Why is it that every celebration party my ex-wife has ends up with her drunk and blabbering on my lawn?

I had just cut the lawn, too, and so there was Claire, crying and blabbering, with grass clippings all over her wet and snotty face. She, as regular readers of my posts know, is my pregnant ex-wife, and last night was the Election, as she was vying for a district attorney post.

She had been down in the polls after it was revealed by her opponent (with photos) that she had cheated on me while we were married with a known felon (and the baby she’s carrying is likely his), and her negative retort, calling her opponent a pedophile, was the talk of Backwater, Fla., but couldn’t really help her gain electoral traction in this Obama year.

Until my best friend and the PI who’d originally gotten the philandering photos of her, Eddie, held a press conference before Channel 71 WKCR News yesterday morning "with information that would blow the lid off this race." (Is it really a "press conference" if only one news organization shows up?)

Anyway, Eddie, through a friend of his at the bank who he wouldn’t reveal "for his own safety and said employee’s risk of death," proved with a big, disorganized pile of computer printouts that two large withdrawals of cash from the DA’s bank account could be linked to a strip club at the edge of town that my wife’s affair partner frequented. This felon, Timdawg, had no known job, but was seen on Eddie’s grainy videotapes with large sums of cash at the seedy joint. The strip club deposited the cash back in the same bank the next day. The cash withdrawals perfectly coincided with the two things that Timdawg did during the campaign — stealing and selling the risqué photos of my wife to a Democratic operative working for the DA and the physical attack that Timdawg and his friend laid on me, sending me to the hospital for two weeks.

Previously, the DA had said that it was my wife paying Timdawg to shut me up, as I was, according to the DA, a "socialist, beatnik art professor who, along with her affair, demonstrated her lack of patriotism and integrity."

"It shows that she’s not just soft on crime," the DA said. "She encourages it."

But Eddie proved otherwise, and Claire eked out a narrow victory last night, pending recount. Eddie told me after that he "felt dirty helping elect Claire," but, "in her own twisted way, she’d never hurt you and does love you," he added.

So there she was, at 2 a.m., on my lawn, drunk, crying, and covered with grass, saying, "Winning is nothing because I lost everything."

My girlfriend, Krystka, ran out and called her a "filthy, fat lush," and they went at it verbally, but, for awhile, I really felt sorry for Claire. Eventually, I talked Krystka away, and helped Claire walk up the hill to her house.

"Why can’t we make it work, Reality?" she said. "We keep trying, and it never does."

"I don’t know," I told her, bringing her into her big, empty place and tucking her in bed — an act she’d always used to take comfort in after her oftentimes raucous nights. "It just never does."

Walking back to my home in the cool night, I felt a bit of regret that I couldn’t stay with Claire and make sure she was going to be all right. It didn’t help that Krystka decided to sleep on the couch and pretended not to hear me when I got back.

How do you divorcees turn off that part of yourself that actually cares still about your former spouse?

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