Tag Archives: gender wars

Home Improvement Gender Based Conflicts

2013 continues to be my least favorite year of the decade. I know we’re only 21 days in, give it a chance.

Bullshit. When I want an Oompa Loompa I want it now. Basically the problem this year so far has been my inability to find/make/allocate/manage time. I thought with a couple kids out of the house I’d be free as bird to pursue more esoteric pursuits, engage my passion for paint-by-numbers pictures and wordsearch puzzles.  Sadly this has not been the case.

OK enough whining.

Had some an update from the gender wars this week. I found myself sitting on the sofa in the living room with my bride. Just the two of us, last time we sat and talked like that was probably in 2000. That was the year we took our first and what would be our last, at least to date, vacation together, just the two of us. Scary times, nothing to do but answer questions, and not just the good kind of questions, defined by me as ones with one word responses, these were questions that required engaging conversation which have me running away,  and fast. Actually the Ghost of Montezuma intervened on day two of the that week at Club Med and Mrs S was unavailable for the last 4 days of the trip. It sucked for her, but made a quiet week for me. Too bad we were in Mexico and not somewhere good like Apple Valley or Balsam Lake.

We were sitting there quietly doing whatever it is we do when we’re quiet, most certainly involves a cell phone or a computer in my case, and Mrs S started to list off a few projects she has in mind for the house. This is always interesting. Personally I’ve never initiated a home project in my life. I don’t look at a house that way, something I want to, or can make better. I tend to look at it from the “how do I get comfy here” perspective. I bet a lot of husbands do the same thing. Why fix something that ain’t busted. She was talking about new windows, I get that one, an island for the kitchen… Ironic in my opinion, when the spouse who never sets foot in the kitchen makes proposals for how to improve it. And finally a very general “And I want to do something over there’’ which she said as she was making a hand gesture in the direction of our staircase. “Over where?” “Over there, the staircase, the banister needs replacing, I’d like to put some wood on the landing, get rid of these railings things over here”.

“Over where?” I asked, but changing the inflection from Over to Where thereby asking a question as opposed to challenging her directly. I got the “you simpleton” look. The banister is apparently “dated”, and looks like it came out of the 80’s. House was built in 1985, the home shows would call that woodwork either “original” or “period”. I think we should leave it alone. And I told her so. Wrong answer. We need to modernize and get the banister current.

This is a great example of a first world problem, and I told her so. Apparently since I live in a first world country, and have a first world family I am qualified to have this as one of my problems. And she told me so. Directly. Sometimes words hurt when they aren’t meant to. This was not one of those cases. Her words were meant to hurt, just a little.

The railing however.. we have one of the those seemingly useless little railings, comes out from the wall about 6 feet and helps the lame and moronic understand where the entry hall starts and the living room ends. It is a little retarded. But.. it has a use, especially in the winter. When I come in after walking home from the bus stop it gives me a handy place to drape my coat, and that decorative round knobby thing on the end of the railing, well its a very handy tie rack. Actually it holds a weeks worth of ties, which makes it easy for Mrs S to find then so she can take them upstairs to my closet when she is taking rest of the laundry up. And I told her that.

Some arguments sound better in my mind then they do when I say them.

I lost this battle for practical over design in our bathroom years ago. Again, project required. New shower installed, new shower door. Instead of the 1970’s slider doors, we put a real door with hinges and everything. Problem is, well there’s two. First problem she had frosted glass installed instead of clear. I thing clear glass makes showers more open and sexy. She thinks the same thing and that’s why it’s frosted. And explains the deadbolt on the bathroom door.

The other thing is the door opens against the wall where at one time the towel rack was. We can’t have a towel rack there now.. would break the door. Oddly enough I am the ONLY person in the house who thinks a towel rack near the shower is a handy thing to have. The rest of my roommates are perfectly comfortable picking up a towel off the floor to dry off with. This is OK in the winter if you put the towels directly over the heat register, cheap way to have a heated towel, but by and large this whole arrangement is annoying. I don’t want to be annoyed having to leave my coat and tie on the floor in the living room. Would make it hard for Mrs S to find my ties to go hang them upstairs. I could put them on the new banister. I wonder if they have a model with a tie rack?

BTW, new slider door installed on the porch last year. Contractor got the left opening door instead of the right opening door. He was told not to worry about it, it’d be fine. Well, 1) the light switches are on the wrong side of the door now, I’m the only one who even a little bit bothered about that, 2) the dog continues to run head on into the wrong side of the door. This is actually pretty amusing so I’m going to call that a wash. But it does illustrate the futility of my influence in the house. It’s like there’s a Family Steering Committee and I’m not on it.

On the other hand do I want to be on it? Probably not.

So, more home improvements on a house that I think is prefect, except for the bathroom. If it weren’t for my bride I’m sure I’d never know how many things needed to get done around the house.

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Gender Wars Hit Mass Transit

Been a change on my daily trip on the Loser Cruiser.

BTW, I can rant all I want about the Vikings stadium and it’s subsidies and still get on the publicly subsidized bus every day because I’m crazy inconsistent that way. Yea me.
Anyway, been a change on the bus recently, we have a new driver. A *gasp* woman driver. And, “she ain’t half bad on the eyes” as my old man use to say. He also used to say, in a fake Chinese accent “Man who fart in Church sit in own pew”. So take whatever I say he says with a grain of salt. He ain’t right.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, hottie bus driver.
As my regular reader knows I’ve been learning a lot about women lately thanks to all the press coverage about 50 Shades of Gray. I’ve learned that women have deep dark fantasies.

Some women.

And while sitting on the bus meditating about this singular circumstance while leering at observing the new driver it occurred to me I was just getting hotter and hotter as I watched her.

Scorching hot.
Literally people literally not figuratively. It was getting really g-d damned hot on that freaking coach. Like sweating through the back of my shirt hot. Serious. I know! Right?

(the next generation of women seem to say “I know, right” a lot and I’ve not yet figured out what it means exactly. Still researching)

Anyway, I was starting to lose consciousness. It was like 65 degrees that morning and, I realized, she had heater running, bus driver was running the heater. HEAT. In MAY. I know, right? Think I have the hang of it now.
Since I was the only person on the bus at that time I had to say something. “Pardon me, I think you accidently turned on the heater when you went to turn on the A/C. “ She looked back. “Oh no, I’m cold this morning.”
Not possible. Not F’n possible. There is NO way in creation that anyone could be cold on a 65 degree morning unless…

Gawd the gender wars have hit mass transit.

I’ve been arguing about the temperature in the house, the car, the cabin, the bedroom, the bed, the other car, her mother’s house, this state, and practically the entire freaking planet, with Mrs S for the last 27 years, 9 months and 15 days. She has been “cold” since 1975 and I’ve been “hot” since before that and we cannot come to any agreement, we can’t even get to détente on this. This one argument, which causes me to remember another pithy phrase from my dear father used to say:

“Boy, broads ain’t right”

Add sexist to his list of faults.

And mine frankly because despite my best efforts, every time Mrs S turns of the A/C and closes the windows on a day when the mercury is way up in the high 60’s, that very phrase come to mind.

I’m so ashamed.

Kinda

And since, according to my research, the entire human race is split on the I’m hot/I’m cold argument right along gender lines.. there is indeed something there.

When Mrs S is out of town, I’ve been known to set the AC in the house to 62. Close the curtains cool it down and sit with my dog, drink ice tea and say “ahhhh”. Condensation streaming down the windows. Outside of the windws. Electric meter spinning so fast that the dial glows. Global warming be damned, let the polar bears come live in my basement I’ll get it down to a temperature they like. BTW, since we’re on the utility power rationing thing. In the summer I have to get the house down to about 60 so early in the day so when they start throttling the AC I don’t have to worry about sweating.
The hot/cold thing is why we haven’t slept in the same bed for 20 years. We argue about the window open. I like it open, even in winter. She.. does not. I want a fan running all the time, she.. does not. I get up at night and turn the AC up, she gets angry. I don’t like blankets, she sleeps under several blankets in a nightgown made out of more blankets.

She is a living hot water bottle.

If I get into the shower after her, without checking the temp, my skin blisters. Seriously, I make tea in water that is not as hot as what she likes coming out of the shower head.

That and I snore like a pig. And have some flatulence issues she doesn’t like. And, since the CPAP came into my life, I look a lot like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet which has just about has her creep factor as high as it’s ever been, especially when I’m chasing her around the house in nothing but black sox, the CPAP mask and my Old and in the Way official Thong, which you can purchase here for only $10.49. 100% made in the US of A. 5 day shipping, thank you in advance.

Wipe the coffee and food off your screen and settle down. It’s under my boxers.

Where was I?

So back on the bus, I had my request to turn on the AC rejected. Pissed me off. Just about threw out my good thumb tweeting about my discontent. Lame lame lame… And then she turns around and asks me, “what are you doing for mothers day?”

I didn’t know who she could possibly be talking too. I didn’t engage in chit chat. Looked around the bus, I was the only one on it.. who could she.. me? She’s talking to me? I looked up. “Huh?” Standard male response. I heard her fine I just was shocked at being chatted at by a stranger. Bad enough when a family member does it.

“Mothers day, what are you doing for mothers day?”

“um.. n o t h i n g ..” I answered. I was looking for an answer which would leave her with no opening for conversation.
“nothing? Aw come on… We’re going to blah blah blah”

I’ve had panic attacks before and I have some tools from the therapist to handle them, breathing in and out into a bag is a good one, but I couldn’t find a bag. Used my travel coffee mug instead.

I don’t chit chat, especially at 6:30am. Holy cow, you wanna chat with me, use Twitter like a civilized person would, face to face is downright rude.

And scary.

Next stop another woman got on, sat next to me. RIGHT NEXT TO ME. The entire bus is wide open and she has to sit next to me. WTF…

Then, she started chatting with the bus driver. They chatted together. Yap Yap Yap. Little “community” right there on damned the bus. Not right people, not right. It was the single most confusing situation I’d seen in weeks. How can two people meet on a bus and just start talking about nothing. And bigger question, why would they? Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in..

In went the earphones, up went Judas Priest, high as I could get it. Stared off into space thinking about absolutely nothing. Blissful eh? humming along.

“Hell bent, hell bent for leather, dum da da dum da da dum da da..” huh?

Had that feeling. You know the one. That one feels like something’s crawling up your neck. Looked over. Woman next me was looking at me with a look I recognized.

Every man has had that experience where a wife, daughter, sister or mother has asked him a question and he has no idea what they said. Happens to me 3 or 4 times a day. Didn’t even know you were in a conversation much less give a rip about it until about a nanosecond ago when it became apparent that someone, some person, wanted a response. And 999 times out of a 1000 that person is my wife.

I pulled the earphone out. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What are you listening too?”

I pulled the cord, rang the bell, got off the bus, popped a Xani, and rocked myself for 35 minutes on the curb while I waited for the next one. Whew, I need some better tools, this gender war is getting the best of me.

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Gender Wars- Jeans Edition or How to Change Your Man

“Where the f*k are my G-dDamed painter pants”.

Mrs S replied.. “Some people start the day with ‘Good Morning’” you should try it.”

Scowl.. a feeble attempt at the “Look” that I can’t pull off.

I should report I’m crabby as hell at the moment.

December 25, the entire family decided to celebrate Christmas in the Jewish tradition and rather than sing songs about the nativity of Jesus, instead went to see a movie. Sherlock Holmes I believe. I do not  know if Chinese food was involved. Never the less I stayed home. I don’t care for movies and I especially don’t care for movies that are going to be packed and thus my back row seat is not guaranteed. Room With A View for example, I liked that movie not because of the story and certainly not the nudity since the only nudity in that lame art film was a fat old Vicar “bathing” with a bunch if young men..

Not sure that would play today.

I liked that movie because I had the entire movie house to myself and could sit anywhere I wanted and not worry about making involuntary noises. Nice night out.

The problem occurred when, while the family was out, I attempted to put on my shoes and in the process kicked a piece of clothing away and, in some manner unknown to me, as I was executing the kick motion, had the sensation of someone shooting me in the back, lower left side, just above my the spot where an ass would be on a normal person, with a high powered taser gun. Either that or a New Guinean aborigine with a poison blow dart hit me with damned nail..

The sensation put me right on the ground, excruciating shooting pain from my lower back down my left leg and back up again. I was rendered immobile and completely impotent (not the sexual kind the other kind) rolling around, eyes tearing up and quite unable to get up with out the sensation of severe pain.

I was also quite pissed off. I’d done something like this years ago and remember the recover and the pain and damn it all to hell anyway this is just BS.. The other thought on my mind.. the errand I was about to run after putting on my shoes.. a needed to trip to the can. Now I couldn’t even get up much less go to the bathroom.

Well, les just say as much as I hate the damn CPAP machine.. wearing Depends would be worse and if Mrs S caught me laying on the ground in my own pee.. I could crawl to the can and did so. Getting off it another story. Using the towel rack and the hamper was able to get into a standing position and that, actually was the most comfortable position I could find. I managed to walk around a bit, which felt pretty good and spend the next half hour slowly walking laps around the house waiting for the gang to get home.

On arrival Grandma suggested that I be taken immediately to urgent care for an examination and some muscle relaxers. My current health insurance really doesn’t work out of state so I had turn that down. I couldn’t see spending $1500 for an office visit for a condition that would get better over time anyway. Besides I could find my own muscle relaxants around the house, there were many different kinds in the closet to pick from. And I did.

Over the next few days I got a little better every day, the flight home sucked bad and I paid for it today but I will come around.

But, I am rather grumpy because any movement which involved bending at the waist, sends a little shooting reminder of Christmas cheer down my leg and across by back. Getting out of bed too, takes about 10 minutes to get up right with out a pulley system of some sort.

And since the most comfortable jeans I own are my painters pants.. I wanted to wear them. But I couldn’t find them. “Where are your NEW JEANS”.

F’n here we go again. A few years ago it was pointed out to me at a wardrobe intervention, that my old stone wash denim jeans, my Wranglers, you know, the ones I’ve been happily wearing since 1982 were no longer acceptable in mixed company. Nope. Now we’re all about stupid dark denim and low cut rise. An old fat guy has no business in low cut anything, and I don’t care for dark denim and certainly don’t care for tight cut legs. Oh and we’re going to pay $60.00 for a pair of denim that I can get at any big box for $9.00. $15.00 if I go with the designer label like Wrangler or Farah or Dad-N-Lad.

But she bought a few pairs and wore them for a bit and then realized that when she said “no more stonewash” she wasn’t talking about painter jeans. Painter jeans I rationalized not only had a cool loop in the side, but were also a loop hole that the local fashion police had left open for me. So over the last couple years I’ve successfully swapped out the Metro Denim for painter pants. Last summer when I was enrolled in a How To Dress For The New Millennium correspondence course I pointed out to her that one of our close friends also wears painter pants, all the time. If she lets her husband do it,

so

will

I.

Nahnah. So imagine my joy when I opened my only gift this year for the holidays and found there in, a new pair of dark denim jeans and a damed pair of flat front khaki pants. Flat fronts.. the other kinda pant.. and I hate those as well.

“Try them on”

“No”

Yes

“No”

Yes

“Forget it I hate ‘um”

I think they’re sexy and who knows what I would do to a…where’d'e go?”

“Whad’ya think? They’re a little low in the waist but I think they’re gonna be OK, Thanks honey.”kiss kiss.

This morning I realized my mistake. By agreeing to wear them under the vain hope of some promised congress I had implicitly given her approval to remove the offending clothing from my closet. She’s always  ahead of me you know.

Or so she would think.

“Honey” I called out “Are you sure about these, they seem low in the waist, don’t want my underwear to show you know.” I would be tagged as the worlds biggest hypocrite if even an millimeter of my drawers were to show above my pants because, with two post teen boys around the house at the moment I’m heard to say no less than 100 times a day “Pull up your G-d damn pants”.

She looked at them.. “they’re a little low but that’s because of your handicap.” “Which handicap is that” I asked.. could be one of many. “the one where in your 30′s your body started absorbing your ass back into itself.” I have that middle age guy thing where I have no ass.

She went on ” But they look great.. so nice to see you in-style for a change.. well done big boy.”

Still, hiking up the drawers isn’t going to do.. but remembering that we had a box of her grandfathers stuff in the basement I went through it and found the perfect solution for nifty new jeans with to low a rise, suspenders. On they went.

The daughter caught the first glance when I came up from the basement… SCREAM and up the stairs “MOOOOOMMMM”

Mrs S came down stairs three at a time.. “OMG.. NOOooooooooo”

And for once.. I think it’s 15-Love.. for the man.

Until I go outside.

 

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Manly Reasoning- Big Purchase Edition

Gender wars documented. This is how we men think..

Got my eye on a guitar. 12 string. Sounds fantastic. I like the idea of 12 string, play me some country blues, Muddy Waters kinda stuff. “I’m A Man”, maybe some Paul Germia or Barbecue Bob..

(BTW if you’re a reader in Georgia do me a solid and see if you can find me some Barbecue Bob material I’d be grateful)

So, I’ve been thinking about a 12 string for a while and now I’m considering one.. Twin Town Guitars has a nice one that sounds good.  Need to get over to the Homestead Pick’n Parlor and see what they got as well. I mentioned to Mrs S that I was looking for a 12 string guitar. I got a double- the “look” and a firm dismissal.

I’ve been a little intimidated about 12 strings, seems like I’m going to spend a lot of time tuning it.

A lot of time.

Still, I love that big huge sound you can get out of a 12 string, and for country blues, have to have it.

The hurdle, convincing the rest of my Marriage that a new guitar is something I should have.

I can already hear her response- “are you going to put it next to the other eight?”

I mean, come one now, where else would I put it?

I don’t think having a few guitars like that is excessive. They’re all kinda different, different sounds, different styles..

Ya I know, you can only play one at a time. Fact is I have a little case of G.A.S. over here. Guitar Acquisition Syndrome.

Couple of strategies I’m considering..

There’s this one- buy the guitar, bring it into the house in its case, leave it in the “music room” for a few weeks, then at some point, preferably when we have company over, open it and play a few songs. Later when asked respond with “new? That old thing?”

Sell/Trade an existing member of the collection and replace with the new one. GHAST- Sell a guitar, surely you jest. That’s not going to work.

What about this one.. buy the guitar, take it to the shop and get it setup and fixed up a bit, then ask her to pick it up at the shop and bring it home. She brings it into the house, not me, Brilliant. Again..when asked “this old thing?” followed by “this the one you picked up for me, remember?”

Hmmm. I kinda like that one, except asking her to drive to the guitar store to pick it up could be troublesome.

I don’t know.. any ideas out there? I’d love to hear them..what’s that? Try the truth? Like just tell her that I’m interested in a 12 string and talk about it and buy it? Seriously? I’m not giving up the dream that easily.

What about this- I buy it, take it to a luthier, have him take it apart into small pieces, then go to luthier school for a year or so, tell her I’m learning to make guitars, reassemble the thing in the basement and call it a class project.

Oooo I kinda like that one, seems a lot easier than the truth.

 

 

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