This is not going to be easy, but I feel it is my duty as a purveyor of goodwill between the sexes to address a long-standing misconception.
Women (and you know who you are), it is high time you realized the truth about us men: We are simple creatures, and we take what you say at face value.
I know you have suspected the "simple" part of this statement for some time now (say, from the moment you first saw us use the great outdoors as a bathroom), but let me put to rest any doubts you may have: It’s not an act.
We men are a guileless (and frequently clueless) fraternity. When you say something like, "Whatever you make for dinner will be fine," we believe you. As a result, we are flabbergasted when you berate us for serving you fish sticks and tater tots.
Apparently, you expect us to develop mind-reading capabilities as a result of taking our marriage vows. The reality is, we only become dumber.
As evidence of your unreasonable expectations, I cite a recent passage from a "Home Life" column by local newspaper scribe Marney Rich Keenan. Ms. Keenan admits that this Christmas she told her husband not to buy her anything, as they had already spent way too much money on their children’s gifts.
Then, she writes: "I knew full well at the time, of course, that I would hold it against him [if he failed to buy her a nice gift], sure to bring up ‘The Christmas You Never Got Me a Present’ at every argument heretofore, from now until kingdom come."
What gives? From a pragmatic viewpoint (yes, we men tend to be both simple and pragmatic), this kind of thinking might be considered counterproductive.
Unfortunately, it also appears to be the rule in male-female relationships. Rather than telling us exactly what you want, or explaining exactly what you are thinking, you leave us men to figure it out for ourselves.
This is a supremely bad idea. If any of you women doubt me, I suggest you recall how your guy – without any direction – figured out for himself how to get to an unfamiliar destination the last time the two of you ended up lost in the car. Gives new meaning to the phrase, "fashionably late," doesn’t it?
Of course, it also leads to the following question: Why do women persist in playing these mind-reading games with their men?
I posed this question to my wife, and she responded with a one-word answer: Romance.
Apparently, women find it romantic if their men can figure out what they want by some means (hypnosis and Sodium Pentothal come to mind) other than simply having their mates come right out and tell them.
Which brings me back to the fact that my brethren and I are too simple – too dense really – to recognize the mysterious clues you provide us for solving the riddles in your minds.
Oh, we will try and, occasionally, succeed, but more times than not we will read your signals incorrectly or (duh!) miss them entirely. Inevitably, this leads to disappointment for you and the garbage disposal for a handful of innocent little fish sticks.
So, when my wife recently broached the subject of making New Year’s resolutions, I suggested she vow to tell me what was on her mind, rather than making me guess.
"Do you really want me to do that?" she asked.
"Yep," I replied.
Then she took off the gloves and let me have it.
Of course, this led me to revise the conclusion to my hypothesis: Sometimes, things are simply better off left unsaid.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
The Only Way to Fly
If you’ve never flown in first-class, I’ve got three words of advice for you: Don’t do it! The experience will ruin you, making it impossible to fly coach again.
Recently, I took the family to California for some much needed rest and relaxation. Due to the length of the flight and my stockpile of frequent-flyer miles, I decided to go all-out and bump our coach tickets up to first class.
The benefits began moments after entering the terminal. We stepped to the end of a lengthy line at the security checkpoint, where a security official scanned our tickets.
“Oh, you’re first-class passengers,” he noted. “Follow me.”
We did as we were told, and he led us to a separate checkpoint for those traveling in first class. Friendly faces greeted us and helping hands loaded our bags onto the x-ray conveyor. Best of all – no waiting! When they handed me back my shoes, I swear they even looked as if they had been polished.
At our departure gate, we ran into the family of a former classmate of our older son (they happened to be taking the same flight to California). As we stood talking to the parents, a female voice announced, “We are now pre-boarding all passengers sitting in first class and first class only. Those of you in the coach herd, please wait in the pen to the left of the gate.”
As we grabbed our carryons and began moving toward the gate, the other couple eyed us suspiciously.
“We used our frequent-flyer miles to move up to first class,” explained my embarrassed wife.
“I see,” said the other wife.
“Yeah, we’ve never done this before,” I added.
“Oo la la,” replied the other husband, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
Once we entered the cabin, a bevy of stewardesses immediately surrounded us, taking our coats to the first-class coat closet, storing our carryons in the overhead compartment, helping us get comfortable in the extra-wide seats.
As my boys began playing with every button and doodad in sight, a cheerful stewardess named Nancy appeared.
“I will be taking care of you during today’s flight,” she said. “Would you care for a drink?”
Across the aisle, I heard a distinguished gentleman order a glass of Chardonnay.
“Chardonnay, please,” I replied, figuring I could afford to have at least one adult beverage.
As Nancy filled my glass, I reached into my pocket for some cash.
“The beverages are complimentary in first class, sir,” she said.
“Oh, right -- I knew that.”
By the time we were an hour into our flight, I was finishing my fourth glass of “complimentary” wine and feeling no pain.
That’s when Nancy appeared to take our dinner orders.
“Tonight you have a choice of lemongrass-steamed Icelandic salmon reposed on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes and surrounded by sauteed green beans, or beef tenderloin with duxelles of Portobelo mushroom and potato scallops wrapped in filo dough and baked en terrine.”
After wiping the drool off my chin, I composed myself long enough to order the salmon.
Then I had to ask: “Just out of curiosity, what are the meal choices in coach?”
“I believe they have a choice of either Italian or turkey sub.”
“Oo la la,” I said, and the two of us shared a conspiratorial smile.
Once I had topped the meal off with a healthy slice of raspberry cheesecake, I loosened my belt and took a long sip from my little glass of Baileys.
My equally-satiated wife turned toward me, a frown creeping across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I was just thinking: I’m never gonna be able to fly coach again.”
“I know. But let’s not worry about tomorrow. Let’s live for today.”
With that, I took a bite from one of the chocolate-dipped strawberries Nancy had just deposited on each of our trays and closed my eyes.
Unfortunately, the five-hour flight proved way too short, and soon we were crowded around the luggage carrousel with the peons from coach.
Our friends from home spotted us and walked over.
“So, how were the accommodations in first class?” snorted the husband.
“Oo la la,” I replied.
And I meant every word.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Recently, I took the family to California for some much needed rest and relaxation. Due to the length of the flight and my stockpile of frequent-flyer miles, I decided to go all-out and bump our coach tickets up to first class.
The benefits began moments after entering the terminal. We stepped to the end of a lengthy line at the security checkpoint, where a security official scanned our tickets.
“Oh, you’re first-class passengers,” he noted. “Follow me.”
We did as we were told, and he led us to a separate checkpoint for those traveling in first class. Friendly faces greeted us and helping hands loaded our bags onto the x-ray conveyor. Best of all – no waiting! When they handed me back my shoes, I swear they even looked as if they had been polished.
At our departure gate, we ran into the family of a former classmate of our older son (they happened to be taking the same flight to California). As we stood talking to the parents, a female voice announced, “We are now pre-boarding all passengers sitting in first class and first class only. Those of you in the coach herd, please wait in the pen to the left of the gate.”
As we grabbed our carryons and began moving toward the gate, the other couple eyed us suspiciously.
“We used our frequent-flyer miles to move up to first class,” explained my embarrassed wife.
“I see,” said the other wife.
“Yeah, we’ve never done this before,” I added.
“Oo la la,” replied the other husband, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
Once we entered the cabin, a bevy of stewardesses immediately surrounded us, taking our coats to the first-class coat closet, storing our carryons in the overhead compartment, helping us get comfortable in the extra-wide seats.
As my boys began playing with every button and doodad in sight, a cheerful stewardess named Nancy appeared.
“I will be taking care of you during today’s flight,” she said. “Would you care for a drink?”
Across the aisle, I heard a distinguished gentleman order a glass of Chardonnay.
“Chardonnay, please,” I replied, figuring I could afford to have at least one adult beverage.
As Nancy filled my glass, I reached into my pocket for some cash.
“The beverages are complimentary in first class, sir,” she said.
“Oh, right -- I knew that.”
By the time we were an hour into our flight, I was finishing my fourth glass of “complimentary” wine and feeling no pain.
That’s when Nancy appeared to take our dinner orders.
“Tonight you have a choice of lemongrass-steamed Icelandic salmon reposed on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes and surrounded by sauteed green beans, or beef tenderloin with duxelles of Portobelo mushroom and potato scallops wrapped in filo dough and baked en terrine.”
After wiping the drool off my chin, I composed myself long enough to order the salmon.
Then I had to ask: “Just out of curiosity, what are the meal choices in coach?”
“I believe they have a choice of either Italian or turkey sub.”
“Oo la la,” I said, and the two of us shared a conspiratorial smile.
Once I had topped the meal off with a healthy slice of raspberry cheesecake, I loosened my belt and took a long sip from my little glass of Baileys.
My equally-satiated wife turned toward me, a frown creeping across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I was just thinking: I’m never gonna be able to fly coach again.”
“I know. But let’s not worry about tomorrow. Let’s live for today.”
With that, I took a bite from one of the chocolate-dipped strawberries Nancy had just deposited on each of our trays and closed my eyes.
Unfortunately, the five-hour flight proved way too short, and soon we were crowded around the luggage carrousel with the peons from coach.
Our friends from home spotted us and walked over.
“So, how were the accommodations in first class?” snorted the husband.
“Oo la la,” I replied.
And I meant every word.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
