Thursday, January 31, 2008
Gsash! I'm late!
they will only blind you.
Insert Your Favorite Song Here. It's Reader's Choise Day.
Boo!
I know, you weren't expecting a post this early huh? Well, except for you Divorce360.com folk. If you're reading me there, this just looks like two posts in a row. Well 360ers, pretend today is tomorrow. Boo! I'm early, blah, blah, blah…great. Pretend you're surprised too. So yeah, I'm posting early; that's because today is walk day.
So anyway, yeah. I'm blogging early because today is my big walk. I told you I'm all about routines right? Well I am. It's what keeps me moving forward. It's also what helps during the darkest divorce days. Routine: It's the breakfast of newly divorced. It's not real sweet, but it tastes a hell of a lot better than crow, let me tell ya.
One of my routines is a nine mile walk every 4th or 5th Thursday of the month, depending on the weather. It's good for my health, and it's just long enough for me to think about whatever I can't think of while I'm sitting at home working.
The good news for you, is the blog is blissfully short. You can swallow the whole thing in one bite-sized chunk, and there shouldn't be any of the bloaty feeling that comes with Rob's regular blog.
If you're missing the heavy bitter flavor, you can always visit my descarteslemming.blogspot.com site. I'll post pictures from my walk about ever mile. It's something I do to keep the walk interesting: I look for thing's that I might want to shoot. Well, with a camera anyway…
I'll probably start around noonish as the California clock turns. So drop by if you're bored, post if your inclined. Feel free to make fun of me and my pics. I won't care. By the time I'm done with my walk, I'm usually too tired to notice anyway.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
"Will this make our lives much better…"-Kate Nash
"My future is a blank page."
I've heard that somewhere. It was either an unidentified caller on my cell or a knight with an oblivious intern (Bill Clinton had one of those). Yeah, think that knight thing through, there's actually 2 jokes there, and neither one is good. So think on it, that throbbing turmoil in you temple is your mind revolting. Ahh, there's the grimace. You got it. Ok, proceed. Either way, a blank page is nothing more than an empty promise.
As a writer, it's more of a threat than a promise. We're like vampires and sunflower seeds. The can't pass a pile of sunflower seeds without counting, we can't pass a blank page without filling it. Yeah, I know, the sunflower seed thing is just a myth. Real vampires don't do that. Ok, you've got me there. It's time to step away from the Anne Rice and the Sci-fi channel, my friend. Step into the light once and a while.
See? That's just the problem with the blank page. Some people are indiscriminate about how they fill it. Some people are marking time and filling space with every pithy quote or pabulum placebo that comes along. Don't believe me? Quick poll: Everybody who's tried the Atkins's Diet, slap yourself once. If you're still on it, slap yourself twice. If you're still slapping yourself because I said to, slap yourself again; you've just proved my point. If your still slapping yourself simply because you enjoy it, well that's another issue. Please send my your other interests in an email, I'm interested.
Ok, I'm kidding. With my luck, I'd get a mailbox full: sheets of sheep ready to be counted. Great, now where back to the reaming sheep and filling paper. There's just too much of that in my divorce world. Everybody trying to tell me how to heal, and how to move one.
"put a raw egg in a blender with a picture of MyUnwife. Add Tabasco, garlic and blend. Now drink it."
Wha?
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the help, and I love the people who care enough to try. In my "blank page" world, it means a lot that you're trying to leave a mark. Thank you. On the other hand, I don't think a raw egg is going to do anything but make me sick. I've already been there: when she left. Why would I go back?
No, here's the thing. If you tie 100 monkeys in a room for a day, one of them will write a divorce advice column. Divorce advice is like a magazine. There's always some kid standing on your doorstep willing to you his.
"just 15 Divorce Remedies will keep me off of crack sir."
The problem is that every divorce is a new page filled with crap. Your page may be great reading, but it's not my page. My page is my crap. My page, MyUnwife, go home.
What we, the blank pagers, have to do, is find a way to tear the filled space into smaller bite size pieces. We need to borrow something that works from each page, something that works for us, and make it our own. Sure, maybe the raw egg doesn't work for me, but if I substitute choclate suryp, add a few cops of ice cream and Kahlua, I think I can swallow that. The important thing that there are other writers out there. Some have filled their divorce space, and are still writing. They've moved to new pages and new things to write about. And if they can do it, so can we. Thank you for for filling my pages, even if I don't copy your words, you're still appreciated. Now if you don't mind, I've got a South Beach Diet book to delve into. It's pages are full of things.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
"A E I O U sometimes Y"-Ebn Ozn
Language. I have friend who studies it She's lucky; she has a satellite view to the swirling patterns of lexicon as they form. The rest of us are just victims to it. We stumble wherever the syllabic sirocco of whim and diction dictates. The dust of old words thick in our mouths, while the verbage of new worlds blows past unheeded.
According to Webster, Ma'am and George Papadopolis are Mom and Dad. Oh, wrong Webster. I'm looking for the Dictionary complier and not the ABC 80s sitcom smiler. See, that's the problem. No matter which Webster says which, what, or who, too many words mean too many different things in too many different instances. Even if you're using is the English language, you still need the OED, Webster's, and the Scrabble Player's dictionaries, because your lexicon will change, depending on your circumstance.
I'm divorced. For 7 years I was married. In that marital shift, I had to translate my vocabulary into something new. Single speak, is a different text than married speak.
Last Friday, I went grocery shopping. My favorite checker was working, so I toss all my stuff on her belt. (The aisle treadmill thing, not the strap strapping her store apron in place.) She smiles and says "Hi," while the woman ahead of me praises the wonder that is new Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. She gets her words from the propaganda dictionary. My checker has apparently heard them before, and is ready to move on to a real conversation.
"Hey," I'm suave and light in my reply. She's working, no need to weigh her down with heavy worldplay. Oh and I nod. I nod in agreement to the smile. "yes, I see you smile," it says, "I'd smile back if I weren't so cool." For emphasis, I do flex the corners of my lips up. I may be too cool to smile, but I'm not an egomaniac.
Somehow, after Ima Pepper leaves, we get on the topic of pets. I'm not sure if it was the Elmer's Glue or the Italian sausage. Either way, whoosh! Out comes her cell phone. She's got a picture of her cat, just like he's her baby, and she wants to show me. The cat's a white short hair with grey specks. He's in that in-between sleep and pounce mode you can only capture in photos; his head's alert and his front torso is floating over tension spring paws, while the back half is a half curled kitty throw, warming space. One frame later, and the picture would be of an empty couch. I give her the appropriate, "How cute." because that's the language of pet appreciation.
Since I'm also a pet owner, I show her the picture of my dog. If you're not a pet owner, I can only compare it to comparing baseball cards as kids.
"Oh, you have a fluffy cat rookie card? Yeah, I've got a drooling doggie, this was the same year he won the MVP for most consecutive spinning backyard circles."
"Wow!"
"I know, huh…"
She returns the appropriate "He's adorable" appreciation (I'll make sure to pet him later.), but then carries it further, asking me questions like "How old is he?" "Where did you get him?" I'm the stuttering backpeddler. I don't have these answers on the tip of my tongue, they require a new language. The original stories are entangled in the words of "We," "Her," and "MyUnwife." I don't have my single language ready yet. So now I'm like an amateur playing his instrument for the first time. I translate the notes on the page into how I'm supposed to create the tones for music. I have to remember that "We" is now "I" and "us" is "me."
Conversations that normally kick out like a reflex, now trip over my fat lip and fall flat. I'm relearning everything, and it must be painful to watch.
My favorite checker is a professional. She smiles and watches. She's patient. She pretends my words are important, before handing me my receipt, and glancing back to the flower lady behind me.
I'm divorced, and I'm back in school. Now I'm relearning the language of my life just as Webster did after his parents car crash, only I'm not nearly as cute. I do have plenty of time though, and with a little practice, I can learn the new words of my world. They're words that mean "selfish" in the married dictionary, but in the divorce dictionary, you can find them under "moving on."
Monday, January 28, 2008
"I can't believe the news today…"-U2
Leaning back, he always starts by saying the same thing, "I like a story that I can learn something from." That's Billy. He's one of the guys in my writers' group. He's an older guy and he writes these short vignettes of his life as a boy. He can't hear out of one ear so he leans in when you talk to him. That's when he hears you. If he doesn't hear you, he stares into space.
Coming into the blood bank I pretend to be deaf. There's a couple arguing. It sounds like it's about who's picking up Gilgamesh from his youth group. Gilgamesh? Yeah, he'll be the popular kid in youth group. I can't even come up with a good nickname out of that. Gilgi? Meshy" Man, I hope that kid has a cool middle name. It doesn't matter now, cuz the way his parents are arguing, I think he's going to be in youth group for quite a while. Did the legendary Gilgamesh have abandonment issues too? I wonder...
I wonder lots of things sitting in the blood bank recliner, my lifeblood oozing into a small tube, trailing away into an invisible bag, I'm reminded of Billy's love for an educational tale. Not by the siphon process in my arm, but by the TV news donating to my stupor. I've seen this in vampire movies, but there really isn't anything I can do once the needle is buried in my arm.
I'm sprawled out with no where to go. Or at least that's what the needle in my arm says. I may ignore a gentle prod, but when it's a 3 inch needle imbedded into my vein, it's got my complete attention. The pretty young assistant asking me to squeeze the stress ball every five seconds doesn't hurt either.
"Just relax. We'll only take everything."
"ok. As you wish…"
"just squeeze your heart out."
"What?"
"You're hand sir. The stress ball is shaped like a heart."
"Oh, so it is…"
She smiles. Everything she says is true. Yes...
So I'm lying here, as I'm prone to do. Sorry, lightheaded blood woozy joke. I'm watching the news. Smiling Anchorwoman just told me that if I feel the need to travel to the Mountains after I give blood, the road is now open. I can. I won't, but it was nice of her to mention it. She's awfully caring. I could use somebody like that...
"...New news in divorce study." My ears perk. I pump the heart in my hand a little faster. According to the story, couples who argue live longer than couples who don't. What about couples getting a divorce? Where do we fit in? My blood is raging rapids, capsizing and drowning any surviving hope for answers. I'm not going to learn from this. It's all in vain: in one, and out the other, into a neat bag, all red and glistening. It's somebody else's hope; it no longer belongs to me.
I've given my all. The reporter doesn't seem to care. That's a statistic, it's not news. She does pass on an interesting bit of data though. According to her story, people who argue have—and these are her words, I swear—"a lower death rate" than people who don’t. Ok. Have her words sunk in yet? I can repeat them if you like, "a lower death rate." That's right, according to my news girl, there's at least one couple out there who won't die, and it's all because they argue. Did death forget them? Maybe he couldn't get a word in edgewise.
"Excuse me, I hate to be a pest, but can I but in for a moment? Hello? It's me death. When you're done arguing I need to take one of you." Sigh, " Uhm I'm on a schedule, could you please hurry? Are you listening? Ok, look, I'm going to be over here reading War and Peace. I expect you'll be finished before I am. Come see me when your done, alright?"
And I don't know, If I'm locked in a perpetual argument with MyUnwife, do I want to live forever? Do we add years for throwing things?
Or maybe I misinterpreted the reporter's meaning. I know, "Rob misinterpreting something" now there's a newsflash! Maybe all the people who bottled up instead of fighting died before the test was over. We're still waiting for the arguing people to die. They haven't yet, but they are annoying the crap out of the rest of us. The good news is it will end, just sometime after the news is over.
These are the thoughts that crowd in when the blood leaves my body. When the girl removes the spigot, I wander over to their waiting area to get juiced. It's over. Have I learned anything? I learned that if I want to live forever I should fight more. Sipping my juice I see a guy in the corner. I can't really see him, he's wearing a black cloak and reading War and Peace. Huh, maybe I did learn something...
Saturday, January 26, 2008
"if I start a commotion…"-Buzzcocks
Sometimes the world tells me that everything isn't about me. Sometimes the world is a liar. Last night I Googled myself. There were a bunch of imposters doing really cool things, and somewhere on page 3, there I was doing nothing at all. Not bad. There were 3 pages of people to elimin-"Have accidents" but I have a printer and lots of time. I could work that out.
While I was Googling, I checked images. I was disappointed to not see my face smiling back at me, but I was pleased to acknowledge that all those smiling Robert Boyds were fully clothed. I could find dignity in that.
Narcissus. Why didn't he get a holiday? I mean that little cherub guy Cupid got one. What gives there? I guess Narcissus got Los Angeles. Ok, fair trade.
Bored with my Google self, I decided to see what other bloggers were saying about me. Do you know that they weren't talking about me at all? Harumph! Lot's of them were talking about Valentines day though. Sigh…always with this Cupid Kid.
Fine, color me a fuchsia dyed in the wool sheep with a shaven heart and arrow spot. I'll advertise your little holiday, but I'm not going to participate. I'm an independent sheep and I bleat for no man!
BAAAAA!
Reaching out in spirit, I Googled St. Valentine. Did you know there were 3 of them? We don't even know which one we're celebrating here! St. Hallmark would have you believe that St. Valentine is the patron saint of papercuts and envelope glue. Somewhere, a long time ago, in a small village lived a lonely pious woman. Her sorrow was so great that all the village children wept at the sight of her. In most villages this wouldn't be a problem, but in our made up village, Lonely Woman was the local schoolmarm. Weepy children leaned no joy, and became sniveling adults. The towns tourist trade went belly up. One day, a radiant knight rode through bearing gifts of plush nick-nacks and candy love quotes. "Be Mine," the newly knighted St. Valentine begged, pledging undying love and Zoloft year round if the woman would "Say Yes." The woman was so moved that her tears dried up, and the children began to smile and learn. Among her first interns of joy were St. Hallmark, St. Godiva, St. Pinot Noir, St. Viagra, and St. 1-800-Flowers.com, and they all fed off the people of the land, living happily ever after. The end.
Yeah, whatever. Here's the thing. Last year, I went all out on Valentine's Day. I bought a card, roses, candy, balloons, and I even think I did a stuffed bear (er-uh, bought one, sorry no fluffy bears were molested in the making of my Valentine's Day.). I know I made dinner, and I don't do that often, so that meant the day was special. I wasn't overly romantic, but MyUnwife was being distant. I didn't want to encroach her space. I watch football, there are some serious penalties for encroaching.
I had considered one option: MyUnwife had a thing for a particular scene from Jarhead. I'm not going into the details, but lets just say, I did look online for one of those T-shirts with muscles drawn on it. I figured I could greet her when she came home wearing that and a Santa hat. Yeah, I stuck with the dinner instead. My ego wouldn't have survived the floor-rolling belly laughter.
"It's supposed to be sexy!"
Laughter. "Oh, it is. It i-I can't breathe!" more laughter.
Outro Sullen Rob walking away, hands in pockets. Sad Charlie Brown piano music playing him off set.
It was the next weekend that we had what everybody else so politely calls "the talk." Yeah talk. Whatever. So as you can guess, Valentine's Day holds a special place in my heart. Deep within the cockles is a cherub lashed to a spit, apple in mouth, spiked with cloves, bow and arrow lying safely to the side where they can do no harm. The trick to roasting Cherub, is keeping the wings out of the fire. I find raising the spit, and lowering the flames works wonders….
A lot of divorced people are asking what to do this Valentine's Day. I don't know, I'm glazed by the glow of my own fire. I think if your in a new relationship, you celebrate it with all the gusto your heart holds. You know what it's like to live in a failing relationship. Celebrate your success. Treat your new other like the treasure they are.
Me? I'm sitting this one out. I used to do lots for MyUnwife, this year I won't. This year I'm gonna treat myself right. I'll make me dinner, pour me a nice wine. You know, treat me right. I'll set up some mood lighting, serenade me, and make sure I know that I'm really special, and not in a padded cell kind of way.
If you're alone, you should do the same. Take Steven Stills advice, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one your with." Well, wait. Maybe I'm not saying that. But you should treat yourself. You've been with you through all the hard times, and you deserve to be honored. So do what I do, go home and Google yourself. It'll make you feel good.
Friday, January 25, 2008
"Feeding on fever…"-TV on the Radio
"What kind of hot dog maker are you?"
"Bring it on, pita girl!"
I think that's my favorite quote this week. It's from MyUnwife's favorite new show, Chuck. I like it too, obviously or I wouldn't watch it. I mean, I'd still do things for MyUnwife, but adding bad programming to my DVR queue? Some things are just too distasteful. That probably explains why she still won't watch Flash Gordon for me.
"It just leaves a fuzzy flavor in my mouth., kind of like a hairball. You know that feeling. You're a guy."
Well no I…
I'm not sure what being a guy has to do with it. We don't lick ourselves like cats (yeah, go ahead you pervs. Insert your bad jokes here. I'm keeping it clean, but I'll wait. Ready, ok, let's continue). Maybe It's just an all bad things are guy related. At least that's what I'm told. I do know this though: one person's Friday night action is another person's bad taste. That's what separates us or draws us closer. I still watch Chuck, but I do it for me. Let's face it, with quotes like "Bring it on pita girl!" followed by a series of commercials, and then followed by a cool wiener vs. pita girl-girl battle royalle, what's not to love?
I know I'm a pig, but then again I know MyUnwife doesn't watch it solely for the witty banter and the cool spy plot. She wants her beefcake and the cut she likes is called "Chuck." Hey, she chose me once, I sure as hell ain't gonna complain about her choice in men.
When we were out for our "printing" dinner we talked about Chuck. I told her I thought the little girlfriend was cute. She raised the "oh really?" brow but continued her burger as if not to judge. "I also think the sister is pretty hot." Now she's nodding, "Well that I could see." she says into her napkin. It's funny watching your once significant other talk about other significant ones, even if it's just primetime fantasies. You're constantly comparing them to the things you thought you knew. Heaven forbid we actually see each other on a date. I don't know if I could ever see her out with another guy.
"She's laughing at his jokes! Those aren't funny! I bet he thinks he knows music too!" bastard. And yet I know it will happen. If she's not seeing somebody right now, then she will, and I will accidentally run into them. With any luck, I'll be in a car. Oh, sorry...
Spooning more salsa on my chicken tacos of denial, I avoid that thought. The tacos are great. Grilled chicken, onions red bell peppers. She could enjoy her chuck beef, but my spicy tacos were awesome. They're spicy enough to take my mind off the dating topic, and yet not too spicy as to burn all flavor from my tongue.
I've had quite a few food discussions lately. I've chatted red peppers (both bottled and flakes) with friends, I've talked spicy marinades with MyUnwife and I've even accepted advice about the healing powers of chicken soup. Food plays a bigger role in my life than I ever realized. I mean I know I always eaten it, my Uncle Babyeater days prove that (well that and the fact that I'm not, well…dead), but I'm enjoying it as well.
Now I'm finding aspects of food I'd forgotten about. The spices, the textures, the savor, are all becoming important experiences to me. It's like shaking a cold and going out for a smoked salmon. The flavors I would have missed due to clogged sinuses and unappetizing piles of Kleenex now jumps to life. Please, I'm not comparing MyUnwife to hacking phlegm. Sometimes my metaphors get it the way. I'm referring to that end time. The initial period alone, as the plague days.
Right now I'm just starting to experience the flavors. I'm tasting for the first time in a long time. It's just me for now, but I could see tasting things with somebody else someday. I like that thought. I just need to find somebody who likes to cook.
"Bring it on, pita girl!"
Thursday, January 24, 2008
"Look outside at the raincoats coming…"-Vampire Weekend
I read an article today. I was supposed to be walking, but it rained. So I read. I think MyUnwife and my Dad both might agree. It rains a lot when there are things I don't want to do outdoors.
"Rob, why didn't you weed today like I asked?"
"It rained."
"The grounds dry now."
"I was anticipating lots of rain. You said you wanted me to think ahead, Dad. I did."
"Are you thinking ahead to this weekend?"
"Yeah...why?"
"Because you'll be spending it here. Weeding."
That's my dad. MyUnwife didn't punish me that way. She found better ways. Nevermind those, I'm all about giving "good ideas." Let's go back to the article I read, before I get in trouble. Oh, and for the record, I like my monthly walk. I haven't done it since before the holiday though. I was looking forward to this one.
A Canadian therapist—the article, not my walk, keep up. Her husband had left her one night over dinner. It was like, he sat down, ate and said, "Tasty dinner. Oh, and speaking of blackened fishy things, I want a divorce. Pass the salt, please." Ok, that's not a direct quote, but it was like that: no red flags, no warning signs nothing. "Sudden Wife Abandonment," that's what she called it. I'd have used other names, but okay, these ones were printable. Go on…
In order to work through her anger and issues of "Why?" she started a website. There, she studied the lab rats who wrote in. There, she discovered that she wasn't alone; many women went through the same thing. Now she calls her research the "Sudden Wife Abandonment Project." Yeah, SWAP. She hides her bitterness well.
Don't get me wrong, she has every reason to be bitter. Honestly, I think if your spouse drops a divorce tornado in your world without at least one Klaxon of warning, then yeah, you deserve at least one WTF moment. I mean it, take one. Go ahead, I'll wait. Go out into the yard and hurl your question to the sky. "WTF?" It isn't right.
You back? Feel better, yeah sorry, I didn't promise that. On the other hand, your neighbors are now asking the same question you just asked.
According to the article, the woman said that there were 2 things all the husbands had in common: lame excuses and other women. She said that husbands had left for reasons like the incompatibility of Aquarians and Capricorns.
Wha? Then it hit me. Maybe that had something to do with my divorce. I mean, MyUnwife had a hyphen in her last name. I did not. That space between her last name and mine. That's where she drew the line. Ok, bad joke. What are you going to do? Divorce me? At least I know that's not why she left me, I'd been telling those since the day we met. There was plenty of warning there.
The other thing that men do, apparently, is plan a safety net. A lap to leap, so to speak. Since I've had lots of time to read since MyUnwife left, I read another article. This one talked about Women abandoning husbands suddenly. According to that research, married women don't tend to leap into other laps. They leap to freedom.
It's an equal rights side affect. Women expect more from their husbands now than they had before. Suddenly "Good provider" wasn't enough. Now Men had to be a "good soulmate" too. What the heck is that? You want us to listen and be attentive? A lifelong companion? We bought you dogs to do that!
Ok, I'm kidding. Please stop it with the voodoo dolls! I chafe. I don't know, I'm still working out the rules of my divorce. Mine wasn't sudden; she gave me reasons. They weren't what I would consider good reasons. Oh I'll give her better than "Capricorns vs. Aquarians," but what does it matter? Even if it weren't, I have to live with them. At least I wasn't blindsided. Oh, I wasn't expecting a divorce. That was a bit of a "huh..." moment, but I was neither blissful nor ignorant. We weren't happy. I just thought there was still time to pull in a work crew and pave things over.
I guess it was raining that day. I dunno. I'm not bitter though, I'm good with that now. We both have new roads to walk, and I think we both can see what's ahead of us. As far as I can see, it looks clear.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
"Reaching as I fall…"-Red
"…means amplify. Amplify means to make better."
Wha?
Rewind, rewind, rewind…
"Amplify means to make better."
Really? Now I'm crawling back to my office. Sweat and stink billowing from my body. My T-shirt and shorts have absorbed all they can; little rivulets forge new territory down my arms and legs; motion casting sprays like cascading rapids. I need a dictionary. I also need a shower, but I have priorities.
Billy Blanks says amplify means "make better." I say he's wrong. I just won't say it loud, He's a lot bigger than I am. What's more he's got the TAEBO army running maneuvers behind him all the time. There's this little squad leader, Shelly I think, She looks like she's ex-military but still begging to break me into bite sized morsels at the command of her fearless leader.
"Sir! Yes Sir!"
Yikes! I'm just a sweaty girly-man splitting chest hairs over the meaning of amplify. They've broken my spirit, broken my spine, and barely broken a sweat. I'm clinging to life as all body moisture packs up and leaves for more stagnant bodies. I need water and I need retribution. According to Socratic method, if I can disqualify one thing Billy says, I can disqualify it all. I like that. My lungs like that too. Right now they'd really just settle for breath. Please sir, if we might just have a mote of oxygen, just till tomorrow, we'd be most grateful.
Ok this is a stupid argument. I mean what does it matter what "amplify" means? I'm an audio freak. In my world "amplify" just means to increase or make louder. I think of arguments with MyUnwife. If amplify meant "make better" would amping up our arguments made the relationship better? It would have made them louder. The same? I know I've argued with several people who think so. Even Emeril wants you to kick it up a notch. I tried that once
"Just once I'd like to walk into the bathroom and not find a puddle of water outside the shower!"
"I'll try, but the shower is on the other end of the room from the towels."
"Is it too much to ask-"
"BAM!"
"What the hell?"
"BAM! I win!"
"Whatever."
And see? First person to utter "Whatever" is the loser. That's what I learned from our arguments. "Whatever" or any word you can't say in front of your 5 year old niece means "I quit!" Arguing is never about being better, or rational; it's all about amplifying and being right, and right is the last person standing. We all know, might makes right.
So here I slump, in my office, dripping bookmarks into an open dictionary. Webster's says I'm right. I'm alone in my victory. "Woo Hoo! I'm right!" I hear the gasping echo bounce off the walls. My lungs beg me not to speak again. At least until they feel less like hairy raisins.
According to Webster, To amplify means "make larger or stronger." Is that better? Looking at the vast fortress of emptiness around me, I think not. I drag my blind corpse out to tell the Blanks' corps what I think.
Pulling myself up the entertainment center, I rest both palms on the TV screen. Lips inches from the screen I mouth,
"You…
breathe
"are..
breathe
"wrong..
Breathe
"I.."
Breathe
"Won't..."
Breathe
"do..."
Breathe
"this."
The glistening goliath only smiles back at me and says, "I can't make you do it, you have to want to make it better."
"Whatever."
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
"nights that seem too long…"-Von Bondies
I used to dream about my future with my unwife. Not as in asleep dreaming, more like the awake type. I don't remember ever sleep dreaming of her while we were together. That's not a knock on her, it's just how I dream.
I dream in color, but I don't dream about other people other than me. Is that weird? I dunno. I had a friend who always observed their dreams as an outsider. I never understood that. Then again, I only have my dreams to go by. I can't see inside your head while you sleep. Would it creep you out if I said I tried? OK then I probably shouldn't tell you. Let me just say that you look so peaceful when you sleep.
Anyway, we're talking about me. My dreams, My sleep, MyUnwife. No, she wasn't there. Usually the only people in my dreams are parents, sisters, and monsters. NO! MyUnwife was not one of the monsters. That's not nice. I'm a nice guy. That's what my dreams tell me.
After she left, I had dreams about MyUnwife. I don't really remember them, just a silent brooding presence. I guess she didn't have her dream SAG card; she couldn't get a speaking role. Oh, I did have the dream that she was a stripper once. I'm still not sure what that one meant. She spoke to me there. Of course she talked. I'm a guy who has a stripper dream of his ex-wife who's fully clothed and wants to talk. Oh, she was gathering stuff too. Leaving. That is one thing she does in my sleep dreams. When she's there, she leaves.
I had a dream last week, before the paperwork stuff. I dreamed she came by and picked up some clothes she'd left. She didn't really talk there, just took things and left. A stripper of memories, I guess. I remember feeling loss and nostalgia in the dream, but woke up refreshed. Maybe I was working it out in my sleep. A sort of sleep acceptance. I dunno. I don't get those things. I have trouble interpreting real life.
I had a friend once who had "prediction" dreams about people. There was something about roses too. Different colored roses meant different things, and it seemed to be something passed down in their family. Now, I'm afraid to open email I'm afraid I'll get one saying, "I had a dream: you died. Take care!" Great. I'm friends with Ms. Cleo. Well at least I don't have to pay $2.99 for the first minute like I do with all my other friends.
That's ok, they don't appear in my dreams either. My dreams usually revolve around me. My dream last night? It's a great example.
I dreamed I was sitting in a bar. It was like a TGI Friday's commercial. There's a gang of five of us sitting in a booth. A new friend shows up and we all slide over to let them in. Ok, press pause here. These laughing faces? These aren't my friends. These are dream puppets. I don't know these people. Oh, in my dream we're best of buds, just like those kids on Romper Room were my best friends. Just like those laughing friends in the TGI Friday's commercial. So no, once again, I don't dream of friends. Ok, press play. The dream puppets are laughing about their days. I'm telling some story. Probably about MyUnwife. They laugh at that too, cuz everything I say in my dreams is cool.
I look away from the group and see a really pretty girl sitting at the bar. She's alone. She raises a wine glass and smiles at me. Nice smile. See? This is how I know it's a dream. I SEE her smile. In reality I'd squint back, and then probably tell the guy next to me that the girl at the bar is trying to get his attention. The guy next to me is Cute Dreamy Guy #1. If you missed him last night, it's because he was here. Sorry, cheer up, in my dream, he's not getting the girl. I am.
Raising my beer, I nod and smile back. Somehow I materialize at the bar next to her. Cool because getting out of the middle of the booth was going to be awkward. In real life, I'd be wearing Nachos. Dream girl introduces herself, "I'm Blah Blah." I smile, I like her name. I tell her so. Soon we're talking about all the things we have in common, I'm buying her drinks, we're laughing, we're falling for each other. Everybody say "Awww." thanks.
This is where I feel a pain in my chest. I look down, and there's a crossbow bolt protruding from it. I look at the girl, she has a shocked look on her face, and a matching bolt through her chest. Looking back to the bar entrance I look for the shooter. An over exuberant Cupid? MyUnwife? I don't know. It doesn't matter. My dream girl and I fall to the floor. Moments later there's somebody standing over me. By magical dream medicine, they've revived me at my dream bar. The same technique didn't work for my dream girl though, she's still dead. NOW I wake up. Why couldn't I have done that before the crossbow guy?
So, yeah. These are my dreams. My sleep dreams. It's funny, they're now as realistic as my old awake dreams. Now I have to create new dreams. A new Rob in a new world I still don't have these dreams, but I'm getting to a point where I know I can, and that's something I hadn't dreamed I'd be able to do. Now I can move on, so long as my Ms. Cleo friend doesn't email me to tell me otherwise.
Monday, January 21, 2008
"She serves them whiskey and wine…"-Looking Glass
I am a man, with a plan. Ok, that's about as cool as "We have a need for speed," but I'm trying. The fact is that I am a man, and well, yes I—or we, MyUnwife and I—have a plan. It's a good plan. Well maybe not good, but it's definite in purpose. A good stand for a plan. A good stand for a man, and his Unwife, with a plan. We plan on divorcing. When two great minds are aligned, nothing can stand in their way.
When MyUnwife and I are aligned, the world extends a middle finger and flicks boogers. Our marriage was filled with more misadventures than a Three Stooges short. Apparently so is our divorce. We just can't appreciate it if we don't dodge-dance life boogers for it.
This week's goal: get somebody to serve Rob paperwork. It sounds simple, right? Person "A" steps in, takes paperwork "B" from MyUnwife, and hands it to Rob. Poof! "I want a divorce." Decree "C" is made.
Sounds simple right? It's not. It's playing Taboo. Your word is "iPod". You can't say Apple, MP3, Music, or insidious device provided to enslave the masses to the will of the corporate monster. Go! Not easy huh? Her friends think I'm gonna cry, my friends think it's best to live out of state. If we'd worked this a week earlier, I could have brought it to my writers' group. That would have been fun.
"Your story is plotless and self indulgent, now will you serve me?"
Sigh…
As in all other divorce questions, there are no easy answers. Looking for a resolution, we hold a Bluetooth caucus.
"So I was thinking," She says, "We need a notary, why not have them hand you the paperwork?"
"Sounds good to me."
"Ok, I'll call and see."
I think I had enough time to Google myself, and the phone rings again. I press the button on my trendy ear piece. "Yeah?"
"She won't do it."
"What?"
"Nope, won't do it. Her words: We don't do that."
"Just like that? Same tone? Like we're asking her to do a donkey show?"
"Yep. Any other ideas?"
"I see…Well there's our mortgage broker. He's got a notary, I can ask him if he'll do it."
There's a moment of silence, "Well, that would work." She likes the idea.
I don't. It'll work, but I hate to enslave myself further to my mortgage broker. He's a nice guy, but not the first nice guy to offer me a drink and then turn all weird later. Ok, that's another story—Back to mine.
I'm throwing Hail Mary passes now, "It's either that, or we go out for dinner and ask the waitress if she wants to serve more than food."
We both laugh, and I agree to call Satan the broker, Monday. Just call me Faust. I don't want to do that.
We hang up. Before she has time to Google me, I call her back. "So that dinner thing. You think it would work? I haven't eaten yet."
She laughs, "It sounds kinda stupid."
"I know, and that's why it might work." That's what works for us: the impossible. We make the unreasonable make sense.
It makes sense to the unseen forces at work too. I drive to the agreed restaurant, and the heaven's open, changing every red light to green. I arrive 15 minutes ahead of schedule, and before MyUnwife. This is a sign!
I'm inside and seated. She's still not here, but it's still early. I call so she doesn't wait for me out front. She will. She always arrives first. She knows it. She'll wait out front.
Well, I don't have to call her…I could just eat…
NO! I'm a good guy: I'll call. Sometimes I have to say it aloud for it to be true. Not now. Here in the restaurant, sitting by myself, I'll just mumble it. People are already staring.
She's here. We're conspiring over menus:
"Ok, I've seen the waitress, but only briefly. She seems nice, but busy." I glance to all the full tables in her section. My gaze stops at each party to make my point. MyUwife's eyes trace my gaze; she nods. We both know what this means. It means she may be the one broach the "service" issue. Rob scenarios include gentle friendly nudges and slow charming banter. MyUnwife is viper direct with a smile.
The waitress arrives. She asks for our drink orders. Neither of us suggest anything more than iced-T. We're getting a feel for the girl. Better to at least shake hands first.
After she's out of earshot, we begin roleplay.
"Hi," MYUnwife says, "First off, we'd like to tell you that we both think that you're very cute."
"Uhm…we're not asking her for a threesome."
"I know, but if I start like that, when I do ask her to serve the paperwork, she'll say 'Oh that's all?' and do it."
"Oh..the 'Oh thank God!' approach. Very good." we both laugh.
"Maybe we should have gone to a strip club. They'd serve us." Neither of us has ever gone to a strip club. I'm not even sure where the closest one is. Do they advertise in the phone book? We won't go, but it's funny to suggest. We've always pushed the shock factor. Besides, if we did go to a strip club, we wouldn't have to ask this waitress for help. This is worse than a first date.
Uhm…hi…yeah…I…uh…I…was like thinking….
The waitress comes back. She takes our order. We both ask for the fish and chips. She asks about our batter choice. I could use this point to ask about her "service" but, instead I banter a little over my choices. Light flirting. MyUnwife nods. She knows what this is. So does the waitress. This isn't her first table. She's polite, but too busy for social. She's gone.
We continue or stalling and plotting until the food arrives. It's now or never time, and I personally am leaning towards never. That's when MyUnwife steps up, and leans over the plate.
"is there anything else I can get you?"
"Yes, We have a favor to ask you." MyUnwife smiles up. Slightly embarrassed, one, two, three blinks. Very good…no wonder I married her, I never stood a chance otherwise…
The professional takes over and continues her pitch. The waitress nods, then says, "I'll be right back."
She's gone. I thought we had this one! I look at MyUnwife, she shrugs and sips her tea. "Better enjoy it," I joke, "That's the last time she's coming back." She smiles back, but doesn't say a word.
I'm done with my fries and cole-slaw when the waitress returns. "Ok, so I need to sign something, right?"
MyUnwife nods, flips over a small packet and the girl dives in. She's a samurai with a ball point, each mark a deft maneuver and a page flip. She's done this before. You can tell. Her own? A friends? It doesn't matter, right now she's doing ours. She's my hero. Even MyUnwife gives her an affirmative, "You Rock."
Before she leaves, I make sure to do my part as well. MyUnwife has handled the big things. The grand scheme. I'm a man of details. That's what I do. We still have needs. "Can I ask you one more small favor?"
"Yes?"
"Can we both get some more tartar sauce please?"
"Sure!" And she vanishes between a fork wielding patron and converging bus boy trays.
Like marriage, in divorce we all serve our parts. If we'd always been so attentive and team-like, we wouldn't be here, but that's not mine to worry about now. Right now I'm worried about tartar sauce, and my waitress has that covered. I'm done. She's good. MyUnwife and I will tip her well. She's performed a service above and beyond the call of duty.
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