The judge assures me I’m in the right place, but it seems more like a technicality he’s obligated to honor, rather than any sort of tacit approval. I briefly touch on My Mailer and why I’m exasperated, stressing again and again that I’m not in any danger, except possibly from having a stress-induced stroke, and, really, it’s not like my butter and heavy cream intake are helping my whole artery situation.
The judge removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess if it were allowed that he’d like to punch me in the face even more than Mr. and Mrs. Be Drinking All the Time.
“Ms. Lancaster, I’m not going to grant your order and I’m not going to deny it. What I will do is give you a court date so that you and Your Mailer can give your sides of the story.”
Um, wait, no.
I want to AVOID her. I want to be NOT NEAR HER. I want to SWIM THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER. I do not want to have a day in court with her.
Crap, crap, crap. How do I get out of this?
The judge pages through his calendar. “I’m going to have you back here on April eighth.”
I shift in my loafers and twist my pearls and I start making statements in the form of questions. “Ooh, that’s kind of a problem? You see, Your Honor, there’s a banquet for me that day? My alma mater has named me one of their Distinguished Alumni for 2011, so I’ve got to be there? I’m the keynote speaker?”
That’s when the judge basically kicks me in the ’nads with his eyes. He says, “Well. Congratulations on your award. Might there be another date that would work when you’re not being honored?”
And then I die.
We figure out a time and I pretty much run out of the courtroom once I receive my paperwork.
“What THE HELL was THAT?” Fletch shout-whispers as soon as we’re out the door.
I turn to Lana, who’s still next to me, rubbing my arm.
REALLY NOT USEFUL RIGHT NOW, LANA.
I blurt, “This needs to not happen. How do we make this not happen? Can we withdraw the complaint?”
Cheerily, Lana replies, “Gosh, no. Now that you’ve seen the judge, it’s an official action of the court and a public record.” When she realizes I’m kicking her in the ’nads with my eyes, she adds, “If you choose not to pursue the matter, just don’t show up for your court date. Your case won’t be heard and the case will be dropped.”
So then it’s settled.
Denial it is.
I wish I had some snappy resolution to share about My Mailer, but I don’t. The situation is impossible with no chance of improvement and she did nothing to endear herself after her (solo) day in court where she later gloated how she “won my case against you.” It wasn’t worth the effort to respond that as the defendant, she didn’t have a fucking case. Also, I guarantee the judge didn’t say, “I was going to rule for you even if she did show up,” because admitting a preconceived bias towards one of the litigants is the kind of statement that gets you removed from the bench.
Regardless, because my professional events are on private property, we’re able to prevent her from causing another scene and that’s resolution enough, so basically, the show’s over. [Apparently she’s been trying to contact Oprah to settle our dispute. As this is Oprah’s final month of filming, perhaps she’ll bump her interview with President Obama and Tom Cruise to accommodate us.]
My big takeaway has been a newfound respect for other people’s privacy. The idea of strangers sorting through my dirty laundry (metaphorical or otherwise) makes me super-squirmy. With Karma being the bitch that she is, I’ve learned that if I have the expectation of privacy, I can’t keep invading that of others.
No longer being Gladys Kravitz isn’t easy because temptation (and information) exists everywhere. Some days all I want to do is Google stalk the new family on the corner with the expensive house and the cheap, cheap, seriously-what-were-they-thinking plywood fence they just built, but their business is none of mine.
I keep telling myself to snoop not, lest I be snooped and so far, I’ve kept those compulsions under control. And that makes me feel like I’ve taken another positive step towards full-blown adulthood.
But if I ever do meet those people with the amateur fence, I might mention that Fletch does woodworking.
Just because I’m a nice neighbor.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight or a real estate attorney to family court.
If you’re going to lawyer-up, do it right.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-S·I·X
Death and Taxes? Can I Select Neither?
When I told Fletch nothing could be more simultaneously boring and terrifying than meeting with the tax attorney, I was wrong.
That’s because we hadn’t yet met with the estate-planning law firm.
At least with the tax guy there was some raucous laughter, although it primarily emanated from him once he saw the mess our discount ex-accounting firm created.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it one final time:
Never economize on handbags, parachutes, or CPAs.
Fortunately, there’s little a healthy retainer fee can’t fix, so all’s well in that department.
Anyway, today we’re in this white-shoe law firm discussing what’s going to happen when we die. I hate that we’re here, I hate what we’re talking about, I hate how much it’s going to cost, but it’s got to be done. At this juncture in our lives, we need an estate plan more elaborate than the cocktail napkin where I drunkenly scribbled “I leave everything to Maisy!!” before doodling a bunch of bananas and a sheep. After canceling and postponing this appointment more times than I care to mention, here we are.
The tenor of the conversation has my palms sweating, but they’re not visible because
