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I’ve been burned in this marriage. I don’t want to sound desperate but the next guy has to be on board with me on the kinds. I spoke to a friend of mine from NYC (who I know has a crush on me but he is too clingy so I’m not touching that), and he said that there are many guys who want the same thing – kids and family, etc. My husband said I’m going to find some guy who’s going to be my bitch. Oh dear. How right he is. Except he’ll be
My husband said I’m going to find some guy who’s going to be my bitch. Oh dear. How right he is. Except he’ll be a bitch making $100k a year and will want kids. That’s the difference. And I’m going to screw my new husband’s brains out and keep him VERY satisfied. I’m good at the sex part. Should have been a guy, I have so much libido. Especially since I got off the pill. The orgasms have been indescribably amazing. I want more of that shit.
One of my friends said there would never be babies in the world if guys didn’t get to enjoy the jerk-off, but on the other hand, women feel their duty to humanity and do it out of the bigger picture thinking. Yup, that’s the difference between men and women, in a nutshell.
And no, I’m not a gold digger, thank you very much. I can match my husband’s salary expectations with my own, and all I’m looking for is equitability.
My lawyer is an interesting woman - she is perfect.
My brother and I finally pulled out of the driveway in T just before 8am on Sunday. We had a long drive ahead of us; and the weather wasn’t boding well. Just the afternoon before, my brother arrived at the airport, and we had spent the few hours he was here loading my stuff into the 14 foot U-Haul truck I had rented on Saturday morning. The truck was too large for the contents; I didn’t have that much to take away. My husband was strangely helpful; he was the one who carefully packed all the paintings
My husband was strangely helpful; he was the one who carefully packed all the paintings and frames I was taking with me. He joked to my brother that he was going to miss the TV; and my brother later wondered aloud in the truck, that his thought was at the moment, well, are you going to miss your wife?
We stopped dead-on in the middle of the highway; a jackknife tractor trailer closed all four lanes. The roads were terrible – we passed by an endless stream of accidents: cars in ditches, cars resting in the median, facing
The roads were terrible – we passed by an endless stream of accidents: cars in ditches, cars resting in the median, facing the wrong way. An ambulance loading what seemed to be an unconscious woman – did I just witness her life change forever? I wondered.
Before the four-hour trailer ordeal, my brother and I grabbed a bite to eat at Tim Horton’s. I bought a medium double-double coffee, with 4 timbits and a toasted sesame bagel with cream cheese and tomatoes. We sat there, enjoying the break in what was a long drive to come.
Just before, I had filled up the U-Haul. It cost me over$100.
We were screaming all the way to the exit at Beamsville, moving along at snail’s pace, knowing this is costing us precious hours. Canada isn’t letting me leave, I thought. This is the last painful stretch. My brother, bored, rolled down the window and set about asking random cars next to us what was going on. Even though we knew full well, listening to the radio reports on 1010.
Once we passed the border, there was a small sign that
Once we passed the border, there was a small sign that said, for whatever reason, ‘Second Chance’. I didn’t even catch what it was trying to advertise. Maybe it was my life?
We stayed the night at the H Motel, stranded due to the snow. We had been on the road for 10 hours and were still nowhere close to Albany. I would have to take a day off from work, my brother would have to miss his math lesson. So much for making it on time. I should have left two weeks ago, I thought.
The female guard at the border was nice to me. I told her I was getting divorced, and that this was all my stuff in the back. She never opened the vehicle. ‘It’s tough’, she said, ’good luck’.
It wasn’t until we got home, and my mom greeted us at the door, and we had lunch, and my brother left, and mom helped me unpack (which only took about 20 minutes) and then returned to the office, that I stood there in her bedroom window, looking outside at the UHaul, and started to cry.
After a while, I composed myself and started doing some cleanup of the boxes. I have an anal way of organizing things; everything has to be just so. My matrimonial home was never quite organized to my satisfaction. It didn’t help that my husband is not naturally the neatest person in the world, although when I met him he was fairly organized. Once I took over the house, his habits and things fell into disarray that would drive me up the wall. He would keep financial statements on the floor of the study, the shoes outside of the closet,
He would keep financial statements on the floor of the study, the shoes outside of the closet, the heap of old newspapers on the kitchen table. We never fell into a natural rhythm of organization. I always felt I needed to pick up, cook, fold, clean, and fold again.
I was resentful for all this uncoordinated housework. To his credit, I know my husband often made dinners and cleaned the bathrooms. About a week before I left for good, it occurred to me that we should have had some sort of a schedule, a task list of sorts.
I should have let him and demanded that he help me. To his credit again, he was always good at – and followed through on – documented instructions. He would have made an excellent soldier. But the schedule never happened, and it was too late for that.
It made me wonder about how flexible I truly am in life. My dad said that I got my stubbornness from him, except I have an even worse case of it. I always liked to do things my own way, forge my own path, learn by myself. I never liked it when someone
I never liked it when someone told me what to do. And the thing is, that I was usually good at whatever I learned to do. I had natural intelligence for languages, writing, music, and the hard sciences all at the same time. Chalk it up to my slightly left-handed, balanced brain. When someone stubborn easily succeeds at most things, they tend to keep thinking more and more that whatever they do is always right. Although I am a flexible person, I’ve made that mistake in this relationship. I steamrolled my husband and whatever he tried to say.
This manifested itself especially in the kitchen. My husband was clearly the better cook, but when I had a recipe in my hand, all his suggestions or comments would go through a fire drill. I saw them as protestations and criticism, and he was at the end reduced to doing what I told him to do.
I now regret this behavior, although I believe that when I screamed at him in the kitchen, I screamed at him not about dinner, but about our relationship. They say that the kitchen is the heart of the home; and that it
They say that the kitchen is home's heart; and that it is just as sensual as the bedroom. Our kitchen was always a battleground, and one that, as I lost interest in the relationship, I also lost interest in. I always felt better after I cleaned it, but I took to eating my dinners at the computer or the TV, because I was often bored and unsatisfied with our life, and wasn’t particularly interested to hear about my husband’s day. There was always a sale at the Home Depot, another something to fill the house with, except children.
The first days in my parents’ house have become easier, although dealing with my mom now has its own emotional challenges. Over the weekend we were at the mall, and she gave me a $10 gift certificate to Victoria’s Secret that she had and didn’t want to use, and then looked over my shoulder as I paid for the balance of the purchase with a credit card. ‘Why credit card?’ she said, ‘it’s so small. Just pay in cash.’ I gave her the look of death. At night, I sometimes go to my mom's bed - and although
At night, I sometimes go to my mom’s bed – and although I’m now 33 years old – I hug her tightly. Her body is so tiny and fragile, and I shudder to think that she is getting older. What am I ever going to do without her? I know that one day this, too, will come. Meanwhile, she sits home alone watching TV and then retires to her bed, long before my dad returns home. I am helpless, embittered at my father, while I sit mired in the mess that my own boxes are now making in the house.
We received the religious divorce. I had gotten the number of the rabbi from my mother’s friend, whose daughter had gotten divorced a few years earlier. That was a much messier divorce; over a lunch, my mom’s friend told me of all the troubles, and how he stole their money to go gambling, and how she was left taking care of the baby alone. You are in a much better spot, she said. No kids, no debt, no nothing. Like a new girl.
I called up the rabbi. He had a drawn-out, slow, thoughtful speech
He had a drawn-out, slow, thoughtful speech pattern, I guess what you would expect from a rabbi. I had originally scheduled an early March date, but decided to postpone it until I moved out of the house. The religious law required that we no longer live together.
About a month after I had cancelled the original date, I had a new one scheduled. I booked it with the rabbi while driving on route 9 in the morning, on the way to work. They hold court twice a week – Mondays and Thursdays; unfortunately, there is a lot of
They hold court twice a week – Mondays and Thursdays; unfortunately, there is a lot of demand for it, the rabbi said. We showed up at 9:15am at the synagogue on a rainy day, as the rabbi opened the door.
He was an old bent man, with a long white beard, with a little dread in it. We had our marriage contract with us, and he looked at it and remarked, ‘maybe we can reconcile you two today.’ H and I exchanged glances. It was very painful to hear that misplaced sentence after all this time, after everything.
We entered the building into a small library with wall to wall book shelves filled with religious books all the way to the ceiling. The rabbi sat down at one side of the table, and asked us to sit on the other side. We sat down. He asked for our IDs and for our marriage certificate, and started writing down our names and details. Another rabbi soon joined him and then another one after that. All three of them were sitting writing down our details, asking us for our parents’ names, where we lived, our birth dates, and other details.
Two witnesses also showed up to sign for the divorce. My eyes filled with tears and I got up and left the room, and went into the women’s washroom. The washroom smelled very strongly of cleaning materials – seems that the cleaning lady had just cleaned. I composed myself and went back out.
When I returned, one of the rabbis asked in a gentle voice why we were getting divorced.
I - ‘Because of no children.’
Rabbi - ‘I don’t mean to ask out of curiosity, but to verify that there is
Rabbi - ‘I don’t mean to ask out of curiosity, but to verify that there is no opportunity for reconciliation. Was there a medical problem?’
I – ‘Yes.’
Rabbi – ‘Was it hopeless?’
I – ‘No, but my husband did not want to proceed.’
Rabbi – ‘Is this the only reason?’
I – ‘No.’
Rabbi – ‘What else?’
I – ‘My husband moved from job to job and I did not feel that he provided for a household.’
Silence. Then, from the rabbi, a weak ‘ok’.
It seems the rabbis now knew there was no opportunity for reconciliation.
As I imagine myself looking into my husband’s face that moment, I feel that I had betrayed him – betrayed my relationship and betrayed my promise. I had promised to be with him, and I did not fulfill that promise. I feel like I am abandoning a child, something important in my life, a man who is helpless and no good and yet has warmed my bed and my heart and who I still love. Shame and guilt fill me up, and I am so worried – worried
Shame and guilt fill me, and I am so worried – worried for his welfare – worried about what I had done to him. He said to me, that he agrees with that comedian, that men may punch you and you may take it and get hurt and then get over it, but women – they shit inside your heart. They mess you up mentally. He also said that he is not looking to date or get married, and that he probably wouldn’t have gotten married if it wasn’t for me. He told me, ‘I feel so bad. I didn’t
He told me, ‘I feel so bad. I didn’t give you the most basic things – a family, a sense of security. I feel stunted.’
,br> When I flew back, I started crying in the taxi cab, crying for my home, for all these dreams that I lost. The tears just came in the taxi, and they came and came, and through the tears I told the driver to take the North road, and take a right at the end, and go through all the stop signs and pass the rotunda and stop at #45.
I got home to my husband, and I burst out crying, and I told him how hard it was on me to go back to Toronto like this. And we sat down for a long time and talked, and we had a certain understanding that came out of that, even though it was the same things we had already talked about. He did not want to hold my hand but at the end he did, and I knew it was a dangerous thing.
The night before our religious divorce, we made love, and my husband said, ‘do you
The night before our religious divorce, we made love, and my husband said, ‘do you realize what we’re doing right now and how wrong it is,’ and I said, ‘yes.’
After about an hour of waiting, the rabbis came back with a hand-written scroll which they tightly folded and had us sign. Then the rabbi made sure I had no rings, and had me hold out my hand, and told my husband to drop the scroll into my receiving open palms. The paper dropped slowly, lightly, like the whitest and gentlest of feathers. I was almost
. I was almost afraid to hold it because it was, in its own way, a holy document, a grave thing, just like our original commitment. I was then instructed to hold it under my arm, walk to the door and back, which I did.
That was it. It was over. We were done. The rabbi asked for $650, which I took out of my wallet in cash, parsed out in $20 bills. I counted it and had my now ex-husband recount it, and the rabbi recounted it too. And as the rabbi recounted it, I looked at
And as the rabbi recounted it, I looked at him and remembered a painting I had seen at the Krakow market last year, of a rabbi counting money.
The rabbi gave me a certificate and told us we should not be in the same household, as it may invalidate our divorce. I was now, after 92 days, free to remarry. It’s hard for me to believe that #45 is no longer my home; that I am unlikely to set foot in there; that the lovely back yard, where I celebrated my graduation from grad school and all
It’s hard for me to believe that #45 is no longer my home; that I am unlikely to set foot in there; that the lovely back yard, where I celebrated my graduation from grad school and all these BBQs, and the vegetable garden we worked on – which I once dreamed of teaching my children about – will no longer be something that I will ever see again. There is so much pain in that, a new pain that I had not experienced, a personal tragedy that pops out during the most unexpected times and stops me in my tracks. I don’t know how people go through this. My lawyer tells me mine is one of the easy cases, and I am thankful for that, but I wonder if there is anything like an easy case.
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