I’ve had conversations with a few people who won’t or who just can’t dine alone. And by that I mean, go out to a nice, sit-down, table- service restaurant by themselves, have a seat, and have a meal. It seems alien to them.
Why?
Okay, it sucks that things have turned out for me the way they have. I thought I’d be married to Mrs. Farrago for the rest of my life. I was wrong. But should the absence of her beside me stop me from going out and having a nice meal? Maybe I lived alone too long before she re-entered my life, but, even now, going alone to a fine dining establishment doesn’t fill me with a level of social stress that makes me second guess my decision to go there.
Is there some social stigma that life failed to program into me?
Would I prefer some company? Of course I would. I just don’t have anybody on my dance card at the moment. I have a co-worker who, in the past, when we’ve been out on the road, has been traumatized when I’ve told him I just wasn’t hungry, and for him to take the rental vehicle and go alone to wherever he wants.
“I can’t go alone!” This is a grown man with a wife and kids. “You have to go with me!”
And then he looks at me strangely whenever I tell him I had dinner out alone.
So I assessed my food situation: I have no leftovers in the house to eat; I have consistently forgotten to buy bread this week, so sandwiches are out; I’m leaving town for a week tomorrow, and I don’t want to generate any leftovers to sit in the refrigerator and incubate. So, since I’ve caught myself salivating every time this week each time I rediscovered the Macaroni Grill restaurant almost literally a stone’s throw from my apartment complex, I decided a treat was in order. And I went to dinner. Alone. I didn’t ask anybody along. I didn’t think of anybody to ask.
Do you think it’s strange? Or better yet, do you think I’m strange? What do you/would you do in such a situation? Hit a fast food place? Curl up on the couch and eat sardines and crackers? Pick Doritos crumbs from between the cushions?
(The Chicken and Shrimp Scallopine was outstanding, by the way!)
Friday, October 26, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Lost In Boston
My first time ever in Boston was in the middle of a road trip back in 1990. My best friend, Lu, needed to get to Lenox, Massachusetts, for his second summer away from university as a boys’ camp counselor. I needed to get away after a non-stop year-and-a-half of classes and work, and I had suggested the road trip to serve a dual purpose: get him to Lenox, and get me on a vacation.
As university students, we had become adept at finding the cheapest way around things. The previous summer Lu had boarded a Greyhound bus for Lenox, and endured a 26-hour nightmare of multiple stops, changing buses and sleep deprivation. But it only cost him about a hundred bucks! I proposed we split the cost of gas, despite the fact that it had peaked at an outrageous $1.16 per gallon that spring, and he suggested we sleep at a youth hostel along the way, where the cost was about $10 for each of us, plus a couple of house chores we had to do to earn our keep.
When the semester ended near the end of May, we both went home to spend a few days with our families, and then it was time to travel. I’ve always been drawn to the open road. If I hadn’t discovered the field I’m in now, I probably would eventually have pursued a career as a truck driver or something. It’s probably why I went for – and have held – the job I have now. However, now that I have seen the dangers with which it is fraught, and the amount of under-the-table diplomacy it involves, the career of freight hauling no longer holds any allure. Regardless, I have always been drawn to the open road. And so it was that I lobbied my buddy for us to avoid the speed and convenience of Interstate 80 and opt instead for the quaint solitude of US Route 30, to which we had easy access because it runs right through our home town. He agreed, and off we went.
Nine hours later we were only half the distance we could have been on the interstate, and we were both getting pretty tired. We consulted the hostel guide and found that we were only an hour or so away from one in (Upper Sandusky?), Ohio, so we headed there.
We paid our ten dollars and were told that the kitchen needed cleaning. One would think that two former military guys like us (he was in the Marines, I the Air Force) would be no strangers to kitchen duty. Well, we weren’t; but it doesn’t mean we liked it. I’m sure I did more, but all I remember was polishing the toaster which I recall was so disgusting when I picked it up that I wondered why no hostelers before us had been tasked with cleaning it. Then it dawned on me that perhaps they HAD been! YYIICCHH!!
The next morning Lu asked if we could just hop on the interstate for the rest of the trip because the camp was only open during the summer, and he didn’t want to miss it. We were in Lenox by nightfall. Lu introduced me to a couple of the friends he had made the previous summer, and they showed us where we could bunk for the night. It was a fairly rustic cabin, and I gather that Lenox is considerably farther north than any climate in which I had existed in the prior two years. Or maybe it was just a freakishly cold night for late May. Either way, the blanket the guys gave me might as well have been a sheet of facial tissue for as warm as it kept me. Needless to say, I got no sleep that night for fear that if I did sleep, I would have been found blue and lifeless in the morning, huddled under that paper-thin patch of cloth.
In the morning I bid farewell to my buddy and headed south. The rest of my trip had me destined for Long Island, New York to visit my friend, Linda, who had just been graduated from my same course of study, and had moved back home; and then for Washington, D.C., to visit my friend CJ whom I had met and befriended in Great Falls, Montana while I was in the Air Force. You might think I’m protecting her identity by using only her initials, but that’s what she goes by. CJ. It would seem awkward to me to call her by her given name.
But first I wanted to spend some time in Boston. I looked for another youth hostel and found one listed in the guide book, located right smack in the middle of downtown. I followed the directions in the book and… they were useless. The highway exit the book told me to take didn’t exist. I could see from the highway above the surface streets one or two important-looking colonial era buildings, historical relics of our nation’s birth and infancy, but I could find no logical route to get down there. I took the next exit I came to, figuring I would hit the surface streets, find my bearings and go around the block to get where I wanted to be. That's when I learned there's no such thing as "going around the block" in Boston. Instead, I wound up on an entrance ramp BACK onto the highway! It quickly became like that nightmare where you are unable to find something important, and no matter where you look, it’s not there, and you’re forever hunting for it to the point that you want to scream. And scream I did!
I doubled back and found the same exit and, after making the SAME STUPID MOVE that got me back on the highway again, I returned and tried something different. That put me on a side street that took me to the edge of downtown. I pulled into the parking lot of a body shop or auto mechanic’s shop and asked the grimy, yet kindly employee standing just outside the building for directions. I am not exaggerating when I say that this is the essence of how he told me to get back to the city center (imagine the thickest Boston accent you’ve ever heard): Yeah, you go don tuh thuh cona theea and turn left. Then, when you get to where Bruno’s hot dooawg stand used ta be, you make anutha left…”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not from around here. I don’t know where anything used to be.”
He looked at me blankly for a second, and then he said, “Oh. Okay. Then turn arond heea, go ten, fifteen blocks chroo Jamaica Plain and Roxbury, theea…”
I offered my thanks and drove away. I eventually found my way back to city center and decided that the only way I was going to get to see anything or find the hostel was on foot. I parked somewhere – I don’t remember if it was on the street or in a parking garage – and with guide in hand, I set out to find the hostel.
I found the intersection nearest the hostel. It was a street on two levels. I walked to where the little map showed me the hostel was, in the middle of the block. The address didn’t exist. I made my way down to the lower level. The address didn’t exist. I spent an hour of the time I had hoped to explore this American Revolution Era city looking for this stupid youth hostel which, as far as I could ever tell, didn’t even exist!
The exercise in futility over, I said, “Screw it!” (I didn’t REALLY say “SCREW it,” but you get the picture) and I vowed never to return to the stupid city of Boston. I hopped back in the Jeep and continued south, and spent the night at a sleazy motel in Pawtucket, Rhode Island.
It wasn’t until 2004 that I returned to Boston – this time on business, and I had locals to drive me around – and I learned that, especially in the summer, it is an incredibly beautiful place with wonderful old buildings and not ungraceful new ones, and large, green, quiet parks all over the place. And I can’t forget to mention the historical buildings and locales, and The Freedom Trail, a line of red paint or red paving bricks in the walks, which leads you to notable historic locations throughout downtown.
And then, Wednesday night, I finally met a friend in Boston: Mr. Schprock. He met me at my hotel, and we walked about 7 miles to Faneuil Hall marketplace where he suggested any number of restaurants and left it up to me to choose. I deferred to his knowledge of which place was true Boston dining and, in a very slight Boston accent he said, “That would be Durgin Park.”
We paused to try to avoid the direct gaze of a staggering drunk homeless (I think?) person who appeared to be sizing me up 1) for how much money he thought I might give him; 2) as an out-of-towner; b) to locate the softest part of my skull where he could bash it in for however much money he thought he could take from me. He never even so much as looked at Schprock. Just me. Maybe he doesn’t like tall, slim, thick-haired men.
He must have overheard us because, as we headed for the Durgin Park, ahead of us so did our new friend who also made a bee-line (okay, a heavily pollen-laden and substantially inebriated bee) for the men’s room. I swear he must have eavesdropped on our conversation, because that was the first stop I wanted to make when we got to the restaurant!
I went against my usual tradition of ordering anything formerly hoofed and instead went with the broiled seafood platter. And then I proceeded to talk Mr. Schprock’s ear off while we discussed every topic from writing to the macro-economics of the nation of Burundi. It was a great evening, even though we encountered not even one stripper – at least none that we know of. For those of you who have ever wished to meet him, he’s everything you would expect. For those of you who hate him, he’s really a nice guy. And when he walked me back to my hotel (had he not, I’d be lost in Boston again!) and we said our good-byes, we shook hands as friends.
(If you see Mr. Schprock, he’s very self-conscious about the ear thing. It landed right in his plate, and he ate it without even realizing it. So try not to mention it. And don’t stare. It’s rude.)
As university students, we had become adept at finding the cheapest way around things. The previous summer Lu had boarded a Greyhound bus for Lenox, and endured a 26-hour nightmare of multiple stops, changing buses and sleep deprivation. But it only cost him about a hundred bucks! I proposed we split the cost of gas, despite the fact that it had peaked at an outrageous $1.16 per gallon that spring, and he suggested we sleep at a youth hostel along the way, where the cost was about $10 for each of us, plus a couple of house chores we had to do to earn our keep.
When the semester ended near the end of May, we both went home to spend a few days with our families, and then it was time to travel. I’ve always been drawn to the open road. If I hadn’t discovered the field I’m in now, I probably would eventually have pursued a career as a truck driver or something. It’s probably why I went for – and have held – the job I have now. However, now that I have seen the dangers with which it is fraught, and the amount of under-the-table diplomacy it involves, the career of freight hauling no longer holds any allure. Regardless, I have always been drawn to the open road. And so it was that I lobbied my buddy for us to avoid the speed and convenience of Interstate 80 and opt instead for the quaint solitude of US Route 30, to which we had easy access because it runs right through our home town. He agreed, and off we went.
Nine hours later we were only half the distance we could have been on the interstate, and we were both getting pretty tired. We consulted the hostel guide and found that we were only an hour or so away from one in (Upper Sandusky?), Ohio, so we headed there.
We paid our ten dollars and were told that the kitchen needed cleaning. One would think that two former military guys like us (he was in the Marines, I the Air Force) would be no strangers to kitchen duty. Well, we weren’t; but it doesn’t mean we liked it. I’m sure I did more, but all I remember was polishing the toaster which I recall was so disgusting when I picked it up that I wondered why no hostelers before us had been tasked with cleaning it. Then it dawned on me that perhaps they HAD been! YYIICCHH!!
The next morning Lu asked if we could just hop on the interstate for the rest of the trip because the camp was only open during the summer, and he didn’t want to miss it. We were in Lenox by nightfall. Lu introduced me to a couple of the friends he had made the previous summer, and they showed us where we could bunk for the night. It was a fairly rustic cabin, and I gather that Lenox is considerably farther north than any climate in which I had existed in the prior two years. Or maybe it was just a freakishly cold night for late May. Either way, the blanket the guys gave me might as well have been a sheet of facial tissue for as warm as it kept me. Needless to say, I got no sleep that night for fear that if I did sleep, I would have been found blue and lifeless in the morning, huddled under that paper-thin patch of cloth.
In the morning I bid farewell to my buddy and headed south. The rest of my trip had me destined for Long Island, New York to visit my friend, Linda, who had just been graduated from my same course of study, and had moved back home; and then for Washington, D.C., to visit my friend CJ whom I had met and befriended in Great Falls, Montana while I was in the Air Force. You might think I’m protecting her identity by using only her initials, but that’s what she goes by. CJ. It would seem awkward to me to call her by her given name.
But first I wanted to spend some time in Boston. I looked for another youth hostel and found one listed in the guide book, located right smack in the middle of downtown. I followed the directions in the book and… they were useless. The highway exit the book told me to take didn’t exist. I could see from the highway above the surface streets one or two important-looking colonial era buildings, historical relics of our nation’s birth and infancy, but I could find no logical route to get down there. I took the next exit I came to, figuring I would hit the surface streets, find my bearings and go around the block to get where I wanted to be. That's when I learned there's no such thing as "going around the block" in Boston. Instead, I wound up on an entrance ramp BACK onto the highway! It quickly became like that nightmare where you are unable to find something important, and no matter where you look, it’s not there, and you’re forever hunting for it to the point that you want to scream. And scream I did!
I doubled back and found the same exit and, after making the SAME STUPID MOVE that got me back on the highway again, I returned and tried something different. That put me on a side street that took me to the edge of downtown. I pulled into the parking lot of a body shop or auto mechanic’s shop and asked the grimy, yet kindly employee standing just outside the building for directions. I am not exaggerating when I say that this is the essence of how he told me to get back to the city center (imagine the thickest Boston accent you’ve ever heard): Yeah, you go don tuh thuh cona theea and turn left. Then, when you get to where Bruno’s hot dooawg stand used ta be, you make anutha left…”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not from around here. I don’t know where anything used to be.”
He looked at me blankly for a second, and then he said, “Oh. Okay. Then turn arond heea, go ten, fifteen blocks chroo Jamaica Plain and Roxbury, theea…”
I offered my thanks and drove away. I eventually found my way back to city center and decided that the only way I was going to get to see anything or find the hostel was on foot. I parked somewhere – I don’t remember if it was on the street or in a parking garage – and with guide in hand, I set out to find the hostel.
I found the intersection nearest the hostel. It was a street on two levels. I walked to where the little map showed me the hostel was, in the middle of the block. The address didn’t exist. I made my way down to the lower level. The address didn’t exist. I spent an hour of the time I had hoped to explore this American Revolution Era city looking for this stupid youth hostel which, as far as I could ever tell, didn’t even exist!
The exercise in futility over, I said, “Screw it!” (I didn’t REALLY say “SCREW it,” but you get the picture) and I vowed never to return to the stupid city of Boston. I hopped back in the Jeep and continued south, and spent the night at a sleazy motel in Pawtucket, Rhode Island.
It wasn’t until 2004 that I returned to Boston – this time on business, and I had locals to drive me around – and I learned that, especially in the summer, it is an incredibly beautiful place with wonderful old buildings and not ungraceful new ones, and large, green, quiet parks all over the place. And I can’t forget to mention the historical buildings and locales, and The Freedom Trail, a line of red paint or red paving bricks in the walks, which leads you to notable historic locations throughout downtown.
And then, Wednesday night, I finally met a friend in Boston: Mr. Schprock. He met me at my hotel, and we walked about 7 miles to Faneuil Hall marketplace where he suggested any number of restaurants and left it up to me to choose. I deferred to his knowledge of which place was true Boston dining and, in a very slight Boston accent he said, “That would be Durgin Park.”
We paused to try to avoid the direct gaze of a staggering drunk homeless (I think?) person who appeared to be sizing me up 1) for how much money he thought I might give him; 2) as an out-of-towner; b) to locate the softest part of my skull where he could bash it in for however much money he thought he could take from me. He never even so much as looked at Schprock. Just me. Maybe he doesn’t like tall, slim, thick-haired men.
He must have overheard us because, as we headed for the Durgin Park, ahead of us so did our new friend who also made a bee-line (okay, a heavily pollen-laden and substantially inebriated bee) for the men’s room. I swear he must have eavesdropped on our conversation, because that was the first stop I wanted to make when we got to the restaurant!
I went against my usual tradition of ordering anything formerly hoofed and instead went with the broiled seafood platter. And then I proceeded to talk Mr. Schprock’s ear off while we discussed every topic from writing to the macro-economics of the nation of Burundi. It was a great evening, even though we encountered not even one stripper – at least none that we know of. For those of you who have ever wished to meet him, he’s everything you would expect. For those of you who hate him, he’s really a nice guy. And when he walked me back to my hotel (had he not, I’d be lost in Boston again!) and we said our good-byes, we shook hands as friends.
(If you see Mr. Schprock, he’s very self-conscious about the ear thing. It landed right in his plate, and he ate it without even realizing it. So try not to mention it. And don’t stare. It’s rude.)
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Starting Over
I moved into my new apartment Saturday. It was quite the experience, as I had returned home from Hawaii on a red-eye that morning. A co-worker, to whom I am deeply indebted in gratitude, helped me as we headed straight from the airport to the office, borrowed the company’s box truck, drove it to my house and loaded it up with my junk. It took much longer than I had hoped it would. Mrs. Farrago said I have a lot more stuff than I realized, but I think it’s more that I gave myself too little time to prepare and had much packing to do, and did the majority of it on moving day. That’s what really slowed everything down.
The worst part of the day was unloading the truck into the apartment. In hindsight, we did it the wrong way. From where the truck was parked we had to walk half the length of the entire building to get in through the main entrance at the southwest end of the building, and then back about 2/3 that distance to the door to my apartment. The “rear” door, which faces the parking lot and is about 1/3 the distance to where the truck was compared to the main entrance would have been the better choice, with much wider steps to climb outside, and only one set of stairs inside, versus the two sets of steps and the U-turn in the middle at the main entrance. I didn’t think I had the right key for the rear door. By the time we arrived at my apartment it was mid-afternoon. My only defense is that we were both so tired from the long flight from Hawaii and the day of pushing past the urge to sleep that neither of us thought to go OUT the rear door and prop it open, and save our backs and heads from the ensuing aches our decision caused. I found out Sunday I had the right key after all.
I still have a few things still to move, but it’s not terribly much. It’s all stuff I can move by myself or with the help of handtrucks.
The apartment, three days later, is still in a state of disarray. I have unloaded very few boxes as Sunday I slept in until 11:00, went back to the house for more stuff, dumped that off in the apartment and went back out to buy kitchen stuff I need to survive. And I was up until 2:00am Monday morning! Monday evening I emptied a few boxes and hung up clothes, but, still without a full complement of cooking items or stuff with which to clean them, I had to go out again to eat, and do a little more shopping.
Tuesday I headed out mid-day from the office for two nights in Boston, so I won’t get back to the apartment until Thursday evening.
Moving can be a depressing experience, despite the circumstances. You take everything you own, package it up into neat little boxes – or not – and you load it all into a truck. When it’s all there in one eyeful, you realize a few things at once: Man! I have a lot of stuff! And then comes the realization: I’ve been collecting stuff for (x) years, and THIS JUNK is all I have to show for it?!
Most of it is stuff I really should get rid of.
And then, of course, come the circumstances; the failed effort, the interrupted dreams, the plans for the house and our future we had made that still rattle around in my head as though I’m still part of it all. It’s almost as though there was a death. And I guess there was – our marriage.
I try to look forward to singlehood, to the freedom to do what I please when I please, without having to consider her wishes. I admit there were times when anger wedged between us that I considered what I would do if we split up, the women I would chase, the hobbies and time-killers I would indulge. But now that it has come to pass, suddenly no other women are attractive, my distractions are no longer enticing, my free time is empty of everything except my thoughts.
Granted, I’ve only been officially out of the house for three days. I’m sure the grief will eventually subside.
In the meantime, I’m spending two nights in Boston on business, and I have a dinner date with Mr. Schprock on Wednesday. My hope is that he’ll get me liquored up for a night I won’t remember, and I’ll wake up Thursday morning in the arms of the most popular stripper in Beantown. Only, with the way my luck has been running, that stripper will have a name like Kurt or Sven. Good thing it’s a night I won’t remember.
The worst part of the day was unloading the truck into the apartment. In hindsight, we did it the wrong way. From where the truck was parked we had to walk half the length of the entire building to get in through the main entrance at the southwest end of the building, and then back about 2/3 that distance to the door to my apartment. The “rear” door, which faces the parking lot and is about 1/3 the distance to where the truck was compared to the main entrance would have been the better choice, with much wider steps to climb outside, and only one set of stairs inside, versus the two sets of steps and the U-turn in the middle at the main entrance. I didn’t think I had the right key for the rear door. By the time we arrived at my apartment it was mid-afternoon. My only defense is that we were both so tired from the long flight from Hawaii and the day of pushing past the urge to sleep that neither of us thought to go OUT the rear door and prop it open, and save our backs and heads from the ensuing aches our decision caused. I found out Sunday I had the right key after all.
I still have a few things still to move, but it’s not terribly much. It’s all stuff I can move by myself or with the help of handtrucks.
The apartment, three days later, is still in a state of disarray. I have unloaded very few boxes as Sunday I slept in until 11:00, went back to the house for more stuff, dumped that off in the apartment and went back out to buy kitchen stuff I need to survive. And I was up until 2:00am Monday morning! Monday evening I emptied a few boxes and hung up clothes, but, still without a full complement of cooking items or stuff with which to clean them, I had to go out again to eat, and do a little more shopping.
Tuesday I headed out mid-day from the office for two nights in Boston, so I won’t get back to the apartment until Thursday evening.
Moving can be a depressing experience, despite the circumstances. You take everything you own, package it up into neat little boxes – or not – and you load it all into a truck. When it’s all there in one eyeful, you realize a few things at once: Man! I have a lot of stuff! And then comes the realization: I’ve been collecting stuff for (x) years, and THIS JUNK is all I have to show for it?!
Most of it is stuff I really should get rid of.
And then, of course, come the circumstances; the failed effort, the interrupted dreams, the plans for the house and our future we had made that still rattle around in my head as though I’m still part of it all. It’s almost as though there was a death. And I guess there was – our marriage.
I try to look forward to singlehood, to the freedom to do what I please when I please, without having to consider her wishes. I admit there were times when anger wedged between us that I considered what I would do if we split up, the women I would chase, the hobbies and time-killers I would indulge. But now that it has come to pass, suddenly no other women are attractive, my distractions are no longer enticing, my free time is empty of everything except my thoughts.
Granted, I’ve only been officially out of the house for three days. I’m sure the grief will eventually subside.
In the meantime, I’m spending two nights in Boston on business, and I have a dinner date with Mr. Schprock on Wednesday. My hope is that he’ll get me liquored up for a night I won’t remember, and I’ll wake up Thursday morning in the arms of the most popular stripper in Beantown. Only, with the way my luck has been running, that stripper will have a name like Kurt or Sven. Good thing it’s a night I won’t remember.
Monday, October 01, 2007
And The Walls Come Tumbling Down
Post drought is nothing new to my blog, and there's usually nothing weighty to cause my scarcity. However, this time it's probably one of the weightiest matters to come down on me in my life.
Mrs. Farrago and I are splitting up. Divorcing. Kaput.
It's something that's been coming at us for a while, and there's plenty of blame to go around. Well, to the two of us, anyway. And Schprock. I don't know for what exactly, but I hold him partly responsible.* I never let on to our problems here in my blog for a couple of reasons. Number one, Mrs. Farrago reads it -- or at least she used to -- and I'm likely to highlight her flaws and accentuate my virtues (what, like I'm gonna tell you what a jackass I am?!); number two, DENIAL.
Needless to say, writing has not been in the forefront of my thoughts of late.
We're keeping it amicable. There are still a lot of tears every day, a lot of emotional pain for me over the reality that love faded and we drifted, but we're trying to be civil toward each other and make this split as painless as it can be.
I'm sure this will all be fodder for my blog in the future, after the papers have been signed and the judge has approved it and the lawyer's been paid and the ex-Mrs. Farrago can't kick me out of anywhere, but for now it's just the first public announcement that this union is dissolving.
I wish it wasn't so, but I spent all my best wishes to find her. I should have kept a few in reserve for this moment.
*Of course, I'm kidding. Schprock had nothing to do with the breakup...just the fathering of her child.... and the genital warts.**
**Again, I'm kidding. He gave the genital warts to ME.***
Mrs. Farrago and I are splitting up. Divorcing. Kaput.
It's something that's been coming at us for a while, and there's plenty of blame to go around. Well, to the two of us, anyway. And Schprock. I don't know for what exactly, but I hold him partly responsible.* I never let on to our problems here in my blog for a couple of reasons. Number one, Mrs. Farrago reads it -- or at least she used to -- and I'm likely to highlight her flaws and accentuate my virtues (what, like I'm gonna tell you what a jackass I am?!); number two, DENIAL.
Needless to say, writing has not been in the forefront of my thoughts of late.
We're keeping it amicable. There are still a lot of tears every day, a lot of emotional pain for me over the reality that love faded and we drifted, but we're trying to be civil toward each other and make this split as painless as it can be.
I'm sure this will all be fodder for my blog in the future, after the papers have been signed and the judge has approved it and the lawyer's been paid and the ex-Mrs. Farrago can't kick me out of anywhere, but for now it's just the first public announcement that this union is dissolving.
I wish it wasn't so, but I spent all my best wishes to find her. I should have kept a few in reserve for this moment.
*Of course, I'm kidding. Schprock had nothing to do with the breakup...just the fathering of her child.... and the genital warts.**
**Again, I'm kidding. He gave the genital warts to ME.***
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