communication is key

There are a lot of theories as to why the dinosaurs became extinct before I could ride one to work and finally have the rich guys in BMW’s envious of me, but yesterday afternoon while I was talking with another blogger, I had an epiphany about this subject.

Sure there might have been a meteor or whatever, but the real reason dinosaurs went extinct is because the guy dinosaurs kept trying to figure out what the lady dinosaurs were thinking, and eventually their tiny brains exploded.

This is really the best theory out of all of them, because if you ask any man now what women think he will 1) scrunch his face and look Thoughtful then 2) give some sort of vague answer and finally 3) punch himself in the face out of the frustration that comes with knowing that he does not know a damn thing.

And this is a man who is supposed to be evolved!

Imagine how hard this was for the guy dino, with his tiny little brain.

Dude T-Rex: [Notices his woman friend is in a bad mood] “You alright?  You’ve barely touched your caveman stew.  Too much pepper?”

Foxy Stegosaurus: [Looks up from her soup, with eyebrows raised] “Everything is fine.”

Dude T-Rex: “Oh, okay great – man you should have seen the look on Steve’s face when I threw that rock at his tail, he was–”

Foxy Stegosaurus: [Getting up abruptly from the dinner table] “You don’t even know who I am anymore!”

[Dude T-Rex watches Foxy Stegosuarus storms out of the cave, and as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened, his brain explodes and he dies]

This is probably what happened to the guy dinosaurs, and with no guys around to procreate with the ladies, the species eventually died off.

With this knowledge in hand, maybe next time a guy says, “So, what do you want to do tonight?” you women should actually tell us, instead of saying “Oh I don’t know” and then when we suggest something, you say “That’s a dumb idea.”

Either that or we all die.

Think about it.

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saturdays are supposed to be fun

Tomorrow, since I’m getting married or something like that, Ari and I have to go register.

For those of you lucky enough to not know what this entails, allow me to explain: You and your spouse-to-be/person who lasted the longest without wanting to strangle you, go to stores and pick out items that people coming to your wedding can buy for you as a wedding gift.

Now, in theory this sounds fun – hey, let’s get a bunch of free stuff!  But trust me, this is not going to be fun for me.  We’re not going to places like Best Buy and the Apple Store, or even shopping online at NFL.com and NBA.com.

No.  We’re going to places like Crate and Barrel (or as I like to call it, much to Ari’s annoyance, Crap and Bullshit) Macy’s and Bed Bath and Beyond (hell on earth).

If I was in charge of registering, I’d be picking out sweet Steelers jerseys, an X-Box and maybe some cool Knicks mugs.  But because for some strange reason everything isn’t about me, we’ll be getting stuff like this:

No

Fun

For

Chris

This is what registering is all about.  Spending hours and hours picking out stuff – that goes together! – that you don’t really care about.

Keep me in your thoughts tomorrow, is what I’m trying to say.

mass appeal

My block is like any other block in Brooklyn, in that one street can be beautiful with children playing games on the sidewalk, and the next street can be full of intimidating men Selling Things.  Things that are bad.  Bad like drugs.  Drugs are bad.

Just like the norm, my street is pretty nice, but in the early morning when I go to the gym before work, at the end of my block there are always hookers hanging around.

Normally I pass by them and they pay me no mind, which is usually okay with me, but this morning was different.  Today I happened to find myself walking just behind another man, and when he passed by, one of the hookers slithered up to him and sexily (well as sexily as a mid-50’s woman with a crack habit can sound) murmured, “Hey baby…”

I didn’t stick around to see if they were going to start playing Chinese Checkers or whatever it is men do with hookers, but I did notice that there was another prostitute standing right by them, and she said nothing to me.

Nothing!

No “Hey baby.”

No “What chu up to today suga?”

No “You look like you have low self-esteem.  Well so do I, so you should pay me for sex that will probably leave you with red bumps on your soldier.”

Nothing.

Of course I was deeply upset about this.  What could be the reason that I didn’t get solicited?

Am I not good looking enough for a hooker hanging around at 6:10 in the morning?  Granted my shoes could use a shine, but couldn’t she look past that?

Or maybe the hooker gave me a once over and thought that I would not be able to provide the Good Time that she wanted.  Well does she even know that I work out?  I mean, if she wants three minutes you better believe I can give three minutes.  Followed by a snack and a nap of course.

It doesn’t really matter what the reason was, the fact remains that I was given the cold shoulder by a hooker today and that means I need to make some changes.

Starting tomorrow morning I’m going to unbutton my shirt to show my twelve chest hairs when I pass by them.  If that doesn’t change their minds, I don’t know what will.

meal ticket

Because I live with A Woman, I am an expert on the differences between men and women, which is to say I know about 3% more about these differences than most men.  Which means I’m sad all the time.

Of all of the variations between men and women, the one that gets overlooked the most (and that, by my calculations, makes it the most important) is the fact that men can eat the same thing over and over again, while women cannot.

When I come to work every day, I bring a tuna sandwich, chips, an apple and some grapes.

I’ve done this for two years now.

Every single week day, that’s what I eat.  Aside from a few Fridays, when I go out to lunch and treat myself to, well, to a tuna sandwich from somewhere else.

A woman would never do this.

When Ari makes a dinner with pasta in it, we will not have pasta again – in any form – until at least next week.  When I propose pasta a few days after the Initial Pasta Installment, I am typically met with disgust and a look that says, “What the hell are you, some kind of monster???”

Women simply cannot fathom eating the same thing twice in a row, while men revel in the idea of having one less thing to think about, thus leaving more space in our brains for sports, boobs and more boobs.

Of course, this is just one of the reasons why men and women will never get along.

Scientists can do research and psychologists can conduct tests, but the reality is that it’s all about a sandwich and repetition.

are you busy Thursday night?

Since I’m getting married sometime in the next year or so, I am obviously subjected to all the jokes that come with it.  You know, the “It was nice knowing Single Chris” and the “Your life is over now” variety.

There are going to be some down sides to getting married, but one thing I absolutely won’t miss about being single is dating.

Dating is the worst.

It is fucking terrible and there is nothing good about it.

And I’m not even talking about the actual date, because dating begins all the way back when you first spot that woman with such a great smile that it makes you think, “No way she was looking at me, is there someone behind me?”

Once you get The Look, dating has officially begun.

You think about what to say to her.  You rack your tiny brain for days, begging it to come up with something clever to say to her, instead of thinking about why Rafael is the best ninja turtle.

If you’re lucky, you think of something and she accepts the offer of An Evening With You.

After that you spend the next days before the date wondering why she is dumb enough to want to date you and how you can prolong that effect until it is too late and she has no choice but to become your girlfriend.

Oh, and you also stress the fuck out about where you’re going to take her, because you can’t simply ask her where she’d like to go.  You are The Man, and being The Man means you now have to act like you know things about restaurants that don’t have two-for-one beer specials and Photo Hunt.

Finally, after asking your friends where you should go and picking her up and trying to only look at her boobs when she won’t notice, you must endure being in public together.

Being in public together is terrible because everyone is watching.

Everyone knows that you two are on a date and they are watching you fumble over your story about how smoking pot actually improves your driving abilities.

If all goes well and you somehow make it through Public Time without wanting to run away, die or punch yourself for picking someone so shitty to spend time with, then at the end of the night you might get a kiss and a “Thanks, I had a really good time.”

Of course, on your way back to your apartment, even though she said it was “a really good time” you analyze every fucking second of the night and ponder when you should call her next and if she’ll even answer and why the hell did I tell her I don’t always wear clean socks???

After all of that, if nothing clicks and you don’t see the woman again, you repeat the process.

Only this time maybe you go for someone a little more slutty, so at least you can get something worthwhile out of the date.

everything will be okay

Lots of things confuse me.

Like why In The Air Tonight was Phil Collins’ biggest hit, even though it’s clear that Sussudio is his best work.

But when I’m not being stunned by the slighting of a song about some girl with a name so odd that one could question its authenticity, I am continually baffled by tupperware.

More specifically, the obsession women have with these tiny containers made of plastic that you must make burp.

I just don’t understand it.

I threw away a container that had tuna in it for about eight months and when I told Ari, I’m fairly certain that she wanted to knife me.  Usually she only wants to knife me after I drink too much.

But when she heard that one of her plastic food saviors had met its end because I’m lazy and didn’t want to wash it, I got a death stare and a Stern Talking To that ended with me assuring her that I will buy another container.

And heaven help the poor man who leaves tupperware at some party!  Because women, despite being able to tell you what Lauren Conrad did yesterday that was just so fake, do not realize that tupperware is available to be purchased at any moment!  In stores!  Everywhere!

I’ve seen it!

If I wanted to, I could get you a medium container in twenty minutes.  I might throw it away or lose it by next week, but dammit I will get you that container.

There really is no need for all the dramatics behind tupperware.

If a piece happens to disappear, then please, please just shake it off.  Us men will go into battle, slay another piece for you and bring it back, triumphantly proclaiming, “Woman!  I bring you small tupperware!  Now attend to my loins!”

Just don’t ask us to find the lid that goes with that weird shaped one.

That’s impossible.

the thought is mightier than the punch

Last night Ari and I were arguing about who had nicer feet when she threatened me with violence.

She waved her fist in my face and said, “You better watch it buddy.”  Needless to say, I was very intimidated. When people call you “buddy,” you know you are in for Trouble.

As she shook her fist at me, I noticed something odd about it, so I asked her, “Uh, what are you doing with your fist?”

She had no idea what I was talking about.

So I said, “Why is your one finger poking out?  You don’t have to do that, you know.”

This is when she said, “Oh that?  That’s my Dagger Fist.”

Behold, my friends, The Dagger Fist.

I hope that didn’t scare you too much.  Please, it’s okay.  Come back to the computer.  I promise you – you are in no danger of getting hit with The Dagger Fist.

Ari’s attempt at a fist just reminded me of how terribly incompetent women are at physical violence.  Of course there are exceptions – like when Britney Spears attacked that car with an umbrella.

But more often than not, when women try and Bring The Ruckus, they fail.

That’s because physical violence is not a woman’s best weapon.  Mental violence like nagging is.

A woman’s ability to nag is uncanny.  It is something they are born with and then cultivate into a full-blown Weapon Of Destruction as they age.

If a woman wants something out of a man, she will get it.  And if she doesn’t, she will attack until she does.

She will bring up the same subject until it has beaten a man’s will to live into the ground, and then, even after the man gives up and does what she wants, the woman will deal one more Mental Blow by stating, “Well, you should have just done it the first time I said something.”

Like telling a man fourteen times in two days to call the cable company wasn’t torture enough for him.

Men are made for Physical Violence, women are made for Mental Violence.

This has been evident ever since the Stone Age (sorry for the technical term) when Man made fire by thrashing sticks and stones together.

He went and grabbed his Woman to tell her about his Accomplishment, and all she could say was, “That’s very nice Steve, but you still haven’t swept the cave like I asked you to.”