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Tips for the Newly Married Guy
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
As a Guy who has been married for 11 years, I've learned a lot of tips and tricks every Guy should know about successfully living with their wife. I have embraced them fully, and try to practice them on a daily basis, despite what my wife says to the contrary.
For example, if you're a Guy and have lived on your own for several years, you're not used to having people around who do not think your three-week-old pile of underwear on the couch is funny.
I know, I know. How you ended up with someone like this escapes me too. But it's a legally binding contract, so what can you do? All underwear humor aside though, please clean it up before I come over. I'm not sitting down until the pile is gone and the couch has been burned.
There are a few important rules to remember when sharing your house with a new spouse. And if you're newly married, you don't know these rules yet. It's better than you learn them this way, rather than the hard way. Like I did.
Rule #1: The toilet seat. Always put it down. It's actually a dumb rule, and both parties should try to reach a compromise, like installing a stand-up urinal in the bathroom. But if that's out of the question, try another solution, like always put the seat the opposite way of how you found it, If it's down, put it up, and vice versa.
But if you can't get your wife to budge on this issue, just give in on this one. Trust me, when you're awakened at 2:00 am by the shrill tones of your wife, hollering at you about the toilet seat and her broken tailbone, you'll realize it's in your best interest to just leave it down.
Rule #2: Her stuff is valuable, your stuff is junk. This really isn't a rule as much as a deeply-held belief your wife had the moment she laid eyes on your complete collection of G.I. Joe action figures. For some reason, she thinks they're not as "valuable" as her original, hand-bound leather edition of "The Great Gatsby." And while from a literary view, she may have a point, you just can't play Underwater Rescue in the bathtub with an original F. Scott Fitzgerald book.
However, this logic is not reversible. Her things you would consider junk hold great sentimental value, and can never be discarded. So while your collection of miniature National Football League helmets are just taking up space, her March 1992 issue of People Magazine with Harrison Ford on the cover is "a collectible."
To win this one, just place all of your valuables in a heavy-duty cardboard box and write "Mom's China" or "Grandma's Ashes" on it. Your wife won't open them for the next 15 years. Of course, neither will you, but that's beside the point.
Rule #3: What's hers is hers and what's yours is hers. Some women think it's "cute" and "fun" to wear their husband's clothes on occasion, so be prepared to lose your best sweater or have your favorite dress shirt come up missing. (But get caught wearing her clothes just once, and she's all "he's not the man I married" to her friends for weeks!) While it is cute at first, it can be a royal pain when your lucky t-shirt comes up missing right before the office softball tournament. So try to keep your clothes smelly and grungy until it's time to wear them. Then do a quick load of laundry and hide the leftovers.
Rule #4: Your friends are disreputable bums who will amount to no good and are a bad influence on your. Her friends have been her closest confidants for years. They are not the harping shrews you accidentally called them when you had a few too many beers after work last week.
If you're like most Guys, the friends you hang out with are the Guys who aren't married yet. They still act like Guys. They still sound like Guys. And, let's face it, they still smell like Guys. But they're still your friends. If you have to give in on every rule to break this one, do it. These Guys are the ones who will come through for you, no matter how bad it is for you. They'll give you the shirt off their backs, and let you crash on their couch when you need it.
Which will be very soon, if you break Rule #1 one more time.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of May 6th, 2005)
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Snakes Have Feelings Too, You Know!
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
Erik is out of the office this week, so to creep him out we are publishing a column about his least favorite species – trial lawy--err, snakes..
Scientists call them herpetologists. I call them weirdos. People who watch snakes, study snakes and even -- ick! -- LIKE snakes all descend on Narcisse, Manitoba every Spring to watch the Great Snake Awakening.
That's when thousands and thousands of allegedly harmless garter snakes -- some estimate as many as 70,000 -- slither out from the cracks in the limestone bedrock for the sole purpose of scaring the bejeezus out of me.
I hate snakes. I don't just dislike them, I hate them with a white hot passion usually reserved for personal injury lawyers. I scream like a girl whenever I see one (a snake, not a lawyer), and I've already checked under my desk several times as I write this to make sure one didn't sneak in here (both snakes and lawyers).
So why people would want to watch snakes pop out of the ground without beating them with a large stick is beyond me. But starting on Mother's Day, snake geeks begin showing up at the Narcisse snake dens to watch the snakes emerge from their winter slumber to eat frogs and toads, and to mate.
"There's nothing else out here but the snakes," Darlene Herron, a roadside snack seller, told the Associated Press. "I don't know why anyone brings their mother to the snake dens."
We've been through this, Darlene: they're weirdos. Apparently their moms are weirdos too.
When the snakes emerge from their law offices -- I mean, underground dwellings -- they haven't had anything to eat or mate with in seven months, so they do both.
Voyeuristic visitors hike three miles to watch the mating ritual, where dozens of horny male snakes climb onto the back of a single female snake in the hopes of making more snakes. Some of these romantic pursuits are known as mating balls. And because the spectacle is such a popular one, there's even a statue of two mating snakes on the road leading to the romantic reptilian rendezvous.
Young Impressionable Child: "Daddy, why is there a statue of two snakes wrestling?"
Uncomfortable Father: "Uhh, you'd better ask your mother."
After the female has chosen the lucky male, the rejected suitors slither away, and leave their comrade to a lifetime of taking out the garbage and mowing the lawn. Later in the summer, 20 to 50 more law students -- I mean, baby snakes -- are born as a result of the coupling, but happily for snake haters like me, only two percent survive into adulthood.
That's because snakes have a lot of predators, including birds of prey, like hawks and owls, weasels, foxes, and raccoons. So if you're ever looking for a charity to support, please consider making a donation to the Hawks, Owls, Weasels, Foxes, and Raccoons Defense Fund.
Dave Roberts, the wildlife technician in charge of the Narcisse snake dens (i.e. the "Head Weirdo"), told the AP that the dens are ". . . a great opportunity to pass on information about these snakes and their stewardship. We try to teach a little more tolerance of the fact these creatures live around us."
You go right ahead and teach snake tolerance, Dave. I'm staying right here in my own little corner of the world where the lawn mower blade is always sharp, and the snakes are in short supply. And are much shorter after I mow the lawn.
Roberts says that males use their tongues to detect the pheromone that attracts them to the female. However, he wasn't sure why some male snakes also give off the female pheromone. Possibly to confuse rival males, he said.
Sophia Munro, a Grade 5 teacher in Winnipeg, says on her website that these "she-male" snakes are twice as lucky at mating than the non-pheromone producing males. She also agrees that the "she-male" snakes do confuse the other male snakes during the mating season. However, snake scientists agree that it's not uncommon for young male snakes to be confused about their sexuality at times, and that it's all just part of growing up. . . not that there's anything wrong with that.
The snakes will then travel as far as 10 miles into nearby marshes to hang out for the summer, drink beer, and tell stories about how they're suing McDonald's because their client ate there every day for 20 years and got fat. In the fall, the snakes who weren't eaten or disbarred make their way back to their limestone offices to sleep for another seven months, and the whole process starts all over again.
The whole idea is enough to give me a permanent case of the willies, and to swear on a snakeskin-jacketed Bible never to set foot near the Narcisse snake dens.
Driving a steamroller is an entirely different matter though.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of May 13th, 2005)
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Do You Have a Red Pen Instead?
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
I recently found myself in Germany on a business trip (Geschäftsreise), and was looking forward to using my German language skills I had learned in high school (Gymnasium). I was looking forward to immersing myself in a week-long cultural adventure.
The lessons learned during the very first few weeks of class were still burned in my memory, and I was convinced that, despite their over simplicity, I was sure the knowledge would still apply. I mentally rehearsed the various statements so I would be ready to engage in the many conversations my teacher told us we would have if we ever went to Germany.
"Hello. My name is Erik." ("Guten Tag. Ich heisse Erik.")
"I would like some orange juice, please" ("Ich möchte Orangensaft, bitte.")
"My pen is blue." ("Meine Kugelschreiber ist blau.")
"I like your lederhosen." ("Mir gefällt Seine Lederhose.")
You can imagine my disappointment when I saw that not only was nobody wearing any lederhosen, but absolutely nobody introduced themselves to me or asked about my pen (Kugelschreiber). It was probably for the best because, despite my preparations, I was not carrying a blue pen at all. I only had black one (schwarz).
Of course, I had to immediately fix that problem (Problem). This was Germany, the land of blau Kugelschreibers and Orangensaft. Somebody could introduce themselves and ask about my pen at any moment. It would be a horrible social faux pas if I only had a black pen!
I needed to get to the shopping district (Einkaufenbezirk) by way of the train station (Bahnhof), so I hailed a taxi (Taxi). "Deliver me to the train station forthwith, my good man!" I shouted as soon as I sat down.
Actually, that's not true. We never learned that in German class, so all I could mumble was a quiet "Bahnhof, bitte."
"No problem," he answered. I noticed with ever increasing frustration that Germans would come up and automatically speak to me in English, before I ever said a word, as if I didn't understand a single word of German. I must just look American. I suppose my Chicago Cubs baseball cap, Budweiser t-shirt, and "Hey, I'm an American!" sign didn't help matters though.
I took the next train (Zug) to the shopping district and began to scout around for a pen store (Schreibwarengeschäft). After a stop in a bookstore (Buchhandlung), two coffee shops (Kaffeehaus), and the financial district for lunch (Mittagessen), I found my Shangri-La (Shangri-La): The Faber-Castell pen store!
"Haben Sie eine Kuli," I asked the attendant, employing the short from of Kugelschreiber. I had to purchase (einkaufen) the pen in German to remain true to my German high school lessons. My German was still a little rusty, but passable, and I could understand someone as long as they spoke ver-r-r-y slowly. This guy didn't.
He picked up two of the pens I had been looking at. "Blah blah blah ein blah zwei?" Wait, he said something about one or two. I'll bet he wants to know how many pens I want. I want two.
"Zwei, bitte."
"Blah blah blah grau oder silber?" He held up two different styles of caps, one grey and one silver. He was asking which cap color I wanted.
"Ja, beide. Einer ist für mich, und einer is für meine Frau." I wanted them both. One for me, and the other for my wife.
"Blah blah blah schwarz oder blau?" This was it. My big moment. The pen store assistant (Schreibwarengeschäftassistent) was asking me if I wanted a black or blue pen. I pulled myself up to my full height, puffed out my chest, and proudly said, "Ich möchte einen blauen Kugelschreiber, bitte."
The man smiled knowingly – apparently he had met some of my classmates – and I paid for my purchase.
That was the one defining moment in my German language development. The purchase (Erwerb) of my new blau Kugelschreiber was the key to unlocking many conversational doors. Just like my high school German textbook promised, I met dozens of new friends, and sat in a local Kaffeehaus, discussing our pens and debating the merits of orange juice over apple juice (Apfelsaft), and inquiring after the general health (Gesund) of our mothers and fathers (Mütter und Vätter).
It was any high school German student's dream come true. That is, until one of my new friends (Freunde) leaned over and asked me "Was möchten Sie für Abendessen?" (What do you want for dinner?)
Uh-oh. (Oh-oh.)
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Erik Deckers
(published week of May 20th, 2005)
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What About a Truck That Runs on Daisies?
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
I've got a serious confession to make. I'm not proud of what I've done, but I can't shoulder this terrible burden any longer. And even though my liberal friends gasp in stunned disbelief, and my conservative friends point their fingers and shout, "See?! See?! Hypocrisy!" I have to say it.
I used to own an SUV.
A gas guzzling, planet wrecking "I'm changing the environment ask me how" SUV.
I feel so guilty, like I've committed an unpardonable sin like stealing from old people, or accepting a prepaid trip from foreign lobbyists.
Me: Hello, my name is Erik, and I'm an SUV owner.
Support Group: Hello, Erik
Me: It's been 12 months since I've owned an SUV. I still lay awake at night, dreaming of the spacious roominess and feelings of supreme power as I bore down on smaller, weaker drivers with 280 horses strapped under me, CRUISING DOWN THE HIGHWAY, KNOWING I COULD HAUL A BOAT, TRAILER, AND SMALL VILLAGE THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS AT A MOMENT'S -- uhhh, that is, I feel shame for all the gas I consumed and ozone-killing poison I pumped into the atmosphere.
Actually, it was my wife's SUV, which I guess makes me an enabler. But I still carry the guilt. I used to be a strong environmentalist in my younger days, so I felt appropriately ashamed for all the damage our SUV was doing.
So I assuaged those feelings by driving a full-size Chevy pickup. Not one of those Nancy-boy-it's-really-just-a-big-car SUVs. And not one of those toy pickups that need a little windup key to get started. No, my pickup was one of the big ones, it was appropriately dirty, and I could haul 100 two-by-fours without missing a beat.
When I drove, car owners pulled over in fear. SUV owners glared at me in fits of yuppie jealousy. The toy pickup drivers would hang their heads in shame and putt-putt home.
However, the engine wasn't in great shape, and so my gas mileage was -- let's just say it was a bit on the thirsty side. It's not that it was inefficient. . . at least not if you measured it in feet instead of miles per gallon. Then it just sounded impressive -- 30, 45 with a tailwind. Global oil prices would rise and fall depending on whether I took a road trip. I finally realized I had a problem when OPEC named me Customer of the Year over Shell Oil and ExxonMobil.
That's when my beloved truck began to conflict with my past environmental activist tendencies, and I began to have serious doubts about whether I should own a pickup, or switch over to a car powered strictly by solar power and liberal guilt. Unfortunately, Indiana is a conservative state, and it actually causes inefficiencies in the creation of guilt -- too many knee-jerk reactions really limit how much guilt can be created by one man -- so I decided to stick with a regular gas combustion engine. At least until someone could create an electric car that traveled for more than 20 miles on a single charge and didn't look stupid.
I finally got rid of my truck when I started a new job that required an hour long daily commute. When I started, some quick calculations showed that I'd be spending my children's inheritance each month just to get to work each day. And that didn't count all the extra trips to the Spotted Owl Skeet Shooting Range on the weekends.
So I sold my truck and got a car that gets 30 miles per gallon, but gets blown off the road whenever I get passed by a semi.
Now I can drive to and from work four times on a full tank of gas, although it struggles to haul anything heavier than a pair of socks. And while the toy pickup guys now point and laugh at me, at least the Nature Conservancy gave me the Most Improved Award for 2004. I proudly display the sticker on the passenger side window, but now the car tilts to that side a bit.
But I think I found a compromise. In the next couple of years, Toyota will come out with all new hybrid vehicles. Not a gas-only engine in their entire line, including their trucks. Their new pickup promises 30 miles per gallon and 290 horsepower. And I'm seriously considering getting one. They're energy efficient, but they're also big, macho, manly machines. With one of those, I can be king again.
That is, if my wife lets me get one.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of May 27th, 2005)
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