Porn on the Doorstep

In the traditional pastimes of women, Vero, O'Hara, and I sat around airing our grievances against the male population. Why did he dump me? What's with the silent treatment? Why doesn't he talk to me? Should I dump him? Is he going to dump me? The only possible explanations stemmed from feminine rational.

"If only we had a male perspective," someone lamented.

And what did our wondering eyes did appear? Two men complete in matching jump suits, beanies, and plastic gloves. "We're here to paint the walls." No, dear readers, this was not some strange innuendo, but the very real reality that Vero was halfway through painting her living room walls. Earlier she had requested the help of her two friends, and they had mischievously denied the opportunity to bask in Vero's company, but that was merely a ruse to disguise their true intentions.

This is porn for women. Fully clothed, smiling, spontaneously-helpful men. We only could swoon as they proceeded to paint their walls without direction or assistance and offering their masculine insight why men might cause broken relationships. Extensively. For at least an hour.

The icing on the cake, and gentlemen take note, "Did you dye your hair? It looks really good," inquired Smurf. "Why, yes," I replied, "as a matter of fact I have. Thank you." Oh my gosh. I may need to have a talk with my ecclesiastic leader.