"I play my little part in something big…"-Jimmy Eat World

Previously on Rob's Blog:

"I hate you. I want a divorce."

"If that's what you want."

"One dish two dish my dish, you dish."

"your"

"What?"

"'your dish' is how you're supposed to say it."

"No, you misheard. The last word wasn't 'dish'"

"Oh…"

Slam! Vrooom!

Bye.

There ya go. Rob's recap fall TV style. f this were CSI: Miami, I'd take off my glasses here and repeat a scripted quip that makes you roll your eyes and contemplate the remote before the screen goes black. Don't worry. There's still time. I'll make you're eyes roll yet.

That's the great part about TV, you can change the channel when the Cannell and Kelly pap gets too banal. The challenge is finding something worth staying tuned for. I've been watching the new Flash Gordon for it's scientific accuracy and continuity of plot.

Ok, not really, it's all about the sexy aliens. There's a bounty hunter and a princess. What more could a guy ask for? You're right, they do need a Bo Peep. There is a little red head wishy-washy reporter, does she count? She also fills the ex-girlfriend nook. The rest is all monsters, action, and testosterone backsplash. This show has everything!

That's what I've become since MyUnwife left. No, I'm not saying that she took the best part of me, Maybe I'm saying that when she left, the real Neanderthal swaggered out of his cave. No reason to pretend I'm civil anymore.

"Who would watch this crap?"

"I know! Vampire Beach Patrol. What will they air next? Could you move a little, you're blocking Mistress Naomi. she's slathering on more moon tan lotion. It's tonight's safety tip."

The nice part about having a small blog is I don't have to worry about some twisted little work-at-home writer reading that and thinking "Hey! What a great idea!"

I mean besides me.

Speaking of good ideas and bloodsuckers, I thought this would be a good time to catch you up on the state of the disunion. At least my part of it. You'd have to ask MyUnwife about her status. To make that easier, I'll post her phone number after this commercial message.

Music intro

"Give me money!"

Music outro

Ok, I'm back. Hey look! My commercial pretty much expresses where I'm at. Actually last month I came close to meeting my budget, but this month is ugly and I don't mean America Ferrera. It's so bad in fact that I'm gonna be "man not home" for Halloween. I can't afford to feed the kids, no matter how much Sally Struthers begs. Our neighborhood is full of them, and I've always donated over seventy-five bucks to the M&M/Mars fund to fatten up the little waifs. This year, maybe I'll teach them how to skin and eat the eggs they'll otherwise throw at my house.

"Give a kid an egg and he'll make a weapon. Teach a kid to lay an egg and he'll never leave his room." -Captain Kangaroo, The Lost Episodes.

Other than money, everything else is getting better. I'm getting used to MyUnwife not being around. I don't hate her or anything, she's just the one who decided to get away. I still need to stop comparing the woman from three years ago to the one who left. It's a weird paradox. I don't even think Charlie from Numb3ers can explain it.

"imagine a giant meteor. As it hurtles towards your house, it loses mass, but picks up speed. Well mathematicians can take the fireball of death variables and convert it into a projected crater of despair. How it decimates your life can be quantified in the "dude you're screwed!" quotient. "

This is the same argument networks use for reality programming when actors want to renegotiate their contracts.

Reality programming. Oxymoron? Yeah, but I'm the friendly divorce guy; I'm collecting oxymorons. I think I'll try reality for my next relationship. No, I'm kidding. If I wanted that kind of backstabbing and treachery, I'd call my sister; she's got a lot to get even for. But the reality approach may not be a bad idea in other areas. I mean I could get multiple teams to paint my house, cook my food, and design my clothes. That’s a squadron of armatures vying for ways to please me. Show me the downside! I wonder if I could get the same kind of deal for a manservant and a maid.

"Whoever can get that weird stain off the toilet wins immunity."

See? It would definitely liven things up. That's still the one tough part though. No matter how much television noise I inject into my life. there's still too much quiet. I am getting better with the lonely though. I'm working through it. Thanksgiving is a month and a half away, but I'm going to be ok. When I was in college I did a few Denny's turkey dinners; I'll survive. I'm thinking I can get a game hen and cook it on the grill. It seems silly to get a whole turkey. I'll never eat it all.

So I guess the important thing to draw from all of this is that I'm doing ok, and yeah, I'm getting better, so stay tuned.

"…Wondering where the hell all the love has gone…"Barenaked Ladies

"What about the in-laws?"

Somebody asked me that the other day. They wanted to know about in-law etiquette. No, don't go looking it up, it was one of the voices in my head. They haven't started posting yet. They should though. They have some great insight.

For this, I'll fall back on the words my father told me. I asked him the same question about my grandparents after Dad's divorce. Pappy Blogwriter said, "Son, you can divorce the woman, but you don't divorce her family." From his tone of voice, I couldn't tell if this was a good or bad thing. For little Robby Blogwriter it was a great thing. Mom's parents were great with gifts. They gave me my first Mickey Mouse watch and lots of money over the years. For old man Blogwriter, It kind of sounded like he'd beat the death penalty, but was still serving multiple life sentences. "They're always family" That's what he said, but to the best of my knowledge he never spoke with them again. Must be distant family.

I have a friend who had a great relationship with the in-laws, but when the divorce came down, the family circled the wagons and shut him out. Even child visitation transactions took place out on the homestead driveway, about as personal as drive thru teller. Although I should say this: As a kid, I could see where one of those vacuum money chutes made kid size would have been cool.

"Gramma! Dad's here."

Whoosh!

Awesome!

For those of you readers who only remember ATM drive thrus. You missed something cool. Please pull up to the next window.

So I really don’t know. I know the theory, but I've never seen it work in practice. (In-law relations, not the money chute. I know how that worked.) I don't know why the voice in my head even bothered asking, it's not a question I'll have to deal with.

I never met MyUnwife's family. I suppose that should have been a red flag from the beginning, but I thought they just weren't tight knit. It happens. I didn't realize she was the lose strand unraveling the whole fabric.

Sorry, bitter moment. I think I'm going to start subsidizing those.

"This bitter moment brought to you by Jack Daniel's. Nothing brings a family together like a quart of Jack and an ER lobby."

I did meet her father, once. He stopped by to see who his daughter had married. I think it was about a year after the wedding. He seemed nice enough.

Her sister lives in The Northwest. We stay in the Southwest. Pretty simple. See? I told you they were close. Actually MyUnwife was phone-close to her sister, but neither one seemed eager to visit the other. The problem with sisters is that they know where all the bodies are buried. When you're dragging around a significant other, that's not kind of information you want dropping out over chardonnay and gouda.

Her mom disappeared shortly after the wedding. I don't mean as in "Watch the next episode of Without a Trace" disappeared. I mean more like "I'm tired of you knowing where I live" disappeared. It was kind of funny, we used to joke about taking trips to find her.

"I think she's in Vegas!"

"Let's go look."

"Somebody said they saw her in Rio!"

"We're there!"

"My cousin called, they think she's in Lompoc."

"Well, she may actually be there. We wouldn't want to disturb her."

Let's face it, sometimes we'd all like our family to disappear for a little while. I did, but I'm the one who had to vanish; they wouldn't leave the house. So, when I turned 18 I moved to DC and took up a life of retail.

In-laws are easier to shake than that, you may not even need to move, unless there are kids involved. Then you're gonna need witness protection to get away, and even then you're probably not shaking them. Friendly or not, take my advice on this: They are still family, never cross them. Nothing unites a dysfunctional family like a common enemy. Sometimes it's better just to smile and pay the bribe.

"Don't blame this sleeping satellite…"-Tasmin Archer

So what should I write about today? You surely don't want to hear about my action packed Thursday. Most of it involved sitting in this chair, behind this monitor. Oh, I almost forgot, I did some treadmill time; So, I also walked in place just feet from where I sit It sounds like that nightmare I have where I run and run and just can't get away from the monster threatening to eat my soul, except I was naked. Woo Hoo!

Oh, I cleared some junk out from my toe nails. Wanna hear about that?

Sigh….fine. One second, let me roll out the wheel of topics.

Hang on.

Ok, here goes.

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Oh crap, I forgot, I had the servants WD40 the Wheel of Topics.

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Ok, it should stop soon.

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Any time I promise.

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Alright, They never put this much effort into buffing the sidewalk, I'm not sure what's going on here.

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You know what? I saw the word "Blame" roll by. Let's go with that. I'm blaming the hired help for this constant clacking in my ear. What else? What's relevant to the blog? Let's see, who haven't I blamed lately? I could pull out the 20 sided blame die, but I've heard RPG games are no longer cool unless you're on a computer. I blame technology. I think the dice are still in my mom's basement. I'm kidding, my mom doesn't have a basement, and the dice are right in this drawer to my left. You never know when you'll have a saving throw emergency.

So who do I want to blame today? I've already spent enough blame space ranting on MyUnwife, You can only beat a dead horse piñata so long before it stops giving up candy and Dad drags you and your bat of justice from the unsettling corpse. I could blame me…

Yeah right. Hold on I'm still giggling over that one. Blame me. I'm more likely to blame my dog. And he's the only one here in my corner. We have a truce. I feed him, He prances around, then jumps up on me and lets me smell his breath. No there will be no blaming my compatriot.

What about my parents? That's not bad. I just saw some people on Dr. Phil blaming their parents. That means it's topical too. Blame just isn't good unless you can dress it up in the latest psycho-babble fashion catch phrase.

Blame: Paving the way to a guilt free tomorrow.

I have statistics in my favor. I am the child of divorced parents. Statistics say that children of a divorce are likely to divorce too. What are the statistics? I've seen two that seem pertinent. Something like 4 out of 5 divorce lawyers buy business card baby books for maternity ward mothers. Sort of a give basket for repeat business. They're called cradle chasers.

"This is your first puppy."

"This is my divorce lawyer holding your puppy. Always remember, there's a pouch inside the back cover with several business cards for when you need him. Yes, his number is number 5 on speed dial."

You know lawyers aren’t going to waste money on a bad promotional gift. They're more likely to waste your divorce earnings on bad rum in Aruba.

Need other statistics? I think I saw a pie graph. The tasty side was children of divorce who've divorced. The burnt sliver with a fork through it belonged to the kids who married their high school sweetheart and lived happily ever after.

I wanted to be one of those kids. I wanted to grow up and be married forever with my 2.5 kids. I'd have even named the half kid Quasi. Me, Quasi, and the rest of the Blogwriter clan, we'd thumb our noses at the loser statistic throngs from the back of our chauffer driven mini van. Now, I'm a loser statistic waif and I need to go club me some happily ever afterer's smiling face.

My parents ruined my chances. It's in my DNA I was born with a marriage defect. I’m a circus freak.

Step right up boys and girls, see the saddest thing you'll ever see, the divorced man. See the slouch in is back? That's right. He's carrying the weight of the world. Yeah, it's pretty grim. Don't put your ring finger in the cage, he'll gnaw it off. He's already caused one divorce, yours could be next!

Yeah, I'll be the next boogeyman. The man mothers warn their little I-doers-to-be about.

"Beware! You'll know he's in the room. There's a noise that precedes him. You hear it, you run my baby. Run! The noise? It's sounds like—"

Clack Clack Clack Clack Clack Clack Cla—-

Hey! The wheel stopped! According to that, today we're talking about Forgiveness. Huh. How the heck did that get there? Who put that on my wheel? Somebody else is always ruining my fun.

"And it's still coming down on me…"-Indio

Mating habits of the migrating George Washington, transvestites, and manga murder mysteries. Yup, another Wednesday night writers' group. Actually, this one was a little extraordinary. A woman glared at me. That's right! A woman hasn't given me that passionate a look in quite a while, not even the cute little grocery store clerk who asks about my weekends. What's more, I got the glare twice!

See, this is what happened. A new guy showed up, and this woman who's been attending since late August was critiquing his work—I'll stop here for a second.

There's something you should know about our group before I proceed. Some groups are well structured machines that churn out critiques faster than Gutenberg could press a Bible. Ok, I suppose that was kinda slow, but he was fast for his day! And so are some writers' groups. That's not us. We're chaos on a string daring centrifugal force to throw us to the winds. We're not for everybody. Oh, everybody is welcome, but if you're really shy, or the type of person who irons their underwear and has a set of "Special" editing pencils, you're probably not going to get what you want from our group. That is unless you like to press other peoples underwear. We always take ours off and leave it in a pile on the table for newcomers. Ok, I'm joking about the underwear. I'm the only one who does that. And no, that's not why she glared at me.

The girl glared at me because she was reviewing the new guys work, and having trouble finding the words to describe what wasn't working for her. I had plenty, so I offered her a few of my own.

"I don't know what, but I found something uhm...uncomfortable about this."

I interrupt here, laughing, "You mean other than the obvious? The transvestite sex on the third page could be considered discomforting?" This is where she glared at me. I don't know why, I found the sex disturbing. It just seemed funny that that wasn't what was first on her list. She glared. I laughed.

She did it again, but she set herself up, I just gave her a reason while taking my turn critiquing the same work:

"Your dialogue is long. When most people speak, they speak in short bursts."

"Unless they're Rob." She smiles at her jab. I nod, and store it away.

I smile to her, "Why yes, that is true," and turn back to the guy I'm critiquing, "then you'll need pages of unstructured speech. Two periods, a comma and a bunch of fragments. But other people use fewer words. They pass out little bits of information in digestible packets."

"What?" my heckler grins again, "that's an example.".

"Exactly." Turning back to her I say, "and congratulations, that's by far the shortest blurb of dialogue you've uttered all evening."

Ok, you had to be there. My smile, my inflection it was a barb of fun. Just a little stab. Here on cyber-page it sounds kind of mean. Still, despite my good intentions, there was that glare again. I couldn't quite interpret what she was thinking, but I had a hunch on the general direction. I turned the other cheek so the death lasers would even out my complexion.

But here's the thing, that was the first time in a long time a woman had looked at me with any passion at all. I was excited! Even MyUnwife didn't look at me that way. She'd disposed of all telling glances months ago. Her face of '07 was a white mask. Even when she professed to hating me, the look was buried beneath a false smile. It was the look that said "I know the look is important to you, and I'm not giving it to you." It's ok, I was busy masking myself at the time. We wore porcelain visages till the end.

Oh, and speaking of the writing—I was speaking of writing, you just have to go back an extra paragraph--I need to give a quick thanks while I'm thinking about it. Extendedforecast, has unwittingly helped me with one of my current project's character's passions in one of her posts. She also gave me a book title as well. Yeah, she's an inspirational light without even trying.

That's the second time she's creeped inside my head, most people don't try it once, and nobody goes back in for seconds; that won't be allowed anymore. Her post privileges have been revoked. I'm making this retroactive, starting last month. This means all her razor sharp posts of the last week will be erased. Go ahead, try and post. I dare you. See that look? That's the same glare I got in writers' group. Oh, and even though you're glaring at me for no good reason, thanks again.

See? Believe it or not, those glare's make me feel guilty. Not to the women giving them, but to MyUnwife. In a way, I feel like by letting a woman look at me with any feeling, I'm cheating. Yet what's cheating? I'm only married in the most technical of senses. And it's not like I'm dating. Still it's a reflex, like socking the doctor in the jaw when he pulls out his little hammer. Glance=guilt. What is the statute of limitations on this crime? When can I smile or glare back innocently, or not so innocently, however the mood strikes me, and not feel like I owe MyUnwife a slaughtered ram?

It's like she's kicked me out in a hallway full of doors. Behind each door is a glace, or chance at something more. The passage behind me is locked, all I can do is go forward, but not too far: a tether runs from my leg to something underneath the door behind me. Every time I knock on a new door, the tether jerks me to the floor. So, I stand in the hallway willing doors to open, praying for happenstance to send somebody out into the hall for their newspaper, or box delivery. The girl in 118 hasn't come out to pick up her care package from home, so I'm using it as a seat. I hope she doesn't mind. I found rice crispy treats inside. They were tasty. A man needs sustenance, and sticky rice cereal bars are an important nutrient in the writer's world.

You want to hear something else, while I'm out here waiting? The girl who glared at me? She wrote a poem that I had to critique. Those same eyes that burned moments prior, were now dark, endless and attentive: devouring every word. My gaze danced around, like an aggie marble avoiding the sink drain, knowing each pass may be my last. I couldn't look into her eyes, I'm not ready for that. Not yet.

"Morning smiles...Innocent unknowing…"-Sarah Mclachlan

Ring ring

Yeah, so many of may days start out like this. Actually yesterday started with a knock on the door, but I didn't want to play their game. Funny, the knock knocker goes away if you don't say "who's there." Sometimes it bugs me. It's a mystery. I need to solve it. What if it was an important door knock and I didn't answer it?

Knock, knock

Who's there?

A million dollars if you answer the door.

Come on in!

Yesterday's mystery caller will just have to remain—well, a mystery.

So where does the ring ring fit in? Yesterday afternoon. I'd just gotten home from buying dog food.

And let me interrupt myself, because that's another thing. You know why I bought dog food yesterday? Right because he was out. I told him to wait until Friday, but he insisted on eating anyway. It used to be, that I could call MyUnwife, and ask her to buy it on the way home. Now I'm the sole provider. I have to pretend I'm responsible. Go back to that picture of me. Do I look responsible? Does my blog paint me as a responsible guy?

Still, my dog thinks I am, and when He's staring at me with his brown eyes whimpering over an empty bowl I don't have the heart to prove him wrong.

Sigh.

So, even though I don't like going out during the week for distractions, I went anyway. What a lucky dog I have. And since the pet store is by Costco, I stopped there too. And speaking of Costco, is there a rule that stupid people have to shop there? There's this couple who wanders in front of me with the cart, then stops, now that they've passed me.

This turns out to be a well coordinated plan to keep me from going anywhere; they split. Him with the cart wandering around like somebody has nailed his foot to the ground. Trust me, I was seriously considering nailing the other. His wife has me blocked from passing to the other side, because she's sifting through the book stack. Now I love books too, but does she have to block me while her husband wanders aimlessly? I'd cut through the aisle behind me and sneak out the other side, but there's a sample cart at the other side. People are swarming around that like gnats. So I spend my afternoon staring at the books with the woman who cut me off. She had bad taste, but she liked to read. I thought that was a plus.

When I get home, the phone rings. I look at the caller ID, it says it's a local number, but it's not willing to reveal the caller's identity. I'm still itching from this morning's game of knock knock, so I pick it up.

"Hello."

I hear a click. I think I'm being taken off of speaker phone. "Hi, is MyUnwife there?"

"No, I'm sorry, she no longer lives here."

Pause. "Oh, I'm sorry."

So am I, but I'm used to it by now. "That's ok."

"ok" more pause. "goodbye."

"good bye."

It was kinda weird. I'm not sure who was more uncomfortable. Her, because she's talking to the guy who got left behind. Or me, because I'm talking to the friend who didn't even rate an address change card. I'm not sure who's on the lower rung here, but I'm gonna say her. I at least knew MyUnwife was leaving. Now this poor girl has a mystery of her own to solve.

It'll do her good. Sometimes its not knowing what or who's next that brings us to the next point. The mystery is good, it gets the blood pumping and reminds us that there's always surprises.

Knock knock.

"Lost On this Road…"-Smashing Pumpkins

Sometimes this blog can be a pain in the butt. I spent all yesterday trying to think of a good topic. Everything I do, becomes a search for something to write about. I visit my mortgage broker; I look under his desk for a story. Yeah, I'm not sure I'm welcome there again…

I'm staring at every facet of my life looking for "The big story." The big reason why for today. The reason why is ever elusive and can hide in everything from a dog's slobber to a friend's email. That's where today's topic comes from.

Even when I find the topic though, it's an unruly mess. Sometimes I start typing, and by the time I'm done, I've got a poorly organized doctoral theses trying to squeeze into a blurb-sized blog space. I have to hack it to bits to keep my 2 readers reading.

Hi guys! We're about a quarter of the way done. Slog it through! Keep reading!

My divorce has been the same way. Sure it's been the search for meaning but I'm returning to the opening sentence. It's been a pain in the butt, but who didn't see that plot twist coming? Divorce=pain in the butt? c'mon. Raise you're hands, there's no stupid people. Only stupid ideas pointing out idiots.

See my divorce has been like a load of dirty laundry dumped out on the floor. It's a mess that needs to be sifted through before it can be cleaned up and put in it's respective compartment, or compartment of perspective.

Carrying the laundry analogy another step too far, there are things that you try to sort, but they still cling together. I'll put on the pant's of loneliness, only to find the sock of regret clinging to my crotch. (Yeah, that's not the first time I've seen that sock hanging around, but let's stay on topic here).

It's so difficult to separate the feelings from the emotions. When am I feeling lonely, and when am I just missing MyUnwife? Is there a difference? Yes there is. One is focused on me, the other is aimed at her. Sure, they're both forms of self-pity ( a subject I am a renowned scholar on. I could close my eyes and cry volumes of self pity without trying. Yes, I am that good--or pathetic. It's such a fine line.), but they required different strategies to overcome. The trick is to figure out what's afflicting you.

Regret is the easiest, but the most lasting. It's your mind telling you what you've lost and reminding you of all those things you'll never have again. Yeah, it's a charming trait. It's a photographic negative emblazoned on your retinal wall. The only way to remove it, is to paint over it with other experiences, until you can no longer see the original. The problem is, some memories are bloodstains, and they don't cover with just a quick coat of primer. It takes months and months of fresh paint smell to pretend it never existed, and usually that's just the fumes messing with your mind. I shrug. Either way, toxic hallucinations, or new adventures, the new wall now looks pretty. It's time to move on.

Loneliness is a tougher creature to snare and skin. It's my Jabberwocky. I caulk the cracks of my time with people and busyness, because the dreaded beast can sneak in the smallest of moments. I'm standing in the shower, the curtain pulls back and "Ahhh!" there he is. He also likes to hangout with insecurity too, so he's also in the room pointing out my nakedness. Now I'm in a ball at the bottom of the shower, my defenses swirling down the drain.

There is something I had to relearn keeps him away. It's so simple and stupid that it sounds like a bad Hallmark card, but it's easy to forget: being alone is not always avoidable, but you can distract yourself. Being lonely isn't the same as being alone. Remember that; it will save your life.

I'm free do things on my own. I find if I'm feeling really lonely, I do things for other people, like read and edit submissions for people in my writers' group. If I'm helping others, even while I'm alone, it helps. It's weird. When I'm at my loneliest, I'm at my most philanthropic. Is that so bad? Making somebody else happy in the heart of my worst depression. Even better, by lifting their hearts, even just a little, the loneliness slips further away. Isn't that part of what being married was about in the first place?

It's a pain in the butt, but it makes my world a little better.

"I'm sorry 'bout the attitude…"-Matchbox 20

"There's 2 people to avoid in this stadium: the clock and Larry Johnston."

Football is great. How can you argue with color commentators who give their personification 110%? No, I mean it. Never argue with the delusional, they're crazy. I guess that means there's 3 people to avoid in that stadium.

Now I feel bad. I've made references in the past to a friend's mixed sport metaphor. I thought she made it up, but now, maybe, I'm wondering if she overheard it. I guess I owe her an apology.

Yeah, I know. I'm sure she's holding her breath right now waiting for that. Let's all stare at her and watch for bugging eyes and the cool shades of blue.

Well? We'll come back to her later.

I mention her, not because she's a bad person, but more because I'm a bad person. Her? I'm at peace with her. Hell, I'm at peace with MyUnwife, and she's not waiting for an apology. I gave her one. She spat it back in my face almost a year ago.

Apologizing has a long and humble history of prostitution. No sorry, prostration, although prostitution does work. The word Apology comes from the Greek word, "Apology." Spoken with a Greek accent, it means "Defense speech." Spoken in English it means "oops, I'm an idiot." Somehow it's lost a little bit in the translation. For Greeks, an apology was noble. Now in America, even Paris Hilton can apologize for "acting" dumb. Yeah, I know. She had me fooled too. Really, she's a nuclear physicist. I feel so used. And not in a good way.

Apologies are tricky. MyUnwife thought my motives were self serving. She has a point. That does sort of steal the sincerity from the ol "I'm Sorry."

"I'm sorry I ____" I filled in the blank. I'm sorry, I'd tell you, I really would, but I've mentioned it before, and I really don't want to go back into it. It's a scab I'm trying not to pick. It's just getting a nice crust on it, and…sorry about that: too descriptive.

I've heard MyUnwife's reasons for not believing my apology. "You said it just because ____" Oh wait, I can say what she said; there's no need to blank her out. She thought I did it because we were visiting my family later. The theory was similar to bribing a four year old with a candy bar.

I'm sorry you don't know me that well. When was the last time I played the weasel bearing sugar goodies?

Speaking of weasels, how's my chipmunk friend? Let's check in on our puffy cheeked heroine. She looks like she's still holding her breath. Good for her. I like resilience in a person, even when she's staring in the face of futility.

"Hi! I'm futility. Nice to meet you." Yup, she's still staring in my face; her face is a little pale now though, and her eyes are wide and waiting. Hang in there! Pat, pat.

Let's go back to MyUnwife

I did my best to coax her down from the wall of apology. She just leapt to the other side I over explained myself, I made a fool of myself, I opened old wounds. These are things I'm good at and I excelled that day, only for her. Finally I broke it down to the only thing I could say:

"I'm sorry."

The reality is, if she wouldn't believe my motives, nothing I said would make her believe my sincerity. Apologies are only redeemable when they're accepted.

I think the one thing I was guilty of that morning was trying to pacify my conscience. By admitting my guilt to the person I used to tell everything to, I could open things up again. Maybe not start anew, but do my part in rebuilding what we'd allowed to rot with neglect for the past few years.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry Josh's mom, Mike's mom, and my mom. I'm sorry to everyone I was very naïve. Look up my nose, you can see how sorry I am. The nostrils are the sincerity river from the soul, flowing with fraught froth. Look into their depths.

Yeah, that's why I never tried the Blair Witch apology. And see? That's one actress who deserves an apology. She bore her naked nasal cavity before millions. Let's face it, the upside of the nose is not the sexy side of anybody, yet she showed us her snotty underbelly. And what did it get her? I've seen her in 3 bad sci-fi films, and an "Outer Limits" rerun. I'm sorry Heather's mom, your daughter peaked so young.

So, back to the blue friend footage. Yup, you see the Smurfy hue to her flesh? It's not because she ready to burst into song. Her eyes are no longer daring for an apology, they're dancing without a partner for oxygen, sort of like a startled horse. Oh look! They stopped. Funny coincidence I used the term faint before. I think she just has. That's ok, she'll start breathing again. And when she comes to, she can try again, or apologize for quitting my demonstration.

This is why I don't apologize often. When you hear the words "I'm sorry" so many times, it stops being real. It's like watching Showgirls for the breasts. After fifteen minutes or so, they all start to blend together, and the mind wanders.

"Did I leave the coffee pot on?"

"Man, that toenail is huge! I need to trim it!"

"A BLT sounds really good right now."

No, you have to be careful with apologies. Although it is good to know when to give them. Just look at my friend. She's coming to, and she's found an axe. It doesn't look like she's waiting for an apology any more. I should go, she's lurching this way. I can hear the color commentary now:

"Her face is so pasty, she's making the glue horses nervous, but you've got to give it to her: she's still wielding an axe! Cowabunga Al!"

It's just a crime what they do to the English language.

I'm sorry, I love football commentators.