That Fuzzy Smitten Feeling.

I'm attending two Bible studies. Does that make me a better Christian? I sure hope so, because I'm not seeing any single girls in either of these groups. It better be doing something for me, cuz reaching for the snack tray ain't working for my abs at all.

Feel the burn! Oh, that's just Rob leaning over the burning bush...

Yeah, that rumble you hear in the distance. That's the readying lightning bolts. God's arsenal is focused on my house, and I'm all but smitten.

Actually I think God's got a great sense of humor. If we were created in his image, It's obvious George Clooney got the looks, I think maybe he had to look in the back of his desk for something to give me. I'm thinking humor, that sounds good. That's gotta be what I got.

I see the humor in the story of Adam and Eve. That's really good stuff. I like where God asks Adam about his new leaf fashion sense. Adam looks around and says, "She did it!" pointing to Eve who's still busy making him another three leaf suit.

I really would have loved to see Eve's face. In that instance, we were so close to the first divorce. Probably the first ass-whooping too. Still, she bit her lip, and forgave him--or somewhat forgave him. When she gave birth to Cain she said, "With the help of the LORD I have brought forth a man." Translation: "Adam had nothing to do with this, he just lied there."

Adam and Eve took the blessings and the curses from God and handed them down. Somehow I was blessed me with the ability to see the humor in his creation. Even the Bible. Tuesday I laughed at something else in Bible study. This brought about a mass throat clearing and disapproving leers. What can I say, the verse read funny.

Our leader is this 80 year old guy who has spent every day studying the Word. If you look at him and then his Bible, you'd swear he was carrying around The Scriptures of Dorian Grey. He looks maybe 60, but his Bible looks like it was pressed by Gutenberg, and used by 3 year olds ever since. It's tattered, it's highlighted it's practically a work of art in itself. So is Don, the books owner. Don was the only one in the room who understood why I laughed.

We'd just started reading Galatians. The second chapter, third verse reads:

Yet not even Titus, who was with me, was compelled to be circumcised, even though he was a Greek.

I'm sorry, if you can put yourself in that moment, that's funny--Unless your name is Titus.

"So after dinner we're having a circumcision party, you're invited, Titus."

"Yeah, no, I'm not feeling compelled."

See, in the early church, they still held true to the old Jewish customs. Jewish law called for all men to be circumcised, no matter how old.

Now as a kid, it sucks. I was a kid when I was circumcised. I don't remember it any more than I remember the Doctor spanking my butt and handing me to Mom. I do remember tripping over a barbed wire fence when I was 4. I still have that scar too. It left a bigger impression.

I also remember 11 years ago when a doctor told my friend he needed circumcision for medical reasons. My friend was 29. He cried like a baby too. At least that's what he told us when he finally waddled out to play. After the dark process, he spent a week with a bucket of ice clamped between his legs. And no, it wasn't a bottle of wine that protruded from the ice. The whine was all him--at least that's what he said when he could speak again. We actually didn't go in to check his bucket. We just took his word for it.

The point is, circumcision for an adult is quite memorable. In Titus's day, it was probably a little more common (considering the early church), but still memorable. They probably didn't have as much ice sitting around at the time either, considering the early Roman technologies. Nero built the first convection oven. The ice box was still a few years off.

So there's Titus, hanging out with the great Paul. Paul's an ex Jew; he's been circumcised. They're visiting all the original apostles. They're all circumcised. Here's Titus, a Greek, and there's an extra tuck of flesh separating him and everybody else.

"Titus, you're not one of us."

"Yes I am."

"You need to be circumcised."

"Yeah, I'll just have some bread and wine if it's all the same to you."

We've all dealt with peer pressure, but Titus is all alone. He's backing around the room, making sure everybody with a table knife is a forearm's lengths from his foreskin.

It's the stuff of comic legend. Or if played out wrong, it's a bad Benny Hill skit. It's all in the interpretation.

Speaking of interpretation, Don informed me that my interpretation was a little skewed, or as he put it, "wrong." He repeated the verse:

Yet not even Titus, who was with me, was compelled to be circumcised, even though he was a Greek.

"It's saying that the apostles did not ask him become circumcised, as people of the day expected them to, even though he was Greek. Not that Titus wasn't in the mood, so he politely declined." I may have been blessed with a comic sense, but I've been cursed with the ability to misinterpret. MyEx knows that. I'm sure she has my complete curse list dedicated to memory, including a few she's added herself.

"I hope you marry somebody just like you."

Yeah, that ties back to the curse placed on my by my mother about my first born male child. So far I don't have one, so Mom's curse isn't sticking. To the best of my knowledge, neither are MyEx's, I'm sure they will: her blessing is persistence.

Where's the humor in that? Of course the answer is that there isn't any. There wasn't any humor in the Titus thing either. I'd just misinterpreted it. We're all good at that. I think even Adam and Eve were prone to it, and we've been handing it down ever since.

That's one of the things that makes relationships so difficult. We're constantly adding our own spin, like a warped record.

Still, God is patient, and forgiving. Even when we aren't. He's even patient with me, even now. That sound you hear, is God patiently playing out my just reward, just as Paul Simon sang while he hung out with that Art guy, "It's just the sound of smiting." Or something like that. I'm still busy misinterpreting.

Mickey or Minnie?

I started a new relationship today. Yeah, It doesn't take me very long to dive right back in. I waited the allotted half-hour, now ready to splash around.

Swimmy! Swimmy! Splashy! Splashy!

So far no cramping, good sign. I'm hoping this is long term. It's comfortable, and we seem to work well together. Could I ask for more? Sure, I could. I could also learn a lot more about disappointment. No, for now this is better.

The last one ended poorly. I can admit now; it was my fault. It started with a misunderstanding and ended with my temper. My temper isn't that big, but it flares up, like a Bic lighter. Well, not Richard Pryor Bic flares, that's a bad example. This is more like little lever pushed to low and a normal spark flare. Maybe think 4 year-old with a pet tantrum he just brought home from the puppy store. Yeah, that's about right.

I don't usually get violent, not with people. I save all that kind of aggression for the inanimate.

The inanimate is why I've started a new relationship today.

See, my mouse and I, we've been together for a few years. We've been through a lot: soda spills, Doritos dunes, and alcohol driven web quests. I know her skin like the palm of my hand. I touch her, and she says "Where to?"

I think she's getting bored. She doesn't respond the way she used to, and she's been talking to other devices behind my back. The other day, I walked in and found her rubbing against the TV remote. I tried not to get jealous, but what was I to think, her little tail wagging around for everybody to see? I'm only a man.

She was with a remote! What am I, a piece of meat? Well yeah, maybe so, but I'm better than a battery operated piece of plastic. Honestly, I think she was just using him. I think she likes pushing his buttons to get a rise out of me.

Well this morning she started early. I tried nudging her, but she acted all uninterested--as if my touch didn't do anything for her anymore. I slipped her forward, and she refused to react. I tried pulling her down, and she pretended to be asleep. I don't get it. How could she be so callused?

To make matters worse, I'd just started my first cup of coffee. I know better than to drink early in the morning but she was on my last nerve. The coffee didn't help. I started yelling and she got all mad. She refused to do anything until I apologized.

I refused to apologize. So there we sat--seething. I broke the silence.

I picked her up, and that's when the ball dropped. No really, that's exactly what happened.

What the-? Ball? "I thought you were a mousy girl?" My mouse has got balls! He's a Mickey not a Minnie!

"AAAAHHH!" I shrieked, sounding like a 9 year-old girl being asked to kiss a boy.

My mouse laughed. How could I be such a fool? I felt dirty. I felt used. Well I wouldn't continue this. I'm not that kind of guy. I'm sorry. I kicked the Mickey to the curb and went out to find a new one. Someone better, someone Minnie.

I found her flirting at the Depot--Office Depot. We talked. She seemed nice. She was even understanding when I explained I'd been Bic burned in the past and wanted to be sure before I brought her home. She's the best. When I hold her in my hand I can feel a special electricity. She's the one for me.

We still have a few glitches to work out; no relationship is perfect. Still, the way we fit together is almost ergonomic. I know we'll find our way. It's that way with all relationships. God closes one window and clicks and drags another.

It is still kind of awkward. I mean, I'm not used to having to pay for it. I don't know. It's just another thing we'll work out--together. Me and my new mouse.

Be My Neighbor

Thank you. Stop looking to see who's behind you. There's nobody there. Stop looking! Really I'm talking to you. I can see you--oh, and your hair looks really good today. Much better than yesterday.--Anyway, I mean you, my reader. That's right. I'm saying thanks. See what a great guy I am? Say thank you back.

No really.

I'm waiting…

Thank you, that's better. See, it's you readers who've helped me through this divorce. I appreciate that. Those of you who popped up and said "I agree" or even "Uhm, Rob, I think there's an ointment that might help, but you really need to see a professional." I really needed what you gave me. Yes, even the ointment. Oh, and I still have a half tube left, so if anybody needs some...

You guys are great. Pat yourselves on the back. We all need a network of people to help us through the tough times. Some people are blessed with large families or strong community ties, others have to sit on their lawn with a gopher trap just to catch somebody to talk to. You, you were my somebody. Thanks.

I remember when things were tough, when MyEx had just moved out and my grandfather died I was kind of alone. I had a reader offer distraction by talking about board games and Warner Brothers cartoons. What's more, she didn't say "That's all folks," once. It had to be tempting. The same reader gave me a title and sub plot to a story and doesn't even know it. That's fine. I guess they're a true giver: benevolent and invisible. If they ever appear again I'll thank them.

In the mean time, I'll cast my "awww" upon you. that's the thing about the reader/writer community. People say readers are fickle, I disagree. Readers have needs like the rest of us. So long as a writer suits those needs, there's a relationship. If a writer ceases to fill those needs, the reader moves on.

That's why readers like writers, they're easy to move away from when you're done, and there's no messy split.

"You keep your pen and paper, I'll keep the book. It's been great."

The investment is the character, not the writer, so when you're done, you go. The writer continues to write new characters for new people. Nobody gets hurt. Writers are easy to leave. Ask MyEx. Oh, sorry, that was a bitter moment. We writers are known for those.

Readers are known for reading. They read for all kinds of interesting reasons. I once had a woman attend my writers group who wrote Brokeback love stories. It seemed odd to me, a woman writing about men and the men who love them.

Ok…

She explained that it was a niche market. The demographic was married women trapped in loveless marriages who wanted to read torrid romances without feeling like they were cheating.

Really? So guy on guy action fills that hole in their life (so to speak)? Dude! I didn't even know these women existed. It's kind of secret. I guess that makes it more of a sect than a niche. We writers, we're always learning something.

Right now I'm not focusing on her stories. In fact I'm backing away slowly. What I am focusing on is my readers. I say thank you for holding me up and for all the things you taught me over the past year. I've been trained in New Years customs and elves working in customs (apparently they work there next to Warf from Star Trek. Who knew? Gopher from the Love Boat works in my yard. I already knew that.); I've learned a lot. Most importantly I've learned how to be me again. For that I owe you. If you go visit MyEx she'll write you all a check. Just tell her Rob sent you. No, better not do that, you'll get a cat in the face. I hear there are people who pay double for that. Maybe it's a writers niche too. Still to be safe, you should just go and ask for money, don't mention me.

While you're recovering from being pussy-whipped I'll continue to write. I'll write about Rob's goods and bads. Feel free to drop by and help out whenever you like. I promise you, even though my divorce is final, my life is still far from perfect. There's plenty of idiosyncrasies for everyone. Thank you for stopping by.

Divorce Epilogued.

Standing naked on the lawn, as the sprinkler cascades down, I have to say it's oddly liberating. Well not the naked part. And no not the sprinkler either. Really that part's just a Monday afternoon.

Ok, that's not true. It's not usual, but it's still not what's liberating either. What's liberating is that everything is the same as it was last week, and yet the sky is bluer and the coffee's stronger. It's really kind of cool. Ok, well the cool probably is a side-effect of the naked sprinkler thing. Here, let's take this inside.

See Last Friday MyUwife became MyEx. She wouldn't have let me dance under the sprinkler like that, and really nor would I have wanted to. My neighbors found that a happier time. But Friday I divorced, and now that it's done, it's my happy time.

There wasn't any fanfare, ceremony, or confetti, but an event happened. I want to say I had mixed feelings, but honestly I've had those for quite a while. Friday there was nothing mixed, shaken or stirred. I took my divorce straight up and neat. I was done. I felt like a graduate. I'd passed "divorcing" and graduated to "divorced." I moved my tassel from one side to the other. I'm a big kid now. It's ok, I was inside, and the neighbors didn't watch. They were still rinsing their eyes from the sprinkler fiasco.

I didn't expect anything, I mean really, nothing had changed, but it had. I was free. I don't mean from MyEx. I mean if we're honest I've been free there since she moved out, but divorce comes with weights and expectations. We have to act and do things in a special way. Walk within the lines etc. It's like participating in your first communion as a kid. All the ceremony, but no real pay off. Oh everybody else will tell you how important it is, but as a kid, it's really kind of a shrug moment.

I'm done. For months I drank the whine Kool-aid, and now it's wine. It's a miracle! It is also a graduation of sorts. Everybody clasped my hand, shook my back, and wished me a great future. Woo Hoo! Unlike any other graduation though, I'm in no great hurry to prove I can do something with my future. Oh, and I don't really have that fear of not knowing what I want. Oh, I really don't know, but I'm not afraid of the future, or the not knowing. It's like that time when you're 15 and the closet monster jumps out and says, "Boo!"

Now you've seen this trick since you were 4, it's the same thing. When you're 15 you ask him to close the door before he leaves, and roll over. If you're smart, you also ask him to not leave treasures in your shoes too. Closet monsters can be rude, but they're usually compliant. It's part of the closet code.

I talked with my dad about this a few months ago.

"Have you seen my closet monster?"

No, that was the wrong conversation. Sorry, this one started with him asking:

"What are you going to do?"

"Do? Nothing really."

"I was thinking about this," because this is what Dad's do; they think of all this stuff and work the angles kids might miss. "This is a perfect time for you. You can do anything. You don't have any real ties there."

"Well I have my mortgage," I remind him for the hundredth time.

"For now, but you'll be out from under that sooner than you think. No my son, anything that holds you down is very short term right now. So what do you want to do?"

"…"

He's right. I didn't really see it until Friday but Friday was like standing in a big room with lots of sheets draping over everything. When the divorce finalized all the sheets dropped, I found I'm in a huge mall. Shops and pleasures stretched out as far as the eye could see, and an illuminated directory stood before me. There's a red dot in the middle, "You are here," says the dot. No literally. My dot talks. It also bounces around like the seven-up thing. It makes it hard to tell where I really am, but it's cool. It's my dot. I don't have to split it. It likes that. It prefers whole-dot to semi-circle.

"So where do you want to go today," says Red. He points an arc to the lists, then bounces across the categorized headers of "wine," "women," and "song" like a sing along spot.

"I don't know."

"Well," bouncing back up to his blue lawn chair, center mall, he says, "Whenever you're ready. No rush."

That's me right now. No Geddy Lee, no Neal Peart, no Alex Lifeson. That's right: No Rush. Sorry. Just a little prog-rocker humor. My dot said I could do anything…wait now he's wincing and crossing off some of the shops…

It'll happen, I can't stop that. Every action I make will close some doors. That's fine. I'm not worried about that. I'll move when it's time. Right now I'm just enjoying the freedom. It's a worldwide Hokey Pokey. It doesn't matter if I put my right leg in or pull my right leg out. What matters is that I take time to shake it all about. My neighbors would prefer that I do that fully clothed next time I choose to do it on my front lawn.

Fine...

Where's ACME When You Need Them

…So he chases him down this long concrete pipe. The pipe gets smaller and smaller and so does he. When he runs out into the open sand he's a tiny speck. That's cartoon logic for you. That's when he rebounds off the stiff leg of cartoon irony: His prey is now 20 times his size. The coyote mote holds up a sign that says, "Now what?"

Ok it happened a little differently than that, but those of you who've seen it know I've hit the highlights. It's all in the perspective of the viewer. As a viewer we pick up the things we like or don't like and run with them.

Meep meep!

Just like marriage and divorce...

Yeah how's that for a birds eye view? I'm surprised they didn't have the roadrunner gobble the coyote up right there. Problem solved. It would have even been better if, as he clears the fur from his beak, he holds up a little sign of his own, "Tastes like chicken."

Speaking of chicken, I now find myself in a coyote pair-o-ducks. Er, uhm, sorry, not ducks--paradox. Yeah, I suppose there are a few ladies out there more excited by the sound of docs over ducks. What's up with that?

Ok for the record, I'd like to say I'm sorry for that last paragraph. Really, I'd like to say that. But from this perspective, I really am not. See, like my coyote friend, I'm a little frustrated and that started with a woman's blog entry.

It's always somebody else's fault…

No, the blogger wasn't blaming anybody. She was looking for advice. Her post started with the question, "How to Pick up a Man, Any Advice?"

Please! Just show up in public holding a sign that says that. You'll have your choice of pretty much any guy in the place.

Scoop of chocolate, scoop of vanilla, don't waste my time.

We're guys, we're not wily creatures. Flash a pair of breasts, and we're deer caught in the headlights (so to speak). The best approach is never subtle. Try, "I want you." it works every time.

You girls are a different problem. You're grey matter. You're weird and complex. It's no wonder we always give you the map. You can read abstract paths and patterns like the back of your mind. We don't ask for directions because we have you, and we're used to the idea that we're already lost.

Here's another illustration to further my point, ever watched a horror movie? All it takes for the evil entity to kill a guy is a beautiful woman mock up. She steps out of a creepy shadow dripping ooze, shows a little leg, licks her lips, and smiles.

"I'm going to eat your flesh, and suck your soul."

"Ok."

"No, I mean literally."

"Ok, I still don't see a problem."

Girls? The entity has to jump through flaming hoops to score a respectable kill. Even Topless Tramp requires a Foley troop sweating spooky sounds and at least a half dozen lurking shadows before she'll get to where she's supposed meet her un-maker.

"Hi, I'm scary guy with big knife. I'll be serving you this evening."

It takes a lot of work. That's why I was confused when blog woman asked her "How to" question. She holds all the cards, and that's scary.

In her piece she also talked about married men pretending to be single. That I can see as a problem. I never did that, but I used to work sales. I've worked around a staff of guys who leave their wedding rings in their lockers next to the mason jar for sales floor pick-up numbers. These coyotes may not be wily, but they are real, and that makes them dangerous The blogger's friend warns her to check under the bed, and watch the guy's ring finger. Look for marks and discoloration for where a ring once tethered him down.

Good idea. Reflexively, I check mine. HOLY CRAP! I have a ring-ring!

I'm not married anymore! That's not fair. I've turned in my uniform, why should I have to keep the nametag? I already have enough going against me in the dating world. I'm as agile as a peg leg drunk, and half as comely.

ARRRGGG!

I don't have a killer Foley team or special whispers to make a girl scream. No smoke, no mirrors, all Rob, and Rob needs all the help he can get. This ring-ring sets the tone for a distinctive disadvantage.

What do I do now? Do I carry my divorce decree to points of pick-up interest?

"Excuse me, I wanted to tell you about your fantastic smile, but first I need you to see this…"

That only works in movies and cartoons. Yeah, I know, it doesn't work there either. I'm screwed without being screwed.

Now what?

I started working through my problem. I could disguise the ring-ring. I could wear a Band-Aid--because yeah, that's never been tried by a married guy. Maybe I get one of those bubblegum machine rings or a candy ring. Yes, women like their men like they like their nylons: creepy. Next idea.

Could I camouflage it? What about a shock of hair, a Superglued finger toupee? Shocking, ladies love bushy fingers. You know what they say, bushy fingers, bushy back. Ok, so maybe that won't help. What about some window caulking and latex paint? I may not be able to bend my finger and will probably die from chemical poisoning, but it wouldn't show the ring-ring. Sometimes we all have to make sacrifices for the team.

So you can see I'm in crisis. You're the viewer, you can see from the unmarried perspective how I can look married. I'm not. I've let go of the ring, rushed out into the open and here I stand at the leg of my future. it's huge! It shows so much potential, and yet I feel so small.

Now what?

Metal Bands and the Guys Who Love Them.

Robbo stood at the precipice, ring clutched in his fuzzy fist.

"Throw it!" shouted Robwise.

Looking into the molten pit below, Robbo wondered if there weren't some way he could keep the ring. After all he had spent good money on it. Could he throw Robwise instead? Would anyone notice? The world wouldn't miss one small round Hobbit, and Robbo knew he would miss the ring. He knew she would keep hers--even if she didn't wear it. She'd keep it. It was the one ring. The ring he'd bought for My-

"MyPrecious!" Robbum screamed as he flew towards Robbo, hands clawing at empty space. Robbo stepped aside as Robbum snagged a foot on a rock, and tumbled across the dirt, and into the pit below. "My--Awww Fu…."

The faint smell of cooked flesh wafted up.

"I'm hungry." Said Robbo.

"Me Too." Agreed Robwise.

Robbo had a choice, stand here forever or obey his stomach. Plink! The ring rebounded off a rock before Ploop! into the lava...

Tolkien and Wagner created epics about their rings. Tolkien still fills bookstores with forests dedicated to preserving the ecology of his metal hoops, while Wagner still brings them in to watch the fat lady sing. Actually I think the ending of that one included a woman burning on a flaming boat. Either way, I'm sure that somewhere a lawyer got his wings, or at least some kind of leathery appendage.

We didn't have lawyers--MyEx and I. I know, we were boring. No warriors, wraiths, or Velcro Hobbits to hang from your wall either.

"Can you put us up for the night?"

"hehehe."

"What's so funny?"
Riiiipppp!

"Hey!"

"Tell the boys it's Hobbi-darts, and pints tonight!"

Nope. It was just MyEx, me and a 2 ring circus. I bought the rings, she joined the circus. We were both juggles, aerialists, and animal tamers. There's a magician joke about her making half my stuff disappear, but that's kind of cliché. We may have been boring, but I don't think we were cliché.

See, we accomplished what few people I know have done: we completed a friendly divorce, and were friendly about it. Sure, we had our moments of mouth frothing, but that was just peroxide in the toothpaste cleansing wounds. Nobody needed to be put down.

For the final scene, the part of Old Yeller will be played by Rob...

"Hey!"

Bang!

"Roll Credits!"

It wasn't quite that quick. Still, we managed to get along. Despite the fact that we both loved War of the Roses, we accepted it as a work of fiction, and, no matter how tempting, not a training manual, like Art of War.

As a writer, it's frustrating. I'd love to take my divorce story and share it with the world, but now that I'm done I realize it's completely boring! People don't read books about guys who get up and keep the daily peace. They read books like Fight Club.

"The first rule of divorce club?"

"Don't talk about divorce club!"
"Well I was thinking, don't taser me in the groin, but that works too."

We worked together, separately, to unravel what we'd once woven together. And now we've done it. There's no great battle, no climactic finish, just a guy sitting in his office with a cup of coffee.

Silence filled the house as the clock struck it's twelfth chime. Rob stopped working and lifted his hands from the keyboard. He sipped his water, then stared at his left hand. The gold band refracted the light as he rolled his wrist to the right and left then back right again. Rob swallowed. The ring had been there so long, but now it was time for it to go. "I could just keep it," Rob thought." It could serve as a safety jacket…"

MyPrecious…

"No."He shook his head. The era of the ring's power was over. This was the era of man. Cupping his right hand to his left, Rob slipped the gold loop free . It fell easily, but felt heavy. Dropping it into the desk, Rob closed the drawer. He returned to typing, feeling visible once more.

The End.

Cats and Doctors

"Hello?" MyUnwife sounds a little out of breath as she gasps into the phone.

I could say something about her smoking, but I was actually expecting her machine; I have another speech memorized. I got her, so she gets, "Hey It's me."

"What's Up?"

"Well I got this thing in the mail." I'm flipping the envelope in my hand.

"What is it?"

I flip back to the front and read, because all this other flipping was just for show. "It's from your doctor."

Now I'm trying not to pry. It's her doctor, and not my business. Any issues that could have been my business passed almost a year ago. Still I am kinda curious. It's hand labeled.

"Why do you have it?"

"She sent it here." Now I figure maybe it's because MyUnwife didn't give a forwarding address, but who knows. I've tried to see this doctor 3 times over the last few years and every time I set an appointment, she's out of the office. Maybe it really is for me. MyUnwife's doctor is sending me anthrax, and daring me to open it.

Yeah, I'll wait for MyUnwife to check it out. I'm not that curious.

As it turns out, it's not anthrax. It's just some information packet MyUnwife requested. I guess since she left me she's been smitten by Biblical plagues. She's now up to the plague of the snotty nose. She'd wanted to know how to handle said plague without drowning friends in phlegm rivers. I tried to be sympathetic.

"heheheheh. I am sooooo sorry."

"It's ok. Oh, I left you a fruit roll up somewhere in the house. I hope you find it before the ants."

I am only kidding. If she has a snotty nose, it has nothing to do with her doctor who won't see me. The letter was something else. And as for ants and fruit roll ups, she wouldn't do that. I hope...

MyUnwife did come by though. She came in, we drank a few beers. She took her letter and went home. Remember that song by Dan Fogelberg about meeting an old lover in a grocery store? This was nothing like that.

She did tell me about the kids. Her/our two cats. I hadn't seen them since her move. One cat was hers before we moved in together, the other, we picked up later. I like keeping up on the little guy because he's not the sharpest claw on the paw. He once got his head stuck in a Kleenex box.

Yeah, I lost "Dad of the year" that year because I was too busy laughing at him scramble backwards banging his head off of everything around like a spastic bell clapper. When my eyes dried and I caught my breath, he'd already resolved the problem. The look in his eye suggested I look before I leap into my shoes the next morning.

She was telling me about the cat's latest exploits. I appreciated it, because I knew I'd never see him again. It's not like I don't get visitation. I mean, even if I did go to MyUnwife's house, he wouldn't see me. See, he's also an odd cat. The only two people who could touch him were MyUnwife and I. And I couldn't do it if I put on a hat. He didn't recognize me. He'd flee the room yowling "Stranger! Stranger!"

It's good to know he won't take candy from weirdoes in cars, but Rob in the cap? So I know I've seen my last of him, because he'll never see me the same way again. I know the same thing will happen with me and MyUnwife too, and it makes me a little sad.

Oh she's smart enough to know that Rob with and without a hat are the same person, but 2010 Rob? He'll be different. So will 2010 MyUnwife. Will I see her and shriek like I've been kicked in the groin? Well, depending on what she does, maybe…

I mean she'll grow. I'll grow. We'll be different. I'll be better and stronger. She'll be fighting the plague of the toe fungus. There's no way around it. It's one of the side effects of divorce: you stop being together. I'm fine. It's been long enough now that I'm ok with things. I like me, and I'm starting to like my life. I just know that some day I'm gonna find a fruit roll up, and I'll smile.

Slow and Steady Spits Dust.

I'm almost there. I've run the race I didn't want to run, and it's over but the confetti cannon to the groin. My lungs ache, and I'm shambling to the end. There's no outstretched ribbon, no bikini clad girl with champagne, just me, MyUnwife and a miles of polite deference.

"Thank you for a lovely run."

"No, thank you. It was a lovely run wasn't it?"

"We'll have to do it ag--well no."

"no indeed."

Who wins the race? If you've been through it, then you know the answer. If you haven't, well I shouldn't spoil the surprise, but I will give you this. It rhymes with mobody, but starts with an "n."

"Who's Node Body? Is that a James Bond girl robot? MyUnwife's real name?"

Yeah, some people will never understand unless they run the race themselves. Still, I hope that you never do. I'm a little older and wiser for running it, but lets face it, I could have gotten the same results sitting on the couch with a half-hour of Jeopardy.

"What is a Moron, Alex?"

Sorry, I had to answer. He just showed my picture. Pictures. I have boxes of them around here. They're kind of like mile posts on the run.

"You've reached mile [Click!]"

There's a post card of Rob standing in his house with the some of the furniture whited-out.

I used to run as a team, but this race is an individual event. At first when I started, I thought it was kind of sad. I kept looking over my shoulder watching my partner push through the throng of other racers, going the other way. I didn't take any pictures of her butt. I didn't need any mementoes from that leg of my trek.

It's all a blur. I lost a year and a half. I remember blurs of pain, but it's like when I sprained my ankle. The further I get from the actual event, the less I remember the world collapsing into a tunnel of light.

I just continued to run.

Run, Robby, Run!

I think Mr. Gump had it right. Just keep moving until you don't want to run any more. I'm still running. I'm competitive. I'll finish the race. After I stumble across the line, what's next? I don't know.

I suppose I'll start another race, with more pictures. I'll look for another team event. I like those. I'll make this one happier though. I'll run for the right reasons. I've replayed all the game videos, I've coached myself through the mistakes. I've even rehabilitated my ankle.

When I cross this finish line, I won't finish first. I won't win any awards for sportsmanship. I'll just be done. When I finish this race, I don't think I'll stop. I'll keep going. Not because I'm really good at it, but because I've found that I like my chances. Even with all the other racers out there, I think I'm just determined enough to win one race. And in the next race, that's all that matters. That's all it takes.

Until I win, I'll continue to run. Anybody care to join me?

Somebody Always has Questions.

I've heard people ask, "What's so great about you, Rob?"

I know! I can't believe they'd ask that either! It's ok. I understand. Some people can't see the aura of intellect--probably because it's so blinding.

So here, let me help. One of the great things about Rob is that he dispenses wisdom like it's Pez. It's true. Ask a question, and I'll rock my head back so that a sugary wisdom brick will spring from my throat. I know. I'm practically magical.

That's why I like to spew blocks like a video game villain. If one hits you, just pick it up, brush it off and say "thank you." Yesterday, somebody was asking for it. So I let her have it.

She approached the Rob throne and said, "Oh, great and mighty Rob, impart your wisdom on me."

I readied a brick. "What can I tell you?'

"I can drive people away by picking arguments with them. I just realized this, what should I do?"

"Stop."

"Thank you, Rob!"

"You're welcome. Next…"

If only it were that easy. Here's the thing, you all know this is a bunch of crap right? Nobody in their right mind comes to me for advice. Oh I still dispense it like Pez, but it's not nearly as sweet or half as useful. If you collect enough Rob wisdom, sometimes you can hold down a stack of papers during a small gust, but that's about it.

My friend did ask the question, but I think she was hoping for smarter people to reply. Instead she got me. What a disappointment that must have been.

"Aww, hell. I got Rob."

Go commiserate with MyUnwife, she understands all too well.

Still I answered her question. I told her that, as she already knew, it was a defense mechanism. It's common. I know a lot of women who sabotage relationships that way, everyone from husbands and friends, to the LA Times paperboy. It's pretty normal. Then I made a huge mistake. I told her that guys had their own version of the same thing.

Really I was just trying to get her off my back. I'd answered the question. This was the pat on the back, "Next…"

If only it were that easy. She pushes all the other questioning people back, and asks, "Really? Oh great and wise Rob, tell me what guys do."

"Uhm…Well…" See, now I've got a real problem. First off, if I tell her, I could lose my "guy card." That's right, I'd no longer be allowed in sporting events or given the 5% tap discount at local bars. I don't want to lose that. It's important to my manhood. The other thing is, I'm Rob, I don't have a clue what the hell I'm talking about.

Still, she'd asked the question. I needed to tell her something. What should I say? I decided to divert from the normal game plan: I'd tell her the truth. At least as far as I understood it. I thought through my own experience of pushing people away and I told her.

We can be very aloof. If we feel like we're getting too close, we don't attack, because that means we have to get close enough to hit something. We slam the brakes and back up. We get quiet and distant, quickly. It's not about creating conflict so we can remain blameless, it's about getting out before we get hurt, we'll wear the albatross of blame if that's what's necessary.

She liked it. I'd blinded her with Rob-light. She thought I knew what I was talking about. Whew! I like sounding smart. I decided to take it a step further and explain what usually happens when the male and female version of this get together.

[What usually happens is] a woman will lob the argument bomb just as the guy is stepping back, when she feels she's missed with the first shot, she'll lob another one. He's still backing up. She need to lob another one This goes on until both parties think the other one hates them, when in fact all that's happening is they're both being too defensive.

What do you know? She bought that too! I reread it because I like doing that when I make people think I'm smart. That way I have extra Pez wisdom for later.

I probably shouldn't have done that. The woman who wrote her question/comment because she'd had an epiphany. Now she gave it to me. I hate epiphanies; they make my head hurt.

No, I hadn't just solved my divorce. In fact this had little to do with MyUnwife and I. Although the male extension of my analogy was me, the female was not played by MyUnwife. On the other hand it was very familiar to many relationships I'd had in the past.

Holy Defensive Smackdown Batman!

And yeah, I've done this, everyone from past girlfriends to Wendy's drive up cashiers. I'd replayed this gender war a hundred times. And there was never anything to take home but casualty fries.

So what do I do? How do I correct this. I asked the great and mighty Rob, but all he said was "Stop." Some help he is!

Yeah, that Rob. Unless you're looking for more Pez questions than you started with, he's really not much help, but I'll give him this: He certainly is blinding.

Eating Memory With Aerosmith

It's the stupidest things. It's the things you don't notice that trip you up. Those are the things that take you down like untied shoelaces, leaving you face first in the dirt spitting clotting pride.

I was shopping. I needed supplies. I needed sundries. My gophers needed beer. They were throwing kegger. It was a hot weekend; their fur gets all matted and they're cranky without liquid refreshment. I hate to give into the scruffy ruffians, but they'd already knocked over a fire hydrant, and were turning guerrilla on neighbor kids with juice boxes. This was no time for heroics.

"Please, I give you what you want, just step away from the little girl."

So Wussy Robby made a stop at Bevmo to grab their favorite apricot beer. After an hour in the heat of hunting/gathering, I was getting cranky. As MyUnwife would attest, this usually means I need food.

I filled the trunk with Bevmo bags, and staggered over to the Red Robin in the same parking lot. RR is a memory safe eatery. MyUnwife and I only ate there a few times, and never at this one. This RR belongs to me alone--or it will as soon as I sit and swallow my first memory.

MMM, I open the door and the greasy waft of freedom fries smacks my face. That's followed by a frosty AC blast . This is going to be a good lunch.

"how many in your party?"

"I'm a party of one today." I smile.

"Very well, sir. Follow me," says Hostess Girl, in ruby cape.

I obey. She leads me around a labyrinth of munching families and red scuttling drink-tray creatures to a booth built for me. Oh there's a seat across from me, but nobody could fit there even if I brought them. If they did fit, nobody would eat. It would just be a tangle of food arms interlocked and banging in frustration. They might as well paint Twister dots on the table because more than one person can't eat here; trying would just be fun and games. As it stands, it's just me sitting. I'll eat just fine.

I check both sides of the laminated menu card, then settle for the fish and chips before the waiter even introduces himself.

"Hi, I'm--"

"Fish and Chips, please."

"Uhm, ok. I'm Don."

"Can I have a tea too, Don?"

Don's fumbling with his pad. He must be new. A trained professional would already be walking to the kitchen. "What was your drink order again sir?"

Yeah, Don's not a professional. "tea, please."

"And to eat?"

Ok, maybe he is, he's just OCD. We can usually smell our own, but sometimes kitchen smells can block them. I sniff his shirt.

"Excuse me sir? You're food order?"

I can't tell. I decide to test.

"Where's your bathroom?"

"What would you like to eat?"

"Bathroom?"

"Eat?"

"Pee?"

"Eat?"

"¿cuán grande es su mono?"

"Eat?"

I nod. OCD. I place my order. He points to the restroom, then pulls out his monkey. It's a friendly little thing: a cute spider monkey--small but tasteful.

The problem hits while I'm sitting in my booth on my end-oh,, sippin' on tea and ice, laid back, I've got my mind on my menu, got my menu on my mind…. Red Robin is piping in the hits from my past. I just heard Wang Chung have fun tonight, and now Ace of Base is fading out. They saw the sign.

There's a moment of silence before the next song begins. I like this moment because I like to guess the next song. It's part of my day job. I'm like a music cowboy and I'm the fastest gun in these here parts. Ask MyUnwife, she'll agree, and no matter what else she says, she's ONLY talking about music.

I recognized this one. A long soft orchestrated tone. Primarily strings building into something heavy. I know it. I rock my head back and sigh before the piano kicks in and Steven Tyler begins to sing.

"I could stay awake…"

Summer, 1998 Aerosmith, "I don't want to miss a thing." I hate this song. Not really because of MyUnwife. I hate it because it's a sappy sonic Hallmark card. It was written to be a sentimental hit. It worked for millions of sheep, but I'm not bleating along. Don't get me wrong, I like love songs, but I need to believe them. I need to believe there was some sincerity somewhere in the writing process.

Duncan Sheik, he was barely breathing. Yeah, that was unrequited, but he was thinking it over anyway, and I believed him. I didn't believe Steven. The last time I believed him, he was singing about sweet emotion. Now, he's singing somebody else's hit to get paid, and he doesn't want to miss a thing.

Still that's not the worst of it. The worst part of this song is mixed with the unnaturally cold AC, it reminds me of a stint I pulled as a music board operator for a radio station in Palm Desert. They keep radio studios cold too. Not for the employees, but for the equipment. It's extremely expensive to replace an overheated sound board. Dragging a dehydrated board op to the sidewalk by his Nikes and replacing him with a college kid is cheap. It's the music of money, not the people. That's why they keep it cold.

I was playing somebody's top 20 lite-hits on Sunday mornings. All I needed to do was answer phones, drop in commercials, and be quiet. Piece of cake. During my time there, the Aerosmith track was one of the hits.

The song and the cold air reminded me of MyUnwife. It was early in our relationship. This was our song. We both hated it. When it came on, we'd cringe and dive to see who could change the radio station first. It was cute. Sitting in Red Robin, I remembered that. I wasn't ready. I lost my appetite for a moment.

At least I lost it until I remembered that I had a choice. I had a choice to liquor up my gophers. I had a choice to eat here. I had a choice to make on the menu. I had a choice to touch Don's monkey. Now, I have a choice to be sad. See, I can relive the memory and drink my tea with saccharine self-pity, or I can hate this song on my own now. It's a bad song, it's easy to dislike. Why give my weekend to MyUnwife?

I look around me and take it the sights. I take the song away from MyUnwife, and I give it to Red Robin. Here comes Don, he can have it.

Don drops my plate on the table, and only then offers to refill my empty glass, because that's how things are done in these here parts. His OCD is affecting his tip-o-meters. That's a shame. Still the food is good, and I'm enjoying my meal, and my music by myself, and I'll make that memory last quite a while.