Midnight Questions And The Evil That Men Do

I do not get to sleep easily. In order to fall asleep, I have to do a few things. First off, I must have an orgasm in some way, shape or form. No problem. I can take care of that in two minutes flat. Second, I have to get whatever song lodged inside my head to go away. This is a fucking horrendous task, especially if I’ve been to Target that day and forced to listen to “Baby, Baby” by Amy Grant at least three times.

Third, I have to clear my head of all thought. You would think this would be easy. I am not a deep thinker. There are lots of people who spend time thinking about God, or death, or the state of world affairs. I am not one of those people. Mrs. Drew will sometimes ask me, “What are you thinking?” and it’ll occur to me that I was thinking of absolutely nothing at all. “I got nothing,” I’ll tell her, and it’s the God’s honest truth. And even if I were thinking about something, that something is likely to be animal crackers.

Yet, when I lay down to sleep, suddenly my brain turns on full throttle. “Hey Drew, what if Metallica got their shit together and made a decent album for a change?” “Hey Drew, do you like fried zucchini? We should make some!” “Hey Drew, when do we get to drink next?” Fucking brain. I have to get all that residual shit out of there before I go to sleep. The only way I know I’m getting to sleep is when I start thinking about random shit, like unicorns, or a blonde Liza Minelli. Shit like that.

And that’s the place I had reached the other night. I was all ready to drift off to sleep, when Mrs. Drew suddenly asks me this:

“Hey, where do you think the mailman goes to pee?”

Are you fucking kidding me, woman? I’m trying to sleep here! You just set the process back a good half-an-hour! Now I have to go jerk off again! Where does the mailman piss? I don’t know! At a fucking Starbucks, like everyone else! Guhhhhh. Women are masters of the Midnight Question. Mrs. Drew doesn’t do it often, but every woman will happily spring a difficult question on you just as you’re about to hit the hay. They could have asked this question any other time during the day. But noooooo, it’s gotta come out at 11:59PM EST. “What should we make for dinner tomorrow?” “Do you think the baby can dream?” “What are you itching?” Dammit, dammit, dammit, no thinking! It’s sleepytime! I demand silence!

This also brings up two other funny things about Mrs. Drew. First, she’ll happily continue a conversation that I assume had ended three days earlier. Apropos of nothing, she’ll say, “So, I think we’ll go with the Rosy Peach.” Huh? What? Is that code or something? “The paint. For the dining room.” Well shit, where did that come from? I need this shit prefaced! I need to be briefed on the details of what we discussed before! That shit goes right out of my brain to make room for all the Amy Grant lyrics. You know that!

Second, Mrs. Drew will project the evils of other men onto me. This is a universal thing that women do. If any man anywhere does something horrible and shitty, they’ll automatically assume that you’re capable of the same thing. Here’s an example. The other night we watched “Match Point”. Good movie, not enough nakedness. Anyway, the dude in this flick (SPOILER) takes a mistress, knocks her up, and then offs her with a sawed-off shotgun. Sweet. Later that night, in bed, Mrs. Drew says to me, “Don’t you go getting a mistress, then getting her pregnant, then killing her.” Well, why the fuck would I do that? I can barely remember to make a sandwich for lunch at work. What makes you think I’m a murderous psychopath prone to infidelity, woman? All of that shit takes effort. And ambition. No thanks.

All I’d like to do is get some rest. And some fried zucchini.

UPDATE: A incredibly nice emailer helps answer Mrs. Drew's question:

"Sorry if this is a bit late, but this is a response to your Midnight Question post. Feel free to pass this along to Mrs. Drew. Or not.

You see, I know where the mailman goes to pee, because my mother is a mailwoman. The simple answer is that she goes home. When she just started, she used to get assignments to deliver mail to bumblefuck, so she'd have to find bookstore or a coffeeshop (this was before a Starbucks was on every corner) on that side of town, preferably one she was delivering mail to. Later, when she got a regular mailroute that was closer to home, she would just go home for lunch (and to use the bathroom). I always wondered if the neighbors thought there was something illicit going on at my house when they saw a mail truck parked out front for about half an hour in the middle of the day.

Also, it's interesting what kind of skills you pick up as a mailperson. My mother is the best parallel parker I've ever known. I'm convinced that if the government fired her, she could get a job as a auto stuntwoman. I don't know how much call there is for short Asian car-driving stuntwomen, but she could probably do an admirable job."

Thank you a million times over, my friend. A good night's sleep awaits.