Do you let your spouse off the leash?

The more married women I meet, the more I appreciate my vacancy. When a husband lets his wife off her leash for the weekend, it makes me wonder:

• Is he secure enough in their love and commitment to give her space?
• Has she been annoying the heck out of him about putting down the remote, taking out the garbage, and emptying the dishwasher?
• Does the husband have a little side thing going?
• Does she really have a husband or is she playing games?
• Is the husband aware that she's out on the town, tossing back fruity shots like Fruity Pebbles?

Well, the best way to find out is to ask, right?

"How did you obtain the fun pass, Sugarlass?"
"We've found that spending weekends apart brings us closer together."
"Ironic and interesting. How so?"
"It gives him space to watch his porn and gives me space to, you know, have space."
"Tired of catching him making belly puddles?"
"No."
"Tube sock babies?"
"Ew, no."
"Sofa stickies?"
"Look, I don't mind. I've told him I'd watch it with him if he really wanted me to, but he doesn't."
"Well, at least he probably shaves his entire groin, makes funny sex faces, and manages to keep his bunghole out of the closeups."
"Sounds like you know a lot about porn."
"I find it contains great tips on how NOT to treat a lady."
"Really? So, how do you treat a lady?"
"I love to talk, read her poetry, tell her how beautiful she is, kiss for hours, nibble her earlobes, massage her feet, and ..."
"Right."
"What? You don't believe me? I'm hurt."
"Sexually. What do you so sexually?"
"After a three-month courtship and mutual commitment to monogamy, I become her personal orgasm delivery person. I even wear little brown boxers and flex my sweaty biceps. Now, would you kindly sign here for me?"
"You're silly."

Relationships aren't complicated; they're weird. Maybe it's a California thing. I can relate, Jim Morrison, people are strange and I am stranger.

How to craft a rejection letter.

If you're female, you have many daily opportunities to refer to this guide. If you're male, you're probably going to begin hearing many of these excuses. I'd bet the average woman is propositioned three to four times daily, with most of solicitations originating from men who'd never get to touch anything beyond her oil filter. Pity, although at least women have options.

It's important to be kind. These men don't realize how repulsive they are. They assume that you got all dolled-up to attract their attention. (As if.) Be gentle. Help the monkey off his high horse without shoving him into a pile of manure. If his advances continue, all bets are off; nail his pecker to the floorboard.

So, the next time he comes a-calling, especially via text or email, try this:

Dear [insert name of not-cute-enough guy],

I'm [flattered/stunned/covering my mouth to prevent spewing my chardonnay] by your proposal. Ordinarily, I would enjoy having [coffee/dinner/sex] with you, but at this moment, I am:

[Insert all that apply.]

• Married
• Seeing someone
• Not over my ex
• Pregnant ... with twins
• Swearing off penis
• Looking for a job in Madrid
• Not [thirsty/hungry/horny] enough
• Concentrating on my [career/children/crossword puzzle]
• Involved in a serious relationship with my Netflix queue
• Not drunk enough to get past how unattractive you are
• Caring for a sick [parent/child/vagina]
• Working in the same building as you, which makes this extra-creepy
• Half your age, Grandpop
• Desperate, but not quite on my deathbed yet
• Not looking for another pet to take care of
• Plotting the extermination of all men with soul patches, hairy backs, and boat shoes
• About to pass out from the scent of your Axe Body Spray
• Considering adding your blood to my collection of victim slides
• Speechless

I do appreciate your asking. That must have taken some [tequila/foolish pride]. I have [cute/horny/desperate] friends who might be interested. Can I set up you? Do you have any [cuter/blacker/richer] friends--not for me, of course--for my friends?

Here [hand him a bar napkin]. No, don't write on it. I thought you were tearing up. Sorry.

Anywho, this has been [lovely/awkward/disturbing]. You're such a [nice/super/not entirely hideous] guy. Have a wonderful day.

Yours [truly/unimpressed/hating life right now],

[Insert some woman's name, not yours.]

Do you create your patients, Doctor?

You've heard of firemen setting fires, right? How about doctors creating patients? Therapists driving people crazy? It happens, and probably more often than we'd like to think. I see it in the dating pool. People are not playing nice. Some are making a splash and some are holding others down.

Although I don't float well, I'm the Michael Phelps of the dating pool. Fine, the Mark Spitz then. I know how to avoid the mischievous little pricks.

For example, I had a woman grill me last weekend. Every question she asked me began with "What's wrong with you ...," although she didn't speak the words. She tried to make me the patient so she could play doctor and fix me.

"[What's wrong with you?] Don't you want to have a girlfriend?"
"I don't need a girlfriend."
"But, [what's wrong with you], don't you want one?"
"If someone comes along in a situation where we can enhance each other's lives, I'll consider it."
"You'd 'consider' it? [What's wrong with you?]"
"Yes."
"[What's wrong with you?] Wouldn't you like a partner to have sex with regularly?"
"Yes, but I don't need one ... yet."
"Yet?"
"If my dry spell extends into the warmer months, I'll have to make some sacrifices."
"[What's wrong with you?] You mean you'll go visit a prostitute?"
"I can find amateur ladies who need lovin'. There's an entire neighborhood of sex-starved, neglected wives less than five miles from here."
"[What's wrong with you?] You'd sleep with a married woman?"
"Not my first choice."
"That's awful. [What's wrong with you?] Don't you have any morals?"
"Fewer every year. I think I'm growing out of them."

She was badgering me, trying to create the bad boy she could tame. Not happening.

There's another type of woman, with similar tactics. Yet, I suspect these women are unaware of what they're doing. I'm referring to the motherly type. When they find a man they like, they look for neediness they can address. If the man is secure, the motherly woman feels worthless. Ironically, needy men will eventually drive her crazy, she'll swear off them, and wind up right back with another needy Ned.

"I like to cook. You should let me make you dinner."
"That's very nice of you. I also like to cook. I'll have you over."
"Um. OK, I'll make us dinner at your house."
"No, silly. I'm the host. I'll make you dinner."
"Well, I'll bring wine and bake a lovely dessert. What's your favorite?"
"I have a full rack and frozen cookie dough. You'll be my guest and your company is all I need."
"I'll bring cat toys for Syd and Symon."
"I already live in a cat house. They're fine. Just come wearing a smile."
"You probably enjoy doing laundry and ironing too."
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Hm."

At this point the motherly lass finds excuses to back out. She needs to be needed. I want to want. How do these life puzzle pieces ever fit together?

Does what you watch define who you are?

Being unaware of something doesn't make a person superior. Still, people will use that angle to involve themselves in a conversation when they should be listening instead. In Pulp Fiction, this situation is handled brilliantly:

Vincent: I don't watch TV.
Jules: Yeah, but, you are aware that there's an invention called television, and on this invention they show shows, right?

Why can't people admit to doing or watching certain things? We all fart, pick our noses, and watch shows that don't make us smarter. So what? Why deny it? Look at all the money these shows make. Somebody is certainly watching them, and the viewers can't all be dolts.

Here are the top things people deny doing:

• Watching The Bachelor, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and Project Runway.
• Watching sitcoms.
• Watching the news.
• Watching TV in general. The person who tells me she doesn't own a TV had better have a huge Lego collection or an extraordinary dildo.
• Driving while drinking, texting, or eating.
• Burping, farting, yanking, flipping, scratching, sniffing, singing, and talking to pets when nobody is around.
• Using Facebook and Twitter.
• Watching funny YouTube videos at work.
• Playing online games.
• Using porn, whether video or written form.

People around me quote Seinfeld constantly and refer to the characters. I don't watch the show; never did. Yet, I am aware of it and the premise-less premise. When I confess to never watching the show, I get grilled.

"Who on earth hasn't watched Seinfeld?"
"Me, on Uranus."
"You, of all people, would love the show. You write comedy."
"Can't do it. The dubbed-in laughter makes me crazy. I don't like being told when to laugh."
"What? Still ..."
"I'm aware of the show. Carry on and quote away. I'll not interrupt you and decide for myself whether it's worthy of a reaction."

The next time someone is mid-story, don't slow the flow by pleading ignorance. You'll delay the punchline and annoy the speaker. Open your ears and close your lips around the straw that leads to the substance that makes everyone more interesting.

Why do drunk women make out?

You're having a family gathering and the kids are playing in the family room while the parents chat. One of the mothers realizes the kids are being remarkably quiet, for being kids. Upon investigation, Mommy notices the reason: They're playing house with dog kibble and decorative coasters. Before Mommy does something rash, Daddy asks her to weigh the silence against the possibility of bodily harm or damage. They concur; the children carry on.

This is similar to how I feel when I'm at a nightclub around inebriated women left unattended by their husbands. I'm the daddy who doesn't want to spoil the fun.

After a few triangular glasses are emptied, the carnage ensues. Daddy likey. Wife #1 says to Wife #2, "I bet you're a great kisser. Men don't know how to kiss. I love the soft lips on a woman. Guys have itchy fur around their mouths."

I took no offense.

Naturally, it was time to lip-seal the deal and the two women went at it like teenagers under football stands. I sat next to the show, giddy like a kid with his first scooter. As they got busy, Wife #2 grabbed my thigh and squeezed. I felt like the branch held between a soldier's teeth while he's having a limb amputated.

"How'd that work out for you? Is she a good kisser?"
"Oh, yes."
"All right."
"You're going to write about this, aren't you?"
"Only if you two involve some breast fondling in round two."

I was only kidding but I turned out to be kindling, as they went at it again. I looked around the club, wide-eyed, hoping my fellow swine weren't missing the show. A few men noticed and smiled like they found a beer geyser. Many women noticed and wrinkled their noses like they found a skid mark in the guest bathroom toilet.

This playful fun went on for hours. The group planned to taxi back to birthday girl's house later that night. I was invited, yet I passed. I deserve a gold star for having such restraint, but I fear I'll receive a rainbow-colored one instead. I've learned to leave, create my own reality, and avoid regret and armed spouses.

Proper ways to deal with an ass.

She was grabby with my buddy. I should have been proud of my pal as they walked arm-in-arm in front of me. Yet, the overly analytical side of me thought, How far we've come, as she gradually slid her hand down his back and cupped his cheek. An uninvited move like that on his part could have landed him in the clink. She had gender specific immunity.

I should have been paying attention to a number of other things, but I'm obsessed with courtship so I kept watching and missed out on the ocean breezes, yellow moon, and puddle I stepped in.

Women grab ass cheeks differently than men do. She went straight down the crack and grabbed the middle. Hm. She may be kinky--into the stinky pinky maneuver. Some men are into that. I'm not. I would have squeaked, vocally.

When I grab a butt, I go more for the outside lower quadrant. (Look for a future infographic on the topic.) I squeeze gently as I would a grapefruit. At home games with no fans in attendance I may creep toward the lower, inner quadrant and mix in a diddle or two. That's tough on the elbow and wrist. Perhaps if I wore a bowling glove it would stabilize my wrist. Heck, I'll try anything once.

My pal did not return the squeeze, mostly because he's six-foot-many and she's five-foot-few. He had to settle for the tender skin on the back of her neck. A bold move would have included a backhand. (I was watching tennis while filtering wine through my liver, hence the reference.) He could have sneaked from her neck over her trapezius, across her sternocleidomastoid, down her pectoralis major, and landed on her left boobius niceus. That would no doubt cause rotator cuff tenderness with a good chance of nipplicus erectus.

Alas, he remained a gentleman as she groped his glutes, be-bopped his bunghole, and made me giggle.

She had a clump in her pants.

It was outrageous. I couldn't stop staring. It wasn't a camel toe or moose knuckle either. Perish the thought. No, she wasn't a he. No, I'm not gay for lingering on it.

When you spot something odd, what do you do? You investigate. You try to find the reason why the odd thing is where it doesn't usually show up. That was the case in the sauna. A young woman (oh, don't get all wadded up; she was older than twenty) entered wearing a bikini and something was out of place. I used my peripheral skills to no avail. Then, I tilted my capped skull down far enough to keep her from seeing my eyes and, yep, there it was: a clump. No, not a clump of fur. A clump--a clit lump. This maiden had a calamari-ring-sized clit.

M-m-meaty!

OK, so I'm a pervert. Look, I didn't poke it. I'm just sharing a story. What if one of my readers had a clump? Wouldn't she want to know? I hear marathon runners put band-aids on their nipples. Shouldn't the clump keepers wear a pad or duct tape? Then again, I wasn't offended by it. There was, perhaps, a bit of curious stimulation as I envisioned tongue-jabbing that flesh bulb while she hummed the theme to Rocky.

Gosh, I need some serious therapy.

I do prefer the clump to the slice. The slice, especially when clean-shaven, is creepy. It's kind of Barbie-ish. There should be puffy outer lips, pliable inner limps, and--sure, why not?--toss in a clump for good measure. That would make it easier to find and, thus, a happy Phil.

I'm fifty. I need cheaters. Wearing cheaters to bed is not sexy.

And, please stop with the bleaching of the balloon knot. It's supposed to be as it is and, unless you're on channel 3952, no man should see it under bright lights. Leave it be.

Fine. I'll stop staring and move on to the treadmill.