Space

“I need my space.”

 

When I was twenty, words like these were semaphore-swing code for “this ship is going down.” Now post divorce and post forty, the letters are bi-focal clear black marker on dry erase white board.

 

I reply as the educated man of the world that I am, “I know!  Me too!” I’m relieved.

 

Life is different now. I’m more man-boy than boy-man. Back in the early days of  the cupie-doll dating and the big giddy “space” was the last thing you wanted. Now I’m older, a little set in my ways, and find that space is a good thing. This isn’t the Pirate Queen telling me that she’s leaving me; this is her idea of foreplay.

 

Space, the final frontier…

 

Space is the unknown. It’s that place that resides between the comfort of dating and the comfort of being single. Sure, it’s the place where Ripley had problems with pesky belly-poppin’ aliens, but it’s also where Captain Kirk wooed green women.  Not all space is bad space. 

 

What’s more, transitioning from single to married doesn’t necessarily suck your space onto a vacuum, but it does relegate that space to a small square decompression chamber with a toilet, a lock, and a back log of space-worn trash-lit; it’s no longer a galaxy for exploration. It’s the same space, different day.  Anything green you find in that space is usually bad news, and probably requires you open the vent.

 

The Pirate Queen is rediscovering her open seas. It’s her time to rediscover herself and rediscovering life without a man dangling around her neck like an albatross. Me? It’s my time too. I sit in the crow’s nest and point.

 

“Land, ho!”

 

Yeah, that usually gets me her right hook. I think that’s why I like that space too, but I also like knowing that there’s somebody out there who wants a Robblogger, especially somebody who makes a peg leg sexy.

 

And for the “us,” “space” is a strange dynamic. It’s an electromagnet simultaneously repelling and drawing, keeping us in a warm fuzzy balance.  I think that it helps when we mention space in at least one of our daily emails. or phone calls. See, space isn’t isolation. Space is room to be ourselves. Space is a room to sort through our baggage and throw out the things that no longer fit, without making the other person try it on.

 

Space is a balance against the void. It’s easy to feel alone in space.  That’s why we remain in constant communication. Sure the business of our lives require radio silence, but we’re quick to open lines of communication as soon as we can.  In this way we keep from letting each other spiral into oblivion.

 

Space between us is liberating. I know that in time that dynamic will change, because over time, bodies are drawn closer, or they drift due to dying attraction. Still, you need time and space to test these things. If we work, we’ll create a gravitational pull, and then argue about who’s pulling whom.

 

“No, I’m the Earth, you revolve around me!” That’s another voyage. Today we enjoy our proximity, and bask in our space.

 

That’s something we share.  I’ve quoted “in space no one can hear you scream,” but that’s only if no one is listening.  That’s when insecurity sets in.  In our space somebody is always listening. Is this what it feels like to be a part of an adult relationship? If so I like this space.

 

 

Catchphrasing Rob

I need a catchphrase. Media slogans are cool; I’m always amazed what I can learn from media campaigns. I want people to learn things from me. I want them to react.  So I think that’s what I need: a catchphrase of Rob-ucation.

 

Two years ago I learned from McDonalds what people like to do with their hamburgers when they’re alone in dim lights listening to soft music.

 

“Big Mac? I wanna hit that!”

 

Really? I guess it does take all kinds.  I’ll just have the toss salad please.

 

Yesterday I was a little moody.  Work was busy, and I spent most of my time rushing through it to go to my Bible study. When I arrived, I found that they’d given up meeting for lent.  What a coincidence.  I’d decided to start attending for lent. 

 

Great.

 

The worst part was that I even cut into my Pirate Queen time to get there. We had a hello/goodbye conversation that was just long enough for me to apologize: I was irritable. I told her that I was sorry before I said anything damaging. Preemptive apologies are my specialty. Unfortunately, I was so distracted that in the process of advanced groveling that I forgot dinner.  Irked and drained, I pulled up to the church, saw the steeple, opened the doors and found no people. 

 

GAAAHHH!

 

I had an itching suspicion something was wrong, because I growled, frothed, and thumped my Bible.  That’s not the normal Rob behavior.  Seething in my car, I listened as the radio gave me the answers I needed.  According to a local fast-food ad, my problem was that I was hungry. My affliction was known in this ad as “the common crabs.”  And the restaurant promised a cure.

 

Whew, what a relief! I only have crabs—and common ones at that. I was worried. I thought I might have something serious.  Now all I needed was to scratch that itch, and I’d be good.

 

I called the Pirate Queen to let her know my discovery.

 

“Eh-woh?”

“Hey! It’s me!”

“Hi! Uhm, you know I love hearing from you, right?” I hear a rustling shuffle noise in the background.

“Yeah, that’s why I called.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes a deep breath, “You do know that I love hearing from you more before 1am right?”

“Well it’s only---oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot the timezone thingy.”

“That’s ok. I’m awake now. What’s up?”

“I have crabs!”

“Excuse me?” I heard fumbling. She dropped the phone. I think she was reaching for the light. I think that was the breaking glass noise I heard.

 

The conversation didn’t go so well after that. I spent the next hour explaining why she should still come to California in June.  By the end of the call, my crabs were tugging at the short and curlies of my rage. I knew I needed something fast. I didn’t want the fast food quick cure sold on the radio, so I stopped at the grocery store before going home.  The vegetable aisle offered a healthy alternative. My crabs might like that. 

 

A smiling fruit guy in a smock appeared around the corner offering a wave and a banana, “Hi Sir, can I help you?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I need something for my crabs.”

His visage shifted. Putting away his banana, he took a step away from me, “Aisle 7.”

I smiled. I didn’t care about his demeanor, so long as he helped mine. “Thanks!”

 

A lady fondling melons shuffled to one side, leering as I passed.

 

Aisle 7 didn’t offer much help.  It was the drug aisle.  What a waste of time! I came for a simple crab cure, and now I’m worried I might have to nix the whole idea. I’m starving. My crabs could reach an uncommon state really soon. I don’t know what cures uncommon crabs! Penicillin?

 

Nyquil sat on the shelf beside me.  I shrugged.  According to their ad, they cured a barrage of ailments so that I could rest.  Maybe rest would be good for my crabs.  Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I needed to soothe the common crab. I grabbed a bottle and shuffled towards the front of the store.

 

There I found only one checkout open. Even worse, the lady in front of me was restocking her bomb shelter. This was going to take forever. My crabs were rioting. The shelter lady looked back at me and smiled because the guy in front of her was writing a check.

 

“Cold?” she tilted her head and smiled sympathetically.

“No, crabs.” I shrugged.

 

She apparently sympathized more than I expected.  She cleared her stuff and let me go first.  Nothing like human kindness to take the edge off of crabs.  I rubbed up against her in appreciation.  She shrieked thanks and ran off.

 

Finally I got home with my Nyquil and downed the bottle.  Within a few minutes it began working on my crabs, and my world blurred.  My mind wandered and I considered the “crab” campaign.  I wanted a campaign of my own.

 

I’m not sure if crabs really are the best approach for me though.  As an ex-husband who once told his wife that “twilight was her time if day.” I know quite a bit about misinterpretation.  That’s why I think I should get myself a cool catchphrase. After last night’s experience, I don’t think “I’ve got crabs” is my best introduction.  But what do I say? What says “Rob” in bright bold neon letters?

 

I’m not really all that original especially on a Nyquil crash, and my crabs have returned so I’m a little distracted.  Maybe for now I should just run with the McDonald’s slogan. I could call the Pirate Queen first and test the waters.

 

“So how’s Persephone?”

“I wanna hit that!”

“Uhm, excuse me?”

 

Like all other great Rob plans, this one might need some tweaking.

 

 

Culture and the Paczki Pirate

“Happy Paczki day!”

 

That’s my first email the other day.  Paczki? Uhm. Is that like a German plague? Whatever it is, somebody’s given it to me. I have no idea. I have no coffee in my veins. I’m lucky to know my name is Frank.

 

Oh….

 

“It’s like a doughnut, only denser.”

“What could be stupider than a doughnut?”

“You know what I mean!” Yeah, it’s a morning wish from the Pirate Queen. She’s traveled the world swashing buckles and is now showing her cultural superiority by wishing me a happy day of foreign pastries.

 

Paczki?  I still have no idea.  I’m a Californian; we pretend to be cultured, but it’s more fad than tradition. If it’s older than 15 minutes ago, we’ve never heard of it. Apparently it takes longer than that for a paczki to work through your digestive system.  No wonder I’ve never heard of paczki—I don’t have that much bathroom time scheduled in my day.

 

The Pirate Queen has and she’s trying to share it. Well, the culture, not the bathroom time. We’re getting closer, but we’re not that close yet—especially not from twenty-five hundred miles away. She explains that paczki is a Fat Tuesday tradition. As a heavy guy, I know about Fat Tuesday. I just don’t know about this lead pastry. My pirate doesn’t have much more info to sail past me.  She just wants to share because this is just something she’s grown up with.

 

It’s not something I’ve grown up with. I grew up with the spliced communiy of my parents--a cornbread and cabbage household.  My youth was a shepherd’s pie of cultural cuisine, customs, and etymology. Traditions rooted in the homogeny of old-world inclusion mean nothing to me.

 

Lost, I go to the melting pot of useless knowledge; I see what Wikipedia is serving.

 

They offer me a steaming pile of polish doughnuts.  I know there’s a joke here, but I’m not gonna say it. Any culture armed with throw-able pastries is one best kept fat and happy.

 

Wikipedia also says that paczki is pronounced  “ˈpɔ̃t͡ʂɛk.”   Uhm, yeah, you got me. I’m a redneck Scot. That’s ineffable, and if I can’t eff it, it’s no use to me.

 

“Yeah, eff you too!”

 

I tried Google.  They offered me a site I could effing understand.  Their site not only offered a paczki recipe, they served a pronounceable suggestion: “poonch-key.”  They’re apparently using MyEx’s pronunciation key. “Conflict Resolution” is pronounced “Divorce.”  Yeah, sounds just like it looks.

 

I do find out that this paczki thing does have a rich history. Apparently it originally had nothing to do with Fat Tuesday, but was part of the Polish Fat Thursday.  The day of cupboard cleaning before the bare pantry of lent.   They cleared out all the foods they couldn’t eat and made fatty meals and heavy pastries for one last feast before Easter.

 

Some time around medieval times, Polish kings found that if they filled the pastry with napalm, it became a perfect weapon, and thus, the paczki-pult was created and turned the course of world history.  At least this was the cultural input from one web site.

 

It’s amazing what we’ve done with the internet. We’ve created a paczki of misinformation. A sugary treat filled with whatever we shelved in our brains. We cook it up, throw it on the web, and it sits there until somebody’s system finally digests it.

 

We’re a culture of web lemmings.  Somebody speaks out in spite: it’s gospel, and we swallow it.  And notice I say “we.” I’m not better than the little guy jumping the cliff before me.  I swallowed that Glade plug-ins were a serious fire hazard, and the Swiffers were a health risk to my cat. 

 

It tasted like paranoia and it tasted good.

 

And I’m not anti internet, it’s like any other culture. There are good things, there are fun things, and there are great things to share. And right now, I’m enjoying the aspect of good sharing. It’s a feast. A melding of cultural cupboards I have a pirate who likes to share tasty pastries, and I can’t see a thing in the world wrong with that.

 

Happy Paczki Day indeed.

 

 

 

 

Buy a Clue, or Eat Butt Hair.

Persephone strolls through her morning at cat-plod pace.  She has her routine, and it proceeds from check to check when she’s ready.  First she wakes up, lies on my chest and mews, “pet me,” until I comply. 

 

If I don’t act immediately, she reaches a paw out and taps my mouth. That’s her way of saying, “Mew dude, Right now it’s my paw, next it’s my butt.  You might want to pet me now.” When it’s time, she licks herself, then stretches into item three on her list.

 

Me, I ping through my morning like an errant pinball. Once I’m done spitting foul fur from my mouth, I spring from my bed and brush my teeth. That’s about the time my alarm goes off. I bounce back to the room to stop the shriek, then rebound to the sink for rinse then spit.

 

“mew.” That’s “about time” in cat speak. The alarm disrupts her bath concentration.  I start my shower.

 

While I suds up and sing Abba tunes, Persephone finishes her bath, then hops down from the bed and waits by the bedroom door.  The next item on her list is “eat,” and that happens when I jump out of the shower. 

 

Sort of.

 

See, this is where the first Ford Escort parks on the train tracks of our day. I finish the shower, dry off, and step into the bedroom.  Persephone bounds down the hallway.  Somewhere out there, she looks back to notice I didn’t follow.  She returns to the bedroom, where she notices that I’ve opted for clothes today. 

 

“Mew.”

“yeah, sorry, need the clothes if I’m gonna go outside and get the paper. You weren’t here last fall to hear the howling over the harvest moon.”

“Mewhatever.”

 

I get dressed, start for the door; she runs down the hall; I remember I forgot my glasses in the bathroom. She appears in the doorway.

 

“Mewhat now?”

 

I start towards the door; she bounds down the hallway; I remember I forgot my slippers. It’s cold. I go to the closet and grab them.

 

“MEWTF?”

 

Yeah, MyEx came by this weekend to pick up a pair of shoes and to meet Persephone, and Persephone told her all about it.

 

“Mewhy can’t I go home with you?” She expressed rubbing MyEx’s hand.

 

MyEx passed along the pets of empathy, but it didn’t soothe the savage beast.

 

“Mewe’ll see if I let you back in here again.  Here’s something from my catbox for ya!” Persephone scratched at the floor with her hind paws.

“It’s ok, girl,” I empathize. “I tried that once before too. It doesn’t change anything.”

 

I empathize because I’ve been there, MyEx empathizes because she’s been there too.  In all of our time together she’s always known me as a falling leaf fest scattered around the tree of direction.

 

It’s Rob leitmotif.  I’m a flurry of misdirected energy.  If I were a chicken, my head would be in my hand as I Macarenaed around the yard.

 

“It’s the headless chicken-Rob.”

 

Except there’s no panic.  I don’t panic.  There is order to my disorder. That’s because I know what I’m doing, just not where I’m going. That’s my dynamic dynamic; now all I need is a conjunction junction.

 

Because of that, my relationship with Persephone is at a junction, other than food, she’s wondering what’s my function. It’s like we’re married.  All relationships go through this phase: the breaking in. It’s where you decide if you issues and flaws can align well enough to continue. It’s like putting a puzzle together. Do we form a coherent shape our are we just scrambled pieces that don’t fit?

 

Persephone is a nano-focused ambler. I’m Mentos drop in Mountain Dew followed by a mouthful of Pop Rocks. We’re like the odd couple except, I’m both Oscar and Felix and she’s Garfield, if he were still funny.

 

Can we get along?  So far so good.  It just takes patience: something both of us lack—but see? That’s something we have in common.  It’s something we can build on. It’s our bond.  It’s the starting point for all patterns.

 

It’s the same with a marriage.  You start with your similarities, and build from there.  Sometimes you build for the better; sometimes you build for the worse. The trick is to try and remember what brought you together in the beginning—it’ll make you richer, not poorer.

 

For Persephone and I, it was my home, and her mouser skills. That’s what brought us together. As long as we keep those things in focus, we should be fine. Oh, I do know that there will be conflict.  Persephone does seem a bit passive aggressive, especially after I pooped in her cat box. It’s ok, we’re learning.

 

I just have a hunch that tomorrow she won’t start with the paw.

Fondling my Inner Koala

Life is a long trip to Australia: to die.  Go ahead, grab your squeaky platypus slippers and get ready to hug a koala, cuz the cap’n’s ready to go: it’s cruch time.  Yeah, I’m not sure how the Aussie PR team is gonna spin this, but I think it’ll take more than Crocodile Dundee to make us comfortable with the trip.

 

“Now that’s a knife.”

“Uhm, I’m not sure that’s the message we’re trying to send Paul, and could you pull up your pants?”

 

Still, He stand’s by his catchphrase, as I stand by my concept. It came as a shower epiphany.; it must be true. It came to me right after, “Dude, you’ve got hairy toes.” And yes, I was talking to myself; this was not a Dundee/Blogger Brokeback moment.

 

So yeah, after painting that little mural in your airport, let’s get back to my point: life is like a box of airplanes: all the tasty stuff is inside the candy shell. No wait, it’s like moving from one airport to another—yeah, you can pin your hokey pokey to that, cuz, that’s what it’s all about.

 

See, the people we spend time with, they’re our traveling companions. I mean, we’re all going to the same place; we might as well spend the time with someone.  Some we’ll like, some are just gross and smell like old garlic. Yeah, sorry I made spaghetti last night.  Still, we all have one thing in common:

 

“Where ya goin?”

“Australia.”

“Me too!”

 

The thing is, although we’re all going to Australia, we make different departures and arrivals; we have different flight plans. Some of us will stop in Huston; others will layover in Omaha and wonder why we’re in hell. Only the destination remains the same—well, that and the fact that we’ll all end up stuck in Los Angeles at least once. Sooner or later, everything comes back to LA. A cat molests a hairpiece in London, and LA will show you six degrees of separation. Everybody’s selfish. Everybody stops in LA.

 

Cheer up, maybe you’ll form a bond and share the journey. Some of us even earn our wings getting married, while others are just happy racking up frequent flier miles. Some passengers get busy creating new passengers.

 

“Are we there yet?”

 

Yeah, not the question any of us really want to hear on this trip.

 

There is one other constant.  We’ll all have baggage to claim. Oh, it may just be a carryon and a laptop, but trust me; there’ll always be baggage.  If we’re lucky we won’t get stuck with any one else’s luggage, and luckier still we won’t get our luggage tossed by security.

 

“Time for the cavity search.”

“But you’re not my dentist!”

 

So forewarned with all this knowledge, what do we do?  Do we book the red eye and fly straight through? Do we hit every stop along the way taking a bite of every culture?

 

That’s the thing.  The journey is ours, how we spend it, is how we work our itinerary.  Me, I flew the friendly skies for ten years with MyEx.  We had a great time for part of that, and I wouldn’t trade in those tickets for the world. 

 

Some of the journey is turbulent and sometimes we find ourselves flying back through destinations we thought we’d never revisit.  We endure snotty stewardesses, bland food, and cramped seats.  Sometimes we go first class though, and without those moments in coach, we’d never appreciate the upgrade.

 

Right now I’m on a pirate leg of my trip.  Yeah, it’s straight and solid like, and I like it. She’s got me pegged.  Yeah, sorry, some flights you get great movies, other flights you get Heaven’s Gate. You lucky passengers get me.  I’m the guy in front of you who can’t decide if he likes his seat reclined or upright.

 

“I picked a bad time to stop sniffing glue.”

 

Still despite it all, I love the whole trip. The fact is, I’m in no hurry to get to Australia.  And I may not know everybody on the plane, but I know I can count on the guy in 6-A, his flying companion, and a few other people seated around the plane should things get rough. They also know they can count on me.

 

I love meeting people and sharing travel stories cuz we’re all on this trip together. We can’t change our destinations, but we can make it a better trip for others, and yes my hokey pokey brethren and sisteren, I really do believe that that’s what it’s all about.

Trolls in Waiting

Bridges of Communication, that what my college primer to interpersonal communication promised to cross in a 36 pt. Times Roman font of scholastic conviction.  According to the cover, communication was a suspension bridge holding firm over a turbulent body of water.  Textbooks always approached metaphor with the hopeful sledgehammer of hardhat construction. 

 

I thought the cover should have offered a realist approach: a frame from the Bridge on the River Kwai.  Exploding charges detonating years of painstaking effort to make an honest cover, and offer a happy ending for anybody not on the bridge.

 

“Madness…madness…”

 

Ok, not so we’re not talking happy feet penguin happy, but happy from a “yeah, that’s how I saw it ending” perspective. that’s how communication ends so often, and when the communication is gone, everything else follows, and yes guys, that means sex too.  Still, that isn’t even the most accurate picture of relationship communication.

 

Communication is two roads leading to opposing sides of a seemingly uncrossable chasm.  The roads begin in our past, leading to where we want to live our future.  Usually somebody’s on the other side trying to do the same thing. 

 

See them?  Go ahead and wave.  That’s the next person you’re trying to reach.  Say “hi.”  Hear it echo back?  That’s how most communication ends. Guys think the pretty cheerleader in High School who you ogled from afar.  Girls, think that Football player dating the tramp cheerleader you hated so much.  Great, we’re on the same page, and there’s no bridge.

 

The next communication builders are the people we do talk to.  Everybody wave. Now, lets agree to build bridges to each other. Yup, we’re spanning the chasm, talking about ourselves, mentioning all the things that are cool to us, and telling cool anecdotes like how our favorite flavor of boxed wine is called, “red.”  Yup, all the stories are good, and everything seems cool, except when we get halfway across, their half of the bridge is nowhere to be seen.

 

Where are they?  Look 100 yards to your left.  Now wave and say hello.  You’ve just missed each other because you were too wrapped in your own story.  I say you, but I have quite the collection of half bridges myself.  If it’s any consolation, it isn’t all your fault. If the other person had been paying attention, they’d have either said something to you, or corrected their path. We all fail at communication. Bridges are useless when we can’t meet each other half way.

 

So, it’s back to the drawing board. Communication is a lot of work, and most of it falls on deaf ears.  Yeah, that’s what’s at the bottom of the chasm.  It’s a raging river of deaf ears down there. I’d tell you to listen, but you can’t hear anything over their din. 

 

 

Here’s the thing I learned in college communication: all I needed to learn about communication I learned in kindergarten:

 “I don’t want to talk to you anymore Robby Boyd.”

“Ok, Mom.”

 

Fine, I’m kidding, but I do believe we learn how to communicate by watching our parents.  That’s where we learn all of our best dirty tricks. Passive aggression, gunnysacking, and avoidance, are not in the genes, they’re learned traits.

 

How did your parents communicate? As kids we watch and learn. When mom gets a new necklace after yelling at dad for not taking out the trash, we take note. We learn to manipulate, belittle and impugn, just to get what we want.

 

My dad taught me that if I striped naked in the mall, I could get pretty much anything at all. Usually that starts with a new pair of pants. I’m not sure what that has to do with communication, but it does send a clear message.  It was also a great way to piss off MyEx.

 

“Rob please, leave your pants on.”

“But I like flying free.”

“Yeah, mall security has tasers. You might rethink your naked truth.  That’s all I’m saying. Oh, that looked painful…”

 

It is something important to think about.  No, not me naked in the mall.  You can stop clawing at your eyes now. I’m talking about communication, because we in turn teach what we learn to our own children. Do you avoid the real and go for the throat on non-issues? This is your legacy.  This is what you’re passing down.  This is how your children will build their bridges-not with Lincoln Logs.

 

Me, I don’t have any kids to pass my bad habit’s down to, so I stop kids in the park.  That usually goes over well.

 

“Hey little girl, want some candy?” Yeah, that sends a message.

 

If only we were that clear all the time.  What if we laid all of our tools out on the table and shared them with the other person building the bridge.  Then maybe we could build cool suspension bridges, rather than lying like trolls, waiting for somebody to pay a toll of just deserts.

 

Those of us who’ve been through a divorce have seen the explosive results of bad communication. There must be a way to reach out before everything blows up. Unfortunately ten out of ten of us will let pride block our safe passage. We’d rather believe we’re right than communicate in love.

 

“madness…madness…”

Comparing Scars

“…you had some sort of "incident" that caused both of you to react and you never really resolved it.  Plus - you guys are both obviously ‘new’ to the whole dating thing again, and quite frankly suck at it.”

 

Yeah, that’s the email pillow drool I woke up to this morning.  It’s the Pirate Queen’s way of kissing me good morning. I’d rather she just ask me if I had soft sheets, but no, today it’s about past mistakes.

 

She brings them up because they’re on my mind. If she had a super power it would be the eye of perception.  Her good eye--the other one has a patch…

 

My super power?  She says that I’m “uhm…funny?” Yeah I’m gonna catch a lot of bad guys that way.

 

"Here comes RobBlogger!"

"What's his super power again?"

"uhm...he's, uhm...funny I believe."

"Oh, we are so screwed."

 

Well it doesn’t matter. Today my super powers won’t help me. Today we’re comparing scars. That’s right, we’ve come to that dreaded moment where we compare previous relationships.

 

That’s right everyone you’ve kissed leaves a lipstick smudge and there comes a time in every relationship where you’re accountable for every historic scarlet smear. I lost my virginity to Bambi—the movie, not the deer—I assure you that that’s relevant here.

 

“Which scene.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Think.”

“Why is it important?”

“I’m not going to continue talking to somebody who ‘got busy’ while Momma Bambi got shot.”

“Oh I was definitely done before then.”

“Ok, then.”

 

It’s a your resume. Mine’s short. I’m finished in 30 seconds.  Yeah, go ahead and laugh.  Still this is an important interview, because I’m not the only one on trial here. 

 

“So why did you divorce?” The email asks.

 

Yup, that’s the million dollar question. Pirate Queen is listening, and I’m cyber watching, because I want to know how she reacts. I tell her my story: the good, the bad, and the Robby.  When I hit “send” she knows everything I know. 

 

It’s a simultaneous test. See, what she says about my divorce tells me as much about her as my story tells her about me.  Does she tell me what a wretch MyEx was? That never says anything good. It tells me two things. It tells me that the she doesn’t acknowledge that there are multiple sides to all stories, and it also tells me that she’s quick to speak ill of people she doesn’t know.  I’ve made that mistake before; I won’t make it again. 

 

Here’s the thing.  MyEx is my ex, she’s my cross to bear, and if there’s any ill will, I’ll carry it myself. I married her.  I saw something about her once, how that’s changed is between MyEx and I.  How I face my future, well that depends on the next reply.

           

 Over the web, ten minutes is an eternity.  I swear I can see the matrix if I stare hard enough. Pretty soon clicking the Google Ads just to pass time. No I don’t need to pay $400 to figure out my life’s purpose, but thanks for asking…Wait! Llamas in kilts? Stop the press! 

 

Ping!

 

A new email arrives.

 

“How sad.”

 

She passed. 

 

Apparently so did I, later, on the phone, she shares her scars.  After a half hour I see why we’re doing this on the phone, “…and that brings you to third grade…” Yeah, my Pirate Queen believes in full disclosure.  It’s cool I appreciate people who share as much as I hate people who leave me guessing. I’m not sure why I need to know about Billy Fitzsimmons’ harelip but it’s nice to know that if I have a need, it’s there.

 

She tells me about her marriage, and I listen. Her story is different than mine. She paints in blacks and whites, mixing greys where they’re appropriate. In her tale there are clear-cut wrongs made by both sides.

 

Her voice shares no glee when she relates her decisions. There’s an innocence lost, but a woman found. She’s made peace with what’s done and where she’s going. I don’t say anything. I listen.

 

It’s not the easiest conversation to have, but it’s important to know, because our experiences say a lot about who we are.  They show how we learn and grow, and they also show patterns.  If I’ve had three wives leave because “they didn’t approve of my internet research,” then maybe I should stop Googling porn, or find somebody who can show me where all the good sites are.

 

When she’s done we talk about more important stuff: “So what thread count sheets do you buy?”

 

Yeah, we all have our priorities.

Clean Living and Dirty Rice

Food.  It’s something that we all share.  Well not literally--quit soaking your toes in my Corn Flakes. What’s more, the food you share isn’t as good as the food I share, but I won’t hold it against you.  I mean unless you want me to, but I’m hoping you pick something like chocolate over sushi.

 

Food, it’s the dark secret of divorce.  It’s the taboo nobody talks about louder than mouthful mumbles, but we all wear the cracker crumbs of guilt on our sweater vests of denial. 

 

That’s right. Confess it: you eat.

 

At first, after divorce it’s no big deal; you’re on the divorce diet. It doesn’t matter how many waffle slathered slaughtered hogs you sling over your closet rail; chances are you’re losing at least 10 pounds.  The trick is to cure yourself before the meat goes bad and to your hips.

 

“Mommy, why are the bugs crawling out of the closet?”

“Don’t worry honey.  Could you just bring me two eggs and some hash browns, please?”

 

The pig in the closet isn’t the elephant in the room.  That nosey guy is a little more overwhelming. He’s here to expose everything you knew about cooking.

 

Yup.  There it is, I’ve said it.  Whether you cook or you don’t, you have to throw out everything you knew about food once your spouse moves out.  Remember when one box of Hamburger helper made one meal? Well you might as well put Sally Struthers on speed dial, because if you’re alone, that same box will now feed your barefoot butt for a month.

 

Trust me, I know of what I speak.  The first week I cooked for me alone, I ended up with a bomb shelter stock of surplus.  That sounds good, but I only had four meal choices, before I couldn’t shove anything else in, and let me tell ya, I do like dirty rice, but not that much.

 

“…dirty rice gumbo, dirty rice kabobs, dirty rice smoothies…”

 

I asked the Pirate Queen about her experience.  She said that she buys vegetables just to throw them away.  She was gonna put a disposal under the bottom shelf, until I recommended a veggie-pult.  She liked that idea better.  Pirates always like flying food. Besides, it makes the cilantro pulp sludging the drawer bottom that much more impressive.

 

I have another friend with an out of sight, out of mind kitchen. If she can’t see it, she throws it away. She won’t let fruit take root in her drawers because the drawers are opaque.  She knows her drawers are the Bermuda Triangle of her kitchen, and she’s not sacrificing any more lives to them. She doesn’t believe in leftovers, they’re false gods worshiped by the green goop behind the three-year-old milk.  She throws everything out that can’t turn snakes to sticks.  I try to avoid her fridge.

 

“Would you like a beer?”

“No, no, I’m fine.  Thanks.”

 

That’s my big problem: we alter everything else, why can’t we shift our diets into single mode?   And why is it that all recipe books with good recipes perpetuate this pattern?  I have a library stack dedicated to family meal makers, but only one book for single cooks and it’s all “quick” ideas.  What if I want to splurge on me?  Where’s my lasagna for one? I promise you, if I make me lasagna, and bring a bottle of wine, I might just get lucky, but the lasagna better be home made.

 

Sometimes we give up.  We wave the little white napkin and turn to fast food or prepared salt lick potpies.  That’s no way to stay healthy. So what do we do? How do we sate our appetite without feeding a landfill?  If we are what we eat, how do we keep from becoming fluffy buns and fatty beef?

 

Don’t look at me; I’m a blogger. Bloggers are pithy, not intelligent.  Still, I do have a suggestion.  Maybe I was right in the beginning.  Maybe food is something we can share.  What if we had like a divorced food of the month club? I mean we could all register a meal, cook it, and then send some to everybody on the list. This would create new meals for everybody, and no leftovers--every night a new meal coming in the mail.  What do you say?

 

Hey, I’m in if you are.  Dirty rice quiche, anybody?

2,500 Miles of Moving On

Unsatisfied with the general devastation of the black plague, man invented Valentine’s Day.  A quaint holiday meant to bolster jeweler’s coffers, kill trees, and crush the hearts and souls of humanity.  Yeah, I’m a hopeless romantic.

 

When I was young, I rarely had Valentine’s dates. I was too picky, too shy, and well, just too Rob.  The day after, my friends would always console me with platitudes of, “don’t worry, you’ll find love someday.”  I’d smile, finish my beer and drive home alone--not before driving a cherub’s arrow into each of their tires though and leaving them a note, “It’s ok, you’ll find a tow someday.”

 

There’s a special hell reserved for Valentine’s Day. How can you like a holiday that perpetuates an “us and them” mentality? It’s a cruel game of red rover where one side gets landmines and hand grenades, and no matter how loud the other side “red rover, red rover”s, if you’re standing on the pro-Valentine side, you sure as hell don’t want to cross on over.

 

That’s what Valentine’s Day does to us.  And in the early years after divorce it just seems like the chocolate sprinkles on the cruel irony cupcake.

 

“Yeah, I’ll take, ‘kicks to the groin for $1000, Alex.’”

 

As a blogger I’d love to offer you tips for getting through the holiday with a smile, but really the best thing I’ve found is to simply plow through it. Yeah, that’s as far as Rob wisdom got me.

 

Want me to paint a Rob-blog picture?  Here try this: Pretend you’re running with the bull in Pamplona and Cupid’s overhead with a sniper-rifle. Onlookers are pelting you with candy hearts as you rush past.  Oh, you’ve got a “Be mine” stuck in your—nevermind, you’ll see it later. Keep going, the day’s half over.

 

“Run Forrest Run!”

 

You have my deepest sympathies, and yet I feel like the biggest hypocrite, because I have a dark secret. I am spending Valentine’s Day alone, but I am not alone.  That’s right, this year I made it across to the pro-side, and a Valentine has my heart.

 

We met right after I decompressed from Grunge Pixie.  I’d hoped that things would work out there, and they didn’t. GP was my dive in the water after divorce, and I floundered. When it was done, I took time to regroup, then opened the chamber door, and there she stood with a towel and pirate hook in hand.

 

She was a voice on D360, but that’s only where we were introduced.  We shook hands.

 

“Hi, I’m Band-Girl Pirate-Queen.”

“I am Rob, Lord of the Punks.”

“I don’t really like punk.”

“That’s ok, I never played in a band.”

It was silly, it was stupid it was fun, but it was also a challenge.  See, no matter how much I wanted to spend an afternoon of Pirate plunder, she lived 2,500 miles away; it would require some serious frequent flier miles.

 

“Run Forrest, run!”

 

Distance is hell on a relationship on any level. You can’t hug, touch, or stare into each other’s eyes over a cup of coffee. All you can do is talk and share, and long. That’s when something funny happened.

 

I believe that God brings people into our lives for reasons.  If we’re blessed, we find out what those reasons are, but over 90 percent of the time, those people come and go like harbor ships restocking supplies and regaling tales of the mysterious seas.

 

So often, we supplant God’s purposes with our own, shaping his blessing for our needs. It’s like choosing candy hearts over a recipe book to plan a meal.

 

“That’s one cup of Hot Stuff...”

 

It never works the way we want, and we almost always screw up the good things with our own agenda.

 

Do you know what 2,500 miles does? It makes you look at things like friendship. To be honest, if the Band Girl Pirate Queen had been closer, I don’t know how much talking we’d have done.  I may never have known how alike we are because I’d have been too drawn by her lips, her eyes, her sex.  I wouldn’t have had time to know that we share the same goals, the same motivations, and the same love the same movies.

 

My libido has been sidelined for now, and I’ve discovered a woman who not only likes the same world I do, but she likes to talk about them.  She has opinions she’s willing to defend. She likes jazz because the musical complexity building on repetitive rhythms, and not because it’s “good.” I love conversations I don’t have to coax like a cat from under a bed. We talk about films, actors, marketing philosophy, kilts, and everything in between. 

 

I wouldn’t have known these things locked in a torrid embrace. Now I do, and every day I grow to appreciate her more.  It’s still too early to say what’s going to happen between us, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Even if we were meant to meet ,shake hands and say, “Hi, my neato friend!” that would be fine.  Right now we’re taking time to be friends, and letting things grow from there. For the first time in a long time, I’m comfortable with that. I’m not anxious, or insecure, I’ve found someone who gets me, and somebody I want to get to know.  What ever grows from that is a plus, because it’s already good.

 

So this year, I did send out a Valentine’s card.  It was simple and sweet and said “hug me” on the cover, because some day, I’m hoping she will, and if I’m lucky, maybe a little more.

 

So don’t hate me my friends. I’m still with you, and I still understand the pain you’re going through.  I’m just finding that it’s time to move on, at my own pace. Because maybe my friends were right: maybe I will find love some day.

 

 

 

 

Caffeine Jitters & Internet Jones

Doobie doobie doo…

 

Nothing like hold Muzak to get your day going.  Well that and my large hazelnut latte.  But I think that this pairing is giving me the jitters. Right now I’m twitching to a jazzy rendition of “What a Day for a Daydream.” Yeah, I can honestly say this is not that day. At least not while I’m in my local coffee shop, with an unresponsive wifi.

 

“Server does not exist.” That’s what my laptop says.  It’s like its never heard of the internet before.  Interesting twist of irony: my iPhone makes the connection, but I can’t transfer data back and forth between it and my laptop.  They don’t communicate.

 

I hold up the iPhone so that the screen faces my monitor, “See?  That’s what the internet looks like.”

 

The monitor blinks then flashes again, “Server does not exist.” 

 

I could take this as a sign that it’s Friday the 13^th, but the guy behind me with an axe insists that it’s purely coincidental.  I don’t really trust his fashion sense, but I think his holiday knowledge is impeccable. He’s just given me a heart with, “Be Mine” carved into it.  Kinda creepy, but it is the thought that counts.

 

“This is Alex, can I help you?” Alex is the chipper voice piping through my Bluetooth. He sounds like he’s in his mid twenties and has been popping No-Doz from a Pez dispenser for the last 4 hours. He’s obviously listening to something better than my hold music.  Lucky Alex.

 

“My computer doesn’t talk to the internet on the wifi.”

“How does it talk to the internet?”

“Right now? It doesn’t.”

“Ok, hold on let me check it out.”

 

A cellist is now rocking my ear where Alex once stood, bowing through the Police’s “Wrapped Around Your Finger.” What I’d give to access my XM account right now.

 

You don’t notice how much you miss the internet until you need to live without it.  Yeah, as a boyscout I was trained to rub two sticks together and start a fire, but nobody shared how to strand firewire and make communication. That’s what I need to survive in today’s world.

 

So far I’ve survived 40 minutes, and when the cellist ends this note it’ll be 45:13 that I’ll never get back.  If it goes longer, I’m rubbing two sticks against a pile of books so I can make smoke signals.

 

For me the internet is my tether to life.  It’s how I keep up with friends. I don’t really know people in my community.  I mean there are people at church and in my writers’ group, but nobody I’d share important life with. For that my city might as well be Night of the Comet empty, cuz it’s just like being alone. 

 

Oh, I’m not blaming anyone.  I work at home, and I don’t have a lot of time for random social interaction.  Writers’ group, church, and coffee, those are the ropes keeping me moored in my offline community, and all of them are like silk threads. 

 

Online is where the people I “know” are.  I’m not advocating it, I’m just saying that that’s the way it is.  I mean, if you all would just move here, that would make life much easier, but since you’re unwilling to give up your lives for your Rob blogger, I have to communicate the best way I can.

 

“Here, try the Kool-aid.”

 

Alex is back in my ear whispering absolute nothings.  He tells me the problem is that my coffee shop speaks PC but my laptop speaks Mac.  Yeah, stop laughing all of you PC freaks. It’s not that funny.  What’s more, you don’t want to laugh at an addict on an internet jones—besides, he assures me his tech has a quick fix.  All I need to do is sit on hold a little longer.

 

I don’t even know what song we’re butchering now.  It’s almost like we’ve taken some early Fresh Prince, and turned it into a Casiotone sonata. Which is kind of the jumble of my social network. 

 

We all grab for ways to communicate--to listen and to be heard.  For me when the marriage ship went down, I flailed for the internet life raft.  Some of you have family who are a hand-grasp away, or friends who dive in to help you dog paddle to safety.  For me it was the net that kept me afloat. 

 

“You should get through now.” It’s Alex.  He’s right, my browser says I have a connection again. And see? There you are my friends. It’s good to see you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Top Of Spaghetti

“What’s up with the flaccid penis?”  I had to ask.

“What?” I could here her laugh over the phone. I couldn’t believe she wanted me to repeat it.  I think if a guy says that phrase 3 times he’s cursed with a…uhm, overcooked spaghetti.

 

Still, it was only twice so I asked again.  I wanted to know.  The spaghetti seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue, and tongues were wagging on D360.  I couldn’t tell what the real issue was, but it did appear that everybody liked their spaghetti al dente.

 

I wasn’t surprised.  I just wanted to know we were waving the limp flag around. I first saw it when one friend posted that her picture could be seen next to afore mentioned spaghetti. She found it disconcerting to see herself, face-to-face with uncooked spaghetti on the website.  I couldn’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to be there either. Yet her post didn’t yield any clues as to why it was a concern. I still couldn’t tell why old softy had everybody’s panties in a bunch.

 

So, while talking to a band girl flautist I know, I asked.

 

“Uhm, why are you asking me…?”

“I didn’t see the original article, why is everybody talking about it?”

“Oh…” And she shared the story. I felt like I was back in kindergarten with Miss Welsh sharing Dr. Seuss, only my new friend couldn’t flip the book around so I could see pictures. That’s fine. I wasn’t interested in looking at the pictures from her book.  Once you’ve seen one plate of overcooked spaghetti, you’ve seen them all.

 

“I do not like it Sam I am…”

 

For those of you feeling around the dark the same way I was, here’s the story: a woman posted on a flaccid penis -- well, more “about” than “on.” I would call “on” a comment, and certainly not a post. At lest in my experience.  No matter how I brag, nobody’s fitting a full blog on mine.  But Anyway…

 

I guess she wanted green eggs and ham.  She wanted it on a bus, she wanted it on a train, she wanted it with some sauce, she wanted it with champagne.  Unfortunately, the guy she’d hoped would present her with the course she desired only came with overcooked spaghetti.

 

I’m a cook.  I’ve served it before. I know how embarrassing overcooked spaghetti is. It’s worse then serving desert before the appetizer.  There’s no way around it; once you show spaghetti, you can’t pretend it’s a side of beef, and once you’ve made overcooked spaghetti, it’s hard to make anything else. For the record though, there isn’t a cook out there who likes serving it anymore that the patron likes it on their plate.  Still, it doesn’t have to ruin the whole dining experience. It takes a soft touch, and a woman who knows her way around the kitchen, but you can still make a tasty treat.

 

As my friend explained it, this woman was only willing to critique. She wanted fast food and not an evening out. Unsatisfied, she threw the plate back in the cooks face.  In the end she got what she really wanted: she ate alone.

 

Neither of my friends seemed to have much respect for Lady Dine and Ditch. Maybe that’s why they’re my friends.  I didn’t really have a problem with the post, until the blogger admitted her pride in her callous nature. She felt good for telling the poor guy she’d rather pin her tail to a donkey. I mean it’s ok to want what we want, but it’s something else to skewer somebody else in the process. And then there’s the poor donkey.

 

And yet we’re all guilty.  Whether it’s a plate of spaghetti, or not emptying the trash, we’ve all given as many callous dishes as we’ve received.  We’re human, it’s part of our nature.  Oh, we try to be good, but the when we don’t get what we want, we get a little pissy.

 

And yet isn’t that what we’re called to overcome in marriage? I know I know, the woman on top of spaghetti wasn’t looking for anything more than a meatball. She wanted a deep dish of fun, but for me, even the deep dish has to lead somewhere.  Me, I try to avoid dining in places I don’t plan on returning.  If I’m breaking bread with somebody, then I want them to be a part of my long term. And I would never do what she did to a dining partner, no matter how unsatisfying the meal.

 

Half the fun in cooking is discovering what spices the other person enjoys. Sure, not every dish will meet every diner’s expectation, but sometimes you have to get back into the kitchen and try cooking again, because if you can’t come together on the good stuff, why would you even try?

 

And maybe that was her point, but still, have a heart, because what comes around goes around. Some day somebody’s going to bring the sirloin, and won’t think she’s worth the doggy bag.

 

And that’s the thing with relationships great and small, stoic of flaccid, It takes both sides to make something great, and when you give a little kindness, you can get something great in return.  I may not have learned much from my marriage, but I’d like to say that I did learn that.

House or Home?

“It doesn’t feel right.” That’s what she said.

 

This was one of the few times that a woman had said that to me, and I didn’t feel somehow let down. Then again she was talking to me and not about me.  She was talking about her house.

 

“It felt so different when we bought it, and now I’m left alone with it, and all the rooms are half empty.” If her house were a glass of water, she’d be a pessimist.

 

And, if her house were a church, this is where she’d have sauntered off her pulpit, and started sermonizing the baritone, cuz now she’s preaching to the choir.  I know exactly what she’s talking about. She and I are previously married homeowners left holding the bag of bank notes. 

 

Oh I’m not accusing MyEx of some nefarious plot to sink me with the house, while she twirled her handlebar mustache laughing like a lawnmower engine that won’t turn over.  The decision about the house was a rational agreement made by two people at wit’s end: We flipped a coin. 

 

Ok, that’s not what happened, but it would be nice to believe I didn’t volunteer into this assignment. Maybe it only looked like I stepped up because everybody else stepped back.  I doesn’t really matter at this point. I kept the house because it was my responsibility. 

 

MyEx did try to help though.  The first words from her mouth were, “I guess we’ll sell the house.” 

 

Still, I’d already considered the decision before she even offered the real estate olive branch.  We live in California.  California is always ahead of all the popular trends, especially those involving collapsing economies, and fiscal irresponsibility.  Our housing market was already capsizing like in the Poseidon Adventure, and this captain was gonna go down on his ship—er with the ship—because the ship has my name on it.

 

My friend lamenting her house though, her reasons are different. Her reasons involve a spiritual crisis, a bleeding hallway and a wall of lost souls that eats priests for breakfast. Every house has its personality; hers screams pure evil.  She says it’s her ex, and I know better than to ask questions.

 

The thing is, even though I went through a friendly divorce, I know how it feels to have a house possessed. Right now, I’m doing all that I can to keep my hose from becoming repossessed, and I’m finding a priest can’t help.

 

My friend though, she built her marriage hammering her house into a home.   Her and her ex bought a fixer-upper and broke down walls while trying to establish something the would shelter them into their future.

 

Unfortunately, some projects turn out bigger than we imagine; whether it’s zombies in the floorboards or partners losing interest in the work, we can’t see into the future unless we’re part time psychics working for the LAPD.  My friend is in marketing; it’s no help at all.  So now she’s sitting inside four walls of half visualized plans, and nobody is there to help her complete them.  She’s ready to take the house’s advice when it screams, “Get out!” I can’t blame her.

 

Me, my house is good.  My house has its memories, and half realized dreams, but it also has me, and I don’t want to move.  It’s not like I’m holding on to what the house once was, but I do see a future in the house. It’s a solid structure, and the things that fell apart before … well I’ve cleaned them up.  Now it’s a new place, and I think that it has a future, if I can find somebody to plan it with me.  And that’s not because I can’t live on my own, but because the house is big.  It’s a warehouse of echoes for one, but a cozy home for two.

 

I have another friend.  She fled her house because things came crashing down on her.  She’s been living in an apartment while she figures things out, but now, she’s ready to move on.  She’s building her new life and she’s looking for structures to match her personality.

 

Unlike my situation where I’m making the best of my situation, she’s found a new opening, and a new beginning. Unencumbered by her previous problems, she’s ready to move onto something else. The market is right for her too. Prices are down, and she can find a turnkey life for half the cost.

 

I’m happy for her, but I don’t envy her. I like where I am. I’ve always been a scrapper. I like the thought of taking what I had and building off of that. It won’t be what I had before, but it will be something fun and uniquely Rob.  It’s my home, and it just feels right.

 

Divorcism

Next Halloween I’m dressing like a divorce. What’s that look like? I think in the eyes of the inexperienced, it’s a festering boil ready to explode, splashing it’s sticky stench on everything it touches, and infecting all that’s clean and good.

 

“Boo!”

“What are you?”

“A divorce.”

“AAAAAHHHH!”

 

That’s right, drop your candy and run kiddies cuz nothing stains the Underoos of the uninoculated like a viral divorce running rampant through our country.  It’s funny, because for those who’ve never been through one, divorce is a terminal disease worse than leprosy. I mean yeah, after MyEx left, my sex life did dwindle, but I swear, it only felt like the little guy fell off; every morning I check, and every morning he waves hello.  He is still there.

 

I think it’s a fear of the unknown.  It’s bigotry. We’ve seen it in every other part of our culture, from race, to sex, to zombies.  I think it’s time we recognize it in the eyes of undivorced, and educate them before they panic and ship us all to Alaska.  I hate Alaska.  Well not really. I mean, if you live in Alaska, then it’s your choice--not that there’s anything wrong with that.

 

Two years ago I went to the writers’ conference trying to pitch a book about the Los Angeles riots.  People liked the concept and the chaos, and asked to take a look.  This year I went pitching my friendly divorce concept, and everybody backed away faster than I could say, “irreconcilable differences.”

 

“Uhm, who would read something about divorce?” askes one agent as her eyes glass over.

“Well, divorcing people would.”

“Can they read?”

“Well, I use simple words.”

“Because you’re divorced?”

“Uhhh.” I grunt, and shake her hand.  She freezes, and then moves towards her wrist like she’s considering gnawing it off.  Thinking better, she jerks away.

“Excuse, me I need to use the bathroom.”

 

I swear the non-divorced don’t know how to handle us.  I had hoped to bring a peace between our cultures, to let them know that we aren’t that different, but I couldn’t.

 

“Can’t we all just get along?”

 

I wanted to believe we could.  I wanted divorce harmony and hand-in-hand love between our naïve brethren. I even tried to spread my message of love through my agent consultation.

 

The agent consultation is like a speed dating sales pitch.  You go in, sit down with an agent for 10 minutes and then a bell rings, you drool, you leave.  They stay; somebody new comes in.  The one they like, they keep.  Nobody kept me. They couldn’t appreciate what I had to offer.

 

It’s ok.  I mean I’ve been single before. I know what it’s like, and I still say it’s better to be single for all the right reasons then with somebody for all the wrong.  When I sat down with my first agent, she smiled up at me until she heard my pitch.  She wasn’t repulsed; she just didn’t see the divorced as a viable market.

 

“Other than divorced people, who do you reach?”

“uhm…my family?”

ping!  “Times up.”

I leaned in for the kiss but she gave me the cheek.  I tried explaining that almost 50 percent of all marriages end in divorce, but by that time the stormtroopers had me by the armpits and were dragging me backwards out the door.

 

I didn’t find my match.  It’s ok.  Like I said, I’ll wait.  Somebody out there will understand that “divorced” doesn’t mean “less vital.”

 

Because of my recent run with pirates, I met a friendly privateer. She commented on the same issues in her life while playing gin over a bottle of rum. She laid down the gender card.

 

“Argggh!  Guys react different,” she said hook-skewering the draw pile.

“How so?” I’m all about keeping things equal.

“Women either run away, or over-relate, even if they’ve never been divorced.

 

She was right about that. I remembered women who’d done this when I mentioned my divorce.  They’d tried making it theirs.

 

“I’m divorced.”

“You know what, I had a goldfish that died once too.”

 

Yeah, it’s not the same thing, but you can’t tell them because they’re now regaling the glories of Flipper and the toilet bowl of destiny.

 

“Flush!” The pirate said.

“No, this is gin. You say ‘gin.’”

She pulled off her peg, and after threatening me, she explained how guys react differently to divorce.

 

“They apologize.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, exactly. Guys act like suddenly they’re a diplomatic emissary for the whole male gender. They say something like, ‘yeah, we guys can be such jerks,’ then shake your hand on behalf of mankind before excusing themselves for an afternoon of self-flagellation.”

 

I never knew this.  Is it true? Are there other forms of bigotry against the divorced?  Agism? Racism? Antidisestablishmentantarianism? How far will people go to separate the wheat from the divorced? 

 

I know that for most of them it truly is a fear of the unknown. Maybe that’s why dressing up as a divorce will help.  I can scare and share and let them know that divorced people have been through something horrible, but that we’re just the same as everybody else. It doesn’t kill usa. We continue, and most of us even thrive. We live, we grow, and we love again—just like everybody else.

 

 

Exposure

Have you ever dreamt that you’re standing before the divorce judge naked? One minute you’re LA alfresco latte sipping with Rachel Wiesz, the next second-hand lap, you’re goose bumped butt shivering against the institutional AC blowing through exposed body hair like a Kansas wheat field. You’d grab a fig leaf, but the judge just awarded that to your ex, and you won’t be begging them for anything, no matter how exposed you feel.

 

I never have that dream. In my dreams I always have clothes, and sadly that explains many problems with my social life. No, in my dreams, I may have no voice, can’t run, can’t breathe, or can’t pee without getting something on myself, but I always have pants. I am always prepared. I am an over preparedness overachiever. 

 

I am ready for everything, especially in packing.  Whenever I take a trip, I need to cover all emergencies.  Could it rain? I have an umbrella. Is life gonna hand me lemons? I have a juicer. I have a cup of sugar.

 

In divorce I was prepared too.  Once we’d set a course, I packed accordingly: flannel pajamas for those nights alone, a full liquor cabinet for those nights alone, an animal to love for … yeah, you get the idea.

 

See? Ready for anything.  If I were a Biblical character you’d find me dressed to the nines as one of the ten bridesmaids with a trim wick. That’s right, and I’d even shave my legs and look pressed.  Know why? That’s right, cuz I was prepared: I packed a razor and an iron.

 

When the bridegroom comes round the mountain with his six white horses, I’ll flick my Bic; my lamp will flicker to life; and I’ll set one of the other bridesmaids on fire, because who needs 9 others, when I shine so bright with the glow of preparedness.

 

When I went to Seattle, I packed sweaters, undershirts, button-down shirts, flannels, sweatshirts, socks, change of shoes, pants, a coat, a hat, mittens, golashes, and a riding crop. I was ready.

 

This weekend I attended a writers’ conference. I packed. I drove. I arrived.  That’s right publishing world, look out, cuz Rob is here. Valets parked my car; busboys held my door; maids minted my pillow.  I was one book-deal handshake from my luncheon Weisz latte. Beyond the conference room doors sat the eager gatekeepers of publishers and agents. 

 

This year I packed my blog materials, and prepared to pitch the Rob Blog concept.  Prepared for the worst, I realized I might need to rewrite and sell as a memoir. That was my real reason for going. I’ve boxed up my divorced, past, now I want to prepare for my single future. Writer Rob needs a pulpit.

 

He also needs a platform. That’s what the first agent I talked to said.  She said that standing on the backs of blog-readers wasn’t enough. I needed to step on others as well.

 

“Uhm, what?”

“There’s really not a market for blog material—not unless you’re somebody famous.”

“I’m Rob.”

“Yeah, about that…”

 

Nobody likes to hear they’re a small fish in a pothole puddle. I wasn’t prepared for that. Oh, I realize that not everybody has heard of me, but I know me, and I’m big in my head.  Ask MyEx, she’ll tell ya.

 

“Yes, Rob is very important to himself.”

 

See?  Sometimes I find my importance ebbs with other people and my preparedness beach turns to litter and seaweed. I’m not prepared for that. That’s what happened after my first consultation.  I sulked to my room to regroup.

 

Sometimes a change of clothes will bring a change of view.  I took off my blue jeans and red Henley and opened my overnight case. Pulling a green oxford, I continued digging f or slacks. Burrowing through t-shirts, Scooby Doo socks, He-man underwear, and Wonder Woman wear, I soon found I’d forgot something important.

 

I didn’t bring pants. My bridesmaid wick went dark with shame.

 

Preparedness gone, I fell back on animal instinct.  If I let it, this would be a humiliating weekend. It was already obvious the Rob ego wasn’t going to sell, so I fell back on plan B. I turned to Rob charm.  I’d found out what I’d needed for my project, so I spent the weekend talking to others, and helping them push their projects.  Saturday I talked to the sweetest lady over lunch.  She was so nervous, and I prepared her pitch.

 

Later that night, while I was mumbling to myself in the bar, she rushed up and stood next to me. Looking over I said, “Hi.”

“Guess what?” She bounced as she spoke.

“Did somebody like your pitch?”

 “Publisher Bob wants to see my book!”

I was so excited for her. I congratulated her, and she danced back towards the lobby.

 

It made me think.  Maybe the wick thing—maybe mine wasn’t out.  Maybe my perspective was off.  It’s not always about being prepared to be the biggest and the brightest--though I do try my best—maybe sometimes it’s about helping others do the same. Maybe I was too busy looking for my own glow, and I missed my wick lighting another.

 

Well, whatever it was.  I was glad for her. Standing up, I left a tip for the bartender, and he complimented me on my He-man underwear.  Lit wick or not, I still had no pants. But when it came to helping othersn, it felt good to be exposed.