My dearest Amy,

It's over.

The almost 10 years of friendship. The almost 7 years of marriage. Our time in Los Angeles. Our time with our awesome house in Florida.

I know that you never thought this day would come, but we have to abide by The List. You know The List, right? It's the one that you have that has Sean Connery and Timothy Hutton on it.

Well, the top of my list is available, and I have to bid you adieu. I'm off to Los Angeles to track down and profess my love to my raven-haired Jewish comedy goddess. She's single again!

I'm coming, Sarah Silverman!

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And, of course, tomorrow is the second episode of "Clearly, you're retarded", a radio show pitting my beauty against Miss Britt's brawn. This week, we'll be discussing being open vs. being guarded. Listen to this week’s episode at 9pm EST or download last week’s to catch up at TalkShoe!

 

Is there ingrained, in every woman in the world, a sense of urgency with regards to cleaning one's house in preparation for a party?

Saturday night we had a group of 10 or 11 people over for drinks, then we all went out to dinner and then came back for desserts, drinks, and fun.

Saturday I spent from dawn until dusk cleaning like we were hosting the fucking Queen. Does behind the toilet really need to sparkle? Is anyone going to look behind the toilet? Are our women guests going to quietly excuse themselves to the bathroom and then inspect behind the toilet? Will they write up a small report in "Behind the Toilet Quarterly"? "At the Avitable household, I performed a white glove test behind the toilet, around the edge of the mirror, and inside the cabinet drawer. While a bit more attention to detail could be appreciated, maybe by using a toothbrush to really bring out the shine, I heartily give the behind the toilet at the Avitables 4 out of 5 daisies."

The same goes for the guest rooms. I spent literally two hours cleaning one of the guest rooms, including moving furniture, putting books on shelves, removing electronics and rearranging the closet, only to have our guests exposed to that particular room for less than ten seconds during the tour of the house. *Click* the light goes on. "And this is the guest room," my wife says. *Click* the light goes off. I think I'm just going to take a very high resolution picture of the room, blow it up to a poster, and tape it to the door. Then, we can just shut the door to the guest room and it will look immaculate.

Finally, how is it that the pile of paper and bills on the counter becomes my pile when we're about to have a party? "Have you gotten rid of your pile?" "Don't forget to clean up your pile!" "If you don't clean up that pile I will stab you between your eyes with this spoon!" I finally get around to cleaning up my pile, which consists of bringing into my office and adding it to the other miscellaneous crap that gets shoved in here as part of "cleaning up". My office becomes the repository for every random box, book, magazine, item of clothing, pet toy, blow-up sex doll, and hooker boot in the house. And then my wife thinks it's funny to walk in and ask why my office is such a mess!

I wonder if my housekeeper would just start coming every day?

 

Last night, I found out that I'm married to Larry David. If you're not familiar with Curb Your Enthusiasm, just think about George Costanza from Seinfeld, except crankier.

I picked my wife up from the airport after her two-week long business trip.

"How was your flight, sweetie?" I asked.

"Oh! You would not believe it. I was so mad!"

"About what?"

"Well, when I got on the plane and got to my row, there was a woman sitting in the aisle seat. I told her, 'Hi, I'm going to have to get in there,' since I had the window seat, and then I put my bag in the bin."

"Okay . . ."

"When I looked back down, she hadn't moved. She was just staring at me. I said again, 'I need to get in there.' And do you know what she did?"

"What?"

"She stared at me and said, 'Okay'. Didn't try to move, didn't even offer to get up. There are only about two inches of room, if that, between her legs and the seat in front of her, so I had to fucking climb over her to get to my seat!"

"Wow."

"Then the woman who had the middle seat came over and she had to crawl over the first woman, too!"

"Jeez, how rude."

"I know! I was preparing a little speech in my head that I wanted to say to the woman who just sat down about rude fuckers and their inability to have common courtesy. I thought maybe that might shame the other woman into showing some manners next fucking time."

"So did you say that?"

"Nah."

"Why not?"

"Well, before I could get the words straight in my head, the woman in the middle seat turned to the bitch in the aisle and said, 'Weren't you the lady that the flight attendants helped who was in the wheelchair?'"

 

Before today's post, I just wanted to let you know that today is the deadline to email me at my first name at my last name dot com, with the subject line of "Santa is coming" and include your address so I can make sure you're on my holiday card list!

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Today, we decided to decorate the Christmas tree. It's actually been up (it's an artificial one) for two weeks, but we never got around to putting any ornaments on it because of Amy's travel and my general laziness when it comes to something other than work.

In 83 degree weather, I put on the Santa hat like I always do, and we opened up the Christmas ornament boxes. Unlike a certain stick-in-the-mud's tree, our tree is not a Martha Stewart-esque image of perfection. It's not color coordinated, it's not decorated in grids with perfectly matching bulbs, it's not even perfectly straight.

We actually put all of our personal ornaments on there. We have ones we've received from family members (and some of them are oh-so-fugly), we have ones that we've bought for each other every year, we have ones we made when we were too poor to do anything for the holidays, and we have a mishmash of ornaments that each have their own story. We also put lights on the tree in addition to the white lights that come attached to the branches. This year, they're these purple/blue/green/orange/pink ones that are absolutely hideous, but seem to complete the tree, and it really starts to feel like Christmas is coming.

After decorating the tree, we started discussing the outside decorations.

"Do you want to put some lights up out front?" My wife asked.

"I don't know - we don't really have enough to go crazy, so it just looks half-assed."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Besides, our lights are for us, not for our neighbors. Who cares if they see them?" She started pulling out the light nets and rope lights and stuff.

I asked, "You want to decorate the backyard instead?"

"Yeah, why not? That way, we can enjoy them more than if they were in the front. And it will surprise anyone who comes in. It will be all like, serious out front, and then a party in the back."

"So you want our Christmas decorations to be like a mullet?"

 

Beware, encumbered men. While these sentences may seem innocent to you, when taken out of context (without the words in brackets), they can cause homicidal feelings in your loved one. But fear not - I am here to help. Avoid these phrases if you can help it:

"I ate her fish taco [that she cooked on her stove]."

"We went for a ride and her top was down [in her convertible]."

"We both played with his [Nintendo] Wii for a while until our wrists hurt."

"By the time we got started, she was already hot and wet [because it's 100 degrees and humid as fuck]."

"She sucked it down like a pro. [So the waitress brought her another beer]."

"It really hurt when he stuck it in, but I got used to it. [And then I made him listen to something that wasn't gangsta rap]."

"I only lasted for about three minutes before collapsing in a hot, sweaty mess. [No more DDR for me]."

So, next time you put your foot in your mouth, you can't say that Avitable didn't warn ya!

 

Saturday was the day.

The fateful day.

My Real Wife and my Work Wife (formerly my Blog Wife) were spending time together.

Without me.

While drinking.

Lots and lots of alcohol.

By having the woman who has seen that tattoo of the Martian Manhunter on my taint talk frankly with the woman who has actually touched said tattoo, only bad things could happen.

Acting as Designated Driver, I chauffeured the two drunk women home and attempted to find out what they discussed during their evening out. Fuckin' whores wouldn't tell me.

So now, my imagination has run wild . . .

Real Wife: So, what's it like working with Avitable? (Yes, my Real Wife calls me Avitable)

Work Wife: Well, he only seems to work in spurts of about 30 seconds at a time, and then he's exhausted and wants to sleep.

RW: Sounds like our sex life.

WW: Really? According to how he tells it, he's like John Holmes with the stamina of long-distance runner.

RW: More like Oliver Wendell Holmes with the stamina of a small-fused firecracker.

WW: BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

RW: HAHAHAHAHA!

WW: Seriously, though, it's not too bad. But enough with the working in the underwear already!

RW: Well, I've tried to go through and throw away the pairs that have holes in the crotch so his balls aren't always hanging out.

WW: I think you've missed a few pairs. And he definitely needs to shave or wax or something. It's like he shoved a bear rug down the front of his manties!

RW: His ass is even worse. It's like a Chia Pet gone wild.

WW: Oh, I know! My first day of work he treated me to four separate moonings. The one where he bent all the way over will scar me for life. I wake up randomly in the middle of the night screaming silently at least once a week now.

RW: I can tell you, eight years later, it does not get better. I still have my weekly ass-crack nightmare. If Avitable wakes up when it happens, he just laughs and laughs.

WW: That girly, high-pitched giggle?

RW: HA! Yup, that's the one. I swear, between the giggles, the room sprays, and the Gilmore Girls, he is such a woman.

WW: He told me that I was being mean and that I should be more sensitive yesterday.

RW: I hope you took away his man card.

WW: Not only did I take away his man card, I made him do Time Out in the corner for an hour.

RW: Good for you. He also hates it when you call him Ahmoo. Just don't use it too much or he might cry.

WW: Awesome! I'm so glad that we decided to do this. It's driving Avitable crazy, too.

RW: I know, and that's part of the fun!

WW: Hey, let's make out!

RW and WW: Muamauamammmauamaumaslurp.

 

The fall is the busy time for my wife. She leaves tomorrow at 7 AM and will be gone, off and on, until the last week of October. She'll be traveling everywhere from LA to Philadelphia to Seattle to Alabama, just to name a few.

Amy enjoys traveling for business, and I have no problem being a bachelor for a week or so, but when it's this long, it gets a bit tiresome for both of us.

So I've decided that I need to put an ad out for someone to help do all of the things that Amy usually does. Here's what I was thinking:

Needed: Strong-willed woman to clean dishes, do laundry, hang my shirts that can't be dried in the dryer, wash dog, tidy house, go to the movies thirty minutes ahead of time with me, change sheets, put toilet paper on the dispenser, make me laugh, pick up my socks, get the mail, water plants, change light bulbs, go grocery shopping, do small home repair, walk dog, fill soap dispensers, feed dog, make cereal for me to eat in the morning, clean gutters, fix roof, put steak out to thaw, sew holes in my shirts, throw away my shredded socks and underwear, laugh at my jokes, give dog medicine, tie my shoelaces, pinch my butt, and wake me up in the morning. Must be 5'10" or taller, weigh no more than 125, and be able to stare down a rhino with a condescending look. Compensation will be in the form of dinners out, small random compliments, occasional appreciation, and sexual favors that will last between 12-14 seconds.

I'm expecting there to be hundreds of applicants banging down my door.

 

If we eat dinner beyond a bowl of cereal or cheese and crackers, we will go out to a local restaurant. And while we have much in common, our differences are the clearest when we go out to eat:

My wife is a vegetarian.
I am a vegiphobe.

"I'll have the chicken caesar salad, with no chicken. There's no other meat on there, right?" asks my wife.
"I'll have a bacon cheeseburger, no vegetables. That's right, no pickle, no onion, no lettuce, no tomato." I say forcefully.

She'll have a glass or two of wine, or maybe a margarita. Or a beer, if it's that type of restaurant.
I'll have fourteen Diet Cokes that I drink so quickly the waiter will usually just bring a pitcher or bring them two or three at a time.

She takes small, measured bites and uses her fork and knife.
I use my hands and take bites that would choke a horse.

She's well-dressed and very fashionable. She flies out to Los Angeles once a year to do her shopping for the seasons and buys only designer clothing. She has trendy glasses that cost $1500. She looks like a professional.
I'm wearing a black buttoned shirt and black shorts, except the blacks are different shades. I have black sneakers on with red shoelaces. I have a week's growth of beard. I definitely don't look like a lawyer, much less a CEO.

She's supermodel thin and almost six feet tall.
I'm six feet tall but an 800-pound gorilla. My knuckles almost drag on the ground.

She is demure and polite, and while she has no problem using bad language (and is, in fact, quite adept at it), she is also discreet.
I sometimes belch, and if I spill something on my arm, I'll lick it off. I also like to throw around profanity just to frighten the small children seated around me.

Even with all of these clearly disparate elements, it amazes me when the waiter invariably hands me the check. Are they so blind that they don't see that a professional woman is taking pity on a homeless man by taking him out for a warm meal before he dies in the street? Or is sexism so firmly entrenched that they still can't help asking the man to pay for dinner, even if he looks crazier than the Republican National Convention?

 

To mangle a phrase: "Behind every perverted gorilla man is an awesome woman who is really in charge." And with that, I would like to present a post written by my wife Amy. Read and comment in droves!

How do I put up with thee? Let me count the ways.

When Adam told me that he had a big fan base for his blog, I was sure that was the case since he’s always had followers of his wit. But when he said he was afraid that many people would think that his stories were exaggerated or never really happened, I knew that only I, his wife, could set the record straight. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I really do exist. So let me just tell you a little bit about why I love Adam.

10. He’s cute and funny. Adam has always been adorable. Whether as a precocious five year old who loved wearing lederhosen or as a cuddly man-boy with an obsession for cheesy girl bands, people have always loved Adam. Like the mail man who stalked him in college. Or the peeping tom who watched Adam unabashedly leave his dorm windows open when he was naked (yes, Adam was the naked guy). Or the bevy of girlfriends he’s managed to collect during our years together. What’s amazing is that he has all of these female hangers-on and it doesn’t occur to him that some of them have crushes on him. One carried his picture around, one used to give him free food as an excuse to talk to him, and one used to call him at all hours because “no one understands me like Adam.” What can I say – he’s just so dreamy.

9. He has a great fashion sense. On the runway, we see the Avitable in his trademark ensemble - black button-up shirt, long indigo shorts and black shoes with red shoelaces that do bear a certain resemblance to clown shoes. Why indigo shorts, you might ask? Because he thought indigo was another word for black and he’s colorblind. And yes, I do let him go out of the house looking like that with holes in his socks and occasionally in the crotch of his pants. I’m not his fucking mother.

8. He’s trusting. Let me give you a little example. In law school, he was having car trouble and didn’t feel like paying to have his car looked at by a professional. So he gave the transient at the crack house next to his apartment $200 to fix his car, and even took him to the liquor store so that the guy could get “parts.” Unfortunately, the guy disappeared (we’re still worried about what happened to him), but not before he took Adam’s starter so Adam couldn’t even get his car started to take it to a professional. I still feel guilty about being the jaded one who said you shouldn’t hire the homeless to fix your car.

7. He’s great with people. Adam has a natural charisma, particularly on the road. He drives fast even though he has no particular place to go, and cuts people off just to teach them a lesson. There have been a number of times when we’ll be sitting at a red light and someone will get out of their car and come up to us to express to Adam just how much they appreciate his lessons. One time, when I was out of town on business, I was talking on the phone to Adam and he had to go because the cops were at the door. Sadly, that was not the first time he’d said that to me. Apparently, he had cut an old lady off in traffic, she’d followed him home and blocked the driveway, he tried to “teach her a lesson,” and she called the cops. Lucky for us, there were no witnesses. And don’t even get me started about when the cops came to our wedding.

6. He’s observant and witty. Of course, one of the reasons that he’s so popular is his sense of humor. You see, when I make snide remarks, am sarcastic or judge people, I’m an insensitive bitch. When Adam does it, he’s witty. I love that.

5. He’s fair. He takes every opportunity to offend people equally. You have to hand it to him, he really doesn’t try to offend one group more than another. Except for fundamentalists. They drive him crazy. Oh, and ugly people. He just can’t take those uggos. And the disabled. Oh, never mind.

4. He’s patient. He puts up with all of my faults, like my drinking and cursing and domestic abuse. But he does get a little frustrated with the barfights.

3. He’s imaginative. He imagines all sorts of things, like that it’s ok for grown men to wear clown shoes or that the Spice Girls had talent. But the most impressive is his night terrors. He imagines giant spiders on the walls and the bed, and he used to leap across the room in the middle of the night when he saw them – which is a very eye-opening sight, let me tell you. He even sees them on my face sometimes, which may just be a defense for when he someday plans to murder me.

2. He’s a teddy bear. Not figuratively. Literally.

1. He’s honest. Oh yeah – I just remembered why I’m writing this damn thing. Because he is honest, and everything he’s written so far is true. Except for the size of his penis in his illustrations. It’s much bigger.