Prenuptial Romance

One of our favorite things my fiance and I do together is snuggling on the sofa while he watches Deep Space Nine, scratching my back as I peruse Pinterest on my laptop. Every once in awhile I’ll come across articles like, “9 things every engaged couple should discuss” or “Why pre-marriage counseling is the best thing ever.” He'll pause the show and we’ll go over the list checking the items off. Kids? None. Money? Got that figured out. Life goals? Yep. Household duties? Oh my god can you please do the dishes once in awhile?

We found ourselves talking about prenups, which turned into a very romantic conversation. Neither of us has any major assets to protect right now. Someday, we will both inherit property, his will be far more valuable than mine. My intended said he thought putting together a prenup might take away some of the worry, should we ever part. And, let’s face it, lives change over time and, even if you don’t end up in a bitter battle, sometimes splitting happens. He wanted to make sure that lawyers wouldn’t have a chance to muck things up.

Luckily, I told him, lawyers don’t have to be involved. My ex-husband and I did our divorce without lawyers and, other than having to correct some documents, and having to go through every account we have ever had to present it to the court, it wasn’t too difficult (of course, emotionally, it was a shit show.) So, we agreed that maybe, if we wanted to draw one up, it would just include something about neither of us requesting spousal support. And, any mutual assets (houses, etc.) will be an equal split or one can buy out the other. If I make a million dollars selling my smut novel, I keep that. If his law firm wins a huge case and he gets paid a ton, he keeps that. Lottery winnings? We have to figure that one out still.

Why is this romantic? Because we talked about something that sometimes people don’t want to admit could happen. We are up front, facing reality, not afraid of the ugly. Because we are a team but we don’t begin and end with each other. It doesn’t diminish our commitment to each other. It’s okay to think there may be an end. Although, it’s more fun to think of him as an old man, shuffling around the kitchen, while I remind him to take his pills.

Comparison Shopping

“How’s the move going?”

A few hours after the movers had hauled our earthly possessions up the stairs to a spacious second floor apartment, The Ex texted. He hates moving almost as much as I do and, undoubtedly, made sure we were settled in before making contact to assure a visit free of lending a hand.

“All moved in! You can come up if you’d like.”

He loves to see the inside of other people’s homes. We spent many Sunday afternoons driving neighborhoods searching for “Open House” signs. There, among the freshly baked cookies and simmering cinnamon sticks on the stove, we could imagine a life that could be ours, if we weren’t but mere renters. Somehow, I would end up being cornered by the eager realtor, left to make up a story about how we were already working with an agent (we weren’t). Even more alluring to The Ex was what the apartment next door might look like. Did they have the same closet space? Linoleum? Ceiling fans? Just to compare.

The Beau was replacing the toilet seat when The Ex stopped by. This simple act of tossing out the place strangers sat naked to install a pristine new throne is one of those rituals anyone who has moved apartment to apartment (and who has a mild germ-phobia) can understand. Just minutes before, I was tempted to ask The Ex to help with this endeavor—bring his ratchet wrench over. But, we found a manual wrench in the tool kit that The Ex guilt-gifted me when we split.

The Beau isn’t so handy. This was apparent the first time we loaded a hand-me-down dryer into the back of my mini-SUV. All the years spent strategizing similar tasks with The Ex gave me an edge while The Beau was stumped by the mechanics of lifting a bulky, but not too heavy, major appliance.

There was something comforting about having a man who could take care of shit. Driving U-hauls. Snaking plugged drains.  Assembling IKEA dressers. That kind of thing. I like to think of myself as a woman who can take care of herself but, after crying through assembling my single girl apartment INGOLF dining chair, I relented and took my girlfriend up on borrowing her husband to assemble the second INGOLF chair, an INGATORP dining table and an EKTORP sofa.

I guess it is inevitable that we compare the new to the old. Apartments. Jobs. Partners. The Beau is not handy. He isn’t as ambitious as The Ex (or me, for that matter.) He doesn’t talk easily with new people the way The Ex and I do (we both work in PR-type careers).

The Beau will, however, find a You-tube video showing him how to cook a steak (that he had prepared for me after a particularly long day). He signed up for a community college program to change careers and joined a professional association. He let me coach him on how to talk to people at networking events.

Most importantly, when I am cranky and start lashing out, he doesn’t react. I don’t know if you know this but there are people out there who just don’t fight.

Welp, I am finishing up my third drink for the evening. I don’t usually get tipsy on a Sunday night but it has been a particularly stressful week and weekend, hence the late post. I won’t go into details. I will tell you that The Beau will be home from work in less than an hour and he has promised some snuggling. Something The Ex won’t be getting tonight.

Portable Pink

Root canal. Bikini wax. Chug an extra hoppy India Pale Ale. These are all things I would rather do than move. As in residences. This week The Beau and I are packing for our big move on Saturday. We are right around that zone of denial. We only have a few more boxes to go. That will be super easy on Friday night, right? I guarantee that, on Friday night, there will be rage packing. Flinging the lingering clothes, toiletries and shoes into boxes. Disposing of papers that should probably be shredded. Dumping perfectly good tubes of moisturizer and Neosporin in the trash because, WHY do we have five tubes of Neosporin?

I also hate packing because this will be my fourth move in just over two years. When The Ex and I broke up on November 2, 2013, I wanted to be the one who moved out. He stayed with family for a month until I could get into the cutest girly apartment in WeHo adjacent. I wanted to leave the ruins of our 12.5 year marriage for him to sort through and dispose of. I wanted to start fresh. With new, all white IKEA furniture.

I bought pink rugs and pink pillows and pink seat cushions. I fluffed floral and pink gingham bedding on a queen sized bed, accented by pictures of flowers and Hollywood starlets on my walls. My 480 square foot studio apartment oozed femininity right down to the walk THROUGH closet leading to my vintage tiled bathroom that was far larger than a studio apartment bathroom had any right of being.

That apartment spoke to me. She understood me. Comforted me for hours while I sobbed to the Haim Pandora station and subsisted on wine, coffee, and string cheese. I cared for her. One of my great pleasures was waking up on a Saturday morning to start my cleaning ritual—vacuuming the sofa cushions, soaking the dish drainer and stove elements (although, who was I kidding, I hardly cooked during that time). Using the Bissell Automatic Floor Scrubber that The Ex guilt gifted me to shine up those bathroom tiles. (I once had an overnight male guest who left sprinkles on the bathroom floor—that prompted the no sleep-over policy implemented in April, 2014.)

Yes. That apartment was my sanctuary. I never wanted to leave. But, as fate or the universe or timing would have it, our relationship lasted exactly as long as the one-year lease. I had to move on. I could no longer afford to live the single girl life and my financial future was dangerously uncertain. One of the Lifesavers of my life, The Queen, rescued me from a dark spiral that even the sparkliest of bathrooms couldn’t conquer. On a rainy December evening, I tearfully locked my front door for the last time. Most of my pink and white things were placed in a 7 and-a-half by 10 foot storage unit. My bed, dresser and vanity desk occupied The Queen’s guest bedroom, down the hall from her beautiful 4-year-old son’s bedroom.

A month later, after committing to delete my online dating profiles, I had one date left with a really sweet guy who had patiently challenged me to Words With Friends until we could finally get that introductory cup of coffee.

Ten months later, I was spending most nights with The Beau, 42 miles from The Queen’s castle. As timing, et al, would have it, one of his two roommates moved out and the castle suffered a plumbing problem that would take months to resolve and mostly impacted my bathroom. So, I hauled my pink and white things to a Gingerbread style house practically in Orange County where I would share two rooms with The Beau and The Roommate’s Tortoise Tabby, Camille.  

Until this Saturday when we start a new chapter.  A chapter set 20 feet from where it all began 28 months ago. Back to the life and the Ex Next Door.

Moving On-Moving In

A jeweler friend recently told me that diamonds don't hold their value. They aren't as precious and rare as the engagement ring racket would have would be grooms believe. Buy a ruby or sapphire for your sweetheart if you truly want to give a gift that holds some value. So, I wasn't surprised when I dumped my wedding set on the counter at the Encino Jewelry Mart and the man offered me $150 for the gold and $500 for the diamond. The set cost $2100 in 2001.

"I'll take credit for the gold and I'll keep the diamond."

I snapped a photo while the man wearing a magnifier on his glasses pried apart the diamond solitaire that spent 14 years on my left hand.

"That's a very high quality diamond" he said after releasing it from the prongs and giving it a closer inspection. "A new diamond like this would cost $1000. I just don't have many customers looking for a half carat."

He placed the diamond in a tiny plastic baggie, scooped up the two gold rings, and gave me a receipt for payment in full. I will use the store credit to replace the shank on my grandmother's 1928 wedding ring. So I can wear it. As an engagement ring.

I called my boyfriend as I sat in the Jewelry Mart parking lot. I told him it was done. That I had surrendered my wedding rings in order to make way for a new ring. (A new life). "That's awesome." I silently waited for something more. "I'm pooping."

What I wanted him to say was, "How are you feeling about it?" I wanted a recognition that selling the most important symbols of my marriage--a very significant part of my life--was, well, significant. I hung up, disappointed by a sweet man who is still getting the hang of my flair for the melodramatic.

I dialed my mom, something I don't often do on a Wednesday afternoon. She was thrilled to hear from me mid-week and she understood the MAGNITUDE of what just transpired. She had survived two failed marriages that bookended over three decades with my late father. Plus, she appreciates that I am supremely sentimental about my grandmother's depression era diamond ring. Had I not met and fallen for my dreamy boyfriend, I would have worn it anyway.

The ring will be ready in two weeks, which will start the countdown to engagement. "It will happen when you least expect it" is the only clue I have as to what my sweetie has planned for proposing marriage. Meantime, we are packing our belongings to move. Into an apartment in a building I lived in for 9 years. With my ex-husband. Who still lives there.

And that is where the adventures of The Ex Next Door will begin.