Cascading Water Worries

“Getting a tattoo gives you the same high as running.”   Yup, that’s what my friend told me.  Having never gotten anything from running but the woozy joy of a deflated lung, I had no idea what she was talking about.  If that was a high, no wonder I said no to drugs. I never had a tattoo either. 

 

What the hell is she talking about?

 

That’s not what I said.  I’m too cool for that.  I said, “Uh-huh….” Yup, I sounded two-scoops of pralines-n-cream intelligent, so I slathered on the cherry sauce:  “I give blood.”  I know, I’m a conversational non-sequitur treat. Everybody just dig in!

 

Thant’s how some of my conversations get, especially when I’m talking to somebody I want to talk to. I’m interested, but I don’t know what to say or how to relate. I say something that translates into, “I have no idea what I’m talking about.” I did though.  I knew. I just figured that giving blood was similar.  I mean, if I can have a needle jab euphoria, I’m sure that there’s an exsanguination high. Don’t believe me? Try completing a 45-minute workout after they cork the vein; I guarantee you that you will see God. 

 

Bloodletting, that brings great wisdom. Leeching works too, but I prefer a hot shower.  I’m a shower thinker.  It’s true!  When I stand naked in the shower, I can’t help but find something new.  The cool thing is that I can shower more than once every 8 weeks—and people appreciate that I do!   Showers allow me more time for free thought. What’s more, the shower doesn’t require blood loss, marathon running, or Gatling-gun needles poking my arm like an antsy four-year-old.

 

Momomomomomomomomomom….

 

I’d write my blogs in the shower if the monitor didn’t mist, and the water got all electrical tickly.

 

Still, that’s not what my friend likes. She prefers endorphin highs. It’s ok, we all pick our needle pricks.  Some people marry them.

 

Speaking of such things, I’ll bet you’re wondering where this blog is going, huh? 

 

What the hell is Rob talking about?

 

I’m talking conversationally.  I’m talking conversation. What’s the first thing we do when we meet new people?  Most people turn to talk.  Me, I spin around like Wonder Woman and get naked.

 

“Welcome to our writers’ group.  I’ll be your bare host.” 

 

Yeah, Barnes and Nobel asked that I leave my clothes on for any further meetings.  I don’t know why; I was a conversation starter and I definitely gave people something to write home about. Besides, I hate cold conversations.  I never know what to say to somebody I’ve never spoken to before.  Invariable, I stick with what I know.  I say something stupid.

 

“This one time at band camp…”

 

Coming up in February, I’m attending a writers’ conference.  Those are great things, even though nobody gets naked--At least not in the lobby. It’s a writer’s schmooze-fest. We go, we see, we beg for publication.  It’s glad-handing and mad-libbing galore.  I’m good at those.  Those are business. I’m selling me.

 

With people, it’s personal. It’s also social.  I’ll get a chance to talk to other writers. People who enjoy the same things I do; people who enjoy shower thinking.  Can I skip that part? 

 

See, we writers are a solitary lot: we like to park our cars alone. It makes us brooding and mysterious.  That’s how you can tell the real writers from the wannabes.  The wannabes wave bar napped apple-tinis, while chatting about every sentence they ever wrote. The real writers slouch in a booth, nursing tumbler of Jack, copying every word for their next obnoxious character.

 

I may not be a real writer, but I’m pretentious and brooding like the best of them.  I think that qualifies me for publication. It doesn’t qualify me to socialize with strangers.

 

See, since the divorce, I’ve kept to my hermitage and avoided the public.  Now I’m going out and it’s kinda scary.

 

My tattooed friend thinks it’s good for me.  “Good for you!” she says.  She sounds like she means it.

“Couldn’t I just get naked instead?”

“What?”

See? And that’s just how I talk to friends.  Imagine what I’m like with people I don’t know.

 

“Wanna see my naked eye?”

Yeah, I think I’ll just hang out in the shower and think.

Stuck with Mickey

MyEx had an ex before me.  Nope, I was not her first.  She was my first. That’s right, I was a divorce virgin before I met her.  I don’t say that to point out semaphore flags I should have seen prior to the seminal “I do” moment.  I just say it because that’s the way it happened.  If I’d seen them, would they have scared me off anyway?  I mean what good is that information?  If you go to SoCal, you should see Disneyland.  If you don’t, well then, whose Mickey Mouse snafu is that? If you get married, to somebody who’s divorced, you should ask some questions.  I did.  The answers seemed appropriate.

 

Have you ever noticed that about creating exes?  After a divorce, or a bad break-up, everybody tells you about all the things you should have seen--all the telltale hearts lub-dubbing like a sub-woofer from under the bed. The blond in Friday the 13^th should have seen the axe coming, but she didn’t.  She was busy screwing around with a guy in the duck hunter’s cap.

 

You know, you wouldn’t have that blade protruding from your skull, if you had just listened for the creepy music, and not had sex with Donald Duck.

 

At least she had people yelling at the screen.  Who yells for us?  I didn’t have anybody saying, “ya know, Rob.  She’s a woman, and they divorce.”

 

The signs are there, but only if you know what you’re looking for, and not all signs say anything more than “caution.”  See with MyEx, her previous divorce was something different. She married somebody who wasn’t right for her.

 

Oh, you can stop your giggling now, thank you very much. That statement isn’t as obvious as it may seem. 

 

See, some people bring out our best others bring out our worst.  I once dated a woman who made me very insecure.   MyEx never did that.

 

In fact, she and I managed the one thing I never thought was possible:  We carried on a long distance relationship for almost 2 years.  In that facet, she brought out the best in me.  We felt comfortable, whether together or apart.  In that, we were a good match. 

 

Now obviously there were other problems, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing a divorce blog, would I?  But see?  Even divorced, that still works for us:  I haven’t been with her in over a year, and I’m very secure in where our relationship stands.

 

It’s that couple dynamic; it’s an epoxy.  You know what epoxy is right?  It’s 2 chemicals that mix together and create an adhesive.  Epoxy can do everything from patch bathtubs, to mend fiberglass--if the mix is right.  If the mix is wrong, then it’s lumpy oatmeal floating in week-old fish broth and that drips through the cracks, ruining everything it touches.

 

That’s the way people are.  We all crack. We all break. A good blend will heal that.  A good blend will hold together under the stress.  On the other sticky finger, a bad blend drives things apart and makes us agitated. It depends on our resin resolve and our hardening agent partner.   That means that in the wrong instance, a good person can be the completely wrong person.  It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just not a good chemical mix. I’m a good guy, but I can list of several women I don’t mix with.  We heat, we fizz but in the end, we’re just tuna-smelling oat paste.  It happens.

 

In some cases the reaction is violent, in others it doesn’t react at all.  So what signs reflect this?  None that I know of, you just try for the blend and see what happens.  Yeah, I think that’s the way they discovered chlorine gas too.

 

But chemical responses are tricky.  They don’t always happen immediately, sometimes it takes time to cure.  Yes, I know, so does venereal disease, but I promise, this is a good cure.

 

Some compounds that don’t seem to react, just take time, and yeah, some compounds that do seem to react, may not have enough to make them work.  They get warm, but still just equate to stink and paste.

 

So now I know, you want to get personal.  I see the questions dripping from your lips.  Go ahead, wipe them off, they’re starting to pool on your keyboard.  You’re thinking, “Have you had one of these tuna-paste meetings recently Rob?  Is that why you’re mentioning them?”

 

You answer is this: Yes. I was in my local coffee shop, getting my usual coffee, and the store manager cut in front of me to tell the barista that the district manager was there.  The manager whipped around to see me glaring at her. She didn’t blink. She didn’t apologize; she just whisked off, broom in hand, her tuna perfume wafting in her wake.

 

See, it doesn’t have to be long-term relationships that leave us lumpy, but the long term ones we can’t escape.  In my coffee case, I could have wandered off without my caffeine.  In marriage, well I’m just stuck there, epoxy or not.

 

That’s what makes marriage so hard though: sticking together, because in all relationships, even the strongest bond loosens.  It’s easy to say, “well of course they divorced,” when watching a bad fix fall apart. But it isn’t always as easy as that and some blends surprise us all.

 

You can’t judge a divorced person by the scarlet “D” on their chest. MyEx had an ex before me.  I saw the sign, but all it said was “caution.”  Someday, I’ll want to get married again, I hope that that woman will accept that I had an ex before her and that she won’t let that alter our chemical bond. Because, I’m not just about my divorce, in the same way that SoCal is not just about Disneyland. Don’t tell that to Mickey though; he’s one bitter mouse when crossed.

You know, you wouldn’t have that blade protruding from your skull, if you had just listened for the creepy music, and not had sex with Donald Duck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trees

Watch a tree. Seriously, grab a seat, kick back for a century or so and revel in how it’s long arms stretch and clutch to the sun while avoiding the shadow.

 

Wanna hear a math joke? You’ve got 3 seconds to say no.  What?  I can’t hear you!  Great! Way to reach for the light!  Here goes:

 

What did the acorn say when it grew up?

Gee-I’ma-tree!

 

Hey!  Where did everybody go? That one killed at Slide-rula-palooza. Even Steven Hawking laughed.  Although that was kinda creepy. I think he’s a Math Sith Lord.

 

I can feel your anger. It gives you focus. It makes you stronger.

 

That’s just me hawking a bad joke.  I need to get back to pruning my tree—so to speak. That’s what I’m talking about today: trees and pruning.  Won’t that be fun?  Jump into your small world craft as the children lull you with their world of laughter and world of tears. I’ll ready the rope and the shears.

 

That’s one of the things I’ve learned about divorce:  It’s one great pruning; everything goes.

 

Relationships-clip-clip.

Material positions-clip-clip.

Emotional security-clip-clip.

Dignity-well, the next sound you hear will be the courtroom chainsaw priming for your big chunks.

 

When it’s done, all that’s left is a Charlie Brown Christmas twig surrounded by piles of dog poop and detritus.  Don’t worry, you’ll get to keep that; it’s a little smelly, but it’ll create a great mulch and will form a topiary template for how you see your future relationships. Whatever you do with it, it’s your baggage, and it’s really just the same ol’ crap.

 

That’s all of us after divorce, even me: a twig in the sand.  The good news is that if the over pruning doesn’t wipe you out, there’s nothing left but growth.  You’ll flourish. A strong tree sprouting new limbs you least expected.  We’re the same way. Me, I’m just a little thicker in the trunk.

 

The important thing is that good trees stretch towards the light; good limbs sprout leaves and bask in the new warmth.  It’s a time of regeneration.  You can hear the sigh’s of “ahhh” from all over the D360 orchard, as the over-pruned start anew.

 

It’s what makes the next step even harder.  See, a pruning is a process.  Good limbs grow, but so do bad ones.  They’re weak, or they’re twisted like ingrown nails. Bad limbs inhibit growth.  We never know they’re bad until it’s too late usually—until somebody comes back with the pruning shears.

 

I read a news article today.  Some woman was afraid she’d married a cheating willow, so she doused his…uhm middle limb…in alcohol, and set it on fire.  Surprisingly, he leapt from bed and ran around the house screaming.

 

Now, I’m guessing that this happened in the middle of the night.  What would that have been like? You’re there sleeping, dreaming of a perfectly good ham sandwich.  Now your body recognizes that something is touching your happy regions in your sleep so it gets all excited.  In your dream maybe the ham sandwich turns into a blond sandwich or something equally as cheesy, and your tiny acorn turns into a mighty oak. Then, just as things get good: FWOOM! 

 

AHHHHHH!! Now you’re running around the house screaming like a little school-girl with singed cookies.

 

What about anybody watching?  I’m sure your dancing flashlight is one nobody will forget for quite some time.

 

Goodness-gracious! Great balls of fire!

 

So what does his wife say after she’s scorched her husband’s tree to the ground?

 

“I just wanted to burn his penis so it belongs to me and no one else. I didn’t mean this to happen.”  Yeah, well that’s another case of fruits of victory turning to ashes in the mouth—so to speak. This woman is a serious over-pruner.

 

I’m happy to say I kept my tree in my divorce.  Some mornings I look down in the shower to make sure it’s still there.  It looks back in confirmation. 

 

Good to have you still with me!

Right backatcha, Rob!

 

That was not something MyEx pruned.  

 

But like I said, pruning is a process, and as I grow new dignity, things, and relationships, some well intending gardeners will prune.  That hurts.  Nobody likes to lose their limbs. Yet, it’s necessary.  It’s a natural part of growth, and it keeps us from becoming overburdened and self-conflicted with destructive things.

 

This knowledge doesn’t make it easier.  My limbs grow slow and cautious, so when the few sprouts I have get clipped (ok, no penis jokes please.  Just put down the penis and watch my other limbs, thank you.), I fret.

 

When pruned, it’s easy to forget our purpose and wilt.  I’ve gone through lots of secondary pruning lately, and It’s hard to see the mighty oak twig for the felled forest.  I see broken relationships, and personal branches ending short, cut away.  I can’t see the new growth. Still, I have to look.

 

The thing is, in the heart of winter things look bleak, but summer is coming, and I’ve learned that I have strong roots.  Even now, this nubby twig feels the twinge of growth. Maybe this year I’ll experience pollination, and grafting from other trees.

 

And what’s in store for you my sapling friends?  Well if this ashy white twig can survive prune happy gardeners, I’m sure that you too can grow to be big and tall. Just look out for the wacky lady with the alcohol soaked rag.  She’s a little crazy.

My Opic Perspective.

I’m blind.  Ok, only legally, and really only when I drive.  The rest of the time I’m myopic, astigmatic, and suffer from nystagmus. This means I only see things close, warped, and moving.  Yeah, you should probably know that before you sit in the passenger seat of my car.  That’s why, when we were married, MyEx always drove. The car.

 

When I was younger, my parents were afraid to teach me how to drive.

 

Thump-thump

“What was that?”

“Your father.  Keep driving.”

 

Yeah, I come from a close family.  Thank God; I’m myopic, remember? 

 

I think my eye issues move with the other aspects of my life.  I mean, I’ve been told that I’m warped many times.  I’ve also noticed I can be a bit myopic too; I focus on one close aspect, while other things slip past.

 

It’s kinda scary considering I’m so scattered.  This leaves me leading a Missle Command lifestyle. Remember that game?  Little space dots rush down and try to obliterate your pixel-poo-pile cities.  If you miss a dot, pootown is flushed away in a murhroom cloud.  That’s Rob in missle crisis mode; I’m shooting down whatever I feel is most immediate and sticking with it while other dots rush past.

 

During the divorce, that was kind of a blessing.  I buried myself in my work, and shot through it trying to ignore everything else.  Now, I’ve made it to a higher level, and like keeps telling me “Now all your base are belong to us. “

 

What does that mean?  I have no idea, I didn’t know when I played the game either, but I’m nearsighted and warped, remember?

 

I’m dealing with Cosmo issues, and life is rushing past.  I have a writers’ conference in February and I almost missed a deadline.  I’m a writer; I know better than that! So this morning after talking with the dead dog lady to confirm the freeway corpse wasn’t Cosmo’s, I rushed down to Staples to overnight my entry.

 

And speaking of myopic, I forgot to thank MaryBecca2 for her editing prowess. Thank You MB2. Once again, sorry, both eyes were locked on the missing dog.  I don’t know which eye malady makes me ungrateful, but I’m guessing Jerry Garcia never had it. 

 

Oh, yeah, the warped thing.  Sorry…  

 

Anyway, I didn’t want to make the same mistake again, so when I got back home, I made sure to thank dead dog lady for her help.  That’s when I found out she’d written a guide to finding lost pets. She’d emailed me a copy.

 

The guide was great. I guess she’s a pet detective, so, she had tons of great pet finding tips. Once again, I made sure to thank her.  I even told her I’d mention her in my blog. 

 

“Concentrate on finding Cosmo for now.”

“Ok.”

 

See?  I almost lost focus.  Thank goodness somebody had a short leash on me.  I’d have wandered onto the freeway again.

 

Focus on my dog, focus on my dog, focus on my dog....

 

One thing she recommended was that I put banners around the close freeways.  That made a lot of sense, especially since my part of town is essentially boxed in by freeways, I could let  more people know about Cosmo’s plight while they’re trapped in mortal gridlock.

 

Before I left to get the supplies, I remembered to thank her, and once again, mention that I would mention her to my 2 readers.  As I grabbed my wallet her reply email came back:

 

I would rather you mention that I am single! ;-)

 

I jotted a quick note and rushed out to get supplies:

 

I will, but one of my readers is a woman, and the other one is my dad.  I’ll tell you what; I’ll keep my eye out for any dog-loving single guys and pass the word along, OK? 

 

And with my act of gratitude, I’m back out on my myopic pup-quest.

Ants and Plants

 

A dog with no tags wandered into my yard yesterday. I know this dog has to be someone's pet. The dog is mostly clean, no fleas, nails clipped, friendly. People are generally pretty irresponsible with their pets in this area, but I haven't seen this dog before. I don't think it came from anywhere around here.

 

That’s an ad from the Craig’s List. It appeared Saturday, and I replied with mixed emotions and high hopes.  That’s how life is for me. It’s mixed, odd, high and quirky.   It’s ant vs. rubber tree in a battle royale where the ant uses true ACME tools and the rubber tree is superglued to the floor.

 

Ooops there goes another herniated ant…

 

But Rob, you say that you’re an optimist!

I am, I also say I don’t talk to myself. Which are you going to believe?

 

Actually I am an optimist.  I see the rubber as half filled.  Well wait.  That may be what I see, but it’s not what I meant.  I meant that I recognize that life is stacked against a chosen few, and that if you ask anybody who knows me, they’ll tell you that there is nobody more blessedly chosen than I am.  I can hold the fruit of victory in one hand, and know that some other hand is gonna run off with that watermelon of joy every time.

 

Remember the bugs Bunny picnic cartoons?  The ones where his food wanders off? He grabs the watermelon, and there, underneath, is an ant going away with his hands empty? 

 

Usually, that ant is played by Robert Boyd.

 

I’m used to it.  It’s part of my charm.  See, just because my joy is lifted from my hands doesn’t mean that I have to let it go quietly.  I’m going back to get it. No joy left behind.  That’s my policy. Somebody’s gonna get tired of this game of ant and house plant, and it isn’t me.  I’m a professional.  I’m an optimist because I refuse to let the rubber tree walk away. 

 

Something’s got to give, it should be the stretchy thing.

 

This doesn’t really make me special, just determined.

 

My dog is still missing, but I’m determined to find him; it’s just going to take longer than expected. That Craig’s List ad? It brought hope. Who cares if it was a little grumbly about irresponsible parenting techniques?  They’d found a Cosmo-esque dog. I’ll take the tongue lashing, if the flicking tip leads to my little buddy.

 

It didn’t.  No matter how Cosmo-esque the dog was, it wasn’t the real thing.  It was just a plastic fruit dangled before my hungry ant eyes.

 

Saturday I told MyEx about Cosmo.  It was time. I had high hopes she wouldn’t take it too hard.

 

“As his mommy, I thought you should know: Cosmo ran off.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uhm, I know that the back yard is a little over grown, but I assure you, he’s not lying dead under the bougainvillea.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Good, cuz for the record, I did look. What kind of dad do you think I am?”

“Uhm, good?”

 

We talked.  I unloaded.  It felt good. It’s been weird, the last few days. I’ve already driven around to all the animal shelters looking for positive signs.

 

“Your Dog Here!”

 

I didn’t find one.  The little girl at one of the shelters was really helpful though.  She brought out the big black binder.

 

“I, uhm, usually don’t like showing this—because, you know—but you’re welcome to look.  If you want.”  I looked at the binder.  The cover held one bold word: “DECEASED.” Not a word for the weak or optimist at heart.

The tome weighed heavy in my hands.  I couldn’t imagine flipping through this 500lb rubber tree, let alone wanting any part of it. This couldn’t be the fruits of my search.

“Oh, I have a picture!” I clicked my iPhone to show her what my undeceased dog looked like.

“Oh!” She smiled, “Well now that I know what he looks like, let me go check the new receipts.”  She scurried off.

 

Standing there with the big book of death, I thought about my dog.  He never had a song.  Everybody who’s been in my life for any time has a song.  MyEx has a couple of them. Cosmo didn’t have one.  My mind grabbed at whatever it could, trying to give him one.  That didn’t work well; it clutched at what I’d just heard in the car: Alice in Chains, “Them Bones.”

 

Some say were born into the grave…

 

Hmmm, not quite the happy ant march I was digging for. Maybe Cosmo doesn’t need a song. I opened the book.  While I’m flipping through ledgers of dogs, four paws to the grave, I see movie flashes of my pup’s life. His first poop inside, his first doggy kisses, the first rose he dug up and laid at my feet.  Cosmo was such a loving dog.

 

He also wasn’t in the book of the dead.  That’s when the little girl returned to let me know he wasn’t in the back either.

 

I went home, where he still wasn’t, and called MyEx.  She promised to call her friend at the Shelter, and post his picture around her office (Cosmo’s picture, not the friend at the shelter’s).  This whole Cosmo quest has felt so strange.

 

The last time somebody ran away, I got a divorce.  I felt alone.  I didn’t have anybody in town I could lean on, and my few friends out of state proffered the pat-pat of condolence and were as “there-there” for me as they could be.

 

Now my dog is somewhere partying it up, and everybody is here, even the people who made me feel the loneliest. That’s just surreal. I am a melting clock in a Dali painting, cuz this isn’t natural for me. People I know, people I don’t, they’re all grabbing a chunk of rubber tree pot and lifting what they can.  It’s so different from the divorce. 

 

Is it me?  Is it my perspective? Is it really how things are?  Divorce, nobody really wants to dirty their hands, but when it comes to pets, everybody is ruffling all the fur they can.  I’m not complaining--at least not from this vantage point.  I can assure you, when I was going through the divorce, I was blog-logging reams of complaints.

 

Right now I’m just happy for the support.  And when I see ads for the Cosmo-esque pups I feel a little more hopeful.

 

That’s why this one I hit pretty hard:

 

German Shepherd or German Shepherd mix was hit and killed on the 215 South in Riverside. Sorry.

 

I replied with mixed emotions and high hopes.  That’s how life is for me. I have never hoped that I have not found my dog more in all my life. 

Dogged Resolutions

New Year’s resolutions. Despite how I feel on the topic, I went ahead and made one: find my dog.  Yeah.  That’s about as resolution resolute as I get.  I mean most resolutions are bong fumes of hope meant to get high on self-empowerment and self-enrichment. 

 

I mean nevermind that there’s a whole lot of self-stroking going on here, there’s no substance, no plan, no meat.  Resolutionists are setting themselves up for failure.  Even I can do that.  I resolve to marry the girl I took to the Christmas semi-formal in high school.  There.  Now I’m going to fail.

 

Ok, and wouldn’t it be really creepy if she called…

 

Giving up food drink and cigarettes never work because we plan for the moment.  We take the hottest fad and shape it to our immediate needs.  Bob Smith’s “all you can load into a pig intestine diet” may sound like the swine’s oink right now, but once you lose the weight cuz your choking on the diet, what’s do you do next?

 

Cheesecake Party!

 

See that’s the thing with resolutions.  They’re short.   Snack resolutions won’t work. Try changing the way you eat for the rest of your life.  If you can stomach that, and make it a part of your everyday, you can succeed.  That’s what it means to be resolute. 

 

Bob Smith had a resolution:  Make money. He’ll thank you with his next book “The Emperor’s New Diet and Other Ways to Get Rich Quick.”  He had a plan, and he followed through.  Of course his plan was easy: Get others to follow.

 

Maybe my resolution should be to spread optimism throughout the blogosphere. Yeah, better stick to one I can complete.  I resolve you’ll have appropriate amounts of Rob cheer in blogs to come.  Yup, there go my 2 readers.

 

That’s why my resolution is to find my dog.  I have a plan.  Oh I might fail, but I will do all that I can. I have a leash. I have some snacks. The rest is up to God. Cosmo will be back.

 

It’s funny.  My resolution was going to be: start my long walks again.  I used to make 9-mile walks once a month.  I haven’t done that since September.  Things just got in the way.  This year I resolved to ignore all obstacles.  Then my dog disappeared.

 

Seems I tripped over that one; so much for that resolution.  I might as well have given up swearing.  Cuz I did plenty of that too.

 

Still, by the end of the day, I found that I’d kept my original resolution—sort of.  See I didn’t make 9 miles, but I can assure you that all the hours I spent walking around calling his name, that added up to at least 6 of 9.  It’s not perfect, but the year has to start somewhere.

 

Next step in any resolution is to plan it out.  How will you accomplish your goal?  In my case, well, I did the walking. I put up posters.  Phase 2 is to visit the animal shelter, and do more canvassing.

 

One thing you have to be careful of in resolutions is to avoid being sidetracked.  I considered calling MyEx.  I didn’t call her, and no, it wasn’t out of spite.  She loves Cosmo as much as I do, and I would tell her, but right now what can she do?  She can worry, but I promise, I’ve got that aspect covered.  I’m doing all the worry Cosmo needs. Extra worry doesn’t help.  In fact, it can be a distraction.

 

I’ve seen horror movies.  The guy who worries about the thing coming through the door gets eaten by the thing coming through the wall.  With my luck it’ll be somebody on the pig intestine diet.

 

Nope. I opted out. I’ll call her when things are more concrete.  At least let me check the shelter first. I don’t need more obstacles.

 

Divorce can be an obstacle.  Even though it’s been over a year since I worked on a plan with MyEx, I still remember how things work with more people.  If she were here, one of us would wait at home with a ready pet and treat, while the other person combed the street, cell phone in hand. We’d be in constant contact calling out map coordinates and marking pushpin dog sightings.  Now, it’s just me, I don’t have the same resources.

 

It’s fine; it’s just a different strategy. It’s all about being dogged in my doggy quest.  That I am.  I’ve already been out twice today, and did some of my blogging sitting in front of my garage, just in case he wandered by.

 

Cosmo is my resolution.

 

I know you have yours.  Don’t be embarrassed.  I see Bob’s book under your arm.  I’m not even hurt that your sizing me up for intestine as I type. The real point is: if you’ve made a resolution, keep it.  Don’t set yourself up to fail; it’ll only lower your self-image.  If you’ve been through a divorce, why would you need to lower that anymore?  No, once you’ve made a resolution, keep it.  Make a plan and set some goals. Make realistic ones.

 

Whatever your resolution make it for yourself and make it stick.  As for myself, I’ve got to go.  I’ve got a dog to find.

 

Missing.

New Year’s Day is always about reflection.  It’s a chance to stare into the pool of the previous year and differentiate between the reality of who we are and the yellow kiddy pee of our distorted views.

 

I also believe it’s the harbinger of the year to come.  What we make of New Year’s Day is what becomes of our new year.  Last year, a friend told me that her family used to dress up in their best clothes for the New Year and that way they’d be at their best when the newy gooey goodness hit.

 

2008 was a year of healing. New Years day 08 I feasted on chicken noodle and drank the broth of paradise. I spent the day recovering from a nasty cold.   I stayed home and healed.  That’s the way the whole year went. It was me recovering from the horror of 2007.  It was Rob finding his “me” legs again.

 

I think that’s why I’m most concerned about 2009. This morning I got up, and the sky was a flawless blue; the mountains were all visible; it was already 70 degrees outside; the air tasted clean; the birds chattered a welcoming song; my dog and companion was missing.

 

He never leaves.  I had no gate on my yard for a month, and he stayed in the back.  I put up a makeshift chain link barrier to keep him honest. This morning, the barrier was down and Cosmo had left home.

 

After MyEx left, he was my one true friend left in hug’s reach.  You know what I found out when he went missing?  That’s still the case.  Because the first thing I wanted to do was to reach out for help.  There was nobody to embrace. 

 

It’s like playing musical chairs and finding out you’re the one left standing. 

 

“Oh, that’s me…”

 

I’m not saying this for an “awww…” I don’t need a pat, pat and a “it’ll be alright.”  It’s my own doing.  I mean, I work at home, and I spend most of my time there.  Even in my cyberworld, I’ve surrounded myself with breakaway people and people keeping a distance. I have no one really to tell that my best friend is gone. It feels like nobody would care, except me, and I already know.

 

It’s amazing at a point of loss how alone we perceive ourselves to be.  I might have five…ok two…well, fine no people standing up to say “I’m here,” but I still feel alone.  That’s the perception. We’re really blessed when there’s somebody we can call in a knee jerk reflex.

 

I’ve been a knee jerk. When we were dating, MyEx had a small dog.  He was really cute.  One day MyEx found the same thing I did: no dog.  She was devastated.  I remember listening to her cry over the phone.  I also remember during our divorce I selfishly wished she’d have cried half as much for me.  Still, I was glad that I could be there for her while I could.

 

So as I’m walking my neighborhood, calling my dog’s name I start realizing what a bad doggie daddy I am.  I mean my pup could be anywhere—hurt or worse—and I’m worrying about my shallow relationships. I say I want real people in my life, but how can I expect that when even now I’m being selfish and shallow?

 

And speaking of selfish and shallow, I’m beginning to feel just a little like Job.  I really would like something to go easy and work for me, you know?  I want to rail at God.  I want the victories I see others around me celebrating.  I want my dog, damnit!

 

I’m lashing and blaming everybody from MyEx to far away friends for my dog’s disappearance.  It’s not my fault, and now I’m striking out personal relationships because they’re personal.  See? Everybody leaves!  Even my dog.  It’s just a matter of time.  A chill wind whispers past, and I pull my self-pity coat snug, calling out the name of my betrayer dog and all his cohorts like a team of sled dogs to whip.

 

I go home, make a ream of flyers, then it’s back to the street.  I’ve got a job to do, and like Job, I may not understand my lot in life but it’s the one I’ve drawn.  See, I’m being forged for something.  I wish I knew what so I could at least bend the right way. All I know is that 09 looks like a forging year.

 

Maybe it’ll be a year of forging lasting relationships: strengthening old, finding new, maybe even relationships lost will return and flourish. 2008 was the year of the me, but 2009 looks to be the year of the expanding we.  I’m healed and it’s time to start looking outside the me side of relationships and delve into the dynamics of duos.

 

The fliers are all posted.  I’ve made myself available.  I’ve done what I can.  I wish I could be more proactive in this process, but that’s not my lot either. I just have to trust and wait.

 

You know what’s weird? Even as I type this, I find myself hoping somebody stole him because they loved him.  All I really want is for my friend to be safe and happy. If it’s not with me, then fine.  Everybody deserves love, and so long as the lost get that, what more can I ask?  It’s much better than hurt, abused, or alone and scared.

 

So I wait. I’m finding all relationships require that, because they all peak and wane. But when my pup returns, I’ll be here, and he’ll always have a home. 

 

Staring into the pool of my discontent, that’s all I can offer anyone in 2009: I’ll be here.