Friday at the Freakshow

I went to the mall last Friday. As usual some of the oddest creatures and sub-creatures on earth were there. It's unfortunate that there's not a camera or three installed in the mall at the hot spots. A well-placed camera could create a cable TV sensation.

As I strolled the main thoroughfare I was repeatedly accosted by almost every little booth operator, which is normal. One was selling fake "bling". Fake bling is just like real "bling", except that it's lighter and has less gold content than the average Toyota engine. Hugely grotesque articles of fake jewelry were on display. Necklaces made in the shape and size of a log chain with massive Mercedes emblems and whatnot as ornaments adorned the shelves. Seriously, if you're planning on decorating the White House Christmas tree, this is the place to shop. Next was the Cell Phone Emporium. This booth has anything and everything for your cell phone. Unfortunately, they're all Chinese knockoffs. Covers and cases of the lowest possible quality are in abundance here, as well as adolescent shopkeepers who talk more on their cell phones than sell items. It's hard to determine if this is because the items or the sales people are of such low quality. They get a lot of lookers, and a few people even buy an item or two. Chances are this is Darwin at work. The blind can't really see what they're buying, and the items are in plastic wrap which is just a little thicker than the items. Had the Darwinian blind people stopped at the Contacts and Eyeglasses booth first, the Chinese cell phone booth would no doubt go broke.

Another real hotspot is the Starbucks coffee shop. Let's face it; coffee is a winning item to sell. At Starbucks prices, you are virtually assured that only the rich shop there. There's nothing to steal, so you don't have to worry that people have dropped by your stall to get their Christmas shoplifting done early. This has to be a plus from a corporate standpoint. I fear that Starbucks has priced themselves out of the coffee market however. There is a practical limit to what you can charge for coffee, and Starbucks has exceeded that limit since it opened.

Several body-art pavilions dot the main drag through the mall and several of the side passages. Body art is something that I understand only on a basic level. I understand ladies' earrings. I understand tattoos; I even like them in moderation. Of course, if you look like the first place winner for the "most body area covered in tattoos" from Ripley's Believe it or Not Museum, you might have gone over the top. The same can be said for piercings.

Piercings are a little confusing to me. I'm not talking about the standard earrings here. I'm not even talking about a brow ring or small nose stud. These things are a little unusual, and if tastefully done can be attractive on the right person. I'm talking freak show quality piercings -- taken to the extreme, and usually beyond. This is the subject of today's blog.

I noticed a fairly young lady at one of the more goth looking hardcore piercing palaces towards the back of the mall. She had very clearly dyed jet black hair. When I say black, I mean black. Pitch black. So black it makes your eyes hurt. Black like 50 feet inside the event horizon of our Galaxy's black hole. The complete absence of light black. My favorite shade of black, as a matter of fact; so of course I took immediate notice.

She turned a bit and I got a better view... and the world stopped as I went from a glance to a full on stare.

She had a few piercings. Not the brow, or the little nose stud you see almost every day these days... oh, no. She had a torus ring through the middle of her nose, hanging down so far she could grab it with her teeth -- which is what she was doing when I began staring. Both eyebrows were littered with piercings of gradually increasing sizes. Right on the bridge of the nose, just below where the eyebrows meet on someone with a mono-brow, was another quite large torus ring.

A wide variety of earrings adorned her somewhat undersized ears, and I am uncertain if the intent was to distract you from their size, or to make them look bigger. The earlobes were reserved for a quite different piercing; I'm sure you know already where this is going. Quarter sized disks were jammed in those otherwise diminutive earlobes. The earlobes were stretched to the snapping point, and you could almost hear them screaming.

Her left breast had an enormous, bolt-sized piercing through the nipple. You might wonder how I know that. I assure you I don't have X-ray vision. However, her Metallica t-shirt, which was slashed from the arm pit to the band at the bottom of the shirt, left little to the imagination. In fact, you didn't just catch a peek at the goods due to that shirt, but the edge of the slashed area had gotten hung on the bolt or lug nut or whatever the hell it was jammed in her otherwise mosquito-bite-like breast. If the intent there was to distract one from the size of that breast, or to make it look larger, then it was a failed attempt.

Just about then either she felt me staring at her, or some inner sixth-sense alerted her to my presence...

She whirled around, looked me right in the eye, and said, "What are you staring at?"

To which I replied the only way I could:

"I don't know... I really don't know." Continue reading...

The Possessed TV

When I was growing up, I thought we were really, really poor. My father took me to school - when I didn't ride the bus - in the oldest, ugliest, beat up Ford pickup you ever saw. We ate beans almost every meal; which made long hours sitting in classrooms interesting. We heated with firewood, shopped for my school clothes at yard sales… you name it, if it reeked of poor, we did it - often twice.

The reality, I discovered years later, was that he was just tight. I mean super tight: He squeaked when he walked, you couldn't drag a needle out of his ass with a tractor… you know, cheap as a Dumpster sale. We owned a farm, with over 100 acres of bottomland planted in alfalfa plus hundreds of cows... but kids have no grasp of their family's income I suppose.



We used to have an old tube type color TV. I understand now that this was unusual in the 80’s. The TV was frequently out of whack. Usually the tubes were at fault and my father never bolted the back down. He just let it hang on the screws so he could remove it in a hurry. When the TV acted up he would "plink" the tubes with a fingernail and have me watch for a reaction on the screen to locate the "weak" one. This is how we kept that old TV going - him plinking, me watching - and this went on for years.

The newspaper came one day and in it was an AD from Consumers Market; stating that they were selling off all the old tube stock for 50-75% off. As tubes were getting somewhat scarce in the 80’s this was unusual. My father's heritage would not let him walk away from a deal like that.
He immediately ordered me to find a bag and he jerked the back off of the old TV. He began removing tubes by the hand full and tossed them in the bag. Bag of tubes in hand we proceeded to Consumer's market ready to buy every tube that would fit the TV.

He spent no less than an hour pouring over the tubes - most of which didn't fit - but still got a couple of complete sets of brand new tubes. Mission accomplished! He had procured enough tubes to ensure that this ancient TV would be running until the cows came home.

Dad was kind of lost in his own thoughts on the way home… probably counting the quarters that he had saved per tube. When we finally got there he grabbed his bag of old tubes and plopped down behind the TV. The old tubes were fine of course as they were working before. Time to put them back in.

If only it were that simple. Now remember, tubes plug into holes on the board inside the TV. A large metal box with holes in it and sockets for the tubes was bolted to the large wooden case. All of the wiring appeared to have been done by hand, and was real wires...few, if any printed circuits existed in that TV’s day.

What’s more, I functioned as the remote. Click… Click… Click… You've done nothing till you've been the remote for a channel surfer on a rotary select TV.

As he began rooting in the bag to get a hand full those little glass bulbs who's orange glow and warmth he had counted on to keep him entertained for like the last hundred years or so; it hit him. He had not noted where the tubes had been in the first place. Each tube was somewhat different and each had its own values - its own job - and no other tube could quite do the job like the tube that was made for it.

There were no numbers on that old metal box full of sockets except such enlightening figures as "V1" and "V2" which is the schematic designation for "valve" and the number is its position in the circuit.

Certainly with a schematic, less beer, and profound powers of concentration, one might be expected to reason it out and get the right tubes in the right holes. This, however, is not how it worked out.

He frantically searched the back of the TV. The back was a large pressed paper sheet with holes in it that served as a back cover. He scoured it for some kind of road map… or clue… or even divine intervention to step in and help him with his seemingly insurmountable task. Alas, the bit of print still adhering to this rigid ventilated sheet of hard paper was very nearly gone. It had been decaying for years in the heat of the baking tubes and crumbled to dust in the bottom of the TV.

Finally he came upon a revelation: Many of the tubes were of different size and as such couldn't possibly fit where other tubes went...and with that for encouragement he proceeded to plug in tubes wherever they would fit. It seemed as if there was no way to go wrong!

As it turns out, the shape of a tube and the number and spacing of its pins do not always determine what is appropriate for a given application. Or in English: Just because a tube physically fits in a socket does not make it the right tube. The minute he plugged in the TV and turned it on, things began to go wrong.

First was a low rumble, which may or may not have been coming from the speakers. It sounded like an underfed tiger who and been poked with a stick one time more than he was willing to tolerate. Then came the smoke. Piles of smoke. Great billowing clouds of smoke in fact. It defied belief that anything the size of that TV could create such a cloud. James Bond could have lost the entire Soviet army in that choking fog.

The rumbling became worse, and I swear the TV began to shake, or at least vibrate, as a picture fell off of it. Then just when you expect a large bang, instead we got flames. My father ran around to the back of the set and tossed his full glass of lemonade in it. This seemed to anger the TV gods even more because now we had sparks and miniature lightening bolts shooting out. We thought it could get no worse when thankfully - mercifully - the fuse blew.

Not the fuse in the TV, but instead the fuse in our breaker box. Unlike most houses of the time, we still had those old screw in fuses that look like a set of light bulb threads with a wire inside. Luckily this was one of the ones my father hadn't reinforced with a penny behind it. "Pennies are cheaper than fuses". He used to say.

The death of that fuse cast us into almost complete darkness - just he, and I and the possessed TV - all alone in the dark. Without electricity, its poltergeist activity soon waned. We began throwing open windows in our madhouse to try and do away with some of the smoke.

My father unplugged the demon TV, put a fresh penny behind the recently deceased fuse and restored light to the living room. The aftermath was shocking: The TV was dripping lemonade - brown lemonade now - and the fire had burned itself out. Thankfully the fire was contained only to the TV. The cord had melted right where it came out of the TV and probably resulted in the blown fuse.

The next morning we loaded the expired TV into the truck and disposed of it unceremoniously at the dump. As soon as that deed was finished, we headed for town. On the way I learned two new words when he began ranting about what a new TV cost. Thankfully it was only a two-hour drive.
Continue reading...

At the bottom of the cup

At my age, there are some things that are a given. Sleep becomes a luxury, and many of us become quite close to coffee. It's amazing really, how coffee and I started off.

I didn't initially like coffee; in fact, I hated it. I didn’t realize how much I liked it until I found myself going back for a cup. Eventually I came to love coffee without even realizing it. Actually, I did realize it the first time I had to do without it for more than a day. You might ask yourself why I love coffee. That’s a good question. Coffee never climbed a mountain with me. Coffee might have been there when I saw the pyramids, but it stayed in the room. Coffee never saved my life... well, wait, the jury is still out on that one...

Coffee has been right there, holding me up and helping me go on when I thought I couldn’t. It made me get out of bed when all I wanted to do was sleep -- gave me a reason to wake up, so to speak.

Unfortunately, I realize that I take coffee for granted. When something is around long enough, that sometimes happens. It becomes a part of you, like an arm or a leg. You just expect it to be there waiting for you. It always has been, and for some silly reason, you feel that it always will be. You give no thought to it at all.

Of course you never realize how much you need coffee... love coffee... can’t go without coffee... 'til you do without it for a while. Then it all becomes crystal clear. You can't really live without coffee. Sometimes that realization comes on slowly -- sneaks up on you or something. Sometimes it hits you all at once.

It's amazing the metaphors one finds in life.

That... and I just found out that I’m out of coffee.

Continue reading...

Domestic Violence: Don’t be a statistic

I’m taking a different turn with today’s blog that some might find uncomfortable. It’s a subject that many find uncomfortable, especially when it affects them or someone they love. Nevertheless, it cannot be ignored. As the biggest fan of women on the planet, it’s a subject that makes me physically ill. Today’s subject is domestic violence. Here are some statistics:

In 1998, there were an estimated 960,000 reported cases of violence against a girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, or wife.

An estimated three million -- yes, million -- women are abused by their husbands or boyfriends every year. This includes unreported cases.

Worldwide, at least one out of every three women has been abused, beaten, or forced to have sex by their spouse or significant other in their lifetime.

In America, we fare no better; 31% (close to the 33% average above) report the exact same thing.

All of that is bad enough, but read on...
Three or more women are murdered by their spouse or significant other each day on average in the US.

Women who are pregnant, or have recently become pregnant, are more likely to die by homicide than any other cause.

If you have a sister, friend, mother, or loved one who doesn’t fit into one of those categories, you should still keep your eyes open. Here are some things to watch for:

Spouse or significant other attempts to close off access to the victim. They really don’t want them out in the world, and definitely don’t want them talking to anyone about it. Restricted access also includes disconnecting the phone, watching the mailbox, or preventing any other way a victim could cry out for help.

Victim wears clothing that covers upper arms, chest, or neck to hide bruises, scratches, or other injuries.

Victim is “gun-shy”. In other words, if you raise your hand to brush a mosquito off your nose and she flinches for a blow she’s conditioned to know is coming, that’s a giveaway. This condition usually persists for the rest of the victim’s life, and contributes to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), a condition that domestic abuse victims face for life. PTSD causes flashbacks, repressed emotions, and other problems that only a psychiatrist can help with, and is rarely fully resolved.

Injuries that appear to be abuse, but the victim gives outlandish explanations for. “I fell down the steps... again.” Another you often hear is, “Oh, I bruise easily,” and perhaps they do. They bruise even more easily when they are used as a punching bag.

Husband or significant other has complete control of the finances to prevent victim from leaving. This happens more frequently than people realize; sometimes a child is involved, which makes things even harder. It’s hard enough to run away broke, and it’s almost impossible to do so with a child.

Victim acts completely differently when alone as opposed to when her spouse or significant other is around. This is usually due to fear.

Perpetrator sends his wife away when friends arrive, or leaves his wife behind when it’s obvious she would have liked to -- as opposed to couldn’t -- come along. Again, this is largely due to restricted access and injury-hiding motivations.

As a victim, or potential victim, there are early warning signs that for some reason go unnoticed completely, or are realized far too late for what they are. These include:

Jealousy: Husband or significant other is infuriated any time another man looks at his spouse or significant other, or if she has any unaccounted-for time. Also, he becomes insanely jealous over communications to people he doesn’t trust, such as email, text, phone or even notes. We're talking about insane, unreasonable jealousy here. Those who have experienced it know what I’m talking about; please do others the kindness of sharing your experience.

Domination: The husband or significant other controls every aspect of the victim’s life -- who you talk to, where you go, what you do... each and every thing. There’s a difference between “wearing the pants” in the family and domination. Once you’ve experienced it, the difference is obvious. Fear, intimidation, and emotional abuse are the abuser’s tools.

Using sex as a weapon: To most men, that doesn’t even sound possible. Sex is like the anti-weapon, right? Guess again. Women are frequently forced to do things against their will by abusive husbands, as yet another form of domination. There are also the “games”. Such winners as “if you really loved me you’d...” Repeatedly asking for sex, then getting angry and leaving, or throwing the wife or girlfriend out even if she submits. Sex is just another means of control to these people. Just because he’s being nice and forgiving for past abuse, does not mean he won’t revert to the exact same behavior the next chance he gets.

In fact, the most obvious sign that goes unnoticed by the victim almost every single time is the “cycle of violence”. The abuse gradually ramps up over weeks, months, or years. The aggressor is always sorry -- or so he says -- and he always seems to have turned over a new leaf... and he always does it again, only this time, a wee bit worse. The first time he shouts you down, emotionally abuses you, strikes, punches, shoves, or otherwise physically abuses you, you have one thing to look forward to. If you don’t leave, he’s going to do it again. Next time it’ll be a little worse, because he just got away with it this time. If you leave and eventually take him back, no matter how long after, it is a “win” for him. He now knows how much he can get away with, and next time he’s going to test that limit.

Alcohol and drug use: When you combine alcohol or drugs with jealousy, you have a mixture that can only end in an explosion. These two things alone are not just a warning flag, they’re a warning billboard. Stay at your own risk.

To the women:

I know it’s hard to talk about. It’s humiliating, embarrassing... you think it’s your problem, or worse that it’s your fault, or that you somehow brought it upon yourself. The reality is that there are no words in any language -- save for words that translate into “Hit me! Oh and if you get the chance, scream at me and make me feel worthless!” -- that could even be loosely considered “asking for it”. And even if asked, no man worth calling himself a man would act upon it.

It may be hard to talk about it, but it's necessary. I have yet to meet (and I have met several abused women) a woman in an abusive relationship that did not love her husband. That love can be a killer. They say love is blind; that doesn’t mean that it also turns a blind eye -- or a black one -- to the danger that you’re in. Turn to your friends. Turn to your family. Most importantly, turn to the police. Get that restraining order while your arm is unbroken and able to sign it, and whatever you do, for the love of God -- don’t drop the charges.

If you feel yourself weakening and wanting to go back, remember the time when things were at their worst. When he was wailing on you, or you were cowering in a corner in the fetal position to avoid a kick in the face. Recall your frame of mind when you signed that order or pressed charges. Nothing has changed except that time has passed, and you’ve convinced yourself that he didn’t mean it. You mistakenly believe that he’s better now, or that it’s somehow your fault.

The very best lies -- the ones that are the most believable -- are the ones we tell ourselves.

Don’t be a victim. Speak out. Next time it could be your daughter, your mother, your friend, or some other loved one. You’re going to have to be there for them. You can’t do that if you’re dead.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline number is: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). Write it down and put it in your wallet or purse; you never know when you will meet someone who may need it. These people will really help. They will give you a plan, help you escape, and help you stay safe until you can arrange something more permanent.

I would pray that no one would ever need any of this information. That would, of course, be impossible given the statistics. I pray that it finds its way to those who do need it, and that they find it before it's too late.

Thank you very much for your time, and please, everyone, consider what I’ve said.

[Statistics from the Family Violence Prevention Fund.]
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Spiders

Of all the creations that roam the earth, spiders are without a doubt the most foul. Sure they serve a purpose -- they fill a niche, so to speak. But let's face it; spiders are evil incarnate.

First, let us examine the preferred domicile of the spider. Out in the open? In broad daylight? Oh no, not at all. Think of the creepiest, darkest, scariest places around your home or garage. That’s where spiders roam. They hide in your underwear drawer. The hide in your shoes. They’re in the closet -- not in the middle of the floor like an honest bug, but where you least expect them. They wait to scurry up your pants leg. They hide where it’s hardest to search for them.
There is also their method of attack to consider. No face to face confrontation here. Spiders are the sneakiest stab-you-in-the-back bastards on earth. Rattle snakes rattle. Lions roar. Even a house cat will give you some warning that your last days are at hand. Not a spider, though. They wait until your back is turned. They hide until the lights go off. They know when you are sleeping. They move like a native through the jungle. They make no sound, give no quarter, and your first clue that they are around is just as they slip the daggers to you. Just as silently as they arrive, they leave.

Bees can only sting you once, and then only in self defense. They give their life to try to save their community. Spiders are solitary creatures. They answer to no one. They can bite you today, and return tomorrow to finish the job. Often, if they sense they have the advantage, they’ll let you have another bite or two, just for good measure. The bite of a spider is a wonderful gift that keeps on giving. You know that a spider has bitten you not only by the intense pain you initially feel, but also by the insatiable itch you get afterwards, followed up by that exact same pain again if you so much as touch the area. It’s a gift that just keeps on giving. With every brush, touch or bump of the area, instant gratification is realized by another throbbing, searing pain.

What’s worse, some spiders seem to defy time and space. Some can teleport themselves from one place to another faster than the eye can follow. They never seem to move their legs; they just lurch about in fits and starts -- first here and then there. They call these physics-defying spiders “jumping spiders” and the name does no justice to their means of locomotion. Next time you see one on your window, watch it closely. It’s as if they think of where they wish to be next, and then they’re there. Poof!

The foulest thing of all is that generally they don’t kill their prey all at once. Oh no, spiders like to take it nice and slow. Their first bite paralyzes their prey. Once neatly wrapped in a tight web (to prevent movement in case the first inoculation of venom was insufficient and also to preserve their prey’s moistness) they take days, even weeks, to enjoy their meal. Digestive juices in the venom slowly break down their meal. Then they can savor it slowly, while the hapless critter can do naught but be sucked down like a hamburger with a straw in it.

I bring all this up because earlier tonight, I had to abandon my recliner. A fearsome beast of a spider not much larger than a small house cat tried to pull a sneak attack on my unprotected big toe. I escaped with my life, but I refused to enter the living room again until I saw its crushed body. Of course I can’t be certain that it’s the same spider, as all spiders look a lot smaller when dead. This one for instance, seemed incredibly small after death compared to his awe-inspiring size when alive. Still, I tell myself that it’s the same spider.

The best lies -- the ones that are the most believable -- are the ones we tell ourselves.
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So you want to be Emo...

"Unbearable, isn't it? The suffering of strangers... the agony of friends. There is a secret song at the center of the world, and its sound is like razors through flesh."
- Pinhead, Hellrazer III.

Nothing says "Cry me a river of blood," like that line from the new horror classic, Hellrazer. Then again, very little says it better than razors through the proverbial flesh. It's amazing to me that the term Emo has been loosely tied to razor blade fans, rather than to the tear-jerking lyrics, songs, and fans of good old-fashioned Emo bands.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Goth, and Emo is like Goth on steroids that forgot to take its lithium. I can really get behind flesh-flaying. In fact, I can think of a few folks on the planet I'd like to slice into long, thin strips right now.

Perhaps it's the overly emotional bands? I mean they're all crying and stuff. Certainly it's possible that's where the confusion came from. A logical person might think that the reason for this is the thumbtacks in the lead singer's underwear. Perhaps he accidentally swallowed a razor blade he was licking. Heck, he could have even stubbed his ingrown toenail on a Fender amp as he got on stage. There are a seemingly endless number of possibilities.

It's not just the lyrics. Have you ever heard Evanescence's song, "My Immortal"? That'll make the Grinch cry. I'm pretty sure that band isn't considered Emo.

As for the fans... who knows -- or, in fact, cares -- what they do at home? No, it can't really be the fans that caused Emo to gain notoriety as the self-butchering fad it seems to have become today.

Perhaps some of them are secretly seeking a cheaper means of circumcision than is offered by the local 24 hour clinic? Surely, the blood, the obvious agony, and perhaps the peculiar gait of the affected person led folks to assume that he was into cutting himself. Conversion to a new faith can hurt.

It's also just possible that Goth people appear to be in pain (some of their outfits certainly look painful) and since Emo is just like a rabid version of Goth, they took the next illogical step; cut themselves to bring tears to an otherwise monotonous life of grief.

One never knows. It's clear however, that Pinhead is hardcore Emo. If only he could sing.
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Too Much Information: Lesson 2 (of 2)

In much the same way people tend to share too much about themselves, people also tend to comment on things best left alone. Below are examples of situations you might find yourself in, and the comments or actions you might take. Remember, points are awarded if you survive the answer in much the same condition as you were in prior to opening your mouth.

Example 1:

You enter the company restroom just as a co-worker shuts the door to a stall. You're sure you know him, as you know everyone. You didn't get a chance to see who it is. It could be anyone from the janitor to the General Manager. Just as you begin the business that brought you to the restroom, you hear an echoing rumble from the stall. The walls shake. Your eyes water. You mistakenly inhaled through your mouth, so now you taste it. Clearly the man in question did not get to the restroom a moment too soon. You open your mouth to speak and it starts again -- louder and more ominous -- and now includes splattering sounds. Yes, the janitor is going to have a bad day. Other co-workers escaped while they could and are now warning others. Unfortunately, you're trapped here, still handling the business at hand. There is no escape. Do you:

A: Scream triumphantly, "We have liftoff!" and pretend it was a shuttle launch.

B: Call over your shoulder, "Holy cow! Can we get a courtesy flush?"

C: Finish your business, walk up to the stall, and whisper, "Dude! You better look at that before you pull the handle. Oprah says if it looks like shrimp you're gonna die." Leave before he has a chance to ask you for your opinion.

Example 2:

You're at a party. There's a girl there whom you like, and she's not bad. She's also not America's Next Top Model. Still, you'd like to get to know her because she's very sweet. She's been drinking like a fish, and the inevitable happens. She grabs her mouth and runs for the door. You know she's going to be spewing like a Central Park fountain any second. You can see her clearly through the open door, as can everyone else. She stops at the top of the steps by a bush. You should:

A: Elbow the guy next to you, and as soon as you've called as much attention to her as possible, put a hand beside your mouth and call in your best Ahab nautical voice, "There she blows, mateys!" She wasn't that hot, and all your friends will be laughing about this for the next century.

B: Walk over to her, and as she's in the middle of the loudest retch, tell her that this is what happens when you drink too much on an empty stomach. Chide her for getting vomit on her dress, and suggest that next time, she should bring some sweats and a plastic bag so she will be prepared. Give her your number so if she has any questions she can call you, and politely exit. Go back and ask her out as an afterthought, just as she's wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

C: Run up to her and hold her while she turns her stomach inside out. Be kind and gentle. Don't mention the overspray she just got on your new shoes. Stay there for the duration. You know she drank too much but you've just scored a bit of info that you might need later -- she has a critical weakness to alcohol. Sure, she might not remember this, but her friends will and they will tell her about it. Ask her if she has a ride home, and give her your number. Never mention this unfortunate incident again unless she mentions it first. Let's face it -- you're no prize either, and you've just seen her at her worst.

Example 3:

You know there was a massive party last night. A normally cute co-worker walks by, and you notice she appears a little rumpled. In fact, she's a lot rumpled. She has bags under her eyes and bears a striking resemblance to Tommy Lasorda. She's moving pretty slowly, her shoulders are slumped; clearly, it was a party to remember. As you pass she looks up at you and tries to smile. Obviously, she wishes to engage you in a bit of small talk. What she does instead is start blurting out how her boyfriend left her for another girl last night. What's worse, she was living with him. Now she's crying, which doesn't help her looks or the situation. Do you:

A: Ask her who he left her for. It's good to be able to tell someone if they've been "traded in" on a better model. It might also be a good time to give her your number; because grief-stricken or not, crying or not, it's still warm and this is an opportunity that's impossible to pass up. Don't forget to call all of your friends; if you strike out, someone needs to step up and hit that before the opportunity is lost. Ask her over to your place to watch a movie.

B: Tell her you'd love to talk, but you just remembered (insert first thing you think of) something you need to do. You'd normally talk to her, but who wants to deal with a Debbie Downer? What a buzzkill. Besides, it's going to be weeks before you can make a move on that, and what's worse, you'll be picking up someone's leftovers if you do. Isn't that like eating off an abandoned table's plate in a restaurant? Avoid her for the rest of the day, possibly the week.

C: Shut up and hold her because if you don't, you may not be human, and are certainly not a man. In the whole world of people, she chose you to tell. That means something. You could no more resist this than you could resist a baby reaching to be picked up. Once she gets that initial wave out of her system, offer your number in case she wants to talk more. Check on her a couple of times today to be sure she's okay. Your debt for being born is partially paid.

Example 4:

Your friends have just showed up to watch the game. It was a spur of the moment thing that came up only a week before. Luckily, you had enough time to give your significant other an hour to prepare. Your friends' wives are elsewhere, but your girlfriend is there cooking wings and helping with sodas and snacks. You've noticed that she seems a little irritable, and you hear a loud clatter as she drops an entire pan of wings. Now she's crying, and you realize that the clues you had earlier today indicate that perhaps there's a very good reason she's a little off her game. You go and talk to her in the kitchen and your worst fears are realized. She's got PMS. Your best course of action is:

A: Enlighten your guests. Inform them of the problem, and try to do it in such a way that she hears it, too. That way she will know that they know. It's good to keep your friends informed, and as a side bonus, you can blame anything she does from now 'til the beer is gone on her. She won't mind; she already has PMS. What could possibly go wrong?

B: Call the game off. She's going to kill the mood anyway. Besides, she needs to mow the lawn, and if you forget the work she's put into your friends so far, she should have plenty of energy for that. Lawn mowing is a great stress reliever. Maybe she should rake some leaves too, God knows they need it, and she won't have anything better to do today.

C: It's too late to send everyone home, and that will make things far worse anyway. Go and help her any way you can, and promise not to forget the game until the day of the game next time. You might even suggest that you ask her before bringing over 40 friends to watch the game, cause God only knows... she might have something she'd like to do on the weekend. It might be a good idea to plan the next weekend with her instead of for her. If your friends ask, tell them her cat died. They don't know if she had a cat, and they can't be so stupid as to bring it up. Or at least you hope they can't.


Example 5:

You come home to find that your girlfriend is trying on a pair of jeans she hasn't worn for five years. Shockingly enough, they don't button and the zipper is halfway down. She suggests that they might have shrunk in the closet or when she washed them last. She asks you, "Have I gained weight?" You then:

A: Knowing that she's an intelligent, rational woman who values the truth, point out that we all gain weight as we age. Tell her that it's okay though, because while she might have gained weight in her rear, she lost it in her breasts, so it all evens out. Make reference to middle age spread, regardless of her age, and try to point out that the jeans she has today will no doubt be too small in five years. Honesty is best in everything, and this is a prime example.

B: Offer to help her by getting some pliers and trying to zip the jeans. You know that once they're zipped, she will be able to button them. If not, there's always the vice in your workshop. It's important to her to be able to fit in these jeans even if they kill her. Tell her to pull her pockets out too, because they take up a lot of butt room; she can always cut them off or try to cram them in later. Right now the most important thing is to get those jeans on, or prove that they are poorly made. Bursting a seam or demolishing the zipper would be good proof.

C: Agree that they probably did shrink. You saw it on TV; it happens all the time. Offer to take her shopping for new jeans, as those don't really show off her figure anyway. It would probably be a good time to point out some of those other things you saw on TV now as well. A good place to start would be how clothing sizes are meaningless as a lot of stuff is imported now, and they measure differently in foreign countries. Besides, if she gained weight, wouldn't you have noticed? She looks exactly the way she looked the day you met, possibly better. You'll thank yourself later.

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