Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 19

Uh-oh, ex alert!

You run
into people in the strangest places, don't you? You're just out minding your
own business when you see someone who looks oddly familiar. Your brain scans
the files of relatives, coworkers, and classmates. No matches. The person is
closing in on you. You blow the dust of your cerebral "names of people I once
knew" box and flit through the folders. Hurry!




It's no
use. You're about to be reintroduced. Last-ditch effort: do the alphabet scan
thing.




A –
Albert: No. I would never date an Albert.

B –
Brian: Hmm, I think I had a one-nighter with a Brian once.

C –
Chris: He doesn't look like a Chris. Maybe if he had lighter hair.

D –
Damian: Scary.

E –
Edward: My grandfather's name was Edward. I wouldn't have forgotten that name.

F – Oh,
fuck … too late.




"Hi,
Beth, how are you?"

"Fine.
So nice to see you again."

Here comes that awkward hug.
Maybe I can match the scent.

"Nice to
see you too."

"Gosh,
it has been so long."

"Oh,
silly, last spring isn't that long ago."

Time to recover. I wish my
dumbass friend would introduce herself before I embarrass myself.

"To you,
maybe. I've been so busy."

"So, who's
your friend."

Come on, girlfriend. God, she's
stupid. This bitch is buying the rest of the night.

"This is
Allie."

"Hi,
Allie. I'm Franco. Beth and I met on eHarmony and went on a date last year."

Fuck!

"Look at
that: My glass is empty. Be right back. Anybody need one?"




It's
wise to remove yourself from the stressful situation to regroup and analyze.
Search your phone. Nothing. No use signing into eHarmony here. I suggest you
use humor to diffuse the situation. If that doesn't work, lie.




"Oh, hey
there, Beth. Welcome back. What are you drinking?"

"Vodka."

"… and
club soda?"

"… and
more vodka."




This is where
your friend excuses herself to allow you to do some treading in the tears of
your ex.




"So, I
never heard back from you."

"Um.
Yeah. Sorry about that."

"That's
OK."

"Good."

"I mean,
I liked you and thought we were a great match."

"Aw."

*gulp*

"I still
do, in fact."

"You're
sweet."

"But,
you never returned my calls or text messages, so I assumed you weren't
interested."

"Right.
Well …"

"You don't
have to explain. Jeez. It's like almost two years ago. I'm over it. No biggie."

"Ah, OK."

"I'm
still single. How about you?"

"Kind of dating someone."

"Is it
serious?"

*gulp* I'm going to kill Allie.

"Serious
enough."

"Do you
think you'll marry him?"

"I don't
know. Gee, where did Allie go?"

"She's
over there talking to the bartender."

"Oh,
maybe she needs a hand."

"I get
it. You're trying to ditch me. That's OK. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"No, not
at all. Look, Franco, you're a great guy. I just wasn't ready back then, I
guess."

"Well,
if you weren't ready you shouldn't have been on eHarmony and you certainly
shouldn't have let me take you out."

"Yep.
You're right."

*gulp*

"Why don't
you make it up to me by letting me take you out tomorrow night?"

"Because
I'm dating someone, remember?"

"You're
just making that up as an excuse to get away from me."

*gulp*

"Be
right back. Hey, Allie …"




As we
toss bodies on the pile of exes, we're eventually going to have to deal with
the stench or find new landfills.

Are you looking to date your daddy?

Not
literally, silly. Take a little inventory of your recent bedwarmers. How many
of them—specifically, the ones you liked for more than their sub-sheets skills—had
similar personalities to your father? Go ahead and think about it. I'll wait.




Just got
a tiny chill, didn't you?




It's actually
not so creepy. You're expected to love your parents and you probably developed
a deep appreciation for the sacrifices they made to help create the ball of wonderfulness
you currently are. Consider how many evenings your father would have rather
done almost anything other than spoon feed you candied yams, pick up all the
Cheerios you tossed on the floor, and change shirts stained by your projectile "stuff." You'd damn well better appreciate it, young lady!




I exploit
this tendency when I meet a potential lover. I have her describe her father.
Based on that description, I know if I have a title shot or not.




"How is
your relationship with your father?"

"Oh, it's
great. He's a magnificent person."

"So, you're
daddy's little girl."

"Yep. He
spoiled me with gifts and hugs."

Duly noted: Buy things and cuddle.

"Aw."

"He
always made sure I knew how proud he was of me."

Also noted: Voice appreciation
often. Emotional propping may be required.

"I'm
sure he's proud. Look how amazing you are."

"Thank
you. He maintained a positive outlook and went out of his way to help people."

Another note: No whining about my
misery and carry some spare change for the homeless.

"Well, I
hope to meet the fellow someday."

"I'm sure
you two would get along famously."

"Hey, as
long as he's not allergic to cats or a Tim Tebow fan, we'll be tight."




Women
need a reality check, though. Not every father can be the best father ever.
Some, frankly, had to suck. One easy way to see if your admiration is justified
is to review your last five or so lovers and see what percentage of them were
considered by most of your friends to be unworthy of you.




"What on
earth did you see in Stan?"

"He's a
good guy."

"He
totally is not. He treats his ex-wife like shit."

"Maybe
that's because she's psycho."

"What
about his insecurity issues? He was the most jealous man I ever met."

"That's
because he loved me so much. He couldn't stand the thought of me with another
man. It would make him crazy to consider that I loved anyone before him."

"… and then
he cheated on you."

"I know.
Well, I guess things weren't going as well as I thought."

"What?"

"If I
gave him what he needed, he wouldn't have cheated on me. It was momentary
weakness. He apologized and promised to never do it again."

"Wait.
Didn't he get a different girl pregnant right after you forgave him and took
him back?"

"True.
Well, it's over now. He's a good guy though."

"Oh my
god. Please stop defending him."




This
woman was obviously neglected by her "wonderful" father, as were most women who
find themselves hopelessly attracted to bad boys and abusive men. She needs to
meet a nice guy and change her expectations of how men should treat her. If you
have a friend like this, tear her away from her father figure and guide her gently toward
a gentleman.

Think about what you're occupying.

When you
want to be heard, you speak in a place where the ears you're trying to reach can
hear you. You should also have a point, not just a gripe without a proposed solution.
Nobody wants to hear whining. This is what annoys me about all of the "occupy"
protests going on. People are gathering in places where the intended audience
spends little time. The protesters are carrying signs and chanting aimlessly.
You wouldn't pray this way.




"Dear
God, I'm pissed."

"What
about?"

"Everything."

"Well,
you know where the exit is."

"Seriously,
Dude, this sucks."

"What
does?"

"For one
thing, I don't have as much money as I used to."

"So, you
think you should be paid for sitting in a tent in a park playing Angry Birds on
your iPhone."




I've had
little luck in the romance department; that's no secret. Would it make sense
for me to plop a beach towel down in front of a hair salon? Should I chant to
the ladies getting their weekly blowouts, "I lost my wife, now I got no sex
life"? Ladies would step over me while delivering condescending glares. Sure,
some would show pity. They'd probably toss me a porn magazine or suggest I get
a puppy.




I would
love to protest about this recent trend: Women give me their phone numbers, don't
answer when I call, and don't return my message. Some take it a step further
and complain the next time they see me that I didn't pursue them sufficiently.
What's that all about? If I chase them, I'm the creepy leech guy; if I lie
back, I'm the aloof low-ambition-having goof.




To
protest the above mistreatment, what do you suggest?

Don't
ask for phone numbers. Ask for Facebook friending.
Take
my shirt off so they can decide if they really want to waste a number on such a
furry beast.
Disclose
my feline fancy.
Import
a bride from overseas.
Take
a yoga class wearing a T-shirt that reads, "I prefer doggie style to downward
dog."
Scan
the obituaries for emotionally unstable recent widows.
Stuff
a pool noodle in my pants.
Go
to a gay club, pose as a gay male, and infiltrate an all-girl table telling
them I'm curious.
Netflix.
Hair
coloring, chest shaving, teeth whitening, Spanx for men, elevator shoes, and
trade my 401(k) for a Mercedes.
Beg
an ex to take me back.
Aim
a lot lower.
Become
a marriage counselor.
Write
about it, hoping to find the ticklish spot on a woman in a similar situation.

Don't date a dummy.

If you
are a dummy, then move along. Otherwise, why would you waste your time dating
someone who is as intellectually stimulating as a cold speculum? It's like
taking a class where you know more than the teacher does. Sure, it's nice to have
arm-candy, but eventually that human bracelet will open its mouth
and ruin the fun.




You need
to find someone who is slightly more intelligent to keep you engaged. There's a
tiny problem you'll need to overcome due to the paradox—you'd be the dumber one.
That's where you can tout your other skills to make your ignorance tolerable.
If I date an intellectually superior woman, I concentrate on my foot-rubbing,
lasagna-cooking, and giggle-inducing skills. She won't need my help completing
crossword puzzles.




"I'm seeking
a four-letter word for 'An instrument of love.'"

"Cock?"

"Quit it."

"Dong?"

"It's
not a dirty word, nimrod. This is in the New York Times."

"Phil?"

"How self-serving."

"Can I
buy a vowel?"

"No,
this isn't Wheel of Fortune. Ah, I figured
out the adjacent word. The one I need begins with R."

"Rail?"

"You're incorrigible."

"Thank
you, I think. That is a compliment,
right?"

"Not
exactly."

"Don't
be mean. I bought you roses today, remember?"

"Rose!"

"No,
roses. There were twelve. I counted."

"The
word is 'rose.'"

"Oh. Of
course it is. I knew that. I was just playin'."




See? I
can cover my mental gaps with humor. Most dummies don't understand my jokes or
they take them personally. Hence, dummies don't last. I offend them and they
respond by calling me an "insensitive douche" and restricting access. Case in
point: Yesterday, I posted what I thought was a clever tweet based on a trending
topic.




"#iknewitwasoverwhen
Adele sang."




This
created a hippo stampede of women calling me an insensitive "h8ter." I'm actually a fan of Adele. I've read
numerous interviews where she refers to herself as overweight and, in fact,
she prides herself on not giving a shit what people think about her appearance.




"I like having my hair and face
done, but I'm not going to lose weight because someone tells me to. I make
music to be a musician not to be on the cover of Playboy." – Adele




So,
why am I being mean when I agree with her? Whatever.




Back to
my original point: You need to date someone who inspires you. Playing the
teacher role is exhausting. Dating a sexy dummy is like:

eating
microwaved filet mignon.
drinking
lukewarm espresso.
playing
catch with an iPhone 4S.
wearing
a sexy skirt with tighty whiteys.
watching
an NFL football game on the stadium TV.
complaining
about the current president although you didn't vote.
spraying
Chanel on your cha cha.
paying
valet although you parked your own car.
dunking
a Milano cookie in light beer.
wearing
a biker outfit on a stationary bike.
going
to the library to read comic books.
masturbating
in jet bathroom to join the Mile-High Club.
ordering
a Reuben without the meat.
adopting
a yorkie for protection.
eating egg whites. 
getting
a spray-tan in preparation for your beach vacation.

Are you a butt girl?

When
matchmakers circle around me, I'm asked typical questions. Then I wonder: Are women probed in a similar fashion? I
mean, how many times has a friend asked if you're a butt or chest woman before
hooking you up with a brother, cousin, or coworker? Ladies are more concerned
the three Hs: height, hair, and how much.




"So,
Phil, are you a boob or butt man?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Kidding.
Actually, I'm neither."

"Impossible."

"I'm a
man who appreciates a proportionate woman, if that makes sense. I don't like
tits on a stick. I don't like chocolate buns on a vanilla momma."




Don't
get me wrong; I realize women like chests, arms, legs, and butts. They're just more
concerned with the firmness than the size—penis excluded, sort of.




If I
describe my latest blind date to a buddy, he wants to know certain attributes
excluding hair color, clothing choice, and which perfume she wears. Imagine how
haywire this conversation would go:




"Tell
me, studly, how did it go with Match.com date number two hundred forty-nine?"

"Fine,
thank you very much."

"And?"

"She's
got light brown hair, she's around five-foot-four, she wore a tan cardigan over
a sheer blouse with Joe's jeans in indigo, and she was carrying a fine leather
clutch from Coach."

"OK,
pull the cock out of your ass and try again."

"She's a
nurse, she enjoys romance novels and walking on the beach. She ran her
first half marathon this past spring."

"Does
she have hairy balls?"

"Fine,
asshole. She came up to my nose, she had teardrop titties, and a delicious arch
in her back. We made out a little, including some over-the-clothing play. She
wore a lace thong and I'm pretty sure she dampened up a bit and will grant me a
second date."

"Much
better. You can have your man card back."




Then
there's the celebrity crush question. Most dorks respond with the usual
including Kim, Halle, J-Lo, and Jessica. Not I.




"I'd
have to go with Patti, Chelsea, Sandra, and Reese."

"Interesting.
Why?"

"Every
woman has bumps and holes. I want one with that plus intelligence, pride,
skill, and a sense of humor to tolerate playful kidding without leaving me on
the sofa with a spare pillow and blanket after one of my wisecracks."




Women
are naturally concerned with how financially secure men are. I don't care and I
don't want someone liking me for the size of the lump in the back of my pants. Ladies
don't really want a sugar daddy, do they? Would some really trade all their pride
and pleasure for an Amex Black? Gross!




The
safest thing to say is you're not typically attracted to men who … blah,
blah … but, if there's chemistry, who knows? That's the truth, right? How many
times have you described Mr. Perfect in your journal and then fell in love with
a man who couldn't be more different? I was married to a beautiful nurse with
thick, curly hair and marshmallow lips. Will my next love be similar? Unlikely.




Don't challenge
Nature by placing constraints on yourself. Let love come and flow where it may.

Does somebody need a hug?

Sure you
do. Hugs are good for you and they're free. Please note that it's imperative
that you deliver the proper hug. Depending on the hug-ee, you need to adjust
your strategy. Females need not be as concerned as males.




If you
are male and the receiver is …

your
lover: This one's simple. You can get away with almost anything here, depending
on your audience and what you've done to piss her off lately.
your
best male friend: Unless you just won the World Series, this needs to be a
handshake hug where only your right shoulders meet. It's OK to add a quick back
tap or two. If your stubbly cheeks meet, there's a problem, unless you're both
Italian.
an
exceptionally attractive server who is twenty years your junior: Keep in mind
which of the two of you is intoxicated. You can push the limit here if you're a
20% tipper. Still, if you double clutch her butt and lift her like in the
movies, you'll probably be kneed in the kerbangers and banned for life.
a
person who is seated: This person does not want to hug you. Smile and wave
instead.
a
female coworker at a company event: This is dangerous territory. The safest
thing to do is follow her lead. Extend both of your arms to show your
willingness, and turn your head slightly to the left (as to not give the
impression you're about to do something completely freaky, like kiss her on the
lips). Then, just do what she does.
a
first date you met online, who looks nothing like her pictures: She probably won't appreciate the high-five, so be nice and shake hands. This too shall pass.
a
first date you met online, who looks better than her pictures: Congratulations
on finding a unicorn. Be careful not to scare it away. Definitely go in for the
full-body hug, tell her how lovely she is, and alert the media.
an
uncle: Unless you're fed up with women and he's a priest or coach at PSU, you
shouldn't be hugging him. Buy him a beer instead.
a
buddy's wife: Best to be respectful here. You can embrace above the nipples but
keep your hips twelve inches apart. If, by chance, your buddy took certain
liberties in his hug with your woman, then one-up his ass by giving his girl a
gorilla reach-around and an earlobe kiss. That'll teach the ingrate.
a
high school senior cheerleader without proper identification: Nope.
the
bachelorette: That silly tiara, veil, and "I'm
a cock gobbling slut monkey. Please show me your penis." T-shirt she's
wearing give you permission to be as nasty as you want to be. The problem is
her fullback-sized bridesmaid will be doing her blocking and tackling, so you'll
probably need to show Lori Czonka some loving before you gain access to the
idiot announcing to the world that she's about to ruin her life by strutting
down the aisle with a man her parents disapprove of.
me:
I don't want to hug you unless you're the current president, handing me the
keys to a free Ferrari, or the agent who just signed me to a million-dollar
book deal.

If he doesn't call you, what does it mean?

Last
night, I ran into a woman I dated once … once.
Actually, I was chatting with her friend and when she introduced us, a tiny
sensor went off in my Bushmills brain that said, "She looks familiar." My
sensors are less sensitive nowadays, leaving me in embarrassing situations.




"Oh, don't
even act like you don't remember me."

"Huh?"

"We had dinner
date then went back to my place and I kicked your ass in Foosball."

"Um…"

"What?
You were so butt-hurt about a girl whooping you that you forgot to call?"

"I … but
… losing in Foosball? That's impossible."

"Pathetic."

"I think
you have me confused with someone else."

"No. You're
an author from Philadelphia. You drove a white Infiniti."

Holy fucking shit. I'm such an
ass.

"I'm
just messing with you. Of course I remember."

"Right.
Let's go, Betsy. Buh-bye, loser."




Off they
went. Well, I didn't take a chardonnay bath so it could have been worse. Her
friend was cute, but my chances were diminished now that Ms. Jilted tore me a
new one.




Honestly,
I don't remember her or the date. I've dated numerous women since becoming
single eight years ago. I can't expect to recall every detail of every date,
can I? I don't think we had sex. Hm. Nope. I usually remember that. She
probably had an annoying dog or halitosis. Whatever the reason, if I didn't
call her, I must not have been that into her so I did her a favor by tossing
her back. It was only one date. How
could she be sufficiently into me to hold such a grudge?




My
buddies found it amusing. As much as I try to stay in the shadows, drama finds
me and I eventually become the entertainment.




"You
know she probably practiced your beat-down in the mirror for years just waiting
for this day to come."

"Stop.
It was one fucking date."

"Right
now she's taking laps around the bar telling all the single women you're a
heartless swine."

"I know.
Damn it. Her friend was cute, too."

"No
shot."

"Oh, I
bet if I pushed it, I could get a date out of her friend."

"No way."

"Women
have egos too, dude. Her friend must know she's a sassy pain-in-the-ass-y and
is confident she'd have better luck with me."

"That's
some twisted-ass logic."

"Seriously.
If you went on one date with a chick and she never returned your calls, that
wouldn't scare me away from her."

"What if
I told you she can burp the alphabet?"

"Fine."




Jesus,
woman! I'm sorry I didn't call you. What would I have said, anyway? "Thank you
for the date last night. I'm not feeling it, so there won't be a second date.
Have a nice life." Radio silence is gentler. My conflict avoidance gene insists
I skulk away quietly. If I burn a few bridges along the way, so be it. Life is
too short to go on second dates with dead ends.

Do you know where your common sense went?

As
humans, we have a tendency to seek reason where there is none. Most of what
goes on in our lives is random. It may give us a sense of control when we blame
the supernatural for causing noteworthy events. Still, I suggest this is mild
insanity.




The
modern calendar wasn't even developed until 1582, which technically wasn't the
year 1582 until the calendar was created. It amazes me when intelligent people
suggest ancient man simply started counting years after Christ was born. Many
of these people also believe man once coexisted with dinosaurs and a magic pill
will cause unlimited boners and weight loss.




So, it's
11/11/2011. Wow. Technically, there is an annoying 2 and 0 within that date
confusing things. I mean, if it were 11/11/1111 then we'd have something. Oh, I
bet a shit storm of epic proportions would happen, including:

Happy
hour portions wouldn't be so damn chincy.
Teenage
boys would cut their bangs and pull up their pants.
Teenage
girls would stop dressing like Hollywood ho-bags.
Politicians,
coaches, and evangelists would stop lying.
My
sheets would fold themselves without eating one of my socks.
Cat
fur would no longer stick to my clothing.
I'd
watch an entire sporting event on TV without ads for Dremels or ED medicine.
A
cop would pull me over and give me $300 and a gold star for my superior driving
skills.
Children
would leave the sofa, go outside, and play football.
An
attractive woman would offer to buy me a drink without selling me anything or
introducing me to Jesus.
Amazon
would reward me as their 111 millionth customer by giving me unlimited free
books to read on my Kindle.
Elvis,
Freddie Mercury, and Michael Jackson would be discovered alive on a remote
island in the south pacific.
My
neighbor's dogs would develop incurable laryngitis.
Hair
would begin growing on the top of my five-head instead of inside my ears.
I
could drink coffee and Coors Light without peeing every thirty minutes.
The
US would foreclose on Bank of America, seize all of their assets, and hand them
over to their rightful owners while relocating senior management to Guantanamo Bay.
Fast
food commercials would stop featuring skinny, attractive people and show the lard-ass
booth busters that more typically frequent those establishments.
President
Obama would tell Michele Bachmann to take a flying fuck at a rusty pole.
Reality
TV and adult cartoons would be cancelled and replaced by Laugh-In, Soap, Monty Python's Flying Circus, and The Carol Burnett Show.
NBA
players would be forced to compete on Cupcake
Wars.
50
would be the new 30.
Scientists
would discover that melted cheese causes immortality.
Women
would burn bras again.
First
dates would include playful touching instead of twenty questions.
Bikers
would be forced to live on a carless island of spandex, leather, and silly
helmets.
Aliens
would arrive and hand out chocolate covered cherries and cannabis.
God
would part the clouds and yell, "Psyche!"

Don't do this while doing it.

You've
experienced embarrassment in the least convenient moments, haven't you? We all have. Shrug
it off, champ. Chances are, your partner at the time has long forgotten about
your snafu, although you can't seem to shake the memory. At least your ex
probably forgot your name so when the tale is told you'll not be implicated
directly.




"Oh my
god, you just reminded me about that guy—Jeez, what was his name?—who used to
squeak when he orgasmed."

"No way."

"It was
a high pitched peep. I had to make sure he was behind me or I'd lose it."

"Well,
that's better than farting."

"What?"

"Oh yes.
I had my man bust ass once while he was coming."

"Are you
sure it wasn't the dog?"

"It was
nasty."

"Well,
perhaps the vibration was enjoyable."

"I told
him to extract his manhood, wipe himself, and lose my number."

"Ha!"




Name
confusion causes embarrassment. That's why my friends and I all employ the
strategy of introducing ourselves
when a lady is in tow with a buddy. It saves the mumbled attempt at covering the
man's ignorance, "This is my friend Mike. Mike, this is Lisamberthalou."




How
embarrassing is it to have the server return your tab and card with the
innocuous line, "I'm sorry, sir. It seems we're having a problem processing
this card. Do you have another?" I try to use the plausible excuses including
fraud alerts and worn magnetic strips. Still, my date knows I've probably
tapped that fucker on other first dates. She anticipates my next move where I
say I didn't have a chance to get cash and wonder if she'd mind spotting me. A
wise woman excuses herself, calls a taxi, and leaves me to wash dishes.




One of
the most egregious errors I've ever made was leaving a knotted and loaded
condom on a bedside table (on the side I rarely visit). No, my cats did not discover
it, nor did my cleaning lady. I had friends visit and two of the wives asked
for a home tour. That's when we all discovered my little baby batter balloon.
There was no escape. It's unlikely I'll be set up with any of their friends.




How
about the "Ow-Fuck" toe cramp? Have you ever been visited by that little
nuisance while you were on the receiving end of the most wonderful oral
pleasure ever? It detracts from the fun, to say the least. You're just about
ready to explode your innards and suddenly your middle toe rises and turns left
over your index toe, causing pain so intense that you're tempted to hit
yourself with a ball-peen hammer. It's too late to chug water. Say goodbye to
O-town, my friend.




You're
at an away game, preparing to take that first trip beneath the
sheets. You wisely excuse yourself to the bedroom-adjacent bath and make sure
all is well (lest a dryer sheet flies from your trousers). You decide to freshen
by wiping some toothpaste using your finger-brush. Then, you sit to pee, as to
not make noises or splash spots. (The fan doesn't work.) Suddenly, diarrhea
hits, but that's not the problem. That tiny half-sheet remaining on the roll is
your undoing. Might as well grab a hand towel and call it a night.

What does she really mean when she says …?

Men
often hear what we want to hear. It gets us into trouble. My interpretation
skills have been honed by the numerous misunderstandings I've encountered. Today,
I can usually find the true meaning between the words women speak. When I misinterpret,
I simply add the mistake to lessons learned, wipe the wine from my face, and
trudge forward.




For
example, when a woman says, "Nothing's wrong," something most definitely is wrong
and the man shall pay. The foolish man hears her words and assumes he has a
pass. Silly boy.




"Are you
sure, honey?"

"Yes, of
course."

"So, you
won't mind if I stay for one more beer?"

"No, not
at all. Take your time and have fun with the boys, sweetie."

"You're
not mad?"

"Why
would I be mad? I have plenty to do around here."

"You're
the best. Hey, don't bother waiting up for me. I know how you need your sleep."

"Oh, so
you plan on being home late?"

"Gee, I
don't know. I just don't want you to wait up."

"OK,
that's fine."

"Thanks,
honey. You're the best."

"No
problem."

*click*




That man
thinks he's sailing the glassy seas on The Love Boat, but he's really up Shit's
Creek rowing with teaspoons in a slowly deflating inner tube.




After he
hangs up, he returns to his pack of wild apes and proudly proclaims he has the
coolest wife ever.




"She
trusts me."

"Wow.
She didn't give you any attitude at all?"

"Nope.
She said to stay out as late as I want."

"Interesting."

"What?
You think she's just saying that?"

"It's
possible."

"Hm.
Maybe I should call her back."




Mr.
Oblivious heads back outside and redials the wife. The call goes straight to
voicemail because the wife is now on the phone with her BFF.




"He
what?"

"I know.
I deal with assholes all day at work and all I want to do is come home and
unwind with a glass of wine and conversation. Instead, I find his cereal bowl
on the table, his muddy shoes on the carpet, and a half-drank beer sitting next
to the coaster on my antique end table."

"Oy."

"Then,
he has the nerve to call me after I'm halfway through making a casserole to say
he went to happy hour with the guys."

"I have
a chilled bottle of La Crema begging us to drink it."

"Ugh, I'm
so mad at him."

"You don't
think he's fooling around with someone at work, do you?"

"No, but
it wouldn't surprise me to find out they're at Hooters or a titty bar."

"See?
This is why I stay single. When I need a man, I do what it takes, get what I
need, and pat his fanny as I escort him out of my life."

"I'm
probably overreacting. Fuck it. Bring that bottle over. Let's get buzzed and watch
some trash TV."

"Excellent."

"When
dickhead gets home I'm totally going to play dead and not let him touch me."

"That's
what he deserves."




The man
is under such a self-delusion that he probably won't realize his misdeed until
the wife brings it up three months later as part of a new argument. Ah, love.