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.