Ask Paul

Dear Paul,

At a recent family event attended with wife and family, the subject of proper etiquette was broached. It was one of those dry, stale gatherings that cried out for a lightening of the mood. Being a bit of the family comic, I obliged, leaning ever so slightly in my chair to let one rip. 

My brother, sitting next to me, burst his gut laughing, while the sound of giggles resounded throughout the previously somber room. But oh no, not my wife. Once home, she tore into me like a rottweiler going after a toy poodle. As I calmly explained to her, a little levity does wonders for perking up a dull crowd. I mean, it’s not like her dead Grandmother leapt out of the casket screaming: “Who did that!”

I’m confused. Was I in the wrong here?

-- Dazed and Confused

Unfortunately, yes. Not in the flatulence, or the brilliant timing, but you simply didn’t account for the audience. When it comes to fart jokes and farting in general, women are notoriously nose-blind, no pun intended. In fact, a great many women go so far as claiming their gender doesn’t fart, an absurdity any married man of more than two years will grimly confirm.

The setting is everything. What works at the bowling alley, oddly enough, may not resound at your church’s Easter service. A recent example comes to mind. As I stood next to my best friend, he extended an index finger to me, the universally understood “pull my finger” request. So I did, and it was hilarious. But not to his lovely bride. There was absolutely blood in her eyes. Later, my buddy expressed remorse for his actions on the altar after experiencing a less than romantic honeymoon. Should I have ignored established male decorum and left him hanging with poised finger? Possibly.

So, when encountering social situations with dubious expectations, I leave you with this: When in doubt, keep a tight sphincter.

Dear Paul,

I’m an elderly but active woman whose passion is gardening. I spend hours each day tending the magnificent shrubs, vines, and flower beds that weave gracefully around my beautiful little home. It is my pride and joy. The problem is my neighbor. In a nutshell, the man’s a slob. A bum. The most lazy, whiny, arrogant, pathetic, disrespectful descendant of Adam I’ve ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with. His pathetic mess of a yard is a festering scrubland of dirt, weeds, and trash. It’s a disgrace and abomination. Talking is no use. His response to my concerns has been nothing less than obscene. Said he’s cultivating a “rock garden”. More like a crap garden. Even worse, he accused my orange tabby, Grant, of “trespassing”. A cat, mind you! Perhaps his trash pit of a yard shouldn’t resemble a giant litter box! 

What can I do? There’s simply no reasoning with a man who lacks moral convictions.

-- The Good Neighbor

I get it. Your neighbor's yard is an eyesore. It happens. You know what burns my eyeballs? The sight of a scrawny, wrinkled old woman, barely clad in a sheer nightgown, bent over plucking dandelions out of her pristine lawn. Try starting your day with that image. Why the need to disparage folks who simply found better uses of their time than scrounging about in the dirt, rooting out weeds like a grunting feral pig? Here’s a thought: considering how manual labor seems to be your passion, why not quit the gripping, cross the hedge, and get to work on your neighbor’s yard? I’d say the root of the problem is that you have too much time on your hands. Case closed. I’d also do something about that cat. I have one that keeps getting into my yard. Not sure if his name is Grant. I call him “rat-faced bastard that shits in my zen garden.” Time's ticking. He’s already burned through eight of his nine lives.

And don’t think that silly bonnet makes you look classy. It doesn’t. 

Dear Paul,

Valentine's Day is almost here, and once again, I’m struggling to find a gift for my boyfriend of two years. Honestly, our relationship hasn’t lit any romance fires lately, if you know what I mean. Last year, I received a pair of cotton work gloves. I like gardening, so I guess it was OK.

Is inviting him over for a home-cooked dinner too old-fashioned? I’m not much of a cook (we usually go out for burgers), but I’m willing to dust off the cookbook and give it my best. It’s just so darn hard figuring out what’s on his mind. Should I even bother?

-- Kitchen Confidential

I find this a lovely idea that shouldn’t be discarded as old-fashioned. Culture and elegance are never out of style. Many of my bachelor years (interspersed amongst five marriages) have been spent yearning for such an evening. If I could, a few suggestions: First, skip the hassle of serving hors d’ouerves. Doing so leaves more time for intimate chats. Avoid any finger foods such as fried chicken, onion rings, or kebabs. Too messy. A steak is nice, but gazing at your paramour chewing his dinner like a grazing Holstein kills the mood. For the main dish, select what can be kept warm on the stove while the two of you settle down. Chicken and white bean chile is a simple, elegant dish that won’t challenge your culinary skills, waits patiently on the stove, and the mild seasoning won’t put a damper on any post-dinner activities (wink-wink). Even if he’s a beer kind of guy (my guess), uncork an uncomplicated white wine, such as a Chablis, to add a touch of class to the evening.

Then serve it to him naked.

Dear Paul,

I am burdened with a younger brother, who, although never accused of promise or potential during our early years, continues to disappoint those around him as he stumbles deep into his adult life. Let’s call him “Saul”.

Along with my parents, we’ve come to the distressing conclusion that the zenith of his career will be as a history teacher at a podunk high school deep in East Texas. And even that he performs with little thought, determination, or skill. It’s as though Saul’s only purpose in life is to be fired for gross incompetence. Even worse, he somehow coerced five naive women to cross the altar with him, only to be unceremoniously dumped once they regained their sanity and sense of self-worth. Like a slug, he leaves an oozing trail of disappointment wherever he goes.

What can I, or anyone, do? Is Saul simply a failure that must be endured? We only want to help.

-- A Brother’s Keeper

Is that you, Steve? Ha Ha. Just kidding. This can’t be my older brother since he’s an illiterate hillbilly with the social graces of a rutting bull moose. Anywho, your letter strikes me less as a petty sibling rivalry and more as an obvious (and pathetic) cry for help, undoubtedly welling up from an insane jealousy of a talented, if not fully tapped, younger brother.

I’m only shooting from the hip here, but could you be struggling with eroding confidence following a string of devastating professional failures? Perhaps a troubled marriage due to rumored inabilities to discharge husbandly duties? Lack of personality? Dearth of ethics? Middling intelligence? All likely, I suspect. Rather than lash out at an innocent sibling, why not set aside the hostilities of envy and regret consuming your unfortunate life and focus on a regimen of self-improvement? Where to start, you might ask. I’d say anything, and everything. Get crackin’.

And Dad says you’re fat.