What a Nice Guy

I’m posted up in my usual position by the bar, watching baseball highlights through bottom of my wine glass. I’m surrounded by first dates, date nights, last dates, and packs of evil women out to vent about the men and offspring ruining their lives. I’ve left a vacant seat to my left in hopes that Aloha Taylor just happens to be in the neighborhood and parched. Two darlings come up behind me. One taps me gently.

“If you’re done with it, could you pass me the wine list?”
“Sure. Here you go.”
“Thank you. Do you mind if I ask which wine you’re drinking?”
“This, my dear, is a lovely grape-flavored varietal best known for its ability to stain my teeth purple and blur my vision.”
“Very funny.”
“Just kidding. It’s the house malbec.”

I rise from my stool and put on my gentleman’s cap. I also want to prove that I’m not a mini-man and I’d like a full-body perspective of the prospects.

“Here, please have a seat.”
“No, that’s OK.”
“I insist. There are two seats.”
“We’re fine. You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do. You’re the finer sex and I’m obligated to vacate my seat and make you comfortable.”
“Aw.”
Pulling out the stool and bowing, “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, …”
“Phil.”
“Thank you, Phil. That’s very nice of you.”
“And you are?”
“I’m Mindy and this is my friend, Alicia.”
“Nice meeting you both.”

At this point, I desperately seek ways to remember their names while they scan the menu.

Mindy. Hm. Rhymes with windy. It’s not windy here … ever. Oh, but her hair looks like it’s wind-blown. Got it. Mindy with windy hair. Now, Alicia. She’s not as attractive as Windy Mindy. Guess I can forget her name. No, I need to remain in good grace with … shit, what was her name? Lisa? Alice? No. Fuck. Alicia! That’s it. Alicia rhymes with … fucking nothing. Goddamn it. It’s like purple. Nothing rhymes with purple. I guess it rhymes with Felicia, but that’s another name and it will just confuse me. Let me think. A-lish … a-leesh … a leash. That’s it! I wish she were on a leash outside on the patio so I could make moves on her friend, um … what was her name? Fuck, I forgot the first girl’s name now. Shit.

“So, is this your first time here at this fine establishment?”
“I’ve been here before, but it’s Mindy’s first time.”
Thank God—a name reminder. Windy Mindy, Windy Mindy. Windy Mindy.
“Oh? You don’t get out much, Mindy?”
“No. I have two kids and they’re staying with their father tonight.”
She said, ‘Their father’ instead of ‘my husband.’ This bodes well for me.
“Ah. Girls’ night out. Cheers to that.”
Whispering to me, “Mindy’s getting divorced.”
“You don’t say.”
“She’s cute, huh?”
“What are you telling him?”
“Oh nothing. I was just saying how much I like his lace-less Converse.”
“Right.”
“Thank you, I’ll-leash-ya.”

We continue the typical chitchat about where we live, where we’re from, and favorite TV shows. Then I move in for the kill.

“Have you eaten?”
“Yes, we had dinner across the street.”
“Perfect. Bartender, may I order the bread pudding dessert and three spoons?”
“Aw, Phil.”
“What a nice guy!”

*wink*

Bachelorette Therapy

Dear Ashley,

WTF? I so want to toss a bucket of ice water on you right now—yes, to see your excitable nips, but more importantly to wake you up. You love Bentley while he’s playing you like Alicia Keys plays the piano. He’s an artist and the producers of your show are desperately seeking drama. You probably should have realized that long ago, when you were a contestant. Alas, you’re an oblivious lass. Wakey, wakey!

Hold on. No sobbing.

Monday’s episode was the first one I saw this season. You seem sweet enough and you’re cute too. I have to ask, what’s with the constant fiddling with your bangs? You don’t have extensions, do you? Hm. I could use some.

Wait. Please stop crying. I didn’t mean anything by it. OK. All good?

Did I mention how cute you are? Ah, there’s that smile. You have lovely legs too. Why are your knees so far apart?

OMG, I’m so sorry. Stop crying. Please? I love that little gap between your knees. Yes, really, I do. It’s so sexy. Gosh. Here's a tissue. Dab that mascara, cutey-pie.

Now, I hate to bring up the B-word, but I need to. No, not beluga. Bentley! For heaven’s sake, you said his name no less than fifty times this week. That sucked for me. Why? Well, because I was playing a fun, new drinking game where I have a sip of my Belve Lemonade every time you say the B-word. I needed my stomach pumped before the rose ceremony. It wasn’t great.

I was touched by your reaction when Chris told you the B-word came halfway around the world just to see you. You do realize that ABC fucking paid him a shitbucket of money to do that, right? No, it wasn’t his idea.

Oh shit. Stop. Please stop crying. Oh Jesus. Here, use my sleeve. No don’t blow your … fine … that's great. Calm down. Deep breath. OK?

How cute were you standing in front of his hotel room door hesitating to knock, covering your heart, and building your courage? Tender moments like that make it so much easier for me to pay my U-verse bill. So, then you tap-tap-tapped and (Gasp!), there was the B-word. Granted, he did have to ask who it was before he answered. We couldn’t expect him to use the fucking eyehole to see who it is. He’s in fucking China. Who else would it be? Jackass.

I’m sorry. No, please don’t start crying again.

I’m sure he’s wonderful in some category. He’d make a great husband for about a week before you caught him making love to himself in front of the full-length mirror three times a day. Did you like the way he touched your knee and tilted his head sympathetically as you laid down boundaries? It made you damp, didn’t it? Admit it, goddamn it, and snap out of it!

No … no … wait … stop crying. Fuck. Here, wipey-wipey again, my little Snifflepuss. Give Uncle Phil a hug. There. Feel better? Good.

Bentley is a fucking toad. He doesn’t respect you. When that type of man comes along, run away from, not toward him. You’re not in the business of breaking stallions. You’re looking for a husband and, frankly, your eye for talent is blind.

Are you welling up again? Christ.

You’re so cute, sexy, and smart, Ash. Stop falling for ABC’s ploy to make the show more interesting at your expense. When they bring Bentley back next time (and you know there will be a next time), invite him in, get naked, tie him to the bed, and hire a male masseuse to jump out of the closet and give him a Ben-Gay hand job. Then, put your Flip camera to good use.

See that? You turned that frown upside-down. Now, go get him, parenthesis legs.

Oh no … not again. Stop!

Yours with booger sleeves,
Uncle Phil

Self-Handicapping

"Try" is the term used as an advance excuse for failure.

I don’t know if there is a clinical term for this, but I have been finding increasing cases of this mental disorder related to self-sabotage. It stems from a fear of failure, which was probably beaten into the poor soul by hypercritical parents or teachers. What the afflicted does is intentionally put himself at a disadvantage to hedge the outcome. An excuse is prepared before the trial, making it easier to accept failure and deflect accountability.

Here are examples:

The night before an important basketball game, Joe goes out, gets plastered, and twists his ankle. No matter the outcome of the game, Joe is covered. If he plays well, he amazingly overcame adversity and prevailed. If he struggles, oh well, he was injured. Joe can deflect all blame, including self-blame.

Sam, from the other team, has been playing with a sore back all season, but he keeps it to himself. If he plays well and his team wins, great. If he struggles and they lose, Sam has no excuse. He had a bad game. He failed.

Jane schedules a laser peel the day before a first date. Susan injures her knee while training the day before a marathon. Bill tweaks his elbow the night before he’s scheduled to pitch. Jack angers his girlfriend and starts a huge argument the night before an important job interview. Donna botches her presentation because she was up all night with a sour stomach. Harry is caught speeding on the way to taking his real estate exam. Jeff cheats on his girlfriend, who he claims is the love of his life, because he’s worried she’s about to dump him.

I wish I wasn’t aware of it and could accept the excuse and grant the pardon. But, now I know and it frustrates me. I catch myself heading down that path around appointed meeting times. I’ll delay until I need to rush to make it on time. Perhaps there’s an associated adrenaline rush I crave.

Parents must see this behavior from their children frequently. If the parents recognize it, I hope they also realize they are the likely cause. We need to applaud the effort more than the results. If junior prepares and tries his best, fails, and admits only that it wasn’t his day, he deserves more accolades than the gifted kid who lazily cruises to victory. You don’t want to teach a kid to be reckless, but have him take a cue from Rocky Balboa and keep getting up and swinging.

Any children, teenagers, or adolescents who are coddled will grow to become low-ambition having adults. People who employ this strategy come off as cavalier. They’ll always seek handouts, shortcuts, and excuses. They’ll take advantage of their family, friends, bosses, lovers, and new acquaintances. They’ll attempt to perform without adequate preparation. They’ll fail and mope around complaining they have bad luck or were treated unfairly. These people suck the life from those closest to them and won’t stop until they’re called out on it.

If this sounds like someone in your life, you need to let him know you’re aware of what he’s doing, even if he isn’t aware. Tell him it’s unacceptable and unbecoming. Don’t accept his excuse or you’ll encourage his behavior.

GILF

It seems that fifty is the new thirty and grannies are getting cuter. Not since Angie Dickinson have so many mothers of mothers been so sexy. If you’re under thirty and are now making that face—the one you make when you shake someone’s wet, clammy hand—you’re mean, oblivious, and on behalf of all the GILFs around me, I suggest you go hump a bike rack.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a walking fossil. I insist that I’d be lumpy over these women even if were Twilight-ish. Women over forty are exceptionally attractive because they’re self-assured and sassy. Yee haa! These women don’t want you to spend the night any more than you do. They have their own (or their future exes’) credit cards. Rarely will you need to rescue one from a curbside puking fit, because GILF’s livers are fit. And, best of all, like Vons before a snow storm they’re almost out of fresh eggs.

These women fascinate me. Finding a lovely set of tatas, a shapely caboose in white jeans, and a thick head of silky hair on a grandmother is a pleasant surprise. It’s like finding:

• an actual Padres fan at a Padres game.
• a Maserati at the drive-thru window.
• a talented person on a reality TV.
• a slim biker driving his Harley without wearing a ridiculous leather jacket, a matted beard, and bad tattoos.
• an injured soccer player.
• pageant contestants without I-just-inhaled-helium voices.
• a bartender who loves making Mojitos.
• an officer, bouncer, or judge with a sense of humor.
• a music video on MTV.
• evidence of a brain pulse on Sarah Palin.

It’s true that those lovely attributes on the GILF were typically enhanced in some way. So what? Accentuate the positive and conceal the negative. I wear a baseball cap, closed-toe shoes, and veneers. If the GILF works hard to keep her “ILF” status, I admire her. She’s worth keeping because she’ll always try to stay attractive. Those Barbies pounding lattes, beer, and frozen dinners will soon see the day when that top button won’t cooperate. The GILFs have been there and have overcome.

Men, I implore you: Fight your urge to net a doe. They’re not worth the effort. Track yourself a GILF and you’ll enjoy the spoils thoroughly. A bit of fat makes the meat taste better, right? Consider those lumps, spots, and wrinkles signs that she’s a succulent specimen. They will also earn you a pass for your sagging, balding, and graying parts. Fawns see those and text all their friends for exit advice. GILFs see those and want to compare battle stories, a la Jaws.

Be proud, GILFs of America, and leave those bellybutton concealers off your behind. Here I come with my scooter to ride you off into the sunset (after a quick pee stop, please). Oh, do you have a spare set of cheaters you can bring along so I can read my fucking tab when it comes?

Last Date Questions

It’s time for a little negative reinforcement. These are things people are trained do to avoid pain. For example: If your husband trips over the shopping bags every night he comes home from work except for those nights following a morning orgasm, he’ll get the hint (or you’ll take over another shelf in the closet).

I cringe when I overhear ill-timed questions during a first date. Few men know how to read body language. They’re not discouraged by folded arms. They ask silly questions and obliviously plod toward what they hope ends between the sheets but will more likely end with a peck on the cheek and a long, late-night phone call between her and her best friend about the dud she just met.

Listen up, men. Do not ask any of the following questions on your first date or it will be your last:

1. When’s the last time you got laid?
2. Have you considered Botox?
3. Do a lot of hot chicks attend your yoga classes?
4. Did you vote for Obama?
5. Are your tits natural?
6. You so want me right now, don’t you?
7. Your place or yours?
8. Do I have any food in my dentures?
9. Why did your ex dump you?
10. Have any cute single friends … um, for my buddies?
11. Would you come to church with me this weekend?
12. How would you like to meet my parents?
13. That right there looks like it might be cancerous. Have you had it checked?
14. Clean-shaven, landing strip, or TruGreen thick-turf pussy?
15. How old were you when you lost your virginity, or might I be your first honored guest?
16. Are you taking birth control or are you past that point in your life anyway?
17. Is your company hiring?
18. Do you think a nipplegasm is a myth?
19. Are you open to getting rid of your pets?
20. You won’t mind splitting the tab with me, will you?

First Date Questions

We’ve been through so many first dates we may have forgotten how to act. Repetition breeds tedium, especially in relationships. (See the current divorce rate for evidence.) So, the next time a fellow comes a winking, and you decide to meet in a public place with lots of witnesses, bring along this handy list and refer to it frequently between sips of your just-makin’-you-handsome martini.

1. What do you do for a living? Don’t shorten the question to “What do you do?” because his answer will probably be irrelevant, like “Cupcakes.”
2. Do you have any children? Be careful with this one. Not everyone assumes that children and offspring are synonyms. An answer of yes can mean anything from diapered terrors to a freeloading adult.
3. Where did you go to school? If his answer ends in “Tech” and it doesn’t begin with “Texas” or “Virginia,” beware. Then again, if your front-end needs alignment, he could be useful.
4. Did you grow up in [where you currently are and, no, not “a bar”]? This will tell you how likely it is that the person you’re with has already mated with other patrons.
5. What’s in your iPod? If his answer is “Lint,” he gets points for creativity and no second date. If he lists Liza Minnelli, Madonna, and Depeche Mode, you have a new shopping partner. If he doesn’t know what an iPod is, send him back to the old folks’ home.
6. What do you like to do for fun? This will tell you much. Listen for subtle clues that he might be a redneck: “Go cow tipping, drink Old Milwaukee, chew, watch NASCAR, or campout in my backyard.” If everything he lists is an indoor activity, he’ll wind up being another piece of furniture you won’t use.
7. Do you like to cook? A great answer is, “Yes, in fact I was just about to go bake a fresh spoonful of crack. Be right back.” However, brownies, muffins, salmon, and green bean casserole are more encouraging.
8. What’s your favorite local restaurant? If his mother works there, excuse yourself. If it’s Carl’s Jr., look for clues that he’s wearing Spanx and diabetic.
9. Do you have any dream vacations in mind? I hope they don’t include anything in the Bible Belt or India. If he lists “Vegas,” he either is a gambling addict or convicted John.
10. What kinds of exercise do you do regularly? Encouraging answers involve some type of physical exertion beyond walking, kicking a spongy ball, and drinking beer between reps. Firing a gun is not exercise, nor is sitting in the stands yelling at teenagers or eating.

You can learn so much in ten simple questions, can’t you? Maybe I’ll create a score sheet to assist you further—an iPhone app, perhaps? Naturally, if he has huge hands or is a great kisser, his answers won’t matter … much.

Stuttering Chick

Hank has a way of attracting freak shows with flapdoodles. He met a woman recently, hit it off, and went on a date. Hank told me he suspected something was off about her, but he couldn’t put his finger in, I mean on it.

“So, how’d it go, Romeo?”
“This crazy shit happens to me so often I’m afraid people are going to begin suspecting I’m making it all up.”
“Uh oh. What happened?”
“We went to a local Irish pub and were enjoying thick beer, bangers, and the typical first-date banter.”
“Yes?”
“All was fine. No kids, no dogs, and no penis. She seemed well read. I plugged your books for you, buddy. You’re welcome.”
“Much obliged. Now, what was she wearing?”
“You ought to lay off the women’s magazines, there, Ru Phil.”
“Come on; indulge me.”
“Fine. A sundress.”
“How were her arms?”
“What?!”
“Her arms: Were they smooth? Tan? Muscular? Pocked with cellulite? Zit-laden?”
“Her arms were fine but after beer three something weird happened.”
“Do tell.”
“She she she began stu-s-st-stu-stuttering like a ch-cha-ch-champ.”
“Oh shit!”
“At first I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. It was awful. I nearly sprayed Guinness foam from my nostrils.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“Then I started looking around for cameras, figuring it was some YouTube bit.”
“Well, did ya f-fa-fu-ff …”
“Shut up. No. We kept the conversation floating along and every time I came close to laughing, I faked a sneeze. Then she said, “Gu-g-gu-od bless you’ and I ran to the men’s room.”
“Nice recovery. Seems like an ideal candidate for bite-the-pillow sex.”
“No kidding. Christ, I’m a misfit magnet.”
“Are you going to suh-suh-see Su-sus-sudio a-gah-ga-gain?”
“Asshole. I don’t know. Maybe. She has a great body and I like her personality. Maybe she was nervous.”
“Introduce her to me. I bet I can knock the stutter out of her.”
“You’d never keep a straight face and then you’d write about her and ruin any chance either of us has.”
“I’d nu-nuh-never.”

Then again …