What Happened with Global Warming?

The last two days were really beautiful and I was just getting used to imagining spring. Then I wake up this morning, and it’s snowing. Again. And it kept up all freakin’ day, wet and slushy, but still snowing. And I thought we were having global warming and New York would be turning into LA. I must be missing something.

I found an old lawn chair in the garage that wasn’t too rusty to open, and I sat outside yesterday for a couple of hours with my coffee. There’s a patch out back where I’m thinking maybe I could make a garden. I never made one myself, but I love the one out at the house. It would be something to do. That’s what I was thinking yesterday. I was even thinking of driving out to the house and taking some pictures. I wish I could just dig up those rose bushes out back, those little old white ones that smelled so amazing. I don’t see why I can’t. They were left from the previous owners, so they belong to the land, not to Gary, right?

Jeff says I have to stop saying things like that in this blog. I don’t get it. I’m not saying anything I wouldn’t say right to the lawyers’ face. I’m an open book – no secrets, nothing to hide. Anyway, I’m a victim here. My husband’s dead and everything I thought was real for seven years, suddenly out of nowhere disappears. He’s hardly in the ground when I get visited by a team of lawyers telling me that he owed millions of dollars and everything’s either leased and the bills haven’t been paid in months, or it’s collateral for some loan that likewise hasn’t been paid. The whole life I had with Gary is in receivership.
I’m out on the street with nothing and I never even had a chance to save myself.

Damn it, I’ve got stuff owed to me, too! Where do I get on line to collect? For back salary or whatever we want to call it. I was a good wife. I made sure he had everything he wanted to make him happy, the right food and wine, hot sex even when I was totally bored, better suits than he knew how to pick for himself, everything. Wherever we went, I worked the smiles and small talk, and did the whole celebrity thing that I absolutely never do on my own, just to make him look good. And I put up with his two freakin’ spoiled asshole sons. Oh, that’s the bright spot in all this! Those two are finally going to have to get off their asses and work for a living.

Carmen, Gary’s assistant came to visit after the funeral. That’s how I heard about how Simon kept calling and demanding his seven grand every month. Thirty years old and never worked a day in his life, living on the beach with his rich Swiss girlfriend. The two of them
“in film.” Yeah, sure. She went to the same gym as Drew Barrymore, thot’s about how much “in film” they are. I tried to tell Gary it was bullshit, but when it came to those boys, he only ever saw what they wanted him to see. Simon the “filmmaker” and Taylor the “writer.” At least Simon was in the right place. Who goes to Paris to write in English? Since Hemmingway, I mean. It was those damned boys that drove him to that roof if you ask me. Carmen was in tears. They’ll call and drive him crazy for their checks. The checking account would be down to zero, and he could never tell them, he just couldn’t bring himself to say he couldn’t afford it, that there was nothing to give. He had to be a big man for those boys. He never stopped being the Saturday daddy, the divorced guy who goes overboard when he sees the kids, trying to buy them away from their mom and her new husband. It’s getting me sick to think about what those boys did to him. But I wish I could have been there when they found out the piggy bank was empty, that there would never be another check again.