" 'Cuz this is my way out…"-David Usher

Yesterday was trash day.

Yup. That was the highlight. Want to hear about it? Ok. I grabbed the can from beneath the sink, pulled the bag out of the little white smelly can that needs a bath really bad. I mentioned smelly right? Me and my sack headed to the bathrooms where I emptied not one but two cans of trash! Uh-huh. Feel the thrill. That's right, then scampering to the front of the house (yeah, I scamper when I'm alone. I find I lack the balance for a trot or skip.), I placed the bag on my entry tile by the front door, then grabbed the recyclable can next to the back door. Taking that bag, I meandered around the house, gathering newspapers, shredded documents, and plastic sundries.

Meander...

Meander...

Meander...

Meander...

Ok, that's done. I grab the two bags in my right hand (cuz I've been working out. Rowr!) and carry them to the big plastic rolling cans that smell better than their indoor compatriots and toss each bag in the appropriate receptacle.

And my wedding ring dives in with the recyclables.

I'd like to tell you I made that last part up. Isn't that really cool and symbolic? I want to write like that some day. No, the best material takes place in real life. Fiction ain't half of what it's cracked up to be. My life sacrifices itself for art. I'm a martyr for myself.

That's special. It still doesn't get my ring out of the trash. So spilling the can on it's side, I become a dumpster diver outside my own home. Yeah, my neighbors are staring at me. They've been staring since MyUnwife left—waiting for something cool to happen. When it happens, will the Home Owners Association approve? I'm sure I have neighbors ready with bylaw-bibles ready to quote chapter and verse if it doesn't.

"Mr. Blogwriter, gunfire is strictly prohibited after 10pm."

California neighbors never talk much, we're known for our cool fences. It's a nod to Robert Frost, who most Californians will never read. I've read him, but I don't count. I'm a transplant. I'm taking the road less traveled. I don't belong.

So I squat, sifting through the bags and boxes. Thank God it was the recycle bin. The ring isn't too tough to find; I'm just glad I noticed before the trash trucks. It fell off the other day while lifting weights (it got stuck in a glove); I didn't realize it until after drying from my shower.

I've lost so much weight since we were first married, but I just don't see the sense in having the ring resized.

So why do I still wear it? I'm still married. I know, I know. It's only matter of time and a state stamp, but still. I made a vow. When the state of California absolves it, I'll remove the token bond. Until then, I'm still married.

I know, it's stupid, but I'm stubborn that way. It also sucks. I can't even smile at a girl without looking like a creepy letch.

"Mommy that man's staring at me!"

Sorry wrong girl.

"Look somewhere else, you perv, before I gouge your eyes out!"

There, that's the girl.

No. It's like this weird limbo. It's worse than when I was married-married. At least then there were rules. Rules make things black, white, and easy. A female friend mentioned going out for beers once. I wasn't sure if she was suggesting we go, or if she was just lamenting the lonely California transplantation. I opted to interpret it as the latter, because there was nothing I could do about the former. My wife had strict rules about taking other women out for drinks. On the other hand, I felt bad. Here was a friend who needed help, I should have been able to do something more than, pat-pat, "Don't worry, It'll get better."

What the hell kind of cop-out crap is that? Now, the roles are reversed, sort of: I'm in need of a drink, and there's a Post-it on my refrigerator saying "Don't worry, it'll get better." I know it's there. I wrote it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm actually doing ok, it's just that this awkward unmarried-married phase has me a little off kilter—sort of like pin the tail on the donkey for adults. You know where there's no donkey, no pinning, just some ass spun dizzy and left alone in a big room: empty except for the passel of railroad ties littering the floor. I'm looking for balance, and it's not there, just silent stumbling blocks and the smell of tar. No, I'll settle for busy: it slows the spinning.

Last night I made dinner. It was leftover night; too many half portions in the fridge; I ran out of Tupperware. So I'm standing in front of the nuker waiting for either the plastic wrap bubble to explode or the meal to finish (I've taken odds with myself as to which is going to happen). Ok, that's a lie. We all know the wrap shrinks around the plate. There was no bubble. I'm sorry, That story was easier than admitting the stupid stuff really running through my head:

Funny, I've used more ice cubes today in 106 degree weather than I did last week when it was 89 degrees…

If there are sixty seconds in a minute, does that mean there are 61 servings in a box of minute rice..?

Spido Cherokee? What kind of porn name is that?

Yeah, even the voices in my head got bored and went out to play with the dog.

"Here cosmo!"

"No here Cosmo!"

"Over here!"

He hates that game.

So what do I do? I do what I do. Now there's a cop-out, but yeah. I keep busy-esque and I wait. Wait for a call, a sign, a letter. Something to arrive and tell me it's time to go on. Until then, I wait. I wait and meander…meander…meander...