The Scent.

Mowing the lawn. It's a year round SoCal tradition as established as road rage or self love. It's something we Californians do to make us feel good. I usually skip out around Christmas, because light up lawn-deer caught in the mower blade, no matter how tempting, can be dangerous.

"Mommy, what is that twitching man doing to Rudolf?"

"Nevermind Johnny just look at the lights across the street…"

Nope, it's not good. I practice safe mowing.

The one good thing about year round mowing is it gives you plenty of time to observe your environment. My environment now contains a pack of street boys. Yeah, they're just a pack, not really a gang or anything dangerous. Just boys spending too much time on the street.

Did you see the movie Friday? Yeah, well they think they're like that, but these kids are more like Hanson, than Ice Cube. So, it's not like they're threatening.

They sit outside because Mom won't let them inside. Their butts rocked back in plastic chairs, next to their car with speakers thumping. They don't seem to be interested in driving the car anywhere; using it as a stereo is about all the motivation they can muster.

Sometimes I wonder if my street boys are calling the street girls. If so, it doesn't seem to be working so far. The only thing that these guys seem to draw is more boys. I'm thinking I know some gay guys who might be interested in their methodology.

Me, I'm minding my own business. I'm locked in my iPod and my lawn. It's easier. Oh I can still feel their bass. I figure it's only a matter of time before their tribal call alerts a criminal tribe who'd like to know that somebody has a stereo worth stealing. Then the thump will go away. Then maybe the kids will be motivated.

I know. I'm harsh. But I try to keep my lawn tidy, and these neighborhood gnomes don't look tidy.

They're not the same as the next door boys. Oh the next door boys hang out with the street kids sometimes, but the next door boys drive their car. Yesterday, as I was mowing, they loaded up into their car and drove off.

I can't be sure, but I think the next door boys were done waiting for tribal girls. They were on the hunt. How do I know? Two things:

1. I'm not sure how, but the whole truck, smelled like aftershave--that I could smell from my lawn! It wasn't bad, but wow! Do they go to a gas station that offers: scented, unscented? I'm not exaggerating either, because when the truck pulled back up, my back was to street, but the smell was in my nose. I knew they'd come back home. It's like they were chumming the streets with the stuff.

2. Porn bass. That's right, porn bass. I know kids love to drive the cars that thump, but when this car started up the bass beat felt like it was straight from a 70's porno. It's like they were driving the truck from Kill Bill.

"My name is Buck…"

It's funny. I remember being that young, and we did our version of the same thing. We all piled into somebody's car and went prowling. I'm not sure we were as unified in our scent--so I will give them those points--but we still had our special smell.

I'm different now. I don't really prowl. I notice I'm more of a sit and watch guy. I check things out, and then maybe I'll move in. I think the divorce has made me a little more skiddish too. I'm less likely to chase after anything with two legs.

No, some days I'm just as happy to mow my lawn. That scares me. Does that make me just like the Hanson street boys?

What Would Rob Do?

I've been reading things. That's right. Three more books and I get a gold star and a notation in Junior Scholastics. Woo Hoo! Remember Junior Scholastics? Remember how when you were a kid you used to read everything all the time? What happened to that? What happened to people who read? I've noticed people spend way too much time online. I've noticed because I've been online watching.

That's right, I'm always there. If you close that top window, there I am. See? Wave hi! I'm waving. No, no need to look behind you. That guy with the ax? That's not me. Don't look at him. Right now we're talking about me and my discoveries. He can wait. He's got an ax to grind; he'll still be there later.

Ok, let's talk some more about people online. Let's talk about MMORPGs. I'm an authority. I don't play MMORPGs. Lets face it, if I can't pronounce the acronym, I'm probably not going to play it. WYSIWYG? That's an acronym I can get behind. It should be a game. It should be a way of life.

For those of you who only go online to check mail and see that everything is A-OK at AOL, you're probably WTFing ROB and his MMORPGs. That's fine. I am so not a WTF virgin. I've was tossed into that volcano years ago. People always tilt their head and ask me WTF. I can't answer all your questions, but I can offer this about MMORPGs:

The term stands for Massively Multi-player Online Role Playing Game. And no, it has nothing to do with naughty nurse and the tasteless orgies (NNATO), if it were, I might go ahead and play. I'm feeling a little feverish.

"Heal me baby with your thermometer of justice!"

Nope, most MMORPGs are a bunch of Hobbit wannabes forming rings of co-dependence with other halfling halfwits from around the world.

And see? This is the part of the blog where I find out who does MMORPG. Notice the +3 cyber daggers of maiming in my pic? Yup, they're haters and playas. It's ok, don't get too upset. There are plenty of reasons to hate Rob, if you haven't found one yet, you'll all have your own Rob Hater avatars soon enough. I'm planning on starting a MMORPG based on it. I'll call it ROB, it'll cost hundreds to play, millions to continue.

This way to the Egress…

So now the question running through your mind (Other than "Who is that guy behind me and why does he have an ax?") is, "why has Rob wasted a half page on this crappy acronym?" Let me answer that, my friend.

Because MMORPGs are bearing the fiery wrath of the divorce dragon. That's right, divorce is razing cyber cities, leaving simple minded Sims plotting graves of scorched earth. Those thousand points of light? They're all Joan of Arc avatars staking claim to realms of ash.

People aren't happy enough destroying their real lives with divorce, that have to muck with their fantasy world too.

A few months ago I read about a woman who divorced her husband because he couldn't step away from the World of Warcraft. He was an addict, and she was neglected. Ok, she didn't muck up her fantasy life. She probably didn't muck up his much either; she left him in his mom's basement with his computer. He had all he needed.

Still, let me make sure I've got this straight: He couldn't stop playing with himself online long enough to fondle his wife? Really? How hard is that?

"Honey I'm naked slathered in honey and I need somebody to lick me clean before the killer ants get me. Help me you Elvin stud."

"Not now, I'm grinding an orc lord into goblin-mix with pineapple. I have an epic journey tomorrow."

Ok, when did our culture lose it's taste for reality? Who chooses WoW over wow?

Then there's what we had here last week. Did you read about this? There was a woman who's husband announced he was divorcing her, so she did what any other vengeful bride would do. She snuck online, broke into his account, and murdered his Maple Story avatar in it's sleep.

Now, since she logged into his account first, it no longer looks like a murder…that's right, it's a suicide. That's awesome! CSI: Maple Story's Grisham and Willows couldn't find any evidence of wrong doing, just a dead avatar and lots of black light special cyber goo. No sign of foul play.

Here's the real interesting thing: While not facing cyber prison for her crime, the wife may do hard time in a real prison. Yup, Japan takes it's cyber murder seriously. It's not as bad as real murder though. They'll give her 5 years max. Since Maple Story has already ruled it a suicide, they won't ask for extradition. It is an embarrassment on their CSI team though.

See? We spend way too much time online. On the one hand it can bring us closer to the ones we love. Spouses who are separated by real distance can get together and bounce around the net like they're in the same room. But like any other technology we let it absorb us, until our husk perches over a keyboard without any peripheral knowledge of the world outside.

Even you are trapped reading my blog. Go out, have fun, spend time with the one's you love before you end up like me: FUBAR.

Oh yeah, still worried about that guy with the ax? Just ask yourself this: WWRD? In this situation, that'll never steer you wrong more than once.

Things that go Yahtzee! In the Night.

My new refrigerator looms. It's huge. When the delivery guy hooked it up, and pushed it into it's space he said, "fit's perfect."

I said, "well, it doesn't stick out too far."

"No, it's perfect." he insisted, brushing his hands together. I'm not sure if he was that convinced of it's perfection, or of his conviction that that refrigerator wasn't going anywhere else. No matter. I wasn't worried, it wasn't going back. This was just a matter of seeing the space as over full, or under empty.

I'm an under empty kinda guy. I get a little claustrophobic when my appliances loom. I already have an innate fear of the inanimate. All the silver and black in my kitchen makes me feel like a Bronco's fan at a Raiders game, and they're all out of bubble gum…

Yeah, that last joke was a stretch If you got it, you watch way too many B-movies. It's good to have you on board. If you didn't, you can Google away your feline curiosity, or simply follow the blind mans blog. It won't effect your life in any great or grand ways. Just a spooky surprise or smile. Me? I'll just keep going. I see things that make me pause all the time. My promise to you is that I'll do my best to pass them on and keep my blog eternally under empty.

Like my kitchen.

Every time I pass the space, I see the loomer. I waved the delivery guy off and returned to my office. There's the incredible hulk. I'm renaming that space off the dining room, the fridge room.

"fit's perfect."

Huh…under empty…

I should mention I am a multi-tasker. Why should I mention that? Cuz it's unimportant. I need under-filler to support this story, cuz it certainly can't support itself. Besides I never know who who's reading. It may be somebody in need of a multi-tasker. Hi, I'm Rob, I can suit your multi-tasking needs. Watch me weave a story and drop in unimportant facts. All the while, I'll Jack Daniels and sing the National Anthem. I am that good.

Fridge day's multi-tasking didn't include gargling. I'm not even sure I brushed my teeth. That could explain the delivery guy's hurry to get out of the house. Anyway, it did include laundry and that laundry included household stuff I never wash--like rugs. I never wash rugs. I did on fridge day because they were dirty and they were also loomed. That's right funny folk, so were my fruity underwear.

I have faux wood floors, so I leave little rugs everywhere, to add a faux carpet effect. It's like stepping stones for shoed people and horses.

"Follow the rag rugged road…"

Those rugs get really dirty, almost suddenly. One day I'll be walking from one end of the house to the other and go, "HOLY CRAP! THAT'S DIRTY!" and not be talking about the late night movie on Cinemax.

So I gather the rugs and run a few loads just to clean them up. When they're dry, I either lay them back out, or I throw them on the guest room bed, to throw later. I mean, who am I kidding? Nobody is coming to my house, it doesn't need to be immediate.

The latter bed thing is what I did. It was late the house was dark, and I wasn't in the mood to go to the extra effort. There was an extra presence in my house, and I couldn't quite figure it out, and yet it loomed in my subconscious like a refrigerator beckoning a hungry man.

As more under-filler, I should add that the guest bed has a Kermit the Frog on it. It was mine as a kid, and he now wears a Stewart plaid tie my dad gave me to honor my Scottish heritage. I of course have tarnished that heritage by putting it on a frog.

I threw the rugs on the bed and Kermit's bell rang. Funny, he has a tie--not a bell. My Opus has a bell, but he's in the closet. He's been a bad penguin, he needed to be punished.

Bell? There's no light in the guest room so I can't see. I put my hand on the bed and bounce it: no jingle.

Huh.

Maybe it's under the rug stack--whatever. I leave the guestroom, and the floor jingles with my steps.

That's odd…

It must be something I knocked down. I jump up and down: No jingle. Screw it, I'll figure it out later. I need to get back to work. Walking back to the office, I pass the fridge room. There's that presence again.

"It's you, isn't it?"

The fridge stares--and looms.

Creepy.

In my office I work till the wee hours, and get up to relieve myself. I pass the fridge both times, and wonder again, "Is it over full?"

My new fridge does have a night light, so if I want something extra, it'll enhance my evening with a eerie glow. Awesome. On that ray of sunshine, I go to bed.

One problem with new appliances, (because I obviously don't have enough problems with my new appliance) is that they make new noises. My old fridge had an ice maker. It took forever to get used to the ice drop crash. This one is louder. It runs quieter, but it drops ice like 10 kids shooting dice. If I hear, "Yahtzee!" I am so getting out of this house.

There's a new presence. I feel it. The new fridge noises don't help the loud ice, the loud water refill, the strange yowl, just as I fall asleep…

Yowl?

Did my fridge just yowl? I'm half asleep, I heard something. Maybe a weird motor grind. Yowl? My mice don't even yowl. What the hell?

I lie there, listening.

I hear nothing.

More nothing.

Must be my imagination.

I begin to drift.

YOWL!

Holy Crap! Now I'm sitting up in bed. That sounded like a cat! Do I have ghost cats wandering my house?

Me-YOWL!

Definitely a cat. Sounds inside. Where? What? What time is it? 5 am: Not the alarm.

Me-YOWL!

Ok, fine, I'm the man, woman and child of the house. I need to get up and find my voice. I walk to the edge where the hall Ts. One side goes to the living room, the other side goes to the fridge room and the office.

The fridge room. It's you isn't it? You brought this banshee to my house?

Loom!

I wait. Nothing. I stand silently. I'm falling asleep again. I need to move. I slink--er stumble--into the living room.

Motion! Shadow! Dark!

Why is it so dark? Noise to my left. Weight room?

That's it! I'm tired of this. I've seen this movie. Guy chases after cat noise, becomes fridge snack for late night alien. No thanks. I turn on the light. I need to see my nemesis.

I reach over, the light on the porch goes on. Wrong one. I reach over again, the foyer lights up--and there it is, in all it's evil.

2 pounds of black kitten, staring me down. Pink collar with a dollar bell and nickel sized paws.

"Yahtzee!"

I bend down to talk to my captive. I know this girl, she chases my gophers She must have come in with the fridge. I reach out to reassure her. She backs away. I wait, and she turns around like "aren't you following?"

Yeah, I do know her.

"Come here, girl."

After some coaxing she gets close enough for me to reach out and pet her. From there I draw her in. She's a cutie. The only female who's been in this house for quite some time. Apparently females are not as big and scary as I thought.

I pet the cat for a few minutes, before putting her back outside. She was just lost and lonely. Once back in her world, she's back in control. I know how she feels.

It's funny living alone. Cats turn into tigers, fridges become monsters, and life gets scarier. Some days you just have to get up and face it though. And once you know, once you see it for what it is, then you can go back to sleep.

This morning I got up and poured a glass of water from my new refrigerator. I stood back and sipped the cup, and admired the new fridge room. You know what? It fits perfectly.

From My Door to Your Mouth.

I was reading through old blogs when the call came.

"You're delivery will be there between 1 and 3." Click.

It was the short break I needed. I was skimming my blog. The old words from last year's posts bled away my joy, leaving me empty. Some of those old blogs are so lonely and bitter, even though they're trying to be up-beat. It's like having a guy in an a white out blizzard trying to tell you all about Jamaican beaches. You just don't feel the sand between your toes when his brows are glazing with ice. When I talked about moving on in those posts, I don't think I felt that either.

But that was a year ago. This year, there's a new fridge in my kitchen! What's cooler than that--especially when it's turned on! Well there is one thing cooler: the delivery guys hauled away the old one!

Woo Freakin' Hoo! Insert happy jig complete with heel clicking here. It's ok, dance. I'll wait.

The only down side to that exodus is that I needed to "predict" when the fridge movers were gonna get the fridge moved. I needed to be sure it was unpacked, so that it could leave. That was the phone call; I had my 2 hour window. So, I bought a big bag of ice to fit in my cooler. My ice maker wasn't making ice anymore. That's part of why I was getting a new fridge.

Well that and the fact that the milk was curdling on the top shelf. I think that it's fair to say those two things were related though.

Once I'd emptied the inside, it was time to empty the outside. No, I don't keep caramel sauce smattered on the door, so I can lap a lick later, like some Hansel and Gretel drive thru. No, I only keep magnets. Word magnets, and they don't taste good at all.

It's a box of those refrigerator poetry magnets strewn against the door panel. There were a lot of words too, and they all needed to pour down from the freezer door without sloshing onto the floor.

So many words. Refrigerator door poetry is a language all it's own. The broken phrases and mini stanzas, they're incomplete thoughts. There was something on the door about women and melons growing in the garden. Also, a short dark poem I wrote after my ex left. The door was like a photo album for the past year: a mini blog.

Even older. There were words stuck together by MyEx. I remember her telling me I couldn't steal one of her door phrase, because it was hers. Now as I type my own phrasing, I can't remember what her words were. Something about "Luscious," maybe it was "tacos." I dunno; I was in a hurry when I brushed them from the door into a Tupperware bowl. I didn't even think, until after I'd erased everything.

"Oh…"

I'd been in a rush to sweep things down, but there I stood with my word bowl, motionless. I wanted the words meaning back. I wanted the broken phrases and mini stanzas to make sense again. I wanted what they'd represented before...but that was all gone. It was just a jumble bowl of babble soup.

The same way my old blogs were. I mean I understand the words, and even know that they came from me, but I don't feel them anymore. It's all distant. Something that could have easily happened to somebody else, and if I didn't still get the occasional letter addressed to MyEx, I might believe that it did.

I dropped my words on the counter. And went back to work.

Later, the guys came, and rolled the old fridge away. I put my food in the new one and started placing words on the door. My new fridge, my new words, my new life. If you stop by, you can write all you want to mark your time. My words now are all about the future. I'm making new memories and finding new usage for words like "luscious," and "melons" and nobody's here to correct me.

Riddle of the Rob

Here's a riddle for ya: What's brown and smells bad?

Nope. Although technically a correct guess, it's not what I'm asking for. No, this smell is the steak in my freezer: it's no longer what we call, cold. It's no longer what we call good either.

How bout another? What's fleshy, limp and sad? That's right, the chicken in my freezer.

Sigh...

It seems my freezer forgot the purpose inherent in it's title: freeze. Now technically it's just an ice box, and even that is slowly melting. It's now moderately cool storage. Maybe optimal for a computer server room, but hardly a meat server space. I could probably keep food cooler in Lake Michigan right now. It's pretty much a draw for freshness though.

For now, I've shoved the salmon upstream with the pork to breathe by the "brisk" air vent. I'm hoping by isolating them, I can keep them good. That's right, special treatment, they're the good meat. The other meat's gone bad. I don't adhere to the "no meat left behind" policy; when meat turns bad, all the ABC Afterschool Specials on Tivo won't save them. We all know the next step. That's right: smoking and whoring; I won't allow that in my kitchen. And certainly not in my freezer. It won't be long until somebody gets a disease. Not on my watch Mr. chicken...

So I threw out the bad baby with the lukewarm bathwater, and prepared to shop.

Shopping with Rob is always an adventure. There are 2 types of Rob shopping. Type 1 is the "Rob impulse." That's usually me searching out the best gadgets in audio video or computer comfort. It's also reserved to "unnecessary" big ticket items.

That was always an interesting area for MyEx and I. One Rob's "unnecessary" is another MyEx's "obsession." Our definitions of "unnecessary" were only affiliated by the word itself.

"We NEED a new couch."

"it's unnecessary. This one works fine."

"You're walking with a hunch because of the mid-cushion dip."

"But the sofa still supports me…"

Yup. She'd grit her teeth around my wrist and force my hand to make unnecessary purchases. That got us a new sofa, a new entertainment center, new toothbrushes and a new washer. Ok, the washer was important, but only because she refused to pick up the washboard.

"You wanted washboard abs…"

She made a snide retort, but I don't remember her words. I only remember coming to, with a lump on my head and a washboard in my--nevermnid, you get the picture. That's Rob impulse shopping.

The next type of shopping is "Chicken little" shopping. That's the "I need it now variety." There's limited research; it's more like the Fisher Price ball o' shapes shopping. "I need a square. Not a plus, not an octagon…Ah a square. Thank you, goodbye."

That's shopping driven by need. Food not warm enough to revolt is important to me; call me crazy. When the chicken drops from the freezer and starts dancing like a Peter Gabriel video, it's time to replace the fridge or call a priest. Luckily for me I only need the former.

Best Buy sells that. So there I go. I look over their models. I'm torn. On the one hand I'm poor, and this is a "need only" purchase. Then again, I don't plan on buying another one really soon, and if I do buy it, shouldn't it match my other appliances? MyEx liked stainless. That's what my kitchen looks like. If I get a plain white fridge, it's gonna stick out…like the one I have now. And I won't even go into the dirt smudges on white: it makes me feel less manly.

I also need something with metal doors. If it doesn't have them, I'll have no place to put my magnets. That is a shame.

The other problem is the Rob Rule of invariability. That goes as follows: Rob will invariable spend more money than he plans. Watch:

I found a fridge. The little sales girl was cute and helpful. I'm not denying the 2 factors were probably related, but they worked well together, and they worked for me. She smiled. I nodded.

"You like this one, right?"

"Yessss Mistress…."

"Very good."

I did appreciate that she didn't try to see me the Elecrolux with incremental lighting. That's right, when you opened either door, the lights gradually got brighter. I guess that was to help curb the late night snacker blindness epidemic.

"meat loaf….OW! MY EYES! MY EYES!" followed by a tumble crash and an embarrassing trip to the hospital for a rolling-pin-ectomy from the other end. Late night bright lights are no laughing matter, and this fridge was the cure.

It was also outside my price range, so sales girl steered me towards a nice floor sample side by side.

"Cool, right?"

"Yessss Mistress…"

"Very good."

It was $400 cheaper than a new one so I really was excited. It kept my food cool. That's the square. Lets go.

"I can have this delivered on Tuesday."

"Tuesday?"

"Is that a problem?" she pulled a whip from somewhere and cracked it against the desk.

"Actually yes." My warming meat would never make 4 days.

After her whip crack charm didn't work, she tried a new tact: She explained why Tuesday. The warehouse needed to pick it up from the store, and they wouldn't do that until Monday, and then it would take an extra day to turn around.

"And if I order a new one?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh…Well I like this one but I can't wait until Tuesday. And the full price is a little steep."

"What if I took off $100? Cool, right?"

"Yessss Mistress…"

Very good. Visa or Mastercard?"

And that's how Rob's Rule of invariability works. MyEx was well familiar with it, but rarely cared since it worked in her favor. She used it to turn cookware purchases into a cookware, pot rack, and kitchen cabinet purchases. Yes, she used her purchase power for evil, but in the end that evil suited both of us, and that's what mattered.

Rob shopping isn't really that big of a riddle. I'm a guy. My functions are tattooed on my inseam. You can read it if you like, but it's just like anything else; you just need to know how it works. For MyEx and the little sales girl it's worked pretty well.

For me? Well tomorrow I get a new fridge. What more could I ask for?

Shawn Songs

Thursday mornings sound kinda like Shawn Colvin songs coming down through recessed bass-free ceiling cans. Her voice intermittent between broken announcements.

"…Discussing the role of Mary…"

"...She didn't believe in transcendence …"

"…remind you that Heidelberg is a women's only dormitory…"

"...came home with a vengeance…"

"… dog training class in the back of the store is complimentary…"

Eleven years have come full circle through the sound of a woman's voice. The ring overhead plays out while I wait in a lobby twirling a dog cone on my finger.

Eleven years of Thursdays ago I lay napping between Greek Grammar and Interpersonal Communication. I think the nap may have been the most valuable part of the day. Yesterday I waited on a dog. That was the most important part of that day, I assure you.

Cosmo's sutures were being removed, and he's lost his cone. It forces a moment to pause. A moment listen to Shawn Colvin again. Oh, she hadn't gained any new profound advice over time, but she was a soothing voice from my past. A voice coming through college radio speakers, reminding me of another time when I had no time--only motion.

Back then I talked to MyPookie over late night phone calls, and got up for crack o' dawn class, before stumbling through a day and 20 units while sneaking in 2 jobs and 1 internship. I was a busy boy. They called me Scruffy Smurf and Fraggle Rob because haircuts and shaves were for free people with free time.

If I had free time, it was only enough to sneak in a nap between morning classes. I was the radio station manager, and nobody was ever on-air for morning shifts. I'd drop Shawn Colvin in the CD tray, throw down my backpack pillow on the lobby, and drift away an hour .

Shawn would sing about other people, other problems, other lives. Sang the same CD every morning and every morning she sang of people hunkering down and breaking free. Even when she cried about 84,000 different delusions, she cried with the comfort of a warm blanket and a soft pillow.

Thursday mornings I needed just that.

Yesterday's Thursday I sat stationary because I couldn't move. Somebody had shackled my feet to a different lobby where I awaited my repaired dog. The last 2 days had been full. Two days of Bible study, work, and dog. Two days too busy to blog.

It wasn't spectacular busy blog skipping, it was just the day to day of cramming 20 units of work into one day of life. That may have been the biggest lesson I took from college. The other lesson was Shawn Colvin.

Shawn Colvin and writing.

I think that hurt the worst. The last couple of days and no real writing, just clocking a page for pay. Just like my dog and his ear, I felt something wasn't right. I itched without the means to scratch. I love writing. I love my blog. I just didn't have time. So I made up for it the best way I could: I pulled my polished brown nose from the grindstone and looked up other people's blogs for a change. I listened instead of spoke.

I heard Shawn sing. I read other's write. Did you know that somebody's humpty had a great fall, while another nurturer cradled a great secret? When did these things happen? How did I miss them? I've been busy. I'd been blogging.

Still, I don't feel guilty. I mean I was sad, but what could I do? Even if I dropped everything and became unbusy, who would that help? I read with the glory of discovery. I'd taken a moment to find out, to breathe, for somebody else--for them.

Life is that liquid balance between steady motion and Shawn Colvin. We need motion to live, but Shawn to understand. She may not be the most profound vocalist, but she belongs to those moments we need to break and understand our lives through others.

So I am sorry I didn't blog for the last few days. I was busy. I do promise it was for the better though. If you don't like it, blame Cosmo. Blame Shawn.

Blogger excuse file: # 356.2

Hello valued reader! Guess what? No, I'm not leaving you completely in the blog dark, just a little dim. I'm running very, very, very, very, very late today. I'm supposed to be at a Bible study in 30 minutes and I still need to eat and shower.

What are the odds?

Since God seems to be picky about things being in "his time," I figure it's best if I make "His" study on that time table. I've seen what he does to stragglers.

I know, I should ahve written this earlier, but my alarm didn't go off this morning, so I started late, then my dog ate my blogwork and I've been chasing him around all day with a scooper to get my notes. He's been a little constipated, which has only put me further behind.

So, here's the deal. I'm going to my study. I'd love to see God fill in as a guest blogger, but I've heard he's kinda busy with the whole "universe" thing. Fine, great, whatever. If he hasn't written my a blog by the time I get home, I will try to get one up tonight. If I can't then, well, there's always tomorrow.

I'll post as soon as I can, I promise. Thanks for reading, and nows a great time to catch up on past posts!

You're timely blogger,

Rob

Rob Makes a Discovery

Eurisko!

God bless you!

Not really. No. Ok, I do mean that thing about God blessing you. Why wouldn't I? I'm a good Rob, and I wouldn't want anything to happen to my Reader. I mean lets face it, if reading my blog would bring God's blessing, think about my readership then!

Yeah, sorry, unrelated. Still I do wish you his blessings.

No the no was for the Eurisko. It isn't a sneeze; it's Greek. They don't sneeze, they just sit on the beach and look pretty. Well, no they don’t just look pretty on the beach, do they? They seem to make it an art form where ever they sit, stand, or bask. Let's face it: The Greeks are pretty people.

How come it isn't that easy for us Northern European shlubs? Is it because I can use the word "shlub" to describe us?

From here out, any culture that can be described as "shlubs," their men will wear skirts and have knobby knees and hairy butts, and publicly display both.

God bless you, cuz heredity has been cruel.

You can't say that about the Greeks. They even have a cool language. What do they call it? Oh yeah, Greek. How quaint.

It's the Greek that give us words like Eurisko. What does Eurisko mean?

Nope, not a Eurilla Wafer manufacturer.

Well?

I'm waiting.

You suck at this guessing game thing.

Fine. It means "I discover." See, and now Rob's made a discovery for you! Aren't you lucky to have a caring Rob in your corner? That's right. I Rob have discovered the meaning of Eurisko. Now don't you feel fulfilled?

You should. Without Eurisko, people like Edison would never have shouted anything when they made a discovery.

Eureka!

"Ah-Ha!" Hadn't been invented yet, early inventers needed something to proclaim their discovery. Franklin tried "Holy Crap!" when 10,000 volts raced down a kite string at his twitching fingers, but that never caught on. Inventors didn't like their discovery and "Crap" together in the same sentence. Well except the toilet guy, but that's another story.

Eureka!

That's right without Eureka they'd have just held up their finger like a dumbstruck mime. Nobody would have taken Edison seriously then: everybody hates mimes.

So what's this got to do with anything? I know you're hoping I've discovered a way to teleport you to Greece where ten tan toga boys with palm fronds can cool you down and feed you grapes.

Yeah, that would be quite the Eureka.

No, I havent.

I haven't discovered a way to drain blood from a stone so that all deadbeat daddies suddenly cough up their due either; nor have I uncovered the means to deposit all ungrateful exes into one great landfill.

Nope, my discovery is only remotely divorce related: I discovered I was happy, and I thought you should know.

Eureka!

A Little Somethin' For You, Sports Fans.

"Soccer fans really are great fans! They're a lot of fun!"

Uh, wha? I glance up at my TV. There's a young sports girl talking up the Dodger's loss. She's consoling Dodger fans with the allure of soccer fans. I think it's cuz Dodger stadium is being used for soccer in the off season. Yeah, I'm sure that helps.

"Yes Mr. Boyd, we're sorry to hear about your divorce, but the good news is that your ex wife is doing just great. She's happy and moving on. We even have some candid snapshots of her and this physical trainers she's been seeing. Would you like to see?"

Yeah, sucks to be a Dodger fan. Luckily, I'm not. I try to keep that quiet though. LA fans aren't fun like soccer fans. Or maybe they are. I think that's what shocked me most about the girl's statement.

She thinks soccer fans are fun. I think a few South American cinder and ash cities around soccer arenas might disagree. Maybe the players are fun, because she's young and looks fun.

The things we guys will sacrifice for our sport.

On the other hand she's not exactly a brain trust. "Soccer fans are fun," she says with a hair flip and a giggle. Great. So are cute sports girls in strange towns. Film at 11.

Why is it the oblivious think cute consolation statements make us feel better about our tragedies? Why do they feel the need to say anything at all? Sometimes the best thing a person can do is just quietly offer a hug. Words only hurt.

I know what I'm talking about. I've said more than my fair share of little consolation. Unfortunately, I'm not a sports starlet. I can't even give good imaginary consolation. I look more like the shrugging Monopoly guy.

"Sorry?"

Yeah. Take it from me, silence can be best. People don't always want to hear how it's going to get better next season. They may not even believe you right now. Sometimes it's not about knowing somebody has the answers, it's about knowing that somebody cares.

We all take our lumps, but healing is a process. We have to move through it. So, dodger fans, if I'm sitting here in silence, I'm not gloating cuz you lost, it's just my way of telling you that there's always next year...

Rob's People's Problems.

OPP, it's not just a Naughty by Nature thing anymore. Nope. It's now a Rob thing too! And no, I'm not stealing samples from somebody else's wife pantry. In my case, the other P, it is that simple.

Problems. Plural.

That's right, I've been down with other people's problems. Yeah you know me. I'm also down with OCD but that's another perfectly fonted, well balanced, evenly paragraphed post. It'll take hours to write and ages to get just right…I don't really have that kinda time right now. I'm dealing with problems: somebody else's.

See, I always used to joke about having a white knight complex. I'm the guy who rides in and saves the day. For those of you who appreciate an ironic take on that, I recommend Italo Calvino's Non-Existent Knight. I don't recommend much Calvino beyond that. For those of you who don't appreciate it, I recommend yesterday's Pearls Before Swine. You'll get your RDA of irony there too.

"Don't forget the liver…"

Back to knight...if ever I found a damsel, I'd ride in to distress her. It's what I do. I also distress cotton on the side--when I need cash; it's simple. I just suspend little Weevils over it's balls, and it gets really distressed really quick. The suspense is just too much for cotton. It's got so many problems.

So do people. Where ever you look, people got problems. I don't know, I look at mine and go "problems suck." I guess that's why I try to help other people. MyEx and I had different problematic philosophies. While I chased the OPP, she hid behind Douglas Adams' SEP shield. In this case the SE were Somebody Else's, the P problems were all the same.

It was bit of an issue for us. She couldn't understand how I found so many damsels, and I couldn't understand why my not-very-damsel hid behind her shield. It's all about dealing with peoples problems. I think we both chose different paths for avoiding our own.

Don't get my glib wording wrong. I never put a damsel's distress before my wife's. I apologized for doing that once; now I realize that that's not even what happened, but that village has long since burned down and those damsels are all dragon bait. I suck at apologies. I never apologize for the real reasons. I rush in to save the day and realize I'm confused about who and what needs saving. I'm just another knight who forgot to stop for directions.

The problem with knights is they're so busy working the OPP that they never look at their own. That's why I'm having an issue now. I have a friend going through a divorce. I see MyEx and I in her divorce, and I see us playing both roles.

I didn't really want to look at my divorce. I wrapped that up in burlap and weighed it down with a chain and cement lake shoes for a reason. I'm avoiding it.

I see an OP pending divorce, and I see the things that we P did wrong. I don't like the view, but it doesn't really hurt. It's sort of like dissecting a frog after you've had major surgery. Sure, the frog may look kinda similar, but you were too busy huffing resentment and courtroom anesthesia to really care. Sometimes a frog is just a frog, and this one's getting the knife.

Even if that's true though, you can't help but notice the similarities.

"Hey, my frog has a hard time being green, and sung the Rainbow Connection before he croaked! I did that too!"

I see us. I'm ok with that too. I don't think I should ever forget what happened--not completely. I'm not reliving my PP through her PP. There was a person I used to call MyWife, and we used to have a relationship, and who we were makes me who I am. I'd like to believe that's better than I was. If I can use that to ride in and save the day for somebody else, great. If I can't, at least I can hunker down and say, "Yeah, this sucks. I've been there, and you're not nearly as alone as you feel." Because when you've lived it, the O no longer stands for "Other," it means "Our."