It Can’t Be Easy

And by the title I mean being my friend. I’m a coarse, vulgar, sarcastic idiot who adds little to the friendship outside of being able to take a shot and the uncanny ability to lift heavy things.

So how difficult do you think it would be to be my girlfriend? My friends can leave, change their phone numbers and, in extreme cases, move. My friends don’t have to see me every day. My girlfriend? Not so lucky. She’s stuck with real life moments like this,

“I’m talking about something really important here but I don’t want you to give me a solution I just want to talk it out with you listening to each word as if the outcome of this random event could change the course of your existence.”

“Uh hu.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Wha? Yes, of course. You were talking about that thing about this person who has an allergy to gravel or is having her belly button excavated or something like that.”

“So you weren’t listening to me?”

“I was.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I think we both know it’s a little too late to put that puppy back in it’s mother’s womb.”

“What were you thinking of that was more important than my friend with the gravel allergy who is having her belly button filled in. Proving you don’t listen.”

“I was thinking how cool it would be for a cement filled tennis ball to be shot out of a tennis ball machine and kill someone.”

True statement. I just couldn’t go another day without envisioning that scene. But writing one scene is stupid so I had to write a shitty B-movie script around it and that’s how we have ‘Die Virgins Die‘.

That doesn’t sound too bad to you? Well, what about what happened just the other day. We’re leaving the house and, like every morning, I’m carrying a full, clear plastic bag. This morning we just so happened to run into our neighbor. He stops to say hi so I hide the plastic bag behind my leg. He sees this because he asked,

“What’s in the bag?”

Now I could have done the normal thing and said nothing and changed the subject. He would have been none the wiser. But I can’t do that. Pulling the bag out from behind my leg like the finale of a magic trick I held it up to his face and said,

“Cat poop. Want some?”

She was not happy with my choice for response. The neighbor? He carries around dog shit so who’s he to talk.

She has to not only put up with me sitting there in a roomful of people looking as if I’m engaged while I’m really thinking of greeting cards. She has to watch me take out a pad and pen and write down an idea while in the middle of a conversation. Plus I do this stupid thing that annoys her so. And no, it’s not breath. That pisses her off. Totally different.

We could be anywhere and a song will come on. When the song is over (because I’ve learned not to offer my ‘stupid ideas’ during the song) I say,

“You know, the original lyrics for that song were. . .” and then blurt out my new (and I think awesomely improved) lyrics.

The other night a jukebox was playing a song when I did it. I don’t mean to do it, it’s my evil head that’s doing it. I’m just a conduit. After the song I said,

“You know. . .” This is where she slumps her shoulders. That way I know I’m on the right path. “. . .the original lyrics to that song were. . .” this is where she rolls her eyes. How can you not go forth with reinforcement like that?

“I’m in the mood for gloves, simply because it’s freezing, funny but when it’s freezing, I’m in the mood for gloves.”

That’s not even a good example but it’s the only one I can remember right now. But, trust me, I do it all the time (my reworking of The Temptations ‘My Girl’ to ‘Maggots’ is not one of her favorites) and her response rarely changes,

“You are a goon.”

“I am not a goon. You are a goon.”

And then she hits me. Proving, once again, that she is the true definition of a goon.

Me? I’m just annoying.

Once we went to this thing where I didn’t know anyone. I don’t mind that. I can blend in and check out the scene. But this time I made up my mind when I was introduced to a guy it would go this,

“Hi, I’m Steve.”

“Me too!” And I’d shake his hand.

Six, seven ‘Me Too!’s’ into it I can tell word has got back to my girlfriend.

“Why are you doing that?”

“I don’t want to work at remembering anyone’s name.”

There, an honest exchange. Maddening, but honest.

And when she’ll ask the innocuous question of “What are you thinking?” She never gets the answers one would expect. The “How much I love you and this life we’ve built.” Or the “I was thinking that you’re right seven more cats wouldn’t be that annoying.”

No, from me a simple, “What are you thinking?” gets

“I’m thinking of a word that rhymes with vagina.”

See? Not easy at all. And you wonder why she’s not a fan of my work.

So I want to thank all of you for putting up with my behavior. I was going to say encouraging but that’s far from the truth. I know it’s not easy so I appreciate the effort and will try to make it worth your while to hang out with me from time to time.

Need me to lift anything heavy?

4 responses to “It Can’t Be Easy

  1. how about 10 more cats?

  2. Bwahahaha – I can write on your page and you can’t – nyah nyah!

  3. I recall my late mother being furious when she realized that my father had lied about the words to “Stars and Stripes Forever” – and that she had fallen for it completely. We kids still preferred his “original” version, though …
    Oh, the monkey wrapped his tail around the flagpole
    ‘Round the flagpole
    Yes, indeed.”

  4. It’s her fault she’s staying. She should know better by now.

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