As a guy, one of the toughest things to deal with is rejection. I know times they are a-changin', but for most of my dating life, I have been the one expected to ask out the girl. Sometimes I did and she accepted. Sometimes I asked and was rebuffed with great prejudice. And sometimes I never asked and spent the rest of my life up to and including this very day wondering what if...
Where was I? Oh yes. There is one thing tougher than being rejected by a girl, however. And that is being rejected by a guy.
If a girl rejects you, in a lot of cases you probably never have to see her again, or at the least can avoid her most of the time. But if a guy rejects you, it's likely one of your guy friends, and it can be awkward. Not as awkward as having your hands accidentally touch as you're riding down the road -- that's the single most awkward situation known to modern heterosexual man and must never be spoken of by either party as long as they both shall live -- but awkward, nonetheless.
I dealt with this very situation recently. The being rejected by a guy, not the incidental hand-touching. I called Wolfgang -- OK, texted, everyone knows we don't talk on the phone -- to see if he wanted to hang out one Friday night. For months, we'd (the Darryls and I) had a standing date every weekend. But things were different now. We hadn't been out in weeks since he acquired a significant other (another significant other, other than LJ). As I thought about all the good times we had, I waited nervously for his reply. Then piercing the stillness of the room with my sonar-like text alert, there it was:
"I already have plans for tonight."
OK, so it wasn't outright rejection. But it was still a declination. And still awkward.
Now, once the initial awkwardness subsides after the man-date rejection, you then have to decide when and if to ask this guy out again. And it's a difficult decision, because the only thing worse than being rejected by a guy is to be rejected a second time by that same guy. Am I right ladies?
If you ask a girl out two, three, ten times, you might be considered persistent. But if you ask a guy out more than two times without him accepting, just... don't... ever share that with anyone else.
Being rejected by a girl is also much easier in part, I think, because as guys we almost expect it sometimes. I know I do. I mean, the average guy is probably turned down, what, tens of times in his life, if not more?
Lastly, if you're turned down by a girl, well there are three billion others out there. But if you're turned down by a guy, well you only probably have a handful of guy friends, and at this point in my life anyway, I'm not really out there trying to meet any new guys. Should I be?
That is why I think guys generally just accept any man-date we are asked out on. We understand how difficult it is to ask someone else out, whether it be a girl or another guy. If we really don't want to do something with another guy, then we just won't answer the phone when he calls, thus avoiding having to say "no" and all of the awkwardness that would thereby ensue.
This is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it comes to man-dates. Maybe someday we'll look at some other topics of interest, including who pays, how long should you wait for your man-date to show up before leaving, and last but not least, man-shakes and fist bumps -- how soon is too soon?
"Tell me, why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?"
Showing posts with label man rules. Show all posts
Showing posts with label man rules. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, April 13, 2009
The floaty ball's connected to the...
I've been having an issue in the bathroom for several weeks now. And as you may have figured out from Male Restroom Etiquette and some of my other writings, I do not always adhere to the old adage, "What happens in the john stays in the john." So prepare yourselves.
Some time ago, I went to flush and--how shall I put this--it didn't go down. The whole swirling/draining mechanism came to a complete stop. Through trial and error, I found that if I held the handle down for approximately 4 to 7 seconds, the flush cycle would complete. And so, this is how I've been living for several months now--holding down the handle to ensure a full and proper flush. This went on for so long that whenever I used a toilet that flushed properly, it caught me off guard.
Then Friday, more trouble erupted. The water wouldn't stop running after a flush--a not uncommon problem in toilet circles. So I did what any normal person would do. I jiggled the handle. And waited.
It kept running.
So what do I do when something goes wrong around the house? Eventually, I call the property manager. But not before I have a look at the situation myself.
Do I consider myself a handyman? Let me put it this way: I do not. Not in the class of a Bob Vila, Al Borland, or Handyman Negri anyway.
But I am a man. Therefore I possess an unshakable, innate belief that I am equipped with the ability and know-how to fix any device, grill any meat, and find any place on Earth without asking for directions. And so, I took the lid off the back of the toilet and looked inside. Also known as, pretending to know what I'm doing.
You may think a toilet is nothing more than a base, a seat, a lid, a hole, a tank, and sparkling blue liquid that magically fills the bowl when you flush. But the inner workings of this magnificent invention are as intricate and complex as any simple lever or pulley machine.
As I opened the lid, I saw the familiar floaty ball, the chain, the bendy tube, and the stopper thingy. (These are all highly technical terms. No need to concern yourself with them at this point.) My keen eye noticed that one arm of the stopper thingy was broken. Aha!
Now what to do? I knew the property manager wouldn't come out for something like this until Monday. So it was either run up a $200 water bill, cut the water off and go to a public restroom anytime I had to go, or plunge my hands into the bacteria-infested waters and try to fix it myself. *shudder* Talk about a germophobic nightmare. I'd rather lick a shoe.
It wasn't an easy decision. But the Taco Bell bathroom really wasn't all that bad.
I'm kidding. I went to Wal-Mart and found a stopper thingy, which they call a flapper--layman's terms, I'm sure. Then I came home, got out one of the four or five tool sets Dad has given me for Christmases past, and entered the bathroom, which had just become my personal workshop.
Not surprisingly, or very surprisingly, I was able to affix the flapper to the crapper with fleeting aplomb and only nominal water spillage. I didn't even have to use any of my tools. Just some scissors.
And who knows, maybe in thirty or forty years, my hands will feel clean again.
"I washed my hands in muddy water. Washed my hands, but they didn't come clean..."
Some time ago, I went to flush and--how shall I put this--it didn't go down. The whole swirling/draining mechanism came to a complete stop. Through trial and error, I found that if I held the handle down for approximately 4 to 7 seconds, the flush cycle would complete. And so, this is how I've been living for several months now--holding down the handle to ensure a full and proper flush. This went on for so long that whenever I used a toilet that flushed properly, it caught me off guard.
Then Friday, more trouble erupted. The water wouldn't stop running after a flush--a not uncommon problem in toilet circles. So I did what any normal person would do. I jiggled the handle. And waited.
It kept running.
So what do I do when something goes wrong around the house? Eventually, I call the property manager. But not before I have a look at the situation myself.
Do I consider myself a handyman? Let me put it this way: I do not. Not in the class of a Bob Vila, Al Borland, or Handyman Negri anyway.
But I am a man. Therefore I possess an unshakable, innate belief that I am equipped with the ability and know-how to fix any device, grill any meat, and find any place on Earth without asking for directions. And so, I took the lid off the back of the toilet and looked inside. Also known as, pretending to know what I'm doing.
You may think a toilet is nothing more than a base, a seat, a lid, a hole, a tank, and sparkling blue liquid that magically fills the bowl when you flush. But the inner workings of this magnificent invention are as intricate and complex as any simple lever or pulley machine.
As I opened the lid, I saw the familiar floaty ball, the chain, the bendy tube, and the stopper thingy. (These are all highly technical terms. No need to concern yourself with them at this point.) My keen eye noticed that one arm of the stopper thingy was broken. Aha!
Now what to do? I knew the property manager wouldn't come out for something like this until Monday. So it was either run up a $200 water bill, cut the water off and go to a public restroom anytime I had to go, or plunge my hands into the bacteria-infested waters and try to fix it myself. *shudder* Talk about a germophobic nightmare. I'd rather lick a shoe.
It wasn't an easy decision. But the Taco Bell bathroom really wasn't all that bad.
I'm kidding. I went to Wal-Mart and found a stopper thingy, which they call a flapper--layman's terms, I'm sure. Then I came home, got out one of the four or five tool sets Dad has given me for Christmases past, and entered the bathroom, which had just become my personal workshop.
Not surprisingly, or very surprisingly, I was able to affix the flapper to the crapper with fleeting aplomb and only nominal water spillage. I didn't even have to use any of my tools. Just some scissors.
And who knows, maybe in thirty or forty years, my hands will feel clean again.
"I washed my hands in muddy water. Washed my hands, but they didn't come clean..."
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Grillmaster B
"And so, in honor of the laborer, we do hereby create Labor Day. It shall be a day of rest, upon which the laborer may eat, watch TV, and nap liberally and unashamedly." ~ An unknown 21st Century blogger
I hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day. My day began at the crack of 11:45 AM, with the first order of business being grill assembly. Well, actually the first order of the day was eating a toaster strudel, followed by the second order of the day, showering. But you get the idea.
Once I unpacked the grill and unfolded the instructions, I saw that there were no words, just pictures. Tiny diagrams filled with numbers, dotted lines, and arrows. It looked like a cross between a blueprint and a rebus.
Assaying the situation, I knew that what I had hoped to be a late lunch was most likely going to turn into supper. Or at the very least, lupper. It was an accurate assumption on my part.
The grill was completed around 2:00. It felt good to have assembled something and for once in my life not have any parts or pieces left over. I feel things like this prepare me for when I begin to replenish the Earth with my seed and have to assemble things like cribs, swingsets, and diapers.
Now that the grill was standing on four legs and did not appear as if it was going to fall, it was time to put on my proverbial chef's hat and begin my transformation to Grillmaster B (not to be confused with Grandmaster B, Thighmaster B, or Bed Wetter B).
Every man believes he has an innate and extraordinary talent for grilling, that within each of us lies an ability to achieve pyro-culinary greatness. And I am no different.
There seem to be fewer opportunities in this day and age for a man to find his inner caveman, but grilling is one of those. There is something inherently manly about cooking over an open fire. Something very primitive about providing food for the entire cave.
Standing there yesterday donning my khaki Gilligan hat, wielding a set of tongs in one hand and wearing a decorative pot holder on the other, I can honestly say that I've rarely felt more like a man.
For yesterday, I grilled.
Then I napped.
I am man. Hear me snore.
"And as I think back, makes me wonder how the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia..."
I hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day. My day began at the crack of 11:45 AM, with the first order of business being grill assembly. Well, actually the first order of the day was eating a toaster strudel, followed by the second order of the day, showering. But you get the idea.
Once I unpacked the grill and unfolded the instructions, I saw that there were no words, just pictures. Tiny diagrams filled with numbers, dotted lines, and arrows. It looked like a cross between a blueprint and a rebus.
Assaying the situation, I knew that what I had hoped to be a late lunch was most likely going to turn into supper. Or at the very least, lupper. It was an accurate assumption on my part.
The grill was completed around 2:00. It felt good to have assembled something and for once in my life not have any parts or pieces left over. I feel things like this prepare me for when I begin to replenish the Earth with my seed and have to assemble things like cribs, swingsets, and diapers.
Now that the grill was standing on four legs and did not appear as if it was going to fall, it was time to put on my proverbial chef's hat and begin my transformation to Grillmaster B (not to be confused with Grandmaster B, Thighmaster B, or Bed Wetter B).
Every man believes he has an innate and extraordinary talent for grilling, that within each of us lies an ability to achieve pyro-culinary greatness. And I am no different.
There seem to be fewer opportunities in this day and age for a man to find his inner caveman, but grilling is one of those. There is something inherently manly about cooking over an open fire. Something very primitive about providing food for the entire cave.
Standing there yesterday donning my khaki Gilligan hat, wielding a set of tongs in one hand and wearing a decorative pot holder on the other, I can honestly say that I've rarely felt more like a man.
For yesterday, I grilled.
Then I napped.
I am man. Hear me snore.
"And as I think back, makes me wonder how the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia..."
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Primary colors
A few weeks ago, I was in a restaurant with several people. In the course of the evening, two of my guy friends, whom we'll refer to as Friend A and Friend B, shared this exchange:
Friend A: "Hey, Friend B, don't we know that girl over there in the blue?"
Friend B: "What girl? You mean the one in the turquoise top?"
At this point, I am convinced time did indeed stand still for two to three seconds. When the rotation of the Earth resumed, Friend A and I gave Friend B a confused look, then looked at each other with a did-he-really-just-say-turquoise look.
No man, unless he aspires to be an interior designer, hairdresser, or personal assistant, should ever use any color other than those in the original Crayola 8 pack to describe an article of clothing. It's just... wrong.
As a matter of fact, I propose we make that a rule. A man rule. Some allowance will be made for the colors tan and gray, and of course, camouflage. Also, one may insert the words "light" or "dark" preceding said accepted colors, without facing repercussions or further questions.
To recap. It's blue, purple, and white. Not turquoise, lavendar, and eggshell. On this issue, there can be no further debate. Now, let's look at a couple of other man rule proposals...
I was at a football game last year with another guy friend. During a break in the action, when he should have been watching the cheerleaders, he nudged me and said, "Nice kicks." I looked over and he was looking down at my shoes.
Man rule proposal #2: No man should ever compliment another man's attire. Especially another man's shoes. Especially using the phrase "nice kicks." And most especially, in public.
If one feels compelled to be complimentary of a fellow Y-chromosomer's attire, one should save such remarks until they can be uttered in private. Perhaps in the car or something. Although even then, this blogger doesn't see how that could be anything but an awkward moment:
"Well, Ed, you wanna get something to eat?"
"Sure, Jimbo. By the way, I meant to ask you earlier. Is that a new shirt?"
"Uhhhh... yeah?"
"I thought so! Excellent choice. That cut is fantastic. It doesn't just hang there. And the color! The aquamarine tint with contrasting midnight stripes flatters your figure while bringing out the blue in your eyes."
See?
For our final example, I am reminded of a story concerning yet another guy friend. Several years ago, this particular friend had a flat tire. And despite having a spare and a jack on hand, he had to call someone to come get him because he had no idea how to change a tire.
I am not overly proud of the fact that I do indeed have a couple of guy friends who I'm not sure know the difference between a plug wire and a heater hose.
Proposed man rule #3: If something is wrong with your car or hers, at least pretend you know a little something about it. Go out and pop the hood, poke around, unscrew some caps, get your hands dirty. And for the love of Pete, learn to change a flat.
Be looking for my new Oxygen series, Armchair Quarterback For The Queer Guy.
OK, that's all for today. I gotta get ready to watch General Hospital.
"So don't be afraid to let them show. Your true colors, true colors, are beautiful,
like a rainbow..."
Friend A: "Hey, Friend B, don't we know that girl over there in the blue?"
Friend B: "What girl? You mean the one in the turquoise top?"
At this point, I am convinced time did indeed stand still for two to three seconds. When the rotation of the Earth resumed, Friend A and I gave Friend B a confused look, then looked at each other with a did-he-really-just-say-turquoise look.
No man, unless he aspires to be an interior designer, hairdresser, or personal assistant, should ever use any color other than those in the original Crayola 8 pack to describe an article of clothing. It's just... wrong.
As a matter of fact, I propose we make that a rule. A man rule. Some allowance will be made for the colors tan and gray, and of course, camouflage. Also, one may insert the words "light" or "dark" preceding said accepted colors, without facing repercussions or further questions.
To recap. It's blue, purple, and white. Not turquoise, lavendar, and eggshell. On this issue, there can be no further debate. Now, let's look at a couple of other man rule proposals...
I was at a football game last year with another guy friend. During a break in the action, when he should have been watching the cheerleaders, he nudged me and said, "Nice kicks." I looked over and he was looking down at my shoes.
Man rule proposal #2: No man should ever compliment another man's attire. Especially another man's shoes. Especially using the phrase "nice kicks." And most especially, in public.
If one feels compelled to be complimentary of a fellow Y-chromosomer's attire, one should save such remarks until they can be uttered in private. Perhaps in the car or something. Although even then, this blogger doesn't see how that could be anything but an awkward moment:
"Well, Ed, you wanna get something to eat?"
"Sure, Jimbo. By the way, I meant to ask you earlier. Is that a new shirt?"
"Uhhhh... yeah?"
"I thought so! Excellent choice. That cut is fantastic. It doesn't just hang there. And the color! The aquamarine tint with contrasting midnight stripes flatters your figure while bringing out the blue in your eyes."
See?
For our final example, I am reminded of a story concerning yet another guy friend. Several years ago, this particular friend had a flat tire. And despite having a spare and a jack on hand, he had to call someone to come get him because he had no idea how to change a tire.
I am not overly proud of the fact that I do indeed have a couple of guy friends who I'm not sure know the difference between a plug wire and a heater hose.
Proposed man rule #3: If something is wrong with your car or hers, at least pretend you know a little something about it. Go out and pop the hood, poke around, unscrew some caps, get your hands dirty. And for the love of Pete, learn to change a flat.
Be looking for my new Oxygen series, Armchair Quarterback For The Queer Guy.
OK, that's all for today. I gotta get ready to watch General Hospital.
"So don't be afraid to let them show. Your true colors, true colors, are beautiful,
like a rainbow..."
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