Oh the Horror.

"Nothing will happen to you, I'm here." In horror movie land that's an incantation for death. You might as well nibble her ear and whisper, "hey baby, you're gonna die." Don't try it, it's never a great come-on with dates. Don't ask me how I know; I don't want to lie.

Yeah, according to the movies I've watched lately, sex and bravado are death's catnip. If you want to see the closing credits from the outside of a meat locker or a grue belly you better rate a 9 on the "girl next door" scale, and at least a 6 on the "Box of rocks scale of sharpness." If you're a guy, so long as you stand a firm 4 to 6 on the "nerd to jock" scale and sport an killer smile you should be fine.

I mean you could just obey the instructions. You know, a ghost warns you to leave, why not go start the car and, well, leave? It does makes for a short movie, and we all know the one smart person has to be run over by the town's pack of raging idiots. Still we always hope...

"Hey boss, the villagers would like to have a word with you. They've brought a bouquet of burning torches…"

Marriage and divorce are the same way. Happy couple goes to remote cabin, girding boy assures coy girl everything will be just fine. To make sure he can keep his word, but take her chastity, he invites some friends for that Evil Forces to gnosh on before gnashing at the libido driven couple.

"Uh Rob, do you think we should be fooling around on the bloody altar?"

"I do."

That's when the lightening crashes and everything changes.

Oh don't start calling me a cynic just yet. Sometimes things change for the better. I've seen it happen. Sometimes the first zombie converts can be productive members of the shambling society. Living life happily ever after as the undead.

"Here Susan, I brought you a piece of Bob."

"oh his soul! You really do care!"

"Of course, I already gave you my heart didn't I…"

Maybe Bob didn't fare too well, but he should never have tried breaking the spell should he? It's best to leave couples alone. Never step in the middle. Just put the keys in the ignition and drive. Drive Bob Drive!

My role didn't do so well in MyUnwife's film. My best works died under the razor of her editing room floor. I'm now a scary cameo.

Boo!

It's ok, It's her film, I made what I could of the part. How she projects that is up to her. I was disappointed at first, but I have my own movie to produce. Right now I'm just a ghost haunting a house. If a ghost haunts a house and no one's home is it really a haunting?

Yeah, my film is a little light on plot and dark on sentiment at the moment. Sort of one of those end of the world metaphor movies from the 70's. I am casting though, if you fit the mold I'll let you play. Yeah, I know, I'm not going to catch anything with a line like that. It's like the evil ghost trying to lure the pretty maiden with spooky whispers and waving vegetation. Hey! I've seen that work. There's hope for this ghost yet!

WHOOOOO!

HOOOOO!

FY George Michael

So I've been in a funk this week. I'm always the last to know about these things.

"...your world is slithering on a down slope at the moment…" That's my dad. He's trying to cheer me up. I didn't even know I was down until he mentioned it. Thanks Dad. Dad's actually good at the pep talk thing, even when he doesn't say anything. He's the first one I told when I quit wrestling in High School.

I still remember it. We were in the grocery store and I just kinda spilled it out. "I'm quitting." By this point, I'd been wrestling for 3 years. Dad and Mom bought me cool shoes and everything.

"Why?" He asks, pushing the cart along. Mom was shopping, and I didn't want to tell her yet. I needed Dad, so I'm timing my answers between shelf trips.

"I just don't want to do it anymore. I'm not enjoying it." To be honest, I was terrified to admit that. It sounded like a chicken-shit reason to quit to me, but it was all I had. If it sounded like that to me, what would it sound like to Dad?

Here, the easiest way to explain my wrestling is to cut a chunk from my unpublished novel. Yeah, I know, what a cop-out, huh? See? But here's the thing, It's kind of autobiographical, especially this part, and I don't know how to relay it any better than I did there. So rather then five you a generic rehash, I'll give you what I pored over for months. You are so lucky. The part of Rob is played by Tom, and the pop references are actually later than my high school career but you'll get the idea. You're an intellectual reader. Here goes. I start by talking about my yearbook:

The previous year it had read "JV Wrestling.” In fact, the first time the yearbook advisor...asked me to describe myself I’d said:

“I’m a wrestler.”

“Okay,” she wrote it down and asked “and what do you want to be when you get out of school?”

“I’m a wrestler.”

“I see. Not much call for that in the working world is there?”

“It doesn’t matter. I know who I am.” I replied with confidence.

“Good for you.” She wrote something else down and quickly excused herself.

Up until my junior year I had immersed myself in my sport. Oh, I wasn’t the best, just the most passionate. What I lacked in agility, I more than compensated for with stubborn surety. I was no Dan Gable, but I would win, even if it was only because I wore my opponent down.

I was very proud of my accomplishments and wore every win like a medal; my coach even awarded me with a “Most Dedicated Wrestler” plaque. I was the relentless yap-dog on the leg of wrestling.

One day I met a girl and everything changed. Her name was Melissa and I can’t tell you much more about her except that she was soft and smelled good. I spent all my time with her and when I wasn’t with her I thought about being with her. Our song was George Michael’s “Father Figure;” a song I would have normally detested for its sappy sentiment, but when you’re in love pap rules the world.

This had an unsurprising effect on my wrestling. I started to lose and I began to doubt my desire. Had my dedication been unfounded? . By the end of my junior year my record was 0-3. I decided it would be my last year. After all, I was clearly a lover not a fighter.

“What are you going to do when you get out of school Tom?”

“I’m a lover.”

“Not much money to be made legally in that profession, is there?”

“It doesn’t matter. I know who I am.”

“Good for you. But I think I’ll leave in JV Wrestling.”

I went after being a boyfriend like I went after wrestling: I wasn’t Don Juan, but I was in there trying. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the odds against surviving a first romance.

George Michael had promised:

I will be the one to love you till the end of time…

I thought you found somebody you liked and the match was over. I didn’t realize there were more rules and tricks to a relationship than any sport imaginable. Even though you have this one pinned down for three seconds she can still twist free, and in love there are no points for a near-fall.

I knew things were degenerating when she asked for my best friend’s phone number. As in wrestling, I refused to give up. Little did I know that the same traits that make you a “dedicated winner” in sports make you a “creepy stalker” in love.

But sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime…

I couldn’t understand why the harder I tried, the scarier I seemed, and the more out of control life became. I finally kept away from her completely. It was the only way to maintain my sanity.

So when you remember the ones who have lied…

Fuck you George Michael.

See? That's where I'm coming from. From here I see some other parallels that are downright scary. No, MyUnwife did not ask for my best friends phone number…

Anyway...I did quit wrestling before I started dating my real life Melissa, but I'm not going to argue that that wasn't part of the reason. I didn't need to prove anything to the guys on the mat anymore. My ring was my world.

So when I explained this to Dad in HS Jr. speak of "uh" and "uhm" he did his best to understand. Listening until I fell silent, he finally asked "are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Ok." And that was that. Rob was no longer a wrestler. I don't think I ever told Dad what that moment meant to me. I grown up believing quitting was failure, and I had just said, "Dad, I failed." My dad let me make my own decision, and still loved me even if that decision was failure. I always wanted kids so I could pass that gift to them. I'm getting used to the idea that that probably won't happen, but that's a blog for another day. I just try to pass the gift to others in my life.

I see the whole thing repeating now. My ring was my world. I'm gonna have to expand that world a bit now. But the further I get from my marriage the more things I find I'm interested in. I still have days of growing pains where yeah, my world is slithering down a slope, but I think it's part of the process, and I'll bounce back. Tonight I'll stick with my routine. I'll go out and write, and I'll buy groceries. Maybe serendipity will smile upon me and the skies will hail manna. Maybe it won't. But at least I have people like my dad, who'll hang out until the next upswing. In the meantime, I still say, "Fuck you George Michael."

Dream Rob's White Dress

Ding-Dong.

ImLateImLateImLate!

I'm the freaking white rabbit! Briefcase! Where did I leave it? KeysWallletKeysWallet-Check! Good to go?

Ding-Dong.

Who the hell is at my door?

I jerk the door, my arms loaded with stuff going out to the car. I look like a thief in need of paper reams and office supplies. Hi, can I offer you a post-it?

The couple at my door don't seem to care. It's a short man and his proportionate wife. They're both dressed in Sunday best, carrying Bibles. It's Wednesday.

Crap! I don't have time for a God Salescall! I already have one. Yours is probably the same. GottaGoGottaGoGottaGo!

"Excuse me, sir."

"Yes?" Can we skip to "no thanks" and move on? I'm late. If I show up late for writers' group they'll write things about me! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! I'm doing the toe tapping practically potty dance jig.

"We're from the church around the corner. We're having a Wedding at 6pm and we're inviting everybody from around the neighborhood to come."

A wedding? "I'm sorry?" I've crashed into a wall.

"We'd like you to come to the wedding."

"oh…uhm, no I've got a writers' group I'm late for right now, but here, have a copy of my divorce blog post."

The couple blink in unison, then fold my tract, thank me for sharing, and retreat to the sidewalk sanctuary. I'm sharing with non-believers.

It's funny, because I'm not a non-believer. I believe. I welcome their faith with open arms, in fact I've been thinking a lot about it lately. We'll it's more like a chunk of cake thrust in my face really. A friend and I were talking about marriage. She was sharing a story about her 10th anniversary in Las Vegas. Very cool. I got married there once. She's still married. Great, just jam the confectionary rose up my nose why don't you?

With her and all the news articles popping up, I'm seeing a lot about marriage. I'm about to go crazy. I don't know why marriage is so predominant in my life right now. I think that's just cuz it's the flipside of divorce. Maybe it's part of the healing process, maybe it's just a sign. Maybe I'm going to wear a white dress.

I even had a marriage dream last night. I was tending a bar, like in one of those late 80's early 90's ensemble dramas. You remember, groups of friends living out life, surviving marriage, divorcing, sex with evil girl robots. No, not the robots. Different show…but anyway, these shows always had somebody tending bar, or working in a small indie radio station—sometimes both. In my dream I was that guy. I tended bar. It may have been my bar, that part was unclear and unimportant.

What was important was that a friend of mine I hadn't seen in years came back to town. I'm not sure what she was doing in my bar, but my cast of friends thought it was important she be there. She apparently knew my cast, and how to get them to buy her drinks. Yeah, she was that character.

So here's the weird part. Normally, Rob's dream cast consists of 2 or 3 people. It's usually pretty small. Oh there are faceless prop people, but they're all blurry cutouts. In this dream, everybody was vivid except the friend who'd come back to town. She kept to the back of the bar, sending my other friends up to keep her glass full. We saw each other, but only in a far away sense. And every time I'd move to get a better glimpse, the crowd would shift and she'd disappear again.

One of my friends comes to the bar to order more drinks, while I'm wiping it down with my pristine white bar towel. "I'll take a velvet crush, 3 grasshoppers, and 1 spooge."

In my dream, I'm a cool bartender, I know these drinks like they're the friends I'm serving them to. In real life, I got no clue. I drink rum and coke, margaritas, and screwdrivers. "Coming up Mrs. Butterworth." I continue mixing, but the add, as if it's an afterthought, "Isn't that Eggo Waffle sitting with you?"

"Mrs. Butterworth Laughs, "Aren't you nosey?" I've served her the crush. It's hers. I'm liquoring her up for answers. She sits and swizzles. "Eggo's no longer Waffle. She's married. She's now Jemima."

"Really?" I look to see the lucky husband. He's the only person not milling in Rob's busy dream bar.

"Yes. They have the cutest little boy." She sips then, adds, "You should talk to her."

Shaking my head, I slide the rest of the drinks on the bar. "Naw, she's keeping her distance. I'll respect that. What is she doing in town?" I've figured out why everybody comes to my bar: Dream Rob doesn't charge for drinks.

Dream Butterworth has a great balance and grip. She's cupped the drinks from underneath with both her hands "Oh, her husband's aunt died. They're here for the will…"

Another friend happily married. Even in my dreams. I don't know, like I said, it's like all I'm seeing is marriage. I mean, I'm not in any rush myself. I'm not even dating, but I don't know why all the heavy foreshadowing. Is it my psyche mocking me? Everybody gets one shot, and you failed.

When I finally arrived at writers' group last night people were talking about my blog. One of the guys told a teenage girl "You'll be a MyUnwife too someday."

"Don't say that!" I said, dropping my briefcase. "She deserves better than that!" I mean, with a divorce rate of 50% in the US, 4 people at the table last night will probably get bounced out love's revolving door too. I know 2 of us fell on our asses, but I'm hoping the rest of the group breaks the odds. I'd like to see this girl have her wedding cake and eat it too. She doesn’t need the divorce curses of evil doubters. She's a good Catholic girl, that means if she stays that way, she's planning on marriage for life. I think that's great. I wanted that. If I can't have it, I can want it for her. Maybe this girl can get it. My dream friend got it.

Dream Rob didn't fare at marriage any better than real Rob, but he did get the really popular bar, and the blurry masses dropping by for drinks and laughs. Real Rob can drink to that. Cheers!

Dorothy and the Divorce Tornado

Divorce sucks. How can I argue a "good side" for that?

"Well at least there's nobody to kick me in my sleep."

"I've turned away from materialism, and my house is less cluttered."

"I don't have to dress up like a schoolgirl any more."

I'm a glass-half-fuller; how do I paint my divorce picture with a Bob Ross flair? Where is my "happy little tree" brush? Scrub the brush, where's my happy little anything? Yeah, I know, my glass is looking bone dry right now.

What Happened to make you so bitter, Rob?

What? Didn't you read the first sentence? You know where you are, right? You are here. Find a sample blog post. Find two. See a reoccurring theme? I'm thinking that could be your answer. Except really, I'm not 3-days-in-the-desert beer bitter. I'm actually icy cherry cola sweet, just bubbling with cheer. Ok maybe not that sweet, but I am in a good place. Unfortunately being here doesn't make where I've been any easier.

What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger...

Yeah, come here and step down onto the bear trap of divorce. That mind-numbing throb as your world collapses to a pinpoint of consciousness? It's your leg getting stronger.

No pain no gain...

Oh yeah. I'm stronger alright. Next divorce I'll just shake off like a silly string lashings. I am Kong, king of divorce. Go ahead and hang that plaque in my office. It makes me proud. Pride and strength, not really all they're cracked up to be. One puts you in the divorce, the other is pinned to your chest as a reward for your vigilant pride. Great. Fill my glass with gall. I'll be sitting over here.

And just where is here? I mean I've had people say "I'm there for you." that's great, but they're there. I'm here. Where is here? When you're going through a divorce it's so easy to get lost. Divorce is the cow-tossing super-tornado that spirals through and hurls you into some Ozian Harriet nightmare. Ok, bad joke, but the Nelson/Baum knot works. You try and find a good Dorothy divorce tie down.

"I'll get your house my pretty, and your little dog too!"

"Oh yeah? When monkeys fly out of your butt!"

"Funny you should mention that…"

Divorce is kind of like the Wizard of Oz but without the ruby slippers, Emerald City, or horse of a different color. It's just you, the armies of brainless, heartless and gutless trying to figure out how to get home, while some bit—er witch—and her flying butt monkey fleet tries to put you to sleep. There is no yellow brick road, no Thomas Guide, not even a red star on a mall map saying "you are here." We are all lost.

Divorce is oblivion. Where is that? Physically it's the same place you were yesterday. Mentally it's a million miles away. And we're all in the same boat. I tell my tale for the side of the dumped, but I know people driving the sanitation truck who are equally as lost. When it comes to divorce, all any of us know is that we want out.

So what do we do? We bewildered Dorothys. We do what the other wind-hitchers have done before us. We wander home. Each day may only take us a few steps into the haunted forest, but we rest up and endure.

"Hopes dreams and memories! Oh my!"

Each day is another day marching us another step closer to the exit. One day we'll stand at the opposite side and know we've made it out. One day.

Look at the Israelites. They wandered the wilderness for 40 years with nothing but manna. We're better equipped. Our march isn't nearly as long, and there's enough crow, gall, and sour grape rations to go around; I've got plenty--I'll share. It doesn't taste that great, but you can wash it down with this half full glass of water I've got here.

Yeah, while you're out in the desert, no matter how I paint it, divorce sucks. All you can do is live for the promise of milk an honey. It is there, you just have to be patient.

Destination Rob Truth

Two months down in 08 and I'm already cranky. Ok granted, it didn't take more than five minutes out of bed, cold toes pressed against Pergo flooring to get there, but still, I like to be a happy guy. I'm blaming TV. I'm blaming MyUnwife. Yeah, not looking a heck of a lot different than 07 is it?

It is different though. I am cranky. I wasn't cranky in 07. In 07 I was sulky. Not to be confused with, "sultry." 07 was not a sultry year unless sweatshirt and sweats make you swoon. In that case "hubba-hubba," I was a fleece god stubbling in the sun. Sort of a Family Guy meets Heavy Metal by way of the Smurf village.

Other than that, I was about as much as a much fun as a priest at a bachelor party.

"Sorry she hit you with her spurs father…"

That was 07. 08 is different. I've cranked it to the "cranky," and blame television and MyUnwife. I'm getting nothing but static and reruns. See, I need original input and I'm not getting it. MyUnwife is no longer around so I can't live vicariously through her wacky antics, and I don't even know what to do with a How I Met Your Mother Rerun. Where's the divorce? The Strife? The fighting over who gets custody of the sexy lingerie.

"You bought it for me!"

"But I look better in it."

Yeah. I'm not seeing any of that on TV. I am looking forward to the new season of Destination Truth on Sci-Fi. Have you seen this? It's like In Search of, but with a cooler host. It's far less travelogue and far more party Sci-guy having fun. Usually I stop caring whether they find the monster half way through the episode. I'm just glad to be part of the fun. It appeases cranky Rob.

I'm wondering if the host will take requests.

"Hello, Josh Gates?"

"Yeah?"

"I've got a show idea."

"Oh…Kay…those are usually handled by my producers."

"Yeah, but I thought it would be more effective calling your home number."

"Well, this is my girlfriends house."

"I know, you weren't home."

"So you've got me. What's your pitch?"

"I want you to find out what happened to my marriage."

"Is this a joke?"

"No, I'm serious. I'm thinking you could bring the crew in, I could give you a reinact—"

"We don't do that. Have you even watched my show?"

"Yeah, it's great. I especially liked the Yeti quest."

"Thanks. I don't do relationships—No, not you honey, the koo-FAN on the phone. He want's me to do an episode on his marriage. No, I'm not going to invite him for coffee--Ok I'm back. Sorry, I can't help."

"Your show is Destination Truth. I want to find some."

"Look, you want the truth? You're a freak! You spend way too much time obsessing over me and your divorce. Move on buddy! Honey, where's my cell? I'm gonna call the--"

Click.

Wow. He's right! I have been obsessing! Maybe if I can find some new programming I can move on and be happy again. It's just so hard. The only thing New I've had all year is The Sarah Conner Chronicles. And let's face it, if you've seen one sexy girl robot you've seen them all. Ok, maybe that's a lie, but Josh is right, I shouldn't obsess over that either. Josh is like a guru! Maybe I'll call him back. Naw, I'll give him some alone time with his girlfriend. I don't want him to be cranky. He may be the one person who can make me happy. I'll call him tomorrow, that way I can let him know he forgot his cell here in his car. These are comfortable seats.

Divorce Leaderboard: MyUwife, Won; Rob, Nothing.

Today's Password is "Leaderboard."

Yeah, that's the word that first confronted me when I first logged into my computer. Leaderboard. I'd stumbled into an email coup d'état without my Sandinista barista or even a simple cup o' joe. I was a caffeine-free in a complex world.

"How many of you know what a leaderboard is?"

A friend email polled a group of us to prove a point. I think my divorce started the same way.

Friends, AOLians, Countrymen,

Lend me your monitor! I come to bury Rob, not to praise him.

How many know what the reason I remain married to him is?

Made of sterner stuff,

MyUnwife

Yeah I am great Caesar's corpse. I'd died and was cast. Sorry sometimes the venom rolls off the tongue like a bitter bard. I'm not, It's just the coffee. If I'm up more than a half hour without it, my day is shot. The aroma in my nose now is the odor of distraction. It's all this leaderboard business. I know Cesar didn't have one. If he did I think we'd all agree Brutus might be first the list. Cesar did have a cup of coffee. I'm sure of it.

I know what a leaderboard is. Will that knowledge bring me a Juan Valdez's donkey in a mug? No, but it will make a friend feel betrayed. It explains her reply:

"et tu? You are so off the coffee of the month list!"

Yeah, only 2 emails into the day, and it's a replay of the opening scenes of my divorce. I needed to slow this down. I mean the only reason I knew about a leaderboad was from all the chess club tourneys and fantasy gaming conventio—I mean the…er…uh...football tourneys and beer drinking conventions. Was it possible I knew a word that wasn't common?

Inconceivable: The sound my coffee pot makes when it sputtering out the last drops of fluid and my coffee mug isn't there to catch them.

I mean leaderboard? Isn't that like one of those compound words they taught us on Electric Company as kids? You remember the 2 silhouetted faces with a vase in between. The lips on one side would move to pronounce half the word then the other side lips would counter the other half word and a complete word would materialize on the screen as they repeated the whole word together.

"Leader"

"Board"

"Leaderboard"

"Caffeine"

"Addiction…"

Yeah you get the idea. I needed to get the idea myself; I'm starting to twitch. Like the protests of MyUnwife, was this just another word I'd taken for granted? I should have gotten coffee, but I decided to look up the word instead. Inability to think straight is an early warning sign. Biting the heads off of squirrels comes next.

My 20 year old desk dictionary seems to think "Leaderboard" doesn't exist. Score one for my friend, I think you can put her on the Leaderboard now.

I tried hyperdictionary.com. They search a few different dictionary databases, including a "dream dictionary." That couldn't hurt. Hyperdictionary shrugged. Then again they didn't know what a hyperdictionary was, so I'm not sure they can be trusted.

I trust Google. If you type "google" in Google they'll tell you where to go. If you type "define google," they'll tell you, "The dominant search engine, at this writing." They're humble too. They obviously know almost as much as I do. I decided to try a second test to be sure.

"Define MyUnwife." Google didn't know how to do that; we were on equal ground.

"Define Leaderboard." Google thought for a moment then told me, "A horizontal ad unit that measures 728x90 pixels." Well that wasn't what I thought it was. I went to the check my friend's leaderboard reference. No it wasn't even close to those many pixels. Well now, I'm in a stand off with Google. "Intravenous coffee injection." Nope, nothing.

While we weren't talking, I decided to prove Google wrong by buying a leaderboard. Amazon.com wasn't sure what one was, but they assured me it had to do with video games and golfing. Ok. I could see that. I shouldn't have to go as far as the Amazon to get somebody to agree with me, but I think MyUnwife would have suggested I go a little further. I'd just look dumbfounded. She's sharper than I am right now, she's on her second cup.

"She never had a second cup at home…"

"Because she was going straight for the vodka to numb you out."

"oh."

Finally I Checked with my buddy Webster. He's always got lots to say. He agreed with me; he did in fact have lots to say, and yes, leaderboard was one of those things. Mirriam said, "Rob," cuz we're close that way. "Rob, a leaderboard is a noun. It's a large board for displaying the ranking of the leaders in a competitive event."

"Thank you, Mirriam. One more question: I've been up a half hour now. Where can I find a squirrel?"

The Threshold of Divorce and Taxes

MyUnwife has a decompression chamber. How cool is that? Not a real one. I'd be totally jealous then. No, she's got a security screen mounted to the edge of her porch, then this porch void, a secondary inspection space, and finally, if you're cool enough, the entry door.

This was the first time I'd seen her new place. She's renting it. It's on a nice little cul de sac with friendly little houses, all clambering towards the street to greet me. Climbing out of the car, I was taken aback by all the clambering houses. My neighborhood houses don't do that. Our houses are a little more laid back and foundational.

MyUnwife's lot had a line of tall thin trees marking the yard's corner too. They screen the busy street beyond from MyUnwife's guests. Not real successfully, I can still see and hear the traffic. The trees work the same as throwing up a bead curtain to hide lions gorging on a gazelle feast. I note this and smile.

Not as nice as my place…

Then I enter her decompression chamber, and my world changed. I don't have one, but she does. How is that fair? It blows! Or I suppose as a chamber it sucks...anyway, so did the reason I waited at her threshold, box of Turbo Tax in one hand, bag of receipts in the other. It's an evening of catching up.

"The box wants to know if we moved during 2007"

"I didn't."

"Oh…well I'll just put 'no' then. Would you like another beer?"

See, we'd both heard that it's better to file jointly. If we're getting along well enough for a friendly divorce, how bad can paying taxes be? Yeah, I know, if we were Laverne and Shirley, this is where our front door would open, "Hello!" Our studio audience would laugh, and I'd be jonsing for the comfort of Boo-Boo Kitty. We're not Laverne and Shirley. This is real. I'm still jonsing for stuffed comfort of any kind. I need my batting fix.

So, I'm in her place. I'm checking things ou--Ok, fine, critiquing. It's what we exes do. I need to make sure she's not doing better. It has nothing to do with me. This is all about her life in collapse without the ray of light that she's closed her blinds to!

"Hello! It's me! Little Robby Sunshine!"

"Oh thank God! My world has be a desolate void since I left you."

"Sucks to be you. Grovel, and I might share my mirth to brighten your world."

"OH THANK YOU LORD ROB! YOU TRULY ARE THE GREATEST…"

The world blurs and shifts. MyUnwife is staring at me. She's just put down a phone call, "What are you staring at?"

I did take time from my delusion to mark that the phone call was a friend from work. It's not some guy. Excellent. "Oh, you know, just checking out your carpet."

Her carpet is mauve. Mauve is a funny color. It's funny because the carpet of mauve has always been a joke with us. The last place we rented before we bought the house had mauve carpet. We'll no, it didn't. The carpet was what mauve would look like if mauve were a rusty caramel. It's not. The only way that carpet would ever have been mauve is if somebody removed the house's roof for 3 years, letting the sun bleach and burn the dye. Then, maybe. The owner insisted "mauve," and as a stipulation of tenancy, we agreed.

Her new carpet was mauve. Her new coffee table was chocolate. Her old sofa was mine. It's not anymore, but I remember it sitting in my living room. In her house, I barely recognized it. Half of the things I see within the first ten minutes in her house once belonged in my space (no, it's not virtual furnishings. You really need to get offline more often...), and yet, they were virtually new to me now. She'd made these items distinctly her own and they belonged uniquely in her space.

She'd made the house an extension of her, and I was kinda jealous. I haven't really done that yet. I have a very distinct Rob presence, but my house doesn't reflect it. It says "Hi, I'm a non-descript model home. Welcome." Oh, I've my office very me, but I keep that hidden. Ok…maybe my house says more about me than I thought.

So we sat down, ate some pizza and did our taxes. We had as much fun as is allowed doing government work. I like her place. I like her new life. It suits her. I think it takes a decompression chamber. A space between "married" and "divorced" to clear out all the contaminants and bring equilibrium. She has one on her house. It's so cool, even the pizza boy thought so.

If I could get one like the one in Alien, that would so top hers! Who needs wall art when I can greet houseguests in a decompression threshold? I'd so pay extra to get it to suck the air from the lungs of every solicitor who stopped by. How much would that rock?

Yeah, I'm totally jealous.