"bad mistakes are waiting in the trunk…"-The Fashion

When I was a mobile DJ I took requests,

"Will you play the Macarena?"

I didn't always fill them, but I took them.

When I was married, I took requests.

"uh, honey, what are the Twister mat, Vaseline vat, and nitrous canister doing on the living room floor?"

I didn't always fill them, but I took them.

Now as a divorced blogger I'm not so sure I should continue that pattern.

"In your blog...you should write about...bacon....and the importance of blowing up incompetent teachers"

Uh…what?

It's a writers' group high school girl. I requested the group tell me who's coming, she replied requesting I bring something specific. She probably should have talked to MyUnwife. She'd have filled her in on that request thing. It's associated with the holding breath thing. It would have saved her some typing time. Then again I'd have missed out on various shades of blue uncommon in human flesh tone. Sacrifices must be made...

That's Ok, she's young and stressed with all the burdens that come with youth. Teachers, parents, boys, and apparently fatty pork products. Who knew? I never could understand the adult version; I'm certainly not going to attempt a psychoanalysis of the under 21 variety. Mama only raised one fool, and that was me. I'll let my sisters fight over that distinction.

Before you pull out the Ginsu steak knives and pincushion my car tires, you need to know 2 things: First, don't bother, my sisters already beat you to it. Second, know that I'm not pretending we guys are any easier to understand. I'm not pretending, because we really are. It's ok, I know you'll never believe that from me: I'm a guy.

See, men are simple creatures. We'd still be cave dwellers if women hadn't wanted something more.

"I'm tired of cleaning up your crap, can you please take it outside the cave?"

"It raining."

"I don't care, take it out."

And thus the first outhouse was born. Necessity to please women is the mother of invention. Write it down, it's important.

What's all this got to do with divorce? Well my intrepid reader it has everything to do with divorce. It's the eggs and bacon of the divorced world. It's those wonderful smells of promise that bring us to the table every morning, and it's that sink plate of egg epoxy and hallway stink of rotting grease that drive us away 28 days later.

It's all in the presentation.

See dating is like visiting a hotel. No, not like that you pervs! It's a better hotel. A family hotel. A place you can bring your kids. The type of hotel where you gawk in the lobby at wall length brochure rack, soaking in all the adventures you can see and do if you just pick the right pamphlet…

"Says here this girl comes with a waterslide…"

That's what dating is. We might as well sit across the table exchange brochures and flip through the pretty promises. The guy sips his drink, admires the well-dressed "go getter" on the cover, and glances from it to you several times, "Yup, that's you. You want chicken fingers?"

You're pivoting his crumpled coffee stained leaflet looking for something more. Back, front, back, front. That's a shame. Our brochures are rarely more than 3 business cards center-stapled: Bob Smith: husband, father, worker-bee. Still, when you see it, you see potential.

"No, let's get the rings."

You bring quite a bit more to the table. You unload a complimentary copy of Pride and Prejudice in our laps. Now, We're busy flipping through pages like it's Post-it pad animation, looking for the dirty parts. We want the lingerie model promised in the illustration index. Yeah, you know. I have never found that page in the story either…

When we've sampled the menu, we decide if the taste is good enough to take it home. The problem here is that we only post our best pictures and flavors. We never show the creepy Polaroids hidden in the dresser next to our belly-lint collection. It's up to the person across the table to play private eye. It's like that game of Aggravation we played as kids: match things up before it's too late, or the bottom will fall out.

Why do we hide these things? I mean really, we stand a better chance of staying together if both sides bring reality to the table.

"Says here, you're a stalker."

"Yeah, I like to know where you are at all times."

"That's great, because if you turn to page 72 of my Jane Austin primer, you'll see that I'm very needy."

"Awesome! Waitress? Can we get this to go?"

The right person won't love you in spite of your flaws, they'll love you because of your flaws. Those idiosyncrasies that may you distinctly you, make you significantly lovable to some lucky other. Even the girl in my writers' group. When she starts breathing again, I'm sure she'll come to the same conclusion. By showing a little sense and sensibility with her graphic novel, she'll find a guy who loves that she's into pipe bombing every third Volvo in the faculty parkinglot.

Divorce has brought me to a conclusion too. That's why I'm spending time this week reformatting my brochure. I want to show all Rob sides, entres, and appetizers. The real sides. I'll show Blogger Rob, Lemon Chicken Rob, Pizza and Beer Rob, Cheese and Whine Rob (because that—like all other Funny Rob jokes--never gets old), Spiritual Rob, Pervy Rob, Fox In Socks Rob, The Stranger Rob, Hobbit Rob, X-Rob, BeeGees Rob, Audioslave Rob, Almost Famous Rob, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz are Dead Rob, Strange Brew Rob, and lazy Rob. They're all gonna be there, and a few others too. I think I'll leave out singing in the shower Rob though. Some things are like a faulty water heater: better discovered after you've bought the house.