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.:[Saturday, May 20, 2006]:.
100 Things My Father Didn't Tell Me About Women
Part 99: Breaking Up is Hard to Do
Ha ha... that's a laugh. Of course it isn't. As a matter of fact, breaking up is so easy that I've never even had to break up with a woman. They always break up with me first.
When I first moved to Austin and was living with Adam, I started dating the parking garage attendant at the building where he and I worked. She was a cute little Mexican girl who my brother always called "Esmerelda" even though her name was Jennifer. We were going out for about two weeks, when suddenly she stopped calling. "Well, fuck her then," I told myself as I prepared for a life of celibacy. "I don't need her bitch ass, anyway."
About a week later, while I was outside in the yard smoking a cigarette, Adam leaned out the door with the phone and said, "It's Esmerelda." Well, I certainly wasn't going to just let her decide we were going to start seeing each other again. I mean, I'm a hard ass, after all.
She said she'd been in a car wreck. The week before. And was in the hospital. And... fuck a duck... wanted me to come see her.
Obviously, I was in quite a quandry. Anyone in that situation would, as was I, be horrorstruck at the situation. It's something we aren't trained to deal with. I didn't know what to do.
"Of course you have to go see her, what the fuck's the matter with you," was my brother's response, despite the fact that I had carefully explained that we had only been dating for a couple of weeks. I probably wouldn't have taken her out if I'd known that there was an implied hospital visitation obligation in the event of serious injury. Unfortunately, casual inquiries with other parties resulted in similar sentiments, often labeling my intended course of action "assholish" no matter how carefully I couched the question. I really felt I had no choice. I acknowledge certain "assholish" elements to my personality, but I like to think that they are mostly limited to "completely undependable" and "pee on the side of your house" spheres of "assholery," rather than the "unforgivabley insensitive to life threatening injury" variety. So I went to go visit her.
I'd like to report that I behaved admirably for all the right reasons. I brought my VCR up to the hospital room, and visited with rented movies several times a week. I commiserated with her family about her recovery throughout her 6 week stay in the hospital. And I brought little gifts like flowers and teddy bears with some regularity. And I did it all because of my noble instincts for right and wrong, as well as a genuine affection for Esmerelda.
Alas, I did all those things... but I did them so that I would not descend into the realm of irredeemable jackassery with which I would be branded if I had broken up with a girl with a chest tube. And I stuck it out. Our first date after she got out of the hospital, I dropped her off at the movie box office so I could go park the car and watched her work her way across the sidewalk in her white capri pants with the panty line showing, long, sexy dark hair... and using a walker, for fuck's sake. I was horrified.
Like I said, I stuck it out all the way through her recovery. Until she could walk unassisted, and except for some scars on her chest and abdomen, she looked just like she did before the accident.
And then she dumped me. I was calling her cousin "Prison Tats" (addendum: if you're 5'3", and it would be funny to call someone "Prison Tats..." don't do it. Nothing good can come of it. Best case scenario: he breaks his foot off in your ass) at her birthday party, and she said that it wasn't very funny and didn't call me again after that.
Breaking up is hard to do? Please... give her enough time, she'll get sick of your shit.
| a BEN production by me at 6:34 AM
You know how in Academy Award winning movies, a father will share some sort of hard-won wisdom with his son while sharing a beer over a dismantled carbuerator in the garage? I didn't have one of those fathers. One of the main pieces of advice I remember my father giving me was that masturbating makes you go bald, which makes a grim kind of sense considering the inevitability of both the act and the consequence but has none of the shmaltzy soft-focus sentamentalism one might expect from a father.
So one of my favorite techniques is to ascribe wise, time-worn sayings that he never said to my father, especially if it would make me sound creepy or like an asshole if I said it myself. Thus, the proper response to "Ben, why are you always single?" is "Well, my father always said, 'Son, no woman can love you better than you love yourself.'"
Thus, none of the following "100 Things" is something that my father told me.
But he probably should have.
Part 100: The Drunken Floozy
The Drunken Floozy is the car wreck of female companionship. You know you shouldn't look but you can't help yourself. That's one way to put it. Another would be that during your relationship with her, the airbag will deploy, glass will shatter, you'll get at least a few minor injuries, the police will show up, and it will cost you a fortune.
Someone once told me that I shouldn't be the "sane" one in the relationship. Likewise, no man should ever be the "sober" one, either. Drinking, like baseball and bungee jumping and race car driving, is a male pursuit. The crucial difference, however, is that girls who like baseball and bungee jumping and race car driving are just likely to go lez on you. Girls that drink won't go lez. At least not intentionally. They'll be emphatically heterosexual, but sleeping with them is like playing a game of Clue (Answer: Everybody. In the alleyway. With the candlestick.).
Be prepared for hungover phone conversations like: "Who did you go home with last night?" "Oh, God... I was wondering why you weren't here this morning." There's also the ever popular: "We've already talked about this..." "We did? Was it after I took my Valium?" One of the big disadvantages is that her blackouts don't make you forget any of the fucked up shit that happens. Or clean the puke out of your pubic hair.
I'm reminded of a time that ... let's call her Crazy Train... invited a couple from the apartment pool up to her apartment before I arrived there. The couple wanted us all to have sex together. While this wouldn't be a bad deal in some circumstances, I'm not generally an orgy guy and the other woman looked like 225 pounds of raw biscuit batter. Worse, really. So I had to throw them out. And I'm not a big guy. Certainly not as big as the biscuit batter bitch, anyway.
Anyway, long story short, the couple left their wallet in her house and we went and bought vibrators with their money. $180 worth. And there were really crazy things going on in my passenger seat on the way back to her apartment. But I didn't get pulled over and I didn't go to jail. However, the next day we had to spend bar-hopping, trying to hide from the biscuit batter couple. But, it all turned out okay... unless you were the people who we stole vibrator money from. Then it turned out shitty.
And therein lies the seduction of The Drunken Floozy. There might be some kind of crazy, Penthouse Forum story in it for you. But you'll probably also be picking pieces of scrambled egg out of your pubes. It's a tradeoff.
Remember something: The Drunken Floozy is violating the natural order of things. Women don't drink. By toying with an abomination of nature, you're risking crying jags, breaking up drunken brawls, being a participant in drunken brawls, and tearful late night confessions that she gave the clap.
You've been warned.
| a BEN production by me at 2:47 AM