Valentino and Dry Cleaning: Perfect Together

Consider this scenario for a moment. You’ve been one of my closest acquaintances, I started 3 businesses for you and asked nothing in return (because your grammar is that of a third-grader and you can’t write competent content for any publications, let alone letters to Senators), and we're roommates. (Since there was no sex for God knows how long, I considered us solely roommates, alas, roommates who once had sex and are legally entangled.) Even though I promised you an amicable split, one day, I tell you that you suck, you’re ugly, you’re worthless, and then I seal the deal by spitting red wine on your Valentino top. Which you can never replace since the brilliance that is Valentino is now retired, much to my dismay.

Well, that’s the equivalent of Ex’s and his attorney’s response to our settlement offer.

I spent almost an hour (watch that money mount! It’s like Kilimanjaro!) on the phone with Lawyer last night going over the response to our very fair settlement offer point by point. He prepared me by saying, “Almost, you’re going to freak out, but please don’t. Just listen to me and don’t say anything, no matter how angry you become.”

I agreed. And it was harder to keep my mouth shut than it is for Paris Hilton to keep her legs closed in front of the paparazzi when she’s not wearing undergarments.

After hearing the 14-point response and realizing that my blood pressure was approaching the level of death by automatic self-immolation, I asked him if, indeed, I had to give a deposition on Friday.

“Looks like it, but I’m going to retain a forensic accountant and an expert to review all of his many businesses. And don’t worry, I’m going to prep you and I’m also asking the judge for a continuance,” he answered.

“Lawyer, that’s going to take months! Forensic accountants?! That means I’ll still be married forever! I want out now! It’s already been over a year!” I exclaimed in a panic.

“I know, but we’re going to take him to the f*cking cleaners.”

“I don’t want that, I already have a good dry cleaner and house cleaner. I just want to get out with what I came in with,” I answered, my voice rising to the level heard only by dogs. (Pardon the hanging participle. I wasn’t really thinking last night because my anger took over my brain like some alien pod. I’m pretty sure an MRI at that moment would have come back completely fiery red through all lobes of my brain. Or blown up the MRI machine. One of the two.)

Lawyer had a cardiology appointment and potential emergency angioplasty today, so I haven’t heard from him. However, he did dictate an email for me last night to send to Ex, and it was hardcore, badass, take no prisoners. I was nervous about sending such a harsh email, but Lawyer insisted and I complied.

And thank God!! As I was writing this post, Lawyer called me. His cardiology appointment revealed no blockages or problems, so it seems that he’s fine. After filling me in on his test results, he told me that I don’t have to give a deposition tomorrow, but he has to show up for a pretrial meeting with Ex’s lawyer and the Judge.

And Ex? I’ve not heard a word back from him in response to my email. Let me put on my big surprise face. And take my Valentino corset to the cleaners.

(BTW, if you're not a New Jersey native, you won't get the reference of the title. Sorry about that, but think Tom Keane and his famous commercial when he was the Governor of NJ.)