Feb 27 2012
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Bad Behavior, F Bombs, Humility

Jail, Part Two

My immediate reaction was to make friends with my cellmate.  After all, we’d be hanging out together for at least eight hours, so I might as well make the most of the situation.

“Hi,” I said, still clutching my Prisoner’s Receipt.  I carefully sat down on the bench next to her.

The woman flashed her wild eyes at me, stood up, pulled her pants down and peed in the toilet.

All right, then.

She finished her business, sniffed loudly and curled herself up into a little ball on the bench.  Within two minutes, she was snoring.

Okayyyyy.  Maybe we can be friends when she wakes up.

I shifted my sit bones on the hard bench.  Then, I realized I should probably call someone to let them know I was in jail.  I would eventually be needing a ride home.  I picked up the receiver to the payphone and dialed my dad’s home number.  It was well past 2:00 a.m., so the phone rang and rang.  Finally, the answering machine picked up my call.

I took in a deep breath, about to leave a message, but an automated recording from my end of the line interrupted me.

“Hello.  You are receiving a collect call from A PRISONER in the Los Angeles County Jail.  Please say ‘yes’ or press 1 to accept charges. This call WILL BE RECORDED.”

Wow, way to rub it in, people.  I’m a prisoner with zero rights, who can only make COLLECT calls. 

I couldn’t leave a message, because no one was available to accept the charges, so I called back.  Someone finally answered, but immediately hung up.

Come on!  Somebody answer the damn phone! 

I called again and again, but the phone kept ringing.

My cellmate kept snoring.

I sighed, and tried my mother.  I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, so it was humiliating to have to have a conversation with her like this.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” I obviously had woken her from her sleep.  I started to speak, but that damn automated recording stopped me.

“Hello.  You are receiving a collect call from A PRISONER in the Los Angeles County Jail…”

I heard my mother say “yes” about a thousand times, and then, finally: “Leslie?”

I swallowed whatever pride was left in me.

“Hi, Mom.  Um…obviously I’m in jail.”

“Oh, Leslie…what happened?”

I burst into tears.

“IwashavingwinewithmygirflriendsandIwastextinganddrivingandgotpulledoverandtheyhandcuffedmeandtookmetojailandIaminacellwithawomanwhoiscrackedoutandI’mtryingtomakethemostofitandfeelinglikeashitbutalsoabadass…

I started to laugh through my tears.

My mother’s voice sounded tired, worried and empathetic.  I regaled the details of the story to her.  She tried to encourage me, and expressed that she was glad I wasn’t hurt, or had hurt anyone else.  I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.  She offered to come pick me up, but she lived almost three hours away.  I asked her to call my dad at a decent time to let him know where I was.

Then, an officer opened up the door.  My cellmate stirred in her drug-induced sleep.

“Spencer.  Time for your mugshot and prints.”

Criminal.

“I gotta go, Mom.”  I hung up the phone and wiped my tears away.

The officer flirted with me.

“So, how’d you get here?”  He asked, as he rolled my right pointer finger from the ink pad onto my rap sheet.

I have a rap sheet.

“I mean, I know you were drunk, but…”

I sighed.

“I made a mistake, man.”

“What’d you blow?”

Why is this guy so curious? 

“Point 1-0.”

He smiled at me.  “It happens to the best of us.  Next time you should really get one of those mini breathalyzers.  It’ll save you a lot of money and hassle in the long run.  Or just wait a little longer before getting in the car.”

NEXT TIME?  There will be no “next time”, thank you very much.  Furthermore, why is everyone being so nice to me?  I’m a fucking criminal.  I’m a piece of shit.  I must be some sort of alcoholic, too, because I’m a drunk driver.  I deserve what I got.

He then snapped my mug shot.  I smiled for the camera.

Might as well make the best of it.

The officer showed me the picture.

“You take a pretty good mug shot, Spencer!”

I studied it.  My hair fell perfectly to one side, and my smile was golden.   A small smudge of mascara had streaked across my right cheek.  My eyes were red and swollen from crying, yet they were present; bright.  I peered closer.  I could almost see the deep pain in my green eyes.  Oddly enough, there was also a sense of total surrender.

“Yeah, I guess it’s not so bad,” I shrugged.  “Wish it were under different circumstances.”

He smiled at me again.

“You’ll be all right.  You’ll be outta here soon.”

Again, what’s with the nice? 

“Thanks.  Oh, by the way, what is the address of this place?”

The officer looked at me.  “How are you going to remember an address?”

“Because I’m good with numbers?” I raised my eyebrows and shot him a sly smile.

“7600 South Broadway.”  He flashed a smile back.

“Oh!  So I’m downtown,” I said, thinking aloud.

He laughed, looked at me almost incredulously, and shook his head.  “Something like that, yes.”

The kind officer deposited me back into the concrete room and locked the door.  I quickly called my mom back and gave her the address.

My cellmate was awake.

“Hi, again,” I offered.  I smiled, feebly, and kicked a tuft of hair away from the toe of my boot.

“Hi,” she replied, nervously.

“Soooo, what are you in here for?” I asked.

Did you REALLY just ask the crackhead what she was “in here for?”

“Domestic violence,” she replied, and scratched her head.

“Oh.  I’m sorry.”

I started to ask her more about herself.  To this day I wish I could remember her name.  She was 41 years old, and had twin boys.  They were 20 years old.  She had gotten in a fight with her boyfriend, she explained, and mumbled some other inaudible details about how she landed in jail, AGAIN.

“We should be getting food soon,” she sniffed.

I listened as she continued to talk, and marveled at how life behind bars (or concrete walls, rather) was so commonplace to some people.  At the same time, I started to realize that I was no different from this woman who had pain in her life.  She didn’t mean to hurt anyone.  I could tell that much just by carrying on a five-minute conversation with her.

She finished answering my questions, and then said, “If you don’t mind, I’m really tired.”

“Oh, of course.  I hope you feel better.”

“Thank you.”

She lay back down and fell asleep, almost instantly.  I decided that sleep might not be such a bad idea.  I lay down opposite her, and curled my legs up as close to my body as possible.  I covered my head with the hood of my fancy sweater, and hugged myself tight.  I shut my eyes.

The halls echoed with the sounds of the system.  Keys rattled, doors opened and shut.  The television down the hall blared and faded.  Officers talked and laughed loudly; prisoners occasionally yelled and pounded on the door.  Perhaps the sound that was most deafening was that of footsteps: back and forth, back and forth. Each time, the footsteps passed me by.  It was agonizing.

I just wanted out, but no one was coming for me.

Feb 21 2012
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Funny

The Dance Call

I figured we all needed a little break from the heaviness of the last few chapters, no?

Inspired by my ridiculous behavior at an audition today, I have decided to re-post my very first blog entry, ever.

For about two years, I kept a fluffy little blog that was read mostly by a few friends and family members.  It’s amazing to look back at my struggles as a young, 20-something, married Christian girl.  I was searching for identity and security, and longing for devoted, faithful love.  Five years later, I am still searching for those things, except that through my brokenness, I have discovered a deeper, more satisfying life.  Through times of abundance and times of struggle; tears and laughter; joy and pain; longing, heartache, determination — and — simply clinging to hope, I’m becoming more of who I am.  I’m being molded into more of the person whom God created me to be.

Of course, I’m still funny as hell.  Even funnier, maybe.

So, please — sit back, relax, and enjoy a little break from the drama of divorce, sister wives and jail.  I leave you with the original post that inspired me to start a blog in the first place.

Every girl should be front and center, wearing a tiara.

THE DANCE CALL
April 19, 2007 

I strongly dislike dance calls.

Let me explain. I am not quite sure that the non-actor/singer/dancer/performer quite fully understands the type of pressure that we (actors/singers/dancers/performers) put upon ourselves. There’s the pre-pressure: warming up the vocals, going over the sides (script) and “stretching” for the dance call.

My idea of stretching consists of doing the butterfly pose that I learned as a 3-year old in ballet at the Montessori Preschool, then reaching over my right and then left leg. I’ve always been able to get by with high kicks because I’m a fitness instructor. There’s no need, in my mind, for this demonstration of pre-dance ability in front of all your competitors. There’s pressure enough when you get into the room and have two seconds to learn an entire combination, and then perform it as if you learned it in the womb.

This particular audition was very specific. From the phone call I received from the casting office, it was clear they were looking for “triple threat” performers. It’s no wonder why the actor hates to sing; the singer hates to dance; and the dancer hates to sing. Your average performer is usually better at one of the three skills. In musical theatre, you usually get singer/actors, or dancers, and, if you’re extremely lucky, you’ll find a triple threat.

I used to refer to myself as a triple threat. Ha. Somewhere between playing Rizzo in a highly energetic, technically choreographed version of “Grease” in 1999 and today, I’ve lost my dancer’s edge. Mainly, though, I haven’t focused much on taking dance classes – I’ve always been able to slide by, either faking it, or getting in because of my charm, good looks and golden pipes. I decided that, sure, I still had it. I mean, dancing is like riding a bike, right? Double pirouettes? No problem.

The casting assistant was specific.

“Can you do battements and fouettés?”

“Of course,” I replied, scurrying online and looking up the ballet terms to refresh my memory.

“This is, after all, a triple-threat performer’s show,” he warned. “If you think you can do it, start stretching now. We’ll see you on Wednesday!”

I looked at the calendar. It was Friday. I had five days to regain my triple threat status.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added, sounding something between mocking and sadistic, “You’ll need to wear a leotard, tights, and character heels to the audition. Break a leg!”

I hung up the phone.

Leotard and tights?? AUGHHHHH!!!

First of all, who really wears leotards and tights anymore? I thought about my days in ballet class, oh, so long ago, when it was commonplace to wear your underoos (mine were Wonder Woman, thank you very much) underneath your ballet outfit (tights, leotard and tutu.) The problem was that your leotard was jacked up so high on the leg (thanks to ‘80’s fashion, that all anyone saw was your big, white Hanes. And please, don’t talk to me about wearing bikini or thong underpants, or no underpants, either: we did not wear small little pieces of fabric in those days. Wearing nothing was unheard of – our mothers simply didn’t allow it. Girls who didn’t wear underpants were dirty sluts.

Thankfully, times have changed, so I immediately signed up for the first ballet class I could find, thinking at least one or two would help my brain get back into “dancer mode”. I decided against the classic ballet getup. Instead, I settled for the most comfortable pair of pants I could find, with some granny panties underneath, and a tank top. Nondescript. We’d have to work up to the leo and tights.

The class went well enough, and I, as always, was the clown. The teacher lost me at “undooo dooah youyr legg like-a zat, ahhhh!” – whilst taking her knee to her ear, and the “chaîné, chaîné, chaîné, chaîné, chaîné” turns across the floor left me dizzy and feeling half-drunk. Instead of following through with technique, I started krumping across the floor, much to the chagrin of my tiny, graceful teacher.

Yet, I was satisfied and happily paid for two more classes for the future, just to keep up the “ballet buzz”.

I am no dummy, though – I knew that just one beginning ballet class wasn’t going to prepare me for a full-on dance audition with a Broadway choreographer. But, I had to follow through. I just had to make the dance cut somehow. Surely, after hearing me sing, those behind the casting table would scrap their lead and go with ME, all the while congratulating themselves for finding such an amazing performer who aces all three categories. Yeah. A triple threat.

Day of the Audition

I had stretched as much as my poor legs would allow…I practiced kicking as high as I could without tearing my hamstring right out of the back of my leg. Begrudgingly, I had dressed myself in my 17-year old sister’s flashy black leotard, my own black fishnet tights (yes, fishnets), and her flirty mini-skirt. As I surveyed myself in the mirror, I realized that I looked like an overweight 6th grade girl in a too-tight bathing suit at a pool party. All I really needed were those underoos to complete the ridiculous look. I sighed, pulled on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and headed out the door.

When I arrived, there were already several girls in the room. I felt their eyes boring through my skull as I signed in. Sizing me up. “Vibing” me.

Side note: What is with the dancer attitude? Can someone please explain it to me? Do singers “vibe” other singers? No. It must be entirely a physical appearance. If you “look” like you can dance, then you’re competition.

Surely, I wasn’t competition for some of these girls dressed to the nines in their leotard and tights, looking very much like elegant supermodels. Here I was, the dorky rotund girl in her sister’s leotard, but at least I was there. And, once it came to the singing round, I would blow everyone out of the water. So, I sat down and started studying my music. There was no way I was going to warm up with these girls in the room – half of them were doing full-on ballet routines and sit-ups. I tell you, it’s an intimidation technique. Sadly, for the out-of-practice triple threat, it works.

We were introduced to the perky choreographer, who has done a lot of great work in New York and L.A. Upon first impression, I thought that she would be someone I’d love to have as my friend; I also thought that she might half-enjoy my cop-out krumping routine. I decided that, if ever in doubt, I would do a bunch of cartwheels and act crazy. I mean, half of performing is committing to it, right?

Her first words were, “All right girls, I don’t want to see anybody faking it. I’m looking at your legs and your arms and I want everything to be perfect.”

Uh, oh.

We took our places in the small, hot room. I was already beginning to sweat, and we hadn’t even started to move yet. I stood way at the back, thinking I might just be able to hide. The décor on my leotard sparkled in the harsh, rehearsal room light.

“Okay, here we go! Walk forward, A-one, two, three, four and turn, turn, turn, turn, and leap, and kick, and kick, and kick! And fan kick, fan kick, fan kick, fan kick! Jet-te, Fou-etté, double pirouette-ay! Spot turn, spot turn, spot turn, prep, and COOTER SLAM!”

I raised my hand. “Excuse me, did you say, “Cooter Slam?”

Several girls whirled around, glaring at me, hands on their hips. There were a few nervous cackles.

The choreographer laughed. “Yes! It’s common in this type of show, and you knew it was coming. Just jump up, and land in the splits. That’s the cooter slam!”

Oh, God, help me.

Here’s the thing: I can belt the crap out of any song you give me; I can read music, play the piano, direct and choreograph children’s musicals; I CAN act my way out of a paper bag; I can run 3 miles in less than 30 minutes and then teach an indoor cycling class; I can even do a double pirouette. One thing I cannot do is the COOTER SLAM.

The funniest thing was that I was the only one in that hot, cramped, poorly lit room that couldn’t do the cooter slam. Where have I been all these years? Am I that out of touch with musical theatre – no, dancing, really – that I don’t know these are actual terms? Why didn’t anyone else bat an eyelash at the obviously disgusting and degrading reference? What is more, the actual act of “slamming” the “cooter” is not attractive. It looks painful.

I knew I had to bring it, though. I mean, I had gotten this far. I couldn’t walk out the door.

We were broken up into six groups and given – honestly – five minutes to practice. While I was stuck on how the heck I was going to fake the last move, everyone else was dancing full-out, complete with swift, high kicks, perfect pirouettes, lovely graceful arm movements and smiles on their faces. What’s worse: they all were slamming their cooters with ease. Almost as if every other movement in the choreography was leading up to that shocking moment – the moment I knew would send me to the hospital.

We “rehearsed” in our groups of six about two times, and both times I screwed up the choreography here, the legwork there. When it came for the final “pose”, both times I chickened out and ended up doing a cartwheel, or “falling down” with my leg cocked behind me making it look like the splits. Some dancers looked at me with disgust, some with knowing sympathy. Others smirked. I was clearly out of my element.

The good thing, though, I kept telling myself, is that you’re like Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. You may not be a graceful ballerina, but you sure are damn funny and you can sing like no one has ever heard.

No pair of roller skates truly could get me through this one, though.

We were finally dismissed into the waiting area and then called back in groups of three to perform for the panel. Knowing full well that I hadn’t “brought it” in rehearsal, I kept going over the movements, occasionally talking aloud through the routine before my name was called.

“One, two, three, kick…okay, wait, no…one, two, kick three, or is it…??”

Other dancers sat down and relaxed, some texted on their cell phones, others complimented each other on their ability.

“Oh, my Gawwwwd, we really enjoyed watching you,” a tiny girl chirped to the smooth, elegant other who towered over her.

“Oh, thank you,” came the feigned modesty.

My name was finally called. I smoothed my hair, hoisted my boobs up and pranced into the room. If anything, I was going to have fun. The music started. I grinned from ear to ear. I made it through the first four counts of eight with ease. However, when I stopped to think about what came next, I was immediately behind. I tried to pick it up again, hoping no one would notice that I was the only one facing the wrong direction, and hadn’t done any of the ballet moves that were required. I also bombed the spot turns. I must’ve been spotting the big EXIT sign instead.

And then, the final moment – the jump splits (aka “You-know-what slam”). I hoisted up my flirty skirt, jumped as high into the air as I could, split my legs and landed. I looked down at my position in shock. Obviously, I was supposed to look up in a “ta da” moment, but I was honestly baffled at how I was physically – no, medically — able to be in this position. Of course, I wasn’t entirely in the splits, and my knee started to throb a bit, but I was as close to the ground as I had been since taking gymnastics in my pre-pubescent years. I was so excited to have accomplished the cooter slam that I stayed in that position while the choreographer spoke.

“Um, OK, do any of you do any tricks?”

I raised my hand, almost falling over. “I can do cartwheels and walk on my hands!” I cried, my voice overly eager and excited.

“Mmmmkay, great…” She was clearly not impressed. “Welllll, thanks, girls!”

I maneuvered myself out of my precarious position and dusted myself off. “No, thank you!” I responded, still a bit too eager.

As you probably guessed, I ended up being cut from the audition after the dance call. But here’s the real glory and moral of the story: I faced my fear.

Did I humiliate myself? Yes. Was I most likely the worst dancer in the room? Yes.

But I did it. I went to the audition, I performed the routine to the best of my ability, and, above all, I limped away with a smile on my face.

I have always respected dancers for their ability, grace, energy and discipline. I will never be a true dancer, but I can start back at that beginning ballet class and take it more seriously. So, until further notice, I’m circling “MOVER” instead of “DANCER” on an audition sheet. But, you know what? That’s not going to stop me from trying again, and having a whole lot of fun in the process.

Feb 20 2012
4 Comments
Bad Behavior, Humility, Self Discovery, Some Kind of Crazy

Jail, Part One

March.

My tax job was, well, taxing.  It was a good distraction, however.  I was on a regular schedule.  Six days a week, I woke up, ate breakfast, went to the gym, went to work, came home, and checked the LA Superior Court’s website, hoping for my divorce to be finalized.

Every day, the status read: PENDING.

Pending.  The next chapter of my life was pending.

I tried to forget about my sister wife, and my husband’s failure to follow through with the divorce settlement.  I was tired.  I needed rest.  Yet, even rest seemed to be pending.

One Thursday evening after work, I drove to my girlfriend’s house in Hollywood.  Several of us were getting together to enjoy some wine, hors d’oeuvres and girl talk. I was so stressed out with work and my “pending” marital status that I didn’t really realize how desperately I needed to relax and socialize.  It was a lovely evening.  We laughed, talked, drank wine and enjoyed each other’s company.  Around midnight, the “party” wound down and we all headed home.

As I drove back to Pasadena, I was overcome with thankfulness for my friends.  I impulsively reached for my phone to send a quick text of thanks and love to one of the girls.

That was mistake number two.

I had just made the transition from the 101 to the 110 freeway when I saw the red and blue lights in my rear view mirror.  My immediate reaction was one of indignance, and then the slow, sinking realization hit me.

Oh, shit, I’ve been drinking.

“Lord?”  I spoke aloud, as I carefully pulled off the freeway.

I’m not drunk.  I’ll be fine.  I should NOT have been texting!  Stupid!!  Still, I racked my brain, trying to remember how much wine I had drunk – also, how much I had had to eat that day.

I rolled down my window to greet the fresh-faced CHP officer.  He was cute.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he asked, after the formal introduction was made.  He shined his small flashlight directly into my eyes.  The combination of the red, white and blue lights hurt.  I blinked, and tried to adjust to the brightness all around me.

I smiled, and decided to be honest. I can’t be anything other than honest.

“I had some wine, yes,” I admitted.  Mistake number three.

The 20-something CHP officer immediately asked me for my license and registration.  I nervously fumbled around and presented them both, but the officer wasn’t satisfied.  He asked me to step out of the car.

Oh, come on.  

I went through the motions of the field sobriety test.  I was happy to cooperate, because I had never been in trouble.  In fact, I had only received a few tickets in my driving career, fought every one of them, and won. I wanted to get through the damn thing as fast as I could.  I was tired.  All I wanted to do was go home and get into bed.

I was asked to hold my head back and balance on one leg.  I did it in 3” heels.  I was also asked to close my eyes, count aloud and estimate 30 seconds.  I did it in exactly 30 seconds.

Still, the officer motioned to his younger, blonder partner, who approached me with a Breathalyzer.  Was this really happening?  Surely I wasn’t drunk.  I felt fine.  I would never get behind the wheel if I had had too much to drink.  Furthermore, I was doing so well on my tests!  I was actually quite proud of myself.  Those tests can be hard to pass even without alcohol involved.

I smiled and blew into the machine, confident that I would pass this one last test.  I longed for my comfy bed.

The officer looked at the result.

“Okay, Spencer, I’m going to ask you to turn around and place your hands behind your back,” he commanded.

What is THIS test?

I shrugged and obeyed, and immediately felt the cold metal snap around my wrists.  My heart sank.

Great job, Les.  You’re going to jail.  Way to go.  Way to fuck your life up.  Awesome.

My thoughts ran wild as I stood, handcuffed, on that sidewalk in Chinatown.  It was almost 1:00 a.m.  I watched as the officers searched my car.  They rifled through sheets of music, empty water bottles and dirty gym clothing.  My body remained calm but my thoughts ran wild as they escorted me to the back of their black and white vehicle.  As we pulled away from the curb, I immediately passed harsh judgment against myself.

Oh, my god, I’m that person.  I’m a drunk driver. Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my…I AM SUCH A BADASS.

No!  Wait!  You’re not a badass!  This is stupid!  You’re drunk!  You’re NOT drunk!  This isn’t happening!  But of course it’s happening. Why are you at all surprised? Your life is such a fucking disaster, and now look what you’ve gotten yourself into.  Stupid choice.

You got what you deserved, you idiot. 

Never in my life would I have imagined that I’d be arrested for anything.  Yet, there I was, sitting handcuffed, in the back of a cop car, heading to jail, for driving under the influence.

I remained silent as the two officers handled me — a criminal.  They explained that my car would be towed, and that I could get it the next day.  They also explained to me that I’d be held in jail for at least eight hours, until I sobered up.

I’M NOT DRUNK!  I wanted to scream.

But I WAS.  I was legally drunk, and so ashamed.

According to the law, you’re a drunk driver if your blood alcohol level is .08.  I would later find out that mine was at .10.

My wrists started to chafe and bruise from the pressure of the metal handcuffs, but I silently endured the pain.  I exchanged somber yet witty banter with the CHP officers as they drove me to their field office to administer a second test on the bigger, more efficient breathalyzer.

All this time, I hadn’t shed a tear. I was strong.  I was a big girl.  I was responsible.  I wasn’t going to cry.

I sat on a plastic chair in the CHP field office, shifting my hands uncomfortably behind me, trying to alleviate some of the agonizing pain.  My wrists would remain deeply bruised for days.

“Ma’am, do you have someone who you can call?  Your spouse? “ My arresting officer asked monotonously, as he filled out some paperwork.

I fiercely fixed my eyes upon his.

“Not anymore,” I answered, and then averted my gaze.

Suddenly, to my surprise, I burst into massive, yet silent tears.  Shame, fear and embarrassment overcame me.

I am a criminal.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, as snot and tears streamed down my face. I wasn’t able to use my hands, so I raised my shoulder to my nose to sop up the fluid.

“This…is just…hard for me.  I made such a stupid choice.”

The officer — clearly ten years younger than me – looked at me knowingly.  “You’ll be all right,” he offered.  “This kind of thing happens to good people, too.”

But I’m not good.  I’m broken.  So broken.

And then they took me to jail.

Upon arrival, I was released out of the handcuffs, booked, and stripped of my personal belongings.  The last item taken was the string used to tighten the hood of my cozy, fur-lined sweater.

“What, do you really think I’m going to hang myself?!” I joked with the booking officer.  She glared at me, clearly not amused.

For a moment, I forgot that I was a prisoner, and not her equal.  I wasn’t ordering a hamburger or buying stamps at the post office – I was checking into JAIL.  My sense of humor was not appreciated.

The TV behind her blared loudly and her co-worker sipped black coffee out of a small, stained, Styrofoam cup.

“Oh.  I guess so.  Well, here you go!”  I gave it to her, cheerfully.

“Don’t worry.  You’ll get it back,” she retorted, dryly.  She then twisted her full lips and shook her head.

My arresting officer gently touched my elbow.  He had been standing there the whole time.  I realized I had started to become attached to the man.

“We’re almost done here, Spencer. I need to ask you a few questions first, though, okay? They might seem a little weird, but just go with it…”  He was almost apologetic.

“Okayyyyy,” I responded, and tried to exercise my cheerfulness once again.  I mean, if you’re going to spend the night in jail, you might as well have a good attitude about it, right?

The officer cleared his throat, and poised his pen above a sheet of paper.

“Do you have Hepatitis, VD or Chlamydia?”

I burst out laughing.

“Uhhmmm, NO.  Should I be worried about contracting that here, though?”

Wait — where am I, anyway?  I had no idea where I was, or how I was going to get home.  I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He shot me a sly smile.  I was secretly glad he appreciated my sarcasm.

“Have you ever had TB?”

“No.”

“Do you have any special medical problems that we should know about?”

I snorted.

“I really hope not.”  Wakka, wakka!

“Are you pregnant?”

…

!(#(%)#%)@(%@)%@%!!!!!

“Hell to the no, and I don’t have any baby daddy prospects, either.  Thanks so much for reminding me of my plight.”

He half-laughed, signed his name to a pink slip of paper, which he then handed to me.

So not cool.

“Okay, Spencer, follow me.”

I obeyed.

He led me to a small, concrete room with a large, heavy door at the end of the corridor.  It held a cold, hard bench, a gleaming steel toilet and an observation camera in the corner of the ceiling.  An obsolete payphone barely hung onto the wall, and chunks of black hair littered the floor.  One other woman occupied the cell.  She jumped up, eyes blazing, as the guard opened up the door to deposit me inside.

I clutched the pink paper – my Prisoner’s Receipt — as they shut and locked the door behind me.

Over the next several hours, I would hit rock bottom, and that bottom would continue to give way.

Feb 07 2012
4 Comments
Battling, F Bombs, Sad, Some Kind of Crazy

Christians Aren’t Supposed to Take Each Other to Court

The second week in January, I moved into an apartment in Old Town Pasadena.  I had found a place on padmapper.com that advertised a “take over” of the remaining four months of a year lease.  I didn’t necessarily want to continue living in Pasadena, but I gave it a shot.  I met the girl who lived in the apartment.  She was a singer, moving to New York.  I tried to contain my jealousy. I fell in love with the wood floors, the price of the place, and view of the majestic San Gabriel Mountains from the window.

It all happened so quickly.  I knew I couldn’t live with Curt and Kathy forever, and I was antsy to have a place of my own.

The tiny studio was perfect for me.

At the same time, I felt terrible leaving Curt and Kathy.  Curt had lost both of his parents in a matter of three months, and a week after I moved out, their beloved dog, Max, died.  It was a difficult season for the Gibsons, and I felt as if I had abandoned them during their heightened time of need.

What kind of friend was I?!

I started to panic and wonder if I had made the right decision.

Jesus, I cried out, I need You.  I need You, need You, need You.  I need Your help, Your Peace.  I am so scared; scared (that) I am doing the wrong thing, or that I am out of Your plan.  But how could that possibly be?  You will take care of me. I just don’t want to be wasteful…I do not want to make mistakes.  I am…weak!  I need work.  I am settling in – I am so thankful, so grateful and blessed.  Will it go away? I’m re-building my life. Starting over.  Building again; beginning anew.

Almost immediately, I got a job.  I found work in a tax office, for the season.  I would work six days a week until April 18th.  It was daunting at first, but I knew I needed the money to pay for my newfound bills and rent.  I also needed the distraction.

I found myself praying a lot.  This time, I prayed for other people other than myself.  It felt good and necessary.  My neighbor, Boo, unexpectedly lost her beautiful, sweet two-year daughter, Emileigh.  Eme was born with a tendency towards seizures, but had been getting better.  And then, like that, she was gone.  The autopsy provided no explanation, and we were all left feeling robbed; empty.

I know how to put into words my feelings of pain and loss regarding my marriage.  It is like a death, but I cannot imagine the unspeakable pain of losing a child.  I attended the open-casket funeral and it was almost too much to bear.  I gazed upon Eme’s tiny, lifeless frame, and wondered why God allows such things to happen.  I think we all do.  I wanted to scream and shout to the entire congregation that there was, indeed, hope amidst the sorrow; the unexplained shredding of one’s soul.  Yet, I felt helpless.  All I could do was pray.

Oh, Lord, little Emileigh is with You now.  Such tragedy.  God, I lift up Deana (grandmother) and Boo, Cathy (aunt) and Barbara (neighbor) – the whole family.  Oh, that baby.  And High (father).  He loved his little girl so much.  Oh, Lord, would they cling to You; You, the EVER-PRESENT HELP in time of trouble. 

I don’t know much, but I do know this: God is good, all the time.

In the midst of everything, I started battling once again with my bigamist husband.

He wrote to me and told me that the retirement company had sent the wrong paperwork to the wrong address.  He would be out of town, and would get to it as soon as he could.  He added that I would get every penny of my share of the accounts.

I was over it.  Sick of his shit.

Wrong paper to the wrong address, I thought.  LYING PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKING LAZY ASS SON OF A SUGARMOMMA BITCH!!!!

I calmly emailed back.

I stand firm to my word.  You have had ample time to get it together.  I will file contempt of court, I typed, bitterly.

We exchanged emails back and forth, arguing about the time frame of the money that was due. Amongst my few menial requests in our do-it-yourself divorce, he had agreed to cash out his retirement funds, and send me a check by December.   I trusted that he would follow through with the agreement.

I was wrong, once again, to trust my husband.

He asked for more time, and I refused.  I wanted the money, yes, but more than that, I wanted the entire saga – ordeal – marriage – pain – everything that was associated with him – to be OVER.

I suddenly realized that I did, indeed, have a huge battle on my hands.  I also realized that I had the upper hand.  As much as I didn’t want to believe it, my husband was already married.  He was a BIGAMIST.  They make TV shows about people like him.  For crying out loud, we used to watch them together.

I didn’t want to have to go back to court, but if so, I was ready to go in, guns blazing.

I needed evidence of his stupidity.  My good college friend, Michelle, was a journalist who had worked as a reporter, anchor and professor.  She was able to easily obtain my husband and sister wife’s marriage license from the state of Nevada, and mailed it to me.

I threw it in my husband’s face.

You’ve had enough time. I’m quite sure you can figure something out.  I have in my possession a certain document from Nevada that will not help your “story” in court.

He obviously didn’t understand that I was talking about his new marriage.  He suggested that perhaps he add me to the account and I could cash out when I was of retirement age.

Unfortunately, I angrily responded, you agreed to cashing out the retirement in the divorce settlement. So, unfortunately for you, you have to follow through with your agreement, which is a legal court document. Might I also remind you that you are not yet divorced from me, which makes you a bigamist and a felon, but, then again, you probably already knew that.  I’m tired of this conversation. Send the check.

He said he would send it as soon as he had it.  He trusted that I would find it in my heart to give him time.

February 3rd. I trust that you will get it done.

He told me he wouldn’t have it by February 3rd, and was asking for a break.  He added that he wasn’t asking for any of my retirement, and then got upset that he had to beg me for understanding.  The conversation was killing him.

Not buying it.  Send the check.  If I do not receive a check in the mail by February 3, I will file contempt of court.  It is that simple.

He was tired of appealing to me, and, again, told me that I would have every bit of cash that was due me.  He then reminded me that he took all the credit card debt (a majority of which I had accused him of accumulating with his lover).  He reminded me that I had taken the car.  (Yes, I had taken the car. It was mine.  The paperwork was in my name, and mine alone.  I financed it, I was paying for it, and I drove it.)  He hadn’t asked for any of my retirement, and just wanted time to receive the checks.  He even offered to drive up and meet me to give me the cash.

I was having none of it.

You’re in for more than contempt, remember?  Bigamy is a felony.

He pleaded with me.

It’s all about choices.  You had an opportunity to make good ones.  Oopie.  I’m not interested in excuses. See you in court.

He said he was telling the truth, had no excuses, and pleaded with me to do it right.

We have differing opinions of what is right.

The truth is that you have violated the law. Willingly, even after knowing you weren’t divorced on 12/22/10.

Fool.

You can plead with the judge. I’m tired of your stories.  SEE YOU IN COURT.

And then, he tried to appeal to me as someone who “used” to love him.  He pleaded with to me as a fellow Christian.

…

…

I couldn’t BELIEVE that he was appealing to me “as a fellow Christian”.  It was abhorrent.  It made me sick.  I wanted to scream and throw things and rip his eyes out all over again.  He made me so angry.  His lame attempts at trying to appeal to my emotions didn’t work anymore.  He didn’t even respect me enough to capitalize my first name.  How dare he try to appeal to my love for him?

No, I do not love him, I wrote, later that evening.  He got that right.  It hurts too much to  love someone like that.  All the while, I feel like I’m NOT being a Christian if I deal with him.  At the same time, I AM NOT TAKING ANY MORE FROM HIM.  His abuse is over.  It’s not about the stupid money, which I know he has.  I’ve already wasted energy being upset.

I need help forgiving him.  It’s all still very real, raw and painful.  I worked so hard to try to save the marriage because I thought it was right.  He just doesn’t care.  He doesn’t do anything with integrity or concern for others. Lord, I know it is not my place to judge him.  Please help me release my anger.  I give it to You.  I pray he will come through with the funds from the retirement.

I’m still so hurt by him.  The very thought of a life with him makes me so angry, like it was all a lie.

The war continued two days later.  I shot the first cannon.

You skipped a court-ordered hearing on August 23, 2010, I wrote.

In the divorce settlement filed October 8, 2010, you agreed to cash out your retirement, and said that you’d have a check to me in December, 2010.  It is now February, 2011.

On October 28, 2010, you received a check for… half of your share in the sale of (our house).

You got re-married in November of 2010, without actually having been legally divorced, which makes you in violation of California Penal Code section 281.

I do not believe your stories about not having any money, especially considering the very recent transaction of the sale of our home, and also considering the person to whom you are, at present, illegally married.

You have been given more than ample time and grace to follow through with your divorce agreement.  Clearly, your (in)actions – as always – have spoken louder than your words.

He told me he had put his share of our house’s profit towards another.

See you in court.

He pleaded, once more.  He offered that had no right to quote the Bible at me, but I knew, in my heart, that this whole thing was wrong.  I should know that Christians aren’t supposed to take each other to court.  He promised to pay me and he would.  He needed more time.  It had shattered his heart to have to beg me for more time.  He would have extended me grace, if I were the one begging him for more time.  He offered that he was trying to do good in the sight of the Lord, and would never turn a deaf ear to someone who was asking for more time.  I should know these things.

…

I couldn’t take any more.  I wanted him to be locked up. I wanted him to be put away, forever.

Little did I know that I’d be the one to end up in jail.

Jan 26 2012
4 Comments
Battling, Some Kind of Crazy, Whattaheck?

Sister Wife

Christmas.

I was alone in Curt and Kathy’s luxurious mountain retreat-like home, while they were away in Colorado.  Jeff and Jenny invited me to spend Christmas morning with them and their adorable son.  Almost as soon as I arrived, they showered me with bountiful, thoughtful gifts.  I felt so loved.

I have amazing friends.

A couple of days later, my mother showed up at the front door, just passing through after visiting my grandmother.  I explained to her how my court hearing had gone, and vented about how frustrated I was that my husband was engaged to some random woman.

“Leslie, he’s already married,” my mother revealed.

W H A A A A A . . . ?!?!?!

I was so shocked that I couldn’t even exercise my potty mouth.

How does she know?! 

Since I had stopped researching my husband, his adventures and stories on the internet, I was blissfully unaware of the fact that his wedding picture was plastered on a website.  My husband had even twatted about his nuptials.  (Oh, pardon me: “tweeted”.)

My mother had a history of tracking my husband’s every move.  I had to firmly tell her to stop sending me information about him.  It was too painful, and detrimental to my healing process.

After my mother left, I sat alone in the kitchen, fingers poised above the keyboard.  I made a decision, and shakily typed in my husband’s — and his wife’s — name.

I took a deep breath.

There they stood, in a small Vegas chapel, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. Vomit.  I was immediately shocked at how much the new wife closely resembled my mother-in-law: blonde hair, extremely frail frame, strong jaw.  My husband was clothed in same expensive-looking suit that he wore to our divorce hearing.  I felt embarrassed for him.

He married his mother. 

I read the small article and subsequent congratulations that accompanied the picture.  The headline?  MERGER.

They were married on Saturday, November 20th “in front of family, friends, and business associates.”   The article referenced both of their “tweets” about their wedding.

His:
Life. Is. Perfect. . . Or saturday night it will be.

Hers:
The first day of the rest of my life was beyond perfect. So much love and the most beautiful friends and family..thank you [husband] . . Everyone who attended thank you for making the room glow with Love. Here’s to doing next level shit.

“Next level shit”?  Uhhhh, I think bigamy takes things to a whole new level, for sure.

Shit.

OH, GOD.  I HAVE A SISTER WIFE, I realized, and immediately called Andrea and Joy to tell them the news.  Andrea rushed right over.

Oddly enough, we couldn’t stop laughing.  It was just the most bizarre thing, ever.  How does one process that information?  It’s one thing to discover your spouse’s infidelity, or to hear that they are dating someone while you are separated.

My husband got married without making sure he was divorced.

WHO DOES THAT?!?!??!!!?!?!?!??!!?!?!?!!?

I tried to rationalize like a dude.  Wouldn’t he want to play the field a bit?  He was free to sleep with whomever he wanted, no strings attached.  He was finally free to discover himself.

He was free to do whatever he wanted, except ONE thing.

As the information and reality sank in even deeper, I started to experience a vast array of emotions: anger; hurt; confusion; rage; frustration; embarrassment; further betrayal; relief.  I was livid with my mother for dropping that bomb on me.  At the same time, I figured it was best that I knew.  On the other hand, what was I going to do about it?  It would have been better to know a week earlier, so that I could have tattled to the judge.

No wonder he looked so nervous in court.  He is a BIGAMIST!  HE COULD HAVE GONE TO JAIL!!! 

My mind drifted to my sister wife.  For some reason I had no immediate ill will towards her.  I actually felt sorry for her.  She was even more clueless than my husband, and she was supposed to be some hot-shot, savvy businesswoman.  It was obvious that he was marrying her for her money.  He needed someone to take care of him.  I had quit that job.

I then started to feel like my entire marriage really, truly was a lie.  The institution of holy matrimony had been bastardized and shat upon by an ordinary cheater-turned-bigamist, who sported meaningless tattoos.

It was all a show.

He doesn’t know who he is. 

But I knew who I was.  Or at least who I was supposed to be.  I had always known.  I felt like I had been rescued from the circus freak show just in time.  This discovery was a huge turning point in me finally letting go of the boy I once loved.

The New Year dawned.  The only thing left unsettled in our divorce (besides the new, illegal marriage) was the money that my husband had agreed to split with me.  I knew he had it, and I wanted it.  

For months you have been telling me I would have the retirement funds in December 2010.  It is now January 2011, I wrote, calmly.

Please provide an accurate statement of all funds in all accounts, along with a check for my half in thirty days or I will file for contempt of court.  If you do not comply, this will result in your arraignment and additional hearing(s).  You are required by law to meet the terms of the divorce agreement or face costly sanctions.

He responded immediately, and balked at my tone of voice.  It was as if we never knew each other.

You have thirty days.  And, no, I don’t know you. At all.  Whoever you once were is a faded, distant memory.
Do not contact me for any other reason than news of our divorce settlement. I do not know you, and I certainly do not appreciate being still legally married to a bigamist.

And then, the War of the Words began.

Jan 21 2012
2 Comments
Sad, Scary, Some Kind of Crazy, Whattaheck?

Neck Tattoo

The day before my court hearing, I received a long-awaited package in the mail.

As soon as I saw the familiar manila envelope sitting in my post office box, my heart leapt for joy.  This was it! I was finally divorced. Christmas had come early. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

As I giddily tore open the package, I noticed something was wrong.

All of my divorce paperwork had been returned.

How could this happen? What kind of cruel joke was being played on me? Furthermore, what could possibly be wrong with the paperwork? It was supposed to be the “easiest” divorce in the history of the world. We had argued over nothing, the house was already sold. For crying out loud, the Respondent was already shacked up with someone else. I felt like I couldn’t move forward in my life without being legally divorced, so why couldn’t it just be done?

I figured out what was wrong: I had forgotten to write an address on one of the forms. Now it would take at least two more months for the paperwork to be routed back through the system.

Please join me in a repeated chorus of all your favorite expletives here!

I started to cry, right there in the post office. I had waited so long for that envelope to appear so I could finally mourn the end of my marriage to completion. I didn’t expect this anger and frustration to come bubbling up, yet I quickly talked myself out of my tears. Instead of cry and feel sorry for myself, I had to take action.

I quickly filled in the missing addresses on the stupid-ass form and drove downtown. I blazed through the courthouse, on a mission to re-file the documents. I had a court hearing the very next day, but I wanted to show the judge my earnest effort and honest mistake.

Surely he would grant the divorce in person, after realizing that I had just forgotten to write down a simple address.

I re-filed the paperwork and drove back to Pasadena. There was nothing else I could do but pray.

Oh, God, this has to be done. I am screaming inside. I want to throw up.
I trust You. I trust You.
There are no restraining orders, custody orders, nothing. Just an error. Name, address, date. SERIOUSLY?
Oh, the anticipation and subsequent disappointment…

The next day I awoke at 3:40 a.m. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up, ate breakfast, dressed in my “court clothes” and prayed.

D-Day had finally come.

Andrea accompanied me to court. We arrived at 8:30 a.m. and slowly made our way up to the 5th floor, to the room where my case would be heard. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I half-hoped my husband wouldn’t show up, but as soon as I got off the escalator and rounded the corner, I saw him.

He was standing alone, wearing an expensive-looking suit. His blonde hair was slicked back tight, away from his large forehead. He had a fresh tattoo, too: some sort of inscription that seemed to crawl up his neck.

I shuddered.

He has a neck tattoo. He’s wearing a suit. He’s engaged to be married.

I started to feel nauseated, but pushed the feeling of weakness back down. I couldn’t look at him. I would deal with the emotions later. Right now, I had to get divorced.

I marched straight past my husband and headed towards the docket list that was posted next to the courtroom door. Andrea trailed behind me, in all her silent strength and support. I followed my finger down the list until I saw our names.  We were number 10. Next to my husband’s name was the acronym, OSC. It stood for “Order to Show Cause”.

Since he hadn’t shown up to court back in August, the judge wanted an explanation for why.

Good. I hope he gets in trouble.

As we entered the courtroom, Andrea and I took a seat in the very back, on the left: the Bride’s side. My husband sat down in the second to the last row on the right side of the courtroom. I glanced across at him. He looked nervous; almost sad.

I started spouting off court lingo with Andrea, which prompted the woman in front of us to turn around and ask a question. She, too, was battling through a divorce. That day’s particular hearing was for custody of her son. As we chatted, we quickly discovered we had gone to the same college. I gave her a high-five (“Go, Eagles!”) and we joked a bit about contributing to the sad, staggering statistic of divorce. We were all members of the same club now. She had the same, knowing look in her eyes — one of deep pain and lingering injustice. Yet, she pressed on. Andrea and I encouraged her and it seemed to help her relax. She thanked us for the glimmer of hope and cheer in that otherwise dark courtroom.

The courtroom’s participants were soon called to order.  We were instructed to check in with the bailiff.  As I made my way towards the front, my husband slipped into line, directly behind me. I sensed his familiar presence, yet, something had changed.

“Hi,” he offered, casually, as he moved up in line to stand next to me.

I didn’t look at him.

“How are you?” he asked.

I threw him a sideways glance.

“I’m just fine,” I replied, shortly.

“What’s an O.S.C?” he asked.

I sighed, loudly. I was sick of doing everything; taking care of all the details.

“What does that mean?” he prompted again, more urgently.

Part of my heart went out to him. We had shared so much. I recalled, deep down in the hidden crevices of my soul, that I had loved — still loved? –  this man standing before me. We weren’t supposed to be getting divorced! We were supposed to be strengthening our marriage and cracking jokes about the fact that we were in court in the first place! He had promised me that he would be faithful. He had promised to love me until death parted us. We had so many dreams together that we were supposed to accomplish.  He was supposed to be the father of my children.  We were going to conquer the world, together.

Our love story will go down in history: It just wasn’t meant to be.

Before me stood a broken man who broke his promises. I saw him in a fleeting light: so lost, so helpless, so very unattractive with that tattoo on his neck.

I shook off any sort of compassion I felt for him in that moment.

“Listen, you’re on your own here,” I said, then turned on my heels, and went back to my seat.

The judge entered the courtroom, shuffled his papers around, adjusted his glasses, and called our names first.

It all happened in such a flash. The judge declared that our case was “relatively easy” and wanted to get to the bottom of it. He asked my husband why he hadn’t shown up in August.

“I was disoriented,” he answered. “I had just returned from Australia.”

The judge peered down from his bench, accepted his bullshit excuse and gave him a verbal warning. He even forgave the $200.00 fine for my husband’s failure to appear.

The judge then turned to me.

“I see that your paperwork was returned because it is incomplete,” he stated, as he inspected the small collection of papers in our file.

“Yes, Your Honor, “ I answered.  I quickly added, “But-it-was-only-because-I-had-forgotten-to-put-our-address-on-form-FL-190-what-a-silly-mistake-don’t-you-agree?-All-the-paperwork-is-complete-and-we-even-sold-our-house-and-agreed-on-everything…”

I raised my eyebrows and shot a knowing glance over to my husband. He nodded in agreement, even though he had no idea what was happening. It was the last moment we would ever share in that regard. He knew how to read me. He knew me deeply; intimately. He knew to not question me. He knew I was doing what was best for both of us; he knew I had taken care of it all.

The judge inspected both of us for a moment.

“I’m continuing this case to April 14th,” he ordered, as he shuffled our documents to the bottom of his pile. “I want to look through your file and see exactly what is going on here; exactly why it is incomplete.”

Nooo! I just want this to be over! I’m going to die right here in this courtroom, in five seconds.  Five…four…three…

The judge continued.

“If you receive the paperwork in the mail with my judgment form and signature before the next hearing, you will not have to come back to court.”

I can’t hear you, Your Honor. I’m dead. I just died right here. Please send someone to collect my body.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I managed feebly, as I fought back tears.

And, like that, we were excused. Our judge had a lot of cases to get through. After all, it was the last day of the year for the LA Superior Court system. They would go on a two-week hiatus so the court and its employees could enjoy Christmas with their families.

Christmas was just three days away. And it was now ruined. The present I so desperately wanted — a finalized divorce! — was now coal in my stocking. Instead of celebrating underneath the mistletoe, I had my dragged-out divorce hanging over my head.

I bit my lip as hard as I could to keep from crying, and made my way back to Andrea and my purse. My husband was busy on his phone. As I waited for Andrea to gather her belongings, my husband tapped me on the shoulder.

“What was our court date again?” he asked, distracted by an incoming text message.

I glared at him. It was all I could do to not scratch his eyes out, kick him in the balls, or scream at the top of my lungs in that cold courtroom. Why couldn’t someone just arrest him? Why did he deserve such grace, time and time again?!

He sensed my anger.

“Come on, Les. What was the date? Just tell me!”

I looked at him briefly, then at his neck. I shook my head, placed my hand against the door and pushed it open. I left, without a word.

I had gotten a closer look at the tattoo.

It was his fiancée’s signature. And he was her problem now.

Jan 17 2012
1 Comment
Some Kind of Crazy, Whattaheck?

Engaged

I learned of my husband’s engagement one late November day.  I had driven to San Clemente to visit a favorite, wonderful college friend, whom I actually hadn’t seen in a couple of years.  We met for lunch in a little burger shack by the coast.  As we sipped our frosty beers, I assured my dear friend that I was doing well, and I was happy to be moving forward.

She was proud of me.

She then told me that my husband had recently breezed through her office.  She works for a magazine that pays him to write stories.  She explained that it was really difficult to see him.  All she could do was flip him off.

I laughed.  It made me feel good to know that I had such loyal friends.  After all, we had all gone to college together.  Even though she was my good friend first, she had been a part of both of our lives.  She was a bridesmaid in our wedding.  She knew of all the intricacies of our relationship from day one.

And she knew something more.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Leslie,” she hesitated, after we had enjoyed an evening of dominating karaoke at the local sushi bar. (She is amazing, and is reigning karaoke champion!)

“But I really feel like I should…”

My heart sank.  I did not want to learn that my husband had actually been cheating on me for years, or that he was dying of an incurable STD he had contracted from one of his lovers.  I really just didn’t want to feel like more of a fool than I already was. Nevertheless, I braced myself for impact.

“What is it?!  Tell me!  JUST TELL ME,” I implored her.  I wanted to hear it and just get it over with.

My friend took a deep breath, grabbed my hand and held it tightly.

“He’s engaged.  He has been since May.”

…?!?!?!?!?!?…

“Oh.”

I swirled the small bit of wine in my glass, and furrowed my brow as I allowed the information to wash over me.

“Well, that makes sense,” I said, as I looked up with a smile.  (I had gotten good at smiling through the pain.)

And it did.  Strangely enough, it made total sense – why he kept running off, why he was so eager to get rid of our house; why he didn’t put any effort into repairing or ending our marriage; why he couldn’t look me in the eye.

Then I started to do the math.

“Wait a minute.  I filed for divorce on April 2nd, without him even knowing.  He was served divorce papers on April 30th.  He was engaged in MAY?”

Motherfuckery.

And then, to my (even further) surprise, I learned that his fiancée wasn’t the Ukrainian.  She wasn’t even the Investment Banker.

She was an older woman in “the business” that had a lot of money.  It was no secret, either.  My husband had come into the magazine’s office, bragging about his engagement, the trips he was taking, the cars he was driving and how much money she had.

He was set for life.

I felt the vomit rise to the back of my throat, but swallowed it.  I then washed it down with the remainder of my glass of white wine.

“Well, they deserve each other,” was all I could manage to say.

I didn’t want him back under any circumstances.  At the same time, I was hurt, and shocked at how quickly my husband was able to move on.  Was I missing something here?

My longtime friend apologized over and over for being the one to tell me, but I profusely thanked her for being the one – and, also, for telling me in the first place.  Sure, I felt like a total idiot, and as a wave of embarrassment set in, so did the pain.  Only, this time, the pain was totally unfamiliar.  Uncharted territory.

I had spent so much time healing.  I was done being wounded.  Now it felt like someone had just shot me, point-blank in the chest, with a hollow point bullet.  I felt every ounce of agonizing pain as the bullet entered my flesh, tearing through and maximizing the damage to my already-fragmented heart.

On the drive back to Pasadena, the reality started to sink in: I had been played.  The uncontrollable sobs began again.  I hated being back in this place.  I hated crying over him.  I hated the injustice of the situation. I hated being miserable, and I really hated the thought of him being happy and in love.  How dare he?!

I just learned that X is engaged to be married.  He lives with her, was all I managed to write the next day.
It hurts, God.  I feel like a fool but I also know I am free.  Definitely free but also beat down.  I need You.  I need strength.

Ten days later, true to (laughable, insane and unpredictable) fashion, I received an email from my husband.
(My “husband”. Yes, he was still legally my husband, even though he was engaged to someone else!)  He wrote to let me know that he was still working on extracting the retirement money that he owed me.  He assured me that he would write me a check.

I was angry. I wrote back immediately, careful to not acknowledge his new relationship status.  A flurry of quick email exchanges followed, a la text messaging.

Great, you can tell the judge on December 22nd, I responded.

He replied and told me that we didn’t need to go to court.  His understanding was that our judgment would be ruled, and we didn’t need to be present in court.

Pardon me?
I just don’t even know how to respond to that.  Good luck.

I was shocked.  What was happening?  Was he really this checked out?  Drugged out?  Or just plain stupid?  He couldn’t even communicate in proper English. I started to panic.  I knew we had a court date in a few weeks, and I wanted our divorce to be final more than anything.  I reasoned that if he didn’t show up – AGAIN – our case would be extended, AGAIN, and I’d continue to live in limbo.

I am convinced that limbo is much worse than actual hell.

I wrote once more, and tried to be as clear, rational and business-like as possible.  I even provided him with a link to our personal case via the Superior Court’s website.  I had been checking it religiously to see if the paperwork had been approved.  There was no reason for the divorce to not go through, but I couldn’t risk missing the December court date.  Surely the judge would grant our divorce in person, if nothing else.

We have a court hearing on December 22, 2010 at 8:30 a.m., I wrote, as calmly as I could.

The reason why we have another court date is because you failed to appear at the first hearing on August 23, 2010. 

Our divorce is not final.  If it were, we would have already received something official in the mail.  You can check the status of the divorce here.  Type in the case number.  Else, be looking for an official notice in the mail to notify you if the hearing has been canceled.  

Yes, the paperwork has been completed and submitted, but it is up to the judge to make the official ruling.

I am sure we both do not want it to drag on any longer.  

I am keeping a copy of this email to submit to the court if necessary.

He never wrote back.  I would quickly learn why.

He was in deep, dark trouble.

Jan 16 2012
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Moving Forward, New beginnings, Whattaheck?

Holy Matrimony

As soon as I hiked down from the mountain, I received a text from Kathy.

“Congratulations!”

My house was sold.  I was even able to pick up a check that reflected my half of the profit.  It felt surreal.  I deposited “the blood money” into my savings account that day.  It was done.

Two days later was my “Universary” .  I just so happened to be house/dog sitting for my neighbors. Oddly enough, it was good to be back in the neighborhood.  It was good to hug my dog, Wimbley (whom my amazing neighbors adopted).  It was hard to see my house, sitting next door,  but I knew it was for the best.

I sat atop my neighbors’ deck and wrote.

October 30, 2010

Here I am, at Lisa and Laura’s.  It is a beautiful day; calm and peaceful.  I treated myself to a facial this morning at Burke Williams and am now enjoying the beautiful, late afternoon.  Clean.  Free.  I don’t own [my house] anymore, and it feels REALLY good.

NO looking back.  I have my chair turned away from the property.  Oh, how far You have brought me, Lord!  Thank You!  Today is not sad.  It is a celebration of You and me, and our journey.  You are with me…You are here now, causing the breeze to gently caress the trees; shining the light; loving me.  Oh, how much You love and care for me!  I am so blessed!

After I finished writing, I flipped open my 14-year old Bible.

I rifled through the front pages: a certificate of “Holy Matrimony”, a list of births and deaths; a family tree. I have always wondered why it was necessary to list these things in a Bible, and laughed to myself.  Of the four marriages that I had written down, only two of them remained.

50%.  50% of marriages end in divorce.  What a shitty, shitty statistic.  My Bible even told me so.

I flipped back to the front page, where I had lovingly filled in the details of my wedding day.

THIS CERTIFIES THAT

Leslie Leigh Spencer and [my husband’s full name]

were united in HOLY MATRIMONY (Wow, they really wrote that word out, big and fancy.  HOLY MATRIMONY!!)
on October 30, 1999…

I studied the print for a moment.  Everything about that day was just a faint memory.  It had no place in my life anymore, nor did it hold a place in my Bible. I took the page and calmly ripped it out.  I then tore out the rest of the pages of “memories”.

I wanted my Bible to just be a Bible.

I placed the pages atop a pile of ashes in Lisa and Laura’s chiminea, grabbed a lighter, and lit each corner on fire.  I watched in peace as the pages burned.  I returned to the blue leather to find an appropriate verse to accompany the “ceremony”:

“…a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”  ~Isaiah 61:3

A few weeks passed.  My show closed after a 10-week run, and Joy and I took a trip to Sonoma.  I really needed to get away, and it felt good to get out of Los Angeles and enjoy my best friend and good wine.

One night we decided that I should join an online dating service.

“It’s time, Leslie,” Joy encouraged.  “You need to get yourself out there.  You need some dating experience!”

It was true.  I just didn’t really know how to go about it.  I had gotten married before online dating really existed, so it was all strange, new territory.  Furthermore, I hated having to advertise myself as if I were some sort of show horse.

Joy sat with me and helped me fill out the seemingly never-ending questionnaire.  I wanted to represent myself well, and it was good to have the person who knew me best at my side.  She didn’t let me off the hook, not once.  We laughed, drank wine and marveled at the experience.  As much as I would later dread online dating in general, I was excited to be moving forward with grace and such loving support.

It felt right.  I wasn’t exactly divorced yet, but it was just a matter of time.  All the paperwork had been turned in, and we had a court date in a month.  Surely the divorce would be final then.

And then, a week later, I discovered that my husband was engaged to be married.

Jan 08 2012
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Grace, New beginnings

New Life

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails the fields produce no food,
Though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
The Sovereign LORD is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.”

~Habakkuk 3:17-19

Monday, October 11, 2010

God, these past few days have been so hard.  From finishing divorce paperwork to dealing with the house issues – the easement, moving, termites, etc. — oh, Father, I simply can’t do any of this.  I can’t do it alone.  I am spent.  Exhausted.  I don’t know how to anymore. 

Life.

I feel so beaten down.  Oh, God, I know You love me.  You love me.  You love me.  You love me. 

Help, help, help. help, help.

WHAT AM I DOING?
WHERE AM I GOING?
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!
I PRAY FOR JUSTICE.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Oh, Lord, I have been praying for justice, and what to do about house stuff and when… You continue to orchestrate perfectly…all that’s left is the couch and some belongings.  I hope tomorrow it is all done; gone.  

JUSTICE.  YOUR WILL.  FREEDOM!

Oh, Father, I pray that You would illuminate the way.  You are continuing to lead me out of this marriage, this house, maybe even out of Los Angeles?  I do not know.  I am afraid.  I feel displaced.  Uncertain.

Oh, Lord, You are so good.  You are too good.  I don’t understand, but You bring beauty from all my pain. 

Saturday, October 23, 2010

My 11th wedding anniversary would have been in one week.  It makes me sad.  If all goes “well” – YOUR plan, Lord – then escrow will close next week; next Friday?  And then Saturday will come.  I think it’s hitting me now.  I wanted so much to celebrate year 11, year 12, 15, 20, 40…but I never will.  Ever.  Not with him.  Ever.

It’s so sad, Lord.  My heart hurts.  I still mourn the loss of my marriage.

I hope this all will end soon, and that the pain and hurt will look less like scars and more like character.

Oh, Lord, the pain is so present.  I try to cover it up but it doesn’t go away.  You are the only true comfort.  I cannot depend upon anyone but You.

This has all been so traumatic.  I continue to love and trust You and put my HOPE in YOU.  Hope for my future that You have already so lovingly planned for me! 

Oh, Lord, I ask for favor and blessing.  Do You want me to stay in LA?  NYC?  I ask for financial blessing.   I ask that you would bless me with a faithful, godly, HUNKY, ATTRACTIVE, amazing, talented, confident, big-penised husband!!!  (ha ha!) And babies!

Wednesday, October 27. 2010

Father, I had hoped that escrow would close today.  It did not, and now it may take even LONGER.  LORD, I need help.  I am a disaster.  Satan is doing everything he can —  flailing around like a fool, trying to throw a wrench in Your plan.  God, I TRUST YOU.  You have carried me through ALL of this.  And I trust You to carry me through, to the end.

I am exhausted.  My eyes are still swollen from sobbing last night.  Sobbing and sobbing…my body and spirit are so weak.

As hard as it is, God, I pray for my husband, and his friends.  They know You and they have hurt so many people.  I do not know what happened to them or what will happen to them.  It is difficult for me to pray for any of them.  But I do.  I don’t even know what to pray.

I am drowning.  I want to hide.  Please, no more hurt.  Please help me, Jesus.  I need You.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Good morning, Lord!

I had a wonderful night’s rest.  Had a good conversation with Curt last night…went to bed early…

Escrow closes today.  T O D A Y.  The funding went through yesterday – Kathy worked so hard!  I may even have the money today.  Not that I care about the money; it is the price I receive for my marriage.

I still struggle with the pain of the betrayal.  I know healing will take a long time, but I feel that I can finally start to heal, and will be able to get on my feet and do something for myself.  Now I get to focus on what YOU and I are doing – not that I wasn’t before? I don’t know.

And, of course, the pain of October 30th – my wedding anniversary – will be there.   Is there.

“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.”  ~Romans 5:5

I do not understand why all of this happened.  I held on as long as I could to everything — my husband, especially.  God, I see how beautifully and perfectly You orchestrated the gentle shift in ownership of my home, in exactly six months.  Amazing.

I believe that the divorce will be final in Your perfect timing, as well.  I pray that the paperwork will be complete; that nothing will have to be returned.  I don’t want to have to see my husband for a LONG, LONG time.  Too painful.  TOO painful.

He was my husband and I loved him so much…dreams slipped away like sand through my fist.  Life as I knew it is OVER.  Let this new life begin. 

I’m atop the mountain right now.  I hiked up here, all by myself.  I’m above the Hollywood sign, and it is so beautiful. I can see oil rigs in the ocean.  I can see for miles.  It is so very quiet.

Just You and me, God.

I don’t have to know anything now.  Today is huge.  Today is the biggest in letting go.  You carried me through it all. 

Oh, LORD!  The relief and freedom I feel!  I can go anywhere; do anything.  My life then is but a memory.  I will not linger in the past.  I will try hard not to blame my husband for such pain and hardship.  The work is done. 

New life.  New life.   NEW LIFE!!

Jan 05 2012
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Moving Forward

Ending As We Had Begun

The next few weeks were crucial, grueling and exhausting, in regards to paperwork.

I had an unruly and greedy neighbor who lived atop my hill, just behind the sprawling mass of untamed, indigenous land that we owned.  Once he found out we were selling our home, he tried to exercise his rights to a portion of the land that we had given him permission to use.  It became a frustrating nightmare, not to mention a scramble against the clock to get Escrow closed before he could file a lawsuit against us and adversely possess our land.

Sometimes I just don’t understand people.

I had to meet again with my husband, this time to sign Escrow papers.  I was on a roll.  The end was in sight, yet the pain was still real and raw.  I swallowed it and prayed for mercy.

We met with Maggie, our Escrow officer, at 1:00 p.m on a Monday.  She was a lovely, kind, older woman who obviously knew that our decision to sell had arisen from divorce.  She gently explained the process and what we were signing away.  If all went well, we’d close in thirty days.  My husband quickly scrawled his one-lettered signature on every single piece of paper as fast as he could.  I sat on the chair to his right and carefully read the documents before signing my full name.  It felt surreal.  I had flashes of old memories when we were signing the Escrow papers to buy the house.  Those were happier times, indeed, yet somehow (strangely) no less hopeful than the present.

Still, I was signing my house over to someone else.  It felt so unfair.

I unwillingly started to cry.  Maggie immediately offered me some tissue, but kept pointing to places where I needed to sign.  I sensed strength in her sympathy.  Nevertheless, my tears dripped onto the pages.  It made me feel embarrassed, but I kept my head down and continued to sign my name.

Leslie Spencer.  Goodbye, house.
Leslie Spencer.  Goodbye, marriage.
Leslie Spencer.  Hello, unknown future.

My husband seemed to squirm in his seat as he waited for me to finish.

When the final document had been signed, he got up and announced that he had to leave.  He fled, as fast as he could.

Maggie watched him leave and then sighed.

She got up from her chair, came over to me and gave me a big hug.  She held me as I wept.

“Oh, honey.  Cry.  Let yourself cry.  It’s OK.  Let it out.”  She was so gentle.

Then, to my surprise, she started to cry with me, as she briefly shared her story. She, too, had been through a divorce at my age.  My husband’s behavior reminded her of her ex.  I guess the pain of divorce never really goes away, although she is happily remarried to a remarkable man.

I finished crying, blew my nose, and thanked Maggie profusely.  I was touched by her sympathy.  She wished me the best and said she’d take care of my escrow for me.  I felt better; cared for.

As I slowly made my way to the parking lot, I checked my messages on my phone.  I had received an email from my husband, just minutes after he had fled the Escrow office.  He apologized, saying he had to go.  He then said he’d be sorry forever.

A couple of weeks passed, and I had to meet with my husband again.  He needed to read, agree to and sign the Marital Settlement Agreement that I had re-drafted.  It was a frustrating and detailed document to write, but I had gotten help from my lawyer.  Everything was so grossly fair.  50/50. His and Hers.

Anxious, I emailed him.

We are going to have to meet again. I need you to sign the amended Marital Settlement Agreement. Please make yourself available, this needs to get filed NOW.  I am available Friday.  Thank you.

He replied, saying that he’d be available Saturday morning.

It will only take two minutes. I can meet you anywhere. Thank you for cooperating.

He had a film premiere, and decided Friday morning at 11:00 a.m. — downtown — would be better.

And then, I got an idea.

Yes, Friday morning is better. That way I can file it immediately…let’s meet at the courthouse.  I’ll meet you outside. Across from Disney Opera House and Dorothy Chandler Pavillion. Ok?

He was forty-five minutes late, but he showed up.  He didn’t read a single word of the Settlement Agreement.  He just signed it all.  I gave him copies.  He told me he liked my shoes.

I then asked my husband to accompany me inside to file the final documents.  He obliged.

We stood in line – that horrible, awful line where people go to end their marriages – together.  We said nothing.  It was so strange, standing there.  I didn’t have anything to say.  I couldn’t find anything to say to him.  We were so distant; so different.  I marveled at how I used to love him – and how I still loved him, somehow.  I marveled at how I didn’t know him, yet I was the only one who really, truly knew him, deep down.  I felt compassion for him, anger, hurt, frustration and injustice.

Perhaps I mostly felt injustice, in that building where justice was supposed to be served.

We made our way through the line and towards the clerk. As I stepped up and handed her the documents, I had another memory flash.  It was the only other courthouse experience we had together  — years ago —  as we excitedly applied for our marriage license.  We were 22 and 23 years old, respectively.

I had signed my name then, too: Leslie Spencer.

I let the memory fade.

The clerk rifled through our documents as she chomped on her gum.  She checked our signatures and stamped each paper.  This time, the sound of the stamping was less deafening.  In fact, it sounded more and more like freedom.

“It will take about two months for this to be final,” she flatly offered, as she inked the last document.

“Thank you so much,” I almost squealed.

My husband said nothing.  He stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets.  Occasionally he checked his Blackberry.

We walked down the reflective corridor in silence, out the security doors and into the afternoon sunlight of a warm, October day.  Since we had parked in the same general direction, we walked together to the corner of 1st and Grand.  We waited for the WALK sign to give us the signal to move forward.

My husband turned towards me.  “So, that’s it?!”  He asked.

I grinned.

“That’s it,” I said, and extended my hand.

Years ago, after our very fun and sweet first date, I had thanked him at the end of the night by shaking his hand.

My husband looked at me, knowingly, and half-laughed.  It was a tender moment.  He took my hand and shook it, slowly.  In that moment, we both realized that we had ended just as we had begun.

I smiled, looked up at him and searched his empty, blue eyes.

“Goodbye,” I said, sincerely.  I turned and walked away, as a wider smile spread across my face.

I was free.

Well, almost.

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