Thursday, June 16, 2011

Honey, Thanks for Not Being an A**hole

My, my, see all sorts in this profession.  Juvenile, criminal and family court will blow your mind on a daily basis.  As I’m sure you can imagine, a lot of the folks you see come from broken homes.  Of course, some of those homes are more than broken...some of those families really put the “dys” in “functional.”

Many days, the things I see and hear send me home at night clothed in a shroud of gratitude.  I sit in my den watching my dogs fight and listening to my Baby Belles run around shrieking at a frequency that should shatter glass and I smile and think, “God, I am so lucky.  I love you guys!”

Many days, the things I see and hear make me more grateful than words can express for my husband.  Some days, I have to leave the courtroom right then and there to call my beloved from the back hall and thank him profusely for not being an asshole.  (He always enjoys those calls.  Hearing that you’re not an asshole can really brighten your day.) 

Need some examples?  Okey doke:

Let’s say your husband swipes your car and goes on a drunken rampage about town.  There’s lots traffic camera and security video footage showing the car running red lights, running folks off the road and running up on sidewalks before he finally ran it into a ditch and fled the scene.  The problem is that all of this fantastic technology only caught the vehicle itself and the license plate—all of which traces to you and you alone.

Guess what else?  Husband of the Year is on probation and, if he gets popped for his special adventure, he’s going away for a long, long, long time.  As appealing as the aforementioned possibility might be in any other circumstances, the family cannot take the loss of income in these trying economic times.   On the other hand, you have a pristine record and the Court will be kinder to you.  The fact that you are willing to do it is one thing, but the fact that he expects you to do it is grounds for castration.

Need another one?  Well, your husband of forty years passes away from a heart attack on the golf course.  You and your husband are part of a well-known family with many friends in the community.  Naturally, all of the aforementioned friends in the community show up for the addition to the hooker your dearly departed had been keeping weekly appointments with for the last ten years.  Now, it’s certainly possible that a little discretion can go a long way and, if the lady of the evening keeps her mouth shut, no one would be any wiser. 

Unfortunately, Mandy the Helpful Hooker is introducing herself to everyone far and wide herself.  Why?  She promised her former client—your less and less “dearly” departed—that she would introduce herself in just such a fashion when the opportunity inevitably presented itself.  Again...why?  Well, it seems that the consideration for the illicit contract was a beach house complete with a boat named The Frigid Bitch.  Yes, thanks to the dead asshole, Mandy the Hooker made out like a bandit...or a hooker...or whatever.

More?  Hey, I understand.  We live in weird times and we’ve been desensitized to the umpteenth degree.  No you might expect, there’s a gracious plenty:

Hatfield v. McCoy feuds always provide amazing fodder for husbands competing for Asshole of the Month.  One particular war in Brunswick County (back when it was still rusty trailers as far as the eye could see) waged on so long that the descendants who were duty-bound to pick up the mantle and carry on for their families weren’t exactly sure what the whole kerfluffle was about in the first place.  Although the men continued to fight the fight, the women were D.O.N.E.

As a matter of fact, the wives were so done, it was made crystal clear to the husbands that—if they carried on—unspeakable horrors would unfold.  Well, the good ‘ol boys made it about a month without incident, but the peace really started to chafe after a couple of months.

Yep, after a while, the womanly threat started to dim and they just couldn’t take it anymore.  Hatfield got himself some fancy new hunting dogs and the racket they made drove McCoy even more nuts than he already was.  Accordingly, McCoy started shooting squirrels, possums and all sorts of other varmints, “distressing” them and leaving them on the back porch for Mrs. Hatfield to find and assume that they were presents from the doggies.  (Let’s go ahead and address the elephant in the room and say that, yes, we all know that cats are the ones who bring “carcass presents” to their owners, but we aren’t dealing in reality here.)

In retaliation, Mr. Hatfield fashioned some homemade tire spikes, laid them out across the McCoy driveway and camouflaged them expertly.  The spikes proved very detrimental to the County Sheriff Patrol Car that showed up to investigate a claim about animal mutilation.    

Yes, Belles, I don’t doubt that there are days you could run the man in your life right up the flag pole.  The dirty laundry, the clutter, in inability to read our minds—hell yeah, it grates!  Still, if you’ve never had to stand by his side as a named or unnamed accomplice, bail him out of jail, shake hands with his hooker and/or deal with completely deluded revenge schemes/testosterone feuds—well, I think I’ve just shown you that it could be a damn sight worse. 

So go on, Belles!  Reach over and give your man a kiss.  Find him in the house and overlook the fact that he just threw his nasty-assed socks on the floor instead of in the laundry basket less than a foot away and hug him!  Call him at work or call him while he’s out with his buddies who you know very well call you the Wicked Bitch of the East and thank your man from the bottom of your heart for not being an asshole. 

God bless the keepers.

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