Sooooo. How’s it going? What’s new in your worlds? How’s life? Kids and pets doing ok?

Nothing really new to report here. Things are like totally super boring in my world. No news. So maybe I’ll just wrap this up quickly. Nothing to see here. In fact, feel free to move along…

No really: Move along. It’ll be better for both of us.

Well…actually, perhaps I do have something to write about. Just a little topic really. No big deal at all. In fact, if you’d rather not read this post, feel free to find something else to peruse. Perhaps you have a Sky Mall lying around? A horoscope page from your Sunday paper? The latest Enquirer that your “crazy cat-lady neighbor” gave you? (Or so you tell your friends, at least…)

No. Fucking. WAY! Ricky Martin is gay??? Clearly, I'm stunned.

What’s that? You’re still here. Crap — was sorta hoping to distract your attention from this post with my amazingly adept written sleight of hand.

OK, so here’s the deal. You’ve all heard of Shania Twain, right? You’ve probably even seen her on the talk show circuit of late, dishing about her divorce from her mutt-like hubby and her even bigger dog of a best friend. Her very married BFF, it turns out, was allegedly having an affair with Dear Husband (also her music producer, Mutt Lange) while Shania was telling Dear Bestie all of her deepest darkest insecurities — including the idea that she feared he was having an affair.

But Bestie kept mute. All while keeping Mutt on the side. Ick.

As a woman who endured betrayal, I can relate — as many of us can (though few of us probably received that extra helping of crazy served up by the villainous BFF). Shania recently released a book with copious divorce deets, and in it, she revealed how in the aftermath of those dark days of learning about the betrayal, she turned to the one man who could relate to how she was feeling entirely.

The husband of the woman who was having the affair with her husband.

Yes, you can probably see where this one is going: The crazy train just keeps chugging down that track, as Shania and the ex of the ex-husband’s now-lover hooked up — and ultimately got married. Complete with a beach, sunset, crashing waves, a flowing white dress (no poop in sight!) and a whopping dose of happily ever after.

Set against a tropical sunset, the groom (the former groom of the new bride's ex-husband's new wife) lifted the bride (formerly married to the groom's ex-wife's now-husband) in a moment of celebration. The couple will make a home far away from their asshole ex-spouses. (Via Flickr/Top Bride Dresses)

I know, right? Totally creepy and bizarro. Just like Wife Swap — only more confusing-er. I mean, you need a bouncing ball to follow that shit. Who would do that, you’re all thinking to yourselves. Right?

Um. OK. Well, that’s where the confession alluded to in the headline comes into play…

Only here’s my plan. I’m going to do exactly what my kids do when they confess something, screaming and urgently and breathlessly ramming everything together into a giant gelatinous blob of verbal vomit. The chunky but runny kind:


(Hehehe. Did you see the word “SEX” in there? Not even intentional… Hehehe.)

Anyhow, in case you don’t speak verbal vomit, here’s the translation:

I dated my ex’s ex-ex’s ex.

And yes, I can see how that many ex’s — definitely equals a “why”? In hindsight it does, at least. But of course, there’s a back story.

As you may or may not be aware depending on your level of involvement in my sordid little tale, my ex left me for his ex. They initially started dating in their hometown in Oregon during their early teen years and came to Nevada about four years later after brief stints in college. He and I then met while working together at a radio station while I was in college, they broke up and we became an item — an item for three years prior to our marriage.

Almost 14 years later, apparently he found himself longing to “bark” up that same old “tree,” so he returned to her, his ex-ex…an appropriate double negative, which we all know from middle school algebra actually equals a positive.

During much of the time of their separation and our dating, my ex’s ex-ex remained in my town. She did ultimately move away — far, far away, where she met her future husband. In another state. Not even ATTACHED to our contiguous United States. And in a seemingly well-planned strategic move bizarre twist of fate, she and her hubby ended up back in Nevada, in a city where neither had any family connections nor real ties to speak of. A few blocks away from us. And in an even crazier seemingly well-planned strategic move bizarre twist of fate, she had children at almost the exact same time as I did.

Meaning of my school district’s 60+ elementary schools, our kids would end up in the same grades of the exact same school. Which is the site of the infamous flagpole, still proudly waving its colors, forever the erect icon of their blissful reunion.

So she left her future ex for my ex. My ex left me (his future ex) for his ex-ex (and now current). Confused yet?

After the brick discovery, I was at a loss for what to do, how to feel, what direction was up, etc. And even worse: My future ex would not even talk to me about what had happened, what hadn’t happened, how long the rendezvous (rendezvouses? rendezvi?) were taking place, the extent of their involvement or anything else pertaining to the “barking” or the “tree.”

That’s some crazy-making shit right there, for anyone who’s been through that situation: Not knowing anything beyond knowing that there’s something to know.

So I did what any normal person in this anything-but-normal situation would do: Boxes o’ wine to the rescue!

Nah, not really. I had kids after all. Instead, I was expected to push through it like business as usual. Business as usual, that is, if my normal business were losing 30 pounds in one month from a diet consisting only of an occasional Diet Coke, waking up every mother-effing night at 3:42 a.m. on the dot (for a reason I still don’t understand) and constantly asking myself those debilitating, all-consuming questions in the aftermath of such a devastatingly unexpected loss.

Until, that is, the night at the ballpark. My son was playing fall ball that year, and so was her son. And since the exes mixed together my kids with her kids in a frenzied faux-family with the same lightning speed that one can successfully make a Cup O’ Noodles by simply adding hot water, we were all there together: Me, our kids, my Ex, his Ex-Ex, her Ex and their kids.

It was like some whacked-out Brady Bunch version of the dysfunctionally divorced. Only instead of Alice and the occasional appearance of creepy cousin Oliver, there were always a couple of inconvenient extra exes hanging around.

And there we were: the extra exes.

(To Be Continued…)


Well, there’s that silly little story. No big deal, right?

But in keeping with the dramatic theme, the Wife Swap meets Brady Bunchness of it all, I think it’s only appropriate to end this post with a cliffhanger. I know, I suck.

So feel free to take your guesses or make your assessments about any of the following in the comments below:

  1. Will dating the ex’s ex-ex’s ex resolve questions for the jilted former-lovers?
  2. Will the pastor make a long-awaited guest appearance in the next post?
  3. Who wants to bitch slap me for thinking this was a good idea?
  4. Do you know anyone with a bat-shit crazier divorce than mine? (Besides Shania, that is…)
  5. Is Boyfriend Brett the ex’s ex-ex’s ex? Or is he really the maniacal resurrection of the demonically-possessed alter-ego of Hugh Grant’s evil twin brother?

Enquiring minds want to know…

And just in case you were wondering — according to my “crazy cat-lady neighbor” and her weekly dose of national news: Kiefer Sutherland? Totally not gay…

Clearly he's undercover here. His next move is to bite off this man's tongue, gouge him in the eyes and knee him in the nads. Or else the world will end in 24 hours...