Hold The Fat, Please

Red flag or green light?

So far, Jack is adding up nicely on paper. His pictures and his profile make him seem fun and easy going. He seems energetic and up for fun, but not a maniac. His smile looks like one that comes easily to his face.

All this in opposition to a lazy couch potato with hang ups and a brooding personality. There is a reason those people are single. They should commit to staying so.

But there is something that bothers me about one or two of his questions.

One of them asks specifically about the most adventurous thing I've done this year.

Besides joining a ridiculous dating website? Does there have to be more than one?

Not an unfair question but sort of a buzzkill. I have noted that Jack has no children. I am wondering if his sense of adventure is such that he will be annoyed by the fact that I have a home life and children that I am committed to nurturing, and can't just randomly drop everything to go jump out of an airplane because it's a nice day to do so. Adventurous? What kind of adventure are we talking about? Hang gliding or an impulsive jewelry purchase?

And there was a question or two that seemed to want to suggest that my physical appearance would be of high significance. Pictures aside, he's looking for some assurances that I will hit the gym immeidately if the holiday festivities pack on an unsightly muffin top. That I will meticulously crunch my abs to six pack perfection. A veiled waving of the No Fat Chicks flag.

And I wonder if that is in and of itself a problem.

Happy to have the honesty...but a little concerned about it as a prerequisite. "I solemnly swear that I will adhere to a POW-style starvation diet and log countless miles on the stationary bicycle and wear a fat burning suit and will not object to an occassional finger-down-my-throat-induced vomitting episode in the event of a brownie eating binge at the first sign of a weight gain in excess of 2 pounds that can not be reasonably explained away by normal cyclical bloating."

Not that I have any concerns about my body. With all the endless walking I've done, the little bit of flab that was no more than a nuisance to jam into a pair of low rise jeans has gone the way of the dodo bird. No body issues at all. But why does he have to ask?

Scott, as you know, turned out to be a lot different than the saint I'd thought he was, but on more than one occassion he'd told me (as I lamented that I needed to spend a little after-the-gluttonous-weekend time on the treadmill) that it did not matter to him if I was 300 pounds, he loved me for who I am not what I looked like. (And then quickly adding, lest I clobber him with the skillet that I've just sprayed with low-fat cooking spray to make a low-carb omelet, that I am the most beautiful girl in the world.)

So...value the honesty in putting it out there that he will not tolerate a lazy, bonbon-eating couch potato or flambe him for being a judgey, picayune asswipe who is probably not in a position himself to judge? Jack better show up looking like David Beckham after all this.

I spend some time churning about whether or not to answer, and if so how.

In the end I reply. Let's see if he does.

What's My Line?

Patience is a virtue for which I was always a C- student.

The fax is too slow. I can talk faster. Should have made a phone call.
Waiting for the Keurig to make a cup of coffee is infuriating.
FedEx needs to get those planes landed just a little more efficiently. It has been 25 hours and my package is still not here from Singapore.
Indecisive people should be denied drivers licenses. The timid, too.

But just when I am ready to give up on eHarmony and all the losers who subscribe, and take the app off of my phone so I do not have to be reminded that the world is brimming with all manner of bottom feeding Neanderthals, Jack replies.

And he replies in a good way. He's funny. He is light-hearted. He has a good attitude. I get up off the bench and get in the game.

Again the ball is in my court. A court I have no experience playing on. I may as well have a bag over my head.

But eHarmony idiot-proofs the whole thing, so even a novice like myself can navigate. The fact that they idiot-proof it should tell me something. Even they anticipated a preponderance of idiots on their site.

eHarmony sends an encouraging little note pushing me to the next step. "You and Jack are on the same page! Keep the momentum going. Send him 5 open ended questions.

And again, since research shows us that people are abysmally poor judges of themselves and other people, they provide a bunch of questions that are designed to help you figure out who is a prince and who is a frog before you waste a lot of time getting all dolled up and going on a bunch of dates only to find out on the third one that he's a slacker in a dead end job, still lives with his mother (who insists on calling him "Mama's Little Boo Boo Bear") and takes cabs everywhere because his Yugo was repossessed.

So I pick my questions. The relate to family and extended family and what holidays look like so you can get a sense of how he values those relationships. They ask about habits so you can tell the overly committed sportsman from the slothful couch potato. They ask about what the person might have observed in other successful couples that contribute to their success, so you can tell if obedience and subservience are the recurring theme or if he's a traditionalist, or if he is the type that considers his partner his equal.

He's quick to respond and all of his answers are appealing. He is close to his brothers and his parents are still married and live nearby. They are healthy and involved grandparents, though Jack has no kids himself. He loves to spend weekends at the beach and on the water. He also has a motorcycle and likes to take long drives in beautiful places. He values the same kinds of things in relationships that I do, and doesn't seem high strung.

His turn to ask me questions. I wait. They arrive and I open them.

Red flag? Maybe.

E- Harangue

My crisis averted, or at least delayed, I can focus on other things.

I need to get my yard in shape again. The week away has left it looking more Grey Gardens than Garden of Eden.

I need to get back to walking longer distances. The week of vacation capped by a weekend of beer and bar food with Terry has left me with a slab of flab on my abs. Not. Pretty.

I need to jump start my love life.

Yes, I'd heard from Craig and yes, he'd been exactly the kind of mate I'd wanted all day. And even for quite some time afterwards. But his reliability bugged me. Or rather his lack thereof. I never know what to expect. Who's going to put their feet on the floor today? The sweet, attentive, flirtatious, funny, can't-wait-to-see-you Craig, or the absentee, one-word-answer, delayed response, don't-know-quite-what-to-think Craig? It's like dating identical twin brothers, only one is wicked and the other is a dreamboat. Dating Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde would be less confusing.

I look at my Eharmony account. Terry's tweaks are good, but I am still netting in a lot of Capital L Losers.

Guys who are exactly my height. My socks would make me taller.

Guys who say they are in a particular job or industry whose education makes it seem like they would have to be making up a cover story so they do not have to admit to being a cashier at Walmart.

Guys who only drink on special occasions. (WHAT???)

Guys who fall into categories that I specifically requested not be matched to me. For instance, guys who live on the opposite coast or men who are technically Old Men.

And guys whose profiles add up to nothing more than a wholly unappealing pile of single manhood with nary a redeeming quality to speak of.

I go back to the profile of the guy who I sent a smile to, Jack. Seems like a winner. Why had he not smiled back?

So I decide to take the first step. I send him the first 5 questions.

Eharmony is all about getting to know people by narrowing down the ick factor. A guy could craft an amazing profile, but if his "chat" tells you he is a clingy, jealous nag, then forget it. Or if he hints that women should be perfectly coiffed and wearing heels and hosiery at all times, he will find himself in the "no" pile faster than you can say Beautymist Pantyhose.

The first 5 questions are questions with prescribed answers to choose from, with an option to write in your own answer if you are a little bit outside of the box or need to explain something.

I select my five. They pertain to such things as:

How you might behave at a party you've been taken to by your date and where you know no one.
Given all the freedom in the world to choose, on a Saturday night you'd most prefer to do what?
Which of the following places would be your first choice for a getaway vacation with your mate?

Send.

I wait a whole day and find that I can no longer stand it. I find myself unable to resist the urge to check eHarmony. I have not gotten an email saying that Jack has replied, but I am not sure that I would. I click on my "Corresponding With" button. I can see that Jack has looked at my profile.

I can see that he looked at my profile the day I'd sent the questions. Nearly 27 hours ago!

And yet, he has yet to check the little boxes next to his answers and reply.

Miffed. I am miffed. I extend myself and he ignores me. Nothing like getting blown off for your question selection. Jeez. Wait 'til he finds out I'm unemployed.

I hate this already.

A Fool And His Money

While I throw back my much desired IPA in record time, Lars calls Randee. Then evidently Randee calls Deb. And once Deb's ears stop bleeding, she calls me.

"Well, she never misses out on an opportunity to castigate YOU!" she says.

I am well aware of that, but it still bothers me. Why I should even spend one shredded nerve ending worrying about what some lonely, miserable, home permed lawyer with no friends and a voice that could split an atom thinks or says about me is beyond me. But I do. And I hate that there is someone out there with such an unfair, undeserved opinion of me that there is nothing I can do anything about. Lars' description of me when he was so fragile that he had to turn the world against me or go to pieces will live on in perpetuity. Thank God it is a small audience. I never see his worthless friends. They can think what they want. I got the last laugh going over the wall and into a happy (and very colorful)life. Anyone I care about knows at least that much.

I ask Deb how her conversation went, the volume and weapons-grade voice notwithstanding. Deb says she wrote a brief while Randee was ranting and when she stopped to refuel, she very reasonably launched into her argument.

Miraculously, she secured a win!

The order against me will be withdrawn.

The arrears will be forfeited and forgiven. Never again will they be assigned to me.

We will reschedule the hearing and go to a conference, the hopes for which will be a complete and total agreement on numbers. The only wild card is whether or not I have landed a job by the time the date rolls around.

I raise my concern about that last part. Randee seems preoccupied with my getting a job. Ya know, her client has made a habit of sponging off of me and he shouldn't have to worry about where his next gadget or toy comes from just because of my little old job elimination. I have a feeling she is going to keep postponing the hearings until I get a job - simply because she wants to prevent Lars from having to ever part with a penny.

Mark my words, I tell her. But thank you for a big unexpected win. And before the sun set, too!

Deb is excited as well, and chuckling a little. She says Randee knows she has Lars eating out of the palm of her hand. I ask her why she thinks that, even though I think it, too. I think my lawyer is very clever, I want her to opine a little on his blind trust and catastrophic stupidity.

She says that when it was no longer in any way reasonable for Randee to push for the hearing and subsequent hearings and conferences etc and therefore piling up the billable hours she could scorch Lars with, she punted.

I ask how.

She says Randee then insisted on writing the precipe about the agreement, and submitting the continuance. Hours of writing. Deb would not have billed me, but Randee was adding up the shekels as she spoke. She also used her mistrust and disdain for me to parlay another billable: Deb promised that the children would be able to leave on vacation as agreed, but Randee insisted that I can not be trusted. She wanted to write a custody stipulation (Cha-ching!) and have me sign it before she would do any of the things she committed to. More writing, more faxing, more signing, more filing. All billed to Lars because he wouldn't just go to the courthouse with me.

What Lars and I could have accomplished by taking a short drive to the courthouse would now cost him $1000. And yet, he manages to still put all of his trust and faith in his abrasive lawyer rather than trust the mother of his children, whose only transgression was to be unhappy enough to want a divorce.

So be it. A fool and his money are soon parted.

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.

Talking Turkey

I calmly explain that I went to the courthouse to file for support from him.

And I wait for the sound of an atomic explosion.

Nothing.

Lars tells me that he expected me to do that. He wants me to do what I have to do to be able to provide for Hil and Pat. He has no desire to see me struggle. It makes sense for me to get help from him.

I look at my phone to make sure I've dialed correctly. Clearly the man I divorced under the most acrimonious of circumstances has been abducted by aliens and replaced with a Muppet.

I tell him that I really had no choice. Randee had not withdrawn the order of support against me, and I was going to be hauled off to the pokey if I did not cough up a pile of cash in short order. I'd gotten a lawyer. She'd advised me to file.

Again, he says he understands that part. What he doesn't understand is what happened after THAT.

I told him about the court date and how the overlapping claims we had against one another needed to be sorted out, and we'd called Randee to cancel the hearing so we could engage in a thoughtful discussion about how to settle things. He'd owe me money, I'd owe him money, yadda yadda yadda, let the payroll deductions begin.

He said he'd had no idea. He'd not heard from her.

I tell him in no uncertain terms that she came out swinging on his behalf and made some outrageous accusations and put forth some ridiculous demands.

He's intrigued and asks for an example. I hate when men ask for examples. It always seems like they think you are lying. And if I were, bonehead, don't you think I'd lie about the damn example, too?

I tell him that she screeched in a voice that can be heard in Deep Space that I'd lied to the court and had hidden my earnings from everyone. EVERYONE! (Because everyone knows I am a reclusive millionaire and live my modest little life because money is such a burden...)

He replied that he always knew how much I made. I'd told him myself. He didn't need more money from me. He knew how to get it if he did, but he really wasn't interested in that. He could be earning more money himself. He's turned down better opportunities. He just doesn't need the extra responsibility and commitments. The money is fine. More money generally means more of a trade off. He'd rather maintain the status quo than work weekends, or take call, or have to carry a beeper like a little electronic leash.

I almost faint with disbelief. I am certain my children's father has been replaced by a pod person.

I also tell him that Randee insists that I pay him all the arrears. And has neglectfully let them rack up long after she said she'd withdraw the order.

He says he considers us all square because I paid his lawyers fees from that disastrous day in court.

I tell him Randee seems to have let all those recollections fly out the back of her little Toni Home Permed head. She was on her horse and riding, and therefore, I felt like I needed to leverage the trip to get him to call off his pit bull. I have no burning desire to interfere with his travel plans. The kids are looking forward to the trip. I just needed to get his attention so he'd get hers. I also remind him that she needs to act on HIS wishes, not some deep seeded preoccupation with winning. Once again, she caused a problem between him and me, and for no reasons but her own.

He said he'd call her. I call my lawyer with an update.

And I open a much needed beer. A new beer called Alimony Pale Ale. Because there is no such thing as Child Support Pale Ale, and if there were, it would be laced with hemlock.

The Loud Leading the Moronic

"We had an agreement," he texts with his ape-like thumbs.

"Yes we did. And no one seems to be living up to it but me. So forget it."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

How convenient. A selective memory. Like that never happens with Lars.

I ask him if he has any idea what happened that day. His inquiry confirming that I was not welshing on our agreement was uncannily well timed. He puts the screws to me, and then goes into a flop sweat knowing that he may have just awakened the dormant she-wolf. And always in writing so he can forward it to Randee. How very clever!

He says he is clueless.

Well, shit, Lars, you've been clueless for decades. Thanks for the update.

I think for a moment. I read back through texts from Craig and Terry and Ted. All telling me to be brave. Be my most fierce and fearless version of myself. Win my own battle.

I pick up the phone. Game time. I pace the living room as the phone rings. It takes 4 rings. He either can't accurately strike the right spot on the touchscreen with those sausage-shaped fingers of his or he's wondering if he should answer and have a conversation with me - you know, without REPRESENTATION.

I use the moments to try to slow my breathing, which sounds like I have been running for my life (and maybe I have been). He answers.

I launch into the explanation, starting with why I think he may just have to pucker up and kiss my ass before I do him any favors with his travel plans.

He says he has plane tickets.

I tell him the kids say they are driving to Tennessee, not flying. I know every detail.

He says it's a surprise. How convenient. I'll need to see the reservations. Please produce them or he's SOL.

He asks what I am so mad about. Nothing has changed with the child support. What am I so mad about today??? I can practically hear the beads of sweat running down his big rounded forehead.

Can he really not know?

I ask him if he'd talked to Randee today.

No. He tells me she never calls him because then she'd have to bill him.

My God, the stupid are entertaining.

"Well, since she hasn't given you the courtesy of asking your actual opinion before she opined on your behalf, let me fill you in on the details of Mizz Randee's Show of Shows."

I am calm enough to sit. Here we go.