Round about 1993, I met an asshole named Allen through the personals in the newspaper. Stop laughing and smirking. After all, the Internet was in diapers then, and dating websites were sketchy, clunky and relatively unknown. Besides, I didn’t own a computer until ’96.
Long story short, after dating for almost two+ years, Allen and I got married in August of ’95. Not long after, Allen accepted a job at Ohio State as a chemical engineer or something like that. I don’t speak geek, badly or otherwise. And off we went to Ohio.
At first, Allen’s rendition of the devoted stepfather was Oscar worthy. Max was 4, and Rory was 9. Taking them to the park, going camping, helping them build model airplanes and other father-feigning activities.
Then, came our first marital blowout, on Valentine’s Day, a mere six months into our marriage.
“You should give up custody of Max, to his dad, Allen said, his hazel eyes darkening to a murky, turd-water green. And his voice was stern and authoritative as if this crucifixion of my life and Max’s were an order, not a suggestion. Max was a little hellion, but he was FOUR! It’s not like he’d just wrecked Allen’s car or something.
*And for those who are new to my corral of crazy, Ashe is ex #2, mentioned in this post:
“NO FUCKING WAY!” Was my swift, blood-curdling reply.
And so it began, the first of many vicious brawls between us. This one ended with him slinging me into a cinder-block wall. He then barricaded me in our bedroom with a chair under the doorknob. I sat stunned on the scratchy, sculptured carpet for a moment, completely bewildered. My back and arms were wallpapered with sharp-edged bruises. But, luckily, no broken bones.
Taking a deep breath, I bit down on the anger, and ran into the door, shoulder first like a battering ram. I heard the wood splintering and made a second charge into the door. With a SPLAT, the door gave way, and I landed, sprawled across the door, which had plunked down atop the washer across the hall.
And there was Allen, holding a wooden shard from the kitchen chair I’d bashed into with the door. I think God saved me from breaking my pelvis that night, or the adrenalin padded my fall, who knows. Later, Allen confessed, he’d grabbed the chair just before I sacked it with the door a second time to lessen any acute injuries. How sweet – trying to minimize the blood bath he’d started. And I’d broken and dislocated his thumb to boot. Allen was a South Paw. After that, he had to learn to write with the opposite hand. Served him right…the bastard … 🙂 I was still raw from such a brutal exchange, so I called the police.
By the time the Sheriff arrived, Allen had gone to a motel to avoid “Anymore of my insolence.” Really? Interesting word choice. I was 26, not 12, and the word OBEY was not among our marital promises, but I guess in the warped world of Allen Costanza, I was still beholden to his whims, wants and rules. Fuck that. I didn’t alter my custody agreement with Ashe who had visitation on weekends. If Allen didn’t like it, too frickin’ bad!
A couple weeks later, Allen and I made a tentative truce of sorts. In that, I no longer wanted to boil him alive. Not two weeks later, I developed what I thought was a yeast infection. But I was SO wrong.
“I’m sorry, but you have a rash that is most likely from,” the Nurse said with a heavy sigh, her eyebrows twitching nervously, “Well, often caused by a spermicidal product used with a diaphragm,” the nurse continued delicately.
“But I’ve been on the pill since Max was born…” I couldn’t finish that sentence as the realization sunk in. I stared at the nurse speechless and slack-jawed. I didn’t own a diaphragm, nor had I ever used one.
I broke down sobbing knowing that I’d suffered with these damned hives that made me wanna sandpaper my crotch because of another woman’s birth control bullshit! Can you say DICKHEAD with a capital D?
And that was the end of Mr. and Mrs. Allen. I drove straight to his office, flung open the door and started screaming every disdainful adjective and four-letter word in my vast vocabulary. And I didn’t give a shit who heard me.
“See you in court, you lousy prick,” I sputtered sashaying my vindicated ass past his dough-eyed assistant, who’d been white-knuckling it the whole time while easing backward against a file cabinet as if fearing she was my next target. But she could drain his little ding dong dry for all I cared. I was DONE. However, I found out years later from a mutual friend, Allen had been boinking an ex-girlfriend who dumped him right after I did! Karma’s a bitch, is she not? 🙂
If all that weren’t bad enough, the month before our divorce was final, Allen darkened my doorway one sunny afternoon with claims of fiduciary misconduct.
“You’ve overdrawn our joint account.”
“I have not. I just balanced my checkbook yesterday after I got paid, and there was $75 left over.”
“Well, I suggest you straighten it out because they might debit my fucking business account for your mismanagement of funds.”
“I didn’t mismanage anything, you fucking ass hat. I’d bet my life it’s your fuck-up, not mine!” I hollered in a huff, slamming the door in his face.
When Allen and I split up, we agreed, through our lawyers, that I’d use the joint account, and he’d use his business account at the SAME BANK. And the $50 in our sad little savings was used to pay the fee for filing for the divorce.
While the neighbor watched my boys, I headed to the bank. When I walked in, there was Allen sitting with Brenda, a blonde in customer service, just lambasting me all to hell.
“And she kites checks all the time, so it’s no wonder. ” Allen explained in a very flat tone.
“Hello, Allen, what’s up?” I asked, smiling, wanting to bludgeon the smug off his face with a sledge hammer, but there wasn’t one handy.
His head snapped around, a sour face glaring up at mine. Not a word, just rolled his eyes.
For those unfamiliar with check kiting, according to dictionary.com, it’s “the unlawful practice of drawing checks against a bank account containing insufficient funds to cover them, with the expectation that the necessary funds will be deposited before such checks are presented for payment.”
- Guilty as charged.When you have two kids, and your ex-husband is behind on child support because he’s unemployed, and you make all of $14,000/year, kiting checks is the only way to avoid eating McDonald’s ketchup packets for dinner the night before payday. And I NEVER wrote checks for anything but groceries.
The ONLY time I ever bounced a check was because of Mountain State Savings’ jack-leg practices in 1990. Though I deposited my paychecks every Friday at noon, they weren’t credited until 12:01 AM Monday/hog-tying one’s cash until Tuesday. To-wit, I covered the bad check, closed the account and went to Bank One.
So, ANYWHO…I sat down beside Allen as Brenda explained, “Well, sir, the problem is your paychecks are being direct-deposited in your business account, but you’re withdrawing funds from the joint account with this debit card,” she said, holding up one of Allen’s GREEN ATM cards that he’d already given her. “This is the card for your business account,” she continued picking up a different GREEN card.
“So, you’ve mismanaged my account, Allen! How shocking,” I said, with a much deserved gigle.
“Shut up, you stupid cow!” Allen countered, his face glowing red.
Sticks and stones, my friend. Sticks and stones. When we opened our accounts with 1st National, all three ATM cards were green. I warned Allen to request a different colored card for his business account, so he wouldn’t mix them up. But he poo-pooed me. However, I ordered a flowered bank card for the joint account to avoid such issues.
Yes, t’was Christmas come early! He had to write a check for $440 to cover his debits from the WRONG ACCOUNT. In the end, our divorce cost him almost $5,000.
How’s that, you ask? Well, this post is long enough to choke a horse as it is…so tune in next time…for the conclusion of the Allen Fiasco and all its juicy…:)
And I’d like to THANK Facebook who sent me FLYING backward into the mental shadows of this shitty relationship after seeing its algorithmic prompt yesterday, which innocently said:
People you may know:
Red Bank, Wyoming
4 mutual friends…
WITH A PHOTO of his ugly mug staring at me from cyber space.
He’s currently separated from wife #8, and he’s rather bald. He also weighs somewhere north of 400 pounds! Meanwhile, I’ve lost 40 pounds since our demise. I hope that FB’s mystical auto friend prompter flung him the same message, so he can see how awesome I look in comparison. Regardless, I’d rather be horse-whipped than send him an invite!
Love and chocolate chip cookies – from fracked up central –
TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting HIPPIES
Tenacious Bitch © 2013