Showing posts with label Men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Men. Show all posts

Saturday, May 16, 2009

SNIPS OF SNAILS AND PUPPY DOG TAILS

Men, boys, or anyone of the male persuasion, please stop reading right now.

No, I mean it. Stop. You are going to get your tender feelings hurt if you keep reading.

Okay - but I warned you.

Get your hankies out then, dudes.

WHEN A WOMAN CLEANS THE KITCHEN AFTER DINNER:

- She unloads the dishwasher and takes care of the clean dishes.

- She scrapes, rinses, and places all plates, glasses, silverware in an orderly fashion that will ensure a thoroughly complete washing by the machine.

- She runs the garbage disposal to ensure no back-up when the machine runs.

- She fills the machine with detergent, sets it on the proper cycle for the load, and begins it.

- She washes by hand as necessary any large pots, pans and lids that cannot fit in the washing machine.

- She dries and puts away the aforementioned pots, pans and lids.

- She wipes down the stove, the counters, the kitchen island.

- She sweeps the floor, and wipes up any spills.

- She empties the trash, and takes it out to the container in the garage or on the street..


WHEN A MAN CLEANS THE KITCHEN AFTER DINNER:

- He sticks as many dishes as will fit, regardless of what is already in the dishwasher or if they are possible already washed, higgly-piggedly on top of each other.

- He leaves any large pots, pans and lids that do not fit on the counter or the stove.



- He doesn't even think about running the garbage disposal, checking the dishwasher settings, or taking out the overflowing trash.



- And if having a really good day, begins the dishwasher.



What prompted this sexist post?

It wasn't even washing the dishes.

My husband, bless his sweet little heart, browned the hamburger for our sloppy joes while I was driving home from the doctor's appointment yesterday.

And when I, the female in the house, did the dishes that night, I didn't understand why the skillet was so incredibly encrusted and difficult to clean.

Then I realized something.

He had obviously browned the hamburger and stirred it... maybe twice in the entire process. Burning the pan.

Why are men so difficult... nay, impossible to house-train?

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

STEREOTYPICAL

Last night I was (SURPRISE!) in the drive-thru line at Dairy Queen because I was feeling..
1) unappreciated,
2) sorry for myself, and
3) angry at my spouse.


Solution? ICE CREAM!

I was second-in-line, right behind a Big Wheels For Adults Super Jacked-Up-So-High-You-Can-Drive-Another-Car-Under It Big Truck.

Now, I must share something extremely personal.
I am a compulsive rear-view voyeur. When stopped at a light or in line, I casually watch the people behind me.
And much more often than I should, when I am driving at down the highway at 65 mph.

It began as a good driving technique - my dad taught me that being aware of who was behind me was as important as knowing what was in front of you -- and since he went 65 years accident-free...
Then it became just fun to watch what people are doing behind you.
To a SICK fixation to observe those who have no idea that they are being scrutinized by me.

I know, I know; someone, please tell me there is a twelve-step program out there for this, and send me the website address.

Anyway, yesterday behind me was (okay, I am being brutally honest here) was a white dude, wife-beater shirt, military crew-cut but a little bit too much weight to be active-duty... in a not-as-manly as the truck in front of me, but real close.

He and his wife were doing that irritating (and not just to rear-view watchers such as myself, but each and every one of s who has ever worked a drive-up window) drive up to the menu, stop, then stare straight ahead and not even GLANCE at the menu until the speaker squawks with "Whaddayawant?!"

And THEN, and only then, begin to look over the menu for four minutes before even beginning to come to a decision.

Come on, people, this is DAIRY QUEEN - it's ice cream or nothing - don't you know what you CAME here for ALREADY?!

So I am mentally beginning to catalog all the grating failings of this dude - unappetizing physical appearance, blank stare, obviously over active
testosterone glands judging by the amount of underarm hair in plain view....
HOLD ON JUST A MINUTE. The only real thing wrong with this guy is that I am in a bad mood. I am being critical and judgemental and MEAN.

And also a total hypocrite, since I am always furious when people are judging ME by my external (and obviously far from perfect) appearance.

So I stopped myself, and began listing the possible positive characteristics that this guy very well could have:

- He obviously loved his wife/girlfriend/significant other sitting next to him; he was getting her ice cream (always a smart move for any type of guy - if doubt, don't get her roses, get her ice cream)
- He was probably a great dad, and coached his son's Little League team, taught his daughter's karate class, and knitted gun cosies like Emerson Cod for his associated weapons.
- He possibly was dealing with the slowing down of construction, and was working a second job as a .... a wife-beater?

Okay, well, give me some credit, at least I tried.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

MEN ARE FROM MARS, PART IXX

Let's just say that there is a word.

And how about we make these words be potato chip.

Now to you, and me, and most other English-speaking individuals (well, except the British with the whole chips/ fries/ crisps bit), a potato chip is a slice of potato, fried and salted.

Right? You and I agree on that, okay?

It's nothing more, and really nothing less.
It's just a potato chip.

So suddenly in through the front living room window crashes in this huge weirdly-marked extraterrestrial from some distant galaxy. Totally uninvited. Distinct odor. Like bad eggs and extremely full diapers. Maybe with a little mold tossed in.

But no politeness, right into your space.

And to HIM, and all of the aliens like him from his corner of the universe, the word potato chip is the equivalent of filming your mother sexually active on prime time television with Jerry Lewis (i.e. not good).

You explain to this alien that no, potato chip means, well, potato chip here on earth. You're sorry that the word offends him, but that isn't what you meant by it, you just meant to say, well, that bit of fried potato that is a potato chip.

The galactic visitor refused to accept your explanation, immediately contacts all his warships in space, threatens to leave the entire earth in nuclear annihilation, and leaves, slamming the bedroom door, in complete and utter disgust, and refuses to talk to you the rest of the night.

Anyone got a better explanation?

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

ASKING A BLIND MAN FOR DIRECTIONS

The adult male human population has doubled in my household since January.

And the amount of dirt, crumbs and empty soda cans has quadrupled. Maybe sextupled. No, let's go with octupled (I don't know if that is the correct term, but it appears... cleaner, no pun intended).

Somehow I believed that my son, now older and supposedly wiser, could easily been shown how and thereby WOULD conform easily to my higher standards of cleanliness.

I seem to have forgotten everything from when this little boy first came into my life in 1981.

Being a liberated woman of the 70's, I was determined to raise liberated children.

And it worked great... with the girls.

They had Tonka trucks, bib overalls, sports and the constant adage of 'whatever a boy can do, a girl can do better.'
Then I had my son.

Even without a male role model around (his father was absent five months of his first year - military responsibilities), this cute little baby would immediately take the head off any doll handed him - any item shaped remotely like a stick would instantly become a weapon.

Boys will be boys, regardless of how genderless I tried to keep things.

So as of today, the following actions have not, repeat, have not provided the outcome that I would expect from my girls:

- Leaving polite memos on the kitchen island; they are not read.

- Piling the scattered stuff he leaves around the house in a BIG mound in front of his bedroom door; he walks right over it without a glance.

- Sitting him down and civilly discussing the matter with him; in one ear and out the other.

The next step?
It may very be well be eviction.
Stay tuned.

Friday, February 20, 2009

POSITION OPEN

NEEDED TO START IMMEDIATELY: Hard working self-starter for chores, decision making, decorating and repairs. Must be a professional-trained nutritionist, personal fitness trainer, motivational speaker and voice coach.

I'm tired of being the one who is always in charge.

One of the nicest things about being in vacation is that you don't have to do the things you detest. If your laundry piles up, hey, it's vacation. The walls that need to painted, the microwave which was bombed last night by someones left-overs, the film of dust on the piano... none of it has to be addressed.

The sagging stomach muscles, the skimming of important documents - when I get home, I promise.

You can take the second dessert without any guilt - stay up late talking because you don't have to get up early tomorrow. You obviously have earned the time off, so why worry.


Which only worsens coming back to the waves of unfinished laundry, stacked piles of unopened mail, empty cupboards, animal hair everywhere.

Suddenly you have to acknowledge the scale which says yes, you still have 45 lbs. to lose - the mirror that screams, WHY HAVE YOU NOT BEEN MOISTURIZING - the church that whispers, you don't have your two grandchildren as an excuse anymore, you need to attend your meetings!

But our heating system is what began this train of thought. It's sort of like a faithful wife - you don't her until she is gone. This winter has been a particularly cold one, and our trustworthy little heater just keeps grinding on and spewing forth slightly warm air until the requested temperature is reached, and then shuts off with only one small gasp.

And yesterday, she seemed to be working just fine; at least the groan was familiar. It was a cold day, but I was accustomed to wearing three shirts, so I didn't notice any change.

Until it was 11:30 p.m., and when I walked back in the house after saying good night to Najale and Sally. And opening the front door, anticipating that nice rush of warm air.... in vain.

Some of you must have husbands who at least pretend to be a handyman. Who stare knowingly at the gauges, bang the machine with something silvery, take some things off and place theses greasy, dirty parts right on the newly cleaned carpet. That take two trips to Ace Hardware, come back with various mechanical pieces that turn out to be part c-117 and NOT the essential part C-118.

And then you call in a professional to fix the stupid thing - it takes him 12 minutes, and costs you $178.00.

My husband's honesty in this area should be commendable, but it drives me NUTS.

"Hey, honey, the heater isn't working!"

And that's it.

So then I am the one who has to stare knowingly at the gauges, bang the machine with something silvery, and take the two trips to Ace Hardware.

Fortunately, I, being the superior sex, also unplugged and replugged every wire I could see, cleaned out the fan area and rebooted the entire system.

And it worked.

I dust off my hands and sit back down in proud superiority.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

WANNA BET ON THAT?

There a lot of differences between men and women.


No, let me rephrase that. There are hardly any similarities between men and women. It isn't "women are from Venus, men are from Mars" - women are from Earth, and men are from a galaxy far, far away that obviously still operates under primeval laws of survival.


But tonight, a man (read that "primitive life form") tried to convince me that his wife (read "mature intelligent adult"), whom I also have known for the past, uh, let's see, nine plus years (read that "know from personal experience to be a awesome woman"), would NOT pay any reasonable airfare to see any potential (read that "now with two married children, bounded to happen soon") grandchildren.


HA!


I have discovered the reward for not killing our own children through their terrible-twos, the fiendish fours, stinking sevens, terrible tens, precocious pre-adolescents, temper-tantrum-throwing teenagers and all-knowing-and-condescending young adult....


... is that eventually, hopefully, they give you wonderful, incredible and dear grandchildren that you can nurture, spoil and just generally fall in love all over again.