I extended my arm, flashing a full-frontal of my phone screen to my favorite barista. I knew the vibrations were coming, but I didn’t know they’d happen now — in the middle of the holiday-packed Newport Coast Starbucks, for everyone to see — including my daughter.

“Can you try again?”

I flipped my phone around to the Ring alert that interrupted the Starbucks app scanner. In place of the barcode and 150 coffee rewards points, my husband’s mistress’ derrière and trailing luggage briskly exited the screen.

“Sorry — one sec.”

The only thing less comfortable than watching your husband’s mistress waltz out of the duplex he bought (with a carry-on) — the same day he’s leaving for another last-minute “business trip” — is holding up a 12-person line at Starbucks because you can’t look away.

If she’d just turned around and locked the door, it would have been over. I just needed that moment of closure before leaving the Ring app and scanning my barcode. But she didn’t.

“You can use a card, too…?”

Understaffed, holiday crowds, and Southern California impatience make for an awkward trio — and my barista was likely feeling the unspoken pressure from the dozen caffeine addicts behind me. Card it is.

A blonde woman with her own suitcase rolled across my screen, shrinking away from the camera until they were both out of sight.

“Mom, can you get me a Venti ice, too?”

For a full twenty seconds or so, I’d actually forgotten I was in a room full of people, much less one with my daughter just ten feet away, waiting on the iced sugar cookie limited edition coffee that brought us here in the first place.

That’s the danger of holidays — and social media: The false sense of anonymity. When you’re engulfed in loud music, a cacophony of multi-pitched chatter, and the few lone wolves submerged in (what I assume are) social media apps on their phones, it’s easy to feel anonymous. Even invisible. I guess that makes you brazen — or it did me.

Well, not brazen enough to confront my husband about the mistress, or the blonde…But truth be told, I don’t need to: I think I already know…

. . .

What happens in Laguna does not stay in Laguna — at least not once the cops are involved

“Kidnapping is worse than trespassing, right? I mean, obviously, yeah?”

Note to self: Get dad out of the house next time police officers come knocking. Too late for that now…

“If my wife kidnapped our dog, and we’re separated, I should have joint custody. ’Cause I’m the dogfather, ya know. What if I, say, show up to the wife’s new residence and take the dog?”

For once, I think my husband appreciated my father’s ill-timed interjection. I guess anything to delay the cops being dispatched to his Laguna bungalow brothel “business” would be a welcome distraction. Unfortunately, the search warrant was served, and a team was already headed south.

My husband’s smile, wave, and respectful nod to the officer’s departure gave nothing away. No guilt, no fear, not even a hint of insincerity indicating the former.

I’m convinced men like my husband are either brilliant actors or so psychologically flexible they manage to believe their own lies. Or maybe he’s not lying at all, but standing ten feet back from the officer relaying the tip that prompted the warrant, I was sweating — and my name isn’t even on the bungalow’s title or the corporation…

“That’s why temp hires never work. Guy’s a loose cannon. It’s total B.S., but just a pain in the a*s.”

He’s still trying to convince the cops — and me — that the Laguna break-in (and any illicit evidence recovered or questionable activity related) is retaliation from the disgruntled financial operations lackey he recently dismissed. The same guy who facilitated the duplicitous duplex purchase that left my mom nearly homeless and turned her into my husband’s tenant. And conveniently left me off the deed and in the dark, as well. So, sure, his track record with me kind of sucks. But it still pales in comparison to my husband’s…

I didn’t tell my husband I’d met with that “loose cannon”. Or that he’d warned me the police presence in Hubby’s business wasn’t likely a one-time deal. Some boats aren’t worth rocking — especially when you’re in bed with the captain.

That’s the thing about marrying a crappy — or morally deficient — person: You’re either an accomplice to their crimes, an innocent bystander, or oblivious altogether. Only the accomplice gets away unscathed.

I’m not saying she’s a gold-digger…

“Gate.”

A one-word text summed up my mother-in-law’s (let’s call her Cruella) grand (uninvited) entrance. Before I could buzz her in, her head bobbed across my dancing phone’s FaceTime notification. Of course, one word alone could never suffice.

“You know there are police in your neighborhood?”

Nope, not a clue. I don’t think she would have listened even if I tried to tell her about the break-in or the search warrant. Some people just like to hear themselves talk:

“Vandalism, I’d bet. Ridiculous. Probably those crypto guys with the loud cars. They’re all over Santa Monica, too. And police. It’s disgusting…”

She continued her anti-crypto tirade via FaceTime up the driveway, then interrupted herself with another curt command.

“Door.”

Cruella thrust two stiff, floral shopping bags into my arms — well, really just into my torso.

“That is for my son, and that is for your daughter.”

If you’ve ever met my husband or stepped foot inside Love Shack Fancy (the hyper-feminine, pastel and floral-obsessed shop on Lido Isle where cropped sweaters start at $395), it would be pretty obvious the two don’t mesh. I didn’t have to say a word — my involuntary eyebrow contortion must have revealed my confusion, which Cruella was quick to dispel.

“An office present he asked me to pick up.”

And quicker to change the subject.

“So, Thanksgiving — ”

I don’t mean to nitpick, but it just doesn’t add up. Cruella lives up in Santa Monica (LA county), about an hour-and-a-half north of Newport. I’m supposed to buy that my husband asked his mother to drive 90 minutes south to Lido Isle to pick up an office present that I (or his assistant) could have gotten in 15?

“You drove down here just for these (the presents)?”

“I was already in the area. That’s actually part of the news.”

This is the part where she wants me to ask for the “news”, just so she has a less self-serving reason to tell it.

“What news?”

Taking the bait always backfires. I think that’s the number one rule of narcissistic mothers-in-law.

“No, no, no, I can’t. I’m saving it for Thanksgiving.”

Of course she is.

“So, I will see you at Kate’s in Manhattan Beach on Thursday?”

Either I have short-term memory loss, or this is the first I’m hearing of Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law’s. And it’s less than a week away. Historically, my parents have come to us for Thanksgiving, while Cruella has alternated between Kate’s house and ours — reminding us each time where she’d rather be.

Kate is the sister-in-law you never wanted. Don’t get me wrong — she’s perfectly nice. In fact, she’s perfect at everything, and that’s the problem.

• Parenting: 2 biological kids and 3 adopted (someone give her a medal)
• Profession: A full-time executive-level job rivaling her husband’s (my husband’s brother)
• Post-partem Pilates: Apparently Pilates resurrected Kate’s pre-baby bikini body (twice), but Cruella loves to remind me Kate has “5 kids”. Apologies that my C-section recovery (post-twins) didn’t result in Heidi Klum abs — and that I was too chicken to let our neighbor surgically construct them.

“Actually, my mom was going to come here — ”

This was the first Thanksgiving since my parents’ separation, and as “Meet the Fockers” as it sounds, I can’t imagine either of them celebrating separately.

Before she could cut in, Hubby dashed down the stairs in a suit and tie.

“You remember, Kate’s for Thanksgiving?”

He reassured her with a quick affirmative grunt and a rushed nod.

“Yep, got to go. Kate’s Thursday.”

Wow. Apparently, I’m the only one surprised by this holiday hijacking — or the fact that Cruella is in our doorway before 10 am on a Monday, unannounced and unfazed by Hubby’s last-minute trip.

“I’m sure Kate would welcome them, too — if they don’t have another plan…”

Of course they don’t have another plan: My dad is living upstairs, probably seconds away from forcibly entering this conversation. My mom is down the street in Corona del Mar, playing a platonic game of house with Craig (who has adult children of his own to visit), with no one but her canine hostage to keep her company on turkey day. Come Thursday, the sh*tshow will commence — it’s just a matter of where.

“Fine. They’ll be there.”

Momentary flames of fury flashed across her manipulative eyes. She was livid. Oh well.

“Great.”

This is the part where I feel that obligatory need to invite her to stay. Or to come to Starbucks with us. I guess that’s what a “hospitable” daughter-in-law would do.

“Did you want to — ”

Lucky for me, Cruella isn’t shy; if she wanted to stay she’d make it known. She waived my tentative almost-invitation away with a flick of her wrist. And she was gone.

So was the package. I’m not sure how I missed the lightning-fast hand-off, but Hubby must have taken the “office present” off to his flight. Weird.

Being blindsided by my husband is one thing. Being blindsided by Cruella’s another. However, when the two of them collude on major family plans behind my back, I can’t help but wonder what else they’re scheming. Sure, it’s just Thanksgiving; but wasn’t it also “just” Cruella’s suggestion that lured Michelle (Hubby’s ex-fiancé) back into the picture? Isn’t it “just” her introduction that resulted in the clandestine foursome on the end of the dock with Michelle and her father?

And yeah, it is weird that she’s suddenly dropping in so much more frequently. Newport Beach isn’t on the way to or from anywhere she’d be going in Santa Monica — unless there’s something or someone bringing her here.

An irresistible deal (and a harmless 3-way)

“It’s ten over asking. I think they should take it.”

He’s probably right — but there’s nothing more fickle (and awkward) than facilitating a 7-figure house sale split between two sparring soon-to-be-exes — especially when those exes are your parents. Neither of whom are exactly “motivated” to sell.

“The longer it sits on the market, the worse it looks. It’s like an old maid. Tick, tock before her eggs dry up and nobody’s calling.”

Yes, my realtor actually did equate their house’s 17 days on the market (with multiple offers) to “an old maid” with shriveling eggs. Maybe that sales pitch works in Corona del Mar (CDM), where he claims his listings sell “like hot cakes”, but I doubt it’ll win over my parents for a measly $1.3M, split equitably in an area where neither one of them can find so much as an 800-square-foot condo under a million.

“I sold the hell out of that security system. How else do you think we’d get over $1.25M? I’m telling buyers Laguna isn’t safe, but if they’re between an ocean view apartment and a 1950s house in Dana Point…”

But, Laguna is safe…I wonder what he told my husband to get him to move on the CDM duplex all cash.

“Listen, I only have a fiduciary duty to you and your parents, my clients. I will swear up and down that the sky is green and the grass is blue if it’ll get you the best deal — ”

And, there it is. Maybe insincerity’s contagious in Orange County? Or maybe it’s just the circles I run in.

“Okay, I will relay the message.”

I didn’t need to; within seconds, two successive vibrations coursed through my phone. He’d sent the number into both group texts — the dad chat, and the mom chat. Despite being co-owners of the same house, they refused to interact in a joint group text, so I receive every message twice.

Dad chat: “I say we take this offer before rates go up. You can’t do better.”

Mom chat: “I say we take this offer before rates go up. You can’t do better.”

Silence from my mom, and a “raining money” gif from my dad. Followed by Daffy Duck waving a wad of cash. And Bugs Bunny licking his thumb and counting his bills. Retired parents, smart phones, and group texts are a dangerous combination.

A glass sliding door behind me thumped against the wall: The gif-offender in the flesh, joining me in my no-longer-private backyard.

“I could take the deal, but only if I get Rufus. Immediately. Full-time.”

There’s no way my mom’s agreeing to that. Kidnapping Rufus was her retaliation, and considering my dad’s neighborhood adultery and very public and defaming false spousal abuse claims that precipitated the separation, I can’t say she isn’t entitled. It wouldn’t matter if we coaxed him into a psychiatrist’s office and they diagnosed him with full-blown dissociative identity disorder or even schizophrenia; there are some lines you can’t uncross. He’d crossed them all without a shred of remorse.

“I don’t think mom’s going to agree to that, but I can ask — ”

“Then I’m going over there. I have just as much of a right to be there as she does…”

Except that he doesn’t because he isn’t a rent-paying tenant or a homeowner with his name on the title of the CDM duplex my mom rents from my husband. And I’m not sure he’s been formally (or informally) introduced to Craig, the platonic neighbor-turned-roommate who’s also sharing the 1,150 square feet 2-bedroom beachside rear unit. As far as awkward encounters go, I’d peg that at a 12 out of 10…

Functionally speaking, the threesome would be the epitome of disaster. Financially speaking, though, it honestly wouldn’t be horrible. At least they’d split rent three-ways, and my dad would escape the clutches of the assisted living facilities that haven’t stopped calling (and texting, emailing, and voicemail-ing) me for three months now, after a two-second online inquiry…and multiple verbal retractions that go infinitely ignored.

Then again, the last thing I need is my mom and my dad living on the other side of a 6-inch wall separating them from Hubby’s mistress-employee-hybrid — even temporarily. That is, assuming I care if my parents know what a sham my marriage is. Though, really, what’s the use hiding it? You can’t hide a toxic marriage and rampant infidelity forever. Well, maybe you can…

I spoke too soon

I guess I spoke too soon about that jam-packed holiday anonymity. Leaving the Starbucks, I felt eyes on me. But I didn’t just feel eyes; I saw them.

The guy wasn’t even threatening; just unfamiliar. As in I have never seen him before. He’s got to be younger than my husband; probably 40s. But much older than anyone my daughter should be dating — though that’s never stopped her before…

“Do you know him?”

She didn’t; and he was rapidly gaining speed as we headed towards the car.

“Get in. Now.”

This is not an accident; he’s waving. He’s making eye contact and waving at me. Great; if this is an undercover cop looking to cut a deal for info on Hubby’s business, I don’t know anything. But he definitely knows me…

. . .

Coincidences don’t exist

For the first 16 years of my marriage, I brushed every hint of a problem, or concern away as a coincidence. But for the past 6 months, ever since holding the naked truth of my husband’s infidelity in between my fingers on a 6-inch screen, I’ve realized nothing is.

• Cruella’s increasing frequency in Orange County after my PI snapped the incestuous foursome on the billionaire’s private dock? I’m not saying she’s definitely sucking off Michelle’s dad as a motherly favor, but with her son’s 8+ figure business on the line, I surely wouldn’t put it past her.
• An “office present” from a flirty female boutique? Right…
• Two women leaving the CDM duplex with luggage the same day as Hubby’s last-minute flight?
• An increasingly blonde presence, shortly after Cruella’s suggestion Hubby seek investment from his (blonde) ex-fiancé’s (Michelle’s) dad?

I hate to admit it, but if my husband and his mother really are in bed with Michelle and her father, my best bet might be to ride it out…What’s worse: Infidelity, divorce, or financial ruin? Since I’ve already got 2 out of 3, why not stop there and minimize the collateral damage?

Among the oblivious bystander, innocent victim, and informed accomplice, only one person gets out unscathed. That could still be me.

—

This post was previously published on Hello, Love.

***

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