"Come they told me…"-Traditional

"Have a Merry Christmas!" That's what I said.

"Oh, I'll see you before then." Those were her words. That was her curse. She didn't mean it that way, but that's what she did. How do I reply?

Maybe I should explain the "who." It's my favorite grocery store clerk. I've mentioned her before. We pass small talk over UPC scans. Friday I saw her, we were both shopping. I was on my way in, she was scrambling out. Still dressed in checker uniform, she didn't pretended to be invisible, but I saw her. I said hello. She cursed me.

I knew she was wrong, I wasn't going to be back in, not before Christmas. This was my last shop before locking myself in. Still I smiled and said, "probably," and let it go.

In a way I wanted to see her again before Christmas. Not like that, more like I wasn't going to see anybody really before Christmas. This was going to be my long weekend alone. I've been promising myself I'd be fine. My ceaseless holiday mantra: a Christmas train twisting an infinite oval around my lips. The more I say it, the better I'll be. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I hope so.

I wanted to put my Christmas tidings up in the front, for the world to see, let them know I'd be fine. I told you about my palm tree. It was my plan, my rebellion. My dare against the forces of Christmas loneliness. It didn't happen. I've been too busy and my free time has been at night. It's hard to do outdoor decorations around a cactus in the dark. First you jab yourself, then you yank back and job yourself again. It's a rebounding agony. It's also fun to watch, but nobody can see me in the dark. It's something I need to do for them. I am the clown. Look, I'll be fine.

Still I had Christmas plans. I had things to do. I needed to make cookies and fudge. Cookies and fudge are the first line of defense against Christmas loneliness. When I opened my sugar, I realized my line of defense was dotted with gaps: I was out of sugar.

Oh, I'll see you before then. Yeah, thanks a lot...

Well now she'd get her chance. I drove over to the store Saturday, after I mowed my lawn. I still didn't get to do my decorations, but at least my yard looked trimed. Walking into the grocery store, you'll never believe who I saw coming out. Yup.

"What do you do, live here?" says the cashier who's there way more frequently than I am.

"I forgot the sugar." say's Mr. Kettle to Ms. Pot.

"Well you have to remember the sugar."

I smiled and looked in her cart. She'd remembered it. Lots of treats there. Oh and Play Doh too. Somebody is gonna have fun on Christmas. Once more I say, "have a good Christmas." And again, she curses me.

"Oh, I'll see you before then."

Why? I was nice…let me go…I'll be fine...

I go in, grab my sugar. On the way out, she drives past me and waves. It looks like she's got a big family gathering planned. I wish I had one. It's ok. I'm fine with this. I go home. I've remembered the sugar.

I make my cookies and my Chex mix. All that's left is the fudge. Overkill? Hey, I gotta feed the demons. When they're in a sugar coma, they can't find you. One apparently Googled me anyway. It sat with me, reminding me I was lonely. Thankfully, a friend from my writers' group calls. They've got a new puppy, and wanted to make sure I'm ok.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for the call." As we're talking I relay my Christmas dinner plans. "Yeah, I'm making me a ham, and some potatoes...and--AW CRAP!" I forgot my vegetable. I'm going back to the grocery store.

I figure I'll go after church; it's on my way home. I'm considering going to a different store just to prove the girl wrong. Naw, I'll just go in. I'll be fine.

At Church I get an invite for Christmas eve dinner. This family, who was in the membership classes with me, asked me over to celebrate. I'd have said yes, but I'd volunteered to usher for Christmas eve service. Oh well. They promised to invite me over again later. I'll hold out for a good menu.

On my way in for veggies, guess who I run into? Yeah, her again. I told her I blamed her, but I'd still wish her a merry Christmas. "Don't worry, She said, "I won't jinx you again."

I'm back home. I'm home until tonight's service, and then I'm home until Friday. I'll be fine. I'm still telling myself that. She could have jinxed me, I'd have been alright. Now I have all I need, all to myself. I put up a tree, inside, since I couldn't do one outside. I'll post pics. If you can't see them, go here. My graphic friendly site. Pay special attention to my tree topper. That's my new ornament. Pretty hideous huh? I thank my friend from Arizona. He came out and we saw one just like it. We laughed so hard. Stole the little ornament's manhood, if that's possible. I couldn't tease something like that without bringing it home.

So I sit staring at my tree, feeling lonely, and a little light goes off. It's like the blinking ones in my tree, but this one's over my head, and kinda dim. Still, I'm bright enough to notice. Why do I feel lonely? How am I alone? I have a cashier for paper, plastic, and small talk; I have people at church offering bread and wine; I have writers group people to call me at odd hours to dictate their victories; then I have a friend in Arizona, who I can depend on for the delicacies of bad taste. I'm sure there are other people wishing they were that lonely. So, this year I'll be spending Christmas by myself, but I'm certainly not alone.

My original idea for a decorating spot.

My 2007 ornament/tree topper

My Tree: By dark of night...

By light of day...

By glow of rum & nog.

"From the one you left…"-The Smiths

Guess what tomorrow is? Go ahead guess. Bet you never get it. I'll tell you what, go ask MyUnwife. She might tell you. Then again, maybe not. She's kind of quiet if she doesn't know you. Approach her slowly, palm extended. That's right let her sniff your hand. Don't be afraid, she smells fear. Try coaxing her with kibble…just take a little time…there you go...

Tell ya what. I'll tell ya, I'm no good at secrets, besides, I need to move this entry along. Right now it's not going anywhere. You're still standing there with a handful of dog food, trying to talk to MyUnwife; she's staring at you like you're crazy. It never worked for me either.

"Why is there a line of Eukanuba leading to the bed?"

Sigh…"No reason…"

And why do people think "kibble" is only dog food? It makes me feel good knowing I'm not the only one who miscommunicates. Oh, you're blaming this on me? Well, while you're looking up "kibble," stand in line; you can just shuffle behind MyUnwife. She's where the line starts.

Tomorrow is MyUnwife's birthday. Everybody wave and smile. Go ahead kick into song. She loves it when groups of strangers sing happy birthday to her. Go ahead, try it. I'll watch from over here—behind the bullet proof glass…go ahead now.

I do wonder what she's got going on this week. I mean she normally takes it off. I'm wondering now, is she still doing that, now that she's alone? Is it weird that I'm concerned? I mean I care. I still do, probably always will. It's not the "Oh gee, come back!" type caring, it's more like that woman who used to live down the block from your grandma. Remember how she was always at grandma's house playing naked charades whenever you went over? You were always concerned for her welfare? This is like that, without the smell of menthol, but just a hint of bitter.

I care, I probably shouldn't. but what can I do? What am I gonna do about it? Nothing. It's better that way. And it's definitely better if I don't think about MyUnwife playing naked charades. She did have a great way of acting out movies thou--ANYWAY. No naked. This is Christmas.

I always thought that had to suck for her. A birthday over Christmas? How many Christmas cards did she get over the years saying "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!" then scrawled on the bottom, "and happy birthday too," Punctuated with a forest of heart exclamation points. Like those hearts made the offense any more palatable. And what about the plush reindeer birthday gift? How do you thank somebody for that, and keep a straight face?

"Popular Phrase…

"Two Words...

"First word…

"Rhymes with…

"Truck? Ok Buck? Duck? Fu-oh, my. That isn't very Christmassy."

Not Christmassy. I think that was her point. It was her birthday. No wonder she didn't want every day to be like Christmas. She's got me beat on the Bah Humbug.

Whatever she does, I hope she has a wonderful birthday. I may not have been the greatest husband, but I tried to celebrate MyUnwife's birthday, and Jesus' birthday separately. It's one thing I thought I could do. Maybe I'll call PetSmart, do they have a kibble delivery team? It would be a nice gift. Better make sure the team's not reindeer driven though.

"Popular Phrase…"

"They sold me a Christmas Story…"-Greg Lake

Settling in for a long winter's nap? I am. Ok, I'm not, but in my mind I am. I swear. In my mind, I'm wrapped in my quilt, all safe and toasty. Occasionally reaching out to the pyre I've built on the floor. Nothing to worry about, just stuff belonging to MyUnwife…

Ok, the pyre thing is me warming my toes in a bitter bath. Feel free to jump in, it's a hot tub of froth. Nothing says holidays like a warm soak against a snowy backdrop.

Well, I'm in California, I don't have a snowy backdrop. It's in my head too. It seems there are a lot of things in my head. Huh, maybe that says something about crazy and Christmas…Well, I'll just leave that as a gift to open later. For now, let's talk about today. What are you doing today? 3….2….1--Ok, that's great. Let's talk about me now.

Today, I'll mow my lawn. I'll trim too. Oh and I'll trim—Christmas trim--the palm—the tree, not my hand. Although I could Sharpie a tree in my hand. Open and close it like blinking lights. Wouldn't I look festive? Crazy? Either way, both are Christmassy. What's cool, is I know that at least three of you out there are staring at your hand, opening and closing it really fast. Thank you, I'm not alon--So the tree. Yeah, I'll do that. It's supposed to be clear next week. If you guys stay on my nice list, I'll post pics.

Later tonight I'll do my usual Friday ritual, I'll write in the plaza by the theater. They've set up a big tree in the fountain. If you're giving me a stalker for Christmas, I usually stay there until 9:30 or 10, then walk down to the grocery store to do my shopping. Make sure the stalker is in festive colors and reindeer ears. Nobody likes a sulky stalker.

I'm grabbing my Christmas dinner tonight. I think I'm having ham. I'll buy a small one, get some potatoes--I think I'm doing scalloped, unless I change my mind and go for yams. I'm gonna make some Chex mix too. I love the stuff, I decided to make some for me. Same with fudge. I'll probably give most of that away, but I wanted a few pieces myself. I could make snicker doodles too. My Mom always made them at Christmas. I don't know though, that may be too much sugar in strike range. Santa'll drop down the chimney to find me in a sugar coma, painted up like a clown with chocolate smears and cookie crumb freckles. Still, I want a few sweets. It's my Christmas gift to me.

It'll just be me this Christmas, but I'm ok with it. It'll be a peaceful time. Everything's been hectic lately, Christmas will give me an excuse to do some things I've been waiting to do around the house.

If you're bored, check in, I'll be around. I think I'll do like I did on Thanksgiving and do a few posts through out the day. But, that's not till Tuesday, I'm just thinking aloud now. That's kind of a good thing, it shows that I'm thinking at all!

"...singing songs of joy and peace…"-Sarah McLachlan

Christmas music: lilting refrain, or knife to the vein? As a kid, I remember Mom and Dad pulling out all the crackly records and stacking them on the multi-pay spindle. Each record would drop, playing songs about Santa and the reindeer, Frosty and the children, Jesus and the chipmunks.

I loved it. The songs were pop greats. Maybe it's real, or maybe they sucked. It's just nostalgia vines intertwining the voices of Perry Como, Julie Andrews, and Johnny Mathis to happy Christmases past. My ghosts of Christmas past.

I turned on the radio today, thinking I could recapture my holiday spirit by ringing in the carols. My Grandmother's name is Carol, but I wasn't going to call her. The music would have to do. Sorry Christmas is the time for exchanging gifts and really bad jokes, get used to it. Better you start with me, than be shocked by something said by Uncle Frank over Christmas Ham. You don't want the kids to remember this as the Christmas Mommy forked Frank in the forehead.

So, back to the music. Christmas music. I gotta tell ya, I'm feeling old, because these tracks of Christmas present are horrible! These cows are crashing the china shop of my youth! Right now, I'm suffering through Kelly Clarkson doing "O Holy Night." No Kelly, it's not a holy night. Not while you're doing that to it!

It's not that she can't sing; she can. She makes sure we know it too, by hitting every note in her range. If the treble clef was a musical cliff, her voice would be bouncing off of each eighth note on it's way down, and miraculously rebounding back to middle C before plummeting to tranquil silence. If only that were the end. She climbs back for more, lucky me. Is that what she learned from American Idol? Keep it simple, Simon!

"Simon!"

Ok, maybe it's not all his fault. Celine Dion murdered "The Christmas Song." Then again if your name isn't Nat King Cole, don't even bother trying to sing it. I know, I sound like a traditional Christmas snob, but why? Why ruin a good song? What makes turning Rudolph into a yodel a good idea?

Maybe I'm just bitter. I want things the way they were. If the rest of my year has to be mired in the muck of divorce, I want my freakin' Norman Rockwell fluffy white Christmas, and bring me Bing Crosby too! (Well, really just his music—no need to dig him up, it is Christmas…) I've earned it. I want snow, I want my Santa, and I want my carols! Gimme peace on earth! Gimme holly jolly! Gimme Sarah McLachlan all ribboned and bowed under my tree! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

Ok, I'm better now. Once this Christmas is over, I'll have one divorced Holiday under my belt; I'll be able to look forward to Christmases future. I just hope the singing gets better.

"With every Christmas card I write…"-Bing Crosby

So I'm offering this simple phrase, to kids from 1 to 92…

How the heck do I open my mailbox? I know, more a question than a phrase, but I think I've set a good age parameter. If you're in that age window could you come in and answer my question?

help…

me…

It started Monday when I went to check the mail. At least that's when it started for me; I'm not sure when it started for the box; it's not communicating with me. Sliding in the key, I begged it to open up; It wouldn't budge. When begging and pleading didn't work, I got violent. It was wrong, I know, but if I could just make the box understand, I only wanted to know what was going on inside. Why had it decided to lock me out?

Yesterday, I tried to catch the mailman as he rolled through. Maybe a third party could sort things out. I didn't see him. I waited, fingers pressed to my screen door, hoping to catch a glimpse, to see something, anything that would tell me what was going on with my mail.

Santa must be my mailman. He snuck through undetected, ate my cookies and left packages-- in my mailbox, which I can't get to, because my key doesn't work. So all those money filled cards you sent me, I still can't read them. Don't forget to leave the money in the account though. I'll cash them as soon as I can.

I thought about breaking into the box, but it with my luck somebody would misinterpret my actions and report it. It's a federal crime to break into my mailbox to read my mail—even if you're me.

"Hey Mom, send my gifts to the corrections facility in Lompoc…" I guess at least there, I'd get my mail.

Today is a new day. I walked out to coax my mailbox. It snubbed me. I'd hoped time would heal us. I don't know, the key looks good, it fits, it just doesn't turn. What did I do? Where did I go wrong? It's all the boxes fault! And it's the Holidays! It chose now, of all times, to go out on me! Please come back, box, I miss you!

Ok, so now I sound pathetic. I went back out to the driveway to grab the newspaper, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? It's that guy with the bag wearing an iPod with headgear.

"Wait! Oh wait, just a minute Mr. Postman!"

Pause. Yeah, I'll give you a moment to real from that really bad joke. Ready? Ok, back to our story:

"Yes, Robby?"

"Mr. Postman, MyMailbox won't open up. I've tried everything."

"Have you been a good boy?"

"I have! I have!"

"You know Robby, it may be broken. You may have to just let it go."

"What about what's inside, Mr. Postman?"

"Sometimes there's nothing you can do about that. Sometimes you shouldn't ask 'why' you should just say 'how interesting.'"

"Mr. Postman, what are we talking about? I just want my mail."

"Oh, I thought this was a divorce metaphor—try now."

I did. It opened! It was a Christmas Miracle! My box had clogged with a Swiss Colony care package. The meat and cheese blocked my key from turning, leaving me outside. Now things are good, and the mail flows again! I didn't get those cards you sent though. My net is ready to hold them, and it's looking like a meager catch. Don't forget the checks! My mail is working again!

"We Won't Go Until We Get Some…"-Traditional

The auditorium was tiny, the music was huge. I was surprised. I mean I was in high school once, our choir sucked. Oh, yeah, now I've pissed off my high school choir. What are they gonna do? Track me down and glee choir me to death? Actually that is a possibility…

That was where I spent my Monday night: In a high school auditorium watching the Arlington High School choir show off. One friend asked me later if I brought a date. A date? I'm doing this divorce thing, remember? Besides, why bring your own hamburger to the butcher when he's got prime meat swinging in the back? Ok, I'm just joking, I swear. I'm not that kind of pig. Ok, maybe I am that kind of pig, but that wasn't why I was there. I was there because someone in my writers' group was singing and had asked that we watch and show support.

That's kind of what I've taken from this whole divorce thing. When things fell apart I expected people to be there for me. I expected extended arms to stretch from the mist and embrace me in warmth and fellowship. I know sounds kinda creepy when I say it aloud huh? Just like an older guy sitting in a high school watching little girls sing...oh.

Back to the mystery arms, "There there Rob."

It didn't happen that way. Instead, I relearned that I could stand on my own. I also learned that there were other people out there. Not only those who were where I am now, but those just starting on the road. People looking for the grabbing arms in the mist.

When I was in junior high, I wasn't a nice kid. I was a mid-low level bully. I guess I was like an office "in-charge" of the playground. I didn't hold any real power, except picking on kids smaller than me. To bigger kids, I was an easy target a "go-to" guy when they were bored. One day, while getting punched by a crowd of bigger kids, realized that I didn't enjoy getting picked on. Quite the revelation.

Because I was the intelligent free thinking kid (part of the reason I was getting a beating in the first place) I began tying thoughts together. If I didn't like this, what made me think that the kids I picked on liked it any more? Huh. I decided to think on it later, maybe it was just the pain talking. Later, hiding in the library, I still drew the same conclusion. I made a resolution to never to pick on anyone maliciously again.

After that, things got better. Oh, I still spent a lot of time running to the library, but I my conscience was free. I was a good guy, and sometimes bad things happened, but I didn't have to be the cause.

I'm a creepy set of arms clutching from the fog. That's what this has taught me. I know that people are hurting, and rather than complain about my own pain, I can show them how to survive. Oh, I can't offer much more than my time, my writing, and my experience, but if somebody needs any of those things here I am. I also do shadow bunnies against the mist upon request.

So last night I sat alone surrounded by families listening to Christmas carols, because somebody asked me. Oh, it wasn't completely altruistic; the alternative was hiding alone in my office library. So I went, and I applauded. I clapped so much that I had to shift my wedding ring to my index finger because it kept trying to fly off. The music was good, and I felt good being a small island washed by seas of good cheer. If I can splash that back at somebody else then my creepy island-mist-arms have gone to good use.

"We’re the ones who still believe.."-The Killers

"I'm gonna have to go with 'divorce.'" That was the judge's call. Good call too, it was my answer. Well not the judge, and not my answer to that big issue--Here, let me back up, I'm talking about the Apples to Apples judge. Our Apples to Apples judge is far more arbitrary than any court judge I know, and well, I don't know any. That doesn't matter, tonight, there's a fickle wind blowing between winners and losers, and right now it's a warm breeze blowing my way. I rock.

For those of you not in the know (or not in the care), Apples to Apples is a party game played with cards. You try to match the noun card in your hand with the adjective card on the table. The person who comes closest to a match, wins the round. The adjective was "furious" I played divorce. I won that round. When everybody playing the game has been through a divorce, nobody's gonna argue with that match, thank you very much.

I know, games with nouns and adjectives, not the bong hits at your party, but we're writers. We're snooty, self-important, and boring. We like words. Nouns, adjectives and a bottle of wine, don't bother us, we're getting rowdy.

That was our writers group party. It was really nice. Everybody sat around, ate, and talked. Towards the end of the evening, our host's kids wanted to play a game. They know a rube when they see one, so they threw apples at me until I wanted to play too.

"Dance, monkey!"

"Ow! Ok! I'll play!"

If somebody plays the "relentless" card, these kids are winners.

Apples to Apples, the choice of a belligerent generation. Pretty soon the other divorced people joined in too while everybody spouse-stuck ran home, whimpering their goodbyes. People who choose to stay married, rarely play party games together. If you ever see MyUnwife, ask her about Bob Scrooge, you'll understand.

Divorced people and children play games. It's our bitter rebellion against the world. "Insignificant?" says one player as the card is played. "Where's the 'ex husband' card?" We all laugh. Hey wait. I'm an ex-husband…

I had my John McEnroe moment. The word was "explosive." Our judge called the winner, "James Bond."

"What? What about 'car bombs? They're not explosive?"

"Oh you're right! I didn't see that one!"

I wrestle the card from the loser. In your face, 13 year old girl! I bounce it off her forehead for good measure.

As the kids fall asleep, or flee in terror, the divorced pack continue to play. It was a weird camaraderie of wolves. We talk about everything from natural child birth (ok, I didn't really join in that conversation, but I did listen) to haunted barns. We didn't talk about divorce. We don't feed on our own.

It didn't stop me from beating them at the apple game. That's what I do. I'm good at games. Oh, and a little competitive too, and it's good to feel like a winner. Nabbing victories lately has been a Steven Segal Oscar moment: it just don't exist. So Saturday night I basked in glory.

Apparently, I didn't offend too many people: I now have something to do tonight. Tonight, I'm going to watch one of the high school choirs perform. Oh, I'm going alone, but I'm not alone; victors never are; we're spoiled. Sometimes one victory leads to another. Sometimes it's in a child's laughter, or a angel's choir. You just have to look. Even Steven Segal can get lucky once.