Divorce Court Update

By TentCamper

So as a few of you know, I was downtown Los Angeles today for my 9,864,567 appearance in divorce court. (The low number is due to the fact that this divorce only started in Spring of 2006.)

Anyway, as I was sitting and waiting to see the mediator and then for the judge, I took the 4 hours of ‘hall time’ to check out some of the freaks mulling about.

I hope that I don’t offend anyone reading this…it would not be my intention…but if you do get offended by this…there may be something wrong with you.

Alright, back to my being judgmental, voyeuristic…and bust plain mean.

I can’t recall what order I saw these in but here goes a glimpse of what my eyes witnessed …all before noon today:

A roughly 65 year old black woman walking down the hall, wearing baggy bright turquoise cotton pants and shirt with a train conductor style hat that looked to be made of tin foil. At first glance I thought she had some ready to eat Jiffy Pop balanced on her head.

A 50-something year old black man wearing purple basketball shoes, black jeans (with purple streaks all over, who accompanied his severe pimp walk with the use of a cane…but the cane was solely used as a sort of flare…he’d swing it up in front of him, then give it a bit of a twist (as if it were a move that he saw in some old Michael Jackson video that he thought was cool.) Oh yeah…and dangling from the end of the cane’s handle was about a 5 karat cubic zirconium, dancing itself all the way down the hall, hanging on a little 4 inch string.

A 5 foot 2 inch woman who had to weigh about 250 pounds wearing (unintentionally, I’m sure) skin tight, black pants and a big poofy, bright orange blouse…I could not help but to think ‘pumpkin’… ‘BIG pumpkin!’

A woman sitting on a bench in one of the side halls, breastfeeding her baby…and a 35 (or so) year old guy leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hall…staring, with a creepy smirk and then he readjusted so that his file folders were in front of his crotch. (what was he trying to hide????)

A woman in her late 20’s (Persian I would guess) who had quite evidently had ‘mounds’ of work done on her large and in charge boobs. Her lips were ones that would make Lisa Rena jealous. The problem that I noticed is that SHE, not her man, wanted her to get the work done. Everything on her as she looked into a mirror, I’m sure, looked great to her. As she turned around…I notice that the woman had ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NO ASS. If a man wanted her to get cosmetic shit done to her…I assure you that he would have wanted ‘things’ proportional.
(Maybe the Dr. took her ass and shoved it into her chest and mouth.)

A mid 30’s woman, standing up against the wall across from me looking up and down the hall, (obviously waiting for someone.) She was holding her iPhone in both hands, down in front of her. Then I noticed that she kept twisting her phone back and forth…still glancing up and down the hall. Slow-ass me finally realized that she was iPhone-terbating…right there in the courthouse hallway! WTF!?

Oddly…the strangest one to me was ‘the guy’ that was lurking around the divorce court mediation office. I saw him at 7:30 AM, when I got there, talking to some woman. I thought nothing of it until she was called in and then I saw him winking as he approached some other girl waiting to get her divorce finalized. This guy was still there at 11:30 when I was leaving mediation…and he was sitting and trying to strike up a conversation with some other lady…who by the way wanted nothing to do with him.
(I suppose it is one place to meet a woman who may be in the need for a shoulder…but fuck dude!!!)

THIS, MY FRIENDS IS WHY I NEED A BLACKBERRY OR iPHONE...THEN YOU WOULD HAVE PICTURES TO GO ALONG WITH MY ATTEMPTS AT DESCRIBING THIS...HORROR.

Normal Childhood - Military Training (part 2)

Catch up on Part One if you have not read it yet.

By the time morning hit, we could hardly wait to see if we’d caught anything (or anyone) in our traps. We ignored the stealth policy as we bolted through the woods to the location of our creations. One by one, we closely inspected them, noticing nothing but a few random piles of animal scat and a small handful of porcupine quills.

Disappointed with having caught nothing we regrouped for a new strategy. After thoroughly discussing the mater in detail, we thought that the best plan was to lure someone into one of the traps. Yes…I was the one with 3 sisters and it was decided that little sisters make great prey.

Upon returning from my neighbor’s house we approached my middle sister, taunting her with a large bag of Twizlers and candy corn, we told her to count to 100 and then if she could find us at our fort that she could have our bag of sweetness. She began counting and we bolted into the forest snickering at our own genius.

A few minutes later, as we had taken up position in eyesight of each of our traps, we began to hear the crunching and twig snapping of a non-trained civilian tromping through the woods. Excited beyond belief, we all sat completely still, awaiting our catch.

A few seconds later, she appeared on the path…only 20 feet or so from our spring snare. Prancing up the path with thoughts of mouthfuls of candy, she neared the hidden danger. All of the sudden, we heard it. She had kicked the trip wire and *swoosh* the slip knot had tightened around her feet and she was hoisted into the air. Screaming and struggling, head bobbing a few feet off the ground we all emerged from the bushes, laughing and impressed with ourselves.

We stood in a circle around he, patting each other on the back, completely ignoring her cries for help. After a few brief comments and a bit more laughing, we decided that it would be best to leave her there for a while. Backing away and heading out on the path towards our house, we peaked over our shoulders just to see her squirming, and tears streaming from her eyes and landing in the cushion of pine needles that lined the forest floor.

We got back to my house and in an attempt not to tip off my mother, we busied ourselves with our bikes and the construction of a jump at the end of the driveway. About an hour later, after one of my friends launched off the jump and crashed into a tree at the edge of the woods, we all looked at one another with a touch of fear in our eyes and we took off into the woods. We had forgotten about my sister who had been hanging upside down in the middle of the porcupine and fox infested woods for close to an hour.

When we arrived, we saw my sister, still crying, but too tired to struggle. It seemed that she had just enough energy to tilt her head enough to see us approaching. Her sobs were faint, but at least she was still alive. We quickly released the knot at the base of a nearby tree and my sister fell with a thud to the ground. As she got up and began to stumble down the path she yelled to us that MOM was going to kill us and that we were going to be in big trouble. Chasing after her, with the bag of candy held out in front of us, we bribed her with the contents of the bag along with mild threats of further violence if she did tell.

As far as I know, our secret lived on and from that point on we re-adjusted out traps to only catch animals…which we did.

What If You Knew It Was The Last Time?

I was going to write about being stung by a bee while riding my bicycle home from work yesterday, but had a less venomous moment of inspiration when I read Just Jules posting about Last Moments. She has an interesting point that we often commemorate Firsts in our lives: baby’s first step or word, first day of school, first indictment.

However, our Lasts are frequently ignored or worse, we don’t know they were Lasts.

It got me to thinking about Lasts in my marriage. I have posted a few times about my Ex, but since I never get that personal she has been an infrequent topic.

People have often asked how long we had been separated and I have been stumped at answering because there was never a definitive “Now we are together, now we aren’t” moment, just a series of Lasts. Put them all together and you can see the demise of what had been a wonderful relationship.

Last Vacation Together as a Family: Christmas 2005. We made a spur of the moment decision to drive to Oklahoma at Christmas to see relatives. I thought it was a fun time, but she was not very intimate.

Last Night Together in what she considered the “Family Home”: April, 2006. The next day I loaded up the car and moved to the West Coast to start a new job in anticipation of she and the kids joining me in the new house when school was finished.

Last Time we Celebrated my Birthday: October, 2006. The next month I rented a friend’s condo because I was getting tired of staying at her mother’s each time she felt like she needed “space”. My birthday the next year she had a date.

Last Time at her Sister’s: August 2007. It started off as a great day, there was even a hint she was willing to give “it” another shot. Then I dropped the camera in the water while trying to take her picture and she reminded me this sort of stuff was why we were never going to be together.

Last Trip Together, Just the Two of Us: November 2007. I asked her to accompany me to Vancouver to a conference. We stayed at a chic hotel. The second night, she made plans to meet a girlfriend for drinks and would call me later to join them for dinner. No call. She came back the hotel room at 2AM. The girlfriend had left the bar around 11.

Last Christmas Together: December 2007. Her whole family was coming to our house (even though I was renting a condo 15 minutes away, it was our house) and she wanted the kitchen reno’d. I was laying new flooring down right up until the minute the doorbell rang.

Last “Time” Together: Spring 2008. This one is a little hazy. I remember the moment, but not the date. We were engaged in the activity and I tried to kiss her and she avoided it. She was pretty drunk so I didn’t think too much of it. Then I tried to remember the last time we had sex when she wasn’t drunk and couldn’t. It dawned on me that it had stopped being ‘love making’ for her a long time ago, and she could only have sex with me when inebriated. When I realized how little respect and how much loathing for me she had, I knew that was the last time. I got up and slept in the downstairs bedroom. She never spoke of it the next day.

To finish this posting on a “bittersweet note”, here’s a wonderful song from Amanda Wilkinson about the last times of love.

My Great Shame

I don’t know how to build anything. I don’t know how to fix anything. I know nothing about cars. I really have no skills at all. But it’s not my fault. I grew up with a father who also lacked skills. He is the kind of guy that when something breaks, calls a repairman or gets a new one. This way of handling a problem has been passed down to me.

I think handiness may have skipped a generation. As I recall, my grandfather was handy. But for some reason, it didn’t transfer to my dad. Maybe it was some form of rebellion that my father perpetrated against his father. But it’s left me without a mentor.

Sure I can do the easy stuff. I can change a light bulb. I can screw together Ikea furniture. I’ve even replaced a ceiling fan. But if the toilet is running or a faucet is leaking, I’m stumped. I don’t like being like this. I want to be able to fix stuff. I hate shelling out my hard earned cash to repairmen whom I know are over-charging me. But I have nobody to teach me.

I don’t feel that I should experiment home repair skills on my own house. If I break something, as I’m all but certain to do it’s going to cost me even more money to get it fixed. I bought a set of Black and Decker home repair books, but they will only take me so far. I wish I had the wrenching gene. I wish I could walk into a hardware store and actually know what I was talking about.

I know we're almost done with the Aughts and we should be beyond old fashioned gender roles. But as a guy, this is my great shame.

What’s yours?

-Daddy Geek Boy

Selling out for spam

I recently got a spam e-mail, alone amongst all the offers to "grow [my] membr" and "plezure her all nite" and such, with the straightforward title: "Write me some words".

I'm not sure exactly what they were going for here, since Gmail so helpfully blocked all the content and put a red warning banner on it for me, but I must admit I was momentarily fascinated. How specific are these people getting? Are they really taking the time to hand-pick addresses from across the Web and send things like this to targeted audiences like myself?

Are they picturing some beret-wearing English major dropping his jaw at seeing this title, likely read in his mind with a slight pant and kittenish tone, given the steamy setting, and eagerly clicking to find out more about this easy romantic conquest, the one finally won over by his arguably above-moderate skill at selecting words?

Allow me just a moment to wipe the sweat out from under my beret while I compose a response laced with the appropriate amount of disdain.

You will never catch me, spammers, never! No matter how clever you think you are, or how many times you can fool the first-tier spam filters with your creative spelling.

Come to think of it, I have to wonder how many bitter English majors have been reduced to writing these e-mails, given the sluggish earning power of most of my ilk, and the tricksy/antiquated phrasing I've seen appear in this entertaining little folder.

Should I join the ranks of these turncoats? Do I have a better economic choice? Perhaps I should reply to this polite Nigerian fellow here, to see if he has any suggestions?

---

Posted by LiteralDan

Why I Cook

I'm divorced, a single dad with half-time custody, and I've been running a household solo for nearly ten years. I figured learning how to cook was a necessity. I had a bit of a head-start, since my ex was Italian and from a family of great cooks. I learned the ins and outs of la cucina italiana directly from the source. (You don't throw spaghetti on the wall to see if it's done!) My Italian-style carrots that I learned from them are to die for. My ex-mother-in-law also taught me how to cook beets, plus a zillion different ways to serve pasta.

One single buddy of mine won't cook on a nightly basis. He'll heat up a can of chili, or microwave some Lean Cuisine, but most often he'll take his hard-earned cash and go spend it in a restaurant.

Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, if you have the money. But there's more to cooking for yourself than saving a buck.

First off, it can be healthier to cook for yourself. I get to pick the ingredients, so I know they are healthy and fresh. I can also cut back on butter and salt (important for an aging dad like me.) Plus, some dishes like my marinated grilled asparagus recipe are awesome, and not something I find in many restaurants.

Second, it doesn't have to take very long. I can cook most meals in 30 minutes flat. Heading out to a restaurant takes longer than that. (My grilled chicken marinade recipe needs to be prepped hours in advance; needless to say, I don't cook it every night!) And in those 30 minutes, I can enjoy the cocktail of my choice. Whether that's the best margarita recipe or mai tai recipe depends on my mood, and doesn't cost me ten bucks a pop!

Third, it's a grounding experience. (This part gets touchy-feely, I suppose. I'm in NorCal, baby!) I feel connected to the earth, and to the farmers and suppliers, and to my kids who I cook for. It feels good to create a meal for them. It's nurturing. I get this feeling whether I'm grilling salmon at the BBQ, or cooking chicken and dumplings at the stove.

When I asked my single buddy why he doesn't cook, he said - "I'll cook for company. But it's just not worth the effort to cook for myself."

To which I said - "you're saying you're not worth it?"

Cook. It's good for you.

And if I didn't give you enough recipe pointers here, go buy a cookbook!

Normal Childhood - Military Training

We gathered at the edge of the woods as the sounds of clanking dishes filled the air. Full from the dinners we had all just finished, we sat and waited for the last two members of our squad.

All dressed in our fatigues (or as close as we could get) we had our briefing. The seven of us agreed that minimal talking/noise …and of course only using our code names would be the only way to keep our top secret mission intact.

We spread out slightly as we entered the woods. For the next ten minutes all we could hear was the faint crackling of pine needles beneath out boots and a random twig snapping as we pushed our way through the trees to our hide-out.

The air was still, breezes blocked by the acres of pine trees on all sides. We entered our 2 story fort one at a time, without making a sound. Once we were all inside, we began planning our day’s activities. In low, but commanding, whispers we discussed the three traps we were going to set along the paths to our hideaway.

*We’d seen enough Vietnam and random other war movies to know the best ones to ensnare the mistaken or intentional intruders.

Over the next 5 hours all seven of us worked diligently to perfect our military works of art. We split up into 3 groups; Pain, Sniper and Grunt worked on the bungee pit, Hammer, Red and Cap worked on the spring snare while Gunny, Top, Nuke and Camo perfected the suspended log (or mace trap).

**I will not tell you which of the above my code name was.

We regrouped as it began to get late in the day and began rounds to check out all of the work that had been done. All of the traps were set…satisfied with our ingenious success, we all headed home for dinner.

Around 8PM, we got back together, armed with flashlights to inspect our newly crafted traps…and to make sure that they were still in place.

The bungee pit was the first that we got to. It was just fine…a 4 foot deep ditch, which spanned the width of the path, covered with branches, twigs and leaves – hiding the bounty of sharpened wooden spikes that were positioned at the bottom, awaiting their first prey.


The spring snare was next. It was set with a young white birch tree, pulled back with a very sensitive network of ropes, a large slip knot and trip wire. We had high hopes for this one. We tripped it a few times and were thoroughly impressed.


Lastly we came to the mace trap. This was the hardest to set as the log, suspended 20 feet in the air, had to have weighed at least 100 pounds. Held in place only by a small stick attached to the rope acting as the trip wire…this was a sensitive one and we were all very careful not to trip it by accident.


Stay tuned to the ending of this story…in my next post.

(until then...go read the first, second and third installments about my childhood)