Just heard on Facebook:

"I have an itchy twitter finger."

Uhm...yeah, I'm gonna just let that one go...

Solace: There's an App for That!

Three months. Break it down to the ridiculous. That's 6 times longer than it would take to stock a garrison of fortnights, 12 times longer than it would take Frankenfurter to make me a man even with a timewarp, and 672 times longer than it would take the brave and sure skipper to beach the SS Minnow. Trust me. I know. I've been counting.

There's an iPhone app that lets me do that. Count. Yup. Why consult old episodes of Sesame Street when I can count on the computer age to add it up for me?

My Iphone says, "Three months down and one month to go." That's how much time I've had to fill between The Pirate Queen's introduction and our long awaited face to face.

How do I fill that time?

Uhm….

Well do you know how many times you can watch The Lord of the Rings during that time? 4 times, and that's only if you edit out the hobbit pillow fight, 3 of the false endings and limit paused screens for ogling Elvin maidens to 5 minute intervals.

I still have one month and 3 ogles to go.

Remember when I said that the distance was a good thing? Yeah, I'm a liar. That lost it's sunny side sheen before I lost interest in my fad diet app. Now I'm just a bundle of jitter angst. I haven't felt like this since my first Christmas semi formal.

"Uhm, my dad will be here to pick us up in a few minutes, and I really want to kiss--" Oh, you too?

Well this time my dad isn't invited, but I still have a month to fill with Rob-magination. Yeah, I don't think that's what Mr. Rogers had in mind when he gave trolley rides to the land of make believe.

"Meow meow, yes, X, you owl stud!"

Ding, ding! Ding, ding!

And see? This is just one granny smith from the fruit basket that is my mind. How do you like them apples? Yeah, it was enough to make Snow White pass out. My mind can be a dark place, and I've still got a month left. I don't know if that's enough to keep Dr. Freud away. I might as well be tied to the mast of the good pirate ship, cuz I'm not going anywhere.

Oddly enough, neither is she. This is usually the part of the Rob movie where the damsels run for the hills. I guess that's what I get for chasing a pirate: she chases back.

"Arrggh! Prepare to be boarded, blog boy!"

"Eeek!"

Yeah, now it's my turn to be afraid, very afraid. And still my quaky boots haven't moved. I wait and I taunt.

"Hey, I've got Quantum of Solace on cable, wanna watch?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"Sure. I'll make guacamole and salsa. We can have chips."

"Perfect, I’m making fajitas."

"Me too!"

And so it begins. I'm on needles and pins. The tough thing about long distance dating is the long distance date. They're fun, but it's all theater of the mind fun, and there's only so much I can do before the brain ushers us out to the lobby and it's not the same when I reach out to hold her hand and get Persephone's paw.

"Meow meow, yes Rob, you blogging stud."

"What's that? What did I just hear?"

"Uhm, nothing, just Bluetooth white noise."

"uh-huh. Keep your paws to yourself you blogging stud…"

Yeah, my imagination is a dangerous place. That's why the Pirate Queen and I try to keep it as real as possible. We make the same meals, and watch the same movie. We text and email throughout dinner, and then call for movie time.

"Another Margarita?"

"Yes Please."

It doesn't matter who gets drunk, nobody's getting lucky. Still, I can tell you that after three months of talking, that's not what's important about this story. It's about so much more and that's what makes our pursuit over the opening Bond chase so much fun. We're sitting together on our perspective couches, movies synced, voices in each other's ear, the same way we would if we were together.

It's not the same, but it's a simple sugar salve. Sweet and topical, but no replacement for the healing ointment of proximity. It's just what we have on hand.

"Who's he Bond girl in this one?"

"I'm not sure. "

"What are you eating?"

"Left over chips and guacamole. Want some?"

"Absolutely!"

We relax. We enjoy. We have unlimited talk time. That's a comfort. It makes even the silences count for something. When the credits roll, we critique the film, neither of us moving. Such as it is, this is our time, and we wouldn't trade it for all the time in the world.

"How many more days?"

I check my iPhone, "26 days, 5 hours." Yup, there's an app for that.

What there isn't an app for, is bridging the gap spanning 2,500 miles. That takes 4 months of 2 people learning, caring, and thinking creatively. That takes a personal approach and patience. That takes building a relationship. Something we didn't realize for a ridiculous amount of time, but now that we're here we can't wait for the coming attraction.

How do we fill the next 26 days? I don't know, but I know that we will. I also know that it will require more than a quantum of solace, but the payoff will be worth the effort.

It's amazing how men's and women's fantasies are so different. Can you tell whose is whose?

Ladies Please!

There's enough Rob to go around any time of day!

What?

Oh him...?

Sigh...

Would You Like Fries With That?

We all have firsts.  I wobbled my first steps, rode my first bike, stole my first kiss.  I still keep my first glasses in a drawer somewhere.  If I cleaned my office and found them, that would be a first too.

 

Yup, we all have firsts. If we like them enough we move onto seconds. That kissing thing, I returned for multiple servings on that until they kicked me out and closed the Lip Diner— even now I still hang outside for scraps.

 

“I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a little lip lock today…”

 

 Some of us continue with our firsts later in life. This week I made my first visit to the unemployment office.  I’d never done that before. It was my first visit.  I think I liked the kissing better.

 

“Do you need me to hold your hand?” Asks the Pirate Queen.  She’s not talking about kissing. She’s just being sarcastic.  I’d love to tell you that she learned that form me, but no, she came with that already in her baggage o’ tricks. She likes that trick as much as she likes pulling out a rabbit – so to speak.

 

“No, I’ve got this,” I lied.  I didn’t have it.  I’d never filed for unemployment before.  What’s more, I’d already tried and failed to do it online. Yeah, I felt like that guy who spends $50 for Nordstrom’s lip-gloss because he can’t figure out how to spend $2.99 on Amazon.com. I’m so proud. Whatever. I may not have a job, but at least my lips taste strawberry fresh.

 

I figured unemployment couldn’t be any tougher than falling off my lucky leprechaun, or his bicycle for that matter. I figured I would save time, save a tree, and save a trip. I would apply online. How hard could an online form be?  It has to be accessible for people who can’t cook fries.  I can cook fries.  I’ve held a job for 10 years. I can do this.

 

No I can’t. I failed.  If I were a fry cook, I’d be the guy with the extra-crispy handshake. 

 

“Mmmm, what smells so tasty?”

 

“My hand.  Can I have a job?”

 

“What happened to your hand?”

 

“I got it caught in the fryer basket. I wasn’t looking for a hand out, just a hand up.”

 

‘Security!”

 

Yeah, I’m used to that. I’m finding that job hunting is like dating: I never get to do either without coming off a little crazed.  The bad part is I’m not even looking for a job yet. I’m just looking for unemployment. This is like my first glance at the girl behind the cosmetics counter. We aren’t at dating yet.  Right now I’m looking at my monitor; there’s a question I can’t answer. They want to know my “Total wages?” 

 

I told you it was like a date.

 

I know, sounds simple.  Coming from the Biblical school of thought I typed “Death.”  An error message explained that they were looking for a number. I shrugged.

 

See, here’s the problem.  The previous question had asked how long I’d worked for my previous employer.  Previously, I’d typed in “10 years.”  Now they want “total wages.” Do they really want 10 years of total wages?  That seems ridiculous.  I email MyEx.

 

“What are my total wages?”

 

She emailed back, “Death.” Yeah, she attended a biblical school too, either that or it’s wishful thinking.  I decided on the former.  I explained my problem to her, and she suggested that they were only asking for 18 months worth of history.

 

Wha? 18 months?  I’m lost. What’s that smell? Why do I feel like my hand is burning? I try to explain, “Well if they were asking for 18 months, why did they just ask how long I’d been at my last job, and followed that with a total wages question.”

 

She never emailed me back. I know she’s being kind.  She’s refraining from calling me an idiot.  It’s ok.  This isn’t my first apple bob at the fry vat. It’s just my first unemployment form.

 

I looked to the form for help. They didn’t offer any -- not on the total wages anyway.  Oh they did offer documented open windows of help on “Previous employer.” I felt like I’d closed that door.  I’m still quite familiar with who kicked me to the curb, thank you very much.

 

“Screw this!” I decided I’d grind my axe on a tree; I’d drive to the Unemployment Office and fill out a paper form. I could ask questions there. 

 

“We can’t answer your questions,” says the smiling woman at the desk.

 

“Uhm, why?”

 

“We don’t work for EDD [Employment Development Department] directly. We just keep the office.”

 

“Can I have your job?”

 

“Can you run a fry vat?”

 

“So where do I fill out the unemployment form?”

 

This is where Gal Smiley points me to the computer lab. 

 

“That’s the same form I could do on my home computer, right?”

 

“Right, but you’re here.”

 

“Uh, huh.”

 

“So go ahead and do it here.”

 

How can I argue with that logic? I try. “But I have questions.”

 

“Everybody does.”

 

“And how do others get them answered?”

 

“The lab tech has some answers.  They’re just not official EDD answers. He also serves up fries in his spare time.  Everybody likes fries.”

 

“Well, yeah!” I was hungry.

 

I swallow my pride and take my chances.  Maybe somebody in the lab can answer my questions.  Maybe it’s the guy at the computer next to me staring at a blank screen.  He does take an interest when I type my social security number into the online form.  He’s practically in my lap, ready to kiss me.

 

I’m easy.  I want answers. I try, “I’ll write it on a scrap of paper for you if you answer this riddle for me: what are my total ages?”

 

“Death.”

 

It sounds more ominous from him than from MyEx.  I hail a friendly fry attendant.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Uhm, can I get a plate of the wedge fries? Oh, and what are my total wages?  I mean do they want my 10 year total?”

 

“No, the wages are tied to this question here, “ He points to the next question that asks me how frequently I get paid.  He explains that it’s not so much about how frequency I was paid, but how long it would take me to earn the total I put in the “total wages” column.   He also says he’s out of fries.

 

Great…

 

At least I have my answer.  I fill out the form, press enter only to see a familiar phrase: “We can not process your application at this time.” I’m done. I can get rejected at home. I shut the computer off so that nobody can copy my information, before asking the guy to stop writing and remove his notebook from my back so that I can stand up.

 

That’s right. I failed at the Unemployment office too.  That’s fine.  I’ll go home. I now have my answers.  I can get it right next time.  That’s the thing I’m finding out about firsts.  Unless they’re a kiss, they usually don’t happen by happy accident. Firsts come through persistence.  I have plenty of that. It may not get me a job as a fry chef, but it will get me where I need to go. It’ll get me my next job doing what I want to do.

 

That will get me through this.

 

Freedom

I should feel bad.

 

I don’t.

 

I should feel panicked.

 

I don’t.

 

I should have a job.

 

I don’t.

 

Well, not exactly--not as in I have an employer wiring me money to turn their widgets into strands of gold, while I spin my wheels. I did have that. Now I don’t.

 

When I went to bed last Monday night, it was right there on my desk. Tuesday, I woke up; there it was; right where I left it Monday night.  Then sometime in the middle of the afternoon, I got up, answered the phone, and when I came back it was gone. Where did it go?  This isn’t like the old lap riddle. Trust me, I tried.  When I sat down, I was still unemployed.

 

Who stole my job? The voice over the phone made it clear that nobody stole it. They were magicians.  They’d made it disappear! 

 

Abracadabra!

 

I told them I’d much rather see them saw a secretary in half. They told me my widgetry would no wonger be wequired. “ACME is downsizing. Your wascally wabbit ways are out dated. It’s duck season.”   I gotta tell you, that Bugs me.

 

The phone call was short, but hardly sweet. There were lots of other people they needed to show their trick. I know, that sounds bitter.  It’s not.  I’m free. Nobody pays me, and I can do whatever I want, when I want. I am the Bugs Bunny of the employment world.  Somebody give me a carrot to chew, cuz I can’t buy my own.

 

“What’s up Doc?”

“You’re time.  You don’t have health insurance.”

 

See?  Now that’s bitter.

 

Yup, that’s just the price of freedom: if it’s not free, you can’t have it. For things that cost, you need employment magic. To get that magic, you need to be a slave to the machine.  The Pirate Queen said she’d make me her slave.

 

“I don’t think that will get me magic.”

“It’ll get you something.”

“Oh…”

 

The Pirate Queen is all about freedom, she’s sets her own hours, and pillages the villages of her choice. I’m jealous. I wanted to be a pirate until I saw her peg leg severance package. That’s the price she paid for job freedom.

 

So what do I do to become a corporate slave again? I could join a cult.  The money isn’t great, but they do have a fantastic benefits package: free food, free lodging, and all the free Kool-Aid I can drink. All I need to do is turn off my brain.  I’ve tried; I can’t do that.

 

MyEx has a job.  When she heard I lost my job, she told me a few places I could go look for it, some of them I can print.  Actually she was quite helpful.  She even made some very profitable suggestions. She said I was a writer, why didn’t I write?  I could write cardboard pitches, and sell them to panhandlers. She’s a forward thinker; with all the unemployment, that’s one market that’s surging.

 

There are a lot of lost jobs out there.  When I lost my dog, everybody sympathized. “I am so sorry.”  When I lost my job, everybody said, “Yeah, me too.” Where’s the sympathy there? Where’s the search party?  I mean it was like I put a teaspoon of wasabi in their Kool-Aid.  Oh sure, they teared up, at first, but by the second sip, they were already used to the taste.

 

Still, more than their Kool-Aid and sympathy, I want a job, but nobody has one they can recommend. The Pirate Queen agreed with MyEx.  She thought I should write. Writing--that seemed to be a constant.

 

I mean I say I’m a writer, other than the money, why don’t I write? Maybe it’s time to take the leap of faith. I jumped out with the idea towards the Pirate Queen.

 

“I wanna write.”

 

“That’s a great idea. I wish I’d thought of it.”

 

“I’m thinking of working on that project we talked about.”

 

“That’s a great idea.”

 

“I’m thinking of doing it before I search for another job.”

 

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Really?”

 

Once I told her my plan, and that I’d laid out deadlines and other criteria for myself , she liked the idea again.  She’s a OCD pirate, she salivates over project planning and time goals like other pirates salivate over big booty.

 

The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked the idea myself. Still, I needed naysayers. I needed people to speak out against my idea. I decided to present it to two other’s who would give me their honest opinion.

 

MyEx believes in brutal honesty. She’d tell a blind man to give up his dream of being a taxi driver, rather than coddle him into the drivers seat. I told her my plan to write. She told me she liked it.  She said she believed in my writing much more than my chauffer skills.

 

Next I told Dad.  I figured him for the hard sale.  Dad’s the practical thinker.  As a kid, I’d float out fantastic dream balloons to him and he’d shoot them down with logic darts. It wasn’t meant to hurt me, but more to ground me in reality.  This was what I needed.  I told him.

 

“So I’m thinking of writing.”

 

“I think it’s a great idea.”

 

“Uhm, really? You know I’m unemployed, right?”

 

“Yes, but you’re also at a good point in your life to do it.”

 

In searching for reasons not to jump, I’d found people willing to give me a push. In that, the people in my life have made me more secure than all the employment shackles in the world; they believe in me.

 

So I’m in a freedom freefall, but it feels good. I’m going to write full time, and see if I can turn word widgets into written gold. In my writing, I have found freedom and a job, and it was right there all the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

hmm...

So, just a short update, cuz suddenly I have 7 followers. It's like a stalker parade! Except now that I have a following, I feel the need to perform, but I"m having performance anxiety, thank you very much.

"Dance Rob monkey! Dance!"

Last week I did the "three things I learned this week," and I did want to make that a regular feature, but I spent this whole week trying to learn how to land on my feet, and didn't really accomplish that. Some of you know what I"m talking about, the rest...well I'll go into that in my next big post.

For now, Let's say that I dropped Persephone off the fridge 2o times but still didn't learn how to land on my feet. I did however learn that I need to wear Kevlar body armor if I'm going to try for 21. Oh, and if you run from the house with a cat latched on your head like a face-sucker alien, your neighbors won't help. They will, however, put you on YouTube.

I also learned that there's no need to look up "lumberjack" should I apply for a new job. I cut down one palm tree in my front yard, and thought I was gonna die. Even the lawn workers stopped manicuring everybody else's lawn and gave me the obligatory "slow clap" as if the only reason I beat the tree was the sheer force of will. I'm not saying they're wrong. One guy did offer to shape a hedge in my honor.

Honestly I didn't learn anything else. It's been a long week, but more on that, later.

God Bless you all and have a great Easter!

Spring Cleaning

“I think it’s important to start each project new and clean,” says the Pirate Queen from the BatPhone pressed to my ear.

 

“I agree,” I agree.  I couldn’t agree more.  I’m staring at my dirty guest bathroom. The Rorschach mirror splotches, the mini green counter jungles, and the moat creature swirling the toilet bowl of  Yoo-Hoo colored fluid,  all support her premise.  It’s also Persephone’s bathroom. She’s personalized the room with her own special “flavor.” A clean start would be quite the improvement.

 

Unfortunately, to start this project new and clean, somebody has to make it that way first.

 

“Hang on,” I tell my Queen, covering the phone, “Persephone!”

 

“Yes Rob?”  Persephone comes on little fog feet.  Her diction is getting much better.

 

“When are you going to clean your bathroom?” I ask, hand-gagging the phone.

 

She stares at me with deep round kitty eyes, “Mew?” Licking her paw, she runs it up her nose and over her head and then moves on down the hall.

 

“Hey!” I pull the phone back to my ear, “Sorry about that.”

 

“You still trying to teach Persephone to clean?”

 

“Yeah. ”

 

“How’s that coming?”

 

“She’s not getting past her head.”

 

“Here’s a thought: why don’t you clean it yourself?”

 

I look around the room again.  My toes curl into the cotton rag mat at the threshold, afraid to cross into alien territory. “I’m sorry.” I tap my hand on the receiver rhythmically, “you’re breaking up.”

 

“Is that why you’re making helicopter noises?”

 

“Oh, uh, yeah.  What are breaking up noises again?”

 

“You trying to hang up on me like that.”

 

“Oh.”  I follow with baleful bale of groveling. She forgives me, then suggests that since I’m already on my knees, I should go ahead and clean my bathroom.   

 

Staring at the Petri-floor, I would rather pluck every hair from my legs with a pair of tweezers, but the pirate makes a strong argument with her sterilized cleanliness hook.  I let her go so that I can contemplate the darkness before me.

 

Here’s the thing though:  I’m busy and I’m a guy.  Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but it’s philosophies away from Robliness. I’m more of a housekeeping Nihilist: repetitive cleaning is a meaningless slouch towards an unsatisfactory end.

 

My pirate wants a clean bathroom; I need to find religion quickly.

 

“The power of Lysol compels you!”

 

There’s a growl from the darkness.

 

“Persephone?”

 

“Yeah, dude.”  She appears behind me with a basket. “Here’s your mop, your broom and a boatload of cleaning solvents.  Good luck in there, it’s naptime. Oh, and you might want these.” Persephone paws a pair of galoshes towards me, then smiles and disappears.

 

I decide to start with the guest shower first.  It’s simple.  I haven’t had showering guests in over a year. It should be pretty clean in there.  I pull the curtain back.

 

“AHHH!” I scream.

 

The tub stopper is lying in the middle of the tub, a pair of legs sticking out from underneath it.  Not human legs, my guests all left safe and sane I swear.  No these gams more arachnidan shaped, and judging from their size and the surrounding field of dead gnats and ants, Shelob is well fed.

 

I look around for a weapon.  There’s nothing. This is the guest bathroom.  Makeshift weapons are intentionally absent. 

 

“Damn!”  Hoping she hasn’t seen me yet, I step back slowly. Right foot tip-toes linoleum, left foot tip-toes linoleum, right foot linoleum, left foot cat box.

 

“Shi—“ I stop mid word.  I don’t want to wake my guest.   I know that Persephone isn’t any better about policing her box than I am. My foot is buried, and I’m sure it’s not deep kimchi.

 

Now I have a new problem. I don’t want to track bathroom contaminate into the rest of my house.  Right stepping back once more, I’m almost at the door.  I reach down to the left and pull my foot galosh free, then stand and wrap my arm around the doorjamb. Slowly, the boot sinks into the box.  Never to be seen again.

 

It’s a reach, but my toes touch the mat and I fall backwards into the hall.  Safe.  I’m panting. Persephone appears sniffing my cheek, “Get back in there, Rob!  You gotta eat lightning, you gotta crap thunder.”

 

“Yeah, I think that’s what got us into this mess.”  I pull myself up and brush myself off.  In my bedroom is another pair of shoes—one pair, and they’re dress shoes with flat leather soles, perfect for slaying.  Unfortunately that’s my only other pair.  So I put one shoe on and carry the other in my hand and return to the bathroom.

 

This time I’m mismatched and prepared.  I’m armed with Sole-splatterer. Leaning over the tub, I toe up the stopper. It flips over. Shelob is noshing on cricket remains.  She’s startled forelimbs kicking the air, cursing—at least in the moment it takes for me to bring the shoe crashing down on her head.

 

Unsure of her shoe stamina, I bring wingtip of death down again and again until she’s spider paste.  Mission accomplished!

 

Or so I thought.  Apparently she was co-opting the tub stopper, and a horde of mini-spiders pours out.

 

“Gahhh!” I stand up and turn on the shower.  The bottom of the tub is a swirling, screaming, scrambling, jumble.  The horde washes down the drain.  Why didn’t I try this earlier?  Obviously I’m a melodramatic writer.  It would have had no literary effect.

 

There’s a rumble from the toilet moat.  I’m not sure what it is. I don’t know if I want to know.  I’ve had my one victory today. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and this room is a far backwater cry from Rome. It will take time.  I need a rest.

 

You know what? I need more than that.  I need a piece of drywall.  The Pirate Queen is right: it is best to start each project new and clean.  I’ll just wall up the door.

 

“I’m Done!”

 

There’s a pawing of disagreement at my leg, “My cat box is still in there, and you left the shower running.”

 

“Crap.”

 

“I can’t without a box.”

 

That’s the thing about clean starts. They aren’t always so clean, and we have to start somewhere.  Right now I need to find a new place to start.  I’m thinking a drywall saw and some kitty spelunking gear should do the trick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three Things I’ve Learned This Week:

Since I won't be posting as much, I thought I'd keep you up to date on what I've learned:

1.     No matter how paranoid people are about an apocalyptic computer threat, they will still log onto YouTube to see “Charlie Bit My Finger Again!”

 

2.     When the Big 3 CEO’s fly private jets to Washington, then take limos to the senate to ask for a means to financial recovery it’s called “offensive.”  When the president flies his entourage on private jet to England, then takes a limo to the G-20 conference to ask for a means to financial recovery it’s called “Diplomacy.”  What’s the difference? Obama brought an iPod for the queen.  If only Rick Wagoner had brought Senator Feinstein an iTouch filled with Lady Gaga he might still have a job.

 

3.     ShamWow is not the accepted currency for Florida prostitutes.