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Unrealistic X...

Okay, so in a previous world I ranted a lot about what it takes to find "Mr. Right" and chronicled my adventures chasing potential suspects into traffic. Fast forward to now, a world where Mr. Right exists, and I have very little to complain about. Except it was brough to my attention this weekend that, lo and behold, I still have several pet peeves regarding men (no, I promise I won't list them all alphabetically - there aren't enough blog pages in the world for that, to be honest), the most prominent of which can be summarized thusly: IF YOU LIE DOWN IN FRONT OF A DOOR AND LOUDLY PROCLAIM, "I AM A DOORMAT," YOU SHOULD NOT ACT AS THOUGH YOU'VE BEEN AFFRONTED WHEN SOMEONE WIPES THEIR SHOES ON YOU.

Let me 'splain. This weekend, Justin and I were headed south for a little day trip into Kansas. Along the way, we stopped for lunch - just north of Kansas City at a Whiskey Roadhouse steak joint in a hotel in what was basically the middle of nowhere. Our waiter was a personable enough guy - wanted to chat and at first I humored him because he told a good joke about Catholics being really impatient Jews and, well, frankly he seemed a little lonely. So we tolertaed him and all went well until we got to the part of the meal where he brings the bill, and he asked Justin, "How long have you guys been married?" Justin said, "We're actually getting married next year," and Mr. Waiterpants begins telling us about his girlfriend who lives in New York and is a broadway actress as if it fit perfectly into the topic of conversation - apparently he'd been dying to bring it up. And then he began telling me - me, specifically; not Justin - how he'd really done it up on her last birthday... he allegedly bought a ticket to both of her shows on a Sunday, took her to a hard-to-pronounce restaurant, got a fancy room at some swanky hotel where there were (overused and cliched) flowers waiting for her, and then in the morning took her to get a massage at the spa... of course, he spared no detail on the price tags, and so while he was regaling me with tales of his valiant commercial chivalry, I was running tape in my head. And my conclusion was that THIS IS WHY MEN FAIL.

(Disclaimer: this is why men fail assuming that this man is telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and that his "Broadway girlfriend" isn't actually:
a) currently seeking multiple restraining orders
b) actually a community theatre actress from Indianapolis.
Not that I don't believe that a Broadway actress could fall in love with a hayseed from the sticks but... given that she's probably surrounded with people who share her interests and passions as well as her geography... well...)

Anyhoo, forgive my digression. Look at this fellow. Now I realize that I'm judging a book by it's cover here, but I don't believe that there are a lot of multi-millionaires in Bumfuck, Missourri, who moonlight as waiters at smoky steakshacks just to get them out of the house a couple days a week. Therefore, we can assume that he probably NEEDS the $5/hour plus tips he's making waiting tables. Not that there's anything wrong with earning an honest day's living - quite the opposite actually. However, the conclusion that I reached when I reached the conclusion of my tape on his extravagant birthday weekend was that the weekend itself, excluding his airfare, certainly cost him well over $1000. Say that at his busiest, he can take care of 5 tables an hour, at an average $7 tip (it's Missouri, remember) - that makes $40/hour. Cut that in half as an average for the days when he doesn't have many tables at all - which is all being quite generous. That means he makes about $40,000 - out of which he has to pay taxes, living expenses, dental insurance, etc.. Not a terrible living in the middle of the country, to be honest... but also not one that supports multiple $1000 weekends in New York.

ERGO... Mr. Waiterpants is wooing a girl whom I assume is rather out of his league by making implied promises about a lifestyle he can't possibly hope to sustain, especially a few years down the road when you factor in diapers and daycare. Not that I think it's inappropriate to occassionally share an extravagance with your sweetie, but... and I know I don't utter this phrase often, but... for heaven's sake, be PRACTICAL!