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The Nicest Guy and His Lonely Penis

My children are always up before I am in the morning. God, what I would give to be able to
sleep in. Sometimes I take them out to play right before bedtime, hoping to tire them out. They
love to watch TV, but Daddy loves sports, and they have no interest. We end up watching their
favorite shows as I try to tire them out, but still in the morning it’s “We’re up, Daddy, get up!”
and no more sleep for me. I tell them I have to pee, but they won’t let me. They want to play
first. How exhausting.
A few years back I was concerned that my boys were dysfunctional or had A.D.D. I was
married and putting my boys to work doing regular egg hunts. They sucked at it, so off to the
doctor’s office we went. They sent us to the “collection room” where I was told to get my boys
out so they could be examined, counted, and evaluated. They were a little shy to come out, but
we found some of their favorite magazines (which Daddy held with his sleeve, not his skin,
because the pages were wrinkled and gross). After a bit of coaxing, they finally did come out. I
felt bad because I hardly had time to name all 500,000,000 of them. It turned out that there were
some slow ones and even a few two-headed little monsters, but most of them were healthy and
good swimmers. Daddy was so proud.
Well, I wish I had the time to tell you more. They’re up again and nagging me about going
out for another egg hunt tonight. I told them Daddy’s tired, and if they keep it up, he’ll have to
hire them a playmate. They’re oddly OK with that. I threatened to take them to the shower. They
hate showers. However, Daddy taught them how to make pretend, so they stop nagging him. I’m
sorry, I have to go … Phil the 216,549th is crying and wants his pacifier (nookie).
How Do I Work You?
I know, I know: “Men never read the instructions or ask for directions.” Well, damn it, I’m
asking. How do women work? I’m tired of guessing. I’ve tried all of the tab “A,” slot “B,” a little
WD40 (vodka), twist here, and tug there methods. The levers and buttons don’t work the same
on all of you.
Men are primitive beasts—visual and impatient, especially at my age. So, when we meet,
kindly hand us your instruction manual. Is that too much to ask?
“Oh, but the learning about each other, the experimenting, those awkward moments; it’s all
so exciting.” I’ll tell you what it is: frustrating. It’s like trying to assemble a ten-speed bike with
a stripped screwdriver and without cold beer.
It would be a lot easier if women all worked the same—not even close. This one likes to talk
dirty; that one calls it a “wee wee.” This one likes the cashmere sweater gift; that one is offended
that I bought a size five because she’s “a four even on a fat day” (like I have a decoder ring to
figure out women’s sizes). This one appreciates the perfume I picked out; this one takes it as a
hint that she smells bad. I feel like I’m at the roulette table.
Here’s how simple it could be. In your instruction manual, you list:
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Clothing and shoe sizes and designer and store preferences (please don’t say Saks);
Ring size (holy crap, marriage, scratch that one, I don’t want to know, la-la-la, not
listening);
·
Chocolate preference (milk, dark, or syrup);
·
How often I’m supposed to call you (does texting count?);
·
Favorite Starbucks drink (so I don’t get dirty looks from or hit on by the barista again);
·
Are you seeking a solution or do you just want to vent?
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