Tuesday, June 2, 2009

New Father's Survival Kit #12: A micro-affair of the heart

Wikipedia is not all that. I mean, sure, you can look up such pop cultural tidbits as "Snake Plissken" and such literary beacons as "Milan Kundera." But I dare you, dear reader, to look up "micro-affair of the heart."

Well? Is it there? Is it... ?

No, it fucking is not.

This goes to show how so far out on the bleeding edge I am. It's lonely work out here, classifying cultural flora and fauna that social scientists haven't even imagined yet... Oh, my dear readers, if I may wax Homeric, I am like some long-line fisherman out in the cold reaches of the Atlantic, hauling in the night's prized catch by moonlight--swordfish, say!--and throwing back such bug-eyed and whiskered freaks that ichthyologists haven't even dreamt about!

Oh, Unit, quit dazzling me with your linguistic pyrotechnics! Just tell me what a "micro-affair of the heart" is?

My answer... Ask your wife. I'm sorry to say that she, like all women, is master of this act of infidelity. What, she won't admit it? Surprise surprise...

So, in the end, it's up to me, the Unit Parental, oracle and truthsayer, to enlighten your clueless, Original Pengiun-wearing ass:

The micro-affair of the heart is, to put it bluntly, the only affair you will allow yourself to have, if you value your wife and Life Force Sucker. It goes like this...

You are in your respective Brooklyn neighborhood, Prospect Heights, say, pushing the Maclaren along Vanderbilt, passing Bicycle Station and then Zaytoons.

Heading towards you on the cigarette butt-littered sidewalk, you see a mom you know from the tot lot. She approaches you, in her sleeveless black cotton dress, a gold rope-style belt at her waist, the cherry red John Madden flats on her little white feet. Her name is Bethany or Hope or something like that.

Now, you and this blond Bethany or Hope have always been friendly. You two chat while your Life Force Suckers run around the tot lot. You exchange Life Force Sucker snacks and, on occasion, a cool moist wipey travels from her sweaty hand to yours. Or visa versa.

So now, as you approach her, you tip your head back in friendly greeting--you can't wave, because both manly hands are occupied with the dudely task of steering the Maclaren. (And let's just make this clear; you'd never be caught dead with a Bugaboo, because those are so Manhattanite and gauche!)

And then, when you are close to her, face to face, your Life Force Suckers looking disinterestedly at each other from their chariots, THE SHIT GOES DOWN...

She gives you a look that unmans you. It lasts less than a second--a stare that's bashful and naughty, fey and aggressive at once... Yes, you weren't mistaken. There was something there... It was fleeting, and it is most definitely GONE...

BUT in that dust spec of time, in that flutter of her butterfly-wing's lashes, entire worlds have collided. In that thin sliver of time, you two have done no less than boarded some time-warping future cousin of the Concord and... ...absconded to Paris, sans respective spouses, sans respective Life Force Suckers, and in some small walk-up studio apartment in the 9th arrondissement, you two committed all sorts of coital piggishness, right there, under the shadow of that windmill thing on Pigalle.

To be specific, in that aberration in the space-time continuum, you two did the following:
  1. Dined by moonlight on a riverboat on the Seine, the river breeze pulling at Bethany or Hope's blond tresses
  2. And, later, back in that little 9th arrondissement apartment, Bethany or Hope grabbed massive dollops of mold-ridden unpastuerized white cheese and spread that creamy stuff all over your under-exercized urbanite chest
  3. In the morning, you two split an eclair over espresso
Tourisme Francaise says: Consider Paris for your next virtual tryst

Shut up, Unit. How can all that happen, right on Vanderbilt, by the Zaytoons restaurant-front?

Yes, fellow unit parentals, it happens countless times a day. In front of Zaytoons. Or in the Unit's own neighborhood, Ditmas Park, in front of the Anarchist Cafe, in front of the Dollar Store cum veggie stand... It's like Secret Wars 1-12 (think back, Brooklyn hipster, to your nerd-cool comic book swilling days)... And what seemed like a 12-month battle between good and evil happened in the blink of the Beyonder's eye...

And here's the exact physics of it: It happens because women have something called imagination and using this power to see things that aren't there, they can get all the passionate succor that is missing in their Life Force Sucker-enslaved lives, just by dreaming it up. Add to this the fact that women have wisdom, that they can see things and people as they really are, and well, there you have it. She knows that imagining an affair with you is going to be approximately 1 mega-trillion times better than the alternative (I.E., getting embroiled in your manchild shit).

This being the case, this Bethany or Hope or whatever her name is is sated by your micro-one-night-stand of a Parisian micro-affair. And out there on the sidewalk, within breathing distance of her kid, she's already lit up an imaginary Pall Mall or American Spirit or Lucky Strike or B&H or whatever cool alterna-smoke she used to indulge in. Scandalous!

As for my own Mrs. Unit Parental, I know she has her own micro-affairs with a certain someone I'll call Studmuffins. And I'm okay with that! Really! I'm even a little flattered. Because Studmuffins is very much a spitting image of myself, save that he has all his hair, is slightly taller, and has a full-time job.

But what can I do about Mrs. Unit Parental's virtual strayings? I believe the First Amendment extends to a woman's filthy imaginings, does it not? I mean, if the First Amendment can't protect that, then throw the whole Constitution out the window, a la Bush W.

And that's all I'll say about micro-affairs of the heart. I've said it all.

But just let me point out again, Wikipedia ain't got nothing on me. They ain't even registering in my rearview at this point.!




  1. You nailed it, Unit. Having pushed my Maclaren (never Bugaboo!) and Life Force Sucker through Vancouver, Edinburgh, and now Lisbon, I can say that the micro-affair is a universal phee-nom. Call it a Life Force Regenerator, like a stab of adrenaline to the heart.

  2. Parental,

    What are you ordering at Zaytoons? Cause I'm clearly not selecting the right thing. Been up and down Vanderbilt a million times and the looks I get from the tasty Brooklyn moms are less "come hither" and more "go yonder." Or maybe I just need to rent out your life force sucker as bait to reel them in.

  3. You my guy, have hit the so called nail on the head. Being a chick, childless (and loving it), I can confirm without a doubt we woman have much many, many, many more micro affairs than you guys could possibly even imagine. In fact, I am having one as I type this.


    See, you are not alone. And see! Despite our national differences, there are human impulses that unite us! I have, therefore, the same message as Pres. Obama attempted to convey to the Muslim World just the other day. We are not that different. You are not alone! Please forward my blog to all your international friends. Thank you.

    Mr. Chrispy,

    Re: Zaytoons, it is no culinary Taj Mahal, I admit. But it is cheap and above passable and their chicken shawarma platter, for example, is filling--all important considerations for a cash-strapped father such as myself. May I recommend the pizzas? The shrimp pizza. And the five appetizer combo platter! Yes! Mrs. Unit Parental and I are partial to: labne, grape leaves, babaganoush, falafel, and one of the salady things.

    Regarding your failed attempts to approach Prospect Height's alterna-moms, you need a Life Force Sucker unfortunately. But the little guy/girl will not act as "bait." Rather, pushing a Life Force Sucker around renders you "safe." In short, please know that when you borrow a Life Force Sucker, the little one simply acts as a cock-block/prophylactic, rendering you a safe candidate for a micro-affair. Capiche?

    Ms. T,

    Details, please. Where did you go on this micro-affair? If you are shy sharing on such a public forum, email me: unitparental@hotmail.com (seriously...)

    All the best,

    PS, Please forward my blog to every human being you know.

  5. what happened to 11? it's one of my top 10 favorite numbers.

  6. Dear MATH GENIUS,

    You count as well as the Life Force Sucker. You know who has time for no. 11? Childless self-centered tools.

    No, just kidding. I am not being defensive. This is what happens to your brain on kids. It gets moldy. Thank you for pointing out this error.

  7. If one glance on the street is a micro-affair, then what would you call a playdate with a dark-haired, blue-eyed actor-dad? (really, he has been on Law & Order and everything.) Did I forget the kid? I mean a playdate with him and his kid, of course. Did I forget my kid? I mean a playdate with him and his kid and my kid. But I can play it back in my mind, without kids, ANY TIME I WANT.

  8. I'm Brooklyn Unita (female Unit?) and I have a studmuffins. He has a British accent and he gave me a wipey last week. I might see him at the camel tomorrow (assuming there's a God).

  9. I feel a little disoriented by this...

  10. Someone should put child services on to you. No way your negative bullshit can't be permanently affecting your poor offspring's development. You're an overgrown adolescent who should have been steralized. You're a dishonest fuck and your wife should leave you for pretending to be a husband and father and not the shithead you are. And you're not nearly as funny as you think you are.

  11. Mr. Unit, This is your best post yet. No one matches your honesty, and the swearing is refreshing. Looking forward to your next post.

  12. I bet the June 7 comment-leaver has an awesome sense of humor. Mr. Unit, you are every bit as funny as you think you are. Give us more!

  13. OK, I will respond. I have a little time in-between my stem cell research and my pedicures. Let me begin by saying, you men tend to think that each and every micro-affair (MA) we have has to take place, with as you put it, Studmuffins. (Do not know where you got that little gem from but I digress.) Far from it, the Jude Laws are but a small spec in our ever increasing multiple MA’s. You guys like to stick to one or two “types”, which is the reason you are not getting the full bang for your buck. Chics, well, we have an ultimate smorgasbord of entertainment at our reach. It is like a buffet on a well appointed cruise ship. A little bit of this, and a little bit of that. Enough preaching T, you tend to natter on. Now for me, let me just say my latest little voyage takes place in Manhattan. My lucky man of the moment is no other than Graydon Carter. Now if you have to ask who GC is, you must have been circling Planet Earth for the last several years looking for a place to land. He is that boyish little Canadian charmer that is the Editor for Vanity Fair. The affair takes place in his co-owed restaurant in Manhattan that only seats a handful of people and unless you know the owners or the chef, you cannot get reservations, as they do not have a phone. In fact, it is GC who put me onto you, bless his little red and white heart. I will not go into details, but let’s just say, all I have to do is mention George W and the party is on, no need for foreplay, we are off to the races. Enough said, my microscope and Petri dish are calling me. I want to finish by saying that Fred McMurray who wrote in on the 6th should realize women in aprons and Yogi Bear lunch pails are long gone, very long gone. We have now become a world that writes what we think, when we think it and are much happier for it. Keep up your posts, they amuse me.