I have had a running joke going about my need to occasionally consult the Fucks Management Manual, also known as the FMM.
The FMM is a handy little tome. Chapter One is called “Zero” and Chapter Two is called – wait for it! – “Two.” If you are in a situation in which you need to decide how many fucks should be given, you only need to flip through these two short chapters to determine how many fucks to give.
Here are a few short case studies that will give you a sense of how easy it is to use the FMM.
Imagine that you have accidentally scraped the side of your car against the wall of the garage. After saying, “Fuck!” and then looking into the rearview mirror to see if the kids noticed, go ahead and consult the FMM. You should probably give Two Fucks about this one. When the BAH (Beloved, Aforementioned Husband) comes home, there will be a conversation about the scrape-age and the logistics of getting it fixed or not. Plus the kids noticed your as-usual-use of profanity and the “ka-chunk!” sound of an automobile hitting the side of the garage. Damn it.
The BAH may have some unreasonable things to say like, “Missy, this is the fifth time you have hit the passenger mirror on the garage wall. Are you trying to completely knock it off the car?” (I know – what a completely unreasonable question, right? However, by consulting the FMM, a crisis may be averted.
The FMM says, “Give Two Fucks about this one. Show that you’re a tiny bit sorry that you can’t back out of the garage in a straight line. As in, ever. Two Fucks for sure.”
(The BAH has just pointed out that there have never, EVER been any “crisis conversations” during any of the hypothetical car scrapes, car accidents, or pretty much any other dumb shit I’ve done to ruin my cars. He’s right. But this ultra reasonable-ness on his part is interrupting my hypothetical flow with the FMM scenario, don’t you think? Hush, BAH. Saintly Brother BAH. Perfect Driver BAH.)
You may be surprised to learn that, in this age of ubiquitous social media, the mean girl/boy passive aggressive nonsense has been ramped up quite a bit. There are all the folks out there who want to jab someone else with a carefully worded post, inspirational quote, “facts” from Buzzfeed, or any such crap.
The bottom line is that their post must be all vague and unclear to everyone else….except for YOU. They want for you to read their awkward, weirdo post about “someone who took the last donut today.” And they want for you to squirm.
At that point, while you are discovering that last.tiny.bit. of donut frosting under your fingernail – ah, bliss! – you see their “wah-wah donut” post on FB and think to yourself, “Crap. Busted. Hmmm…this calls for the FMM.” And, sure enough, a quick perusal of the Fucks Management Manual will help you to discover that this is a Zero Fucks situation. As in, “I give zero fucks that you are mad about me taking the last donut. You snooze, you lose, Pokey. Next time, don’t spend so much time brown-nosing with Darla at her desk. Zero Fucks, dude. Zero.”
Scenario Three: Quiz Time!
Your next door neighbor’s air conditioner recently burned out because it was too closely surrounded by bushes. If the bushes had been trimmed back at least once in the last ten years, the unit wouldn’t have gotten overheated and finally stopped working. Plus, it stopped working on July 22, 2012, a day commonly known in the Old Testament as “That Dang Day It Was Hotter Than Fuck.”
Your neighbor is now having some trouble getting a technician out to replace the unit. Picture this with me: he is standing on his driveway, the tv remote tucked securely in his pocket, and complaining to anyone who will listen about the shoddy craftsmanship of these A/C units these days. “Who the hell said it was a good idea to make these things overseas? Useless politicians. Trump better throw away that stoopid NAFTA.”
Step back for a moment now and consult your FMM. What should you do? Should you give zero fucks about your neighbor’s predicament with the A/C on the Hottest, Most Hellish Day of All Time? Or, perhaps, you should give two fucks because, after all, it is awfully hard to sleep when the house feels like an overheated car engine?
Pressure is mounting here.
*annoying buzzer sounding thingy*
The correct answer is a head-scratcher. Are you ready?
The correct answer is Two Fucks AND Zero Fucks.
Here’s the deal:
While you are listening to your neighbor whine about his broken A/C and not acknowledge that perhaps a little yardwork would have prevented this catastrophe, you need to give the Two Fucks. Giving Two Fucks will require some sympathetic nods, maybe an offer to bring a fan over for them. Give the Two Fucks or else that guy will be angling to sleep on the foldout couch in your basement tonight. And that is the last damn thing you want.
Give Two Fucks and then back away slowly. Keep your eye on the beast. Even, steady breathing. Don’t turn your back until you get to your front door.
But truly, your foreal-forealz response is with Zero. You give Zero Fucks about your lazy-ass neighbor who gave more love to his tv’s satellite dish than the damn overgrown bushes. I mean, he could have trimmed them at least once, for the love of God. Seriously, if you were ever to put your house up for sale, the Jungle Book next door would be a turn-off to any prospective buyers. Therefore, it’s all about Zero Fucks here. The guy didn’t trim his bushes and now it’s hotter than fuck in his house. Zero, friend. Zero it is.
Thus, you need to give Two Fucks for the sake of social and neighborly relationships, but alas, your heart is still with Zero.
You will find that this scenario – the Two, then Zero – is the most common solution out there.
And, by the way, you’re welcome.
Okay. So. The BAH had initially been all low-key with my whole “I think I want to start blogging” idea. He was supportive, but didn’t seem interested in reading any of my entries. He was playing it suuuuuuuuuuper cool.
But here’s the real truth: He was Googling his fingers off today, trying to find me. Because, friends, that’s how hard things are for him at work. There is so much boring paperwork to do, but there he is, spending precious time trying to find the Missy online instead.
It’s all about, “Where is Missy’s blog? I need to take a break from this slow-ass day here in the office and read some of my brilliant wife’s writing. She is the light of my life and I am blessed to have her insights committed to print form.” Or I am blessed to have her committed. Or something.
He found my blog, but he found something else first.
Apparently, FMM also means “Female Male Male.”
In a sexual sense.
For everyone who is laughing and saying, “Duh, Doctor Miss, you didn’t know that?” I’m here to say that, nope, I did not. I am the last one to the Sexual Partners Abbreviation *wink wink* Party. But I’m also probably wearing a really pretty scarf to the party. So there. Call me late, but I’m still looking great.
As part of this illuminating discussion today with the BAH about the multiple meanings of FMM and what the more *interesting* version could entail… predictably!…this statement was laid on the table:
“Instead of writing, we could have a threesome.”
And NO again.