Thursday, February 23, 2012
Column 428
E-mail Mrs. Dartoid, PLEASE!
This fall I will have been married to my wife Marylou for d16 years.
On average I throw darts three nights a week, for about three hours a night. I also throw about one tournament a month.
By my calculation this means that I have spent approximately two years and one month of my married life in a bar, and life is wonderful. By Marylou’s calculation this means that I have spent approximately two years and one month of my married life in a bar, and I am one lucky bastard to still be married.
So you see, contrary to humorist Dave Barry’s observations about miscommunication between men and women (which I have appended below, illegally without his permission) my wife and I communicate pretty well.
The truth is I appreciate my wife and LOVE her more than beer. Someday I plan to buy her a horse.
That’s why I am writing this. Something amazing has just happened to her and I want to share it with everybody who follows my writing, all four of you.
Marylou has just won the Golden Nose Award!!!!
Even more astonishing is that this is the 32nd consecutive year in a row, one right after the other, that she has topped her competition.
So please, RIGHT NOW, before you read any further, do me a favor and e-mail Marylou to congratulate her. Her email address is: Marylou
PLEASE do this! You might write something nice like:
Dear Marylou,
You don’t know me but I have just heard that you have won the Golden Nose Award. This is a phenomenal accomplishment! Congratulations!
Sincerely,
(Sign your name HERE)
You might also add the following postscript (this is really important):
PS: I think you should let Paul throw darts tonight.
Possibly, you have not heard of the Golden Nose Award…
More commonly known as just the “Golden Nose,” the honor is bestowed annually, on February 23rd, by a highly esteemed panel of judges, historically comprised of the animals that live in my house, to the “best wife and mother in the world.”
In past years, Marylou has defeated the likes of Madonna, Cher, Cleopatra, and the Spice Girls and for winning has been presented with the Oscar of this honor – a one-of-a-kind, suitable-for-framing, 5 x 7 Polaroid of the nose of a golden retriever.
This year she put the whoop-ass on this month’s Double Out girl who, by the way, is a pig (a sincere observation of mine which you might also point out to Marylou when you write).
So there you have it!
My wife has won the Nose! MY WIFE HAS WON THE NOSE!
I’m so proud of her and love her so much that I’m going to stay married to her, if she lets me, for anther d16 years.
PLEASE E-MAIL HER at: Marylou NOW!!!!
From the Field,
Dartoid
And then, one evening when they’re driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: ”Do you realize that, as of tonight, we’ve been seeing each other for exactly six months?”
And then there is silence in the car. To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he’s been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I’m trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn’t want, or isn’t sure of.
And Roger is thinking: Gosh. Six months.
And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I’m not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I’d have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward… I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?
And Roger is thinking: …so that means it was… let’s see… February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer’s, which means… lemme check the odometer… Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.
And Elaine is thinking: He’s upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I’m reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed – even before I sensed it – that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that’s it. That’s why he’s so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He’s afraid of being rejected.
And Roger is thinking: And I’m gonna have them look at the transmission again. I don’t care what those morons say, it’s still not shifting right. And they better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It’s 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a goddamn garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.
And Elaine is thinking: He’s angry. And I don’t blame him. I’d be angry, too. God, I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can’t help the way I feel. I’m just not sure.
And Roger is thinking: They’ll probably say it’s only a 90-day warranty. That’s exactly what they’re gonna say, the scumballs.
And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I’m just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I’m sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy.
And Roger is thinking: Warranty? They want a warranty? I’ll give them a goddamn warranty. I’ll take their warranty and stick it right up their…
“Roger,” Elaine says aloud.
“What?” says Roger, startled.
“Please don’t torture yourself like this,” she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. “Maybe I should never have… Oh God, I feel so…”
(She breaks down, sobbing.)
“What?” says Roger.
“I’m such a fool,” Elaine sobs. “I mean, I know there’s no knight. I really know that. It’s silly. There’s no knight, and there’s no horse.”
“There’s no horse?” says Roger.
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Elaine says.
“No!” says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer.
“It’s just that… It’s that I… I need some time,” Elaine says.
(There is a 15-second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.)
“Yes,” he says.
(Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.)
“Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?” she says.
“What way?” says Roger.
“That way about time,” says Elaine.
“Oh,” says Roger. “Yes.”
(Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she speaks.)
“Thank you, Roger,” she says.
“Thank you,” says Roger.
Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it’s better if he doesn’t think about it. (This is also Roger’s policy regarding world hunger.)
The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it, either.
Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Elaine’s, will pause just before serving, frown, and say, “Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?”
