Fragile Industries

Full Disclosure, Chapter 4

In which legal issues are discussed.

Early this year, Athena took the ex to small claims court. She petitioned to collect the monies she had advanced to the ex when they were together, when she expected his fortunes to reverse and his affection to continue, unsullied. As I had, for years. As all his women had. Because Athena is smarter than me, she had the documents to prove it. In addition, she allowed in her claim those small sums he had advanced as partial payment. Her petition to the court reeked of honesty.

The ex actually appeared in court to answer the claim, though he filed no opposition papers nor a counterclaim. I had bet that he wouldn’t even appear. The small claims judge heard Athena’s case, simply presented, and turned to the ex. “Did she give you this money?” “Yes,” said the ex. “Do you owe her the amount she claims?” “Yes,” he said, “But …” The ex claimed he was owed money for handyman work on her property. The impatient judge said, that has to be a separate claim. You filed no counterclaim. In fairness, he asked Athena about the obviously fraudulent invoice of recent invention the ex waved around. She quite honestly responded that she had never seen it before, it had never been presented to her for payment.

The judge banged his gavel, rendered verdict for Athena and called, “Next.”

I was very glad for her, not for the money, it’s not about money, but because someone, finally, had called him to account, called him on his abusive pattern.

Then she told me he had filed an appeal.

Now, Devoted Readers, you may not know my professional background. I blush to admit it, but I am a damn good lawyer. After an honors degree from USC Law, and five years in private practice, specializing in appellate law, I transitioned to public service with the courts. I spent a year as a chambers attorney with the First District Court of Appeal in California, writing opinions for a great justice. I then served a dozen or so years with the California Supreme Court’s Civil Division, ending up as Senior Research Attorney for the Civil Central Staff. I loved my job, the constant writing, being on the cutting edge of the law without having the impediment of being an advocate. My job was finding the true resolution of knotty problems, and recommending to one of the leading state courts in the nation which cases were worthy of their attention. The job required not only keen skills in legal research, writing, and insight, but an appreciation of the politics and personalities of the Court.

The ex had attended numerous Court events open to spouses, and though I rarely took my work home, he had listened attentively when I shared with him some of my challenges at work, both in pure law and the interoffice realities. As I had listened sympathetically to his work stories from an animation studio, when he had a real job. That’s a good part of marriage.

I thought he might have learned something from ten years with one of the best appellate attorneys in the state. Like knowing when not to appeal a dead-dog loser of a case.  Apparently not.

Full Disclosure, Chapter 3

In which I meet Athena.

A few weeks later, I received an email out of the blue from my ex’s most recent ex. It was a long letter, sent to a mass mailing of women gleaned from his email history.

(By way of exculpation for the sender, this was only after she had hard evidence of his abuses.  As, after he broke into my email and computer, I checked the ex's computer, and found not only email evidence of his affairs, but a photographic record, on the desktop, of one of his more anonymous sexual encounters. It proved he had had unsafe sex, exposing me to God Knows What.  During the time I visited my mother over Christmas.  Feh.  His outrage over being hacked is soooooo disingenuous.  Even a year after our split, he was still hacking into my email and erasing messages.) 

As a preface to my letter, this woman, I’ll call her Athena, in mind of her strength and wisdom, said, I know you are not a party to his recent actions, but perhaps you’ll find this interesting, or words to that effect.

Of course, I was skeptical. But as I read this letter, I recognized very old patterns, very old lies, the same ploy of the repentant bad boy, the claims of victimhood, the same damn cycle of financial abuse, told by someone of uncommon erudition and expression. Moreover, I admired the tone. The overall purpose of this communication was not to tell off the “other women,” not to claim victimhood, but instead to tell the straight story of the ex’s relationship with her, what she was told, where he was and when, so that the multitude of other women in his life during that time could compare notes and know the truth. Instead of the ex’s spin. I applauded her chutzpah in doing such a thing. I wished one of his disappointed lovers had done the same for me during my courtship and marriage, when it might have made a difference.

Athena had brought about my ex’s Worst Nightmare: that all the women he was juggling, setting at odds, filtering all information between, would come together and realize the depth of the dishonesty. At long last, he was exposed as a user, a gigolo, who targeted attractive, intelligent, sensitive women who incidentally were women of property.

I was appalled that, all claims to the contrary, my ex had learned nothing, repented nothing, but kept repeating the same pattern, over and over and over again, and hurting other women.

At first, I responded hesitantly to Athena. As our communication broadened, I more and more admired her. I wished I had her confidence and self-possession when it had ended with the ex, to warn others in the spirit of warning, not blame and hostility.

A few days later, I telephoned the ex to give him one last opportunity for explanation. I asked him, when are you going to stop hurting women, good women, who do nothing wrong but love you? He said “It’s complicated,” and hung up.

Shortly thereafter, I went to San Francisco on one of my Culture Whore visits, full of opera and museums and treating myself to good food and better friends. I met Athena while I was there, and liked her immediately. We learned much from each other. She and I were on similar ground -- although their relationship had been of less than a year’s duration, she was still deeply wounded yet finding her feet. I was older news, but after a long marriage, at about the same stage of healing. Beyond our broken yet mending hearts, we found a lovely common ground of intelligence, humor, and strength.  That evening, and a later party at Houston's, was full of laughter and wry wisdom.

The ex, sensing this coming together, sent Athena a revealing email: he told Athena exactly how to seduce me and mentioned that in a few years, she could count on a financial payoff as I was heir to a substantial estate. That was the last nail in the coffin. I could not help but wonder how often he had made the same calculation, speaking sweetly to my wealthy mother as he concealed his disregard for me.

Athena and I maintained our friendship, for a true friendship it was, as her life moved on. I considered asking the ex to be a screening board for my future friends. He had a knack of finding women very much like myself whom I might not have found on my own for friendship.

I heard from other ex-friends of the ex’s and learned that he had even reached out to platonic friendships and had obtained money from them, never repaid, friends of durations longer than mine. He seemed to be veering dangerously out of control, the wheels were coming off. He had engaged in no meaningful employment for years, still clinging to fantasies of his own self-importance and brilliance. When I heard all this, I remembered the words of a long-ago friend who said, when I described the ex’s dreams, “He still needs a day job.” The ex was above that. As long as he could live off women.  And lie.

Another friend said, "When he got money from you, he thought he was clever.  But really, he was just lucky."

While I'm on the topic of memorable quotes, when the ex had me arrested on the night of our final separation, and I was tossed in a holding cell full of prostitutes, we soon established a common ground and were all sharing our female perspectives.  There I was, middle aged, wearing a twin-set cardigan and tasteful pumps, and they in hotpants and platforms.  When I first walked in, trembling, ready for the movie-of-the-week Linda Blair jailhouse rape, one hooker looked up and smiled.  "Girlfriend, you look sooooo INN-o-cent!"  I remembered the famous line from "Shawshank Redemption."  "But we're all innocent, right?"  After that, I was golden.  I told them that I was arrested after I had gotten upset when I learned that the ex had not only fucked the maid, but a co-worker who had been a frequent dinner guest.  The whole collective nodded knowingly.  The youngest hooker pointed to the cement block wall.  "Honey, you could drill a hole in that and he'd stick his dick in it."  We all nodded again, sisters under the skin.

So I was ready for the revelations of Athena, of old friends, of other exes of my ex.  I was only surprised by the levels of his stupidity.

Next: Legal stuff!

Full Disclosure, Chapter 2

In which I share my backstory.

No, not the whole backstory. Not mine. Let’s just say the ending was painful, unattractive and costly. Not only in a monetary sense -- the ex blackmailed me out of a large sum -- but more importantly, emotionally costly. Every Single Thing In My Life changed unexpectedly and dramatically. The ex had planned and prepared for the divorce, but I hadn’t had that opportunity. Quite literally, I experienced vertigo from the change so extreme that sometimes I had to pull my car over to the side of the road before I was safe to drive. I drank and drugged my way through a few years. I got more crazy, not less. After one last stab at True Love, I had a couple of silly affairs with people I knew I couldn‘t care about, and then went into a cloistered celibacy I could only relinquish on the road, away from home. I got better, better meds, good therapist, slowly got my sea legs back, and though my life still seems directionless from the outside, I have plans, good workable plans, for the future.

During the past five years since I left San Francisco (I will burn a candle on May 10-11^th of this year), the ex and I went through phases of talking and not talking. Unwinding a 10 year marriage takes a while, and little unexploded bombs went off here and there that riled one or the other of us enough to break off communication. The blog post mentioned above. Tax messes I thought he‘d taken care of but hadn’t, resulting in an IRS lien against me of $40,000. Passive aggressive ploys. A few gestures -- such as proposing to his new girlfriend on the day of my 50^th birthday -- and blogging about it, while taking the time to email me his felicitations -- that seemed so pointedly hurtful to both me and an innocent bystander I had to wonder how horrible a person I was to inspire such venom.

Then he‘d send a cheery note or some seemingly concerned comment, such as when one of the cats died, that communication would, tentatively and carefully, resume.

I was spoiled. My prior youthful marriage had ended so amiably. I prided myself on how well I could relate, recover, and move on. So I kept trying to reach that same equilibrium with my more recent ex. What was strange is that, in reviewing my email for the last 5 years, recently, I saw a pattern. Attempting to cure any residual toxins of the past, I had made amends several times, sincerely and after great thought, for the ways I had contributed to the end of our marriage. These amends were accepted with a comment such as, “I forgave you long ago.” This held me for a while, and then a nagging thought would emerge. Had he ever done the same? About every six months, I would ask for the same two things, every time thinking it was the first time: 1) An admission that our time together had not been 10 years of unrelenting misery, but had held some special, magic, moments, and an overall good humor that I still, to this day, treasure. 2) An admission of fault, an apology -- for anything. Anything. Ample grounds for both admissions were plentiful.

Every request was met with silence, at least, always a break in communication for several months, and often, one of the above gestures of enormous hostility.

Until last week, we only had seen each other twice in the four years since I left San Francisco. He passed through My Little Town about 6 months after the divorce, and stopped in to visit me and the cats. I was still more raw than I expected. Watching him walk from his car towards my condo, I felt a deep physical pang. His presence was still Pavlovian to me. His hair remained glossy. The set of his broad shoulders, and his unique stride, was as familiar as my own pulse. It was a civil but uncomfortable meeting.

In December, 2007, I was visiting San Francisco. The ex had recently returned to town and on a whim, I called and asked if he wanted to meet, get a little catharsis out of the way. He seemed eager to do so. I waited in the museum café for his arrival. When he came in, late, he did not see me immediately, and ordered a coffee as I observed him dispassionately. No pang. If anything, he looked unfamiliar, seedy, even. Was this shabby fellow the man I had loved so intensely? Did he always have such bad teeth? Why hadn’t he even combed his hair? It was a valuable meeting, not so much for what was said or unsaid, but for testing my own reactions. By Jove, I felt nothing. I felt distant enough to be gracious. To tell him, truthfully, that I was sorry his latest partnership hadn’t worked out. We parted on slightly better than civil terms.

On the way to that meeting in 2007, I should add, I had valuable insight given to me by others. In the first few years, as I said, when the ex would do something grotesquely hostile, I blamed myself. My personality defects had prompted a reasonable man to behave badly, I believed. I made an oblique reference to this in my blog. To my surprise, my ex’s girlfriend before our marriage, and reluctantly, during our marriage, contacted me and told me I was not to blame. She had been equally misled, betrayed, lied to. She told me for the first time about the level of his betrayal to me, ongoing even during times I thought our marriage had been sound. I learned of the degree of plotting, his glee at discovering my missteps which played into his long-range plans for extortion. I can never thank that woman enough.

I had never really been angry at the “other women” in our drama. They had broken no commitments to me, and I knew how my ex’s charms could seduce good, sensible women. This new information freed my soul, my spirit. I had other insights from others, slowly emerging over the years. I got down off the cross and viewed my ex as a complete, and completely flawed, contributor to our failure.

So I felt magnanimous, meeting him again, viewing him without desire, and could wish him well, wish him his own insight.

On my birthday in 2008, he called, and we spoke for a few minutes, about little, but I thought he was on the road to a complete life, I could leave him to heaven and felt happy to have moved on.

That’s the backstory.

We Interrupt Scheduled Broadcasting: Bea Arthur, 1922-2009, RIP

I read with real regret the passing of Bea Arthur.  She was a public, popular icon of feminism, and of humor.  Two qualities that are all too often considered incompatible.  I feel as if I have lost a friend.

Here she is in a recent role as the reluctant innamorata of Dewey, on Malcolm In The Middle.  It's my favorite episode of one of my favorite comedies.

Full Disclosure, Chapter I

In which I start to unpeel the layers of the onion publicly.

I’ve been good, at least I’ve tried to be good, honest I have.

There’s the occasional dig here at my most recent ex, but humorously done, tolerant. It hasn’t been much of a pose, of an attempt to seem blasé or worse, to curry favor (from him, his friends, or The World At Large). Rather, I’ve felt that some private things should stay private. I wanted to honor the good parts of my married past. Also, there is nothing less amusing than a truly bitter, hateful divorcee. It’s ugly, all that bile. Vulgar to endlessly rehash the past. I’ve been around men and women like that, who can drag any topic of conversation around to the nefarious deeds and character of the ex. Boring.

Another reason is that I really, really dislike the role of victim. I don’t want pity. Feh. Ick. The ex, on the other hand, has made victimhood a lifestyle choice, his preferred or even exclusive ploy to make friends and influence people in his favor. It’s worked pretty well for him. Worked on me. But for the most part, at least in our writing (we both write) we kept the dirty laundry in the hamper.

In fact, years ago, I started a separate, anonymous blog where I could go and vent when the bitterness in me demanded expression. I told no one, linked to it nowhere, and as far as I know, it has never been read, a lonely little orphan blog floating in the ether. Did me a lot of good. Haven’t written there in years and years.

In early 2006, about 20 months after our separation, my ex broke our unspoken covenant and blogged very publicly and explicitly about “a friend” who suffered grievous harm at the hands, and hammer, of his insane ex. How his blameless “friend” still had nightmares, was probably irretrievably broken as a result. A child could see through the masquerade of the “friend.” In fact, I knew my ex had told the story, in the first person, to everyone he knew at the time of our breakup. He led tours through the scene of the crime, posted photos in e-mail to those who could not attend in person.

I was livid. Maybe it’s the lawyer in me, but slander (verbal dishing) is very different when it gets in print -- it becomes libel, out there in the public view. Some very tense and hostile emails were exchanged, and the ex said he would pull the post, but wanted all references to HIM out of MY blog.

Though mine were far milder, I agreed, and glasnost reigned thereafter. I spilled a little, recently, in my post about the Oscars, but that was a small and necessary part of a much longer story about something else.

Today, I’ve got a great story and the gloves are off. And it’s not so much about me, or at least not an attempt to be the victim. It’s about vindication, and friendship and karma. Stay tuned, I’m still writing. Over the next few days, I have a story to tell.

I'm full of things I can't say.

*so she starts typing anyway*

The things that are on my mind I can't talk about.  This is strange.  I usually can write here without being aware of my Devoted Readers (be calm, though you may not always be on my mind, your are always near my heart).  But sometimes, I get stage fright, or the typographic equivalent, and see you all out there beyond the footlights.  It's inhibiting.

I'm very excited about a future plan, but I definitely can't talk about that, because the exciting part is its surreptitious nature.  If I told you, I'd have to silence you somehow.  Lacking the resources of Guantanamo Bay, it's best for all of us that I don't mention it.

I'm very very happy about my recent trip to Las Vegas, the healing and the reconnections and ... but no, that would be indiscreet.

I'm anxious about a future encounter with ... well, see, if I explain, certain readers in the family grapevine will report back and then there would be unpleasantness.

I'm girlish and comforted by my continued warm relationship with, um, no, can't go there either.

I'm mildly apprehensive about Thursday's appointment with my beloved derma doctor, but if I go into that, you see, you'll know just how vain I am.  And it's not Botox, I'll talk about THAT.  At great length, but then you'd be bored.

So, I'll talk about teeth and cat kidneys.  That's on my mind and absolutely riveting, yes?  Hello?

Never mind. 

There, now that everyone's cleared out, I can say here in this empty theater that I had the strangest dentist appointment today.  My front teeth, especially on the bottom, have started chipping here and there on the edges.  Toothwise, I lucked out in the genetic lottery.  I inherited my father's good strong teeth (with some occasional weirdness, like a baby molar that never had a grown-up tooth replace it and is hanging in gallantly, if rather undersized).  The other option was my mother's beautiful, but very English, teeth.  In other words, hers are long gone.  Her father had full fake choppers by 30 years old, she stretched it out somewhat longer.

(are you sure everyone's gone now?)

So now I have this whiz-bang up-to-the-minute dentist.  He's attractive, in a slightly rodential way, he's top of his craft, teaches at UCLA, extremely pleasant to a nearly suspicious degree, and has a passion for ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TEETH.  He was so crestfallen to see my nice strong, white, even chompers start to dwindle that he begged me to come in for a full evaluation.  He nearly wept when he told me about the dangers of misalignment -- and the progressive, insidious loss of enamel acreage that can result.  I hate to see a grown man cry, and frankly, I don't want to end up with a smile like a picket fence, so I went in today.  I was treated to a full 2 hours of strange procedures, photos, measurements, x-rays, mold-making, jaw-muscle probing, and biting down on strips of colored paper.  I suspect he just wanted to try out new toys on me.  The end result, as I understand this voodoo -- which I know is designed to remove unmarked bills of large denominations from my pocket -- is that I have a tragic misalignment of my bite, which makes my teeth chip.

I knew that already.

I'm just waiting for my sit down with Dr. Dreamy-Mouse, after he feeds all the mumbo-jumbo into his computer, hob-nobs with his fellow wizards, and receives the solution from the Sorting Hat.  It may cost millions of dollars and thousands of lives to preserve, protect and restore my ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TEETH.

Hmm. 

(Surely I've bored even the most stalwart Devoted Reader away by now.  No?)

Cat kidneys.  And thyroids.  So I have two old cats left of the 3 I left home with four years ago.  My, how time flies.  Kitch is 15, Peabody's 14.  Took them in for their annual exam a few weeks back, and I guess it's been a bad year for cats.  They both are in some undetermined phase of kidney trouble (to be determined by $640 worth of tests they had yesterday), need meds daily, and a new, expensive, prescription diet.  Fortunately, they adore the special food.  The meds will be here soon.  I know Pea will just sit resignedly when I dose him.  Kitch will turn into a spitting demon from hell.  I'm curious to see if anything stays down her gullet.  She's never been sick a day in her life and has a good 8 or so lives left, so I'm not worried about her.  She's too mean to die.

Peabody also has a very serious thyroid problem and already gets dosed twice a day for that.  If he's a candidate (which I will also learn from yesterday's testing), he can be cured through a radiation treatment.  The closest animal hospital that does this procedure for cat crazy owners with too much money is three hours away and he has to stay there for a full week.  That stress might just kill him outright, being locked in a cage away from home and me and being poked and prodded by strangers.  He's a bit neurotic, and has been through at least 7 of his lives already.  I'll stay in Irvine to visit him daily if it would help.  I am the poster girl for crazy cat owners with too much money.  Pea is the best husband I ever had, I lurve him ridiculously, and would give MY ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TEETH to keep him around, hale and hearty, for a few more years.

(OK, now I know I'm all alone.  The discussion of cat kidneys and thyroids got rid of any hangers on.)

But I don't want to talk about anything else right now, the mood has passed. 

*whispers to self, "I am an avenging angel, I got laid in Vegas and more, I really dislike a certain in-law, I happily love an old love, and I hope the laser doesn't hurt"*

Black Is The New Black ...

What with those pesky Somalians trashing the rep of our favorite oceanic buccaneers,

ZOMBIES ARE THE NEW PIRATES.

 

Now if Jonny Depp will just play Mr. Darcy in the film version, this cultural paradigm shift will be complete.

Thoreau and the Toads

Thoreau and the Toads

David Wagoner

After the spring thaw, their voices ringing
At dusk would beckon him through the meadow
To the edge of their pond where, barefoot,
He would wade slowly into the water
And stand there in the last of light
To see the mating toads—a hundred or more
In the shallows around him, ignoring him
Or taking him for another, inflating
The pale-green bubbles of their throats to call
For buffo terrestris, leaping half out of the pool
And scrambling to find partners. The atmosphere
Would quiver with their harmonic over-
And undertones, with their loud, decent proposals
Like the sounds of a church potluck, their invocations
And offertories for disorderly conduct,
With the publishing of their indelicate banns
And blessings to the needy in their distress
And benedictions even beyond springtime
To all those of the faith. And he would see
Among this communal rapture, there underwater,
The small grey males lying silent
On the backs of females, holding on
To their counterparts with every slippery finger
And toe, both motionless, both gazing
Inward at the Indivisible
And rising from time to time together
To the surface only an inch above them
To breathe, then settling again and staring
With such a consciousness of being
Common American toads, he would stand beside them,
As content as they were with their medium
Of exchange, the soles of his feet trembling
With a resonance he could feel deep in his spine,
Believing this mud could be his altar too,
And his pulpit, where all of his intentions
Would be as clear as theirs, as clear as the air
In the chill of the fading light. He would lift
His bare feet gently and silently, making scarcely
A ripple, balancing
Himself onto the grass and, while his brethren
Like a drunken choir went on
And on without him, would sit down
Vibrant on the earth and once again struggle
Into his stockings, into his waterproof boots,
And straighten and square-knot his rawhide laces.

Happy Easter, everyone!

(With loving thanks to niece Anna "Monkey", who found this poem)

 

Nonconsensual Conservative Teabagging Frenzy

From the Huffington Post:

Tonight, on the Rachel Maddow Show, Maddow and regular guest, Air America's Ana Marie Cox, discussed the fringetastic anti-tax Renaissance Faires known as "tea parties." There is only one thing in all the world worth noting about the people behind these things, and it is this: everyone involved is apparently unaware of what the term "teabagging" means. As you will see, this is not the case with Maddow and Cox.

"Now, no laughing off set or I will lose it!" begged Maddow, "I'm only barely making it through as it is." She said this BEFORE Cox joined the segment. From there, it just got better: "Who wouldn't want to tea bag John McCain?" Cox asked. "This is all part of the midterm strategy," she added. "You know it's going to be teabagging 24/7 when it comes to the midterms." And it shall be. Of this you can be certain.

I really do not have to say anything more. You all enjoy this, now. I'm just going to show myself out. Good night!

[WATCH.]

Aw, come on, GOP, this is like shooting fish in a barrel.  It's just TOO easy.

Gender Differences

Two recently-read quotes on gender differences:

"Women are natural spies ....  We're taught from childhood to be quiet and listen.  We're patient, and we're good plotters.  It's bred into us.  For centuries we've had to use subterfuge to get our way."

-- Denise Hamilton, The Last Embrace

"Fox and Levin [criminologists specializing in the psychology of mass murderers] say mass killers fall generally into three categories ....  That most of these killers are male should come as no surprise: 93 percent of violent crimes are committed by men, Levin said.  Fox offers several explanations for this gender gap.  First, women tend to blame themselves for their failures and, so, more often simply commit suicide." 

--  Associated Press, "Cluster of mass murders puzzling" April 7, 2009

Agree?  Disagree?  Discuss.