A Walk in the Snark (7 page)

I spoke with him the day he killed himself. A normal day, October ’09. I found out he was gone by checking his Facebook wall a few days later. It said “D—RIP.” I thought it was a cruel joke—until I saw the raw emotion in the messages. It seemed like something you would read about in a story. The shock so acute the numbness took over.

I, like most of his friends, had no idea there was anything, anything wrong. Of course, after the fact, I can see there were signs. He told me in that last conversation that I would always hold a piece of his heart in the palm of my hand.

He asked if there was any chance he’d still have a shot. He asked if I still loved him.

I had tried to hold him in my heart, but kept falling on my tears.

I still dream about him. The strangest part is that I have always dreamed about him. Of all my past loves, he’s the only one who has stayed in my subconscious. The dreams are peaceful and he’s always loving. I know I loved him—the attraction was stronger than anything I’d ever experienced before when I met him. Within seconds of meeting, we were on a course to be together.

He never physically hurt me. Ever. He was very protective of me. He never hit me, though he did use his strength to prevent me from doing things. More than once he told me I was like his live doll. He didn’t want me to break.

I think he had this respect for women, although he wanted to control me, to own me, and would go to ridiculous lengths to achieve that impossible goal. I know I frustrated the hell out of him. He often referred to me as “a handful.” Can’t imagine why.

I grieve for him, even though I am no longer with him. I’m sad for what his life became, what he could have become, what we were when it was great, and what could have never been.

I’m allowing myself to love him.

***

“
Shopping is akin to halftime for most men: if it can be done in 15 minutes, fine.
Any longer #theyheadforendzone”

SHOPPING IS NOT A VERB

When a man accompanies his chick shopping, it seems to me he ought to be pleased about all the potential rack-sightings instead of complaining. But that’s just me.

I personally think how a man shops tells a lot about how he’ll be as a mate. Test him with different scenarios. Don’t hold back. Then choose wisely, girls.

My guy understands that chicks like things in little boxes. Or ones that say “Prada” or “Louis Vuitton” on them (at least in this house).

Don’t be disappointed if your man isn’t a shopper. It’s a guy thing. It’s more important that he runs errands for you, in my opinion. There’s a direct correlation between errand-running and your sex life.

Don’t believe me? Ask your mom. Wait. Let’s not go there.

Men approach holiday shopping differently than women. To guys, shopping is not a
verb
. It’s a destination. It’s a THING, if you will. Get in, get out, with a minimum of damage. Shopping ain’t no
disco
.

I break Male Holiday Shoppers into five categories:

1. Buddy The Elf

2. The Waffler

3. The English Patient

4. Mr. Happy

5. The Hunter

1.
“Buddy the Elf”
is the guy who approaches shopping with full gusto. He’s the list maker. Overjoyous. Wow. Doesn’t want to miss a moment of this joy. He even buys one of those little magnetic Santa list pads that come with a special matching pen for just this occasion. He breaks out the reindeer sweater (or jumper for you Brits) when he does his shopping to feel in the Christmas spirit, despite pleas from his kids that he “looks like a dork.”

It goes without saying that Buddy has been playing Christmas music in his car since Halloween and that he doesn’t really need to decorate all that much since he leaves most of his tiny happy villages up all year long. (If you haven’t seen the movie
Elf
, I highly recommend that you do so. “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear,” is this guy’s mantra.)

You would think he would do his shopping throughout the year. But no. Buddy likes to do all of his shopping on Christmas Eve; the crowds, the lights, the scent of desperation—it’s the ultimate high for this boy. He really does want to get just the right present for each person. Unfortunately, he’s so wound up in the
spirit
that reindeers pooping and snowmen peeing snow have become his gifts of choice for even those closest to him.

His kids pretend they don’t know him.

2.
The Waffler
is the guy who can’t ever make up his mind which way to go on presents. He sees a present. He likes it well enough. But is it the
perfect
present?

He just doesn’t know. How can one ever really know? While he’s waiting for a message from the universe, what could have been the perfect present flies off the shelf. (And online shopping hasn’t made his life any easier, he can tell you that.)

For The Waffler, presents really are an existential issue and one he’s just not sure he’s up to handling each year. The prospect of getting it wrong is just so tangentially opposed to how he lives his life; however, he knows that he must take part in the ritual, despite his tendency to want to roll up in a little ball of eggnog-induced indecision.

So like the good little soldier of capitalism he is, he marches on, making those purchasing choices. Slowly. Painfully. And he takes the week off between Christmas and New Year’s to recover from the stress.

3.
The English Patient
is helpless when it comes to all matters of the present. He’d rather be burned in a bombing raid than face a mall full of terrible drivers, screaming children, and harried shoppers. He somehow manages to procure presents each year though, generally through much humiliating begging and pleading of daughters, sons, and neighbors through the covert passing of money, with change somehow never making its way back to his increasingly lightened wallet.

Our English Patient does realize the pros and cons to his method and uses them to his advantage—he’s no fool. Pro: Less effort out shopping on his part means more time spent puttering around the house, making it look nice for guests, thus making the little woman happy. And we all know where that leads.

Con: Sure, he’s out a few extra bucks than he himself may have spent if he had done his own shopping. But at least he’s still sane and safe from the madding crowd. So there’s that.

4. Which brings us to
Mr. Happy.
He really isn’t happy to be shopping; he’s happy because he knows that shopping makes his
woman
happy. And if his woman is happy, he’s gonna get laid.

He’s the guy you see trailing after his fast-talking wife, part-man, part-mule, big smile plastered on his face. Why, he’s just happy to be there.

The equation is fairly simple for this guy: Just showing up, combined with enormous amounts of patience, will pretty much guarantee a good time for this guy. He frankly doesn’t understand dudes who don’t go shopping with their wives. What are they, stupid?

5. Finally,
The Hunter
who views shopping as sport: He points, he shoots, he leaves. Anything else is extraneous and distracts from the task at hand. Well, except lunch. A man’s gotta eat.

You can usually tell The Hunter by his attire: Fanny pack at the ready, this man will hand over his credit card like a shot for easier getting the hell out. He even heads out prepacked with his bright shiny purple mini-sized carabineer clips already conveniently slipped onto his jeans’ belt loop for more efficient package carrying.

'Cause it’s not like this guy is coming back. It’s one-stop shot. Or not. If he can’t buy that one gift, perfect or not, on this one trip,
it doesn’t exist
. In all likelihood, The Hunter is single...or divorced.

So there you have it. Many of you guys may disagree with me and cry out in protest: “But I love to shop!” I’ll stop you right there…
of course
there are several more types I’ve missed, including that rare breed of man who actually
enjoys
shopping. Usually he’s had a heart transplant, or is gay. Not that you are. Or that there’s anything wrong with that. 'Cause you’re, ya know, guys. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

(I’d go with Mr. Happy.)

***

“
Men focus. Women multi-task. It's not a competition.
We all work together in harmony #OMG #cannotstoplaughing”

STUPID PANTS SYNDROME

Like I said, I picked a “Mr. Happy.”

When I met my guy, it was pretty clear up front that I was a fashiony kinda gal. Shopping together didn’t seem to be a painful process. And he seemed to have a real handle on fashion himself. Nothing fancy—he wasn’t obsessed or anything—not like my last boyfriend, M, who waited with bated breath for each month’s GQ and took the mag shopping with him, tucked under his arm, like a lover. Yeah, we didn’t last.

But I really thought I knew my man. When I first saw him, he was standing in front of a room, handsome in a well-fitted suit. Sigh.

Now, he wears these god-awful Mickey Mouse pants that my daughter and I figure must have been made by aliens. It’s not possible that the man I love, the man who’s married to a chick who WOULD NEVER BUY THOSE PANTS, is the same man I married.

Clearly, he’s been abducted. It’s the only explanation.

Just as friends don’t let friends drive drunk, chicks don’t let men wear stupid pants.

Well, we TRY.

“Honey,” he asks in all seriousness as he holds up multicolored Mickey Mouse pants covered in a rose, striped, and (gulp) plaid pattern, “What do you think of these?”

His enthusiastic smile shows you that he has absolutely no idea how freakin’ lame those pants really and truly are. As you fight a wave of first-trimester pregnancy nausea, despite the fact that you’re not, in fact, pregnant, your “NO!” leaves your lips faster than intended. As obliviously as he picked them up, he thankfully drops those offending rayon/poly blend bad boys on the floor
before
actual hurling takes place.

Phew. Close one.

It’s a phenomenon known as
Stupid Pants Syndrome
, or
SPS
.

Scientists are curious to know: What makes some men want to wear these ugly pants? And what makes them immune to the eye-scarring, burning disorder that makes the rest of us clamor for our dark designer shades in a harried panic? Is it a DNA thing?

In recent study results released by the Human Genome Project, several female researchers were reportedly temporarily blinded while examining the Y chromosome. These cells were later shown to have tested positive for the Stupid Pants Syndrome marker.

Clearly, no one is safe.

Some men seem to have a chip missing when it comes to stupid pants. It’s as if they
see
them, but don’t recognize their inherent offensiveness. Or, if they do, they take particular pride in the stupidability of the pants and want to share them with the world.