cookies & cola

Patty*

We’ll call her Patty. She’s what someone would call an arch nemesis, a thorn in the side, a pain in the ass, a rain on the parade. She’s probably my least favorite client; I’d even go as far as saying my least favorite person, generally. She’s abrasive, rude, and insults with a compliment. But it didn’t start out that way.

I admired her organizational skills; my first impression was good.

sidenote: Family law in Florida requires that in the beginning of every case, financial information (tax returns, bank statements, credit card statements, retirement information; basically anything proving or disproving your income/assets/liabilities) must be collected, organized, and sent to the opposing counsel/Court.

Well, Patty had everything neatly seperated by category in little three-ring binders. She even provided an extra copy, just in case. I immediately thought to myself, Wow, this woman reminds me of me….she’s anal retentive in the best way possible. THANKS PATTY, I THINK I LOVE YOU!

Signed, sealed, delivered, all of her paperwork was off. Standard stuff.

Into the office comes a telephone call from Patty’s husband’s attorney about a week ago. She explains that she needs to speak to my boss (let’s call my boss, Anne), with some information that may or may not make Anne fall off of her chair in horror. I immediately felt that little botton, that I try to keep turned off even though naturally I just want to keep it on, you know, the Gossip button, turn on. 

“Hold on a sec, lemme put you through.”

Patty’s been poking her middle-aged nose where it shouldn’t belong. Patty’s been poking her nose into the face of a 15 year old high school kid. I take back that last thought process of the similarities of Patty and I. Yeah, definitely.

Right as Anne (my boss, remember!) hangs up the phone and refers Patty to a criminal attorney (oh dang!), she walks, wide-eyed, up to my desk. HIT THE GOSSIP BUTTON.

Patty’s husband began to feel suspicious, and did the classic snoop-in-the-email trick. What he found, he then forwarded to his attorney.

Patty had been, for months, sending emails, “inappropriate photographs” (put some clothes on Patty!), and text messages to a 15 year old boy, who, from the looks of it, would soon have his innocence (and virginity) taken by a middle-aged yoga instructor going through a messy divorce. His parent’s found out, and charges are currently being filed.

Now, here’s my thinking on the whole thing: If you’re going through a divorce, to get away from a man who you’re obviously unhappy with, WHY IN THE HELL would you shack up with someone who probably doesn’t have a job, can’t drive a car, has no pubic hair, can’t order a legal whiskey and coke, whose balls probably haven’t dropped, and most likely has a curfew earlier than when most Late Night talk shows start? You can’t possibly have anything in common with a 15 year old, can you? Is he going through a messy divorce? Is his hair thinning and his ass beginning to sag too?

Point being, if you need to have that little itch scratched, you know, after 15 years of marriage, go to a bar, drink a few gin and gingers, pick up someone, take them home, keep them around for a few weeks, then let it go. Instead, Patty, who I hate to say it, probably had it coming, now is staring Chris Hanson directly in the face and waiting for a comfy spot on Florida’s sexual predator’s list.

*Names have been changed.

marriage: what is it good for?

Marriage. It’s a simple word, a very familiar word, and something so incredibly engraved into us from such an early age, that it seems almost strange to imagine a life without the purpose of finding someone and settling down. There is an ideal, and that ideal is to find another decent human being, with the same musical interests and great fashion sense, polite enough to bring home to mom and dad and eventually marry, which in turn means children and many years of marital bliss. And, that works for some; it works so well that it keeps the rest of us hopeful for something that is so common that it’s rare. I mean, I’ve never been married, but I’ve come close. And I’ve spent many late nights, drunk from love and gin, and I’ve pondered these things. You know, the who/what/where/when/and why’s; the doubt, the hope, the wonder and uncertainty of that moment when you could meet one person and your life is completely different, forever. I’m certain it happens, and I’m certain it’s just as beautiful as I remember. I understand how it starts.

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Being a twenty-something with parents who are still married is peculiar. What I mean by that is,  I can count on one hand friends who have parents still married. It doesn’t work for everyone, but it works for some, and my parents happen to be those type. For as much as they argue and bicker and curse the sky, I know that they could not live without eachother. One works with the other, in the most backwards way possible, and somehow, they still come up for a breath before running out of air. They reach the top, and they reach the bottom, together. They understand that when they stood there, in front of god, or whoever it was that was watching, that it meant forever, and it meant difficult, and it meant what’s your’s is mine. Commitment and dedication; I understand how it lasts.

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Now, here I am, at a job I’d never have expected to be in, doing the things and meeting the people I’d never expected. I deal with disappointment, failure, intimate details, sadness and drama everyday. I’m involved in the deconstruction of marriage and the American family; I’m learning how it ends, and I like it.