You may have noticed I’ve been awol from my blog for a few weeks. That’s because I’ve been in Moving Hell. I decided, after three years of Divorce Hell, that it was finally time to sell my dream house…the one I worked so many years to buy and renovate and furnish and landscape to be the home they would have to carry me out of in a wooden box. Yeah. Best laid plans and all that ended the day I discovered my ratbastardskank-boffingturd of a husband had been having an affair with one of my best friends for five years. The rage was instantaneous. If you’ve ever seen the movie Waiting to Exhale, you can picture the reaction, emptying the closets and drawers of anything that belonged to him and hurling it all over the railing to the lower floor, then throfting it all out the front door onto the steps. The only thing I didn’t do was toss a match onto the pile, but that was probably because I was too busy thinking of various ways to tell him what I thought of him and his skank girlfriend to find a match. It took roughly twenty minutes, from the time the first shirt flew over the railing, to the sight of him backing out of the driveway with his car stuffed with his crap, so I didn’t do too badly *snort*.
Informing the rest of the family was the next unpleasant task. A call to the son and a call to the daughter-in-law and within five minutes they were both converging on the driveway, one from home, one from work, both stunned with disbelief. Two bottles of wine later, I put a call into the skank, and when she did her usual cowardly thing of hiding from any unpleasantness, the DIL and I jumped in the car and drove to her house, pounding on the door at close to midnight because I really, really, really wanted to know how someone who claimed to be a “best friend” for nearly ten years, who often came and stayed overnight, who had taken trips with us as couples and trips with just me as my “friend”…could betray my trust and friendship so incredibly badly. Not just me, but her own husband as well. She had convinced my stupidfuckofagutlessratbastard that he was the father of her second child! She had, apparently, even texted him from the hospital bed that he was the father of a little baby girl. She told her husband the same thing. THAT took two months and a DNA test (that I insisted on) to clear up, but by then, she realized the stupidfuck had been kicked out with nowhere to live, so she turned her back on him too…even went so far as to slap a restraining order on him to stop him from whining and pleading with her to run away with him because, after all, she was his Great Love and they had vowed to be together one day no matter how long it took.
Hah. One day was all it took for her to toss him over.
But I digress.
Fast forward three years (and yes, there is a probably a book worth of horror stories in those three years, although I doubt anyone would believe it wasn’t fiction) during which time the stupidfukkingalbatross was like a great weight around my neck. The divorce was quick and uncontested, thank goodness, and I was free from everything but the title of the house which was still in both our names…a total brain fart bit of stupidity that would come back to haunt me three years later. In my defense, I *was* married to the idiot for 35 years, and there was always the foolish hope that he would want to stay a part of the family, even from a distance. He was told he could still come to the Friday night dinners, still see his grandchildren, to whom he claimed to be devoted, still stay a part of the business he and his son owned. The only thing that would never ever ever happen would be me ever taking him back again. He knew my opinion of cheaters. He knew what my reaction would be. And after those 35 years of marriage he ought to have known that once someone breaks my trust and betrays me that badly, they would have better luck surviving a fall off the CNTower into a pit of starving tigers as have any chance of a reconciliation.
So what did he do? He drove the son’s business into the ground. He never made it to a single dinner. And for the last two years has not called or even sent a birthday card or Christmas greeting to his beautiful…and devastated…grandchildren.
In the end, my Dream Home just had too many bad memories to overcome. HE was there, if not in body, in every room where he’d sat and laughed, in the yard where he hosted bbq’s and built bonfires, and chased the kids around. He was in the basement, which he had claimed as his domain and played his infernal 60’s music from the time he came home from work till the time he went to bed. He was in the garage, which was always cluttered with his crap. He was even in the spare room where, I found out after the fact, he would sneak into and boink his skank when she came to visit!!!!!! And every time I looked at the barf stain on the carpet in the family room, I thought unkind thoughts about him for taking my poor Scampi away and not returning her, not even calling me when she was so sick he had her put down. For that, I got an email. Bastard.
I looked on and off over the three years at other houses up for sale, but nothing really shouted out at me. I couldn’t bear the thought of moving to a condo or an apartment, and my knees wouldn’t take a townhouse. Most of the houses that sparked a little interest had major shortcomings as far as taking either my office furniture or my bedroom furniture, or had nonexistent family rooms that would never bear up under the invasion of the grandchildren.
Purely by accident—I was looking up someone else’s real estate listing—I happened across a picture of a lovely little Victorian house that had just come on the market. It looked unique and quirky and, as it happened, the agent was having an open house the next day. So out I went to look at it and instantly fell in love. It was so completely different from all of the houses I had lived in, yet soooo similar in ways to the nifty old house my grandmother lived in, that I called up my agent and went to see it again, this time with an eye to placing furniture, housing the kids, hosting the Friday night dinners, having the gangs over for Christmas…. Everything worked. It was two storeys but the previous owners had converted the living room into a bedroom, which suited my knees and my furniture just fine. It needed a little work (keep that phrase in mind when I get to part two of this blog) on the kitchen and main floor bathroom, but it was priced right, it passed inspection with flying colours (keep that in mind also for part two *snort*) and within the week it was mine. All mine.
Now all I had to do was declutter my Dream Home, list it, sell it, and nirvana would be within my grasp!
To be continued…..