Pickleball, Friends, and Wine...Because Therapy Is Too Expensive!

By Marlene Bell

This is an emotionally compelling, laugh out loud, snarky novella written  by, for, and about "women of a certain age." 

Ellen, self-diagnoses as a pissed off, menopausal crazy lady when her husband, Dumbass, leaves her for another woman taking with him half the equity in Ellen's home and business. On the verge of a nervous breakdown, Ellen resentfully attends therapy with Libby, who helps Ellen work through her feelings of anger and betrayal, and the fear of starting a new life at 52.

Newly homeless, Ellen rents a room from college "friend" Roxie, where Ellen quickly discovers that Roxie has become a boozing, thieving, narcissist who mistreats Benny, her adorable golden retriever. Resisting the urge to throw her car into reverse, roll over Roxie, and screech away, Ellen stays to protect Benny.

At the local dog park, Ellen becomes fast friends Claire and Annie. With their help, Ellen discovers a passion for pickleball and devises a plan to win custody of Benny!

Will pickleball, zany new friends, therapy, and lots of wine help Ellen leave her doormat existence behind, save sweet Benny, and find more than just a game on the pickleball court?

 

Pickleball, Friends, and Wine...Because Therapy Is Too Expensive! is NOT limited to pickleball players. The book is funny, insightful, inspirational and makes a great gift or book club read. ALL women of a certain age can relate to and enjoy this book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marlene Bell
• Release date: Jan 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224671618

Book preview

1

Spitting Nails

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My world imploded when my husband died. With the departure of his soul, so too went my spirit. For years, I was an empty shell, merely existing to raise our daughters. But then, as the fairytale goes, I met my prince charming. He pulled me out of my hole of despair by offering me a lifeline of love, and in return I offered him half ownership in both my thriving business and my nearly paid-off home. Which, surprise … he reluctantly accepted.

Thirteen years and half a step away from a nervous breakdown later, I was no longer blinded by love, and could see that his lifeline of love was a line of bullshit and a way to worm me out of half of everything I owned.

My daughters, without seeking my approval, paid for an audience with the great and powerful Oz. They believed that with his assistance, I would depart my hell on earth and return to my white picket fence world. So, I sat in a generic waiting room, hid my face behind a magazine, and waited to be summoned.

Ellen …?

I raised my bloodshot eyes toward the woman standing in front of me, who looked more like Aunt Em than Oz. She had blue eyes, a gentle smile, and short silver hair. Her purple dress, black leather boots, and gold quartz jewelry reminded me of the way I used to dress – stylish, professional, but that was before I fell down a rabbit hole of anger and disgust.

Lately fashion wasn’t on the agenda. Neither was makeup, daily showering, or clean clothes. I wore whatever was piled on the treadmill. Today’s ensemble was a pair of wrinkled jeans and a dark grey sweater, both of which I wore yesterday … and possibly last Tuesday. And the piece de resistance was a pair of well-worn, dirt stained Uggs. -- I was going through enough pain without having my bunions squashed.

I’m Libby, the woman quietly said. Steve had an unexpected family emergency and he’s out of town for a month. I’m helping with his clients. I’d be glad to have a session with you if you’d like.

Yeah, sure. I said flatly. Whatever.

Let’s go back to my office.

Ugh.

Here we are, Libby announced as she opened the door. I stood frozen in the doorway and watched as she settled into a chestnut colored, zero gravity recliner, then motioned toward the brown suede couch across from her.

The crazy couch. Isn’t it supposed to be black leather?

I trudged through the office trying to identify the diplomas on the wall but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw her pick it up. The Notepad.

Have I become one of those people? A person whose life story gets written down between the lines of a therapist’s notepad. What the hell happened to me?

Please, make yourself comfortable.

I hesitantly sat down.

My office is a safe place where you can express your thoughts without fear of judgment, she said gently, yet directly. I’ve been a practicing therapist for close to thirty years. My goal is to help my clients live their authentic life.

Whatever lady. I’m just here to bitch for an hour.

So, Ellen, what brings you here today?

I’m nuts.

Nuts? Libby responded with a raised eyebrow.

"I should say crazy. That’s better, right? Don’t worry, I’m normal crazy -- not get the men with the white coat kind of crazy."

Oh, normal crazy … She digested the words. "To be honest, I don’t care for the word crazy. There are many reasons why someone might feel crazy. Some people might need medication. Others need therapy. Some people need emotional support. And others just need to vent. Keeping negative energy bottled up inside will make someone feel crazy even though they’re perfectly sane. Tell me, why do you think you’re here?"

Honestly, I’m only here because my daughters paid for the session, and I don’t want to waste their money.

"Why do you think they scheduled a session for you?"

They’re sick of listening to me bitch. Sorry, vent. Who can blame them? I’m like a broken record and I can’t stop.

Give me an idea of what’s going on.

I don’t even know where to start. -- There’s Dumbass. Dumbass and B.B. My business is going to hell. I’m half a step away from having a nervous breakdown. I’m so angry I could scream. And look at me. I look like crap. Even worse, I don’t care.

Let’s start at the beginning. Who’s Dumbass?

My lying, cheating, moron of a husband.

Who’s B.B.?

It’s an acronym for his idiot girlfriend.

What does B.B. stand for?

Originally it stood for Brunette Bitch. Now it stands for Barf Bag.

Barf Bag? Libby questioned, looking a little grossed out.

Yeah, because every time I think of her, I want to barf. Great! Another hot flash.

I took a tissue out of my jeans pocket and blotted the perspiration from my forehead and cheeks. Libby took extensive notes, which further aggravated me. I was there to bitch, not to watch her scribble. Besides, what was the point? I wasn’t coming back.

How long have you been married?

Ten years. We dated three years before that. Dumbass used to say that I was smokin’ hot and looked like the St. Pauli girl. You know, the one on the beer bottle. Now he says that I look like Ethel Mertz, from ‘I Love Lucy.’

Believe me, you look more like the St. Pauli girl.

Yeah, right, lady. I’m old, not blind.

What’s your husband’s real name?

Dumbass is his real name.

What’s the name on his birth certificate?

On his birth certificate … Baby Dumbass.

For the sake of objectivity, would you mind if I call him by another name?

Darrell. I snapped.

Darrell?

Sure, why not? It sounded close enough to Dumbass to give me some satisfaction.

Okay, Darrell it is. So, Darrell and B.B. Libby gently tapped the pad with the tip of her pen and deliberated. Cautiously she asked, Now that I know what B.B. stands for, would you mind if I call her by another name?

You seem to have a problem with realistic names, I groaned, not caring if I seemed antagonistic. After all, I was being my authentic self … a pissed off, menopausal, crazy lady.

You can call her Bessie. You know, like Bessie the cow.

Libby bit down on her lower lip to deny a smile.

I’m going to keep calling her Barf Bag or B.B.

Fair enough, Libby said. Tell me about … Darrell and … Bessie.

B.B. started posting on Dumbass’s Facebook page over a year ago, but in the past couple of months, the posts began to be filled with heart and blowing kisses emojis. I asked him what the hell was going on, and he said that they were just friends, and that I was overreacting. And she’s married, to top it off.

How do you know she’s married?

It’s a small town.

How did you find out about the affair?

Dumbass told me. The jerk woke me up in the middle of the night and told me that he was in love with her and that he was going to leave me. -- It was like a bad, sick joke, or something. -- I asked him if he was fucking kidding me, and that’s when he started telling me about how wonderful he thinks she is. Talk about adding insult to injury! -- I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I still can’t! I told Dumbass that I was going to tell her husband, and he threatened to ruin my business. He threatened to ruin me. ME! After all the years of treating him like a king!

It’s possible that she might not tell her husband or divorce him.

HA! Oh God, I’d laugh! Dumbass would be so burned!

If she doesn’t leave her husband, would you want to stay married to Darrell?

No! Why would I do that?!

There are many reasons why couples stay together … to keep the family together, religious beliefs, financial ties, codependency, fear --

-- Not me. I’m done!

When did he tell you about the affair?

"Three weeks ago.

Where’s he living?

"At home. HA! It’s no longer a home! Now, it’s just a house. It was my house! But being a fool in love, I added him to the title when we got married. So, legally it’s our house."

Are you and Darrell still intimate?

It’s just hallway sex.

Hallway sex?

That’s when we pass each other in the hallway and say, ‘Fuck you.’

Libby tried to suppress a giggle as she wrote. I wondered if she was documenting all this crap or just jotting down my hallway sex joke.

Earlier you mentioned your daughters. Any other children?

No.

Tell me a little about your daughters.

Maggie is twenty-six and just graduated culinary school in Napa. Molly is twenty-eight and a CPA in San Francisco. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here.

Where would you be?

Somewhere sucking down a bottle of wine or gulping down a gallon of ice cream.

I’m glad you made the healthy choice to come here. -- You said that you began dating Darrell thirteen years ago, so obviously he’s not their father.

Paul was their father.

Was?

Yes. We got married after college.

What happened?

He was killed by a drunk driver fifteen years ago.

I’m sorry.

Thanks.

So, is Darrell your second husband?

Yep.

What do you two do for a living?

We have an interior design company. I majored in interior design and minored in architecture. Dumbass is a contractor and we met through work. After we got married, I made him a partner in my company.

Oh, like the shows on HGTV?

Sure, if the H stood for Hell.

Why do you say that?

It just keeps getting harder and harder.

How so?

"Having to deal with him and his huge ego. He loves to take the credit for everything, but he avoids problems like the plague. I tried to inhale a deep breath, but it got stuck in my chest, and just added to the pain. It pisses me off that I’m the one who created the business and made it successful. Not him. But you should hear him go on and on. He acts like the sun rises and sets on him."

How’s business going?

It was great, but now … We’re working on two houses. They should both be finished but Dumbass is MIA half the time. The owners call and ask me where he is. What am I supposed to say? That he’s out screwing his girlfriend.

Have you considered hiring additional help to get the projects completed?

Yep. All the good contractors are booked.

Have you given marriage counseling any thought?

"Are you kidding? Do you think that I want to sit here and listen to him complain? Really? Then he can tell you how the affair is all my fault."

How so?

Long story short, he says that I’m no fun anymore, and that I don’t give him the attention that he thinks he deserves.

What kind of attention?

Attention is the wrong word. He really means excitement, like the thrill cheaters get from out-of-town rendezvous and hook-ups at the No Tell Motel. I dabbed my forehead with the tissue. After all the years we’ve spent together, he totally betrays me! I was good to him! And my thanks? Being used, cheated on, and lied to!

Do you have a game plan?

Game plan? Really, lady? I’m barely making it through the day. There’s no game plan. All I know is that Dumbass agreed to complete the projects. He plans to stay at my house until Barf Bag leaves her husband, then he plans to ride off into the sunset … and hopefully over a cliff! -- Can you believe this shit? -- The jerk won’t leave! And I can’t throw him out! Dumbass owns half the house. I pulled my hair away from my sweat-beaded forehead. Does it say, ‘wipe feet here’ or does it just feel that way? When did I become such a doormat? What happened to me? I used to have a great life. Now, all I do is work and take care of everything.

Unfortunately, most women put everyone and everything before them. They put themselves on the backburner.

On the back burner?! I’m not even on the stove!

I understand how you feel, and I’d like to help you through this trying time. I’d offer you the next hour, but I have another client scheduled.

Well, thanks for listening to me bitch, I said, standing to leave. Sorry. I meant vent.

Ellen, the first session is more of a general discovery session, and an hour is not enough time to get to the root of the problem. If you’d like, I can schedule an appointment for next week.

I wanted another appointment like I wanted to throw Dumbass a birthday party. But it was selfish of me to dump my marital problems on the girls. Afterall, Dumbass was their stepfather and a large part of their childhood. Maybe if I got therapy, I could help Maggie and Molly, instead of burdening them. Besides, listening to people bitch … or work through their problems, was something that Libby was trained to do. And somehow, she managed to do it for thirty years without jumping off a building or becoming