Today I wished a co-worker “All My Best” when what I really meant to wish her was “Most of My Best.” I can’t give her all of my best, can I? This isn’t sports, so I don’t have to give 100% or more. And giving ALL of your best to a woman is usually reserved for a relationship, isn’t it? I’m not dating her and I don’t even WANT to date her – she’s mean! And even if I did want to date her I don’t think it would be a good idea to give a woman ALL of my best under ANY circumstances, and especially not this soon in our acquaintanceship.
Maybe over the course of thirty years it’s okay to give a woman ALL of your best but over thirty years you still probably only want to give her MOST of your best. That’s how you keep surprising her, right? By giving MOST, but not ALL, of your best?
“Hey baby, I brought in MOST of the groceries in for you.”
“Oh Russ, that’s so sweet! I’m glad you left some in the car because now it feels like I’m making a contribution to the household.”
Even by giving MOST of your best you’re probably setting yourself up to disappoint her on a regular basis. For example, if you were to do your housework with MOST of your best effort, she’s going to expect you to do MOST of your best housework effort every Saturday. Even if it’s your Shabbat! So maybe what I meant to say to her was that I wish her “Some Of My Best” because I think that’s achievable and reasonable.
“Hey baby, even though it’s Saturday morning and you know I never do anything before 1:30 on Saturday because it’s my Shabbat, I wanted you to know that I put my beer cans in the recycling bin and I cleaned my piss off of the toilet seat.”
“Oh Russ, that’s so sweet! I know how you like to enjoy your Shabbat. Thank you for making that effort.”
The point is that I may not give you ALL of my best, or even MOST of my best, but if I like you, you can definitely have a few scraps of SOME of my best. I hope you enjoy them. The rest of my best I save for myself. You can live with that, right?
Prone to over-analyze, I thought some more about this strange woman who got All My Best and I am confident that I don’t like her. She doesn’t deserve All My Best, Most of My Best or even Some Of My Best. She has earned the coveted spot in life where next time she will receive Absolutely None Of My Best, and that comes with extra piss on the toilet seat.
One Saturday at Home Depot:
JOE: Honey, what’s that you’re leaning on?
STELLA: It appears to be a small Doric column.
JOE: Wow, you look so good leaning on that Doric column that I’m going to take a photo of you.
STELLA: You’re so sentimental!
STELLA: And these are our photos from our trip to the Home Depot gardening center.
PEARL: Oh that miniature citrus tree is gorgeous! What are you leaning against?
STELLA: I think it’s a Doric column.
PEARL: Oh my, you look so darling leaning against it!
STELLA: Thanks hun. Do you want some more pound cake?
PEARL: So I was over at Stella’s yesterday and she had this cute photo of her leaning against a Doric column.
SALLY: Oh I LOVE that photo!
PEARL: Oh, you’ve seen it?
SALLY: Oh sure, it’s gorgeous! I think they should get the photo blown up and framed for the hallway, and keep a matching photo in a small silver frame on top of the piano.
PEARL: Does Stella play the piano?
SALLY: No, but they have one anyway.
SALLY: So Pearl was visiting with Stella and she reminded me of this really cute photo Stella has.
MRS. KIM: Is Stella still selling Amway?
SALLY: Not anymore. She stopped last September after her Maltese was shot. Anyway, Stella’s hubby Joe took a really cute photo of Stella next to a Doric column.
MRS. KIM: Doric column?
SALLY: Yeah, you know, there are three classic column styles of the old world: Doric, Ionic and Corinthian.
MRS. KIM: I know that, I used to teach architecture at Yale. I just didn’t hear you.
MRS. KIM: Hey honey, how was your day?
MR. KIM: Fuckin’ sucked, man. I’m tired of driving that stupid fucking bus. I’ll never get anywhere if I’m working for someone else all my life. I’ve got the entrepreneurial spirit and I should be my own boss.
MRS. KIM: I agree. You’re so talented.
MR. KIM: I’ve been thinking about opening a booth at the swap meet.
MRS. KIM: What would you sell?
MR. KIM: I’m not sure. Plants? Shoelaces? Belts? Wallets? Discount t-shirts? Birds?
MRS. KIM: What about a service?
MR. KIM: What kind of service?
MRS. KIM: I dunno. Jewelry repair. Clothing alterations. Photography.
MR. KIM: Ah, photography! I used to be the president of the photo club in High School, you know.
MRS. KIM: Yeah, we went to the same high school, remember?
MR. KIM: We did? That’s weird. But what would I photograph?
MRS. KIM: Well, you could get some backdrops of fancy places and people could pose in front of them. You know, for yearbooks and stuff.
MR. KIM: That does sound pretty keen. The kind of people who shop at swap meets have probably never been anywhere.
MRS. KIM: One of my friends, Sally, was telling me that her friend Pearl reminded her that the husband of her friend Stella, took a really cute photo of her leaning against a Doric column.
MR. KIM: A Doric column?
MRS. KIM: Yeah, one of the three classic column styles of the old world.
MR. KIM: I know what a fucking Doric column is; I read your architecture magazines when I’m on the shitter!
VERONICA: How much for the 8×10?
MR. KIM: Well, we have the 8×10 plus two 5×7s and sixteen wallets for ten bucks.
VERONICA: [Mch!] Okay, but how much for just the 8×10.
MR. KIM: Uh, well, we don’t sell just the 8×10.
VERONICA: Look, the customer is always right, eh? I just want the 8×10, so you should be able to sell me just the 8×10! [Mch!]
MR. KIM: There’s no need to get hostile, I’m just saying that we don’t have a per-picture price. But I guess for an extra five bucks I could throw out the 5×7s and the sixteen wallets.
VERONICA: [Mch!] Okay pues. That’s better! You should learn some manners! I’ll get that one.
MR. KIM: Shit, I’ve got the most severe soft focus filters on this fucking camera and you’re still too ugly for film!
VERONICA: What did you say?!
MR. KIM: Uhh, I said you’re so pretty that the camera is having trouble capturing all of your beauty.
VERONICA: Okay pues. Hurry up! [Mch!]
MR. KIM: Fugly bitch.
VERONICALIGURL2SWEET: “I’m a sweet-sexy BBW. Ive got lot’s of curves and love to have a good time with the right man as long as your no players or flake’s or games!?!”
BIGPIMPDAD2884701: “hey girl iseen your profile yur is so cute and sexy love the curves just got out of the joint lets’ get to you know you love 2 have a good time with the right girl and ur looking good so hit me up and say whut up and we see how players pimp big daddy out of control – ps i love that photo ofyou with the column whut iz dat, Doric?”
I remember walking through a maze one night as I entered some bloody abbatoire. Taking center stage was a really fucked up looking bitch zombie with blood smeared across her lips and chin. The blood dripped onto her ragged white dolly dress as she rocked back and forth in her thigh-high striped stockings, her hair a mess of gooey natty dreadlocks. She clutched and waved a butcher knife in one hand and a drippy cow tongue in the other. I dunno what it was, but I was sporting serious hots for this bitch zombie — I couldn’t believe how fucking atrociously sexy she was. I went through the maze a second time just so I could see her again, and she and I made a connection. A very human/bitch zombie connection.
“You again?!” she said! “Come here and become a slab of meat.”
“An honor,” I said, melting away.
Ultimately we realized that we really had more differences than similarities and we just kind of decided to each go our own way. I never saw her again after that second time. Ah, my whirlwind romance with the bitch zombie tart at Knott’s Scary Farm.
Anyone who witnessed even a fragment of the history would agree that it was obviously a bitter rivalry, this match between the two seen-it-all biddies Grandma Leibovitz and Old Lady Wooten.
Leibovitz, (three-time ultra-light-retirement champion, fighting out of the Holyfield Gym,) was known on the block for her incessant efforts to get her dubiously attractive dentist grandson set up with all the eligible gals in town, often with little success. This was occasionally because Wooten was known for subverting Leibovitz’ efforts by switching the gals’ attentions to her handsome grandson, the guy who cleaned the pork fat out of the discard barrel at the butcher shop.
In the two days prior, Wooten (fighting out of the Balboa Gym with a 3-8 record in the professional circuit) had cut some serious weight to get from a hefty 101 to a spry 95 lbs. It was no surprise that she was feeling a little batty from lack of hydration. Leibovitz, on the other hand, weighed in at a lean 94 lbs, but she was pure muscle.
Round 1: Wooten (in the lavender trunks) comes out quickly with several jabs and two over-hand rights. Leibovitz (mauve trunks) dodges most of these with great skill and lands two solid shots to the ribs of Wooten. The judges are split, in favor of Wooten.
Round 2: Leibovitz races to the center of the canvas, circles Wooten and forces her into the corner. From here, Leibovitz hammers on Wooten’s solar plexus.
Round 3: Wooten heeds the plea of her corner. She leads this round with two huge left hooks and a serious right upper-cut. Leibovitz was stunned for most of the round.
Round 4: Leibovitz is determined to gain back her lead. She rushes her opponent and hammers on her. Wooten fires back with an amazing combo of jabs and powerful rights. Leibovitz apparently loses her footing and hits the canvas. As she attempts to stand, Wooten checks her with a solid right. Leibovitz hits the canvas again and steadily gets back to her feet. Sensing her opportunity, Wooten draws back her entire body and lets a right hook sail across the ring into Leibovitz’ jaw. Leibovitz is knocked out of the ring and as Leibovitz is unable to continue fighting, Wooten is declared the winner.
The victory, however, is short-lived. Leibovitz’s corner demands that Wooten be tested for performance-enhancing drugs. As the results were returned, Wooten tested positive for Belgian brown ale. The win was overturned, Wooten’s boxing license was revoked, and Wooten is forced to leave the neighborhood.
The good news is that Leibovitz’ grandson met a fine young lady and they’ve been dating for almost a week.
When I give a lady a compliment, I like to compliment her on something for which she probably doesn’t get a lot of attention. Women know when they have amazing tits and a gorgeous ass and there’s no need to bring that up unless you can’t find any other nice thing to say about her. That’s pretty rare for a woman, so even if you can compliment her on her choice of fabric for the day, that’s a start. Women appreciate a man who notices the minutia, the small details, and if you want to get anywhere with the fairer sex, you have to demonstrate a heightened awareness; Compliment a woman on the qualities for which she gets the least attention, but be genuine. A woman’s self-esteem diminishes when she reads a compliment as counterfeit, and that defeats the purpose.
Here’s a compliment I recently extended to a pretty mocha honey I ran into at work:
“Hi, I don’t mean to come off as too forward or anything, but I was hoping to pay you a compliment: Your Social Security Number is very symmetrical.”
“I love how it’s all even numbers and how it increases at the beginning and then decreases at the end. Very sexy.”
“How did you get my Social Security Number?”
“Personnel files. I knew that there was something special about you and I was determined to find out what it was.”
“I am entranced by you.”
Women are usually very insecure about their Social Security Numbers, sometimes going to great lengths to keep them out of the hands of strangers, but if you have access to that information, the outcome of her happiness will justify your methodology.
One caveat about telling a woman something nice: While it’s always tempting to follow up your compliment with some awkward pick-up line, NEVER DO THAT. A compliment is a stand-alone gift. You put it out there, she takes it and it’s a done-deal. Women are like dogs: and while they can’t smell fear, they *are* sensitive to ulterior motives and squirrelly behavior. Pay your compliment and then get the hell out of there. Let her marinate in your good juices.
A Latin honey I am marginally acquainted with got the following royal treatment from me recently:
“Hi, I don’t mean to come off as too forward or anything, but I was hoping to pay you a compliment: You have an amazing neck.”
“Thank you! I’ve never really liked my neck. I think it’s too long and chunky”
“I completely disagree. Your neck is very taut with a pleasant and consistent texture. It has an even color and very few craggy striations, it smells great and draws my attention away from other women around you. I love the way your neck curves under your jawbone and up toward your ears. It’s regal and it really gives ’base’ to your head.”
“Wow, nobody’s ever complimented me on my neck before.”
“Well, when I notice perfection I feel it’s my duty to say something.”
“Would you like to have coffee some time?”
“No, I should walk away because a compliment is a stand-alone gift.”
“I am entranced by you.”
Do you see the delicious sexual tension I created in this scenario? This woman had a negative belief about her neck which I was easily able to turn around by focusing on her, paying attention to the details and then telling her what I felt. From that point on, whenever she looks at her neck in the mirror, she’s not going to see it as long and chunky, she’s going to look at it as sculpted and sexy. She will remember my compliment and forever think something positive about herself. Bingo.
I met a white/Filipina at a party a few weeks ago and she got a little special attention from me, the master:
“Hi, I don’t mean to come off as too forward or anything, but I was hoping to pay you a compliment: I really love your blue blouse.”
“You’re welcome. What do you call that shade?”
“Turquoise? That sounds very exotic. I also like your vermilion blouse.”
“Yeah, the vermilion blouse you just picked up at Loehman’s yesterday.”
“Wow, we just met tonight, and yet you are attentive enough to know about a blouse I bought yesterday at a store clean across town. That makes your compliment seem more credible!”
“Yeah, the vermilion blouse will be perfect for drawing attention away from your perfect earlobes.”
“You think that I have perfect earlobes?”
“Well now I’m a little embarrassed; Really I just meant to focus on complimenting your blouses; I never meant to get into a whole thing about how perfect your earlobes, elbows and nostrils are.”
“OMG! I’ve always hated my elbows and nostrils! I was going to get surgery!”
“Save your money. Your nostrils are perfectly kidney-shaped and are evenly spaced. And from this angle I can see that your elbow skin is elastic enough to permit free movement, and even with your arm fully extended I see absolutely no wrinkle artifacting. I personally know eight women who would die to have elbows as sexy as yours.”
“I am entranced by you!”
1. Radiate confidence
2. Know your place
3. Be witty, but don’t be a smart-ass.
4. Be intelligent
5. Contribute around the house; help while cooking; help with the dishes.
6. Write thank-you notes
7. Make love to mom.
When I’ve been dating a girl for a while and it develops that she’s been smoking rock cocaine I think that maybe I would really have to think about parting ways with her.
I’d think about it, but it’s tough, you know?
It’s tough when someone you love starts smoking on the base pipe. The base pipe is the worst pipe. Lead pipe is pretty bad pipe, but base pipe is worst pipe.
The Crack Rock ain’t no joke and so I’d probably want to sit her down and talk to her about her problem. I promised my Drug Abuse Resistance Education officer I would at least do that.
Boy, isn’t it a bitch the way the world works? It’s just not fair.
You finally meet someone who’ll put up with you for more than an hour… And she’s gentle and she’s fun to drink lager with and her sweat tastes like honey… and her flatulence smells like vanilla and she knows how to balance a checkbook.
And by the way, she smokes the rock cocaine drugs.
I’d really consider talking to her about maybe stopping or else we might have to part ways.
“I don’t understand why are you breaking up with me?”
“I think it is important to re-evaluate what’s going on between you and me.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“It has come to my attention that you’re doing something that I’m not really cool with.”
“What did I do? What am I doing that you’re not cool with?”
“[sigh. . .] I saw you doing something that is against the law.”
“What? Will you please tell me? What am I doing?”
“I saw you smoke the rock.”
“Whattayathink I’m talking about? Pop Rocks? You’re smoking the rock!!”
“The goddamn crack cocaine rock! The Base Rock! You ever heard people say, ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you smoking the rock?’ Well, they’re talking about you!! People who smoke the rocks of crack cocaine!
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t understand – you’re high on the cocaine rocks!”
“Okay, look, in the interest of advancing this dialogue, I will admit to smoking the rocks. But you do illegal things too!”
“Speeding. Jaywalking. You cheated on your taxes. . .”
“What the fuck are you — YES! Okay, but I’m not on The Rocks! I’m not freebasing the rock cocaine. Right? The government would prefer that I was fucking around a little bit on my taxes than smoking coca drugs. And jaywalking? Jaywalking doesn’t kill babies! Look, you violated a basic trust mechanism. You violated it. We have an agreement — it’s not a WRITTEN agreement, but it’s an implied social contract that there will be no lying, no cheating, no stealing, hurting or killing… and, you DON’T SMOKE COCAINE!”
“When did you become such a fucking square? You smoked pot for fifteen years.”
“Pot and cocaine are two COMPLETELY different beasts. Fifteen years of pot doesn’t even approach a single four-day binge on The Pipe. Does it? In fifteen years of smoking pot I never once broke into someone’s home in order to feed my habit.”
“It was a garage.”
“I didn’t break into a house, I broke into a garage.”
“What the fuck — That’s beside the point. Are you really arguing that there’s a material difference between breaking into a house to steal shit so you can sell it and get high, and breaking into a house?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“It’s the same fucking thing! Look, I’m just saying that by dating you I’d be initiating the beginning of my own downward spiral. Believe me, I wish I could change the rules, but my hands are tied here. Effective immediately this relationship is in dissolution.”
Yeah, if my old lady was sucking that glass dick, believe me, buddy, I’d totally have to take a stand, do the healthy thing and sever the cord, you know?
But goddammit… she knows how to balance a checkbook.
For fun I searched The Net for my 4th grade girlfriend. That is to say, she was my 4th grade girlfriend because she was my 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade.
I’ve lost you.
Let me try again.
When I was in the 4th grade I had a girlfriend in the 3rd grade. I wasn’t in the 3rd grade, my girlfriend was the 3rd grader, and she was my girlfriend in the 4th grade.
I was in the 4th grade and had a 3rd grade girlfriend, so she was my girlfriend in the 4th grade, in the 3rd grade.
Got it? 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade.
So anyway I typed her name into The Net and hit enter and crossed my fingers and there she was, her picture staring back at me! Above her beaming smile hung Bitch-Goggles — oversized glamour-puss sunglasses designed to transform cute, normal, nice girls into snobbish tinted bus windshields.
There’s her picture! Look at her smile! Look at those teeth! I remember those teeth! They look exactly the same as when I’d first seen my 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade, in the 2nd grade. She was in the 2nd grade and I was in the 3rd grade when I first saw my 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade.
What a mind-fuck to see a 30 year old version of the first girl to ever crush my spirit. And there was her picture. And there were her words.
I could remember that cheerful blonde 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade playing Chinese Jumprope in her kung fu slippers with her friends. Her feet pecking the hot San Fernando Valley asphalt like drumstick tips on a tight snare.
We once shared an Astropop as we watched some kids play handball. My 4th grade 3rd grade girlfriend and I watched some 3rd and 4th grade kids play handball on the handball court in the 4th grade. Or at least *I* was in the 4th grade. We hadn’t kissed yet, but we’d swapped spit on the Astropop. That was pretty hot.
Soon things got a little dicey. Within a few months of our romance, she started dropping hints, evolved to making suggestions, and culminated with outright requests that I procure for her some manner of golden neckwear. I ain’t talking scarves; I mean actual golden metal.
“I wouldn’t mind having a chain someday. I think that you should buy me a chain someday. Are you gonna get me a chain or do I have to date Jon?”
My 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th graded wanted 24k! 24k for 3rd G G in the 4th G!
I was panicked! Panicked! If I didn’t buy this 3rd grader a gold chain, she’d find another beau. What pressure! Who poisoned this quick-footed, round-toothed blondie?
This was all becoming a very sophisticated relationship.
How did the 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade expect her 4th grade boyfriend to buy a 1st rate necklace for a 3rd grader? How could I possibly find such capital to fund a jewelry purchase? I had very little equity in my Nash skateboard. I didn’t even know how to multiply! Where could I have gotten a job? I couldn’t complete homework with any regularity, but I should make consistent, timely payments to my jewelry financiers?
If you and I were boyfriend-girlfriend, on our two month anniversary I think it would be pretty hot if I drove us to one of those swap-meet photographers who specialize in photographing cholas so we could have our picture taken together.
Do you know which ones I’m talking about? They’re shot through six layers of cheesecloth and Vaseline so that you can’t make out anybody’s facial features and everybody radiates an ethereal, white Kirlian aura.
Sometimes the homegirls are leanin’ all sexy on an doric column with a fake window or some air-brushed background behind her… flowers in her hair, pouty mouth — posing stomach-down on a bear-skin rug or some shit.
I really believe in enduring symbols of love and chola photography is the way I can best express my fondness for and commitment to you.