Author poolside with not really doomed S.O.
It has been a week filled with foreboding around here, as my Significant Other is scheduled for reconstructive plastic surgery tomorrow and is convinced that she is going to die on the operating table.
Half of this fun couple is not so sure, but she is preparing for the end meticulously anyway. She has divided up her possessions. A lot of people use formal wills or trusts for this purpose, but she uses Post-It notes on her refrigerator. Not just regular Post-It notes, either, but free ones the real estate guy who sold her her house twelve years ago drops on her doorstep every couple months, hoping she'll remember him when she feels like buying a house again. His picture and slogan appear on every one, which to me does not make her last arrangements seem more legally tenable, but she assures me that her system is impregnable to challenge. When I argue with her about this, or anything, she usually points out that she has a PhD and I don't.
Most of her estate is being passed on to her daughters, naturally, but I couldn't help noticing she was leaving all her furniture and a hundred grand to her gay best friend. I only got the dog.
It's true I don't have a dog, but it's also true I could use a hundred grand. Also, I just moved out of a furnished rental, and if anyone needs furniture, it's me. I try not to let the unfairness grind at me. Thankfully, the procedure she feels looming over her has a better chance of being successful than Justin Beiber at a high school dance. She has to go under the knife to have her implants replaced. One of them has grown faulty over the years, so they both have to go. The only way to insure a satisfactory aesthetic effect is to replace them with larger implants.
I'm thinking there's no downside here, or at least I was, until she started putting her affairs in order. Then my natural insensitivity and general callousness started getting me in trouble.
"If I'm in a coma, I don't want to be kept alive on a respirator," she said for the several dozenth time. One of her enduring beliefs is that I will refuse to relinquish her to eternity should that time come, and keep her all gassed up on some hospital machine instead of finding myself another woman. I have not yet figured out a diplomatic way to tell her she couldn't be more wrong.
"You're not going to be in a coma," I said patiently. "You're going to be fine, except you're going to have enormous breasts."
"You never know what's going to happen."
"I know that you are going to have to wear bulky turtlenecks if you ever expect random men to look above your neck again. I also know I am going bonk-ass loony sitting around the house listening to you prepare for the end. Should we go to a topless bar? Sure, the drinks are pricey, but maybe it would make you feel better knowing that nearly every girl there has survived the procedure."
"When my brother went into the hospital, he had everything in order."
"Your brother had cancer. When they start printing pink Breast Augmentation Survivor ribbons, or when some month is designated Augmented Breast Awareness Month, I'll start worrying."
"All I'm saying is I don't want to be kept alive by a bunch of tubes."
"All I'm saying is that your gay boyfriend has no debts, no dependents and a job catering for Lady Gaga." (Unlike many statements that appear here, this one is true)
"Oh, so that's it? It's all about the money?"
"It's not about anything, because you're going to be fine."
"Well, if I'm not, I don't want to be stuck on some machine. I want you to pull the plug."
"WELL, I CAN'T WAIT TO! Is that what you want to hear?"
Then she stormed off and I heard her scratching away at another Post-it, and I knew the will was being changed again, probably not in my favor. I also know that for me and for many other men every month is already Augmented Breast Awareness Month, but in a flash of wisdom that was way too little and too late, I decided not to mention that.
I snuck over to the fridge while she was upstairs going through her closet, trying to decide which of her shoes and outfits were too sexy to leave to her daughters and had to instead be bequeathed to her friends and found out that, indeed, my status as one of her beneficiaries had not improved.
But now the dog has a trust fund.
Author's Note: The operation was a success and the patient lived, much to her chagrin.
Half of this fun couple is not so sure, but she is preparing for the end meticulously anyway. She has divided up her possessions. A lot of people use formal wills or trusts for this purpose, but she uses Post-It notes on her refrigerator. Not just regular Post-It notes, either, but free ones the real estate guy who sold her her house twelve years ago drops on her doorstep every couple months, hoping she'll remember him when she feels like buying a house again. His picture and slogan appear on every one, which to me does not make her last arrangements seem more legally tenable, but she assures me that her system is impregnable to challenge. When I argue with her about this, or anything, she usually points out that she has a PhD and I don't.
Most of her estate is being passed on to her daughters, naturally, but I couldn't help noticing she was leaving all her furniture and a hundred grand to her gay best friend. I only got the dog.
It's true I don't have a dog, but it's also true I could use a hundred grand. Also, I just moved out of a furnished rental, and if anyone needs furniture, it's me. I try not to let the unfairness grind at me. Thankfully, the procedure she feels looming over her has a better chance of being successful than Justin Beiber at a high school dance. She has to go under the knife to have her implants replaced. One of them has grown faulty over the years, so they both have to go. The only way to insure a satisfactory aesthetic effect is to replace them with larger implants.
I'm thinking there's no downside here, or at least I was, until she started putting her affairs in order. Then my natural insensitivity and general callousness started getting me in trouble.
"If I'm in a coma, I don't want to be kept alive on a respirator," she said for the several dozenth time. One of her enduring beliefs is that I will refuse to relinquish her to eternity should that time come, and keep her all gassed up on some hospital machine instead of finding myself another woman. I have not yet figured out a diplomatic way to tell her she couldn't be more wrong.
"You're not going to be in a coma," I said patiently. "You're going to be fine, except you're going to have enormous breasts."
"You never know what's going to happen."
"I know that you are going to have to wear bulky turtlenecks if you ever expect random men to look above your neck again. I also know I am going bonk-ass loony sitting around the house listening to you prepare for the end. Should we go to a topless bar? Sure, the drinks are pricey, but maybe it would make you feel better knowing that nearly every girl there has survived the procedure."
"When my brother went into the hospital, he had everything in order."
"Your brother had cancer. When they start printing pink Breast Augmentation Survivor ribbons, or when some month is designated Augmented Breast Awareness Month, I'll start worrying."
"All I'm saying is I don't want to be kept alive by a bunch of tubes."
"All I'm saying is that your gay boyfriend has no debts, no dependents and a job catering for Lady Gaga." (Unlike many statements that appear here, this one is true)
"Oh, so that's it? It's all about the money?"
"It's not about anything, because you're going to be fine."
"Well, if I'm not, I don't want to be stuck on some machine. I want you to pull the plug."
"WELL, I CAN'T WAIT TO! Is that what you want to hear?"
Then she stormed off and I heard her scratching away at another Post-it, and I knew the will was being changed again, probably not in my favor. I also know that for me and for many other men every month is already Augmented Breast Awareness Month, but in a flash of wisdom that was way too little and too late, I decided not to mention that.
I snuck over to the fridge while she was upstairs going through her closet, trying to decide which of her shoes and outfits were too sexy to leave to her daughters and had to instead be bequeathed to her friends and found out that, indeed, my status as one of her beneficiaries had not improved.
But now the dog has a trust fund.
Author's Note: The operation was a success and the patient lived, much to her chagrin.
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