Laid-Off Dad

Billious

Dear Bill:

According to sites like this, a lot of people have a problem with the word "moist." I mostly don't understand the antipathy, because there are many situations when moist is better than not. Moist can lead to wet, which is a muchly desired status in the summertime. Plus, there's the onomatopoeia; "moist" is such a moist word. Like "squelch." And "Colmes."

Every once in a while, however, the moistophobes have a legitimate beef. Saturday was one of those onces. Thanks to you.

I'll grant you that this was largely a soup of my own making, because since August 1, when the Times reported that NYC might have its coldest summer ever, I made the admittedly ridiculous bet that I would make it through the summer without buying an air conditioner. I made this hubristic claim after 1o days in New England, where it is customary to huddle around your coffee in the morning until it's warm enough to swim. I may have been high on pine needle fumes. Or Lyme diseased.

The point is, the LOD Three^TM were ready. We had the resolve. We had the countenance. And we knew we'd be OK as long as we had my shitty box fan, which reliably blew things around well enough when it got stuffy. We figured we could make it to Labor Day without burning one BTU.

Then came you, who turned away that lovely cold front, sent us 15-foot waves that closed the beaches, and filled my lungs with air you could frost a cake with.

Saturday was supposed to be Inertia Day. We made no plans. We'd just got back from another week in the Breezy Northern Crispiness, packed with cousins and friends and campfires and me throwing children off the dock until I couldn't lift my arms anymore. We needed a chill day, just to hang around and be. Which sounds good, until I remembered that the two things most likely to make me want to peel the skin off my face are 1) stifling humidity and 2) sitting around the house all day.

The air was more than moist. It was greasy enough to make the LEGOs I stepped on stick to my feet, so I'd step on them again. The movie we rented was scratched to pieces, so we missed half of it. We got grumpy, and the boys took it out on each other. Then, as I broke up my 100th slapfight, I knocked over the fan. It slammed to the floor, and one of the blades cracked off and rattled around in its cage. And even though it can still generate a breeze, its torque is off-kilter. So if you leave it on a hardwood floor, its skitters around like a chihuahua with Parkinson's.

I guess I owe you thanks for making Saturday such a nightmare, because we three felt the need to overcompensate. We spent Sunday at the beach, marveling at the still-nasty surf, and Monday at Hurricane Harbor, infusing our souls with chlorine.

There's nothing like a day of revolting, inescapable moisture to make a man want to spend the next two days aggressively wetting himself.

Faulty joists

A strange thing about being divorced is that lots of people like to talk to you about what it's like being divorced. I mean, is it doable? Can you really split up and survive in New York? Right now, nine friends are involved in marriages that are either ending or teetering. And it blows my mind.

I don't have a problem with people asking for advice, since I got tons of it from people who were where I am now. When the floor falls out from under you, you need to know it's OK to live in the basement for a while. And it feels good to pay some of that forward. But nine? Is the floor that weak? And are we able to gauge its weakness only after we've fallen through?

I feel like a hothouse orchid for saying this, but I really had no idea. I grew up around intact families and TV shows about intact families. It all seemed so effortlessly permanent. You got married, and that was it. My parents are still together, for better or for worse, and I was the oldest kid who did everything to please them. I did the work, got the grades, and stayed out of trouble. All so my little brother could distance himself from me and become the cool one. The self-taught musician who has spent his life coloring outside the lines. He's also taller, and better looking, and he still has a full head of hair, the little punk.

And you know why I can call him a little punk before a worldwide webience? He's also too cool to read blogs.

When people ask my advice, that's fine. But when they say I make divorce "look easy," I feel my esophagus cramp. Some days are fine, and some are rottenhard; the only reason it might look otherwise is that I don't write about the rottenhardness. The ways to make divorced parenthood as bearable as possible are pretty simple: Pick your battles, always think about the kids, and have faith that soon a less fecal day will dawn.

You should also be prepared for how it will change you as a person. Like the other day, when I was trying to park the car downtown, on the way to meet a friend who wants to divorce his wife as soon as he gets a job. I circled forever until I found a perfect spot--except for the ripped-up cobblestones in the street and the "No Parking: Construction" sign taped to a tree. And without even thinking, this little orchid sprang out of the car and ripped that sign down and shredded it. I left the car for the rest of the day, and when I got back to find the car still there, ticketless, I kinda went all Tiger-Woods-Y'all right there in the street.

This rebel thing is pretty exhilirating. Do you suppose it'll make my hair grow back?