“I don’t care if you’re working or
not, nor do I give one iota that you’ve been on set for yet another thirteen
hour day and you’re tired”, my pain
in the neck, ridiculously needy, life-force-sucking vampirific “boyfriend” whined
unrelentingly. “MY needs are
important too!” he puled pathetically, wildly oblivious to my ultimate
desires of kicking off my shoes, washing my face and snuggling into my jammies alone
in front of any manner of mindless TV. “You’ve
got exactly TEN days to explain your behavior last year to me, or I’m THROUGH
with you!” he pouted.
Nag, nag, nag...
And rather than put up with being judgmentally
glared at all night, I booted him mercilessly out of my bedroom, leaving him to
sleep on the hard wooden surface of the coffin-table in the living room where
he could miserably fester in solitude overnight.
Unfortunately, it was I who festered...
As calmly speaking face to face was clearly
NOT an option at this point in our relationship (he’d long ago refused to answer my olive-branch-extending telephone
calls, yet still felt completely comfortable lurking uninvited into my home),
I whipped out a clean sheet of paper, a thick black ink pen and proceeded to
vengefully scrawl in CAPITAL LETTERS all manner of spiteful vinegar and venom
as any and every single vulgar word in my vernacular came to mind in massive waves
of hostility and aggression! (*whew!*)
Now, I must say that the personal radical
ranting was ridiculously therapeutic; barfing all of my buried anger out on college-lined
notebook leafs (destined for the shredder
of course); as since I do believe that words are incredibly powerful when
used optimally, perhaps a cheap-shot paragraph or two regarding my
“boyfriend’s” Mother’s sex life may have been, shall we say, inappropriate...And despite my thickest, maddest, black marker running out of ink as I penned the last of my psychological “primal screams” (without even making a sound!), I felt an unusual sense of calmness as I managed to scribble one last big, fat “FU” on the paper before curling up into a ball of emotional exhaustion.
“Oh, but what had happened to us?” I
wondered woefully as my beloved sleep eluded me too. “We used to be so happy together” I sighed at
the sadness of the rift betwixt myself and my ‘boyfriend’.
After all, when first we met (how many years ago?), he had ALWAYS
been so supportive of my career! He
never once judged me or became jealous if I ignored him in favor of choosing to
spend time with my fickle mistress known as Hollywood: He’d been my rock to help pick up the pieces
of my broken heart on those lonely weeks when my mistress occasionally shunned
me: Heck, he’d even given me a couple
hundred bucks now and again to make sure I didn’t have to live in a cardboard
box!
>>><<<
Unfortunately the old adage about
not going to sleep angry rang true the very next morning; as although I’d
innocently toddled into the kitchen for a bottle of water before work, there he
laid, still staring at me stone-faced; a scorned lover demanding to be reckoned
with, whose mute presence in my home disgusted me and churned my stomach as the
mere sight of him only enraged me further.
“TEN DAYS (well, now apparently NINE) to explain yourself” my ‘boyfriend’
chastised me; unrelentingly lauding himself righteously atop my coffin-table.
“FU!!!”
>>><<<
Having been bent over forward and
backward (and every other unimaginable humiliating
position in between) and all around screwed by my boyfriend “Eddy” (aka the
almighty EDD Unemployment Department) for the last five months, I had little to
no fight left in me for yet another lover’s quarrel.
But resigning myself to appease Eddy
one last time out of gooey sentimentality for the good old days (or, as
psychiatrists might label our dysfunctional relationship “Battered Wife
Syndrome”), I scanned the letter on my coffin-table wearily to try to determine
what on earth might finally make Eddy
happy for a change.
Ironically, apparently I wasn’t the
only one feeling sentimental:
“You had a prior
Unemployment Insurance claim. Benefits
cannot be paid on your new claim unless you worked as an employee between 12/30/12
and 12/28/13 and condition (a.) or (b.) below is met.”
Well, to Eddy’s credit, harkening
back to a time when we treated each other with respect was quite
refreshing! I was suspicious of course,
but with a quick trip to a copy place, eight paystubs Xeroxed from the first two
weeks of 2012 (which obviously met conditions (a.) and (b.), FFS) and the
world’s nicest, most polite, hand-written unemotional letter of “please find
the enclosed” blah-blah-blah crap, I made two last copies of the original
letter sent to me as well as the envelope it arrived in.
Yes kind readers, it hurts me to say
that Eddy had one last dirty little trick up his dastardly deceitful sleeve
should I be distracted by his kindness...
As aforementioned, I had been given
TEN days to respond with my proof of employment, right?
Ah, but therein lies the rub: Please note the congruence (or rather lack
thereof) regarding the date of the letter typed to me, versus the actual date
mailed:
Now as a mightily scorned woman with
which Hell hath no fury like, I was mere seconds away from buying a Sharpie and
scribbling violent death wishes to Eddy all over my pristine Xerox copies, but
I was relatively certain that my Battered Wife Syndrome defense wouldn’t hold
up in a court of law. Additionally, I
was upset with myself for having such an emotional reaction in the first place,
but seriously, how much abuse can one person take before they snap and just go
bat-shit crazy???
>>><<<
In the end, surrounded by a sea of
papers which I carefully highlighted with a yellow marker as to all of the
information Eddy apparently required to drain the last few drops of my dwindling
life forces, I stapled, stamped and kissed our relationship good-bye; one final
touché on my part added to the hand-written note, lest he find yet one more
loophole to set on fire for me to jump through before we became officially
‘divorced’:
“P.S. I’m not sure why this request letter is dated
01/16/14 when the postage indicates it was mailed to me eleven days later, but
attached please find a copy of the EDD envelope to verify my compliance within
the specified ten day period. Thank
you.”
(Battered
wife, I tell you! Who else would write
“thank you” to their abuser?!!!)
>>><<<
“I gave up years ago” one friend shared wearily as she recalled her own
dysfunctional relationship with Eddy.
“Me too” another piped up, unable to
meet Eddy’s needs as pertains to most of us in Tinsel Town who are independent
contractors. “Just because I got a
residual check from NBC for a television re-run, doesn’t mean I actually WORKED
for NBC last week! It’s just a freaking nightmare
these days” she continued sadly.
“I think they’re just trying to make
it next to impossible so we’ll all give up and they never have to deal with us
anymore” a male friend chimed in.
And so seemed to be my equally miserable future...
But hey, my fickle mistress known as
Hollywood had once again welcomed me back into her loving embrace! I’d been blessed with 13 episodes of a television
show in its third season (fingers are all crossed for a back-order of more!),
and with my mind re-trained to appreciate being appreciated for a change, I gave no further thought to Eddy and his
spiteful will.
Until...
Logging on to the poot one quiet
Tuesday evening to see if the newest version of the script had arrived for the
next morning, I cocked my head in confusion at seven emails all sent to me at the exact same time, awaiting
me from my bank.
And suddenly, I was “Carrie
Bradshaw” in the movie Sex and the City
as she unearthed the love letters from “Big” in her computer after their
horrible, ugly, messy break-up.
As my “Mr. Big” (Eddy) himself also hadn’t
yet found the appropriate words to make things right between us, he resorted to
writers who could better speak for him. And
thus I read the following (x7):
“Dear Penny,
“A funds transfer
transaction from your EDD Debit Card to your checking or savings account #
ending in **** is being processed in the amount of...”
>>><<<
Quite frankly (although I do dream
HUGE!), this weathered Penny never realistically thought she’d ever see a dime.
And whilst I believe a lady should never
kiss and tell, suffice it to say that Eddy and I are once upon a time (again)
on most agreeable terms.
In fact, having received eight more
snail-mail billets-doux this week
confirming proof of payments which I shall wrap up in a brilliant red bow as a
Valentine’s Day gift in my financial archives, I can neither confirm nor deny
that I may or may not have burst into song in the solitude of my bat-cave around
midnight with a rousing rendition of a video on YouTube that spoke directly to
my heart.
Bring it on home, Etta! (Video may not be viewable on hand-held devices, but feel free to look up Etta James singing "At Last" in a lovely red sequined blouse!)
~Gooey-Centered P
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