Tag Archives: Marriage

Bashing the Ex. Is this ever a good idea?

Like any good blogger, I’m inspired by real life events.

Today’s events are brought to me and thus you, via Facebook statuses. It’s actually a pretty regular occurrence in my newsfeed from Facebook friends or in most cases, acquaintances.

It’s the dreaded status that causes me to cringe as I read through it. What am I talking about? It’s the Facebook bashing of their ex-husband (have to be honest, never saw a guy bash his wife on my feed…yet. Good job guys).

Now, I’m not a naïve person nor are those privy to reading these public, written outbursts. Divorce pushes many emotions to the surface such as anger, bitterness, sadness, resentment, disbelief, and fear. I think I’m a reasonable person and understand this.

Whatever the intent of the writer on the reader may be, I still don’t get the public shaming or airing of dirty laundry.

Marriage is daily, constant hard work. No one knows what takes place behind closed doors and personally, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know the details of the demise of the marriage. I have enough problems of my own lol. It becomes burdensome and uncomfortable to read such statuses.

There isn’t a person I know who takes divorce lightly. There had to be some significant issues in that marriage for it to end.

Here’s where I differ from the women who take to their social media to publically whip their ex’s. Regardless of the circumstances of what caused the breakdown of your marriage. Regardless, whether you think this guy is the biggest dick in the world. You have children together!!! At one point in your life, you loved this person. Because you have children together, you are forever connected.

When I awkwardly read the statuses airing personal, intimate issues, I notice that most times the children are Facebook friends with the parent spewing such rants. I’m not sure how this is beneficial to the kids. If children’s well being comes first, how is this in their best interest? I swear, I don’t get it!

Well, now’s a good of time as any. Why don’t I get it? Who am I to judge? Well, I just went through a divorce. I guarantee my friend’s jaws just dropped reading this. LOL to that! Hi guys! I guess this is a public outing of me.

I can’t imagine talking disparagingly about the father of my children. I’ve spent half my life with him and my kids deserve a quality relationship with him, without it being tainted by any negative remarks from me. My relationship with him is separate from his relationship with the kids. Go ahead, read that last sentence of brilliance one more time.

I, like every other parent, want my children to thrive and be happy.  If my kid’s dad is happy, my kids are happy. I wish him health and happiness always. Why wouldn’t I? He’s an extension of my kids. We divorced each other, neither of us divorced our kids.

The onus is on the parent. We are the role models. Children model our behavior both good and bad. Choose wisely.

Lastly, I can guarantee whatever reaction these women are trying to illicit; most likely it is having a negative effect and alienating many. There are the few commenters who encourage the public shaming which seems to be a driving force for the bad behavior to continue.  Not a fan.

I wish everyone who participates in public shaming their ex on social media,  for the sake of their kids, their Facebook friends, anyone exposed to reading their bullshit statuses would just STOP and STFU.  Here’s my unsolicited advice for anyone out there reading this and more specifically, are guilty of the above. Thank me later.

I get that things will happen during the divorce that will infuriate you, but rise above it.

I get that you may have been hurt or blindsided, but rise above it.

I get that you have fear of the unknown, but rise above it

Bottom line is for the sake of the children…rise above it all! 




My Other Spouse

I recently had an epiphany. It should have dawned on me years ago, but this great moment of wisdom came as I sat on my floor folding laundry while speaking to my best friend on the phone.  It was probably our tenth phone conversation of the day, and there were more to come. Here’s the big moment of brilliance… wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…..my best friend is my other spouse! In that moment, I realized each one of us has another spouse and they come in the form of our best friends.
Sure, every girl has the same dream. We want to marry a man with dashing good looks, quick wit and someone who will lavish us with attention and adoration. That seems like a good foundation to build upon and each of us can add on our own extras according to what is important to us (kinda like building your own burger). Once we establish what qualities we are looking for in a man, viola, we marry them (or hope to). In marrying that person, we assume we will have a great marriage and life.
Here’s the downfall to the real spouse. Every couple (regardless of what they portray on Facebook) goes through ups and downs. We live out the vow of “in good times and bad” and I’m here to say, boy, do the bad times suck. However, after being in the valley, we find ourselves climbing to the peak time and time again. The marriage then has added pressures of raising children, financial strains all while trying to achieve individual growth.
There are just some things my husband will never understand and I can guarantee on the male spectrum, he is not alone in these thoughts. For one thing, he’s not a phone person (most men aren’t), therefore, he can’t imagine what I speak to my girlfriend about all day long, collectively hours at a time. If it’s true what they say, women speak 20,000 words a day while men are only spitting out 7,000 words a day, clearly we aren’t word sparring with our spouses. He’s at work all day, so I have to use my 13k words elsewhere (cue in BFF). 
I think it’s natural to weigh the good and bad in any relationship but truth be told, I just can’t find the bad in my BFF relationship.  I’ve done the real spouse vs. other spouse comparisons in my head as well.  I’ll never disappoint her by declining sex (although she hasn’t asked so that’s questionable). I’m known to need measurements when asking a question. My husband refuses to rate things on a scale from one to ten. My bestie knows that question is coming and never denies me that answer. We can talk about everything or nothing endlessly without boredom creeping in. She can tell me her dog ate a plastic grocery bag, puked it up and I’ll care… her husband, probably not so much. I can tell her I’ve got my period and I’m bleeding to death and she chimes in with sympathy.
The reality is my other spouse relationship has no pressures of real life. We don’t have to pay bills together, sleep together or raise our kids together. What makes us best friends is having parallel lives and offering each other emotional support in the form of laughter and occasional tears. When something major goes down in my life, my first phone call is to my best friend. Here’s why. While there is friendship with our spouses there is just a different level with a best friend. We might bitch about our spouse from time to time but we never bitch about our best friend. Think about that. It’s true. She is my confidant, my sounding board and never, ever judges me.  I’m convinced that a love for a best friend is fairly equivalent to that of a spouse.
Maybe some of you figured this out before me, but I’m glad I have finally recognized this. I accept my life as a non-official polygamist, declaring my two spouses publically. For you reading this, you are someone’s other spouse too and I can guarantee this on a scale from one to ten with a hard ten.

Dirty Jobs

When I got married, I vividly remember signing the marriage contract in church. I don’t remember the details of the contract but it was signed in God’s house with two witnesses, one coherent groom (so I thought), the pastor and me. I don’t remember all the details but I’m pretty sure there weren’t any specific rules listed in there. Maybe I should have read it a little closer. I swear I’m going to crouch down on my hands and knees and slither under my bed (should my post wedding weight fit under there) and find that firebox which contains that document from almost twenty years ago. I’m going to blow the dust off of the envelope and reread that thing – or truth be told, read it for the very first time.

What exactly am I searching for you might ask? I want to find the section that states “the wife is responsible for cleaning up all the kid and animal puke”. Yes you heard me correctly. Why has that been designated as my job? As if having ovaries or fallopian tubes better qualifies me as a puke cleaner. I’ve been waiting for a knock on the door for years from Mike Rowe, host of Dirty Jobs, with his camera crew, surely MY jobs rank up there with shoveling cow manure or cleaning out industrial size onion processors.

Nothing is worse than stepping in or sliding on cat puke. After sliding in regurgitated cat food one would think the natural next step (pun intended) would be to clean it up, but I would be mistaken. The sound of a cat gagging will send screams of “Mom, Mom hurry..do something!” (As if I took a training course on this or I should run and get my first aid kit, sheesh!).

Not long ago, I was in the middle of an important meeting when I was interrupted by my cell phone ringing. My youngest child was calling to inform me that he had just thrown up all over the rug at home. In my best whisper, I asked where his father was. Obviously his father was at home and my boy knew his dad was less than pleased to clean up the mess. (A house could be on fire but a child’s instinct is to locate the mom and tell her, even if not home, before notifying the father. It’s what kids do). I did what any smart woman would do. I didn’t go home right away ensuring the mess was cleaned up well before I arrived. (Brilliant I know!)

I came home that night to no remnants of vomit in the house. I actually came home to no rug in the house at all (I kid you not). Prince Charming found it easier to toss the rug than clean up the puke. Maybe women are predisposed to cleaning up our kids vomit. I know when my kids hurl, my hands fly up in reaction and I can dive like any of the best New York Yankees catchers in an effort to capture the vomit so a splash never makes it to the floor (gagging as I type this).

This beckons the question? Does a husband have an equal reaction to the sound of their child dry heaving? Is their reaction to run toward the vomit, like running toward a building on fire? (not quite but that’s how we women see it). Can a man cup their own hands as their child’s puke runneth over in them without puking on themselves in turn? It’s doubtful (sorry fellas). I’m wondering if it’s too late to amend my marriage contract.

The Birth of My Blog

Ahhhhh so I’ve finally done it. I’ve taken the plunge and started the blog I have wanted to write but have found every reason not to. Welcome people! My mind doesn’t shut off and I have compiled so much clutter in there that I’ve convinced myself (however unrealistic) that other’s might want a peek into it.

How does one come up with a creative blog name? The answer is, I have not a clue. Being the resourceful person I am (deliberate pat on the back), I tapped into one of my most brilliant friends, (I know you’re reading, so you’re welcome) who just happens to be a wordsmith. He said,”what’s your nickname? Go with that.” And so it was and all was right in the world.

Naturally, I now feel obliged to tell the tale of my nickname which now doubles as my blog name, Cindawenda. Grab your cup of coffee and pull up a chair. I’m sure as I continue to post on this blog, the drink of choice will need to change. Alcohol is only a post or two away. For now, we’ll play sober as it’s merely an introduction of myself.

Let’s go back, unfortunately way back (God damn you 40!) to my late twenties. It was my 28th birthday to be exact. I was married with two young children, three and one years old respectively. I’m sure you’re envisioning me out to dinner, dressed up (as my cute self should have been) and celebrating another year of my fabulous life. Please give me a moment while I close my eyes and enjoy this changed memory, if only for a moment. That’s exactly what should have been but was not even close to how I celebrated my birthday. The reality was, I was a young mother who was frazzled with toddlers with runny noses, dirty diapers and got to enjoy little “me” time. There was no room for my birthday to interfere with my everyday life.

My 28th birthday was celebrated with me washing floors on my hands and knees (yes, I’m that good) as I mumbled every curse word under my breath. I talked endlessly, even if just to myself, of all the misfortunes in my young adult life. My husband was close by watching our offspring and reminded me ( as he refused to make eye contact with the devil for fear I would burn a hole into his soul), that life was good. After all, we had a delicious meal (that I cooked) and my favorite cake (which I baked) and got to open my birthday present (which I bought and wrapped). I’m sure the guys reading this are thinking, “what’s the problem?”, while the ladies are silently going to church in their heads, giving me an “amen” or a “I hear ya sister”.

It was at this moment that Prince Charming uttered, “poor Cindawenda”. It was a play on words and his version of Cinderella for me. The problem is Cinderella had a seventeen inch waist, small animals helping her clean up the shit others made and in the end she got a gorgeous dress with rocking shoes to match. Cindawenda is the story before the pumpkin turns into a carriage. I’ve been hobbling around in one glass slipper for a long time.

When the complaining isn’t confined to my brain and seeps out of my mouth intentionally or not, those words so long ago ring in my ears, “poor, poor Cindawenda”……and so my blog begins.