There are traumatic events in life, times when we feel victimized by unfeeling perpetrators. All too often, the abruptness of the cataclysm in and of itself precludes any type of rebuttal on our part.
In instances of sudden abandonment, unexpected divorce, betrayal by friends/relatives, sabotage by coworkers, ruthless politics, and more—the offenders seem to always flit off unscathed. Ever-proud of their prowess and smugly gloating over how easily they “got over” on someone else, their sense of entitlement and unabashed superiority deepens.
They skip off on their merry way, self-validated, believing that they truly are as they see themselves: masterful, stealth, and invincible.
Those perpetrated upon soon discover the sad truth that their circumstances were intricately crafted by the offender and/or his/her accomplice(s) to ensure an inability to have a say.
The victims of these evil folks too soon conclude that further interaction with the perpetrator would be tantamount to “casting pearls before swine”—further feeding narcissistic demons—the very demons that derived pleasure from causing such agony in the first place.
So what’s a person to do with all that seething anger when they’ve been done like this?
Like a pot of hot water ready to boil over, bad things can happen when too tight a lid is kept on so much pent-up frustration and emotion. It must be vented somewhere.
Commonly, clergy, lay counselors and psychological professionals recommend journaling as an effective way to work through a healing process. As a person journals, the mental rumination slows down considerably and overwhelming thoughts and emotions organize into logical patterns and sequences.
The very process of keeping a journal forces a person to feel and deal with painful thoughts and emotions in order to record them.
Today, we have technology and tools at our disposal that we never even thought of having just a few short years ago. Blogging is one such tool.
Blogging takes the process of cathartic writing to a whole new level … a sort of journaling on steroids, if you will. No longer just the one-reader-at-a-time hard-copy of a book tucked away in a nightstand for private access only. A public blog [even an anonymous one] provides the same much-needed catharsis—but adds an extra-sexy bonus: knowing that multiple people can simultaneously read and share their unheard/censored or discounted perspective.
It will never change what has already transpired, but oh, the satisfaction of finally and fully being heard. It’s wonderfully validating. Downright exhilarating.
What you will find here are written compositions and media projects that I have put together in honor of the various folks who still think they ‘got one over’ on someone through the years.
Don’t panic. No real names are used. But if you happen to be one of these perps and you recognize yourself in any of these stories, sorry about your luck. [Hang on where you fit!]
For the rest of you, in the interest of balanced journalism, I invite you to grab a cup of coffee, put your feet up and, as Paul Harvey used to say: “Stay tuned for ‘The Rest Of The Story” because “Nobody puts baby in a corner.”
I find it ironic that the people who are the most manipulative and brazen when it comes to openly doing things that hurt others, are the first folks to crouch under a desk sucking their thumbs when someone calls them out on their misdeeds.
This is my blog and my humorous accounts of things that happened to me–in my life. To that end, I have recreated events, locales and conversations from my memories of them.
That said, being a nice person [and in order to maintain anonymity], I have changed the names of said individuals and places. I also may have changed some identifying characteristics and details—such as physical properties, occupations, and places of residence as I recount my memories of things that happened to me.
So, should any guilty parties [i.e., The Evil Couple], detractors, and/or flying monkeys who are now [or ever have been] an affiliate of Casper’s Devil Detail happen across this site and recognize themselves in the humor or parody presented here, I have a couple of things to say to you.
Is the truth hitting a little too close to home for your liking? Well, if your conscience hasn’t already been already seared by a hot iron [and for some of you that’s a pretty big IF]—then I suggest you humble yourself, apologize, and make amends.
But most of all—I say: get over yourselves! Like it or not, there’s a new sheriff in town. Tee hee. Giggle, giggle. Or better yet, a new Leader Of The Laundromat/Tea Room. She’s finally found her Voice.
She decided to stop being a sad sobbing schmuck and have a good time. To do that, she’s anonymously airing the Dirty Laundry and serving up the Tea.
As they say, it all comes out in the wash eventually, now doesn’t it? So what shall it be? One lump or two? Oh the fun of satire and anonymity …
There’s a phrase from the old Eagle’s song [Dirty Laundry] that comes to mind:
She can do “The Innuendo”
She can dance and sing
When it’s said and done, she hasn’t told you a thing
One of the things my ex husband always joked about was wanting a boat. It was our private humor. Everyone who knew us heard us engage in this schtick at one time or another throughout the years.
Whenever we were on the highway and he saw a boat being hauled on a trailer—or whenever he saw a boat parked on someone’s property [and not being used] he’d slip into a child-like voice and whine: “Honey, look. He’s got a boat“.
Sometimes, he’d even add, “You know, if you were a ‘good’ wife, you’d buy me a boat.“
Well, not to be outdone, I usually replied, “Well, that’s probably because he is good to his wife. If you were a ‘good’ husband, you’d no doubt have a boat by now.”
A while back, someone showed me a picture of the woman that my husband ran off with and subsequently married. In the picture, the location looks to be either a riverbank where my husband and his dad used to go fishing every year, or possibly a boat launch on one of the lakes they call ‘Great’. In this picture, this woman is standing in front of boat with an Evinrude motor. She is standing with her left arm raised, resting conspicuously on the side of the boat.
Honestly, I have to tip my hat to this woman. Come on! I mean, really?! … This wasn’t even a fair fight. LOL. In all my glory days—even when I was young and in my prime—I was never a match for a woman with access to a boat with an Evinrude outboard motor! LOL
Whoa! I gotta hand it to her; this woman pulled out the big guns. She musta wanted him bad!. Yep, Boat Lady there pulled out the kryptonite and brought my ex Superman to his knees. What woman can go up against something like that to keep her man?! Smile.
P.S. Long story short, Ms. Evinrude …. Please know that all sales are final, my dear … There will be no exchanges—and no take backs. Like the vintage Toyota commercial said: ‘You asked for it, you got it!’ …
My message to you is: You wanted him; you got him.’
Yes, indeed, my lady. Sweet Cheeks is all yours … for time and eternity … ‘for better or worse’ [wink wink] … And by now, you, as much as anyone, probably have an idea which one is more likely. His track record ‘aint’ that good. But then, you knew that beforehand, and left with him anyway. Enjoy!
Oh yeah, one more thing—a little unsolicited advice—from one woman to another. You might want to sleep with one eye open. I have it on good authority that Evinrude brings out newer models every year or so. That might pose a problem for you down the line.
I mean, who’s to say that some other woman living in or around The Lake won’t get herself a newer shinier boat—with multiple motors? That might not bode well for you—at least, given his illustrious past.
Face Palm! Oh, what am I thinking?!
Being the astute world-traveling business woman that you are, I’m sure you had the forethought and proper boundaries to insist on an iron-clad pre-nup before you said ‘I do’ to Dear Runaway Romeo there.
But yet again, what am I thinking? He might not take your name off the joint accounts and abscond with your money like he did me. But then, I’m just speaking, based on my experience.
Your mileage may vary. [Wink. Wink.]
First, let me say that I grew up back in the Dark Ages—before cell phones and social media. Back in the day, when a husband did the boot-scootin-boogey it used to be called ‘abandonment’. Women who had affairs with other womens’ husbands used to be called … well … I’ll just leave it there. LOL My point here is to say how things change.
Those darn kids today! They’re always changing things up! Bless their hearts. Today those youngsters call disappearing without a word: ‘ghosting’. Very fitting. You know, like Houdini. One minute they’re there and you see them; next minute you don’t!
Poof! Like a puff of smoke, he was gone. No warning or explanation given; just gone! That’s why I have affectionately nicknamed my little runaway ‘Casper’ (The Cowardly Ghost’).
You find yourself standing there and you realize that the person you lived with all those years is merely a stranger. All you can say is goodbye; I hope you find what you’re looking for.
This post was originally written in February 2015 and posted to another blog
Some 10 months after The Great Escape, my husband surprisingly suspended his self-imposed No Contact edict long enough to place a very bizarre call to me from overseas. I found that quite odd.
Hmmmm …. Had New Girlfriend granted him a temporary hall pass and allowed him to call me, or had he put on his big boy pants and taken the tape off his mouth all by himself? … Such intrigue.
Whichever one it was, he pushed the pause button on his vow of silence long enough to call me from his Love Shack Shangrila in a third world country.
Wait—on second thought—perhaps New Woman wasn’t aware that he was calling me—otherwise why would he be using using a prepaid calling card as he stated?
My guess? To keep the call from appearing on the call log on his cell phone. He wouldn’t want Mommy Dearest to learn of it and get the wire hangers out of the closet whip him with them … But then again, maybe he would …. The plot thickens … More intrigue.
His version of why he’d called was that he simply ‘was concerned’ about me. Really? … So suddenly? … After walking out the day and giving no reason and then there being 10 months of No Contact of any kind?… Doubtful.
He said that he was calling to see how I was doing after my recent surgery. In other words that was code for “Are you terminal and going to die yet?’
Several months after he left, I discovered that I had a baseball size lump on my right breast. I’d had it removed and was still not back to work. No doubt someone spilled the tea and told him that the biopsy results weren’t back yet.
I truly believe that he was hoping to hear grim news because legally, we were still married and I had a six-digit life guaranteed-issue life insurance policy through my employer.
My take of the call was that Dear Pumpkin was (not-so-transparently) sniffing around to see if he might be in line for a beneficiary payout if things were going south for me—as I believe he was hoping. Fingers crossed, eh?
I figured that since I wasn’t likely to ever talk to him again. With our divorce due to be final in just a few days, I asked that he stop insulting my intelligence and simply tell me the truth.
I wanted to know … Who made the initial contact to start the affair? … Was it him? … Or her? Until this point, he’d vehemently maintained to everyone that he’d never been unfaithful until after he left. He also insisted that this woman had chased him.
Funny how things change with time and distance … He now told a completely different tale. I suppose our upcoming divorce factored into his desire to come clean. Why not? He was now comfortably settled in half-way around the globe. No doubt this provided him with an added sense of insulation and comfort.
I mean, really? What was I going to do? Reach across the ocean and slap him with a rubber chicken through satellite relay? Summon the spirit of his deceased mother and tattle on him? Nah, he knew he had nothing to lose by being honest with me.
Honesty? … Now there’s a fluid concept with someone having an affair! LOL
Seizing the opportunity and opening I’d provided, he quickly admitted—just as I suspected—that he had been the initiator. He ‘fessed up, admitting that he had gone online and that he did the research to locate her. Then, based on that research, he made the first contact.
Well, duh! Everyone in on the globe knew that! He was the only one who believed that anyone had been buying that cockinbull story in the first place.
Shrug. Well—be that as it may—I proceeded to ask what prompted him to go looking for her in the first place. First Version details were that he supposedly hadn’t seen or spoken to her since high school when she broke his tender teenage heart by dumping him on his head.
His response flabbergasted me!
Now brace yourself … you’re not going to believe what he told me. His exact words were: “Well … I just woke up one morning and there she was—standing at the foot of our bed.”
Me: (banging my phone on the desk) … Hello?! … Do we have a bad connection? … What did you just say?! …
I kid you not! Those words rolled off his tongue in such a serious tone that anyone standing nearby might have been tempted to believe I was having a conversation with a sane man—which, obviously—he proven that I was not.
Well, by the time Dear Romeo’s phone call arrived, almost a year had passed since he so callously walked out the door with no explanation. It would be the understatement of the century to say that I’d grieved terribly over this man. But apparently not enough to annihilate my sense of humor—no matter how hidden and repressed it may have been during the ordeal.
The twisted logic of his crazy-train was so bizarre that it woke my humor gene from its long period of hibernation where it had been warmly snoozing—buried deep in the ashes of my smoldering former life. Now abruptly jarred to consciousness by such ridiculous dialogue—it bolted upright, rubbed its eyes, winked at me—and proceeded to poke my sense of imagination in the ribcage.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this one!” announced Humor.
“You in?” Humor asked Imagination.
“Absolutely!” came Imagination’s quick reply.
Next, they both paused and quizzically looked at me. “Okay—let’s go with it.” I said as I nodded yes to their unasked question.
Gleefully, Humor and Imagination high-fived each other. They were overjoyed that after such a long dry spell and plunge into such deep depression and hopelessness—I was finally up to the challenge of joining them for some fun and frivolity.
They explained to me that in order to get the most out of the sensory experience that they were about to create for me, I was going to have to pretend as if I, too, believed in teleportation—at least for a minute or two. They also explained that I would also need to sign off on some reverse time-travel—and be amenable to a few auditory disturbances as well.
I nodded my head in agreement, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and wondered what these two imps were about to unleash on me. Well, I didn’t have to ponder very long. I soon found myself being transported mentally back through the continuum of time. Somewhere along the way backward, we must’ve tripped over a jagged cloud or flown too close to a mountain top or something, because we skidded to an abrupt halt as we were flying over the decade of the 60’s.
I stopped and looked around, wondering what all this was bout. Ever so faintly, I could hear an old TV program playing in the background and heard a voice speaking. I furrowed my brow, and turned my ear in the direction of the voice—listening intently. Hmmmm …. I recognized the voice as being familiar … yet I couldn’t place it definitively.
As sound grew louder, I realized I’d heard that voice back when I was in grade school. But whose voice was it?!
As I scanned my memory banks to locate the identity of that familiar voice, I wondered how a voice from the 60’s might possibly be relevant to my husband’s imagined apparition. Suddenly, it came to me. Yes! I recognized that iconic voice.
I had a hearty laugh when I realized that who the voice was and what the voice was saying WAS indeed very relevant to what my soon-to-be ex husband had told me about his said ‘visitor’.
Take a listen:
We are living in a culture that is overly enamored with youth and good looks. Those are the things we have less of each year as we add more candles to the top of our birthday cakes. [Someone call the fire department.]
Oh, sorry, did I hit a nerve?
Well, it’s true. I know it, you know it, and the American people know it. Being a displaced professional over 50 looking for a job in today’s marketplace is tantamount to having leprosy. I suspect that there’s a number of you who can relate to this as well, based on the number of threads about this that I’ve seen lately.
Ewwww Becky. Look. It’s An Old Person.
I find that a healthy sense of humor, self-control, and a very strong filter goes a long way in keeping it together in such trying times.
For example, had my mother not insisted that I develop good manners, today I would not know how to graciously nod my head, smile politely (through my gritted teeth), and bat my baby blues sweetly —while being interviewed by a condescending little fetus—for a job that I was doing while she yet a zygote undergoing cell division!
Ah yes, and haven’t we all encountered that precious little upstart who can’t think outside the box, yet they can certainly can point out when you have left one blank on your employment application.
“Um, there’s an address and phone number missing here.”
“Where?” we ask, looking at the form. Immediately we want to scream, but we don’t. Rather, being the nice lovely people that we’ve been raised to be, we force a smile, and say nothing. But silently we want to shout:
‘Really?! You want the name and phone number of my high school principal when I’ve been to college and in the workplace for decades?! Darlin’, did someone drop you on your head as an infant?!”
As I said before, that’s what we want to say. Once again, we say nothing. It is imperative that we maintain our composure at all costs, right?
Anatomy class taught us that knee-jerk reactions bypass the brain for interpretation. Thankfully, I’ve generally had the mental wherewithal to restrain my impulses. Thus far, I have yet to grab Little Lord Fontleroy by the tie and jerk him across to my side of the table and slap the stupid out of him. What moronic inquiries and comments!
In my view, health care has irreversibly changed, and not for the better so this Bullwinkle has bowed out for good. She’s tired of trying to pull magical rabbits out of hats.
I say go ahead … give my prox card and executive parking space to the next wet-behind-the-ears applicant who wants the job. I say let them figure out how to breed animals, recombine DNA, splice genes, and/or whatever else may be necessary to eke out enough revenue to stay ahead of the whack-a-mole game of practice management.
Let the younger generation whip and nae/nae with the Medusa of constantly changing regulations. I worked for our state’s Peer Review Organization at one point in my career, so I enjoy reading The Federal Register just as much as the next person. It’s just that I know my limits these days. With my humor imp out in the open, I can get slap happy just perusing the Tabular Index of the ICD-10. Don’t even get me started!
Ixnay the thought of me ever again competing with every Gerber Baby in the world for the ‘privilege’ of working 80+ hours a week and being a counter monkey. I’m no longer deluded enough to think that a time will come when everything’s finally ‘done’. It’s like housework, it’s never done.
Ixnay the prospect of me being an interim administrator again. Nope. Nada. Zilch. No more doing all the ‘heavy lifting’ by cleaning up a practice only to have someone young upstart come along and look like a genius because they simply maintained the systems and checklists that I put in place.
“But what about all those really messed up practices that need me?” my ego posits.
With a sharp whack across the face from the back of my hand, I silence that ridiculous notion. But I do ponder the thought—but only for a nanosecond. Nah! Been there. Done that. Got a drawer full of stupid t-shirts.
Nah, it’s time to enjoy myself for a change—even if that means I’m on the austerity plan. So I say slap the ‘Vacant’ sign on my executive chair and let’s ‘get gone’. Lord knows, I’ve worked hard. I’ve paid my dues. And based on the amount of L’Oreal I used before finally deciding to embrace my gray—I’m definitely worth it.
I can sleep at night, having made this decision. All those doctors and all those messed up practices will be just fine without me. I’m certain of it because:
God love ’em. They know not what they face. Please join me in a moment of silence.
Humor aside, I really do feel for these naive folks. I started out just like them. I too, was full of spit and vinegar. I too, was once eager for my chance to prove that I was a super-human and that I could drink from a fire hose on a daily basis and still get things done.
I’m not saying that I never enjoyed anything about my time in practice administration—because I did. I’m simply saying that running Mach 1 with my hair on fire and having to stay in Stepford character all day long has somehow lost its appeal.
I can’t imagine why. LOL