Geminis: Dissociative Identity Disorder or just a Gift Basket Personalities?

I’m gonna go get touched like I haven't been touched in six months. That's right it's time for my visit with Beverly, my dental hygienist.

It's kinda weird. I'm afraid somebody in the office will mention MyUnwife. What do I say? I mean I know what to say, but still. Will they stare at me? Treat me like the outcast I am? Maybe Beverly will say "uh, huh.." and then start maliciously prodding my mouth. I've seen the dentist horror movies! Beverly wields a glistening steel scraper!

Ok, scratch that whole thing before the scraper. I just reread that and realized that "no I'm not concerned about these things." Huh…

It's like when I sprained my ankle. Climb into the Way-back machine with me, Sherman, let's go see that, shall we? I first sprained my ankle in high school. I lived 8 miles outside of town and rode the bus. I know, this is already sounding like a story my grandfather told me too, but hang in there.

In the winter it got really cold, and rather than stand out and freeze my ass off, I'd time my walk so that the bus and I arrived at the stop at same time. I was good. Ok, that's a lie; the bus driver was patient. One morning, I was way behind. The bus pulled up as I scrambled down the last hill to the stop. Mentally, I willed the bus not to pull out before I made the stop. My attention wasn't on my footing, and I stepped on a rock that shot out from underneath me. I would have fallen down and rolled into a ditch, if I hadn't bounced off the ball of my ankle. Lucky me: still standing but ready to pass out in pain. I made the bus that morning. The driver yelled at me for being late, but I couldn't tell you what she said. The outside world was vanishing in a tunnel of grey pain…

It took weeks for my ankle to heal. Even after it healed, I remained cautious with it. I coddled it, doing anything I could to keep it from pain. At least until the next month, when I needed to run to catch the bus again. Running down the hill I realized, "Hey! My ankle is healed!" Any other time in my life this is where I would have twisted it again, but that day, God smiled upon me. That day, God saved irony, because irony is a dish best served as a surprise.

Anyway, the ankle thing. It's the same thing I just noticed about my divorce. I thought about my divorce and realized I'm okay with it. Not as in, "Nothing I can do about it." but more like "oh yeah, I was married once." It's weird. I think about MyUnwife, and I'm not mad. I don't miss her; I just—let's just say that she's 10 of my favorite years now passed. You remember the first time you went to Disneyland (or "world" for all my Floridian friends)? You spent the whole day having the coolest time,. Riding the rides, standing in lines, tossing cold ones back with your favorite characters, until it was time to go? Then, your parents had to pry you from Mickey's leg with a breaker bar. The whole next day all you wanted to do was go back, because it was so cool. That's how I viewed my marriage. Say what you will about the good, the bad, the fault, the blame, the whys and the who cares, blah, blah, blah. It was 10 of my favorite years. Period. It'll be hard to top.

But I will. The trip is over, now it's back to the life of Rob. I have a good life when I look at it. It get's to be a little lonely, but that's not irreparable. I just have to make time for other people. But the marriage of me and MyUnwife? I'm done. I don't say that out of anger, or one-upmanship. I say that the same way a three year old throws a tantrum.

"WAAAAAAA!"

"You can come out of your room when you're done."

"WAAAAAAA!"

"WAAAAAA!"

"Ok, I'm done."

I'm still sitting in my room, but I'll be out in time. When the time is right, the State of California will decree that it's over and I'll put my ring somewhere that's not on my finger and close this chapter. Emotionally though, my tantrum is done.

What does that mean to you my dear reader? Weill The blog is still about divorce, so I'll talk about it. I'll talk about my day to day. I'll answer questions, but I think I'm done dealing with MyUnwife. If you want to hear more about her, she's on that pedestal in the past. This is Rob's blog, and Rob has a future, and a date with some dental tools.

Happy? Oh Happy? Oh Where for art Thou, Happy? Oh...

I want to be happy. Is that something that works for you? No, I don't care if you're happy, I mean does it work for you if I'm happy? Good, lets work on that together. That will become our worldwide mission: Make Rob Happy. You there, in Wisconsin, bring me a beer. Why are you shaking it? AWWWW! You didn't have to do that, now I smell like…ok that hasn't changed, but I'm wet now. Thanks a lot. I'm not happy.

Actually in my divorce I try to keep the mood swings from leg humping jubilant, to comatose apathetic. I figure if I can stay clear of random fits of weeping it's a good day. I'm a guy. We don't feel sorrow, we just bottle it up inside until we become a salty water balloon looking for a place to explode.

"Would you like help out with that tonight sir?"

"That's what MyUnwife used to say before sex! Why do you always have to talk about my divorce?"

""Can I get a clean up at the cashier aisle…"

I found one of the things that helps keep the mood arrow in the green is working out. The exercise not only gets me in shape, but it gives me a sense of accomplishment. "I did something today!" I'd forgotten that for a few weeks. I've been feeling down. My treadmill broke just after 3 months and Sears won't fix it. Well they will, but they want to charge me 90 bucks to knock on my door, and then tell me what they want to charge me to fix it. The parts are covered, I just need to pay for the idiot who knows how to knock on my door.

I could fix it. It's not rocket science. It's treadmill science. Even the manufacturer says I can fix it. They told me what was wrong over the phone. The problem is they don't carry their own parts. Only Sears carries their parts, and Sears won't give me the part without the guy who knows how to knock on my door. My treadmill a glass encased cockroach paperweight. I can't afford a new one. I know where I won't be buying it when I can, but that's another story.

So I've been trying to find a new routine, a new way of getting exercise, a new way to find my happy. For now that way is an exercise video. GAAA! I don't know why but it feels weird just saying that. I've always thought the videos were such a rip-off. Still, I've found one that works for me. I'm getting my cardio with Barney. No, not the Flintstones' neighbor, the purple dinosaur. I figure if it works for his tubby ass, it's gotta work for me. You should see him in the video: He's ripped. The last workout on the DVD he eats Tony Little. Tony tries to get away. I swear he does. His legs little legs move really fast, but that little Gazelle Freestyle doesn't go anywhere. You can do it! No Tony, I don't think you can.

Still despite my whining, I do feel better. Exercise helps my happy. It's not a cure all, but it's a start. I found something else that makes me happy too: fuzzy slippers. I got those in the mail as an early Christmas gift to myself. Warm feet are happy feet. Thank you Rob, you know how to make me happy! I couldn't do that for MyUnwife, but that's ok. I'm sending her Barney for Christmas. Ah, the screams of Christmas cheer…

Alarm Clocks and Time Pieces

What do I miss about my marriage? Well if you've read my blog, you know there are plenty of things. Yesterday I discovered I missed MyUnwife the alarm clock. Sure. I miss waking up every morning and tapping her on the head so I can snooze a little longer. I miss her rolling over and kneeing me in the spine until I fall out of bed, crippled, but awake and ready to start my day.

Ok, she never did that. She was already at work by the time I got up. I do remember the first year we were married she came home for lunch. I liked that. She stopped when her work moved her further from our house. When we moved closer to her work, she never started it back up again. I missed that. I also missed when she stopped calling home at lunch. I guess they moved the phone lines too. Sorry, just a bitter whine, nothing to be alarmed about.

See, couples settle into routines. Comfortable one are kept, unnatural ones fall away. That's where the alarm clock thing comes in. I grew comfortable with my day moving on her time table. I knew what time to expect her home from work, so I'd make sure to shower and be clean for that. I knew that I had to cut a wife sized hole in my work schedule at night. Make space for comfortable time. Each day, the clock would reset and we'd do it again.

When she announced her intent to leave, the timetable shifted. She hung out at work later, she worked out in the evening, I'd stay up later at night. This worked into an hour of quality time we needed to avoid each other. Our hour of alarm.

Now that she's gone, the time belongs to me, and I'm only good at losing it. Last night I had a computer problem. My Wi-Fi connection went down. Now in the real world, this isn't earth shattering. This is something to be filed and dealt with as needed. In Robworld this is Chernobyl melting down. All efforts are now focused on cleaning things up and plugging the internet leak. 40ft of PVC and a can of plumbers putty later, I've fixed the problem. It's also 10pm. I haven't eaten dinner, I haven't checked the mail, and the dog is tapping his watch too. It seems I've forgotten somebody else too. There goes my doggy daddy of the year award. All because my alarm clock is broken.

It's funny how somebody else can add priority to your life, even if they aren't the priority, they reflect what is important. Left alone we lose perspective, and our bathtub of dirty water becomes a muddy sea to our eyes. Time loses meaning. We tread water until we can gain an outside perspective, like a boat, or a dock, or a man eating water squirrel. At least that's how I see things, but you can't trust me: my alarm clock is broken.

Sticks and Stones Jut out like Bones.

Funny what sticks out. In the morning my hair looks like Bingo the clown. Well not flaming red, but three isometric pyramids springing from my skull. Yup. If my personality doesn't drive the women away, that's sure to do it. Hey, I'm just happy to have a full head of hair. All else is gravy I can use to slick my mane back down. Ok, I don't use gravy. A good shower and shampoo usually do the trick...As usual, I'm already off target. It seems that the one thing that never jut's out is my point.

I read an article in the paper this morning. Nivea is divorcing her husband. If you're like me, you're going "Who?" Well, Nivea is a hip hop artist. I guess she was up for a Grammy in 2003...I wouldn't know, I think the Dangerous Minds soundtrack was as close to hip hop as I ever got.

Anyway, in her press release, Nivea said, "I don't feel it is fair for neither of us, especially him, to continue this never-ending battle of the minds that he and I have continued for long enough. I want nothing more than for him and I to be happy. His happiness is all I want, for I could never repay him for what he has endured by being my friend, partner, and husband. "

I thought that was sweet. Call me a sucker for well tied bows and happy sentiment. I wished MyUnwife and I had done the same thing. Stood out on our lawn and given a statement to our neighbors about how this day of togetherness had reached it's sunset. Timed sprinklers raining down on us, baptizing us in our new life. Chipmunks and squirrels singing and dancing, drawing this time to a close. Oh, and confetti! There has to be blue and pink confetti! Then again I wished a lot of things for us.

Nivea's comment got me thinking about friendship. Would we ever reach that? I replay our separating. I know I've talked about the specifics so much that you can recite it back like Rocky Horror dialogue. "Damnit-Janet…"

No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying I've become more familiar with the landscape of our divorce that the historical geography of our marriage. I've told you the words that shook my world, but what deep buried fissures moved our fault apart? I mean what really happened? Here's a dramatization of MyUnwife announcing her intent, without the drama, stripped down to the rock core. MyUnwife will be played by Zooey Deschanel; I liked her in Hitchhiker's Guide, what can I say? Skeet Ulrich will take me. She liked him. I have no idea why, but for her, I think he can do this one. Ok? Here goes:

MyUnwife: "I'm leaving."

Me: "okay."

Scene.

If you read between the lines, you find that that wasn't the beginning of the end, that was the end. Where was that space in-between? We probably both have lists with arrows and photos of times we "tried" pinned to our walls, but all those were recorded posthumously in pride ink. Ways to say "See?" Oh, that's not to say we didn't try, but I think most of those efforts were knee-jerk reflexes anyway.

So how do people who grew so distant in marriage become friends afterwards? We don't have kids tying us together. We don't even have a cool knitting club. What happened to all the things the brought us together? They're just lost in the smoke and rubble. No wonder we couldn't stay together.

I hear about couples that become good friends after divorce, I wouldn't mind being friends, but what's left to talk about? "So how about that divorce?" The times we've tried talking since are always awkward. She's sullen, I'm overcompensating. I try to be light, but It's like going on a first date with a girl whose pet koala was just run over by a eucalyptus truck. You try to be upbeat, but the irony is so thick. What do you talk about?

Sometimes when the earth stops moving you just have to scrape the koala off the road and move on. That's my point. That's the bone jutting from my compound wound.

Christmas and Crazy

Christmas is 17 days away. Check your watches? Calendars? Ok whatever, you get the idea. If California got cold it would be snowing right now. Maybe somewhere it is. Every time a cell phone rings a snow angel gets her wings. So long as it isn't here, I'm chionophobic: fear of snow. Ok, not really, but I think it is a popular SoCal malady. I'm also afraid of crazy people, I don’t think there's a name for that, unless it's Californophobia.

Christmas and crazy. They go together like chocolate and peanut butter. Flipping through the paper today, I was touched by the real meaning of craziness. Stories were stacked like gifts under trees. Crazy people wrapped and bowed to greet the season. I saw one story about a guy caught stealing a bunch of…let's call them inflatable companions. Why do that? Some things are just silly to take in bulk. That's why Costco doesn't sell coffins, and they don't sell blow up dolls.

I mean who needs a truckload? Is he having an inflatable orgy? Fem-bot army starter kit? Building a raft? What's he use as a rudder? Nevermind. I don't get it. What's the deal? You only need one in the passenger seat to drive a car in the fast lane. Maybe he's spermophobic: afraid of germs. Yeah, I don't know what the fear of double entendre is, but you probably don't have it if you're still reading. Musically, I think that's AC/DCophobia, blogwise, I don't know. What's the fear of the unknown? I don't know? Isn't that technically the heart of all phobias? It doesn't matter too much to our latex-lover lifter. He's got bigger problems. I hope he doesn't have catagelophbia, because he's definitely getting ridiculed. Yeah, I think he's seen his last real girlfriend...

On the next page of the Times was an article about the Long Beach Christmas tree. The City Counsel couldn't find a big tree this year so they got a 7 footer. No big deal, except it's standing next to a 20 foot menorah. It's looks kind of like what you'd expect if Barbie started dating one of the Fisher Price guys, and not one of the guys with legs either—one of the cylinder body guys: no limbs, balloon head. Easy prey for the zoo animals (if you had that set.) guy. Barbie and FP guy: not really proportionate. Neither were the tree and menorah. I guess the local Christian community got their nativity scene in a bunch because the Jewish symbol was so much bigger. I'm Christian, I shrugged. It's not the size of the tree that counts. What do they call the fear of a short tree? I think that's just called being a guy.

So Long Beach doesn't want a short tree, can't the Mayor just buy the tree a box of ExtenZe? It'll be the talk of the town according to the infomercial on TV right now. I'd argue, but the Barbie doll selling it really seems to know what she's talking about. I trust her. She may not have a medical degree, or a high school diploma, but she has something. I wonder if she suffers from pteronophobia...

Who do you think their target demographic is? Maybe that's why the guy was stealing all the inflatable dolls: He's an ExtenZe distributor. He didn't have any more displays and was making kiosks.

So what are you afraid of this Christmas? The big bad wolf? An ugly divorce? Being alone? Don't worry about it. There are people crazier than you that are doing just fine right now. So long as there's still somebody out there stealing baby Jesus from a nativity with a security cam, you and I are one step ahead of the horde. I think we can get through this crazy divorce thing and still appear more sane than half the weirdoes in the paper. Just don't stare at me. I'm opthalmophobic.

The Sounds of Silence.

Last night I bought computer speakers that don't make noise. Ok, that doesn't sound right. Maybe I should explain. I didn't really buy them. I had a store credit, and I used it. See? Makes sense now, right? Just like marriage, a little communication clears everything up.

The speakers didn't really cost me anything. That didn't stop me from spending weeks plotting the precise non-purchase decision. Right now MyUnwife is laughing at me. She knows. She's seen the epic electronics quest. "There can be only one…"

Well, speakers are sold in pairs, but you get the idea. The fact that I didn't spend any money doesn't mean that I didn't pound and ping every speaker on the shelf. She's wandered off before, taken the sales person by the arm, "C'mon, I'll buy you a coffee. This is going to take a while. You've seen the Highlander haven't you…" Sometimes it's hard to tell if my finicky ways amused or frustrated her. Doesn't really matter now, does it? I'm just using her as a reference point: an historical sonar ping.

Everything clear now? Oh, the "buying" part wasn't the thing that bothered you? Well that's what the voices said. I can hear them again now that I have quiet speakers. Yeah, the "don't make noise" thing might be confusing. Maybe I should explain. It's not that they don't produce music, or play the computer's "don't touch me there!" sounds, it's that they don't make extra noise—extra pings, bongs, and clicks like a frantic R2 droid.

See, everybody in my neighborhood has a wireless modem. One of my neighbors allows their signal to wander in my yard. I wouldn't care, except that every night it mates with my electronics, and I'm the one responsible for dealing with the sound puppies.. They're really loud too. It doesn't matter if my speakers are on mute or on 11, the random noise bursts louder than anything I'm trying to hear.

When I hooked the new ones up, I tested them out--played my Foo Fighters; they sounded most excellent. My iTunes is on random, so it danced and frolicked, song to song, skipping and jumping across my complete library, while I tuned and tweaked the speakers for optimum sound. The sound I wanted to hear: no excess chatter.

Satisfied, I stood to start dinner. iTunes jumped again. A song started: Beth Orton's "Central Reservation." It's a happy/dreamy song, kinda cool--electronic, but crisp. It sounded great on my new speakers. So good I dropped in my chair thinking about MyUnwife. No, the song didn't really remind me of her. MyUnwife was hit and miss on Miss Orton. I think this one was one of the misses. I like her though. I liked my Mrs. too, but she was one of my misses. Beth is still here. She won't make me dinner though. That kinda sucks.

But the point here is that I heard the Beth Orton track, and it was good. I wanted to share it, even if the share recipient only nodded and smiled. I don't know; it's who I am. For ten years I was me with extra noise, noise I didn't make, but it came from somewhere close. Sometimes it was annoying, sometimes it was just what I needed to hear. Now the noise is gone, and it's really quiet. I hear things in a new way—or the old way: from before MyUnwife. It's been too long. I hardly remember, but it's coming back. The new noise is good, and I'm learning to appreciate the silence.

Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again...

Day to day. It's the routine. In the early days of my divorce—Ok, I'm still a swaddling babe in this, the earlier days—the routine was all I had to keep moving forward. Every day I'd get up and try to build a routine, a memory, something that didn't involve MyUnwife. That's hard as hell when you're wandering the house where dust settles like chalk outlines for all the things that used to be part of your life. Each mark a memory of the woman I spent the last 10 years with.

No matter how hard I tried, all thoughts led back there. It's like when somebody shouts "don't look!" What's the first thing you do? Yup, I see you looking right now. For me that happened every time I crossed from one room to the next. My neck had a natural kink. If I'm going to be kinky, my neck is not where I want to carry my kink.

All I could do was concentrate on the routine. Get up…check. Look for email….check. Write blog…check… Everything that resembled MyUnwife was an elephant in the room that I couldn't talk about or fit through the door into the yard.

Sorry, I don't have time to think about those memories, checklist says I'm pouring milk right now. I have a routine to up keep, don't cha know. I don't know When my mind started talking Wisconsinese, but there it is. Maybe it's the cheese…

Building a routine. Everyday was a challenge, even if the challenge was "Can I get through today without throwing a bitter tirade?" No? How about tomorrow…

That's the other thing. While you try to build routine, you have to be very forgiving with yourself when you falter. If for no other reason than the fact that you’re the only one in a divorce who's going to be very forgiving with you. Some days you'll be more successful than others. That's ok, build mistakes into the routine. "The list says I can screw up today. Woo Hoo! I needed one of those days!"

I was the chicken and the road: Each day a routine adventure just to get to the other side without meeting the truck-grill of my dreams. Each day got easier. Not so that I would notice, not without a month of hindsight. But each day I got better of avoiding the truck, each day, I'd make it one lane further without getting my feathers ruffled by a passing SUV. Now I can dance across the road, just like the little Frogger dude. I'm no longer a chicken, I'm amphibious, I can breath in any environment. It's only when I forget the patterns and routines that I get smacked flat. Always concentrate on the routine.

I know I've said this before, it's nothing new. So why am I saying it again. I've been reading a lot from other people in pain. People who are where I've been, also people who are where I'm going. People crossing the daily road. We all need it. Most of all, I'm saying it again because it's part of the routine.