I received this message on my cell phone at 9:02 p.m. tonight :
Hi Flo, this is Crazy Joe’s girlfriend. I just wanted to give you a call — Crazy Joe asked me to call you just to let you know he’s going to be in the hospital for a couple of days. He needs some fluids, he’s been a little dehydrated.
Hearing that message made my heart sink. I knew he was sick — it just started when I saw him Friday afternoon — but I had no idea it was serious until his girlfriend called.
Joe was my boyfriend for five and a half years back in the early 90’s. Though we broke up ten years ago, we remained close. We talked every couple of weeks, and met for lunch whenever I was in Riverside, California, where he lives.
When he needs something big or small, I’m always there. He has done the same for me. In fact, since my separation from my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, Joe has been more than loyal, helpful and kind. I can’t imagine getting through this experience without his help. (My parents, my brother, my best bud, Jean Luc, my good friend, Spamelot are amazing, too. But none of them are in the hospital, so let’s get back to Joe!)
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before his slow, grumbly voice asked, “Hello?”
Turns out what he thought was the beginnings of the flu was actually pheumonia. Add in his two jobs, very little sleep and his diabetic condition and it’s immediately clear why his kidney began to fail. He was lucky to get help when he did.
After our brief chat this evening, I phoned his girlfriend to convey my thanks for the phone call. She said that every time he talks to me on the phone, he laughs and laughs, so she thought it would be good for him to speak with me this evening….Isn’t that thoughtful and kind? I think I might actually like this woman!
Kinda scary,
Flo
October 31st, 2006
A few months ago, during one of those lovely Director’s Series Q&A sessions that AFI hosts at the ArcLight Cinema, in Hollywood, California, an AFI staff member encouraged the audience to volunteer for this year’s AFI Festival.
Ohhhh, I thought. I missed out on all the action of 2005’s Festival, unless you count the one film I saw; an interesting German film that I want to call The Wedding Day, but am just too lazy to look it up online. Yeah, that’s how much I care about it.
As the AFI lady walked away, I decided to volunteer, and hopefully join the fun. I registered online for the gig in early October and began my first shift last Saturday.
I explained the ticket voucher for work deal to my best bud, Jean Luc; every four hours of volunteer work equals one movie ticket to any film except for the Premiers and Tributes and a few other screenings only available to the wealthy and connected. Read: not me.
“Aren’t tickets there ten dollars? So that means you’re working for $2 an hours?”
“Dude!” I sqealed, “That’s more than I’m earning right now!”
I was laid off in mid-September from my part-time gig working for Mr. B. My position wasn’t that of a regular employee, but of an independent contractor, ineligible for unemployment benefits. For the last six weeks, I’ve been living off my divorce settlement, given to me early by my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott. Whenever I asked for it, he has given me small chunks of those monies over the last two years. Until this layoff, I still had a nice amount of it still ahead of me, and with it few plans of places to go, people to see — once in a lifetime kind of stuff. (Once in MY lifetime, anyway!) Not anymore. Thanks to taxes and my monthly expenses, it will all be gone by January…If I’m not working by then, things will get really difficult.
The first several days of this unemployment situation was actually a relief. It wasn’t until I stopped going to work that I realized how badly I needed a break. The week after that, I panicked. The third week was visited by an arthritis flare-up; the fourth week (maybe the fifth?), I had panick attacks just thinking about the interview process. Constant freak outs discouraged my job search, though I did go through the motions of visiting job centers looking for work I knew I wouldn’t pursue. Finally, my psychiatrist (God, I hate writing that I have one almost as much as I hate that I need one) diagnosed me with Social Anxiety Disorder.
After that, I goofed off, then became sick, then wasn’t, then was again. I don’t remember the particulars anymore as it has all blended together. The important point is that I haven’t worked since September 14, but really need to pick it up again.
Last week, I renewed my job search, scanned job sites online, revised my resume, and braced myself for the next round of interviews. This time, I might finally get a job.
About ten minutes into my first day of volunteer work, I thought, “Awww, man, I wish I applied for this job last week!” (Some of the Production Assistants were hired the previous week.) “I can totally do this!”
I did the same work as the paid PAs. I crawled under tables, put down audio and ethernet cables, made ethernet cables (sooooooooooo tee-dee-us), assembled and moved plasma screen stands all by myself and more — until the Production Director saw me happily cutting down cardboard boxes in the hot sun and escorted me away from it into the cool production office as he said, “We don’t want our volunteers doing that. That’s what the PA is getting paid for!” — and fit in with the Production staff members just as well as the PAs. So there’s no reason I can’t get a job, especially that job, too. A PA gig, a Coordinator position or any number of jobs will do for now. I can do this, easy peasy!
As if my boosted confidence, the movie passes to unreleased films from around the world, and the volunteer schedule that will allow me to meet the filmakers, get me into their private parties and the closing night gala (Chow Yun Fat, anyone?) weren’t enough, there is one more perk: I’m also getting the PA Workout!
If Bally’s Fitness Clubs or Crush hasn’t already incorporated it into their programs, they really ought to as it would be a huge hit. I don’t think I’ve done this much squatting, crawling, bending, pulling, or pushing since I was in Kindergarten. Because I’m not nearly as flexible as I was at five years old, I am sore! So sore that every muscle from my waist to my knees aches. Every time I sit down, I wince! Having said that, I have to confess that I love it! It’s giving me a kick-ass workout that I’m not getting from my weight training or aerobics classes. If I can maintain this new level of activity for a few more weeks, I’ll be so much stronger. Woo-hoo!
Will work for movie tickets, parties and buns of steel — so Hollywood!
Flo
October 30th, 2006
“…How about an update on your trip? Hope you’re staying up late and doing things that’d get you divorced if you were still married.”
Oh, that Jean Luc is so supportive and hopeful. I, too, was hopeful about getting a little action. By action, I mean anything beyond minor flirtation, that includes prolonged conversations about useless bullshit topics, repeated visits, more than one sentence basically. If any of that includes checking me out — in a good way, not because I stink of sweat and/or look like a homeless person, not hot by the way! — that would be icing on the tiny cake of even tinier expections!
I set my sights very low, dared not hope for anything wild and crazy like someone’s hand on my shoulder or my lower back, a whisper in the ear. No point in seeking or expecting any of that since I was traveling with four other women in my family. Nothing like traveling with one’s mother, grandmother, great-aunt and (regular) aunt to catch someone’s eye.
The week started strong with all the flirtations of Tuesday evening (See my Hello, boys! post for a recap). None of it was taken the least bit seriously by me, so I didn’t have a chance to overthink things, get nervous and freak out. Wednesday morning was spent swimming with two women. Okay, I they were a mother dolphin and her daughter dolphin — thankfully, it was not the least bit hot because that would just be sick! — but I took it as a good sign. If I could hug the dolphins (there’s a photo just waiting to be scanned and posted one day soon) that could be a warm-up for something a little more interesting (read: much more human…Yes, I am a silly person.)
Upon returning to our boat, I was told that my grandmother had a nasty fall a few blocks away from the pier. She, my aunt Genevieve, and my Mother spent the morning in the infirmary having a nurse check Grandma for any serious damage. There was none, thank goodness, except for her bruised ego. After lunch with my (regular) Aunt Teak, and her two friends also traveling with us, the time was after two p.m., much too late to venture out alone. {No, I don’t really think so either, but my mom does. Never mind that I’ve traveled alone in Spanish speaking countries before — Baja California for two days, Costa Rica for a week — because she wasn’t there to witness it, or stop me!} It occured to me to go anyway, then deal with the fall-out once I retuned, but my rebellious teen years ended more than fifteen years ago. I chose to stay on board like the good daughter I am.
After that, there was nothing interesting to report until Friday night, another Formal Night (aka All-Ages Prom) in the dining rooms. Those evenings have extra activities designed to keep everyone up late and in a festive mood. Add in a little dress-up and it gets kinda fun.
I easily met my flirtation quota just walking into the room. More lingering glances, some stopped conversations, looking me up and down — all are things that rarely happen to me. By the end of dinner, I also earned some extra credit cute guy points when the hot Swedish maitr’de stopped to talk to me and my Aunt Genevieve. He stopped because he heard us singing (low), but stayed for the chit-chat. He urged us to attend the 11:45 pm buffet for the magnificent ice sculptures and some fancy hor d’ourves. That invitation was extended to everyone, of course, but probably without the five minutes of lingering conversation and the occasional glance at cleavage (mine, not Aunt Genevieve!), and the rest of me (again, not Aunt Genevieve…as far as I noticed!). Call me crazy, but I knew that if I went, I would probably spend more time with him and, honestly, that scared me!
Okay, brace yourself, because this is the part where you’ll write me annoyed letters and ask me to have myself checked for a concussion, just as Grandma was…but I didn’t go. (Shocking, isn’t it?) I know, I know, but I just couldn’t stay up. I was about to write how I really tried, but that wouldn’t be completely truthful. I partly tried.
I had three and a half hours to kill, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I could have read my book downstairs, but I wasn’t about to wrinkle my nice dress. I also wasn’t about to take the chance of having cute men see me dressed up, then dressed down, then back up again in the short span of three and a half hours. So, I laid down on my bed, in the dark, because my Mom (also my roomate) was already asleep in bed, and waited for the time to pass. I held out until a little after ten p.m. (I think), before giving in to sleep.
Whatever the explanation, I didn’t go. I hate to admit that I was both relieved of the self-consciousness and pressure I’d place on myself, but also disappointed that I gave in yet again to my fears. Yep, I was a total chickensh*t and I don’t like it. I really want this to stop, but have a hard time not giving into it. This has got to change.
Tonight’s dining room dress code returned to informal, so I was back in jeans. As we left the dining room, we all waved goodbye to the two maitre’ds, who responded with kindness and pleasant smiles. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the Swede watched me walk away. So, dressed up or not, at least there’s the knowledge that I can have so much more than flirtation when I’m good and ready.
The real question is when will I be ready?
I want a do-over,
Flo
October 21st, 2006
I write you this evening from the deck of my stateroom on the Carnival Pride.
Some time last year, I took my first trip to Catalina Island. It’s twenty-six miles across the sea (ocean, actually, but that doesn’t work as well in the song). I spent the sunny, breezy day shopping, and dining pier side with my Mom, my Grandma, Aunt Genevieve, and my Aunt Teak (that’s not my joke, but I like it!). On the boat ride home, someone suggested how much fun it would be to do this again, but on a bigger boat, like say a cruise ship. Oh, yes, that would be great, so much fun. Uh, okay, I thought, before forgetting all about it.
Several months later, my Mom phoned to say she and the other Catalina Ladies (my term) decided to book a seven day cruise down to Mexico and I was invitied. She knew money was a little tight for me (ever since leaving my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, then being ripped off for thousands of dollars in freelance work from weasely “employers”), so she offered to pay for my entire trip. If it made me feel better, she suggested, I could always return the favor by sending her someplace nice when I’m back on my feet.
So here I am on my balcony, typing away on my laptop, occassionally looking into the inky, starless sky, on a warm humid night.
It was just like this last night, too. As dozens of people, most decked out in their formal wear — Formal Night was the dinner theme; imagine young and old alike attending prom — spilled out onto the deck, many exclaimed, “Whoa!” or “My God, look at how dark that is!” One respectable teenage boy, he of short spikey hair and a nice black suit, tried to make small talk with the completely unpredictable, “Look at that sky!” I turned to the sweet sixteen — heck seventeen max — year old with the same smile and enthusiasm I wore all evening, “Yes, can you believe it? The stars are barely out!” As I checked for stars, I’m certain he checked out my ass.
Before I go on, I have to tell you that last night, I looked good. If you ask around, you’ll find that that is not the norm. While I’m not ugly, I don’t work very hard at being cute. My daily routine rejects convention grooming wisedom as I only cover the basics: foundation, lip gloss and (mostly) clean clothes.* I should probably mention that does not include the daily brushing of my hair. No, I’m not kidding. When I do brush my hair, apply make-up, throw on a cute black dress and high heel shoes that bring me to a whopping 6′ 1″ height, I look okay. Or as every person I’ve ever known as said at least once, “You clean up good!”
Yes, I do.
Teenage boys, old men, married men, and one tall, hunky, fair haired/skinned Scandanavian crew member all looked, smirked, then tried to chat me up. I usually get a big kick out of that stuff because I know they’d never recognize me without the heels, and make-up. Somehow the “outfit” makes me girly, approachable and, last night anyway, a head turner…Hey, I don’t get it either, but that’s what happened.
Standing at the railing later that evening, I thought about my first cruise, almost three years ago with my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott. This is the part of my blog where I become nostalgic for the good times we spent together but resigned to this fate as a separated woman, soon to be divorced. That’s not going to happen today. Last night, I found I could remember our fun trip without attaching much sentiment to it. It happened, it’s over, and now I’ll move onto another adventure, possibly with someone else. I’m hopeful. And more than overdue.
We dock in Puerto Vallarta tomorrow. I have a dolphin (swim) and a frog (Senor Frog) in my immediate future. We’ll see if they direct me to a real live boy!
Hasta luego!
Flo
*And that last one is only half the time. I can’t eat indoors at Fatburger anymore after that time I went in there completely unwashed after an hour long workout, followed by a brisk half-mile walk in the scorching sun. People seemed to think I was a homeless person because I smelled like one.
October 18th, 2006
Several people I know think I’m nuts. They say I’ve let my separation from my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, go on for way too long. They remind me that I left him two years ago, then urge me to finally get over my heartache and move on. (As if there’s a time limit on heartache. Okay, maybe there is, but I wouldn’t know it since this is my first divorce! By the way, only one person offered his personal – as in hand-on — assistance in getting me over this. Isn’t that nice?)
The one sure way to do that, according to them, is to drop this little blog once and for all. ‘It’s bad for you in the long run, Flo.’ Of course, I think, ‘Why the f*ck would I drop my one outlet for expression? How could that ever be a bad thing?’ They say it keeps my focus on the negatives of this situation, prolonging my pain, and preventing any personal growth – all bad things…Hmmm, I hear what you’re saying, people, but I respectfully disagree.
Writing my little posts has given me the voice I never had in my personal communications. It was always clear to me that no one wanted details on how my marriage was going to hell. When I spoke about it in the most general terms, most people reacted one of three ways: 1) discomfort, 2) boredom, 3) disbelief. (It wasn’t uncommon to hear, “Why would you ever leave a good man like Endicott?†Because he wasn’t good for me — duh!) Now that I have IXH.com online, I can share my stories without dumping them on anyone else. Readers seek out my stories on my site whenever they want.
Some people either don’t get the pain of divorce or were way more successful at getting over it than I am! Either way, they say IXH has got to go.
So imagine how surprised I was to get positive feedback from honest to goodness readers. Total strangers really, who related to my blog and asked me to keep it online. Some have been here for over a year, others just stumbled onto the site and liked what they read. The one that got to me actually wrote that reading my stories was like holding up a mirror to her own life…Oh. My. Gawd.
I can’t tell you how much I want to forward these emails to unsupportive people as proof that this site does really help, more than just me. But I won’t do that because what they think doesn’t really matter.
This site, my scribbles and my feelings are MINE. I (me, myself and I – not you) will deal with them in my own time, and in my own way. So, to the naysayers, I say thank you for your well-meaning comments, but don’t be surprised if I ignore your advice. I’ll drop my site when I’m good and ready, not one minute before then…But I’ll definitely entertain that offer of hands-on assistance.
I’m not going anywhere,
Flo
PS I’m really bad about answering emails, so I can’t really say when I’ll finally write anyone back. Please know that I do appreciate – no, love! – your emails and look forward to receiving more in the future.
October 16th, 2006
I took a little time away from this site for the last month. Truthfully, I took a lot of time away from everything on-and-offline while I was sick (again). When I finally logged back in last night, I was greeted with 40-something comments, all from spammers. Most of them were short and sweet, such as “great site!” “good job!” and “nice work!” immediately followed with links to online casinos, low cost insurance sites and lots, and lots of viagra. Some skipped the compliments altogether and just had links to God knows what. I didn’t dare click on them! I don’t want to know where they go!
These bogus comments always come in spurts. Someone posts a half dozen of them in one sitting, several days go by, then another internet marketing creep does the same thing.
I should probably take it as a compliment that anyone is actually paying attention to my little site when I all but abandonned it, delete the comments and move on. I thought about posting the “great job!” bits without the links just to annoy the spammers, but really, that’s just petty and dumb. Instead, I’ll just throw up a little post pointing out how I’ll NEVER advertise for anyone’s online casino/insurance/erection/porn sites/cheeseball internet “businesses,” so now it’s clear that the spammers can enjoy my “great site” without any hope of making money off of me.
Now go away before I taunt you a second time,
Flo
September 6th, 2006
I got this in an email a few days ago…I think it was a small, but quite accurate, dig at me:
“Brewing off the coast of Africa, TS #6 is deciding whether or not it
wants to become Hurricane Florence. How ironic it’s now just a
depression while it waits to see what it wants to do with it’s life. Stay
depressed or become an angry storm and charge into the world.”
Like the fabulously named Tropical Storm Florence, I, too, am on the verge of choosing my path, and finally finding my way. Unlike TS Flo, I probably won’t cause any (okay, much) property damage or injuries — unless we’re talking about my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott.
After nearly two years of separation, he is still chasing after me/pleading for my return to him/(when that doesn’t work) blaming me for his emotional instablity (which was there long before I ever met him) because I left him after several years of his daily freak-outs/irrational jealousy/never-ending lies and guilt trips.
It starts as, “I’ve changed Flo. Everything will be different, if you come back to me.” When that doesn’t work — specifically, when I run out of his overcrowded, (cat) urine soaked home, completely creeped out that he doesn’t understand that it is not okay to live that way — he immediately changes his tune. Suddenly he cries, “You broke me…You left me when I needed you most…I couldn’t do anything for two years after you left me.”
Somehow, the four years he tortured me with his daily idiotic bullsh*t don’t seem to matter to him. Until he accepts that it matters to me, and that I refuse to be a martyr to his selfish needs, he will continue his futile pursuit. When he gets hurt, it will be his own damn fault.
Get out of my way, Endicott.
Not quite so depressed,
Flo
September 5th, 2006
Unless you count the last two weeks of suffocating heat and humidity, the weather in Los Angeles, CA, has been fan-friggin-tastic!
It was so nice one evening, on the drive home from work, that I pulled off of Mullholland Drive, then turned down to Franklin Canyon Park. It’s a tree lined park in the canyons, complete with hiking trails leading into the rolling hills that draw everyone to Mullholland, a lake and lots of happy duckies. I know they were happy because they didn’t swim away from me, but said hi (okay, honked), then returned to their duck games. (No, I’m not high — it really happened!)
I walked three-quarters of the lake before I came across a trail leading into the hills. I’m not sure of it’s name, but look for the red steps over the concrete divider on the left of the road. Head cross the street, then up the hill, keep going up for about twenty minutes, then try not to die! It’s a strenous hike. It has everything you’d expect: buzzing bees, a steep, sometimes crumbling path and (according to park signs) the occasional rattlesnake (I didn’t see one, thank you, Jeebus!). When I reached the top, I was rewarded with a phenomenal view that only the neighboring ba-jillionaire homeowners, the hawks and I shared. I hope you get to see it, too.
After that, I was hooked. I found myself looking for reasons to get outdoors. If I wanted to rent a movie from Blockbuster, I walked the long block over there. Same with Starbucks, but I chose the one three blocks away and practically speed-walked to the Galleria. I borrowed a bike from my best bud, Jean Luc, one Sunday, then drove down to Zuma Beach. Though it doesn’t have a bike path, it is Malibu, so it was safe and clean and super duper cool. I biked the length of the parking lot, before walking bow-legged down to the beach, and collapsed onto the sand.
I’ve been active every couple of days — sometimes twice a day — since then. I actually get ansy if I go three days without working out. That’s why I climbed that steep set of stairs off of Beechwood Drive a few days ago. I think Rocky Balboa had it easy compared to my climb!
With all of this activity, you’d think I’d be diligent about eating well, keeping all the yucky toxic junk out of my system. Yeah, that makes total sense, but you’d still be wrong! It’s not unusual for me to order the Big, Fat-Dripping Breakfast burrito (but hold the mayo, cuz that’s just gross!) from Del Taco, a half pound cheeseburger from Fudruckers for lunch, then end the evening with something equally fatty, covered in cheese then deep-fried. Yeah, I’m disgusting.
So imagine my surprise when I stepped on the scale and found myself ten pounds lighter. At 5′ 10″ — okay, 5′ 9 and 3/4,” but who’s really counting? — and 156 pounds, I’m still a big girl…but a big gal who is back to the weight she was when she, sorry, I, met my soon-to-be-ex husband, Endicott. Even overweight, at the tender age of 25, I was curvy, and kinda cute (I’ve seen the photos — it’s true!)…Now that I’m back at my fighting weight, it makes me wonder how I carry this at the not so ripe age of 35.
So, of course, I phoned my best bud, Jean Luc, for support. Guess how that worked out!
“Dude,” I squealed, “I’m 156 pounds! I lost ten pounds!”
“Cool. Let me know when you’re 125 pounds!” He laughed at his own joke.
Oh yeah, no one will notice when I lose a quarter of my body weight! “Oh, something tells me you’ll know. I may not return your calls or emails, but you’ll see me on the evening news. ‘Flo gets a new beau. News at 11!’ ” Then I laughed at my own joke, before adding, “Paris who?!”
Yeah, I’m a dork, but I’m a lighter, slightly healther dork, who feels a little more confident in my bright orange one piece Speedo. And that feels awesome!
It was also pretty cool when Jean Luc added, “Congratulations! That’s awesome! Good job!” Honestly, who couldn’t use some of those well wishes every day of their life?
See you later!…at the beach, the park, the moonlight hike…
Flo
July 26th, 2006
Three weeks ago, I was standing in the kitchen with my boss, Mr. B., his girlfriend, Jane, and her friend of a dozen years, Dora.
Dora was their houseguest that week. She was at the beginnings of a nasty break-up and needed a place to crash for a few days. (Who hasn’t been there?)
I remember meeting her and her boyfriend many months earlier, thinking what a striking couple they were. Were being the key word now.
Mr. B’s girlfriend/my friend, Jane, suggested that Dora talk to me about the little blog I keep titled www.idiotexhusband.com. I was about to mention I also registered the domain name www.idiotexboyfriend.com when Mr. B looked up from the salmon he was burning in the broiler, “Flo, you need to give up that website.”
Though my boss was a lawyer from Brooklyn turned music manager (think American music legends, people) and never shied away from sharing his feelings, that statement shocked me. I looked around the room to see if anyone else heard it, too.
“First of all, you’ve got better things to do with your time…”
I interrupted him, “Uh, no I don’t. Not really!” That got a big laugh from Jane.
“Oh, sure you do,” he said. “Second, it’s a rotten thing to do to your husband after he helped you.” He pointed his spatula at me, “He paid your medical bills when you were sick.”
I stopped giggling to agree with him. “Yes, he did. That was very kind of him. He didn’t have to do that.”
He turned back to the broiler, “What you’re doing to him is wrong.”
“In fairness, I’m not as pissed at him as I used to be. I had some major ammunition from a recent fight we had last month and I didn’t even use it!” That got a bigger laugh from everyone but Mr. B.
While I know he’s right — and have struggled with this very subject for months now — I’m not fully ready to give up this blog. This is my one outlet for self-expression (too bad the url justexpressingmyself.com is already take!). Right now, I need this site.
Instead of dropping IXH altogether, it might be better to refocus my goals. I’m thinking less angry stories about my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, and more stories documenting my journey through divorce (which was one of my original goals for IXH when I started it fourteen months ago). If you act now, I’ll pepper in the occassional bits of sex, drugs, and rock and roll…Uh, no I won’t. It seemed like a cool thing to write ’til I remembered we’re talking about me, not Mr. B…but if you end up at his house in the Hills at some late night party, I bet he’d be more than happy to share them with you.
If you have any suggestions for new features, feel free to click on the contact tab at the top of the screen and let me know. While I still haven’t gotten back to several readers who left comments last month, I will definitely address them, and anyone else who writes me, in the next couple of days.
Adios,
Flo
July 5th, 2006
Though yesterday’s post read like all my previous, “Now do you see how my soon to be ex-husband is a jackass?” stories, it was meant to be more than that. It was unclear because I mistakenly left out a couple of facts that I’d like to include here.
The last several times we spoke, even when he asked me to return to our oh-so-happy union, I didn’t yell at Endicott. I didn’t react with instant anger as I did prior to mid-June 2006. I treated him with kindness, and respect while I firmly stood my ground. In short, I treated him the way I would like to be treated…I know! I wouldn’t believe me either!
I’m not sure how to explain this without blowing the little bit of discretion I own, but here goes:
In the last two months, I’ve befriended several divorced men. (No, that’s not a euphemism for anything naughty or sensational…as far as you know!) While I didn’t get the particulars of their stories, their halves of the inevitable he-said, she-said bits every divorced person is ready to recite at a moment’s notice (I knew better than to ask!), I saw the results of their failed relationships. With few exceptions they are wounded men, hurt to their very cores. It occured to me that we divorced persons (men and women) all share the same traumatic experience. We are all heartbroken and beat-up, occassionally nostalgic, and always hopeful that love and trust can be ours again.
I haven’t had much practice with that last bit (love and trust) since leaving my husband many moons ago. If anything, I’m flirting with the feelings like and trust. I’m slowly becoming reacquainted with the unexpected, but not unwelcome, sensations known as friendship and fun. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I know Endicott didn’t purposely hurt me. He did his best to be a good man and a good husband to me. It didn’t work, of course!, but I know he tried. Just as I wasn’t as kind to him as I could have been…but I’m working on it. I’ll let you know how that goes, too.
So, yes, I’m trying to forgive him…but I’ll never go back to him.
Though it’ll probably be awhile before I stop feeling bad about our broken marriage, I have it on very good authority that I will get through this. Ideally, I’d like to do more than survive. I want to thrive! I want to be one of those rare persons that actually drops all of her baggage, never to revisit it again. I’m not sure how I — one of the world’s angrier women — could possibly do that, but I sure as heck want to try! I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in quite some time. I think I’m finally ready to do it instead of just talking about doing it.
Last month, I didn’t yell at him. I felt sorrow and regret that 1) we can never go back to the happy place we shared for the first half of our relationship; and 2) he could not let me go, just as I could not release my bitterness.
What is it that all the twelve step followers say, realizing you have a problem is the first step to recovery? I recognize I have a problem. I desperately want to fix it…I’m making an appointment with someone tomorrow.
I have so much work to do…
Adios,
Flo
July 4th, 2006
The following exchange took place mid-June 2006 (and pretty much every month since our separation began in December 2004):
“Are you happy, Flo?”
“Am I happy? What do you mean?” I know exactly what he meant, but continued on as if I didn’t. “Financially, spiritually, emotionally? Specify.”
Endicott answered quietly, his voice broke, “Yeah, all of that. Are you happy?”
That’s how it started. He asked if I’m happy, reminded me we were happy together (so long ago), then promised we will be happy again, better than ever, if I return to him.
He has changed, you know. That’s what he said anyway. That’s what he always said.
My usual reaction was instant anger. “Are you f*cking kidding me? I’ll never go back to you. I’d rather be homeless than ever live with you again!”…Yeah, that was harsh (and almost true on several occasions).
After sixteen months of separation, sixteen months of my saying, “F*ck no, I’m not going back to you!” he could not accept my decision. He still wore his wedding ring. He still told me he loves me, how he always will. Half of the time he spoke to me, it was with amusement in his voice, as if sooner or later, I would see how funny this whole misunderstanding (our divorce) really is, then finally return to him.
At some point in the last couple of months, it occured to me that his devotion has very little to do with me as a person, and more to do with me as a possession; as if I’m another object to be collected and stacked in the never ending piles of junk in his home.
If you have ever been to Endicott’s home, you’d know exactly what I mean.
He owns a four thousand square foot duplex in the Miracle Mile area of Los Angeles. It’s one of those decrepid Spanish style homes in need of many expensive years of renovations. It’s the house you drive by from time to time in hopes of seeing a for sale sign out front so you can scoop it up for yourself. Well, keep on driving folks, ‘cuz he’ll never let it go.
Both floors of his home, as well as the four car garage behind the house, are covered in boxes stacked three (or more) feet high. As long as I’ve known him he has been “cleaning up” the house, throwing out items, only keeping the most important items. Like the boxes of t-shirts and flared jeans he wore in junior high over thirty years ago. He’ used to push them on me, insisted I try them on; when I did — and goodness help me, they fit! — he was angry and hurt when I refused to keep them and wear them on a regular basis. To justify their presence he said they’d also be great as props. Props for what, I’d ask. For a play or a film he might do in the future, he’d reply. Uh-huh, I’d always say before asking if he ever used them before (no), and if he had anything written down where he’d use them again (no).
I could ususally live with the stacks and stacks of stuff for a few weeks before I felt overwhelmed by the volume of abandonned plywood furniture, the empty champagne bottles from some dinner I no longer remembered five or six years earlier, clothes his ex-girlfriend left there in 1990. I’d yell at him to throw out the crap once and for all. He’d get equally angry, yelling that he did throw out a lot of stuff, but I never gave him credit for any of it. No, I’d yell ever louder, you just moved your boxes of crap into different boxes and restacked them across the house! “You don’t give me any credit for anything, Flo!” he’d shout. I could see our neighbors in their front yards staring at his house as I screeched, “You don’t deserve credit for anything, Jackass!”
…Wait, it gets better…
That reaction was tame compared to when I was hurt by the stuff in his house. Like the time the carpet in the stairwell came loose. I asked him for months to nail it down, but he was always too busy to take care of it. I tried to fix it myself, but the arthritis in my hands, shoulders and elbows hurt too much to do anything as physical (and seemingly simple) as swinging a hammer. One evening, as I walked down the unlit stairwell (a short in the hanging lamp that was never fixed though he promised it would be one day), my shoe caught on the rug. I teetered there for a moment thinking, “Oh crap, I’m going to land face first and die!” Fortunately, I landed (hard) on my ass and slid down a several steps before coming to stop, twisted and bruised up by the piles of stuff that sat on the stairs. Five years later I still have the lump (soft tissue dammage) on my ass as a souvenir. Thanks, Endicott.
Then there was the time Endicott placed a 1′ x 5′ pane of glass in front of an archway leading into a storage room (most of the rooms were storage rooms but this one was formerly a den complete with French doors and a balcony facing the front yard). Again, I yelled, ‘blah, blah, blah, safety hazard, blah, blah, blah, dangerous, blah, blah, blah, going to die!’ “Just don’t go in that room!” he’d say. “I have stuff in that room! One of these days, Endicott, I’m going to forget that’s there and I will trip over it! When I land, it’ll be with that mic stand through my neck! And if I live, I WILL blame you! I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!” (Truthfully, he probably already was, but that’s beside the point, right?) Like the loose rug before it, I tried to take care of the heavy glass panel but couldn’t lift it without hurting myself; it stayed where Endicott left it until, one evening, as I predicted, I walked into the dark room (the light switch was three feet away on another entrance to the room) and tripped over it. I wasn’t impaled by anything, but I did land hard (again) on a pile of plywood furniture and hard plastic office supplies before hitting the hardwood floor (again). Like the fall on the stairs, I layed there crying — half of it from pain, half from the seething anger I would unleash on Endicott whenever he came home — a few minutes before I could pick myself up and hobble away…By the way, he didn’t have a chance to move the pane because I did it myself. It hurt like hell to pick it up — not mention it that could have broke in half and sliced open my hands, wrists, or worse — but I moved it all by myself, then cursed him out for not doing it the first hundred times I asked.
…Who wouldn’t want to return to that?…
Sure, I’ve wanted to say that for years, but there is a point here: Endicott collects and keeps stuff, useful or not, and will not dispose of it regardless of whether it hurts us emotionally, or physically. I’m not a health care professional by any means, but it seems to me that when he chose boxes of junk over his wife, he had a problem. I’d say it’s a shame, he should get help, etc., etc., but now that he’s looking at me like I’m another object he won’t let go of, it’s creeping me out…I wonder if I’ll wake up one day in his basement, chained to the water heater, dressed in his rugby shirt from junior high and its matching high water flares, as he pets my hair telling me how happy we’ll be again…I was kidding, but now that I write that, I feel really uncomfortable! While I’m (almost) certain he’d never make a lady suit out of me or tell me, “It must rub on the lotion!” his relationship with stuff (and with me) is not healthy. How much worse will his situation become before he takes it seriously and gets help? I’m guessing it’s just a matter of time before he’s pinned under something or trips over something else and breaks his neck. Now I’m not kidding.
I have many personal items that I still need to pick up from his place. Much of it is spread around the house, probably already incorporated into stacks of boxes that he’s “cleaning up.” I asked him repeatedly to let me get my things. “Sure, Flo, anytime you want, you can come by and get your stuff. No problem,” he’d always say. I’d counter with, “Okay, how about this weekend? Is Sunday at 11 a.m. good for you, Endicott?” Oh, this weekend isn’t good. I have a shoot in La Habra, he’d say. My sister, from BFE, is back in town Sunday, and she needs to be driven around…
As much as I’d like to have my property back, I know he won’t part with it (or with me) without lengthy (and never ending) discussions of the many ways he’s busily cleaning out the house because he has changed his ways and that’s all due to me and he swears to Jeebus things will be different as soon as I give him a second chance and return to him because no one will ever love me the way he loves me…
No amount of reasoning with him will ever persuade him that he should let me go. Just as no amount of reasoning (or pleading, “Please Flo, just give me one more chance…”) will ever persuade me to return to him. I can say, “Endicott, the last four miserable years we spent together was one day after another of second, third, and fourth chances. We had three hundred and sixty-five days times four years which makes zero, carry the two, six carry the two, fourteen, yes 1460 days to get it right,” until I’m blue in the face, and it won’t make a difference.
He doesn’t want me because we’re compatable and complimentary. He wants me the way he wants the cheesy IKEA particle board furniture he’ll never throw out even as it falls apart in one of his many “storage” rooms while it waits to be donated to Goodwill…
Fool me once, Endicott, shame on you, fool me 1461 times, shame on me.
Flo
July 3rd, 2006
I’ve said it many times before, but it bears repeating: I’m no J.Lo.
My soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, loved calling me F.Lo. as a joke though I never thought that was funny. I always scrunched up my face before I said, “Dude, my name isn’t F.Lo, it’s Flooooooo. Sheesh!”
Even so, that nickname almost stuck when deeply tanned and two days into our two week Caribbean island hopping adventure, I found a rack of fabulous gold sunglasses in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I squealed, “I love these! They are so J.Lo! Oh, I look sooooooooooo good in these! They even have little Fs on the side!”
Before you ask, I’ll admit that I do enjoy her films. If I catch one while channel surfing, I have no choice but to watch the rest of the movie. (Sandra Bullock’s films have the same affect on me.) I’m not a fan. I don’t buy her music, movies, clothing line, fragrances, or anything else which fuels her empire. I just enjoy that ‘good but slightly sexy girl next door who doesn’t realize how truly special she really is’ quality she works so well and so often.
Though I’ve been told that I have a similar appeal, I never bought it. Those weren’t impartial opinions — they came from ex-boyfriends and Endicott. He liked describing me as a pert Latina! While that’s complimentary, and very amusing, it is also completely inaccurate. I’m not hot; I’m a big, goofy, neurotic freak…And yet, I’m not treated like a freak. I get hit on several times a day, every single day.
I don’t understand it, I sure as heck can’t explain it, but I recognize it. It must be one of those natural phenonema that makes no common sense. Unless you are a physicist, and can work out the very complicated math to explain it all, you just have to accept it for what it is; like water running uphill.
As much as I complain about my non-existant love life, you’d think I’d be all over these offers. I could easily go out several nights a week, date a couple of people, or take a lover. (That sounds so worldly and sophisticated — not qualities that I command!)
I won’t.
With very few exceptions, I don’t find these would-be suitors appealing. If they’re not funny and tall and charming and incredibly intelligent AND (this is the biggie!) a good fit with me, I’m not interested. If I can’t have all of the qualities that I love, love, love, I’d rather have nothing at all….Well, usually…
Recently, I experienced a moment of weakness. I told my best bud, Jean Luc, “I think I’m going to sleep with So-and-So.”
“You’ve only been saying that since you met him two months ago!”
“No, no, no! Okay, yes, the first night I met him, he was very attractive. But on the date we had a few weeks later, I couldn’t remember what I saw in him. That’s when I decided, ‘This will never be romantic. It’ll be fun and friendly. That’s it.’ ”
Jean Luc didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh.”
I continued, “But now I’m thinking I will go there. You know what made me change my mind?”
It was much too dark to tell if he rolled his eyes, but I think he might have when he said, “No…What made you change your mind?”
“It was during a movie when he touched my shoulder. He wanted to point out some movie moments, like the Pac-Man in the background.”
“Boy, he is a (movie) geek!”
I giggled, “Yes, he is. He’s also nice. I realized I really want to be touched again. And I could soooooooooooooo use the practice…Sure, it will never be a real relationship, but that’s okay. I just want passion and closeness again.”
“Now you sound like a guy.”
I mulled that over as Jean Luc drove us back to the Valley. Before heading home, he suggested we hit Tommy’s for a fast food nightcap.
Over chili dogs, I reflected on my crushes, past and present. “Dude, it’s too bad a certain someone is too old for me. I really liked him…”
In an equally sober tone, he agreed, “…Yeah, that is too bad.”
“With So and so (the movie geek), I think his real appeal is that I’m lonely…” I watched the cars driving past the world famous hamburger stand. Don’t they know what they’re missing? I wondered.
“It won’t always be that way, Flo.”
If I stay strong, and wait for the right situation, with the right person, at the right time in both our lives, it will be worth the wait.
I’m gonna be alright…right?
Flo
June 19th, 2006
Yesterday, I parked in a highly coveted “15 minute bank customer only” parking space at a bank on Wilshire Blvd. As I briskly walked towards the entrance, I called out to the security guard, “I’ll be back in less than 15! I promise!” He was kind enough to smile and pretend he never heard that before.
I returned to my car five minutes later (thank you very much!), and looked for a little credit from the same guard, “See? I told you I’d be back in less than 15!”
Maybe I misremembered the next part of our interaction, but I swear this was his reply as he walked over to my car:
“So you’re a newlywed?”
I held my car door open for a second, turned to face him, and wondered why the hell he would ask that.
“Newlywed?” I cocked my head to the left as if I’d find the answer there.
He made a motion as if to write the word ‘just’ across the back of my car. I immediately exclaimed, “Oh! I know what you’re talking about now! Oh my gawd, I can’t believe you remember that!”
A month earlier, when my car was covered in a thick layer of dirt, my best bud, Jean Luc, used his finger to write, “Just Married!” across my back windshield. He thought that was soooooooooooooooooo funny! He really does crack himself up.
“No, no, I’m not a newlywed. I’m actually going through a divorce. A friend wrote that there as a joke.” I laughed out loud at the memory. “He’s a jackass!”
Truthfully, I’m a jackass, too. I put off washing my car an extra week because that gag make me laugh every time I saw it.
I don’t remember ever seeing that security guard before — I make it a point to always look for them — but he sure remembered me. Now I’m wondering who else noticed…
Adios,
Flo
June 10th, 2006
It’s been two weeks since I took my first happy pill. It’s one of the five drugs that have been prescribed to counteract the havoc that my former arthritis drug, remicade, played on my body.
It’s hard to believe it took me seven months to connect my new health problems (severe acne, memory loss, depression, and on, and on, and on) to that stupid drug (remicade).
Ah well…What are can I do? Someone suggested a lawsuit. I thought about it for a few minutes before deciding against it. I’m not ligitious. Unless, of course, it involves some idiotic, sleazebag trying to screw me out of money just because he thinks he can get away with it. That sort of person forces one to think in those terms, even when one doesn’t want to…Before you ask, I’ll just say, no, I’m not talking about my soon-to-be-ex-husband, Endicott. While we are not compatable, I recognize that Endicott is a good man. He doesn’t purposely hurt others for fun or profit. I’m referring to someone else’s idiot-ex-husband…But that’s another story. Another f*cking story, for another f*cking day.
The good news is that I’m almost out of my depression. I feel joy again. I’m having fun again. I had the occassional day of fun while I was sick. It was always short-lived, followed by the usual dark, hopeless feeling.
Sure, sometimes I feel very upset — idiot a-holes seem to be crawling out of the woodwork these days — but even that passes.
So far, I’ve felt only two side effects: dizziness (it happened once while I was driving) and the jitters.
My doctor said I could expect to feel caffeinated. Sheesh, she wasn’t kidding. It’s exactly like drinking two venti iced cafe americanos on an empty stomach. The first time it happened, I thought, “This is what’s like to be Beavis!”
That was without adding actual coffee into my day. Jeebus help me, if I have a double shot of espresso over ice with a little milk poured on top. Yum…The cool, rich sensation would quickly be replaced by my impression of Beavis as the Great Cornholio, holding my arms in the air, “I need TP! TP for my bunghole!” Okay, I haven’t actually done that…But I imagine it from time to time.
I read online that this feeling is a lot like being on amphetamines…Whoa, I don’t know anything about that! That’s not my bag, Baby! Unless they (you know, those people posting stories on the internet) are right, in which case, it may now be my bag.
I don’t enjoy the shakes, or the slightly agitated state. I’m slowly getting used to it. I’m also coping well with the decreased appetite and slight weight loss. Two pounds in two weeks — not too bad, huh? Not that I care much, but it is nice to think I might finally drop some of my depression weight.
The other widely discussed side effect of this medication is increased sexual drive…Uh, I have nothing to say about that since I have no activity in that area. I could — easily — but I don’t…I’m sooooooooo boring.
Overall, I feel well. Even with a recent setback, I’m more at ease than I was a month ago. Maybe now I can finally relax.
Doubtful, huh?
Flo
May 30th, 2006
(The following is not for the squeamish. Mom, that means you! Please close the browser right now!)
During last month’s cancer scare, I received phone calls from several people, including my soon to be ex-husband, Encdicott.
He called days before I received my test results. I didn’t answer the phone when I saw his name on my caller id. Though I was tense and worried about my health, that didn’t stop my cringing when I realized he was on the line. I listened to his message, then thought, “That was nice. It’s too bad he’s still a jackass.” Even a thoughtful call full of good wishes can’t make up for the anger I feel towards him.
These days, I feel so mixed up and upset, I can’t tell if that’s a rational reaction, or if I need to settle down!
All kidding aside, I have had a tough time recently. I was constantly stressed out and anxious, overly emotional, crying everyday (I’m not normally a crier). Leaning on my friends only helped so much. It was time to get professional help. I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.
During the first hour, we had five pages, front and back, of my medical history to cover. Medical and personal history — a little too personal! She asked me things I never want to hear again. I answered her when I could, then reached for the tissue and held onto it tight.
After all of the formal paperwork was finished, she asked me why I made the appointment. I gave her the abbreviated version of my suck-ass life that I discuss here at IXH all the time.
I separted from my husband seventeen months ago. I’ve had my ups and downs that entire time. Last October, it got a lot worse when several stupid things happened at the same time. I haven’t been able to bounce back since then.
financial -
two people didn’t pay me for jobs (they probably never will) to the tune of two grand; at the same time, I sank four grand into my car repair and a car rental, so I could work three jobs, and only get paid on one. That’s a six thousand dollar loss on top of my regular expenses like rent, utilities, food, medical expenses. That six week period ate up all of my savings, right before Christmas. Nice.
medical -
my arthritis flared up causing me a lot of discomfort from continuous joint and muscle pain; my last round of x-rays showed joint erosion over the last several years. My doctor suggested we begin a new drug, remicade, which had been very successful in suppressing rheumathoid arthritis in a lot of her patients. It bombed on several levels!
First, it didn’t stop my disease activity, though it did slow it down. Second, I had breakouts everywhere. It sounds silly, but I was hideous! Even as a teenager, I didn’t have that much acne. I started to feel like the elephant man! Third, my health insurance didn’t cover the entire cost of remicade — to the tune of three grand! Endicott was kind enough to pay that for me. Later, he said he negotiated the price down to $500, but still! He didn’t tell me about the bill until after he paid it off.
In January 2006, I switched medications again, this time to Enbrel and Methotrexate. My inflammation immediately spiked up; so much so, that a nine day steroid pack couldn’t bring it back down. My arthritis activity eventually slowed down by April 2006, but it feels like I’m back where I started (in October 2005)!
personal -
Fall was the time of year I left my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott. I struggled with the decision for months before I finally did it. To recall that painful period again was just not fun.
This is a silly point, but there’s also the matter of my non-existant love life. Last August, with my introduction to a funny, charming man, it looked like that might finally turn around. But that didn’t work out either.
“So, yeah,” I said, “October sucked!”
My doctor was compassionate, non-judgmental. Maybe that’s why I said this out of nowhere:
“You know, people ask me all the time, ‘What happened?’ I really think we were just incompatable. From the moment we were engaged, I knew it wouldn’t work out. I knew what he was like. I knew what I was like. I was sure that after several years together we wouldn’t be able to work these differences out. It would probably end in divorce. Even though I knew that, I married him anyway. I wanted to be with him as long as I could, even if that was just a few more years…I really wanted to be wrong about this. I didn’t think I would be, but I sure wanted to be wrong…” My voice cracked, I reached for another tissue.
“It sounds like you really loved him.”
I sniffled and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Did! Did.”
She left the room, then returned minutes later with her attending physician. The three of us went over the low points. Each time, he asked me, “When did this begin?…When did that begin?…When do you think the depression began?” The answer was always October. “When did you begin this drug, remicade?” October.
In that moment, I understood where these hormonal changes began, and why I experienced these physical and emotional pains over the last several months. The flare-ups, the elephant man sized acne, the memory loss, the depression — all came from that funky drug. Sure, October would have been a bad month with or without it. But the following seven months, November, December, January, February, March, April and May didn’t have to be miserable. Imagine how bad it would be if I didn’t stop taking it in January! I’d probably be suicidal in a month!
Sweet Jeebus, I hadn’t felt this bad since I lived with Endicott. Truthfully, this experience was worse than living with him, but not by much.
My doctors and I decided on a new medication to get me through this period. It’s been a week now — so far, so good. (Except Saturday afternoon, when I felt vertigo while waiting at the left turn signal. It cleared up after four seconds, just in time for me to turn left. After the turn, it happened again. Yes, I phoned the doctor. I promise to do whatever she advises.) Everyday was less stressful, less tearful, less painful. It’s getting better all the time.
I told my best bud, Jean Luc, “Dude, it really feels like I’m coming out of a fog. I think I’m going to be okay.”
Happy pills or not, I’m almost certain my struggles with my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, will remain the same. He will continue to infuriate, frustrate, aggitate, and just plain get on my nerves. Then, he’ll do something sweet, thoughful and heartfelt that touches me; only to f*ck it up by returning to his usual jackass ways.
I guess some things never change.
Adios,
Flo
May 23rd, 2006
If you read my last April post, you know I had been freaking out.
My latest health scare had me more worried than I’ve been in awhile. That says a lot, given that’s all I seem to do these days.
When I spoke to my best bud, Jean Luc, one afternoon, I must have been worked up again because he said, “You need to settle down!”
Yes, I do.
“You think you have an eating disorder? You don’t!” He sighed. “What you’re experiencing is called neurolinguistic programming. NLP — look it up on the ‘net. It’s a very powerful tool for training your brain to blah, blah, blah.”
He didn’t actually say blah, blah, blah. I’m not exactly sure what he said for the next five seconds because my brain stopped working. I have trouble staying focused, my short term memory doesn’t work so well; it is constant.
When I tuned back in, I replied, “You know, the same sort of thing happened when I was a vegetarian. The thought of eating meat brought up these ugly images from slaughterhouses films, recalling animals in pain. It was so repulsive, I didn’t eat meat for four years after that…But that was different. I wasn’t afraid back then. Now I imagine everything I eat will give me cancer. I think, ‘That double-double will kill me quickly. But this bowl of blueberries won’t kill me quite as quickly.’ ”
Jean Luc replied, “Now you’re thinking like a healthy person.”
“Uh, I’m not sure healthy people are convinced EVERTHING they eat will kill them…I just hope this paranoia passes soon…I don’t know, dude.”
After several days I did finally settle down. The organic fruits and veggies on my plate stopped looking evil.
When I returned to the dermatology office to have my sutures removed (which literally took two seconds to do), my biopsy results still weren’t in. The lab’s turn around time was longer than expected, so the results wouldn’t be in for another five days.
As I groaned at that news, my doctor looked up from my new teeny tiny scar and smiled. “I’m sure it is nothing to worry about. We’ll give you a call when your results are in.”
On my way to my car, I thought, “I bet she sees these things every day, and knows what to expect. If she says it’s nothing, I’m going to believe her!”
And I did. I forgot about it for the next five days…until sometime around 4 p.m.. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I called the office.
I was told the results were in, but the doctor had not yet reviewed them. She would probably do so when she returned the next morning. That’s when she would call.
“Ohhhhhhhh, but I really want my results nooooooooooooooow.” I whined, ” I’ve waited two weeks now for these results. Everyone says its nothing, but I’m gonna keep freaking out until I hear definitively I’m cancer free…Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan…Can’t someone call the doctor?”
Apparently, my little crybaby bit worked because I got a call back twenty minutes later saying everything was fine.
That’s when I started making the “Hey, drop what you’re doing so I can tell you I don’t have cancer!” calls. That was fun! So I moved onto the “Hey, this is a silly reason to write — just want you to know I don’t have cancer! Yea!” emails.
I got lots of sweet, supportive responses. One of them turned into a very nice dinner date. Well, interesting, friendly dinner between two new friends. (His treat.)
I’m glad this situation turned out as well as it could: I’m cancer free. I have good new eating habits that will keep me that way longer. I felt lots of care and concern from family and friends. Best of all, I have a cool new scar to show off!
Adios,
Flo
May 21st, 2006
It’s been a week since my biopsy, and there is still no word from my dermatologist. Hopefully, I’ll get the results during my appointment this Friday. I’m not sure I can wait any longer than that without having a full-blown meltdown.
This health scare is the latest in a long line of stupid never ending crap that is my life. First, there was my bad marriage, now my bad divorce, financial worries, and chronic health problems. Living with rheumathoid arthritis isn’t easy, until I compare it with the idea of living with cancer. Now that would suck!
I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point in the last week, I decided to change my way of living, in the hope that it would spare me further health problems, especially with the big C.
It began with the foods I eat — well, don’t eat. I restricted my consumption of bread, pasta, sugar (artificial and natural) and starchy vegetables to once a day. I eat very little nightshade vegetables, twice a week at the most. I still have dairy, but that is more out of concern for my osteopenia than anything else. I eat loads of green leafy vegetables, zucchini, celery, apples, and on and on with nature’s bounty. I occassionally sneak in a small fruit bar or a toffuti cutie, but that isn’t every day.
Oftentimes, when looking at food I don’t think, “Mmmmm, yummy!” I think, “Hmmmm, will this give problems later today? Will I be paying for this years down the road?” Eating feels less like a pleasurable sensation and more like the path to sickness and disease.
Today, I watched a friend fry hamburger patties in butter. For the first few seconds, they smelled great. Very quickly, the odor changed from yummy goodness to thick and smoothering. (No, she didn’t burn the butter!) As I stared at the raw, red patties I imagined what my doctor saw as she cut out my mole for the biopsy. They were completely unappetizing after that!
I would call my new eating habits a healthy lifestyle change were they not motivated by fear. I expect my every meal to give me cancer. That can’t be normal!
It begs the question: is this the beginning of an eating disorder?
I don’t know.
It strikes me as funny that after all the years of stress from living with my soon to be ex-husband, Endicott, when the worst (our marriage) is almost over, is when I finally flip out!
It freakin’ figures.
F*cked-up Flo
April 26th, 2006
About six months ago, I noticed a new mole. Well, I thought it was new, but I couldn’t really be sure. I have so many freckles and moles, I can’t track them all. At the time, I remember thinking, “You must be new, ‘cuz I really don’t remember you. But I’ve got my eye on you now, Mister.”
Yes, that’s how I talk to myself. Scary, huh?
Four months later, I noticed a new dark spot on the mole. I promised myself that I’d mention it to my dermatologist during my next office visit. After several cancellations (all on my end), that day was today.
My doctor’s reply: “I don’t like the look of that. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll take a biopsy of it and send it to the lab.” She turned to jot down some notes in my file. “It’ll be quick and easy. It’ll take me longer to fill out the paperwork!”
That was fine by me. It gave me more time to catch up with Keifer Sutherland on the cover of “Rolling Stone” magazine. Now that his chimpmunk cheeks are gone, he looks much more appealing. Hmmmmm…
Sidetracked by the magazine, I didn’t feel much of anything as my doctor poked, cut, then stitched me up. It was very quick and easy, exactly as she said it would be. The funky part was having the nurse apply pressure to my stitches for ten minutes. Ten minutes is a long time to have a stranger — even a compassionate, caring one — touch you. I kinda wish we had a drink first, we would have been much more comfortable!
On my way home, deep in my Keifer fueled fantasy (like you haven’t thought about him, too!), it finally sunk in that I may have cancer. I probably don’t. It’s probably nothing. But it could be something. If it wasn’t a possibility, my doctor would not have taken out a chunk of my chest. If it is, how am I going to tell my Mom?…Oh gawd, my Mom would freak out!
It’s bad enough seeing her get worked up about my rheumathoid arthritis. But cancer — even something as common as skin cancer — I don’t think she could take it…So at that moment, driving through Burbank, I freaked out.
Yes, I freaked out over something that did not and may not happen. I was upset by the thought of my Mom possibly being upset. I cried all the way home.
As I walked up the steps to my apartment, I imagined all the ways my family would react to the news of my possible diagnosis; how they’d deal with yet another family member living with cancer. Just then, I lost my footing and found myself teetering on the back of my foot. In that split second when I wasn’t sure if I would fall backwards or not, I grabbed onto the railing. As I straightened myself and continued walking upstairs, I thought, “Oh for f*ck’s sake, snap out of it! Are you gonna cry all night about how you almost died here, too?”
I hate to admit that it took a scolding from my inner Ms. Crankypants to get me out of my funk.
This thing with my mole is what it is. No amount of worrying/crying/being sick to my stomach will change that. Either I’m sick or I’m not. If I am sick, I’ll deal with it. And if I’m not sick, I’ll celebrate my good fortune, then start taking my vitamins again like nobody’s business!
Adios,
Flo
April 20th, 2006
I’m a creature of habit. Every morning, I do the same thing, in the same order: I get up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head (I couldn’t resist!) before I step on my bathroom scale.
Every day, I saw the same number. A few weeks ago that number went down, and down…then it went down further than that! Without much effort, I lost five pounds!
Most girls would be pleased with that result. In case it’s not yet obvious, I’m not most girls.
That’s when my cell phone rang. “Dude,” I squealed to my best bud, Jean Luc, “I just stepped on the scale! I think I lost five pounds!”
JL: “That’s great! How did you do that?”
Flo: “I did what the chiropractor suggested: I cut back on my breads and pastas, and stopped eating sugars.”
JL: “Well, that will do it. Congratulations!”
I finally stepped off the scale. “Uh, thanks, I guess.” I sighed as I began pacing the bathroom. “I should be happy…”
JL: “Yeah, that’s right. You should be happy.”
(No reply from me.)
JL: “But?” he asked.
Flo: “But I’m not happy! My heart is racing — I’m kinda freaking out!”
JL: “Oh that’s great, Flo!” He laughed out loud. “Only you would get upset about losing weight!”
Flo: “I’ve wanted to lose this stupid (bad marriage) weight for so long, that when it finally happens, I don’t think I can maintain it!”
JL: “That’s just like the movie (I forgot the title — sorry!). A guy inherits a house. He can’t deal with the overwhelming responsibility of being a home owner, so he drinks. The opening scene finds him drunk in a ditch!”
Flo: “Oh gawd, that could totally happen to me! Only I’d wake up one morning with my head in the ‘fridge, surrounded by empty pudding cups and a spoon stuck in my hair!”
Jean Luc laughed out loud. “I like it!”
“Don’t laugh, Dude,” I said as I walked back onto my bathroom scale, “it could happen.”
There’s always room for Jello,
Flo
April 19th, 2006
I had lunch with my friend Crazy Joe (hey, he asked for that pseudonym!) over the weekend.
At some point, I told CJ all about someone I just met. He’s cute, funny, intelligent, and (for once) my own age. Did I mention tall? I LOVE that he’s all of those things and taller than me when I wore high heels.
Nothing has happened, but it could. It’s a situation full of possibilities — all of which I’d like to explore. All of which would be easier if I wasn’t an insecure freak!
CJ agrees, “The worst thing someone could say about you is your lack of confidence.” (I’m glad that’s the worst he thinks of me!)
Men love a confident woman, he said. “Maggie is a great example of that.”
Maggie is an actress we know out in Riverside, CA. She’s a funny, vivacious woman with a magnetic personality. She’s often cast as a wicked witch or an evil step-sister in kid theatrical productions, but don’t let that fool you: she does just fine in the romance department.
“Oh my gawd, you’re right! She’s had a lot of boyfriends. Some of them were really hot!”
When the movie “Swingers,” came out, I kept thinking her then fiance could have played the “Trent Walker” role better than Vince Vaughn. He was also hotter than Vince Vaughn — I kid you not.
“By all rites, she should be some mousy librarian out in the middle of nowhere, but she’s not. I know you’re not going to believe me, but even when someone looks like she does, and she’s confident, men find that woman — even Maggie — sexy.”
“Wow,” I said, partly stunned that CJ sees Maggie as sexy. “I know she has an amazing personality, but, jeez…” I keep wondering how far personality can take you when you’re naked and close to someone else. Then I remembered everyone I’ve been close to…”Yeah, I guess that sounds about right!”
Here’s my favorite thing CJ said: “Imagine what she could do if she looked like you!”
Imagine indeed!
Flo
April 18th, 2006
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