Sneakin' into work at 8:30 on a Friday night is sooooo sad.
Well, really I just left my toothbrush and makeup here. But it's also an opportunity to relate this story that I happen to love. It's my favorite. So, here's the deal.
My husband was cheating. He had a girlfriend. I found out about her while reading the text messages on his cell phone. I already suspected something. And the messages confirmed it. So, I memorized her cell number but never used it because I didn't want to be that wife. That is, I didn't use it for awhile. So I've flown with the kids back to Portland over Christmas, and left them with family while I fly back to Pittsburgh and pack all our belongings into a 5' by 8' Uhaul trailer attached to the back of my (rotten piece of shit) car. Oh, and before I left, my husband had gone through all the "I love you"'s and "I want you to stay"'s and my emotions were a fucking roller coaster because I didn't want the divorce in the first place. I didn't pack up my life in Oregon in June and move to Pittsburgh so that I could be dumped after seven years of marriage in Pittsburgh for some little tramp hussy who knew my husband was married with children. The bitch. Anyway, I'm back at home and I'm packing and he's at work and I'm tired and I'm sick and I only have a little left to do and I'm in our bedroom closet searching for anything I may have missed when I find a backpack. It's not my husband's backpack. It's not my backpack. It doesn't belong to the kids or one of my friends. I look inside. There are clothes. There's a bra. There are panties. And shampoo. And a name, address and phone number. It's the name of the girl he's been fucking, the hoe. So, me and my emotions decide we need to call the number on the ID tag in the backpack. Sounds fair to me. So me and my emotions call the number and proceed with several expletives, a few "homewreckers", and I think I even threw in a "this is Julian's fault, but you have some culpability in this matter, too" here and there. Of course, the message on the answering machine for this number didn't identify the owner of the machine, so I thought I'd better leave a similar message on her cell number, still safely stored in memory.
I got a text message from Julian about three hours later. It read the following:
"Great job. You called her parents. Her MINISTER parents."
Sweet justice.
Well, really I just left my toothbrush and makeup here. But it's also an opportunity to relate this story that I happen to love. It's my favorite. So, here's the deal.
My husband was cheating. He had a girlfriend. I found out about her while reading the text messages on his cell phone. I already suspected something. And the messages confirmed it. So, I memorized her cell number but never used it because I didn't want to be that wife. That is, I didn't use it for awhile. So I've flown with the kids back to Portland over Christmas, and left them with family while I fly back to Pittsburgh and pack all our belongings into a 5' by 8' Uhaul trailer attached to the back of my (rotten piece of shit) car. Oh, and before I left, my husband had gone through all the "I love you"'s and "I want you to stay"'s and my emotions were a fucking roller coaster because I didn't want the divorce in the first place. I didn't pack up my life in Oregon in June and move to Pittsburgh so that I could be dumped after seven years of marriage in Pittsburgh for some little tramp hussy who knew my husband was married with children. The bitch. Anyway, I'm back at home and I'm packing and he's at work and I'm tired and I'm sick and I only have a little left to do and I'm in our bedroom closet searching for anything I may have missed when I find a backpack. It's not my husband's backpack. It's not my backpack. It doesn't belong to the kids or one of my friends. I look inside. There are clothes. There's a bra. There are panties. And shampoo. And a name, address and phone number. It's the name of the girl he's been fucking, the hoe. So, me and my emotions decide we need to call the number on the ID tag in the backpack. Sounds fair to me. So me and my emotions call the number and proceed with several expletives, a few "homewreckers", and I think I even threw in a "this is Julian's fault, but you have some culpability in this matter, too" here and there. Of course, the message on the answering machine for this number didn't identify the owner of the machine, so I thought I'd better leave a similar message on her cell number, still safely stored in memory.
I got a text message from Julian about three hours later. It read the following:
"Great job. You called her parents. Her MINISTER parents."
Sweet justice.
posted by Heather at 8:37 PM
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