The Divorce Warrior

We’ve all seen the scene.  It’s really cool, and it’s in every action movie ever filmed. It’s that one explosive scene where our hero’s silhouette slo-mo saunters away from some great firestorm that he’s created, bringing down some sinister ring of Bambi thieves.  The gleam of determination burns in his eye while his lips purse around grim satisfaction, refusing to let it go. The bridges behind him erupt into flame.  He’ll never work in this town again.

 

This scene isn’t strictly a hero thing.  Sometimes the villain gets to do it too.  Yup, Hollywood is an equal opportunity pyromaniac. Bad guys, good guys, everyman guys are burning things down, and walking away.  It’s hard to tell who’s who here, but you can tell.  Usually the villain has deeper shadow contrast showing him opposed to the light. Oh and the screaming orphans bursting into flame.  They’re usually a dead giveaway. 

 

Wouldn’t that be cool in real life? Not the orphan crisps, but the telltale good and evil signs. It would be a great help to tell the good people from the bad people, just by how they contrasted against flame.

 

“Could you hold still while I set your hair on fire, Rob?  I need to see something…”

 

We can’t tell the difference, but we can set our worlds aflame and walk away all cool—just like in the movies.  Hey, even I’ve done that.  It was in college. I was seeing a girl.  Don’t look so shocked.  It happened, even to me.

 

Now I have a history of people leaving me. Don’t “awww…” It’s great.  It helps build up my martyr motif.  I am the lonely anti-hero, wandering the wasted earth searching…finding only evil and resistance.

 

I don’t think I’ve ever technically broken up with anybody.  Weird huh?  Still, this girl in college, even though I let her have the win in her column, I think you could say I kicked off the spark.

 

Dear Susan,

You’re driving me crazy, I need a little space.

 

FWOOM!

 

I can’t take all your lauds of love; she deserves some credit too.  If you look at where we were, we’d piled on as much gunpowder as we could; it was just a question of who grabbed the Zippo first.

 

I won!

 

I haven’t done that since.  Oh, it’s not because I don’t have the self-destructive fuel within me to fireball anything important, it’s just I’ve been a little slow since.  MyEx and I, well we were married.  We did everything together. I gathered the kindling while she dug the pit in the sand.  When we arranged it to both of our satisfaction, we each took hold of our unity candle and set everything ablaze.  Standing back, we warbled through a chorus of “Kumbaya,” then shadows overtook us as the light lost its energy and we became grey shades.

 

Now I’m back in the dating world, I’m no longer a team.  I don’t do things “together.” I don’t have anyone’s back. I don’t answer to pet names. I’m a lone anti-hero. I wander the divorce wasteland.  I’m back to watching my own back thank you.  I am the Divorce Warrior.  Yeah, Mel Gibson before he turned old and crazy.  Ok, maybe just before crazy.  Fine, yeah, whatever.  I’m crazy old Mel without the money or the chiseled body. You happy?  I’m not.  I’m the Divorce Warrior.  I sweat bitterness. Hear me whine!

 

As an anti-hero kiosk, I’m a stand-up guy.  People come to me with all their divorce questions.  Recently somebody emailed me the following:

 

Dear Rob Warrior,

Here's what I've been thinking -- just what is the purpose of dating? hmm? I haven't figured it out.  If it's to determine compatibility for marriage... then I'm not gonna date for a really really long time. I just don't want to do that again, maybe not ever. To not be lonely? I don't know.  What do you know?

 

Thirsty

 

 

Thanks Thirsty, I think it’s an important question, because why we date says a lot about who we are as well as where we are in our lives.  Some people want companionship, others just need a rainy day umbrella.  Either one is fine, so long as you know which column you stand in for your hard body.

 

I also think that it’s important that you start to answer these questions before you date, because it will enhance your dating experience.  Then again, how do you find the answers without dating?  Some answers require trial and error, and maybe a little jail time. Other answers you need to be willing to search yourself for; this option appeals to a lot of people.

 

Who is “Dating Rob?”  Well don’t know all the answers, but I do know the answer to my reader’s questions.  I date for marriage.  Not the simple act of marriage—I left that with the college girls drooling over their marriage main course core requirement packets.

 

Husbandry101…

 

No, marriage for marriage sake is nothing but a piece paper holding two opposing rhinos in place. Those shackles won’t hold forever. 

 

I want a companion who’s willing to marry me. And no, I'm not starting a marriage conga line here.  I was married once; it failed.  If I get married again, it will be my last time.  I'm done with divorce.  I figure if I can't get it right next time, then the least I can do is take a divine clue.

 

Still, I have hope. See I may be the Divorce Warrior, but I have a soft side.  I need companionship—but not just a sidekick.  It’s not about being lonely.  I’ve perfected that to an art.  Hell, I can be lonely in my sleep.  Lonely for me is like that monster under your bed that jumps out yelling, “Boo!” but has picked up the wrong phobia sheet.  It’s dressed up as a lamb with rabbit ears tied around its mutton head.

 

Baaaah!

 

Not really scary if you’re not Clarice from Silence of the Lambs. When it comes to loneliness, I’m to the point where I just hand it the remote and roll over. I’ve done my time here. I can do this some more if I need to.

 

Dating to appease loneliness just seems…well, lonely--at least to me.  It’s a quick fix. It’s incomplete. I need more. That’s not to say it’s the same for everybody though.  For some people all they need is a quick fix and a pat on the…uhm…well, you know…to keep them peppy.  Me, I need more.

 

I need somebody who I can appreciate. I need somebody who works sycophantically with me, and who at least understands certain aspects of my personality.  It would be really cool if they appreciated the same things I do. I want somebody to share my daily highs and lows.  Whether it’s winning the lottery or snapping a picture of a sunset because I know they’ll like it. How do I know these things? Through time and dating. 

 

And yet, I’m not much of a dater.  I don’t enjoy the process. I enjoy the finding, and the being with and the doing, but all the anxious, crap and failure that goes with it?  Yeah, sometimes there’s something to be said for the lone anti-hero.

 

I mean really, what I want is simple: I want somebody who brings out the best of me. I want a best friend and a lover, but I want the freedom of knowing that they’ll always be there. 

 

Piece of cake.

 

Ok, maybe not. I’ve seen the horrors that are out there, but like I said, I have a soft side.  I still believe that good and “forever” still exist. I know that Thirsty’s answers exist too, and given the right time, the right love, and the right conditions, they’ll find them.

 

As for me, I’ll search—alone if I have to.  I’m on a quest. I am The Divorce Warrior. I cast cool shadows in the firelight.  I do shadow puppets too! I’m a wonder to behold!

Traditional New Year's Blog

I believe in signs and symbols.  What about you?  Me, I see an omen saying “60 miles per hour,” and my foot draws closer to the floorboard.   I smell bacon and Pavlovian spittle rolls down my chin.  It’s mystic.

 

In that same way, within days of the new year, my fingers drum to the beat of the obligatory New Year blog.  And my fingers are most obliging--at least that’s what I’m told.  Yeah, I talk to myself a lot. I whisper all kinds of cool nothings in my own ear.

 

This year’s New Year blog made me proud. It showered comic confetti while the Rob noisemaker tooted his own horn. It was spectacular I tell you! It was a countdown to all that’s new. 

 

I mean that’s what we’re all asking for right?  To step into something new and walk away from what’s old. To wake up naked and clean, all past impressions washed away.  Just short of magic, that never happens, but you can learn to live with what’s left.  That’s what I said last year.  Yeah, it was a real uplifting chorus.  I saw the sign and it predicted, “Yawn.” 

 

Still, my fingers cast the same type and spell, and this year’s New Year’s blog was ready to go.  Then I saw something new.  I shredded the old blog and started the new.  Maybe I should explain.

 

Those of you who know me, know that I walk a weird balance of private and public. MyEx knows, and I think Grunge Pixie has seen me sway on this too.  She’s new to the language of Rob and Rob blogging though and what she chooses to do with what she interprets, well, that’s up to her.  I can’t tell her what to do, I’m still trying to understand Pixish. Pixese? Whatever.  I’m still sucking at foreign languages.

 

And that should be my first sign.

 

See, the pixie and I have run into a wall, a language barrier.  You know how when you lie on your back, looking at the clouds, and the person next to you says, “I see an elephant,” and you punch them in the arm really hard? We all do this, right, because it’s not an elephant.  It’s a scary monster diving from the sky.  Well Grunge Pixie sees the elephant and she punches me back.

 

This might be an ugly fight, but I withdraw first with my war cry, “not in the face!” and scrunch into the fetal ball of imperviosity. Yeah it’s a word. Look it up.

 

Later, when I un-tuck, and lie on my back, the pixie and I look at the same sky. We’re seeing the same cloud, but we see it differently.  What we can agree on is that it’s blocking the clear sky. It’s what keeps us from stepping into the new.  It’s a sign. That’s right because if you know me, you also know I’m melodramatic.  Then again, if you know me that well, you’re too close. Please step behind the yellow snow line.

 

What’s it mean? It means somebody peed, but that’s not what I’m asking about.  I’m asking about the sign. That means that we’re both human.  And yeah, I know, that’s about as helpful as last year’s New Year blog: it doesn’t move the obstacle, and it certainly doesn’t help us see it as the same thing.  That’ll take a hypnotist or a new pair of glasses.  We can’t afford either. So, she still sees her elephant, and I still see my big-mouthed gnashing monster ready to eat me whole.

 

So whats the big cool Rob advice?  I don’t know.  This is new, and yet it’s like déjà vu.  I’ve been here before, and every time I come, the sign say “impending doom” and I believe in signs.  They’re always right. 

 

Here’s the question though:  Do I believe in them because they’re right, or are they right because I believe in them?

 

Signs.  They’re a part of language.  Just ask anybody who knows ASL.  Yeah sorry, cheap joke.  I’ll try to sacrifice those to the New Year resolution gods.   Still, the joke proves my point, and that’s really all that’s important, because if I can validate my perspective, that’s all that’s important.

 

Validation is a sign.  So is the friend who called me at midnight to discuss a book she bought.

 

“It’s called The Five Love Languages.”

“That’s great, do you want to hear about my monster or not.”

“I’ve not seen your monster, as you and most men call it, but that’s ok, no.  I’m sure it’s impressive though.”

“Not that monster, my problematic one. ”

“Sounds like the same monster to me.”

“Fine, whatever, tell me about your book.”

 

So my friend, Miss Cleo did.  It’s mostly hooey.  It’s a book about all of us speaking different languages.  We see offerings of love differently.  It’s sort of a Cain and Abel meets the tower of babble view:  all are languages to reach God, but only one language pleases one God.  In the book though, we’re all the god somebody’s trying to appease, and not all offerings are well received. Some may offer their first-born when a mere rose will suffice. We need to speak the same love language.

 

Supposedly, the languages are: quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service, words of affirmation, and physical touch. If you believe the lexicon, we all have a primary and a secondary tongue.  The secondary tongue probably works great if you’re into physical touch—or I’m just guessing.  Like I said Hoo—

 

Elephants and monsters…

 

Whatever.  I’m not even saying that’s the cumulonimbus chasm between North Pixie and South Rob, but it does explain concepts of interpretation.  Mix that with the personal communication learned from previous conquistadors, and it’s amazing we talk at all.

 

I believe in signs. And signs always require timing.  New Year, Miss Cleo, Monsters, and pixies, even bridge trolls.  These are all signs, but I’m not sure I like the sanitarium they point to.

 

“Sure you see signs, Rob, just try on this jacket.  Straps and Buckles are all the rage now…”

 

So in 2009 Rob is trying something new.  I’m learning to show love in foreign languages.  I’ve already looked up the site and bought the book.  There’s also a book there on the five languages of apology. Yeah…no.  Not yet: baby steps.  I’m still a novice. If Rob buys a book on apology, then that’s a sign of Armageddon.  I don’t think 2009 is ready for that.  But buying a book on love, I think I’m ready for that.  I’ve learned what I love, maybe it’s time to learn what somebody else loves too.

 

 

 

Ruby Slipper Clickin' and the Coffee Jitterbug

Seattle, timberin’ town? Big pear? Little parachute off a big stick?  What exactly is Seattle other than the coffee cradle of the Northwestern World?  I returned to my local coffee shop, and the first thing they asked me was, “Did you go into the original Seattle’s Best?”  This wouldn’t seem that odd if I didn’t get my coffee at Maxwell’s House.

 

I went there, it snowed (Seattle, not Maxwell’s House. Sorry coffee jitters cause harsh noun pronoun shifts. It’s like Disney’s Small World on acid.).  No wonder they drink a lot of coffee (once again, Seattle, not small world or—nevermind.). 

 

“It normally doesn’t snow.”  That’s what Grunge Pixie tells me.

“So you’re saying I brought this icy disposition with me?”

“Uhm…So you wanna see the music museum?”

 

Yeah, to get even with her snow-binger of gloom accusations:  I gave her my cold.  Yup, she unwrapped it the morning after Christmas, and boy was she surprised.

 

“I hawt yu.”

“Merry Christmas to you too!”  Yup, thereafter, it got awfully cold inside too.

 

That’s why when we drove to the airport; I counted my California blessings when she stopped the car before hitting the ejector seat button.  Her car has lots of buttons. It was designed by James Bond’s Q.  I bet it would drive under water if you tried.  It drives in the rain, why not?

 

It also drives fast. I was at the airport plenty early.

 

“You kwow, Wop, wiff pwans fwy-wink awt naw, awiffink a day erwy iff goo.”

I started to protest, but the buckshot look in her bloodshot eye suggested Seattle had seen enough of Rob the snow lord; it was time to go.

 

An interesting landmark to point out: My plane out was piloted by Captain Chocula. That was his name. Ok, maybe not, but he sounded just like the brown count.  A sort of a Baltic caricature, promising a flight chock full of chocolaty goodness.  Somewhere around the promise of cinnamon shaded milk and marshmallows I zoned out and started reading the barf bag for theme and plot.

 

“…open bag…”

 

I was thinking of my trip. I was a little grumpy.  Not because of the trip, but more because I was leaving.  Ever notice, no matter what, when you fly out for a vacation you’re always in a great mood.  The kid in front of you can turn around and spray you with his squirt gun and your laughing right along with the little tike—maybe ruffle a little hair for fun.  Cute kid.

 

But when you’re returning, you’re tired and grumpy and all he has to do is make a scrunchy face and you’re giving him the Darth Vader dark side strangle hold.

 

“Mommy Mommy!  The creepy wheezy man just peed on me!”  Oh wait, that’s not what Darth did, is it? Luckily for the annoying little brat, neither did I.

 

Cap’n Chocula turned on the “no meandering” light. When he discovered I wasn’t listening to him talk about what we’d expect from our flight, he shut up.  Then he turned on the Christmas music.  Yup, here it is three days after Christmas, the world outside my portal is piles of sooty-brown road refuse and Willy Nelson is dreaming of a white Christmas.

 

Welcome to Seattle! Now go home California heathens!

 

There’s a young girl in the chair next to me. The guy in chair on the other side of her sees my book and strikes up a conversation.  I guess Thomas Pynchon is one of his favorite authors.   I don’t have the heart to tell him I just brought the book along so that I could have something big to hit the kid in the seat in front of me with the next time he whack-a-moles up over the top of the chair.

 

I crack the spine on the book and delve into a place that looks good.  I have no idea what’s I’m reading about, but the action will save me from talking about what’s not going on outside the book. The girl between us is reading fitness tips in Oxygen magazine.  I don’t think the other guy is going to latch onto her.

 

Luckily cap’n comes back on telling us it’s ok to turn on our electronic devices.  My iPhone is ready with some electronic ear wash to drown everything out.  Not before I notice that the cappy telling us about our bathroom options to the front and aft, and has a different voice.  He’s no longer the count of chocolate. He’s our pilot Wilford Brimley drawling directions out slowly, and reminding me that the oatmeal cart will be up the aisle soon.

 

I find the voice change odd, but no more odd than my location shift. I spent a week in Seattle.  How anti-SoCal is that? The girl next to me is now watching The OC on her laptop.  She’s obviously returning home.  Is that what I’m doing? I mean, despite my best efforts, I enjoyed myself.  Grunge Pixie is like the Anti-Rob and that was refreshing.  We shared a lot of interesting traits like being over accommodating (“no what do you want to do” should be our new mantra), and that mixed with a love to try new things created an interesting combo plate.  I like wasabi; she hates cilantro.  It’s cool, I never mix the two on the same plate anyway.

 

On Christmas, she gave me practical gifts that I would never buy myself, but could really use. I gave her whimsical trinkets that she would never buy in her life, but would be bright, distracting, and fun.

 

We’ve read the same books and come away with different perspectives.  I drink coffee, she doesn’t. That fascinates me, just like everything else that’s different about her. I like the differences as much as I like the similarities. For her…well I don’t know. It’s another area where we’re different.

 

I got the grand tour of Seattle.  She showed me the floating bridges, the Microsoft factory, and the always-cool bridge troll.  I say any town that has a troll lurking under a bridge is totally cool.  And why does he live under the bridge?  Cuz it’s too rainy to come out.  Yeah, don’t worry, if you stand in the rain, he’s not gonna get your goat. 

 

I might though.  My plane is landing. It’s 75 degrees outside. This is the land where advertisers tell me happy cows live.  Yeah, dairy cows maybe, but I’m thinking there’s a different tale grinding out at the slaughterhouse.

 

I wonder what’s happening at Rob’s house.  It’s been almost a week since I’ve been there.  Sybil the airplane pilot is now the Lucky Charms Leprechaun.  I swear I’m beginning to wonder at my own sanity.  Is he a voice talent wannabe or do I just need a bowl of cereal?  I have some: at home.

 

The air outside is brown, warm and tastes like exhaust. I’m exhausted. The sun high, and it’s sapping my strength to the constant whir of traffic.

 

I’m glad to be home.  This home is far from perfect, but it’s mine—at least for now.  I mean lets face it.  I can go anywhere and do anything.  I’m on my own. It’s not exactly how I want to be, but it does have its benefits. One of them is testing new things and discovering cultured people. 

 

Seattle is a great place, and Grunge Pixie is a phenomenal hostess, but here, today, I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe it’ll tie me here. Maybe it’ll fly me back to Seattle. Maybe fate’s winds will toss this minnow on an uncharted desert isle.  That’s for the future to decide. Right now, I’m here. I’m home. I’m happy. My life is far from perfect but it’s mine. I thunder. I flood, but I am breathtaking. I am for some tastes, but not for all. I share openly and honestly with those who are curious for a taste of Rob culture.

 

Wherever I call home and whomever I share it with, I’ll always have that with me. Book your tour to Rob now while the sunny disposition holds and before he turns into a tourist trap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Separating the Sweet from the Trash

Christmas is such a weird time of year. Deny it, I dare you. No matter how you wrap it in shiny paper, and surround it with hypnotic lights, the stinky fish smell of the season still seeps through the happy snowmen.

“Herring again, Aunt Jenny?”
“You’re a growing boy, Robby…”

Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. As a Christian, I celebrate the birth of our savior, whom scholars have decreed, actually popped into the first nativity scene sometime around mid August, much to the surprise of the little soapstone Mary.

As a man/boy-boy/man I await the future coming of the chubby sky sledder jerking the chain of eight harnessed load beasts, one red nosed commercial, and a keen disciplinarian sense of harsh toy deprivation policies for the disobedient. I’ve either failed to meet his expectations every year or he doesn’t exist. That answer lies somewhere between the chimneystack of false hope and closed flue of self-image.

“hmmm, something rotten in the state of gifting and it’s not Aunt Jenny’s fish…”

As a human Rob, I await the promised blessing of peace on earth and good will towards man, and as soon as the last SUV is obliterated from the California freewayscape, I just might get it.

Maybe.

See, that’s the problem with Christmas. A writer would never write about a real Christmas. Real Christmases are too anti-climactic. There’s all this build up, with everybody trying so hard to make the day more than number 359 out of 365 in an endless series of day after day repetition.

Anticipatory build-up leads to the morning, when a five-minute Tasmanian flurry of wrapping shreds leads to a molehill of gifts and mountain discards. The end.

“That’s it?”

Yup, exactly like the first time you had sex. Except with sex, it got better. If not, you just need more practice. Ask Santa. Leave him your cookie, and he’ll bring the sex next year.

Like I said, I’m not the Christmas poo-pooer; I leave that to South Park. I love Christmas, and I have the hope that each one will get better, but ever since I was a kid, they haven’t. The day turns as lackluster as day 365, 163, and 260. After the present is opened, the surprise is past, and I’m left with the feeling of, “what’s next?”

Yeah, go ahead, say it: it’s like a divorce a year. Sigh, thanks.

I don’t think it’s the gifts, I mean I get what I want, or at least have any right to expect. MyEx never did give me the little Hooters girl I asked for. Does that count? I mean I could see her reasoning; have you ever tried wrapping one of those?

So Christmas is over, and now I’m evaluating a battlefield of tissue paper carnage. I got what I wanted, or at least what I had any right to expect. So what’s the big shrug? It’s not the company, I had a good time, but this could have been day 43 and would I have enjoyed it anymore?

I guess on one hand I’m not as materialistic as I’d like to be—on that I should be grateful. On the other hand I’m lacking something I should be—on that I’m concerned. I’d love to tell you that it’s somebody or something else, but my eggnog is half empty no matter how rum full you pour the glass.

MyEx would say I’m too critical. I can’t argue; when it comes to myself, I am. I’ve got a Santa’s sleigh of expectations, and every year I fall short. I want to tell you that going into the New Year I won’t, but I will.

All the same, it’s one of the best gifts. See, every year I drive myself, to be my best. I’ll never live up to my expectation, but if I don’t try or at least push myself, I’ll end up stale like last years fruitcake.

Still, I need a way to detach it from the doorway mistletoe; I need to kiss the lackluster from the holiday. I need to sweep the chimney clear of past year’s Santas. Maybe that’s my gift this year. Maybe I can blame the shortcomings on MyEx. Her taking blame for all my previous shortcomings, that would be the best gift ever.

Yeah, I know, I’ll hold my breath for the Hooter’s girl instead.

Naughty/Nice O' Meter

Naughty or nice? I know that’s what you’re blog-spotting to see. You’re looking to the Rob blog for mystic 8-ball magic of Rob’s holiday goodness.

Was Rob naughty or nice?
“Ask again later…”


If I told you naughty/nice score, would it matter? It’s not like my credit score. Naughty/nice is not accurate enough to buy a house, car or velvet Elvis. Ask Jack’s giant; he didn’t care if the Englishman was naughty, nice, live or dead, there was still gonna be some bone-grindin’ bread-makin’ good times. It’s all about perspective.

Santa’s naughty or nice list might not be the same as the tooth fairy’s. After all the sugar cookies downed by the jolly fat boy, he probably doesn’t care too much about a bad bicuspid any more than the fairy concerns herself with a deviant dentist: so long as the job gets done.

The Rest of us are all the same way on a much broader scale. Some divorces are cut and dried, cheaters, for example, that’s rarely about divorce perspective.

“This isn’t what it looks like honey, I tripped and she caught me with her thighs…”

Yeah, stamp him with the naughty stamp of Santa. And sure, while she’s asleep you can ask the Tooth Fairy to chloroform her and give her the appropriate tramp stamp too.

Other things aren’t as easy as Christmas elves on coke. I know I spent more than my 12 days of Christmas trying to understand why MyEx left, but could never get past the six geese a’ laying without scrambling my egg in desperation.

That’s probably for the best, because, let’s face it, we can rummage through every door on our divorce Advent calendar and still not uncover anything more substantial than a chocolate blackface and a grand mal sugar seizure.

Unfortunately, many of us spend Christmas flogging ourselves with licorice whips of loneliness, running ‘round the tree train circles of “why.” From our perspective there is no Christmas morning answer: it’s all the eternal eve of unknowing.

We’d try everything from tarot to crystal balls if we thought we’d get an answer. Most of us don’t. The truth is that the crystal ball is nothing more than an overgrown snow globe and we’re just fooling ourselves if we expect an answer.

Yet just as the cut crystal ornament dangling from the tree, many divorces hold many faucets. The light refracts differently for both partners and nobody can see things from the other person’s prismatic glimpse. Sometimes we just have to accept that the other person’s “Whys” were enough to make them fall from the tree. Our only way through the holidays is to make peace and goodwill towards ourselves.

So shake your magic 8 money maker and maybe it will tell you whether Rob was naughter or nice. MyEx would have one answer, Maybe the Grunge Pixie has another. Was Rob naughty or nice? You read. You decide for yourselves. I’ve already made peace with my answers.

Merry Christmas!

Hey!
If you're reading this you're way too close to Christmas. If you're not reading this--well these words won't reach you at all will they? For better or worse, that means something too.
I hope what that means is that you're too busy splashing your friends and family with the yule tide to pay any attention to the solitary Rob blogger seasoned piddle. Otherwise it just means that you don't enjoy a Rob blog--naw, that can't be the case.
To all of you who're either read or ignored my blog over the past year, I wish you the best. I hope the holidays are filled with the fun and frivolity and festive foods that make Christmas special. Ruffle kids' hair once and kiss their forehead once for me. Make sure they're your own kids, please.
As for those of you reading today, My wish for you is that you take time to go out and ring some sleigh bells or whatever lights your tree. Don't tether yourself in the monitor glow. Be warm, be safe, and give of yourself, for it will come back by the sackful.
Love and God's peace to you my friends,
Rob

Spanking Sense into the Rob

So that was an airport….

Yup. I’m on the plane—well actually in. On it implies that I’m some airline cowboy. I’m not. I haven’t been on a plane in almost 9 years. This Christmas, I’ve made my plans, now it’s time to leave the land of mice and men and soar with the flying squirrels.

“Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.”

It’s weird. I’ve got to tell ya, the sun…it uhm…it rises. Every other time I get up, it’s already there to greet me. This time I had to return the favor. I did. “Hello sun.” that’s what I said from my driveway as I put my vacation plans into motion. The sun actually blinked twice. If you were up, you might have seen it. That was the sun wondering what had me up so early.

Grunge Pixie. I blame her. When this Pringles can with tortilla chip strips glued to it’s sides finally touches down, I’m gonna let her know that too. Until then, I’m busy talking to God. As long as I’m in the sky I’m not blaming him though. Nope, note to self: save blame for Grunge Pixie.

I could blame the woman beside me, but she is probably tired of explaining why the juju of flight is more powerful than the magic of gravity. That’s all right, she’d probably also rather hear that again rather than hearing about my divorce one more time. I say the weirdest things when I’m nervous.

“Sir, I don’t feel comfortable spanking you.”
“Please? Just until the turbulence ends?”
“Stewardess!”

You notice the strangest things while your world is bouncing like an aerosol tube ready to spray it’s contents on the ground. For instance, the wing out the window beside me? It’s got arrows on it. Not as if it’s been shot by Indians—that’s a little worrisome this high in the air--but these little painted pointers show the wind which direction to flow across it’s surface. I hope that’s what they’re doing, cuz if they’re supposed to tell us which way the plane is flying, they’re on backwards.

That thought scares me. I grab for the next closest object.

“Ow! “
Excuse me.”

That’s just some dude meandering down the aisle. He’s not as drunk as he seems. I suppose I could make an “unless he’s the pilot” joke, but somehow that’s not funny. Not now.

There’s a lot of jostling going on up here, but those aren’t the only things I notice. I remember the airport I just left. It’s a funny thing. I talked with several people while I was there. Do you know how many people I mentioned my divorce to? Nobody.

I know! Isn’t it cool? It’s part of the divorce game. We all play it, and after you’ve been through it, you make a game of it. It’s like the Taboo game. In Taboo, you try to get somebody to say a word you’re looking at, without saying the other words on the list. It’s like charades with handcuffs and oven mitts. Which is a cool coincidence, because divorce is like marriage without the handcuffs and oven mitts.

The divorce game though, is when you talk to people and see how long you go before mentioning the divorce. At first it’s tough. When I divorced, I took a trip to Laughlin while MyEx moved out. While I was there, I sat at a slot machine. I was losing; the woman beside me was winning. I congratulated her; that was one sentence.

She said, “you should bring your wife over here for good luck.”
“Oh, she’s busy divorcing me. She’s moving out of my house right now. I don’t think she’s bringing me any good luck.”

Yup I lost by sentence two. The lady beside me? She stared at me for a second and then cashed out. That was a little over a year ago. This year I’m back at my competitive best. This year I need to be good cuz Grunge Pixie isn’t going to want to compare divorce wounds. I’d rather she not send me out by sentence two.

So while I waited for the plane I practiced conversation. I made it through several conversations without thinking that “would you like pretzels” was the perfect segue into divorce talk.

What’s my secret? It’s time and healing. That’s all it takes. Now if I can live to walk off this plane without needing either, I’m set. The problem is that this winter has hit everything really hard.

And see? If this had been last year, I’d have mentioned that last year harder than this. I’ve had time and healing though. This Christmas I’m better. This Christmas I will enjoy. All I need is this plane to land.

“Are you sure you won’t spank me?”
“Stewardess!”

Principles in Packing

Packing. You either hate it, or you hate it. There is no in-between. Me? I hate it.

Actually the process itself isn't that bad, it's the deciding what to take and what not to take. I mean, divorce packing is one thing, but trip packing is another.

See, the thing about divorce packing is it's like a mad game show: you grab everything you can of value, without wasting space on trash. Grabbing the silver is fine, but when it comes to the fragile things, leaving the fine crystal is better than taking it. Crystal requires safety space, bubble wrap, and slow travel. I'll tell you 8 Lenox flutes are not on the smart packers take list. Unless the other person wants them, then the spite value is high. What's more, if you're taking them for spite, you don't need to waste packing space on the bubble wrap. Pack them with the tools. What's more, you can fill them with screws and nails so that now they're carrying something.

I say these things, but I do worry that somebody taking me seriously. That's why I waited until after MyEx left to joke about this stuff. She already had plenty of good ideas of her own. I didn't want to help.

"So I read in your blog this really good idea about emptying the bank account…"

Yeah, that was the stuff we tried to avoid. I think that's part of why we were so polite when she left. Well, that and once the decision is made, what's left to fight over? I mean I could have stood behind the moving van as she backed out of the driveway, but that seemed more like part of her plan than part of mine.

That was the divorce pack though. I've done that, now I'm taking the trip.

I'm packing for my Grunge Pixie visit. That's a different thing all together. I mean I'm going to be there for 5 days. I want to pack enough so that I'm James Bond covered for all clothing needs. It's cold? I have a sweater. Colder, I have a coat. Going to meet the queen? I've packed a tux. Earthquake? I'm shaken, not stirred.

On the other end of the baggage claim though, I don't want to pack like I'm moving in. I don't want to scare her; she can't leave the parking lot before I've harnessed her to my luggage.

"Uhm Rob, why did you bring the office chair?

"Oh, you never know when I'll want to sit…"

That's why I'm determined to fit everything I need in 1 carry on. I mean, it is only 5 days, so if I can't fit it in one bag, I don't need to bring it. That's right, I'm disciplined. That's why I had to ask Grunge Pixie some important questions:

"Will I need more than tennis shoes? My Tux will look fashionable with them I promise…"

"No…Uhm, tux? Why--"

"Now I'm bringing a red, blue, brown, and a green sweater. I'm thinking of leaving the salmon one at home because it doesn't match my chaps. What do you think?"

"Uhm…chaps?"

"Should I pack some chowder? What if I get hungry on the plane?"

While I'm emailing these important questions, I continue to pack. I only have a few hours to get this done and get back to work. I'm hoping to sleep.

Crowbar, where did I leave the crowbar...

I get everything I need crammed into the bag, and I'm all good to go. Grunge pixie is still trying to dissuade me from bringing the scuba gear though.

"I just don't think it's necessary."

"Too late, the bag is packed."

I swear I could hear her gulp air through the email.

"you know you could have done laundry while you're here."

"Really?"

I was already packed and ready to go, but I appreciated her mentioning that. I mean, if she's doing laundry, screw the 1 bag rule: I'm gonna bring my steamer trunk too. I've got a lot of stuff that needs washed!

I may be a grinch about packing, but this will be the best Christmas Ever!

Christmas Daglies.

Norman Rockwell painted a picture of my family.  It’s true! It was a Christmas painting, and we were all positioned around the tree draping Aunt Judy’s garland and Uncle Bud’s lights.  Of course ol’ Norm was dead before he painted it, but it’s ok, the colors are still vivid 70s Americana: life was all Happy Days and problems were all Dust in the Wind.  I’ll forgive Norm if his style was rigored, decaying, and dated. That’s how I remember my youth.

 

The cute little kid to the one side of the tree? That’s not me. I’m the one next to him—shoving him out of the picture. I have no idea who he is or why he’s frozen, smiling in his Dallas Cowboy PJs, but he wasn’t here originally, and neither was the little Coca Cola bottle he’s hanging from the tree. Blond kid, horn rims?  Yeah, that’s me.  I’m six.  This is my first Christmas after my dad remarried.  The young woman, that’s my step-mom. Everybody wave “Hi.”  She’s older now, but still looks pretty much the same.  She’s a little grayer, but enough time with Rob will do that to anyone.  Ask MyEx.

 

That leaves Dad.  Yeah, he’s the one standing back, with his arms crossed.  Norm’s painted him with a pipe, but dad hasn’t smoked a pipe in years. As for the standing back, I’m not sure if we’ve overpowered him and bum-rushed the tree, or he’s surveying it for optimal placement for the hooked thing dangling from his index finger.  That look on his face never gave away too much. It’s obvious he’s thinking though.

 

That was our first Christmas—us as a family.  The 4-foot plastic tree on the tiny table, Mom and Dad bought that at K-Mart, because that’s what they could afford. Maybe that’s why the other kid is there: product placement paid for our tree.  It wasn’t the prettiest tree, but you know what, I still have that tree. Last year, for my first Christmas alone, I put up that same tree.  They just don’t build plastic junk like they used to.  Then again, I did get plastic things under the tree that year.  Those things didn’t hold together quite as well.  Maybe the art isn’t in the materials; it’s in what they represents.

 

A tree, that’s real, it’s solid.  A six million dollar man? Once you’ve broken a limb off, you can’t rebuild him; you don’t have the technology.

 

My tree still works.  And that past visage of six-year-old Robby was it’s first erection. What? Oh, pervs!  Fine, Assembly—better? I can’t even get by without a Christmas snicker.

 

When you look at the tree, you’ll notice that there are also some special Robby ornaments.  Those are the plastic ones.  See how they look like they’re already broken?  That’s how you can tell they’re mine.  Actually they aren’t broken, they’re hollowed out.  See?  If they dangle-spin so that you can see the front, you see a little manger scene built inset into the plastic half-shell.

 

I wasn’t allowed to touch the glass ornaments. I came with a reputation, and that reputation’s broken glass proceeded me.  Even Norman wouldn’t paint me next to anything fragile, fearing I’d fracture the pristine image.  No, the glass bulbs are painted high on the tree. That’s what Dad’s probably surveying: Robby arm reach vs. bulb height/proximity. Mom’s dancing around dangling high hooks in the upper boughs.  All that dancing is silly; look in front of me: 8 manger scenes installed here without moving.

 

By Christmas, 8 mangers migrated to 8 open rooms in the tree.  And an angel at the top lit their way.

 

“Come, they told me…”

 

That move was a feat of Christmas magic I never understood until the year mom told me the truth:

 

“So, reindeer don’t really fly? What about the ornaments on the tree?”

“Oh, I do that.”

“And the cookie jar of M&M cookies, and the briefcase of small unmarked bills?”

“Oh, that’s uhm…Santa.”

 

Other secrets were revealed over the years, but I don’t think I ever owned a glass ornament until I married MyEx.  See, I rarely put up the tree on my own.  When I think of Christmas spirit, I either remember the Rockwell childhood or Goya years with MyEx.  That makes this season a little bittersweet, because the tapestry is just so rich. No matter how dead the art is, it still hangs in my head, and it always will.

 

Oh, I’ve done this before.  I know all the things to do, so that I don’t get drawn into the Christmas duldrums per-se.  But, even this year, the Thursday before Christmas is like a broken ornament.

 

See, every year MyEx took off the week of Christmas.  It was her birthday, and the holiday.  It was her time of year.  Usually the last Thursday before Christmas was my last chance to wrap and hide presents before either magical day, because Friday, she’d be home.

 

It was my day to paint Christmas, if you will.  I loved wrapping the presents, maneuvering them into place under the tree, hiding the stocking stuffers in a easy access, yet remote island location.  I loved challenging myself each year to make it better than the last.  Most of all I loved spending the week with MyEx.

 

Last year I mourned this.  This year, I’m in a new place.  I miss it but I’m looking forward to the beauty of a new Christmas present. I’m at a crux between my past Marley and the Wailers of my future.  It’s my now, but I don’t know how to see it without seeing through the eyes of the old Christmas masters.

 

Christmas is that favorite ornament you hang on the tree every year that reflects every good thing about the holidays. Now, Christmas has a crack, what do you do?  It’s still beautiful, but it’s still broken too.  To hang it could ruin it, but to let it sit in the box is a waste.  You can’t glue it because that just reminds you that it’s broken.  There’s no glue that works the same as new.

 

This Christmas I’m taking the ornament for what it is: a work of art.  It’s worn, but it’s also the art of history.  I’m stepping into the new, remembering the old and cherishing it for what it was, and part of that is a Thursday sadness. 

 

This Christmas I’m doing something new too, though.  Moving forward is about painting new portraits. It’s drawing new people into your life and making lasting connections. 

 

One tradition MyEx and I had was to buy a new ornament every year. Maybe that was small.  Maybe at Christmas we should all try to draw new people into our lives, and hang them from our tree. Maybe it’s somebody personal to hold close, or maybe it’s just a new Carol you can sing with and rejoice the holiday.

 

Giving of ourselves is the ultimate gift. I’m not pretending to be so noble in my visit with Grunge Pixie.  I’m just a broken ornament that she chose to display on her tree. I’m just happy to be part of her holiday picture.

 

Paint me with a big smile and a broken red globe sitting in my palm.  My other hand is waving a merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't Fall, Sit.

Don’t fall, sit.

 

Yup this is the kind of advice you can expect while watching daytime television.  One of the reasons I avoid it like the black plague.  Then again, since the black plague tackled me earlier this week, daytime television has noogied my brain into submission.

 

Don’t fall, sit.

 

It sounded reasonable to me.  “OK…” so I sat in my chair.  That’s not what they were talking about.  They were issuing a warning for old people.  I guess one of the leading causes for elderly injury is falling. 

 

“Help!  I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

 

Well, if they say it on TV, then it must be true.  In this they said it by showing me an old guy standing atop a flight of steps.  Just like that little barefoot girl needing a sandwich, this guy needed a handrail, and there was a film crew present who wouldn’t give it to him.  He was goin’ down just to make their point.

 

They’d paused his fall half-flip back though. I guess his frozen surprise was supposed to be humane.  They weren’t selling me abuse. They were selling me a chair-elevator up the stairs.  Those would be cool if I’d never seen Gremlins; movies are more real than TV.  I’ll just take the house without steps thank you.

 

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Upstairs, Rob.”

“Mind if I just pee in the corner here?”

 

Yeah, with this cold I feel old and frail.  I want nothing to do with stairs. People’s Court was trying a case on stairs.  Well, it wasn’t the stairs that were on trial, but what was going on upstairs behind closed doors.

 

See, I guess this guy ran a B&D/S&M halfway house.  Well, it was more of an all the way house--all the way and then some.  Anyway, I guess the owner had a live in manager to his house of dungeons.  The live in and his leather lady wanted to spice things up, so they offered add an upstairs playroom.  The owner was down with that, but and gave the manager free rein to whip the place into shape, and he (the owner) would pay for the supplies.

 

I guess the best part about these funhouses is that everything you need is at your local Home Depot.  I had no idea. It’s not my thing.  I noticed the judge was quick to distance herself from it too, although I did notice she kept all the invoices.

 

See I guess there was some discrepancy in the swing room.  The manager thought he was owed more money for the 1 way mirror or something.  I was never clear what was going on there. It was clear somebody wanted money, and somebody else didn’t want to pay it. 

 

OH!  It’s a divorce!

Next case.  I know how this works.

 

Don’t fall, sit.

 

Is that relationship advice too?  I mean I’ve heard about the problems that come to people who fall “head over heels.”  They come-to two years later with a mortgage and a baby and think they’re somebody else.  It happened on Gilligan’s Island too. Yeah, Gilligan was hit by a coconut.  He thought he was Jan Brady and kept walking around going, “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha,” grabbing his own coconuts.  Missed that episode?  It was on yesterday.

 

What if we tried to keep from falling?  What if we sat and considered who’s wood chipper we were falling into?  The wood chipper of love is a brutal thing.  And unfortunately most of us fall in love early, when the reasoning portion of our brain isn’t fully developed.  It’s still soft, mushy and open to suggestion.

 

Case and point: according to a reputable TV news magazine, Drew Peterson is engaged.  Now for those of you who don’t know about Drew and his wood chipper of love, here’s the scoop o’ sawdust.  Drew’s third wife was murdered in her bathtub, his fourth wife disappeared like a donut in a kindergarten class, and while he’s busy searching with OJ to find the source of his misfortune, Drew’s gotten engaged to a fifth. 

 

Yes, she’s 23 and believes he’s misunderstood and that this time it will be different.   I’ve heard that one before from several women who’ve dated married men.  They fall and nobody’s there to catch them. Least of all, the guy they expect to be there.

 

Maybe we all need to sit and think for a bit.  I mean really, why fall? I’m not saying I don’t believe in love.  I do.  I believe in lasting love, soulmates, Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. I just think that maybe we should consider how far we’re falling.  When you fall into somebody’s arms they’re supposed to catch you.  Are you sure they will?  It’s better to know before you hit the pavement of divorce.  Sure a broken spine is a romantic gesture, but so is sitting and talking while holding hands.

 

Falling is by far the fastest way to get from to the bottom of the love stairs, but me, I’m old, I’m bruised, and I’m more fragile.  I’ll sit. I’ll move slowly, and I’ll shake my cane when I’m cranky, thank you.  That’s my universal symbol for “get off my lawn.” 

 

And that’s how the right woman will know I’m sitting for her. She’ll shake her cane back at me and we’ll call it foreplay.  What’s more we won’t need a dungeon and a 1 way mirror to do it. We’ll just sit in the swing and take what comes next slowly.

 

Don’t fall, sit.

 

Yeah, I think I can do that. 

Lawn Gnomes And Other Gardening Tips For the Crazy

If I were a dwarf, I’d be grumpy.  Or possibly “Sicky” but Snow White never let Sicky inside; she wanted to remain pristine, and not catch anything. And who can blame her?  We’ve all seen how Doc operates. So, Sicky froze to death on the garden one winter. He became the first lawn gnome.  Yup, little known Grimm fact.

 

Little know Rob fact: I’m not a dwarf. I’m just a little under-tall. I am grumpy though, especially when I’m sick and today, I’m sick.

 

Yeah, lucky you oh beloved blog reader, you’re reading the words of a sick Rob.  That’s usually a whiny Rob, so I have a feeling this is gonna hurt you much more than it’s gonna hurts me. Just remember: no pain, no gain. 

 

Oh you are gonna be so wealthy for reading…

 

I think I caught this thing from my writers’ group.  Well I mean not the whole group. One particular individual was gunning for me. It was a door prize for greeting everyone, sort of a white elephant gift.  If I were at all competitive, I’d save it for next year to give it back.

 

Ok, who am I kidding.  I am competitive.  I’ve filled several Ziplocks with cough air and placed them in the freezer. I’ll get them next year. Oh yes, there will be a special gift next year. 

 

“Uhm, great Rob, what’s in this baggie?”

“Good luck air.”

 

Somebody gave me this cold because they were jealous.

 

See, last year at the Christmas party we played Apples to Apples. It’s a word matching card game where you add nouns to appropriate adjectives. One person picks the closest answer, and we all know which Rob has that answer.  It’s great fun. 

 

I think somebody gave me a cold to handicap me after last year.  Cuz last year—well let’s just say that only one Rob gets to be Santa, and the rest, well some poor deer has to wear the harness and pull the fat man around the yard.

 

This year was much of the same. I stood at the back of my sleigh and laughed my great laugh as they tried to unseat the mighty Santa. They failed. 

 

“Maybe next Christmas, Prancer!”

“Rob, would you quit dancing a jig on the game box?”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”

 

Yeah, they love me, and my healthy competitive nature.  Right now, that’s all that’s healthy.  Still, feeling sick allows me time to think.  It just doesn’t give me the brain for it.  So I’m gonna throw a bunch of words down, we’ll see what they do.

 

Here is the thing though, I’ve been comparing last year’s party with this year.  Last year, I was in the middle of the divorce.  This year I was over it.  Not everybody was though. Our hostess, who began her divorce before I began mine (she’d even recommended lawyers, should I need one), was still going through her divorce.  I asked her about that, but she quickly diverted the conversation to something about her daughter. 

 

I let her.  I know better than to chase a divorced person to their cave. That’s how some people lose their arms.  Others lose it by chasing bears or by making stupid bets at 3am with a shopping cart, a big hill, and a belly full of liquid bravado.  These are the things I’ve learned over the last year. We’re still looking for Dopey’s arm by the way. So if you see it, could you drop it in the mailbox? That would be nice.

 

The world isn’t always a nice place.  Yeah, if the divorce itself hadn’t taught me that, the aftermath sure did.  If it hadn’t, the Christmas party sure did.  Did you know that they actually tried to gang up on me in the game?  Yeah! If the group knew which card was mine, they’d immediately try to vote me down.

 

“You are the weakest link, goodbye.”

 

It really goes to show you though.  Things don’t change that much, but people do.  People learn and grow. They adapt. Sometimes it’s for your benefit, sometimes, as any divorced person will tell you, it’s not.

 

In a marriage, both people grow.  If  it’s a perfect marriage with open communication and all the love and fluffy bunnies you can stand, you grow together.  I don’t believe in that.  I mean I’d love it, and fluffy bunnies go great on the spit.  And when you’re sick, the meat works magic like chicken.  But nothing is perfect.  If it were, why would we adapt?

 

Making things tougher, some people adapt faster than others. So what we end up with is gaps and voids and conversational caulk we use to try to putty up the distance.  So unless you’re working at it all the time, you risk growing apart.

 

We did, but you know that.  You read my blog.  You learn. You adapt. You grow.  Hopefully you’ll learn from my mistakes.  I offer them so that you can be the Santa without somebody slipping a cold in your sack. 

 

I’m betting it was Sneezy.  He’s always had it out for me.  It’s what I get for hanging out with Dwarves and elves.  And now I’m going to see a Pixie. 

 

Great, I’m beginning to see a pattern.  Hopefully I’ll learn. Then again, my pain is your gain. 

 

Oh you are gonna be so wealthy for reading…

 

 

Cough Cough

Hi and welcome to another poor excuse blog.  These are blogs that are written for the sole purpose of telling you why I'm not blogging today.  Today I'm not blogging for:

Rob shakes the Magic 8 blogger ball..."My sources say...Ill."

There you have it:  Im sick!  yeah, actually I am.  I started a blog but when the kangaroo stared chatting with the koala about Joey's divorce.  I figured maybe I shouldn't have jumpstarted into the Nyquil and vodka.  

So ask me anything, and I'll answer it.  Who knows, maybe you'll get a cognizant answer.  What you won't get, is a full length blog.  Not tonight.  Oh, you can hold your breath, but then you'd only look like me cuz I can't breath either.

This is most frustrating too considering my upcoming trip to see Grunge Pixie.  I don't want to arrive sick. "Oh!  Look at what I got you for Christmas!"  Yup.  I know she's reading this and searching Amazon for a hazmat suit in her size.  I'll arrive at the airport and there'll be a CDC agent at the terminal with a "Robert Boyd" placard.  

So tonight I'm dropping in a Chicken Noodle IV. I'm gonna try to nip this in the bud.  

As for you: Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow Rob blogs!

Pondering the Deep End

Man overboard!

That's what they shout when a guy falls off a ship. What happens when a woman falls off? They enjoy the silence.

Ok, before you hunt me down and gouge my eyes out with knitting needles, you should understand that that is the stereotype you should be fighting against, not me. I am only joking to make a point. And see? Making a point, that is so atypical in a Rob Blog. Usually there's an overboard post, lots of flailing and usually and drowned blogger washing out to sea the next morning.

My point is a gender thing. Different point ladies, although yes, that is a gender thing too. This gender thing always cracks me up. The other one I take quite seriously. I've seen a lot of the funny one lately. It pops up in blogs about guys bad mouthing their ex, and ex's bad mouth their guys.

What gives?

Can't we all just get along? We do it in LA. Things have been a lot better around here since OJ went looking for the "real" killer. I know I sleep safer at night. And see? There's something we all can agree on no matter what our gender.

"OJ Overboard!"

"Shall we open the champagne sir?"

"yes...when the ocean takes your OJ, you make mimosas."

Still, I'm not here to cry over spilt OJ, I'm here to talk about bloggers overboard: whiners clubbing their exes like they were made of seal. Whether their ex complained too much or not enough, there's not a life preserver just right enough in the world that can save Goldilocks from this mixed metaphor. Her fate is sealed; she's going down with the ship. And yet somewhere out there, is a blogger complaining about that.

"She went down on the ship, but she never went down on--"

Yeah, we don't care how crass we get when we're ex-bashing. So long as we draw blood. Anything to draw the sharks to the corpse trolling along the blog ship.

That's the other thing: we feed off the whining. Some bitch about their ex, and draw our shark shiver to chomp the chum. Soon, it's a mixed frenzy of ex-bashing and ex-basher bashers.

That's what happens with sharks. Somebody goes overboard with innards, and sharks get jiggy with it. They're so excited that if another shark gets in the way…well, it sucks to be that in the way shark.

"Sorry bout that bite Bob."

"It's ok. It's just a nick."

"Oh, you are bleeding."

"yeah. It'll be ok."

"uhm, hay, you know you're kinda tasty too!"

"Pete, I'm not that kinda--"

Yup, it's all over for Bob shark. The same happens to Bob Blogger. He comments out of his depth, gets his fin nipped, and ext thing you know, it's Bob sushi.

And that's where we go overboard. I know, it is a bit cliché to say "Can't we all get along" but I'm already beating a cliché horse corpse, why would I stop? Besides, it's a rhetorical question. Of course we can't get along. There's a 50 percent divorce rate.

So here I am going overboard myself. I'm not any better. I've bashed my share of ex, and tasted my fill of blogger meat. I'm just wondering if we were more compassionate, would we still be a marital death statistic? Are we bitter because somebody failed our expectation obstacle course, or did they fail the course because we were bitter obstacles?

Don't look at me for answers to this one. I don't know. I'm as guilty as every other ex-blogger. I know that when I fall off the ship, they'll make mimosas of my wake too.