The Way Things Are



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IT’S NOT ABOUT THE SIZE
2005-12-08, 10:02 a.m.

IT’S NOT ABOUT THE SIZE, WHICH IS FINE BY THE WAY.

It’s about:

1. He thinks it’s an issue, but doesn’t have any kind of inferiority complex about it.
2. He talks about it ALL THE DAMN TIME. To ANYbody.

The things he casually throws out in conversation tend to make my shoulders drop in despair. Oh, what the hell is he blabbing loudly now? DW has a problem with filters. If he thinks it, he says it.

Here’s a fun example that could have started a huge war among my mother-in-law, sister-in-law and myself:

::ring ring!::

Me: Hello?
DW’s sister: Where are y’all? We’re waiting.
Me: What are you talking about?
DW’s sis: We’re all here at mom’s house, and y’all are supposed to come over.
Me: Oh. Hmm. DW didn’t tell me about that. I didn’t even know you guys were in town.
DW’s sis: Are you coming over?
Me: I don’t know. We were about to walk out the door to [whatever it was – I don’t even remember]. But I’ll ask him…

::click::

Me: Babe, were we supposed to go to your mom’s house? Your sister just called, and she sounded kind of pissed that we aren’t over there. I told her I didn’t know anything about any plans.
DW: Oh. Yeah. They’re in town. But they only live 50 miles away – it’s not like we have to go over there and see them. There aren’t any plans that I know of. They’re here every other weekend.
Me: Well, she sounded like maybe there were some plans that we were screwing up or something by not being there.
DW: I’ll call and see what’s up.

::ring ring!::

DW’s mom: Hello?
DW: Mom. Laura said Sis called over here sounding all pissed off. What’s up?
Me (wailing): NOOOOOOO!!!!

See? No filters. He honestly did not understand that he should not tell his mom that I thought his sister sounded pissed, and then to add a little color to it by saying “all pissed off.” One thing led to another that evening, and the end result is a small hole in the wall (at the old house, which is sold. Yay! But I digress) where a door got flung open and the doorknob met wall with much force, before being slammed back shut. Yeah, that wasn’t me. It was HIM. Big freaking door-flinging baby.

I had dated the man for approximately 24 hours before he threw the words “little dick” into the conversation. I didn’t know first hand at that time (hah! hand!) but things progressed sufficiently shortly thereafter, to where my Helen Keller estimate was “Hmmm. Seems fine to me.”

But I guess for a man who has been involved in sports all his life, and as he puts it, entered puberty maybe a year or so ago and all the Mexicans were already shaving by 7th grade, there has been a lot of surreptitious locker room comparison going on. And that’s a dangerous comparison to make if you’re a grower, because by definition, really, only the ladies are ever going to know for sure.

For the record, you can't throw a stick in our town without hitting a lady who knows for sure. He's such a slut.

When he does his self-deprecating song and dance, I roll my eyes, drop my shoulders in despair, and announce, “Dude. You gotta hard on a cat couldn’t scratch.”

(Enter hoots of drunken and raucous laughter. That’s our friends’ favorite party game: “Laura, tell us what DW said to you on your first date!”)

(You HAVE to marry a man who slurs that to you in the parking lot of the pool hall. You HAVE to.)

Because while DW has no filter and expresses out loud every thought that flits through his pointy little head, I pride myself on being the one who stays pretty quiet, except to say out loud what everybody else is thinking but is afraid to say.

It’s fun! Y’all try it.

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