Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Words of Wisdom From My Dad: Men Don't Mature Until Forty

Morning Readers,

     While herding my youngest brother and sister out the door and simultaneously noticing the worn expression on my face, my Dad decided to tell me a funny story the other day…and by “story” I mean a couple sentences that made my neck hairs porcupine, and “funny” in the way the clown doll hijacked that little kid’s legs in Poltergeist. He said, “You know, for the first few years of our marriage, I always let your Mom do the dishes. I never helped.”

     My eyes widened. “Why was that?”

     “I don’t know.” he replied. “I just never felt like  it."

     I planted my hands on my hips and looked at the man like he hadn't changed my diapers for two years straight. "Didn't you know that she needed help? Did you just assume that she wanted to do the dishes every night? How long was it before she tried to strangle you?"

     “One day, your Mother came up to me and told me that she was tired of it and I needed to help once in awhile. So I started doing the dishes.” His shoulder found a comfortable spot in the doorway and he went on. “One day, I asked your Grandpa, the most mature person I ever knew, how long it takes for a man to mature. You know what he said?”

     "I’m sure I don’t want to know.”



     He smiled. “My point is it gets easier. Sometimes you just have to point out things that need to be done and they'll get done."

     "Ahh yes, like the rare chupacabra, man-maturity will show itself after twenty years of patience. Turns out, they think they're really just coyotes with mange."

     "What are, honey?"

     "Chupa... nevermind. Well that's good to know. I'll keep praying for patience and you keep doing the dishes."

    He laughed and headed to the car, leaving me to contemplate the complexity of husbands and their apparent ability to mature at the rate of a turtle on a NyQuil binge. Without knowing it, my father confirmed one of my fears; when Husband doesn't pick-up on things that need to be done, it's not totally his fault. If I was to believe the man who reared me, I'd have to accept some new theories about men-beasts and the way they think.
     You see, Readers, I've logged countless hours staring at Husband, trying to get him to turn into an X Man and link brainwaves with me, striving to establish a psychic link that we can pass information back and for on. Over and over again, I've done my best to channel requests into his cerebrum:

     "Honey?...Honey, if you can hear me, please fix the curtain rod. Our children are in imminent danger of dying in a curtain-rod-related death. That last "tug" may just be Sundance's last, and possibly a little hard to explain to NBC Evening News. " 

     "Babe?...Babe, if you're listening, I really think we should fix the holes in the walls. If the kids don't crawl in one and make their way to Narnia, there's a great chance squirrels or hobos will start hiding walnuts in there by fall."

    Like most wives, I've been more than a little frustrated waiting for things to get done that require a team effort or aren't completely safe for me to attempt with power tools. But, the secret has finally been revealed; I just have to "ask"...so simple...deceivingly simple. This could definitely be like the time someone told me, "All you have to do is spread the wax and rip it off", but I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt and try this wacky theory.
     So what about you Readers? Are you still trying to establish the "Psychic Channel" to get things done, or have you branched into...communication? Let me know. Until then, I'll be looking for something to keep the hobos out.

Until Next Time Readers!