I know it's all my fault.
Knowing that my ex-husband and an ex-boyfriend worked at Wired, I didn't have to hook up a newer ex-boyfriend with the older ex-boyfriend to get hired on there as well.
But now, things are really getting weird.
Although we both live and work in the city, share an affinity for North Beach and have jobs not only in the same field but same area of it (technology), you'd think my ex-husband and I would unexpectedly run into each other. In nine years, we have not.
Then a few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from my ex, who I will refer to as G.E., which stands for Gay Eagle. That is what my girlfriends nicknamed him after our divorce, inspired by a) their suspicion that he is or should be gay and b) the similarity in proboscises. (I, however, maintain that he is a handsome, charming, talented man. After all, he was the love of my life, which makes this all the more heart-skewering, amid the humor.)
G.E. had spoken at some sort of journalistic event at UC and run into two of my reporters. When he learned they worked at my paper, he said, "Oh, you must know my ex-wife." My reporters, surprised to learn I had ever been married, replied, "She's our boss!"
Small world, ha ha and all that.
Now, you know my proclivity for All Things Facebook. So not long after, I was checking my "news feed" only to find that one of my friends "is now friends with G.E." Grr. Especially because when I mentioned to G.E. that I was considering friending him on Facebook, he replied, "Oh, don't bother. My FB life is very, very dull."
After obsessing for exactly three minutes, I let that slide out of my freakish brain as well.
(At this point, you might want to pour yourself a beverage, take a potty break or fortify yourself with a little snack, as I am not nearly done here. Fair warning.)
Along comes Thursday, and I get an e-mail from my good friend G., alerting me that while at lunch with a friend at Le Petit Robert in Russian Hill, she had come across a "large, three-color poster" advertising one of G.E.'s performances. (Did I not mention? He's a lounge singer now.) "I was tempted to pull it down and mail it to you, Stella, and K. offered to help, but we forgot to do it on the way back. Ha ha." (I treasure her loyalty. Don't ever change!)
When I mentioned this to my best boy friend, J., he said, "Oh, I forgot to tell you, I saw one of those too, in my neighborhood, for Mother's Day or something."
But the final straw came yesterday, when I was checking out the older ex-boyfriend's new blog about North Beach (he happens to be the one who created my fictional presence of Stella Haven). And found this:
"Local singer (G.E.), a new voice who interprets the great American songbook, is holding down Thursday nights through June. (G.E.) says his parents used to drive up from San Jose for romantic evenings at Enrico's, so the boy is totin' a little DNA with him."
I shot off an e-mail to the author, who I shall call T., inquiring as to whether he had gotten the memo that one of my exes was not permitted to promote another of my exes (please don't think my self-absorption here is lost on me. I am, after all, all about me), adding that in fact, he is incorrect: G.E. is not toting his parents' DNA with him, because he was adopted. Hahaha. So there!
So you see, until my exes become clear on the concept of moving -- along with all my friends' exes -- to The Island of Never to be Heard from Again, I am in the market for another planet. Preferably a lease-to-buy situation.
I'll even settle for poor demoted Pluto.