Considering I spend ninety-nine percent of my time either in the pool, at my desk, or going to the grocery store, I figured I could get away with a goofy color for once. That is, until I shake the estate planning attorney’s hand and feel exactly like the kind of asshole who thinks green nails are a fine idea.
Perhaps when we’re done here, I’ll have my name tattooed on my neck and paint a rebel flag on the hood of my car before allowing my children of dubious, multiple parentage to wrestle free-range in the back of my pickup truck while we head to the minimart to procure the ingredients for tonight’s dinner—Wonder Bread sopped in meat grease.
Fortunately, I’m not sure the lawyer notices the polish color because of my outfit. I wanted to be dressier than my usual khaki shorts and alligator shirt, so I went to put on one of the sweater-set/sundress items I normally wear on book tour. That’s when I realized that every piece of appropriate clothing I owned had not only been sitting at the bottom of the dry-cleaning basket since I finished touring three months ago, but at some point had been used as a litter box, likely when I accidentally shut Chuck Norris inside the closet.
I panicked and began to paw through the rest of my wardrobe, quoting Cher Horowitz as I made a vain attempt to find my “most responsible outfit.” I settled on a white pair of Capri pants, a flowered pastel tunic sweater, and a pair of silver sandals topped with a big silver cabbage rose, all of which I’ve previously worn separately without issue.
I thought I looked adorable until I saw my reflection in the shiny law firm windows. Instead of taking in my freshly touched-up roots or deep tan, I thought, “I should hold the door for the lady who came straight from Nana’s mah-jongg game down in Boca.”
Seriously, I’m one pair of Easy Spirits away from booking an Alaskan cruise in this stupid getup. I look exactly like Michael Westen’s mother on Burn Notice. I could go dressed like this to the movie theater and demand discounted seats. All I’m missing is a jeweled cigarette case and a crooked wig. I’d say that I’m ready to drive ten miles under the speed limit on the expressway, bitch about Congress, and yell at kids to get off my lawn, but I’ve already been doing that for years.
Anyway, I’m glad my SeniorWear [Trademark pending.] distracts everyone from my junior high school manicure, but I’m sitting on my hands nevertheless.
We’re being schooled on the four facets of estate planning and Ben, our lawyer, is asking us hard questions, like who we want to give health care power of attorney should we become incapacitated. Ben explains if something happens to one of us but not the other, certainly we’ll make that decision for the injured spouse, but what happens if we’re both incapacitated? Normally this task falls to family.
That gives us pause and Fletch and I both gawp at each other. Finally, I tell Ben, “We’ll need some time to discuss this. All I know is I don’t want my brother in charge. He’d be all, ‘Broken leg? One hundred percent chance of recovery? Pull the plug anyway; I’ll do it for you!’”
Since we’re not opting for family, who will we choose to make medical decisions for us? How do we put that burden on anyone who didn’t share a backseat with us on the kind of interminable family vacations where we tried to catch and eat flies because my dad believed stopping for lunch was for amateurs?
I have great friends—the best, really—but have I been a good enough friend to request such a favor? What am I going to say: “Hey, remember when I didn’t come to your birthday party because it was rainy and my hair was frizzy? Yeah, sorry about that. Listen, do you mind being the one who decides if I live or die? Thanks!”
We awkwardly stumble through more assignments under the other facets until we get to the actual will.
Ben explains that what we want to do is draft a will where everything’s assigned to a trust. The trust (a private document) is where stuff gets specific, like who gets my porcelain Royal Doulton Union Jack bulldog. Because wills are public, anyone can go to the courthouse and request a copy. The trust portion will protect our privacy while we’re still alive. [After that, I don’t care.]
“Someday if you’re bored, Google ‘celebrity wills,’” he tells us. “You’d be shocked at how much information some of them contain. Probably because instead of using estate planning attorneys, they used attorneys who also planned estates. [He said this enough times for me to gather that the distinction is important. But what do I know? I have green nails.] For example, did you know that Michael Jackson assigned Diana Ross as his secondary decision maker on some of the facets?”
“Huh,” I reply. “Hey, Fletch, we ought to ask Diana Ross if she wants to be our second, too. Clearly she’s not afraid of the job.”
After we work through the draft of the will itself, we get to the trust and that’s where it gets interesting. By “interesting” what I mean is where I realize I’m an asshole yet again because in divvying everything up, my first thought is, “Dance, monkeys, dance!”
I’m all cavalier, determining who I’d like to gift upon my demise and I’m particularly delighted when Ben explains how I can write in terms and conditions. Funny, I thought that kind of
