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Blame Yoko.  That's right it's her fault. She broke up the band.  Her relationship with John was legendary, but secondary to her relationship with Paul. Without her and Paul, there would have been no "Spies Like Us" theme song and no "Woman."

 

Oh I believe in yesterday…

 

Life is filled with yesterdays and "what if" todays. What if Paul and John had stayed together?  What if the Beatles would have continued to make sweet music together? What if Paul and Yoko had just hugged it out? Would there still be tangerine trees and marshmallow skies?

 

I don't know. The world went one way and now all alternate yestedays are dead ends.  Blame Yoko. She’s a force transcending time and space.

 

In my time, I've written 645 blogs. I'm a blogger. Yay!  Throw me my tickertape parade and smother me with Kudos candy bars, cuz I'm a hero sandwich.  I want a Cardboard kiosk in my honor.  645, that's almost a blog a day for almost 2 years. You could keep hungry kids off the streets if you chained them to typewriters and forced them write that much.

 

“No Indugu, no saltines until you churn out a Da Vinci sequel.”

 

So what do I have to show for time blogged? That's the question that sent me into a cloistered sabbatical. A former reader accused me of not being motivated. She was wrong, but that didn't stop me from plagiarizing her question, "What is my motivation?"

 

At first it was my way of seeing through the divorce forest by milling four million trees into pulverized paper. Then it was about helping others—maybe. Then again maybe it was all about me.  I started to question my motivation in February when I found myself at MyEx’s doorstep:

 

Knock, knock!

“Hello?”

“Hey!”

“Uhm, what are you doing here, Rob?”

“I need a favor.”

“What?”

“I need an affidavit. “

“A what?”

“I need you to confirm that our divorce has nothing to do with spousal abuse.”

“WHAT?”

“Grunge Pixie, she's gone and said some things and now Pirate Queen wants...well she wants to see pictures of you and wants documents stating that I'm not abusive.”

“Grunge Pixie? Pirate Queen?  Have you been picking up teenagers on the World of Warcraft site again?”

“Well I hope you’re not gonna mention that in the affidavit…. Uhm could you stop laughing? You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Look,  she said I fit an abusive profile.”

“As in dangerous?”

“Yes!”

“And she’s met you?

“Yes! Look, you can stop laughing now.  Please…Look I can be dangerous! ROWR!   KNOCK IT OFF!”

 

She finally did, when she hyperventilated and passed out. I resuscitated her. I called 911. I spent the night in jail because a local cop read Grunge Pixies blog and thinks I nearly killed MyEx on purpose.

 

Ok, there was no jail time. I’m just exaggerating for effect. I guess that’s the point though. There’s no limit to the lies people can tell, and there’s no telling the effect it can have on people who aren’t even involved.

 

The reality is, most of this only happened in my mind, but my mind is a dangerous place. It’s the Yoko freight train driving my writing on a collision course with a bus of hurt divorcees seeking emotional triage. I said I was doing this to help, but how am I helping by inserting myself in some online telenovela?

 

Blame Yoko—she’s derailed everything.

 

I'm a writer.  For the past two years I've been a blogger--more specifically, a divorce blogger.  The irony is that the one thing I didn't want to talk about is the one thing that has gained me the broadest audience.  Granted, I'm not going to fill a fishbowl with my smattering of readers, but still, it has garnered more interest than any other word flakes I've sprinkled at the top of the bowl. This was my first nibble.

 

So where does that leave me now?  I'm a writer in a bad economy.  I've lost some financial inspiration to continue my blog, and the inkwell is running dry.  The question is: am I a blogger? If the answer is yes, then I should continue to blog my little heart out. Let my inner Yoko pouring coal into the little engine that could.

 

We all have our Yoko's, and my Pirate’s Yoko had her own opinion on the matter.  Hers even makes valid coherent points. "Do you see yourself writing about divorce? Do you want to be known as a divorce blogger?"

 

The answer is no.  I've spent 2 years writing about divorce. I'm done. I married. I divorced. I'm done. I once wrote that "Divorced" is a permanent state.  I don't believe that anymore. Yeah, I've been divorced, but now I'm Rob.  I'll check your little box on your little demographic forms, but it's nothing more than a worthless statistic. I'll hang my divorce diploma on the wall, right next to my sixth grade Completion plaque. They both say so much about who I am.

 

“Rob has a lot of potential, he just needs to apply himself.”

 

Fine. It’s time. I’m applying myself, but I think I’m done applying myself to my divorce. It’s time to write about something else. If I’m not helping anybody, and I’m not writing what I love, then what am I doing?

 

I’m growing.  I’m changing.  I’m acknowledging that my yesterdays may be set, but my future is fluid., and it pours from today. Today, my future is this: I’m no longer a divorce blogger.  I’m no longer a blogger. I’m a writer who blogs.

 

So what does that mean to you, my three readers?  Change. I need to work on other projects. That means my blogs will be less frequent, and probably won’t deal with divorce.  It means I’ll try to blog once a week. It also means that I won’t dip my pen in the poison well either: my blogs will only appear here. While there are real people with real needs, I don’t want to steal their attention by nourishing the bitter swill of hateful stories.  

 

It also means I have the right to change my mind at any time. 

 

Blame Yoko.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blogger on Break

Sometimes things happen, sometimes they don't. Right now this blogger is taking a week off to decide what's happening and what isn't. Think of this as a short pee break. Go get some popcorn and a soda and I'll have made some decisions by the time you get back. Oh, and bring me some Sugar Babies.

"Let's all go to the lobby..."

Mime Farts: Silent but Deadly

What’s it gonna take?  Seriously, tell me and I’ll do it.  Pie to the face? Kick to the groin? Clown makeup and balloon porn? What will make you smile, dang it! That’s a question for my 3 readers; MyEx need not reply; the whips and chains take a much darker design after our divorce.

 

“No Mr. Boyd, I want you to die.”

 

Everything takes a darker design after divorce. The sunrise is too blinding; the moon is too pocked; the house is too quiet. The same things we loved before our marriage have turned into an endless SNL skit; it was funny at first, but now it’s just old.

 

Bloggers are gripping their teddies and soaking their sheets, and it’s not just about divorce.  There’s foreclosures, bankruptcies, and joblessness, oh my!  And if these things aren’t bad enough, we’re learning to mix and match our woes like Garanimals of whininess.

 

“You got your divorced-real estate in my unemployment!”  Yeah, I got my mixed metaphor all over everybody’s monitor.  It isn’t pretty.  It’s not even that funny.  Yeah sorry.  I could walk around in my Superman Underoos if that will help.

 

The worlds a scary place today. The wolf is at the door, and there are naked mimes running against the wind on every street corner.

 

“...” He said sadly, running a finger to trace the imaginary tear.

 

“Mom! Our neighbor is crying naked on the lawn!”

“No Timmy, that’s not Rob, that’s a mime.  Rob’s the naked guy playing Moby Dick in the pool. Just stay in your room and play Xbox today.”

 

Don’t hide inside.  Come out and play. Really, I only want to see you all smile.  I mean lets face it:  things suck, especially after divorce.  Here’s the good news though: unlike my blog, life does get better. There will come a day when you will find something really funny and you’ll laugh.  Trust me.  It just may not happen here.

 

“Abandon hope all who read here…”

 

In the mean time though, I’ll try what I can.  It’s what I did with MyEx When we were together.  Whether it was screaming “Scooby Dooby Doo” during sex, or just helping her find the fun in life’s low points, I did what I could. Ok, maybe those two are the same thing. The important thing is that I tried.

 

I try to do the same for all my friends, because we all need to smile.  Too many things go wrong, and it’s so easy to just let them get to you.  I may not have learned how to hold a marriage together but I did learn a thing or two about finding humor.  Sometimes it’s all you have.

 

That gets tough when everything is not After-School Special sweet and easy.  Some of life’s dramas are Deadwood dirty.  That’s why we need to collect smiles like where bartering with mad dentists.  We need a few grins for a rainy day.

 

That’s been my goal all along—whether intentional or not.  When I was twenty I was left alone on a freight elevator with a rolling rack and a pile of rolled carpets.  The door closed on the second floor, I waved goodbye, and when the doors opened on the first floor I was Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man, pinned to the elevator wall by an akimbo rack, my legs trapped against carpet. That’s right, Rob, a living work of art.  I remained that way for quite I while employees paraded by, laughing.

 

See, I am the McGyver of misadventure.  Give me a roll of duct tape and fifteen minutes, and I’ll give you Rob hogtied with an apple in his mouth. 

 

That’s why I blog: It’s safer.  Still my friends, you need to smile. I may be in hiding but you need to get out there. Life is too short.  Sure, things are bad, but they can’t stay that way.  Get out there and find yourself a Rob to laugh at.  You need it and it will stick in your memory like superglue and peanut butter.  What’s more, a Rob is better than a pet, cuz you don’t have to feed him. Just wind him up and watch the comedy.  It’ll add 15 minutes to your life.

 

Andy Worhol predicted that in the future everybody would be Rob blessed for 15 minutes.  This is your 15 minutes, so c’mon, have some fun.

One Man's Trashy Talk...

We had phone sex.  At least I think we did.  I’m not sure. I don’t even know if I did it right.  I mean I guess we had fun, that’s all that matters, right?  I think she got more into it than I did.  I asked to make sure.

 

“Is that it?”

“Oh yeah, baby,” she cooed, “that was it.”

“Ok, great.” I guess I’m better than I thought.

 

It began as all sexual adventures begin.  I’m busy cleaning the house in my bathrobe, with porn music pounding from the stereo.  I say that like I’m experienced at these things, but I’m an average guy. I’ve heard the stories; I just never thought something like this could happen to me.

 

That is until the Pirate Queen called yesterday.  Her ship had run aground and her crew was jumping overboard with everything they could grab. “Some day’s I just hate my job.”

 

I bent over with my feather duster, sympathizing as best as I could, splitting my attention between the dust runs at the base of my entertainment center and my poor Pirate’s day of woe.

 

“…So I slaughtered the crew.  Their lawyer tried to contest the matter, but once I explained the disloyalty severance clause in the contract, he didn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“I can see that.”  I say squeezing blue goop in the toilet bowl.

 

“What’s that noise?” She asks.

“Oh, I’m just cleaning the house.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Persephone just won’t work a mop.”

She laughs, but it’s a darker tone that I haven’t heard from her before. “Soooooo,” she begins, “what are you wearing?”

“Nothing.” I say, gathering the trash.

“Really?” I think she dropped the phone here, but she recovered quickly.  I heard her breath. She was back.

“No, actually I’m in my bathrobe.”

“uh-huh,” says the hoarse whisperer, “and what are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m cleaning the house.”

“Right, but what exactly are you doing?”

“Trash?”

“Ohhhh. That is soooo hot.” Her breathing is getting deeper.

“Really?  I’m taking it out now.”

She let’s out a little gasp.  “Oh.... tell me about it, please.”

“Uhm, yeah.”  I’m a little concerned.

 

This is a side of the pirate I haven’t seen. So far everything has been fun and flirty.  This trashy talk is taking things to a new level.  I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I don’t know what’s next.  What if I can’t perform to her expectation?

 

“So how big is your trash bag?”

“It’s a large black one.”

“mmmmm…yessss?”

“Well right now I’m going into each of the rooms that have small trash cans and I’m stuffing them all into the big sack.”

“Oh, I’ll bet it’s so full…” There are other noises from the phone. Is she writhing?

“Are you writing?”

“Oh yeah, baby.  Tell me what else you’re doing.”

 

So I talk her through my house cleaning ritual.  An hour later, she’s still hot, and impressed; I’m still going.

“Most guys. They rush.” She moans.

“Yeah, My mom told me a long time ago that if I was going to clean at all, I might as well do it right.”

“Smart mom. Now go—do the bathroom. Do it please.”

 

I’m almost done with the house. She’s almost done too. She’s screaming for me to scrub the toilet harder and faster. I flush. There’s a fluttered inhale. There’s silence. There’s deep relaxed breathing.

 

“You are so good at this,” she laughs.

“Thanks,” I say. I’m a little stunned.  I feel a little used, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.  Then she says something that really disturbs me.

 

“Can we do this again tomorrow?”

She’s an animal. I’m older Rob.  There was a time when I could have cleaned the house 7 days a week, but now? I don’t know.  She says she can show me new tricks. Tricks like scrubbing baseboards and other dark arts that Martha Stewart only dream about.

 

I’m not sure I’m ready for that. It’s going a little fast.  Soon she’ll have me painting and weeding.  “Can’t we just cuddle?” I plead.

 

She just laughs her dirty pirate laugh.  “Ok, if that’s what you want, “ she offers, “ but I was hoping I could tell you about rebuilding a V8 engine from the block.”

 

“Oh,” I whisper, “you are so hot…”

 

 

 

 

Wisdom for the Ages

I’m a Gemini.  That’s right start flipping your charts and calendars and yellow blocking the months cuz Rob’s got a birthday somewhere.  Yes despite the rumor to the contrary, Rob is not eternal.  He was born, and his golden calf butt is merely mortal.

 

Being a Gemini bears certain zodialogical responsibilities.  Being naked twins trapped in one body is hard work. I’m required to cross everyone without looking simply to seem superficial and aloof.  They say you can’t please everyone, but have you ever tried to displease everyone?  It can be done, but it’s not easy. It’s a dirty job but some Rob’s gotta do it. Vanity, not just the Rob hiding in your bathroom anymore, just look in a mirror anywhere and I’ll be there—in all my twin glory. Oh, eyes up: I’m naked too. 

 

Yeah, sorry.  I know, like looking into the sun.  You’ll never see again, but you are the one who looked. What do you want me to do, dance a jig? Oh yeah, naked. Fine, I said I was sorry.

 

Having a birthday brings certain celebratory responsibilities too. And they’re harder to juggle than a fleshy naked jig.  Once a year I’m required to pretend I enjoy getting older and wiser.  Ok, well at least older.  Wiser, well that’s for smarter men than I; I’m still not intelligent enough to know how that’s done.

 

“Experience.” So says the fool in the mirror. He’s an idiot.

 

I mean really, I’ve experienced plenty. How smart do I look to you?  Please, that was a rhetorical question. Keep your papers to yourselves; there will not be a grade on this quiz. Tell you what, pass them forward and I’ll file them away for reference later.  I’ve filed many things away into my mental museum: artifacts of Robs past. I just don’t know what to do with them all.

 

“What does that naked statue amidst the laughing women represent, mom?” 

“Never mind Timmy, maybe when you’re older you’ll understand.”

 

Older.  Yeah.  Isn’t that what we’re always told when we’re young?  “When you’re older you’ll understand?”  I have a list of “when I’m older” IOUs.  Maybe I should call my parents and collect.

 

“Hello?”

“Ok, real quick Dad, Why is there divorce? Why didn’t Spido come back from his, ‘vacation?’ Why is the sky blue? Why are clowns so dang creepy? How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? If Cylons can have babies, and the Earth is a wasteland does that mean that John Connor’s Terminators won…”

 

“When you’re older.” Click.

 

Older?  Older than what? Do I have to wait until I’m older to figure out that one too? Must I wait for the sand of my questions to melt into the glass eye of clarity? How long will that take? Will I be old enough to recognize the focal point?

 

Does wisdom really come with age?  If so, why do we call old people senile? Where they just stupid middle-agers?

 

“Mongo like Sherriff Bart.”

 

I don’t have these answers.  I wasn’t even smart enough to get past the dial-a-gatekeeper phase of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Still, I’m not stupid. I just can’t always turn my museum of history into a reserve of applied knowledge.  At least not for me.

 

See, I realized this the other day.  A friend of mine was asking for advice about a bad influence in her life.  Having had plenty, I told her that she should just shake free of this person, and move on.

 

“Really Rob? Is that what you would do?”

 

I thought about this; the answer was obvious, “no.” Like I said, I’ve had plenty of experience with people like that. One doesn’t gain that kind of experience by learning from their mistakes.  Still, I have learned some thing: Other people don’t need to make my mistakes.

 

“Absolutely!” I lie.

 

See, that’s the thing about being an aloof Gemini.  I may get old without showing signs of wisdom aging, but I can lie to save one of my two faces for others.  Advice is like a good gift: its better to give than receive.   Speaking of gifts, I advise that you get me something good for my birthday.  And no, buying a pair of sunglasses to deny my nakedness is not the sign of a good gift.

 

Are There Divorce Heroes?

Theaters are worlds of fantasy.  I watched the Watchmen this weekend and I saw a naked smurf, who could put John Holms to shame, become the most powerful man in the universe.  And no, it wasn’t his amazing size that gave him power; it was his radioactivity and cerulean charm.  He also had some cool teleportation tricks that made him popular at parties.  People looked up to him, and for Christmas, gave him pants that he never wore.  He was a true hero.

 

We all know that Dangle Smurf is a fantasy, because everything about him is so comic book big and over the top. Still some theater fantasies are built of sterner gauze. In the pre-movie ad-fest while patrons juggles popcorn and vie for seats, I watched the National Guard try to sell me something I couldn’t swallow.

 

They weren’t just enticing every soda sipping comic book geek to join the National Guard, but they were trying to sell me an image.  They’re showing me young military heroes serving their country saving the world. Interspersed between clips of Captain Charisma throwing soccer balls to frolicking street waifs and saving lives are images of Kid Rock singing the underscored theme about being a warrior and a citizen soldier.   It’s like Kid is positioning himself to be Mr. Fantastic, transposing the hero pictures over his scraggly self.  The man who’s greatest lyrical achievement will forever be known as the “bawitdaba,” where he sings to all his heroes in the methadone clinic. 

 

Yeah, suddenly Dangle Smurf is a far more believable role model.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  I still bang my dizzy head, sending my glasses flying, to the Kid.  Anybody who can sample Lynyrd Skynyrd and not make me want to hang them for acts of treason, deserves points in my book.  Points don’t make a role model though,  and doing time with Pam Anderson, certainly doesn’t help that image.  Once you’ve gone there, can you ever come back? Can you bathe?

 

Smudged Rock makes me wonder about role models.  If we believe the rest of the citizen soldier propaganda piece, all citizens are role models.  Really?  In the theater I looked at the barefoot dude next to me. The stained shorts and fuzzy navel bursting beneath his wolverine t-shirt told a tale as he reenacted the Flashdance chair shower with coke and popcorn.  He looked at me texting my 2500 mile away pirate paramour.  Neither of us could find the role model in our eyes.

 

But shouldn’t we be role models?  I mean I’m a tall talking blogger, shouldn’t I be more than a Kid Rock fantasy transposed over a screen of real heroes?  And what do I have that makes me a better role model?  I assure you, despite rumors that I’ve started to the contrary, I am no deep blue dangle.

 

Yet in divorce everyone is outspoken and public.  We rend garments and prostrate on streets sharing how we were unjustly wronged.  Remember in fifth grade when Sally Hemlock got all upset because Billy Peterson farted on her birthday cake?  Yeah, that’s how we look without the frosting. 

 

I’d like to think that I kept a fairly good image, but then again my blog dedicates reams to MyEx taking my blender. Really? Was my Kahlua milkshake that important? Yeah, I guess even friendly divorce heroes have their Kryptonite butt frosting. 

 

Some people divorce and innocent civilians are blasted in their wake.  Children of divorce are a trampled group.  They’re caught in the middle, stomped on, and even used as bargaining chips in many divorces.  They’re like the innocent train passengers caught in some insidious villains grasp. 

 

“Give me the lava lamp, or the 3am to Chattanooga will choo-choo no more.”

 

Who’s the villain and who’s the hero though?  In divorce it’s hard to tell.  Both roles are Kid Rock interchangeable. Children’s worlds are small, after all. It’s hard enough for them to see that the sun and moon don’t revolve around their space. It’s almost impossible for them to fathom an adult’s divorce doesn’t do the same.  Especially with one parent bribing Xbox alms of love.

 

It’s all good and it’s all in fun…

 

So maybe Kid Rock is a role model. Certainly not a perfect one, but none of us are. The image we cast in divorce will cast a shadow on the rest of our children’s lives.  Would we rather they see looming hands of hatred or silhouetted hand bunnies?   Good or bad, we are who our children look up to, and we should strive to make things better for them than they are for ourselves.

 

Kid’s emulate their heroes, much as Kid Rock wants his video to emulate his. If we can keep our children from the crossfire of our divorce maybe we can let them be kids and live the hero fantasy a little longer.  We don’t need to explain why mom is fascinated by Dr. Dangle Smurf.  Sometimes just knowing that he’s a hero is plenty.  Let them enjoy. The world will show them villains soon enough.

 

Silencing Rob

“You’re speechless?” That’s the Pirate Queen.  She thinks I’m lying.  I’m not. I’m speechless; how can I lie?

 

People who know me know that I enjoy talking.  Right now MyEx is flipping through the dictionary looking up “understatement.”  Yeah, I have a few other words she can look up too…

 

“That Rob, he’s a talker.”

 

No I’m not. I’m a blogger, not a talker.  I do enjoy conversation though.  I grew up an only child in a large family.  Oh sure I have sisters, but by the time their pictures turned into talkies, it was too late. I was already too old to appreciate it. 

 

When I was a kid, I was alone, except at family gatherings. Gatherings were big when I was a kid. These were Dennis Loren postered, Grandma’s house venued social events, drawing in family from all over.   I learned early, that at family gatherings, I wasn’t the only one who wanted to talk.  Family gathering’s evolved in volume. They were survival of the loudest.  Topical relevance was for vocal amateurs.

 

That’s how I grew up a competitive communicator. So long as I have something to say that’ll top the last thing said, I’ll take the table ready to eat and compete.  My dad takes a book.  Verbal competitions were never his thing. Give the man a conversation, he’ll eat for a day, hand the man a book, feed him for life.

 

He tried to teach me his peaceful ways, but I was too young, too belligerent. I was the table warrior, hopping on the tableau, steak knife and a meat fork primed and tined, “Nobody touch the turkey until I tell you about the bathroom at the library!”

 

That’s where I learned to weave conversations over and under the white noise of others voices. Grandma’s house was a training ground for the guerilla dialogist. When you could create a coup d’état on a tête-à-tête it was time for you to leave.

 

That’s why when the Pirate Queen says, “you’re speechless?”  It seems like a big deal.  It’s not.  It happens at the appropriate moments.

 

“I’m pregnant.”  Yeah, that’ll do it, but that’s not what she’d said.

 

Coming from a large extended family. I’m used to shock and awe conversation techniques. Silencing the din by dropping a bomb is almost a cliché.   Pirate Queen knows this.  She comes from a larger family too. We’ve compared war stories.

 

A large family.  I like that about my favorite pirate.  I don’t know why but I love the close community of family.  I’m not close with mine.  Oh, I mean I love my parents and my sisters and I would do anything for them, but I’m a settled SoCal guy and they’re scattered.  I don’t get to see them more than once a year at best. 

 

I miss the family fellowship of my youth.  Once, when I was younger, I fell for a girl because of her family. Oh, she was nice, but her family was great.  Her mom was the ever-vigilant cookie mom, and her sisters were friendly and witty.  Her dad was a man’s man, but not too manly. He liked to talk about cool things other than sports and cars.  He was quick with a beer and a joke. 

 

I want to tell you all about the girl, but I don’t remember anything but her family.  They were great.  Unfortunately when She and I broke up, her family went with her.  I tried keeping touch, but the cookie plate came back empty, and there was no more beer in the fridge for Rob.

 

They say when you divorce; you don’t divorce your in-laws. I suppose that’s true, but I don’t really know mine.  I met MyEx’s dad once, and if he offered me a beer, it was from my fridge.

 

“Yeah, sure I’ll have one thanks.”

“Great, while you’re up getting one, bring me one too, Rob.”

 

That was MyEx’s family dynamic.  She had a mom and a sister, but I never met them. They made my family seem like the Cleavers.  And no, I wasn’t the Beaver. Thanks for asking.

 

I don’t know, I’ve always liked the family dynamic: the feeling of inclusion, of being part of something special.  I guess that’s what I liked about marriage itself.  Besides all the things I loved about MyEx--the things that made her special—I loved being part of a family.  For us it was a family of two, but “where two or more are gathered…” It was enough.

 

Towards the end though, we both took that for granted. Our inclusion turned to isolation, and we built walls because that’s what we knew. That’s what we did, until the only thing that made us special was how alone we were while remaining together.  All the family in the world could never have saved us from that. It was something we needed to work out for ourselves. 

 

And we did—in our own special way.

 

“I’ll take the table, you can have the entertainment center.”

“Fine, but I get the car…”

 

So for the past 2 years I’ve rebuilt myself and re-established my family. It’s nothing special, it’s just Persephone and I, but we do all right.  This is where the pirate queen sails in sharing her treasures from foreign shores.  She brings tales of dueling dialogue and limitless family. 

 

She regales. She listens. She sparkles against the trinkets laid before her.  Then one moonless night she tells me I’m special.

 

Now I’m speechless.

 

 

 

 

 

Dates, Palms, and the Rob Who Has Both

Coffee. Do I have time? I’m only an hour early. Does it matter? I can’t function without it. Without it I can’t be funny or charming. Some might argue that I can’t be funny or charming either way. Thanks.

 

Yeah this morning I’m sitting in the coffee shop arguing with myself. I haven’t even approached the counter. Why? Because I’m self-conscious. I’m nervous. I’ve got a date. I need coffee.

 

Do I need the jitters? What if it makes me pee? Then I wet my pants. Women dig that. This is a first date. I’m wearing dark pants. She won’t notice. I don’t think she’ll put her hand in my lap anyway. Not yet. Good, because the smell and the dripping won’t give it away. Dripping! Holy Crap!  What if I spill coffee?  My shirt is white! Maybe I don’t need the caffeine.

 

I’m right, but I still order a small cup. I’m so hyped on adrenaline, that the morning ichor boost could send me up the wall, around the room and down the other side.  I don’t want my date to think I’m possessed.

 

“Tell you what, you drive the car, I’m just gonna jog beside you.  I like jogging.  Jogging is good. It’s healthy.  You know this is a 45 zone.  You can speed up. I’ll keep up. I’ve had coffee. ”

 

Yeah, just a little coffee.  I’m going on a date.  And what does my 2500 mile away Pirate Queen say about this date? She says, “I’d love to.” She’s going on it too. It’s just her, and I, and 2500 miles of space filled with lots of imagination.  Maybe I should explain.

 

It started last Tuesday.  We were talking on the phone, and we touched on her visit in June. Although I enjoy our time together, I miss her being here.  I mean she’s never been here, but I’d love to go out with her--to date her. And that led me to a thought, “Why can’t I?”

 

What would our first date be like? What would we do?  I could do something creative, but from 2500 miles, too much creativity turns into an exercise of self-indulgence. I want to date her, not me.  For that, the simple cliché’ is best.  I email the Queen:

 

Ok, I've got this really crazy thought. You'll laugh. 

 

Wanna go see a movie Friday?  I'm goin' to see Watchmen.  Wanna come along?  I figure if you're game we can watch the movie at the same time. Sure, we can't hold hands and share popcorn but we can text or talk before and after, just like a date. 

 

Ok, it's not the same, but I still think it sounds fun.  Are you game?

 

She emailed back that Friday wasn’t good, but said she liked the idea. So after a few rounds of date book tag, we decided on a showing that would be a matinee for both of us. 

 

It was perfect.  I tried logging in and buying her ticket in advance, but her theater wouldn’t let me do that unless she presented my credit card at the box office. This was still a first date. I’m easy, but I have standards; my mom once told me, “Why buy the cow when you can milk the gold card for free?” My Pirate wasn’t gonna get in my wallet that easily.

 

My next step was to contact a florist.  I wanted her to have flowers for our date.  If I’d shown up at her door, I’d have brought them; I wanted to make sure she had them.  Every rose may have its thorn, but 1800flowers promised that they arrive on Saturday; thorns be damned. 

 

I wondered about getting her a car and a chauffer, but this was just a casual date.  I didn’t want to come off creepier than traditional Rob.  Locking her in the back of a limo with a lot of alcohol could go either way.  Best to let her drive herself.

 

This morning I shave; I shower; I spritz cologne. Everything I’d do before a date, I do now. She’s sent me a perfumed card; I sniff it before I leave so I can imagine her at the movie with me.  It would have been better if she’d sent me panties, then I could have pocketed them for the theater and sniffed them there, but we aren’t there yet, and I’m sure the other theater patrons are quite grateful.

 

“Mommy? What’s that man doing with the underwear and the popcorn?”

“Timmy, just keep your eyes on the movie.”

 

That brings us to here, to now, to her, to me, and to the watchmen. The date starts too soon. I feel like I need more time to prepare.

 

It starts as a typical date. I’m early. She’s not. She texts me that she’s just gotten home from school, and I reply that I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

 

“I'm late!  ;)  LOL - how did you know that was when I was planning on leaving? “

 

Cuz that’s when I’d have picked you up….

 

She doesn’t mention the flowers so I suspect that they still haven’t arrived.  That’s fine. Hopefully they’ll come before she leaves.  I send the picture that I took of me before I left my house.  “Knock Knock.”

 

The flowers don’t arrive her next text is from the theater, “I’m here!”

 

I send her a picture I took out side the theater, “me too!”

 

We go in together; rather than divide and conquer, she opts to walk with me to the snack bar.  I get a medium popcorn and a coke, so that we can split them.  After the coffee and the banana bread I just finished at the coffee shop, I’m thinking the sugar caffeine fix should drop my off over her theater in time to miss the previews.

 

It’s weird but it’s natural. We talk about what we’d do if we were together, and about the day so far. I can almost imagine her hook in the popcorn her other hand in mine. I try my best to make it real. The dude in the chair next to me doesn’t mind when I offer him the popcorn, but he scoots away when I grab his leg.

 

“I think he’s a great all around actor!”

“Did you see him at the Academy awards? He sucked!”

“I thought he was good.”

“Did you watch it?”

“No…”

 

Yeah, that’s not us. That’s the couple behind me/us. Her/us is sitting in an empty theater.  Lucky us.

 

I send her pictures of the theater, and of my hand. The one she’d be holding if she were here.  Go ahead; roll your eyes.  It’s my date, and I want to make an impression.  I want her to feel special, because even from 2500 miles away, I still feel like she’s here.

 

The next text is brief, “Starting here.” And like that, she crosses behind the moon: communication blackout. I have 10 minutes before my movie starts. It’s the one flaw in my nearly perfect plan.

 

We watch the movie, and afterwards compare notes. She’s home before I reach her again.  Her phone died.  She’s got the flowers though. She loves them. We compare movie notes.

 

“That sex scene was totally Hot.”

“I know!” I say, “did you catch the song they played on the Muzak in the office?”

 

Yeah, we all have our favorite parts.  Oh, I wasn’t denying her the sex scene, but the one playing through my head was a little different, and not gonna happen on our first date.  Even though I wasn’t getting lucky, I was lucky enough to find somebody willing to have fun.

 

“I had a great time!””

“Me too! I guess this is where I would kiss you goodnight…”

 

I’d tell you the rest, but you already know I don’t kiss and tell.  I will tell you that I had a wonderful date with a wonderful woman. It’s hard dating 2500 miles apart, but I’ve found somebody willing to try. After a lonely divorce, that’s something special to me. I’ll definitely ask the Pirate Queen out again.  Don’t tell her though, I wanna play hard to get.

 

 

Plastic Stamps

Nothing is more emblematic to our culture than tattoos. Don’t believe me?  Lift your friend’s skirt and check out her tats.  See what that says about her.  See what it says about you.  Don’t know your friend that well? Not sure you’re ready to yet?  Go ahead and examine the fuzzy teddy covering her rib cage.  No, the Funeshine Bear fiasco fresco tattoo, not the other teddy.  Funshine Bear say’s she likes having fun.  Tattoos say all kinds of things about us.

 

Tattoos are art. They show perfect images of what we want or what we expect.  We use their art to imitate the events of our lives.  Sometimes our lives aren’t art though. Things happen that nobody should see.  These scars we gloss over with pop tat art, pretending they never happened.

 

Know what else says something about us? Our Barbies.  Not that thing I throw my shimp onto next to the roasting koala spit, the other Barbies, the collection in the closet.  Ok, I don’t have any Barbies, MyEx took those, but that doesn’t mean they don’t say anything about us.  Which ones do you have?  MyEx had a Radiant Rose Barbie, because that was her style. She also had a panda tat.  I’m not really sure I got that. Maybe it’s cuz she liked Chinese food.

 

For those of you torn between your teen-dream Barbie and your authentic-adult tattoos, Mattel now tells you that you can have the toy for all ages.  That’s right, they’ve mixed chocolate and peanut butter of life to give you the Tramp Stamp Barbie. 

 

Ok, that’s not her real name, but let’s just call a moneymaker a moneymaker here.  Barbie’s got something to sell, and everybody’s bending her over to get some.  What’s more cute than seeing Barbie leaning over a desk, showing a heart tat with a name emblazoned on her sweet spot for eternity?

 

“Jazzie forever?”

“Sorry Ken. We need to talk.”

 

Holy kissing cousins Batman!  See, and that’s just Barbie imitating life.  Sure, Tracy’s got her unbending arms in the air of uproar, and sure, it looks more she’s just made a basket ball granny shot, but let me tell ya, that Tracy is one outspoken figurine of indignant offense.  She knows a poser when she sees one.  Still, Nikki and Dana are goose-stepping their “go-girl” attitude. Barbie still leads the pack. They have tats to prove it.

 

What’s a Ken to do?  How can he compete?  Prince Albert Ken just won’t work:  the stud just falls to the bottom of the box and rattles around: impotent.  Yeah, he could get his own tat’s but Tit for Tat Barbie really isn’t Ken’s style.  Ken needs to man up, and now that the pants are down, his manhood is in question. 

 

This is why Ken never showers in the locker room.

So he moves out of the dream house and finds comfort in the arms of Fashion Fever Courtney.  She’s a little shallow, but Ken isn’t exactly Gene pool Geek Chic either.  They’re happy and that’s all that matters in this dream story.

 

Even at 50, Barbie imitates life.  She’s a hungry cougar showing that she can make it on her own.  Tramp stamp rump and rosy tat ring around the bicep,  yeah, she’s the ageless Aphrodite.  And those of us who follow? Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.  We can’t keep up with the plastic princess. When real women turn 50 those tight rosy bicep rings of their youth swing like hammocks from their arms.  Tattoo Barbie doesn’t show that.

 

Of course now that Barbie has tattoos, real tattoos will lose their popularity. You might as well ask the artist to ink the word “Cliché’” to your forehead. It’s too bad, because some ink is anything but cliché’.

 

Oh, it’s not for me, I may have worn my wedding ring for what seemed like forever, but is there anything else that describes me enough to need an engraved reminder? I mean I’m sure if you ask MyEx, she’d tell you that a hairy ass is emblematic enough.  I already have one of those.  Nobody needs two. It doesn’t take Cliché’ Barbie to tell you that.

 

Apparently it does take Barbie cliché’s to tell us some things though:  the perfect guy, does not have balls; The dream house isn’t as solid as a real house, it only has 3 walls and everybody knows what’s going on inside; and you may get your pink Corvette, but you still need to afford a way to make it go, because there is no “big hand” to push it across the room.

 

Barbie glosses over the real, but once we see it through her eyes we realize how silly it is.  Maybe we should use that to our advantage.  Could we make the Barbie Dream Divorce set?  Soul Sucking Barbie, and Deadbeat Ken, both come with baggage and sacks of insults to hurl.  Everything splits in half including their perfect nativity baby Jesus.

 

“No!  I want the Jesus head!”

“Fine, but I get visitation with your sister Skipper.”

 

It’s ridiculous and awful, but so is divorce. Yeah, sometimes it is necessary, but when 50 percent of all Barbie marriages end in divorce because we find we didn’t marry the perfect plastic partner, we need to ask which is worse: rt imitating life, or life pretending to be art?  The grass is always greener on somebody else’s tattoo.  Just ask Barbie when she was 12 inches tall.

 

Life gets a little hairy living real. Maybe that’s what my tattoo should say. I’ll use that to frame my hairy butt.

 

Crutches and the Art of Zen Gardening

Finances and divorce--they go together like a horse and carriage. Don’t like that analogy? How’s this: Tiny Tim and a broken crutch. Go ahead Scrooge; kick him; he’s down.  It’s funny.  Nothings funnier than a broken crutch.

 

“God bless us every—OW! That hurt! You oppressive pig!“

 

And where did that “funnier than a broken crutch” thing come from? Must have been somebody dealing with divorce, and I’m betting they were counting their nest egg before it hatched.

 

That’s the thing about divorce.  It’s a Kenny Rogers “Gambler” experience. There’ll be time enough for counting when the asset dealin’s done. Of course that’s because the person who used to take your time is now taking their toys and going home. There’s plenty of time and nothing to count, just four bare walls.

 

“God Bless us everyone!”

 

Yeah, Tiny T. Why don’t you stow it for a bit?

 

The funny thing about divorce finance is that it doesn’t matter which side you talk to, both sides will tell you the same story: “They took everything.” And the reality is, they’re both right.  Divorce is expensive.

 

MyEx and I did a friendly divorce because we love irony. We used an online service, and spent hours huddling over a computer together, hours sifting through paperwork together, and even more hours dining together so she could serve me.  Yeah, the last touch of irony that was my idea, sort of the ala mode on the divorce pie being served. Its one of the things she always liked about me.

 

“How’s the wine?”

“Good! How’s your salmon?”

“Fantastic.”

“Shall we get the waitress to serve the paperwork?”

“Yes, lets.”

Clink!

 

Of course by that time we’d already duked it out over assets.  We fought over who’d take the rolling pin, and who’d get the treadmill.  We tried to be diplomatic, but that’s hard to do dueling with soup spoons, salt shakers and open wounds.  We were both gouging salt licks and laying minefields around stuff that we didn’t really want.

 

That’s just the stuff though.  Then there are the wads of cash hidden in every nook and crevasse like deviant Easter eggs.

 

“Bend over!  I see Andrew Jackson peeking out!”

  Oh it’s not lots of cash; it’s just big stacks of ones, and those are all going to pay a doctor, a lawyer, and an Indian chief financial officer. It’s money that used to be yours and it’s now going to be somebody else’s. That’s it, wave goodbye.

 

What’s really cool is that in divorce we pay for that privilege. We pay somebody to take our money so that our ex can’t have any.  We pay to watch them suffer.  That wasn’t my divorce. I didn’t pay to see her crucified; I just paid to wash my hands.

 

These days things are tough enough already.  Card houses foreclose faster than they can collapse.  Who can afford to be nasty? Some families are still forced to live in the same house because they can’t sell their property.

 

“God bless us everyone!”

Yeah, Tim, go tell that to your mom and her new boyfriend in the other room; I’m a little busy stoking my own fire and wallowing in self-pity right now.

 

When there’s no love left to bleed, we ooze money.  It’s amazing the bills that seem like nothing during marriage, but turn into a big deal during divorce.  I have an alarm service that MyEx wanted so that she could feel secure in the house.  When she left, I still had the service.  Which was funny, cuz I didn’t have nearly as much stuff to protect. Some poor burglar would break in and find the only thing worth stealing were the motion detectors and the laughing broken crutch.

 

That’s the thing.  We don’t have time to react from the violation of a marriage gone awry.  People who could barely stumble through a mall without falling into a sale, now have to stand on ball and balance a budget to the tip of George Washington’s nose. Add Tim and his collapsible crutch and your running a financial circus, and not a household. 

 

So what do you do?  You breathe.  Budgeting isn’t a circus cacophony, it’s a Zen garden: It’s symmetrical and beautiful; it just takes concentration.  You prune the dead limbs of credit cards and unnecessary cable channels (because lets face it, you won’t be in the mood for late night HBO for quite some time.)

 

You look at the money coming in, and find a way to match it going out. You trim the grocery fat, you cut back on he water and utilities, and do what you have to do. It’s not as hard as we make it really because it’s a function of necessity. We do what we need to in order to live.

 

It’s important that we accept that we can do it.  As our talent grows, we start to save.  Maybe even get Tim that new crutch he’s been asking for. It’s time we all had something to smile and laugh over.

 

“God bless us everyone.” Said Tiny Tim last of all.

 

 

 

 

 

Rob Boyd, Master Communicator

Communication: something not to be missed. That’s right.  It’s a game for all ages, and participating in the great game is like any other great game: it’s easy to learn; difficult to master. It’s a game best when played by competitive teams, but teams usually implode on terms of duplicity.  Play alone, and people stare.

 

Communication: it’s not a game for the meek.

 

It is however a required game for the married, but marriage is not a requirement to play.  You can just address an anonymous crowd if you like.

 

“Ich bin ein Berliner.”

 

That was JFK telling the People of Germany that he understood them, because he was a jelly donut.

 

If you’ve read my blog before, you know I’m as big on communication as I am on jelly donuts. I eat my words as much as I eat the tasty pastries.  The Pirate Queen says that we’re all big on talking, but not so big on listening.  At least I think that’s what she said; I was busy reading my blog.

 

What’?  I’m Rob.  I’m a multitasker.  I can communicate with my eyes closed.  Please ignore the bruises on my shin.  Thank you. I can listen, talk, read and blog all at the same time. I am the Michael Jordan of the communication world.

 

At least that’s what I told myself until this last week.  Last week I tried to keep up communication with an old friend, and fouled out. We’ve known each other since our retail days and we still communicate through cross country smoke signals.  It had been a few months and I needed to catch her up on my life.  She’s boring, and needs Rob excitement. I care too much to let her wallow.

 

“Hi!  How’s it going?”

“We’re doing okay. I just—“

“Yeah, guess what’s going on with me?”

 

She did guess. She likes to play my games. After 15 minutes, I finally break down and tell her tales of Exes, pixies and pirates. She listens intently. This was great communication.  It’s why I keep her around. She “oohs,” and “Ahhs” in all the right places.

 

So when I’m done talking about me I give her two minutes to summarize up her family. She starts by telling me how hard things are. She says that things are tough, and I take my cue: She’s gonna be a bit of a downer for the rest of this call.

 

“We had a hard time. Our neighbor.  He’s not next-door--he lives about a mile off, but he is one of the closer houses out here…”

 

While she’s raining on the joy parade I’ve created,  I open up my work email.  It appears there’s some other raining going on.  Velcro cat boss is decided that sarcasm is a management tool best served like a jelly donut.  His email is crusty and full of the sweet words that are meant to give me a heart attack.  It’s so thick that I can’t quite get his meaning, but I can tell he’s not happy.  His communication techniques could use some help. Maybe someday I’ll bless him.

 

I finish his email, and notice that there’s silence on the phone.  My friend has stopped communicating.  Hmmm.  I’m expected to say something but I don’t know what to say.  Searching my Terminator list of replies I opt for the following:

 

“Yeah, these times are tough for all of us…”

 

There’s more silence to let me know I’ve chosen the wrong reply. 

 

“Well we all go through it some times.” Yeah, I apparently can’t get enough.  I can actually feel the silence burning through the phone like black acid.  Still, this is something I’m familiar with.  I know my reply here:  “I’m sorry.” And I choose, “That really does suck” to top it off, because I am a master communicator.

 

Now she’s less than eager to talk with me. I’ve apparently jumped the track. Her next comment clues me in on how bad.  “We’re going to his funeral this Thursday.”

“Oh.”  Yeah, it seems that “These times are tough for all of us, “ is not the perfect line for, “My neighbor committed suicide.”

 

Once again, this is my kind of communication.  I know what to do from here. I’m an underdog, and this is my territory.  “uhm, hey, I’ve got to get back to work.  It’s been good talking to you…” 

 

Her brief good-bye doesn’t seem to show the same sentiment. I can’t blame her. I’ve just committed verbal suicide and then rubbed it in her face.  Yeah, I’m a great friend and an excellent communicator.

 

So once we’re off the phone I pull the only communication rabbit left in my hat: I send her an email that explains what happened and how sorry I am. Not only for her her loss, but for my stupidity.  It’s worded quite well; I am a trained professional. 

 

Yes, I’m more than a professional. I too am a jelly donut.