Fretting Through the Music.

"I worry about you." That's what she said.

No, it's not one of those jokes from my youth. It really is what she said. Besides, it's not funny. "That's what she said" jokes are always funny. I was never good at them. I was never that funny.

What she said, she didn't say when she opened the door. That's a relief. I mean she could have, I was running late. If she'd moved the worry to the past tense, it would have been perfect.

How could I be late? Ask MyEx. She doesn't know either, but she does have a list of times that it happened. I was actually late once picking her up at the airport . It's ok, she foraged sunflower seeds from the terminal lockers for the first three days.

Lost: The Airport Version.

No, that didn't really happen. Oh, I really was late, but it was only a little. What's a little? Well in the case of MyEx and the Airport, it's a lot. In the case of the Pirate Queen and I, it's still a little.

A little confused yet? Yeah, me too. I'm nervous too. That's what dating is like. I went out with one person once and was told we didn't date.

"Wha?"

It's ok. It's fair. Some people really do wish I wasn't around. It's just weird when you realize that you're "not dating" them. It's just one of those things you understand when you look at old pictures and realize that you're not in any of them.

"huh…"

These are the monsters swirling through my skull as I'm circling the block trying to find The Pirate Queen's hotel. Every bad connection, every personality conflict, comparing and contrasting with their moments with this one. Meanwhile, my iPhone and the Napa street signs are disagreeing on what's the best way to refer to the street.

"Highway 221"

"No, Napa Road"

It's just like dating. If you can't get the two on the same page, then it's time to drive past. This is my third pass on Napa Road. I'm not ready to give up. That's easy when your in your 20s, but at 40, suddenly you start to wonder about the signage. Which signs, which brands are really important?

Criteria unfold on a whole new battlefield. I discovered that all the signage is important. If somebody reads like they're going to flank you, accept that that's who they are, it doesn't matter that you were hoping for a tete-a-tete.

Me, I always had a crush on Snow White's Step Mom. I mean evil or not, she wasn't confusing. You knew who you were dealing with. There's something to be said for that. Snow? She didn't know if she wanted to be a maid to 7 elder miners or just a single prince. Life's choices were just too daunting to her; on the eve of her discontent she checked out. She bit the apple. She took the sleep. After that, all life's choices were wiped away, like spittle from her chin, until somebody made up their mind for her. I don't want somebody like that. I want somebody with a spine.

"I worry about you." That's later. Right now I've found the secret entrance to the Pirate's hotel cove. I'm parking my car while worring about first impressions, four months after we've technically met.

When I arrive at her room I worry about her peep hole--the door, my pervy friends. After knocking, I notice that its glass eye stares right into my chest. I'm not tall, at four-foot high, this thing must have been made for the seven dwarves. What if Grumpy answers the door? Will she leave me outside with a "Hi, ho!"

It's not Grumpy. It's Sexy. She's a little known dwarf. She's a second cousin to Bashful and Sleazy. She was overlooked for the movie. Quite a shame.

I'm still worried about me. Oh, I may look like I'm calm and relaxed, but inside I'm wondering what this beauty thinks of me. I've got on my poker face though. She'll never suspect a thing.

"You look nervous." She says, giving me a hug. After 7 hours on the road, every mile drips away in her arms. This feels so good. I probably should have tried to kiss her here. I wanted to, but as we relaxed our embrace, she turned and drifted towards the couch. My lips settled for, "I'm sorry I'm late."

"You're only a little late." She chides over her shoulder. "I opened the bottle without you. I hope you don't mind." She lifts a champagne glass. It's mostly full. It also explains why she's much better at this nervous game than I am.

Maybe I should catch up. The empty glass on the table is a wine goblet. "They only have one." she explains, unfolding into the sofa. I shrug. With a goblet, I'll catch up in no time. I fill the glass and reduce the nervous miles.

It was déjà vu, we'd talked about this moment. Now we're living it. She'd made speculations about it. I had too. We'd said things about all these things until there was no things left to say. Now we're sitting staring at each other in a Napa hotel room looking for the right words.

I try mine first. My collection of words includes, "uhm," and "nice." It was nice.

It was a very nice room too. I made a point of looking over every detail while we sat there, collecting visual data on the DVD player, her hazel eyes, the marble bath, her smooth defined legs, the balcony overlooking a large river, and her full lips.

A man in a boat drifted past. The river, not her lips. The boat was more of a kayak really. I felt distracted. I wondered if the hotel paid kayaks to circle daily to enhance the mood. Maybe it was for nervous divorcees: a last minute escape when they realize they're not in Kansas any more: Kansas doesn't offer getaway boats.

And why would I want to escape this lovely woman across the couch? Because, I'm divorced. I've been burned before. I've had my share of half starts and non-dates. If life is a journey I'm not sure how many times my Kansas world can afford to be side tracked into an Technicolor dreamland, before I give up on reality completely.

"Well that's a horse of a different color."

Her iPod is dancing between Dianna Krall and Robin Trower. Yeah, we've both spent a long time crossing our bridge of sighs.

The sofa was a nice turn of the century upholstered style with cascading arms. We each took our corner of the couch and leaned against one. The arms were comfy, but hardly the arms either of us wanted to be nestling.

Sure, we'd had four months of precursor cuddle time. Four months of getting to know each other's tastes. Four months to get comfortable with the sound of each other's voice, and four minutes ago we'd seen each other for the first time and shared a hug. What now? She smelled so good. I couldn't believe how badly I wanted to kiss her. What about her? Were those lips slightly parted for the same reason as mine, or was there something in the air clogging her nose?

Have I really changed since being a kid? I'm still the insecure and frightened little boy who stole a kiss from Melissa Gabriel in the school parking lot before my dad picked us up. The adult version just has different fears, and he's the one expected to do the picking up.

"I worry about you."

See, when you spend time getting to know somebody over a distance, you learn lots of things. If you're smart, you learn whether they're who they pretend to be. I've been stupid before, but this time, I was fairly certain. What I wasn't sure of was whether I'd be who she thought I'd be.

She wondered if I'd still find her attractive when we met in person.

Drinking her in over my champagne, there wasn't doubt in my mind. She was more attractive than her pictures let on, and her body language seemed to show that I was the hairy troll she wanted to spin between her fingers. She smiled, she talked, she flirted. What's more she didn't make an excuse for me to leave the room:

"Rob, I forgot to get ice. Could you go get some?"

"Uhm, but there's ice in the bucket."

"Oh, that's old ice. I need the fresh stuff."

"Ok."

Instead she'd hand me a room service menu, lean over my shoulder and touch my hand. She allowed me to touch an old war injury. Things were good.

But still things were awkward. Why is it, the distance across the couch is like the distance between now and my first kiss with Melissa? Age doesn't change that it's harder than hell to figure out the best approach for a safe landing. I'm flying blind and my instruments are useless. We're at two ends of a sofa, with a world of cushion separating our lips. What do we do?

I thought I'd move in with subtle charm and grace. I'm looking for an excuse to move over to her side of the couch, when she says, "This is so comfortable. Do you mind if I rest my feet in your lap?"

Ok, this is a great familiarity sign, but when it comes to kisses, I've got the feet.

After more conversation, and a Tony Rocky Horror foot rub, she senses my dilemma. "You know what might be better? If I turn around here." So the Pirate Queen moves so that her head is in my lap.

Sounds perfect doesn't it? It was. Except that mid-section bend that's required to reach her lips. And yet those lips are there, and calling. Then there's the other problem: her head wasn't there nearly as long as her feet were. There was one great potential kiss moment when she looked up at me, and I think she missed my movement because she stood up.

At this point all I need is a singing crab and I've got a Disney movie. Finally she lays down on the bed. I can't think of a better invitation. I move over and we finally kiss. It was a great kiss: soft deep and telling. I'd love to tell you how long it lasted, but I lost track of everything but her two lips lightly massaging mine. It seemed to last forever, but yet it didn't last nearly not long enough.

Did she like my lips? I'd recently had lackluster reviews so I was a little worried. I shouldn't have. The Pirate Queen moved forward and we kissed again.

See, after divorce it's easy to let yourself get shaken up. You're coming out of a relationship where somebody who you'd hoped would be there forever has rejected you. After that, there are going to be fits and starts. It's just like dating in High School, except now you have some really cool baggage to share that you didn't have to share back then.

In high school, if you date people who aren't what you hoped, or aren't who they seemed, it's not a problem. After a divorce, it's just adding to the insecurity bank. That's normal. And what's more, you should expect a few bad dates. Embrace them. They will happen, but just like in high school, they aren't necessarily a bad thing. They'll help you to find what you're really looking for, so don't get discouraged.

Me, I'm a lot closer to what I'm looking for. Even in person, the Pirate Queen is an amazing woman.

The iPod moves to a track by Snow Patrol called "The Lightening Strike."

What if this storm ends, and I don't see you, as you are now, ever again…

She draws away, looking into my eyes, "I like this song now."

"You didn't before?" I can't look away. The rest of the room doesn't matter anymore. DVD, sofa, balcony, river, they're all different places. Different times. Right now is her lips, her eyes, her words.

"Oh, I did, but now it will always remind me of this moment."

"Oh." I lean in for another kiss.

That kiss led to a wonderful weekend of wine, trains, and pineapple charades. On Monday night, we were talking and she said, "I worry about you."

"Why?"

"You seem like such a nice guy. I'm worried that somebody is going to come along and take advantage of you."

I smiled and shrugged. It's happened before. Maybe it will happen again. Still, I'd rather be open and be wrong than cold and unyielding. I'd been there before. I don't want to be that person again. That's what worried me most.

"Don't worry about me." I wrapped my arms around her touched our lips together, "I worry about me enough for the both of us."

Understanding

Twitterpated?

Really? I've been called Twitterpated? Them is feudin' words! I slap your Bambi with my glove of stinky five fingers. I'll show you twitterpated!

Ok, now that my Superman Underoos are all in a bunch, maybe I should explain. Well maybe that's not true. My underoos are fitting quite nicely, thank you: form fitting, not bunchy at all, and no, that is not the side effects of "twiterpation."

Somebody recently posted that they were tired of seeing relational happiness in a place of flourishing ire crude. The joy was really mucking the mood. Me, I completely understand, I've been there.

I remember that phase. Oh, I've buried it deep in a steel drum in the back of the garage under twenty feet of cement, but I do remember it. It wasn't pretty. MyEx moved out, taking her half of the memorabilia and leaving me with a steaming pile of what's left.

Yeah, that was fun sorting through. Even better, Within a month, I had a vacation. See, before we'd talked about divorce, I'd requested our anniversary off, I did it every year. This year wasn't any different, except the part where I was spending it alone. That was different.

The Bambis of joy leapt merrily into the wood chipper of my soul. Yeah, If I'd been in the meadow, I'd have taken Bambi's mom out myself.

"Mother? Mother?"

"Three more steps little guy. I'll show you where she's at."

Yeah, those were the memories I built for myself. I was just a little bitter. It's to be expected. The reality is, we all go through it. What's important is to move past it. To move past the point where everything reminds us of our ex.

"McDonalds? We used to eat at McDonalds!"

It is true. Now I find myself in a different place. I don't deny it, I revel in it! Twitterpated? Not really. Twitterpated is high school crush dreamy with a cherry on top. It's the Big Giddy turned up to eleven. It's doe eyed and foolish. Trust me, I'm not there. Oh I feel good and tingly, but this is different. This is the wary 2 finger Rob playing with the Ginsu. Sure it feels good, but I've loved and lost digits before. I have baggage holding me down to earth.

It's also been theorized that standing in this happier state, I have no clue what lurks in the shadow. Well to that, let show you one of Rob's remaining two fingers. Damn! It's just a ring finger. That's really not what I was trying to show off at all.

I honestly hope that I understand. Because if I don't, the I'm doomed to repeat and return. No offense, but I don't want to go back. I won't. I mean, not returning has nothing to do with you. Don't take it personal, you can come out here and join me, and I won't mind at all. I'll probably offer you a cup of coffee.

Still, I will say this: the Pirate Queen is a wonderful woman, but I would sooner take the journey alone than return to that dark place. I have my eyes open, and I'm willing to jump if need be. That doesn't mean that I'm walking with an ejector seat strapped to my back.

"Goose!"

No, I'm willing to risk for happiness, but I'm not a maverick climbing into the jet blindly. It took this dinosaur too much effort to drag himself out of the tar to begin with. And that's what I do understand. What I don't understand is how to avoid a really awkward mixed metaphor.

Another thing I understand, is how I saved myself from extinction. First step, before I even thought about the meadow or twitterpation, I built new memories. When I took my anniversary vacation, I pulled out my camera and took pictures. I shot things around the house, I shot things around town, and yes, I did shoot Bambi's mom, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I took pictures of things like the orange paint on my bedroom wall. I wanted to see things differently. I'd been married, now I wasn't. I needed a fresh perspective, because the old perspective didn't fit anymore. I did everything to remind myself that things could be fresh and new.

I took a lot of convincing.

Still, as months passed, I refamiliarized myself with my life.

"Hi Rob, I'm Rob."

And you know what? The next year, when my anniversary rolled around, I looked at my pictures, and remembered my week off. Sure, I also remembered MyEx and all the vacations we'd taken together. What I didn't remember was the struggle. I remembered having fun to spite myself.

So now I offer you this. Force yourself to go out. Make yourself have fun. You don't have to shoot Bambi's mom to have a good time. You can run over your ex. Ok, no, I'm kidding don't do that. No, really, get out of the truck.

Ok, while I go chase down half of my readers, the other three of you stay and have fun. Do other things you enjoy. I know one person who took up singing as one of her Non-ex repertoire. You can sing, salsa, or sew. It doesn't matter so long as it's something new and fun and something you.

Because here's the thing. You're at a crossroads. You can choose to sit in a stack of photo albums of what was, or you can start filling new scrapbooks with what is. It takes time to remember, but who we are is so much more than who we were. Step forward, because that's where you are.

It's true, where you are, is a place I may never understand. But I do understand where I was, and that's a place I never want to be again.

Digging Deep Into Embarassment.

"What embarrassing things have you done?"

And good morning to you! "Embarrassing?"

Yeah I know what the word means, but I don't tend to offer that information freely. The going rate for "embarrassing" is thee billy goats, or two small children, well roasted to golden brown perfection, with a tangy gingerbread house glaze.

"Yeah, you know," cuz the Pirate Queen isn't a quitter, "stuff you wouldn't tell me, except you will because I'm asking you, in preparation for our trip." Somehow I follow her knotty logic. I know what she's saying. Still, she wants to be sure I do. She has examples and diagrams. "You know, like nose hair grooming, stuff like that."

Nose hair grooming? I didn't know that was embarrassing. I mean while I'm on the phone with the Pirate Queen, I'm standing in the cosmetics aisle of my local target with a mirror and a pair of tweezers I've picked up off the shelf buried to the wishbone in the left nostril. Not much hair that deep, but I want to be thorough. I have to look perfect. In a second or two I'm gonna grab a test trimmer and manicure my eyebrows.

"Sure, yeah, I did that." It's easy to split hairs as alms of embarrassment.

"Well, what else?"

"Uhm I shaved my butt hair in the shape of a rose, just for you."

"Great, but hear me now, I don't care what you call that rose, I'm not sniffing it."

"hmmm. Well there goes my plans for Saturday. What have you got planned?"

My eyes water. I've plucked something really deep. I'm about to sneeze. Thinking fast, I grab a loofa from one of the metal arms behind me. It's not the softest thing I've stuck to my nose, but it does do a great job of catching the sneeze in it's netting. I hang it where I found it, and go back to work.

"Yeah, well what other embarrassing things did you do?"

"Well if I told you, they wouldn't be embarrassing." My nose is still dripping. Making sure nobody is looking, I wipe it on my sleeve.

And that's true. We guys aren't that easily embarrassed. We'll do almost anything shocking and won't flinch, blush or cower. Want to embarrass us? Ask us to tell you about it. Yeah, that's where we draw the line.

The woman next to me is looking for something to take home and pluck her eyebrows. At least that's what I hope she's doing. Those face squirrels would make Brezhnev jealous. Then again, maybe plucking isn't the answer.

"Hedge trimmers are in the outdoors section."

"What?" The woman looks at me.

"What?" the Pirate Queen asks into my other ear.

"Sorry," I tell the queen--er, the pirate, I'm not insulting the woman beside me. "Somebody was looking to cut through some serious face hair."

The woman looks at me like I've slapped her. That wasn't my intention, I offer her my tweezers. My nose is done. I sure could use a Kleenex though. The woman huffs away, so I hand the tweezers to the guy on the other side. He's got pampas protruding from his ears.

He nods thanks, and I move from the mirror so he can use it.

See? Nothing embarrasses us, so long as we don't talk about it. When it's out in the air, then it's just freaky. In that way it's like "air" bubbles in a bathtub. The bubbles are fine but the vapors carry an odor all their own, and you can't blame them on your girlfriend, cuz everybody in the tub saw where the bubbles came from. Hmm. Maybe that sentence says a little much about my tubbing experience. See? And if I told you about it, that would be embarrassing. I'm not, I'm keeping it to myself.

I try to return the favor, "So what have you done that's embarrassing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, getting ready."

She calmly answers, "I'm a girl, we don't get embarrassed."

"Ok, so what have you done?"

"Well, I did a pedicure, and a manicure, but that's really for the trip. It's not for you per se."

"Not embarrassing. What else."

"Well I was thinking of a bikini wax--also for the trip."

"Painful, but not embarrassing. You don't get embarrassed, because you don't do anything embarrassing."

"Well, ok, so I didn't do anything embarrassing, but see? I'm not embarrassed."

I remain silent, waiting for her to offer something.

She thinks a little longer, "I'm getting my hair cut. I mean I might do it for the trip. It's not for you. What do you think?"

I think I see a pattern. I think that she's embarrassed by talking too. I think she's embarrassed by motives. I decide to test my theory.

"So what have you done for me?"

"Uhm…I don't know…I mean nothing…I mean… nevermind." There's a hesitant laugh.

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Women seem more embarrassed by motivation. You know what? If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be standing in the automotive department buffing my chest and handing the other guy a dollar for the last chamois that he's polishing his "big guns" with. Guys don't care about motivation. The fact is our motivation is simple. Anything good we do, we do it for you. That's our motivation. We don't always say it, but it's true, and our silence isn't about embarrassment. It's about survival.

See, if you're the one thing we do good for, then by telling you, we risk you taking it away. The other side of that, is that once we're comfortable, we don't say it because it should be a given. I mean really, why else would the guy in aisle 12 take candle wax to his pubic hair? Ok, you're right, he did look a little freaky. That would explain why he was yelling something about being a bad boy. But other then him, why else would a normal guy do it? Don't look at me. I'm may do some topiary work, but that's about it.

"Is that an elephant?"

"Yes it is, baby."

That's men and motivation for ya. With women, it's all this weird spy trail of secrets, all leading to embarrassment. I don't get it; I'm just the common citizen. I pass Brezhnev woman on the way to the checkout. She's pushing a cart with a hedge trimmer on it, and chamois guy is walking with her.

"Honey," he says, biceps gleaming from florescent lamps, "What's the trimmer for?"

The woman blushes a bit, and says to her discount store Hercules, "It's not for you, I, uhm, have a party next Friday."

"Oh," He tilts his head like a lost puppy for one second, then shrugs, "Ok."

Women are amazing creatures. Women with motivation are scary--but in a good way. Like funhouse good. I mean let's face it, Even if the Pirate Queen isn't doing these things for me I still get to reap the reward. And what more motivation do I need? Ok, I'd tell you but that might be embarrassing.

My Sunken Treasure.

"We're taking on water!"

That sounds much worse at sea than when your in a fire or at a wrestling match.

"I'll take water in the fifth round."

Ok, yeah sorry. I may be taking on water, but Monday coffee hasn't breached my hull, and my veins are all but begging now. So where was I? Oh, deep water, in a sea of kimchi, and taking on more.

The Pirate Queen and I hit the reef this weekend. The ship lurched as reality's crags ripped a hole in the Pacific Princess. Captain Stubing fell overboard and Julie and Vicki are pillow fighting Hobbits in Gopher's cabin. Yeah, it was chaos.

"My Cell bill was $500!"

"And you called to tell me this from your cell?"

"Yeah! Oh--Gotta go!"

Click.

And that was all she wrote. Ok, not all--in fact not even close, cuz now she's doing a lot more writing, cuz I'm not accepting her calls. Ok, I know, yes I am. How can I resist her pirate smile. I still take her calls…on both Saturdays and Sundays.

As most of you know, my pirate and I have been talking for 4 months. Most of that's been phone time. Before that, I think was alone, because for the first three months of conversation, I survived on rollover minutes. Apparently they do last forever--until you use them.

I rolled over the last minutes last month. This month I took a bath. All the rope and rigging of our happy voyage is coming down on our heads. Five hundred bucks, and I have no reason to expect this month's talk time will be any easier to navigate. It's a crisis on the cellular level!

So far, this is the worst crisis we've faced. For most people this is nothing, but for two post divorced people with itchy trigger fingers on the "eject" button it's the difference between going down with the ship and jumping to safety.

And yet maybe not. See, I've grown used to the sound of the pirate's voice. I find comfort in the time we talk late at night, catching up on each other's days. PQ has a distinctive voice and it's one that replays in my head even when she's not around. I'd miss that.

I miss having the money to afford a $500 phone bill too. I'm not sure I ever had that, but I assure you, I miss it. Give it to me. I'll prove it to you.

So what do people do when they've set their mind to something? They find a way to move forward. We may be romantic fools, but neither of us is blind or stupid. We can't afford to bleed that much money for too long. So what's our other option?

I spent the next hour analyzing my bill, and my payment options. For an extra $60 a month I could say screw it, and go unlimited minutes. I don't need unlimited though, and in the long run $60 not much better for my cash flow than $500.

I found some interesting things out examining my bill. Most of my calls to the PQ start after 7pm. According to my cell company, nights don't start until 9pm. 9pm? Really? I always thought night started sooner.

I thought I should ask a vampire if nights really did come that late. Who better than a bloodsucker to know, right? Unfortunately, when I called my cell company's help desk, I discovered that those bloodsuckers left around 6. What happens during that 3 hour void? Happy hour?

The other thing I discovered, is that the cell company rates calls on whatever day part my call starts in. If Icall at 8:59 and talk for an hour, that's 60 minutes charged against my daytime minutes.

I did find that my cell company can magically extend "nights." that's right. For 10 bucks a month, night can fall at 7 instead of 9. That's gracious. How can they afford that kind of kindness? Oh yeah, I pay for it.

Still, that's cheaper than $60 for unlimited calls, and by taking the time to research our call patterns, I was able to tell that that would work for us--at least this half of us. Her half of us was receiving calls in a different time zone. Here nights could afford to start later.

The other thing that works is to only call after 7pm, or if one of us does call early, we should hang up and call back to get charged the appropriate rate.

"So my mom said--"

Click.

See? That's the thing about long distance. It does suck, but there are ways of making it work. Things you can do to compromise or just avoid the reef. Next week the pirate and I can put down our phones and talk to each other face to face. Yeah, that's scary.

"We're taking on water!"

"No, I just peed myself."

"Oh…"

I hope we can survive that barrier as well as we survived this one. Maybe we should bring our phones just in case.

The Perspective-oscope

And the news reports on the radio

Said it was getting worse

As the ocean air fanned the flames

But I couldn't think

Of anywhere I would of rather been

To watch it all burn away…

-"Grapevine Fires," Death Cab For Cutie

I first heard that song early last year and latched onto it immediately. I'm weird that way about music. (Yeah, I know some people suggest I'm weird other ways too, but I'll deal with them later.) Songs bounce off me like balls off a Dodgeball Freshman, but sometimes I catch one and go "YAY!" That's "Grapevine Fires."

After hearing it, I called my NorCal friend, "You gotta hear this, it's about your house on fire."

"No it's not, " she says after one listen. She's in school. She's astute that way.

"Ok, but it is about a fire in your area."

"Yeah, and the 3:10 to Yuma rolls past your backyard."

"Well, when I lived in Yuma, it did."

"You know what I mean."

I did. She was right. I'm a blogger. I'm astute that way. Exaggeration and perception are the hobgoblins of our little culture, and those little hobs are gobbling me out of house and home!

It's ok though; I'm not the only one overrun by these monsters. I watched the monsters on Fringe the other night and I saw the following news blurb jammed between spots:

"Twins born from two daddies and stunned doctors have an explanation."

Wow! That is scary, but I'm thinking doctors aren't the ones who need to scramble for an explanation. I'm thinking mom's got some serious explaining to do.

"Funniest thing, I tripped over a naked man on the way to the grocery store. I didn't think anything of it, but nine moths later, look who has egg on her face…"

Actually that story is a little sensationalized. I'm sure it probably has something to do with artificial insemination, but once again, exaggeration and perception hobgoblins running amok.

There was also another story that that caught the interest of my inner 14 year old boy:

"This is no ordinary couple! And the show they put on is purely electric. Meet the Megavolts."

Hehehehe…

Ok, so maybe that one really is what it seemed. The interesting thing is that as I'm watching the news, I realize that none of us are any different: we all put on shows.

There's this old guy at the coffee shop. I see him all the time riding around the mall. Usually at night, he stops in the shop, plugs in his chair and then moves to a regular chair to read and flirt with the baristas.

He's a nice guy, but a bit of a character. It's funny, he's pretty dexterous for a wheelchair bound guy. He's obviously been in the chair a while because he's able to plug the chair in and move to a regular chair using mostly his arms, and he's an adept monkey of a man--Except Fridays and Saturdays. On those nights, there's an audience. On those nights he can barely move.

Before you start hurling coffee and insults at me. I'm not saying he's faking it. His chair is really nice. You don't spend that kind of money to fake a handicap. I'm just saying he plays it up a bit. Yeah, go ahead and hurl away. I'm Rob the glass house blogger.

I write about things, and I'm as guilty as the next guy. Oh, I don't make things up (except maybe calling MyEx a snowglobe the other day. She's not. And her lawyers have warned me that I'm in big trouble if anyone else tries to pick her up and shake her again. So please stop.) Other than that, everything is real--at least from my perspective.

Perspective is life's little kaleidoscope. Sure, twist it, you'll see. Where we point the kaleidoscope is the same, the difference is how we twist it. That changes what we see. Optimism is a quarter turn and 3 plastic flake tumbles from pessimism.

I think that's why I like the Death Cab song. It's about what can be a scary event; I mean people lost homes, pets, everything in those fires, and yet the singer is having a picnic in a graveyard watching. Good times! But I don't get the impression he's watching as in "waiting for scorched flesh. I get more that he's admiring the beauty of a surreal moment--or maybe that's just me and my blurry Apocalyptic kaleidoscope. I dunno.

There have been things in my life, and I'm sure yours. Things that can seem so horrible and searing. The thing is, though, that it's all about perspective. Perspective doesn't make participation any less painful. I still hate my 9th grade PE class, I still hate the monsters under my bed, and I still hate divorce. But how I twist my inner kaleidoscope alters where I stand ten, five, or even two years from now.

I can dwell on the pain of what I lost, or I can find the beauty in what I still have. I may have been bruised by balls, but at least I got to keep the two I came in with. I may have lost the furniture, but at least I got to keep my soul. A little melodramatic? I'm sure. It's my kaleidoscope, let me shift it--there, all good.

See. I love my life. It hasn't all been Bratwurst and Sprecker ale though. Granted, there are those who have it far worse than I have, and those who find a way to brush off the dirt and Sauerkraut up the brat of life, they amaze me. And yes, you know how hard it is to amaze Rob.

"Look, something shiny!"

Still, the thing is, I wouldn't change the bad. It makes me who I am. I can truly say that, yeah, I couldn't think of anyplace that I'd rather be to watch it all burn away...

Abstracting Time

Space, the final frontier…

Yeah, I watched the new Star Trek movie this weekend. They didn't say that phrase until the end. I guess it was an obligatory cliché that needed uttering, and they'd already pinched me with every re-trek from "I'm givin' her all she's got captain!" to "I'm a doctor not an Actor!" It was time to bring out the intro monologue. I think it's a contract thing. Every time a Star Trek movie comes out, a cliché gets it's wings.

I'm all for that. I mean why shouldn't I shell out ten bucks to see a film about a TV show that I can watch any time I want on cable for free? Yeah, that sounds like a cliché about a fool and his money to me. There's one born every minute, and it's my time, danmit!

Time. That's something different than space. In fact, I think in the end we'll find that time is the final frontier. I mean really. Space can be charted, mapped, and displayed in all directions. When it comes to time, we only know what's behind us, and even that's open to perception.

Oh sure some things we see coming like an explosion in a John Woo film, but others are as elusive as a Michael Bay epic ending.

"Was the real battle of Pearl Harbor this long, or is it just Ben Affleck and Kate Beckinsale that make it go on forever?"

"I'm a doctor, not an historian, Jim!"

"He's given her all that he's got, captain!"

Time. That's the final frontier. Don't believe me? Look at the crazy abstract ways we chart it. Sure we have decades centuries and Carl Sagan's billions and billions of years, but just how you define epoch, age, and era without fudging a couple moments of time? Hell, think about Christmas and opening presents. How many minutes is "in a little while?"

Anybody? Anybody?

Our time is so abstract because we can't get a handle on our own mini microcosms of moments. We live in a ragged closet-box of memorabilia. How do we sort or define the times of our lives? How often to we measure cups of years to sift the important moments that make us who we are? Do you say, "two decades ago I painted my first nude?"

No, and not because you don't paint nudes! You do! I've seen them. You're not half bad, but I think you should enhance the breast size just a little. What? I'm a guy I can't help it. That's just what I think.

No, we measure time by other land markers within our lives. Events are pushpins on the map of "you've been HERE": graduation, marriage, births, and yes, divorce all mark time in each of our lives.

I talked with my mom last weekend. She asked me about time.

"How long have you done that?"

"Oh, ever since the marriage."

"I did that after the divorce."

Yeah, AD, After Divorce. It feels weird to use the dark ages as a time marker. I mean it seems like less than a age ago I was looking at the floor mumbling, "yeah, I'm divorced." now it's a landmark?

What? Like the Golden Gate Bridge or the Statue of Liberty? Ok, I don't know if I'd take it that far, but yeah. I spent 10 years with MyEx, 7 of them married. Stuff happened during that time. Do I treat it like a spy movie and black out everything that happened between hello and goodbye? No. They happened. They're a part of me and I keep them like yearbooks of photos. "99 kicks ass! Stay Cool!" That's how MyEx signed her page. I signed much the same, except I said something wittier. I had to. I'm a blogger. Oh it was probably more self indulgent too.

It's our time. We own it. If we don't accept it and enjoy it, we lose it with the breadmaker and the thigh master in the garage. I don't want to do that; so now my marriage has become a paper weight for stretching out the dog eared map of time. Next time you see MyEx, pick her up and shake her, she's a snow globe. Yeah, no, probably shouldn't do that. She'll definitely leave you with some land marks.

But see? These are how I gauge my time, but if I were to ask you, "How long till the next Star Trek movie comes out?" and you answered "Oh, 1 marriage worth." the time would be completely different to both of us. Because some of us take longer to learn lessons than others. For some people, we may never see another sequel, because their marriage is sill going strong. Fifty years and no more Star Trek in site. Doesn't their future look bright?

Don't get me wrong. I liked the movie. I liked my marriage. It's just that sequels have so much to live up to. Oh, if a new one comes out, I'll definitely go, but I'll have all the expectations that it will be at least as good as the last one, and some things just can't live up to the hype.

Still, I'm all about moving forward, and experiencing time to it's fullest, and if I enjoyed the previous outing, I'll come back again, and yeah, even enjoy the cheesy clichés.

"Should I put the toilet seat down captain?"

"Make it so, Number One."

"Rob out."

The Founding Fathers of Mother's Day

Mother's Day. If you're reading these words than the holiday is closer than it appears. Look behind you. Yup, there it is. If there isn't at least a Hallmark card in that past reflection, I foresee a road of groveling in your future.

Did you hit the holiday? I've got one embedded in the grill of my car. A Mother's Day, not a mother. I don't think I've ever hit a mother with my car. I have been called a mother in my car--well sort of, that was the first name they gave me. Anyway… I have to make sure I hit Mother's Day. I have several Moms to get to. Yeah, I know, I've been down this road before and blogged about Rob of the multi-moms before. The road sign ahead says "Rob Redundancy Area: Speed Through Blindly."

It's OK; just roll up your windows and crack up the radio. I'll be done shortly. While I explain my multi-mom genealogy to the unknowing, you can do what I do: I think of the Pirate Queen's visit coming up at the end of the month. I think of that a lot. I'm excited.

What, you've heard enough about that, too? Boy! You're a tough reader today. A little calendar travel makes you cranky. Fine. I've put away my mom diagrams, let's move on, with today's non swashbuckling topic: my dad.

Moms, you're all great. When we kids need sympathy, there's mom. When we need understanding, there's mom. When we need something entirely different: there's dad.

My dad. He's a great guy, but whenever I wonder where my mischievous gene comes from, he rears his elderly head and smirks. Yeah, great guy.

He was so understanding during my divorce, all sarcasm was tied and stowed in the inter-head compartment; I think he was playing possum with kit gloves on his paws. He was the rest area of logic and experience offering fatherly wisdom and support.

"I think you've got an opportunity ahead of you, son. You're at a crossroads."

Yeah. I love my dad. Even when I couldn't see my future, he was there with a pair of road flares saying, "just keep moving this way."

Now I think he smells that I'm healed. He's put away the road flairs and added some road-tacks and bait-chum for fun.

See Sunday I called my mom. I may not be the best son, but I am the dutiful son; I try to be appreciative: I call.

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

"Please leave a message after the beep" BEEEP!

"Hey Mom! It's just me. Happy Mother's Day!"

I called. The obligation sign is past. It's empty road ahead for the next month or so. I called all moms and reaching none of them. It appears they're tired of hearing about the Pirate Queen too. I don't know how that's possible, but I shrug and go to work on my bathroom.

With all my newfound unemployment time, I have more time for cleaning and mini projects. This weekend I bought new toilet seats. The old ones were looking like something you'd find in an abandoned service station somewhere along an Arizona Highway. I figured it was time to buy new seats or put up a condom machine. I opted for the seats.

I've installed seats before, and there really isn't much to the job. In 10 minutes I was done. That was just enough time for my mom to call me back.

"Hi Rob! I'm just calling you back. I hope you're doing something fun!"

So, like I said, I'm dutiful. I called her back. I didn't know that Dad would be lurking in the background. That's my fault for underestimating my father.

"Sorry Mom, I wasn't doing anything fun. I was replacing toilet seats."

"Why?"

"They were looking kinda seedy."

There's silence for a moment then mom says, "Your father says it's because you have a guest coming and you want her to use your bathroom."

Thanks Dad.

I can hear him thinking in reply, You're welcome, son. Yeah, now that I'm over 21 and out of his house, we share that kind of bond. When I was younger, I couldn't hear the voices of any of my parents--not even through 1/4 drywall.

"Robert Boyd, get your ass in here!"

Hey, listen! There's a new AC/DC song on the radio! I should crank that up!

"No that's not why I'm replacing the seats, Mom," I continue. Yeah, it's Mother's Day and I'm lying to my mother. I'm a great kid. I blame Dad. You tell your mom about the woman spending a week in your house, go ahead, I dare you. Oh, sure, it's not like mom doesn't know, it just that it's a "don't ask don't tell area." There are detour signs blocking off that road and it's littered with pot holes.

My dad is moving the signs, for fun and planting mine fields. He's good at that. Always has been. That's ok, this isn't the last mine. Nope. The next one didn't even have a sign.

See, my dad is a supportive father: he reads my blogs. What's more he remembers what he reads. That's right, schools could do set reading comprehension bars by what my father retains from my blogs. Some days he remembers things I don't even acknowledge writing.

"So what's with all the Smurfs, son?"

"I dunno."

"Too much TV and not enough weeding?"

"No."

"How's the weeding coming at your house these days?"

"Uhm, ya know, I've gotta go, Dad…"

I know he reads though, it's great, but sometimes it's a little awkward. Like the spaghetti post, or a month ago when I wrote the blog about one man's trashy talk, and compared cleaning the house while talking to the Pirate Queen to phone erotica. Phone erotica is not a conversation you really want to have with your parents. Luckily, my dad doesn't talk phone sex. No, he has other plans.

While I'm talking to my mom, I'm cleaning my bathroom. Yeah. It's exciting, but Sunday is cleaning day, and in the days of Bluetooth, it's just so much easier to multitask. Otherwise the bathroom doesn't get done.

"So what are you doing?" Mom didn't read the previous paragraph. She's just listening to the southing background sounds of the running water. "You're not talking to me in the bath, are you?"

"Uhm, no Mom." Cuz, talking to Mom and taking a bath really is a disturbing thought, "I'm cleaning."

"You know I can't see you, right? You're not cleaning out of guilt, are you?"
"Oh, no! It's not one of my Mommy issues I swear! I'd have sent you the shrink bill if it were. No, I'm cleaning because I need to, and because I'm unemployed with plenty of time."

"Oh, ok….Who's the Pirate Queen?"
"WHAT?"

"You're father just said that you clean the house while on the phone with the Pirate Queen all the time."

Et tu, Padre?

Now I'm silent. I need to make a quick explanation that doesn't involve phone sex so that I can work around this trap laid by my father. There's evil laughter ringing in my skull like Quasimodo clanging a nutty belfry. The din is not mine. It's Dad. This is his way of enjoying mother's day. He's giving me grief through mom.

Wonderful.

"The pirate queen? She's the girl I was telling you about. Pirate Queen is how I refer to her in my blog."

"And you talk to her about cleaning?"

"Why yes. Yes I do. I usually clean when I call her. You know, doing dishes and stuff. " I keep the whole thing at face value. I don't want to tell mom that I've worked a phone sex metaphor into cleaning. It sounds too dirty.

Almost as dirty as my father lying traps. That's ok. It's good to know that I'm alive, and nothing makes you feel more alive than swerving pits and mines dropped by family. Besides, it's ok; Mom doesn't travel down any of the roads opened up by Dad ,and we finish a nice polite mother/son chat without the pitfalls.

I file this in my glovebox with a map. Father's Day is coming up. I've got some special gifts planned for Dad then.

Big Day!

Ok, today I’m going to break RobBlog protocol.  If you’ve ever read my blog you know that there’s an underlying theme that keeps every entry strung together like a sweet candy necklace.

 

ME!

 

Today isn’t about me.  I know.  I’m finding that hard to believe myself, but other than that 48-font homage a few lines back, there’s nothing here about little Rob writer hood, or grandma wolf.

 

What a big mouth you have!

 

Nope, today is about the pirate queen.  Today she graduates from plunderer to captain of industry.  That’s right, today my favorite pirate earned her MA in buseness-with honors. 

 

I’d love to tell you all the things I did to get her there, how I babysat her parrot, or swabbed her deck, but both things are nearly impossible from 2,500 of “here.” Instead I did nothing.

 

 

You don't get more captain of the seas than this     

“I need to study.”

“But we just started talking.”

“I know, I’m sorry but I have a test tomorrow.”

“Ok, well I’m here rooting for you, ok?”

Yup, it’s an effective cheer squad of invisible Robs.

So I was here, pom-poms, hairy legs and all. And when my pirate queen graduated from there I couldn’t be prouder.  I even woke up at 6:30 to watch her online. Yeah, I know, I scared myself.

 

And yet it’s not about me, and I find that the most confusing thing of all. It’s about her, and how I couldn’t help but be here “There” and helpless for her. It’s about seeing the joy on her face as she achieved something she spent long nights and hard years pursuing.

 

How could something not be revolve around Rob and all that he does to make this world spin to precision?  I I mean if you turn of your lights, you’ll see that my blog glows with the light of Rob kindness, so how can the queen of my world accomplish something outside this incandescence? Why would she want to?

 

Come sit on my lap young children and I’ll tell you a tale—No I won’t. I can’t, because I have no idea.  I don’t know how she can do it, any more than I know how I am so happy for her about sticking through it. And yet I’m Rob-speechless; I only have praise for my favorite pirate.

 

So today’s blog isn’t about me. It’s about a woman who steals my breath and my thunder and makes the world spin on her own axis. It’s about a woman who can be all that she wants, and still chooses spending time with a blogger whose bluster of sound and fury is no more earth shattering than a shrug.

 

Today’s blog is about the pirate queen. Congratulations on your MA. If I could say/do more, I would, but that would make it about me, and it’s not, it’s all you, and you rock my world.

Here's to you PQ