Ya, that guy.
Well... about four years ago when he played for the Sox, I developed a strange and inexplicable crush on him - ???? I KNOW. Was it his luscious, grease-laden hair? Was it the sexy yellow hue of his eyeballs? A mere hint of Hepatitis C?
Was it the way he wore his Red Sox OUT like an old timey ball player?
I don't know HOW. I don't know WHY. This guy bewitched me somehow...
(written in an e-mail to my sister in March of 2005)
Here's how I picture meeting my 3rd husband to be, Mark Bellhorn...
I'm shopping in old timey sea shanty shoppes in Marblehead and see a green sea glass bottle with a curled up and yellowed piece of parchment inside, I go to reach for it but someone else does and it's a brief tug of war until I look up and see Mark Bellhorn with his curly, way too much product infused hair pulled back in a little ponytail, he's wearing glasses and a vertically striped blue and white oxford button down shirt.
"I'm sorry, Miss... but I do believe I saw this bottle first"
"Oh did you? Then how come I already have my name on that bottle rest over there?" I jab my chin to a shelf nearby which indeed has "Molly" written in calligraphy on a tag tied around a wooden bottle rest.
"Really? Then why do I have my name on a sailboat inside of a bottle over there?" he jabs his chin to another shelf nearby, "it's a matching set".
We both look to the shop keep to see what she'll say - she is an elderly woman in a grey wool cardigan and glasses pushed to the tip of her nose, she has been listening. We're waiting for her answer.
"I see your dilemma... you have the stand, you have the other half of the set... perhaps you could... consolidate?"
The rest, as they say is history.
A shared love of antiqueing? Holding hands and watching Law & Order? Ah... bliss...
Or, at least it would have been...
(written in an e-mail to my sister in September of 2005)
A true story as told by me...
Well... here's how it happened...
I was half in the wrapper... our marriage was under duress anyway, because he had been away a lot "on business" and when I suggested we vacation in Rome, he actually had to THINK ABOUT IT... I mean... everyone knows Rome has the most decadent antiques of any ancient civilization... I thought for sure he was having an affair with Johnny Damon's wife.
I had come home from a lady lunch and had fixed myself an afternoon cocktail (dirty martini, 2 olives) when I was perusing through the paper... I got to the Sports section and saw my darling husband in a New York Yankees cap!!
I could hardly believe my eyes... so I kept drinking, kept poring over the paper, rummaged through his things... turned the house upside down until I found:
1 - his contract (complete with a clause stating he had to get a makeover and slowly but surely become the metrasexual of the team - what?? And another clause stating he had at least 2 weeks to sell out to any product wholesaler or restaurant on the Eastern Seaboard in order to help promote the team)
2 - a Yankees cap
3 - an antique bobblehead Yankees figurine (of course!!)
When he came home he explained that he hoped I would move with him.
"To the Yankees? NEVAH!!" and threw the drink into his face.
He took his Belgian lace handkerchief and blotted his face with it, "I suppose I deserved that"
"And thensome" I hissed.
"Well... I guess this is it, I'll need the beemer of course"
"You're not taking the beemer!!!"
"It's mine... I bought it playing baseball!!"
"You're a damn fool, Mark Bellhorn!!! I never signed a prenuptial agreement! What's yours is MINE!! Muahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaa!!"
He shrugged, taking a piece of paper out of the inside pocket of his sports coat with the NYY insignia on the left breast.
"Unfortunately for you... you did... you're a lot more cooperative when you're drunk"
There it was... sure enough... my sloppy signature in black ink.
"Yoouuuu..." I threw the martini glass at him, he ducked.
"You're insane!!"
"And you're dead to me!! GET OUT!!" I screamed, grabbing everything breakable I could see through my bleary eyes - the ivory coated fabrige egg we auctioned for in Prague, the intricately carved statuette of a mother deer and her baby that the Tibetan monks made for us, our commemorative Princess Diana dish, our restored Greek vase with the homoerotic scene painted on it... they all shattered by his feet or while he was deflecting them from his face.
I reached for the bobble head, "and you can take this and shove it up your-"
"Molly! Nooo!!"
I chucked it right at his face... the brim of the bobble cap sliced his cheek and he recoiled in pain... "my face!!" he cried... for a moment, I felt satisfied...
He looked up at me, blood seeping from the deep slice on his cheek.
"Keep the beemer, then... but know this... no man will ever be insane enough to marry you after this!!"
And he stormed out of the house.
The End.
And that is how my 3rd marriage ended in a messy, messy divorce.
This all stems from my "secret" wish to be a fabulous old drunk like Elizabeth Taylor.
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