Micro-cheating & Mentionitis

Lorinda's recommendation: send your man to the dog house

Yes, we all had a good laugh going through Harold’s journals. He was nothing, if not ambitious in his quest for approval from women. And he kept meticulous details about it. He should not have left these in the kitchen cabinet with the mixing bowls.

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

Yep, my good ol’ Jesse. In the doghouse. Big time. What a week it has been. Never did I imagine I’d be the one telling this story. Things seemed perfect with us, until they weren’t.

God knows how many times I’ve listened to friends falling apart over their partner’s dalliances. And every time I hear their stories, all I can think of is… kick that dude to the curb! Then duct tape a “FREE” sign to his bomber jacket after he falls asleep on the park bench by the bus stop. By morning, someone will either have tossed his free ass into the back of a paddy wagon, or sadly, my friend, you will have unlocked the front door and invited the bum back into your house for a stack of buckwheat pancakes with warm maple syrup. Holy mother of god. When will we women ever learn?

Typically, with our guys, there is a brief respite from the offensive behavior, once it’s been discovered, then it’s back to painfully predictable habits: the flirting, the emotional infidelity, the micro-cheating, the ogling, the direct messages on Facebook. Ugh. It’s all so repulsive, disrespectful, insulting. Yet, even when we’ve been treated badly, we let them stay. We say nothing. We fume in silence.

GIRLS! WTF!

Last week, it was Bonnie from the book club. No, her husband had not been sleeping around, but his STUPID behavior as of late was an indication that his boy GPS was instructing his dick to take the next exit, for Virginville. Bonnie was panicking.

So, instead of discussing White Oleander, last week’s book and movie (with its ridiculously gorgeous, all-blond cast), our group opted to discuss Bonnie’s dilemma with Harold, which also included a ridiculously gorgeous, all-blond cast. Infinitely more interesting than our book, Bonnie’s sad story struck a chord with all of us. To be specific, a minor chord, with a diminished 7th:

Harold’s lousy acting was never going to win him an Oscar, nor was he winning a spot back into Bonnie’s bed anytime soon. He’d really fucked up. He’d be lucky to get a role as lead utensil sanitation manager in her kitchen at this point.

Turns out that Harold had been going out to lunch once a week with business colleagues, who were invariably female (minus the one and only time he met up with his lawyer, Matt Barhop). Harold made out like he and said blond-of-the-week had some vital business to tackle as a “team,” and hey, we all need to eat, right? So, why not work on the task over lunch?

Harold would manufacture something, anything really, as a ploy to get this special employee to join him in a booth at the back of his favorite eatery. He always noted that it would be more convenient if both sat on the same side of the table, whereby they could view that important Excel spreadsheet together. You know the one — on office supplies. Some of the women were on to Harold and came prepared with a ready-made excuse as to where they would sit. Since he’d already offered to buy them lunch, he was on the hook, regardless. First timers found the whole seating arrangement thing a bit off-putting. The vibe was weird — why were they being consulted about office supplies when they worked in HR?

Part of Harold’s schtick post-lunch was to share the gory details of the occasion with his wife. He assumed being transparent about his activities, none of which had (yet) manifested in hanky panky, created a halo of innocence around his mostly bald head. Right? What an idiot.

Let’s do the math here, since that’s what has been triggering Bonnie. By her calculations, only once in 52 weeks did Harold join a guy for lunch. The other 51 lunch dates involved Harold taking out various lady friends. “Lady friends” — Harold’s semi-creepy term, by the way. Now I’m crunching the numbers… that makes 2% of his lunch dates with men and 98% with women. I think scientists would categorize that 2% as a “statistical anomaly.”

And when the time came to pay the tab at the end of the meal at the Noodle Hut, Harold and his lawyer split it smack down the middle. All the other lunches, which were at eating establishments with names like The Gilded Fork and Maison Terry, were paid in full, by you-know-who with the penis. “Call me old-fashioned,” was the go-to line for Harold when he was dining out with his lady friends. Bonnie, who as the family bookkeeper had just tallied up $3,825 in business lunch receipts for 2024, was pretty steamed, and not just because only 50% of this dining-out expense was deductible under Internal Revenue Code Sections 274 and 119 — she was pissed about the women. What did this mean for their marriage?

Where Harold deserved to go: the doghouse. Pooky would then take his rightful place in Bonnie’s heart and bed.

The revelations about Harold’s lunch habits unsurprisingly led to Harold and Bonnie having a knock-down, drag-out fight. Harold was quick to point out that Bonnie was being a green-eyed monster, as nothing untoward had ever come about as a result of meeting up with these women. It was all business, get a clue. And, Harold added stupidly, being jealous wasn’t becoming on Bonnie. As a recap, Harold hammered home the “fact” that he went to lunch with both women and men — didn’t that make all of this totally legit? Never mind that well over half the employees at Harold’s office were men (that’s 50%+), while only 2% of his business lunches were with them. More troublesome math.

Anyone else smell the open can of sardines left in the sun on a hot August day?

I need a breather, how about you? Sponge Bob… take me away.

Harold really should not have used the plural, “men,” when he meant “man.” That subtle lie catapulted into left field any chance he might have had of reasoning with Bonnie. She punched back, justifiably, with expletive-laden remarks about the extravagant lunches, the sushi and French cuisine, the bottles of wine, and dessert, and the fact that Harold always paid the entire tab and gratuity. Who does that at a business lunch with colleagues from the office, most of whom were his equals? And why were there only two of them on any given lunch date? Why not invite the whole secretarial pool out to work on that pesky office supply list — get it done in one fell swoop?

Bonnie, understandably, got pretty hot under the collar as she considered all of this. It didn’t sit well. Then she tried to remember the last time Harold had taken her to lunch. When she couldn’t remember what year that was, Bonnie lost her cookies. She took the meatloaf out of the oven, heaved it into the bushes off the back deck, then rounded off her get-your-own-fucking-dinner by rinsing her freshly made mashed potatoes down the drain. Then off to Taco Bell she went, in her aptly named Ford Escape, for her favorite chicken quesadilla and a large Diet Coke. Fuck you, Harold.

All of us listened intently to Bonnie’s story, in lieu of discussing our current read, and our hearts sank. A torrent of similar tales began to spill forth — variations on a theme. This was going to be a long night — tears were flowing, and fists slamming on Nadine’s thankfully sturdy Pottery Barn farm table. Nadine, our host and the only lesbian in the group, had the wherewithal to order some pizzas and crack open the prosecco. A good move. Arturo’s Pizzeria also had Valrhona brownies and Strauss vanilla soft serve, which came packed in special freezer containers on delivery orders. The ladies would eat well, if nothing else. Fortunately, Nadine also had acrylic stemless flutes, or someone might have gotten hurt.

The other disturbing story that stuck out that evening was Jolene’s, which was about her husband’s enthusiasm for his new dental hygienist, Anna, who was from Slovenia. Though she likely never sported a metal bikini like our first lady, Anna was very beautiful and 43 years younger than Ed. After his second teeth cleaning with Anna, Ed developed a severe case of mentionitis. Perhaps her dental equipment had not been properly wiped down between patients.

For months, it was Anna this and Anna that. Anna was a single mom struggling to make ends meet. Anna had a PhD in polymer chemistry from the University of Ljubljana. Anna loved to hike, and was a master gardener, as well as a mountain biker. Anna spoke four languages and knew how to make Viennoiserie. Anna’s mother had a terminal illness and was living at Anna’s house. Anna’s ex-husband had abandoned his family. Blah, blah, blah. However did Ed gather so very many details about this woman’s personal life?

After three months of listening to Anna stories, Jolene’s concern about Ed’s mentionitis grew, especially when he started getting his teeth cleaned every single month, rather than twice a year, and had moved forward with laser teeth whitening at $1750 a pop.

That testosterone-fueled transition men experience when going from compassion to passion — it’s like a Porsche 911 Turbo S, going from 0 to 60 mph in 2.6 seconds, or less. Fuck.

And that’s about the time when Jolene didn’t put her foot down. She didn’t insist on Ed switching dental practices or threaten to move to their vacation house on Lake Tahoe if he continued to see Anna outside of her treatment chair. Instead, she said only that she felt very uncomfortable about his relationship with Anna.

“Whoa, where did this come from?” asked Ed. It wasn’t like he’d had an affair. He and Anna had only gone out for lunch twice, and he was scheduled to play catch with her son on Sunday morning… should he cancel? Yes, he should, said Jolene. It wasn’t right. “That seems pretty harsh,” Ed pointed out — “You taking out your petty jealousy on an 11-year-old boy.” He hoped she would reconsider. But Jolene did not cave, at least not on that.

This story had all of us in the book club burning up with collective moral outrage. What should Jolene do? Nothing short of insisting Ed cut off this emotional affair altogether, we decided. Immediately.

An emotional affair, that’s what this was. The conversations had become intimate, Ed’s interest in Anna was growing, and now she was involving him with her family. Whoa your fucking self, Ed! That’s what I had to say on the matter.

Let’s hope Jolene has the fortitude to lead Ed out of the woods. By his nose ring, of course.

Then there was my situation, the worst of which didn’t occur until we were nearly a month out from that crazy book club reckoning. All of those women’s stories had been on my mind, and it’s likely many of them were subconsciously triggering me. I had known in my gut that something was off between Jesse and me for a while, and I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

You’d think I would have noticed the warning signs for what lay ahead, but I didn’t. Things were good in the bedroom (and the barn and the kitchen and on the dining room table), Jesse was washing the dinner dishes every night without prompting and putting his dirty socks in the hamper, and he was buttering me up with kisses on the back of my neck and grabbing my ass whenever I was trying to pull at pot roast out of the oven. At some point, all these gestures became annoying, however. Something was really bothering me.

It all started on a Tuesday, the day Jesse puts all of the ranch garbage at the front end of our private road. It takes a bit of doing, as there is a lot of it, and he is often caught up at the front gate for a good half hour, consolidating our garbage and that of a couple of our neighbors so he can bring our bins back. On this particular Tuesday, however, Jesse was gone for over an hour. Dinner was on the table, and by the time he returned, it was cold. Was I happy about this? Absolutely not. Did Jesse notice that I was unhappy? Absolutely not.

Like Tiger from 100 Aker Wood, Jesse bounded into the kitchen, chatty as all get out, first about the garbage, which he described as “wonderful,” then about the mother lode of recyclables he’d found — the neighbors must have had one helluva party. But also great, and clearly the source of his indefatigable smile, was Jesse’s having made the acquaintance of one of our neighbors, Betty. He was, in fact, brimming over with information about this new and interesting friend, and so preoccupied was he in talking about her that he didn’t notice my RBF (resting bitch face). Dinner was now stone cold, as was my heart, as Jesse went on and on about this woman.

By the end of his 15-minute recitation, I had lost my appetite completely. “Betty,” had been hiking on the public road that led to our property and was hoping to be able to continue up the hill via the private road. “No problem,” said Jesse. That’s how the pleasantries began.

Turns out, Betty just happens to live in the posh gated estate just a half mile down the road, and she’d lost her husband in October, coincidentally on the same day as Jesse’s birthday. Also a coincidence, Betty’s husband had been Jesse’s age! Now that was serendipity, no? And like Jesse, she noted, he had looked much more youthful than his actual years. Hector had had a long terminal illness, so it had been a rough few years for Betty. She was still mourning his death and feeling lonely, she had to admit. Other than that, she was doing great and had recently returned to her job as a CrossFit trainer (turns out she was more than a trainer, she owned the whole damn gym and several others besides). Betty was also up for doing a trip to Europe, if she could find the right travel companion — she just needed to get out and start socializing again. Hector’s death had left a big, gaping hole in her life. Meeting new people, she said, was difficult to do at age 64. There you go – Betty was no spring chicken, but she was much younger than Jesse.

Jesse then pointed out that Betty seemed exceptionally fit for her age and had great skin — that CrossTraining must be good for a person. I, for one, was shocked to learn he had blurted this out to her (and then me) — this ridiculously transparent sexual flattery. Betty just chuckled, apparently, then offered to help Jesse get the heavy garbage bins off the back of his truck. She was strong and could have helped, Jesse noted with a twinkle, but he told her he didn’t want her getting garbage juice on her pink Lululemon workout togs. He knew those were expensive, and this was something he could easily do himself, he said, as he flexed his muscles. And there he was, Mr. Studmuffin, multitasking… demonstrating his virility while kibbitzing with the gorgeous chick from down the way.

It was clear that by the end of the conversation, Betty was well-versed on Jesse’s family history, his financial cojones, the size of his ranch, and his marital status. No doubt all of this also gave Betty a good idea of the size of his balls. Yes, they are large. Very. As confirmed by his confidence and ranch boy swagger.

By the end of their convo, it was clear that Betty was impressed by Jesse and Jesse was impressed that she was impressed. Yes, he did look much younger than one might expect for a man of his age, didn’t he? The two exchanged phone numbers and email addresses and Jesse invited Betty to ride her mountain bike on his property whenever she had the thought to do so, here was the gate code. And perhaps text him whenever she was up his way. He’d make an effort to stick his head out the door to say hi.

I have to give Jesse this. He tells me everything. He’s not the kind of guy to do something behind my back. And as I thought about this positive personality trait, I thought back on all of the other anecdotes Jesse had freely shared about the women he helps. Always younger women, all of whom are fit and attractive, and who sincerely need his help and are impressed by his abilities and intelligence. For those with a hankering for the silver fox, well, Jesse delivers on that pretty well, too.

All of this information rested in my stomach like a rock. Jesse was kissing me, yet I felt nothing. I was numb. I felt like the girlfriend of last resort, and Jesse’s generosity and affection over the last two years, in retrospect, were beginning to feel like an overdose of pity.

All that evening I thought about the other women Jesse had pursued before me and those that continued to catch his eye and imagination, something he thought I didn’t notice, as he always made an effort to be discreet. I was NOTHING like any of these women. All of that was worrying to me. I couldn’t and did not want to compete with other women, be they younger, older, more fit, more stylish, or whatever.

I got so agitated by this whole Betty thing that I blew up. Big time. Everything that was bothering me, and I do mean everything, became clear as day. I knew it was wrong and I rejected it.

I rejected Jesse’s arguments that he was just built that way, that he was high testosterone, that he’d been flirting his whole life, that it was just something men do. Jess admitted that all the flirting gave him a spark and that it validated in his mind his sexiness and attractiveness to the opposite sex. Beyond that, the flirting meant nothing to him. It was harmless. And he would be continuing to do it, as it was part of who he was as a person. I just needed to get past this, he said.

BULLFUCKINGSHIT is what I said in response. He was hurting someone with all this flirting. Me.

At this point, I knew that if I didn’t speak my mind, I would lose my mind. I also knew that if I spoke up, I risked losing Jesse altogether. This was tough shit I was going to throw at him. I would soon find out if he was a real man, or just another one of those dumb ass players that seem to be in the majority.

And I decided all of this had to be put in writing. Jesse needed to get pissed, then to read my words a second and third time, and to let it all soak in. He needed to think about the beautiful and the ugly of me. The tender and the tough. The strong and the weak. He either needed to get on board for the whole package, or I needed to go.

Here’s what he got from me that very night…

Dear Jesse,

My observation as of late is that you freely exchange information with single women, often detailed and very personal information. You describe this as just being “transparent,” and making yourself available to people, but to me and others, this is code for intimate. You say you do this with women and men, but most of the time, these sorts of detailed discussions are with women and there is a growing list of them. 

Then there are the hugs vs. the hand shakes or fist pumps. Women you encounter almost always get the full body contact, men the pump. Probably seems like nothing to you, but it is quite obvious in mixed company, sometimes eliciting wry smiles. What does the hug allow: a chance to see how the other person’s body feels, and so they can feel yours. Ugh. 

In general, your repartee with women is noticeably different than with men and typically includes a briefing on your wife, how long you had been married, what she was like, how important marriage was to you, how you had cared for her to the end, etc. That is code for: I’m great guy, was a one-woman man, towed the line, was trustworthy and loyal, never cheated and (drum roll, please) my wife was six years older. Women really like that part and you know it, because you repeat it all the time. Then there’s the fact you’ve got no wedding band. That’s code for: I am no longer a married man. I have let go of my husband status. I no longer dwell on feelings for my wife.

Then you casually mention you've got a “girlfriend,” and you flash that sexy smile. This is hands down my favorite part of your flirting technique, and boy do I get what this is about. “Girlfriend” is code for: I’ve still got game, I can satisfy a woman, I can get it up. And what is a girlfriend? That’s open to interpretation, but it’s definitely not code for someone you’re committed to for the long run. And as such, it absolutely does not, in any way, shape or form, convey unavailability to most women. Just delayed availability. Grrr. That leaves the door wide open, buddy. And you get a charge saying it. This I have observed.

Then there’s that thing you do so very well... the I’m chatting with you and love hearing all the details of your life and will ask all the questions that convey my concern for your situation. This is code for: I'm a caring sort of a guy. As you are well aware, there is nothing a woman wants more than to feel cared for. You know this, I know this.

Then there’s that your age vs. my age schtick, which starts with a clever age-guessing game and then feigned (or not) surprise that the woman is not as young as you guessed. This is often followed by a supposedly-subtle list of attributes that threw you off in your age estimate. This is code for: you look sexy, I find you really attractive, I’m game. And, you're definitely not too old for me!

The final flourish is that neighborly exchange of information that you do. What, praytell, do you do for a living? I live here, where are you at? I'm widowed, where are you in life's journey? If she gives you this information willingly, that's code for: she’s potentially interested, trusts you enough to give personal information, and she considers you in her league, etc. Then there’s the swapping of phone numbers, and the feel free to come on my property whenever you like, and just text me to let me know when you’ll be around. This is code for: I look forward to seeing you, perhaps I can come out and greet you when you ride by and I can check you out in your bike riding getup. In short: I can't wait to see you, girl!

If you think I am overreacting, my feeling: go fuck yourself, Jesse. Been down this road more times than I care to admit, as have most of my friends. And I’ve heard all the excuses, and the laughable reasoning. I’ve also been told by more than one guy I’m reading into the situation and being paranoid, so please, skip that part. It's nauseatingly cliché.

Here's where I'm at. If you are serious about me, the flirting has to stop. All of it. I can't have it.

And the next time you chat with Betty, please refer to me as your friend, not your "girlfriend," because I am no longer accepting that designation. "Friend" will convey all she needs to know and we'll avoid those pesky sexual, and romantic connotations associated with your having a "girlfriend" that can be so very confusing to women when you're flirting. 

Jesse — we're not married, I'm not your wife, as you so often point out, and I'm now I'm no longer willing to reside in girlfriend limbo.

Either you make this real, and we are until-death-do-us-part, or I will be GONE.

Sincerely, your friend,
Lorinda

Readers, I cannot express how difficult and scary it was to put all of this on the line with Jesse. I love him more than anything in this world. He’s hilarious, hardworking, handsome, sexy, kind, affectionate, and a good person. My favorite guy, ever. But the flirting. OMG. It had to stop. Flirting is cheating, even when there is no sex involved. And it is hurtful and disrespectful. And it conveys the message that you are keeping your options open. This is the opposite of a committed relationship. And for some of you, that’s what you’re looking for. Good for you.

I have to give Jesse credit — it didn’t take him more than 10 minutes to think on this whole thing. Before we got in bed for the night, he took my hands in his and apologized for what he described as his piggish behavior. It was wrong, he said, and he was glad I told him how much he had hurt me. He would no longer be doing it, ever. He wanted me to feel secure and loved. And I believed him.

The next morning, when the inevitable text arrived from Betty, Jesse told her she could not, in fact, ride the trails on his property, that he had changed his mind on this. He gave her directions to a nearby park, and that was the end of any further dalliances.

That evening after dinner, Jesse got down on one knee and asked me to be his life partner. He told me I was the one that made him spark every hour of every day and that if there were any more sparks it would burn his fucking house down.

We have since exchanged matching rings, and they say all that the world needs to know. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.