Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me Part 8

Always Make Her Feel Like She's #1

"Distracted? Oh, Come on-I was using the hands-free headset!"

Lesson#38

Dirty Girls Make Bad Friends by A. J. Jacobs

As with every man in America-even Jake Gyllenhaal-I've had many unrequited crushes over the years. They're painful. Horrible. But, worse still, I've also suffered repeated exposure to a special subset of unrequited crush. And it is, I believe, the cruelest variety. Namely, unrequited crushes on women who talk dirty. As in, women who are dreaded "just friends," but who discuss with you in vivid detail their exploits with other men who are not "just friends." Avoid this situation. It is h.e.l.l in its purest form-a constant and excruciating reminder of that which you will never experience.

In college, there was Anya-a striking Sandra Bullock look-alike from Portland. Anya took a lot of cla.s.ses on human s.e.xuality and enjoyed telling me the content of those cla.s.ses, including how they related to her life. I'd listen intently, nod my head, then spend the next half hour digging my fingernails out of my leg. Anya eventually became a noted s.e.x researcher and wrote a book on her year of living with the girls at the Mustang Ranch brothel in Nevada. (Fun Fact: If you want a threesome with a black and a white woman, just ask for the "Salt and Pepper Special.") Years later, as part of my job as an editor at Esquire Esquire magazine, I oversaw the s.e.x column, which was written by another impossibly attractive woman. Every week or so, we'd have long, intense phone discussions about, for instance, why lesbians in p.o.r.n movies seem to enjoy fellating d.i.l.d.os. Then I'd hang up and furiously edit an article on how to write a thank-you note or the world's best golf umbrella-anything to calm down. magazine, I oversaw the s.e.x column, which was written by another impossibly attractive woman. Every week or so, we'd have long, intense phone discussions about, for instance, why lesbians in p.o.r.n movies seem to enjoy fellating d.i.l.d.os. Then I'd hang up and furiously edit an article on how to write a thank-you note or the world's best golf umbrella-anything to calm down.

Those were tough, for sure. But my most agonizing experience with a bawdy girl was with my friend Chloe. We met in college, but started hanging out in earnest after graduation, when we were both living in New York and severely underemployed. She was hard to miss: Blond hair that was seriously blond, like the color of a smiley face sticker. She wore a ma.s.sive silver Playboy Playboy pendant, cowboy hats, tiger-skin pants, enormous pink sungla.s.ses-shirts and dresses all with plunging necklines. Her theory being if you look and act like a celebrity, you will eventually become one. She was basically an early version of Nicole Richie, but with a high IQ and no trust fund. And it worked-a little. She did start to hang out with the famous, or at least to inhabit the fringes of celebrity culture. You can spot her as one of the official "hot girls in the background" of the opening credits of early-nineties pendant, cowboy hats, tiger-skin pants, enormous pink sungla.s.ses-shirts and dresses all with plunging necklines. Her theory being if you look and act like a celebrity, you will eventually become one. She was basically an early version of Nicole Richie, but with a high IQ and no trust fund. And it worked-a little. She did start to hang out with the famous, or at least to inhabit the fringes of celebrity culture. You can spot her as one of the official "hot girls in the background" of the opening credits of early-nineties Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live.

She was funny and smart and outrageous and let me tag along with her everywhere-to bars that were too hip for me, parties that were too hip for me, concerts that were too hip for me. We once went to the Catskills together, and when I was with her, it seemed the Catskills were too hip for me too.

I was smitten. She was not. But she was no prude. She was quite romantically adventurous with other men. And she liked to tell me about those romantic adventures.

She told me about how this indie film director was performing oral s.e.x on her the night before and, while he was doing it, he made her call her mom and discuss Thanksgiving plans. It gave him some sort of perverse Freudian thrill. The sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The sick, lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

She told me about how, when she was in Florence, Italy, she got drunk at a cafe, and at the next table was a famous network sports anchor who was even more hammered. They, of course, ended up messing around in the restaurant bathroom.

She also had a weakness for musicians. It killed me. How could she fall for that cliche? Why not a weakness for something more original . . . say, Boggle players? Or guys who've read every Hercule Poirot mystery? Or men with moles on their face? That'd give me a fighting chance. (And not just because I have a giant mole on my face and can quote Poirot chapter and verse.) But no, she went ahead and had flings with guitarists and lead singers, probably a drummer or two. I'd never heard of any of the bands these guys were in, but apparently they were well known to people who read Paper Paper magazine and rented walk-ups in Alphabet City. magazine and rented walk-ups in Alphabet City.

So I'd listen to the stories of her escapades. And I'd pine. For those who've never endured this particular torture, how can I describe it? It's like sitting at a restaurant while the waiter describes the mouthwatering specials-then returns to say they're all no longer available. (Oh, and by the way, the restaurant is out of food altogether. And you have to go in the back and help with dishes. And you won't get paid.) Or maybe it's like the dot-com boom. This was the midnineties, after all. Every day I'd read about another twenty-two-year-old who sold his online turtle aquarium company for a quarter billion, while I sc.r.a.ped by on a journalist's salary, sucking down the bitter c.o.c.ktail of jealousy, longing, and regret.

I can't say for sure why I kept coming back to the dirty gals. Partly, I think, bad luck. But partly, the maddening fact that these women all tended to be interesting and funny.

With Chloe, I tried this tactic: Whenever she'd talk about her boyfriend du jour, I'd try to come up with all the reasons she and I would make a terrible couple. She was a commitmentphobe. I could have been happily married at twenty-two. She'd stay out till four every night. I don't like going outside, unless it is to evacuate a burning building. She loved going to earsplitting concerts. I got cranky when NPR was on too loud. A valiant attempt, but it didn't work.

What made it worse was that everyone a.s.sumed we were a couple. Even my family. When I wasn't dating anyone-which was not uncommon-I would take Chloe to family functions, which always resulted in a similar scene. We'd walk in-Chloe would be wearing, say, a cleavage-bearing baby T, a micro-miniskirt, and knee-high black leather boots-and she'd whisper to me, "Everyone's staring at me."

"Naaah," I'd say.

Then I'd look around and, well, yes they were. In fact, they all would have their eyebrows raised like Spencer Tracy when Sidney Poitier entered the dining room. One time, my aunt gathered up enough courage to ask Chloe about her wardrobe. Chloe explained that she sees getting dressed every morning as a chance to put on a costume.

"Ohhhh, I understand," said my aunt. It finally made sense to her: She is not an actual actual prost.i.tute. She just puts on a costume that makes her look like one. prost.i.tute. She just puts on a costume that makes her look like one.

Chloe encouraged me to date other women, which was hard when she was around, since Chloe could be an intimidating, cleavage-bearing presence. One time, she prodded me into my first pickup attempt at a bar. Here's the quick version: We spotted an attractive brunette drinking Dos Equis with a couple of friends. "Come on," said Chloe. "Let's go." She would be my wingwoman.

We approached, and Chloe engaged the woman in a conversation. After a minute-and I can't remember how it came up-we learned that both the brunette and I were born in 1968. Now, 1968 happens to be pretty much the worst year in American history: the a.s.sa.s.sinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, the Tet Offensive, and on and on. So whenever my birth year came up in conversation, I would comment, "Such a wonderful year, 1968. So proud I was born then." At which point I'd list all the horrible things that happened. It's not Noel Coward, but I'd usually get a mild chuckle. So I tried it out.

"Such a wonderful year, 1968. The a.s.sa.s.sination of Martin Luther King . . . "

And then I stopped. I lost steam. I'm not 100 percent sure why. I think I realized the joke was iffy, so I bailed. It didn't seem appropriate for the first couple of minutes of conversation. Unfortunately, it was much less appropriate to stop where I stopped. The brunette recoiled, repulsed and frightened. She shot me a look, "Please don't kill me. Just go back to your Aryan Nation meeting." She walked away without another word. (I think it goes without saying, I have since retired that joke . . . and have never again spoken to strange women in bars.) Maybe I unconsciously torpedoed the pickup attempt because I was so infatuated with Chloe. Something had to give. So one summer night, I finally made a pa.s.s at Chloe. It was the worst-planned, poorest-executed pa.s.s of my life. She was sleeping over at my apartment, as she did whenever she didn't want to schlep home. That very night I had been dumped by a mutual friend of ours. I thought the woman dumped me for another guy. But Chloe gently informed me that the other guy was gay, and my ex was bis.e.xual, and they were at a gay club together as we were speaking. This is what happens when you go to a liberal arts college with no core requirements.

At the end of the night, we were watching TV, and I looked at Chloe and said, "I want to kiss you.'

"No. I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Perhaps I could debate her into it.

"I don't want to get involved in your love triangle. Or love square. Or love pentagon, or whatever it is."

Then she paused. "Love pentagon. That's almost an oxymoron."

"What?"

"The Pentagon is all about war, not love."

I was finally confessing my long-term crush, and she was doing wordplay. And not even good wordplay. I think it was the third whiskey sour talking.

What was clear was that this was not an emotionally wrenching moment for her. Awkward, yes. But not wrenching. It was probably the only s.e.xual encounter we never talked about again. On that night, I finally snapped out of denial. I realized she would never like me. Never see me the way I saw her. It was at once painful and so staggeringly obvious. I should have known. But the dirty girls keep you hanging on. Every dirty story. Every dirty detail. You think, "That could be me."

Eventually, as could be scripted by Captain Obvious, Chloe ended up with a guitarist from an alternative band, and I married a woman who worked in magazines. We lost touch, partly because my wife and Chloe didn't mesh. (See the preceding 1764 words for the reason why.) But I still think about Chloe often. I am reminded of her when I see a certain famous sportscaster or catch an old episode of Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live, or even hear about the Pentagon. But not, thank G.o.d, when I call my mother to discuss our Thanksgiving plans.

Lesson#39

Being Awkward Can Be a Prophylactic Against Dry Humping by Matt Goodman

That middle school is rough is a truism, but consider the pressures of the environment in this particular experiment: being a non-Jew in a school in full bloom bar mitzvah season, gold-foil-encrusted invitations and candle lightings at the Waldorf, me with my L.L.Bean tie and a bowl haircut, wishing for my nascent Jewish faith to awaken inside me; reading through Guitar World Guitar World, learning the vernacular of licks and pick sc.r.a.pes ("sizzling leads," "shrieking wail," "Malmsteen"), and then picking up my three-quarter-size acoustic guitar with the plinky nylon strings I find so embarra.s.sing, piddling out a bare approximation of the intro to that Sublime song where he goes and shoots that esse esse; joining the soccer team and being the slowest, panting-est one there with the least spring in his kick, the one who is told "I'm going to f.u.c.king breeze by you, fatty" by members of the opposing team and then is f.u.c.king breezed by, wishing I could head the ball in from my penalty box, sending the orb across the entire pitch.

The list of things so familiar to me but not actually tangible in my life stretches on, from that ball that should have been kicked in the net, to the solo I should have played, to the whopping check from Aunt Esther in Bayside that should have been deposited in my bank account on my thirteenth birthday. Topping the list, however, is love, or dry humping, or both; the magical friction of preadolescent groins grinding against each other through tighty-whiteys and dress pants and skirts hiked up awkwardly but erotically, an elated carpet burn feeling after. Not that I'd know, me with my pants so high up (the socks thickly bunched around my ankles) and my otherworldly knowledge of R. A. Salvadore dark elf fantasy and the sand wyrms of Dune Dune.

But I could could know, with the right sort of girl! The kind who wears her acne like a badge, who listens to Moxy Fruvous and wears Doors T-shirts with the logo in Hebrew, who naturally gives off a rank smell I'd recognize years later as patchouli. She is apes.h.i.t crazy. She demands to know if b.r.e.a.s.t.s would be as attractive to me if they were located on girls' stomachs instead of their chests. She watches know, with the right sort of girl! The kind who wears her acne like a badge, who listens to Moxy Fruvous and wears Doors T-shirts with the logo in Hebrew, who naturally gives off a rank smell I'd recognize years later as patchouli. She is apes.h.i.t crazy. She demands to know if b.r.e.a.s.t.s would be as attractive to me if they were located on girls' stomachs instead of their chests. She watches The Rocky Horror Picture Show The Rocky Horror Picture Show while talking about purchasing vibrators. She honks and snorts when she laughs, which she does at inopportune moments-moments of death or respect, though never moments of piety. She is deeply connected to her Jewish faith. She might just have a crush on me. I'm not entirely sure what it means when someone pins me to a couch and force-feeds me Twizzlers faster than I can chew them, red bits of licorice tumbling out of my furiously chomping jaws. She might like me, but that's not enough. I must win her love to make up for all the bar mitzvah after-party dry humping I've missed; for the goals, guitar leads, all of it. For vindication. while talking about purchasing vibrators. She honks and snorts when she laughs, which she does at inopportune moments-moments of death or respect, though never moments of piety. She is deeply connected to her Jewish faith. She might just have a crush on me. I'm not entirely sure what it means when someone pins me to a couch and force-feeds me Twizzlers faster than I can chew them, red bits of licorice tumbling out of my furiously chomping jaws. She might like me, but that's not enough. I must win her love to make up for all the bar mitzvah after-party dry humping I've missed; for the goals, guitar leads, all of it. For vindication.

I, of course, can't do this by flowers or serenading, by movie tickets or even alcoholic social lubricant, because I know I'd fail at any of these endeavors. I'd go to a flower shop, spend ten minutes deliberating what to buy, and then give up and go home and cry into my pillow. I know the "opposites attract" adage, but being normal is impossible. So I pray that some wise man on a mountain plateau somewhere has another aphorism, "identicals attract." This will yield a love, preferably carpet burn-y. I will win her not by following the well-trod traditions of civil courtship. I can't quite do things normally, but I certainly can be weird. Her crazy and my derangement will spark and t.i.trate and she'll be mine in all of her oddball glory.

At least this is what I hope as I a.s.semble by the buses at the end of school. I'm half-invited to my crush's house and accept wholeheartedly (half-inviting myself, completing the invitation). To complicate things, two others are accompanying us to my crush's house. Or, truthfully, I am accompanying them, since they were invited wholly, no halves. One of them asks me, "So why are you always looking down?" I respond slowly, almost quizzically, "So I don't have to see you?"

I get into her babysitter's car. The drive to Westchester is all undulating hills and bushy trees. When I get there, I get out of the car, but spend twenty minutes in her driveway on scooters and skateboards. Eventually my crush gets bored, and decides to head into the bas.e.m.e.nt, full of colonoscopy bags from her mother's practice. I sit on one of two brown velvet love seats. One of the other two tries to sit down with me. I shoo him away. They can sit on the other love seat.

My crush sits on me. She does not sit beside me in the open seat, not even on the arm of the love seat, but on top of me. She motions for Twizzlers, which I am then force-fed. This is the woman for me, I think. This experiment will succeed. Love will precipitate. But we are interrupted by the babysitter, who tells everyone to get into the car again. She forgot to pick up my crush's little sister.

I am now idling in the SUV, across from the elementary school. I watch children wait for their parents. My heartstrings tw.a.n.g as my crush moves from the backseat, past the middle row, and into the front seat, where she can operate the stereo. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s may have brushed my shoulder. This is love, I think. Maybe I should just take that elated tidbit and be content with it, but I am emboldened, ready to be apes.h.i.t crazy. Any moment now I'll jump into action, do something. Anything. Only problem is, I don't know what.

I fidget nervously as the other two, cla.s.sic rock buffs, debate with my crush the merits of Ozzy Osbourne. I can feel every written word I've ever read about rock, about even just guitars, fade from my mind as I grasp for one liners about Led Zeppelin. As I haw about I watch one of the two make a move on my crush, putting an arm around her shoulder. I feel desperate. Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" rises from the speakers. Suddenly I'm stricken by the fear that my time to be apes.h.i.t crazy may be pa.s.sing. I look around for opportunities and see a dog, what looks like a terrier-size German shepherd, squatting smack dab in the middle of the road-like, haunches at forty-five-degree angles to the yellow stripe, tail hovering parallel above it. The owner stands by, oblivious to whatever traffic might come along, fine with his dog brazenly defecating in the middle of the street. I fail to note a p.o.o.per-scooper in his hand. My crush and the flirtatious other are discussing whether Tony Iommi or Randy Rhoads was the better Ozzy sideman. I see vindication on the horizon. I think of one of my least favorite sayings, one goading me to action, any sort of action, before I lose my chance. Now or never.

I jump out of the SUV and begin running towards the dog. Everyone in the car watches, which encourages me. I will try and win over my crush by yelling at a dog in the middle of the street to stop defecating. I shriek "Stop c.r.a.pping!" twice. I then bellow at the dog wordlessly, letting it know my sheer outrage that a dog would c.r.a.p in the middle of the road. I am hoping this appeals to my crush's own inscrutable sensibilities. It was the best I could come up with.

My request succeeds as the dog, astonished, stops defecating and looks at me. Then the dog decides, as my crush is deciding, that I am a crazy kid, not in the fun way, but in the way that crosses the line, the awkward line that is painful to watch. The graceful avert their eyes and sigh. The chill of humiliation causes me to turn around, away from the dog and the man who is now demanding to know what I am up to. I heave a flimsy curse in his general direction and then walk briskly back to the SUV. I want to run, but need to walk in an attempt to salvage some, any, dignity.

It didn't work.

Before I despair, though, now that it's over, how bad was it really? How deep in my skin did it embed? It shouldn't have burrowed much, being a relatively minor event in that (a) while my love may have been spurned, she was perhaps too crazy to begin with or not crazy at all, and (b) it was embarra.s.sing, but in front of a relative few. Three people aren't a big deal. Of course, my mind is infested with fears of "what if they tell someone," but for once I relish my anonymity within my school, my neighborhood. This invisibility gives me a grace period, to metamorph or incubate or simply jump from one point to another, to the socially viable person who can't remember how it happened and doesn't quite believe their own transformation. Besides, even if I insist that being horribly awkward and always rejected is my fate, I know that whole subcultures have sprouted for such people; depression is fetishized, commodified, gentrified even, and though being attached to a bunch of macabre-worshipers isn't a great idea, it might be nice to have some community. It might help.

We pick up the sister and drive back the house. Trying to redeem myself, I wait for someone to talk to me in the car, or in the driveway, or in the kitchen. No one does. I call my parents, who do, and on top of that will also come pick me up. Thank G.o.d for parents. I leave the house without anyone noticing, departing their world leaving as little mark as I did coming in, besides, of course, for a slight depression on the love seat in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Lesson#41

Dating a Stripper Is a Recipe for Perspective by Patton Oswalt

Sometimes love goes wrong because your partner changes. Sometimes it fails because you change. But, more often than not, love fails because you stop appreciating what you've got. You grow complacent and bored. Quirks become annoyances. Thrills become ch.o.r.es. Novelty becomes drudgery. Who wants "safe" forever? Someone who will cherish you, understand you, grow with you, understand the areas where you don't mesh and react to that gulf with maturity and understanding-these are exactly exactly the kind of people you become disenchanted with, and then leave, and the kind of people you become disenchanted with, and then leave, and then then feel like a to-the-bedrock b.a.s.t.a.r.d for abandoning. feel like a to-the-bedrock b.a.s.t.a.r.d for abandoning.

Sure, your journey of togetherness starts off all sprinkles and b.u.t.tons. But even the sweetest apple plucked from the tree of love can become a rotted, flyblown failure full of disease, maggots, and yelling.

Yes, when love goes bad, it can fill an apple with yelling.

So how would you feel if I told you I can guarantee guarantee you a stable, healthy relationship? The kind of deep union wherein, upon waking each morning, you murmur a humble thanksgiving for the gift of eternal companionship, support, and love that's appeared in your life. And you never get bored. And you always appreciate it. Always. Always. Always. you a stable, healthy relationship? The kind of deep union wherein, upon waking each morning, you murmur a humble thanksgiving for the gift of eternal companionship, support, and love that's appeared in your life. And you never get bored. And you always appreciate it. Always. Always. Always.

The answer is quite simple, really. Date a stripper.

Strippers are our country's most precious resource for keeping people together, and humble, and happy. Forget about counseling. Forget about that weekend retreat to Sedona. And forget about self-help books featuring any of the following words: Secret, Code, Steps, Life, Love, Power, Triumph, or Borderline Personality Disorder.

Doubt me? Take these paired examples as all the proof you need:

Arguments.

My wife at her worst: Sometimes yells. Sometimes conflates one mistake I've made into a global condemnation of my character. When I point this out, she relents, laughs at herself, and apologizes.

My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best: CHIVAS [ CHIVAS [her stripper name, not her real name]: You didn't introduce me to your friend. ME: Whuh? [ ME: Whuh? [It's 4:17 a.m., and she's woken me up.] CHIVAS: Two days ago. When we were on Larchmont and those people you knew came up. There were three of them and you only introduced me to two. CHIVAS: Two days ago. When we were on Larchmont and those people you knew came up. There were three of them and you only introduced me to two. ME: Mike and Millie? Those were the only two I knew. I didn't know the third person, so I didn't know his name-it was a friend of theirs. ME: Mike and Millie? Those were the only two I knew. I didn't know the third person, so I didn't know his name-it was a friend of theirs. CHIVAS: WHAT THE f.u.c.k WERE YOU THINKING WITH THAT MOTHERf.u.c.kING MIX TAPE, YOU f.a.gGOT? CHIVAS: WHAT THE f.u.c.k WERE YOU THINKING WITH THAT MOTHERf.u.c.kING MIX TAPE, YOU f.a.gGOT? ME: What?! ME: What?! CHIVAS: ( CHIVAS: (Louder, over the sound of her two pit bulls, both of which are now furiously barking) I HATE ROXY MUSIC! ME: What . . . what . . . wait . . . ME: What . . . what . . . wait . . . CHIVAS: You think I like listening to that s.h.i.t? Make a different f.u.c.k mix. CHIVAS: You think I like listening to that s.h.i.t? Make a different f.u.c.k mix. ME: Uh . . . ME: Uh . . . CHIVAS: Is that why you didn't introduce me to your gay friend on the street? CHIVAS: Is that why you didn't introduce me to your gay friend on the street? ME: What the f.u.c.k are you talking about? Why are you waking me up now? ME: What the f.u.c.k are you talking about? Why are you waking me up now? CHIVAS: My dad molested me and my dogs hate you. CHIVAS: My dad molested me and my dogs hate you.

Finances.

My wife at her worst: Buys a lot of, in my opinion, overpriced skin care products.

My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best: CHIVAS: So, you're going to start work in a movie next week? CHIVAS: So, you're going to start work in a movie next week? ME: Yeah. It should be fun. ME: Yeah. It should be fun. CHIVAS: I need to borrow some money. CHIVAS: I need to borrow some money. ME: What for? You okay? ME: What for? You okay? CHIVAS: My landlord is a n.a.z.i Hitler. CHIVAS: My landlord is a n.a.z.i Hitler. ME: What's wrong? ME: What's wrong? CHIVAS: He's all like, "You haven't paid rent in five months, and if you don't cough up the money, I'm going to be a total Hitler and padlock your apartment." CHIVAS: He's all like, "You haven't paid rent in five months, and if you don't cough up the money, I'm going to be a total Hitler and padlock your apartment." ME: Why haven't you paid your rent? ME: Why haven't you paid your rent? CHIVAS: WHAT ARE YOU, MY DAD? CHIVAS: WHAT ARE YOU, MY DAD? [ [bark bark bark bark bark bark]

Your Chance to be a Hero.

My wife at her worst: Sometimes sleeps until noon, depressed about a writing project that's stalled, and needs rea.s.surance about her skills.

My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best: CHIVAS: Where the CHIVAS: Where the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k are you? are you? ME: I'm, uh, at work. It's Tuesday and I'm at work like I always am. ME: I'm, uh, at work. It's Tuesday and I'm at work like I always am. CHIVAS: The police in El Segundo are G.o.dd.a.m.n n.a.z.i Hitlers. CHIVAS: The police in El Segundo are G.o.dd.a.m.n n.a.z.i Hitlers. ME: Oh. ME: Oh. CHIVAS: I need bail money. CHIVAS: I need bail money. ME: Holy s.h.i.t, what happened? ME: Holy s.h.i.t, what happened? CHIVAS: They let these old ladies with Alzheimer's disease drive school buses in El Segundo. CHIVAS: They let these old ladies with Alzheimer's disease drive school buses in El Segundo. ME: Oh s.h.i.t. ME: Oh s.h.i.t. CHIVAS: And this b.i.t.c.h blocks the intersection suddenly, like out of nowhere, and now the front of my car is mulched and CAN YOU f.u.c.kING GET DOWN HERE?! CHIVAS: And this b.i.t.c.h blocks the intersection suddenly, like out of nowhere, and now the front of my car is mulched and CAN YOU f.u.c.kING GET DOWN HERE?! SHERIFF IN BACKGROUND: Language. SHERIFF IN BACKGROUND: Language. CHIVAS: Oh, bite my c.l.i.t you Naz CHIVAS: Oh, bite my c.l.i.t you Naz Phone is hung up for her. Phone is hung up for her.

Extended Family.

My wife's family, at their worst: Typical kookiness and social awkwardness, alleviated by genuine charm, love, and understanding.

My stripper ex-girlfriend's family, at their best: ME: You feeling okay? ME: You feeling okay? CHIVAS: Yeah, sweetie. CHIVAS: Yeah, sweetie. ME: It's just that . . . I want you to know I'm here for you, and especially afterward, if things are uncomfortable. We can talk. ME: It's just that . . . I want you to know I'm here for you, and especially afterward, if things are uncomfortable. We can talk. CHIVAS: What're you talking about? CHIVAS: What're you talking about? ME: You know, what he did to you. ME: You know, what he did to you. CHIVAS: And what CHIVAS: And what exactly exactly did he do to me? did he do to me? ME: You said he molested you. ME: You said he molested you. Chivas' father and his new girlfriend, who's younger than Chivas and looks almost exactly like Chivas, enter the Sizzler where we're meeting for dinner. Chivas' father and his new girlfriend, who's younger than Chivas and looks almost exactly like Chivas, enter the Sizzler where we're meeting for dinner. CHIVAS: WHAT THE f.u.c.k ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHEN THE f.u.c.k DID I SAY THAT? CHIVAS: WHAT THE f.u.c.k ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHEN THE f.u.c.k DID I SAY THAT? ME: Last n- ME: Last n- CHIVAS' DAD: What're you hollerin' about, doodlebug? CHIVAS' DAD: What're you hollerin' about, doodlebug? CHIVAS: He says I told him you f.u.c.ked me! CHIVAS: He says I told him you f.u.c.ked me! CHIVAS' DAD: That was a nightmare you had! We agreed! [ CHIVAS' DAD: That was a nightmare you had! We agreed! [To me] Who the f.u.c.k are you you? CHIVAS: Who's CHIVAS: Who's this this b.i.t.c.h? b.i.t.c.h? CHIVAS' DAD'S GIRLFRIEND: Cowgirl with a bomb-a.s.s p.u.s.s.y, that's who. CHIVAS' DAD'S GIRLFRIEND: Cowgirl with a bomb-a.s.s p.u.s.s.y, that's who. Chivas throws pepper mill at no one. Chivas throws pepper mill at no one.

What it's All About, in the End.

My wife at her worst: Has taught me the past is dead, the future is uncertain, and all we can truly know, or come close to knowing, is the present.

My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best: If you go down on a girl, or leave her a note saying you miss her, or don't pay her rent, you're a f.a.ggot.

It only took two months of me dating a stripper to appreciate what a miracle my wife is. And I didn't meet my wife until three years after my stripper girlfriend's final, typo-heavy text message saying she was flying to "arJenteena" with a "music band." "Watch out for all the n.a.z.i Hitlers!" I furiously texted back. Alas, she was gone.

I'd like to think she's still out there, perhaps not in arJenteena, but somewhere else, Bolivia for example, giving some other poor fool a lesson he will never forget, and mentioning casually, in her own off-handed way, that her dad may or may not have molested her.

Lesson#42

Sometimes You Find a Lost Love, Sometimes You Don't by Bob Kerrey

In January 1961 at the beginning of my final semester of high school I put a photograph of a woman I loved in my wallet for the first and last time in my life. She had just won a skating compet.i.tion. Head back, hair cut short, and smiling. She was beautiful but something about her captured me beyond her raw beauty. Nothing quite matched the spark, which arose between me and my girl, skating across the ice. The only problem was I had cut the photograph from The Lincoln Journal The Lincoln Journal sports page. I had fallen in love with a total stranger. A very pretty one at that. sports page. I had fallen in love with a total stranger. A very pretty one at that.