The Failed Divorce Of Juana Valdez

I sometimes still think of myself as a lovely supermodel. Not that I ever was exactly a lovely supermodel, as we understand the term, though I’m sure I’m a supermodel of something. I was lucky enough to spend most of my life rather lovely, at least, but lately I find myself eeking out my existence each day as a hapless blonde Don Knotts with breasts and a more fortunate face. On a good day I am wearing something that has satisfied the following 5 criteria:

1. I found it

2. It fits

3. It is clean

4. It is not something I borrowed and forgot to return, like all the video- tapes

5. The pieces may not have been bought together, but they do not offend each other

On these days I am cooking, and on the ones where I have paid attention to the laws of grooming I am simply aflame.

Unfortunately aflame might mean that while I am the darling of my child’s kindergarten class where I have been doing endless good works, I am also missing my dentist appointment, which has been scheduled for 6 months.

And when I find some wonderful clothing items on sale, and spend the money that was supposed to pay the phone bill, I simply make a call and have some stock sold. Unfortunately I have forgotten that it takes 3 days for the money to actually become available and I start a hideous avalanche in my checkbook, which culminates very near my mortgage payment.

All in all I try to take a laissez- faire toward things that others might become apoplectic over, like my shortcomings, and other things that are poorly planned.

Last week Joe-friend, former husband, and father of my 3 children-assisted me in dropping my van at the mechanic. He took his bumblebee yellow jeep without the doors and I took my van and our 4 year old.

I left my van at the fix-it place and had the sudden realization that we would all be traveling home in the jeep -- the yellow one with no doors, no roof over the back seat, and because of the elements, back seatbelts rusted into unworkability.


I tried to make the front seatbelt fit around me and my child, to no avail. Safety first for the children, I would belt him in front and hop in the back, where I could easily lean forward and grab him if he started to topple out. I thought I would enjoy the wind in my hair.

The helpful assistant at the repair shop sprayed some form of jet fuel quite near me in an ineffective effort to produce rear-seatbelt functionality, but which in reality created breathing difficulty. I traveled with my t-shirt pulled up over my mouth and nose, and could still keep watchful eyes on my child through the rear window.

As we started our journey home I quite enjoyed my little exterior space. As there was no safety belt to secure me to the seat, and the seat to the body of the car, every bump we went over brought me closer to my former husband, with only the window separating my forehead from his occipital lobe. I used my one free arm as a strut.

I finally understood why the folks we see going along in the back of trucks look so happy. They are happy. There is no obligatory conversation, no favorite radio station, no air conditioning power struggles. There is only the sense of a day’s work behind them and the thought of a cold beer and warm company ahead.

I had no responsibility to engage with anything but the wind in my hair. No questions to answer, no deflected requests to visit Toys ‘R Us. Just me, Juan Valdez, and the wind.

We left the highway and headed through the residential area toward my home. I have no idea what people thought of me and I didn’t care. I had found a new love.

The last stretch lay before us and then the fun would be over. I was going to savor these moments up Bankhead Parkway to the top of the mountain.

Bankhead Parkway is not really a parkway, as we understand the term. Bankhead Parkway is 3.4 miles of near vertical 2-lane treachery with blind curves, hairpin turns and a siren view just past the sheer drop, all working together to get you to the top of the mountain with as much stress as possible. I know a family that had the lives of two children greedily claimed by this parkway at two separate times. The old simple white cross, and now the newer one with purple ribbon rosettes, are testaments to the possibility that when your friend or family member goes down the hill they may not ever come back up.

A personal way of putting is like this: Bankead Parkway is not a good place to dial calls on your cell phone, especially if you have my child in your car, and I can see you. But there he was, right in front of me, 1/4 inch safety glass the only thing keeping me from ringing his neck. I knocked on the glass.

“NOT RIGHT NOW” I said.

He looked back at me, said “WHAT?”, and continued dialing. ”

“PUT YOUR PHONE DOWN RIGHT NOW! YOU’RE DRIVING!” I yelled through the glass.

Oh, O.K. He’s asleep” he said,smiling, pointing at our son, tiny phone pinched between his ear and shoulder.

“THAT’S FINE! YOU CAN’T DIAL YOUR PHONE WHILE YOU’RE DRIVING US UP THIS HILL!”

“ Oh!... O.K.” he said, and dropped the phone defeatedly, understanding nothing more than that he was satisfying yet another outrageous demand on my part in order to avoid unpleasantness at home - should we get there.

I was no longer Juan Valdez, happy go lucky itinerant laborer, just looking for a beer and a paycheck. I was a seething, raging mess, wondering how my divorce had fallen apart.

THE END

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