Long-suffering husband of forty-eight years, Jerry Driser (65-years old) is fired from his job three weeks shy of retirement. When the bank forecloses on their home, his insufferable wife, Maude, moves into her not-so-secret lover's trailer. Jerry spends every last dime they've got on a trip to Paris.
The French have a saying, "L'habit ne fait pas le moine". Do you know what it means? Of course, you don't. And neither does that knucklehead Cal you were hooking up with behind my back for so many years. I bet you didn't think I had it in me. Left you both with your mouths hanging wide open, didn't I?
It means, the clothing doesn't make the monk or as we say back home, you can't judge a book by its cover.
Well, I am here in Paris and I got you good. I sold up, Maude. I cleared up and shipped out. It's what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted me gone. You just expected me to be a sucker, again. But that's where you went wrong. You judged me by my cover. Well, #surprise, the old dog has some bite in him, yet!
I'll bet you're starting to sweat reading this. Maybe you're fixin' to haul yourself off the sofa and run to the bank. Don't waste your time. What's left won't amount to a hill of beans and there is nothing you can do about it. I can see your eye-twitching, Maude. Calm yourself. Remember your heart pills are in the top drawer.
You Forgot our Dreams
I'm finally here. Blowing a day's salary to sit in a fancy cafe in Paris and look at the Eiffel Tower; just like we always dreamed. Let me tell you, it's really something!
Just so you know, it was never about the money. Sure, I'm gonna enjoy spending it but the truth is you gave up on us long before this.
Do you remember our old hope jar? We would put our change in it every payday Friday and dream about the things we would do when it was full. The day I was cleaning out the garage, I found that old jar. It was cracked and broken. Pieces of plastic toys, dried up food, and other junk had fallen in it. I took one look at it and broke down and cried like a baby.
Au Revoir & A bientôt
You won’t see me again, Maude. Not any time soon. Don’t ask the kids about me either. They don’t know how to find me. I’m not sorry Maude. I know you’re not either, although I wish you were. It took a long time to swallow that but it’s enough now, and besides "J’ai d’autres chats a fouetter." You and Cal can chew on that. Have a nice life, Maude.
Yours (not anymore),