“LITTLE MAN ON THE COUCH”…On Bachelor Weekends, Footmen & Dr. Seuss

The window washer did what?

TP: Morning, Little Man. You look happy!

LM: Big weekend coming up, doc. Bach’n it with Dad.

TP: Bachelor’s quarters, eh? Where’s mom going?

LM: Headin’ out west…her and Mr. Leo have a photo session with some big wrestler-type.

TP: Wrestler?

LM: Well, actually, he’s one of those M&M guys. Mixed martial arts, I think it’s called. Or Maximum Mayhem Administrator…I don’t know, something like that. Basically, a big badass!

TP: For the Soft Side animal thing, I assume.

LM: You got it. Guy’s out there training for his next big match in April. Anyway, dad and I’ll have the place to ourselves for the weekend. Woohoo!

TP: I wouldn’t think your mom would appreciate your enthusiasm for her going away.

LM: Aw, I don’t really mean anything by it. But it is nice to have some “just us guys time” occasionally.

TP: Hmm. I imagine it will upset your routine a bit though, won’t it? I understand you have some fairly stringent, what should we call them, codes of conduct?

LM: Sounds like mom’s been bending your ear, doc.

TP: She did call the other day suggesting we might explore some of your idiosyncrasies.

LM: Like?

TP: (Chuckles.) Well, she was telling me about your morning routine.

LM: You mean the thing about how I handle breakfast?

TP: Right. She said you always wake your dad up at 5 for an early breakfast nibble, but you absolutely insist on waiting for her to go down a few hours later for “second breakfast.” She said sometimes your dad will already be on his way downstairs, even encouraging you to join him, but you’ll ignore him to wait for her.

LM: And is what you just fairly accurately described, my dear doctor, not the essence of the insatiability of women?

TP: Meaning?

LM: Meaning, on the one hand, she says I don’t love her as much as I love dad…then on the other, she gets all discombobulated when I try to give her a special place in my day. Would she rather I wake her up at 5am?

TP: Actually, she told me that, when your dad’s not around, you don’t even bother with the 5am deal.

LM: Reinforces my very point, doc. There’s no satisfying some people. Let me tell you something. My mom—Miss Little Man Doesn’t Love Me Enough—is the only one who may serve me second breakfast, and the only one I allow to hold me in her lap (albeit in the kitchen and in direct proximity to the food bowl, but still), and the only one I actually help with office chores.

TP: Help?

LM: Absolutely! The other day she had this huge organizational challenge—something to do with that legal business, wrangling with the Mayor, who by the way finds time to Meet The Press but whose administration can’t find $40 million in “lost” grant money. But I digress. Anyway, mom’s up in the office, papers all over the place, angst growing by the minute, and who saunters in to keep her company and lower her BP?

TP: You?

LM: Bingo. Besides, doc, nothing wrong with having clearly defined roles for people. That’s what I like about that Downton Abbey series. Those Brits had the right idea.

TP: I didn’t realize you were into that show, Little.

LM: Are you kidding? I love it. Every room has a sash. You want something…you just give the sash a wee tug and some spiffy-looking guy or gal shows up to do your bidding. Plus they’re all specialists. Cooks, servers, dressers, and my personal fave, the footman.

TP: Yes, I do recall our previous discussions on your “foot fetish.”

LM: True. I like a good earthy-smelling work boot and I try to keep up with the latest from Armani and the boys, but truth be told, I prefer a good barefoot toes massage around my ears and chin.

TP: Hmm. Let’s move on, shall we?

LM: Relax, doc. It’s not that weird a thing. Hey, speakin’ of weird, did you see that thing on Facebook that women were all going nuts over? “Nuts” perhaps not being the best choice of words.

TP: No idea what you’re talking about, Little.

LM: Yeh, I guess it was last week sometime. This video post started making the rounds…about some hunky window washer outside a ladies hair salon. Little by little, as he cleans the soap off the window, his seemingly naked hunkiness is increasingly exposed and, of course, with each swipe, the ladies in the salon get all ga-ga.

TP: Oh, yes. Now I remember. The final swipe reveals a kitten in his shorts, right?

LM: Right. What the hell was that about? I mean really. You’re a shrink. Can you tell me what the point was?

TP: I’d offer to look into it, Little, but my guess is that’s just the kind of straight line you’d knock out of the park.

LM: Nah, doc. You give me too much credit. I will say this. I feel bad for the kitten. He’ll probably be poppin’ up on this couch before long. Anyway…let’s see. Other than that, FB’s just been its normal self…bringin’ out the usual suspects.

TP: Like the cop’s mom?

LM: Yeh, she’s always lurkin’ around. Called me a “sour puss” the other day. She’s like one of those girls you probably grew up around. You know, the one that would wait until everyone else was in earshot before she’d do one of those little sing-song put-downs, like “Bobby is a momma’s boy.”

TP: Speaking of cops. Saw the Huffing-and-Puffing-ton Post article the other day about that officer who rescues kittens. Sounds like he could be the window washer from the video.

LM: Ugh. Please, doc. I’m trying to erase that image. I’ll tell you this. That Dr. Seuss guy woulda never made it big if he’d put that cat in his shorts, instead of his hat.

TP: I’d have to agree with you there, Little. Next week?

LM: Wouldn’t miss it, doc. Fill you in on the big weekend.

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