Prohibition

No, I have still not gone on a date. Nor have I put up my real dating profile, as I've been directed to do repeatedly over the past week by my handlers.

But I did learn a valuable lesson this past weekend that will be sure to enable my success (or at least prevent an utterly humiliating failure) at my dating venture.

I MUST NOT DRINK ALCOHOL.

My BILs party was on Saturday. For some reason, despite my repeated insistence on being recognized as an extreme introvert and aspiring hermit, I always find myself responsible for the role of "social butterfly," my duties including flitting about merrily while instilling jovial bliss and comfortable sense of belonging in guests of all ages and backgrounds.

It was in the course of this role that I found myself conversing with a Very Important Political Entity and his wife. He being of the very proper Republican persuasion, it was natural and expected to find our small talk turn to the subject of water polo.

Having nothing pertinent to say about the subject, I glanced down into my 24-ounce beer mug full of sangria for guidance.

It gave me none.

So I instead turned to summonsing all my creative energies and focusing them on the one task at hand...

SAY SOMETHING INTELLIGENT.

In hindsight, what I have concluded is that anybody who thinks they can look to a cup of fruited wine as a source of intelligent inspiration is beyond the point of having anything remotely appropriate, let alone intelligent, to say.

But in the moment, unable to assess the situation clearly as a result of my impaired ability to reason (and my sangria's failure to guide me), I could think up nothing to say that did not involve the most classless image stuck in my head of men in Speedos riding horses in swimming pools.

Fortunately, I was rescued from my moment of indignity by some wine bottles that just had to be opened for the guests...

Which led me to a truly spectacular display of sophistication by discussing with another Very Important Person the screw-top bottle wine I had served at my wedding .

(In my defense, it was very good wine. But it was also sold by a tree huggy sort of winery were they found cork usage to be as outdated as high flow shower heads.)

In a further lesson about my inability to consume alcohol and speak coherently...

It is best to NOT engage in conversations about the ecological advantages of screw-top bottles of wine while standing next to a nearly empty gallon-size jug of sangria and drinking said sangria out of a super-sized cup, while showing facial expressions consistent with resisting a driving urge to declare, loudly and randomly, that "I have not had that much to drink, you know."

Recognizing this phrase as the battle cry of all drunk blondes as they step up onto the bar table for a dance, I did at least keep my mouth shut about that.

Despite my one act of sensibility, such interchanges can lead only to Very Important People shooting meaningful glances at that wine jug and asking, in a delicate voice, if they could get you something to eat.

In conclusion, I have decided it is definitely in the best interest of myself and water polo fans everywhere for me to institute a personal prohibition policy while on dates. Unless, of course, I decided to participate in a wet t-shirt competition ;)

On Becoming Single

Now that I am officially single, it has been brought to my attention that I ought to be doing "things single people do." Specifically, this directive was given to me by my mother.

My mistake was in asking for clarification. Surely it has been known by daughters throughout the ages that one NEVER asks for a mother to expand upon any sentence that includes the word "things". That word never, ever amounts to any good.

But ask, I did.

I should have closed my eyes at the same time.

Placing her right hand on her hip and twitching her midsection like an unearthed worm, she declared the need for me to "be more sexy."

In all my 34 years, I have yet to find a reliable method to stop these conversations once my mom gets going. Any objection on my part (or attempts to flee) would be followed by an indecently loud declaration of "WHAT? What's wrong with you being SEXY? Why do you have such a problem talking about these things? You are ALLOWED to be SEXY!"

Note the repeated use of the word "things." Unfortunately for me, these conversations always take place in front of at least one other adult, and once, the entire fitting room of a department store.

In the course of this latest admonition to "be sexy," my mother also announced her intent to manage my dating life. Specifically, she instructed me to sign up for "one of those dating sites," urging me to "get out and have a little fun."

Well, wait just a moment, thought I. Get...Out...And...Have...A...Little...Fun...

Surely coming from a woman who wants me to wriggle and writhe in an unfortunate and humiliating attempt at sex appeal, the words "get out and have a little fun" could amount to no good.

Learning from my past errors of requesting elaboration, I bit my tongue and gagged audibly. Having meagerly escaped being signed up for OnLineBootyCall.com by my mother, I thought it best to avoid any colorful displays of indignation over her new self-appointed role in my life.

The next evening, not being one to let go of a brilliant idea (especially one that could someday result in a new husband for her daughter and more grandchildren for herself), she sat me down to clarify that I would be needing to sign up for both Match.com and eHarmony.com because she had checked with all her coworkers and that was what they all agreed to.

Deciding to turn my future over to my competent team of social handlers (a third of whom I have never even met), I will now set forth in an attempt to create an internet dating profile that is devoid of cliches, leaves no impression of deep mental illness or previous felony convictions, and utilizes punctuation and proper spelling to its fullest potential. And most importantly, I must make sure to never, ever, ever again give my attorney credit for any sneaky behavior on my part.

The Green Mile

A few moments shy of the eternity of my imaginings, I was declared officially divorced on July 30th. I wasn't even expecting it at that moment, having been forewarned by my attorney that my marriage could possibly linger into early 2010.

But single, I am. And having come out far ahead of xDH, despite being on the receiving end of his insanity for these past two and a half years, I am quite looking forward to spending the rest of my life wearing strappy heals of at least three inches (something I gave up years ago due to xDHs wee stature).

Now that I give thought to this matter, I do have a pair of six inch platform boots I bought for a costume party that could be cleverly concealed beneath a pair of regular-length jeans, thus causing me to be three inches TALLER than xDH, and thereby accelerating his wee-of-a-man insecurities to the point of rocking back and forth in the corner of a padded room.

DD does still have to see him three days a month (this was not my preference, but apparently "having him used as a test dummy on a historic solar-landing mission" was not on the court-approved list of possible outcomes), but she has become fairly proficient at providing him with parental guidance and teaching him the rules about keeping a child safe.

xDH has reacted to the end of our marriage (specifically, the loss of his assets) as one might expect of a man sentenced to death. Although not left completely penniless and destitute, he has taken to grooming himself as someone who is - unless his lack of bathing could be attributed to the current water shortage out West.

And I...well, I now have a closet full of strappy heals and brightly colored sundresses to make good use of...somehow.

What's Mine Is Mine

And what's yours is mine, too.

That would be DH's way of thinking of things.

Since all of the toys I have gotten for DD are possessed by little mythical beings that peck out eyes and bite off fingers (or at the very least are dangerous choking hazards), DH had to bring along a new toy for DD to play with while he was visiting this week.

So they played with DD's new toy.

As he was leaving, he picked up the toy and took it with him.

In an ever-so-perplexed manner, I inquired as to why he would be taking DD's toy with him.

"Because I bought it," he said.

This would be the most bizarre ritual of gift-giving I have ever encountered. Giving a child a toy, then taking it back when he left?

My therapist (yes, I go to a therapist because I am "nuts", "insane", and "crazy"), prefers to view this behavior as an extreme form of manipulation and control.

Surprisingly, DH thinks my therapist is as crazy as I am.

Despite being completely unbalanced and incapable of rational thought, I have instituted a new rule that any toy brought into DD's home for DD shall stay in DD's home until such time as I see fit to sell it at a garage sale, donate it to Goodwill, or bury it under a tree in the back yard.

The Replacement

No, not by Beth.

She's long gone.

Turns out, he was only using her. He told me so.

It was his way of explaining why it was okay.

You know, kind of like the Work Ho fling was okay because it was only a one night stand.

But, really, I have been replaced. By the most unexpected of people.

I took Molly up to visit yesterday, per my court-ordered obligation. Right there, smack dab in the middle of the wall, hanging slightly askew, was a picture of DH with his ex-wife #1.

How odd. I distinctly remember our wedding picture hanging in that exact same spot not long ago.

Apparently, now that all his misguided anger and bitterness are directed at me, he has abandoned his hatred for his first wife and is left feeling all fluffy and cuddly toward her.

Too bad she detests him as much as I do.

But not to worry. He already has another love interest in the works.

I'm sure it will work out splendidly.

Wow

I got a phone message from DH today.

All I can say is...

Wow.

Wow. Wow. Wow.

I have to speak with my attorney before I say anything else.

Just wow.

I married an idiot.

It Takes One To Know One

An Asshat, that is.

Since DH is living in a reality of his own creation that makes no sense to those of us who have not had a frontal lobotomy, it is no surprise he would chose an attorney of equal perspective.

Wacky Attorney Jackass, as my attorney liked to call him by the day's end.

By about 10:00 am, it had become the general suspicion of both my attorney and myself (and quite possibly the judge), that Wacky Attorney Jackass had learned to practice law by reading Nancy Drew mysteries and watching episodes of Matlock while eating Cheetos and drinking boxed wine out of a teacup.

First impressions can make or break you...or, in Wacky Attorney Jackass's case, cause the judge to push a 9:00 am hearing to the very bottom of the docket because he is ticked off at you.

It is not presumably wise to try to direct a judge in how he manages his courtroom. Or continue to talk over him once he has decided he has heard enough.

And then to do it again.

Wacky Attorney Jackass does not appear to agree.

Some highlights of his wackassly behavior are as follows...

Apparently, the expectation of the court is that the attorneys meet just before the hearing to come to an agreement. Wacky Attorney Jackass chose simply to refuse to have discussions with my attorney prior to seeing the judge. Nope. Not going to do it, he said.

While we were waiting in the hallway, he did what all highly qualified and exceptionally prepared attorneys would do...He asked other attorneys in the hallway for legal advice.

He demanded the court re-mediate our visitation agreement since "DC is no longer an infant." Unless I've gotten my math skills wrong, DC is ten months old. I do believe that qualifies as infancy.

Our judge, with whom I was very pleased, was all warm and fuzzy smiles when he addressed me. He was like a young, thin Santa without a beard.

He was all scowls and furrowed brows, with his jaw dropped open, when he addressed team Asshat.

Oh, and that fortune I've been hiding away off the coast of Antarctica...Wacky Attorney Jackass seems to have gotten wind of it. He kept referring to my "high" income and "large" deposits made to my bank accounts. I have positively not a clue which accounts those would be, but when he locates them, I do hope I get a cut of the funds.

The judge was clearly not feeling the love for Wackjackly and Company because he was most generous in his award of support to me.

We do have to go back to court at the end of January, at which time, Wacky Attorney Jackass will be responsible for substantiating his claims of my wealth. I have no idea what I will do once he discovers that I am really a princess in line to inherit all of the treasures of ancient Greece.

He will probably be too busy chasing ambulances to take notice.