"It's the little things that kill..."-Bush

It's the little things that mean so much. Yeah, I know: cliché. But clichés don't become clichés because they're wrong. They become cliché's because at least 3 oodles of people have said, "Yeah, that's true."

I look at the little things that have stacked up against me in this marriage, and it's daunting. I tremble, waiting for the pile to collapse on my head burying me beneath a pile of guilt and hearsay. That's why I'm so relieved that the little things stack up on both sides of the scales. Oh, I'm in no danger of the good pile collapsing. Really I'm only ankle deep at the moment, but it's existence gives me hope that things will change.

Take last night; I was feeling kinda bummed. The weekend was over, and it had been a decent one. We got along; we had fun. We'd even joked about things that weren't our marriage. I forgot for a little bit that I was getting divorced. So when she went to bed with a slight wave and a silent "goodnight," it hurt that much more. It was sliding on my face down a sandpaper bowling alley into a hopper of lemon juice. Oh Boy! So that was my weekend crashing down around me. Don't worry, I caught the whole thing on my back, carrying it around for the rest of the night. At least until I stepped outside.

Sometimes, at night I'll go out to the porch about 2am to pray. It eases my mind and helps me find a better balance. Maybe I think the divine radio tower won't make it through the house. I'm just looking for better reception; I don't know, I just like the porch better sometimes.

So I went out, and scattered across my lawn were plastic pink flamingos. Not quite an oodle, but there were at least 7 more than alot.

What the…

Yeah. My prayer was distracted. A sign, planted in the middle of my lawn, let me know I'd been "Flocked." Somebody from my church had donated money to the teen group, and they'd infested my yard with pink plastic bobbers.

It was so cool. Sure, I spent 15 minutes moving them from the yard to the garage, but somebody had thought enough of me to do something. Somebody said "Hey, we know you're alive." Something my wife hasn't done in years.

This evening she went out to the garage to smoke. When she came back to the living room she asked, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"So you found them huh?"

"How could I miss them."

"Yeah I was planning on dressing the place up once you left. No…" And I explained the whole thing. I told her I thought about leaving them on the lawn for her to see, but I didn't want to leave them there until noon (I work until 4 am. Have I mentioned that yet?).

She said, "I would have woken you up for that."

So the flamingos were a spark of conversation too. Multi-purpose birds those things.

I know I said we were getting along and all, and I guess we are. That's what scares me the most. Other than the complete lack of touch, things are almost exactly like they were. It's like even though she "Hasn't stopped hating me," she reacts no different than when she loved me. That disturbs me.

Almost as much as me saying that I was happy for it. I'm like a little puppy hopping up and down going "Notice me! Notice me! Please, notice me!"

And maybe it's true. Maybe I'm that pathetic. I don't even want to think about what it says about the origins of my marriage. That's a little dark. That stack of things is too big already, too many little dark accusation things swaying over my head.

Luckily for me, I have little pink flamingo things to lighten things up.