Circle Back…
That good ol’ expression, “When Pigs Fly” never meant so much to me, until this happened…
California’s Central District Bankruptcy Court ~ Transcript From One Of Al’s Hearings/Motions and the Judge’s Direct Quote
Let it sink in… the reality of what that Judge was saying?
What do you think…is there much substantive meaning behind the expression “circle back?” Is it just a phrase being repeated over and over these days in “memes,” and poked fun at…no matter which side of the aisle you’re on? Is it about what’s going round and round inside my mind? Is it about all the “round-about ways” injustice occurs in and out of courtrooms or the legal system? Is it about the circular way that favor or unfairness occurs in families and on the streets? Is it about all the ways the people in our world can change an uncomfortable moment or unanswerable subject by stating, “let me circle back?” Maybe, it’s as simple a concept as this… certain thoughts or events have a way of “circling back” in your life until you’ve finally, and with 100% certainty, understood, accepted and dealt with the “demons” hiding somewhere in your subconscious? Wait, there’s actually nothing about any, or all of that, that sounds simple?
We all see and hear the phrase, “Circle Back” being used on an enormously larger stage than mine (DearEasyDiaries) during this particular moment in our country’s history, and yet it still gave me pause this morning as I awakened…at 4:00, with STILL a tinge of time change blues…I confess to being one of those odd ducks who does NOT prefer “Daylight Savings Time.” Early mornings (maybe not 4:00 am early?) are when I feel most creative. I can’t wait to climb out of bed, make my way to the kitchen, and stare out the expansive kitchen window at the open field and view beyond, while I smell the deep, rich, drip of dark roast coffee from the Keurig filling my largest mug with all 12 ounces of liquid sunshine. Together with the bottle of either green juice, or an “Emergen-C” filled water bottle that I hold in my free hand, definitely not the one clutching my fresh cup of coffee, I saunter back to my cozy little sanctuary/studio with its French Doors opening to the courtyard entrance patio and the large center fountain, which is as soothing to hear spilling its slow, but steady stream of water, as it is to look at while I settle into my spot, and pull my laptop from the side table to start the journey that my fingers on the keyboard will embark on today.
This stunning machine ( a 1965 Hermes 3000 model typewriter with case) resembles a work of art as much as, if not far more than it portrays a working tool used to capture and record our thoughts. All those years ago, I had no idea of the thought and care given to the design of these implements that breathe life and vision into the spoken word, Now that I do, you can bet I’m going to want to get my hands on at least one or two! Who needs an Hermes bag, when you can spend some serious quality time with an Hermes typewriter? Give @typewriter.revival.company on Instagram a thorough “look see,” and I bet you’ll find yourself captivated too, by the stories, histories, and the quality restoration that Stefan generously lavishes upon these machines in order to find them each a special new “home” of their own.
Typewriters like the one above certainly don’t resemble the line of generic machines that sat upon the rows of desks which lined the room of my typing class on Zero Marlborough street, where a group of 25-30 of us, “Katie Gibbs Girls” worked furiously for two hours every Monday through Friday to “increase” our production of mistake-free typing scores and projects. Once again, I feel myself being drawn into a memory of the distinctive, and now elusive “script-style” typewriter, housed in its own unique, houndstooth patterned, hard-shell case my Grandmother gifted me decades ago, and which must still hold its special spot in the musty attic, storage space above 3981 Roblar’s attached garage, next to the box that held my huge collection of vinyl records. Neither of those items were welcome below in the living space of Roblar during the fifteen years when I called that place home. They also weren’t among the truckload of personal belongings that Al had packed up following our MSA and held captive in storage for two years, while he tried to renegotiate his way to a new Settlement Agreement. Despite our official recorded documents, (signed off by Glynn County Judge, James Tutley, maybe one of the last, non-corrupt justices in that whole area), which provided that the kids and I were being allowed to return to California; go back to Roblar IN PERSON, and pick the items of our choosing, as well as collect and pack my family heirlooms; together with gathering the two cats that had been the kid’s pets, but obviously couldn’t live the bi-coastal existence the rest of us were privy to, and were instead, cared for in our absence by “LaLa” or “Senno” our trusted, and affectionately nicknamed (by PJ) caretakers. But, no…we were NEVER allowed back into Roblar to either start or complete that task! Al had the contents of the kids rooms packed and stored, along with my items, just as if he were divorcing all three of us. I guess he didn’t envision, or want, Emily and PJ spending much, if any time at all, in their original, and still favorite home? He certainly did not want us to have any access until he had, at the very least, achieved his mission to rewrite both history and our Settlement Agreement? Two years later, in the fall of 2010, a moving truck arrived and unloaded the Roblar contents awarded to me by virtue of the MSA into the driveway of what would become our (the kid’s and my) next home, Rancho Valiente. There were several items missing though, including our two cats…..we would never see them again! In the recent online, publicly posted, listing pictures of Roblar, which Al must finally be ready to bid adieu, it’s plain to see that there were several other items Al chose to withhold from our executed and recorded list of “Personalty,” no matter what directive the court had ordered; just more classic Al shenanigans!
Who knew all those years ago when I spent a year following college, at Katharine Gibbs School in Boston, filling the time that I was so desperately at a loss to understand, but simultaneously needing something constructive and distracting to take me away from the all-too-real drama that was playing out at home, that I would return a year later with bona-fide secretarial/administrative assistant skills? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, right? That was the reason I chose that particular program! Or was it? Maybe it was meant to be more of an escape; one that would take me clear across the country for an entire year; far, far away from Santa Ynez, California and from my very dysfunctional family? Perhaps, it was merely an opportunity to be on my own, as far away as possible from any of the people I knew, and the turmoil I felt? Uh oh…time to make another coffee run; my little reverie is temporarily interrupted.
Zero Marlborough Street in Boston, Massachusetts ~ My home for 11 months. Located directly across the street from the Boston Common, just a couple of buildings away from Boston’s (then) Ritz Carlton Hotel, and “catty-corner” from The Bull & Finch Pub, famous for being the site of the popular T.V. show, “Cheers.”
Sitting back down, fresh cup of French Roast in hand, I start again at my recently perfected “hunt and peck” method of attacking the keyboard on my laptop, which seems so completely foreign and unlike the raised keys of the “old-school” typewriters I learned to use as a “Katie Gibb’s girl.” So much for the 105 words per minute typing skill certificate, or the 120 words a minute “Gregg Shorthand” mastery I could boast upon my exit from Boston, one year following my start (*note, it’s on purpose that I never mention my skill, or lack thereof, regarding the correct usage of commas, semi-colons, or run-on sentences!) The typing and shorthand skills may not remain any longer (other than retaining just enough “shorthand” to be fairly decent at “secret coding” Birthday and Christmas gift lists), but they did help me find a good job when I returned to the ENTIRELY NEW life that was awaiting me in California, following my departure from Boston. It was a good thing too, because there was nothing left of the world, or family I had known at the end of the previous July, when my brother-in-law drove me the two+ hours from Santa Ynez to LAX. When I did return at the end of that following June, the drive home from LAX was as drastically different as everything else in my new world. Instead of the 2+ hour ride north to the Santa Ynez Valley, the taxi driver I hailed, helped me load my bags into the cab parked curbside adjacent to the American terminal exit, and it wasn’t 30 minutes later that he, unceremoniously, deposited me, and my belongings, in front of the modest home my Mom had relocated to on Arden Drive on the outskirts of Los Angeles’s Hancock Park neighborhood. No more George, (both my Stepfather and legally adopted Father of several years); no more 10 acre ranch in Santa Ynez that had been home to not just my human family, but our animal family too; the 10-15 horses we had, (including my best friend, Toppy); several (5-6) dogs; our cat of 9 years (who lived in the large Oak tree outside our front door in order to avoid “execution” by 2-3 of the aforementioned crew of dogs; nor were there many other remnants of the Ranch life that had occupied seven years of my upbringing. The majority of my personal articles, other than my Dunn School yearbooks, my well-read, loved and very worn copy of “Gone With The Wind,” along with my treasured collection of vinyl albums, were simply gone. The few items I just mentioned were all that I had to serve as a reminder of the years spent in Santa Ynez, or the far greater amount of years I was raised riding and showing horses. The rest was merely and suddenly erased. My custom Harold Madden Saddle, the Headstall and Ortega reins that were mine and always a part of the winning equation when I showed Toppy were gone, as was Toppy herself, along with every other memento, trophy, and significant, or insignificant, reminder of my first 21 years of life. I suppose it could be likened to the equivalent of a “family apocalypse,” that had successfully eradicated any trace of that previous life I once knew. That was one instance when the only “circle back” that could possibly occur, would be among the multiple files of the memory bank in my mind.
Toppy’s Sis…horse extraordinaire and my best friend for many years; Shown here winning at The Del Mar National Horse Show
There probably should have been some kind of a cartoon figure, with a “bubbled” statement floating in the air space next to his face announcing, “All those people who think they know their family, their life, and feel anything resembling stability, take three steps forward; not so fast there little “Missy!” Welcome…. to this, (drumroll, please…) new version of your life!” The silver lining (because I’m always looking for one; it’s what I do) was that at least my newly acquired administrative training would find a far more suitable situation or a fitting employment opportunity much more easily and quickly in the giant “pool” that was Los Angeles rather than the Santa Ynez Valley, right? I mean, really, it was 1984…..one wonders what I would have returned to find awaiting my homecoming in that tiny little valley of horse ranches, which was just beginning to blossom and establish itself as the next California wine mecca, or possibly someday the “new” Napa Valley? Ahhh, deep breath…. crisis averted. There was no need for me to wonder what awaited, as that decision had been decided for me. Those last few sentences might be the entire point of my “circle back” theory, right there in a nutshell? Stay with me….I think I might be on to something?
Minus the dirty barefeet, I make it a point now to travel my own path.
Maybe, that’s exactly the reason I was able to assimilate myself into a world such as Al’s for so many years? Maybe all the decisions that I let happen to me, or be made for me, was preparing (or enabling) me in a manner, far more beneficial than Katherine Gibbs training ever could? Mind you, I’m not passing the buck, nor” shirking” my responsibility by blindly accepting so much of the life that happened around me. Once I was old enough to know better, old enough to make alternate life choices, and potentially change the trajectory of what my own path could look like….. I did! I OWN every decision I made and those I didn’t make. When I did, finally, go another way, the other way just occurred far later than when most people decide to make those, often, young, rebellious moves. My Mom used to say I was the easiest/nicest of her four children, all of whom with a grin and a wink she would proclaim, “were practically perfect in every way.” Mom said that more times than I can remember or possibly count. I held that “nice one” (not perfect, but nice) title for many years. Then, one day when I turned 28, there was a huge caveat tagged on to the end of the label; Mom added the disclaimer, “until she (I) met Al.” Oh, and oops, there was that one other time, a few years earlier, which involved a certain indiscretion and concluded with me singing at the top of my lungs while swinging from the driveway gate of our Hancock Park home at midnight, only to awaken the next morning at the foot of our banistered staircase with a sizeable “mess” in front of me? That instance pales, however, in comparison to what would follow. No matter though; the moment I met Al…. and (quickly) went a way of my own, all bets were off! The “nice” label I had worn so well for decades was now sullied and tarnished. “Nice” was replaced with other, not so complimentary nor bland adjectives. For a blip of time, I became the selfish, irresponsible, and last but not least, pregnant one! In my family, that was a devastating bombshell to drop, and a label unbecoming of one of my Mom’s four girls. No more “practically perfect!”
This picture, the people, the extended characters (not all shown), and the story that goes along with it, is absolutely worthy of a “circle back” – but you’ll have to “hang in there” with me to finally read it, as I’m not quite ready to put it “out” for the world to see just yet. It’s painful to remember, much less recount the details, but hopefully, there will be a time when I’m ready to share the real and dark backstory of the “Lyin/Lion’s Den.”
1985 - 1989 My older sister had married years earlier, already had children, and was embarking on a real estate career all her own; she seemed happy, her path stable and well set. My youngest sister was at Marlborough High School, holding her own and on an even keel, for the time being. And while Dorothy, daughter #3, had gone through a pretty lengthy, wild phase, complete with an “intervention,” and a couple car wrecks, Dorothy’s transgressions never seemed to cause the horrified looks of judgement, nor the disapproval I always seemed to feel, especially after my little “bump reveal.” True, Dorothy had never shouldered the burden of being “tattooed” the “nice one,” and maybe that was the difference? Fun, wild, smart, talented, creative, “naughty” and many other descriptors fit Dorothy…but not the dreaded moniker, “nice.” Somehow the absence of that label provided her the freedom and opportunities to “screw up” multiple times, with little to no consequence. She moved out, and away from home, rules and family responsibility early. Even though she shared a tiny, horrible, duplex-type place for a millisecond with a roommate/family friend from our past, it wasn’t long before her “favored nation” status was restored and Dorothy was allowed to move into a beautiful, high-rise, apartment building on Wilshire Boulevard with a gated, security garage, in addition to a 24-hour doorman. That building and the apartment Dorothy took over, had been my Grandmother’s home for a while, and was partially vacated (except for some overflow, excess furniture) when our Grandmother moved to her new home in Montecito. Ma’s move from the Wilshire apartment occurred somewhere around, or maybe a year or two before, the timing of my Mom’s move to Montecito, and my introduction to Al.
Are you beginning to wonder yet why I am revisiting or “circling back” to that time in my life and the corresponding memories? Me too… let’s try to figure it out? Truth be told, I fear I’m remembering what it was like to feel small, inconsequential, playing a game without the benefit of a rule book, and certainly never afforded an even playing field. Unfortunately that often-discounted, invisible feeling within my family hung around far longer than I, or anyone, would have wanted. Upon meeting and becoming involved with Al, the transparency I felt among my sisters and Mother slowly vanished, and was instead replaced with a new burgeoning sense of self-confidence and power. Quite by surprise, I was able to offer (by virtue of my marriage) circumstances and opportunities that were most appealing. I wasn’t so “unseen” any longer…at least not when the benefits of multiple homes with extraordinary perks in a variety of locations were items to be shared.
Fast forward thirty+ years later; time had flown by, but there I was…back to wearing “the nice one” label, playing a game where the rules changed from moment to moment, and this time too with the added obstacle of having to anticipate and react to the mercurial whims of someone with NO SCRUPLES, no sense of fairness or justice, and NEVER any regard for consequences, unless they personally affected his well-being…..no easy road! To make matters worse, there was nothing about this “time around” that had anything to do with “playing.” My life and our two children’s lives were no game! From 2007 through 2016, and beyond, my children’s and my entire future was at stake. I was being obliged to participate in an “orchestrated charade” that someone else (Al) had set up…”hedging his bets and stacking the deck” against me, and his kids? While the rest of the pawns on the gameboard might have known some of the potential moves and the desired “end game,” all I knew was that I had to protect my children and myself. At every bend in the road, I was being undermined and made the fool; called to task over any, and every little thing.
Separating from and then divorcing Al, meant covering my ass in any, and every way I could!
At least, that bleak yet very prolonged period of time, reinforced my commitment to DOCUMENTING each occasion I was a part of, and even some I wasn’t present for, but saw via court documents, and unending emails from lawyer to lawyer, and back again. I was already in the habit of writing extensively in my day planners/journals and other random notes, but my practice was elevated to a whole new standard shortly after the divorce action.
Truth be told…that bottom, right hand corner, set of notes in red writing references a conversation that Emily shared with me sometime soon after Al’s and my separation; He claimed to have only married me because I was pregnant, but the reality remains that we were married in November of 1992. Emily was BORN on February 22, 1991, almost two full years before our marriage?
Multiple examples of note-taking. See what I mean about the shorthand… I’m clearly out of practice!
Once again, though, I was playing at a disadvantage, and was very much (that’s putting it mildly) outmatched, as the playing fields were now courts of law, and the presiding justices weren’t really about justice at all. Al’s Glynn County, Georgia “hometeam” had incurred and collected some fairly dubious sets of issues that required in-depth investigating, particularly considering that I was at their mercy, and playing “on THEIR homefield!” Still, I barely took note of that then; it wasn’t until last Spring when Glynn County law enforcement and justices were once again in the spotlight with the Ahmaud Arbery case, that I once again recalled and recognized the injustice that went “virtually” unnoticed back when I was a pawn on that Glynn County Court’s game board, and which most certainly was symbolic of the countless misdeeds executed within that local little “fishbowl” of insidious conduct. The legal entanglements I was obliged to endure during that period of time when the Glynn County legal and justice system were a day-to-day consideration in my life, were not optional…they were a mandated “sentence.” My legal woes in the Glynn County “arena” became official in September of 2007, and I was never REALLY free from them until 2016, when my MSA, negotiated in Glynn County by two, well-known and local Glynn “players” (now ranking Judicial figures), was officially fulfilled and final. That is all but the exception of my children’s academic pursuits; I had negotiated as a part of the MSA that Al was required to pay for ALL COSTS ASSOCIATED with each of our two children obtaining a Bachelor’s Degree, and that obligation was part of child support and alimony provisions. I only received 3 years of alimony, and no provision for my personal health insurance, as part of the negotiation to ensure that my children’s education and academic future would always be a top priority, and obligation of Al’s financial future.
Glynn County, Georgia had a history of questionable ethics far before the world ever heard of Ahmaud Arbery.
Why does that matter, you may ask? Because when you’re playing the part of, or actually are “the underdog,” EVERYTHING matters…each and every single detail. The first time I encountered the particular “gameboard” that is Divorce for myself, and didn’t involve one of my parental figure, there were far too many nuances (and even blatant cheating) that I just, flat-out missed. I was guided by two principles…..survival and protecting my children! Each time I met with a new attorney, or explained my circumstances, I always led with my own personal accountability in the demise of our marriage. I knew the ONLY weapon in my arsenal to combat what had become, by that point, an all-out bloody divorce battle was to stick like glue to the truth, and Al was going to do his utmost best to discredit, tear down, and even eviscerate me in order to achieve his goal. The one thing I could do, was at least beat him to the punch and disclose my one source of wrongdoing first! I would find out much later, my mistakes were miniscule when compared to the “racket” that Al had engineered, and while that doesn’t diminish the reality that I made mistakes too, I owned my foibles in their entirety. Also too, I hadn’t committed adultery, and I wasn’t put in the precarious position of having to tell 10 more lies to cover up the first one, as Al would find himself doing for the next 10 years….. and which I’d wager a pretty penny, he still finds himself compelled to continue today?
“If I had a dollar for every time……….?
I sometimes imagine (please indulge my small ADD moment here) the way Al’s lies over the years have added up. His narcissism must probably play a part in this, but my “degree” (lol) in Psychology is still far from complete, so we’re going to just go with the “straight-up lying” scenario for this little game. Let’s say Al has told one lie every day for 50 years, now consider the theory that for every lie that’s told, there are 10 more lies told to cover up the first. ***There’s a reason behind the commonly known expression that states, “You never have to remember what you said, when you tell the truth!”*** One more little tidbit to really put things in perspective. You know how people say…”if I had a DOLLAR for every________ (fill in the blank)? Well, if the blank in that equation was “every time Al lied,” then I might have just about 1/8th of what all my legal fees added up to!
I’m exhausted just trying to OUTLINE the trail of lies; imagine being the one telling the lies? Al must be pooped!
The back page of our MSA, executed on Friday, September 5, 2008, just two days before my return to California.
That MSA gave my kids and I the immediate freedom to return home to California, which happened on Sunday, September 7, 2008…just two days after we executed and signed the MSA. We sat in Gilbert Harrell Sumerford & Martin’s Brunswick office around their large conference table and both Al and I simultaneously signed copies of the document, along with initialing the bottom right hand corner of each page. Details like that are not easily forgotten, especially when there are 10-12 people sitting around a table staring at you, while you finalize the ending of a life you shared with someone for 19 years…..to say it was awkward doesn’t begin to cover the feeling that filled that room. Some of those pages provided details of the financial reports Al (and K. Ass) had submitted as a source of what would be ultimately relied upon to base our negotiations; some pages outlined the custodial arrangements that were put into effect; and some of the last pages, in my own handwriting, enumerated the personal property I had asked to be included in the agreement. All of the Agreement, was signed off on, approved by, and recorded with the court.
At some point between our MSA being executed and Al’s filing bankruptcy, Al filed a motion to take me back to court in Georgia to “Set Aside Our Marital Settlement Agreement.” When I reached out to legal counsel in Glynn County, they informed me our MSA was sealed, which was not just a serious oddity because it rarely ever occurred, but it also would have required each parties consent? That our alleged “MSA/Confidentiality Agreement” was signed only by counsel, and several days AFTER my departure from the state of Georgia, gives me great pause…and again begs “the circle back” question? I have only ever, signed one NDA (“Non-Disclosure Agreement) and now, just like the other party to the NDA, (the one I DID sign), that agreement is both void and dead. I don’t know which part of our original MSA would have necessitated our documents being sealed, and the original document itself NEVER made reference to a “Sealing Provision,” which seems extra odd? Certainly logic would indicate that if you have all the parties involved in a situation, in one place, when and where signatures are being required, executed, and witnessed, wouldn’t THAT be the time to request the “sealing or confidentiality” of an agreement? Yes, I think so too.
It’s items like that instance, as well as hundreds of others, which have made the phrase “circle back” common place in my world. The expenditure of time, effort, emotion and money which Al imposed over nine years, as he challenged, re-negotiated, filed bankruptcy, and did everything in his power to avoid compliance with our MSA, together with the thousands of lies, manipulations, and countless other tactics he employed were exhaustive, and far more than one too many times, served to distract from the real issue at hand…THAT BOTTOM LINE ISSUE is still to come!
Please don’t ever let that happen to you…NOT EVER? Even though, it’s quite the “BUZZ” phrase these days (not in a good way), you go ahead and “circle back” as often as needed! Remember too, to DOCUMENT EVERYTHING! Whether you type, use shorthand, longhand, or whatever form of note taking strikes your fancy, document, document, and document everything…and then KEEP it. God willing you never need to use, much less rely on information that you’ve documented to that “enth” degree, but if you should need it…BOOM, there you go!