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Krrobi

Teacher / Writer

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Let’s Talk About Men

Kim Sisto Robinson

My husband doesn’t get me, so I need to call my girlfriends who do.  “Hey, want to meet for several glasses of wine. I need somebody who gets me?”   We do this about once a month; meet at  Friday’s, order Louisiana chicken wings with extra ranch dressing, stock up on the Merlot, and talk our heads off.  I’ve actually witnessed heads rolling down the isles. I’m serious, that’s how much we talk.

Don’t get me wrong, we love our husband to death (sometimes,) but they’re from Mars if you haven’t heard, and my girlfriends are from the same planet as I am. We’re related; the same blood flows through our veins. So we meet, laugh, and share our lives.  If our husbands only knew what we talked about, I think, well, they’d be surprised, because we talk a lot about sex, interesting positions, organisms, and body parts.  Don’t act all prim and proper, you probably do, too.  And we’re married, so we can do anything we damn well please. So, don’t  be self righteous  and exclaim, well, isn’t that superficial, talking about sex when they could be talking about the Republican Convention, Palin, Darfur, World Hunger, The Economic Crisis, Gasoline Prices,  something meaningful?  

Why the sam hell do you think we need several glasses of wine?

Anyhow……the conversation goes like this:

“I put on a leopard thong with screw-me-stilettos last night, strutted my little butt over to Dave and he says, wait until this play is over, babe.”  Kay’s smile is tight and mean.  “I’m like, you either come with me right now, or you’ll never play again, Mister.”  We all hoot until Merlot is spraying from our noses.  “He came,” she added, “in more ways than one.

Okay, we don’t just talk about sex; we talk about our kids, jobs, goals, dreams, passions, and failures.  My girls are my support group, my—solve-the-problems-of-the-world-group,  my—you-are-a-bitch-but-I-still-love-you-group.   I can always and continually be ME, which is enough, and I am never judged for being a sinner.

“So, I told Care-Bear (that’s what my girlfriend calls her husband) that I had a tough day at school.  The kids drove me mad; they didn’t finish an ounce of work or listen to a word I said.  I told him my classroom was out of control. Like a bunch of wild animals.” I wanted to sit on the floor and cry.” 

Now women (her friends; us) would have responded like this… “Oooh, it will be better tomorrow.  Breathe in—Breath out.  You are such an awesome teacher.  You are that Freedom Writer Teacher, babe.  You are impacting those kids to be warriors, leaders, the damn leaders of the free world. We love you.”  That’s exactly what we would have said to Tia.

But inconsiderate Care-Bear said this, “Well, do you really think you went into the right profession?  We spent all that money for college; I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Mars, honey.

Or perhaps you’re with a man that gets you, really gets you; a man who connects and grasps your every syllable; a man who will put down the remote control in the middle of The World Cup; The World Series, The Stanley Cup, and give you a deep, sloppy French kiss; a man who whispers in your ear ever so softly, “Oh, my love, my life, (he may even say it in Italian)  tell me what you’rethinking, feeling, wanting.”

If you are with this kind of man, you don’t need a girlfriend, because you already have one.  He has come out of his closet into the radiance of Venus.  One little suggestion though, I’d make certain this wasn’t the only closet he came out of.

Oh, Kim, behave yourself!  Okay, I said it for you.