I feel your pain. Many times, it doesn't matter if you are right, it only matters if you were built with indoor plumbing. Women want an answer that gets to the emotion they are wanting you to invoke in them (and you). They don't want a voice of reason, intellect, insight, or truth. They want an affirmation of sorts, and they want you to be their girlfriend while you answer.
fuck that (unless there's a piece of ass in it)
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
them wimmin
Oh man, I need a cigar and a beer...now!
First off, I'm finishing this annual review form that must have been formulated by the consensus of a committee of folk who haven't a full set of cojones among them. These vague, nebulous questions that are kinda, sorta about my feelings about my job just don't quite butter my toast. Look, I like the coffee, the vacation, the pay and the bennies, now leave me alone without all of the psychobabble about how I am going to actualize my potential even while I take a dump on company time.
Of course, when you try and bullshit the bullshitter, you're gonna get what you asked for, so my little one page form has blossomed into a six page dissertation (with references from everybody from Aristotle to Zig Ziglar) about what really gets me hot about my job and what it might take to make me fill out a resignation. Look these shiny lightbulbs on the Christmas tree want a load, I'll give them a load. You guys know what I'm good for.
#2 issue
Nancy Drew-yep, she's in the theater and my wife wants to take my wannabe 'tween daughter and her little buddy as well as the buddy's mom to the movies tonight while their younger sisters play together with my niece babysitting.
So far, so good. I'm supposed to have little to no involvement with this scheme, right?
Nope.
I get this call and I can feel the beavergeddon oozing out of the receiver and dripping on my shoulder while I try to acknowledge that I am listening to this wee mess. They are all at the buddy's house with the sitter and buddy's little sister doesn't want the buddy to go to the movies and by extension, the buddy's mom and guess what, the sitter is on the clock and the wannabe tweenie is unhappy because this date isn't gonna be much fun if it is just her and mom. My wife wants me to be Solomon and pull an equitable solution out of some bodily orfice so that all of them will have a really nice, nice time this evening.
My first mistake was this little phrase,
"ok, so who's the Mommy here?"
With that I flunked the Mr. Sensitive test yet again.
My second strike across the plate was this,
"Well it sounds like it's girls night out for the mommies."
That also went over like a turd in a punch bowl.
So I reverted to the "yep, uh-huh and I see," strategy while much discussion was occurring on the other end and by time the soliloquy about "if this happened, then we could do that." was done, I was given a relieved "good-bye." I'm not sure what part I played in that solution, nor why the call was necessary in the first place.
On the other hand, I don't need to make a phone call to find out if it's ok for me to feel better after this.
Pass me a glass and the matches.
First off, I'm finishing this annual review form that must have been formulated by the consensus of a committee of folk who haven't a full set of cojones among them. These vague, nebulous questions that are kinda, sorta about my feelings about my job just don't quite butter my toast. Look, I like the coffee, the vacation, the pay and the bennies, now leave me alone without all of the psychobabble about how I am going to actualize my potential even while I take a dump on company time.
Of course, when you try and bullshit the bullshitter, you're gonna get what you asked for, so my little one page form has blossomed into a six page dissertation (with references from everybody from Aristotle to Zig Ziglar) about what really gets me hot about my job and what it might take to make me fill out a resignation. Look these shiny lightbulbs on the Christmas tree want a load, I'll give them a load. You guys know what I'm good for.
#2 issue
Nancy Drew-yep, she's in the theater and my wife wants to take my wannabe 'tween daughter and her little buddy as well as the buddy's mom to the movies tonight while their younger sisters play together with my niece babysitting.
So far, so good. I'm supposed to have little to no involvement with this scheme, right?
Nope.
I get this call and I can feel the beavergeddon oozing out of the receiver and dripping on my shoulder while I try to acknowledge that I am listening to this wee mess. They are all at the buddy's house with the sitter and buddy's little sister doesn't want the buddy to go to the movies and by extension, the buddy's mom and guess what, the sitter is on the clock and the wannabe tweenie is unhappy because this date isn't gonna be much fun if it is just her and mom. My wife wants me to be Solomon and pull an equitable solution out of some bodily orfice so that all of them will have a really nice, nice time this evening.
My first mistake was this little phrase,
"ok, so who's the Mommy here?"
With that I flunked the Mr. Sensitive test yet again.
My second strike across the plate was this,
"Well it sounds like it's girls night out for the mommies."
That also went over like a turd in a punch bowl.
So I reverted to the "yep, uh-huh and I see," strategy while much discussion was occurring on the other end and by time the soliloquy about "if this happened, then we could do that." was done, I was given a relieved "good-bye." I'm not sure what part I played in that solution, nor why the call was necessary in the first place.
On the other hand, I don't need to make a phone call to find out if it's ok for me to feel better after this.
Pass me a glass and the matches.
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