Friday, March 26, 2010

This Is Not a Blogpost.

This is not a blogpost.

If you’re reading this, you’re the most loyal reader I know.

Everybody say, “Awww.”

I’m waiting.

Still waiting.

Come on now…Thank you.

Don’t read anything into that. Things are much the same as my last post. In fact, that’s why I’m not posting now.

“Why don’t you write blogs anymore?” So asks the Pirate Queen. She’s still the same ol’ PQ.

“Cuz I’m trying to finish my book and find I job.” Same ol’ Rob too--always so much on my plate. I would not make a good Oliver Twist.

“Please sir, can I have some more?”

“Shut up, chubby.”

“Hey! I don’t like to be called chubby!”

“Then don’t call me sir. Now get off of me, I’m not in the mood anymore.”

Yup, things are the same between the PQ and I. We’re still multiple moons orbiting a gas giant trying to figure out what’s solid between us. We draw the weekends. We repel the weekdays. We’re doing everything to keep from freefalling, molten nuggets descending towards unknown horrors.

“Please sir, can I have—Ow! Crap! I say! I’ve just been hit with a pair of molten nuggets!”

Yeah, leave it to me to stick my nuggets in a Dickens’ novel. OK, back to 2010: Rob’s space odyssey. In this odyssey, Odysseus will be played by Rob, the role of Penelope belongs to The Pirate Queen. Careful, the literary reference satellites are falling like so much space junk.

Last weekend, our intrepid satellites were at Living Spaces looking at furniture. This was our second revolution there. The first passing came before Christmas. She’d asked to see my sofa as a pyre of Yule cheer.

I understand. Some relationships suffer when you’re dating. Some guys give up their pets. Some guys give up their best friends. I have to let go of my couch. I think it’s an acceptable trade.

She also hates the space she calls my “man cave.” It’s the office off the back of the house. After the divorce, I spent so much time working there that all activates that didn’t require a sink, a toilet, a bed or a lawnmower migrated there as well. Ok, sometimes the lawnmower came too, but that’s another story.

“Please sir, may I—AHHHH!”

Anyway, the man cave holds all things most satellites keep in their living room. My living room holds echoes. It’s been empty since MyEx left. The Queen hates the echo room. She hate’s the echoless cave. She hates the couch.

There is something she doesn’t hate. She doesn’t hate the luge. That’s our one-man, one-woman snuggle position for watching TV. She lies in front, and I support her from the rear. It’s our tandem snuggle. It’s silly; it’s stupid; it’s part of our orbit.

Last time we looked at furniture, we found this thing called an “Astro Snuggle Chair.” Aww, yeah. It’s bigger than a chair-and-a-half, but smaller than a love seat, so it doesn’t require a real commitment. It’s really comfortable, with good back support and, as the name states, it’s perfect for snuggling.

It sucks for luging.

That’s alright. We all make sacrifices. I figured it was my turn. I’m getting a decent tax refund. So, I thought, “Why not?”

OK dear readers, thank you for the list of reasons why not. I’ll file them appropriately in the “I know, I know” file. Yes I know. I’m jobless. I know I’m already risking foreclosure. I know there’s no reason to buy a piece of furniture that I may have to pay so I can have it removed if I go. You know what reason I give for being such a fool?

It would make the Pirate Queen feel more at home.

I love her. I want to synchronize our orbits. Don’t panic. We’re not marrying. We’re not moving in together. It’s just that she’s helped me clean my backyard. When you share a disposable bag, a saw, a shovel, and a hoe, you’re already sharing plenty.

That’s why I wanted a snuggle chair. I wanted to put it in the living room, and maybe work a TV into the mix. I wanted to make the outer space our space.

So while at Living Spaces, I mentioned my plan.

“What do you think?”

“A Snuggler won’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too small.”

“OK, so what would?”

The Queen moved to a comfy white leather sofa, and got a little defensive about why the Snuggler wouldn’t fit. She turned red and flustered as she explained things like, “It’s just my opinion,” and “it’s not my house, but…”

I wasn’t worried. I wanted her opinion. If the Snuggler didn’t fit, we must not sit. Maybe we could find something else that did. So I said, “Angel, it’s OK. I’m just trying to find something that would make you more comfortable in my space. I like sharing it with you.”

That little astro-tidbit smacked the PQ out of orbit.

That red color she had before? It washed away. I lost her against the white leather like a waning ghost.

“Baby?” I asked.

She reappeared, this time, greener than before. After a few moments she wobbled to her feet, but things had shifted.

Ever since, things have been out of kilter. This weekend she’s revolving in her apartment, alone. It’s nothing. It’s nothing new. Nothing in our orbit has ever been stable, but it always recovers.

The problem is, I’m a stable orbit kinda guy. I was married for 10 years. Marriage is a manmade satellite: you work together, expending fuel to maintain orbit until everything is gone, and then you plummet to Earth in a fireball of blame.

This orbit is more like an ADD kid with a hula-hoop. It throws my universe for a loop. The things I’m good at become the things I’m bad at as the gravity of insecurity pulls me down.

One of the effects is that this week I’ve done a lot of writing. I just wish it were on my novel. Every time I try to focus on my book I see the waning Sofa Queen.

So what have I written? I’ve written over 20 job applications, most out of state. If I can’t find stability in my state, maybe I can land somewhere secure. Maybe I can find a new orbit, one that belongs to me. I Know I can survive on my own. I’m not Oliver Twist.

And this is not a blogpost.

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