"This will Blow Over in Time…"-Cold War Kids

"…part of the bobbineer brigade in World War II."

Bobbineer brigade? I know I shouldn't drift off during the deacon's sermon, but still, I'm not familiar with the bobbineer brigade. Her Majesty's terrifying quilting corps?

Never have so few, sewn so much for so many.

Now he's talking about Helicopters in Vietnam. Wha-? Our deacon likes mixing in history into his sermons. It's fascinating for him, it must be fascinating for us. I hate history: too much repetition. Still, everybody's glued to his words, so it must be me.

A lot of things are me. I know what you're thinking "Not, this whine again Rob! You're probably going to work in some Wine/Whine wordplay and call yourself clever too, huh?" That's not true. I never used the word "clever." The term is "super-genius," thank you very much, and someday, I'll catch that roadrunner of understanding. Someday.

See, what happens is when you divorce, the world falls into two crowds: The invisible crowd. And the helpful crowd. The invisible crowd, well they just disappear, you'll never know you knew them, and they certainly won't support your weight when the bridge gives way. The other crowd is all hands on, "This is what worked for me." or "I've heard this helps." That's great. When your world gives way, there's nothing like a bobbineer squadron to draw things together. Still, there comes a point where you have to find your own way across the chasm. A time to wake and take stock in what you have and just move, because you realize it's your life you're living and other people don't know it as well as you do.

"Hi, I'm Rob, I'll be your guy clinging to this stupid breakaway bridge this evening."

For now I'm fumbling with tools of somebody else's making, tools devised to help me grasp understanding in my paws and devour it. Tools made by somebody named Acme. Someday...

I checked; there's nothing on the Acme Website about the "bobbineer brigades." I could google them I suppose. Is it in poor form to pull out your iPhone in church? There's a picture of my dog on the "unlock screen." That has to win me some humanitarian points. Don't believe me? Look at this face:

Who's going to say I'm not a good guy when this guy's my spokesman?

Still no, I'll leave the phone in my pocket. It's time I worked things out for me. Gadgets and gimmicks are great for other people. I can't work with them. In third grade Timmy Lundgren brought his Stretch Armstrong to school. He'd gotten it for Christmas. "Look," he said, "You can't break it." I did. Apparently Stretch has an Achilles' heel when it comes to Tonka Trucks. Especially when they're driven by an angry Fisher Price mob to a draw and quarter party. Stretch snapped under the strain. Timmy was pissed. I shrugged. I thought he was lucky the mob didn't have torches too. Maybe Timmy shoulda asked for a Six-Million Dollar Man doll instead; at least with the right tools and technology we could rebuild him. Stretch was the Humpty Dumpty of the toy world. Another gimmick broken.

It's time to stop expecting everybody else's toys to work for me, and depend on my own. At least if I overexert my own elasticity, nobody's mom is gonna call my house at 7pm on a Wednesday expecting recompense. Timmy you squealer. Stretch at least stayed quiet before he broke...

So I do what I've been dreading all along: I listen to the deacon's sermon. It's about life changing events and how things can bring out the best or the worst in us. They're opportunities. After much repetition, I learn that "bobbineers" are just a poorly annunciated "bombardier." That certainly makes sense. I just wish this sermon were relevant to me. Maybe Timmy should have been here to hear it.

"I don't feel comfortable talkin' to you…"-Kings Of Leon

Ring-ring

?? Nobody calls me….

Ring-ring.

Huh..? I rub the handset against my sweatshirt to find the "talk" key; the only button not burried beneath the dust of un-use is the memory button for the pizza boy.

Ring-ring.

Probably should answer that-"Hello?"

"Robert?" I run The Terminator checklist for appropriate replies. "Fu-" no, not that one.

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is Francine from church…"

Francine? I don't know a Francine…Francine continues to explain that I don't know her, but that she's part of the welcoming committee. She want's to make sure I'm coming to church this weekend so they can welcome me.

I've attended service there for close to 2 years now. I decided I should be a sheep, be social, and join the fold. So, this Sunday, they're holding a folding ceremony to introduce me to the congregation. I find folding ceremonies much more welcoming than hanging ceremonies. Francine doesn't have a preference. She just wants to be sure I attend either way. There's nothing more embarrassed by throwing a welcoming ceremony for a person too antisocial to show up.

I rest her fears. I'll be attending.

"Late service?"

Only if you want me to attend…"Yes." Most Lutherans don't share my taste for sarcasm. They apparently have a lot of welcome questions though. Francine's working down the list now. Whatever happened to a simple "Howdy" and a handshake?

Francine also makes sure I know there will be a small luncheon for everybody who's joining the church, after the late service. She wants me to know I'm welcome to attend. Now I know.

"Will you attend?"

"Sure."

"How many will be with you?"

"Just me."

Silence. "Uhm, so, uhm, MyUnwife won't be attending?"

Oh...nobody's given Francine the updated bio-sheet. Poor Francine. I'm sorry to do this to you, "No, she won't. MyUnwife is divorcing me."

See, here is where MyUnwife would ask "why did you tell her? They don't need to know that." I am the king of dispensing "unnecessary" information like an impact lawn sprinkler. She always hated that. Still, in this case there is a reason. I'm making things easy for both Francine and MyUnwife. I care. Francine sounds like she's going to ask questions until she gets everything anyway. I suck at bluffing. I'll just show her my hand now; Francine can decide how she wants to bet the next round. MyUnwife should thank me. My words glorify her, and move the action to her. "She's divorcing me." MyUnwife is whole. I'm the faulty part. I'm the weakest link. Goodbye.

"uhm.." Apparently my information shower has dowsed Francine's friendly fire.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make this uncomfortable." More water?

"No. No. So the luncheon will be in the fellowship hall…"Now Francine is more uncomfortable, and possibly embarrassed. I'm on a limb here, but I think this will be the last time Francine calls.

The cordial welcomes turn into goodbyes, and I hang up. Replaying the exchange in my head, I catch something: Francine may have been embarrassed, but I wasn't. In the past, these "MyUnwife doesn't live here anymore" conversations have been really awkward. Today it was just like reading the weather report from the newspaper aloud. "This is what today is like: Hazy-lazy, no chance of MyUnwife peeking out." Yeah, I know, I keep thinking they'll fire that weather guy but people seem to like him.

Me? Well the dust will settle on my phone again, I'll officially join my church, and life will go on, the same as it has every day before—just a little less awkward.

"My tunes, but they're your compositions…"-The Alan Parsons Project

Music. Of all things, I've been blah about music. I love music, but I don't know...I haven't been as excited to share for a while. Part of it's the season, Christmas is always dead. Nobody but American idle carolers release anything this time of year. Still, I've been dry even longer. I blame MyUnwife. I keep it in her Easter basket of rotten eggs and sour grapes.

This week somebody asked me about music. I didn't really know what to say, I'm not quite sure what I like now. Still, It felt good that somebody asked. It felt even better not keeping to myself. If nothing else, I could ask the question myself, "what do I like?" I collect music like some people collect…well whatever they collect. Liz Taylor collected husbands, but I have more CD's than that. Hell, I have more old 45's than that. I don't have any 78's so she's got me beat there.

I have a friend who collects individually wrapped sanitary wipes. Sorry, "Moist towelettes." I used to grab them for him whenever I went to Vegas. I'd laugh at him, but you never know, if some goo plague breaks out, I'd like to know that the sanitary wipe guy is on my side..

"Please, just one of the crab ones from Red Lobster. You have 20!"

"No, you called me 'silly.' Besides, 20 is better than 19. Now begone!"

Nope, I'm not gonna make fun of him. I could make fun of Liz, I don't see much need for a husband. I think MyUnwife would concur. Hang on, I think I need a handy-wipe; a little bitter just dripped down my chin onto my keyboard. It's burning my space bar like Alien blood.

So yeah, the music. I've been concerned. I've been doing my radio research job for almost 9 years now. And sometimes I feel so burned out. I love the music, but I deal with it every day. It's hard to keep the love alive.

So when somebody asks what I listened to today, I can't imagine it being that interesting. And yet they asked, and I replied. A conversation was born. Now I'm New Year's champagne, my cork protruding from somebody's eye and I'm spraying bands and songs everywhere. Even my dogs diving for the handy-wipes. Poor guy doesn't stand a chance: no opposable thumbs to tear the wrapper. Sorry dude.

I like music again. It's fresh and new, and I'm digging through my old stacks like they're new.

"what's This?"

Now talking about music has me wondering about other areas of my life. Can I find a new appreciation for the other things? Can I adapt to the shifts and trends of style and taste and come back with a new outlook and appreciation. I sure hope so.

"It's Business Time.."-Flight of the Conchords

One thing about working late at night, You catch the most interesting ads on TV. Ok, maybe not interesting but, well…lets just say there's a definite target demographic. They've stopped trying to sell me the Cadillac SUV with the extra car seat holder sometime around midnight. In fact, all cars are neatly covered and garaged, except the local used lots. It's 2am: they're unloading anything cheap and old.

Jewelers are hiding their stones, and ware peddlers stopped worrying about what wipes I use to sanitize my children's world. They figure I did too. I'm not looking out for the interests of my child, pet, or fellow man, unless they're in terminal need of a Chia Pet shaped like Scooby Doo head. That I can get. Oh they are willing to drag a barefoot waif across streets of broken glass so that I'll send them ransom money to stop. Other than that, any shopping I'm doing right now, is for some product I can only access by the internet or a phone call. And it's not something I would buy in public if I could.

If their market research is right, I'm an insecure balding horny man looking to make my life leaner, longer, and full of nonstop action. I'm nostalgic for music I used to listen to when I was less balding and more libido driven to leave the house and whet my appetite at any club or bar that would open it's doors to the hungry wolf of youth. I swear, they're looking in my window!

Ok, I'm not balding, and I'm not interested in texting a hot babe to make my night complete. I watch some of these ads, and regret that they aren't still trying to sell me sanitary wipes. I'm feeling dirty and used.

I saw something else for sale last night that I wasn't prepared for. The commercial opens with a sexy couple gyrating, barely clothed, on my TV. He's behind her, lips pressed to her neck, she's arched against him, body pressed to everything else. The screen goes black, and white text appears: "this couple is happily married..." Black screen fades, the couple is back. Are they dressed? I don't know; they're entwined like the cover of a Nicole Jordan novel: it's hard to see anything but gliding flesh. The black screen comes back. I’m thinking Damn you! Bring them back! I just got rid of my premium channels! Ignoring me, new text appears, "…Just not to each other." The graphic goes, now the woman is standing alone in a robe, at a big sunlit window, sheer curtains drown back, reflecting white light. The company's logo and website rise onto the screen and then Cal Worthington appears, He wants me to buy an 84 Buick with a big back seat.

I have a DVR. I rewind. Did I just see…it appears so…I check out the website. Yup. They're selling me infidelity. They're proud to announce that they're the cure for "when monogamy becomes monotony."

Wha?

I'm in the middle of a divorce, I'd pay good money a pound of monogamy about now. Where's the ad for that? I know these aren't the only one-night over-night peddlers on the block. I guess what threw me was that other sites hide under "Don't ask don't tell" blanket. This site screamed "We're here to help you cheat!" and "cheat" was in big bold neon letters, blinking in time with some bass riff from a Barry White track.

Looking over the home screen, I see a little icon link in the lower corner. It's a picture of a girl and says "single?" I thought, well, at least they offer a legitimate dating service. Maybe that's how they appease their conscience. I clicked it. I'm not single, but I will be someday. Who's out there?

The new page loads up instantly. Boom! There's a pretty blond girl, smiling back at me. Just above her head reads a new caption, "Because the best men and women are already taken."

Holy crap! They're hooking for home wreckers!

"oh, this couple looks cute. I want to destroy their marriage!"

I stare in horror. MyUnwife might not agree, but I really do believe in the bonds of marriage. I never cheated on her, and I never went looking for somebody else. Trust is important. If there isn't trust, then what is there? A marriage thrives on the freedom allowed by trust and communication.

This site is selling neither. This site is the snake spiraling around a limb laden apple, saying "Come on, just a bite…"

Please don't get me wrong. I'm not going to be the next bobble head saint to toss up in your dashboard collection. I did things in my marriage I'm not proud of. If I'm half the man I should be, I'll learn from them and move on. I just can't stand people offering the means to destroy what should be held sacred. We're already demolition experts; we don't need help. Where's a vat of eye wash and antibacterial soap when I need it?

"You're left alone with something …"-Sugar

"I'll work out the numbers and I'll shoot you an estimate later this evening."

An estimate. That's what the guy's sending me. Everything in my life these days is about estimates and estimations. The divorce, our assets, my fence. It's all about rough concepts governed by fair trade.

I like concrete. That's why I'm replacing my fence with a wall. Walls are precise. In fact, that's what the guy says he wants to put up: "precision block." That's great, I don't know masonry, he might as well have told me he's building it out of Barney Rubble.

"It's the latest in purple dinosaur quarry."

"Great…"

It's all part of the estimate. My divorce is the same way. How do you split things? Who decides what's more important to whom? Who puts a value on a side board you bought because you needed something to put under the hanging pot rack? Sure it goes well with the pots, but it also goes well with the sander you bought to refinish the top. And what about the time you both spent in the kitchen making it look new? What about the time you spent "testing it's strength" when you first put it up? How do you divide that kind of time and memories? Estimates?

Shared memories? There's no I in team and there certainly is not an "us" to share in a divorce. There is half the word "divide." Probably not a coincidence. The other half of "divorce" must mean "estimate."

Some divorces get really ugly over where to draw the dotted line. King Solomon said, "Split the baby." Ok, it wasn't a divorce, but it's the same idea. Some things don't divide well. Some things you can't split into same-size Tupperware and expect to stay as good as new. Baby's are a great example, so are pets. That's why you need an estimate, but estimates are never 100% accurate. They require give and take, and in divorce there's very little give. In a friendly divorce you do your best to simply not take.

That's why I let MyUnwife take what she wanted. Oh, that doesn't make me more a giver than the next guy; let me repeat. I let MyUnwife take what she wanted. I didn't offer anything. I didn't "give" her anything. If she took it, fine. If she didn't, good for me; that's one more egg in my basket. In my estimate, that was fair. It was the closest I could come. Some times estimates are about how far you'll go before you explode into a million pieces somebody else will has to divide.

She's been gone for a while, so has the stuff she took. Short of the occasional ghost of a moment, I'm done missing both. That means most estimates between us are done. There's still a few things, like divorce dates, but like my wall, that will go up when it goes up.

I'm not sure how I'm paying for my wall. I'll wait and see what it costs, what my neighbor will pay, and what my insurance company wants to pitch in. Then, I'll look at what's left, and estimate a way to get by.

"We're too late…"-Pinback

This is the season of repeats. It's funny because we're all trying to start fresh and new, but look around us. Check the TV listings. 4 out of 5 networks that play programming, recommend people who watch TV watch reruns. Blame the striking writers—networks do. Yeah, right. Let's face it: this season's reruns are no different than last seasons turkeys.

"May I have a second helping of Cavemen, please?"

Other reruns exist in our lives too: Remember last week I made the chicken noodle soup? I'm happy to announce that today I finished it. Writers' strike or no, it won't be returning. It's been a solid week of liquidy leftovers. Mission accomplished. My body swears it won't get sick again so long as it doesn't have to swallow another ladle of chicken riddled broth. I can live with that arrangement.

Still, like a lamb to slaughter, I'm a glutton for punishment, emphasis on the glutton—There'll be no lamb, only fowl. I thawed my remaining Cornish hen last week. I need to eat tonight, before it goes bad. That means one more night of bird reruns. Now I know how Mr. Snufflufigus felt.

"oh, Bird…"

Ok, maybe not. He never ate bird. His was a tragedy of optics, not taste. He was imaginary, and I suppose he saw other people, it was bird who (faithfully) could only see him. Still bird saw other people. So maybe Snuffy was the faithful one. He remained invisible to other eyes. Maybe Bert and Ernie weren't the only odd couple on Sesame Street. Maybe I put too much thought into my children's programming.

"Alas, poor Snuffy! I knew him, Horatio."

Another thing I put too much thought into is my failed relationship. Even now, not a day goes by that I don't replay "what the hell went wrong?" I'm like John Madden drawing squiggly "what ifs" across my memory's screen. Inserting new scenarios and game plans, drawing new lines and different allusions, but they run the same. And yet, that never stops me from trying.

I think I always will. It's really who I am. I try to fix everything for everybody. I think somewhere inside I feel like if I find the right puzzle piece I can fix this for myself. I know it sounds selfish, I should say something like "Fix it for her." But why? I gave her what she wanted. The final act of "love, honor and cherish."

I'll let you in on a little secret. MyUnwife is part of the reason I write. Even this. Especially this. The silence and the distance between us, I always thought that somebody should have a clue what the other person was thinking. I figured it had to be me. I'm the ABC caveman scratching pictures on a wall for others to see. It started with a letter. A letter I never sent. I reread it today, it seemed like a better idea than the other reruns. This was one highlight:

...It doesn't matter, but I think it's fair that at least one of us knows what actually happened, so I'll resort to what I do best: writing. Besides, maybe you can take the knowledge and use it in a future relationship. I really do want you to be happy...

Ok, so maybe not a better idea. Still, it reminded me of my purpose: Rob's divorce historian. This is the divorce season. This is the season MyUnwife chose to wrap things up. One year ago she made the decision to call it quits. This is the time she drew away completely. In a month she'll tell me she hates me. I'm replaying last years reruns. The show's over and there are no new film dates.

I'm trying to balance last year with this. This year's is a new program. A new Rob. Right now it's a one man show, but it's pretty good. A little adventure, a little comedy: slain chickens, falling fences, the usual digressions. I think it'll take most of my attention. Even with last years reruns on.

"Reaching out for some kind of connection…"-Against Me

It rained all weekend. I wanted to go write Friday night, but it rained. Fridays I write outside, in the plaza. Did I mention the rain? How 'bout how it came down all weekend? Sheets and buckets. That's how it came down. I should mention it, because it was there. I like rain, but in moderation. Too much rain reminds me of Carpenter's songs. Pretty soon, gloomy sky equates to gloomy Rob. Fair weather friends point from dry shelters. I am the gloomy drowned-rat rider of the Apocalypse.

"It's Rain Man!"

"That’s me, now bring me my Judge Wapner, My K-Mart, and my clean underwear and leave me alone. I'm gloomy."

According to the news, we needed the rain. But do we need a gloomy Rob? I think not. Isn't there just some way we could work out some Earth/water infusion? Somebody get Al Gore on the phone, I want to talk about Eco-friendly water needles. We'll jab them into the Metro LA water artery and be done with it. That's how SoCalers like things done: quick and painless. That's our convenient truth.

Saturday, I spat at the rain. It spat back. At least I hope that was the rain. My neighbor's kid was mad when I didn't buy his magazines…anyway, I decided to catch a movie. Checking my show times, I realized I had a difficult choice to make: I Am Legend, or P.S. I Love You. Yeah, in the 30 seconds it took to make that call, I was almost late for I am Legend.

I mean really, what about me says I wouldn't choose this one? It's the story about a man and his dog, alone against the world turned black. I could relate to that. Contrasted against the tale of a couple so in love that she receives his love letters even after he walks into the white blinding light. Now that's pure fantasy. What real woman receives cards and letters from her non-terminal husband? We guys are complete babies when we have a cold, do you really think we're going to be that selfless when we find out we're dying? Not without a butt-load of guns, grenades, and an evil horde bearing down on us. Then and only then can we save the world, let alone the ones we love. Love letters from death…yeah right...

Hey! Before you start throwing stuff, my beloved evil horde, I did send cards and emails while my marriage was alive and well! Isn't that something? And when it fell sick, well, I still did emails and Post-Its. See? Post-It: When you care enough to not speak to the ones you love.

"Why does MyUnwife's Jacket say 'smack me, hard.'"

"Oh, she Superglued Rob's fingers to his keyboard last week. He's getting her back."

"ouch."

"Tell me about it. His fingers were stuck to the QWXV J<>{: keys. There's no way to type for help with those keys."

"Stuck without vowels, or even an appropriate emoticon..."

"Nope, not even opposable thumbs could save that man."

She's cruel. I'm not going to smack her."

"Me neither."

Yeah, I was better watching the man alone with his dog. Dogs aren't vindictive. At least mine's not. He dances a puppy jig just to sleep in a dry room. I think that's something we have in common. Sure, someday maybe I'd like to save the world from itself, or slide love letters under deaths door, but for now I'm just happy to be in from the rain.