Something completely unexpected and not all premeditated happened yesterday. I was in the kitchen churning butter when Chuck (aka the Butt Patient) walked in.
“Oh, good, you’re finally up and walking,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to wash some dishes. Or vacuum. Or do some laundry. Mop the floor. Sweep. Take out the trash. Fold socks. Bleach towels. Shovel. Rake. Bake. Grocery shop. Iron my tunic. Comb my hair. Bathe Junior. Feed the cats. Weed. Dust. Unload the dishwasher. File my bunions. Do anything other than clench your behind and wail “oooooh, my ass’.”
Chuck cheerfully said, “No thanks,” and then, “I think I need to go lie down again.”
What happened next is clear as day. I grabbed the churner handle mabob and whacked Chuck over the head.
So now I’m single.
That’s right, my peaches, Mrs. Mullet is back on the market.
Since it’s been awhile since I’ve advertised my treats, I’m a little rusty. But thank God I kept this from eighth grade.
Look at all the hunks I’ll be able to land (hey, I’m a Cougar now so those strapping young lads are super dreamy!)
This man-catching bible is chocked full of answers to girls’ most important questions, like whether or not boys want you to have a great body. (The answer is no—mmmhhmmm—“but if you’re overweight and unhappy, dieting is the answer [and] if you feel you’re too skinny, obviously you’re not eating enough.”)
So that’s why I’m only 55 pounds! I keep wearing the baby back ribs instead of putting them in my mouth.
The Get Him System (TGHS) covers everything, from the importance of good hygiene to the fact that guys who only have one thing on their minds are called “users” (weird, I always knew them as just plain old guys.)
It’s my lucky day that the TGHS talks about intimacy issues, because I’ve been a one-man woman for almost a decade. So I jumped right to the kissing chapter, specifically “Should I wait until a guy kisses me or can I kiss him first?”
This is crucial knowledge here; I always see men I’d like to kiss and until now I’ve restrained myself. But did you know that if you want to kiss someone, not only can you kiss him first, you should take advantage of “kissing freebees” like Christmas and New Years Eve? Yup, even birthday parties are a great time for proactive kissing! As long as after you French kiss everyone you explain that “today is a kissing freebee.”
Gold. Pure gold.
Speaking of swapping spit, I was dying to know if making out is a big part of going out, since the last time I actually made out with someone was in 1989, and even then it may have been with a stuffed animal. Well, according to TGHS, if making out is a big part of going out to you “then that’s all that counts.”
Eureka! If this isn’t the green light to set up shop on a street corner and be the biggest slutbag there is, I don’t know what is. Color me Chlamydia!
Aren’t you jealous you don’t have a book like this?
I was just about to wash my hair (guys like clean, fresh-smelling hair), eat something, put some emotion in my eyes (girls’ eyes are more attractive when they’re expressive) and stop flaunting my killer gams (guys don’t like girls who strut) when Chuck came to.
He was so relieved to be alive that he sorted the whites and now we’re in love again (I guess the book is right when it says that patience, forgiveness, compromise and shared household duties—I mean, respect—keep the romance alive.) I even took advantage of the fact that today is Easter and therefore a kissing freebee and manhandled him a little.
Thank you, TGHS! Thank you for saving my marriage.
As a parting note, I’ll leave you with what is perhaps the most important—and grossly reiterated—pearl of wisdom from the TGHS bible: “Looks don’t really matter to guys. All that really matters is whether or not you’re happy with yourself.”
Ah, shit, that’s funny.
My friend and I bought the TGHS in eighth grade from the back of Seventeen Magazine. Tune in next time for great advice from its paperback companion, Secrets of Great Kissers.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.