Every Dog has his Day Indoors

"Hey dude, can you stop the rain?" That's what my dog asked me today. He looked so sad when I said "no" and slammed the door on his maw. Some dogs don't know how lucky they have it. They could be living with me.

Ok, so I didn't do that to my dog. MyUnwife will tell you: I'm a heartless bastard. The Grinch has more heart on his blackest day that I do on my best. Still, staring at the rain sopping pup-urchin on my back porch, I couldn't help but let him in.

Cosmo is an outdoor dog. That's our agreement. It's also our agreement that on special days as well as days of rain, snow sleet or loud noises, he gets to come in. He's my new partner, Cosmo and I are like newlyweds: we're still getting used to each other. Sure, we've lived together for 9 years, but he's more familiar with me as part of somebody else's couple. He doesn't know single Rob.

I don't either, but that's beside the point, I'm still getting used to Cosmo. I can avoid single Rob for now. Today was the first time I brought him inside (Cosmo, not single Rob), and he just sat down in the office while I continued my routine. He used to hang at my heel as I wandered the house—his nails clacking out his presence, his drool like bread crumbs retreating to where he's been. That's my dog. Now he's relaxed. Now he's laying on my carpet wondering why I move around so much.

I'm relaxing too. Rob's sense fear in other creatures. It worries them. Cosmo doesn't fidget like he's looking for place to leave a treasure, and I don't fidget because—well, for the same reason. It's a bond of trust. We look out for one another. See? Just like marriage. At least one that works.

Here's where I normally tell you how my marriage didn't work. I think you get my point. You and me, we're like my dog and I: we're relaxing with each other. I have posts and posts of how my marriage didn't work, you kinda have a picture of that by now. I could tell you how it did work, but well, due to the obvious conclusion of the marriage story, I don’t think you'd believe me now, would you?

Still there were things that worked right. Lately I've been thinking over something she said after she'd made the decision to leave. "We would have made good friends, except all the marriage stuff got in the way." I wish I'd known this earlier, it might have helped. It's a key philosophy difference that I never imagined. For me, it was "All the marriage stuff" that kept us as friends. It was that bond that made me want to share things daily, whether she wanted to hear them or not. It was that bond that made me love her daily, even on days when she made that difficult. It was that bond that I thought made us a team and not two individuals with coincidentally converging motives.

Without the "marriage stuff," I doubt we'd have held together very long at all. I told you, I'm a heartless bastard, I only have a few people I've hung onto for more than year or so. Right now Cosmo is my closest companion. He stuck with me through all the rain, so I bring him in from his rain. We trust each other and we're happy together.

Battling the Cliché

History repeats. Time heals all wounds. What is America without it's great clichés? Today, in honor of it being no particular day at all, I thought I'd pit these clichés against each other in post-marital combat.

A few months ago, I had a great opportunity. I was excited, but also disappointed at the same time. Anyway, I was disappointed by the news because the first person I always ran to was MyUnwife. She may not have helped in the bad news arena, but she was a great supporter of the good. Last June I realized I couldn't do that anymore. She no longer sat on my side of the field. Pop! There went my joy-balloon. My victory turned bittersweet. I don't like it when people get bitter in my sweet. They are not two great tastes that go great together.

Yesterday, I received more good news, a new opportunity, a new feather for my cap. Once again, I couldn't tell her. I mean there wouldn't be any legal ramifications; it's not even a financial blip. By other's standards, it's not even that big of a deal, but to me it was finger of God big. To me, it a Reese's Peanut butter Cup: all peanut butter and chocolate goodness.

So does history repeat? Did I wallow in the bittersweet? Not this time. There was a knee-jerk twitch. A desire to share, and no it wasn't the "In your face!" type share. It was the type of share that makes you dance a jig with friends and family. I don't jig, but man, I am fun to watch try.

I didn't have MyUnwife. I still shared: I shared with my friends and family. They were appropriately impressed. A few people even applauded in all the right places and did the wave. Those people rock.

So what about time healing all wounds? I guess if I didn't feel the pang of regret, then that wound is healing as it's supposed to. It's gonna leave a nasty scar, but scars add character. Chicks dig scars, right? Ok, so maybe time did nothing for the woomping head wound. I'm still a little incoherent, but the prognosis is good.

Divorce is a Verb.

Feast or famine. Last week was Thanksgiving, that's sure to be a feast. This weeks supposed to be famine, right? Please tell the powers that be that for me. I've been busy. For a guy without a life, I'm quite the bee of contention. Somebody get me a bonnet! I've been buzzing on the phone with my broken treadmill people, and wing-winding house fires right and left. Man! The if the key to not thinking about your divorce is keeping busy, why am I writing about my divorce now? Oh yeah, it's what keeps me busy. I'm so glad I love irony. Bring me another plateful, please….

See? Busy. So because I'm busy and lazy (or you can pick your favorite excuse, I'm also flexible, not gymnast flexible, more concept flexible. I'm also distractible, where was I? Oh yeah) I thought I'd rehash yesterday's post. A friend of mine emailed me about the "Divorced" vs. "Single" thing. I figured since I'm so busy I'd just cut and paste plagiarize and call it a blog. So when you see phrases like "twitching demise," that's him not me. Oh I wish I'd said it, but no. I'll give him the point. He's also one divorce up on me: he's not only winning, he's a trained expert in all things unwed.

He's also more bitter than I am—or he was. No, my bitter river hasn't risen, his has finally flushed his into the ocean. It's been a while though. Some of the stuff going on between him and his ex was pure acid. Some divorces are like that. Mine is the great shrug, his was head spinning pea soup spitting evil. I'm so glad to see he's gotten exorcise. He came out a moth ago and flirted with a waitress. I smiled. Good for him.

He wrote me today about my blog yesterday. I'd whined about filling in marital status forms. (man, the things I complain about….call me Ishmael. Or just bitter old man. Not as poetic, but definitely more accurate. I'm dealing with a white elephant, not white whale.) He said that single or divorced is all about how we define ourselves, and not how society defines us. He reminded me that Divorce was a verb. It's an action that happens to you, and not a adjective: a way of modifying the noun, Rob. It's not who I am, but just something that happened. I was in an accident once, but that doesn't mean you call me "Car crash" Rob. Ok, if you know me well enough, you may still call me that, but that's beside the point. Divorce doesn't need to define me. When the action is done, I can check single, because I will be.

That's today's blog. Brought to you by my less-than-busy "single" friend, coming to a waitress near you. If you've got the feast, he's got the famished.

Siren Call of the Wicked Bunny

Hiya, I hope you're still single! That's how the email started. You can probably guess where it went from there. I didn't guess, I read every word to be sure. Yeah, go ahead, go back reread it; I had to read it again too.

The sender liked something I'd written on another site, and progressed to the next step in internet attraction: my profile. Apparently she liked what she saw enough to write me. Some how she'd translated "Divorced" as single, but that's an easy mistake. I'd mistakenly put "married" when I originally signed up. Ok, I was married, but I made the mistake of thinking it would last.

I only changed the "married" to "divorced" as a statement to myself. A proclamation of whatever it is you say to yourself when your wife leaves you. They didn't have a "Sucks to be you" option, so I clicked on "divorced." I didn't expect anybody else to see it. I didn't expect anybody else to care.

I remember wondering why the only choices were "Single," "Married," or "Divorced." What about that interim state "Divorcing" Why is it that there's only a past tense on that verb? I've never seen a divorce go so quickly that it's not a process. The average American divorce takes 7 years to complete. Ok, that's a lie. I just made it up, but it sounded right as the words ran through my fingers. Maybe it's dog years. Anyway my point is: why is there never a "Divorcing" option for "marital status" columns? Something for those of us who definitely aren't married, but really aren't single yet either. We're chrysalises. That's what we'll call ourselves! Chrysalis.

Ok, I admit it, the chrysalis thing was really an afterthought; me trying to avoid the obvious issue: somebody actually thought enough of me to come onto me in an email. Hell, I haven't had a woman make overtly friendly gestures in almost a year, let alone wish I was single. Ok, that's not completely true. MyUnwife wished I was single. Oh, and there was that friendly dinner invitation, even if I did turn it down. Maybe that's why I don't count it. Maybe that's why I won't count this one. The girl was sweet for emailing me, but I am a chrysalis; I'm also not what she wants. Her email suggests she's looking for something emotionally casual, physically aggressive. You read my blog. You know that's not me. Still, it was nice to hear. It's been a long time since somebody's suggested I'd be good at that.

Maybe that's something we should all do. No, not go the way of all wicked bunnies. I mean Contact a chrysalis or divorced friend and say "Hey! I know you're there, and you're really cool." If nothing else they'll spend their day wondering what the hell that was all about. And as A fellow chrysalis, I'm here to tell you, that's better than thinking of the divorce. My admirer closed her email with "Have a great day." Thanks to her, I did.

Relationship Bonding.

Another Thanksgiving gone. Some Thanksgiving are bonding holidays, some are Bond holidays: shaken not stirred. This was a Bond holiday. Bond never had to deal with divorce. Oh he got married once. Once. They killed her off. Was it the machine gun fire or the exploding car? I can't remember. I do remember she was done in by some maniacal villain holding a tranquilized cat. The cat had nothing to do with the murder. Just a prop. Every villain needs a prop. MyUnwife has cats. I've mentioned them before. Maybe I could give her a cool Bond name. Maybe not, she'd hunt me down with an exploding car.

"No Rob, I want you to die…."

So far she hasn't wanted to do that since moving out. At least not so she's willing to admit it in front of my recorder (the tape type, not the little woodwind—nevermind). Probably why I haven't heard from her in months: deniability. Maybe that's the difference between the bitter divorce and the friendly one. A bitter divorce is her Power Puff coffee mug rebounding off my forehead; a friendly divorce is breathing my last gasp through my favorite pillow. Stop kicking and relax...

I think it's part of her nefarious plan. Lay low and then pounce. I'm not sure what good prolonged pouncing is to a divorce, but she's probably discussed strategy with the cats, what they lack in plan diversity, they more than make up for in attack tenacity.

Cat: "Pounce, I say! If that doesn't work, then roll on your back, claws in the air. He'll impale himself."

MyUnwife: "Deeevioussss…"

Cat (licking himself with glee): I know. Now leave me to bathe.

She listens to cats, I listen to voices. As time passes it gets so easy to blame MyUnwife. She's not here to defend herself, or throw a cat at me in contempt. It's just silence and the dog. The dog agrees to everything: he likes the attention. But time and silence ruin my perspective. All I remember is how I saw things when she left, so my perspective is a little bitter and skewed, like orange juice and toothpaste. That’s the only thing I have to remember MyUnwife by: the faces I made before she left.

See? That's where Bond had it made: He'll always remember his wife by the sunny memories, and how some outsider ruined them. He never saw her throw a jealous fit over Ms. Moneypenny, or gripe over how his tux always had singed collars, or why he needed to save the world on their anniversary. They had no time. Me? I'll always remember how things decayed from within over time. I've lost the sunny drive in the Aston Martin. I'm blinded by the orb of gall. All I see are shadows: corrupt silhouettes, misshapen by passing time.

Plague Season is upon us.

Raindrops on roses, biscotti served kittens…or something like that. I went to the mall last night, just to get out of the house. You know they're already playing Christmas music? Yeah, I wasn't that surprised either, but surprised or not, this year I'm a little edgier. This year I'm alone. This year I'm walking the sidewalk outside our local Borders and they're piping out this strudel, poodle, kitten mitten stuff that used to be one of my favorite things. Now they're just reminders that Holiday's are for these nuzzling couples I'm slaloming between looking for escape. Christmas has become that "running nowhere" nightmare. I look down: Thank God I'm not naked too.

Christmas is for families. I know, I've said it before. I think I did that because it's true. I don't tend to repeat my lies. Christmas was MyUnwife's time of year. I think my ten years in retail sapped the triple-ho spirit from me. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Christmas, it's just that a whole month of cheer is a little long. It's like going on an M&M binge and then having a friend give you a 2 pound bag. You swallow one candy pellet at a time, smile at your friend, and expect to vomit at any second.

Oozes in your mouth, not in your hands….

It's even worse for me: I listen to radio for a living. Several stations have already turned to the Christmas side. I'll be monitoring and identifying Christmas music till little elfin paratroopers pop from my ears. Woo Freakin' Hoo! So yeah, if you live near KAIM, KSGN, or WRCM you too can join in the endless Christmas fun. Tune in, pretend I'm serenading you while my head beats percussion against the wall.

These are a few of my favorite things...

The music drove MyUNwife nuts. She'd roll her eyes across the floor every time she heard "The Christmas Shoes." And let me tell you, come Christmas, she got to hear it a lot. She hated it, I'd learned to numb it out. I think that that skill will come in handy this Christmas.

Santa: So what do you want for Christmas this year Robby?

Me: A happy Marriage.

Santa: Sorry kid, you'll shoot your eye out.

Me: Very funny Santa.

Santa: I got a bag full of 'em. The elves write stuff for me all year. Here have a copy of The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce.

Me: No thanks, I'm already finding that out, Santa.

Battle Cry of the Smelly Old Turkey

The food is eaten the tallies made. The most popular Thanksgiving question asked by family? "So how are you doing?" Everybody asked me that. I'm on the phone with Dad, "So how are you doing?" Mom, same thing. My little sister? Yup her too. And it's not the All encompassing "How you doing?" or even the Joey from friends "how you doing?" Which although disturbing coming from family, would at least be a change. No, this is the needle-jab to the soul, "So MyUnwife's left you. How are you taking to being pathetic and lonely?" Ok, maybe the intent didn't start out that way, but by the sixth or seventh "I'm Fine" my soul is a little tender. "I'm sitting alone eating a wren on steroids, and boxed stuffing. How do you think I'm doing? Stop freaking asking already!" I heard grandma drop her oxygen mask after I said that to her. There was a thump and a crash, and they drove her to the hospital, her lips all blue and quivering. Family's just like being married: Everybody wants honesty until you give it, then somebody ends up crying in the hospital.

"How are you doing?" By the time I've completed all my phone calls I'm doubting my "fine" answer. Was it believable enough? Did I make too many jokes; do they think I'm overcompensating; am I overcompensating; am I really fine?

What's the one thing you don't want to do sitting in your house all alone on a holiday? Well yes, summoning demons through spells from a book you found in the basement is a bad idea. But anyone who's watched enough horror movies knows, that's a sport for 5 or more. Nobody's going to watch a glowing eyed murderer stabbing out emails because there's nobody around to kill. No, what you want to avoid, in my little story, is self evaluation, because by the time you reach the end of the list, you might as well be reading some cult death tome: You're in hell.

How are you doing? I'm clinging to life by the skin of my teeth. And just what is that? According to my dentist, the only skin on my teeth is from biting my tongue. Teeth have enamel like painted talons. They're offensive weapons. And that's what I found over my Thanksgiving sabbatical: I'm offensive--like the smell of an old turkey. I'm also no longer simply defending myself. I'm being me: See me, hear me, smell me in all odorous offense. Despite all the asking, I'm doing good. I enjoyed my bird, my stuffing, and my rolls. I don't need to run the personal checklist: all systems are go. All verbs are active. It took a lot return to a holiday place of celebration; I'm not slumping back to the grueling days of enduring and gruel.

So how are you doing?

Winding Down

So that was my Thanksgiving. Oh not as cool or volitile as the ones you see on TV. Probably not as cool or volitile as the ones I had while I was married. Still, the food was good, and the company was intelegent. What more can you ask for? Sure, I would have loved to share it with someone, but that wasn't this Thanksgiving. This Thanksgiving was about remembering Rob.

I called all my family. They're a wealth of divorce wisdom. Each one had their own take on what I should do in regards to MyUnwife. I don't agree with all of them, but I accept that everything they offer, they offer in love. My parents may not have been able to love each other, but I know that they love me. If you're a divorcing parent, remember to pass that on to your children.

I hope your Thanksgiving was wonderful, filling, and safe.

Are You a Breast Man or a Leg Fan?

Ok, the bird is on the grill, and it's wood chips are smoking. Well, not exactly smoking. Actually they're flaring up like a California hillside. The chips didn't read the smoker instructions and they thought they were supposed to flame into molten char. That's ok, the bird still cooks, it just may not be as smoky.

I put a rub on the bird and got kind of excited. Those were the first breasts I'd touched in a long time. The hen didn't get too excited, she just laid there. I guess you can't please everyone.

It looks like I'm eating much later than planned, but no later than I do every other night, so I'll be fine. I just won't be observing holiday dining hours.

In a half hour I'll flip the bird, so to speak, and then start my side dishes. So far, It's been a good holiday. The alone thing is kind of akward, but it's more like this nagging thing in the back of my head. You know, like month or so after you sprain an ankle: it's still tender, but you forget, until you misstep.

FIRE!!!!!

Ok, just a small one. Ok, not a fire at all just a false alarm. But it was a fire alarm. I've got my pies in the oven (I know late dinner for Rob, but still, it's my Thanksgiving adventure alone.); They started to smoke, and my fire alarms are really sensitive. You can insult them and they go off. I've now moved my one oscillating fan to the hallway. It whispers fresh air compliments and soothes the alarm's ego.

Other than that, everything seems good. I found out I'm supposed to read cooking directions before I make pies. They required "deep dish" pans. I'm a guy. What do I know about deep dish other than it's a form of pizza. There's no pumpkin in pizza, why would I know about deep dish pies? Well, apparently there is such a thing and I'm supposed to have it. I've used regular dishes—Oh yeah that's the other thing. My pie filling makes 2 pies! What am I going to do with 2 pies?--ok, I'll suffer through some how. If I have to eat the extra pie, I'll do it. That's the kind of guy I am. The other thing is I had left over filling. I've used left over crust trimmings and made 2 mini pies in a muffin tin. There was still some left over stuff; I sacrificed it to the disposal gods. Hopefully they were appeased and will keep any sewage smells from my kitchen for another year.

Oh, I have one more parent to call. When the pies are done, I need to brine my bird. I've already made the rub, so that's good to go. While the bird brines, I'll go work out.

These are my Thanksgiving alone adventures. It seems MyUnwife can take half my stuff, but she can't take my mini adventures. She's probably glad she left them. I haven't heard from her for a while. I don't plan on calling her, but I do hope she's having a good Thanksgiving. Maybe she went to see her sister.

But enough of her. Back to me, and I need to check my pies.

Stay tuned!

Rob's Thanksgiving

Sorry no cool music just lots of mini posts. Nobody ever made any cool turkey songs anyway. What's up with that? We need some songs to sing over the bird carcass. Well, my posts today short, put them to music. Think of them as little deviled eggs to tide you over until the big meal. Don't like deviled eggs? What kind of freak are you?

I'm starting my pie first, I thought about cooking it last night, but I was so busy with work. I did my writers' group until 9pm and then I worked until 5am. So, now I'm starting pie now. Well, starting, but also pausing. I made banana bread the other day, and forgot my beaters were in the dish washer. Wish I'd remembered; I could have washed dishes last night. Oh well. It's not like I'm on a timetable. So If I'd been awake, I'd have hand washed the beaters, but I started before I stared my coffee. Bad move for a caffeine addict. So we're waiting while the dishwasher is halfway through the cycle.

I'm gonna call my folks now, and then read my paper—or maybe the reverse; I'm not sure. I think the important thing is that this is the end of my post.

My Education

So tomorrow's Thanksgiving. It'll be my first one alone since college. Remember school? It was that time when you tried to figure out who you were. Some people got there, the rest of us went, "Wow that was a lot of money for nothing," then tumbled out into the job we always wanted—completely by accident.

Well I say accident, but really, no. If we hadn't gone to college, we wouldn't have been in the right place to find the job. Most of the lessons you learn are not the ones you set out to learn.

Wow! Look at me, big and philosophical Rob! See? I learned it in college. All I was going for was a degree in talking to lots of people with a minor in listening. MyUnwife didn't go to college at all. Well that's not true. She stopped in, petted the puppies, painted a few walls, and got bored. That doesn't mean she's not smart; just uneducated. So if your going to talk behind her back, use big words. I try to avoid that, she's got a mean backhand, and a great reach. Oh, and she knows all my big words. I taught them to her. She also taught me a few words, and left me with a few I still need to look up.

"Uhm…I don't think it's physically possible for me to do that to myself…"

Our marriage was an education. I'm still sorting out what I learned, and where I failed. Still, I'm glad I spent the time with her. She taught me to rethink my philosophy. She also dropped me out where I had no intention of being. Was it wasted time and money?

No.

Without her I wouldn't be who and where I am now. As cheesy as it sounds, I like that person. He's alone for now, but he's still learning and resilient. So this Thanksgiving I'm thankful for MyUnwife, because despite the part of her that made her leave—the part I'll never understand no matter how much education I have—She's still the woman I married 8 years ago, and I wouldn't trade those lab hours, late nights, or years of hard work for anything.

Happy Thanksgiving. Be thankful for everything that's brought you here. It may not be where you planned on being, but if you learned anything, it's made you a better person. And if you're a parent, remember to love your children a little extra over the holiday. You've got a lot to teach them.

A Holiday Soliloquy

To deck the halls or to not deck the halls. That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the lights and tinsel of outrageous brilliance, or to stay dark against a sea of Yule Tides, and by opposing, say "Humbug?"

Yeah, somewhere an Literature professor is dying just a little on the inside. That's ok, his skin should char to a golden brown. Put an apple in his mouth and serve him up before guests. They'll all compliment you on you unique table arrangement. You'll be a Holiday hero. You can thank me; it's my holiday gift to you.

That was us over the holidays: always giving, always into the spirits. Me? I'm the dry grinch. Ok, not really, I love Christmas, but it's such a giving holiday. When I'm the only ghost wandering these halls it hardly seems worth my wile to be festive—and I am quite wiley. I'm so wiley there's a reindeer, or a goat, or a coyote, or something named after me. A soda? That would be cool.

The point is (and yes like all good epics, there is a point) I've been vacillating over whether or not to do the whole Christmas extravaganza year. I like it, but it's a lot of work, and well, it's just me. It's better when you have somebody to do it for. That much labor for me? I'm not really worth it. I mean I'm a good guy and all, but twinkling light worthy? Then there's the choir of angels for the lawn. Do you know how much singing angels cost over the holiday?

Probably not gonna happen this year. Maybe I can pretend it's just some dark time of morning, and not just a blend of self pity and laziness in my nog.

I still might have lit up it if I were doing the writers' group Christmas party. Then at least I'm glowing for them. But this year, somebody else is hosting the party. She volunteered, and I'm gonna let her do it. I still have to organize it. Seems I'm the one with the master list of emails. I'm important.

I think that's the biggest struggle during a divorce, especially over the holidays: remembering that I'm important. I mean once you peel past the layers of bitterness and blame, I still have to look in the mirror and realize that MyUnwife would rather live alone than live with me. That's a big ol' lump of stocking coal.

Maybe the holidays get easier after the first season. Maybe next season I'll be festive. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, creeps a reindeer's pace from Thanksgiving to Christmas to the last syllable of "Auld Lang Syne," and all my yesterdays I've been a lighting fool atop the ladder of death. Out, out, blinking Santa!

Yup, there goes another one. Alas Prof. Yorick, I knew him...

It's All Your Fault After All

Name it: "The happiest place on Earth." No, not Marriage land, but thanks for playing. And no, I'm not just being bitter. It's true. There are rainy days, you can't avoid them. Marriageland is great, but if you stay for a long time you risk a downpour. It happens. The strong people work through it. The strong people pack an umbrella.

Yesterday I sat in the church membership class drinking weak coffee. The pastor talked about the role of the church in terms of healing etc. The pastor explained interaction in the church as a marriage to all the married people in class. I'd visited Marriageland; I knew what he was talking about. In case I didn't, he turns to me and says, "I'll bet this is what happened in your marriage: You both stopped accepting blame, and started blaming each other. Then you stopped forgiving each other."

"The ace of spades is my card! How did you do that?" Ok, so great pastor Zoltan didn't say anything I didn't already know; it's kind of like saying, "I predict it's gonna rain, and you're gonna get wet." Some things are as obvious as song lyrics, even to me. Still, that doesn't make him any less correct.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not making fun of the church or any of God's mysteries. It's just that the basic foundation of my marriage's collapse isn't one of them. That’s all Rob and MyUnwife Animatronics. Turn on the lights in the haunted mansion and all you see is a monorail meandering through a big warehouse. There's no magic there. It's the darkness that makes it spooky. It's the way Marriageland shadows loom much longer in directional light. Then there's that annoying song:

"It's all your fault after all. It's all your fault after all…"

It plays over and over until you just want to grab the kids and escape the park. I didn't have any kids. It was just MyUnwife and I torturing ourselves for fun. You have to pay extra for that ride; it's strictly BYOBG. (bring your own ball gag).

Turn on the light though, and you see things as they really are. We stopped doing that. We stopped looking for things as they really were, and just let the ride carry us into darkness. Oh we intended well, but where do you find the road paved with good intentions? Yeah, we did that ride too.

The Wheels in the Cage go Round and Round

Every home needs a murderer. I could say MyUnwife murdered our marriage, It's a comfy bitter thought, but that was a team effort. I can admit to being designated rodent slayer. MyUnwife wanted nothing to do with critter-cide. She wasn't part of that team. She just said that there would be no sticky paw tape. The mice weren't allowed to live in her kitchen, but there would be no suffering under the sink.

Fine I could deal with that. I wasn't big on standard traps. I'm a klutz; A broken finger wasn't hard to imagine. I looked at a few catch and release traps. We both thought those were great ideas. Except the part where the only release point was a vacant lot behind our house. I wasn't going to send my mice on vacation, so that they could come back home with memorabilia and mouse ears. Well they already had the ears, but you know what I mean.

I finally settled on the zapper. The mouse went in a box for a piece of kibble, completed an electrical circuit, and immediately lost his appetite. It sucked for the mouse, but it did get them out of the kitchen—one lightening strike at a time.

I wish that the divorce could be like that. I mean, I'm not fond of being the mouse, but a quick zap and it's done. I could deal with that. But there are so many levels, financial, emotional, and everyday. It's like an infestation in and of itself. I walk into my living room to find that it's eaten half my furniture. I go into the kitchen and it's raided my spice cabinet. There are holes in every aspect of my life. There's a huge hole where MyWife should be. I'd like to zap it but I can't. It's like this one trap I saw. It held the mouse in the cage, but then you hooked up this thing they called the "drowning attachment, " and well you can guess the rest. That's kinda how I feel. I see life, and I live it within my confines, but the water is pouring in and there's no where to go. What can I do to pass the time? Why is this just like spinning my wheel?

Statistically speaking

"Figures don't lie, but liars do figure." That's what my dad used to tell me. My dad was full of wonderful sayings. I think his favorite was, "give your tongue a sleigh ride." That one never made any sense to me. Although the image of my tongue wagging on the back of a toboggan did make me giggle as a little kid. Probably not the results he was looking for.

"Figures don't lie…." I've looked in the mirror. I don't really have a figure. What does that make me? A liar? Isn't there an option C? Can't I be a doctor or a fireman instead? No, I'm a writer, and as we all know, writers are liars. Thanks dad. Why didn't you just say "Become a statistician or you're going to hell." Parents always put such pressure on you.

My dad was divorced, like his father before him. It's a time honored tradition in our family. How can I break away from that? I'm tired of blaming MyUnwife. Maybe I should blame Dad. I guess the good news is that the men in my family only remarried once, so maybe the next time for me it'll stick. I've got a vat of epoxy, just in case. We'll see, I still have my Mom's genes to contend with.

I went looking for statistics on children of divorce but couldn't find any. Oh everybody said we were more susceptible, but when it came to actual statistics, everybody mumbled like they had marbles in their mouth. Makes sense, that's where I kept mine. That's right, I'm a liar; I'll make some statistics up. Children of divorce are 100% more likely to come from divorced families than children without divorced parents. Not bad. I could get used to this.

MyUnwife is the product of divorce. Her parents didn't bother to do it until the kids were grown up. Instead MyUnwife got to see all the bitter bickering that comes if you stay and fight things out. Screw it, I blame her parents. No I don't; Her dad's a big guy. Her dad could beat my dad. Sorry dad, you get the mantle again. It's my turn to protect you.

When I went to my grandfather's funeral, my dad and I were the only divorced people there. I have 2 aunts, 2 uncles, 2 cousins, and one sister, enough relatives to toss on an ark and call a menagerie. Or, enough to make a statistic: all married, none divorced. All the aunts and uncles outlasted my marriage, and one cousin only needs to stick it out another year. I'm special, in that divorce-short-bus kinda way. Oh, but according to the statistics, I'm more likely to not want a divorce. Huh. I don't see that "not wanting" doing me a whole lot of good here. What's that thing Dad said about wishing in one hand..?

I'm a liar. I could make up a whole story about my perfect marriage. The princess who found a toad and thought his warts were cute. I could rush in, slay the toad, and live happily ever after with the princess. He was a big toad, so we'd have frog legs for life. Hunter gatherer, keeper. That's me. Oh, and Liar, but I prefer to be called "dreamer." I'm special, and it figures.

Documenting New Life.

Do you remember your baby book? I still have mine, it's in a box. It's got all the little write ins of little Robby's firsts, all the blurry shots of head heavy Robby trying to gum the camera, and all the clippings of world events that might usurp the glory from little Robby's very big birth.

It's like that book we got when we got married too, but ix-nay on the edding-way ook-bay. I'd rather not talk about those firsts; not until I've completed our book of lasts. Still, I'd like to start a book of Divorcing Robby firsts—sort of a mid to post divorce celebration.

I mean a divorce is nothing to celebrate, but my life is, isn't it? I didn't die with my marriage. I'm sure to MyUnwife, I did, but to me, I most certainly did not. Still it feels like I'm crawling from the ashes of Armageddon. I know: melodramatic. But I'm a writer, this is divorce: Everything about this is melodramatic, even in the friendly divorce. Sometimes more so. Its all so toxic, with no outlet. I've got to direct all bitter anger into an airtight barrel and burry it in my backyard. After a while I need to get over it, or my dog will lose all his hair.

So as I crawl from the rubble of Rob's world, I start to see signs of life. Maybe I should document it—celebrate it. You know:

First TV show I laughed out loud at PE (Post Exodus): House (11/13-Still on my DVR)

First televised surprise: Journeyman is actually a decent show...

First Road Trip: Grandfather's funeral

First Social Outing: Church group (11/4)

First Happy song: **still blank**

First Date: WOAH! WOAH! WOAH! —Baby steps now. That's still a few pages off.

It's just like the baby book my mother started. There'll be pictures I take of myself, maybe I'll leave some food samples of meals I made between the pages too! By the way, does anybody ever finish these things—Baby books? I think Mom stopped around 18 months.

"Take away this little creature, he bores me now."

Ok, not that kind of stopped. But I guess my firsts became more routine. I hope that that happens again. That I'd get so used to my life that it becomes routine. Right now I'm in the wide-eyed awe and wonder phase though. I kind of like it.

Preserving Who I Am

Some days are chock full of revelations. Other days are chock full of clocking time between one sleep and the next. I used to be able to fill the time with gallons of blame and guilt, but now I just feel drained. I've filled containers with all the fault fluid, labeled them, and shelved them according to perspective and reality. My head is a library of sample jars. Don't open them: they stink.

I'm a packrat in all aspects of my life. Do you know I still have the first story I ever wrote from second grade? I don't think I'm gonna peak an agents interest in "My Dog." It's one page, and not even a real page. It's that three lined alphabet paper we used up till third grade. You remember the stuff with the dotted line so you could differentiate between capital letters and lower case? Yeah, I won't spoil the "My Dog" ending, but let's just say the title tells the story. No plot, no conflict, no crisis fulfillment. Man, being a kid was great. Then I started collecting other things as I grew up. Report cards, love letters, both said the same thing: "Rob has such potential. If only he'd apply himself."

My head is the same way. I store every grievance, every wrong doing, and every crime. Some days, I inspect each container for flaws. My shelves are full, except the newest shelves: they're filled with empty space.

It's the newly single person's curse. Before I was married, I filled my space with single stuff. I don't remember what that was, but I remember my space was full. My thoughts were either of being single, or wondering if I'd ever not be single.

When I married, I filed those thought jars and replaced them with the newly married stuff. The fluffy love thoughts. Those gave way to routine mason jars. When MyUnwife left, she took a bat to my space, spilling jars, combining fluids that made sense into brothy chaos. Now I've filtered everything and replaced them into their original containers, I'm left with labels on jars that don't pertain to who I am. I'm anxious, but there's nothing here. Each day I look for something new to fill the shelves, and some days are like today: Empty.

Some days I have to go to bed with only an empty jar labeled "huh…" The good news is that I look to each day like a box of Cracker Jacks: I can't wait to see what the prize is. So today was "huh?" Maybe tomorrow will be stick-on tattoo cool. So long as it's not that two faced guy on the flip upside-down picture; that was always such rip-off, but no matter what I get, each day is something fresh.

Wandering the Divorce Desert

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. That's what I've heard anyway; every time I make two points I gerrymander thought print patterns to rival little Family Circus Billy's spotty foot paths. I'm so busy capitalizing on talk time, I've never seen the shortest distance. That's not really accurate. I don't do it for the sake of basking in everyone's attention; that's just a happy byproduct. Really I'm a perfectionist, and so as I'm talking, my mind is busy clogging all conversational leaks. Because if I'm making a point, I want you to believe me. It's like math class: I'm showing you my work, no matter how convoluted.

"As the crow flies." It's a nice concept, but flying is out of the question. My life has slowed to a crawl, and I'm chained in place. So, my shackled mind darts about looking for mischief. I'm an emu surrounded by gloating crows. If my mind catches one, I'll eat a little crow baked in my pie. Tastes like hamster.

You know what else tastes like hamster? Chicken. I had a chicken sandwich the other day. It was tasty. I've noticed that since there isn't somebody across the table to talk to, I do a lot of thinking. Lately, I've thought over my blog posts from before September; they're pretty dark meat. I received an email from a fellow writer who described them as, "...humorous (excluding the pain or because of the pain?.)" Gee thanks.

You'll be glad to hear that this month has been the first Normal month this year. I mean not like a normal day here and there, I mean the month itself: normal. It feels good to be me again, it's been a while.

Sunday, I went to church, and it was like things cleared before me. I don't know how to explain it, but I saw things. Not fruity planes, or purple cows in tapestry, things about me, MyUnwife, and hamster flavored crows. After service, I stayed after and prayed thanks. I also prayed for MyUnwife and not my ancestral prayer for smiting. I just prayed that things would be good for her, wherever it leads. Whether by crow or by 40 year exodus. So long as that 40 year thing isn't our divorce.

It's been a tough time, but God pulled me through. That's why I prayed. I feel like this would be a great time for some testimonial, but the truth is, I don't understand it. I can make up some pie in the sky story, but it'll still taste like air if you don't experience it for yourself. I was troubled, now I'm at peace. There it is, as the crow flies.

Cleaning the Memories of Passive Aggression

I vacuumed the ceiling fan today. Wow! It sounds like I'm some kind of neat freak. I'm not. The fan cleaning is necessary. It's my bedroom fan, and it needs to be vacuumed every six months. So does my house.

I know, you still don't believe me on the neat freak thing. What freaky altophobe stands on his bed in a French maid costume with a vacuum wand and a mask? Maybe the dust-fear isn't the freaky part of that. Fine, don't believe I'm a filthy pig. Ask MyUnwife, she'll tell you. I am not a neat freak. Oh she's got some story about me doing a miraculous bathroom cleaning with a fish and a loaf of bread, but that's nothing really. I think that's her only clean story about me anyway.

Good times. Still doesn't make me a neat freak. I tell you true: If I were a neat freak, I would never have survived the passive aggressive wars before MyUnwife moved out. The household decayed under a moratorium on all cleaning activities. Neither of us would clean anything. An act of cleanliness would not only imply Godliness, it would imply caring. We were neither of those things.. It got to be so bad I had to wear shoes in the bathroom. Actually, to walk anywhere barefoot required a fifteen minute kitty litter shake off jig. I'm Scottish, we don't jig. We curse, we flail, we fall. I do that well. It didn't get the Velcro kitty pebbles from my feet though. I was surprised the cats even bothered looking for the box with all the litter on the floor; even they were coming in on little cat feet. We'd grossed out the cat who liked to clean his butt by scooting across the floor. Yeah, I'm proud.

I think you get my point. I'm barely clean. I clean my fan because I have to. Every six months I reverse the motor. The fan goes one way for winter, one way for summer. Reversing dirty blades throws dust bunny paratroopers everyway. Everyway is always right over my bed. Anyway, If I wanted that, I'd dump the vacuum canister on my quilt for fun. No. That's not what I want. I want clean. I clean the fan.

Oh, and I discovered today that my $69 dollar vacuum does a better job on the fan the $600 vacuum MyUnwife took with her. Woo hoo! Check that one under the "victory" column. Yeah, just another bed time story I tell myself so I can sleep.

I will say this though. My house is cleaner than it's been in a long time. Oh, my mom could still find dirt, but she's an expert, and she doesn't live here. She doesn't walk these halls everyday, befriending the grit, trying to make pearls. Neither does MyUnwife, but there was a lot she didn't see while she was here. Me, I'm just a guy with a clean house and I have nobody to blame but myself.

Going Nuts with Holidays and Memories.

"Chestnuts will explode if you don't pierce them before cooking."

Yup. Been there done that. Still it was a late night fun fact I hadn't expected to hear from a crappy horror movie. It'll teach me to watch what I watch after midnight.

I learned my chestnut lesson a few years back. Every Thanksgiving MyUnwife and I worked together in the kitchen to prepare a weeks worth of food to eat in one day. That year MyUnwife picked a stuffing recipe with chestnuts. Neither one of us knew anything about them except they were part of a song. The part you roasted on an open fire while Jack Daniels nipped. Jack Frost? Oh sorry. Either way, no biggie, we'd just buy our chestnuts and roast them in our conventional oven. We'd roasted almonds before, what could be the big difference? We tossed the chestnut strewn cookie sheet in the oven, then after a few minutes, we pulled it out. Tada!

They looked kind of like the little eggs from Alien stretching across the sheet. I'm looking over the lot. Nudging them with a spatula then-

BAM! One of them blows up! I fall back. MyUnwife dives for her gun. Ok, no gun, but it sounded fun. I think another one blew up. I'm still shell shocked. Shrapnel rained down.

Thinking quickly for a slow person, I yanked the hand towel from the oven handle, and tossed it across the cookie sheet. Now it's safe to stand up. The nuts are still popping. Neither of us had any idea they'd do this. We both edged closer to the popping towel. I grabbed a mallet and busted up the lot before they broke out. These are the types of things that make the holidays tough.

Last night I went to the grocery store. I picked up a few of the preparations for my Thanksgiving solo . I bought a Cornish game hen. It's like a midget chicken who'd rather be eaten than made fun of. I don't see a reason to cook big turkey that'd just go bad. I love the leftover sandwiches, but after a month of leftovers I'll start mailing what's left to my family as Christmas gifts. I grabbed a can of cranberry sauce too. I'm on the fence concerning the pumpkin pie. MyUnwife hated pumpkin, so it's safe food. But still, do I need a whole pie? And then I'd buy a thing of whipped cream that will go bad too. Maybe I could make a mini pie. We'll see. I haven't picked a veggie yet either. We usually did a thing with green beans and slivered almonds. Almonds don't fight back, so maybe I'll do that.

What about the stuffing? The hens are too small to stuff, so I won't be putting any in the bird, but I do love stuffing. Maybe I'll go with Stove Top. Then again, maybe I'll find a recipe that I like between now and then. It needs to be something uniquely mine though. A recipe that doesn't involve memory bombs and exploding chestnuts.

Striking Writers and My Divorce, Oh My!

"The pen is mightier than the sword." That's what they penned, and they wouldn't lie. They wrote it, it must be true. Looks like we'll find out too. The writers are on strike.

And who wrote the invites if they were on strike? Were they pre-ordered? Does that mean they wrote it on the company dime? That's not fair. That would be like MyUnwife buying all the things she wanted on our money, then telling me she wanted a divo—HEY! It does explain why she wanted the second refrigerator. "Only for Klondike bars" my butt!

That's just not fair. I'm not sure if I'm more offended by the fact that she did it, or that it makes her the underdog and me the establishment. I've seen how writers propagandize these battles, it never works out well for the big guy. And they wouldn't lie.

I might sympathize, but they tried to convince me that Cavemen was a good idea. They may not lie, but they do spin good PR about bad stories. What's to keep them from giving Dow's scrubbing bubbles a show?

We write crap so you don't have tooooo…

We're on strike! That's one strike against them. The next strike smacks them in the forehead when they realize that reality shows own half the airwaves. "Well Heroes was nice, but I have Survivor and Singing Bee to keep me buzzing." This is where the corporate villains and townsfolk audiences shrug in realization, "We don't need the writers." Here's some more bad news: the longer this draws out, the bigger the risk. Most relationships end under seige. MyUnwife and I used to joke about this. The death knell of every relationship:

"If that's how you really feel, then what are you doing with me?"

The next sound you hear is a car engine and, "Hey wait! Come back!" but then it's too late. The future has been written, and it says "the end." The smart combatant avoids this point, unless they're done fighting.

MyUnwife and I are both smart, we're just done fighting.

"The end," they wrote, and they wouldn't lie.

Searching for the Divorce Metaphor

I'm a writer. I like drawing words and images together to create something new. Yesterday, somebody asked me to describe my divorce. That got me thinking: if I had to create metaphor for my divorce, what would it be? How would I describe it to others?

Train wreck? Well that's too obvious. And very over done. Besides. I'm riding solo on this train. How often does that happen? That would make it a train wreck without a train. No good.

A bullet to the head? No, that's too quick. Granted, a misplaced bullet could leave you brain dead and not physically dead dead. Still, even that's not the same; right now, I'm fully conscious and aware of what's going on. Oh, I should also explain that when I say "misplaced" I mean "misfired" and not "Where did I put my pesky bullet?"

Torture is closer. It's drawn out and painful, but it's too vague. There's a Jelly Belly bag of torture flavors choose from. And lets face it, some people like the icky popcorn ones. I don't see anybody lining up for Disney's "Prince Charming's Harrowing Divorce" ride. Haven't seen that one? It's pretty scary. Just look for the sign in Sad Realityland of Prince Charming weeping into his palms. It's over by Mr. Toad's frog leg buffet. Apparently the wind stopped blowing money through the willows, ending his wild ride. Mr. Toad now does unspeakable acts for money.

Mmm…Tastes like chicken!

Divorce is a handful of raw meat. I don't know, it just sounded weird and gross. I wanted that image, Still, raw meat doesn't take it far enough.

This was where I gave up. I never give up but there comes a time when every effort is just spinning the wheels of futility. All my options have been taken from me, leaving me alone to redefine my world. It's nothing like it was, and nothing is like a divorce. Divorce serves no good purpose, it's impossible to bear and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Not even MyUnwife. Huh, well that's just ironic.