Figuring Out The American Male, or Not

I have been living among the male of the human species for all of my life, first with a father and two brothers. Later with my husband, and three sons.  There are things I have noticed common to most of these individuals. Now don’t get me wrong, not all males demonstrate all of these traits, but I think most mothers/wives/girlfriends/sisters will recognize at least a few of my observations.

Male Blindness

For some unknown reason, men are seemingly struck blind when opening a refrigerator door. I don’t know if the light from inside the appliance knocks out the optic nerve, but usually when that door is opened it will invariably be followed by a plaintive cry of “Where is the milk/OJ?”  Now if your refrigerator is like mine, there is only one shelf tall enough to accommodate the aforementioned liquids. There is not a lot of space to hide things on that 2x2 space.  Yet time and time again, a female is called in to aid in the search and recovery operation.  Forget asking them to get the jelly or mustard, as the smaller size of these perishables virtually disappears before their eyes. I believe the old adage if you want something out of the fridge, just get up and get it yourself was coined by the first housewife that was a proud owner of an “ice box.” Interestingly enough they can always find a beer, soda, or that last sliver of cheesecake you were hiding, with the precision of a special ops team.

This affliction is not limited to the refrigerator. Apparently selective sight kicks in when a clean basket of laundry is sitting at the base of the stairs.  Suddenly they become imbued with the high jump capabilities of a gold winning Olympian. They go over it, around it, and basically ignore it.  When questioned as to why they didn’t bring their clean clothes up to their room, they will look you straight in the eye, and say “I never saw the basket.”

Ditto on the “this room looks like a pig sty,” refrain, you just get a puzzled look. They honestly don’t see the mess. I mean really why put things away in a closet or drawer, when you have all this available floor space?

Toss Out Nothing

This may be related in some way to the previous discussion. I cannot count the number of times I have done a quick scan of my food inventory before I go grocery shopping only to find out we are out of most staples within the following 24 hours.  How does this happen you might ask.  The gentlemen I reside with do not believe in tossing the empty containers into the garbage.  According to my inventory, I had 6 boxes of assorted cereals, a gallon of milk, a pound of butter, and two loaves of bread.  I come to discover, usually during the following morning’s breakfast rush, that all the cereal boxes are empty. The milk jug contains less than one teaspoon of liquid, the bread has gone stale due to non-closure of the package, and once again I was duped by the empty box that I assumed held a pound of butter. Upon closer inspection I find that more than 50% of my dry goods are actually just empty husks. Well I am exaggerating a bit, some of the boxes do contain one cracker in the sleeve, and a half dozen frosted flakes. I believe the unwritten rule is if you finish off the item, you are responsible for tossing out the empties.  Hence most boxes contain trace amounts of the original contents.

Mechanical Ability with Household Apparatus

It never ceases to amaze me the dexterity displayed by the male of our species when it comes to a TV remote. The same applies to the uncanny ability they have when programming any new cell phone, knowledge of the latest apps, and their skill with texting. However they cannot change the toilet paper when the roll runs out.   Any new roll put into play by one of the “boys” will reside on the back of the tank. Similarly is the profusion of used glasses that will sit on the counter mere inches from the dishwasher, but never quite make it inside.  These same people will roll their eyes when they go to retrieve a clean glass from said appliance, and find out “no one” (a euphemism for me) turned on the dishwasher.  I have tried explaining to them that the above mentioned tasks do not require a uterus. Nor is that particular body part required to run a vacuum, wash a floor, or pick up after oneself.  This falls on deaf ears, which brings me to….

SELECTIVE LISTENING

I often wonder if the sound of my voice is what they use in white noise machines. I seem to have that effect on the males of our species. Oh they give the appropriate responses when a request is made; a head nod, an okay, whatever, yet it spurs no action. Things have to be repeated a number of times, while catching; and here is the tough part, and maintaining eye contact. Hours later they will swear I never asked, reminded, or told them anything.  This is glaringly obvious when I give directions while a male is driving the car. My husband actually told me he would rather depend on the GPS for navigation. Sad thing is, our GPS is programmed with a female voice, and he ignores her as well. Many times I listen as our GPS directs him to make the next legal u-turn, again.

Health and the American Male

Not all, but most of the men I know get sicker than women. How do I know this?  They tell me.  “My cold is much worse than yours,” is a common refrain. Their throat hurts more, their fever is higher, and their cough probably means pneumonia. In my experience the patient wants you in earshot at all times. All the better to keep them hydrated, medicated, fed toast, and to generally play step and fetch it.  There are other medically interesting factoids about males.  They do not tolerate gas; if experienced, it is forcefully and loudly expelled immediately from the nearest bodily orifice, without a whiff of embarrassment. Apparently these poor souls are also afflicted with very itchy skin, or so it would appear. Injuries seem to affect the male of our species more often as well.  Then again, you don’t see many gals trying to skateboard down a flight of concrete steps, or join in a rousting game of tackle football.  This brings me to…

Sports

Most of the men I have had the pleasure of knowing, love to watch a good sporting event.  When they get to see the game in person, it is even better.  What puzzles me though is if you were there, and saw the game, why do you have to watch the slo-mo replays, tune in to ESPN Sports Zone for highlights, and then grab up the Sports section of the newspaper to read about it the next morning?  Ask me, I can tell you, the score didn’t change. I mean I really enjoyed the Jerry Maguire movie, but I don’t rewind to watch the “you had me at hello” scene over and over.

It has also been my experience that guys also think the players can hear them through the television. Why else would they loudly scream directions at the TV, and then admonish the quarterback loudly, when he didn’t use the suggestion? Just another male mystery, I guess.

Sex

They love it.  Enough said.

Whats' in Your Gift Basket?

Well its’ that time of year again, Holiday Baskets!  That’s right; tis the season when my husband’s grateful clients and vendors send him gift baskets in a show of appreciation and seasonal cheer.  This is not a good thing.

 I am just barely recovered from my Halloween chocolate orgy.  Although I must say the kids are getting much more cunning in their attempts to thwart my candy raids. They used to leave that pillowcase in plain view on the kitchen counter.  This changed when they noticed the chocolate inventory was experiencing some mysterious, but rapid shrinking, while Mom was doing some equally curious rapid expansion. Oh they tried hiding it; in the family room, then up in their bedrooms, then down the cellar, then in zip-loc bags in the toilet tanks, you know all the usual places. But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to outwit a professional chocoholic. If I could ferret out explosives as well as I do anything make from the cocoa bean, I could be the TSA’s Gal of the year. Lord knows I try and resist, in fact I willingly put Hershey Park on my official list of “no fly zones.” But if that stuff makes it into my house all bets are off.

The first Gift basket made its appearance yesterday.  A beautifully decorated glittery basket from that fine purveyor of chocolates that will go unnamed; just think a lady with long hair, short on wardrobe choices. Yippee! I thought.  After tearing through layers of tissue and ribbons, cutting through bows and inedible decorations, the sum total of edible chocolate food stuff added together did not a full size Milky Way make. My husband, upon seeing the rifled basket, remarked that he planned to bring in some of those chocolates to share with his staff. “Were you planning on giving them one chocolate covered raisin each?”I replied.  Besides your staff are those strange people that leave little glass bowls filled with Hershey Kisses on their desks.  Who does that sort of thing? How can you really trust a person that can have that in full view, and not gobble down the entire contents in one stressful afternoon?  Back in the day when I worked in an office, my stash was kept in a locked drawer in my desk, as God intended. But I digress…..

Now I am sure this kind person paid a very pretty penny for this gift, as none of these Chocolatier’s baskets go for under $50.00. They were gyped. If they had only gone to a big box store, they could have easily purchased 100 large size snickers bars, and gotten change back! (Don’t ask me how I know this) Then I would have been willing to share…. maybe. I believe that if the packaging outweighs the edibles by more than 75%, you are getting ripped off. Call me crazy, but when it comes to sweets I am definitely in the quantity over quality camp. As a fifty plus year consumer of candy, I have yet to have a “bad” chocolate. An oxymoron if I ever heard one.

Well re-gift you may counsel.  I would, but curiosity always gets the better of me.  I always think that today will be the day I discover a huge bonanza of butter crunch hidden under the tissue paper. So far that hasn’t happened. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I counter with, satisfaction brought him back. Hope springs eternal, and the basket season has just begun. Maybe this is the year all my basket fantasies will come true. I’ll keep you posted.

Where's the Beef?

Cooking seemed like an interesting thing to tackle, back in the first days of our marriage.  I was suffused with the glow of new love, and wanted to prepare my husband a dinner he would never forget.  As it turns out, I am the one who will never forget.

I had a day off from work, and I planned to make “homemade” sauce for my beloved.  No Ragu from a jar for this devoted wife.  My mother in-law had given me her recipe, as my husband always gave it rave reviews. I was planning to make this sauce extra special with the addition of an entire pound of browned chopped meat! Lest you pause here, and say “what’s so special about that?”  Let me tell you about our household budget.  We were subsisting on “the borrow from Peter to pay Paul system.” We didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

I pulled out my large pot, (received as a shower present, and making its first foray to the stove), and began gently sautéing garlic.  I added my 3 cans of plum tomatoes, tomato paste, and the browned chopped meat.  I blended in the seasonings stated in the recipe and set the pot on to simmer. Oh I was so proud, how easy was this? Then I tasted my creation……..bleechhh! Obviously I had not followed the directions as carefully as I should have.  What I was lovingly cooking tasted like tomato cotton candy. I reviewed the recipe, and with dawning horror realized that instead of a pinch of sugar, I had added the proportions for one of the tomato components.  A half cup.

You may say, “Well scrap that, and start over.” On my budget that was a non-starter. How can I fix this I pondered?  I had read somewhere that if something is over salted; you dump in a few raw potatoes, and let them absorb the excess.  Well if it worked on salt, maybe it would have the same effect on sugar. Into the pot went 3 large peeled spuds.  I let this concoction simmer away, allowing the Idaho’s do their thing. It didn’t work, plus now the potatoes had disintegrated into my sauce. You may say, “Well scrap that, and start over.” No, I was not defeated yet.  What is the opposite of sweet?  Why sour of course! A healthy dose of vinegar was introduced to the mix.  Another simmer, another taste, and yuucckkkk, still pretty bad. I plowed through my spice rack (another shower present making its maiden voyage) and began tossing spices Willy Nilly. Still no major improvement on the sauce.  As a last ditch effort the Tabasco sauce was pulled off the bench and put into play.  Sadly, we were still losing at the half.

I racked my brain for a solution. Then it came to me, I figured a half cup of sugar is to pinch, as a pot of tomatoes is to a vat!  (And they say you never use algebra in the real world!) I transferred my concoction to a gigantic lobster pot, (yes, another shower present!) then added 6 large cans of tomato puree.  Why would I have so many cans of tomato sauce you might wonder?  Haven’t you people ever heard of the Can-Can sale at Shop Rite? It was so cheap, they were practically giving it away, and since I naively fancied myself as a soon to be fabulous cook, I had stocked up. I began stirring this vat with the help of a canoe paddle, as it straddled two burners on my stove top.

Victory was mine!  Believe it or not, it didn’t taste half bad. Of course if you wanted to find any meat in the sauce you would need to send in a search and recovery team.

That night over dinner, my new husband remarked on what a great sauce I had made.  “You should use this recipe all the time, it’s delicious!” he stated. “I’m glad you like it”, I replied ““I decided to make enough to last 5 years.”  “I do have one suggestion, though”, he added,” next time, why don’t you add a little meat?”

I'm 15 for a Moment

I heard a song today “100 Years” by Five for Fighting.  It so reminded me of the past weekend at my 40+ grammar school reunion.  “I’m 15 for a moment, caught in between 10 and 20,” Such a watershed time on our journey to growing up.

I was raised in a blue collar town, where the majority of the Moms stayed home, and the Dads took the one and only car to work every morning. We didn’t go away on vacations; in fact our families invented the “stay-cation.” We walked or rode our bikes (usually a hand me down) around the neighborhood. If it wasn’t within riding or walking distance, chances are you weren’t going. Eating at a restaurant was unheard of, going out to dinner meant we were going to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving.  There wasn’t a lot of extra money but I don’t think we even noticed.  We were all in the same boat.  Everyone’s parents were called Mr. and Mrs., and they had the authority to give you what for, if they caught you messing around. Our parents had high expectations for us.  Woe to the unlucky child whose parents got a call from another parent or, God forbid, school! One would have a lot of explaining to do, and lame excuses were not tolerated.

Lest you get the wrong idea, it was a wonderful time! We spent hours together at each other’s homes, or played together on the playground. Our summers were spent catching fireflies together. We attended Girl Scout and Boy Scout meetings, usually run by someone’s Mom or Dad. Our friendships were constantly changing, as we moved in and out of different groups of classmates, our best friend this year, might be our sworn enemy next month. We were new teens, scared of being un-cool, not fitting in, let’s face it, we were all around awkward! We had begun to notice one another, outside of the role of person who sits next to you in school. Our golden days of childhood were rapidly coming to a close. Goodbye to the age of innocence.

At the end of 8^th grade we all scattered off to different high schools, meeting new friends. In four quick years we either went out to work, or off to college. As is wont to happen we, for the most part lost touch with each other.

The story might end here, but luckily it does not! Some of us who “found” each other decided to throw a reunion for our entire 8^th grade class. We wondered if anyone would be interested, so we started making calls. One thing led to another, and the event was planned.

I am sure most people that attended, entered that venue with at least a little trepidation.  “How will I be greeted?”  “Will people remember me?”  I know I did.  I should not have worried about a thing! As we began to reconnect, something miraculous took place.  The years fell away, and we were all back in 8^th grade. My former classmates all grew into fantastic adults. We reminisced about the “old” days, caught each other up on where our lives had taken us. The overwhelming feeling was one of total acceptance. Everyone was sincerely interested in their former classmate’s stories. We all had that common ground of shared experiences that took place at a pivotal time in our lives. I think we realized that these people helped to shape us into the persons we have become, as we helped to shape them!

Old friendships were renewed, new friendships were forged.  I was 15 for a moment, caught between 10 and 20, and it was awesome!

An Open Letter to Heather at Credit Card Services

My friend “Heather” from Credit card Services called me today, but then again she calls me almost every day, sometimes twice. She even managed to get her mitts on my cell phone number! She is such a jokester; she always starts by telling me this is my final notice to find out how to lower my credit card debt.  “Heather” is a pathological liar; she will never give me up! I have tried to end our phone friendship over the years, but “Heather” is nothing if not persistent. She usually passes me along to one of her pals for an interesting chat.  I want you to know “Heather”; some of your friends need some lessons from Ms. Manners, as they are downright rude most times!

Let me tell you about some of the zany conversations I have had with your buddies.  I asked one gal pal what was the address of the company where she was employed.  She informed me that she had no idea!  I replied, “You mean every morning when you go to work, you don’t know where you should report?” “Do you get teleported there, or do they blindfold you, and bring you to an undisclosed location?” She asked if I thought she was a “f*****G moron. Well to be painfully honest; I do. She then requested that I perform some bodily acts, which are in my opinion anatomically impossible.  Another male friend of my BFF “Heather” couldn’t explain to me why he was not allowed to pass our call on to his boss; I stayed persistent in my queries, and was hung up on! Another scam artist apparently was so annoyed with my sparkling repartee, that after I hung up on him, he called back!  He wanted to tell me to do the same anatomically impossible feat as the aforementioned young lady suggested.  Talk about your one trick ponies!

In the beginning, when I realized that these impromptu phone calls would be a daily occurrence in my life, I decided to have some fun at your expense “Heather.” Sometimes I would trot out my wacky accents.  I would try and sound British, French, Spanish, or Red Neck, as the mood hit me. Other times I would impersonate a young child, by repeating “how-lo, how-lo, in my best Elmer Fudd impression. My imagination ran wild!  Sometimes I made believe I was the FBI, and was so happy they called, as they were under investigation.  Other times I would tell them to hold on, while I retrieved my credit card, and then put the phone down on the counter till I heard the operator informing me that if I wanted to make another call, I should hang up. I was particularly fond of my Verizon imitation; this is when I would keep repeating “Can you hear me?” “Can you hear me now?’ as your buddies at card holder services kept raising their voices in exasperation.

It might have been a tad mean, but on different occasions I made believe I was Jennifer Anniston, Condoleezza Rice, or Ellen DeGeneres.  I think you need to know “Heather,” that your buds are a bit on the start struck side, or very, very, gullible. You might want to tell them they can stop waiting for; my autographed picture, an inside tour of the White House, or Tickets to my show.

After awhile all this hilarity became stale, and I began to use these calls as a kind of free “Anger Management” therapy. This was especially true if your call came while I was making dinner, reviewing homework, or just having a bad day.  I would channel my best “Judge Judy” attitude and let it fly! There is something to be said about screaming “you are an idiot,” to an idiot! Usually the politeness filters in my conscience don’t allow what’s on my mind, to make it out of my mouth. As much as I would like to yell “can’t you count” to the person in the express lane with 50 items, or “did you happen to look in a mirror before you left your house?”  I never do. (Well almost never) With these calls, all bets are off. It is positively liberating! For this I must thank you.

Lately, though, “Heather,” when I see your number flash up at me, “Out of Area,” or some odd area code (you sneaky little minx!) you and your associates hang up on me as soon as I say hello! My husband and children are firmly convinced that you and yours now recognize my voice or voices as the case may be.   

Could it be “Heather,” that you are giving me up? One can only hope!

I've Been Axed!

I can always tell what rooms my sons have been in during the morning. They are reeking of that teenage scent Axe.   For those of you that do not have young teenage sons I will explain. Axe is the current “in” thing for the well groomed young man. This product comes in deodorant, body wash, and body spray.  Additionally it comes in a variety of editions with names such as Provoke, Instinct, Vice, Click and my offspring’s choice, Dark temptation. This particular flavor is supposed to evoke the smell of hot chocolate; my olfactory senses are evoking car fire.  I know this is a rite of passage, but I wonder why the user needs to douse one’s self so heavily, that it becomes difficult to breathe when an unsuspecting bystander comes within ten feet of the wearer. I can tell where they have ventured in the morning by following their scent trail. I have to tell you, that the smell doesn’t completely disappear till hours after they have left the building!

I started thinking back to my own adolescence, and realized that the names have changed but the actions remain the same.  In my day, the young men would drown themselves in English Leather, High Karate and Joe Nameth’s favorite, Brut. They were not alone.  The colognes of choice for young ladies during that time were Chantilly, Heaven Scent, Love’s Baby Soft, Tabu, and Ambush!  The only thing they had in common was their cloying sweetness.  My heart goes out to all those school bus drivers stuck in an enclosed space with twenty assorted teens, saturated with twenty competing fragrances. I guess Visine for tearing eyes, and an industrial gas mask should be regarded as necessary accruements for the job.

As time marched on, so did our taste in colognes and perfumes. Young men moved upscale to Polo, and Aramis, while we gals took a spin with Obsession, Lauren and Eternity. Catching a whiff of the aforementioned scents brings back a flood of memories; most of them centered on Disco fever, and my skin tight Calvin’s! For a time we all dabbled with Musk oil, that fragrance based on the theory that the pheromone based scent would attract the opposite sex like bees to honey.  It was short lived, as the smell more reminded one of Musk Ox.

Meanwhile, our parents had their own favorites; Dads had Aqua Velva and Old Spice. Bay Rum was reserved for special occasions.  Mom had Jean Nate, for everyday and Channel Number 5 for fancy affairs. Thankfully for us kids; Evening in Paris had gone out of style. They used restraint upon application, as the one bottle was usually stretched out between Christmases.  I don’t think my parents ever entertained the idea of buying scents for themselves.  Soap, water, deodorant and a dusting of talc usually sufficed. I can honestly say any colognes or perfumes that came into my parent’s home were received as gifts.

As time moves on, it is interesting to note what colognes and perfumes are currently scattered on our bedroom dressers.  It probably comes as no surprise that my go to scent is Channel Number 5, while my husband leans toward Old Spice. Funny how even our choices in fragrances came full circle!

Queen of the Funeral Home

There is an old cliché about Irish Wakes that liken them to a big party, where the mourners engage in boisterous revelry.  This is not entirely true. However they do seem to always evolve into a large family reunion.  No one knew this better then my mother.  Every morning the first stop in her perusal of the newspaper was the obituaries. She always knew someone, who had shuffled off this mortal coil. She was queen of the funeral home back when I grew up, well schooled in the proper wake protocol. She knew where everyone should sit; immediate family in the upholstered chairs upfront, lesser relatives further back, friends, co-workers, and neighbors in the cheap seats at the back. Children who had reached the age of reason were required to attend as well. Our job, back then, was to smile politely as we were dragged up to everyone she knew for an introduction.  We all knew our parts perfectly.  “You remember my daughters” she would ask as she pushed us front and center.  “Oh my God, yes, look how beautiful they turned out” would be the reply, as our cheeks were pinched.  Now don’t get me wrong, our looks did not send small children scurrying away in fear, however at different stages in our young lives, beauty was not the first adjective that popped into one’s head.  Mom just ate it up!

My mother was the go to person to find out everything you wanted to know about Wakes, but were afraid to ask.  She could tell you not only what type of floral tribute to send, but which florist gave the best price, and the nicest flowers.  She had a personal stash of Mass cards ranging from a single all the way up to eternal perpetual prayers said by the good brothers and sisters in the overseas mission. You want to donate to a Charity in the deceased’s name?  She would know their favorite charity, or make sure she found out.  She could also supply you with a name and address of where to send your donation. Woe to the poor funeral director who did not have enough tissue boxes scattered strategically throughout the funeral home. When Mom was in the house, that situation was rectified immediately! 

Mom also had opinions about obituaries.  She always maintained that what made up the dash was the most important.  I am talking about the dash that comes between the date of your birth, and the date of your death.  What you did between those dates should be remembered in one’s obituary.  She loved a good meaty obit which told you more than a spouse’s name and the number of children; one that included a person’s favorite pastime, or passion. 

My mother has been gone now, almost 10 years.  She had a wake and funeral that she would have been proud of.  What my sisters and I have been discovering (much to our surprise) is that she must have passed down the Funeral “Diva” gene to us. It seems that our first stop in the morning papers is the obituaries. We will then notify each other, and start making our plans accordingly.  We all have a stash of Mass cards, and know which florist to use.  One of my sisters has already written out her obituary, she is sure her husband would forget some of the things in the dash. (not that she is planning on leaving anytime soon, she feels her ETD, or estimated time of departure isn’t for at least another  30 years) I have to say I was surprised when I looked it over for her.  I didn’t remember her being a finalist in the Miss Universe Pageant circa 1979, or helping Al Gore invent the internet. Then again my memory is not what it used to be.

Depending on the closeness of the recently departed, I also bring my sons to the wake.  While there I drag them around to friends and relatives and say “you remember my sons?” And when they reply, “Oh yes, look how handsome they turned out!”  I just eat it up.