"Hope You Remember Me…"-OLP

The fans have spoken. According to the poll on your left, this is the final post. It's been big and it's been grand. I started this site to reach the one reader who wasn't there, and now it's time to let go.

Peace and God bless

Rob Boyd 8/23/08

"And it's about time..."-Martin Gore

Well, 17 minutes to be exact...

My bags are packed!

So...what kind of travel are we talking about?

"Open up my eager eye…"-The Killers

August 22, their day. They think they deserve a parade. Why? Because it's a day the stork worked overtime to feed his family of storklets. Chicks? Gosslings? Signets? Over easy-lets with a side of bacon? I don't know. Whatever. My point is, too many people were born this day, and I blame the stork.

I know 2 of them--birthday people, not storks, c'mon! Keep up. If a stork can do this, so can you. Ok, back at the birthday ranch, I sent one celebrant an email, and called the other on the phone. Both stork-droppings were spending time with family. Good for them. Families and birthdays are like cake and ice cream. They go together great, and once they're gone, you can wait another year before seeing them again.

The one I called said that she and her husband took the kids to the state fair. She lives in Minnesota where apparently a "fair" is the state activity--careful. "A fair," two words. The single word variety, although practiced worldwide, is only celebrated in California. Anyway, all summer long the Minnesotans cram in as many fairs as possible. I guess that's cuz in the winter they're too busy cramming logs on the fire to go to a fair. Well that, and it's kind of dangerous.

"In fair news, today three men were impaled when ice-sickles flew off the till-o-whirl. A fair will be thrown tomorrow in memoriam…"

Yup they love their fairs. My friend says that’s how they stock up on their "food on a stick" for the winter. She say's she's got the freezer full of gator sticks now. Now I'm not an expert on sticks or gators, (cuz I'd never let a gator close enough to put on a stick. If he's getting there, he'll get there of his own volition.), but I do know that Minnesota is not the first place I'd think of sticking a gator delicacy. The things you learn when you phone a friend. I guess Regis was right.

My friend thought it would be a good idea to talk about divorce. Yeah, I told you I didn't want your stick and gator, stick to the birthday, thank you. Still it's her birthday. I understand the fascination. If we're not talking about my divorce, we're talking about her getting older.

Fine. Happy Birthday…

"We finalized it last month."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"So how ya doing?"

"Well I was great until you wanted to talk about it. So what's 41 feel like?"

Yeah, we've been friends for 20 years. We can say that kind of stuff to each other. She did give me some interesting insight though after she told me her special birthday words:

"So it's a new beginning?"

"Yeah, that's what I tell myself."

"That's cool. Did-ja get a crowd on your lawn with a wreath and roses to welcome you through?"

"Well no."

"That would have been cool though, right?"

"Well yes. It would have been cool. 'welcome to you're new life Mr. Boyd.' I get a key and a handshake from the mayor. That would have been awesome. I didn't get it."

"Yeah, they probably don't want to do that."

"Why not?"

"It makes divorce look fun. Everybody'd go. Like a fair."

"Yeah, that would be a problem. I could see some sad housewife sitting around saying 'Well I've been at this 20 years Where's my key and my new life?"

"Could start a riot."

"An epidemic."

That's when the conversation turned to the divorce witness protection agency, and how it would be great, to run one. You know, get a divorce, they take you into hiding and give you a new life doing something else: Floyd used to be a pretty accountant for his wife, but after the divorce we moved him to Mayberry and made him a barber.

It was a great idea whose time hasn't come. Just like the stork-o-pult baby placer, the world just isn't ready. It is ready for a change though. At least I am, and my friend was right. I may not have gotten the fanfare and a parade, but it isn't too late to go down to city hall with a gun and demand one. Ok, well maybe that's not what she meant. She's getting older, she talks in riddles.

This is clear though: this is the time to take stock. This divorce thing is like a birthday. We don't really want it, but once it's here, we might as well take a closer look at where we stand. Celebrate or not, both are times for choice. Either you continue as you were, or you change for the new. August 22 is not just their day. It's our day. Today my friends and I celebrate our day in our own ways. Each of us taking stock and looking for the best way to step into tomorrow. Me? I'm gonna go build me a stork-a-pult. It sounds like fun. Maybe later I'll go demand my parade.

"The folly of men…"-Blue Oyster Cult

Let me start by saying, "Yesterday sucked."

Thank you. Thanks for coming; have a nice day.

Ok, wait, I've roped you in, there's no need in letting you go that easily. Tell you what, if your yesterday sucked, crush your monitor! Well wait. Uhm first off, if you're rushing for your lizard tank stop if you can hear me. Please stop? Simon Says, "Stop?" Oooh. Sheep man: 1, captive nature: 0.

Sorry bout that little guy. Just another victim to man's rampant crimes against reptiles. A bunch of tailless lizards know how you feel. Ok, well death-no tail, not the same. Still, they hurt. It's how the dinosaurs died off you know. Yeah, we ate them. We found out they tasted like chicken and had more meat. Thus ended the Great Lizard era. Look it up. Fred Flintstone will yabba-dabba tell ya. Dinos were really good cooked in boiling tar with mutton in their mouth. Cave women made great dinosaur. Check your cave art. Fat cave dudes pulling away from etched tables of good eats.

It's also why the Godzilla movies were so unbelievable. Nobody in the movies ever looked at his crushing foot and yelled, "Bet that tastes good!" Maybe they did, but not in the English dub. I guess the Japanese conversations could have been more real:

"General! Godzilla is here!"

"Quick, Call Sally Struthers. Tell her, 'problem solved.'"

The reason Godzilla never landed on the California shore line? He didn't want to be chewed up and spit out by the system.

So I know what you're thinking right now. "What does Sally Struthers have to do with your divorce, Rob?" She doesn't. She doesn't even have anything to do with why my day that sucked. That was my bosses fault.

Yeah, we're not getting along again. His idea of a helpful email is, "You suck and you don't care about your job. Love, Dan" My idea of a devoted employee reply is "A team is only as good as their leader." After that it becomes cruise missiles of diversion. Neither of us aims at the real problem: we don't respect each other. Beyond that it gets worse. As readers you know me. You've read my blogs. You know that I have no idea when to shut up. I'm the Energizer bunny of verbage. I keep going and going, and all the firepower in the world isn't stopping this monster.

So our emails progress until we're one step away from a slap fight or a nuclear war. From where I sit, it's hard to tell the difference until the first blast comes. Then it's quite obvious. Then it's too late.

Now I know the score: even if I win, I lose. So now I've got to take a breath, and swallow my pride, dignity and sense of reason, and write an apology. It's like watching the Mission Impossible films--twice: when you're done you just feel dirty and used. It's Godzilla not moving to Los Angeles time all over again.

"Let me see you stripped down to the scales."

Even worse, I swear it's just like my marriage. Nobody says the things that need to be said. And now that it's come to this point, it doesn't matter. This forces me to ask another question about my marriage: Was it really me?

Aww crap! I don't want to ask that!

Thanks Dan for bringing my marriage into this! This email apology is so going to be the worst ever.

So I push the thought aside cuz it's bigger than an elephant in the room. It's a monster. I concentrate on Godzilla. What would Godzilla do? If he came to California, would he eat the Japanese food or would he prefer Mexican? It's a long way to come for just sushi.

I know, I've already said he'd never come to LA. Speaking of which, I was at my writers' group last night and I thought I saw somebody from my past. No, not Godzilla. Just a girl I knew. It wasn't her, but I hate seeing ghosts. They leave me feeling creepy.

Speaking of creepy, I think I crossed the creepy line. I'm standing at the counter trying to figure out what I wanted. I'm in a coffee shop and I can't decide between "coffee" and "coffee." How absurd is that? I know, absurd, but still not creepy. That's coming, you can hear the rumble of big feet. There was a cute young girl waiting behind me, and it just made no sense to make her wait for the second coming of my first clear thought today.

"Do you know what you want?" I ask.

"Uh…yeah."

"Oh, then go ahead, I'm still trying to figure it out."

She looks at the one item menu board and then back to me, nods "yup crazy" and steps up.

"I'll have a coffee, please."

I wish I could tell you I dissuaded her, and converted her to the faith of Rob, but that's more Godzilla fiction. The problem is that I'm still wrapped in wrought thought about my wife/boss and his inability to see the value of our relationship. Oh, and now I'm starting to think this girl looks familiar. That's another problem.

So now I'm staring at the young girl, who is a good 5 years younger than the girl she reminds me of, but I'm convinced it couldn't be her. Ever seen a blind man stare? It's kind of creepy.

Let me put you in the picture. You're at home, you've grabbed a glass of wine, you're sitting down to relax. It's a beautiful night: mid 70's barely any humidity and a slight breeze. You decide to enjoy it all from the front porch. Grabbing glass and bottle, you wander out kick back in the wicker chair, and prop your feet up on the table.

Inhale. "ahhh…" Right? Great.

The wine's a good Sauvignon Blanc, crisp and light, the night is clear and starry. There's a brush just at your shoulder. You whip back to see what touched you and bump noses with Marty Feldman.

Crash!

"AAAAAH!"

Yeah, I figure that's how this girl felt, cuz I'm staring, she whips around with her coffee, sees me with coffee lid eyeballs, and speeds out without stopping for sugar or cream.

"Miss, Your change!"

"Keep it!"

"But you paid with a hundred!"

Gone.

I inspire that in people. Me and Pepe LePew. I'm ok, at least there was a good reason this time. Well, for her running, for me staring, not so much. I don't know. I'm trying to make the most of things, and sometimes I make it worse.

I think it's how Godzilla felt when he crushed his first train. The train was so slick and beautiful, he didn't mean to ruin it, but there were all these tasty Raisinets inside. It was a bad day, he did what he had to do. For me, add that to the picture of the burning Tokyo of my work life and the whole island looks like it's in flames to this raging reptile.

Sure All Godzilla has to do is return to Monster Island for a break, but when your standing in the fire with a maw of fuzzy sheep, spitting wool, and all your world smells like burning chicken. It's hard to walk away. Still it's what we need to do. We learn to walk away from the fights we can, and try not to scare away too many natives. I'm not good at that yet, but I'm trying.

"You don't know me…"-Ben Folds W/ Regina Spektor

I gave in. I admit it. I'm also a little ashamed. I feel kind of dirty. Almost as much as the time Mom caught me hosting the Care Bear fun-time orgy.

"What's Cheer Bear doing to Grumpy Bear?"
"I dunno, but he doesn’t look grumpy anymore."

No, their poly-fuzz was always a little matty after that fur pile. Maybe it was the oil, maybe it--nevermind.

Still this was different. No bears were abused in my latest adventure. It was just me, alone, in my office, with my computer.

The light was low. The monitor glowed with promise. Sirens called from the rocky crags of Bose speakers. Defenses down, my fingers swam the key strokes to shore. Filling in all the pertinent criteria.

I was a creator. A madman looking for a way to make a mate.

"Bring my creation to life!"

Speaking of life, I really need one. Any man who can fill out a eHarmony questionnaire in one setting has way too much caffeine in his blood and plenty of time on his hands. Oh, don't worry, I'm just going to jitter and sit on my hands; I'm not going to do anything but submit the questionnaire. I'm window shopping. I do that when I'm lonely. I needed a computer to tell me that there was a match for me somewhere.

I know, pathetic huh? Wait, grab your popcorn, turn off Lifetime, and get your scroll finger ready, cuz this gets better.

First, for the record, I don't believe in dating sites. It's not that they can't work, it's just that they're not for me. It's like blind dating with cam pics stapled to your fingers.

"Where is thumbkin? where is thumbkin?

"Here I am! Here I am!"

"Run away! Run Away!"

See I'm supposed to fall for somebody who sends in a picture their cousin snapped, because he shoots models (well their pictures anyway. He was acquitted on the other charges). But that's just a glossy mock up; it has nothing to do with the subject.

There are also the girls who can't operate a camera and post the mustache nostril shot from the bust up.

"What knockers!"

Maybe so, but she can't manage a camera, so if you're looking for something long term, she's probably not carrying the brain gene you desire for breeding stock. It may not be a problem, but if you're like me and find Family Guy thematic and poignant, then maybe you should be picky about your partner's brain, unless you aren’t worried by the thoughts of kids confounded by Ziplock technology.

"Abby someone…"

Anyway, these captioned pictures really don't say a thing about who you really are, just what you want me to think. I study people. I like people for what they say, think and feel. I need a whole image not two dimensions of your best side. No matter how endowed that best side may be.

I think authenticity is an recessive trait, but something to be desired. I can't find that in fluffy cameo. I need to see and talk and mentally touch. I'm a tactile learner. Yeah, that got me slapped in 5th grade too.

Sure, I hear you now. "The dates are for learning, Rob." Listen to my reply, "Have you read a word I've written?" Go back and read the older blogs. That's not what Rob dates are for. Rob dates are goal oriented. Rob dates are miles past cursory evaluation. Why would I sit across a table and stammer like an idiot with my voice wavering in and out of "dog whistle" territory for that? If I'm dating you, you've passed the first weeding round. We're now on to Double Jeopardy where there's more Rob stake; you're almost through the hard candy shell. Weeding is handled in the "Hi, My name is Bunny" round.

So I don't do dating sites. Still I do enjoy free samples. I like knowing that somebody finds my generic picture-less profile appealing. Like last night, I got a "flirt" on singlesnet. Apparently a flirt is somebody seeing your profile, and clicking the "flirt" link. That sends you a "Hey! Look at me!" message.

I'm a sheep. I pulled up my flirter's profile:

I dream like all people do. You know that mind blowing wild kinky sex. That lets you explore where you just cant wait to touch that man, Where you have to have him now. I have so much I long to do. I have alot I have never tried... Looking for that sexy younger man that just makes me shake all over. Who wants a Taste of Honey!!!!!

I like to play the following sports:

Equestrian.

"Frau Blucher!"

Yeah, I don't think we all do dream the same way. An interesting addition to this story. Her profile says that she's 29. her blurb says she's looking for a young stallion. What's she mailing me for? I may leave lots of blanks in the profile, but I didn't lie. It says I'm 40. I'm one hoof in the glue factory, and if her profile is anywhere near accurate, I think she'd ride me the rest of the way in.

Now I don't want this to reflect on the site. I did receive another flirt from a woman I did have something in common with: Neither of us posted a picture. She was also an artist who loved exercise. Now, I do exercise, but I don't love it. If you're looking for a workout partner past "pass the salsa," then keep power walking cuz you're probably not looking for me. Exercise is a necessary evil, just like tweezing chest hairs. Ok, that's a lie. I do that for fun.

Now some days these "flirts" and ads for Best Buy are all I get in my emailbox. So when I walk to Outlook, and find only Honey the love filly, and Felicia the energizer bunny I start feeling desperate. Is there somebody out there? Somebody for me? Maybe these sites know more than I do. Maybe Honey is the girl for me. How kinky is "kinky?"

"Put the candle back!"

So I decided to see who was in my free eHarmony file. I spent the night filling in their profile. They asked me about everything. I especially loved the, "Do you have trouble controlling your anger," and "Do you find I need to lie to impress others." questions. Now on the latter question, no matter how I answer, how do they know I'm not lying? That's ok. They never did ask me about the strange long mounds in my backyard...

So I wade through the interrogation to find my perfect match. I feel dirty and pathetic for filling it out, and what's more, I think I'd have jumped through fewer hoops if I called Honey. When I'm done they show me the name of my perfect match. What they won't show me is her picture. Why? Because I'm not a paying member. That's ok, I'm not a paying member and I didn't put in my picture. So there!

I'll just accept that they've given me somebody who'll love me unconditionally, no matter what my faults. I decided to go to bed with the song of love in my heart. In the morning I'd get up and find out about my true match.

This morning I get up and check my mail. I've received a message from my perfect match! Now I didn't send her anything, so I'm touched that she looked in and said, "Oooh! My love!"

I open her mail, and it tells me I've been blocked. She doesn't want to hear from me, ever.

Why?

"Because there are no photos posted/I couldn't see any photos. "

I figure I'll send her a finger puppet to staple to her finger as a consolation prize, because that's apparently what she needs to find love. Still, I'm ok. I knew it wasn't right. I was depending on someone else to make a mate, and they made a monster. It's back to the drawing board for me.

So I continue to try and build the perfect mate from nothing. They tell me I'm mad. It's ok. I'd rather be crazy than to divorce again. I'll get it right this time, even if takes forever. Just lock me in here alone, and no matter how much a beg or plead, don't let me out until I get it right.

I will get it right.

"It's neverending, as far as I know…"-The Trews

"Can I ask you a question?" I feel like a high schooler. I swear this was supposed to be easy but now I'm stammering with my vowels and consonants. "ahahah-uhuhuhohoho…"

"Sure, whatsup?" Sure, she's confident. It's like she owns the place. Well, maybe not, but she owns the moment. That much is true. Somebody else owns my dried swollen tongue.

"I…Uhm…" Yeah, I'm smooth. She's the only person I can talk to locally and I'm fumbling for words. Great.

Her smile is bright, her eyes are questioning moons. I don't know what she's expecting, but I can tell that when the words launch from my mouth, their combined phrasing landed unexpectedly.

"I'm taking a vacation in a couple of months. Where should I go?"

"I…Uhm…" Oh yeah! Now she's speaking my language!

That's not really my question, but that's really what I asked. Oh, I'm not trying to date my barista. She's cute and friendly, but she's too young; She's still in college. She hasn't seen what the real world will do to you outside the daily grind. Give her time. I know that one of the things it'll do is make a guy come out of his house on a Monday afternoon hoping to talk to somebody, even if it's for $3.50 for the first cup of conversation.

Now I know I've picked up a few new readers. Let me help you catch up with our story so far.

Hi, I'm Rob. I'm divorced. I'll be your crazy blogger for the next few minutes, or at least until you hit the back-page but--Ah, there you go. Everybody wave goodbye!

Anyway. I've been "divorced" for almost a month, but MyEx left over a year and a half ago. I work at home, and my job keeps me on a short nylon tether. The tether doesn't matter too much, because before MyEx left, she was my social life; I'm used to a social shock collar. It might have helped if she was more social I guess, but she wasn't so now I spend my social life at home. Oh, my dog says "Hi!"

Oh, don't feel sorry for me, I do that enough for both of us. I promise you, I get more than my RDA of self pity. My last doctors visit, he informed me I had a healthy dose of self doubt. I told him if he needed some, I had cases full of mason jars brimming with the stuff in the cupboard next to the peaches. I could spare whatever he needed. I wouldn't run out anytime soon.

"No, you won't be doing that, that's for sure…" he agreed and offered me a smiley lollipop.

So I work. I live at home and I try to get out. Well, scratch "try," I need to get out. If I don't, I start feeling like a caged animal in an abandoned zoo. It's so easy to do too. And if I miss it, the loneliness crashes down on me like a tsunami.

I spent the last two weeks alone.

Oops. What's that rushing sound?

The last 2 weeks passed and I limited myself to my usual coffee excursion. I was too busy and I didn't even make it to church. Last Saturday I tried to get out and enjoy dinner and a movie, but it was too late. I needed an adrenaline shot to the heart, and being alone in a crowd was just a splash in the face with tepid water.

And what kind of word is tepid, and what is it doing in my face? Dripping. That's what it's doing, but nothing else. I enjoyed the dinner. I enjoyed the movie. I wasn't real keen about being alone. I went to buy groceries, but halfway through the supermarket I thought, "Mmmm…Cheese, crackers, and wine sounds really good." That thought was closely followed by "Oh, but I'd be eating them alone. Well that sucks."

FWOOM!

Splash!

"Brad, tsunami aisle 5, tsunami aisle 5. We need a clean up."

Yeah it hit hard. What's more I'm a guy. We don't reach out, as Martian John Gray will tell you, we go hide in our cave, and we just expect you to know. What they don't tell you about the cave though, is it's a lonely dark place. For me, the hardest thing about being isolated is that when I feel isolated I need to prove myself right.

"Hi"

"Don't talk to me, I'm feeling alone."

"uhm…ok…"

"No I mean it. You're in my space. Go away."

Because how can I bundle up the burlap sack of self pity and start beating myself with a steel pipe if people are watching?

"Oh that? It's just laundry. I'm agitating."

When this happens all I can do is ride it out. I curl into a fetal ball, and let the waters crash around me--alone and isolated, because that's how I've planned it.

I guess the good news is that I don't need to rely on anybody to recover. When the waves ebb out, I get up, grab a towel and dry off. I look around and say, "See, I survived," and it's business as usual. You think I'd learn, but like Yogi, this seems to be my favorite pic-nic basket.

On the bright side, this is something exclusively my own, and not something I can blame on MyEx. See, now that she's gone and I've put away her baggage, I found my flotsam and jetsam baggage floats around me, marking my space. It's everywhere, and every piece has my name on it. See, that's one thing you assured to keep after the divorce: your baggage. Now that I'm done dealing with ours, I get to deal with mine. That's ok, I've got plenty of time to sort through it alone.

So the water shifts the sand under my toes and I'm looking at all this junk. I told somebody recently that people withdraw all the time. It's kind of a self defense mechanism. I said that the real friends were the people who stood still when you pulled away; that way you knew where to find them when you came back. So let me say "thank you," to all of you still standing outside my cave. I still wonder what I'm doing about my vacation...

"I don't know," She said, "I haven't been anywhere outside of the state. I hate to travel alone."

Yup, and it looks like I've got plenty of company when it comes to being alone.

Hello?

Yeah, I didn't think so, I was just kind of hoping...

Points to ponder

I just realized I had 1 real world conversation in the past 2 weeks:

"uhm, yeah, I'll take a large, please."

The good news, I guess, is I think I had it twice. Or maybe it was deja vu'.

Maybe I should try to expand my rapport this week.

Quickie

A coffee to go, a bottle of curry powder, and a grill lighter and it's
back to work.

It's important to love your job

Well that's vague

It might as well read "you'll buy gas for your car."

Sabatical

I've been feeling caged in a condemned zoo lately. Tonight I'm
treating myself to dinner and a movie. I've assured myself it's
strictly platonic.

"I'm going Underground..."-Jack's Mannequin

Recently I received a dear Rob letter. It started, as you might expect, "Dear Rob…" before going on. Honestly, that's a more promising start than a "dear John" letter. It's really kind of like a "dear Abby." Well, it's a little dear different from dear Abby because Dear Abby was a know-it-all. Rob...well...no. Rob's more of an experiential guru.

"Does this hurt, Rob?"

"Oh, yeah. Quite a bit really."

People ask me things because I'm either going through what they're going through or I've been there already and can guide them around the suspicious sushi at the endless buffet. It's thankless, but If I can get one person to stand still for 5 minutes e while I whine about how much I give, and yet remain unloved, then that makes the whole thing worth while.

I am a giver.

That's why I read the "Dear Rob," cuz I care. I'll share it with you because it fits the theme of today's blog. I've edited the letter just a bit, because dear readers can be wordy writers, but I've left the juicy--uhm, important stuff. Ok, here goes.

Dear Rob,

I don't know what to do! I'm being swallowed my future and spit out by my past. I want to move on, but the paralyzing doubt freezes me. I need to figure out how in the world I can re-enter the dating pool and even (gasp!) actually have sex with someone not my STBX.

I don't do MS or Facebook or any of those sites because the lack of anonymity and boundaries scares me. In my work, I hear too many horror stories of people losing their jobs because of crap they put up on MS, etc., so I avoid social networks. I prefer sites with the anonymity of the headless pasty avatar. The thought that a letter I wrote in the strictest of confidence to a friend winding up on the internet as part of some self absorbed jerk's post, scares me.

A male friend who's already divorced has told me that I will overcome my fear, eventually develop new relationships and even (gasp!) enjoy good sex again. Right now, that's looking pretty unlikely. Is it easier for men? It doesn't seem to be. I'm interested in the perspective from the other side, though.

Rob, I guess my question is not so much about sex as about moving on and starting new relationships. Is this easier for men after a divorce? Anecdotally it seems not.

Shameful secret time - I did a quick and dirty search on Match.com the other night, more out of curiosity than anything else. All the men in what I'd consider the appropriate age range for me (35-45) are looking for someone aged 30 or younger. I pointed this out to my divorced male friend (DMF for short) and noted that this didn't seem promising for a long term relationship. He was quick to respond that most people on Match.com aren't really looking for the long term, but the who's available right now. Not encouraging, I have to say. :-(

What do I do Rob? My life is a shambles and you are my only hope. You are the last bastion of sanity in a crazy world. Save me Rob, Save me!

Signed,

Lost without a Rob-light

I'd like to take this space to reply. Sorry you other 3 readers. There's obviously someone in need of Rob's glow.

Dear Lost,

I'm over here! I've got my grill lighter flicked on so you can see the Rob Light. See It? Great. Let's talk.

Thanks for writing. I know you have problems, and that really sucks. Unfortunately this space is about Rob, and Rob problems. In the future if you could remember that, it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Still, your story is sad, and it's touched my heartstrings. So I will do my best to help you out. First off, you mention "(gasp!) having good sex." I think the gasp is key, or even a moan if you're inclined,; start there. After that, you start leaving my field of knowledge. Still, I'm here to help. Although I've never experienced these problems you speak of, I'll tell you what my friend, uhm...Bor told me.

"Tell Lost it's ok. We all go through this on some level." Well Bor is obviously either a drunk or a liar. I'm sorry. I don't go through that. Maybe he's talking about just women. You should probably watch what he says. He says a lot. He continues, "When you're in a long relationship, you're not used to dating. If you are, then that's another problem. I'll assume you're not. I'll bet you've come out of the relationship alone, panicked, and afraid. People tend to fall into two groups. Those who leap immediately back into the pool because they're too afraid they won't last without the water's touch, and those who choose to sit in the deck chair and watch, afraid to find the water's still too cold, despite the bubbles and floating lobsters.

"You sound like a deck chair kind o' gal. That's fine. It's normal, and it's natural for now. Don't worry. See the magazine to your left? Go ahead and read it. Do the puzzles. Figure out who you are again. Ogle the cabana boys. Try to figure out who they are without their towels. That's what they're here for. Maybe later, you'll decide to grab somebody and go swimming, or somebody will pick you up, hold you in his arms and dive into the pool for some splashy, splashy fun.

"The important thing is to stick with what you like. If bars, clubs or online dating sites (oh my!) aren't your scene, don't go. You're only going to find people who enjoy those places there. Go with what you like. You mentioned you like skinning catfish with your teeth. Go to a place with people who enjoy that. You don't need to date, just hang out. Maybe a guy will come in with a huge catfish, admire your talents and take you to his catfish farm in the country where you'll live happily ever after. Maybe he won't, but who cares? Taking this time to learn what you like, is all the fun. Find your fun then stick with it.

"Me, I like writing. I lead a writer's group. It's my social outlet. Right now, there's nobody there to date, but that's ok. Maybe my Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte will show up and lead me away from this blogs life. Then again maybe she won't. The point is, even if she doesn't I'm having fun being Ro-er uh--Bor."

I hope that helps, Lost. That Bor can be a little "Gushy" for my tastes. He also says that guys do feel the same way. He says that guys have the added pressure of having to make the first move too. "We're expected to be chivalrous knights. Coming out of a divorce, we're little more than scared peasants. Just once it would be nice for a woman to tell me what she wants and it not end with the word 'divorce.'"

See? I told you. Bor's a wuss. Still, he seems more in line with what you need, Lost so I'll leave his answer to cover your question. And that's the glimmer from Rob's light.

Sincerely,

Rob

Beacon to the world.

And that's how I responded. Sorry to take up all that space for one person, but it's what I do. If you have a problem or a need I can hinder or assail, feel free to send an email. I'll keep your words in strictest confidence. I always do.

Yup, busy night.

"Run me straight into the ground..."-O.A.R.

I woke with a song in my heart and a tingle in my gut. I tried rolling over. The song didn't mind, but the tingle informed me that that wasn't a good idea. It jumped past twinge and went straight for knitting needle jab.

"OW!" That's what I said.

"OW!" confirmed my abs.

Was it the flaming smurf ab goo? I lifted the sheet to check. No, this was a different flambé; this burning was inside, under the flesh.

"OW!" I repeated because it seemed appropriate.

"OW!" repeated my abs cuz they had nothing better to do.

This was the, "uhm I don't like to do more than desk chair exercises" pain cry of a lazy bastard. I hear it frequently, but usually it's not much more than a yawn. Today it's a scream werewolf begging me to put down the silver spade.

"Seriously, put it away, I was just hunting gophers!"

"Oh ok…"

I don't know. All I know is that my abs did not agree with me getting up this morning. It's because I've switched my workout schedule and added more ab stuff. They’ve been reading communist manifestoes about shared labor and they're revolting. Yeah, you can take that revolting thing however you want to. It works.

Still it's kind of a big step for me--the switching up thing. I'm trying something different. As a control freak/ creature of habit, switching up the organized chaos is like a sign of the apocalypse. I don't like change, yet here I am forcing myself into it.

I'm also playing with my Wii. Yes, please pay attention to my spelling, thank you very much. Some of the Wii Fit exercises are tough. They work on balance and core. Two things that were removed at birth so that they could fit in my big personality.

So these things are supposedly making things better. That's my mantra as I'm clutching the sides of the mattress, pulling myself to the floor. The abs are on strike; I flop to the floor like a fish in a boat. My legs kick around. They're fine with the day.

"We're sorry. We'd carry you Rob, honestly we would, but the abs are between us. We can't do anything more than tantrum kick without their permission, and right now they're spouting rhetoric."

"Well, I could use a good tantrum kick about now. I never got the one from after the Divorce."

"You've got one now, Rob!" They begin pounding the floor with all their might. I'm not finding the joy in this that I wanted. The legs kick harder. "Thanks guys, you can stop now."

"You've got it, Rob!"

Man they're happy feet today.

When the legs are done, I beg the abs to work with me today. I tell them I'd get on my hands and knees, but they won't let me. They relent enough to allow for that. Once there, I remind them the one thing they do want: Food. I explain how we can take care of that, but they have to cooperate.

"Rob, why don't we have a maid and a cook?"

"I don't know abs. After we go eat, and workout, maybe we can find one."

"Workout?"

"Yeah, you know--"

"I can't allow that Rob."

Great, my abdominal muscles are run by a computer from an Arthur C. Clark short story.

Still I do as I do in all my relationship. I compromise. I give in when I need to. I could fight this, but it's not that important. I'll allow the body a day off, but we'll start again tomorrow. They all agree to that. See, it's like all relationships. Sometimes you have to give a little to make it work. Of course there are those times when you give and it doesn't work. I'm not going to worry about that now. My abs won't let me. The are explaining how the eye lids don' seem to be holding their weight in the body community though.

This may be a long day.

"All the Commotion…"-Kings Of Leon

"I liked this blog today. Clear, concise and easy to follow. Good Job Rob! "

Yeah, my fifth grade teacher reads my blog. Not really, but sometimes I wonder. It would explain the email my dad received the other day:

Robby does not play well with others. He shows a lack of self-control.

My dad just mailed me a print-out taped to a box of Depends. A note scrawled in special Dad print at the bottom of the E-mail said, "If they're good enough for a crazy astronaut, they're good enough for my son."

I emailed him back explaining that "self control" was not the same as "bladder control," but thanked him and asked if he'd at least use some kind of wrapping paper on the box next time he sent it. The mailman is still snickering.

"It's a waste of money, son."

It's a waste of something, Dad. I don't say that though. Dad's a great resource and I'd hate for that well to run dry. I get a lot more than adult diapers from him. I get a strong sense of cynicism too.

That's right. It's a long family tradition handed down from generation to generation. I get my elitism from my mom. It means that I'm always locked in a Moral Kombat with myself.

"Flawless Victory."

"No it's not! He gave up just so he could look better than me."

You should see what happens when the martyr complex plays too. Then there's the control freak who won't allow anybody else to play until he's drawn all the lines, and carved the rules in stone. Yeah, there's a lot of other stuff shaking around inside Rob. It turns Rob's head into a barroom brawl before he's even had the first beer. After the first beer, the brawl moves outside the mouth.

"What did you call me, punk?"

"I didn't. I'm rife with inner conflict. Forces within my ego are battling for control of the mortal coil…"

"Dude, that sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"You need another beer? A good cry? If you need a low self image, my ex girlfriend is over there in the corner. She's the blond making the pirate cry out of his good eye."

"Yeah, no. I'll be fine."

We all have a Samsonite carry-on of cranial companions. The inner voice choir is loud and brash. Sure you see the horror movies of the whispering madman inside the ear. If I have one, I can't hear him, because everybody else is so loud.

What's more now that I'm divorced I have a new voice in my head. MyEx has taken up a small cottage between Self Doubt and Self Loathing. I had tried to keep them separated by Blind Optimism, but MyEx just ate him as a snack while watching the Sopranos . Now she keeps her windows dark, and my joie de vivre is on the back of every mental milk carton. I think something's happened.

That's right. People who get close, get a voice. My dad, he's there. My fifth grade teacher isn't but my Freshman Lit. teacher is. So is anybody who gets close enough. Yeah, I try to keep the numbers down. Control Freak has hung a "Maximum Occupancy" sign and we're getting kinda crowded.

So, I'm learning to work with Rob's new head case of voices. When I was in fifth grade all was cool so long as I didn't run with scissors. In high school I wasn't allowed to run with a bad crowd. Now, I'm afraid to run at all.

What the hell?

I'm used to the clear blue. I'm used to smooth sailing. I'm used to life's pool. I'm a diver not a dipper. At least I was. Now I have to stop and look both ways or I'm treading yellow water.

"It sure got warm all of a sudden…"

Some things in life are returning to familiar waters. Somebody commented on another post of mine. One from last year. She said how the pain showed some of the inner Rob, the real Rob without the candy shell and the surrounding nuts.

It was from a morning I fought desperately to understand where I was without MyEx. She then said, it was nice compared to the, "Rambling Rob" and quickly added "(and I mean that in the most affectionate way, by the way)." cuz she's read I bruise like a banana.

She was right, of course. My readers are much smarter and better educated than I am. They've learned to listen to the right inner voices. But that year ago Rob was the Rob with an open wound. This Rob has healed. This Rob keeps the inner goop on the inside. I listen to the voices, but most of you won't hear them. Not directly. I keep them to myself. I filter. If you hear my voices, you're too close. My inner control freak is already drawing lines around where you can stand, and those lines are clearly too far back to touch. There's another voice too. It's making sense. It says I really don't need any more voices.