by Linda, Alan
“Don’t do that. You keep that up,” I told him, “you’ll spring a leak sometime when I’m not here, and you’ll flood The Septic System.” One thing everyone in here realizes is, you don’t mess with him. Even Sir Nautilus the Water Heater, who routinely wets the floor because President Bush upsets him so much, is careful just how many tears of frustration he leaks out at one time. You send too much water to The Septic System, he shuts down, and everyone is up poop the creek.
“Yes, your pump.” I felt bad for him. He knew what was coming. I was going to have to unplug him, flatline him for however long it took to do a pump transplant. That meant a live hose bypass, and the possibility that the twenty or so gallons of water held up above the pump in his high-capacity gut tub might bleed out.
“Look,” I told him, “I’ve done a hundred of these, and once the new pump is in, you’ll feel like a young machine again, and maybe, I get in there, I’ll find it’s just a blockage. I’ll clear that out, get you right back in business.”
The rest of the appliances, sensing a weakness in the leadership, started singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” They’re such a sympathetic bunch. I told them to cut that out. They kept singing.
“I have to get you back in shape. There are lots of diapers coming your way.”
He fainted.
I unplugged him and got my tools. A good faint is better than a general anesthetic.
§
Chapter 2
Gender Differences
Baby Picture Lesson
Men Have Needs
Tears
Women: Things They Shouldn’t Start the Conversation With
Women: Sensitivity Award at the Library
Women: We need to Talk
Women: Grocery Stores, and
Asking for Directions
Baby Picture Lesson
This happened in church, where everyone was sitting around individual tables enjoying coffee and eats before the service actually started. It was quite crowded already when I got there, and there wasn’t any room at the big kids’ table (other guys, talk about chain saws, animals, politics). So, I sat down between a lady and a young girl. The young girl was maybe 16. The lady left, then I chatted with the young girl a bit, which was easy. She was thinking about her future, and what she wanted to do.
Someone at the next table over handed our table a photo, which the young girl in turn took, examined, and then offered to me. I took it, looked at it. It was a baby picture. I handed it back to the young girl, smiled at her, and said: “I’ve got some great advice for you.”
She gave me the amount of attention a grown-up sitting next to her in a crowd deserved, which meant she was at least looking at me. That’s often more than you get from a teenager, but then, I wasn’t her parent.
I said, as I handed it back to her, “Handing a picture of a week-old baby to a guy is very complicated.” I was watching her. She seemed interested. What a faker this kid was.
“First,” I went on, “If you can help it, never hand a picture of a week-old baby to a guy, unless the baby is sitting either on a tractor or a motorcycle or in a 1958 Corvette convertible.” It doesn’t even matter if the red-faced, chubby-cheeked, wrinkled-up little demon was fathered by the guy, guys don’t want to look at baby pictures. Guys don’t understand baby pictures. Guys don’t understand babies. They haven’t carried it cramped up against their bladder for nine months; they haven’t felt it kicking the snot out of their internal organs; they haven’t looked forward their entire adult lives to having one. In short, guys just don’t get babies.
Once the kid is old enough to play catch, or spit, or pull the dog’s hair, that’s different.
All this the young girl listened to pretty attentively. Pretty impressive.
“But,” I said, “there are times when you might want to hand a guy a picture.” Such a move would be a kind of test, I told her, one in which you want to know more about the guy.
“Two things will happen,” I went on. “First, the guy will do exactly what I did.” I looked at it for traces of tractors or guns or something interesting, which took exactly one-tenth of a second, and handed it back. Next item of business, please, let’s move things along here.
“I’m sure what confused you is the fact that I sat down at this table where several women are sitting, and began to chat with you all.” I went on to point out that that didn’t mean I was one, but that I needed a place to sit. It’s hard to eat standing up.
She said: “What was the other thing.” I blinked. She was actually paying attention.
“The other thing. The other thing.” I blinked twice. Lately, these geezer moments are coming faster. The young girl waved the baby picture at me. Somewhere deep down in the freezer I’m using for a brain a connection remade.
“Oh yeah, the other thing,” I stumbled, grabbing for it desperately.
And then I had it. I pounced on it, brought it to the surface, and said: “If you do choose to hand a baby picture to some guy, and he looks at it and says something like: ‘Ooooooo, cute baby,’ then don’t trust that guy. He wants something, something you’ve got.” I smiled somewhat knowingly, raised my eyebrows at her to see if she understood, and she nodded. Just to make sure, I said: “Never trust a guy who oooo’s and aaaaa’s at a baby picture. It isn’t natural.”
A guy like that is either a sissy, or confused about his gender, or a no-good up to something. At any rate, something’s off.
“But,” I finally said, “if you hand a baby’s picture to a guy and he does exactly what I did,” which was to grunt and hand it back, “then you can trust him, because he isn’t putting up a front for anyone, and likely, he’ll tell you exactly what he’s thinking, whether or not you like it,.”
A good looking blond woman came, sat down on my left, and said: “What’s happening?”
I turned to her, fell into the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, handed her the baby picture, and said: “Now there’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.”
I looked at the young girl. Winked. Something in my eye.
§
Men Have Needs
An article in a recent farmers’ magazine was titled: “Men have specific needs to make marriage happy.” Several needs, in fact, as the author wax-on, wax-offed his way through this marital minefield.
First on the list was for the wife to be “less critical.” Wonderful idea. Impossible. Some other impossible “lesses” might be: “a woman less pregnant;” “a bank account less broke;” “a tire less flat.”
Less critical isn’t going to cut it. A house on fire can be less on fire and still be on fire. A woman less critical is like standing next to a million-degree fire wishing it was only a hundred thousand degrees instead.
Less critical is good; UN-critical is what men want, as in the following:
“That’s a nice new motorcycle you’ve just brought home there, dear.”
“I can mow the lawn with that old push mower just fine, don’t you worry, dear.”
“I really like your hair—did you really cut it yourself?”
“I never did think men needed to wear underwear.”
This author goes on to say: “Men have their own needs, and often feel on the defensive.” Defensive? We’re not defensive! He’s got no right saying that!
This guy knows what he’s talking about. Here’s another one of those “less ain’t better enough” deals. Less defensive isn’t going to cut it. Less defensive would be for the wife to say: “If you think I’m mowing the yard one more time with that old mower, we need to talk.” This is compared to the more likely utterance: “If you think we’re going to mow the yard while you go fishing again, then the next thing you’re going to think about will be my backside going down that driveway with the kids, both cars, and a lawyer.”
You want the
perfect, UN-defensive-provoking remark? It’s: “While you’re fishing, the kids and I are going to walk to the neighbors and borrow their lawnmower and some gas and mow the yard. It’ll be fun.” A guy could fish defense-guilt free.
Next point: Men shouldn’t be criticized for not knowing what their wife is thinking, when the wife doesn’t say anything about any of it.
This one might be asking too much of the little woman, who has grown up with other little women, all of whom have tuned their touchy-feely facial-expression-interpreting skills to a razor edge on one another. There’s a book in a raised eyebrow; a movie in a frown.
Meanwhile, little men have been finding little animals to squash while thinking little women are yukky. The only razor’s edge they care about is on their knife, the better to carve their name somewhere. Their friend Billy busts his head open and then cries about it, he better watch out. They’ll carve him up soon as not. Crybaby.
Given this upbringing, it’s no wonder women think men “just don’t get it,” as the author points out.
They don’t! On the other hand, women know deep down that they cannot limp into the house at the end of a long day, walk up to their husband and say: “I hate my hair—my life is ruined—I’m gonna ruin yours too.” Husbands would die of shock. For the first time, a husband told that would know why she was making him miserable.
But the woman cannot tell him that. If she did, he would say: “It’ll grow out,” and go back to draining the oil out of his tractor all over the flowerbed, thinking to himself how grateful he is that it’s nothing serious.
Oh, it’s serious, make no mistake about that. It’s real serious. It’s why authors write about this stuff.
Finally, this author says that a good wife will forget the past, and leave past hurts and “blunders” alone. Blunders? Now, there’s a great word. Notice that when the word “blunder” comes up, no one thinks of females. Females don’t blunder. Most men spend their entire lives wishing they had a woman who could blunder. Men understand blunderers. Admittedly, they don’t think this stuff through very well. “Dear,” the little woman says to her husband when he comes in out of the field, “I think something went wrong with the skid loader hydraulics when I tried to move that big rock behind the barn that the cattle have been stumbling over.”
Awwww. She cares. Then the next day the bill for the repairs comes. “Good grief, woman,” he says to her, “couldn’t you just make my life miserable instead of blundering around like a guy?”
One blunderer to a house, that’s my motto.
Women’ll just have to adjust.
§
Tears
Response was almost measurable to a recent column concerning the fact that females never apologize. That somewhere around the age of first learning to speak, there is an upsurge of behavior in females that should bear the label of “neverus sorrious.”
It’s a fact that one husband was chasing his wife around the yard with last week’s copy of that particular newspaper in his hand, hollering: “See? See?”
He couldn’t catch her. She’s in better shape than he is. In any hell-bent-for-leather footrace down the road, my money’s on her. You go, girl.
When it comes to apologizing, though, the real money’s on the guy.
So, women never apologize, and that’s a true edge. They don’t have too, however, because they have complete, real-time control of their tear ducts. Real women are as much in control of their tear ducts as plumbers are of a flush toilet.
Women would like men to think that, completely opposite to the statement above, they have no control over their water works whatsoever. Nope. There are a few definite categories that seem to surface repeatedly, when it comes to various situations involving crying. Females develop this early on in life, once they find out where it works, which is on males. Think back: Did you ever witness tears working intrafemaley? You know, one woman giving any credence to another woman’s tears?
That’s because all women are in on this. I’ve seen one woman sit and calmly drink coffee while another woman was snotting up two or three boxes of Kleenex, just waiting for the deluge to end so they could talk about whatever was the problem. They know that there’s always a chance some male might pop into the kitchen inadvertently, and just in case that happens, there should be a good sob in process. Once they see that there’s no chance of any male popping up, then they’ll get on with whatever it is they’re getting on with.
There ain’t a man in the world who could do that, just sit there like that, and watch a woman cry. We’ve been indoctrinated since birth not to just sit there like a bump on a log, feeling useless, out of it, no clue what’s going on. We can’t sit there because our upbringing concerning tears was whispered to us beginning in the womb. There’s a book for expecting mothers. It’s titled: “Things you need to say to your unborn baby about female tears.”
On page one, it says: “In case your child might be a boy, whisper these words to your belly at least one hundred times: ‘Never fail to take action when a woman is crying, because only someone dumb as dirt would just sit there.’” Action, that’s what this crying stuff is all about. It’s ingrained into males.
Men? Isn’t this true? Tell the truth: You cannot just sit there and let a female cry, can you?
Kings have fallen on their swords out of frustration with the queen’s tears. Great artists have opened their veins at their inability to solve their true love’s weeping. Dictators have resigned over their wife’s unhappiness.
One factory worker was so upset over his wife’s crying that he went out and shot the end of his finger off, so upset was he that he didn’t notice that, as he was sighting his rifle in, he couldn’t see that finger through the scope. So it’s not just kings.
Women are great situational criers. A classic example is one where the husband walks in the door after a hard day, and his wife is holding up two swim suits, one a bikini, the other a one-piece. “Which one do you like the best?”
Lord help the husband faced with this dilemma. No matter what answer he gives or what logic he attaches to that answer, tears are going to flow.
You know why? Because this doesn’t have anything to do with the swim wear; it has to do with the fact that females know what works, and what doesn’t, and the guy now knows she wants something. He’ll at first think it’s like a new blender, or a nice toaster, or maybe out to the ChatterBox Café for a steak burger. When her tears get worse, he’ll eventually figure out that this one isn’t going to be so easy.
It’ll be her job to keep the tears real enough that eventually he’ll get around to whatever it is she’s getting around to.
About that, men don’t have a clue.
Real men never know.
§
Women: Things They Shouldn’t Start the Conversation With
The words “you’re probably not going to like this” were still echoing in my head when I turned back to the woman who had said them—a young single mother who rents a house from me-- and said: “You know what? Never start a conversation with a man by saying, ‘You’re probably not going to like this.’” Where has this chick been? Where was the mother hen who should have passed this information on to her?
.Is there a worse way to start a conversation with a man? It’s doubtful. One worse way might be to run up to me with a fire extinguisher in her hand just as I drive in to the property she rents from me and shout at me: “Look out! It’s going to blow!”
But even that’s not so bad. Not really. At least I know what the danger is, and how timely the ensuing detonation is going to be. Guys like information like that. Information about pending fireworks demonstrations is always welcome. With information like that, we can cover our ears to protect them, watch a good explosion, and enjoy the low deductibles on our new insurance policy.
I’ll tell you what’s worse: Some significant
female in your life meets you at your door and says, “We have to talk.” Oh boy. Wasn’t life good just a moment ago? That’s a distinct step toward one of you turning into the “insignificant” other, and I’ll give you two guesses which one of you it will be.
But to say: “You’re not going to like this,” well, that’s way too open-ended a threat. It could mean any one of a thousand dreadful things. It could mean: A dentist is coming and he’s going to drill that molar right here in the yard, with no Novocain. Or, you my renter is a prophet, and you just got a premonition of how I’m going to die, but you don’t know exactly when. Or, you my renter is a doctor, and that tiny mark on my face is upper Japanese river melanoma, I’ve got two weeks to live. Or, you might say to me: “Remember that time you got drunk and thought you met the love of your life in a bar. Guess what? It was ….” STOP! STOP! STOP!
PLEASE! DON’T DO THIS TO ME! NO MORE! NO MORE! I CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE OF THIS NOT KNOWING! IT’S PROBABLY GOING TO BE AWFUL! I DON’T WANT TO GO ON LIVING WITH THIS TERRIBLE FATE HANGING OVER ME!
I don’t think women begin to realize how precariously balanced we men are at heart. No, I’m not talking about various bodily injuries we’ve done to ourselves. Men ride bulls, jump off bridges, court disaster at the drop of the hat. Guys cut two fingers off with a power saw and don’t even think twice about it. Hah! Most men would cut two fingers off just to have two fingers cut off. Then we could walk into a bar, count out money with that hand just so someone will ask: Wow. What’d you do with your fingers?”
So then you could proudly reply, “Oh, not much. I was hanging upside down from that big oak branch outside the bedroom window so’s I could retrim the soffit cantilever with my Black and Bloody 4-horsepower 12-bladed high voltage saw which I bought from some guy’s widow at a garage sale for two bits. Just then a coreolis tornado slammed me up against a rogue piece of balloon framing. When I came to, the fingers were gone.” You count out the money. You say, “No big deal.”