Treadmill woes reach untimely end

Ok, I just heard back from Horizon. They tell me there's no way they can get me the part. If I want it, I need to pay Sears. Son now I have to decide, no one I can't afford? or go without for a while. It sucks because It's my only cardio exercise. I could walk outdoors, but I don't get the same type of workout. I know I'm whining but I spent $550, and I'm kinda pissed.

I saw in the paper that Sears' profits are down 99% and they don't know why. I can give you a few clues...

"I'll finish all the things I said I'd do to begin with…"-Manchester Orchestra

"Hey dude, can you stop the rain?" That's what my dog asked me today. He looked so sad when I said "no" and slammed the door on his maw. Some dogs don't know how lucky they have it. They could be living with me.

Ok, so I didn't do that to my dog. MyUnwife will tell you: I'm a heartless bastard. The Grinch has more heart on his blackest day that I do on my best. Still, staring at the rain sopping pup-urchin on my back porch, I couldn't help but let him in.

Cosmo is half shepherd, I'm half sheep. He's an outdoor dog, I'm an indoor boy That's our agreement. It's also our agreement that on special days as well as days of rain, snow sleet or loud noises, he gets to come in. He's my new partner, but before you get any weird ideas, we practice celibacy. Ok, so maybe you didn't have any weird ideas until I put them there. Interesting…I'll have to work on that. I'll just say Cosmo and I are like newlyweds: we're still getting used to each other. Sure, we've lived together for 9 years, but he's more familiar with me as part of somebody else's couple. He doesn't know single Rob.

I don't either, but that's beside the point, I'm still getting used to Cosmo. I can avoid single Rob for now. Today was the first time I brought him inside (Cosmo, not single Rob), and he just sat down in the office while I continued my routine. He used to hang at my heel as I wandered the house—his nails clacking out his presence, his drool like bread crumbs retreating to where he's been. That's my dog. Now he's relaxed. Now he's laying on my carpet wondering why I move around so much.

I'm relaxing too. Robs sense fear in other creatures. It worries them. Cosmo doesn't fidget like he's looking for place to leave a treasure, and I don't fidget because—well, for the same reason. It's a bond of trust. We look out for one another. See? Just like marriage. At least one that works.

Here's where I normally tell you how my marriage didn't work. I think you get my point. You and me, we're like my dog and I: we're relaxing with each other. I have posts and posts of how my marriage didn't work, you kinda have a picture of that by now. I could tell you how it did work, but well, due to the obvious conclusion of the marriage story, I don’t think you'd believe me now, would you?

Still there were things that worked right. Lately I've been thinking over something she said after she'd made the decision to leave. "We would have made good friends, except all the marriage stuff got in the way." I wish I'd known this earlier, it might have helped. It's a key philosophy difference that I never imagined. For me, it was "All the marriage stuff" that kept us as friends. It was that bond that made me want to share things daily, whether she wanted to hear them or not. It was that bond that made me love her daily, even on days when she made that difficult. It was that bond that I thought made us a team and not two individuals with coincidentally converging motives.

Without the "marriage stuff," I doubt we'd have held together very long at all. I told you, I'm a heartless bastard, I only have a few people I've hung onto for more than year or so. Right now Cosmo is my closest companion. He stuck with me through all the rain, so I bring him in from his rain. We trust each other and we're happy together.

Venting

Grr...

So I mentioned my treadmill being broken right? Well it is. I've had it 115 days, and it's stopped running. That's always been the function of a treadmill: to run. Mine doesn't. It doesn't even walk. it stares. That would be ok if I could spell that with "Stair" then I could still get exercise. As it stands (because it doesn't run), no good.

I called Sears, cuz that's where I bought it.

"Unfortunately it's no longer under warranty, only the parts are covered."
"So you're telling me that I'll have to pay for the labor."
"No, listen to me. The parts are covered. But you'll need to pay for the technician to come to your home and any labor fees."
So I'm the one not listening? Ok whatever. By the time she's done, she's told me that she'll charge me $90 now on the phone to look, and most likely another $50 minimum labor later. That's about 1 fifth the price of the treadmill.

Why would I do that? 115 days? It feels like I spent that on the phone with them, while all the call techs, and managers assured me that I wasn't listening. It's like those movies where everybody tells the hero he's crazy just so he'll believe it. Maybe I am...

Fine. I may never shop at Sears again, but maybe Horizon, the products manufacturer, would be willing to help me. I spent 2 hours on hold with them until they closed for business. Not quite the service I was looking for. I tried an email instead.

That worked. The tech emailed back that it was the circuit board, and I should call Sears to get them to send me a new one under warranty. All I had to do was replace the board myself. I could do that. I called Sears.

"I'm sorry sir, we can't ship you a circuit board without first sending a tech out."
"But the manufacturer told me that's what the problem was."
"So get the part from them."
"They told me you're the only place I can get that."
"Then we'll have to charge you for the circuit board."
"But it's covered under warranty."
"Not for labor."
"I'll install it, just ship me the board."
"I can't do that without a tech coming to your house..."

I've emailed Horizon again, but it's beginning to look like a $550 paper weight. Do any of you know a good treadmill, and a reliable place to buy it?

"...convince myself that I can easily forget…"-Shiny Toy Guns

History repeats. Time heals all wounds. What is America without it's great clichés? Today, in honor of it being no particular day at all, I thought I'd pit these clichés against each other in post-marital combat.

A few months ago, I posted about a great opportunity. Not the opportunity itself, just that one existed, and I was happy to have it. I was excited, but also disappointed at the same time. You don't remember that post? You're supposed to be my dedicated fans! Go back! Reread it!. Look sometime in June, around my birthday. You don't remember that either? That's ok, nobody remembered that.

All together now, "Awwwww, poor Rob." Thanks I feel better.

Anyway, I was disappointed about the news because the first person I always ran to was MyUnwife. She may not have helped in the bad news arena, but she was a great supporter of the good. Last June I realized I couldn't do that anymore. She no longer sat on my side of the field. Pop! There went my joy-balloon. My victory turned bittersweet. I don't like it when people get bitter in my sweet. They are not two great tastes that go great together.

Yesterday, I received more good news, a new opportunity, a new feather for my cap. Once again, I couldn't tell her. I mean there wouldn't be any legal ramifications; it's not even a financial blip. By other's standards, it's not even that big of a deal, but to me it was finger of God big. To me, it a Reese's Peanut butter Cup: all peanut butter and chocolate goodness.

So does history repeat? Did I wallow in the bittersweet? Not this time. There was a knee-jerk twitch. A desire to share, and no it wasn't the "In your face!" type share. It was the type of share that makes you dance a jig with friends and family. I don't jig, but man, I am fun to watch try.

I didn't have MyUnwife. I still shared: I shared with my friends and family. They were appropriately impressed. A few people even applauded in all the right places and did the wave. Those people rock.

So what about time healing all wounds? I guess if I didn't feel the pang of regret, then that wound is healing as it's supposed to. It's gonna leave a nasty scar, but scars add character. Chicks dig scars, right? Ok, so maybe time did nothing for the woomping head wound. I'm still a little incoherent, but the prognosis is good.

"What's the deal with my brain? "-Weezer

Feast or famine. Haven't I already stared one blog saying that? I'll let you go through the archives. Let me know what you find. Those of you who observant enough know that yesterday's video was a repeat. What can I say, I like the bunny. Something about the poor little guy makes me smile. I'm a sucker for a sad sexless bunny. Ok, that just sounds weird. Back to feast or famine. I could repeat the "1,2,3,4" video and call it "Fiest or Famine," or do a dark opera and go with "Foust or Famine."

See? I knew you'd like feast. So, as I was saying…

Feast or famine. Last week was Thanksgiving, that's sure to be a feast. This weeks supposed to be famine, right? Please tell the powers that be that for me. I've been busy. For a guy without a life, I'm quite the bee of contention. Somebody get me a bonnet! I've been buzzing on the phone with my broken treadmill people, and wing-winding house fires right and left. Man! The if the key to not thinking about your divorce is keeping busy, why am I writing about my divorce now? Oh yeah, it's what keeps me busy. I'm so glad I love irony. Bring me another plateful, please….

So I've got to call Sears service again. I need to try and talk them into sending me a circuit board sans repairman. It'll save me about $150 to do it myself, and the board is covered under warranty. I'm sure they're charge me for shipping, but that's just one of the joys of dealing with those people.

See? Busy. So because I'm busy and lazy (or you can pick your favorite excuse, I'm also flexible, not gymnast flexible, more concept flexible. I'm also distractible, where was I? Oh yeah) I thought I'd rehash yesterday's post. A friend of mine emailed me about the "Divorced" vs. "Single" thing. I figured since I'm so busy I'd just cut and paste plagiarize and call it a blog. So when you see phrases like "twitching demise," that's him not me. Oh I wish I'd said it, but no. I'll give him the point. He's also one divorce up on me: he's not only winning, he's a trained expert in all things unwed.

He's also more bitter than I am—or he was. No, my bitter river hasn't risen, his has finally flushed his into the ocean. It's been a while though. Some of the stuff going on between him and his ex was pure acid. Some divorces are like that. Mine is the great shrug, his was head spinning pea soup spitting evil. I'm so glad to see he's gotten exorcise. He came out a moth ago and flirted with a waitress. I smiled. Good for him.

He wrote me today about my blog yesterday. I'd whined about filling in marital status forms. (man, the things I complain about….call me Ishmael. Or just bitter old man. Not as poetic, but definitely more accurate. I'm dealing with a white elephant, not white whale.) He said that single or divorced is all about how we define ourselves, and not how society defines us. He reminded me that Divorce was a verb. It's an action that happens to you, and not a adjective: a way of modifying the noun, Rob. It's not who I am, but just something that happened. I was in an accident once, but that doesn't mean you call me "Car crash" Rob. Ok, if you know me well enough, you may still call me that, but that's beside the point. Divorce doesn't need to define me. When the action is done, I can check single, because I will be.

That's today's blog. Brought to you by my less-than-busy "single" friend, coming to a waitress near you. If you've got the feast, he's got the famished.

"...Left for his rivals to curse it…"-Tism

Hiya, I hope you're still single! That's how the email started. You can probably guess where it went from there. I didn't guess, I read every word to be sure. Yeah, go ahead, go back reread it; I had to read it again too. This isn't the type of mail I usually find in my mailbox. So, I sipped my coffee, and read it a few more times. I had to be sure.

By the time the letters burned images into my monitor, two points still sat weird for me. Still single? That was one. I didn't know I was single to begin with, let alone "still." The sender liked something I'd written on another site, and progressed to the next step in internet attraction: my profile. Apparently she liked what she saw enough to write me. Some how she'd translated "Divorced" as single, but that's an easy mistake. I'd mistakenly put "married" when I originally signed up. Ok, I was married, but I made the mistake of thinking it would last.

I only changed the "married" to "divorced" as a statement to myself. A proclamation of whatever it is you say to yourself when your wife leaves you. They didn't have a "Sucks to be you" option, so I clicked on "divorced." I didn't expect anybody else to see it. I didn't expect anybody else to care.

I remember wondering why the only choices were "Single," "Married," or "Divorced." What about that interim state "Divorcing" Why is it that there's only a past tense on that verb? I've never seen a divorce go so quickly that it's not a process. The average American divorce takes 7 years to complete. Ok, that's a lie. I just made it up, but it sounded right as the words ran through my fingers. Maybe it's dog years. Anyway my point is: why is there never a "Divorcing" option for "marital status" columns? Something for those of us who definitely aren't married, but really aren't single yet either. We're chrysalises. That's what we'll call ourselves! Chrysalis. I probably won't use the term sitting with a bunch of guys though; They'll think it means that I didn't just fall off the horse, they think I've turned away from the horse completely.

"Howdy cowboy…"

No, we'll keep "chrysalis" to our little cocoon colony.

The other thing that struck me about the email is the obvious thing. In fact, it's the first thing I noticed. Really, the Chrysalis thing was more of an afterthought; me trying to avoid the other issue. Somebody actually thought enough of me to come onto me in an email. Hell, I haven't had a woman make overtly friendly gestures in almost a year, let alone wish I was single. Ok, that's not completely true. MyUnwife wished I was single. Oh, and there was that friendly dinner invitation, even if I did turn it down. Maybe that's why I don't count it. Maybe that's why I won't count this one. The girl was sweet for emailing me, but I am a chrysalis; I'm also not what she wants. Her email suggests she's looking for something emotionally casual, physically aggressive. You read my blog. You know that's not me. Still, it was nice to hear. It's been a long time since somebody's suggested I'd be good at that.

Maybe that's something we should all do. No, not go the way of all wicked bunnies. I mean Contact a chrysalis or divorced friend and say "Hey! I know you're there, and you're really cool." If nothing else they'll spend their day wondering what the hell that was all about. And as A fellow chrysalis, I'm here to tell you, that's better than thinking of the divorce. My admirer closed her email with "Have a great day." Thanks to her, I did.

"I stay away…"-Alice In Chains

Another Thanksgiving gone. Some Thanksgiving are bonding holidays, some are Bond holidays: shaken not stirred. This was a Bond holiday. Bond never had to deal with divorce. Oh he got married once. Once. They killed her off. Was it the machine gun fire or the exploding car? I can't remember. I do remember she was done in by some maniacal villain holding a tranquilized cat. The cat had nothing to do with the murder. Just a prop. Every villain needs a prop. MyUnwife has cats. I've mentioned them before. Maybe I could give her a cool Bond name. Maybe not, she'd hunt me down with an exploding car.

"No Rob, I want you to die…."

So far she hasn't wanted to do that since moving out. At least not so she's willing to admit it in front of my recorder (the tape type, not the little woodwind—nevermind). Probably why I haven't heard from her in months: deniability. Maybe that's the difference between the bitter divorce and the friendly one. A bitter divorce is her Power Puff coffee mug rebounding off my forehead; a friendly divorce is breathing my last gasp through my favorite pillow. Stop kicking and relax...

I think it's part of her nefarious plan. Lay low and then pounce. I'm not sure what good prolonged pouncing is to a divorce, but she's probably discussed strategy with the cats, what they lack in plan diversity, they more than make up for in attack tenacity.

Cat: "Pounce, I say! If that doesn't work, then roll on your back, claws in the air. He'll impale himself."

MyUnwife: "Deeevioussss…"

Cat (licking himself with glee): I know. Now leave me to bathe.

See? That’s why it worries me. The not having the official California "Sorry dude about the marriage thing" pat on the back. MyUnwife listens to cats. I'm a sitting duck. Now, as said duck, I can beat her about the head and neck with my wings when she pounces, but I'd rather not risk my neck in her maw.

Today my new treadmill died. I blame her. She must have snuck into the house and switched the motor for a bomb. Right now the motor is a lifeless hunk of metal. According to Sears, that lifeless hunk of metal has been mine for 115 days. If I don't pay them $150 bucks, I might as well hang it on a wall and call it art. The voices in my head have some special words for Sears.

She listens to cats, I listen to voices. As time passes it gets so easy to blame MyUnwife. She's not here to defend herself, or throw a cat at me in contempt. It's just silence and the dog. The dog agrees to everything: he likes the attention. But time and silence ruin my perspective. All I remember is how I saw things when she left, so my perspective is a little bitter and skewed, like orange juice and toothpaste. That’s the only thing I have to remember MyUnwife by: the faces I made before she left.

See? That's where Bond had it made: He'll always remember his wife by the sunny memories, and how some outsider ruined them. He never saw her throw a jealous fit over Ms. Moneypenny, or gripe over how his tux always had singed collars, or why he needed to save the world on their anniversary. They had no time. Me? I'll always remember how things decayed from within over time. I've lost the sunny drive in the Aston Martin. I'm blinded by the orb of gall. All I see are shadows: corrupt silhouettes, misshapen by passing time.

"Last Christmas…"-Wham

Raindrops on roses, biscotti served kittens…or something like that. I went to the mall last night, just to get out of the house. You know they're already playing Christmas music? Yeah, I wasn't that surprised either, but surprised or not, this year I'm a little edgier. This year I'm alone. This year I'm walking the sidewalk outside our local Borders and they're piping out this strudel, poodle, kitten mitten stuff that used to be one of my favorite things. Now they're just reminders that Holiday's are for these nuzzling couples I'm slaloming between looking for escape. Christmas has become that "running nowhere" nightmare. I look down: Thank God I'm not naked too.

Christmas is for families. I know, I've said it before. I think I did that because it's true. I don't tend to repeat my lies. So how did I nip my holiday humbug in the bud? I went to a movie. I saw No Country For Old Men. If a sociopath like Anton Chigurh doesn't chase the fluffy kittens away, then you're gonna need pliers to remove kitty claws and 8 tiny fang nubs from your flesh. That cat's going nowhere. It was a good movie; I'm just not sure it was what I was looking for. I didn't want to think about the movie, I was hoping for more of a feel good, brain-off film like The Mist. Instead I got Tommy Lee Jones tying things together by comparing older and younger generations. Wouldn't it have been easier to just suck bodies into the Christmas mist and be done with it? Chalk it up to naught and nice and all that.

The movie did make me feel good about my uneventful little life. Other things in the theater made me feel good too. A couple sat next to me while the pre show ads were coercing me to buy. The couple was young—both early twenties. Both spending more time with their cell phones than with each other. I never get that, even when you're married; but especially when you're dating. Dating is about impressions. So what you're saying is the person on the other side of this device is more important than the person almost touching you, and that's how it will always be.

Yes, I know, there are extenuating circumstances, especially during the holiday season, but you could tell by the casual apathy that this wasn't an emergency. This was like reading the morning paper: routine. Nothing extraordinary about it for either of them. Then again, I guess that's what you sign up for. If they're both ok with it, then why not? You step into the naught mist, you know what happens. Santa's gonna getcha.

Still, that's not me. I always tried to make sure MyUnwife knew that I knew she was there. I failed a few times, but we can't always be on our game. I'd like to think that I did when it mattered, but then again reread that last sentence. Know that I didn't, and I couldn't. It's not ok, but it will happen. She failed me on several occasions too. Still, she never pulled out the cell, and that was good. That didn't save us from random acts of divorce though. Maybe it is just a coin toss. Team texters sitting beside me are still together, so maybe I should keep my old yap shut.

Christmas was MyUnwife's time of year. I think my ten years in retail sapped the triple-ho spirit from me. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Christmas, it's just that a whole month of cheer is a little long. It's like going on an M&M binge and then having a friend give you a 2 pound bag. You swallow one candy pellet at a time, smile at your friend, and expect to vomit at any second.

Oozes in your mouth, not in your hands….

It's even worse for me: I listen to radio for a living. Several stations have already turned to the Christmas side. I'll be monitoring and identifying Christmas music till little elfin paratroopers pop from my ears. Woo Freakin' Hoo! So yeah, if you live near KAIM, KSGN, WRCM or KPEZ you too can join in the endless Christmas fun. Tune in, pretend I'm serenading you while my head beats percussion against the wall.

These are a few of my favorite things...

The music drove MyUNwife nuts. She'd roll her eyes across the floor every time she heard "The Christmas Shoes." And let me tell you, come Christmas, she got to hear it a lot. She hated it, I'd learned to numb it out. I think that that skill will come in handy this Christmas.

Santa: So what do you want for Christmas this year Robby?

Me: A happy Marriage.

Santa: Sorry kid, you'll shoot your eye out.

Me: Very funny Santa.

Santa: I got a bag full of 'em. The elves write stuff for me all year. Here have a copy of The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce.

Me: No thanks, I'm already finding that out, Santa.

Suddenly I'm not so pathetic

At least I didn't bring a date to ignore while I played with my
cellphone in the theater.

My eyes! My eyes!

Looks like I'm in for a horror...

First the bookstore

Ok my book has to be here somewhere...

My night out

I decided to escape the house for a bit. I'm eating out tonight and
maybe catching a movie too. I'm too poor, but sometimes we all need
to escape.

"See, I'm a man with a plan to use my head…"-Rilo Kiley

The food is eaten the tallies made. The most popular Thanksgiving question asked by family? "So how are you doing?" Everybody asked me that. I'm on the phone with Dad, "So how are you doing?" Mom, same thing. My little sister? Yup her too. And it's not the All encompassing "How you doing?" or even the Joey from friends "how you doing?" Which although disturbing coming from family, would at least be a change. No, this is the needle-jab to the soul, "So MyUnwife's left you. How are you taking to being pathetic and lonely?" Ok, maybe the intent didn't start out that way, but by the sixth or seventh "I'm Fine" my soul is a little tender. "I'm sitting alone eating a wren on steroids, and boxed stuffing. How do you think I'm doing? Stop freaking asking already!" I heard grandma drop her oxygen mask after I said that to her. There was a thump and a crash, and they drove her to the hospital, her lips all blue and quivering. Family's just like being married: Everybody wants honesty until you give it, then somebody ends up crying in the hospital.

"How are you doing?" By the time I've completed all my phone calls I'm doubting my "fine" answer. Was it believable enough? Did I make too many jokes; do they think I'm overcompensating; am I overcompensating; am I really fine?

Fine. Whatever. Now my family has me in reevaluation mode. It's like NASA running down a checklist:

Happy?

Check.

Sociable?

Check

Emotional stability?

Check.

Naked cactus wrestling?

Che-what?

That was just a test. Carry on…

What's the one thing you don't want to do sitting in your house all alone on a holiday? Well yes, summoning demons through spells from a book you found in the basement is a bad idea. But anyone who's watched enough horror movies knows, that's a sport for 5 or more. Nobody's going to watch a glowing eyed murderer stabbing out emails because there's nobody around to kill. No, what you want to avoid, in my little story, is self evaluation, because by the time you reach the end of the list, you might as well be reading some cult death tome: You're in hell.

How are you doing? I'm clinging to life by the skin of my teeth. And just what is that? According to my dentist, the only skin on my teeth is from biting my tongue. Teeth have enamel like painted talons. They're offensive weapons. And that's what I found over my Thanksgiving sabbatical: I'm offensive--like the smell of an old turkey. I'm also no longer simply defending myself. I'm being me: See me, hear me, smell me in all odorous offense. Despite all the asking, I'm doing good. I enjoyed my bird, my stuffing, and my rolls. I don't need to run the personal checklist: all systems are go. All verbs are active. It took a lot return to a holiday place of celebration; I'm not slumping back to the grueling days of enduring and gruel.

So how are you doing?

Winding Down

MMMM, Thanksgiving...

So that was my Thanksgiving. Oh not as cool or volitile as the ones you see on TV. Probably not as cool or volitile as the ones I had while I was married. Still, the food was good, and the company was intelegent. What more can you ask for? Sure, I would have loved to share it with someone, but that wasn't this Thanksgiving. This Thanksgiving was about remembering Rob.

I called all my family. They're a wealth of divorce wisdom. Each one had their own take on what I should do in regards to MyUnwife. I don't agree with all of them, but I accept that everything they offer, they offer in love. My parents may not have been able to love each other, but I know that they love me. If you're a divorcing parent, remember to pass that on to your children.

I hope your Thanksgiving was wonderful, filling, and safe.

My Meal.

Breasts and Legs

Ok, the bird is on the grill, and it's wood chips are smoking. Well, not exactly smoking. Actually they're flaring up like a California hillside. The chips didn't read the smoker instructions and they thought they were supposed to flame into molten char. That's ok, the bird still cooks, it just may not be as smoky.

I put a rub on the bird and got kind of excited. Those were the first breasts I'd touched in a long time. The hen didn't get too excited, she just laid there. I guess you can't please everyone.

It looks like I'm eating much later than planned, but no later than I do every other night, so I'll be fine. I just won't be observing holiday dining hours.

In a half hour I'll flip the bird, so to speak, and then start my side dishes. So far, It's been a good holiday. The alone thing is kind of akward, but it's more like this nagging thing in the back of my head. You know, like month or so after you sprain an ankle: it's still tender, but you forget, until you misstep.

What a day!

Rob's hen relaxes in a candlelit brine bath after a long day of losing her head...

FIRE!!!!!

Ok, just a small one. Ok, not a fire at all just a false alarm. But it was a fire alarm. I've got my pies in the oven (I know late dinner for Rob, but still, it's my Thanksgiving adventure alone.); They started to smoke, and my fire alarms are really sensitive. You can insult them and they go off. I've now moved my one oscillating fan to the hallway. It whispers fresh air compliments and soothes the alarm's ego.

Other than that, everything seems good. I found out I'm supposed to read cooking directions before I make pies. They required "deep dish" pans. I'm a guy. What do I know about deep dish other than it's a form of pizza. There's no pumpkin in pizza, why would I know about deep dish pies? Well, apparently there is such a thing and I'm supposed to have it. I've used regular dishes—Oh yeah that's the other thing. My pie filling makes 2 pies! What am I going to do with 2 pies?--ok, I'll suffer through some how. If I have to eat the extra pie, I'll do it. That's the kind of guy I am. The other thing is I had left over filling. I've used left over crust trimmings and made 2 mini pies in a muffin tin. There was still some left over stuff; I sacrificed it to the disposal gods. Hopefully they were appeased and will keep any sewage smells from my kitchen for another year.

Oh, I have one more parent to call. When the pies are done, I need to brine my bird. I've already made the rub, so that's good to go. While the bird brines, I'll go work out.

These are my Thanksgiving alone adventures. It seems MyUnwife can take half my stuff, but she can't take my mini adventures. She's probably glad she left them. I haven't heard from her for a while. I don't plan on calling her, but I do hope she's having a good Thanksgiving. Maybe she went to see her sister.

But enough of her. Back to me, and I need to check my pies.

Stay tuned!

Rob's Thanksgiving

Sorry no cool music just lots of mini posts. Nobody ever made any cool turkey songs anyway. What's up with that? We need some songs to sing over the bird carcass. Well, my posts today short, put them to music. Think of them as little deviled eggs to tide you over until the big meal. Don't like deviled eggs? What kind of freak are you?

I'm starting my pie first, I thought about cooking it last night, but I was so busy with work. I did my writers' group until 9pm and then I worked until 5am. So, now I'm starting pie now. Well, starting, but also pausing. I made banana bread the other day, and forgot my beaters were in the dish washer. Wish I'd remembered; I could have washed dishes last night. Oh well. It's not like I'm on a timetable. So If I'd been awake, I'd have hand washed the beaters, but I started before I stared my coffee. Bad move for a caffeine addict. So we're waiting while the dishwasher is halfway through the cycle.

I'm gonna call my folks now, and then read my paper—or maybe the reverse; I'm not sure. I think the important thing is that this is the end of my post.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!

This is my Before image.

"Are you well in the Suffering …"-Coheed and Cambria

So tomorrow's Thanksgiving. It'll be my first one alone since college. Remember school? It was that time when you tried to figure out who you were. Some people got there, the rest of us went, "Wow that was a lot of money for nothing," then tumbled out into the job we always wanted—completely by accident.

Well I say accident, but really, no. If we hadn't gone to college, we wouldn't have been in the right place to find the job. Most of the lessons you learn are not the ones you set out to learn.

Wow! Look at me, big and philosophical Rob! See? I learned it in college. All I was going for was a degree in talking to lots of people with a minor in listening. MyUnwife didn't go to college at all. Well that's not true. She stopped in, petted the puppies, painted a few walls, and got bored. That doesn't mean she's not smart; just uneducated. So if your going to talk behind her back, use big words. I try to avoid that, she's got a mean backhand, and a great reach. Oh, and she knows all my big words. I taught them to her. She also taught me a few words, and left me with a few I still need to look up.

"Uhm…I don't think it's physically possible for me to do that to myself…"

Our marriage was an education. I'm still sorting out what I learned, and where I failed. Still, I'm glad I spent the time with her. She taught me to rethink my philosophy. She also dropped me out where I had no intention of being. Was it wasted time and money?

No.

Without her I wouldn't be who and where I am now. As cheesy as it sounds, I like that person. He's alone for now, but he's still learning and resilient. So this Thanksgiving I'm thankful for MyUnwife, because despite the part of her that made her leave—the part I'll never understand no matter how much education I have—She's still the woman I married 8 years ago, and I wouldn't trade those lab hours, late nights, or years of hard work for anything.

Happy Thanksgiving. Be thankful for everything that's brought you here. It may not be where you planned on being, but if you learned anything, it's made you a better person. And if you're a parent, remember to love your children a little extra over the holiday. You've got a lot to teach them.

"Just one less thing to care about…"-Dramarama

To deck the halls or to not deck the halls. That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the lights and tinsel of outrageous brilliance, or to stay dark against a sea of Yule Tides, and by opposing, say "Humbug?"

Yeah, somewhere a Literature professor is dying just a little on the inside. That's ok, his skin should char to a golden brown. Put an apple in his mouth and serve him up before guests. They'll all compliment you on you unique table arrangement. You'll be a Holiday hero. You can thank me; it's my holiday gift to you.

It's all in the giving tradition of MyUnwife and I. Together we were givers. In fact, this weekend, the weekend after Thanksgiving, would be the weekend we turned our humble house into a Christmas light cathedral, complete with blinking bellower and hunchback reindeer, Quasi-Blitzen. We're nothing if not festive.

That was us on holiday spirits though. Me? I'm the grinch. Ok, not really, I love Christmas, but it's such a giving holiday. When I'm the only ghost wandering these halls it hardly seems worth my wile to be festive—and I am quite wiley. I'm so wiley there's a reindeer, or a goat, or a coyote, or something named after me. A soda? That would be cool.

The point is (and yes like all good epics, there is a point) I've been vacillating over whether or not to do the whole Christmas extravaganza year. I like it, but it's a lot of work, and well, it's just me. It's better when you have somebody to do it for. That much labor for me? I'm not really worth it. I mean I'm a good guy and all, but twinkling light worthy? Then there's the choir of angels for the lawn. Do you know how much singing angels cost over the holiday?

Probably not gonna happen this year. Maybe I can pretend it's just some dark time of morning, and not just a blend of self pity and laziness in my nog.

I still might have lit up it if I were doing the writers' group Christmas party. Then at least I'm glowing for them. But this year, somebody else is hosting the party. She volunteered, and I'm gonna let her do it. I still have to organize it. Seems I'm the one with the master list of emails. I'm important.

I think that's the biggest struggle during a divorce, especially over the holidays: remembering that I'm important. I mean once you peel past the layers of bitterness and blame, I still have to look in the mirror and realize that MyUnwife would rather live alone than live with me. That's a big ol' lump of stocking coal.

Maybe they get easier after the first holiday season. Maybe next season I'll be festive. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, creeps a reindeer's pace from Thanksgiving to Christmas to the last syllable of "Auld Lang Syne," and all my yesterdays I've been a lighting fool atop the ladder of death. Out, out, blinking Santa!

Yup, there goes another one. Alas Prof. Yorick, I knew him...

"Now I'm going to dizz knee land..."-Dada

Quick Quiz: Name these locales:

What happens here, stays here.

Is OK.

The happiest place on earth.

That's right, my house 3 years ago. That would be the garage, corral in back, and the bed—ok, that's too easy. The kitchen, I'm a good boy.

No really, I am, ask Santa. Oh, don't try to tell me he's not real, how do you explain his visit to the happiest place on earth?

Huh…

The happiest place on earth. Well that certainly doesn't describe Marriageland. No, I'm not just being bitter. It's true. There are rainy days, you can't avoid them. Marriageland is great, but if you stay for a long time you risk a downpour. It happens. The strong people work through it. The strong people pack an umbrella.

Yesterday I sat in the church membership class drinking weak coffee. The pastor talked about the role of the church in terms of healing etc. He had some cool diagrams of the people of the world. It kind of looked like a golf ball with dimples. I think God planned him to be a pastor and not an artist. Still, he gets his point across. He's talking about the people and their expression of faith. Each dimple is a person on the big blue golf ball hurtling through space. We've taken a nasty dogleg into the woods, and God is coming after us with a club. At least that's what I thought he was talking about. 8am comes awfully early…

The pastor also explained the church as a marriage to all the married people in class. I'd visited Marriageland; I knew what he was talking about. In case I didn't, he turns to me and says, "I'll bet this is what happened in your marriage: You both stopped accepting blame, and started blaming each other. Then you stopped forgiving each other."

Holy Crap! I've been seeing a shrink for months and he hasn't gotten this far into my problems! That pig is just after my money. I'm gonna stop going. I don't think I can forgive him.

Ok, so great pastor Zoltan didn't say anything I didn't already know; it's kind of like saying, "I predict it's gonna rain, and you're gonna get wet." Some things are as obvious as song lyrics, even to me. Still, that doesn't make him any less correct.

"Yes, the ace of spades was my card! How did you do that?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not making fun of the church or any of God's mysteries. It's just that the basic foundation of my marriage's collapse isn't one of them. That’s all Rob and MyUnwife Animatronics. Turn on the lights in the haunted mansion and all you see is a monorail meandering through a big warehouse. There's no magic there. It's the darkness that makes it spooky. It's the way Marriageland shadows loom much longer in directional light. Then there's that annoying song:

"It's all your fault after all. It's all your fault after all…"

It plays over and over until you just want to grab the kids and get out of the park. I didn't have any kids. It was just MyUnwife and I torturing ourselves for fun. You have to pay extra for that ride; it's strictly BYOBG. (bring your own ball gag).

Turn on the light though, and you see things as they really are. We stopped doing that. We stopped looking for things as they really were, and just let the ride carry us into darkness. Oh we intended well, but where do you find the road paved with good intentions? Yeah, we did that ride too.

"I am looking at the world from the bottom of a well…"-Mike Doughty

Did you know the shelf life of heavy cream? I just bought some for a soup I'm making and it doesn't die until January. That's longer than the grey pancake batter matter I threw away last night. The rest of the soup can go bad but the cream in the broth will be still kicking. Well I suppose broth doesn't kick does it? It's the things you throw in the broth that kick.

My soup won't kick. It's not that kind of soup. It's got potatoes, kale, and Italian sausage. Oh, there are other things, but you get my point. The other things would just bore you. Well you might find the secret ingredient exciting.

"Want to see a mouse on a leash?"

Oh no! That's just my neighbor's kid. He caught a field mouse yesterday and put it on a string. It's a friend, not dinner. I remember when I was that easily excited. I think it was last week.

I never had a mouse on a leash though. I had mice in my kitchen. That was fun. We had 2 cats, all they did was sit in front of the cabinet.

"You know you have mice in there?"

"Why yes. Would you like to do something about that?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm a cat."

"Yes and cat's eat mice."

"I beg your pardon? I may play with them, but I certainly will not be eating one."

So I became designated rodent slayer. MyUnwife wanted nothing to do with critter-cide. She just said that there would be no sticky paw tape. The mice weren't allowed to live in her kitchen, but there would be no suffering under the sink.

Fine I could deal with that. I wasn't big on standard traps. I'm a klutz; A broken finger wasn't hard to imagine. I looked at a few catch and release traps. We both thought those were great ideas. Except the part where the only release point was a vacant lot behind our house. I wasn't going to send my mice on vacation, so that they could come back home with memorabilia and mouse ears. Well they already had the ears, but you know what I mean.

I finally settled on the zapper. The mouse went in for a piece of kibble, completed an electrical circuit, and immediately lost his appetite. It sucked for the mouse, but it did get them out of the kitchen.

I wish that the divorce could be like that. I mean, I'm not fond of being the mouse, but a quick zap and it's done. I could deal with that. But there are so many levels, financial, emotional, and everyday. It's like an infestation in and of itself. I walk into my living room to find that it's eaten half my furniture. I go into the kitchen and it's raided my spice cabinet. There are holes in every aspect of my life. There's a huge hole where MyWife should be. I'd like to zap it but I can't. It's like this one trap I saw. It held the mouse in the cage, but then you hooked up this thing they called the "drowning attachment, " and well you can guess the rest. That's kinda how I feel. I see life, and I live it within my confines, but the water is pouring in and there's no where to go. Add some special herbs and spices, and I'd make a great soup.

"Your choices are half chance…"-Baz Luhrmann

"Figures don't lie, but liars do figure." That's what my dad used to tell me. My dad was full of wonderful sayings. I think his favorite was, "give your tongue a sleigh ride." That one never made any sense to me. Although the image of my tongue wagging on the back of a toboggan did make me giggle as a little kid. Probably not the results he was looking for.

These are his legacy. Little blurbs of thought that run through my mind. Oh they're not the sole item in the ol' treasure trove of fatherly wisdom, but they are the first things that come to mind.

"Figures don't lie…." I've looked in the mirror. I don't really have a figure. What does that make me? A liar? Isn't there an option C? Can't I be a doctor or a fireman instead? No, I'm a writer, and as we all know, writers are liars. Thanks dad. Why didn't you just say "Become a statistician or you're going to hell." Parents always put such pressure on you.

My dad was divorced, like his father before him. It's a time honored tradition in our family. How can I break away from that? I'm tired of blaming MyUnwife. Maybe I should blame Dad. I don't remember any cool "blame" sayings. I guess the good news is that the men in my family only remarried once, so maybe the next time for me it'll stick. I've got a vat of epoxy, just in case. We'll see, I still have my Mom's genes to contend with. Her parents didn't divorce, but she had enough bad luck to handle a few generations. I am a blessed child indeed.

I went looking for statistics on children of divorce but couldn't find any. Oh everybody said we were more susceptible, but when it came to actual statistics, everybody mumbled like they had marbles in their mouth. Makes sense, that's where I kept mine. Nobody wants to steal them when they're wet with slobber. That's right, I'm a liar; I'll make some statistics up. Children of divorce are 100% more likely to come from divorced families than children without divorced parents. Not bad. I could get used to this. My dad would be proud.

One book I read (The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce, Wallerstein, Lewis, and Blakeslee; Hyperion, 2000), suggested that children of divorce were more concerned about not repeating the same mistake, but I didn't read how successful these kids were in realizing their concerns. I think you can put me down as a statistic against, but I'm not a kid in the study. I never get the cool gigs; I always have to make them up. I'm a liar.

MyUnwife is the product of divorce. Her parents didn't bother to do it until the kids were grown up. Instead MyUnwife got to see all the bitter bickering that comes if you stay and fight things out. Screw it, I blame her parents. No I don't; Her dad's a big guy. Her dad could beat my dad. Sorry dad, you get the mantle again. It's my turn to protect you.

When I went to my grandfather's funeral, my dad and I were the only divorced people there. I have 2 aunts, 2 uncles, 2 cousins, and one sister, enough relatives to toss on an ark and call a menagerie. Or, enough to make a statistic: all married, none divorced. All the aunts and uncles outlasted my marriage, and one cousin only needs to stick it out another year. I'm special, in that divorce-short-bus kinda way. Oh, but according to the statistics, I'm more likely to not want a divorce. Huh. I don't see that "not wanting" doing me a whole lot of good here. What's that thing Dad said about wishing in one hand..?

I'm a liar. I could make up a whole story about my perfect marriage. The princess who found a toad and thought his warts were cute. I could rush in, slay the toad, and live happily ever after with the princess. He was a big toad, so we'd have frog legs for life. Hunter gatherer, keeper. That's me.

Oh, and Liar, but I prefer to be called "dreamer." I'm special, and it figures.