Underpants On The Outside

Some of you probably know this by now, but Wonder Woman is pregnant. When we tell people, the reactions we get are fascinating. Wonder Woman’s friends think is this is the most specialest, wonderfulest thing of all time. They cry and hug and generally use lots of exclamation points. My friends, on the other hand, think this is hilarious. I don’t see why – I am perfectly capable of handling the next twenty to thirty years in calm and collected manner. See how calmly I typed that?  I’m going to be fine.

So what if my wife has the super-senses of Daredevil now? [smells self] Oh, crap.

According to all the books she’s reading on “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” (Cute title, but I would have gone with: You’re Screwed: What to Do, Now That You’ve Made a Baby) the hormones going through her body are heightening her senses, like she was bitten by a radioactive bloodhound, then a radioactive bat and then a radioactive eagle. It makes me feel just terrible for her. The sight of food residue on dishes makes her ill unless I wash them vigilantly. She needs me to take out the trash sometimes or she might throw up, even it’s only been a day or two and I can’t smell a thing. Even the noise of me eating peanuts while I watch TV irritates her so much that I need to leave the room.

Didn’t think I’d catch that, did you, woman?!? Well, you thought WRONG.

Of course, I can’t prove that Wonder Woman is using her “+1″ status as leverage. After all, she’s got tons of literature on her side saying that it’s impossible to predict what kinds of sensations will irritate a pregnant woman, but it’s nonetheless real. And if it just so happens that the things that tend to nauseate her are “whatever I’m eating, unless it’s cookies”, and that they tend to nauseate her between the hours of “whenever she wants to watch TV” and “whenever she wants a backrub,” well, the female body is a mystery…

Bullshit. You wouldn’t know it listening to the so-called “mainstream media”, but there’s plenty of literature that says pregnancy is, and I quote, “a walk in the park.” (Oberman, Zach. It’s Just Nine Months; What’s the Big Deal? Underpants on the Outside Publishing, 2011)

Who are all these “books” written by, anyway? CHICKS. Sure, they’re doctor chicks, but they were chicks before they were doctors, amirite? How do we know they’re telling the truth, fellas? It’s a chromosomal conspiracy, I tell you! What if they found out that blueballs wasn’t really excruciating and possibly fatal?!? What if this is their revenge? WHICH ONE OF YOU TOLD???

Sigh. I kid, of course. As excited as women get when we tell them the news, the first thing that every one of them asks is how Wonder Woman’s feeling. They also ask it in that tone of voice that suggests they expect the news to be bad – the tone of voice in which you’d ask someone, “Is the city going to make you pay for it?” That’s telling. The truth is that despite the last several paragraphs, we’ve been lucky so far. (I’d knock on wood, but I’m pretty sure it’d get picked up on sonar in the next room, and I’d insert a Hunt for Red October joke here, but that would imply my wife was a submarine.)

I’m certainly in no position to condemn someone for whining, either. To hear me tell it, I don’t get colds; I get semi-annual Black Plague. Every 2-3 weeks, Wonder Woman has to wax my ears, which has gotta be right up there with waterboarding. We live a half mile from a Target, and God forbid we buy both dishwashing AND laundry detergent, because the return trip becomes the Trail of Tears 2: Jewish Edition. I’m training for a marathon, and my three months of discomfort was enough that I felt I needed a separate blog to complain on.

I may kid her a little, but in all honesty, WW’s been a trooper so far, and I’m not just saying that because “you’d better, Mr. Ha-ha-funny-man-with-the-stupid-jokes-on-his-stupid-blog.” If my end of the bargain is a few inconveniences to help her be more comfortable, then between now and November I’ll just have to try to not blink so loudly.

A couple mornings ago I was drinking my coffee and trolling the interwebs for funny things, and I came across this wonderful little article: The 10 Best Mathematicians. Now, I know a bunch of you reading this are big ol’ geeks, so I recommend you get yourself over to this site and enjoy. Even for you non-nerds it’s plenty understandable, even when we get to the later numbers and things start getting weird.

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One of the following things is true:

Observations on the Physiological Response to Aerobic Exercise in a Caucasian Male over the Age of Thirty in Relation to Tubbiness

Abstract: We’re going to make a fat man run a bunch, and see if it kills him or makes him sexy.

A very dear friend of mine is now nine months AND ONE WEEK pregnant.  She’s gone on Facebook, asking people for suggestions for what she can do to pass the time while she waits on the kid.

Personally, I think she’s looking at this problem all wrong.  Why so passive? She’s the kids mother, for crying out loud!  It’s never too early to start teaching good manners, starting with: it’s rude to be late to an appointment.

So here are my top 6 8 things she can do about her (adorable I’m sure) little wombguest who, quite frankly, is starting to overstay his/her welcome.

1) Playskool’s “My First Eviction Notice.”

2) Invite friends over. Make it sound like there’s a totally awesome party going on just outside your vagina.

3) Put speakers against your belly and start playing Metallica. Psychological warfare.

4) Take a rolling pin. Start just below the breasts, and work your way down. (Be careful, obviously.  You don’t want to hurt the kiddo – you just want to let him know you’re not messing around.)

5) Smoke ‘em out.

6) Pacifier + fishing pole = baby.  For the line, I’d say a ten pound test oughta do ‘er.

7) Find something to do – something where the absolute most inconvenient thing that could happen during it would be to have a baby.  For instance: drive to Los Angeles.

8) Start baking cookies.  Stand near oven.  (True, this is similar to #2.  But everyone loves cookies.)

How ’bout it, Underpants readers?  Any more?

I’m currently sitting in hour 6 of a sales conference that can only be described as “riveting”.  Well, that would be the only way to describe it, on the condition that you knew no other words.

The speaker just asked “Who can tell me a use for cream cheese?”  About ten seconds too late, I turned to the guy next to me and whispered…

“That’s between me and my fuck-bagel.”

Thank you – I’ll be here all week! (Literally.  Yay sales conferences.)

Hi there,

I owe you an apology.  We haven’t known each other long – about three hours now.  In three more hours or so we’ll be touching down in San Francisco.  Are you from San Fran?  I’m guessing you are – you don’t seem to be wearing very much makeup.

Sorry, I’m rambling.  This is just a bit awkward for me, but… here goes.

I’m sorry that I smell so badly.  I don’t know what happened.  I put on deodorant this morning, but I get a little nervous when I fly.  I didn’t realize how bad things were, but when I reached over to get my drink from the stewardess – oops, flight attendant – I couldn’t help but catch a whiff of myself.  I am really glad I’m not sitting directly to my left!  Unfortunately, you are, and for that I am sorry.

Have I smelled this bad the whole time? I can’t help but think of all the things I’ve ordered so far from the stewarde-oops, there I go again.  (I just thought of a funny name for them: “altitude wenches.”  Oh c’mon, that’s funny.  Don’t get your flannel panties in a bunch.)  There was the water, then the tea, then that cheese platter, then the second round of tea.  Then she’s gotta come around again afterwards to pick up the trash, and then it’s all, second verse, same as the first.

I should also apologize for having to get up to go to the bathroom so much.  Was that The Time Traveler’s Wife you were watching?  It looked intense.  Why was Rachel MacAdams crying?  In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best time for me to get up, but it’s all this tea, y’know?  Speaking of which, I’m going to need you to wake up now…

Okay, I’m back now.  I was debating whether to mention this, but I thought about it a bunch in the bathroom and I decided I should come clean.  (Sorry I kept you waiting – I didn’t realize you had followed me.)  It should come as no surprise by now that yes, it’s me who’s been farting.  Did you know people can become lactose intolerant in their later years? I’m starting to think that’s happening to me.  Side note: the cheese platter is surprisingly delicious for airplane food.

I hope you can forgive me.  Please understand: much like Eric Bana’s character in The Time Traveler’s Wife (or at least what I could gather without the sound) my body does things that I don’t understand, am unable to control, and have a negative impact on the women around me.  (But don’t get any ideas – I’m married!) I just hope my bodily issues don’t cause me to get shot by hunters.

Oh yeah: sorry for watching over your shoulder so much.  That really seemed to annoy you, though I don’t see what the big deal was.  Was that girl at the end his daughter?

- The Guy in 7F

P.S.  Please forward this to the girls in 6F and 8F.

I’m a big fan of 24, though most of the time I’m just impressed by how much Jack Bauer manages to squeeze into a day. To illustrate, I compare each hour of Jack’s day to the corresponding hour in my own day. Enjoy.

Jack’s Day, 8-9pm:

Last night, I had an awesome “throwback” 24-viewing experience, as I had the pleasure of watching it in the company of Ex-Roommate Mary.  Ex-Roommate Mary was part of the group that first introduced me to 24, and I still enjoy watching it in that group environment. Wonder Woman doesn’t watch the show, and each week I keep forgetting how fine the line is between “really awesome Jack Bauer impression” and “You’re being an asshole.  Now untie me and put the kitchen knife back in the drawer.”  At least Ex-Roommate Mary understands my humor.

The only downside to this arrangement was that Ex-Roommate Mary hadn’t seen the first four episodes.  Hm.  I wonder where she could read really long but somewhat amusing recaps of those epis- OH WAIT I’M TALKING ABOUT THIS SITE.  Do you know what it feels like to try and describe four hours of 24?  I guarantee the writing staff of the show doesn’t.  It’s not pleasant.

On that note… ON WITH THE SHOW!

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Okay, here’s my question:

Say I were to show up at an ex-girlfriend’s house.  I interrupt whatever she’s doing, but it’s important, I say – I have a message for her that she really needs to hear.

I admit that our breakup was tough on me.  A lot of the things she said hurt me at the time.  But after a while, I started to see what she was talking about.  I WAS taking her for granted. I HAD become boring and stale.  And if I was really being honest with myself, I couldn’t blame her for wanting to see other guys.

But things were different now.  Because of her I’d changed a lot of things about my life – I was getting out more, trying new things.  I wasn’t a different person, but I was a better person than I had been.  And I wanted her back.

Would that work?  HELL NO.  So then why do I want to try that new Domino’s pizza so badly! Why?!?  What did they do that I didn’t?

Well, they didn’t cry, for one.  But that just means they don’t love me as much as I loved her.  My hypothetical ex-girlfriend, that is.

Or maybe I should have painted my dick with garlic butter.

I’m a big fan of 24, though most of the time I’m just impressed by how much Jack Bauer manages to squeeze into a day. To illustrate, I compare each hour of Jack’s day to the corresponding hour in my own day. Enjoy.

Today, Life handed me the following pop quiz:

You’re standing there with your dick in your hands, and you’ve just said the words “I guess this is our special place.”

A) Where are you?

B) Who are you talking to?

C) What are you responding to?

After the test, I looked at the answer sheet.  The acceptable answers were:

A)    Your bedroom.

B)     A girl or guy (your choice).

C)    Having just lost your/taken their virginity.

Or

A)    Anywhere with snow.  Or a desert island.

B)     No one.  Just you and your penis.

C)    Having just signed your name with urine.

My answer?

A)    A men’s room.

B)     A co-worker.

C)    The statement: “we sure seem to meet in here a lot.”

I’m hoping for partial credit.

[Ed note: Special thanks go out to my zipper, which showed incredible comedic timing in choosing JUST THAT MOMENT to get stuck. Thanks, outlet mall pants!]