An Unexpected Guest Blogger

For the 23 years I've been operating this blog, I've tried to stay wary of the many ways in which a blogger can be a jackass. I vowed to never propose to anyone on the blog, to never start more than 10 conversations in a day with "As I recently said on my blog," and to never break a social plan because I "had blogging to do."

Sometimes, though, my friends can't avoid the blog. One such pal recently sent me and another friend a great e-mail detailing a romantic trauma and his reaction to it. It was the smartest, funniest thing that had landed in my in box in some time, so I asked him if I could share it, because it just didn't seem fair that only (friend redacted) and I would read it. He said I could, so long as the names were removed. I've removed the names, as well as the name of a city, just to be doubly safe. Now, for your entertainment (and edification):

It's 25 degrees here in (southern American city redacted). Midnight. The wind is gusting exuberantly outside. I can actually see it flicking little pieces of peeled paint off my hundred-year-old house’s 40-year-old paint job. It was yellow. The one before that, evidently, was rust red. I wonder how old that paint is. Regardless, it gives the house a nice leady scent.

I write because I’ve studied about as much on pediatric vomiting and diarrhea as I can tonight, though that turns out to be surprisingly little. A little down lately, (woman's name redacted) and I broke it off last week. Everyone seemed to think that it was unthinkable to stay together at all after (personal event redacted). Not only do I not understand that, but I find it vaguely irritating. Relationships are a bit like money, everyone seems to think that everyone else is crazy in the way they handle it. I haven’t talked to her since.

I will say that it’s difficult living in a house entirely decorated by your ex. I’d take it all down, but she did such a snazzy job. I mean, let’s face it, I never would have thought to buy a giant wicker pot, fill it with enormous dried grass fronds, and stick it in the corner of my bedroom. The only plant matter I bring in is either on my shoes or in a grocery bag. There are about 20 decorative non-functional pillows in my bedroom, and about 40 candles throughout the whole house. It smells like Pier One in here. Maybe it’s time to buy a dog. I was thinking I’ll name him Colonel Chewbone, and refer to him as "The Colonel." Excellent.

Meanwhile my book about the hardboiled German navy U-boat doctor spy is still in the planning stages -- as is my workout routine.

Doctoring is fine, but sometimes I fantasize about that other life I almost led -- the one where I’m a Hamburg-based museum architect and gentleman thief who robs the world’s great museums and then buries the pieces in arctic ice to freak out future explorers. Spread collars, French cuffs, hot and cold running women, a place in the Italian Riviera, a cold but beautiful Interpol agent in constant pursuit. Would have been nice, but doctoring is good, too.