Why I Live in Thailand
Here’s an email from a friend.
She is a writer and we share the same astrological sign.
Every May she throws a party for fellow Geminis.
I was back in the States this May but she cancelled.
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The Gemini Party did not go according to plan. It got ugly at the S——- household, and I just couldn’t play Whose Afraid of Virginia Wolf last night with a room full of bystanders - innocent and otherwise.
Everything was on track until about 2:30 when Donna and I arrived at my apartment with a van load of supplies we got at the Costco in Queens.
Raging Joe, my husband, was waving papers and shouting, “Look what I found!”
I had left a story in the trash — what would Freud say?
It was the story I had recently read at KGB which describes in gruesome, depressing detail:
- how 90 second midnight episodes passed for sex with my generally impotent husband
- how if that was all he could do, I wanted comp time. I got my kid out of the house several times only to be forgotten in the bedroom
- how he wanted to use my nipple clips
- how he only paid bills when we were being sued or the lights were off
- how I posted a profile on Ashleymadison.com, got liquored up and found myself at the Liberty Inn with a muscular young black man with a dick like a maglite.
There was more, but as Oprah has shown us - who is to say what is fact or fiction?
So Joe was standing in the living room waving this document around declaring he would read it in front of everyone at the party and we would see how funny it was.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I already knew it was damn funny because I already read it to a room full of people at KGB two weeks ago.
By this time, Donna had beat a hasty retreat to the staircase by the elevators where she was out of sight but within earshot just in case I needed to shout, “Semper Fi!”.
She’s been waiting to kick Joe’s ass for a couple of years ever since he charged into one of our parties bitching about being able to hear us in the parking lot.
I don’t quite recall the sequence of events, but he started yelling words like SLUT, BITCH, FUCKING BITCH, etc and smashing the bouquet I had bought at the Costco against the wall until all the blossoms were gone. Then he threw it on the floor and stomped on the stems. Honestly. He busted the plaster Elvis on the terrace, too.
He announced that he had faxed this document to his lawyer and his sister.
Given that his sister has loaned him in excess of $250,000 over the last few years, I can only assume that she will not be surprised to learn that he can’t get it up in bed any better than he can run a business.
My friend who is a social worker says people act rashly when they are angry.
Kathleen, Donna and I went to the apartment of our friend who insists on remaining nameless.
Michael looked about the living room and said he’d never seen such a lovely mausoleum.
Exquisite candelabra and objets d’art.
I lay on the layers of oriental rug looking up at the ceiling, painted with clouds with a golden art deco chandelier directly over my head.
It was like the Sun Room in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Kathleen made me call my lawyer to say I had been afraid for my safely what with all the breaking glass. I called my psychiatrist too to say I had been traumatized. Then Kathleen and Donna took me home to make sure all was quiet on the domestic front before leaving me there for the night.
At the moment, everything is under control and Joe took our son to the Yankees game. He’s still hollering SLUT at me every now and then, but I told him to simmer down or I’d have his balls for breakfast. He knows I can and that I’m done being nice. But it’s all very tiring, and I’m so sorry about the party.
Why can’t people be nice
