Just One of the Guys, visited, again

Shay and I picked the whole relationship conversation up again a few days after our first conversation. By this time, we’d dropped into the whole wedding kick of last week, and were discussing my inability to find where the female species congregates in my region of the world. It also came out through conversation that I possess the superpower of being able to attract the mentally and emotionally unstable fems; so, if there’s ever a need to pick a psycho girl out in a lineup, just ask me which one I’d go out with, and you’ve got your winner. After some banter on this subject, Shay asked me: “So why [generalize] all girls?” Admittedly, I was overgeneralizing; I’m sure there are girls, then there are “girls,” then there are “ladies,” then there are “women,” and finally you have all my exes (for those of you playing the home version of the game, that makes five categories--don’t ask me for the differences; I still haven’t figured out girls).

Anyway, I told her: “It’s quick, easy, convenient, and gets the point across.” C’mon, for cryin out loud. We all do this. Gals, I know you talk about “men,” “boys,” “pigs,” whatever. Then there are “mother-in-laws,” “bosses,” “lawyers;” the list could go on for several pages. Granted, some of these stereotypes aren’t the most accurate portrayals of those groups of people, but they do serve the purpose of getting across the exact intent of many principles in conversation. Shay played the “unfair” card, so I replied: “Those few cases [outside the stereotypes] fall out of the 95th percentile of observable cases.” Okay, I’ll admit to switching games a bit, but the standard rule of research at the graduate level is to throw out the outlying 5% of cases in a sample if they are skewing results in an unusual way. To put this into visual perspective, if you draw a 10 inch line on a piece of paper, cut a quarter of an inch off both the right and left side of the line, and that big 9 ½ inch part is all “girls.” The outer half inch is all the girls, “ladies,” and “women” (for those of you still playing the home game, my exes fall in the “girls” category). According to the US Census Bureau, there were 149,117,996 females (sum of all five categories, if you will) in the US a year ago. Granted, all those are not in my datable age bracket, which consists of only 19,734,404 fems. And since I don’t want a “girl,” I use the 5% rule which leaves Sam’s dating pool of 986,720.2 girls, “ladies,” and “women” to choose from. The odds are seemingly in my favor, with one datable female in every 0.107697936 square miles (ya know, in the amount of time it took me to figure that all out, I could’ve gone out and met somebody).

Shay counters: “You're ultimately putting me in the same category with freaks, psychos, stalkers, fat girls, etc…” How this conversation went from generalities to being only about Shay is still something I have yet to figure out. I’m sure when I do that I’ll have another piece of the puzzle about girls, “ladies,” and/or “women” in place (depending on which of the five categories Shay ends up falling into). Shay also tried to tell me that “when you start puttin’ all girls in the same category, you leave no room for changing your mind.” True, but as I told her, I’ve “never seen the need to [change my mind] yet.”

Anyway, we continued talking about why I still haven’t managed to find someone in the outer 5%, and I said it was probably because when I talked to the ones I found in the outer 5%, it was during a time in my life “when I was young and stupid and socially inept. Now, I’m older, wiser, and still socially inept; [but] I have a newfound confidence in my ineptitude that may make me more ‘dangerous.’” I’m sure, since Shay didn’t catch it, that not many see the connection between danger and ineptitude (least, not in the senses that both terms are being used here). The thing is: “I've heard rumor through the grape vine that, to women, a confident aura sometimes outweighs a few social blunders. So, since I'm confident in my inability to talk to girls, I gain the confidence necessary to relate to them on at least a seriously platonic level. It’s like reverse psychology.” Shay informed me that many girls, “ladies,” and “women” like a little mystery to their dream guys, and asked me how I’d work this into the theory. As I told her, “the social ineptitude actually plays to that "mysterious" thing, because you naturally stray away from stuff you don't know about, like fashion, cooking, and relationships. Thus, you have a mysteriously confident man.” It makes perfect sense to me. Act confident in the areas you know a lot about, dodge conversation in areas that you have no business discussing. What’s the problem?

Shay: “But that's insane.” Me: “Girls like a little craziness in their men too.” Shay: “See, there you go generalizing all females.” Me: “If, by generalizing, you mean making observations about all the girls I know, then yes.” Alas, I haven’t gotten out much in my pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. I spent the majority of my time putting off papers to the tune of drums, guitar, piano, PlayStation, basketball, racing, television, and other general nonsense that didn’t involve girls, “girls,” “ladies,” or “women.” So, the only basis for my “generalizing” are exes (not the best data, mind you) and general observation of the female species. Don’t shoot me, shoot the data.

Shay: “Girls like to feel secure; they like seriousness.” Me: “…and a little crazy.” Shay: “Humor maybe, not crazy.” Me: “A little spice, a little pizzazz?” Shay: “But that's not crazy.” Me: “[Crazy’s] what gets you taken home at the end of the night.” Shay: “If that's all that matters, then...well…” Me: “It doesn't matter at all, but it at least gets me noticed. And for a guy who doesn't get noticed a lot,” crazy looks kind of appealing sometimes. Granted, I’m talking about drunk crazy, psychotic ex girlfriend crazy, or certifiably crazy; I’m talking about those extroverted risk takers that get into bars for free on a regular basis, steal conversations with the most attractive “ladies” at parties even though said “lady” is involved with another guy, get hired for jobs they’re under qualified for but still excel at because of their inner business savvy, and live on the ragged edge of life for at least 5 out of 7 days a week. That kinda crazy. Even if it doesn’t get you taken home at the end of the night, you’ll have had a blast getting rejected. Shay then asked me why I didn’t get noticed, and I cited her the above areas that I’m lacking in, summed up in the phrase “I don’t get out much, and, according to you, I have ‘issues.’”

From there, we randomly delved into one of my favorite parts of life: bar-be-que. The smoke, the flavor, the look on everybody’s face when you give them a slice of rib that’s been hickory smoked for four hours, it’s one of the most satisfying occurrences in the existence of human kind (behind the moon landing thing and winning the Daytona 500). I was breaking one of the cardinal rules of barbeque and giving Shay my dry rub recipe when she told me of her disgust at having to rub spices all over the ribs. So, she started figuring out a way to still get the ribs done right by getting her mom to do the dirty work: “I'll tell her that you said it's worth it and that she should touch the nasty meat.” At which point, I’d been serious for long enough and cracked off the line: “Ha, ha. Shay said ‘touch the meat.’ Ha, ha.” It did get a sympathy laugh, but she pointed out the obvious: “Maybe comments like that are why you can't find a girl.” I could have let it go. I could have agreed with her and “corrected” the problem. Instead, I spoke without thinking: “See, I keep them to myself when I'm out with somebody, but you're one of the guys, Shay.”

You’d have thought I told her the DE’s were disbanding. It sent her into a minute and a half long fit of rage that I caused me to want to disinfect the computer screen (my virgin eyes and all). Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but I think the messenger window literally winced after I said it. I really didn’t know the gravity of my faux pas. I was too busy watching Conan interview Saddam Hussein. Shay asked me: “So what should a girl do if she doesn't want to be considered ‘one of the guys?’” So I told her: “I don’t know, probably the same thing a guy should do if he wants to be more than ‘a good friend.’”

That’s when the extent of my error hit me like a slap in the face after a date gone awry.

"Just One of the Guys," visited

Yes, I admit to calling Shay “one of the guys.” I didn’t honestly realize it would go so far as to almost offend her because I think Shay, like me, is not easily offendable (if “offendable” is even a word; if not, you can tack that on to “Sam’s official dictionary of the English language you never knew”--“Sodot Elynk” for short). Heck, I didn’t know I had the ability to offend people. I thought it was one of those weird superpowers that only that upper level management type had the ability to do. If so, then maybe I need to set my occupational sights higher than I currently have them.

Anyway, I revisited the multi-day conversation Shay and I had on the whole subject (sometimes history files can help you more than they hurt), and I think I still stick by my comment. She's already said her piece about the subject. My take goes something like this.

To set the stage (for what could be a short-lived moment of brilliance or yet another tangent into lunacy), we were doing the whole one-upmanship on relationships (more like the lack thereof), and the struggles therein. If the history file serves me right, I asked Shay “Why are girls like this?” (this, here, refers to girls being somewhat more inclined to follow feelings and emotions rather than rely on the obvious signs of logic used by most, if not all, men). Shay, being one to open a can of worms, made me a deal I couldn’t refuse: “You tell me why guys are like they are, and I'll help you figure girls out.” ‘Woo-hoo,’ I thought, ‘some real world answers from a real girl.’

Her first question on the table was “Why y’all gotta be so clueless and insensitive?” That’s an easy one. The short version, which I told her, is that “because, in our mind, the world and everything that goes on in it doesn't make sense, and if it doesn't make sense, then it must not matter; things that matter always have a reason why they matter” (a poorly structured sentence, I know, but most IM conversations are full of them, anymore). The more grammatically correct and verbose version is that guys think logically. Everything in the world has a set order, formula, process, method, system, or routine; and once we figure out said order, formula, process, method, system, or routine, have figured out why said everything matters. In 18 grades of study, I’ve concluded girls have no logical order, formula, process, method, system, or routine, and thus have yet to figure out why--beyond sex--that they matter (well, they do get that one thing once a month, but I don’t understand that either). I, at this point, counter with the question, “We don't like how you guys are moody and base all your decision on your ‘feelings,’ what’s up with that?” Shay, being the scheming individual that she is, dodges an honest attempt at an answer with the copout, “moody = God's fault...take that up with Him.” I attempted to call her bluff, only to get “Just actin’ on a whim to get back at guys, show a little power, ‘lookie what i can do to make you miserable’ [kinda thing].” I don’t doubt any of this, but I still don’t understand what possesses girls to do this. Shoot, even when they’re trying to get back at guys, they’re doing so illogically. The easier, more efficient way to annoy us is to withhold one of our three basic needs from us (which, in no particular order, are food, sports, and sex).

Shay’s next question was, “Why you can't just say what you feel instead of keepin' it all locked up inside?” The short version: “It would make us vulnerable, and the only thing we hate more than moody girls is looking vulnerable in front of moody girls.” Ladies, believe it or not, we do actually worry about security in a relationship; if you look at the list above, traditionally wives supply two of the three critical needs of our existence (three, if you want to count cheerleading and mud wrestling as competitive sports). Having established the fact that girls have no particular rhyme or reason for ANYTHING they do, what the bloody hockey-stick is it worth to us to open up and (quite possibly, given the odds) say the wrong thing at the wrong time and shoot ourselves in the foot? I’m all about being honest in a relationship, but the words of two particularly smart people come to mind. First, Mark Twain (paraphrased): “It’s better to keep your mouth shut and appear a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” Second, a former boss-man: “They say the customer is always right, but sometimes I beg to differ.” Put these two principles together and you get the picture: “It’s good to be honest in a relationship, but to open your mouth might mean not having a relationship in which to be honest.”

This led me to the big question guys have, “Why you all gotta go sending us mixed signals?” Shay, being smarter than me in most instances, again tried to dodge the question: “Cause the signals aren’t received in the way they're meant to be.” ‘Pshaw,’ I thought, and told her, “I think they're not sent in the way that they were meant to be. If girls want us, why can't they just come up to us and stick their tongues down our throats? It’s what we want them to do in the first place.” Shay: “Because girls ain’t gonna do that crap.” Me: “Some will, they just cost too much. So, again I ask, why can't you guys be more obvious?” [insert random banter here] Shay: “One thing you gotta realize is that girls feel the same way guys do about stuff like that. They [go] for guys who they're not compatible with and then get screwed b/c of mixed signals.” Me: “I think it’s all a conspiracy on your part to torture us.” Shay: “Nope.” Me: “Examples?” Shay: “None.” Me: “Then I stand by my hastilly formed but well-thought out opinion.” And I still do. Since it’s been established that girls have no logic for anything they do, they don’t stop to realize the logical end of their naturally flirtatious behavior. Girls’ thought patterns goes something like: act ‘natural’ equals bacon and eggs for breakfast which equals filling up with gas on the way home which equals shopping (everything in a girl’s thought pattern ends in shopping). Guys, meanwhile, already have the formula worked out: girl that flirts equals (through a long process that includes dating and marriage) sex with girl.

By this time, it’s getting late and my head’s starting to hurt. Shay’s last question of the night: “Why y’all so stupid?” Me: “Because, while we're logical, we don't take time to properly weigh all evidence.” I hate to admit, but it’s true. Take the flirtatious girl example. Superficially, the equation is flawless: flirt, date, marry, mate. Ah, if only life were that easy. Guys overlook the emotional connection that, from what studies indicate, just clicks somewhere in between date and marry that makes the mate part more fulfilling. And the click is everything. It’s what gives guys the ability to put up with countless phone calls about nothing of importance and girls the patience have many “uh-huh” conversations during sporting events. And it’s just like girls to have the “key” to marriage be something completely unexplainable.

My final question: “How do I understand you guys? I'll buy the whole moody/emotional thing if you just tell me the formula for figuring it all out.” Shay: “There's no formula. We expect you to understand what we need, we will tell you the opposite of what we really think.” Me: “Unless, of course, you tell us what you're really thinking, then we're screwed.” Shay: “Yup.” Me: “So dang'd if we do, dang'd if we don't?” Shay: “Yup.” This completely sucks, in my opinion. Humankind has boiled down the computer to a small foot by a foot square that sits on your lap, does thousands of complex calculations every second, and we can’t write a program that figures out girls? What gives? I reckon this problem to that GMC commercial: “If a submarine can run silent, if an all-terrain vehicle can have all-wheel steering…why can’t your SUV?” I say, “If your life can be likened to a series of problems easily solvable by weighing risks and consequences, then why can’t girls?”

I concluded two things from this conversation. First, “if girls didn't agree to sex once in awhile, guys would never go for ‘em.” Remember the list of critical needs. It’s a calculated risk on our part to chance physical harm from girls for potential physical pleasure from girls. Second, “if guys didn't have half of their kids, girls wouldn't go for guys.” Kids and family and junk obviously supply girls with some illogical emotional fulfillment that guys will never understand, and since girls can’t have kids without guys (in some way, shape, or form), they’re forced to endure the presence of boys on the planet.

As I told Shay that night: “I have everything figured out and I know nothing more than when I started.” Nor have I done anything to remotely explain the whole “Just one of the guys” statement…

Doh!

The Perfect Wedding, revisited

I’ve still been pondering this really good bad idea that, (unfortunately for me, I can’t shake out of my head (thought is the first step to acceptance). By definition, “really good bad ideas” are those that, fundamentally, are bad ideas, but that with proper execution and/or a great deal of stupidity, could turn into a profitable venture, a social fad, or, at the very least, fodder for others’ blog postings (‘cuz I’m all about being popular like that). Take this commercialized wedding. It’s the exact argument made by fans of the Kansas City Chiefs when they suggesting putting cardboard on the floor of Arrowhead Stadium: the Chiefs always look good on paper.

It is highly unlikely that, for starters, anybody in their right mind would buy tickets to a wedding. Most people don’t want to go to them in the first place, and to take tickets at a wedding would go over much like the concrete cloud that hit those people who think s.g. groups should go anywhere for a love offering. If you were going to take tickets, then there’d have to be something so fantastically over the top that they’d mentally think they were buying the ticket to the equivalent of a Broadway musical (or, for great-aunt Beatrice, a B-rate Branson show). So, if it were me going to my own wedding—okay, I guess eventually, it is me going to my own wedding—what in the world would make me leave the comfort of couch, television, and PlayStation to go to something as potentially devastating as my own wedding?

Well, obviously a smokin hot bride would get me to any wedding, but that’s a given. Besides, to open that can of worms would not only require confirming the (obvious) fact that I, like all other men, are partially driven by looks and appearance, but it also means acceptance of cheesy ploys and gimmicks, the nature of which “blessed” us with such shows as “The Bachelor,” “The Bachelorette,” and “Temptation Island” (example: the corporate wedding meets “The Amazing Race”—the groom & bride, the head groomsman and the maid of honor, and the ring bearer and flower girl all race to the hotel, the couple that wins gets the honeymoon trip).

Since I can’t tinker with fate and don’t want to add fuel to the reality TV fire, that leaves only the ceremony and other superficial details. Let’s start with that bloody awful wedding march. Screw the canned music or the organ player, and let the wedding procession “march” (read: saunter in drunkenly) to Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” No more traditional “Here Comes the Bride” crap either; instead, the stadium anthem “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble.” And rumble we shall, because instead of the father just handing off the bride to the groom without any effort, the groom has to race the father in an obstacle course that closely resembles the old “Eliminator” from American Gladiator (yes, the groomsmen are the gladiators). He loses the race, he loses the bride.

Oh, one more music fix. No more of those overdone, oversung love songs as special music. Instead, the only special song permissible is Paisley’s “Mud on the Tires.”

My favorite fix is the lighting of the unity candle. If you get to play with fire, then really play with fire. Before the service, accidentally dump a couple gallons of gasoline and kerosene in the baptistery of the church, and the bride and groom can shoot off roman candles at it.

If I ever find a girl to agree to all of this, I'd be a fool not to propose on the spot.

The Perfect Wedding

I got roped into going to a wedding this weekend. The bass player in the church band decided he wanted to get hitched, so, as a man, I felt it was my duty and go pay my last respects to his singleness. Typical weddings normally wig me out hard core. The pomp and circumstance of the ceremony and reception seem a bit over the top when, as a guy, the whole point of the wedding is to have a honeymoon. But, since the ladies are all about the whole chapel celebration thing, we guys sort of put up with it all in order to get to more important matters. If it were me, I’d do away with the whole ceremony thing. Just pay a pastor to sign the “sex permission form” and off you go to the world of consummation. Then again, I’ve heard this is called “eloping,” and most parentals look down on that sort of thing.

So, as I sat around at the reception with the guys (some married, some not), together we put together my wedding. First, an online fan club. I’ve gotten enough flack for not “taking advantage of opportunities,” so when (well, more like if) it ever happens, I’m gonna make a cheering section. Not only do you get the official “I’m on the groom’s side” shirt to wear to the wedding, but you also get to order your tickets before they go on sale to the general public.

Secondly, yes, I’m charging admission to the ceremony. This does one of two things. First, it raises funds to recoup the costs of the “real wedding” that night (if you know what I mean). And second, it cuts down on those annoying guests who you feel obliged to invite even though you don’t want to. If you really don’t like them, you double the price of their ticket (since, obviously, they didn’t sign up for the fan club deal).

Third, to make up the remainder of the costs, I introduce corporate sponsorships to the ceremony. If you saw any of the U.S. Open this past weekend, this is what I have in mind. The wedding party would still have on the traditional formal garb, but on the vest pockets of the tuxes would be the Ping or Calloway logo (because I’ll be danged if I’m not golfin one day over the honeymoon—for those of you ladies reading that are wondering what I’m smoking, realize this is freeing you up to go shopping) while the gowns for the women sport the Sheraton or Hilton emblems (which, of course, would provide the hotel accommodations). During the ceremony, a commercial from Chevrolet would play, because Chevy would provide the official get-away car to the airport, and whatever airline wanted to pony up round-trip airfare could also run an ad.

It’s a fail-safe plan, if it were not for one loophole: there’s no bride yet. In fact, at the wedding Saturday, the garter didn't go anywhere near me.

Hitting 300

Last week I got the dreaded 18-hole flu, so my pastor suggested he and I cure the sickness with a trip to the local golf course. We’ve been on several occasions already this year, and while I’m in this whole “quarter-life crisis” everybody’s talking about now, I figured the spiritual guidance and stress relief would be worth the green fees. The game started out forgettable. After a 50-yard drive due perpendicularly left of the tee box, I sent the next shot over the fairway with a 3-wood out of the rough. Course, the third shot, again with the 3-wood, landed 30 yards off the green. So, for a par-5, I’m about where I should be. After two chips and two putts, I’m cursing this bloody game.

The front nine continued on in much the same fashion, except that the bad tee shots cleared up after the 2nd hole. I made the turn with a 20-over 55, some 11 shots behind my pastor. Since he spots me ten strokes (and we normally play the front 9 as warm-up anyway), I’m only one back. We play even on the par 3-tenth hole, and the par-4 eleventh. He gets goes two up on the twelfth when I missed a 15-foot down hill putt for par, and three up on the par-5 thirteenth when I overshoot my 4th shot from the rough that lands on the other side of the green some 60 feet away.

The whole day was salvaged, though, on the thirteenth. Allow me to provide more background to set the scene. My pastor plays golf as religiously as the Pope holds mass. He normally plays three to five shots from par on a round of 9. The whole winter he’d been touting his ability to hit the long ball off the tee. The previous outing, not only did I outdrive him on regular occasion, but I also beat him by two shots on the back 9, in large part due to a couple lucky birdies on thirteen and fourteen. So, needless to say, he was all business as he stepped to the tee box and, to his credit, sent a great 250 yard drive on its way to the rough just right of the fairway. I step in the box and blister the golden sphere to a temporary home in the center of the fairway. We have some difficulty finding his ball in the thick stuff, but have even more difficulty finding mine, which is odd, mind you. You would think a 260-ish yard drive in the short stuff would be highly visible.

After pastor shoots, we go back to the fairway, and he looks up the way and says, “I think I see you up here.” I find my new lucky ball (no pun intended, Shay) sitting 15 yards inside the red markers. The sign listed the yardage of the hole at 389, and I’m 85 yards out. Now, I’m no math scholar; in fact, as a com student, all I know is that people convey meaning with words and actions. But if the measurements were true, then I successfully drilled my first 300 yard drive…and there was much rejoicing. So, as a fresh member of the 300 club, I did what any rookie duffer would do: 3 chips and 2 putts for a double bogey.

Now, some 7 days later, I want to join more of these unwritten social “300 clubs.” The NHRA use to have a 300 club for drivers who broke 300 m.p.h. in the quarter mile; if I had a dragster or a funny car, that’d be fun. I could go down to the bowling alley and try to shoot a perfect game of 10-pin and be in that 300 club. Even nicer would be a six-figure yearly income, which would put me in the highly elusive $300 a day club. And if I had a girlfriend, we could get in an airplane and join the…oh, wait, wrong club.

Besides, I’ve come to two conclusions about girls. First, girls aren’t right in the head. I think girls have a gene that causes them to be emotionally clingy, which negatively impacts their judgment. The wife of one of the guys at work calls him EVERY night around 6:15 to see when he’ll be home, disregarding the fact that he does radio and his air shift ends at 6p (and, thus, his reason for being at work) meaning he’ll be leaving soon. I also watch other friends dealing with significant others, and the girls call the guys EVERY night. Even if there’s nothing really to talk about, they’ll ask some insanely simplistic question that shouldn’t require collaborative thought as the excuse for interrupting the guys from much more important things like PlayStation and Family Guy reruns. I ask to anyone: why do girls do this? Are they really, for lack of a better term, this ignorant? Do they think by consulting guys on everything that they’ll make us feel superior in some way?

To their credit, though, the second conclusion I’ve come to is that most girls smell seductively good most of the time.