Regrets Only

Every year my TV writer friend Carl and his wife Amy host a Superbowl party. This year they sent one of those internet "evites," the sort that creates an interactive online RSVP page and chat space. By the time I made it to Carl's invitation page his TV writer friends had filled the screen with wacky RSVPs, some of which had taken on a life of their own, inspiring even wackier responses in a crazy "can you top this?" atmosphere.

After surveying the mirth-filled page, I couldn't just give my customary "we look forward to seeing you" response. No, if I wanted any cred with this crowd, my RSVP would have to be wacky too. Nothing wacky came to mind, so I closed the evite window and tried to think wacky thoughts.

I suppose I should admit at this point that one of my little conceits is that I, too, could have been a big-time TV writer like Carl and his friends. If I could conjure up wacky at will. If I hadn't filtered TV out of my life. If I kept up with popular culture. If my humor had broader appeal. If I knew anybody. If I could deal with rejection. If I'd been on the Harvard Lampoon. If I worked well with others. If I understood the first thing about the schmooze. A lot of "ifs," to be sure, but after spending a few hours drinking in their wacky work stories and contrasting them with my deadly dull work life, my envious and insecure soul really needs to overlook those "ifs."

In other words, I'd stand a little taller at Carl's Superbowl party if my RSVP blew the other RSVPs out of the water.

Unfortunately, I set such a lofty goal that I couldn't attain it. After a week of suffering through RSVP-block, my wife got fed up and RSVP'd. "There were a lot of funny responses, so I added something funny too," she said.

I ran to the computer and read our RSVP: "Amy, I hope you'll provide the wardrobe malfunction this year!" The RSVP, like the invitation, showed up on the screen in my name.

Have I mentioned that Carl's wife Amy is the kind of woman who draws slack-jawed stares when she isn't making every head turn? Have I mentioned that this makes Carl uncomfortable? Have I mentioned that she's a bit of an exhibitionist? Have I mentioned that that also makes Carl uncomfortable? And have I mentioned those rumors about her past, rumors that, you guessed it, make Carl uncomfortable?

I pointed all this out to my wife. Instead of abjectly apologizing for her misdeed, or weeping and wailing and gnashing her teeth in despair, or at least furrowing her brow in concern for my grave plight, she laughed. "It's funny! They'll think you have the hots for Amy."

I explained that Carl may not see the humor in my using his evite page to leer at his wife in front of his friends, so after some cajoling and pleading my wife called Amy. Her peals of laughter, audible through the headset five feet away, suggested that Amy also failed to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

Meanwhile, Carl's RSVP page filled with gleefully lurid messages, suggestive innuendo and crude allusions to my alleged relationship with Amy and her various body parts. One even proposed a pool for when and how I'd "score." Exactly what you'd expect from a feral pack of wild sitcom writers circling wounded prey.

Then Carl called. He wasn't laughing. I explained the whole thing, he muttered something about being the laughingstock, and, when we hung up, I resolved that nothing would pass my lips at Carl's party unless someone else had tasted it first. I planned to stay within the crowd, using Carl's guests as unwitting human shields. And, if I survived the party, I vowed to check under our car for the telltale stream of brake fluid or unusual wires or a ticking timing device before driving away.

So as I look forward to living through yet another of my Larry David moments, I'm trying to focus on the bright side. I've managed to become the joke of a party without having a single drink. Yet. Carl's writer friends will no longer dismiss me as dull. Amy might engineer a wardrobe malfunction just to see what Carl does to me. And, if I manage to make it home with at least one working eye and a few functioning fingers, I'll get another blog post out of this developing fiasco.

P.S. More here.

Comments

[DarkoV]

The good thing is you have 2 weeks to prepare.
A costume is certainly in order...for you.
I suggest a monkish robe, Benedectine or Franciscan. Tibetan monk robes are definitely out. Too revelaing. Unless, you're really set on the color red.
A religious man is rarely assaulted....well at least in the States.
To add a twist on the monk thing and score more points with the TV writer's crowd, practice your OCD skills. They may think you're doing Tony Shaloub's character, Monk. Since you've turned your tv sets off, "Monk" is a tv critic's fave.
If all else fails, you'll have the clothes, start praying.
Your wife sounds like a hoot. Hope she offers her own version of the Supe Day debacle. It should be a doozy.

[stephenesque]

I agree with DarkoV, a costume is a must. I suggest you go as Justin Timberlake.

[Misspent]

(Stephen, at first I was shocked that you knew JT, but then remembered that of course you would given his role in last years boob incident. Just the kind of thing to get your attention.)

I would say, OL, no costume, and keep your eyes on the floor.

[Mrs. Peperium]

Just walk up to Amy and pull her shirt off. Then ask "Where's the spider?" You'll have a job offer before halftime.

[gatsby]

so this is where tv writers find all those terrible sitcom plots.
he really had a problem with you?
anybody that's really that uptight about his wife should build a tall tall tower, lock her up, and hold his superbowl party in a seperate state. or get an air pump installed in his penis, either.
if you're actually soliciting advice-
1) the joke was funny. your wife is funny, everybody agrees- all the snarkilicious tv writers chased it around the field like a loose football. if capt. carl can't take a joke, he shouldn't be allowed to write them.
2) don't give the issue another thought, and when somebody else inevitably brings it up, say plainly, "my wife should write for television huh?" and reach for that staple topic of bourgeois superbowl parties- the commercials.

a dissenting view:
walk in, slap his wife in the ass, piss right in the corner of his livingroom, stare him down like an angry gorilla, and exert your will and dominance over that group of hollywood suck-ups. because, that's what they want anyway, buncha frat boys.
mix it up OL.

[Desiderius Erasmus]

I think some of your readers may misunderstand the genus 'homo comœdicus.' While your wife and Mrs. Carl seem like they're enjoying a blithe joke between ladies, your take is likely quite accurate. This incident is howlingly funny to comedy writers—because—it's acutely painful to Carl.

The old maxim, as recently restated by Tina Fey, remains true:

“If you want to make an audience laugh, you dress a man up like an old lady and push her down the stairs. If you want to make comedy writers laugh, you push an actual old lady down the stairs.”

Bona fortuna!

(I remain amused by the Justin Timberlake suggestion, but I'd tread lightly if you value your friendship with Carl...)