How men think

South Shore Breaker - - Health& Wellness - Se­nior­liv­ing@herald.ca

So, hubby goes to town the other day. He leaves early be­cause he has a doc­tor’s ap­point­ment and then he has to go see about his chain saw. I spend the morn­ing do­ing my usual, try­ing to think up sub­jects for this col­umn and ideas for an­other novel, all the while ig­nor­ing the cat fur and dust bun­nies that are ac­cu­mu­lat­ing around me.

I come out of the shower and am do­ing the dishes when I hear the door open.

“Hi!” I yell. (We never wait un­til we’re in the same room to speak to each other.) “So, how did it go?”

He yells back, “There’s noth­ing wrong with the chain saw.” Cue crick­ets.

Re­ally? This is what I care about? I glare at him as he dumps Sobeys bags on the counter. “I don’t give two figs about the chain saw. How was your doc­tor’s ap­point­ment? What did he say?”

It should be ob­vi­ous to this man that my prime con­cern is his health and not whether he can saw a few trees out back to clear up our prop­erty. Women, as a rule, don’t care about out­door equip­ment and wouldn’t dream of hav­ing a se­ri­ous con­ver­sa­tion about whether the fu­elline is work­ing cor­rectly.

So, now I ask an­other im­por­tant ques­tion. The doc­tor and his wife were ex­pect­ing a new grand­child. Their daugh­ter was in labour the day be­fore and I was anx­ious to hear the good news.

“Did she have the baby?” “Who?”

“The doc­tor’s daugh­ter! You knew about this yes­ter­day.”

“Oh yeah. She did.”

“And?”

“And what?’

“De­tails, man!”

“It was a boy.”

“I knew that al­ready.” “That’s all I know.”

“You didn’t ask his name? Or how much he weighed?” “No.”

“Men! This stuff is im­por­tant! How could you not ask?” “I for­got.”

He can reel off the se­rial num­ber of the chain saw with­out look­ing, but he for­gets to find out im­por­tant de­tails that mat­ter to a woman? Now I’m go­ing to have to wait un­til my next doc­tor’s ap­point­ment to get all the juicy de­tails.

I men­tion a fun road trip our daugh­ter is go­ing on with a friend. “She’s so ex­cited.”

“What shape are her tires in? When was the last time she had the oil checked? Call her.”

Speak­ing of cars, I’m not sure if ev­ery man alive has this prob­lem, but the minute one of our cars makes the slight­est odd noise, hubby goes into over­drive.

“Did you hear that?” “What?”

“That ping.”

“No.”

“I can def­i­nitely hear it. I hope it’s not the man­i­fold.”

“It’s prob­a­bly a rock.”

“A rock is a ding, not a ping.” Silly me.

I get the urge one day to go through our bureau draw­ers and throw out old stuff. I’m hap­pily oc­cu­pied un­til hubby walks in un­ex­pect­edly and has a fit. “What’s this?”

“I’m throw­ing out your old T-shirts. They’re dis­gust­ing.”

“Not my work shirts! I work in them.”

“At some point even work shirts have had the bis­cuit. I’m throw­ing th­ese away be­cause you have other shirts that can now be your work shirts and even bet­ter ones for ac­tu­ally walk­ing around in.”

“No way. Clear off.”

It’s im­por­tant to know when you’ve lost the bat­tle.

Lastly, men are ob­sessed with park­ing. They spend count­less hours of their wak­ing mo­ments con­tem­plat­ing this dilemma.

“We have to leave early to get a good spot?”

“Why?”

“Why? Isn’t it ob­vi­ous?”

“No. So you might have to walk a lit­tle far­ther. Big deal.”

“Women.”

LES­LEY CREWE

ARE YOU KID­DING ME?

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