My little brother got engaged! How fucking great is that? I met his fiancé only once, but she was at least as smart and crass as he is, and he’s a lot smarter and more crass than I am, so let’s just say that I’m pretty excited to learn dirty jokes from their kids someday. Great shit! And right on the heels of me bitching about the holidays yesterday. Well, I guess the old maxim “God never stuffs something up your ass without massaging the prostate” holds a little truth still, right? I think that’s the phrase at least. Something about how there’s a little piece of good in every bad, like when Luke Skywalker bones Darth Vader, to use a visual, physical example of that…or a yin yang works too, I guess… Which, just by the way, is an eternally awesome tattoo idea. There’s no such thing as a bad yin yang tattoo. Is it the skin on a flaming drum? Awesome. Is it the eyes of a hypnotized monkey? Rad. Is it just right there on your thigh, just melting, like Dali style? Dude, let’s wrap you in a bag and call you dope.
Okay, so in honor of my brother, I’ve compiled a few tips and pointers over the years to deal with one’s wife. These should work approximately 100% of the time if done properly. If they fail, most likely, the problem is in the execution.
Okay, firstly you’ll be registering for wedding shit. This will involve about ten zillion dead eyed trips to Crate n Barrel, Linens and Things, Stuff n Shit, the Container Store, Bed Bath and Beyond, Target and so forth. You will follow her around like…well, in pretty much the exact same way you used to follow your mom around one of these soul-sucking establishments: Glazed eyes, pained expression, slow pace, wide stance, head back, constant audible sighs. It will do no good. You’re there. She’s excited. Look around. See all the other poor fucks being dragged along by the wrists by their overstimulated women? You’re fucked. There will be decisions to be made. These will be about things you could never care less about in a billion years.
“Honey, do you like the rounded handle on the soup spoon or this more bamboo-ish pattern?”
“Which duvet cover do you think is better for the comforter that goes in the den?”
“How many throw pillows should we get for the bed? 16? Or is 16 overkill? Maybe just 9.”
“Um, can I get an opinion please?”
Resist the urge to point out that you couldn’t give two shits and that perhaps she should just do whatever the fuck she wants because that’s what she’s gonna do anyway AND why AM I EVEN HERE?!?!?!?! I COULD BE SLEEPING/DRINKING/WATCHING FOOTBALL/AT KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN WITH STU AND GLEN/SNEAKING OFF TO THE TITTY BAR etc.
These are your things too, she’ll point out. And she wants your opinion, and dammit, your help and support. This is a big deal. This is the stuff we’re gonna get, gonna have to start our lives together and you’re too selfish to help me pick out what our family and friends are going to buy for us for ONE AFTERNOON?
It’s a no win. Of course your opinion doesn’t count. Not in the slightest. BUT it’s necessary. And it’s like a puzzle. You MUST give an opinion. If it’s the wrong one, she’ll talk it over with you, but she MUST feel that she’s really convinced you, or she’ll never let it rest. And this conversation, believe me please when I say that it can and will last days.
“You really like the Bamboo ones? Really? Aren’t they…They just don’t go so well with our flatware that we just picked out.”
“Yeah, okay fine. The round ones.”
“WHAT? The round ones?”
“Um…I just thought that..”
“Are you just saying that to get this over with or do you mean it?”
What kind of a horrible mean fucking question is this? OF COURSE I’m just saying that to get this over with…I’m a guy. I don’t give a fuck about duvet covers or duvets for that matter. 9 pillows on a bed? I used to sleep on a bare mattress with a pair of jeans rolled up in a tshirt for a pillow before I met you. I had one fork that just kind of hung out and was the go to for everything, from soup to hummus to scraping the crud around the drain. It’s not in our nature to care about that shit. To borrow a line from Chappelle, “ If a man could get laid in a cardboard box, he wouldn’t have a house.”
Okay, I’m coming unraveled here, back on topic. The point is, you must give an opinion, and it must be the correct one. Here’s the secret, the simple truth that they don’t tell you: Your woman wants you to arrive at the conclusion that she did independently. That’s the only way she’ll be happy. SO you attempt to figure out her opinion. Sometimes just asking works, then say something along these lines:
“You know, at first I was thinking I liked the bamboo ones better, but then I was reconsidering, because I just think the rounded ones are more stylish, you know?” Or any bullshit like this will do. Just let her know that you considered the wrong choice and came around. In her mind, you weighed the options and agree with her. This is the only way to move on to the next item. Never mind your own opinion please. That will just drag out the process.
The good news is that you’ll only have to keep going back to Target and Bed Bath and Beyond until the stores go out of business or you die or divorce, at which point you can go back to drying yourself with paper towels after you shower.
Next up: Buttfucking- Put it right there in the vows. They say that sex fizzles after marriage. Not if you work at it. Keep your buttfucking sacred.
Clean the house when she’s not around. This usually works wonders, unless you do a half assed job and she comes home and just wants to go balls out, and you’ve been cleaning all day, and then she wants you to scrub the sinks and you’re all ‘BITCH I JUST WANT TO WATCH MILLIONAIRE!’, but man, chill. You can’t say that anymore. She’s your wife. Your balls are in her purse now.
Flowers always help. They don’t always work the full job. BUT they always help. Also, the “don’t send me flowers” bullshit is just that. It’s bullshit. That’s like a guy telling someone he’s not interested in getting blowjobs. It’s something you say to attract lazy mates. That’s all.
At your wedding, someone will get too drunk. It’s usually a relative who’s just distant enough and they usually end up either passing out, getting into it with someone in the bridal party or something much worse (tits out, dancefloor barfing, fucking upstairs in the broom closet, asking the valet to help you score blow etc.). Savor this wonderful moment as a reminder of what you’re capable of, and how great it feels to tell that story when it starts with a “this guy at my wedding” and not an “I”.
About one in every five times she asks you to stay home and not go out with your friends, you have to go anyway. This is just to keep a little bit of the excitement alive. She fell in love with a guy who almost never listened to her. Then you started to respect her and shit, and now she rules you. BUT, she doesn’t want you to obey her all the time, just most of the time. A little insubordination goes a long way in the blowjobs receivable department. If this isn’t actually applicable to your relationship, you’re in a bad one, and I’m not kidding. You should be attentive enough that the one time in five that you go out without her, she’s okay with it, because it’s relatively rare, and she should be understanding of your need to sometimes do your own thing and when you say, ‘hey, chill. I’ll be home at ten.’ And then come home at twelve thirty, she should roll over and say ‘did you have fun?’ Leave out the strippers and blow, gently try for the beej, (which won’t probably happen if she’s asleep, except in the very greatest of unplannable moments) and get some rest, because tomorrow you’re either out at Target or cleaning the house while she’s gone.
Um, that’s enough for today. Congratulations to Ryan and Anne! I can’t wait to see you fucking turds.