The Traditional divorce: Dante's Unmentionable Ring of Hell.

"in one corner wearing He-Man boxers and a smile…"

That's right, today we're gonna skip ahead to the "beat down in the courtroom!" I'll come back to the cooperative effort later. I think I want to show the opposite extreme first. Just think of this as the Friday Night Fights blog. Today, I'm I traditionalist. Today I'll discuss what you can expect from a traditional divorce.

But Rob, you had a friendly divorce? How can you know about a traditional divorce?

Ah, dear reader, how can any of us know unless we've stared into the gaping maw ourselves? I can only tell you what friends and family have told me. Which isn't much Nobody returns and talks about the gaping maw, not without lots of liquor and a bottomless bowl of salty snacks. Lucky for me, I have a hot and cold running keg and a whole lotta nuts.

I also have a good friend who went through the traditional divorce. He enjoyed it so much the first time, he came back for the second. Yeah, poor guy. He's a good Christian, he really is, but for a while he was poured through the Biblical yellow pages in the Bible-back for God's direct smite line.

"Cavemen had it right."

"how?"

"Club her."

"Oh, you don't mean that."

"Shutup and pass the cashews."

Yeah, he was a ray of sunshine for a while. He's getting better, he doesn't growl anymore. He turned to the dark side because his wife signed no mutations treaty and unloaded with every Jedi mind trick she could fit in a blaster barrel.

I know, you're saying, "but Rob, blasters shoot energy beams You don't load—"

Shutup and read. You're taking my Star Wars metaphors too literally. I know less about light sabers and clone wars than I do about divorce. Ok, that's a lie. Whatever, pass me the cashews.

See and that's how most of them turn out. It's even worse because too many divorce lawyers are chum-frenzied.

"Gonna need a bigger boat."

"I can get you one, all you need to do is sign here, sue here, oh and pee in her mailbox here."

It's dark ugly and costly. Especially if she's rigged an electrical current to the mailbox. I speak from experience. It's shark infested waters, and usually the only person who swims out with all appendages is the one who navigates the water daily: the lawyer. Unless you can score some "Shark-Off" or strike some kind of treaty, neither one of you will leave happy. Which in some divorces, is exactly the part that makes both parties happy.

See, the traditional divorce is like putting 2 hurt tigers in a room and saying "Play nice." Then you add a few guys with whips and chairs and $300 briefcases to lash them into a frenzy, and now you've got a divorce circus.

This is also the most expensive approach. According to national statistics I've just pulled out of my butt, the average divorce costs about $17,000 per person. Now understand, there are some extreme celebrity divorces spiking the curve, but you get the idea. Every time you have to step into a courtroom, the cost wheel whips around like Pat and Vanna prop on turbo drive.

"Oh, bankruptcy! I'm sorry."

Not all Divorces have to be that way, but it takes restraint. Do you have restraint, or do you microwave a Ken Doll effigy every night when you get home from work? Restraint is probably the last thing you want to show. Like the tiger's torn flesh, it's seen as a weakness; our instinct is to fight with all we have. Sometimes you just have to numb yourself through it. Remind yourself it will be over soon. When you separate and fall back into your perspective corner, listen to your coach as he squeezes the water bottle of Hershey's syrup in your mouth. Eucalyptus and aloe your cuts and broses, and inhale the coconut/vanilla smelling salts. Rest up for the next round. It's going to suck worse. While you pull yourself together, think of what you want to take with you. Try to keep pride and dignity high on that list, even though in order to keep them you may have to show a little forgiveness and humility.

"Shake hands…"

Now that's the spirit.

Friendly Divorce Primer.

See Rob Dance.

Dance Rob! Dance!

Oh, no it's not the happy dance of celebration. It's the tentative minefield hop of a friendly divorce. Of the three options discussed in yesterday's blog, this is the maneuver MyUnwife and I chose to be our last waltz.

The friendly divorce is called "friendly," not because of the frat party abandon shared during the process, but because of the ice dance synchronization required to succeed. Each step, lift, and smile, is calculated, cold, and planned.

Spin her over the mine, slice left, now wave…

Skate Rob. Skate.

That's why it's not for everybody. You have to be getting along well enough to work through the compromise. If you're envisioning their head on your trophy wall, go ahead and skip the rest of today's blog. No hard feelings.

MyUnwife and I had hard feelings. We also had hard heads. Still, we put them together. It's something we were always good at. Oh, the final product may look like a pre-school Mona Lisa, but we always worked well enough together to complete the project.

So you need to be able to work together, if you want a friendly divorce. You also need to live in a "no fault" divorce state. Ok it's not a requirement, but it's really tough to be "friendly" when you're reamed by 20 quires of accusations. In a "No fault" divorce you can silently seethe at each other with a spit-wad of blame pressed into your cheek. Remember when you were 7 and your sister tattled on you for sneaking into the cookie jar without giving her any? You're Mom's sense of justice involved sticking you both in a room until you could "get along?" This is the same thing.

"I'm not touching you…"

Yeah, that sort of takes on a new meaning now. Sure, we're all adults. Whatever.

The upside to the Friendly divorce is it's the cheapest, and possibly the quickest, of all your options. If you can slug through this (sorry, poor choice of words. Slugging voids the "friendly."), then you can get out and on your way within 6 months (depending on state laws) without spending much more than copying costs and filing fees. It's much cheaper than hiring 1 lawyer, per player. Actually, it's cheaper than hiring 1 lawyer period.

If you're uncomfortable with legal forms, and are worried about completing them properly, there are tools to help you. MyUnwife and I used www.completecase.com. Complete Case is much like Turbo Tax. Both you and your partner sit in front of the computer, answer questions, and then print the forms.

For us, it was worth the 250 bucks. Making sense of legal forms would have been just one more long car trip without a map or a bathroom break: both of us pointing at pointless offramps and baffled by meaningless intersections. By the end of the night, she'd have come at me with the red Swingline 747, while I tried to knock her out with my paper punch.

Run Rob! Run!

No, one less stressor was worth the money. That does bring us to the downside of the "friendly" divorce. You have to dance like a team for one more song. Each move equal give, equal take. She spins, you hold. No matter how tempting it is to let her fly into the hutch full of china she's so determined that she's taking. Even though it was a gift from your Great Uncle (who's now dead) given to both of you. Crashing and breaking, each shard—Sorry, you get my point. Hold on to her. Let her have the hutch. Let's face it, you’re a paper plate kind of guy, and nobody's around to wash dishes anymore anyway. Take something useful like the refrigerator. Where else are you going to keep the beer?

My house…2, 3, 4…dip…your car…3, 4…and bow at the door…

Everything has to be this way. It's methodical and tedious, but chances are, you'll get more of what you want, if you compromise. I was never about the stuff, but I got what I needed. There were things I felt were mine, and I got most of those. I think she did too.

In the end, we're as happy as we can be, and still use the words "divorce" and "happy" in the same sentence.

See Rob smile knowingly.

Smile Rob Smile.

Getting a Divorce Basics: Which Path is Right for You?

Rob's life is at a lull.

Lucky for you, you're here to catch it! My lull is your gain. Why? Well for once, I'm done talking about me. Let's take a moment to talk about you.

…

Ok, lull over. Back to me. Don't you feel better? Send me a self addressed stamped envelope and I'll give you one free back-pat to go with that. I'm all about you.

Yeah, the picture get's clearer every day why MyUnwife left doesn't it? That's ok. She doesn't get the free back-pat, you do. That's because you're special. That's why today I thought I'd break into one of the fundamental concepts of divorce: the "How?" concept.

That's right. Don't everybody thank me at once. Just think of me as the all-powerful benevolent Oz-Rob. I am only here to pass down what I know to you. Lucky you.

Really there are 3 approaches to getting a divorce: "Friendly" which includes filing yourself; "Collaborative" allows you to be combative but your lawyers have to be friendly; Then there's Global Thermal Nuclear War: A free for all no holds barred battle royalle of cliché, spite, and malice. Whoever can eviscerate their opponents and watch them bleed assets first, wins.

Shall we play a game?

I don't think it's a surprise that MyUnwife and I went for the "friendly divorce." We're actually too afraid of each other to do it any other way. We both saw War of the Roses as a training video followed by a group discussion.

"She should have hired a gang of South American Guerillas to kidnap him."

"Really?"

"Yeah, that way when his bullet riddled body floated in on the surf, nobody would have suspected a thing."

See? Oh, don't think that just because I used her example, that I'm all puppies and flowers. I'm still waiting for her to start her car. I probably shouldn't have said that out loud, huh? Well…let's just say that of course I'm kidding, but only if she actually turns the key…

No, The friendly divorce is meant to avoid that. It's also the cheapest option. Cooperation may loose you street-cred but it will save you Mastercard cred. And in the long run, that's priceless.

Which route should you take? Take my simple test.

Sit in a room with your spouse and try talking. For safety reasons, I recommend you remove all sharp objects first. If you make it 15 minutes, then it's a good start. Now, dump a box of wooden blocks on the floor. Each block a different color with a cool picture: a favorite toy, a friendly animal, or a favorite cartoon character raised out of one wood side. On the other a number or a letter, something cool. You'll see some you like. I'm sure you spouse will too.

Take turns taking blocks. What happened? Did you take the blocks you wanted first, or just grab the ones you thought he might want instead? When he took one you wanted, did you dive in and grab the rest so he couldn't have any? If you answered yes, then the "friendly" divorce probably isn't for you. Was somebody able to break into the room and pull you apart? Yes? Then maybe collaborative divorce will work for you. If your soon to be ex is spinning on a spit with the house, the car, and the home-wrecking tramp blocks wedged into his mouth, then go ahead and call a lawyer now.

See now wasn't that easy? Great. Tomorrow I'll Explain the Friendly Divorce Process. In the mean time, go pull him off the spit. A lawyer would agree that it will help your case in the long run, no matter how good he looks up there. A helpful tip: Remember to brush away any finger prints. When he comes to, explain that you're not sure what happened yourself, but thank him for saving you from that runaway gorilla who broke into the room. It's the first step into a very dark wilderness.

Mmmmm, Cupid Pops!

"If beauty has a name, then hers must be the same."

That's a quote. It came from a Kevin Gilbert song. "Who?" you ask? He's just a musician from the 90s. He didn't have any hits, but I liked his way of juxtaposing lyrical concepts. This is not an example of that. It's just a cool lyric. I always thought it was a great way of describing a woman. I gotta tell you, it fares much better than "what knockers!" Not that I would ever say something like that unless I was quoting Young Frankenstein; you can call off your torch wielding villagers. They're trampling my lawn.

It's true though, somewhere deep inside I'm a romantic. I know, hard to believe. I'm also a guy, so it's buried pretty deep. You have to dig past the nougaty goodness of perpetual adolescence and thick testosterone shell. Yeah, you probably should wear gloves.

Once inside, you will find a sweet soul that likes Valentine's Day. I'm a sucker for making my somebody feel special. Sure, last year Cupid took a few rounds to the chest, but's ok, he's like Tupperware: he's durable, and he'll keep cold until I need him again. I don't really need to pull him out of the freezer now, but tis the season. I'm having troubles explaining the dead cherub next to the chicken breasts. So now he's on my back porch, He's brought a following feelings like pesky flies. It doesn't help that it's been over a year since I've felt loved.

Well wait. I know, "awww, poor Rob." It's not like that though. I mean, I'm establishing a new network of friends, and I do feel like people care. It's just that there's a gaping hole where MyUnwife used to be. I've curtained it off, and moved it to the corner. If you visit, you'll hardly notice it, but sometimes an empty wind rushes through; the curtains lick out, like they're trying to grasp me, and drag me in. The breath is icy; ignore it. It goes away.

But back to the point: I do like Valentine's Day. I am a little melancholy that I'm missing this one. I mean I could pamper me, but what's so special about that? I do that every day. Buying me chocolates and roses, and lighting candles just seems superfluous. Even worse, Valentine's Day isn't like Christmas. It's not a good holiday for random acts of kindness. I knock on a neighbor's door, bearing gifts, and I'm lucky if I'm not farting rose petals for a month. Husbands don't like other men to share in the giving spirit this time of year.

So I'll sit this one out. It's for the best. I did get a call from a sexy woman today though.

"Hi, I'm Matilda Frothfang."

"Hi Matilda."

"I'm calling you because Cool Candidate X needs your support."

"Really? Has anyone ever told you, you have a sexy voice Matilda?"

"...is his plan for making this a better place."

"I couldn't agree more! So what are you wearing?"

"—the mantle of a strong family values."

"Wow, sounds sexy. Tell me more."

So we talked for a few hours. Matilda was prerecorded, so she repeated things a lot, but I couldn't help feel a special bond between us. She wants me to join her tonight at my local voting place. I think it's cool that she knows where I vote. It shows initiative.

Matilda is the only woman in my life right now. I know it's not long term, but at least It'll get me through the holiday: I've recorded her. She's in my voicemail, and "She talks in beauty, like the night." It's not quite a quote, but I like that too. Maybe I'll whisper it to her tonight.

"Press 1 to hear your message again…"

Excessive Code-Speak Penalty: Replay Down.

Yesterday was the big game. So how many of you have heard more than enough about the Super Bowl and all that surrounds it?

Ok, those of you who raised your hand, lower your arm, and move your finger to your mouse. Roll it up. Little more...little more...over to the left…there! The back arrow? Click it. Get out now or abandon all hope…

10 million blogging lemmings can't be wrong. So I'm running with the pack. We have chosen our cliff and it says "Super bowl: next drop."

Charge!

All you doubtful lagging lemmings will have an opportunity later. The next cliff will be along shortly. We call that "the election." Huh, suddenly the super bowl doesn't look half bad does it?

Geronimo!

Ah yes. My leap started Sunday morning in church. Like so many other holidays within the past 12 months, I'd planned on skipping this one. I mean, what is there for me here? It's Sunday. I work. Why bother? Except that while kneeling at the church communion rail, it hit me: I need snacks!

Ok, so my timing may not have been appropriate. Still, I wanted to live. I wanted to celebrate, even if it was alone from behind my desk. Sitting in my chair by the Sony Trinitron glow, I could commune with millions of Americans just by eating chips and drinking beer while billions of electrons bounced off my unsuspecting skull inspiring deep thoughts, and deeper actions. Maybe my timing wasn't that bad after all.

"I forgot my snacks!" That was my battle cry, behind my painted smile and oversized foam hand, favorite finger extended.

"what snacks?" That's my favorite checker. Her stock just dropped several points. Luckily for her my regard for other checkers sits pretty low; she's still my fave.

I stare into her doe eyes, blink, urge her gaze to follow mine back to the stalled conveyor belt. No words can convey what's in my mind. I resort to picture language. I am a frustrated teacher, and the belt is my chalkboard. There, my foam finger pointer waves over 3 tomatoes, 2 jalapeños, 1 red onion, a bunch of cilantro and pausing over a bag of chips.

3+2+1...

A train leaves Las Vegas, headed for Los Angeles. There are 15 horny real estate agents, and 3 waitresses serving drinks in the dining car. The Train, traveling 60 mph, explodes in a fireball when one drunk Realtor too many grabs for prime waitress property. Waitress and property owner, A, ignites idiot, B, with a can of Aqua Net (red can) using Zippo lighter given to her by her Cousin, CC. Burning man becomes frantic flailing fiery ferry of death. King Midas of alcohol flame setting everything on fire. 14,598 shards of shrapnel travel X Mph into the desert night, while one iconic ranger bear smokes 3 cigarettes, watching the explosive display muttering about forests and fires. What ingredients does Divorced Rob need to make salsa?

Checker Grrl doesn't get it. A tear rolls down my cheek. I am the TV Indian watching her litter on my dreams.

"Oh the chips!" she says, pretending to understand.

"Yeah...can I borrow a Kleenex?"

It's not her fault. And it's not like I had any intentions on her or anything. It's just that she's reminded me of one of the things I miss about MyUnwife: Shorthand. If MyUnwife were reading this, she'd have been screaming "Salsa, moron! It's Salsa!" at her screen like an angry armchair quarterback. She's seen this maneuver.

I love to talk, but even more than that, I love the transference of ideas that comes with comfortability. No words, single words, movie quotes used as quarterback code to call the next play.

Red 7, Blue 19, Alamand left, "Abby Somebody…"

Example: "How did you get rice?" means "well, the waitress serving us tonight is competing for the worst waitress in the world award. Drink your tea slowly, because you'll never see a refill. Consider every food item delivered to our table as a gift from God. It wasn't planned by our waitress." I know you don't get it, but MyUnwife does, and that's the point. Also important is that the waitress doesn't get it. I don't need secret ingredients in my tomato bisque.

Don’t stare at me like you're my lost checker. You do it too. That's part of what makes relationships fun, and exclusive. It's just you and your secret code that nobody else shares. So there Nya. You make the calls. You run the play. Our plays usually contained code involving food or travel, which is funny because most of our problems contained situations including drink and stagnation.

I know that I'll play again, and I'll create new calls new things that are uniquely part of my new team. Still, the season is over, and I miss the game.

Swishy-Swishy

Where can I sell half a mattress? It's just a question, and I've got half a mind to ask it. It's not as weird as it sounds I swear. Ok, it's still weird, but not that bad. See, here's the thing: I've got a king sized waterbed. Not one of the old swishy-swishy-"Ah!"-Thump!-"I've sloshed out of my own bed and cant get up" ones. This one's got baffles. There will be no swishy-swishy here.

Rob, Why have a waterbed that doesn't move?

Great question. I'm baffled by the answer myself. Ok, stop throwing things. You'll puncture the bed. It still does do that. And yeah, There is a little movement. But not much. It's kind of like one of those air beds. You know, the ones that the old bionic woman sells? Yeah, that's kind of what it feels like, except the little movement you get moves like water not air. I don't sleep on a cloud. Oh and I can't wake up in the middle of the night and go "I'm no longer a 47, I think I'm a 72 now." For me to do that, I need a hose, a sink and the ability to suck start a waterbed. If I could do that, I'd have a change in career paths. My waterbed stays right where it is. I like it.

At least my half. See, that's the thing. The bed was a MyUnwife & Rob production. We bought it for us. It's two singles in one bed. Ok, now that's a truer statement than I care to admit. Let's try this: If you took Mama Bear's and Papa Bear's beds and pushed them together, then wrapped them in one candy coated mattress shell, you'd have our bed. We paid extra, but her side has more baffles. It moves less than my side. I like a little swishy-swishy action. That's how I roll.

A divorced friend of me asked me once, "Do you still sleep on the same side of the bed?"

"Yeah" I replied, but not for the same reason he asked. He was asking because I'm a world renowned creature of habit. One day moves very much like the next. At night though, I'm new creature. I live to move around the bed. Ask MyUnwife. I shake things up quite a bit when I sleep. That's the other reason we got the separate water balloons. I can thrash a bit at night and the swishy-swishy-"Ah!"-Thump was a very real threat for her.

"Pookie, why are you sleeping on the floor again?"

"Grrrrr."

"Ok, well I'll let you get back to sleep down there."

Now I'm alone. So late at night when I start to roll from one side to the other, now I stop. I hit her side of the bed, and it ceases to swish like water. It troughs and trudges like oatmeal. "Ah!" My body rejects that half, and rolls back. It's my bed and I still only have my side.

So marriage was a compromise. I get that, and I have no complaints about it. But sleeping alone isn't. It's me, myself, and my bed. Well, half my bed. Her side is oatmeal. I figure if I could get a different half a bed I could reclaim my nocturnal territory. Make it my own again. For now, I'm but half a man, and I don't swish as much as I'd like.

Reruns, Reruns, Everywhere and not a Plot to Watch.

Last night, I'm working and watching TV. The writers' strike is really getting on my nerves: now even shows like the Biggest Loser are looking like tasty vittles. How many times can I watch a CSI rerun before I start mouthing back dialogue like a Rocky Horror devotee?

Damnit Katherine you're a—

Ok, maybe one too many metaphors in the batter.

I flip the channel to Fox, and they're doing the Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? When my ego is a little inflated, I'll flip here to see all the things I've forgotten over the years. It usually brings be back down to where I should be. Last night they had some sorority sister on who's just like all the sorority sisters in my favorite horror movies, except with clothes. I'm thinking she should just admit that kindergartners have her beat, and go home. This girl is chum.

"Beta Alpha Rho Beta Iota Epsilon! Yea!"

Click.

TNT is showing Without a Trace. It's ok. Some bride-to-be has gone missing. I'm also drinking beer, so my first thought is, "Lucky guy." But then they go looking for her. What's up with that? I'm ten minutes in, and I already want to change the channel.

A Sprite commercial comes on. "Obey your thirst."

Ok.

Click.

Somebody's showing an X-files rerun. Moulder's trying to figure out what happened to his sister still. Oh look, sexual tension with Scully, going nowhere. Plot circles and theme mutilation. A concentric conspiracy of writers leading from one dead end to another. That's nice. Yawn.

Speaking of such things, did I mention MyUnwife watches Jericho? Is that grounds to have her committed? I only watched because it was on, she was the initiator. We never missed an episode. Maybe I'll watch it this season, but it's only for her. It's part of our settlement. I watch Jericho, she watches pretty much whatever she wants.

Sigh.."Nuts."

My movie choices look like Dukes of Hazzard on Spike, and Men are Bastards! On Lifetime. Don't remember that last one? Yeah, check the listing, it's pretty much always on. I think it's simulcast on Oxygen if you need to catch it there. The sequel is coming out later this year, "MAB II: I Found the One Good One!" Yeah it stars The guy who played Aiden on Sex and the City, and Nancy McKeon. I'll shut up now; I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise ending.

Click

"Did I do that?"

Click

Fine! Without a Trace it is.

I haven't missed too much in my search for the perfect programming. The girl is still missing. The groom is still grieving, and the FBI team is still searching. If you're thinking the husband did it but is hiding behind buckets of crocodile tears, I'll tell you now: he didn't. He isn't. His tears are real. In fact he's such a good guy that he may be bumping Aiden off of Lifetime next season. He's got me beat. Hell, even the dogged leader of the Without a Trace team has me beat. Here let me prove it to you. I'll replay a short dialogue exchange. I don't really remember it verbatim, so I've paraphrased it a bit:

Hapless Underling: Dude! Marriage? Whassup with that? You can't be serious!

Fearless Leader: Da! Da! I beeleete int eet.

Hapless Underling: No Way!

Fearless Leader: "Da! Eetz goot! Marriage, keeds, whole 900 meters.

Hapless Underling: Dude! No [pause, count 10] Way! Even with like, your past?

Fearless Leader: Da! I beeleete! I neever sait I vaz goot at eet. Now go geet Mouse ant Squirrel!

I wanted to change the channel again. Not because of the bad acting; that was all in my head. No it was something more serious. Despite all the crap I've seen, I still believe in marriage too. I wouldn't admit that in a public forum, but I do. And yeah, I buy the whole 900 yards.

I neever sait I vaz goot at eet.

What if I'm not? What if I'm the Men are Bastards! poster-uh...man? Is the world better off if I just become that crotchety old man at the end of the blog, huddled away in his cyber hermitage?

"Get off of my Post you little so-n-so!"

I don't know. "Once bitten…" and all that. Oh, I don't doubt there are good women out there. Lifetime assures me there are plenty. But me? Am I good? I'd like to think so, but what if I'm just Mulder, chasing my tail, or somebody else's? Does the world really need another Fox to do that?

So I've been watching me. Rerunning everything since my writers haven't written anything new. I don't think I am that bad. Am I blaming MyUnwife? Naw. It was an ensemble cast, we both played our roles. I think I was cuter, but that's just me. I don't think I have enough information to answer the question correctly. I think I'll be ready soon though. And when I am, I think I'm taking Fearless Leader's advice:

"Now go geet Mouse ant Squirrel!"

I'm not really sure what he means, but I figure it's worth a try. It beats my past episodes.