Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Jill's previous post suggests that discovering a guy's Playboy subscription might, for certain people, be an engagement-breaker. Obviously, Jill is not one of those people. Friends—and, if I'm not mistaken, family—have used the powder room in our house, where we keep the current issue of Playboy, and they've stayed in the guest room, where old issues are kept. They always comment on our "periodicals."
And they are ours. The subscription is in my name, but Jill does pay half of the bill.
When Jill and I started dating, I had the Playboy subscription, and at the time it was my subscription. I don't recall taking any steps to hide the magazines from Jill when she first started hanging out at my apartment. I doubt I would have been able to; it was a small place. And besides, if she had an issue with them, she likely wasn't the type of person who would put up with me for more than a couple weeks, let alone end up with a ring on her finger from me.
Which brings us to a defining moment in Jill's and my relationship. Not the moment when I knew I was in love with her, or when I knew that I would propose to her. Funnily enough, I can't really pinpoint when those moments were. But it was probably the moment that I knew we had a real relationship. Jill remembers this happening at night, with me for some reason going on a cookies-and-milkshake run. I remember it with Jill asking me to go to Wawa for her, because my 2% milk was simply unacceptable for her breakfast,and she needed that cloudy off-flavored water generally labeled as "skim milk." But however it happened, she didn't feel like going. So, chivalrous (read: newly smitten) gentleman that I am, I went on my own.
Upon my return, maybe 15 minutes later, Jill had apparently decided to make herself comfortable. I walked into the apartment to find Jill lounging on the couch, wearing one of my t-shirts, watching SportsCenter, reading the latest issue of Playboy. To this day, Jill relishes telling people about my widemouthed astonishment, and the only words I could think to say: "You're not like other girls."
No, no she's not.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Caller: Yes, may I speak with Ross?
Jill: He's at work. It's 2 p.m. On a workday.
Caller: Oh, I see. Is this Mrs. Ross*?
Jill: (Trying not to sound annoyed even though she has every right to be) Um, yeah. Sure.
Caller: Oh great. I'm calling about his Playboy subscription!
Now, from here, the call could go one of two ways. The way it did go, which involved me telling the caller that in fact Mr. Ross had already renewed his subscription but thanks for calling; or the way it might have gone, were I less cool and/or understanding:
Jill: His what?!
Caller: Oh ... his, um, his Playboy subscription.
Jill: Are you telling me ... that the man I'm about to marry ... subscribes to pornography?!
Caller: (Increasingly flustered) Oh no, ma'am. It's not porn. It's—
Jill: I'll tell you what. I'll pay for his renewal if you change the address on the subscription. It should go to his mother's house—that's where he'll be living now.
The moral of the story, folks? Don't keep secrets from your intended (or your intention-followed-through), even about something as possibly innocuous as softcore nudie mags with legitimate journalistic reporting for those who'd care to watch. Because it might not be pretty when s/he finds out. Not pretty at all.
*It should go without saying that the woman on the phone did not call me Mrs. Ross but actually used Ross's last name. That said, I'm not using it here, so just go with me.
Image: Andy Wilson on Flickr