What your mother never told you about men
By Randy B. Hecht
When talking about men, our moms are something like used-car salesmen. And with good reason: were they 100% honest about the flabby spare tire, the tendency to accelerate unexpectedly and brake unreliably, or the engine's habit of overheating at the slightest provocation, they might never get any grandchildren. So mom left out the occasional salient but crazy-making truth about life with men. No problem, really: men themselves clue us in soon enough. Who else, after all, would have the audacity to look at us when we're eight months pregnant and confide that they're not sure they can handle being in the delivery room? The truth is that men:
Can't multitask. Sure, you can do the laundry, bake a cake and make a few phone calls simultaneously. But giving a man instructions to do two or more things at the same time is the equivalent of wearing kryptonite lingerie on a date with Superman. The guy's just not going to be able to function.
Don't remember the way we do. This is half frustration and half parlor game. When he does something to piss you off, tell him, "This is just like what you did in the middle of dinner at your great-aunt Marie's 75th birthday party, and you promised me then that it would never happen again!" He'll have no idea what you're talking about-heck, he's doing well if he remembers that he has a great-aunt Marie — and the more details you dredge up, the more perplexed he'll become.
Have inverse priorities. In Manland, it is utterly unreasonable of you to make such a fuss over the water ring his beer bottle left on the mahogany table that's been in your family for five generations. A crisis, my friend, is what happens if you change the settings on the stereo's graphic equalizer.
Are a tad color-blind. One friend and I completely freaked out her husband with an extended conversation about the contrast in color between the couch, which was more of a burgundy, and the carpet, which was more of a cranberry. We knew he'd reached his breaking point when he cried out, "For pity's sake, they're both just red!"
Can't define the word irrational. This is a particularly good trick of theirs. The way the game works is that he whittles away at your patience with some little thing or other. It could be that he went out three times today and each time forgot that he promised to pick up the dry cleaning. It could be that his version of "helping you" to clean the house involves re-alphabetizing the CDs, which somehow got out of order. Eventually, you snap and let loose with a sarcastic or even unkind comment. That's his cue to adopt a patient if long-suffering tone in which to ask why you have suddenly grown so irrational. It's a trap that never fails to snare us, and the only escape is to look him in the eye and say, "This is just like that time three years ago when..."
