Hello, Readers. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Some Guy in Austin.
I write a blog solely for your reading pleasure. I’ve been woefully absent as of late and I
realize it’s been an incredibly long time since I’ve posted. I won’t bore you with the details but for
those of you who are lawyers out there or have the misfortune of being married
to one you’ll appreciate the fact that the ebbs and flows of the business are
often extreme. When it rains, it
pours. In short, it’s been pouring a lot
lately. Nonetheless, I’m back for now
and I’ll try to make this post less introspective than the last. In other words, I’ll throw in a lot of d*ck
jokes. As always, thanks for
reading.
Before I begin—you’ve waited two
weeks, you can wait another minute—I’d like to send a shout out to a reader and
a commenter you all know as dp2. dp2 and
I have been corresponding via email since she began reading this blog over two
years ago. Like me, she’s a sometimes
disgruntled attorney in addition to sharing my affinity for anatomy jokes. Her comments are always insightful and our
email exchanges range from the highly ridiculous to the semi-intellectual.
At any rate, she was in the great
city of Austin, Texas for a friend’s wedding recently and I
had the pleasure of being their tour guide for an evening. We took in some live music at a couple of my
favorite honky tonks and she was kind enough to buy me—you guessed it—a couple
of Lone Star Beers. She even got to meet
the Special Lady Friend and Soon-to-Be Mrs. Some Guy in Austin.
They got along famously. Thanks
for the booze, dp2. It was great meeting
you and your friends.
Now let’s get to it.
I’ve mentioned many times in the
past that I am a creature of habit.
While I’m not obsessively compulsive about the routes I take, the places
I frequent, or the number of times in a day when I wash my hands, I am
extremely consistent. I take comfort in
my routine and the structure provided by the habitualization of the more
mundane, predictable aspects of my day allows my mind to roam as free as the
wind in other areas. It also ensures
that I’m aggravated as little as possible.
The other day, as I was in the
middle of my lunchtime gym/turkey sandwich routine I noticed a man standing in
front of me in line at the sandwich shop across the street from my palatial
office. In front of him was a fairly
non-descript baby stroller containing what I assumed was his child. Apparently, mommy had at least part of the day
off and this guy attempted to boldly go about his day in spite of the
responsibilities at hand.
Incidentally, I applaud dads who
have the “courage” to care for their children unassisted by mom and I applaud
moms who have the wherewithal to give their baby daddies credit for being
competent enough to figure out how to parent without them. Indeed, certain vestiges of the 1950’s
mentality linger in our culture and the notion that a father is inept when it
comes to childcare is one of them.
Granted, Dad doesn’t have a pair of hooters from which he creates the
milk of life nor does he have the ability to gestate a fetus. Other than that, however, Dad is no less capable
than mom when it comes to taking Junior out for a stroll around town. Post-Pilates mimosas often necessitate the
need for dad to step in and co-parent every now and then and it’s nice to see
that occurring.
Notwithstanding my respect for dad’s
assumption of the traditionally uterine-bearing duties, I noticed that he was
carrying an inordinate amount of baby supplies.
He had enough wet wipes to service a Fourth of July barbecue
picnic. All of his baby ammo was stuffed
into a powder blue diaper bag adorned with yellow rubber duckies hanging from
his shoulder. Like a safe falling on my
head from an upper story window, I was hit with inspiration. There are just certain things that men should
never be seen carrying in public. Below
are a few of those things.
1. Diaper Bag. I’ve
already laid the predicate for this one.
Look, being out all day in public with an infant or a toddler requires
more skill than most people can appreciate.
Throw in the 100 degree heat of a Texas Summer or the sub-zero
temperatures of a Chicago Winter and simply getting in and out of the car
becomes exponentially difficult. Because
of that, it’s essential to arm oneself with an appropriate supply of wipes,
powder, diapers, formula, pacifiers, snacks, rattle toys, and at least one
change of clothes. I get that.
HOWEVER, there is no rule that
says that all of that stuff has to be housed in the most ridiculously humiliating
handbag possible. Any “awwww, look how
sweet” appeal a man gains by caring for an infant with mom nowhere in sight is
inversely proportionate to how awkward a frilly handbag looks dangling from his
shoulder--undoubtedly in place of his built in “handbag.” Buy a backpack for crying out loud. It’s not difficult to find one that matches
the Baby Bjorn if that’s a concern. All
the fellow dads out there will appreciate (even envy) it and the Hooters girls
won’t ignore you when you roll in for dollar wings and fried pickles on a
Friday afternoon with the baby in tow.
Indeed, the only thing better than carrying a puppy on the beach for
attracting young women and sending their ovaries into an egg-firing frenzy is
an infant. Ditch the duckies and bust
out the backpack.
2. Flowers at the Airport.
I know what you’re all thinking:
Come on, Some Guy. “Flowers are a
wonderful gift to see when stepping off an airplane after an arduous girls’
weekend and I, for one, would love my man to do that for me.” Whatever.
First of all, flowers are expensive and they do nothing but die slowly
over time despite our best efforts to keep them alive. Come to think of it, one could make the same
generalization about most relationships.
Annyyyhooo. . .
Every guy (and I mean EVERY)
knows that all (and I mean ALL) women love to get flowers. That’s just a given. Sure, a lot of women love to say things like,
“Oh, I don’t like flowers. I’d rather my
man save his money and spend it on something nice for us to do together.” Right.
If you believe that you’ll also have no problem believing the biggest
female falsity of all time.
Say it with me. “It doesn’t matter how big the diamond in my
engagement ring is as long as I know he loves me.” Frankly, it’s almost impossible to type that
without choking on the words.
Don’t believe me? The next time some “lucky” woman strolls
casually into a wine bar after announcing via social media that her boyfriend
popped the question see what the first reaction of every woman is when she sees
the bride-to-be. The single ones in
their early 30’s choke back their envy and feign happiness as they grow one
step closer to being “That Girl” while the married ones smile from ear to ear
content in knowing that another naïve single woman is about to enter the race
to see whose husband is first to find his favorite recliner. Regardless of reaction, every woman asks
first to see the ring. Don’t tell me
size doesn’t matter. It does. There’s a reason that the word “fiancé” looks
a hell of a lot like the word “finance.”
Don’t let the accent over that last “e” fool you. I digress.
Seeing a man awkwardly holding a
bouquet of fresh flowers at the base of the escalator bank in Baggage Claim is
difficult for a man to process. On one
hand, we all appreciate the “benefits” that come from forcing ourselves to suck
it up and look hopelessly p*ssy-whipped.
The problem is one of scale. In
other words, the more p*ssy-whipped a man looks, the greater the effect on a
woman. Throw in a giant “Welcome Home”
balloon and a stuffed teddy bear with those flowers and a guy is certain to
score before he pulls out of the airport parking lot.
Like anything else, however, that
rule will eventually reach its exception.
Add a bunny suit and a “I’m Hoppy You’re Home” sign to the balloons and the
flowers and she’s likely to skip baggage claim altogether in favor of a
cab. It’s a delicate balance to
strike. There’s always the possibility of
showing up with a fist full of carnations and a modest Hallmark card in hand
and being forced to stand next to the guy with two dozen roses and the Lavender
Spa Indulgence Gift Basket or whatever.
That’s always the boyfriend of the woman your lady friend sat next to in
Coach and chatted with during her entire flight.
For other men simply minding
their own business in the airport that sort of abject public humiliation is difficult
to watch. It’s like watching a hobo beg
for his dinner or seeing a puppy stuck in the median on a busy road. Sure, we’re all rooting for the guy, but then
again, we’re glad it’s not us sitting there atop a big podium of ridicule in
the name of meeting our Love Language requirements. My advice?
Avoid the entire situation by keeping the flowers in the passenger seat
and surprise her on the way home. Of
course, that assumes the windows are tinted.
3. A Tiny Dog. I
witnessed this while running around the lake the other day. An otherwise normal looking man and his attractive
wife or girlfriend was walking toward me as I ran toward them. As they got closer I noticed that the man was
carrying a Chihuahua
in a pouch in his right arm while holding the woman’s hand with his left. I felt compelled to stop and remind him how
foolish he looked but I thought better of it.
There’s simply no saving a man who’s willing to do that, I reasoned.
I blame the toy dog carrying
trend on that spoiled, talentless C word, Paris Hilton. What’s beyond me is how it migrated from a
vapid bore like her to the male species on my jogging trail. I can think of nothing that could possibly
make that situation more emasculating.
Real dogs are too big to carry around while simultaneously holding your
wife’s hand. If a man feels compelled to
carry around something small and hairy in a pouch in public, he should start
with his testicles.
4. Feminine products at grocery store. This has to be the Holy Grail of things a man
should never be seen carrying. This one,
however, is not entirely within the control of the adversely affected man who
has undoubtedly been forced to venture into the nether regions of the store
aisle innocuously labeled “Feminine Products.”
Any woman who sends a man on an errand like that is unquestionably a
sadist.
I know I share the sentiment of
most men when I say that I can’t even walk through the living room while the
Special Lady Friend and Soon-To-Be Mrs. Some Guy in Austin is filling her
estrogen tank watching whatever “men are evil, women are victims” movie
starring Meredith Baxter Birney and Treat Williams on Bravo or the Lifetime Network
and a commercial for any product beginning with the letters “Vag” is on the
screen much less stroll through an aisle filled from floor to ceiling on both
sides with them. That sort of pressure
is tough for a guy to absorb. It’s super
uncomfortable---or is it super plus? You’re
welcome.
Aside from the obvious lack of “equipment”
from which to form a frame of reference in the selection process, that aisle appears to
get longer and higher every time I walk by it on my way to the beer
section. The choices are overwhelming. Every time I pass that aisle I literally
picture myself walking into a giant, unfriendly uterus. I feel like Charlie Bucket floating
uncontrollably toward the giant fan atop the Fizzy Lifting Drink Room in Wonka’s
Chocolate Factory. As disturbing as that
is, it’s the truth. I’m certain Freud
would have an opinion about that, but that’s an entirely different blog post.
My point? My point is that in the event a man is goaded
into actually heading to the store to purchase a Vag-related product for his
special lady, it is a given that he will be provided a piece of paper with a
very specific description of the product and the correct size, color, and
possible location of it in the aisle.
Women are particular creatures and will not relinquish the performance
of such a profoundly important gender-specific errand like that without being
able to control the details of its execution.
After all, you wouldn’t want a
Chevy if you had the option of getting a Mercedes, would you? Taking that metaphor a bit too far, you
wouldn’t want a Mack Truck when all you need is a Mini Cooper. That’s like trying to stuff a bag of cotton
balls into a keyhole or, conversely, like throwing a teddy bear into Niagara Falls. As is the case with diamonds, size
matters.
Now that I’ve beaten that point
to death (I have a REALLY inappropriate
joke here, but even I am going to censor myself for fear of offending all of
your delicate feminine sensibilities, but man do I hate to waste a good joke), I’ll
explain my problem with the Vag List.
Carrying around a list that says “Kotex Sleek Tampons with Perfect Touch
Grip, Regular, Assorted Colors, 18 Pack” (Thanks, Google) is a horrifying proposition
for any man.
Factor in Murphy’s Law and I’d
probably get into a fender bender and be forced to take down the other driver’s
insurance information on that piece of paper as the driver and a police officer
stood over my shoulder. I’m sure I’d
hear things like “boy you really absorbed that impact” or “this accident is
your fault, period” or “it’s too bad you didn’t have the Perfect Touch Grip on
your steering wheel.” Down the road, I’d
be forced to produce that piece of paper to the other side in the event I was
sued as a result of that accident. The
case would undoubtedly require a trial and 18 months later that piece of paper
would be labeled “Plaintiff’s Exhibit 1” and be blown up on a giant screen in
front of a packed courtroom. I’d be
called to the stand where I’d be forced to explain that list to 12 jurors
missing their jobs in exchange for ten bucks a day. Like I said, horrifying. Do us a favor, ladies. Please go to Sam’s Club and stockpile
Vag-related products. If there ever was
any line of products that should be sold in bulk, those are the ones.
Well, there it is. Only you can decide if it was worth the
wait. Just so we’re clear: I love writing this blog and I plan to do it
as often as my often busy life will allow.
I’m grateful for all of you. Keep
clicking. I’m traveling the remainder of
the week, so keep me grounded and entertained with a comment if you can. I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be
carrying a toy dog in a bag on my way to buy maxipads. DP
