Everybody Has Secrets.

Wanna know a secret about MyEx? She loved hairy toes. That's right, the more Hobbit-like the better. If you came in the came in the room on fuzzy cat feet, she'd lick you over like you were made of nip. I used to shave the cats into a bowl, and dip my freshly bathed Superglued tootsies in the furry remains.

"What happened to the cats?"

"A Slavian hair mite. Check out my feet!"

"ROWR!"

That's right. Oh she tried to hide it, but I knew.

Since she's already driving over here in a truck with a torch, a pitchfork and 30 of her closest friends, you want to hear another secret? She hates people who give out private information.

So do I.

I think one of our problems was that she and I disagreed on what was private. The guy at Macy's asking me to sign up for the card? I'd tell him no thanks and then follow that up with, "I've tried. You guys don't like me."

Later I'd get, "Why the hell did you tell him that?"

"It stops him from asking all the follow-up questions he's required to ask."

"So does simply saying 'No.'"

She's right--sometimes. Sometimes it does, but I was a trenches trained sales person from the great early 90s recession. There are ways around "No" that aren't forbidden by the Geneva Convention. Macy's man is trained to handle objections, I'm trained to give them. MyEx was trained to Nancy Regan through life and "just say no."

It's a difference of philosophy as deep grained as the wood paneling in Grandma's trailer. Ok, maybe deeper than that, but you get my point. It's deep.

I don't believe in secrets. I think keeping secrets makes a bad idea worse. It's like reuniting Limp Bizkit: it just shouldn't happen. You know what should happen? Deflection. I throw public secrets out like chaff. It clouds the private secrets I really don't want to tell you. Sure, I could just say "No," but now you're wondering why I'm saying no. If I tell you about burning my sister's stuffed Baa Lamb as a sacrifice on a Webber Altar, you're no longer wondering about my social security number. You're backing away slowly.

Deflection. I'm not recommending, it, but it is the Ginsu knife of this blogger. I throw enough out there you'll never guess what I want kept secret. That's why I laugh when people say things like, "I don't want to see this on your blog, Rob."

I mean who would think I'd blog about their secrets? First off, unless it's about me, what are the chances I'm gonna bother mentioning it at all? Really? Have you read my blog? I'm like the Los Angeles of bloggers. Unless it relates to me, it must never have happened.

Secondly, I don't really have enough friends who tell me about their deep dark secrets. Still, all three have asked the same thing this week.

"Please don't blog about this, Rob."

"Ok."

It does make me wonder. Is blogging going to keep me out of the dating pool like the yellow water event of 1982? Qhat if I plan a date and the girl finds out I'm a blogger? That means she'll never be about to introduce me to her family. She'll be forever marked as a blogger loving black sheep.

"We used to have such high hopes for Ophelia…"

Even more important to her, is this question: What will Rob post? It's a valid concern. I totally understand. All I can do is point to all my previous posts and say "See?" What do you really know about people I've been with before?

Still, some are bound to walk away. It happens. Of course then I'll be obligated to write a blog about keeping secrets, starting the whole thing over again.

Wanna know a secret about the last woman I was with? She loved hairy toes...