Round about 1993, I met an asshole named Eli through the personals in the newspaper. Stop laughing/smirking. After all, the Internet was in diapers then, and dating websites were sketchy, clunky and relatively unknown. Besides, I didn’t own a computer until ’96.
Long story short: Eli and fell in love, and like a dumb-ass, I married this prick in August of ’96. Not long after, Eli accepted a job at Ohio State as a chemical engineer or something like that. I don’t speak GEEK, badly or otherwise, and don’t pretend to. But obviously, such required moving to Ohio.
At first, Eli’s rendition of the devoted stepfather to my boys (Max aged 4/Tim was 9) was Oscar-worthy. Taking them to the park, going camping, and helping Tim build model airplanes were among his father-feigning activities.
Then, came our first marital blowout, on Valentine’s Day, a mere six months into our marriage.
“You should give up custody of Max to his dad (i.e. Ashe*),” Eli said, his hazel eyes darkening to a murky, turd-water green. And his voice was stern and authoritative as if this crucifixion of my life and Max’s were an order, not a suggestion. Max was was a little hellion, but he was a baby! It’s not like he’d just wrecked Eli’s car or something.
*And for those who are new to my corral of crazy, Ashe is ex #2, mentioned in this post:
http://tenaciousbitch.com/2012/09/07/post-75-about-ashes-logic/
“NO FUCKING WAY!” Was my swift, blood-curdling reply.
And so it began, the first of many vicious brawls between us. This one ended with him slinging me into a cinder-block wall. He then barricaded me in our bedroom with a chair under the doorknob. I sat stunned on the scratchy, sculptured carpet for a moment, completely bewildered. My back and arms were wallpapered with sharp-edged bruises. But, luckily, no broken bones.
Taking a deep breath, I bit down on the anger, and ran into the door, shoulder first like a battering ram. I heard the wood splintering and made a second charge into the door. With a SPLAT, the door gave way, and I landed, sprawled across the door, which had plunked down atop the washer across the hall.
And there was Eli, holding a wooden shard from the kitchen chair I’d bashed into with the door. I think God saved me from breaking my pelvis that night. That, or the adrenalin padded my fall, who knows. Later, Eli confessed, he’d grabbed the chair just before I sacked it with the door a second time to curtail my sustaining any acute injuries. How sweet – trying to minimize the blood bath he’d started. And I’d broken and dislocated his thumb to boot. Eli was a South Paw. After that, he had to learn to write with the opposite hand. Served him right…the bastard … 
I was still raw from such a brutal exchange, so I called the police.
By the time the Sheriff arrived, Eli had gone to a motel to avoid “Anymore of my insolence.” Really? Interesting word choice. I was 26, not 12, and the word OBEY was not among our marital promises, but I guess in the warped world of Eli Costanza, I was still beholden to his whims, wants and rules regardless of any nuptial pledges. I didn’t alter my custody agreement with Ashe who had visitation on weekends, and FUCK Eli if he didn’t like it.
A couple weeks later, Eli and I managed to patch things up to the point that I no longer wanted to boil him alive, and we made a tentative truce. Not two weeks later, I developed what I thought was a yeast infection. Oh, but I was SO wrong.
“I’m sorry, but you have a rash that is most likely from,” the Nurse said with a heavy sigh, her eyebrows twitching nervously, “Well, usually caused by a spermicidal product used with a diaphragm,” the nurse continued delicately.
“But I’ve been on the pill since Max was born, and I’ve never…” And I couldn’t finish that sentence as the realization of her statement sunk in. I stared at the nurse open-mouthed, too shocked to say more. I didn’t own a diaphragm, nor had I ever used one.
I broke down sobbing knowing that I’d suffered with these damned hives that made me wanna sandpaper my crotch because of another woman’s birth control bullshit! Can you say DICKHEAD with a capital D?
And that was the end of Mr. and Mrs. Eli. I drove straight to his office, flung open the door and started screaming every obnoxious, disdainful adjective and four-letter word in my vast vocabulary. His assistant and half the department heard my torrid claims! But I didn’t give a FUCK.
“See you in court, fuckhead,” I sputtered sashaying my vindicated ass past his dough-eyed assistant, who’d been white-knuckling it the whole time while easing backward against a file cabinet as if fearing she was my next target. But she could drain his little ding dong dry for all I cared. I was DONE. However, I found out years later from a mutual friend, Eli had been boinking an ex-girlfriend who dumped him right after I did! Karma’s a bitch, is she not?
If all that weren’t bad enough, the month before our divorce was final, Eli darkened my doorway one sunny afternoon with claims of fiduciary misconduct.
“I did NOT. I just balanced my checkbook after my check was direct-deposited yesterday, and there was $75 left over.”
“Well, I suggest you straighten it out because they might debit my fucking business account for YOUR mismanagement of funds.”
“I didn’t mismanage anything, you fucking ass hat. I’d bet my life it’s your fuck-up, not mine!” I hollered in a huff, slamming the door in his face.
When Eli and I split up, we agreed, through our lawyers, that I’d use the joint account, and he’d use his business account at the SAME BANK. And the $50 in our sad little savings account was used to pay the fee for filing for divorce.
While the neighbor watched my boys, I headed to the bank. When I walked in, there was ELI sitting with Brenda, a blonde woman in customer service, just lambasting me all to hell.
“And she kites checks all the time, so it’s no wonder. ” Eli explained in a very flat tone.
“Hello, Eli, so nice to see you again,” I said, smiling, wanting to bludgeon the smug off his face with a sledge hammer, but I managed to refrain.
His head snapped around, a sour face glaring up at mine. Not a word, just rolled his eyes.
For those who are unfamiliar with check kiting, according to dictionary.com, it’s “the unlawful practice of drawing checks against a bank account containing insufficient funds to cover them, with the expectation that the necessary funds will be deposited before such checks are presented for payment.”
Yes. Guilty as charged. When you have two kids, and one ex-husband (Ashe) is behind on child support because he’s unemployed, and you make all of $14,000/year, kiting checks is the only way to avoid eating McDonald’s ketchup packets for dinner the night before payday. And I NEVER wrote checks for anything but groceries. And everyone I knew, including my mother (and dad was making over $100K then) kited checks now and then, and, yes, some of us chronically so.
The ONLY time I ever bounced a check was because of Mountain State Savings’ jack-leg bookkeeping practices in 1990. Though I deposited my paychecks every Friday at noon, they weren’t credited until 12:01 AM Monday/hog-tying one’s cash until TUESDAY. To-wit, I covered the bad check, closed the account and went to Bank One.
So, ANYWHO…I sat down beside Eli as Brenda explained, “Well, sir, the problem is your paychecks are being direct-deposited in your business account, but you’re withdrawing funds from the joint account with this debit card,” she said, holding up one of Eli’s GREEN ATM cards that he’d provided before I arrived. “This is the card for your business account,” she continued picking up a different GREEN card.
“So, you’ve mismanaged my account, Eli! How shocking,” I said, with a much deserved GIGGLE.
“Shut up, you stupid cow!” Eli countered, his face glowing red.
Sticks and STONES, my friend. Sticks and STONEs. When we opened our accounts with 1st National, all three ATM cards were GREEN. I warned Eli to request a different colored card for his business account, so he wouldn’t mix them up. But he poo-pooed me. However, I ordered a flowered bank card for the joint account to avoid any such issues.
Yes, it was Christmas come early! He had to write a check for $440 to cover his debits from the WRONG ACCOUNT. In the end, our divorce cost him almost $5,000.
How’s that, you ask? Well, this post is long enough to choke a horse as it is…so tune in next time…for the conclusion of the Eli Fiasco and all its JUICY BITS…:)
And I’d like to THANK Facebook who sent me FLYING down this fucked up MEMORY lane after seeing its oddly algorithmic prompt yesterday, which innocently said:
People you may know:
Eli Costanza
4 mutual friends…
WITH A PHOTO of his ugly visage staring at me from cyber space.
He lives in some hick-assed town in Wyoming! He’s currently SEPARATED from wife #8, and he’s rather bald. He also weighs somewhere north of 400 pounds! Meanwhile, I’ve lost 40 pounds since our demise. I hope that FB’s mystical auto friend PROMPTER sent him the same message, so he can see how AWESOME I look in comparison because I’d NEVER send him a friend invite. I’d rather be horse-whipped!
Love and chocolate chip cookies – from fracked up central -
TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting HIPPIES
Tenacious Bitch © 2013
