"Even at 25, you gotta start sometime…"-Jimmy Eat World.

So I survived my walk this month! Yeah, considering I've done that walk for over two years now, It's sort of like watching Forrest Gump for the 365th time. He always goes on that long ass Jenny walk, and Lt. Dan always gets shot.

Life is like a box of pit-vipers: you never know which one's got the caramel center.

Yeah, I don't have a Lt. Dan to get shot for, and I don't have a Jenny to walk for. I do have an Unwife who gives me what for, and an interesting life that's certainly not the box of chocolates I saw in the movie trailer.

The walk is a great thing though. I recommend it to anyone who needs to clear the creamy nougat from their mind. Last year the walk may have been the one thing that kept me from going nuts. Working at home can make you feel trapped, and when the one person who's supposed to be on your side wont approach you without a hazmat suit, life gets to feel a little like a taffy pull. Sure, it's great and tasty, so long as you're not the taffy.

The walks let me wade through and filter the impurities from the brain. Last year's walks were really hard, because the crap was so thick, and it stuck to everything.

Divorce soup, divorce gumbo, divorce kabobs…

Time does wonders though. In fact, yesterday, as I'm plodding downtown, my ipod blaring, I thought "Hey! I remember the last walk this song played, I was unhappy." My walks in the past had a mood: very grey. That grey tainted my playlist, and made my candy sprinkles very bitter. What you don't have candy sprinkles when you walk? Dude! You gotta try it, it's the next best thing to the Beatles Yellow Submarine rainbows.

Now I'm starting to feel revitalized. It's like when I was 25. See, when I was 25 I had a revelation. I'd been in retail 7 years by that point, and I knew that I didn't want to be in retail another 7 years, let alone the rest of my life. So I collected my chocolate coins, and went to college. Within a year, I moved from California to concentrate on my studies. It was a Rob renaissance.

Mama always said you have to divorce your past so you can have a divorce in your future…

New Rob got out of college, got married and spent the early part of the new millennium in a daze. I don't blame MyUnwife, although she did make it easy. Then again isn't that what partners do for each other? Free the other person to be what they want to be? I think I wanted to be in a daze. Then I woke up. I had a second renaissance. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "That's called a midlife-crisis, Rob." This wasn't that. This was like a bear waking from hibernation. This was old Rob finding New Dazed Rob in a divorce. The old Rob was too hot, the new Rob was too cold.

So now I'm the just right Rob, and just right Rob went on Yesterday's walk all blue skies and sweat stink. It felt good. Yeah, I spent time thinking of MyUnwife. I was sorry for things that happened on both our sides, but then a breeze blew through and carried it away. I began thinking about new things—things I need to do, new places I needed to walk.

I passed somebody else out for a walk. She looked really cute in her black shorts and black sports top supporting everything...well you know. She had long dark hair pulled tight in an all business ponytail, coming at me at a good clip. She smiled, I smiled. We crossed. Ok, no it wasn't like some great love story or anything but it's nice to see girls smile at me. I spent too much time walking alone and unwanted. If a woman can smile at me, I can hope.

Run Robby! Run...

I know, sounds pretty pathetic huh? I'm much better than I was though. Flip back to any post pre-September, you'll see. Now with each walk I clear a little more headspace. I get a little stronger. Oh, I'll never be a marathon runner, but my life will never be a box of chocolates or a Tom Hanks movie either. It is what it is, and with each step I get better at dealing with that.

Home

And look at all the weight my shadow lost!

Mile 8

Somebody's prepped with Easter lights. I think they've got a uhm
BUNNY and Easter elves on the chimney too.

Mile 7

Action shot! Slow mo walker. State at picture for 24 hours. It moves!

Mile 7

The ant hills always get bigger after the rain.

Mile 6

Paying homage to he who writes my paychheck.

Mile 5

Gus Sr. Has been busy.

Mile 4

Since. 1994? What a history! I'm sure some town elder had the original
town charter inked on his back during y
The great paper shortage of 02.

Mile 3

Maybe I should stop and workout.

Mile 2

I wish I knew...

Mile 1

Does this shadow make me look fat?

Late again!

Maybe I should just sit here for exercise...

Walking Day

So today is the last Thursday of the month, and that makes this walk day. That means today's post will be blissfully short.

This walk is one of my divorce rituals. Some people pick up instruments, other people pick up waitresses. Me? I pick up my legs and do a 9 mile walk once a moth around town. It allows me to clear my head and meditate as I meander.

As usual, I'll take pictures from the walk and post them here. You can see the world through my eyes and my camera phone. Stuff should start coming in around 12:30-1 (PST) Check it out and enjoy the show.

"When we bleed we bleed the same…"-Muse

There's madness in them thar hills! The masses have seen articles on articles in 401k accounts and now they're tearing through financial files like flight attendants at a lost luggage party, or is that vultures at a carry-on party? Carrion? Ok I could see where vultures would have more use for the latter then a can of Nair and a push-up bra. Either way, you get the idea, and now have an pretty cool image of a pin-up vulture (Cathartes aura) souring through your mind. My gift to you: gratis, no 1099 required.

The 401k is just something new to take from a significant ex other. A means to make them pay that's worth more on the open market than a pound of flesh. Ok. No I'm not being cynical. " Bite me. " Yeah, that was cynical. Ok, maybe technically not, but it was vindictive, and vindictive flesh will be the meat served in the remainder of this blog.

See, I do understand where in some cases it's just fair ("What's yours is mine, what's mine is mine." ), but not always. Sometimes it's just fairly vindictive. I'm the fairly friendly divorce fairy—er guy. I do not understand vindictive, but I hear it's very dark, unpleasant and unsatisfying. Sort of like marrying Heather Mills. Hey, If I have to take sides, I'll stand with Paul; he's a knight Beatle (or Nocturnal Volkswagenus).

Taking sides and taking stuff. That's what makes a divorce unfriendly: the outside people and the outside things. Left on our own in a void, without these pointy weapons, divorce would be blunt, but civil, and quick. We're human though; we don't want civil; we want to be Mr. T. in Rocky III.

"What's your prediction for this fight, Clubber?"

"Pain!"

MyUnwife and I did the best we could. We danced around the ring waiting for the bell to sound while dodgingl the occasional jab.

"I'll take the table. It's the only thing I ever got to choose anyway."

"You're not taking the food processor. You never used it anyway."

Yeah, after she left I mopped up the sweat and bile. The floors look good again, and don't eat at my toe flesh anymore.

I give us points though. We tiptoed around so many landmines. 401K and retirement money were ones we fenced off with flags and flares. "Abandon all hope all ye who enter here." I looked in her purse, she checked my wallet, and we both backed away slowly. I think she got the better money deal, but I kept my legs. We're even.

We both had money squirreled away in for our future. When our future divided we were entitled to divvying up the booty. It was our right. I like booty as much as the next guy, but sometime what's right has nothing to do with rights. Let the entitled feast on their own, we just wanted the check so we could leave.

Maybe That's the problem: it's the reason people fight. Some people fight to make the other person bleed. MyUnwife and I fought just to get away; we were wounded ermine retreating to safe egress. Maybe we wanted to hurt the other person, but more importantly we wanted to heal ourselves. We did what we could to make an even split then back away slowly gnashing teeth.

Think about it before scrambling after the golden egg nest egg. Is it worth it, or is this just another Humpty Dumpty nobody will put back together again? Don't look at me, I don't know. I'm still looking for my undergarments and Nair.

"He's fine on the inside…"-Jonas

Oh, what pressure!!

I couldn't have said it better myself. I didn't say it though. CoolFriend said it in response to my panic. The clock said 2:30 and I hadn't even started my blog.

GAA! My reader will hate me!

The hater list is already much longer than the reader list. When I get time I should work on that. Do a little glad-handing. Caulk some gaps; bridge some chasms; refresh my metaphor list... When I get time.

See, that's the problem. Whenever we find ourselves in crisis, like say…I don't know…a divorce, we wrap ourselves in the mummy bandage of work. Any ghosts that tap on our shoulder aren't even felt through the thick gauze and Epoxy resin.

"Hey Rob, I'm a trip you took on you Anniv—"

"No time, too busy."

"But what about these mental snapshots, if you can just glmpse how happ—"

"Sorry, I'm blogging"

"Now?"

"No."

Now?"

"No."

"Now…?"

They're persistent ghosts, but eventually they will get bored and go pester the guy next door.

"Hey honey, I just had the weirdest memory of a beach I've never been to."

"That's nice dear."

"No it was like I was really there. Oh, there it is again. What am I wearing? Oh my—a tangerine Speedo! Oh, my eyes! My eyes!"

Yeah, memory ghosts are personal and shouldn't wander the neighborhood without supervision. I'm too busy. I give the ghosts a cookie and tell them to go stay in the street. They usually do.

Here's the problem though. When the wounds have healed, you find the bandage resin has adhered itself to your flesh. You can't remove it. I'm healed, and I'm too busy to do anything about it but lumber around looking for ghosts and mumbling mummyspeak.

Where did that little wisp go?

I'm so busy working I can't unwrap myself and enjoy my new healthy Rob. Oh, he's all dressed up and ready to party, but he's standing in the closet (wrong image, let's move him to the pantry, ok?) with his hat and coat, but nobody to let him out. Oh I run by from time to time. I open the door. He's hung from a hook there, eating a Twinkie. I try to talk: make sure he knows I care. You know, say something like, "Sorry, too busy," or "I'm blogging." I don't have time to let him out.

So maybe I need help: some kind of work prevention intervention hooky group. They exist don't they? I haven't seen them since the last time they showed up with a keg in college. I think of parents with kids in my situation and I wonder how they make anytime at all. What do you do? How do you pull yourself out of the clo—pantry and make fun?

I emailed CoolFriend and got this reply:

Maybe I'll think...have to think on it on the way across campus and text it to you.

Apparently I'm not the only one too busy for a life.

"We need all the hope That we can get…"- The call

"Mathias was later beheaded."

Hee hee hee!

Yeah, that's today's cast of characters. The first voice is the deacon at my church. Say "Hi deacon." He's friendly, but he can't say "hi" back now; he's giving the children's message. The second is Kelly Green. She and her husband are sitting in the pew behind me. She's convulsing into her husbands arm-pit. She's laughing. Maybe she's sobbing, but I hear a snort too. Either way, when they leave her husband's dress shirt is gonna look like a sweat gland waterfall. It's ok, he's a good husband. He'll say it was all him and splash some baby slobber on the other side to balance the look. Like I said: a good human-being.

"Do you know what cannibals eat? They eat human flesh."

I glance back at Kelly. Maybe she's eating her husband. No, he's still got the pasty embarrassed smile. What a cute couple. They give me warm fuzzies. The deacon is still warming up the kids with fuzzy stories of dead apostles. His fatherly German accent makes the story very Grimm. I think the children might rather hear a fairy tale if given the choice. At least Hansel and Gretel had a sweet end. And let's face it, roast witch is pretty good, so long as you leave it in to cook all day. You do need to baste her once after 3 hours. It's the gingerbread glaze that makes all the difference.

Maybe that's what the Deacon's cannibals used. That's why Mathias went there to share the gospel. They obviously had good taste, they just needed some new meat. Mathias went there to give it to them.

Now as the deacon progresses into the story I'm still thinking about the old fairy tales. How do we know that some of those old tales aren't based on tufts of truth. I mean, without those stories, how would we know that all stepmothers are wicked? There were a lot of wicked step-mothers, yet the fathers never divorced; they were frequently widowed though.

Interesting…

Wouldn't all the "widowing" from those days raise a red flag to the local CSI team? I mean even Cold Case: Enchanted Forest patrol could put this together without talking to the local citizenry or consulting a talking goose. Squalor dad always outlives the step-mom too, and the kids live happily ever after.

Not so for the real apostles. The deacon is making sure the our kids know this

"…were all murdered and died painful deaths, except for James, who died of natural causes."

Hee hee hee hee hee.

Yeah I know, I'm thinking the same thing: next time we play 12 apostles, I know who I want to be!

See, the deacon is a really nice guy. He's a great historian. I'm sure everything he says is accurate, he's just not a storyteller. That's ok, we can't all be everything. See my divorce. See my dad's divorce. See today's service. It's about choosing a new pastor after the last one left. They've themed the pastor issue around the story of Matthias who was chosen to replace Judas Iscariot.

After Judas "divorced" the apostles and hung himself, the remaining 11 needed to bring in a step-apostle to help with all God's children the church was adopting. And yeah, the deacon has already spoiled the fate of yet another step-parent. He was beheaded. So maybe it is like the fairy tales, but not all step parents end up that way.

That's why I'm not sure why the deacon ran with this part of the story, other than to amuse Kelly Green. See The important thing of Mathias' story is the choosing. The group prayed over it for days, and then drew lots. For you and me, drawing lots like picking a name from a hat. The amazing thing about this cap was that there were two names in it. Everyone pulled out "Mathias" After prayer, God has spoken. I'm sure brother Justus (the other hat lot) was disappointed at first, but looks back at that missed marriage as a dodged bullet. Not all step children are enthusiastic. Yeah, I think we can all identify with Justus.

Why can't the deacon talk about the choosing? It's practically a magic hat story. Kid's love magic hats, much more than they like the tragic fates of step parents. See, when I was a kid my dad and mom divorced. It's pretty much a taboo subject in our family, much like the Apocrypha. Maybe it's more like how the other apostles didn't talk about Judas after he left. I mean, I suppose I could ask Dad, but I respect him. I wouldn't want to take him there. The important thing is the choosing. He's since remarried, and they've been together over 30 years without a tragic beheading or an accidental widowing. I think that makes them happy.

It makes me happy too. I like that. I need that. If for no other reason than because I may put my hand in the lot cap again. It's all in the choosing. Even if the first try turned out like Judas, I have hope that this time will come out like Mom. This is my prayer.

"you told me life was a risk…"-City and Colour

He's reading my notebook!

There I am in my local coffee establishment that shall remain nameless, but shares a name with my favorite Battlestar Galactica character (new Battlestar. Old battlestar, my favorite character was the robot death-dog thing. It was cute, but you knew at any moment it would turn terminator and eat the crew. Too bad that didn't happen until after they found Earth. I'd much rather have watched Cyber-Cujo puppy-chow the crew than endure the banal Bonanza in space Galactica became. Why couldn't the TV writers go on strike back then? Writers have really bad timing when it comes to self-importance. And what about those writers who use parenthetical notation like it's a chapter break? I hate people like that.), busily holding a conversation with myself. The dialogue is really quite stimulating. I think I'm discussing the underlying themes of Cloverfield

"Don't be a moron!"

"No I'm serious!"

"It's not a play off of 9/11."

"It is! Day to day interrupted by xenophobia, chaos, and devastation. Why can't you see that?"

"You've just described my divorce."

"Well how would you explain the spider things then?"

"insidious critters of venom and bitterness. All part of divorce. You've read my blog."

"Yeah, well to you everything is about your divorce. You even found a way to link it to Jumper."

"Only the title."

"Ok whatever. Maybe it's more about the unpredictability of death, and how we should live our lives to the fullest. That would explain the opening and closing scene."

"Yeah, well those scenes were—Hey!"

I'm distracted. Some guy is reading my notebook. Yeah, thus the opening blog line. My note book is sacred. Gaze upon it, and may your eyes burn from your skull. It holds thoughts that I don't tell myself while I'm fueling my Battlestar Vente with sugar and cream. Normally the fact that I'm talking to myself works like screaming "Bird Flu!", but this guy is either oblivious or immune. He's trampling my personal space and he's reading my notebook!

What can I do? I'm holding a stir stick and a coffee cup. C'mon MacGyver! Damn, if I only had duct tape, a ball-point pen spring, and a tuft of yak fur! Panic! My arm jerks. The Vente opens fire.

Splash!

"My eyes! My eyes!"

Now! While his hands are holding his blistering face, I jab at his heart with the stir stick. It's wet so it kind of folds then breaks (the stick, not his chest). Still I'm sure he'll have a bruised heart. He'll think twice before he looks at another man's notebook again.

OK, I didn't do that. I just put the lid on my coffee and snatched to book in my other hand.

"You write?"

You speak? I'm a mother bear over her cub. "Yeah."

"What do you write?"

Why is it everybody thinks a writer can sum his creative thoughts in one neat, well phrased turn of words? "Fiction," I say.

He tries to snatch another glimpse of my notebook, "What's that about?"

What was on the page that he's so interested. Now I'm feeling a little paranoid. I wasn't logging fantasies again was I? I can't look, it makes me appear unprofessional. "Uhm…It's a think piece."

"Really? How cool…" He doesn't care. He just needed a wedge for conversation. He's going on about his fantasies of becoming a writer now. He's 24 working on his MA. Galactica Coffee is the only place he goes outside of school. He doesn't have a girlfriend. His parents are divorced, Mom lives in Minneapolis, Dad lives in St. Paul. Small world...

I should have thrown the coffee.

Why is it that the lonely repel each other? I mean It's usually a same sex thing. Drop a lonely girl in a room of lonely guys and they're sharks on chum, but same sex folk are same poled magnets. I guess that's a pretty accurate analogy really. Right now, this pole is trying to get away from that pole. He's talking about writing a sci-fi trilogy. Maybe if I dip my face in the Vente Vat. It would numb the pain.

"…had a character dip their face in coffee like that once…"

Feeling the skin peel back, I wonder if this is really the best way out. Maybe I should do what MyUnwife did. I should divorce myself from the situation.

"I love you, I'm just not in love with you, "I say, pulling my head out of my vat.

That's not what she said, but it shut him up for a second. Oh look he's backing away, "Watch out for th—" Ooof! Too late, That chair is gonna leave a mark, luckily the table edge caught his fall.

This is when I make my escape. I can't help but notice the beautiful young girl leaning over him, making sure he's ok. I'm sure if she's still there when he comes to, he'll be just fine.

Me, I'm alone in the parking lot with my own significant other now.

"Cloverfield was not about America's Gumby fixation!"

"It totally was!"

"over rated, so ungrateful is me…"-Ill Scarlett

"Eh-whoah?"

"Yes, I have a collect call for Robert Boyd From MyUnwife. Do you accept the charges?"

"uh sure."

Click.

"Pookie? Uh…why are you calling?"

"Hi, Honey, I'm calling from Bora-Bora. Thanks for taking the call. It's beautiful here. Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I don't feel happy anymore, and—One second—Yes, one more whisky sour, but less ice and don't skimp on the whiskey this time. It's the first word in the drink name, I think you can pay it a little respect. Put it in the glass. Thank you. Oh, sorry honey, as I was saying, I think I need a divorce."

"Uh, ok. Why?"

"What? Oh, gotta go, the towel boy is here. Hel-lo sugar!"

Click.

And before the next ring I hear is a lawyer with a cease and desist, let me state the obvious: THAT IS NOT HOW IT HAPPENED. It's a complete fabrication to make a point. Sort of like an allegory, but without all the relevant metaphor. I forgot the literary term for that. I think it's called something like "fiction."

Unlike most posts though, I do have a point here. It's about another post somebody else made. Some other guy was asking for advice. I'm a helpful guy. I'm always willing to give my advice, so I read the post. It was a guy asking for absolution. He wanted to tell his wife "I want a divorce, " but he wanted to pass this uncomfortable information along by "phone/note." and yes, those quotes are his quote. He wasn't even sure he wanted to phone.

"Dear Deirdre, it is with deepest regrets I leave you this note. Funny coincidence about the word 'leaving'…"

Wha?

I reread, "phone/note." Now I suppose this is better than the people looking to "Surprise divorce" their mate. And it is better than the Saudi guy who divorced his wife via text message. "I divorce You." it read. The last I heard, the court was upholding his decree. I bet his wife had a text message or two to send on that subject.

As for me, I say Please! Step up, be a man. Say it in person. And I say that to more than you dear reader, I said it to him. I left him a note. It wasn't bad, it just read, "Man up." Ok, it said more, because we all know Rob can't write 2 words where 1,000 will do. If I wanted to do that, I'd show you a picture instead. I swear though, my note said nothing worse than "man up."

Today I checked the post. I'm opinionated about other peoples opinion of my opinion. (yeah work through the circle logic. You'll get there.) Somebody else had replied. Somebody who's advice I always agree with and respect. Except now. Now she's somebody who is horribly wrong, and has been banished from my Christmas list forever (yeah, Swiss Colony is crying their eyes out). She said the phone thing was ok. In fact, she said, she'd experienced it herself. Ok. That just sucks. Group hug. From what I know, this person is really cool and deserved better. That's no reason for her to tell this guy it was ok. Still, get Swiss Colony back on the phone, she's getting processed Rob cheese this year.

Ok, one thing I'll always respect about MyUnwife is that she always told me what was bothering her. Yeah, I know some people call that being a bitch. I don't. I think the difference is all in the approach. The fact is that I'm a guy, and guys are simple creatures. Oh we pretend to be complex, and some of us even create blogs pretending that we're more than we really are, but when it comes to life at home, we've barely evolved past communicating with rocks.

Clack-clack "He says! Ow! I've crushed my foot with a rock."

Tell us what you want. We suck at guessing. MyUnwife knew that, and whenever she needed something, she told me.

"…I want a divorce." probably the hardest request to make, but I respect her all the more for making it. And for making it in person. I will never agree with it, but it was what was on her heart, and she told me. That's my job as a husband. I signed up to listen to the good and bad. This just happened to fall on the unpleasant side of the scale. Still, she respected me enough to tell me to my face. I'm sure she'd prepared herself for any reaction from crying jags to bitter jabs. I don't know where my reaction fell on her scale. She'd know me for 10 years, it probably should have hit the mark. There were other things too. Things MyUnwife should have talked to me about before. Things that might have stopped this before it happened. Those are other topics for other days.

The point today is, in this instance, she did the right thing, and if I ever marry again, I want to find a woman who respects me enough to do the same. I don't mean divorce me. That would be kinda stupid huh? But no, I want her to talk to me. I know too many people who hold it in until it's too late. These are the same people who'd phone in a divorce.

"Dearest Rob, As you can tell by garbage sack in the driveway, you're moving out. Toodles and Best wishes, Gertrude."

And maybe I'm a coward. I mean I am posting this here, rather than on his site. I just felt this was more of a venting issue. I vent here. I did appreciate though how he thanked the person who agreed with him, and said nothing to me. Maybe he's preparing an "I hate you," Post-It for voicing my disagreement. I hope not, he needs to save his Post-Its for his soon to be ex.

I mean, what do you think? I know, I never ask that, but don't pass out on me. I'm far from being an expert on divorce: I've only had one. Tell me, am I wrong? I could be wrong. It has happened once or twice. Post me, let me know how you feel.

"Break the spell of the typical…"-Mutemath

No man is an island. That's what I've heard, but can he be anything but a man, atoll? aisle? I think he could be an aisle. I mean, why can't a man be a place where people pass through on their way to something else?

No, I'm not going to make a MyUnwife joke here. It would be funny, but it wouldn't be true.

"But when has that stopped you, Rob?"

Thank you for pointing that out dear reader. Let's say I may be just an aisle, but I'm trying to be a really nice one. The one you'd expect in a good library: surrounded by stacked knowledge and piquant whispers. Not like a K-Mart Linoleum blue light bargain corridor of mingled disinfectant and stale sweat.

When I talk about the man/aisle thing, it's not really a man thing; it's a Rob thing. This is my blog thing, and I'm the groove that gets you through. Lets talk about the aisle of Rob.

Most of the time I work at home, so I'm more of a cul de sac really. No destination per se, just a meandering channel leading around like a Walt Disney turnstile trap. Still, every channel needs an outlet For me, it's my writers' group. I know, I talk about it a lot, but that's because it's the one place I consistently go and interact with people.

We all need that. Be it a clique, a club, or a mallet, we all keep something in our cart as a way of beating down loneliness. For me it's the eight to ten people I greet every two weeks. We're a diverse group, filled with as many personalities as stories passed around the table.

I like the group because we're not there to impress. We're a kick back hang out aisle complete with tasty pasties and comfort cushions. It's a place where simply being expressive makes you impressive.

Last night I showed up late. Things were chaotic. No, not chaotic before I showed up; chaotic because I showed up. When I show up, I bring the dust devil of chaos whirling around my feet. I don't need to say anything more than "Hi, sorry I'm late, " and the two teenage girls in the group started discussing the smell of Chapstick and cultural relevance of anime. Fascinating stuff.

I'm used to the chaos. It's like my shadow. It suits the group pretty well, they're comfortable with it. Except the new guy. He wasn't. He left. At least I hope it was the chaos. Maybe it's the stale sweat I bring up my aisle.

I felt bad too because I couldn't meet his needs, but divorce is teaching me I can't do that for everybody. Some people will hang out in your aisle, others wont. Others prefer the organic foods to the Velveeta and MGD. Ok. I'm cool with that. I like that. People who liike my aisle, like chaos.

You know what's weird? I felt like somebody was standing at the end of my row staring in last night. It was at the writers' group. A woman was over in an another aisle, peering at us over a book. Almost as if she wanted the chaos but was afraid to be embarrassed by joining it. My chaos knows no humility, you can't be like a teenager buying condoms in my aisle. Either you man up or you wuss out.

Last night's aisle stalker apparently chose the latter. She probably followed the new guy out. Maybe she was his stalker. Whatever it was, after admiring the end cap, she moved along. Having somebody watch felt weird. I went to get some coffee, because what's paranoia without caffeine? When I came back, my stalker was gone.

But these are the things I notice since MyUnwife left. For me it's like finding a paperback adventure in my aisle. At first it was so tough even putting things on the shelves. I looked at each day like, "If I can just get through to the other side." Now I'm look at each day like "what's next?" It's cheesy I know, but cheese is down my aisle! See? Right here next to the beer!

It's true, I can't function alone, but I can be alone while people come and go. I like it when people who wander down my aisle find new and interesting things. Just like that cool library, maybe a collection catches their eyes and they stay and read. I can be that aisle, and it's so much better than being an island.

then why is my ass the perfect height of kicking,,?'-Bell X1

"KARAOKE GROUPIE WHORES! "

I think that's the first thing I read in my morning blog fare. "KARAOKE GROUPIE WHORES! " I reread it too. I'm a guy I was excited! Then I read it a third time, because my mind was torn in two directions. "Karaoke groupie whores?" asks the male driven side of me that's been alone for more than a year, "Where do I find me some of those? And how are they sold? By the ream? By the box?" I had no idea that they even existed."

That's when my voice of reason crossed it's arms and started tapping it's foot, "I don't want to be the one to point this out, Rob, but I'm not sure that Karaoke groupie whores are such a good idea." I'm busy flipping through the phone book hearing "Blah, blah, blah."

"Gopher...Groper...Grouper…" flip, flip, "where the heck…"

The voice sighs. "Rob come back to me for a bit. I know you've been alone for a while, but think on this. Karaoke? What kind of girl is a Karaoke groupie?"

"A Whore!"

"That's right, Rob."

"So I should look under W! Thanks, Reason!"

Reason shakes his head and sits down. I think he thinks this will be a long chat. I hate to tell him, but it's only a chat until I find whores. Then it's a monologue. W? Where is that? "S, T, U, V, W. W! Waitress, Weaver.."

"Rob, a Karaoke whore is not going to be a high caliber whore. I mean I'm not condoning The acts of Hanson Groupies from the 90's but, come on. A Karaoke groupie? What kind of woman throws herself at a guy grinding through "Sweet Child of Mine" like it's like it's last weeks unsold chuck?"

I'd reached X. No Whores in my book; they must be unlisted. Reason was starting to sink in though. Karaoke? I've seen that guy doing Axel on YouTube (so to speak, I wouldn't Google "guy doing Axel" it's not pretty) he does suck. Still, it's been so long. I sing better than he does, and when I pick the right song, I am a golden calf. I can do "Fire and Rain." Granted, not the favorite for picking up ladies, but it is melodic. Maybe I could attract a better breed of groupie—maybe a discriminating "groupie enthusiast."

Reason's reading my mind. "Rob, how long did you wait until you found MyUnwife?"

It was my turn to sigh, "A long time?"

"You were 29 when you met. Do you remember what your friends called you?'

"Lonely?"

"No."

"Scruffy Smurf?"

"Well yes, but that's not what I'm talking about. They called you 'picky.""

"Ok, but what good did it do me?"

"You were together for almost 10 years. How many of your friends lasted that long?"

"Yeah, but that's not the point, I wanted longer. Besides I'm not looking for a wife, I'm looking for the elusive Karaoke groupie whore. Should I get Marlin Perkins on the phone?"

"No Rob, that's not what you want. Not even now. What kind of quality woman would want a groupie whore groupie."

Ok, now reason has taken a left turn down an dark road and I have no idea where he's going. "Groupie, whore groupie...wha?"

Groupie whore-hater Reason starts drawing diagrams in the sand. Most of them are pictures of a donkey with the label "Rob." I've never seen a sand drawn donkey show, it's not pretty, but by the time Reason is done I understand what he's saying.

Reason is trying to draw the lines between what is right and what is wrong. We all make those distinctions in our lives, and those lines are drawn differently for all of us. Me, I'm not a groupie whore kind of guy no matter how fast I flip through the phonebook. The reality is they're there if I look hard enough, but I don't. That's some other guy. It's not who I am.

I don't say that so you can go "awww Rob." Don't get me wrong. I'm still an ass. The labeled donkey still represents me, but I'm a different kind of ass. And karaoke groupie whores just don't fit into my…well you get the idea.

So I'm no longer looking for Karaoke groupie whores, I can get on with the rest of my day. Lonely Rob is most disappointed in that information. He's cut a page from the newspaper: "Karaoke Fridays! 9pm at El Torrito!"

"Hey I've been thinkin'…"-Dandy Warhols.

Rob.

Today I got the following in a letter from one of the organizers of my High School reunion.

Event Theme: Back to the Future...

That was the start of the email I received this morning. It was pre-coffee, so the rest of the details are a little sleep-blurred. I think there was something about "Don't use this in your blog, or I'll find out where you live." I'm not sure. I do remember the purple font though. I distinctly remember the purple…

Purple. That's the color of a dinosaur. It's also the color of the whatever fluid poured down on Prince throughout the 80s. Wasn't that like a preschool warning? "Don't eat the yellow snow and don't stand in the purple rain."

I only wanted 2 see u bathing in the purple rain...

Kinky. Still, that Prince, what an innovator! He was Txt msg B4 txt msg was cool. That's not me. I'm still behind the times. My first bluetooth device only just came in. My friend is even worse: she's still blue-teething, and she's cranky. She's cranky about the reunion and their choice in music. Welcome to my world...

"...do you have any advice for getting through a whole evening of 80s music???!!!!"

Dear anonymous reunion friend, find a stalwart local friend with a pillow. Place friend on chest and have them deploy said pillow over your face. Hold. Don't worry, the kicking and screaming will subside. It's only your reaction to the "Safety Dance," It's a common side effect...

Cuz your friends don't dance…

"...a whole evening of 80s music???!!!!" Yeah, the punctuation belonged to her too. I'm associating with purple punctuation freaks. I used to know a comma queen. No that's not a transvestite period with a dangle, it's a person who wields a red pen like a bloody sickle—sort of the Queen of Hearts of the editing world. I always tried to stay on her good side, but this isn't about her. This is about my purple friend, and her reunion dilemma, and how it relates to my divorce. I know you're all curious about how I'm pulling that train back around.

In good time…

I don't have any Prince quotes that mean "in good time." why is that? He always seemed so patient. Huh...

My purple friend isn't prince, nor is she a dinosaur either, but the 80s reunion probably makes her feel like one. Maybe that's why she's worried about the 80s music. It probably has nothing to do with the 2 hour Duran Duran-athon. And what about all those bands we've forgotten? Debarge, before "El" leapt out on his own. The Miami Sound Machine before Gloria Estephan said "Shut down that noisy contraption, it's all about me?" The The, Mr. Mister, Debbie Deb, Lisa Lisa…I can't make this kind of stutter up!

We go back to the reunions 4 2 (see? I'm cool now!) reasons: 1. to show how much cooler we are than the guys who hung us from the football goal post with our Bee Gee's lunchbox dangling around our neck. 2. To remember the good times (while we weren't hanging up like some crucified geek with a Flavor Flav time piece).

That's why I think it would be such a cool idea to do Divorce Reunions! We could play all the music that we grew to love together. The songs that drew us together, the songs that tore us apart. You start the evening out with little nametags. You know, the pet names.

"Sheera, love mistress! OMG! [because in the future we'll talk in acronyms too LOL…] It's me, Cuddle Smurf!"

Then, after some wining, dining, dancing and reminiscing, we'll graduate to the ex spouse dodge ball. Teams will be picked by using the names we called our partners at the end. Yeah, I'd rather not repeat those, but you get the idea.

It's perfect! It gets out the aggression we've held in all these years and catches us up at the same time! We'll keep a staff paramedic on hand just in case the "catching up" turns into "I couldn't get away!"

"How was the reunion Chuck?"

"We laughed, we cried, she smacked me in the eye with an under inflated volleyball. Good times."

The Divorce class of 2008. That's the picture where you'll find me. MyUnwife will be the woman smiling at the goal posts. I'll be the guy hanging overhead. Where she found my old Bee Gee's lunchbox, I'll never know...

"Looking for Alright…"-Secret Machines

Karen Carpenter sang "rainy days and Monday's get me down." Here it is Monday, and I'm not feeling like the king of the world either. Oh, no need to pelt me with pity beads just yet. Give me my 15 minutes of anonymity.

I like rainy days. Rainy days are cool. The cleansing chill from the sky. God washing all my filth away. Today, the sun is shining, the birds are singing and I'm kind of down. Whassup with that?

I blame Monday.

The reality is it could be one of many things. I spent all last week out of contact with the world. At least most of it. The vacation was good, but I allowed myself to inch away from the outside world. I mean I went out 3 nights last week. I went down to my local plaza to write, but I didn't have any human interaction. I played voyeur. I watched the real humans interact while I took notes.

Take Note: This is a
graphical representation
of me taking notes.

Last week I didn't meet up with either my writers' group or Bible study group. That wasn't my fault. They didn't meet. That's this week, I'll make these. But Sunday, my alarm didn't go off either. I didn't make it to church. Yeah, I know. Wa! Wa! Wa! Somebody give me a 750ml bottle, a blankie, and a bikini model. Just stick me in the corner. I'll got to sleep peacefully, I promise.

I blame MyUnwife.

A few months ago it was easier. The divorce was a fresh gash, still sticky-new with the uncoagulated blood of blame. Now it's supposedly healed. I mean it has, but the divorce limps in every time, first guest at my little pity part, and it's always complaining because somebody else drank all the whine it brought.

Even now, I'm a first grade teacher. I need to call on somebody, and the divorce is first to practically pop out of his chair, arm flailing left to right, "Pick me! Pick me!" Nobody else gets a chance. And the divorce isn't always the answer. Sometimes it's just as simple as I'm alone too much.

The divorce want's all the credit though. Center stage diva to all that ails.

I blame me.

I spoiled it. Ok, you can pelt me now.

Directions to the Pity Pelting.

I'll be the font of malcontent

outside the theater. Can't miss

me: personal raincloud, blotting

out joy. Yeah, that'll be me.