"I am the only child there is …"-Guster

TGIF?

Really?

Of course I know that was yesterday; My calendar isn't broken, I wind it daily.

Anyway, I was making a point. About Friday to be specific.

Here's a little secret. It's about me; when I was a kid I used to like school days better than weekends. Kinda weird huh? Well let me explain. We lived 8 miles outside of town. I only knew two kids who lived out in my area.

The one cool thing was there were lots of trails to ride my bike, and plenty of interesting places to hang out and write, including an old pit rumored to have been dug out for a swimming pool. I don't know that it really was, but it was a great place to light fireworks, and in the winter it became nice ice pond. Or at least what would have been the deep end became an ice pond. I've been known to skate off the deep end on occasion.

Not yesterday. Not Friday. Especially not a Socal Friday. We hear the crazy stories you foreigners tell about "snow" and "ice," but it's only a legend on a weather map. We can look out any windows on any Friday and know you're liars.

Proof you're a liar.

As a kid, I experienced the white fluffy death falling from the sky. Pure and innocent in color, but blanketing the world with a cloying stillness. Worse for me, it usually lasted just long enough to close school and take a picture. By 10am I could slide out into the brown muck and make a mudman. Woo Hoo! It was like the opening passage of The Cat in the Hat, but without the "we." I had no Sally.

I know, I know, collective "awwww." Pity my pathetic boyhood now.

Keep going.

A little more…

Yes, yes, sad lonely Robby…

Ok…that's enough. I good to go. Pity quotient full for the week.

School days were when I hung out. That’s where I learned to study people, and experimented in socialization. Yeah, there was that school thing with teachers and grades and cliques, but there were hallway adventures and lunchroom romances. In high school, if you couldn't find excitement inside, you could always slog outside, endure subzero weather and shiver with the smokers. It didn't matter if you smoked, your frozen breath drifted up like cigarette plumes, just like candy cigarettes as gradeschoolers, but with the added fun of frostbite. Smokers were relegated to a small cliff plot called "the hill." Everyone inside sneered at the huddled masses out on the hill. If you were a smoker on the hill, you must be a stoner as well. So sayeth the kids who took their cars off campus to light up. Some things never change, even after school.

Others do. Now, I work at home and Fridays are my day off. My day to catch up with chores that stack up like cord wood during the week. Oh, and I pay bills. Yes that's right, if you're going to come out and rob Rob, Friday is the night to molest the mailbox. Ok, maybe not. If you're going to molest it, just knock on the door, I'll give you a key...

I also take time to write and forage for groceries. That's my Friday night. When I say "write," I mean more social writing. I go to the local plaza mall, and sit out on the fountain in front of the theater. I watch the people pass, and work things out on paper. It's my chance to be amongst the crowd without being part of it. My yellow note pad is my sketch book for dialogue, people, and the oddities of life. I go with a project to work on, but usually find myself distracted and writing about the world around me. It's all fine, I can use it any time in some other project. Character studies keep like canned goods. People are pickles. Yup. They have a good crunch too. You heard it here first.

At the plaza, there's usually a live band, bad coffee, and wound up teenagers. So after an hour or two I'm ready to leave or drive my pen through the skull of the next screaming debutante. Ok, my plaza isn't that nice. I don't see many debs. Then again, I'm not up to date on teenage girls anymore; how many tattoos disqualifies deb standing? I suppose lying on your back could ruin deb standing too. They don't do that in the plaza though. It was just an observation. I can't tell: there's no longer a hill to separate the social climbers from the whores.

After social studies, I walk to agriculture and buy groceries, Then I drive home. It's my "big night" Kind of boring huh? You know what though? I like it.

So yeah, I'll stick with TGIF. It's my unwind day.

My Friday Hangout:

omission

This week I reposted the pics from last week at gather.com. I also posted this one, and they went nutty over it. Well, nutty being 6 comments as opposed to the 2 I received on all the others. So, I decided to punish you--er, reward you and post it here too.

Actually, you've already seen a version of this. It's from my Laughlin trip. See if you can spot the 54 differences. Here, I'll give you one freebie: The post date is different.

Have fun.

"Some things should be simple…"-Editors

"You never ask for help." She said it. She was right. Well except the never part. MyUnwife was happier dispensing absolutes than I was. She was also pretty happy giving her opinion on the subject. Never? Naw, every time I used the word "never" I always ate the leftovers later. I try to avoid "never" anymore. It tastes too much like crow.

It is true that I "rarely" ask for help, but I have reasons for that, and not all of them involve my ego. I nev-rarely rely on my ego to make decisions. Ok, it's more frequent than rarely. What's 1 or 2 degrees more than "rarely" is that a "scarcely?" I know that there are 3 "seldoms" in a "rarely" and an almost infinite amount in a never…

No, the word I'm looking for is not "Frequently" thank you very much.

I don't ask for help because I need to believe the person I'm dealing with is qualified to help.

The last person I asked to help me was a grocery store a stock-boy.

"Where are the toothpicks." simple question.

"That's funny. You're the fourth person to ask me that this week. The last woman who asked…." The boy's mind ambles into an anecdote that might be more interesting if I worked in a grocery store, or didn't have a mission to fulfill. Otherwise, this story was as focused as the Israelite's vacation in the desert: 40 years of "are we there yet?" and the worlds largest ball of manna, and the story wouldn't end. I considered showing him my list, but I'm afraid he has a story for each one of those items as well.

The story reaches a conclusion-like point, or more a moment of awkward laughter followed by silence. The boy returns to what he was doing, as if I never asked a thing.

"So where are the toothpicks?"

"Oh, that's right. I've never had so many people ask me about those, but this week-"

"Yeah, I know. Four people. Pretty rare. Where are they?"

"The people?"

"No the toothpicks."

"That's what the other people asked for!"

"And what did you tell them?"

"What?"

"When they asked for toothpicks, where did you tell them to go?"

"I told them I didn't know."

Yeah, this is what I usually get when I ask for help. I could have walked down every aisle twice on my hands in the time it took me to get through this. If I find the toothpicks, I'm hunting this kid down and stabbing him--one for each minute he stole from my life. Maybe I'll just go back to the fruit aisle and pelt him with kiwis: instant gratification.

"Hey man! What gives."

"Kiwis! The viscous down under killer! Quick! The only way to defend yourself is with toothpicks."

"you're the fourth person to pelt me with kiwis this week. Ow!"

"Get used to it. Your life is going to be filled with these little coincidences."

I rarely ask for help. I do it as a benefit for other's around me. Nobody likes to be assaulted with Kiwis and toothpicks.

I've been reconsidering my novel this week. I need help. So does my Novel. I think it needs some editing and revisions if I'm going to sell it. I know, I have the writers' group, but what I need, isn't their specialty. We meet every 2 weeks for a few hours, they're good at concentrating on 10 pages. If it can happen in 10 to 15 pages, you're golden, but a whole novel? There's no time to read it, and there's nobody in the group I trust enough to give a copy to. No, I don't think they'd steal it, I just don't think they'd read it. They're good at the micro, I need a macro.

Only 2 people have read my whole book. One doesn't come to the group anymore, he's hanging out with his new atheist friends. I'm not sure I could trust him on this anyway. He thought The Da Vinci Code was a modern day Beowulf. If he meant it should have been eviscerated by Grendal, yeah, I can get behind that. I don't think that's what he meant. He liked the puzzles too.

Yeesh...

The other reader is MyUnwife. Actually she could be very good at this type of thing if she wanted to. She's great at looking at large projects and finding relationships and patterns. She rocks on the macro. The problem is she also gets a little bored and impatient, so if the macro needs more than one or two reads, she's leaving in a stack with last years tax forms.

I told her once that she was good at this. I was working on another project and I said I wanted to wait until it was done to let her read. I wanted her to see the whole project as a reader would: fresh, new and at once. Unfortunately, this conversation took place while she believed my every word was a barb aimed at her head. I don't remember what I said exactly, but I probably could have worded it better. In verbal conversation there is no edit. And there is no "Team" in divorce. There is an "I" though. So if you're looking for the "I" in "team" he's over here, getting a divorce. Just an FYI (Finding Your I)

So My book needs help, but I have nobody to ask. It's ok. I rarely ask for help, and I'm used to surviving without it.

I do have one problem that you could help me with though. Since I've started cooking for myself, I've been doing pretty good, but I'm having trouble with one item. One meal item overwhelms me every time. Can you help? Answer me this:

How do you toss a salad?

No really! Stop laughing! I'm serious! Knock it off! Listen, I toss a salad and I get a canopy of lettuce over a lump of cut veggies. How do you mix this thing? You're still laughing at me aren't you?

See? And that's why I never ask for help.

Back

To the best coffee in all the land.

5

Nope not gonna make any jokes at all...

coffee 4

Coffee?

They serve the sun, why not coffee?

3 coffee more

Does starbuck's know about the turf invasion?

2nd coffee break

Who'd have guessed? A Starbuck's.

First coffee shop

Best coffee in town!

"Hey Chel, I think I'm a housewife…"-Michelle Shocked

Ok, It's walk day. So this would be my early post. Sip up your coffee, cough down your scone, and enjoy the lyrical stylings of Rob's blog….

Somebody a few weeks ago accused me of hiding behind anonymity in my blog. Accused is a strong word, it was more like commented, but I like accused. It makes them sound evil, vile, and wrong. The Hitler rain on my blog parade of innocence.

I thought about it. Am I hiding? No, here I am. Every time you Googlemap me, a pushpin drives through my forehead.

Ok, stop it now.

Stop it! One pin per customer is sufficient thank you!

Freakin' sadists...

I'm not hiding, at least not from anybody who's looking. See, it's something I learned while studying people. If you don't know a person, never listen to what they say. It's all first impression makeup and blush lies. They'll babble on about who they'd like you to believe they are. Listen to how they say it. That'll tell you about who they really are.

Like yesterday, I said I had a raven pecking at my chest. Did you believe my pest control issue is that bad, or that I'm conceivably that close to carrion that scavengers stop by, testing my flesh for prime pickin's? Some days sure, but yesterday? Hardly likely. I was good enough. I was smart enough, and gosh darn it, people liked me!

What you did learn is that I'm familiar with Poe, and Clint Eastwood films. Through my entries I've told you everything from my general disposition, to my mother's maiden name. Even all you need to know about my first dog.

These are the things that teach us about people. Body language is great too, but if that's not available, you need to sluice the undercurrents of conversation. I met MyUnwife online, but one of the first things I learned about her was that we shared the same knowledge base, and she wasn't afraid to express her opinion.

These are important traits when looking for somebody to share your life with. At least for me. I like somebody I can talk to, as well as somebody who's willing to express themselves. I never could get into the coy games. Tell me what you want, because sometimes I can't see the signs. I'm blind, and that brings us back round to reading people again, huh? I like my people Braille. Lumpy. What's real and what's presented for you, discern what you can, take the rest on faith.

There are other way's people pass on clues in writing. I had a friend tell me about "this blond woman" she worked with. I knew before we met in person that my friend was either a brunette or a redhead. People usually describe others by how they differ. So, you can tell me nothing about you, yet describe yourself down to your crooked teeth.

These are the tools we use to learn the world around us. If we close our eyes to them we'll run into the wall every time.

I know what you're asking, "Ok, then, what happened with your marriage Rob If you're so smart, why didn't you see that wall?"

Because, my dear reader, sometimes you hit the wall, sometimes the wall hits you. Some things move too fast (or too slow) to see until it's too late. That's why you need to watch. I mean, I could say I'm a housewife with a penchant for fuzzy bunny slippers, but if you read my blog, you'd probably find that a little suspect. At least the fuzzy bunny part.

So I take this moment to rebut. I think you know a lot about me. If not, today, while I'm out walking, go back and reread my blog.

Here, let me start.

Hi, I'm Rob...

Reliving the past

So, a few minutes ago I was clearing off one of my bookshelves. There's a bunch of old college books there, including a literary cannon. I hadn't pulled this out in years. So many cool short stories and poems, I promised I'd reread once I had the time. That time never came. For fifteen minutes today, I gave a small down payment on moments owed.

A friend once wrote a piece called "Nickels" about carrying change for things like that, dispensing them as we could, and finding peace with things we could not repay. At least I think that was the intent. It could have just been an ode to a favorite pet.

"Here nickels! Here boy!"

Anyway, I happened across a short poem:

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old, but add-
Jenny kissed me!
-Leigh Hunt.

pg, 479, Top 500 Poems, edited by William Harmon. Columbia University Press, 1992.

This isn't actually my college literary book, but you have a better chance of finding it for yourself here. I like this poem because it's so simple and short, unlike anything I write, it gets in and gets out. I tried writing one like this once, but it became so top heavy that the paper actually curled. Ok, not really. It curled only after I crumpled it up and threw it away.

Ok, back to my day. Return to your previously scheduled daydreaming, already in progress.

"its your job to dance and smile…"-The Format

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

No wait, that's not what I said. I promise you, knock on my door at 8 am, the first words you hear won't be, "Who's there?"

"Go Away!"

I rolled over, checked the clock, and closed my eyes. Visualizing through my eyelids, I wandered the hallway, the livingroom, out the door, and out the screen. The mystery knocker again came rapping. Poe invaded my dreams, bird on my chest, gently tapping. This morn's sleep would return, nevermore.

Sigh...

Knock-knock.

Decisions loom. Then gather together to weave a nice rug. A patchwork of questions (yeah, I'm taking this bad metaphor train over the cliff, hang on! Chuga-chuga WOO WOO! ) Do I feel lucky? Is it a solicitor, or Ed McMahon? IRS or DHL?

Dirty Harry Raven stops pecking at my chest gazes into my eyes and asks, "Well do ya punk?"

Gaaah! I roll out of bed grab a shirt and shorts and dress-stumble down the hallway.

Thump!

Ow!

Wall.

Over compensate: Other wall.

Uh!

My glasses still sit on the alarm clock; I'm going in blind. I'm also going in with my shirt inside out. Too late to change that now. I hope it's not on backwards too, or the tag is going to stick in my mouth as soon as I say hello.

I practice, "Hello?" nope, no tag.

Flipping both the locks, I jerk the door open. It's DHL. Or at least the colors are right. It's either that or a Hot Dog on a Stick representative, but I don't think they make house calls. Especially at 8 am. I don't see a funny hat. Must be DHL

"Package."

"Ok."

"Sign." He holds out an electronic device shaped like an old printing calculator. I try to follow the blur that's his finger, but it's tough. I think there's a screen…where's the pen? Oh, I didn't say that out loud.

"Pen?"

He points again. Same place, different object. There's a long shadow laying over the screen.

I write, he asks, "Name?"

I tell him, he punches something in, hands me an envelope, and hurries away down my walkway.

"Thanks…" I say to his back. It's as unresponsive as his front.

Flap-flap-flap. The raven. Over my head, out the door, and onto the DHL man's shoulder he lands, picking nits of discontent.

Inside, I open the package to see what gifts the world has brought me today.

My glasses, I need those first. Otherwise I'm not seeing anything but color and shape. Well movement. I see movement pretty well, but if the envelope has movement. It's going in the trash, unopened, anyway.

There's no movement. I prod it with a steak knife to be sure. There's no life; It's my new health insurance plan.

Oh thank God!

It's not such good news that I got it, but it's a great reminder that I can add 200 bucks to my paycheck each month after the new year. I'm still paying for MyUnwife. Come '08, I'm dependant free. Petty? I've told you, I've got to take the victories when they hit, and $200 a month is quite the coup. As it stands, I'm still spending more each month than I'm making. The only thing that's saving me, is the money we split from savings 3 months before she left for necessities. She bought a fridge, I saved it for housing. It's like the ant and the grasshopper. Trust me, I'd rather be a grasshopper, but that's not a choice for me right now. So, every month I bite off a little savings and pass it around the bill collector in the colony.

Come January though, that may change a bit. I think I can break even. I just have to make January. I still can't afford landing on Boardwalk, but so long as I stay between Baltic and Oriental, I should be fine.

It's kind of exciting. This is the first time my bills are so low. I have a 2 credit cards with outstanding balances, but those are from the things I needed to buy when she moved out. Things I didn't spend the cash on. I know, I'm paying more in interest, but It's easier to afford that than to cash out. It works. It's my fragile eco-balance, I can survive. Survival is good. Survival is one more small victory. At least until tomorrow morning when the raven returns.

Toys!

I was futzing with the internet. Looking for anything non-work related (because to find that would mean I'd have to return to work. Sort of like playing a board game and drawing a "go back 3 spaces" card.). I ran across 2 things you might find interesting. Then again maybe not. Either way, here they are. Because I care.

1. Blogger play. Have you seen this yet? It shows random blogger pictures. It's almost hypnotic.

2. Foxy Tunes. It incorperates your music controls onto the bottom of your browser. It works for iTunes, Windows Media, as well as other sites such as Pandora. It's great for Pandora, because it'll show what's playing without needing to return to the tab. Yes, tab. I forgot to mention, it's a Firefox addon. No Firefox? Just ignore that I even opened my mouth.

Ok, that does it for this hour's "Fun With Rob." Tune in next week when we'll teach you how to tar and feather your Rob like a professional.

"Make me feel like I'm the one who moves …"-Kings Of Leon

So I tried my Chicken Kabobs last night. Very tasty. The sauce wasn't quite right though., it suffered from a Gilligan's Island syndrome: too much ginger.

Yeah, sorry. That's the type of joke that would have made MyUnwife sigh and probably leave the room. Can't blame her too much. It was a bad joke. But then again, I was never that fond of Ginger. The castaway, as a Spice Girl, she's just fine.

I considered Ginger Spice while eating my kabobs. She was the bad girl Spice. Always into trouble and stuff. Didn't she do a nude shoot or twenty? Her past caught up with her in the height of her career. Too bad, it wasn't much more than ankle high. She was also the spice most likely to throw a hissy-fit; Spice Girl most likely to be found naked and screaming, huh.

The Irish have a legend based on that woman. They call her a Banshee. What? The banshee isn't naked? Well she should be! There goes my segue. Fine. You can all blame the smartaleck who pointed that out. Now you'll just have to enjoy a train-wreck segue.

Kabobs, rice, and a salad, that was dinner. I glanced over the newspaper. That's something I didn't do while I was married. That's because we were busy talking. We talked about everything: Horrible jokes, who died in the Obits, the latest naked spice "(Have you had sugar in the raw?"), what new songs I heard today. Some topics were important, most topics weren't, at least not to anybody else but us, in that moment. Last night it was me and the newspaper making things topical.

There was a big article in the health section. I normally try to avoid that during dinner; that section can get graphic. It's like watching CSI and eating.

"Mmmm, that bullet perforated the heart, he fell from the table, causing a compound tibia fracture, and a the lampshade on his head juiced his brain like an orange. Pass the zester please."

Last night the Health section looked safe except that guy showing new exercises. He was doing something tippy-toed, and fingertipped to a table with a lampshade on his head, very dangerous. Very strange. I didn't read that article. I flipped pages for naked Ginger pics.

The big article was about women holding in anger. It supposedly shaves 7 years off their life. Men? It doesn't do a thing. How cool is that? We've evolved an extra organ for filtering stored anger. I can seethe all I want, and I'm cool, the organ turns it into back hair. Women would be fine, but their body rejects the organ that puts hair on their chest. That's why they die sooner. They hold it in like a sneeze. That's bad for you. The sneeze has to go somewhere.

Of course then there's that other article about people living alone vs. married people. The lonely ones die 2 year earlier. I just gave up 2 years of my life! I’m gonna have enough back hair to knit a sweater from that info. Thank God I'm not an angry woman too!

Where they get this stuff. How do they test it? This isn't lab rat stuff. What do they do? Stick people in crates and take notes?

"Hey Bob, looks like the fat guy died."

"huh, I thought he had another 2 years in him."

"Me too."

"Cool, so it's agreed: 2 years early."

"Bob, Frank, hurry! Skinny guy in 12 is trying to pull a back hair Repunzel!"

After dinner I went to work. Since there's a TV in my office, I turned it on. I'm a wooly sheep. I watched an old episode of Everyone Loves Raymond. It's the one were Ray gives his wife the bathroom. At the end of the episode, there's a big argument of mean.

I thought about that. As best as I can remember, MyUnwife and I never argued. Sure we disagreed, but it usually was settled over a series sighs. That was it. Should we have argued? Should she have been a screaming Ginger Banshee? Would it bring my two years back?

Obviously there were things that bothered her but she never brought them up. She didn't even mention the "big stuff" until after they were really non-issues. She brought them up, not as problems to be fixed, but as excuses to leave.

People who argue say that it helps them grow together. By screaming grievances, they knit themselves into a binding back-hair straight-jacket. Does that really help, or is it a case by case thing? I don't know. I have to wonder, I'm supposed to learn from all of this. I need to become a better person, otherwise what was it all for?

It has to be more significant than just a good excuse to read the newspaper at the table. Where is Gilligan's Ginger when you need to make sense of the worlds deep philosophical crises? It's like the one thing I learned from that show: You can fix anything with a set of coconuts.

One more thing!

This Thursday is my long walk day. Since last time I was asked to shoot Leprechauns without a license, I thought I'd do something different. I didn't need somebody suggesting I look for other mythological beasts like a punctual Californian, or an honest lawyer. So, instead I offer you this: Guess how many coffee shops I pass on my walk. This does include Starbuck's, so get out your calculators.

Now have fun!

"Maybe she knows something I don't…"-Jack Johnson

The tires squeal as I round the corner. I check the clock.

4:05

"Crap!" I'm late. Nothing new, just something I'd rather not be right now. Pulling up, I see her. She's already pacing out front. Not a good beginning. I park the car, and check myself in the rearview.

As good as it gets.

There's a quick hand through the hair to smooth it down before I get out to smooth things over. Looking my way, she gauges my approach. What does the look say? I can't tell; she's wearing sunglasses. She wears enigmatic well . What do I say? This is so awkward. Should I have brought something? Oh I did….it's back in the car. Too late for that. The first impression is everything, and I've already blown it.

"Hey!"

Silence.

"You ready?" She turns and walks inside. I take that as yes.

It's been 2 months since I've seen MyUnwife. We're gathered here today to get through some paperwork on the house.

You want to know the first thought that ran through my head when I saw her? She's shorter than I remember. She used to seem 8 feet tall and luminous. Now? She's short. And sad. She took off the glasses when she entered Kinko's. That's what I saw: sad. Not in a pathetic way, just sad, as in "Not happy." Something's bothering her, and I don't know what it is. It's not my place to ask. I suppose it could be me, but I've never been a good judge at that type of thing. My first girlfriend stalked me for 3 months before she hit me with a brick to get my attention.

"oh, you like me huh? Couldn't you have said it with a Wiffle ball bat?"

"Tried that."

"Taser."

"Yup."

"Thank God I got the brick then."

"Yeah, my dad's gun is already in my locker."

"Cool, I'm gonna black out for a bit, but when I come to I'm all yours."

"You better be…"

Yeah, that'll be a chapter in my upcoming book, Love and Felonious Assault: A game for two players. I'm kidding. Don't rush your local book store. It won't be there. But if you do go in and whisper my name as you pass a book club meeting that would be great.

"Rob Blogwriter. He is like the greatest author of the twenty-first century."

Anyway, back to our story of MyUnwife and reading moods...

I'm great at reading people, except when it comes to their relation to me. There, I'm oblivious. Standing in Kinko's waiting for a Notary, MyUnwife is white noise and a static screen. I read nothing. I check my cell

4:11

Miss Cleo is on speed dial. Does she still have a number? She apparently was a real psychic, she saw how people would give her money and make her famous. That's 75 bucks per person for her fifteen minutes of fame. That kind of tenacity made Kato Kaelin a household name. Who saw that coming? I bet even Cleo didn't see Kato in the stars. Yet there he is…

"I am a bright and shining star…"

It's weird. We used to talk, (MyUnwife, not Cleo or Kato. C'mon! Keep up!) now there's nothing to say. I throw out small talk topics like life preservers, but they don't help. I've done everything to put on my best face. I'm OK; no need to worry about me. See? All smiles. Besides, Now that I'm no longer your concern, there's nothing to worry yourself about. Relax. Her face isn't relaxed. Well, it's not tense, but it's just so sad, and worn. I want to ask, but she's rescinded my rights. Instead all I can do is wonder. And that's the most insidious punishment of all. She might as well be wearing a sign around her neck, "Look but don't touch."

While she shows her ID and the Notary scrawls in her little book, I remember something she said back in February. It helps.

"I'll miss your parents. I like them. [as opposed to how I feel about you.]" This was while she was still "making up her mind." yeah, the subtlety didn't escape me either.

Crash!

I remember that, and it's a splash of frigid reality. I don't worry so much about her. It always brings me back to the "If I can't stop hating you…"

Yeah, right back atcha babe.

In the parking lot, I ask her about the divorce paperwork. She's waiting on a reimbursement check from her employer. I'm concerned about her spending. I do my best to let it go without harping. I just get worried. Bad things happen when you wait on things like this. We're friendly now. Let's end it this way. It's a perfect snapshot moment. Let's take the picture before somebody snarls. That's not the memory we'll want to carry in our wallet. Get out while all is semi-amiable.

"…I like them."

Click.

I want to say "Take care," but it sounds inappropriate echoing off the inside of my skull, so I fallback onto "See ya." It's the biggest lie I think I've ever told her. She repeats my words like hypnotized mantra.

"I must kill the Frank Drebin."-Police Squad. Use that as your voice print reference.

Click.

It's all wrong. She's done it all wrong. Walking around the house later, I remember all the things she's done wrong. I'd tell you, but then I'd have to list all the things she's done right. I don't have that kind of space in my blog.

I'll just say this: Despite the fact that it's all over but the fat lady, and she's only holding out for a better idiom, MyUnwife is the only woman I ever saw myself marrying and growing old with.

At least I got it half right.

"Sheep go to Heaven…"-Cake

It's all about learning. Some prefer to do it within the safety of institutional walls, others grapple what they can from their day to day. I've done both, and both leave you with something to think about.

School is a great place to study sheep. Lambs are groomed by shepherds sharing their perspective from their curriculum. "Square block fits in square hole" is the chalkboard mantra, while profs placate with the "think for yourself" placebo. Sheep advance, goats think for themselves from the parking lot. It's frustrating; I've seen many a good goat fall. Still it's important. Here you learn networking skills, advanced math skills, cultural anthropology, and, oh yeah, bleating. You can't get very far without bleating.

The street is a tougher teacher. While all competition is sanitized from our formal learning centers where "Everyone's a winner," the real world teaches you that The Highlander was right:

"There can be only one."

Unfortunately, if you want to make enough money to buy more than a used copy of The Highlander, you need to go to school. How much school? Well that's kind of like a spin at the roulette wheel. There is a point of diminished returns. As a general rule, If you know what "diminished returns" are, you've reached that point. You also have a student loan spider monkey riding your back like you're a circus dog. Circus performer, a great non-college job by the way. Same with rockstar. Good luck getting those gigs.

Life experience is critical too. The world teaches you that it's not enough to want It, you need to go get It. And how to accomplish that step, is something most people don't learn in school. Most schools wash their hands once you walk out their doors. The world teaches that sometimes it's your head on the pike, but not all pikes are created equal: sometimes you can regenerate. Sometimes you just need mighty morphing powers. If you believe you have these, don't bother going to school. Please advance to your nearest refrigerator box for a life of ease and comfort.

This week I spent my vacation doing projects around my refrigerator box. I didn't have time to do them while working at earning a paycheck. I did the things I learned about in school: I played with my camera, I futzed with some graphics programs, I wrote, I played, I gave blood, I lived.

There were lots of things I wanted to get done, people I would have loved to talk to, and words I just couldn't manipulate onto the written page. Still, my time was filled and I felt good. It was like a giant stretch in the May sun. Basking, I remembered a lesson I'd forgotten. Ok, I wasn't basking, I was outside pruning some spiky plant that tore into my flesh. Well it was either the plant or the spiders living in it. I'm routing for the plant. That part of the story doesn't work into my analogy though. That was something else they didn't teach me in school: melding metaphor with reality. Probably because the two never meet, just like two parallel lines waiting for a Disneyland ride. No, that's never move...

Anyway, let's try this. There are certain laws you live by when you live alone. Things that, although are helpful otherwise, they're easy to forget when you're part of a team.

While I was giving blood, I noticed a TV. When I first showed up, Oprah was on, so I signed my mind up for something else, but as soon as they swapped over to the Food Channel I petitioned that show. I now have a chicken kabob recipe with shallots for homework. I'll finish that later this week. Before, I might have mentioned the recipe to MyUnwife, but it would have died an incomplete. Now it's something I want to do.

It's the difference between couple-think, and single-think. Couple-think collapses when somebody offers a good idea, but nobody jumps on it. Both sides wait to see if it's important to the other, and when nothing happens, the idea dies. It's two submissive cats fighting. They run at each other, then both roll to their backs claws in the air, waiting for the other to attack. It's hilarious to watch, but frustrating for participants. MyUnwife and I are still waiting for the other to dive on exposed claws.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the couple, but there is something fresh about doing things for me again. It's like spring break. It's not surrendering my whole schedule to fit somebody else's, it's buying things I want, because I want them. It was always about what she wanted--as it should have been--but now, I don't have to worry about that. Maybe it's just being selfish. I don't know, but I haven't been allowed to be selfish for a long time.

Then there's that shaving thing. I'm still not sure about that, it could be the biggest mistake I've ever made. I just don't know. But I did it. Mistake or not, it's mine.

I'm not sure how to explain it, but it's the collective of seemingly stupid stuff like that that's making things fun again.

See, this is what I learned this week: When you waste time worrying about what you could or couldn't do if things were different, you stop yourself from experiencing what you can do with your life right now. School never touched on that.

Next week I'm going to go bow-hunt the neighborhood kids. College did teach me how to do that. No, but gosh wouldn't it be fun? That little neighbor boy is fast. I still think I could take him; I've learned a few tricks he doesn't know about yet. If he walks his bike across my lawn again, I just might teach him. If nothing else, I'll show him what the "manual" button on my sprinkler does.

I know, this goat's getting gruff in his old age.

"I'm the face that you have to face…"-Foo Fighters

"Looks good." That's what Pete said. Pete's in my writers' group and can't be trusted. He's a cop. Good cops require a particular mindset; it's what makes them good cops. It makes them shrewd, strong, and brave. It also inhibits their taste gene. Why do you think the police wear uniforms? It's because they can't dress themselves. It can be argued that it's not just the taste gene that's inhibited, but I'm not touching that argument. Pete's a good guy, he's in my writers group, and I'd rather not experience his handcuffing technique.

"You're drooling on my car! Don't make me Taser you!"

"Mff-mff-mm—OW!"

Still, I don't trust his "looks good" in my instance.

Lenny Kravitz, there's a guy with taste. I swear, that guy just oozes mojo. I remember back when he had all that hair. That was back in the "Are You Gonna Go My Way" days. Dude! It was amazing. Before you raise your eyebrow at me (that's you raising a single brow, not me suggesting you have a uni-brow.), I'm speaking from a purely observational perspective. Some things even a blind writer can't miss.

Then Lenny cut his hair. I heard an interview with him. He said something like his hair held all his power, and he needed a change. He needed to be free. I suppose it was a Sampson thing. I don't know. I haven't liked his music as much since he cut it, so maybe he was right.

I kind of went through the same thing, just not nearly as cool or notable. Mine was more like more of a weirdo guy down the block perspective.

I've been working out for a few years. One of the side effects for that is I've lost a little weight. I told MyUnwife, about a year and a half ago, that when I reached a certain weight, I'd make a few changes. This week I did that.

This week, I did something I haven't done in ten years. I got rid of ten years of Lenny Kravitz cool. Or as close as I'll ever come. Interestingly enough, it happened on the same day as my anniversary, but I'm going to go ahead and call that "coincidental."

Since I did it, my mood has been lighter. I don't know why: probably just the change. I'm still not sure I like it though, and that's why I'm recruiting you.

By now you've scrolled ahead and looked at the pictures at the bottom of this post. If not, that last sentence just pushed you over the edge. I'll wait for you to come back. See it?

So what do you think? Like I said, I'm still not sure, so I posted a poll. See, this is the first time I've been this naked in 10 years. I don't know the mirror guy anymore. He's like Pete: I'm not sure he can be trusted. So go check the poll. It's right there on the side between the touch clock and the divorce calendar. Tell me what you think. I trust you. I mean what better way for me to gauge my future look than to ask a bunch of people who've never seen me before, and will never see me again?

See, I may not be cool, but I know how to suck up, and sometimes that's more useful.

The Old Me

The New Me

Alien Landscape

Tempest in a Paintcan

"How good it is to live tonight…"-Depeche Mode

Lions "Rowr"

Sheep "Baa"

Survivors say "Thank you sir may I have another."

That's what my See 'N Say told me. Ok, don't run in the room and check yours, like most things, mine was special. It had been modified. Why? Because it needed to adapt. Survivors adapt.

Look at my sister's See 'N Say. It died. Of course if she hadn't played with it so much it wouldn't have been devoured by the scissor beast.

"Mommy, it's broken."

"What did you do with the string."

"Nothing."

"Well it's not here. Did you take the plastic ring off?"

"No."

"Well you must have, the string isn't here."

Pause, "It's broken."

"Yes it is, but we'll see if Daddy can fix it."

Sometimes survivors are wracked with guilt for not protecting the herd. Especially when they're the ones who turned a fellow survivor into prey. If there isn't guilt, then we call that survivor something else: "Self serving asshole." That was the last time I ever consciously played that role. Pain teaches survivors, while predators shrug it off, and prey, well it's just one step closer to lunch.

Ok, now I have to back up. I see some of you staring confused. You were born in an age when your See 'N Say had an arm not a string. It looked like a cross breed between a pinwheel and a slot machine. Don't think that was an accident. Mattel and Vegas conspire. Yes, I know I've just shattered your idealism. It'll only hurt for a bit, so long as you stop scratching it. Stop that!

When I was young, we had to watch TV by candle light. Sorry, my dad's joke. Survivors pay homage to those who pass before too. No, my See 'N Say had a string with a ring attached to keep the machine from eating it. The string was cooler. When you pulled the string, you could jerk it mid pull and change the message.

"The dog says," jerk, "moo."

It was busily confusing children and turning animals into survivors.

In the human world, the Survivor says "I can adapt to this."

What do those who can't adapt say?

"Would you like the large? It's only fifteen cents more."

I'm practicing just in case.

Like my writers' group. There are 2 girls who write poetry. I'm not a poet. On my best day I'm a essayist who writes poetry. That is, if you think Dr. Seuss was a poetic mastermind. Some of my stuff can sit on the same shelf. Beyond that, well it might as well be Greek. Wait. I know Greek. It might as well be English. There. That's better.

We used to have a poet in our group, but they're gone. Now I'm the girls' only hope at a reasonable critique. Sometimes surviving on another person's knowledge base isn't enough.

"Well no, I'm not lost, but you're saying that Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. What kind? I'm not visualizing him. Yes, I know, you continue with the passage that he had no hair, but that doesn't give him identity. Fuzzy Wuzzy needs to be somebody. How can identify with a bald non-specific bear? Are you saying he's a utopian bear, living in a world without prejudice of race, creed, or religion? That's fantasy! If I can't identify, then how can Fuzy speak to me? Even Little Bo Peep had a conflict. Yeah, I saw your secret 'was't fuzzy' ending coming. It didn't really hold a surprise."

That's what I've got. They need help to adapt, so that they can grow. You can't learn from a teacher when you already know what they know. Seriously, neither girl writes fuzzy poetry. Actually one writes from a very disciplined, very structured approach, the other one writes with all passion, no discipline. If I could get them to work together I think that they could create something beautiful. So far that hasn't happened. Writers are a very standoffish lot.

Thank God I'm a writer. Standoffers are survivors.

After doing what I could to position my herd further from the predators, I returned to my den. As I'm leaving, this insidious cookie smell wafts over from the Starbucks corner of the store. They've got some bizarre chocolate chip potpourri laid out in front of an armada of cyclone fans. Customers are lined up at the counter bleating for any cookie shaped product under glass. It's all I can do to crawl out the door with my dignity. Ok, I grabbed somebody else's dignity, but the important thing is I made it outside to the parking lot without buying a cookie.

How? Easy, I promised myself I'd make me a batch when I got home. That's how survivors do it. They forage for their own food rather than wait for Zebrabucks to open a store down the block.

I made my cookies, and what's more while I waited I cleaned out the refrigerator. Survivors don't eat unknown growths on their leftover spaghetti. I don't think the fridge had been cleaned since we bought it. The shelves were gross, and there was cat hair in the freezer. Wait, before you call the ASPCA, I don't know how the hair got in there, but there was no cat meat. That's what's important. I'll ask Cosmo, my dog, later to be sure.

"You haven't been freezing your cats for later have you buddy?"

"Ruff."

"Ok well what have I told you about using Ziplock bags?"

Three hours, a hippo sized vat of cleanser, and a hazmat suit later, my refrigerator is clean, my cookies are baked, and I have survived another day.

"Thank you Sir may I have another."

***

Brief note of possible interest. If you watch the videos, look for a younger Daphne Zuniga and Virginia Madsen. This was a promo video for a movie that came out in 86 called Modern Girls.