It's only Change…"-John Waite

"Sorry Cosmo, they say you suck."

"Rowr?"

"Yeah dude, they don't think you can be great unless you do tricks."

Pant, pant, pant.

"Yeah, of course I brought you dinner." Rub, rub, rub, "I don't think you suck."

Have you seen that program? There's a new show on CBS that wants you to know that the Greatest American Dog is one that can performs on command. Perform on command? We humans can't even get our own bodies to do that! Why else would we need Viagra? How can we demand that from a dog?

Not that they're incapable. Dogs are smart. They're more than capable; it's more that they have their own personality. Most dogs perform out of love or manipulation. If a dog just once figured out that all he needed to do was knock you down to get the whole basket of jerky bits, you'd be on your back faster than a Vegas prostitute. And yes that means you too, owners of small yap dogs. They're more devious than you think. A Rottweiler may grab your throat, but a Chihuahua will hump your leg until it bleeds and then steal your tacos.

"Yo quiero Taco Bell."

Cosmo's not a performer. Well he does do this cool "good to see you" dance complete with spins, jumps and twirls. It makes me feel wanted, but a pup-elitist wouldn't appreciate it. It takes a pup lover to respect his moves. They're not really choreographed, and the dance is really just a reply to our game.

See, we play a game when I go out. I "sneak up" to the screen door and try to open it without him hearing. If he's watching, I give the door a few fake twists to see if he jumps. He doesn't jump-He's too smart. He's the Greatest Rob Dog. The door has to be mid swing before he charges. In this game of chicken he always wins and he loves to victory dance. In victory, he's Baryshnikov Pup dancing Eukanuba Lake.

Yeah, it's great that you've
got the camera and all Dad,
but could I get some water?

But that's it. That's his trick. He doesn't really play fetch. Oh, you can throw a ball, but all he'll do is watch the ball. Stare at it, and then twist his head back at you like, "why did you do that? It was a perfectly good ball. Now you have to go get it." No, that's not what makes Cosmo great. It is why he can't waste time in stupid show-dog games though. He's a lover not a competitor.

It's that way in relationships too. How often do we want our partner to perform on command, and how often do we get the results we wanted?

"Fetch me a beer babe. Good girl, good girl. Now kneel down, I need a place to put it. No, no, leave my socks on. What are you doing? OW! OW! Let go! That hurts! Bad Girl Bad! Ow..!"

Then again some guys like a bad girl. I dunno. I'd settle for one I can get along with and who loves me. That for me is the Greatest American Wife. I don't need stupid parlor tricks. Oh, of course there has to be a special bond, an interaction. It can't just be any woman. That doesn't mean that any woman can't be the Greatest American Wife though. She can. She just needs the Greatest American Husband to perfect her show. See, it's about the pair, not the individual. It's the mating electricity of right sock to left sock that makes the difference between "Nice socks," and hysterical laughter "look--hehehe--socks."

I think that anybody can be a great individual, but it takes two special people to be a great couple, and too often we settle for being part of the "Better than being alone" couple. That's not really great. It isn't even good.

I'm not saying that that's what happened with MyUnwife. I'm just saying that that's what happens all too often. Marriage is tough, why mismatch yourself?

Me? I've got time. I'll find the Greatest American Wife who thinks I'm the Greatest American Husband. We'll perform tricks for each other, and possibly even play fetch. Until then, I've got Cosmo: The Greatest American Dog. No matter what the TV says.

I hate when I forget to eat!

So I'm working, look up at the clock, and crap! I haven't eaten yet!
I'm too starved, and raw salmon just doesn't sound right...

"Them summer days…"-Sly and the Family Stone

Can any of you pick up these helpdesk hours on the 4th?

It's my boss. Her meaning is clear, you're clever. You get the gist. Helpdesk work is easy work. Remember when you were a teenager? Remember baby-sitting the neighbor's kids while the neighbors went out drinking champagne and bunny-hopping till the good ball dropped? That's what I do (Not the bunnying, the babying). Helpdesk work is watching 120 whiney ex DJs try to master the computer for something more than porn. It's not pretty--the work, I don't know about the porn. Remember the crazed monkeys of Space Odyssey? Take a picture. That would be my office, if we had one; if we didn't work home alone. For the record, I'm the monkey on the left, screeching and wielding a femur.

Anyway, it's a holiday. I work holidays. Without thinking I clicked reply, then I thought, What hours am I already scheduled for? Important question. I look stupid if I reply that I can work hours that I was previously scheduled to work. I don't want to look stupid. I'm already on the company terrorist watch list, and runs with scissors list, I should probably avoid the corporate Erkle list too. It's a trifecta I can't afford right now.

So I go into the corporate site, mouse rub pages and click links. One link, two link, red link, blue link…"Employee," "Benefits," "Schedule." Bullseye.

The fourth is…Friday. My day off is…Friday.

What?

I check again: both answers are correct. How the hell..? I don't think in all the time I've worked there, I've been off on a national holiday other than Thanksgiving. I didn't ask for it, what happened? Well if I'm not already working, I’m not asking for extra hours!

So now that I'm off the 4th, my next question is: "so what?" I mean, it's a family holiday. It's the day you take the kids to devour watermelon and ogle fireworks. Rind-goo faces and ringing ears, that's what makes America great. Later, when you're tired, you can stick the kids to a wall, like Velcro. What's more, your ears are too shot to hear any complaints. Now that, my friend, is a holiday!

I'll be spending my 4th
with this weirdo. Great...

I don't really have a 4th family. It's me and Cosmo. Cosmo is ok with Watermelon, but he'd rather have steak. And fireworks? Cosmo hates fireworks. He charges the back door every time after every bang. He's more scared on the fourth than when I took him to see Blair Witch.

"I don't know why they don't pee trail-markings on the trees, boy, just watch the movie."

Every timer there are fireworks, Cosmo trembles on my lap while I watch TV. That's not a holiday, that's a Friday night. I need something more. Still, I don't have it. I'm not really bitching. Ok maybe I am, but it's not a heartfelt harrumph bitch, it's more of a sub speech mutter bitch.

I mean I'll do my usual coffee shop write fest Friday, so long as their employees don't honor the holiday. Still, It's a holiday. I should do something special, but I don't have anything special to do.

I can't just kidnap the neighbors kids and go do family stuff. My city frowns on that.

"I said play with the piñata, Timmy! Now damnit! There's no crying! It's the freakin' fourth! Get happy!"

I wish it worked that way. The get happy, not the kidnapping.

"Get happy!"

"Ok, I am."

Now see? That would be reason to celebrate. Still, despite being all dressed down with nowhere to go, I am happy. This 4th I'm celebrating freedom. Not necessarily from MyUnwife, but from my divorce. From all the things that made my 39th year a miserable year.

I hold this truth to be self evident. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, I pledge my Life, my Fortunes, and my sacred Honor.

I'm gonna make this a good 4th.

Ewww!

Isn't that like cow chips?

How do you collect them? Nevermind, I don't want to know...

Silver lining?

It's less than my mortgage payment...

I guess that makes me a tank half full kinda guy.

Coffee time

"I've Seen Those English Dramas Too…"-Vampire Weekend

Did you ever read Rip Van Winkle when you were a kid? It's about the guy who played Fonzie on Happy Days dying. No wait. That's RIP Mon Winkler. Sorry…

If my card game of "Authors" served me right as a kid, Rip Van Winkle was written by Washington Irving.

For those of you who missed the Winkle tale, let me iron it out. Rip is a lazy guy who drinks a lot. (Ok, the next person who says "That's Rob!" is so going to get it!) He's got this nagging wife who doesn't appreciate his lifestyle and frequently lets him know it. She wants a Porsche, and he's only provided an ass; it's a common story.

Here's where it goes weird though. Rip sneaks away from home one night to have a few drinks; the nagging is making his whiskey sour. On a hill out of nag-shot he finds some guys playing nine-pin. Rip explains that locals usually use ten pins and they really should set up a proper alley, complete with shoes and a bar, but the strangers continue to play anyway. He hangs out and drinks with them, because let's face it, even if they don't know how to bowl, it's more fun than hanging out with his wife who right now is crocheting a Mini-Rip Van voodoo doll.

See? Couples of all ages have trouble. Rip and his wife had theirs. That's ok, because that problem is about to resolve itself.

It turns out that his new friends are ghosts. Rip settles down for a nap because drinking and playing takes a lot of effort. When he wakes up, it's 20 years later. His wife is dead and most of the people he's known have moved. Life is a little traumatic at first but without the nagging, he settles back in and learns he can drink in peace. Rip lives happily ever after.

So what does that story have to do with anything other than Rob stealing 5 minutes of your life without even offering you a courtesy drink? It's this: Last night I discovered that I'm Rip Van Winkle.

Yeah, I was shocked too. I mean I shaved my goatee months ago, I'm clean cut, I drink less, and only bowl with ten pins.

RVW?

WTF?

Yup. I'm busily working away, and I've got VH1 on as background noise. They're telling me why I Love the New Millennium! Now at first I was a little confused. The first decade isn't even over. Isn't it a little early to do a retrospective? VH1 said "Nay! Nay! When we can make a buck, and hypnotize our viewers to forget that we don't show videos anymore, then we can call that day a good day. We didn't even have to use our AK…"

Well, normally I'd skip the ADD nostalgia fest, but tonight it's competing against a chubby-era Steven Segal movie (you know, it's one from the past 5 years or so, the one where he leads a prison break for a box of donuts, then whoops ass on the shop keeper for not having yellow sprinkles? It's like Caged Bearclaw 2 or something like that...) and Steel Magnolias. Yeah, so I clicked the remote and said, "Bring on the new millennium!"

I start watching just in time for 2007 and was so glad I did. Apparently I fell asleep that year. I was too busy breaking up with MyUnwife to realize what was going on in the real world.

Did you know that some astronaut went nutty and drove cross country in Pampers, Fatal Attraction style? Yeah, she left her marriage to chase after another astronaut who was dating another down to earth woman. Talk about women are from Venus! Holy Crap! If only I could make stuff up like that, I'd be a far better writer! She makes Rip Van Winkles' wife look like Caroline Ingles from Little House!

I slept through that whole thing! Man, I suck. I also found out that faux-hawks were an acceptable hairstyle.

So you mean I could get up in the morning without showering, go out, and my hair would be considered "in style?"

Dude! If we could have mixed that with the Miami Vice stubble face I could have forgone (Forewent? Foredeparted? Forever? Whatever...) the whole personal hygiene thing altogether. One more thing I didn't need to face during divorce.

That does make you wonder about old Rip. He'd been laying there 20 years. What kind of BO/ Breath issues did he have? Hell, MyUnwife wouldn't even kiss me before I stepped into the bathroom for a quick tune up, and that's like 20 hours, not 20 years. Were there like dead gophers lying atop him because they got too close (if only they were that easy to get rid of…)? Coyotes peed warning circles around his body, "Don't get close!"

I'm just wondering, because now I find I've been asleep for 1 year. This is a new world, and although I've maintained rudimentary appearances, I'm still not the hip/happening guy I should be. Hell, I still say "Dude!" how long has that been out of fashion?

It's a brave new world, and I'm a little scared. Sometimes I wonder if Rip could climb back up the mountain and go back to sleep, would he? Once you're awake to the world, can you draw the blind again? I don't know if I want to get up. Sure it's exhilarating, but so is hiding from Michael Myers as he slashes through the house. I'm not looking for that kind of excitement. I'd just like a nice drink and a place to rest my head. Oh yeah, and somebody to nudge me awake and give me a kiss now and then. I'm Rip Van Robby.

"Now you're here and you don't know why…"-Vertical Horizon

I'm reading the D360 page. I try checking in, it's what I do. I like seeing if anybody is carrying the "I love Rob" torch. Once again, I am disappointed, but I notice something else. Three entries on the same page contained the same word: "God."

I'm game, I click to check them out. I've seen a lot of justified faith posts lately so this can't be too bad, right?

Right.

So I didn't agree with much that I read. Everybody begged for comments, but made sure that I knew that only kinder gentler teddy bear snuggle posts were welcome. You know, "You're wrong, but lets hug." Granted it's more tempting than last time I tried this and took what was behind door number one:

"You’ve just won a divorce! Congratulations."

Since then, I've been a little less "kinder-gentler" Rob. But still, I didn't want to take their space without bearing teddies, so I thought I'd stand my ground in my own underwear and grouse on my own turf.

Right now there's a mouse click chorus as most of you fumble for the back arrow. That's cool. I can play mime zealot.

"..!"

"Scurry! Flee! He's yammering about religion."

Yeah, sort of. I'm talking about faith, and I'm talking about divorce. I know those who've already turned the page won't understand what I'm going to say. It's fine, I'll still pray for them. Not because I'm better, but because I suck, and I appreciate the need for prayer. I think the nicest thing anybody said for me was when they said, "I'll pray for you." I need that. I know what it's like to be my own compass, turning randomly like a board game movement spinner--each movement an arbitrary advance, without meaning.

I read in one of the posts where a woman lamented a family friend who "gave up" her life by staying in a marriage to please an arbitrary God. I had multiple reactions. Most of those looked like I'd eaten a raw lemon and then rinsed my mouth with battery acid. (What? Some people keep a glass sitting around…) Now I didn't know the family friend, but, if the woman's assessment is true, I pray that I could have shown that kind of faith.

See, the Christian God is not a God of whim. He doesn't sit on a cloud with a people remote spilling crumbs of boon and bane like Doritos bits from a bag. That's Zeus. He also liked Funyuns, and waged wars over Good & Plenty. Our God is real. He's personal. He's with us, and he cares.

Right now he's spit his Mountain Dew all over my monitor.

"That isn't what you were going to blog about."

"I know, you inspired me."

"I need to stop doing that."

Yeah, he's as excited as you are. See, I'm not nearly as poetic as the Biblical writers, I don't have my scripture down, and I don't know how to relate to most people. I guess that's why I wish I had the kind of faith to make a sacrifice of love.

In our world, too many people walk away from marriage too quickly. "I don't feel it." Love is based on more than the "feel." I guess as a Christian that's what draws me. God doesn't love me because of what he feels, which is good, cuz I'm about as unworthy as they get. His Rob-feel-o-meter usually hovers in the red.

Still, I'm saved. I belong to the Church, and it's no mistake that the Church is alluded to as the "bride of Christ." We offer our best as a sacrifice, as a bride would do for a good husband who promises to protect and provide for her. I tell you as a husband, I could never live up to God.

I tried, but I failed. That's the guilt all Christian's carry, even those who manage to hold their marriage together. Thank God we're forgiven.

That doesn't mean we should run out and sin gleefully in the yellow snow. Quite the contrary, we're called to zip it up and be the best husbands and wives we can be--as a thank offering--as a way of honoring the standard set before us by Christ, and saying, "I do."

So It's no wonder Christians look at divorce with such disdain. There are only a few really good reasons for divorce, adultery, and abuse are the most obvious. And yet these are crimes we commit against God daily. How do we justify it?

No, really! I'd love an answer to that. My marriage didn't die on either of these premises, so I struggle with the burden of my failure once again, and yet it is my cross to bear.

That's why I so rarely say "Leave the bastard!" to anyone seeking help. I'd love to see things work out. I pray that God ease everybody's heart, and show them the way. I believe marriage is his gift; it's our sin that tears it apart. I believe that with God's help some couples can draw back together and find the love they've turned away from. And if that means living a long life fighting for that, then so be it. I assure the woman who wrote, I know that God holds your family friend dear, for she is a treasure indeed.

So what about those of us sitting on the steps like a lonely Saturday morning cartoon bill (just a bill..)? What about those of us who couldn't hold our marriage together no matter what law we tried to uphold? The Bible says that God care's about every hair on our head, and that Jesus is the shepherd who left the 99 to search for the one lost sheep. We are the one. We are fallen, we are dirty, we are scuffed, but we are his. He loves us and he'll bring us back to where we are meant to be.

Our marriages didn't turn out as we planned, but he's forgiven us for things we've done to bring us here. It's time to pick up, brush ourselves off, and get back to doing his will. For he is not the Arbitrary cloud God, he has plans for us. Good plans, and it's time we lived them. Right now his plan for me includes cleaning the Mountain Dew off my monitor. God's peace to you and your family my friends.

Mile 9

I'm sure Mary might have something to say about that.

What? What do you want for iPod dead, outta water, whiney Rob humor?

Mile 8

This is where my iPod died.

Mile 7

Subsidized blogging. And now a word from our sponsor...

Mile 6

Inter-cart mingling? My grandfather would roll over in his grave.

Mile 5

Looks like I missed the last bus. Luckily there's a short one coming
soon...

Mile 4

Look! More lilies!

Mile 3

No... Third. The streets are faster than me and they're showing off.

Mile 2

Consider the lilies of the field. Ok so I wouldn't know a lily from a
peach tree. That's why I'm thankful that on the 8th day God created
Piggly Wiggly.

Mile 1

Argh! They're after me burried treasure!

In the beginning

I've got the tools, I have no talent. It's walk time.

"It's only a matter of time before we all burn…"-Death Cab for Cutie

What do I write today?

Not a very ambitious beginning, huh? What if Melville started Moby Dick that way? How many people would have gotten past page one?

What do I write today? Call me perplexed…

Yeah, it doesn't give the reader great confidence in the good writer's talents. Luckily for you, this isn't the great American novel, it's just the novelty of my life; something to digest with a coffee and a banana muffin at Starbucks before Googling white whales. Don't worry, I'm there too, naked with a harpoon. Yeah, you'll be diving for the escape key faster than you could type Queequeg's coffin. You'll probably want to clear the coffee spume from the laptop screen too, it's covering my naughty bits.

For those of you who didn't realize Moby Dick was anything more than a Led Zeppelin track: laugh now. No it wasn't that funny but it was filled with literary references and it'll make that cute girl in the glasses sipping her latté, two tables over, look up. She'll want to know what's funny, we all like to laugh.

For God's sake don't show her my blog, you'll sink the ship like Ahab with a crazed gleam in his eye. You might as well open up with, "Hi, I'm Jim, and I've been alone for two years. You sure have got a purdy mouth."

Yeah. Tell her you're researching Jane Austin. She'll like that. You'll impress her. See, it's all in the words. Be it literature, the great hello, or perfect date, it's all in the lexicon. The right words are the difference between the creepy weirdo hunched over his monitor, and the amazing guy who gives you the big giddy.

Oh sure, sometimes it's more than words, it's a look, a glance, a dimple, but sooner or later we all open our mouths, and that's what makes the difference between The Grapes of Wrath and The Da Vinci Code. Ask the girl with the latté who's perching at your table. She'll tell you. She's smiling. Offer her a seat. Talk to her.

We all have to talk sometime. Talking: the great communicator. Yeah it's what separates man from mimes. Well, that and opposable thumbs. Mimes don't write books either. Don't look at me, I'm a blogger: we're one link below slam poets on the evo-literary chain. We can't manage cool beats and imperfect rhyme; we might as well be ferrets.

Don't tell that to latté girl. She's cute, but I can never get as far as hello. I'm so insecure I have to talk about myself in the third person because there's no way she's sitting at this table because of me. It has to be that third person: the witty writer. I'm just a blogger, and it's all smoke and letters.

If these two collections of words
can keep from repelling each
other, maybe I stand a chance.

I'm also divorced. It makes me feel like the William Hung of the nuptial world. I probably shouldn't sing on that topic. Why is the smiling latté girl still here? She's finished her cup. She should have been on the first raft off the ship.

What do I write today?

What do I say?

It's all in the words, and my mouth is a dry parchment caked with dust. Single syllables and involuntary grunts. The girl gives me the look. You know the one, "Do you normally sweat and stammer like that? Should I call you a doctor?"

And like that the pain is over. She shrugs up her purse and wanders off. The fickle winds blow a wisp of "hi, I'm Rob" to chase her. But those words fall short.

After the divorce, each day I get up and get closer to finding the words that speak to the world. The words that say "Hi, I'm Rob." Sometimes they ride the bravery of Captain's Courageous, other times they're mere mice-no men.

What do I write today?

I am the author of my words. What I write comes from my heart. There will be other latté girls. I will try again. I will learn their lexicon, even if the caffeine shakes kill me.

"And that white dress she's wearing you haven't seen for a while…"-Airborne Toxic Event

Do you know who died the other day? George Carlin. It's something MyUnwife and I would have spent a half hour commiserating.

"Oh, he was funny"

"I know, what a shame."

"He will be missed."

"Yes, yes, he will be missed…"

We'd go on like that forever. For your sake, I'll stop there. You get the idea. You don't need a complete transcript. If you do, mail me $5 and an SASE. I'll be sure to get a copy to you. In the meantime, let me continue with my blog.

We wouldn't chat up the dead because we were such great fans, but more because we always scoured the obits for "cool" dead people. Some people dig the wedding pages to throw divorce dirt. We stuck to the obits: we saw dead people.

Maybe we did it because you can never guess marriages:" They'll never make it," or "I think they got what it takes." We all play Ms. Cleo of the wedded bliss world, but we never get it right-- not even in our own marriages, for some of us.

I swear my crystal ball didn't show me sitting up for the divorce clock countdown. If it had showed that, even if I said, "I'd have still done it," I think I might have "done it" differently.

"No, honey, trust me. The plain sterling silver band says 'I love you'."

Yeah, I know. I am quite the catch--if you like soggy boots. Wuss in boots or not. I do remember the jeweler with diamond dust in her eyes. "You know, the size of the stone tells the world how much you love her." I was a sheep, cowed into selling the farm for a finger investment. I remember her holding out her finger in pride. I get a different finger whenever I see her now.

Alright, no I don't. It just sounds fun. I know she'd give me the finger if I asked, and that's really all that matters. In reality, she doesn't raise a hand either way. It's ok. I'm sure if she were Nostradamus Smurf, there were things she'd have done differently too. If I had to guess, it starts with the "jeans and T-shirt" ceremony, rather than the strangling dress and deadly shoes.

Why do we torture ourselves for the wedding? I mean, I'm a guy, I say that like I "torture myself." I may abuse myself, but there's not torture to it. The biggest torture for me was the chapped lips from the words "It'll be wonderful dear" passing across them every 30 seconds. I had no moisture to refresh them; I was a guy getting married for the first time.

Still, that's a guys wedding job: nod, smile, support. It's your day. We're just there as a cake topper. Don't get me wrong. I believe guys should be involved, but only where we're needed.

"I do."

The wedding is just like the marriage: how the couple works through the wedding day says a lot about how they'll work through the marriage. Is the groom distant? Is the wife overbearing and panicked? These are signs. It's not bad, it's just good to know.

Some guys love a wife who'll pick his clothes for him, and some women want the husband to agree with everything. In our wedding, and in our marriage, we were neither of these things. Still our partnership worked more like a friendship, and maybe that was our downfall. I don't know, I'm just tossing rice in the air to see where it lands. Maybe it really was the fact that everybody thought we would make it.

That's what they told us anyway.

That's why we used to go through the obits. See, weddings are tough. Unless we've managed to survive one, we have no business guessing who's going to last or not. Death, well everybody comes to that point someday. We usually hope later than sooner. Still, I think I can gauge that somebody will die, and be kind of accurate. After a divorce, finding that I'm right sometimes is what gets me through the day.

Déjà Vu

Back to the tire store. The good news is it's their air conditining,
not mine.

"Cerebral rape and pillage in a village of his choice…"-The Replacements.

Well the great gopher war of 08 appears to be over. The little dirt mounds litter my lawn like unmarked graves. The neighbors dog is sniffing around the yard leaving dog tags. I'm hoping that's what they are.

I know I sound so cruel, huh? It's just been such a busy weekend I almost view the belly up critters as collateral damage. Welcome collateral damage, but still not really big in the scheme of things. Oh, and they're not nearly as cute as that little guy from Caddyshack. If I'm gonna have yard vermin, they better be freakin' cute--like Shrek and Donkey cute. If they're in my lawn, they can muck it up whenever they want.

So yeah, It was a busy weekend. I had to repair my garage door that I'm going to need to replace as soon as I can afford it. It doesn't look great, but it'll keep any surviving gophers from my munitions dump. It also gives me a secondary trip for today. Yeah, I get to go and have another flat tire fixed/replaced. There's a nail in my tire. I blame manicurist-gopher. They're worse than Smurfs.

Don't get too sympathetic, I think the nail is from the door, and not a mangled paw. I'm not gonna call in a CSI team, they'll just blame me. If I wanted blame I'd call MyUnwife.

"Hi, I--"

"It's your fault!"

Click.

"Thanks." Yeah, it's "1-800-Blame-RB." Call it if you like. It might help you heal. It's done wonders for her. If I feel guilty about the grieving rodent relatives vacating my yard, I know where to go.

I saw MyUwife too this weekend. NO! She was not burrowing in my yard. That's not even nice guys, you should be ashamed. She was at the bank, with outstretched arms.

I'd received our IRS stimulation check, she wanted stimulus. Since I needed a signature, I needed to oblige. Veni Vidi Cha-ching: I came, I saw, I cashed the cow to buy magic gopher killing beans.

As you've figured out by now, our divorce is one of convenience: there's no real animosity, just Slim Jims and Slurpies for everyone. I think that the season of ill will is behind us now.

I read an article about that just last night. It said that couples who go through an uncontested divorce get along better after the divorce than couples of contested divorces.

Really?

According to www.thefreedictionary.com, Uncontested means: "not disputed and not made the object of contention or competition." So, people get along better when they don't dispute or make things the object of contention? Who knew? Obviously we didn't; we're getting a divorce. Still, we're intelligent enough: we learn. Our divorce is uncontested.

Other than this stunning discovery, the article told me that couples who do go through a contested divorce, become more friendly as each partner becomes more stable. So, divorced couples who have good jobs and safe houses, don't carry the bitterness as much as the ones who are still struggling.

That means that if your ex-wife knocks on the window of your car, while you're sleeping in the back seat, to let you know that she's doing ok living in her new ranch house, you shouldn't get angry. She's just there to let you know that she's forgiven you and has moved on.

"Toodles!"

That's not us. We didn't go through that phase. We split thing amicably. If there was a bone of contention, I gave it to her, dog slobber and all. We get along fine and most all the vindictive bitterness is behind us. That'll probably last until she finds out I freed her beloved gopher collection.

Not again!

I think it's the gophers waging war...

"But I know our filthy hands can wash one another’s…"-Death Cab for Cutie

Ring-Ring! Ring-Ring!

"Guess who?"

I already know. Caller ID is a godsend. Still, I'm friendly; I'll play along, "Cosmo?"

"Shut up, stupid." Apparently friendlier than she is. It's ok, she's teasing. It's our game.

"Good to hear from you too! What's up?"

"I'm in the doghouse."

"And you're sure you're not Cosmo?"

"Yes."

She's got a good sense of humor so I string her along for a bit about missing my birthday. That's why she's calling now. Well the birthday. She's calling for the birthday, not the stringing.

"I think I missed a whole week!"

"And that just happened to be the week of my birthday?"

"Yes! Exactly! I am so sorry."

"It's fine." She also thinks I'm 2 years younger than I actually am, so I'm in a very forgiving mood.

Who is it? It's one of my oldest friends. Well she's older than me, but I've also known her longer than almost anybody. I was in her wedding, and she'd have been in mine if she weren't busy raising a dairy family in Minnesota. Maybe should blame her for the collapse of my marriage. I showed up for her wedding, and it's still going strong. What kind of friend is she?

Still, it's good to hear from her; it's like having another birthday without getting older. I'm all for that. We were on the phone for hours just catching up. I told her all about my blog, she doesn't read it. She doesn't have the internet. I guess it's a Minnesota thing. They also kill mammoths for their pelts and communicate with rocks. She tells me she flew to North Dakota just to use a pay phone to call me.

Hey Minnesota! Don't blame me, I'm only the California friend. It's her information, not mine. I'm simply relaying what I was told. Don't hate me because I'm bronzed and beautiful.

As for the rest of you, let me appologize. I was typing out another blog when she called but she inturrupted my brilliance. Instead, you get this thing. Kind of sucks, huh?

Well Here's what I had so far:

I don't want to be a whiner, but when it comes to planning a day, a thermometer that reads 106 kind of limits the things I file as "enjoyable." I guess that's why I'm lucky I work today: not much planning required.

Still, according to what everybody says, I'm supposed to get back out there. I'm supposed to show my best side, and let the women know I'm available. Uhm, how can I do that when my pores are spitting sweat faster than a forked water balloon?

I've been told several times about my good qualities, "Sweat of sugar water" is not one of them.

Yeah sorry, you really weren't getting dealt a winner either way. In fact it looks like the cards were stacked against you. She did ask me about my dating life. She's a good friend she's still curious.

"Well, I'm really not dating yet."

"Why not?"

"Well I'm still wearing the ring. I've been told it drives the girls off."

"Well, at least the quality ones, yes. Take off the ring!"

"I've only got a month left, I might as well ride it out."

"Oh for God's sake! Take off the $#%@'n ring and get out there!"

Yeah, I don't remember this mother quality, but she's now Tasering me from the nest. "I will, but you know, I'm just taking my time."

"You're just a chicken shit."

"What? How do you figure that? You're wearing it as an excuse, now get out there."

Well, I'm not necessarily saying she wrong, so I thanked her for her opinion and told her, "you're wrong."

"Fine, prove me wrong, get out there."

She's a pushy friend. I don't remember ever being so glad she lived in Minnesota. If she were here, she'd be setting me up. I know it.

Still, it's good to have friends, and it's really cool that she cares, and she thinks I'm 2 years younger. I could use more friends like that.

As you wish...

In the winter, feel free to steal it...

Woo Hoo!

It's time to break out the Catholic school girl uniform!

"there's a truth that sanity denies…"-Sprung Monkey

Varmints! I have Varmints in my lawn! What the hell am I supposed to do about that?

For most people, varmint control is a family honored tradition.

"Son, today I'm gonna talk to you about gopher control."

"Whew! Mom said we were gonna talk about sex."

That wasn't my dad. My dad had the sex talk instead, so I had to learn about varmints from the kids at school. They were too busy smoking pot ant talking about sex to be much varmint use. I did try to barter Dad's sex knowledge once, but the best I could do was to parley it into how "how to build a bong with a paper cup and an aluminum ashtray."

Valuable knowledge for some, but for the guy staring at dirt clump lumps around his lawn it ain't much good.

So I'm an undereducated statistic. The American school system let me down. Varmints, 1; Rob, 0. It's funny, because when you're young, you never care. Oh I believed them when they said I'd need algebra growing up, and I know how to slay a mean Grendal, but rodent control?

My educated guess was to live in the pristine house: picket fence, 1 wife 2.5 Biblically named kids: Ruth, Mark, Lu. There would be no critters of grass destruction in my lawn.

Yet here I am. Reality's termites have gnawed through that fantasy. I've got gophers. Mr. and Mrs. Fred Grandy are sipping Mint Juleps on my lawn beneath a turf-love boat parasol.

I'm wondering if their bitching about their "human" problem. I don't think so.

See while you're married it's always easier to deal with these things. It's a team thing, and it's almost like those problems don't exist. Oh, sure you have other problems:

"Why are we watching the Ya Ya Sisterhood again?"

"Shut up. Hobbit-boy, you're not one to ask these questions."

"Who used the last strip of toilet paper?"

"The cats?"

Those are the pressing matters during marriage. The things that set you at odd. Yard Varmints? They're nothing. Even if neither one of you knows how to deal with them.

I no longer have to worry about the last strip of toilet paper. If it's gone, I blame the gophers. Ya Ya sisterhood? I have a remote control to cure that nonsense. Nope, Those are the problems plaguing Gopher and his wife. The human trying to exterminate them hasn't even created a blip on their radar.

I know that because their busy in my lawn setting up a movie screen and surround system. It looks like they're inviting neighbors over for Love Boat reruns. I'll give them this: Those gophers have a great surround system...

"you don't Always Have to hold your head Higher than your heart…" -Jack Johnson

There's sex in them thar hills! At least that's what the vibrating hoard was rumbling about online yesterday. "Orgasm or Bust!" painted on wagons of all shapes and sizes. I watched through my window at Divorce 360, reading some 130 plus posts on the joy of self-fulfillment. Normally I wouldn't touch the subject, but these were women talking; they were doing all the touching. I was all ears--and one nether appendage, but that appendage is neither here nor there. My appendage isn't what they were talking about, and I was more interested in their app-well, you know.

An emissary to the cause, I watched. I watched all the glad handing with fascination. I watched, wanting to know what they wanted so that I could pass it along to all guy-dom. Ok, that's a lie. I'm a guy, I was supplying my own cache. Let the other guys work for themselves, I'm here to learn for me. I'm selfish that way. All I need is a good teacher.

Wow you are fast!

That's what the email read. In context to my D360 reading, I was a little hurt. I am not fast. I'm Goldilocks and Mama Bear: I am just right! I'm also blonde and furry. I've got all my bases covered. Either way, you get the idea. You can see why I had to step away from my studies in one hand to read the email in the other.

It was from a woman who no longer wanted to attend my writers' group. I'd gotten two of these emails this week, three in the past month. My group is changing again. It's all in the dynamic of things I guess. One day it's water stealing the sand from your toes, the next it's a wave-smack to the face, leaving you a breathless frothy mess.

Blame it on dogs and homework; blame it on tan lines and bikinis; blame it on irreconcilable differences; people and things come and go in all our lives. Some we'd like to stay, others we'd gladly hold the door to process their passing. In the years I've led the group, there are a few people I miss, and even more I don't remember.

With all their talk about Jackrabbits
and Butterflies the indigenous
women were unimpressed with
my tales of pink flamingos.

Still, the group goes on. Every time I think it lost it's vitality, new faces arrive and spark new life. It's like watching a John Wayne film. No matter how many times he's shot, he's still jumping his horse.

“Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway”

Thanks John, but I'm made of limper stuff. Saddling up sounds good, but I'm alone and reading about women dying to get off, one way or another.

I don't think the group is going to be good for me.

As I'm writing this, I don't really remember the sender's name, all I know is she's leaving. I'm getting used to that. Don't roll your eyes at me! I'm not being melodramatic. People leave. I don't think I appreciated that until recently. I always thought people stayed. In a natural state, people stayed at rest. Only through outside influence or temporary insanity did they ever leave. It was Rob's second law of motion from Rob Philosophy 101. I was wrong. I hate being wrong. I hate it almost as much as I hate being accused of being quick. I take both personally.

I'm still as much a student as I am a teacher. I'll get better at this. That's why I'm back to reading about the great lithium battery rush of 08: I need to learn. Besides, it leads to a happier ending.

Even now, things there have changed. The women have all stopped posting and a group of guys think that they've found the local watering hole. The atmosphere has shifted, and the air is palpable; a testosterone rain is coming soon. What would John Wayne do? Well I don't know pilgrim, but he'd definitely buy an umbrella...

Now the women who have stayed have turned into mothers. They're stroking guys sympathetically, "It's ok. No, size doesn't matter..."

I close the window. I'm already comfortable with size doesn't matter. I'm hung like a Jack-Russell Terrier but MyUnwife was always willing to play fetch. It's getting pathetic out there. Any minute I'm gonna see grown men cry. The Duke would never have put up with that. Yeah, I guess it's true. Things do change, and even now, I'm changing. I'm leaving.

Everything has it's time though. I'm leaving this, but I'm entering that. I hate change but I'm ready for it, and after visiting the D360 conversation, I come bearing gifts. I always thought roses were appropriate, but if this is better then fine I'll do what you want.

"Mom! You're date's here. He's got a back massager just like yours."

Ok, fine, but give me a break. I'm still learning.