Episode 17: Eliot Spitzer Stupid
Episode 17: Eliot Spitzer Stupid
Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"
Guess what? I have a "contrecoup" concussion. This means my brain is all shook up. It happened, just like everything else in my life seems to, by accident last Sunday. I was standing on an embankment opening the car door with my super power arm strength (courtesy of that new thirty minute workout Annabelle's been pushing), when it happened. Needless to say, the kids were going at it, I was trying to call order, no one was listening (really, do they ever?) and before you know it, I smacked the door of the SUV into my hapless forehead. What a moron. I didn't see stars or rainbows but I did end up with a giant, yellow lump, a feeling of just general off-centeredness (nothing new for me) and a whopping headache at the base of my skull. That's where the "contrecoup" comes in. (It's French, but in English means a bruising of the brain caused by a blow, appearing on "the opposite side to that on which the blow was struck.") Which is a fancy way of saying you can get blindsided at any moment.
Case in point. I'm standing in my bedroom, post-trauma, in front of the full-length mirror (what a mistake that over-priced purchase was, and by the way, it was vain Jeffrey's idea) surveying my body and the bright yellow bump on my head. It's late in the afternoon, Roo is asleep (Daylight Savings — what a rip-off. It doesn't save me anything except the chance to catch up on some much needed zzzzz's, while at the same time sending my children into weird coma-like naps and even for them, unusual tantrums) and Mr. Handsome is at Chess Club after school. (I don't play chess, by the way. Jeffrey does — and not just on a game board — you'll see what I mean.)
Anyhoo, there I am, rubbing Cle de Peau concealer over my war wound (an expensive cover-up, but I wasn't taking any chances) and at the same time, taking account of my body. I will admit, I am currently obsessed with my "menopot," which is a word I heard recently that describes, sadly, that little pot belly that most of us suddenly have. You know how one day you wake up and your skin is flapping over the top of your jeans and even though you weigh exactly the same as when you bought them, your clothes don't fit right anymore? Well, I swear I had gone to bed with a flat stomach and woken up with what appeared to be a "menopot". Concussion notwithstanding, this wasn't pretty.
So I'm standing there, wrinkling my brow (which hurt like hell, I might add) and then really quickly trying to un-wrinkle it (remember how your mom always used to warn you and you'd just roll your eyes) because my face is going to freeze that way. And because I still can't bring myself to shoot neurotoxins into my rapidly deteriorating body, there won't be a damn thing I can do. I'm standing there, wondering if I need to go buy me some Spanx, or Lipo-In-A-Box or that new thing, the Yummy Tummy (can you believe how many products there are to squish all that belly fat in?) Yes, I'm standing there, assessing my (wounded) assets, as it were...and the phone rings.
Life lesson. Don't answer the phone. Just don't answer it. There are answering services, answering machines, there's caller ID if need be...there are plenty of ways to avoid that particular dangerous act. But of course, I never pay attention to life lessons, especially my own. So I pick it up.
"Hello, Jeffrey?" says the person on the other end. I can hear all sorts of noises in the background, which leads me to believe that the person calling for "Jeffrey" A. doesn't know us (and clearly if they did, wouldn't have called him here and B. is probably after some money. I have a nose for these things. I can smell danger a mile away. (Well, at least I can now. If I could have really smelled danger, I would have known that my husband was fucking the Concubine, but at the moment, and not just because of the concussion, that is neither here nor there).
"Jeffrey isn't here," I say (why bother explaining all the mortifying ins and outs of that to a stranger?) and then there's more clicking and whirring and I hear, "This is Susan from the Bank of America. Is Jeffrey's wife there?" Now, under normal circumstances I would have hung up the phone immediately but something about this particular situation struck me as borderline weird.
Now, as we all know, I am not technically Jeffrey's wife. But at the same time, we are not "legally" divorced yet and since our assets are not one hundred percent divided, I am never quite sure how to answer. In this instance, I just say, "Uh...yes. Lucky me." (I wonder if Susan's life has room for irony and if not, how sad would that be.) "Ma'am, could you give me your mother's maiden name?' says Susan, un-ironic-ly (we are immediately on intimate terms here, she and I) and I do because I am suddenly very curious about what she has to say.
Well, my new best friend Susan proceeds to tell me that they (The Bank) are concerned about some unusual charges on Jeffrey's cards. Now, I could have sworn that we took care of all that when I discovered his assignation with Sonya the super-fan hooker, but apparently, we did not. Apparently, there are many, many thousands of dollars (like one hundred, or more thousand charged within the last few months and I am at this point shaking here) that are unaccounted for and even though we do have a very high limit (Jeffrey, the movie producer, remember?) they think this stands out as "unusual activity," and they (The Bank) are expressing their concern.
Well, needless to say, I too am fucking concerned. I thank my un-ironic friend Susan for calling and tell her I will look into it immediately. Then I hang up the phone. I stare at myself in the mirror. Suddenly, my menopot is not so important anymore. It appears that my dick of an ex-husband has been (literally) screwing around with my assets, as it were. These are my real assets, you understand - the money that is going to feed and clothe my kids, and send them to over-priced educational institutions, for starters. It is the money, I might add (because for the duration of our thankless marriage we had that catastrophe known as the joint bank account) which is fifty percent mine. (Frankly, my pain and suffering and humiliation in front of my new best friend Susan is worth more than fucking fifty percent, if you ask me.)
I start running possible scenarios through my head. Jeffrey bought himself an Aston Martin. Jeffrey invested in a boutique hotel on St. Bart's. Jeffrey went to Europe and as we all know, the exchange rate sucks. Or, what about this? Jeffrey bought the Concubine a fur coat (she's PETA, but I conveniently forget that). Jeffrey...holy shit. What did Jeffrey do?
I sink down into a chair. (It's a really uncomfortable Eames chair, beautiful in every way except how it feels, which is how I would describe my life right now.) I am starting to get some clarity and clarity, at times, can be pretty ugly. I pick up the phone and call Annabelle. I tell her to get her ass over to my house immediately, and then I start tearing through the fridge for a beer. (I hate beer. But this seems like a beer-like situation.)
Just then (and of course, I have forgotten what day it is, because I am, in this moment, just a smidge distracted) Jeffrey and Mr. Handsome walk in the door. Of course, it was Jeffrey's day to pick Mr. Handsome up at school, which in my dad-deprived child's mind is like a national holiday, if you know what I mean. Mr. Handsome runs over and gives me a hug and then announces he's going to his little friend's next door. Jeffrey tries to stop him (even in his abandoning father mode, he knows that it is almost time for dinner) but I tell Mr. Handsome it is okay honey, this one time, and he punches his fist in the air, grabs his light saber (yes, he's a Star Wars fanatic) and scoots out the back door.
Jeffrey stares at me. "What is it, Es?" he asks, grinning slightly, like a little kid who knows he's done something wrong but because he's incurred so many infractions of late, isn't quite sure which one this is. "Is something going on?" And I'm trying not to hyperventilate, so I reach out a hand to steady myself and then I tell him the whole thing. I tell him about my new best friend, how her name is Susan. I tell him about the lack of irony in Susan's voice and how she works long hours at the Bank of America and that despite her overwhelming exhaustion she called with great concern because there was a hundred thousand dollar charge on our credit card that we don't seem able to account for.
Jeffrey's face turns white. You know how they say that, but it really isn't ever true, because most skin has color to it and if you're white you're probably dead...I'm telling you, in this case, Jeffrey looked deceased. Like all the life had been sucked right out of him. I can see he's shaking and then he bursts into tears and I'm not kidding, he falls onto the floor.
Yuck. There is nothing more unappealing than seeing your ex-husband, bawling on the linoleum. (Linoleum, which by the way, is supposed to be tile if Raoul ever gets it together and does his job.) Especially after he (your ex-husband) tells you why he's crying. "Please don't tell her," he gulps (and there's snot and stuff running out of his nose) "Please don't tell Lucy, she'll leave me," and I'm thinking, "You have got to be fucking kidding here," and then he goes on this whole twelve step rant about how he's an addict, a real addict with a disease and I'm all like, "What disease do you have, Jeffrey? Syphilis, maybe?" Because I can see where this is going and he gulps and sobs and tells me that indeed, the one hundred thousand dollars is one hundred thousand dollars in hookers and he's, oh, God, he's so sorry and he's in serious therapy and he knows how bad it looks and he'll never, ever do it again.
Shit. I stand there and I'm looking at him and I don't know what to say. Jeffrey is cheating on the woman he cheated on me with. And he's asking me to protect him.
I look at him, curiously. "You're a disaster," I say. "I know, I know," he mumbles. "I can't help myself, you have to believe me." "I don't have to believe you, " I say. "I guess not," he gulps, "But that's the truth. Anyway, it's over now," he says. "You can call my therapist if you want. I got freaked out when the last girl pulled a piece on me and I stopped. I swear I did."
"A piece?!" I say. "That's a gun," he sniffs. I stare at him. "I know what a fucking "piece" is!" (And by the way, what exactly does one hundred K pay for in the world of high-priced hookerdom? A hundred thousand dollar blow job better come with a steak, an auto detail, a round of golf at Riviera and one of those award show gift baskets you hear about or Jeffrey should ask for his money back.) Anyhoo, just then Annabelle sashays in the door.
She looks from me to Jeffrey and then back again. I can see her staring at the bump on my head. "What's fuck-face doing here? What happened?" "Oh, not much," I answer. I can't pay the kids' tuition because Jeffrey slept with one-hundred-grand worth of hookers, is all." "It's over," insists Jeffrey. " And I'm really, really sorry for any pain I've caused." "The only pain I have is in my head," I manage to sputter. Annabelle gives him the evil eye. "Did you hurt her?" she growls, looking at my messed up forehead. "No more than usual," I answer, and I gulp some beer.
Maybe it's the beer, but suddenly, I'm really dizzy. I feel like I'm having an out of body experience and that my contrecoup concussion is starting to be a drag. I think maybe I am imagining this whole thing, like I am hallucinating because I hit my head and I will wake up in the morning after a really long, good sleep and it will all be fine.
"You have to tell the Concubine." I hear this coming out of my mouth and I can't believe I said it, but I did. "What?" says Jeffrey. "My head hurts," is all I can muster.
And then, like a mirage rising out of the desert, I see him. It is Eliot Spitzer, former Governor of the great state of New York. I see his wife standing there supporting him in his time of need. I see how ridiculous it is that men reach a pinnacle of success in their measly lives and how it all comes down to their penis in a hooker. I see that despite the way I feel, I am so lucky not to have to be like that poor woman who put her life and career on hold for her husband's and then after he's fucked all these prostitutes, still has to stand silent, by her man.
I see that despite how I feel about the Concubine, I am going to have to burn a bridge and pick up the dreaded phone because I am a better person than Jeffrey. I see that I am a better person than my ex-husband (The "Spitz" is giving real clarity here) and that I have to tell the Concubine what the hell is going on. At the very least, I figure, I could help prevent her from getting some dreaded, pus-ridden disease.
I turn to my mirage. "Thank you, Mr. Spitzer," I say, jauntily. "Anytime," he assures me. "Why did you sleep with all those hookers?" I ask him. "Oh, I'm just plain stupid," he giggles and then as quickly as he came (no pun intended) he's gone.
"Get out of here," I tell Jeffrey. I realize Annabelle is staring at me. "Are you okay?" she asks me. "A little disoriented," I answer. "But it's probably the concussion more than Jeffrey." "Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you, how'd that happen?" says Annabelle, looking at the egg on my forehead. "Oh, I was blindsided by life and shit," I say. "It happens."
I look at the spot where The Spitz was just standing. By now Jeffrey and his sorry ass are gone.
"The J-ster's a mess," says Annabelle, dismissively. "I was a little freaked out by all of it," I admit. "But then I realized Jeffrey's just another fucked up Eliot Spitzer." "Napoleon complex," snorts Annabelle. I grin at her. "Yeah. And now I'm fine."
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