The Long Weekend

"Hey!"

"Hey! What's up?" She asks with interest. She knows me; her birthday was a few months ago and the only other reason I'd call is because something is up. She's astute.

Something is up. "I've done something crazy and I need you to tell me so." She's a mom, I know she will. She's also one of my best friends, and won't hesitate to beat me with my own stupidity. That's what friends do. They beat you with love until you come to your senses. I have no sense. This will be a long beating.

"You know I will. Now, What did you do?" I hear her lighting up through the phone. She's expecting a long story.

"I'm going on a weekend getaway with a woman I met online!" I blurt the headline.

"Good for you!" She screams, the bluetooth of pain bite's into my ear.

"Uhm…You know…that was the crazy part, right?"

She blows smoke into the phone, "That's Crazy? That's nothing! The last time you did this, you married her."

"Well, I wasn't planning on going that nutty this time. This is just a weekend."

"Good! Rob's learning! So who is she? What's going on?"

She asks a bunch of questions, so I give her the gore…

It all started a while back. Remember when I first posted about my vacation? This woman does. She emailed me, several times. Nothing weird, or stalkerly, just vacation links stretched into mini sausages leading to cool get away sites.

"How does that look?" She evaluated, looking for better clues. She asked me questions about me as well.

"I dunno. I like fall…"

The next day my mail filled with autumn emails. She wasn't asking for anything, just showing me the sites. As a once bitten dog, I appreciated that. We started talking about seasons and Snausages. comparing scars, and sniffing for scent. In email world, it's hard to get into too much trouble--especially at our tame level.

When things turned dark at my job she started asking about that.

She cared? Whassup with that?

I told her that was going to put a crimp in my vacation plans, but I'd be ok. That's when she made a joke about one of my posts and said she'd show up at my door pretending to sell magazines, just to say "Hi."

"Uhm…well, you'd have to be drunk too, cuz my house is a mess right now, that's the only way I'd let you in, but you're always welcome to try."

A few minutes later a reply came, "Are we ready for that?"

Uhhhh…

I stared at the screen. "NO! NO! NOT READY!" Screamed my inner child, "BAD! BAD THINGS HAPPEN! HORRIBLE THINGS!" there was terror in his voice, and poop in his pants. My inner child wanted nothing to do with this activity, and he had a tantrum to show it.

Unfortunately for him, another part of my anatomy was already hunting and pecking the keyboard:

"I am ready. I know you have your things to work through too though, so that's fine. Besides, I really couldn't have you here cuz this place really is a mess."

The next email was only seconds away, "I'm fine here. Why don't we take a weekend somewhere between us, how does this look?" It was another link, to a nice getaway town.

WOO HOO!!!

"Yeah, I guess that looks ok. We could do that."

So we were set. We made a rough plan and promised to hone it in as the date approached. The next day, I phoned my friend. She's been my back-up for years. She knows where the bodies are hidden, what's more, if mine was going to turn up floating in a lake, it was a good idea to tell her where to look.

"Good for you!" She screamed again, "You'll have to tell me about most of it when you get back."

I laughed. "Of course I will!" We said our good-byes and I began to plan. I started looking at things going on in the area. There was this cool wine and cheese tasting event not too far from us. That looked great too. As one day moved me closer to my vacation I grew more and more excited. That's when I got the next email.

"I'm sorry, I can't do it. Don't be mad, I feel guilty, but I'm not ready."

My heart broke into 2 pieces. A part of me was disappointed, but that wasn't my heart. No, my heart was confused. One half was sad, the other half wanted to make everything alright for her. What could I do? I wasn't mad. It wasn't her fault. I felt like a six year old waiting a year for Disneyland only to find he can't go because his sister has the mumps. Ok, this Disneyland didn't involve any sisters or mumps, but still, you get the idea. The point was: she wasn't ok. This felt weird. I wasn't sure why.

I emailed her back to let her know that I was ok with her decision. I was. I do understand. Sure it was my vacation, but it was also hers and I didn't want her going if she wasn't going to be comfortable. That's not me, and that's not a vacation.

Now you want to hear my guilty secret? The part I didn't even tell her? I was looking forward to having sex. It's been since January 6th, 2007 4:45pm--not that I'm counting. The afternoon was cool, the sex was brief. Does that look like a repeat? It is. I replay it all the time. I know--but that's not the guilty part.

Here's the guilty part. She did disappoint me I was disappointed because I was missing a weekend with a wonderful person. I was disappointed because I wouldn't get to spend time hanging out--yes having sex, but more importantly, getting to know her. I'm a guy. I'm not allowed to be disappointed in that. I'm supposed to be all about the score.

I'm not. I wanted more. You know what I wanted most of all?

I wanted her to know about my job, how I could handle money, that I love children and my parents, that I may not have any friends, but I am really friendly. I can respect a women, and I do know how to touch her, I have interesting things to say, but I am more interested in what she has to say and how her mouth curls, and her eyes glow when she's saying it. I can tip at a restaurant, and drive a car blindfolded--but don't. I don't know how to unhook a garter, but would love the opportunity to practice, I can order a bottle of wine, but I'm a little rusty around the sniffing of the cork, and you know what? You bet your ass I can make her laugh. Even more than any of this though, I wanted to see her smile when she introduced herself.

See, I love making people smile. And I was disappointed I couldn't do that. The disappointing part was really about me, and not abut her. I may joke about it, but the weekend wasn't really all about me. Nothing is. For all my bluster, I'm just secretly a nice guy, and I care, and that's why it didn't feel right.

So what now? I don't know. She may have backed out of a long weekend, but she gave me something better than a 3 day sex smile. She showed me something about me I'd forgotten since the divorce.

I really am a nice guy. I do care about other people, and that's one thing that's impossible to see about ourselves unless it's reflected in somebody else's eyes. We may never meet in person, but she is already a great friend.

You're One in A Million Baby!

One-million dollars. What/who would you do for that much money? Could you make it with one person for 30 years? Could you stay married? Would you could you is my pitch, would you could you to get rich?"

Hey! Where did everybody go?

Yep, an internet site is giving out $1 million, and all you have to do is use their site for your internet shopping, be lucky--oh, and stay married 30 years. Don't they already have a name for people who stay married to gain a large financial settlement? Is internet-digger any better?

Is the divorce rate so bad that we've resorted to flaming hoops and doggie biscuits to see what somebody will do to stay married? Shouldn't that have been round 2 of "The Bachelor?" Not only do you have to marry the dope you need to mud wrestle his tighty whiteys, oh and stay married for 30 years to collect. Now that's a challenge. I'd have done it. Hell, I'd have stayed married for "I love you." but this isn't me, it's you.

Oh who am I kidding? Of course it's me! It's my rant, my post, my blog! You're only an imaginary readership that I use to give myself an audience.

"Blogger? The world will see you now…"

Why didn't I get this million dollar marriage brochure? I think MyEx might have hung out for that. Oh hey, back off…this isn't my high horse I'm sitting on, he's over grazing on the greener grass of some other married couples lawn. No, right now, I'm just sitting on my ass.

Look, I'm not saying MyEx was all abut the money. If she was, well, she sure punched the wrong lottery ticket when she married me. No, what I am saying is that maybe a little incentive would have given her the nudge she needed not to give me the push.

Of course the big question is: Would it have been worth it? I see people wrestle with that question every day. "Is it worth it?" Where do you draw the line. I think $1 million is a great place to start.

Most of us don't get to start there though. We have to scavenge through the remains of love looking for one reason--any reason--to stay. A good marriage is self-replenishing. Sure there are lean years but there are always tasty nibbles if we don't squander them.

"Mmmm…breast meat…"

What happens when one member walks away from the table though? Suddenly the infinite bounty of love is a goony rotting carcass. The stench of time wasted makes your eyes water like there's no tomorrow. Funny coincidence: there isn't, not in that marriage.

What about those couples going for the million who only make it to year 29? That's a mouth full of toothpaste with the OJ chaser.

"You couldn't make it one more year?"

"I might have if you weren't such an asshole!"

Yeah. Great. Might as well toss the rest to the dogs, cuz finding the love there is slim pickings. I don't think that all the money in the world can hold a bad marriage together.

What can? I've been told love, understanding, and compassion are a great start. I thought I started there too. So if I did, did we lay these things down to chase something else? I wonder. Sometimes one person wants the million dollars so bad they can taste it, but the other person just wants to be loved.

"Is that so wrong?"

Yeah, I've resorted to bad SNL humor to punctuate my marriage sentence. I think we deviate when we stop wanting what we want. And now, somebody's offering you 1 million reasons to do just that.

Rob's Great Conclusion.

…When last seen, our anti-dexterous demi-hero dangled over a cliffhanger, suspended by a promise to Paula Puremom, and a licorice whip.

"AAAAAHHHHHHH!"

Yeah, the gaping maws of expectations will eat you every time. You all came here expecting a thrilling ride through Rob's mind but found nothing there.

"This way to the Egress."

See, that's the beginning of our conclusion, and honestly it's the key to everything. Thank you and good night!

Women are complex creatures. They work with the fine tuning of Swiss calibration. One cog out of sync sends the whole system into tumult. Guys? We're a paddle, a ball, and a string.

You want to see my theory in action? Take Paula's post and present it to 100 women. What you'll get is one great nod wave of a bobble-head army. Present it to 100 men and you'll be blinded by incoherent stares. You could have just asked 100 toddler males to solve for Y. Same result. It's all right, just give us something shiny. That's our reset button; we'll revert to default.

"Look it's a pen!"

Ever since Eve stabbed Adam with an apple corer, man has tried to figure out what he did wrong. We've failed. We get it. What's more, every time we think we understand how to get it right, you women all gather in the ladies room for a DEFCON strategy session and change the rules.

"Look Sarah, you need to complain--he's treating you too much like a girl…I know, but you need to take this one for the team here. Thanks. Kendra, from here out: You hate sex. We're all so sorry, but we did draw straws..."

The war between the genders is a horrible thing, because nobody wins, and yet we're both fighting for the same thing: to make you happy. That's it. That's the big secret.

Sure Paula is right, there are pot smoking jobless Xboxers out there, and what's more, they're usually charming as hell. We men call them "boy-coys." (Ok, not really but we should. It's really catchy...) They're used to thin the herds. Cuz see, men want women of quality, and frankly we usually can't tell the difference once you're close enough to smell. Boy-coys are smoking chaff to weed out the dangerous and infirmed.

And that's fine because we know you float the 20 year old bikini models past us to knock off the wandering drake. It's fair. So Paula wants a guy who can respect her as a woman, and treat her like a lady. I want a woman who cares whether I'm listening to her talk, and not just dropping in the random "uh-huh" to placate her. I'd actually love her to say something interesting, rather than sounding out banal chatter as sonar to find her way around the room so she can do tiny tasks. I'm awestruck by a woman who'll sit across a table from me and say, "you know what I find fascinating…" and is willing to prove that it really is!

And yet with every sit-com cut out fed to us, people like Paula and I find our desires taste more and more like gall and bile. Our battlefield general-ities say our counterparts don't exist. The problem is: they do, and they're looking for us, but are lost on the other side of the paper doll battle ground.

I know Paula's disgruntled about working with boys, but that doesn't mean she has to take pop-shots at the rest of us. I came in bearing gifts of chocolate and platitudes, I swear! She's frustrated. I get it, but so am I. I have a side too, as does every other man who missed the cookie cutter gene.

You know what we hate? We hate:

Women who don't want to stay home and be a housewife, but complain about having to go to work. Women who can't handle money. Women who can't take time to understand that men have a grown child gene, but don't have the natural child rearing gene. It's a learned thing. Work with us, and a real man will try. I swear he will, but don't just bitch because we can't wrap a diaper like a tortilla before baby kickboxer decides it's time to shower the world with love. We hate women who hate us for not having friends, when we've dedicated our lives to making the woman happy; while the other friends in our lives fell away, we kept our focus on who was important. We hate men who can't respect women too, but we also hate women who have no compassion for men. We hate anybody who has nothing interesting to say. We hate women who complain about how we tip. We hate women who hate the way we drive, and make gasping noises in the passenger seat while pumping an imaginary break, clinging to the "oh shit!" bar, but refuse to drive themselves. "No, it's ok, you drive just fine--WATCH OUT!" We hate women who won't help or teach us to unhook garters. We love that you wear them, but since we don't wear them ourselves they might as well be Ikea furniture, cuz we haven't got a clue. We hate women who "don't care" what wine we get, but roll their eyes when we chose the wrong one, when even the waiter has the courtesy to coach us through the "sample" process. What's more, I hate women who don't laugh at my jokes!

There I've said it! Do I feel better? No, not at all. It didn't fill that void waiting for a women who understands me. I don't think Paula felt better either, but I can't speak for her, I'm not a woman. The problem is we approach this thing like an offensive. If both sides took time away from drawing up lists of things they hate, and shared the things they loved with the person across the table, the hate list would gradually disappear. Everything about sex, love, and marriage comes down to communication.

"uhm…no, not there…"

If we share our expectations, the right partner will ignite them. The wrong partner will light up like a flare. If you're expecting a psychic, you'll get the con artist every time.

So if I agree with Paula, why am I taking so much time and space to argue with her? Because, that's how the genders cross communicate.

Ms. Paula's Wild Ride.

"Let me clear my throat…"

Eh-h-h-hem.

That's a Lutheran custom. It's used to express great displeasure and disdain. Had this been a true emergency of Biblical proportion, it would have been followed by a stern and orderly shuffling of feet.

This wasn't.

There won't be.

There is still a loud throat clearing. It wasn't expressing great displeasure though, so maybe I'm abusing my cultured powers of ire. Maybe I should just raise my hand.

…

…

Nobody's calling on me. Hmmm. How can I be heard if I don't know what's expected? I could wait here forever, suspended in anticipation. According to D360 Paula, that's tough. I should know. And if I don't know? Well this is her post, maybe she'll tell me.

Thanks Paula.

Actually, that's not sarcasm either. I mean it. Pensively proud Paula posted (damn! I just really wanted to say that!), "There now you know." except now I don't know. She filled her post with questions. How can I know? Now I'm less filled with answers than I was when I began to read pondering Paula's post.

"There's a hole in your bucket, dear Robby, dear Robby…"

Paula wanted express her stance on women's lib culture vs. cultural chivalry, or the cake and eat it too clause in gender relations. She also wanted men to grow up. She asked why she had to wear the pants and carry the balls to work while hubby stayed chained to the home, saving his Xbox from certain damnation. What happened to the good old days and knights?

Persistent Paula penned and panned man for not painting her in Penelope Trueheart fashion, complete with white picket fence. Me? My heart pumped a sad pitter-pat for poor Paula. It really did. Still, as she said, there are two sides. She gave her side, and I wanted to give mine.

Allow me to retort…

I've come to represent the league of Robby man-boys. I can't speak for all mandom--just the Robby man-boys. I do have insight to the questions that perplex you. I will do my best to impart it without making too big of a mess.

First I wish Posting Paula had proved precognizant and posted this a few weeks ago, when I could have answered confidently, "Hey! I have a job!" Now I'm dancing back and forth on the subject like I'm locked in a pee-pee dance. So excuse me while I hip-hop around this one for now.

Second I think posting Paula presents apples and oranges--or in her crate, Barbies and Kens. Both are plastic fetishes crafted in the image of the ideal, and yet both are missing all the important parts that individualize us. Gender generalizations rarely work. There are always too many exceptions.

Be patient Paula, I'll answer your questions. I'll tell you what to expect.

I'll tell you everything, even though you already know.

I'll tell you...tomorrow.

There! the fuzzy bunny slipper's on the other foot. How does it feel to have all the questions with only the 42 answer? Here, have the controller, try not to get Master Chief killed, I'm going to work. When I get back, everything will be revealed.

…ask me a bunch of questions with no answer! I'll show you...

Tomorrow…

D360 and The Lucky Butt.

"...I'm as hot as a Texas Summer--"

Huh, and I always thought Arizona was the hot spot. Apparently it's the wrong kind of hot spot here. Arizona makes you sweat; the woman writing may be sweating, but it's not the sunshine that has her in heat.

It's her blog on D360 that's heating up my monitor. A woman who'd gone through an icy divorce was talking about melting the seats in an SUV. She'd written a post to say that D360 was her good luck fetish: a lucky butt. Lucky butt? Yeah, my words not hers. Fetish too, but I don't know what went on in the back seat--Ok I know, but I don't have pictures. There could have been a fetish or two that just weren't presenting.

Enough fetish for one post, let's talk about the butt. The lucky butt was a guy. I was younger then and more impressionable, but as the story goes, he was the butt of a University homecoming tradition. He'd rub his butt on the stadium, and the team would win the game. Really, it was an excuse to drink beer and get half naked. That's how I understand the ritual now. But hey, I think that was the goal for most college traditions so okay, mission accomplished!

"Where do you see yourself in 3 years Mr. Boyd?"

"Half naked, drinking beers with the girl in Heidelberg 204..."

I never achieved my goal. That mission was unattainable.

The mission on my monitor was different. The woman posted that she wanted to get laid. She'd rubbed herself against the D360 monitor, and presto chango! Within a week, she's in the back of the van doing everything but missionary.

So this week I've been rubbing myself against the monitor. I think MyEx's cats would be proud. I don't really purr when I rub, but then again, I'm not really getting the results I desired either.

This whole D360 lucky butt thing has left me wondering though. I've been doing a lot of soul searching while picking static hair curlies off my monitor screen and I'm starting to see things in a different light.

See, I've been where she is. Well not in the back of an SUV with a wet pet vet, but the really, really, really, really (to the power of a third grade term paper) wanting sex thing. MyEx left over a year ago and the last sex I had was January 6th, 2007 4:45pm--not that I'm counting. The afternoon was cool, the sex was brief. I have it on replay in a sticky corner of my mind if you want to see. No, no…I wouldn't sit there…

I'm getting past that. I've got some control over those desires now. Even if it's only Velcro chaining the Kong, I'll take what I can get. The thing I didn't know though, is that there's another phase after the wall hump phase and it's a little weirder.

The wall thing I understand: It's physical. The next phase is emotional, and a little more dangerous. The next phase is "I want to get married again." Yeah, I see everybody stepping back from the monitor slowly. All the lucky love rub is gone, and the face that looks on Rob is the face of horror.

"Get Out!"

It's true though. There comes a point in the recovery process where you go, "I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life! I want to get married again!" This isn't something you can cure with a complete stranger on a Chrysler hood, in a car park at Denny's. This is something more intimate that requires a third person, a safety word (like "I Do"), and a Bible or official document.

Now the Texas Summer sweat turns Georgia August swelter: it's stifling and cloying. What's more, it's far more critical to get over the priest hump than the wall hump without a hitch. I'm relieved to say I did.

That's not to say that I'm don't want either of these things anymore. I do want to get married--someday, and to the right person--and sex? Yeah, I definitely still want that. Cuz, just cuz I'm not humping the wall anymore, doesn't mean that I wouldn't like a sexy vet to knock on my door with a leash and collar.

So where am I now? According to Google maps, I'm here. There's a huge red pin through my blue roof and it's blocking my hallway. Where's here? Well, when MyEx left, I was ready for sex, when The Papers arrived I was ready for marriage, now I'm ready for a relationship.

Maybe short, maybe long. Just time with an interesting person who's interested in me. It's beyond emotional and physical, it's…real.

What does that mean? It means it's all about me (as most things are). I've done this long enough that I don't need the other two things to survive. I'll be happy to see them. But I'm sated without. That doesn't mean that I'll never be lonely or horny again. I will, but the lonely and horny aren't who I am. I'm Rob, nice to meet you, let me wipe my hand before you shake it.

There are other sides to me that are more compelling than either of these two things. I know that. If somebody else sees that, then cool, let her knock on my door and say hi. If she's got the collar and leash, then better yet, we'll see where it leads. Maybe my dog will get walked, maybe not.

"Dude! I so thought that was for me! Well at least I got food, water, and pets out of the deal…"

As each day passes I'm more comfortable with me, which is ironic, because It's what makes me better to be with somebody else. That doesn't mean I think I'm better than Texas Summer, it's just that I'm past that for now. Just like I'm past the lucky butt thing too. I'm still rubbing my monitor though. It's gotta bring me something.

Sensual Hibernation?

Call the news team! I ate dinner out last night. That's right, Rob and a meal: intimate evening. I needed it.

Let me clarify, this out was not fast food out. This out was "cater to my whims and needs" out. I don't do whim cater dining often, because it's often awkward. It's awkward because I'm alone. Alone means I have to answer all the "do you need to wait," "is your other party coming" questions. Just once I'd love to answer "No, she's here, under the table." Just once I'd like that to be true. It's never true and I never answer that way. The people who ask this "alone" question touch my food. Food handlers don't appreciate sarcasm.

"Hope you enjoy your special meal Mr. Boyd."

No, I treat wait staff like royalty. That's why when my waitress du jour (who will be further referred to as Princess Bethany) asks the question, I reply, sitting up straight, with my hands folded in my lap, "No, I'll be dining alone tonight. Thank you, my lady."

Yes, I'm a writer. I see the irony. I come to be pampered, yet I'm the one wearing the kit gloves and sprinkling the talcum. And just what are "kit" gloves? Are they for cats or models? Does Kate Moss ask her men to wear them? Do models blow up like halogen bulbs if you don't wear them (Wear the gloves, not the models. Please keep up and don't stop to look in the gutter. The jokes are all up here.).

Oh, "Kid" gloves? Really? Well that makes even less sense, unless you're Michael Jackson…

These are the things that keep me awake at night.

"Rob-by, oh Rob-by…"

"Out of my closet Michael."

During my meal last night something else lurked in the dark door of my mind's closet. The something that happened after Princess Bethany brought me my chicken enchilada.

The enchilada looked really tasty, flanked with beans and rice, and smothered with green sauce. I took a bite, and the first flavor was the tart sauce, strong and flavorful, just what you'd expect. The next flavor was the chicken. It wasn't what you'd expect; it tasted sad.

Not sad as in, "unpleasant." Sad as in "ready to cry." Now I don't believe my local Mexican bistro froze the last mournful "I don't want to die" cry in my hen before lopping her head off. They can't do that? Can they? Then again maybe that's what kid gloves are for. I dunno. I'm just a guy trying to understand flavors again.

When I was married everything tasted married. A shared taste: blends and harmonies. It wasn't bad. It was different. Now things are lining up a new Jelly Belly Batch of flavors, and last nights flavor was fleshy sad.

Can flavors hold emotion? We see texture, touch memories, and smell what the Rock is cookin', why can't flavors hold emotion? Last night my chicken tasted like MyEx. I mean I'd only tasted her gall and ire, but seriously: chicken.

Is that weird? I mean of course it is. Weird is my blog's middle name. Still, I was counting on my chicken to hatch into an idea. It was supposed to tell me something insightful, sort of a Mexican fortune enchilada. Instead, it just tasted sad.

The real question is this: which came first, MyEx or the sad. I mean I say I associate the sad to MyEx, but isn't it possible that I'm doing the reverse? What if sadness isn't MyEx, but MyEx is sadness? Follow? It's all about which is the chicken and which is the feather.

If I taste the sad because it's part of MyEx, it'll always going to be that way. Sad = MyEx. If I'm tasting the sad, and thinking MyEx because she represents the sadness of the moment, then that will change as my sadness taste evolves.

"This one tastes like Ex Wife 08, with a hint of first-love bittersweet. This one over here is an odd blend of 'I drove all day to find Disneyland closed' with a nutty "raining mice and ducks' irony. I don't know which is more sad."

"Would you like to try the dry humor sir?"

I'm divorced. Things have changed. How I eat out, how I chose my food, and yes, how it tastes. All my things have changed. All my tastes have changed. Last night I had a wench serve me coffee, Tonight, Princess Bethany gathers my meal. She looks radiant. I'll leave her a good tip; maybe her highness will smile on me.

Freedom

There's freedom in failure. Oh it's not the freedom we want. I mean really, who knocks on their neighbor's door at 3 am asking for a heaping cup of failure?

Really? You need new neighbors, or maybe you should at least pitch in and get them a dominatrix. Somebody who can teach them to suck it up…so to speak.

Still, Freedom, failure, you see the connection, right? Just because you close your eyes and pretend not to see the naked wilder beast guy across the street as he's making grilled cheese, doesn't mean he's not there. Squint. Yup, there it is. That tiny thing he almost smacked with the spatula? That's freedom.

I've spent the last few months fretting over my work. I just realized last night, there's no way I'm keeping this job. It's not a "Do I want to do what it requires to stay." it's "I can't do what it requires to stay." The writing's on the dry erase board and I've got a purple nose.

Wow…

Really?

Yeah. The "S" and the "T" of it is too much, too little, too not Rob. I've known Rob for 40 years now, and I've gotten pretty used to where he rocks and where he flings poo. Things that require manual dexterity like say..walking? I can't do those things. Oh I can get the job done, but the job isn't pretty, and it'll take much longer than it's worth-- unless you're watching for the slapstick factor. Then there's some serious dividends. Don't believe me? Let me just say this: I once trapped myself under a rolling rack in an elevator: all by myself.

Imagine if you will, normal scene: rack with men's shirts on one side of the elevator, Rob on the other. Doors close.

Doors open. Shirts everywhere. Rack tipped. Rob trapped. Hands and legs pinned to wall and floor.

What the…

"help…me…"

Why do you think MyEx and I kept a box of Band-Aids and a tube of antiseptic in the bedroom? It wasn't cuz the activity was that wild. It was because Rob was that dangerous.

"My eye! My eye!"

Yeah. You get the point. Something else I'm not good at? Mindless work. If you allow my mind to wander, it will. After a few minutes, it's in the neighbors yard, leg up, peeing on the roses, and paws up, peering in the window.

Oh man, he's naked again! That sandwich does look good though...

My mind is an aimless puppy without a leash. It'll do everything from split the atom to wonder what's the matter with Grey's Anatomy. It has lots it can do, and it won't stay in one place without a tether. "S" and "T" are not enough keys to lock it up and keep it from getting bored.

My bosses are convinced that I'm doing my work too fast. That's not the problem Still, I'm the employee. I live to serve. I've slowed down.

But I've been going through my work. Slow or fast, I don't see a change. I can't focus on 2 keys. I need more. I suppose this should bug me; I mean, what do I do now? It doesn't bug me. I'm free.

My step father had a cabin on a lake in Minnesota. When I was 15, I stayed there with him for a few weeks during summer break. We did bonding things. High on his bonding list was taking Rob fishing. It's an idea. Not a good one, but hey, I was a kid. I followed others idea-rides of fun, no matter what tree they crashed into.

Now many have tried to teach Rob to fish, and many have failed. Rob still can only eat for one day.

Yeah, it's kind of a boomerang joke. Give it time. It'll come back, I promise. I’m just gonna continue without you if you don't mind...

…was a little dingy. It was tied to a dock in front of the cabin. We collected some poles some beer, some soda and I rowed us out to the middle of the lake. We'd have gone further, but one of the oars snapped in half. I thought about the Bullwinkle "Guess I don't know my own strength" joke, but my stepdad didn't seem in a good mood for impressions. We talked about moving on, but considering the circular logic of one oar rowing, we decided this was a good place to fish.

Stepdad popped open a beer while I fished out the poles.

"Use the blue one, that's my brothers."

"ok" I handed him the other pole. The little boat shifted as I moved around. I wondered how easy it would be to fall in. I didn't really want to find out...

An expert at boat balance, Stepdad made it look easy. Two hands, suspended parallel at ear level, swayed with the shifting boat; one steadied a beer, the other flicked at the end of a wrist to cast the lure deep into the lake. A Pall Mall dangled from his lips for effect.

"That's how it's done, Rob."

"Cool." I took a mental picture, cuz it was never gonna look like that when I was done.

I'm still not even in the smoking scarecrow pose yet, cuz I'm trying to untangle the excess line from around my pole. The lures hook is caught on something. In thirty seconds it will be caught on my finger.

Wait for it…

And now...

"OW!"

There it is. The good news is that the hook is now free from everything else. I pull the barb through the flesh and have successfully added the incentive needed to catch a blood thirsty man eater.

Gonna need a bigger boat…

Ok, maybe not, but maybe I can catch something better than the sunfish I grab by hand from the shore by tossing out bread crumbs.

I cast, and the lure goes nowhere. It's hanging 7 inches from the tip of the pole. I cast again. Same thing. The lure has decided to make the fish jump through hoops today.

"What's wrong?" Says dad. His voice really says, "What are you doing wrong?"

"I dunno. It won't cast."

"Let me see it." he stands up and takes the pole.

I lean over and pick up my Dr. Pepper. Maybe a little quick, because the little boat rocks.

"Careful!" Dad shifts his lake leg balance and glares down at me.

"Sorry" I offer, skulking behind the soda can.

Grumbling something about paying attention, he casts, the cigarette dots punctuation to whatever he's saying I'm doing wrong. Dad's determined to show me how it's done. He does. The little blue lure sails out further than I can see. I do catch a small ripple in the distance, that's either a fish or where my lure landed. Taking the pole, I look at the tip. 7 inches from the tips hangs the line, then nothing. The lure is no longer attached. Nice cast!

"Uhm, Dad?"

"What?'

"We have a problem." I shake the pole towards his face.

"Watch it--aw crap!" Ok, he didn't say crap. Crap is not in the fisherman's vocabulary, it's not in my stepdads either. The word he used actually suggested another body part altogether doing something my 15 year old mind had only wet dreamt about.

"Crap!" He didn't say it again. "let me see the pole."

I swung it towards him. Of course he moved, and so "towards" became more, "at." He dodged the motion by pivoting against the side of the boat, and falling outside of it.

Yes, I'm 15 and getting a Sesame Street lesson: "Dad was inside the boat, now he's outside the boat." I say nothing.

Once again, very impressive. At this point the afternoon was kind of exasperating. I'd been frustrated at every turn. So had my stepdad. When he tried to pull himself into the boat, he nearly capsized it. The bottom filled half full of the water from his optimism. His beer fell out, so did one of his shoes, and his brother's lure-less pole. I think it went searching for it's mate at the bottom of the lake.

My Dr. Pepper now tastes like Davy Jones' Locker. I pull off the Styrofoam can cooler and start bailing the boat: 12oz.s at a time. Dad's treading water looking for ways back in the boat. I'm actually ok with him hanging out right now. I'm two cases into sloshing water outside; I think we're both practicing futility.

He disagrees. He tries another sneak attack over the side again. This time is the fat man that broke the dingy's back. Red rover, red rover send Robby on over. I'm flipping out the other side trying to counteract his surprise surge. The boat is now upside down. It makes a great floatation device.

Two guys out fishing. That's what we're supposed to be. That's what we're not. We're 3 capsized dingies and all the jetsam you can take.

It was more than I could take. I began to laugh my ass off. I couldn't stop. It was too funny. There was freedom in failure, and I was as free as a fish out of water.

The story ends. We obviously got back to shore. A guy in a real boat saw us and picked us up after we'd swam half the way back with the boat in tow. 3 days later my step dad's shoes washed up on shore. We never saw the poles or the lure again.

Today, I'm here towing my S.S. "S" and "T" into shore. It's over. It's ruined. I still have a job, but I know that that's only a matter of time. I'm free and I can't help but laugh.

I also can't help but think about my divorce. I was out of town when MyEx swam to shore. I was floundering in my own pool. We'd both capsized our boat and were doing the best we could. I'll never understand her reasons for leaving, but I can respect the need. Was she laughing at our new found freedom?

Top Ten

"What are your top ten albums?"

"What?"

"You heard me, give me ten."

What is this? Some High Fidelity boot camp? Top ten, I don't have a top ten. Yet this this is how people relate. Dog's stiff butts, we share organized lists of our lives.

What's really weird is despite what I do, everything but my job has revolved around music lately. This conversation is only a small chunk of exposed rock. The rest of the mountain involves friends goats and gurus (oh my!)

Ok, maybe not so many goats. Sorry, I didn't mean to get your gruff. Yeah, there I go again…Let's start from scratch. Hi, I'm Rob, I blog. I tell really bad jokes. and I'm a musiholic.

Hi Rob.

I've been listening to music ever since I was a little kid. I remember listening to "Live and Let Die" on the radio, staring into the speaker. I wanted to know where the orchestrated typewriter was hidden. That's what the instrumental part always sounded like. I never saw the Bond action, Bond women, or Bond guns they were alluding to, cuz I'd never seen the movie. I had seen a typwriters and the horns reminded me of a pattern of keys descending to the end of the line, followed by a carriage return to start anew. Yeah, I am that old. I remember manual typewriters. I even owned one.

Not the little Robby in this story though. He was too young. He couldn't spell QWERTY, let alone type it. He did see music though, and to him, "Live and Let Die" was music to type to. I'm not sure Sir Paul would appreciate my secretarial view of his spy theme.

"Red Swingline's are Forever…"

That's the point though, how do we really gauge "top ten." These songs are the pretty songs and they're better than everybody else. Who are we to judge? Jessica Simpson could be a stellar musician in somebody sky. We can only gauge by the patterns we see, and they're strung together by the people, the places and the things we recognize. That's right, Music is a celestial noun. It's the noun. Grease is the word though, in case you were curious.

"So what is it?"

"What?"

"Your top ten? You're stalling.

"Yeah, so?"

Can you blame me? Top ten lists are a stairway to heaven. They're long, overrated and everybody who hears it thinks they can recreate it. Normally they fail miserably. Top ten lists are personal, but everybody wants to show how cool and trendy they are by raising up stuff they've listened to twice because "Critics liked it." Yeah, critics lauded my marriage too, and look where that got us. People's lists are an exercise in futility: they're nothing more than whispers of somebody else's gods, now long dead.

I'd much rather swim the lochs of the living. Surround myself with musical waves that pulse and rise to the beat of a different drummer. I want to feel the caress of fresh currents and old favorites, not wallow in the stagnant pond of decayed vinyl. Music moves, and what moves me today, may not even make a plop ripple tomorrow.

The point is, we like what we like when we like it. If we lock on to ten faves and cling to them like a sunken treasure, how do we know what wonders will stream past?

Yeah, I know this is my divorce blog, and if you're trying to draw the marriage analogy to my music analogy it will never string together. Music isn't marriage. It's a part of it, but it's like judging a Mozart by his piccolo. Marriage requires a blog full of orchestrated love, right now we're just talking about the piccolo. Don't make it more than it is.

"C'mon, I'm sure your list is incredible!"

"It is."

"Well what's on it?"

"I can't tell you. I've blocked it out. MyEx and I--we used to argue about this all the time."

"Oh I'm sorry. I…uhm...Did you catch the Emmy's last night?"

"Yeah…"

See? It's personal. Not like divorce. Divorce is singing your top ten solo's to an empty loge, but sometimes you can use that to your advantage. Relating things to my ex is a song I've sang a hundred times, and yeah, it's on my top ten list.