Translation, please?!
It’s documented all over the history of the world that men and women speak different languages, are interested in different things and have different ways of doing things.
Last night, Brad and I were chatting on the phone. He was waiting for his friend, Jesse, to call back so when his call-waiting beeped, I let him go. I did a few things around the house, ate some dinner, etc. About an hour and a half later, I called Brad and he didn’t answer, which meant he was still on the other line. So I waited another 30-45 minutes and tried again. This time, Brad picked up and said, “Hey, I’m sorry baby. I’m still on the other line.”
So I said, “That’s okay, keep talking. I’ll just come over.”
“You’re coming over?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
Then he said, “Okay, well… I’ve got iced-tea, water, whisky and a half a bottle of wine.”
Now, what this man meant to say, in woman-speak, was, “I only have this this and this at the house so if you want something other than this this and this, you’d better go pick it up on your way.” A woman would also add to that, “And honey, since you’re stopping, can you also pick up this this and this for me while you’re at out?!”
We said our goodbyes and I got in my car and went over. As soon as I walked through his front door, I heard him in his kitchen telling Jesse on the phone that I was there and that he should go, so I yelled out, “No baby, don’t worry about it. Keep talking!”
But he got off the phone anyway. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me tell him to not mind me or if he was just done talking. The next thing he did was walk over to me and give me lots and lots and lots of funny, lovey-dovey kisses.
“Wow,” I thought, “unusually affectionate.”
Then he started talking. Was he drunk, or did he somehow manage to have a stroke in the last 2 minutes?! He sounded like, “Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy behbeh. Haz m’behbeh? I l’you.”
I led him back into his kitchen and got myself some iced-tea. We sat there and chatted for awhile. Then I decided I wanted some wine. As he had obviously had enough, I took his wine away from him and helped myself to his glass. A little later, he remembered that there was wine in this world and in his very kitchen nonetheless and tried to take a sip of (now) my wine. I grabbed the glass as he tried to snatch it away and we started to play tug of war for it. Then, realizing that in his drunken stupor he would not outdo me in our tug of war, he tried to get his lips to the glass for a sip as we were wrestling. I have never seen a human stretch his lips that far away from his face before. Monkeys and horses? Yes. But not a human, much less the human with whom I plan to spend the rest of my life. And I won’t even begin to describe the giraff-like way his out-stretched lips were pulling his neck and unusually large head.
The lip stretching had me in stitches. I remarked that I was somewhat surprised to find him so drunk at eight o’clock in the evening. He responded slurringly, “Baby, what did you expect? I told you I only had a half of bottle of wine!”
Now, often after working an event, there will be several open bottles of wine and Brad will take one home. Therefore, it’s not so unusual that he only has half a bottle of wine. I naturally assumed that this was one of those times. But no. What he actually meant was that he had drunk everything EXCEPT a half a bottle of wine. Lord.
When I pointed this out, he slurred defensively, “I was on the phone for a few hours with Jesse and you know… Baby! I forgot to eat dinner!”
After he realized he wasn’t getting any more of MY wine, he exclaimed in true snotty snooty British Butler style, “Fine! I’m going to take off all my clothes and go to bed! Good luck getting laid tonight.” He took off his clothes, brushed his teeth and got under the covers. He tried to pull me down with him. I lay there with him for a minute but reminded him that it was nine o’clock and unlike him, I am not an old man (he’s in his 30s but has the sleep schedule of an 80 year old.) I was not ready to go to bed. He said, “Fine! Have a spaghetti party all by yourself!”
I know you’re probably assuming that’s just drunk talk. But actually, he’s not talking out of his ass - for once. One night, many moons ago, I had a spaghetti party. If you’re interested in reading about it, check out tomorrow’s blog.
After he promptly passed out, I sat in the kitchen and worked on the crossword puzzle, attempted a sudoku and read my book while finishing my glass of wine (half glass, I’d like to point out, since that was all that he left me.) Then I showered and went to bed.
At six o’clock the next morning, having nine hours of sleep, Brad woke right up and felt the urge to wake me up to tell me that he was awake. “Good morning baby. I love you. I’m going to get up now.” Then he proceded to tell me exactly what he was going to do all day in minute-by-minute breakdown, what I like to call ‘thinking out loud.’ I looooooooooove when he does this. I especially love it when it’s the crack of dawn and I’M FUCKING ASLEEP!
He keeps going on and on until I finally cut in and say, “Brad! Stop fucking talking to me!” I mean COME ON!! We all know I am not a morning person and as I went to bed HOURS after he did (as usual) I am not ready to wake up so LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! I mean come on people! He knows me better than anyone and he knows I’m useless in the mornings. If I didn’t have a job to go to SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, I’d sleep practically all day. Sleeping is my favorite hobby for Christ’s sake. This is no secret. Even when I go to bed early, I still sleep until about five minutes before I have to leave the house to go wherever.
At 9:30am on the nose, I woke up all alone without Brad’s prodding and without an alarm. At first Brad was mystified at how I accomplished this feat. But it was no conundrum, really. One of his neighbors was cracked out and beating the wall of his apartment with an iron crowbar because it apparently talked smack and the crackhead decided to teach the wall a lesson. The noise woke me up and I got up and went to work at the Lindley Apartments. I had to drive like a bat out of hell to make it to Encino in order to sign a lease for someone at 10am and they were AN HOUR LATE. Fucking people, I swear. I should start an etiquette school.
