"Light a candle for the kids…"-Arcade Fire

"..due to the wise analysis…"

That's all I needed to hear. The rest was good too, but why get greedy? I could stop on "wise analysis." She was talking about me! Me! Me! Me! Me! Me! It was the first real compliment I've received since the divorce. Ok, people have said nice things, but they're more like divorce consolation prizes: "You're a nice guy Rob." I don't need a version of the home game. I'm already playing it.

Thanks anyway. Thanks for nothing...

Do you remember your baby book? I still have mine, it's in a box. It's got all the little write ins of little Robby's firsts, all the blurry shots of head heavy Robby trying to gum the camera, and all the clippings of world events that might usurp the glory from little Robby's very big birth.

It's like that book we got when we got married too, but ix-nay on the edding-way ook-bay. I'd rather not talk about those firsts,; not until I've completed our book of lasts. Still, I'd like to start a book of Divorcing Robby firsts—sort of a mid to post divorce celebration.

I mean a divorce is nothing to celebrate, but my life is, isn't it? I didn't die with my marriage. I'm sure to MyUnwife, I did, but to me, I most certainly did not. Still it feels like I'm crawling from the ashes of Armageddon. I know: melodramatic. But I'm a writer, this is divorce: Everything about this is melodramatic, even in the friendly divorce. Sometimes more so. Its all so toxic, with no outlet. I've got to direct all bitter anger into an airtight barrel and burry it in my backyard. After a while I need to get over it, or my dog will lose all his hair.

So as I crawl from the rubble of Rob's world, I start to see signs of life. Maybe I should document it—celebrate it. You know:

First TV show I laughed out loud at PE (Post Exodus): House (11/13-Still on my DVR)

First televised surprise: Journeyman is actually a decent show...

First Road Trip: Grandfather's funeral

First Social Outing: Church group (11/4)

First Happy song: **still blank**

First Date: WOAH! WOAH! WOAH! —Baby steps now. That's still a few pages off.

It's just like the baby book my mother started. There'll be pictures I take of myself, maybe I'll leave some food samples of meals I made between the pages too! By the way, does anybody ever finish these things—Baby books? I think Mom stopped around 18 months.

"Take away this little creature, he bores me now."

Ok, not that kind of stopped. But I guess my firsts became more routine. I hope that that happens again. That I'd get so used to my life that it becomes routine. Right now I'm in the wide-eyed awe and wonder phase though. I kind of like it.

First compliment with a thank you: 11/15 "..due to the wise analysis...thank you. and i mean that…."

--No...thank you.

"I'm thinking it's a sign…"-Postal Service

"Have you read the comics this morning Clarice?"

"No Dr. Lecter"

"You should. Pearls Before Swine exceptionally funny. You can hear the pig scream Clarice."

Ever notice that even your favorite comics have off days? I love Pearls Before Swine, but somedays I just go "huh…"

Today's going to be a "Huh..." day around here. Go ahead and skip to Marmaduke; it's probably funnier. Yes, it's a black day, a black day indeed…

I'm finding that’s one of the things in my divorce. Some days are chock full of revelations. Other days are chock full of clocking time between one sleep and the next. I used to be able to fill the time with gallons of blame and guilt, but now I just feel drained. I've filled containers with all the fault fluid, labeled them, and shelved them according to perspective and reality. My head is a library of sample jars. Don't open them; they stink.

It seems I'm a packrat in all aspects of my life. Do you know I still have the first story I ever wrote from second grade? I don't think I'm gonna peak an agents interest in "My Dog." It's one page, and not even a real page. It's that three lined alphabet paper we used up till third grade. You remember the stuff with the dotted line so you could differentiate between capital letters and lower case? Yeah, I won't spoil the "My Dog" ending, but let's just say the title tells the story. No plot, no conflict, no crisis fulfillment. Man, being a kid was great. Then I started collecting other things as I grew up. Report cards, love letters, both said the same thing: "Rob has such potential. If only he'd apply himself."

Well my head is the same way. I store every grievance, every wrong doing, and every crime. Oh, I don't just keep the things people do to me, I keep track of my own acts of atrocity. They hold a special circle in hell. They usually spill out when I think too highly of myself.

Today I made somebody feel good about themselves.

Oh yeah? What about that time in third grade when you broke Dawn Sullivan's glasses and called her fat?

Well she was kicking me with her new boots before I said anything at all.

And that made your actions excusable?

Yeah, I'm a prince among men.

But even those days are better than the "nothing" days. At least when I remember Dawn I can say, "I never did that again, " but nothing is nothing. It's a day that leaves you going "huh…"

It's the newly single person's curse. Before I was married, I filled my space with single stuff. I don't remember what that was, but I remember my space was full. My thoughts were either of being single, or wondering if I'd ever not be single.

When I married, I filed those thought jars and replaced them with the newly married stuff. The fluffy love thoughts. Those gave way to routine mason jars. When Myunwife left, she took a bat to my space, spilling jars, combining fluids that made sense into brothy chaos. Now I've filtered everything and replaced them into their original containers, I'm left with labels on jars that don't pertain to who I am now. I'm anxious, but there's nothing here. Each day I look for something new to fill the shelves, and some days are like today: Empty.

Some days I have to go to bed with only an empty jar labeled "huh…" The good news is that I look to each day like a box of Cracker Jacks: I can't wait to see what the prize is. So today was "huh?" Maybe tomorrow will be stick on tattoo cool. Each day is something fresh. Tomorrow I'll be Pearls Before Swine.

"We were perfect when we started I've been wondering where we've gone…"-Counting Crows

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. That's what I've heard anyway; every time I make two points I gerrymander thought print patterns to rival little Family Circus Billy's spotty foot paths. I'm so busy capitalizing on talk time, I've never seen the shortest distance. That's not really accurate. I don't do it for the sake of basking in everyone's attention; that's just a happy byproduct. Really I'm a perfectionist, and so as I'm talking, my mind is busy clogging all conversational leaks. Because if I'm making a point, I want you to believe me. It's like math class: I'm showing you my work, no matter how convoluted.

"Mr. Blogwriter, your answer is wrong."

"What do you mean? I showed my work."

"Yes, I can see that. But 3.14 is incorrect."

"How? I showed my work."

"Well, the problem wanted combined weight...Bob has 1 bushel of apples, 1 sack of flour, and 4 sticks of cinnamon…you show work, but I'm not sure why Bob traded 7 bushels of corn for a convection oven…and wait. 3.14, did you round your number?"

"Of course, it's pie, pie is always round."

"yes, pi. It's still wrong. Mind if I keep the recipe though?"

"go ahead."

"Thanks."

"As the crow flies." Flying is out of the question. My life has slowed to a crawl, and I'm chained in place. So, my shackled mind darts about looking for mischief. I'm an emu surrounded by gloating crows. If my mind catches one, I'll eat a little crow baked in my pie.

"mmm tastes like hamster."

You know what else tastes like hamster? Chicken. I had a chicken sandwich the other day. It was tasty. I've noticed that since there isn't somebody across the table to talk to, I do a lot of thinking. At first,, that wasn't such a good idea. My mind traveled dark bogs of guilt and blame, the lantern of pride and arrogance drew me into the fog, then died out before I could see my way through. I know. Pretty deep huh? So was the bog. I look over blog posts from before September, and they're kinda dark. I received an email from a fellow writer who described them as, "...humorous (excluding the pain or because of the pain?.)" Gee thanks. I'm glad my beak and talon wounds can be your joke fodder.

Still yeah. That's what it was, and still is, to a point. I no longer feel the days of loneliness. Oh, I still get lonely, but it's sort of like a Florida thunderstorm: It rains on me for about an hour, then goes away; I'm laughing hysterically by mid afternoon. I'm either getting better or bi-polar. I don't think it makes much difference from my perspective. You guys might want to hide all sharp instruments though.

You'll be glad to hear that this month has been the first Normal month this year. I mean not like a normal day here and there, I mean the month itself: normal. It feels good to be me again, it's been a while.

Sunday, I went to church, and it was like things cleared before me. I don't know how to explain it, but I saw things. Not fruity planes, or purple cows in tapestry, things about me, MyUnwife, and hamster flavored crows. After service, I stayed after and prayed thanks. I also prayed for MyUnwife. Not my ancestral prayer for smiting. Yeah, we have one of those. It goes:

Would you smite her with a fish?

Would you smite her with a dish?

Can you trample her with a ram?

Can she choke on black eggs and Spam?

It goes on for several verses, but I think you get the idea. The important thing is, I didn't say that. I just prayed that things would be good for her, wherever life leads. Whether by crow or by 40 year exodus. So long as that 40 year thing isn't our divorce.

I've been angry at her for such a long time. It felt good to let it go. I know I'm not done. There are still corners of anger, but most of what I feel towards her lately is just sad resignation. I find that that doesn't mean I can't be bitter. I still can, but that's not my heart anymore. I'm interested in what's next again.

It's been a tough time, but God pulled me through. That's why I prayed. I feel like this would be a great time for some testimonial, but the truth is, I don't understand it. I can make up some pie in the sky story, but it'll still taste like air if you don't experience it for yourself. I was troubled, now I'm at peace. There it is, as the crow flies.

And Now a little grousing from our writer.

Grrrr.

yup, that about sums it up. A few months ago, I submitted an entry to the Amazon.com writing contest. I followed their rules, met their deadlines, blah, blah blah.

I just received a rejection email from them today. Now over the years, I've gotten pretty used to rejection. Some people/things don't click. I accept that. Their reason for rejecting me?

"Reason for ineligibility: Your excerpt could not be opened for review (e.g., excerpt was corrupted, locked or in an otherwise unreadable document format) "

My submission was a standard Microsoft doc, nothing wacky. Hell, it's what they asked for. So maybe the file became corrupt in sending. It happens, but don't you think they should allow a window for a re-submission?

We wish you best of luck with your writing endeavors in the future.

I guess not. Of course this leaves them vulnerable, because how can they prove "corrupt entry." and what if mine isn't the only one? What if every entry is mysteriously corrupt except for one? What kind of safety do the writers have in place? It makes you wonder. A more paranoid person than myself could cause them lots of trouble.

I don't care too much. They rejected it because they can't open a file. How could I trust them to read it once it was open? I'm in the process of reaping through my book with a sickle anyway. What they have, is the original book. It was more a literary effort. I'm going to hone it into a mainstream work and try to sell it again. It's not the original vision, but if it gets people to read it, I think that was my original idea.

I'm just frustrated because Amazon.com didn't even try to open the submission until 2 months after the deadline. It's not a fair contest.

But it was free, and so fair is as fair as free can afford.

And Now a Word from our Sponsor

Ok, I just found an ad in the newspaper for an airline. Their slogan is "Non-stop comfort from the beginning to your end." I'm not thinking I'll fly any airline that's forecasting my end, no matter how comfortable it is.

If you read the fine print, it's actually about the seat cushion and your butt, but I gotta tell you, that's not what comes to my mind. It's kind of like when McDonald's tried to sound hip by adding the slogan "I wanna hit that." to their burger ads. Who approves these things?

Inquiring minds want to know...

"I expected more than this…"-Moist

I vacuumed the ceiling fan today. Wow! That sounds ominous. It also sounds like I'm some kind of neat freak. I'm not. The fan cleaning is necessary, not a nervous twitch cessation. It's my bedroom fan, and it needs to be vacuumed every six months. So does my house.

I know, you still don't believe me on the neat freak thing. What freaky altophobe stands on his bed in a French maid costume with a vacuum wand and a mask? Maybe the dust-fear isn't the freaky part of that. Fine, don't believe I'm a filthy pig. Ask MyUnwife, she'll tell you. I am not a neat freak. Oh she's got some story about me doing a miraculous bathroom cleaning with a fish and a loaf of bread, but that's nothing really. I think that's her only clean story about me anyway.

I won't bore you. Oh, sorry too late, huh? Well, if you want to hear the big fish story, track her down. She tells it better than I do. That's her type of story. I do other stories—better stories. She may have kept the cats, but I kept the story telling. Yeah. That keeps me warm at night.

"Once upon a time-"

"Yeah I know, I've heard that one before Rob."

"Well Rob, I don't really have anything new to offer you."

"I know, I've heard that before…"

Good times. Still doesn't make me a neat freak. I tell you true: If I were a neat freak, I would never have survived the passive aggressive wars before MyUnwife moved out. The household decayed under a moratorium on all cleaning activities. Neither of us would clean anything. An act of cleanliness would not only imply Godliness, it would imply caring. We were neither of those things. It got to be so bad I had to wear shoes in the bathroom. Actually, to walk anywhere barefoot required a fifteen minute kitty litter shake off jig. I'm Scottish, we don't jig. We curse, we flail, we fall. I do that well. It didn't get the Velcro kitty pebbles from my feet though. I was surprised the cats even bothered looking for the box with all the litter on the floor; even they were coming in on little cat feet. We'd grossed out the cat who liked to clean his butt by scooting across the floor. Yeah, I'm proud.

I think you get my point. If not I'd be happy to flog the equine carcass a little longer. I'm not a neat freak. I'm barely clean. I clean my fan because I have to. Every six months I reverse the motor. The fan goes one way for winter, one way for summer. Reversing dirty blades throws dust bunny paratroopers everyway. Everyway is always right over my bed. Anyway, If I wanted that, I'd dump the vacuum canister on my quilt for fun. No. That's not what I want. I clean the fan.

Oh, and I discovered today that my $69 dollar vacuum does a better job on the fan the $600 vacuum MyUnwife took with her. Woo hoo! Check that one under the "victory" column. Yeah, just another bed time story I tell myself so I can sleep.

I win…

I will say this though. My house is cleaner than it's been in a long time. Oh, my mom could still find dirt, but she's an expert, and she doesn't live here. She doesn't walk these halls everyday befriending the grit, trying to make pearls. Neither does MyUnwife, but there was a lot she didn't see while she was here. Me, I'm just a guy with a clean house and I have nobody to blame but myself.

"...Go off like that…"-Rogue Wave

"Chestnuts will explode if you don't pierce them before cooking."

Yup. Been there done that. Still it was a late night fun fact I hadn't expected to hear from a crappy horror movie. It'll teach me to watch what I watch after midnight.

Don't expose Rob to light

Don't pour water on your Rob.

And Don't let Rob watch crap after midnight.

What? We all have our guilty indulgences. I won't make fun of you for reading my blog, you don't make fun of me for watching Santa's Slay.

That's right, jolly old St. Nick played Michael Meyers with holiday zest, slaughtering strippers and saints alike. I'd tell you how that worked out, but the more I reflect on the film, the more pathetic I look.

"Wow he must have liked the film."

No! I swear, I didn't. It was just a sleigh wreck, and I couldn't help but watch. I can tell you that the chestnut thing is how they defeated Santa in the end. Oh yeah, and a nutcracker too. And curling! There was curling, but that didn't stick out for me. For me it was exploding chestnuts. These are the chestnuts that explode like little memory mines every time somebody steps down.

It was a few years back. Every Thanksgiving MyUnwife and I worked together in the kitchen to prepare a weeks worth of food to eat in one day. That year MyUnwife picked a stuffing recipe with chestnuts. Neither one of us knew anything about them except they were part of a song. The part you roasted on an open fire while Jack Daniels nipped. Jack Frost? Oh sorry. Either way, no biggie, we'd just buy our chestnuts and roast them in our conventional oven. Jack Daniels could drop by if he wanted. We'd roasted almonds before, what could be the big difference? We tossed the chestnut strewn cookie sheet in the oven, then after a few minutes, we pulled it out. Tada!

The cat's were curious. We always do fun things in the kitchen. Fun things for cats are things that include dropping food. We always do a lot of that. Heads and tails dove and bobbed across the floor: Sharks for chum, sharks for chum...

Sniff-Sniff said one cat.

"Meh?" That was the other.

MyUnwife asked, "Are they done?"

"I think so." I said staring at the brown hulls before me.

They looked kind of like the little eggs from Alien stretching across the sheet. I'm looking over the lot. Nudging them with a spatula then-

BAM! One of them blows up! I fall back. MyUnwife dives for her gun. Ok, no gun, but it sounded fun. I think another one blew up. I'm still shell shocked. Shrapnel rained down.

Man down! Man down!

The guard cats flew somewhere in the back of the house to protect the underside of a bed. The nuts in the kitchen usually don't explode unless it's Dad.

Thank God we skipped out on the Jack part. I might not have dodged. Instead, thinking quickly for a slow person, I yanked the hand towel from the oven handle, and tossed it across the cookie sheet. Now it's safe to stand up. The nuts are still popping. Neither of us had any idea they'd do this. Maybe she did, but had wanted to see me dance. Maybe she wanted the insurance money. I've seen late night movies like that, and the husband always has to die before they catch the greedy wife!

We both edged closer to the popping towel. Could they pierce the cloth? Not taking any chances, I grabbed a mallet and busted up the lot. Even the cats came back out. These are the types of things that make the holidays tough.

Last night I went to the grocery store. I picked up a few of the preparations for my Thanksgiving solo . I bought a Cornish game hen. It's like a midget chicken who'd rather be eaten than made fun of. I don't see a reason to cook big turkey that'd just go bad. I love the leftover sandwiches, but after a month of leftovers I'll start mailing what's left to my family as Christmas gifts.

"What did Rob give you this year?"

"Yams."

"Oh, I got a turkey breast carved in the shape of Gina Gershon."

"A breast bust Gina Gershon?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, I'm glad I got the yams…"

I grabbed a can of cranberry sauce too. I'm on the fence concerning the pumpkin pie. MyUnwife hated pumpkin, so it's safe food. But still, do I need a whole pie? And then I'd buy a thing of whipped cream that will go bad too. Maybe I could make a mini pie. We'll see. I haven't picked a veggie yet either. We usually did a thing with green beans and slivered almonds. Almonds don't fight back, so maybe I'll do that.

What about the stuffing? The hens are too small to stuff, so I won't be putting any in the bird, but I do love stuffing. Maybe I'll go with Stove Top. Then again, maybe I'll find a recipe that I like between now and then. It needs to be something uniquely mine though. A recipe that doesn't involve memory bombs and exploding chestnuts.