Desolate Is as Desolate Does

We settled a work comp case, so I'm putting the file in order. We keep the important stuff and give all the crap back to the client. In this particular file, the client has his own business cards, one of which is stapled to the inside front of his file. Three symbols (from "Insert - Clip Art," no doubt) at the top--a dove hovering over a book one can only assume is supposed to be the Bible, a motorcycle, and a crucifix. Under the symbols, his first name (a'la Cher or Beyonce). Under his name, "novelist." Under that, the words "The Desolate One" (the italics are his, I didn't add them).

The desolate one? Are you kidding me?

And "novelist?" Last I knew, he was working as a nine-dollar-an-hour security guard. Part-time. In fact, the last time he was here, he took the opportunity to start asking our receptionist why she wouldn't "be with" a black man, and why she gotta be like that, and once she went black, she'd never go back. All this while I was standing there waiting for him to sign the settlement papers and wondering if he realized I was still there, and if so, whether he was completely without shame.

Ladies and gentlemen--our clients. They're all nuts. This morning, one of our nuttier ones was sitting in bossman's office crying about all her problems (not related to her work injury--she's been deemed perfectly fine by three different doctors), and bossman gently suggested she see a therapist. Her response? "I can't do that, because I don't want someone to tell me I'm crazy."

Wow.

My wonderful husband took me to lunch today. Fajitas. As usual, I ate my weight in chips and salsa before my food arrived. Now I smell like tacos. I can't tell if it's the smell of the Mexican restaurant that followed me to my office, or the taco burps I've been producing since I got back. Maybe a little of both.

I've been trying to figure out if there's a way to avoid the cops. Specifically, when db comes back to my house with a cop in tow, do I have to even answer the door? Can I just pretend we're not there? Is there anyone at the station I can call or write to and explain the situation so I don't have to deal with a visit from the same cop, who is now copping an attitude because he's sick of db and sick of me and sick of having to come to my house every other week? Don't you think that, after the first three times I told said cop that I was withholding visitation for various reasons, he would figure there wasn't much point in coming back unless he planned to knock my door down, grab my kid, and run?

Talk about "police brutality." It's starting to get old. And this same cop drives by our house almost every night and just stares. What the fuck is that about?

Ben has to work tonight until around 7:30, so when I pick up Bob, we're going to stop by the grocery store, then go home and cook dinner (pizza) together. That's right, it's time for a little Bob and Mommy Quality Bonding Time, whether the little shit wants it or not. And he'll enjoy every last second of it or I'll kill him. I can hear him now: "That's okay, Mommy, I think I'll just watch a cartoon." Aw, darnit--our t.v. is mysteriously "broken." So you can't watch a cartoon that will turn you into a violent psychopath with a brain of oatmeal, you'll just have to engage in a fun and functional activity with your dear old mother.

What I won't tell him is that the t.v. will miraculously heal itself at 8:00 p.m. when he goes to bed.