Friction and Harmony

Oddybobo wrote a post about boobs heated rant about being misunderestimated in her job, where she disclosed the fact that she’s an Ivy-Leaguer who is still quite capable of “going redneck.”

Gotta love that image… She’s my new personal hero!

Her story reminded me of my own experience during my very expensive custody battle to get my kids. “Very expensive,” because at one point, I had to fly my attorney and his assistant 2,000 miles for a three-day junket to depose witnesses in the case. (My sons had been living in Utah with their monster mother.)

Being from coastal Alabama, it was a mini ‘vacation’ for my legal staff to go see the Rockies, and they soaked it up. They also brought no small part of Parrotthead, beach-life style to the depositions…

On the first day of depositions, my attorney wore khaki cargo shorts, worn deck-shoes and a seersucker, short-sleeved, comfortable shirt… with a button-down collar. He was tanned and looked like he had just stepped-off the deck of his sailboat. He carried an overstuffed briefcase which he dug-through almost absentmindedly from time to time, and he “lost” his reading glasses a few times – at least once on his head.

The defense attorney – also from our area – was dressed neatly in a suit and tie. They swelled-up with undeserved pride at the sight of their attorney in comparison to mine, and scoffed to themselves so everyone could hear, “looks like he forgot he was supposed to be working today,” (laughter) and, “hey buddy, the nearest beach is that-a-way!”

At first, I admit even I was a little shocked to see him dressed so casually. I had only ever seen him with the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, tie thrown over the back of the chair where his briefcase sat. All the hosting staff at the legal office that we were “renting” for three days (read, unbelievably expen$ive) were staring wide-eyed at us through the glass-walls of the conference room. Was this really an attorney? Did he actually expect to win a case acting so casually and cavalier?

As the grave details of our case began to emerge, I noticed that the looks I got from the staff turned to pity – “you poor thing… such terrible circumstances, but you don’t stand a chance with that absent-minded, drawling beach-bum of a lawyer! I bet his office – and home – are below-deck on some marina-bound, run-down barnacle-barge, tsk tsk.”

I might have been worried myself if I hadn’t already heard such tales from MamaBear… who had worked for over three decades at Alabama’s largest law firm, and had thus escorted the senior partners on at least one occasion to similar actions in New York City. In her case, her boss wore a plaid flannel shirt and bolo-tie. (The cold of the North just doesn’t agree with us Southerners!) His characteristic southern-drawl was as thick as molasses, and he frequently held-up his hand to turn to his junior partner to have him repeat what had just been said. Mom was mortified – they were out of their league! The high-dollar, window-dressed, big-city attorneys just grinned at each other like sharks circling for the kill… Until Mr. A. threw his glasses on the table, stood-up and shed his mock-ignorant persona, then proceeded to shred them with their own preconceived notions – giving them a good lesson in redneck lawyerin’.

So I knew what my attorney was doing; he was using their own ignorance to disarm them. His attitude was so deliberately cavalier (bordering on disdain – but they couldn’t recognize it as I could) also because he had no doubt we were going to win this custody case and free my children permanently from the devastating evil to which they had been subjected. (At the time these depositions took place, I had already been granted temporary custody under an emergency order.)

I also had the satisfaction of knowing that my attorney was a retired family court judge with over thirteen years of experience on the bench in the very court in which this matter was to be decided. I knew firsthand the respect we got when we walked into the courthouse of our turf, where even the security staff still snapped to attention as they greeted him, “good morning, Judge!”

And while their attorney was damned good – I actually have the utmost respect for him still – mine was a ringer. I watched with satisfied glee as he turned those smug, self-assured looks into panic and dismay every single time. One such “defense witness” was a 300-pound, tattooed ex-con that went by the nickname “Bear” (oh yeah, they put-on a quality case – lacking only elephants and a ringmaster tightwire act trained monkeys… shit, elephants), who at one point adamantly raised his voice to my attorney, “…and frankly, I RESENT YOU making these ACCUSATIONS about my FRIEND,” as my attorney was questioning him about his knowledge of our perp’s criminal convictions. With remarkable ferocity and matched agility, my parrotthead-attorney-judge lunged halfway across the table at the witness, slamming his fist down to punctuate the statement, “these aren’t accusations, my friend, they are court-determined, LEGAL FACT!!”

I still wish I had had a camera to get that picture… Of a big, dirty, hairy, biker-looking freak with his ill-fitting dress shirt and poorly knotted tie beneath a red fu-manchu moustache, looking quite suddenly like a scared kitten.

Heh.

After the case was decided, my ex-monster-in-law blamed Alabama’s “Good-Ol-Boy Legal System®” for their loss.

Damned right… You won’t like what happens when we go redneck on your ass!

Oh, I was so not ready to read this over at Grau’s.

He refers to this AP News article about New York’s latest effort to protect its citizenry from the truly sick bastards who commit sex crimes, especially against children, and who are not deemed ‘safe’ for full-release into society. A giant step beyond a mere sex offender registry, New York governor Spitzer is negotiating with legislators how to ‘release’ dangerous offenders into permanent psychiatric care and confinement once their punitive phase is completed.

Graumagus voices a very valid point – our government doesn’t need another slippery slope on which to position the rights of the individual. Any internment that defies the scope of legal sentencing is a dangerous prospect for all citizens – not just the ones who deserve it. And to quote Grau, “any comments about Gitmo will be bitchslapped into oblivion: apples and oranges, folks.”

I won’t quote Grau any further, because I have too much respect, and I’m not attacking his opinion at all. In fact, I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment (okay just one more quote…):

If you believe (and in this case, I agree completely) that pedophiles who molest children should never be allowed to walk free or, better still, should be terminated with extreme prejudice, then change the goddamn laws so they can be sentenced as such. I wouldn’t have a bit of a problem serving on a jury and voting “yea” to convict some pedophile asshole and send him off to be strapped on a table and have poison purchased with my tax dollars stop his black heart as he pisses and shits himself (a bullet would be cheaper and quicker, but I digress…)

…

Give rapists (of the non-consensual type) and child molesters an automatic one way ticket down death row and you wouldn’t need a fucking registry…

The only problem with that idea is that it will never happen in our society. The cause and the cure don’t lie in our sentencing laws, but somewhere buried deep in the fabric of our society itself. We’re a nation of instant gratification, and of moral relativism: If it feels good, do it – and if you’re not the only one doing it, it must be an accepted practice!

Twenty years ago, homosexuality still possessed a modicum of social stigma, but it was emerging rapidly into the mainstream of our society. I watched with horror as young men – kids, really – anguished with the ‘peer pressure’ to become gay. Now, however, homosexuality is a preferred lifestyle. We have such perverse media bombardment as the likes of the salaciously titled “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” and countless other programs and homosexual character portrayals pumped into our homes daily and so we have become inured. The goal isn’t just acceptance – it’s expansionism. It’s the so-called “liberation” of the homosexual lifestyle. There’s a thrill expressed by “gay” individuals who attempt to ‘turn’ a straight person in their oft-expressed push to ‘discover one’s latent homosexuality‘ – something that according to some gay activists exists in nearly everyone. Wow, now there’s a push to acceptance… Make everyone else realize – or at least believe - that down deep, they’re just like you.

Rest assured, members of groups like NAMBLA (North American Man-Boy Love Association) and those who privately associate with their ideals are waiting in the wings for their day in the sun, too. The problem isn’t going to go away. It’s not going to get better with tougher sentencing. We’re only drawing lines in the shifting sand. I can almost guarantee you that there will be an eventual push for ‘understanding’ these people, and blaming their actions on some societal influence or previously unrecognized genetic causality.

Honestly, I don’t know what the solution may be.

Perhaps mandatory sterilization and deportation to Canada?

JUST KIDDING! They might sneak back across the border…

(I know I have some good Canucks reading – really, I didn’t mean to offend… But shipping them to Antarctica might endanger the penguin populations!)

I’ll agree with Grau that the sex offender registries are getting out of hand too, in the very same way that the label “Nazi” is used so flippantly today that it cheapens the true horror of Hitler’s ambitions, motives and actions, as well as the actions of the people who individually and collectively empowered him and did his bidding.

When a man can be arrested and branded a sex offender for taking a young girl by the wrist to her parents after nearly running her down in the street… For having ‘illegally restrained a minor’ or some such rot, on his way to let her asshat parents know that their unsupervised child darted out in the road and damn near ate a chunk of grille and/or asphalt, but by the grace of God and good brakes he spared her life – THAT is an obscene injustice. He would have been better off killing the child with his vehicle and letting his insurance company settle it by monetary remuneration. Fuck her halfwit parents and the system that convicted him under such bullshit ‘stricter laws and sentencing.’

But for the truly sick and twisted, there is no reform, no recompense, and no having “paid a debt to society.” In my opinion, the Gitmo case is not apples and oranges where sex offenders are concerned. There has to be a way to remove them from society if they continue to be a danger. I would no sooner let a ‘reformed’ sex offender move into a house just 60 yards from a schoolyard than I would let an ‘enemy combatant’ free to walk the streets of Miami or Los Angeles or Detroit with the same seething hatred and religious beliefs buried in his psyche as when he was ushered through the gates.

In the Pretty, Great State of Utah™, for instance, a twice-convicted sex offender, having ‘served his time’ and ‘fulfilled his debt to society’ is deemed “safe” for release if he can pass a penile plethysmograph (PPG) test (or as the Utah Department of Corrections officials endearingly refer to it, a “peter-meter”) while listening to audio descriptions of various sexual acts and suggestive scenarios. NO VISUAL STIMULATION is allowed in these tests, which might cause an ‘inappropriate response’ and thereby ‘invalidate the results.’ (!!)

In such a case as I have personal witness, the sex offender in question was only a teenager at the time of his ‘original misdeeds’ – at least the ones he for which he was caught, charged and convicted. He had entered a plea agreement to a charge of ‘Attempted Forcible Sex Abuse’ for having continually molested his younger sister over the course of “at least eighteen months, but perhaps longer, I don’t recall.” He received probation. While serving that probation, and in the service of the UDOC Sex Offender Program – which has a mission statement (no shit – it’s on their website) “Help Offenders Succeed” – he was witnessed to have inserted his fingers into the vagina of a bedridden woman in her 70′s, who suffered from “senile dementia and chronic urinary tract infections” after she was left in his immediate care in the nursing home where he was working.

He was sentenced to prison. He served his time – more than five years – part of which was spent sharing stories swapping fantasy material with his cellmate, convicted of raping his own 12-year old daughter.

He had “paid his debt to society” and was now free. Free to ‘re-integrate’ into society and establish new relationships.

Seven years.

That’s how long it had been since he had last committed been convicted of a crime before he met a divorced, single mother.

“Once or twice.”

That’s how many times the social worker who was handling his ‘reintegration’ saw her children – three boys – as they were living together and making plans to marry.

Nine months.

That’s how long it took for the oldest boy, then nine years old, to begin exhibiting alarming behavior – threatening suicide, self-mutilating, spewing vile obscenities and sexual references, and threatening to kill others, including his teacher and principal.

Two counselors…

Who agreed there is something terribly wrong, but wouldn’t make the link to sexual abuse because the offender’s status was protected by those who had felt he’d just had a ‘bad rap.’

Three schools.

The children were moved from school to school to school as their problems intensified. The younger (middle) boy had suffered a developmental regression and his speech and was barely intelligible. His older brother was his interpreter. When he drew a picture with brightly colored stripes of yellow and red crayon, he described the picture, “yellow, blood, yellow, blood…” He routinely fantasized aloud of blood and brains on the pavement in grave injuries suffered by himself and those around him, of people falling off rooftops and being run-down by busses and trucks, stabbed with knives, etc. He was but four years old.

One phrase uttered…

That caused me to look for the reason my ex-wife was to appear in court. Turns out she was just a witness to a robbery in a convenience store where she worked, but it’s what led me to something much darker.

Ten years…

Was the age of the court document that the court clerk mistakenly read aloud, with my ex’s new husband’s name – the record of his original court docket was still in the court clerk’s online records system. It was the moment of revelation – the epiphany that perfectly explained what was happening to my sons. It was why my ex and her family were all so secretive, evasive, and misleading.

Sixty thousand dollars.

That’s what it cost to fight an interstate custody battle that spanned 2000 miles and two state jurisdictions to get my sons away from a convicted, ex-con sex offender, based on that sole fact alone, without anything concrete that was ‘admissible in court’ as evidence that my sons were in danger of being and indeed had been molested. It is the relatively insignificant price tag on an ordeal that has bankrupted me not only financially, but emotionally as well.

One meddling Ex-Husband-In-Law and his equally disturbed wife.

Fishhook and Leatherface decided to insinuate themselves into my custody proceedings, despite my warning not to interfere (“It’s a FREE country – I can talk to anyone I want!”) for no other reason than to exact revenge on Mrs. Who for his own perceived misgivings. They contacted and passed information to my ex and her counsel. Mrs. Who was subpoenaed, deposed, and the contrived heresay information was summarily thrown-out in court. Their actions were purely malicious and threatened the welfare of my children. I. Have NOT. Forgotten.

One wig, a bustier, mini-skirt, fishnet stockings and facial make-up…

The ‘Ho costume’ as my eldest described it to the judge in chambers that his mother had dressed him in the previous Halloween. My son conveyed that he understood that a “ho” was someone who either ‘had sex for money’ or ‘gave it away for free.’ If not for that one bit of testimony, my whole case against a twice-convicted felony sex-offender was described as “tenuous” and “regrettably, nowhere near a slam-dunk.”

Two years.

The length of time it took the fucking ‘justice’ system to finally award me sole custody of my children.

Three years.

The length of time, after my children were with me that my oldest son first admitted any explicit details of his sexual abuse. Of the sharing of pornography – printed, video and from the Internet. Of the alcohol – drinking until inebriated and “not knowing or remembering what happened after that.” Of the shared – even group showers and baths with their stepfather. Of the clear shower curtain hung so his stepfather could watch. This, combined with their mother’s refusal to show-up in court was the pivotal information that allowed a judge to additionally terminate all visitation after learning that the abuse was continuing during visits subsequent to the first ruling which awarded me custody, but allowed her standard visitation, including up to six weeks in the summer!

Two years.

Both the time since we filed criminal charges, and the time remaining to convict him under the four-year statute of limitations.

Two detectives, one social worker, and one Assistant District Attorney.

Can’t prove or won’t prosecute a case based on the ‘heresay’ of my son’s testimony. (WTF??!)

One Evil Grandmother™ = Three attorneys.

The principal investigator reported that on attempting to question the scum, he had a ‘legal team’ of three attorneys, provided by – as the detective understood, his mother-in-law. The children’s own grandmother. One of the attorneys was the same who was involved in defending a recent high-profile murder case where the victim was dumped in the county landfill. (Note that for shooting his wife in the head and disposing of her body like a used condom in a garbage-dump and then lying to police and search teams, Mark Hacking got only six years to life!) The detective admitted regretfully that with his legal team guarding him during questioning, they were unable to pin him down on the facts, and with no remaining physical evidence… Our case is stalled.

Five years…

…since my sons have been removed safely away from the clutches of a sex offender. And suddenly, along comes more cutting, suicidal thoughts and expressions and grief…

Just two weeks ago, my eldest was referred to inpatient mental health directly from school – it was a one-way ticket. If I didn’t take him there, he was expelled on the spot for the sake of the school’s liability, and no doubt I would have been reported to child welfare and lost him again – this time to foster care. It seems he’s been agonizing over something else – some deeper, darker secret that he’s been afraid to tell anyone, even me, for the irrational fear that he would be rejected, despised, even loathed. But it was bound to come-out sooner or later. He has repeatedly rebuffed the attention of girls. He’s a handsome kid, and to be honest, I worried that his experience had left him consumed with doubts about ‘gay tendencies’ or the stigma of homosexuality for having ‘participated’ in the acts that were forced upon him.

Of course I was wrong, at least in one sense. He likes girls. A lot. But he has been living with the agonizing fear and self-hatred for FIVE LONG YEARS that he was carrying a sexually transmitted disease – the result of his molestation. We were fortunate. His diagnosis was negative. But today’s relief doesn’t take away the pain of those long years of terrible, all-consuming fear. As he gets older, this inner turmoil has been brewing and fermenting as his own hormones and social urges become stronger. Wanting a relationship and at the same time fearing it so – I can’t even begin to imagine that psychological pain… In the irrational mind of a child – somehow a part of him “locked” at the age where his molestation began – he feared he was ‘damaged goods’ that would be rejected for the ‘stain’ that was upon him.

A ‘stain’ on his soul, left by a man that had “Paid His Debt to Society.”

One Child. No witnesses.

He is my sons’ half brother, the son of another man whom I’ve never met and don’t know how to find, and the child is still in the clutches of a sex offender.

The youngest of three brothers – he was the product of an affair with (as I understand) a married man who was quickly spirited out of his own son’s life. That child has my last name on his birth certificate, but does not share my ethnicity and so looks nothing like me or his brothers. He’s been calling a sex offender “Daddy” for his whole speaking life, and has been under the impression that I’m just some evil sonofabitch who took away his brothers – whom he also believed to belong to “Daddy.” In fact, they were all using the perp’s last name as their own as he bound them to himself with lies and promises and threats. (“yellow, blood, yellow, blood…”) My sons had been made to believe that I had abandoned them, that I had “my own life that didn’t include them,” and that I had “let them” take that evil prick’s name… Meanwhile, they often were unavailable whenever I called or wanted to visit – always off camping or hunting, or having fun with their stepfather.

Despite their powerlessness, my sons feel responsible for their little brother’s safety. They want desperately to save him, but reluctantly realize that at least for now, he’s well beyond their reach. In the irrational mind of an eleven year old, if Mommy would just divorce the bad guy, everything would be okay again. He doesn’t understand… He can’t understand why there are people who protect the perp – who believe that he has been wrongly accused, or that he just has a problem that they can treat or cure. Hell, I’m 41 and I don’t understand why anybody would stand behind such a monster. But those people do exist – most of them probably vote Democrat – and perhaps somehow they believe their intentions are good.

Grandpa testified in open court that he was initially shocked that his daughter was dating a sex offender, but that he had him followed, and investigated. He said he was relieved to find nothing out of the ordinary, and when he saw “how well he interacted with the kids,” he was sold on his so-called genuine intentions. “He’s a swell guy,” and “really good with the kids – he gets down on their level and really listens to them. He’s more than a father (!!) to them, he’s like their best friend.”

Really – how stunning that a child molester can empathize with and manipulate the affections of children.

Evil Grandma, went even farther in his defense, claiming that his in his original case, his sister “wanted it. She instigated most of what happened… It was consensual sex“ and “the whole family was doing it” even “there’s nothing wrong with the human body and exploring – maybe they were just curious.” (So was she saying it was my sons’ fault?!!)

Curiously, she moved her very own sex offender into the ‘basement-apartment’ of her single-family residence. Apparently seeing her daughter living with one must have looked appealing.

So to sum up, I just don’t believe most sex offenders (TRUE offenders, not drunken idiots or products of unfortunate circumstances which don’t warrant true sex-offense charges) can be trusted or allowed to re-enter society, and I don’t believe that sentencing will get any tougher without risking other, equally dangerous abuses of the law. Recidivism rates for genuine sex offenders are through the roof, and temptations – the fuel to feed their twisted desires – are everywhere in our society, especially in our media and on the Internet. Our society has become steeped in objectified, ‘casual’ sex. Morality, especially of the religious variety is passe. Unless we can cure the societal ills that are creating Internet predators and teachers who choose to have sex with their middle school students, I say we need a Sexual-Predator Club Gitmo™.

That, or a Real Justice for Victims™ law that exacts “severe penalties” for victims’ “vengeful acts of termination with extreme prejudice” – like perhaps maximum sentencing of up to a week’s house arrest with the Fox News Channel and conservative talk-radio, and fines to offset the cost of the amount of marine diesel used to chum the waters with the perp’s fetid remains. (Shit, that might get PETA involved… scratch that last part.) Further, I would propose the institution of a VVR – Vengeful Victim Registry™ that tallies the body count and mandates ‘public notification’ – insuring that their residence and/or car must carry some sort of signage that says something to the effect of “I’ve Executed n Perverts. Are You Next?”

I fear that some of you reading this might suddenly be gaping in horror, but it’s my own twisted humor, folks… Tongue-in-cheek. Really.

I do try to laugh when I can. If it weren’t for humor and a whole lot of miles – and most importantly, the love and support of my sons and my family – I’d probably be sitting in prison…

**** UPDATE ****

If you were directed here by Blog Carnival or another link, please also see my next post for some positive suggestions. Thanks for stopping by, and do please feel free to add your voice to the comments!

(Thanks for the advice, Harvey! Really, what’s a blogpappy for?)

A quick recap of my first meeting with Fishhook, my ex-husband-in-law…

The now Mrs. Who and I began dating early in 1999. She and I had both been ‘re-single’ for several years, and we each had two children from our previous marriages.

Of course we both had our Ex-Files stories to tell… Naturally, we are perfect, but our exes are each a terrible waste of good oxygen. (Trust me, in our cases it’s true! – Well, maybe not the perfect part…)

Fishhook proved my early opinion of him in a hurry. I believe it was Spring Break for Ms. Who’s brood when he decided to exercise his visitation. Because they were both so very young at the time, unattended air-travel was out of the question, so joint-custodians typically drove, meeting half-way in Baton Rouge.

This time, however, it was different.

Fishhook was getting married, and he wanted his kids there to celebrate with him. No harm in that, right? Get them there beforehand, make them part of the ceremony, let them share in the ‘Big Day’…

Nope. Not his plan.

Fishhook, so named for his remarkable resemblance to a tiny, twisted, pri… um. You get the idea. Fishhook decided it would be best to have his children delivered to him because he wouldn’t have time to drive to Baton Rouge. In fact, the timing would have to be near-precise… She would have to time her eight-plus-hour drive perfectly, because he wanted Ms. Who to deliver them at a specific time and place…

His wedding reception.

He so wanted to show-off his new bride to Ms. Who – to punish her with the fact that he was ‘moving-on’… That he was ‘happy’… That he had found a woman several years younger than Ms. Who. He really wanted to rub her nose in his so-called ‘success’ without her. And he wanted all his family and friends to witness his triumph – her humiliation.

Now, that just pissed me off.

Prior to hearing this ‘plan’ for his visitation, I had only ever heard Ms. Who’s stories of Fishhook, but everything I did hear was scary. He was abusive. He was obsessively jealous. He had multiple affairs while they were married, even brazenly having admitted to some of them to ‘clear his conscience.’ On one occasion he attacked her, choked her and then threw her to the ground, knocking her unconscious when her head struck the floor.

In such situations where she had to go near him, her BIL, ‘Uncle Buck’ would often be her ‘bodyguard.’ This time, however, her bodyguard wasn’t available. She was worried about going alone, and though I had only been dating her a short time and it was against my better instincts to place myself in the center of a potentially violent domestic situation, I offered to go to Houston with her to deliver the children for his visitation. Besides, there wouldn’t likely be a scene with so many people gathered at a ‘family’ event… Heh.

Surprisingly, even though Ms. Who and I had been dating for a while, and despite the fact that he called his children regularly to talk to them, neither of the children ever once mentioned me to their father. Of course they often relayed what their father told them all about the wonderful women (note plural) that he was shopping to become their new mommy. In fact, they had told Ms. Who just a month or so before that Daddy was planning to marry yet someone else. I guess Leatherface (several years younger than my bride, but looks years older due to a complexion weathered by what I guesstimate to be years of exposure to tanning beds and brass-poles) was either blind or stupid enough to not be bothered by that fact…

We pulled-up to the reception center and ushered the kids inside. It was a typical scene of post-wedding celebration, with cake and decorations. The children went to their father, who was dressed in the obligatory rented polyester tux, and his face lit-up. Woot! They were here! This was HIS moment!! He moved closer to his bride (Really… wearing white?) and with a smug look on his face and his chest puffed-up, he glared a self-satisfied ‘eat-your-heart-out’ look at Ms. Who.

I had been hanging back, carrying the children’s bags. I didn’t know what I would be walking into, so I had been cautious, but believe me – that look he was giving her was enough. I dropped the bags and stepped forward, snugging right-up behind Mrs. Who, who is a whole head shorter than me, and rested a hand on her waist. I smiled my greeting at the happy couple.

All eyes in the room were suddenly on me. Where I had been almost invisible – everybody had been morbidly curious to watch poor Ms. Who’s reaction – nobody had expected the appearance of a new beau for Ms. Who on this day of all days! Even more curious for onlookers, too, was probably the fact that even though (unbeknownst to them) there’s just ten weeks between Ms. Who and I, I look ten years younger than my age… To everyone there, I’m sure it looked like Ms. Who had caught a ‘live one’ and was no doubt feeling her oats!

However, Ms. Who, always the perfect Southern Lady, just smiled and wished her children a good time and told them she’d see them again soon. She was the self-radiant model of genteel composure.

Fishhook, on the other hand, looked as if a giant needle had just been pricked into his side. He visibly deflated before our eyes. When his eyes met mine for that first time, there was a moment of confusion on his face – as if he had just been slapped hard by someone he never expected to assault him. That smug look – vanshed – was replaced by a pitifully dejected and hurt, downcast stare. As Ms. Who graciously greeted her former in-laws and friends, he refused to look even remotely in our direction. I shook the hands of a few morbidly-fascinated people who introduced themselves as he quickly ushered his new bride away, along with the children.

Mrs. Who has often thanked me for making that moment for her. “Even if we had never married, I’d owe you still for the look on Fishhook’s face at that one moment when he first saw you!”

Remembering vividly the look on his face, I tell her I was more than happy to oblige…

[Note: Names have been changed to protect or incriminate the innocent and accused, respectively.]

A few days ago, I was working at my PC when the phone rang. My mind was totally wrapped in a client’s routing problem that I was working on from remote, but the house was otherwise empty, so I picked-up.

“Put Beth on the phone.”

Uh-oh. It was Fishhook – my ex-husband-in-law (Mrs. Who’s ex), and from the tone of his voice, he’s obviously pissed about something. He’s normally not so very insistent when he talks to me, but he and I have History*, so our exchanges can occasionally be pretty adversarial. Evidently this was going to be one of those times. He was demanding to speak with his daughter, PrincessNO. Sometimes, the best way to diffuse him is to employ good ol’ Southern Charm and to keep your bearing. I tried. Really. I tried.

“I’m sorry, she’s in Pensacola for an audition with a friend.” My voice was almost mockingly even and lilting, like I was talking to a small child. Damn-it-all, I’m just not a diplomat…

“I don’t think so!” he responded, matching my patronizing lilt. Then he barked back, “I just got a call from home, and they said she needs to talk to me. Put her on the phone now!”

Oh shit! That explains the attitude. The situation just escalated by the addition of another player – his current wife, Leatherface. Her favorite hobbies are counting her husbands money and investigating Mrs. Who and me to see if she can make our lives miserable enough to win custody of the kids so she can keep more of her money he earns. Whenever Leatherface involves herself, Fishhook (who ironically warned me that Mrs. Who was so ‘dominating’ that I’d better either leave while I could or surely I’d become ‘pussywhipped’) regularly gets whipped into a frenzy. Every. damned. time. It really is a hoot to watch – all she has to do is ‘give him the look’ and he jumps. And there’s no question by his demeanor on the phone as to whether or not she’s nearby. He’s like two different nutters: chunky and creamy-whipped.

“I don’t know what to tell you – she left here nearly forty minutes ago with her friend. I can relay your message, though.”

“That’s impossible! They told me she just called five minutes ago and that she needed to talk to me NOW!”

His insistence is escalating rapidly – not uncommon for Fishhook – but I could tell whatever it was had him seriously pissed-off even before he called. I tried to assess my knowledge of what was happening with PrincessNO… Nothing with her directly, but there is litigation pending – a nuisance case if ever there was one – and odds are, he’s likely not about to be happy with the outcome. My heart started to beat a little more rapidly, but I tried my hardest to keep my cool.

“No, five minutes ago is impossible. She should be arriving at the auditorium within a few minutes – it’s at least a 45 minute drive according to you, and she doesn’t have a cell-phone with her.” Uh-oh, how did I let that slip? Fishhook can go from zero to ape-shit in under six seconds – and baiting him only makes it worse, especially when you trap him with his own twisted logic. The last time we faced him in court, he made a big (non-) issue of the time it took to drive to neighboring Pensacola, where much of our lives is involved. Rubbing that in his face was sheer reflex for me. At once, I knew this shit was going to come sideways…

He began to yell into the phone, “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL HERE?! SHE. JUST. CALLED. ME!! THEY SAID SHE NEEDED TO TALK TO ME NOW!”

Gritting my teeth, I tried to replace the pin I had just pulled, “I’m really sorry, but I have no clue how she could have called you – unless she called from her friend’s mother’s cell phone – but I just can’t see her doing that.” Now I was beginning to worry myself. Had she been in an accident and for some reason called her father instead of Mrs. Who or home? Why would she do that? We’re so much closer than…

“What do you mean, ‘her friend’s mother’s cell phone?” Some of the steam had left him, but something wasn’t right – an obvious confusion had replaced some of his anger. The voice on the other end of the phone did sound just like Fishhook, but the conversation just wasn’t adding-up. Then he demanded, “Who the hell is this?”

“Bitterroot. You said you were calling for Beth?”

“NO! I said I want to talk to Steph!! Is this the Whoville Wal-Mart?”

“Uh… No.” Well, that explains it – although we’ve never, ever had a wrong number for Wallyworld before. Must be a back-line he’s trying to reach…

Then I heard an apoplectic “Shit!” *click*

I hung-up the receiver only to have the phone ring again almost before I had let go. My heart was still racing – remnants of  adrenaline still coursing through my veins – and though I understood that it was a wrong number, the near-traumatic impact of Confrontational-Confusion™ hadn’t yet had time to dissipate.

I yanked the receiver back off the hook and barked, “HELLO!!”

It was Mrs. Who – my abrupt greeting startled her.

After a moment’s pause, I started to laugh, “you won’t even believe the wrong-number I just had…”

I’m pondering a layoff at my company… The only problem is, I’m the only employee. The reasons are simple – I’m bored out of my skull, and my clients are moving in directions that I don’t know that I want to follow.

Of course, my “Husband-In-Law,” a.k.a. The Other Ex, or more commonly between Mrs. Who and myself – “Fish Hook“ – has already written a letter threatening to “notify the IRS” about the alleged SALE of my business… Hmmm – from his letter, I’m guessing this happened early last year, but I can’t be sure. It’s the first I’ve heard of the sale of my own company! COOL! I could be RICH!

He seems certain that I am hiding money from the government, and he’s desperately looking for ways to punish us for his own damned (albeit well-deserved) insecurities. However, if I am hiding money from the government, I must be pretty damned good at it, because even I can’t find it!! If I sold my business as shitwick so certainly claims, WHERE’S MY DAMNED CHECK?!! I mean, I would really, really like to have something to show for my alleged sudden prosperity. A new King Ranch F-250 diesel would be nice. But did my alleged-invisible-mystery buyer even buy me lunch? I’d settle for a cheeseburger and a Coke – maybe even a vacation and sick-day package with a side of fries…

Fuckwit.

Hell – it’s not like there’s much to sell… I’m an independent IT consultant specializing in medical offices and hospitals. Let’s see. That means there’s… Me. My laptop. My Office PC. My cellphones. A few odds and ends in the way of diagnostic tools and LAN-sniffing software. A few leftover boxes of plenum-rated Cat5e and what puny knowledge is still left in my cranium. No employees, no office building, no corporate vehicles, no high-dollar industrial machines or equipment. It’s a simple living, but it’s been getting us by for over seven years… Somehow I don’t see Microsoft or GE knocking down my door to ‘acquire’ what should probably be in a jar, labeled “Abby Normal.”

Perhaps the worst part of having my own business is that my boss is an asshole, and my sole employee is a good-for-nothing slacker…

In fact, as I sit here assessing my options and pondering whether or not I should dust-off the old resume, I realize my work history is pretty dire – for my employers, that is. Every single company I’ve worked for has gone down in flames (some literally) shortly after I’ve left:

• Taco John’s restaurant – my first job – closed repeatedly by Dept. of Health – finally bulldozed to build a shopping center. Should have caught fire.

• The Hawaiian restaurant – caught fire -then bulldozed to build a shopping center.

• Yet another unnamed restaurant – caught fire – burned to the ground. High drama: after trying to use a puny fire extinguisher to put out the inferno caused by what turned out to be a broken gas main feeding an overheated grease fryer, I stumbled out of the building blinded by smoke and coughing up my lungs only to be nearly run-down by an arriving emergency vehicle. I found myself on my hands and knees in an alley with a “Crown Victoria” grille just inches from my forehead and tire smoke rolling past me.

• Pharmacy (delivery driver, later ‘intern’) – Robbed. Robbed. Robbed. Robbed again. Finally, the pharmacist/owner was convicted of dispensing drugs without a prescription (actually, he was too kind-hearted for his own good and had on several occasions overlooked a known prescription forger, whom when caught, turned the tables on him) about the same time his son committed suicide rather than go on a Mormon “Mission.” He and his family were of course devastated – Doors closed.

• “ACME Big Computer Company” – pioneer in computer graphics, CAD-CAM and movie production, airline and military flight simulators. Through apprenticeships, study and a couple-years hard work, I “moved-up” from entry level to a management position in the graphics workstation division – which was outperformed by SGI, bankrupted and closed its doors less than two years later.

• Ceramics research company – grants lost, division closed, layoff (after nearly being vaporized in a near-industrial accident, resulting in OSHA and other agencies crawling through the place issuing citations and code violations. Guess who blew the whistle after a severe bout of Toluene poisoning… What an asshole!)

• Clark Development Company – A long, bitter story that ends with the company bankrupted shortly after I left.

• A Data Collection, Processing and Billing Solutions provider for United Parcel Service – Awesome, fast-paced and interesting job where I did Fox Pro programming and rodeoed cats from midnight to ten AM every Tuesday through Saturday. Closed doors to move to Mexico City while I was on vacation. Offered me a house and car, and all moving expenses… I had a four year old, a new one on the way, and I don’t speak a word of Spanish. Well, besides what I picked up working at Taco John’s…

• “ComputerLand” franchisee – This one doesn’t count – it was a ‘shared write-off’ company for an investment triad. It was designed to fail from the beginning. As soon as I realized this, I was out the door…

• Computer Services division of local Medical Service provider – a “for-profit” branch of an NFP organization designed to reduce costs by acquiring parts and services at wholesale and reselling at-cost to the NFP. Plagued by embezzlement and scandal (female manager / partners ‘rollicking’ naked at Mardi Gras party didn’t impress the board of trustees!). Rumored $250k inventory “shortfall” on heels of other alleged business practices scandals was the final nail in the coffin – about seven months after I ‘saw the writing on the wall’ and walked out to form my own company.

So I have to wonder – do I dare quit my own company? What will happen? Will I burst into flames, move to Pakistan or discover that I’ve been embezzling from myself for years? What to do?!

Shit. I really am sick to death of my job – but I’m far more afraid of spontaneous human combustion.

There are contingencies, but for some reason Mrs. Who is vehemently against me hiring any rollicking naked female employees.

So far, the ‘What Have I Done‘ post has generated a few responses of incredulity on why anyone would touch a cockroach…

Short answer – not willingly.

I mean geez, it’s not like I play with them or something… Really!

Perhaps there’s someone out there who would willingly touch, grab, and/or handle the little monsters. Not me. I positively hate anything with more than four legs, especially spiders and roaches.

To explain my answer to #132. “Touched a cockroach”, I’ll expound by beginning with this: I live in the South.

Roaches are a way of life here, and spraying, stomping and swatting them is unavoidable no matter how clean your house. I would say that Tree roaches are the worst, since they fly. I’ve had one fly at me as I approached with a can of bug-spray to poison the little bastard. It landed on my shoulder… So I did what came naturally – I convulsed and shrieked like a little girl before swatting it off and stomping it dead.

Of course that’s nothing compared to waking-up with a roach crawling on you. This happened not in the South, but at the Uptown Motel in Billings, Montana in 1976. We were there for three nights, the remaining 2½ of which I refused to even close my eyes. Of course, the condensed water dripping on my head and pillow from the window-mounted air conditioner and the smell from the nearby stockyards and oil refinery made that none-too-difficult.

But the grand-prize winner was when I nearly swallowed one…

It seems my beloved ex-wife (a.k.a. – Spawn of Satan™) thought it would be funny as hell if she propped a dead cockroach on the edge of my Diet Pepsi as we were toiling to move into the house we rented when we first relocated to Mobile, Alabama. As I reached for my drink, the dessicated roach-corpse fell into the can without me seeing it. I took several swallows before I felt something foreign enter my mouth. Feeling it with my tongue, I gingerly spit it out onto the top of the can so I wouldn’t spill soda on the carpet. When I realized with total horror that I had just had a dead roach in my mouth, I spit-screamed and heaved the can impulsively away from me, spraying Diet Pepsi everywhere. SoS just stood a few feet away, laughing uncontrollably.

Absolutely effin’ hysterical…

I was working on a post to explain my Christmas Curmudgeon-ness, and I wanted a particular picture from my childhood to go with it. So I attacked the stack of albums and boxes – ’cause I know it’s there, right there in the box with the pictures of…

Oh shit. I found my wedding album. From my first marriage.

Call it morbid curiosity. Like the irresistible urge to crane your neck when passing a nasty traffic accident. ‘Is that blood on the pavement? Ooooooh…’ I opened it.

Fuck.

Why in God’s name didn’t somebody stop me? Not from opening the damned album (though that would have been nice too), but from walking headlong, merrily and straight into HELL.

Shouldn’t there have been a warning of some kind? What happened to the sign that’s supposed to be posted over the entrance, “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here”? Really, I want to know WHY didn’t somebody make me take a good hard look at my mother-in-law-to-be and tell me, ‘you’re marrying the daughter of Satan himself, and this – her mother – was his bride!!’

Here’s the evidence:

See how her claws are dug-into my arm? That’s not fingernail polish – it’s real human blood! There was no getting away at that point – I was the foiled prey, and struggling only meant her grip would tighten ever more painfully. And what the hell was with that dress? I think it was made from the duvet she used in her brothel… Or how ’bout the Mark of Evil™ red hat? She didn’t want to stand out or anything – maybe to seize attention and be the focus of the event? It wasn’t her party. Oh no, not at all…
*sigh*

With this one photo expedition I’ve opened another whole vein of agony and evil insanity blog-fodder. So naturally, I’ll tag these references “The Ex-Files”.

Anyway, I never did find the picture I was looking for. It was of my uncle in his rented Santa suit the night of my tragic loss of Christmas innocence. I was forced to go with the do-it-yourself Marty Feldman conjuration instead. Though I reached the bottom of the stack, the Uncle Lynn photo and the other pictures I thought it was with aren’t there. Figures. All I have to show for my effort is a splitting headache and a pic of Mrs. Beelzebub, my ex-MIL…

Merry Christmas. Pah!