Dancing Circles

“Are we dancing around something here?” She asks.

I dunno. “You’ve seen me move.” I sidestep, “You think I can dance?”

“C’mon. You know what I mean.”

For a dancer, my peg-leg queen is pretty direct.

This begins our conversation. It begins many conversations—not just ours; many that waltz circles, gyring drains.

1,2,3,1,2,3…

The Pirate Queen and I have partnered together for over a year. We’ve cut rugs and corners, holding each other close—“one more song.” Nobody leads. Nobody follows. We clomp time, tripping on feet, and catching missteps. We’re not pretty to watch, but we work well together: I’ve got two left feet, and ol’ peggy, well, she doesn’t have any.

We started with Snow Patrol’s “Crack the Shutters.” That was our song. Now we move to the beat of our own drum. When she feels sexy, she’ll hammer-dance for me. When I feel sexy, I’ll hokey-pokey for her.

“You put your right leg in—“

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You can stop right there!”

The queen’s conservative when it comes to dance moves.

Me, I’ll dance to anything that’s got a beat. That brings us back to today’s question.

“Are we?” Her question beats into my skull. The PQ doesn’t freestyle. Each dance has its moves, and each dancer steps in the red and blue footprints. Right now we’re dancing around the topic of moving on.

Ooops! I’ve stumbled. We’re not moving on from each other, just “moving on.”

She steps in, raises my arm, “I think you’re not looking for work out of state because of me.”

“Well…” I spin, “I am looking out of state, I’m just cherry picking my locations.” I move in, wrap my arm around her waist, and look into her eyes. “I’m looking at locations where we’d both be willing to move.”

The Queen dips backwards. I hold her. She bounces back up.

1,2,3…

“Me too.”

1,2,3…

“You’re looking for work?” I try flipping her though the air. I fail.

“No, I’m waiting for you.” Her left foot clips my ear; her right one sweeps my leg. We both go down in a Twister jumble of flesh. As we pull apart our dance reshapes into team Cobra Queen vs. Miyagi-Do Robby-san.

I’m craning with all my might. “What do you mean?”

She steps and thrusts, “I’m hoping you’ll find a job. If it’s here, I’ll find something I like better. If it’s somewhere else, I’ll follow.”

I counter with a block. “Uh…” Not as effective as it looks. I scramble backwards; my Queen moves for real.

So am I. “Well, if you’re looking,” I hop, and kick, “You know I’ll follow you where ever you go. I don’t need to stay here.” My crane isn’t what it used to be.

“That’s what I mean.” She bobs; I slice air. “I think we’re both dancing around, and nobody’s doing anything that they want. What do you want to do?”

Johnny, sweep the leg…

So there I am, lying on my ass, eyes wide, staring at my aggressor, without a leg to stand on. “Uhm…” It’s still an ineffective defense.

I know what I want, but everything I want has me dancing in circles. I want my house. I want a job. I want my book to sell. I want my queen.

That’s not true—not completely.

“I want you.” That part is true.

She reaches down and takes my hand, pulling me up, and into her embrace. “Me too.” We sway to each other’s heartbeat. No real moves, just high school innocence, rocking and turning, holding each other close. “But you’re coming to a decision point.”

“I know. “ I stare at the future, past her ear, leaning into her shoulder, “I’m gonna lose the house. There’s no work here.”

“Do you really want the house?” her hands cling to my neck.

“Yes and no.” I’m adrift, but she holds me up. “It’s a part of my past, but I’ve got so many memories in that house. Plus, it’s an obligation. I hate to step away…”

The Pirate pulls away, wrangling my eyes with hers. “It’s OK. You can move in with me,” her legs hold steady, but her hips sway with her music, “What’s next? What about a job.”

“I don’t know. I’m having trouble looking. I’m back at school, broadening my base.” I pull her back tight. I don’t know if I can look into her eyes and say the next words. “I’ve been thinking about school.”

“Yes,” she whispers in my ear.

I lock. I can’t move. “I’m thinking of going back. For real. I’m a writer, but I’m not growing here. I want to get my MFA.” As I speak, the words gain speed. They pour out of my mouth. No time. No meter—only spilling syllables pouring into her ear like Hamlet poison. “I don’t know that I need it, but I need the community. I need to grow. I’m stagnating here. I write words, but they lack purpose. If my pen is a sword--”

She giggles. “Oh, baby. You guys and your pens and swords.”

“No!” I pull back, meeting her eyes. I’ve waltzed out here, now I need to finish the dance, no matter how it ends. “You know what I mean. I need others to hone my skill—to be a better writer. I need—“

The music has stopped, and she’s smiling, staring, knowing. Her eyes go on forever.

I look for words but can’t find any. I’m lost in her, “You know don’t you?”

She licks her lips and pulls me close. “Not unless you tell me.” She’s rocking again. And just like high school, everything is electric, but this time carries a charge. This time is not the innocent fumbling of two kids. This time is two adults learning to move on together to the same time.

I pull her hips tight against me. “I will probably have to move. All the good schools are elsewhere.”

She leans back into my shoulder, resting her head in my neck. I feel the breath of her words, “I’ll follow wherever you lead.”

We continue our dance, moving forward together.

Ten-Dollar Words to Donuts

Words. They come in handy sometimes. Other times, they dangle from mouths like powder from donuts. My relationship with words tends towards the powder side, eyes a-glaze, nose a-hairy coconut. It’s more of a preference thing really. I like donuts. I also like the unexpected.

Superfluous tautology!

See? You didn’t expect that, did you? By definition, you should have, but that’s okay. Buy me a donut. I’ll give you more. Give me coffee and the word flow, like a nose run, will never end.

I love coffee, even more than I love donuts. Still, I prefer words. I eat them a lot. Their flavor suits me.

Some words are homographs. They taste better. For instance I could say, “I’m going to leaven the conversation,” and you could reply either of the following:

“No thanks, I’m allergic to yeast.”

or

“No Rob, you’re not that funny.”

Either response is correct.

There are other words that sound the same, mean the same, and are unfortunate just by correlation. I talked to a friend the other day, and her name is the same as MyEx’s. Now in most cases, this isn’t a problem. When I’m talking to the Pirate Queen though, it does alter her follow-up question.

Watch:

“I spoke with my friend whose name sounds like MyEx.”

“Really?”

Ok, and now…

“I spoke with MyEx.”

“Real-ly?”

See? Technically a heteronym: It’s spelled the same, but it sounds different and has very different meanings.

The same thing happened when I was a kid. My grandparents had the same name as MyEx too. No, not really, but wouldn’t that have been funny….no, my dad’s parents were divorced. This created a grandparo-plethora. As a little kid I knew what that meant. It meant that Dad’s parents were “Grandma and Grandpa with the games” and “Grandma and Grandpa with the tractors.” I was partial to the games.

“We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa with the tractors.”

“Really? I feel a little sick.” (Really meaning less than enthusiastic.)

“Really?” (Really, meaning less than believing)

“Really.” (Really, meaning I’m pushing this bluff for all it’s worth)

“Really, get in the car.” (Really, meaning “Sit down and shut up or I’m gonna beat your ass.” My parents didn’t need to curse when they had words like “really” in their vocabulary. They still did; they were bilingual.)

When my sister was born, the game parents shortened their names to “Oma and Opa,” and the other grandparents lost the tractors. No really. Nobody knows what happened to them. No, Really, stop looking at me that way. Ok, fine. They’re in my garage. Don’t tell Grandma. It was part of her identity…

Really, what I need is a quick name association for my Queen that tells her which “MyEx” I spoke to.

“So I called MyEx with the tractors today.”

“Really, how’s she doing?”

See? Perfect.

Actually that’s one good thing about the Pirate Queen. She knows about MyEx with the games. She even knows we speak. She’s not confused though. She knows the meaning of the word “spoke.” It has nothing to do with rekindled fires.

MyEx and I get along, but getting along is not synonymous with “reliving the past.” The Queen knows that I’m speaking for MyEx and myself when I say the words, “That ship has sailed.” If I’m just speaking for me, I add a donut to the mix. You know, “That ship has sailed and I got the donut.” The Queen nods, and knows.

“Here, have some coffee.”

MyEx and My Queen have not met. No matter how you pronounce it, that’s an inexpressible event. That’s not to say that they wouldn’t get along—Okay, yeah, that is what I’m saying. These are two different women from two different worlds. They have unique personalities, and unique qualities. If they met without the word “Rob” in the middle of their dictionary, they might get along, but I don’t see them as friends. Their vocabularies are so dissimilar.

And still, it’s moot: the word “Rob” does smudge their dictionary between roast and robe, and no one can erase it. Rob will always mean “elephant in the room” to them, no matter how much weight I lose.

I’m not confused that they’d fight over my tusks, or hide. It defines even less than that. It means that the word “Rob” rolls off both their tongues, but one woman’s Rob is another woman’s refuse.

Rob is a Jelly Donut.

Rob is a Paczki.

Eh, either way. I’m not a Berliner and I refuse to build a wall. But, I don’t see a word that would bring them into the same room either. I’m okay with that. They both know about each other. There is not a secret lexicon with super-secret nods and handshakes. We don’t belong to that type of group. Those groups have Kool-Aid, but they never have donuts. Imagine my disssapointment.

I’m not disappointed in our group. We’re a well-balanced threesome: glazed, sugared, and nutty. You decide which is which. The important thing is that My Queen and MyEx know that the other person exists as part of my vocabulary, but that the two words will never mean the same thing.

Now let’s talk about donuts.

The Trip

I've posted this everywhere else. I'm not sure why it's not here yet. This is The Pirate Queen's move to California

Zombies Make Honey, Zombies Just Buzz Around.

Zombies.

Yup. Zombies: that’s where we coalesce. All other monster ground is fraught with clutching fingers of disparity. Luckily we have other things to talk about. In second grade, this would have been a deal breaker. We’re adults now. When it comes to zombies, the Queen and I agree that we’re more likely to confront a flash zomb-mob, than a glistening Edward Cullen.

I know, my queen is heartbroken too.

“They’re coming to get you Barbara!”

No they’re not. And if they are, we’re safe. Neither one of us is Barbara. Okay, Okay, but just because she calls me that late at night, doesn’t mean it is my real name. She calls me the gimp too, but you won’t find that on my birth certificate.

Yeah, you could have fooled Dr. Grinder too. He was my first doctor. He saw a lot of unfortunate Rob moments. Doctor Grinder didn’t believe in Zombies. What was dead was dead. What was alive, well that was made to suffer through life’s pains. Life’s pains, that’s why Dr. Grinder was there.

One sixth-grade ball-tag frenzy ended with Justin Frey slamming a chain-link gate on my head. Why did he do that? Because I was it. I’d have done it too, with his head. A sixth grade “it” might as well be a zombie. Only problem is, “it” still consists of living tissue, and no matter how thick my skull is, the outer tissue still bleeds-Especially when smashed between a swinging gate and a steel pole. The C-latch gouged the top of my skull.

Good news for Jr. gimp Rob. I got out of school. The bad news? I got to spend the afternoon with Dr. Grinder. Dr. Grinder kept a metal probe for just such emergencies, and oh, how aliens cow mutilators would drool with envy every time he whipped that bad boy out.

“AHHHHHH!” That’s me. I’m screaming to the sound of scraping bone.

“Quit your sniveling,” That’s Dr. Grinder. “It can’t hurt that bad.” His Dremel sized steel poker wrenches against my skull.

“AHHHHHH!” That’s me again. “Yes it can. They could have impaled me with a fence post and it wouldn’t hurt this b--OWW!” In sixth grade, I’m not only failing biology; I’m failing Dr. diplomacy too. Like my horror movie mad scientists, Dr. Grinder is immune to reason.

Dr. Grinder has a point to prove, and that point’s digging deeper in my head. I cave before my cranium does. “OWWW! You’re right! You’re right! It doesn’t hurt. I’m a big baby! Now stop! Please! Stop!”

“That’s better. You’ll be fine” He slaps my back. “We should do a quick check-up while you’re here.” Snap! On goes the rubber glove. “Do you know my daughter, she goes to your school?”

“Nope! Never seen her!” I sprint from the office, before my mom could grab the consolation lollypop. Unlike gored zombie-bait, I’m all better.

Of course I knew the good doctor’s daughter. She dated a young Mr. Torres who was in my PE class. He scared me because his first name was printed on his T-shirt. That was before I learned there were no such thing as monsters, before I learned that Spanish pronunciations are different than English pronunciations, and before I learned that Hispanic families have different sets of traditional names than Anglo families.

“Mom, Jesus is in my PE class.”
“That’s nice dear. Tell him we’re sorry we missed him at church Sunday.”

“My parents say they’re sorry.”
“Why?”
“They missed you in church.”

Yes, that was the first time Jesus kicked my ass, sending me back to Dr. Grinder, but it wouldn’t be the last. At least Jesus didn’t eat brains. In church, we do that to him instead. Have you ever soaked your wafer in the wine? Try it next communion: looks like brains.

And that’s why the queen and I fear zombies: Symbolism. The early zombie movies were a metaphor for groupthink: angry mobs consuming life without restraint. Zombies are quite real in our nation, and it doesn’t matter which side of the red-blue line they devour you on.

They’re more than political. They’re all consuming on so many levels. What’s the worst part about zombies? We all can become one. For me that’s tough. I’m a stoic kind of gimp. I see the life’s tides change, and I remain still, my feet buried in the mud.

“Neither a chaser or a runner be…”

For the last year, I’ve isolated myself from most of the outside world. It’s not zombaphobia, although that would be reasonable. If I want to survive the great culling, isolation is a valid method. No, this just happened. Like the man in the time machine, the world passed, and I stayed still.

On the other hand, isolation is one way the monsters get you: they get you alone, away from assistance. The queen is here to protect me, but she can only do so much. She’s still flagging down svelte vampires. She doesn’t have time to babysit me.

So how do I protect myself from life’s zombies? What makes me different? Yeah, I can think, but if you stick a Rob in a box, and close it, that makes him both alive and dead: UNDEAD!

AHHHHH!

That’s right, you can thank the mad Dr. Schrödinger for zombie cats.

The only way to work through this is to act outside Rob’s box. How does a growing Rob thrive? Even jobless, I shouldn’t stop reaching out, interacting with my world. This week I signed up as a Red Cross volunteer. I also enrolled in school. I’m doing both part time, and both are efforts in zombie resistance.

See, the school is a way to re-acculturate Rob. I immerse him in a new people pool in hopes he’ll mingle pee with others. I’m taking classes that enhance my writing: Intro to Marketing, Web development, Yellow Journalism. It’s the Jason Voorhees trident of death.

Poseidon? No, that’s a boat, not a monster. You really need to read more. They did flip that ship for money in three different movies, though—scary stuff.

Scary stuff is also joining the Red Cross. I’ve always stood on the funding side of volunteerism. I threw money at problems until the green bills corked their cries for help. Now that I don’t have money to, I need to find other ways of returning the favor, other ways of being useful to my community.

I’m not used to that. It creeps me out a bit. Monday, I went down and talked to Jemmi, my local RC trainer. Jemmi’s a warm woman with a beaming smile, and an office cacophony of chirps and beeps from multitudes of social media devices. If you mixed your favorite HS counselor with Doc, from Back to the Future, you would have Jemmi.

“What do you want to do?” She asked, leaning over her desk, hands clasped, inhaling deeply.

“Well, I don’t know,” I leaned back, fingers clutching my chair between my legs, rocking back and forth. “I’m a writer, but I’m out of wor—“

“Well the Red Cross has four arms.” She holds up two of hers with two fingers extended on each. “First aid,” one finger down, “fundraising,” two down, both arms still up. “Disaster relief,” next down, “and” she says some speedy words here, but they flew out so fast that I didn’t catch them. Both her arms went down, and folded on her desk. Her fingers poised in church and steeple formation. “We really only recruit disaster relief in this office.”

“OK.” What else do I say? If I’m here to serve, then shouldn’t I serve where there’s a need, rather than creating a crisis to rally around first? That’s how the baby boomer brought us here to begin with.

“You don’t have a zombie resistance league?”

Jemmi explains the fundamentals of disaster relief and invites me to join once again. I wonder for a second, isn’t that a vampire thing? They invite you three times…or is that an occult thing? Crap! Mom was right! I never paid enough attention in class…

“OK.”
“First we need a quart of your blood.”
“What?” I bounce back.
“It’s a joke, Robert. “ Great. Jemmi is a comedienne too. “I need you to go fill out this paperwork.”
“What is it?”
“It’s legal stuff. Background, emergency contacts, stuff like that.” She’s extending a clipboard of paper with a pen.

Emergency contact? Why do they need that? It’s then that I realize what I’m signing up for. I’m not static standing stoic. I’m rushing forward to greet the horde. I’ve seen the zombie movies. Who are the first to get killed? The police, the fire department, and any other well-meaning ne’er-make-the-credits rushing towards the disaster to help.

Woosh!

Jemmi didn’t even see my shadow rushing away from that duty. I got a little freaked out. Like when Dr. Grinder snaps his glove.

It takes a special person to know that there’s danger and accept the risk for the sake of others. It doesn’t matter if it’s fire, flood, or decaying zombies. To live means to accept risks, to live in service of others means to accept their risks as well no matter how unfortunate, and sometimes stupid they are. This is the first time I’ve come face to face with that.

Still, I know who I am, and I know what I have to do: tomorrow I’ll call Jemmi back. I need to learn some things if I’m going to rush towards the zombies.

Rant-day

Sunday through Saturday, Saturday, through Sunday, every day has a plan, a schedule, a theme. That’s right. I take my lead from the ancient Geeks, who Fried, Sat, Sunned, and Monned—whatever the heck monning is. Whatever it is, you can bet the geeks did it.

Geeks?

Greeks?

Meeks?

Eh, whoever. The point is, they all did it to inherit the Earth. Why? That’s what they did on Monday.

“Hey, Stupidicus, did you get your monning done yesterday?”

“Oh, yes Lemmingus, Oblivia and I were up Monning all day. I can’t talk now though, we’re two-fering today.”

In the following centuries, the calendar hasn’t changed. Neither have we. That’s right, every calendar day marches forward appropriately. It’s got its feet on the ground and keeps reaching for the stars--at least on Casey Kasem Thursdays. The rest of the week is filled with Taco Tuesdays, and fish head Friday: every day specializing in a personal demographic.

For example, My Mondays are all about Demographics themselves. For those of you un-savvy in the ways of fish-in-a-barrel marketing, the word “demographic” may sound Greek. Those of you savvy un-savvy-ists, are smarter than your average bear demographic suggests: it is Greek.

I’m not Greek. I’m a Scott. Not as in the paper towel (cuz I’m leaky and fall apart), but as in the Northern European region without Greeks (where the men are leaky and the women fall apart). All I can tell you is that “Demographic” come from the words demo--or “demon,” and graphic, which means “naked picture on the internet.”

That’s right; demographics count how many people look at how much Internet porn on any given day. It’s a boring and stupendous statistic, but somebody’s got to count it. Demographic-demons look at other things too. When those graphic demons swim out, they also look at ways to stereotype people into consumer-stuffed fish barrels.

According to the cliché, It’s easier shooting. And you know why it’s called a “cliché: It’s French for “every Greek is doing it.”

A great example of the fish barreling is radio. Unless you listen to modern pop radio, you’re not listening to porn. Still, you are demo-gathered and barreled. Do you listen to love songs on the radio? According to today’s Demo-demons you’re a woman, probably 35-50, named, Mary, or a guy trying to pull the wool over one. All the advertisements are made especially for the first group, because everywhere that every Mary went, the second group was sure to go.

It’s true. Listen. How many ads want to lock you in the front seat of a “family” or “luxury” car? Why isn’t anybody selling you the latest Ford Mustang? Because, if you want to buy a Mustang, you belong to the porn station. If you’re here, SUVs are for you.

Abandon testosterone, all who enter here.

On the other hand, you don’t get strip club ads either. Their surveys say you won’t be found in one.

Me? I don’t do porn stations or strip clubs (No, REALLY!!!), but I am a card carrying Demographic. Yeah, don’t tell my dad. He would disown me. It’s true though: whenever I sign a form or anything, I check the boxes of my party: white (non-Hispanic), Male, 35-45, Divorced, and Unemployed. They know me: I’m Pavlov’s dog-in-a-box. Send a pretty girl to ring my bell, and I’ll drool every time. Yeah, the Pirate Queen takes full advantage of this.

“I told you, baby, I don’t want to watch the Care Bears on Ice--“

Ding!

“Yes mistress. I’ll get my keys.”

You’d think that the “Unemployed” dog-tag would move me to persona non careabouta (Another Greek term) in the consumer lists, but no. Demo-demons don’t care that American Express has rolled up their member carpet, and stolen away my reward privileges. They only care about the size of my refrigerator box and how many rooms are in it. They still see me as a consumer with opinions.

Well, I don’t know about “consumer” but I do have opinions, and that’s why Monday is survey day. Everybody sends me surveys: shopping groups, Internet companies, even American Express sends me a customer service email. I’m still more than happy to share my un-edited feelings with those demo-demons.

I’m an opinionated free spirit. Other demo-demons get my feeling too!

How do you feel about kitty litter, Rob?

Let me tell ya. I find it a little rough on my paws.

How do you feel about, Euthanasia?

I’m pro youth, no matter what continent. Oh, that’s not what you meant.

They collect my feelings, tally them, then add them to the growing group of others collecting in my demographic. My demo is huge--I wish other parts of me were that large! I’d be a party! My demo is a party though, and we’ll keep you up all night long! Yeah, we cry loudly about how much we used to have. It gets disturbing.

When I first got Divorced I felt so alone. All my friends were married. Even my parents were married. Maybe not to each other, but they still belonged with the in-crowd. I checked the “Divorced” box: I’m an outsider.

Not anymore!

I lost my job. There’s another group who’s kicked me out. I found a bunch of people from the first group out here too! The thing I’ve learned is that every time a door is slammed in my face, God opens a window for me to fall backwards through, but he also gives me people who catch me when I fall.

The thing is, I’m not an outcast. I’m part of a growing demographic. I’m part of the new American anti-economy. That’s right, we are the Pavlovian frothing, divorced, and unemployed, ruling the streets! Mac-n-cheese, and ramen noodles for everyone!

Mustangs and SUVs? PSHAW! If they’re not bound by Bondo and rust, they aren’t cars! We’ll have a new economy based on Facebook coins. That’s right. My people rule Facebook too!

Facebook: Where individuality lumbers to die: we like; we join; we follow.

And that’s the downside of demographics. No matter how you slice us, we come up peanuts, and we’re the same as everybody else. When we’re hurting, that’s a great thing. We’re not alone because somebody else has traveled the same road we have.

“My wife left me for an Mime with a lisp.”

“Mine too!”

Camaraderie.

At the demo-sheep-book end, it grinds us into homogeneous chuck. One size fits all. One all fits our consumer size. I can’t do that! I love you all, but I’m not you.

What’s more important for you: YOU’RE NOT ME!

Yes, yes, I know that’s quite a relief. When I was a kid I read “A Wrinkle in Time.” Do you all want to be It-Robs? I think not! No more than I want to be It-Reader #2s.

I remember as kids playing tag, nobody wanted to be It.

Today, I read about somebody creating a viral hoax just to shape the sheep. Why? To see if they could. Today, so many people clamor and crawl to be the Demographic It--the one showing others how to follow.

I guess that’s why I fill my calendar with schedules and themes, because even if I give a day to demographics, I don’t want to fill my life with them. I’m a Scott, not a Greek, and on Monday I fill out my surveys to skew the curve.

I have to wonder, if groups on demographics aren’t why we find ourselves in trouble to begin with. We’re all facing problems, but shouldn’t we face them as individuals? The only way to make it through this, is to stand up for ourselves. I’d tell you to follow me, and think for yourself, but that would defeat my own purpose.

Yes, Rob…

Follow you, follow your heart, follow God, and care for your fellow demographic-ians, for every demographic has enough trouble of its own. No matter how you fill your calendar, doing this makes you a better number, and shapes the demo of our world for the better.

A Fool and his Salad

God is great.

God is good.

Let us thank him for our food.

That’s the first prayer I learned as a kid—or it’s the first I remember learning. I remember it, because It’s also the first prayer I misunderstood.

Lettuce, thank him for our food?

That never made sense. Why would we assign a roughage veggie to thank him? First off, why would lettuce thank him when it was getting eaten? It seems counter productive to me. Second off, why don’t we do it ourselves? Can we trust lettuce? What if the lettuce gets our thanks wrong? I mean sure, it’s got a head, but it’s green and leafy to the core. Not an impressive prayer delegate if you ask me.

“God, I have a head of lettuce here saying that the Boyd family is grateful for this years liver and onion surplus.”

“Great! they will have plenty more!”

No thanks. I’ll do my own praying—Even if I’m doing it wrong.

And trust me, I am. In all my years I’ve learned that wiser I think I am, the stupider I become. Right now, I’m a head of lettuce.

The next prayer I learned had nothing to do with lettuce, directly. It was another grace prayer, though. It came from my mom’s family. It sounded like this:

BlessusohlordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttoreceivefromthybountythroughChristourlordamen.

This was accompanied with a fingertip cross-chest Macarena, and a fork flurry. It was my first utility prayer: quick and festive, aimed at moving through “thanks” and getting to food in a quick, orderly fashion. I think the auctioneer monks of St. Hasten created it.

After that, a few years would pass before Robby was introduced to any new prayers. Then came the Lord’s Prayer: Rob’s next chance at mutilating the intention of prayer. It was a weird one. Learning the words was simple, but comprehending them got more difficult each time I spoke it.

I remember a Sunday in my twenties. I sat in church. Our congregation didn’t have the “Grant me the cute girl, two pews up, and three seats over” litany. Instead, we had the Lord’s Prayer. As I’m saying, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” the words flowing from my mouth took root, and nearly ripped the hypocritical muscle from my mouth, like in one of those old Warner Brothers’ cartoons.

“Nu-uh! That’s not what I want!” I screamed from my station in the back of church. “Forgive me as I forgive others? You mean the same way I forgave Jimmy Swanson for sticking dirt in my sandwich? The same way I forgave Tammy Pintole for laughing at me in third grade? No, I’m hoping God’ll forgive me a touch better than that. Otherwise it’s just not quality forgiveness.”

Our prayer turned to a moment of silence, as the leaves between my ears made a core connection.

Ohhhh…

So I’m praying to forgive too? I’m not sure I’m ready to do that.

Still I tried. I mean, by twenty-five I’d done plenty that needed forgiving. If my current demeanor held, I’d need more than a nave full of worshipers to push me through the eye of that needle. If I wanted to be forgiven, then maybe it was time for a little Rob forgiving.

So I donned my favorite shoes, stopped trying to kick the ass of the unworthy, and moved my forgiving foot forward--and others stomped on it. When they weren’t stomping on it, I’d be pulling it from my mouth. The thing is, I did try, but there was another place I kept getting hung up. How far do I forgive? What’s the difference between being a forgiving person and being a foolish doormat?

That practice took more time to understand. I’m still not sure I have it down. I’ve just accepted that when in doubt, it’s better to err on the side of love. Sometimes it’s easier to hold a grudge than to let it go. It’s like our fists our locked in the clutch and can’t let go.

During my divorce, there was more than enough forgiveness to extinguish any of ire’s flames. We just refused to waste our valuable virtue on anyone unworthy the effort. In the end, pride did all the work for us…

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And isn’t that the heart of forgiveness lettuce? Pop that leafy globe against the counter and you’ll find a pride-less core. We’ve all been wronged, hurt, and betrayed—almost as often as we’ve wronged, hurt, and betrayed others.

Yeah, Jimmy and Tammy owe me one big salad for what they did all those years ago. You know what though? In the same breath I owe Chris, Dawn, and Billy quite a feast too, but forgiveness based on our own merits is one wilty salad indeed.

And that always leads me back to my beginnings:

God is great.

God is good.

Let us thank him for our food.

Amen.

Speaking Statistic

Mmmm…Blueberry muffin. What better way to start my day?

No, that’s not a euphemism; I’m talking about a real muffin: sugar dough, blueberries, tasty crumble…huh, I guess you are right: the euphemism does beat the heck out of my real muffin…

Anyway, back to the muffin in the hand. The real muffin with the real coffee, that’s the muffin I’m starting my day with today. Other than foretold unemployment and untoward foreclosure, I’ve not a care in the world. I’m enjoying the little things.

Tasty muffin…

I saw that in a movie this weekend. Not my muffin, the little things. Not the euphemism little things either, more the abstract metaphor “general audience” little things. I saw them in Zombieland. Yup, good times and rampant zombies told me to enjoy the little things. How can I argue with Zombie rule 32?

I mean I could waste three blog pages complaining how life has wronged me. It is true. I have been wronged. I’ve had my share of the life stick. I’m ready for a little carrot cake. I’d settle for having it. I don’t even need to eat it too. I’m not picky.

I’ve got my muffin for that.

Still, the pirate queen and I were chewing the muffin-fat this weekend. She’s dipped her resume in the water just to see what would happen, and the sharks nearly tipped her in the water.

Gonna need a bigger boat…

Me? I’ve covered my resume with sugar, honey, and chum. I can’t even attract flies.

In a related muffin fun-fact, I’ve finished my latest manuscript, and I’m trying to sell it. So far I’ve gotten nothing but the best negative feedback: “Great writing, it’s just not the type of work I feel drawn to represent. Good luck finding a better fit.”

I want to hate them, but how can I? They’re the blueberries on my life-muffin. “We love you, Rob. We’re just not in love with you.” I couldn’t even hate Violet Beauregarde when she said the same thing in the high school library. How could I hate literary agents for it? Sure I’m a bitter guy, but the mad hermit with the ugly baby part of me knows to take love where he can get it. My four out of five other personalities agree: at least the agents know I exist.

The yin & yang of self-help

So the queen and I discussed strategies. As a writer, my next step is to continue writing while marketing my previous project. It’s what I do.

“I say, keep going.” She said as I stuffed my mouth with muffin.

“Me-moo.” I nodded, wiped muffin goo from my face, and continued. “It’s just hard--the bad timing. I’m a statistic. I am everyman. I am divorced, jobless, white male at risk of losing my home.”

She laughed. “You should write about that.”

“Yeah, gone are the days of the white man’s middle-management glory. ‘I am the caboose of the white train.’”

“It’s true!” she said, buttering her own muffin. “We’ve reached the end of old white money. Manufacturing is moving elsewhere. The foundation jobs are shifting. It’s a changing of the guard.”

“Who gets it?” I stared over my coffee.

“Gets what?”

“The guard? I want that job. If it’s a changing, I want it to be my turn. In the 80s, I tried to go into radio. Everybody consolidated and syndicated, eliminating the new-guard Now I’m trying to get published, and everything published is about/from the fringe demographic overcoming adversity to achieve greatness, or the old standard retelling their old tale. I’m not a fringe. I’m not a standard. I’m a statistic.”

“True, but you are the hairy white caboose. Maybe you write what you know.”

“Yeah, woe is me. The middle aged white guy.”

“You said you were put upon. If you’re a statistic, then you’re not the only one. You could be the Steinbeck of your generation.”

I spit coffee across the table, laughing. “Baby, it’s bad, but I’m not living in a tent city. I still have fun. I mean, so far this year we’ve been to Vegas and Temecula. I eat out once and a while—“

“Not often enough.” She smiled.

“I think I do plenty—“

“You should do more, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Anyway…the point is, life may suck from the caboose end, but it’s hardly Steinbeck material.”

“…And maybe that’s the point,” she says dabbing coffee polka dots from her white blouse. “A lot of people are crying out there. Every day the news shows somebody screwed by the economy. I read about a woman who had to give up going to concerts for chrissakes. Concerts? It sucks. It’s sad, but how can I take stories like hers, seriously? CNN wants to compare this to the great depression, but five minutes later they’re reporting how we’ve added ‘funemployment’ to the dictionary. I don’t think that’s a depression era term. Until I see Wall Street is littered with more human bodies than rats, and ramen noodles outselling pizza, I don’t think we have room to bitch.”

I blinked, the statistical doe, in the money-train headlights. My queen was right. Even more than right, I could see that the more we remain immobilized by fear and apathy, the more likely we are to be taken for a ride by the cattle-catcher of the oncoming train.

You gotta stand for something or you’ll be run over by anything…

Or however that goes. As goes the Rob carcass, so goes the nation. I mean I’m a statistic, right? In that case it’s my obligation to find a way to raise the curve.

So what now? Right now, I’m enjoying the little things. I’m finding my foundation. If I am the caboose, then I’m gonna take this train for all it’s worth, and then I’m gonna jump clear before it derails. Let’s face it. This isn’t the Great Depression. It’s not even the okey-dokey depression. This is just one ugly statistical dip on the ride of life.

And right now the dip is eating muffins and coffee.

Care to join me?

Let tomorrow worry about itself.

Independence

“Work is sending me to Vegas. Wanna come?”

“Oh Boy!”

I’d name who said what, but we know who wears the nametag in our relationship. The Pirate Queen had missed the absolutely positively getting there over night deadline, and she was forced to pay the price.

Woe, woe is us.

That glimmer of bad grammar and bad activity was brought to you by last week.

I’d love to tell you what happened in Vegas, but what happens in Vegas...—no, really. There’s a lawyer, a contract and a parachute before entering Vegas airspace. They’re presented between the beverages and the nuts. I don’t have the nuts to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. I gave them to the queen. Therefore, I can’t tell you much about our trip.

I can tell you that everybody has things they’d like to leave in Vegas. It’s become the modern day French Foreign Legion, with tassels and pasties. People leave their hearts in San Francisco, their luggage in Phoenix, and everything else goes to Las Vegas--never to return.

I can also thread you through a few loopholes of our stay. I can tell you that the flight lasted almost as long as delivering the package for the queen’s work. Our rental car GPS came with a passive aggressive attitude.

“Turn right.”

“We missed the turn!”

“It’s ok she’ll get us ba—“

“Recalculating.”

“Where do I go now?”

“It doesn’t say anything!”

“Do I turn?”

“I don’t know. There’s a crack house. Is that near your delivery?”

“You have reached your destination.”

It’s OK. I’ve dealt with passive aggression before. We turned the machine off—but first we purposefully programmed locations and then drove the opposite direction.

“Recalcula—Alright! Now your just being ass…”

And that’s how I’ve learned to deal with passive aggression—or how other’s dealt with mine. Either way, it’s liberating. We enjoyed our Vegas freedom.

Next we checked into our hotel. Whoever was in our room before us left something: a special funk. The room smelled like beer and cigars. Since the Pirate Queen’s work had pre-booked the room, we didn’t complain: it was paid for. Vegas funk costs double. We’d remember to thank her boss for his thoughtfulness when we got back.

Meanwhile, back in Vegas, Rob and the Pirate Queen learned about each other. There’s no better place to do it. There’s something for everyone in Vegas. What better place to find out which everybody you’re with? Are you compatible? Are you better flying back alone?

People hide things. They can’t in Vegas, cuz it’s a giant candy store. The temptation is too great. Vegas may be fake, but the real you will come out like a John Hancock declaration.

“Oh boy! A dog and pony show! Let’s go!”

“I do not think that means what you think that means, Rob.”

“Oh…”

You can also find out whom you’re not with. The PQ and I discovered this weekend that neither of us are twenty-something Jello-shooters, competing for the first case of alcohol poisoning. I’m not even the old guy at the pool whose vibrant scalp hair has slid down to carpet his back, pretending the his age and hair line are mutually invisible.

“It’s too loud.” My queen shouts at the pool, over the steady thump-thump of nameless bass-loop pounding the screws from our beach-chair backs.

“I know!” I shout back, “We’re too old.” I say, remembering the anthem of my youth.

“What?” asks my queen.

I realize what I’ve just called my queen. “It’s cold. It’s cold!” I deflect.

“It’s one-hundred degrees out here!”

I shrug. “I grew up in the desert.” Things stay in Vegas, because people like Rob leave their brains at LAX.

There’s something for everyone here, and this hotel is not us. It does offer some fun though. We’re too poor to catch a show, but from our loungers we watch a pack of young girls performing the “I am so drunk” water ballet. Men of every shape and size swim concentric circles around the pack, keeping the beer-bearing arms high and intentions low. It’s free. We watch, but eventually return to our room for a shower.

This is not our Vegas.

Bring me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses…

We tried driving around looking for it. I programmed “our Vegas” into the GPS. Still angry, it led us back to the airport. Vegas was for everybody—just not us.

Still, I would not be dissuaded. I knew there was a place for us. I’d heard the song. We were like Goldilocks and the three casinos: too young, too old, too loud, too dead. Finally we found our “just right,” and it wasn’t in the maw of a bear. It was a new monolith sandwiched between the Monte Carlo and the Bellagio: the Aria. It looked like a set from Logan’s Run. Which scared the crap outta me, cuz I’m over 30.

Still, the music ranged between classic rock and new-pop standards. I knew every song. As the pirate queen and I sat in a George Jetson bar, munching on wasabi crisps and mixed nuts, drinking alcoholic beverages without English names, we began to relax.

“It’s the vanilla.”

“What?” I asked not sure what the vanilla was.

“The smell. Vanilla. It’s relaxing.”

It was true. The Aria piped in complementary smells, matching its atmosphere. Vanilla works well with wasabi, nuts, and Bohemian Rhapsody. Who knew?

We’d found our oasis in the desert of thumping bass and pinging slots. More importantly, we found something that united us.

That was last week. This week my queen is in Michigan. She’s spending July Fourth with her family. Me, I’m spending my time with our cats: It all balances out in a Sylvia Plath kinda way.

Where are my fireworks? This is Independence Day. I’ve been independent Rob since 2008. I should be happy in my time of freedom. I’m happy with who I am. Sure, I have areas in my life that throb to a beat I marched when I was younger, but I’ve always marched to my own drummer. Whether in a Vegas swimming pool or an LA suburb, I am Rob, hear me bleat: I am the sheep of a different color.

I’m searching for the same thing as everybody else in the desert of time. I’m just looking for a version more me than you. I’ve found the Pirate Queen. She isn’t me anymore than I’m her, but what we are complements each of us.

I’ve always found more than three ways to enjoy myself. And it’s not like I’m not enjoying my Fourth. It’s more that I feel like it’s incomplete, like I’m missing something. After her spending a solid week at my place, and then sharing a weekend in Vegas, this week is like cold turkey.

I miss her.

So this week she’s visiting her homeland in the heartland. I’m good with it. I’m good with me. That doesn’t change a thing: I miss her. Last night I stood on the balcony, watching the bombs bursting in air, remembering their significance, and whose sacrifices brought my Vegas full of freedom. I can’t joke about my heartfelt gratitude at being so blessed to live in this time, and this place, being this Rob. That said, I couldn’t help but miss her body next to mine, because freedom isn’t about solitary autonomy, it’s about shared experiences, good and bad, and the ability to revel in them together. For me, my freedom is not the same without my queen.

Differing Similarities.

Whew! What a weekend! Did you miss me? Of course you missed me; if you’d hit me, I’d be in the hospital, maybe worse. Most people like to back up and try again.

If you’re gonna bother doing it at all, do it right the first time.

That’s what my mom always said about cleaning house. That’s why I don’t clean the house at all. It creates an “organic” appeal, a secret hideout for the dust-bunny revolutionary army. For a hermitage, that’s important. It’s authentic.

That’s not what the pirate queen likes.

What the pirate queen likes is important to me, on so many levels. So I spent most last week cleaning my house. See, the Pirate queen is looking to move her hideout, and my harbor is on the secret cove short list.

Yo ho ho!

No, she’s not thinking of moving in. She’s a babysteping peg-legger—just moving near. About a year ago, she moved cross-country to be closer, and yet still keep enough distance to man the cannons and scuttle the ship should something go wrong. For her, that’s about 20 minutes from work and at least an hour from me. I told you: babysteps.

Now, she’s considering a place closer to my house, and that takes her further from her work. She’s spending this week at my house. Can she take the commute? For this experiment to work out correctly, I needed to eliminate any external contaminants and that meant Rob had to clean.

“I’m sorry bunnies, you need to hide somewhere else this week.”

The Pirate Queen isn’t the only reason I cleaned my house. I cleaned my house because a good friend of mine came to town too. My friend Dan and I hadn’t seen each other in eight years. Yup, that’s why we’re still good friends.

Good distances make good relationships.

I tried the “good fences” thing but ran into the same problem the border patrol did: friends still kept getting in. It’s just easier if you pack up your borders and move them out of reach. I learned that from Mom and the cookie jar.

If you’re gonna bother doing it at all, do it right the first time.

Yeah, sorry ‘bout the cookie jar mom. I did it right the first time too.

The point is, my best friends live states away—and now two people I care about are coming to town—at the same time.

I’m flummoxed and fluxomed at the same time, and only one of those is a real word!

Still, I’m noting if not prepared. I’m starting with a clean house. Then the Pirate Queen helps me clean again. Not because she needs it, but because she knows my friend Dan is coming, and she wants things to be perfect too.

Perfect for her means cleaning at six AM. OK, I’m exaggerating, but only a little. It’s six AM when she begins bouncing on the bed.

“Are you awake yet?”

“No, but I’ve crushed the dust-bunny rebellion. Can we go back to sleep?”

It’s six-thirty when she rolls my fat butt to the floor.

I’m not a morning person. For me, the sun also rises, but that doesn’t happen until noon. Today, morning has broken, and I’m expected to fix it.

“Why are you friends?” The Queen asks. She’s not being mean, she’s just trying to understand our relationship. While I lint-roll the cat hair from my chair (my friend is allergic to cats. This won’t cure things, but it will ease the pain), I explain, “We’ve known each other forever.”

“But you don’t sound anything alike.” The Queen stares at my baseboards, shaking her head, “You don’t do these, do you?”

“We’re not—and do what?”

She then explains the rocket science of baseboard cleansing while I blink uncontrollably. I got nuthin’. I always thought the darker color contrasting white wall paint was a favorable thing.

Contrast and compare that to my relationship with Dan all you want. On the surface it’s hard to explain. He’s a motorhead, I’m a blogger. He likes bands like Van Stevenson (“Modern Day Delilah” if you’re playing along) and Sly Fox (“Let’s Go All The Way”). I like—wait a minute, he likes what?

On the other hand we spent our twenties hanging out. We were roommates. We dated girls, quit entry-level jobs, and drank—lots. That’s a bond. He was my best man at wedding. When MyEx spoke of an old married couple, she was speaking of Dan and I.

“…more like Jack Nasty.”

No, this isn’t a brokeback story, let me tell ya. PQ was glad to hear that. “Should I go home while he’s here?”

No there are some bonds that defy explanation. Although, our differences probably explain why it’s been eight years. He hasn’t had a divorce. He’s got two boys. I’ve got a cat.

“I love my life.” I explain over a couple of beers.

“Me too.” He says staring at the ceiling. “We’ve come a long way from being kids, haven’t we?”

“A long way.” I lie, drawing the bottle to my lips. He’ll find out later: I’ve short sheeted his bed.

Dan and I catch up over pizza as the Pirate Queen takes notes. She’s learning more about me than I’m comfortable with. She’s learning that even though she might move along way from work, I haven’t moved a long way from when Dan knew me.

“He still does that!”

Yeah, great. It is great though. I’m sitting with two people I share the most with: a lot of differences, a lot in common, One my past, the other my future.

“Tomorrow I’m going to a car show, wanna come?” Dan asks.

“Sure.” I say, “But can we start later than six?”

“You can sleep in, if you want. I’ve got to kick this army of dust bunnies out of my car. I don’t know where they came from.” Dan looks to the Pirate Queen, “You want to come with us?”

“I can’t,” says the Pirate Queen smiling at me. “I need to find an apartment.”

Yous & Mes

I have a flaw.

I know. “Stop the press!”

Alas it’s true.

Recently somebody pointed it out. Understand that even as I mention it, I’m not making fun of that person, or belittling their criticism. We all have opinions. Would American Idol survived without opinions? I think not. And even though my opinion of that show is low, I welcome any Simon Cowell to my life as a Joseph Stalin of love--or something like that.

“Please, tell me more about your concerns. Stand just a little to your left. Please! Ignore the firing squad, just express…”

Likewise, I appreciate the well wishers who’ve chimed in and said, “It’s OK Rob, we accept you the way you are.” I like being liked. During the worst times, we find out who our real friends are. I’m sure Joseph Stalin could express that as well. If you’re going through hell, look around you. Those people holding you up now? Those are the people you want to keep around forever. Seriously. Put them in the freezer. They keep well. You can pull them out as pick-me-up-sicles later. It’s a little trick I learned from Martha Stewart.

Me? I don’t keep well. I spoil easily, don’t bother—nobody wants a spoiled manboy around. You’ll never get the remote control from his cold furry hand. If you’re lucky, it won’t be the hand down his pants. You’ll never want to touch the remote again.

“Rob was over last week. You want to change the channel for me?”

That’s not my flaw. It’s more of an endearing quality really. And for people supporting me, I’m a big manboy. I don’t need defended. Well, maybe a little. Ok, you, miss with the flower in your hair, red. Right. You can defend me.

Why is she running away?

That’s the problem (not mine). People are so hard to read. You can’t tell who’s really who they pretend to be until things get tough. We lose so many allies that way. I got married once. The one thing I loved most about her was that she never pretended to be anything more or less than who she was. When times got tough, she remained true to her nature.

“Get that remote out of your pants, Rob. I’ve brought you a cold beer. What happens next will decide where I put it. You can have it on the table, or you can have it—“

“Oh my!”

Married things were simple. It didn’t stop us from being ourselves though, and in the end, we killed us.

I can say I tried my best to be just as open.

“There is no try, only do.”

Yeah, thanks Head Yoda. Fine, let me say, I believe I did, but my Rob-pinions are biased. I am my own worst critic. That’s why even when I’m being all the Rob I can be, the things other people say bounce around in my skull like a super ball from a cannon.

“Is it true?”

“Are they crazy?”

“Is it because there’s nothing in this skull to slow this ball down?”

Probably.

With nothing else in there, there’s a lot of room for the ball to hit a blob of me. My cranial cavity is oozing with me, like Ghostbuster ectoplasm. See, everything hits me, because everything is about me. You know this, right? Look all around you. There’s a little bit of Rob everywhere. It’s ok, no need to be alarmed. It’s good for the soil.

The Pirate Queen and I discussed this.

“Everything is about me!”

“I know Rob, because nothing is about me.”

You might think she’s being sarcastic, but she’s not. We hold polar philosophies on this. Here’s an example. She calls a penguin friend, inviting them over for Saturday. That penguin never calls her back. Maybe he’ll show up on Saturday, maybe he won’t. That doesn’t matter—at least not to the queen. She believes that her friend is a penguin, and therefore lacks the fingers to hold—let alone dial--the phone, and if Waddles doesn’t show for dinner, then his actions support the queen’s theory.

Me? Waddles better call me back, or I’m having penguin burgers: it’s all about me. His actions speak more about where I sit on his scale of priorities and I know where I sit on my scale of priorities! He needs to find a way to peck-dial, and caw into that phone because it’s rude not to.

It’s all about me-- No, this isn’t my flaw. It’s the side affect of one of my better traits and I won’t change it. I accept its existence, and take careful efforts to process things accordingly. I’ll fume over Waddles until I remember: the cause of the crisis? It’s all about me.

Ohhhh…

You see how this could be a teeter-totter of death for the Pirate Queen and I. She may hop off the low end, seeing herself as “just too busy.” I’ll slam to the ground with a tail of pain. I know she got off because it’s all about me.

The funny thing is that it’s just as bad if you’ve got two “mes” or “yous” together. With two yous you’ve got either a bad line from My Cousin Vinnie, or two people ignoring that anything is about them until the teeter totters and breaks under the weight of unclaimed me. With multiple me’s you’ve end up with two individuals jumping up and down, ignoring the other me in the house, who’s now seething because “how could you ignore me?”

Personally, I think there are more mes, but that’s me. I’m a me. Still, how many mes read a book, an article, or a blog and go, “That’s me!” I think far more than go, “No, that’s just you.”

That’s why communication is key. The queen and I set up a talk table. It’s more folding table than a large dinette. It’s portable and we can throw down when and where we need. We both sort our cards into issues and deal them out accordingly. Sometimes it hurts, but by keeping our hands above the table and open, we sniff each other’s palms and tell their intent.

This allows us to air our issues, knowing the other person won’t throw cards in our face, call us “Waddles” or worse, and storm away. We listen, exchanging our perception of “me and you.” It’s what keeps us alive and together--That and the queen’s mean plank policy.

This is what I try to do in all my relationships. Sometimes it’s easier than others, because some wrestlers will take the table and beat you with it. That’s fine. As I explained at another friend’s table, “I’d rather err on the side of love.”

That’s why, when I was confronted about my flaw, I did my best to respond in said fashion. I sat at the table, she reached out and touched my hand. Petting my fingers, the Pirate Queen said, “You’ve got a boogie in your nose.”

I cried.

Cuz it’s all about me.