"Finally the tables are starting to turn…"-Tracy Chapman

Look, up in the sky! It's a dark mood! Ok, maybe they descend more than levitate in the sky, but if they're descending, they have to come from somewhere, right? I've kind of been shrouded by a flock of dark moods the last few days. I wasn't sure why until I glanced at yesterday's newspaper.

It wasn't the $5.00 per gallon of gas snapshot that blackened my world. Not even the article about the Coachella music festival continuing without me made me too upset. That had happened before, and I'm sure it will happen again.

No, it was the big picture at the bottom. The proclamation that Grad Theft Auto 4 would be released, and I wouldn't be allowed to buy one. Yeah, that whole thing. "GTA 4, No Rob, No!" It was in the LA Times. It must be true. Ok, maybe I paraphrased a little, but that's not the important part. The important part is that there's a new game in Liberty City and I can't play.

I see all you protective moms folding your wings over innocent chick eyes, "Don't look Timmy, he's talking about perversion!" Yeah, well Timmy shouldn't be reading my blog, and besides, while you frown on the street people beat down and the highjacking of lowriders, you are totally ok with a little red plumber boy knocking defenseless turtles on their backs and kicking them to Koopa kingdom come for coins! Now who's talking perversion? Does the ASPCA know about this? What about PETA? I'm sure they'd like to show you where to put your coins.

"Oh dear, Timmy! Don't do that!"

Then there's you Halo fanboys and girls shooting up everything in site. Even if it's just a poor, tired, horded alien mass yearning to feed on the free. No, don't hate the GTA playa', hate the game.

I love the game. I can't play it. My last system is a PS2 and it's broken. It's broken CD drawer tongue extends like a malnourished dog. There is no light in his eyes and nothing I can do to revive him. I have a PS1 but that's about as useful for playing GTA as my Atari 2600. Somehow the square blinking away from the rectangle police helicopter to the "Beep, bop, boop" soundtrack doesn't seem nearly as fun. And half the GTA fun is the way cool soundtrack.

Maybe I could convince my friends over at Divorce 360 to buy me an Xbox. You know D360/XBOX360? There's a product tie in if I ever saw one! Cool etched logo on the case, and even a headless avatar screen icon. They could even create a divorce game. Maybe a simple first person shooter, the would-be hero/heroine trying to survive an UnSpouse onslaught? What about a Multi User Universe game like "World Of Divorcecraft?" It even sounds spooky--kind of like something from H.P. Lovecraft! Cue chilling music track and thunderclap now!

See, and game systems are one of the few things MyUnwife didn't even try to touch.

When did world

domination start

requiring more buttons?

"Rob, you can pull down the electric fence and razor-wire from around the toys. I'm not going to touch your games."

"Damn straight! Not with the shock-o-matic 7000 protecting it. And don't even try to remove a CD from the shelf. I've placed media-mines throughout the shelves."

"You need help."

"No, I think I have this well under control."

"Weirdo…"

This worked fine until one of the cat's tried to pee on the fence.

WREEOW!

Speaking of music, my dark day ended in an interesting way. I worked out my GTA frustration on Billy Blanks. Or more like he beat the hostility from my soul like a Streetfighter exorcist.

"Get up you little girl-scout so I can beat the cookies out of you again!"

"uhhh."

Fatality!

Billy puts a TAEBO boot through my head and I explode into a confetti ream of blogs. He dares me to hit "restart."

The phone rings: Saved by the bell. Shambling towards it, I'm too late. The answering system gets the call so I can get back in the ring. Billy offers a come hither finger wave. Caller id says I didn't want the call, it's a bunch of zeros. Go ahead and see what Mr. Blanks wants. Huh…Well Zero-person left a message. I should probably make sure it's not life or death. I've heard of telemarketers leaving urgent messages with consumers. It could be me, or perhaps, I might already be I winner. I should see. Billy can wait. He stops waving and shows me a single finger. What can I say, this could be important. I call in to see what it says.

After playing keypad hopscotch to prove I am me, computerized machine lady says I have one new message. I listen.

It's music. Hold music? A telemarketer confused by my amazing technology? I continue to listen. It's weird, because the song starts from the beginning, not the normal hold patterns drop into the middle of a previously scheduled Muzak bland-fest. My message starts where the song starts. What's more, I know this song!

The sweeping orchestral strings, the over exaggerated sugar like cotton candy music, the Robert plant vocals, it's the Honeydrippers!

Do your remember when we met…

Wha? I don't know what to do; this isn't on Guitar Hero. What's it doing on my phone? Do I have a secret collection agency admirer? Normally they try to get you to call back, or leave important information like "you're a deadbeat!"

I wanna tell you, oh how much-[click!]

I gotta tell ya, it's not an effective sales approach but it brightened my day. Somebody wanted to tell me how much they somethinged. It's kind of noncommittal, but that's cool. I needed it just the same. In the same way we let the stupid stuff like GTA embargoes or our exes dating, jack our day and drive off, it's the simple things like mysterious glowing power pills and strange phone messages that can bring us back.

Now if I can just get that D360-X360 I'll be one happy boy!

"the promises broke and the make-believe ran out…"- The Cure

Correspondence. According to Microsoft's little drop down dictionary, it can either mean written communication, conformity, or similarity. OED offers e a page full of tiny print that adds up to the same thing. You could say they correspond. Correspondence.

"Could you use that in a sentence?"

"Ok, Rob does not correspond."

Nice. I do though, sometimes. Today I'm trying to do the first one. Yeah, go ahead and read back. Figure out which one that is and catch up. Don't forget to take a buddy, we wouldn't want you to get lost. My email box has correspondence in it daily. Usually it's something from 1-800-Flowers.com reminding me I used to be a "preferred customer."

Dear flower folks,

thanks for the bouquet of reminders.

Laughlin--Las Vegas' illegitimate cousin--wants me to come and play. They'll give me free room and board, all I need to do is take a gamble.

Dear Colorado River Hot-spot,

I'm not eager to visit at this moment. I can sit alone and play slot machines on my computer.

Ok that pretty much does it. Oh there is one from a friend. They want to know if I know somebody I can "introduce" them to. When did I become Robby matchmaker? When did I become qualified to be Robby Matchmaker?

You read my blog. What part of "divorced guy working at home" makes me the ideal E-harmony equivalent? I get tons of cool Myspace friend invites from bikini clad club girls whose name is some exotic porn name amalgamation. How did that work? Childhood pet's name with home address? I bet Thumper Mainstreet's mom is proud.

This doesn't mean I know people. Any idiot can get nearly-naked mail. I suppose I could check the bikini clad girl's friend list and introduce those "friends" to my friend. Yeah, I am some great friend huh?

And just once I'd like to get an invite from somebody who's fully clothed besides my sister. I know, I'm a guy, I should like scantily clad pretzel girls. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I do, but when it fills my mailbox like Striptease breasts, even this guy can get bored. The same thing happened with dwarves in lederhosen. Too bad…

So I don't know how to reply to my friend. I'm not a matchmaker. Besides, I'm the guy getting the divorce, shouldn't I be the one getting set up? Ok that one's too easy. I'm not going to touch it.

I suppose I could practice my matchmaking arts on my junk mail. I get enough real world junk mail, that maybe I could introduce the senders. Would that get me off their list? I could forward the Church of Scientology stuff to the Church of Later Day Saints. I'm sure they have lots to talk about.

If I sent the Toyota dealer who keeps telling me I'm a "lucky winner" some of the Indian gaming flyers telling me the same, would they send me a free car and just eliminate the procedural middle man of payment? They should thank me.

I've stopped receiving the "Refinance your home now!" mailers. That's a shame, I just stared getting stuff from a guy wants to build me a shed. I think that could be my new home.

Once I hone my matchmaking skills with these people, I could move on to my friends. Then, when I get that down, maybe I could work out my own life.

Yeah, I know. That would require correspondence; I don't do that.

"There's a hole in my neighborhood…"-Elbow

One of the hardest things to get used to since the divorce has been going out for dinner. One would think a public display of fork, knife, and napkin would be an easy concept to continue outside a relationship. One would say it's not like there's any spooning, right? One would be wrong. Together, MyUnwife and I went to dinner once a week. Alone, that number plummeted like housing sales. See? It's all her fault. She stole your equity mojo! Go ask her for your money back. Tell her Rob sent you.

Hee, hee, yeah, you probably don't want to do that.

There are two reasons I rarely go out anymore: I don't have the money, and eating alone publicly is more awkward.

"Mommy, why is that man sitting alone and crying?"

"He didn't eat his spinach when he was a little boy. Now he's living with the regret. Now eat your tofu-burger Cindy…"

Still I try to make sure I do it once in while. It's good to get out in public, and sometimes, sitting alone in a sea of coupledom allows me to think through things. Thinking wasn't last night's plan, I swear. I'd planned on an oblivious evening pecking at my computer, but the best laid plans of chickens and Rob still come up broken eggs.

It started yesterday morning. I'd run out of coffee. Fumbling in the freezer, I uncovered the emergency backup bag. I found it under a pile of Eggo rubble. I got them to leggo my coffee-o, and brushed away the ice chunks. That's when I discovered the foreboding text at the top of the bag:

"Decaf"

AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

What the hell am I going to do with that? I might as well mix it with potting soil, because it isn't going to do me any good. I needed to buy coffee, and since I was going out, I should just eat dinner out too. Maybe they'd serve me a side of coffee beans.

I Went to Islands. It's a chain place, you may have one near you. Mine is near the grocery store. 2 birds, 1 stone, piece of cake. Mmmm, tasty combo. That's not what I ordered. I ordered a Kilauea burger and onion rings. No bird, no stone, no cake.

Well it was kind of like being baked in one (the cake--I'm not going into the whole turduckin quandary); I could barely breath or move when the guy asks me how many.

"One, please."

"Really?"

Yeah, right backatcha buddy. "Yeah, it's just me."

"oh," he pauses. I think he's considering calling the manager. The training video didn't cover this emergency, "Uhm just a second."

"ok,"

I sit and wait while they prepare the kiddy table. I'm expecting my grandmother's Thanksgiving card table, but was pleased to find that I got a real table and a booster chair. I'm a big kid now. Well, except my table didn't come with somebody to eat with.

Oh well...

Somehow they've decided Gin Blossoms' Greatest Hits enhances the dining atmosphere. I couldn't disagree more. Songs of loss and regret don't sit well tonight, thank you. "Allison Road" is playing when the waitress walks up. She asks for my drink order. I ask for a Passion tea. It's really good flavorful stuff. I figure this is probably not a good beer night.

After she returns with my drink she takes the rest of my order. "Until I Fall Away" starts.

I've waited far too long For something I forgot was wrong...

Yeah, those chipper Gin Blossoms. The salt is missing from my table. What am I going to rub in my wound? My tea doesn't even come with a proper lemon wedge. It's a orange slice. Oh I'll smell citrusy, but that's about it.

Staring out the window, I look at all the couples milling to and from their cars. It must be love blooming season, because there are tons of them milling about arm in arm, hand in hand. Yeah, that's just great. I wonder why it bothers me.

My fear pretend that Ill never be in love again...

Yeah, thanks for trying guys, but I'm not sure that's it. If you could move the knife a little to the left? Thanks.

I mean it's not the obvious "Well you're divorcing, Rob." Because as hard is it is to say, MyUnwife was the furthest thing from my mind. In a way I feel guilty about that. I mean that crate of psychosis is locked up tight in the basement. So long as no crazy teenagers try to spend the night in my mental mansion, it should be fine.

I saw MyUnwife this weekend. No, silly reader, that is not an A-ha moment. Although I would almost kill for an A-ha moment. "Take on Me" would be far cheerier than "Hey Jealousy." It's playing now. Anyway, yeah. She came by. Our new favorite past time is exchanging autographs. Today it was my turn, I needed hers to complete my collection.

I know I've written that the MyWife that I married was different from the MyUnwife who left me. There's a third woman in the mix now. The woman who came by Friday to sign a few forms. She's is better person than the one who moved out. At least she seems that way. I have no intentions of pursuing her, because the other two will just get in the way, but she's fine to talk to. She's like a work acquaintance. I don't say that to be mean. I mean maybe if everything weren't locked away it would be different, but it is, so it's not. She's just like a work acquaintance.

"Some new passion, Sir?"

Oh, it's the waitress. "Yes, please." On all counts...

Maybe that's it. Am I worried that this is all there's going to be for me? Sometimes, but not now. No this is different. It's not worry...it's a gnawing. It's not really the fear that this is it, more the knowledge that I don't like this out-of-phase phase. I'm no longer in an real depression or panic, I can do this. I am doing this, but I want to move on. I need more. There has to be more than being a ghost in my own story. Everything I reach for is too tangible, and I'm too immaterial.

"Here you go sir."

Ah, my burger. I haven't come to a resolution, but I have dinner, and when I'm done, I'll have coffee. That’s enough to pull me through today.

Ill just figure everything is cool until I hear it from you...

I'm learning to hate the Gin Blossoms.

Breaking News!

Ok, it has come to my attention that there are those people out there who don't know that the video on the left column is a parody.

Sigh,

See, here's the thing. I saw this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQ5tM5Y35LM and decided to have a little fun. Alas, sometimes, I'm the only one who gets my jokes. I'm not sure who would take me that seriously, but I guess some do. That scares me. So, for the record: It's a joke. MyUnwifes cats do not control her money, she doesn't have a secretary named Daphne, and she didn't take my speakerphone. She did leave a can of pepper spray though...Ok, that's another joke--no pepper spray.

Ok, I'll be back with today's regularly scheduled post, already in writing progress.

Kitty graves, bottles of Jack, and inflatable sheep, how could that be considered real..?

Sidetracked!

I'm outta coffee. That sounded like the perfect excuse to go out to
dinner to me! I'll stop at the grocery store and get coffee next.

"and I listen for the voice inside my head…"-Pearl Jam

I greet each day with a cup of coffee.

"howdy day!"

"Howdy Rob! Fine cup of coffee you have there!"

Sipping coffee I reply, "Aye it is!" Because somehow every morning I dream I'll discover I'm really Dread Pirate Roberts. "Have a good You, Day!"

"I will and you have--well, nevermind, I won't spoil the surprise for you."

Hmmm. That day, He can be so mysterious.

Next thing I do is go through my email. That usually takes a minute. 3 tins of Spam and a letter from one boss or another saying "Rob do this."

"What do you think, Coffee?"

"I say wait till later, Rob."

"Me too, Coffee!"

Today I actually got a real email from a friend. She sounds a little panicked. She's been divorced for a year now and her dating life isn't quite what she remembers it being the last time she was single. I'm hoping for better than that for myself, but right now she's in the uncomfortable spotlight. I'm gonna keep her there as long as I can.

Hi Rob,

I'm doing a little personal survey of all the men I know. Do you men like to be pursued? What about being hog-tied and called Strawberry Shortcake? Would you prefer to do the pursuing? Is it a turn off for a woman to show she's interested or would you prefer a hard-to-get mace spritzer and a Tazer blast "Hello!" What do you look for in a woman? Personality, looks, or is it drunk and lonely first? What if they have kids? Turn off or on? Other than the Catholic school girl uniform, what makes a woman approachable?

Sincerely,

She-Ra, Princess of Power

Well those are some great questions She-Ra. I'm glad you asked! And I'm just the guy to answer them for you. Just ask MyUnwife and my inflatable harem. Yeah, I know all about women.

Obviously I don't, but I do know enough to answer these questions. So as your guide through the friendly divorce, let me take a moment and fill out everybody's questionnaire. Have your pens out? Ok. Here we go.

Some guys like being pursued, others don't. Some guys like pursuing, others don't. Some guys like the woman to look interested, other guys don't. Some guys prefer personality, other guys look for looks. Some guys like kids; those are the guys you turn in to the cops. Next question.

What do I look for in a woman? Not every guy would agree with me, but I lean towards "living." Yeah, that's kind of a turn on for me. Beyond that and some age and psychological requirements ("Sally, why do you always pretend to look at me through the sights of a gun and go 'bang'?"), I take the whole thing on a case by case basis.

Find Dating-Rob in this Picture!

What makes a woman approachable? I don't know! I'm as skittish as a deer. I've been tied to one too many hoods; I'm shy, and don't do a lot of "approaching" unless there's an extended hand of treats. I think at this point a woman would have to nail my feet to the floor before she introduced herself. It's a good idea to nail both, because otherwise I'll just run in circles screaming. Not a good first impression.

See girls, here's the thing: All guys are looking for something different. We're all looking for the one person that best fits our list of requirements. Some guys prefer to stock up, but that's another story. The thing is, what every guy wants is different. Some guys like green apples other guys like bull whips and cat woman suits.

The best thing you can do is take the army's advice: "be all that you can be." Be you. Be the best you you can be, and that will attract the best guys for you. Pretend to be Paris Hilton and you'll get her guys. Don't do that; we all know how catty she can be. Besides, do you really want her guys? Rick Sonomon? Well there's proof women's taste can be as varied as the guys'.

Seriously, to revisit my friends question "what do you look for in a woman?" First and foremost, I want them to be comfortable with who they are. If you don't know who you are, how am I going to know if I like you?

So if you're divorce, and you think you're ready to date, take Hamlet's advice, "To thine own self be true." Sure he died, his girlfriend committed suicide, his mom married his uncle, and he sent his best friends off to be murdered by a bunch of Beatlemaniacs, but "tragic redneck" is who he was.

That's not me, but I'm not looking for Ophelia. I'd like somebody who lives to see the end of Rob's play, and whose brother I didn't have to murder. That's who I am. So women, be who you are, and we guys will find you. I promise. It may take a while, to find you because we won't ask for directions, but we'll get there, and we'll try to be worth the wait.

So says the guy sitting in a t-shirt and shorts sipping his coffee at home alone and writing a divorce blog. Yeah, I know all about relationships. Next week I'll tell you all about quantum mechanics and the women who love them.

Grocery store lit

What's so sad? With movies like Father Kin, we should applaud his
farewell.

Aaaah!

They're playing the Fray! Does somebody hate my ears? I swear I was.
Joking about the ear mailing thing earlier this week!

Friday night write-fest.

The band outside is playing " long tall Texan" and the music inside is
playing Ingrid somebody. If you hear these tones correctly, you're in
hell.

"You've got much to think about…"-Letters to Cleo

One of the hardest parts of divorce is reclaiming your life. At first it's like painting a barn with a cat. Sure, you have a big hairy brush, but it's very uncooperative, and there's a lot of space to fill.

Besides, do you really want to whitewash the whole marriage? I think as time goes by, there are things that it's ok to let show. It doesn't mean that I haven't moved on, it just means that I'm not willing give them up. Maybe it's because I'm too stubborn to say "Oh, those 10 years? They were wasted. I threw them away." No! I don't care how wasted I was, I went to the concert, I want the stupid T-shirt. I was there.

Hey! Now there's an idea. Maybe I should do that. Get a concert shirt made:

MyUnwife: Millennium Tornado Tour!

99-07

My mom gave us a stitched sampler that hasn't hung on the wall since MyUwife left. I haven't had much use for proverbs of lasting love. Now I could sew it to the back of my MyUnwife concert shirt. I rock!

Yeah, The only show where I got the front row seats. Well I was up front for Mr. Mister in 86 but I think I'd rather forget that. I was young and impressionable.

"So take these broken wings…"

Yeah, right backatcha, buddy.

So the crisis becomes painting over the pain, and keeping the keepsakes. Wheat from chaff, baby, wheat from chaff…Which constitutes which? Well that, my friend, is a Bill Todman and Mark Goodson gameshow of surprises in itself.

I like to start with the onion game. The onion game goes like this: set an item on the table and stare at it. What happened? Are you crying like a baby? Throw it out, with the year supply of car wax. Either that or box it up for a later attempt. That is one addendum I should warn you about: you need to give yourself some time before you play this game. Try playing the first week of your separation and you'll be sitting on the curb roasting marshmallows over what used to be your house.

"She used to sit in that car…"

Yeah, give it a few months before you do the onion game.

The next test is the functionality game. If you do save the item, how many things can you do with it?

"I can make a broach, or a pterodactyl…"

-Airplane

Will it do more than take up a shelf in the closet? Just because you're splitting assets, doesn't mean your half needs to be the Mr. Microphone and the Fondue Pot. If you don't like cheese on a stick, you can throw both these things out.

On the bright side, this is the perfect opportunity to clear your house of all the things you couldn't throw away before. Remember the Hello Kitty Herb Garden/Tea Kettle Aunt Sadie gave you for your wedding? Remember how every time she visited, you had to remember what closet it was hidden in, and then run to Wal-Mart and grab Chia-fluff to stuff in it?

"It doesn't grow very fast does it."

"No, Aunt Sadie, but it's perfect for us. We really love it…"

It was a wedding gift. You can throw it away! Sadie will totally understand!

"Oh, I gave it to MyUnwife. She loved it."

"Oh don't worry I'll get you another one!"

"Thanks.."

No! Now's the clean slate. Tell her there are too many memories attached to it. Sadie's young enough; she remembers memories. If she doesn't all the better.

"No, you gave me this Xbox 360 for our wedding. MyUnwife wanted it, but I said 'no. It was a gift from my favorite aunt.'"

"You are such a good boy…"

That's how you start the paint job. Sure you and your cat have missed lots of spots. If you wanted to hit all the spots, you'd have used a dog. It happens. Let it dry for now, because the next step is to fill in the blank spaces with new stuff that represents the new you. Sure, as a couple, maybe you were the acoustic guitar by the fireplace couple drinking merlot and singing Diane Warren ballads. Now you're you again. Grab the Gibson axe and shred Slash solos till your fingers bleed. You can use that to paint the barn. It's your barn.

That's the point. When MyUnwife first left I was so upset because I missed who "we" were. I still do from time to time, but through it all, I love who "I" am. Does that make me vain and shallow? Sure why not. I have a place for vain and shallow up here on my barn. Now if I can just find that damn paint-cat to finish the job.

WREEEER!

Ow! Little bast-

"Trying to believe…"-Carolina Liar

My life is a wall of events stacked high and stretched wide. It looks far more impressive than it really is, because you're staring at the whole thing, and not the cracked blocks that make up my now. It's like the little stoner dudes I overhead at the beach one day:

"Look at all that water."

"I know! And that's just the top of it!"

"Dude! That's deep!"

"I know! It is! It's the ocean."

They'd have gone on like this for hours, but I walked over and kicked sand in their bong. It was the only humane thing to do. Still I think about my wall and Billy Bongwater and I see the similarities. It's a big wall, but you're only seeing the surface. You don't know all the cracks I have to fill in with time-killing mortar. There are days where I don't have a brick to place, and it's all just some quick Adobe Acrobat mud I've glossed over to make you think I'm busy.

Yesterday I joined a new Bible study at my church. I do a men's group--ok rephrase. I attend a men's group (shesh! You pervs!)--a couple of Tuesdays a month. I decided it's time to dip my foot in the co-ed pool. This isn't a singles group, it's just a small group, mostly couples, looking for something in the middle of the week.

It will conflict with my writers group, but since this group meets weekly, They can lose a little Rob love a few times a month. Rob love is best spread lightly. They'll understand and thank me later--once they get to know me.

So last night was my first night. It was a pretty good group. There was homemade banana bread, and that pretty much made me a believer. Oh, and it was frosted! I dropped to my knees and lapped the plate. Yeah, I was the last one to get any bread.

"What did you say about Jesus? I'll tell you what, you guys go ahead and continue with the study, I'll be over here in the corner sleeping off my sugar coma…"

There was something else about the group. I'm the only divorcee. Everybody else is either newly married with fresh young babies, or is engaged in a pre-marital relationship. I am the black cloud rumbling in their skies.

"Have some more bread Rob, maybe it'll sweeten you up."

"Yeah, cheer up Rob. You'll find love someday!"

GRRRR!

"don't get your arms or legs close to his face. I think he's rabid with icing."

Last night we were discussing the Beatitudes. You know, "Blessed are the ____, for they___." It's sort of a Biblical Match Game. It's one of the few Sunday school question's whose answer isn't "Jesus."

"Robby, name the beatitudes."

"JESUS!"

"No."

"You mean Jesus isn't the answer?"

"I didn't say that."

"So I'm right?"

"No Robby. Am I going to have to have the talk with your parents again?"

"You're divorcing me?"

"Robby, go sit in the hall."

Ask any of my teachers or MyUnwife, I spent a lot of time in the hall.

In this class I'm supposed to share how I relate to the qualities given in the Beatitudes. I'm given a hand out as soon as I sit down, and everybody's sharing. I'm pretty good on a few of them, merciful-check, mourn-check, persecution-Big check! "I come from a long line of martyrs!" They said that wasn't what it meant. Damn! I always get that one wrong.

I didn't sit high on the "meek" scale. Then again, I thought that the people who said they did, should probably recheck their answer. Something about bragging about how meek you are…I dunno.

There's one guy sitting across from me. We're rating these qualities 1-4, he's giving himself a 4 on every one. What the hell?

"Perry, how are you at being a peacemaker?"

"Oh, I'm a 4. My family always comes to me. Strangers on the street come to me in droves asking for my help in their problems, and I always--"

"ARRRGGHHH! Peacemake this, bitch!" I can't take it. I'm leaping across the table. My hands wrap around Perry's throat. I'm shaking and repeating.

"Rob, you're out of turn. This is going to give you a 1 on the peacemaking skills."

"Rob? Rob?"

"Wha?" Oh, I'm still sitting in my chair. I was having a sugar fantasy. Perry is still unscathed and adjusting his halo. "Yeah, I'm a 4 on the peacemaker thing too."

There's a cough from somebody who doesn't believe me. I think it's the woman I talked to about my divorce. I'll get her at recess.

Overall, I did pretty good though. I was fairly friendly, and somewhat sharing, and I went the whole night without getting sent out to the hall. I'll be back next week. I think it's just one more brick for my wall.

I'm not sure what this could mean…"-New Order

So I'm reading the news today. I try to do it daily. It makes me feel like I'm up on the world of my fellow man woman and child--especially my fellow child. I spend most of my time reading the comics. What can I say, I love Pearls Before Swine. Oh Dilbert is funny too, but I since I work at home, cubicle humor is lost on me. I do get stupid people jokes though. That's why I still laugh at Dilbert.

I try to save the good ones. I either leave them folded in a stack, or I cut them out and post them. I do the same with my relationships too. If they're really good I try to share them with friends. I had a friend share a Brewster Rocket comic once. A fly head boy had reached puberty. Yeah it was funnier when they sent it to me. That's the cool thing about relationships and comics: the context enhances everything.

Somewhere before the comics, I read about a Televangelist getting a divorce. That's not too newsworthy, but once again, context. Most TV folk would hide their divorce in the background, somewhere around Heathcliff or Marmaduke where nobody will read it, but not this woman. She was proud of her divorce decision. She was getting divorced on divorce court.

Well that's interesting.

I don't know. It sounded wrong. I couldn't see how somebody could take something as private as a divorce and run public with it. Yeah, I know: so says the guy who writes his own daily divorce blog. That's different. I mean she has thousands of viewers. I have--what--raise your hands--1,2…You, pretending to make cold calls, I know you're reading me, put your hand up…3. I can't count the guy in the cubie next to you, he's peering over the partition, but he's staring at your pictures, and not your monitor. If he sees my blog it's just to be conversational. Go ahead, wave. He's a little creepy, but he's harmless. Ok, that's 3 of you. That's it.

When I air my dirty laundry I'm more at risk of people smelling my socks than catching whiff of my blog. This woman is televised. She's public. When she stinks, the world knows, just like Dilbert. If it's Wally rehashing another lazy joke, the world morns.

So now she's getting divorced on divorce court. I'm not bagging on her. We all do what we feel is right, and hope that we are right in the process. If nothing else, maybe we'll be perceived as right. That’s an extra pound of down in our pillows at night.

She did say one thing I agree with. She said, "I was trying to make it work because I don't like losing relationships." I could get behind that. I hate losing relationships. It doesn't matter: Friends, Romans, Countrymen, people who've sent me their ears. I like them all, and it's hard to lose them. Well, with the ear people, it's more because it's hard to forget somebody who sends you something like that in the mail.

This box is earmarked for delivery...

MyUnwife sent me confetti once. It was cool. We were dating and she sent me a card. When I opened it, sparkly stuff fell out. I was relieved: there weren't any ears. Now she hasn't done anything like that in almost a decade. Now she sends me divorce paperwork updates. That's fine. Relationships of all types evolve and take on new dynamics.

Whether it's a marriage, or a work acquaintance, anybody you spend time with will grow and change with you over the years. In a marriage you hope to grow and change together, like hairs twisting together. That's not always the case. Sometimes you wake up next to a person and go, "you know, your butt wasn't nearly that hairy when we met. Where did all that fur come from?" If I might interject a thought here: Men, never say that to your wives. Don't ask me how I know, let's just say it's something I heard.

Still that furry butt is a comfortable butt. It's your butt. It's there, and when it's gone you notice it more than when it was there; just like I'm sure Van Gogh noticed that missing ear. How could he support a telephone when he called those anonymous 900 numbers?

You have a relationship to that butt. Letting it go is never easy, no matter if you're the kicker or the butt, there's something you'll miss. I miss MyUnwife. I miss her butt. I miss our relationship. The same way I miss my third grade relationship with Stephanie Sherwood. Oh we never did anything but wait for the bus together, but when she left I sat on my butt waiting for the bus alone. I've gotten used to the loss of both, but there are still butt shaped scars on my heart.

I'm sure I've butt-scarred somebody myself. It happens. That's why, like the televangelist, I try to never loose my relationships. Unfortunately, just like the best comics, sometimes they just slip away.

"Well I sound like a philosopher …"-Bif Naked

Spring is here! How can I tell? The smoke alarm in my bedroom goes off when I'm done with my shower.

I wish it were signaling how "smoking" I look in my jade towel reaching into my underwear drawer, but that is so not the case. If anything, it's warning the neighbors "na-ked Rob! Na-ked Rob! Na-ked Rob! Shield your eyes! Shield your eyes! Retina dam-age! Retina dam-age!" It's happened. Just ask the carpet cleaning salesperson who came to my door. They haven't been back since.

Still this isn't really what the alarm means. The alarm means it's spring. I've reversed the ceiling fan, and the changed air-flow blows the steam from the bathroom back up to the alarm.

If I leave the bathroom door open while I shower, it'll go off while I'm in there. Sort of like an antagonistic timer. "Way too long! Way too long! Way too long!" It's annoying. Still like every other annoying thing, I either need to find a way around it, or find a way to cope.

The smoke alarm falls in the "cope" category. I could take it down, but with my luck, that just means there'd be a fire in my bedroom. Yeah, I know, I'm not holding my breath for that either. That's why I leave the alarm. Besides, if there's a fire in my bedroom, I'm gonna want the fanfare. I have the alarm, and a marching band on speed dial.

So on days like yesterday, where it feels like everything is beating down on me, I try to let the alarm know it's not going to get the best of me. Yesterday I'd spent the whole day rebuilding my computer. It took the whole day to turn the little box of beeps and whirrs into a functioning member of society. Some of my attempts at rehabilitation were unsuccessful. Who'd have thought plugging a scanner back into the USB port would cause the whole system to crash three times. I blame HP. I'd blame MyUnwife, but she wasn't here.

Finally I get the thing running, and I'm reloading my iTunes library. It tells me it's going to take an hour to move all the music from backup, I figure this is a good time for a shower. I feel beat. I swear, rebuilding a computer is like fighting with a spouse. It's bitter and unorganized, and in the end, your still not sure you've accomplished anything but making each other angry.

"I told you I wanted the back ground to be the cover of Ziggy Stardust, why do you keep choosing the blue screen of death? Do you know how that makes me feel? You're putting up a wall..."

I felt dirty. I set the shower head to "acupuncture" and let the water needles impale my back. Half way through, the alarm goes off. It's a series of high pitch beeps:

Beep! Beep! Beep!

It's like a 4 year old banging out Jingle Bells on their color keyed piano. You know, red, red, red. Red, red, red. Red, blue, yellow, green, red…That's how my alarm sounds. So to cope I start singing "Jin-gle bells, Jin-gle bells…" along with the alarm. It must have confused it, because it paused after "all the way." I yelled at it to keep up, but it must have lost it's place. It tried again a little later, and we got further.

The third verse I believe, because that's when my neighbor burst in. I think between all the beeping and squealing, my neighbor thought there was a fire in the bedroom; they busted through the door to save the day. Unfortunately for them they didn't stop before rounding into the bathroom.

"Oh, my eyes! My eyes!"

Now the alarm is screaming "Eye damage! Eye damage!"

Yeah, I wrapped my neighbor in gauze and sent them home. The doctor says the vision may come back, but they'll need corrective lenses. He said the neighbor was lucky, the steam probably blurred the vision enough to save his life.

Ok, the neighbor part didn't really happen, but it should have. We all need something to stretch us a bit. In this case, I've chosen the truth to stretch. MyUnwife used to stretch me. We used to laugh at the shower alarm too. It was annoying but we coped. Now I sing my own shower songs. They're a little atonal and short on repertoire, but there's nobody around to make requests, so I'll sing what I want.

Its what I do. It's what we all do. We build new patterns, and we find new ways to cope and to have fun. I love to laugh, and I enjoy singing. If you like these things too, go climb in your shower and sing along. Maybe you can set off an alarm of your own.

"Jin-gle bells. Jin-gle bells…."

My biggest fan.

"Who are they? Where are they..?"-Jem

They're out to get me! No really! Stop backing towards the door. I'm not crazy; I swear.

Ok well maybe a slight nutty sprinkle on top, but it's all for flavor. I'm not dangerous, and it is true: they do hate me.

Which "they" am I referring to? Well it's not MyUnwife this time. She's a she--not a collaborative--just a single entity. That doesn't make her less dangerous, just easier to see coming.

"She's coming right for us Captain!"

"Evasive maneuvers! Send out the Smiley face chaff!"

"Aye, aye! Captain!"

See? My fictional captain isn't a patch wearing pirate. If that were the case it would just be a one "Aye! Captain." Sorry. It's Monday, and they are after me. I don't have time for quality humor. It's just stick and run. Go ahead, take a second to wipe the OJ from the key's before it gets sticky.

I said I was sorry! Now you see why they're could be after me. They hold a grudge. Oh, I still haven't told you which they is after me, have I? Ok, this they is not the government (that's "them") this they is the inanimate they.

Don't let the immobile name fool you. It's a trick. You see the inanimate as inanimate only because they created the word "inanimate" to lull you to sleep. It's like "friendly divorce." It makes you think "oh, that won't be bad…" They're evil.

You remember the movie Final Destination? It's not just a bad horror movie it's a safety film. Blood on the Highway, baby. Why do you think there were 3 films? It certainly wasn't because of the quality screenwriting and mind-bending visual effects. It was to be sure you knew they were out there. The only thing the movie got wrong, is that they assumed a grand force was behind it. Ie, Death. No, it's not Death, it's a coalition of mundane objects bent on killing people for fun.

Don't believe me? Ask yourself this: Why is it every time you open the paperclip drawer you can't take just one without unwinding it from the masses? Why is there more change in your couch than in your pockets? Why are your keys never where they're supposed to be? Why is the Hair dryer in the shower always plugged in? Oh, that one was just MyUnwife. Sorry, no panic there.

The communicate through

refrigerator magnets. I think

they learned it from my divorce.

See? It's starting to make sense now, huh? Rob's only half as crazy as he seems. Right now they're on an all out Rob-assault. I think it started with the rock that rolled under my foot, twisting my ankle. They tried to injure me to take me out. It hasn't worked yet.

That hasn't stopped them from trying. This weekend my lawn mower quit. I tried to fix it, but I'm not a mechanic. Oh, I know a few things, but for the most part, I'm that guy you see with the car pulled over to the side of the road with the hood up going, "Yup, that is an engine." A lawn mower is a simple engine. I looked at my half completed lawn, then down at the laughing mower and said, "Yup, that is an engine."

I suppose I'm lucky it didn't cut off my face as I rolled it over on it's back. I figured I was safe. Ask MyUnwife. I've never owned a mower that suddenly burst to life. Mine all prefer to sit in the garage and relax.

After the mower went, so did my computer. I know what you're saying. "What's so dangerous about a dead computer?" Well for me, killing my computer is like a winter blizzard cutting me off from society.

All work and no play make Rob a dull boy...

So I drank a liter of Red rum and New Coke to keep myself warm, then rebuilt my computer. It's still not done yet. As I told one friend, it's like I've moved into a new house. There's all the space and potential, but everything is still in boxes. My computer is furnished by Ikea; nothing is preassembled, and all the instructions are in a foreign language. But, like the rest of my life, I'm working on it.

I've bathed myself in holy water and slapped on some deodorant. The inanimate are terrified of fresh arm pits; I don't know why. I've rebuilt everything they've torn down for now, but if you could send a small child with buckets of drool, I think that might hold them back. They hate kid drool too. They hate a lot of things. They do love to watch me squirm though.

So that's what I did for my April Weekend. What did you do? What are you doing with the straight jacket and the needle?