Tag Archives: men

buddy dog adviseLife is funny, ya know. I mean, I’m just a dog, right? And I’m expected to give some kind of advice, some kind of commentary every time Amy or Charlie have trouble in the land of love. I’m just a dog, I tell them. But they don’t seem to care. They continue with the rant, and each of them have a rant so important that I can’t nap, I can’t look for cats, mice, or even eat without them following me all over the house. Is this normal? I mean, wasn’t I supposed to be for cuddling, holding so close to add warmth? Were they not supposed to tell me how cute I was every time they saw me? I don’t get that anymore. I think they are going through a scratch patch–in our terms, a relationship problem. But that is how we work. Brozios and bruzias, all the same: they need to see each other as bounce boards, something they can reach out for when they have trouble. They can also be there for one another when times are good.

Now these scratch patches are frequently occur when their is a new fence to jump. Sometimes it takes four of five missed jumps to go over that fence; the other three or four jumps are only smashed faces against the fence. But, that’s how we learn, right? Failure on our way to success–that’s what I’m talking about. In a relationship, I tried to tell them, there will always be problems: who gets the pillow tonight? Who get the last treat? Who decided how long the nap will be? These are all questions we all ask.


My Hex…

hound close upBuddy and Jill sit in front of the bookshelf, adjacent to the south corner window of the living room. Jill is explaining the difficulty of ending a relationship, her relationship with Jack.
“Buddy, what is the term for the transitional state between together and apart? Married and divorced? A couple and not? How do I refer to him? How does he refer to me? Soon-to-be seems so long, and such a painfully worn out term. Is “ex” too early, and is it describing it clearly?”

“No, that’s a term used once that transition state has passed. It’s the period between; it’s that emotional state between the fights and the acceptance that it’s over. It’s that Hex place; it’s that Hex period. She is not your girlfriend; she is your Hex girlfriend. He is not your boyfriend, he is your Hex boyfriend. She is not your wife, she is your Hex wife…and so on. It’s that period of time during the confusion of it all; the period before the clear end.”

“But what does that mean, Buddy?”

“Well, it means a lot of things for each of us. It means you no longer have to laugh at his jokes. You know, when he says the same old joke, over and over, thinking he’s just about the funniest man alive. In front of friends, you feel obligated to laugh and save him, especially when it’s really not that humorous. And you continue to laugh about you know not what anymore. You’ve heard the same joke so many times that you’ve forgotten what makes it funny. In fact, you’ve heard it so many times that you’ve now begun to tell the same joke. Pitiful! Well, you no longer have to do this joke parroting or the obligatory laughing session which follows. For men, it finally means being honest. Maybe he really doesn’t love that old, blue dress that makes her look twenty pounds heavier. It’s just not that attractive! Now, she might consider donating the dress to someone less fortunate, which may become something really unfortunate for someone else. If he is tired of this old, blue dress, then I’m sure everyone at the parties, weddings, and holiday get-togethers are just as tired. They are probably nauseous, but fight to be kind. It’s also about not having to constantly tell her that she looks so, so young, especially when she tries wearing those jeans all the twenty-somethings are wearing. It means he no longer has to treat her best friend as though she were his best friend. It means he no longer has to refer to his sister-in-law who dresses in 80’s wear as unique and individually stated. You no longer have to pretend to love the five-dollar Starbucks gift card his aunt Louise gifts you for Christmas, forgetting that she gives you the same thing every year. He no longer has to tell her that her younger sister looks much older and far less attractive than she is, even when it’s a blatant lie. Because she knows, as well as her Hex husband, that her younger sister is smoking hot. It means you no longer have to gasp and awe at the things he says, as though every word was the most interesting word ever spoken; as though every conversation should be documented and placed in a time capsule for future generations to ponder upon. Wow! This alone should make life so pleasant, even during the demise of the relationship. I know it was for me, and I know it will be for you.

The Hex state is perhaps the best state before all endings. It prepares you for upcoming change. Think of it as spring training before the new season. Think of it as an early release program, a program that prepares you for the next stages of an eventful life. Many are often lost in this acute state, since it’s new and different for each of us and is usually over quickly. I think it’s the perfect stage: you’re not in, in all the turmoil, and you are not quite out yet. Remember, consider it a priceless gift once the decision has been made to end all things. The Hex state is short-term schooling for the soon-to-be-lost. Approach it well, and you’ll be just fine.”

         “Couldn’t we just call it the I should have never state?”


She’s Got This Killer Look

muttIt’s Tuesday morning, and Charlie is sitting on a bird drop covered, green bench, in Central Park. The pigeons have landed for their morning meal, which sometimes lasts the entire day or until each one has filled its reserve.  It’s a crisp 50 degrees, and it doesn’t appear that the day is going to warm up any more than it has at this point.

“Oh, no, here comes Wilard and his roommate, Rex,” Buddy says to himself. “I loathe these two. Rex always calls me Bubb. Call me Budd, Buddy, Budster, but not Bubb. Where are we, on the farm?”

“Hello, Charlie,” greets Rex, extending his hand as anyone who hasn’t seen a friend in a very long time would.

“Hello, Rex. Sit down. Rest a while.”

“Oh, no. That’s just great!” dismisses Buddy.

Wilard quickly walks over to Buddy and begins his small talk. “Buddy, why are you so quiet? You didn’t say hello, or acknowledge me as I walked up. What’s up?”

Buddy rolls his eyes upward to the sky and says, “Oh, sorry, how are you doing, Wilard?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Willard pants aggressively, tongue dropping out of his mouth, as though he’d been running briskly.  He stops and slowly sits beside Buddy, trying to control his breathing and his shifting body movements. “Where do I begin?”

“How about from the beginning? Why don’t you catch your breath first.  What, did you run all the way over here? If you’re not careful you will die a young death like so many of your breed do. I told Charlie that we should get some air this morning, so he brought me to the park where I could stretch out and enjoy the sun.” Buddy stretches his long torso to a downward dog pose, then back up again.  “That apartment makes me crazy sometimes. So what were you about to say?”

“Well, it’s Whitney, a girl I’ve been seeing for about two months now,she is wearing my patience thin. Maybe it’s me, but I think she’s developed this killer’s look.”

“What do you mean a killer’s look?”

“When she wants me to do something, for instance, she will straighten out her smile, look me directly in the eyes, and she will not blink.  Wherever her eyes move, that is where she wants me to move. Last night, we were watching something on television, I don’t remember what, when she wanted me to move to my right on the sofa. Apparently I failed to move quickly enough, so she gave me the look, followed by quick shove. I asked her what the problem was.  Her response was that she wanted me to move over. She looked at me perplexed, as if I were the confused one.  She could have just asked, right?   The next day, she asked me to go with her to see her brother downtown. So we went. Everything was fine: we were laughing, talking about a customer he had in his store earlier, the eccentric people he meets daily, and life’s little vicissitudes. I felt comfortable enough to ask about his girlfriend; I had no idea they had just split up.  Whitney shot me this look, a death gaze moving up then down. I kept talking. Her brother responded by changing the subject, so I went on talking. Tell me, Buddy, how was I to know that he had just split from her?  Am I required to know everything?

So on our way home, she began by staring at me with a piercing look; this one burnt so hot its razor bead could slice you in half. That look gave me a migraine so intense I thought I was going to die. I’m not kidding, that look made me nauseous and I twitched for hours. Is it just me or does she have some demonic gazing powers? Do all women have this strange series of looks that I’m not aware of?  Are they born this way or do they attend some strategic gaze training camp?

to be continued…