Dear From Lemon,
I cannot decide whether to hit on one of you, all of you (Hmmmmmm, Uncle Ralphie?) or tell you my TOW*.
*Tale of Woe
A hot AF babe working in the telemarketing pool on the 14th floor helped me decide. LeAnn started to follow this dope new advice website called From Lemon (that would be you)***. Immediately she was certain the sad, mixed-up post from someone calling herself IWNE** was actually my (maybe) soon-to-be ex-wife.
**Instagrammed Weddings are Not Enough
***Please note: This link if you click it, will take you offsite, outside of Medium.
Dirty pool, man. I read the post. It IS her and a very one-sided story. I humbly request my moment in the sun.
You need to know the beginning of this mess.
I was 20 years old, an only child, living in the middle of BF- nowhere on our family farm, jonesing to get out of Dodge.
Then pretty much everything hit the fan.
Pop was pronounced DOA at the local emerg because of an accident with a horse. Ma couldn’t cope and spent most of her days in her room watching soap reruns. Madge, my high school girlfriend, peed on a stick and said there was a good chance we’d be parents of twins.
Because, eight sets of doubles in her family, this current generation only.
Ya know, I hate wearing condoms. Madge used the silent treatment for a week to beat me up on that one. I finally relented and bought a supply of love sacks. Can I help it if, when in the moment, I sometimes ripped the sucker off my dick? I mean, totally unfair that I have to sacrifice.
Her pappy made threats of a terminal nature if a wedding wasn’t planned for the same month. And oh yeah, the farm was already carrying a huge debt load.
Skip ahead five years. Madge and I married two weeks after the drugstore plastic pen test, only to find out the thing was defective and there was no pregnancy.
No, because I know you were going to ask. I never did see the plus sign/double line indicator on the thing.
Ma met a guy at the seed store and moved in with him, adding cooking meals to her daily television routine.
Madge was getting worried about her own family and spent most days and many nights in their town, 25 miles east of my farm. Since I was never close to her kin, I suffered delayed discovery on the big fat fib about her staying at her childhood home.
She was back with Jasper, her boyfriend before me. He ran a bunch of stables ( the horse variety) and was raking in decent bucks.
All this was revealed when Madge sat me down in our kitchen one Tuesday evening to tell me she was preggers for real this time and it wasn’t my kid.
I spent the next year night-drinking (some days starting at lunchtime) at the local watering hole. My late Daddy’s farm debt multiplied while I ignored both the critters and the fields.
Uncle Ralphie saved me.
Ma’s only brother, Ralph is a successful banker, living life large in that legendary, biz-snob east coast city. He took charge of everything: a divorce from Madge, spiffy rehab for me, refinancing the farm and procuring outside management, a position as a rookie at his investment firm with a commitment to complete a business degree on the side.
And the apartment he rented for me. Man, as only appropriate for a dude from a farm, it was located in a section of the city called The Meatpacking District. Modern and expensive.
My new wardrobe completed the look.
Did I live up to Uncle Ralphie’s expectations? I did. A rookie star. The business degree completed in record time. I particularly pleased him with my major in HYW**** procurement.
****Hot Young Women.
An enjoyable side gig, to say the least. Ralphie needed an up- and-coming banker-boy-pimp. True to my name, I fit the ummm, bill. Willingly. Where was the downside? Keep uncle happy, and the job, the money, the booze, the drugs, the broads…all were like a dream beer keg, always full and no way to shut off the tap.
Uncle Ralphie lived in a neighboring state with his wife, Aunt Helen and their five kids. He either travelled by copter or limo to his big-city finance corporation. Regularly staying overnight at his Midtown co-op. The Ralph worked a bit and partied a lot. Mostly he showed up, and I took care of the rest.
It was easy. My cred at bar talk and pickup proficiency was in the zone. With a full wallet, my game was on. We partied, drank, did great drugs, feasted on the finest food and fucked our brains out. Weekly. With a steady stream of girls in little black dresses and sixty thousand selfies posted on social media sites. One URL in particular.
Yass, good guess. The one calling herself IWNE was among the candidates. We seemed to be in synch on every level, beginning with looks and sex and ending with the same. I could already see myself with a life mirroring Uncle Ralph’s.
Helen spent his money, tended his kids and was consistently relieved to see her husband as little as possible. He had it made in the shade.
Ralphie and Helen had a business deal, far as I could see. It would be tough to hire someone to do what Helen does for the house, the kids, the social butterfly activities. It doesn’t matter whether she likes him.
And so what if Helen rations or refuses sex. You gotta figure a guy like Ralphie tires of bland roast chicken every night in the bedroom. He has it all figured out, man.
I gotta get me some of a Helen. A lot of it, even better.
Back to Ms. IWNE. To me, she looks like the perfect version of Helen. And if there is another skill I have on top of my other winning attributes, it’s reading women.
There was one thing in the way. She didn’t want anything to do with babies and kids. Or so she said. Hell, she’s a broad, so she didn’t really mean “no kids.” Remember, I know women.
However, at the time, my sweet little game playing IWNE said the agree-to-no-kids was a deal-breaker. Look. Other than this temporary stumbling block, I was certain IWNE would be my dream situation. So what did I do?
What do you think? I lied. Said: Cool, no kids then. I was confident when she eventually moved to our McMansion in the same hedge fund cool town where Ralphie lived; all would be as I knew it should be. That town was wall-to-wall Helens. What more could a babe want?
It got complicated. Next, IWNE didn’t want to leave her job. We continued to live in the city. I soared at work, money and position-wise. Yet to my constant annoyance, I was forced to struggle to find excuses to stay out late or overnight.
I was on a roll, still doing the procure-a-girl thing for Ralphie, for a group of other guys and yeah, for myself. I wanted nothing to get in the way of that.
Here we are, IWNE and me, in our early 30’s now, and things are spinning out of control. IWNE stamped her foot and refused to quit being a lawyer. I was all about moving to the burbs and having kids. Then the clues started dropping, causing me to suspect she was doing the unthinkable, having an affair.
IWNE was married to me, one of the hottest guys on the banking street. She had the nerve to throw shade on everything I was all about?
I once asked Ralphie if he ever wondered about Helen catting around. You know, with a pool boy or gardener. Ralphie literally spits on the floor before he answered. “I give that woman more money than you can imagine. She fucks around on me, she’s on the first horse out of town”.( He actually used a reader-harsh four-letter word instead of “woman”, but hey, I am a gentleman)
All to say, if I find hard evidence that IWNE is letting someone else in her front or back door, well, then, use your imagination.
Today this is my worst fear. No, not about IWNE’s possible outside porking. She simply might not be my younger version of Aunt Helen.
I guess, unlike Ralphie, I don’t get to have my cake and eat it too.
Not only does that suck, truthfully, it also is not fair. I went through enough in my twenties. I am owed a break and a chance to groove my new Baller existence.
Not to mention that a divorce could cost me money.
Methinks IWNE is not the skirt I expected her to be. What is a previously poor but now reborn former farmer supposed to do?
(Billy Invested in the Family Farm)
A thing before we set the scene:
I think there is another critical issue to discuss
Suze: We need to virtually sit down with this guy. Over a beer or a glass of wine. We need to see his eyes, face, and expressions as we give him his requested feedback.
Chatting with Billy as eFriends, of course.
Paroma: Good plan, Suze. However, I think there is another critical issue to discuss before we get going.
We will have some readers insisting that the Billy letter is too embellished. Some will say: no effing way does any guy out there think, speak and act like this. Billy comes across as a total uncaring, fat ego, crude, disrespectful, superficial, narcissistic, and misogynistic asshole in his letter to us. This guy appears unaware of anything but his (deluded) greatness.
Suze: P, I hadn’t thought of that reaction. You know why? Because I have met guys in my personal life and throughout my career who match Billy’s traits to a T. I am not happy to tell you that. In fact, I wish it was not true, but sadly in 2021, it is. Still.
Amy: I second that one, SQ. In my business world and in the music industry, I saw similar examples, assholes identical to these Ralph-ish finance bros but wearing different outfits. Some were tons worse than Billy. Grim reality.
Paroma: It’s settled then. No matter anyone’s opinion of Billy, what is written in his letter, while vile, is not a fantasy.
Suze: Oh yeah. I love that about you two lemonesses. We find an issue, we deal, then…neeeeeext.
Amy : We be the bad-ass lemonesses.🍋🍋🍋
Paroma: Lemonasses, are you ready to do our bit to put a bit more kindness and improvement in the world?
Note to From Lemon’s Dear Readers about Our Response to BIFF:
Are you digging the idea of helping Billy? The dude is finally struggling to find a solution while donning the flavor-of-the- month-in-vogue bro-boy mask. That Billy.
From Lemon’s response to Billy-BIFF’s letter is already up on our From ***Lemon site(here is the link). We would be so very thrilled if you would click on over a take a read.
*** Please note: This link if you click it, will take you offsite, outside of Medium.
We three would simply love to hear your take on our Billy- boy’s situation. In this awesome Medium community we all can be friend idea and advice sharers.
Please accept our invitation to respond in the comment section here and on our Billy-BIFF response post at our From Lemon site. Please note: This link below, if you click it, will take you offsite, outside of Medium.
When the Arrogant and Brooding Farmer-Banker Boy Asked Three Friends for Advice
PART TWO: What we said to Billy-BIFF Welcome back, dearest readers. Time to settle in, join us with your favorite…
Oh. Some of you might be discovering From Lemon for*** the first time. If so, please take a look at our introductory post on Medium.You will find all about why we started this column and an intro to our first eFriend dilemma, IWNE. (Instagrammed Weddings are Not Enough)
Yup, Billy’s wife.
***Please note: This link if you click it, including the one directly below will take you offsite, outside of Medium.
Why Three Writers Launched their Shared Life Experience Advice Website
Creative possibilities from life’s lemons
© Suzanne V. Tanner, Paroma Sen, Amy Marley 2021. All Rights Reserved.
Howdy and thanks to From Lemon’s glorious Guest Writers:
Annelise Lords Claire Kelly Emme Beckett G.R. MELVIN Jan M Flynn jenine bsharah baines John Ross Josie Elbiry Marie A Bailey Marina Fortuna Mary Holden Mia Miller pockett dessert Rebecca Romanelli https://RobinKlammer Sherry McGuinn Sumera Rizwan Tony Young, Jr. Trista Signe Ainsworth Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg) Lindsay Soberano-Wilson Rosalind Pagan Suntonu Bhadra
New guest writers are always welcome. Please email us at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Thanks, all you lovelies, for your reading time, your feedback and support. As the awesome Amy Marley says: “Thanks for being you.”
Suze, Paroma and Amy