2007: Dead, or just Drawn to End?

I think today I'll fall into the mold. Not that green stuff under the sink; that stuff'll kill ya. I'm talking about the mold of a mundane blog writer; that'll only steal your integrity—I'm divorcing, I lost that months ago. I mean, here we are at New Years door, and what have I decorated it with? Nothing--not even the noose shaped wreath of discontent, bearing the berries of self-indulgence. Really? How can I show my face on the internet If I don't write in the traditional holiday format. Everybody takes this time of year to fill their lives with top 20 lists and show off their resolve to make resolutions they'll never keep. What have I done? Nothing noticeable. Nothing that screams out like "Rob's Top 20 ways Rob tries to forget his divorce." I can't do that list anyway, the top five aren't legal in the US and number 3 involves 2 olives, a Wiffle ball, a hamster, and cricket paddle. And a bathtub of green Jello. Can't forget the Jello.

Note to self, stop at grocery store...

Jell-Hello! I promise, I'll fall into line. I'll type my nubby tips to the drum-beat of conformity. I am Rob the blog sheep; hear me bleat! BAAAAA!

I already gave my writers' group their resolutions ideas for the year. I told them, "write." I know, call me Socrates. I am the king of other people's wisdom. Drop by, I dispense it like Pez. My life and divorce resolutions, they're a little tougher. They actually should mean something. They should somehow enrich my world, should make me a better person, should give substance to my green Jello, like tasty fruit.

Note to self, buy bananas...

My meaningless resolutions need to show resolve. They need to say Rob is more than a paragon of piffle. Yeah, go ahead, look it up. I'll wait.

Now aren't you glad you looked that up? You can add that to your resolution list: Look up words on Rob's blog. Hell, I'll settle for "Read Rob's Blog," but we all have to start with mini-promises if we ever hope to keep them. So why not start with "Keep display dictionary on desk." If it's a big one, it'll impress your friends, and give you a place to hide all the spouse-heads you've cut out of old pictures.

"Hey, I was looking up 'efface' and all these little heads rolled out…"

But enough of you and yours, back to me and mine. My resolutions for 08 include, "Trying to be more social." I suck at that. Since I work at home that's where I spend my life. I need to get out and expand my social network past my dog. I need to find my six degrees of Kevin Bacon. Why not give people reasons to love and hate me: spread the Rob cheer in everybody's life, like a phegmmy virus.

Another Resolution is to "move past my divorce." I'm doing good so far, but I need to be sure and confident. Right now I'm a little mouse, sniffing the cheesy trap, darting in and out of my safe warm nest. Every thought, every memory, every person isn't going to snap my neck. Or maybe they are, I dunno. I need to be a little Fonzie about this Honey Bunny.

I think I can keep this one though. The mood storms have calmed. I really think I'm much better. The problem is, every time I think I am better, another hurricane rolls through ripping out everything I've worked so hard to lash down and board up. Still, I've tied myself to the main mast and I'm ready for the next storm. If I'm tied up here, I should be able keep my resolutions, or at least not break them. Isn't that something? Could I ask you one small favor though? Could you push that tub of Jello just a little closer? Thank you.

In Space no one can Hear You Sneeze.

Bleh! I hate you guys! It's your fault. You're the only ones I can blame. I haven't had any other contact with the outside world, and yet here I sit, coughing, achey, stuffy head...I'm a freakin' Nyquil commercial and it's all your fault. You're the only people I've talked to in the last few days. It's one of these computer viruses I hear all about. Thanks a lot.

Ever notice how big the world gets when you're sick? Right now I'm huddled in my fuzzy throw, like a gypsy fortuneteller, typing with as little movement as possible, trying not to uncover my hands. I got up a while back I needed coffee and OJ. I'll tell ya, it was like walking across a Las Vegas Casino to the cashier counter. There's like a strange old couple throwing dice at my kitchen table, and a gaggle of foreign tourist clogging up the foot path between me and the fridge. Hang on, the old lady wants a scotch—neat. I'll be back in an hour; she tips pretty well. Never in the field of human travel, has so many feet seemed like so far to so few! My hut feels huge! Maybe that's Thurston and Lovey at my table. I returned to my desk, slumped into the chair, re-wrapped myself, and then broke for breath.

Must breathe…

My nose is useless for that right now. It's betrayed me, but my lips can't get around the words "et tu" to accuse it. Instead they say something close to "ah boo?" Then my nose says "God bless you." Yeah, everything shuts down when I'm sick.

Then there's my mind. Do I even need to go into that? Maybe you should re-read the second paragraph again. Pay special attention to the strangers in my kitchen.

One of my single friends once said, "At least you have somebody around when you're sick." Well that may be true, but I'm never sick. In all the time we were married, I think I was sick twice. Oh that's not to say I didn't take full advantage of her during those times. See, I'm just like any other guy when it comes to being sick. We all revert to 5 year old boys. We want Mom to coddle us and nurse us back to health. And just like sick time at work, you can only accumulate so much before you lose it. I think a divorce means I lose it.

Do I get a raincheck? Can I call MyUnwife up?

"Hey, could you come over with a vat of chicken noodle and a tumbler of Nyquil?"

"No."

"Why not? I'm sick!"

"You're always sick. You’re a sick twisted man."

"You always liked that before? Besides this is a different sick."

"And you want to get me sick..?"

"Well you were always a sick and twisted woman…but no, I wanted you to honor these coddle-Rob IOUs."

"Oh, that's all? Well hold your breath. I'll be there before you breathe your last-er next."

Yeah, that's not gonna happen. So how bout you? You gave me this thing, any chance you can hook me up with some comfort food? I'd ask the old lady at the table, but she just put her cigarette out in my OJ. Yeah, my mind is slipping, and I'm feeling sick, not a good combo. 3 more degrees on the thermometer and I'm Princess Leah typing a message into the R2 droid... Help me, Obi-wan Blogreader you're my only hope. Help me...

Advancing to the Next Level

My parents gave me a video game for Christmas. They're the greatest. They always give me some kind of toy each year. I think they do it to make up for all the socks and underwear when I was a kid. That's alright, I'll let them appease their guilt. This years penance came wrapped in an Amazon.com smile box.

The game is an RPG/quest type game. I always liked these as a kid. Even back in the days of Zork, when there were no graphics.

"It is pitch black. You are likely to be eaten by a grue."

Yeah, I'm in the middle of a divorce. I've met the grue, and he is us. Zork: grues thieves and Cyclopes, oh my! My parents are more hip than that; they gave me a new game with moving images and everything. I had to replace my old Commodore 64 though...

The game still has a lot of similarities, I mean you still have to collect useless objects and give them purpose. It's a lot like real life in that respect. Especially since MyUnwife left. There are things like our old ugly couch. It hasn't had a real purpose since 2003. I think it's reason for living, the past 2 years anyway, was keeping a wall from looking bare. It's an important job, but can be done by something more aesthetically pleasing, like say a trophy case or a wooden door with strange gothic lettering.

When MyUnwife moved out, the couch gained a new life, an new puprose, a certain joie de vivre. Right after my office chair, and the folding chair at the dinner table, it's my primary seating location. Oh, it's still ugly as sin, but looks aren't everything, and well neither is comfort in the sofa's case. It's simply being there, and being useful. Yeah, my standards have dropped a bit since she left. It's the same way with some cast iron pots my mom gave me when I got my first apartment. I never thought I'd use those. In fact, I think the only reason we still have them is that we forgot to throw them away.

When half my stuff left, I found new purposes for all kinds of useless things I owned. Even more, I found that I needed a new purpose for me. My reasons for being the old me left in a cloud of dust. I didn't have the special trinket to bring them back either.

I could have chased after her wielding my legendary sword, but my homeowners association frowns on that almost as much as pink flamingoes. No, just like encountering the thief in the old Zork games, I just had to let it go, and review my new inventory to see what was left.

In my new life, I gained skills and found skills I didn't know I had. Did you know that if you ask the people at Home Depot where stuff is, they'll tell you? I had no idea; That was always MyUnwife's job. I'm still working out the purpose for maps, but I think I need to advance a few levels first. If I slay a few hundred more dust bunnies, that should give me the points I need...

Now I'm finding I'm changing into a new Rob. Is he better? Worse? I don't know, he's different, but the old Rob was kinda different too—at least that’s what everybody used to tell me. The new Rob is more of a scavenger, but he's a survivor. I'm a tarnished Knight now, but still essentially good. I find I'm more leery about which damsels I save too.

"I'm sorry, I can't save you. There appears to be excessive baggage in your ivory tower. A younger, naive knave should be along shortly though. Have a good afternoon…"

I'm still learning about this Rob. There are things I like, and things I don't, I'm still collecting data. I think I can get him through the game without killing him off though. I think that's important.

.

No He-Man this Christmas Either.

If the groundhog crawls out from his hole and sees his shadow, he make's silhouette bunnies with his little paws. They're pretty good really; he can't do butterflies without opposable thumbs, but hey, we all make do with what we have. That's how I survived the holiday.

I poked my head out from the holiday rubble yesterday. I really wasn't a groundhog, I was a scared survivor crawling out of a bomb shelter. Pushing away my downed fence, I looked around. I'd spent the first half of the month stocking my bunker with blinking lights and edible rations, before hunkering down for the defcon 1 holiday. Now it was time to evaluate how I did. Was spring coming, or was I in for a long cold half-life of nuclear winter?

Everybody knows holidays suck for the divorced, right? Standing in the smoke and ash, I performed my cursory check for all limbs and discovered something: The holiday didn't suck. Oh, and maybe I should get out of the fireplace; smoke and ash isn't good for you.

I lived through Christmas. It wasn't as cool as when I was a kid, but when has it been? I don't know about you, but my adult Christmases haven't been nearly as cool as my childhood ones. Since I turned 18, and moved out, I have not received one Stretch Armstrong, or Six Million Dollar Man. Not even a He-Man. Ok, anyone else notice I'm tossing around guy names? Let's try this: I didn't even get one Easy Bake Oven. Good, now I feel secure in my masculinity…

Still, being a kid during Christmas was great, even with divorced parents. Actually that made it a little cooler. I had 2 families trying to buy my affection and one-up each other.

"I got Robby a Lego Village."

"I got Robby a real village. It's just outside of Quartzite. It's more of a Hamlet really…"

And when both parents remarried, it rained grandparents from heaven! Who knew that each parent came with a set of grandparents? And if the grandparents are divorced…it's like…like…like…It's like Ali Baba finding the treasure cave! WOO FREAKIN' HOO! It's a toy downpour!

As an adult, you find that these are all people you need to send gifts too. Not to mention visit…what the hell? No, being an adult at Christmas isn't the same. I was worried that I'd find the transition from married to divorced would be the same yule tide ebb and transitioning from kid to adult. I didn't think I could afford another emotional tug like that.

It wasn't the same. I've been single before. Yeah, I know this isn't the same as that either, but it's similar, and that similarity makes all the difference. It's like finding a sweater that smells like mom. I can't toss it in the kitchen and expect it to make me a bowl of soup and a sandwich, but I can smell it and remember the times she did. This Christmas is about times I did, and survived. Smell my Rob-sweat stink and tremble, you unbelievers!

So I made it through. I've got one Christmas under my belt, and I'll do just fine. I just need somebody to come over and clear out this rubble. Do you know any good groundhogs I can lash to a debris-sled, and call them by name? Well If they don't come out until February, I think I could find a few chipmunks instead.

"On Alvin! On Simon! You too Theodore! Dash away! Dash away…!"

Holiday Viewing and Other Things on the Blink.

One hit wonder. That's what they call me. No, not really, I need a hit for that. They don't call me anything. I call them "they." Who is this "they?" This "they" is VH 1. They're talking about one hit wonders. That's what's on TV now. You know, I swear, the reason holidays suck for us--the divorced--is because we don't get tons of cool gifts to play with, and all the televised "theys" play nothing but crap.

If they're not playing series marathons of programs they can't sell during the prime viewer window, they're rehashing shows older than my dad, and he's old. He used to tell us he watched TV by candlelight. Yeah, we didn't find it funny either, but we laughed, it's old Dad humor. He may be old, but we love him. And he could pick better programming than these TV monkeys. Why don't programmers love the divorced? We're a demographic. We may not spend money like the married parents of 14, but we still eat and clean our houses and buy cars. I can do without all the engagement ring ads though. The next person going to Jared, get's shot with diamond dust loaded into shotgun shells. Just a holiday warning.

The other thing they're playing is family movies. It's a Wonderful Life. Yeah right kiss my- Asthmatic Santa, A Christmas Story, The Christmas Shoes, why would I watch these? What would possibly make me feel good about being divorced over the season? Gimme the Red Rider B-B Gun. Somebody needs their eye shot out. Where are Tombstone, or Highlander when you need them? Not in my cable options; I'll tell you that!

The night of the wind storm, I rented Live Free or Die Hard! I get to the point where they're about to explain why they're killing hackers, terrorizing the public, and bombing with a poor use of Kevin Smith, when my power goes out. I can guess the rest of the movie, but the convoluted plot--that surely has something to do with stealing money--I need a road map to find, and everything's just gone black.

Tune in tomorrow…

GAAAAHHH!

I've given up on everyone else. I'm on VH 1, they're focusing their night on one hit wonders. It wouldn't be too bad, but I'm hearing phrases like "…the young taco…" I think all tacos should be young. If they're old, throw them away. That's apparently what happened to the guy who sang "Putting on the Ritz" too.

Maybe that's why I'm watching this. I'm commiserating. These people were considered disposable. A whole generation said, "You are the weakest link. Goodbye." Every subsequent generation just goes,"Who?" A whole generation! I'm in great shape! I've only had MyUnwife do that! These guys are worse off than I am. Dude, that sucks. Thanks for making me feel better, young Taco. God speed you through obscurity, mi amigo.

One thing I have learned watching late night TV. According to the ad I just watched, buying a Trojan condom transforms any man from a swine into an emo god. Yeah, I know, emo god: oxymoron. But I think it could happen, Trojan promises it will. It also promises other things won't happen, but that's another story. We're talking oxymorons and emo gods. The emo god would use his powers to bring world pity.

"Kneel and pity me mortal!"

Those emo kids, they're wacky. They'll be one hit wonders soon. Me, I'm still waiting for my hit. I've had my day in the park; I just struck out. That's ok, there will be another at bat. Another chance at success. All I need is one hit, so long as it's good. I don't need to knock it out of the park; I just need to get through this holiday of crappy TV.

Hark! Harold Sings!

Hey, guess what? I was prepared to tell you about my laboring over a ham and all, but it appears I won't have any. Labor that is. Ham, I'll have plenty. My neighbor is cooking dinner. All I have to do is show up! How cool is that? While I was fixing my fence, or at least making it pretend to stand up, they dropped by and invited me over. I don't know my neighbors that well, but getting to know them is better than finishing this Christmas alone. If you don't hear from me though, you can suspect they'll be carving me for New Years. I've seen those movies. I could do it—I mean make my dinner, I really don't want to be their who-beast--but the whole hassle of cooking a nice meal just for me…I dunno. I'd have done it, because somebody should cook a nice Christmas meal for me. And if I had to be the one to do it, so be it. But, since my neighbor is being so generous, I'll just accept their kindness, and go eat.

Oh, and for those of you inclined to pictures and such, here are my pictures. Not real Christmassy, but some years you take what you can get.

The Christmas Story So far

These are the my last two posts from my other blog, just to catch you up...

Well, it's only 2am and the funs already begun. I was in the middle of watching a movie. It's been really windy tonight. I think I just saw Dorothy's house blow past. And that wasn't part of my movie. But then all the power went out. So I went and grabbed a flashlight. The whole neighborhood is down. Something's blown down somewhere. As I was grabbing my light, I noticed that the lines aren't all that's down, my front fence is down now too. I'd go out and stand it up, especially since it's actually brighter outside right now than it is inside, but I'd never stand up against that wind. Oh look there goes a tree… So I thought I'd just jot this short note before my UPS goes down. I'm on battery power right now. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.


Post 2

So the power is still out. I called; they were too busy to answer the
phone. I did listen to the recorded message guy. He even wished me a
merry Christmas. What spirit! He listed off map locations like he was
playing battleship, and yeah, he sunk mine. My neighborhood is
adrift, powerless, in the sea of a Christmas blackout.

They're not sure when it's coming back up. I think they're hoping
Santa will bring it. According to the chipper voice on the phone, the
wind's blowing trees down everywhere. Everywhere but his house; he's
still got power.

So, that's the Christmas story thus far. I'll update you as the day
creates news. Stay tuned; There's a storm a-brewin'!

A Christmas Curse.

"Have a Merry Christmas!" That's what I said.

"Oh, I'll see you before then." Those were her words. That was her curse. She didn't mean it that way, but that's what she did. How do I reply?

Maybe I should explain the "who." It's my favorite grocery store clerk. I've mentioned her before. We pass small talk over UPC scans. Friday I saw her, we were both shopping. I was on my way in, she was scrambling out. Still dressed in checker uniform, she didn't pretended to be invisible, but I saw her. I said hello. She cursed me.

I knew she was wrong, I wasn't going to be back in, not before Christmas. This was my last shop before locking myself in. Still I smiled and said, "probably," and let it go.

In a way I wanted to see her again before Christmas. Not like that, more like I wasn't going to see anybody really before Christmas. This was going to be my long weekend alone. I've been promising myself I'd be fine. My ceaseless holiday mantra: a Christmas train twisting an infinite oval around my lips. The more I say it, the better I'll be. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I hope so.

I wanted to put my Christmas tidings up in the front, for the world to see, let them know I'd be fine. I told you about my palm tree. It was my plan, my rebellion. My dare against the forces of Christmas loneliness. It didn't happen. I've been too busy and my free time has been at night. It's hard to do outdoor decorations around a cactus in the dark. First you jab yourself, then you yank back and job yourself again. It's a rebounding agony. It's also fun to watch, but nobody can see me in the dark. It's something I need to do for them. I am the clown. Look, I'll be fine.

Still I had Christmas plans. I had things to do. I needed to make cookies and fudge. Cookies and fudge are the first line of defense against Christmas loneliness. When I opened my sugar, I realized my line of defense was dotted with gaps: I was out of sugar.

Oh, I'll see you before then. Yeah, thanks a lot...

Well now she'd get her chance. I drove over to the store Saturday, after I mowed my lawn. I still didn't get to do my decorations, but at least my yard looked trimed. Walking into the grocery store, you'll never believe who I saw coming out. Yup.

"What do you do, live here?" says the cashier who's there way more frequently than I am.

"I forgot the sugar." say's Mr. Kettle to Ms. Pot.

"Well you have to remember the sugar."

I smiled and looked in her cart. She'd remembered it. Lots of treats there. Oh and Play Doh too. Somebody is gonna have fun on Christmas. Once more I say, "have a good Christmas." And again, she curses me.

"Oh, I'll see you before then."

Why? I was nice…let me go…I'll be fine...

I go in, grab my sugar. On the way out, she drives past me and waves. It looks like she's got a big family gathering planned. I wish I had one. It's ok. I'm fine with this. I go home. I've remembered the sugar.

I make my cookies and my Chex mix. All that's left is the fudge. Overkill? Hey, I gotta feed the demons. When they're in a sugar coma, they can't find you. One apparently Googled me anyway. It sat with me, reminding me I was lonely. Thankfully, a friend from my writers' group calls. They've got a new puppy, and wanted to make sure I'm ok.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for the call." As we're talking I relay my Christmas dinner plans. "Yeah, I'm making me a ham, and some potatoes...and--AW CRAP!" I forgot my vegetable. I'm going back to the grocery store.

I figure I'll go after church; it's on my way home. I'm considering going to a different store just to prove the girl wrong. Naw, I'll just go in. I'll be fine.

At Church I get an invite for Christmas eve dinner. This family, who was in the membership classes with me, asked me over to celebrate. I'd have said yes, but I'd volunteered to usher for Christmas eve service. Oh well. They promised to invite me over again later. I'll hold out for a good menu.

On my way in for veggies, guess who I run into? Yeah, her again. I told her I blamed her, but I'd still wish her a merry Christmas. "Don't worry, She said, "I won't jinx you again."

I'm back home. I'm home until tonight's service, and then I'm home until Friday. I'll be fine. I'm still telling myself that. She could have jinxed me, I'd have been alright. Now I have all I need, all to myself. I put up a tree, inside, since I couldn't do one outside. I'll post pics. If you can't see them, go here (they're at the bottom). My graphic friendly site. Pay special attention to my tree topper. That's my new ornament. Pretty hideous huh? I thank my friend from Arizona. He came out and we saw one just like it. We laughed so hard. Stole the little ornament's manhood, if that's possible. I couldn't tease something like that without bringing it home.

So I sit staring at my tree, feeling lonely, and a little light goes off. It's like the blinking ones in my tree, but this one's over my head, and kinda dim. Still, I'm bright enough to notice. Why do I feel lonely? How am I alone? I have a cashier for paper, plastic, and small talk; I have people at church offering bread and wine; I have writers group people to call me at odd hours to dictate their victories; then I have a friend in Arizona, who I can depend on for the delicacies of bad taste. I'm sure there are other people wishing they were that lonely. So, this year I'll be spending Christmas by myself, but I'm certainly not alone.

You can Mix a Cake, but not with Santa.

Guess what tomorrow is? Go ahead guess. Bet you never get it. I'll tell you what, go ask MyUnwife. She might tell you. Then again, maybe not. She's kind of quiet if she doesn't know you. Approach her slowly, palm extended. That's right let her sniff your hand. Don't be afraid, she smells fear. Try coaxing her with kibble…just take a little time…there you go...

Tell ya what. I'll tell ya, I'm no good at secrets, besides, I need to move this entry along. Right now it's not going anywhere. You're still standing there with a handful of dog food, trying to talk to MyUnwife; she's staring at you like you're crazy. It never worked for me either.

"Why is there a line of Eukanuba leading to the bed?"

Sigh…"No reason…"

And why do people think "kibble" is only dog food? It makes me feel good knowing I'm not the only one who miscommunicates. Oh, you're blaming this on me? Well, while you're looking up "kibble," stand in line; you can just shuffle behind MyUnwife. She's where the line starts.

Tomorrow is MyUnwife's birthday. Everybody wave and smile. Go ahead kick into song. She loves it when groups of strangers sing happy birthday to her. Go ahead, try it. I'll watch from over here—behind the bullet proof glass…go ahead now.

I do wonder what she's got going on this week. I mean she normally takes it off. I'm wondering now, is she still doing that, now that she's alone? Is it weird that I'm concerned? I mean I care. I still do, probably always will. It's not the "Oh gee, come back!" type caring, it's more like that woman who used to live down the block from your grandma. Remember how she was always at grandma's house playing naked charades whenever you went over? You were always concerned for her welfare? This is like that, without the smell of menthol, but just a hint of bitter.

I care, I probably shouldn't. but what can I do? What am I gonna do about it? Nothing. It's better that way. And it's definitely better if I don't think about MyUnwife playing naked charades. She did have a great way of acting out movies thou--ANYWAY. No naked. This is Christmas.

I always thought that had to suck for her. A birthday over Christmas? How many Christmas cards did she get over the years saying "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!" then scrawled on the bottom, "and happy birthday too," Punctuated with a forest of heart exclamation points. Like those hearts made the offense any more palatable. And what about the plush reindeer birthday gift? How do you thank somebody for that, and keep a straight face?

"Popular Phrase…

"Two Words...

"First word…

"Rhymes with…

"Truck? Ok Buck? Duck? Fu-oh, my. That isn't very Christmassy."

Not Christmassy. I think that was her point. It was her birthday. No wonder she didn't want every day to be like Christmas. She's got me beat on the Bah Humbug.

Whatever she does, I hope she has a wonderful birthday. I may not have been the greatest husband, but I tried to celebrate MyUnwife's birthday, and Jesus' birthday separately. It's one thing I thought I could do. Maybe I'll call PetSmart, do they have a kibble delivery team? It would be a nice gift. Better make sure the team's not reindeer driven though.

"Popular Phrase…"

Christmas Lockdown!

Settling in for a long winter's nap? I am. Ok, I'm not, but in my mind I am. I swear. In my mind, I'm wrapped in my quilt, all safe and toasty. Occasionally reaching out to the pyre I've built on the floor. Nothing to worry about, just stuff belonging to MyUnwife…

Ok, the pyre thing is me warming my toes in a bitter bath. Feel free to jump in, it's a hot tub of froth. Nothing says holidays like a warm soak against a snowy backdrop.

Well, I'm in California, I don't have a snowy backdrop. It's in my head too. It seems there are a lot of things in my head. Huh, maybe that says something about crazy and Christmas…Well, I'll just leave that as a gift to open later. For now, let's talk about today. What are you doing today? 3….2….1--Ok, that's great. Let's talk about me now.

Today, I'll mow my lawn. I'll trim too. Oh and I'll trim—Christmas trim--the palm—the tree, not my hand. Although I could Sharpie a tree in my hand. Open and close it like blinking lights. Wouldn't I look festive? Crazy? Either way, both are Christmassy. What's cool, is I know that at least three of you out there are staring at your hand, opening and closing it really fast. Thank you, I'm not alon--So the tree. Yeah, I'll do that. It's supposed to be clear next week. If you guys stay on my nice list, I'll post pics.

Later tonight I'll do my usual Friday ritual, I'll write in the plaza by the theater. They've set up a big tree in the fountain. If you're giving me a stalker for Christmas, I usually stay there until 9:30 or 10, then walk down to the grocery store to do my shopping. Make sure the stalker is in festive colors and reindeer ears. Nobody likes a sulky stalker.

I'm grabbing my Christmas dinner tonight. I think I'm having ham. I'll buy a small one, get some potatoes--I think I'm doing scalloped, unless I change my mind and go for yams. I'm gonna make some Chex mix too. I love the stuff, I decided to make some for me. Same with fudge. I'll probably give most of that away, but I wanted a few pieces myself. I could make snicker doodles too. My Mom always made them at Christmas. I don't know though, that may be too much sugar in strike range. Santa'll drop down the chimney to find me in a sugar coma, painted up like a clown with chocolate smears and cookie crumb freckles. Still, I want a few sweets. It's my Christmas gift to me.

It'll just be me this Christmas, but I'm ok with it. It'll be a peaceful time. Everything's been hectic lately, Christmas will give me an excuse to do some things I've been waiting to do around the house.

If you're bored, check in, I'll be around. I think I'll do like I did on Thanksgiving and do a few posts through out the day. But, that's not till Tuesday, I'm just thinking aloud now. That's kind of a good thing, it shows that I'm thinking at all!

The Trouble with Trebles

Christmas music: lilting refrain, or knife to the vein? As a kid, I remember Mom and Dad pulling out all the crackly records and stacking them on the multi-pay spindle. Each record would drop, playing songs about Santa and the reindeer, Frosty and the children, Jesus and the chipmunks.

I loved it. The songs were pop greats. Maybe it's real, or maybe they sucked. It's just nostalgia vines intertwining the voices of Perry Como, Julie Andrews, and Johnny Mathis to happy Christmases past. My ghosts of Christmas past.

I turned on the radio today, thinking I could recapture my holiday spirit by ringing in the carols. My Grandmother's name is Carol, but I wasn't going to call her. The music would have to do. Sorry Christmas is the time for exchanging gifts and really bad jokes, get used to it. Better you start with me, than be shocked by something said by Uncle Frank over Christmas Ham. You don't want the kids to remember this as the Christmas Mommy forked Frank in the forehead.

So, back to the music. Christmas music. I gotta tell ya, I'm feeling old, because these tracks of Christmas present are horrible! These cows are crashing the china shop of my youth! Right now, I'm suffering through Kelly Clarkson doing "O Holy Night." No Kelly, it's not a holy night. Not while you're doing that to it!

It's not that she can't sing; she can. She makes sure we know it too, by hitting every note in her range. If the treble clef was a musical cliff, her voice would be bouncing off of each eighth note on it's way down, and miraculously rebounding back to middle C before plummeting to tranquil silence. If only that were the end. She climbs back for more, lucky me. Is that what she learned from American Idol? Keep it simple, Simon!

"Simon!"

Ok, maybe it's not all his fault. Celine Dion murdered "The Christmas Song." Then again if your name isn't Nat King Cole, don't even bother trying to sing it. I know, I sound like a traditional Christmas snob, but why? Why ruin a good song? What makes turning Rudolph into a yodel a good idea?

Maybe I'm just bitter. I want things the way they were. If the rest of my year has to be mired in the muck of divorce, I want my freakin' Norman Rockwell fluffy white Christmas, and bring me Bing Crosby too! (Well, really just his music—no need to dig him up, it is Christmas…) I've earned it. I want snow, I want my Santa, and I want my carols! Gimme peace on earth! Gimme holly jolly! Gimme Sarah McLachlan all ribboned and bowed under my tree! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

Ok, I'm better now. Once this Christmas is over, I'll have one divorced Holiday under my belt; I'll be able to look forward to Christmases future. I just hope the singing gets better.

Little Box, Little Box, Let Me in!

So I'm offering this simple phrase, to kids from 1 to 92…

How the heck do I open my mailbox? I know, more a question than a phrase, but I think I've set a good age parameter. If you're in that age window could you come in and answer my question?

help…

me…

It started Monday when I went to check the mail. At least that's when it started for me; I'm not sure when it started for the box; it's not communicating with me. Sliding in the key, I begged it to open up; It wouldn't budge. When begging and pleading didn't work, I got violent. It was wrong, I know, but if I could just make the box understand, I only wanted to know what was going on inside. Why had it decided to lock me out?

Yesterday, I tried to catch the mailman as he rolled through. Maybe a third party could sort things out. I didn't see him. I waited, fingers pressed to my screen door, hoping to catch a glimpse, to see something, anything that would tell me what was going on with my mail.

Santa must be my mailman. He snuck through undetected, ate my cookies and left packages-- in my mailbox, which I can't get to, because my key doesn't work. So all those money filled cards you sent me, I still can't read them. Don't forget to leave the money in the account though. I'll cash them as soon as I can.

I thought about breaking into the box, but it with my luck somebody would misinterpret my actions and report it. It's a federal crime to break into my mailbox to read my mail—even if you're me.

"Hey Mom, send my gifts to the corrections facility in Lompoc…" I guess at least there, I'd get my mail.

Today is a new day. I walked out to coax my mailbox. It snubbed me. I'd hoped time would heal us. I don't know, the key looks good, it fits, it just doesn't turn. What did I do? Where did I go wrong? It's all the boxes fault! And it's the Holidays! It chose now, of all times, to go out on me! Please come back, box, I miss you!

Ok, so now I sound pathetic. I went back out to the driveway to grab the newspaper, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? It's that guy with the bag wearing an iPod with headgear.

"Wait! Oh wait, just a minute Mr. Postman!"

Pause. Yeah, I'll give you a moment to real from that really bad joke. Ready? Ok, back to our story:

"Yes, Robby?"

"Mr. Postman, MyMailbox won't open up. I've tried everything."

"Have you been a good boy?"

"I have! I have!"

"You know Robby, it may be broken. You may have to just let it go."

"What about what's inside, Mr. Postman?"

"Sometimes there's nothing you can do about that. Sometimes you shouldn't ask 'why' you should just say 'how interesting.'"

"Mr. Postman, what are we talking about? I just want my mail."

"Oh, I thought this was a divorce metaphor—try now."

I did. It opened! It was a Christmas Miracle! My box had clogged with a Swiss Colony care package. The meat and cheese blocked my key from turning, leaving me outside. Now things are good, and the mail flows again! I didn't get those cards you sent though. My net is ready to hold them, and it's looking like a meager catch. Don't forget the checks! My mail is working again!

Creepy Mist Arms, and other HolidayTidings.

The auditorium was tiny, the music was huge. I was surprised. I mean I was in high school once, our choir sucked. Oh, yeah, now I've pissed off my high school choir. What are they gonna do? Track me down and glee choir me to death? Actually that is a possibility…

That was where I spent my Monday night: In a high school auditorium watching the Arlington High School choir show off. One friend asked me later if I brought a date. A date? I'm doing this divorce thing, remember? Besides, why bring your own hamburger to the butcher when he's got prime meat swinging in the back? Ok, I'm just joking, I swear. I'm not that kind of pig. Ok, maybe I am that kind of pig, but that wasn't why I was there. I was there because someone in my writers' group was singing and had asked that we watch and show support.

That's kind of what I've taken from this whole divorce thing. When things fell apart I expected people to be there for me. I expected extended arms to stretch from the mist and embrace me in warmth and fellowship. I know sounds kinda creepy when I say it aloud huh? Just like an older guy sitting in a high school watching little girls sing...oh.

Back to the mystery arms, "There there Rob."

It didn't happen that way. Instead, I relearned that I could stand on my own. I also learned that there were other people out there. Not only those who were where I am now, but those just starting on the road. People looking for the grabbing arms in the mist.

When I was in junior high, I wasn't a nice kid. I was a mid-low level bully. I guess I was like an office "in-charge" of the playground. I didn't hold any real power, except picking on kids smaller than me. To bigger kids, I was an easy target a "go-to" guy when they were bored. One day, while getting punched by a crowd of bigger kids, realized that I didn't enjoy getting picked on. Quite the revelation.

Because I was the intelligent free thinking kid (part of the reason I was getting a beating in the first place) I began tying thoughts together. If I didn't like this, what made me think that the kids I picked on liked it any more? Huh. I decided to think on it later, maybe it was just the pain talking. Later, hiding in the library, I still drew the same conclusion. I made a resolution to never to pick on anyone maliciously again.

After that, things got better. Oh, I still spent a lot of time running to the library, but I my conscience was free. I was a good guy, and sometimes bad things happened, but I didn't have to be the cause.

I'm a creepy set of arms clutching from the fog. That's what this has taught me. I know that people are hurting, and rather than complain about my own pain, I can show them how to survive. Oh, I can't offer much more than my time, my writing, and my experience, but if somebody needs any of those things here I am. I also do shadow bunnies against the mist upon request.

So last night I sat alone surrounded by families listening to Christmas carols, because somebody asked me. Oh, it wasn't completely altruistic; the alternative was hiding alone in my office library. So I went, and I applauded. I clapped so much that I had to shift my wedding ring to my index finger because it kept trying to fly off. The music was good, and I felt good being a small island washed by seas of good cheer. If I can splash that back at somebody else then my creepy island-mist-arms have gone to good use.

Divorce: It's in the Cards.

"I'm gonna have to go with 'divorce.'" That was the judge's call. Good call too, it was my answer. Well not the judge, and not my answer to that big issue--Here, let me back up, I'm talking about the Apples to Apples judge. Our Apples to Apples judge is far more arbitrary than any court judge I know, and well, I don't know any. That doesn't matter, tonight, there's a fickle wind blowing between winners and losers, and right now it's a warm breeze blowing my way. I rock.

For those of you not in the know (or not in the care), Apples to Apples is a party game played with cards. You try to match the noun card in your hand with the adjective card on the table. The person who comes closest to a match, wins the round. The adjective was "furious" I played divorce. I won that round. When everybody playing the game has been through a divorce, nobody's gonna argue with that match, thank you very much.

I know, games with nouns and adjectives, not the bong hits at your party, but we're writers. We're snooty, self-important, and boring. We like words. Nouns, adjectives and a bottle of wine, don't bother us, we're getting rowdy.

That was our writers group party. It was really nice. Everybody sat around, ate, and talked. Towards the end of the evening, our host's kids wanted to play a game. They know a rube when they see one, so they threw apples at me until I wanted to play too.

"Dance, monkey!"

"Ow! Ok! I'll play!"

If somebody plays the "relentless" card, these kids are winners.

Apples to Apples, the choice of a belligerent generation. Pretty soon the other divorced people joined in too while everybody spouse-stuck ran home, whimpering their goodbyes. People who choose to stay married, rarely play party games together. If you ever see MyUnwife, ask her about Bob Scrooge, you'll understand.

Divorced people and children play games. It's our bitter rebellion against the world. "Insignificant?" says one player as the card is played. "Where's the 'ex husband' card?" We all laugh. Hey wait. I'm an ex-husband…

I had my John McEnroe moment. The word was "explosive." Our judge called the winner, "James Bond."

"What? What about 'car bombs? They're not explosive?"

"Oh you're right! I didn't see that one!"

I wrestle the card from the loser. In your face, 13 year old girl! I bounce it off her forehead for good measure.

As the kids fall asleep, or flee in terror, the divorced pack continue to play. It was a weird camaraderie of wolves. We talk about everything from natural child birth (ok, I didn't really join in that conversation, but I did listen) to haunted barns. We didn't talk about divorce. We don't feed on our own.

It didn't stop me from beating them at the apple game. That's what I do. I'm good at games. Oh, and a little competitive too, and it's good to feel like a winner. Nabbing victories lately has been a Steven Segal Oscar moment: it just don't exist. So Saturday night I basked in glory.

Apparently, I didn't offend too many people: I now have something to do tonight. Tonight, I'm going to watch one of the high school choirs perform. Oh, I'm going alone, but I'm not alone; victors never are; we're spoiled. Sometimes one victory leads to another. Sometimes it's in a child's laughter, or a angel's choir. You just have to look. Even Steven Segal can get lucky once.

Fudging Kindness.

"Looking forward to tomorrow."

That's the email quote from my writers' group Christmas party host. Tonight's the party; she wrote it yesterday. It would mean something completely different if she wrote it today, huh? She's still got time. She can still admit defeat. I don't think she will though; She's been looking forward to this for a while. Good for her. I'm glad to give her something to look forward to. That's a step in the right direction, for both of us right?

I think 07 is a recovery year for her. 06 was her year that will live in infamy (add a little FDR fireside radio reverb; it makes it sound really foreboding). She did her time through the gauntlet of divorce, now she's steped through the tunnel into the light. Good for her. I think hosting the party really helped her.

She sent me an email that she was going to spend most of the evening cooking. I was going to do some cooking too, I'm making fudge. I also forgot to read the directions. Or at least I forgot to read that part at the top. The thing they call a list of ingredients. According to my cupboard, I don't keep a regular supply of evaporated milk. I left the cap off the 2% and a baggie rubberbanded over the opening to harvest evaporation vapors. So far nothing. But the milk is looking extra chunky. I am a kitchen caveman.

Mmm…fire…gooood….

It's funny, I gave the woman my hostess apron and mantle, but not to help. I just did it because I didn't want to deal with it. The writers' group Christmas party is a tradition. They deserved the party, but let somebody else be traditional. I didn't feel festive. That's why I declined my work Christmas party. I didn't want to drive to LA wearing the mask of Christmas cheer. The work parties are kinda cool too. If you like radio personalities, everybody shows up. Even Kasey Kasem is there every year. If you don't like radio, then it's a veritable who's who of who cares.

I care: I surrendered the writers' party. In my self pity, I helped somebody else out. I swear it was an accident. It was supposed to be an uncomfortable and awkward party for everyone. Now even I'm looking forward to it. How weird is that? Why is it that when we do something nice, even though our motives are skewed, something nice comes out? Oh, I'm still a firm believer in "no good deed goes unpunished," but sometimes the punishment is worth watching somebody else smile.

Right now my punishment is making milk evaporate. Maybe if I put the plastic carton on the stovetop I can speed up the process.

Mmm…fire…gooood….

On Humbug! On Blitzen!

So where was I? I was talking about divorce and Christmas that wasn't, wasn't I? It's pretty bad when a blogger has to carry a conversation on from one blog to the next. That's like talking to yourself and going "Hey, I've got some things to do, can I get back to you about this later?" Then again, yeah, I do that…

I read somebody else's blog the other day—Yeah, I may be self indulgent but I do realize I'm not the only planet in the solar system; I like to view the lesser planets from time to time. It helps my sun revolve around me. So anyway, this other blog...They were talking about Christmas traditions during a divorce. The blogger wanted to know what new traditions people were raising, and which one's they were tossing like ballast bags from a falling balloon.

She gave examples. Bloggers like examples. They're like word images for people who like to write word images. She mentioned things like driving around looking at lights, buying special ornaments for each year, and all those really cool things that I used to do at Christmas. Great! Now MyUnwife has hired a saboteur blogger to kill Christmas! She's grinched MY Christmas onto her sled of malcontent pulled by a team of Furbies. WTF? Thanks oh friendly holiday blogger for that swipe with the cheese grater! Do you have some lemon and salt for my wound too? No? Just splash it with eggnog and whip me with garland then.

I left a comment on her page saying as much. Ok, it was a kinder gentler post saying "I did all these things, but MyUnwife stole them." The blogger replied to me! Normally we bloggers only write because we like our own voice, and yet she listed to mine. Wow! It must be as pleasing as I thought it was! She said that I should still do the things I enjoyed. Make them my own again. How crazy is that? She even said I should make new traditions, like setting up a tree in my yard for the neighbors, and have them come by and decorate it. Like Christmas is a time for giving or something. Yeah, whatever. She also said something about caroling. I stopped there. The last time I caroled, I was arrested for "felonious assault." Never again. My voice is now registered with the police as a lethal weapon.

Still her challenge had merit. Why should I just let Christmas go without so much as a bang or a whimper? I like me! I need to make sure other people like me too! I need to do something that says "Rob is a great and benevolent guy," in a humble and subtle way. I'm still not putting up a tree, The six foot memory knife is a little much for me to handle this year. Baby steps. I'd put the lights on the house, but there's nobody to hold my ladder. I know, you're saying "Why not have a neighbor do it?" That's because you don't live in California. We don't have neighbors like that. Where your neighbors would call 911 if you fell off a ladder, my neighbors would call "Dibs!" It's a cultural thing.

Still, maybe I'll decorate something. I could string lights from a palm tree, or a cactus in my yard. Maybe dangle ornaments from the tines. Sort of a yard self portrait. Sure! I could even buy a new ornament to represent the year. I think I could get a hunk of coal real cheap. OK, fine! I'll look for something brighter. I'll consider it, how's that? You happy now?

Somebody send in the Cindy Lou Who waif, I feel my heart growing three sizes this day. Here's a start. I've set up a Christmas card net to pull in all the cards I get:

Some of you may not be able to see this, if not go here. My little gift to everyone.

Bah humbug.