Archive | September 13, 2011

Why I call hubby #1 the Con Artist – part 1

Some stories are just too long to be put into one post.  I could probably write an entire book on my first ex-hubby, but I’m going to narrow it down to just two posts for now.  Enjoy!

It was August 1995 when we started talking on AOL.  Yep those were the good old days of AOL chat rooms.  For some reason he liked stalking the chat rooms set up for various southern states instead of the NY rooms.  I knew that he was Jewish, he lived in Brooklyn, NY and he was 32 years old.  I didn’t know a lot else about him at the time.

After a couple of weeks of talking online and on the phone he asked if I’d like to come up to NY to visit him one weekend.  I was very hesitant at first because then I was a 22-year-old virgin working as a church secretary and even though I had been to NYC once when I was in high school, the thought of going back by myself scared the crap out of me.  He was persistent though and offered to buy my plane ticket and get me a hotel room to stay in while I was there.  It made me feel a little more at ease knowing that I wouldn’t have to stay with him at his house.  Reluctantly I accepted his offer and we planned it out for the weekend coming up.

It was a Friday evening when my plane landed at JFK airport in New York City.  He met me at the airport and as soon as I saw him he said let’s go have a drink.  After having a couple of drinks in a bar there in the airport we went out and got a car service to take us to the hotel in Brooklyn.

Admittedly I wasn’t very impressed with him at first.  He was crass and not that good-looking.  He was a less attractive looking and shorter version of Jerry Seinfeld.  He had on some of those really faded or whitewashed type jeans and a polo shirt tucked in to his jeans.  He looked like he was stuck in the 80’s.  I later found out that his wardrobe wasn’t the only thing stuck in the 80’s.  For him, the 80’s were the best years of his life, full of sex, drugs, and wanna-be mafioso types.  He told me about how his father owned a club back in the 70’s and many of the local mobsters frequented it .  His father died of a heart-attack when he was five and his mother, who on her own had to raise a wild unruly son, just about went crazy with grief and stress.  Well, she didn’t raise him completely on her own.  The local mobsters that were friends with his dad offered to help keep an eye on him.  I think he would have been better off just with his crazy mother raising him.

After we went to the hotel and I changed my clothes we went out to dinner.  It was a nice restaurant in Brooklyn, but he wasn’t the best conversationalist that I had ever met.  He had few table manners and even fewer things in common with me.  When he did talk it was mostly about himself and how much money he had and how he had just gotten back from a trip to Arizona where he took a jet for a test ride.  I’m not really the gold-digging type, but he did make it all sound quite impressive.  Being that I was a poor little Southern girl working a low-paying job, this was about the most excitement that I had in a long time.

He took me to a couple of bars and clubs in Brooklyn and everyone seemed to know him.  There were lots of goodfella types that came over and talked to him.  I was so out of my element that everything was exciting and interesting to me.  I was naïve and clueless and very soon became drunk.  He was trying to drink me under the table.  He failed.  I still had a high tolerance for alcohol and by the time I was feeling tipsy, he was about on the floor.

He finally was too drunk to go anywhere else so he said we’d get a cab and he would take me back to my hotel.  As drunk as he was though, he still tried to get me to let him in my hotel room.  I refused and he got kind of upset.  I told him that I was a virgin and there was no way in hell that I was going to lose it to him.  I ended up having to push him out of the doorway so I could close the door.  Before he left he said that he would be back in the morning to take me back to the airport.

The next morning I got up and got ready to head back to the airport.  I waited and waited.  I called his house, but there was no answer.  I called & called, still no answer.  Great.  I had no idea what to do.  I had spent the last little bit of my cash to pay for the cab the night before because he said he was out of cash.  So there I was with no money and no ride back to the airport.

Before I had a meltdown I decided to just call a cab and then give the driver a check once we were at the airport.  I had no cash so what was he going to do?  Refuse to take it?  It was a plan, although not a great one.

On the ride to the airport the cabby was a talker and asked me why I had come to NYC.  I told him a little about what had happened and then decided to go ahead and tell him that I had no cash, just a check.  I swore to him that it would be good and pretty much begged for his help.  He was really nice about it all and said that would be fine.  I guess my innocent looks and demeanor at the time helped me out a lot in that situation.

I arrived back home later that night and swore that I’d never speak to that asshole again.

Stay tuned for part two of Why I call hubby #1 the Con Artist.  What?  You thought it would end there?  My life is never that simple because I’m not as smart as I look. 😉

Happy humping!