I am finally at the stage of my life where I love women because they are women and not in spite of the fact that they are women.

Really.

Women are weird. They are wired differently.

Sometimes that skewed wiring drives me and my fellow Y-chromosomers batshit crazy. Sometimes it’s wonderful.

I want to devote today’s blog to “batshit crazy,” something I’ve noticed repeatedly over the years that leaves me so flippin’ angry that my arms flinch in Turrets convulsions and my eyes twitch like a mental patient.

After I moved out of the apartment I shared with my first wife, I moved into a slightly less-sucktastic apartment across town. My ego was in tatters. A scant few times in my life I’ve actually felt the hand of God on my head, moving me through life’s minefields.  This was one of those times.

Kelly was still in college. She interned for the company where I worked, earning college credit. Kelly was a knockout; Former high school cheerleader, she was still in great shape. Petite. Absolutely adorable. Our wing of the building suddenly experienced a dramatic uptick in foot traffic as a parade of young engineers suddenly discovered a reason they absolutely needed to walk past the hallway in Customer Service where we wedged Kelly’s desk.

I cannot, for the life of me, tell you why, but Kelly saw me wading through a river of heartache and she decided we were going to date. The prettiest girl I worked with– Hell, the prettiest girl I knew decided that I was her guy. She picked me. My first wife had dedicated her life to breaking me down, and along comes THE girl to spackle the sucking chest wound that was my ego.

Or at least she tried.

Anyway, Kelly wore an engagement ring. She wasn’t engaged. I was so clueless and distracted by my woes, I didn’t even notice the ring until we were out on our fifth date.

“What’s that?” I pointed.  “One of the guys from Engineering pop the question?”

“I’ve worn that since I came to St. Louis,” she said. “You just never noticed.”

“You’re engaged?”

“Of course not. That’s my ‘Don’t Hit on Me’ ring. If a troll sidles up to me in a bar, all I have to do is just lift my left hand and wiggle my ring finger.”

Oh. Okay. It made sense. A girl that pretty had to be constantly fending off advances. I get it.

From time to time I’ll see rings on the “wedding ring” finger of an attractive girl who I know is not married.  I can spot a ‘Don’t Hit on Me’ ring. Hey, I’m married, but I’m a writer. I am forever a spectator to The Game. I’m fat and forty-seven, but I’m still fascinated by the Third Base Coach going through “the signs” for the batter and the runner on first.

I’m okay with the ‘Don’t Hit on Me’ ring. I respect the ‘Don’t Hit on Me’ ring.

Here is what sends me into batshit crazy convulsions – and this is not a rarity; I’ve run this same lap around Retard Park more than a dozen times:

Pretty girl. Single girl. Single girl who is definitely interested in finding a man to end her days with.  Single girl who I am friends with, but a girl I was not/am not interested in having relations with. Wearing a ring on her left hand ring finger.

ME: “Ah. [pointing] Your Don’t Hit on Me ring, huh?”

SHE: “What? This? Naw. This is my aunt’s ring. She gave it to me.”

ME: “But you wear it on your wedding ring finger knowing that it will keep guys from approaching.”

SHE: “This? Oh hell no. This isn’t a diamond. It’s a [fill in name of precious stone here]. This isn’t an engagement ring.”

ME: “But… You’re wearing it on your wedding ring finger.”

SHE: [shrugs. They always shrug like I’m the one who doesn’t get it.] “Yeah, but it’s not an engagement ring. That’s the finger the ring fit best on.”

ME: [eyes beginning to twitch with frustration] “But don’t you think maybe that’s why guys don’t approach you more? You are sending a signal to the world that you are taken?”

SHE: [shrugs again. speaks slowly like I’m daft because I just don’t get it]  No, that’s not the reason. Like I keep saying, This… Isn’t… An engagement… Ring.”

ME: [angry convulsions now pulsing through my elbows] “Nooooo… You obviously don’t understand… Men. Can’t. Tell. The. Difference. We’re NOT THAT FUCKING SMART! We see a ring, we move on down the bar. Shiny thing on finger equates to ‘Taken!'”

Seriously. I’ve had this identical conversation at least fourteen times in the past thirty years. I did it once again Wednesday night at a “Welcome Home” party for a friend.  The woman was beautiful. The woman was smart as a paper cut and engaging and warm and funny. And never married. And wearing a ring on her wedding ring finger.  Sigh.

Every time the conversation goes almost verbatim to what I have written. And — hand on my kids head — every frickin’ time the conversation ends with the woman saying the exact same thing:

“Well, if a man can’t tell the difference between an engagement ring and a regular ring, then it’s his loss.” [inevitable shrug here.]

It’s all I can do not to shake these women by the lapels and scream:

I know women are smarter than men on many levels. But God DAMN y’all can be thick as a brick when you want to be.

Sigh. Women, right?

I sit here, merely remembering the experience, and my eyeballs are throbbing with frustration once again. You can’t save people from their own stupidity, I guess. How many times must I learn that lesson?

This weekend should be busy, but not with anything too exiting. Missus and I are going to look at joining a gun range so we can practice tactical shooting. (You can’t draw-and-shoot at a public range. That is verboten.) We’ll see how it goes.

I’m taking Wayward Son to visit Cancer Dad. I think we’re going to steal an extra couch and swap it out for Wayward Son’s moth farm. That will involve a bit of sweat equity.

And by-god, we are getting a new dishwasher this weekend. MBW has been dragging her feet in picking out a new unit to replace the Devil’s Dishwasher. We’ve been washing by hand for a month. It hasn’t been too onerous, but dammit, it’s time. If she doesn’t make a decision, I’m making the decision for her.

It’s a dishwasher, not a college. Pick one!

Sigh. Women, right?

Happy Eff-around Friday to all. Stay safe. Write something. Re-evaluate your jewelry profile. Whatevs.

Be well.