Wednesday, April 14, 2010

How many middle-aged people does it take to remember.....

I've spent much of the time concerned with bank statements over the past three weeks. What was the balance at this point and that point and that point, Mr. Ex's attorney wanted to know. I dutifully went in person to the two banks where Mr. Ex and I had our joint accounts and requested copies. My attorney and I exchanged at least a dozen somewhat lengthy emails on the subject. Then there were more questions and additional months needed. I'm tired. I'm frustrated. I want to write, not run around asking 30-yr. old bank vice-presidents for stacks of paper. The statements still go to Mr. Ex's house. The house that I moved out of. So today I hit the wall and emailed Mr. Ex and told him I'd be over at 10:00 tonight to pick up what I needed. Turns out that Mr. Ex's attorney, my attorney, Mr. Ex and I had copies of the bank statements in question all along. This divorce has been dragging on for two years and nine months. Between Mr. Ex and me and our attorneys we're over 200 years old. No wonder we don't remember what we have. I'm too fucking pissed off to find this funny.
I'm so pissed that I emailed Mr. Ex after he emailed me and "reminded" me there was an infant in his house and that I shouldn't come over and cause a disruption.
I was just about to email you. It turns out that I do have the bank statements. Two copies of them!!--copies that I made more than two years ago before I moved out. And copies from discovery. I have no idea why your attorney is requesting them again. Probably because this has gone on so long none of us can remember what we have and don't have. I certainly had no memory of putting them into the very large and dusty box of paperwork that has been accruing this past two years and nine months.
Yes, I do know you have an infant in your house. I regard him as the much beloved brother of C. and M. and would not disrupt his night for all the curry in India.
I have no such regard for you. Write me the check. Sell the precious farm that I lovingly consented to buy because my husband wanted it--or buy me out. The protracted torture you have put me through is inexcusable. I want my life and my property separated from you and yours. I want what is mine under the law. 
I will forever regard you as a liar, a coward, and a cheat. Let's not add criminal to the list.
As a rule, I prefer to abstain from name-calling.
But I may grant myself dispensation on this one. Now what?

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