I was in an unusual funk yesterday.  Just when I thought the day was getting better, I went to Goodwill (now it’s out of necessity and not for the thrill of the hunt).  At the checkout, the girl ringing up my two shirts asked, “Are you over 55”?  I thought for sure I misunderstood her.  After a pregnant pause, I said, “What? I’m sorry…what”?  And again, she repeated, “Are you over 55”?  It soon clicked.  Tuesday is Senior Discount Day at the blessed Goodwill.  She was clearly high on meth, with hoodie and all.  I wanted to reach down her throat and pull out her trachea. Then I was going to steal her purse, take all of her cash and meth, and put it towards Botox. This girl cannot be lucidly sober!  How can I possibly look over 55?  Or do I?…

ugly woman









Sure, I’m 45. I may even look 45 (although this photo is, yes, posed, but no, not photoshopped). And I usually edit, but minimally, my photos.  Doesn’t everyone?

But there I was, at the Goodwill, being asked by a high-as-a-kite junkie if I’m 55 plus!

What a shitty thing that was.  Just what I needed to make my day even better!

Screw that noise, junkie.  You’re lucky you still have your teeth.  Not because of the meth mouth you’re bound to have in the near future, but from me removing them one by one.  When surmising someone’s age, always aim low!


There has been a few searches for my husband’s adulteress’ emails to wife, which, in this case, would be to me, Amanda Greenberg.  I thought I would post them here on this new website, after all, these very sensitive emails were the catalyst to the YTRDH website. Eventually I will add a cleaned-up version of my original translation of these gloriously helpful emails.  In the interim, you may interpret them as you may. But in short, when the husband’s adulteress emails wife, clearly only good can come from it!















So there you have ’em! Trish’s (Ricky Bobby’s adulteress’) delightfully delicious and sensitive emails to me!


I can’t even afford a haircut. Not even somewhere cheap like Great Clips. Back in the day, as in prior to 2 months ago when Ricky Bobby was dutifully paying my spousal support, my haircuts were $80 every 5 months or so. I also indulged in Botox every 6 to 9 months. Not anymore. I was thinking, “What on earth am I going to look like as a broke person”? Thank goodness I have a surplus of clothing and shoes from when I was rich.

But what about my hair? It’s way too long. I’m sending the wrong message. From the back I look like I’m in my twenties. Thirty-year-old men get a glimpse of the front and are shocked to see that I’m definitely not in my mid-twenties.  They’re disappointed, and, to make me feel even better, they seem grossed out when they see how old I actually am. They probably go home, take showers, and can’t look their moms in the eyes for a while.

And Botox? Well that’s simply out of the question! It’s been about 7 months since my last injection, so I look like “myself”. But I wonder, what would’ve happened had I been dating someone when I was freshly Botoxed and he watched my face slowly change? Would he have noticed my face go from 35 to 45? I feel extremely lucky that I’ve been seeing the same guy for a month now and he likes my face natural, for that’s all he knows. However, when I get my first payment of spousal support in arrears, my dermatologist is on my to-do list.

The greatest news of all is that my hair is naturally blonde; it’s virgin, untouched, un”adulterated”. But what about women who get extensive highlights or worse, are completely died blonde? If they run into a financial hiccup, what do they do? Do they walk around with roots? Does their hair scream, “I’m 50 shades of broke-ass”? Do they go natural? But how can they go back to natural with no money? Do they go to Sally’s and get supplies and try to do it on their own? What does that end up looking like? Although my hair is untouched and thus needs no color upkeep, I can certainly spot a fake blonde in dire need of a touch up. Would I say to her, “Is your husband screwing you over, too? I can tell by your excessive wrinkles and horrible roots. I see you’re a natural brunette. Perhaps it’s time to embrace it”.

It’s amazing what I’ve learned to live without for the last two months. In the grand scheme of things, it’s very small stuff. What I’m worried about is homelessness, as written about in GO FUND ME, and being carless—my car payment is due today, that Ricky Bobby is legally responsible for, and it isn’t getting paid. If it gets repossessed, what am I to do? Will I gracefully learn how to live without a car, too, my precious convertible BMW to boot? Hopefully I won’t get to that place. But I’m not gonna lie, I’m surprised by myself and what I’ve learned to live without and how to hold my head high when using my EBT (electronic benefit transfer-aka food stamps) card at the grocery store.

I spent 4 hours at the courthouse yesterday and the day before filing a motion for an emergency hearing. It’s scheduled for Monday. We’ll see what RB has to say for himself leaving his dependent wife 50 shades of broke-ass for the last 2 months while he’s living comfortably with his new girlfriend, who, coincidentally, is not a natural blonde.

Tell it to the judge, Ricky Bobby!


moneybagsI wrote this GO FUND ME post this morning.  I sent it to my best friend and writing partner.  The feedback I got in return (which is below the post in copied and pasted email form) is beautiful, heartfelt, and eye-opening and can be applied to many women out there in a similar situation. As much as I’m struggling right now, I have so many things I’m thankful for, one of which is a few fantastic people in my life.  I wouldn’t survive without them.  They’re few and they’re proud (like the Marines) and they’re priceless.

My GO FUND ME piece:

I’m seriously considering making a GO FUND ME campaign. I will call it “Amanda Greenberg From yesthisreallydidhappen Comes Out of the Closet Separated and Broke”. That’s what I’d be doing. Sure, 2 million people know my story and some even my real name thanks to the stellar detective work that a forum member did with “Yes. This Really Did Happen”. But if I do make a go fund me campaign, my story would be revealed to the few people left in my circle, and Ricky Bobby’s, who are not privy to it.

In whiff of death, I made quick mention that I am currently receiving no alimony. I am, literally, on welfare. I was told, before making the decision to leave, that in a divorce, a wife’s, especially a housewife’s, quality of life decreases dramatically but the husband’s quality of life often goes up. I didn’t believe it…until now. I never dreamt I’d be in this place, not in a million years. I, within 18 months of leaving Ricky Bobby, went from wealth to rags.

Thirty days away from being homeless, I’m at a loss. I won’t actually be living under a bridge in a box downtown with my dog because for one, I have wonderful friends who’ve offered spare rooms and, two, I lost my beloved dog on September 1 as I wrote in the post STAR BLACK.

So I’m grasping for ideas, and gasping for breath, trying to figure it all out…and survive. I work as many days a week as I possibly can while looking for a “real” job and, at the same time, trying to make it to the courthouse to file motions and petitions trying to figure out what Ricky Bobby is doing and trying to get the money promised, and owed, to me. I was a housewife for 21 years, completely dependent on him. Alimony exists for wives like me.

The courts take a long time. Finding 4 hours from your busy days to go there to file the motions and papers while you’re trying to work at the same time for an amount of money that doesn’t come close to covering your expenses is no easy feat.

Go Fund Me is an interesting idea. But if I do it, Ricky Bobby, and our hideous, salacious, almost to the point of unbelievable story, will be exposed to everyone that knows us. Am I trying to protect Ricky Bobby? If so, why? The man cheated, and to add, with a heinous blackmailing sexual sociopath. Not only did he do that, he has not given me a dime of the amount promised, that I received religiously for 18 months after leaving him, for 8 weeks. Am I protecting him or am I protecting myself if I choose not make a go fund me campaign? I’m unsure. I don’t have much to lose. Is it my dignity? His dignity? Why would I care about his? Our children’s? But what’s worse–an essentially homeless, broke-ass mother trying to exhaust the very few resources she has left or the exposure of their parent’s true story?

I’m aware that none of my new story is novel to women who’ve left their husbands, or to women whose husbands left them. The only thing “interesting” about my story is Ricky Bobby’s entanglement with a blackmailing sexual sociopath which led me to where I am now, where which many women have been and now are.

The End

My beautiful, wise friend’s response and partial original email copied and pasted:

Re: is it at all possible to give this some humor? i claim to be a comedian, but nothing comes out funny‏

xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx

10:58 AM

To: xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxx
I think you need to be your own Go Fund Me. So I say to you: Go fund you!

People piece together a living every day. it’s not always fun, but eventually you get the skill-set and experience you need to get ahead. Get started. Get creative. I know you are trying. I’m proud of you. Keep going. I personally have too much pride to do a Go Fund Me campaign. I would be embarrassed. But that’s just me. I am glad you are thinking outside the box. I’m just not sure this is the best idea. If you want to know about desperate: I once took my shirt off while massaging a legit client because he said he’d pay me $300 bucks to do it. So I did. The rent was due. Fuck it. I’m not a whore. I’m a business woman. :) I didn’t care and actually to this day I’m kinda proud of myself. I never heard from him again. He was a husband and father(have I told you this story?) I didn’t do anything sexual except show him my tits. All I’m saying is get creative, have some fun with it. Drive for Uber. Sell pharmaceuticals. Take a receptionist position. Get a
cheaper apt. Is your rent $1000/ mo?? That’s too high! When I was at the top of my game doing massage and making $50k a year I had trouble paying $1000/ mo. for my rent.

I’m not saying xxxxxxx’s not a dick. He is. I’m not saying he doesn’t owe you. He does. I’m saying if you start to think like a person who can take care of her damn self, you will begin to manifest money beyond what piddly alimony payments xxxxxxx pays or doesn’t pay. I’m saying stop thinking like you’re poor. I know you’re on welfare. That’s temporary. Start knowing that you are capable, strong, sassy, smart, educated woman who can earn money and pay her rent. You will fall in love with yourself. You will feel sooooo empowered. You will forget about xxxxxxx and his philandering, lame, lying ways. You will be high on life and independent and better for all your struggle. I promise.

On Thu, 10/15/15, xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx wrote:

Subject: is it at all possible to give this some humor? i claim to be a comedian, but nothing comes out funny
To: “xxxxxxxxx” <xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Date: Thursday, October 15, 2015, 10:22 AM

Go fund me

I’m seriously
considering making a go fund me campaign.  I will call
it “Amanda’s out of the
closet”.  That’s what I’d be doing.  Sure, 2
million people know my story and some
even my real name thanks to the stellar detective work that
a forum member did
with Yes. This Really Did Happen. But if I do make a go fund
me campaign, my
story will be revealed…

·       © 2015 Microsoft



star amanda 2013 2As you may have read in Whiff of Death, our beloved family dog of 12 years was put to sleep. I picked up her ashes yesterday. I walked into the veterinary clinic trying desperately to hold myself together. That didn’t last long. Here come the tears. C’mon, Amanda, hold it together. Oh boy. There’s no stopping it. Within seconds I’m crying like crazy, waiting in line, wiping my eyes with my tee-shirt.

My turn. The woman in the lobby comes up to me and asks, “How can we help you”? Somehow I was able to get the words out through my tightly closed throat, “I’m here to pick up my dog’s ashes”. She looked at me somberly and asked me for a name. I mustered, “Star”.

She came back with a box. Before handing it to me I heard, “Is Star Black”? I nodded my head because I could no longer speak.

Halfway home I collected myself enough to open the white box. I looked in. The sealed cedar wood container is engraved with “Star Black”. I laughed through the tears and realized the woman was confirming her name, not her description. Laughing, I visualize my dog sitting in the back of the bus and drinking from the “colored” fountain.

star black

I reminisced about that day. I was filling out the paperwork before Star was put to sleep. I had tears streaming down my face and onto the papers. I could barely see let alone write. Apparently I was so hysterical and incoherent that I put a few scribbles in the wrong places. I’m sure my handwriting and box checking looked like a doctor’s prescription.

Essentially, I figured, they extracted from the paper work that my dog’s name was actually “Star Black”. I was relieved to find the note inside said, “To the Greenberg Family” and not “To the Black Family”.

Thank you for the laugh through all the tears, my beautiful angel dog Star Black, and thank you for the 12 years you gave us!


combat menI started dating about six months after leaving RB.  I felt that was a fair amount of time.  It is absolutely frightening in the beginning.  I had a few dates and they were all lovely men.  No one unacceptably gross, for I filter them out carefully on the dating sites.  For instance, I don’t go on a date with anyone who has a bathroom mirror selfie of his flexing bicep, shirt off, showing off his many tattoos.  I avoid any men with pictures of their Harley’s, and many other parameters, but those are the core basics.  I have made an exception or two, but that is after lengthy conversations through the dating site.

After a few mismatches, although they were nice enough, I finally had a “successful” dating experience.  We went on a few dates. I liked him very much and still do.  We have since been friends, often going through spurts of talking daily.  On our second date he asked, “Are you Amanda Greenberg”?  I said yes. I wasn’t necessarily surprised because the man is a lawyer. I proceeded with this question: “So you found me out and you still wanted a second date?”  His response was, “Absolutely. And hopefully a third and fourth,” which I thought was very sweet.  A serious relationship eluded us for various reasons, but he’s a dear man who I happen to adore.

Then something odd happened.  I started attracting military men, men in uniforms, either now employed in the military or retired after 20 years of duty.  I figure I must be oozing out of me that I am in dire need of discipline.  Perhaps these men can teach me a thing or two?  I’ve now dated a man from every branch of the military with the exception of the Coast Guard: an army major, an air force colonel, a recon special-op marine staff sergeant, and a retired navy medic.  All are, not surprisingly, spankers (and this does not at all mean I slept with them so don’t make that assumption, please).

Dating is exhausting, daunting, scary, and fun: a myriad of adjectives.

There are times when I ask myself what happened to my life?  Why am I being fed to the sharks?  Sometimes that’s how it feels.  And then you want your life back.  But you ruminate for a while and remember why you left in the first place.  And I can tell you women, old readers and new readers, that there are good men out there, which was my biggest fear.  But they’re out there.  You can find that needle in what seems like an enormous haystack, but good single men exist for us single women in our forties.  I promise.


poodleI had to put my beloved dog to sleep yesterday. She was our family dog for 12 years. Her name is Star. My god she was a good dog. She was right by my side, through good times and bad. Is this the whiff of death? Could it be? In writer’s speak, this is a good thing.  It means that you can expect things to get better, at least in a screenplay.  And movies, the majority of the time, mirror real life.  So can it be so?  Will things get better and not worse?

Holding her and watching her as she went where dogs go was the third most painful thing I’ve ever been through. The first one being Ricky Bobby’s affair and all the emotions and consequences that followed, the second one being when our youngest was 3 days old, turned blue, and before we even knew what was happening he’s got tubes and cannulae and IVs travelling in and out of every orifice.

While I was teaching 6th grade today I was crocheting a scarf (as all good, attentive teachers would), and an 11-year-old boy approached my desk. He said, “My mom used to do that, too. I watched her all the time.” I was impossibly annoyed, for 6th graders in general are very annoying. My thoughts were, “Listen, kid. I don’t care that your mom crochets. I had to put my beautiful dog to sleep last night, my soon-to-be ex husband lost his job and thus I’m getting no alimony for the moment and, to boot, I left him because he had a hideous affair. I’m borrowing money from Peter to pay Paul. And to add, because I waited 2 and ½ years to leave after the delightful disclosure of his affair, my naïve kids, at the moment, blame ME! So let me crochet in peace, go read quietly like I asked you to, and I will continue with my crocheting and grocery list, the first two items are ‘vodka’ and ‘cheap red’. So, small fry, I’ve got bigger things to deal with than you and your mom’s crocheting”.

Of course, I didn’t actually say these things. But I thought them. Yes. I thought all of those things in a matter of seconds. My mind works at lightning speed. Despite my thoughts, my motherly instincts took over and I said, “Well that’s wonderful. Crocheting is really fun.” He responded with, “She did it all the time until she died of cancer”. Before I had a chance to react, he added, “She died in February”. I immediately put my crochet supplies down as his wide-brown eyes stared at me, waiting. I responded in the expected way a loving, motherly, sensitive adult would respond. With that, I found out that he never had a dad and now his step-dad is gone. He has a 12-year-old brother and they live with nana and grandpa now.

How do you comfort a little boy with a story like that, especially when you’re going through a real shit time yourself? How do you spin that shit-ass story into something positive?

My answer to him was that someday, and even quite possibly now, he can help other children that are going through the pain of losing a parent with the wisdom he has about the loss of his mom. I know the wisdom and pragmatic approach is there, for he just came right up to me and said, essentially, “my mom, who died of cancer, loved to do what you’re doing.” I told him that anyone who crochets is a friend of mine and that she must be a wonderful woman. With his giant brown doe-eyes he smiled and said, “Oh she was.”

So there I was, feeling sorry for myself, and mind you, I can, for things aren’t so easy as of now. There has to be good things on the way, but this little boy and his brother lost their mom to cancer and are sans a father. It put things in perspective…a little.

Within an 18 hour period there were two whiffs of death in my life.  Things can only be downhill from here, right?


keepcalmlawyerWhen I said “amicable,” at the time it was true. My readers should know by now that I speak nothing but the truth. There’s just one caveat: I might have been in denial. I might have wanted to believe what I was writing. Or I might have been drinking (and I never write drunk). Most importantly, the story behind the affair (blackmail and so on) is 100% true, so rest assured there. By “denial” I am referring to my confidence in our marriage and how I really saw myself, and RB. Now that I’ve had time for peace and growth by separating myself from him and “it” emotionally and physically I can see more clearly.

We were and are amicable most of the time. At this particular moment in time? Not so much. And some other times between leaving him and now? Not always. Ricky Bobby and I are still legally married and we will be for at least six more months. Although I filed for divorce he is putting road block after road block in the path for dissolution.

It really makes no sense that he is making things difficult. You see, Ricky Bobby, apparently, is engaged! Congrats, RB! That was fast! He has known this woman for five months. And this is after a 21 year marriage. It makes me sad and distressed in so many ways. Mainly the children (I’ll devote another post to just that subject).

And I thought affairs hurt marriages! Divorce is a whole different kind of chaos and pain whether or not the catalyst to it was an affair. Our story is yet more complicated, especially in regards to our three children, because I chose to stick around for over two years after disclosure day. I’m still doing the emotional and financial math. Would divorce have been easier for all of us if I had left immediately? Or is it better that I waited almost three years to leave? I will never have a definitive answer. All I can share is what happened to us, what I chose to do, and how that’s working out. I can share in theory what I think would have been different, whether for better or worse (to use a familiar phrase), which I will do in future posts.

I’m excited, yet it is with some trepidation that I share my story post-separation. It took a lot of thought to decide whether to go for it. But there’s really nothing to lose. I mean, look what I did with my other website. If I could expose myself to the world that way, this will be a Sunday school story by comparison.

We’re moving on.



torn greenbergsFrom “til death do us part” to apart and a dead marriage; from infidelity and blackmail to anger and forgiveness; from an in-tact family and happy children to a broken home with confused and sad children–this is the continuing story of Amanda Greenberg: the radically honest and brave woman who published a website all about her husband and his five-year affair with a blackmailing sexual sociopath.