I found out who the new one is, and sure 'nuff -- he's got a girlfriend.  Or did, before she went all slutting around at him.

Figures. 

I also found out that the night all this started, J *made up the guest bed for her*, and when he went to bed, she went in my room, into *my bed*, uninvited.  (Now, granted, he didn't have to take the opportunity, but that's not my point.)  Point is - the little sleazeball whore went after him like a targeted strike, after her little circus freak asshatbuddies told him I wasn't coming back and didn't love him.

Nice.  Still doesn't justify dropping your shorts for a whore, but it makes it just a tad more understandable, psychologically-speaking.

We bought a couch yesterday.  A real, live piece of furniture like grown-ups.  The house is looking really cute now, and we've christened pretty much every room, ifyouknowwhaddimean.  :)  We're putting in J's semi-permanent dreads today, since the new job doesn't freak out as long as they're covered and he doesn't get them caught in heavy machinery (mrrrowr -- he looks freakin' hot in dreads...), and I just got a freakin' *huge* wholesale yarn contract.

To say that things are a billion times better for us here would be an understatement.

Last night, he looked at me.  We'd been all tangled up on the bed (the teevee is in the bedroom since there wasn't any wall space for the new flat-panel in the living room/office) in a cute little knot, watching movies, and he kissed my forehead and told me he doesn't miss his old life at all.  He misses a couple people (none of which are in the circus), but while he still thinks he might have too many teeth to qualify for north carolina citizenship (to which I rolled my eyes so hard I'm amazed they didn't fly across the room), he likes it here.  He likes our life.  He likes not being crazy all the time or being manipulated by those idiots that claimed to want the best for him only to try to screw him up or get him to leave the good parts of his life.

We fell asleep in that same knot.

I'm unspeakably grateful they didn't succeed.

It's a rainy Saturday morning here in the most beautiful place on earth, and my husband has gone off to Charlotte to shoot with a local group he's involved with.  I love that he's making friends (who aren't crazy...er...crazy in the same way as *those* were....), and he has such a good time.  I love that he's happy.

Before he left, he dropped a mail from THOSE people in my lap.  (The other ones.  The invasive ones who continue to try to screw him over.)  It, among other things that aren't even worth mentioning, said that "Mayhem, Inc." was copyrighted, and that I was trying to steer him wrong about his show.  Apparently, he told them to screw off in no uncertain terms, but that's not the point.  Idjits.

Two things:

1)  I'm his wife.  Despite all the ridiculous accusations and manipulations those people used to try and put a wedge between us and exploit the cracks they found, I'm his *wife*.  I win by default.  They'd do well to remember that. 

and

2)  This wife happens to have gone to law school with a focus in international business law.  (I wanted to switch to either family law or constitutional law, but there was no money in either, and I'm a practical woman.)  Don't try and play in a field where you know less than the one you're attacking.  Duh.  Go read "The Art of War", if, in fact, you know how to read.

That said, I did just a little research on the name and practices surrounding the allegations, just because I'm also thorough.  And here are the facts:

*  You can not copyright a name, which I could have told them, had they asked.  Which, of course, they didn't.  A quote from the US Government itself:

"Can I copyright the name of my band?
No. Names are not protected by copyright law. Some names may be protected under trademark law. Contact the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office, 800-786-9199, for further information.

How do I copyright a name, title, slogan or logo?
Copyright does not protect names, titles, slogans, or short phrases. In some cases, these things may be protected as trademarks. Contact the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office, 800-786-9199, for further information. However, copyright protection may be available for logo artwork that contains sufficient authorship. In some circumstances, an artistic logo may also be protected as a trademark. "

From:
http://www.copyright.gov/help/faq/faq-protect.html
(just in case they think I made that up)

Because "Mayhem, Inc." is being used as a title and identifying marks for a subset of an entertainment entity, you would mean, instead, that the name is already *trademarked*, which is an entirely different animal, legally speaking.  (Laypersons often confuse copyright and trademark, but they have very different rules.  See above link.)

*  Assuming that, in your ignorance, you really meant "trademark" instead of "copyright" -- well, your argument still doesn't hold water.  Allow me to quote US Trademark Law itself:

"Section 5 of the Trademark Act, 15 U.S.C. §1055, states, in part, as follows:

Where a registered mark or a mark sought to be registered is or may be used legitimately by related companies, such use shall inure to the benefit of the registrant or applicant for registration, and such use shall not affect the validity of such mark or of its registration, provided such mark is not used in such manner as to deceive the public."

found here, btw:

http://tess2.uspto.gov/tmdb/tmep/1200.htm#_T120103

A cursory search of US registrations of trademark finds that *no* legal entity currently holds the trademarks to either "Mayhem, Inc.", or "Mayhem, Incorporated" under the entertainment subset.  (With trademark law, you have to file separate and clear applications to the US Trademark Office for *each* category you wish to protect.  So if, say, someone was writing gaming books under that name, they would apply for a registration where publishing is concerned, and the name is still open for, say, a beauty shop that wanted to do business under the name and protect the name from a rival shop across town.)

A very cursory web search finds a tattoo parlor in South Africa (not covered under USTM law anyway), a gaming forum site for an online game, and a children's team sport of some sort.  Unless there was another sideshow in specific, and one who's application was filed *before* ours (October, 2009), AND one who could REASONABLY engender brand confusion in the minds of customers -- it wouldn't be a valid challenge to trademark.

There's also a section on the general refusal to trademark the name of a performer or performing artist.  You might want to read that, too.

So, no, O Ignorant Children -- neither version of your "copyright" argument proves that I'm somehow steering my husband wrong, or that he's in some kind of legal "danger" by using the name we've applied for (and will, in all likelihood, be refused a trademark for *anyway*, due to the performing artist clause, but at least we applied.). 

Now, if you'd kindly do as my husband instructed and screw right off, both your life and his would be much improved, and I could use my gorgeous Saturday mornings for making our house a home instead of defending ourselves from misguided and ignorant claims of those who are desperately left behind.

I can't believe we're here.  I keep waking up in the morning, half-crowded out of the bed with J gripping my back like a teddy bear, and DOGS taking up three-fourths of the rest of it. :)

It takes me a minute to realize we're not in Omaha.  We're *here*.  And *happy*.

It's freakin' awesome.

We started working on the logo for the new sideshow group.  I'm sure J'll post it when it's done and the site's up.  It's different -- not just from his old, crappy group, but from everything else that's out there, thematically.  The call's out for performers, and one place not far from here already wants to talk about bookings.

This, my friends, is karma at work.

New house is almost ready for move-in, too.  It's not huge (thank god), but it's *ours*.  No in-laws, no mice, no ant colonies, and no decades-old dirt and mold.  We keep paring down what's going into it -- just what we need.  And you should see the windows in the dining room....freakin' huge.  Opens onto a forest patch.  Can. Not. Wait.

New bed's first on the list.  We left the one that girl was in back in Iowa.  Speaking of, they keep sending feelers and sock puppets to various places we are, but J's having none of it.  Says he knows what a good thing is when he sees it.  (The long haul just got longer, huh?  Hope she enjoys waiting forever.)

Off to finish unpacking the clothes and curl up in bed to wait for J to get home.  Dinner in bed, anyone?  Mrrowr...

So today, the dirty whore of a mistress served me with a petition for a protection order.

This struck me as hilarious, for a few reasons, but primarily for two:

1.  This action proved to J that she is batshit, and maliciously so.  He held my hand while the sheriff was here, and after the deputy was aware of the full situation, even *he* (deputy) said this sounds like a malicious use of the court system, and suggested using the back page of the affadavit to protest.  J is appalled at her actions, and has said now that he can't believe he was so stupid.  I told him it could happen to anyone, that she'd put on the Caring face and he didn't know, but he still feels horrible.  This affadavit/petition just nailed the last of her coffin nails in tight.

2.  Even if I don't protest (I'm waiting for a callback from my lawyer), this means that *I* am finally protected.  I called the county attorney's office and spoke with a wonderful woman there who, after I explained the situation, took the time to tell me exactly how this benefits me and my marriage. 

See, a PO (protection order) goes both ways.  It means I can't contact her directly, and that's fine with me.  The rumormill surrounding this circus troupe is quick and sure, so anything that I want her to know will get back to her fast, and with much vitriol.  It's part of their drama profile. 

The other part of that is that SHE CANNOT CONTACT ME, directly or indirectly, and if we are somewhere that she then shows up -- SHE HAS TO LEAVE.  I have a legitimate right to access to my husband, according to the county attorney, which means that if he is performing or assisting with any performance or other function, SHE IS NOT ALLOWED TO BREAK THE PO.

Heh.  So if she thought this would mean I'd have to run at the sight of her, or if she thought that this meant she could get him alone again -- she's got a rude awakening coming.

Also, she can't come here, or stalk me online, since that's not covered by the PO.  If she visits my blogs or other social media or online forums, and finds anything she doesn't like, it's inadmissible, because she had to *seek me out*, which means I can then *countersue* for harassment, which carries with it fines and, in extreme cases, jail time.  If I was posting those blogs to, say, the Perforated Productions blog (not that they have one; I'm just using that as an example), or to *her* social media, it would be a different case, but I'm not.  I have a right to post to my *own* accounts *anything I want*, since one would have to ACTIVELY pull up those accounts to find the blogs, etc., which constitutes STALKING, which is a criminal offense.

She screwed the pooch on this one.  I'm sure she had a very different idea of what this action would entail, especially since she whined a whole lot about how she was in such "mental distress".  (Um...you fucked a married man, and now *you're* in mental distress?  Perhaps one should think about one's actions before one takes off her pants, huh?)  I'm probably going to contest the action, even if it's just to have the letter on file that states *why* the actions I took were done.  Judges around here have very little sympathy for the Other Woman, especially when she's a conniving little witch trying to abuse the system for her own good.

Backfire.  Bet it tastes sour.

* * *
In other news, I'm being stalked by the circus.  I suspected as much, but after J tried to enforce the No Contact with them, they redoubled their efforts.  They printed out a two-inch high stack of papers with a bunch of blog posts and even my *bio* from the project I was working on while I was gone, citing them as "proof" that I'm schizophrenic or MPD.

No, seriously.  Apparently, being known as Elizabeth, Eliza, Elli, or "Hey You In The Black" is proof that I have multiple personalities.  (Oh, and Miss Violet.  Don't forget that part.  God forbid I have a stage name.  Not that any of *them* do.  But apparently, that's *different* somehow.)  They printed out anything from the last two weeks that was about the slut, the circus, or my venting/pain at the affair, not knowing that John had *already seen it all*.  I even showed him, daily, the text messages I'd sent to Tammy.  He's *fully* aware of what I do; I make sure of that.  (According to Dr. Chalmers' "Surviving The Affair", a book we're working though until his schedule calms a bit and we can make a regular appointment for marriage counselling, after an affair, full transparency is a *requirement* on both sides.  So is a No Contact with anyone who encouraged the affair -- something they cite as me being paranoid.  Nice to know they suddenly got psychology degrees and know more than published authors with doctorates in the subject.)

On Saturday night, they called his mother, presumably with their concerns.  They worried her so much that she showed up at our gate at 3:15, when we were still at IHOP having pancakes.

This, needless to say, pissed J off to such a degree that I don't even *have* to say anything anymore.  I don't have to point out how the stack of papers is kinda stalkery and scary.  I don't have to tell him that I have a bad feeling about them -- he *hates* them.  (Actually, I think his words to one of them to convey to the rest were, and I quote, "Tell them all of you can fuck right off.".)

My husband's mistress's *friends* are stalking me online.  Somehow, the absurdity of that makes me both afraid for my safety and makes me laugh.  *I'm* the crazy one?  I'm not printing out reams of paper of bogus proof that they're nuts; they're doing a good enough job of that, themselves, with no interference from me.

Justice prevails.

*  *  *

I mentioned the book we're working through, above.

For the record, and because I know some of you want to know, the reconciliation process is a hard road, even without an immature, batshit circus trying to undermine our progress.  This past year has been really hard on us both, and we can barely get to that part of it until we deal with the betrayal of the affair. 

But we're trying.  Both of us.  J is genuinely remorseful and committed to trying to make it up to me.  He doesn't blame me for the affair, which was entirely his decision at the time.  We know we've got things to do to ensure this past year doesn't repeat itself, and we're doing everything we can to make sure to have checks and balances in place so we can evaluate, often, where we're at and correct anything that might be veering toward a similar situation.  We're working together to try and put the marriage first.

In the end, it's going to depend on whether or not I can live with this affair.  I know that.  And I also know that if he's willing to take the advice of the therapists and the initiative to do what needs to be done, I'm willing to try as hard as I can to forgive.

It's all either of us can do.

When I found out that the slut had stayed here, in this house, in my *bed*, my first question to J had been to ask if she'd been alone.  To ask if she'd touched my things.  He didn't know.

Yesterday (or possibly the day before -- both of us have the flu and have been NyQuil addled for a day or so), I went to go grab some Fire Phoenix off the wall o' perfume, and realized with a certain abject horror that it was gone.  Along wth two other phoenices, a couple general catalog scents, at least one of the vintage bpal Carnival Noir scents from 2005 (irreplaceable), and a couple Arcanas and possibly Blooddrops.

All in all, we're talking about around $500 replacement value in perfume oils. If they can even *be* replaced.

In addition, two necklaces that were hanging next to the sink are gone, too -- a black choker from Raven's in Denver that J bought me for our anniversary last year, and a longer one that Angie made me.

This morning, I reached up to test out Habu (I test all the snake oils about every three months or so, since they have to age a good long while before being true to scent.), and found that Midway Resurrected is also gone, and so is my half-bottle of the original Snake Charmer, which was right next to the resurrected version.  (She appears to have left the new version.  Gee, thanks)

Is it not *enough* that she tried to steal my husband -- she had to have my *stuff*, too?  Or is this, like, a pathological thing with her?  Does she steal some kind of token from all her married lovers' wives to have something to remember them by?  (Statistically speaking, married men don't leave their spouses for the bitch they slept with.  There are exceptions, but the vast majority of the adulterous whores *lose* that fight in the long run.)

She was the only one with access to the house, other than my assistant, who is allergic to many of the scents and has never stolen a thing in her life.  There's no doubt in my mind that she's a thieving whore on top of being a homewrecking slut.

We called the police, and J agreed that she was the only one with access.  They'll take it from here.  People have suggested making him get it back from her, but honestly?  No Contact means No Contact, and part of me wonders if that's not why she stole the stuff in the first place -- to make sure he had to get in touch to get it back when I got home.

The absolute sliminess of that girl just gets worse and worse.

J quit the circus last night.  Deleted the contacts from his phone, sent a message to the yahoo group (which didn't go through, I think), and quit the group because, he said, his marriage is more important than a bunch of false friends.  He's supposed to be following a strict No Contact rule now.  We'll see if that works.  I still have my doubts.

But it went a long, long way in restoring my faith in this thing.

He also finally told me the whole story of what happened with he and Tammy.  (The bitch was in *my bed*, but I'm just so not going there right now.) Apparently, he was telling her from the beginning that he wanted me to come home, wanted *me* in general.  Cried about it.  And she used that vulnerability against him to try and wedge her way in.  He may not be blameless by any stretch of the imagination, but any woman who would listen to a married man cry about wanting his wife and then crawl into bed with him and kiss him and tell him that *she* wants him....sick.  Sad, sick, stupid woman.

There's a long, hard road ahead for us.

And we're buying a new bed.

So about a year ago, J was profoundly stressed out.  Every day, he'd come home completely drained and angry after dealing with his father, and after watching him get red-faced and scary-angry over some dumbshit thing his dad did one day, I made a decision:  Even if we didn't *leave* the house/city/state/job/whatever, we needed to be *able* to.

(His dad, for any who don't know, is notorious for keeping us both just under his thumb.  If we do anything he doesn't like, he threatens to sell the shop or kick us out or fire J.  ALL THE TIME, he does this.  It's no way to live.)

So somewhere in my head, I figure if we just have enough money to get out if we need to, then we'll be fine.  Less stressed.  Less under that thumb.  Something.  And I decide that if he can't think about it (he gets emotional about it, go figure), then I'll do it.  I've got the resources; I've got the time, the audience, the creativity.  I'll *fix it*.

Begin Period Of Insane Working(tm).  Like, *seriously*.  I start two new companies.  I hire new people.  I come up with even more of the Awesome, figuring that it'll get us where we need to be.  Granted, I'm working from the time I wake up (around 4 a.m.) until I drop off at midnight or so (seriously), and I completely lose all semblance of a social life, and fraternize only with some mentors in North Carolina and my bosses and my suppliers & customers, but hey...it's what we need to get better.  To get free.  And it's temporary.

Enter the fucking circus.

No, let me rephrase that. 

Around now -- maybe November of last year -- J starts hanging with some local circus.  He's excited to be performing again, and I'm still working like a freakin' dog from morning to night to try and Fix Everything In Our Lives(tm).  He starts being gone a lot, and hanging out with scantily-clad women.  Which, really, he always does, so really, it doesn't bug me that much.  Of all the things I worry about -- most of which involve him dropping dead, either from a stage accident gone horribly wrong or from his blood pressure going too high from his dad's harranguing -- his fidelity isn't one of them.  He barely notices boobies.  I consider that a good thing.

As time wears on and I take yet *another* job, two of my people quit.  (I don't pay much.  Curse of the indie business revolution.)  Suddenly I have morning-til-night work, plus a new job, PLUS all the stuff that the two employees were doing.  I'm quickly overwhelmed, and feel vaguely like I'm drowning.

Meanwhile, J is hanging out even *more* with the circus, and has started drinking with them.  Drinking often freaks me out -- there's alcoholism in my family, and since I don't drink at *all* anymore (I just get way, way sick in the mornings, so the fun of it is mitigated pretty sharply.), I'm now worried about *that* on top of keeping everything running.  And I get testy when J says he'll help me and then runs off with the circus, coming home smelling like a barroom floor.  Great.

In March, I take the third trip to NC to try and get things set up for one of the jobs I'm doing.  I end up staying for three weeks, because a) there was a ton to do, and b) I felt just a little bit unwanted and in the way at home.  There was yelling, and not all on my side.  (I don't yell.  I hiss.  A lot.  But I rarely yell.)

At some point while I'm in NC, I tell him that I'm not sure he wants me to come home, and that I'm not sure I want to be there, if I'm not.  I'm sobbing at this point, because OMGSERIOUSLY.  He says to come home and talk.  I get on a plane.

We talk.  He tells me he feels ignored.  I tell him we've got to do something about the way things are, because this isn't healthy.  I tell him that if I move, I want him with me, but he tells me I'm aloof when i come back from NC every time.  (which I am -- I'm usually exhausted.)

Talk works.  I think, at least.  He offers to help; I tell him I'll try to cut down what I'm doing.  I start making lists of things I can farm out to other people and start looking for trusted partners to take on certain businesses.  (Which, I found, takes a whole fuckton of time.  Moving a business is almost as timeconsuming as running one.  Talk about counterproductive.)  At some point, he blows me off when I ask him to help...so he can run off and "practice" with the circus, which largely involves sitting around talking about what they'll do someday.  (grr.)

I start planning the trip to NC to hand over two of the businesses to someone else to run, start planning the book project that will be self-sustaining when it's done (less work = more time with him, in my mind), and suddenly, I'm a whole lot happier.  I *almost* have two minutes to rub together, and it's nice.

Two weeks into my planned 3 to 6 week trip, one of my teeth explodes, and I get a horrid infection in it.  (They had to drill a hole in my gum and monitor it while it healed.  Yeah, it was gross.)  Then, probably from the immune wear-down, I get the Evil Death Flu, which has me moving at moron-speed.  My six week trip begins to look more like two months.  Then three, as the person taking over the business wasn't quite in line with the vision for it, and lots of adjusting had to be done.  If I wasn't writing, I was doing web crap.  And if I wasn't doing markup, I was doing product dev.  So much for a nice vacation/hand-off.

Sometime in there, the phone calls from J stopped.  In one three-week-period, there were *none*.  Not even a call to ask how my surgery went.  Nothing.  I kept emailing him twice a week, and called a lot -- sometimes six times a day -- but nothing.

(So it turns out that he wasn't seeing my calls/messages.  Neither were other people.  Nor was I seeing any missed calls on my phone.  Me = not pleased in retrospect.  I pulled up the call log on my phone later and showed it to him -- six calls, one day, and he got *none* of them.  TechnologyFAIL.  But that's beside the point.)

Just a touch heartbroken, I considered, again, not going home.  At least in NC, I have a huge support network, and it's a healthier place for me.  (I'm allergic to corn pollen.  Let me tell you how much fun THAT allergy is in Iowa.)  Just before Labor Day, I sat down and figured that if I ended up in NC, I ended up in NC, but I needed to know that I'd given 100% of my effort to holding onto things before I bolted.  It might not work, but at least I could say I tried.  I call home, finally get him, and he tells me he has five shows booked that weekend and he needs to clean the house before I get home.  I make plans to stay another week, and plan to head home when I get to a logical place to hand over the perfume stuff to its new caretaker.

Fast forward to Sunday.  I've spent two days in a car.  I've texted J a bunch of times and tried to call, but got voice mail and no response.  Another friend of mine has just told me she isn't getting my messages either, and I'm beginning to question technology.  But I figure I'm home in 24 hours or so, so it's no big deal. 

I get to Iowa on Monday around 3:30.  J meets me inside and hugs me oddly.  As we catch up and carry in my crap from the truck, he says that he has Magic Club tonight.  I boggle a little, as I've now been away for three months and he's leaving for *magic club* instead of spending time with me, but he says that he's going to be introducing members of the troupe, and MC is only once a month, which I totally understand.  Previous plans.  No biggie.  I go get dinner for us both, and he heads off, saying he'd be home around nine.

I spend the next four hours cleaning.  By eleven (midnight my time), I'm exhausted.  I try to call him, but he's not answering.  I figure it's my phone being stupid.  I go to bed.

He hauls his ass in around 12:30a.m..  Fights with the dog for bed space.  Does not snuggle back when I curl up next to him.  I figure he's tired, but a little red flag goes off in my head that I try very, very hard to ignore.  (I'm glad for this, now.)

This morning, I wake up at four a.m., despite myself.  I blearily head downstairs, grab a water out of the fridge, and hear J's phone beeping.  He forgets to plug it in sometimes, if he's tired, so I grab it out of his pants and go to plug it in.  There's a text message from Birdie (Tammy).  It's incriminating.  And in my bleary state, I flip through all the text messages, which imply pretty plainly (okay, fine...state outright) that there's nakedness going on between them.

OMFG WHAT THE FUCK.

At 4:17, I go upstairs, turn on the lights, pull back the covers, and ask him how long he's been fucking Birdie.  He tells me.  Surprisingly, I do not, in fact, burst into tears.  Instead, I'm numb.  No dull rage, no tears, no hystrionics.  Just *numb*.

For the next two hours, we talk.  I ask inappropriate questions about the relationship, probably out of some morbid curiosity.  We talk about how he was feeling over the last year -- how he read my workaholism as uncaring, when I was frustrated by his lack of seeing that I was *trying* to work this hard for *us* to be *okay*.  There are tears.  Many.  I'm still numb.  Feels like I'm reading my feelings off a card.

He goes to take a shower, I start calling Birdie, whom I've changed in his phone to read "Slutty McHomewrecker".  Other people text; I tell them he won't be talking to anyone until I get an apology from the slut.  I refuse to give him back the phone, and contemplate going over to her house to throw shit at her.  J's not blameless, but I can. not. stomach. women who fuck other women's husbands.  Can. Not. Stomach.

We talk again before work.  It's a good talk.  I get where he's coming from.  I know I was short-tempered and downright snarly sometimes over the past year.  He finally gets where I'm coming from, and why I was so absent.  It doesn't fix anything, and certainly doesn't justify him banging some crackwhore, but at least it all makes sense, if I look at it detachedly.

Over lunch, I ask him more inappropriate questions.  I'm getting more angry, but I haven't even processed all of it enough to get to the infidelity.  I'm still boggling at the carnival of errors that had to occur for us both to get to a point where the infidelity was even *possible*.  He lets it slip that he was there last night; that the stupid bitch showed up at Magic Club in tears, afraid she was going to lose him.

Let that sink in.  Lose him.  TO HIS FUCKING WIFE.  Um, sweetheart?  You already *lost* before it even began.

I call her.  Tell her that his Oscar-caliber performance the night before was fake; that he could give a shit about her feelings, and that he'd told me so.  I tell her that this relationship?  Not going anywhere, so I hoped her fuck was worth it.

Yeah.  The anger kicked in.  (I've called her, like, forty times today.  Never once got her on the phone.  It's all on voice mail.  And I may have posted her phone number on one of those Bust Your Cheater websites.  I never said I was nice.)

SO then he comes back mid-day, and we talk *more*.  (We're talking a lot.  We need it.)  Again with the inappropriate questions, because at this point, I want to know as much about Tammy as I can.  It's sick, I know.  But I wanna know.

And he tells me that he did not, in fact, use a condom.

*facepalm*

One would think that Cheater Rule #1 would be to USE A FUCKING CONDOM.  You can't deny cheating if the slut pops out a child.  And GOD ONLY KNOWS what some absent-moralled little hosebag is carrying.  The kissing stops, and I tell him that, under no circumstances, can I move forward with *any* kind of forgiveness until I know he's at least *clean*.  He makes an appointment to see a doctor, to his credit.  He knows it was risky and stupid.  I'm thankful for that, at least.

He's there now, finding out if the homewrecker whore gave him anything drippy, and I'm trying not to hunt Tammy down and deliver the dirty sheets to her doorstep.  Figure she needs a reminder, since there will *be* no more contact with him, period.  I'm resisting valiantly, but the urge is there.

We're talking more tonight, and picking a marital counselor, because really?  I don't know if I can get over this completely.  It won't ever go back to how it was, but I don't know how to let go; how to proceed.  Things like this either end a relationship or make it stronger in the end, and I'm trying to place my bets on the latter.  He quit the circus, at least temporarily, and knows he can't go back unless she's gone, and I'm making a concerted effort to talk all this through and not just run away (as I am often wont to do).

Either way, there are big decisions to be made.  And a hefty whap of Karma coming for one little slut that couldn't keep her legs closed.  We'll see how it goes.  (I'm hoping her tits rot and fall off, but I'm still in the uncharitable phase of shock.)

http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseacti...

eliza wants you to check out a photo on MySpace in the Difi 9-5-09 album

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OMFG. Couldn't he at least have picked one of the *pretty* girls in the group to fuck? I mean, *really*. This one looks like a two-days-gone crackwhore. Jeezus.

Hosted By: portland zine symposium
When: Saturday Aug 23, 2008
at 10:00 AM
Where: Smith Memorial Ballroom, PSU
1825 SW Broadway
Portland, Oregon|38 97207
United States
Description:
portland zine symposium

Click Here To View Event

So....now I REALLY want to go to PDX, but the chances are slim again this year.

If anyone else goes, tell me about it? So I can live vicariously through y'all? Please?

:)

I don't Myspace much.  Obviously. :)

My brother was up here for a visit, though, and mentioned that the guy who's probably my oldest friend in the world is back in my hometown, and pointed out his myspace page.

This set of a flurry of Additis -- if you're just seeing this and wondering who the hell I am, I probably went to school with you.  High School.  In the wayback days pre-blogs and school shootings.  Back when big hair was not only okay, but encouraged.  (Mine hasn't quite got the memo that that's NOT okay anymore, but I figure it'll come back one day and THEN I shall be in vogue again.  Oh yes.  Yes, I shall.)

I spent a lot of years hating that place I'm from.  Didn't go back. Had a little bitter place somewhere near the left ventricle that festered and hurt for a long, long time.  Just now, when I was looking at people's faces (which, by the way, haven't changed ONE SINGLE BIT.  Good lord, people -- what greater demon did y'all make a deal with to stay so young?  Can I have his number?  Because, dude...these crow's feet are starting to get *annoying*.), all I really felt was that kind of misty nostalgia that us old fogies get when we think about Teh Youth. 

I wish I'd stayed in touch.  Or gotten in touch more often.  Something.  Some of you are just damned *interesting*.

But I had one of those Old Fogie Moments just a minute ago, too.  I was standing there in the shower, remembering this boy.  When I was seven, my dad, who was an avid bowler, for those of you who don't know, used to take us out to ABC Bowl in Norfolk.  And there was this kid.  This little blonde boy with blue eyes full of mischief, and OH MY GOD HE WAS GOING TO BE MY BOYFRIEND.  I knew this because I wrote his name on my notebooks.  Y'know...Amy + Boy.  All over it.

*facepalm*

Anyway, I found Boy.  And I was giggling to myself that he still looks EXACTLY THE FREAKIN' SAME, and realized I was *blushing*.

Yeah, I'm thirty-seven.  I was suddenly twelve, apparently.

And then I realized that I have had a crush on the same boy for longer than my husband's been alive.

*sigh*

Welcome, if I'm just re-finding you.  And if you're Boy?  Don't worry -- my notebooks are clear and un-festooned with declarations of undying love.

For now.  :)