Well, as you are a faithful reader and know what the hell is going on around here (unlike your devoted chronicler), you are aware that The Bunny and I are getting hitched all official-like. To all the men out there, read on:
PROPOSING IS A REALLY, REALLY BAD IDEA! Don't do it. Ever.
Here's why - Your current bedbunny is a sane, rational woman, right? Cool, composed, not given to flights of wacky hysterics about the minutia of candles? HA! slap the groovy wedding-vibe on her and madness follows.
You ask for proof? Well, results may vary, but I do have a couple examples:
Before proposal:
A longtime favorite discussion around the 'ole Bomars hearth was on the nature of what constitutes Art. As in - Kant vs Tolstoy Vs Kierkegaard in a to-the-death cage-match.
After proposal:
"What do you think we should do with the leftover place mats from the reception?"
or the current favorite:
"Did you know <insert insufferably boring factoid about the wedding dress industry> and if I buy my dress online <I usually faint with ennui here>"
OR
BP:
The Bunny: "Who should we invite to <insert event here>?"
Your hero: "I dunno, people?"
The Bunny: "Yeah, people are good."
AP:
The Bunny: "Who should we invite to the wedding?"
Your hero: "I dunno, people?"
The Bunny: <hateful stare>
From these two examples, we can deduce that men and women do not have the same sense of importance or urgency regarding nuptials.
I, for one, would like no better than to have people show up with cash in hand and party until every last person we have ever met passes out. Somewhere during the party (to be determined by the mood of the festivities) an ordained-type person shouts incomprehensible gibberish about the solemnity of the event, passes out, regains consciousness, makes us lob rings at each other, passes out again and is carried off stage. DONE. see? simplicity itself. I planned that whole thing in like thirty seconds.
The Bunny's plan involves florists, the most economically parasitic trade known to man, They are even more evil than the IRS. It gets even worse from there. (Wait, maybe I'm wrong. maybe it wasn't florists...it could have been flautists. Seriously, though...why the hell would we need flautists? Women are a mystery.) (Also, as a side note, I need to get my hearing checked.)
O, Brother - take heed, as well, of the following dire warning:
AT NO TIME, FOR NO REASON, EVER GIVE A WHIMSICAL SUGGESTION TO THE PROSPECTIVE BRIDE ABOUT ANYTHING AT ALL, lest your silly idea be taken as a demand.
Me, a long, long time ago: "I wanna get married in a cathedral " (Seriously, it'd be awesome. The Wedding March played on a pipe organ, a choir singing Vivaldi's Magnificat, knights in armor....Hell yeah)
The Bunny: <dialing the local Archdiocese last week> I don't know if we can afford it; but if I can get someone to buy a kidney...
Me: "WTF? I'm not even Catholic! Wait....How much you think we can get for a kidney, though? I've got like...two or something."
The Bunny: <hateful stare>
Oh, and my personal fave - every woman she has ever met, even briefly, like on the bus or something, will come out of the woodwork offering "help". And by "help" I mean a carefully coordinated campaign of misinformation and anti-male propaganda.
Some chick The Bunny met at summer camp in 1987: "Heard you were getting married! Just emailing you to see if you wanted to use my antique rose curling press you will totally need one!!! Also, your fiancée has called in a hit on a puppy, is cheating on you with a nearsighted marmoset, and may be a communist."
Some other chick The Bunny knew from college: "Hooray! Men can't be trusted with even the smallest task! Did you know that a mere SIX MONTHS before our wedding, my husband suggested that we go out rollerskating? ROLLERSKATING!!!!! He obviously has no notion! Also, during the rehearsal dinner, he ate CHICKEN!?!?! Also, you should purchase this orbital sander so your shoes won't wamble."
And so on.
Hold the phone, I just realized something. Is this how women feel when it's mentioned, briefly, that they would like a new computer/car/tool and their guy offers sound, reasonable advice? Except all crazy? something to think about....
More later.
Showing posts with label partnership. Show all posts
Showing posts with label partnership. Show all posts
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Nature of Humor, Civilization, Egyptian Mythology, and the Blues.
Umm.....ok...so that happened. Would anyone care, learn from, or understand the reference? no? crap.
It appears that writing humor while relatively content is difficult. Almost all of the great thinkers agree with the paraphrased, usually misquoted, almost always taken out of context premise in Plato's Philebus, we see that humor comes from the
Therefore, armed with that knowledge, we see that self-deprecation or "relational" humor, when one is content, is forced into stilted falseness or impossible.
Or is it?
</ self important extemporization>
So let's discuss being "civilized" by a significant other; specifically a female other
As many of you may know, I used to write silly crap about the early part of my relationship with my honey, Kat. I used to go and drink heroic amounts of alcohol and hilarious hijinks would ensue. Now, I have almost zero alcohol tolerance, I don't go out much, and I know what "financial planning" actually means. (I used to think it meant "I have money; I will spend it on booze, cars, and women of negotiable affection. I have a plan". Turns out it means "I am broke-ish. I will sock all my money away and pay bills for some reason I haven't quite figured out yet. Because she said so"). She has "A Plan". It totally deserves capital letters and is most certainly on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know (That seems to be rule #1 of "The Plan")
I think that "The Plan" falls upon my honey like revelations on Joseph Smith. Also, I think his magic hat is involved, because I can't find my favorite baseball caps. For instance, "The Plan" now involves me selling my precious Star Wars Lego collection to pay for something, someday. (I don't ask.) Due to our current living situation, my Legos are in boxes all jumbled up, so at least I get to put them together one last time, while I mutter something out of a Faulkner novel:
Shhh, Star Destroyer, shhh...tell me about the bunnies....the... <sob>... bunnies. <snap another piece into place>
Another part of "The Plan" involves, and this is the tricky part, NOT buying more Legos. You see the conditions under which I subsist? tragic.
Also, I have had drilled into my skull that I will not be allowed to buy the things I need to enjoy eternity. (An important piece of background information about me is that I am a devout member of the Reformed Church of Egypt; and when I die, I will take my funeral goods with me) So she is actively dooming me to an eternity of pillow shams, Pier 1 Imports soap holders and cat scratching posts.
O Reader, as you can see, your hero in this missive suffers in the gentle fetters of love.
que sera sera.
So watch this space for a delta-blues inspired wailing an gnashing of teeth, next time on Fiascos, Travesties, and Faux Pas.
It appears that writing humor while relatively content is difficult. Almost all of the great thinkers agree with the paraphrased, usually misquoted, almost always taken out of context premise in Plato's Philebus, we see that humor comes from the
...mixture of pleasure and pain that lies in the malice of amusement.
Therefore, armed with that knowledge, we see that self-deprecation or "relational" humor, when one is content, is forced into stilted falseness or impossible.
Or is it?
</ self important extemporization>
So let's discuss being "civilized" by a significant other; specifically a female other
As many of you may know, I used to write silly crap about the early part of my relationship with my honey, Kat. I used to go and drink heroic amounts of alcohol and hilarious hijinks would ensue. Now, I have almost zero alcohol tolerance, I don't go out much, and I know what "financial planning" actually means. (I used to think it meant "I have money; I will spend it on booze, cars, and women of negotiable affection. I have a plan". Turns out it means "I am broke-ish. I will sock all my money away and pay bills for some reason I haven't quite figured out yet. Because she said so"). She has "A Plan". It totally deserves capital letters and is most certainly on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know (That seems to be rule #1 of "The Plan")
I think that "The Plan" falls upon my honey like revelations on Joseph Smith. Also, I think his magic hat is involved, because I can't find my favorite baseball caps. For instance, "The Plan" now involves me selling my precious Star Wars Lego collection to pay for something, someday. (I don't ask.) Due to our current living situation, my Legos are in boxes all jumbled up, so at least I get to put them together one last time, while I mutter something out of a Faulkner novel:
Shhh, Star Destroyer, shhh...tell me about the bunnies....the... <sob>... bunnies. <snap another piece into place>
Another part of "The Plan" involves, and this is the tricky part, NOT buying more Legos. You see the conditions under which I subsist? tragic.
Also, I have had drilled into my skull that I will not be allowed to buy the things I need to enjoy eternity. (An important piece of background information about me is that I am a devout member of the Reformed Church of Egypt; and when I die, I will take my funeral goods with me) So she is actively dooming me to an eternity of pillow shams, Pier 1 Imports soap holders and cat scratching posts.
O Reader, as you can see, your hero in this missive suffers in the gentle fetters of love.
que sera sera.
So watch this space for a delta-blues inspired wailing an gnashing of teeth, next time on Fiascos, Travesties, and Faux Pas.
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