People sometimes get things backwards. Like when you first tell them you're getting divorced, and they get that "thank god it's you and not me" look of pity in their eyes and tell you how sorry they are, even though you are so relieved to finally have the cad (or the bitch) out of your house. Or when, after what seems like a hundred years later, you tell them the divorce is final, and they light up with that "hallelujah" look on their faces and congratulate you and ask when you're throwing a party even though all you want to do is crawl into bed with a pint of ice cream and contemplate what you will do next to mess up your life.
In a few days, on 12/12/12, if all goes according to plan (as if!), I will be divorced. The deal has not unraveled so far, but I have yet to feel anything resembling joy. The only satisfaction I have felt since reaching an agreement with my soon to be ex was from watching the looks of exasperation on the faces of our attorneys as we effectively told them to butt out and keep their malpractice worries to themselves. Oh, and there was the little incident with my pen clicking. Had I known how much such a simple thing would annoy the botox queen (who, by the way, is now barely able to move her mouth out of the fake smile position) I would have been armed with a clickable pen in each hand during all our prior meetings. In the hallway of the courthouse the other day, much to my delight, she seemed to be just as agitated (the frozen corners of her mouth turned down ever so slightly into a grimace) when I merely tapped silently against the clicker with my thumb. So fun.
At least the Cook County matrimonial division has been consistent in its dedication to fucking up already fucked up situations (talk about getting things backwards) and draining the emotions and bank accounts of folks who are pretty well depleted on both fronts. Now inches away from ending the nightmare, we have been told that we must take a court mandated parenting class before we can make our split official. "Isn't it too late for that?" I asked my husband. Our youngest is sixteen, with one running-shoe-clad foot already out the door, and our oldest, twenty-three, was quick to point out that we have already screwed them up irreparably. My twenty-two year old son would laugh if he would ever make himself available long enough to hear the details, but the most I could get out of him yesterday when I asked him if he was okay after the Japan earthquake that was all over the news here was "what earthquake?"
But counties need to generate fees however they can, and at some point in the next few days I must block out four hours and take an online course and test about how not to use the divorce to turn your kids against your spouse. Again, backwards and too little too late. Their opinions of us are already about as low as they can go. It's like being required to make up a missed Lamaze class after you've had the baby. (We worried back then whether our giggling through movies about enemas and loving massages offered up during labor to wives screaming profanities at the man who put them in this position would mean we would not be allowed to have the baby; we wonder now whether flunking the online parenting class would mean we have to stay married.) Not willing to risk it, my husband has already passed and forwarded his certificate to the botox queen. He assured me you only have to eke by with a grade of 70 to pass; that's a relief.
My husband and I (much to our attorneys' dismay) have opted to agree on certain details based only on a verbal promise and a handshake; if it comes down to trusting each other (even with our track records) or trusting the attorneys who have bled us dry, there's no contest. And when the botox queen warned him against something for fear that it would invite future litigation, he had a hard time finding a reason not to believe me when I assured him I would never want to look at (much less pay a cent to) a matrimonial attorney again. My word, til death do us part, was good enough. A toast to the god of second chances.
When I told a friend the divorce would be final on 12/12/12, she noted that was also the day the world would end. "That's 12/21/12," I corrected her, managing not to call her a nitwit because, as I said before, sometimes people just get things backwards. So if the twelfth is not the end of the world, it must be the opposite, like maybe the beginning of something. Again, a toast (and a prayer) to the god of second chances. And she'd better work quickly, because if the Mayans got it right, we only have nine days.
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