Tyrannosaurus Ex

In the interest of disclosure, I think it only fair to report that my post Philanthropy got mixed reviews.  Some thought the tone was bitter.  (Although everyone agreed that my ex husband’s donation of a sexual health clinic was hilarious- and telling.)

Others thought the post was a riot.  One savvy reader suggested that “his next ex wife print it up and put it on his pillow as a bedtime story.”

Nice.  Now that’s the response I was looking for.

So proceed at your own peril.  Hic sunt dracones.

And don’t look for Philanthropy.  I bowed to the pressure and took it down.

For twenty years, I was married to a demanding perfectionist.  A martinet, a drill instructor.

A bully.

His motto was “You don’t pay, you don’t say.”  Words to live by- if you’re married to Attila the Hun with a Platinum card.

He ran his home, his business and me with an iron hand.

And the secret to his success?  Rules.  And since October is National Anti-Bullying Awareness Month, this is my last chance to give you a peek at The Tyrant’s Handbook.

Rule One: The Schedule is All.  Because my ex husband was compulsive about being at his workout by 5:20 a.m., he went to bed early.  No phone calls or intrusions after seven p.m. were allowed.  EVER.  He went to sleep immediately after The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and did not want to be disturbed.  FOR ANY REASON.

This led to a harrowing episode in those by-gone days before ubiquitous cell phones.  My son, Nick, who had left with some friends in a car at six, was now back- down the street at a neighbor kid’s house.  Nick had called home and told his dad that he would be walking home by eleven.

My ex promptly went to sleep and neglected to tell me about the change in Nick’s itinerary.  (I had been in the shower and never heard the phone.)

Since Nick had been due home by nine, I was starting to get uneasy by ten.  By ten thirty, I was frantic.  By ten forty-five, I was half-dressed and half-crazy, roaming the streets of Winnetka.  I didn’t know what to do but I didn’t want to call the police yet.

By eleven I was making deals with God when Nick strolled in.

“Hey, dude,” he greeted me.  “Why are you up?”

I explained.  He explained.  All was well.  But at NO time did I dare wake my ex to tell him Nick was missing- presumed dead.  It was after seven.

Rule Two: Post-it Notes.  Everything is better with a post-it on it.  Or three.  I would awaken every morning covered in a flurry of these damn yellow pests until I couldn’t take it anymore.  After fifteen years, I pleaded for Saturday and Sundays off.

Now all communiques- frosted with an icing of post-its- would be waiting for me as I stepped outside my bedroom door.  But at least I didn’t have to face them first thing 365 days a year.

My brother gave him a case of post-its for his birthday one year.  It was gone faster than you could say “3M”.

Rule Three: No Dirty Cars.  Absolutely verboten.  And if this meant driving Natasha to the stable in Lake Forest during one particularly nasty storm in my snow-unworthy car and skidding through every ice-laden stop instead of taking our Forerunner, so be it.  (I had asked his permission to use it but he said no.  We were headed to Snowmass the next day and he didn’t want to leave a dirty car in the garage.)

If Natasha and I had been killed in a fiery car crash, c’est la guerre.  And I promise you that our hearse would have been spotless.

Rule Four: Money.  It all belonged to him.  No clue how much we had.  On an allowance-only basis.  Any charge over $500 had to be pre-authorized.  Same as the kids.

Rule Five: Room Entry.  I was never allowed to come into his room uninvited.  (See Rule One if you missed why we had separate bedrooms.)  I had to stand at the threshold and ask permission to come aboard.  I once forgot myself and just walked in. It wasn’t pretty.

Rule Six: Mandatory Early Airport Departure Times. We had to be on the first flight out of anywhere. Once, when he was twelve, we were taking Nick on a tour of boarding schools.  Because of a storm, the only eastbound flight we could get departed at two.

When I told him, he wailed, “Two?  I have to get up at two o’clock in the morning?”

“No, Nick,” I reassured him.  “Two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“There are afternoon flights?” he asked incredulously.  He had never been on one.

There were non-negotiable rules about coming to or calling his office, turning in receipts, carry-on luggage, tidiness, appearance, promptness, hand-holding in public (agin it), the correct degree of whiteness on his workout socks, and the proper way to pick fruit.  (I never did master that task because he ultimately handed it off to Pete at Anton’s Fruit Ranch.)

And an iron-clad rule about making copies of everything.  (A rule that actually came in handy when he angrily tore up the the anonymous letter I showed him reporting his latest infidelity.  He ripped it to shreds, but no matter.  He had, after all, taught me to always make a copy.)

Finally I broke under the relentless pressure, coupled with the certain knowledge that he didn’t love me any more – and probably never had.   I told him that I couldn’t go back to the concentration camp anymore.  And I begged him to ease up a little.

He thought it over for a split second and then said “It’s not worth it.  I guess you just couldn’t hack the schedule.”

And once his initial shock wore off, he gleefully started divorce proceedings the very next week.

So that’s how twenty years of marriage ended for me.  Not with a bang but with a “You just couldn’t hack the schedule.”

I miss lots of things about my former life.

But lo, these many years later, when we are no longer man and Stockholm syndrome sufferer, I still tense up when I remember the rules.  I don’t miss the owner’s manual at all.

New Rules Update:  I hear that Cruella, my ex’s third wife, is an even bigger bully than he is.  The word is that she’s in charge now.

Karma ain’t the only bitch.

And bitter or not, this post isn’t coming down.

MY rule.