Midlife Makeunder

The longer a person stays with a company, the more likely it will spur enough dissatisfaction to check out options in the job marketplace.  This length of time is different for everyone.  Personally, I refer to this length of time as “every Wednesday afternoon”.

“I don’t know, Alice. I mean I guess it’s okay. I just thought there would be more upward mobility.”

While you check out these options, I would like to offer some hints, to assist you all in landing a dream job.  In my case this was finding a home safeguarding lives and alcohol, as a front-line clerk at Liquor Barn.  While this may not seem magical, I find it really plays to my strengths, which are:

• Hiding from real work, whenever possible.
• Pretending to care about the conversation someone is having with me, while actually replaying that YouTube video of funny talking animals in my head.

Alan….Alan! Alan! Alan…

• Remaining calm when having to call 9-1-1 (I have been advised by more than one of the 9-1-1 operators that I am “disturbingly matter-of-fact”).
• Along with majoring in “broken-French” for about 8 years, I’m also able to translate “Drunkenese” for co-workers.  This skill gained me the “November 2012 Liquor Barn Company Synergist” award.
• Ability to not have sex with co-workers in the walk-in beer cooler.  This issue is epidemic at Liquor Barn.  I asked my former co-worker, Conrad, why he hooked up with a customer on a flat of Lucky Lager, to which he replied “I thought management meant use a condom, when they said they didn’t want things going viral”.  Honest mistake.  Conrad doesn’t have a computer.  Or a bank account.  Or a full set of teeth.  Though, he can apparently “make the magic happen” at will, in the beer cooler.  I can’t. C’est dommage.

Yeah…Sorry guys, unfortunately our debit machine is down…

Now that you see how a list of such clear abilities can be made for yourself, I suggest doing so without delay, as your next interview could be just around the corner.  Below are a few more actions to take if you do happen to (fingers crossed) get that call for an interview.

1)  Make yourself a list of must-haves and deal-breakers.  Often you will find yourself in a position where you just want walk away; unfortunately some guy name Klaus who works for a very pervy, very contract-savvy, European industrialist will insist you stay for lunch.  He will also insist you change the industrialist’s diaper because hey, you said you were good with whatever.  Bygones.  Anyhow, the important thing is to develop a list of standards for the workplace.  You know, like the government does, though are actually enforceable.  A few of my Must Haves are:

• Employee weapons must be locked up at all times while at work.
• If forced to wear pink, I must be given accessories.  Just saying, nothing says “too much” like a pair of hot-pants paired with a pink V-neck.
• To be paid in cash.  Or at least work with it.

Staff at the liquor store were what they liked to call “prepared, yet not over-prepared”.

A few of my Deal-breakers are:

• Extra bubbly co-workers.  In my experience, they’ve had help.  By help, I mean blow.
• Running out of coffee.  Yes, I realize the irony when compared to my last deal-breaker.
• European industrialists.

Having these things listed makes it clear in establishing a workplace “safe-word”.

2) Wear Socks.  Trust me.

3)  Prepare a list of questions for your potential employer.  This tactic was given to me by a friend and I have to admit, putting an interviewer on their toes is a fulfilling experience.  Just be careful the questions aren’t too personal.  According to my most recent HR interviewer,who turned out to be my assistant manager Clarissa, from Liquor Barn (along with HR she also does payroll and “clean-up”) asking whether or not she had ever participated in a three-way was unacceptable.  FYI, so was asking if she wanted to participate in three-way with me.  Oh Clarissa, that clever, little minx.

4)  Phone a friend – At the beginning of any interview, I explain that I reserve the right to phone a friend, if the situation calls for it.  Most of the time an interviewer is so shocked, they’ll accept.  If the interviewer balks at the request, simply counter with “If this is the kind of interview where I’m going to be subjugated for the minority I am…”.  This comment will close the door on anything HR related.  At any point during the interview, call someone much smarter than yourself, if you’ve been say, caught in a lie on your resume, or perhaps got caught trying to communicate with the birds on the neighbouring building, when you became bored with the interviewer’s ramblings about safety.  Just saying if the former CEO of Yahoo can get caught, so can you.

5) Take some “Me” time – Maybe you’ve found the interview isn’t going well, or worse; it is going well and you’re probably going to get a job you really don’t want.  If it’s not your dream job, get out.  My solution for this is to stop the interviewer mid-sentence and explain that “nature calls”.  I then proceed to spend 2 -3 hours in the bathroom, not really doing anything except blowing my chances at getting the job.  Hopefully it’s a bathroom where there is only one stall and everyone on the floor uses it.  When you start feeling guilty, just remember, this isn’t your dream job and you won’t settle for less, come hell or ruptured bladders.

If somebody that looks like this guy shows up, you might want to consider leaving early.

It happens to all of us at some point in time.  That feeling of panic when you realize your wallet or purse is missing.  It’s the same feeling a high school kid gets when his girlfriend tells him she’s pregnant.  Its the same feeling you get when swimming in Australia, when a shark fin appears nearby and you are good distance away from shore.  Perhaps this is a little much, just a touch melodramatic.  I’m prone to such behaviour when set upon by a first-world problem.  Life can be challenging and I like to whine about it, like the fair-weather soldier I am.

Your girlfriend is WHAT???

This afternoon started out like any other Saturday.  Early to bed, late to rise.  Around noon, it was time for my midday kickstart, courtesy of a popular downtown coffee house, which shall remain nameless.  After hanging about the java stop with a friend, for an hour or so, talking about issues such as the Elliot Wave as applied to social mood, or whether or not barista was a relative of George Hamilton, based on her tan; I decided it was time to get back to things more productive.

Like this...but peddling coffee.

The rest of the afternoon was spent writing.  After a few hours, I decided I would be proactive and do my grocery shopping today rather than do it on Sunday, like your average, garden-variety, bachelor chump.  As I readied myself, grabbing my car keys and doing a spot-breath check (why this matters, is because the grocery store is full of a whole cast of eligible or near-eligible ladies; the difference being virtually indistinguishable to me) and I suddenly realize my wallet is missing.  To make a long story the length of my last relationship, my wallet was decidedly “incognito”.

To clarify - if this guy has my wallet, he is NOT Curt Incognito

Rather than bemoan purchases lost, I made the gut decision to cancel everything.  Cards, driver’s license…you name it, I’m replacing it.  This is of little import.  What does matter is how to operate with what I like to call “secondary protocol accessories”.  I call it secondary protocol because that is the only time most of this stuff sees the light of day.  I don’t know about you, though I tend to misplace things.  More often than not, they show back up. Unfortunately, I lose them often enough that I’ve chosen to keep my “back-ups” altogether, in one neat, tidy place.

The real challenge is using this stuff on a Saturday night.  Most obviously, is my passport in lieu of a driver’s license.  Instead of being embarrassed, I keep it slung around my neck, in the “nifty” little travel pouch that I bought to keep it safe “while travelling through Europe”.

This has a three-fold effect on the opposite sex.  First, you are blissfully uncaring of the opinion of others, how else could you possibly walk around with a mini man-satchel, sitting in the center of your chest, like Ironman’s Arc Reactor?  Second, you’ve been to Europe, which mean you’re all kinds of sophist-a-micated and what-not.  This goes over very well.  Lastly,  you’ve lost all your I.D. and money, which shows your vulnerability and potential need of “a woman’s touch”, if only for a brief period.  This will appeal to women who tend to get “Florence Nightingale Syndrome”.  Careful with this one, as you may end up with a Kathy Bates type, hacking off your foot, just to keep you in close proximity.

"No, It's fine. I can totally stay. Tell you what, close up that stab wound you just gave me and I'm in for the long haul, promise!

A couple of key things to remember if you do venture out on Saturday with your back-ups:

1. Your keys.

2.  Your phone.

3. Her name.

4. Not to leave the back-ups at her place.

5.  Enough cash for cab fare, or it could potentially be an extremely long walk of shame.  Unless you really like your new friend, in which case, save enough money for two “Lumberjack Slams” at Denny’s, on Sunday morning.

Lastly, remember not to judge yourself.  After all, you’ve had a really tough weekend, having to deal with a boatload of personal loss.  You deserve a little bit of time free from worry, free from stress.  The real trick is to remember the word “Free”, as you’ll be without your plastic.

Have a tip-top weekend!

There are times in life when words just don’t do a situation justice. Can you remember a moment, where you were just so scared, angry or embarrassed, that there was no word to describe it?  Perhaps there was a time when you witnessed something so funny, awkward or downright vomit inducing, that it left you standing there, mentally constipated, with no literary Ex-Lax in sight.  Allow me to offer a solution in the form of the “Portmanteau”.

The Portmanteau is a fancy, French term that more or less, means a “word sandwich”.  It’s when you take at least two words and squeeze them together to give yourself a much more entertaining description of things.  Here is a small taste of my portmanteau “glossary”:

1. Brenvy – What I felt towards my younger brother growing up, as I lost virtually every Nintendo game we ever played.

2. Brintendo –  The state of “unusability” the Nintendo came to be in, after it received one too many sore loser kicks from me.  Brintendo also came to be known by us, as the term used for playing outside; you know, like the Hutterite children do.

Who am I kidding? The old school Nintendo never broke down, it just needed a "time out" occasionally. Thank you Mario, thank you.

3. Granpire – The geriatric man or woman that is in a relationship with a member of the opposite sex that is less than half their age.  As in,  ”Chuck liked being a Granpire, until his girlfriend received her driver’s license”.

Contrary to popular belief, Granpires only stay outdoors until it's time for Jell-O to be served.

4. Manticipation –  The feeling a guy gets when he realizes he might have sex.

5. Manpology – The thing a guy tries to offer a woman, post coitus, due to a great deal of “Manticipation”.  As in, “Please accept my Manpology, that has NEVER happened before”.

My Bad.

6. Trynanced – Being highly leveraged with bad debt, that has allowed you to purchase items, which are quickly becoming worthless, in a misguided effort to try and impress other people who couldn’t care less.  As in, “Curt didn’t care if he was Trynanced, now he had the iPad2, which meant he would fit in at Starbucks.”  Also known as “Poornanced”.

7. seX-Box – When you realize your love life has become a simple matter of trying to “out-do” your partner in the sack.

8. Mindividual – A person who does the absolute least possible to stick out.

9. Exflammation-  A condition where the afflicted individual will inexplicably get a burning sensation in their private parts and a feel great need to bathe, upon any chance meeting with an ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend.  Although similar in symptoms, it is not to be confused with Gonorrhea.  Or marriage, at the 10 to 15 year stage.

10. Clappy – The people who always seem to clap uncontrollably whenever they are happy about something.

11. Doppelbanger – The exact version of yourself, except a die hard Motley Crue fan.

Yeah, but he looks totally different on Turtleneck Tuesday...

12. Scuttlebuttocks – To talk about a well-formed derriere.  As in “Wow…Tiffany sure has a perfect backside. At least, that’s the scuttlebuttocks.”

13. Bropourri – When a young woman finds herself unwittingly encircled by a group of guys while at a club.  Also known as being “Mencircled”.

Meh, I've had bigger.

14. Spendgrift – Somebody who knows how to save their money by seducing others out of theirs.  Spendgrifts are often seen in the company of Granpires.

Carl and Tony spent their whole lives trying to find that "special someone". Their WHOLE lives.

15. Goondoggle – A group of meatheads, very clearly up to no good.

16.  Helmutt- What you feel both you and your head look like, after a bad haircut.

17. Discomboobulate – An age old skill women use, to distract a man by showing off  their “Chesticles”.

18. Bestitched – To be the unwilling recipient of something homemade from an aging relative.

Umm...yeah, it's perfect. What are those? Candy canes? Oh, that's swell.

19. Lollyhag – A woman who spends all day complaining, especially about how she has no time to do anything.

20. Fistibluffs – A point where two men look like there going to move to blows, only to realize that neither of them really want a black eye, so they just continue beaking at one another.

When somebody steps between us, you are gonna be soooo sorry...

As you can see, there are times, like at Christmas, where Aunt Mildred offers you that “knit sweater”, which is going be perfect for any “noccasion”.  This is when you begin to realize the value of a good Portmanteau.  Please feel free to offer up your own word sandwich, as this is the type of thing that makes life blisstastic.

Straight out of the gate, let me make one thing clear:  I have an amorous relationship with the Facebook, albeit even if it is a one-way street, there is deep affection.  I believe that any computer application that allows me to peer into other’s lives like the 1950′s “pervert in the tree, outside your window” can’t be a bad thing, can it? Seems harmless enough.  Let’s face it, people are nosy creatures.  Curiosity did kill the cat…right after it finished impregnating humanity.

"Well, at least I'm not the cat."

Now that we’re clear on why Facebook had initial success, let’s look at why it has had such staying power.  For as much as people like to snoop, other people like to “put it on display”.  I know, I know.  How can I say such a thing when we live in a time of such moderation and conservative moral values?  Next thing you know, women will be showing their “internet ankles” and children will be allowed to play at outdoor parks.

"Yeah Mom, it's umm, really cool. Where do I plug in my controller?"

Still, morals aside (exactly where I like them), I can’t help but notice that Facebook is creating a bunch of “pseudo-people”.  Honestly, either many of the people I know are taking some serious “creative license” with their Facebook accounts, or they suffer from multiple personality disorder  Give me a minute though, I want to go to the mirror and discuss this issue with Eduardo and Earl.

I’m back.  Eduardo agreed.  Earl didn’t even show.  He’s not exactly a people person, which may explain why he has exactly two friends on Facebook.  I digress.  It’s at this point where I believe a breakdown is needed to show how the lives of myself and my friends would look, if things played out exactly how “Facebook” makes them look like they happened.

My Typical Day – According to Facebook:

5:00 a.m. – First status update, because OMG, who needs sleep, right?  Well, look at that, it’s my Birthday!

5:10 a.m. – I am sharing my Birthday with 38 friends.  This social “netquirk” makes me seem less interesting and unique.  I am annoyed.

5:11 a.m – I rally.

5:12 a.m. – Potential crisis averted.

5:15 a.m. – Let all my friends know about 18 mile run, that I complete in record time,

"That remix was horrible."

though not before posting 20 links to Youtube, that makes up my complete “Uber-Sprint Playlist”.  I’m edgy like that.

7:03 a.m. – Mobile upload of me “working it” on the Starbucks Barista, still glistening from my run.

7:04 a.m. – Change my relationship status from “Single” to “It’s complicated”.

7:05 a.m. – Mobile upload removed by the Facebook “Gestapo”, due to “graphic content”.  Apparently there is no room on Facebook for the “free-spirited”.  Edna, you were so sweet and gentle, even if you were a touch on the “seasoned” side.  Who said liver spots can’t be sexy?  I guess the world will never know about our “de-posted” lust affair.

"Don't. It's not."

7:09 a.m. – Arrive in Jamaica, now that I am able to take a trip weekly. Thanks for expanding the limits of my reality, Facebook.  Also, the pilot knew a shortcut.

8:15 a.m. – Jell-O shots!

9:45 a.m. – Photo Bomb of me and “muh gurls” around the pool, all in the best shape of our lives, while sporting bathing attire.  Normally, this may raise eyebrows, though in Facebook world, I assume all of my friends are just ridiculously fit and predisposed to “…really, really liking spinach salad…with no dressing.  They like it a lot”.  At this time, funny glasses and finger moustaches begin to appear in photos, the same way orphaned kids migrate to “Brangelina”.  These added facial features make me the envy of my Facebook Friends, though I am not concerned with such matters because I’m too busy Salsa dancing with Catalina, or Katerina…or maybe it was Brittany.  Either way, we both “felt the earth move”.  We “Add Friend” and “Like” each other.

3:00 p.m. – Make apology for not having updated my status in so long, as I know my Facebook friends will be so worried.  I have a valid excuse for my absence though, “I’m getting married!”  Reception @ the Central Park Boathouse @ 5:00 p.m.

"Yeah, Congrats Curt..."

3:30 p.m. – Tux fittings with groomsmen – quick video upload of Trent “hamming it up” for the camera, as he walks around the Tux shop wearing “only” the top half of the tux.  Oh Trent, you’re such a joker.

3:38:10 p.m. – Walking down the aisle

3:38:15 p.m. – Catalina, or Katerina…or Brittany meets me at the end of the aisle.  I hope the minister reminds me of her name.  I mean, how embarrassing would that be?

3:38:30 p.m. – My palms are sweaty.

3:38:40 p.m. – Breath check.

3:38:42 p.m. – Catal…my soon to be wife looks so hot.  I’m so glad we “waited”.

3:51 p.m. – Wedding photos uploaded.

"It was fantastic. Best day of my life."

5:14 p.m. – Honeymoon in the Maldives!

5:38 p.m. – Upload of ultrasound photo.  Guess who’s expecting?????

Xavier let us know how he felt about the tight accommodations almost immediately.

6:06 p.m. – Cata-Britt-krina’s water just broke, about to be a Daddy folks!

6:08 p.m. – I’d like to welcome Xavier-Damian-Nikolai-Hugo-Chavez-N-Cognito into the world!

6:15 p.m. – After bagging the placenta, the hospital has “ushered” our new family out into the street.  I offer my thanks to all my friends for the congratulations on Xavier’s birth.  I realize that my new son shares my birthday with me and will forever more, hog my birthday limelight.  I am once again annoyed.

6:16 p.m. – I rally.

6:24 p.m. – Little Xavier just had his first poop.  It was so cute and unique, I just know all of my friends will love this update!

6:27 p.m – Realizing the novelty is wearing off, I offer up Xavier for trade when Cata…my wife steps out for a coffee and postpartum neighbourhood window smashing/pyro spree.  I upload a photo of little Lucifer Xavier while he sleeps.  In the photo I have pinned a note that says “will consider a 66′ Ford Mustang convertible, or perhaps my youth in trade”.

7:27 p.m. – I receive no offers.  I am annoyed.  I thought this was social net “working” not net “slouching”.  Come on people.

8:15 p.m. – My wife has returned, still holding a car door.  Not a door latch, a door.  I upload the photo.  She is annoyed.

8:15:01 p.m. – As the wife appears to be in good spirits, I say my good-byes to the better half and life-ender the apple of my eye, heading out for some well-deserved mischief with the boys!

8:15 p.m. – 2:59 a.m. – Remember to turn “Off” the Facebook “Check-In” app.  Facebook equivalent of the Dark Ages.

3:00 a.m. – Update my Facebook status in drunkenese, letting all my friends know how fantastic I am and how I resemble George Clooney in my bathroom mirror.  On second thought, maybe it is Gary Busey I look like…either way, it’s a celebrity, right?  DELETE every photo taken that evening.

Hey, I could be Nick Nolte.

This is just a small cross section of a Facebook day, I think with some solid effort, I could have crossed off a few more “life checklist” items, though I find I accomplished most of what I had set out to do.  The important thing is that others want the life that I allegedly have. Thanks Facebook, for keeping it real.

Last night, while hanging out with friends, I was introduced to the “Clik” app for my iPhone.  In the words of the app creator, it is the “amazing You tube remote that allows you to walk up to any screen with a browser, point your phone at it and instantly take control”.  Seeing as how my friend has this hooked into his home entertainment center; it was like, “Boom!”, I am the You tube video genie, selecting which music can be played, all from my cellphone.

"With a little responsibility, comes great power."

Seriously, for those people who are hardwired into their phone like Neo is to the Matrix, this app was a Godsend.  It was…at least, until a few others downloaded the app.  You see, every third Friday at my buddy Jack’s house has been deemed “Eighties Music Night”, so good or bad, we are imbibing libations to Gun’s and Rose’s “Paradise City” or “Let Your Backbone Slide” by Maestro Fresh Wes (Really, do lyrics get any better than “So many suckers on my sacroiliac, It’s like a rapsack backpack”?).

R.I.P. the music career of Maestro Fresh Wes - (October 1989 - June 1990)

Things took a turn for the Machiavellian when Tait, one member of our merry band of malcontents, decided to “unilaterally” end eighties night, via the Clik app.  One second I am “high-top deep” in the melancholic, power-ballad tones of Poison’s “Every Rose Has it’s Thorn“, when the song comes to an abrupt end, vis-a-vis Avicii’s “Levels“.  While I enjoy having my “Ear-Ports” assaulted as much as the next guy, never interrupt a man who is midway through discussing the extraordinary hotness of the eighties music video-tart.  Just saying Tait;  these women were hot, game for anything and quite obviously, as blind as the day is long.  Did you see some of the outfits these guys would wear?

The 80's Hair Band - Singlehandedly keeping Vidal Sassoon profitable.

Avicii cannot compare to these women, I don’t care how great his laser light show is.  There are only so many fist pumps he can do, before I’m once again, craving a “come-hither” look from Suzanna Hoffs, via the “Eternal Flame” video, or the sweet, feminine vulnerability of Belinda Carlisle’s “Mad About You“.

This versus...

...this. Sorry Avicii, no contest. Besides, I'm sucker for giant hoop earrings.

Tait’s decision sparked an all out “Clik War”, with Jack and Regan joining in, most songs being sampled for about ten seconds, until somebody else came up with another selection.  It was like a video yard-sale, though not in a good way.  In the end,  the whole thing, if compiled would have looked a lot like Eric Prydz’s “Call on Me” video.  While there is no arguing the “lyrical genius” of this song, I can’t help but feel as though the visuals are just a touch “overt”.

In the end, none of us were really getting our own way.  As much as we could have taken the mature route…the moral high road; instead each of us chose to find a more ridiculous song in which to “one-up” the other.  I think we maxed out somewhere between Milli Vanilli’s “Blame it on the Rain” and Justin Beiber’s…well anything by Justin Beiber is too much.  Not that the kid isn’t talented.  In the words of my friend Cory, upon first hearing Justin Bieber on the radio, “I really like this chick’s voice”.  I waited about two seconds to break it to him that those sultry tones were coming from a pubescent, Emo kid.  Thanks for the good times, Justin.

Still, androgynous vocal talent aside, this event left me thinking that I now wholeheartedly see this as a legitimate, first-world problem – Which soundtrack will take us into the future?

Since right about the time that man began procreating, he has been on the outs with women.  The message just never seemed to be delivered.  Through mating a “plethora” of National Geographic articles with an Excel spreadsheet, I believe I may have figured out what women (and men) want.  I have chosen to display the results in chart form, simply because as all ladies know, men respond to “visuals”.

Right around the time we started poking things with sharp sticks (as well as with our naughty bits) it became evident to the female gender of the species that perhaps they would have to spell it out for the guys; a few “Must-Haves” or “Deal-Breakers”, if you will.  In the beginning, a woman’s needs of her mate were simple:

As you can see, due to limited ability to communicate, women’s needs were very simple, at that time.  Over the millenia, communication developed, the world became faster and more complicated.  The modern age woman became vastly more complex than the cavewoman; so much so, that each woman would be utterly unrecognizable to the other party if they were to ever have crossed paths.  I mean, it could happen.

It would be like forcing the writers of ABC’s “Wife Swap” to work with PBS, or History TV.  Stranger things have happened.  I bet they’d call it “Hello, 9-1-1?  There is a wild, cave troll loose in my living room and I think she ate my wife!  Seriously, we need a dart gun, stat!  She’s roasting the guinea pig over an open flame on our love seat.  For the love of…the thing’s not even scotch guarded”.  The cave man version would be called: “Unnngggg, Munnaggghh!”  It wouldn’t be televised.  I digress.  Like I said, the two charts would be like comparing apples to, well whatever cave people could forage.  Here’s a little snapshot of what today’s woman needs: 

As you can see, with the way the basic needs of a woman have changed so dramatically over this great period of time, the inherent challenge for men becomes clear.  How can a man ever accomplish satisfying such a great list, seeing that needs have evolved so much?  The key to success for men, is altered auditory skills.

Nowadays, men who have not yet managed to mate (consecutively) and start a family, have fallen prey to what’s commonly referred to as the “Acute – Hearing Obsessive Listening Epidemic”.

This is a condition where the unfortunate man afflicted with Acute – Hearing Obsessive Listening Epidemic…maybe we’ll call him “A-HOLE” for short, takes every word he hears from a woman’s mouth as exactly what she means.  A-Holes  tend to have a tough time reading between the lines.

For example, when a female who is in the infancy of a relationship tells an A-hole to “jump in the lake”, she will, a little while later, find her soon to be ex-boyfriend huddled in a corner, soaking wet and shivering, perhaps still wearing water-wings.  In point of fact, women often send a layered message.  They say this:

When they are really saying this:

As you can see, the subtle differences can make a huge difference as to what is being said. An A-hole doesn’t know the difference.  I know this because I am a recovering A-hole.  It’s kind of like being forced to live in a cardboard box your whole life;  a box with no light, that is smaller than you are, steals all the covers, has mood swings you swear could be followed on a calendar and at any given time will use tears to win an argument.  I didn’t say it was a simple box, it would be more like the kind of box habitat for humanity can use to build homes with.  Either way, once “out of the box”, an A-hole must learn how to think out of it.

A good place for an A-hole to start learning how to communicate with women in advanced form is adapting all conversation to the JERK quadrant of communication:

 In more depth, the JERK method goes something like this:

Justify your actions always.  As in, “Sweetheart, I was looking at that other woman’s breasts because I can’t help but think how difficult those would be to latch onto for a newborn.  I mean, I can’t help but feel sympathy for a woman who is undoubtedly plagued with constant back problems.”

Entertain her when you’ve really gone off the rails.  I’m a big fan of the false-story redirection.  An example would be when you haven’t taken out the garbage, ask your girlfriend/wife if her sibling asked for money.  Then completely drop the subject and refuse to elaborate.  I also like the “did somebody hit your car?” redirect.  Make sure to use this one after dusk, when it would be virtually impossible to verify any damage.  This may not seem much like entertainment, though in my experience women don’t drop their panties for a guy who tries to juggle when they want to talk to you about shirking responsibilities.  Women will forgive a clever scoundrel countless times and a fool not even once.

Reject anything your female counterpart expresses on the first attempt.  This is basic negotiation.  Never accept a first offer.  Some women may balk at this.  These are the women whose husbands and boyfriends always accept first offerings.  This gives an artificially inflated sense of intelligence and culture.  It may seem novel for the woman at first; though guys, you’re not doing your lady any favours longterm.  See what happens when she tries to use the same tactic at her book club.  All I’m saying is she better make a pretty deadly fudge brownie and that still doesn’t guarantee she’ll get an invite back.

Keep Your Shirt On when your lady decides to tell you about her day.  Her WHOLE day.  The key to handling this level of one-sided communication is to train yourself to listen to her voice for about 3 seconds, at 30 second intervals.  This is just enough to stay under the radar and avoid being accused of not paying attention.  A good way to train for this is to watch C-Span, or perhaps the TeleLatino Network for a good hour once a week.  At the end of the hour, try and remember what was discussed.  Just a hint, if you fall asleep during C-Span, or start counting the pairs of breasts you’ve seen on TLN, you’ve failed the training exercise miserably.

In our current era, to be successful longterm with a woman, just remember.  Women will never put up with an A-Hole, though they are constantly living with JERKs.

To the female readers, I offer you this chart on how men see things:

As you can see, men also have a WIDE variety of topics running through their head, often it is difficult to keep track of such a myriad of topics in one’s mind.  Personally I find an hour of “meditation”, with the help of the internet, is the only way to keep my head clear.  One tool for women that I suggest, if they really want to get the attention of their male counterpart, is the “CLIT” method of communication:

Clothing, or lack thereof, has a huge impact on men.  Want the fence painted?  Want us to hear you say this?  Hint at the  chance of your “assets” potentially being put on display if the mission is accomplished. That fence will be painted so fast, you’ll be wondering when exactly your man became so adept with his hands…

Lips.  Men love them; though only when they are moving slowly and deliberately.  When they move really fast, it confuses us; like tenth grade math, or the fastener on the back of the first brassiere we ever encountered.  Exaggerate and elongate every word.  Move those lips like they’re in a slow motion film and we’re all yours.

Intent is the key.  If you want to have a conversation about your upcoming nuptials, that’s fine, just remember to use “flag words”.  Guys will talk about a wedding all day, provided you throw in interesting guy “lingo” once in awhile.  An example would be:  ”I love you in that Tux.  I bet Tom Brady or George St. Pierre couldn’t pull that off so well”.

Tease us with your words.  Throw a subliminal word in every fifty or so.  Something like:  ”…I can’t believe Sara would even say something like that.  I mean, I know Kristen can wear the wrong shoes with an outfit on occasion, still that’s no reason to call her fashion-blind.  That’s just fellatio cruel to speak of a friend that way…”.

If you can learn to use the CLIT to your advantage, a guy will be at your beck and call.  Who knows, maybe if you  help a man to understand how the CLIT works, it may even be beneficial to you.

Best of luck kids!

It doesn’t matter who you are, where you were born, or how your experiences differ from one another.  Unequivocally, we all have at least one memory from childhood that is burned into our memories, which instantly can bring some level of fear, if not  full-blown panic.

For me, it is this guy:

While I understand most of you may not think this “Clown” is very scary, indulge me while I “paint” my childhood experience.  Picture this: I have just turned six years old.  I’m all excited because Mom and Dad have let me know that I have graduated to the “Big Boy” room; where I get to sleep without my three year-old brother.  Alone.

Initially, there is huge bout of excitement with the oncoming novelty.  There are pictures of playing Star Wars in my head, making my room the Death Star.  I’m feeling full of gusto.  My Mom brings me into the room for the first time, just before bed.  She tucks me in, I believe also reading me a bedtime story, as any mother worth her salt would do.  As I settle in to nod off, Mom puts the book away.  From behind her head, who do I see looking down at me from the wall?  None other than the clown-faced killer.

He may not seem that menacing, though just look at it through the eyes of a six year-old who is without a night-light.  Look at “Eduardo” (as I now affectionately refer to him), he has the straw-like hair of a crazy person, the facial hair growth of a hobo and those eyes, oh, those eyes…I swear they would dart to and fro, laughing at me.  The worst part about it was, I happened to be the age where I didn’t want to make a fuss because I had just been promoted to the status of “Big Boy”.   I wasn’t going to give up that title without a fight.

For the most part, I figure I lucked out in the parents department, save this one choice.  Who in their right mind would put this up in their young son’s bedroom?  Let’s just say there was a marked increase in bed-wetting instances after that night.  I’ve tried to take the high road on this one but honestly Mom, this decision ranks up there with your choice to buy the family cross-country skis that one Christmas.  Used one time and never saw the light of day again.

After “Eduardo”,  there was my fourth grade music teacher, who can most aptly be described as a cross between these two images:

<—This And This —>

Nice lady, honestly.  I just made sure to sit up straight and her class and constantly be amongst friends, just in case she decided she was going to peel back her skin, exposing her alien self, before eating one of us.  ”Safety in numbers” doesn’t just refer to how an enemy will be defeated, it’s more talking about your increased chance of escape, due to the predator not knowing which target to focus on.  Let’s just say I sat beside the kid with asthma in Miss B’s class for good reason.

Thankfully, I have grown older, wiser and much braver.  I now hang “Eduardo” proudly in my bedroom, feeling comfortable with the fact that his lurking eyes have remained just that, plus he serves his purpose on Saturday mornings; when an overly-spry companion starts giving me “relationship material” eyes.  I make sure to “sleep” an extra hour after she wakes up.  Eduardo doesn’t exactly inspire a warm, fuzzy feeling.  I  also believe Miss B to be dead and gone, or at least to have teleported back to her home planet, taking a few tasty tots as “tapatizers”.

While I remain confident I can handle whatever life throws at me, there are only three things that scare me to the point of the “pant-leg trickle-trickle”.  Those things are:

Plus This:

Equals Couples Doing Things Like This:

Which in turn, inevitably leads to one of these:

Thankfully, I have been able to keep my wits about me to this point.  I’ve realized I have to keep my head on a swivel, or I’ll wind up being the proud owner of some creepy, “Remember When” photos and my very own, crying, pooping kidapillar.

If fortune does happen to deliver me such a knockout blow, I realize fully that the ride is over.  The little tyrants will consume my life completely with soccer practice, dance recitals and Saturday afternoons with Pixar’s latest offering.  While I will accept such a fate bravely, I have one last card to play.  I look forward to the day I will hang “Eduardo” in my child’s bedroom.

I read a disturbing article recently that said redheads could very likely be extinct within the next 100 years.  Extinct.  Gone.  Wiped off the face of the earth, never to return.  Like silent movies, or my current apartment’s damage deposit.  Redheads are going the way of the Dodo bird and we are just letting it happen.

Perhaps we need a little perspective:

For Gals – this would be like “Ladies Night” disappearing.  Imagine being forced to buy your own drinks the whole night, plus those of a member from the opposite sex, who you undoubtedly are going to strike out with, the way a guy does.  Bars would shut down, as women are far too fiscally responsible for such shenanigans.

We might well just start rioting right now.

For Guys – This would be like…really bad for us.  Emma Stone, Isla Fisher, Julianne Moore, Christina Hendricks.  For crying out loud, Emma Stone!

"With great colour, comes great responsibility."

My first real friend that was a redhead was my buddy Dennis.  He was a menace.  I’m not joking.  I danced the line of the law with Dennis from ages 10 to 12, taking me on spirited misadventures, all of which I shall remain silent about, save one.  He introduced me to “liberating” freshly tossed pornographic magazines from convenience store dumpsters.  To a twelve year-old boy, this is the rough equivalent to discovering a cure for blindness.  Or perhaps a cause for it, depending on who you talk to.  Oh Dennis, words cannot express my gratitude to you, for introducing me to:

Miss July 1986 – Lynne Austin

TURN-ONS:
Men’s buns, expensive cologne, green eyes, diamonds, kisses and … OK, Rob Lowe!!

FAVORITE MUSICIANS:                                            Bruce Springsteen, The Cars.

FAVORITE TV SHOWS:
“The Cosby Show,” “60 Minutes.”

FAVORITE FOODS:
Corn bread, fried okra, pinto beans, lasagna, cheese popcorn & light beer (together).

The Cosby Show, Bruce Springsteen, Lasagna…I was probably the only twelve year old that watched 60 minutes religiously.  I didn’t stand a chance.  I refer to those times affectionately as “The Lost Summers”.  Now, I know some of you purists might be saying she should have been a redhead.  Well, she’s not.  Get over it.  Dennis did and so did I…over and over again.

Moving on.

The “Gingers” are a funny group.  Not funny, like the “face” that the parts guy made at Audi, when I asked him if they offered some sort of a payment plan, after learning the cost of a  replacement headlight on my parent’s Audi A4.

"Pay cloze attention, Zis is vhere zee German otto mekaniks, shteal mein spirit, one Euro at a time"

Still for sale, by the way.  I mean funny, like the time my sister walked in on me, while I was “rounding third base” with one of her girlfriends.  Trust me, even at the time, it was a barrel of laughs.  Why, oh why, did you have to turn on the basement lights, Sis?  Still a memorable event.  And that is what my experiences are with redheads.  Whenever I’ve been around a copper-top, I’ve laughed, I’ve often felt worried for my life. I’ve always felt entertained; kind of like I was at Disneyland.  Or at least Six Flags.  Oh, by the way, my sister’s friend, the one who engaged in some “teenage exploration” with me…none other than a “Cherry-Top”.

In my humble experience, with such fantastic encounters under my belt, I put forth a modest proposal.  We start a “Save the Gingers” campaign.  Perhaps we have a global day-off, in their honor (Except maybe in Asia, where I’m pretty sure redheads are still considered demons of the highest order).

Just a heads up gingersnap, this is how they see you in China.

After all, what happens to every other endangered species?  We quarantine them and force them to mate until their numbers are respectable enough, so that they can once again be considered a reliable food source in a pinch.

I think we need to stop playing favourites.  Consider the Giant Panda.  I’m not saying the furry bastards aren’t worth saving, though I would love to see the Blobfish get even a shadow of the attention the Panda gets.

Pandas: A marketing department's wet-dream

Blobfish: "We're not Clownfish, but we grow on you."

            Versus

Hardly seems fair, does it?  No, I’m not saying that redheads are Blobfish.  Just that they often get the same amount of attention.  Meanwhile, the unworthy blondes (Pandas) soak up all the attention.  Besides, I always root for the underdog.  The pandas are cute and spoiled, which gets old fast.  Unless I’m dating you.  Apparently then, it can go on for years.  The Blobfish on the other hand, you just know has been stood up more than once.  The Blobfish has humility and an unexpected charm.  If it came to my door selling chocolate covered almonds…well I’d probably slam the door in it’s jello-like,  little face.  A few seconds later though, I’d feel really bad about it.  Such is how the redhead is treated and there is simply no excuse for it.  Unless they actually are vampires, which is a commonly held belief, at least in my neighbourhood.  In that case, never ever invite them in.

Potentially blood-draining risks aside, I think redheads deserve a second chance, a fair shake; we need to help them flourish.  Perhaps we should give all the redheads an island, kind of like a Club Med for the freckled and short-tempered.  It should be a place where they can have a chance to procreate like rabbits.  In fairness, we should probably ply them with alcohol; as redheads tend to be shy, until they get a bit of the “honesty juice” under their belts.  It would be a place where “fire crotch” is a used as a term of endearment.  A place where they can escape the sun, like the Ginger Ninjas they are, when it comes to UV rays.  Perhaps we should give them Ireland.  We can let Carrot-Top entertain every night (What that wouldn’t do for his self-esteem, along with hitting the gym), and they can have a national “Punch a Non-Ginger” day.

The new "unofficial bad-boy" for redheads. I mean, well done, though I still don't think I'd buy the workout video.

A few last things to consider:

Redheads going extinct would be like the Belgium or Ecuador disappearing from the world map forever.  It may not have a huge impact, though it would really screw up my strategy during a game of RISK.

Mmm...Belgian Chocolate. I know, right? Yeah, wouldn't exist because neither would Belgium.

Redheads make up approximately two percent of the world’s population.  Imagine the world as a 100-piece jigsaw puzzle.  Now imagine you are just about finished putting it together, only to realize you are missing the final two pieces.  How chapped would you be?

Having no redheads would mean we wouldn’t have any of those cute ginger girls, who are splattered with freckles.  That’s like having leopards without spots.  You know what a leopard without spots is?  A big, generic-looking predator that still wants to eat you.

Let's be honest, you probably wouldn't strike up a conversation if he didn't have spots.

There may be a time in the future where emerald eyes and matchstick coloured hair become integral to our survival and advancement as a species.  Go ahead and laugh, though there was a time where the kid with no physical abilities stood a chance either.  Then those physically hindered lads, who were forced indoors, came up with things like the world wide web.  Now those guys own Google and Facebook. They no longer live in their parent’s basement and eat only pizza pockets.  Okay, maybe they still do, though the point is, they could now afford to move out at any time and pay someone to heat pizza pockets for them (even flipping them part way through, so they wouldn’t still be frozen in the middle). Speaking of which, they should start a Google and Facebook strictly for redheads.

Future Mark Zuckerberg?

For the small price of a hug, or a nod of recognition, you can make the difference in a redhead’s life today.  Hug now, the gingers are standing by.

That is all.