Anyone who still has questions about whether there’s alien life on this planet has not met Eddie Love.
When in motion, it was beyond question that Eddie was, in fact, an alien. In a non-ambulant state, Eddie’s looks were certainly passable: a large-ish, hawk-shaped nose (on a good day, a Roman nose; on a bad day it was a Jewish one), warm, sincere brown puppy eyes, and a not overly short build that could certainly pass for somewhat muscled and sound.
Once he started walking, it was all over. To my well-trained anthropologist’s eye, it was evident beyond any reasonable doubt that Eddie had only very recently joined the human race. Clinically speaking, he definitely displayed a number of symptoms characteristic of arrested evolutionary development. He still had proverbial egg yolk behind his ears.
Eddie’s body lacked not only definition, it seemed to lack perimeter. He had a slow, methodical gait best described as something between lumbering and plodding. It was less one foot in front of the other than like one of those wind-up toys whose feet sort of mechanically loop, or rotate, in front of each other.
Although he did not, I could never shake the eerie impression that Eddie had webbed feet. Especially with his toes turned slightly inwards, he walked almost exactly as if he were wearing scuba flippers.
But the worst part about Eddie in motion occurred above the waist, not below it.
Eddie stuck his ass out when he walked. I don’t mean a little bit. I mean he put Black Ghetto Mama to shame. He had a fairly sizeable ass for a white human male, and if he’d worn it tucked somewhat in, it could have even have been considered an attractive physical feature. However, Eddie walked his ass around as if there were peacock feathers sprouting out of it.
But like I said, the worst part of Eddie in motion was above the waist.
What I’m getting at is Eddie’s hands. When Eddie walked, he tucked his elbows up and wore his hands at just above shoulder level, wrists extended back to expose his palms gleefully facing front. From the waist up, his body language was a perpetual expression of a pleasantly surprised Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Maybe he used his hands to counterbalance the weight of his hyper-extended ass. But it was very, very certain that Eddie was simply not used to inhabiting a humanoid form and that he just didn’t quite know how to pull it off.
After a few weeks of watching this, any possible remnants of novelty had worn off and all that was left for me was the grating chafe of embarrassment of being associated with a half-hatched human amoeba. Eddie wasn’t one to take subtle hints: if he were, he would’ve noticed that my tendency to walk on the opposite sidewalk of him when we were going somewhere in public bespoke of an underlying situation that would require eventual address. After all, I lived in Southside Chicago, and any reputational considerations aside, it was an actual safety hazard to be seen walking down those streets with a white man who walked like a blissed-out, oblivious fag.
I tried to enlighten him; to appeal to his senses, as it were. “When we walk down the street together, you are supposed to protect me from real or potential threats”, I lectured him. “This is how you walk” (I imitated a large bird with a spear stuck in its ass). “It does not make me feel safe and protected to walk with you”.
I allowed a few minutes to let the weight of my words penetrate, visualizing a brain deep inside his skull of a consistency, density and color not unlike the ancient peat bog from whence I imagine he had emerged. (In spite of how amazingly dense he was, I was to find out later that Eddie had a genius-level IQ, which made him the closest thing to an idiot savant that I’ve ever dated – or known otherwise). I then launched into the first of what would become a series of walking lessons for Eddie.
My only real goal was to teach him how to walk like a human male, not even so much out of self-interest or to “change him” than for the purely altruistic goal of helping him escape detection for a few more years until his work on this planet was complete. It was painfully obvious that Eddie was new at this human thing, and it was my job to do right by my expensive cultural anthropology degree to teach him our ways so he at least had a fighting chance.
Every woman wants a guy to make her feel special. Eddie definitely did this for me. I felt like he was an important project which, once complete, might change the course of human history as we know it. For the first time in a long while, I felt historically relevant, probably not unlike Rudyard Kipling, when he expressed his sentiments towards his responsibility for the civilization of savages in his famous poem titled “The White Man’s Burden”. Eddie was my savage little alien, sent to me for reasons I had yet to fully understand.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Eddie Love, Part I
I first met Eddie Love on my way to a Grateful Dead show. Between swings on a swing (where else), we arranged for my transportation issues to be solved by means of an available seat behind him on his motorcycle. This seat is generally called “riding Bitch”, but it beats walking and in my opinion also beats the front seat of a motorcycle and its attendant liabilities of snagging bugs with one’s teeth.
Eddie was a postgraduate student of Business Administration at a college (THE college) in Madison, Wisconsin. He had graduated from the University of Chicago with a BA in Physics. He seduced me with his ramblings about how molecules under a microscope do the beautiful dance of the universe and other far-out platitudes which grooved very nicely with the overall pre-Dead concert vibe.
And I’ve found it to be true that motorcycles generally tend to add a point or two on a guy’s hotness scale ranking. I have many stories about motorcycles. Not all have ended well, but so what – they had a motorcycle, and I had them, which invariable makes for a great start. In fact, I could write a book about men and the art of relationship maintenance. But I digress. Which I generally do when encountered with a man and a motorcycle.
After Eddie’s Dead show motorcycle chauffeuring of my super-friendly, peace-loving white ass, he started visiting me in Chicago on the weekends. He’d ride his bike through sub-zero temperatures to my cute little studio apartment in Hyde Park (he could handle the cold – Eddie was a self-described “Bronx Baby” who explained to me that if you don’t resist the wind and the chill, it doesn’t stay inside you, it just kind of goes through you) and we’d have sex and sleep in and in the mornings, he’d walk over to the European-style deli and come back with orange juice, a fresh baguette, smoked Gouda and occasionally, when they were available, an avocado. Then, still camping out in bed, we’d pig out on these delicacies, always to the extreme delight of my taste buds.
Eddie and I didn’t talk about the future or the past. We didn’t make plans. We didn’t take steps to step up the relationship. I enjoyed the simplicity of the arrangement. He’d show up, we’d have a good time, he’d leave and chances are, we’d do the same thing the following weekend – but we never scheduled our time together and we never planned for it. Very basic, simple and free-lovey – a perfect recipe for a young nubile eighteen year-old college student who was more interested in the theoretical negative space of astrophysics than in boys. Boys were a dime a dozen back then. Call it “sex for retards” – literally a no-brainer. It was easy to follow, a convenient mutual pleasure, and we both enjoyed it for what it was and no more and no less.
The most memorable part of the whole thing was the smoked Gouda. That discovery kind of changed my life.
On one weekend, I made the mistake of releasing Eddie into the wilderness of my college partying network. We got drunk, as was generally called for by the social environment. Nothing unusual about that. This was, however, the first time that I was together with Eddie in a social setting with people other than myself present. I left Eddie to his own devices, and he left me to mine. He didn’t make it back to my place that night, but I did not consider this a cause for alarm.
The next morning, I got a phone call from my friend Chandra telling me to pick up Eddie from her place. Her tone of voice betrayed that there was a bit more to the scene. I got the distinct impression that if I didn’t get my ass over there posthaste, her next call was going to be to the Humane Society.
It turns out that Eddie had a proclivity, or penchant if you will, for pissing. He literally had pissed all over Chandra’s room. Everywhere. Every last corner. Eddie had pissed on her bed. He had pissed on her pillow. He had pissed on her floor, her curtains, her clothing, her furniture. From all appearances and from the results of my own amateur forensic investigation of the crime scene, he had spent quite a bit of time diligently hosing down, in excruciating detail, everything my friend Chandra owned. It was almost mystical. I mean, we are talking gallons of the stuff – everywhere. If he’d been around when the Chicago fire started, no one would have ever heard of the fire.
This was the thanks Eddie had given my friend, in his inebriated, dog-like state, for taking him in when he was too out of his head to know where he was supposed to go. According to Chandra, his manic micturations were also not enough to dampen his more debonair side, and at some point between whizzing all over her carpet and her bedding, had also offered to satisfy her every sexual whim, which, under the circumstances, failed to impress her or fill her with longing.
I played a very stern hand with Eddie at that point. Eddie was already well into the self-mortification ritual of a million “I’m sorry’s” before I arrived on the scene, but let’s face it, sometimes “I’m sorry” doesn’t quite cut it, and this happened to be one of those occasions when a little more action was called for before he had any chance at obtaining forgiveness. He was the embodiment of hangdog. He spent the entire day scuttling back and forth from the laundromat with mountains of urine-soaked clothing and bedding, like an apologetic and massively hung-over (Jewish) coolie. After he finally finished cleaning whatever could be cleaned, I sent Eddie away in true German “don’t fuck with me” style, with my finger pointing to the door. On the one hand, how was I supposed to know that the guy I was having a sexual liaison with peed everywhere the second he was released into public? I mean, this is one of those things you can only learn the hard way. It’s not as if he’s going to disclose such a fact to you, and it’s not as if it’s one of those questions one think s of to ask. Although my own father had surprised me in the past with the in-depth nature of the grilling interviews he subjected my romantic prospects to (before I learned to never bring them home, that is), asking pointed questions such as “What is your GPA? What’s your major? Here’s the remote: you have 3 seconds to find the sports channel; What do your parents do for a living? What is your estimated net worth?” not even once did he ever ask the burning question: “When you find yourself in a somewhat delicate social situation, do you consider saturating all available surfaces with your urine within a ten foot, 360 degree radius as a valid form of stress relief?”. I guess you just have to fuck with one eye open, and monitor your guy’s urination habits for a while, an eventuality I was simply not prepared for at the time.
My momma never told me that just because a guy's lovemaking skills are no guarantee that he is housebroken.
That was the last time I saw Eddie. For a few years, anyways. Until we moved in together, that is.
Eddie was a postgraduate student of Business Administration at a college (THE college) in Madison, Wisconsin. He had graduated from the University of Chicago with a BA in Physics. He seduced me with his ramblings about how molecules under a microscope do the beautiful dance of the universe and other far-out platitudes which grooved very nicely with the overall pre-Dead concert vibe.
And I’ve found it to be true that motorcycles generally tend to add a point or two on a guy’s hotness scale ranking. I have many stories about motorcycles. Not all have ended well, but so what – they had a motorcycle, and I had them, which invariable makes for a great start. In fact, I could write a book about men and the art of relationship maintenance. But I digress. Which I generally do when encountered with a man and a motorcycle.
After Eddie’s Dead show motorcycle chauffeuring of my super-friendly, peace-loving white ass, he started visiting me in Chicago on the weekends. He’d ride his bike through sub-zero temperatures to my cute little studio apartment in Hyde Park (he could handle the cold – Eddie was a self-described “Bronx Baby” who explained to me that if you don’t resist the wind and the chill, it doesn’t stay inside you, it just kind of goes through you) and we’d have sex and sleep in and in the mornings, he’d walk over to the European-style deli and come back with orange juice, a fresh baguette, smoked Gouda and occasionally, when they were available, an avocado. Then, still camping out in bed, we’d pig out on these delicacies, always to the extreme delight of my taste buds.
Eddie and I didn’t talk about the future or the past. We didn’t make plans. We didn’t take steps to step up the relationship. I enjoyed the simplicity of the arrangement. He’d show up, we’d have a good time, he’d leave and chances are, we’d do the same thing the following weekend – but we never scheduled our time together and we never planned for it. Very basic, simple and free-lovey – a perfect recipe for a young nubile eighteen year-old college student who was more interested in the theoretical negative space of astrophysics than in boys. Boys were a dime a dozen back then. Call it “sex for retards” – literally a no-brainer. It was easy to follow, a convenient mutual pleasure, and we both enjoyed it for what it was and no more and no less.
The most memorable part of the whole thing was the smoked Gouda. That discovery kind of changed my life.
On one weekend, I made the mistake of releasing Eddie into the wilderness of my college partying network. We got drunk, as was generally called for by the social environment. Nothing unusual about that. This was, however, the first time that I was together with Eddie in a social setting with people other than myself present. I left Eddie to his own devices, and he left me to mine. He didn’t make it back to my place that night, but I did not consider this a cause for alarm.
The next morning, I got a phone call from my friend Chandra telling me to pick up Eddie from her place. Her tone of voice betrayed that there was a bit more to the scene. I got the distinct impression that if I didn’t get my ass over there posthaste, her next call was going to be to the Humane Society.
It turns out that Eddie had a proclivity, or penchant if you will, for pissing. He literally had pissed all over Chandra’s room. Everywhere. Every last corner. Eddie had pissed on her bed. He had pissed on her pillow. He had pissed on her floor, her curtains, her clothing, her furniture. From all appearances and from the results of my own amateur forensic investigation of the crime scene, he had spent quite a bit of time diligently hosing down, in excruciating detail, everything my friend Chandra owned. It was almost mystical. I mean, we are talking gallons of the stuff – everywhere. If he’d been around when the Chicago fire started, no one would have ever heard of the fire.
This was the thanks Eddie had given my friend, in his inebriated, dog-like state, for taking him in when he was too out of his head to know where he was supposed to go. According to Chandra, his manic micturations were also not enough to dampen his more debonair side, and at some point between whizzing all over her carpet and her bedding, had also offered to satisfy her every sexual whim, which, under the circumstances, failed to impress her or fill her with longing.
I played a very stern hand with Eddie at that point. Eddie was already well into the self-mortification ritual of a million “I’m sorry’s” before I arrived on the scene, but let’s face it, sometimes “I’m sorry” doesn’t quite cut it, and this happened to be one of those occasions when a little more action was called for before he had any chance at obtaining forgiveness. He was the embodiment of hangdog. He spent the entire day scuttling back and forth from the laundromat with mountains of urine-soaked clothing and bedding, like an apologetic and massively hung-over (Jewish) coolie. After he finally finished cleaning whatever could be cleaned, I sent Eddie away in true German “don’t fuck with me” style, with my finger pointing to the door. On the one hand, how was I supposed to know that the guy I was having a sexual liaison with peed everywhere the second he was released into public? I mean, this is one of those things you can only learn the hard way. It’s not as if he’s going to disclose such a fact to you, and it’s not as if it’s one of those questions one think s of to ask. Although my own father had surprised me in the past with the in-depth nature of the grilling interviews he subjected my romantic prospects to (before I learned to never bring them home, that is), asking pointed questions such as “What is your GPA? What’s your major? Here’s the remote: you have 3 seconds to find the sports channel; What do your parents do for a living? What is your estimated net worth?” not even once did he ever ask the burning question: “When you find yourself in a somewhat delicate social situation, do you consider saturating all available surfaces with your urine within a ten foot, 360 degree radius as a valid form of stress relief?”. I guess you just have to fuck with one eye open, and monitor your guy’s urination habits for a while, an eventuality I was simply not prepared for at the time.
My momma never told me that just because a guy's lovemaking skills are no guarantee that he is housebroken.
That was the last time I saw Eddie. For a few years, anyways. Until we moved in together, that is.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
A Girl's Checklist for a Hot Date Night
________ Clean the house.
________ Do the laundry.
________ While doing the laundry, select your wardrobe for the evening. Decide on something cute, somewhat revealing but only in an "accidental" sort of way.
________ Realize you should have done whites, not colors, and now you need to handwash your favorite "lucky" panties.
________ Blowdry your favorite panties while listening to loud music, dancing to it while occasionally using the blowdryer as a microphone..
________ Realize you have just accidentally browned your lucky panties with the blowdryer. Duh -- you weren't gonna wear cottons, you idiot -- polyester is flammable, remember? Decide they are still your lucky panties because it could've been much worse and you might have burned your eyebrows off.
________ Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of wine to get over the trauma of the burnt panties.
________ Re-select your wardrobe for the evening based on a new set of panties.
________ Pour yourself another glass of wine to help you decide on your new wardrobe.
________ Decide on something racy, sophisicated and splashy.
________ Realize you are starting to run short of time and you haven't even showered or done your nails yet.
________ Prepare for your shower. Hang up the silk shirt in the bathroom so the moisture will straighten it out, as you no longer have time to iron it.
________ While showering, loofah your entire body, paying extra attention to your hindquarters. Scrub furiously in an attempt to increase circulation to a degree where any and all cellulite will completely rub out on the spot.
________ Shave like there's no tomorrow. Re-shape your pubic area into a perfect arrowhead.
________ Apply body oil or something fragrant and emollient to your entire body before you step out of the shower, a New Woman in body and soul.
________ Wrap yourself into your brand-new luxurious Cornflower Blue towel.
________ Curse like fuck when you realize you look like the Cookie Monster because the new towel has left blue fur all over your freshly oiled body..
________ Get back in the shower, rinse the shit off while cursing profusely..
________ Realize you have no fucking towel.
________ Tear through the house to the linen closet, get an "Old Faithful" towel, and dry off while remembering to curse profusely in an effective Turrets-Syndrome simulation.
________ Put on your outfit. Model in front of the mirror and practice assuming the body pose which is most suited to flatter your choice of clothing. Repeat to yourself "One must suffer to be beautiful", even if it's hard to say multiple times with your tummy sucked into your spine.
________ Pour one more glass of wine and consume it upside-down while simultaneously blowdrying your hair from the roots down, smoking a cigarette and rocking out to a poor choice of music.
_______ Apply hair spray, in measured amounts (don't want the hair to appear sticky when Man runs fingers through it) -- just enough to give it a spot of lift and fresh kick.
________ Use curling iron painstakingly to create a "natural", "windblown" effect, meanwhile smoking a cigarette to ease the anxiety of running ruinously late.
________ Decide you do not want to come across as a chainsmoking aging whore and apply more hairspray to mask the cigarette odor.
________ Go into an absolute panic when you realize you have sealed in the cigarette odor with the hairspray.
________ Decide that if He is Somebody, he will appreciate you for who you really are. To confirm this decision with yourself, light up another cigarette and touch up your hair with the blowdryer, meanwhile being very careful to not "pull a Michael Jackson" by igniting your hair with the combustible combo.
________ Apply make-up. To steady your nervous hand, pour another glass of wine. Crank up the radio. "Get into the Groove". Slip up with the liquid eyeliner and go into another Turrets Episode.
________ In spite of what you told yourself earlier, you are not going to risk smelling like his grandmother if and when he sticks his tongue down your throat. Gargle 1-1/2 times the recommended amount of Scope for 45 seconds while dancing seductively to '80's music. As an afterthought, swallow the lot in a desperate hope that somehow the Scope will filter into your lungs and elimate the source of the odor.
________ Dance one more time in front of the mirror while bearing your breasts in an attempt to get an objective impression of what he will see later tonight. Revise your pose to accommodate nudity. Put your hands on your thighs, shake your tits and hips and go into an agony of self-doubt. Hope that the idea of ill-lit rooms turns him on immeasurably. Realize you are absolutley drunk and can't walk so well in your favorite hooker boots. Opt for a size-down in heel length.
________ Brush your teeth.
________ Re-apply lipstick, which came off during the toothbrushing incident.
________ Acknowledge to yourself that you look like Bette Davis in her more demented moments due to a severe mis-application of lipliner.
________ Re-apply lipstick and lipliner.
________ Settle down on the couch and pretend you are calmly reading a magazine.
________ Go empty your bladder. Rejoice that you have probably just lost another pound.
________ Don't wipe; dab. Remain conscientious of the possibility that you will be getting oral sex tonight and you don't want him to catch his teeth on a piece of "TP".
________ Return to the couch.
________ Have one last Turrets Episode when you realize he's already 24 minutes late and hasn't even called.
________ When he arrives, greet him graciously, radiating obvious pleasure in his appearance. Make a feeble attempt at clever, witty and bright small-talk. Allow him to escort you to his vehicle. Have a mental Turrets Episode when you realize that in spite of your earlier downsizing, he is still shorter than you in your heels.
________ Realize you never did your nails and blame this for the disaster you see forthcoming.
________ Do the laundry.
________ While doing the laundry, select your wardrobe for the evening. Decide on something cute, somewhat revealing but only in an "accidental" sort of way.
________ Realize you should have done whites, not colors, and now you need to handwash your favorite "lucky" panties.
________ Blowdry your favorite panties while listening to loud music, dancing to it while occasionally using the blowdryer as a microphone..
________ Realize you have just accidentally browned your lucky panties with the blowdryer. Duh -- you weren't gonna wear cottons, you idiot -- polyester is flammable, remember? Decide they are still your lucky panties because it could've been much worse and you might have burned your eyebrows off.
________ Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of wine to get over the trauma of the burnt panties.
________ Re-select your wardrobe for the evening based on a new set of panties.
________ Pour yourself another glass of wine to help you decide on your new wardrobe.
________ Decide on something racy, sophisicated and splashy.
________ Realize you are starting to run short of time and you haven't even showered or done your nails yet.
________ Prepare for your shower. Hang up the silk shirt in the bathroom so the moisture will straighten it out, as you no longer have time to iron it.
________ While showering, loofah your entire body, paying extra attention to your hindquarters. Scrub furiously in an attempt to increase circulation to a degree where any and all cellulite will completely rub out on the spot.
________ Shave like there's no tomorrow. Re-shape your pubic area into a perfect arrowhead.
________ Apply body oil or something fragrant and emollient to your entire body before you step out of the shower, a New Woman in body and soul.
________ Wrap yourself into your brand-new luxurious Cornflower Blue towel.
________ Curse like fuck when you realize you look like the Cookie Monster because the new towel has left blue fur all over your freshly oiled body..
________ Get back in the shower, rinse the shit off while cursing profusely..
________ Realize you have no fucking towel.
________ Tear through the house to the linen closet, get an "Old Faithful" towel, and dry off while remembering to curse profusely in an effective Turrets-Syndrome simulation.
________ Put on your outfit. Model in front of the mirror and practice assuming the body pose which is most suited to flatter your choice of clothing. Repeat to yourself "One must suffer to be beautiful", even if it's hard to say multiple times with your tummy sucked into your spine.
________ Pour one more glass of wine and consume it upside-down while simultaneously blowdrying your hair from the roots down, smoking a cigarette and rocking out to a poor choice of music.
_______ Apply hair spray, in measured amounts (don't want the hair to appear sticky when Man runs fingers through it) -- just enough to give it a spot of lift and fresh kick.
________ Use curling iron painstakingly to create a "natural", "windblown" effect, meanwhile smoking a cigarette to ease the anxiety of running ruinously late.
________ Decide you do not want to come across as a chainsmoking aging whore and apply more hairspray to mask the cigarette odor.
________ Go into an absolute panic when you realize you have sealed in the cigarette odor with the hairspray.
________ Decide that if He is Somebody, he will appreciate you for who you really are. To confirm this decision with yourself, light up another cigarette and touch up your hair with the blowdryer, meanwhile being very careful to not "pull a Michael Jackson" by igniting your hair with the combustible combo.
________ Apply make-up. To steady your nervous hand, pour another glass of wine. Crank up the radio. "Get into the Groove". Slip up with the liquid eyeliner and go into another Turrets Episode.
________ In spite of what you told yourself earlier, you are not going to risk smelling like his grandmother if and when he sticks his tongue down your throat. Gargle 1-1/2 times the recommended amount of Scope for 45 seconds while dancing seductively to '80's music. As an afterthought, swallow the lot in a desperate hope that somehow the Scope will filter into your lungs and elimate the source of the odor.
________ Dance one more time in front of the mirror while bearing your breasts in an attempt to get an objective impression of what he will see later tonight. Revise your pose to accommodate nudity. Put your hands on your thighs, shake your tits and hips and go into an agony of self-doubt. Hope that the idea of ill-lit rooms turns him on immeasurably. Realize you are absolutley drunk and can't walk so well in your favorite hooker boots. Opt for a size-down in heel length.
________ Brush your teeth.
________ Re-apply lipstick, which came off during the toothbrushing incident.
________ Acknowledge to yourself that you look like Bette Davis in her more demented moments due to a severe mis-application of lipliner.
________ Re-apply lipstick and lipliner.
________ Settle down on the couch and pretend you are calmly reading a magazine.
________ Go empty your bladder. Rejoice that you have probably just lost another pound.
________ Don't wipe; dab. Remain conscientious of the possibility that you will be getting oral sex tonight and you don't want him to catch his teeth on a piece of "TP".
________ Return to the couch.
________ Have one last Turrets Episode when you realize he's already 24 minutes late and hasn't even called.
________ When he arrives, greet him graciously, radiating obvious pleasure in his appearance. Make a feeble attempt at clever, witty and bright small-talk. Allow him to escort you to his vehicle. Have a mental Turrets Episode when you realize that in spite of your earlier downsizing, he is still shorter than you in your heels.
________ Realize you never did your nails and blame this for the disaster you see forthcoming.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Chapter titles of the book I have yet to write
"If You Can't Be A Good Example, Then You'll Just Have To Serve As A Horrible Warning":
Chapter 1: If You're Going To Hitchhike 3000 Miles From NYC To California, Don't Do It In The Dead Of Winter
Chapter 2: When He Says "I Love You" While Pounding Your Head Into The Pavement, Chances Are He's Lying
Chapter 3: It's Actually Poor Form To Buy Live Maine Lobsters And 100 Pounds of Easter Candy With Food Stamps
Chapter 4: If You Want Someone To Look After You In Your Dotage, Don't Boil Your Child's Pet Turtles, Even If It Is An Accident
Chapter 5: If You Must Suffer Through The Heartbreak Of A Painful Divorce, Make Damn Sure You Were Actually Legally Married In The First Place
Chapter 6: Don't Get Pregnant While Having Phone Sex
Chapter 7: Avoid Giving Your Life Savings To Total Strangers
Chapter 8: If He's Fat and Ugly and Smells Bad and Lies, Chance Are He Wasn't Meant For You Anyways
Chapter 9: Don't Buy A Rolex When You're Broke, Unemployed, A Single Parent, And You Gave Your Life Savings To Total Strangers
Chapter 10: Accidents Happen, But Spilling Nacho Cheese Sauce All Over Your Prada Purse Is Downright Portentous
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