Cherry's Dating Horror Stories...part of the "Thank God It Wasn't Me Series"...Mr. Perfect

Miss Cherry just loooovesss those random conversations that make life too fun. Little celebrations of the ridiculous events that resonate. So, it was the beyond random conversation with the New Service Customer Service Cutie at her soon to be Cable, Internet and TV provider…somewhere in the Midwest…that triggered a memory for Cherry…and it went something like this…

“So, Ma’am…do you want the bundled package? And how soon do want the install?”

“ASAP, and Yes. I am in desperate need of internet…as it’s ruining my life to not have it right now. And, about the TV…I haven’t had cable in a year. I shut it down because I was saturated.”

“Oh, I get it. What did you watch?”

“Well, I had pneumonia for over 27 weeks last year…and spent month after month…laying on the couch…in a pool of sweat…unable to breathe or move…unable to write or talk. The only thing I could really do was push the buttons on my remote. So…I got hooked on all of The Real Housewives. All of them. Matter of fact, I got hooked on everything. History Channel, SyFy Channel, Food Network, Cooking Channel, Crime Shows…you name it…I was hooked on it. That time frame pickled my brain on so many levels.”

“I get it. I was in a car accident last year…and spent 9 months in a bed…unable to move. All you do is watch TV. I got hooked on Law and Order, NCIS, all of the crime channels, and How I Met Your Mother. I’m saturated too. And, here I work for a cable company.”

We laughed. I expressed my sympathy for her accident. She understood. I understood.

“You know, sweetie…(she’s only 20 years old…same age as my son)…haven’t you found that since you have been watching these crime and detective shows…you notice things you haven’t noticed before?”

“Oh, yes!!!!!  I see details in everything. Sometimes they mess with my head.”

“I know…me too. So, I’m laying there watching…Children Who Kill…and I’m going through my mental list of my kid’s friends thinking…who do I need to watch closely?”

And she laughs.

“I have a funny story about my new CSI skills, if you want to hear it?”

“Yes, Ma’am…you are making me laugh…and making my day. Please, do! (and she starts belly laughing)”

So, I start telling her about meeting a guy that was…”the one”…for one of my friends. Of course, he wasn’t “the one”…and she is now with the proper “the one”…but it’s a great story of using all of those CSI skills in real life dating scenarios.  Anyway…it goes like this…

“Cherry, you have to meet him. He’s perfect. What an amazing guy!!!!!! Please! Please, come by the restaurant where we are…so you can meet him and tell me what you think.”

So, I agree…and drive 45 minutes to walk into a sports bar/restaurant…to meet Mr. Perfect. I walk in and they are sitting at the bar…which places me flanking the corner with him…and I’m to his right. He is extremely nice. Full scotch and water sitting in front of him…my friend with her wine. He orders me a drink. I order a small appetizer. It comes…I share…and at one point…I drop my napkin from the barstool to the floor. I bend down to try to reach it…and I see a huge pool of golden liquid.

To the bartender…“Excuse me, Sir. But I think someone has spilled something on the floor here…and you might want to send someone to clean it up before someone steps into it and possibly falls. It’s pretty large, so you might want to bring a mop.”

Mr. Perfect chimes in…”Oh, I spilled my beer earlier.” And I think…”hmmmm, he’s drinking scotch and water. This has happened since I have been sitting here.”

“When did you spill your beer?”

“Earlier, before you came.” To which my girlfriend chimes in…”But, you aren’t drinking beer.” Silence.

So, I bend down to investigate. After all, I have been watching CSI (Crime Scene Investigation) for over a year, and all those skills are now in the forefront of my mind. I am now…a Forensic Goddess. Time to figure this shit out.

“Well, let me see. If you had been drinking a beer, and it had fallen from this height…assuming it wasn’t a glass mug or container…it would have spilled and bounced…or broken. No glass. And, I see that they are serving beer in glass. In addition, there is no splatter.”

“Splatter? What in the Hell are you talking about? I dropped my beer.”

“No, actually you didn’t. If you check closely, the edges of this rather large puddle are solid, which means this has come from a single source…continuous stream. Might I add, there is no splatter. That is very important. There is always splatter with a drop. It’s an impact thing.”

Mr. Perfect is very angry right now…and honestly, I’m just tired and investigating. I feel it is my solemn duty to check this man out for my girlfriend. First red flag, big drinker…possible alcoholic. Second flag…he’s a big, fat liar. He didn’t drop shit…there…was…no…splatter.

So, he excuses himself and walks towards the restrooms. I watch him walk. Every single time his right foot touches down…splatters…two to three little drops. Houston, we have a problem. But, this is something I’m going to have discuss with my girlfriend in the light of day. Never seen this before…nope…this is a new one.

He comes back, and I excuse myself to leave. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perfect. Have a nice night.” To which he says…”Wait, Cherry. We’re going CW dancing, meeting Gigi and Lili. You should join us.”

I don’t. The next day, I hear from my girlfriend, who says…”Isn’t he perfect? The only thing about him is that he has a sweating problem. Only on the front. He sweated all night. I stopped dancing with him, because he got the front of my clothes wet. He got Gigi and Lili wet too. Then, he spent the night, and sweat all over my bed. It’s soaked. What’s the best way to remove sweat from a mattress? Can you come over and help me figure this whole mattress thing out? Also, I probably need to clean the leather in my Mercedes. He sweat all over that as well.”

Silence. “Sweetheart, I should have pulled you aside last night…but I wanted to think about it. He isn’t perfect, even though I know you really like him. He isn’t Mr. Perfect…He’s Mr. Pee Pants. All of that is urine.”

Horror. Shock. Crying. Understandably. Which made me jump in my car and head to her home. We investigated all of the scenes of the crime…and determined…he’s Mr. Pee Pants. So, my friend calls him to confront him. He says he can’t control it when he’s drinking. Why? He’s a hideous, advanced alcoholic. And honestly, he doesn’t care. I guess peeing on the floor of a restaurant bar is just another day in the life of this man.

The kicker is…she kept dating him. Compassion. So, it wasn’t until several weeks later, when we were all sitting in her home for her Christmas Party…with her sister and sister’s family, other family, friends…it all came to a head. He just stood there, and without a care in the world...peed on himself. Didn’t care, just kept on drinking, laughing…sucked down all of the bottles in her liquor cabinet. A huge wet spot grew until the entire front of his pants was soaked.

The mattress was tossed and replaced. And, so was the boyfriend. I am happy to report that my dear friend is happily married to a man who not only can control his liquor intake…but his bladder as well. He actually is...Mr. Perfect.

“Ma’am…OH MY GOD!!!! That’s horrible. But, I must say…a wonderful use of all of those hours of watching CSI.”

And, we laughed so hard…that she didn’t schedule my installment on the correct day…matter of fact, she had me two weeks out. I don’t really care. All of those shows can wait.

Miss Cherry needs to just read a book. Honestly, it will probably get her in less trouble out and about. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Thank God, it wasn't me.

Conversations with Sunny...Who Let the Dogs Out?

So...last night I went up to a local yockel bar...to see some old friends. All the Ladies sitting around catching up...husbands...kids...travel...work...hormones...being single (for some)...you know, the stuff we like to talk about when we are hanging en masse. It was a blast plus a blast from the past. Anyway...

After a couple of hours, we moved to another local haunt...The Monkey...as it was Songwriters Night, and we wanted to be able to sit outside on that beautiful, temperate night...have a cocktail...listen to some live music...and visit. Our Cosmos were converted to a Cape Cod...and we had to settle for little squatty glasses with more cranberry with vodka. Anyway...

Along comes a drunk, swaggering guy in a baseball cap...with his eye on the table. He has his eye on the table...I have my eye on him. Coming up behind Miss Jules...he puts his hand on her shoulder, and says..."Mind if I sit down next to you?"...(squatting down just enough for the slide into the picnic table position.) Anyway...

"NO." Loud with finger pointing straight at him.

"What?"

"I said...NO! Move on. NOW."

It had happened...I had finally rounded that corner in the single world where I just didn't care about being so nice. The beautiful married ladies at the table just laughed. It was like I had become the self-appointed table guard dog. So, I told them exactly what Sunny had told me several years back about being out in a bar.

"Cherry, you can't be nice. Don't make eye contact. Don't smile. Ignore them. I was out there a long time, and you have no idea what men in bars are like. Don't be nice to them. Tell them to go away, and mean it!"

And, she was right. I hadn't spent time in nightclubs or bars my entire life. I was married young, had a couple of kids, had a crazy career...so, when I became single...I didn't really consider hanging in bars part of my world. For me, it's always been about being with friends and family. Bars just aren't my thing.

"You aren't used to the bar scene. You're going to have to put away that sweet, conversational Miss Cherry persona...and become a bitch. Period. Cherry…be a bitch. It’s the only thing they’ll understand. If you are nice or polite, they will use it against you. Remember…be a bitch.”

The next morning, I’m talking to Sunny. I just had to tell of my breakthrough. I was so proud.

“Sunny!!!!! You’re not going to believe this! (I tell her about yelling at the guy at the bar to back off my friend) It’s official…I have become you.”

She starts laughing. So, I tell her about my recent experiences of trying to work on my laptop at a local restaurant, as I was tired of the Starbucks scene. Unfortunately, being accessible is sometimes confused for being available. Starbucks was sitting on my last nerve. So, I plugged in and hooked onto WiFi. Love those Sweet Potato Chips and Salsa.

“I’ve never thought of the bar at this restaurant as an actual ‘bar’…but here I was…researching Italian platters and Georgian antiques…and the seat next to me went into rotation. I’d even put my crap in the seat…and they’d move it.”

And it did. And I didn’t get it at the time. “What are you working on? I love your hair. You’re a hottie. You have nice teeth. Look at your big, brown eyes. Can I touch your hair? Do you need a back rub, you’re working so hard? I like your necklace, I like the way it drops down. Can I buy you a drink? Do you live near here? (DON’T TOUCH MY HAIR) Why? I love your hair. I bet men tell you about your hair and how they want to pull it?  Give me your hand, I want to look at your palm. You have small, pretty hands and wrists…can I hold your hand? Will you go out to dinner with me right now? How about tomorrow? Why are you packing it up? Are you leaving? Where are you going? Can I walk you out to your car? (NO) If I go get a bottle of wine, will you share it with me on this beautiful night? We can sit on my back deck and watch the moon. (NO NO NO NO NO NO NO) It’s alright…the best people wait.”

I look at the bartender and ask…”What the Hell? This is a restaurant.” He replies…”Yes it is. But, this one is turning more into a bar. If you need me, just tug on your ear, and I’ll get rid of them. I do it all the time.” It was then that I really learned…you can’t be a single woman sitting at a bar…and not have them come out of the woodwork. Hammerheads. You can be working…it just doesn’t matter. You are at a bar…and they are going to hit on you. Period. Anyway…

“Sunny, I was you last night. I saw him coming and let him have it. It was like scolding a dog. Matter of fact, he was a dog - mangy, drunk dog. You know…if I had a squirt bottle…I would have squirted him on the nose.”

“Cherry!!! That’s a great idea!”

“I think it’s my million dollar idea…kind of like the pet rock…”Miss Cherry’s ‘BAD DOG’ Dating Squirt Bottle”…in red, of course. You can carry it in your purse, and pull it out and squirt them on the nose and say…”GO AWAY! BAD DOG!” And, when they are sitting there with the water on their nose…squirt them again…just for good measure.

I think I’m on to something here. Best idea I’ve had all day. Gonna have to look into that, maybe start merchandising these squirt bottles…I’ll make a cool mil…and then pull the trigger on that trip to Southern France I’ve been needing for about 6 months now.

I just love it when a plan comes together.

Meshuga...You so Crazy!

Miss Cherry has been harping on Crazy Chicks for some timenow. Even though she has become quite vocal on the subject, there just neverseems to be an opportunity for all of this craziness to fade to black. Crazykeeps rearing its ugly head, demanding everyone’s immediate attention, gettingin the sand in the proverbial sandbox of life. Messy, messy, messy.  Crazy just won’t go away.  

Alright, alright…here you go…Crazy…a blog just for you. Of course, I know that this won’t be enough to for you to play well with others, as sharing isn't your thing. Your constant demands are wearing thin on my middle-aged patience. You are a big pain in my ass, and your fifteen minutes of Cherry’s Bowl of Life fame are starting…right...now.

Meshuga had arrived, dropped like a well executed nuclea rbomb…hitting the target…blowing up Cherry’s new happy little world. The explosion caused her to break a frown…threatening that space between her eyes which was currently line free.  Remember the sage beauty tip meets words of wisdom from Fa-leesh-i-a, “It’s not worth it. It’s just not worth it. Rub that line away.”  So, as Miss Cherry was rubbing that frown line away, outside the house “All Hell” was breaking loose. Crazy had arrived.

Anyway, there she was…in all her 5-0” glory…trying to kick in a window, cussing, screaming, threatening, whining, slinging guilt, slinging insults, slinging snot, crying, begging and berating. She’d go to the front door and attack the door bell. Then, she’d head to the backyard and continue her tirade. Forty-five minutes went by before she had the satisfaction of her target appearing. As he stood there trying to settle her down, asking calmly for her to leave…another forty-five minutes…Miss Cherry listened to the litany of words, emotions and manipulation that was being deployed by this woman. Every single manipulation tactic was blasted at this man…as she moved effortlessly from rage to guilt, tears to mockery, begging to berate. Crazy was on point, and she was hitting on all cylinders. All Miss Cherry could do was sit inside the house, and listen.

At one point, Cherry went to the window to take a look at this woman who was raining Hell on this little house. There she was…a little bitty thing…which came as a total surprise.She thought that this Crazy was at least 12 feet tall, judging by the way she was carrying on outside the house. No amount of reasoning and managing would get her little Crazy ass off that property…just the neighbors calling the cops…and Miss Cherry staying inside...and her being forced off of the property. She reminded Cherry of that girl when you were little, who just had to ruin other people’s stuff…the one who pulled the heads off of your Barbie’s and jacked with your slinky. The bomb hit, and after everything settled, nothing went back right afterwards. Cherry’s new happy little world dating this nice man…ended.

When Cherry related the story…exhausted and shocked…to her besties…it was done in the only way she knew how…from the full perspective of a woman…looking at another‘s behavior. This woman’s behavior was practiced…honed from years and years of getting away with acting like a spoiled, hideous brat. Just as men know other men…women know women. This chick was trying to bully,guilt and threaten a man back into her life, into her control. It wasn’t a moment of passion or love. It wasn’t pure anger or angst. This woman was meshuga, and she knew exactly what she was doing. Enough press for her, she has already wasted enough of Miss Cherry’s time. These women are a dime a dozen.

Let’s straight talk about meshuga. Let’s call it out. “Meshuga”…the best definition comes from Urban Dictionary…Yiddish roots…meaning…”a person who is senseless, crazy, acts crazy.” Used in a sentence…“Cherry, that bitch is meshuga. You can’t compete with crazy. It’s not worth it.”

Chardonnay was Cherry’s dear friend who was in spirit…her Jewish Yenta…and an interesting cultural mixture of Italian, American Indian,and Spanish.  She had an Uncle Vinnie, which Cherry thought was completely cool. A labor union president…perfect. If Cherry had an Uncle Vinnie, she would have been rocking that family connection for years.

“If you don’t watch it, I’m calling Uncle Vinnie, and we’ll see what he has to say about it. Of course, he’ll say…”My sweet little Tiramisu,what do you want your Uncle to do?”…and I would say…”I’m not happy. Make it go away.”  And that would be that…The Family.

Chardonnay had all the fun blood flowing, and lent a strong viewpoint from her experience, leveraging her many years in New York City. It was Chardonnay who first said to Cherry, “Not for nothing’…that bitch is meshuga. You can’t compete.”

“Who’s competing? Chardonnay, there is the time before-Crazy,and the time after-Crazy…after-Crazy has now surpassed the good time…it’s over. No competition. Everyone has moved on. Done.” So, it was during this conversation about the inner workings of meshuga that Cherry and Chardonnay came up with a classification system…as all Crazy isn’t alike.

Here it is folks…The Meshuga Classification System. ”Meshuga One” and “Meshuga Two”…kind of like “Thing One” and “Thing Two” from Dr. Seuss days; alike but oh so different. See what you think.

“Meshuga One”…situational crazy…dropping your basket…momentary loss of all reason…”a good chick loses it.”  This Crazy is visited upon the sane, sweet, normal woman who is pushed beyond her emotional and physical limits. She loses temporary control, and ends up doing something she regrets. “One” doesn’t blame others,she blames herself.  This awareness and culpability sets her apart, and is a reflection of her normalcy. After her actions, she is embarrassed, and takes full responsibility for her temporary insanity. Oftentimes, this kind of Crazy rises up and is so powerful, that the results can be devastating. If she isn’t incarcerated or dead…with slow recovery…she can resume her normal life, get back to it. Deep down inside of her she now knows of what she is capable, and makes a conscience decision to control and prevent it.

We’ll start with the second time Miss Cherry went Meshuga One, the day she found out that her seventeen year old daughter was pregnant,via letter. The world came crashing down, and all she could do was try to fill up her time, while her brain was processing the entire situation. Running errands around town, crying and trying to maintain control, she kept busy. Looking back, it was a defining moment for her. On the other end of the teen pregnancy came Miss Cherry’s first grandchild and he and his little sister are the apples of her eyes. God’s blessings. At the time, though, the bottom dropped out from underneath her, and she felt that all of the years of fighting for her daughter, trying to get her over and past daddy issues, had failed.

It wasn’t the first time she saw the impregnator across town driving, or even the second. It was the third time she sees this “boy with impregnating sperm” on the road, same day…in his answer to Fast & Furious…seat leaning down…obnoxious rap blaring out of the open windows…hat on sideways…stopped in traffic, two cars up and over.  Each time Cherry had driven past him, she had thought…”What would Jesus do?”…and kept going.

But for whatever reason, the third time that she saw him…when she asked herself…”What would Jesus do?”…the answer came back…not from Heaven, she’s sure…”Cold cock his ass.” There you go. Miss Cherry went Meshuga One. She jumped out of her Tahoe,walked over…and cold cocked that piece of shit…right through the window. If she could have pulled his 6’4” frame through the window, and stomped on him with her flip flops…she would have done it. Instead, embarrassed as Hell, realizing that there was a 100% probability that someone sitting in traffic knew her, she climbed back into the Tahoe…and drove straight home. Cherry locked herself in the bed room and had a private meltdown. No witnesses …just a few broken knickknacks…and some places on the walls that needed touch up.

She later apologized to the boy, and he said…”It’s understandable,Miss Cherry. I’m sorry I got your daughter pregnant. I would have punched me too. That was a long time coming.” Meshuga One. But, this wasn’t the first. This was the second time, and Miss Cherry decided that she had reached her limit. Meshuga One needed to go away forever.

The first time Cherry went Meshuga One… (Note: this is the big one)… was on the day that her husband came to get his stuff. There she was,two small kids, 100% support of her family, putting her husband through school…a second time…and he goes and gets a girlfriend. They were in a garage band together and communicated through their music, while Cherry worked her ass off supporting her family.

While Miss Cherry was on her second business trip ever, the GF left her own family for the evening and came to Cherry’s house…made dinner for Cherry’s husband…bathed Cherry’s kids…and tucked the kids in with a song. Cherry’s husband got something else.

“Mommy, Miss Lizzie came over, cooked us dinner, and she satin your chair at the table. Then, she gave me a bath and sang me a song. I liked the song. Can you sing ‘Here comes the Sun’ to me tonight?  Then, you can sing your song ‘When you wish upon a star’. Okay? She is Daddy’s friend and she comes over when you aren’t here. But, Mommy…I missed you.” Literally, one of the creepiest and scummiest things a woman can do to another woman. Sent chills up Miss Cherry’s spine.

It wasn’t long before there was a split, as Cherry didn’t feel that she needed to support a family, cheating husband, and his Subway/Hotel Six habit with his married GF. Subway foot longs. I don’t know about you, but if the choice was nothing or a sub at Hotel Six…for Cherry…Jared could go turn the lights off…she’d go with nothing. As affairs go, that was pretty lame, don’t you think? I digress.

Miss Cherry and her hubby split. Some pretty shady stuff here, so, henceforth, we will call Cherry’s husband’s troll  in this story…”MBGFFH”…”Married Bitch Girlfriend from Hell.” Two families…decimated.

“Mommy, Daddy wants us to call her Mommy, but you are my Mommy. I was put in time out for a long time because I wouldn’t call her Mommy.I said…’You aren’t my Mommy’…so now they want me to call her Momma Liz. Is that okay if I call her Momma Liz? Is it okay with you if I call her Momma Liz? I don’t like time out; I don’t want to go into time out anymore.”  Cherry told him to say…”My Mommy said I can call you Momma Liz or Lizzie Borden, whichever one fits.”

Miss Cherry was a numbed out zombie as she carefully packed and labeled his boxes. She just wanted this part over…the move out. She couldn’t handle anymore fighting or drama. She was going for peace. Unfortunately,it was not to be. Trigger points and pushing buttons prevailed. Bad day.

The first trigger point, Cherry’s husband wanted her to pack the stash of condoms that were in the top drawer of the High Boy, and asked for them directly.  He asked her to pack them in the top of a box and make sure to label which one they were in. He wanted their condoms. She kept her cool.

Second trigger point, Cherry had asked that he bring a mutual friend to neutralize the situation, and keep everything nice and civil. She knew that everything would run smoothly if they had a mutual friend present,and arranged for John to come to the house. John just required that Cherry’s hubby give him a call and make arrangements for a time. The hubby blew the plan off, showed up unannounced and alone, wanting Cherry to help him move his shit into the back of his truck. She felt that he could do it all on his own.  After all, he had a MBGFFH, and felt“empowered by their love.”  She was upset, the beginnings of what was to be a massive anxiety attack…feeling it slowly bubble up from insider of her. As it began, she kept her cool.

Third trigger, he told her to keep the wedding portraits and family pictures, as he didn’t want them. He was “starting a new family” That,made her cry. The bubble was rising, and now she was crying. He mistakenly thought that since he had her crying, he now had an advantage over her. Wrong.

So, like an empowered idiot, he followed with the fourth trigger,”My MBGFFH wants me to take…today…half of the china, crystal pieces and stemware. She didn’t get any at her wedding, and I told her that they would be hers if she wanted them. After all, half of them are mine.” 

For some reason, that was the spark that blew up the world. The bubble hadn’t burst yet…but it was now stuck in her throat. The woman had laid in Cherry’s bed and fucked her husband, cooked and sat at her table, bathed and sang to her children…and now…she wasn’t satisfied with her formal place setting lot in life? Are you fucking kidding me?

 ”You know what, you tell that troll bitch of yours that she can have my husband, but she sure as Hell can’t have my china. Fuck her. She wanted you, she can have you, but she will not have one piece of my fucking china. What kind of woman wants another woman’s china? That’s unheard of.  (Horror) What a classless grasping bitch. My china? (Horror) That is so not “Southern.” No self-respecting Texas girl would ever touch another woman’s china; let alone her stemware. Fucking New York Italian Yankee Bitch!  I’ll smash every single piece of it…before I will give it to her. Tell her I said to Fuck off. Tell her that I can’t help that she’s a fucking troll, and has zero taste. She can’t have my china, she can’t have my life, and she can’t have my family. She can have you; I give her you…with a big, fat, fucking, red bow tied around your dick. Use up every condom with my blessing… (Little did he know that Cherry’s Mom had systematically poked holes with a tiny needle…in each and every condom they packed)…and you, sweetheart, are a fucking piece of shit to even ask. Fuck you. Fuck her. Get the fuck out of my house.” This was followed with a litany of…”You’re crazy, Cherry”-isms.

Then, a magic pair of balls grew on this man, and he decided to set some policy. “You will leave this house, and I will get whatever I want…I am taking half of the china, and you are going to stop calling her names. Do you hear me? When I’m done, I’ll call you and tell you when you can come back.” He stormed out, and called within thirty minutes.

Cherry told him…calmly…as she had gained control post-“bitch wants my china” threat…”If you don’t come get all of your stuff that I so carefully and nicely packed for you…I’m throwing it in the front yard and putting up a sign that says…FREE.  You have thirty minutes.” 

“You wouldn’t dare!” And, he hung up. Called back in forty-five minutes. “So, did you throw my stuff in the front yard?” Laughing.

“Why, as a matter of fact, I did.” Boy, and had she. He didn’t believe her, and told her so.

Cherry had waited for thirty minutes, no hubby. The anger,humiliation, frustration, and betrayal hit her on all fronts. It overloaded her heart and mind…exploding outward. The bubble burst. Full on anxiety attack from Hell. She didn’t want him to ever enter her home again. So, first she carried all of the boxes, clothes and items…and sat them in the front yard. That didn’tmake it better. So, she systematically opened the boxes and dumped them all out into the front yard. The baseball hat collection, up in the trees. Guitars,smashed. TV thrown and broken. All of hubby’s belongings…minus any china…scattered across her front lawn by 10 AM on a nice, suburbia Saturday morning.  People thought she was having a yard sale. The anxiety was trying to calm. But he didn’t show up.

So when he called, she was ready, “I’m asking you one more time…come get your shit. It is scattered across the front lawn.”

“You are full of shit. You don’t have it in you, Cherry. You wouldn’t dare.” Mocking her.  

“Laugh all you want. I’m warning you, if you don’t come get all of your shit out of the front yard, I am turning on the sprinkler system, and running it until you come. You have forty-five minutes to get your sorry, cheating ass to this house, and gather your shit from the front yard.”

Forty-five minutes passes…no hubby. He isn’t taking her serious. He doesn’t think she has this in her. He thinks that they can bully and insult her, and she is just going to take it all.

Cherry walks into the garage…flips on the front sprinklers…and walks outside to stand in the middle of the carnage. It was then that it all hit her, the devastation. The bubble had burst, and the anxiety had hit her nerves like a thousand sharp needles. Sitting down, with the sprinklers soaking her to the bone, she put her head in her hands…and started to cry. The cries were coming from so deep, that she lay down on the grass and just let it all go.

Across the street lived the elderly couple, Mr. Bob and Miss Loomey. Wise and sweet, Mr. Bob walks across to where Cherry is sitting…soaked…and takes her hand. They had set up three lawn chairs in their driveway, and had cold beer waiting for her. He called it his “Polish Patio.”

“Cherry, when we saw the stuff being dumped in the front yard, I said…’Loomey…fry up some spring rolls while I keep an eye on her. She has reached her limit,’ so, Loomey has been watching you through the kitchen window,and I have been standing by in my garage, just in case I saw anything that I didn’t like. Now that you have gotten that out of your system…let’s sit righ there…drink some cold beer…eat spring rolls…and watch the sprinklers destroy it all. I have always liked him, but I do have to say…he deserves this…leaving his family the way he did. You know that woman has been showing up at lunch time, staying for an hour, and leaving each day. We wondered if you knew that she had been coming to your home every day for months, while you were at work. He deserves this. So, you just sit here and cry, Sweet Girl…and we’ll watch the sprinklers and drink beer. You got it out of your system, and made a mess. You stood up for yourself. It’s over now…Okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.” And, Cherry cried.

Miss Loomey hugged and loved on her, cuddling her up tight, feeding her spring rolls. The best spring rolls ever. Mr. Bob kept popping open cans of ice cold beer. Meshuga One was subsiding, and eventually, Cherry returned right back to her normal, sane self. She had gone crazy, and was horrified. 

Eventually, a good hour or so later…as Mr. Bob had called him…Cherry’s hubby pulled up, and quietly, with respect came over and apologized…(as instructed by Mr. Bob)...asking her to please shut off the sprinklers. Cherry turned off the water, and it was over. Cherry resumed her normal, sane life…embarrassed. She was 32 years old, and the life she had built…her perfect had been wrecked. She had gone nuts for a day, in front of her entire neighborhood. She knew tha tshe was responsible for how she processed and reacted to what life often dealt…and that she didn’t want to ever go Meshuga One again. Nobody is worth it.

“Mommy, Daddy and Momma Lizzie told us that they are going to get married and we would be a new family. They are even going to take us away from you so that we can live with them. We are going to have a new sister, and she told us…’My Mommy said that I was going to have a new Daddy by Christmas’…Mommy, I don’t want to live with them. You are my Mommy, I don’t like Momma Lizzie. She’s mean. Are you and Daddy still married? How can he be someone else’s husband if he is your husband?” And, he was and he couldn’t.

Cherry took both of her little children, put them in counseling, delaying the divorce for one year.When the family counselor gave her the green light, saying…”Your kids are going to be fine”…she signed. Three months later, the two ex’s married. They filed to get the kids for their new “uber” family, and lost. This started the emotional abuse phase.

If Cherry’s kids didn’t step up to the “new family” plan…get under control…they would punish and isolate them. Time out turned into hours,and weekends for her little son. Cherry’s ex-husband had married a certified Meshuga Two. And, the fact that this woman now had control over the children’s emotions and well-being horrified Cherry. That man had thrown over his wife and two children for Crazy.  Nothing like a good set of “Daddy Issues” and abandonment to take innocent children and monkeywrench their little brains. Miss Cherry isn’t a “Meshuga Two” – considering them to be some of the lowest life forms on the face of this planet. To a Meshuga Two, she gives no quarter.

“Meshuga Two” is a person hardwired to be a nut job. It is in the brain…part of this person at a cellular level. Part of their psyche,deep seeded, and not leaving anytime soon. She has seen “Two” in action, and it usually starts and ends with the word, “NO”. No you can’t have this or that…no, no, no. When “Two” tears loose, she bullies, intimidates, screams, cries, whines, insults, and is physically,emotionally, and verbally…abusive. “ Two” is abusive by nature, and it is through this abuse that they get what they want.

 It is a hideous sight to see, a person sitting on the other side of a Meshuga Two….watching someone go bat shit crazy on a nice, genuine person. Cherry finds that there are more”Two”s running around mid-life than when she was younger. They have honed their skills, and are master manipulators now. The “Two”s  grab a hold of a nice man, and emotionally tear him up, a wrecking ball hitting a perfectly nice building. You can rebuild, but it will never be the same.

It’s difficult for the Cherry’s and Betty’s of the world to come in directly after a Meshuga Two. The damage is too fresh, too raw. Some men run towards the good, some like to stay on the Dark Side. Sometimes men are addicted to “Two”s just as some women are addicted to crazy, abusive, bad boys.

Aren’t y’all sick of this conversation? Actually, at this point, Miss Cherry is sick of discussing Crazy…and will stop writing about meshuga. Enough is enough. Limit…reached. Fifteen minutes…completed.

There comes a point in every woman’s life that she takes a physical, emotional and spiritual accounting of her words, actions, deeds and contributions to her world, and to that of the world around her. You are either living abundantly or at a deficit. Sometimes you are right in the middle,wanting to improve the quality of your life, and those whose lives you affect.Some women want to slow it down, some want to speed it up. Whatever your situation, you know…deep down…how to recognize meshuga and prevent it from impacting your life. You know exactly who you are…and of what you are made.

Miss Cherry is made of good, strong stuff. She doesn’t abide Crazy. She takes Crazy and sends it right out the door. Life is too, too short.

Well, Miss Cherry doesn’t want any drama. She wants a peaceful, easy feeling guy who is fun, intelligent, sexy, accomplished and athletic and who doesn’t crave meshuga. She wants a man who appreciates  that she is one in a million…a gem…and not one of many. She isn’t going to lie,cheat, steal, abuse, manipulate or taking a wrecking ball to his world. She wants to build, not break.

Cherry wants a man who loves his Mother. They are the best ones, the ones who have a healthy respect and love for the women in their lives. Cherry has dated and known men who are misogynists, and finds that their hatred and distrust can’t be hidden for long…a perpetual emotional mind field...a negative drama taken to a new level. She can spot a misogynist from a mile away. Unfortunately, it takes practice. A man without “Mommy issues” is a good man indeed. Order up, please.

Miss Cherry finds that the man who loves and tolerates meshuga, usually has some serious “Mommy issues” to reconcile. The abuse feeds something deep down. Healthy, will never satisfy unhealthy. There will always be that little voice inside of him that says…”Feed me. I can’t get enough. I need more. You are not enough.” A meshuga is a challenge? Hell, no, she isn’t. She is a game. The game is to gain control and prove that all of those mommy issues can go away, and that they are worthy of being loved. Their emotional female model and the way they relate to women are warped.  It’s all just an internal game of chess. Domination and validation. Some sick shit here.

Finally, Cherry’s take on negative drama…“Life is full of drama…positive and negative. Who wants to be in a relationship with someone who lives on negative drama? Life will come at you hard and fast with the negative…you need positive drama to diffuse it. Life isn’t a game...the true challenge is to live it...and live it well.

What is positive drama? The excitement of creating something together… pure energy. Being part of something bigger than yourself. Love is positive drama. You can keep everything else, I’ll take the love. Leave crazy well enough alone, and grab the good. I’m serious…I’ll choose healthy love…every single time. Why? My life can’t abide the other.

I have only one life to live, and I choose healthy.”

Thank God for that.

No more Meshuga for me.