The Bestest Divorce Ever

b1c957c2bbb72d200666f08b7cef59b4I want a divorce. Really, really badly and right now. Here’s why. Sunday I’m at the grocery store and see a “sort of” friend in the cereal aisle. At first I don’t recognize her. I walk by the Cap N Crunch and do a double take. Holy crap, is that really Claire, I think to myself, she looks incredible.

Claire used to be a real frump-a-dump. I’m talking stone washed denim, elastic waist band mom jeans, a mustache, acne scars and visible signs of nose hair frumpy. Now, she’s stunning – slim, de moustached, mini skirt gorgeous. Screw, the food shopping I wasn’t leaving the grocery store until I got her secrets.

I stop and say, “Claire is that you? You look amazing.”  She laughs and say that yes, indeed, it is her.  I immediately go for it and say, “Okay, tell me everything you did, done and are currently doing to look so great.”

She keeps on laughing and says, “Well, first I went on the divorce diet.”

“Oh,” I respond and then apologize for not knowing about that slice of hell she had just gone through.

She laughs again and says, “Do not apologize it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Really? Well, then congratulations!”

Claire with some “gentle” coaxing from me begins to dish the dirt on her divorce. It was the typical 21st century geek gone glam story. Claire and her husband had met in college. They were both math nerds and very well suited to each other. They married, had kids, their company invents something that is the current high tech du jour and he goes from geek to glam. The nerd became a hottie and Claire was no longer hot enough for him. (I’m all for revenge of the nerds and I’m on Team Geek. But, what I don’t like is when Team Geek doesn’t stick together.)

It was the stress of the divorce that began melting the pounds off of her. The stress also contributed to significant hair loss which lead to her going to a dermatologist for the first time in her life, which lead to facial exfoliating, which lead to her acne scars going bye, bye, which lead to facial waxing, which lead to a hair stylist referral which lead to hair extensions to help with her diminishing hair thickness that all lead to a personal groomer and a personal shopper and volia Claire is a new woman.

But, according to Claire that’s not the best part. Her absolutely favorite thing about being divorced is that her husband is now court mandated to spend time with his children. Claire has three kids all under the age of seven. Before the divorce her workaholic husband almost never spent anytime with the kids. Now, he picks them up every Wednesday and she’s a free woman every other weekend from Friday at 5 p.m. to Sunday at 8 p.m. Claire says as soon as the kids leave on Friday she gets into her pajamas and watches all her DVR’d shows from the week. On Saturday, she treats herself to lunch out and reads all day long.  On Sunday, she sleeps in and then goes to see two movies.

She had me at two movies. (She almost had me at in her p.j.’s at 5 p.m.) I can’t even began to imagine the luxury of seeing two movies in a row.  By this time I was perilously close to flying into a jealous rage.  Here’s this woman that’s gone from frumpy to fab and she’s got free time every other freaking weekend. By God, that does it. I want a divorce.  Just as soon as I get home, unload the groceries, and put away the perishables I’m going to tell my husband that we should get a divorce because we would both would end up so much more, well, I don’t know, more than we are now.

Of course, as I drove home my divorce buzz wore off. In reality if I wanted a divorce my husband and I, after looking at our finances, would realize that yes, we could get a divorce but we would still have to live together because we couldn’t afford two separate homes and/or apartments. Basically our divorce would be kid sharing roommates with one of us sleeping on the couch and leaving notes in the refrigerator saying “don’t eat my food.”

As I got closer to home I begun to imagine my perfect divorce scenario. The kind of divorce I would want if my husband ever decided to re-imagine his life without me. No, I would not go quietly into that dark, cold night. I would seek revenge or if that didn’t work hope for a Divorce Fairy Godmother. Some being who could wave a magic wand and presto my financial situation improves post divorce. Some relative, (maybe a man hating spinster great-aunt) unbeknownst to me, has set up a divorce trust fund that would leave me living large.

My Fairy Godmother would also ensure that some of my wifely powers would stay intact. This includes the power to interrupt any meeting my husband is in with a single phone call, the ability to tag along on any cool business trips, and the ability to guilt my husband into doing all house/yard work I considered “dude” related.

I would most definitely want my husband forced to live in super crappy apartment with a freezer that hasn’t been defrosted since the Reagan administration and a shower infested with a Tilex resistant strain of mildew that would render him impotent.

Most of all I would want my husband to date. That’s right I said date. My Divorce Fairy Godmother would make sure he was subjected to a dating pool that would include the seven dim wits. Whiny, Bitchy, Pack Ratty, Starvey, Fakey, No Funny and worst of all Helpless.

Whiny would be his debut divorce date. Nothing would be good enough for her.It would make him so appreciate my legendary (practical) ability to make the best of any situation. She would carp endlessly the entire date about his car, the food, the restaurant service etc.

Bitchy would be his next date. She would offer a critique of his bedside manner that would leave him permanently “unable to perform”. “Really,” he would say, “It’s not my fault. It’s the shower mildew!”

Pack Ratty would invite him to her house where my husband, the neat freak and man who has never met a hand sanitizer he didn’t like, would be assaulted by years of jumbo clutter and a vintage kitty litter box falling on his head rendering him unconscious. His only memory – me – being awesome.

Starvey would be the date that doesn’t eat and can’t cook. As much as men say they like a super skinny chick (not that my husband has once ever said that) I imagine dating one would make you hungry and cranky. What guy wants to eat while his date just sips water with lemon?  At first, I can see a dude saying, “Hey, this woman will save me money. She doesn’t eat.”  But, eating solo while your date just stares at your plate  would start to get old pretty quick.

Fakey, would be the embodiment of every guy’s dreams. She would look amazing until he touched her breast and it was hard as a rock from silicone gone bad. Also, the combination of her spray tan and vajazzle glitter rubbing off on his privates would cause a heinous allergic reaction that would just stop short of a double ball amputation.

No Funny wouldn’t get any of his jokes or understand his sense of humor. This is a man who has the benefit of me laughing at his humor almost everyday of our marriage. He’s used to a receptive audience. (He is really funny in that dry wit kind of way.) No Funny would stare at him all night and finally at the end of the date ask him if he was mentally off or mixing his medications.

Helpless would be the date that would finally do him in. After years of having a wife that lives to take charge, a wife who prides herself on never having to utter the phrase, “I’ll have to ask my husband,”(unless, of course, I’m using it as an excuse to get out of something) he would be terrorized by a girlfriend that could nothing for herself. She would cling to him and require his manly assistance in any endeavor. This would be the thing that would stroke him out.

My perfect divorce scenario concludes with my husband, a broken man, showing up at my house, with big, sloppy tears oozing out of his eyes and surgical bandaids on his privates, what with the whole ball amputation thing, begging me to take him back. He would admit that he was a fool and I, the essence of perfection. I would pat his head, offer him a roll of generic toilet paper to dry his tears and say, “You’re welcome to come mow the yard or organize the basement anytime.” I would then close my front door accidentally on purpose on both of his hands.

That would be my bestest divorce ever.

**Attencover_1.3-2tion Snarky Friends I have a new book out and for a limited time only it’s just 99 cents for a heaping helping of Snark! You are now gazing at the second book in the Snarky in the Suburbs series – Snarky in the Suburbs Trouble In Texas. You can buy it for your Kindle or in paperback on Amazon.  It’s also available for the Nook or you can get it for your Kobo reader. Click on a link and give it a test read.  I hope you like it! 🙂




Facebook – Marriage Buster

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Facebook breaking up marriages?  C’mon, what an embarrassing reason to give for your marriage disintegrating. If my marriage was going south I would try to think up something a little better than Facebook to blame it on. Where’s the creativity and spite in blaming Facebook?  At least that’s what I thought yesterday. Today, I have changed my mind while standing in line at the post office. There I was waiting to mail a package.  I had number 145. Unfortunately for me when I walked in they were just on number 112. The line almost went out the door. What’s the problem, I thought. I look at the counter and one lone woman is working and she’s helping someone get their passport.  Talk about something that takes f-o-r-e-v-e-r. Then I look over to my left and get uber ticked off.  Two postal employees are chit chatting.  The line is heading out the door and two employees are gabbing. Ugh. (My apologies for any postal workers who reads this.  I know you work hard but perception is everything. If your employees are on break for self-preservation purposes alone, they shouldn’t be talking at the counter when there’s a line. At the very least get thee to the break room.) This is what worries me about any kind of national healthcare. If it’s going to be run like the postal service God help us all. After I choked down my anger and talk myself out of going to Fed-X I notice the guy in front of me – Mr. 144 is having a rather animated conversation on his cell phone. Having nothing better to occupy myself with and due to the fact that he is being rather loud I listen in on his call. Jackpot!  His call is fascinating. It seems Mr. 144’s wife has been having a Facebook affair.  What a shame I think.  Mr. 144 is awfully cute.  He seems to be in his late 20’s, well dressed with really good hair. I’m talking “soap opera” good hair. I shift my box to my other side and begin to listen in earnest.

Here’s what went down. His wife, apparently, made contact with a friend of a friend on Facebook. They noticed they were both commenting on the same posts and thought each other were hilarious. (Please, who doesn’t think they’re hilarious on FaceBook?) That lead to a FB relationship which lead to his wife thinking she found “true love.” Now, his wife wants a trial separation so she can see if she and her FB honey are “really meant to be.”  Yes, I got all that from his phone call. I was standing so close to Mr. 144 I could hear his wife’s voice spilling out of his phone. The poor guy hangs up and looks really sad. That’s my cue to do what I do best – offer unsolicited advice to strangers. You may think it’s rude or pushy. My husband is pretty sure it will someday get me killed. I like to think of it as doing the lord’s work. I make my move with the perfectly polite, “Excuse me sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”   Mr. 144 looks embarrassed and apologizes. I tell him he has nothing to be embarrassed about and then I go for it.  I say, “I think you should tell your wife to go ahead and run off with her Facebook Fantasy.”  Now, in my vast experience of butting into people’s lives this could go either way – he could tell me to shut the @#%$ up or I’ve just made a new friend for the next ten minutes. It totally went the new friend route. He perks up and says, “Why do you say that?”

“Well, of course, I don’t know you at all and you could be a terrible husband or even a serial killer but I’m going guess you’re an okay guy and your wife on the phone sounded a little crazed. I say tell her she can have the trial separation. It will probably scare her straight”

“Really?” he says sounding all intrigued.

“Plus,she might start thinking maybe there’s someone you have your eye on during the whole trial separation thing. That,” I say, “will be a total bonus for you.”

By this time there’s four people now listening to my post office therapy session. In front of us one middle age married guy and an elderly woman with a sassy look about her. Behind us a pretty, 20-something woman and a mom who looks to be right about my age. Middle aged married man butts in agrees with my advice. But, he goes somewhat overboard. He tells Mr. 144, since he doesn’t have kids he should get out of the marriage sooner than later. He then asks him if he and his wife own a home or any property?  Mr. 144 says no.  That piece of information makes married middle-aged man break into a Cheshire cat grin.

“Oh yes,” he says, “Get out, get out now.  It will be a clean break.”

I interrupt before married, bitter, middle-aged man can get any more enthusiastic about matrimonial destruction. Time to go for the seasoned advice of the octogenarian.  Grandma, who decided she would channel Betty White and comes right out and asks Mr. 144 about his sex life.  Her wisdom – “if it’s good keep her, it’s average or below get rid of her.”  I can’t let this opportunity pass so I ask her “Why’d you go there?”

“I was married 62 years” she says. “ Believe me it’s always all about sex even when you’re my age.”

Hmm, didn’t know that. I don’t know whether to be delighted or disturbed by the information. The mom that looks like me chimes in.  She asks Mr. 144 if he’s sure his wife is talking about running off her a guy she met on Facebook or could it be a woman?

I immediately interrupt. “Really,” I say, “like this is helping.”

The look-alike mom says, “That’s what I did.”

“Did what?” I ask.

“Fell in love with a woman.”

“Oh, okay then.”  So, I ask Mr. 141, “Do you think it’s a man or a woman she’s thinking of running off with?”

He doesn’t answer right away and then says, “It’s a man. Definitely a man.”

My last “helper” is the cute twenty-something girl. She says, “You’re like so hot so I like for sure totally would so not put up with that. Seriously, I would like maybe go out with you.”

Now, Mr. 141 is looking a little less like a sad sack. I’m about to wrap up the community conversation when the grandma suggests that Mr. 141 calls his wife and tells her to take a hike right now.

I hurriedly say, “Um no, no, not a good idea. Hey, were just passing time in the post office. You should think all this through. Remember we’re all total strangers. What do we know.”   But, as I’m saying this he’s calling his wife and putting her on speaker phone. This could go down as my worst unsolicited advice session in my history of offering unsolicited advice.

The wife says hello, Mr. 144, begins telling his wife to go ahead and run off with her Facebook boyfriend. Then grandma leans into his phone and says, “I’m looking at a girl right now that’s ready to show your husband a good time.”

The “girl” (twenty-something) pipes up, “Yeah, that’s right I think your husband is hot.”

Then, the mom who looks like me says, “I do him if I weren’t gay.”

The middle-aged married man grabs the phone out of Mr. 144 hands and says “I’m a lawyer and I’ve already told him to dump you.”

I’m shushing everyone, but it’s not working. They’re having a great time. The wife on the other end of the phone sounds weird. Almost like her voice is echoing.  Oh shit!  His wife is here at the post office and she’s walking towards Mr. 144.

Sweet Alexander Graham Bell we’re all screwed. Mr. 144 looks pale. Since I started all this I stand right beside him. I do admit to holding my box very close to my chest and face as body armor. Mrs. 144 is ticked off. She starts in on Mr. 144.  “What’s going on?  How dare you let these people get involved in our personal life!”

Poor Mr. 144.  Then I have an idea. I introduce myself to Mrs. 144 and by introduce myself I mean say I’m a lady who was trying to offer some advice to your husband because I inadvertently heard some of their previous cell phone conversation. She calls be a “dirty eavesdropper” and she’s got a sort of point there so I don’t argue. But, is it really eavesdropping if you can hear someone’s cell phone conversation from six feet away?  I decided to go in for the kill, “Hey, you might want to get off your high horse and calm down. This is just Facebook in real life.”

She looks at my like she’s wants to punch me and screws up her face and says, “What?”

“Consider me and the rest of us as “comments.”  She’s still giving me the stink eye so I say, “Hey, your husband posted his “status” at the post office by having a cell phone conversation we all could hear and the rest of us just responded with our “comments.” As for this one (I lean my head towards twenty-something) she was just giving your husband a flirty “friend request” or perhaps a naughty “poke,” grandma over there was writing on your husband’s “wall” and this guy ( I look at the middle-aged married man) was just sharing a “link” about divorce with your husband.”

She still looks supremely ticked off, but lucky for me my number was called so I haul over to the safety of the postal counter to mail my package. I try to drag out the transaction and even considered updating my passport so Mr and Mrs. 144 would have left the post office before me. No such luck. There they are arguing by the stamp vending machine and P.O. box area. Why don’t they go home or at the very least to one of their cars to fight? I’m now considering my exit strategy from the post office when Mrs. 144 calls out to me. Oh goody. I walk over and say, “Yes.”  She tells me it’s none of my business, but they have decided to not have that trial separation.   “Congratulations,” I say, “that’s great” and continuing walking. My plan is to go across the street to the Quickie Mart, grab a Diet Coke and make sure the coast is clear before I get in my car. No way do I want to be followed home by Mrs. 144. I kill some time at the Quickie Mart and then go back to the post office parking lot. Yes, it looks like Mr. 144 is gone, but dang it his wife is still there.

She walks up to me and says, “Hey let’s friend each on Facebook.”

Unbelievable. Stunned for a second, I reply, “Awesome,” and then give her the name of  my archenemy. The PTA President at my daughter’s elementary school.

She taps on her phone, giggles and says, “ Okay, I just sent you a friend request. You’ll be my 3,873 friend!”

After that, thank you lord, she takes off in her car. Wow, I think she’s not in love with a friend of a friend she’s in love with Facebook all 3,873 friends and counting.  Mr. 144 doesn’t stand a chance against those numbers.

***For all things wonderfully Snarky go to where you can find the new Spring/Summer  Snarky line of clothing and accessories. Plus, there’s my book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. (Click here for purchase information.) Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.