Divorce Court Central was jam packed with dead-beat dads, wannebe dead-beat dads, and soon-to-be dead-beat dads. Somewhere lurking in the midst of all of them, my soon-to-be ex-husband and poster boy for grown-ups with social disorders, was the lovely and talented, Dirge, the Turdinator Cheaterman who was pulling pennies out of his Dockers, for effect, I suppose. He came well prepared with his sob story of lost wages and proof of thousands of dollars in marital debt and oversized hopes of scoring his “get out of jail free” card. Attached to him was the monochromic husband stealer who came equipped with brain cell deficiency and the Clifford the Big Red Dog hairdo. I should have brought her a chew toy and a trophy for coming in first at the Dirge Cheaterman Dog Show.
We were about to begin our Joust a plaisance Tournament, which really meant I was about to be eliminated with blunted lies instead of a sword, or in this case it meant that I was about to be impaled and my suit of armor was being held hostage at my dry cleaners and I couldn’t afford to pay the ransom.
Divorce Court Central was a bustling place and quite popular amongst the other soon-to-be single moms. I imagined, just for a moment that the chubby deputy in the green jacket outside Courtroom F, was actually a maitre de ready to escort all of us to a great table with a view, the judge would send over a few rounds of martinis, and we would smoke cigarettes and giggle until we had to face our doom. That wasn’t the case though and I was convinced there was a hotline number you could call with a nasal sounding operator who answered: “Divorce Court Central, Press #1 for humiliation; Press #2 for poverty and skid row; Press #3 for Custody Battles, Court orders, Child Support and other Government Runhow .I waited with the other woman about to be hung out to dry, on the verge of poverty and disillusionment. Was I supposed to take a number from one of those red machines like they have at the deli counter in the grocery store? It always seems to be that I pick the number 101 and the flashing red light above the deli counter reads 47. Today I was 101 again.
It was the men, however, at Divorce Court Central that seemed to know the procedures. It was as if they all gathered in a huddle to plan the strategies of the game. The quarterbacks would wait for the hand off of brilliant ideas, tales of woe and the stories of their miserable existences prior to meeting the young new husband stealer with a stripper name waiting at home with a beer and a blowjob, and obviously no clue as to what she was in for with the dead-beat she was so fond of. The tight ends would block all the soon-to-be ex’s from knowing the score or the strategic plan. The women were the underdogs here and nobody had bets on us to win the game.
I had cried the entire day before, sobbing about the end of an already faltering relationship and the demise of the institution of marriage in general. I wanted to make peace with the man who had broken my heart, my spirit, and my cherry. Dirge and I met outside of Starbucks just in case I was tempted to bring out the scissors and stun gun in my purse for effect. The latte I was drinking was weak and so was his emotional capacity and ability to communicate. I swear he had his soul removed to give his pride more room to stretch out and be comfortable. So I did the crying while Dirge clung tightly to his oversized macchiato trying to hold back any ounce of emotion. I could see the ice-water running through his veins and ready to burst. I wept continuously for an hour while Dirge tried to wear me down continuously for an hour. I thought a respectful goodbye and maybe a punch in the groin was necessary since we were about to break the ties that bound us.
The small talk and feigning of his fertility was getting on my nerves and all I really wanted from the cheating pig was an apology and a wad of cash- I got neither that day at the small table outside the Starbucks and my future in obtaining them was looking grim. I lost the battle and drove off with my trunk load of broken dreams in the Honda I could barely pay for, wiped away the tears of my dismal existence, and stopped at the convenient store for a convenient six pack and a roadmap to doom for a night of convenient wallowing.
I realized as Dirge and I sat directly across from each other at the jousting match, his acceptance to meet me the previous day to “make peace” was probably just a plot to have me sign off on him having to pay child support. He was so adept at living in “the world according to him”, that usually everyone and I mean everyone would sort of just go there with him- including his evil twin, the Honorable Judge Tiny Wiener. I watched in horror and in amazement and in the pants I was about to make poop in as my husband’s counterpart banged his “you are screwed” gavel denying every one of my requests. I barely made a peep and sat there like a whipped dog with my tail between my legs. All I could think of was trying to escape to a corner to whimper repeatedly until some nice old lady would rescue me, take me home, and feed me left-over meatloaf until I fell asleep on her couch. I wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary- I didn’t want his kidneys or his new and improved privates served to me on a platter, no just some simple justice and a little well-deserved child support he had been keeping from his children the past year. I have to tell you what I mean by the new and improved privates. Apparently, the meal-ticket-snatcher-upper he lovingly called his girlfriend must have had a huge gaping deep crevice somewhere between her legs because he found it completely necessary to buy penis enhancing pills from some online penis pill place. I’m guessing the husband stealer must have been banged and prodded more times than my son’s pretend Home Depot workbench and Dirge’s little sperm shooter was just lost swimming around looking for some comfort.
I leered at him across the courtroom crying his marital debt woes and all I could think about was his new penis ready to pop out of his rusty old armor to begin its new life with the gaping hole queen. And after viewing the husband stealer waiting in angst, I actually felt nothing but relief to be done with the funeral march, also known as a Dirge.
