Is it strange that I look forward to the inherent problems of long-term relationships and marriage?
It seems like every couple with which I am moderately acquainted tends to use me as a makeshift marriage counselor. I get calls at all hours of the night and early AM asking for advice, condolence, and solutions to problems created by other people. The fact that I have no psychology degree or license to practice notwithstanding, this baffles me. I haven't been in a relationship for some three years now, and I've never been in a relationship that lasted more than six months. This isn't because I'm afraid of commitment or am downright hideous; rather, it is caused by the inability of the opposite sex to tolerate my fast-paced lifestyle, quirks and personality flaws. This noted, it seems that I would be one of the last options in relationship counseling that anyone without a mental defect would choose.
The tough part is, because they are my friends, I can't turn down helping them out. It gets worse when I actually have to hear what they say. It usually goes something like this:
Guys:
"She is smothering me and won't let me do anything I want. I can't go hang out with friends without catching the northwest corner of Hurricane Bitchfest."
What I have to say: "Well, man it's just because she loves you. You should be grateful. Some guys don't have that. You just have to find a way to meet her halfway."
What I'd like to say: "Listen, you ungrateful fucker. I'd kill to be in your position. I can't get a girl to let me buy her a drink, and you're saying your biggest problem is that she wants to be around you all the time? Man up and spend some time with her or I'm gonna plant a Titleist golf shoe in your goody bag."
Girls:
"He never wants to spend time with me. He'd rather go out grab-assing with his friends than take me out to dinner or stay in and watch a movie. I just want him to appreciate me."
What I have to say: "Well, sweetie, you are both young. You have to realize that he still has a close bond with his guys. Just like you need time, he needs time. You just have to find a way to meet him halfway."
What I'd like to say: "This guy sounds like a short-order douche-waffle with dick syrup and ass butter. Why don't we spend some time together? You might actually have a good time, and you can smother me with all the unrequited love you have."
But it doesn't work that way. If I say what I'd like to say, I lose two friends. If I say what I need to say, then I am either forced to choose sides or I end up giving advice that isn't used on either end.
From henceforth, I will only act as a "freelance counselor" with the following stipulations:
-I will charge an hourly rate of $50 (US).
-If no compromise is reached, the rate goes up to $100 (US).
-Anyone who attempts to sway my neutral stance will accrue a fine of $200 (US).
-If you actually listen and try to make things work, I will work pro bono.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's episode: Original Music vs. Cover Music: The Epic Battle
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Snickers Bar 1, Me 0
It's amazing how the human body can simultaneously be awkward and nimble--frail yet stalwart. We hear tales of diminutive women lifting cars off of toddlers followed by accounts of "death by six-inch fall." Our physical being is a paradox, and an entertaining one to boot.
Earlier today, I was horribly pissed about losing the Snicker's bar I had placed in my P-coat pocket. The day had started with my being awakened by two of my cats in a fight to the death outside my door. I swear if they could use guns, at least three of the five roommates would be dead by now. My bedroom door was ajar, and at about 7 this morning a cyclone of fur, teeth, claws and feline dementia barreled through the threshold. I jumped up from a lovely dream (it involved Evan Rachel Wood and kimonos) to something out of a damn Loony Tunes episode coming right for me. My first instinct was to grab the ninja star sitting on my bedside table and let fly. Then I realized that two of my roommates would disembowel me for harming a "defenseless animal", whether in self defense or out of pure malice. So, I sat there in bed, hoping like hell they wouldn't somehow make their way up there with me. Had that happened, I would have taken my chances with the roomie's potential wrath. Cat scratches don't heal very quickly.
The day was already doomed in my mind. I remember I had promised my friend that I would restring his guitar. He showed up at about noon and we went to the music store. Here is where the day got a bit better. I saw this bubble-gum pink Strat knock-off on the wall. I thought to myself, "For reasons well beyond my comprehension or concern, I must have this guitar. Nobody else in Fishin'-with-Guns-Ville, Mississippi would have the testicular fortitude to even think about owning a pink guitar. It'll be talked about at many a water cooler/lounge/urinal tomorrow. Bet."
We left the music store with my friend's strings and what another customer referred to as "a faggoty-ass Pepto Bismol guitar." I know this because my friend knows this. He heard the guy say it. I walked back into the music store and said, "Enjoy watching Fox News in your double-wide tonight. Oh, and enjoy the roadkill you're going to eat."
At this point, I was feeling ok. I had gotten my daily idiot-bash out of the way and was stoked about our fraternity's Pie-in-the-Face fundraiser. I went home to change into some clothes that I didn't care so much about. I went up to my room and grabbed a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. This is where the whole first paragraph resurfaces.
As I go to walk down the stairs, my flip-flop hits something on the floor. You know that confounded look on your face you get before you realize you're going to be injured? That was the look on the face of my friend as I tumbled face first down the stairs. Only the fact that I have extensive training in falling (thanks Jiujutsu) saved me from pummeling all my bones into talcum powder. The irony is that the training that kept me from becoming a beach ball full of Jello seemed to be on its coffee break when I tripped over the damn candybar that had fallen out of my coat and onto the floor atop the stairs.
I think I'm going to swear off chocolate...
Earlier today, I was horribly pissed about losing the Snicker's bar I had placed in my P-coat pocket. The day had started with my being awakened by two of my cats in a fight to the death outside my door. I swear if they could use guns, at least three of the five roommates would be dead by now. My bedroom door was ajar, and at about 7 this morning a cyclone of fur, teeth, claws and feline dementia barreled through the threshold. I jumped up from a lovely dream (it involved Evan Rachel Wood and kimonos) to something out of a damn Loony Tunes episode coming right for me. My first instinct was to grab the ninja star sitting on my bedside table and let fly. Then I realized that two of my roommates would disembowel me for harming a "defenseless animal", whether in self defense or out of pure malice. So, I sat there in bed, hoping like hell they wouldn't somehow make their way up there with me. Had that happened, I would have taken my chances with the roomie's potential wrath. Cat scratches don't heal very quickly.
The day was already doomed in my mind. I remember I had promised my friend that I would restring his guitar. He showed up at about noon and we went to the music store. Here is where the day got a bit better. I saw this bubble-gum pink Strat knock-off on the wall. I thought to myself, "For reasons well beyond my comprehension or concern, I must have this guitar. Nobody else in Fishin'-with-Guns-Ville, Mississippi would have the testicular fortitude to even think about owning a pink guitar. It'll be talked about at many a water cooler/lounge/urinal tomorrow. Bet."
We left the music store with my friend's strings and what another customer referred to as "a faggoty-ass Pepto Bismol guitar." I know this because my friend knows this. He heard the guy say it. I walked back into the music store and said, "Enjoy watching Fox News in your double-wide tonight. Oh, and enjoy the roadkill you're going to eat."
At this point, I was feeling ok. I had gotten my daily idiot-bash out of the way and was stoked about our fraternity's Pie-in-the-Face fundraiser. I went home to change into some clothes that I didn't care so much about. I went up to my room and grabbed a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. This is where the whole first paragraph resurfaces.
As I go to walk down the stairs, my flip-flop hits something on the floor. You know that confounded look on your face you get before you realize you're going to be injured? That was the look on the face of my friend as I tumbled face first down the stairs. Only the fact that I have extensive training in falling (thanks Jiujutsu) saved me from pummeling all my bones into talcum powder. The irony is that the training that kept me from becoming a beach ball full of Jello seemed to be on its coffee break when I tripped over the damn candybar that had fallen out of my coat and onto the floor atop the stairs.
I think I'm going to swear off chocolate...
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