Men are From Brooklyn, Women are from Queens

I haven't been blogging for a bit because I find myself to be in a bit of a mood. My mother always told me if I wasn't able to say anything nice, I should refrain from saying anything at all.

I have been very quiet this week.

I am not a patient man. I recognize this. I also do not like it when I feel as though there are demands put upon me that represent a certain amount of inequity. I can carry 36 grocery bags in the house at once while talking on the phone. I can use my chin to open the door. My dear wife, however cannot be bothered to reach for the door and pull it open with one bag in each hand. She also cannot be bothered to communicate this fact with me; leaving me in a position to not know she needs help, and therefore not help when she needs help. I should have known.

There are many differences between men and women. Most of them are praiseworthy and absolutely necessary to the growth and continuation of the species. But there are some small things that really bug us about each other. Like women smell good and men don't. Even if I were to slather myself in the same body washes and lotions my wife does, I would smell like a man. A fruity, desperate man. Our different sensibilities often define us; and often lead to problems like the pea under the princess' mattress, or the thorn in the tiger's paw. They loom large in our lives.

Men tend to be more self-dependent than women, asking for help only when they have exhausted all other options. This is what leads us to not ask for directions, or to lift an object that is clearly too big or too heavy for us. Often, when we have to ask for help, we wrap it up into a social context in an effort to mask the fact we are asking for help. For instance, it is not uncommon for a guy to say- "Hey, come on over and we'll watch the game and drink some beers and remodel my kitchen... It'll be like a party!"

Women often ask for help, not because they need help in the classical sense, but because they want help. I suspect, that to my wife, help represents the fortitude of our relationship. It is a bulwark if you will, a glaring example of our fortress marriage. Men don't get this. A least I certainly don't. My bulwark, is independence itself. My wife takes pride in "look what we did together!" Where I want to boast what I did all by myself.

I learned this (again) yesterday when Emily was saying how "we" fixed the brakes on the Corvette and had even thought about driving it to Indiana (for about a minute until reality took hold). Emily did indeed help there at the end. She followed my instructions to the letter and helped me complete the job.

My male need to show alpha sensibility out competed my need to get along with my mate and I took exception to the use of the word "we" insofar as it demonstrated relative equality with respect to the amount of work and expertise needed to complete the job. Fact is, the job could not have been completed without Em's help, but it never would have started without me.

I am not capable of letting something like this pass and had to straighten out the record for everyone. Which probably made me look like a jerk.

And then I, when on the (probably rare) occasion I help Em, or do something without being asked, expect a parade, or fireworks. Perhaps both should the situation warrant. If you were to cared enough to ask me, it usually does.

Similarly, I suffer a larger than normal indignity when my efforts go unnoticed or unappreciated, or worse, become the source of critique. I hate, simply hate hate hate, doing something kind only to have it said that I could have (should have, indeed, how could I not have) done it another way.

This is something in my experience my wife cannot stop doing. Her mother does it, and her mother's mother does it. They can't help it anymore than a bird can help singing, or a blade of grass can help growing. And I cannot help that I hate, hate hate hate, this trait.

I made breakfast this morning and even did the dishes. I put the dishes in the dishwasher rack to dry. We went to church. When we cam home, Em's mom said, "Oh, we don't put clean dishes in there, it's gross... we put them in the other dishwasher." They have two. One derelict (which I foolishly used), the other portable.

Em, who had earlier not only seen me putting them in the other dishwasher and later even commented I could leave them to dry while we were in church, now suddenly became an expert on where to put the damn dishes, agreeing with her mother and going so far as to say "yeah, they put them in the other dishwasher".

Now I am staring down two women, critiquing my performance when I wanted a parade. And fireworks.

There were fireworks alright. I am after all, not a patient man.

Now you know the rest of the story. I'll get over it and the dishes were duly rewashed in accordance with laws of cleanliness and tradition that would make a mohel throw his hands up in the air with an exasperated Oy Vey! Life will carry on and there will, God willing, be many more opportunities for flared tempers and grandiose ruminations on the differences between men and women, me and you, her and him.