. All I did was try, try, try! He did nothing. He’s still sleeping in bed. He’s probably dreaming about Laura. About her ankles resting on his shoulders.
He has no idea I know. He has no idea how upside down my world feels. He has no feelings towards me. He cheated on me with my best friend. I need to take a shower.
He has no idea I know. He has no idea how upside down my world feels. He has no feelings towards me. He cheated on me with my best friend. I need to take a shower.
So today I was in the middle of showing a psychiatrist a home with a separate guest house for his practice. He was complaining that the neurotic housewives in the suburbs out-number the psychiatrists they should see. He was either hinting about something or just being a plain douche-bag. Pardon my French. But, I hate head doctors. They sit around, dripping Visine into their eyes, while someone sits across from them bitching about their stepsister who eats too much mayonnaise. And they get paid for hardly talking and arranging their mahogany-framed “degrees” in conspicuous areas around the room.
Anyway, my point is, my brother, Jason, called while I was with the head doctor and said I had an appointment in two hours with a PI. A private investigator. Can you believe it? How crazy is that! See, a few weeks ago, my brother came up with this cockamamie idea that something's amiss with Steven. They work near each other and sometimes have lunch and Steven’s been acting weird. Jason thinks he’s cheating on me. My brother is a sweetheart, but he’s always been quick to judge. Steven's not screwing anyone but moi.
Anyway, Jason said I should hire a PI. To spy on Steven. Of course I said, “no” of course but Jason was relentless. I know he’s just looking out for me and since I figured it would be easier to just agree and get him to shut up about it already, I told him it was fine as long as he handled it – I wouldn’t want Steven to notice any money coming out of our account. I almost completely forgot about the whole thing until Jason called. But he’s made an appointment for me with the PI today. It’s totally insane. But I’ve decided I’m going to go and find out what eye-opening dirt this PI’s come up with. I’m sure that they’re going to show me scintillating footage of Steven sneaking off for his nicotine fix since I know he hasn’t really quit yet. Anyway, it’s weird but I feel a little nervous. I feel like I’m the one who’s doing something wrong here, like cheating and lying to Steven with this PI… but it’ll be funny when I tell him about it later - if I tell him at all.
Anyway, my point is, my brother, Jason, called while I was with the head doctor and said I had an appointment in two hours with a PI. A private investigator. Can you believe it? How crazy is that! See, a few weeks ago, my brother came up with this cockamamie idea that something's amiss with Steven. They work near each other and sometimes have lunch and Steven’s been acting weird. Jason thinks he’s cheating on me. My brother is a sweetheart, but he’s always been quick to judge. Steven's not screwing anyone but moi.
Anyway, Jason said I should hire a PI. To spy on Steven. Of course I said, “no” of course but Jason was relentless. I know he’s just looking out for me and since I figured it would be easier to just agree and get him to shut up about it already, I told him it was fine as long as he handled it – I wouldn’t want Steven to notice any money coming out of our account. I almost completely forgot about the whole thing until Jason called. But he’s made an appointment for me with the PI today. It’s totally insane. But I’ve decided I’m going to go and find out what eye-opening dirt this PI’s come up with. I’m sure that they’re going to show me scintillating footage of Steven sneaking off for his nicotine fix since I know he hasn’t really quit yet. Anyway, it’s weird but I feel a little nervous. I feel like I’m the one who’s doing something wrong here, like cheating and lying to Steven with this PI… but it’ll be funny when I tell him about it later - if I tell him at all.
So I was driving home from Pilates today and I heard a song on the radio that reminded me of my college days. Red Hot Chili Peppers "Knock Me Down." I played the heck out of that album. Mother's Milk. Those were the crazy days. I remember one night walking home with my sorority sisters from the bar. It was a long walk back to the house and we were really drunk. Too many of the three wise men that night: Jack (Daniels)Jim (Beam)and Jose (Cuervo). Anyway, we're walking home and this guy pulls over in his van and asks if we need a ride. We were four strong so we figured, what's the harm? We get in the van and sure enough half way to the sorority house, my friend Amy looks down and sees he has his c*ck out in his hand! We all shriek and jump out of the van at the light. Minutes later, we’re in the house, laughing our asses off. The kicker is that we found another sorority sister out on a date with the guy a month later. We stopped by the table and told her. She immediately got up and left without another word.
Ahhh... college. It was fun but I'd kill my kids if they ever pulled those stunts.
It’s funny how Steven didn’t even exist for me back then.
Ahhh... college. It was fun but I'd kill my kids if they ever pulled those stunts.
It’s funny how Steven didn’t even exist for me back then.
So I was on the phone with my sister, Robynn, who lives in the city and out of the blue, asked me about Steven and our sex life. I mean, I love my sister but I’m not into spreading the gossip on my sex life with her. Seriously, does she call my brother and ask him the same thing?? So I promptly told Robynn it’s great. She tried to pry but I told her I had a house to show and that I’d call her later. Ah, siblings.
So let me say this: our sex life has always been pretty steamy. I didn’t start as the most experienced woman, but with Steven, I became one. We update a checklist of positions that he keeps in his blackberry, “PalmaSutra,” we like to amalgamate toys with our love-making and we don’t only use the bedroom. Lately, though, our love-making has been occasional. Okay, I’ll be blunt: almost never is about right. It’s gotten to the point that we connect maybe once a month. Okay, once every two months. On average. And it’s always in the bedroom, in bed and there’s nothing to check off in the PalmaSutra anymore. Steven’s exhaustion from work sends me retreating to the bathroom to abandon my fishnet stockings, dental-floss G-strings and mechanic’s jump-suit (don’t ask) on a number of occasions. Yet he finds the time to pore over spreadsheets for two hours in bed. I didn’t get it when it first started. He never used to pass up “Lil’ Bunny’s Garage” for Focused Valuation Input Analysis. But now, I realize it’s that he’s working even harder so that our kids and our future will be totally secure. I mean, it could be worse. I was watching some nature show the other day about flounder. You know the fish they serve at Red Lobster. Anyway, flounder lay around on the bottom of the ocean floor all year. They mate once a year. Once! The rest of the time they just lay on the ocean floor. Once a year!
But the thing is, it’s really getting unfair for me too. I thought about it this morning. I mean, even in Nantucket during our vacation we barely had sex once! I didn't want to over-analyze it but I was the Grey Lady on that island. It took place in the morning and I think Steven fell back asleep during the process. In his defense, we did a lot during the day... I think.
Anyway, I realized that the only thing that makes me feel good is writing this blog. Better than Pilates, which I can’t make myself go to today. And you know what’s funny? When I had my sex-revelation this morning, it was after walking Whiskey. We walked into the house and Whiskey (without his testes) began humping the leg of the couch. I laughed so hard, I almost cried. Actually, I did cry. I mean, from laughter, of course. And then, after that, I cried for like an hour. I don’t know. That seems to be happening a lot lately, for no reason whatsoever. I hope it stops soon. Maybe I’ll motivate for Pilates after all. There’s been too much ice cream entering this house, my mouth and hence my ass. Maybe I should try the couch leg to burn some calories.
So let me say this: our sex life has always been pretty steamy. I didn’t start as the most experienced woman, but with Steven, I became one. We update a checklist of positions that he keeps in his blackberry, “PalmaSutra,” we like to amalgamate toys with our love-making and we don’t only use the bedroom. Lately, though, our love-making has been occasional. Okay, I’ll be blunt: almost never is about right. It’s gotten to the point that we connect maybe once a month. Okay, once every two months. On average. And it’s always in the bedroom, in bed and there’s nothing to check off in the PalmaSutra anymore. Steven’s exhaustion from work sends me retreating to the bathroom to abandon my fishnet stockings, dental-floss G-strings and mechanic’s jump-suit (don’t ask) on a number of occasions. Yet he finds the time to pore over spreadsheets for two hours in bed. I didn’t get it when it first started. He never used to pass up “Lil’ Bunny’s Garage” for Focused Valuation Input Analysis. But now, I realize it’s that he’s working even harder so that our kids and our future will be totally secure. I mean, it could be worse. I was watching some nature show the other day about flounder. You know the fish they serve at Red Lobster. Anyway, flounder lay around on the bottom of the ocean floor all year. They mate once a year. Once! The rest of the time they just lay on the ocean floor. Once a year!
But the thing is, it’s really getting unfair for me too. I thought about it this morning. I mean, even in Nantucket during our vacation we barely had sex once! I didn't want to over-analyze it but I was the Grey Lady on that island. It took place in the morning and I think Steven fell back asleep during the process. In his defense, we did a lot during the day... I think.
Anyway, I realized that the only thing that makes me feel good is writing this blog. Better than Pilates, which I can’t make myself go to today. And you know what’s funny? When I had my sex-revelation this morning, it was after walking Whiskey. We walked into the house and Whiskey (without his testes) began humping the leg of the couch. I laughed so hard, I almost cried. Actually, I did cry. I mean, from laughter, of course. And then, after that, I cried for like an hour. I don’t know. That seems to be happening a lot lately, for no reason whatsoever. I hope it stops soon. Maybe I’ll motivate for Pilates after all. There’s been too much ice cream entering this house, my mouth and hence my ass. Maybe I should try the couch leg to burn some calories.
This morning, Steven was finally able to sleep in a little. It’s Sunday so he has a day off! On the seventh day, even God took a breather. I know Steven’s not God. But I sure as hell hates when he acts like one.
Anyway, I’m already up because when I have too much Chardonnay I can never sleep late. We had a bit of rowdy night last night. But we always have fun when Laura’s around. Right, Laura came over for dinner. I called Laura and told her Steven’s at work again and thought we’d have some GQT (girl quality time), since lately, we haven’t actually seen each other. It’s hard with her living in the city. Anyway, I made dinner, spicy jerk chicken. It’s all about marinating the meat for hours and then it’s “hot hot hot.” Talk about sexy hot when you kiss a bite of chicken into your hubby’s mouth! I really want to go back to Jamaica and have the real thing again. (And I’m not just talking about the jerk chicken, jah mon!) Sorry. Back to the chicken. He – I mean, Steven, not the chicken! – surprised me and showed up in time for dinner! He said he finally managed to get away so we could spend time together but he adores Laura too so he didn’t mind her there at all.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, we got extremely wasted. I mean, really drunk. That’s what happens when you have an incredible collection of wine right in your own home and membership in a wine club to enjoy it – Steven’s proudly got a collection in the basement that rivals Trattoria Dell’Arte’s wine room. I remember at one point, we were all laughing so hard that Laura fell off the couch and Steven right on top of her! It was hilarious.
What was even funnier was waking up in the living room chair. That’s the worst feeling when you wake up on the couch in the middle of the night. The television’s still on and has some infomercial of the British guy selling you a food processor you can put on your keychain, the dog is licking your big toe and you have an imprint of carnations on your cheek from the high-relief floral pattern on the throw pillows. Then you have to get out of your clothes and get into bed. Yuck. Laura and Steven were both passe out on the couch. I checked the time: too late for Laura to catch a train back into the city. So I pulled Steven up and dragged him (and myself for that matter) up to bed. I went back down and stretched Laura on the couch and put a blanket on her. Thank God I was coherent enough to gulp some Advil before passing out. Still have a headache.
I love Sunday mornings. Fluffing up the pillows, spreading out the New York Times and trading sections with Steven. I’m one of those who reads the first couple of paragraphs of articles and then moves on. It’s always with the intention of reading the entire article, but that intention never lasts. Do you do that? I think you have to be over 60 to read the whole Sunday Times. Page by page. Steven takes the front section and Sports and Business. I’m a Metro and Arts & Entertainment gal. Either way, it’s worth the money. I love Sundays, skimming the paper. It’s our one moment every week that we can both count on being together. Anyway, Whiskey somehow gets into the room, and we tease him by kissing and making him bark and jump all over the place, going crazy with jealousy! It only gets a little awkward when he bounces in right when we’re in the middle of our own…jumping and he gets tangled in all the wrong places… then it’s back to the doggie spa… okay, that is definitely too much information!
Well, it’s raining hard this morning, despite the heat, and when I went outside to pick up the Times, it was soaked, even in its plastic bag. Steven and Laura were both still passed out and I saw we're out of OJ and Advil - two key ingredients to curing a hangover. So I decided to make a pharmacy run.
When I came to a red light and all of a sudden, I made the window wiper stop and turned off the engine. There were no cars around and I just wanted to hear that sound of the rain pelting on the window, as if wanting to bust into my car and onto me. And I felt so protected. There was no way that rain was going to come in no matter how hard it was beating down. And I felt like I could’ve stayed that way forever! But then, a car honked and I was forced to restart the engine, hit the window wiper on and just move forward. And I did. As I always do.
Right now, Steven’s upstairs, laying in bed, reading. He says he puked while I was out at the pharmacy, he's that hung-over. He told me Laura called a cab to catch the train back into the city because she had a brunch to go to. I nuked up some chicken broth and he seems to be sucking it down. I hate to sound selfish but if he doesn’t feel better, it’s going to suck. Rather, there’ll be no sucking at all. Not even sucking up to Steven because on top of him working all the time, he now has to get sick?? I guess tonight will consist of re-heated jerk chicken, more Chardonnay and maybe some Judy Garland. Maybe “Girl Crazy” will be on TV.
Anyway, I’m already up because when I have too much Chardonnay I can never sleep late. We had a bit of rowdy night last night. But we always have fun when Laura’s around. Right, Laura came over for dinner. I called Laura and told her Steven’s at work again and thought we’d have some GQT (girl quality time), since lately, we haven’t actually seen each other. It’s hard with her living in the city. Anyway, I made dinner, spicy jerk chicken. It’s all about marinating the meat for hours and then it’s “hot hot hot.” Talk about sexy hot when you kiss a bite of chicken into your hubby’s mouth! I really want to go back to Jamaica and have the real thing again. (And I’m not just talking about the jerk chicken, jah mon!) Sorry. Back to the chicken. He – I mean, Steven, not the chicken! – surprised me and showed up in time for dinner! He said he finally managed to get away so we could spend time together but he adores Laura too so he didn’t mind her there at all.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, we got extremely wasted. I mean, really drunk. That’s what happens when you have an incredible collection of wine right in your own home and membership in a wine club to enjoy it – Steven’s proudly got a collection in the basement that rivals Trattoria Dell’Arte’s wine room. I remember at one point, we were all laughing so hard that Laura fell off the couch and Steven right on top of her! It was hilarious.
What was even funnier was waking up in the living room chair. That’s the worst feeling when you wake up on the couch in the middle of the night. The television’s still on and has some infomercial of the British guy selling you a food processor you can put on your keychain, the dog is licking your big toe and you have an imprint of carnations on your cheek from the high-relief floral pattern on the throw pillows. Then you have to get out of your clothes and get into bed. Yuck. Laura and Steven were both passe out on the couch. I checked the time: too late for Laura to catch a train back into the city. So I pulled Steven up and dragged him (and myself for that matter) up to bed. I went back down and stretched Laura on the couch and put a blanket on her. Thank God I was coherent enough to gulp some Advil before passing out. Still have a headache.
I love Sunday mornings. Fluffing up the pillows, spreading out the New York Times and trading sections with Steven. I’m one of those who reads the first couple of paragraphs of articles and then moves on. It’s always with the intention of reading the entire article, but that intention never lasts. Do you do that? I think you have to be over 60 to read the whole Sunday Times. Page by page. Steven takes the front section and Sports and Business. I’m a Metro and Arts & Entertainment gal. Either way, it’s worth the money. I love Sundays, skimming the paper. It’s our one moment every week that we can both count on being together. Anyway, Whiskey somehow gets into the room, and we tease him by kissing and making him bark and jump all over the place, going crazy with jealousy! It only gets a little awkward when he bounces in right when we’re in the middle of our own…jumping and he gets tangled in all the wrong places… then it’s back to the doggie spa… okay, that is definitely too much information!
Well, it’s raining hard this morning, despite the heat, and when I went outside to pick up the Times, it was soaked, even in its plastic bag. Steven and Laura were both still passed out and I saw we're out of OJ and Advil - two key ingredients to curing a hangover. So I decided to make a pharmacy run.
When I came to a red light and all of a sudden, I made the window wiper stop and turned off the engine. There were no cars around and I just wanted to hear that sound of the rain pelting on the window, as if wanting to bust into my car and onto me. And I felt so protected. There was no way that rain was going to come in no matter how hard it was beating down. And I felt like I could’ve stayed that way forever! But then, a car honked and I was forced to restart the engine, hit the window wiper on and just move forward. And I did. As I always do.
Right now, Steven’s upstairs, laying in bed, reading. He says he puked while I was out at the pharmacy, he's that hung-over. He told me Laura called a cab to catch the train back into the city because she had a brunch to go to. I nuked up some chicken broth and he seems to be sucking it down. I hate to sound selfish but if he doesn’t feel better, it’s going to suck. Rather, there’ll be no sucking at all. Not even sucking up to Steven because on top of him working all the time, he now has to get sick?? I guess tonight will consist of re-heated jerk chicken, more Chardonnay and maybe some Judy Garland. Maybe “Girl Crazy” will be on TV.
Just got back from Pilates and the newbie had the nerve not only to show up but to take my spot again! But I guess I was late again so there wasn’t much I could do… until the newbie was in the shower and I stole her towel. Well, not exactly. I took her towel and put it in the bin with the other used towels. But the look on her face when she got out of the shower and realized she had no towel—priceless!
I guess I never mentioned why I started this blog. I made the stupid mistake of asking Laura, my best friend who knows me better that I do (or my mother, despite what she thinks), about her sex life. She immediately turned the question around on me, saying no one asks about other people’s sex lives unless theirs is faltering. Twenty minutes later, she convinced me I should write this blog as a way to vent frustrations, pass advice and release thought streams. And here I am doing it.
I don’t know what my so-called frustrations are. Things in life are great. I got my spot back in Pilates yesterday (the newbie was too chicken to show up!). My wine tasting club is taking a trip to Napa next year. Our Jack Russell, Whiskey, was just neutered, so he’s much less rambunctious (amazing what a couple less testes can do). Steven’s doing great. We’re great. See, Steven and I are totally on the same wavelength. Which is pretty amazing in a marriage. I mean, it’s like we just get it. Sex has gone from the left lane (speeding) to the middle lane (cruising). But at least it’s not the right lane (snail-paced Pinto). I remember when we used to leave hotel rooms in shambles, like rock stars at the Chelsea: Vidal Sassoon conditioner dripping from nightlights, the bed linens in a bathtub full of martini stemware, and once we left the Hilton with Nutella stains on the muslin curtains…
Anyway, the point is, we’ve always known it takes two to get the marriage in cruise control without any sudden breaks. Things started with both of us chipping in to help each other move forward, climb all those friggin’ ladders, and that’s how it continues today. I mean, thank God I was in the position to put him through grad school for an MBA and that my family could help us buy this house. But now, with Steven making a solid living and my real estate business starting to roll, our kids will never have to worry.
Maybe Laura suggested I write this because we don’t have kids…yet. But we will, soon. See, here’s what I was saying: Steven and I already know we want kids, we know we like living out here and Steven really does love the commute. And I don’t need NYC on a daily basis. All I need is an occasional tune-up: a Magnolia cupcake, a $780.00 stroll down Fifth Ave, and a museum or two. Anyway, my point is that once we get pregnant, it won’t feel like we were forced to do anything for the baby. It’ll be the baby adjusting to our lives, not the other way around. There won’t be any residual resentment going on whatsoever – something I hear really messes up couples a lot these days. It’s one thing to tell him he’s going to be a father. It’s whole different solar system when you tell him he’s going to be a father and you take him further away from work, Shea Stadium and the bars he and his friends have grown to love. Right now he's a great father - to his fantasy baseball team. Doting and loving and totally obsessed...
Well, I don’t know if I really explained why I started writing this but I have to say, I kind of like it. As you can tell, I’m not frustrated, as Laura suggested. And I know she didn’t really mean it that way. But there’s something nice about getting up and writing whatever the hell I want when I feel like it. And knowing that there’s someone out there reading it. Maybe it’s a bit vain but it’s an indulgence I think I can allow for. Right?
I don’t know what my so-called frustrations are. Things in life are great. I got my spot back in Pilates yesterday (the newbie was too chicken to show up!). My wine tasting club is taking a trip to Napa next year. Our Jack Russell, Whiskey, was just neutered, so he’s much less rambunctious (amazing what a couple less testes can do). Steven’s doing great. We’re great. See, Steven and I are totally on the same wavelength. Which is pretty amazing in a marriage. I mean, it’s like we just get it. Sex has gone from the left lane (speeding) to the middle lane (cruising). But at least it’s not the right lane (snail-paced Pinto). I remember when we used to leave hotel rooms in shambles, like rock stars at the Chelsea: Vidal Sassoon conditioner dripping from nightlights, the bed linens in a bathtub full of martini stemware, and once we left the Hilton with Nutella stains on the muslin curtains…
Anyway, the point is, we’ve always known it takes two to get the marriage in cruise control without any sudden breaks. Things started with both of us chipping in to help each other move forward, climb all those friggin’ ladders, and that’s how it continues today. I mean, thank God I was in the position to put him through grad school for an MBA and that my family could help us buy this house. But now, with Steven making a solid living and my real estate business starting to roll, our kids will never have to worry.
Maybe Laura suggested I write this because we don’t have kids…yet. But we will, soon. See, here’s what I was saying: Steven and I already know we want kids, we know we like living out here and Steven really does love the commute. And I don’t need NYC on a daily basis. All I need is an occasional tune-up: a Magnolia cupcake, a $780.00 stroll down Fifth Ave, and a museum or two. Anyway, my point is that once we get pregnant, it won’t feel like we were forced to do anything for the baby. It’ll be the baby adjusting to our lives, not the other way around. There won’t be any residual resentment going on whatsoever – something I hear really messes up couples a lot these days. It’s one thing to tell him he’s going to be a father. It’s whole different solar system when you tell him he’s going to be a father and you take him further away from work, Shea Stadium and the bars he and his friends have grown to love. Right now he's a great father - to his fantasy baseball team. Doting and loving and totally obsessed...
Well, I don’t know if I really explained why I started writing this but I have to say, I kind of like it. As you can tell, I’m not frustrated, as Laura suggested. And I know she didn’t really mean it that way. But there’s something nice about getting up and writing whatever the hell I want when I feel like it. And knowing that there’s someone out there reading it. Maybe it’s a bit vain but it’s an indulgence I think I can allow for. Right?
On the real estate trail, I showed one couple five houses this morning. Oh right – I’m a real estate agent and so far so good. It’s funny how shopping for a house can really bring couples together. Only, today, the couple got into a massive argument over their ceiling price, and I had to hide my embarrassed smile from them. She was screaming at him like a banshee. Like a banshee eunuch. Of course, I don't condone violence. I left them alone for a moment and they made up in the sun-room. But it’s not the first time it’s happened while I’ve been selling. And it’s times like these that I thank God that I have Steven.
But it’s a big decision buying a house, especially for new couples. While she’s thinking about where to put her grandfather’s antique ottoman, he’s thinking about where to put his dartboard. They're all moving out of the dirty city because it dawns on them that they don’t want their babies bushwhacking through the big concrete jungle where everyone’s running into walls. The wife is usually four months pregnant, and the husband is dreading the commute and biting the bullet. Meanwhile, he’s secretly fantasizing what his life might be like if they weren’t pregnant right now.
But business is good. Fierce at times, when good property comes up. If you think the real estate competition is hairy in New Jersey, you wouldn't believe New York City! I have a “colleague” who has literally connected with intensive ward units in hospitals – like, befriending these people and taking them out for drinks -- to find out who’s dying and if they own an apartment and where and who will get the place after the death! If the abode is up for grabs, she usually makes a killing (no pun intended)!
Anyway, I’m showing this couple a few more houses later this afternoon. They needed to take a lunch break and I suggested they take it alone. Hopefully, they’ll be on the same page when we meet. Sometimes, you can’t help but feel like a shrink with this job. But if they don’t buy, that’s okay too. One thing I’ve learned is: you win some, you lose some. And you can't take any of it too seriously. I think about the Wild Wild West. Where Europeans and Easterners were set free into Wyoming, Utah and Colorado, and all they had to do was take their little flag the government gave them and stick it in the undiscovered dirt and that was their land. No real estate people like me behind them, telling them the maintenance, square footage or price. No fighting over the ceiling price. Just a simple conversation about where to put the outhouse, where to park the wagon and what to kill for dinner.
But it’s a big decision buying a house, especially for new couples. While she’s thinking about where to put her grandfather’s antique ottoman, he’s thinking about where to put his dartboard. They're all moving out of the dirty city because it dawns on them that they don’t want their babies bushwhacking through the big concrete jungle where everyone’s running into walls. The wife is usually four months pregnant, and the husband is dreading the commute and biting the bullet. Meanwhile, he’s secretly fantasizing what his life might be like if they weren’t pregnant right now.
But business is good. Fierce at times, when good property comes up. If you think the real estate competition is hairy in New Jersey, you wouldn't believe New York City! I have a “colleague” who has literally connected with intensive ward units in hospitals – like, befriending these people and taking them out for drinks -- to find out who’s dying and if they own an apartment and where and who will get the place after the death! If the abode is up for grabs, she usually makes a killing (no pun intended)!
Anyway, I’m showing this couple a few more houses later this afternoon. They needed to take a lunch break and I suggested they take it alone. Hopefully, they’ll be on the same page when we meet. Sometimes, you can’t help but feel like a shrink with this job. But if they don’t buy, that’s okay too. One thing I’ve learned is: you win some, you lose some. And you can't take any of it too seriously. I think about the Wild Wild West. Where Europeans and Easterners were set free into Wyoming, Utah and Colorado, and all they had to do was take their little flag the government gave them and stick it in the undiscovered dirt and that was their land. No real estate people like me behind them, telling them the maintenance, square footage or price. No fighting over the ceiling price. Just a simple conversation about where to put the outhouse, where to park the wagon and what to kill for dinner.
Hi. Me again. I guess you know who’s writing this by now. I’m starting to sound like children’s programming on PBS. Sorry. I’ll just get right into it from now on.
Let’s see. Today. Thursday. Steven went to work on his usual 7:00 AM train to the city. Did I say what he does? He’s a financial consultant in a big firm. And he’s been putting so much on his shoulders these days, really climbing up the ladder. Thing is, he’s been climbing so many friggin’ ladders for the last few years, I don’t know which rung he’s on anymore. But I’ll tell you which one I’d like to see him on: the one on the back yard so that he can clean the gutters. But no, it’ll be me doing it because he’ll come home and I’ll just get worried he’s too stressed and over-exhausted. Even in Nantucket on vacation, he was making strategic financial recommendations in his sleep. He probably won’t be home before 11PM. It’s that crazy, his schedule.
I feel bad. Steven’s got real issues to worry about. Recently, the main thing I’ve been worried about is my spot in Pilates class. You see, I’m a regular. They all know and love me there. There is an unwritten rule in Pilates class: newbies stretch in the back. Everyone knows that. Whether it’s Pilates, yoga or aerobics. Everyone knows who sits where, who farts, who pukes and who’s humping the instructor. Anyway, I always sit in the front row, second person from the window. Perfect mirror view, just the right amount of direct sunlight.
Well, today, I got to class and there’s a newbie in my spot. I tapped her on her malnourished shoulder (yes, she pissed me off even more with her tiny wisp of a body) and she looked at me like I was insane. The newbie had the nerve to tell me I was late for class and shrugged me off. Yes, I admit I was late, but no, this Lindsay Lohan-wanna-be was not a regular. But it really irked me when I tried to tap her again, the teacher stopped mid-sit-up and pointed to the back. I mean, I’m a regular. In her class. But I forced myself to swallow all the evil I wanted to spew in her direction (and let me tell you, for a Pilates instructor, she doesn’t have the flattest abs I’ve ever seen) and graciously moved to the back – where I promptly found myself behind Pauline, who is not so “lean”…and let’s just say it’s difficult to see around her to see the instructor or the mirror. I don’t plan on that ever happening again!
Let’s see. Today. Thursday. Steven went to work on his usual 7:00 AM train to the city. Did I say what he does? He’s a financial consultant in a big firm. And he’s been putting so much on his shoulders these days, really climbing up the ladder. Thing is, he’s been climbing so many friggin’ ladders for the last few years, I don’t know which rung he’s on anymore. But I’ll tell you which one I’d like to see him on: the one on the back yard so that he can clean the gutters. But no, it’ll be me doing it because he’ll come home and I’ll just get worried he’s too stressed and over-exhausted. Even in Nantucket on vacation, he was making strategic financial recommendations in his sleep. He probably won’t be home before 11PM. It’s that crazy, his schedule.
I feel bad. Steven’s got real issues to worry about. Recently, the main thing I’ve been worried about is my spot in Pilates class. You see, I’m a regular. They all know and love me there. There is an unwritten rule in Pilates class: newbies stretch in the back. Everyone knows that. Whether it’s Pilates, yoga or aerobics. Everyone knows who sits where, who farts, who pukes and who’s humping the instructor. Anyway, I always sit in the front row, second person from the window. Perfect mirror view, just the right amount of direct sunlight.
Well, today, I got to class and there’s a newbie in my spot. I tapped her on her malnourished shoulder (yes, she pissed me off even more with her tiny wisp of a body) and she looked at me like I was insane. The newbie had the nerve to tell me I was late for class and shrugged me off. Yes, I admit I was late, but no, this Lindsay Lohan-wanna-be was not a regular. But it really irked me when I tried to tap her again, the teacher stopped mid-sit-up and pointed to the back. I mean, I’m a regular. In her class. But I forced myself to swallow all the evil I wanted to spew in her direction (and let me tell you, for a Pilates instructor, she doesn’t have the flattest abs I’ve ever seen) and graciously moved to the back – where I promptly found myself behind Pauline, who is not so “lean”…and let’s just say it’s difficult to see around her to see the instructor or the mirror. I don’t plan on that ever happening again!
Hi again. It’s me. Emily, that is. I wrote a note…I mean, blog (I am going to get the hang of this!) here just a few days ago. We just spent 4th of July weekend in Nantucket. It was great. We being me and my husband, Steven. A gorgeous, huge island in the shape of a fish. Sailboats, beaches, history, cobble-stoned streets (which go from charming to annoying when walking in high heels! When are those ACK people going to catch up with the 21st century and pave those damn roads?). We went out on a Jeep Wrangler to ride along the beaches. Steven does what he likes to call ‘donuts’ in the sand but the whiplash I got from them quickly disappeared when I tried swimming in the 40-degree water. My nipples became erasers. Can’t imagine what it did to Steve’s…er… twig and berries. I can only assume Steven’s spear shrunk like a burnt hair. He definitely can't afford that kind of shrinkage. He-he! Seriously, sans cold-water, Steven is a “healthy” man. Oh! I saw a seal swimming in the waves. It seemed so free, playing in the ocean. It was weird but it actually kinda pissed me off. Not really. Just a little… Anyway, we ate scallops, lobster rolls and chowder. Every day, and sometimes even for breakfast.
Steven and I always love to just eat, read, drink, screw and sleep when we go away. We click out of cyberworld usually but with Steven so crazed at work, he took his laptop in case he needed to plug in somewhere. And we had no cell phone reception where we were staying – what was life like before cell phones?!—so Steven had to drive into town a lot to call and make sure things were good at work. We had a friend’s house near the beach in Miacomet all to ourselves. Well, except for the kids’ toys littering the whole damn place. There was barely a spot of couch without some ketchup or milk stains. They’ve got three kids and she’s expecting a fourth. I just don’t get how she keeps popping those things outta her belly—which, I hate to admit, is flatter than mine when she’s not pregnant (Bitch! And, the worst part: she’s a total sweetheart!)! Oh, they’re Steven’s college buddies who we’ve stayed with before. It’s been harder to vacation with them with all their kids so it was a relief when they left us the house to go see some grandparents in California. We even brought Whiskey up. Whiskey, our Jake Russell terrier. He’s our baby right now (he’s almost a year!) and he’s plenty! Thank God he’s already out of his biting everything in site – particularly dirty underwear and anything hanging in the air (yup, that means when Steven’s walking around naked… ouch!) – stage.
But now we’re back at home in Jersey. And there’s so much to catch up on! That’s the problem with vacation – you think you’re not catching up on anything anymore and as soon as you get back, it’s mayhem. So I’m going back to catching up again before it all catches up with me!
Steven and I always love to just eat, read, drink, screw and sleep when we go away. We click out of cyberworld usually but with Steven so crazed at work, he took his laptop in case he needed to plug in somewhere. And we had no cell phone reception where we were staying – what was life like before cell phones?!—so Steven had to drive into town a lot to call and make sure things were good at work. We had a friend’s house near the beach in Miacomet all to ourselves. Well, except for the kids’ toys littering the whole damn place. There was barely a spot of couch without some ketchup or milk stains. They’ve got three kids and she’s expecting a fourth. I just don’t get how she keeps popping those things outta her belly—which, I hate to admit, is flatter than mine when she’s not pregnant (Bitch! And, the worst part: she’s a total sweetheart!)! Oh, they’re Steven’s college buddies who we’ve stayed with before. It’s been harder to vacation with them with all their kids so it was a relief when they left us the house to go see some grandparents in California. We even brought Whiskey up. Whiskey, our Jake Russell terrier. He’s our baby right now (he’s almost a year!) and he’s plenty! Thank God he’s already out of his biting everything in site – particularly dirty underwear and anything hanging in the air (yup, that means when Steven’s walking around naked… ouch!) – stage.
But now we’re back at home in Jersey. And there’s so much to catch up on! That’s the problem with vacation – you think you’re not catching up on anything anymore and as soon as you get back, it’s mayhem. So I’m going back to catching up again before it all catches up with me!
Hi. Maybe I should introduce myself. Maybe not. Well, okay. I’m Emily. I think I’ll keep my last name out of this. I’m 29. 29 plus a few. Really, I’m 35. But I pass for 30 all the time.
Wow, this feels like a blind date since I can’t see who I’m writing this too. Very surreal. Anyway, my point is, I never thought I’d do this. Blogging that is. I thought blogging was for computer geeks…someone with real passion for their point of view.
I am not really one of those people but I thought blogging would be fun.
I have a communications degree so as you will soon see I like to communicate a little too much. My biggest obsession right now is working out….I swore I would take off 5 pounds before the summer and it just hasn’t happened.
Anyway, I guess that’s a start. I think it was Woody Allen said that 90% is about showing up. Well, I showed up to my computer and I even typed! So there you go. I think that’s all for now. I’m off to Nantucket for the holiday weekend!!!!!!
Wow, this feels like a blind date since I can’t see who I’m writing this too. Very surreal. Anyway, my point is, I never thought I’d do this. Blogging that is. I thought blogging was for computer geeks…someone with real passion for their point of view.
I am not really one of those people but I thought blogging would be fun.
I have a communications degree so as you will soon see I like to communicate a little too much. My biggest obsession right now is working out….I swore I would take off 5 pounds before the summer and it just hasn’t happened.
Anyway, I guess that’s a start. I think it was Woody Allen said that 90% is about showing up. Well, I showed up to my computer and I even typed! So there you go. I think that’s all for now. I’m off to Nantucket for the holiday weekend!!!!!!
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