It's very late, and I'm writing this on my phone, so y'all gonna hafta forgive typos and shitty grammar and whatall.
I spent the day in court, child support court, because my state handles my child support case, which I think is pretty awesome of them.
They usually, I'm gathering, encounter some of society's rarest specimens of The Crazy, and they have a tendency to be, well, fucking mean, but I understand where they are coming from. The crazy, I tell you. So high.
Today was different in that they were really very nice to me, this after waiting for NINE HOURS to be called from the anteroom into the chamber.
But it's the anteroom that deserves a blog post.
My mother, god bless her amazing soul, came with me, as she usually does, to offer moral support and snarky commentary and, also, so she can make friends with strangers, as this is muchly her favorite thing to do. After driving me to the town where court is, about 30 miles away, she parked her very badass little Volvo, and we started to walk into the courtroom. We both quickly noticed that she was hobbling, and so she stopped in the plainly marked "do not walk on" grass, to look at her shoes. The tops of the shoes were fine, cute, even, a birkenstockish, bohemian basket-weave mule, with a strap around the ankle. I also want to note that she's finally learned not to wear pantyhose with this kind of shoe. Atta girl, Cathy!!
The bottom of her shoes, where normally one has an inch or so of sole, consisted of rocks jammed into loose styrofoam.
Really. Rocks.
Which fell out, taking chunks of black shoe bottom, as she walked. Into the courthouse.
And oh, we laughed.
Hansel and Gretel need a lesson from my mom, because, 9 hours later, her path through the courthouse was clearly marked.
Note: she said they didn't hurt, but I offered to swap shoes with her, and I also suggested she run to the Walmart and get some new shoes. But she didn't. Forty bucks says she will put these shoes, now pretty much completely bottomless, into her closet, and six months from now we will have this exact same experience again.
Please God, let me be just like my mama when I grow up.
Next, let's talk about the anteroom. The majority of folks waiting were individuals, sometimes with a buddy, who were formerly matched to somebody else who sat across the room and refused to look at them. This makes a fun game, usually fairly predictable, but sometimes downright shocking. "Oh SHE goes with HIM??" You think. "Good for her for upgrading, that new guy is much better looking," and the like.
There was one couple near me who provided nonstop entertainment for me for over an hour. He was still sooooo into her, and he was trying to convince her to plea down his support amount. She smiled prettily and said, all super ghetto-voiced, "I gave you the bess gif you will evuh have, a precious chile, so you can just stop right theyuh." And he DID. I was like, well, go 'head, honey bunches. While I took notes.
Well not really, but for sure in my head.
There was another girl who was really twitchy and wanted to talk? To everybody? And ask questions? With everything she said? Only then? She would prove, like, how she was super duper smart? Especially about how her kid needed to be spanked? And how pitbulls are awesome?
And the whole time she was questioning people, she was undoing and re-doing a sloppy bun in her hair, the kind you make with a pony tail holder, and she always left a straggly piece out that she twirled on her finger. By 3 this afternoon, it looked like a dreadlock sticking out of a donut.
There was Sweater Set Lady, for whom I felt very bad, as she was the last to go before me- and I was dead last- and came out in tears. Get this- I offered to hug her (by then, we were friends, I could tell you where her kid goes to school, what grade he's in, where she works...). I. Offered. To. Hug. A. Stranger.
Mercifully, she declined.
There was Tiny Baby (also the name of my favorite doll when I was a child of no imagination who named her babies literal things like tiny baby, tall baby, sick baby- her hair kept falling out, and dolly), who was maybe 4'10" and had yellow curls to her ass, who, at 2pm said, "fuck this shit" and curled up across three chairs for nappy time. The tiny baby of my childhood's eyes ALSO closed when you laid her down. Weird.
There was the saddest old, and deaf, and rather forgetful man, in a wheelchair, who came out of the area where divorces are filed. What appeared to be his grandson pushed his chair, and frequently, the old man started carrying on about not being sure what was going on, what happened in there, and why, after loving her for 65 years, was this happening.
(I think it was about her giving money to indulged grandkids, and him not being happy about it, but she gets to keep the car...). (Also, this guy had the makings of a good second husband for me, until he said, about one of the indulged kids, "he's a real drunk, I tell you, a regular old drunk," and I knew he was out.)
It was one of those surreal, strange days, where you kinda think, this isn't real life.
But it is, I have proof, there is a track of bits of my mom's shoes that finally, eventually, led back to her car.
