The most cringeinducing horror stories that have come out of this Halloween — aside from the fast and furious wrath of Santi, the horribly long queues for voters’ registration and reports that GMA is running for congress — were those from heathen bachelors who survived the “Can we talk?” talk with their significant others. I would like to thank all the heathens who have shared their survival stories from underneath their beds, from the emergency room and from the afterlife. We pity you, we commiserate with you and we will pray for your souls in purgatory.
Remember, heathens, that the biggest tactical mistake you can make during the “Can we talk?” talk is one of approach. You do not approach her; you run away as far as your chicken legs and a bottle of Red Bull will take you.
However, my wife urged me to eke out a column that would offer a more sensible and testosterone-y resolution to the theoretical “Can we talk?” conversation that I documented in last week’s column. So in my quest to resolve this issue and to concurrently end my bout with involuntary abstinence, I reviewed a book which women have been sticking into their boyfriend’s Uranus since its first printing, the interplanetary conspiracy that is Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. I quote a page from the book that my wife so lovingly carved onto my chest: “A man assumes she is talking with him about problems because she is holding him responsible. The more problems, the more he feels blamed… If she seems less upset, then he assumes she is asking for advice.”
I can truly empathize with all of you men who have offered a panacea to your significant other’s plethora of problems. I have the scars, scabs and phantom limbs to show for it. When I was still a heathen, I recall many a conversation with my girlfriend (now wife) where the blame — more often than not — was pinned squarely on me. Such as this:
Girl: Honey, we have to talk.
Idiot: What did I do again!?
Or — as reported by my unmarried but committed (but not in the medical sense, I think) male friends — how many times their girlfriends have presented to them unsolvable problems such as this:
Girl: Honey, the home pregnancy test was positive.
Idiot: Then I suppose you’ll blame me again for that as well!?
According to the astronomical guide to relationships, men need to realize that women already appreciate it if you are merely listening to them. And you know what else? The book liiiiieeeees. We men know that we are required to say something even if we know that whatever we say will be used as a rationale for turning our skin into a designer handbag. So, heathens and henpecked husbands alike, when you are dealing with a potentially upset woman who wants to talk, please remember the following life-saving tips:
1. When she is sharing her problems, it is not always your fault. Even if it is. Do not be afraid not to admit it. She may believe you eventually.
2. Do not try to defend yourself unnecessarily when you feel you are being blamed. (Unless she is wielding a sharp object.) Take listening to her problems like a man unless you want to be a eunuch. Although I hear eunuchs lead a relatively stress-free life.
3. Do not offer solutions to her problems. If you offer her solutions, she will continue to offer more problems. Then you will be as hopeless as an administration-endorsed candidate.
4. Do not even try to interrupt her when she is talking about her problems. There is a legal precedent that if you interrupt her more than three times, she can gouge out your eyeballs and donate them to science.
When you are a paranoid, self-deprecating man with toilet training issues, and your significant other baits you into a false sense of security by starting a conversation with “How was your day?” do not be misled. This is not a conversation starter, this is a warning signal. It is female code for “Can we talk?” or, as most men interpret it, “Can I start shoveling away at my grave now?”
But before grabbing that shovel, here are some ways for you to circumnavigate the “talk.” (Caveat: Please remember that most advice that I dispel comes straight from Uranus.)
The Africa Solution
Men are, by nature, hunters. And, by second nature, beer drinkers. According to my extensive research (which involved reading the footnotes of one book called Why Men Don’t Have a Clue and Women Always Need More Shoes), male brains evolved with a target-hitting area called the “visual-spatial” area that allows us to successfully carry out our whole reason for being: hitting targets and solving problems. We can very well hunt for zebras on the savannah, but solving a female’s problems is more perplexing than Gen. Ebdane making a run for the presidency. Our brains do not have enough space to deal with domestic issues such as showering daily, putting down the toilet seat and keeping our underwear stain-free. And now that you know this:
The Stars in My Milky Way: How was your day, dear?
RJ the idiot: It was okay, love, I actua—
The Sun of My Solar System: It was the woooooorrrrrrst day of my life!! I (ensuing conversation is optional as you will be paralyzed with fear as soon as the words “wooooooorrrssst day” escape her mouth)…
RJ the hunting idiot: Okay, love, I hear you. It is time for me to go hunt a zebra in the savannah.
The Visa Solution
If you are scared that your girlfriend will rip open a new orifice for you if you try a smart-ass answer like the one previously mentioned, then you may want to try this one:
The Stars in My Milky Way: How was your day, dear?
RJ the idiot: I’m getting déjà vu, love—
The Sun of My Solar System: It was the woooooorrrrrrst day of my life!! I (elevator music) …
RJ the bouncing check idiot: Take my credit card. Please treat it with mercy.
The 18-percent interest on my credit card: (Silence) This isn’t over yet.
This does not guarantee a permanent cessation of hostilities, but you are safe until she hits your P5,000 credit limit.
The Dr. Kevorkian Solution
This one is particularly tricky if not performed properly. Note this example:
The Stars in My Milky Way: How was your day, dear?
RJ the idiot: Love, I feel like I’m in a bad version of Groundhog Day —
The Sun of My Solar System: It was the woooooorrrrrrst day of my life!! I (theme from Jaws)…
RJ the Ernest Hemingway idiot: BLAM! (Actually, RJ doesn’t say “blam,” it’s the shotgun.)
The Bullet in my Brain: Sweetheart? Are you still alive?
RJ the uncoordinated idiot: …
The Ringing Sound in my Ear: Couldn’t you have waited until I finished my conversation until you shot yourself? And if you were aiming for your head, you missed, you shot yourself in the mouth. I swear, it’s always about you! How about my needs?
The Deus Ex Machina Solution
The Stars in My Milky Way: How was your day, dear?
RJ the idiot: I can’t think of anything witty any—
The Sun of My Solar System: It was the woooooorrrrrrst day of my life!! I—
Gisele Bundchen, Heidi Klum and Kate Moss: Hi, RJ! (in sing-songy unison)
The Enola Gay over Hiroshima: What are they all doing here!?
RJ the mother of all idiots: Sweetheart, I was just trying to be funny. I couldn’t think of another solution—
The Super Nova that will End the Universe: Why do you always keep on praising these other women but you always forget to affirm me!? Do I have to keep on reminding you about this or does your parole officer!?
Gisele, Heidi and Kate: Um, we can come back at another time. We have to model the latest dental floss bikinis for Uno magazine.
RJ the recalcitrant idiot: No, you can all stay! This is just an imaginary conversation—
The Beast in the Book of Revelations: What do you mean, they can stay!? Do you want your sex life to be just as imaginary as those women!?
RJ the celibate idiot: Sweetheart, nooooo!!!!
Shiva the Destroyer: So you think those eunuchs live rather stress-free lives!? Where are those rusty pliers!
RJ, the idiot beyond reprieve: Yaya!!! Huwag mong ibigay!!! (Don’t give it to her!)
The Oprah Solution
The Stars in My Milky Way: How was your day, dear?
RJ the idiot: My day doesn’t really matter, sweetheart. You know my world revolves around you — just like what that book said before you stuffed it up my Uranus. Did I throw enough flower petals along your path as you came through the door?
The Sun of My Solar System: It was the woooooorrrrrrst day of my life!! I—
RJ the lobotomized: Oh my poor, poor dear. I want you to tell me all about it, but first let me go to my room, have yaya retrieve that dog-eared copy of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus from my innards so I can read it again from cover to cover, watch all those Oprah recordings you taped over my triple-x movies, incinerate any traces of girlie magazines that might be lying around my room, light some incense in front of your altar, and then you’ll have my full attention.
The Vet who Neutered my Dog: That’s so sweet of you, honey.
RJ the eunuch: Nonsense, my love, that’s the least I could do. Can I give you your pedicure now?
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