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.”

 

Reality Tidings!

Evil repeats. Every jungle has it’s darkest heart. Every year has it’s 25 days of Christmas.  Actually that’s 25 days plus the after Thanksgiving leftovers.  It’s hard to count those though, they’re just carcass and gizzards. 

 

Is this you’re first Christmas?  Oh, well you’re gonna want to save that carcass then: you’ll want something to throw at the carolers. Yeah, first Christmases after divorce blow.  I’m sorry, where you looking for something uplifting?  Try picking up a rock. Bah-humbug.

 

Sorry, last Christmas was my first one alone.  It sucked.  Oh, I survived, and enjoyed it the best I could, but lets face it.  Christmas is supposed to be Whoville singers and growing hearts.  My first Christmas was joyless Mudville and struck-down Robby.  Not the same thing, let me tell ya.

 

“Look on the brighter side!”

 

Yeah, whatever. It’s impossible.  Silver linings are for Cruella Deville’s puppy coat, cuz that’s the closest thing you’ll find on your first Christmas after divorce. Trust me, if you’re like me, you’re skulkin’ the streets hunting reindeer steaks.

 

“Run Rudolph Ru---“

Bang!

“Oooh, that red nose probably wasn’t your best strategy…”

 

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas.  I love Santa. I love Frosty. I love me eggnog long time.  Ok, I love the eggnog most of all, but it’s a wholesome love, and it really does help make the first Christmas blurrily bearable.

 

I know, right now you’re going, “Uhm…what did we ever do to you, Rob?”

 

Nothing.  This is my Christmas gift to you: Reality.

 

See I was reading other blogs, like I do every year, to figure out who’s naughty and who’s nice, and I read one that said that suggested that other bloggers weren’t helping people.  They weren’t moving on, and they weren’t showing others how to move on. That’s right.  She was talking about me!  It didn’t sound like me, but who else would she be talking about?  What other bloggers are there? I’m the fatboy’s Christmas gift to mankind.  That’s right, I am your Christmas freakin’ miracle.  Yes, yes, I see your tears of joy from here.  You’re welcome.

 

See, according to that blogger, other bloggers weren’t moving on. I know, I’ve said that already, but I feel it important to repeat things, otherwise I forget.  This blogger was accusing us of only repeating the pain. A sort of holiday masochism:  Peppermint stick caning for candy coated welts of red and white--or even worse, extracting the pure vanilla bitterness caused by their spouse and swallowing it straight.

 

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“Yeah @#$& you too, you limp—“

 

God bless us all everyone! You get the idea.  Still, I say this blogger couldn’t have been reading my blog.  I say nothing but the kindest words about MyEx and her Quasimodo hump.  In fact I hope that Santa leaves her all the coal her pantyhose will hold.  What?  Stockings? No, se wears hose though, and I want her to stay warm this Christmas.

 

I care. I’m full of the nog of human kindness.

 

That’s because this is our second Christmas.  I’m healing. No matter what I’ve been accused of, I’m moving on. Is it because I’m going to spend some time with somebody else this Christmas?  I’m not gonna lie, that doesn’t hurt, but really I think that’s putting the sleigh before the deer. Santa’s got scars from trying that one. That’ll teach him to mix vodka and milk.  Gravity is one lumpy coal of reality.

 

Let’s mine some more reality: Real Rob is only lovable in a grinchy kinda way, but black cloud of divorce Rob?  Yeah, that’s a grade o’ gloom only a mother could love and even she’s does that from afar.

 

“No need to visit Rob, I know how you hate to travel over the holidays.” 

 

It’s fine, because I know it. That leaves me with a choice: hunt more reindeer or to deck my halls with gifs of Holly Hunter.  I choose Holly.  Why wouldn’t I?  See despite how much I disparage this other blogger for calling me reindeer names, she’s right.  We need to move past it.

 

So how do we do that?  Well for each of us that snow path is different.  I could tell you all the cool things you can do with your holiday to make it better, and during the next 23 days, I probably will, but know that if this is your first Christmas, that may not work.  For some of us, the first Christmas is about just settling down for a long winter’s nap, because the only reason we’re even thinking about crawling out of bed is to BBQ another elf on the spit.  I’m sorry; they prefer to be called little people, how insensitive of me.

 

The first Christmas isn’t about  Rudolph and Frosty, it’s about Bruce Willis and Die Hard.  It’s getting through the holiday, alive. But once you do that, then you grow and do your best to enjoy it.  If you can, spread the cheer.  That’s what I’m doing.

 

I’m here to make your Christmas unforgettable.  Aren’t you blessed?  Yeah, what’s more I’m spending my Christmas with one lucky reader this year, and it’s all because I made it through the first holiday, and moved on.  I’m leaving MyEx in Christmases past, and looking forward to Christmases future.  Like Bob Scrooge, I’m changing my ways.  Not Bob? Well I’m sure Bob changed his ways this year too.

 

So did Rob.  I’m heading into the new holidays. I’m not repeating my path.  Last year I survived.  This year I’ll make it something special—for me and for somebody else.  And isn’t that what the holidays are about? So come along with me as we face a new holiday.

 

Uhm, I meant that figuratively.  You can’t join me—sorry. I’m just evil that way.  Welcome to Christmas.

 

 

Cork Floats

I have cork!

 

Ok, so that’s not as impressive as having wood, but we all work with the gifts we’re given, right?  Well, the cork wasn’t really a gift; it was a purchase.  I made it. 

 

What’s so cool about having cork?  It’s a buoyant bump up to the surface for me.  After submerging into the cold depths of divorce, I’m floating back towards the light writing realm. Nothing says “floatation device” like cork, and nothing says “I’m a writer” like a cork wall and a laptop at Starbucks.  I already got the laptop;  now I have the cork.  Next, I’ll work on aloof.

 

“No, don’t bother me, I’m great.”

 

Ok, so I already have aloof down, I just need somewhere to throw it.  That’s why I bought the cork.  I want a visual wall to see my thoughts.  Most of them will frighten little children, but that’s ok.  I just won’t invite them into the ove—office.

 

“Some more gingerbread, Hansel?”

 

You can tell a man by the personality icing slathered on his wall.  Look at his notes.  “buy milk” that means he’s forgetful, and likes his dairy.  “Do army ants march?”  That’s an inquisitive person.  “Do you still hear the Lambs Clarise?” Yeah, it’s best to find the door and add color later when you see that note.

 

Until recently, I didn’t need a wall; I had a business card.  It said “divorce” that’s all I needed.  Whenever I thought of something, all I needed was to look at the card and remember, because it was somehow going to relate to that.

 

“Says here that Al Gore is going on tour to raise global warming awareness.”

“Divorce.”

“Excuse me?”

“…it’s about divorce?”

“Al Gore?”

“No, global warming.”

“I see.”

“Al Gore is just touring to stay away from Tipper.”

“Divorce?”

“Exactly.”

“I see…I’ll be over here.”

“You’re divorcing me.”

“No, I don’t know you, I was just here to buy coffee, but you’re creeping me out.”

“Have some gingerbread.”

 

So my coffee shop divorced me.

 

Divorce. That’s the billboard I carried around in my pocket. Halogen night lit so you couldn’t miss the blinding accusation. It’s what I ate, drank, and slept.  Not anymore.  I’ve got cork: it’s lighter.

 

So what changed?

 

Time.  Yep, that’s it.  After a while the business card frayed and the words smeared leaving me alone with a wad of pocket lint.  It was time for something more.  My mind had become a dam nation of dammed thoughts.  It’s time to let things go.  Time to buy some cork.

 

Cork is great, it bottles things in. It holds things up. It’s multifunctional.  I’ve bottled things up just fine (see my dam previous reference)--No, I need a place to pin my new flowing thoughts and issues.  I’m ready to make sense of the other things in my head, sort out the rivulets like refrigerator magnets.

 

Ok, I’m not ready for magnets. Not magnets. Not yet.  Magnets will stick to anything, I need to keep my thoughts secure. Cork is perfect. Not everything sticks to cork.  I’m also finding not every adhesive holds it up either.

 

Nope.  I bought spray glue that was supposed to do the trick, but three coats of sticky goop later, my cork still flaps out. That’s ok.  I held onto divorce, I’ve held my liquor, I can hold up my cork. I’ll make it stick.  I’ve found I’m creative.  I just need to use the creativity on the back side of the cork, as well as the front.

 

Once I do, what’s next?  I fill the cork, of course. Rob’s brain has been moving. I have scraps of things from the past year. Things I want to hold onto. Things that make the new Rob still Rob.  Chunks of gingerbread frosted together to make myself alluring.

 

The worn out business card?  Oh, no.  I’m throwing that away.