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.

Waiting My own Table.

I'm pondering an animal. Fowl or pig? That's my big decision today. If I can work through this I think I've got the day handled. Fowl or pig? That's my Christmas dinner. I still have the second Cornish game hen in the freezer (they're packaged in pairs, my Thanksgiving entrée hated to travel alone.), but I'd rather have ham.

What do I do? Go cheap, or spend ill-gotten booty on honey glazed pig? Ok, I don't have any "ill-gotten booty" that makes me sound like I'm some kind of pirate. Dread Pirate Rob, captain of the Stuffed Squab. Ok, now that just sounds like gay porn. Let's go back to my dinner plans; we'll drop the pirate thing until I can work the kink out--make it good wholesome Christmas fun.

I'm divorcing. I don't even want to hint at buried treasure until this is done—not even in jest. If you're MyUnwife and reading this, know that I've hooked the computer to the exer-cycle. I can no longer pay the electricity, so I'm pedaling for power. The good news is that Tony Little dropped by. He want's to talk about an DVD deal. You can do it!

Oh, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that either... See? Everything's a big front in divorce. It's hard too. The person I used to tell everything to is the person I can say nothing to now.

Me: Hey guess what?

MyUnwife: What?

Me: I just-are you recording this?

MyUnwife: Uh..no why? What did you just do? Speak loudly into the receiver please.

Me: I don't believe you.

MyUnwife: You never trusted me!

Me: You're recording this.

MyUnwife: No…I hired a stenographer.

Click.

I'm always on guard, even if it's stupid. I'm worried she'll hear about my fowl/pig debate and take pride that I'm eating alone. "I made him do that!" Well I'm not giving her full credit, but I will admit her fingers were all over the decision That's ok. I know she drives down the road, happy, until some song plays on the radio reminding her of me. I'm the music guy, I know it happens. I don't know what song, let that be her little secret, but I'm there. She can't help it. Little Rob sailing through the speakers. I'm there, and I'm boarding her car. Avast! Insert evil pirate laugh here.

It's a shame what divorce does to us, as individuals and as couples. Even the "friendly divorce" can become a little antagonistic. Then again I suppose if it were too friendly it wouldn't be a divorce, it would be a party. Speaking of divorce, I need to plan my Christmas dinner.

Dread Pirate Rob, party of one, your table's ready...

Divorce360.com is now up!

Hey all!

I just wanted to let you know. I've spent alot of time whining about my divorce. So much in fact, that as most of you know I split my site. Well now you can also see me at Divorce360.com. Three times the Rob? Could the world hold that much joy? I think it's ready.

Besides my pretty face, you can find all your answers to divorce questions on legal issues, financial woes, and even kids! That's right kids, there'll be pizza and balloons! Drop by!

Most importantly, I try to keep my stuff light, but if you're having a hard time coping, or just getting by, Divorce360 offers community. So stop by, pull up a seat, and tell me about your childhood.

Do you still hear the lambs scream Clarice?

A Wallet-full of Memories.

I'm makin' my list and checkin' it twice. It's an easy list. So who's on my Christmas list this year? Pretty much nobody. It's all good. As Grinchy as it sounds: Everybody's getting cards. Oh, they'll be well meaning cards, filled with all the sincere love and wishes that Christmas can bestow in a 4x6 envelope, but beyond that, it's all glittery vapor, baby.

I'd go into the whole finances thing but at this point that’s as exciting as sitting through a tax seminar—twice. California mortgage, utilities for single family dwelling, stuff breaking, blah, blah, blah…no money. It won't come as much of a surprise for the usual recipients, in fact my sisters will probably be elated. For the past few years, MyUnwife and I gave my nieces "parent nightmare" gifts. You know, art sets, finger paints, musical instruments, noisy things, brilliant things, things with seizure inducing flashing lights and skull crushing cacophonies in a child safe package. Anything to stretch their mind, and make Mom and Dad weep. It's the least I could do. Isn't that what uncles are for?

Running down my blank list, I thought about gifts MyUnwife gave me. One year, she gave me a wallet. Do you realize that in every relationship I've been in, the woman has always given me a wallet? What does that say? Even my high school girlfriend gave me a red Velcro thing. You remember those, right? Do they still make them? Anyway, I had one. She gave it to me.

Another interesting fact about those wallets: in every case, the wallet has lasted longer than the relationship. I don't know if that's a testament to the quality of cow who gave her hide, or to the sad truth of my love life. Then again, it could just say "Rob's too cheap to buy a new wallet." I'm sticking by the first option, thank you very much, miracle-cow. Although I could agree to blaming all my failed relationships on a wallet curse. That would be a great gift. "Hey none of this is anybody's fault, blame the wallet. There's a special pocket inside the billfold area for that."

Then the next time I'm in a relationship, and the woman gives me a wallet, I'll open it, smile into her eyes and slide it back to her. "No thanks, I love you more." Wouldn't that be awesome? Or maybe I don't. Maybe I really need the wallet. I could put all my belongings into it's folds, and walk the girl to the door with my arm across her shoulders. "It's been nice…." Then she could rip off the arm and beat me with it.

It's true. I don't even think MyUnwife and I were married when she gave me the wallet I use now. It was a Christmas gift, really nice too: tri-fold, lots of credit card space (she liked that. Ok, that's just a bitter joke. Everybody laugh), special ID window, with an extra large slot for easy drunken removal. That wallet is still going strong. Maybe when the divorce is finalized, I'll store the paperwork in it and buy me a new one. I'm not worried about cursing me; my relationship with me will go on for quite some time. I love the moonlit walks and the intelligent conversations I have with myself. I'm such a swell guy.

I like my wallet though, It's the tinsel on my Charlie Brown Christmas tree. It's not a pretty tree, but it's my tree. It holds a special place: right next to those people getting Christmas cards this year.

Find Your Buddy

Who's your buddy? Everybody needs one. Only Dirty Harry liked to work alone, and that's because he was always getting partners shot. They liked him to work alone too. That's how Harry rolled. Good for him. I hope somebody smothers him with that ugly plaid jacket. Loner bastard, makes the rest of us look bad.

So who's your Buddy? I found out last night I don't have one. I'm like Harry, but I swear I dress better, and no, my villains don't kill my costars, right now my villain is my costars. Yeah, I know I lose 5 friendly divorce points for that one: go back 3 squares. I suck at the game of divorce.

Friday it rained here. Normally I buy groceries and sit by the fountain-that-is-now-a-Christmas-Tree to write Friday nights. It was raining that night; it was too wet to play; there would be no writing for me that very cold rainy day. So I wandered the empty Vons and went home. Sorry, Vons, for you not California readers, is a grocery store. Think A&P or Piggly Wiggly. Why is this important? Work with my, you'll see a pattern soon. It's dot to dot time.

I was really busy Saturday night. I worked until 6am, and didn't get up to go to church Sunday. I've been busy all week. Now normally, busy is good, but then there are those other times when you forget. You forget about other things in life that you'll remember when you take a breath.

I took my breath around 6:30pm, and lost my wind. The dark divorce depression set in. I'm alone. I haven't seen another person since the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It's like a bad 80's post apocalypse movie. I'm busy, but for what? For who? What will it matter? Yeah, you can see where this line of thought is leading, and it too, is as bad as an 80's post apocalypse movie. Sad Rob: The on the Road to Divorce Road Warrior. Co-starring: Bob Hope and Bing Crosby--Both dead. No funny dialogue, just divorce ichor and death attar.

Who's your buddy? I don't have one. I know people, but I don't have any emergency contacts. There's nobody I can call out of the blue and go "AHHHH!!"

When I was in high school I used to wrestle. Whenever we were in a match and in trouble, the couch would yell "Find your buddy!" That meant, get outside the ring. When you crossed the line to the outside, the ref blew the whistle, and you'd restart in a better place than where you were when you crossed out.

That's what this is. Get a buddy. Find somebody you can talk to or trust, because no matter how great things are, those black days will hit. It's good to have somebody on your side when it happens.

Who's your buddy?

Mood Swingin' Through the Season.

The rain stopped. It rained all day yesterday. I know, those of you living in lesser locales are saying, "So?" But this is Southern California, we have laws against rain! How do they expect us to look good for the paparazzi we pretend to abhor when the smog-rain soils our Armani? I tell you, it's hard living up to the California dream!

I suppose the divorce has been a bigger damper on things than the rain. I mean, I'm supposed to be happy all the time. It's kind of an oxymoron too; Californian's are supposed to be happy, and yet we're supposed to divorce partners like they're a 30 day old shipment from the spouse of the month club. What, you don't have one of those? That's because you don't live here. Move here; it's the most popular thing in the welcome basket.

People tell me that I have a great attitude, that I'm doing great. I am, under the circumstances. I know, I'm adding the qualifier. It's my way of leaving wiggle room to break down. Remember the old anti-drug commercial? "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs" Then some heroin waif, pretending to be a maid (a California staple for every household—even our homeless are required to have maids, or at least somebody who's willing to wear the costume. Heroin waifs are popular out here too...), trashes somebody's kitchen with a frying pan then strolls off, appeased. Sometimes I feel like I need to do that, but I can't afford the aftermath. I don't have the money to replace the broken stuff.

California stuff it expensive. You live here, you pay. They're thinking of making that our slogan "What happens in LA costs you everything." It's not quite as catchy as the Vegas thing, but people still come. They think we're cool. They love the fantasy. I came, and now I can't afford to go crazy in my own home. I wash my dishes then bubble wrap them just in case. Ok, that's ridiculous, but I feel that way; sometimes I think the biggest victim in the divorce is my brain. This is your brain on divorce…

I happened on a article about 10 ways to get through the holidays after/during a divorce. Number 8 said "Celebrate your mood swings." Mood swings? Divorce related? No way! I am Keanu Reeves, and this is my Bill and Ted's excellent epiphany. "No" pause "Way!" My mood swings are divorce related? I was just getting ready to blame my parents! According to the list's creator, it's a natural part of divorce.

"No"

"Way!"

I'm still in shock. You mean this isn't some unique crisis only I get to go through? That's a bummer. It's normal, common, and everybody goes through it in a divorce. I hope the HOA doesn't find out, it's the only thing that made me cool enough to move in.

So I'm supposed to celebrate my mood swings huh? Maybe I could dress them up for the holiday, make mood swing ornaments, or even make blinking mood swing swag lights.

"Happy."

"Sad"

"Angry"

"SoCal cool."

That's me now. I'm so cool I don't need to ice my tea. At least not until the next rainstorm.