Because I've been married three times, it means that I've been through two divorces. Both were traumatic. The second was the worst because I never saw it coming. One minute she's there, warm, affectionate, but a bit "off". She attributed the off to PMS. The next evening, when she didn't come home, I start the usual sequence-calling friends,"have you seen _________?" The hospital doesn't have an accident report. The police-nothing. Check her closet. Empty.
On the Monday after, a guy hands me a summons, i.e. divorce papers. Leaving out all the juicy interludes and you have Mr. Natural appearing at the courthouse. In the midst of a two acre downtown concrete plaza there's a stately columned building with three doors. Over each door is an inscription. This is back in the Middle Ages when terrorists and crazies weren't lurking behind very window and door, forcing authorities to install check points and metal detectors.
The inscriptions over the doors were truth,justice and the American Way . The last part is made up because I can't remember at the moment what the third moniker was. I stand there puzzled. Hmm. Truth. I tell the truth always, albeit, my own version, so that's a no brainer. I choose justice because that's what I'm aiming for. The American Way? Gawd no.
I enter the building and walk toward a bank of elevators. Pushing the up button for the appropriate floor for Room 21B- legal death and dismemberment, the small plastic square surrounded by chromed plastic lights up in a pale version of peach. A short wait. The door opens and I'm staring the ex to be square in the face. How can this happen? She's dressed in a shapeless, dowdy puke green dress like Edith Bunker would wear. My jaw hangs open. "I think I'll pass." We both heave a sigh of relief.
Irony. It's like a starving dog, nose pressed against your jeans snuffing the odors from breakfast lunch and dinner.
I read recently that some local school officials played Justin Bieber's song "Baby" over and over on the PA system until students donated enough money to a designated charity. I thought torture of young people went out with Sister Sixtus at St.Anthonys.
Forget water-boarding. Tie a yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree, Yummy Yummy Yummy, I got Love in my Tummy and Barry Manilow's song,Mandy played 24/7 would drive any hardened terrorist to pull and eat their hair.
I have a dog named Mandy. I had no choice. She was named after her mother. It was obvious from the get-go that she knew her name. She could even distinguish between her mother's name Mandy and her own- MANDY MAE. Every parent has resorted to using the full birth name of a child as an attention gatherer. "Stuart Arthur Smiley, you stop that this very moment." It wouldn't work for me because my real mother and adoptive parents both gave me names. The crazy mystic Slav foster mother gave me every saint's name. Mom couldn't decide between Roger and Robert, so she used both. Didn't help either when I was adopted as a informal member of a Western Great Lakes tribe which gave me both an English derivation and a real tribal name. I'm am not allowed to divulge the tribal version. Be assured that it's not, he who wafts farts under the blankets at midnight.