Hug your Monster Week

As kids we all had monsters.  Some people stored them under the bed, I kept mine behind the door.  As little Robby, I remember I couldn’t walk into my bedroom without looking through the crack between the door and jam for shadow lurkers against the wall. 

 

I remember my babysitter used to love it.  A I stuck my eye to the crack, she’d reach out and touch me, “Boo!”

 

I’d scream. She’d laugh. Good times.

“What are you afraid of?”

“The thing behind the door.” I could never believe my parents let the stupid girl watch me.  What else would I be afraid of?

“What’s it gonna do?”

“It’s gonna close the door behind me and say---“

 

“Today is your last day.” This isn’t the thing behind the door.  It might as well be, but it’s not.  It’s my friend.

“I know! I’ll get it done. I just need to do this in my own way.”

“Ok…”

 

My friend’s been pestering me all week.  It stared with an email flyer:“Hug your barista week, Jan 26-30,” She added her own personal Nike message, “Just do it.”  That was last Friday.  Since then, her sleeve-tug reminders have continued, “Have you hugged a barista yet?”  And no. My friend is not a barista.  That would be too easy.  Apparently friends are anything but easy, and that is just a shame.

 

I shouldn’t complain. This friend wants me to hug baristas, a few weeks ago, another friend I suggested I touch them with something far more intimate.

 

“Uhm, no.  They’re young enough to call me daddy.  I’m gonna say no.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

 

I mean really, I’m having my reservations about hugging my barista, what makes anybody think I can stir anything more than cream and sugar with them?

 

And if you haven’t figured it out yet, here’s a little Rob fact for ya.  I have a very defined personal space and I wear it like a condom. I like it that way. Touching always leads to something more intimate, and we all know what that is: trust. 

 

When MyEx left, the first thing she packed away was touch.  I love touch.  It’s personal, it’s intimate, and to know a person’s body is one step towards knowing their soul. It’s like the first bond to trust.  I haven’t been really trusting since the divorce.

 

If you’re close enough to touch, you probably should step back. I know you’ve just been lurking in the shadows, waiting to close the door on me.  Since my ex left, I haven’t found anybody I can trust. And I’ve done very limited touching.

 

I’ve gotten good at it too. Some people can hold their breaths for almost five minutes.  So far, I’ve gone 30 days without touching another human being.

 

“You have two days left to touch your barista.”

“But I’m going for a no-touch record…”

“Two days.”

 

We all view touch differently.  To some people it’s just something everybody does.  My persistent friend insists that it’s like water and you need it to live.  Maybe so, but I’m a camel.  I’ll stock up thank you.

 

Still, I know others that are quite different.  I once spent some time with a woman who’s touch was for sex and not much more.  Her personal space belonged to her, and there were serious penalties for poachers. The thing I remember most is that she had been married, and what she took with her was her scars, baggage, and this really cool wingback chair.  It was nice.  It was a dark grey fuzzy comfy thing that you could easily shift sideways in, and lean your neck on one arm while your legs flopped over the other.

 

The only other furniture in her living room was a couch she’d bought later to fill space.  It was a nice looking and made of microfiber.  My comfy genes didn’t tingle. It was ok, but it was obvious that she’d bought it for looks and not for feel.

 

While I visited her, we spent a lot of time in her living room. She lounged in her chair; I sat on the couch. That was her space. That was our intimacy. It was good for her.

 

For me, now I’m single again and getting used to my space. A space not filled with monsters. When I got older, my monsters changed.  Hugging a barista reflects that. Hugging a barista sounds like asking Jenny Allen to dance in junior high. Sure she’s cute soft and warm, but she’s lurking in my foggy libido. What if---

 

What “what if?” It doesn’t matter.  Pick one.  What if she likes it? What if she doesn’t?  What if I talk? What if I hump her leg? What if I wet myself because I can? These are all things that could happen.  And yes, monkeys could fly out of my butt.  People tell tales of the dreaded butt monkey days.

 

“It was back in oh-nine.  That was the worst butt monkey swarm on record…”

 

“Today’s your last day.” And I have an axe.

Great…

 

See, I’ve been plotting this out.  I have a corkboard with barista Polaroids  and test names Sharpied beneath each shot.  Some pictures have exes, others have question marks.  This is a hug.  I need to be sure. 

 

There’s a cute twenty year old with long hair, she’s cute. She’s sweet. She’s B#1. She has an “X.” I can’t hug her.  She’s too friendly.  I don’t want her to think I’m creepy.

 

B#2 I have no desire to hug.

B#3 She’s the manager, she’ll kick me out.

B#4 I’m not even sure she works here. She just hangs out behind the counter and talks a lot. She gets a question mark

B#5, she’s cool.  She’d probably be ok with the hug thing.  Her boyfriend might not though.  I leave her with a question mark.

B#6 Too Hot.

B#7 Too Cold.

B#8 Uhm…well, if I were the last man on earth, she might.  Just in case this is Armageddon Friday, I’ll leave her with a question mark.

 

So I go for Friday night hugging and coffee.  Stepping into the bookstore the first thing I see is a bargain table.  There’s a paperback copy of Green Mile, it’s 10% off.

 

“Dead man walking…”

 

Great…

 

I shuffle down the aisle to the coffee shop in the back.  At the counter is B#5 and B#? I haven’t taken a picture of.   I forgot she worked here.  I turn to leave. I haven’t planned on this. I can’t go into this half cocked (so to speak).

 

“Hey Rob! What’s it gonna be tonight?”

I swallow hard. Sometimes a man’s gotta do…“A hug.”

“Excuse me?”

 

I explain the whole hug a barista thing, mingled with pesky friends.  The girls are nothing if not accommodating. B#5 takes the picture, B#? takes one for the team.

 

When it was done. It was done. You know what though? I hugged a barista, and lived to tell about it.  If I can do that, maybe there’s hope for me.  Maybe the monsters in my world are just mist and shadows behind the door. Sometimes you just have to step into the room to see that.

Obviously I have swooned her with my Rob-charm...

Slacking as an Art Form

I hear the voices already. No, not the ones in my head--these voices are the din of dissent from disgruntled readers. These are the readers who expect their Robblog to be more regular than their daily bathroom visit. These are the proud people who value quantity over quality.

"Look at Rob's poo!"

And I appreciate that from you. I promise that as long as I blog, you will never need to worry about quality. I will always present the same old crap.

Quantity, on the other hand, that's gonna be different problem. I can't always create the morning novella and some mornings I can't even scratch my name on a Post-It. This week, I've had multiples of the latter and it's made me even later. I wrote what, three blogs this week? That’s one per reader. I know I like to keep it personal, but that seems silly.

Even my dad's going, "Dude! Where's your blog?"

Ok, so that's not a direct quote. To Dad a dude is a guy at a ranch. The last time he saw me at a ranch, I was thrown from a raging goat; I was twenty-five.

A lot of time has passed since then, and the goat tossing is just goats under the troll bridge. I'm better now.

Still, I'm having trouble with quantity. There's so little time and the ideas and blog goats are nervous and hiding. I'm having trouble with the regular verbal sacrifice.

When I divorced, the words were on the tip of my tongue. I spewed venom like a pit viper on crack. Poison words were all I had. Now I have a life that involves a cat and Rob quirk. Suddenly divorce is nothing more than a bitter taste of the past.

Scratch that. It’s anything but sudden. I've lived two years of less than "suddenly" getting used MyEx admitting that she was done. Two years of getting up and spitting words and blood to daily define who I am and how I feel.

“Every day and every way I’m getting better and better.”

Yeah right. Except it is right. People used to ask how I was doing, and I’d always tell them I was healing. I’m not healing anymore. I’m healed. I don’t harbor ships of hatred towards MyEx, I don’t even have bathtub boats and bubbles for her bobbing to the surface in her honor. I have a 8mm mental reel of our marital real, it shows occasionally, but it plays to an empty house. Even my head voices are bored. I’m divorced.

Emphasis on the “ed”

So now I have other issues that occupy my mind. I have cats and mice and dogs and bills and bands and girls and pirates and queens and other things that go bump in the night. Somewhere I need to find time to talk about things that don’t mean the same to me as they once did. I’ve moved on.

So hang in there with me dear reader as I find where Rob and his blog of glory lie on the treasure map of life. I may appear a little more sporadic, but I promise to bring you the same crap I always have.

Home again home again jiggity jog.

iPod died. Mile ???

Mile 6

Mile 5

Mile 4

Mile

Mile 2

Mile 1

Vanity meet frailty

Frailty, thy name is woman.  Hamlet said that, but what did he really know about women?  To the best of our knowledge he only knew two women and they both died.  One committed suicide, the other drank poison.  If that’s your point of reference, then sure, but then again, according to that criteria, everybody except Horatio qualified as pretty dang frail.

 

Death can be a sign of frailty, yes, but not necessarily.  John Wayne died in The Cowboys, and nobody ever accused him of frailty--at least not in person.  You know what else they didn’t accuse him of?  They never accused him of being a woman. So, maybe Hamlet is right.  Maybe it’s true.  Why don’t you test that for me.  Somebody go to MyEx. Call her frail. If she doesn’t hogtie and brand you, they you’re  right.

 

I was watching The Cowboys on TV yesterday, and I saw a commercial.  There was this older couple, and by older I mean they looked at least 6 months older than me. Now they were on TV, so I couldn’t chainsaw them in half and count their rings. So, no, I can’t be sure, but I can say with some confidence: yup, older.

 

Anyway, the older couple had a young Hamlet of their own.  Hamlet rushes into the kitchen where mom and dad are sipping Metamucil.

 

“Mom! Dad!”  He says, “Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark, and I think you’re drinking it!  Oh yeah, and I’ve been accepted at PolyTech.”

 

Mom and dad are overjoyed.  I don’t know why. They should be concerned: their son has just been accepted at a non-existent school.  He’s either really gullible or delusional.  Neither option points to a profitable future.

 

After Hamlet runs off to consider what he wants to be or not to be, dad looks to mom with woeful eyes, “I don’t know how we can afford this.”  Well, I sigh, I see where Hamlet got his gullibility: imaginary school is pretty cheap, and he can ride Mr. Roger’s trolley to the land of make-believe for class.

 

Mom touches Dad’s arm and says, “We’ll think of something,” and spoons a little rat poison into Dad’s drink.

 

Mom and Dad dissolve and up comes the product pitch:  Just For Men, hair-care product.

 

Wha?

 

Now call me simple--No, don’t. That’s just a saying.  I’m not simple.  Ask MyEx, she’ll tell you that I really am complex and high maintenance. Anyway, how does a hair coloring pay for an imaginary college?  I’d have understood if they were pitching Extenze.  At least then Dad’s added size would get him night work…

 

I think that proves how vain we men really are. If we’re willing to believe our income will shift because the color of our hair, shouldn’t we just turn grey and die?  I mean if we’re that vain, why not just lie in front of the next lion that comes along.

 

“Eat me.”

 

The gene pool would thank you.

 

So this leads me to my next problem.  If frailty is woman and vanity is man, how the heck to we expect to get together and make it work? I mean women would spend their whole lives dying while men wasted away primping for the funeral in front of the mirror.

 

“I hope your death doesn’t give me frown lines.”

 

It’s too much pressure.  No wonder there’s a 50 percent divorce rate.  How can we get past all this?  Hamlet certainly didn’t have a clue.

 

If you believe the TV ad, they did.  Their young Hamlet graduated from college.  And mom and dad whooped it up in the audience.  Actually mom whooped. Dad was looking a little green, but his hair looked awesome.

 

We guys are bad, and yeah, I step up to the line too.  My hair is fine, and I have good genes.  I won’t be going bald anytime real soon.  Still, I notice every time I walk pas the hall bathroom, I see this older guy in the mirror.

 

Alas young Robby, I knew him well…

 

I mean my foot isn’t in the grave yet, and MyEx isn’t around to serve me bitter almond coffee anymore, but still.  That dude in the mirror looks old.  And when he drops his pants.  I don’t want to complain, but there is a product on TV that will enhance that reflection.

 

Object in mirror should be larger than it appears.

 

See?  Sign me up, I’m just as vain as the next guy.  And frail?  Yeah, that was MyEx. She divorced me.  What other proof do you need?

 

So where is this all going?  Nowhere. I’m just wondering how when frailty and vanity marry, some subjects keep it together.  I mean my parents have been together for 35 years.  How did that happen?  I came from my Dad’s seed of vanity, what makes him so special?

 

Maybe I should call him up and have him bottle it.  Well, not the vanity seed, the whatever keeps my parents together.  I don’t really want him bottling the other thing. Cuz yeah, even with all their flaws (and let me tell you, they have plenty) they’ve stayed together. 

 

Maybe it’s matching the corresponding frailty with the appropriate vanity. Maybe they’re like the Yin and Yang swirling around a primordial marital pool holding it together.  All I know, is that I want that, but how do I assure I get that, and not Hamlet act III?

 

The Cowboys came back from commercial break, and offered me some insight:  There are no women.  That’s right.  It’s all cowboys.  No wonder Bruce Dern is so nasty. Where’s his Ophelia?  If I’m alone on the range for years without a woman I’m gonna shoot John Wayne too.  Ok, so it would be easier for me now that he’s dead, but still, I’d do it. Don’t test me.

 

I guess that’s it.  I’m not willing to live without the frailty, so I’m going to need to find a woman who loves me for my vanity.  I think that’s gonna be pretty tough.

 

I better go brush up on my Shakespeare.  Maybe I should read Romeo and Juliet. That has a promising title.

 

 

I Am Your Ex.

I am your ex.  Yeah, that ought to cradle me in the bosom of many divorced women.  I am your ex. I’ll be hiding behind this rock over here if you don’t mind. I’ll duck before you recover from the shock.

 

Quite the thing to learn, huh?

 

“I love to learn things.”  That’s what Billy says.  Billy is this older gentleman in my writers’ group.  He writes these wonderful one-page vignettes remembering his youth.  He never writes about being married, so I don’t know if that was ever the case. I do know one thing: whenever he reads someone else’s submission, he says the same thing, “I love to learn things.”

 

I am your ex and I’m not sure he’d love to learn this. 

 

I love to learn things too. And life is like a top-heavy apple tree of knowledge. Fruits bob before our faces everyday, and bonk our heads when we forget to duck. Knowledge surrounds us and all it takes is time to pluck. I always take time to pluck.  My favorite plucking subject? People.

 

I love people. I love learning from them and about them.  They’re fun, they’re unpredictable, and you can never tell the heart of their fruit just by testing the rind.  You need to sink your teeth in and take a bite, and once you’ve bitten…well, ask Snow White how that turns out.

 

There are ways to tell the good fruit from the bitter though. Obviously when you’re considering a relationship, you want to be really certain before the “I do nibble.”  There’s a lot of probing and tapping and testing.

 

“Hey!  What are you probing there for?”

 

One of the things I’ve learned through probing is that the best way to find the heart of a person is to see how they treat their enemies. Learn that and you’ll know where you stand.

 

If a person has a Santa list for everybody who’s ever wronged them, that’s a sign.  Look at the list.  Imagine your name as that calligraphic word, three lines down from the top.  That’s right, admire it, because, deserve it or not, at some point, your name will be there. 

 

That’s true for all of us though.  Think of all the people you know.  Who do you know that’s never been on your naughty list?  Me, I’m pretty sure that I rub people who don’t even know me the wrong way.  That’s right, I’m a lint roller in a fur pile.  One way or another, I’m picking up dirty fuzz.

 

That’s why you look to people’s enemies.  How they treat them is exactly how you will be treated someday.

 

I am your ex.

 

That’s right.  Not many people consider their ex for friend of the year.  Even if they do consider them, the ex usually loses out to the guy who throws darts at his dog.  No, we all hold a special space in our personal hell for our exes.  It’s because we have knowledge.  We know who they are.

 

By their fruit shall they be known…

 

Exes are the rotten mush beneath our feet, and how we dance in the mush says everything about us.  It doesn’t matter what kind of worm home our ex was, our dance doesn’t move to their beat, it moves to our own. The rhythm shows our inner selves, our ability to forgive, and our desire to move on.

 

Does your dance include stiletto heels atop their meaty heart?  That dance does not show your best side.  Like I said, that heart could be mine, and I don’t know what made you light his crotch on fire, only that if I pluck your fruit, that falsetto flambé could be me.

 

No thanks. I’ll have the sushi.

 

That’s why I got close to MyEx in the beginning.  She had an ex, and although she didn’t have nice things to say about him, they weren’t spoken to prove the size of his ass, or how glad she was to kick it to the curb.  They were spoken because they were a part of her history, and I was looking for a lesson.

 

So when you’re ready to go out into the world of dating, look at how people talk about their exes.  Also, remember to watch how you talk about yours, because what you say, says more about you than it does about them.

 

Well, that and I am your ex.  I don’t want you talking bad about me.  I do plenty of that myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love Cats

“You could work in a little robot love, post-apocalyptic type fun.  How about a step by step guide to the bag pipes?”

“And I suppose you want me to tie them together?”

“Well, yeah!”

 

And that’s why friends don’t let friends recommend blog topics. Still at this point I’m game for just about anything.  See, It’s been a busy day of running errands and neutering cats.

 

That’s right, I adopted a cat. At least I think I did.   Maybe she adopted me. I’m a sucker for a sweet purr and some rubbing fur.  I think she knows it. If we’re playing cat and mouse.  It’s obvious who’s playing which role.

 

Today, the part of the cat will be played by A. Cat.

 

Yesterday I walked past her cage, and she pawed “hello” at me.  I should have kept going, but I stopped. Isn’t that always how we all fall in love?  A bat to the head and a lilting purr?  I’m hearig a purr, and I’m hearing bells.  This purr is a hypnotic purr and I turn to meet it. Her eyes meet mine. I’m staring out of my depth. I’m getting sleepier and sleepier. She’s rubbing against wire mesh—no mewing, just cadence purring—slowly. The last time this happened, I got married.  Still, how could I say no?  There’s one born every minute, and my time is now.

 

“Excuse me, can I adopt this one?”

 

That’s all I remember.  Roll the fluffy love music and video clips cuz somebody had Rob in her paws.  I signed all the paperwork, scheduled her shots, performed the neutering, and went home. No, wait, I didn’t perform it.  That’s right it was another scheduling; somebody else performed the cutting.  I was told I might need to wait three days.  Three days? I wasn’t getting a mail order bride--just a cat.

 

Maria, I just met a girl named Maria…

 

No, Maria wasn’t her name-o. It wasn’t Bingo either.  I’m no a farmer, and she is not a dog.  She’s adorable.  No, at that point her name was 349A, but that all changed when she met me.  I took her off the streets and gave her a home.

 

I was anxious all morning.  What would I do?  What would I say?  Would she like me?  I went to the store and bought her some toys.  I hear the girls like those. Some of them vibrated, others just looked like small furry woodland creatures.  I wanted to make sure she had everything she needed.

 

“Oh! You’ve got a kitty!” says the cashier.

“No, it’s my neighbor. He likes these kind of things.” I lie.  I’m blushing.  I think she knows.  She just smiles and puts the stuff in a brown paper bag.  I thank her and I’m on my way.

 

I spent the rest of the morning pacing.  I waited for the call.  I couldn’t wait 3 days to see her again!  If I called would I seem needy?  If I just waited, would I look like I didn’t care?

 

I’d been burned before.  I’ve seen cats come and go.  Still, I wanted to try again.  I wanted this time to work.  I tried to put aside all my previous baggage, and accept her for who she was.  I wanted to give her a home, and make her feel safe.  If she was a mouser, great, if she wasn’t, then that was ok too.  I just wanted her to know she was loved.

 

So how could I prepare a blog when I was so nervous?  All I could do was wait in a nervous tree and fidget.  Luckily I had a few friends willing to talk me down.  One kept me talking about Firefly and Battlestar Galactica, the other kept me distracted in her own way:

 

“Do ya get to get her today? huh? do ya? huh?”

 

I had a bunch of errands to run, but I didn’t want to miss the call.  So I decided to drive by her place first.  I know, I know, it’s a little stalkerish, but it’s only a real stalker situation, if I rush in and grab her, right?  I wasn’t going to do that.  I was just going to ask when she could come out and play.

 

“Hey little girl, want some candy?”

 

As I’m approaching the animal shelter door, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Boyd?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, this is Daniel, from the animal shelter.  I wanted you to know that the cat you adopted will be ready in one hour.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I can see the guy through the glass door.  He’s nodding as he says it.  He looks up, and I dodge against the wall.  I don’t want him to see me like this.

 

WOO HOO! This is better than prom!

 

Still, I have some things to get done.  My heart pounds as I rush through Target and Costco.  I can’t wait!  I can’t even think.  I’m not paying much attention to what I’m buying.  I think that’s why the woman behind me in line is staring at my 12 cases of Trojans and Depends.  I decide to skip Costco until I can think clearly.

 

I rush back to the animal shelter; back into the paws of a certain someone waiting for me. We meet. The climactic music rises. It’s strings. It’s horns.  It’s love!

 

“Hi!”

“purrrrrr.”

 

I take her home; we touch; she hides behind the bed. It’s ok, the last time this happened, I flew back from Seattle, dejected.  It’s fine.  We’ll work through this little impasse. She still loves me.  She just doesn’t want to come out yet.

 

When she’s ready, she’ll come out. I’ve given her a home, and I’ll care for her as best I can.  Her name is Persephone, and she is a queen.

 

Now, I have to blog.  I’m at my coffee shop, thinking of Persephone. Her purr. Her eyes. Her fur.  Has she come out from behind the bed yet? How can I write in a time like this?  I guess in a time like this, I take a friends advice.

 

Once upon a time, there was this robot bagpipe instructor. After the Earth died, he gave his heart and oily parts to a Cyborg stripper/pirate, named Candee…

 

Yeah, I guess I can make that work.

Say hello to Persephone

As Different as Cats and Dogs in the Rain

“…Cats kill because they enjoy it.”

 

MyEx.  She’s quite the salesperson when she wants to be.  She was never able to sell me on divorce, but I can’t deny her problem solving skills.  Who needs late night infomercial solutions when MyEx is on speed dial? Right now, I’m considering my latest problem.  Yesterday I threw out a box of granola bars because my cupboard mouse couldn’t find the one that was just right.   He’s like that one aunt who ruins a box of chocolates by denture diving for the coconut cream. 

 

Granola isn’t all I had to throw away.  I also had to toss 3 packages of spaghetti and a Costco bag of rice that MyEx and I bought before we married.  When she left I got custody of the rice, she kept the pony keg of olive oil.  I didn’t mind, I only got to rub her down with it once.  After I started sautéing the garlic, she never let me do it again.

 

“Hey! Hey! Hey! You’re a sick man Mr. Boyd!”

 

She said that, but she’s also the one who wanted to line the lawn with little Jesus heads on pikes for the Jehovah’s Witnesses.   She was gonna fill the skulls with olive oil and light them on fire.

 

“I just want to send a message.”

“You just want to scare the neighbors.”

“Well that’s just a bonus gift.”

 

MyEx is a private person. She likes her socializing like she likes her coffee: alone and in silence.  Because of this party gene, MyEx is a great pragmatist.  She cuts through the carcass fat and skewers the meat of the matter.

 

That’s why I called her. I needed a reliable answer. I’d told a friend that I was buying a cat to eliminate my mouse problem. That friend suggested I get a mouser. 

 

“As opposed to a piano player?”

“Not all cats catch mice, you know.”

“Of course I know.” I don’t know.

 

Actually I do know.  The two cats that adopted MyEx and I refused to catch mice. Mice were beneath them.  One cat refused to chase anything bigger than a cricket, and the other would point to mice like a where’s Waldo puzzle, but chasing…well, that was a little to much effort.

 

Still their presence kept the mice away, leaving the cats to play piano.  They were quite good really.  They knew all kinds of instruments and had a preference for strings. On special nights, hey diddle diddle could they ever fiddle.

 

Now that there are no cats in the house, the mice are playing, and they suck.  They’ve eaten my food, and when I lay traps, they won’t touch them.  What’s more, now they’re taunting me (the mice, not the traps).  This morning I got up, and there were little mouse poo-pellets in my slippers.

 

Rat bastards.

 

Now I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.  My friend who suggested I get a mouser wasn’t as much help when it came to picking one.

 

“You know how to find a mouser, right Rob?”

“No, how?”

“Their mother needs to be a mouser. They learn it from her.”

“Uhm, I’m going to the animal shelter to adopt one.  Most of those kitties aren’t there with their mother.”

“Well just ask the attendants.  I’m sure they know.”

 

How would they know that?  Do mousers have little mousy tattoos on their belly for each kill? Maybe when you pick them up you can see little mouse balls…I dunno.  I asked another friend about it.

 

“Mouser? That sounds like a dirty joke.”

“It is. I’m sorry. I’m just rude.”  What could I say?  She had an excuse: She was hopped up on a Nyquil/Tequila Toddy. I could have asked her how to make mud and she’d have given me the same answer.

“Make mud?  That sounds like a dirty joke.”

“It is.  I’m sorry.  I’m just rude.”

 

When I can’t make a kill, I turn to my one source of murderous truth: MyEx.  Say what you will about her (I know I do), but she knows dark things.

 

“How long does it take to saw through a femur with a hand saw?”

“Two hours.”

“Thanks.”

 

See?  She knows the dark like the back of her wand.

 

So I emailed her.

 

“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie-pop?”

“Is the tongue attached or severed?”

“Nevermind, I’m looking into buying a mouser.”

“Cat or dog?”

I paused.  I hadn’t really thought of a dog.  I mean, I’m not looking to replace Cosmo.  I just need a mouser.  Still some dogs are really good at that.  Maybe I do want a dog.  “What’s the difference?”

“Dogs are loyal and friendly.  They kill because they want to please you. Cats are independent. Cats kill because they enjoy it.”

“Oh, that’s easy.  A cat then.”

 

Now I’m off to buy a cat.  Look out little poo-in-shoe mousy, this time it’s personal.

 

Blogger in the Hands of Angry Poo Tossers.

If you air your dirty laundry in the woods and nobody’s there, does it still stink?  I’m just wondering.  I’m thinking I’m gonna start posting my blog to the sides of trees. Maybe it’ll cause less grief.  Then again I’m sure the trees will love the irony of paper being stapled to their sides.

 

“No worries, it’s recycled.”

 

First off, I read a blog the other week about Mercury being in retrograde.  I don’t buy into that stuff, but man!  I guess I need to apologize.  I poo-pooed the wrong blog.  I should have joined the mob and poo-pooed mine.   I’ll just change my posting title to “Blog on Poo Corner”. Angry mobs form to the left.  Next lynching: 30 minutes.

 

Ok, so I’m being a little melodramatic.  Still, we all have those moments right?  When it feels like the world is against us. I’ve been going through a moment for a while now.  What do we do?  And when we do feel that way, whom do we turn to? 

 

Me, I wrap myself into a fetal ball and turn inward. I mean usually that’s where the pain is coming from anyway.  Remember the old board game, Operation?  That’s kind of how I am.  Oh I suck at removing all the plastic ailments from Rudolf the buzzer-nose-boy’s body.  I can’t use the electric tweezers without jabbing something wrong, but I am very good at putting the ailments inside the body.  What’s more I have a bag full of extra maladies with nowhere to go.  Oh, there are readers with suggestions.

 

It usually doesn’t start with the Operation though. It starts by pushing down dominoes of problems.  One piece knocks down another until everything collapses.  That’s how it works.  That’s how I work.  The good news is, when everything falls, it’s done, the pity party is over, and I can stand again.

 

People handle these moments differently.  I have a friend who hides in a cave.  No literally, she moves to the woods, chases the bears out with a surly growl, then boards up the cave, and won’t talk until she’s done.  She’s resolved to resolving her own problems without accepting help.  Simply holding out your hand will void the process.

 

Other’s need help every inch of the way.  They can’t step without somebody supporting the weight of their world.

 

Me, I’m more of a training wheels kinda guy.  I can do it, I just need to know that somebody else is there, in case I fall. Outstretch your arms, show me you’re there.

 

That sounds easy, but according to the labels on my divorce baggage, I don’t let other people really close.  That requires time and proof of trust.  Most people aren’t willing to invest that much time in the surly old blogger at the end of the block.  I mean really, be honest.  When you played operation, how long could you play before picking up the board and shaking it upside-down until all the insides fell out? 

 

Yeah, me too.

 

Still, no matter how frail my relationships are, I do treasure them. See I do understand, I’m like chess: easy to learn, difficult to master.  So I appreciate those who try.  I know that the rules of Rob are too much for some people.  And I don’t throw the board when they go, but I do miss the person across the table.

 

I’ve been loosing players in teams lately.  This isn’t like my divorce,;I’m not working the whole self-doubt spiral, but it hasn’t stopped the pity party invitations from getting mailed. 

 

It’s ok though.  Last night I had a blow up with a competitor.  She was being wordy, and told me how far I’d fallen from God.

 

Now, rather than draw out the facts that moved me down the chutes and ladders to the pits of hell, let me just say this: I know what brought her to this conclusion, but it wasn’t right. In reality she’d asked me about something I didn’t want to talk about, so I feinted the conversation in a new direction. I’m good at that. I’m evasive. I’ve also moved to the status of sinner in the hands of an angry God.

 

I mean it’s true.  I’m guilty, but at least accuse me of the real stuff, and not the red herrings I toss on the board as appetizers.  That was the final domino. It made me mad.  I’ve been accommodating people for far too long.  I love to get along, but enough is enough. It’s time to pick up my games and go home.

 

As for the dirty laundry, well, I’m still the un-bathed blogger.  I assure you, there’ll be plenty more dirty laundry.  Just remember.  Angry mob forms to the left.  I’ll be the guy on the porch showing you my gaming finger.

 

 

 

 

Rapture in the Workplace

Things were so bad that I found it in today’s newspaper.  That’s not how I originally found out about it.  That information came to me in an email marked “High Priority.” The priority email read something like this:

 

Dear valued employee,

 

If you’re reading this, it means your still employed.  If you received this email in error, then, well, keep packing.

 

Cheers!

 

Your Lord and CEO

 

I nearly spewed yogurt when I read it.  That’s bad, considering I was eating Funyuns at the time. The last yogurt I’d had was…well, nevermind.  I checked my phone messages and previous emails to be sure:  Nope, nobody had tried contacting me.  I must still be employed. 

 

I find that a miracle since my boss reminds me monthly of my red-headed step-child status.

 

“Better take some bread crumbs, Rob, cuz if there’s a kid getting abandoned in the forest, you’re it.” Yeah, he’s the sprinkler of gingerbread joy.

 

This time wasn’t my time in the forest.  I have no idea why, but I did offer a prayer of thanks. It felt weird.  Not the prayer, but the not needing to worry about having my head cut off. 

 

I mean, one minute we were all standing around the virtual water cooler, the next minute 1,850 cups dropped to the ground. Their holders were raptured away.  According to a second email sent by our fearful leader, the rest of us should use our Dixie cup bail-pails cuz the ship is still taking on water.

 

I’d just seen our new president on TV telling everybody that things were going to get better but would require that we pull together and work.  I looked from email to Dixie cup but the water half filling it looked kinda sludgy.

 

No, from my perspective, we’d just dumped out 1,850 pails of chum and stirred up the waters.  Gonna need work?

 

“Gonna need a bigger boat.”

 

Still.  The feeling came and went so fast I barely noticed.  It was sort of a blessing.  One of my friends went through the same thing with her company.  They’d downsized from woman’s world to petites, and were looking new and slender. In her case though, it was like the self destructing Nostromo at the end of Alien:

 

“The company will no longer need some of you in 15 days.” 

 

Her employer told everyone that there would be layoffs, but kept the work force suspended for almost a month. Each day, they counted down.

 

“The company will no longer need some of you in 10 days.”

 

Finally the day came, and it didn’t matter where the axe came down, only that it finally fell.  I don’t know if I could take that.  Still it accomplished the same thing.  When I told my friend about how things happened at my work, she said, “wow!  That doesn’t seem right.”  To me, it sounded better than finding out I wasn’t underwear clad Sigourney Weaver or Jones the cat. 

 

Boom!  You’re unemployed.

 

Every company has different management styles, just like every marriage has different relationship styles. I’ve said it before: every marriage and management are both snowflakes.  They’re fragile and unique.

 

I think the trick is to find someone who not only can work within your unique crystalline structure, but somebody who thrives on it. I’ve always said that. If I haven’t always said it, I’m saying it now. Sure, maybe It’s the same thing as saying it after the ship blew up, but that’s my relationship style, and that’s the kind of snowflake I am.

 

It’s ok.  MyEx used to just drop the “snow” part of the word. That’s ok too; pet names are part of every relationship.  Still, in the end that’s one layoff I didn’t avoid. But like any other ending, the hard part is the initial shock.  After that, you move on.

 

“That’s it?  She just blew it out the airlock?  That seems kind of anti-climactic.”

 

The trick is knowing when to accept your fate, and how to move on from there. For everyone who’s ever been let go, one way or another, this blog is for you. I write for you.  That’s how I move on.

Dead Languages and Ex Wives.

Somebody once said, “You can’t go home again,” and when they said it, it certainly wasn’t from home, and I’m certain it wasn’t that long ago.  How do I know? QED: They didn’t say it in Latin.  That’s also how I know they’re wrong.   All true statements can be tracked back through their Clairol colored strands to their dark Latin roots.

 

Carpe Diem, “Seize the fish.”  See?  Everything important was once spoken by a dead guy speaking a dead language.  “You can’t go home again,” only goes back as far as the eye can see, and home is much further than this eye can see; home is where the heart is, and mine is on the sleeve of a recently pressed oxford that’s wrapped in plastic and stored in my closet. 

 

 The truth is, you can go home again. You probably should bring your own body bag though, cuz you’re gonna need it.  Just because you can, doesn’t always mean you should.  Sometimes it just means you have a lot to learn.

 

Last weekend, I did something because I could:  I set up a play date with MyEx.  It didn’t start as a play date.  It started as something worse. It started as an act of self-abuse, and just got fun from there.  It started while I rummaged through some old stuff stored next to my oxford. It started because I found something I thought MyEx might want.

 

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Yes?”

“Look, I figure enough time has passed, and I just thought I should check with you…”

“About what?”

“What do you want done with those naked pictures of your mother…”

 

Ok, I’m kidding.  I don’t have naked pictures of her mother.  I’ve never met the woman; she didn’t even come to our wedding.  I think she didn’t want MyEx to believe she come home again.

 

That’s really why I called too: our wedding.  It happened, and I found the pictures.  Our marriage is as much MyEx’s history as it is mine; I wanted to know if she wanted the proof.  It was only fair. I have a bundle of negatives.

 

I’m positive that’s why they say you can’t go home again.  That’s not what I was asking for though; I was asking her to stop by for a quick visit. I wasn’t asking that we revisit anything else, just an offering of a strangled dove with an olive branch impaling its throat.

 

She accepted my rigorous peace offering, and we arranged a time for her to come to my home.  My awkward senses were tingling.  There’s something inherently wrong about inviting your ex wife over to go through wedding pictures.

 

“More bleeding heart pâté”

“Please!  It’s yummy.”

 

“I think it’s cute.” said one friend.  She also believes bloody Carebear heads on pikes are charming; forgive me if I don’t accept her as the OED expert on cute.  I don’t think she’s traced cute back to the cuddly Latin roots.

 

I also don’t think that returning to my wedding is cute.  Still, it was something I needed to do.  It may not be cute, but it was right, and sometimes right sucks. 

 

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I dislike MyEx.  She’s not a bad person.  I’m not even mad at her for leaving.  She did what she thought she had to keep her sanity.  In my way, I appreciate that, because nobody likes to live with a crazy woman.  That’s certainly not something I’d want to return home to, although it would give me something to write home about.

 

“Dear Mom and Dad, you really ought to see this. Caveat emptor…”

 

Buyer, seize the straight jacket.

 

So I’m ok with things now, and I’m sure MyEx is too.  So, I invited her over to amputate some limbs and have some laughs.  She brought her new dog; he likes raw meat.

 

Actually the dog was a good idea. His name was Andrew and he was cute. He took the pressure off of her returning to my home.  When the air seemed to thick in the room, he lied down and licked himself.  I think we could all learn a lesson from that, if only we could accomplish it.

 

So I spent a few Saturday hours with MyEx and her pup.  I would never tell her this, but it was good to see her.  I don’t mean in a “let’s go home again” kind of way, but in a “you’re a welcome guest in my home” kind of way. She looked good; she’s lost a lot of weight, and looks healthier than the last time I saw her.  We still fell back on the same discussions, and had the same laughs.  It was hard to believe we were ever divorced, but we were. We are. There is no returning from that.

 

In the end we both accept it, and I think that’s why we get along.  We have no expectations, no ulterior motives, no desires to exact justice. We’re just two veterans sitting around the fire comparing pictures, without a leg to stand on.

 

Veni, vidi, vici, We came, we saw, we smell like fish. It’s an old Latin saying.  See?  All roads lead to Rome; they just arrive at different homes.

 

Isle of Rob

The newspaper said scientists are nuking an island.   Ok, maybe nuke is a little strong.  They’re just giving it an animal enema, how’s that?  That’s what the LA Times said, and I trust them.  They may share yellow snow, but they won’t show me yellow journalism.

 

This weekend, they were showing me a green island—green and rocky.  See, there’s this little island between Australia and Antartica.  I don’t remember it’s name, but I’m sure that it’s an aboriginal word meaning “little craggy rock between Australia and Antarctica.”

 

“I name this island ‘Rob!’”

 

As the black and white story goes, this island is an old island with really cool rocks.  Supposedly they grow them there.  No really, the rocks jut up from the Earth’s mantle and literally grow.  This is ideal for all sorts of projects, especially those that require rocky surfaces.  Sacrificial altars, casting the first stone, Yahtzee tourneys, all are great things served on the rocks—and this island has them.

 

In the early 1800s, ships used the island for clubbing seals and gutting penguins.  It was apparently quite the skinning hotspot.  Ships would sail from all across the globe just to kill their animals there. Captain Stubing chartered his first Love Boat there, and I think it may have been the home of the first Starbucks, before Seattle seahawks carried those away to foreign shores.

 

Anyway, amidst all the good time seal clubbing, stopping ships would unload stores of wheat and dried goods so that there would be food for their next stop.  And where the wheat goes, so go the rats.  Yup, they bolted from the boat like rats from a…well, I have a sinking suspicion you get the idea.

 

Anyway, once the rats hit land, they did what rats do best: They ate bread and bred.  Since the local ecology consisted of a few forms of small birds, the unnatural rats didn’t have any natural enemies, and were left unmolested to eat, drink, and molest the landscape like packs of industrialists.

 

This wasn’t a problem for the sailors; they were sea faring men who’d seen molesting before. This wasn’t their first orgy; it was just another plunder walk off the plank. Sailors had ruined eco-systems before, and they knew what salves cured what itch: the next trip, they brought prides of cats.  The cats ate the rats that ate the malt that sat on the island that Earth built.  Problem solved.

 

Not really.

 

See sailors are fun guys with many weird customs.  Another strange sailing custom is that after sailors introduce cats to an island, they bring rabbits.  Now, I suppose it could be argued that rabbits are there to feed the cats, but I could have sworn that that’s what the rats were for.

 

So after several years, the cat’s and the rabbits learned to live in harmony like the RIAA and music pirates: sure the cats gang-pounced the occasional rabbit, but when you breed like bunnies, what’s a missing cottontail or two?  Both cats and rabbits flourished.

 

By this time we’re into the late 1900s and science has come a long way.  Hoping to undo the four-legged havoc they’ve already reaped on the tiny island, scientists introduce a virus-carrying flea that only affected the rabbits.  Kill the rabbits kill the problem, right?  Wrong.

 

 See, sure, the rabbits dwindled, but the cats are still hungry.  Remember those two types of indigenous birds I mentioned in the beginning?  They’re now what we non-scientists like to call “extinct,” thanks to the foreign cat.

 

“ooops!  My bad, “ says Bob the Scientist, as he sets back to the ol’ drawing board.

 

Scientists didn’t count on something else: the islands rabbits will to live.  They’d apparently seen the instructional film “Jurasic Park” and learned to, evolve.  Darwin and his Beagle would be proud; the rabbits are no longer susceptible to the poison flea pill.

 

These Movie lovin’ bunnies celebrated they’re victory, and after reciting the president’s speech from the end of “Independence Day,” the rabbits devoured the remaining island flora.  Now the island rock is well, just a rock.  

 

Stuck between a rock and a barren place, scientists have decided if the natural habitat can’t live on the island, nothing can.  They’re next mission is to exterminate all the cats, rats, rabbits, and impotent fleas.

 

As most Rob stories, this one has a point: No man is an island…until he’s divorced.

 

After divorce we’re craggy rocks jutting out of the horizon between landmasses.  Sometimes well-intentioned seal clubbers land and change our habitat, when we’re most susceptible.  Other times we convulse and shake until everything that defined us as married falls away, leaving a new heated magma shape, not like the old one atoll.

 

The problem is that in our violent rebirth we destroy the delicate balance that makes us who we are. We’re not destroying our insignificant other, we’re pillaging the person we spent years perfecting.

 

Divorce is difficult.  It’s natural to want to shake things up, but sometimes it’s important to be island stoic and wait out the plunder so that we can save ourselves. Don’t throw out the indigenous birds with the rat poo by introducing new predators.

 

It’s better to take stand on who you are rather than leaping to knee-jerk solutions. We all have good and bad, and I’m all about bettering myself, but not at the cost of things that make me fun for sailors.  I still want to be a colorful place to club seals.

 

“Hello Sailor!”

 

And when the waters are rough, I like to know that people can find shelter. I wouldn’t throw that out to spite MyEx, no matter how turbulent things got. I’ve waited things out, and I like the island paradise that’s left.

 

“I name this island ‘Rob!’”

 

Reading In Between Craigslist.

“I have a 14” bearded dragon.”

That’s funny, I have a 3’ yardstick that says I’m grossly inadequate.

 

I’m searching Craigslist.com for Cosmo’s paw print, but all I’m finding is confusion. Some people post with specific needs while others post ambiguous signs asking for trouble.

 

“Lonely Teenager Needs A Companion.”  That’s posted under “Pets.”  Somehow I’m guessing the predator to pet ratio here is a little high, but I am betting she did get lots of calls.  At least the line was busy when I tried calling.

 

What? Don’t look at me that way?  I didn’t use my phone.  I called using one I found on Craigslist.  Besides, what ever happened to the good old days when you could say, “I want a dog “? 

 

I think that communication is one of the biggest problems with our society today.  People don’t say what they want, and then get upset when your ESP is substandard.  I think that’s why Picasso was a Cubist.  Who could argue with him?

 

“Pablo, I wanted a velvet Elvis.”

“It is.”

“Oh, ok.  I can see that…”

 

Truly he was a genius ahead of his time.  Me, I’m just a man and his blog looking for a little lost dog.

 

“Do you love horses?”

Not without currency changing hands…

 

Do you know that if you Google “rod iron fences” you’ll find them?  That’s funny since they don’t exist.  The term is “wrought iron.”  Why is it wrought? You’d be bent out of shape if people tried to drop you from the vocabulary too!

 

I won’t even go into the people who eat “cold slaw.”  That’s just weird.  Then again, so is me talking about going into people; that’s the miscommunication hokey pokey.

 

When you’re in a marriage miscommunication is just plain frustrating.  MyEx and I were pretty good, until things got to the end.  But at that point, we could have walked around with subtitle LED banners dangling from our necks and we wouldn’t have understood a word spoken. Neither of us were looking anywhere but ourselves.

 

That’s generally how miscommunication happens.  People start hearing what they want and stop saying what they need.  I know I’m good at reading people, but that doesn’t matter.  If I’m stuck translating Morse code sighs and awkward silences I’m not going to know how to reply with anything other than shrugs.

 

“I wear a blue collar and answer to Smurfette, have you seen me?”

Uhm…

 

See? Why do we have to decode this stuff?  I mean life is too confusing anyway, why can’t we find a way to talk with each other?  It’s not like I’m being a language Nazi; I dole plenty slices of Rob-babble pineapples—some are tangy, sweet, others are just bitter, but I do try to keep it where most anybody gets a taste of what I’m talking about.

 

And yet I’m equally as guilty. Why?  It’s a matter of trust.  See, good conversation requires I trust that you’ll use what I say appropriately, or even listen at all.  So, is miscommunication just a matter of mistrust? I don’t know, and if I did, I might not tell you.

 

Lassie trusts you.  She’ll tell you that Timmy is in the bottom of a well.  What she won’t tell you is that she pushed him in for withholding biscuits.   She eliminated the middle boy until she discovered the biscuit basket wasn’t bottomless.  Then she needed somebody help—no, wait.  That wasn’t Lassie that was a girl I dated in college. Sorry.  Interpretive miscommunication.

 

So if I’m going to do it myself, I shouldn’t be surprised to see others do it too. 

 

“Looking for a dominatrix with a ball gag, who’s willing to tie me up and call me Toto.”

See, now there’s a guy who knows how to communicate.