The More Things Change, The More They Piss Me Off

So Lars calls Randee.

I call Deb.

The beer goes down. I refrain from opening another. It is tempting but I have work to do and a temper to keep in check.

When I talk to Deb, she is really pleased that Lars and I have agreed on something. To have agreed on anything is a miracle. We do not naturally agree on anything. Never have. It's not as though I'd say "black" and he'd say "white." It is more often I'd say "black" and he'd say "five."

Deb is very hopeful. She must be very jaded by her life as a matrimonial/criminal lawyer. I am sure she sees many a marriage nearly end in divorce but instead end in a bludgeoning. For Lars and I to have agreed on something so fraught with potential for rancor and acerbity is quite an unusual accomplishment. I should buy a lottery ticket. The stars will never align so beautifully again.

Deb says that while I am on a hot streak I should get Lars to take care of things privately. Neither one of us needs a bunch of outrageous legal fees. We can go to the courthouse ourselves and go on record with what we agree to. He can withdraw his order, forfeit the arears and agree to pay me support. We can discuss an amount on the way. I could be agreeable. Any amount would be better than nothing. Found money.

Her enthusiasm is catching. I decide to call Lars and tell him how we can make this work for both of us. I am sure he'd love to hear how he can avoid Randee's contemptible legal fees.

I dial his cell number and wait while he struggles to depress the touch screen adequately with his Gumby hands.

I try to sound as fair and collegial as possible. It is a challenge. He brings out the piss and vinegar in me just by breathing.

I tell him what Deb had advised us to do. As a couple, not as her client and her client's was-band. I tell him the advantages. I tell him that he'd avoid the legal fees. I tell him we are really in control, not the court system. They just jump in an wreak havoc when the parties can't decide. The puppeteers take hold when the puppets aren't in sync.

I tell him again. The second time more slowly. I think this is a game he plays. Randee filibusters when she needs time to think (her mouth and brain being completely disconnected from one another helps) but Lars asks me to repeat things. Simple things. I could say, "My dog has fleas," and he'd need me to review the material.

After the third time around the horn, he finally understands what I am saying. "We go with our Drivers Licenses so the court lady with the beard knows that I am me and you are you instead of me being me and you being my boyfriend who has agreed to help me cheat you, see?" I have to break it down in the most demonstrative ways.

He says he needs to talk to Randee about that.

"You're going to call her? Why? She'll just send you a bill."

"None of this makes sense, Liza. It can't be as simple as you say."

"It really is simple, Lars. It only gets complicated if we disagree. And in this case we don't. Let's just go do it. It will take an hour. And cost $10 to file. I'll spring for it."

He says he'd like to call her anyway. And defends her billing practices while he's at it. Tells me that she doesn't always call him back so she does not have to charge him. Her clever excuse for crappy customer service.

I stifle a laugh and tell him she doesn't have to charge him. It's her choice. She's in business for herself. She can bill or not bill as she sees fit. She doesn't HAVE to do anything.How does he not know that?

And I tell him to be prepared. She is going to advise him againsts my plan from Deb. Anything that limits her involvement, diminishes his dependence on her, or reduces her capability to bill for everything between Point A and Point B she will convince him is the Devil's handiwork. And we all know I am the Devil's handmaiden.

But he's under her "I-have-a-law-degree-and-you-don't" spell. I tell him to do what he wants, but he heard it from me first.

I hang up the phone.

And I crack open that second beer.