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I am not My Ex-Wife's Bitch: A true life story of a man driven mad and saved by God's hand [Michael C Morris] on leondumoulin.nl *FREE* shipping on qualifying.
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When we were bored Kiki and I liked to revive an old-married-couple-style argument about who was Susan St. James pretty, sexy and who was Jane Curtin funny best friend of pretty, sexy Susan St. The Kate and Allie house looks like a kid's drawing, with two rectangular window eyes on the second floor, a steep roof brow, and a porch that sags in the middle like a smiling mouth.

Two huge oaks were planted in the tiny front yard by someone who failed to read the fine print; the trees dwarf the house and in the fall their orange leaves collect in three-foot-high drifts.


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The first half of the week Kiki and I had our kids, Phillip, then eight, and Katherine, who'd turned three the month I moved in. They slept in bunk beds in a small room we painted a demented aqua. We cracked ourselves up. If we'd stomped around and said stuff like this when we were still married, we would have thought we were turning into our mothers. Now, since we were living in the Kate and Allie House, our parenting styles were showy and boisterous, ironic.

On the nights when I cooked, I made us all eat at the dining room table, which Kiki thought was ridiculously middle class, but I insisted. During the second half of the week, it was our old roommate lifestyle. We bought red wine by the case and in the evening sat at the same wooden kitchen table we'd had in our apartment in L. The kitchen was small, high-ceilinged, covered with thick, inexpert coats of eggnog-colored paint.

Kiki still had the same black-and-white portable TV that had sat on the table years before, a TV on which we had watched thousands of installments of the Today show, and the news about John Lennon's murder.

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On the wall was the same plug-in wall clock that for unknown reasons, sometimes ran backwards, perfectly. She stood with her freckled arm reaching out through the back door, a Marlboro between her fingers. The Kate and Allie House had a serious no-smoking policy. Kiki is lanky, with pale skin, chin-length reddish-blond hair. In a past life she could have been a flapper.

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Mort now has to be responsible for Philly when he's there. When we were married, Mort would agree to watch Philly. Translated, that meant he would watch a basketball game on TV and allow Philly to be in the same room with him. If Philly got hungry, or started emptying the bookcases and eating pages of a book, which is something he did, Mort would yell for me to come get him.

Some child care, huh? I get no alimony and no child support, and Mort and I get along just fine. Except when he does something so stupid I want to kill him, like putting an ad in the paper for Valentine's Day. Did you see this ad? It says, "Kiki! Drop everything and have dinner with your men! Normally you'd think, "Ah, that's sweet. It's manipulative. And then I have to disappoint Philly, because of course he's in on the joke.

Divorce isn't the end of the bullshit, it's just the end of the marriage. All it means is that you stop fighting in the kitchen and start fighting over the phone. Most of the time, you haven't been sleeping together anyway. Kiki dubbed the divorced-women-only dinner the Mae West Dinner Party. She's worked for a long time in marketing and public relations, and finds comfort in high concepts, and in naming things that don't normally have names.

Married women have secrets. A better use of the veil at the wedding ceremony would be to have it lowered after the exchange of vows, so when the bride walks back down the aisle, she's covered up and no one can see the expression on her face. Now that she is on the arm of the groom, she will become more inscrutable to the outside world. Next to the lengths to which she has gone to make herself look great in a swimsuit, the biggest secret a woman has is the nature of her marriage. These aren't necessarily dastardly secrets.

Sometimes they're silly. Sometimes it's what she puts up with, the flaws of her mate that the rest of the world doesn't know, her husband's dumb tics, his eccentricities. Sometimes they're big secrets that, if revealed, might color the way the world views the wife; sometimes they're secrets of no real consequence that would merely embarrass her husband.

But while one is married to the husband, while one is still in love with him, one doesn't want the world to know that he obsesses about his nose hair, or is deathly afraid of the water bugs that show up once in a while in the kitchen. An ex-wife, on the other hand, has no obligation to keep the secrets of the marriage. Just the fact of the divorce is letting out a big secret: The marriage didn't work. She is free to tell all. And she will. Forget all those self-help books, seminars, and industrial-strength wedding vows people are taking these days in Louisiana.

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If you don't want your husband to leave, tell him you'll tell everyone you know everything you know about him. And tell him you know more about him than he thinks you do. That'll make him think twice. The party was held at a tiny lavender shake-shingled bungalow in a part of town with used-mattress stores, food co-ops with the original psychedelic signs, and a Starbucks tucked in to show that while funky, the neighborhood was still desirable. Esther, the hostess, is fifty and has been married and divorced twice.

She's a dancer modern, not exotic and has such flair that she can hang a T-shirt on the wall and call it art.

Esther smokes and doesn't care. She still wears Levi's s, size I don't think I know anyone older than twenty-two whose waist number is smaller than their length number. If there is such a creature, she is sure to be an ex. Which, for the record, did not make me happier, but made me feel as if I was perched on a ledge somewhere, waiting for the fire rescue squad to show up. I was thin because I was tense. As was everyone else at the party. We drank Spanish red wine and gobbled young Brie cheese, not the collapsed, odoriferous type that signals French cheese, but the Costco version that looks like something Katherine played with in her toy kitchen.

The only woman I knew there was my roommate Kiki; the others were graphic artists, managers of nonprofit organizations, florists, a framer pictures, not houses , an attorney, the tiny blue-jeaned dancer, Esther. We were between thirty and fifty, had attractive red rinses in our hair, enjoyed pedicures and facials now and then, had seen the capitals of Europe during the low season, flossed.

Either way, it's a horrible situation I imagine when, no matter what you do, who you are, how much you guys love each other, you will never be as special as the first partner. It's painful for both, and also for the person trying to move on because he cant really help it. Some wounds take a long time, if not a life time. I'm not saying that is the case here. But I just wanted to use that situation to illustrate my point that you never fully know another person and their motives. And to tell you that I think you should put yourself and your needs first, and think if not having children is what you really want or you are just indecisive and the fact that he doesn't want any children is making you take his side.

I'm saying this because no matter how much two people love each other, you are still different individuals with different needs, desires and most importantly Think of relationships in "economic" terms. What is the opportunity cost of staying with this guy that is exactly everything you are giving up to stay with him, everything else that you could be doing for yourself if you weren't with him.