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My Senile Father Is Cheating on My Mom With a Crystal Healer Who Nearly Burnt Our House Down

Jan 18, 2022 admin

Most people don’t find out about their father’s affair through a 911 call, evacuation mandate, and firefighter dispatch. In retrospect, I should have seen the signs weeks before the smoke signals hit the detectors — and long before my husband had time to chime in with his adulterous $0.02.

Those signs?

A fridge piled high with vegan cheese — and my father’s recent “dietary changes”
His newfound enthusiasm for farmers’ markets — and sneaking away to make love to the local produce 2, then 4, then 5 days a week
The blowup incited by my Christmas-scented wallflower plugins and holiday soaps — and the subsequent accusation that I was digging my dad’s grave by engulfing him in toxins…

To be honest, I chalked it up to his colorful journey of post-retirement self-discovery. Kind of like when he experimented with chasing the neighborhood widow into her retirement home — and attempted to join her (one of the primary catalysts to my parents’ separation).

This time, however, when he decided to “sage away” the negativity in my house — all the way to the Newport Beach Fire Department’s arrival — I should have suspected there was an outside influence at play. I just never expected my husband would be clambering for her attention, too…

…

Ante up for a family affair

“It’s called smudging. Star said…”

Yes, that’s her actual name: Star. Or at least what she instructed my dad to call her before she enlightened him of the dangers of dairy, soap, and showering more than twice a week. Apparently, they’re all “part of the ‘population control’ plan, fostered by the nefarious food, cleaning, and hygiene product industries”. (Her words, not mine.)

According to Star, the only thing more dangerous than toxic chemicals is toxic energy — and our house is allegedly brimming with it, hence the sage. Also, a great time for my husband to enter the picture, since the 911 dispatcher and literal fire trucks at our front gate weren’t pressing enough.

“Can you get rid of that smell?! If this is a recipe, I think you botched it — ”

Cue my dad’s sage evangelism — and “Star-worshipping”. Hubby, meet Star — the new woman in “our” lives, putting the fire alarms in your $8M primary residence to a very real test. Star in a nutshell:

Part-time vegan cheese saleswoman
Part-time dogwalker
Full-time crystal “healer” (proficient in astrology, tarot cards, and “energy work”)

“She’s actually their first employee — and it’s kind of a big deal.”

Sometimes, my husband’s ears perk up at the strangest things. I mean, if he’s looking for some discounted vegan cheese, I’d get it — but I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing on his mind. Yet somehow, Hubby swiftly overlooked the “almost burnt our $8M house down” part and took the non-dairy bait like a fish to a plump, juicy worm:

“Does she have equity?”

Of course, my father’s always eager to talk “business” with my husband — I think it’s his attempt at impressing him, or conveying that he “gets it”, even though I doubt he really does…

To clarify, “vegan cheese” wasn’t the magic word that captured my husband’s interest. I believe it had more to do with:

Founded by two retired professional poker players from Vegas as a “hobby project” (out of boredom and financial excess)
Those founders also own a variety of properties throughout Orange County and Los Angeles
They’re hosting an upcoming “pre-launch party” at their home in the Laguna Beach hills, promoting their new line of vegan meats. Investors, press, friends, and family will be there — along with my dad, as her plus one.

“Do you think she’d have room for a plus two? I might have some investor friends and could make a helpful introduction. Maybe I’d even invest…”

Just as Hubby took the bait, he tossed it back out — and reeled in my approval-seeking dad. While my dad may not see through Hubby’s offer, I sure do:

I’d bet money Hubby isn’t looking to invest or help the vegan cheese venture gain funding; not after his own company’s financial upsets. Instead, he’s looking for investment — and a party full of local investors, along with a couple of retired poker players-turned-startup-gamblers could be the perfect crowd.

Plus, a public appearance with a new cohort of entrepreneurs and investors could be just the thing to help distance my husband from the recent scandal surrounding his board member-turned-pimp (and the 5,000 mistresses bringing highly-publicized lawsuits his way). Not a good look for the godfather of our children — if anyone’s looking. And in the circles he runs in, I’m guessing they are…

A swinger’s allegiance

The metal gate closed behind me, while the ocean — and a direct view of Flavia’s docked yacht — welcomed me into her great room, where a stampede of Bichon Frises orchestrated an ear-splitting greeting.

“It looks great! How can I help?”

She knew I didn’t come over just for the doggy gift-bagging assembly line on her dining room table, but this relationship was beginning to feel a little bit one-sided if I didn’t offer something up.

In one fell swoop, she motioned to the doggy gift-bagging station, gesticulated a brief tutorial, and dove right into the real motive behind my visit.

I’m not suggesting you should dump your marital baggage on a random friend or neighbor, rather than see a counselor, shrink, or divorce lawyer. However, when your husband’s been screwing around three houses down — and this neighbor has a direct view from her yacht into Hubby’s latest entanglement — a brief inquiry (or alliance) doesn’t hurt.

Her response was neither comfort nor alarm. Instead, she chose deflection and tossed me a newspaper — one of the few physical copies in circulation — with a very familiar name and face disgraced across the crinkled page.

“5,000 mistresses is pretty bad — and the hired hitman. That should keep the press occupied for at least a few weeks…”

This is the part where an honest friend admits the man in the 5k mistress scandal is also the one who stood in your wedding party, hosted you on his private jet (for joint family vacations), and remains the godfather of your three kids. An embarrassed friend changes the topic; so, vegan cheese it is.

“…invited himself to their party — ”

Somewhere between the words “vegan” and “poker”, Flavia burst into a snort-laugh hybrid. I guess poker-playing vegan cheese enthusiasts sound a bit eccentric, but not quite “laugh out loud” funny.

“They’re a lovely couple — a good time. A little bit out there…”

Through her chortles and vague euphemisms, it was clear I still didn’t quite catch her drift — so she decided to spell it out directly:

“Swingers.”

They aren’t just swingers (who’ve welcomed Flavia into their X-rated rendezvous); they’re also customers of the sex tech CEO’s swinger-geared social network and matchmaking app. The same sex tech CEO who’s my husband’s competitor and unspoken enemy — despite dating our realtor. Oh, and he’s one of their biggest backers and closest friends.

In other words, no way in H-E-you-know-where is Hubby getting into their good graces as my dad’s plus-two party crasher, no matter how intensely he proclaims his love for vegan Brie or Blackjack. That said, I suppose I don’t owe him the pre-party warning…

An accidental frenemy (Cruella my love)

There’s only one woman whose presence I dread more than my husband’s employee-mistress hybrid, his ex-fiancé, and my dad’s crystal healer girlfriend combined: My mother-in-law (let’s call her Cruella). Yet, upon my return from Flavia’s, the first car to greet me from inside my own gates was unmistakably hers.

I don’t hate Cruella because she’s sleeping (and likely living) with my husband’s ex-fiancé’s father. I don’t even hate her because she’s been encouraging Hubby to rekindle his relationship with said ex-fiancé (and has been for the past 16 years of our marriage). Instead, it’s because of days like today — when she digs the knife into the few areas of my life that don’t involve her son. Like parenting.

“With all of the airline horror stories, I booked us first class — but there’s still a layover! Flying commercial is such a joke.”

You guessed it? That’s my daughter — lamenting the logistical tragedies of her upcoming Christmas trip to Cabo with her unofficial 25-year-old boyfriend (who also happens to work for my husband, as a favor to his dad). And if you’re thinking I’m the bad parent for even entertaining the unchaperoned getaway, get in line — behind Cruella, that is.

6 months ago, nixing this trip would have been as simple as a “no”, a bribe, or a better offer. This time, however, with my daughter’s blackmail threatening my marriage (on false pretenses, but problematic, nonetheless), I can’t exactly pull the plug without risking a very dangerous accusation. Thanks to an accidental frenemy, though, I may not have to.

Cruella twirled from my daughter, who’d left the room engrossed in her phone, to me. Let the altercation commence:

“You’re letting her go to Cabo alone? She’s 16!”

No, actually, her 25-year-old deadbeat trust fund boyfriend is planning to accompany her — but I guess that doesn’t help my case. And telling my mother-in-law that my teenage daughter is holding near-damning “infidelity” evidence over my head as blackmail probably won’t go over so well, either.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. This is how you parent?! This is your contribution? I’m just…no words.”

That’s kind of preferable, right? It’s better than insults. But, of course, her untamed spattering continued:

“Except for no. This is not happening. And you — you are the problem.”

Her fierce whisper said it all: zeal, disdain, and the threat of future revenge, all in one. It’s a tone — and a look — I’ve only ever seen from one other person (rarely), in the height of our worst fights. That person? Her son, my husband — of course. The apple never fell at all.

My husband may cheat on me, hide properties and 7+ figure accounts under various secret LLCs, and dampen my plea for autonomy, a career — or anything meaningful of my own outside the home. That said, he doesn’t actually hate me. At worst, he tolerates me. Cruella’s eyes — and tone — however, revealed two things: hatred and disgust. And that’s a look I’ll never forget.

Though if I’m honest, it’s one of the few — maybe only — times I’ve been secretly laughing inside, grateful for her unexpected intervention. Sure, she undermined my parenting and threw a few insulting daggers, but she also offered herself up on a silver platter as the sacrificial “bad guy”. I’ll take it.

I guess sometimes enemies can become frenemies without even realizing it. Bottom line? Keep your enemies close and your mothers-in-law even closer.

…

No good deed goes unpunished

“$90k to $110k, but could be more based on finishes, bathroom, bedroom versus ADU…”

Craig briefly surveyed the empty garage, then rolled his eyes.

“Did they ask for the zip code?”

He shook his head the second I started nodding. Apparently, you’re never supposed to tell a contractor your zip code — unless you want the special “Corona del Mar-kup”. Whoops.

In case you’re new here, Craig — the platonic male roommate cohabitating with my mom in the Corona del Mar duplex they rent from my husband — has floated the idea of a garage conversion (to another bedroom or accessory dwelling unit (ADU)). Why?

Initially, it’s for my dad — who’s been squeezing his way into their 1150 square feet in a bid to spend more time with Rufus, the dog at the center of my parents’ pre-divorce canine custody battle.
Beyond that, Craig’s a landlord, shrewd real estate investor, and owns his own mortgage brokerage, so he’s always looking for a deal in Orange County property. A garage conversion in exchange for equity (and rental income potential) could offer just enough price appreciation and future cash flow potential to make it well worth his while.

“I’ve got a guy — great architect. I’m guessing he gets the whole thing done under $30k, all permitted. Maybe $40k with extra bells and whistles, full ADU — ”
You know the saying “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”? My dad most certainly doesn’t — judging by his unannounced entrance (and subsequent requests).

“Hold up, hold up here. Are you guys doing this without me?”

Ummm, yes — Craig is kindly offering to build you an entire ADU — since the guest suite in our house clearly isn’t sufficient.

“Just getting some bids in, looking at the plumbing. May need to crack open some concrete to get to the lines — ”

I’m guessing that part went in one ear and out the other, judging by my dad’s interjection:

“First off, we need to talk about flooring. I want to see the options — been reading up a lot on Macassar Ebony, if we’re going hardwood. But Star might prefer marble for her yoga classes, so definitely want to get her in here to opine.”

He’s joking, right?

“They make really great laminates these days. I just had them installed in two of my rentals, and couldn’t tell them apart from wood if I tried — ”

Craig’s attempt at diffusing the situation — I mean, cost to build per square foot — fell on deaf ears, entirely.

“The fake stuff? No, I think that’s toxic. All the dyes and the chemicals — organic is going to be better. And then for the backsplash, so Star had this cool idea…”

I’m sure Craig was itching to cut in with “Is Star paying for this?”, but he bit his tongue — for now.

What’s in it for me? Or you?

Lust can be blinding at any age — and for some people (like my dad), a spicy romance can trump 40+ years of a pragmatic accounting brain in favor of $150 per square foot Macassar Ebony hardwoods (especially when he isn’t paying).
Everyone has ulterior — and selfish — motives. Occasionally, they converge under the guise of “generosity” or “collaboration”, but make no mistake: They’re selfish at their core. They just may not have revealed it yet.
Sometimes keeping the bad guy in your back pocket isn’t so bad, after all. Maybe we could all use a Cruella from time to time.
It’s a small world and — no matter who you are, what you do, or who you do — your reputation really does precede you. Hone it wisely.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.