Her Next Husband

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BigK10
BigK10
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"WHAT? Why are you calling me? To harass me for trying to call my wife to see if she's okay, or having fun? I can't get hold of her, you stupid twit! I've tried many times since shortly after she left—without even her telling me goodbye, I might add! I made that post on Facebook because the dumbasses in charge of this fiasco didn't leave me any way of contacting her. If your husband took off for a "dream date" with some bimbo actress and ignored your calls and texts—what would you do? Think about that for two seconds before you put me on trial and convict me of being an unsupportive schmuck, who can't stand being without his wife for thirty minutes! She has also ignored my children's calls and texts. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Oh, I...think I...I understand. I'm sorry." Click—she hung up on me.

The worst part was that I got forty or fifty calls like that on Friday during the day. I felt that I had to take the calls, because they might have been from Dolly, but none of them were. After the third call interrupted our Friday afternoon department status meeting, my boss (patient and understanding as he had been all day), told me to go home.

The first thing I did when I got home was to get on Facebook and read more scathing replies to my original post. One of the rabid fans had somehow got hold of my cell number and posted it, telling everyone to call me and let me know how unsupportive, needy and immature that I was. I flagged that message as inappropriate and Facebook took it down, but the damage was done.

So, I was angry, and still lonely. If I had been thinking rationally, I probably wouldn't have done it, but as I said—I was angry. I put another post on his highness's page.

"ATTENTION TO ALL THE JUDGEMENTAL CRONES AND BITCHES WHO HAVE BEEN HARRASSING ME ON THE PHONE AND ON THIS PAGE: PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE UNTIL YOU HAVE THE WHOLE STORY! THIS IS HOW MY LIFE AND WIFE WERE UPROOTED WITH NO NOTICE OR WARNING! I'M JUST TRYING TO TALK TO MY WAYWARD WIFE!

"Point number 1: Bradley Morgan's contest committee arrived unannounced at my home on Wednesday evening, shoved their way into my home, and informed my wife that she'd won this damn contest. I'm sure that many of you would've given almost anything up to (and possibly including) your first born child to take her place (as would have my wife, if you had won), but that is not the point. They arrived with no warning and told her that she had to leave right now (I can only assume that they had to leave quickly if they were to make the next flight back to Holly-weird, home to many stars of today, tomorrow, and yesterday, like Bradley Morgan). All she had time to do was grab her cell phone and her prescription—she couldn't even pack as little as a make-up bag.

"Point number two: My wife was in such an excited state of mind, that she neglected to give me our traditional goodbye kiss, or for that matter to tell me 'goodbye,' 'kiss my ass,' or even 'see you in a few days.' After almost thirty great years together, the only words I heard from her mouth as she left the door were something about 'finally getting to meet my next husband.'

"Point number three: The only information that I got about her itinerary was that she was going for a complete makeover and then to a movie premiere on Friday night. They told me to watch E.T., and if I was lucky, I might see my wife on the show. They said that she MIGHT come back late Saturday, or sometime Sunday. Then, they were such a hurry to leave my humble abode; they practically trampled me again as they left.

"Point number four: I tried calling my wife on her cell, less than five minutes later. My first several calls were INGORED. The phone was on, but someone was hitting the IGNORE button; I can tell that by the number of rings before it went to voicemail. I sent several texts, and got no reply. I called my daughter and son, and they got the same cold shoulder that I did. Then, someone turned her phone off.

"Point number five: She's been gone almost forty-eight hours now, and you'd think a loving, caring wife and mother would've taken five freaking minutes to call and let us know that she's okay and having a wonderful time, and maybe even boast a little bit about what she's doing and who she's seen, but she has NOT! We've heard nothing—not even a text!

"Point number six: When I get the bright idea to try and have the people that whisked her away, get her a message to call home; I get dozens of scathing replies that I'M not being supportive of her in 'her hour of glory.' Just another slap in the face for me—but don't worry—I'm getting used to them.

"Point number seven: The first clue that I have that this was actually a legit contest was the picture of my wife, standing in my living room, that's posted on this Facebook page. For all I knew until I saw it, this could've been some attempt to kidnap her and take her away to parts unknown to do 'God knows what' to her. Yes—I'm worried about her and I miss her! Obviously, however, she doesn't miss me...

"So, I haven't had the chance to be supportive of my recently missing wife. I don't know if Mr. Bradley Morgan's crew has kept her so busy doing Holly-weird things that she forgot about us poor simple folk back home, or if she's decided to run off and start a new life. Then, the jealous and misinformed fans decide to add to the hell that has become my life...

"To you, I pose this question: If it happened that your spouse won a dream date contest with some sexy Holly-weird star, and they stole him away without warning, how would you feel? Would you do what I did? How would you feel if the star's fans posted your private cell number and told everyone to call you and tell you what a jerk you are? (By the way, to the bitch that illegally got and posted my private unlisted cell number: I reported your post to Facebook, and they are considering your penalties. Thanks so much for running up my cell phone bill.)

"So, you bunch of jealous misinformed judgmental bitches can GO TO HELL!

"To the arrogant inconsiderate bastards running this contest: You can tell her to call home by midnight tonight, or I'll take it that she's chosen to forget our family and I'll start the divorce as soon as possible so as not to delay the start of her new life! And best of luck with 'your next husband!'

"Good night!"

I felt so much better after I'd vented out all my hurt and frustration that I fell asleep for about an hour. The calls to my cell actually stopped. I awoke mostly because my stomach was growling; I was still tired from lack of good sleep. I flipped on the boob tube while I fixed myself something to eat. Then I realized that I should try to see Dolly on E.T. and flipped the channel.

As I was sitting down with my TV dinner fresh from the microwave, they announced a story of Bradley Morgan arriving at the premiere with an unknown woman. Speculation was running wild as to who she was, especially since his wife was conspicuously absent. She was hanging on his arm like a moonstruck teenage girl with her first crush. I swear I saw drool form on the corner of her mouth. I have to admit that she looked like a million bucks in that designer gown and those borrowed jewels.

One of the "reporters" got a microphone and got close to Bradley and Dolly. He asked Dolly, "I'm from E.T. and we haven't seen you before. May I ask your name?"

"I'm Dolly Davis, how nice of you to ask." My chin dropped; Davis was her maiden name. I was so busy seeing red, that I didn't hear the rest of the conversation.

How would you feel if your spouse of almost thirty years was acting like that? You'd feel just like I did; by the look in her eyes I knew if "Mr. Bradley Moron" would make even a half-assed pass at her, she'd have jumped his bones like a hungry piranha on a steak. A chunk of my heart fell into the pit of my stomach and I wasn't hungry anymore. However, I did feel the thirst for a good Scotch, which I satisfied many times over the next few hours.

It was eleven thirty when she called, and she was pissed. I'd barely gotten out my "Hello," when she laid into me.

"How dare you threaten me like that in a public place! I can't believe you'd humiliate me like that!" She went on and on for about two minutes, until someone interrupted her. "Oh, okay. I gotta go." Click—she was gone. Still no 'goodbye.'

I called Scarlett, and told her of the call, so she wouldn't worry, but she'd seen E.T. and was worried about something else, like I was. She said that she'd call Rhett and fill him in, but that she hadn't heard anything form her mother, either.

A few more Scotches and I woke up Saturday morning to my doorbell ringing quickly and repeatedly.

Looking through the peephole, I didn't recognize him, so I figured him to be a pushy salesman. I answered the door accordingly, "Who the hell are you and what is the meaning of ringing my doorbell like that so early on my day off?" I gruffly assaulted him—verbally.

"I'm from the National Enquirer, and I got wind that your wife won the Dream Date Contest, and that you've been trying to get a message to her unsuccessfully. I'd like to get your side of the story." He tried to put his foot in my door so I couldn't close it.

I stamped on his foot and quickly slammed the door, yelling at him, "Get a real job, you circling vulture, and leave me alone!" Just when I thought this nightmare couldn't get any worse, the paparazzi started showing up. He was the first of twenty or so of the so-called "reporters" that began to clutter up the boulevard in front of my home that morning. There were even a couple of them in the backyard. I felt trapped in my own house.

Then, my landline phone started ringing off the hook. TV reporters and others were calling me. I had become some sort of instant celebrity because of my posts. One of the callers told me to check my Facebook page.

My message had gotten out to all the women who suddenly sympathized with me after the shoddy treatment I'd received from my wife and Bradley Morgan's staff. I had almost fifteen thousand friend requests, and almost that many private messages. I read a few of them, which included offers to replace my wayward wife, some permanently, and some were just until she got back.

"This is absolutely crazy!" I shouted to no one.

I called Rhett, and told him what was going on. He didn't believe me until he went to my page.

"Look, Dad; I know what Mom is doing isn't right, but don't go taking these women up on their offers. Some of them are outright lunatics, and there's no way to tell which ones are or aren't."

"Don't worry—I have no intentions of replacing your Mother, just yet anyway. I needed to warn you so you don't come over and get in the middle of all this mess. We better cancel our golf game this afternoon."

"Yeah, that's for sure. Thanks for the heads up. If you need anything, just let us know."

"I feel like a damn prisoner here, but I don't want any company if it means dragging you or your sister into this. I'll call her in a few minutes." We chatted about a couple of other things before ending the call. The call to Scarlett went pretty much the same.

Needless to say that I couldn't do any of the yard work I'd planned, but the thought of chasing those nosey bastards around with my riding lawnmower did amuse me. I began to look at some of the women's Facebook pages and some of them were very attractive. Then I went to Bradley Morgan's page and found out that some of his fans were taking him to task for his shoddy treatment of me and my family.

As hard as they were on him, they were ten times as hard on Dolly. "What kind of parent ignores calls from their children?" was one of the kindest things they said about her. Some of their comments would make a sailor blush. They also made me feel better about what was going on and how I was handling it.

I checked Dolly's Facebook page, and the women had filled it up with posts much worse than they hit me with initially. Some had simple messages: "Call him, you stupid b*tch! If you don't want him anymore, I'm sure he can find someone who does," and "WHAT? You can't take five minutes a day out to call your husband? I wish my husband was still alive; I'd give anything just to tell him that I love him, and to hear it back, one more time," and my favorite, "If you won't call him—I will! Good men are hard to find!"

Other messages were threats and insults like you wouldn't believe; I didn't think women capable of such venom towards someone they'd envied so much, so recently. Yesterday these women wanted to be in her borrowed designer shoes, now they wanted to replace her in her bed. Such is the fickle finger of fame.

Then I got a Facebook message from a few talk shows, first was Maury, then Jerry Springer. When the Ellen show hit me up, I replied. Even though openly I said that Ellen was a "chick talk show," I enjoyed watching her occasionally as one of my "guilty pleasures." Hey, sheisfunny.

We soon had a dialogue going and I gave them my cell number. They offered to fly me out to Holly-weird and do an interview with me, if I refused all other interviews until their show aired, they promised not to "ambush me" on national TV, but to let their viewers see both sides of the story. I asked if this meant that Dolly would be on that same episode. They said that they haven't spoken to her yet. I told them that I agreed if they wouldn't put her on the same day as me; and they agreed.

I called my boss at home and told him that I was going to take a few days off until this mess (and I told him how bad it had gotten) calmed down. He agreed it was for the best. I didn't want to bring the paparazzi to work, and he didn't want them there, either.

It suddenly struck me that I had a number on my caller I.D. from which Dolly called me last night to chew me out. My guess was that it belonged to one of the entourage, as she surely wouldn't have been back at the hotel as early as nine thirty (their time) after a premiere party. Not that it mattered; I was going to call back anyway.

When I called, a young man answered, and I asked to speak with Dolly Dylan.

"Who? I think you have the wrong number."

"I'm looking for my wife. She called me from this number last night."

"Oh, you want the dream date girl. She was in the lobby of the hotel where I was staying and she borrowed my phone. I'm afraid that I can't help you much there, friend."

"Do you think she was staying at the same hotel you did?"

"I think so."

"Would you tell me the name of the hotel, please? She left home in such a hurry that no one told me where she was staying, or much of anything, for that matter."

"Sure, I'm staying at the Ritz on Rodeo. Hey, aren't you the ignored husband that everyone is talking about? You're creating quite a stir around here."

"That's me, but that wasn't my intention to make such a mess of things; all I wanted was to talk to my wife."

"Did she ever call you?"

"Yeah, she chewed me out for a minute, and then hung up on me, using your phone."

"Dude, that's just wrong. Sorry to hear that. I didn't know who she was or that was you she was calling; she just said she didn't have her phone with her, and urgently needed to make a call."

"I wonder why she didn't borrow one from one of Bradley's entourage."

"That's easy, Dude. They were all busy talking to people, trying to, as they put it 'do damage control caused by that hillbilly asshole.' Those were their words, not mine."

"Wow, I guess I have stirred up a hornets' nest. I can honestly say that all it would've taken to prevent this would've been one phone call from my wife, or even one from the contest crew would've been nice. They left me hanging out to dry here. Well, thanks for your help; I'll call the hotel."

"Hey, glad to help. Good luck, Dude."

I got the number of the hotel from the internet phone book and rang them up quickly. I asked for Dolly Dylan's room.

"We have no Dolly Dylan staying with us."

"That's odd, she was there last night and I'm sure that my information is correct. Maybe she has checked out and is on her way back home." Then a thought struck me. "It's possible that she's registered under her maiden name, Dolly Davis. Would you check on that, please?"

"Ahhh, yes. Ms. Davis checked out an hour ago. I know because I checked her out myself. We were glad to see her go, with all the media attention she was getting; that's not our style here, you know. As I recall, she couldn't get a flight out until late Sunday, so she was going to stay with him. Isn't Mr. Morgan so generous to open his home to her like that?"

"Thank you for your help, but 'generous' is not the word I'd use right now. Have a good day."

Well, if that's not the frosting on the cake; now she was going to be sleeping right down the hall from him...or maybe she'd be doing something else with him, in the same bedroom, given the chance.

I called Rhett, and told him that I had an escape plan, and asked him to pick me up just past midnight at a park two blocks from my place. When darkness settled over the town, most of the vultures took off to lay claim to the few hotel rooms available locally. By midnight, there were only a few left, and they'd settled in to their strategically positioned cars and vans

I opened a window on the side of the house and lowered myself and a small suitcase from it. The overhanging nearby trees left this area of the yard in total darkness as I closed the window and snuck across the backs of my neighbors' homes to the park where Rhett was waiting.

"Did anyone see you?" he asked as I got in the car.

"I don't think so...nobody has followed me so far. Let's take the long way around just to see."

We drove to the far side of town and saw no cars behind us, or anywhere around us for that matter. Hey, this is a small rural town, and even Saturday nights aren't all that active.

"Okay, it looks clear; now take me to the airport in Terre Haute. I'm flying out there."

"But Dad, she should be coming back tomorrow—or she may be on her way back now. You could miss her..."

"I found out what hotel she was staying at—notice I said 'was.' They told me that she is spending the night at the home of that big jackass himself, Bradley Morgan. That was the last straw. If she can't spare more than one minute in three whole days for me—for us—except to chew me out for trying to speak with her, and then 'shacks up' with him—that's all I can take."

"Don't go jumping to conclusions, Dad. Just because she's staying with him, doesn't mean that she would..."

I gave him the look. "Did you see the two of them on the red carpet? Did you see the look in her eyes? She was so far gone that if he gave her a tour of his home, and innocently said, 'This is my bedroom,' she'd be naked and under the covers in three seconds flat—and you know it. I know she's your Mom and you don't like to think of her as a sexual person, but she is still a woman—a very attractive woman, who Mr. Bradley Moron knows he could have by simply crooking his little finger at her."

"Yeah, I guess, but still there's no evidence that anything has or will happen."

"Have you forgotten how she's referred to him so many times over the years."

"Okay, but the whole 'my next husband' thing was just a joke. She said it was."

"It was a joke the first few thousand times she said it. Then it was an old tired joke. Then it became a separate fantasy life for her, and this is her one shot to make it all come true—if even just for one night. Tell me that you wouldn't be tempted if you were staying in say—Megan Fox's home for a night."

"I get your point, Dad, but I still say Mom wouldn't do that."

"I hope you're right, Rhett. It's all I have left." The rest of the ride was in silence.

I got to the airport on time and my ticket from Ellen was waiting for me. Two connections and ten hours later, I was in Holly-weird, and I saw that they sent a limo for me.

BigK10
BigK10
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