Sugar and Spice and Other Addictions Found in the Movie Dune.

What diet do you love?

What diet makes you Jack LaLanne the street, rejoicing all the guilt-free food you can shove in your Ron Popeil? Veg-O-Matic Ron, not smokeless ashtray Ron—Important distinction; nobody wants to end up butt end in Ron’s tray. I’m just saying…

Speaking of butts, mine ain’t getting’ any smaller. That’s why I’m starting a diet. Ok, it’s not really why. “Why” is two reasons. One: cuz what you read a few blogs ago. Didn’t read that blog? Shame. Now it’s a Ron Popeil Mystery-O-Matic for you. Go read. I’ll wait.

They gone? I lied. I’m not waiting. The rest of you know why I’m dieting. Let’s make fun of those lazy blog-jumping fat asses until they blog-flip back.

What? You’re back already? I need to learn how to write more compelling prose. Fine. No, nothing happened while you were gone. We were just talking about the weather.

And that’s reason two. No not the weather, it’s people talking behind my back. No, not my friends, they don’t do that. It’s strangers, and I can’t hear a word they’re saying because my back fat reverberates; I’ve got noise-canceling floppy--flesh. What good is turning the other plump cheek when I can’t hear what they’re saying behind it?

Ron Popeil didn’t create a magic trinket for that.

And so Robbyo must diet. Most invconvenient.

And therein lies the rub--and not even a good cayenne and cumin BBQ rub. Those rubs have too much sugar, and that is one thing all diets agree on. Everything else is a Mr. Microphone wielding flashy morning-coat barker grifting sparkly wares.

“It’s the carbs!”

“It’s the calories!”

“It’s the glycemic index!”

“It’s Professor Pepperoni in the pantry with a Pizza cutter!”

Even Richard Simmons dips his diet dealing pocket fisherman into these streams. Then there’s Subway’s Jared. Almost 15 years after the metamorphosis and he’s still losing weight. He freaks me out now. He’s a human twig. Don’t tell him that. I’m proud of him and I’d hate for him to dive behind the Subway counter in self-pity binge.

“In today’s news, local Subway patrons found spokesman Jared downing more $5-Dollar footlongs than a Taiwanese hooker.”

What? Those crochet sweatshops get hot, the poor girls get hungry. Subway subs are cheap. Even in these lean years, the Ronco empire doesn’t build itself. It takes vast faceless labor quantities.

That is one other thing that all diets agree on: food quantity. Not precise amounts, just the idea that fat Robs should be eating less. I can agree with that. I know that quantity is my primary problem. Food for me shovels onto my plate like a karate kid toggle switch.

Food off.

Food on.

Johnny sweeps my legs and I’m goin’ down like the Sumo Danielsan on stilts.

Really, I do eat lots of good foods, but I usually eat them in one sitting. So I began considering my diet from quantity. After that, I’m a simple guy. I know me. I’ve been around me for over 40 years. I know all my quirky food habits. I know what I can live with, and what I can live without. Most things come easy. So should a diet, right?

Nope.

Why? Because I’m not just dieting for me. I’m dieting for two. That’s right. I’m picking a diet that both the Pirate Queen and I can endure. I’ve only known the PQ for two years. I’m only now discovering what toppings she’ll suffer on her pizza, and pizza is something none of the diets will let her eat. I’ll let you explain that to her.

“What would you like on your Tombstone?”

I did ask her which diets she preferred. She regaled stories of success on Atkins. I looked it over. I just wasn’t sure I could stomach all the fatty meat. You don’t get to my weight without clogging a few arteries. I didn’t see any reason to close them any further.

I looked at things close to Atkins, and found the South Beach diet. I can do a diet named after a beach. The South beach Popeil-man told me that I was fat because I ate too many carbs and too much sugar. How could I remedy that?

“Stop it.”

“Ok.”

“Eat meat and veggies.”

“Preach on snake oil brother man!”

I reported my findings to the queen and we threw out our supplies of royal honey and filled our hive with nutrition. As of last Saturday we buzz on Salmon and Asparagus or nothing at all.

As of last Monday, I’m sugar/carb jonsing so badly that I get kicked out of Vons for fondling the pastries.

“Uhm…sir…I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store. And the éclairs slathered across your chest-hair? You’re gonna have to pay for those.”

How much would you pay to see that?

But wait, there’s more…

You also get multiple blogs of grumpy Rob on a diet! And all you have to do is click on this Rob Blog offer!

Yeah I’m delirious. It’s gonna be a long diet.

Reading for the Articles

“I suggest we get married at the courthouse and call it good.” So sayeth the Pirate Queen amidst a frustration fit.

That’s not really what my queen wants. That’s just how far I’ve collapsed her standards. The fall wasn’t that far; she’s already dropped them far enough to marry the Rob plan-o-holic control freak. She likes that about me. I think she’s crazy, but then again, I like her lists.

That’s why we’re a team.

And yet in the senseless dollars and cents escalation of wedding planning, team Boyd has already reached defcon 4. That’s somewhere pre Hitchcockian dove release, with Arabian drawn diamond carriage, and post Scroogian YouTube nuptials with e-conference reception.

“Rob, your uncle Frank is offering $150 for a better camera angle when you remove the garter.”

“Tell him to double it. What? You wanted a Hawaiian honeymoon…”

And that’s why we won’t turn to the Scrooge side: we’re avoiding that moment. I’m trying to trust my queen’s budget skills, but my inner Scotsman is twitching like a spring-wound toy on windup overload. If I can just loosen the white-knuckle wallet death grip a little.

“NO! MINE! MINE! MINE!”

Here’s the thing: I want her to have the wedding she wants—and deserves. Let’s face it. The wedding day is all about her. I’m just the accessory she needs to make the day go well. I nod, I smile, I say I do. In the photos, I’m the blurry guy on her arm. I’m okay with that. I love her; she deserves a day of PQ splendor for accepting a lifetime supply of Rob.

“Marriage is always having to say ‘I’m sorry.’”

Did that sound jaded? It’s not. I just know my capacity for lumbering blindly where angels fear to tread. If there’s an angel watching over me, he’s doing it through clawed fingers, awaiting the next accident.

And that brings us back to yesterday. Yesterday I went to a convenience store. I didn’t need gum or soda or anything convenient like that. I went for the anonymous dark-literature with lots of picture and very little article content. I went for the bridal magazines.

See, my bride-to-be wants me involved. She’s looking for input. She wants more than arm-candy. She’s looking for an all year sucker. And no matter how afraid I am of spending money, I figure I can help her. If nothing else, I can stopper-cap the money flow.

And that’s why at 9 pm on a Monday I walked into the Lucky Mart down the block. Wearing my flipped up collar topcoat and flip down snap-on sunglasses reflecting the world from beneath my Red Cross helmet, I cautiously placed a milk carton on the front counter.

I could see the attendant’s hand moving to the silent alarm. “So, a quart of milk. Will that be all sir?”

“Uhm…” I glanced around, making sure the aisles were clear of witnesses. “I’d like a comb…maybe—yes, hand me that Bee Gee’s keychain over there, and…” now or never, “well that Brides magazine—The Knot too, and let me get a gallon of gas too. And Vaseline…”

The counter girl understood. She put everything in a brown paper bag and double bagged the mags so I could leave with some dignity.

Once home, I close the blinds and hunch over both magazines. Six hundred pages and five minutes later, I finish. I’d tried skipping the pictures and only reading the articles. I was so unfulfilled. I open one magazine and try again.

“Bride Stephie likes long walks on the beach, purple anemones, Lucida Blackletter fonted escort cards, and the Los Angeles Biltmore seats-800 Crystal Ballroom for all her close friends and family.”

800? Stephie must be really close with all her Facebook hoarde. Me, I did see the pictures this time. They’re too perfect looking. I’m scared to death of them--them and everything else about Stephie’s wedding. “Seats 800?” And what the hell are “escort cards?” I thought they handed those out at Las Vegas conventions…

I look again at the pictures. Vertigo kicks in and my world reels. Thank God I have an empty stomach; I have nothing to lose. I loose the rest of the afternoon studying Stephie’s bridal-mates, including Carla’s centerfold of lobster, salmon, and crab spread for $85 a plate…

Hours later, my queen returns home to an empty house and a closet that whimpers.

I hear her at the closet door, “honey?”

Without opening the door, I stammer out my story. The dog-eared horror zines clutched in my shaking fingers.

Her shadow kneels at the doorway. “It’s ok,” she coaxes, “I don’t need attendants. We don’t need a big wedding.”

“But Stephie and Brad! They had one…”

“Steph--? Baby, I need you to push the bridal magazines under the door.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“They won’t fit.”

She opens the door.

Fifteen minutes and Twinkie-treat later, she entices me from my hidey-hole. After that, she secures the door, and pats the couch “Here boy! We need to talk.”

My Queen tells me all about the brides and the bees. She’s surprised that my parents hadn’t mentioned them before, but she’s open and patient. “Not all weddings are like the ones in the media. Some weddings are smaller than others—that’s ok. It’s not the size that matters. It’s the quality that counts.”

I opened the magazine to page 15. “But look at this: It’s a ‘wedding enhancement’ to bring more pleasure.”

“Honey, that’s a bridal consultant. We don’t need one of those. Our wedding is just fine the way it is.”

“But we haven’t planned it yet!”

“Relax.” She pets my hand. “We’ll do this together, and make it through.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Good. Then maybe you can explain this hardcover honemoon vacation book I got from the travel agency…”

Mixed Resolutions

Weddings and New Years don’t mix. Not for the reasons you might think, a vow is close to a resolution and Aunt Gertie will still get plastered, fall face up, panties down, into some over iced cake or some other drink--no matter what you call the holiday. No, we’re not even talking about our glorious event coinciding with the New Year’s Holiday (Although yes, I have had that conversation. That’s a blog topic within itself). I’m just talking about talking about weddings over New Years.

Our conversation started, couch cuddling, in front of Jeopardy, much like this:

PQ: Let’s talk about the wedding.

Alex: It’s time for double jeopardy!

ME: (strange gasping sounds of choking in Chex Mix) MMMM, Waff?

See I had no idea I was supposed to talk about this wedding thing. My proposal was that she ran off, create a wedding and reception like God fashioning Heaven and Earth: by herself. God didn’t need me for the creation thing and he only had seven days. My queen’s got unt—She hasn’t even picked a date! Sure, I was married once before, but that wedding preparation ended as a weird exhaustive thing, stumbling over vacuous morphing nuptial concepts until confused cross-eyed we yelled, “Let’s go to Vegas!”

That’s not the Pirate Queen way. I proposed less than a month ago, and she’s already three columns of Firefox bookmarks and seven spreadsheets into preparation and she’s only asking, “What colors do you like?”

That’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it has to do with that New Years thing I spoke of. See, with New Year’s comes resolutions:

“I’m not getting married until I fit into this dress.” She flashes a Google image of a curvy, statuesque gown with a waist that fits a Pixie Stick. I look at her and swallow the silence. Beside the picture, she looks up, expectant.

I smile, point back at the Chex Mix. “MMMf Waff!”

Contestant one says, “What’s another fine mess, Alex?”

I love my bride to be. I love her for all her curves. I love her better or worse. I love her thick or thin. but don’t know if we’re ever getting married if she’s planning on fitting the pixie dress.

She sits up and faces me. Cold air gusts past my exposed belly. “You don’t think I can get down into a size that would fit that dress?” Her command of my non-verbals is staggering!

“No, honey. Of course I believe you could fit that dress. I am worried about how long it will take you to lose all the weight.”

The cats clear the sofa.

“Hoof in mouth,” says Alex and leaves for a commercial.

There’s nothing left in the living room but me, my Chex Mix, and my icy-eyed Pirate bride to be—even the television has gone quiet.

The Pirate Queen puts down the TV remote control. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“Of course not, my love! Look. You’ve got curves. I love your curves. They fit well against my curves.” I grab another handful of Chex Mix.

“You’re right,” she stands. Leaning over she grabs my Chex Mix bag and walks away. I hear a noise that suggests my bag is now in our trashcan. “We’re not getting married until we lose some weight and can stand proudly naked in front of our families.”

“Uhm, that’s not gonna happen even if I lose weight.”

“Oh, baby, I told you, size doesn—“

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I sigh. There’s no getting out of this, but I try. “We can stand proudly in front of them without losing weight.”

“No, because this is our New Year’s resolution: we’re losing weight.”

What the hell? It wasn’t my resolution three Chex handfuls ago. “It is?”

“Yep,” She comes back into the living room and slips back against the opposite end of the couch. “We’re going on a low-carb diet.”

“A what?” Now I’m not I dieter. I’ve lost weight, but I accomplished that the manly way: through sweat and exercise, not by giving up food.

“You’ll have to pry this Twinkie out of my cold dead hand!”

She goes further into describing the low-carb diet to me as “Something you’ll have to research. “

I do—the research. I already do the other. There are almost as many low-carb diets as the Pirate Queen has little wedding bookmarks. I find good carbs and bad carbs warring for control of my obesity, while lean and fatty proteins vie for my soul. I had no idea. And now my queen expects me to. Who knew that marriage came with such responsibility?

That’s why I find myself today at the bookstore looking through diet books to enhance my New Years. If our wedding planning continues to absorb and covert holidays, I’m screwed: if we don’t get this wedding planned before Mother’s Day, there’ll be no way she’s fitting into the pixie dress.

Epilogue

So I might as well tell you: The Pirate Queen said "yes." I know. It's not exactly the way you wanted to hear the story, but despite my bloggy exterior, I still believe in privacy and personal things. Things and moments that belong to couples, and not the world. The moment I proposed. That moment is hers.

So what's new for the RobBlog in 2011? Well, I'm writing again. I'll blog more, and start posting short fiction on the Descarte's Lemming site, so keep your eyes open for that. Other than that, stay tuned, and find out with me!

Happy 2011! God's blessings to you and your family in the New Year.

Rob

Fluid Thinking

8:00am…

“Would you like some coffee, hon?”

“Yes, please. And some juice if you could.”

“Orange?” Ella is not the mind reading waitress I’d hoped for. To get what I want, I’ll need complete morning thoughts; it doesn’t bode well.

Too many thoughts…too little coffee.

“Yes, please.”

She nods, turns, and ambles. Ella’s next stop: the old man and little girl ahead of me sitting against the window. In this story, the old man we’ll call Grandpa. The little girl? She’s Cindy. Grandpa and Cindy’s conversation leads me to believe that this is not their first meeting. Grandpa’s getting coffee. Cindy’s focused on the blueberry—

“Pancakes!”

“Don’t you think we should order you something to drink first?”

“Pancakes! Pancakes! I want pancakes.” Cindy doesn’t need coffee. She’s battered in enthusiasm.

“Can you say please?”

Now she’s battered in silence. Cindy’s eyes roll back, greeting her forehead. “Hi forehead! You know this strange ‘please’ word Grandpa speaks of?”

Her lids shut tight, in a covert vocabulary egg hunt. Cindy is closed for repairs--

Ping!

Eyes wide sapphire glory blink-blinds me from across the diner. Cindy head tilts “Plee-ee-se?” Her mouth of babe a string of pearls.

8:05am

What am I doing here so early?

Great question. Thanks for asking. You find a good answer; let me know. All I know is the Pirate Queen left her car at the office and took the train last night. It’s the day before Christmas Eve and she wants to leave work early. That leaves me as her early morning pumpkin coach.

What? Where’d I lose you?

You’re looking at the Blogdate? Never go by that—I’m like milk: that’s my sell by date. It’s the date you need to buy my story, not the date I milk the story bull.

Cow?

Eh, maybe you should read the story first before you decide that. I’m just sayin’…

Now is the blogging of our discontent…

So where was I? Oh, December 23. I’m treading consciousness about ready to slip under.

…made glorious by—

“Coffee,” Ella’s back from Cindy’s pancake party.

“Thank you.” Just in time. I order my food and dip my face in my cup.

“Sourdough or wheat toast?”

I look up, black brew rolling from my nose. Ella still hasn’t walked away. “Sourdough.” Coffee falls flow onto the menu. Ella backs away as I lick the food list clean.

Neurons step forward for roll call. It’s too early to be up. Why am I up? Oh, yeah, the pirate queen. She took the train—

“No! Not Bob’s Big Boy! Coco’s!” Grandpa is a little flustered talking to Grandma on the cell phone. “Because I don’t know where the big boy is!”

Maybe I should introduce myself. “I’m the big boy today. How may I assist you?” Naw, Grandpa looks like he carried a gun in Korea. I’ll sit here. I’m not convinced he’s not carrying a gun in his sweat pants now.

Cindy is drawing life-size crayon portraits across the table. She doesn’t care if she’s at Bob’s Coco’s or Denny’s. Me, I’m ok here. Except, did I just lick the menu? I dip my tongue in scalding coffee for sixty-second sanitization bath.

What was I thinking? I look at my briefcase. I didn’t want to leave it in the car.

Peeling tongue flesh reminds me: I used to be Cindy innocent (although they called me Robby). The world was my fresh canvas. My only Crayola limitations were stay-in-lines-black-and-white. I ignored that color.

5…4…3…2…1…

Withdraw tongue from coffee. Dip tongue in cool orange juice.

Cindy looks over and smiles. She thinks I’m flirting.

Oww. That’s how Robby Cindy innocent learned his first lesson: pain. Touch a stove; stop a bike using front brakes only; lick Tammy Graybill’s chocolate covered cheek during sixth grade lunch. Things not to do--all learned through scabs and scars.

Marriage. Yeah, that too, although I learned it much later than sixth grade. Drawing my briefcase to my side, I wonder, did I really learn that? I went through the pain, but four years later I’m a two years mutineer in a relationship coloring blue skies and pretty flowers, every one bearing the Pirate Queen’s name.

“So he bent me over the kitchen counter…” No, it’s not Grandpa and Grandma. This conversation is coming from behind me. I’m guessing it’s the young bedraggled girl who sat behind me. I look back…

Yup, she’s got her phone to her ear. “No! His nose hair! It was exhilarating!”

I turn back to watch Cindy. I like her innocence. She’s got her pancakes, and Grandpa’s asking about the last time she came to visit him and Grandma and they went to the same Big Boy. Looking at the Coco’s sign outside his window, I find myself more than just a little concerned.

“Dan can’t find out—Because! I need his hairy back and toe love. I know! They make me crazy! I’m hot just thinking—Because. I’m telling you. This guy—last night’s guy--he made his nose hair wave like The Pampas in fall…”

I prefer the lost innocence of Cindy and Grandpa to call-girl behind me. She’s still learning that there are some lines to stay within if you don’t want to get burned. There’s a moment when we lose our innocence. We think that everybody we get close to is just like call-girl--or become one ourselves: it’s easier to not get hurt when you don’t let anybody close.

My omelet is here. I sprinkle Tabasco across the plate and look at my briefcase. Chewing on things, I reach in --clutching harsh corners. The box. It’s still there, solid and ominous as ever.

Am I sure I want this?

I’ve been here before. It’s more than breakfast at Coco’s. I’m floating on faith. 2010 was a turbulent sea colored in choices: grad school, unemployment, Hindsight, the house, the Pirate Queen.

The Pirate Queen. She’s kept me afloat. Why? What makes a Rob-lationship worth sailing? Don’t get me wrong. I like me. I float my boat, but what makes her like me? Even more important: what makes her love me?

I know why I love me. I also know why I love her. She’s warm. She’s funny. She’s silly. She’s smart. She sees everything as a list. Even more, she lets me lick chocolate from her cheek without breaking my jaw.

“Grandma!” It’s Cindy. Her grandma is here. Grandpa pops out of his seat, hugging Grandma. It’s warming. It can’t be warming for Grandpa; his sweatpants are slipping. I wish he’d turn the other way. I’m not getting a full moon, but it is at least waxing gibbous.

Grandma notices, and slides her hands down Grandpa’s back, lifting pants and cupping butt in one gesture. Grandpa smiles.

What would I be willing to risk for that? Is that what I want?

I pull the box from my case and smile. I almost cry at the answer: only if it’s the Pirate Queen.

“I’ll just leave this here,” it’s Ella with the check. “Whenever you’re ready—Ohh! That’s nice.”

“Thanks. It’s for my girlfriend.” I wipe my mouth and take the last sip of coffee. “I’m asking her to marry me this weekend.” I grab my check and leave.

I’m ready.