Difference between Chick Chores & Dude Duties in the Household Labor Game

Posted on March 16, 2015 by Darcy

So then…a few of us enjoy delicious shrimp pasta at our friends’ house (Pam and Rob) when the husband says, “You haven’t been here in awhile. After dinner, I’ll show you the lawn I re-seeded.”

Now between you and me, I can’t imagine anything more boring than watching grass grow – especially if there’s more pasta and wine to consume – but I dutifully tag along for the viewing.

The men nod approvingly as Rob gestures about, explaining the month-long project to rip out the bad stuff and install the good stuff.

Then he takes us into the garage where he shows us a new tool bench and shelving system he built. It’s actually pretty impressive – and he beams as the others compliment him and clap him on the back.

As the women head back into the house, one says to Pam, “Wow, that’s so great your husband’s so helpful around the house.”

“Yes, well,” she says, a smidge less enthusiastically than one might expect.

I shoot her an encouraging smile and say, “What’s up?”

“Well, sure he takes on a project here and there – but he doesn’t really ‘help’ around the house. He’s not doing any of the day-to-day grind – like doing dishes, folding laundry, making meals…”

The other women nod their heads in agreement.

“Same here,” says one.

“Yeah,” says the other. “Mine will happily show you how he refinished the patio chairs – in excruciating detail – but ask him to empty the dishwasher and he’s not interested at all. He’s like, ‘but won’t we just have to empty it again tomorrow?’”

We laugh.

“Exactly!” Says the other woman. “They don’t like doing maintenance chores that are repetitive. There’s no sense of final accomplishment. You fold a load of laundry – so what? There’s another load tomorrow. Clean some dishes? Oh damn, they’ll just get dirty again at the next meal. There’s no final moment of glory – like, ‘TA-DA! It’s done!’”

The second woman says, “So are women wired differently? Repetitive tasks don’t drive us as crazy as they drive the men – or do we just get stuck with those tasks?”

“I don’t know,” says Pam. “And is it different when both spouses work outside the home?”

“Sometimes it’s reversed,” says the first woman. “I have some friends whose husbands typically do the cooking. And some couples seem to do a good job of splitting all the work. But most of the time, I see the wives doing the day-to-day stuff – and the men handle the trash, the car, and the ‘projects.’”

“Yes!” Pam says, laughing. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad Rob pitches in – but I just find it funny that some men are much more interested if the task has a clear beginning, middle, and end – especially if the end is something grand that you can point out to your friends and neighbors like ‘hey, look what I did!’”

That’s a really good point. I’ve yet to walk into someone’s home where the wife grabbed us to check out her linen closet to see how nicely she folded the towels in color-coordinated stacks.

None of my pals invites her guests over to the dishwasher to demonstrate the proper bowl-to-plate-ratio loading technique that results in such spotless dishes.

And I’ve yet to see a wife point to the carpet to say, “Look how nicely I vacuumed this rug – it took me three adjustments on the settings to be sure the machine really sucked up all the dirt!”

And yet, I’ve been on plenty of home visits where the husbands have proudly pointed out the results of their latest projects in the garage, the yard, or the house. We get to hear in glorious detail exactly how many nurseries he had to visit before finding just the right size and type of tree to work so well in that northern corner of the yard.

(Of course, with everyone so busy with work and kids, it’s wonderful to get any help at all around the house.)

But the whole time I’m nodding along as these women good-naturedly joke around about task differentiation between some men and women…

All I can think is…

OMIGOD, I’m a dude!

I’m TOTALLY a dude!

I LOATHE repetitive maintenance tasks. I suppose most people do – but I mean I REALLY hate them – and chiefly because they never end – and there IS no sense of TA-DA!

I NEED a TA-DA! I’m a glory-hound of the highest order!

I’d much rather take on a project that has some gloating perks, even if it means working longer and harder than the maintenance tasks!

I don’t want to spend 20 minutes cleaning the kitchen – but I’ll happily spend two hours completely reorganizing the pantry, fridge, and cabinets! TA-DA!

I’ll gladly show you some insane dessert creation that took me hours to concoct –

or a hilarious Powerpoint presentation for my friend’s birthday featuring photos, snarky captions, and inside jokes that took me literally weeks to create –

or anything else OTHER than the mind-numbingly boring chores of household duties.

And since I work full-time, I don’t feel too guilty admitting I outsource some of that work to a fabulous housekeeper I’m happy to pay.

And of course there are plenty of women more talented than I am who accomplish amazing home and yard projects that are definitely TA-DA worthy!

So my questions for you are:

1) What’s the division of labor like at your house – who gets the repetitive maintenance tasks – and who gets the TA-DA projects?

2) Which type do you PREFER – or are you cool with both?

And if you’re cool with both, what time can you be at my house?

— Darcy Perdu

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(What’s the division of labor like at your house – who gets the repetitive maintenance tasks – and who gets the TA-DA projects? Which type do you PREFER – or are you cool with both?)

He Whispers, “I’m Not Supposed to Do This, But…”

Posted on November 4, 2014 by Darcy

So then…Bessie attempts a tumble — stumbles, sputters, gasps, then dies.

I drape my body across my dryer and murmur, “Oh Bessie, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Time of death: halfway through the Towel Cycle, Which Also Includes My Panties, so Now My Dryer is Dead AND I’ve Got Damp Drawers.

Oh, how I loved this dryer – sturdy, dependable, full of hot air…(much like my third boyfriend)…and long-lasting (not at all like my third boyfriend).

In fact, this dryer (named the reliable, trustworthy Bessie) has out-lasted THREE finicky washers, named Natalia, Bianca, and Fiona. Fiona’s been repaired twice in the past 6 months alone, so I know it’s time to…

Gasp…buy a new washer-dryer set!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!

Get a hold of yourself, woman! It can’t be that difficult. Just Google that shit.

I type in “best price for washer and dryer” and the internet EXPLODES!

There are 10.1 MILLION results. Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat!

I’m overwhelmed by the multitude of choices. So I zip to a real-live store to talk to a real-live person.

“Hello, my name is Darren. Can I help you find something today?”

I turn to the nice young man and say mournfully, “Bessie is dead.”

He looks alarmed, like “Oh shit do I know someone named Bessie? Who is this chick? Why is she telling me Bessie’s dead? I sell appliances, not caskets!”

Being a consummate sales professional, Darren keeps these thoughts to himself.

I clarify. “Bessie, my Beloved Dryer, is dead. And Fiona the Washer is not far behind.”

“Ohhh,” says Darren, somewhat relieved that I’m not mourning a human death – and delighted I’m about to make a large purchase in his department.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shopped for a washer-dryer though, so…” I gesture helplessly to the floor models. “I mean look at these washers – I don’t know if I need ‘Steam Clean, Aqua Jet, Blue LED Lights, or a Diamond Drum!’”

He smiles and asks, “Well, let’s start with the basics. Do you want a Top Load Washer or a Front Load Washer?”

“SELF-Load, Darren. I want a SELF-load washer that will load ITSELF.”

He laughs. “Well, they haven’t invented that yet. But come look at these Top Load washers.”

I peer into the CLEAR top of the washer. “Why is the top SEE-THROUGH?”

“So you can see the clothes being washed,” he says enthusiastically.

Um, no. I do not want to know how the sausage is made, thankyouverymuch.

And who wants to watch clothes being washed? That’s just a step above watching paint dry, for God’s sake.

(Although – even as I’m typing this, I’m sure someone’s pitching a reality show based on this very concept right now! Coming this fall, Discovery Channel’s “DIRTY LAUNDRY” airs at 5 pm on Fridays AND 10 am on Saturdays AND 3 pm on Sundays AND…well, you get the point…the frickin’ laundry NEVER ENDS!)

But seriously, nobody wants to see behind the curtain. Not the phone, not the watch, and certainly not the washer.

The oven’s an entirely different matter.

A window to watch my chocolate chip cookies plump to a delicious golden brown? Yes please!

Apparently none of the washer-dryers here make cookies.

I open the needlessly-clear lid and look inside the washer.

“Hey!” I say, pointing at the empty cylinder. “Where’s the…the…?”

“Agitator?” asks Darren.

“Yeah, doesn’t it need that?’”

“No, it doesn’t really help wash the clothes.” He grins. “The agitator just ‘agitates’ them.”

OK perhaps that’s a hilarious joke amongst appliance folk, but now this is all I can picture:

Also, I’m highly suspicious of a washer without that swirly-thingamabob aka agitator in the middle. Will the clothes REALLY get clean without that pole-blade pushing them around?

(Well, I suppose I could stand there and WATCH the clothes through my handy-dandy SEE-THROUGH top to MAKE SURE they’re really getting clean.)

Aw fuck it. Who am I to tell WhirlpoolMaytagGESamsungKenmore how to do their job?

Yank out the agitator – make the lid see-through – add steam and 78 settings – fine. Whatevs. Can I please just leave here for less than $1500?

Seriously.

“Darren, when did washer dryers get so expensive? I thought they’d be about $400 each – these are all $700 bucks a pop!”

Darren looks right, then left, then motions me to the side of the aisle. He lowers his voice and says, “Look, I’m not supposed to do this, but…”

(OMIGOD! I LOVE when salespeople say that – in fact, I love when ANYONE says that! Because you KNOW that WHATEVER follows “I’m not supposed to do this, but…” is gonna be AWESOME!)

And it is.

He continues, “…we’re having a huge sale starting in 3 days, so if you can wait until then, you can save over $500 on this set right here.”

He guides me to his desk computer, where he opens the sale ad on his employee email.

I look at the set. It’s fancy. And yes I can wait 3 days. I’ll tell everyone in my family to get cozy in their undies cuz they’re gonna wear those puppies for 3 days straight.

“Awesome, Darren! You’re the best. I’ll be back in 3 days. And the store delivers?”

“Oh, yes,” he assures me. “Our team will deliver the washer-dryer to your home, set them up, haul away the old ones, and—”

“—stay to do the laundry?” I ask hopefully.

He laughs. “No, no, they won’t do that.”

“Well, a girl can dream,” I say.

He gives me his card; I thank him profusely; I promise to return in 3 days for the purchase.

When I get home, I practically skip into the living room where David and our teen son Tucker are watching TV.

“How’d the washer dryer hunt go?” asks David.

“I made a friend! His name is Darren! He’s saving me $500 on a washer dryer!” Pause “I have to sleep with him, but still…”

“$500? Totally worth it,” says David.

Tucker laughs and returns to his TV show.

He knows that OF COURSE I wouldn’t sleep with a salesman just to save $500.

(But I tell you what, whoever invents that SELF-loading washer, you’ve got a freebie comin’ your way, baby!)

— Darcy Perdu

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(What do you wish YOUR washer-dryer could do? Any “special deals” a nice salesperson gave you? What’s a good name for a reality show about laundry?)

Ready to Murder my Boyfriend – JUSTIFIABLY!

Posted on October 31, 2014 by Darcy

So then…I shout, “Fine!”

And then he shouts, “FINE!” — slams the door, gets in his car, and drives to work.

I seethe.

We’re in the middle of a big argument and he bails just to go to work? Where are his priorities?

He works at night, so it’s already dark out. I head to the kitchen.

I’m so mad at him, I can barely eat dinner. But it’s pasta and chocolate chip cookies, so I suffer through. In fact, I’m such a martyr, I suffer through several helpings.

I replay the argument in my head.

I was being logical, reasonable, rational – raising excellent points and substantiating them with clear, concise examples.

He was being a jerkfacemonkeybutt.

Normally we get along fine – we’ve been living together awhile now – we’re in our 30’s with good jobs, a decent house, and a pretty chill lifestyle – we’re laidback and laugh a lot.

But when he’s being a jerkfacemonkeybutt, I find him to be insufferable and quickly catalog every tiny thing about him that drives me insane.

As I walk through the house putting away the laundry, I notice things like:

This is the stupidest shirt ever. Why does he wear this shirt?
Seriously, can he not put his dishes IN the dishwasher instead of the sink?
I suppose the trash can was just too far away for this soda can.
Why is his golf club IN the house? That’s stupid. He’s stupid.
Ugh, look at his shoes. His shoes are annoying me.

I watch TV. I note how all the boyfriends on TV are so much better, nicer, funnier, smarter, and sweeter than my boyfriend.

I do a little paperwork, polish off the last cookies, and head down the hallway to the bedroom.

Just then I hear a loud THUMP CRASH!

My heart stops. I freeze.

It’s close to midnight. He’s not due back til 2:00 am. I’m not expecting any visitors.

What the hell was that?

Is someone out there?

I had whirled around when I heard the noise, so my legs and arms are all akimbo in the hallway – but I’m literally frozen solid like a fossilized dinosaur mid-run when the glacial apocalypse hits.

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My heart is hammering.

I muster up my courage and dart toward the sound. The front door is WIDE OPEN.

WIDE OPEN TO THE BIG BLACK SCARY NIGHT.

I rush to slam it shut and lock it.

I lean against it, breathing hard, arms spread out against the door to keep the bad guys out.

Oh shit, what if they are already inside and I just locked them in here with me?

Panic!

I run to the kitchen for a huge knife and the portable phone.

Do I search the house?
They might be hiding somewhere inside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
Do I run to my car in the driveway?
There might be more of them outside.
They’ll jump out and murder me.
I’m surrounded!

I pause in the kitchen holding the knife in front of me — leaning forward, concentrating fiercely to try to hear where they are.

Outside, I hear rustling – are they trying to get in the house – or is the wind whipping the tree branches and leaves around? Are coyotes out there?

Inside I hear creaking – are they walking around – or is this old house settling?

More rustling — more snapping, crackling – are those footsteps? Is someone banging on the window?

I’m seriously in a panic. I have no choice. I have to call 911.

“Hi um I’m really scared I think someone’s trying to get in my house or maybe they’re already IN my house and I’m all alone and it’s pitch black out there and I keep hearing them trying to get in the house! I don’t know any of my neighbors. I’m afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Can you please send someone just to check to make sure no one is here? I’m really scared. I’m all alone! Did I say that? Did I say I’m alone? I’m really freaked out!!”

The dispatcher takes my address, asks a few questions, and says she’ll send a squad car over to make sure nobody’s trying to break in.

I position myself halfway between the front door and the back door, so I can make a quick escape, depending on the direction I’m attacked. I brandish the butcher knife in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting for the police to arrive. I dare not move in any direction. I am frozen.

I wait and wait and wait.

I could be dead by now. Seriously dead. What the hell, police officers? It doesn’t take much time to murder someone – I could be long dead by the time you get here.

Out of desperation — I call jerkfacemonkeybutt. I wail into the phone about the people trying to murder me – and infuse my tale with an accusatory tone since clearly it’s HIS fault that I’m in this predicament. Not sure how exactly, but damn sure, nonetheless.

He tries to calm me down and says he’ll come right home from work.

About 20 minutes later, he comes in the front door.

I’m still standing in the same spot, eyes WIDE and WILD, knife hand thrust forward, phone hand near my ear.

He advances to give me a hug. My face recoils, my knife hand waves him off.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already forgotten all about our earlier argument. He’s like that.

He always says men are like microwaves – they get mad – then zap, it’s over. Women are like crockpots, simmering and stewing that anger all.day.long. He’s right – I’ve been simmering and stewing and sweating here in the same spot, my Safety Spot, literally terrified to go anywhere or do anything until the police come to verify no one’s breaking into my house!!

I don’t even deign to answer the question about what’s wrong.

He quickly searches the house and reports back that no one else is here.
He says it doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with the doors or windows.

“The door was WIDE OPEN! WIDE.OPEN! Someone OPENED the door! And they’re out there still! They’ve been making noises and banging all night! ALL NIGHT! I want the COPS to check this whole place out!!! YOU don’t know what to look for! The COPS will find them!!”

Full-out high-pitched hysteria.

He knows well enough to quietly sit down and wait it out with me.

After a few tense moments, he asks, “When did you call the police?”

“Almost 45 minutes ago! And they’re still not here! I could be dead by now! DEAD!!”

“Huh. That’s a long time.” He grins. “You shoulda called Dominos Pizza. They’d be here in 30 minutes or less.”

I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.
I WILL BASH HIS SKULL IN WITH THIS PHONE AND STAB HIM IN THE GROIN WITH THIS KNIFE.
THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER.

I glare at him with such pure loathing, that stupid grin slides right off his stupid face.

The doorbell rings.

The cops are here!

THANK GOD!

They’ll search the premises – and check the perimeter – and find evidence that vicious criminals were trying to break into my house – and secure the area so no one can ever harm us!!

I rush from my Safety Spot to open the door. “You’re finally here!” I exclaim.

Two weary cops stand there. One says, “Yeah, sorry it took us so long to get here. The winds are so strong in the Valley tonight, we’ve been answering calls all over the place about doors blowing open. So what’s your situation here?”

***
Oh.my.freaking.God.

I can FEEL my boyfriend behind me, laughing his ass off INTERNALLY. He’s not uttering a sound, but his shoulders are shaking that telltale sign of inner mirth.

And if these cops were not standing right in front of me, I swear I would stab him immediately and repeatedly. And I would not feel one tiny bit of remorse.

I’d just fling the bloody knife to the floor with a flourish – like a rock star drops his mic – then shout “Peace out” – and drive to the store for more cookies.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Have you ever scared yourself absolutely silly? Any funny cop stories to share? Can YOU catalog all the annoying things about your significant other right after an argument?)

Sexual Interrogation?

Posted on September 16, 2014 by Darcy

So then…he looks me over and asks, “Have you had sexual relations with anyone with yellow jaundice or viral hepatitis?”

And I think, Omigod, do I look like someone who’s been doing that? Do I look jaundicy?

“No!” I exclaim defensively.

Now I’m worried he thinks “she doth protest too much” and that I’ve totally been shagging hepatitis-jaundice people all day long.

“Any tattoos or body piercings?” he asks.

“No,” I say, trying to think how I can prove this to him without completely disrobing – and realizing that it would be much easier to prove that one DOES have tattoos (i.e. look at the skull on my ass!) or piercings (i.e. check out my nipple ring!) than to prove one does NOT.

“In the past twelve months, have you had a positive test for syphilis?”

I hesitate. Does he mean “positive” as in – a positive result — like “hooray, I don’t have syphilis!” — or “positive” as in – “damn, I tested positive for syphilis!”

He looks up from his clipboard.

“Nope, no syphilis, nope,” I say quickly.

“In the past 12 months, have you had sex with a male who has had sex, even once, since 1977 with another male?”

Omigod, that’s a lot of pressure. Now I’m responsible for remembering everyone I had sex with – plus everyone THEY had sex with? How would I know? This is the age of the bisexual, the metrosexual, the hypersexual. As far as I know, none of my males had relations with other males, but that phrase “even once” is stressing me out. I’m trying to recall if anyone’s said something like “I experimented a bit in college” — or “one time, at band camp…”

“Ummmm,” I stammer. “I’m not sure. Since 1977, huh? That’s a lot to think about.”

He says, “You don’t have to think of everyone you had sex with since 1977 – just if your recent partners had male relations since 1977. So just think of the people you’ve had sex with in the past 12 months.”

Oh, that narrows it down some.

“Ok, then no.”

He checks off the box on the form and prepares to ask another question.

He’s already asked if I’ve been to Haiti — if I’ve injected drugs by syringe — if I’ve had sex with anyone who’s injected drugs by syringe — while in Haiti.

These are awfully personal questions and I should be incensed by this invasive procedure. I’m just trying to give blood, for God’s sakes. I’m trying to save lives, people! Cut me some slack on the inquisition!

On the other hand, I’m such a people-pleaser, I want to answer all the questions correctly. And I’m so competitive, I want to ace this test and prove that my blood is the best, most pure, most awesome blood they could ever hope to collect today! Super Blood!

He asks, “At any time, have you taken money or drugs in exchange for sex?”

I pause. “Well, I’m married – so does jewelry count?”

***

Fortunately, the Blood Drive tech has a sense of humor.

I pass the test. I give the blood. I get cookies and juice.

And I save lives, people!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any fun stories to share about your visits to the doctor, hospital, blood bank – or times when you had to share personal info you’d rather keep private? Do tell!)

The HILARIOUS Reason My Friend’s Husband is Mad at Her

Posted on July 30, 2014 by Darcy

So then…my friend Lily spears a shrimp from her salad and says ruefully, “My husband’s mad at me.”

My head snaps up from my pasta dish, my brow furrowed. “Why?”

(I can’t imagine anyone being mad at Lily. She’s one of the sweetest, most generous people I know. She’d literally give you the shirt off her back.)

She sighs, twirling the shrimp on her fork. “Well, I was at Target, getting a bunch of stuff for the kids like socks and underwear. And I guess I was distracted and in a hurry, ‘cuz I accidentally threw in a pack of underwear for my daughter that turned out to be colored underwear briefs for teen boys.”

I frown quizzically, wondering why that would upset her husband. I shovel some pasta in and use my other hand to indicate she should continue her tale.

“So I ask my husband if he wants them, but he says they’re too small,” she says.

(Hmm, was he insulted she implied the “small” underwear might fit his “nether regions?”)

“So,” she continues. “I just tossed them in the back of the car trunk and figured I’d return them to Target at some point. But then several months passed and I couldn’t find the receipt, so I knew Target wouldn’t take them back.”

(Been there, done that, sister. MANY times.)

“Surely he’s not upset over the cost?” I ask, sipping my soda.

“No,” she says. “He’s mad because…well…I took the car in to be serviced and when I picked it up, I noticed the pack was still in the car trunk. And since our mechanic is kind of thin, I asked him if he wanted them.”

I almost spit-take my soda all over the table.

“WHAT!?”

She sputters defensively, “Well, there’s no sense wasting perfectly good briefs. And we’ve had this mechanic for years, so why not give them to him? He seemed really happy to receive them.”

I die laughing.

“Let me get this straight – you got your car serviced and you paid your mechanic in UNDERWEAR?!”

“No, no,” she says. “I paid him cash for the work! The briefs were just…extra.”

“Oh, so you just TIPPED your mechanic with underwear?” I tease her. “Yeah, that is so much better.”

“Now you’re sounding like my husband,” she says.

“Omigod, so you TOLD this to your husband and that’s why he’s upset? Well, no wonder!”

“But why?” she asks. “What’s the big deal?”

“Well, first of all, Lily, you are beautiful.” (This is true. She’s gorgeous in a natural, no fuss-no muss sort of way. Whenever we go out, men turn to stare at her. Of course, I immediately try to leap into their line of sight, but nope – they’re definitely staring at her.)

She rolls her eyes because she doesn’t like to hear how pretty she is.

I elaborate, “Lily, you’re thinking ‘oh, here’s something I can’t return to Target, maybe you’d like it.’ But your husband’s worried that your mechanic’s thinking, ‘this hot chick just gave me some underwear – is she coming on to me?’”

“No!” she protests.

“Well, I know that. And you know that. But does your mechanic know that? And more importantly, does your mechanic’s wife know that? What’s gonna happen when he’s sporting new undies and she asks where he got ‘em – and he says, ‘Oh, one of my lady customers gave them to me; she’s so niiiiiice.’”

Lily gasps: “Oh no!”

“Oh yes!” I say. “They’re probably fighting about your underwear RIGHT NOW! They might be filing for DIVORCE as we SPEAK! Exhibit A will be YOUR Target underwear briefs!”

She collapses into laughter, equally horrified and amused.

Yep, that’s my friend Lily – so generous, she’d give you the shirt off her back – and apparently, the underwear off her ass!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do you have a friend like Lily? If the roles were reversed, how would you feel — let’s say your husband gave a pack of Victoria Secret’s panties to his hair stylist? Any embarrassing stories involving generosity, mechanics, or underwear — or a silly reason your spouse was “mad” at you?)

He Disagrees, But I Insist — So Of COURSE Disaster Ensues!

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Darcy

READ the story below — or click Green Arrow below to HEAR the story!

So then…he snorts. “The ‘Park After Dark?’ That doesn’t make any sense,” says my husband David, skeptically.

“No, no,” I say. “This will be great! Instead of dragging the kids through the 90 degree heat of the day, we can visit the wild animal park at night, when it’s so much cooler!”

“Amma-mals?” asks toddler Chloe.

“Yes, honey, we’re going to see the animals,” I say.

David scoffs, “Are you sure we’ll ‘see’ them?”

“Yes, yes!” I say, laughing. “I just talked to the park on the phone. The guy said there’s lighting all over the place – and it’s so cool to visit at night!”

David raises his eyebrow dubiously – but finally relents.

So we pack up Chloe, age 2; Tucker, age 5; the stroller and supplies, and drive the minivan 2 hours over to the wild animal park, just as darkness descends.

The kids are so excited.

The tickets are $50 each. David is so not excited. “Fifty bucks? Seriously?”

“Yes, it’s the special Park After Dark price.” I say. “It’s even more during the day!”

“More?” he says. “Geez, what kind of animals do they have here? Unicorns and dragons?” he says.

“Dragons?” asks Tucker, wide-eyed.

“No, no,” I say quickly, shooting David a look. “No dragons, but lots of cool wild animals – rhinos, hippos, zebras, lions — you’ll love it!”

We board the caravan bus and there’s only one other family on board. And I could swear that husband exchanged an exasperated look with my husband. Like “you got roped into this too, huh?” There may have even been a shared rolling of the eyes.

As Mom the Cheerleader, I enthusiastically say, “Let’s grab seats by the windows, so we can see all the wild creatures!”

So we look out the windows — but the jungle foliage is thick; the lighting’s poor; and we can’t really see anything.

We look left, right, front, back — I’m desperate to see something to point out to the kids – an animal, a movement, a shape, a shadow…something.

David stares at me with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

Chloe stands up on the seat next to me and presses her face against the window. “Where da amma-mals at?”

David swallows a guffaw. “Yeah, Darcy, ‘where dose amma-mals at?’”

I stare at him with the icy glare of a thousand glaciers.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say to the driver. “We’ve been riding around for half an hour and can’t really see anything. Where are the animals?”

“They’re sleeping,” he says.

“SLEEPING?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says impatiently. “It’s DARK out.”

Oh my good God.

David practically chokes, he’s laughing so hard. He tries to suppress it so the kids don’t see, but he can’t help himself.

I shake the park map out in front of me. “Don’t worry, kids, we’ll find something fun to do!”

(But I notice that many of the attractions say “closed at night.”)

Finally! “Oh! Look, kids – there’s a Bird Sanctuary! It says you can feed the birds and they’ll land right on your hand!” I say brightly. “Let’s go there!”

So as soon as the “Sleeping” Animal Tour docks back at base camp, we head off to find the birds.

And thanks to the pitch black night, dim lighting, and poor path signage, we get lost.

The jungle air is thick with resentment.

We finally arrive at the Bird Sanctuary, which is packed with people. We buy little tiny paper cups filled with bird seed and stand there, holding our little cups up to the birds in the trees above us.

But they don’t land on us. They don’t really land on much of anyone. Every so often a bird lazily floats down.

Chloe’s running in circles, holding her cup as high as she can. “Come here, birdies! Come here, birdies!”

Tucker’s inspecting the bird feed in his cup and looks as if he might try it out himself.

I don’t get it. These birds are not flitting and flying like energetic little whirlwinds. These birds seem very lethargic — and disinterested in feeding.

“What’s wrong with these birds?” I ask one of the staff workers. “They’re not eating any of the food our kids are offering.”

“Oh, they’re full,” she says.

“FULL?!” I ask.

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “People have been feeding them all day long. By the time night comes, they’re stuffed.”

I squeeze my eyes closed tightly. Oh please, don’t let David have heard that part. Oh please. Where is he? Is he…is he…yep, he’s right behind me, biting his lip, grinning like a madman.

Oh for God’s sake. I whip out the map again, desperate for something to salvage this trip.

“Hey, look kids! There’s a Tribal Dance performance in the African outpost! Doesn’t that sound FUN?!” I say, infusing my voice with the enthusiasm of a thousand cheerleaders on crack cocaine.

We bundle Chloe in the stroller and grab Tucker’s hand and make haste to the outpost.

It’s much farther than we thought, and the directional signs lead us astray twice.

So I’m trying to push this frikkity-frik stroller over the ruts in this “authentic” dirt path, sweating – and swearing (under my breath) – through the massive jungle vegetation.

We’re walking forever. David’s ready to abandon ship.

I swear I think if a golf cart magically appeared, he’d immediately hop aboard and ride away, with a tender wave goodbye: “Farewell dear family, I loved you well and will think of you kindly when I’m back in air-conditioning chugging a cold beer.”

He’s just about to insist we turn back when we see another family coming toward us on the path.

“Do you know where the Tribal Dancers are?” I ask desperately.

“Yeah, they’re right through there,” they say, pointing behind them.

“Come on, kids! We’re almost there! Oh, oh, I think I hear them!” I say, picking up my pace.

All we see is jungle, but we hear the faint thrum of the drums and low rhythmic chanting, so we run toward the sound.

Just as we turn the bend, huffing and puffing, we spill into a big clearing with lots of people – and the announcer says, “So that concludes our last show of the night, folks! Hope you enjoyed it!”

Cue applause.

Cue laser daggers shooting out of David’s eyes into my cerebral cortex.

I want to slump into a sweaty ball of surrender. Just give myself up to the jungle gods right here and now. Let the baboons feast on my flesh; let the hyenas laugh at my folly.

I am done.

But I have two disgruntled kids and one fuming husband to transport back to the park exit and put an end to this disastrous night.

David doesn’t say a word on the trek back through the jungle, but I can hear his thoughts in his head as though they are screeching from a megaphone: ItoldyousoItoldyousoItoldyouso.

The longer we walk, the madder I get at the park guy on the phone who told me that this was such a great idea.

When we finally reach the exit, I say to David, “This is ridiculous! I’m gonna march right in that ticket office and demand our $200 back! We couldn’t see the animals – the birds were full – the dancers were too far away – there’s nothing to do at this stupid park at night!”

David shoots me a cynical look and crosses his arms. “Really? You think they’re gonna give you your money back?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Just you watch.”

I stomp into the ticket office, full of fire and brimstone. I rant and rave and rail.

Moments later, I emerge with an envelope.

“So,” he says, grinning. “What’d they give you?”

I hang my head and say, “Four free tickets for another night at Park After Dark.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Yes, yes, this whole disastrous tale is true! Now it’s your turn – share your funny experiences with zoos, theme parks, and other family excursions. Any brilliant ideas YOU’VE had that your spouse was oh-so-right and you were oh-so-wrong? Do tell!)

What the Hell Just HIT Me?

Posted on November 19, 2013 by Darcy

So then…the music soars to a crescendo as the actors scurry about the Broadway stage — which my boyfriend and I can see perfectly from our fantastic theatre seats.

Just as we’re experiencing the spectacular re-enactment of the Fall of Saigon, something comes hurtling off the stage and hits me square in the chest.

I am stunned.

I feel around on the dark theatre floor but cannot locate the offending object. I look to my left, my right. No one looks aghast. They stare straight ahead.

Did I imagine that assault? I could swear something came right off that stage and hit me and…oh, wow, look at that building go up in flames! and a helicopter is taking off! and now the villagers are running amok!…this IS spectacular…

As we walk back to the hotel, we talk about how amazing the show is.

After several over-priced cocktails in the lobby bar, we go up to our hotel room and my boyfriend sexily swaggers over to me – although, frankly, it’s more like a stagger than a swagger –

and he whispers, “Comeer, you Hatamala,” which I first assumed was some new Asian nickname, inspired by our recent viewing of the revival of the “Miss Saigon” Musical, but soon realize was meant to be: “Come here, you Hot Tamale,” which is not only not in keeping with tonight’s Asian theme, but somewhat of a misnomer since I don’t personally possess any Latin blood.

My tipsy and yet still appealing boyfriend, continues his sweet-talking/slurring, wraps an arm around me, kisses me, then quite expertly unbuttons my blouse with his free hand. It appears the liquor has affected his diction more than his dexterity. It is going to be a good night.

Then he shrieks. And I don’t mean a manly shriek, like the kind that should come from a strong, strapping man of 6 feet like my boyfriend. I mean a high-pitched shrill of a shriek, reminiscent of a high society grande dame experiencing her first bikini wax.

“What?! What?!” I shout.

He points to my chest with considerable fear, and no small amount of revulsion. And there, on my chest, is a HUGE blue bruise with purple tentacles shooting out in all directions!

So now I shriek. I run to the mirror to get a better look at the mass and hue of this enormous skin condition, when it hits me – yes, hits me – just like I was hit not two hours ago in the theatre! I knew it! I knew something had hit me!

I turn to my boyfriend, who is anxiously seeking solace in the minibar’s mini bottles, and I exclaim: “Somesing in zee shoo hit my chezz, my chezz!” (Given my Irish heritage, I can only assume my current French accent is a temporary side effect of the over-priced lobby cocktails.) And yet, my boyfriend seems to understand exactly what I am saying, as slurring is the universal language of all inebriated.

So he calls the hotel operator and asks to be connected to the “Miss Saigon” theatre, which takes some time to communicate since the operator’s obviously not had the benefit of the afore-mentioned lobby cocktails, rendering her unfamiliar with our language.

Finally, we get through to the theatre stage manager and I say, in my most sober and nonchalant voice, “Didja happen to lose any props in tonight’s shoo?”

Pause.

“Why do you ask?” he says.

Aha! I knew it! That’s a clear admission of guilt!

“Calm down!” he says. (It’s at this point I realize I have spoken that accusation out loud.)

“My chezz has a HUGE bruise onnit! I wuzz hit by somesing from your stage!” I proclaim.

“Oh. Well, during the Saigon battle scene, we tie sandbags on the propellers of the helicopter to keep the blades from shooting out and…well, two of the sandbags are missing.”

“Missing!?”

“Yes, apparently, one flew off and hit a lady in the leg and I guess the other one hit you in the chezz…chest. We’ll gladly pay for the doctor visit. We’re really sorr—“

“What did the other lady say?”

“She said she’s fine, but the incident distracted her from enjoying the show. So we’re giving her free tickets to see it again.”

Pause.

I sober instantly.

I spout forth: “Four tickets. Backstage pass. Autographed program. And double-knot the sandbags this time!”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Yep, true story. Thank God only the sandbags came shooting off stage and not the propeller blades!! However, we had to get back home to LA, so I gave the free tix to my boyfriend’s NY relatives. So how about YOU? Ever had something odd happen – then a theatre, restaurant, hotel, company, etc. had to make it up to you? Any funny stories about shows, concerts, plays? Do tell in the Comments Section!)

Super Bad? More like SUPER MAD!

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Darcy

So then…I shout, “Fine!”

And then he shouts, “FINE!” — slams the door, gets in his car, and drives to work.

I seethe.

We’re in the middle of a big argument and he bails just to go to work? Where are his priorities?

He works at night, so it’s already dark out. I head to the kitchen.

I’m so mad at him, I can barely eat dinner. But it’s pasta and chocolate chip cookies, so I suffer through. In fact, I’m such a martyr, I suffer through several helpings.

I replay the argument in my head.

I was being logical, reasonable, rational – raising excellent points and substantiating them with clear, concise examples.

He was being a jerkfacemonkeybutt.

Normally we get along fine – we’ve been living together awhile now – we’re in our 30’s with good jobs, a decent house, and a pretty chill lifestyle – we’re laidback and laugh a lot.

But when he’s being a jerkfacemonkeybutt, I find him to be insufferable and quickly catalog every tiny thing about him that drives me insane.

As I walk through the house putting away the laundry, I notice things like:

I watch TV. I note how all the boyfriends on TV are so much better, nicer, funnier, smarter, and sweeter than my boyfriend.

I do a little paperwork, polish off the last cookies, and head down the hallway to the bedroom.

Just then I hear a loud THUMP CRASH!

My heart stops. I freeze.

It’s close to midnight. He’s not due back til 2:00 am. I’m not expecting any visitors.

What the hell was that?

Is someone out there?

Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My heart is hammering.

I muster up my courage and dart toward the sound. The front door is WIDE OPEN.

WIDE OPEN TO THE BIG BLACK SCARY NIGHT.

I rush to slam it shut and lock it.

I lean against it, breathing hard, arms spread out against the door to keep the bad guys out.

Oh shit, what if they are already inside and I just locked them in here with me?

Panic!

I run to the kitchen for a huge knife and the portable phone.

I pause in the kitchen holding the knife in front of me — leaning forward, concentrating fiercely to try to hear where they are.

Outside, I hear rustling – are they trying to get in the house – or is the wind whipping the tree branches and leaves around? Are coyotes out there?

Inside I hear creaking – are they walking around – or is this old house settling?

More rustling — more snapping, crackling – are those footsteps? Is someone banging on the window?

I’m seriously in a panic. I have no choice. I have to call 911.

The dispatcher takes my address, asks a few questions, and says she’ll send a squad car over to make sure nobody’s trying to break in.

I wait and wait and wait.

I could be dead by now. Seriously dead. What the hell, police officers? It doesn’t take much time to murder someone – I could be long dead by the time you get here.

He tries to calm me down and says he’ll come right home from work.

About 20 minutes later, he comes in the front door.

I’m still standing in the same spot, eyes WIDE and WILD, knife hand thrust forward, phone hand near my ear.

He advances to give me a hug. My face recoils, my knife hand waves him off.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He’s already forgotten all about our earlier argument. He’s like that.

I don’t even deign to answer the question about what’s wrong.

He quickly searches the house and reports back that no one else is here.
He says it doesn’t look like anyone’s tampered with the doors or windows.

Full-out high-pitched hysteria.

He knows well enough to quietly sit down and wait it out with me.

After a few tense moments, he asks, “When did you call the police?”

“Almost 45 minutes ago! And they’re still not here! I could be dead by now! DEAD!!”

“Huh. That’s a long time.” He grins. “You shoulda called Dominos Pizza. They’d be here in 30 minutes or less.”

I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM RIGHT NOW.
I WILL BASH HIS SKULL IN WITH THIS PHONE AND STAB HIM IN THE GROIN WITH THIS KNIFE.
THIS IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER.

I glare at him with such pure loathing, that stupid grin slides right off his stupid face.

The doorbell rings.

The cops are here!

THANK GOD!

They’ll search the premises – and check the perimeter – and find evidence that vicious criminals were trying to break into my house – and secure the area so no one can ever harm us!!

I rush from my Safety Spot to open the door. “You’re finally here!” I exclaim.

***
Oh.my.freaking.God.

I can FEEL my boyfriend behind me, laughing his ass off INTERNALLY. He’s not uttering a sound, but his shoulders are shaking that telltale sign of inner mirth.

And if these cops were not standing right in front of me, I swear I would stab him immediately and repeatedly. And I would not feel one tiny bit of remorse.

I’d just fling the bloody knife to the floor with a flourish – like a rock star hurls his microphone – then shout “Peace out” – and drive to the store for more cookies.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Have you ever scared yourself absolutely silly? Any funny or embarrassing cop stories to share? And can YOU catalog all the annoying things about your significant other right after you have an argument? Do share in the Comments section!)

That Lying Little #@%&!

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Darcy

So then…my husband’s navigational system says: “Turn left here.” David looks at me smugly and smiles, proudly heeding the advice of his new car as he turns left with a flourish.

I admit: I am pretty impressed at this equipment that has talked us from our home all the way over the hills to the new house of our friends, Ted and Sara.

And before the system can say another word, we spot the valet parkers in front of our friends’ lovely new home.

The place is packed, indoors and out. Everyone seems to be having a good time and I can hear a jazz combo on the patio. David and I grab a couple crab puffs from a passing waiter.

I don’t see our hosts right away, but I see the gift table, so I add our offering to the pile of elegantly-wrapped gifts.

We have a couple drinks, chat a bit, and eat a few more appetizers. Then David says, “You know, I don’t recognize anybody here.”

I look around and, although these happy, animated couples could be friends of ours, I have to agree no one looks familiar.

Good grief, are we party crashers?

I ask a passing waiter, “Excuse me, have you seen…uh…the host?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back,” he says oh-so-helpfully and pushes through the crowd. (Argh — Couldn’t he have said the name of the host?)

David rolls his eyes at my failed investigative technique. He heads to the bartender with that “I’ll find out what’s going on here” strut, but I pull him back.

“Discretion, David. Wait here.” I head up the stairs.

“OK, ‘Nancy Drew,’” he says in a tone that I could swear borders on sarcastic.

So I conduct a brief surveillance upstairs and report back: “I checked out the family photos and no one even remotely resembles Ted or Sara.”

“Hasty retreat,” David mumbles as we hustle outdoors, trying to escape detection.

As the valet pulls our car around – yes, the deceptive, devious little car that led us so sadly astray — David asks whose house this is.

The valet says, “Ruth and Roger Perlman — 25th Wedding Anniversary. Why? Where are you supposed to be?”

As the other valets giggle (yes, giggle), I realize my housewarming gift is still inside! So while David gets the car, I run back in to get it.

Just as I reach for my gift, I lock eyes with a woman in a stylish silver evening gown who looks more than a little surprised that I’m helping myself to the gift table. I smile tentatively, then dash out the door to the getaway car.

So we make it to Ted and Sara’s, a few blocks down, where we are teased for our tardiness. David begins to tell the charming story of our mix-up until my swift kick to his right shin changes his mind. Discretion, David.

I hug our hosts, give them the gift, and head to the nearest bar. We drink; we eat; we have a great time.

Just as we gather to watch Sara and Ted open the gifts, the doorbell rings.

My heart skips a beat. What if it’s the woman in the silver evening gown? What if I had accidentally taken someone else’s gift that was wrapped like mine? Maybe it’s Ruth Perlman demanding the return of her 25th Wedding Anniversary gift!

Fortunately it’s just another tardy party guest.

I sigh with relief and vow never to take directions from a talking car again.

— Darcy Perdu

(Ever end up at the wrong party? Or led astray by a talking car? Perhaps Mapquest or Google Maps duped you? Share in the Comments Section!)

Your NOISY Work is Bothering Me

Posted on October 19, 2013 by Darcy

So then…I complain to my friends, in a completely loving way, of course, that my husband simply sits in the family room watching TV while I clean the kitchen.

“I’m particularly noisy as I load the dishwasher – practically banging pots and pans – in the hopes that the noise will alert him that work is being done here! helllooo! – and that he should get up and come help,” I say.

Kate laughs at my naiveté.

Mindy nods in sympathy and takes a swig of her margarita.

Sherry says, “I do the same thing when I come home with the groceries and my husband is watching TV. I open the cabinets a little too hard, jerk open the drawers, crinkle the bags, and slam down the canned goods – all in the hopes that he’ll notice I’m putting away the groceries and could use some help.”

I ask, “So does he help?”

“No.” she says. “But he can’t hear the TV that well since I’m making so much noise in the kitchen. So every time this happens, he just tilts his head slightly, then slooooowly raises his arm to point the remote at the TV to increase the volume.”

“Oh my God! Seriously?” I ask.

“Yes,” Sherry says and laughs ruefully. “And what’s worse is that it never occurs to him that he’s rude for not helping me with the groceries! He actually thinks I’m being inconsiderate by making so much noise while he’s trying to watch TV! So he’s probably over there congratulating himself for not asking me to be quiet – and patting himself on the back for solving a pesky problem by just increasing the TV volume!”

Oh, dear. On that note, we all take a sip of our margaritas.

— Darcy Perdu

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(Do you ever do tasks in a NOISY way – or toss in a couple sighs – to inspire your spouse or kids to come help? Does it work? What are your family’s favorite ways to AVOID helping around the house or yard? Share in the Comments!)

He Has All the Social Grace of a Rhinoceros

Posted on September 5, 2013 by Darcy

So then…I drive Tucker home from school, just as he receives a text from a classmate.

“Sienna invited me to a swimming party at her house on Saturday.”

“Oh, that should be fun,” I say. “I know you enjoyed going to her last pool party during the summer.”

“Yeah, but it’s at the same time as my comedy improv class and I think I’d rather go to that,” he says.

As I navigate traffic, I prepare to help my 12-year-old navigate social customs. “Well, you could tell her that—”

“I already replied.”

“What? Already? What did you say?” I ask.

“I texted her, ‘I’ll think about it,’” he says.

“WHAT? You told her you’ll think about it? Tucker, you can’t say that to someone who’s invited you to a party! That makes it sound like you’re some hot shot King of Siam who will CONSIDER deigning to grace her with your presence!”

“Oh,” he says, a little embarrassed. He’s a bright boy, but he doesn’t have too much experience in social communications, especially with girls.

I say, “You can’t let her think you’ll decide to attend or not, based on whether something else better comes along. Let her know that you already have the prior commitment to comedy class so you can let her down easy. You could text her back and say—”

“I replied,” he says.

Damn, these kids are fast texters!

“OK, what did you say?”

He looks at the screen and reads, “I wrote ‘I might have a prior commitment.’”

“WHAT? You told her you MIGHT have a prior commitment? No, no – you DO have one!” I exclaim. “That’s like saying you MIGHT have a root canal that day – or you MIGHT have a wedding to attend! You either do or you don’t. That’s as bad as saying ‘I can’t go because I plan to be sick that day!’”

He picks up his phone to start texting her.

“Wait, stop, Tucker. Stop texting. Put down the phone. Back away from the phone.”

“What?” he asks.

“OK, please just type ‘I can’t attend because I have comedy class at that time. But thank you for inviting me. Have a great time.’”

“Done,” he says.

I shoot a suspicious sideways glance at him as I drive round the corner. “You didn’t write ALL of that, did you?”

“I did!” He reads from his screen, “’Can’t go cuz of comedy. have fun. tks.’”

Oh good grief. “Can’t go cuz of COMEDY?” Will she even know that he means a comedy CLASS?

Or will she think the concept of humor prevents him from attending a pool party?

Well, at least he told her to have fun and “tks” for the invite.

Maybe he’s learning some social graces afterall…?

Meanwhile, I’m going to start using that excuse from now on.

The next time someone invites me to a parent volunteer meeting – or one of those home “parties” where they try to sell you cosmetics/jewelry – or a boring work event – I’m going to gracefully decline by saying, “I’m sorry — I can’t go…cuz of comedy.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Does YOUR kid have all the social grace of a rhinoceros – or more like a gazelle? How about YOU? What’s your go-to excuse for wiggling out of invitations you’d rather not accept? Share in the Comments section!)

Um…Is She HITTING on Me?

Posted on August 30, 2013 by Darcy

So then…my friend Lindsey follows me upstairs to my bedroom.

(Oh, git yer mind out da gutter! It ain’t THAT kinda story!)

I want to show her the 8 giant wine glasses in my closet in case she’d like to use them for centerpieces for a party she’s planning.

(OF COURSE I use these to drink my wine. All 8 glasses. Simultaneously.)

So as she follows me upstairs into my bedroom, over to the alcove closet, she says to me: “Hey, have you been working out?”

(Oh! Boom-chicka-wow-wow! Maybe this IS that kind of story!)

Has she been staring at my ass this whole time – and now she’s trying that classic pick-up line about working out?

I don’t happen to swing that way, but of course, I’m terribly flattered.

I blush, bat my eye lashes, smile, and purr: “Why no – (toss hair) – but why do you ask?”

She says, “Cuz of that” — and points to my treadmill.

Oh.

She laughs and says, “I figured it must be pretty hard to work out on your treadmill, what with all that stuff on it.”

Well! How dare she?

How does she know that I’m not just some incredibly talented gymnast-slash-piano-player who likes to belt out my own tunes while I’m treadmilling? Huh? It’s possible!

Instead of scoffing, she should be admiring my dexterity!

But of course she’s right. I haven’t used that treadmill in forever – and I guess at some point, it seemed to make good sense to store those things there for the “time being.”

And of course she’s happily married and has no intention of hitting on me – although that would have made a very interesting story – especially if we drank wine from those giant glasses and serenaded each other on my Karaoke-Piano-Treadmill (patent-pending).

So now, I MUST ask you:

What’s on YOUR treadmill?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Fess up – what’s on your treadmill right now? I’d love to see that I’m not the only one storing something odd on my “exercise” equipment!)

The Most Unlikely Culprit in this Mystifying Mystery

Posted on August 27, 2013 by Darcy

So then…I try to gently, but urgently, stuff the four brand new dresses into my suitcase, but it.will.not.zip.

(Mama says that proper ladies don’t sweat — they glisten. Well, I am glistening buckets.) My flight home to Los Angeles leaves VERY soon.

I look frantically at Bianca the sales lady – hoping she has a solution for these four gorgeous dresses I just bought at Janelle’s, my favorite New York dress shop.

She asks, “Can’t you just carry them on the plane?” I point to my jam-packed carry-on bag.

Bianca says, “Well, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to stop to shop on your way to the airport…”

I point to the huge “ONE-DAY ONLY SALE: 60% OFF” sign next to the register. I shoot her an exasperated, “Where are your priorities?” expression.

I’m a corporate cutie in my 30’s, so the dresses are a must!

Bianca brightens and says, “How about if I ship them to you in LA — then you won’t have to pay any sales tax.”

Bianca is my new best friend.

Since I live in an apartment, I give her my company’s address so someone can sign for the package.

So I whisk off to LA, secure in the knowledge that my treasures will arrive at my company’s West Coast warehouse in a matter of days.

A week goes by. No mention of the dresses arriving.

I visit Octavio, the warehouse manager, to ask if any packages have arrived for me from Janelle’s Dress Shop in New York.

Nope. But he says he’ll ask around. He nods sagely as though I’ve tasked him with a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

Two days later, Octavio comes to my office, with hands clasped in front of him, and delivers his report.

“Your package did arrive.”

“That’s great!” I say.

“But the guys in Receiving thought it was a Return.”

“Huh?”

“A Return. We ship products out and sometimes the overstocks or damages get returned to us. But sometimes the stores send us the wrong Returns – like tablecloths or plastic bowls,” he says.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, one time, even a case of basketballs,” he says.

“Oh, OK. But I can have the dresses, right?”

“Well, the unspoken warehouse policy is that whoever opens a wrong Return, gets to keep the merchandise.”

“Oh.” I ponder the ethics of that for a moment. And marvel at the fun sort of “Mystery Grab Bag” atmosphere that must pervade the Warehouse Receiving department.

But then I snap back to my hard-won stunning silk dresses and ask, “OK, but we can get the dresses back from whichever worker accidentally opened that package, right?”

“You don’t want them back.”

“What? Of course I want them back! They’re beautiful! And expensive! And I love them!”

Octavio shakes his head firmly. “You don’t want them back.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Hugo was the one who opened the package. So he gave the dresses away.”

“Can’t he return them?” I implore.

“No. Hugo gave two to his wife. And two to his mistress. His mistress is much shorter and…well…skinnier than you, so she had to cut them across the middle to make them into a short top and a small skirt.”

I gasp. I literally gasp.

My sumptuous corporate silk dresses slashed in half to make a crop top and mini skirt for a sexy little Carmelita!

“But… the wife?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe the wife didn’t harm her dresses? Maybe—”

“No, her dresses are fine. But the wife found out about the mistress, so she moved back to Mexico.”

I stare at him blankly.

“With the dresses,” he adds.

I momentarily toy with the idea of hunting Hugo’s wife down in Mexico and demanding my wayward wardrobe.

I then consider hunting Hugo down and slapping him silly for his irresponsible Lothario behavior. Good God, man! Keep it in your pants – or at least exercise discretion!

So now I’m filling out the claim form for the American Express Purchase Protection Program in hopes of being reimbursed for the disappearing dresses!

I’m trying to figure out how to phrase it so that it doesn’t sound crazy like “a dog ate my homework.”

But how exactly do you explain that half of your dresses are being held hostage in an international adultery scandal – and the other half were massacred to make a Hoochie Mama outfit for a short, skinny harlot?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Ever had something special go missing? Or opened a package that contained something surprising? Or a funny misunderstanding at work? Share your stories in the Comments Section.)

That’s Not a Threat; That’s a VOW

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Darcy

So then…I peek through the Church door with excitement as I prepare for my Grand Entrance. Our friends and family have gathered from round the globe to witness our wedding. I am glowing with goodwill.

I see my handsome groom take his place at the front, grinning and gesturing at his buddies in the front row. Suddenly, I see money change hands.

Money change hands.

His buddies are passing bills back and forth, pretending that they had bet on whether or not he was going to show up! The congregation chuckles at the pantomiming. He and his buddies get a big laugh for their antics.

I harrumph.

Oh believe me, I love a good laugh. And I know my groom is a cut-up. It’s one of his best traits.

But to be upstaged at my own wedding? Harrumph.

So the music starts, and we make our Grand Entrance to oohs and aahs. I am glowing with goodwill again.

I smile at all the happy faces of our pals and relatives. The ceremony is really lovely.

When it’s my turn for the vows, the minister asks me to repeat after him.

Minister: to have and to hold from this day forward

Me: to have and to hold from this day forward

Minister: for better or worse

Me: for better or worse

Minister: in sickness and in health

Me: in sickness and in health

Minister: for richer or poorer

Me: for richer

Awkward pause.

Minister looks up from his booklet. Congregation collectively cocks their heads.

Minister repeats: for richer or poorer

I repeat, innocently: for richer

Congregation erupts into laughter.

Bride winks at groom.

Groom grins. Touche’, my dear, touche’.

— Darcy Perdu

Original Illustration for So Then Stories by Shelly Draven

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(Anyone pull pranks or jokes at YOUR wedding – or weddings you’ve attended? Surely you have a funny story to share about something that happened at a rehearsal dinner, bachelor/bachelorette party, or wedding reception? A guest gone crazy? A toast gone awry? A groom gone AWOL?)

What the Hell Is He TALKING About?

Posted on July 13, 2013 by Darcy

So then…David and I eat breakfast at the kitchen table.

David: Did you see that detective show the other day?

Me: The one with the red lamp?

David: Yeah.

Me: Yeah, what about it?

David: That’s all.

Me: That’s all? What do you mean: “That’s all?” Why did you bring it up?

David: I was trying to make small talk.

Me: And that was it? “Did you see a TV show the other day?” “Yeah.” “OK.” That was it? You didn’t have any follow-up planned? What kind of small talk is that?

David (laughing): Pretty small, I guess.

— Darcy Perdu

(Ever run out of conversation topics with your mate? Who’s best at small talk at your house? What’s your lamest conversation-opener? Any tips on a great way to get the dialogue going? Share in the Comments Section.)