Most men (and some women!) have had to clean up their place after having over some company they know damn well they shouldn’t have had over. Or, in some cases, the company of the opposite sex is perfectly appropriate, but still, to avoid an awkward situation, one in which the present casual friend notices something left behind by the previous casual friend, we have to make sure our area is spotless.
Now I can’t speak for the women, but I know as a man, cleaning up after a woman has come over is not like cleaning up on a regular day. If I was smart enough, I’d invent a female detector. It would be sort of like a medal detector, except it detects all female stuff. But unfortunately, I’m not smart enough, and apparently no one else is either because I have yet to see a female detector on the market.
So until then, men like myself must rely on our eyes to spot out any damning evidence, which itakes years of training. Most men are programmed to look out for the big stuff like panties, and even strands of hair that’s not hers. But as some would say, where the devil truly lies, is in the details. Thus, we have to develop an eye for the smaller, less obvious things that may call attention to our “lifestyle.” Here’s five of those things.
BOBBY PINS/HAIR RUBBERBANDS
Two items that are easily hidden by men’s messes. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been sweeping my apartment, and in the middle of the dust and lint balls, there’s a small, black, oval-shaped piece of elastic accented with a piece of faux gold, or even more discreet, the bobby pin. Those things are so thin, and seem to camouflage with anything. Usually another woman doesn’t see these things either, but if she does, I know I’ll probably have some explaining to do.
THE TORN PIECE OF THE CONDOM WRAPPER
There’s the condom itself and there’s the wrapper. Every guy knows to deposit those at the bottom of the kitchen trash (she’ll never see it there!). But what about the piece we tore off to open it? In the heat of passion, I’m not paying attention to where it went, and still high off the good time I just had, I’m pretty sure I’m not thinking about it after. My brain is only functioning halfway, so it’s not even registering to me that there’s this thin piece of evidence lying somewhere in close proximity to my couch bathroom sink dining room table doorway bed, but that piece? That small, strip of foil? Women have a sixth sense for it.
STRAWBERRIES
I love strawberries. Absolutely love them. But I don’t just sit on my couch eating a bunch of them with a napkin on my lap by myself. I only do that with grapes (green ones!). I hate to be the bearer of bad news for all the ladies who are reading this, but if you ever opened up the refrigerator of some dude you’re messing with and he has a plastic container of strawberries just sitting there, trust me, those aren’t for him, and honestly, they’re probably not for you either.
COMPUTER EVIDENCE
Heaven help the man who lets a woman check her email, Facbeook, Twitter, or MySpace (to say nothing of those men who date women who are still checking their MySpace) on his computer? Bad move, playboy. I mean, sure it seemed harmless, until the next girl came over and asked if she can do the same, and without even thinking, the man said, “Sure.” Next thing he knows, his present female company is all up in his face asking who the hell is @CaramelComplexx* or SnoBoo@gmail.com* or Facebook.com/JaneBlackwell* and for the next two weeks he have to lie and say he knew none of those girls.
A COPY OF THE NOTEBOOK OR QUESTIONABLE READING MATERIAL
Even I know The Notebook isn’t some mood-setting movie. That’s a relationship movie, and if there’s a copy of it lying on my shelf right between my copy of Training Day and Inglorious Basterds, she’s either leaving for the night (and for good!) or willingly playing the role of woman on the side. I’d rather keep her from having to make such decisions, so I’m just going to make sure there is never ever a copy of that Nicholas Sparks classic anywhere in my apartment. That DVD gets no burn in this crib. Relationship or not.
As for the questionable reading material. Tell a woman I read Playboy for the articles, and she might believe me. Tell a woman I read Cosmopolitan for the articles and she’s going to either ask who else I’m sleeping with or just walk out of my place.
* I don’t follow a CaramelComplexx, I’ve never emailed a woman whose email starts with SnoBoo, and I’m not Facebook friends with a woman named Jane Blackwell. I swear, I made these names up.
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