Hi Mr. Ex, How ya doin?

I meant to delete the link to this blog that's part of my automatic email signature when I sent a reply to Mr. Ex's  email, but I didn't.
I didn't expect Mr. Ex to actually email me about our joint checking account after his secretary gave him my message.  But he did.
His answer was cryptic. It reminded me of a fortune one might pull out of a Chinese fortune cookie.


... some companies require more time to make the change for the auto deductions.


So I emailed him back and asked how much time and I just hit send and then a day later, I thought, OH.


So hey, Mr. Ex, if you're reading this, Hi!!! How about dividing our joint assets? Oh and BTW, I'm closing that joint checking account really soon.

Roarrrrrr Snarrrrrrl Grrrrrrowl

I must have an evil alter ego somewhere. Actually, I'm pretty sure I can access it, I just don't want to unlock that box.

As the 3rd anniversary of Mr. Ex's departure approaches, I have become increasingly cranky at having my financial affairs entwined with his. About five seconds after I got my first alimony check, I stopped using all of our joint credit cards, never touched the ATM cards for our joint accounts, never wrote a check. He, however, is still using our joint checking accounts (currently funded by his money)--one of which he is consistently overdrawn on.  I don't suppose this is good for my credit rating. It is certainly not good for my mental health. It is not possible to simply remove my name from the account, so it must be closed.

On June 30th I sent Mr. Ex an email titled, "I'm going to close our xxxx Bank checking account." I asked how much time he needed to reconfigure his automatic bill pay. How did he respond?  He didn't. Zilch. Zip. Nada. I've been busy writing, so I let it go. Today, I decided to close the account and drove to the bank. Hmmm, I thought, maybe I should give him one more chance. All those bills on autopay. He has a baby in the house. What if they shut off his water or his power or the gas? So I sat in my car and  called his secretary and asked to speak to him. He was too busy, so I asked her to give him a very specific message.  "I need to close the account," I said. (I didn't tell her he is consistently overdrawn). "He has a lot of bills on autopay."

I ran an errand. I came home. The account is overdrawn again.

Is there something I can take to make me meaner?

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hide, Impostors, Frauds, & Hypocrites

Mr. Ex was the center of the moral universe in our house. I was the moon. Changeable and moody. One day full-faced and bright, the next just a sliver of myself in the dark. Mr. Ex knew the Bible, the law, and the general gist of the tax code. I read poetry and the newspaper, got fat on fiction and gorged myself with my own intuition. If our marriage was going to end, anyone you'd have asked would have told you that I'd be the one to fly the coop.
"Denise ran off to Paris? I'm not surprised," they might have said.
"Denise is living in a yurt in the mountains above Santa Fe? Well. It had to happen eventually."
"She ran off to Vegas with the refrigerator repairman...hmmm, I'm a little surprised, but......"
We don't know each other. Or we do, but not totally. Or when we are with the people who love us, what reflects back is the brightness of love, and it blinds everyone in the room.  Or we just don't know jack shit about anyone.
Everyday in the newspaper murderers are described as the nicest of neighbors. Clowns are revealed as killers, journalists unveiled as spies. When I was growing up in Iowa, a public service announcement came on the TV every evening. Parents, it's 10:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are? There were plenty of parents, I suppose, that might have been surprised or even completely shocked.
My children, as of a week ago, are all adults. I don't keep tabs on them. I haven't for some time. But I hope they are living lives free of dark secrets. I hope they tell the truth to their significant others. And to themselves.
Maybe that's the confusing part. Maybe we don't really know ourselves.
Maybe I wasn't the moon at all.

Chick on the Train or Why Not a Chicken?

"I have to know," my daughter-in-law asked, "Why a chicken?" The twenty-something young man seated at the end of the Gold Line car was cupping a downy peeping chick in his hand. The grandchildren were rapt.
"They were on sale," he said. "Two-fifty." The chick did what chickens do, and his friend handed him a brown paper sack punched with air holes. The young man eased the chick back into its bag and gratefully accepted a squirt of hand sanitizer out of the bottle my son pulled from his pocket.

My grandchildren, like all children, often act impulsively. And sometimes young guys buy chickens. What other exceedingly cute creature could you buy for two dollars and fifty cents? There's delight in following a whim, allowing your heart or your gut to dictate to your head. I don't do that much. My bathroom mirror has daily reminders taped to it. My iCal is color-coded. Writing. Personal. Home. MFA used to have a color, too--but that category has been retired.

Since the division of my joint assets is likely to go on forever, I think I ought to indulge my improvisational impulses. Have some fun with it.

Why not a chicken?