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If, Ifs and Ands, Were Pots and Pans,There'd Be No Need For Dishes
an emily blunt rant

 


I was interviewing Penelope Cruz last month and she - of course - really didn't want to talk about love and men. I mean everytime she skanoodles it's on 'Entertainment Tonight'...she said she's like any girl looking for love, and she tries to find someone with a sense of humor (it's all in the Elle Canada interview). But, I made her laugh by telling her an edited version of my last marriage...which, believe me, Pen's thankful it's not her tale:

Five years ago I came home...la-de-da...and there it was: "I want a divorce. There's chicken in the fridge for you. Love Kev." A culmination of denials scribbled haphazardly upon a tiny yellow piece of stickup pad, that basically contained a Haiku of our last four years.

There it was being defiant. Proudly, dutifully, and a tad wimpy, performing its communicative mission stuck on the side of the livingroom's centerpiece (-by its sheer girth-), his high-holy obsession and hobby, the saltwater fish tank.

It was this quiet, tiny, blink-and-you'd-miss it, square yellow mini-tile, like blip of sea-trash on the beautiful waterscape - a fake waterscape, like our marriage. The tank's expensive fluorescent-like light purposely designed to exaggerate the scale colors of its kidnapped finned inhabitants from world's far off (like Hawaii, Polynesia, The Cayman Islands) and make the poor little bewildered hostages not only look happy, but as if this ten foot inclosed existence was the end-all last-word in fish condo living - a Shangri-La of the fish world. I always found it cruel - yet beautiful.

And this serene staged study in managed utopia was oddly apropos to our long-suffering marriage; a pretty lie that looked perfect to those peeking in.

Finally the final blow had been made - what now? Should I eat the chicken first? He was a lousy husband, but his cooking was exceptional. And, why can I even eat at "a time like this"? Oh, right - we both knew it was over, each waiting for the other to make the move; call checkmate, lower the boom, surrender to the obvious. It happens...

I couldn't actually be the boom-lower-er. I had one marriage (albeit a drunken accidental anarchist-young thingy faux pas) under my belt (so-to-speak). And, I was not facing my family with another amour defeat extraordinaire. Besides one had their pride.

I grabbed the plate of chicken cutlets, fed the fish, took a deep breath, and called my mom to gage the sympathy level.

There was none. "What did you do to him?" she shrieked into the phone. Of course, I was guilty...Hhe was her gardening friend, her son-she-always-wanted. What was I thinking? But, I reminded myself this was only a phone - she could not see I was less than distraught and dining on gourmet fare.

I explained it was fore coming, we would remain friends, we were not really the marriage sorts, and I am actually relieved.

Silence.

It was hard for her to understand there was no hate. Just a separation of the hearts and interests with interest.

Then she had an odd, almost, deranged (and certainly unexpected) epiphany. I was her daughter - and there's apparently some sort of maternal law, you must side with the blood relative if said kin is from your womb - she became almost maniacal in what I should do next. My own sweet little mother said I should grab the credit card and shop till I wanted nothing more. She'd always wished she'd done something like that to my father. Her voice somehow unfamiliar at present...

I realized she was projecting her own evil resentments - of which I had none - and I certainly was not that kind of person. I somehow managed to placate her - in mid conniving mind you - hang up, get a comfy blanket, gather on the couch with the dogs, a bottle of wine, some cheese and crackers (I would let the crumbs fly without his Felix-like mumbling and broom at my side), and pop in favorite "healing" dvds (Singin' in the Rain, then The Grinch (Carrey version-natch), followed by The Apartment). I also decided to enjoy the peace of a house without continual hammering, bad-guitar playing and perpetual whining about who did what to him that day. Plus? I now had the whole king-size bed all to myself -and the toothpaste would be properly squeezed from it's bottom...this was not so bad after all. I keep hearing 'I'm Free' by The Who (as done by Liberace & The London Symphony Orchestra) ...is that a normal reaction?

Hmm. I am, I'm afraid, a bachelorette through and through.

I framed the stupid stickup note though - 'cause this stuff you just can't make up. Well, unless you're the 'Star' or 'The Inquirer'...they'd love to take this tableau and make it an A-lister's scenario...but it's just little old me.

 


 

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