Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: divorce (page 1 of 2)

The Last Call

phone

I haven’t spoken to Sophia in three months.

I have been reluctant to mention this to you, fearing you think I am hopelessly pining for us to get back together, which is not the case at all.  But I’m a sentimental fool, and I was still hoping for a different sort of ending to our long journey together, one where we could joke with each other about our new lives post-divorce, like two ex-lovers in a romantic comedy. Instead, we burned bridges.

I was depressed about this for a month, as if the past dozen years were a waste of my time, but as time crept on, I acknowledged that sometimes you need to learn, love, grow, and move on. By month three, I found myself spending more time worrying about a faraway woman in New Zealand than making peace with the past.

The first week after the blowout was intense. She blocked my phone number. She blocked my landline and my cell phone.  She blocked my mother’s cell phone.  My last attempt to fix things was one of pure desperation — walking down the block to the public phone outside the liquor store, a spot usually reserved for lonely late night phone card calls to foreign countries.

I placed four quarters into the slot. I wiped the receiver with my t-shirt, concerned about exotic germs. I dialed Sophia’s home number. And nothing. I lost all of my money. The phone was rigged the phone so the coins became stuck in the slot. I battered the phone with my fist, like a bully.  The phone laughed at me.

“Fuck it,” I said, taking it as a sign not to call her again.

Not everything has to be tied up together neatly like a fictional story.  Sometimes the tale just ends, without a moral.

One Thing a Day #2 – The Laundry

Boiler Room

Wise men say, “Don’t air your dirty laundry,” so I’m not going to do that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you about the clean, but still very wet laundry that was spinning in the dryer in the garage when Sophia and I had our last fight in the house.

“I’ll take the Shuttle to the airport,” I said, grabbing the soggy clothes in mid-rotation and throwing them into my suitcase.

I walked to the laundromat by the post office, wheeling my luggage in like I was entering the marble lobby of the Four Seasons. A homeless man was washing himself in the sink. A grumpy African-American woman was reading Jet magazine; Fantasia was on the cover. I remembered when Sophia and I watched Fantasia win American Idol. How long ago was that? 2004?! Nine years ago!

I opened the suitcase on the cleanest linoleum counter, and tossed the damp clothes into the commercial drier. My brightly colored shorts and t-shirts — direct from summertime in New Zealand — created a colorful kaleidoscope as they spun, but they would do little to keep me warm during the cold gray wintery life of New York City.

In the front pocket of the suitcase was a New Zealand Paua shell that Juli gave me to take home. It was wrapped in a red towel. I carefully peeled the flaps of the flannel towel open, like a onion, or like a woman, to make sure that it was still in one piece.

Sophia called. We talked. We calmed down. She drove me to LAX. At the American Airlines terminal, I gave her my house key. In New Zealand, Juli gave me her house key, and I took it — a promise to return. And here I was, giving my other house key back to Sophia.

It was not the way I imagined leaving the house for the last time, wheeling out my wet clothes in a suitcase.

Feeling Divorced

run

In 2005, I separated from my wife.

But it wasn’t a real separation because we still saw each other every day.

In 2010, we decided that it was time to file for divorce.

But her father-in-law became sick, so we had to help care for him, and then her mother died from all the stress, right before her stepfather died, so we never had a chance to get a divorce.

In 2011, we did file for divorce with California.

But we filed it incorrectly, and it got them returned to us, and we didn’t touch the paperwork for another eight months.

In 2012, we re-filed the paperwork.   And finally, we were divorced.  We got the notice in the mail.

But it didn’t feel like divorce.  I was still living in the same house for half of the year, and we shared all expenses.   And we were still arguing about the same issues.  It was as if we had tossed away all of the good parts of marriage, only to keep the negatives.  We treated the divorce notice as irrelevant,  as valid as Monopoly money.  It didn’t matter what California said.  We would keep working at this forever.

In 2013, I met another woman online and I traveled to New Zealand to see her.

But even during this budding international romance, I still never FELT completely divorced.  And Juli, the woman in New Zealand, told me so.  I hid from my ex-wife when she called me on the phone.  It was if I felt uncomfortable making a new life for myself without her approval.  I was tied to her, if not like husband and wife, at least like “brother and sister.” It was not healthy, and my ex and I, who once loved each other dearly, were beginning to hate each other.

My last month in Los Angeles was a traumatic one.  I turned in my key.  I removed myself from the phone “family plan.”  I moved my books into storage.  It was tense and awful month, especially coming immediately after the most beautiful one in New Zealand.

Today, I spoke on the phone with my ex-wife about some lingering issues. She is beginning to have her own life.  Her own hobbies and friends.   We argued about some money, of course,  just for old time’s sake, but it didn’t feel the same.  There have been so many changes down the road, that we are different people than when we first got married, wearing that tuxedo and white dress.  We are not husband and wife. We are not brother and sister. I’m not sure we are even friends. Not yet.  For now, it seemed more like a conversation between ex-business partners.

For better or for worse, for sickness or for health, eight years after our “separation” and two and a half years after we first filed the paperwork, I finally felt divorced — that is, emotionally.   And I don’t say that cruelly.  It is necessary.

{{hugs}}

Facebook Chat from last week with my blogging friend, Jill, mother of three.

++++

Neil:  Hi, Jill.

Jill:  Hey, Neil! What’s up?

Neil:   Can I talk to you about personal stuff?

Jill:  Sure.

Neil:  Sophia and I got our papers back from the court today. We are officially divorced. We went out to Yogurtland for some peanut butter frozen yogurt. And that’s that.

Jill:  Wow.

Neil:  I haven’t told anyone. Not my friends. Not my mother. But I need to tell someone. And I saw you on Facebook chat.

Jill:  Wow. That’s some news.

Neil:  I know. Bombshell. Biggest personal news ever.

Jill:  But to be honest. I thought you were already divorced.

Neil:  No, we were just separated.

Jill:  I see.

Neil:  I know.  My personal life is confusing.

Jill:  Are you absolutely sure that you and Sophia weren’t divorced already?

Neil:  No.  No divorce.

Jill:  I could have sworn you were already divorced.   I’ve been reading your blog for a long time.

Neil:  No, just separated.

Jill:  Separated.   So all this time — for the last seven years — you’ve been separated?

Neil:  Something like that. On and off.  Even though we lived together.

Jill:  Wait a minute. I thought you live in New York now.

Neil:  No, now I’m in Los Angeles again.

Jill:  With Sophia?

Neil:  With Sophia.

Jill:  So you live together now?

Neil:  For now.

Jill:  Call me crazy, but I could have sworn I remember you writing a post saying you got divorced and then you threw up outside the court?

Neil:  No, that was when I filed the papers. That’s when I threw up.

Jill:  You’re right. It’s all very confusing. But maybe it’s for the best.

Neil:  Sure. It’s still sad.

Jill:  I can imagine. I’m not really sure what to say.

Neil:  Maybe you can give me one of your famous vitual {{hugs}} that you always give online to people in need.

Jill:  You want me to give you virtual {{hugs}}?

Neil:  Well, I am feeling a little sad.

Jill:  Hmm. I’m not sure I feel comfortable giving you {{hugs}}.

Neil:  Why not?

Jill:  I’m a married woman. And you’re a divorced man.

Neil:  But you’ve given me {{hugs}} before! Remember when I accidently deleted all those instagram photos! You gave me {{hugs}} then.

Jill:  Yeah, never with a man who JUST got divorced. I know how men get after they are divorced. I don’t want to lead you on or for you to think I’m available to you with my {{hugs}}.

Neil:  I don’t want to date you. I just want one of your comforting internet {{hugs}}!

Jill:  Just the {{hugs}}? That’s all? Are you sure that’s all you want. Nothing more?

Neil:  I’m depressed. I just experience one of the most dramatic moments of my life! You’re the first person I’ve talked to all day. You’re my lifeline.

Jill:  Oh wait. My husband just walked in. He’s crying over the news.

Neil:  Over my divorce?

Jill:  No, they just traded Jeremy Lin to the Houston Rockets. Let me ask him if I can give you {{hugs}}.

Jill’s Husband:  Hello.

Neil:  Jill?

Jill’s Husband:  No, this is Jill’s husband.

Neil:  Hi.

Jill’s Husband:  Don’t hi me.  Are you trying to f**k my wife?

Neil:  What?!

Jill’s Husband:  Just answer. Are you trying to f**k my wife?

Neil:  I have no interest in your wife. She’s just a friend. I’m just trying to get a little ol’ internet {{hugs}} from her?

Jill’s Husband:  Internet {{hugs}}? What is that, hipster slang for a blowjob?

Neil:  No! It’s just a virtual {{hugs}}.  You know, with the brackets standing in as as the arms doing the hug.   An emoticon.

Jill’s Husband:  What are you talking about?  Has Jill given you these {{hugs}} before?

Neil:  Jill gives {{hugs}} to everyone. She is a freaking {{hugs}} machine. It means nothing.

Jill’s Husband:  So you don’t want to f**k her?

Neil:  No!

Jill’s Husband:  You don’t find her attractive?

Neil:  Of course she’s attractive. But she’s just a friend. A mom who I’ve met at BlogHer a couple of times.

Jill’s Husband:  OK, then. Fine. Here’s Jill.

Jill:  Hi, Neil. It’s me.   My husband said it was OK to give you {{hugs}}.

Neil:  Thanks.  So, he understands that we’re just friends.

Jill:  No, it wasn’t that.  When he heard that you’ve attended BlogHer a few times, he assumed you’re gay.

Neil:  Fine. Just do it already.

Jill:  {{hugs}}

Truth Quotient:  25%

What Mario Lopez Taught Me About The Five Emotional Stages Of Divorce

Just because I haven’t been writing a lot on my blog doesn’t mean I haven’t been online. Ever since Sophia and I filed for divorce, I’ve been receiving advice from online friends near and far about how to proceed with my life.  Some of this advice has been as wise as that of Buddha, while other tidbits have been pure idiocy.

I should take up yoga.
I should keep my distance from Sophia.
I should have rebound sex with women born no later than the Clinton Administration.
I should take up French cooking.
I should write a book.
I should travel.
I should date nice girls.
I should not date at all.
I should run in a half marathon.
I should go to “Burning Man.”
I should get a tattoo.
I should start a blog for divorcing men.
I should start binge drinking  (another serious suggestion, proof that I have some really bad friends).

To complicate matters, I have my own internal voices putting THEIR two cents into the hat, and as usual — my head, my heart, and my dick are not on the same page.

This morning I had breakfast with Danny from Jew Eat Yet.  He has been a great blogging friend since 2005, a super-intelligent guy, with a broad range of knowledge.  I knew any advice that HE would give me would be something worth listening to in earnest, unlike some of my OTHER readers.

As we ate what is considered “The Best Pancakes in LA” (at Du-Pars), I talked about my hopes and fear, and some of the issues still remaining with Sophia.   Danny rubbed his chin, like a clever rabbi, and told me how divorce is like a death.  He explained that  I would need to go through a transition period of grief, namely the Five Emotional Stages of Divorce: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

I found myself unable to relate to what he was saying.

“You must still be in the denial stage,” he noted. “It’ll come to you.  Give it time and you will understand.”

Our conversation has been so weighty, and the pancakes so heavy in our stomachs, that we decided to take a little walk.   As we strolled over to the Grove shopping center next to the Farmer’s Market, we discussed the new fall TV season.   It was a relief to talk about nonsense.

We noticed a crowd gathering in the center square adjacent to the Barnes and Noble bookstore.   We went over to take a look.   It was TV personality Mario Lopez doing a remote for the show EXTRA, interviewing a few special guests, including the infamous Snooki from Jersey Shore.

Danny and I stood there for twenty minutes, watching the crew — the high strung producer, the bored sound man, the unionized grips eating donuts.  Mario Lopez seemed to be a seasoned professional.  The director would give him one quick rehearsal for each segment, and then he would jump right in.

As I admired Mario Lopez’s TV skills, I thought about my faltering Instagram photography.  In New York, I was taking fun photos of NYC life, but in Los Angeles, my photos have been  stale.   There are few opportunities for a spontaneous photo in a city where you are always driving in your car.

But here was an opportunity to redeem myself.   What could be more LA than a photo of Mario Lopez, with his perfect hair, teeth, and body?

I took dozens of Mario Lopez photos from different angles, searching for the ideal Mario Lopez instagram shot.  And as I melted there under the hot LA sun, I had a revelation.  It was as if God himself was sending me a message through the expressive facial gesturing of TV personality Mario Lopez.  When I looked at Mario Lopez speaking into his microphone, I was understanding what Danny had said earlier about divorce.   It was his face… Mario Lopez’s Hollywood chiseled face.   His facial expressions were like elements in a Powerpoint Presentation on The Five Emotional Stages of Divorce: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.


Denial


Anger


Bargaining


Depression


Acceptance.

I understand.  And now I must move on to the next stage.   Thank you Mario Lopez.

Giving Birth to Myself

I want to be politically correct with my large female readership and say right off the bat that as a man I will never fully know what it feels like to give birth to another human being. But, to be devil’s advocate, let’s imagine that I DO KNOW.  And I am giving birth… to myself.  To a  new version of Neil.  The man who is not married to Sophia.

You will notice that I didn’t used the word divorced. Divorce has connotations of loss to me, as if I lost my wallet.  I will not walk around with the self identity of a divorced man.  I will be a man who learned important life lessons during his first marriage, a man now better able to love.

But this person is yet to be born.  He is inside me, growing.  And as most woman know, giving birth is a bizarre combination of pain, blood, joy, and medication. And it takes time.

But soon.

Irreconcilable Differences

On the night before BlogHer, Sophia and I filled out the paperwork.  There were four forms to complete.   It was more complicated than I thought, forgetting for a moment that filing for divorce is a serious legal matter and not an episode of “The Marriage Ref.”  The moment was friendly, but tense, not unlike the times we attempted to complete the NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle together.

Filing for divorce.   We peeked into my blog archives and discovered that we have been “separated” for six years, coming back and leaving each other more times than Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.  It was time.

We enjoyed a quick nice laugh when we came across the options you could choose as the reason for the divorce —

A) Irreconsolible differences.

B) Reasons of insanity.

Yes, I want a divorce because my SPOUSE IS CRAZY!

The next day, I put my luggage in the car, ready to go to San Diego.  But before I left LA, I drove to the courthouse.  I stood in a long line outside the court, hanging with my peers, the gang members and rapists of the City of Los Angeles.  Apparently, getting a divorce puts you in the same line as an armed robber.    I got patted down by a burly police officer after going through the metal detective, proving that ending a marriage requires a symbolic ceremony as traditional as breaking the glass under the chuppah in the beginning.

The clerk at civil court clerk’s office was an androgynous woman with short blonde hair in the style of Annie Lenox, circa 1985.  Filing for divorce is as glamorous as going to CVS pharmacy to pick up some Q-tips.  I handed the clerk the forms and paid my $390.

The only setback was that I couldn’t hand in Sophia’s papers on the same day as I did mine.  She had to be “served” by a third party, much as they do on “Law and Order.” Oh yeah, and another $390.  You would think with such a high divorce rate in California, the state wouldn’t be bankrupt.

I left the court feeling good.   The process was only half completed, so the full impact of the action hadn’t yet hit.  Why worry? I wasn’t officially filed yet.  Or divorced.  If a meteor slammed into earth that day, I would die a married man.

I enjoyed BlogHer, only mentioning the filing for divorce with a few close friends.  It didn’t seem appropriate to make a public announcement during the Keynote Speech.

When I returned from San Diego, we asked a friend to “serve” Sophia, so the process would all be official.   It was felt rather silly, as if we were playing Charades.  So “legal.”   The legal divorce was less a concern than the emotional fallout.  We had gone through a lot during our marriage — happiness, sex, laughter, anger, stress, illness, and the death of three of our parents. Clearly there was a bond. We gave it a good shot — six years after the initial separation — but we had changed over the years.  We didn’t fit together anymore.   We had become brother and sister, not husband and wife. And that is no way to live your life.

On Monday morning, we had breakfast.   Sophia asked me to go to recycling center on the way back from the court, proving that a husband’s chores never end, even to the final moment.  There was a huge collection of soda and beer bottles sitting in the garage. My first instinct was to ask her why she didn’t do this herself, but I shut myself up.   Why go there?  It was the petty little snips that had done the most harm over the years.

“Sure,” I said to my wife, the person I shared so much with for so many years. “I’ll bring in the recycling stuff after I go to the court.”

I returned to court, waiting in line with a new set of gang-bangers.  The androgynous court clerk was absent, which made me sad.  I was hoping for the comfort of repetition.

The new clerk was a smiling black woman in a bright red dress. She smiled as she took Sophia’s response form and charged me another $390 dollars.

She stamped the form, and it was done.   I hoped for an uplifting good-bye, something like, “That’s it! Have a great rest of your life filled with love and happiness.”

But no.

“Next!” she announced.

I went to the car. I was feeling pretty good, even relieved.  I could now go on with the rest my life.   Even date other women!

It was time.

And then I threw up on the parking lot floor.

After that, I drove over to deliver the cans and bottles to the recycling center.

In the Limo

“Do we tip the driver?” I asked Sophia. We were in the backseat of a limo, part of the fleet from one of the most famous of Los Angeles livery services.

“I’m not sure. I suppose so.” she answered, sipping her champagne. “We certainly don’t want to be called cheap for the next six years, like we have been on that old post about splitting a salad at Olive Garden.”

We both laughed, and ate more of the caviar, included with our VIP package.   I still get angry comments on that post at least once a week from waiters at Olive Garden, calling us cheapskates.  Even at our lowest points in our marriage, Sophia and I could take a breather to read the latest bitter response to the post and chuckle together.  It was our form of marital therapy.

“It’s my favorite post,” I said.

“Me too.”

We were relaxing in the limo, dressed in our finest clothes.  I was wearing a rented tuxedo. Sophia wore a pearl necklace. The idea was to feel like a modern-day Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn, on our way to the court to file our paperwork for divorce.  We were sophisticated, urbane, shelling out the witticisms like in a Noel Coward play.

Wait a minute.  Didn’t we file for divorce already? If you remember last season in this long-going series, I left town to go to New York City. Final shot: The signed paperwork sitting on the coffee table as I closed the door in the background.

New season.   Surprise.  It was all a trick, as clever a gimmick as finding out on “Dallas” that it was all a dream.

Somehow the paperwork got lost or misplaced so we need to do it all over again.   What I will do just for blog fodder.

But it is all good.   Better to file the papers in STYLE, like we always wanted to do. We would go to court via limo, and then head out to a swanky nightclub for 300 of our closest friends for the ultimate LA party of the year.

“Would you enjoy some music while you relax in the back?” asked the livery driver.

“Sure,” said Sophia.

The driver played some Barry White, which somehow seemed so wrong that it was right.

But the low sultry voice of Barry White was quickly drowned out as we approached the downtown courthouse. Waiting for us on the steps was the full USC Trojan Marching band playing our wedding song.  It cost me a fortune to rent them.

Sophia laughed.

“Perfect, Neil.  This is going to be the best filing for divorce in the history of Divorce!”

“I made an appointment so we don’t have to wait.” I mentioned to Sophia.  “All we have to do is hand the piece of paper in, pay a fee, and the process has started.”

“I’m sure your blog readers will be relieved,” she added.  “This neurotic plotline has been going on for so long. It’s time for a new story twist.”

We had it all arranged, as precisely as a movie heist.   We would approach the clerk in the courthouse.   I would hold the right side of the filing paper, and Sophia the left side —  and hand it in together.  Like a team!

Because marriage is all about teamwork.

“Do you have the paperwork?”  asked Sophia.

“I think you put it in your purse.”

“No. You said you were going to take it yourself.”

“Not true.   I distinctly remember asking YOU if I should take it, and YOU said that YOU would put it in your purse so I wouldn’t have to fold it in eights in order to put into my shirt pocket.”

“Why would I care if you folded it in eights or not?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe because you are a perfectionist.  That’s what you said!”

The limo was parked directly in front of the downtown Los Angeles court.  The USC Trojan marching band was playing our wedding song, our first dance, for the fifth time in a row.  The livery driver was getting impatient.

“We can always get another piece of paper in the courthouse.” I suggested.

“And wait in line again? No way!  Why don’t you just come back tomorrow and hand it in yourself.”

“Because we are supposed to be doing this together.”

“Stop being so co-dependent.”

“We’re a team!  A team to the end.  Like the USC Trojans   Even though we are separated for years!”

“How can we be a team if you are always forgetting the paperwork back at home. So irresponsible?”

“Me? Irresponsible? This whole thing would be over by now if you had just handed it in a year ago like you were supposed to do!”

“F*ck it.” said Sophia. “Let’s just do this another day. I’m walking over to Chinatown and having some lunch.”

“OK, I’m hungry too.   But I’m doing this by next week.”

Sophia and I left the limo, the marching band repeating the refrain of Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen, our wedding song.  I guess I would have to pay them overtime, just like I did the swing band at the wedding reception.   As we walked to Chinatown, we gently stepped to the music, still remembering the swing dance lessons we took before the wedding, so many years before.

The limo driver rolled down his window and spit on the floor.

“Assholes,” he snarled. “They didn’t even tip me.  Cheapskates.”

Truth Quotient — 2%

Why I Want to Marry a Career Woman

work2.jpg

Do you know about this controversial Forbes article: “Don’t Marry Career Women” written by journalist Michael Noer?

Women are all up in arms about it, but to me, it’s complete nonsense. Isn’t it obvious to most men? — the more money your wife makes, the better!

It’s simple. If she’s bringing in the big bucks, the less she is on your back about sitting at home in your underwear (or her underwear) and blogging! Let her work all day and make tons of money.

Of course, some men say they feel uncomfortable with a woman who is more “intelligent” or “high-powered” than they are. My response is, “What are you, a pussy? Marry the smartest woman you can! Beauty fades, but you always need someone to edit you blog posts.”

“Oh, sure,” I hear some men grumbling. “And what about the statistics that show high-powered career women are more likely to have affairs at work?”

I say, “Terrific!” More time for blogging at home. Who wants to put on fancy clothes and go out to some overpriced restaurant when some poor sucker in her office can do it for you? I’ll be catching up on All My Children. As long as I get to play with her tits every once in a while in between writing blog posts, I’m a happy man.

“But aren’t you afraid of your wife leaving you for her new lover?”

“Yeah, let’s see HIM stand around the Nordstrom women’s department for an hour holding her purse while she tries on a Tahari Pinstripe Skirt Suit. She’ll be back.”

Let’s praise the career woman!

suit2.jpg

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month: Granny, Won’t You Drive My Car?

The Sidewalk of Love

stars.jpg 

Whenever friends come to visit me in Los Angeles for the first time, they always want to see Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.  In all honesty, this collection of Hollywood “stars” is completely cheesy, but I guess stepping on Humphrey Bogart’s “star” is about as close as most of us are ever going to get to shaking his actual hand.  After all, we go to cemeteries and interact with the tombstones as if they were the actual person, so why not relate to a piece of the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard?

One can laugh at the corniness of the Walk of Fame, but the concept has been imitated countless times over.  In my travels, I’ve seen a Cowboy Walk of Fame, an Astronaut Walk of Fame, a Yiddish Theater Actors Walk of Fame, a Surfer’s Walk of Fame, and even a Physicist’s Walk of Fame at Caltech.  I will not be surprised if someone already has the url: bloggerswalkoffame.com

I’ve seen this “walkway” idea morph into other concepts that move away from the “fame” idea.  Before I moved back into Los Angeles, I lived a few miles south in the beach community of Redondo Beach, where Sophia still lives.  The next town over is Hermosa Beach.   

beach2.jpg 

In 2000, the town created a “Millennium Walkway” at a local park.  Local residents could purchase bricks to be etched with their names.  But unlike the theme being famed Hollywood actors or astronauts, the theme was a simple one —  “Love.”   Each brick would bear the name of a loving couple, mostly those who were happily married.

It was a beautiful, romantic idea. 

It was also incredibly stupid.  

Because a stone symbolizing a couple’s love “forever” is more of a crap shoot than a Hollywood star immortalizing Judd Nelson’s acting career.  What could be more fleeting, more ephemeral —  than love?

Six years after the Millennium, several of the marriages celebrated “forever” have already gone kaput.    In fact, three divorced couples are in a battle now with the city of Hermosa Beach to rip out their names.   Two of the requests have come from new wives of two men whose names remain etched in brick with those of their ex-wives.

Hermosa Beach Community Resources Director Lisa Lynn reluctantly acknowledged receiving the requests by telephone.

“One wife was going for a romantic stroll with her new husband and low and behold, she saw his ex-wife’s named etched in brick,” Lynn said. The one ex-husband who contacted the city said his new love would not marry him as long as his ex-wife’s brick haunts her millennial footsteps.

Lynn responded to the requests by saying the city has no plans to remove any of the walkway’s 738 bricks, she said.

Do I hear lawsuit?

I always hear of lovers who get a tattoo of their beau’s name. Does it ever come off?  Or are you forever scarred with a remembrance of that relationship gone bad?

On the day that Sophia and I moved into our place in Redondo Beach, the City was doing some work repaving the sidewalk right outside our garage.   After they left, we took a tree branch and engraved our initials into the cement.  It is still there.  I look at it every time I visit.  But rather than it being a negative memory, it reminds me why I keep coming back.

walk.jpg 

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  The Fourteen Millionth Most Popular Blog

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