Men not only must feel ownership of the remotes, they have also been known to go into a panic if they can’t find them. Would losing one’s wife create as much of a fuss? It is something to ponder, isn’t it?
Even if a woman has somehow convinced her man that two remotes is a good idea, four out of five psychologists agree that the man must feel he has ultimate control of the TV remote or the whole balance of the relationship (perhaps even the universe) may be in serious jeopardy. (Remember, the song “Dueling Banjos” came from the movie Deliverance for a reason. Think about it.)
I honestly think men would pee on the thing if they could. Yes, it is that important. And not just to control the channels. Oh no, my friends. There is also the issue of volume.
Have you ever tried to turn down your fella’s football game? Well, then. You understand.
I believe every woman has asked this question at some point in her relationship with the zoned-out creature—I mean, significant other, right?
Why do guys watch their testosterone-fueled shows, such as sports matches, Survivorman, or Deadliest Catch, with the volume turned up so loudly that even our neighbors in Canada can hear?
Frankly, it’s become pandemic.
My theory is this: Men get drunk with all that power. I bet that if you play those incessant beer commercials backward, you would hear echoes of “More power!” or “Turn it up!” subliminally in the background.
They turn it up simply because they CAN.
Do men keep the volume up so high as a way of exerting their masculinity? Or is the remote control simply another power tool? (Perhaps that’s why they sell them at Ace Hardware.) Or are they simply afraid that they might miss the latest E*TRADE baby commercial?
Do men turn the volume up so high simply because the button is there?
We women look at this topic differently. Any woman out there will agree with me when I say that guys, if you’re going to be in charge of the TV remote control, you need to take your job seriously and mute those damn commercials. We accept your psychological need to dominate the remote, but we need to get something in return.
Therefore I propose a deal: Give us our daily bread and mute those annoying phone families and Peeping Tom mops. We’d actually just prefer it if you’d keep your thumb over the MUTE button like the trigger-happy cowboy we know you fantasized about becoming when you were ten. (We’ve seen the little red hat in the closet, baby. We know.)
Go ahead. Show off when you do it. Feel all manly about it. We’ll even give you a polite golf clap if you’d like (while we roll our eyes and hold out our martini glasses).
We appreciate your channel surfing as a substitute for temptation, but you must do your part and Dear God, deliver us from that evil El Pollo Loco dude and those freecreditreport.com guys.
There’s no “I” in teamwork, sweetie (or in Prada, but that’s an entirely different matter). See how easily we can work together on this?
I’ll give you an example.
My older sister and her husband, C, are dedicated TV watchers. She says that when her husband dies, they will have to pry that remote out of his cold, stiff hand.
So she actually bought him a dummy control. Yep. He couldn’t go to sleep at night without that remote control in his hand, yet he would wake whenever she tried to slide it out of his viselike grip to (Oh my God) turn it down, or to watch her own show.
So she gave him his “binky,” so to speak. Now she watches her shows at a reasonable volume and, fake control in hand, Mr. Sandman takes C off to sleep every night. Smile on his face, C fades into dreams of naked girls...and baseball...and Last Comic Standing...and...
Nope, not kidding.
So while you may laugh, they just celebrated their twentieth anniversary.
My advice? In order to stay off the therapist’s couch over this simple #ManCode issue, we girls may have to give in a little on this one. Let your man have the illusion of control. It’s not like you can’t watch your shows at some point later anyway, right?
Most likely, he still hasn’t figured out the DVR.
Besides, we’ve got a walk-in closet to conquer.
***
“If a man changes a toilet paper roll & no one is around to see it, did it really happen? #Mancode question of the day.”
MAN OF THE ER, HOUSE
I’ve accepted that my guy needs to be in control of the remote. It’s like his security blanket. If he can’t find it, he gets anxious. I feel the same about my Pradas, so it all works out.
About other issues though, sometimes my guy can be kinda bossy. I think it’s the pressure of being the breadwinner. It all evens out though, ’cause I can be kind of a bitch. Certainly we don’t fall in love with the bossy and the bitch (though I suppose some do); it’s how we get through these moments that speak to who we really are as a couple.
I’ve learned to let him rant; he’ll calm down, and then I’ll get my way. He’s learned to let me steam, write it out, and then let me get my way.
See how it all works out?
Man of the House.
Most men enjoy that title.
They work hard for it, and we as a society still tend to raise our little boys to grow up into those big shoes, despite huge leaps in equality for women. I’m raising both a girl and a boy, so I see it every day, all around me.
So what happens when the man puts his foot down and no one listens?
Welcome to my home.
My husband and I make most of our major decisions together, but we’re not perfect. Sometimes he’s bossy and if I don’t agree with him, he gets a little touchy. I, in turn, get really quiet if he doesn’t agree with me. We both need a little time ’til we’re ready to talk it out.
I’m not a yeller and I rarely raise my voice. But I can be a bitch…more of a stealth bitch, if you will. (If being an independent woman with an opinion who wants her way is being a bitch, then hell yeah, that’s me. Deal with it.)
As a woman, I’ve come to understand that men need to assert themselves in a much louder way than women do. Is it a testosterone or territorial thing? Well, it does make a woman wonder: If men could pee on a conversation, would they? Hmmmm....
My husband has a very assertive style of communicating. That’s not to say he’s a yeller or violent; he’s neither. He’s sweet and generous. He just speaks very loudly and is quick to interrupt to have his voice heard. (Classic Mancode behavior) And of course, it’s his way or the highway.
’Til it’s my way.
When we first met and started having long, romantic talks, he would cut me off. Why did he interrupt me so much? I thought he was being rude. Why was he telling me what I “should have done?” What, did he think I was stupid?
My husband, to this day, says no; he’s simply embellishing the story. When I take a breath, he sees that as an opportunity to launch. He calls that a discussion. I call it cutting me off. (We still can’t agree on this, and it’s been eighteen years.)
What happened to the art of listening?
Bear with me here but that’s where the difference lies, I believe, between a man who has to be the man of the house and one who takes into account the needs of those around him.
Men look at the big picture, baby. Women focus on the details.
In other words, I listen. Then I put my foot down. In my pretty shoes, of course.
I wouldn’t say marriage is a game. But I definitely have had to learn that while my husband may roar like a lion, I know I’ll have to hear him out, build my case, present my evidence, and then change his mind.
To what should have been done in the first place.
Because even though the “man of the house” cultural norm hasn’t died yet, men still haven’t figured out that we chicks are the decision-makers of the house.
But we know, girls, don’t we?
We know.
(Unless there’s a big spider. ‘Cause then I kinda don’t want to know. And he can stomp his big ol’ manly foot down all he wants.)
***
“Loved #coffee for years. Frankly, I’m shocked at how faithful I am to a drink that’s been with so many other people. Slut!”
WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO FOR DINNER?
I love to have dates with my guy. We chat, hold hands, look lovingly into each other’s eyes—yes, even after eighteen years. I appreciate all the wonderful qualities that brought him into my life and I am truly thankful I ended up with the right guy, especially after the difficulties I went through with the wrong guy, er, guys.
There’s just one little annoying thing about going out with him…see, he can be a little, um, indecisive about where to eat when we go out. Man up, dude!
What’s worse is when we finally have a sitter (Instructions: Don’t call unless the house is on fire.), he can’t figure out where the hell to go eat.
I will name three or four restaurants that are perfectly fine. He will usually say they’re fine. Or not. He can’t decide. Sigh.
I’m not that picky, but don’t wait too long, as I will get grumpy if I get too hungry. Not only do I get low blood sugar, but I go quickly into the snark zone. I know; shocker.
It isn’t pretty. I wrote this one night while waiting for HIM to decide.
Check out this brief video clip from one of my absolute favorite episodes of Friends – the one where Rachel made a traditional English dessert, the trifle (with beef?). Pay particular attention to Joey as they sit down to eat, and especially at the end of the clip.
I love this clip for many reasons, not only because it’s hysterically funny but because I think it perfectly encapsulates the three types of male feeding personalities:
Joey: The Neanderthal, who will eat anything, anytime. “I like it. What’s not to like? Custard—good. Jam—good. Meat—GOOD.”
Ross: The Pleaser, who will eat something he doesn’t want, but does it anyway, just to make his woman happy. “It tastes like feet!”
Chandler: The Finicky Eater, who won’t eat anything that seems unappetizing in any way, shape, or form. Ever (of course he was justified in this case). “I’m going to go enjoy this on the balcony—so I can enjoy the view whilst I enjoy my dessert.”
So, how does this all fit into the question, “Where do you want to go for dinner?”
In my experience, that’s a loaded question. Mostly for the guy. I kind of feel sorry for the man who thinks that it is really up to him to decide what he and his wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/significant other are going to eat for dinner. The basic premise of asking that question in the first place assumes that he really wants to know.
In most cases, however, is that really the case?
In reality, the truth is that the man just wants to eat. He may ask the question out of a gentlemanly need to be polite (which we appreciate), but really he just wants to do whatever it takes to get to the damn food.
He may appear to be waiting patiently while she runs through the litany of choices, but what he is really thinking is “My God, can’t she just hurry up and decide? We could already BE there. Or at least I could have called by now, made a reservation, and we could be halfway there. Less wait time means quicker-food-in-my-stomach time.”
Date night can be so romantic.
My guess is what he’s really thinking is: Let’s just get a burger already. (“Meat. Good.”)
I liken this question to the hamster on the wheel. The man keeps asking, knowing it doesn’t really matter.
Speaking of the litany of choices, I will admit that we women approach the opportunity of going out to dinner differently than men. We mothers are so excited about being out of the damn house, away from the kids and the chore of family cooking, that when given the opportunity of CHOICE—Thai, Indian, Chinese, a steakhouse, a fish house, sushi, etc.—we can kind of lose ourselves, if you will, in an orgasm of food porn.
A smart man will be patient and recognize this as a sign of foreplay.
I also know that women get cravings for a particular type of food (even when we’re not pregnant) and when we say we want THAT food, there is no arguing with us. If we are craving say, Thai red curry—and you want a burger—seriously dude, give it up. I can guarantee you that we don’t care.
So—my advice to men regarding this question is to go with the Ross Model of Feeding Personality. You don’t have to eat awful food—no, no. After all, you picked your woman—she must have good taste. Just please her. Let her choose the cuisine. Be patient. You’ll get food of some sort and your chick will be happily satisfied and potentially open to other, er, pursuits.
You gave her an inch (hee hee)…now take your mile, baby.
***
“A sincere apology is a cookie. Or a martini.
Put them together & you’ve got an orgasm, baby. #bestapologyever”
MORE POWER
I know men always think in terms of food. Well, and sex.
They definitely think bigger, thicker, and more has GOT to be better, right? Wait, are we still talking about sex?
Um, actually, no. We’re talking Christmas trees. Grow up.
In my house, my guy loves all the Chevy Chase Vacation movies. Griswold is God. I only see the bumbling idiot part (especially after, God help me, fifteen viewings).
Most guys love stupid movies. Especially stupid Christmas movies. I don’t get it. What I do get is that it still gives my guy ideas about wanting to put enough lights on our home to see it from space.
Thanks, Sparky.
I think I’m married to Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor.
Remember that show, Home Improvement? The one that made Tim Allen famous?
He was this goofy family guy with a hardware store and a local TV show called Tool Time, (accompanied by his able assistant Al and the ever-present hot chick) who raised three boys in suburban Michigan with his witty saint of a wife Jill, odd philosophical neighbor Wilson, and a garage full of hot rods.
Tim barely made it through each day by joking around and giving everyday objects MORE POWER while attempting not to kill himself.
Yeah. That’s my guy.
For example, our Christmas tree this year. JP asked me if, because we’re in a house that now has higher ceilings, would I want oh, a little bit larger tree? My exact words? “Sure, that’d be fine.”
I also mentioned that I wouldn’t mind if he flocked it. (I think he thought I was talking dirty to him. Maybe I was.)
In the past, we’ve had six-foot noble firs. Pretty trees. Manageable sizes, particularly for this little Jew girl, who had to get used to having a tree in the first place. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE having a tree. And of course what comes under it.
So when the guys showed up yesterday with a ten-and-a-half-foot noble fir I was, in a word, overwhelmed.
Shocked.
WTF?
Just cause I said a little bit bigger tree would be FINE didn’t mean bring in the forest, dude.
Not that it isn’t beautiful. It is.
But holy hell, it’s ginormous.
I just keep expecting little forest creatures to come running out of it.
And if I see a spider, I’m outta here.
We’ve now spent half the morning out looking for a bigger ladder, more lights, and of course better ornaments…all the while accompanied by Perry Como and good ol’ Bing.
Groan. Kill. Me. Now.
The whole process kind of exhausts me, to be quite honest. But the dude enjoys it, so I watch him quietly in wonder as I savor my (spiked) eggnog from our sofa (now relegated to the backyard), as he goes about his business of decorating this monster, secure in the knowledge that he’s doing his best to make our home full of spirit and light.
And ya know, more power.
(I have all my emergency numbers on speed dial. Just in case.)
***
“#Thanksgiving: I am NOT cooking
#everyoneisthankful”
LAST TRAIN HOME:
Once a year the holidays come swinging at your head
Feast until you’re full of pain again
It tightens in your chest and now it's written on your face
You’re staring at your lover or your friend
Get it on the table, pass the gravy pass the buck
Get it on the table, secrets and lies,
Silence, faith and luck
~ SECRETS & LIES~, Jonatha Brooke
The time of family obligations has begun.
A Walk in the Snark Page 8