Moving On

It’s been 16 months since MyEx-odus.  When she left, it wasn’t an e-bomb napalm goodbye. Nope.  It was a planned skirmish with RSVP invitations and Martha Stewart table settings and matching movers. It was so prepared, preplanned, and prehearsed that even the cats knew their moves for each act.

 

“Mew.”

 

Yeah, she gave me a six-month heads-up. We made plans. We made our bed. Now I lie in it, but I knew what hit me. I don’t lie awake surprised, not usually.

 

Then there’s today.  Today is unusual.  Today, 16 months after the fact, something happened in my divorce, and it surprised me.

 

Maybe I should explain. 

 

In every move, every death, and every divorce, you always plan for everything and always forget something. Whether it’s a couch, a cat, or a body, somebody’s leaving something behind.

 

The first time MyEx and I moved, we forgot to pre-pack. Yeah, we boxed everything the day we rented the truck.  You’d be surprised how much stuff you can fit in a small apartment, and how long it takes to pack it.  We were.  That’s the same day MyEx forgot she quit smoking. I remembered enough survival skills not to remind her.

 

When MyEx moved out, she later told me she forgot Band-aids. Of course, she remembered that while bleeding into a towel. Once again, I remembered to sound saddened.

 

“Really?  That’s horrible!”

“Uh-huh, and why are you giggling?”

“It’s the giggle of empathy.”

 

Actually, she didn’t forget them. She left them.  She had planned that she wouldn’t need them—or at least that I would need them first.  Sixteen months later I haven’t found the reason she planned that, but, like I said, I shouldn’t be surprised when I do.  I’ll go and meet her with one hand missing and she’ll say, “Oh, I forgot about that.”  That’s the way divorce works.

 

Maybe I should explain.  Yeah, I know.  I said that once before, but now you’ve bought into this blog for a page, I feel obligated. I know you’re serious.  So am I. I just forget to move on.

 

In my marriage I tried to move on from AOL—several times.  I couldn’t; MyEx is a big fan. I don’t think so much a big fan of AOL as a big fan of her email address.   She was proud. She got a cool one word as a screen name and didn’t want to lose it. I can’t blame her. How often does that happen?  I mean if I spell out the letters of my email, the first three letters out of your mouth are “WTF?”  Then I go into this blog length explanation about emails and screen names that, like most of my blogs, just isn’t worth the time or effort. 

 

You’ve read this far; you know what I mean.

 

What it really means is that when we were duking it out over “I want,” she said, “I want the AOL.” I said, “Okay.” That meant I was being evicted from my email account.  I had 30 days to pack up my things and get out. I had all the time in the world.

 

So I took my time and I did it right.  I gathered all my email addresses and told everybody important that I was moving. The only people left behind were spammers and people I didn’t want to do business with any more—until today.

 

Since I’m going to visit Grunge Pixie over Christmas, I thought it would be a good idea to stop newspaper delivery.  Since I only remember to do this at 1am, I figured I’d use the newspaper’s website. 

 

Email accounts are filled like closets.  You never know what’s in there until you go digging.  When we first moved into the house, we lost the garage door opener.  We had it, and then we didn’t.  To pull into the garage, MyEx used to use the electronic box that was supposed to attach to the side of the house.  This meant that instead of pressing a button to open the door, she had to enter a 4-digit code and press “enter,” while approaching the house.

 

I think she loved the challenge.

 

After she moved out, I threw out all the treasures she didn’t want and I couldn’t use.  The bag of women’s shoes at the bottom of the closet was a great example.  On instinct though, I decided to search the bag before throwing it out.  My search paid off.  $1.57 to be exact.  It also revealed the lost garage remote.  I made sure to call MyEx and gloat. 

 

Email is the same way.  You forget what’s in your email, and what’s attached to your account.  I know I did.   I remembered when I tried to log into my newspaper account that I didn’t even know that I’d opened. Their website said I most definitely had, and they wanted a password.

 

  Password?

 

I don’t remember the password.  You know what’s really cool?  Not only can’t I remember the old one, I can’t ask for a new one.  Oh, they’ll give it to me, but they’ll send it to my AOL account…that I don’t have anymore. 

 

Oh, I want to open the door, but I don’t have the remote code.  It’s something I forgot in the move, and it’s something I found 16 months later.  Yeah, somewhere MyEx is doubling over in the giggle-empahy only granted by Rob-irony.  It’s ok.  At least I got to keep my hand.

 

 

Critiquing the Art of Disclosure

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Fine, what were her reasons?”

 

Oh, so we’re there... 

 

Grunge Pixie reads. Who taught her that?  I swear it wasn’t me. Most of her attributes are cute and sweet; this one’s borderline intrusive. She’s reading posts on D360.  Two posts in particular: one from a woman I thought was my friend, another from somebody I barely even know. The pixie has mixed these things up into a Molotov cocktail of joy.

 

“Got a light?”

“Of course I do.  You’re…uhm…gonna lob that thing at me, aren’t you?”

FWOOM!

 

That’s right. There’s nothing worse than a lit fuse question to engulf a morning. My morning began last week.  Set the Way-back machine and we’ll be on our way. Ready Sherman?

 

“Of course I’m ready, and don’t call me Sherman.” 

 

Yeah, sorry, we’ll undo that joke before we come back, I promise.

 

Last week a friend of mine asked a question on D360.  She’d just dismounted the divorce horse, and she was thinking about riding a tandem bicycle, but wasn’t sure she remembered how.  She’d asked the good D360 folk if they could share a few questions to ask her riding partner, when she found one.  I thought it was great.  I left a post. I even suggested a few questions, cuz I’m nothing if not inquisitive.  We all need to spice things up with a few questions!

 

This got the good Grunge Pixie thinking. “I need to ask you questions!”  I hate when she thinks. She gets ideas, and ideas are best left for people who don’t know what to do with them. Ideas are atomic bombs.  Ask Oppenheimer how that idea blew up in his face. Only this pixie was aiming for my face. She was melting it with new questions:

 

“Who is buried in your backyard?”

“Nobody.”

“No body nobody, or ‘you don’t want to be an accomplice after the fact’ nobody?”

“Both?”

“uh-huh…”

 

This led to a long discussion of fruit trees, mulch beds and Cosmo’s collection of bones.  Still, she asked the questions, and I believe in full disclosure.  Why would I lie? I trust her. I don’t have secrets. I answered honestly.

 

That’s why I was really dismayed to find out that not only does she read D360, she reads it thoroughly. This led to more questions.

 

See, I’d tried comforting somebody who was having divorce pangs.  I’d mentioned that I didn’t agree with MyEx’s reasons for leaving, but I did understand them as important reasons to MyEx.  Hear that sound?  That’s the electric can opener.  I’ve just pulled a can of worms from the pantry.  Come join me; we’re opening them up!

 

Within a half hour of my post, I get an email from GP.

 

“So what were her reasons?”

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

“Are you gonna answer the question or dance like you’ve gotta pee?”

“I do gotta pee…”

“Go, then answer the question.”

“Which question?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Fine, what were her reasons?”

 

Great, now there are worms everywhere…

 

Now I’m questioning this full disclosure policy.  Do I trust her? Should I lie? Where did she get all these questions?  Who told her that questions were a good idea? I have secrets!

 

Oh, wait.  She reads my blog…

That part about the secrets?  That’s a lie.

 

It’s not that I’m that private.  I write a blog for heaven’s sake!  Where is the privacy in that?  Still, like I said, MyEx had her reasons.  What if that’s the one thing Grunge Pixie has in common with her? I’ve come to grips with the divorce, but I don’t want it in the way when I’m trying to meet somebody.  I’m not private; I’m scared. What do I do?

 

I tell her.  That’s what I do, because that is what makes me, me. Full disclosure. If she shares reasons, then I’m better off knowing now. Really, most of it she can read here, maybe she has. Maybe she’s looking for verification.  On the other hand there are things I haven’t said.  Not because I’m afraid of you dear reader, no. I’ve kept them to myself because they relate more to MyEx than me.  I blog so that you can see me; MyEx is private, and I try to respect that.

 

I respect Grunge Pixie, and I answered her questions as best as I could, because I do believe that communication ruined my marriage. I won’t repeat that mistake with any relationship.

 

When I was done, GP asked a few more questions. I answered those. Then we talked.  It was quit a conversation.

 

You know what she didn’t do? She didn’t flit away. That meant a lot to me. I haven’t told her that, but she’ll figure it out.  She reads. 

Friendly Games

“That’s the one with that guy from Dawson’s Creek, right?”

“¿Que?”

 

It’s obvious she doesn’t speak English.  She speaks Dawson’s Creek.  There was a time in American history when we would have burned her at the stake for such gibberish. Now we’re more civilized.   Now I can only beat the phone against the desk and cough in disgust.

 

“Are you crazy?  Do I look like Dawson’s demo?” Yet I’ve repeated this curse three times in my blog. If it were A horror movie, I’d have Dawson in my lap right now. Yes, one woman’s fantasy is a homophobe’s nightmare. Once again, I’m singing the glory of miscommunication.

 

You’d think that living in the same city my friend and I would speak the same language. We don’t.  The woman at the other end of the phone line is Canadian, maybe that’s it: the dialect of youth.

 

We’re talking American TV.  I thought it was a universal language, but it’s not. Some people just don’t speak it well. They learn it on the street: dark alleys and college dorms are no place for an education in TV talk; the lexicon gets butchered  like the ugly fat girl on Dawson’s Creek. They didn’t have one?  You get my point.  She was wrapped in a bag and tossed off the Creek.

 

I speak Chuck, House, Lost, and lately Fringe.  The latter seems to be where our communication channels change.

 

“They speak the universal language…”

 

No, not that one.  She’s just a girl in my writers’ group.  We talk about TV movies and writing. Not John Cusack movies We don’t really speak the same language, but if we show each other pictures and grunt, the other person usually gets the idea.

 

“Ahhh, Better Off Dead!”

“Ungawa!”

 

It’s about communication.  Right now we’re struggling with grey noise.  We were comparing TV guides, and I mentioned Fringe.  She thinks she’s seen it, but she’s not sure.  This is usually where you can tell how well you get along with somebody.  This works much better than the “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours approach.”

 

That language usually infers more. That’s not what’s going on here.  We’re simply playing communication Red Rover. Everybody does it.  See that guy in the cubie next to you? Say a random word; see what he does.  If he recognizes the word as a friendly word, he’ll lick your hand and say a random word of his own. 

 

“Coffee cup.”

“Pornography.”

 

See?  Now you can decide if you want to continue talking, or speed dial HR. Either way, I’m sure you’ll never look at your Starbuck’s mug the same way again—or leave it out on your desk unsupervised.

 

“I really hope that’s creamer…”

 

See how that works?  Even now, you’re considering whether or not to click the backspace.  That’s the true purpose of communication: comparing mental images.  Why do I bring this up in my divorce blog? Because I think that’s what it all comes down to.  No matter what reason Cindi LouWho gives for leaving David Whom it boils down to a philosophy of mental images. 

 

We’re all playing Concentration.  Remember that game?  Not the Rebus puzzle part, I could never understand the Awl+Bee+Bach stuff. That’s like talking to Arnold Schwarzenegger: I just don’t understand it.  Terminator communication.  No I’m talking about the simple memory game. We have mental pictures.  I say TV, and you see an image.  Maybe it's Webster, maybe it’s Bevis, either way, it’s what you want to see. We all gravitate towards people who see the same images.  The more things match, the closer we get.  Friends can match on a six pack and a few TV shows.  Spouses? Well, that’ll take a wine cellar while matching whole the board if they’re going to communicate.

 

Here’s where things go wonky (technical communication term: means wonky) though.  Sometimes we see things that look like they match, but they don’t.  You both may have a love for leather, but what if three years into the marriage you find out that your spouse has a thing for the whole cow?  Well, that wasn’t exactly what you were looking for.  Trust me, neither was Bessy, but she’s happier this way than she would have been as a belt.  Trust me.

 

And playing communication concentration with cards is like building a house with the same deck.  One image proves false and the whole Babel-plex collapses.

 

That’s why we usually don’t show all our hands.  We only play the cards we need.  My friend talking about Dawson’s Creek?  She’ll never see my dance card. We aren’t playing with the same deck.  Hell, she’s Canadian, I don’t even think hers is full.

 

Yeah, I know, If you see a sea of Hockey Players and moose hunters sluice past your house could you warn me that the tide is coming?  Or maybe that’s not the card you want to play.  Maybe your card says “sit back and watch.” I’m sure somebody else shares that one too.

 

“Is this your card?”

 

That’s right.  There’s a little bit of magic in communication cards too, cuz finding people who’s cards match at all is harder than playing scrabble with a XQZLTJB; I don’t care what word bonus is open. That’s why we try extra hard to make the ones we do find work.

 

Watch:

 

My friend asks me about Dawson’s Creek.

“Go fish.”

“Well is this the same show with old guy who was in Lord Of The Rings?”

See? Now, she’s speaking my language.

 

And that’s how friendships are formed.

Grunge Pixies and California Curves

Life is a learning curve. Sometimes it’s a lazy spring PCH meander, other times it’s a Mulholland Drive Saturday night blindfold fest in a jet propelled shopping cart.

 

Won’t come back from dead man’s curve…

 

Here’s a learning curve slow pitch for you: Why does everything relate to California metaphors? Easy: we planned it that way.  It’s our way of proving that the world revolves around our pinpoint axis on this hacky sack globe.  Oh we may be smaller than Alaska, but while they’re busy tongue tipping elk-cicles and protecting us from the Russian hordes breast stroking over the Bering Strait, we’re lying on the beach saving America from the great whale invasion and getting really good tans. 

 

Which would you rather do? That’s why I’d never try to be vice president.  Yup, the only reason. I’m too busy learning to be pretty.  Yeah, I know.  That’s one learning curve I just can’t make.

 

I learned to be divorced just fine.  Yeah, it took some practice, but it’s actually easier than falling off a skateboard, and leaves the same scars.  We Californian’s have lots of scars; we like to cover them with trendy tatts. Yeah, that barbed wire bicep lasso?  That’s our way of protecting our vaccination scars from you. Vaccinations are a sign of weakness. Our barbed wire says, “I’m a rock hard flesh sculpture.” The tramp stamp?  That says something else. I don’t know what.

 

Oh…

 

I’m sorry; I hadn’t reached that point in the learning curve yet. I’ve been taking it slow up till now.  See that’s part of the curve:  you slow into it, and then accelerate out of it.  I’m only now starting to get out. Tramps and stamps are not things I collect.  And what do you call those? The collectors. I mean a stamp collector is a philatelist, right? What’s a tramp collector?

 

Bret Michaels? Huh, I didn’t see that curve coming; guess you learn something everyday.

 

Some curves are blind.  Maybe that’s why I’m so shapely.  I dunno. I didn’t see my divorce coming.  I should have.  The wavy arrow signs were reflecting in black and white back in my face. I guess I was just too busy enjoying the ride. I know, “Typical California driver.”

 

My life slowed into the divorce curve because of traffic: too many rubberneckers. I learned to readjust my speed and balance, picking up speed as I pulled out.  My grunge pixie friend sees it differently. She doesn’t have the Socal eye view. Her Space Needle aerie looks down on California vermin. I squeak my metaphor but she just licks her talons.  I don’t know what that means. It can’t be too bad; she reads my blogs.  

 

From her perch, she talks about how it’s like a balance beam.  You know, something throws you off balance, and then you overcompensate and something else makes you nearly fall to the other side?  That’s what Grunge Pixie compares it too.  I know. It’s ok, she’s not a Californian.  I forgive her.  Me, I don’t speak balance beams.  I never learned. I fall off.  That analogy means nothing. I only speak in curves.

 

Still, she has a thought.  We all approach the curve differently.  I do it in a car, she does it on a slim stick of wood. If she were riding a piece of flying wood, I could call it a broomstick, but then again if I told her she rode that, she probably wouldn’t be as eager to see me. See, I’ve learned from that curve before.  It was an ugly fiery wreck.

 

Never associate women with witches or anything that rhymes them.

 

That’s my dating mantra. It’s worked so far.

 

As it is, she’s a pixie and she flies on her own design.  I don’t have to worry about the stick or where she puts it. Me?  I’m accelerating out of the divorce curve.  I want to leave that as far behind me as possible.  The important question is this though:  did I learn anything?

 

If I didn’t I’m just going to end up another flaming heap at the bottom of the cliff, cuz some learning curves cause permanent damage. Despite the California sunset illusion allusion, all curves lead somewhere real or we fly out into oblivious oblivion. Just ask Jan Berry.

 

So now I’m flying off to see the Grunge Pixie for Christmas.  It’s exciting.  It’s not the curve of divorce, and it’s a road I’ve never taken.  Oh, I’ve been down similar routes, but this ones fresh.  Oh, it’s still unlit, and my Shopping cart has nitrous—so It’s scary. It’s fun. It’s a learning curve snaking away from the Socal skyline. All I can do is strap myself in, and hope I’ve learned my lesson.

Creative Gift Ideas.

“Are you hung?”

Yes Virginia, there’s no end to the Christmas stalking surprises you’ll find when the girl strolling the mall in front of you is on a Bluetooth.  I’d love to tell you about the rest of her conversation, but she’s only part of the fun planned for today’s blog.

 

It’s come to my attention that I’ve been humbugging Christmas. That’s what I’ve been told!  I know!  I was shocked to hear this too!  Humbug? Me?  No…Way!

 

“Way,” say they.

 

Fine.  Today I’ll talk up Christmas cheer like I’m a Santa’s village snow blower.  I’ll praise season’s greetings and bathe you in holiday tidings.  Get ready to be rocked around your Christmas tree, and no, that’s not something on the menu from a Nevada hooker.

 

Jolly old St. Nicholas leaned this way and told me the true meaning of Christmas.  That’s right!  I’ve found a way to make this season work for the recently divorced. And I am not talking about bobbing for apples in a tub of spiked eggnog.

 

“It’s down here somewhere, give me another chance!”

 

 I’m talking about using Christmas!  Why should you let your divorce ruin the holiday, when there’s a way to use the holiday to forget your divorce?

 

Have I got your attention now? Are you interested in saying hello to my little friend? Tired of hating your EX or STBX? Then I’ve got the prefect gift for you.  Follow me!

 

First things first, lets start the day at your favorite coffee establishment.  Like Starbucks?  Great!  Are you too cool to shop at a Seattle sell out shop? Great I’ve got a special treat for you too, you just need to hold these wires together on your tongue—Oh!  But we’re talking about coffee, and not you!  There’s plenty of cheer to go around.  Go to your favorite indy-swill-hole and drink up!  We all know you’re better than us and that makes you more festive than Rudolf’s red nose shining up Santa’s big butt…

 

…Coffee!  Fill yourselves with caffeine cuz your gonna need it! Why?  Cuz you need to be extra wired: we’re going shopping!

 

What are we gonna buy? Why we’re getting your favorite Rob blogger something cool!  Shhh!  Don’t tell me!  Let it be a surprise.  Is it the gopher gun?  The extra Rat zapper?  The blow up Rachel Weisz doll?  Shhhh!  Don’t spoil it; just sip your coffee.  Probably want the extra double shot of espresso too.  Why?  It brings the brown twitch of joy!

 

Good and giddy yet? Great.  Here’s my surprise:  This isn’t really about me, it’s about you.  Yeah, I know, you can still buy me the gift, but that’s not why we’re stuck in holiday traffic right now.  That was just a ploy to get you out.  See, when you’re home sitting on the couch wishing you were Oprah, your seething your ex’s name between pursed lips. 

 

Right now you know whose name is flicking your mistletoe of ire?  Nope, not mine.  Not yet, right now it’s that guy who just cut across three lanes of traffic so he could sit still in front of you.  Let’s just call him “Audi-guy.”  It’s better than the other name you want to call him.

 

“Mommy, what does that word mean?”

“Nothing honey, just show the man ‘Santa’s wave.’ That’s right, Good girl!”

 

Santa’s wave indeed!  Feeling festive yet? Good Cuz we’re on the way to the mall.  Audi-guy there?  He’s gonna lead this happy parade all the way there with his baton up his butt.  He’s reenacting the movie Speed: If his car goes faster than 10 miles an hour, he will blow up.  That woman beside you who won’t pass you?  She’s his wife.  Enjoy the ride!

 

Oh, yeah, gotta pee yet?  Ooohh, probably shouldn’t have mentioned that, huh?  That’s ok, your not the only one in the car doing the potty dance.  While your sitting behind Audi-man, it’s a good time to explain going before you leave the house.  I know, you just did, but she wasn’t listening then either.  Go ahead.  Explain it again, you’ll have plenty of time.

 

…a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go…

 

We’re going to the mall!  Now good luck finding parking! Is that An REI your driving past?  Go ahead and send your daughter in for the bathroom and camping supplies, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride—but only if you time the pedestrians just right.

 

Oh look!  There’s Audi-man!  He just took your parking.  Santa’s wave, everyone!  Good!  Now you’re catching the Christmas miracle!  Quick test:  Who’s the person you hate the most?  That’s right!  Audi-man!  See?  You are possessed with the spirit, and forgetting about divorce. Now, since Audi-man has abandoned his car for the moment, if your daughter comes back with the Sterno you asked for, you can write out fiery tidings across the hood of his car.  That’ll leave a lasting holiday impression.  After all, Sterno is, “The final touch of perfection.”

 

Guess what? In your jittery enthusiasm, you’ve over-done the Sterno it now says “FOCH YOD!!!!!!!”  Not a problem. It’s only going to stay that for a few moments;  It appears that 7 exclamation points is one exclamation over the fire safety code.  Grabs some s’mores cuz you’ve just started a serious car fire! That’s something the kids really need to learn at Christmas!  Good job.  The really good news is, the guy who honked behind you cuz your car blocked the aisle while you waxed Sterno? He’s not honking anymore.  He’s played GTA with the kids; he knows how this game ends.  He’s back peddling faster than a reindeer from a hunting lodge. 

 

As a matter of fact, a lot of people are leaving now!  Look! Ample parking!  You might want to park a little further from the Audi--I’m just saying.

 

So now it’s time to shop.  This is where we meet the girl hung in her stockings.  It’s always amazing how many people think cell phone equals “cone of silence.”  She’s blocking the walk space between kiosk peddlers who are all over you like cookie glitter on frosting.  You’d like to get around her, but you can’t without getting within reach of the kiosk gingerbread crazies, and you know how those movies end: somebody gets eaten alive and it’s usually not the cookie.

 

Single cell girl is oblivious.  She’s trolling the mall for cute boys and better reception.  It seems she’s got some dating site on speed dial and she’s taking her sweet time.

 

Still, you complete your shopping, get out to the car, twitch out the jitters, and start feeling human again.  You’re exhausted.  You’ll probably need some extra energy though.  It appears there are fire trucks blocking the parking lot, and you can’t get to your car.  Look!  It’s Audi-man and he’s pointing at you.  He’s Santa waving!  Wave back!

 

He’s also talking to the police. Run, run, shopper you’ll never get away in time!

 

Ouch, that looked like it hurt.  The good news is, watching mommy dragged away handcuffs is the kind of gift that gives and gives for years to come.  And see? At the close of this fine holiday, who do you hate?  That’s right, Audi-man! And when was the last time you thought about your ex?  See? Getting through the holiday is about having fun and finding distractions. That’s all I’m trying to show you here.  That’s my gift to you!

 

What’s that? Audi-man IS your ex?  Oh, sorry, yeah, I know.  You’re giving me a Santa wave for Christmas. It’s ok; I get those every year. It’s the thought that counts.

Passing Time

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, do you know what time is twelve o’clock?”

 

That’s from a book my little sister had when she was a baby.  I’d cite my source, but I don’t remember the name.  Too much time has passed.  I can tell you the book was about 12 pages long and included 1 page for every hour of the day.  It was one of my little sister’s favorites; that and “Hi Says Baby.” I know, these were not New York Times Baby Best Sellers, but they mattered to my sister, and that’s all that mattered to us.

 

Yeah, before she was 4 she wasn’t a literary genius.  She couldn’t fathom Seussian rhyme and although she preferred Dickens to Hawthorne I couldn’t stand him so she’d just have to peddle her dog-eared Great Expectations somewhere else.  I would read the time book though.

 

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, do you know what time is one o’clock?”

 

Time to get a new book? Yup, that’s page two from the same book. That’s how time works.  One tick at a tock time. My sister got older and I don’t know if any of us know where that book is any more.  Time erases some things—and yes—even the effects of divorce.

 

I think that’s why my sister’s time book is in my head. I saw a post for help on D360 yesterday.  Some woman complained because everybody told her she’d heal “in time,” and “in time” was not coming soon enough.

 

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, do you know how to hurry this #^%&in’ clock?”

 

That’s a translation of page 3. I can do that because this time story plot is not an H. G. Wells  classic.  I can shift time without having to worry about what I’ll do to the future. My sisters’s story was kinda weak.  By page 3 you could see where the story was going, but you couldn’t get there fast enough.  Same with divorce, cuz only time heals the wounds, but time just drags and it’ll take more than Eloi or Morlocks to pick up this plot lag.

 

That’s why the blog poster was having trouble.  She didn’t want some story about a future utopia; she wanted to heal now.  I can’t blame her.  I know.  I was there.  I’ve heard, “It takes time,” often enough to want to beat the clock over somebody’s head. 

 

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, do you know another cliché about a clock?”

 

Page 4. I’m no longer reading.  I’m just saying the words while I change channels on the TV.  My sister doesn’t know the difference; she’s just eating this up.  As adults we know the difference.  “It’s ok, you’ll move on and find somebody else.”  Yeah, and you can kiss my hairy butt too.

 

Why do all the clichés come out during divorce?  Partly because they’re true--also because it’s what the book says. Hey, in your divorce I don’t know what’s going on.  I’m just reading from the script.  When I open the book, I know how the clock read for me, and now we’re telling you the same thing. It’s repetition.  It’s how we learn.

 

It’s also just like a clock.  I mean lets face it.  A clock is a circle. The hands aren’t going anywhere new.

 

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, do you know what time is five o’clock?”

 

It’s happy hour.  It’s one way people get by.  It’s one way of spending time.  Happy hour is broken into two parts: half food half drink.  My sister’s book didn’t include half hours, or happy hours for that matter. Thank God; I couldn’t have done 24 pages of drunken stammering.  Happy hour also serves a third purpose and you don’t even need to eat or drink to partake.  It gets you out. It offers you a distraction from the routine.  Whether it’s eye candy or touching reality, you’re getting out of the past.  That’s important.  The clock moves forward, so should I you.

 

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, this is how you skip to the end of the book.”

 

That’s how I remember page 12.  It wasn’t how my sister remembered it.  Even at 2 she remembered that there were pages in-between.  I remember she used to hit me with the book as a subtle reminder that I was reading it wrong.  Even as an infant she was a behavioralist. 

 

As adults it’s nurture over nature.  We want help getting better, and I could tell the blogger was ready to start hitting people with books.  That’s ok, time will heal that too.  See, she can’t skip ahead, she doesn’t know how the story ends.  I don’t either, but I do know it gets better. It’s just unfortunate we need to go through the developmental chapters.

 

I guess in that way we’re like my little sister: we want our story to go the way it’s supposed to.  It’s just all the plot twists and character interaction that screws things up.

 

And that’s the beauty of time. Time has a way of clearing obstacles and straightening perspectives.  Like any book, life has many potential stories, but it only follows one course.  Time gives us the perspective to see that course and to follow it.  And when things go wrong, it gives us a moment to recover.  Time is important.

 

It sounds difficult, but it’s not.  It’s just as simple as tick-tock, tick-tock…

 

 

 

 

Calculated Risk

“Have you seen the marriage calculator?”

“Eh-wha?”

 

That’s me replaying 10 minutes worth of email from yesterday.  Thank you very much, my hunt and peck actors will return tomorrow for another performance!  Thank you and good night!

 

Marriage calculator.  Yup, it’s over at D360.  If you can glance up from the sultry bust shot avatars long enough to see the blue bar lounging at their head, then you can poke it and fondle the calculator.

 

Still staring at the avatars?  Then it doesn’t take a calculator to figure out your chances at marital success, although there is something to be said about your laser focus.  Go ahead, look up from the headless cleavage. 

 

Oh, you’re not even on the home page yet? You’re still on my blog?  How sweet!  Thank you.  Your dedication has just upped your marital points. You can calculate them in later.

 

Me?  Oh my dedication is in the gutter.  Yeah, I read the email and scrambled off to see the marriage calculator like a sailor on shore leave.  Well, marriage isn’t the need  he’s chasing, but you get my idea.

 

The marriage calculator is sort of like the Ouija board of the happily ever after world.  You ask it your “What are my chances of divorce,” and it’ll tell you based on some mystic criteria. 

 

S-E-E-K   C-O-U-N-C-I-L

“Oh, that’s not a good sign…Wait!  It’s still going!”

I-N-G

“Oh, thank God!  It just can’t spell!  My marriage will be fine!”

 

Yeah, your marriage will be fairytale bliss if you’re already consulting tea leaves and Jujubes   to uncover your fate. It’s like waiting in sleep for the man of your dreams.  Good luck with that.

 

Luckily the marriage calculator is more than that.  It takes the most prevalent data for those who stay married and calculates it into one percentage for your failure.  This data includes important stuff like education age and gender.  Yeah, gender.  Apparently men divorce more often than women.  I dunno, you tell me.  Marriage was always like calculus to me, and I only got as far as geometry.

 

That’s right, I know shapes like cones and hourglasses, but when it comes to proving how they work in real love, they’re just squiggly lines to me. Yeah, I know, that just cost me 5 percentile on my marriage calculator.

 

And that leads to my next question: when did D&D dungeon masters start figuring out divorce saving throws?

 

“Sorry you just failed you saving throw for panic because her lawyer has a vorpal briefcase of fear, +3”

“But I have a Jaberwocky in my pocket!”

“Sorry, it’s useless against estranged spouses, you need a spell of litigation…”

 

Yeah, I spent my time in a D&D basement.  I also spend my time in the marital doghouse.  I speak both languages.  What’s more, according to my marriage calculator I only stand an 8 percent chance of getting a divorce.

 

I rolled a 7.

 

Thanks D360!  I wasn’t feeling bad enough about my divorce, but now I see that I should still be married. How’s that for the cleric’s mace in the eye?  I called MyEx to confirm.

 

 

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Yes, of course it is…and you’re calling at 3 am because..?”

“I just wanted you to know that I found a marriage calculator that said we should still be married.”

“And yet we’re not.”

“Well no, but it says we should be.”

“uh-huh. And what are you saying?”

“I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Great.  So what you’re telling me is that it didn’t calculate in that you’re emotionally 12?”

“No…am not.”

“Right.  And has your calculator been married to you for seven years?”

“No…”

“Right.  Well, call me back when it has.” Click.

 

So there ya go. My Ouija romance panned out like fools gold. It doesn’t take a psychic to tell who the fool is there.

 

Still, you get out what you put in. Mystic marriage mojo  isn’t omniscient.  It can’t see   everything.  It may know that I was 31 when I got married, but it doesn’t know that I’m an OCD passive aggressor who tells bad jokes.  Those things have to factor in somewhere—even Dionne Warwick’s psychic friends know that.

 

So what can the calculator do? It can’t predict the weather, but it can forcast a chance of storms based on previous history.  It’s like standing in the July Arizona desert and saying, “It won’t snow here today.” 

 

You could be onto something.  So is the calculator.  In knowing that, it may help you with some of your future decisions.  Then again maybe not, marriage is based on much more than a ticker tape of statistics.  Marriage is work.  Just because the calculator says you stand a better chance of pulling a rabbit out of your ass doesn’t mean you should give up the marital donkey. It just means you’ll have some struggles a head of you.

 

“Honey, have you seen the KY?”

 

 So what’s it mean?  It means there’s a new fun feature on D360 that you can play with. Use it how you will.  Me? I use it like the Bionic Woman’s sleep number bed, “Hi, I’m Rob and I’m an 8.”