Buried Treasure.

Sunday I arrived in the pirate’s cove.  Ok, my pervy friends, not that cove. This would be the one with her secret treasure.  Yeah, sorry, I’m not making it any better am I?

 

Ok, fine. When you’re done giggling, I’ll continue.

 

Now?

 

How bout now?

 

Ok, I’m trudging on.  It’s what I do when I’m buried under word banks. I slap on my lexicon shoes, and wade to the other side.  So far the Queen and I played in the wordy wonderland, and built walls, played fort, and tossed verb balls—so to speak.

 

See, The Pirate is moving. I’ve told you this.  She’s also a planning dervish. I arrived at her house and everything was boxed.

 

“uhm, where do I sleep? “

“Box #33.28 contains bedding and a quilt.”

“Ok, where should I lay them out?”

“Oh, no. Sleep on the box. It’s soft.”

 

Yeah, she’s ready to go.  I thought I was a freak about these things, but she makes me look like a college intern.  She’s impressive.

 

Yeah, that I do mean in more ways than one.

 

While I sat on her lone sofa in the empty living room, She moved a clear Rubbermaid tote over to me. “Check this out.”

“Ok…”

It was her booty trove: pictures, and paraphernalia from her college days.  Articles and adornments that made the pirate a queen filled the box.

 

“Most Cognizant: Mrs. Henley’s Third grade class.”

 

“Wow! You were with it back then.” It was like examining the stepping-stones leading to the Queen’s dais. These are the events that made her who she is, commemorated in memorabilia. 

 

The clippings, and drawings didn’t mean as much to me as the pictures.  And as a visitor to her cove, they didn’t mean as much to me as they did to her.  After all, these were the stages set before we met.  They made her the queen that drives me wild, but I couldn’t appreciate the journey itself. That was her climb.

 

My climb lays in a similar box in Southern California. My walk is in Avon cardboard of articles and adornments that meant nothing to her during her visit.  Oh, she looked. She admired the awards, and clippings, and laughed at the mullet, but did she know what made me business in the front, and party in the back?  So to speak.

 

“Most Mindful: Mrs. Frey’s Third Grad Class.”

 

That was my path.

 

When you look at my trail in the snow, you’ll see multiple prints coming and going and wrapping around mine creating the double helix of others who’ve shaped my life. 

 

We both looked in each other’s different picture box and drew out similar photos.

 

“So why did you marry your ex?”

 

And there it was.  Who threw the first snowball?  Did it matter?  It was a line in the snow, and we’d eventually cross it.  She answered first. That was either a sign of Pirate bravery, or Blogger chivalry, that didn’t matter, because I was going to need to form my own snow ex. 

 

We laid out and drew our pictures. It didn’t matter how pretty; we were drawing for snow accuracy.  Like in other aspects, our impressions were different. The lesson’s we learned, and the lessons that drew us there to begin with. 

 

One thing remained the same: the story ended the same way, and like the rest of the items in our individual boxes: it drew us together.

 

Despite our differences, we found many similarities. We found that both paths, no matter how diverse, had brought us to one location, and that was a place we could share.

 

Now, about that pirate cove…

 

 

 

 

 

Early Morning

One second I’m doing the wave with the little mermaid down by the sea, the next clock-click there’s a Klaxon of discontent collapsing the world into oblivion.

WRET! WRET! WRET!

“Come Back!” A moving crew has Ariel and her gang in a van, while another attendant folds the backdrop into a void and rolls away. I’m too late. It’s gone. The noise continues though, for my pleasure.

WRET! WRET! WRET!

See? Still going. I’m staring into the black, and the noise won’t stop. The black. Why is it black?
The noise?
My alarm?
Morning?
I reach up over my head where the noise box sits. It vibrates as I feel for the off button.
WRET! Warmer!
WRET! Warmer!
WRE—
It’s silent.
Still black though. Why? I lift my head to see the clock: 4:30
Crap! Why so earl—oh…
And the first synapse fires like a hand crank engine. Well, except the second synapse warns we’re on a tight schedule: there’ll be no hand cranking this morning.

I’m leaving an airport in four hours. The third synapse reminds me. After that everything is up to speed with the daily sports, weather and news at my neuro-tips. Today is the day I’m flying out to see the Pirate Queen; It’s gonna be over 100 degrees; The Angels won yesterday; My lucky number is 9; I need to get up.

I know me in the morning. I’m not a morning guy. That’s why I did all my packing last night. I don’t trust me. Last time I packed in the morning, I forgot my pants.

“Sorry sir, our airport has a must wear pants policy.”
“Uhm yeah, but you can see I’m not hiding anything!”

I may be the bottom monkey in the barrel, but I’m learning and I’m climbing. Right now, this monkey is climbing out of the bed. I take my shower, move the Rob accessories into the shaving bag, and fit that into my luggage.

I actually have to unzip the suitcase to squeeze the shave bag into it. I’ve overpacked. Don’t roll your eyes, it’s not my fault. I took the biggest bag I have. The problem is, that the Pirate Queen needed stuff. It’s her fault I overpacked. That’s right, it’s a stereotype, and yet she’s pulled it off without even making the trip. That’s right, she’s that good.

Maybe I should explain. Since she’s moving, she needs places to put her stuff (yeah, I feel a George Carlin skit coming on too, but I don’t have time, I’ve got a plane to catch. Pretend I went through the skit, you laughed. We all had fun.)

“Do you need me to bring anything?”
“No. I wish I had an extra garment bag though.”
“I have one. I’ll bring it.”
“Ok.. But that’s it.”
“Fine. It sounds like the car will be full. Do you need me to bring a foldable roof rack?”
“Ok, but that’s it.”
Yeah, so I’ll skip to the end of the Steve Martin sketch…
“And the roll of packing tape, but that’s all I need.”
“Fine. I’ve got it.”

It’s no big deal. I’ve got a bag big enough to carry it all, and I’m flying on Southwest. I get 2 bags for free.

The shuttle arrives, I grab my suitcase, and my carry on, make sure the cat’s fed, everything is good. It’s 5:30, and I’m out the door.

Yay Rob!

I get to the airport. The attendant is very friendly, and she helps me with my baggage. The morning synapse firing is starting to slow down though.
“Just this one bag, sir?”
“Yeah.”
“Sir, you’re over the weight limit. I’ll have to charge you.”
I have one bag, and it’s full of other bags, and I’m over the limit. Oh, the irony! Apparently irony is as far as my brain goes. It’s the bright and shiny 3 stops before logic. I pull out my wallet, pay the overage fee and walk to the boarding gate.

Yeah, you’re already there. You’re in the front of the smart plane. Me, yeah, I’m back at the bottom of the barrel. You know what I should have. I paid $50 bucks when I could have opened up my suitcase, pulled out a suitcase, and checked it as a second bag. That thought didn’t hit me until I got my first coffee.

I hate mornings.

Where Were You...

"Guess who died today."

It was a game MyEx and I used to play. We stopped playing just about the divorce. We stopped playing anything during the divorce. Everything turned so serious.

It's not that we were playing at the expense of others. Actually quite the opposite. It was our way of paying tribute to their life.

"I remember when I saw that movie he was in with that other guy! I spit my soda all over the girl in the seat in front of me!"

Even when one of us didn't remember, the other would regale tales of how that person affected our lives. You know, these are people we grew up with and now wouldn't grow up with any longer.

Occasionally one of us would mention a name, and the other person would go, "I thought she was already dead."

"Apparently not."

"huh. Well can I tell you all the stuff I mentioned when I thought she died before?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Because somebody dies daily, it became part of our daily routine. After the first sip of coffee, but before the crosswords. It was our way of celebrating life. That died when we divorced. I think that death hit to close to home for either of us to even talk about. It's like loving thunderstorms until the lightning strikes your back porch.

"Guess who died today?"

"I don't know, who?"

"The Boyds."

"Oh, crap! Really? Wait, that's us."

"Yeah…I know."

This week, the piling obits reminded me of that. This week started with the loss of Ed McMahon and ended with Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett in the turn of a page. I mean, I watched TV stations shift from "mourning Farrah" on the street interviews to live coverage at the UCLA medical center. And yeah, MyEx and I did exchange txts. Maybe it was the end of an era, or maybe just to show that we've moved on past the loss of the Boyds.

Now I figure today will start the "where where you?" phase of their deaths.

It is weird. Whenever something like this happens, we try to make it all about us. In three years we'll have stories about where we were and what we were doing at the moment each one died, down to the second.

"I was washing my car."

"I was checking out internet porn when the stripper started to cry."

Nope. No 'Beat It" jokes today. Today I'm not 12. Today, I'm mortal, and that looks like 41. I've seen a lot of death, and I can relate to them all personally.

I don't know if we get that from the news, or the news gets that from us. Every time something happens, their job is to personalize it--to make us feel. The best way to do that is to show how it relates to us as individuals or a community.

That's why I wish we'd do the same thing in our own lives. Maybe if we personalized the things around us, we'd do better in our personal lives. I'm guilty. I imagine in three years, I could be sitting in a bar somewhere and somebody would ask, "where were you when Michael Jackson died?"

I'd lift my beer and say over the lip, "I was working out." Then take a sip.

"Yeah. I was getting a burger."

Then the guy I'm talking with would pivot on his stool, turn to me and ask, "Where were you when the Boyds died."

"I have no idea. I only remember when I heard the news."

And that's probably the biggest shame of all.

Pirate Days

"Hi! I'm your furry woodland sex slave," says the squirrel in the party hat with a balloon tied to his fore paw.

Hi, I'm Rob. I'm 12, and I'm laughing my ass off. This was last night. The squirrel is an American Greetings emissary of virtual birthday cheer. His lips move, His eyes blink, and his brows flutter, making his hat bob. How could he be cooler?

"Are you hot yet baby?" Aww, yeah, by using him for the power of evil.

What? Oh please, like I'm the first guy to do this. I'm sure somebody's already tried different phonic combinations to make it sound like he's farting, and then mailed it to their mom. Oh, sure you're above all that, aren't you? So why are you Googling "American Greetings Talking Squirrel" right now? Thought I didn't see that, huh?

I see everything, when I rub my squirrel.

"Humans aren't funny." Yeah, I made my squirrel say that. Why not? He's my puppet, and he'll obey my every command. Well, that and I've run out of almost dirty words.

I wrap up his adolescent rhetoric with something sweet like, "Happy birthday my queen." And email it. Yeah, this wasn't a selfish return to my childhood, I'm doing it for somebody else. It's the Pirate Queen's birthday.

Oh, don't worry. I've got more planned than a silly squirrel. I've got a moose too. Ok, no, but that would be funny. Man I should have done that! Where can a get a moose on such short notice? The butcher? Hmm. Probably nothing says "happy birthday" like slaughtered moose.

No, the squirrel is just the appetizer. See, I'm a writer. I could have made the cyber nut say anything, but he's at his funniest when he tries to talk dirty. Nobody takes a mechanized mono-drone seriously. "I can't wait to kiss your lips again," will bring just as many laughs as "I'll spank you with my tail until you scream." I say stick with the tail, and go with what you know.

I know the Pirate Queen. She'll laugh. There's a 12 year old boy inside of her too. Yeah, that's not funny. Keep your mind on the blog, thank you. How do I know she'll laugh? Well there's the obvious reason: I pay attention to what she likes and what she doesn't like, but almost more importantly: it's the type of thing that I enjoy.

See one of the things that works between us is that we enjoy the same things. I can be juvenile; so can she. I laugh at my jokes; so does she. I enjoy celebrating her birthday; so does she.

What about the squirrel? What does he enjoy? Nothing. He's a tool. That's what separates the yard chatterers from the pirate queens. Yard chatterers don't have a mind of their own. You tell them what to do and they do it.

"Rob said to wish you a happy birthday." See? He does my bidding. Oh he's funny now, but like all my adolescent fantasies, he'll get old.

The Pirate Queen? She's a different creature. Oh, we enjoy the same things, but we liked those things as individuals first. That's what I like. She is her own person, and that person just happens to be in sync with my person. Sounds dirty, doesn't it? Yeah, well from 2500 miles it's a lot cleaner than adolescent Robby likes. I think adolescent Pirate Queen too. The squirrel? Oh he doesn't care. He'll like whatever you tell him to like. After 41 years, I know I don't like that.

There are things I do like that the pirate queen doesn't. You know what the pirate queen isn't getting for her birthday? A thick juicy steak and a baked potato. Why? Because she's a pirate: she's more surf than turf.

That's why I'm hoping she opens the fresh salmon I mailed her soon. Even good gifts start to smell if you don't open them early enough. Bad gifts though, they stink right out of the box. It's so important to be in tune with your partner. Mimicking the words they give you only works for so long. At some point you've got to prove that you care enough to listen and show that you really do understand them.

Do I understand the Pirate Queen? Yes, as well as I am capable. We are very similar, and there are parts of her I understand like the back of my own hand. Still, as was explained to my by my father one sunny day in the garden, she's a girl. Girls are different. There are things that I'll learn, and things that I will just never understand.

"My favorite movie is Beastmaster!"

"Really?"

These are then things that make the Pirate Queen who she is, and make her the sexiest creature alive in my eyes. The surprises, as well as the things we share. These are the things that I try to convey when I try to create a birthday. And that's why she's getting a naughty squirrel.

So what else is she getting for her birthday? Ahh that's a secret. To tell you would be to show you parts of the Pirate Queen that aren't mine to share. I'm just glad she likes me enough to share them with me.

"I am only for you on your birthday…" Ah the squirrel? That's something everybody can enjoy--even an adolescent man/boy truly nuts for a pirate.

Like My First Car, This Blog's a Rambler.

Email. Without it, how would the self proclaimed hermit make contact with his world? Yes, yes, I know. Any self respecting, self proclaimed hermit wouldn't need to keep contact with his world--thus the "hermit" title and all. Still stick with the plot here, and check your ability to reason at the door.

Yeah, sorry bout the plot thing too. It can be a bit of a disappointment to me too. Then again, I'm a self proclaimed hermit, where do you think I'm going to find a plot?

Ebay? For sale next to the Thighmaster? Not highly likely. Still, there is one place I can buy a clue, find a plot, whatever I like.

That's right! In email! It's in media, Rob! Yeah, it's sort of like in media res only less action and far more convoluted with unintelligible dialogue. Think Macbeth without the title lord and lady.

MACDUFF (standing in a field of grazing sheep, sword in hand): Despair thy charm!

WOOLY (yes sir! Yes sir! Three bags full.) BLACK SHEEP : Baa?

MACDUFF: Then yield thee-- Ya know, screw this! There's no climax! Where's my villain? Untimely ripped?

Yeah, I'm the black sheep: I just make no sense, no matter what scene you place me in.

"I'm your huckleberry, Johnny Ringo"

"Baaa!"

See? So I'm the self proclaimed hermit living through email. Today's email said, "Enjoy life for a bit!"

Yeah, I wasn't sure how to fit my wooly butt into that scene either. "Enjoy life?" But I'm too busy for that! Couldn’t life settle for a "cuddle" right now? Enjoy? How do I create that scene?

Life is funny that way. We forget to enjoy it sometimes. Sometimes we're too hurt to enjoy, still when the chance presents itself, we need to. You know, for at least 8 years I let my day job control me. Sure I made time for small excursions into life, but most of those were plotted kidnappings by MyEx. Was it my job that drove her off? What if I said yes? Would that change the end of that story?

No. It's already written So why ask. Still for the record, no; it wasn't my job. It was me. But see? Here I am returning to the scene of the crime. That's in media Rob. I don't start in the action and come back, I always leave the action to return to the beginning to grab a cup of whine. Yeah, not much of a story really.

"My Precious!"

"Baa!"

Changes the whole story don't it?

"Enjoy life."

What the heck does that mean? Right now I'm a relatively free man. That's scary as hell. I'm trying to devote my time to my writing, but having trouble finding the rhythm. Oddly enough there I have a story. It's just wringing it from grey matter into keystroke magic without checking my Facebook status. I'm writing, I enjoy it. I like where that story is going, no matter how slowly.

What about life? Am I enjoying that? Do I like where that story is going? I'm a chubby blogger on the cover of Heavy Metal with a Pirate Queen holding my waist and fending off the Care Bear hordes: Funshine skull, trapped under her heel, Share Bear wriggling from the queen's rapier, while Grumpy Bear goes, "I knew this would happen," and lives to tell about it. What do you think? No, really, what do you think? I need help. Is this enjoying life?

I'm a writer not a liver. After I lost my job, I decided to take time off and work on my book. Sure, I would doggedly pursue employment opportunities, but less like a Terrier on steroids, and more like a Labrador on Quaaludes. My focus was my story.

In working my story I spent two weeks with the Pirate Queen getting to know her, and now I'm spending two more weeks helping her move. Which story am I concentrating on here?

"Enjoy life."

I guess I am. So why do I feel guilty? Am I shirking my writerly duties or is my inner hermit showing his outer paranoia? I spent so long concentrating on daily survival that it's easy to unravel in just having fun. I'm facing two great opportunities here: to write and sell a book, or to woo and date a pirate.

Why can't I do both? Because I've been trained: you can't have your cake and eat it too. Which is the cake and which is the eating? I know what the Pirate Queen is rooting for.

"Eat Me."

"Baa."

"Ok, Rob, the sheep thing is creeping me out."

See? When you've locked yourself down, it's hard to get back out there, to enjoy life, pretty soon enjoying life seems like more of a chore than the routine. I'm trying to break that cycle. I'm trying to have fun. I'm trying to write. I'm trying to live. In media Rob. I've returned to the scene of the crime, now it's time to move forward.

It's an adventure. I'm scared. I asked the Pirate Queen to hold me, she's said, she would. That'll help. Adventures are better when shared. Maybe I'm working towards the part of life where I fit in.

"Et tu Brutus?

"Baaa!"

"Oh, that is a nice sweater, thank you very much! What's this embroidered in the collar? 'Enjoy Life!' Yes! Yes! I think I will."

Me too. It's just a struggle keeping my inner hermit at bay. He's such the critic. So forgive my rambling blog if it's font shadows have offended, I the sheep blogger will make amends ere long. Give me your e-hands if we be friends and enjoy life.

Piering into the Future.

This is the week of the iPhone! That's right, Apple has added an "S" to the product designation and hopes that we'll think that "S" stands for "Super."

Meet the new thing, same as the old thing; it's the next big thing!

I don't think so. Video capabilities and a few bells and whistles aren't all that. Trust me, I added them to the bedroom before my divorce and the results were unimpressive.

In fact, the next few years after that were pretty dismal. Oh the bells, whistles, and cameras were still there, but it was just shrill tweets, and images of Rob crying in his pillow alone.

After clearing everything out, things got better. I don't blame a few party favors for my woe; woe happen. It's part of the great feeling cycle. That's right, it starts with feelings, and then goes to a whole lotta woe, then comes back to more feelings. Yup, it looks a little like this:

Feelings, woe, woe, woe, woe, feelings.

And that's why I was alone crying in my pillow. Still, here I am two years after my divorce and I can joke about it. That's because the wave of woe actually made me stronger.

Oh sure, you can say that it's all the Pirate Queen. And yeah, she has something to do with it, but the reality is, I could never handle a woman like the PQ without overcoming the hard times. We only attract the best people when we're at our best, and we only get that way by going through the worst.

It's true. When we're up against the wall, we're sharper and more in tune with everything around us. A dust mite could sneeze and we'd know it.

That's us at our best. What about our worst?

Fat and happy. We're relaxed and flabby. Trust me, I know the flab I speak of. Right now I'm technically unemployed, and my biggest concern is who's watching Persephone while I go help the Pirate Queen move.

Burrrp! Another Grape? Should I have the frond wielding servants turned up a notch?

What was I talking about? Oh, Yeah, my kit bag full of kitty woes.

Don't get me wrong. The fat and happy times are important too. We need to rest and recover. Nothing eals you faster than a little happiness.

Last time the Pirate Queen was here we went to the beach. We ate sandwiches and grapes and watched a woman turn from a light ecru to deep scarlet.

"That's gonna hurt!"

"No pain, no gain."

"What's she gaining?'

"Lot's of pain."

Sometimes it feels like that's all we do: go through pain for pain's sake. I know I thought that about my divorce. That's why I love the beach. It's nature at it's most terrible and gentile.

Holding the Pirate Queen's hand, I watched the waves lap up on the shore licking children's toes as they giggled and tried to run away. When I first moved to California, there was a restaurant at the end of the Huntington Beach Pier called Restraint at the End of the Pier. If you walked inside the restaurant, there was a picture of their original location being demolished with the end of the pier by a wave lapping at it's toes. The picture didn't show anybody giggling. I think there were specks running away though.

That didn't stop people from moving forward and recovering. "We can rebuild it, we have the technology."

Yeah, and while the waters calmed, they did. The should have renamed it and moved it to the middle of the pier, because after I'd been in California for two or three years, another wave came and tore out the end of the pier again, taking the restaurant with it.

They rebuilt it again, and this time it stayed. Well, not the restaurant. That business went under and stayed there. Apparently rebuilding costs more than fried fish revenues. The end of the pier now holds a Ruby's. But it is still standing.

See, hard times wiped out the end of the pier twice, and both times they rebuilt. Since the last time, we've had plenty of storms, and the pier has held. The hard times made them rebuild stronger. That's why I love going to the ocean when things feel overwhelming. It reminds me that there is a balance and the little fish usually gets wiped out in the end and are replaced by large franchises. That gives me warm fuzzies.

Maybe it's because I think we're all the pier and not the restaurant. The restaurants are those little things that decorate our lives: cars, jobs friends loved ones. Yes, I know, I'm gonna get an evil glare from the Pirate Queen for calling her a decoration, but she's a very lovely tasteful one. See all these adornments are things we can't control. As pier, I don't have a say in who sells burgers off my hairy back. All I can do is create the best platform for them to do what they do best. And when time comes for a change, they'll go, but I'll still be here.

My life as a pier. It's not permanent. But some days are sunny ebb and flow, some days crash with power and darkness. The last few years have left me dazed with ringing of the ocean in my ears--or was that the bells and whistles? Anyway, now I'm reaping the benefits of the strength that it brought.

At least until the next big wave.

When Dawn Breaks, Who Fixes It?

\

"I love the smell of lip balm in the morning."

No, that's not quite it. Wet palm? Wet dog? Left Palm? I dunno. I don't love the smell of anything in the morning. I'm not a real fan of morning, period. That's why when The Pirate Queen tells me she's always cheerful in the morning, I want to hide under the covers.

"Just slip the coffee under the blanket. I'll be out when I'm ready."

Yeah, I like to ease into my day. You know, sort of like sneaking up on a bull before jumping on it's back. The Pirate Queen is more of the "Hi, Bull, Avast and prepare to be boarded!" kinda gal.

Luckily the day has a good 18 hours left so that we can meet somewhere in the middle. In those hours, we seem to do just fine, except we're also in the morning of our relationship. And then there's the distance…

"I had so much fun visiting you! I’m moving to California!"

"Uh, what?" This is Rob spitting coffee all over his monitor.

"Yeah, I found a job, so I'm moving!" it says between dark brown drips, "Oh, and good morning!"

Ok, that's not the way it really happened. Still it was really quick, just like that, only different. One minute she was in Detroit lamenting the distance over cell phone bills, and the next she was out here visiting. Now one thing I love about the Pirate Queen is she's really industrious, even on vacation. While she was here, she managed to work in an interview. We spent a day in downtown LA looking at the sights.

"This is a parking garage, and that's a sour attendant. They're everywhere around here. Across the street, That's a Starbucks..."

Next thing I know, she's got a legitimate job offer, and is looking for apartments. I'm still sipping my morning coffee trying to find the humor in Heathcliff. It ain't happening.

"Yeah, I know he's a cat, but why is that funny?"

I don't get it. Nothing is funny before noon. In our relationship, I'm thinking we're still at 7:30am. Everything is still new and fresh, and the girl with the sun's halo lighting her hair is still early and exciting in our day. We aren't to the 1pm, "Yeah, I've heard that story before" phase. And trust me, She'll know when she gets to that phase; I might as well write for TV I have lots of repeats.

Can we make it past lunch? I don't know. I'm old and ornery. My track record isn't that great, but still this angel seems to think I'm worth the effort. That says something about her, doesn't it, even if it's, "boy she's groggy in the morning, huh?"

Groggy or not she's excited and motivated. She's planning. Yeah, I'm planning too. I'm planning on helping her move. I'm planning a route across the country. I'm planning on helping her pick an apartment. I'm planning on welcoming her into my world. And I'm planning All this before the crack of noon.

That's the thing about personal time tables. We plan them, we set them up, and then God shuffles them around and says, "No, this is how it's gonna be." I'd planned that the Pirate Queen and I would get to know each other through a series of trips a brunch, and maybe a pre noon nap. Now it's looking like we're learning each other up close and personal before either of us gets our make-up on.

"We'll get to date like normal people!" She chirps.

I don't chirp. I don't really date. I haven't dated "like normal people" since my 20s. She promises to take it easy on me and show me how it's done. I hope so, because I think she's amazing, especially with the morning halo. I guess we'll just ease into the rest of the day after a morning of excitement, right?

Here's the thing: after the divorce nightfall, I didn't know if I wanted to face a new day. I mean, yeah, I knew that I was better as a team, but for all my bravado, I wasn't sure if I wanted to put out that kind of effort. I'm not a morning person. I'm an afternoon sipping tea kinda guy. Yet I have to admit, it's nice to know that somebody can bring out the better parts of me, even when I want to be surly.

So The Pirate Queen is moving out here, and yeah, I'm all excited. We'll continue through the morning and see where the day takes us.

There is one thing that's a true test of a relationship: a road trip. Yup. Everybody needs one. Nothing will wake you up to person your with like being trapped in an aluminum box for 5 days with just yourselves, a cooler of coke, and a box of Chips Ahoy.

"Yes, I realize the map says Omaha, Dar-ling, but the road sign we passed just said Philidelphia. I'm just saying we may be a little off…"

A cross country trip will either make you a better team, or put somebody in the trunk. Either way, it's splash of caffeine and a big green sign saying "Welcome!" Heck, all we need is to add a pet and we'd have a tequila sunrise.

The Pirate Queen is bringing her cat.

Napalm in the morning! That's what it is! Yeah, we're gonna have some fun. Wish us luck.

Happy Birthday to me...

“Mwrew!” That’s how I woke up Friday. That’s not my voice. My voice has a scratchy/groggy quality at 9am.

Every year at this time I wonder the same thing: is it our attitude that shapes our birthday, or our birthday that shapes our attitude? When I was six, my birthday was bulletproof. Not even the dog humping my saddle shaped cake could ruin that day. It just meant there was more cake for everybody else. Now I’m a whiny old man with a kitty on my chest and getting out of bed is reason enough to grouse.

“Mwrew!” Yeah, sorry, that is a real cat and not some special Rob birthday euphemism pinning me to the bed. My birthday wish didn’t come true and I’m a little grumpy; 41 isn’t even disillusion proof.

“Mwrew!” Persephone says nudging my wrinkled old forehead. Her whiskers tickle my dangling jowls.

“You know I’m not getting up right now, right? It’s my birthday. I’m sleeping in. I need my beauty sleep.”

She seems to understand. She turns around and backs her other end into my face. I won’t paint you the rubbing tickling picture from that angle. Let’s just skip to:

“OK! I’m up!” I throw the blanket back and roll to the floor.

Persephone hops down. The “mission accomplished” banner flapping from her tail on a wind of unknown origins. I wasn’t nearly as excited about the whole “getting up” thing. Something about birthdays after 21: they roll in with far less fanfare and far more drum dirge.

I’m how old? Crap…

Persephone didn’t care. She was just excited because it was another day to greet with a raised tail and a bowl of food. I wished I could share her innocent joy.

I’m 41. Are birthdays happy on their own? Last birthday, I was rebuilding from divorce. I fortified that birthday with every happy sandbag I could throw down. Last year I pulled pork, bought a key lime pie, and bolstered myself in preparation for the big “four-oh-my-gawd-I’m-old.” By the time my day was over, I was too fat and happy to not have fun.

This year I didn’t do anything. I was too busy reestablishing my routine from the Pirate Queen’s visit. I was chasing her ghost. I missed her. I was more worried about those implications, when my birthday slipped in unannounced.

“Mwrew!” Persephone said from the doorway.

“Yeah, I’ll second that.” I followed her out into the hallway to see what she thought was so important.

“Mwrew!” She stopped at the bathroom. One paw tapped her box full of little misshapen gifts wrapped in litter.

“Thanks, kitty. You always know the perfect gift.” So this was going to be one of those birthdays.

I stumbled into the kitchen and started the coffee. Maybe the bitter brew would make my brighter. On second thought, only one thing could make the experience perfect. I stepped outside to grab the LA times. It was always filled with chipper news.

The sky was gray and overcast and humidity hung in the air like a shroud. It may never rain in California, but it sure can sulk when it wants to.

A box sat on the porch: my first birthday gift! The label said “Do It Yourself Pest Control.” Yeah, my first present was food for my ants.

I grab the paper and wander back inside. There’s a message blinking “mourning!” from my answering machine. It’s from the Apple store. They’d like to give me my laptop back. I’d fed the thing coffee after midnight a few weeks ago, and it filled with gremlins. Apple just wanted to say their little extermination project was a success.

That was the good news. I’d missed my keyed companion. The bad news was that they’d replaced the keyboard, the trackpad, the superdrive, and apple core wires. The original estimate was $750, and the phone call didn’t seem to dispute that. My dad had sent me a gift card for my birthday, but it wasn’t anywhere near that total. I could return Persephone’s gift, but I didn’t think the exchange rate was very good on a crap gift.

I called MyEx, “It’s my birthday!”

“Yes. It is. Happy birthday.”

“You didn’t get me anything, I have an idea for a present.”

She laughed at my idea. She thanked me for the best birthday laugh ever, and then she hung up, still giggling.

By now, my coffee was ready. I turned on my home computer. Outlook opened up with a reminder I hadn’t set, “Happy Birthday!” The Pirate Queen had been up to mischief during her visit here.

I smiled. It felt unnatural for this holiday. When I opened my email, there were more Birthday tidings from my queen. It appeared she cared. I smiled a little bigger. So far, this was the best gift of all.

After email, I decided to go play a little Guitar Hero. Maybe I could shred the rest of my birthday gloom before picking up my laptop. I’d made it to the last levels; now I wanted to see how the game ended. Maybe that’s how I’d spend my birthday alone with me.

Halfway through Ozzy’s “Mr. Crowley.” The doorbell rang. Looking out the screen, there was this guy in Joseph’s shirt of blinding colors and a matching hat.

“My eyes! My eyes!” I screamed and dropped the guitar, losing the level.

Multi-color man didn’t seem amused. It wasn’t his birthday. He held something wrapped in plastic with a “Happy Birthay” Mylar balloon tethered to it, and a stuffed bear shoved in the crook of his arm. It didn’t seem to match the dark music exuding from my living room. Still the delivery man’s checking his watch and his route pad completed a mood image all its own.

“Yes?” I said.

“Robert Boyd?”

“That’s me.”

“Sign here.” He didn’t seem impressed. He handed me a pad of paper. I’m used to this reaction. Still I wanted him to look a little happier. It was my birthday.

“It’s my birthday.” I smiled.

“You don’t say.” He said reading the balloon as he put the gift in my hand and moved the bear to the crook of my arm. Looking in my hand, somebody had sent me an edible arrangement of chocolate covered strawberries.

It could only be one person. I knew only one person who sailed to exotic ports to retrieve this kind of treasure. The card confirmed my suspicion: The Pirate Queen. I called her to say thanks. I was laughing. She’d turned my day alone into a birthday embrace, even from 2500 miles away.

“Thank you. You are the sweetest.”

“Happy birthday! She sang. It was a little strained, but it was the sweetest sound I’d heard all day. The Queen was on the road to see family.

We talked for a bit, but she ended our call in the usual manner: “Look, I’m getting pulled over by the cops. I have to go.”

“Ok, thanks again!”

My spirits were definitely raised. My morning of gloom had shifted. Even the sky had cleared. I figured now was time to go pay my respects to Apple, and receive their gift bill.

When I got there, the woman asked to see my ID. “That doesn’t look like you.”

I looked. It was me. “It is me.” I said.

She shrugged, “it doesn’t look like it.”

What did that mean? The picture was a year old. Did I look like a fossil now?

That didn’t stop her from retrieving my laptop. She disappeared in the back for a few minutes before returning with a foam envelope and a stack of paperwork. Looking through the paperwork, she stops before reaching me. The apple attendant detours to one of her fellow counter cohorts.

I can’t hear what she’s saying, but she’s holding two separate pages, comparing them. Cohort guy nods, and looks at me. He’s got this odd look in his eye, like they’ve discovered distasteful porn on my laptop or something. My laptop only has pictures of me on it and they’re all from the chest up. I can’t imagine what the look is about.

“Did they tell you how much this would cost?” Says the woman with my laptop.

“Yeah, they quoted me $750”

The guy nods, “Go talk to Matt.”

The woman nods too, “I’ll be back.” Great. What now? They make it sound like they want to charge me more.

After a long conference in the back room she returns. “Let me get you up to speed.”

“ok.” I feel my wallet twitch.

“It’s your lucky day. We won’t be charging you anything for the repair.”

“Wow! “ That’s all I can say, but I do follow it up with, “And it’s my birthday!”

“Well happy birthday to you!” She says and smiles.

“I’ll say!”

And that was my birthday. I still don’t know if it’s the birthday that makes the attitude or the attitude that makes the birthday, but some days are just too good, no matter how surly we try to be.

“Mwrew!” Persephone would tell you mean, “I’ve been trying to tell you that all along. “ Just before she lays down on the bed and takes a nap.

***

Later Note: After I wrote this I received an email from MyEx, wishing me a Happy Birthday. I replied to her, and told her about the laptop incident. As soon as I hit “Send” my laptop died.

I took it into Apple service, and they’re scratching their heads over it now. There’s a weird power short that they can’t explain. If you press the button that shows how much power is in the laptop, the laptop dies. I guess it’s a secret.

Anyway, MyEx emailed me, congratulating me on my good fortune, and I emailed her back with my not so good fortune. Only moments later a reply came that read, “Not everyday can be your birthday.”

Truer words have not been spoken.

hmmm...

Hey, I was going to do a blog today, and celibrate getting my laptop back, but Just as I was planning to send it, My Macbook died again. I'm taking it in for service again, so that should be fine, but alas, there won't be a blog today...

Sorry...

Rob

Relations

Relationships. What is the shape of your relationships? Why is it that everything is a relationship? I have a relationship. I have several. Apparently, I have a relationship with everybody. Is it ok if I don't? Can I step away? Can I not have relationships?

It's hard to keep up with all my relationships. I have a relationship with my parents, a relationship with MyEx, and according to Webster's, I even have a relationship with my proctologist. Well they didn't name him specifically, but they seemed to imply that relationships are inclusive.

"Hey Rob, show me your butt!"

"Can we just have a cup of coffee?"

One relational definition is "A connection." Yeah, sorry, that's not the term I choose to stick to that doctor.

Let's talk about other relationship definitions, shall we? How about, "behavior or feelings towards an other." That's my favorite. I think it's because it's a cause effect definition. It lets me pretend I have control over relationships. I mean, I do, but no more than fifty percent. The rest is up to God and whim of man, and those are two forces I still don't understand.

Did you know that you can break a relationship but you can't loose it? Yeah, it's like that toilet paper tail: when you leave the bathroom, it won't go away. The more you try to shake it free, the more people stare.

Some relationships work without any plausible explanation. There's my relationship with MyEx. It works. I don't know how; it's certainly not my overwhelming charm. Even separate, we have a relationship. I don't know if I'd call it healthy. If it were healthy, we'd still be married. Still, we mended what we could, and now we work together. We're like the brother and sister that were locked in a room without dinner until they could get along.

"I'm not tou-ching you!"

Now a few years later, and a lot leaner, we get along fine. That's better than some brothers and sisters. They'd rather starve.

That's another thing, you can starve a relationship, but even that won't kill it. I'm a brother. I have sisters--two. I also have a family. We're all still eating; just at separate tables. Family relationships are a kind of color coded deal a meal thing. I mean, I'm in various states of "connection" with all of them. Some are peas and carrots, others are just desserts. I don't choose favorites; they choose me. The rest of us swim around the same gene pool separated by our oil and water relationships.

That's the thing about the Pirate Queen. She tells me about her relationship with her family and it's all foreign. She calls her family frequently. When she was out here visiting me, she received four family calls.

Me? My family didn't call once. Oh Persephone voiced her concern, but everybody else stayed away.

"Rob, we're just making sure you're ok." Nope, not one peep or chocolate rabbit. That's not to bash on my family. I love them. We're not dysfunctional, we function quite well, we just do it from a great distance and rather quietly. It's a different dynamic.

One of my sisters hasn't called me in five years.

"Five years?" The Pirate Queen can't believe it. She just got off the phone from her second call with her mom.

"Yeah, why?"

"Are you not talking?"

"Well, I mean that is the technical definition, but I don't think it's anything intentional."

"Are you sure?"
"I don't know. We don't talk."

We don't. It's fine. It's weird if we do talk. That's why I've been creeped out lately. Last month, my sister started calling me weekly.

"Hey Rob, how are you doing?"

"Uhm, fine?"

That's a flux in the dynamic. Last time I had a flux in a dynamic, I got a divorce. Now this is my sister, I can't divorce her. Still, it's a scary feeling, like in the horror movies, when the svelte college dude with the "I'm a hero not a victim" smile (played by me, of course) looks over his shoulder to see an axe murderer tapping on the window.

"Hi! It's me. Might I borrow a cup of sugar?"

No my sister is not an axe murderer. I'd know. We don't talk, but we do tell each other everything. Still, a change in behavior means there's something I don't know. Like "why is there a change in behavior."

So today I did what all confused brothers do: I called mom.

"You're just being paranoid, Rob. Now go play with your sister." My mom doesn't read my blogs. She doesn't know that we don't play.

I have relationships with the people I play with too.

"You're lame!" That's a girl who plays games on Facebook. Our relationship is strained. "I'm just offering friendly advice," she said. I wasn't sure which part of "you're lame" was friendly advice, but the rest of the message was clear. I know where I stand in that relationship.

I think that's a rarity. Relationships are constantly in a six degree state of ebb and flow. We never know where we stand until our feet are buried under six feet of shifting sand. Life, people, events, everything changes, and changes the way we see things. When I was 10 Jenny Dane was the first girl to hit me with a jump rope, when I was 12 she was the first girl to dance with me.

The trick with relationships is to keep them open. Yeah sure, like my proctologist, they can whip around and bite you in the butt, but they can also bloom into something unexpected if you give them a chance. Sure it's risky and scary, but everything worthwhile is.

So what about my sister? I don't know. Five years of silence is a long time to just spring up and say 'hi" without motivation. But she is family and sometimes that's the risk you've got to take. Because one think I learned from my grandfathers funeral: good or bad, all relationships come to an end; the true shape of your relationship in that moment is shape you'll wear around your neck until the day you cross over yourself. I'm far from perfect in my relationships, but I'd like the shape of my relationships to be a heart.

Dancing With The Stars

Hi. It's been almost two weeks; pull out your black soled dance charts, and step to the Rob-dance. Left foot, right foot, shimmy, and... let me catch you up on the moves: I got a ticket (2,3,4...), broke my toe (stomp, 3, 4…), and fried my laptop (and dip). I had one of the best weeks ever!

No, no sarcasm, I'm serious. And yes you can mark this "No Sarcasm" moment in your Hallmark calendar. It's more rare than a blue moon outside an Alaskan winter. Ok, that's a little obscure; I'll give you a waxing gibbous hairy moon to think it through.

Sometimes the things we say make no sense. I know, coming from me, that's hard to believe, but stick with me, I may not make sense out of life, but I think I can make this statement ring true. By the time you finish this blog you'll swing with belief. See? You're already nodding your head to the beat. Ok, lets start.

As you know. The Pirate Queen made her California tour. She packed it with everything from a wine train to a job interview, and still found time to make a grumpy blogger feel wanted. How? She made Rob time in her everyday. She left yesterday and I'm still finding Pirate Easter eggs. This morning I cleaned the computer repair estimates from my dry erase board and found the words "I miss you" in a foreign scrawl. It made the Apple's numbers seem so small.

It's the little things. What little things did I do for her? I'll let her tell you. They're her little things, she can share them if she chooses. I did them for her, and not for the blog. So for now lets just say I did little to deserve her appreciation.

I know, I know, you want to hear all about her trip, but I don't know what I should tell you. It's not that I keep secrets, but so many things in life are improvised moves in the moment and don't make sense unless you're there. I mean if I told you that I laughed my ass off the second time she stomped on my broken toe, would that give you a greater understanding? Probably not, anymore than if turned my hand palm up, formed a finger cup and called it a pineapple. Do that to the Pirate Queen and she'll double over, and you can grab her booty. She may even do a Hammer Dance.

Stop! It's Hammertime!

That's the thing about relationships. Every laugh and tear is in the small and obscure. It's a location joke: you've gotta be there. Maybe that's why we had so much fun: we were both there. Whole Rob, whole Queen living through every moment. When two sides are that locked in a groove, then it's hard to move out of sync.

Oh, sure I talk like I've found the city of gold. Maybe I have. I've seen it. We all have, and we all know that once you leave you can never retrace your steps. Yet, you have to be there to experience the wonder. So why do we all step away?

Because life is a diamond and every aspect of our life is a facet. Our relationships sparkle with refraction of the light we shine into them. That is so easy when things are so new and the focus is so pinpoint precise. Unfortunately, life has other facets: work, kids, NBA finals, and the search for Spock. Everything deflects our crystal clear light, and turns our diamond relationships into a fortress of solitude. It doesn't matter if you're Superman or not, you can't escape it.

"I know Superman, and you Mr. Boyd are no Superman."

Yeah, this is no revelation. Just call me Jimmy Olsen. I fall way short; I still run with scissors, but I can still cut a rug. My mom had a great gig selling Folgers coffee in the 70s. That's how I got this really cool eye twitch.

That's why we all go through the dance of the blogger and the pirate. We're all one eye twitch or patch from eagle-eye perfection. Every spin step is an allemande left into somebody else's blind spot. We're looking for somebody who recognizes our moves and can join in the dance without feeling stepped on; somebody who can keep beat with our heart without stiletto heel skewering it.

We all dance differently though. Each move jives and clicks the inside individual dancers or it leaves us a tumble of broken limbs for outsiders to sort. What works, only those inside the dance know. Outsiders have opinions, but they can't move like we do, they can only watch and coach. Friends will tell you about what works for them: not you. Maybe yours is a taste of tango but your friends are all rusty robot flavored.

"The hairy butt is a dangerous butt."

"I don't know, I kind of like a guy I can press to a Velcro wall, and know he'll stick around."

That's the dance of the insider trying not to be an outsider. That's not to say that there aren't things we should avoid like the Chicken Dance, but a majority are swings and sways that we need to call on our own. Can she Macarena?

Driving the Pirate Queen to the airport, she told me that she wasn't really wild about chili cheese fries, then rolled down a window. I felt deflated! We'd eaten them three times! How could we possibly dance close with a chasm of beef and beans between us?

She countered by taking my hand. It worked. In the two weeks we were together a lot of things worked. Like life, other things didn't, and I'm not Big-Giddy blinded. I know that things still go too fast, and stuff still breaks. The dance of the blogger and the pirate is only one facet in either of our lives. Yesterday she returned home and I have to find a way to pay for the wreckage reflected in life's other prisms. Life didn't become one big fantasy simply because we shared a song.

I know, this isn't the step by step instructions you were looking for, but I don't want to confuse you with the convulsions of a klutzy blogger. You have your own dance, in the great ballet. When the light shines on you, you'll pirouette and bow and move in your own rhythm.

Let me just say that when the Pirate Queen smiles, the light refracts in her good eye I do dance on air; that makes my cleanup a lot easier. It also makes the time and distance before our next dance a little more bearable.