the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: marriage (Page 5 of 8)

The Sprint Phone and the Ticking Clock

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A year ago, I wrote about being offered a free Sprint phone as part of the Sprint Ambassador Program for bloggers.   All the service, music, TV on the phone and other special doodads were included for free for 6 months.  Sophia, being the gadget freak of the family, was extremely jealous, so much so that she convinced Sprint that she should get one too as my blog editor. 

After six months, the service was cut off and Sophia went into severe withdrawal.   She insisted that I pimp myself out on my blog so Sprint would include us in Phase II of their Ambassador Program.  What I didn’t realize was, that during the six months, Sophia had been giving Sprint extensive feedback on the phone and the various services, which explained why Sprint offered Sophia a different free phone for Phase II, but told me to go to hell and use the Devil’s pay phone.

Phase II is now coming to an end, and all week, Sophia has been acting all jittery.  She even kicked me out of bed a few nights ago, saying there wasn’t enough room for the two of us AND her Sprint phone all in the same bed.   The next morning, I found the two of them cuddling together, the flip-top of the LG Fusic phone leaning comfortably on the softness of Sophia’s right breast, singing her a love song that was a free purchase, of course, under the terms of the Ambassador Program.

Two nights ago, we were driving home from the Valley, stuck in traffic on the 405.  Sophia was reading her email on her phone.

“Oh God!  Sprint is announcing Phase III!   They’re already chosen the participants, but are leaving 100 slots for previous Ambassadors!  The first 100 people… First come, first served!  Stop the car!  We need to sign up.”

“Can’t we wait until we get home?”

“Are you crazy?  It’s only 100 people!  And it’s some brand new exciting-sounding phone.”

“Can’t you sign up ON the phone?”

“No, we have to go online.  I have the laptop in the trunk.  We need to find some place with wi-fi.”

“We’ll be home in a half hour.”

She glanced down at her mobile Yahoo account.

“Look, there’s another email for you.  They’re offering you a chance to sign up, too!”

“They are?  That changes everything!   We need to stop the car right now!”

I twirled the steering wheel, exiting the freeway, nearly causing three accidents, all that time thinking who gets to sign up for the phone first.  After all – it’s first come, first served.

Right off the freeway was a McDonald’s.

“McDonald’s has wi-fi.”

“They do?”

“Yeah, they all do.  It’s like $2.95 an hour.”

“OK, let’s do it.”

We pulled into McDonald’s.  Sophia set up the laptop as I ordered a diet Coke, not because I was thirsty, but because I felt weird sitting there without ordering something.  Microsoft Windows booted up, but we didn’t receive any wireless signal.  

My luck.  I picked the only McDonald’s in Los Angeles County without wi-fi.

“There must be a Starbucks around here,” said Sophia.

“Do you know how much wi-fi is in Starbucks?!”

“Now’s not the time to be chintzy.  The clock is ticking.”

I visualized bloggers around the country typing on their PCs, signing up for a free phone while some Sprint executive was sitting in Sprint headquarters counting down how many of those hundred extra phones were left to hand out first come, first serve. 

Sprint Executive:  “100… 99… 98… 97…”

It felt like we were in an episode of “24,” and the split-screen was filling up with several different events all happening at once —

1)  Sophia adjusting the laptop in different directions, hoping to steal some wi-fi.

2)  Neil asking the McDonald’s manager for the location of the nearest Starbucks.

3)   The Sprint executive packing phones into boxes, one by one —

Sprint Executive:  “91…90… 89…88…”

“I have an idea!” I told Sophia.  “We can use the Sprint phone from Phase II to help us get the Sprint phone from Phase III.”

Sophia nodded, understanding my suggestion.  The Phase II Sprint phone came with a USB cord that you could connect to the laptop, so you could use the phone as a modem.

I ran outside to the parking lot to search the glove compartment of Sophia’s Prius for the USB data cord.

Sprint Executive:  “81… 80… 79… 78…”

I “sprinted” back into the fast-food joint, clutching the cord.  We connected everything together — the laptop into McDonald’s outlet, the modem into the USB slot, the data cord into the Sprint phone.  As we were about to make lift-off, the phone started to beep and sputter.  Uh-oh, it was seriously out of juice.

“I told you to charge it last night!” yelled Sophia.

“It’s your phone.  Not mine! I don’t have the Phase II fancy-schmancy phone like you do!”  I screamed back.

As in any tense situation, the affected parties began to blame each other for the miserable turn of events.

“Wait…wait…wait….” I shouted.  “I have that emergency Energizer phone charger that Chelle sent me for my birthday!   It’s in the car, still in the package!”

If ever another blogger had saved my marriage, this surely was it.

I ran to the car again. 

Sprint Executive:  “61… 60… 59…”

By the time I rushed back in, holding Chelle’s gift, everyone in the McDonald’s was staring at us, wondering if we doing some top secret government work.

Sprint Executive:  “52… 51…”

All I had to do now was open the package, but it was impossible to do, either with your hands… or with a McDonald’s plastic fork.    I cursed Energizer and their Bunny.    Luckily, a car key finally did the job and sliced the plastic.   I extracted the emergency charger and tried to plug it into the Sprint phone, but I couldn’t figure out how to make it fit.

“Can’t you read?!” said Sophia, annoyed.  “This charger is for your Nokia phone, not for my Sprint LG Phone.”

“Why do they have to make this electronics crap so complicated?!”

Sophia and I glared at each other.  Things were getting worse by the second.  Visions of divorce papers floated over our heads, all because of our greediness for this new Sprint phone.

Sprint Executive:  “48… 47… 46… 45… 44…”

Our quest seemed hopeless.  But as “The Secret” has shown us, if you believe it, good things can happen.

“Over here!  Come over here!”  called out a Voice.  Was it God?

No.  It was some Asian guy in a UCLA shirt, sitting with his Pocket PC on the other side of McDonald’s, beckoning to us.

“If you come over here you can steal wi-fi from the 1-800-Mattress store next door!”

We quickly made the move to the other side of the McDonald’s, right next to the display for their new “Honey Mustard Grilled Chicken Snack Wrap.”   The good Samaritan’s kindness made us feel guilty for the harsh words we exchanged with each other.  We told each other how much we loved each other, and begged that the OTHER sign up first.

“You go first,” I told Sophia.

“No, no, you go.” she said.

The clock was still ticking. 

Sprint Executive:  “31… 30… 29… 28…”

“Well, one of us should sign up already!  Go.” she said.

“OK, if you insist!”

Sprint Executive:  “21… 20…19…”

Frankly, I was really glad I was going first.  I mean, Sophia is great and all, but I AM the blogger.  I’m the one who deserves the phone, right?  I signed up for the Sprint Ambassador Program, Phase III.  It took me about ten minutes, because I had some technical problems.  I received a message that I would be under consideration. 

“My turn!  My turn!” cried Sophia, almost pulling her curly hair out.  I gave her the laptop and she signed up as well.  She got the same message:  under consideration.

Today, Sophia received an email that she was accepted.  They loved all the feedback that she has been giving Sprint.   Her new Sprint phone was in the mail. 

I checked my email.  I received nothing except for a few more spams telling me where to get some Viagra on the cheap. 

Letter Writing Campaign

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I try not to get political on this blog, but I plead with you to help me with this important issue. 

Sophia and I will be driving to Portland in the beginning of March and we may take a week or two to complete the trip.  Today, I was saying that we need to find hotels with internet access so that I will be able to blog every day.

“No way!” she said.  “We’re on vacation.  I’m not going to sit there every night watching you blog and write five hundred emails  We’re supposed to be having fun.”

“I need to blog a little.  People will get worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“If they don’t hear from me, they might think we fell into the Pacific Ocean or a redwood fell on top of us.” 

“If that happened, they’d read about it in the newspaper.  You’re NOT blogging EVERY DAY.”

“Listen, woman, I’m the one wearing the pants, so don’t go telling ME what I can or cannot do.  I will decide how much I blog!” I loudly thought to myself.

You can see the seriousness of my situation.  My only real hope is YOU.  I made a deal with Sophia.  She will agree to let me blog every day if, and ONLY if, I can collect 1,500,000 signatures by March 1st saying that it is essential that I blog every day.  If I accomplish this, Sophia will not stand in my way.  Otherwise, she will give me a lot of shit.

Please help.   Send all signatures to:

“Let Neil Blog While On Vacation Campaign”
Redondo Beach City Hall
Redondo Beach, CA

Paranoia

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Normally, Sophia thinks I spend too much time blogging, but lately,  she’s been curious about other bloggers. 

“After all, I’m going to meet some in Portland,” she said.  

This morning, she brought her laptop into my room.

“Tell me who each of these people is who said happy birthday to me.”

“Each person?!”

“Who’s Hilly?”

“She’s from Orange County.  She’ll be in Portland.”

“We’re going all the way to Oregon to meet someone from Orange County?”

“I guess so.  In a strange way, it’s easier that way.” 

“And what type of name is Lizardek?”

“I have no idea.  She lives in Sweden.  Maybe it has something to do with Sweden.”

“It doesn’t sound very Swedish.  Didn’t you ever ask her?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“I guess so.  In the beginning.”

“Why don’t you ever ask her?  “Why are you called Lizardek?”  Or ask this Leahpeah “Why are you called Leahpeah?”  Does it have anything to do what onomatopoeia?”

“OK, I’ll ask them.  Better?

“It’s like you’re not even interested in your own readers.”

“I’m interested… up to a point.”

“How many Heathers are there out there?  There’s this Heather and that Heather and Heather B. and Heather C..  I’m getting all the Heathers mixed up.”

“Believe me.  Everyone does.”

“What the hell is a Jurgen Nation?    It sounds like some racist organization.”

“I think Jurgen is the dog.”

“Jurgen is the guy’s dog?”

“Jurgen is a woman.  I mean she is a woman, and the dog… I don’t know what the dog is.  She’s really a Stacy.”

“The dog?”

“No, Stacy is the blogger.”

“So, why doesn’t she just say she’s Stacy?”

“Am I my blogger’s keeper?  You’ll have to ask her some day.”

“But this Kapgar is a guy, right?  I remember sending him a photo from New York.”

“Right.  He’s in Chicago.  There is a whole bunch of bloggers in Chicago.  I don’t know why.  A lot of bloggers are in Chicago and Washington D.C.”

“And who is this V-Grrrl?  Is V for victory?

“Veronica.  She’s the one who sent me the statue of the Belgian pissing boy.”

“Is Whoorl the one who is married to the ex-priest?”

“What?!  I never said anything about any ex-priests.”

“Isn’t one of your readers married to someone who was a priest?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Who is she married to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you read her?”

“I don’t know every detail of these people’s lives!  I know Whoorl had a baby.  I don’t even remember her real name.”

“Of the baby?”

“No.  Of Whoorl.”

“Is the baby a girl or a boy?”

“Huh… jeez… Uh… uh… wait…. some other blogger had a girl.  I think she had a boy.”

“Do the other bloggers realize how little you KNOW about them?”

“You can’t get to know everyone that well through blogging.”

“Why not?

“It’s the wrong medium.”

“So, it’s the right medium to talk about your penis, but the wrong medium to ask a person’s name?”

“I think I actually did write a post once asking people their real names.”

“If I were blogging, I would know more about the other bloggers.  Who are they?  What do they do?  Who they are dating?”

“Why this sudden interest?  Are you thinking of starting a blog?!”

“No way.”

“Thank god.”

“But since I’m meeting some bloggers in Portland, why don’t you tell me who is coming?.”

“I don’t know all of them.”

“Isn’t Ms. Sizzle going to be there?”

“Yes.  She’s nice.”

“Is she the one who sent you a topless photo of herself?”

“No.  That was someone else.”

“Do you still have it?”

“It’s on my desktop somewhere.” 

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Why is this Portland thing just one night?  Shouldn’t it be like three days?”

“Three days?  Who has three days?  We all have to get back to blogging.”

“It just seems so silly to travel thousands of miles to have a couple of drinks for one night.”

“I think there’s someone travelling in from England.”

“You people are crazy.”

“Well, most of them are pretty nice.” 

“Yes, it was very nice how they wished me a happy birthday.”

“Maybe I should email everyone back and thank them.”

“It’s not necessary, Neilochka.  You can do it on your blog.”

“But maybe it would be nicer if I did each person individually.”

“No. You don’t need to do that”

“Why not?”

“Because I already did it last night.”

“What do you mean?!”

“I sent everyone an email and thanked them.”

“You WENT on MY email and stole their addresses?!”

“No, silly.  Everyone’s address is on the blog administration page.   

“Wait… so you emailed them… FROM YOU?!  From your email address?!”

“Yes.  You are so odd.  Of course I emailed them FROM ME.  What are you getting all hysterical for?   I just wanted to thank them for their birthday wishes.”

“It’s going to confuse them.  They’re going to get all concerned!”

“Calm down…  Concerned?”

“Don’t you see?  You’re NOT REAL to them.  I’m the real one.”  

“And what am I?”

“You’re more… you’re sort of…  what are you doing?  Are you trying to steal my readers?”

“Why would I steal your readers?” 

“You’re trying to win them over to your side, aren’t you?”

“You’re PARANOID!”

“They can’t get to know you.”

“Why not, Neilochka?”

“Because… they need… they need…they…”

“Oh, I see.  …they need to only hear your side of every story?”

Baby Steps

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A few of you emailed me recently asking me how my therapy was going.  I was embarrassed to reveal that I was still dragging my feet about the whole thing.  I’m not sure what was holding me back.   Fear?  Anxiety?  Talking about my marriage?  SPENDING MONEY to talk with someone, when I can just talk to you FOR FREE?

Today, I decided it was time to act.  It was time to contact a therapist.   A blogger/friend recommended someone in West LA.  I emailed this therapist.  I told her a bit about my issues, such as my fear of rejection.

Tonight, I received an email back from her, saying she was too busy to see me and was rejecting me as a client.

Now with added clarification:  50% true!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Be of Good Cheer

How the Advice of Bloggers Saved My Ass

Thank you for your advice on not doing it myself. Once I actually looked inside the closet, I realized that I had absolutely NO IDEA how to remove and reposition the old installation, not to mention putting up these new shelves and rods, even though the guy at Home Depot said it was “relatively easy.” Is it so wrong that I’m a lover, not a builder?

Luckily, Sophia’s friend Leo knows how to do most handy things… and, lucky for me – he was home bored. Sophia helped as his assistant as he did all the hard work… we bought him some sushi for dinner… my role was pretty much reduced to serving apple juice… and 7 hours later — ta-dah! — MORE CLOSET SPACE!

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Update: A cool NY Times article about “closet-starved” folk in New York City. (thanks Pam)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Neilochka Girls

Making a Plan at Hot n’ Tot

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After much thought, I realize that my frustrations lately haven’t really been about writing every day for NaBloPoMo, but about — surprise, surprise — moving back with Sophia.   Since she’s come back from New York, it has been very nice being together, but NOT exactly the way I fantasized.   I visualized us running down to the beach every morning hand-in-hand and with as little clothes as possible,  then skinny-dipping in the Pacific Ocean while eating homemade breakfast burritos in the surf.  Sadly, we’re still having the same exact issues we had the LAST time we lived together.

One of our arguments is always about “our stuff” and our limited closet space.   It is an especially loaded subject now because it is still not clear whether I am here for good, or just for the the short term.  Who knows — maybe me moving back before we resolved things was a bad idea.  We’ll see.

But we have matured… a bit.   Here’s my evidence:  Over lunch today at the Hot’ n Tot restaurant, we decided to be proactive and make a plan.  Rather than fighting, why not BUILD extra shelves in the closet?

Can we actually build new shelves?  Will we survive?  Will I be able to walk into Home Depot without getting hives?  Will someone get injured by a falling hammer?  Stay tuned!

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I Love You

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This afternoon, Sophia and I watched some reality/food TV show called “Take Home Chef” on TLC. In the show, hunky Australian-British chef, Curtis Stone, accosts clueless women shopping in a Los Angeles supermarket and invites himself over to their home to cook an elegant meal. In the episode we saw, Curtis finds a pretty brunette in the cereal aisle, a stay-at-home mommyblogger in the making, who finds it impossible to say no to Curtis’s offer of a “surprise” dinner for her vegetarian husband (or be on TV).

As Angelenos, Sophia and I recognized the supermarket as the upscale “Gelson’s Market” which must have assured the producers that the “victim” would be in the right upscale demographic. As Curtis and the wife drive home (from now on I will refer to her as FM — future mommyblogger), Curtis asks FM to call her husband to make sure he won’t be home until five o’clock, plenty of time to prepare the surprise meal.

FM calls her husband on the phone. They blab a bit. Before FM hangs up, the husband says, “I love you,” and FM answers, “I love you, too.” How cute!

Later, in the show, as Curtis prepares his eggplant and risotto, FM calls her husband again, to double check his arrival time. Just like before, the conversation ends with mutual “I love you”‘s.

As Sophia and I sat on the couch, watching this nonsense:

Neil: “Did you see how they always said “I love you” to each other? Every single time. Maybe that was our problem. Maybe we didn’t say “I love you” enough.”

Sophia: “We always said, “I love you.”

Neil: “But not after every phone call.”

Sophia: “That was not our problem.”

Neil: “Maybe we should try their technique. Always saying “I love you” at the end of every phone call.”

Sophia: “Now?”

Neil: “Why not?”

Sophia: “We’re separated. Just because you’re here doesn’t change our status.”

Neil: “We still love each other, right?”

Sophia: “Sure… but…”

Neil: “Maybe this will just help us to relate better…”

Sophia: “It’s cute, but…”

Neil: “But don’t you love me, regardless of…”

Eventually, I wore Sophia down and she agreed to try my experiment.

The rest of the TV show sucked. The dopey husband came home to his big surprise, tried to look happy while really looking pissed, and the couple ate their vegetarian meal while Curtis said goodbye and left their lives forever.

Later, I went to Starbucks for a cup of coffee. As I tried to do the crossword puzzle, Sophia called me up and asked me to pick up some groceries at the supermarket (not Gelson’s).

Neil: “Sure.”

Sophia: “Thanks.”

Neil: “I love you, Sophia.”

Sophia: “Oh, right. I love you, too.”

As I drove to the supermarket, Sophia called me again.

Sophia: “You know, I’m actually pretty hungry now. Rather than going to the supermarket, could you go to the Thai restaurant and bring back some soup and a noodle dish?”

Neil: “OK.”

Sophia: “I’ll see you soon.”

Neil: “Wait… wait…”

Sophia: “Yes… yes, I love you.”

Neil: “I love you, too.”

I made it to our favorite Thai restaurant, which we think is run by three Thai teenagers, who take turns cooking, serving, and singing Thai karaoke.

I ordered some spicy noodles.

“What type of meat?” asked Thai Teenager #1.

I called Sophia on the phone and asked her the same question. She wanted “beef.”

“Beef,” I told the Thai Teenager, then sat down to wait for my order. As I listened to Thai Teenager #2 singing some Thai disco song, I realized that something was wrong with the world. I quickly dialed up Sophia on the phone.

Neil: “You forgot to say “I love you.” at the end of the last conversation.”

Sophia: “No, I did say it. But you hung up too quickly to hear it.”

Neil: “No, you didn’t. I said “I love you,” and then I was waiting for your response.”

Sophia: “You never said ‘I love you!” You asked me “What type of meat?” I said “Beef.” And then you hung up.”

Neil: “No, you said, “Beef.” I said, “I love you.” And then nothing.”

Sophia: “You’re crazy. You didn’t say anything after I said “Beef.””

Neil: “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Maybe it was the reception. Or you thought I said “Beef” when I said “I love you.””

Sophia: “I’m not going to mistake “Beef” for “I love you.””

Despite wanting to continue with my experiment, I knew this was not for us.

Neil: “You know what? I think if we continue saying ‘I love you” after every phone call, we’re not only going to get divorced, we won’t even want to talk to each other.”

Sophia: “Thank God you realize that!”

Neil: “Do you want white rice or brown rice?”

Sophia: “Brown rice.”

Neil: “OK, see you soon.”

Sophia: “Bye.”

Later, I went home and we enjoyed our Thai food lovingly prepared by Thai Teenager #3. The rest of the night was very nice and we didn’t say “I love you” even once.

Sometimes, love is never having to say “I love you.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Dating for Liberals

Stuff Dudes Don’t Want to Know About Women

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For the second day in a row, women complained to me via email about how I objectified Sophia in her photo when she is sick with the flu. The truth is that no man wants to see a girl looking bad, even when she has a 101 temperature.

Women, take note: If you want to attract men and keep them, you need to learn the dos and don’ts of acceptable gender behavior. One of the main reasons we are with you is because you are hot-looking. Why should we have to suffer looking at you without lipstick just because YOU feel shitty?

Hey, hey, hey, hold on there! Before you call me a misogynist ass, let me tell you that I didn’t learn about these “rules” in the male locker room. No, I learned about them today while standing in line at the supermarket leafing through the November issue of a women’s magazine — Cosmopolitan. On Page 58 of the “Cosmo Men” insert, there is a compelling article titled “Things Guys Just Don’t Want to Know About You.”

“There are certain topics that weird out dudes or bore them silly or simply annoy them…. Here’s a list of what to avoid bringing up if you want to keep your dude around…”

First of all, I don’t like being called “dude,” but that just might be my own personal rule.

Here’s the Cosmo list:

Your Weaknesses

“Spilling your guts to a guy you barely know is a surefire way to turn him off or, worse, make him think you’re a head case. Bottom line? Keep your eBay addiction, midnight binges, and obsession with bad reality TV on the down low.”

However, your addiction to oral sex is acceptable to discuss on a first date.

How Tired You Are

“In this fast-paced, snooze-you-lose world we live in, complaining about how beat you are just makes you sound whiny.”

Just like we don’t want to see you sick, we don’t want to see you tired. Erica Kane can be trapped in a mine shaft for a month on “All My Children” and still walk out looking fabulous. If you want to keep a man you must always be bubbly, vivacious, and eager for sex — even if you worked a sixteen hour day at your job. Leave your work problems at the office so you can focus on us listening to us talk about our jobs!

That Your Hair Is Different

“If the guy you’re with doesn’t notice your new do on his own, forget it! When you have to point out that you switched up your look, here’s what goes off in his brain: “Alert! She’s fishing for compliments.””

Hear! Hear! We don’t care about your hair, your nails, or your new shoes. Just look slutty. That’s all we ask.

Your Choice of Feminine Hygiene Product

“I’ll keep this one short and sweet: Most guys use the words tampon and pad interchangeably — and trust me, we’re completely happy not knowing the difference between them. If it stops the flow (or has anything to do with below-the-belt issues), we don’t want to know!”

Unfortunately, marriage has ruined me. I do know the difference between a tampon and pad. I just wish I was able to turn back the clock to those days when I was innocent and pure.

That You Read the Latest Mind-Blowing Sex Tips in This Magazine

“We don’t want to hear about them — we want you to do them.”

And if you do read this magazine, read it in the supermarket. I can use that $4.95 to buy Stuff Magazine.

The Fact That You Think Another Guy Is Good-Looking

“It’s not an insecurity thing. It’s a we-don’t-care thing. For example, calling another man handsome is a conversation stopper.”

Except George Clooney. He is sort of handsome.

Your Diet Strategy

“The goal of every diet is to get to a certain body weight. And just like vacations, nobody cares how you got there. We just care that you’re there.”

Do you know there is now negative zero sizes coming out by Nicole Miller? Don’t talk about it. Do it!

How Smart You Are

“Guys are looking to avoid that overeager girl who goes out of her way to show everyone exactly how intelligent she is. If you find yourself using the names Hemingway, Dostoevsky, or Nietzsche more than once per conversation, you may be guilty of academic name-dropping, which reeks of insecurity.”

This is probably the most important rule to follow. There’s a reason the librarian always TAKES OFF the glasses. We like the woman to be stupider than us. Of course, a woman should read, but preferably material like Cosmopolitan, chick-lit, or maybe a few mommyblogger blogs. Nothing too heady. Men are known to be better in math and science, so please don’t try to show off any of your math skills. It is a real turn-off. The only mathematical term you should be using in conversation with a man you are dating is “big,” as in “My Gawd, you are so big!”

Now, are these simple steps THAT complicated to follow? Believe me, we’re worth it.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Stars of David (or my Mother will Find this Funny)

Male Nurse

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Thank you for your nice comments yesterday. You would be a perfect bunch of readers if there weren’t a few of you, an unnamed minority, who frequently accuse me of pandering to my female readers in hope of hearing you go “ooh,” “awww,” “how sweet,” or “You are so hot, I really want to **** you on my kitchen table!” As if that is why I started blogging —

I deeply resent this accusation. As an artist, I use my writing to communicate my inner feelings and creativity, not to manipulate the emotions of fragile women eager to find a man who has the sensitivity of the poet, the wisdom of a philosopher, and the animalistic prowess of a love machine (and is Jewish to boot!).

I repeat. I have no interest in sucking up to a bunch of dames. Just because you might have some curves in the right places and smell like flowers does not make you any more special than my dull, sweaty male readers.

Today’s post will be short because I am caring for Sophia, who is sick. Even though we are separated and she still calls my moving back into the house, while she was away on location, an “illegal squatting,” I feel it is my duty to care for her while she recovers from this debilitating flu. Look how miserable she looks in this photo.

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Luckily, she has me to bring her hot tea and medicine.

Oh, I have to go. I think I hear her calling for some DayQuil! But don’t feel bad for me. She’s the one who is sick. I love catering to a cranky woman’s every demand when she isn’t feeling well, especially after not seeing her for two months and hopelessly hoping for some very very needed T&A (see magic orbs)! I don’t need any special “oohs” and “aahs” just because she is the worst patient ever and is sneezing all over the place. Doing a job well is all the thanks I need.

P.S. I bought a chicken to make her chicken soup, but there is no way in hell I’m going to wash this thing. Am I wrong to wake her up to tell her to cook it herself?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: A Man Who Loves His Friends

Goodbye to Trash (The Song)

vacuum2.jpg 

Our reunion was great.   Sophia was impressed with my cleaning, liked my flowers… but Sophia is already in bed with the flu!

Still, as promised, what could be scarier on Halloween than hearing me sing?  

Goodbye to Trash (in mp3)

Goodbye to Trash (in .wav)

The lyrics are here.  Feel free to sing along in your office or kitchen.

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Jane Loves Target

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