10...9...8...7..6...
“What am I going to wear for New Year’s Eve?”
(Oh god…. Please don’t ask me?)
“LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA I can’t hear you.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not getting in trouble.”
“Excuuuuuse ME?”
“If you are talking to yourself, asking yourself a hypothetical, “What am I going to wear?” then g’head ask yourself, but after 28 years of marriage I am Switzerland when it comes to answering that question. I’m a forty eight year old Italian male not a designer on “Project Run Away?”
“Project Run Away?”
“Whatever that show with the gay clothes people and the hot model is called.”
“Uh huh… Who dresses who around here?”
“What? I know how to pick my own clothes.”
“Sure you do. “Oh let’s see, what color tee shirt to go with my black sweats? Hmm…. I think my white A.D.D. shirt.”
“What’s wrong with my sweats? They’re comfortable, and I like wearing my A.D.D. shirt, people think it’s funny. I’m making a statement.”
“A statement? What? That you want to look homeless?”
“I wear a suit everyday. When I get home I like clothes I can lounge in. I can “lounge” in sweats. And my shirt pokes fun at A.D.D. because we didn’t have A.D.D. when I was a kid. The nuns beat it out of us, and look at me, I turned out normal.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I may be an idiot but I know what I’m wearing tonight.”
“Only because Gary at the Men’s Wearhouse picked it out for you.”
“Gary is my personal wardrobe consultant. WHAT? WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?”
“Oh noooo reason my sexy Italian homophobe.”
“Gary is not gay. He’s not even close to gay. He’s got kids and stuff. We even talk about hot women when I’m shopping there. I’m talking hot women. We talk about them in manly ways. He picks them out and then we talk about them.”
“Oh really…. You talk about women? Like we’re pieces of meat to be rated? That’s what you do when you shop for clothes?”
“Um…. Wait… You’re confusing me again. You’re pulling that switcheroo that women do. You’re trying to trap me into saying something stupid that will get me into trouble.”
“Too late.”
Tick tick tick tick tick. (four hours later)
“Wow!!!! You look great babe. See…I knew that black dress was the one you should wear.”
A brief note about waiting for women to get ready.
I have been blessed by being married to a woman that is never late.
I learned that my wife is never late from my father-in-law. You see my father-in-law used to get ready for an event then go out to his car and start the engine while my mother-in-law was still getting ready.
Occasionally he would honk.
I tried that….. once.
My wife never came out.
So I have learned that we are never late.
Half the time she waits on me now.
Just once I’d like for her to go out, start the car and honk.
But I’m afraid she’d leave without me. Hell, I know she’d leave without me.
When we got to the New Year’s Eve party I had already made up my mind that I would stay sober and be the “designated dancer.”
There’s nothing more frightening than 300 drunken white people that think they can dance. I don’t remember what song they started doing the “train” to but next stop was Urgent Care.
I can’t dance, something happened to the dancing gene in my family. I only have two thoughts when I’m dancing, don’t get hurt and don’t get hurt.
So If I’m drunk and dancing someone could lose an eye…. and their dignity.
I learned a long time ago that when the band tries to take us to “Funky Town” the only way I’m getting there is on a little yellow bus.
I’m dangerous when I dance.
My wife is an amazing dancer but she drinks when we dance. The more she drinks the more I look like Fred Astaire, a shorter fatter Fred Astaire with no discernible rhythm and a size 13EEE shoe.
I think she learned her moves by trying to dodge my feet.
When you’re sober at a New Years Eve party you turn into Bambi. You become keenly aware of your surroundings. You sip your water and maybe you pause….you look up…you look down…you look side to side…start to drink…pause…look again….your senses are razor sharp.
They need to be.
Because midnight is coming and drunken old white people will try to kiss you and you have no idea what’s going to dart out of their mouths.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m keenly aware of my surroundings.”
“Last song before midnight, dance with me.”
“Can’t we all just get along?”
“Get up and dance with me.”
“Okay it’s your feet.”
(From the stage)
“TWENTY SECONDS!!! TWENTY SECONDS UNTIL 2006!!!!”
“IS EVERYBODY READY?”
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1……
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!”
“Don’t stop kissing me.”
“Why?”
“Old people will kiss me.”
“What?”
“On the lips.”
(SHOULD OLD AQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT….)
“Are you going to be an idiot in 2006?”
“Old people don’t cheek kiss they lip kiss.”
“So I guess my question is answered.”
“You look great babe… nice dress.”
(Oh god…. Please don’t ask me?)
“LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA I can’t hear you.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not getting in trouble.”
“Excuuuuuse ME?”
“If you are talking to yourself, asking yourself a hypothetical, “What am I going to wear?” then g’head ask yourself, but after 28 years of marriage I am Switzerland when it comes to answering that question. I’m a forty eight year old Italian male not a designer on “Project Run Away?”
“Project Run Away?”
“Whatever that show with the gay clothes people and the hot model is called.”
“Uh huh… Who dresses who around here?”
“What? I know how to pick my own clothes.”
“Sure you do. “Oh let’s see, what color tee shirt to go with my black sweats? Hmm…. I think my white A.D.D. shirt.”
“What’s wrong with my sweats? They’re comfortable, and I like wearing my A.D.D. shirt, people think it’s funny. I’m making a statement.”
“A statement? What? That you want to look homeless?”
“I wear a suit everyday. When I get home I like clothes I can lounge in. I can “lounge” in sweats. And my shirt pokes fun at A.D.D. because we didn’t have A.D.D. when I was a kid. The nuns beat it out of us, and look at me, I turned out normal.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I may be an idiot but I know what I’m wearing tonight.”
“Only because Gary at the Men’s Wearhouse picked it out for you.”
“Gary is my personal wardrobe consultant. WHAT? WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?”
“Oh noooo reason my sexy Italian homophobe.”
“Gary is not gay. He’s not even close to gay. He’s got kids and stuff. We even talk about hot women when I’m shopping there. I’m talking hot women. We talk about them in manly ways. He picks them out and then we talk about them.”
“Oh really…. You talk about women? Like we’re pieces of meat to be rated? That’s what you do when you shop for clothes?”
“Um…. Wait… You’re confusing me again. You’re pulling that switcheroo that women do. You’re trying to trap me into saying something stupid that will get me into trouble.”
“Too late.”
Tick tick tick tick tick. (four hours later)
“Wow!!!! You look great babe. See…I knew that black dress was the one you should wear.”
A brief note about waiting for women to get ready.
I have been blessed by being married to a woman that is never late.
I learned that my wife is never late from my father-in-law. You see my father-in-law used to get ready for an event then go out to his car and start the engine while my mother-in-law was still getting ready.
Occasionally he would honk.
I tried that….. once.
My wife never came out.
So I have learned that we are never late.
Half the time she waits on me now.
Just once I’d like for her to go out, start the car and honk.
But I’m afraid she’d leave without me. Hell, I know she’d leave without me.
When we got to the New Year’s Eve party I had already made up my mind that I would stay sober and be the “designated dancer.”
There’s nothing more frightening than 300 drunken white people that think they can dance. I don’t remember what song they started doing the “train” to but next stop was Urgent Care.
I can’t dance, something happened to the dancing gene in my family. I only have two thoughts when I’m dancing, don’t get hurt and don’t get hurt.
So If I’m drunk and dancing someone could lose an eye…. and their dignity.
I learned a long time ago that when the band tries to take us to “Funky Town” the only way I’m getting there is on a little yellow bus.
I’m dangerous when I dance.
My wife is an amazing dancer but she drinks when we dance. The more she drinks the more I look like Fred Astaire, a shorter fatter Fred Astaire with no discernible rhythm and a size 13EEE shoe.
I think she learned her moves by trying to dodge my feet.
When you’re sober at a New Years Eve party you turn into Bambi. You become keenly aware of your surroundings. You sip your water and maybe you pause….you look up…you look down…you look side to side…start to drink…pause…look again….your senses are razor sharp.
They need to be.
Because midnight is coming and drunken old white people will try to kiss you and you have no idea what’s going to dart out of their mouths.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m keenly aware of my surroundings.”
“Last song before midnight, dance with me.”
“Can’t we all just get along?”
“Get up and dance with me.”
“Okay it’s your feet.”
(From the stage)
“TWENTY SECONDS!!! TWENTY SECONDS UNTIL 2006!!!!”
“IS EVERYBODY READY?”
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1……
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!”
“Don’t stop kissing me.”
“Why?”
“Old people will kiss me.”
“What?”
“On the lips.”
(SHOULD OLD AQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT….)
“Are you going to be an idiot in 2006?”
“Old people don’t cheek kiss they lip kiss.”
“So I guess my question is answered.”
“You look great babe… nice dress.”
posted by Shrinking Wop at 11:21 AM
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