Fooling Around with Proof

Twice in my life I have received a letter ending with the words “govern yourself accordingly.” The first was a citation from the neighborhood association concerning a noise violation caused by the dachshunds’ barking. I complied with the demand that I bring them inside before ten at night, even though the letter technically should have ended with the words “govern your dachshunds accordingly.” It was, after all, their behavior that was offensive and not mine.

The second letter was from my ex-husband’s attorney, who deemed the more salacious details of my story to be “provably false” and threatened to sue me for slander if I told it. I analyzed the assertion that my ex-husband’s antics were provably false and decided that his attorney could not, for example, prove that the man had never paid for sex. To be fair, I can’t prove I wasn’t a crack whore sleeping with thirty-dozen Hell’s Angels while married to my Prince Charming. I can say it didn’t happen, but I can’t prove it. And by the same token, my ex-husband can’t prove he didn’t try to fool around with the turkey thawing in the refrigerator on or around Thanksgiving 1999. Now, I’m not saying he actually did anything illicit with that frozen turkey; I’m just saying he can’t prove he never did.

The inability to prove a negative, according to my third cousin’s brother-in-law, an ambulance chaser who studied law in Surinam, is covered in the first semester of law school. Evidently, my ex-husband’s attorney missed that part. And yet I applaud his ability to exploit my ex.

My attorney responded to that letter by telling him to save his arguments for something valid, lawyerspeak for “up yours.”

In response, my ex and his attorney demanded that I submit a copy of everything I write for their review. The lawyer was offering to read it and circle all the mistakes in red ink, and the fees for this editorial process would be charged to my ex-husband. Tempting, I’ll admit. I thought about asking him to be on the lookout for any dangling participles or split infinitives while he searched for the provably false. I’m always up for a free edit.

In the end, however, I decided to take my chances and insist they pay for anything of mine they wish to read. I can use the money, and his edit wouldn’t be worth much anyway. After all, any attorney who can’t spot an error in logic probably wouldn’t be able to differentiate a dangling participle from other little danglers.

I did, however, give my attorney a Cliff Notes-version of my story to forward to my ex and his minion for their review. Titled “My Story in a Narcissistic Nutshell,” it goes something like this:

“Once upon a time, there was a drug-addled sex addict who spent every sober moment attempting to bully and intimidate the people around him.

“One day, his ex-wife told him to go screw himself.

“Being a sex addict, he thought that sounded like a good idea. In achieving that sexual position, however, he tied himself into a narcissistic knot so tight that, now, every way he turns, he is faced with his own ass. THE END.

The man really does not want to mess with me. He won't win.