Zombies Zombies Everywhere and Not a Plot to Fake

Last night I ate zombies! Or was it "they ate me?" No, it was my dream I ate the freakin' zombies! Sure I know, you can shoot them in the head, or cut their head off with a sword, but when the only weapon in your hand is a ream of blank paper, you do what you can. It's a common misconception: zombies are not nearly as susceptible to paper cuts as they would have you believe.

"No, seriously, one sheet of 20 weight and my head lobs right off, and you have yourself a nice little Rorschach memento."

It's all zombie PR. Zombies are great at misdirection, and once you see them you can't see what's important. You might say you miss the forest for the zombies. Trust me I know. In my dream last night I had to fight off a bevy of zombie woodys--woods. Zombie woods

Wow! What was I nightmaring about? That's what happens when you kick off all your covers and get cold in the middle of the night. It affects your dreams in horrible ways--making them a fleshy mess.

That's not to say that you still can't use your dreams to search your subconscious. When I was young I didn't have reoccurring dreams. Now as I'm getting older, I don't think that I have any original dreams. Well the zombies were original a few months ago. Right now, zombies are on the subconscious hit list.

I mention them to the Pirate Queen. Not the queen of my dreams, the queen of myreal life. In my dreams I'm alone.

"I have zombies."

"That's nice. I have crabs."

"You're joking, right?"

"Maybe, bet you're itching to find out though."

"Uhm…"

"So show me your zombies. Where do you have them?"

"I don't know. It's dreams. I haven't figured them out yet."

"How do you feel in these dreams?"

How do I feel? Let's see, I have color dreams, I have vivid dreams, and when I was young I had wet dreams. I've never had feely dreams. How do I feel? Why, I don't know.

"I don't know, scared that they're gonna eat me?"

"So you bite them back? Is this how you got through kindergarten?"

"No." I lie.

I have no idea what my shrinking pirate is after here. She approaches her dreams by feel. I always looked at mine through their atmosphere. What's in them? What does that mean to me?

Zombies. They're easy. As a kid I loved movie monsters. The best ones were the old ones. I hated black and white movies, but if they had unknown creatures sucking crimson blood or eating grey matter, that was all the color I needed.

"Mars needs women!" They'd proclaim.

"So do I!" I'd respond.

The thing I liked was that each monster had a themed evil: Dracula was lust, Frankenstein was pride, Wolfman, was boss-jock radio. I identified with the creatures. They were loners. So was I.

That's what made the zombies real monsters. They were a pack society, mindless and dead, trying to kill the individual free thinker. If you don't know what I mean, spend a year in high school or a week embedded in a website with online cliques. Yeah, that's the real terror we're talking about here.

Armed with that information torch and a pitchfork, I still didn't need to know how I felt, but I knew what the problem was. It was obvious: I'm afraid of my lawn. Yup. Every blade bursts from a sinister plot of earth. The brown mounds, the green hoard, all of it the same colors found in my dream zombies.

My lawn lurks out my door ready to swallow me in a pit of mouse tunnels and dirty roots. It's the tough turf daring me to come out and play. Skin my knees, soil my pants, whatever. Every grass blade just like the next, I'm the lone human that stands between it and yard domination. Even as I type, they plot to mow me down and bury me in common dirt. Nobody would be left to wonder, "What happened to Rob?"

Of course I have the queen, but she's working on feelings. I'm dealing with absolutes. I'm afraid of the path less taken though my yard. I wonder how many of us are paralyzed by our dreams. How many dreams die before we wake up to their reality. In our sleep there are monsters, but demons don't have to steal our dreams.

That's what I get from my zombies. That and they taste like chicken. Now maybe I can concentrate on more important things.

Did she say she had crabs?

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Me.  Let’s face it:  That’s my favorite subject.  I mean, after two years of blogging, other topics have risen and fallen from my fumbling fingertips, but I’ve always found me on the tip of my tongue—so to speak.

 

If the pen is mightier than the sword, I have scribbled myself shielded from the most adept swordplay.  Oh, not by word quality.  Please, words more than one syllable I have to look it up. I have fortified myself in tome-tombs of infinite Rob words.

 

En garde!

 

I am my greatest fan. I buy me drinks and dinner. I listen to my phone calls. I stalk me wherever I go. I look in the mirror just to see me. Yup.  It’s creepy: the extent I’ll go to get my attention.

 

Why? Well I could go into some long insecurity story about evil parents and a sordid childhood involving wire coat hangers, a car battery, and a ferret, but the truth is, that’s not my story.  I had a good childhood.  Oh, I do have my scars, but let’s face it, who doesn’t have scars from their youth? I’m just like everybody else. I just love me more.

 

I grew up in two divorced households, with two loving parents who had polar different theories in child rearing. This made me a little bi-polar, but only in a white fuzzy butt bear kinda way. I now sit on my own iceberg of idiosyncrasies.  I’m grumbly and cute. Look ma, no opposable thumbs, and padded paws.  I’m Robby Ruxpin.

 

That’s one of the things we all check for going into a relationship: What are the other person’s idiosyncrasies, and can we deal with them? Can they deal with ours, without slamming the door and stomping off?  That’s how I lost the opposable thumbs to the opposing party. That’s one of the reasons I like the guy in the mirror: no matter what I do, he’s always there. He’ll love me for my nubby self.

 

Divorce made me question other’s ability to do the same. That, coupled with my own stuffed bear of issues, makes me a little leery about people and staying.  Some people deal with that differently. Some get clingy, smothering in reasons why you shouldn’t leave, others kick and scream to the ledge waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

Me, I figure it’s best to be the me I love, and if somebody else understands that, then great. I have my good, and I have my bad, and I know that somebody will appreciate that the way they appreciate their morning coffee.

 

“Well this cup is a little bitter, and the aroma is…well, interesting.”

 

This week, the Pirate Queen’s stuff arrived from far away shores. I’d helped her move this far, I figured I’d see it through to her stuff getting shored up too. So, while she went to work, I waited. 

 

I arrived Monday night, so that when her “relo-cube” o’ joy arrived Tuesday morning, somebody would be waiting to receive it. 

Remember I mentioned my idiosyncrasies?  One of them is waiting. I suck at it.  Despite my deep love of Rob, I don’t even wait well for him. So when it comes to waiting for somebody else, I might as well be Steve Erkle, cuz it’s not gonna go well.

 

The Pirate Queen and I are very similar, very business, very go, go. We function best when things are moving. Monday I arrived in the late afternoon to the Pirate Queen’s place. I figured I could use her gym facilities, shower and then she’d be home.

 

The Pirate Queen’s new job takes up her Rob time. By the time she got home, I’d worked out, showered, and nearly finished a book.  I’m a slow reader.  I’d love to have done something else, but you see her stuff was still somewhere on the road in her relo-cube o’ joy. Her apartment consists of one cat, one box of granola bars, two plastic cups, and a Coleman inflatable mattress. I’m a MacGyver of many wonders but I couldn’t make two cups and a cat do anything entertaining. If only I’d had a bottle of Nair…

 

So I waited. When she finally got home we ate and slept.  The next morning we got up early. She went to work. I waited.  The cube was supposed to arrive as early as 11:30. I had some time to finish my book. I ate a granola bar, and drank some water.  This was fun at first, but I was filled up before 9:00.  I concentrated on my favorite subject for a bit, but I was getting bored with me.  These were desperate times!

 

At 11:30, I found out the cube wouldn’t be here until 12:30. At 12:30 I found out the cube wouldn’t be here till 1:30. At 1:30 I just accepted that it would get here when it got here.  That happened at 3:30. 

 

The movers were supposed to arrive at 4:30.  Let’s just say that the Pirate Queen finished pillaging around 5:00 and had come home and we’d eaten before they got here.

 

That was a long day of staring at walls. For most people it’s maddening. For me, it’s one of my childhood issues. It’s like locking Yogi Bear in a room, and leaving 1,000 picnic baskets behind a glass wall he can’t get past.  Yeah, the gibbering bear at the end of the day was played by Rob.

 

What’s more, I didn’t even do it for my favorite person. I did it for somebody else. What’s wrong with me?  I was grumbly all Tuesday night. I wasn’t mad at the PQ, I was mad at the waste of my time.  The things I could have done other than strapping cups to the side of her cat’s head and teaching it to say, “Help me Robbi-Wan, you’re my only hope.”

 

So this morning I got up, ready to return to my home, my life, my things, my obsession. Before leaving the Queen’s new home, I checked my email. I found one that said:

 

I don't tell you enough how truly amazing I think you are.  You have been more than a great help and that means more to me than you can ever know.   I'm happy I moved here and I'm so happy I'm with you. 

 

Unlike the other emails like this in my box this one wasn’t from me. This one was from the Queen. In fewer words than I’ve used to fortify one blog, she’d broken in to remind me why I spent a day doing my least favorite thing. 

 

It wasn’t because of all the wonderful Rob praise. The Pirate Queen doesn’t say these things frequently. I have to horde them when I get them. It’s something that comes difficult for her. Still she’d done it for me, because she knew my favorite person and wanted to show her approval. It wasn’t easy.

 

It was sweet, but she did make a mistake. Rob’s not my favorite person anymore. She is.

 

That’s what I’ve been waiting for.

Jumping The Shark

TV. Next to sex, and self congratulations, I think that's the favorite past time of most Americans.

In our 20's, the last two went hand in hand--so to speak.

"I just had sex."

"Congratulations, Me too!"

"Yeah, I was there. It was the best you've had right?"

In our teens, it usually went hand in--well, it usually just involved the hand. But we were still big on congratulating ourselves.

"I didn't know I could do that!"

TV? Well that could come anywhere before, after, or in between the other two activities. During my divorce it came in lieu of. Nope. In my case there was no sex and no congratulations, just plenty of TV though. I did get to catch up on old TV shows again.

Now that I've been busy in other parts of my life, I've let my TV life lag. Last week, while the Pirate Queen was making her new port a home, I caught up on my TV viewing.

"Sit on it Ralph."

Yup, I watched some old Happy Days. Did you know that they stopped filming that show a few years back? I know! I was surprised too. It happened sometime after Fonzie jumped the shark.

I know, ironic huh? Years later somebody would coin a term about jumping a shark being the point of origin for the downward spiral when Fonzie did the exact same thing…

Oh, Fonzie was that jumping the shark! Oh. That's something they didn't explain in all those flashback episodes. I guess Fonzie didn't know he'd jumped the shark until after the producers cuffed him to the boat, and drug him over the ramp.

Where did you jump the shark? Where did your marriage lose interest and get canceled?

Me? I'll never know about mine. TV likes to pretend it's possible, but I don't think so. You know I've seen that in rerun episodes too. Not of "Happy Days," but of other more dramatic shark jumpers. It's usually the same episode where some ex flame or cousin Arnold floats into town with Ralph Macchio in tow ready to break a brick and undermine the local peace. Usually some leg sweeping and bed swapping ensues followed by the question, "Where did we go wrong?"

"Some time around the wax off, Daniel-san. You should have been watching TV."

Ok, I've crossed my flashback streams. Sorry. But you've seen the episodes. Somebody asks where things went wrong while the other person ties it up into some nice neat bow, pats their head and sends them on their way.

I don't know about you, but I'm not sure there's enough ribbon in the world to do that in my marriage. I don't know where either of us jumped the shark, but I'm not convinced pinpointing it would make things better. What's more, I'm not sure it was just one shark. From this side I think things were a bit of a frenzy, and that stupid boat just kept dragging us over and over again.

"Congratulations, you made it!"

"Thank you. So did you! Looks like we're going ag---"

You jump the shark only to be eaten by hindsight.

So here I am. I've seen all these old episodes before. I know where they end. I know every "sit on it," and every Blueberry Hill thrill by heart. What I don't know is how to keep from repeating. Right now things are great with the Pirate Queen, but I can't compare her to MyEx.

It's like comparing flashback episodes of Happy Days and Growing Pains. They're different. The only thing they have in common is that neither Richie Cunningham or Mike Seaver remember having an older brother named Chuck.

I don't either. I did however have a divorce, and during that I watched a lot of Chuck. See? Everything is different depending on our experience. One thing we do share, is that no matter how we blend and shape our past, it will always be there. What will change is how we remember that time and how I remember my divorce will have everything to do with where I go from there.

Because memory and perspective are like playing ping-pong with a granola ball: each time you hit it, things break off. After time, all that's left is a kernel of truth surrounded by some flakey crap.

See, unlike TV flashbacks, every time I return to my divorce episodes I see things differently. I have a perspective of the way things went down, and my mind will shape that. Sure there are things that I can and should learn from my divorce, but there comes a time where I just need to pull the plug and change the channel. It's like watching Small Wonder on drugs and then going back sober.

"Man, I thought this was a much better show…"

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but when your perspective is altered by time nothing will ever be the same. That's the one constant I did learn from divorce: you can only beat your head against the wall for so long, then it's time to move on.

Just like the old Kung-Fu reruns. When you can pull away from the past and look to the future, it is time for you to leave.

It's amazing the things you can learn from TV. Now if I can just work out some of that thing that comes between TV and self congratulation.

Tune in next time...

The Everchanging Force

Things change. Whoever said that must have been a marketer for a diaper service, cuz lets face it, change is crap. Forget all the PR about the adventure and everything. Change? Yeah, I'm not really good at change. I don't even carry anything smaller than singles.

See? Another bad joke. I told you, I don't do change. If you're looking for the last bastion dedicated to the proliferation of all things fuddy-duddy, welcome to my blog. I'm Rob, I'll be your host this evening, and every evening. I like things the same.

The other day MyEx called.

"Hi Rob."

"Hi!"

See? More of the same. That was followed by more same, and then a quick curve into a changed same.

"So I wanted your opinion on something."

Ok, hang on a second. The question didn't change, but my perspective has. Back when we were married it was easy. All I had to do was be supportive and help her achieve her goal in any way I could. In marriage, I am the Chihuahua of support, and I've got the yap of encouragement and the razor teeth of persistence.

Now it's different. I have to look at things from a distant perspective, and I'm really limited in ways I can help. I can't even include me in the equation. It's all you, baby. I'm a gun firing blanks.

"Ok, shoot."

"Well I'm thinking of becoming a Jedi Knight, and I wanted to know If you thought I could do it."

Wow. How do I answer that? Things have changed! Nothing makes that more obvious than Darth Ex turning to the light side. There are so many ways I could answer it. I know if I wanted, this would be a great time for retribution. She's on a precipice, and I could blow her off with just the wind of words.

"Well, the last time you tried something long term, you gave up. How would this turn out any different?"

I could have said that, and who knows, if I'd remained bitter, I might have. The problem is: I changed. I didn't want to, but I got over my divorce. The woman on the phone now, she's changed too. She's not the woman I married, but she's not the woman I divorced either.

In that, we're the same. We're two people trying to make the best of our lives in the world we live. MyEx, She's trying to make good use of her mind tricks. She was always good at them during marriage.

"These are not the waffles you're looking for."

"These are not the waffles I'm looking for."

So she has the raw skill. But any career change requires more than raw skill, I haven't spent "quality" time with her in over two years. How do I qualify her abilities? Is that even my job anymore? I'm the Ex husband. I'm the guy she accidentally bumps into at the grocery store and goes, "Oh, uhm, hi." then steals the waffles from my cart.

This is the crux of change. Do I change because we've changed? Of course there is change just because there is a change, but do I have to change more than my relational clothing? Do I have to change who I am?

She came to me because she remembered the Rob who'd weigh out problems and tell her not what she wanted to know, but what she needed to know.

In the past, I probably would have blown an ex off. Oh I wouldn't be mean, but I probably would have said something like, "Sure, you'd be perfect. The force will be with you, always."

Now I'm older. She came expecting more than that from me. I'm finding I expect more than that from me too.

"Well, you do have the shear force of will, and I don't mean that in a bad way."

And so I begin. I tell her what I think. I advise her to the pitfalls of gathering clientele and even let her know her weaknesses.

"Uhm, you might find the name Darth Vitriolic might conflict with your warm fuzzy Jedi Message--but that's just me. I don't really understand the Jedi business. "

So in the end I spent a half hour discussing the pros and cons of a new beginning with MyEx. It was very different than the last time we had a "New Beginning" conversation.

I still hate change, but I guess not all of it is bad. Sometimes it leads to growth--no matter how hard I kick and scream against it.

Now if I can just find my waffles...

It's All Fun and Games...

"Is it bigger than a bread basket?"

And just how big is that? I'm gonna say yes, but your bread baskets in the rear view mirror are larger than they appear.

Over the past two and a half weeks the Pirate Queen and I crammed as many obstacles in our way as we could. We packed. We drove. We met the parents. Now we're playing "find an apartment."

Whee!

I swear this is like playing that game "Trouble" as a kid, except people keep adding more pieces to get into the home base. Oh that, and there's no "pop-o-matic" without a prescription.

That's the thing about life: no pop-o-matic. No, wait it's something else, but that does bring up a good point: Why isn't there a pop-o-matic. I mean, see that guy in the cubicle next to you? Wouldn't you just love for a great big hand to drop from the sky and…POP! "Go to lunch." There's not though, and I guess that brings me to my other keen eye revelation about life. There's always some stressor that tests your metal. Whether it's as an individual, as a couple, or both, it's there. Not part of a couple? No big deal, you can play the solitaire version of the stressor game.

Me, I'm playing the team version. My team drove cross country in a car full of stuff, none of it mine. One lap around the US map board from one end of the map to the other. Rolling Motel 6's and sleeping in strange spaces.

"Lost kitty, go back three spaces."

When we reached California. The final square. I was exhausted. What's more, now that I'm here, I have to shift from the travel game to the home game. It took me two days to catch up on the stuff I'd neglected since I left. Now I'm still expected to keep pace with the Pirate plan of skipping to a new home. I need a vacation from my vacation!

Do I sound like a whiner? That's cuz I am. I've always been unlucky when it comes to games. If it can go wrong it does, and that puts me on edge. I'm getting cranky and I want my nap! Why can't I ever hit the "Free Parking" space?

This is what's most difficult for me though. MyEx left and I'd finally made the transition into "single" Rob mode. Now, the Pirate Queen has jumped me and she has her piece in my back row.

"King me."

I don't know if I have the energy. I'm shifting back to "Couple" mode. Team games are hard. Especially when you're playing with a time limit. The Queen wants to be in a new apartment before she starts her new job and that's in three days. It's not impossible, but it's like playing Pictionary with a monkey.

"We might get more right if you didn't stand on my back and draw with your butt. Please use the pen."

Yes, now I'm gonna get tons of hate mail from monkey lovin' Pictionary fans. Don't hate me, I've got a monkey on my back too.

There's another aspect to the games PQ and I play: we aren't playing against anybody else. We're playing against ourselves. Relationships fail. Only the fastest, the strongest, and the luckiest survive. Who does the dishes and who handles the laundry doesn't matter to anybody else, but to us, it can be the difference between winning and losing. We can either make it a mountain, or we can get it done.

That's what we're discovering now. We're rolling the dice and seeing how we play together. It's not the game itself that matters, it's who throws the board against the wall first, then storms home.

So far The Queen and I are still playing together. I think that says something bigger than a bread basket. Some turns are better than others, but as long as we remain a team, I think we can win.

Mall Cart Love

CarThis strange thing with the Pirate Queen has me doing other strange things. Things I've never done before. Things involving bootstraps, bed knobs and broomsticks and other Disney surprises.  Next week is Tarantino week. That's got me a little disturbed.

 

"Bring out the gimp."

 

That's next week. This week is a little mouse and tickle. That's why I'm in the mall at 10:00 A.M..  Well sort of why. I'm in the mall at ten because Monday's the PQs first day at work and she wants to dress to the nines.

 

My man side rears it's ugly head while she's getting her pedicure.

 

"Would you like an appointment, sir?"

"Me?” I shake my head like Scooby Doo hearing the word “ghost.” I backpedal, “No!  I'm just visiting."

 

My virility threatened, I hoist up my dress and run like a little girl from the salon.

 

See?  That's a foreign place to me. I was raised a man. We take care of our toenails the old fashioned way: with our teeth, on the couch, during a ball game.

 

"Kiss me my pirate!"

"Uhm, is that toe jam between your teeth?"

 

Yeah, I'm Don Rob Juan, but I'm comfortable with that. The Queen seems to be too. I'm also more comfortable outside the salon. I used to work in a mall. These outside people are my people.

 

"Pierce your nipples, sir?"

 

Ok, maybe things have changed. In my day, girls said "hello" first.

 

Another thing that's changed are mall carts. When I worked in the mall, aisle the space between store fronts was for stampeding only. Nobody put a cart there because it was like trying to open a smoothie hut in the middle of the Mississippi. You can try it, but you’re more likely to find the wreckage on the Macys delta.

 

Now they've dammed things up with little bling shacks manned by bored college kids in high chairs. At least that's what I used to think. While waiting for the PQ's nail primer to dry I observed the kiosk people.

 

There are actually many different personalities there. There are the high chair kids, but there are also the cell phone zealots selling service and preaching call plans that last till the end of the world.

 

Then there are the normal folk; everyday people making s buck. I sat and watched a middle aged man and woman pull down the tarp and roll out their wares next to each other.

 

"Good morning!" he smiled.

"Good morning to you." she tilted her head a little and the line of her lip went straight up. There was obviously something there.

 

That started me wondering. I was always taught not to poop where I eat.

 

"Robby, get your hairy butt off the good china!"

 

When it came to dating in the workplace, I took that seriously. I didn't  do it. I'd known others who'd tried, but when things go wrong with the girl in house wares, there you are pooping on the plates once more.

 

Is it the same way in the new world of mall carts too?  If things don't go right, can you just pick up your cart and go home or are you stuck playing house next to somebody you can't stand?

 

"Good morning!"

"Screw you!"

 

Yeah, that makes it just like a bad marriage.  Nobody wants to see that. It looks like this couple is taking it slowly though. I hope it works. Some day they'll take it past "good morning."

 

"You ready?" That's the Pirate Queen. She's done and she looks gorgeous. Of course I’d think that if she sat on the couch, ankle folded up, big toe disappearing past her lips. I’m wild abut the woman.

 

"Not quite. I'm taking it slow."

 

 

 

RobBlog RoadLog Road date July 10

Gasp! Sputter! Gasp!

 

I’ve spent the last three days without wi-fi!  Gaahhh!!!!  It’s like holding my breath underwater!  I’m a mute singer, lame dancer yearning to yammer prance my experiences.

 

It’s been three days of visiting family and hard driving.  A lot of nothing has gone on and I need to convey every syllable of it. And here you are, ready to read.  Aren’t you lucky? I’ll catch you up as fast as I can.

 

I wish I could have gotten this written and out sooner, but sometimes things don’t go the way you plan.  On a road trip, that’s almost all the time.  That’s why a trip like this can be the true test of a couple. You set two tired and cranky individuals in a car and then make them work together, and it’s nothing but fierce yowls and flying fur, and I don’t mean that in a good way.

 

So let me take a breath, and I’ll get you back on the road with Rob and the Queen.  After the St. Louis cat caper, our next stop was Oklahoma City.  Yeah, don’t let the old song fool ya, it really didn’t look “oh-so pretty.”  It did have a clean motel with a pool though and that made it our I-40 oasis. 

 

We pulled in around 6:30, local time.  That’s one hour behind Pirate time and 2 hours ahead of Rob time. Although we came from different time zones, we could agree on one thing: we were tired of sitting in a car with a mewing cat.  She hadn’t stopped showing her displeasure since her little game of hide and seek.

 

We checked in, and the PQ had a great idea.  We should order pizza, and then wait for it in the swimming pool.

 

“Brilliant!”

“Thank you.”

 

It was her plan, so it was my job to implement it.  The motel was supposed to have wi-fi. Our room didn’t.  We were next to the pool, so maybe it had something to do with water emanations, or chlorine contamination, or maybe our travel stars weren’t aligned.  Either way, I couldn’t order online.

 

Not a problem, I could order the old fashioned way: by phone. That’s what I thought anyway.

 

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

We’re watching the local news.  I’ve seen the complete Oklahoma City sports and weather.

“We don’t have sports and it’s gonna be hot.”

Ring-ring!

Ring-ring!

 

I hang up.  No big deal.  I have an iPhone. I’m a web savvy horse limping to the Internet glue factory.  There’s an app for that.

Neigh!

 

Well I thought I could. It appears our closest pizza place has created a special web site that recognizes cell phones. If you log in using your phone, it pulls up the site quickly, but it’s limited on functionality.  What that meant to my queen and I, was that I could have a pizza delivered to my home, but not a hotel in Oklahoma City. I’m sure Persephone wouldn’t mind, if she could just fit her paws around the doorknob.

 

“Mew, mew.  Catnip and anchovy pizza, my favorite!”

 

I’m not thwarted.  I know I can order pizza.  All I need to do is find the motel wi-fi.  It’s a game. It’s hidden like a motel Easter egg. We can hop in the car, and drive around with my laptop until we pick up a signal.

 

“You know, Rob, while we’re in the car, we could just drive to the pizza place and pick one up, right?”

“No we can’t.  I’m on a mission!”

 

She’s heard the tone before.  She knows better than to fight the wave, it’s better to just ride it out.  That’s right, call me Ahab. I’m hunting the white whale pizza with extra pepperoni!

 

We climb into the car.  All we have to do is back the car up and I have signal!  WOO HOO! I click the browser button and my screen reads, “PLEASE ENTER YOUR ULTRA-SECRET SUPER LONG HOTEL WI-FI CODE AND REMEMBER, DRINK OVALTINE.”

 

“I don’t have the code.  Do you have the code?”

“They didn’t give me one when I checked in.”

“Curse you, wi-fi fates!”

 

The queen sit’s quietly for a second then says, “Let’s go back in the room and try something.”

“Fine.” I’m disgruntled. I wanted food dropped at my feet, but now it looks like I’ll need pick it up first before I drop it.  Willing to try anything, I follow my queen into the room.

 

She picks up her cell phone and dials the same number I’d tried dialing earlier.

“Hi, I’d like to order a pizza.”

 

I don’t know how she got through, but she did.  Sometimes that’s just the dynamic.  One person is all luck and grace, the other is Clark Griswald.  Yeah, we know my role today. Do I get grumpy because she didn’t have to go through all he effort?  Of course I do, but I keep it to myself. The reality is, we’re a team, and maybe I didn’t get to be the big hero this time. Maybe I went to all the effort and came back with rent clothing and bitter dissapointment.

 

Still, I do get a pizza delivered in 30 minutes, and I get to wait for it in the pool. I’m ok with swallowing my inner grump for that.

 

 

 

RobBlog RoadLog Road date July 9

 

This morning started a little rocky.  We woke up at 8 loaded the car, and then we couldn’t find the Queen’s cat. Did I mention we brought her? Yeah, The kitty was in a travel box. We let her loose in the room. When it came time for us to go, it looked like she’d snuck out to enjoy the St. Louis countryside while we loaded the car.

 

“Is she under the bed?” I asked lifting the bedspread.

“She can’t get under there, it’s solid.”

 

We spent the next hour scouring the Motel 6 room: no kitty. Sitting in the doorstep, we ate bagels and cream cheese, hoping she’d come back if we just gave her time.  She didn’t.

 

While we were loading the car, our neighbor had loaded his. After he left, I suggested that maybe the cat had gone into the other room. The “enthusiastic” motel staff told me that when the housekeeping staff came on, we could look.  Luckily that didn’t take long.

The cat wasn’t there either.  We waited a little longer until the Queen made the call.

 

“Ok, let’s go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t sound so sure. Having lost my dog six months prior, I understood the personal nature of such a decision. I needed to support whatever decision she made.

 

We stopped for coffee and gas and hit the road.  I reached over and held the Queen’s good leg and squeezed it, explaining how the kitty would be alright. The area surrounding the motel had a water source and plenty of birds.  Between that and visitors bearing food, the kitty will be fine.

 

It didn’t help. I watched her lower lip jut and quiver as tears rolled down her cheek.  This morning, she’d lost a friend.

 

“We can go back if you want.” I offer.   I hate to see her like this.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! This is your trip. We’re on your timetable.  We can stay all day and wait for her to come back if that’s what you want to do.”

“Well, I just feel guilty. I feel like if we just go back, she’ll be there waiting, asking where we were.”  She’s still crying.

“Then we’ll go back.”

 

One off ramp and a U-turn later we’re back at the motel.  We park in front of the room look around.  There’s no cat.  “Let’s sit under the tree and drink our coffee.” The queen says. 

I say the only word I know, “Ok.”  We sit down and I wrap my arm around her.  She’s holding it in now.  She’s being the brave pirate.

 

The maid is in the room next to ours. She comes out, “Oh, it’s you.” She says.  Then after a second asks, “Did you loose your cat?”

“Yeah, did you find her?”

“Yes.  She’s in the room.  She’s hiding behind the bed.  The maintenance man tried to get her out, but she clawed him.”

 

The Queen isn’t even waiting for the rest of the conversation. She’s up and at the door waiting for the woman to open up.  There’s the Princess.  The bed may be solid, but there’s a space behind it. We’d searched everywhere else.

 

Two hours later, we’re back on the road.  So far, it’s been much better.

 

Hang on, The Queen is calling, I need to stop typing---Oh she’s pointing out a sign.

 

“Sochsabuchi! I’ve seen him!”

“Uh what?”

 

He’s a fiddler.  Playing in Branson.  Yeah, I realize that’s probably not how he spells his name but I didn’t see the sign. OK, back to typing. The Queen calling signs is my favorite. I’m glad to see her happy again.

 

RobBlog RoadLog Road date July 8

 

Today was our first day on the road. We packed everything yesterday and this morning we loaded the last minute sundries into the car.  Included in our sundry list were things like clothes and shower stuff we’d need for our last night in her house.

 

 At least that was the plan.  Apparently the pirate queen called the water people to put a cork in it.  They arrived at 8 am and the only water we had was the two yellow Solo cups that she grabbed before the water went off.  We used these for brushing teeth and sprinkling shower.

 

The queen was a little salty sluggish; she was still recovering from her head wound her father gave her as a goodbye gift.  While loading the truck, her dad tossed a tie down hook across the load and popped her behind the ear.

 

Yeah, that’s love.  I’ll tell ya though, she forgave her father the hook a lot faster than she forgave me for laughing.

 

The big challenge today seemed to be the bike rack.  We’d hoped to ship the bike with the other stuff, but it wouldn’t fit.  The Queen had a rack.  It was a weird piece of foldy metal.

 

“I think it balances on the back,” she said.

I’m rotating the metal triangle with my hands, canvas straps slapping my legs, “Like a spoon on a glass?”

She twisted her head, “I don’t remember.”

We’re working on our teambuilding techniques.

 

After I spent a half hour being a guy, and trying every combination of latch and hook attachment, the queen said, “maybe we should look for instructions online.”

 

Three minutes later we were loaded and done.  Yup. That’s how teams are built. Men mangle while women supervise.

 

The trip itself was uneventful.  We admired the countryside and made hypothetical conversations about the collapse of capitalism and the rise of the rise of the Sesame Street Militia. They’d enforce Snufalufagus power.

 

One sundown and a time zone later we reached our day one destination: St. Louis.  We unloaded the cat into the Motel, then pulled our stuff into the room.  The Motel 6 staff was nonplussed by our stay, and seemed even less interested when we explained that goldilocks had been in our room.

 

“Excuse me, we just checked in, and somebody has already been sleeping in our bed.”

“Try the next room.”

 

Our new neighbor lives here.  As I’m unloading he’s telling me about the his life here at the hotel.  He’s swaying a bit to the rhythm of the drink in his hand.  The queen stays out of the way allowing me all the time in the world to talk to our new friend.  I plan on  thanking her later.

 

We got along great for our first road day together.  There were a few moments where suggestions were carried on winds of strong wills, but we found the way to sail through.  On to day two.

 

 

History Wrestling

So this is what it's like: the third of July.  One day till the big bang.  One day till it all goes up in smoke.  At this part of the thumb, I’m guessing in a not so Cheech and Chong kinda way. This town is a slice of Americana.

 

Here I am, my first big stay off the coast of the great Lake Huron--my grand entrance in the Pirate Queen’s homestead. It's all foreign to me; I might as well be Canadian.  Oh wait, that’s just outside my porta-potty booth and across the water.

 

Right now I'm potty peering through the air vent over the toilet. I can’t see much through the meshed aluminum, but I can see the Pirate Queen and an ex beau.  At least I think that's an ex beau. He’s a guy she knew. He's now her past who is currently running to represent the lollipop guild of the future.

 

“But we’ve got to verify it legally.”

 

I’m just the guy who’d like to plant my outhouse on his head. The ruby studded Rolex on his wrist protruding through the pile of—uhm…the bottom of the house.

 

So far the pirate queen is hearing out his plank. She hasn't asked him to walk, yet. He had a foot in the door once.  What about now? Where does he stand?

 

I'm pushing my nose to the grill; mesh pocks mottle my face like mini mosquito landing zones, my knees straddling the abyss of blue fluid and john flotsam.  She's listening intently as he talks up the benefits of wind power. He’s going green.

 

Me too.

 

This dude is a stud. He's got the wrap around shades and sweats smarm to anoint the heathen masses. Is he glowing? I think so. I don't know.  I've got a beer.  Is that enough?

 

It's not just him; it's everything. I'm black and white Dorothy from California. What's that worth? I've heard everything about the rich Technicolor land of my pirate’s history, about everything she's leaving behind. She's even comparing family tree branches with a coworker of her brothers. He's here. He knows the lay of the land. I'm uprooting a local girl.

 

I want to make her at home, but I'm not of this place. They don’t take kindly of that in these here parts—and yet her family has accepted me with open arms. 

 

So, is the crapper between my legs half empty or half full? Am I just over exaggerating things?  Of course I am!  You’ve read my posts! You know I’m the outhouse on poo corner blogger.

 

“Tut, tut, looks like rain.”

 

So what is my problem this time? Is it melancholy? Is it the moonshine her brother gave me? Is it the fumes coming up from this stink hole beneath me? I don’t know. I do know I can’t stall here much longer. I feel ridiculous.

 

From my vantage point, I can see many things. What I can’t see is where I fit into this picture. Strangely enough, by itself, that doesn’t bother me. Like I said, this is her past.  That’s not me.

 

Am I her future?  I can’t see that. Maybe that’s part of it.  I see how happy she is here. I’d like to be something that happy in her life. I wanna be ice cream cone and fireworks on the fourth of July. For now, I’m the kiss and hug in her present and that needs to be enough.

 

She took a picture of some other guy she was talking to. He seemed fun. I don’t know what platform he was standing on, but he wasn’t running for office.  I wonder if he’s looking for something else.

 

Later, when she flips through her camera’s repository, she doesn’t even remember who he was. He didn’t make a big impression on her past, present or future. I think I can climb down from my high whiney horse. She took a picture of me earlier and I watched her smile.

 

“I’m melting!”

 

The reality--and I recognize that, even as I look for a way back to the floor—is that I don’t know what’s beyond the now.  I have a history too. I have my happy place, but I also have my history of failed relationships.  They’re no better or worse than anybody else’s, except mine have left me a little insecure.

 

In my history, I’ve seen people get close and leave.  I won’t forget it, and yet why do I still feel so damned to repeat it? I’m still a little panicky. I’m not worried, per se, this is not my first house crashing. Still, Dorothy woke up with a new resolve from her Emerald city stay; what will I gain from my Tidy Bowl blues?

 

The real question I keep avoiding is, “Am I having fun?” Well not inside this toilet, no, but I do enjoy the Pirate’s company, and I do like this place she’s called home. So why can’t I stop overanalyzing everything and just have fun?

 

I resolve to do just that. I step down from my throne, and go out to greet my queen.

 

“Where were you?” She asks when I return, “I was worried—what happened to your face and why is your leg wet and blue?”

 

“I was mauled by venomous Smurfs.” I lie.  I’d rather leave the real story as part of my past.