Subject: ROBERTS' RULES: Cutting
From: [email-masked]
Date: Wed, 15 Oct 1997 15:11:23 +0000

ROBERTS' RULES
 by Shelly Roberts

LIFE ON THE CUTTING EDGE.

"So, how are you enjoying the life?"  she asked, and since she knew
that I had been out since slightly before the wheel, and that I had
recently survived a thermonuclear divorce, with little chance of
transitioning to best friends, I knew that she had ellipsed "single"
as the life modifier. It is. It had mine. 

But I answered the question she literally asked. 

"Well, the stuff that used to get me down still does.  But over all,
the glass is pretty full."

"No. No. I mean, how are you doing on your own?"

"Honey," I replied, "I've been on my own since I was trying out for
the Mickey Mouse Club. Wanna watch me tap dance?"

Well, you probably know the type.  She wasn't about to let me off the
hook, even if I wasn't all that willing to cooperate.  But I figured
it was like that old excuse we all used to use in the hiding days.
("Well, if anyone asks me directly if I'm gay, I'd tell them.) (Yeah,
right.  Like everyone used to ask.) She tried again, knowing I was
making her work for it and sighing deeply. It was an old game between
us.  "Okay, so how is it being single?"

"Well," I pondered for a nanosecond or so, "I used to be married to a
woman named `Heyhoney.'"

Her eyebrow raised a quizzical millimeter.

"You know.  Heyhoney, could you feed the cats? Heyhoney, could you get
the phone? Heyhoney, could you help me take the groceries out of the
car? Heyhoney, could you unpack the dishwasher soap while I cleverly
chronicle the beginnings and ending of civilization as we have come to
know and live it?"

"Oh, yeah. I was married to her once."

"Of course, that was an egalitarian linkup.  She always called me
Sweetiecoodja."

Her eyebrow lowered. And she finished my sentence.

"Sweetiecoodja get the dry cleaning?  Sweetiecoodja pick up something
for dinner, put some gas in the car, pay the electric bill, stop
fooling with that computer and come to bed?"

We both laughed.  "Yeah, well, not all that often for the last few
years, but, you know what?"

"What?"  She was a good listener, and knew just when to grunt, nod her
head or encourage me.

"Since I packed and moved to an entirely new life in an entirely new
city, and am now trying to set up apartment keeping, and let me tell
you it's a serious downsize from life in the big house
all-puns-intended, I've discovered that all work is created equal."

"Huh?"  

"Well, without Heyhoney to take up the slack, unpacking a box, taking
out the garbage, creating a business plan for a multi-million dollar
corporation, changing the kitty litter, having a meeting, going to a
movie.it all has the same value.  I mean there are only 31 hours in a
day.  So I figure, without wastefully snoozing through more than, oh,
say three or four hours at any one time, all things have to get done,
right?"  I didn't wait for her to nod. I mean, how could she disagree
with that? "So the value of the time it takes each task to get done is
exactly the same. Sixty seconds per minute."

"Well, no."

"Well, yes..  The kitty litter is as important to the cats as my
business plan is to me.  And both take as many minutes out of the day
as they take.  Airtight logic." I think she was beginning to get my
drift.  "And, at some time I have to stop just clearing a body shaped
space on my stuff-covered bed, and actually create a livable space,
just as soon as I get the computers cabled, and the cable-tv coaxed
around the door frame to the back of the place where the tv will live
when I get it off the floor and into the cabinet where the tissue
boxes and 25' ruler are spending the night.  Which I have on the list
taped to the window, from which I periodically cross off anything I
can even vaguely allude to as being accomplished, if  I have any time
left. Logical."

"Exhausting."

"Tell me about it."(I didn't really want her to.  I still had a lot
left to do.) "You know, adrenaline used to be my drug of choice.  It
was plentiful and you could make it yourself.  Now my drug of choice
is Time.  There isn't enough to go around." 

Nodding, she added ".And you can't buy any more when you run out. But
seriously, how is it, living solo?"

"Seriously?  Well, it's inconvenient without Heyhoney around to take
up the slack.  But on the other hand, I can't say that I miss being
called Sweetiecoodja. Listen, I gotta get back to unpacking.  Nice
talking to you."

I'm hoping that next time she won't get around to asking me about my
social life.  I don't think I'm going to have one by then.  There just
isn't enough time. Not since I don't live with Heyhoney any more.

________________________
(C) 1997. Shelly Roberts. All rights reserved. A one-time simultaneous
print right is hereby granted to subscribing newspapers; all other
rights, including electronic or digital reproduction are reserved.
Must be reprinted only in its entirety with permission.

Shelly Roberts is an internationally syndicated columnist, and the
author of the newest best-selling Roberts' Rules of Lesbian Break Ups.
(Spinsters Ink.)