Sunday, August 03, 2008

that old time religion

I went into Dunkin' Donuts yesterday, to pick up a coffee to bring to my daughter at work. As soon as I got on line, I ran into Bob, an old friend of my husband's, also from the infamous Catholic high school we all went to. (Not the one who doesn't speak to me. But he went there too.) This guy is a church-going man, a family man, like my husband used to be. (My husband still is a family man, it seems; it's just that he's grafted himself onto a new family. Like a barnacle.) My husband and Bob used to chat after church, about all things Catholic. I told Bob that our divorce would be final soon. He just shook his head.

Next I ran into a nice little old lady from church, who was having coffee with a nun, also from our church. The old lady (Marge) introduced me to the nun (Sister Aileen). Marge told the sister to whom I had been married. Sister Aileen knew this already--everyone in my church knows who I am. (Rather, they don't know who I am, but they know whom I was married to.) She shook her head and said, "Brian sang at my fiftieth jubilee celebration."

This is the kind of stuff my husband did, routinely for more than ten years. It's why I was so sucker-punched by his affair. I was a true believer in his belief. I fell for the Catholicism. So, apparently, did everyone else at church. People are still saying, "What? The guy who used to sing in church?" And shaking their heads.

Did I mention that my husband went to Mass every single day for almost ten years? That he sang like an angel of God (this was the consensus of the congregation; something I heard many times: He sings like an angel of God) on Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation, right up front at a lectern, in a suit and tie (sometimes in a shiny blue choir robe), and that his specialty was singing the Exultet at Easter Vigil? (He was also known for Panis Angelicus and the Ave Maria. He was the local Latin hymn hero, beloved of old ladies and nuns. And his kids. And me.) That he was on the Liturgy Committee, and the music committee, and various other church committees? That he did the readings at Mass? That he distributed Communion, and that he would frequently be pressed into service as an altar boy during those ten years of early morning weekday Masses? That he professed a special devotion to Padre Pio, and that he prayed the Meditations of St. Ignatius every day? Said multiple rosaries and chaplets each day? Incessantly sprinkled our house with holy water? Wore a variety of blessed medals and scapulars around his neck? Had a collection of 57 separate religious items--prayer cards, crucifixes, blessed candles, crosses, palm from church made into still more crosses, rosaries, statues, images of saints, including one I can never forget: the image of the face of Christ in the Shroud of Turin, staring down at me--in our bedroom alone. That he was in the Knights of Columbus, whose mission, my kids and I were often informed, was to protect the priests at all costs, and that the priests needed protection because they were again being attacked by the evil, worldly elements in our culture? (!) That he had a fan base of devout little old ladies, and nuns, and priests? That we socialized with the monsignor of our church? That on the first Friday of every month, he was a regular at the Exposition and Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, with his coterie of nuns and little old ladies? That his favorite channel was Eternal Word Television Network, on which his favorite shows were Mother Angelica and Bishop Fulton? That he went to the Stations of the Cross, the Vigil of the Cross, and Tenebrae? That he would be one of those elected to have his feet washed by the priest on Good Friday? (I think it's Good Friday. I don't even know some of this stuff.) That he frequently exhorted my children and me to pray the rosary with him, and wanted us to formally, with the help of a priest, dedicate our home to the Blessed Mother?

These are just some of the things I remember, off the top of my head. (I'm Catholic too--as I always say, they got me early on and I can't seem to shake it, no matter how hard I try, and I have tried--but I used to say that Brian was "deep Catholic". He knew things and did things that the average Catholic doesn't. Priests do, though. That alone should have sounded an alarum.) He wasn't shy about laying his religiosity on everyone in sight, either. He forced my middle daughter, who deeply, roundly, loathed all of this, to go to Mass every Sunday until she was 17, at which point I told him to leave her alone.

He used to wake up every day to Dr. James Dobson, with his daily radio soundbite, Focus on the Family. My kids and I would hear all day long about what Dr. Dobson had to say that morning. My husband would go on and on, a la Dr. Dobson, about how corrupt, debased, debauched, and God-less our culture is, about how people worship Mammon, and put their transient desires for pleasure and money and the things of this world above what God wants us to do, which, of course, is to have as many children as possible and train them up in the ways of God, as dictated by the Catholic Church. It was like living with a Catholic Dr. Dobson. He would talk about how our family and our children were the most important things in the world to him. He would always talk about how much kids need their parents (especially their mothers--I should have paid more attention to that part!), and needed them even more as they grew into those dangerous teenage years. He would thank God--frequently, vociferously--that I wasn't one of those selfish modern feminist non family-oriented women, running out to find fulfillment in a career. (During the divorce negotiations, this all changed to: Let her get a job.)

You should have heard his diatribes on abortion.

What a blowhard, actually.

Did I mention that he moved out five years ago, and that the only contact he has with my kids, especially my youngest, is to drive them crazy with annoying bullshit, mostly to do with (not giving them any) money? (This, after years of giving tons of money to the Catholic Church. He used to say, "This is the holy mother church we're talking about. We have to give 'til it hurts.) Also: our divorce is not yet final, but he has already moved in with this woman and her two daughters, who are young teens. I don't think he was too good for their family--that blessed, sacred, all-important unit!--since their mother divorced their father for my husband. (She also broke up her first husband's first marriage and family. He had been married for twenty years or so, and had two teenage boys.)

I'm shaking my head. With laughter. I laugh at myself for falling for all this. Sometimes I laugh until I cry.

Monday, July 21, 2008

another happy birthday

I'm very happy to discover, on my 53rd birthday, that while blog titles still translate themselves into some unknown and undecipherable (to me) script, I can now, by using the drop down menu for each word, translate the titles back into English.

I ran into my old friend (from high school, whom I've known for 35 years, and whose birthday is today, too) at the wake of our mutual friend's father. We have not spoken in more than three years, except for a note of condolence I sent her on the occasion of her sister becoming gravely ill and entering a nursing home. She emailed a reply to my written note, to an old account which I didn't check until several months after she replied. Did this piss her off further? I don't know; her email, in any case, was of the generic "thank you for your expression of sympathy" type, and seemed to need no reply from me.

I knew that I would be running into her on some occasion just like this. In fact, I thought it would be at our mutual friend's mother's wake/funeral, but our friend's father died first. (All three of us went to the same Catholic high school.) I hugged her hello when she arrived at the wake; she blew me off. I tried again when she was leaving. I hugged her again--she stiffened like an autistic child--and I said, "So, do we still have a hatchet to bury, or are we going to be OK?" She walked away from me, saying over her shoulder, "Weeeelll, relationships change, I guess."

I guess they do.

Especially when one person in the relationship suddenly stops kissing the other one's ass.

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

It is finished

I signed my divorce papers; he signed last week. I'm not even sad, just relieved that it is finally over and that I can, in the hackneyed words that appear at least once in every episode of every soap opera, "get on with my life".

Friday, May 16, 2008

Bleak House divorce

I got a call from my lawyer yesterday. It looks as if, after more than two years of mental agony and bleeding money in an attempt to settle this mess, my husband is either going to withdraw his lawsuit, or insist on going to trial. My lawyer has billed me more than 55K since this all began when he filed two years ago. My husband has spent at least 30. We don't own anything except debt, and my husband's degree, the value of which is half mine under New York State law.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

covert ops

I had an oophorectomy on Tuesday. My doctors tell me this is prophylactic on two fronts: it removes a likely attack site (my ovaries) for roving cancer cells, and stops me from producing estrogen and progesterone, which feed the cancer. I didn't tell my mother. She doesn't know I have breast cancer.

I have now had seven surgeries. My mother knows about two of them, the back surgeries, and only because I couldn't hide the fact that I was in the hospital for almost four weeks, and had to wear a back brace for six months. I told her part of the truth about what was wrong with my back--broken disks. I just didn't tell her that it was a metastatic tumor that caused the damage.

I feel great! I'm very tough, physically. It's the psychic pain that gives me trouble.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

almost there

I've been reading divorce blogs lately, and I have looked at the infamous divorcee clip on YouTube. People get crazy, both from the events that lead up to divorce, and from the legal process that follows those events. One blog, featured in an article about blogging and free speech in The New York Times, reminds me of how Lenny Bruce used to read legal injunctions against him onstage. I feel for these people. I have been that angry, and that crazy.

I think my divorce will be finished soon. I want to write about it, but I don't want to be pathetic, or worse, boring. I don't want this to be a revege blog, although I realize that simply writing the stuff that happened might be viewed as seeking revenge. Writing is my way of processing and working through emotion.

If I wrote a revenge blog, it would be about the guy who painted my apartment four years ago. He charged me $4300 and did a terrible job. His crew got paint on everything. They didn't use that blue tape, and they got paint drips on everything in my house--appliances, wood cabinets. . . They destroyed carpets and wood floors. It still bothers me, every single day.

Don't hire Pete Mascio to paint your house.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

small town

I drive my daughter and my sister to the train every morning. Coming back a few minutes ago, I nearly ran over my husband's divorce lawyer (who shall henceforth be known as Mr. Bohica, which is military slang for "Bend over; here it comes again.") He was getting out of his car to go get his morning coffee at the little cafe. I see him almost every morning, but I've never almost run over him before.

I can just see myself, trying to explain to the police that it was an accident.

Also: I saw the judge on my case in my local Stop&Shop the Wednesday after Easter.

Also: I frequently see my husband's best friend from childhood, who no longer speaks to me, walking down the hill to the train.

I've gotta get outa this town.