by Phil Stern
About four days later I came home early. The house was empty, Jen having taken Mandy to her parents’ home. Both the dryer and dishwasher were running, unsupervised. A week later the same thing happened.
That evening, sitting across the kitchen table, I mentioned to Jen she was violating her own rules.
“What do you mean?” she snapped.
“You told me, in writing, never to leave the dryer or dishwasher unattended,” I explained. “Yet you seem to do it all the time.”
Jen thought about this for several moments. “Well, look, Dave, I had some laundry to do and I was late to Mom’s house. So what? I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“Nor do I.” By this point I was going a little nutty, desperately trying to make sense of it all. “But I’m curious why you’re doing exactly what you told me not to do.”
“Look, Dave, here’s the thing.” Jen smiled. “I know when it’s all right to run the dryer and dishwasher. I understand these things. But you don’t. So in order to avoid a dangerous situation, you can’t run the dryer or dishwasher unless you’re here to supervise them.”
A moment went by. “So let me get this straight,” I finally said. “It’s somehow dangerous for me to run the dryer unattended, but it’s not dangerous for you to do the exact same thing?”
“Right.”
“Because you have some cosmic connection to dryers and dishwashers that I lack?”
“That correct.” Encouraged, she touched my arm. “I understand these things, Dave. You don’t. So please follow the rules! Do not run the dryer, or the dishwasher, unattended. Please! It’s important.” Standing, she then glared down at me slumped over the table. “If you can’t do it for me, then do it for Mandy! She’d have nowhere to live if the house burned down.” And with that, Jen strode from the kitchen.
About this time I began to contemplate the idea that my wife was crazy. Not just a little weird. But technically, clinically insane.
STEVE LEVINE
Phone calls from Mom can come at the most inconvenient times. I’ll be sitting around all day, doing nothing, but the second the game comes on the phone rings.
And there are only so many times I can just let it go to voice mail. While Mom herself had sworn never to have a cell phone, she knew mine was always with me. (Just one of the occupational hazards of being a sales manager.) I couldn’t even plausibly claim the battery had run down. Which, on a few occasions, it actually had. Mom didn’t understand why a phone needed a battery.
So, with the sound turned down on the pivotal seventh game of the National League Championship Series, Mom complained for the umteenth time about the internet.
It seems some old biddy friend of hers had gotten a service whereby a printer was set up in her home tied directly to an e-mail account. If someone sent the old biddy an e-mail, it just printed up, like some old teletype, in her kitchen.
“That way,” Mom concluded with a flourish, “Henrietta’s daughter can send her an electronic mail, and Henrietta can read the mail, without even owning a computer!” Clearly, this was a major plus in Mom’s book. “Of course, it would be better if Henrietta’s daughter simply sent her mail the old-fashioned way, but isn’t this a good idea?”
“Yeah, Mom, it’s super.” A home run sailed over the outfield fence in frustrating silence. “Would you like such a service?”
“No,” Mom admitted. “It all sounds terribly complicated. And Henrietta doesn’t know how to add more paper to the printer, so she’s just unplugged it altogether.”
“Uh huh.” Wasn’t it time for Mom to go to bed or something?
“Actually, I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d be interested in something,” she slowly explained, “whereby people printed up my e-mails in some office somewhere, put them in an envelope, and mailed them to me via the U.S. Mail. That way, all I’d have to do to get e-mail would be to go to my mailbox like I normally do.”
Suddenly I wished I had kids. If I had children, then I could plausibly say they were puking, or screaming, or maybe even being abducted by space aliens, and I really had to go…
“Steve!” she demanded. “What do you think of my idea?”
“Sure, Mom, that’s great,” I sighed. “But how would you send e-mail under such a system?”
Mom thought on this one a moment. “Well, maybe as part of the service, I could write a normal letter and mail it to my e-mailer, who would then computer mail it onto my person.”
“Would your e-mailer then scan your letter into a digital format, perhaps converting it into a .tiff or .pdf, and send it as an attachment? Or would your e-mailer transpose your letter into the body of an e-mail?”
Obviously, Mom hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about. “Whatever’s more convenient,” she coolly replied.
This actually got me thinking. How much would it cost to set up such a service? A bunch of impoverished third-world urchins, given five minutes of training, could then be the official “e-mailers” for millions of batty senior citizens who had no idea what the internet even was. Pay the urchins half-a-cent per letter, for which the seniors would be billed $1.75…
But then the inner talk show host got the better of me. “Mom, do you know how utterly ridiculous what you just said was?”
A long cigarette draw. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Let me ask you something. What if someone called you up and said they’d love to have an automobile. The only problem is they’d like a car you could hook a team of horses up to, like a cart. That way they’d never have to start the engine. What would you say to them?”
“That would be silly.”
“What you just said about e-mail is just as silly, maybe more so.”
“Well, listen Steve, you know I’m not a technical person.” Mom gave that deep, mournful, old woman sigh, indicative of the fact that I was simply being an asshole and there was no point in pursuing it further. “Anyway, there’s something I need to ask you. As a man. About men, I mean.”
Wow. Sitting back, I desperately wished I had just let the call go to voice mail. “All right. What is it?”
“Why do married men,” she carefully began, “fornicate with young girls?”
What? Running a hand through my hair, I nearly threw the phone across the room. “Mom, what the hell are you talking about?”
“All these politicians who cheat on their wives. Why? What’s the point? They must know they’re going to get caught, don’t they?”
“Jesus, Mom, what do you want from me?”
“But why do they do it?” There was genuine puzzlement in her tone. “I mean, what do they gain by this…this fornication? I would say that if they wish to be intimate with a woman, that’s what their wife is for, isn’t it?”
What could I possibly say? Well, Mom, here’s the cold, hard truth. These older politicians you’re speaking of? They got bored with their wives about twenty years and three kids ago, and now they’re out for fresh pussy. Lots and lots of Grade A, hot off the presses, first-class young pussy. Can’t get enough of it, in fact.
And the oral sex, Mom! My God! Let’s just say these girls would have no trouble sucking up every last chocolate chip from the bottom of a milkshake! Thin straw of no, those chips just go shooting up between their lips…
“I don’t know why men do that, Mom, I really don’t.” I checked my phone’s battery, hoping it was about to run out.
“You don’t approve of such behavior, do you?”
“Absolutely not!” The closer was coming in, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded with only one out. “That’s really bad, Mom, when men do that.”
“But I suppose some men are attracted to these kinds of girls,” Mom sighed. “Steve, I hope you’ve found some nice girl to spend time with, I really do.”
“Absolutely.” What was a “nice” girl in this day and age? Someone who wouldn’t do anal until the second date? “Nice girls are the best.”
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br /> “So you don’t approve of fornication?” she persisted.
“Oh, no, Mom.” Boy, do I hate that fucking 1950's good-girl jargon. “In fact, I have a poster up in my bedroom. It says Satan Loves Fornication, It Provides No Elation.” Pretty good rhyming, I thought, off the top of my head.
“That’s good, son, I approve of that,” Mom offhandedly replied. “Because Henrietta and I were talking about this, and we agree these men are just being silly.”
Actually, I agreed. If I ever reached high office, I’d be smart enough not to get caught. “Absolutely, Mom.”
“And these girls seem so trashy to me, with their large bosoms and excessive decollete. Why, some of them look as if they’re going to start nursing right there on television!”
“Mom, I gotta go.” Now it was based loaded, two outs, full count.
“But Steve…”
“Bye, Mom.” Hanging up the phone, I turned up the sound, but the game was over. Frustrated, I watched some bimbo with large bosoms and excessive decollete interview the winning pitcher.
Isn’t it amazing, though? At age 72, my mother is still trying to figure it all out.
HAYLEY SYKES
All right. This particular blog, or column, or whatever you want to call it, is going to be about all the stupid things guys say that they just shouldn’t say. This stuff is important. Guys just don’t understand saying the wrong thing can ruin an entire evening. A whole relationship, even!
For example, this guy took me out to a really nice restaurant. So we sit down at a table, he opens the menu and whistles…I mean, he actually whistles like…wow, I can’t believe these prices! Isn’t he a jerk?
But wait, it gets better! After whistling like a tard, he leans in close to me, like we’re conspiring to rob a bank or something, and says this:
“You know what? For these prices, I think the hostess should include a free blow job.” And then he smiles at me, like he just said something smart!
Now, let’s think about this. Why would a guy say that? Did he really want the hostess to give him a blow job, or was he actually saying that I was supposed to give him a blow job? Did he want a blow job later, or was I supposed to slip under the table right then and there?
And look, the hostess was pretty and all, but she wasn’t up to my standards. If this guy wanted a blow job from anybody, he should want one from me. Not that I would do that on the first date! Well, maybe I would. But you can’t say something like that! I mean, that’s disgusting!
You see what I mean? Look at all these self-help books people write about careers, and money, and family. But you know the book we really need? A handbook specifically for guys, telling them things they should and shouldn’t say to women! That’s what I’m going to write someday!
For example, do not, under any circumstances, tell me my friend looked good. All my friends look good, but I don’t want to hear it.
Never, ever, say the hostess, or the waitress, or the girl who lives downstairs from you looks good. That means you’re thinking about them and not me, and I hate that.
You can tell me my sister looked good, but only if she’s married and pregnant. Saying my mother looked good is okay, as long as you’re not a perv or something.
But when in doubt, just don’t say anything! For example, I took guy to a family gathering last year. Afterward I was talking about my cousin, and this guy says “You mean one with the real hot body?” I mean, I suddenly felt like I’d engaged in incest with my cousin! It was awful. Don’t say that. Ever.
Look, I hate when guys suggest stupid dates. No, I don’t want to go to some car race. I don’t even know what a “mud flat” is, and I don’t want to know. Sorry guys, playing golf or attending the antique car show isn’t my idea of a good time. That’s the kind of boring shit my dad did.
And don’t even SUGGEST we go hunting! What are you, a lunatic? On our first date, you want to go tramping around the woods in the hopes of killing something? That’s terrible! And by the way, do I fucking look like the kind of girl who eats venison? Don’t EVER ask a girl if she eats venison!
All right, here’s a hot tip. Most girls…at least the ones who didn’t grow up in mobile homes…don’t want to be taken out for “barbecue.” Barbecue! That’s what my fucking dad does in the back yard! And it’s gross when he does it! Sorry.
You want my advice? If you’re a guy, and you want to impress a girl, why not suggest something she’s interested in? Would that really kill you? I mean, maybe pull your head out of your fucking ass for one night and do something cultural, maybe?
For example, I would love for a guy to take me to the ballet. I love the ballet! That would be awesome. And when you do take me, pretend you’re enjoying yourself too. Once a guy took me to the ballet and he snuck glances at his cell phone every five minutes. That’s a big no no. He didn’t even get a hand job.
Or maybe a play! I really want to see Funny Girl Or at least a chick-flick. That at least tells me the guy is trying.
Okay, here’s a big one. Do not, under any circumstances, drone on and on over dinner. I mean, why do guys talk so much? A girlfriend told me once that she earned her free dinner on dates. That was her payment for listening to all these guy’s bullshit. Beth, my friend who teaches the tards, says some of these guys sound stupider than her students! Just on and on and on. Blah-blah-blah-blah! Babble-babble-babble!
I mean, just last week I went out with a guy who spent twenty minutes describing his favorite football game! Memo to all guys everywhere: NOBODY GIVES A SHIT! Nobody even knows what you’re talking about! Shut up! Don’t you know that girls just block you out, and it becomes like listening to the buzz of Charlie Brown’s teacher? Please, just be quiet.
Once a guy took me out and began criticizing my shade of lipstick. He said pink was all right, but only whores wore dark red. I just left him at the table and called a cab.
Don’t complain about stuff your last girlfriend made you do. I mean, really, a man who doesn’t want to take out the trash in the middle of an “exciting” inning is obviously an asshole. If I wanted it taken out at the next commercial I’d just do it myself.
And then there was the time…oh, I can barely even think about it! This really cool guy came over (and least I THOUGHT he was cool), and we made love, and then the next morning I made him breakfast. And you know what he said when I asked if he’d like more coffee?
“Actually, darling,” he drawled, letting his robe fall open, “what I’d really like is some more pussy.”
So there I am, in my own kitchen, trying to be a good hostess, and this guy is asking me for more pussy? More pussy! With his big cock standing up, like it wanted breakfast too? I’ve never even HEARD of such a thing!
Of course, I’ll never forget the guy who said he’d named his penis “Words.” When I asked him why, he smiled and said, “That way I can put Words in your mouth!” Obviously I never spoke to him again.
So please, guys, think before you talk. Or better yet, just don’t talk. It might be safer for everyone involved.
STEVE LEVINE
I just ran into Hayley in the elevator, who’s looking for someone to take her to see a play called Funny Girl. According to young Hayley it’s about some actress in the 1930's who meets some guy, and they fall in love, and then get divorced, and…you get the picture. Sounds pretty boring, really.
So I suggested we see Blow Job Girl, about a traveling troupe of Depression-era nymphomaniacs who performed at soup kitchens and WPA work sites. The great thing about Blow Job Girl, so I told Hayley, was that during intermission every guy in the audience gets to pick an actress for a personal session in the back. That way all the male patrons wouldn’t feel like complete tools for paying $50 a ticket just to see a fucking play.
Obviously I was joking, right? But Hayley just yells about me being the biggest tard she’s every met, throws her latest Life Project entry at me (none of which I’ve read yet, by the way) and stalks off. Some people have no sense of humor.
Dear Mr. Levine,
While your work is credible and well written, I don’t have the sufficient passion for your novel to properly present it to the publishing industry at large. Good luck in your quest to secure representation!
Sincerely,
The Pompous-Ass-Telling-You-To-Fuck-Off Literary Agency
My “quest,” huh? Like I’m now going to strap on a sword, find a unicorn and an ogre to accompany me, and meander some enchanted forest searching for a literary agent. Then again, that approach might be more successful than what I’m currently doing.
And “passion” is a huge buzz phrase for these people. As if one doesn’t have an irresistible urge to run into the nearest bathroom and jerk off a dozen times after reading my manuscript, it just isn’t good enough. Of course, that’s just what I want to do after receiving these letters, but only in a desperate attempt to make myself feel good for a few moments.
But actually there is some good news here. You see, this is a personalized rejection letter. Notice how they used my actual name? Wow! That means I’m close! And here I was beginning to think this was all a waste of time.
Okay, here’s another memo to sports talk show hosts everywhere. Nobody gives two shits about the Hall of Fame. Baseball, football, hockey…doesn’t matter. The only people who care about whether a certain player is a “Hall of Famer” are sports hosts. These long, inane arguments concerning who should or shouldn’t go to the Hall of Fame are boring as hell. Shut the fuck up and talk about something relevant, like the guys currently on the field and the game they have tonight. No one cares about the Hall of Fame except you.
All right, here it is, the ultimate, absolute, no-doubt sign that your life is just horrendously fucked up.
Have you ever read the fine print on a shampoo bottle? That’s right, a fucking shampoo bottle. On many of them you’ll see an 800 number, with an invitation to call the shampoo company if you have any questions about the shampoo.
