Sterling's Weekly

Down the road from me, there’s a community center with a dedicated room that’s essentially a revolving door and shared space for a number of different anonymous twelve-step recovery programs and fellowships—alcoholics, gamblers, narcotics, workaholics, you name it.  The other day, I was walking by the community bulletin board, and something caught my eye on that room’s calendar.  It read: Undutiful Husbands Anonymous .  Needless to say, I was intrigued, so I decided that I would attend.  In hindsight, I can see how that may be frowned upon, seen as inconsiderate, given that I’m not a husband—not even in a relationship; not even relationship material , as Al and Desdemona have been saying lately, whatever that means?—but I promise, I went in with good intentions, with the desire to learn, to observe, to listen to the afflictions of the husbands in my surrounding area, the duties they’d shirked.  And, in keeping with the spirit of anonymity, I’ll use fake names fo...

My friend Al—I believe I may have previously introduced him to you as the Reverend Father Alabaster Fudge—well, he noticed that I’d been down recently.  “Down” as in a bit of a funk, forsaken, lovelorn, lonely.  I’d been (still am) on a terrible string of bad luck in the realm of love.  In fishing metaphors, I’d been casting my line, day in and day out, but hadn’t felt even the faintest nibble.  No, that’s too generous.  It’s more like I hadn’t even begun casting yet because, when tying the line, I pricked my finger on the rusty hook and developed a nasty—and fatal—case of tetanus, eventually succumbing to the infection in an agonizingly twisted and spasmodic state of loneliness.  So, doing what friends do, Al suggested I allow him to set me up on a blind date.  To be honest, my initial thought was, “But, Al, how can you, a man of the cloth, a man of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, know anything about the billion-piece jigsaw puzzle called Love that...

Desdemona called me the other day.  Said, “Sterling, I need to talk to you.”  Now, don’t ask me why I thought what I’m about to tell you—and please don’t judge me for it, either—because while I consider Des a very close friend of mine, we have only ever been just friends, so I’ll admit it was a little odd that, as soon as she said those seven words, my mind immediately jumped to, ah, Christ, you’re pregnant, with that accompanying and gut-dropping dread that I had done the impregnating.  I don’t know, I think it must’ve been her tone, the way she’d said it, all matter-of-fact and you’re-the-father like.  And it didn’t help, either, that when I asked if everything was okay, she just said to “get down here” and hung up on me.  Didn’t even tell me where “here” was, but I assumed she meant the mall.  It was probably her lunch break, and I figured I could go for one of those pretzels that always smell better than they taste. So, the whole car ride over there ...

A few winters back, I went up to Milwaukee for a Celine Dion concert.   The concert was on a Saturday, but I ended up hanging around town the following week because I’d happened upon a deal for an Extended Stay.   Figured I couldn’t let it go to waste, and I actually ended up having a really nice time, despite the cold and the snow. The Sunday morning after the concert, I went downstairs to grab a cup of tea.   I was beat, and my throat was a bit sore from screaming my lungs out.   Celine played every song from Falling into You and Let’s Talk About Love .   All certified bangers.   Turns out, the Extended Stay didn’t have any tea, but there were a couple of those big coffee burners and pots—the kind you always see in the waiting rooms at a Jiffy Lube or Valvoline.   My teeth are more porous than the average bloke’s, so coffee can do a real number on them if you don’t get to brushing them quickly enough, but, like I said, I was beat, so I poured myse...