Our waitress sets the frothy amaretto martini before me and the scotch on the rocks in front of Husband. She smiles.
I smile, too, and correct her.
“He’s secure in his manhood,” I say. “He’s not afraid to order girlie drinks. The whiskey is mine.”
Husband makes some sort of brawny pirate noise and tells her he likes movies without car chases, too. He grabs his fancy glass in a manly grip and takes a delicate sip.
She is confused. But she is young; she will learn (if she is lucky and pays attention). Perhaps we have set her on the path to enlightenment.
All she really walks away with, though (apart from her tip), is the conviction that she herself will NEVER turn into an old broad like me.
I had such thoughts, too, when I was waiting tables in my twenties. I want so badly to say, “Good luck with that, honey” – but she wouldn’t understand.
What I don’t understand today are Dude Wipes. I attract a bit of attention at the grocery store as I take this picture, but hey – it’s research.
There are a lot of butt wipes out there. Who knew? The soiled male has many discreet options; he needn’t resort to poufy pink packaging. Instead, he’ll pay big bucks to advertise his virility with a bold black bundle of Dude Wipes. It’s brilliant marketing: I poop, but I’m proud and potent.
Potent, but perhaps confused: Dude Wipes adherents are given explicit instructions. Grab one, wipe, and flush, dude.
What if a woman grabbed one? Would the earth continue spin on its axis? Come the apocalypse, you’ll know it’s not North Korean nukes – just Missy, misbehaving and making a mess.