Windows & Doors

Ding, dong.

He rang the bell. Why? It's clear he sees me. Do I look like a guy who wants to answer the door? I don't. He should see that; he's staring at me. Crap.

"Yeah?"

I handle the door differently than I do the phone. If I hear the door, I'll answer it. The thing is, from my office, I rarely hear it, especially not during the summer with all the fans running. I think if somebody knocks, rings, or chimes, I should answer it. I just need to know they're there.

Sales-boy knows. I'm standing in my dining room in my shorts and t-shirt, with a full glass of water. The door's open to let a breeze through the house. He sees me through the security screen. I'm hard to miss when you're leaning against the screen with your hand cupped over your eyes like you're casing the joint. His other hand holds a pamphlet. I think he's selling magazines.

"You wouldn't want to buy any magazines would you?" He presses the brochure to the steel mesh, like I can see it.

With such a strong sales pitch, I don't know. I'm frozen I think a part of me is hoping he doesn't see me. The floating neon glass of water is just an illusion.

I flow with the current direction, "No, I don't think so."

"Thank you." He turns and walks away. What the hell was that? At least he tried? I mean I can see where it works in dating, but in sales, "At least he tried" is nothing more than an epitaph they staple over your emaciated corpse.

When I was a teenager selling magazines I was all over it. I rarely sold many, but I always sold enough to buy the Wonka Gobstoppers and a new record from whatever band appled my eye. That's how I got my Glass Houses LP. I sold to eat. I learned to read houses.

It's true. You save so much time once you learn the three houses groups. There's the "Go away!" house. That's the one with the moat, the Rottweiler and the gun turrets. They don't want you, just turn around.

There are the houses, like mine, that have no clear sign. You approach and check things out. You never know, you might get lucky.

"Hello sailor."

Then there's the third category. That's the ones that may be open to other sales-boys, but me? I'm persona non grata.. Either I TP'ed this house on Halloween, they didn't like my pitch last year, or maybe they just didn't like the way I look. whatever, I can't get in, I've tried.

"Hello?"

"Go away!"

"Nice Day!'

Slam!

Once you learn these three houses, you save lots of time and put the effort where it matters. Woody Allen is credited with saying that 57 percent of success is showing up. It's all in the "hello."

"At least he tried."

I did try the other day. Not with magazine-boy. That was just a knock on the door to get your attention. No this knock started with an email.

It was one of the dating windows I've been peeping into. This time they brought the window to me. They wanted to tell me about a tremendous opportunity. I always answer the door, so I checked it out. The woman standing on my email was beautiful! She had this long dark hair, welcoming smile, and these piercing red eyes I hadn't seen since the toaster stopped talking to me Ok, I didn't hold the red eyes against her. We all have our hang-ups. I mean look at me, right? I could allow red eye. She's local, she's beautiful, she's in a picture in my mail…did I mention she was beautiful? It's true! There was another slight problem: She's tall. Like really tall. I'm not. In fact she towers over me by 5 inches!

Holy Statue of Liberty, Batman!

I mean, I don't care. I'm a guy. Height doesn't bug us, on the other hand, it does bother women. It bothers you a lot. I think that's the size that really matters. It's ok. We all have our things. It's better to know up front. That's why I'm wondering why eDates R Us hired Ralph Malph to do their pairing. I'm not in her league. What kind of practical joke is this? Ding dong ditch?

I closed the window; that was one door I just wasn't meant to knock on.

Still, 15 minutes later I look again. She's captivating. Wow! Her screen name could be a real name. I'm bored. I check. I open Myspace, enter name, city, age range, and press "enter."

There she is! Holy Cow! She's still beautiful! I cant explain, but it wasn't just comeliness. Her pictures exuded personality like I give off stink. She looked like somebody fun to talk to, somebody fun to know, and somebody who wasn't some teenager named SEXY694U. She appeared to have things together. What's more, I'm sure it was together enough to know that she didn't want anything to do with a writing dwarf across town.

"57 percent….showing up." Screw it! I didn't want to do the dating site thing. Like I said, I don't believe in them. I did believe that I wanted her to know somebody thought she was gorgeous. I clicked her MySpace "add friend" link, then typed this message:

I wanted to let you know you're radiant. Your pictures shine with life and personality. Sometimes we all need to hear that.--RB

That's all I could fit in the character limit, but at least I tried, right?

That was a few days ago. I never heard back, but I'm fine with that. I really just thought she deserved to know that somebody thought she was beautiful. I can't say that to all women I'd like to. Some of those doors are closed, like MyEx. I'd never get past the gun turrets.

And yeah, there are those other doors too. The doors who've rejected me; I won't return there unless I'm invited. Still this was a new door, and I knocked. I came out of my shell--if only for a moment. Hang what you will on my epitaph, but no matter what else you put, you'll have to add:

At least he tried.

Wing Slapping Dilbert

My mind's in holiday mode. I should be writing a really cool blog that everybody will print and pin to their cubie wall when they go back to work Tuesday. You know, something to cover last Thursday's Dilbert? I think you should wait. Maybe Tomorrows blog will be a better print. Then again, Thursday's Dilbert? Why did you clip that anyway? It wasn't that good.

Great! Now look what I've done! I'm stuck waiting for you all to go Google Dilbert clips, and I can't continue until you get back. This is just like third grade again when Monte Wallace brought the skunk. Oh he thought it was funny at first, but it only distracted everyone, and by the end of the day it just stank. So did Monte. I think that was more about hygiene than skunk though. He smelled so bad, the teacher stuck Monte in the hall a lot.

See? I told you, wait until tomorrow. That's ok, you're still looking for Dilbert. Fine I'll wait, then you can take your tomato juice baths. I'll wait. I'll talk more about Monte.

No I won't. I didn't like Monte. He stank. That's ok, you should hear the things he said about me! I'll wait till you get back to make my point though. See, just like Monte and Dilbert, the point I'm trying to make is all funk and distraction. Really I'm just a 3 card Monte dealer distracting you with cartoon candy over my lima bean reality. I knew if I mentioned Marmaduke, you'd never look. Garfield? Only for the cuddly people. Dilbert, now that's somebody who speaks to all of us.

Well all except me. I work at home. His Drew Carey charms are lost on me. I'm impervious to cubie humor cuz I have no cubie. I'm also immune to For better or Worse too. Family humor is like street mime fare: I don't get it. We all gravitate towards what we know. We love the things that reflect our lives. Write me a comic about a guy working alone going through a divorce and that's comedy gold.

I guess that's why I don't understand why the 3 of you continue to read. You're not Rob. What makes you stay when MyEx wouldn't? How am I 3 reader Robby? I'm not novel enough to keep the ADD crowd riveted without a gun.

"Ow! My thigh!"

"It'll keep you in the chair. Just a precaution."

How could people possibly identify? They can't, yet there you are printing me on the company Xerox so I can go up next to Frank from accounting's butt. That's scary--and yes, the butt is scary too, but I'm not looking. I'm butting this other thing. I mean how did I miss the "Rob is likable" memo? I know that since the divorce I regained the right to be my own worst critic, but am I that skewed? Am I that likable?

No…

Way…

Apparently way. Why? How? Please tell me this isn't a Hannah Montana fascination of a freak show anomaly. Is there a real reason people like me? What's crazy is that Hannah and I are not the only fish head eaters asking that question. We all question ourselves, especially after the divorce. Well, most sane people don't compare themselves to Hannah Montana, but most sane people don't look as much like a 15 year old girl as I do.

Here's the thing though. Divorce makes us all feel rejected. Even the ones doing the rejecting wonder, "Why isn't this person, the person I married? What have I done to change them?" Oh yeah, there are those few exceptions. Those few who don't ask the questions. But then again, their the same few who find Benny Hill complex and sophisticated. They'll never get it.

The self doubt is the worst thing because it mucks our inner mirror. Tear stains and hand smudges make the distorted face we see seem unlovable. We hide ourselves in the shadows, avoiding others' gazes.

"Don't look at me! I'm Hideous!"

It's horrible. We slink from those who show us our true selves. We spurn the ones who love us for who we are, because we can't see who we are for ourselves. When I was a kid I read about the ugly duckling. It was such a hard story, because for me, beautiful swan or not, the sad swimmer was still an ugly duckling. That would never change. He'd also have been an lousy goose, and would probably have made a lumpy pillow. Particularly if you don't pluck him first.

What it took was the right people with the right perspective around him. Somebody to wing slap him into shape.

"you're a swan, dummy!"

I guess I am an ugly duckling, and a bad husband for MyEx. Still, I am an attractive something, and maybe even a good husband for somebody else. I don't see that because I haven't seen them yet. And Yet, 3 of you think I'm better than last Thursday's Dilbert. I've been too busy shunning people to notice. I've got this muddy inner window and no Windex. Maybe I just need a good wing slap.

There's no I in "Me"

"Hey There Sexy." I smile at the face in the mirror. He smiles back. Yeah, we're cool.

It's been a long time since I've been called sexy. I thought I deserved it. The last time somebody said it with any sincerity, I was in junior high. Ok, I take that back. In junior high the guy who said it was talking to the girl behind me. Still, that didn't stop me from thanking him. It was good to hear.

"$%&@ you, Boyd! I was talking to the girl behind you."

See? I told you.

I glanced over my shoulder then look back at him, "You stand a better chance with me. Buy me dinner. We'll see."

I'm easy, but I'm not cheap. The bastard never did by me dinner. That's ok, he never got the girl either. I don't think he even tried. Sometimes all it takes is a "Hello." I've never found it to be that easy, but that's what the pretty people tell me. They don't say hello to me though. Go figure.

I do. I'm talking to the guy in the mirror right now. I lick my lips. I know what he likes. "Let's say you, me get together for some Mexican."

"We're going to put on a show for him, like in college?"

No! and we were drunk in college! Stop bringing that up!" Sometimes my reflection can be so obtuse, "I'm thinking dinner."

"We're going to eat him? I thought that was illegal in this state?"

Now he's being stupid. I turn my back and walk away. So does he. He doesn't take rejection well.

Ir's ok. I know he'll come back. Next time I'm in the bathroom he'll be there: hovering over me. Weirdo.

I also know he'll join me for dinner. I'll look in the rearview, and there he'll be. I'm getting used to him. We talk a lot. I never knew how much we had in common. It's true, we like the same music, watch the same movies, we even work the same hours! I know! It's like we're stalking each other. I just wish he'd learn how to dress.

I do admire his dedication though. I haven't had anyone stick with me as long as he has, and he's put up with me a lot more than anyone else. I'm self deprecating and self destructive, and he doesn't mind. He just shakes his head, and then the next time I go to the bathroom, there he is--staring.

Ok so maybe I do need to get out more. He says the same thing. That's why we're going out for dinner tonight. I saw a review for a local Mexican restaurant and I thought I'd check it out. Why not? It gets me out of the house, right? Besides, every time I look in the mirror, he's the only one there. It's time to stop waiting for somebody else to appear. I need to treat the people who are there right, right?

So tonight we're going out for dinner and intelligent conversation. I'd cut a few roses for me, but I couldn't do it without me watching. I like surprises. I should probably think of something though. I mean I should come with gifts, right? I need to impress me. I've seen all my other tricks.

"Is that your card?"

I'm nervous too. What if I don't like me? We've always gotten along, but this is a new thing for us. It was always work and no play. This is us seeing how we get along having fun. Can we do it? I hope so.

I think when we're done, we'll come back to my place. I've set things up for a little late night Wii bowling. Depending on how things go, maybe I'll let me win. We'll see. I need to just let things happen...

Wii're Back!

Reoccurring characters. That's what's great about TV. You know, the people who are like houseguests on your favorite shows? They drop by you laugh, and next week, they're gone. No fuss, no muss, no unmade beds and odd odors. You know, how Erkle was before he got annoying?

That's what my blog lacks these days: reoccurring characters. And no, not an Erkle. Nobody needs one of those. I have nightmares where my dreamgirl is being absconded by an army of Erkles and Cousin Olivers. Oh the horror.

That's probably why I don't have reoccurring characters. It's one of many areas where my blog lacks, thank you all for pointing those shortcomings. Please keep your lists to yourself for now. Right now we're concentrating on the reoccurring character aspect; We'll work on Rob's character later.

Many have tried, many have failed.

See I think that’s what everybody needs. Somebody who appears in your life more than once. Somebody you can have an ongoing conversation with. Sort of like a running joke type thing.

Right now I'm going to start small and work my way up. Today I'd like to bring back my Wii. That's right "Wii's back," and that's not even improper English! I just had a friend ask me about my Wii. Since they're unwilling to be a reoccurring character, I figured I'd give Wii the glory.

In previous episodes of Rob's blog we'd discussed Wii as a workout tool. I mean, that's why I bought it, right? Sure it is, and that's why I'm drooling at the Guitar Hero's in my latest Amazon.com email. Because everybody knows if you want to get in shape, you need to act like a rock star. Just ask Keith Richards, he'll tell ya.

For now, I concentrate on more mundane games, like Wii fit. It's my little Love Boat cuz, When I come on board, they're expecting me, and they're promising something for every one. I'm even greated by my own little Julie, the workout director. I just wish it came with a bartender. That would be cool.

I would like to say this about the Wii board: they didn't create the device for the thin skinned. If you quit at everything else, you'll quit the wii qwikwii.

That's cuz of the subtle "motivators," imbedded in the "game." For example, when they ask me to climb on the board. I obey, and the stupid thing sighs! It sounds like "Oh dear lord, fatty's back!" If I wanted forlorn sarcasm, I'd have bought Marvin the Android from the Hitchiker's Guide.

"Just another day of being stepped on by the man…"

Yeah great. The next thing is, that if you aren't good at something, they don't hesitate to tell you. I don't know how many time's they've called me "unbalanced," and they haven't even read my blog yet!

Bastards!

Then there are the exercises. There's one yoga thing I tried. They call it the "Sun Salutation." Apparently by their standard I'm supposed to greet the day by bending over and grabbing my ankles. Am I the only one who finds that a little pessimistic?

There's also this other exercise. They want me to stand on one leg--and yes, those of you who know me can stop laughing. No I mean it! I haven't even gotten to the good part yet. There's more. I stand on one leg, then the "Coach" blows a whistle, I extend he other leg and reach out my opposite arm like I'm reaching for help. I do that well, but there's nothing there and I usually fall. I fall six times then switch legs. I guess there's healing in pain.

This is difficult enough, but since I have no balance, it's actually worse. See, I'm getting better. I might stand a chance of standing up, if it weren't for the first part of the exercise. That's where the trainer says, "Stand on one leg, now raise your knee. Hold it while we calibrate." The machine then does his countdown, before the exercise even begin so it can find my center of balance while I'm swaying like a reed. I'm already falling off the board before it calibrates. Uhm where is the hope here? Then it blows the whistle and I'm expected to hop like a Pirate, then fall over. Meanwhile, I can look up from the floor at Barbie the sadist trainer as she chirps, "You put your foot down didn't you?"

Yeah, I put my foot down. I'm not doing this crap anymore. How's that for putting my foot down! And sure enough, that works for 24 hours. The video trainer is cute, so I'm back the next day for more/

I always come back. I'm her reoccurring character.

So My Wii and I hare creating our own sit-com. I've stored a laugh track, it's good times. Drop by, say hi and you can be a reoccurring character too, while we have a Wii bit of fun.

Yeah, just like reoccurring characters, the Wii jokes never get old. That's cuz Wii's back!

Writing Your Story

Delete! Delete! Delete!

That's how my day started. I hate computers! No not because they're belligerent tools fighting against their assigned lot in life. Hell, that describes me half the time. Why would I rail against that?

¡Viva la revolución!

No my computer hatred is far more visceral. I hate that I can't grab bad prose, rip it out by the roots, crumple it into a ball, and hurl it across the room in disgust. No, any kind of childish tantrum I throw, costs money: Keyboards, monitors, mice. Computers fall apart if you just tap them with the slightest disdain. When it comes to computers, things break. They're more delicate than Rob is a prom dress.

Yeah, I know that leaves plenty of room for "delicacy." It also leaves some nasty retinal burns. I wouldn't close your eyes anytime real soon.

See, everyday I work on perfecting my blog and everyday I spend more time stroking the delete key more than anything else. I guess in certain circles that's a good thing. In perfectionist circles it's a weakness. I may not know much, but I know my people, and they're a sacrificial pyre type lot. Each log measured for precise length and girth, and stacked evenly and precise quantity. When the fire starts, we need to wait for optimal temperature for exact scalding, without chaffing. We're never invited to inquisition parties or witch burnings.

"At this rate we'll never get to the s'mores! Burn him already!"

This morning I started a blog and before I was three paragraphs in I'm hammering the delete key. Nothing's good! Some days finding the words is like shaving my cat with a blender. It's never precise, and the cat is never the same. Something's wrong with his mew.

Ok, you cat people. I didn't do anything. I'm sure even MyEx is holding a doll before the kitties now, "Show me how the bad man touched you!"

It was purely an untested metaphor. I swear. Most of my stuff is untested. Are you kidding? I have to live vicariously through my readers. Do you know how tough that is for a writer? I write what you live so that you can read about it. Clearly we're confused by the direction of our Narcissistic relationship.

Still, sometimes it's good to sit on the sidelines. I just got done with a tough experience. I'm healing now. Maybe it's best if I live through those around me. Maybe I can learn from all our mistakes and make this the best blog ever!

Ok, well maybe not but I can at least make it a little better. In the meantime….

Delete! Delete! Delete!

eHarmony Strikes Back!

"Give 'em what they want."

"There's one born every minute."

Yup the world is rife with cliché's. Find one you like, reach out and take it. They're there for the picking. Today I'm gonna talk about the two printed in black and white with. That's right line up the clay pigeons, cuz I'm killing 2 birds with one stone.

I never understood how those first two statements could be related. The same people use them. They musts be related. Of course the same people wish you'd break a leg too. I'm not thinking I like those people much. I hope there's not one of them born every minute, otherwise we'll be overrun with Tanya Hardings.

"Hi! Ow! Whadidja do that for?"

So what are they talking about here? Ex spouses? Ok, maybe not, but they could be, right? Ask Zsa Zsa Gabor. If you check with Woody Allen, his minutes started later than everybody else's, and well, he hasn't given us what we wanted since Annie Hall.

But no. They're not talking about spouses; they're also talking about audiences. People watching you, me, anybody. I could never figure out how they worked together. How could you give em what they wanted when they were born every minute? Especially when by definition, the one's born every minute are suckers. Suckers, you can't really go through them all in one setting, and you can't put them in your pocket for later; the lint just ruins the whole thing.

Suckers stick to everything and never know what they want.

In 6th grade I wrote a story. It wasn't long, because I wasn't catering to the all day sucker. These were young lollies, and I needed to get in, get out, so nobody got hurt--especially me. I read my story to the class. They loved it. I gave them what they wanted. Two pages of cereal killings. That's right, it was called "Corn Flake's Revenge." It told the tale of a breakfast revolution. The kind that keeps the old oats Quaker quaking in his boots late at night. The kind where General Mills rallies his troops and Cap'n Crunch leads the assault against all the murdering children of the world. "No cluster left behind!" echo's their pantry war cry.

My classmates loved it. For fifteen minutes in my sixth grade, I was cool. It's been downhill ever since. See here's the thing. Once you give them what they want, they want more. That's right, I was the dealer to my sixth grade class, but my supplies were limited to the void in my head.

By popular demand and frequent wedgie, I brought back my whole grain warriors for "Corn Flake Strikes Back," cuz every sucker loves a sequel. In reading my story that day I learned an important lesson. The suckers don't always want what they think they want. You should really make sure before you give it to them. My gobstoppers on a stick didn't want "Weekend at Bernies 2" anymore than the paying public did.

I'm not sure if my story was shoved in the toilet faster than I was; the race was a photo finish and Tommy Shaw has the evidence to prove it. See? I learned that I was the sucker, not them. Ricky Nelson was Garden Party right-on, "You can't please everyone." Still my Tidy Bowl blue hair and urinal mint adam's apple started a new trend in the early punk years. I was back on top. Who cared if everything tasted like pine for weeks?

What's this got to do with anything? Well if you've read my blog before, you realize it probably means nothing more than Rob had nothing better to write about today. Today you'd be wrong. Today would be your minute. Today, I'm giving em what they want. Today, I'm tying my childhood trauma to my latest eHarmony post. Come back tomorrow, cuz tomorrow you'll be dead right.

Remember I said I didn't care? I said I found eHarmony Zen by filling out the forms on a lark--an "experiment?" I still stand by that, but I found I cared more than I thought. See, like I told you before, my profile was corn flake generic. "My name is Rob. I'm a guy. I like words, women and song. I am into deep woks and short peers."

No pic, because I'm aloof, and don't care. I'm dark, brooding and looking for nobody. I just want to see who they set me up with. Hey, a free membership is cheaper than my therapist, and just as insightful. Why, through eHarmony, I now know that I'm "flexible, responsive, and sometimes outgoing." Lucy Van Pelt would have charged me 30 cents and made me kick at a football for that information. I got it for nothing! Wow! I feel like a whole layer of sugary goodness has been licked from my surface. I know guys who go to Vegas for that.

So I received posts over the weekend letting me know my "matches" were up to 16. I leafed through them, and they all sounded sane, so I filed them away and went back to work. Sunday, I received 5 "nudges" (cuz that's what they call them) to post a picture. "Give em what they want," eHarmony said. We've already proven that's my motto, so I gave it to them in 1200x1600 pixel clarity.

Within an hour of posting a pic, 12 of my 16 had closed communication for "other" reasons. I'm thinking "Other" equals "Elephant Man," but I have no proof. They'd probably frown if I showed up on their doorsteps to find out.

"Hello I'm here to find out--"

"AAAAHHHH! It's you!"

"I am not an animal!"

PSHHHHT!

"OW! Mace My eyes! My eyes!"

I don't think anybody wants that. Today I looked in, my final 3 are gone and have been replaced with an Alaskan Husky (no, the dog, not an abominable snow girl), a Neverland Princess (she only exists in Google Maps), and a gopher from my front yard. Yeah, the good the bad the ugly and I'm not sure which is which.

So what do I do? I'm the sucker again. I gave them what I thought they wanted and it wasn't right. Now what?

I went out last night. I was a little frustrated and I needed dental floss. Yeah, dental floss, it's the great relaxer, who knew? Anyway, according to the harmony girls, I needed a lot more than that, but this would have to do for now.

At the grocery store, I'm staring through the multitudes of floss. Minty fresh, deep cleaning action, twine of death, it's all confusing if you don't know what you're looking at. I do. I pride myself in my floss-cipline. When I was young I found out that mint and pine don't go together well, so I had to research other flavors. I find the buttered popcorn goes with most anything.

Anyway, there's a young girl looking at wall of sterile plastic boxes. She knows she wants floss, but she doesn't understand how to tell what's in the box. If she takes one home and opens it, will she get something she doesn't expect? They all look the same from the outside, but from the inside, some will make your gums bleed.

"Do you floss now?"

"no but my hygienist yelled at me."

"yeah, been there."

We laugh, and I start going through the floss. I explain the benefits, and try to help her find one that works for her. I even show her which one supports the weight of an ex boyfriend. She takes special note of that one.

She's cute, she's warm and she's appreciative. Oh, don't look at me that way, she wasn't that appreciative. She was "Thank you" giggle, giggle, have a nice life appreciative. It was nice: I gave her floss and she gave me something more. She proved that I'm not a sucker, and there's not a Rob born every minute, and neither is a person who matches Rob. That person was born one minute, and no more. Our time is coming, it's just not right this minute.

Buzzing with Surprises.

"So what'll it be tonight, Rob."

Baristas one and two are smiling like hostesses to the forbidden fruit tree. "Try something new, Rob. We dare you."

Yeah, right.

They know that too. They know me too well, they know what I'll order before my lips move. Yet tonight, they're pausing, smiles promising forbidden flavors if only I'll try. #1 stands by the register, and #2 has the blender filed with ice. They know me, but tonight they feel naughty. Tonight is a dare.

I was stung by a bee once. Only once. I think the bee that stung me can say the same thing. He'd only stung one human and then he quit. Neither of us liked the experiment. We both quit after our exchange. I gave up falling on bees in the grass, and he gave up on life. His answer seemed a little drastic, but maybe he knew something I didn't. He was just a bee trying to expand his horizons. He didn't know what flower flavor he wanted that day, so he waited for something to hit him.

I always order the froofy drinks on Fridays. I leave the real coffee for the early day. If this were a bar, I'd be ordering a sweet drink with a fruit-kabob jutting out. Yeah, real manly. Still this isn't a bar, it's a coffee shop in the back of a bookstore. I left my manhood at the door next to the chick-lit kiosk. I know, the security guard is holding my balls for me--so to speak.

So I sashay up to the counter, curtsy and the girls take my order. They flirt cuz they know I'm harmless. I let them, cuz I know they're paid to. It's a symbiotic relationship.

"Do you want the usual?"

See? I told you. I'm pathetic, I have a "usual."

'Uhm…" I'm indecisive as usual.

"You want me to make you a surprise?" Says blender-ista.

In my head a Robbie the Robot is spinning madly, "Danger! Danger! Danger!"

"A surprise?"

"You'll like it."

Uh huh, the last surprise I "enjoyed," removed my stinger, my innards, and half my personal belongings. I'm sure MyEx keeps them all in a special place.

"Uh, OK…" yeah. I'm a closet masochist.

"cool!" She smiles and glides up to the syrup udders, jerking flavors like a milk maid maniac.

Regist-ista takes my money as my gaze takes in mad beverage flurry.

"It'll be fine." She offers.

I swallow hard.

She hands me my change and leans in, "If you don't like it, we'll get you something else free."

A surprise…

How do you kill a creature of habit? Jump out from the dark and say "surprise!" No gun, no knife, no sticky tape of death, just the surprise that kills.

"here you go!" Blender-ista smiles.

"Thanks," I take a sip.

It's good!

"It's good!"

"I know. It's…"she wades through a list of ingredients that sound like "Blah, blah, blah…" as if I'm stopping by the "blah" store on the way home. She's proud of her concoction. I am too.

"It's good!" I nod. The nod shows that I meant to say the same thing twice. It's part of my routine. The drink is good though. It tastes like something I used to make with Malibu Rum and Bailey's Irish Cream, except this doesn't have the alcohol. I don't think…

I walk over to an open table: too much excitement. I need to sit; I think I'm going to wheeze soon. My surprise fun muscles are flabby. I really need to work on them. I need to build them up.

I used to find fun in the everyday. Now I just find the everyday in my everyday.

"You got blah in my mundane!"

"You got mundane in my blah!"

"mmm! Tastes great!"

"mmm! Less filling…"

Yeah, I need to workout the fun muscle. I need to break up the day somehow. I'm doing better but it's time to expand. I need to find a new flavor of fun every day. I don't know how, but it'll hit me.

Probably a poor choice of words.

Wayward Storks and Other Things That Thump into Calendars.

August 22, their day. They think they deserve a parade. Why? Because it's a day the stork worked overtime to feed his family of storklets. Chicks? Gosslings? Signets? Over easy-lets with a side of bacon? I don't know. Whatever. My point is, too many people were born this day, and I blame the stork.

I know 2 of them--birthday people, not storks, c'mon! Keep up. If a stork can do this, so can you. Ok, back at the birthday ranch, I sent one celebrant an email, and called the other on the phone. Both stork-droppings were spending time with family. Good for them. Families and birthdays are like cake and ice cream. They go together great, and once they're gone, you can wait another year before seeing them again.

The one I called said that she and her husband took the kids to the state fair. She lives in Minnesota where apparently a "fair" is the state activity--careful. "A fair," two words. The single word variety, although practiced worldwide, is only celebrated in California. Anyway, all summer long the Minnesotans cram in as many fairs as possible. I guess that's cuz in the winter they're too busy cramming logs on the fire to go to a fair. Well that, and it's kind of dangerous.

"In fair news, today three men were impaled when ice-sickles flew off the till-o-whirl. A fair will be thrown tomorrow in memoriam…"

Yup they love their fairs. My friend says that’s how they stock up on their "food on a stick" for the winter. She say's she's got the freezer full of gator sticks now. Now I'm not an expert on sticks or gators, (cuz I'd never let a gator close enough to put on a stick. If he's getting there, he'll get there of his own volition.), but I do know that Minnesota is not the first place I'd think of sticking a gator delicacy. The things you learn when you phone a friend. I guess Regis was right.

My friend thought it would be a good idea to talk about divorce. Yeah, I told you I didn't want your stick and gator, stick to the birthday, thank you. Still it's her birthday. I understand the fascination. If we're not talking about my divorce, we're talking about her getting older.

Fine. Happy Birthday…

"We finalized it last month."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"So how ya doing?"

"Well I was great until you wanted to talk about it. So what's 41 feel like?"

Yeah, we've been friends for 20 years. We can say that kind of stuff to each other. She did give me some interesting insight though after she told me her special birthday words:

"So it's a new beginning?"

"Yeah, that's what I tell myself."

"That's cool. Did-ja get a crowd on your lawn with a wreath and roses to welcome you through?"

"Well no."

"That would have been cool though, right?"

"Well yes. It would have been cool. 'welcome to you're new life Mr. Boyd.' I get a key and a handshake from the mayor. That would have been awesome. I didn't get it."

"Yeah, they probably don't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"It makes divorce look fun. Everybody'd go. Like a fair."

"Yeah, that would be a problem. I could see some sad housewife sitting around saying 'Well I've been at this 20 years Where's my key and my new life?"

"Could start a riot."

"An epidemic."

That's when the conversation turned to the divorce witness protection agency, and how it would be great, to run one. You know, get a divorce, they take you into hiding and give you a new life doing something else: Floyd used to be a pretty accountant for his wife, but after the divorce we moved him to Mayberry and made him a barber.

It was a great idea whose time hasn't come. Just like the stork-o-pult baby placer, the world just isn't ready. It is ready for a change though. At least I am, and my friend was right. I may not have gotten the fanfare and a parade, but it isn't too late to go down to city hall with a gun and demand one. Ok, well maybe that's not what she meant. She's getting older, she talks in riddles.

This is clear though: this is the time to take stock. This divorce thing is like a birthday. We don't really want it, but once it's here, we might as well take a closer look at where we stand. Celebrate or not, both are times for choice. Either you continue as you were, or you change for the new. August 22 is not just their day. It's our day. Today my friends and I celebrate our day in our own ways. Each of us taking stock and looking for the best way to step into tomorrow. Me? I'm gonna go build me a stork-a-pult. It sounds like fun. Maybe later I'll go demand my parade.

Monster Days

Let me start by saying, "Yesterday sucked."

Thank you. Thanks for coming; have a nice day.

Ok, wait, I've roped you in, there's no need in letting you go that easily. Tell you what, if your yesterday sucked, crush your monitor! Well wait. Uhm first off, if you're rushing for your lizard tank stop if you can hear me. Please stop? Simon Says, "Stop?" Oooh. Sheep man: 1, captive nature: 0.

Sorry bout that little guy. Just another victim to man's rampant crimes against reptiles. A bunch of tailless lizards know how you feel. Ok, well death-no tail, not the same. Still, they hurt. It's how the dinosaurs died off you know. Yeah, we ate them. We found out they tasted like chicken and had more meat. Thus ended the Great Lizard era. Look it up. Fred Flintstone will yabba-dabba tell ya. Dinos were really good cooked in boiling tar with mutton in their mouth. Cave women made great dinosaur. Check your cave art. Fat cave dudes pulling away from etched tables of good eats.

It's also why the Godzilla movies were so unbelievable. Nobody in the movies ever looked at his crushing foot and yelled, "Bet that tastes good!" Maybe they did, but not in the English dub. I guess the Japanese conversations could have been more real:

"General! Godzilla is here!"

"Quick, Call Sally Struthers. Tell her, 'problem solved.'"

The reason Godzilla never landed on the California shore line? He didn't want to be chewed up and spit out by the system.

So I know what you're thinking right now. "What does Sally Struthers have to do with your divorce, Rob?" She doesn't. She doesn't even have anything to do with why my day that sucked. That was my bosses fault.

Yeah, we're not getting along again. His idea of a helpful email is, "You suck and you don't care about your job. Love, Dan" My idea of a devoted employee reply is "A team is only as good as their leader." After that it becomes cruise missiles of diversion. Neither of us aims at the real problem: we don't respect each other. Beyond that it gets worse. As readers you know me. You've read my blogs. You know that I have no idea when to shut up. I'm the Energizer bunny of verbage. I keep going and going, and all the firepower in the world isn't stopping this monster.

So our emails progress until we're one step away from a slap fight or a nuclear war. From where I sit, it's hard to tell the difference until the first blast comes. Then it's quite obvious. Then it's too late.

Now I know the score: even if I win, I lose. So now I've got to take a breath, and swallow my pride, dignity and sense of reason, and write an apology. It's like watching the Mission Impossible films--twice: when you're done you just feel dirty and used. It's Godzilla not moving to Los Angeles time all over again.

"Let me see you stripped down to the scales."

Even worse, I swear it's just like my marriage. Nobody says the things that need to be said. And now that it's come to this point, it doesn't matter. This forces me to ask another question about my marriage: Was it really me?

Aww crap! I don't want to ask that!

Thanks Dan for bringing my marriage into this! This email apology is so going to be the worst ever.

So I push the thought aside cuz it's bigger than an elephant in the room. It's a monster. I concentrate on Godzilla. What would Godzilla do? If he came to California, would he eat the Japanese food or would he prefer Mexican? It's a long way to come for just sushi.

I know, I've already said he'd never come to LA. Speaking of which, I was at my writers' group last night and I thought I saw somebody from my past. No, not Godzilla. Just a girl I knew. It wasn't her, but I hate seeing ghosts. They leave me feeling creepy.

Speaking of creepy, I think I crossed the creepy line. I'm standing at the counter trying to figure out what I wanted. I'm in a coffee shop and I can't decide between "coffee" and "coffee." How absurd is that? I know, absurd, but still not creepy. That's coming, you can hear the rumble of big feet. There was a cute young girl waiting behind me, and it just made no sense to make her wait for the second coming of my first clear thought today.

"Do you know what you want?" I ask.

"Uh…yeah."

"Oh, then go ahead, I'm still trying to figure it out."

She looks at the one item menu board and then back to me, nods "yup crazy" and steps up.

"I'll have a coffee, please."

I wish I could tell you I dissuaded her, and converted her to the faith of Rob, but that's more Godzilla fiction. The problem is that I'm still wrapped in wrought thought about my wife/boss and his inability to see the value of our relationship. Oh, and now I'm starting to think this girl looks familiar. That's another problem.

So now I'm staring at the young girl, who is a good 5 years younger than the girl she reminds me of, but I'm convinced it couldn't be her. Ever seen a blind man stare? It's kind of creepy.

Let me put you in the picture. You're at home, you've grabbed a glass of wine, you're sitting down to relax. It's a beautiful night: mid 70's barely any humidity and a slight breeze. You decide to enjoy it all from the front porch. Grabbing glass and bottle, you wander out kick back in the wicker chair, and prop your feet up on the table.

Inhale. "ahhh…" Right? Great.

The wine's a good Sauvignon Blanc, crisp and light, the night is clear and starry. There's a brush just at your shoulder. You whip back to see what touched you and bump noses with Marty Feldman.

Crash!

"AAAAAH!"

Yeah, I figure that's how this girl felt, cuz I'm staring, she whips around with her coffee, sees me with coffee lid eyeballs, and speeds out without stopping for sugar or cream.

"Miss, Your change!"

"Keep it!"

"But you paid with a hundred!"

Gone.

I inspire that in people. Me and Pepe LePew. I'm ok, at least there was a good reason this time. Well, for her running, for me staring, not so much. I don't know. I'm trying to make the most of things, and sometimes I make it worse.

I think it's how Godzilla felt when he crushed his first train. The train was so slick and beautiful, he didn't mean to ruin it, but there were all these tasty Raisinets inside. It was a bad day, he did what he had to do. For me, add that to the picture of the burning Tokyo of my work life and the whole island looks like it's in flames to this raging reptile.

Sure All Godzilla has to do is return to Monster Island for a break, but when your standing in the fire with a maw of fuzzy sheep, spitting wool, and all your world smells like burning chicken. It's hard to walk away. Still it's what we need to do. We learn to walk away from the fights we can, and try not to scare away too many natives. I'm not good at that yet, but I'm trying.

Bucking Like a Man Made Staillion.

I gave in. I admit it. I'm also a little ashamed. I feel kind of dirty. Almost as much as the time Mom caught me hosting the Care Bear fun-time orgy.

"What's Cheer Bear doing to Grumpy Bear?"
"I dunno, but he doesn’t look grumpy anymore."

No, their poly-fuzz was always a little matty after that fur pile. Maybe it was the oil, maybe it--nevermind.

Still this was different. No bears were abused in my latest adventure. It was just me, alone, in my office, with my computer.

The light was low. The monitor glowed with promise. Sirens called from the rocky crags of Bose speakers. Defenses down, my fingers swam the key strokes to shore. Filling in all the pertinent criteria.

I was a creator. A madman looking for a way to make a mate.

"Bring my creation to life!"

Speaking of life, I really need one. Any man who can fill out a eHarmony questionnaire in one setting has way too much caffeine in his blood and plenty of time on his hands. Oh, don't worry, I'm just going to jitter and sit on my hands; I'm not going to do anything but submit the questionnaire. I'm window shopping. I do that when I'm lonely. I needed a computer to tell me that there was a match for me somewhere.

I know, pathetic huh? Wait, grab your popcorn, turn off Lifetime, and get your scroll finger ready, cuz this gets better.

First, for the record, I don't believe in dating sites. It's not that they can't work, it's just that they're not for me. It's like blind dating with cam pics stapled to your fingers.

"Where is thumbkin? where is thumbkin?

"Here I am! Here I am!"

"Run away! Run Away!"

See I'm supposed to fall for somebody who sends in a picture their cousin snapped, because he shoots models (well their pictures anyway. He was acquitted on the other charges). But that's just a glossy mock up; it has nothing to do with the subject.

There are also the girls who can't operate a camera and post the mustache nostril shot from the bust up.

"What knockers!"

Maybe so, but she can't manage a camera, so if you're looking for something long term, she's probably not carrying the brain gene you desire for breeding stock. It may not be a problem, but if you're like me and find Family Guy thematic and poignant, then maybe you should be picky about your partner's brain, unless you aren’t worried by the thoughts of kids confounded by Ziplock technology.

"Abby someone…"

Anyway, these captioned pictures really don't say a thing about who you really are, just what you want me to think. I study people. I like people for what they say, think and feel. I need a whole image not two dimensions of your best side. No matter how endowed that best side may be.

I think authenticity is an recessive trait, but something to be desired. I can't find that in fluffy cameo. I need to see and talk and mentally touch. I'm a tactile learner. Yeah, that got me slapped in 5th grade too.

Sure, I hear you now. "The dates are for learning, Rob." Listen to my reply, "Have you read a word I've written?" Go back and read the older blogs. That's not what Rob dates are for. Rob dates are goal oriented. Rob dates are miles past cursory evaluation. Why would I sit across a table and stammer like an idiot with my voice wavering in and out of "dog whistle" territory for that? If I'm dating you, you've passed the first weeding round. We're now on to Double Jeopardy where there's more Rob stake; you're almost through the hard candy shell. Weeding is handled in the "Hi, My name is Bunny" round.

So I don't do dating sites. Still I do enjoy free samples. I like knowing that somebody finds my generic picture-less profile appealing. Like last night, I got a "flirt" on singlesnet. Apparently a flirt is somebody seeing your profile, and clicking the "flirt" link. That sends you a "Hey! Look at me!" message.

I'm a sheep. I pulled up my flirter's profile:

I dream like all people do. You know that mind blowing wild kinky sex. That lets you explore where you just cant wait to touch that man, Where you have to have him now. I have so much I long to do. I have alot I have never tried... Looking for that sexy younger man that just makes me shake all over. Who wants a Taste of Honey!!!!!

I like to play the following sports:

Equestrian.

"Frau Blucher!"

Yeah, I don't think we all do dream the same way. An interesting addition to this story. Her profile says that she's 29. her blurb says she's looking for a young stallion. What's she mailing me for? I may leave lots of blanks in the profile, but I didn't lie. It says I'm 40. I'm one hoof in the glue factory, and if her profile is anywhere near accurate, I think she'd ride me the rest of the way in.

Now I don't want this to reflect on the site. I did receive another flirt from a woman I did have something in common with: Neither of us posted a picture. She was also an artist who loved exercise. Now, I do exercise, but I don't love it. If you're looking for a workout partner past "pass the salsa," then keep power walking cuz you're probably not looking for me. Exercise is a necessary evil, just like tweezing chest hairs. Ok, that's a lie. I do that for fun.

Now some days these "flirts" and ads for Best Buy are all I get in my emailbox. So when I walk to Outlook, and find only Honey the love filly, and Felicia the energizer bunny I start feeling desperate. Is there somebody out there? Somebody for me? Maybe these sites know more than I do. Maybe Honey is the girl for me. How kinky is "kinky?"

"Put the candle back!"

So I decided to see who was in my free eHarmony file. I spent the night filling in their profile. They asked me about everything. I especially loved the, "Do you have trouble controlling your anger," and "Do you find I need to lie to impress others." questions. Now on the latter question, no matter how I answer, how do they know I'm not lying? That's ok. They never did ask me about the strange long mounds in my backyard...

So I wade through the interrogation to find my perfect match. I feel dirty and pathetic for filling it out, and what's more, I think I'd have jumped through fewer hoops if I called Honey. When I'm done they show me the name of my perfect match. What they won't show me is her picture. Why? Because I'm not a paying member. That's ok, I'm not a paying member and I didn't put in my picture. So there!

I'll just accept that they've given me somebody who'll love me unconditionally, no matter what my faults. I decided to go to bed with the song of love in my heart. In the morning I'd get up and find out about my true match.

This morning I get up and check my mail. I've received a message from my perfect match! Now I didn't send her anything, so I'm touched that she looked in and said, "Oooh! My love!"

I open her mail, and it tells me I've been blocked. She doesn't want to hear from me, ever.

Why?

"Because there are no photos posted/I couldn't see any photos. "

I figure I'll send her a finger puppet to staple to her finger as a consolation prize, because that's apparently what she needs to find love. Still, I'm ok. I knew it wasn't right. I was depending on someone else to make a mate, and they made a monster. It's back to the drawing board for me.

So I continue to try and build the perfect mate from nothing. They tell me I'm mad. It's ok. I'd rather be crazy than to divorce again. I'll get it right this time, even if takes forever. Just lock me in here alone, and no matter how much a beg or plead, don't let me out until I get it right.

I will get it right.