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.

Cupid, you're an awful shot.

I should have known better than to hire a zit-faced archer to do my dirty work. I figured with all the video games out today, that winged dope would have sufficient skills to land me love. Nope. Just like in ancient Rome, he infected himself with a loaded arrow before letting it fly and wound up falling in love with an unintended target.

“You … are a winged knucklehead.”

“Hey, it was an accident.”

“I give you one, simple task: Find a fit, childless woman in her forties and let an arrow fly. How the hell did you end up falling in love with a busboy?”

“Ramon is darling. You have no idea.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Fine. I sneaked into the wine bar and posed as a statue. Nobody noticed me for the longest time.”

“I guess the gray skin and tiny penis were uninteresting.”

“I’ll have you know that Ramon loves my tiny penis. In fact …”

“That’s quite enough. Now, what about my target?”

“Oh, yes, that. She finally came around to the well and began assembling her garnish—a lime here, an olive there.”

“Yes, go on.”

“She really was quite lovely in the soft bar lighting and dexterous too.”

“Right.”

“So, I yanked an arrow from my quiver and loaded my love bow.”

“And?”

“I sneezed.”
“You what?”

“Some old woman near me was wearing patchouli. You know how I can’t stand patchouli, boss. Grandma Venus used to wear it and since then it practically singes my nostrils.”

“You sneezed.”

“Yes, I sneezed and in order to be polite and cover my mouth, I had to let go of the love torpedo, which embedded itself in my left foot.”

“You shot yourself with a love potion dipped arrow. How on earth did this result in your recent homosexuality?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I instantly dropped the bow and jumped around yelling ‘ow’ and ‘fuck’ a lot. Suddenly, this sweet Mexican bar mopper came to my rescue, removed the arrow, and sucked the love venom from my foot, thus intoxicating himself with the potion and my juices.”

“He sucked your foot.”

“It was so sensual. I almost died. Now, we totally heart each other.”

“Are there any other Greek gods that I can summon who would enjoy beating little homo archers into bloody puddles?”

“Don’t be mean. You must come with me to meet Ramon tonight. We’re thinking of moving to Vancouver, getting married, and starting a greeting card company.”

“What about my love?”

“Oh, that. Um. Well, why don’t you just go back on Match.com? I hear one out of five people meet their significant other there.”

“That means four out of five don’t.”

“Hey, if at first you don’t succeed, lie, lie again.”

So, I renewed my Match.com subscription today hoping this dating obstacle course truly is a numbers game. Mars help me.

How do men calculate gratuity?

I'm near the end of my annual trip to Phoenix playing in the Men's Senior Baseball League World Series. Now that I'm fifty, the Senior part is ringing truer. It's fun to run around spring training fields like children at play, as long as there are hot tubs and painkillers available.

Post-game festivities are often more fun than the games. Guess what the festivities include. Give up? I'll give you a hint: They also begin with B. Come on. Four hundred teams of men who refuse to grow up, take their scabby knees, sore elbows, and sunburned necks to bars with beer and boobs.

Every woman reading this saw that coming and some wrinkled their noses at the sad predictability of it. I say to you with stink-face: I like boobs. Why is it if I like your boobs, I'm a good lover, but if I like others, I'm pork-in-cleats?

Yesterday's post-game debrief was held at a bar that features brass poles. The servers and bartenders each cycle through shifts on the pole between delivering the medicine that loosens wallets. After two baseball games, old men are ripe and generally repulsive. Still, as one of my more savage teammates approached the poor lass on the pole with his crumbled ones, I couldn't help mind-reading.

Animal: Damn, this chick is cute and talented, hanging from that pole.
Girl: Oh, Jesus. Couldn't these guys shower after the game before coming in here?
Animal: I'm going to stand here at the base of the pole and make her work it for me. Maybe she'll let me touch her leg when I put the dollar in her garter.
Girl: Great he's carrying two one-dollar bills. I'll smile at him, turn around, shake my butt, and hope he drops the money and leaves.
Animal: She smiled at me. She wants me. I'm going to ask for her number. She'll meet me after work and let me take her deep.
Girl: Fine, here, put the dollar in my garter. Yes, thank you so much. Thanks to you I can afford a can of soda. You should keep it and buy some soap.
Animal: She really digs me. I love it here. I'm going to play hard-to-get now and head back to the fellas. I'll brag to them about how tight she is and how much she wants me.
Girl: I just need to keep telling myself, "College tuition, college tuition."

Sadly, most men don't see tips given to attractive workers as shows of appreciation for jobs well done, as tips are intended. If the recipient is attractive, men see the tip as a subtle bribe. The tip shows the man's high social status, career success, provider potential, and generosity. If the recipient is unattractive, the tip is a robotic gesture. The recipient knows the intent behind the gratuity and most tippers realize this. Still, men suspend reality and imagine the crumpled one could work the wonders of a wizard's wand when it comes to wooing women.