After 2.5 years together, my relationship with my husband came to an end. We’d been dividing our time between Paris and New York City, and when we said goodbye this past July, with the intention of him joining me in NYC in September, I had no idea what was to come. Things had been tough. He was a 48-year-old man who refused to get a real job, content to work only a couple nights a week at a cabaret, while I worked all the time. The “partner” I had married decided to be a deadbeat. Then he decided to cheat on me with a 21-year-old child. Then he decided to ghost me. Then when I figured everything out (thanks Facebook!) and confronted him, he couldn’t escape it any longer. Yes, he had cheated — in fact she was living with him, a girl just two years older than his own daughter from a previous marriage, and they were soulmates. Why? Because they have the same birthday and both like The Beatles. I loathe The Beatles.
As I tried to comprehend what had happened, I got an email from his young mistress containing a poem… about me. It wasn’t just about me, but what she hopes will happen for me in my life, along with lots of references to a “pink slaughterhouse,” which my friends and therapist have decided is my vagina. Why she’s fixated on my vagina, no one knows. I’m going to pretend it’s because it’s so awesome.
As my head began to spin, while reading the words from this girl 14 years younger than me, I did the only thing I could: I searched the Internet for something to send a cheating jerk, and found that for a very fair rate, you can send poop to someone who’s pissed you off. It was perfect. It was also just the beginning of the absurdity.
Here’s what happened, in chronological order since the poop-sending. And don’t worry, I’m well aware that none of this is rational.
I got another poem from the mistress. After the poop incident, I got another poem from the child mistress. She also posted it on her “professional” Facebook page with the rest of her poems. She has a book of poems published — because she won a contest when she was in high school. I’m not published. I am told by my husband this makes her more successful.
I sent him an exploding sparkle spring for our anniversary. Because I wanted my husband (because he still legally is my husband) to recall the happy day we legally tied the knot in New York City, sparkles seemed like a darling idea! He never even sent a thank you note. Bastard.
I threw myself a divorce party at The Plaza. Since I had thought he and I could stay at The Plaza on our anniversary, but he was too busy having sex with a little kid, I decided to get a terrace suite at The Plaza anyway — where I invited all my friends who flew to our wedding ceremony in Paris, and a few others. We all dressed up and drank champagne all night. We didn’t talk about him once.
I went to New Orleans to talk to a voodoo priestess. Then I got it in my head that I wanted to eat beignets and explore voodoo. So I went to New Orleans. I wasn’t in NOLA more than an hour when I tracked down a spiritual advisor who told me to forget the voodoo doll; I needed a voodoo alter. I set one up, with her detailed instructions, the second I got home. I already knew a big heaping pile of karma was coming his way, but I thought I could speed up the process by praying to the Universe to make things even again.
I saw that the mistress had posted another poem about me. It wasn’t a nice one. This time I was trying to destroy their love and she was “just an innocent little girl.” Puke. That kid is about as innocent as I am.
I put all the furniture I bought us for our apartment in Paris on Craigslist – much to his surprise. My thinking was: I bought it and no way in hell was he going to be allowed to keep it so he and his mistress — who moved in with him less than two months after I left Paris — could use it. It all went to a very nice young Swedish couple who had just moved to Paris for school. They were more than happy to pay the 1€ for the desk, the bureau, the nightstands, and the lovely artwork.
I got several emails from his mistress on Christmas Eve. About what? Basically pleas to take some sort of pity on my husband, because things weren’t going well for him. Well, of course they weren’t going well for him — he’s now only working one night a week and his personal bank account is gone. And it’s not like the mistress is making any money with her poetry. I couldn’t tell if he had put her up to it — since I hadn’t heard from him except to confirm that the young Swedish couple had picked up the furniture — but assumed he did.
I sent him an annoying box of sand. Did you know you can send such things in the mail?! You can! And when the person opens it, not knowing it’s sand, it just goes everywhere. Why? Because I didn’t need a 21-year-old telling me about my relationship, what I did wrong, and how I should take pity on my husband — who, just to recap, cheated on me, ghosted me, and is now living with a 21-year-old child mistress, who writes poetry about me.
I sent her a cease and desist so she’d stop posting poems about me on her very public Facebook page. She responded by calling me a joker. I responded by explaining that she would adhere to the cease and desist or we’d have real problems. I also may have quoted The Godfather multiple times in there, despite having zero connection to the mafia.
I got another poem in response. Because of course I did.
I made sure I was in Costa Rica on the anniversary of the day we met. I wasn’t going to sit around being angry on the anniversary of the day we met, I was going to hang around with sloths and monkeys. So I did.
I came back to Paris again to love the city on my terms. I’m back in Paris. In Montmartre. In the city where we met and fell in love. I’ve been coming to Paris every spring and summer since 2010, before I even met him, so it wasn’t going to stop me. Besides: French cheese and wine cures everything.
I sent him a fruit and flower basket this past week. Why? Because I watched Girls and thought it seemed like a good idea. Also, I thought he could use the nutrition. If he’s working only one night a week, is about to lose his place, and is sobbing about how he’s going to have to live in his car, he probably hasn’t had any fruit in awhile. I’d say I finally took the high road. But we’ll see how things go next week.
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