Round about 1993, I met an asshole named Eli through the personals in the newspaper. Yes, in the NEWSPAPER. Stop laughing/smirking. After all, the Internet was in diapers then, and dating websites were fledgling businesses at best. Besides, I didn’t own a computer until ’96.
Back then, Max was 14 months old, and Tim was 7. I had just bought my first house in Milton, WV, which I loved, slightly dilapidated though it was.
Long story short: Eli and fell in love, and like a dumb-ass, I married this prick in August of ’96. I was more than OVER paralegal work, and we both wanted out of WV, so we rented out my house and moved to Ohio. I secured my first teaching job, and Eli accepted a job at Ohio State as a chemical bla, bla, bla engineer of some sort. I don’t speak GEEK, badly or otherwise, so I have no clue what his job was, not that it matters.
At first, Eli’s rendition of the devoted stepfather was Oscar-worthy. Taking the boys to the park, going camping, helping Tim build model airplanes, reading to Max every night and playing catch with them 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 Ashe*,” Eli said, his hazel eyes darkening to a murky, turd-water green, his voice was stern and authoritative as if this crucifixion of my life and Max’s were an order and not a suggestion. What prompted this edict, I have no clue. Max was almost four. He 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-husband #2, mentioned in this post:
http://tenaciousbitch.com/2012/09/07/post-75-about-ashes-logic/
“What the FUCK’re you talking about? I’m not doing that!” Was my swift, blood-curdling reply.
And so it began, the first of many vicious brawls between us. This one ended with him violently slinging me into a cinder-block wall, spawning a slight concussion, I discovered later. He stomped out and barricaded me in our bedroom with a chair under the doorknob. I sat stunned on the scratchy, sculptured carpet for a moment, completely bewildered.
Then, I bit down on the anger, rushed to the far end of the room 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, flat against the door, which had plunked down atop the washer across the tiny hallway.
And there was Eli, holding the wooden shards of the kitchen chair I’d almost crushed with the door. I was wallpapered in bruises, and 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 as I came barreling through the doorway 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 because he wasn’t going to take, “Anymore of my insolence.” Really? Interesting word choice. The word OBEY did not dwell within our marital promises, but I guess in Eli’s fucked up world, I was still beholden to his whims, wants and rules regardless of any pledges during our vows. I didn’t alter my custody agreement with Ashe who had visitation with Max on weekends, and FUCK Eli if he didn’t like it.
A couple weeks later, Eli and I had managed to patch things up to the point that I no longer wanted to boil him alive, and we’d 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 a rash 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 not only was my husband DOING some slut, but he was coming home and getting busy with me without even showering first! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have these damned hives that made me wanna sandpaper my crotch! 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.
“You’re the sorriest son-of-a bitch I’ve ever met. 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 as she eased backward against a file cabinet as if fearing she was my next target. But she seemed way too pretty to settle for the likes of HIM because he was no Brad Pitt. I found out years later from a mutual friend, he’d been boinking an ex-girlfriend who dumped him right after I did, LOL!!!
If all that weren’t bad enough, the month before our divorce was final, Eli darkened my doorway one sunny afternoon claiming that I’d overdrawn our joint checking account.
“No, I didn’t. My paycheck was direct-deposited this morning, and I haven’t had time to go to Kroger or anything.”
“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’ll 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 would use his business account where his paychecks were being direct deposited at the SAME BANK. We also had a savings account, but it only had the initial $50 deposit in it. When we got ATM cards for all three accounts, they were all GREEN. I warned Eli to request a different colored card for his business account, so he wouldn’t mix them up. But he declined, saying it wasn’t necessary. However, I ordered a flowered bank card for the joint account to avoid any such issues.
While the neighbor watched the boys, I headed to the bank. When I walked in, THERE’S 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, just wanting to bash his face into the bank’s quasi-wooden desk, but I refrained, of course.
His head snapped around, a sour face glaring up at mine. He said nothing. 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 your ex-husband (Ashe) is behind on child support because he’s unemployed, and you make a grand total 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.
However, the ONLY time I ever bounced a check was because of First State Savings and Loan’s jack-leg practices when I was a temporary secretary in 1990. I deposited my paycheck every Friday at noon, but it wasn’t credited until MIDNIGHT on Monday. So, in essence, your money was hog-tied until TUESDAY. To-wit, I covered the bad check and closed the account immediately and went to another bank.
So, ANYWHO…I sat down beside Eli while Brenda went over our accounts. “Well, sir, it seems the problem is because you’re depositing your paychecks in your business account, but your making withdrawals with the wrong debit card, which was issued for the joint account, not for your business account,” she said, holding up one of Eli’s three GREEN ATM cards that he’d laid out before I arrived.
Oh, YES, it was an exhilarating victory! He fucked up because he was too lazy to order different colored bank cards. He had to write a check for $440 to cover his BAD CHECKS. 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 to the Eli Fiasco and all its JUICY BITS…:)
And I would like to THANK Facebook for its mysterious, algorithmic prompt yesterday, which send me FLYING down this bumpy lane from my past, which said:
People you may KNOW:
Eli Costanza
- 4 mutual friends…
WITH A PHOTO of his ugly mug staring at me from cyber space.
He lives in some back-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
