Love story-8
In 2005, I met a man on Match.com who claimed to have had a long and successful life as a drag racer, a railroad man, and a real estate agent. He told me he owned a house on the water in Mukilteo, Washington, USA, that he had an assistant under LRE LLC, and that he owned five classic cars, a model train collection, and a huge art glass collection. By the time I finally saw his house, cars, trains, and glass, I was already hooked. Within the first
year, I found out that the cars had been sitting out in his yard with weeds growing through them, the assistant was actually the ex-girlfriend and real estate partner (who owned a third of the house and had produced half of his income for him), and his art glass collection, with one exception, was cheap stuff. You would think I would leave him then, but instead I allowed him to move in with me when he sold his house, paid off the ex, and gave up the proceeds to the three mortgages he had on it. The only safety for me was my insistence he get another job and sign a cohabitation agreement to protect the ownership of my house. He did both and we were relatively happy for four more years, although he never paid me more than $500 a month in rent when he actually agreed to $2,000 a month.
In 2008, I lost a third of what I had and decided to downsize. Through the next two years of looking and trying to sell my house, the stress divided us. I found a house that would work for me, with an apartment over the garage that I offered him for the eight week notice I was required to give him in our agreement to move out. He immediately hired a crew and got a friend to help him go to the new house with the key I gave him and remove all of the art glass and knick-knacks we had moved in together. He put them in storage under his name. Three large boxes of what he took were mine and included Waterford crystal, pewter and porcelain, and art glass of my own.
When he told me that he had done it for insurance, I made the mistake of drinking a half bottle of wine for “liquid courage” and telling him that he had moved out what he moved in, so I owed him no notice and he couldn’t come to the new house at all. What I should have done is ask for the key, with some excuse, and tell him in front of witnesses. He lost his temper and grabbed my arms, so I told him to let go or I’d call the cops, which gave him the idea of calling the cops on me. He showed them marks on his arms which were actually the healing scars from his having had pre-cancerous skin lesions removed the month before. He told them all of what he took had been his and that I hit him four or five times. He was calm, smooth, sober, and sad. I was hysterical, half-drunk, and told them that he would rob me further if they took me away. The bruises and scratches that appeared on my arms didn’t show up until I was in jail. Yes, he got me thrown in jail on a fourth degree assault charge, which is anything that isn’t first, second, or third in this state. Jail was a nightmare for twenty-four hours and then I went to the new house to see that he had in fact taken whatever he wanted of mine to who-knows-where.
I’ve since offered the prosecution the dermatologist who operated on Alynn Luessen and got the charges dismissed. I’ve also gotten the three boxes of valuables back by threatening a civil suit against him. While in that storage garage (he has three), I saw the bottom of the trophies he claimed were his and they had Goodwill pricing on them. He was never a drag racing champion either!
What I’ll never have is the household goods he took because he lied about where he was living twice and I gave up. What I’ll always have is the arrest on my record and thousands in bills from lawyers and counselors. This is a cautionary tale, ladies, so watch your back!
year, I found out that the cars had been sitting out in his yard with weeds growing through them, the assistant was actually the ex-girlfriend and real estate partner (who owned a third of the house and had produced half of his income for him), and his art glass collection, with one exception, was cheap stuff. You would think I would leave him then, but instead I allowed him to move in with me when he sold his house, paid off the ex, and gave up the proceeds to the three mortgages he had on it. The only safety for me was my insistence he get another job and sign a cohabitation agreement to protect the ownership of my house. He did both and we were relatively happy for four more years, although he never paid me more than $500 a month in rent when he actually agreed to $2,000 a month.
In 2008, I lost a third of what I had and decided to downsize. Through the next two years of looking and trying to sell my house, the stress divided us. I found a house that would work for me, with an apartment over the garage that I offered him for the eight week notice I was required to give him in our agreement to move out. He immediately hired a crew and got a friend to help him go to the new house with the key I gave him and remove all of the art glass and knick-knacks we had moved in together. He put them in storage under his name. Three large boxes of what he took were mine and included Waterford crystal, pewter and porcelain, and art glass of my own.
When he told me that he had done it for insurance, I made the mistake of drinking a half bottle of wine for “liquid courage” and telling him that he had moved out what he moved in, so I owed him no notice and he couldn’t come to the new house at all. What I should have done is ask for the key, with some excuse, and tell him in front of witnesses. He lost his temper and grabbed my arms, so I told him to let go or I’d call the cops, which gave him the idea of calling the cops on me. He showed them marks on his arms which were actually the healing scars from his having had pre-cancerous skin lesions removed the month before. He told them all of what he took had been his and that I hit him four or five times. He was calm, smooth, sober, and sad. I was hysterical, half-drunk, and told them that he would rob me further if they took me away. The bruises and scratches that appeared on my arms didn’t show up until I was in jail. Yes, he got me thrown in jail on a fourth degree assault charge, which is anything that isn’t first, second, or third in this state. Jail was a nightmare for twenty-four hours and then I went to the new house to see that he had in fact taken whatever he wanted of mine to who-knows-where.
I’ve since offered the prosecution the dermatologist who operated on Alynn Luessen and got the charges dismissed. I’ve also gotten the three boxes of valuables back by threatening a civil suit against him. While in that storage garage (he has three), I saw the bottom of the trophies he claimed were his and they had Goodwill pricing on them. He was never a drag racing champion either!
What I’ll never have is the household goods he took because he lied about where he was living twice and I gave up. What I’ll always have is the arrest on my record and thousands in bills from lawyers and counselors. This is a cautionary tale, ladies, so watch your back!
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