So here is another one of the rhetorical questions that will never be answered. (I am starting to remind myself a bit too much of Carrie Bradshaw and the whole “I couldn’t help but wonder …” bit — but anyway here goes). What is it with men and the whole ‘swept it under the carpet’ mentality? How can they actually believe that if they ignore whatever the incident, problem, topic, issue is — then it will just magically go away. Do we just chalk it up to forgetfullness? Plain old stupidity? Playing dumb? What the hell — just because you choose to ignore it, it’s still there. I would love to have the faith in magic that if I just pretend that it never happened, then I will never have to talk or think about it again. It always amazes me when we have some big huge scrap that a few hours later he waltzes and smiles as if nothing happens. How does he not trip over the huge lump in the carpet???
So perhaps at this point, it’s obvious that I am a little more pissed than my normal light hearted self. As background, if you haven’t read about the whole car thing then you had better check it out here. If you recall that incident, then read it again to remind yourself that my husband never should have been paroled from the doghouse after that whole debacle.
So today the mail brings the news of 3, count ’em 1,2,3 … unpaid …. yes read it again folks, UNPAID, forgotten about, ignored, swept under the under the F&^%$#ING carpet, traffic tickets. Remember the whole no-front-plate-on-the-car thing? Well apparently someone had forgotten to put their fancy new registration and insurance documents in the car too. Thus tickets #2 and #3 — all to the tune of $300+. So instead of paying them, or going to court to have them dismissed (easy as pie I can assure you!) or even telling your wife about all three — where did said tickets land? Under the proverbial carpet. Well I think it’s time for some carpet cleaning in this household, wouldn’t you say?
On Friday night we all jumped in the car to go and pick up my 10 year-old who was playing at a friends house. It was unusual that both my husband and I were there — especially as I had said not long before, “Did you want to run over there and pick him up?” and his casual reply was “No, thanks”. Clearly I was to slow to realize that I was making the usual fatal mistake of asking, not telling– as in “Hey you! Drop the remote, get off your butt and go pick up the kid who I shuttle around 99% of the time!” So anyway, we finally make our way to get him, drawn together by the bribe of a beer and nachos at the mall after the pick-up.
So we’re standing in the house chatting with the Mom while my kid drags himself away from the 50-inch plasma (the kind that we DON’T have, he reminds me constantly) and even the other Mom seems amazed that my husband is there with me. So my kid puts on his coat and suddenly turns to me and says with that innocent expectation of help that boys do so well, “Mom, where’s my other glove?” Now obviously the appropriate response to the 10 year old is not “How the hell would I know you idiot ? It’s not my glove, not my house, and NOT MY PROBLEM” At least not in front of the other mother anyway. So I just smile and say don’t worry it’ll turn up. My husband however, hands-on parent that he perceives himself to be and clearly looking to demonstrate his value since he’s here, gives the kid a min-speech about being responsible for his own things. How ironic is that from the man who woke me up at 5:25am to find his coat for him!! Just goes to prove that their total inability to keep track of anything is not only genetically passed on, but it’s just like color-blindness, they live in complete and total denial of the condition.
This is from my pal Moira (who is so totally worth a bookmark) about the brilliance of the end-of-day-decison-making by the hubby.
Here is the scenario:
You are at work. It takes you 15 minutes to get to the train and it is 6:08pm. The train leaves at 6:20pm. You have only 12 minutes. What do you do?
Option A – Make a run for it. Literally run through the streets of Boston arriving at the station out of breath and in a sweat with the chance of making the train. You never know, you could be a really fast runner that day or the train could be a few minutes late. Stranger things have happened afterall and you never say die. If you miss it you will have to wait one hour and 20 minutes for the next train. However, you could get a bite to eat or pick out a nice book to enjoy. Maybe even call your wife with a hilarious tale of jumping over an old lady and a dog only to have in fact missed the train.
Option B – Try to catch a cab. If you get one in time, you make your train. If not, you can go back to your office to wait for the 7:40. Calling your wife to let her know that you tried but it just wasn’t in the cards.
Option C – Calmly accept in a Zen-like fashion that you will in all likelihood miss the train and wait patiently for the 7:40. Getting more work done and calling your wife like a thousand times to help keep you entertained.
Since I designed the test I get to tell you what the results mean.
Choosing Option A is the correct answer. Mostly because it is the one I would choose. You are the type of person to never give up. You would have done well on the Apollo 13 Space Flight or as a Boston Red Sox fan at anytime in the 86 years prior to 2004.
Choosing Option B would be a nice compromise. You are not the type of person to jump in the pool without at least sticking a toe in first. However, you are open to the possibility of the impossible. You just don’t think it happens all that often.
Choosing Option C. Apparently it means I married you which might just be why you need this Zen-like peace of yours. I get it. But really what the F**! are you thinking?! Get off the phone and make a run for the F’ing train!!
Men and women think so differently in our house. I don’t think I’ll ever not be surprised by this little fact of life. How did you score?
Moira, I can assure you that my better half would be a total C. In fact he is calling me from the car right now to make his drive home pass quickly. Seems he left to late to beat the traffic.
As I was walking to basketball this week, I saw the female referee in the parking lot, clearly in a rush. I couldn’t help but here her giving last minute instructions to her better half about which kid needed to be where and at what time. As she is rushing to get into the gym, he gives he the head tilt and dazed look … “And how do I get there? Which way should I go — the highway or just along Lakeshore?” By this point I am really giggling to myself. We end up walking toward the gym together and I kind of laugh and say “Where would they be without us telling them what to do.” She breathed this huge sigh and laughed out loud and said “I thought only mine was like that!”. I assured her that as a rule, the fellas need instructions for almost everything that has to do with home or family or in fact, anytime their wives and girlfriends might be present to do their thinking for them. They are all good with work, hockey, cars, construction, or whatever else their interests at the moment might be — then they know EVERYTHING. But when it comes to simple day to day life, like cutting up the pizza, which road to take, where’s the mustard, or which hat the kid should wear — they need constant hand holding. The Ref and I had a good laugh and I explained about everything being ‘beside the butter’ — and her comment was “Ya but what if he can’t find the butter?” Good point.
It’s a little word. Only three letters. Even a kid can sound it out. So why is it do damn hard for the boys to remember what it means? Dinner’s ready now. The garbage needs to go out now. It’s time to leave now. Time and again I hear myself (in my head) screaming “WHAT DON’T YOU GET ABOUT NOW — I SAID NOW?” Is there a secret dictionary for men where the meanings of all the words are changed? Does now actually mean “whenever the hell you feel like it?” ‘Cause if that’s the case, I am going to start applying it to things like … like… like … dinner. See, I can’t even come up with an idle threat because now is so irrelevant to him. It’s one of the big sticking points between us — I live life now and he lives it whenever the hell he feels like it.
Not long ago we were going to friends for dinner and so when it was approaching time to leave, knowing it’s critical to give advance warning, I said “I am going to have a quick shower and then we’ll go OK?” “Sure” he says. So after my 3 minute and 24 second shower, I expect to find him getting ready. No, in fact, he has put on his ratty old jeans and boots and is out on the back deck shoveling snow, which of course means the complete 20 minute shower, clothes change and then we’re late for dinner. I lean out the window, “Did ya have to do that now?” In return, I get the big heavy sigh the snarky tone “We’ll this morning you said to do it NOW.” Silly me, and I thought now meant NOW.
Honestly – what’s with these male obsessions that come out of the blue? My hubby decided to obsess about cereal this week. Specifically, the amount of sugar in his cereal. He doesn’t give a damn about that bucket of chocolate ice cream he downed during the first period of the hockey game, or the chocolate chip cookies he stole from the kids’ stash, but be sure — he wants no sugar in his cereal. I know this because I found it written in CAPITAL LETTERS (which we all know = YELLING) all over the white board where I scribble a grocery list. And, no, he didn’t just write what he wanted — he wrote DO NOT BUY THIS BECAUSE SUGAR IS THE FIRST INGREDIENT AND I NEVER CHECKED BEFORE. Ya? Even though you’ve been happily scarfing it down for the last 6 months? So, I give him the benefit of the doubt and proceed to read every cereal label in the store to find the highest fibre, lowest sugar combo of granola-bar-looking-cardboard that I can find. Sure enough next morning I hear the big ‘HUMPH’ from the kitchen and “Is this cereal for me?” “Yes” I say and explain my shopping criteria and point out the very low sugar content. “Well” he complains “it has no added sugar but it’s full of artificial stuff and still tastes sweet”. I know this is where your expect to read that I dumped the entire box of flakes over his head — and trust me, I should have.
The whole thing reminds me of a few years back when my Dad commented on the crease in his jeans and how my Mom folded them. Well, after 35 or so years of laundry my Mom lost it — or found it really, in terms of a new attitude — and calmly, but painfully clearly no doubt, told my Dad that he could do his own laundry from then on. Stunningly, he has ever since (well kinda sorta but he really tries). Of course, they were retired at the time which made it bit easier for my Dad to find the time to hone his new laundry skills. So I’m thinking, my parent have been married almost 47 years and we are barely clawing our way to 15. Do I have to wait 30 years before I can finally say “Screw you — buy your own damn cereal”? I think not.