Did He Say ''Divorce?'': A Jilted Wife's Hope on How to Cope, Living Without That Dope!

By Ani Dylan MFCC and Joni Newman

Are you dividing up the pots and pans, or is he stealing your best china that was tucked away in boxes in the garage?
Whether you were married to the slob of suckers, or the king of control freaks, you will live vicariously in Joni Newmans humorous depictions of her victories and conquests while she helps you to achieve self-esteem, and leads you back to peace once again.

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This book is written with the Jilted Wife in mind--you and me. This is a self-help/how to/better-not-do-that/ book, which takes a fresh approach to the subject of divorce through humor. It is intended to show you that the light at the end of the tunnel isnt the train speeding down the tracks in your direction!
As a woman, a victim, an outcast, and the object of his evasive attitude and abusive temperament, I am a tad prejudice. If you are a woman who has been stung by her mans betrayal of lifes promises, and are no longer the Queen Bee in his honeycomb, (or do you wish it was his catacomb?) this book will help you through the intense and debilitating smut of a divorce.
I will tell you my story, and you can log your own story right beside mine. Well proceed down this bumpy avenue of life that is often gridlocked with his obstructions. Then, well trot uphill onto an elevated crest we never imagined we could reach, in light of a divorce.
This book will help you find purpose in life, laugh at the idiocy of his thinking, and put your confused feelings in perspective. Finally, you will learn how to validate your worth--not as his jilted wife--but as being your secure and confidential self. If you think youll never be able to tolerate your divorce, think again. No one taught you how to breathe, or spit, or ovulate, but you managed to perform these activities without training in boot camp!
Well go through this together. Ill explore my hurt feelings, and you will recognize them. And through it all, well discard the maniac who disassembled our lives, while we beam with confidence at the pure joy of independence. Well nurture our souls and hearts by building a much better life for ourselves and our families.
Well graduate from the whipped-wimp image of ourselves that he molded to suit himself. As we bring in the junior Red Cross to glue our clay-mation Gumby character back to her original formation, well give a new meaning to mutual bonds. Well explore all the avenues on which you may travel, but none will lead you to a dead-end. Also, Ill add a touch of humor. Its difficult, I know, but it is better to laugh at the truth that sometimes seems surreal.
At the conclusion of most chapters, I will give you perceptive perspectives, therapy thoughts, little life lessons, and jokes. Ill also include some husband-bashing, which should make you feel a lot better.
All those innuendoes, insults, and intrusive aspersions that we have unjustly suffered, will now be explored, swallowed, and eventually put to death. Well make our heartaches turn into his headaches. Well watch our dreams grow without him putting up obstacles and hurdles, for which we used to apologize and ultimately regurgitate. Youll share with me my thoughts, criticisms, opinions, and plots for revenge. And I know youll come up with a few of your own. Well explore, compare, and examine our divorce through alternative viewpoints: The Three Trimesters of Divorce, and the Five Stages of Grief. Ill even tell you my Secret for Happiness! And in the end, well be much better off without that speed bump we once called a husband.
DID HE SAY DIVORCE? D-D-Divorce. Okay, so I stuttered a little at the D word. Who wouldnt stutter if they had the rug pulled out from them, especially if that rug came off the top of his bald head?

So, here you are, tripping over that D word too. You may be left with financial burdens, emotional abandonment, and no more supplies of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. How

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2000
• ISBN: 9781465315977

Ani Dylan MFCC

Joni Newman wrote her first novel at age 11, and has been writing since she can remember. In the last five years, she has received 23 awards for first and second place in poetry, article, and short story contests. She enrolled in “The Institute of Children’s Literature” course for a two-year study. After graduating the course, she studied with the Institute for two more years, and finished their post-graduate course with a second diploma. Joni has been published in Knight-Ridder newspapers, various magazines, and a coffee-table book. Currently, she is editing and revising students’ manuscripts, and writers’ short stories, scripts and novels. She belongs to “The Professional Writers’ League of Long Beach,” where she serves as Corresponding Secretary and producer of each year’s Anthology. Since her husband of more than 18 years ran away from home, she wanted to help betrayed wives find the humor of a divorce in progress. Joni believes that humor is the best therapy. That’s why she wrote this book.

Book preview

THE FIVE STAGES OF GRIEF . . . AND THEN SOME

Trudging through the muddy waters of a divorce is similar to the grieving process, after a loved one has passed on. It doesn’t matter if you threw his sorry ass out the door, or if he left you and your six kids for some babe’s tight buns.

You may still experience the five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining/Revenge, Depression and Acceptance.

It’s essential that you know you may return to any of these stages during your recovery. Also, you may skip a stage or two. Or, if you’re ecstatic about your divorce, you might heave a sigh of relief, crawl into the sheets with your boyfriend, and slip right into the Acceptance stage.

Either way, let’s begin probing the process.

PART I

DENIAL

MARRIAGE; WAS YOUR’S FIT TO BE TIED?

In retrospect, I was in denial for the entire 18 V years of my marriage. We had our share of shades of gray, but I was color-blinded by the illusion of being in love.

Those romantic songs on the radio were made for us. Emily Bronte poems, Gone-With-the-Wind-like movies were where my heart lived, with him. However, while I was living vicariously in Doris Day movies, he memorized Boris Karloff horror flicks.

All right. Let me bring the generation gap up a notch.

Let’s say you lived your dream in films like Sleepless in Seattle, and you wanted to be Meg Ryan. (who wouldn’t?) But he was emulating Die-Hard-Robo-Cop-Rambo-Power-Ranger-Some-thing-or-Other. While you were romancing in your heart, he turboed his way through the Star Wars Epics, crossed The Temple of Doom, and had Indiana Jones over for cocktails.

I realize I’m not an expert at keeping a marriage together; otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing this book. But I can throw out some danger signals which might open your eyes. During my marriage, I didn’t know how to stick out my tongue at what was staring me in the face. Naivete at 46 isn’t funny—it’s pathetic.

So, now I know. I’ll share some caution signs with you.

SIX WAYS TO TELL IF YOUR MARRIAGE IS ON THE ROCKS

1.   When the open-mouth, tongue-probing kiss turns to a little peck (his mouth) on the cheek, check the calendar to see if your seventh anniversary is approaching. If not, and you’ve been married only a few years, you’d better re-assess your romance department, girl. It’s up to you to keep the romance alive. He’ll keep the sex alive, if he hasn’t found someone else. So, don’t worry about that sex thing as long as he is consistent, and doesn’t develop a hitch in his hmm-hmm.

2.   When love starts to feel like lust, and lust comes a lot faster than those days when he waited for you; now you’re lucky if you get in three moans, one whimper, and a don’t-stop-now phrase before he rolls over, and snores g’night.

3.   In the male species, ego comes first, his girlfriend is second, and sports, fishing or poker come in third. Consider yourself lucky to come in fourth. But if you find yourself continuously slipping down his list of priorities, look out!

Your number four position could be replaced with:

missing image file A Mini skirts

missing image file Bikinis

missing image file A Women mud wrestlers

missing image file Getting the hots for the 17-year-old waitress at McDonald’s.

missing image file A Books by Mark Twain

missing image file A Fun games of billiards every Saturday night

missing image file A His stamp collection

missing image file His life-time subscription to National Geographic Magazine

missing image file A Cake decorating

missing image file A Washing the dogs

missing image file Changing the newspaper in the bird’s cage

missing image file A Stargazing

1.   Let’s take that last point of Fun Things to do Without You—stargazing. If he begins to tune you out, and his eyes gaze into the heavens, his focus may have nothing to do with the constellations in the dark of the night. It is no longer a guessing game of what’s he thinking about? You already know he isn’t thinking about you. So put on your Dr. Spock ears, your Twilight Zone antennas, and your Superman x-ray vision. Maybe then, you’ll find out why he has drifted so far away from you. If you discover that he is Lost in Space, now is the time to see a marriage counselor—before it’s too late—when ultimately, you may visit your attorney.

2.   If he forgets your anniversary, he just might be normal. This is one of the few times in life when you can make him feel guilty, and he will respond with apologies and candy. Take advantage of this day when he will feel sorry for hurting you. Also, this may be the only day when he will admit that he is wrong.

But if he forgets Mothers’ Day (providing you are a mother,) and chooses to spend it with the boys attending a motorcross event, you’d better speak up with all the hurt and tears you can muster.

A good guilt statement might be; I don’t care so much that you have forgotten me, but as the mother of your child, I feel sorry for little Percy who needs his father. I think you should set a good example for him.

Don’t worry about the fact that this is Mothers’ Day instead of Fathers’ Day. He won’t get it.

If all else fails, remind him of the nine months when you were pregnant, and knocked over the gumball machine in the supermarket when you didn’t realize you were sticking out that far. Pull out all your cards where you are the queen of hearts and he is the jackass. If he doesn’t succumb to your ingenious ploys, then he is too far removed from your marriage. Better see a shrink together, or get down on your knees and pray.

3.   When you plan that romantic candlelight dinner for two—to show your affection for him—be on the lookout for signs that are not served with your ambience.

You pour each other a glass of wine and begin the toast; To us, darling.

He has another agenda, isn’t interested, or doesn’t grasp the romantic gig.

But I don’t like wine. Gotta beer around here? he says.

Anything you want, sweetheart. You run to fetch his blessed beer.

I can’t see what I’m eating, he says in the romantic candlelight atmosphere. Is this your goofy meatloaf recipe? You know I hate it.

No, darling, you say, biting your tongue, This is Coc Au Vin Blanc. You thought you could impress him, but perhaps your French pronunciation wasn’t as accurate as you thought.

What about a cock? he says.

No, honey. You are patient, even though you’re ready to leap over the candles, and don’t care if your skirt catches on fire, as long as you can wring his double-chin neck. But you contain yourself.

This is chicken with white wine—a French cuisine.

Then, why is it called ‘Cock-something-or-other-blank’? Does this have something to do with my penis?

What an ego. What an idiot. What a mess!

Once again, you swallow his unsavory remarks.

Just taste it, darling. You’ll love it. I made it especially for you.

Okay, he says, reluctantly. I’ll try it. But if I don’t like it, I’m sending out for Chinese.

You stupid son-of-a . . . no, you can’t think that at this time. Be smart. Be careful. Be loving. You’re trying to get him in a romantic mood, so you two can be closer.

He chews, he swallows, he gulps, he burps.

Not too bad, he says.

He continues eating, while you try to start up a meaningful conversation.

So, what did you do today, honey? Did you make any sales?

Mmmpph. Burp. Yeah. Made a few . . . guzzle . . . sales, he replies.

At least he likes your food, you say to yourself.

You know, sweetheart, I made this dinner especially for you. I love you dearly.

Uh huh. Gulp. Thanks. Got any more beer?

Anything to please you, my wonderful husband.

You get up to get his precious beer, as his burps match your footsteps to the refrigerator.

There you go, darling. You set his beer beside the empty can he guzzled down in four minutes. You must be thirsty tonight.

What’s that suppose to mean?

Why, nothing, darling, you say, trying not to swallow your tongue. Isn’t this romantic? A candlelight dinner, and classical music in the background.

Yeah, sure. Where are the rolls? I can’t see anything. Can’t you turn up the lights so we can at least see what we are eating?

But that would ruin the mood.

Oh, you’re always trying to be sooooo romantic.

What’s wrong with that? You ask.

Well, in the first place, I hate classical music. Why don’t you put on Metallica, or some rap music?

But that’s not romantic.

What is this stick you have up your butt? he asks.

You want to sling your plate across the table, and hope it lands in his face, but you are silent. You certainly don’t want to get into another argument. You worked too long and too hard on this endeavor. So, you continue to eat silently. You don’t respond to his question.

Are you sulking now? Do you . . . burp . . . have any more complaints, or controlling ideas that you planned for the evening?

By this time, you have wrung your napkin around your wrists three times. It’s all you can do to keep silent. But, you’ll get chastised for that too.

I’m not trying to be controlling. I just wanted a romantic dinner for the two of us; alone, together, and with no disturbances.

Okay, so we’re alone. You’ve turned out the lights, turned on music that turns me off, and I can’t see a damn thing I’m eating.

I just wanted to show my love for you. That’s all. You acquiesce, and retreat in silence.

Oh, he says, I think you have an ulterior motive. What are you trying to say to me? I’m not romantic? I don’t love you? Hell! I show you every day that I love you. What are you trying to get from me? More money for clothes, or toys? I mean, maybe I should be asking you; ‘How much do you love me?’

Forget the communication—he’s out to lunch.

Forget the closeness—he’s in limbo.

Forget the romance—he’s off the page.

Maybe you could put him in the dog pound. No. That wouldn’t be fair to the doggies.

Finally, after dinner, you say to him, I love you so much, I could shit.

How’s that for romance?

Diddily Squawk and all that poppycock.

CALL THERAPY . . . NOW!

DID HE SAY DIVORCE?

D-D-Divorce. Okay, so I stuttered a little at the D word. Who wouldn’t stutter if they had the rug pulled out from them, especially if that rug came off the top of his bald head?

So here you are, tripping over that D word, too. You may be left with financial burdens, emotional abandonment, and no more supplies of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. How dare he bail out of a marriage that promised you Chinese food every other Thursday. Why not tell the judge, This is mental cruelty.

It’s not fair. You did everything for him. You ran to the supermarket for his cigarettes and bottles of burgundy wine, even though your varicose veins bulged like Mr. Magoo’s eyes. You bathed until you were squeaky clean, but when he came home from work, he brought his filthy problems inside for you to swallow and choke on, until you turned blue. Then, he scolded you for not paying enough attention to him when he walked through the door because you didn’t take his pulse.

He cursed you for listening to old Johnny Mathis records when you had PMS. He lashed out at you for not being home when the UPS man was to deliver a trilogy of videotapes about Tammy-Sue’s and Bambi-Bunny’s adventures with Iron-man Playboy in Fantasy Island. You couldn’t refute his accusations because you knew you would be laid to rest next to the goldfish he buried in your backyard, with ice cream sticks for a cross on your grave. Either way, you got blamed, right down to not sending his holy socks to psychotherapy.

Divorce is scary, no matter how old you are.

Divorce at 22, with two crawling-under-the-table kids is frightening. Now, there is no man to piece together your tremors, or pick up little Tommy’s toys. There is no money, no honey, and no alimony. You’re stuck, girl. Just like . . .

Divorce at 46. Your mind has gone to hell, and can’t grasp the garbage he left for you to digest. Your knees creak, your eyes leak, and your sexual life stinks. Life in the 40+ years has no insurance policy, or warrantee that can keep your body from a meltdown. Your mind is fumbling around with all those foreign finances, while you feed it daily doses of Prozac.

Let’s fact it, girl. Whatever age . . . in the post-puberty period of men’s cruel cramps, or in menopause madness . . . it still hurts.

Now that he is gone, you may look at life from a different point of view, like faith verses frivolity.

*You trusted him . . . he lusted her.

*Your marriage was filled with elation . . . his conquests were filled with ejaculations.

*During the rough times, you knelt down to pray . . . during the rough times, he knelt down and captured his prey.

*You kept your marriage alive with romantic adulations . . . he kept his ego alive with her admirations.

*You blew a kiss to him as he went off to work . . . he blew you off, as he worked on a new kisser.

*You gave him the best years of your life . . . he gave her the time of her life.

*You bent over backwards to please him . . . he asked her to bend over backwards, and he was pleased.

Jump-starting a new life during a divorce is as frightening as Alice in Wonderland’s diary.

Why am I here? Where am I going? Who am I? Why did I grow smaller?

Now that you have decided to get out of your hellhole, you might need a reduction tablet to get your bloated brain through this bizarre labyrinth of divorce.

If you feel those doors to your liberation are too small, and you don’t have the key that unlocks his schemes of smoke rings, then maybe it’s time for you to cut down those hedges that have blocked your view to freedom. If you are swimming in your tears, up to your ears, keep treading water, girl. Before you know it, you’ll swim your way to freedom.

Whether you are 22 or 82; if your lifestyle—or life sentence—reminds you of that hellhole, life from now on will be better than when he painted you into that corner.

Divorce isn’t easy, and it is important that you do what is right. I realize that word right is a generalization, so I will scale it down for you.

SCREW HIM . . . LOVE YOU!

If you have married a stupendous stud, or a wilting weasel, you don’t deserve any abuse. Maybe by now, you have had enough. Maybe that is why you are reading this book. Maybe it’s time to try on a new YOU.

Put on your lip-gloss girl, and let’s get your life back in order. And soon, you’ll no longer be in Wonderland.

JUST WONDERING: I asked my newly divorced friend What are you looking for in a man?

Her response: "His absence!"

JOKE: During a heated spat over finances, the wife said, Well, if you would learn how to mow the lawn, we could fire the gardener.

The husband shot back, oh yeah? Well, if you would learn how to make love, we could fire the maid and the cook.

THE THREE TRIMESTERS OF DIVORCE

Your body and mind are in a quandary. Your world is in a transitional state of idiotic, vacillating dilemmas. Your husband is great . . . at making your life miserable. You have no boundaries that are familiar to you. Your life is as predictable as a mime getting arrested for uncontrollable outbursts on Hollywood Boulevard. You feel that something unfamiliar is lurking in your body/ mind/soul, and somehow, he has caused it all.

It takes nine months for a baby to grow inside you. It takes just about the same time