Friends naturally ask me how I'm doing these days, and I typically respond that I'm doing fine, considering. If this isn't sufficient information, I add that it could be much worse; I could be experiencing exactly what I'm experiencing now, but in Darfur.
In fact, I am learning that I hardly need look to so exotic or tragic a locale to demonstrate the relative greenness of my grass. All I need do is consider the burdens borne by so many of my peers. Several have recently endured business catastrophes they could not possibly have anticipated and which nearly left them homeless. Several others are coping with debilitating mental illness, either their own or a family member's. Not a few, like myself, are currently looking for work, but much more desperately as they have greater financial obligations and/or fewer financial assets. Some are experiencing breakups like mine, but worse; the relationships are of longer endurance, the bonds harder to sever because children are involved, the splits considerably more acrimonious. Worst of all, a friend whose recent painful divorce was softened only by his devotion to his 17-year-old daughter lost her; she hydroplaned into a tree on her way home from church and was killed instantly, according to the state troopers.
We are all in our mid- to late-40's, a fact that leaves me wondering whether this is the common fate of people my age. Are we tragedy magnets? Does karma work in predictable cycles?
And then a worse thought occurs to me: that this is the beginning of a part of my life in which my friends and I will always be dealing with these sorts of thing, that it'll be nothing but illness and destitution and disappointment and heartbreak from here on out until we all at last shake off this mortal coil, likely with big smiles on our faces. Thank God that's done with, will be our collective last thought.
And of course, it could always be worse. We could all be having these heartbreaking experiences in Darfur.
So there you go.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
III: In Which I Attack Some Housework Chores Previously Handled by my Future Ex-Wife
To understand what follows, a little background information is necessary.
In February, my future ex-wife and I acknowledged that we were driving each other stark raving bonkers, and we agreed that a trial separation would be a good idea. Some friends offered her their spare room, which she accepted. Since then, the only thing that has changed is that the word 'trial' has been dropped.
Which means that I've been living alone in our house for three months. It's been weird; as my sister reminded me the other day, I haven't lived alone since 1980, and even then it was only for a few months. Life in New York City for the non-fabulous by necessity entails roommates unless you're willing to live in something along the lines of a postage stamp-size studio in Douglaston; I was not. Later, when I relocated to North Carolina, it was with wife already in tow.
Next week, my future ex will be house-sitting/dog-sitting while I'm up in New York for business. This means that I have to get the house ready for her.
Now as I have previously admitted, I was not exactly fastidious during our marriage. My ex was simply better at cleaning house than I was, and like The Dude I am most definitely a lazy man. I even convinced myself that tasks such as laundry were simply too complex for me to master. The human mind is a wondrous thing indeed.
And adaptable to all life situations. For example, here's how confused your thinking gets when reluctant bachelorhood is thrust upon you: It actually crossed my mind these past few days that my cleaning up for my future ex might make her unhappy, that she might react by thinking "Why the hell couldn't he do this while we were still together?" (I often imagine ridiculous and implausible arguments, for some reason. My mind works pretty much this way; the germane section starts at 3:55). And I seriously pondered how thorough a job of cleaning I should do to strike just the right balance; enough to show an effort, but not enough to educe reflection on what a piss-poor effort I'd made throughout our marriage. Fortunately, in the midst of these deliberations I discovered a stainless steel serving-bowl I had "cleaned." It bore ample evidence of the salad served from it, and I immediately realized that I could clean to my heart's delight without fear that my future ex-wife would ever mistake me for an efficient cleaner.
Today's big chore was shampooing the carpets. It's something that has to be done before we show the house anyway, and I figured if I hadn't done it before she arrived she might do it herself, and then I'd feel as though I'd once again left her a housecleaning job that I was perfectly capable of doing myself. I broke out the Bissell (not to be confused with the Bessell) and the instruction manual, hoping that the machine's operation was intuitive, as I am very bad with instruction manuals. (It was, I'm pretty sure; at any rate, the carpets are clean and the machine appears not to be broken.)
I read enough of the manual to learn that I needed to vacuum the carpets first prior to shampooing. I did this with the thoroughness with which I do all cleaning jobs, which is to say I was sure I'd done a great job and subsequently learned otherwise. Then it was time to fire up the Bissell. It's a pretty easy job, just like vacuuming except that you pass over every spot twice; first to dispense soapy water, then to suck it up. The machine makes a happy gurgling noise and the bottom of your socks get pleasingly damp with warm soapy water as you work. All in all, it was not the horrible chore I'd feared. In fact, it was actually quite pleasant.
The task was not without its complications, of course. An inexperienced cleaner, I found myself working on spots over and over in an effort to remove stains that, I eventually realized, were in fact shadows. My inexpert vacuuming evidenced itself in the furballs the Bissell started to cough up with increasing frequency as the job went on. Apparently one of our dogs has learned to shed deep into the carpet; perhaps she is burying the fur to recover in her dotage in case she goes bald. She is now in for a rude surprise, should she live so long.
A piece like this traditionally ends with some sort of gained insight about the ennobling qualities of housework, or about the importance of pulling your own weight in a marriage when it's time to deal with the inevitable drudgeries, or about the occasional miraculous qualities of shadows. Truth be told, though, the only insight I gained today is that I would like to someday be wealthy enough to pay someone else to clean my house. Because then the job would get done right and I'd have nothing to feel bad about.
So there you go.
In February, my future ex-wife and I acknowledged that we were driving each other stark raving bonkers, and we agreed that a trial separation would be a good idea. Some friends offered her their spare room, which she accepted. Since then, the only thing that has changed is that the word 'trial' has been dropped.
Which means that I've been living alone in our house for three months. It's been weird; as my sister reminded me the other day, I haven't lived alone since 1980, and even then it was only for a few months. Life in New York City for the non-fabulous by necessity entails roommates unless you're willing to live in something along the lines of a postage stamp-size studio in Douglaston; I was not. Later, when I relocated to North Carolina, it was with wife already in tow.
Next week, my future ex will be house-sitting/dog-sitting while I'm up in New York for business. This means that I have to get the house ready for her.
Now as I have previously admitted, I was not exactly fastidious during our marriage. My ex was simply better at cleaning house than I was, and like The Dude I am most definitely a lazy man. I even convinced myself that tasks such as laundry were simply too complex for me to master. The human mind is a wondrous thing indeed.
And adaptable to all life situations. For example, here's how confused your thinking gets when reluctant bachelorhood is thrust upon you: It actually crossed my mind these past few days that my cleaning up for my future ex might make her unhappy, that she might react by thinking "Why the hell couldn't he do this while we were still together?" (I often imagine ridiculous and implausible arguments, for some reason. My mind works pretty much this way; the germane section starts at 3:55). And I seriously pondered how thorough a job of cleaning I should do to strike just the right balance; enough to show an effort, but not enough to educe reflection on what a piss-poor effort I'd made throughout our marriage. Fortunately, in the midst of these deliberations I discovered a stainless steel serving-bowl I had "cleaned." It bore ample evidence of the salad served from it, and I immediately realized that I could clean to my heart's delight without fear that my future ex-wife would ever mistake me for an efficient cleaner.
Today's big chore was shampooing the carpets. It's something that has to be done before we show the house anyway, and I figured if I hadn't done it before she arrived she might do it herself, and then I'd feel as though I'd once again left her a housecleaning job that I was perfectly capable of doing myself. I broke out the Bissell (not to be confused with the Bessell) and the instruction manual, hoping that the machine's operation was intuitive, as I am very bad with instruction manuals. (It was, I'm pretty sure; at any rate, the carpets are clean and the machine appears not to be broken.)
I read enough of the manual to learn that I needed to vacuum the carpets first prior to shampooing. I did this with the thoroughness with which I do all cleaning jobs, which is to say I was sure I'd done a great job and subsequently learned otherwise. Then it was time to fire up the Bissell. It's a pretty easy job, just like vacuuming except that you pass over every spot twice; first to dispense soapy water, then to suck it up. The machine makes a happy gurgling noise and the bottom of your socks get pleasingly damp with warm soapy water as you work. All in all, it was not the horrible chore I'd feared. In fact, it was actually quite pleasant.
The task was not without its complications, of course. An inexperienced cleaner, I found myself working on spots over and over in an effort to remove stains that, I eventually realized, were in fact shadows. My inexpert vacuuming evidenced itself in the furballs the Bissell started to cough up with increasing frequency as the job went on. Apparently one of our dogs has learned to shed deep into the carpet; perhaps she is burying the fur to recover in her dotage in case she goes bald. She is now in for a rude surprise, should she live so long.
A piece like this traditionally ends with some sort of gained insight about the ennobling qualities of housework, or about the importance of pulling your own weight in a marriage when it's time to deal with the inevitable drudgeries, or about the occasional miraculous qualities of shadows. Truth be told, though, the only insight I gained today is that I would like to someday be wealthy enough to pay someone else to clean my house. Because then the job would get done right and I'd have nothing to feel bad about.
So there you go.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Food Interlude I: Shawarma
As a married man, I was not much for housework, but I was--and still am--a damned good cook, if I do say so myself (as in fact I just did). I've heard tell of suddenly reluctant bachelors such as I reverting to a diet of Ramen noodles, frozen pizzas, and breakfast cereal. I am determined not to let this happen to me. I enjoy good food too much, for one thing. For another, as I lose more hair and accumulate more wrinkles, I'm going to have to rely increasingly on such assets as my cooking to ensnare the next Mrs. RB. Whenever the fancy strikes, then, I will interrupt this narrative of lifestyle transition to describe something I've recently cooked. It'll go something…. like this.
I had the good fortune to live in New York City for about 20 years. I lived on a writer's wages during that entire time, meaning that I had to find good food for cheap or forego good food altogether. I don't imagine there's a better place in the world to pursue this aim than New York; the world's cuisines await you on street corners, in filthy holes in the wall that you wisely hesitate to enter but eventually enter anyway, and in equally forbidding groceries whose contents must be deciphered through cookbooks and other culinary references, which fortunately are also abundantly available. All you need is the time to explore and the willingness to endure occasional food poisoning.
One favorite stop back then was the kiosk of the self-proclaimed Shawarma King in Greenwich Village. Cognoscenti poo poo the Village, especially the West Village (which is where the Shawarma King reigned), and with good reason: during high-traffic periods it is overrun by the loathed bridge-and-tunnel crowd. The merchants who serve them are typically more contemptuous than solicitous of these customers, and their wares bear the mark of their disdain, not just during peak hours but 24/7. The Shawarma King was different. He understood that with great title comes great responsibility, and he continued to crank out delicious shawarmas even though his clientele mostly couldn't tell the difference. The quality of his product probably put him out of business. May his kiosk rest in peace.
A shawarma is a lamb pita sandwich, by the way. The meat is typically shaved; I prefer to prepare it with larger, kebob-size hunks of meat. Here's how to make one that the Shawarma King might well proclaim delicious.
Get a nice piece of butterflied lamb shoulder or leg of lamb, which will probably weigh about four pounds. Cut it in half, and wrap and freeze half; four pounds of lamb is, or should be, too much meat for one man to eat before it starts to go bad. Trim the fat off the remaining half, then cut the meat into strips roughly the size of a nice New York strip steak. Why cut it up? You're going to grill this meat. The more surface area, the more of that good charred-outside flavor. Also, smaller pieces cook faster, getting you to the dinner table quicker. Could you cut the pieces even smaller? Sure, why not? Knock yourself out.
Season the lamb with salt and pepper. Steep some crushed garlic in olive oil for 10 minutes or so, then brush the oil on the lamb. Refrigerate if you're not going to cook soon, but remember to take the lamb out of the fridge at least an hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat is more likely to stick to the grill.
Also, there must be tzatziki, which is quite easy to make. Line a colander with three thicknesses of paper towels. Dump two cups of plain yogurt on top of the towels. Place the colander over a bowl or pot, cover, and refrigerate for a few hours. The liquid will leach out of the yogurt. Dump the thickened yogurt into a bowl. Peel two cucumbers (or one English cucumber), grate, and squeeze to drain of liquid. Add the grated cucumber to the yogurt. Season with salt and pepper. Press or mince fine one or two cloves of garlic, to taste, and add that as well. Add some fresh dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. Stir. You're done!
We're in the home stretch now. Fire up the grill until it is burn-the-hair-off-your-knuckles hot, then throw on the lamb and get it a-sizzling. Cook beyond medium rare at your own peril. Let the cooked lamb rest for a few minutes; while you're doing that, heat some pitas in a skillet and assemble a simple salad (I love Earth Fare Spring Mix with some diced tomato and Bermuda onion for this purpose). Cut the lamb into kebob-size (stew-size for you heartlanders) chunks, drop some on a hot pita, top with a handful of salad and a generous helping of tzatziki (and a splash of hot sauce if you like), roll it up like a food doober, and eat. This is the kind of sandwich that can disintegrate in your hands, so eating quickly is advised. No problem here; I have been told I eat as though I am afraid someone is about to take my food away any second.
So there you go.
I had the good fortune to live in New York City for about 20 years. I lived on a writer's wages during that entire time, meaning that I had to find good food for cheap or forego good food altogether. I don't imagine there's a better place in the world to pursue this aim than New York; the world's cuisines await you on street corners, in filthy holes in the wall that you wisely hesitate to enter but eventually enter anyway, and in equally forbidding groceries whose contents must be deciphered through cookbooks and other culinary references, which fortunately are also abundantly available. All you need is the time to explore and the willingness to endure occasional food poisoning.
One favorite stop back then was the kiosk of the self-proclaimed Shawarma King in Greenwich Village. Cognoscenti poo poo the Village, especially the West Village (which is where the Shawarma King reigned), and with good reason: during high-traffic periods it is overrun by the loathed bridge-and-tunnel crowd. The merchants who serve them are typically more contemptuous than solicitous of these customers, and their wares bear the mark of their disdain, not just during peak hours but 24/7. The Shawarma King was different. He understood that with great title comes great responsibility, and he continued to crank out delicious shawarmas even though his clientele mostly couldn't tell the difference. The quality of his product probably put him out of business. May his kiosk rest in peace.
A shawarma is a lamb pita sandwich, by the way. The meat is typically shaved; I prefer to prepare it with larger, kebob-size hunks of meat. Here's how to make one that the Shawarma King might well proclaim delicious.
Get a nice piece of butterflied lamb shoulder or leg of lamb, which will probably weigh about four pounds. Cut it in half, and wrap and freeze half; four pounds of lamb is, or should be, too much meat for one man to eat before it starts to go bad. Trim the fat off the remaining half, then cut the meat into strips roughly the size of a nice New York strip steak. Why cut it up? You're going to grill this meat. The more surface area, the more of that good charred-outside flavor. Also, smaller pieces cook faster, getting you to the dinner table quicker. Could you cut the pieces even smaller? Sure, why not? Knock yourself out.
Season the lamb with salt and pepper. Steep some crushed garlic in olive oil for 10 minutes or so, then brush the oil on the lamb. Refrigerate if you're not going to cook soon, but remember to take the lamb out of the fridge at least an hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat is more likely to stick to the grill.
Also, there must be tzatziki, which is quite easy to make. Line a colander with three thicknesses of paper towels. Dump two cups of plain yogurt on top of the towels. Place the colander over a bowl or pot, cover, and refrigerate for a few hours. The liquid will leach out of the yogurt. Dump the thickened yogurt into a bowl. Peel two cucumbers (or one English cucumber), grate, and squeeze to drain of liquid. Add the grated cucumber to the yogurt. Season with salt and pepper. Press or mince fine one or two cloves of garlic, to taste, and add that as well. Add some fresh dill and a squeeze of lemon juice. Stir. You're done!
We're in the home stretch now. Fire up the grill until it is burn-the-hair-off-your-knuckles hot, then throw on the lamb and get it a-sizzling. Cook beyond medium rare at your own peril. Let the cooked lamb rest for a few minutes; while you're doing that, heat some pitas in a skillet and assemble a simple salad (I love Earth Fare Spring Mix with some diced tomato and Bermuda onion for this purpose). Cut the lamb into kebob-size (stew-size for you heartlanders) chunks, drop some on a hot pita, top with a handful of salad and a generous helping of tzatziki (and a splash of hot sauce if you like), roll it up like a food doober, and eat. This is the kind of sandwich that can disintegrate in your hands, so eating quickly is advised. No problem here; I have been told I eat as though I am afraid someone is about to take my food away any second.
So there you go.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
II: In Which I Explain What You Should Not Expect to Find in this Blog
It occurs to me that some readers of this blog may know who I am despite my strenuous efforts to mask my true identity (see my opaque profile page for evidence of said efforts). This occurs to me because I sent emails to them informing them of this blog's existence.
It further occurs to me that some of these same readers might fear what they will find here, that perhaps some of what I write will be so revealing or embarrassing that they may wish with great fervor that they did not know my identity and/or that they had never read The Reluctant Bachelor. Or that they had never met me to begin with.
To which I respond: Fear not; I have no interest in laying bare my deepest, darkest secrets, which by the way are pretty mundane and would not make for good reading anyway. Nor do I intend to write anything that would be embarrassing to my future ex-wife. This blog is not about our failed marriage, nor is it about our breakup, nor is it the lugubrious chronicle of a man's obsession over a lost love. Anything I have to say on any of those subjects will transpire exclusively between me and my therapist, thank you.
Rather, I take as my model the wonderful Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain, a book that is full of astute and profound observations of the human experience, all recounted with delightful wit and without being the slightest bit confessional, self-pitying, or any of those other horrible things that make you want to stop reading and run into the room farthest from the offending text. Yes, I have set the bar high. If my head clips it as I pass below, I will be satisfied.
This blog is about making the transition back to single life. It is about the fact that the last date I went on was with a 24-year old who eventually became my future ex-wife, and that a lot has probably changed since then. It is about the fact that I have suddenly had thrust upon me a bunch of responsibilities I never had before, such as maintaining the house instead of pointing out to, say, my wife that the house needs to be cleaned, or walking the dogs instead of simply mentioning to, oh I don't know, let's say my wife that one of the dogs is jumping at the door. It's about contemplating once again pursuing what one friend refers to as 'the strange,' by which I'm pretty sure he meant women with whom I have not previously been acquainted.
In other words, it's about my new life, not my old one.
So there you go.
It further occurs to me that some of these same readers might fear what they will find here, that perhaps some of what I write will be so revealing or embarrassing that they may wish with great fervor that they did not know my identity and/or that they had never read The Reluctant Bachelor. Or that they had never met me to begin with.
To which I respond: Fear not; I have no interest in laying bare my deepest, darkest secrets, which by the way are pretty mundane and would not make for good reading anyway. Nor do I intend to write anything that would be embarrassing to my future ex-wife. This blog is not about our failed marriage, nor is it about our breakup, nor is it the lugubrious chronicle of a man's obsession over a lost love. Anything I have to say on any of those subjects will transpire exclusively between me and my therapist, thank you.
Rather, I take as my model the wonderful Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain, a book that is full of astute and profound observations of the human experience, all recounted with delightful wit and without being the slightest bit confessional, self-pitying, or any of those other horrible things that make you want to stop reading and run into the room farthest from the offending text. Yes, I have set the bar high. If my head clips it as I pass below, I will be satisfied.
This blog is about making the transition back to single life. It is about the fact that the last date I went on was with a 24-year old who eventually became my future ex-wife, and that a lot has probably changed since then. It is about the fact that I have suddenly had thrust upon me a bunch of responsibilities I never had before, such as maintaining the house instead of pointing out to, say, my wife that the house needs to be cleaned, or walking the dogs instead of simply mentioning to, oh I don't know, let's say my wife that one of the dogs is jumping at the door. It's about contemplating once again pursuing what one friend refers to as 'the strange,' by which I'm pretty sure he meant women with whom I have not previously been acquainted.
In other words, it's about my new life, not my old one.
So there you go.
Monday, May 19, 2008
I: In Which the Dogs and I Adjust to our New Life
In August 2007, the company for which I've worked for 20 years underwent a big management change, the result of years of less-than-stellar financials under the supplanted managers. Soon, predictably, familiar faces started disappearing, creating a vibe like that Twilight Zone episode where the omnipotent kid keeps turning adults into monstrosities whenever they piss him off, and everyone has to pretend that everything is hunky dory. "Jeez, look what you did to the COO. Uh, that was good! Real good!!! Now wish him out to the field, quick."
By December, I too had been shown the door, or, if you prefer, wished out to the field.
December was also when my wife and I finally acknowledged that there was something fundamentally wrong with our marriage. We began marriage counseling, which led to a trial separation, which led to the realization that our marriage was over. We'll be divorced early next year.
The two events are not related, by the way. My wife didn't leave me because I was suddenly an only-nebulously employed writer. I tell you about my downsizing/layoff/shitcanning just to give you some idea of the state of uncertainty in which I now exist. I'm confident that I'll get another job at least as good as the last one, and soon enough.
Finding another wife, though, won't be so easy.
At the age of 47--which suddenly feels much, much older than it did just a few months ago--I am making the transition from married guy to reluctant bachelor. Call me RB. This blog is the story of my new paradigm.
I am not the only one making the transition from life with a female human to life with her absence, by the way. My dogs are along for the ride as well, and I have to say they're dealing with it a whole lot better than I am. I was worried that their adjustment would be difficult, given that my wife was by far the more attentive to them. I have since learned better; dogs live by their own version of The Three Pillars, namely "Eat--Void--Sleep." Anything that accommodates The Pillars is A-OK with them. Anything that interrupts them must be dealt with immediately.
Which no doubt explains why they were so frantic during our months of couples counseling. The previous years had witnessed our slowly drifting apart, but without our acknowledging it and, by and large, while we were cohabiting peacefully if not happily. The dogs were cool with that; if we were plopped down on the couch to drink wine and watch something on TCM, whatever dark clouds were passing through our heads were not their concern. Those final months, however, involved a lot of desperate efforts to reel each other back in, which meant lots of long, emotionally charged conversations. The dogs did not enjoy these any better than we did. If they were capable of articulate thought, it probably would have gone something along these lines: "Look!!!! The food givers are not happy! Perhaps they will stop giving food! We must run around in circles and howl like mad! NOW-OOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" In the end, they didn't care which of us went, but they were certainly glad to see one of us go. Order had been restored, and they were happy.
I'm wondering whether I can learn a lesson from the dogs. They have clearly moved on; our marriage is soooo yesterday to them. I'm not quite there yet.
On the other hand, they also love to roll in dead animals, and smell each others' asses, and eat worms.
So there you go.
By December, I too had been shown the door, or, if you prefer, wished out to the field.
December was also when my wife and I finally acknowledged that there was something fundamentally wrong with our marriage. We began marriage counseling, which led to a trial separation, which led to the realization that our marriage was over. We'll be divorced early next year.
The two events are not related, by the way. My wife didn't leave me because I was suddenly an only-nebulously employed writer. I tell you about my downsizing/layoff/shitcanning just to give you some idea of the state of uncertainty in which I now exist. I'm confident that I'll get another job at least as good as the last one, and soon enough.
Finding another wife, though, won't be so easy.
At the age of 47--which suddenly feels much, much older than it did just a few months ago--I am making the transition from married guy to reluctant bachelor. Call me RB. This blog is the story of my new paradigm.
I am not the only one making the transition from life with a female human to life with her absence, by the way. My dogs are along for the ride as well, and I have to say they're dealing with it a whole lot better than I am. I was worried that their adjustment would be difficult, given that my wife was by far the more attentive to them. I have since learned better; dogs live by their own version of The Three Pillars, namely "Eat--Void--Sleep." Anything that accommodates The Pillars is A-OK with them. Anything that interrupts them must be dealt with immediately.
Which no doubt explains why they were so frantic during our months of couples counseling. The previous years had witnessed our slowly drifting apart, but without our acknowledging it and, by and large, while we were cohabiting peacefully if not happily. The dogs were cool with that; if we were plopped down on the couch to drink wine and watch something on TCM, whatever dark clouds were passing through our heads were not their concern. Those final months, however, involved a lot of desperate efforts to reel each other back in, which meant lots of long, emotionally charged conversations. The dogs did not enjoy these any better than we did. If they were capable of articulate thought, it probably would have gone something along these lines: "Look!!!! The food givers are not happy! Perhaps they will stop giving food! We must run around in circles and howl like mad! NOW-OOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" In the end, they didn't care which of us went, but they were certainly glad to see one of us go. Order had been restored, and they were happy.
I'm wondering whether I can learn a lesson from the dogs. They have clearly moved on; our marriage is soooo yesterday to them. I'm not quite there yet.
On the other hand, they also love to roll in dead animals, and smell each others' asses, and eat worms.
So there you go.
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