Burying the Dead: Two for the Price of One.

We put Grandfather into the memorial wall yesterday. Yeah, I know, what does this have to do with my divorce? Well you know, not everything is about that. There are other people in the world with other problems. Grandpa, well he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.

The memorial ceremony was nice. It was long enough to be thoughtful, but short enough to not become maudlin. The pews were full with many people who already missed my grandfather. I was happy to see them all there. I figure if 5 people show up to my funeral, I'll stand up out of the coffin and wave. Sure they might pass out, but that's more people than I expect.

I did miss MyUnwife a little during the proceedings. I sat watching my uncles' wives comforting them as the priest gave the eulogy, and I wanted that. Not their wives to comfort me, but I missed having someone there for that—for me. Despite all the mean, nasty, cruel things I say about MyUnwife, there were times she could be caring in just the right way. I miss that.

After the ceremony we went back to my grandmother's place. Walmart donated all the food we could ever need, and everybody ate laughed and remembered Grandpa. He would have liked that. My dad and I sat in the back room, where he asked me questions about my divorce. He's great that way. He cares, so he starts asking all this qualifying questions. Not to change my mind or anything, just to make sure he understands what's going on, and by proxy, I understand as well. Yeah sitting over ham and cheese, Dad helped me bury my own dead. I guess everything is really about that.

Lonely thoughts for the open road.

Today I drive home for Grandfather's memorial service. That won't be the only memorial: this will be the first trip home without MyUnwife. Road trips used to be great for us. We'd sing, talk, work puzzles, and all the same things we used to do as kids except punch each other. Even the silence was good. Wind, sun, and love via osmosis. Now it's six hours of me alone. My brain whining "are we there yet?" to an empty cabin.

I know, it sounds pathetic, but it's something I've got to do. And I'll be fine. I used to do it all the time, but the long drives are so much better with a companion. I guess that's what you could say about life. At least I do. Go ahead, say it. Good, part of the road trip too: waiting for somebody to finish their story while you hold your really cool one inside. Shaking like you need to pee, praying they'll pull their story over to the side of the road. I like sharing ideas and dreams with somebody who cares, having somebody to pelt me with M&M's when I get sidetracked or too whiny.

Today I drive out alone, but it's not a permanent state. I have spare seats in the car, so if you stand along the side of the road, I'll stop to pick you up.

Children mature. Adults revert.

Remember being a kid? I do. I mean I don't have them but I'm not too old, I remember the kid process. Kids resole issues the best way they can. When I was a kid, Jenny Gardner whipped me with a jump rope until I apologized. I don't even remember what I did, but I do remember the welts. She may have hit like a girl but she cracked a whip like a woman. Now as adults we struggle and strain to draw things out. We've learned to enhance the pain, making it unbearable for everyone involved.

That's divorce. It's adults in a courtroom sandbox flinging sand and kitty treasures at each other. Even the friendly divorce leaves room for shin cracks with a baseball bat. The problem is there's no playground monitor to make sure the adults play fair. We're expected to play nice because we're adults. Who thought that was a good idea? That's like my mom leaving my little sister to guard the cookies. She always got the good gigs.

How do we work around this? How do we find a way to be nice? Pride and comeuppance are more important than forgiveness and mercy. We hurt, somebody else must suffer. If somebody doesn't bleed, how will anybody know I was wronged? Me? I'm done. I just want to take my ball and go home. I can't; she's still got the stupid thing and it looks like she wants to play bombardment.

Yeah, things haven't really changed at all have they?

Change: Not a spectator sport

Busy week ahead. Friends, Family and Funeral. I'll post when I can, but it may be a little irregular until Thursday. Please continue to comment, I'll be better at replies than posts, and they keep me distracted.

Something else. Going forward, the posts here will change. Videos, music quotes, long posts: All gone. Starting next week, all posts will be snack size, and yummy. These will reflect the content available at DivorceU .

Speaking of which, DivorceU.com will be open very soon. I'll be one voice in a choir of experiences. There will also be experts, commiserators and clowns. Ok, no clowns, but I'm still trying so maybe someday. Anyway, check in periodically, they're opening soon.

"But Rob, we like your posts bloated and fatty!"

Fear not my friends, I have heard your plea. Lyrics, videos, and free association have a new address:

http://descarteslemming.blogspot.com

Today's post is the same, but starting next week the Descarte's Lemming site will run white with metaphor cellulite, and self-indulgence. Won't you join? Frolic in the remains of my life, because change is a game for all ages.

"Music Is My Aeroplane..."-RHCP

Dress shirt?

Check.

Socks and underwear?

Check.

Music?

Crap! I forgot to fill the iPod!

There's a rush and a scurry, and I'm not really sure why. I'm not leaving for Prescott until Monday. The memorial service is Tuesday. Nonetheless I'm little white wheel-mouse over not having enough music for a road trip. Call me futility.

I have satellite radio in the car. You think that would be enough, but no. In the old day's MyUnwife and I used to carry a grocery sack of CDs. The last time we did that, some lucky Vegas bellboy made off with that sack and our camera.

What you pack for Vegas, stays in Vegas.

MyUnwife used to tolerate my musical eccentricities. I think she knew that was one of those things. I'd spend the week before a trip plotting songs I might want to hear on the way. Towards the end, MyUnwife got pretty good at making sure to check the list for stuff she wanted to hear. She also got used to handling the superfluous stuff like sundries, shoes, and suitcases.

Now it's much easier. Click and drag, and I'm all good. Still need the suitcases though.

Last week I ripped tracks from some of my old discs; preparing for the funeral. I found that MyUnwife had stolen some of my music. Not as in she slipped a disc in her purse and ran off. More like there's stuff I can't listen to anymore. Disc that dare me to press play. I know I've discussed a few of these things, but this week I happened across a few that I would never have suspected.

The Cars first LP. I got that in grade school. By junior high, it was on heavy rotation. I still have the record but it's so crackly with over-use that even the Rice Krispy guys complain about the extra noise. Ok that was stupid. Sorry, I'm just upset.

I used to love the song, "Moving in stereo." Especially the way it flowed into the last track, "All mixed up." It's the perfect segue. It's so good, you don't listen to one song without the other. It's like, "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions," you don't do it. You might as well cut the guitar solo out of "Freebird." The segue was so tight, it made me want to be a DJ so that I could blend music like that.

I tried playing it. I can't. Every time I hear it now I think of MyUnwife singing "Except for my shoes." Her and her shoes. Figures I'd remember that line in reference to my own Imelda Marcos. It's simple it's stupid, and it's her way of stealing my music. She sang! Not well, but that didn't matter, her voice covers my favorite songs, and not even a corkscrew can pull it out of my head.

She took other things too. She took the Motley Crue, but that was no great loss. I'll find a way to live without "The Looks That Kill." I kind of wish she'd grabbed the Bon Jovi while she was in there, but we only made fun of them anyway. I can still listen to them if I want.

If I want.

Jewel is persona non grata since MyUnwife moved out. Ok, not Jewel personally, she can come over any time she wants, she just can't bring her guitar, and no singing. Especially not that song. You know the one. She can read from her book of poetry while feeding me grapes though.

I'll allow that.

It's awful the way music attaches to people and events though.

I knew a woman who said she couldn't listen to Stone Temple Pilots anymore because of her grandmother's funeral. The song "Dead and Bloated," played to a less than subtle reality. I'm not sure if she gave up the whole band, or just the song, but either way, it seems like a loss.

Why do we feel the need to sacrifice treasures to memories like offerings on an alter? I don't remember God ever asking for songs, movies, or mental trinkets. Yet we still slaughter them and toss them on the flames, praying for their delivery, praying for his blessing, praying for our freedom, praying to silence the ghosts in our heads.

My head.

I want to give you an answer. I'd love to make a cute quip, slap it on as a band-aid and be done with it, but I'm bloated and floating here too. So many questions, so much music. So much loss.

I'm sorting my songs, and now I need a new stack: stuff she took. It's not fair. I loved a lot of these before she came. There are other's I get to keep. I managed to wrestle the old Cult tracks out of her memory's grasp. Good thing, I could use a "Love Removal Machine" about now, and it's a perfectly good road track. That's one point for the home team.

"Do you ever feel things here aren't right?"-Angels and Airwaves

Optimism is a predisposition best served like a volley of tennis balls:

Relentlessly.

I try to be an optimist. My rose colored glasses sit stapled to the bridge of my nose. Ok, maybe the stapling wasn't something too optimistic, but I tell you, with the divorce, grandfather's death, and the wood house blowing down around me, I've had to add some ice and a few fingers of alcohol to make the glass look half full.

You've been reading, which side is the brighter side? The side burning down like a California hillside, or the pale bleak reflective qualities of my barren walls?

Oooh! That didn't sound optimistic at all did it?

The fresh new landscape outside, or the clean slate inside?

I'm gonna have to practice that. I'm still gritting my teeth when I talk. Oh, and my nose is bleeding from the staple. I look less jovial, and more crazed as every day passes. They'll come to take me away any day now..

I need to be taken away. Remember that Calgon ad in the 80s? Where's the bubble froth that can do that today? Exotic paradise springing up around me. Mai Tai to my left, frolicking maidens to my right. Maybe if I add some hallucinogenics to the bath water. That would give me a new perspective. Right now the rabid Pekingese chained to the spigot isn't frothing enough.

"Kick more!"

It's tough. Happy perspectives burst like bubbles around me, and I'm out of suds. "Oh, I think that was a black widow in my shoe! We'll at least it's a domestic spider."

It's tough, I think I've said that already. I have right? Yeah, right up there. Repetition helps. Sometimes if you repeat the good stuff it makes it seem better. Look at President Clinton. He repeated how he never had sexual relations with young miss Lewinski, until everybody believed they didn't want to have sex with her.

Hillary was another matter. Hillary probably held his head in the toilet bowl expressing her disdain and how he would repay her loyalty.

"I want to be president."

"But honey, you're a wom-blub! Blub! Blub!"

"And another thing, while we're here, put the seat down next time, or we'll be here again."

"Blub! Blub!"

Hell, Bill was in a bad place. All it cost Kobe Bryant was a rock the size of a palmetto bug. Hillary was a lawyer, she knows the score. Yet, Bill still smiles. Hillary may own his balls, but he's still got his optimism.

MyUnwife? I don't know. Towards me, I think it's safe to say she's a pessimist. The coffee scalding to the bottom of the pot variety. She would probably say I never did anything for her. She would be incorrect, but that wouldn't stop her from saying it. I did a lot of things for her, and probably more than she'll ever know. It does seems obvious now that no matter how much I did though, I didn't do the right things for her. I didn't do the things she needed.

If good Dr. Morgan amputates my leg, but leaves my gangrenous arm flapping in the breeze like a stinky windsock, how good of a doctor is he really? Sure, he did something, but in this case that doesn't fill the optimism glass any fuller. If I could trade the 3 fingers of scotch for a shot of morphine before I pass out that sure would be rosy though.

The whole argument is moot anyway. What does it matter now? Who's gonna benefit over what I did right or wrong? Does it help me to pat my back and go "Welp, at least I tried."

Sure he did something…

It's self-defeating and rots away the optimism like tooth plaque. It's gingivitis of the soul. And I need to floss it away everyday. I need to find something make my day. Each day I need to find the sun. Some days it's gonna be like Where's Hoffa? But I need to make it as obvious as the nose on my face, even if I have to staple it there.

Just a little Bactine will clear that up.

"Thought I'd be out of here by now..'-Concrete Blonde

Ok, stop me if you've heard this one before.

Knock knock.

No, it's "who's there?" not "Stop."

Knock Knock.

Sigh. I was joking about the "stop me" thing alright? Stop that. I've already written this. I can't stop.

So it doesn't matter if I've already written this. Thanks so much for pointing that out. That's probably one of MyUnwife's least favorite things about me: I'll plow through things to the bitter end, no matter how futile they look.

"oh look Rob, the race track is on fire."

"It'll weed out the competition."

"But the car is now on fire!"

"That's ok, we don't have much gas in the car to burn anyway."

"And the human fuel?"

"We're not that flammable. People are tough to ignite."

"Maybe that's just you."

"No I spark up real easy and burn for a long time."

"You can say that again…"

She probably doesn't like it because it reminds her of herself. I tried to tell her that once, and she accused me of calling her a drama queen. Actually what I was trying to say was that she could take "nothing" and run with it. I consider "Drama queen" to be more of an affront for the purpose of pity pandering. What I tried to say, was more like she could take a white mouse, turn it into a white elephant, then superglue her hands to his tail because she was too proud to let it go. If she were a drama queen she'd have slapped "Rob's fault" in black tar on the side of the elephant, then screamed in terror as the elephant crushed MyUnwife's world with her in tow.

There's no screaming here, just clenched teeth and laser glances. You can bet "Rob's Fault" is still posted on the pachyderm like a billboard for blind justice though.

I tried to say a lot of things to her at the end, including feuding words like "Good morning," but she wouldn't listen. She'd already categorized me as "Public Enemy Number One" and nothing short of a bullet to the head would change that. Given the option I was ok with stigma, sans bullet. She still eyed the gun longingly; it cooed more of love than my conversation. I stopped bothering. I gave up. I guess some things are too futile. Maybe I'm starting to see that.

Knock Knock.

I know you've heard it before, so have I. I heard it three times Saturday morning.

"Who's there?"

"Is MyUnwife home?"

"No I'm sorry, she no longer lives here."

"Oh, I'm sorry. We just wanted to talk with her about the up coming elections."

"Well I'm sure she'll vote."

"Do you know where?"

"I don't really know."

"Have you decided who to vote for…"

So I get them tucked away, and start my coffee…

Knock Knock

Crap! "Who's there?"

"Is Mrs. Blogwriter home?"

"I'm sorry she doesn't live here anymore."

This guy eyes me for a bit as if I'm lying. C'mon! if I had her tied up in the closet, a suspicious glance isn't going to make me give up the details. Columbo turns to go. Then stops.

"What about Mrs. MyUnwife'sMaidenName"

"Same woman, still not here."

Oh! You almost tricked me, you wiley stud.

"oh, ok. Thanks for your time."

I close the door he goes away. My coffee pot is sputtering it's "coffee's ready" song, so I spoon the sugar in the cup.

Knock Knock.

What the heck? Ok, so I didn't say that. I'm only half accurate.

"Who's there?"

"Ron?" It's my neighbor. We talk twice a year. He never gets my name right.

"Rob."

"Oh sorry. Hey what did that guy want?" He's suddenly turned into the neighborhood policeman.

"I don't know he was asking for my ex-wife." And as the words pass. I realize what I've said. It's the first time I've called her that aloud. It sounds weird, but still, it sounds accurate.

"You're ex?" He disagrees.

"Yeah, she's divorcing me." I give him the 3 sentence synopsis, skipping the plot points, just touching theme and climax. If the cargo diesel, three guys in coveralls, and stuff filing out of my house like ants' picnic trophies 3 months ago didn't connect the dots, nothing I say will. I feel so secure knowing he's protecting us, what do I know? I'm just Ron, his neighbor.

When I'm done, he doesn't even say "That sucks." He just says

"Well, I'm on my third. I know how that goes."

Does that mean I'm supposed to get used to this? I'd rather not. One time on this ride is about all I can stand without throwing up He then tells me I should go to Art's. It's a pub and restaurant. I'm not sure if he's telling me it's a good place to get drunk, pick up girls or some combination of all the above. I nod and smile. I'm still seeing things through to the bitter end. The ground shifts and rumbles; the albino pachyderm of the apocalypse is nigh.

So now I've admitted publicly that MyUnwife is my ex (even if The State hasn't said so yet.)

I haven't seen her in over a month, but I get the feeling that she's moving on too. Last night I tried to log into my old AOL account. I've told everybody I no longer use this one; it's in her name. I joined on when I joined MyUnwife ten years ago. She took custody of AOL, and I don't even get visitation. I still check it periodically; some people don't read email, they just send it. So when I say "email me here instead" they remain oblivious. I shouldn't miss these people, but I miss all the email I don't get. What am I going to do without knowing what teenage Cindee does in her spare time? What if I need Canadian drugs? Who will I call?

I fingered in my password, and AOL prompted me to a new screen saying "Please sign up for a new screen name. It's free!" She's closed my old email.

Good for her. She's seeing this through. I'd email her to tell her that acetate will remove the superglue, but she closed my account. Hang on! Just remember the white elephant is a friendly elephant—so long as you know when to let go.

"stay inside our rosy-minded fuzz…"-The National

Hi Rob,

It was an email.

Oh Boy!

I hadn't received one from this sender in a while. In fact, I hadn't seen her around at all. She used to show up for our writers' group, but lately she's been in hiding.

"Hi Rob,"

She knew my name too! She wasn't excited about it to exclaim it. All she needed was a comma.

It's funny the people that flow and ebb in life. One moment you're swept up in a tide of friends, the next, you're tossed alone, head in the sand. I believe these meetings are not random: You can chart them. Each face is a jigsaw piece, fitting into a pre-designed spot. The writers group is proof for me.

I joined a few years ago, while writing my novel. I needed outsiders with opinions. What my first months' meetings brought, were me, a bitter hippie, and a high school girl. Sure, great start for a sit com, but in reality, it doesn't play out. We stared at each other. The girl did homework, I looked at my work, and the hippie reminisced over halcyon days, when people communed and worked for the group.

I quit. I couldn't get anything from that gathering. MyUnwife insisted I return. Not only did she believe the group would get better, she also believed she liked the time alone in the house. With me there all the time, she didn't get that. With me gone, she could schedule time to herself. She was like a mom forcing her kids to go out and play rather than leaving them to meld with the sofa, sighing, "I'm bored."

So I continued going. That's when new people started showing up. The group burst to life, and within a year I found myself leading them. Faces came and went, but the group remained, waxing and waning. Sometimes two, sometimes twelve, the moon, the tides, it's all like the group. Good thing too, cuz they're connected. The moon and tides I mean--my group isn't really connected, but that's why I do a Christmas Party.

Every year I bring the group to my house, and we sit without critiquing each other and talk about things not our books. This year I wasn't so sure. It's a lot of work for one person to set up, and I know how festive I am lately.

Maybe the woman who emailed me knew this too. The email asked if I'd like to attend a dinner party with her this weekend. That took me aback. I hadn't expected to be invited to anything. I didn't think she knew I existed outside the writer's realm. Even with "Strictly platonic" smattered throughout the letter, I was still flattered.

Flattered and smiling.

Strictly platonic.

I had to laugh. It was a weird Deja vu. A little over a year ago, I repeated the same words to another friend. We'd invited her over for dinner. We'd also invited a guy from MyUnwife's work. He'd caught the divorce bug, which swept the nation faster than the latest dance craze.

Divorce fever: Catch it!

Anyway, I sold the dinner to my friend with the same vigor: "Food, friends and fun, what's not to love? What's more, this is just platonic. It's not a set up." Now, a little over a year later I'm reading the same thing in an email. Funny how the bored face on the beach changes over time, but the waves are still the same.

I wanted to say "yes" to dinner; It sounded like fun, but I couldn't. A friend from Arizona is coming out Friday night. My bored and I were promised to another wave..

That didn't stop me from grinning though. It's cool when people remind you that you exist. It's the first invitation I've received to anything since MyUnwife invited me to participate in a divorce. Platonic or not, it's good to be waved at.

So, I emailed her back. Made sure she know that I really did have previous plans. Even made sure to let her know that I was considering the writers' group Christmas party, and of course If I had one, she'd be invited.

My correspondent surprised me again. She emailed back saying that if I wanted, she'd host the Christmas party. How lucky can I get? Considering I don't have the furniture anymore to hold a group larger than two. She said her house would be fine, all she needed to know, was when to hold the party.

Whoa! One step at a time! I've still got a lot of other things to figure out. Like when am I going back to Prescott. My mom hasn't called me back yet about Grandfather's service. I'm told it'll be at the VFW, but I don't know anything more. There's time off to request, and parties to plan. This season looks to be crashing down upon me. We'll see who's left when the tide goes back out.

"Now we're holdin' on and waiting…"-Thousand foot Krutch

Some days you just have to strap yourself to the most stable object while the wind blows everything past. Look! There goes Dorothy. Looks like she only strapped herself to a house. That sucks. It's a wood house too. Brick's the way to go baby; that's why it's higher up on the wedding gift list. It's not as high as gold, but then again, you find yourself a hunk of gold big enough to strap yourself to, I think you can actually bribe the wind to blow somebody else instead.

"Here's a gold brick. Go blow Bob Dylan. He needs inspiration."

Dorothy wasn't that rich; she lived in Kansas. She got a tornado and a bad case of Technicolor. Sucks to be poor. She had the bad day that the Die Hard series writers would kill for. Uprooted, accused of homi-house-o-cide, hunted down by a vengeful sister who's already in morning black before the ruby slippers go cold, and forced to sing happy road songs with the local transient population. Yeah, I know, I know…"off to see the wizard…" I got that two or three verses ago.

John McClane just got divorced and shot at by terrorists. Big whoop.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the Oz thing as a kid, and those flying monkeys? They scared the crap out of me. Now as an adult, maybe I'm just jealous. Dorothy had a great adventure, and lived happily ever after. I'm struggling with the day to day, and can barely imagine my happily ever five minutes from now.

Ever after? That's a mightily long time. Dorothy must have found the pot of gold over that rainbow.

Some days I catch a break, then there are times like this weekend. Saturday night, my work drug out forever, typing audio codes until 5am. I also spent a few hours on the phone with Mom as she relayed her last week with her father. I felt useless. Most of what I did was "uh-huh," but what else can I say? I'm there for her, but I'm on a phone, 300 miles away. The empathy blanket gets pretty thread-bare before it gets to the other end of that phone line. Now I know what they mean by "phoning it in." I'm doing it without even trying. Yup, gonna get me "Son of the year" for sure. What's more, I'm trying not to say a word about my divorce. This is her time, and anything I say about my situation sounds callous.

"Yeah, enough about you, let's talk about me."

No. I joke about that, but I really feel for her. I wish I could do more than listen. But it's all I could do, so it's what I did.

I wanted to go to church this morning, but that didn't happen. God doesn't want me there with only 3 hours sleep. I'm already a bad example. When I finally did get up, I grabbed my paper as the coffee brewed and checked my perimeter.

The Santa Ana winds greeted me at the door, and blew the screen back into my face. If you don't live in California this means nothing to you. Santa Ana winds are these strong gusts that last for weeks on end. It's always windy and it's not like just a little breeze, it the type of winds that swats trucks off the highway, and incites brush fires.

They're apparently also the type of winds that knock down my fence. Standing in my driveway with my paper in hand, I see it laying in the neighbor's yard. It was too tired. It gave up.

"Sweet." That's what I said. Or something like it. Anyway...

I lose a fence, someone else lost a castle. I'll take my end of the deal.

I go pole up what fence is still standing so it doesn't sway out and wreak itself more. I also leave a note for my neighbor. I'll need his help to lift up the chunk that's down, it's too much for one person, even without the added wind difficulty.

"Fence down. Come get me when you see this."

And he does. I open the door to see the little straw man nearly blow away. He's hanging onto a cigarette in one hand and my porch post with the other. I think I saw this in an old Charlie Chaplin movie, or was that Buster Keaton? It only matters so far as he needs to eat something. I saw his ex over at his house last week, that's probably it. Maybe she's trapped under the fence.

I check for her protruding skippered feet as we investigate the downed slab of wood. Nobody's there. We agree to wait until later in the week; better not to battle the wind. There's already too many rusty nails sticking out to offer us tetanus, no reason to turn the wall into a Punji stick.

He hints again at the block wall he'd like to put up, and I hint again at the divorce I need to wrap up. He scampers away from that trap. This straw man already has a brain.

I'd pay for a wall. I really would. Hell, I'd borrow the money to get one up, but it's been advised by several people that I shouldn't erect large money barriers until my divorce is finalized. It doesn't matter if it's money I have, or money I borrow. Any moving money looks like a cash cow during hunting season.

"Wabbit Season!"

"Duck Season!'

Yeah, I know how this ends. Robby sleeping on a street corner for trying to maintain the house, rubbing his hands together over the hot coals of irony. I just have to suck this one up until MyUnwife files and I get the state's okey-dokey. I can't risk having my house torn out from underneath me. I mean I don't think she'd try anything, "unfriendly" but then again, I thought we'd be together forever; my trust balloon is now a bathysphere in a bile pool.

I’m not blaming her for everything, my share of guilt gusts through the empty house late at night. It's a banshee reminding me that something had to bring her from:

"People at work complain about their husbands, but I never have anything bad to say about you." -Pookie 2004;

through:

"You've got a lot of flaws, but I tell myself 'at least he's faithful.'"- MyWife 2006;

to

"If I can't stop hating you..."-MyUnwife 2007.

I had to do something that lashed her up and drag her down this path.

"follow the yellow brick road."

Still, it's not all about me. And like my wobbly fence, it's the lack of support from both sides that knocks it down.

So yesterday it was my fence, today I fix my bath tub. Oh, I didn't mention that one yet? Yeah, I've got cracks across the bottom. It should be replaced, but that would actually require somebody to come in and tear out the doorway, because the old tub won't fit out, let alone allow a new one to fit in. I've got some fiberglass epoxy, and I'll mix a batch about the consistency of peanut butter to spread across the tub basin. It should hold, so long as I don't step in the bottom of the tub.

So it's been hectic. I've decided tonight I'm resting in the poppy field of denial. I'm calling the pizza guy, and he's gonna deliver the works. I'm getting the "scantily clad serving girls with rose petals and grapes" special. I can't really afford it, but I need it. It's a simple pleasure, and allows me a moment to recharge. I hope they bring palm fronds.

Today the pizza, tomorrow the fence. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get back to Kansas-normal soon.

God Bless

Vince Schnoebelen.
October 19th 2007.
Goodnight Grandpa.

"I know what you'd pay to see…"-Soul Asylum

Darks and lights, hot and cold.

One of the new tasks I find myself doing is laundry. Ok, it's not really "new" but I didn't do it while we were married. That was one of the things she did. She was particular about mating delicates and inappropriates, but the divorce should have told you that. Me? I'm a throw it all together cuz it'll all come out in the…yeah, sorry. Let's just say, she wanted more from her wash than I could give her. She took on that task. She also took the new washing machine when she left. I figure that makes us even.

I bought a new one when she left. I'm not gonna do the Laundromat thing again. Yeah, I know. I can meet girls there. I can also meet bums, drug dealers, and frazzled mothers slaloming through washing machines, trying to cage their brood beneath a laundry basket, while shouting the mantra of "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Until they finally collapses in a pile of refuse in the corner. Although more entertaining than watching Lindsay Lohan's career implode (which I can also watch if I choose, from the 13 inch monitor in the corner), it takes away time from my day. No, I'd sooner scale laundry mountain for an almost clean shirt than do the Laundromat thing again.

My new machine isn't bad, It has 4 cycles, 3 temperatures, and a little place for the fabric softener. I ask you, what more could a guy who wears shorts and t-shirts to work ask for?

So far, I've used all temps, and 3 cycles. I even used the extra rinse once. I know I know, I am a madman. Stand back from the washing stud: he's glowing with laundrotude. What? Look it up. It's that clean glowing word on page 456 of the Rob to English dictionary.

You want to hear something else cool? I also get to wash the sheets as often as I want to. Oh, I could have before, but that would mean that I had to wash them. I have this strange fear from when I was a kid. It's called "Now-it's-your-chore-a-phobia." Tens of Americans suffer from this debilitating malady.

My parents instilled this rare condition when I was a child. I blame them. I'd do something nice like setting the table once, and suddenly it was my job forever. Washing the car? Same thing! Ever since then, I'm a little reluctant to butt into somebody else's chore list. It's weird I know, but my to-do list is all the shorter because of it.

At least until I found myself alone. Now all chores are Rob's chores. See? I did them once, and now their mine! I tell you, just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not standing outside with bobbins and pruning shears.

And that's what brings us here. Last night, while hanging my shirts after washing them--Ok, stop. I know I said the shorts and t-shirt thing. No I don't hang my t-shirts. I wear button downs and stuff when I go to things like the writers' group or church. It's kind of like playing dress up. Ok, scratch that. It's nothing like dress up. I just like wearing something other than work clothes when I go out, that's all.

So anyway, I was hanging both of them up and I noticed that one was missing a button. I dropped the thing like a spider rushing my arm.

"AHHH!" I screamed in my best 10 year old girl voice.

I don't sew. I don't do buttons. What do I do with this? I just bought the shirt. I hate to throw it away. See, when my UnWife was here, she didn't sew my stuff either. But I could stack it to the side and pretend it would get done. I'd seen her sew her own buttons, so it must be her job. Stuff would sit there until the fabric gave way to rot. That was ok, problem solved. I wasn't going to wear a rotting piece of cloth anyway.

Now I'm alone. If I don't sew this, I just look lazy.

I know don't say it. I already wear the scarlet "L" on my chest. It's this really cool cursive thing. I styled it in honor of Laverne and Shirley.

What do I do about the missing button though? I visited the Laundromat, to talk to my local drug dealer. I knew he had needles. Thread would be another issue. Where do you find that? I could use fishing line. I don't fish, but I know where to find it...

After gathering my materials, I set about perfecting my thread weaving technique. It's not pretty. My button looks like there's a raspberry of thread attached to it's surface. I had to sew raspberries onto the other buttons so that they'd match. No, I didn't make thread-berries, I didn't have time for that, I sewed real raspberries on them. They match really well too. It's a manly shirt, and I smell fresh. I may not have to wash this one for weeks! There's a built in deodorizer.

I'm learning to multitask! Take that MyUnwife!

"She wants to get inside your head and tell it like it is…"-BRMC

"And a good marriage? What makes that?"

"Excuse me?" I said that not because I didn't hear or understand the words dropping from his mouth; these were English, and well enunciated. I just couldn't believe he asked me.

"Excuse me Ms. Spears? Could you spare a second? I need parenting tips…"

"What makes a good marriage?" He asks again. He's persistent. He doesn't know me, and he's just trying to be conversational. How did we get to this?

Oh that's right, he made a joke. "My wife makes me do all this while she sits on her ass all day. What about your wife?"

Normal people have a "lie or ignore" strand hidden in their DNA. Normal people would have nodded and been done. Normal people are smarter than I am.

"I don't know, she left me." Now, my brain says "you probably shouldn't have said that…"

So this is followed up by the series of divorce questions, and the obligatory "That sucks." If it were a woman, she'd have said "I'm sorry." Guys don't say that. Guy's stick with "That sucks," it leaves room for deniable culpability.

"You washed your greasy tools in the dishwasher with the dinner dishes?"

"That sucks."

See? Maybe Speed Racer's ghost rinsed the spanner with the strainer, or maybe those rascally Duke boys; they were always working on the General Lee, and never cleaning their tools. That's probably because they hadn't mastered the ability to open the car door. Always the window entry. Probably a product of childhood B&E.

Always break into the open window. Never enter the guarded door.

If they were married they'd have learned to use the door. Mrs. Bo or Luke, tired of waiting up while the good ol' boys were being boys, would have rolled up the car's windows.

"Woman, you broke the door, and we was arrested!"

"I'm sorry. I'm just a girl."

Just a girl. And Freddy Kreuger is just the man of your dreams, nothing to worry about…

And see? This is where the war of passive aggression begins. I will offer this to my male brethren, do not get locked in a battle you can't win. Drag her out in the open if you can, because you'll never out guerrilla a PA master. Maybe I should make this an analogy that works for you.

Remember all the old kung fu movies? In between all the cool fight scenes and bad sound effects. There's always this old monk who rarely moves. He's the sublime senile sensei of sanguinity (And apparently a paragon of alliteration). He just smiles and passes on confusing parables.

"Listen young Cheese Doodle, to defeat your enemy, you must first become your enemy."

Wha?

Yet in the end we find out that this vague slippery noodle of advice is life altering. Turning boy into man, man into slave. We also see the little Yoda guy fight once.

Once.

He's such a badass master, that if he'd fought in the first five movie minutes, we could have mopped up the plot and gone home early. "But no," he would tell us from the screen, "it's not the destination. It's the journey, little game pad."

This little master is your passive aggressive wife, and you are but a mere cheese doodle for her to guide or crush. More than that, she dips in the generation pool of womanly wisdom:

"Listen sweetie muffin, To wash the dish, you must first clean the dish."

Wha?

The wise man never questions knowledge. He only does. Otherwise he must face her wrath.

Oh no! Not the PA tigress stance!

"AHHHHH!"

That's why communication is key. Crack the codes early, and you may not win the war, but at least you can keep up.

This is what I'm explaining to the man before me. His eyes glassed over sometime around the Duke boy reference. It's a wonder he stays married. He can't keep up with his own gender--a straggler waiting to be picked off.

Then again, maybe that is why he's still married.

Maybe I shouldn't talk to strangers. Not because they flash me from their car. I'm too old to worry about poisoned candy, but now I have to worry about people asking question I clearly have no business answering. I'm the one passing out Jujubes of death.

It's my curse. It's the glassy eyed man before me's curse as well.

"I guess if I knew that, I wouldn't be getting a divorce." I smile and shrug.

He basks in silence. His mind whirring, searching to lock into another cog, a foothold, or jump start to get things moving again.

"Next in line please."

And there it is. I nod and point the way before him, and he obediently follows.

What makes a good marriage? Knowing when to listen, and when to follow my friend. Knowing when to follow...