The Friday Report
Winter Park, CO Colorado
In last week’s column, I misspelled my wife’s hometown of Pittsburg, Kansas. I spelled it like the Pennsylvania city of Pittsburgh, adding an extraneous “h” to the end of the Kansas version. So a public retraction of the offending letter and all due apologies to the 20,000 folks who live in this southeast Kansas town of Pittsburg. And a special apology goes out to sharp-eyed Fraser resident who elbowed me in the ribs when she read it.
Among several dozen other things, I think it’s funny that women make such a big deal about men never stopping to ask directions. They don’t realize the problem isn’t that men are always getting lost, and the problem isn’t that men are too proud to ask a stranger how far it is to the next town. No. The problem is that men and women aren’t ever going to the same place. After the wedding cake wears off, couples are darned lucky to find they’re even headed in the same direction.
Nonetheless, I think I got this business about the difference between men and women figured out. So much so, that I have explained my feelings in a five-syllable, two-line haiku about it:
Well, I didn’t claim it was great haiku, you know, it was sort of off the top of my head. I believe that appreciation of Japanese poetry requires a better fondness for tofu than I have. Now that you mention it, I can’t think of anything with a name that end in the letter “u.” Well, that’s not true, there’s you, Subaru and tutu, hopefully never together in the same sentence.
Women don’t play fair because they make up rules.
“If your sunglasses slide across the dashboard when you’re going around a corner, that means you’re going too fast.”
Come on, Lady, please, just pick ’em up and hand ’em back.
And speaking of wee monologues in your ear, there is a small voice swimming around in a women’s gene pool that tells them that they periodically need to refeather their nest, i.e., remodel the home. This gene is so totally absent in men. Men would prefer to marry, raise a family, and die in their college dorm, surrounded by familiar things that they find comforting, like beer and empty pizza boxes.
Women will leave an entire mall full of burnt, smoldering, shoe salesmen searching for evening footwear that will match the imagined color of a not-yet-purchased ensemble to wear to an event they haven’t decided if they’re going to. This is way too deep for guys to comprehend. Guys only have to choose between brown and black.
Finally, she has narrowed it down to two pairs, one at each end of the mall. This is where, for her, the hunt begins. And, likewise, this is where, for me, the howling to go home begins. But I know from bitter experience, the only resolution is to buy both pair, and that’s what this has all been about from the start. I have to cajole and beg her into both purchases as the price of my returning to the security and comfort of couch and big screen, thereby making the extravagance of buying two pairs of shoes, when only one pair is going to the ball, entirely my fault.
It’s no wonder I can’t stick to a budget.
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