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Authors: Rachel Thompson
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communicating with each other.
He’ll stand in front of the fridge looking for something, say the large tub of butter that’s right in front of his nose and, as he yells, “Honey! Where’s the butter?” I’ll simply reply: “Refrigeratoritis.”
He’ll look a little harder.
While he’s still got a ways to go in the kitchen—he’s a great cook but a not-so-great cleaner upper, i.e., he’ll put his glass NEXT to the sink in the Land of Far Far Away from the Dishwasher (you know, that unfamiliar machine that doesn’t exist in Guy World)—he has improved a bit in the bathroom area. In fact, he actually put on a new toilet paper roll the other day.
It was a good thing he was standing close by when I noticed, given that I fainted and all.
He has even graduated from just putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine and leaving them to mold into a science project, to actually moving them into that other odd contraption—known as a dryer —that is evidently not just taking up space for the heck of it.
Not that said clothes ever actually move from there, of course. They just sort of build up in there. Like a clothing mountain, if you will. Their only chance of rescue is the occasional buzzing “beep beep” of the “damn it you idiot, get us out of here! We were done yesterday!” signal.
And if I mention cleaning the lint screen, he looks at me as if I’m speaking wolf, the same language the clerks apparently speak on his solo trips to the grocery store.
Which clearly, I am.
I think if he actually folded a load (before it laid eggs) and, God forbid, put it away, I might end up in the hospital.
Husband is a good sport, though, and laughs supportively and with quasi-believable chivalry at the criticism I receive from almost exclusively seemingly perfect single men. Yeah. I know.
Sure, I do stupid stuff and admit that I am, on rare occasions, wrong or even kind of a bitch. Yet what is at the heart of my pieces is this: Sometimes guys do silly, goofy things that we gals just don’t get ( and okay, okay—vice versa ) and silly me—I’m a writer. I’m going to write about it.
Now I just have to work on this Manesia thing.
***
“ Me: I just bought another pair of black shoes.
Hus: I JUST don’t get it.
Me: That’s cuz you don’t have a vagina.”
CLOSET SPACE
Most chicks can work out the refrigerator issue with a minimum of fuss. We shoo the guy away and just make it happen.
But we need our closet space. It’s kind of a prerequisite for marriage. It’s one of our weird little foibles. I admit it’s one of mine.
Marrying a man with large closet space needs is an issue for most girls. That’s a known fact. A real man takes care of his clothes in a small amount of space and is happy about it—because he understands our insatiable need for shoes, of course.
A real man should need one rack, one drawer, and a gym bag. Luckily, when I met JP he was living in a small studio in Manhattan that didn’t even have a closet. He came trained, basically.
If your man lights up at the sight of a walk-in closet, run, sweetie. Run away.
Does your man speak the language of L-O-V-E?
This is important when deciding on a mate. For the rest of your life.
I probably spell it a little bit differently than you do:
C-L-O-S-E-T S-P-A-C-E.
Does your guy speak CLOTHING? (Especially the little-known dialect of WALK-IN?)
Sure, there are important things like attraction, commitment, and ability to cook. Pishposh. I can tell you right now that if your man doesn’t understand that a chick needs to make room for all her girliness, in all its forms, can you really be sure that he’s THE ONE?
My guy loves to do everything together. He’s the type who draws his energy from other people. I’m the opposite. I love my private time and crave time alone.
So what does this have to do with the
He’ll stand in front of the fridge looking for something, say the large tub of butter that’s right in front of his nose and, as he yells, “Honey! Where’s the butter?” I’ll simply reply: “Refrigeratoritis.”
He’ll look a little harder.
While he’s still got a ways to go in the kitchen—he’s a great cook but a not-so-great cleaner upper, i.e., he’ll put his glass NEXT to the sink in the Land of Far Far Away from the Dishwasher (you know, that unfamiliar machine that doesn’t exist in Guy World)—he has improved a bit in the bathroom area. In fact, he actually put on a new toilet paper roll the other day.
It was a good thing he was standing close by when I noticed, given that I fainted and all.
He has even graduated from just putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine and leaving them to mold into a science project, to actually moving them into that other odd contraption—known as a dryer —that is evidently not just taking up space for the heck of it.
Not that said clothes ever actually move from there, of course. They just sort of build up in there. Like a clothing mountain, if you will. Their only chance of rescue is the occasional buzzing “beep beep” of the “damn it you idiot, get us out of here! We were done yesterday!” signal.
And if I mention cleaning the lint screen, he looks at me as if I’m speaking wolf, the same language the clerks apparently speak on his solo trips to the grocery store.
Which clearly, I am.
I think if he actually folded a load (before it laid eggs) and, God forbid, put it away, I might end up in the hospital.
Husband is a good sport, though, and laughs supportively and with quasi-believable chivalry at the criticism I receive from almost exclusively seemingly perfect single men. Yeah. I know.
Sure, I do stupid stuff and admit that I am, on rare occasions, wrong or even kind of a bitch. Yet what is at the heart of my pieces is this: Sometimes guys do silly, goofy things that we gals just don’t get ( and okay, okay—vice versa ) and silly me—I’m a writer. I’m going to write about it.
Now I just have to work on this Manesia thing.
***
“ Me: I just bought another pair of black shoes.
Hus: I JUST don’t get it.
Me: That’s cuz you don’t have a vagina.”
CLOSET SPACE
Most chicks can work out the refrigerator issue with a minimum of fuss. We shoo the guy away and just make it happen.
But we need our closet space. It’s kind of a prerequisite for marriage. It’s one of our weird little foibles. I admit it’s one of mine.
Marrying a man with large closet space needs is an issue for most girls. That’s a known fact. A real man takes care of his clothes in a small amount of space and is happy about it—because he understands our insatiable need for shoes, of course.
A real man should need one rack, one drawer, and a gym bag. Luckily, when I met JP he was living in a small studio in Manhattan that didn’t even have a closet. He came trained, basically.
If your man lights up at the sight of a walk-in closet, run, sweetie. Run away.
Does your man speak the language of L-O-V-E?
This is important when deciding on a mate. For the rest of your life.
I probably spell it a little bit differently than you do:
C-L-O-S-E-T S-P-A-C-E.
Does your guy speak CLOTHING? (Especially the little-known dialect of WALK-IN?)
Sure, there are important things like attraction, commitment, and ability to cook. Pishposh. I can tell you right now that if your man doesn’t understand that a chick needs to make room for all her girliness, in all its forms, can you really be sure that he’s THE ONE?
My guy loves to do everything together. He’s the type who draws his energy from other people. I’m the opposite. I love my private time and crave time alone.
So what does this have to do with the
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