I Always Wanted A Smaller Body
I Always Wanted A Smaller Body
Guide to finding a great toy breed dog to replace your ex-husband
with Lorinda Birdwhistle
You probably thought this was going to be an article on weight loss, like last week’s blog. Fuck that. Let me get you up-to-speed on what’s going on over here for those who follow my columns. For starters, my now ex-husband, Hank, caught on to my shenanigans in making him that special Sunday Night Football feast that included meatloaf made from dog food, followed by my luscious Ex-Lax brownies with sprinkles (see: “So Your Husband Is No Longer Interested In Sex…). After taking out the garbage the day following, Hank saw the pet food cans in the trash, and he connected the dots. We have no pets, so there were only two dots to connect. Holy shit, did he have a black expression on his face when he back came in from the garage. And he didn’t touch another morsel of my cooking after that. Thank god his mother never repurposed his childhood bedroom – within the week he moved right back in with her. Adios gilipollas. And just saying, not once did Hank get me off in our 26 year marriage. I laugh my ass off imagining his mother now having to change the sheets on his childhood bed. Hank never had good aim. She’ll likely have to wipe down the headboard as well. I hope all the neighbors read this.
About a week after Hank’s departure, I was gathered with my book club friends in Nadine’s living room when there was a knock on the door. Nadine, as you may remember, is my friend from grade school who shops with me at the Salvation Army every week (see: “Shopping Adventures With Lorinda”). Upon hearing the knock, Arlene, who was parked right next to the door, threw it open, and standing there was a rough-looking guy with a bulletproof vest and a firearm. Not sure what the threat was – seeing as the walkup to the front porch was lined with a colorful array of non-threatening begonias and petunias.
“Is anyone here Lorinda Birdwhistle?” he belted out in a menacing voice, one hand gently making contact with his Glock 19. Shocked, I stood up, and he straight-armed me with a fat manila envelope in which, I was soon to discover, were divorce papers. This fucker actually had the kahoonies to serve these right in front of my best friends on a Tuesday night, while we were in the middle of a Sara Teasdale poem. How very insulting and rude he was, but also really good-looking, so I took his business card. Who knows maybe I would need him to swing by to pick up the papers I’d be serving to Hank. The guy is a process server, so he’s working for whoever’s handing out the Ben Franklin’s, right? And I can tell you this much: I’ll be inviting this Jesse guy, who, as you can see below, has no wedding band, to stay for dinner. No meatloaf for this guy - my best beef stroganoff made with ribeye steak and shiitake mushrooms. I’m thinking, maybe we could barter. You know.
Ironically the poem we were reading that evening was perfect for the occasion:
I Shall Not Care
by Sara Teasdale
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
Don't think I need to dissect this poem for you. Sara lays things out quite clearly. Let's just say this: "I shall not care" became my mantra throughout the divorce negotiations. Hank wanted everything, and I was happy to give it to him – the entirety of our horribly dated shit from the 80s, namely all that boring beige House of Denmark furniture that had his Arschloch gestunken embedded in it. Also sent him packing with the Pyrex dish set (evil spirits be gone!) and his beloved waterbed. All of that... perfect for his new digs in his mother's garage. Years ago I had moved into my son's room after decades of tossing and turning on that shit bed. One night, our cat Prancer managed to unplug the waterbed heater, likely thinking the cheap cord was one of her string toys. As the night progressed, the bed got cooler and cooler until it reached the temperature of Lake Superior in mid-January (26°F), around 7:00 a.m. – the time my alarm goes off for work. Holy mother of god, I had muscle spasms in my back for two weeks. That was the last time I slept on that fucking bed or with Hank. His back was fucked up, too, but fortunately, Nadine let us come over and use her hot tub. It really helped. Hank was a bit shocked when she joined us in the tub, in the nude. His distress was palpable – a little like that scene from About Schmidt.
Damn I digress. Back to the story at hand... The book club ladies were, of course, intrigued to see what Hank had written up in the divorce decree, so we briefly suspended our readings from Rivers to the Sea and I cleared my throat and read the court order aloud, doing my best imitation of Hank's idiotic Chicago accent. Mentioned in the order was that last supper I had served him and the invoice from the ER where they had given him Imodium and a dehydration IV after his bowels opened up like the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 from my Ex-Lax brownies. Fortunately Nadine had a bottle of bubbly chilling in the fridge and flutes, so after we read a few Mary Oliver poems, we cracked open the Korbel and celebrated. Halle-fucking-lu-jah – Hank was history. We spent the rest of the evening dishing on Jesse the process server, who I decided to ask on a date, and talked about the annual fishing trip Nadine was planning. I knew that, as usual, I'd be the only one fishing with Nadine, and that, as usual, she'd spend the whole time trying to get me into the hot tub. Yes, without clothes. Let me tell you, there were times when I was living with Hank that I seriously entertained the notion. Nadine and her damn hot tubs. The divorce took all of one hearing to finalize, sadly for Hank. He arrived stoked up for a long drawn out fight, and had come armed with the most expensive attorney in town, no doubt paid for by his mommy. Attorney Matt Barzton, was a slob of the highest order, who wore a gold Rolex and walked with a swagger that had more to do with his huge gut than his sexual prowess. And he was so hypertensive he couldn't even button the top button on his dress shirt. Imagine Hank and Matt's surprise when I appeared pro se and instantly caved to Hank's request to take everything: the house, the car, the House of Denmark furniture, and my bookkeeping business. Matt seemed profoundly sad at the end of the hearing, likely because his gravy train had reached the station and it was time to disembark. Hank seems profoundly pissed, even though he had gotten everything, including my spice cabinet, of which I'd been especially proud.
As I exited the courthouse into the bright sunshine, there was Nadine in her spiffy turquoise Mercedes GLA SUV, ready to take me to my new home, the totally cherried out granny unit that sat behind her house. Fucking A. I seriously think Nadine imagined us living together in our old age even back in grade school. Before heading home, we swung by Wing Stop, where we each pigged out on an 8-piece combo. Then we made a beeline for Furry Friends Rescue, where I found the new love of my life, Chorizo. Life is good.
