Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Welcome to the Official Dude Club—waitaminute, there’s a Dude Club?

 

The other day in the office, my buddy Jeff approached me and said “Hey Doug, so I heard about your Dude Club.  Can I join?”  I said “Dude Club?  What dude club?”  But before he could answer it hit me—I think I get it.

You’ve probably heard me mention this before, but I work with a large group of women.  There’s Jamie, Julie, Candace, Gwen, Rita, Mia, Kim, Kathy & Danielle.

There’s just two guys in our group, myself and Steve.  Now I’m not knocking our set-up for a minute—this is a talented bunch, funny and smart and hard working.  We have a good team.  But I think the older I get, the more I see the differences between the sexes (besides the obvious).  I’ve always gotten along pretty well with most women it seems, and count many of them as good friends.  But at the same time… you’re always aware THEY ARE A DIFFERENT SPECIES.

Steve

 

Here’s Steve, the other dude in our group;  you won’t  meet a nicer guy

This whole “Dude Club” began awhile back in the office.  One day, after learning of an upcoming addition to our department, a flurry of emails went back & forth between the women in our group.  “Who is this new guy?”  “What’s he going to do?”  “How come the boss never hires any eye candy?”  I watched all of this transpire, but said nothing.  My friend Julie noticed this, wrote me privately and asked “Fresh, why aren’t you joining in?”   (She calls me Fresh.)  I said “You don’t see Steve replying to any of these emails either do ya?”  Julie said “You’re right, why is that?”  I said “Because we don’t care about this kind of stuff.  We’re dudes.” 

Julie said “Well I want to be a dude too.”

I told Julie that wasn’t so easy.  “WHY” she asked, then added “I’m more a dude than you!”  I said “Well, your hair’s shorter than mine, and you can probably kick my ass, but that still does not a dude make.  Why do you want to be one?”  Julie said “Because wimmen are crazy.  They need wimmen pills.  I think all the wimmen who work downtown should get in line every day for their lunch and their pills.  ‘Here’s your lunch and here’s your wimmen pills.  Next!’  I’m not crazy like them.”   I said ok, ok—that’s too damn funny, you can be a dude too.  This made Julie pretty happy.

 

When she’s not busy being a dude, Julie enjoys being married to her husband Jimmy

But I might’ve been a tad premature in handing down that dude decree.  For instance, when Steve (or Jeff who works in our dept but not our group) walks past my desk in the morning and says “Good morning Doug”  I’m usually friendly right back, but sometimes they may get a grunt or crappy response in return.  “Yeah whatever.”   It could be for any number of reasons—I hate Mondays, I’m under pressure to get something done, or maybe I just got out of bed on the wrong side that morning and feel like being a dick.  Do these guys care?  Hell no!  Steve wants to settle in and look at last night’s lottery numbers, and Jeff is anxious to eat his breakfast.  They are dudes.  

The following however, is not dude behavior:

JULIE:  Good morning Fresh… (eyes me suspiciously)

DOUG:  Good morning Julie.

JULIE:  Whoa—what’s with the attitude?

DOUG:  What attitude?

JULIE:  I saw the way you arched your eyebrow at me.

DOUG:  What the—I didn’t arch anything!

GWEN:  What’s going on over here?

JULIE:  Fresh is giving me attitude—and he won’t tell me why.

GWEN:  At least he acknowledged you—I came in this morning and got snubbed!

DOUG:  Gwen I didn’t snub you BECAUSE I WAS IN THE MENS ROOM.

JULIE:  I’m still waiting for an answer about that eyebrow.

Now Gwen can be excused for her wimmen drama, she’s one of them.  Julie on the other hand… well, her husband’s a cop and she’s suspicious by nature.  I know she’s trying her best, but getting back to Jeff’s question about joining our so-called club:  when I asked “Dude Club?  What dude club?”  Jeff said “Julie told me that you, her & Steve are dudes and I can be one too if you guys are ok with it.  So am I in?” 

Yes Jeff, you can be one too.

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