Divorce Court

In order to get divorced in my great home state of New Jersey, you must attend a two-hour seminar designed to educate you about the process, encourage you to settle with your other half rather than go to trial, and remind you that your children are the most important thing and, at the end of the day, all the court gives a shit about, which is exactly as it should be.

My class took place earlier this week at the Superior Court of New Jersey in Union.  You had to pass through a metal detector to get in and there was a cop in the courtroom itself, though he was fully absorbed in reading “Maxim.”  The session was taught by a guy who has been working as a divorce mediator in the Union County court system for over 30 years.  I went in skeptical… What could THIS guy teach ME?  Lots, as it turns out and so I wanted to share with you some of his finer pearls of wisdom:

“Be a settler.” — 97% of cases settle before coming to trial, he told us.  Don’t be in the 3%.  He drew an analogy to the pioneers who drove their wagons across the U.S.  “Don’t go all the way to Oregon and find there’s nothing left in the wagon.”

“Money travels down.  More goes to less.”  — As the sole breadwinner in our family, this maxim was probably the toughest one to hear, but he said it about 14 times, so it was pretty hard to ignore.  “Let’s say you’ve been married for a year and you and your spouse make about the same amount of money,” he said, holding his hands slightly apart and level.  “Not much money flowing there.”  Then he spread his hands wide and put one hand high in the air and the other low toward the ground.  “This is what it looks like if you’ve been married for a long time and one spouse makes all the money.  Money flows down.  More goes to less.”  Suh-weet! 

“Fight for your kids, not over them.” — You fight over possessions, he said, over objects.  Children are not objects.   

“Vengeance with dollars.” — As noted above, only 3% of cases actually go to trial, which is an incredibly lengthy and costly process.  “Typically, you end up where you would have been had you settled in the first place,” he said.  “Going to trial is just vengeance with dollars.”

“There is no number three.” – “My first piece of advice is to settle,” he said.  “My second piece of advice is to settle.  There is no number three.” 

The Q&A session was enlightening, too, and further proof that there is ALWAYS someone who is dealing with heavier shit than you.  “My husband is in the jail,” said a woman in a thick Polish accent.  “How I get the money?” 

It was at that point that I decided to hold off on my question, which was, “How does the court typically look at timeshares in St. John?”

I Can’t Drive 55

Forget Buckwheat.  Just call me Sammy Hagar.  This afternoon, I was pulled over by a state trooper just across the NJ/PA border.  I was doing 67 in a 35 mph zone.  Woops-a-daisy!

My $85 ticket (not nearly as steep as it could have been; it pays to be polite) was a lousy end to what had been a lovely day in Chadds Ford, PA, with my dear friend David and his family.  My visit included breakfast at Hank’s Place, a local institution with a sign out front reading, “Where hungry people eat, and friendly people meet.”  I highly recommend the Gourmet Peach French Toast.  “Would you like whipped cream with that?” our waitress asked me.  “Um…yeah.”

I worked with a guy once who said that whenever he was pulled over by a cop, he would start the conversation by saying, “Officer, I just want you to know that there are no firearms in this vehicle.”  To me, that’s the law enforcement equivalent of going up to a girl at a bar and saying, “I just want you to know that I do not have syphillis,” but he claimed it worked wonders with the fuzz. 

I did not try that this afternoon, but, when asked for my driver’s license and registration, I did make a point, as I always do, of asking if it’s OK to reach into my glovebox.   

Sadly, getting a speeding ticket is not an uncommon occurrence for me.  Within the past few years, I’ve received at least four that I can remember.  It’s almost to the point now that when I see a cop car, I simply ASSUME that he/she will shortly be coming up behind me, lights flashing.

I never have a particularly good reason for driving fast — except for the time when I had a horrific case of poison ivy and got a last-minute appointment with a poison ivy specialist.  I headed in the wrong direction, of course, and was desperately trying to make up for lost time, but squandered it royally by being pulled over for doing 92 mph in a 55 zone.  Ouch.

Then there was the time when I was scheduled to spend the night at a hotel in New Brunswick, but decided to make a break for home instead.  The only question was, “Would I make it home before the kids were asleep?”  Well, no, since I was pulled over for speeding — and had an expired registration AND and expired emissions sticker to boot.  The triple play, baby!

Why speed?  Well, I guess I’ve always been haunted by a general sense that my days on this planet are numbered.  Why spend any more time in a car than you need to?

So, I will see you on the road, my friends.  I’ll wave as I blow your silly doors off.

Almost Home

About five months ago, my wife and I separated and I moved into an apartment in the next town over.  Better than a van down by the river, I’ll grant you that.  But, as I wrote at the time, even though the apartment was geographically close to my former home, it was far from home in the spiritual sense, the sense that counts.

Five months have passed and much has happened since that first day, when I walked into this frighteningly empty place with little more than my clothing and a belief that better days lay ahead, though how far ahead I did not know.  I like it here.  I purchased four rooms of furniture at Raymour & Flanigan in under an hour, but I still like all of it, even my creaky bed.  

I’ve worked hard to supplement the “model home” decor with personal touches, especially photos, lots of photos.  I’ve tried to make it so that you can see at least one photo no matter where you are in the apartment.  (The master crapper may be the one exception.) 

I’ve also become obsessed with purchasing stuff that’s on clearance — being both naturally cheap and currently broke.  Last weekend, the kids and I visited  our favorite garden store, Parkers Gardens, and I purchased two very cool vases, originally listed at $24.99, for $1.00 each.  A buck!  I’m looking at them right now on the mantle of the fireplace in my living room (told you it’s not a van down by the river!) and they look just great.  I also bought a “stick trellis” at Parkers, on clearance for $3.00.  I have no idea what it’s supposed to be used for in the real world, but it looks cool as an “object d’arte” and I love it.

On Wednesday, my children came over to spend the night with me.   I’ve always cherished my time with them, no more so then now.  Madeleine and Christian, if you happen to be reading this ten or twenty years from now, please know that nothing has sustained me during this challenging time more than your love. 

As they dropped their stuff and settled in, Christian, who is not yet three years old, said, apropos of absolutely nothing, “I like it here in your apartment.” 

Madeleine added her endorsement.  “You have a nice apartment, Daddy,” she said.  “I like it here, too, and we love you so much.”

Almost home, baby.