My ex didn’t introduce me as his wife for whatever reason. I guess he thought it would seem more professional, since he was always putting on some sort of appearance. Anyhow, this Manny and I had an instant connection. I was married, so I didn‘t think much of it, but he kind of flirted and locked eyes with me and seemed very intrigued in getting to know me better. Obviously, he left after and didn’t ask for my number or anything, and I’m sure my ex and my friend told him later that I was married (if he even brought it up). I remembered Manny saying where he lived at the time, which was literally about two or three blocks from where I lived, and I thought it was weird I had never run into him before. And I never ran into him afterward, either. Until recently.
I was leaving our local pho restaurant that I have been to probably 50 times, and as I walked out, I saw a gorgeous dog being held by his owner, who was in a circle chatting with people. I decided it would be a good idea to sashay over and say, “Can I pet your dog?” The man seemed slightly taken aback but said, “Sure.” I pet the dog and looked up… “Manny?” No. Freaking. Way.
Basically, I reminded him that we had met through our mutual friend, although I felt like he never really put two and two together. He asked if I had his number, and I said no. He put his number into my phone, and we texted back and forth a few times. He asked me out for pho finally, which I thought was a copout because the pho restaurant was not really the best date spot. It was more of our local “Cheers” hangout, but perhaps he was trying to take me somewhere he knew I would like. I agreed to go with him in two days, and within an hour he canceled because he had to go to LA All this told me was that Manny knew he was cool and he didn’t log our pending date as super important. I only know this because I canceled dates I was not thrilled about for better ones all the time. Sorry if you are reading this, and I cancelled our date.
So, the next few times Manny tried to schedule a date with me, I was “busy.” After a while, he went from offering me a Thursday position to offering a Saturday night date slot. Instead of taking me to pho, we had upgraded to a fancy place, my favorite mussels restaurant. Oddly enough, I had never been there up until a few months ago, and now this was the third date of mine to take me to such an establishment. We sat and ate dinner, and the conversation flowing freely. I tried not to drink too much as I didn’t want to get sloppy with Mr. Normal over here. I wore the earrings my mother gave me on my wedding day that I never got a chance to wear. I also felt unhealthy, uncomfortable, not like myself. I’d never felt less confident in my life.
Manny was a perfect gentleman. A strange man came up, completely wasted, and spoke gibberish to us and proceeded to sniff the back of Manny’s neck. Manny handled it all like a pro. Then, the drunk man proceeded to touch my shoulder, and Manny proceeded to politely remove his hand and asked if he minded moving on his way, as we were kind of trying to have a conversation. He ordered us some food, told me some great stories, drove me home, opened the door for me to get out and hugged me before I walked inside. Had I just met a normal person? I mean he was 39 and unmarried, didn’t drink, and loved his mother and sister. He was a former professional athlete and did a lot of charity work for kids. Something must be wrong with him.
A few days later, I was in a slump. When I say that, I don’t mean, oh wow I am feeling down, but, like, for real, I was thinking back on my life, the dreams that I had, and the life I thought I would be leading at this point. I was the 18-year-old girl who made vision boards, read The Success Principles 57 times in a row, and meticulously mapped out where she wanted life to go. Not in a psycho way, but in a “let’s put some plans into action and then make decisions to help life guide us” type of way. Okay, so maybe meticulously pseudo-psycho. My mom was a sheriff. I did background checks on my ex. I went through his stuff. So, if you are reading this and think I didn’t do my homework, sorry to tell you, I did. And then some. It could happen to anyone.
So, the fact that I ended up in this position in my late 20s was odd to me. I didn’t make rash decisions saying, “Well, screw it.” I had made well thought-out, responsible, adult decisions. Unfortunately, as the saying goes, “Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans.” I’m not sugar coating when I say that my husband made my existence real. He actually cared what happened to me every day (or seemingly). When someone shares every intimate moment with you for years, and you tell them all the nuances of your life, suddenly you feel invisible without that reflection. To say that it was difficult would be putting it mildly.
I had a lot of hard relationships before this one. To say that I held men at arm’s length would be an understatement. I never let anyone in. The fact that I even let him near me took YEARS. I mean it. He asked me to move in with him forever before I even considered it. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes without hesitation, but then I hesitated for several years before I would even plan our wedding with him. I would ask and he would hesitate, and I was happy with that. It’s no surprise my bridal party walked down the aisle to “Bittersweet Symphony.” That’s not a joke. I picked it myself.
After spending time thinking about all of these things, I laid on my bed one afternoon, and even though I had had my moments in the past, I had remained rather unscathed up until this particular moment. My phone rang, and just as the severity of the situation really hit me, I picked up the phone. It was my mom. I usually loved talking to her, but lately, I could almost hear the pain and uncertainty in her voice of whether or not I was going to pull through this. She has always believed in me more than anyone, so that scared the shit out of me. Instead of avoiding her, I felt that maybe she could cheer me up when I was down, like she used to, and I answered. Skipping to the important moments:
Mom: “So I think you should just come home for a while.”
Me: “Sure, Mom, that will just be the icing on the cake. I’ve fought so hard to stay here, now I just give up and come home?”
Mom: “Why not? You can always go back.”
Me: “Okay, so I go back just to come here and start all over again like I did years ago? That would suck. I will be miserable there.”
Mom: “Well, Dani, you are miserable there.”
Me: “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”
Mom: “Things don’t seem like they are working out that well for you.”
Me: “Yes, I get it Mom. My life sucks. I understand.”
Mom: “So, come home.”
Me: “What would I even do there? I would rather live in my car here.”
Mom: “You could do anything here! Or do nothing! Build a business, whatever you want.”
Me: “Mom. I would rather be a stripper here and live in my car. If I come home, I will literally ice myself. I will jump off the roof of your house. I can’t do it.” I got teary-eyed. I obviously thought she knew I wasn’t going to ice myself or strip. I’d said this to her before in conversations, albeit in a better mood, but I think she knew my humor by now. However, I was more upset than usual. I was sure she could hear it in my voice. We hung up.
My phone rang again. It was my sister Cassidy. “Are you okay?”
Me: “Yeah I’m fine. Let me guess, did you just talk to Mom?”
Cassidy: “Yeah, she seems worried about you.”
Me: “Oh lord. I just told her I was going to ice myself. I didn’t think that she would take it seriously.”
Cassidy: “You have said crazier things. Anyway, I’m supposed to call and check on you periodically from now on and make sure you aren’t suicidal.”
So now I am accidentally and undeservingly on suicide watch. Or perhaps semi-deservingly.
Chapter 16:
The $200,000 Baby
I was out showing property one day with my coworker, Paula, when she randomly broke off from me, which I knew meant she was showing property she didn’t want to split commission on and that was fine. They were her clients. But normally we were a dynamic duo. I didn’t mind, so I got to work on other tasks. After a while, I started getting anxious and gave her a
ring to see if she’d like to have a late afternoon lunch. Most of my work was done, and I didn’t feel like sitting at home alone listening to the sound of my dog snoring.
Paula said sure, she would meet for lunch, but just a warning, she rolled her ankle showing a property, so she wasn’t walking well. We decided to go to lunch in Fashion Island. A restaurant there had a great rose and a wonderful salad. She picked me up, and I noticed some scrapes on her arm. I figured she was being dramatic about the ankle roll until we actually got to Fashion Island. Getting out the car, I realized that Paula could literally not walk. She was wearing kitten-ish wedge heels, and hobbling along the best she could, but I had to hold her arm and help her. We parked maybe 20 feet from the restaurant entrance, and I would guess it took us a good 15 minutes to get to the door.
I suggested several times that we skip lunch and take her somewhere more fitting. For instance, I dunno, a hospital? Paula refused. I called my mom, because she is a genius with human body things, (maybe because she has one, I’m not sure), and after relaying to Paula several questions, my mom told me that it was probably just severely sprained and to stay off it, elevate it, and take some medication for the swelling. Paula told me that wine was her medication, and we were going to enjoy our lunch, so that was that.
When you walk into the restaurant, it has a huge, horseshoe-shaped bar and tables around the outskirts. The table wait time is pretty long during peak hours, so it’s usually easier to grab some bar seats if you can. There was an open gap at the bar where some stools had been moved, so I borrowed a chair from a high top table nearby that only had two people at a four top, thinking that Paula needed a freaking chair before her foot turned into a hot air balloon. The hostess watched me move the barstool all the way over to the bar before coming over and removing it from my hands like a toddler. “I’m sorry, we don’t allow people to move the chairs from tables. If you can’t find a chair at the bar, it means they are all taken.”
“Okay, I understand, but someone obviously took some chairs FROM the bar, because there are at least two or three missing from that area. So, if you would like paying customers, one of which is injured, to STAND at your friggin’ bar, while there are the exact same empty chairs being unused that could seat paying customers, I totally get it. That makes perfect sense to me. Thank you for your help.” She rolled her eyes at me and walked away. A chair finally opened up on the left side of the horseshoe shape, and we bum-rushed (okay, I bum-rushed, Paula limped like a one-legged person) over to snatch it. I let Paula take the chair, because she obviously needed it. At this point, I was surprised she wasn’t requesting a bottle of Everclear straight. Her foot looked gnarly. There was a very good-looking gentleman next to me, and he stood from his chair and offered it to me. I explained that there was no need, I really just wanted Paula to have a seat, given her current condition, and I knew these seats were hard to come by. He didn’t care. He insisted. I sat.
We ordered glasses of rosé, some sort of wine they served that Paula loved, and this man stated that it should be put on his tab. Classy. He also had an accent and challenged us to guess where it was from. I already knew he was South African, because one of my first bosses in LA had the same accent, but most people would guess Australian since they sound similar. So, he let us guess, and Paula said, “Australian?” I said, “Hmmm. Let me think. South African.” He smiled and said, “Wow! You are so right!”
He kept ordering more rosé for us and beers for himself. Our late, casual lunch turned into a three-hour festivity. I kept turning down glasses of wine, but they somehow kept being refilled. I tried to explain that I knew my limits and that I appreciated it, but really, I didn’t need more. They just kept coming, not even when they were empty. Like, he kept recommending the bartender “freshen them.”
We got on the subject of relationships, and this man, who I later learned was named “Scott,” started saying how he wasn’t sure he believed in marriage or love for that matter, but his mom was some sort of psychologist guru. I could tell that someone talking this way must have had his heart severely broken and his mom had tried to science the shit out of him. Whatever works. Life is hard and people get hurt, but man up and keep your balls together.
Paula was interested in this and kept asking him why he said that. He noticed Paula’s engagement ring and asked her about it. She came up with some nonsense about how she wasn’t sure she needed marriage either, it was just a piece of paper. They went on and on dissing marriage and love in some sort of pseudo-jaded psycho realization. Paula proceeded to tell him about my marriage and what happened, as if it was somehow her story to tell. I realized some time ago that when people don’t have a lot to speak about their own lives, they like to interject with yours.
Scott mentioned that he looks at relationships like a business decision. He said that if a woman he is with gets pregnant, she should be compensated for the time she takes off work. Expenses should be paid. Her body will change. This should all be compensated for. Paula told him how smart she thought this was. I minded my business for a while and sipped on my wine, and let this go on for some time. I finally jumped in. “Okay. That’s it. Have either of you ever been married before?” They looked at me as if a raccoon just popped up and joined the conversation. Both of them separately mumbled, “Well, no. Never married before.”
I lost it at this point. “Okay, great. So here we are having a conversation, and the fact is neither of you has been fucking married. So, let me tell you, it is different. It’s not a piece of paper. It’s a merger of two lives and you are making a commitment to one another. You do it in front of your friends and family. It should be sacred, and, God-dammit, it is important. So, if you don’t want to get married, then don’t. But don’t sit here and piss on marriage when you know nothing about it because you are jaded and pissed off. Marriage isn’t the problem, people are the problem!”
They stared. Paula made a comment. “Well, I just don’t know why it’s necessary. Yours didn’t turn out that well, and I’m just not sure if a person needs to get married.” Steam rolled off me. To this day, I am still embarrassed by what happened next. “No, Paula, you want to get married. You would love to get married. You just don’t want to get married to the man you’re with because he has his own problems. You tell me all the time you love marriage and you want to be married. So, don’t tell me marriage is the problem. Your issues with him are the motherfucking problem.” Paula went to the restroom. She suggested we leave. “Scott paid for the tab, which listed a total of 14 rosés between us. He’d had more Modelos than should physically be possible, but I didn’t judge and couldn’t read the exact amount. Let’s just say he had been there for quite some time before we arrived.
A few days later, I surprisingly got a text from Scott I was confused why, after all the punishment and crazy shit I did, this man would text me. He was distinguished, dressed well, and clearly had money, so why would he pursue someone so abrupt? Who knows. He invited me to a restaurant called Sol. I said sure, I’ll meet you after finishing up with work. I took an Uber to Sol, because I knew I would have at least one drink, and ain’t nobody need a DUI these days. I walked in and found him at the bar, drinking, what else, a Modelo. He asked if I’d like a margarita, but I informed him that was probably too much for me. I was trying to take it easy. I ordered a white wine, and we chatted.
He told me that I was in the prime of my life, and that I obviously didn’t take it for granted. He talked to me about how captivating I was and how he thought that was great. I agreed. I do have a good spirit and a good attitude. I was just not operating at 100 percent of my usual self, so I was always confused that people found me interesting at this point in my life. Plus, I knew it was probably laced with some form of expectation. What was he trying to gain from his compliments? I wished I was more oblivious. The bartender literally refused to serve him any more beers, because he had had approximately 11. I had been there for 20 minutes. How long had he been at this establishment? The guy seemed
sober as a gopher, which was confusing, but he was clearly a professional. He negotiated that he would have one water, and the bartender agreed to give him one more beer if he drank the water. He drank his water and beer and then asked if I’d like to go to the Balboa Bay Club. It was a classy place, so I felt like there wasn’t much trouble we could get in to there.
We went outside, and he paid the valet to keep his car overnight. I found that responsible, but it was some sort of BMW smart car, which was weird because he was stylish and it didn’t fit his MO. Maybe he just didn’t care. Neither did I really. I just found it an odd choice for his personality type. Anyhow, we Ubered to the Balboa Bay Club, had more drinks at the bar, and ordered some appetizers. I was thrilled about this, because I needed some kind of sustenance. Finally, he got deep with me and told me that he didn’t look for much when he met a woman these days, as far as relationships and marriage go. He informed me that he looked at a woman, and made a decision, “Could I have a baby with this woman?” and if the answer was yes, he decided to get to know her better.
You would think this would be a sweet and nostalgic romance story, but you would be wrong. He proceeded to ask me if I would want to have a baby. I responded with, “Yes, someday. I really would like to be a mom. I like to work though, and I’d like to wait until I can give my child a really good life.” I’m not sure how he phrased it, but he more or less told me that if I would be interested in having a baby with him, and of course, no need to decide now (?), he would pay me $200,000. I literally inhaled my drink up my nose and coughed. This had to be a joke, right?
I asked him why the hell he has to pay people to have his kids. He responded, “I don’t have to pay for anyone to have my kids. I am just not sure I am a one-woman kind of man. I also realize that having a baby is a huge time commitment for a woman with work, with her body and with her time energy and effort. I figure this will make you comfortable and make sure the child is well taken care of.” I couldn’t comprehend this, but my version of a perfect love story and doing things “the right way” hadn’t panned out well for me, so I was only conversationally curious about his lifestyle choice. He asked me again, “Do you think that is something you could handle?”
Divorce, Drinking and Dating Page 10