"We're too late…"-Pinback

This is the season of repeats. It's funny because we're all trying to start fresh and new, but look around us. Check the TV listings. 4 out of 5 networks that play programming, recommend people who watch TV watch reruns. Blame the striking writers—networks do. Yeah, right. Let's face it: this season's reruns are no different than last seasons turkeys.

"May I have a second helping of Cavemen, please?"

Other reruns exist in our lives too: Remember last week I made the chicken noodle soup? I'm happy to announce that today I finished it. Writers' strike or no, it won't be returning. It's been a solid week of liquidy leftovers. Mission accomplished. My body swears it won't get sick again so long as it doesn't have to swallow another ladle of chicken riddled broth. I can live with that arrangement.

Still, like a lamb to slaughter, I'm a glutton for punishment, emphasis on the glutton—There'll be no lamb, only fowl. I thawed my remaining Cornish hen last week. I need to eat tonight, before it goes bad. That means one more night of bird reruns. Now I know how Mr. Snufflufigus felt.

"oh, Bird…"

Ok, maybe not. He never ate bird. His was a tragedy of optics, not taste. He was imaginary, and I suppose he saw other people, it was bird who (faithfully) could only see him. Still bird saw other people. So maybe Snuffy was the faithful one. He remained invisible to other eyes. Maybe Bert and Ernie weren't the only odd couple on Sesame Street. Maybe I put too much thought into my children's programming.

"Alas, poor Snuffy! I knew him, Horatio."

Another thing I put too much thought into is my failed relationship. Even now, not a day goes by that I don't replay "what the hell went wrong?" I'm like John Madden drawing squiggly "what ifs" across my memory's screen. Inserting new scenarios and game plans, drawing new lines and different allusions, but they run the same. And yet, that never stops me from trying.

I think I always will. It's really who I am. I try to fix everything for everybody. I think somewhere inside I feel like if I find the right puzzle piece I can fix this for myself. I know it sounds selfish, I should say something like "Fix it for her." But why? I gave her what she wanted. The final act of "love, honor and cherish."

I'll let you in on a little secret. MyUnwife is part of the reason I write. Even this. Especially this. The silence and the distance between us, I always thought that somebody should have a clue what the other person was thinking. I figured it had to be me. I'm the ABC caveman scratching pictures on a wall for others to see. It started with a letter. A letter I never sent. I reread it today, it seemed like a better idea than the other reruns. This was one highlight:

...It doesn't matter, but I think it's fair that at least one of us knows what actually happened, so I'll resort to what I do best: writing. Besides, maybe you can take the knowledge and use it in a future relationship. I really do want you to be happy...

Ok, so maybe not a better idea. Still, it reminded me of my purpose: Rob's divorce historian. This is the divorce season. This is the season MyUnwife chose to wrap things up. One year ago she made the decision to call it quits. This is the time she drew away completely. In a month she'll tell me she hates me. I'm replaying last years reruns. The show's over and there are no new film dates.

I'm trying to balance last year with this. This year's is a new program. A new Rob. Right now it's a one man show, but it's pretty good. A little adventure, a little comedy: slain chickens, falling fences, the usual digressions. I think it'll take most of my attention. Even with last years reruns on.