So it’s time for (insert name of any man that is or has been a part of my life, bonded to me by marriage or not) and me to have the “talk”.  You know which talk I’m talking about.  The talk that nobody really wants to have but eventually you have to because you can’t keep pretending to hide the subject under the table when it has actually become the big ugly monster centerpiece that is blocking everything else from flowing properly in that feng shui, Hi C kind of way.  Yeah, that talk.  The talk that leaves one person feeling relieved like they have just taken the best dump ever and the other person feeling dumbfounded as if he (in my case, it is always the “he” who ends up in this situation) has just discovered that he got struck by a drunk porcupine on his way to a poker game with the boys and he got to walk into the bathroom just as I flushed away said dump at the exact same time.  Use your imagination as necessary.  Mine is otherwise occupied.

This is the talk where time stands still and both shoes drop directly on the man’s head.  There is no other shoe and there is no other dropping of hints.  I’m throwing them both at him at once (George how lucky you were to have only been the recipient of one).  It’s the talk that has been predicated, preambled and prefaced with and by subtle hints, innuendo and reminders of in earlier candid conversations, suggested articles, suggestive gifts, counseling, a boxing match, an ad on the jumbotron during the World Series and a full page story in some issue of Vanity Fair or some such other publication that sounds good to the ear.  It’s that talk.

This should not be confused with the OTHER talk.  That talk trumps all talks.  Well, maybe not all of them, but it sure beats most of them.  That’s definitely the talk you don’t want to be having or hearing on some pleasant Tuesday afternoon when the temperature is just as perfect as you could hope for and your chest feels as if it is inhaling the force of life,  only to have it sucked out of you with that horrible truth train wreck talk that derails every potential ingrown hair that’s just dying to exit your body and make you remember the word “follicle” as if you had to know it for the test. No it’s not that OTHER talk.

This is the talk that keeps you up at night before you actually have the talk, the one that you wonder what took you so long to have it replay in your mind many nights over after you finally do.  The truth of it is brutal and makes you feel like you are free at last! trying to shake superglue off your back as you wrestle with whether or not you should go through with having the talk at all.  Once your mind and mouth have made the deal and you have the talk, you’re home free stuck with it.  But after you have this talk, you feel a sense of relief, as if the universe is one big bowling alley and your have an extra $20 in your wallet plus the memory of your first Almond Joy bar and got bumped to first class all at the same time.  It’s that talk.

I’m not confusing you, am I?  You know which talk I’m referring to, don’t you?  Of course you do.  Every woman of a certain age has plotted, planned and waited for the perfect alignment of parking spaces at the mall mixed with just the right amount of sauce to cheese ratio on a pizza to finally have the "talk" that no matter how many times men have ignored it's arrival been warned about it, they always get taken by surprise to be the recipient of.  It’s not exactly a Heisman Trophy or even a lame time-share in the middle of nowhere.  It’s a talk that every red and blue-blooded man should be prepared to be the receiver of at least once in his life.  Today, it was my man’s turn.

“I have got to stop being your baby-sitter and  get out of this thing that you refer to as a relationship need more and better sex and I need it more often.  It might be nice to have it with you since I’m starting to bore myself almost as much as you do (bore me).  Almost.  And, while we're on the subject, please remember that while I appreciate that football and baseball season collide, my home is not your sportsbar.”

Yeah, that talk.  He has about 27 hours until I come back home for him to be packed and ready to leave in full compliance.  Otherwise, we’ll be having that other talk and it won’t be pretty.