A Walk in the Snark (9 page)

I read constantly, interact with thousands of people on Twitter, my blog, Facebook, and that other little-known area, real life. People’s stories feed me and my brain is always on, observing, interpreting, wondering how, after all this time, seemingly intelligent men are reduced to unintelligible puddles by a woman with cleavage; or, conversely, why George Clooney makes us swoon and completely ignore what our husbands are saying. Or sometimes it’s just about why the trash is still sitting there, growing into my daughter’s science project.

It’s those differing viewpoints that fascinate me, frustrate me, and fill my days. Are they wars, fights, disagreements? No. I mean, they can be for some, of course. But for me, those instances of the empty toilet paper rolls or dirty dishes left for days are really just a constant reminder of the domestic give and take that make up the detritus of everyday real life—and real love.

And of course, my never-ending feedback loop of Mancode/Chickspeak research.

***

“
It’s not that men don’t see the dirty dishes piled up in the sink.
They do—it’s just that they’d rather make a sculpture out of them.”

M.A.N. DISEASE

I feel like I get played every single day. All those years of college and career; how is it that I’m the one who’s seemingly responsible for keeping the kitchen clean?

Repeatedly?

How is your guy at doing the dishes? Mine hates it. Like I love it? Does any woman?

See here’s the thing. He’s the cook, though I pinch hit. Does that automatically make me KP detail? If we team cook, we team clean, damn it.

It is written. Um, somewhere. At least, it is now.

(clearly not me)

My husband and I had to have a talk recently.

A very serious talk.

One of those talks that every man dreads.

No. I wasn’t leaving him.

No. I wasn’t upset about his personal appearance, either. He’s handsome and his breath is fine. Kinda minty, actually.

We needed to discuss his sudden and apparently quite severe allergy to cleaning up after himself in the kitchen. In particular, his complete and total inability to locate the sink, dishwasher, or trash can.

Was his eyesight going? Did I need to get him to the doctor?

Things were getting out of control.

It seemed to me that what he was suffering from was a classic case of M.A.N. Disease, aka Male Avoidance Neuroses, which translates to “I see it, but it doesn’t really exist.”

Kinda like the water bill. Or Paris Hilton.

This was serious. We needed to discuss treatment options and begin a course of therapy right away.

How did things get to this point? I lamented. Surely he must realize that dirty dishes need to be rinsed off and then put into the dishwasher, right? I mean, well, right? Yet somehow he had forgotten that annoying clean-up song that any kid worth his weight in Legos has had foisted upon them practically since birth.

Threatening him with purple dinosaur videos didn’t work.

I had tried.

Granted, we all get lazy once in awhile—I’m notorious for leaving half-finished coffee cups around the house. But he and I had worked out long ago that the team approach works best for us. No traditional roles here. We both pitch in on most everything. (Except I don’t do doggie poo. As if.)

See, I’m not a chef. I make no claims to be. I get in and get out. Spit spot. JP, however, is a wonderful cook. I always tell my single girlfriends and daughter to “marry a man who can cook.” The flip side is that he uses every utensil, bowl, and pot known to man in the process.

I compare his cooking style to one of his favorite cartoon characters, the Tasmanian Devil. I can provide photographic evidence that the aftermath of our kitchen clearly reflects that.

When he’s finished creating his masterpieces of deliciousness, he will sit down with his port, put up his feet, and proclaim in his King of the Castle voice, “I’m tired”—which any wife, faced with The Battle of Gettysburg to clean up and in need of a vodka martini, knows is code for “I tried using The Force, but was unsuccessful,” after which he retires into quiet meditation.

Aka Monday Night Football.

Why does he have to use twenty-five pans to make three dishes? I’m just so confused. Is he marking his territory? (’Cause, dude, I’m kind of a sure thing.)

It was then that I suddenly realized: This is a Mancode issue of epic proportion and deserving of a rare exclamation point!

Are men from messy and women from clean?

I know I’m not the only chick who feels this way. My Twitter stream is bursting with tales of woe from wives, moms, and girlfriends with similar dirty-dish stories. The only exception is, of course, seemingly perfect single men (remember, my guy cooked and cleaned for me before marriage, too. Why do you think I was so impressed?). And gay men. You guys rock.

JP and I laugh about his M.A.N. Disease (Male Avoidance Neuroses) when it comes to not only dirty dishes but also replacing the trash bag, most anything having to do with laundry (he’ll start a load. Where it will stay. Forever.), and of course, entering the Refrigerator Zone (cue scary music).

But at some point the laughing has to turn into action.

His treatment begins tomorrow.

***

“
Men see a hot, naked woman & think, “I could totally tap that.”
Women see a hot, naked man & think, “I wonder if he can cook.””

I SPEAK WOLF

Taking the boy for a walk is not a chore. Putting the dishes in the dishwasher? Now that’s a chore.

Sometimes my guy looks at me like I’m speaking an entirely different language when I ask him if he can put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I know. Crazy. And of course I hide things in the refrigerator and cupboard. It’s what we wives do.

We learned it early on in “How to Frustrate Your Husband School.” Riiiight.

Q: How many men does it take to change a toilet paper roll?

A: I don’t know. It’s never happened.

This Mancode thing has been good for my marriage. Sometimes I don’t understand the male species. This is well documented on my blog (you won’t three-point throw wet towels into the dirty clothes hamper that’s RIGHT next to you because they’re WET? Yeah, I’ll never get my mind around that one). And the
TV remote
? Well, don’t even get me started (go read “
Universal Remote
” instead).

Clearly, I’m not alone. Um, have you checked out the relationship section of your local bookstore (or Amazon) lately?

If this is your first visit to RachelintheOC, you may want to peruse a few of my
other
Mancode articles.

The name came to me one day after I’d finally just had it, after eighteen years of marriage, with having to change the toilet paper roll. Again. Eighteen years of changing toilet paper rolls can kinda wear on a girl, you know?

So I did what any levelheaded, yet slightly fed up chick, would do.

I wrote about it.

A lot.

My husband and I have now reached a, shall we say, shorthand way of communicating with each other.

He’ll stand in front of the fridge looking for something, say the large tub of butter that’s right in front of his nose and, as he yells, “Honey! Where’s the butter?” I’ll simply reply: “Refrigeratoritis.”

He’ll look a little harder.

While he’s still got a ways to go in the kitchen—he’s a great cook but a not-so-great cleaner upper, i.e., he’ll put his glass NEXT to the sink in the Land of Far Far Away from the Dishwasher (you know, that unfamiliar machine that doesn’t exist in Guy World)—he has improved a bit in the bathroom area. In fact, he actually put on a new toilet paper roll the other day.

It was a good thing he was standing close by when I noticed, given that I fainted and all.

He has even graduated from just putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine and leaving them to mold into a science project, to actually moving them into that other odd contraption—known as a
dryer
—that is evidently not just taking up space for the heck of it.

Not that said clothes ever actually move from there, of course. They just sort of build up in there. Like a clothing mountain, if you will. Their only chance of rescue is the occasional buzzing “beep beep” of the “damn it you idiot, get us out of here! We were done yesterday!” signal.

And if I mention cleaning the lint screen, he looks at me as if I’m speaking wolf, the same language the clerks apparently speak on his solo trips to the grocery store.

Which clearly, I am.

I think if he actually folded a load (before it laid eggs) and, God forbid, put it away, I might end up in the hospital.

Husband is a good sport, though, and laughs supportively and with quasi-believable chivalry at the criticism I receive from almost exclusively seemingly perfect single men. Yeah. I know.

Sure, I do stupid stuff and admit that I am, on rare occasions, wrong or even kind of a bitch. Yet what is at the heart of my pieces is this: Sometimes guys do silly, goofy things that we gals just don’t get (
and okay, okay—vice versa
) and silly me—I’m a writer. I’m going to write about it.

Now I just have to work on this
Manesia
thing.

***

“
Me: I just bought another pair of black shoes.
Hus: I JUST don’t get it.
Me: That’s cuz you don’t have a vagina.”

CLOSET SPACE

Most chicks can work out the refrigerator issue with a minimum of fuss. We shoo the guy away and just make it happen.

But we need our closet space. It’s kind of a prerequisite for marriage. It’s one of our weird little foibles. I admit it’s one of mine.

Marrying a man with large closet space needs is an issue for most girls. That’s a known fact. A real man takes care of his clothes in a small amount of space and is happy about it—because he understands our insatiable need for shoes, of course.

A real man should need one rack, one drawer, and a gym bag. Luckily, when I met JP he was living in a small studio in Manhattan that didn’t even have a closet. He came trained, basically.

If your man lights up at the sight of a walk-in closet, run, sweetie. Run away.

Does your man speak the language of L-O-V-E?

This is important when deciding on a mate. For the rest of your life.