From Stephen King’s novel Bag of Bones:

There’s something oddly comforting about talking to a legal guy once the “billable hours” clock has started running.  You have passed the magical point at which “a lawyer” becomes “your lawyer”.  “Your lawyer” is warm.  “Your lawyer” is sympathetic.  “Your lawyer” makes notes on a yellow pad and nods in all the right places.  Most of the questions “your lawyer” asks are questions you can answer.  And if you can’t, “your lawyer” will find a way to help you do so, by God!  “Your lawyer” is always on your side.  Your enemies are his enemies.  To him you are never shit but always Shinola.

This sort of seduction is probably why otherwise kind people can sit back and watch a $1200-suited bully with filed teeth tear someone else apart, and then defend the shark by saying “He came very highly recommended!”  Actually, the latter is probably a different character trait.  But you know who else is good at this kind of seduction?  Whores.  The only difference between divorce attorneys and whores appears to be that most of the latter would blush at the rates the former charge for their services.

(Yes, it’s all over [the divorce] and I’m still bitter about that fucking piece of shit asshole.  That passage from Bag of Bones brought it all back.  Carry on.)

» Disability Doc

I just went to my state-appointed disability doctor today.  Different one from last time.  This doctor actually seemed to care.

The nurse had taken my blood pressure.  It was high.  Without health insurance I have been unable to afford medication out-of-pocket.  The doctor went about explaining it to me:

Doc:  Your blood pressure is very high.  It should be [switch to kindergarten teacher voice] One.  Thir.  Tee.  Oh.  Ver.  Nine.  Tee.  Or lower.

And I’m thinking, What the fuck, doc?  I was in an on-the-job accident, I didn’t have my frontal lobe removed.  Quick, I thought.  I need a shibboleth.

Joshua:  It’s the diastolic that’s especially bothering me about that.

And a light goes on behind her eyes.  Gooooood doctor, I think.  Maybe we can talk like adults now.

» A Levenshtein Edit Distance of “maybe pay attention to the computer”

I was pretty sure that I was going to spell “shibboleth” and “diastolic” correctly in that previous sentence.  And I seemed to.  So I tried appending a ‘q’ to the end of each, and Firefox recognized the modifications as errors.  I have to do this because of an apparent bug in Firefox in which the spell-checker will sometimes turn off without warning, leaving me wondering if there are false negatives.  Which leads me to a story that:

My ex-wife was/is one of the worst spellers I have ever met.  She makes my father look like the O.E.D.  When she was first telling me where her parents live, and where [Redacted.  Gawd.  The casual reader has no idea how much shit I redact -- how much shit I unilaterally redact, as far as blogs go -- about the divorce.  I believe that discretion is the better part of valor, but I can't even allude to the fact that I'm being discreet without losing valor.  So I'm going to spend one whuffie on this rather innocuous story that I'd probably tell about anyone, and one more on this very allusion to valor.  If that's enough to send you on your way, happy trails.  Nine fucking years.  Aargh.]

Anyway.  She emailed me her parents’ address, and I was going to drive down there with my mother.  My mother was looking up directions on Mapquest.  I read the address from my email, and said “The street is ‘Vangard’.  Without a ‘u’.”  Good thing for fuzzy matches.  The street is, of course, ‘Vanguard’.

So at one point in our marriage, Jenn had left a printout for work on the coffee table and my eyes caught a few words moving past it.  There was a glaring typo.  I said, as meekly as I could, “Hey, do you want me to edit this for typos?”  She said “yes”.

So I’m reading this document, and it’s just riddled with misspelled words.  So I fix them with a pen.  And, to help, I tell her, “There’s a setting you can turn on in Microsoft Word so that it underlines typos in red as you type them.”

And she says, “Oh, it’s on, the computer is just wrong a lot of the time.”

Thank whatever that she caught the typo on the tattoo artist’s essay for her second (and fucking huge) tattoo with a line from a friend’s poem surrounding it.  She didn’t let me copy-edit that.

OK, maybe that was more than one whuffie.  I don’t care.

» Macintrash

I’m typing this — once again — one one of my Mom’s MacBooks.  Firefox had slowed to a crawl.  I tried quitting it to restart it, but, no, you apparently can’t restart an application through the application menu if it’s stopped responding.  But I also couldn’t do anything else on the system; full freeze.  So I hard-power-cycled it (thank you, Steve, that the OS did not override that), the computer restarted, and: Firefox is gone from the quick-launch menu!  I thought I was missing it but, no, it just wasn’t there.  Then I realized I was being foolish: of course when an application crashes you should remove the ability to restart it quickly it in the future.  Doing otherwise would be ludicrous.

(Yes, I know I’m typing this on that very Mac.  To avoid hypocrisy — as far as can be avoided after this post — I’m turning it off as soon as I hit “Publish”.)

(And yes, I know, I’m in a terrible mood.  Sorry.)

Since this incarnation of bachelorhood, I have felt not so much bachelor as vaguely pathetic.  But tonight, I am relaxing with horror DVDs and TV dinners, watching with headphones on a computer monitor I needn’t share, with a drink, on the sofa.  All I need now is to loosen my belt and belch — that, and pretend I’m drinking Pabst and not a mimosa.

There are apparently an infinite number of law firms that pay for placement, through Google, on pages that contain a particularly unpleasant d-word, even once.  I’ve gone through and rot13ed every mention, so if you see “qvibepr” everywhere, that’s why.

If none of this made sense to you, just imagine that it’s really deep and beyond comprehension.  Or imagine that it’s utterly trivial and not worth your time.  Whichever makes me not have to go through explaining it.

Craig Ferguson was explaining that he had read that the best guard dogs were actually geese.  They would chase everyone away from the house, he said: even the owners of the house.

“They’re mean, pointless animals,” he continued.  “They’re like feathery qvibepr lawyers, and the world would be a better place without them.”

(Explanation of the post title.)

There’s a great lyric in the Queensrÿche song Bridge, written by Geoff Tate [correction from reader: Chris Degarmo penned the lyrics].  I use it as a rotating quote on this site.  It reads, “And so I sit here through the night, and write myself to sleep — and time keeps ticking.”

In such a position I find myself tonight.  I am outraged to the point of violent nausea by what happened today with Jennifer’s attorney.

As regular readers know, Jennifer has filed for divorce.  She has retained counsel — wholly appropriately.  Jenn scheduled an appointment last week (and just told me about it) to meet in his office.  Alarm bells went off.  Why should I go to his office?  Every experience I’ve ever heard is of divorce attorneys serving one with papers.  Plus, I was annoyed.  So I told Jenn I wasn’t going.

We’re still on last week.  Jenn called me from her mobile, in his office, and handed the attorney her phone.  The attorney told me that I needed to come to his office to get everything notarized.

“Why can’t you serve me with the papers and let me notarize them?” I asked.

“You might not do it right,” he said.

Hm.  I told him I’d think about it, and to call me on Wednesday when I had made up my mind.

Jenn was distressed.  Jenn, through this whole thing, has honestly, honestly been working in what she believed were the best interests of Jenn, Niall, and me.  Awesome.  I wanted to recognize this for her.  But she has been fed a line of malarky by the attorney, with fire and brimstone warnings about what would happen if I didn’t go into his office to fill out the paperwork.  I could completely lose custody!  Jenn would lose all say in the uncontested divorce and a seventy-year old judge would (not could) rule against me, drive me further to the poorhouse, and keep me from seeing my son.  The attorney had fully convinced her that she had no say in this matter.

Yes, absurd, I know.  But stick with me.  I’m not writing this to defame Jenn in any way.  Stick with this.

Jenn called back to get my address for the service of the papers.  I gave it to her, and told her I would be expecting the papers.

Jenn then called my mother to try to convince her of the absolute necessity of following the attorney’s advice.  Jenn was upset.  My mom was upset.  My mom, in the nicest way possible, tried to explain to Jenn that she was being sold a line (my mom and I hadn’t talked about this yet — this is independent.)  My mom then called me to pass on what Jenn had said.

OK, so Jenn thinks she needs it.  She thinks she is acting rationally and in my best interests, and it’s worth recognizing.  I still didn’t want to walk into the lion’s den.

Jenn called to plead that I attend the new meeting, scheduled for Friday (today).  I acquiesced.

I don’t have an operational car right now.  I needed to finagle a ride.  From Woodland Hills.  To Santa Fucking Ana.  I tapped my dad to chauffeur.

“Explain to me again why you need to go to his office?” asked my dad warily.  “This whole thing stinks.”

“I know,” I said.  “I’m doing it for Jenn.”  My dad picked me up in the early morning to drive to Orange County.

When I first got into his office, I was not completely off-put.  He told me he would validate my parking ticket.  He seemed personable.  I sat down.

The first form he set in front of me was a statement of my debts.  I was told to sign it.

“How do you know my debts?” I asked.  He told me that I had filled it out six months ago.

I asked to see it.  “These numbers have changed.”

“So?” he asked.

“You’re asking me to sign this under penalty of perjury that everything is correct.  These are not correct any longer.  We need to correct it,” I said.

He got flustered.  “Well, if you change your numbers, she’ll have to change her numbers!”

“OK,” I said.  “Let’s change them both.”

He changed them, under my guidance.  He didn’t change hers.  He asked me to sign it.

“I’d like to run this by my lawyer,” I said.

Jenn and the lawyer both got upset.  He started to browbeat me.  “You just gave me these numbers.  I put them on the form.  What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “That’s why I want to run it by my lawyer.”

More pressure.  Dunno why, but I signed.

The next form was to attest that my list of assets had been correctly filled out.

“Could I see it, please?” I asked.

“See what?” he said.

“The list of assets that you have.”

He handed me a list.  It listed my bank account balances (all wrong), valued my car at six times its actual value, and for other assets, listed a value of zero.  That’s for all other stuff, like household items and collectibles.

“These aren’t zero,” I said.

More upset lawyer.  Honestly, I had no idea why.

“What happens if I have assets that aren’t listed on the page?” I asked.

“Then we would be — er, she would be — entitled to a hundred percent of them,” came the response.

So we fixed the numbers.  We were about to finalize them.  I said that I had two lawsuits in litigation, and asked if I needed to list them.  I was told that, yes, if I didn’t list them, even as “unknown”, “they” would be entitled to 100% of them.

I asked Jenn if she was planning on making a claim to that money.  I expected the answer to be “no”.  The answer was “yes” — she was making a claim, that she hadn’t disclosed and we hadn’t discussed.  I again said that I would like to run it by my lawyer.  More upset people.  More browbeating.

Actually, at this point, I can’t remember if I was browbeat into signing it or not.  But I was already getting queasy.

Another exchange that can be omitted for brevity followed.  I’m trying to get to the piece de resistance.  As follows.

I was asked to sign a form saying that I agreed with their description of the case.  Which I hadn’t fucking seen.  Let’s be clear.  I hadn’t seen the damn thing.  I requested that, hey, maybe I’d like to read the fucker first.

I started reading it on his monitor.

Here it gets good.

There was a paragraph attesting that both Jenn and I were in good health, able to work and earn our full income.  He was trying to slide past this one.

“Whoa,” I said.  “That’s not true.”

“OK, we’ll take it out,” he said.

“No, actually I’d like it to state that I’m disabled and unable to work.  That’s the truth,” I said.

The lawyer got a wicked smile.  “I’d advise her against that,” he said.

“Then I’m not signing it, at least until I run it by my lawyer,” I said.  After all, this could jeopardize my pending lawsuits, being subpoenable by opposing council.

“I’m not going to put down your disability without proof!” he thundered.

“OK.  That’s fine.  I’ll go to a doctor this week, get the proof, and fax it to you,” I said in honest equanimity.

He leaned forward.  “You know what, I’ve been really patient with you.  But the truth is you’re not a very nice guy.  I’ll see you in court.”

I smiled a wry smile and held up my parking ticket.

“No, I’m not going to validate you!” he near-screamed.

“OK, I said.  Bye!”  I stood up and walked out the door.

I was two steps past, really leaving, and the lawyer said, “Josh Josh Josh!  Come sit down!”

I spun and glared.  “That’s Mr. McGee,” I said.

“Mr. McGee, come and sit down.”

“I’m not going to sit down,” I said.

“Come and sit down!”

“I’m not going to sit down,” I said.

“If you take this to court, it will cost you ten thousand dollars.  You don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

“Let me understand this,” I said.  “Your plan is to insult me, then threaten me?”

“I’m not threatening you.  Come and sit down.  You don’t want this to go to court.”

I stood and equivocated.  I finally said, “I’m stepping out for five minutes to make a phone call.”

I walked (wrong direction, twice, which kinda ruined the moment) to the lobby and called my dad.  I told him what had happened.

“Get the hell out of there!” he said.  “Go back, tell him ‘Fuck you!’, and walk out.”

I hung up.  Actually I pushed the red button, which isn’t quite as dramatic.  I decided I wasn’t even going back.  I went down the elevator, got in the car, and called Jenn from my cell.  I told her I wasn’t coming back.

“Do you really think I’m trying to screw you?” she asked incredulously.

“I trust you,” I told Jenn (mostly true).  “I trust that lawyer about as far as I can throw him.”

We had a surreal conversation, which could be distilled to one statement.  Not hard to choose, because it’s the one I said five times.

“You have three options, Jenn.  You can have this lawyer serve me with papers, I’ll have my attorney review, and I’ll return them.  Or you can fire this lawyer, have a new lawyer serve me with papers, and I’ll run them by my attorney and return them.  Or you can set a court date.  If you don’t want this to go to court, this ball’s in your court.”

Let’s go back a bit.  I’m not a very nice person?  What, is he going to tell on me to the playground monitor?  Not be my best friend any more?  Tell people that I wear Spiderman underwear?  What the fuck?

“Like my reason for being here is to get you to like me,” my dad said later, playing me.

“I wonder how many people that works on,” my mom said later.

What?  The?  Fuck?

An epilogue.  Jenn is not a stupid person.  But she has a dramatically miscalibrated bullshit detector.  She was probably socialized this way, as a female in a religious family.  But she trusts too easily.  Way too easily.  One time, when she had a flat tire, she called me (panicking — she wouldn’t do that now, to her credit) and I talked her through getting someone to call out and change it (she was about eighty minutes away).

“What should I do with the tire?” she asked.  I pictured a shredded tire.

“Put it in your trunk, or have the tow truck driver take the tire away,” I said.

She chose the latter option.  Almost.  She gave the driver her wheel.  He was happy to take it, which is probably connected to the fact that buying a used replacement cost hundreds of dollars.  She was happy to send it away.

So, trusting.  Great, in a friendly, well-monitored twelve-year-old.  Not so great in an adult woman who is making choices to affect peoples’ lives for at least the next thirteen years.

I don’t know if Jenn still reads my blog.  I have no reason to expect her to read it.  I don’t read hers.  But I dearly hope that she will reflect on this.  Or ask her dad.  Or her best friend, who’s a trial attorney.  Get someone to fill her in on why I might distrust her attorney, who is counseling me not to retain counsel.  She is not stupid.  She really, really isn’t.  And I know she’s not trying to screw me.  I just want her to realize her power, fire this scoundrel, and let us get on with this in a reasonable fashion.

I’m not sure if writing this helped.  I think it did.  I’m not as nauseated.  And you’re welcome to post, or (maybe better) send me private email.  If any reflective person thinks I’m unreasonable, with a better bullshit detector, please tell me.

But I’m not wrong.  Shit.  I’m not wrong.  What do you call a thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?  What indeed.

I successfully slept in the master bedroom, in what was our bed, for the first full night last night, 15 days after Jenn walked out.  Until now, I’ve been sleeping in the guest room or on the couch.

If you had asked me whether I thought this would be a big deal, sleeping in that bed, I would have told you “No”.  But it was.

I discussed Tabasco brand Smoked Chipotle Sauce previously.

Before I first tried it, reader and longtime friend Bob Mike was over for a “special” tea party and horror movie night (he’s a great friend, taking public transportation for about 100km to keep me company during the qvibepr).  He saw the bottle on the counter, which I had picked up out of curiosity, and exclaimed something to the effect of “Isn’t that stuff great?!”  I didn’t know, I had never had it before.

I’ve had it now.

It is amazing.  It’s not a hot sauce, really, just a flavoring sauce.  It’s no hotter than A1 Bold & Spicy.  You can pour it over anything and everything savory: rice, beans, tortillas, soup, hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks, whatever.  They hit this one out of the park.  It’s a major keeper.

The Coupon Clippers have a coupon right now for $0.75 off any flavor Tabasco, which you can probably get doubled.  Do it quickly.  I’m not posting a direct link because the current coupon expires on 2 March 2008, but there may be one coming to replace it.  The Coupon Clippers is a great site that charges a small processing fee to clip and mail you manufacturers’ coupons.  For this coupon, the fee is $0.10.  I’ve become a devotée of the site, and I think you will, too: go try it out through this affiliate link.

I really hate insomnia, but never more than when it promises to decrease the joy I can have with my son the next day.  Er, later this day.  In about two hours.

Short sleep last night, no nap, a couple glasses of wine — I thought I was sitting pretty for a long winter’s nap.  But I have barely blinked.

If anyone has been calling me, by the way, I can’t answer it.  My phone was lost, then disabled as a security precaution, a replacement was ordered, the passive voice was used, and then the missing phone was discovered — which now belongs to the insurance company.  I’m wondering exactly how many days I should wait before someone miraculously “returns my missing phone” to me, to send it to the insurance company, so I won’t look like a total wanker.

I’m not hurting too badly right now.  I can probably take some more ibuprofen for the mild discomfort.  But I really wish I could just lie down and become unconscious.  Restfully, REMmingly, unconscious.  I’m writing train-of-thought right now, and hoping it will tire me so that I can go and collapse into bed.  I’m not actually alert enough to do anything really thought-intensive, like code or write cogently, just alert enough to stay awake.

Thanks to everyone for your support of late.  It’s much needed, and much appreciated.  So much so, that you can consider this a personal letter to you.

I’ll even sign it,

- Joshua

I’ve got a car
I’ve got some gas
Let’s get out of here
Get out of here fast

You don’t have to pack your things
We’ll make it up as we go along
I want to go, but I don’t want
To go
Alone

Not poorly.  It was delicious.  But poor.

I have very little income right now, being disabled, out of work, with no disability checks coming in.  I invited my mom over for dinner tonight.  The menu: Sloppy Joes and wine. 

Not an American?  Sloppy Joes are comfort food, frequently (at least when I was growing up) served as school lunch.  Wikipedia: “There is probably no Joe after whom it is named — but … “Joe” is a name that suggests, to an American, a person of proletarian character and unassailable genuineness.”  Can’t beat that with a stick.  Er, switch.  Er, Louisville Slugger.

Ingredients sourced at the 99¢ Only store and low-cost Valu Mart grocery store.  So I worked it out: she had half a hamburger bun, lean beef, sloppy joe sauce, Tabasco Chipotle sauce (yum!), and half a glass of wine (she’s watching her diet.)  $0.72.  Very low in fat, high in protein, and not too bad in the way of sodium.

I feel like Thoreau, detailing cent-by-cent analyses of what it’s like to live simply.  I’m not about to start leaving my front door open or anything, but it’s awfully rewarding to do something like that.

When my alarm went off at 5:45 this morning, it woke both of us.

I went into Niall’s room and told him it was time to go to school.

“I don’t want to go to school!” he cried.  “I want to stay with you!  This is where I live!”

I got him dressed, fed him, and took him to school.  Upon arrival, we went and put his bags in his cubbyhole.  I asked him for a big hug to hold me over until Saturday, as I wouldn’t see him before then.  He gave me a long, strong hug, then stood straight with his hands behind his back, his eyes filled with tears.

“Do you want to go see your teacher?” I asked.

He shook a little.  “No.  I just want to stand here for a little bit.”

I’ll write more, in spurts, as I develop the will — but the worst part about this, so far, is having to pretend, for Jenn’s sake, that her leaving is a joint decision and for the best.  It is not a joint decision.  I did not want my son kidnapped away from me, and my table scraps of visitations to be at the discretion of Jennifer, as if this were her right alone to decree.

I wonder right now if I am making the biggest mistake of my life not fighting harder, and letting this happen.  I wonder what I’m supposed to do.  I don’t want to make this any uglier, but Niall is way too perceptive not to be deeply hurt by everything that’s going on, and he’s my son.  In fifteen years, will he hate me for not taking a stronger stand on this, or will he understand that I did the best I thought I could at the time, trying not to sabotage Jennifer while trying to love my son?  I don’t know.  God.  I don’t know.

I’ve had Niall since Saturday afternoon.  I drop him at school tomorrow.  As the seconds go by, I get more and more frantic about squeezing every last moment from the time with him.

We were listening to a random music mix, and G’n'R’s Yesterdays came on the rotation, which has the lyric “Yesterday’s got nothing for me.”

Niall’s eyes brimmed with tears, and he turned to me and said, “There’s nothing for me either, without you.”

However justified Jenn was in leaving to get on with her life — the appropriateness could be as high as 100% — the decision left a body count.

OK, let’s run down my week so far:

1. Wife left me and took Niall (my fault)
2. Got dropped from the interview process of the job for which I was applying (my fault, essentially)
3. Worker’s Comp claim was denied, so I will have to sue the WC insurance company (not my fault)
4. Ditzy HMO doctor whom I saw twice while out of work due to work-related injury claims I never told her I was off work, and refuses to sign my disability slip (fuckin’ not my fault)
5. Paid over $100 (that I didn’t have until friends opened their wallets) to file my taxes (my choice)
6. Ran out of meds (that said ditzy doctor forgot to refill) and for which I don’t have insurance anyway (not my fuckin’ fault)

So, today:

7. Computer crashes (shit happens)

You’d think with my whole professional and educational life spent living at the whims of computer hardware, I would have a top-of-the-line backup system in place.  You’d be wrong.

I fixed it.  The computer, and recovered the data.  It took some effort, but I did it.  I’m doing a full backup tonight.

Next step would pretty much have to be “blindness”, right?  I’d say “death”, but that’s not always seeming like such a bad alternative this week.

I don’t think it appropriate to write at length, or write details, in this public arena.  But not writing anything about this has made it impossible to write anything else on the site, so I’ll just do a fifteen-second version and leave it be.

My wife Jennifer has left me, taken our son, and asked for a qvibepr.  She has moved in with her parents.  She left the cat.

I am devastated, and left with no income and no disability checks yet.

Things might be slow in these parts for a while — or, I may go into fits of hypergraphia to keep my mind off things.  One or the other.

There’s a lot I want to write, and maybe I will write it and just not publish it.  As I said, this is really not the most appropriate arena to air it.

Anyone who wants to leave condolences, please do.  I might not be able or willing to give too many other details.  Anyone who wants to lend me $100, so I can pay for medication and maybe rent, I wouldn’t turn that down, either.

All hail the lucky ones!  I refer to those in love.