A Hard Man is Good to Find

There are times when my fellowette women make me want to slap the everlovin estrogen out of them. They can be the most frustratingly delusional, self-destructive group of inherently lovely people in any given herd of nuts and crazies. I love my girlfriends wholeheartedly, and long ago realized that a loyal heart does not fill its loved ones with lies and garbage, but finds the most tactful and reasonable way to say what must be said.

So this morning, I sit and listen to my friend/office mate unquietly declare to the asshole that only yesterday was “gone from her life”, that she was leaving work early because “we need to talk”. I have used this ridiculously ineffective phrase in the distant past, and I can hear those days in the very screech of her voice when she talks to this guy, who she played the hang-up/redial game with for almost an hour.

She’s been going through the basic chick crap with this full-fledged “bad boy” for quite a while, and her frustration with him has recently escalated. Apparently she is not delighted by his continued relationship with an ex, constant drunkenness, or inability to make plans to do stuff with her. I’m only guessing that he has won her heart with his gallant shows of indifference, and endeared her with his transparent barrel of lies.


It happens all the freakin time. “But he says he LOVES me”.


I cannot tell you how often I find myself in the position whereby I must decide whether to give my no-holds-barred honest opinion or sugar coat the picture as seen from the outside. I’ve almost lost friends over the truth. Many people prefer a little white lie, that usually turns gray and then black before the whole thing resembles gangrene and requires amputation.

Don’t get me wrong. There have been moments where my pride was so damaged by a man that I flung words at him like stones at a glass house. But in general, I walk away, disgusted with myself for meandering in meaninglessness and angry that I didnt see it sooner.

So I get pissy about the sissy shit. (Pissy…sissy….I like that…) I WANT to be supportive. I will gladly let a friend spill their woes, cry on my shoulder, and if they're a very good friend, I may even let them wipe their runny nose on my sleeve. But I refuse to feed the lies they tell themselves. I will not be a party to the fantasy-like nightmare they are obsessed with. From now on, I will silently hand them a little red laminated card with my wise and unforgiving…

“Rules to Rid Yourself of Misery”

Three Strike Rule: Men can relate to the number three. Most of them have at least three fingers, they can usually add, subtract and multiply by threes, and they all know what three strikes gets you. If you call three times, and he hasn’t responded – he’s out. If you invite him to three non-sex related activities and he declines them all – he’s out. If he has two other girlfriends and you’re the third – he’s out. If he wanted to do any of those things, he would’ve done so already.

Sticks and Stones Rule: The first clue that he really doesn’t give a crap about you, having been ignored, is sometimes reiterated with a round of flying fists and/or “you stupid, stinky, cuntbomb” – which some women obviously interpret as “I really love you or I wouldn’t care enough to want to hit you/make you sink into the pitiful depths of humiliation”. There are no circumstances I can think of to excuse this, unless what he says is accurate to a fault, and if you are indeed a stupid, stinky cuntbomb, please shower and then cook the man dinner to apologize. If he talks with his fists, and you repeatedly tell yourself that it’ll never happen again, you should be flogged daily in the center of town, and have your wounds dressed with vinegar.

Truth or Dare: He says he was in a meeting, but your friend saw him lunching at the diner with a chick. He says he was talking to his mother in the other room, but you could swear you heard him say “sexy-ass” in the conversation. He “fell asleep” on his friends couch and didn’t wake up til just now, so he couldn’t call to tell you he wouldn’t be home. Basically – if you think he’s lying, he probably is. And if you realize he’s making you feel “crazy” or “paranoid” – you probably aren’t. He’s a liar. A fibber. A story-teller of idiotic proportions.

The Game of Concentration: You’re out to dinner and he excuses himself more than once to answer his cell phone. He texts you often, but never answers when you call. You never speak to him between the time he gets home from work and the time he leaves for work the next day. Mondays, Saturdays, Sundays and Thursdays are off limits for making plans, and its not even football season. Honey – either he is spreading his focus around, or he doesn’t like you enough to concentrate on you. Either way, it is not likely to change. If he has a lot on his plate, but you’re not the main dish – you never will be.

Blame Game: No matter what he did to piss you off, you end up apologizing and offering endless foot rubs if he’ll only forgive you. He says you’re pushing him away with your nagging. He says he didn’t call to cancel because he knew you’d be upset and he’s too stressed as it is. He couldn’t help finishing in under 5 minutes because you’re so damned good. Bitch please. He’s eating cake and blaming you for the weight gain. If you constantly get the eerie feeling that you’ve been duped – you have. He doesn’t give one iota about you.

The Game of Life: If he says any of the following things, just go. He’s not confused, he’s not going to “get past it” with you, and he’s not going to change his mind: “I need space” – “I need time” – “We’re (he and the ex, not YOU) trying to work things out” - “There’s someone else” – “I’m gay” – “She’s just a friend” – “You’re a needy-ass limp-lay, crazy bitch and I’m getting a restraining order”.