Men, Women, and Other People’s Weddings

My college buddy’s wedding was on a Saturday afternoon and, like any true American male, I would have rather been at home taking a nap.

Sure, I was happy for my friend. Sure, I wanted to show my support for his march into wedded bliss-again. And, sure, I was looking forward to all the booze, but statistics show that if given the choice between witnessing a wedding ceremony and throwing yourself down a flight of steps, most guys will take the steps.

Considering this, he’d asked me to stand up with him. Save for being on the other side of a natural disaster that destroyed entire regions of a continent, being part of the wedding ceremony for your best friend is hard to get out of.

“How’d they meet?” my wife asked as we drove to Wisconsin. I didn’t have my tuxedo, I didn’t know how to get to the church, and we were going to be late for the rehearsal dinner. Eh, he was probably expecting it.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“How can you not know?” she asked.

“It just never came up.”

Why is how people met important? Unless some guy rushes into a burning building and saves a woman from certain death, then flies her to safety in the Batcopter, how they met is just as important as what she flossed with after dinner.

For example:

Me (feigning interest): How’d you two meet?

My buddy: She was sitting next to me at lunch and I ate all her fries when she went to the bathroom.

See? That’s nothing compared to the Batcopter story.

“He’s your best friend,” she said. “How can you not know?”

Ladies, guys don’t ask a lot of questions. We might ask a buddy how he thinks the Packers are going to do this year. We might ask how much mileage their car gets. And we’ll definitely ask if they’ve got more beer. But how he met some girl? Unless he brings it up, we’ll just assume he picked her up in a strip club.

“He lives three states away,” I said, completely negating the fact that with today’s advances in telecommunications, I could find out this information if my buddy lived on a mountaintop in Tibet. “Besides, if they’re getting married, there are more things to worry about-like the reception buffet.”

“Well,” she said. “I would have asked.”

Silence crept into the car just long enough for me to get comfortable.

“How many people are standing up with him?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“He asked you to be a groomsman and you don’t know how many people you’re standing up with?”

I guess I never really thought about it. It’s kind of like Pluto finally being asked to join the solar system. It didn’t care how many planets it was orbiting the sun with, it was just happy to be there. Of course, now that Pluto’s no longer considered a planet, I bet it invites all the other planets to its wedding just to get back at them.

“No,” I said, avoiding the Pluto analogy and opting for one with the Seven Dwarfs-or maybe it was the Smurfs. “But Gargamel and the Wicked Stepmother lived happily ever after.”

She frowned.

“If it were me standing up with one of my friends, I’d know how they met, how many people are standing up with her, what her dress looks like, and what colors everyone was wearing.”

And the groom’s blood type and credit rating?

“Do you even know where they’re going on the honeymoon?” she continued.

“Yeah, Costa Rica.”

“Why … Oh, never mind,” she said.

I glanced at the clock. It read 5:30 p.m. The rehearsal dinner was at 6 p.m. and we were still an hour away.

“We have to pull into the next truck stop,” I said.

“We just filled up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I just remember I’ve got to buy them a present.”

Maybe I should learn to be more organized, or at least to keep my mouth shut.

***

Humor columnist Jason Offutt teaches journalism at Northwest Missouri State University and is not a snappy dresser at all. You can reach him through his Web site at www.jasonoffutt.com or by e-mailing him at jasonoffutt@hotmail.com.

My daughter pulled a videotape from a box in the basement.
“New Kids on the Block?” she asked, looking at a faded VHS tape cover featuring five kids who looked like they needed better parents.
“It’s not mine,” I said, sounding strangely defensive. “I’d rather own ‘ABBA Sings the Blues.’”
“Whatever,” she said in the way 17-year-olds do to show they own the planet. “I bet you danced to this.”
Yeah, and I sing “I Write the Songs” while drinking beer with the guys.
“No, dear,” I said. “There are only two people in this house who were alive during the five-minute New Kids reign, and I was the only one too busy listening to actual music to notice.”
“Sure, Dad,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I’ll just keep digging. I’m sure I’ll find Hanson.”
Oh, or maybe even Nelson.
The lesson here? Go through your video/DVD/audio collection before someone finds something you’re embarrassed to own. Well, unless you have “New Kids on the Block: Hangin’ Tough.” My wife was actually excited to see it again while I was trying to make fun of her.
But if someone finds your copy of Ratt’s “Out of the Cellar,” don’t worry, you’re not alone.
I’m sure Ice-T has “Ice Ice Baby” on his iPod. Dick Cheney probably has Richard Simmons’ “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” on Air Force Two. And I suspect Chuck Norris hops into his jammies and cuddles with a bowl of buttered popcorn to watch “Grease” at least once a month, but I can’t be completely sure because anyone who’s seen him do it is most certainly dead.
My embarrassing recording doesn’t include episodes of the original “Star Trek.” It’s not the last episode of “Cheers” and it’s not the first episode of “The Lone Gunmen.”
I own a copy of “Footloose.”
I don’t know how I got it. I don’t know if I’ve watched it more than once-and if I did it was probably because of a date, a dare, or too much cough syrup. And I don’t recognize anyone in the movie except Kevin Bacon, that bald guy from “Third Rock from the Sun,” and some blond girl.
My crime is the fact that I’ve never thrown it away.
“What else do you have in here, Dad?” my daughter asked, poking around tapes full of “The Simpsons” episodes and 10-year-old NFL games I’ll never watch again. “Something in black and white with ladies water dancing?”
“No,” I said. “All you’ll find in there are movies with Clint Eastwood, ‘Terminator I, II and III’ and maybe something with talking chimps.”
She stopped searching through the sea of out-of-date VHS tapes and pulled out a black plastic rectangle of blackmail.
“‘Footloose,’ Dad?” she said, grinning like … well, grinning like she’d just found a copy of ‘Footloose’ in my VHS tapes. “You’ve got ‘Spice World’ in here, too, right?”
I can change the oil in my car, I can fix a toilet, and I can belch like a cartoon rabbit, but none of that manly stuff matters when you’ve got “Footloose” in your video collection.
I hang my head, and please, don’t tell Chuck Norris.

The Over-40 ABC Book

The Toddler dropped a book in my lap. Although I realized a long time ago that the most important accessory to any father’s wardrobe is a cup, I was unprepared. I’m just glad I have good reflexes.
“Read it, Daddy,” she said in her sweet, two-year-old voice, which, by the time it reaches my brain, sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger saying “Hasta la vista, baby.” Like most sensible fathers, my daughter scares the hell out of me.
The book was a typical children’s alphabet book. A is for apple. B is for ball. C is for cat. D is for Division of Family Services. The usual.
As I sat there, reading about the wonders of Elephant, Frog, and Goat, I realized there are books like this for age ranges except adults. Where’s the 20-something ABC books of Antipathy, Beer, and Centerfolds? The 30-something ATM card, Business meetings, and Children? And the over-40 …
Well, at least I can help with that one.
The Over-40 ABC Book
A-Aches and pains. Remember when you could move without stabbing pains in your joints? You don’t? That’s probably for the best.
B-Bifocals. When you realize you can’t tell a picture of Jessica Alba from one of Albert Einstein. And yes, there is a difference.
C-Colonoscopy. Vacation pictures from the lower intestine. You won’t see a polyp like that at Disney World.
D-Depends. Eww, was that you? Depends.
E-Ensure. When scotch and soda no longer count as dietary supplements.
F-Flatulence. No excuses. No guilt. It’s expected. Life goal achieved.
G-Grouchy. What you are while driving, when the gout’s in your big toe, and when the president talks during your favorite TV show. “I don’t care about the stupid economy when Jack Bauer’s shooting terrorists.”
H-Hemorrhoids. What you get when a lifestyle that prevents you from walking decides to prevent you from sitting.
I-Incontinence. The best excuse for going home early. “Oh, I’m sorry, were those your good shoes?”
J-Jars. I hoard quarters, lug nuts, one-cent stamps, and finishing screws in mayonnaise jars. Don’t try to find them. I buried them in the yard and I have a pellet gun.
K-Knees. You know you have them because of the arthritis; you just can’t see them anymore.
L-Lounge chair. A chair, a couch, and a bed, all in one. I could sit here all day. Oh, wait, I did.
M-Memory loss. …
N-Nothing’s as good as it used to be. Darn tootin’.
O-Orneriness. You can now get away with anything. “Who put the dead squirrel in the cheese dip? Oh, Uncle Jim. You are so funny.”
P-Prostate exam. At least when gangsters finger somebody, it’s quick.
Q-Quiet. Everything’s too loud-except conversations.
R-Rambling. Some stories don’t have a point. “When I was your age youngsters went to school, held two jobs, and wore garlic in their trousers because the Democrats gave vampires the right to vote. Now I remember this one time …”
S-Senior discount. The coffee’s cheap; now if I can only stay awake long enough to drink it.
T-TV trays. The greatest invention known to man, next to the lounge chair. No, really. It’s right next to my lounge chair under the TV Guide. (Which, of course, is a viable alternative “T” because it’s the book that tells me what time Jack Bauer’s going to shoot terrorists.)
U-Underwear. Once it was tight, once it was white. Now it starts high and hangs to my thigh.
V-Varicose veins. Cheaper and surprisingly more aesthetically pleasing than tattoos.
W-Wattle. When your neck keeps moving long after you’ve stopped. Who’s that in the mirror? Alfred Hitchcock? Oh, wait, it’s me.
X-X-ray. The inside of your body’s been mapped better than Google Earth.
Y-Yelling. See Quiet.
Z-Zipper. Is my fly open? Pfft. I just don’t care anymore.
* * *
You can order Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

Metro

The other night my date asked a question that seems to be on everyone’s mind: “Are you gay or just well-spoken?”

 
I’ve been taking this grief since elementary, when other kids wondered aloud whether I was a boy or a girl. Evidently, I have some feminine properties. For starters, I’m nice to people (you can see how that might throw them off). I cross my legs wrong and own a melon baller. I love my cat.

But the thing people can’t get past is the messenger bag. Barney’s assured me that it wouldn’t look womanly if I strapped it across my chest like Chewbacca.

 
The bag still had its tags when I sat down to poker with my buddies.

“Nice purse,” said Ernie. “I like how it matches your shoes.”

I’ve done everything to skirt-er, get around-the man bag. I carried a backpack but always felt like I was on my way to the bus stop, looking to trade my PB&J for a Twinkie. I also tried a tote bag, a laptop case, a toiletry kit, and then just stuffing my pockets like a hamster.

Ernie asked what’s so important that I have to carry it on my person. To be exact: digital camera, mp3 player, appointment book, wallet, cell phone, bank ledger, notepad, pens, cartoon book, glasses, sunblock, Chapstick, hand sanitizer, gum, business cards, harmonica, and a condom that may have expired.

We also found toenail clippers, but I swear they were planted.

I will have you know that when the gang went to Mexico and got stranded without sunblock, they sang a different tune about my “purse.”

I used to be so normal. I spat and surfed and used dirty socks for oven mitts. Now when I vacuum, I back out slowly so as not to disturb the carpet triangles. When buddies use the bathroom, I say, “You didn’t pee standing up, did you? It splashes.”

I’ve developed an urgent need for symmetry. It bothers me, for instance, when Michael Jackson wears only one glove or Pisa doesn’t fix that stupid tower. If I ever lose an arm, I’ll have to seriously consider, for the sake of balance, removing the opposite leg.

People also accuse me of liking clothes. If they only knew. Sometimes I press against the store window and talk dirty to myself … “I’m gonna buy the hell out of that jacket.”

Regular guys don’t think about matching. They’re happy so long as their clothes say something about them. Like “NASCAR.”

My recent date said that she doesn’t trust a man who jogs all the time. Her exact words: “If you can fit into my pants, you can’t get into them.”

How do I keep finding these women? I must have terrible depth perception.

Gay men sometimes hit on me. I’m flattered, gosh, but never know what to say. In the supermarket, a man followed me, vaguely, for three aisles before cornering me in the deli.

“My name’s Peter.” He shook my hand. “Nice grip.”
Um … Um … I’m just well-spoken.

I find myself acting tough to offset the attention. At the gym I stick out my chest and talk like Keanu Reeves: “Hey, dude. Nice shoes…” (applying Chapstick in a manly fashion).

In case you’re concerned that you yourself may be metrosexual, I have compiled a list for you to carry in your wallet.

You might be metro if …
* you prefer bubble baths to showers.
* you speak in semicolons.
* you carry your own salad dressing.
* you’ve been “meaning to have sex.”
* you refrigerate your face-care products.
* your ringtone is “Fur Elise in C minor.”
* you’ve ever had a chopstick callous.
* you watch Hugh Grant movies on purpose.
* you avoid unflattering light.
* you know about unflattering light.
* you get anxious when your belt doesn’t match your shoes.
* you read while stuck in traffic.
* you have an opinion about thread count.
* you floss before bed no matter how drunk you are.
* when someone slurps at a restaurant, you pause significantly.
* the wallet where you store this list is inside a bag strapped across your chest.

* * *

Jason Love is an award-winning humor columnist, stand-up comedian, and author of “Snapshots: The Big Picture,” available at Amazon.com. Check out more of his work at www.jasonlove.com.

It’s not often the news means something to the average guy.
Why, for example, should I care that, according to Fox News, Britain’s Prince William has been forbidden “to associate with Paris (Hilton)?”
Read the rest of this article »

Blue

Slips of paper have been appearing on our living room wall. I ignored them at first, but they keep appearing. Sometimes there are four, sometimes three, sometimes only one. But they all have two things in common: 1) none of them ever stays up for more than a day, and 2) they’re all shades of the color blue.
It’s either a natural phenomena—in which case I have a whole lot to learn about physics, or biology, or whatever science deals with paper spontaneously appearing on walls—an unnatural phenomena involving oozing space monsters, or my wife wants to paint our living room.
I can only assume that whatever is causing this likes blue.
I asked my wife and unfortunately a blue paper-excreting monster from Venus is not loose in our living room, damn it. She wants to paint.
Excuse me, typo. I meant: Damn it, she wants to paint.
Sure, just painting a living room sounds innocent enough (a little taping off here, a little spackling there), but so did the German invasion of Belgium to start World War I (a little machine gun fire here, a little mustard gas there). I think that war started when Kaiser Wilhelm II’s wife wanted to paint the living room blue. The war was less trouble.
Read the rest of this article »

There was something wrong that Sunday morning as my family and I sat in church. I just didn’t know what.
The something wrong wasn’t because I sweat like a coal shoveler every time I step into a church-I’ve finally come to terms with that. I sweat because of all the candles, or the stain glass magnifying the pre-kickoff sunlight, or knowing the Host is really high in carbs. Yeah, it has nothing to do with all that “thou shalt not” stuff I keep forgetting about until it’s too late. Read the rest of this article »

The cell phone rang in my front pocket as my family and I walked across the clean but car-littered floor.

I thought about not answering it. I hate talking on the telephone in front of people who suddenly look like they want to hurt me.

“What’s so important,” I wonder when I see someone else talking on their cell phone in public, “that you have to tell Joshy Pooh-Pooh you love him when you’re in line at the grocery store buying laxatives?” The cell phone has helped drag courtesy, privacy, and not kicking someone’s ass to a standstill. Read the rest of this article »

One of the basic tenets of today’s feel-good, nobody’s-at-fault child-rearing method is follow-through.

If a child isn’t supposed to watch television until he finishes his vegetables, don’t turn on the TV. If a child doesn’t do a chore, don’t give him money for ice cream. And if you threaten to throw a toy out of a moving car, throw the toy out of a moving car.

The problem is, none of the people who write touchy-feely books on parenting expect anyone to, 1) threaten, or 2) throw anything anywhere-ever. Read the rest of this article »

A relationship, no matter how caring, loving, or impossible to back out of, is war. Well, at least to guys. To women, relationships are all princesses, unicorns, and pushing dazed heroes off a cliff.Relationships aren’t war to women, because war means there’s some doubt of the outcome. There is no doubt with women-they win.

But war, as we know, is the only way guys think about anything. Football is war. Deciding what movie to see is war. Read the rest of this article »

I called my wife before I left work. I’m not sure why I did this. Maybe it was out of courtesy. Maybe it’s a habit my mom beat into my head when I was a kid. Or maybe I’m just not that bright.I think it’s the last one.

“I’m going to the store on my way home,” I told her.

That was simple enough, right? In the Western world, a guy saying “I’m going to the store” usually means “I’m out of beer.” Everyone knows that. Well, everyone but women. Read the rest of this article »

Vacation. A word so sweet your triglycerides rose to the level of Jabba the Hutt’s just by reading it. So, please, go to the emergency room-now.Yeah, vacation is sweet, and I had five days of it. Five no-shavin’, no-workin’, no-thinkin’ days of lethargy and naps. I sat on the couch that Monday morning, a cup of coffee in my hand, when my lazy vacation turned into one of those vacations you see in movies where everyone’s ankles are chained together and they’re busting rocks in front of a guy holding a shotgun.

“Bye, honey,” my wife said as she did a strafing run through the living room on her way to work, pulling the front door shut behind her so quickly I barely heard the words that would doom my vacation much like “I’ll have to raise taxes” doomed Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential campaign … by the way, he lost. “Have a great day. There’s a list on the kitchen table. I love you.” Read the rest of this article »

Everyone stared as I pushed my shopping cart through the store … ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. You know, foreign automakers should start building shopping carts if only to force the American cart industry into upgrading that one bad wheel.

But it wasn’t the thumpy wheel or that I was trying not to be seen that made people stare like they recognized me from some Internet police database. People were watching because, despite all the beef jerky, beer, and drill bits bouncing around the basket, they knew I was really at the store to buy feminine napkins. Read the rest of this article »

The smell was horrendous … and I grew up on a farm.

My wife’s friend stuck her head through the crack she made peeling open our bathroom door and whispered, “Psst, psst, psst, psst,” like she had a secret.

She didn’t.

This wasn’t a secret to anyone in the house and maybe, just maybe, to people the next block over. She’d stopped up our toilet—again. Read the rest of this article »