Tearing at the Fabric

Of the space-time continuum

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I lied to you

So. I had a bit of an off moment on Sunday.

During an otherwise truly lovely – quite romantic, in fact – weekend that my barman quite spontaneously suggested, midweek.

I didn’t sleep so went for a three hour walk on the beach.

On my return, BG asked me if he’d done something wrong. But, my unsettled, insomnia wasn’t about him. More a freak out at the overwhelming business stuff, as I had a bit of a scary meeting on Friday.


It was the four year anniversary of moving into the first safe home, my own home, MY first I bought all by myself.

And yeah, BG still hadn’t tried to fuck me for a month…

Then, I showered – we showered 😜 – and his ex’s brother and sister-in-law showed up! While I was all scraggly hair, fresh-faced and starting to pack.

We sat having coffee with them on our deck for over an hour.

They’re really nice people. BG introduced them to each other, over a decade ago.

I’d met them before. And, to our surprise and delight, they’d just got married the previous weekend. I could see their happiness.

Hearing them talk about the wedding (held in my town!) we realised that BG’s cheating ex, the groom’s sister, had come over from Australia with their other sister, for the wedding. No drama at all. Just serendipitous as the border had only just opened again. Luckily for the families.

I was aware we were over check out time, and I ducked back inside, and down the other end of the apartment complex to try to return the key. Back, I was quickly towelling my hair dry, and therefore I missed some of the chat. I deliberately did that, to be honest, giving the old friends some moments of privacy, to catch up, without the “new girl,” breathing down their necks. BG met Chrissy when she was visiting her brother and SIL, over from Australia, about eight years ago, in that town.

Anyway, we drove home after visiting with more friends, stopping for late lunch in a nearby small city on the way back to my place. There, as we walked into the restaurant, I realised an old hometown mate, GJ, was sitting in the window with his partner.

I didn’t recognise him at first. But this is a guy who I used to have a funny sexual banter thing with, for decades. All very chaste, safe and silly. I was “happily partnered” right?

Anyway, he’s a very good looking, terminally single, older guy. The town lothario. Broken a lot of hearts over the years. He used to tell me that Rog had the Most Fuckable Woman in Insert Name of Town.

Wouldn’t get too excited, it’s a small town. 😜

But that’s the kind of bullshitty thing he and I had.

Of course, I went over to say hi. And it felt REALLY weird, running into him with BG…

That night, in bed, BG said he had something he’d been keeping from me, and he needed to tell me, felt really bad. He said, “I’ve lied to you. And it’s not okay. I’m sorry.”

Obviously, my heart froze.

Turns out, while I was packing, and in the bathroom, he found out Chrissy was staying just down the road, and the SIL had asked him earlier, when she first spotted him, before she knew I was there, if he wanted to go and say hi, to her and the other sis, as they were just taking them to the airport later.

He, of course, said, no thanks. Shaking his head, “no. No thanks. Oh, and Paula’s here.”

They would have no real reason to realise we were still a thing. I met them well over a year ago, and there was no indication that we were long-term.

But obviously Belle, the ex-SIL must have told Chrissy later, and she sent him a text, saying, “hey, you snob, why didn’t you come see us?”

He felt he’d hidden that from me. He never replied. He wanted to say to her, “fuck off. That’s inappropriate, and why would I want to see you.” And can’t work out why she doesn’t get that he is not her friend after what she put him through. “I’m sorry babe. It was a shock. She hasn’t contacted me since that last time she wished me happy birthday. I haven’t replied to any of her texts in years. Look at my phone. I should have told you then. I didn’t. I lied to you. I feel really awful.”

I didn’t see it that way. I had a difficult morning. He tried to find out why I’d got up and slept on the couch and walked the beach for three hours. He thought he’d messed up somehow. He’d been drinking with one of his best mates, and wondered if I was quietly pissed off.

I wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

I was ruminating and panicking about finance. Reflecting on this day, four years earlier. Admittedly, I was deeply disappointed and sexually frustrated that he hadn’t made a single move on me in weeks. To the point where I back off, stop trying.

But the major thing was I was in my own head. Worrying. But not about him.

As he teased my worries out a little bit, my lip wobbled, there were tears stinging, behind my sunglasses. He’s never seen me cry, and I was fighting it. I won. But it got close. He held me, asking how he could help.

When he told me about the text from Chrissy, I told him that I wasn’t upset. I’m not threatened by her. He knows I get it. That yes, she’s a stunning, petite, blonde, and yeah. I’m not. That’s somewhat intimidating. But I know she treated him very poorly, and he doesn’t want her.

He assures me her looks are Instagrammable, but she’s not that pretty IRL. Heavily filtered and well lit. And I get why he didn’t tell me about contact straight away. I was a bit off, we had just had a difficult talk. I wouldn’t have thrown that information in there in the same situation. A tired and emotional partner, “hey, my sexy ex is staying down the road and wants to see me.”

The important thing is, he told me later. He didn’t have to. We left town. I could have never been told. And I would have never known. I appreciate his candour, and honesty.

He said that he was upset because I asked him twice during the day if everything was okay, and he thought that I knew him so well, and knew he was a bit off.

I did know he was a bit pensive. I knew my moment had rattled him. I know he’s having a lot of stress at work, and getting him away, trying to switch off, is challenging. He’s arrived back to more Covid in the staff, leaving just himself and his bar manager, just returned from a week’s leave, as the only staff members with bar duty manager’s licences. He’s gonna have to pull some bar shifts this week, and possibly longer. It’s stressful. Losing money hand over fist, and he works seven days a week if he doesn’t get outta Dodge. That’s in normal times. Without night shifts added behind the bar, after a day behind the computer, and calculator!

I was surprised – but impressed at his emotional intelligence – that he framed the delay in telling me about Chrissy’s message, as lying.

Roger never did. If I didn’t know, it wasn’t a lie. Right? BG at least obviously understands about lying by omission.

That is actually very comforting.

Oh, we got two fantastic sessions in before he left. One, prolonged shower sex one, and one of me waking him gently but urgently at 4.30am before he left on Monday morning. It’s there. He just doesn’t need me physically as much as I’m used to, as much as I need him.

As much as Rog needed me, daily.

It is a hard thing to reconcile. We are talking about it. It’s not being ignored.



I’ve held off posting all day.

Composing myself.

Today is Roger’s birthday. I just think, wow 57, hmmm.

I’m not usually ageist, but I had the best of him really.

Normally, I’d be planning a very special meal, and loving celebrating the man I loved so very much.

I’d probably also send him some smartarse meme (um, see above 🤣😜.)

The old witch can have him. Not gonna lie, deep in the feels. Despite everything, and all I know and am, I still deeply love who he pretended to be for our thirty years together. I know he is no longer that person.

BG doesn’t know, I’ve never told him much about Norm, let alone a birthdate. But his timing is awesome. He just sent me a link to an Airbnb he’s booked for us. His national conference is in Roger’s city soon. Ugh.

Instead of staying with the others in a mid range hotel, he’s booked us an Airbnb.

I’m so glad. Some space to be myself, as going down there always puts me on edge. I’d hate to run into him and his whore.


Better out than in.

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How damn true is the above? A dear friend spent time with Rog and Trinket recently. She just shook her head and said, “she’s a real nothing. A pushover for him. Just what he must have been seeking. Not strong, clever and sassy, like you. No fireworks like you two had. You can see it. Boring old man. Settled for boring old woman. He used to be so stylish. Now he looks like a grandad. He traded down, for easy.

Been a fast weekend in the capital. So good. Dinner at a beautiful restaurant, a truly fabulous art exhibition, and a night in my apartment before new tenant moves in.

And a friend sent me a message including a photo of Rog and his trinket from a mutual friend’s FB page. BG saw it, and my wry smile.

They looked awful. BG asked me why the crooked smile. I said, “this is them. The ex, and my replacement.” He looked, shook his head and said “wow! How old is she? And him?”

I just said, “a bit older than me and you. Not much though.”

He pulled a face, and I laughed. “I did so much better, babe.”

He’s been really cuddly this weekend. Probably because he’s about to head home and back to work tomorrow. I put a mandarin semi-permanent colour through my hair, and he has been pretty enamoured of it. “My little mermaid.” I feel like me again. I’ve had bright copper hair often, but had gone a strawberry blonde in recent years, to manage the grey.

BG said, “so did so much better, too! SOOO much better. You love my friends, they love you. You do the things I like doing – including the “naughty” things, she (his ex) didn’t do, and she wasn’t any of the wonderful things you are.”

I am lucky. Nothing’s perfect. But my life is enriched by knowing this lovely man. Who drove me down to the capital. Helped me move furniture. All at the last minute. A long, busy weekend. We got home at 9.30pm and unloaded my furniture.

On the way home, we called into my eldest’s and her partner’s place, they weren’t required to help us pack the furniture in the trailer. Phew. It was a big job.

She’s just back home after a few months at Roger’s on hospital placement for her degree. So good to see her! It’s been months.

I have a challenging post next. If I manage to get it out of me.

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Test driven

I was thinking about the whole “winning” of the competition I never knew I was entered in.

When “my friend” Leanne texted me about the eighteen month long affair she had been having with my partner of then 22 years. I was told Rog had ended it, and she was vengeful.


But hey, yay me! He was having a torrid, sexy, secret affair! Woohoo! How exciting, right? Boring old mumsy here was just going to work, shopping, cooking, cleaning, parenting, accounting, paying bills, preparing GST returns, making love to him most days. How tedious.

But hey, I “won!” Go me! He sacked the exciting affair chick, and I was Plan B.

Awesome, huh?

And he love bombed the Bejesus out of me. After Leanne outed him as a long-term cheater. A very excellent liar.

I was the best thing that ever happened to him. The sexiest woman he’d ever met. He had THE most intense orgasms with me, and me alone. Did I not feel our incredible, unique, intense connection? We were destined to grow old together, to travel the world. To be the old coots, holding hands, kissing, fucking, loving deeply and forever. Leanne was a wee hiccup in our amazing love story. Our destiny.

You betcha. I sure did drink the KoolAid.

Hopium and hysterical bonding. What an intoxicating combination!

Reality is, I was the fallback plan. He test drove Leanne, to see if he could replace me, build a life with her.

He realised he didn’t want to. So yeeha. Paula it is.

Until he started pressing his nose up against the showroom window of the secondhand wife appliance stores. Otherwise known as dating apps. Match. Elite Singles. Tinder. Hinge. Zoosk. Whatever. Wherever. Time to trade me in again.

He test drove a few, for two years, tens of thousands of messages with other women, before landing in Trinket’s pussy.

She swallowed his story, hook, line and sinker. Didn’t even flap her dorsal fin as he dragged her into his boat. Catch of the day!

There was no need for Paula anymore.

But hey, don’t release her, or give her a fighting chance, keep her on ice, with footrubs, incredible, bonding sex, words of affirmation. Tell her how wonderful she is. Always was.

Most of all, kiss her deeply and tell her it might not be the end. The hopium pipe hasn’t completely gone out, stoke it up a bit with, “one day, we’ll find our way back to each other,” as you drive your laden trailer out of her life, leave her to do all the cleaning of your now empty house, pay the carpet cleaner, hand over the keys. Oh, and take on your working dog you left alone in the farm kennels!

Chump Lady explains how hoovering, being the back up plan, fucks with our loving, empathetic, manipulated brains.

I was still sure he was having “a moment.” That he’d wake up one day, look at the old hag lying beside him and think, shit. That was a fuck up.

Now I know he just found his level.

Sad. I really, truly, deeply loved that man.

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Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Having a weekend apart is pretty sweet. BG is sending cute, loving, appreciative messages.

I’ve said it before. He doesn’t love bomb like Roger did. There are no grand declarations. So when he says something sweet, it feels sincere. Roger just said stuff so when he got home, he was sure to get some red hot lovin’!

With BG, it’s just simple things. Like when we were messaging earlier, after I went to a Food Show. And had bought a few gourmet items. I said I was taking them to my daughter and son-in-law’s.

His response was unexpected. “You’re just so lovely. I’m a lucky man.”

I mean, what? Because I bought my daughter some gourmet goodies to try? That makes him lucky? Lol.

I know what he meant. He says my giving nature is refreshing. That he’s been around far too many takers. Out for what they can get, rare to find someone who loves to contribute.

And it always reminds me to keep protecting myself.


I just think, “oh, shit! I’m doing it again! Giving ‘too much.’ Be careful! Rein it back, Paula.”

I’m pretty sure that was not his intent.

But that is where I am today, post multiple infidelities.


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My two favourite pairs of winter ankle boots are starting to look a bit shabby.

And yes, even bloody boots bring back painful memories!

Rog and I took a romantic trip together, travelled to Argentina, to visit our exchange student daughter and her family in 2016. Not even two years before Trinket marched into our relationship. We had such a fabulous time! Travelling was not something we had ever been able to afford to do. Neither the money, nor the time away from the farm.

He was already experimenting with online dating at this stage, and I had no idea. He told me so many times on that trip, that I was the only woman he had ever wanted, the sexiest he’d ever met. The love of his life.

Yeah, right.

All that bullshit. All that manipulation to keep me hooked on him. Hooked on hopium. That maybe his long affair with my friend really was just a once off (LOL!!! Sure. Cool. Bummer. Wow.)

Anyway, whilst there, the local footwear fashion was flat, high platformed rubber soled boots. Every girl was sporting a pair. I eventually bought a rich magenta coloured pair, in the softest leather, to take home. They have been so comfortable, such a great pair of casual jean boots. I think they are nearly at the end, but I still shove them on with jeans, to do quick town jobs.

We rarely shopped for clothes, etc, together, but he was with me, and so very encouraging of me to buy these, calling them my Most Excellent Beetle Crushers.

Online shopping this morning, and my heart aches so badly at the memories of both that moment, but that trip in general, at the beginning of my Masters journey.

Beautiful Jujuy
Capybara! Roger’s favourite! At Laguna Ibera
San Telmo markets. Street theatre.
Iguazu Falls
Recoleta Cemetary. I spent hours here, utterly mesmerized…

I was writing a research paper on duality of belonging after a high school exchange experience. Unpacking discourses of “it’s the best thing that can happen to you,” after our own daughter returned with her previously undiagnosed anxiety openly exposed, and my memories of friends returning during my own youth, not really knowing who they were, where they “belonged,” anymore. I interviewed our exchange daughter, and her two older sisters for it whilst in Argentina, all had been exchange students at high school.

It was partially a research trip, but mostly a truly longed for chance for us to reconnect fully. Without the pressures of children, work, farm, money, etc.

And I really thought it worked!

After that trip, I felt a heck of a lot better about us. About myself. About ploughing through the research (my Masters thesis was about changing identities and the emotional geographies of formerly “safe” spaces of home) to become a new version of “us.” About who Roger really was (hint, he wasn’t that person. He still had secrets and was still lying to me.) I’ve since looked back at the photos, and he actually looks pretty terrible. I never saw it at the time. His skin is grey. He looks sallow, his eyes are dead, and there are no whole face smiles. It’s so sad. I remember such a happy trip, with moments of sadness that he had despoiled us with his fucking and living another life, with another woman. That we would never be that old couple who were always totally devoted to each other – as I thought we were prior to Leanne texting me about their affair. I was more content than I had been ever since Dday, on that trip.

So yeah. Don’t shop for boots. It’s an infidelity agony rabbit hole!


The greatest pain

I still struggle mightily with this one.

My kids. I know they are adults, and have forged their own relationships with their sperm donor.

But I ache with the knowledge that they play nice with Trinket. That I have to share my special people with that cunt. The eldest is going to be living there when she has a university course placement later this year. I just try so hard not to think about it. About them hugging. About her touching my babies.

When my youngest was there recently, visiting, I had to be a bit manic and distract myself. I cleaned. I cut firewood, I dealt to fences and weeds on my property. Anything to not think about it.

I’m not alone. I know a bunch of mothers who so ache with the agony of losing their children, at least some of the time, to a woman who fucked/fucks their father. Who knowingly broke their mother’s heart.

In a support group I belong to, a mother recently had to surrender her baby and her small child to the affair couple for a court ordered visit. Their father hadn’t seen them for 10 months. The baby had no idea who these strangers were and the affair couple texted after an hour and a half asking their mother to pick him up as he was crying and would not sleep. The mother was distraught at handing him over, ecstatic when he was returned.

Mine are no longer babies. But the feelings are the same. That cunt never has to share her kids. Her cheater died. She never had to share the thing most precious to her with any whores. Lucky her.

She once asked me to meet her. She wanted to talk. I just replied that I didn’t know what she wanted from me that she hadn’t already taken.

I mean, I fucking TOLD HER, in person, that Roger lied to her. We were not separated, we had not agreed to separate, I had zero idea he’d been online shopping for whores. What else did she need to know?

Yesterday, we did some touristy things, like visit the Omaka Aviation Museum. A brilliant record of some of the WWI and WWII aviation history. A huge collection of magnificently displayed planes and memorabilia, diaramas by Sir Peter Jackson (who owns most of the planes) and the crack team at Weta Workshops.

We also did a quick day trip for lunch up to Picton, and it was a truly stunning day to drive around parts of Queen Charlotte Sound. A quick stop for lunch as the Interislander ferry left for Wellington, loudly sounding her horn.

Home later today. We are off to BG’s friend’s winery to be guided through the processing. More red grapes are arriving daily from their southern vineyard, we are getting a private tour, and I genuinely loved his wines best of all, so he’s picking us a mixed half case. Then we have a scenic flight booked in a biplane! My eldest is jumping on our connecting flight to come stay with me for a few days.

I can’t wait! She shares my dry sense of humour, and we always have loads of laughs ❤


Chasing the sparkle

It’s been a big weekend. And haven’t even achieved a lot!

On Saturday morning, at 6am, my daughter phoned to say, “can you come dishwasher shopping with me this morning, Ma?”



But not at 6am, chicken.

I got up, shifted my fences, fed the chooks and stacked silage. Shower and outta there.

We went to an outlet shop and bought a good brand dishwasher, for a damn good price. We took it to her place and unloaded. I disconnected the broken one, took it to the recycling centre, and started trying to install the new one, realising I was going to have to cut a bigger hole for the inlet hose.

I didn’t have the tools with me.

I bought D a basic toolkit when she bought her house, but I needed a wee craft saw. I had a horse racing in the first in a nearby town, so said I needed to go. I went home got dressed up, hair, makeup, headpiece – it was a Group One day – the horse went really well, and unfortunately the races were called off after the third race, with the surface becoming a bit dangerous. As we girls (I race this one with my old high school girlfriends) left, I saw BG’s club members had brought a busload over. I thought I had better go say hey. They’re a fun bunch. A group of older men, all grinning and chatty, a few beers in. I’m glad I made the effort.

I also had to go find my hairdresser, who was at a sponsor’s event there.

I walked in, looked around not locating her. Someone called my name out.

It was some friends of BG’s. Chooky grabbed me, hugged and kissed me hard. Lisa, his partner, towering over me, also gathered me in. Chooky has been quite taken with BG finding a fun, enthusiastic partner, in me. Cracks me up. He always lights up when we meet. (It doesn’t feel creepy, he adores Lisa.)

I came home, got some tools – ugh, best I had was a hacksaw blade – and headed over to her place. A few makeshift chisel tools later, in the form of a careful use of a flat head screwdriver and a hammer, along with the blade, I got the inlet hose through the gap, and connected everything up.


Working dishwasher.

My friend, G, was impressed. “OMG, you have tools. And you know their names!”

Lol. Yeah. Doesn’t everyone?

Farming is in my DNA. I’m a problem solver. Far from being able to do everything, I’ll have a crack, at least. It used to infuriate Roger. He likes his women helpless and in need of rescuing. He’d go hunting, and arrive back to me having redecorated a room.

That night, I made quince paste out of the fruit I could reach from a ladder from my tree.

Today, my other horse racing, was scratched. A lot of rain overnight means the track is unsuitable.


Housework and baking it is then…

BG will be here tonight. Boys’ golf weekend. He’s been sending loving, wistful messages. It’s lovely being missed.

But also triggering.

Roger and I used to pine magnificently (at least, he said and acted like he did!) for each other if even one night apart. We rarely were.

There is one huge advantage to falling in love later in life. It’s pretty damn sweet. I am being pursued by a darling, sexy, kind man. I mean, sick, eww, old people in love 🤢🤮🤣

But, I was still in love with Roger, even into our fourth decade together.

I have a cracking headache, and a lack of motivation.

We are off on a week long holiday on Wednesday. I need this. I’m fatigued. My bloods have been very average the last four months. I can’t wait!

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Yeah. Apparently we were fucked.

Memories of our fabulous trip to Argentina – less than 18 months before he announced he was leaving me for the trinket he’d been chatting to online – popped up today.

I posted a series of beautiful photos of the absolutely stunning boutique hotel I found in Palermo, Beunos Aires, that we stayed in for a few nights before returning home.

A photo of my Rog (the one I thought he was. My darling then of 29 years) in checked shirt and jeans – looking like his father actually, older than I remember! – his tall, lean body leaning over the balcony. I remember feeling so much love for him, and relief that we were doing so well, having such a fantastic time together, after his long affair with Leanne exploded our lives.

Fooled me twice.

Shame on me.