I'll not bore you with the details of our court time yesterday, but the outcome is this: Hearing for final orders set for 20th Dec, and until then I have custody of the girls from Sunday evenings through Friday mornings, and Robert has visitation with them from Friday mornings until Sunday evenings. Note the wording there; it was a neat little coup on my lawyer's part, & one I don't think the other guy really noticed.
I hope to get final orders settled without a hearing, as this is almost exactly what I asked for before.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
New rule for next time.
As I alluded to in the comment thread of another of my posts, I'm in no hurry to date. But that hasn't stopped me from joking about it on occasion.
I'm a rather hard girl to please.
For instance, where on Earth am I going to find another conservative man who's honestly not the slightest bit homophobic? Without hanging around Libertarian Party conventions, that is. (Sidenote to that: Never publicly declare yourself a Republican whilst half-drunk in a gay bar.)
I've also made the joke that for my next husband I think I'll have to take a bitter, divorced Chief. Then I realized I was describing my husband's ex-roommate Barksdale and shuddered before sparing a fond thought for his Trans-Am.
Maybe next time I'll have to date only guys with good cars. Rob drove an Escort when I met him. I remember discussing with a friend of mine whether the cowboy hat taking up most of the rear windshield was a good thing or a bad thing. I briefly flirted with a guy who had a '63 or so Impala. I confess, it was all about the car in that relationship.
But there is one definite, incontrovertable new rule for the men I might date in the future:
They have to know who Bob Wills was.
Years ago, when we lived in Hampton Roads, I learned that Asleep at the Wheel was coming to town. As we made plans to go, I enthused happily for some time about their covers of old songs by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. (Even now, you are humming "Big Ball's in Cow Town." Admit it.) I started reeling off songs to a blank look from my husband. Turns out, though he's somewhat acquainted with Asleep at the Wheel's western swing work, he thought they were the original artist.
Never. Again.
I'm a rather hard girl to please.
For instance, where on Earth am I going to find another conservative man who's honestly not the slightest bit homophobic? Without hanging around Libertarian Party conventions, that is. (Sidenote to that: Never publicly declare yourself a Republican whilst half-drunk in a gay bar.)
I've also made the joke that for my next husband I think I'll have to take a bitter, divorced Chief. Then I realized I was describing my husband's ex-roommate Barksdale and shuddered before sparing a fond thought for his Trans-Am.
Maybe next time I'll have to date only guys with good cars. Rob drove an Escort when I met him. I remember discussing with a friend of mine whether the cowboy hat taking up most of the rear windshield was a good thing or a bad thing. I briefly flirted with a guy who had a '63 or so Impala. I confess, it was all about the car in that relationship.
But there is one definite, incontrovertable new rule for the men I might date in the future:
They have to know who Bob Wills was.
Years ago, when we lived in Hampton Roads, I learned that Asleep at the Wheel was coming to town. As we made plans to go, I enthused happily for some time about their covers of old songs by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. (Even now, you are humming "Big Ball's in Cow Town." Admit it.) I started reeling off songs to a blank look from my husband. Turns out, though he's somewhat acquainted with Asleep at the Wheel's western swing work, he thought they were the original artist.
Never. Again.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Feh. This shit again?
Once upon a time I went to the Bexar County Courthouse with Robert, and we went to the basement & got a marriage license.
It's a lot harder to end a marriage than to start one. Not that I want the end, as I've said, but I've little choice in the matter.
We were supposed to have a custody hearing 18th October. Then 22nd October. Then today (6th November). Now, we're looking at the 15th November. I'm getting sick of this crap. Rob's lawyer is just getting sick, apparently. (Yeah, my lawyer verified it.)
In other news, I'm starting to think my father-in-law never really cared for me. He dressed better for the divorce than for the wedding. That might sting if, you know, I gave a damn.
It's a lot harder to end a marriage than to start one. Not that I want the end, as I've said, but I've little choice in the matter.
We were supposed to have a custody hearing 18th October. Then 22nd October. Then today (6th November). Now, we're looking at the 15th November. I'm getting sick of this crap. Rob's lawyer is just getting sick, apparently. (Yeah, my lawyer verified it.)
In other news, I'm starting to think my father-in-law never really cared for me. He dressed better for the divorce than for the wedding. That might sting if, you know, I gave a damn.
Friday, November 02, 2007
White Trash Dinner Theater
That's what my life has become. Again, I don't feel comfortable getting too detailed. But I've found myself in the position where a) I am receiving friendly greetings from more than one man in CID at the Bexar County Sheriff's Office and b) I'm having to repeat the story of my husband leaving me again & again.
I swear to God, every time I hear myself say, "He moved out of our trailer into my cousin's trailer" I hear Flatt & Scruggs in the background. (Dueling Banjos, anybody?)
God bless those of you in law enforcement who have to deal with us rednecks every day.
My prayers are with the folks in Philly who just lost one of their own. I hope y'all find that bastard & hang 'im. (Hey, if we can't do lethal injections anymore, maybe the rope will make a comeback.)
I swear to God, every time I hear myself say, "He moved out of our trailer into my cousin's trailer" I hear Flatt & Scruggs in the background. (Dueling Banjos, anybody?)
God bless those of you in law enforcement who have to deal with us rednecks every day.
My prayers are with the folks in Philly who just lost one of their own. I hope y'all find that bastard & hang 'im. (Hey, if we can't do lethal injections anymore, maybe the rope will make a comeback.)
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Roto-Rooter to the Rescue
This is a happy little story that hasn't much to do with anything else going on in my life, but I'm in the mood for happy stuff.
Where I live right now is about half a mile from the nearest bus stop. At about the halfway mark there is a storm drain of sorts, a concrete box (with outgoing concrete pipes on either side) with heavy grates over it.
A week ago Monday, my mother heard a kitten meowing and traced it to this, but couldn't do anything to affect a rescue. She called Animal Control, but when they came out they neither saw nor heard it, so they left. A few days later we came across some folks with one of the grates up, down in the box with a ladder, trying to coax it to come to them, but we learned later they were unsuccessful.
My daughters were flipping out about this, of course, being small children with their parents' love of cats, but there was just nothing we could do.
Well, it was still there Monday & again on Tuesday, but I knew that time was running out, even though we and several other folks had fed it. Thankfully it's been a dry month. Tuesday my mother & I stopped on our way home, and with the help of some passing teenage boys we got the grate up that the other people had had open.
So I was sitting there looking at this tiny little kitten about six feet down, meowing at the top of its lungs, and I knew I could get down there but then I wouldn't be able to get out, not without a ladder. So I did what any woman would do.
I called my estranged husband. The man who has lately claimed that he can't stand to be around me. (No, I don't buy it.)
"Rob," I said, "how would you like to help me rescue a kitten?" That depends. Where was it? Was I planning to keep it? He was working.
I told him it was in a storm drain. "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. People get killed in those things."
Ten minutes later, if that, he was climbing down his ladder into the drain. I would not be allowed to go down there.
He sat down and called the kitten. Called it again. Shook an empty can of food at it (we used to get one of the trailer park cats out of our trailer by shaking an empty bag of food outside; cats sometimes are this dumb). Waited. Waited some more. Stood up, and finally the little bugger came within grabbing distance, so he grabbed it.
And it bit him.
He handed it off to my mother, who handed it off to me. I wrapped it in my jacket and promptly named it after Robert's boss, who is never ever to know about this incident. Unless someone calls him & asks him about the Roto-Rooter van parked on the side of the road and the drain tech in the culvert.
The trailer's bathroom is now blessed with a scant double-handful of kitten, black and white, who is really quite friendly and shows no signs of being rabid. We are in the process of trying to find a home for it, and Robert is once again our daughters' hero.
And I am left to wonder how many of our current problems stem from the fact that the man is genetically incapable of ever telling me no.
Where I live right now is about half a mile from the nearest bus stop. At about the halfway mark there is a storm drain of sorts, a concrete box (with outgoing concrete pipes on either side) with heavy grates over it.
A week ago Monday, my mother heard a kitten meowing and traced it to this, but couldn't do anything to affect a rescue. She called Animal Control, but when they came out they neither saw nor heard it, so they left. A few days later we came across some folks with one of the grates up, down in the box with a ladder, trying to coax it to come to them, but we learned later they were unsuccessful.
My daughters were flipping out about this, of course, being small children with their parents' love of cats, but there was just nothing we could do.
Well, it was still there Monday & again on Tuesday, but I knew that time was running out, even though we and several other folks had fed it. Thankfully it's been a dry month. Tuesday my mother & I stopped on our way home, and with the help of some passing teenage boys we got the grate up that the other people had had open.
So I was sitting there looking at this tiny little kitten about six feet down, meowing at the top of its lungs, and I knew I could get down there but then I wouldn't be able to get out, not without a ladder. So I did what any woman would do.
I called my estranged husband. The man who has lately claimed that he can't stand to be around me. (No, I don't buy it.)
"Rob," I said, "how would you like to help me rescue a kitten?" That depends. Where was it? Was I planning to keep it? He was working.
I told him it was in a storm drain. "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. People get killed in those things."
Ten minutes later, if that, he was climbing down his ladder into the drain. I would not be allowed to go down there.
He sat down and called the kitten. Called it again. Shook an empty can of food at it (we used to get one of the trailer park cats out of our trailer by shaking an empty bag of food outside; cats sometimes are this dumb). Waited. Waited some more. Stood up, and finally the little bugger came within grabbing distance, so he grabbed it.
And it bit him.
He handed it off to my mother, who handed it off to me. I wrapped it in my jacket and promptly named it after Robert's boss, who is never ever to know about this incident. Unless someone calls him & asks him about the Roto-Rooter van parked on the side of the road and the drain tech in the culvert.
The trailer's bathroom is now blessed with a scant double-handful of kitten, black and white, who is really quite friendly and shows no signs of being rabid. We are in the process of trying to find a home for it, and Robert is once again our daughters' hero.
And I am left to wonder how many of our current problems stem from the fact that the man is genetically incapable of ever telling me no.
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