Archive for July, 2013

Swirling (Big ‘Uns @ 2 O’Clock!)


I noted with quick satisfaction the arched left eyebrow of my daughter, and the clasped fingers of my wife. I knew them both like the palm of my hand; they were waiting to see my reaction to this. Would I stutter, shake, or, even worse, lick my lips?

Fret not, dear friends; this tale is being told by a Smoove Operator, First Class. One of the first things you learn in Smoove 101 is how to handle the Presence of Nubile Females in the Presence of Your Significant Other.

Rule: 1—Look Em’ In the Eye.

Rule: 2—Refer to Them as “Ma’am.”

In order to pass Smoove 101, you must master these two rules. Nothing, and I mean nothing is more distressing to a female than your inability to keep your eyes UP! I’m not sure why; seems like it would be an affirmation of the fact that she’s chosen a real man to converse with, but noooo, it’s not. One of those forever unsolvable mysteries, I suppose.

Anyhoo, I did. I looked that big-racked heifer in the eye, and said quizzically, “Ma’am?”

Well, my daughter relaxed a bit at that, her being a bit inexperienced and all, but you know my wife didn’t move a muscle. Not that I expected her to; I’ll give her props for that.

“Is that ersters you eatin’?” she repeated.

I merely nodded, and said, “Yes, Ma’am.” Rule #2 is there for a reason. Gives you the opportunity to let her know you’re not flirting, and gives you time to see where they’re coming from, if you get my drift.

“Is that true what they say about ersters?” she asked.

“Phhhht,” my wife said. I looked at her. She was asking for it, that’s for sure. But now wasn’t the time or the place. Besides, when we would discuss this later, I had to make certain that I held the high cards. Rookies, when you’re in this kind of situation, where a good-looking female is asking you questions in the presence of your Significant Other, you have two options…

One—Defer To Mate.

Response # 81B, Honey, What Do You Think? serves 2 purposes, namely, it takes you out of the conversation, and causes your mate to participate in her favorite activity, talking. Never forget Man Rule #2—Women Love To Talk. Remember, you can’t get in trouble for something she said. Well, yes, you can, but that’s another story.

Two—Shift to Lecture Mode.

This one is a bit tricky, and should not be attempted with any subject matter that can be construed as flirty or a double entendre, because guess what? You will be accused of being flirty, and every word will be taken as having a double meaning, and there is nothing you can say or do that will convince her otherwise. AND….This conversation will be played back to her girlfriends/mother/female relatives/etc/ad infinitum/ad nauseum, for the rest of your life. “This conversation” includes every facial expression, every lifted eyebrow, every pursed lip, every smile….

You get the idea.

So, what did I do?

I probably would have Deferred To Mate, but those two “Phhhhts” let me know that she would have said, “You know I don’t eat them, I really don’t know. You have to ask him,” causing me to squirt the hot sauce on her blouse, and the resulting, uh, conflict would not be good, not at all. You learn these things as you go.

So, I was stuck with Lecture Mode, which really wasn’t too difficult, just remember the basic rules: Eye-to-eye, begin every sentence with “Ma’am”, keep the sentences short. No smiling; an annoyed frown is the Default Expression. She’s not a pleasant interruption, she’s a bother to be quickly disposed of. Better rude than crude, got it?

Easy, right?


to be continued…..


Swirling! (Women Are All Alike)

I looked at White Guy, to see how he handled S.S.S.’s request for wine, oh, wait, I’m sorry, cold wine. Would he order it by the glass, or would he order a bottle, with a side of ice? More importantly, did he understand the ramifications of S.S.S. being served alcohol? I slurrrped another oyster, while Wife/Daughter munched their shrimp and pretended not to notice the swirling going on around them.

“Waiter,” W.G. said, holding up a finger and ordering while S.S.S. beamed. She did a lot of that. Beaming, I mean. I hoped she wasn’t one of those who enjoyed swirling just for the idea of having a Trophy From Another Race.

I was considering becoming annoyed with her, just on General Principle, but then she threw a move on W.G. that let me know she considered herself to be The Trophy. She shivered slightly, and said, “It’s a bit cool in here, don’t you think?” and hugged her…um…er…self (yeah, that’s it, her self!), effectively hiding all of God’s blessings from W.G….


Subtly suggesting that the Glory of God could possibly be revealed, if…


He would sacrifice his jacket and hand it to her, no, drape it around her shoulders, making sure that Super Soul Sister was warm and comfortable for the duration of the SwirlDate. Would White Guy concede Super Soul Sister’s inherent Trophiness?

Would he???

Be not silly; White Guy almost broke his ankles sprinting over to Super Soul Sister; a moment later, his Ralph Lauren jacket nestled snugly against the puppies. Most of the men in the room envied ol’ Ralph.

Not me.

I said, not me. (Prove otherwise, or shush!!!)

“Humph!” Both of them, nearly simultaneously, but there was a sliiightly different tone to each of their individual grunts. My daughter’s had a slightly wistful note; I’d have to deal with that later. My wife…..hmmmmm…..I’m not sure. Regret? I looked at her; she sat pat with Expression #5—Neutral Boredom.

Like I said, hmmmmm…..

But, no time for all of that right now; White Guy was sprinting again…..

What now?

He really, really needed to spend more time in Smoove Operator class; all that sprinting leaves women, especially Black women, with the wrong idea about getting their needs fulfilled by men. Like, it’s actually possible for a man, especially a White man, to do.

Chile, please!

“That fool done went to the restroom,” my wife said.

That explained it. Cramping, while expected/accepted in women, is never, I repeat, never, tolerated by men; we must relieve it ASAP, especially in the presence of a female we have designs on. Add to the fact that this was his first journey into The Jungle…


What now?!?

I meant The Jungle of Interracial Romance in general, not….

You people have issues!

And I’m not a therapist. Well, I am, but I’m not charging you therapist prices.

Hmmmm…..I should write a new book! Therapy For Wounded Black Women…now there’s a market just ripe for the picking!

Hey, I’m merely relating a story. Just keep reading, and stop it with all the sensitivity!

Does everything have to hurt your feelings???

That’s part of your problem, you know. You desire conversation, but you shun honesty; you seek intimacy, but you want it on your own terms. Men are afraid to show their true feelings with women who penalize them for the effort….but that’s another blog at another time.


You’re saying that the use of the term “Jungle” is not an appropriate word to describe swirling?


(So, I suppose that the world of interracial dating is not fraught with seen and unseen dangers, emotional turmoil, filled with misunderstandings, ignorant stereotyping, old societal taboos, etc, etc??? Sounds like a jungle to me.)

Let me finish my story, and leave you to your tea and crumpets. Where was I?

Oh, yes, White Guy was sprinting to the restroom, using a gait I instantly recognized as Official Guy Reaction #2, I Got A Good Look At ‘Em, Now I Need To Adjust My Slacks. He’d be MIA for about 15 minutes, give or take a few. Depends on how long it was since the last time he’d seen some.

(Guys reading this are nodding their heads. We’ve all been there.)

“Why is he walking like that?” my daughter asked.

“He has to relieve himself, baby,” I gently answered.

“Phhhtttt,” my wife muttered. She wiped her lips with her napkin, and went back to Expression #5. Yes, we definitely needed to talk later.

“Excruse me,” a voice said, “is that ersters you eatin’?” I turned, and found myself face-to-face with Estrogen Valley. While I was watching the rapidly vanishing figure of White Guy, Super Soul Sister had gotten out of her chair and came over to where I was sitting, strategically (I suppose) parking them big ‘uns riiiight where I could see ‘em……

(Guys: Never mind how they looked. Go read your Bible, you heathens!)

(Black Women: No, I did not have to go to the restroom!)

(White Women: “Ersters” are referring to one of several Ebonic pronunciations of “oysters,” including “icesters,” “oisters,” and, of course, the more common, “What the hell is that nasty-lookin’ stuff? You been datin’ White wimmens ag’in?”)


…to be continued…

Interracial Dating–Keeping Female In Check!

“Rats!” I thought, inwardly grimacing. I had forgotten Man Rule #17c—Never Refute Female Criticism of Another Female. A Rookie Husband might have had to fall on his sword, but, of course, not moi.  In my book, Keeping the Females Who Infest Your House In Check, page 53 clearly states:

…in cases when Man inadvertently refutes Female criticism of another Female, crisis can easily be prevented by evoking in the Female the basic instinct of Curiosity. Remember, “Curiosity killed the Cat…”

Expression # 92—I Had More To Say is a must here. The key is to not allow your face to fall into Expression # 2—Guilt.

Females, especially Wives, jump on Guilt like a lion on a limping wildebeest. Expression # 92, however, evokes the Sniffing Response, “What Else Was He Going To Say?”

A caveat here: Never hold Expression # 92 for longer than 5 seconds, or the Sniffing Response will turn into He’s Full of Crap. Count to three, then segue smoothly into # 9—Whatever.

# 9 is powerful, trust me. Be prepared for a snarled “What???”

The Smoove Operator has mastered the Art of the Quick Shift; in this case, # 9 to # 103—Oh? You’re Listening Now?—Quick Shift to # 40—Let Me Lower My Voice, I Don’t Want Them To Hear What I’m About To Say.

The Quick Shift must be practiced every day, preferably while she’s watching The Lifetime Channel. Believe it or not, those soapy tear-jerkers provide for plenty of opportunities for changing facial expression quickly.

The Movie of the Month: My Husband Winks At Our Babysitter: What Does That Mean? is great for training. (Don’t worry, you haven’t missed it. It’s going to come on 5 times this week, at least.)

I noted with satisfaction that both Females had entered into Estrogen Cycle One—“What Is It?” Other than making sure I said something significant that hadn’t occurred to either of them, I was in good shape. They say you can’t herd cats; I say you don’t have to, they do a pretty good job of it all by themselves…..

“Huh?” I said, “Oh, yeah, don’t be so quick to judge. You know this is her first time…” I slurrrrped an oyster, “with a White man. “You know how that is.”

You see, they had been so busy processing the idea that a Swirl Event was taking place less than ten feet away, plus the fact that S.S.S. had decided to let the puppies out for fresh air, that they forgot the idea that they were witnesses to a Woman’s First Time.

Guys, it really doesn’t matter what the first time is. To Females, any First Time is a noteworthy event, to be processed and discussed with each other, as well as every friend possible ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Two cell phones would be getting a workout tonight, trust me.

To paraphrase Betty Wright’s old 70’s R & B hit:

“Tonight is the night…that you…make me a Swirler…”

Oh, I forgot. That song was before your time. Here, click this:

Interracial Dating, Continued…


Most of you Rookie Husbands would have either:

1—Said something stupid, like, “I dunno,” confirming to your daughter the concept of Don’t Ask Daddy Anything of Importance About a Man, Ask a Girlfriend/Aunt/Girl Cousin/or Even Mother, Just as Long as It’s Not Anybody Who Is  Actually a Man, Because Men Are Such Idiots!

You get the idea.


Reaffirming the idea to your wife the idea of He’s Lying, He Knows Fully Dang Well He’d Be Hypnotized By Those Big Breasts, So Why Isn’t He Looking At MY Breasts? Are They Too Small? My Breasts Are Too Small? It’s My Mother’s Fault, Because She Had Small Breasts, So Why Is He Blaming ME For MY Small Breasts?  It’s Because Men Are Such Idiots!

And, there you go.

Oh, wait, I almost forgot, there’s a #2:

Some of you would have tried to smoove your way out of it by saying something like, “I would gaze into her eyes, her breasts wouldn’t have distracted me…”


Do I really need to go into the machine-gun fire you would have gotten from both sides of the table?

Mistrust from your wife, disgust from your daughter.

NOT the way to go.

No, my friends, in situations like this, when an enemy mammary battery is pointed your way (try to say that fast 3 times), and two snipers are waiting for one false move, what do you do?

What DO You DO?


Sisters, you need to shush for a minute. Some of you people have been spending a little too much time tuning in to Dr. Phil, and you need help!

Enter Dr. Matlock, HNIC. For free, at that.

“Mmrrph,” I mumbled, wiping hot sauce/oyster juice off my chin.

“Quit stalling,” my wife said, “answer the question. What would you do?”

I looked at her. She was leaning forward, with Expression # 18—Whatever You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You. I made a brushing motion on my cheek, like there was something on her face that needed to be wiped off. Under normal conditions, she would have ignored that, but Super Soul Sister/Ow She’s A Brick Haawwse was at the next table, and that created waaay too much pressure. She dug in her purse, and pulled out her compact mirror; this was an emergency.

Having dispatched Sniper #2, I turned my attention to Sniper-in-Training. “Baby,” I said calmly, “I would tell her, with a smile, of course, that her cleavage is a beautiful distraction. Sometimes, a man’s best option is to take the bull by the horns.”

“Or, take the cow by the udder! Haaa!” She erupted with laughter; her mother joined her. “Take the cow by the udder!” she repeated; they both thought that was real funny. Took ‘em both about two or three minutes to get it out of their systems. I mentally rolled my eyes, but I hid behind Expression # 6B—Sheepish Grin, and let them have their fun. I was off the hook, and I had another wisecrack left in my evening’s quota. Life was good.

The waiter was walking toward the Swirl Table, with two glasses of wine. Now, I had to give White Guy his props—obvious first date with S.S.S., took her to a nice restaurant, ordered wine; nervousness notwithstanding, he had obviously gotten some quick Smoove Operator training from somebody; probably from Tyrone in Accounting.

(Jerome in the Mailroom would have steered him to the Rib Shack or Chick’n  In A Basket. You know how brothers can be sometimes.)

“Oohh, wine!” S.S.S exclaimed. “I hope it’s cold! Me, I likes my wine ice-cold!”

“Lord, have mercy,” my wife said, shaking her head.

“Dog-gone!” my daughter exclaimed. “I was getting ready to give Sister Girl some credit. Now she goes and says something crazy like that!”

“Now, don’t be so quick to judge,” I began, but two pairs of laser-like glares stopped me in my tracks.

What had I said now???

Interracial Dating, Part 2


Super Soul Sister sat, beaming with Expression # 52D—I Gots Me A White Man, while Skinny White Guy scurried around the table and found his chair.

My goodness. Front-row seating at a Swirl Event, although, technically speaking, (for you purists out there), a Reverse Swirl Event. Because normally, it’s Brudder Man With a White Woman.


Reverse Swirl Events are rare, thankfully. Sisters aint quite there yet. Too many jealous girlfriends out there for a curious Black woman to feel enough courage to try them a little White meat.  But when they get tired of Leroy Fresh Outta Jail trying to flip them over to do some freaky jailhouse sex and giving them some alphabets they don’t need, like Hep B, or AIDS, or Leroy Fresh Outta Jail trying to reclaim his manhood, by beating a Black woman’s azz, well then maybe, juuuuust maybe, they’ll give Jared Whitemeat some play.

But I aint holding my breath.

Back to blog:

You know how that is. Cuz walks in, looking around to see who’s paying attention, with Blondie walking behind him, Coach purse clutched tightly under her arm. She has to have that purse, because she’s the one paying for it. He holds her chair for her, while she smiles and thanks him. You know she’s smiling because she got Homeboy trained. Make you wanna holla, don’t it?

I sipped tea, and studied the two grim faces at my table, rather happy that I wasn’t the source of the grimness. But, I had to be careful here. Super Soul Sister had them big guns pointed dead at me, and I had to make sure I responded appropriately. In other words, no ogling, admiration, or any reference to their size, shape, or symmetry, the harmonious balance between……


Where was I?


Whaddya mean, “heading toward the abyss”?

Chile, please. I am a Smoove Operator, First Class; I’ve been in battlefield situations before. One Black chick with big ‘uns wasn’t no big deal, trust me. Besides, Skinny White Guy and His Black Date had me covered.

“Now you know she know better than that,” my daughter said, sotto voce.

“She knew better before she left her house,” my wife answered, voce equally sotto. “Look at her, sitting up there like Elsie the Frickin’ Cow.”

“Got milk?” I said with a straight face.

“Why, you thirsty?” my wife asked.

Hey, I like to live dangerously. I’m too old to skydive, and bungee-jumping aint my style, so a couple of well-placed wisecracks does it for me. I just had to be careful not to exceed my quota for the night.

The secret is, Rookie Husbands, is to change the subject, and let them bring it back up again. That way, you don’t get accused of obsessing, ‘cause they’re the ones that’s talking about it.

See? That’s the kind of helpful info you get in my books…

“Look at him,” my daughter said, “He don’t know which way to look! Left, right, up, down, everywhere but what he want to look at! Haa!” My wife giggled along with her; two schoolgirls sharing an adolescent secret. Then, my daughter looked at me. “Daddy?” she asked.

“What, my dear?” I asked, slurping down a fat oyster, dripping with hot sauce.

“If that were you, what would you do?” She asked it innocently enough, but there were enough land mines scattered there to blow up a platoon, trust me.

“Yes, Dad, what would you do?” my wife purred, but she didn’t fool me, not a bit. They both looked at me; my daughter with Expression # 18B—Advice-Seeking Seriousness, my wife with Expression # 33—Go For It With Yo’ Bad Self.

Cue “High Plains Drifter” flute music…

Interracial Dating (a.k.a. “Swirling”)

“Humph!” my wife said.

“Humph!” my daughter replied.

Whaaaaat? A double “Humph!”???

Hoo, boy.

An explanation is in order, I suppose. We were in a restaurant, enjoying two of our favorite activities: eating, and people-watching. Restaurants are a good place for that, you know. Nothing better than a medium-rare steak with all the trimmings, and an idiot three tables over who can’t hold his liquor, who insists that Elvis was the greatest singer of all time, and attempts to give the entire restaurant a rendition of the King’s Greatest Hits.

Let me be careful here. This story might end up in my sister’s blog. .

Check it out, if you like to read about “the world of interracial dating.”

Me? I’m “The Anti-Swirl.” I don’t play that schit.

White gal, stay in your double-wide, and leave the brothers alone!

Brothers, stop chasing them dirtyfoots, like they’re some kind of trophy! Plenty of fine, educated fun-to-be-with Black women to chose from!

Yes, there is one in every family, and I proudly hold the Anti-Swirl Banner, and I hold it high. (Rustle…rustle…flap!)


Somebody has to keep it real around here, and it might as well be moi.

Where was I?

Oh, yes, a “Double Humph,” the semi-rare occasion where my wife and my daughter agree on something, the “something” being dependent on who “Humphs!” first.

You rookie husband/fathers really need to read my book, What Every Man Needs to Know About the Females Who Infest His House, along with my companion book Keeping the Females Who Infest Your House In Check. For the low, low price of only $159.95, It’s a must-read for any husband/father.

Anyway, my wife had “humphed” first, so I knew there was Another Female involved, one who had an obvious physical defect, such as a tiny waistline or wide hips, or an onion that could make a grown man cry. But, my daughter had humphed almost simultaneously, so that had to mean that there was a fashion faux pas of some kind taking place as well.

Wow! Something good to go with my oysters on the half-shell! Along with the horseradish and green hot sauce, of course…


Whaddya mean, ewwww!?? What kind of readers I got in here, anyway?

Don’t look at me funny, just because I like raw oysters. There’s a name for people like you!

Anyway, I looked around, to see just who had caused such a ruckus at my table. Nothing much, just a tall, skinny White guy with a rather anxious expression on his face, walking real fast toward the tables behind us. But then, I saw her, and instantly, I understood…

Cue theme music, shift to slow motion…

“…she’s a ba-rrickk…hawwwssse! Yeah, she mighty-mi-taaay, just lettin’ it all hang out…”

Cut music, back to normal speed…

After all that, a description is in order. A Black woman had walked in behind the skinny White guy, and, uh, how should I say this?

Super Soul Sister here was…er…blessed.

Blessed and highly favored.


Highly favored….

About 44DD favored. You feel me? Yes, Lawd!

And she was not ashamed to let the world know how blessed she was, as a matter of fact, she was, as the song said, “lettin’ it all hang out.”

My goodness. A set of healthy twins. Or puppies.

Great Dane puppies.

St. Bernards.

Whatever. Call ‘em what you like, they was nice!

As she passed by, one of them puppies winked at me, but, with the “Humphs!” still ringing in my ear, and the icy Daddy-don’t-you-dare! look I was getting from my daughter, and the wink-back-I-dare-you! look coming from the ICBM missile launch silo to my immediate right, well, I figured it wasn’t a good idea to wink back.

I may be stupid, but I aint crazy.

I calmly sipped my herbal tea, and went to Expression # 92B—Puzzled Confusion, and said the word every husband should have ready in his arsenal, “What?”

I fully expected the standard “Don’t ‘what?’ me!” but not this time. Skinny White Guy saved the day by doing something nobody at our table, and, probably the restaurant, expected.

He held the chair for Super Soul Sister, and waited for her……

…to be continued….

A Few Thoughts, Continued

…Oh, it got him some lovin’ that night, but he forgot Man Law #22:

Women Talk To Other Women About Their Men.

So, of course, the next day, Dave’s wife was full to bursting about this significant and juicy bit of news, and couldn’t wait to jump on the telephone and talk about her husband’s lachrymal response to “My Boyfriend Is Stalking My Babysitter.” By noon, all of the wives in our circle had been notified, and therefore, bound by Federal law to discuss it in person.

“Nice steaks, Davie,” I said, cutting into a juicy, medium rare T-bone, “real tender.”

“Thanks, Matt,” he replied, “The secret’s in the rub.”

“It must be nice to have a man who doesn’t mind cooking at a moment’s notice,” my wife piped up. I gave her a look. That was gonna cost her next week, for sure.

Dave’s wife, Millicent, was beaming. “Yes, Dave is such a help. But what I love about him is the way he supports me emotionally.”

“Oh?” said Tim, a cross-country truck driver. “How so, Millicent?” He stuck his pinky finger out as he sipped his beer.

In case you didn’t know it, “Oh?” is like a trigger on a machine gun, as far as female conversation goes. When you pull it, be prepared for the outburst that’s sure to follow. Millicent was filled to the rim with information, feelings, and emotions about poor Dave’s recent behavior, and she had a ready audience waiting to hear all the intimate details.

Not the women, you ninny, the men!

It’s so easy to embarrass your husband, ladies. Just expose his secret to other men, and you will have created a red-faced man, filled with shame, who will be very reluctant to reveal anything to you, ever again, I promise you.

“He wept, and I shared my Kleenex with him,” Millicent was working on her third minute, telling us about Dave’s moist little moment. He tried to look proud, but he wasn’t fooling me none. It’s hard to sit there and be manly when your wife is telling other men how you sobbed during a chick flick…


“My goodness, that is so beautiful,” my wife said, her eyes getting misty. Then she frowned. “I can’t get this man here,” she said, jerking her thumb in my direction, “to sit and watch Lifetime with me. As soon as he sees that logo, he pulls out his laptop and buries his head in it.”

“That’s right,” I said, folding my arms in the default I Am A Man position. “I pulls my laptop out, until I can pull out something else.”

“And bury your head in something else,” chirped up Tim, the local Wal-Mart manager.

“There ya go,” I replied, leaning over to slap his hand.

“Humph,” my wife said, in a no-love-for-you-tonight tone.

That was okay. Sometimes you have to take a hit for the team. Besides, that last little crack of hers had re-established my manhood to the rest of the group, no small feat in itself. For the rest of the meal, I was Da Man!

When we got home, of course, my wife tried to get on me for it. “What was that all about?” she asked.

Time for another default Man Position, #16, Total Ignorance.

“What?” I responded.

“You know what,” she said, using the tried-and-true Female Tactic # 33, The Pick-and-Roll, “you know precisely what I’m talking about.”

The Pick-and-Roll is designed to make you pick something you feel guilty about, then roll with that, hence the name. The inherent trap in it is, if you pick the thing she actually was talking about, her response will be, “See? You knew what I was talking about, you were just playing crazy!” (Which, of course, is true, but that’s not the point.), and from that moment on, you’re on the defensive, a losing position 99.3% of the time.


If you pick another topic, all you’ve done is give her another point of attack:

“No, you know that aint what I was talking about, you tryin’ to play crazy, but, since you brought that up, yada yada yada…”

And there you go. The little housefly is trapped in a verbal web, helpless.

So what did I do?

Maintain #16: Total Ignorance:

“Well, I wish you’d tell me what’s in your mind, so we can discuss it.”

See how that works? It’s the only response to the Pick-and-Roll, make her bring it up, so you can play defense….


No, Rookie, I didn’t say be on the defensive, I said play defense!


You haven’t read Matlock’s Guide, have you?

No wonder you’re confused.

Read Chapter 3, A Good Defense Is A Great Offense, and learn the subtleties of verbal byplay with your wife. In a nutshell, being defensive gives her conversational control, being on defense gives you control!

Let me finish this part. I had used 3 key words, “tell me”, and “discuss.” Irresistible to the female ear, these words invite Ms. Estrogen to to do the thing she has been constructed to do: talk.

Note: You do know that the word “discuss” does not mean that you will be invited to actually participate in the conversation, don’t you? Your job will be to:

A–come to the sudden realization that she’s right, and

B–agree with her.

Just so you know.

“I’m talking about,” she answered, rolling her eyes, “that whole ‘until I can pull out something else’ crack you made, in front of people, too! Why you want to say some schit like that? Huh? Why? How you think that made me feel? How you think yada yada yada, blah blah blah…”

An interruption was necessary here, because if I didn’t, I would be the recipient of a woman’s most powerful weapon, Everything You Have Done Wrong For The Past Quarter Century.

Powerful and deadly, E.Y.H.D.W. is the kill shot used by women most often, and requires a quick reaction/counterstrike.

I stopped, and held her hand. “I wanted them all to know,” I said, looking deeply in her eyes, “how much I enjoy our love life. I may have not used the right words, but the feelings were there. If I embarrassed you by telling our friends how I feel, I’m sorry.”

Well, fellas, no need to tell you how that night ended, do I?

Of course not…

Like I said, I’m Da Man!