Grandma Jessie used to say there are three kinds of men in this world—the ones you play with, the ones you stay with, and the ones that just need killin’.
Mr. Schwartzenegger—congratulations. You’ve just devolved down that particular food chain. I wanna tell you it’s a good thing Ms. Shriver, a class act and all around Real Lady, isn’t from Texas, ‘cause you mighta woke up this mornin’ missin’ one of your favorite appendages.
And we Lone Star Ladies would have thrown her a party with your missin’ man-part floating in the punch bowl.
I knew a woman who got sick and fed up with her bubba comin’ in at all hours of the night, so one early, early morning, she climbed up on a chair and just stood there, behind the door, waitin’ with a frying pan and gave him a good, hard knock in the noggin when he came stragglin’ in.
A woman I worked with had a similar problem, and she solved it with cookin’.
My dear friend made a great big Dutch oven chock full of her famous sugar-grits, and comin’ in late as usual, smelling like he’d just left a ladies’ shower room, he ate his grits, turned off the stove, and finding himself locked out of the bedroom, got himself good and comfortable on the couch.
And that’s when our lovely Texas Belle slipped out of her bedroom, grabbed the big, hot pot of grits and gave Bubba a homegrown wakeup call. Martha Stewart woulda been so proud.
Now if you have ever had the misfortune of having even one lone grit spill in your lap, you know it sticks like molasses and is hotter than the hammered hinges of hell. Prob’ly not all that comfortable when it’s stuck like boiling hot glue to your man-parts.
And here’s the thing–neither of these two men reported their comeuppance, prob’ly ’cause their mamas would have got wind of it and beat ‘em within an inch of their miserable lives with the heel of one of her sensible shoes.
But it doesn’t end with fryin’ pans and hot grits. Another woman was reportedly pushed so far over the edge by the man-person in her life, that she waited for an opportune time (which we in the South call ‘Nekkid Time’) and she just up and literally snatched his balls off. Literally.
I do so love a happy ending.
But I wonder, is ball-snatching something she had to train for, or was she so overcome with rage that she found herself with X-Men super-strength of the ball-snatching variety.
There are other public manifestations of justified retribution, but as satisfying as it would be to take a nine-iron to your no-good toad of an uber-golfing husband, it can also land your fanny in the slammer, and nobody looks good in prison orange. And don’t even get me started on prison-style footwear.
So before you’re driven to the point of grit-pouring, nine-iron wielding, ball-snatching acts of maiming your loved one, consider avoiding these toads altogether.
Instead of asking your next Mr. Right if he’s got a girlfriend, ask him if there’s anyone out there who thinks she’s his girlfriend. This precludes waking up in the middle of the night to find a psycho pseudo-girlfriend, bunny-boiler in your bathroom.
And here’s another thing. Do you reeeeeeally enjoy this guy’s company? ‘Cause if he’s a stick in the mud now, he’s going to be a tree-trunk in the tar pit later, and he will spend all of his free time sittin’ around in his underwear, eatin’ fried stuff and watchin’ wrasslin‘, and sadly, what was once, “Oh baby, yes! Yes! becomes “Ow! You’re on my hair!”
And does your bubba spend an inordinate time out yahoo-in’ with his drinkin’ buddies? ‘Cause it’ll only get worse, trust me on this, and you’ll find yourself sittin’ on the front porch askin’ your dog, “I didn’t marry very well, did I?”
And here’s another little disturbing tidbit to consider: if he’s out yahoo-in’ all night with the boys, he’s prob’ly also out yahoo-in’ with a couple-a chick peas, and then we’re right back to a well-deserved ball-snatching.
So, to avoid prison time, heartache and bingeing on barrels of Ben & Jerry’s, just walk away from the toad. As my friend, the fabulous romance writer Evelyn Palfrey says, “When you get to a certain point in your life, you oughta be able to stand across the room and tell the frogs without having to run over and kiss ’em all.”
Good advice. We’ve been told since we were tiny little girls that if we kiss a frog, we’ll get a handsome prince. But I beg to differ.
Having kissed my fair share of frogs, I can tell you you’re not gonna get anything near a prince, handsome or otherwise. All you’re gonna get is slimy lips.