B & E & Me

Have you ever felt broken in?  Like a shoe: more sneaker than loafer: nice, stretched, tonguey, and laced. What about like a house: violated, broken, and trashed?

 

Have you ever noticed how that happens?  Some times one term conveys two very different concepts.  “Broken in” is a great example. It’s good, it’s bad, it’s Clint Eastwood ugly.  What do I mean by that?  I have no idea, but I’ve broken in my language set, and I can’t say good and bad without adding Clint Eastwood every time.

 

 Somebody broke in at my neighbor’s house Thanksgiving night.  Yeah, my neighbors were out of town when they found they had a little less to be thankful for.  Luckily they had the guy across the street feeding their dog.  He called them when he saw the broken glass in the bottom of their swimming pool.

 

They didn’t have me feeding their dog.  Why?  Because apparently I can’t even hear the breaking glass when somebody busts windows only a stone’s throw away.  I’m sitting in my office with an open door that faces their house and I hear nothing.  God only knows what would have happened to their dog if I’d been trusted to feed him.

 

Then again, I blame the dog--not for breaking in, because he can’t throw a brick through a window.  How can a dog that doesn’t know how to dissuade burglars know how to break in? And that’s why I blame the dog: he let them in.  Somebody didn’t break in the dog correctly.

 

I blame the owners.

 

Then again, maybe they blame me:  I didn’t hear the glass cacophony. I didn’t hear it, but that’s probably because I was busy breaking in.

 

What?  No!  Not into their house!  The thieves took their Wii; why would I want a Wii when I have one Wii of my own.  Yeah, that’s all the thieves took.  They left the cables dangling from the back of the 50” plasma television, and left all the games. Clearly their break inners were amateurs.

 

My breaking in was quite professional.  I spent part of my Thanksgiving evening stretching and talking: becoming comfortable.  And no, it’s not professional because I paid somebody.  It’s professional because I’m experienced.  My breaking in was me familiarizing myself with another soul.

 

It’s that little dance we do when we spend time learning about somebody we’d like to spend time with.  It’s that hokey pokey of disclosure and discovery.

 

You put the right words in, you take the right words out…

 

I was emailing my pixie friend from a month ago. You remember her, the Kim Deal cool Halloween pixie. We’ve continued our friendship, and have started asking those probing questions that shape the course of any future friendship:

“So what did you think of Pulp Fiction?”

 

In this way we break each other in.  In this way, we try each other on, and check our fit.  Nobody ever fits perfect.

 

“I hated it.”

“Really? How is that possible?”

 

What’s interesting is that what happened with me and what happened with my neighbor isn’t very different.  We both exposed our vulnerabilities. We both gave somebody else a chance to take something from us. For me, that was a bigger risk.  I’m divorced.  I’ve put myself out there before, and after seven years, come home to a vandalized heart.  At least she wiped her feet on the Rob mat as she left.

 

Of course if you ask MyEx, she’ll say that she was the one who was Robbed.  Either way, I’m sure everybody can agree in our case, nobody kept their Whee.  Now neither of us leaves our windows open at night.

 

My pixie friend could be Tinkerbelle cute, but I’d thinking twice before handing her a brick anywhere.

 

“What do you mean you never saw Spamalot!”

 

See, cuz when you’re breaking somebody in, anything can be used against you. So this hokey pokey is performed in a minefield, and you never know which shaking it all about will blow your right leg clean off. 

 

My right side neighbor put their other hand in, and somebody took their bedroom window out.  It’s not that different.  Every day is a risk, every move a gamble.  When I found out about that my neighbor came up bust, I went over to see if I could help.

 

“I feel violated,” says the wife.

“Damed if I’m going to let that happen again,” says the husband.

Yeah, I’ve had this conversation before.  I empathize.  I’m a vet.  Still, I can’t help feel guilty. See, I’m talking about their break in, and although my words are with them, my heart isn’t in it.  It and my mind are replaying my own break in.

 

Some break ins are crimes. They’re CSI: Miami wrong.  My break in was allright. Tink may have the brick, but she hadn’t busted the place up.  We’re breaking in like shoes, stretching like old friends, yet still finding something new.

 

I’m not used to this breaking in. I’m used to what my neighbor got. This is the my first good break in quite a while, and I’m just starting to get comfortable.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thankful

Was it as good for you as it was for me?

 

Did your swell up like a Mountain Dew and Mentos in a gassy balloon?  Can you move?  It’s ok, just blink once for yes, twice for no.  Did you save room for dessert?  I know, silly question even if you didn’t, there’s always room in the balloon for 2 more Mentos—At least until it explodes.  But then the clean up is just somebody else’s problem, isn’t it?

 

Yeah, it’s obvious I’m feeling better today, isn’t it?  It’s amazing what a few extra hours of sleep and an IV of OJ will do.  And no, no Mr. Simpson jokes here, please.  This is Thanksgiving. We don’t talk about divorce and other travesties of justice on Thanksgiving.

 

One of the things I do talk about on Thanksgiving is family.  Yup, in fact I call them.  I try to make sure everybody knows I’m alive and well and still living in denial. This year I spent at least an hour on the phone with my dad.  We talked about the past year.

 

“I think you have a lot to be thankful for,” he says.
I think you’re silly and should lay off the eggnog. “Yeah, I agree.”

Actually I did agree with him. I just hate admitting it. I come from a long line of martyrs.  Why would I possibly agree when things are going good?  What would I have to be thankful for then?

 

Still he did have a point.  Last Thanksgiving, I was alone.  This Thanksgiving, I was alone.  Last Thanksgiving, I grilled a Cornish game hen.  This Thanksgiving, I grilled a turkey breast.  Yup, big difference. 

 

Ok, so maybe the difference isn’t in the Thanksgiving dressing, but the pudding proof is in the cranberry can o’ reality. It’s the jellied goo that makes me thankful this year.

 

See last Thanksgiving, nothing congealed. It was my first Thanksgiving without MyEx. It was the Thanksgiving of runny Robby mess, without substance. That sloshy stuff on the bottom of the cranberry dish?  Yeah, that was me. Don’t get me wrong, last Thanksgiving was ok.  I did fine on my own.  But last Thanksgiving was a force of will.

 

Last Thanksgiving I prepared myself to have a good time.  It was my morning, noon, and night mantra for the full week.

 

“I will enjoy Thanksgiving.”

 

By the time I got to Thanksgiving day, I had no choice but to have fun.  That’s not really a problem; it worked, but it was work.  I couldn’t believe how much effort went into enjoying a meal alone.

 

That was last Thanksgiving.  This Thanksgiving was wrapped in the same trappings, same wine, same solitary existence, but I enjoyed it. What was the difference?  I didn’t need to trick myself. There was no Thanksgiving magic, just Rob and good food.  That was enough. I’m happy with my life. I’m happy with who I am.  I’m happy with where I’m going. I enjoyed Thanksgiving because it was easy.

 

That took me one painful year to get here, but now that I’m here, I’m thankful. That’s what made this year better than last.

 

 

Green Gills and Turkey

“So this is Thanksgiving…”

 

Isn’t that what Lennon sang?  Christmas?  But the song is “Happy Xmas...War is Over.”  X=Thanksgiving, I took algebra. I’ve seen the proof. 

           

Christmas? Really? Huh, I must have got my Christ crossed. No, that’s Easter. I must be confused somewhere. It’s easy to do, especially since the Robby hamster wheel has been in full whirl since last Friday.  Wasn’t that Xween? Not that either? 

 

Can’t blame me for trying.  MyEx already did that.

 

Oh, sorry, it must be this cold; it’s got me cranky and delirious.  I haven’t felt like this since my Christmas retail days.  I’m so close to collapse, but I just need to make it until tomorrow…make it to Xgiving.

 

Still don’t like that one, huh?  What if I called it XXXgiving.  Would that give you something to “woo hoo” about? Gives a whole new meaning to stuffing on the table, I’ll tell ya.  As for me, there’ll be no stuffing on my table--breadcrumb or otherwise. My Xgiving will be bland.

 

This whatever-I’ve-got has my stomach doing strange dances.  It’s like Disney on bile skating around my abdomen, and Tinkerbelle is bouncing off the walls; she wants out.

 

Poor Tink.  Me too…

 

So far everything’s using the appropriate exit, which I’m thankful for, but I still don’t feel great, and I don’t have any energy. 

 

WHAAAAA!

 

I know.  I’m not only incoherent when I’m sick, I’m a big baby too.  Not even fun to be around—and yet you’re still reading.  Good for you! I’m not that persistent.  Not when I’m sick. That’s one of the first things to go.

 

After that, the next thing off the sinking ship Robby, is any shred of dignity I learned after age six.  Yup, I become a man-cub once more.  Call me Mogli—cuz I’m gonna need a dancing bear if I’m getting my bare necessities.

 

That bear used to be MyEx.  She wasn’t much of a dancer though.  That’s ok, I wasn’t either.  What’s more, when I was sick, I didn’t care.  I just needed whine target, and somebody to bring me my Nyquil.  She was good at that.  She’d lace it with extra goodies too.

 

“WHAAAA!  I want my Nyquil!”

“Here it is dear.”

“Wow! Quite the kick.”

“That’s the flask of rum and the ground horse tranquilizers:  Drink up.”

“O….K-“

 

Three days later I’d wake up in a lake of drool feeling like my old self.  That’s one of the tough things for me now, cuz now I’m fending for myself.  Now I’m sitting on the couch tapping out my blog waiting for my rum filled quil that will never come unless I get off my hairy butt and get it myself. 

 

So it ain’t coming.

 

That’s ok.  I’m not sick often.  I can do this.  What’s more, I’ll be thankful.  I’m learning to be sick on my own.  And if Tinkerbelle finds her way out, I’ll hold my own hair back as I lean over the toilet, or get gooey trying.

 

Ooooh, probably gonna want to clean that up…

 

See, even if I don’t feel well, it’s one more thing I can do to be alright in my own space.  I have memories that need purged, much like whatever’s bugging my stomach.  The only way to get rid of them is to work through it.  I’ve already done one Xgiving.  Now I can do it with my eyes closed. 

 

Next time I’m sick alone, I can do it.  I’m doing it now.  I’ll be able to do it with my eyes—well, maybe not that.  Tinkerbell is a little tricky.

 

So for all of you living your first Thanksgiving alone, do it, and do it big.  Enjoy yourself, and be thankful, because things will get better.  Like my cold/flu/whatever your pain will subside.  It just takes time to work though.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Rob's Core

That’s me standing at the display. I’m the perplexed looking guy, with the puppy dog head tilt; I’ve perfected it for just these occasions. It’s not always real, but it keeps people around me disarmed.  I like that.

 

People like the scruffy blond guy hunched over beside me who looks like Scott Weiland crawling out of the bushes after a 3 week disappearing act. He’s the guy in an aqua T and a namebadge dancing the lanyard dangle. He's the guy trying to show me new gestures.  Apparently all the gestures I know aren't good enough.  They've always gotten my point across before. MyEx knew what they meant. Why not Scott?  Maybe I should show him how my gestures work. Probably won’t help his sales pitch, but it would communicate something to him.

 

He's trying to communicate something else. He’s wiping his nose a lot, but I’m not sure that’s part of the communication, unless he’s a baseball pitcher too. No, Scott here is trying to tickle my buyer’s bone.  I don't have the heart to tell him he’s touching the wrong thing.  I'm already ready to buy, at least in concept.  That’s why I’m here.  Scott's just gotta show me something special in a tickler--a reason to buy from him.  He's showing me a runny nose and gestures. It’s gonna take more that to make me buy a laptop—especially today.

 

I'm Christmas shopping.  I know it's early but I hate the mobs.  Actually I'm scouting.  If Scott does his job, I'll buy today.  If he doesn't, then I'll probably wait until after Christmas to buy somewhere else.

 

No pressure Scott, but this had better be better than the last Stone Temple Pilots CD.

 

See, here’s the thing.  The laptop is a balance beam jiggle between want and need.  Technically, I have a laptop already.  It was a wonderful Comaq donated to my by my mom.  It has served well, but it’s getting too frustrating to use.   I explained this to my friend:

 

“Why do you need a laptop?  Don’t you already have one?”

“Well yeah, my mom gave it to me.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s battery doesn’t have much life, and it’s slow.  It takes forever to load.  That’s time I could use for typing.”

“Typing?”

“Yeah, I’m using it for writing.”

“You’re kidding.” She’s obviously not a writer.

“No, I need to write.”

“I’ve got a typewriter, I’ll send it to you.”

Sigh. “you don’t understand.”

“You’re right.”

“Besides, the one my mom gave me doesn’t have wifi.”

“Barbaric!”

“I know! Wait, you’re being sarcastic.”

“You’re right again.”

 

See?  This is what I go through. These are the people I surround myself with.  These are the people I call my friends and they don’t understand how a wifi connection is a lifeline to an internet blogger who’s bogged down and trying to cut the cord to his home office.

 

Heathens and ne’er-do-wells.

 

Scott understands.  Scott knows my pain.  Scott wants to sell me a computer before Christmas. I know better.  If I wait until after Christmas, I can get a better deal—unless I buy a Macbook.  That’s gonna cost me the same price, whether I buy it now or in 3 months.  That’s what Scott’s counting on, and he’s pitching the gestures, cuz he knows windows doesn’t have them.

 

 

Now I’ve explained what a maddening shopper I am.  I’ve also explained how MyEx will attest to this.  In fact, after the first half hour with Scott, she’d have put her hand over my mouth, and said, “Just give him one.”  That’s because she knows what’s next and she hate’s this part even more.

 

Cuz after an hour and a half with Scott I say, “Well, I have to go check something, out, I might be back.”  Yeah, might be back.  What’s happening is that I know there’s a Best Buy just a few blocks down from this Apple store.  I’ve scouted it out as well.  I just haven’t gone in.  I’m like the lion looking over the grazing zebras going, “you know, I really don’t know, I’d like to see something in a wildebeest first.”

 

So to Wildebeest Best Buy I go. Another friend has recommended I check start up and shut down times.

 

“I know that, what makes you think I don’t know that?”

Why would I do that?

 

Seems some friends know I’m impatient.  They think if a computer doesn’t do what I want in 60 seconds or less, I’m likely to throw it across the room. 

 

Huh…

 

Here’s the thing though.  I really do want to find something at Best Buy.  I don’t want to buy an Apple, even if it’s what I want.  I’m a PC guy.  PC guys don’t buy Apples, no matter what the funny little guy on TV wants us to believe.  When’s the last time you saw a Southern man yearn for a New York lifestyle?  Same thing.  I can’t stand by and watch acts of Apple aggression.

 

I’m buying an Apple.  That’s right.  I spent 15 minutes in Best Buy.  That’s long enough for me to take my friends advice. I turned off the PC and turned it back on.  The best ones took twice as long as the Apple.  I won’t throw the Apple against the wall.  That is a selling feature Scott didn’t tell me about.

 

So after a few further feature tests like the “how cool does this make me look?” and the “Can they wedge these tiny keys any tighter,” then 10 minutes to hang around and look like this trip was worth while (and if MyEx had been with me, I’d have taken an extra half hour to prove the trip was worth while). 

 

So I go back.  Scott’s glad to see me.  He shows me his “hi” gesture.  Yes, Scott. That’s great.  He also tells me his last name is Boydson. It means “son of Boyd.”  Yeah, Scott’s not the ripest Apple salesman to fall from the tree.  Still, he’s the one who sends me on my way. Macbook in hand.

 

After I leave the Apple store, I make two discoveries.  First, this is my first big fun purchase since the divorce.  Sure, I’m using it for work, but it allows me to play away from home a little more.  I haven’t bought anything for me in a long time, and I’d forgotten how good it feels.

 

The other thing I won’t realize until a few days later.  Scott gave me something else with my computer.  Something I didn’t ask for, and something he didn’t charge me for.  Scott gave me his cold.  It looks like I’ll be able to use my wifi while snuffling from my couch.  I am so free…

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas In Zork.

"I was eaten by a grue."

"Yeah, that's what happens when you don't have a light source."

"My sword was glowing."

"Yeah, Froboz swordlight, just isn't enough to scare away the hungry grue."

"Froboz..?"

A friend of mine just discovered Zork. When her husband comes home looking for dinner, I recommend he "search cabinet" cuz the table is empty and his wife is at the keyboard, discovering new worlds.

I love talking to people younger than me. They remind me of my first discoveries. First text game, First dance, first kiss, first adventure. After the eternal first, everything changes to seconds and the next minute is never the same.

"Nothing happens here."

Something about the new and exciting sets us off like a car battery to the nipples. Ok, maybe a little tamer: how about a 9 volt to the tongue?

Right now I have a friend discovering the Underground Empire. Sure it was built in the 80s, but she's never seen it before. I've never seen The Coliseum, and it's older than the 80's, so I cut her some slack. Besides, I'm not sure she's ever played a game without killer graphics.

"Finish him!"

It's ok. We all have firsts, and we all grow from them. Some are enjoyable, some are not. The one thing they all have in common is that they're all new. Yeah, I know. That was my first effort at writing philosophy. Petty deep, huh? Wait, there's more wisdom dirt flying out of that shallow grave coming up. Just wait, you'll be the first.

Zork was my first text based computer game. I played it on a Commodore 64. Yeah, slide your abacus along and figure it out. That's right Rob is dirt old in gamer years. I'm never too old to have firsts though. There's always time for something new to this old dog.

Hey, last year I had my first divorce. I learned I want it to be my last. Some first's are indelible.

"Uhm…I ate the garlic in the lunch sack, was I supposed to do that?"

"I don't suppose you saved your game, did you?"

Saving. Can't do that in real life. It's one of the things that makes us reluctant to experience new things. "What if I screw up?" becomes our paranoid mantra. And the older we get the easier it is to hide behind it. Either that, or we rush into a midlife crisis with Wolfenstein abandon.

The games we play when we're young are supposed to teach us how to survive being an adult. Our fist apartment teaches us to open our first savings account and to enjoy our first cup of ramen. Our fist car teaches us how to survive our first accident. It's all part of the game.

When I was young I was a Commodore guy, when I grew up I became a PC guy. I always played it safe. Lately there have been people trying to get me to rethink that. They think I should enjoy new things and surprises. Hey, if there's anything a PC guy learns, it's to avoid surprises.

"Your computer has encountered an unrecoverable error. Here's a list of random numbers good luck with those, and thank you for buying Windows Vista!"

Yes the first blue screen of death is always a eye opening experience. Still, as Windows users we learn to deal. Nothing is perfect. That's what we learn from divorce and our first attempt a making homemade spaghetti.

My young friend is having her first experience getting lost in a forest of words. That's always fun. She's gathering her first treasures, and solving her first puzzles.

Me? I'm past most of my firsts at least that's what I told myself. I thought I was. Now another first: I've just discovered I was wrong. Not only are there other firsts to be had, but apparently there are surprises too.

I've just made my first Christmas plans since MyEx left. Yeah, that's a first. Now the surprise: I just found out I'm going to see a real life troll bridge.

"No freakin' way!"

"Yeah! It's here."

"I am so going!"

"Good."

I'm past texting about it. I've already done that. This time I'm moving on. I'm not just writing it, I'm doing something real.

That's a first, and it's a bit of a surprise. And unlike my other friend playing Zork, my surprises don't include a wandering thief.

"He just took my pot of gold!"

"yeah, that sucks. I've been there before."

I'm not there now though. I'm somewhere new.

Rob Cleans His Shorts.

A blog by any other name is my little diary.

Ok, sort of. It's like one of those without the cute unicorn cover and the flimsy clasp pretending to keep things secret.

Nope, when it comes to blogs, there are no secrets. Hairy butts, fuzzy navels, and ex wives. All dirty laundry flapping in the wind.

Why not clean laundry? Why not all the nice white linens folded in the closet, showing you the Martha Stewart side of Rob's world? Well I suppose that's because there isn't a Martha Stewart side. I can't take life lemons and make anything more elaborate than squished lemons. That's for the Dr. Phil's of the world.

Me, I'm just as dirty, but I smell citrusy fresh.

"…but the fruit of the Rob lemon is impossible to eat…"

Yeah, I'm a little bitter from time to time. I thought that's why I'd take a little time now and mention MyEx.

Where'd everybody go?

No! No! This is nice, I promise. Actually for all of our marital faults, I bear as much of the burden as she does. I will never say "it's all her fault." Ok, I will, but I promise I won't mean it, how's that?

No, for all the things I say were wrong about her and I, there were some things that worked, and I feel I should mention them occasionally. Cuz not everything is dirty.

Only the good things.

NO! But that's something I would have said to her. See the one thing I miss about MyEx is the simplicity of US. See, now in my life, I have friends who I tell things to. I have friends who know my writing, friends who know my love life, and I have friends who know my problems. Very few friends know things outside their compartments. Rob's life is need to know.

Sure, my blog says a lot, but it doesn't say everything. Ask people who know things. They'll tell you. What they won't tell you is everything. Why? Because they don't know it.

MyEx did. Up to the point where she told me she wanted out, she was in. I told her everything I would tell anybody else. And the things I wouldn't. As for the things I might not freely offer, well all she had to do was ask. I'm not sure if she knew that. That's probably something I should have told her, huh?

Ah well, where's the fun in that? Yeah, I know. Still married. Thanks a lot for that little trinket my loving readers. See if I tell you anything else.

You know what else she was good at? Story stuff. Yeah, it's true. Not like she'd make up cool "once upon a time" stuff. That wasn't her forte, although I believe it could have been if she'd wanted it. She didn't. But what she did want is to help my writing.

I'll fault her for many things, from leaving the toilet seat down to nearly burning down the house when she cleaned the oven, but when it came to my writing, she gave me what she could. And she was a great continuity reader. That was where she shined. She knew flow like a salmon knows spawn. No matter how milky the water got, she could always find her way. And if something didn't work, she'd tell me.

There was a freedom in that. There was a freedom in one stop need shopping. Oh she wasn't perfect, and neither were my needs.

"I told you, the rubber sheep was not allowed in bed Rob!"

"Sorry I thought this was a special occasion."

"Sheri Lewis's birthday does not count as special."

"I'm thinking Lambchop would disagree…"

"…"

See? That's what worked. And don't get me wrong. I'm not looking to go back. We took a series of wrong turns and the brought us here, and now I'm who I am with compartmentalized friends. It's fine. I really am happy where and who I am now.

Still, because my blog is rarely pristine unicorns and jaunty princesses (unless that's the intro to a special Tijuana adult "attraction"), I think it's important to say that there were good things in my marriage, and one of them was MyEx. I don't say that often.

Now tomorrow I'll tell you all about the time she ran a Shanghai sweat shop, and what the 6 year old workers used to call her. It made Martha Stewart plaid with jealousy...

God Swapping.

I've been excommunicated.

Yup, that's right. The pastor read my blog, and the congregation threw me out the door.

"All are welcome! Don't come back, Rob"

That's what the entry sign said as they hurled me past it.. Ok. Maybe I am exaggerating, just a little, but they did kick me out.

Ok, maybe not "kick" physically, but they might as well have. They changed the time of the service. They now meet an hour earlier.

Boot!

It's also something they didn't really tell me about. It just happened. It's like the time in first grade when Mandy Jenkins moved her birthday party from the quarry pit to the family park. At least I think she moved it. My invitation said, "quarry pit." Why would she lie? Her parents went to church.

Huh…well that's enough to change your religion...

Yup, so's the church changing it's worship hours. Still, I understand the needs of the many out weighing the needs of the Rob. Needs…lets look at that. You wanna know why they needed it moved earlier? Because people were complaining. They didn't have enough time in the afternoon to do anything. Late service let out at noon and there was no time left to do anything with the shredded remains of the day.

People would be forced to spend it with their families.

That's heresy.

Once again, it's just like the inquisition: the church is stealing the parishioners joy.

Ok, maybe only a little like the inquisition.

And why was the late service so late to begin with? Despite what you might think, it wasn't to accommodate me, I promise you. A church like that is one I could really get behind.

"Here's your personal pew, Mr. Boyd."

"Thank you. Call me Rob. Tell the funny robed guy to keep it short today, please, I have a 2pm tee time."

"As you wish, Rob. Beverage? Nuts?"

"No, but could you bring me a Playboy, Mandy?"

"Right away, Mr. B--Rob."

See? Now that's a church with good attendance. Ours is down so they're looking to fill the pews. One way is to get rid of Rob. He stinks up the place with his divorce scent. Seriously, do you realize that I'm the only single divorced person attending my church? Everybody else is familialy endowed. I'm serious! There's like a 3 kid minimum for every two parents bellying up to the sacrament bar. I think the wine guy leers at me. I'm 40 and alone. I'm the pariah son.

Prodigal? Oh no my parents force me to be too independent for that. I wish. Nope pariah, I swear. I'm getting kicked out of church.

The reason I'm getting kicked out is Bible study. That’s right. The old late service started later because they had a Bible study between early and late services. It was meant so that early people could attend after church and late people could go before they started. What happened is that nobody attended at all. So rather than re work the Bible study to draw people, they've just re moved it till the end of late service where everybody can ignore it equally.

I know I will. But then again I won't be going to service either. See, I work late Saturday night. My ideal church would be one that met Sunday evening, but I don't have that choice. I do have a choice to attend the same church with less than 6 hours sleep, but I choose to sleep in my bed and not in the pews, no matter what the American cliché is. If I'm gonna go, I might as well stay awake.

That's my choice, and now I have another choice. To stay with the same church and not attend, or find another where they'll welcome the sleepy Rob.

This Sunday, I'm looking. As a Christian, I know that God is a personal God who sees me, but I'd like to see him, or at least worship him with others.

In a way, it's weird. I started attending my current church almost a year before MyEx left. Now almost a year after that, I'm looking again. I can't help but think it's related. It's like another aspect of my life where I'm being asked to move on.

At least this time I have a better idea where I'm going. Yeah, I checked the paper. I found another church who likes late risers like me, and they start the service at the same time. They're a little further to drive, but I shouldn't have to change the time I get up. So I think I can make this transition. I couldn't do that with a wife--and don't think I didn't try.

No, for that I need to be patient. It's fine, for now, at least I have a church to attend. Now if they'll only accept that I'm divorced...

Trojans and the Competition.

Baklava. It's Greek for "sugar coma." That's right, all Greek words are Greek for something. What's the most insidious weapon the Greeks have? That's right, baklava. It's actually what the Greek army filled the Trojan horse with. Yeah, I know, everybody thinks it was condoms, but those results would have taken too long too assure victory. Besides, the Greeks were too much about instant gratification, and a condom victory just wouldn't feel the same. No, after the death of Achilles they needed something with enough sugar to crystallize in the enemy's veins.

If you're not familiar with the Trojan story, this is how my dad explained it to me. IT starts with a love handshake. No wrong story.

Ok, try this: Everything was cool and happy in merry old Greece. All men were cheese fat and wine drunk. One guy, a Trojan named Paris (Which is Greek for "Gay City") was jealous. He lived in a walled city with a bunch of dudes, this skewed his world view. It was like spending life in HBO's Oz, without a beauty in sight. So the first chance he got, Paris kidnapped the best looking woman he could, Helen (Greek for "Helen").

Now Helen was the king's wife, and of course this made the king a little angry. He slammed his Brie in disgust. There would be no roast mutton when he returned home, and what's more he was getting a little "lonely," and the peasants were getting nervous. Soon after, he cut off their cheese and wine rations. The king moped. Greece fell sober, somber, and sad.

Luckily the king had a brother who was a real go getter: Agamemnon ("Must I do everything"). Agamemnon, led an expedition, to Troy. I know, it's starting to sound like a gay porn, but it's not. I promise. The action will get different, I swear.

"Give us our queen!" Agamemnon said.

"No." Paris said.

"Ok, Thanks anyway."

That's what he said, but what he meant was, "Lets Dance!" but he meant it in a metaphoric warrior Sharks and Jets kind of way, and not a Gay Paris and Moulin Rouge-amemnon kind of way.

"There will be no secret song…"

So they threw a war. It lasted years. Many great warriors were lost: Achilles ("should always wear boots") and Ajax ("brother to Comet and Bon Ami") were among them. The Greeks were desperate and needed a plan. They drew straws. Somebody would go inside and give a lap dance to Paris, then maybe he would release Helen. Epeius ("sucks to be you") drew the short straw. As a builder not a dancer, he suggested something new.

"What if I build a big hollow horse instead?"

"How will Paris dance with that?"

Epeius drew diagrams and the Greeks got wise.

And that's what led to the Trojan horse filled with Baklava--or the worlds first piñata The Trojans saw it, thought nothing suspicious about a strange wooden horse sitting out in the middle of nowhere, and brought it into their protected city. The rest is mythology.

If you don't know what baklava is, it's a Greek pastry, very sweet. Think pecan pie with an extra cup of brown sugar per slice and a caramel sauce topping. And see, if the South had learned a thing from the gift horse, they could have won the war with pie, not lost with muskets.

"Another slice of Southern Hospitality, General Grant?"

"Oh, no, I coul…" Thump!

"Ok, move him out back with the rest."

In my case baklava is a peace offering. That's right, it's part of Rob mythology. See recently my writers' group has become a tale of two women, and this tale gets catty.

One thing I've learned, women get territorial about things. Whether it's walled cities, office cubies or writers' groups, women don't like outside women barging into their domain and stealing their Helen Reddy CDs. Yet in a metaphoric sense, that seems to have happened in my writers group.

Recently a new woman has been attending. One of the older attendees (older as in attending longer, not as in wizened. I am so not getting in the middle of this…) doesn't seem to be able to play well with her. The new girl seems to share this sentiment. I throw nip in the middle of the table and they both gravitate to opposite ends. Now how women can get so polar is beyond me, but I have experienced the ice chill, and it's not going to end on it's own without frozen blood-cicles.

Now I'd like to tell you that in this story, I'm Helen, and they're fighting over me, but no. I don't know who the queen of their world is, cuz none of the group guys look good in drag. I think it's all about location, location, location, but I don't know, I'm just one of the guys carrying a spear who dies in the big battle scene in act II. I'm trying to end this before we get there.

I'm trying to show them that the group loves them equally, and that they are both important to our culture. I mean without the Trojans, the Greeks would have been a bunch of drunk gluttons, and without the Greeks the Trojans would never have known the agony of defeat, right?

So, I've been plaining down the hackles of the girl who's been there the longest. I think she's starting to understand. I'm also reminding her that the group needs her input, as well as the varied voices of people she may not agree with.

I am a survivalist diplomat.

The new girl, I'm trying to make welcome. That's why the baklava. She mentioned it. there's a Greek café down the block, and today's her birthday. I bring baklava for the group, she feels special, and we all live happily ever after, right?

Yeah, I know, I'm walking into a sticky Trojans' nest. Still, I've been married, I think I can take anything. I'm not Achilles, I'm not a tenderfoot. I'm a man with a plan, a stranger bearing gifts.

I believe that people should get along. I mean really, we can learn things from people we don't get along with. I'm going to try and help these girls see that, if it kills me. I'm just adding sugar to the fire.

And if this doesn't work, I'm sure the sugar coma will.

Pointy Things Not On Rob's Head.

Once bitten twice shy. It's not just a classic Great White CD, it's a classic cliché too. And who knew that the words "Classic" and "Great White" would ever be used in the same sentence? I'm sure Jack Russell did. Maybe his little dog too…

Yeah, see what I did there? Lead singer, name of terrier? Sigh, what a waste of a classic joke. At least I didn't mention their classic nightclub fire and Great White S'more fest. Sheesh, no sense of humor.

And that's one of the first keys to dating after divorce: a sense of humor. At least for me. If you don't have one, you might as well just stay home, cuz I'm gonna be funny. Oh, it may not be intentional, but sometime after I Chevy Chase flop onto the restaurant tile or accidentally make fun of the waitress who's standing behind me with a tray of pasta, something funny is gonna happen and I'm gonna laugh. You should too. Otherwise it's gonna be a long night--for both of us.

Dating isn't only about laughing, it's about weeding. I hate weeding. It's yanking the dandelions and fertilizing the roses--or is that backwards for dating? Anyway, you get the idea. There are similarities. It's a garden thing.

We all have gardens. Even those of us who don't know what to do with the silly things. I have a flower bed that was filled when MyEx and I bought this house. I don't know anything about gardening, neither did MyEx. The previous owners liked cactus. I do know that. They were everywhere. If I liked cactus, I'd have stayed in Arizona. I left. I'm not fond. There's something I don't like. It must go.

That doesn't make all cactus bad. MyEx knew people at work who bled with a cactus love so deep that it hurt just to watch. So we didn't. We did invite them over to dig up their favorites though. They came, they saw, they took all but three and left a pint of blood. Perfect, I'd been left with the prickly trinity. Over Halloween I dress them up as ghosts, come Christmas I dress them up as Frosty. It's a little California humor, you don't get unless your thermometer never dips below 56 degrees.

See? It's fine if you don't have a sense of humor. Be as prickly as you want, you and I just won't date, that's all. Trust me, there are people who don't like me with sillier reasons.

"You remind me of this guy I stalked when I was 22. He sprayed me with mace."

Good to know.

See, it's all checks and balances in the dating garden. We all write checks that we hope nobody notices we have no intention of paying, while balancing who we are and who we think you want us to be. Dating is a fistful of roses.

I find that coming out of a marriage though, I do have certain advantages. Yeah, I've got this extra luggage that makes others think twice, but that's ok. Weak women need not apply. Shrinking Violet? Yeah, she's in my neighbors garden, not mine.

That's the other thing about divorce: I now have a much better understanding of what I want, and what I don't. I also have a willingness to hold out for what I want, because I've seen what happens when things go wrong.

The cactus garden explodes with tarantulas.

Ok, not literally but in a divorce, everything gets tilled into the dirt. You spend the first year just settling. It's not till a year later when things start to sprout, and some time after that, you might know what the heck you're looking at.

"uhm, what's that?"

"I have no idea, it's spiky and has a cool flower…"

"could be my next date…"

So now that I have a better understanding, everything becomes a weeding process. It's funny, Somebody wrote me a letter a few weeks back, about something they'd written, and I thought, "Hey, that's cool." On the other hand I talked to somebody else about music and my writing. They didn't even blink interest. She said something about a vegan restaurant and dandelions. It was my turn stare over her shoulder at the courtyard clock.

Vegan? That's a vegetarian on steroids--who's against the use of steroids. Go figure.

So I looked at my list, not into music, has no opinion on creative writing, and hasn't met a bull she'd like to bone. Nope, not for me.

NEXT!

And so it begins. Every meeting is decision: crab grass, or tiger lily? I know that the same thing happens to me. I'm fine with that. It makes my list shorter. "Must like Rob…"

I'd like to think of this as sword in the stone dating, You know, everybody trying, giving it their best pull--me being the sword of course--and the right valkyrie princess would lift me over her head with a fierce battle cry and we'd live happily ever after, but that's not how it works.

No, this is a Cinderella story and I'm the guy stuck smelling feet for the perfect fit.

"is that fungus on your big toe? Yeah, I'm pretty sure the shoe's too small. No really. It is I assure you."

It's a chorus line of bad choices, and I can't tell what I'm looking for without a little song and dance cuz that's what dating is. And of course the last really good date I had led to a bad divorce. What's that show for my track record? Once bitten…

Still, I'm not totally against being bitten. That's why I still have the three cacti. They make me sharp--or at least sharp enough to not grab at them. I'm sharp enough know what I'm looking for. I've got the shoe horn and I've planted lady slippers. Now all I have to do is wait for the right lady to fit.

Something Smells.

"No one likes a toilet tissue that leaves pieces behind."

No, I should say not! That's why I buy toilet tissue to begin with!

"Dude! Why do you smell like you crapped your pants?"

"Uhm…new cologne?"

No, I'm with the red and blue happy bears dancing on my TV for this one: toilet tissue should take it all away. There should be no evidence left of the crap that has come before.

And yet there always are pieces left behind. Yes, always. Try this experiment: Go to a bar, and strike up a conversation with someone--anyone, it doesn't matter, so long as you can talk with them for longer than 15 minutes.

Seem long? Do what I do: bring the handcuffs and chloroform. It makes conversation so much easier. The handcuffs will work by themselves, but the chloroform keeps them from gnawing their arm off, or even worse, screaming; I hate to be interrupted in the middle of a conversation.

"…so in Fifth grade, my mom didn't get me the down vest I wanted. I'd asked for it since the school year began, and she wouldn't get it for me. You know what she did get me? An IOU. Yeah, and I still have it…"

Let me save you the bar stool cuff-down. This is how it's gonna happen:

First two minutes: fluff "hi"s and cumulus banter of bands, books, and somebody else's babes.

Next 3-15: Cirrus chat about anecdotal fun facts that might as well have happened to somebody else but happened to you, and should make you sound interesting.

After that, that's when things get a little dark and choppy. Somewhere about now the ozone smell gets heavy, and here come the cumulonimbus thunderheads of the Apocalypse, and your divorce is leading the charge.

You'd think, with all our emotional baggage and tragic wasted youth we find time to talk about something other than divorce, but no. I'm as serious as a goose down IOU about this, try it if you don't believe me. You can borrow my handcuffs. You'll need your own chloroform. According to the judge, I'm not allowed to have that anymore.

Yeah, I blame that judge for my divorce too.

But, conversationally, lets face facts: despite your best interests: you were married. Don't worry, it happens to the best of us. Some of us are even silly enough to stand out in that maelstrom with our wire hanger of love dangling in the wind for a second charge.

"Lightning never strikes twice…"

ZZZTTTT!

Yup, that's us. The problem is, that we're covered in divorce, and we reek of it. We can't get rid of all the pieces, cuz we've been dealing with it for so long that it becomes as much a part of us as the 4 years of tap lessons our moms put us through after first grade.

Somehow we can't get around the topic. It's an pachyderm in the room, and it's giving us a lap dance.

"Is that an elephant in your pants or are you glad to see me?"

"No sorry, it's my divorce."

"Oh…hey, why am I cuffed here?"

Nope, there's no avoiding it. The best you can do is curl into a fetal ball, weather the shit storm, and when it's done, grab something quilted to wipe up the pieces. Yeah, it's just gonna be a septic tank of joy for a while.

The good news is that divorce is a rearview mirror. It's where you were, and no matter how it warns you that objects are closer than they appear, all objects eventually do drop below the horizon, and are replaced by new objects. Time and distance are the true quilted toilet tissue here.

MyEx moved out over a year ago and some conversation still include her name. I can't help it. She's a landmark. A point of reference, but as I draw away, I have new points, new references. The map of time has created new things to talk about, new things that make me interesting, and new places for me to come from. All things don't originate on September 18th anymore.

Some things still do.

Yeah, I am sorry, there will always be pieces left behind. I still have a piece of paper that says "IOU a down vest," but time will clean us up really nice, and the stink will subside. I promise. Till then, hang out with the red and blue bears. The crap seems to stick to their fur much better than it does to yours.