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.
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