Men, Women, and Other (Un)Natural Disasters
My wife’s friend sent her an Instagram reel—a video of two attractive women smiling and laughing during a happy hour or a brunch, the kind of place where wedge salads are paired with lavender martinis and the estrogen runneth over. The following text was superimposed over the video:
Some friendships are literally sunshine for your soul…
(AKOF Note: United States education needs an overhaul—nobody in this country knows what the fuck “literally” means…but I digress.)
…the ones who with every encounter heal you. The ones who allow room for you to be authentic so that they can love you and see you all the more.
My wife is slow to tear up in the face of sentimentality, but for whatever reason, this opened the faucet. I received a similar message from a friend that opened my faucet, as it were. The message included video of just one man in a dark room talking to somebody off screen:
There are guys you can call or text until about 6pm. If you need help moving something or you need some advice, they’re good until about 6pm. After that, the 6pm friend is unavailable.
Then there’s the 3am friend. When you call this guy, not only are you sure he’s gonna pick up, but you’re gonna hear sounds in the background—him getting his pants on, him clicking his pistol and holstering it in the appendix position, and him grabbing a shovel, because the 3am friend assumes we’re burying a body. And he’s down.
Women express friendship through warmth, acceptance, intimacy, and wildly inaccurate uses of the word “literally.” Men express friendship through violence, wildly unreasonable displays of loyalty, and the willingness to commit any number of felonies.
Of course, this is an overgeneralization, perhaps even a cliché, but I’d argue that it does conjure a fairly accurate image of the differences between the male and female sexes in my experience. But never mind the sexes. I can’t and won’t speak for either of them. I can, however, speak on the differences between my wife and me. It’s a fun exercise to enumerate these distinctions because their vastness and variety approaches befuddlement.
On Launching a Crystal Meth Startup
While watching Breaking Bad, I said this : “I sincerely think we’d make pretty good drug dealers.”
After my wife looked at me with an expression that suggested she was questioning her major life decisions, like, ya know, accepting my marriage proposal, the conversation went like this:
“Sure, there’s a learning curve, but I think we could thrive in that industry.”
“You know what you sound like?”
“An ambitious man with an American dream?”
“No, you sound like you’re smoking crack.”
“A successful dealer doesn’t get high on his own supply. Gees, honey, are you even paying attention to this show?”
I see myself psychologically manipulating thugs, plotting against the Mexican Mafia, outmaneuvering all the acronyms (the FBI, the CIA, the ATF, the BSA, etc.) and collecting a private zoo of exotic animals.
My wife sees herself not in Breaking Bad but in The Devil Wears Prada. Her fantasies play out on the battlefield of adorable clothes and various hoity-toity NYC galas.
Zombie: Confront or Concede?
I welcome the zombie apocalypse. In fact, when the day comes, I firmly believe my life’s purpose will snap into focus with a clarity I’ve not yet known. For me, a horde of zombies would equate to self-actualization. I imagine myself swinging sundry gardening tools into the skulls of reanimated corpses, turning their brains to Cream of Wheat, and elevating horrific violence to high art. The stories they tell about me would be right up there with burning bushes and the time Michael Jackson did the moonwalk on Motown 25.
By contrast, my wife’s zombie plan lacks inspiration. She says she’ll simply run into the horde and offer herself up as a first course. I’ve tried to tell her: you don’t sacrifice yourself, you sacrifice the grandparents and the great grandparents—that’s just sound zombie strategy.
“Why delay the inevitable?” she says. Oddly, when I use the same question to defend myself after immediately offending someone at an event I didn’t want to attend, she isn’t as receptive to the argument. Also, it should be noted that my wife actually does have experience in conflict resolution specific to zombies, so she’s selling herself short.
Bully Prevention
Generally, when it comes to parenting, my wife and I are of one mind. We only differ slightly in tone. She says, “Clean your room if you don’t want to lose privileges.” I say, “I’ll sell you on the dark web if your room looks like the aftermath of a Caligula-themed frat party for one more friggin’ day.” Our parenting destination is always the same; it’s the route that’s different.
Our parenting sync diverges, however, when it comes to dealing with bullies. My wife’s approach goes like this: “Did you try explaining how those hurtful words made you feel?” I appreciate her Mr. Rogers-style approach. It assumes the best of humanity. My first instincts aren’t quite so diplomatic.
“Did you consider burning his god damn house to the ground? No? Well, while you consider it, let him know that his trollop of a mother is a third-string pole dancer, and his mysterious biological father is a Laughlin casino bathroom attendant named “Penicillin” Pete who his mom met during a bachelorette party after she overdid it on a laxative-laced Bartles and Jaymes cocktail.”
(AKOF note: the subject of bullies is the only one in which I readily censor myself. If my actual parenting strategies as it pertains to bullies were made for public consumption, I would undoubtedly be arrested.)
Pancake Cutlery
“Mom, will you cut my pancakes for me?”
“Of course I will. I love you.”
When mom is on a work trip:
“Dad, will you cut my pancakes for me?”
“Hard pass. I also won’t wipe your ass for you. And if you’re still in this house after you’re 18, rent’s due on the first.”
“I’m eleven and a half.”
“Better start saving. This real estate bubble shows no signs of busting.”
Share and Share Alike (Translation: Her Way)
I don’t have that cliché complaint, the one where the man orders fries and the woman says she’s not hungry and then eats all his fries. We actually share really well. The issue isn’t with how we share, it’s with what we share.
“You wanna share something?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“Okay, it’s your birthday, your pick.”
“What’ll it be?” the server asks.
“We’ll do a pizza. Pepperoni, jalapeño, and pineapple—”
“Hold on,” my wife interjects. “We’re not gonna do that.”
“I thought it was my birthday.”
“It is, but I’ve just amended your birthday ordering privileges.”
“Amended?”
“Retracted.”
“Why?”
“Eve didn’t eat the apple. She ate the pineapple. On pizza. That’s the true original sin, and I must cleanse you by ordering something that does not violate the laws of heaven and earth.”
“Okay, we don’t have to share.”
“Of course we do! It’s your birthday!”
Her Violent Hypocrisy
Sometimes my reluctance for compassion and her reluctance to embrace violence flips. This is particularly true when we’re driving. I used the horn to prevent would-be accidents. Someone starts backing out of a parking spot and doesn’t see me? Beep beep. Somebody drifts into my lane on the freeway because he’s updating his Tiktok. Beep beep. No problem. I just play a little honkity-honk or a toot-toot to restore order, prevent carnage, and save lives.
My wife uses the horn like she’s Billy the Kid and the center of her steering wheel is a colt single action army revolver. Do you drive too slow? Too fast? Too far to the left or right? Have you stolen my wife’s parking spot? Does she just hate the look of your big dumb face? Affirmative responses to any of these questions embolden my wife to lay on her horn. These acoustic frequencies are her means of emotional expression when she’s en route, and the emotions are seething rage and righteous indignation.
I’ve tried to disabuse her of these violent horn practices, pointing out that she might someday brandish her horn and level her honk at the wrong person. Doesn’t work. She just gets this Clint Eastwood-like glint in her eye that suggests she’s spoiling for an automotive fight to the death.
Delusions of Physical Grandeur
I love basketball. I’m 45, and a game of pickup is still among my favorite ways to spend a couple hours. Every time I head out to play, she says, “Please be careful.” Sure, she means it to be loving (and self-preserving—when one parent goes down, the other suffers horribly) but I feel nothing but resentment when she says this. Never mind my surgically-repaired, blown-out ACL, 30 or 40 sprained ankles, a couple of labrum tears, thrown-out backs, etc.
She worries about my health and safety. Meanwhile, every time I go to a Lakers game, a fantasy plays in my mind’s eye. One of the Lakers’ role players suffers a back spasm, the purple-and-gold go down a man, and Lebron James looks up into the stands, sees me, and nods. “Your time has come, Norm,” Lebron says.
“It’s about god damn time, Lebron,” I respond as I check into the game. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before this dream becomes a reality, and then I can rub it in her eye-rolling face.
Right? Or happy?
In moments when I lean into self-righteous pig-headedness, when I can’t unclench my teeth or fists, when I obsess over who’s done me dirty and how I might introduce those filthy bastards to the darkness within, my wife almost always reminds me of the right-or-happy dilemma. It’s effective. I imagine what makes me happy, and it’s always her. And I’ll take her and all of her literal sunshine until the zombies rip her from my cold, dead pre-reanimated hand. And if that’s not a romantic solution to the battle of the sexes, then there ain’t one.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please tell your friends, neighbors, and countrymen. If there’s someone you don’t like, maybe send it to him and see if he softens and becomes less of an asshole. Probably not, but the gesture will make you feel better.
Here are some others you might read, laugh, and pass along:
Making Friends with Agony, which will either inspire you or deter you from running a marathon.
Avocado of Doom—butter knives are more dangerous thank you think, and my wife takes advantage of me while I was in one of the most vulnerable positions of my life.
Bats, Buttloads, and BB Guns. We live in a rural area of Southern California, and sometimes the ruralness makes itself at home.
Bloody Towels. Since summer is right around the corner, this tale of vacations-gone-sideways might make a nice level-set.
I know something's funny when I keep seeing lines I want to steal. I'm with you on the zombie response. Got my garden tools sharpened--and I don't have a garden.
Good one Norm, You made laugh out loud. Best regards Manerva