More to come very soon.....
Showing posts with label Divorce Court. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Divorce Court. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Naked Backflips for Everyone!
It's still Black History Month, so I'll quote Dr. Martin Luther King and say, "Free at last, free at last!"
More to come very soon.....
More to come very soon.....
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Maybe Finally?
I walked into the deposition last Monday unable to control my trembling hands, despite a thorough set of instructions from Lawyer, assurances that this wouldn’t be too harsh a process for me, and a Valium. The depositions were held at Greasy Attorney’s office and I tried to find amusement at the fact that it looks like something out of the set of Miami Vice, but laughter wasn’t coming easily. I was somewhat comforted by the fact that Ex was going first so I could see what to expect, ignorant of the fact that it was futile since our depositions ended up being conducted very differently.
I kept my hands in my lap during Ex’s 4 ½ hour dep to hide the tremors, initially watching intently, then feeling fidgety because it was lasting longer than church when you have your favorite monthly visitor and you think your tampon is leaking. His dep consisted of Lawyer going through each business’s tax return line by line. It was an unbelievably tedious process, since Ex’s business practices are insanely convoluted. As Lawyer wound his way through the English garden maze of transfers, intra-company loans, and infusions of money out of thin air in an attempt to smoke out whatever place in which he may be hiding assets, I realized that Ex had perjured himself more times than I could count.
After his dep was over, we took a break. Ex went into another room while Lawyer and Greasy Attorney conferred in a different room and I picked up a dictionary from the shelf, beginning to thumb through it. It’s inane, but I like to take a dictionary, close my eyes, stick my finger into a random page and read it. The first page I selected was in the “M,” section. About halfway through, I came upon the words, “marriage,” “marriageable,” and “marriage minded.” I rolled my eyes and picked another page randomly. It was in the “L,” section. A few words down the page, I came across the word, “love.” I sighed and slammed the book shut, opening it again to another section. This time I was in the “C”s. You guessed it, it was the page with “commit,” “commitment,” and “common-law marriage.” Thinking that the book may have been possessed by the Devil himself, I returned it to the shelf and backed away from it just in time for everyone to return.
I began my own deposition scared, but that quickly turned to an irritation similar to that of wearing underwear made from glass shards. Whereas Lawyer showed Ex the utmost respect despite his clear perjury, Ex’s Greasy Attorney didn’t return the favor.
He asked, “You have a house cleaning service?”
“Yes.”
He sneered sarcastically as he leaned across the table. “What, are you too good to clean the floor or scrub a toilet?”
I looked at Lawyer in confusion because I wasn’t expecting to be treated as such. Lawyer wrote me a note under the table that said, “Just be cool. He’s a hack and he knows it.”
I wrote back, "D*CK!!!"
Later, as he was going through my financial disclosure statement, he said, “You listed quite a bit of money for your monthly doctor’s fees. Care to explain that?”
“If I must, I took an aggregate of the last 12 months of doctor’s fees and divided it by 12.”
“And just who are these doctors?” he asked.
“I’m not under any obligation to answer that, since it violates doctor-patient confidentiality, not to mention the fact that Lawyer never asked your client about that. If you insist, though, Dr. G treated me for my fractured calcaneous, Dr. E is my PCP, and I receive care from Dr. [Plastic Surgeon’s name].”
“What kind of medicine does she practice?”
“She’s a plastic surgeon,” I answered, knowing where this line of questioning was going.
“Ohhhh,” he answered, leaning back in his chair with a smirk on his face while he twisted his pencil back and forth. “Well, now, you’ve had plastic surgery?” he asked mockingly.
“Um, Greasy Attorney,” I stated, leaning across the table and coolly looking him directly in the eye, “since you specifically asked for my medical records from her prior to this deposition, I can only assume that you’re trying to trip me up and I don’t appreciate it, nor will I fall for your trickery. And furthermore, of course I’ve had plastic surgery!”
While the court reporter stifled a giggle, his face twisted into a grimace. “Moving on,” he said. “So what are all of these expenses for social clubs and entertainment?”
I listed all of my academic memberships and then told him that I had a once-weekly Girls Night and a once-weekly date with The Doc.
“Now, just what is the nature of your relationship to The Doc?” he said, smirking in self-satisfaction once again.
“Well, not that it’s relevant to these proceedings in the least, but he’s my Main Gay.” The room erupted in laughter. Actually, Lawyer, the court reporter, and I erupted into laughter.
True to what the P.A. had told me, it was 2 hours of him attempting to trick me into perjuring myself, but to no avail because I don’t have any tracks to cover. Finally, it was over and the time to start settlement discussions commenced. It was arduous and escalated into anger at times, but we finally hammered out a basic agreement after 9 (!!) hours and set a date to meet on Saturday to finalize it in order to avoid trial.
This past Saturday I walked into Greasy Attorney’s office, once again expecting Crockett and Tubbs to spring out from behind one of the plastic palm trees. I wasn’t as nervous as Monday, but I was still anticipating a potential break down of talks in light of Ex’s past nutty behaviors.
Talks almost did break down, but we finally came to an agreement. I’m not happy with it. Ex isn’t happy with it. As my Dad always says, though, a good settlement consists of both parties walking away unhappy.
The agreement still needs to be signed and there’s a chance that Ex will have a change of heart and back out, preferring trial, but I have every finger, toe, and internal organ crossed that it won’t happen. Despite my disagreement with much of the settlement, I just want this whole acrimonious, Dante’s Inferno of divorces to be over so that I can move on. If all goes according to plan, I will be officially, well, Free on Wednesday afternoon. No more Almost, but rather, Finally.
I kept my hands in my lap during Ex’s 4 ½ hour dep to hide the tremors, initially watching intently, then feeling fidgety because it was lasting longer than church when you have your favorite monthly visitor and you think your tampon is leaking. His dep consisted of Lawyer going through each business’s tax return line by line. It was an unbelievably tedious process, since Ex’s business practices are insanely convoluted. As Lawyer wound his way through the English garden maze of transfers, intra-company loans, and infusions of money out of thin air in an attempt to smoke out whatever place in which he may be hiding assets, I realized that Ex had perjured himself more times than I could count.
After his dep was over, we took a break. Ex went into another room while Lawyer and Greasy Attorney conferred in a different room and I picked up a dictionary from the shelf, beginning to thumb through it. It’s inane, but I like to take a dictionary, close my eyes, stick my finger into a random page and read it. The first page I selected was in the “M,” section. About halfway through, I came upon the words, “marriage,” “marriageable,” and “marriage minded.” I rolled my eyes and picked another page randomly. It was in the “L,” section. A few words down the page, I came across the word, “love.” I sighed and slammed the book shut, opening it again to another section. This time I was in the “C”s. You guessed it, it was the page with “commit,” “commitment,” and “common-law marriage.” Thinking that the book may have been possessed by the Devil himself, I returned it to the shelf and backed away from it just in time for everyone to return.
I began my own deposition scared, but that quickly turned to an irritation similar to that of wearing underwear made from glass shards. Whereas Lawyer showed Ex the utmost respect despite his clear perjury, Ex’s Greasy Attorney didn’t return the favor.
He asked, “You have a house cleaning service?”
“Yes.”
He sneered sarcastically as he leaned across the table. “What, are you too good to clean the floor or scrub a toilet?”
I looked at Lawyer in confusion because I wasn’t expecting to be treated as such. Lawyer wrote me a note under the table that said, “Just be cool. He’s a hack and he knows it.”
I wrote back, "D*CK!!!"
Later, as he was going through my financial disclosure statement, he said, “You listed quite a bit of money for your monthly doctor’s fees. Care to explain that?”
“If I must, I took an aggregate of the last 12 months of doctor’s fees and divided it by 12.”
“And just who are these doctors?” he asked.
“I’m not under any obligation to answer that, since it violates doctor-patient confidentiality, not to mention the fact that Lawyer never asked your client about that. If you insist, though, Dr. G treated me for my fractured calcaneous, Dr. E is my PCP, and I receive care from Dr. [Plastic Surgeon’s name].”
“What kind of medicine does she practice?”
“She’s a plastic surgeon,” I answered, knowing where this line of questioning was going.
“Ohhhh,” he answered, leaning back in his chair with a smirk on his face while he twisted his pencil back and forth. “Well, now, you’ve had plastic surgery?” he asked mockingly.
“Um, Greasy Attorney,” I stated, leaning across the table and coolly looking him directly in the eye, “since you specifically asked for my medical records from her prior to this deposition, I can only assume that you’re trying to trip me up and I don’t appreciate it, nor will I fall for your trickery. And furthermore, of course I’ve had plastic surgery!”
While the court reporter stifled a giggle, his face twisted into a grimace. “Moving on,” he said. “So what are all of these expenses for social clubs and entertainment?”
I listed all of my academic memberships and then told him that I had a once-weekly Girls Night and a once-weekly date with The Doc.
“Now, just what is the nature of your relationship to The Doc?” he said, smirking in self-satisfaction once again.
“Well, not that it’s relevant to these proceedings in the least, but he’s my Main Gay.” The room erupted in laughter. Actually, Lawyer, the court reporter, and I erupted into laughter.
True to what the P.A. had told me, it was 2 hours of him attempting to trick me into perjuring myself, but to no avail because I don’t have any tracks to cover. Finally, it was over and the time to start settlement discussions commenced. It was arduous and escalated into anger at times, but we finally hammered out a basic agreement after 9 (!!) hours and set a date to meet on Saturday to finalize it in order to avoid trial.
This past Saturday I walked into Greasy Attorney’s office, once again expecting Crockett and Tubbs to spring out from behind one of the plastic palm trees. I wasn’t as nervous as Monday, but I was still anticipating a potential break down of talks in light of Ex’s past nutty behaviors.
Talks almost did break down, but we finally came to an agreement. I’m not happy with it. Ex isn’t happy with it. As my Dad always says, though, a good settlement consists of both parties walking away unhappy.
The agreement still needs to be signed and there’s a chance that Ex will have a change of heart and back out, preferring trial, but I have every finger, toe, and internal organ crossed that it won’t happen. Despite my disagreement with much of the settlement, I just want this whole acrimonious, Dante’s Inferno of divorces to be over so that I can move on. If all goes according to plan, I will be officially, well, Free on Wednesday afternoon. No more Almost, but rather, Finally.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
When It Rains, It Pours.
Last week at work, I ran into one of the P.A.s in the hallway with whom I work in our clinic’s office. I knew that she’d had a deposition the previous week for a work-related case, but I hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it, so I stopped her and inquired about her experience.
“Almost, it was the worst three and a half hours of my life. I mean, this guy was insanely rude, sarcastic, and he tried to trick me and trip me up the entire time,” she answered as she sagged against the wall.
Since I’ve been in panic mode for several weeks, this didn’t serve to quell the Category 5 hurricane that’s been taking a tour of my G.I. tract for so long, but I wanted to know what I’ll be facing so I asked for details. She told me that one of the doctors deposed actually stood up and told the attorney that he refused to be treated with that kind of disrespect and left the room. The ugly specifics of her experience, which I obviously can’t discuss for HIPAA and legal reasons, made my hair stand on end. I was pretty sure I looked like one of those people with their hand on the electricity ball at the science museum.
When Lawyer called Friday morning to confirm the deposition for Monday, I was immediately seized with terror. Filling him in briefly on what the P.A. had undergone, I asked him if I’d be dealing with the same kind of trickery, even though I have nothing to hide.
“No, that’s a totally different situation. I know you’re nervous, but I’m right there, and if there’s a question I don’t want you to answer, I’ll direct you not to answer, “ he replied.
With a promise that he’d call me Sunday night to talk about a few last-minute details, we said goodbye. At 4:40 in the afternoon Friday (of a holiday weekend, no less), I received an email from Lawyer’s paralegal with a rider from Ex’s Greasy Attorney demanding a Mount McKinley of documents for Monday’s deposition, including my medical records, specifically mentioning Plastic Surgeon and The Doc, the latter of whom is only a friend and doesn’t even treat me. Not only were his demands entirely impossible for time reasons, but I was also really pissed at the part about my medical records.
I called Lawyer, and he actually laughed through my whole rant about how my medical records aren’t any of Ex's f*cking business, not to mention that it violates doctor-patient confidentiality and HIPAA, and what the f*ck does he think he’s doing, since The Doc has never treated me and did treat Ex for his f*cked up mental health?
“Almost, take a breath!” he exclaimed. “He knows that you can’t produce those documents, and he’s in a load of hot water because we made our document demands months ago, but he’s dropping the ball in doing this to you at the 11th hour. The court will see it, too, and as for the medical records? Don’t even worry about it, that’s none of their business, and it’s irrelevant.”
My heart rate began to drop down, and I hung up with him. I was still angrier than a bodybuilder in the midst of ‘roid rage, though, because I can produce some of the documents, and that leaves me with a crapload of work to do tonight.
I would have gotten to work on it sooner, but I’ve had to work at the hospital all weekend on this ridiculously large project and haven’t had time until just now. This morning, my coworker called me and asked me to pick her up on my way. I agreed, picked her up, and we set off for work.
On the way, I found myself in a predicament. I had the choice of hitting a pothole the size of Rhode Island or hitting the person driving next to me. I chose the former and immediately got a flat tire, the second one I’ve had in the span of 6 weeks because the potholes here have proliferated faster than rabbits in heat. Thankfully, my coworker’s husband came and changed the flat for us, so now I’m driving on a super sexy doughnut for God knows how long, since the rim of the wheel in question is clearly bent. At least Lawyer is driving both of us to the dep.
So tomorrow, Monday, I guess I’ll be grilled and tricked and tripped. There’s an Argentinean television show called “El Peor Dia de Tu Vida,” (The Worst Day of Your Life) in which they play all kinds of horrible tricks on someone and it’s literally the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, even though I feel sorry for the poor victim. Tomorrow may just be my personal Peor Dia de Mi Vida, though I haven’t gone to trial yet, so that kind of leaves the door open to more sh*tastic experiences. And I don't think being deposed will be nearly as amusing to me as the show.
The cosmos must have wanted to make the day both metaphorical and literal, because when my coworker and I finally made it to the hospital, the skies opened in a downpour of rain, sleet and hail like I’ve never seen.
“Almost, it was the worst three and a half hours of my life. I mean, this guy was insanely rude, sarcastic, and he tried to trick me and trip me up the entire time,” she answered as she sagged against the wall.
Since I’ve been in panic mode for several weeks, this didn’t serve to quell the Category 5 hurricane that’s been taking a tour of my G.I. tract for so long, but I wanted to know what I’ll be facing so I asked for details. She told me that one of the doctors deposed actually stood up and told the attorney that he refused to be treated with that kind of disrespect and left the room. The ugly specifics of her experience, which I obviously can’t discuss for HIPAA and legal reasons, made my hair stand on end. I was pretty sure I looked like one of those people with their hand on the electricity ball at the science museum.
When Lawyer called Friday morning to confirm the deposition for Monday, I was immediately seized with terror. Filling him in briefly on what the P.A. had undergone, I asked him if I’d be dealing with the same kind of trickery, even though I have nothing to hide.
“No, that’s a totally different situation. I know you’re nervous, but I’m right there, and if there’s a question I don’t want you to answer, I’ll direct you not to answer, “ he replied.
With a promise that he’d call me Sunday night to talk about a few last-minute details, we said goodbye. At 4:40 in the afternoon Friday (of a holiday weekend, no less), I received an email from Lawyer’s paralegal with a rider from Ex’s Greasy Attorney demanding a Mount McKinley of documents for Monday’s deposition, including my medical records, specifically mentioning Plastic Surgeon and The Doc, the latter of whom is only a friend and doesn’t even treat me. Not only were his demands entirely impossible for time reasons, but I was also really pissed at the part about my medical records.
I called Lawyer, and he actually laughed through my whole rant about how my medical records aren’t any of Ex's f*cking business, not to mention that it violates doctor-patient confidentiality and HIPAA, and what the f*ck does he think he’s doing, since The Doc has never treated me and did treat Ex for his f*cked up mental health?
“Almost, take a breath!” he exclaimed. “He knows that you can’t produce those documents, and he’s in a load of hot water because we made our document demands months ago, but he’s dropping the ball in doing this to you at the 11th hour. The court will see it, too, and as for the medical records? Don’t even worry about it, that’s none of their business, and it’s irrelevant.”
My heart rate began to drop down, and I hung up with him. I was still angrier than a bodybuilder in the midst of ‘roid rage, though, because I can produce some of the documents, and that leaves me with a crapload of work to do tonight.
I would have gotten to work on it sooner, but I’ve had to work at the hospital all weekend on this ridiculously large project and haven’t had time until just now. This morning, my coworker called me and asked me to pick her up on my way. I agreed, picked her up, and we set off for work.
On the way, I found myself in a predicament. I had the choice of hitting a pothole the size of Rhode Island or hitting the person driving next to me. I chose the former and immediately got a flat tire, the second one I’ve had in the span of 6 weeks because the potholes here have proliferated faster than rabbits in heat. Thankfully, my coworker’s husband came and changed the flat for us, so now I’m driving on a super sexy doughnut for God knows how long, since the rim of the wheel in question is clearly bent. At least Lawyer is driving both of us to the dep.
So tomorrow, Monday, I guess I’ll be grilled and tricked and tripped. There’s an Argentinean television show called “El Peor Dia de Tu Vida,” (The Worst Day of Your Life) in which they play all kinds of horrible tricks on someone and it’s literally the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, even though I feel sorry for the poor victim. Tomorrow may just be my personal Peor Dia de Mi Vida, though I haven’t gone to trial yet, so that kind of leaves the door open to more sh*tastic experiences. And I don't think being deposed will be nearly as amusing to me as the show.
The cosmos must have wanted to make the day both metaphorical and literal, because when my coworker and I finally made it to the hospital, the skies opened in a downpour of rain, sleet and hail like I’ve never seen.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Giggling on the Couch
I began the week thinking that I was going to give a deposition tomorrow in preparation for trial at the end of the month. It has made my stomach knot so badly that I think I’ve given myself my own gastric bypass, even though I need to gain weight instead of losing it. I want an ass again instead of two pancakes. But I digress.
I was heading toward the elevator this morning to begin work when I looked up from furiously text messaging to see that Dr. X was holding the elevator for me. I sped up my pace and thanked him for holding the door.
“So how are you?” I asked.
Though I didn’t mean to insinuate anything about his split, he answered with a half-chuckle, “Just fine, as you well know. Pasting that smile on my face and pretending that everything is terrific. How about you?”
“Oh, fan-freakin’-tastic!” I laughed.
We joked about our respective problems on the short ride up, sharing brief horror stories, laughing, and telling each other to hang in there when we exited the elevator and went to our separate clinics. It spurred me to think about how I can genuinely laugh about this horrific situation with certain people, and more specifically, the absurdities that make me laugh.
With Dr. X, I can laugh because I know his soon-to-be-ex is making his life a living hell and needling him for more than that to which she is entitled. I can commiserate on both levels.
With respect to the latter, that being the Ex needling for more than that to which he or she is entitled, I live it each day. Not only is Ex vying for half of my trust fund, but since I moved out, he’s refused to either split the furniture in the house with me or to reasonably furnish the condo. Both bedrooms in my place were furnished and there were bar stools at the kitchen island along with a couple of coffee table chairs when we separated, but dining room table and chairs? No. Couch? No. Coffee table or storage for books? No. You get the idea. Seriously, who doesn't have a couch? I'm not an 18-year-old undergrad anymore, so that makes the situation simply unexplainable and untenable.
I’ve already mentioned how I’m still a partner in and started one of Ex’s (very visible) businesses from which I never drew a salary, how I started two of his other companies for him, as well as how I’m a poor graduate student. My job doesn’t pay that well and the bartending gig is only one night a week. Really, is it too selfish to ask that the condo be furnished after living here for a year and a half and being his business partner for 5 years? I mean, I know I can be a selfish bitch sometimes, but in truth, that only happens if someone wants me to donate my motorcycle to them because they just really want it or perhaps make me foot the entire bill for a $3,000 night out. That being said, I’d give you my kidney if you needed it, even if I didn't know you. To boot, the law in our state dictates that we split the marital assets in half, of which furniture is one, and I asked for not even one quarter of that. Apparently, that’s too much, because he refused.
Lawyer called me today at work and said that the deposition had been postponed, potentially for Monday, but he wanted me to provide him with some photos in preparation. I was just thrilled that I’d been vomiting a little in my mouth all week for nothing. Regardless, he needed photos of all vehicles in question, which, if you count the motorcycles, ends up being 7. He also wanted photos of the house as well as those of the half-furnished condo.
I have photos of most of the vehicles and the house, and also have photos of the half-furnished condo that I took about a year ago, thankfully.
I say, “thankfully,” because someone helped me furnish the condo several months ago and current photos would not reflect the previously half-assed furnishings. This person is kind, generous, and sensitive. Sometimes air-headed, but the good things make up for that in spades. Again, I digress.
I was thanking my lucky stars for having the foresight to take those photos before the benevolent person to whom I referred helped me furnish this place. And then I thought about how I was able to laugh at the absurdity of not having furniture for so long, as well as laugh at the general incongruity of a contentious divorce like mine. It’s not that I now have furniture, because I laughed before that when the gorgeous Ms. Lemon Gloria Lisa visited and had to endure a night at my echoingly empty condo. It's not that I'm getting closer to a resolution, either.
I laugh because the sheer absurdity of the machinations of divorce confound me. I laugh because it takes so long. I laugh because sometimes I want to jump off of my balcony, and I’m not a suicidal person at all.
Then again, I think maybe Dr. X laughs for the same reason as this one. I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll cry.
And I laugh because….
I was heading toward the elevator this morning to begin work when I looked up from furiously text messaging to see that Dr. X was holding the elevator for me. I sped up my pace and thanked him for holding the door.
“So how are you?” I asked.
Though I didn’t mean to insinuate anything about his split, he answered with a half-chuckle, “Just fine, as you well know. Pasting that smile on my face and pretending that everything is terrific. How about you?”
“Oh, fan-freakin’-tastic!” I laughed.
We joked about our respective problems on the short ride up, sharing brief horror stories, laughing, and telling each other to hang in there when we exited the elevator and went to our separate clinics. It spurred me to think about how I can genuinely laugh about this horrific situation with certain people, and more specifically, the absurdities that make me laugh.
With Dr. X, I can laugh because I know his soon-to-be-ex is making his life a living hell and needling him for more than that to which she is entitled. I can commiserate on both levels.
With respect to the latter, that being the Ex needling for more than that to which he or she is entitled, I live it each day. Not only is Ex vying for half of my trust fund, but since I moved out, he’s refused to either split the furniture in the house with me or to reasonably furnish the condo. Both bedrooms in my place were furnished and there were bar stools at the kitchen island along with a couple of coffee table chairs when we separated, but dining room table and chairs? No. Couch? No. Coffee table or storage for books? No. You get the idea. Seriously, who doesn't have a couch? I'm not an 18-year-old undergrad anymore, so that makes the situation simply unexplainable and untenable.
I’ve already mentioned how I’m still a partner in and started one of Ex’s (very visible) businesses from which I never drew a salary, how I started two of his other companies for him, as well as how I’m a poor graduate student. My job doesn’t pay that well and the bartending gig is only one night a week. Really, is it too selfish to ask that the condo be furnished after living here for a year and a half and being his business partner for 5 years? I mean, I know I can be a selfish bitch sometimes, but in truth, that only happens if someone wants me to donate my motorcycle to them because they just really want it or perhaps make me foot the entire bill for a $3,000 night out. That being said, I’d give you my kidney if you needed it, even if I didn't know you. To boot, the law in our state dictates that we split the marital assets in half, of which furniture is one, and I asked for not even one quarter of that. Apparently, that’s too much, because he refused.
Lawyer called me today at work and said that the deposition had been postponed, potentially for Monday, but he wanted me to provide him with some photos in preparation. I was just thrilled that I’d been vomiting a little in my mouth all week for nothing. Regardless, he needed photos of all vehicles in question, which, if you count the motorcycles, ends up being 7. He also wanted photos of the house as well as those of the half-furnished condo.
I have photos of most of the vehicles and the house, and also have photos of the half-furnished condo that I took about a year ago, thankfully.
I say, “thankfully,” because someone helped me furnish the condo several months ago and current photos would not reflect the previously half-assed furnishings. This person is kind, generous, and sensitive. Sometimes air-headed, but the good things make up for that in spades. Again, I digress.
I was thanking my lucky stars for having the foresight to take those photos before the benevolent person to whom I referred helped me furnish this place. And then I thought about how I was able to laugh at the absurdity of not having furniture for so long, as well as laugh at the general incongruity of a contentious divorce like mine. It’s not that I now have furniture, because I laughed before that when the gorgeous Ms. Lemon Gloria Lisa visited and had to endure a night at my echoingly empty condo. It's not that I'm getting closer to a resolution, either.
I laugh because the sheer absurdity of the machinations of divorce confound me. I laugh because it takes so long. I laugh because sometimes I want to jump off of my balcony, and I’m not a suicidal person at all.
Then again, I think maybe Dr. X laughs for the same reason as this one. I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll cry.
And I laugh because….
Thursday, February 7, 2008
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Can Someone Hand Me the Benzodiazepines Now?
I spent last evening bartending the grand opening of a new, fabulous place in my city that’s owned by former supervisors of mine when I was toiling full-time behind the bar. They called me last minute and I was more than happy to oblige because I love these people and I knew that the crowd would be my style. Well-heeled, well behaved, and ready to spend. Well, the former two are my style because I still have my almost-Imelda-Marcos shoe collection and I behave in public, but the last is in question since Lawyer’s fees are now exceeding those of building the Space Shuttle.
It was insanely busy last evening and, indeed, the crowd met my expectations, replete with entrepreneurs, old money, and the financial geniuses that have navigated their way through this market successfully. And Lawyer. I knew he was coming, but I didn’t know what was coming.
He pulled me to the side of the bar and said, “Almost, I know you’re busy, but let me just say this quickly. Of course, you know we haven’t received a response to our settlement offer from Ex’s attorney, except that he asked me to have you ready for a deposition on Friday. Can you get free Friday afternoon?”
So I downed a bottle of prosecco right out of the neck. OK, no, I didn’t, but I wanted to do just that.
My Dad has spoken of depositions for years but I suppose I just never thought I’d be the subject of one. Quite frankly, I’m more panicked than the Fed in the January market crash before they discovered Jerome Kerviel’s (of France’s Societe Generale Bank) contribution to the market meltdown.
Speaking of meltdowns, I’m actively trying to prevent my own. I will be thrilled to be finally divorced, but at this point, I feel like a figure at Madam Tussaud’s during a five-alarm fire. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is all worth it and I'll still be doing naked backflips down the equivalent of Madison Avenue in my city when all is said and done, but who knew I’d be more scared of trial than Britney Spears facing the notion of 14 days without In ‘N Out Burger? (Which, by the way, is my theory on why she busted out of the psychiatric facility.)
P.S. Just received a phone call from Lawyer and he received a response. He said he read the first line and put it down in disgust. He'll be calling me later tonight, so more to come soon.....
It was insanely busy last evening and, indeed, the crowd met my expectations, replete with entrepreneurs, old money, and the financial geniuses that have navigated their way through this market successfully. And Lawyer. I knew he was coming, but I didn’t know what was coming.
He pulled me to the side of the bar and said, “Almost, I know you’re busy, but let me just say this quickly. Of course, you know we haven’t received a response to our settlement offer from Ex’s attorney, except that he asked me to have you ready for a deposition on Friday. Can you get free Friday afternoon?”
So I downed a bottle of prosecco right out of the neck. OK, no, I didn’t, but I wanted to do just that.
My Dad has spoken of depositions for years but I suppose I just never thought I’d be the subject of one. Quite frankly, I’m more panicked than the Fed in the January market crash before they discovered Jerome Kerviel’s (of France’s Societe Generale Bank) contribution to the market meltdown.
Speaking of meltdowns, I’m actively trying to prevent my own. I will be thrilled to be finally divorced, but at this point, I feel like a figure at Madam Tussaud’s during a five-alarm fire. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is all worth it and I'll still be doing naked backflips down the equivalent of Madison Avenue in my city when all is said and done, but who knew I’d be more scared of trial than Britney Spears facing the notion of 14 days without In ‘N Out Burger? (Which, by the way, is my theory on why she busted out of the psychiatric facility.)
P.S. Just received a phone call from Lawyer and he received a response. He said he read the first line and put it down in disgust. He'll be calling me later tonight, so more to come soon.....
Friday, February 1, 2008
It's Not as Easy as Everyone Thinks
I was at work in November, just getting back into the swing of things, when my closest coworker said something to me that left me as surprised as if neon monkeys had just flown out of her ass. I overheard her saying something to a nurse about how Dr. X had gotten a divorce in 3 months after a 20-something year marriage and had subsequently moved downtown. I interrupted her to ask what she was talking about.
“Almost, I know you’ve been gone for awhile,” she said, “but yes, Dr. X got a divorce in 3 months and moved downtown immediately. How come you can’t get divorced that fast?”
I felt like someone had just whacked me upside the head with a smoked meatstick, I was so flabbergasted. How could he, with a two-decades-long marriage and children, get divorced so quickly while I was mired in lawyer’s fees, text messages, and middle of the night phone calls?
As a little background, I work with Dr. X only on rare occasions. We’re on the same floor, we’re generally in the same line of medicine, and I pass him often in the hall, but his program is separate so we don’t really interact too much except to exchange pleasantries or talk about a particular patient that we share. I wanted to find out how he’d gotten divorced faster than Superman could catch a speeding bullet, but I have a tremendous amount of respect for Dr. X and I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. After all, I am all too aware of the sensitive nature of these issues and I wasn’t sure of the circumstances that contributed to the demise to his marriage.
However, I also knew that he and Plastic Surgeon have been friends for years and share a great mutual respect. They’re very much alike. Both are literally world-renowned in their fields, brilliant, and innovators, but they also have great personalities and love to have a good time, i.e., put down more vodka than Jeff Conaway and raise some hell. Fun hell! FYI, some super-smarties have the social skills of a Q-tip. These two break the mold.
Of course, the first person I called when I returned home that evening was Plastic Surgeon. They work in separate parts of the hospital, so I wasn’t sure if she’d heard the news.
“PS, did you know that Dr. X got a divorce and has already moved downtown?”
“WHAT?!” she exclaimed. “No, I didn’t know that. It’ll be fabulous to hang out with him downtown now! When are we taking him out? How in the world did he get divorced so fast, and why can’t you do the same?”
Again, I had my own Casper of a question haunting me, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go into Dr. X’s office, slap him on the shoulder in camaraderie and say, “Hey, heard your marriage broke up and you’re my neighbor now! So tell me, what’s the secret to getting unhitched so quickly?”
Yesterday, though, I finally ratcheted up the courage. I was on my way to a lunch meeting when I walked by his office and saw him alone. I passed, but quickly turned back without even thinking, knocking on the frame of his open door softly.
He looked up. “Oh, hi, Almost!” he said, sliding his reading glasses down his nose. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in awhile!”
After some small talk, I said, “Hey, I hear we’re neighbors now. I keep looking around when I’m out downtown to see if you’re there, but I haven’t seen you yet. PS wants us all to go out sometime, are you up for it?”
He looked puzzled. “You live downtown?”
“Yes, when my divorce started, I moved. I couldn’t wait to get out of the ‘burbs.”
The look on his face was a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and relief. “I had no idea. I didn’t even know that you were divorced.”
“Not divorced, Dr. X, getting divorced,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a long process for me. You’re lucky you got it over with so quickly.”
“Hah!” he laughed. “Quickly?! I’m in the midst of a sh*tstorm. And the attorney’s fees? Don’t even get me started on that!”
We shared mutual horror stories for a few minutes, which prompted him to proclaim at one point, “They should make it harder to get married than to get divorced. Both parties should have to undergo rigorous psychological testing in order to get married. The divorce should be the easy part.”
So there I had it. He hadn’t gotten divorced as quickly as everyone thought and he admitted a few minutes later that he’s still going through the same hell that I am.
"Almost, there are times that I get back to my place, sit on the couch, and I just feel that I can't even move. I'm just paralyzed." My heart went out to him, because, though I'm past that part, I've really been there.
We chatted for a few minutes, and I said, “Well, PS and I will call you the next time we’re out downtown.”
He responded, “I’d love to join you girls. You don’t know how fun an evening like that would be for me.”
I departed for my meeting and somehow, felt a little bit better. I would never want Dr. X to suffer a protracted divorce as I have, but at the same time, I was comforted by the fact that I didn’t miss some magical “hey, you can get divorced in 3 months, you dumbass,” rule. And if a brilliant, accomplished doctor feels also feels the paralyzing, depressing nature of a divorce, I don't feel as badly about going through the same thing.
I’ve heard quite a few stories about how someone’s gotten divorced in a matter of weeks, but I’m inclined at this point to call bullsh*t. And even if one does get divorced in a matter of months? Perhaps it’s just that much more hell packed into a shorter period of time. But for the time being, I’ll think that it’s a fairy tale quietly and conveniently enclosed in a Mother Hubbard tale.
“Almost, I know you’ve been gone for awhile,” she said, “but yes, Dr. X got a divorce in 3 months and moved downtown immediately. How come you can’t get divorced that fast?”
I felt like someone had just whacked me upside the head with a smoked meatstick, I was so flabbergasted. How could he, with a two-decades-long marriage and children, get divorced so quickly while I was mired in lawyer’s fees, text messages, and middle of the night phone calls?
As a little background, I work with Dr. X only on rare occasions. We’re on the same floor, we’re generally in the same line of medicine, and I pass him often in the hall, but his program is separate so we don’t really interact too much except to exchange pleasantries or talk about a particular patient that we share. I wanted to find out how he’d gotten divorced faster than Superman could catch a speeding bullet, but I have a tremendous amount of respect for Dr. X and I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. After all, I am all too aware of the sensitive nature of these issues and I wasn’t sure of the circumstances that contributed to the demise to his marriage.
However, I also knew that he and Plastic Surgeon have been friends for years and share a great mutual respect. They’re very much alike. Both are literally world-renowned in their fields, brilliant, and innovators, but they also have great personalities and love to have a good time, i.e., put down more vodka than Jeff Conaway and raise some hell. Fun hell! FYI, some super-smarties have the social skills of a Q-tip. These two break the mold.
Of course, the first person I called when I returned home that evening was Plastic Surgeon. They work in separate parts of the hospital, so I wasn’t sure if she’d heard the news.
“PS, did you know that Dr. X got a divorce and has already moved downtown?”
“WHAT?!” she exclaimed. “No, I didn’t know that. It’ll be fabulous to hang out with him downtown now! When are we taking him out? How in the world did he get divorced so fast, and why can’t you do the same?”
Again, I had my own Casper of a question haunting me, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go into Dr. X’s office, slap him on the shoulder in camaraderie and say, “Hey, heard your marriage broke up and you’re my neighbor now! So tell me, what’s the secret to getting unhitched so quickly?”
Yesterday, though, I finally ratcheted up the courage. I was on my way to a lunch meeting when I walked by his office and saw him alone. I passed, but quickly turned back without even thinking, knocking on the frame of his open door softly.
He looked up. “Oh, hi, Almost!” he said, sliding his reading glasses down his nose. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in awhile!”
After some small talk, I said, “Hey, I hear we’re neighbors now. I keep looking around when I’m out downtown to see if you’re there, but I haven’t seen you yet. PS wants us all to go out sometime, are you up for it?”
He looked puzzled. “You live downtown?”
“Yes, when my divorce started, I moved. I couldn’t wait to get out of the ‘burbs.”
The look on his face was a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and relief. “I had no idea. I didn’t even know that you were divorced.”
“Not divorced, Dr. X, getting divorced,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a long process for me. You’re lucky you got it over with so quickly.”
“Hah!” he laughed. “Quickly?! I’m in the midst of a sh*tstorm. And the attorney’s fees? Don’t even get me started on that!”
We shared mutual horror stories for a few minutes, which prompted him to proclaim at one point, “They should make it harder to get married than to get divorced. Both parties should have to undergo rigorous psychological testing in order to get married. The divorce should be the easy part.”
So there I had it. He hadn’t gotten divorced as quickly as everyone thought and he admitted a few minutes later that he’s still going through the same hell that I am.
"Almost, there are times that I get back to my place, sit on the couch, and I just feel that I can't even move. I'm just paralyzed." My heart went out to him, because, though I'm past that part, I've really been there.
We chatted for a few minutes, and I said, “Well, PS and I will call you the next time we’re out downtown.”
He responded, “I’d love to join you girls. You don’t know how fun an evening like that would be for me.”
I departed for my meeting and somehow, felt a little bit better. I would never want Dr. X to suffer a protracted divorce as I have, but at the same time, I was comforted by the fact that I didn’t miss some magical “hey, you can get divorced in 3 months, you dumbass,” rule. And if a brilliant, accomplished doctor feels also feels the paralyzing, depressing nature of a divorce, I don't feel as badly about going through the same thing.
I’ve heard quite a few stories about how someone’s gotten divorced in a matter of weeks, but I’m inclined at this point to call bullsh*t. And even if one does get divorced in a matter of months? Perhaps it’s just that much more hell packed into a shorter period of time. But for the time being, I’ll think that it’s a fairy tale quietly and conveniently enclosed in a Mother Hubbard tale.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Hold On, I'm Opening a Bottle of Wine....
In late November, Ex emailed me and asked me to meet with him so that we could come to a resolution in this divorce without going to trial. I agreed, albeit hesitantly, to get together in public. I wasn’t sure if he was going to abduct me and lynch me or if he might just shoot me in plain sight. Or perhaps he’d gotten a girlfriend, was over me, and would be rational (please, God!). I’m not sure to this day that it was any of the above.
The meeting took place on a late Sunday morning (with my long bangs firmly in place over my left eye to hide my injuries) in a well-known restaurant in my city and it began with chit chat about what was happening in our respective lives. Initially, I was puzzled with regards to the nature of the conversation because it was as surreal as chatting about the weather with Osama Bin Laden. I wanted to spend about as much time with him as I would with Charles Manson, so I wasn't interested in Britney Spear’s latest meltdown and whether or not Suri is actually a product of L. Ron Hubbard’s frozen sperm. I felt like I had just fallen down the rabbit hole. Or taken a hit of LSD (which I've never done, by the way, but I can only imagine after watching one of my distant cousins take it and then roll around on the asphalt in front of a gas station pump screaming, "I'm a bear! I'm a bear! Grrrrrrrr!").
Finally, nearing the end of the brunch, he handed me a piece of paper and said, “This is my offer.”
After looking it over, I said, “I’ll have to talk to Lawyer about this, of course, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
He agreed. Then he said, “Oh, and by the way, I have 12 bottles of wine from the wine cellar for you in my car. I want to give those to you before we go.”
Conveniently, half of the wine in the wine cellar was left off of the settlement offer. I was already feeling suspicious of the genial way he presented himself, so this just served to increase my suspicions tenfold. After all of the nutty behavior, believing that he was actually a logical person was as difficult for me as believing that Xenu actually flew DC-10s filled with aliens here 10 billion years ago. I wondered, was he trying to bribe me with a case of wine, and if so, did he actually believe that would work? Sure, I love good wine, but I’d rather go a lifetime without Opus One than let myself get screwed over in the divorce as I already had in the marriage. Or was he really being genuine, truly desiring a friendly resolution? The fact that the settlement offer was lacking, to put it mildly, gave me the impetus to lean toward the former, but I still haven’t quite made an assessment on that one.
Lawyer and I haven’t had much time together lately, partially due to my genius self-inflicted facial injury and traumatic brain injury, and partially due to his busy schedule, but I did finally get together with him in early January. I gave him the paper that Ex had given me.
“Well, we agree on certain things, but absolutely not on others,” he said.
We were out to dinner with his cousin and Anastasia, so I said, “Let’s get together later and really go over this to come up with a response.” He agreed.
Needless to say, the catch up game I’ve been playing since I f*cked up my face and brain in October has been more brutal than swimming the English Channel in a g-string and bedazzled pasties in February, so we hadn't gotten together yet.
A few days ago, I called Newscaster Cousin. I hadn’t spoken to him since my injury, which is unusual because we typically talk or see each other at least once a week, and he was initially pissed that I had gone into hiding. After I ran the gauntlet with him, metaphorically flogged myself repeatedly, did my penance, explained what had happened to me, and gained forgiveness, he began to disclose.
“Almost, Ex called me three weeks ago. He wants me to vote for him for some award that he’s up for and then he asked me if he could take me and my boyfriend to dinner.”
“You said no, didn’t you?” I asked, aghast.
“Of course I said no. I was pissed at you, but I’m still loyal to you. Even though you’re a bitch. And why in hell didn’t you call me when you injured yourself? I would have been there in a second,” he growled.
“Wait, let’s get back to the subject. Ex asked you and your boyfriend out to dinner? And by the way, you’re never this much of an a**hole on the air.”
He laughed. “I can’t be an a**hole on the air, but I can be to my beloved cousin who doesn’t call me for three months. Anyway, yeah, I think Ex is trying to get custody of me in the divorce. And plus he told me that you’re going to trial. I thought that trial was only for, like, the Heather Mills/Paul McCartney kind of divorce. What’s going on?”
I was silent. Blown away. He thought we were going to trial? It had only been a month and a half since we’d discussed settlement! Granted, he didn’t know that I almost either killed or permanently disfigured myself, but still, I thought he’d be more generous with the time factor.
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered Cousin. “I have to call Lawyer and deal with this right this second, I suppose.”
“Yeah, you do, because Ex is a freak and he’s nuts.”
I hung up with Cousin and immediately called Lawyer, telling him what happened. He said, “My week is totally jammed, but how about a dinner on Monday night?”
I sent Ex an email, letting him know that he’d receive our response today, to which he replied that he has been preparing for trial and will continue to do so. I rolled my eyes because I know that he hasn’t even spoken to his lawyer in months, so that statement is about as true as if I were to assert that I’d just grown a third breast.
My meeting with Lawyer last night went just as I thought. We laughed, caught up, and finally went over our business, coming up with the same proposal that we had set forth months ago when we had a settlement conference with Ex and his attorney. We laughed about the total lack of progress in the case, but then Lawyer became serious.
“Almost, Ex would be a fool not to take this offer,” he said. “You’ll get a lot more if we go to trial.”
“I don’t want to go to trial and I don’t want more, you know that. The depositions, the witness stand…. all of that stuff makes me more nervous than a virgin in a supermax prison.”
He laughed. “Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m ready, and you really won’t have to do that much. And you know what? If they want to be fools, f*ck it, I’ll tear them apart in court.”
Trial is set for the end of February and Ex has a week to respond to our offer. Perhaps his response will answer the questions with which I was left after I met him alone to discuss settling this mess. If he accepts the offer or is willing to discuss it out of court, maybe he really has become somewhat rational. If he rejects it and we go to trial, I’ll know that he tried to bribe me with a case of wine and a friendly façade.
I think I’ll open a bottle of that Opus One tonight. I have a feeling that I’ll be sworn to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth in a matter of weeks.
The meeting took place on a late Sunday morning (with my long bangs firmly in place over my left eye to hide my injuries) in a well-known restaurant in my city and it began with chit chat about what was happening in our respective lives. Initially, I was puzzled with regards to the nature of the conversation because it was as surreal as chatting about the weather with Osama Bin Laden. I wanted to spend about as much time with him as I would with Charles Manson, so I wasn't interested in Britney Spear’s latest meltdown and whether or not Suri is actually a product of L. Ron Hubbard’s frozen sperm. I felt like I had just fallen down the rabbit hole. Or taken a hit of LSD (which I've never done, by the way, but I can only imagine after watching one of my distant cousins take it and then roll around on the asphalt in front of a gas station pump screaming, "I'm a bear! I'm a bear! Grrrrrrrr!").
Finally, nearing the end of the brunch, he handed me a piece of paper and said, “This is my offer.”
After looking it over, I said, “I’ll have to talk to Lawyer about this, of course, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
He agreed. Then he said, “Oh, and by the way, I have 12 bottles of wine from the wine cellar for you in my car. I want to give those to you before we go.”
Conveniently, half of the wine in the wine cellar was left off of the settlement offer. I was already feeling suspicious of the genial way he presented himself, so this just served to increase my suspicions tenfold. After all of the nutty behavior, believing that he was actually a logical person was as difficult for me as believing that Xenu actually flew DC-10s filled with aliens here 10 billion years ago. I wondered, was he trying to bribe me with a case of wine, and if so, did he actually believe that would work? Sure, I love good wine, but I’d rather go a lifetime without Opus One than let myself get screwed over in the divorce as I already had in the marriage. Or was he really being genuine, truly desiring a friendly resolution? The fact that the settlement offer was lacking, to put it mildly, gave me the impetus to lean toward the former, but I still haven’t quite made an assessment on that one.
Lawyer and I haven’t had much time together lately, partially due to my genius self-inflicted facial injury and traumatic brain injury, and partially due to his busy schedule, but I did finally get together with him in early January. I gave him the paper that Ex had given me.
“Well, we agree on certain things, but absolutely not on others,” he said.
We were out to dinner with his cousin and Anastasia, so I said, “Let’s get together later and really go over this to come up with a response.” He agreed.
Needless to say, the catch up game I’ve been playing since I f*cked up my face and brain in October has been more brutal than swimming the English Channel in a g-string and bedazzled pasties in February, so we hadn't gotten together yet.
A few days ago, I called Newscaster Cousin. I hadn’t spoken to him since my injury, which is unusual because we typically talk or see each other at least once a week, and he was initially pissed that I had gone into hiding. After I ran the gauntlet with him, metaphorically flogged myself repeatedly, did my penance, explained what had happened to me, and gained forgiveness, he began to disclose.
“Almost, Ex called me three weeks ago. He wants me to vote for him for some award that he’s up for and then he asked me if he could take me and my boyfriend to dinner.”
“You said no, didn’t you?” I asked, aghast.
“Of course I said no. I was pissed at you, but I’m still loyal to you. Even though you’re a bitch. And why in hell didn’t you call me when you injured yourself? I would have been there in a second,” he growled.
“Wait, let’s get back to the subject. Ex asked you and your boyfriend out to dinner? And by the way, you’re never this much of an a**hole on the air.”
He laughed. “I can’t be an a**hole on the air, but I can be to my beloved cousin who doesn’t call me for three months. Anyway, yeah, I think Ex is trying to get custody of me in the divorce. And plus he told me that you’re going to trial. I thought that trial was only for, like, the Heather Mills/Paul McCartney kind of divorce. What’s going on?”
I was silent. Blown away. He thought we were going to trial? It had only been a month and a half since we’d discussed settlement! Granted, he didn’t know that I almost either killed or permanently disfigured myself, but still, I thought he’d be more generous with the time factor.
“Uh, I don’t know,” I answered Cousin. “I have to call Lawyer and deal with this right this second, I suppose.”
“Yeah, you do, because Ex is a freak and he’s nuts.”
I hung up with Cousin and immediately called Lawyer, telling him what happened. He said, “My week is totally jammed, but how about a dinner on Monday night?”
I sent Ex an email, letting him know that he’d receive our response today, to which he replied that he has been preparing for trial and will continue to do so. I rolled my eyes because I know that he hasn’t even spoken to his lawyer in months, so that statement is about as true as if I were to assert that I’d just grown a third breast.
My meeting with Lawyer last night went just as I thought. We laughed, caught up, and finally went over our business, coming up with the same proposal that we had set forth months ago when we had a settlement conference with Ex and his attorney. We laughed about the total lack of progress in the case, but then Lawyer became serious.
“Almost, Ex would be a fool not to take this offer,” he said. “You’ll get a lot more if we go to trial.”
“I don’t want to go to trial and I don’t want more, you know that. The depositions, the witness stand…. all of that stuff makes me more nervous than a virgin in a supermax prison.”
He laughed. “Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m ready, and you really won’t have to do that much. And you know what? If they want to be fools, f*ck it, I’ll tear them apart in court.”
Trial is set for the end of February and Ex has a week to respond to our offer. Perhaps his response will answer the questions with which I was left after I met him alone to discuss settling this mess. If he accepts the offer or is willing to discuss it out of court, maybe he really has become somewhat rational. If he rejects it and we go to trial, I’ll know that he tried to bribe me with a case of wine and a friendly façade.
I think I’ll open a bottle of that Opus One tonight. I have a feeling that I’ll be sworn to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth in a matter of weeks.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Baby is a four letter word
I'm in the midst of a huge crunch with my schoolwork and with a deadline of October 31st hanging over my head and my complete unpreparedness for that dreaded day, I'm pretty much working around the clock. Once in awhile, when I need a break from mind-numbing textbooks and research, I play this stupid online game where you have to look for words in a grid that are based on a particular topic. Dumb, I know, but sometimes I just need to not think for a few minutes.
A couple of nights ago, I took one of my brain-breaks and ended up playing a game with words related to baby shower gifts. I kid you not when I tell you that I found the words "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram." I know they were spelled wrong, but I think those cheeky people making up the game were having a little fun. If I'd been creating that game, I would have added "vasectomy," and "IUD," but I've never been much of a kid person.
As with any split, people have asked me over the past 18 months what happened that landed us in divorce court, shooting each other looks that might just have the ability to kill. Although the marriage ended up being complicated and fraught with so many issues that led us to the demise, initially, there were only two matters of contention.
Right after Ex asked me to marry him, I sat him down and told him that there were two potential problems he might have with me, and if he couldn't handle them, I'd give him the ring back and we would just be friends.
First, I told him that I wasn't going to change my last name. I don't have anything against name changing in theory, but frankly, I have a last name fit for a porn star or exotic dancer and I love it. Really concreting my decision was the fact that, to this day, I still can't pronounce his last name right.
The second issue was that I knew categorically that I didn't want children. But Ex is a family-oriented guy, and I thought he should know that the woman he intended to marry insisted that her womb perpetually flash "vacancy."
His reaction surprised me, actually. He really didn't even bat an eyelash as he said, "As long as I have you, I don't care about those things. You're all that matters, and if we don't have children and you want to keep your name, that's fine with me."
Thinking that I had the greatest man on earth, I obviously went ahead with the wedding. And knew without a doubt on day two that I had made a monstrous mistake.
As I said before, we had a small destination wedding on a lovely island, so we chose to stay there for 8 more days following the ceremony. Two days after we were wed, he was teasing me, calling me "Mrs. [insert insanely long and unpronounceable name here]," so I teased him back, calling him "Mr. [porn star name]." He began to get angry and asked me why I was calling him that. So I, still thinking that he was kidding, joked that if he insisted on calling me by his mother's name, I'd call him by my Dad's name.
"That's not my mother's name, that's your new name. You ARE changing it when we get back home."
I was confused. "But we talked about this," I said. "I told you right after we got engaged that I wasn't going to change my name."
"And I thought that once we got married, you'd change your mind. Does this mean that you're not going to have babies, either?" he asked, voice beginning to rise in wrath.
The tempest that blew up between us rivaled the near-hurricane that had almost forced us to cancel the outdoor wedding and wound up with him curled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying. For 4 hours.
At that point, I was torn between wanting to comfort him because I loved him and wanting to kick him in the nuts for thinking that marriage had some sort of magical quality that would turn me from the independent, self-directed, sometimes stubborn-as-hell person I am into Little Miss Homemaker. I was pretty sure that he'd spent our courtship dreaming of bare feet and a distended belly with a little alien wriggling around inside. (OK, I admit it, pregnancy freaks me out. And so do little kids. Sorry, I'm weird like that.)
There was no reasoning with him and no comforting him, since all he would say while he was curled up was, "You've cut my balls off. You've cut my balls off." Over and over and over. Imagine listening to that for 4 hours and trying not to go insane yourself.
Seeing the crazy emerge for the first time was frightening and confusing to me, but I gradually began to get angry because we had talked about this and I had been completely honest. After he finally got up off of the floor, he went into the bedroom without a word even after I begged him to talk it out with me.
And without a word pretty much describes the rest of our honeymoon, which was not the flowers and champagne and sexy time ideal I'd previously envisioned.
The entire first year of our marriage was spent arguing over the name change and babies. With Ex's dysfunctional relationship with his parents, he never even told them that I didn't want children. I've already mentioned how members of his family would grab me in very inappropriate places and ask when I was going to have a kid, so that made for even more fun in the already excruciating obligatory functions with the outlaws.
So when I highlighted "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram," on that little game the other night, I was disappointed when they weren't the right answers. But it still gave me a laugh.
A couple of nights ago, I took one of my brain-breaks and ended up playing a game with words related to baby shower gifts. I kid you not when I tell you that I found the words "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram." I know they were spelled wrong, but I think those cheeky people making up the game were having a little fun. If I'd been creating that game, I would have added "vasectomy," and "IUD," but I've never been much of a kid person.
As with any split, people have asked me over the past 18 months what happened that landed us in divorce court, shooting each other looks that might just have the ability to kill. Although the marriage ended up being complicated and fraught with so many issues that led us to the demise, initially, there were only two matters of contention.
Right after Ex asked me to marry him, I sat him down and told him that there were two potential problems he might have with me, and if he couldn't handle them, I'd give him the ring back and we would just be friends.
First, I told him that I wasn't going to change my last name. I don't have anything against name changing in theory, but frankly, I have a last name fit for a porn star or exotic dancer and I love it. Really concreting my decision was the fact that, to this day, I still can't pronounce his last name right.
The second issue was that I knew categorically that I didn't want children. But Ex is a family-oriented guy, and I thought he should know that the woman he intended to marry insisted that her womb perpetually flash "vacancy."
His reaction surprised me, actually. He really didn't even bat an eyelash as he said, "As long as I have you, I don't care about those things. You're all that matters, and if we don't have children and you want to keep your name, that's fine with me."
Thinking that I had the greatest man on earth, I obviously went ahead with the wedding. And knew without a doubt on day two that I had made a monstrous mistake.
As I said before, we had a small destination wedding on a lovely island, so we chose to stay there for 8 more days following the ceremony. Two days after we were wed, he was teasing me, calling me "Mrs. [insert insanely long and unpronounceable name here]," so I teased him back, calling him "Mr. [porn star name]." He began to get angry and asked me why I was calling him that. So I, still thinking that he was kidding, joked that if he insisted on calling me by his mother's name, I'd call him by my Dad's name.
"That's not my mother's name, that's your new name. You ARE changing it when we get back home."
I was confused. "But we talked about this," I said. "I told you right after we got engaged that I wasn't going to change my name."
"And I thought that once we got married, you'd change your mind. Does this mean that you're not going to have babies, either?" he asked, voice beginning to rise in wrath.
The tempest that blew up between us rivaled the near-hurricane that had almost forced us to cancel the outdoor wedding and wound up with him curled in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying. For 4 hours.
At that point, I was torn between wanting to comfort him because I loved him and wanting to kick him in the nuts for thinking that marriage had some sort of magical quality that would turn me from the independent, self-directed, sometimes stubborn-as-hell person I am into Little Miss Homemaker. I was pretty sure that he'd spent our courtship dreaming of bare feet and a distended belly with a little alien wriggling around inside. (OK, I admit it, pregnancy freaks me out. And so do little kids. Sorry, I'm weird like that.)
There was no reasoning with him and no comforting him, since all he would say while he was curled up was, "You've cut my balls off. You've cut my balls off." Over and over and over. Imagine listening to that for 4 hours and trying not to go insane yourself.
Seeing the crazy emerge for the first time was frightening and confusing to me, but I gradually began to get angry because we had talked about this and I had been completely honest. After he finally got up off of the floor, he went into the bedroom without a word even after I begged him to talk it out with me.
And without a word pretty much describes the rest of our honeymoon, which was not the flowers and champagne and sexy time ideal I'd previously envisioned.
The entire first year of our marriage was spent arguing over the name change and babies. With Ex's dysfunctional relationship with his parents, he never even told them that I didn't want children. I've already mentioned how members of his family would grab me in very inappropriate places and ask when I was going to have a kid, so that made for even more fun in the already excruciating obligatory functions with the outlaws.
So when I highlighted "Beeer," "whisky," and "diafram," on that little game the other night, I was disappointed when they weren't the right answers. But it still gave me a laugh.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Court is not in session. Today, anyway.
Not surprisingly, I haven't heard a (spoken) word from Ex since he claimed that he would call soon. Conversely, though, I was surprised when I received two phone calls from Lawyer yesterday. I ignored the first one because my stomach cramped the way it always does when I see his number on caller ID or get Salmonella.
I'm probably the world's most accomplished procrastinator, so I also ignored the second phone call, brilliantly thinking that I would just pick up the voicemails and deal with him in the morning. I knew that I had a court date at some point in October, but I thought it was late in the month, so imagine my sheer delight as I listened to his messages at 10 PM to learn that the court date was today!
Ex sent me a random text last week about something banal and hadn't mentioned that he'd see me in court this week, so I had a sneaking suspicion that he either wasn't aware of the appearance or just didn't care and wasn't going to show. Ex has wriggled out of 3 important hearings in the past, all of which resulted in serious distress on my part and a tearful exit from the courthouse on one occasion. Making headway in a divorce when one party refuses to show up to a hearing is about as successful as a monkey trying to f*ck a football, so I did a little online digging to see if I could save myself some time, money, and wrinkles.
I still have access to his highway toll pass account, so I logged in to see where he'd been. I know I sound like a stalker, but I honestly haven't done that in months and months. The last time I did was to try and find out who was giving him all of the information he had on me, but I creeped myself out a bit anyway as I logged into his account. What I saw was that his last toll was heading into City Airport early yesterday morning and no further activity.
So I did morehacking digging. I still have his login information to his favorite airline and logged in there to find that he had flown halfway across the country and is not returning until 11 PM tonight. Unless he planned to break the time-space continuum, he wasn't going to appear in court, meaning Lawyer and I would drag our asses all the way out to the suburbs once again for no reason. In my twisted logic, that means it's costing me a year's worth of facial peels in order to make absolutely no progress.
I shot Lawyer a text at about 1 am, briefly explaining the situation and telling him that under no circumstances should he reveal that I know Ex is out of town. After all, if Ex changes those passwords, I'll lose my opportunity to creep myself out in the future. A back and forth exchange occurred all morning between me, Lawyer, and Ex's Greasy Attorney, who, by the way, likes to wear white tube socks with black rubber shoes and a charcoal suit to court. I know I've mentioned that before, but that just tickles me.
Anyway, long story short, I didn't have to go to court, thank the good Lord. Unfortunately, Lawyer did end up revealing that we knew Ex was traveling as well as his destination and that probably means that soon I won't be able to track his travel anymore. Which is probably good, because I'm beginning to feel more like that macadamia that just got arrested for stalking Uma Thurman than a modern-day Agatha Christie.
Our trial date is set for early December, although Lawyer promises me that it will get bumped up at least twice because there are no children involved, and those cases take precedence. The earliest I'll probably be in court again is January, but I'm sure I'll see Ex for another settlement conference before that. Uh oh, those bees I accidentally swallowed just began their tango in my stomach again.....
I'm probably the world's most accomplished procrastinator, so I also ignored the second phone call, brilliantly thinking that I would just pick up the voicemails and deal with him in the morning. I knew that I had a court date at some point in October, but I thought it was late in the month, so imagine my sheer delight as I listened to his messages at 10 PM to learn that the court date was today!
Ex sent me a random text last week about something banal and hadn't mentioned that he'd see me in court this week, so I had a sneaking suspicion that he either wasn't aware of the appearance or just didn't care and wasn't going to show. Ex has wriggled out of 3 important hearings in the past, all of which resulted in serious distress on my part and a tearful exit from the courthouse on one occasion. Making headway in a divorce when one party refuses to show up to a hearing is about as successful as a monkey trying to f*ck a football, so I did a little online digging to see if I could save myself some time, money, and wrinkles.
I still have access to his highway toll pass account, so I logged in to see where he'd been. I know I sound like a stalker, but I honestly haven't done that in months and months. The last time I did was to try and find out who was giving him all of the information he had on me, but I creeped myself out a bit anyway as I logged into his account. What I saw was that his last toll was heading into City Airport early yesterday morning and no further activity.
So I did more
I shot Lawyer a text at about 1 am, briefly explaining the situation and telling him that under no circumstances should he reveal that I know Ex is out of town. After all, if Ex changes those passwords, I'll lose my opportunity to creep myself out in the future. A back and forth exchange occurred all morning between me, Lawyer, and Ex's Greasy Attorney, who, by the way, likes to wear white tube socks with black rubber shoes and a charcoal suit to court. I know I've mentioned that before, but that just tickles me.
Anyway, long story short, I didn't have to go to court, thank the good Lord. Unfortunately, Lawyer did end up revealing that we knew Ex was traveling as well as his destination and that probably means that soon I won't be able to track his travel anymore. Which is probably good, because I'm beginning to feel more like that macadamia that just got arrested for stalking Uma Thurman than a modern-day Agatha Christie.
Our trial date is set for early December, although Lawyer promises me that it will get bumped up at least twice because there are no children involved, and those cases take precedence. The earliest I'll probably be in court again is January, but I'm sure I'll see Ex for another settlement conference before that. Uh oh, those bees I accidentally swallowed just began their tango in my stomach again.....
Monday, October 1, 2007
What?! Has hell frozen over and I just wasn't aware?
One hour ago.
Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."
(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)
Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."
My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"
Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."
Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)
Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."
Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."
The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.
This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.
Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.
Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.
If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.
And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.
Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!
Text from Ex: "been thnkg.i'm at a loss for words n i think the courts r going to have 2 figure this out...its sad n w/the timeframe Lawyer said, i cant promise i can hold off the IRS."
(Background: Ex is apparently in deep shite with the government. We know those sluts mean business, too.)
Second text: "i really wish we could of figured this out ourselves..now we will have 2 pay others 2 figure this out...wasted money that i don't have..this stinks."
My reply: "It does. Do you want to try and work it out by ourselves?"
Ex: "i think, if we do, in the end we will end up w/more...hate 2 give it to attorneys n accountants..etc.i am willing 2 do it but i think only we will loose...."
Me: "More what? I don't understand." (Blond moment extraordinaire.)
Ex: "the more money i have 2 spend on other people..attrnys etc..will be less money for us."
Me: "Can we talk this out like 2 rational people? And can we talk on the phone? This texting is making me nuts."
The phone rang 2 minutes later, after which transpired a shockingly logical conversation. I truly thought I had morphed into "We're not in Kansas anymore" Dorothy and that a posse of little orange people were going to surround me and begin singing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I literally went out on my terrace to see if there was a tornado slinging a tree my way to hit me in the head and send me into dreamland.
This conversation was probably an outcropping of our settlement conference on Friday, which was fiercely heated at times. ("Ex, are you f*cking kidding me that you want my motorcycle that I owned free and clear two years before we even met?! Did a squirrel just crawl into your brain and take over your thought process?") However, after an hour and a half of back-and-forth negotiations with no resolution, Lawyer and I left. I was feeling lower than Britney when she can't find her bottle of Grey Goose.
Lawyer, on the other hand, encouraged me by telling me that it was a beginning and that it's possible this could settle out of court. He urged me to attempt to begin a dialog with Ex in order to save some money for both sides. Hence, my conversation this evening.
Considering that Ex has acted somewhat irrationally (oh, and that's a euphamism, just in case you missed it), I'm not too hopeful. However, it seems as if we will be speaking, if not actually meeting in person, later in the week.
If a mutually agreeable solution is reached, I'm pretty sure that seven horsemen will descend from the skies on winged creatures, signaling that the Apocalypse has finally arrived. I'm not all that cynical, but we are talking about the guy who bugged our house, hacked into my email, put a P.I. on me in our first year of marriage, installed a GPS unit on my car, and hired some thug to break a (platonic) male friend of mine's legs. As I write this, my hope for a rational settlement is waning faster than O.J.'s popularity.
And the leg breaking incident? Perhaps I'll write that one for you tomorrow. Now where's my wine? I'm going to need a buzz to get through that post.
Oh, and P.S. to the dude who found my blog by Googling "Grandpa Gets a Woody"? Ewww!
Friday, September 28, 2007
Unsettled
When I was bartending in my early 20s, I finished my shift one evening and went out to meet some friends at a bar on the one street in our city that contains the largest string of late-night clubs. Since I had just finished work, I was dressed in attire that was only a half-step above hooker chic, meaning 6-inch platforms (so I could serve drinks over the ridiculously tall bar) and a short skirt. I'd walked from The Bar after work to that street many times, and though it was always populated with sketchy-looking people asking for money, whom I usually obliged, it was well-lit, spilling over with those seeking more nightlife fun, and filled with cops so I never feared for my safety. That night was different.
As I turned the corner to walk a block and a half toward my destination to meet Lauren after her evening shift, a man in a wheelchair with no legs began yelling at me. I have a ton of respect for our veterans (and I can only assume that's how he'd lost his legs), so I would have happily given him money had he been halfway respectful.
However, this guy was not only impolite, he was threatening. He initiated the conversation by screaming, "Hey, bitch, you look like you got some dough! Gimme some!" He was already drinking from a bottle of Gordon's gin.
I was incredulous and didn't respond at all. I kept on my path, head forward, averting my nose from the undeniable stench of urine and other unmentionables emanating from his body.
He began to wheel after me and suddenly morphed into our city's own personal Superman.... faster than a speeding bullet on crank. Within a split second, he caught up with me and kicked me in the back of the leg with the right wheel of his chair.
"F*ckin' stuck-up bitch," he growled. I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I decided on both.
I began to walk faster in my platforms that were clearly not made for land sports, then began to run, as he wheeled even faster after me. In retrospect, it was probably an absurdly funny scene featuring an irrationally screaming guy wheeling himself at warp speed after a girl simultaneously laughing and fleeing, desperately trying to keep her shoes on while onlookers gaped with both amusement and horror.
"Bitch, don't you run away from me! I know you got the cash, a**hole! What the f*ck's your problem, you c*nt? You think looking at your ass running away is good enough for me? That ass don't buy me f*ckin nothin'!"
One of the cops on the street intervened as I slowed my pace and rubbed the grease-stained bruise forming on my calf, finally making it to meet Lauren.
The moral of the story? I think I was more attracted to the guy wheeling after me that night than I was to Ex today.
More on the settlement conference later, but let's just say it was a start. I'm discouraged that I will most certainly not be divorced by the end of 2007 unless Ex has a sudden burst of logic, but I made it through in one piece and even got in a few zingers.
And before we left, Lawyer pulled Greasy Attorney aside and privately said, "It's a good thing that you didn't bring up the guy you think my client is dating. Otherwise, I would have had to disclose the thousands of the, uh, unusual pornographic movies belonging to your client. We don't want that to be public record, do we?"
As I turned the corner to walk a block and a half toward my destination to meet Lauren after her evening shift, a man in a wheelchair with no legs began yelling at me. I have a ton of respect for our veterans (and I can only assume that's how he'd lost his legs), so I would have happily given him money had he been halfway respectful.
However, this guy was not only impolite, he was threatening. He initiated the conversation by screaming, "Hey, bitch, you look like you got some dough! Gimme some!" He was already drinking from a bottle of Gordon's gin.
I was incredulous and didn't respond at all. I kept on my path, head forward, averting my nose from the undeniable stench of urine and other unmentionables emanating from his body.
He began to wheel after me and suddenly morphed into our city's own personal Superman.... faster than a speeding bullet on crank. Within a split second, he caught up with me and kicked me in the back of the leg with the right wheel of his chair.
"F*ckin' stuck-up bitch," he growled. I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I decided on both.
I began to walk faster in my platforms that were clearly not made for land sports, then began to run, as he wheeled even faster after me. In retrospect, it was probably an absurdly funny scene featuring an irrationally screaming guy wheeling himself at warp speed after a girl simultaneously laughing and fleeing, desperately trying to keep her shoes on while onlookers gaped with both amusement and horror.
"Bitch, don't you run away from me! I know you got the cash, a**hole! What the f*ck's your problem, you c*nt? You think looking at your ass running away is good enough for me? That ass don't buy me f*ckin nothin'!"
One of the cops on the street intervened as I slowed my pace and rubbed the grease-stained bruise forming on my calf, finally making it to meet Lauren.
The moral of the story? I think I was more attracted to the guy wheeling after me that night than I was to Ex today.
More on the settlement conference later, but let's just say it was a start. I'm discouraged that I will most certainly not be divorced by the end of 2007 unless Ex has a sudden burst of logic, but I made it through in one piece and even got in a few zingers.
And before we left, Lawyer pulled Greasy Attorney aside and privately said, "It's a good thing that you didn't bring up the guy you think my client is dating. Otherwise, I would have had to disclose the thousands of the, uh, unusual pornographic movies belonging to your client. We don't want that to be public record, do we?"
Thursday, September 27, 2007
T minus 23 hours....
As you probably already know, my settlement conference with Ex is set for tomorrow morning. Lawyer is picking me up and as usual, we'll stop for coffee and then chat about our strategy on the way. Since I'm aware that Ex will take the floor first, attempt to wipe it with my ass, and then sit back in false triumph, my retort is planned down to the last letter. I already ran my proposed response past Lawyer and he looked at me with a mix of horror, fascination, and amusement. He shook his head and said, "Oh, Almost, you are a piece of work." He did, however, give me permission to proceed with my rejoinder and if I actually pull this one off, you'll be able hear a pin drop three counties away.
I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.
Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.
As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!
But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........
I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.
Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.
As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!
But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........
Monday, September 24, 2007
It's Pronounced "Goo-chee"
My settlement conference is set for Friday, and per usual when I'm facing an interaction with Ex, I'm a bundle of nerves. I'm jumpier than an agoraphobic in the middle of the Times Square New Year's Eve celebration. At this point, I think I'd rather be tied to a tree, covered in honey while facing a pack of starving black bears, but since that's not an option I'm going to head out with Anastasia this evening for a night of laughs and wine. Lots and lots of wine.
Although I wasn't this nervous last week, I went out (for lots of wine) with an old friend of mine, Bob, from my bartending days. He and I have remained friends for the years since I hung up my wine key and see each other every so often for dinner. After dining outside at one of our city's new restaurants, we headed over to a bar where my old bartending friend Nicole now works. I tended bar with her often when Bob would hang with us for the night, and I hadn't seen her in quite awhile so the three of us reminisced about funny stories from the many evenings we spent together at The Bar.
Bob recalled, "Hey, Almost, remember that time Marcus Allen came in and kept asking for your number?"
I laughed, "Yeah, and remember what happened when he almost forgot his credit card at the bar?"
The three of us dissolved into peals of laughter, because Marcus said something that made Nicole double over in laughter and Bob snort his Beam and diet out of his nose. Marcus had walked away from the bar to leave after hounding me for my phone number, too drunk to remember that I still had his credit card for his tab. I called after him, and when he turned I said, "Marcus, aren't you forgetting something?" I waved his credit card in the air.
As he staggered back to the bar, I teased, "If you don't take this with you, I just might go on a shopping spree tomorrow."
He garbled, "Baby, if you'd give me your digits, I'd take you to Guh-key and buy you anything you wanted."
I was genuinely confused. "Guh-key? What's that?"
"You mean no man has ever taken you to Guh-key and spoiled you like the princess you should be? Shoes, bags, clothes, whatever you want, baby, just give me those magic numbers," he slurred.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Well, no, I've never been spoiled at Guh-key, although I've bought myself some items at Gucci," I winked at him.
Clearly embarrassed, he signed his tab (with a nice tip, to his credit) and stumbled away.
As we laughed last week over Marcus' mispronunciation, Nicole mused, "Isn't it funny how men think that they can buy you stuff and you'll suddenly be fawning all over them? It's like they think we can be bought as if we're livestock or something."
Which made me think. As my marriage began its final stage of deterioration, Ex began shopping. Now keep in mind that when I first married Ex and moved in, I realized that he liked to shop to the point that it was almost an addiction. He had over 250 pairs of shoes at that time and every closet in the house was stuffed with clothes, many with tags still attached. It took me months to go through all of his possessions and when all was said and done, I donated 17 garbage bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories to Goodwill.
But he didn't shop for himself when our marriage began its final descent, he shopped for me, thinking that material possessions would impart some desire upon me to stay in the marriage. Don't get me wrong, I was quite grateful for the gifts and I like clothes, shoes, and handbags as much as the next girl, but material possessions were not the missing component in the relationship. I protested the gifts when they became overwhelming and tried to inform him of what was truly absent in our marriage. What was missing was trust, respect, and communication and unfortunately, an Yves St. Laurent handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choos can't replace those intangibles. Somehow, a Roberto Cavalli dress just couldn't make up for the GPS unit clandestinely installed on my car, drunk texts, and forgery.
I'm pretty sure that I'll hear a diatribe about all of the items Ex purchased for me during the months before I moved out of the house in the settlement conference Friday. Many of the arguments we've had over the past 18 months have ended with, "But I bought you thousands of dollars worth of designer clothes," as if that should have solved everything. According to Lawyer, I have to be mentally prepared to be yelled at for at least 45 minutes.
"This has certainly been an education," Bob announced. "Although I must say, I never believed in trying to either get a girl or save a relationship by spending ridiculous amounts of money."
Bob is on the right track. But unfortunately, what Ex and Marcus just didn't realize was that a handbag from Guh-key can't buy or save love.
Although I wasn't this nervous last week, I went out (for lots of wine) with an old friend of mine, Bob, from my bartending days. He and I have remained friends for the years since I hung up my wine key and see each other every so often for dinner. After dining outside at one of our city's new restaurants, we headed over to a bar where my old bartending friend Nicole now works. I tended bar with her often when Bob would hang with us for the night, and I hadn't seen her in quite awhile so the three of us reminisced about funny stories from the many evenings we spent together at The Bar.
Bob recalled, "Hey, Almost, remember that time Marcus Allen came in and kept asking for your number?"
I laughed, "Yeah, and remember what happened when he almost forgot his credit card at the bar?"
The three of us dissolved into peals of laughter, because Marcus said something that made Nicole double over in laughter and Bob snort his Beam and diet out of his nose. Marcus had walked away from the bar to leave after hounding me for my phone number, too drunk to remember that I still had his credit card for his tab. I called after him, and when he turned I said, "Marcus, aren't you forgetting something?" I waved his credit card in the air.
As he staggered back to the bar, I teased, "If you don't take this with you, I just might go on a shopping spree tomorrow."
He garbled, "Baby, if you'd give me your digits, I'd take you to Guh-key and buy you anything you wanted."
I was genuinely confused. "Guh-key? What's that?"
"You mean no man has ever taken you to Guh-key and spoiled you like the princess you should be? Shoes, bags, clothes, whatever you want, baby, just give me those magic numbers," he slurred.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Well, no, I've never been spoiled at Guh-key, although I've bought myself some items at Gucci," I winked at him.
Clearly embarrassed, he signed his tab (with a nice tip, to his credit) and stumbled away.
As we laughed last week over Marcus' mispronunciation, Nicole mused, "Isn't it funny how men think that they can buy you stuff and you'll suddenly be fawning all over them? It's like they think we can be bought as if we're livestock or something."
Which made me think. As my marriage began its final stage of deterioration, Ex began shopping. Now keep in mind that when I first married Ex and moved in, I realized that he liked to shop to the point that it was almost an addiction. He had over 250 pairs of shoes at that time and every closet in the house was stuffed with clothes, many with tags still attached. It took me months to go through all of his possessions and when all was said and done, I donated 17 garbage bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories to Goodwill.
But he didn't shop for himself when our marriage began its final descent, he shopped for me, thinking that material possessions would impart some desire upon me to stay in the marriage. Don't get me wrong, I was quite grateful for the gifts and I like clothes, shoes, and handbags as much as the next girl, but material possessions were not the missing component in the relationship. I protested the gifts when they became overwhelming and tried to inform him of what was truly absent in our marriage. What was missing was trust, respect, and communication and unfortunately, an Yves St. Laurent handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choos can't replace those intangibles. Somehow, a Roberto Cavalli dress just couldn't make up for the GPS unit clandestinely installed on my car, drunk texts, and forgery.
I'm pretty sure that I'll hear a diatribe about all of the items Ex purchased for me during the months before I moved out of the house in the settlement conference Friday. Many of the arguments we've had over the past 18 months have ended with, "But I bought you thousands of dollars worth of designer clothes," as if that should have solved everything. According to Lawyer, I have to be mentally prepared to be yelled at for at least 45 minutes.
"This has certainly been an education," Bob announced. "Although I must say, I never believed in trying to either get a girl or save a relationship by spending ridiculous amounts of money."
Bob is on the right track. But unfortunately, what Ex and Marcus just didn't realize was that a handbag from Guh-key can't buy or save love.
Monday, September 17, 2007
World's Shortest Fairytale
Minding my own business this morning over a cup of coffee, my phone began to ring at the unearthly hour of 8:30. Anyone who knows me well knows not to call me, unless it's a work day, until after 10 or they find themselves speaking with the only known human Chupacabra. So I rolled my eyes thinking that it was probably a salesperson pitching penis enlargement pumps or telling me that I have a relative in Nigeria who just died and they needed money to release the estate.
I was thinking up snarky comebacks as I fumbled for my phone, but as soon as I looked at the caller ID, I experienced an irritation of a whole different kind. The kind of irritation that churns the pit of my stomach so furiously that I'm pretty sure I've swallowed an entire beehive and they're all dancing the tango down there.
It was Lawyer's office number.
I stared at the phone with total terror, since he's often the bearer of bad news, and raced through the potential disasters I could possibly be facing. My conference isn't until the end of the month and things are relatively quiet until then (at which time I fully expect Ex to spend an hour screaming at me, and that's great since it only costs an arm and a leg to do so, while picking up the phone would be a much more cost-effective route. Oh, my mistake. Picking up the phone might require balls.). I have a court date in October, and other than that, I couldn't think of anything that could be on the immediate horizon.
I finally picked up the phone to hear one of Lawyer's assistants asking me if I was going out of town in November.
"I don't have any plans at the moment, why?" I asked her.
"We're scheduling your trial date during that month and Lawyer wanted to ensure you're in town," she said.
I hesitated for a few seconds. Could it be? Is it true? Could the final nail destined for the doomed wedding coffin be almost within my reach? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel that doesn't happen to belong to a freight train?
"Uh, you mean, like, the final trial? As in the I'm-going-to-be-divorced-after-this-is-over trial? As in I might be free by the end of 2007?" I stammered, glee hovering just beneath the surface.
"Yes, that's the one," she laughed. "I'm glad you're having this reaction. Sometimes when I call clients to schedule trial dates, they cry and freak out on me."
"Oh, no, not this client! I'm going to run outside and do naked back flips down the street to celebrate!"
We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I looked at the phone as if it were a genie who had just popped out of a bottle and given me three wishes. Though it's still a couple months away, I was left with a lingering feeling of freedom already. I haven't felt this light since I dated the sociopath and weighed double digits for the first time since 6th grade. I already feel like a single person again! Premature, yes, but I don't give a rat's ass. It's the best feeling I've had since this whole mess started over a year ago.
I posted this in the comments section of Lemon Gloria the other day, so forgive me if you've already read it, but it's just so appropriate. My sister Carla sent me an email a couple of weeks ago and it's pretty much my theme story now.
"Sent: August 31, 2007 8:50 AM
Subject: World's Shortest Fairytale
Almost, couldn't help but think of you when I read this.
XOXO,
Carla
Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, 'Will you marry me?'
The guy said, 'No,' and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a clean house,
never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes and handbags,
stayed skinny, and was never farted on.
The End "
Update: Sorry about the technical difficulty if you saw the accidental post. ;)
I was thinking up snarky comebacks as I fumbled for my phone, but as soon as I looked at the caller ID, I experienced an irritation of a whole different kind. The kind of irritation that churns the pit of my stomach so furiously that I'm pretty sure I've swallowed an entire beehive and they're all dancing the tango down there.
It was Lawyer's office number.
I stared at the phone with total terror, since he's often the bearer of bad news, and raced through the potential disasters I could possibly be facing. My conference isn't until the end of the month and things are relatively quiet until then (at which time I fully expect Ex to spend an hour screaming at me, and that's great since it only costs an arm and a leg to do so, while picking up the phone would be a much more cost-effective route. Oh, my mistake. Picking up the phone might require balls.). I have a court date in October, and other than that, I couldn't think of anything that could be on the immediate horizon.
I finally picked up the phone to hear one of Lawyer's assistants asking me if I was going out of town in November.
"I don't have any plans at the moment, why?" I asked her.
"We're scheduling your trial date during that month and Lawyer wanted to ensure you're in town," she said.
I hesitated for a few seconds. Could it be? Is it true? Could the final nail destined for the doomed wedding coffin be almost within my reach? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel that doesn't happen to belong to a freight train?
"Uh, you mean, like, the final trial? As in the I'm-going-to-be-divorced-after-this-is-over trial? As in I might be free by the end of 2007?" I stammered, glee hovering just beneath the surface.
"Yes, that's the one," she laughed. "I'm glad you're having this reaction. Sometimes when I call clients to schedule trial dates, they cry and freak out on me."
"Oh, no, not this client! I'm going to run outside and do naked back flips down the street to celebrate!"
We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I looked at the phone as if it were a genie who had just popped out of a bottle and given me three wishes. Though it's still a couple months away, I was left with a lingering feeling of freedom already. I haven't felt this light since I dated the sociopath and weighed double digits for the first time since 6th grade. I already feel like a single person again! Premature, yes, but I don't give a rat's ass. It's the best feeling I've had since this whole mess started over a year ago.
I posted this in the comments section of Lemon Gloria the other day, so forgive me if you've already read it, but it's just so appropriate. My sister Carla sent me an email a couple of weeks ago and it's pretty much my theme story now.
"Sent: August 31, 2007 8:50 AM
Subject: World's Shortest Fairytale
Almost, couldn't help but think of you when I read this.
XOXO,
Carla
Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, 'Will you marry me?'
The guy said, 'No,' and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a clean house,
never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes and handbags,
stayed skinny, and was never farted on.
The End "
Update: Sorry about the technical difficulty if you saw the accidental post. ;)
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Court Dismissed
Yesterday is behind me, thank God, and I don't have another court date until mid-fall. I really need to stop working myself into such a nervous, edgy frenzy over these things because they never end up being as awful as I thought.
Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.
I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.
Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.
The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."
"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"
"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."
"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."
"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."
After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.
We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.
Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.
"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"
"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.
"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.
"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"
I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.
"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.
But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."
Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."
Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.
Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.
Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.
With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"
P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.
Ex's Greasy Attorney had a conflict so he sent another partner, a perky blonde in her 40's with a dazzling, right-hand Cartier diamond ring that I coveted all afternoon. I'm glad she wore it because it gave me something other than my terror on which to focus during the proceedings. Usually I focus on Greasy Attorney's choice of white tube socks with his dark suit and Dollar Store black rubber shoes, so I was happy to focus on something much more aesthetically pleasing.
I walked into court and saw Ex for the first time in months. Correction: I didn't actually see him since I didn't look at him directly for fear of becoming the modern day version of Lot's wife and turning into a pillar of salt, but I was able to make out the undeniably square shape of his head in my peripheral vision. Since this was finally the hearing for which I've been waiting 4 months, I sat next to Lawyer at one of the two attorney's tables instead of sitting in the gallery, which is my usual position when I'm not required to testify. I hoped that nobody saw my heart pounding out of my chest through my thin shirt. I swear, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had just popped out and sat there on the table, pounding and looking around with interest as if nothing was wrong.
Ex tried to get my attention all afternoon. I don't know if he wanted to say hello or if he wanted to spit in my face, but I didn't look at him once. Perhaps if he had adhered to the judge's order from our last court date I would have looked at him and greeted him cordially, but since he didn't, I wasn't entirely sure that I could see him and quell my urge to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out. There are cameras in courtrooms these days so I thought it was wise to keep my mouth shut and hands folded, each hand locking the other away from doing something that would land me in county jail.
The afternoon consisted of the two lawyers making a brief statement to the judge, then a back and forth between lawyers, Ex, and me. Ex and his attorney were in the conference room while I remained at the table and chatted with the clerk much of the time. Lawyer ran between me and Ex and we eventually came to an agreement that all of us hated. When Lawyer first started telling me about it, I cut him off with a firm, "NO."
"Lawyer, Ex is hiding assets, you know that. Why does he get to go to Vegas and spend $35,000 in a weekend and then cry poor to everyone else while I'm working in my paltry-paying position and busting my ass to finish my grad program?"
"Almost, Ex doesn't like this, either. If he gets what he wants, he'll drag his feet on the divorce. I know you won't do this, but from his attorney's perspective, if you get what you want, you'll drag your feet. We want to expedite the process and the only way to do it is if you're both uncomfortable."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Lawyer, do whatever you think is best. I trust you."
"You don't understand, this is a great result! You should be thrilled and don't worry, we'll address the hiding issue later."
"OK, do what you have to do. I just want this to be over."
After handwriting a three-page Agreed Order and handing it to me for approval, Lawyer had Ex and his attorney sign it, I thanked the judge, clerk, and bailiff and we were done. Though I wasn't entirely happy with the order, I was still literally limp with relief because I hadn't even had to testify. Lawyer was gleeful with the result, so we decided to head out for an early dinner where we met up with Lauren.
We sat at the bar, ordered dinner, and drank the finest Italian wine in the place while Lawyer filled Lauren in on the particulars of the afternoon. Not even 10 minutes passed before 2 guys at the end of the bar bought all of us a round. I raised my glass and yelled a thank you down the bar, to which one of them yelled back, "Bob here just signed a multi-million dollar deal today!" and clapped his friend on the back so hard that he lurched forward and impaled himself with his cocktail straw.
Fifteen minutes later, they bought us another round and we responded in kind.
"Ladies, this dude is rich! Wanna piece of him?"
"Yeah, that's my first f*cking priority," Lauren groaned to us as she rolled her eyes.
"I don't think my divorce lawyer here is going to approve just yet, but thanks," I shouted back, my hand on Lawyer's shoulder.
"Whoah-ho, Bob, a single gal and a divorceè," the boisterous one nearly screamed. "Hey, you a good lawyer?"
I've known Lawyer socially for almost 9 years and I love him as a person. Truthfully, he's one of the top 3 divorce lawyers in the city and I'm very lucky to have him. He only took my case because of our friendship, so of course, I'm proud to shout out his accomplishments. "Did you see City Newspaper over the weekend? He was on the front page," I shouted back to Boisterous Patron.
"Almost, pipe down. I don't pick up clients in bars," Lawyer admonished.
But Boisterous Patron popped up behind Lawyer and said, "I really need your card. I'm going to have to talk to you very, very soon."
Lawyer doesn't carry his cards with him, but he wrote down his number for the man. They ended up talking for a few minutes and when Boisterous Patron asked him again if he was actually a good attorney, Lawyer responded, "Why don't you turn on CNN tonight and see for yourself. I'll be on it."
Boisterous Patron shrieked with excitement, promised to call soon, and left with his friend. Lawyer, Lauren and I chatted some more, then we wrapped things up and I headed to Lauren's house for the remainder of the evening.
Lauren told me all of the details of her visit with Pascal. It was not a good weekend. He wasn't who he portrayed on the internet and she was pretty disappointed. That got me thinking about the things we hide when we're in relationships, whether they're on the internet or in real life.
Ex hid assets, secrets, and behaviors from me but I hid things from him as well, both concrete and more abstract, personal aspects of myself. Pascal hid behind a computer screen and created a persona - this person that he wishes to be instead of his actual self. I didn't really talk to Boisterous Patron, but I'd be willing to bet that he hid Lawyer's phone number so that his wife won't find it and I can't help but wonder what else he's hidden from her. An affair? An addiction? A fetish for prancing around in her lingerie while listening to show tunes when she's out of the house? When Bob strikes up a conversation with a single lady at a bar, I wonder if he'll start out by telling her about his multi-million dollar deal because he's afraid that who he is as a person isn't enough. It seems to me that the human condition predisposes us to hide behind a variety of screens, and for what, I'm not yet sure, but I am pretty sure that most of us have practiced and perfected our veils so well that it's practically an art form.
With all of their experience in digging up long-buried secrets to be held up under the court's bright, scrutinizing lights in order to gain good results for their clients, even divorce attorneys hide. When I complimented Perky Blonde Attorney on her ring, she laughed and said, "My husband still thinks that this is cubic zirconia!"
P.S. Thank you for the dinner, laughs, and all of your hard work, Lawyer.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Court is Now in Session
Court is this afternoon and I'm crapping a brick for some reason. Typically I don't mind the spotlight, but I'm very uncomfortable with it in this sense. I feel as though I'll be under one of those hot lights in a police interrogation room, rivulets of sweat dripping down my cleavage, hair clinging to my forehead in wet strands, with someone yelling at me to tell the truth, dammit! (I've never experienced that, by the way, but I've watched enough Law & Orders to know that I don't want Vincent D'Onofrio bobbing and weaving around my face using his psychological trickery to draw me into his web.)
In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.
I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.
I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.
In reality, I know it won't be anything like that because I only have to be on the stand for about 10 or 15 minutes and Ex is the one who really needs to be nervous right now, but I still feel as though I'm going to the guillotine. You know how everyone says to imagine your audience in their underwear? Today, I'm going to imagine Ex in front of his computer with saucer-wide eyes watching Granny Porn with a spilled bottle of Levitra next to him. That ought to do the trick. In fact, it's making me laugh right now.
I may or may not post an update later today. I'm heading off to Lauren's house immediately after the hearing in order to decompress and probably drink copious amounts of wine, so we'll see if I get back home in any sort of shape to write a coherent post.
I will be so relieved when this day is over. You think that post-pokey Paris looked like she was walking on air? My exit from the courthouse will make her look as though she just watched Tinkerbell get run over by the neighborhood ice cream truck. I'm wearing a dress today but if things go well I still might add a back flip as I exit, because unlike Paris, I wear underwear.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Ex Has AIDS
Quite some time ago, after the divorce had been filed, Lawyer called me out of the blue.
He said, "Almost Free, Ex has developed AIDS."
Now, keep in mind, Lawyer is 50% therapist, 50% comedian, and 100% shark. At that time, I truly hoped that it was Lawyer's comedian part with whom I was speaking, because his statement shocked me. I frantically flipped through my mental calendar, heart pounding, trying to think of how much time had transpired since Ex and I had sex. I concluded within seconds that it was a fruitless task, since it had been too long for my feeble memory to recall.
In my oh-so-eloquent fashion, I answered, "Ummm.... what???"
He repeated, "Almost Free, I am so sorry, Ex has AIDS. " Then he started to laugh. That's when I knew that it was Lawyer-Comedian talking.
Lawyer continued, "Don't freak out, he either had AIDS or RAIDS, and I'm not sure which one it is yet, but be assured that I will find out."
Several months prior to this phone call, I had found Ex's financial statement. For some reason unknown to me, he left it in our fax machine at the house in which we used to live together. He had faxed it to a bank for one of his businesses and I had the foresight to make a photocopy at the time because I was already certain of the fact that we would divorce within the very near future. Of course, I gave a copy of that statement to Lawyer.
Throughout the process of the divorce filing and subsequent hearings, Ex supplied the court with 3 different financial statements, each one diminishing in net worth. His latest financial statement shows his net worth to be approximately 1/9 of the one I photocopied just 7 months ago. A real Houdini, that one, making millions of dollars disappear over the course of just a few months. (And by the way, no, I am not seeking half or anything even close to that, nor am I seeking to ruin Ex's financial life, but this divorce process does require that both parties disclose all finances, and these just happen to be the facts.)
Though Lawyer was laughing, I still couldn't figure out the reason, so I again said, "Ummm, huh?" I'm a genius word smith, as you can tell.
Lawyer said, "Almost Free, AIDS and RAIDS are fairly common conditions among divorcing couples, and Ex has definitely developed it. It's known in our community as Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome or Recently Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome. I'm very sorry, but don't worry, it's not contagious."
It took a good 20 minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal, but when it did, I raised a glass of good Italian red wine to Lawyer and thanked my lucky stars to have yet another person in this process who makes me laugh (and gets the job done).
He said, "Almost Free, Ex has developed AIDS."
Now, keep in mind, Lawyer is 50% therapist, 50% comedian, and 100% shark. At that time, I truly hoped that it was Lawyer's comedian part with whom I was speaking, because his statement shocked me. I frantically flipped through my mental calendar, heart pounding, trying to think of how much time had transpired since Ex and I had sex. I concluded within seconds that it was a fruitless task, since it had been too long for my feeble memory to recall.
In my oh-so-eloquent fashion, I answered, "Ummm.... what???"
He repeated, "Almost Free, I am so sorry, Ex has AIDS. " Then he started to laugh. That's when I knew that it was Lawyer-Comedian talking.
Lawyer continued, "Don't freak out, he either had AIDS or RAIDS, and I'm not sure which one it is yet, but be assured that I will find out."
Several months prior to this phone call, I had found Ex's financial statement. For some reason unknown to me, he left it in our fax machine at the house in which we used to live together. He had faxed it to a bank for one of his businesses and I had the foresight to make a photocopy at the time because I was already certain of the fact that we would divorce within the very near future. Of course, I gave a copy of that statement to Lawyer.
Throughout the process of the divorce filing and subsequent hearings, Ex supplied the court with 3 different financial statements, each one diminishing in net worth. His latest financial statement shows his net worth to be approximately 1/9 of the one I photocopied just 7 months ago. A real Houdini, that one, making millions of dollars disappear over the course of just a few months. (And by the way, no, I am not seeking half or anything even close to that, nor am I seeking to ruin Ex's financial life, but this divorce process does require that both parties disclose all finances, and these just happen to be the facts.)
Though Lawyer was laughing, I still couldn't figure out the reason, so I again said, "Ummm, huh?" I'm a genius word smith, as you can tell.
Lawyer said, "Almost Free, AIDS and RAIDS are fairly common conditions among divorcing couples, and Ex has definitely developed it. It's known in our community as Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome or Recently Acquired Income Deficiency Syndrome. I'm very sorry, but don't worry, it's not contagious."
It took a good 20 minutes for my heart rate to go back to normal, but when it did, I raised a glass of good Italian red wine to Lawyer and thanked my lucky stars to have yet another person in this process who makes me laugh (and gets the job done).
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Father's Day
Yes, I know that Father's Day has already passed, but Ex did something so outrageous on Sunday night that it actually made me laugh once I got past the black, blind rage of fury.
My relationship with my Dad has always been good, but never has he been more of my hero than throughout this grotesque process. When I found out about the granny porn issue, I called my Dad and he made me laugh about it, despite my sadness and disgust. When I fell apart in January and called him in tears (something that I rarely do, because I don't want him to worry), barely choking out the words, "Yes, I need you," he hopped a flight the next day and spent the weekend with me. When Ex financially cut me off 8 months ago and sent me a text message that said something to the effect of, "I'm not giving you a dime, bitch, get a J-O-B," my Dad has always been the first one to ask me if I'm solvent. And by the way, yes, I do have a job.
I'll go into details at some point in the future, but it's sufficient at this point to say that I was insanely stupid enough to let myself become financially dependent upon Ex, even though I was completely independent prior to marrying him. Despite my financial dependence upon him (I think I just felt some bile rise at even having to type those ugly, honest words) as I work my way through a Ph.D. program, he came up with a wildly untrue notion that I have a 5 million dollar trust fund. More about that later, but the fact is, I don't have a 5 million dollar trust fund. In fact, I'm currently pretty much broke.
But Ex thinks that I'm rich. He thinks that I'm so rich that I should pay his legal fees. He thinks that I'm so rich that I'm, in his attorney's words in court a couple of weeks ago, "living the life of a rock star." Because Ex thinks that I'm swimming in pools of Benjamins, he had his attorney subpoena my Dad and the trust fund last week (yes, there is one, but no, my sister and I have no access to it until both of my parents no longer walk this mortal coil, God forbid).
My Dad called me last night and said, "I have a question for you. The trust has been subpoenaed. I have no problem with supplying documents, but how would you like the company to handle it? Does Divorce Lawyer have any suggestions?"
Now, I knew this was coming. I was prepared to testify under oath 4 months ago in court with regard to the nature of the trust, but Ex wiggled out of that one as well. I told Ex's greasy attorney that day that I have no access to that fund, to which he replied, "Oh, we'll definitely find that out, because I'm going to subpoena the records." But despite knowing that it was immanent, I was nevertheless appalled last week when my Divorce Lawyer (heretofore "Lawyer") called me and told me that the fund had been, indeed, subpoenaed.
My approach is this... say whatever you need to say about me, do whatever you need to do to me, but do NOT disrespect my parents, my sister, or any of my friends, for that matter. Disrespecting my Dad is even worse to me than if Ex had punched me in the face (which he did not, never laid a hand on me, in fact). I'm a Leo, and we're fiercely protective of those we love, so dragging my Dad into this and embarrassing him in front of his financial adviser is a big no-no, to put it mildly.
But back to Sunday. At this point, the facts were and are as follows: I'm a broke grad student, my Dad has come to my rescue on more than one occasion because Ex has completely cut me off, and Ex has had the disrespect to subpoena my Dad's financials. The week before Father's Day.
Father's Day had almost passed, and I received a text from Ex. Ex never calls, by the way. He only texts, and because of the nature of the texts and the time at which I receive them, I suspect that he's wasted. That will be relevant in the future, but for now what's important is that shortly before midnight on Sunday, Ex's text arrived. It said....
"If u r with ur dad..wish him a happy f-day from me..i will always have the utmost respect 4 him"
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
My relationship with my Dad has always been good, but never has he been more of my hero than throughout this grotesque process. When I found out about the granny porn issue, I called my Dad and he made me laugh about it, despite my sadness and disgust. When I fell apart in January and called him in tears (something that I rarely do, because I don't want him to worry), barely choking out the words, "Yes, I need you," he hopped a flight the next day and spent the weekend with me. When Ex financially cut me off 8 months ago and sent me a text message that said something to the effect of, "I'm not giving you a dime, bitch, get a J-O-B," my Dad has always been the first one to ask me if I'm solvent. And by the way, yes, I do have a job.
I'll go into details at some point in the future, but it's sufficient at this point to say that I was insanely stupid enough to let myself become financially dependent upon Ex, even though I was completely independent prior to marrying him. Despite my financial dependence upon him (I think I just felt some bile rise at even having to type those ugly, honest words) as I work my way through a Ph.D. program, he came up with a wildly untrue notion that I have a 5 million dollar trust fund. More about that later, but the fact is, I don't have a 5 million dollar trust fund. In fact, I'm currently pretty much broke.
But Ex thinks that I'm rich. He thinks that I'm so rich that I should pay his legal fees. He thinks that I'm so rich that I'm, in his attorney's words in court a couple of weeks ago, "living the life of a rock star." Because Ex thinks that I'm swimming in pools of Benjamins, he had his attorney subpoena my Dad and the trust fund last week (yes, there is one, but no, my sister and I have no access to it until both of my parents no longer walk this mortal coil, God forbid).
My Dad called me last night and said, "I have a question for you. The trust has been subpoenaed. I have no problem with supplying documents, but how would you like the company to handle it? Does Divorce Lawyer have any suggestions?"
Now, I knew this was coming. I was prepared to testify under oath 4 months ago in court with regard to the nature of the trust, but Ex wiggled out of that one as well. I told Ex's greasy attorney that day that I have no access to that fund, to which he replied, "Oh, we'll definitely find that out, because I'm going to subpoena the records." But despite knowing that it was immanent, I was nevertheless appalled last week when my Divorce Lawyer (heretofore "Lawyer") called me and told me that the fund had been, indeed, subpoenaed.
My approach is this... say whatever you need to say about me, do whatever you need to do to me, but do NOT disrespect my parents, my sister, or any of my friends, for that matter. Disrespecting my Dad is even worse to me than if Ex had punched me in the face (which he did not, never laid a hand on me, in fact). I'm a Leo, and we're fiercely protective of those we love, so dragging my Dad into this and embarrassing him in front of his financial adviser is a big no-no, to put it mildly.
But back to Sunday. At this point, the facts were and are as follows: I'm a broke grad student, my Dad has come to my rescue on more than one occasion because Ex has completely cut me off, and Ex has had the disrespect to subpoena my Dad's financials. The week before Father's Day.
Father's Day had almost passed, and I received a text from Ex. Ex never calls, by the way. He only texts, and because of the nature of the texts and the time at which I receive them, I suspect that he's wasted. That will be relevant in the future, but for now what's important is that shortly before midnight on Sunday, Ex's text arrived. It said....
"If u r with ur dad..wish him a happy f-day from me..i will always have the utmost respect 4 him"
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
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