The Perfect Marriage Myth and Other Squirrelly Facts for Nuts.

We all have guilty pleasures. I even have a few I can blog about without blipping on some federal danger radar.

"Hey Frank, we got that guy looking up groundhog lingerie again."

"Damn Freak! He makes me sick!"

So my latest pleasure? (you're all far too acquainted with my guilt. It is a star in it's own right. I think when they make my movie, my guilt will be played by Jason Statham. Sort of a no nonsense kick butt kinda guilt. Oh, they may try to cast David Schwimmer, but that so ain't happening. Yeah, and MyUnwife will be played by Rachel Weis, and it's going to have a happy ending. Oh, we were talking about my pleasure.) I've spent this weekend watching Mythbusters. It's a Discovery channel thing where they try to disprove urban myths and movie stereotypes. I watched one episode where the tried to discredit that scene in all airplane movies where somebody fires a gun and half of the fuselage tumbles earthward with the closest 20 passengers, before they even get to order their second drink.

"Stewardess, can I get the rum and coke 31A guy ordered? He had a falling out over Toledo."

The Mythbusters team proved that the worst a misfired bullet could do to the plane is cause the window to whistle a Hanna Montana song. True it's bad, but you can still block that out with the in-flight showing of Snakes on a Plane. You can't block out your torso flailing to earth while your legs remain under your tray--stowed in their upright position. I find comfort in that. I find comfort in-flight guilty pleasures.

"Waitress, will you be showing The Wiggles Movie?

Then there's that part in plane movies we all secretly love, the 15 minute show of everything sucking out the gaping hole like God's Dyson vacuum switched to high. Mythbusters verdict: Yes there is a God. Yes he has a vacuum. No he doesn't use it on planes. The time it takes for a plane to depressurize is really quick. This is what I learned. I feel confident, and I'm finding pleasure in my world again. I'm sure it's this blowing up planes thing, and now I'm on a few more watch lists.

"Frank, the sicko's back."

That's it, get a SWAT team to his house right now. Tell them to bring the paddles."

Oh Boy!

Anyway, if you're not into explosions and stuff like that, there are other things about the show to watch: There's glasses physics girl, tattooed blue collar girl, and bubbly blow stuff up girl. Sorry ladies, the male eye-candy isn't nearly as sweet; you'll just have to watch the show for the articles. That is unless you're into Santa bearded beret dude, or Timothy Busfield drops acid and follows the Dead for 2 years dude. If that's the case then your fantasies are answered. Turn down the TV audio, and click on your favorite love song, things are about to get freaky.

Speaking of freaky, my dad and mom called me this weekend. They wanted to know how I was doing. That and they were testing out their new cell phones. They've just upgraded from Dixie cups and fishing line. For a guy who works with computers, Dad's a bit of a technophobe.

But you know that. You've met my dad; he reads my blog. He's the guy with the "I Love Rob" T-shirt (on sale now at the ILoveRob Bookstore & Stalker Emporium) and matching bathrobe reading over your shoulder right now. Don't be rude, offer him some coffee. He's Dad! Sheesh...

It's kinda awkward having Dad read my stuff. I mean it's personal, and it's not always appropriate. Sure he's been there for my successes and my failures, but should he be there form my groundhogs of love? I don't mind posting fodder for Frank and Bob at the Sicko Squad, but Dad? That's different.

I used to feel the same way about MyUnwife. She was pretty good about saying, "Rob, you may have crossed a line here." Of course her line was somewhere past groundhog ball gag and nipple clamps, but I knew if she found it offensive, the odds were good that it really was. There were other things I was really nervous about her reading. Not because they hid something, but more because what they didn't hide. You may find this hard to believe, but I make stuff up. 4 out of 5 statistics appearing in Rob's blog are completely fabricated. It makes it hard to tell who I really am just by my writing. I might do that on purpose, or it might just be sloppy prose. You decide.

You mean you really do like squirrels Rob?

No dear reader, I really believe they're the chattering scourge.

Writing is probably my biggest guilty pleasure of them all. I second guess myself as frequently as you do. My inner sensor frantically scrambles around my head plugging inappropriate holes. Spots where Real Rob shines through.

I'm finding as I move further from the divorce I care less about hiding me. The longer I go, the less guilt I find, and the more pleasure I get.

So yeah, Mythbusters is my latest televised guilty pleasure. Now they're asking for people to write in with their own myths to bust. I'm thinking they should disprove the perfect marriage myth, but I think that's too easy. I've already done that myself. Maybe I'll have them disprove that I have readers other than Dad. Naw, I think I'll keep that myth as a guilty pleasure.

Building a Wall

"So it fell down again?"

"What's it look like to you, ya freakin' idiot? If your brother in-law would put up the wall he promised--with the bricks lying in his driveway for the past year--maybe it would stay up." Ok, I didn't say that. I just said, "yeah." I don't know if it was my 10 years in retail experience, or my 10 years in a serious relationship, but I'm getting better at holding my tongue.

He's making it a challenge, "That thing's always falling down."

"Yeah." I've dealt with people who want to know how much our free delivery costs. I can fake a smile here.

See, my neighbor's brother in-law lives in a trailer in my neighbor's back yard. I don't think he works; I think he just lives in a trailer. I wanna do that when I grow up. Right now I'm just a kid working to pay down a mortgage. Maybe when I grow up I can sit around the yard smoking all day too. Oh, good thing I stapled my tongue to my cheek.

"That part there is going to fall again."

"Thugh Cau!"

"You're welcome."

That's not what I said...

I tell myself that this interloper is none of my business; I just smile and wave. I mean if I break it down, other than trying to make stupid conversation when I'm kinda frustrated, he's actually been really nice to me.

He's not MyUnwife, he hasn't had to live with me; he doesn't know that cursing and throwing things means the same thing as the "do not disturb" sign pinned to my chest. He is persistent though. He says something else. Shame. I've got this steel pipe in my hand. I was gonna use it on the fence. Now I'm thinkin' "head on a pike" seems like a welcome springtime yard accessory. I've heard Martha Steward has them. She dresses them up with doilies, and dangles miniature wind chimes from the jagged neck chunks. I'm not sure my neighbor would complain; how long has that trailer been here?

No, I let it go quietly. Planted ornamental heads attract bugs. I don't need more of those.

My neighbor walks away, head still planted between his shoulders. You know what? I've had this fight before. During our 10 years, MyUnwife and I have played this one out at least once. One of us dressed up as a wool mouthed wolf, the other as Little Bo Peep. Both costumes fit; we'd both acted out both roles. They were interchangeable and equally matched: wolf with gnashing tooth and claw, Bo Peep with her crook of fury

Wham!

"Ow! That thing hurts!"

"Suck it up pussy-boy!"

Wham!

"OW!"

"Finish Him!"

"What the hell?"

Slipping the slats back onto the fence, I remembered an article I read. It said that if I were married to my neighbor's brother in-law, I was handling this all wrong. Well, not specifically the "married to neighbor's brother in-law" part. That was a different article, but you get my point. It's all about the communication. Actually it's all about three things. Communication is one. I should say something to him like, "You know what? I know you're trying to be friendly, but now is not a good time. Please give me a moment to vent on this fence with an ax, and then I'll get to you next."

Pretty easy. The article the says that the second step is to find ways to spend more time with my neighbor. Make sure he knows we're ok, or at least that I'm trying. "Hey neighbor, why don't we spend some time together tonight. I'll open a bottle of wine. We'll play some cards, maybe watch a game…what do you say?"

The final key to keeping things going with my neighbor is to make sure we're both sexually satisfied. "Hey neighbor? Want to see my new trailer lingerie?" Ok, so that ain't gonna happen. Now we're back to the head Jarts...

It did make me think about my marriage though. I replay those experiences often enough that everything reminds me of my marriage.. My mental projector shows it off the back of my skull like it's a home room chalk board. It's been playing so long that I even get the warble flicker and film jump. I really need a new show.

The article items are chalked onto the slate next to the movie flicker. I compare the 3 things to the actions beside them. We were perfect. We did everything wrong. Yup, we both shut down and internalized everything, check. We managed to avoid each other as much as humanly possible while living in the same house, check. Sex? He-he-he-heh…yeah, after last February, I think my neighbor's brother in-law had a better chance of luring the ladies to his camper of love while the kids played Marco Polo in the pool, than either one of us had of having sex with the person beside us in bed.

I may not be able to retrace our battle back to it's true origins, but I can pinpoint when each of these things happened for both of us. Those are the chalk outlines on the other side. Who was first? who was last? Does it matter? No matter which bricks you lay first, it still makes a wall. I think we both can agree we built one hell of a wall.

Yay team!

Don't get me wrong. I'm not propping this thing up again because I need to find a way to make it work. I'm propping this fence up so you can see what doesn't work. If you don't want your fence to look like mine, then don't do this. Next time I put up a wall, I'm going to get some help. We'll lay our bricks together. It won't be hers and mine, it'll be ours, and it'll be strong because we'll build it together. I've seen what doesn't work, now let's try something that does.

I guess this means that maybe I should work things out with my neighbor. I don't know how long until he pulls the blocks from underneath his homestead and rolls his RV off into the sunset. Now is the time to work on the 3 steps; Do you think he'd settle for a hug on item 3?

Playing Through My Divorce.

Memememe….

No, that's not the last fight with MyUnwife, that's just me warming my voice. I went outside to grab the paper and the chorus had already begun. I'd hoped it was catcalls and whistles for my Tony

Soprano robe, but now, it's just a gathering of gardeners harmonizing their tools.

And just what do you call a group of gardeners? A group of Lawyers is a firm; a group of retailers is a mall; and a group of politicians is a stagnation. What is a group of greenery groomers? Well, call them what you will, they are my neighborhoods mowers and shapers, and on a clear day like today, they're busy.

Lawn mowers across the neighborhood hummed in tune. The guy down the block, he's got an alto; the guy with the monster truck, he's got a tenor. He'd have a tractor if his could justify it to his wife. It might be easier if his lawn were bigger than a yoga mat. Lawn tractors are a guys equivalent to that sit-down Dyson vacuum you've been asking for every Christmas. Give him the tractor and The Cat In The Hat's Clean up tool could be yours! It's just a helpful tip from a Rob who cares.

The guy next to me he had a tractor on his lawn. Different thing. it didn't mow. It dug. I suppose it was really more of a backhoe really. He used it to put in a pool in the back. The front never recovered. It's probably the trailer and the RV they roll across it all the time. He still has a lawn crew come out once a month and move around the dirt. I think that's to appease his wife. She's a nice woman, but she has a strong view of what the house should look like, and sometimes I wonder if it's the same as his. So far I have to admit, I like her vision better than his reality. When we play neighborhood golf, his lawn is the sand trap. Mine's usually the rough. Today, I'm gonna go for fairway.

Tractor neighbor isn't the worst house on the block though. That's my neighbor on the other side. He's a dental student. I don't think he has a day job. He's got a girlfriend though, and his yard suffers for it. I hope he's more attentive with his patient's mouths when he gets a practice. His yard's the water hazard. It's cool, you go out at night and he's got a plot of Texas oil gushers: broken sprinklers spewing spray straight into the air. Maybe it's a dental spigot-tool thing.

"Here, put your mouth here, now wait for the timer to go off."

He needs to practice.

I sound snooty don't I? I'm not. I'm just an observationalist. My lot is nowhere near the best on the block, My "curb appeal" matches my block placement: right in the middle. Actually I've sunk a little since Christmas. The steel poles holding up my front fence cost me aesthetic points. It's not my fault. I'm waiting for tractor guy to fit the fence fix into his busy to-do schedule. I realize I'm lower on the list than his wife. I'm ok with that. It does keep the golfers off my lawn.

"Keep away from the Boyd house, it's harder to get away from than the ball-stealing squirrels at the Bullwinkle place."

"That's what his ex wife told me too…"

Today I'll go out and help people play through faster. I need to mow, trim and weed. My neighbors will be happy. I'm kind of nonplussed. I only see the outside every once and a while.

The dog sees the outside a lot. I keep trying to get him to trim the back yard. There's a lot of overgrowth back there, and I think it's the least he could do to maintain that for me. He is. He's maintaining overgrowth. He also plants smelly piles where work should be done. I think his previous owners worked a California road crew.

You wanna hear something weird? I was on my porch shaking my bathroom rug, and Tractor neighbor's wife was unwrapping her dog leash from one of the palms that divides our property. She'd been a good girl. No, I'm kidding, don't start sending me hate mail. The stuff I get is enough. I swear. The neighbors have a dog, that they move out front sometimes. If they don't leash him to the trees, he'll explore the neighborhood, tear up sprinklers, give the golfers a mean dog leg.

Here comes the hate mail...

So anyway, tractor wife was asking about my divorce. I told her, "I just saw MyUnwife a week ago." It feels so strange talking about MyUnwife in that context. I used to see her everyday. Now her coworkers see her more than I do. Of course with our work schedules, that was probably always the case. It's just that it was like one of our cats. He may act like he's ignoring you while he's licking himself, but really he's thinking all about you, and at some point, he'll slip a paw over your arm just to prove you're still there. Now there's nothing. Now pawing, no licking, just "I saw her a week ago."

It's kind of sad to think that someday she'll just be the last paragraph in a blog entry. I don't want that to happen, but it will, and I don't have time to worry about that now. I've got a mower choir to join . Today we're belting out Warner Bros. showtunes. I think I'll join in for the Elmer Fudd "Kill the Wabbit" chorus. Come on by, play a round of golf. Steer clear of the squirrels though, they'll steal your balls.

The Day of the Walk

Morning! Today is "Long walk/short post" day. The weather man says it'll be a sweltering 75 degrees and sunny today. Morn for me!

As usual, I'll be taking pictures and contemplating my next post "What I did for my Summer Vacation." I don't want to ruin the surprise, but I hear there's a divorce involved.

If you get the chance, you should do something like these walks. It doesn't take a lot of thought, and it allows you to clear all the crap that gathers in your mind. What's cool is it doesn't have to be some Forrest Gumpian foot voyage, it can just be a couple of miles. I do 9 because I've got so much stuff in my head, Wisconsin snow plow drivers would sooner strike than push it aside.

This at least allows me to sort it into piles: "Keep," "Burn," "Give Away." Which reminds me. If you want some used thoughts, I have my trunk stuffed with Glad bags full of them, just ready to give to the needy. They're a little esoteric and out dated, but they're usable. Try them on, you might like something you find.

Today, I leave my thoughts and the door, but if you can think of me as I walk, that would be great.

See you all at the end of mile 9!

Breaking New Ground

"The car is alive, with the sound of music…." Oh, wait, that's a Stephen King book. This was just me cranking up an old Social Distortion song. The radio is loud. I'm late. That's usual, but music is a salve for the caffeine riddled Rob.

It's a work night and I'm leaving the house. It's a mistake. I'm risking being late. I should be on time. I left the house, the clock said I had a half hour to get across town. That's more than enough around here. I'm not living in LA where you pack a meal, or taco truck change to go 6 blocks.

Still my town has something LA doesn't have. My town is the per capita train capitol of the world. 15 minutes and I'm still waiting for this one to pass me. Actually that's an exaggeration. I'm sorry, the one that started 15 minutes ago is gone. This is the second one crossing the opposite direction. He was crossing. He's now stopped. He's either stocking up at a taco truck before he gets to LA, or he's just the little engine that couldn't. I'm betting on the latter.

"Take away, take away, take away this ball and chain…"

I'm singing at the top of my lungs. It's a beautiful night, my windows are down. The woman in the car next to me is rolling hers up. She's apparently has some ball and chain wishes for herself.

No reason to stress. I should be sitting in a high school auditorium, listening to little kids sing songs of joy. Instead I'm crying with Mike Ness. I promised the girl in my writers' group I'd watch her choir sing. She attends my group, I attend her choir. Fair trade. I try to support all my writers. They're my fledglings. Right now I'm the momma bird who can't fly over a train. It would be so ironic if I were driving a Roadrunner. I'm not. I'm driving a Sonata. It's just me singing alone in my car.

"I'm born to lose and destined to fail…"

The woman in the car next to me is staring straight forward. I smile, she doesn't even look. She's not a fan of the arts. I'm not a fan of this train. We have something in common.

It passes. I speed. I park. I'm inside a pitch black auditorium listening to some song called "Seize the Day." I'd settle for grabbing a seat. I can't see them. The girl from the group isn't on stage. That's a good thing. She'll think I was there on time. She'll never know me long enough to tell the difference anyway.

Feeling my way to the front, I find a seat. It's about the third or fourth row, on the aisle. I grab the far arm of the chair, lean in and smile to the woman sitting in the next chair. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark, I'm sure she sees me. Her voice confirms that, no, she's not reserving the end chair for anybody, but she would appreciate it if I let go of her arm.

"Sorry." I sit down, she slides towards the small child on her other side. Yeah, I think she likes me.

I watch different choirs come and go: concert choir, treble choir, pre-puberty boy's choir. Then there the soloists rush the stage. There are a lot of soloists. It kind of reminds me of being in high school. I was never a soloist. When I was in theater I was a West Side Story Jet. I wasn't a lead. It's okay, it didn't stop me from trying. And when you're a Jet…well, yeah you're a Jet all the way. It's been a long time since high school and now I'm sitting in an auditorium listening to kids sing about big dreams and big romances. If it's a lyric written by Kenny Nolan or Diane Warren, somebody's on stage singing it. I hope they're happy. I'm a trapped animal. The woman beside me is melding to her far seat arm.

For intermission I run back to my car for a rock break. I've got an AC/DC CD in my glove box for just such an emergency. Hearing Angus, Bon and the boys "Walk all over You" helps. I think I air guitared this one in junior high with some friends. We sucked. Here in my car, alone, I rock.

Between Angus's guitar "walking" in my car, and the little prom-queen with the pink guitar on stage who wanted me to "Stay Beautiful," things were kinda melancholy in the middle. How far had I really come since high school? When I graduated, I shot out on my own. Now here I am in another high school parking lot not much further along than I was before. It's my trip from home to here. I've rushed to this point, and been stalled by every train along the way. Now that I've arrived, what do I have to show, and who do I have to share the trip with?

I know this'll pass. It's come and gone before. Here's the thing. On the one hand yeah, I am just feeling sorry for myself, because for every train I've waited on, there are more trains that I've slipped right past, and arrived at just the right moment. I may whine about high school, but if I'd hit college any sooner, I'd have missed a lot of things, and yeah, one of them is MyUnwife. It's hard to whine whole heartedly when, other than the feelings of loneliness, I like me. The kid passing my car doesn't look like he likes me, but he's got a thing for Hanna Montana. What does he know? I roll down my window.

"Come back when you've experienced heartache punk!"

Why is he running away?

I've come quite a ways since school. I've detoured, and I've waited, but I'm here. I've graduated to the parking lot. Stiill I have to go back. There's something I need to do. The writers' group girl hasn't sang, and I've promised I'd listen. I may be going back, but I'm still moving forward. There are a lot of mistakes yet to make.

Before the lights go out, I'm mulling in my seat. Looking for ways to be positive. I see women returning to their seats, and divorce statistics start spiraling in my head. The divorce rate is around 50 percent. Wait. If that's true, then that means that half the women here are—

CLACK! CLACK! The lights go out.

What about the woman next to me? I don't remember a guy next to her. It was a kid right? Who's on the other side? Did she have a ring?

"Excuse me, sir?" It's the woman. She's whispering to me.

"Yes?" I whisper back.

"Could you let go of my hand?"

"Oh, sure..."

Ok, so that's one mistake down. I've got several more to make. I wonder, can Iwander from seat to seat, "Excuse me, are you married?" The girl on the stage is singing that she hopes I dance. I could do that if it would help. I do it in the shower all the time. See? This is it. This is my learning experience! The other day I said I was "in the middle" and somebody suggested I work with that. I think she's right. It's time to stop worrying about the mistakes I've made and make some new ones. The way everybody's looking at me now, the dancing in the aisle is probably a big one. That's ok.

I see the girl sing, I drive home without another train. I need to do this more often. Maybe with more adults next time.

The Big One.

Today greeted me with another computer crash.

Morning Rob! I'll be your paperweight this morning!

That's my computer talking. It sounds kinda like Hal in 2001, "I can't do that Rob…"

That's the only words it spoke. It did flip a finger at me. I told it that it was number one too. My computer and I work well together.

Grrrr. Yeah, actually I'm getting good now. I tried a few reboots and then ran a hard drive diagnostic. Presto! 2 hours later I'm up. Ok, so my "Presto" needs some work. The magic word store had a sale; I got the tortoise presto, it was all I could afford. There were some other words on sale but I already knew them. I even shouted them at my computer as I threw my morning tantrum.

"Screw you! You piece of Crap!"

"I can't do that, Rob."

You know what? Tantrums really suck when nobody's around but the inanimate to see them. MyUnwife used to applaud them. She even had a little rating cards:

"Nine-point-seven, Nine-point-seven, Nine-point-two, and a three-point-two from the Romanian judge. He's biased."

Ah yes in the non-violent tantrum Olympics I'm a contender.

That was one of the interesting marriage dynamics. Reading moods. If you're matched well, then you can dress appropriately for every pressure change.

"Tut-tut, looks like rain…"

Yeah Christopher Robin and Pooh, they matched perfectly. MyUnwife and I were more Bert and Ernie. She had her paperclip collection, and I had my rubber ducky. We met somewhere in the middle. That's fine, I think that it can work. Because I know that Christopher and Pooh are fictitious. Bert and Ernie are real; and sure, sometimes Ernie says things that makes Bert want to string his paperclips together, one end in Ernie's bath water, the other clipped to the electrical socket, but Bert lets it go.

Its all in the dynamic. If you don't have it down, you'll get struck by lightening every time. In most couples, it's a learned thing. Behavioral training for the gender uneducated.

"Does this skirt make my butt look big?"

"No, but those Nachos do."

ZZZT!

Yeah. Even my weather man could call that storm. Some are trickier. Some start somewhere else and sock in before you can run for cover. Sometimes you’re just one finger in the socket away from the shock of your life.

"Have you seen my keys?"

"I am not your assistant! Why do I have to find every freaking thing you lose..?"

Nope. Sometimes you can't even pull your hand away. You just have to take the jolt until somebody else saves you. That burning smell? It's only your pride.

The thing is, that no matter how good you are, you're still going to take these jolts. Occasionally, you'll step away from the wall socket only to fall in the bubbling toaster tub later. Hazards and accidents are everywhere.

I was pretty good though. I couldn't idiot proof my marriage, but I could keep Rob, the primary idiot, under control. It also helped to know that all storms would eventually blow over. All I had to do was ride it out. The sun would always come out. Tomorrow. I think that's what struck me the hardest about the divorce. I thought that no matter what happened between us, we'd always reset to "good."

In California, the earth shakes. It happens almost daily. I don't care how often Cal Tech tells me we're one bump away from Arizona beach front. I know that the shaking will stop, my world will settle, and my feet will be dry.

So when the big one came, and MyUnwife told me "it's over," I never saw the wave crash. And now that the big one has hit, I'm expected to swim back to the Arizona coastline and rebuild.

How do I do that? I've seen the end, and it's near: Fires, floods, and killer locusts. Sometimes bouncing back from this seems like the coyote buying quality assurance stock in ACME. If it's made at ACME, it's going to break.

Maybe if I'm not positive, I'm inviting disaster. Maybe it's the journey, and not the blah, blah, blah…I'm rebooting. I still believe in SoCali-terra-firma, and I'm still standing on it. These are just my thoughts as I sit in my warm tub with my rubber ducky and my computer.

"Computer, could you scrub my back?"

"I'm sorry, I can't do that, Rob."

Caught Between Yesterday and Today

So what did you do on Easter? I cleaned the house. Drank some wine. Ate some dinner. I gotta tell you, cleaning was almost fun. I didn't get around to cleaning my office though. It's a religious holiday; I didn't want the guilt of having that much fun.

You'll have to forgive me today. My head is still in Easter. I try typing sentences, but only words are coming out. My brain is like a clothes dryer on fluff with the door open. I just don't know what's going to fall out next. It's probably something about yesterday. Yesterday was Easter, right? Cool.

A friend of mine called. Her kids are playing in the snow, so she decided to call.

"Oh, sorry about the snow. I'm sitting here in shorts and a t-shirt. All the doors and windows are open. Cool breeze, good temp. Really nice here."

"I don't really want to know what you're wearing Rob."

"Aww, c'mon. It's a sexy black cotton thing say's Anaheim Ducks on it."

"Yeah, you want to talk dirty to my husband for a bit? Wait, isn't that the same shirt we bought you 15 years ago?"

"Yeah, so?"

"You need to get out more."

"Did I mention it's 80 degrees outside here?"

"Kiss my ass."

"Awww, now you're just talking dirty."

Yeah, she and I are like brother and sister. I think that's why it's so cool that she called. It's good to hear from family on the holidays. Sometimes it's easy to feel alone. Family knows how to keep you from slipping over the edge.

Yesterday was Easter. It wasn't an edge day, but I was still glad to hear from her. She's married with kids. I can live out my married fantasies through her. Sometimes I feel guilty. I wish I could reciprocate.

"You go out and get into some trouble, Rob."

"I’m going to watch a high school choir concert this week."

"Not that kind of trouble."

"No, I know what you mean, but I think I've forgotten how. I was married, remember?"

"Well do something. I have to live through you now."

"Oh, that's kinda sad."

"I know so get out there!"

"What, you want pictures?"

"Please?"

"Ok, but you have to send me some family Easter egg hunt pictures."

"You're hopeless."

"You too."

That's how it goes. We all hunt for eggs we haven't got. Today my eggs are scrambled thoughts. I'm trying to collect them, but they're just phlegmy goop oozing through my fingers. Yesterday, we talked for a bit, then she went back to her family and I made dinner. No chickens or eggs hurt in that meal. I think a cow took a bullet though. I made lasagna and a salad. My mom gave me the recipe. She used to make it on special occasions, and well, Easter is special. I even opened up a bottle of wine. I mentioned the wine right? I know I drank it.

It was a great relaxing day. And today I'm back to work. That's fine. My mind's not in it; I'm a little wine-groggy. Apparently you can re-cork those bottles. Last night I had no idea. So today I'm having brain lint issues. Fluff in my head gets in the way and pre-typed words are clogged in the lint trap.

I tried talking with another friend to jostle things loose. She had an interesting suggestion:

"How about a wank in the park?"

I stared at the chat screen for a moment. I reread it twice. It seemed a little drastic. I suppose it would get my head in a different place though.

"I don't think they'll let me do that."

"Walk! Walk! Sorry, I'm rearranging my library."

I guess she'd lost her "l" I don't even want to know what that means for her library.

My married friends are always full of interesting advice. Maybe that's today's problem. Today I'm single, and I'm approaching it like it was yesterday. They really need to offer classes on this stuff. It's not like riding a bike. It's more like falling off and finding somebody has stolen your bike, and left you with a set of roller skates.

Still, I'm an adapter. Today I have wine and leftover lasagna. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe I'll learn to skate.

Where Do I Find Other People Like Me?

So a friend emailed me yesterday. Dear Rob… Blah, blah, blah. Ok, that's not polite; let me fill in a blah or 2. I'll paraphrase. I don't have his permission to quote. I know that hasn't stopped me before, but I've known this guy forever, and he's not only a writer, but he's also a divorce POW. He takes plagiarism personally, then gets this nasty tick and offers me a crusty watch that he's kept in a safe place for me. A place on his person where his ex-wife wouldn't look. I wouldn't look. I don't want the watch. So this is roughly what he said:

Dear great and wise Rob,

I have come seeking knowledge which only your vast experience can reveal. I am alone in my sad pathetic world. If it weren't for your friendship, I don't know how I'd go on. Unfortunately, as great and glorious as you are, I know that you can't be all places at all times. How do I find other people like you? They must congregate in groups. Better yet, where do they hide their women folk?

He goes on, but most of it's just really nice stuff about me. I don't want to sound like I'm bragging.

How do I find other people…

I read it again. The question winked at me. I don't know that! If I knew that would I spend my Saturday home blogging? I could cruise Costco for hot chicks. They're there ya know. They hang out at the outdoor vender peddling pizza.

Hey big boy…

I haven't replied to my friend yet. I don't know the answer. Is it better to seem aloof because I'm hoarding great wisdom or to write my friend and admit I know nothing.

Yeah, right.

So I've deleted his name from my email registry.

Now his question is sitting on the top of my throat like a popcorn hull. It's there and I can't get at it. How do you meet people like me? I'm gonna need to know this myself. Especially if I ever want to meet somebody special. Rob-like women are hard to find. So how do you go about it?

Some people should start by understanding what they like. I'm way past that. I like me. Problem solved. What's next?

Well, looking fore people who share my interest. Is there a Rob fan club that meets locally? How do I find out? One way is to check with your local community centers and churches. The all have some sort of bulletin board or bulletin greeter willing to share what's going on.

"Hi Pastor Dave, When's your next Rob meeting?"

"Excuse me?"

"Rob meeting. You know, where all the Rob's meet?"

"You're from the LA congregation aren't you…"

Another option is to look online. There are sites that act as bulletin boards for people who can't master thumbtacks. Site's like Meetup.com are great resources. Type in your interests, your zip code and they'll tell you where and when these people meet closest to you.

My friend did bring up a good point though. He suggested that his problem with most groups, especially with divorce groups, is that he's just interested in mingling and getting to know other like people, and yeah, possibly date. The groups he's had experience with fall into 2 catagories: lemons or lint.

The lemons are sour. They meet with folding chair vendettas and relay every bitter experience without anything sweet to share outside the pink box of day old donuts in the back next to the stainless coffee vat. We all need a place to vent, especially at first, but after the initial jitters we need something more substantial than coffee and donuts. We'd like something real and warming.

Lint is just one brownie badge past Lemon. They're past hating everybody, but now they realize they need somebody to cling on to. It's hard to get past a first lint meeting without somebody humping your leg and begging for your hand in marriage. And although some people pay extra in Las Vegas for this kind of treatment, It's not what I'm looking for in a group.

There should be a group that’s like the "We're comfortable being Rob, come be Rob with us." The people who are happy with themselves and their lives and just want to share their joie de Rob with other Robs.

My friend can't find one of these. That sucks. I still don't know what to tell him. I haven't found one for me either, but whenever I get stuck, like this, I just ask "What would Rob do?" and the answer drops out of my head as if I were Rob.

Look! A brain-dropping!

Amazing.

Rob would tell my friend this: If you can't find one, start one. No matter how unique we want to believe we are, our tastes are not like fingerprints. There are other people that share them. So if we want to meet others, we stop by our pastor/community center/thumbtack-challenged-website and proclaim our interests.

Right now, do this with me. Run out to your front lawn. Together we'll scream, "I'm in love with Rob!" Wait five minutes. If nothing happens go inside. Tomorrow, do the same thing. One day, you'll go outside, scream, and somebody will appear.

"I’m in love with Rob!"

"You know what? Me too."

Now you've got yourself a group.

Timing Is Everything.

It's what, 11:30 ish? Go ahead, check your watch. 11:30? Whatever, I'm sure it is somewhere.

I think it's 11:31 right now. Time glides until it realizes it doesn't have wings. Silly time. It's never going to catch the roadrunner of hope that way! Speaking of birds of prey, I saw MyUnwife today.

What? The roadrunner is a bird of prey! It's a bird, and it's made of something somebody calls prey. You doubt me, ask a predator.

"Mmm, tasty prey-bird, Bob."

"Thanks, Frank, I've been saving it for the holiday…"

Yeah, it just seems like Christmas was just here. Now it's Easter. That's why MyUnwife and I met this morning. Well, not really because of Easter. And no--lets turn the clock back a bit--I don't think she's a bird of prey. I was just being arty. Just think of it as a Garfunkel hanging on the wall of my blog. Could you move it to the right a bit?

We're here to see the notary. Flip us over we're almost done. Actually I think this was the last time we need to meet on the divorce stuff. She'll scamper down with the latest packet and then it flows through the county's Wonka nut chute to return a divorce bar of nougaty goodness. Or at least as close as we'll get.

I'm supposed to get this candy surprise just in time for my birthday. In government years, that's ahead of schedule. In irony years it's dead on. MyUnwife submitted the divorce on January 18th, and it'll be wrapped and bowed by June 12th. Get your presents ready; I already know what MyUnwife is getting me.

It seems like just yesterday we stood in Vegas failing to light the freakin' unity candle. Foreshadows take longer to see than hindsights.

Foresight: That's my new promise, but today just was like old times. Not in a clock hands swimming back to the "Gee we belong together" days. It was more of the atomic precision of 2 syncing cogs chinking under a revolution thing. We were moving on, but we were doing it together.

I know I'm repeating myself, but we work well together. We may have been a sack of rabid chaos the rest of the time, but when something needed to be done, we were quartz timing. Like clockwork. Time won't tell you differently.

We even joked about the divorce.

"I was hoping…"

"Get used to disappointment."

"Isn't that why we're here?"

We both laughed. It was funny. We were able to acknowledge that again. I think we're still a little tender. Time will heal that, but it was good to know our timing was still good.

So Easter is the last holiday before my birthday. The last tick before the alarm sounds. I'm moving forward. What does it mean?

It's 11:59. A new day begins any minute now. I may not be at my most coherent, but I will be ready.

If the House is a' Shoegazin'

Today greeted me with 2 emails clutched in it's fists like the Raisin Bran Sunshine:

"Rob,

Do you ever talk about anything other than divorce?"

-InfrequentReader

Hi Rob,

I was reading this description on Pandora and came across a term I'd never heard, "shoegaze" it seems to be a movement in music given the context…"

-CoolFriend

Dear Infrequentreader, I recommend you read this: [image]"

"Hey CoolFriend, It's actually a divorce term…"

No, I didn't say that to CoolFriend. It does describe a period of our marriage though. Or maybe 2 periods. I think the early shoegazer days were the best. It's when the scene was really happening, There was lots of milling about, cool clubs and smoky rooms where things were so tight and sounds just bounced off the walls.

The shoegaze period replaced the eyegaze years. Those were my favorites. I have a thing for eyes. I like the women I date to have them. Two is best but I'm not an anti-cyclopsite. One-eye, three-eyes, black-eye, pink-eye. I like them all. I like eyes I can fall into. MyUnwife had those. I think she still does. I tried to get them as part of the settlement, but she no longer had eyes for me.

Sorry, crap joke but what do you want on a shoegazing Thursday, (or Friday if you're a Divorce360.com miller.)

Shoegazing began as complacency set in. We stopped "seeing" each other and started just acknowledging each other as the "cold feet in my bed." Oh sure there was still knocking boots, but there was more furry toes and slipper-socks than anything else. If we were more than shoegazers, we'd have done something about it, I suppose we just grew calloused. Yeah, see? You were looking up, you saw that coming didn't you? That's why you're not a shoegazer.

The second era of shoegazing came when we knew it was over. It was sad, but I remember it as a compassionate time. We alternated. One person looked up, while the other buried their head. We were good that way. If I ever make it to eyegazing again I want somebody I can do that with. Somebody who's not afraid to say, "Rob steer left, your going to walk into that—nevermind."

I explained that to CoolFriend, with diagrams and arrows and relationship trees. They emailed me back saying, "Look up and step away from the divorce slowly…"

Musical shoegazers were bands from the late 80's to mid 90s: bands like Catherine Wheel, Jesus and Mary Chain, and Ringo Deathstarr. Essentially, as I really told my friend, they were bands "that created guitar soundscapes and vocals that were harmonic but indistinguishable. They were called shoegazers because of their lackluster performance skills. Most of it's musicians stood on stage and stared at the floor. "

I used to answer questions like this all the time before I became a shoegazer myself. The cool thing was that the questions forced me to look up. Like "Vamping." Other than Vaudeville, and bad Anne Rice knock-0ff writers, I had no idea what this term meant. A friend asked about a musical definition, and I researched it. I love that. I love music. I could research music for days. Right now I'm all about "shoegazing" and "no-fault."

Oh, I'm healed and all, it's just that that’s what everybody wants to talk about. I still love music, and I'm looking for new things to sing about, but the world isn't really ready to hear that yet. So for now I'll just jot things down.

Last night I was in my writers group. A movement and a flash made me look up from my Nikes. I saw a smiling face looking back at me as it crossed between stacks of books. It looked familiar, but it wasn't. It was just the first time in a long time that I'd stopped shoegazing long enough to see open eyes again. "Oh, so that's what a face looks like…" Does anybody want to hear about that?

It's all in the presentation.

When I was a mobile DJ I took requests,

"Will you play the Macarena?"

I didn't always fill them, but I took them.

When I was married, I took requests.

"uh, honey, what are the Twister mat, Vaseline vat, and nitrous canister doing on the living room floor?"

I didn't always fill them, but I took them.

Now as a divorced blogger I'm not so sure I should continue that pattern.

"In your blog...you should write about...bacon....and the importance of blowing up incompetent teachers"

Uh…what?

It's a writers' group high school girl. I requested the group tell me who's coming, she replied requesting I bring something specific. She probably should have talked to MyUnwife. She'd have filled her in on that request thing. It's associated with the holding breath thing. It would have saved her some typing time. Then again I'd have missed out on various shades of blue uncommon in human flesh tone. Sacrifices must be made...

That's Ok, she's young and stressed with all the burdens that come with youth. Teachers, parents, boys, and apparently fatty pork products. Who knew? I never could understand the adult version; I'm certainly not going to attempt a psychoanalysis of the under 21 variety. Mama only raised one fool, and that was me. I'll let my sisters fight over that distinction.

Before you pull out the Ginsu steak knives and pincushion my car tires, you need to know 2 things: First, don't bother, my sisters already beat you to it. Second, know that I'm not pretending we guys are any easier to understand. I'm not pretending, because we really are. It's ok, I know you'll never believe that from me: I'm a guy.

See, men are simple creatures. We'd still be cave dwellers if women hadn't wanted something more.

"I'm tired of cleaning up your crap, can you please take it outside the cave?"

"It raining."

"I don't care, take it out."

And thus the first outhouse was born. Necessity to please women is the mother of invention. Write it down, it's important.

What's all this got to do with divorce? Well my intrepid reader it has everything to do with divorce. It's the eggs and bacon of the divorced world. It's those wonderful smells of promise that bring us to the table every morning, and it's that sink plate of egg epoxy and hallway stink of rotting grease that drive us away 28 days later.

It's all in the presentation.

See dating is like visiting a hotel. No, not like that you pervs! It's a better hotel. A family hotel. A place you can bring your kids. The type of hotel where you gawk in the lobby at wall length brochure rack, soaking in all the adventures you can see and do if you just pick the right pamphlet…

"Says here this girl comes with a waterslide…"

That's what dating is. We might as well sit across the table exchange brochures and flip through the pretty promises. The guy sips his drink, admires the well-dressed "go getter" on the cover, and glances from it to you several times, "Yup, that's you. You want chicken fingers?"

You're pivoting his crumpled coffee stained leaflet looking for something more. Back, front, back, front. That's a shame. Our brochures are rarely more than 3 business cards center-stapled: Bob Smith: husband, father, worker-bee. Still, when you see it, you see potential.

"No, let's get the rings."

You bring quite a bit more to the table. You unload a complimentary copy of Pride and Prejudice in our laps. Now, We're busy flipping through pages like it's Post-it pad animation, looking for the dirty parts. We want the lingerie model promised in the illustration index. Yeah, you know. I have never found that page in the story either…

When we've sampled the menu, we decide if the taste is good enough to take it home. The problem here is that we only post our best pictures and flavors. We never show the creepy Polaroids hidden in the dresser next to our belly-lint collection. It's up to the person across the table to play private eye. It's like that game of Aggravation we played as kids: match things up before it's too late, or the bottom will fall out.

Why do we hide these things? I mean really, we stand a better chance of staying together if both sides bring reality to the table.

"Says here, you're a stalker."

"Yeah, I like to know where you are at all times."

"That's great, because if you turn to page 72 of my Jane Austin primer, you'll see that I'm very needy."

"Awesome! Waitress? Can we get this to go?"

The right person won't love you in spite of your flaws, they'll love you because of your flaws. Those idiosyncrasies that may you distinctly you, make you significantly lovable to some lucky other. Even the girl in my writers' group. When she starts breathing again, I'm sure she'll come to the same conclusion. By showing a little sense and sensibility with her graphic novel, she'll find a guy who loves that she's into pipe bombing every third Volvo in the faculty parkinglot.

Divorce has brought me to a conclusion too. That's why I'm spending time this week reformatting my brochure. I want to show all Rob sides, entres, and appetizers. The real sides. I'll show Blogger Rob, Lemon Chicken Rob, Pizza and Beer Rob, Cheese and Whine Rob (because that—like all other Funny Rob jokes--never gets old), Spiritual Rob, Pervy Rob, Fox In Socks Rob, The Stranger Rob, Hobbit Rob, X-Rob, BeeGees Rob, Audioslave Rob, Almost Famous Rob, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are Dead Rob, Strange Brew Rob, and lazy Rob. They're all gonna be there, and a few others too. I think I'll leave out singing in the shower Rob though. Some things are like a faulty water heater: better discovered after you've bought the house.