A woman goes to court. She has filed a request for a divorce.
The judge asks her what is going on.
She replies, “I need to divorce my husband!“
“OK” the judge says, “let’s start with a few questions first.”
“Like what?” she asks.
“Well, do you have any grounds?”
“Yes, we have about 5 acres out in the country with a small house.”
“I mean what is the foundation of this case?”
“I think It is made of concrete, brick and mortar,”
“ Well then – do you have a grudge?”
“No, but we have a nice, wide carport and a storage shed.”
“Let me ask then,” he continued, “What are your relations like?”
“I have an aunt and uncle living here in town, and so do my husband’s parents.”
He tried again, “Let me ask you this way – is there any infidelity in your marriage?”
“Yes, both my son and daughter have stereo sets. We don’t necessarily like the music, but the answer to your questions is yes.”
“Let me ask a different question. Do you have any complaints about him?”
“Like what?”
“Well, does he beat you up?”
“No, I’m up at least an hour before him every day.”
Exasperated, the judge finally asks, “ So why do you want a divorce?”
“Oh, I don’t want a divorce,” she replied. “I’ve never wanted a divorce. My husband does. He says he can’t communicate with me”
divorce
Friday Firesmith – Seventeen Dog Years
“Are you Mike Firesmith?” the woman asks at the event, and I wonder if she’s looking for the guy in dog rescue, the writer, the political activist, snake ID, or the guy who loans out the cat trap.
“Yes, and you would be?”
“Tammi. I was friends with your wife. We met once at the art gallery.”
Wow. Now this story ended, I thought, back in 2002, when the divorce was final and my brand new ex left the state.
“That was a long time ago, Tammi. I do not remember you, sorry,” I reply, hoping this ends well and soon.
“No, I didn’t think you would. You’re wearing the same style hat you wore back then.” Tammi hesitates. “That’s not the same hat is it”
“No, different. Three or four hats ago, at least.”
“She owed me some money and never paid me back. I didn’t care about the money but she just left and never told anybody where she was going. What happened to her? Do you know?” Tammi seems concerned rather than vengeful. She’s a bit older than I, with soulful eyes and I bet she’s got a cat that just showed up one day.
“No idea.”
“Okay. Thanks.” And Tammi wanders off.
I’ve lived long enough now that things pop up from the past that are old enough to legally drink alcohol. This doesn’t mean they should, but they do anyway, like some sort of sexually transmitted disease that randomly reappears. Personal History Herpes. I can go months without remembering I was married for 989 days, or as I refer to it, “Seventeen Dog Years.”
Yes, I did know she left owing money and she took artwork from artists who had no idea she was skipping town. Or at least that was what I was told by the artists. I suspect she stiffed her divorce attorney.
Tammi wanders over again, curious, like those people who slow down to take a photo of a car wreck. I worked in traffic and learned to hate those people. I still do.
“Mind if I ask you a question, Mike?” she asks.
“Shoot.”
“Did you think she had enough to survive when she moved out? I mean, I know there were a lot of issues, but honestly, what was she left with?” Tammi is serious. She isn’t taking a shot at me, I don’t think, and she seems to be trying to understand what caused the wreck, not just stare at it.
“I signed the agreement she and her lawyer drew up, Tammie, what else was I supposed to do?” I can feel the anger rising from the grave again.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, I don’t know. This is none of my business,” and Tammi flees.
I sit and eat a third doughnut, wash it down with more coffee than I truly need, and I remember Rachel Louise Snyder’s memoir, where she says, “I want to be more gracious in my writing here. I want to say my parents did the best they could under the circumstances and with the resources they had. But I don’t think this is true. I don’t think they did their best.”
We both went where the lawyers led us. But the money and property were in my name, and her lawyer fumbled the ball. She wound up with nothing.
I’d like to be more generous with my writing here, and say I did the best I could ending my marriage, but now, looking back, I don’t think I did. I don’t think I did my best.
Take Care,
Mike
