Living Happily Ever After
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Gaps

Date: April 21, 2011  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I got gaps; you got gaps; we fill each other’s gaps.” (“Rocky”)

If #5 isn’t having a second marriage moment, I’m right there to have one for him. (Or vice versa.) I guess you could say we fill each other’s gaps in more ways than one! I believe the next second marriage moment came right on the heels of the previous one.

The Sunday #5 and I gave our talks in church, a leader of our congregation pulled us aside and asked us to teach the Marriage and Family Relations class they wanted to offer as part of the Sunday School program. Of course we said we’d do it, but as the man walked away I started to laugh.

“What?” asked #5. “What do you find so funny?”

“The class,” I replied.

“Why? It’s a great class. I’ve actually participated in one before,” he said.

I  couldn’t stop laughing as I explained, “I just find it hilarious that they’ve asked two previously DIVORCED people, who have been married 2 weeks, to teach the marriage class!”

That was #4. (As in, moments–not men!)

And I had to love you-know-who all the more for the fact that he responded, in all seriousness, to my humorous look at our new assignment and for the counsel he offered:  “I wouldn’t make an issue of that or a big deal about that to the class participants,” he advised.

Got it. Will do, #5. But I’m pretty sure everyone knows that about us, even if I don’t verbalize it.:)

“A word to the wise ain’t necessary, it’s the stupid ones who need the advice.” (Bill Cosby)

I Want A Man

Date: January 23, 2011  Author: Andrea Merriman

“I want a man who’s kind and understanding.  Is that too much to ask of a millionaire?” (Zsa Zsa Gabor)

As a teenager, I compiled a list of everything I wanted in a man. I found that list after my divorce…and laughed. In many ways, it was a bit, as #5 would call it, “Twilight-esque.” (In other words, unrealistic and total, imaginary romanticism that exists in the fictional world of vampires and werewolves, Edward and Bella. Ah, the emotional depth of teenage girls!) Here are a few important qualities from the early 1980s: tall, brown hair, tan skin, hard working, handsome, good at sports, funny, nice, good dancer, smart, good singer, polite, straight white teeth, opens doors for me, rich, writes romantic things to me, fun, spiritual, honest, hairless chest, sends me flowers, loves me more than anything, romantic, wears good cologne, stylish…let’s see, did I leave ANYTHING out?

When I grew up, I was self-aware enough to know looks and athletics alone might be fine for some women, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep me “in love” for the rest of my life and into eternity so I decided long term (what I would most appreciate as a married woman in my 40s) was a smart man who treated me well. I married the first guy I felt was smarter than me. And boy, did he turn out to be smart! A lot smarter, more clever and cunning, than I’d ever imagined, in fact! I was happy and in love, until I found out our 20-year marriage had been built on 14+years of deception and lies. (Ironic, isn’t it, that I based my choice on what I’d want 40-something, and that’s when it all ended and I was alone and single anyway?)

It was the personal loss that caused me the most pain. My childrens’ loss of their dad, their childhood, their innocence, their life, their family, everything as they knew it, was the worst; followed closely by my loss. I had lost the man I had loved, relied on and built a life with; the man who should have been loyal to me and my biggest protector. I just knew I was destined to be alone the rest of my life. I felt those losses powerfully.

I remember standing in my Colorado kitchen one day, my heart literally breaking over those losses. And mother that I am, this is why I cried that time: “Even if someday when I’m 80 years old and some man takes pity on me and marries me because his wife died and he needs a housekeeper, I’ll never have a whole and complete family. Even if a one-in-a-billion miracle happens and a man ever loves me again, no one will love my children. My kids will never again run into my room, jump on my bed, and wrestle with a dad.” (It may sound crazy, but out of everything I had lost that was a big one for me.)

I began dating less than 3 months after my divorce, and I realize now, I entered into it without a lot of thought. I was reeling from the shock of what had transpired in a matter of months; I didn’t know what I was doing because everything related to singles and socializing had changed so drastically since the 1980s (it was sort of like entering the playing field without a game plan.) I was lonely. However, after meeting my first single man, it didn’t take long to list the things I couldn’t live without: spiritual depth, integrity, emotional stability, family-oriented focus, employed, a good father to my kids, a man who loves ME. Oh, and good credit. (The crimes of my husband and his incarceration destroyed MY credit. I didn’t need a man with money because I’ve never needed money to be happy, but I had to have a man who could at least qualify for a rental lease, a home loan, or a car loan because I can’t–and I can’t ask friends and family to do that for me for the rest of my life! The Catch-22 is that what man with good credit would want me and my financial disaster? But that’s a blog for another day…)

Cut to the other night.

Mr. Awesome (aka. #5/Agent M) and I were sitting on my bed talking. The door was locked. (With a small house and many children around, it’s what we’ve occasionally had to resort to when we need to discuss something important.) In the middle of it, my youngest knocked on the door. I didn’t open it, but told him I’d be with him as soon as my discussion was over. He went away for awhile and then knocked again. I repeated my instruction, he went away for awhile and then knocked on the door again. The third time he knocked, #5 looked at me and asked, “Do you think we should open the door and let him in now? I like it when he runs in and jumps on the bed. I love his hugs. And it’s fun to wrestle him.”

He opened the door and their wrestling match began. Pillows were flying, tickles were traded (along with a few karate chops) and all I could do was remember that moment I stood in my Colorado kitchen, sure that my youngest would never know what it was to have a dad, much less wrestle with a dad.

Can you believe it? Dreams really can come true.

Every single one of them.

“I tell people I’m too stupid to know what’s impossible. I have ridiculously large dreams, and half the time they come true.” (Debi Thomas)

Bachelor #13: Mr. Hostile

Date: July 8, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

I have attended singles functions the past several months because…I’m single. If I stopped to analyze it, I guess I’m going to meet people and make friends. However, in the wake of the trauma I lived through discovering my spouse had betrayed me and neighbors and friends and relatives and strangers, in the aftermath of our divorce and our move to Utah and my return to the workforce full-time, I never let myself think about my purpose or motivation in going, or anything else related to being single. I just went.

So I can’t imagine what some people think of me.

There I am, at a singles function, with 99% of the people probably in attendance to meet members of the opposite sex, and I freeze (like a deer caught in headlights) every time a man asks for my phone number!

I stammer. I am not quite sure what to say. I’m shocked. I’m surprised. And I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to be seen giving out my phone number. Yet…don’t I go there to meet people and have social experiences? Clearly, I haven’t thought the whole thing through very well.

That’s how I met the man who would become Bachelor #13.

He wasn’t bad looking; he was tall; he had hair; he was educated; he had six children. And he was really pressing me for my phone number! In fact, he got out his phone to enter my contact info as we stood on the dance floor. I could have died! I asked him to put his phone away.

He obliged, but asked me for my business card. (Just my luck, my company hadn’t ordered mine yet so I had nothing like that to give him.) He began reaching for his phone again so I had to think quickly before he pulled his phone out in front of everyone again.

Instead, I asked if he had a business card and told him if he gave me one, I’d contact him and give him my information. (I’m a loser at some of this stuff, I admit it!)

He gave me his card. A few days later, I followed through on my commitment to contact him. I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into. I didn’t know what to expect. All I know is I didn’t expect the full court press he gave me.

Bachelor #13 began calling all of the time, emailing every day, texting me constantly, and asking me out. I tried to keep an open mind about the whole thing, but something wasn’t quite right and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was just an impression I had. As a result, my inclination was to take it slow. So that’s what I attempted to do. Much to Bachelor #13′s chagrin.

His constant presence in my life was too much too soon. After working all day, I needed to be free to spend time with my children and chat with them during the rest of their waking hours. I asked Bachelor #13 to please call me after 9:30 p.m. at night so I’d have time to spend time with my children, check their homework, and get them all taken care of and in bed before I became inaccessible because I was on the phone.

It seemed like he couldn’t wait that long. The phone calls came anyway.

So I told him my evenings were a bit more complicated than I’d anticipated; email was probably the best way to reach me.

Within a few days, I got a very hostile but anonymous text to my cell phone. The text message ranted and raved about how inaccessible I made myself, about how uninterested in men I must be to limit contact (outside of dates) to email and phone calls and only after a certain time of day. Then the text told me I was missing out, that he was the best thing that had ever happened to me, the best thing that would ever happen to me, and that I was an idiot. The message ended by saying, “And the best part about this? You don’t even know WHO this is!”

Yes, I had a pretty good idea who it was. I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid! It was Bachelor #13. He was the only man that I knew of, at the time, who had my contact info and was upset that I couldn’t or wouldn’t use it all hours of the day and night, and at the expense of my job and family!

That was the end of Bachelor #13.

I’ve seen him a few times since then but he won’t speak to me; he pretends not to know who I am when I say hello. So since he won’t speak to me, I’ll speak for him. This is what I imagine he’d say:

“I’m hostile to men, I’m hostile to women, I’m hostile to cats, to poor cockroaches, I’m afraid of horses.” (Norman Mailer)

With Bachelor #13, I’m not sure who dumped who. I’m just grateful it happened.

Life’s too short to lash out like that. And only cowards won’t sign their name.

—Andrea

A Media Disaster

Date: April 14, 2010  Author: Andrea Merriman

My spouse was headed to prison for running a ponzi scheme and agents of the federal government were at what had once been my home seizing our assets.

The second day of the seizure was a media disaster!

Satellite trucks, camera men, reporters hounding us, people photographing me as I came and went, people chasing me to get a photograph, media coverage in print and on television (locally and nationally), the phone ringing off the hook, and the doorbell constantly ringing as reporters looked through the windows of my home and watched me, shoved notes in the crack of the front door, and my neighbors told everything they knew in interviews.

I can’t detail all the horrors of that day. In fact, to some degree, I still can’t comprehend it all.

I felt like I was the one person involved in the nightmare who had done absolutely nothing but who had lost everything. And I had no voice.  I had been directed to not talk to anyone, including the victims. It was a shocking position to be placed in when I’d done nothing wrong and had taken no part in any crime, and forgive me, but toward the end of the second day, I snapped.

I flaunted my unwillingness to chat with the media that surrounded my home, rang my doorbell all day long, and stared through the windows at me.  It was my version of expressing my frustration, metaphorically thumbing my nose at the people reporting the destruction of everything as I’d known it in the face of my humiliation, shock and grief. Here’s what I did.

Occasionally, intentionally, I’d walk by the front door where reporters were waiting outside and looking through the glass at me…and I wouldn’t answer the door in spite of their knocks and rings!  I’d laugh (sort of, inside) as I’d hear them say, “What is she doing?  She’s in there and she’s not opening the door!  Can you believe that?”

What did they think I was, stupid?

Oh, yes.  I was married to a man accused of stealing (according to the last media reports I saw) $23 million dollars over a period of 15 years while he ran a ponzi scheme and I never had a clue. Yes, they probably did think I was lacking in intelligence.

But I showed them.

Not only did I ignore their knocks, I taped white paper over all of the glass they were looking through (as they looked through it) so they wouldn’t be able to stare through the windows at me any more.  (And of course, that also got reported. Something to the effect about “someone taping cheap, white paper over the glass in the front door.”  THAT is news?  Lets just say the media coverage of my nightmare was far below the standard of “newsworthy” I had been trained in as a journalist!)

For our safety, that night my children and I didn’t stay in our home.  Too many people, too many spotlights shining on our home and lighting up the inside of our house like it was mid-day.  And in a situation like that, no one knew if a victim would snap or a crazy person would try to steal into our home.  (The government had recommended that at least my children and I NOT stay in our home that night.) Instead, we stayed at a friend’s home and they treated us royally–with pizza, pop, salad, dessert, and normalcy away from the craziness of our home and situation. It was the most peaceful night of sleep we’d had since our nightmare began.

I’m smarter than I look.

Hey, media outlets!  Go and report THAT to the world, why don’t you?

I can see the headline now…in my dreams.