As many of my regular readers know, I am a long-time baseball fan. Specifically a New York Mets fan. (So I am used to disappointment.)
The spouse is also a Mets fan (albeit one who has been known to root for the Yankees). And we often watch Mets games together.
However, I often fall asleep before the end of Mets games. So when I wake up the next morning, one of the first things I do is turn to the spouse and ask "Did the Mets win?" Or, more often, "Did the Mets lose?"
There is also a Twitter feed called "Did the Mets lose?" for those who do not have someone sleeping next to them who watched the game. And, of course, you can always go to Mets.com to see what happened. Which is what I did this morning, which led to the following breakfast conversation:
ME: Mets won.
SPOUSE: 7-4 -- and Jon Niese [the starting pitcher] is on the disabled list.
ME: Well, I screwed up my shoulder again yesterday. Maybe you should put me on the disabled list, call up another wife from Triple A. Maybe a blonde or a redhead.
SPOUSE: (Laughing) Are we talking an inning or long relief?
This led to a (humorous) discussion, in the kitchen and then online, regarding whether or not I would be DFA'd, would go to rehab in Florida, or if I could request a trade. Which led me to think, What if marriage was (more) like baseball?
If marriage was like baseball....
* Spouses who were injured and were unable to perform their duties would be subject to going on either the 15-day or 60-day disabled list, at which time the non-injured spouse could elect to temporarily fill his or her roster spot.
* After three years of marriage, you could file for arbitration -- to get a better deal. ("How about you cook dinner three nights a week?" or "I want Thursday to be date night." or "You do the laundry [or clean or whatever] or I'm out of here.")
* After six years you could become a free agent, unless you decided to extend your (marriage) contract.
* If a spouse has been married for ten full years and in the same marriage for the last five, he or she could not be traded away without his or her consent.
Because no good deed goes unpunished. (Or unquestioned.)
The Spouse: [Walks into my office & presents me with a beautiful bouquet of roses and spring flowers.]
Me: Did someone send me flowers?
The Spouse: Me, I did.
Me: Aw, sweetheart, they're lovely! Thank you! [Gives the spouse a big hug and kiss. Then pauses.] Wait, what did you do? The spouse: Nothing. Me: [Eyes him suspiciously.] What are you not telling me? The Spouse: [Now giggling nervously] Nothing! I love you and just wanted to surprise you with flowers. Me: O-ka-ay... [Gives him another hug and kiss... and a side eye.] Thank you?! The Spouse: You're welcome.
And I wonder why I don't get flowers more often (or at all).
(Actually, it's because our two cats eat them and knock over/smash the vases.)
As all of you J-TWO-O blog readers know, the spouse and I have a running debate about how to load (or not load) the dishwasher. A debate that apparently rages at a lot of other houses as well, including fictional ones, like the Johnsons on black-ish, the new ABC sitcom about a successful, two-income African-American family (who have been likened to the Huxtables of The Cosby Show).
I laughed out loud at this scene, titled "Dre Wants Credit from His Wife [for loading the dishwasher]."
If only his wife, Rainbow, had had Man Medals, a brilliant idea for the man who feels he deserves an award for changing the toilet paper roll, taking out the garbage, or emptying the dishwasher (though there is no Man Medal for loading the dishwasher -- for a reason).
There also isn't a Man Medal for making the bed, which the spouse did all by himself yesterday! (Next time you can post a photo on Facebook, honey.)
Or for doing the laundry, or the dishes, or mowing the lawn -- things, which I have heard rumors, some guys do (without their wives even having to ask!).
Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh. After all, the spouse does help out with grocery shopping. And he helps clean up after dinner, and he does take out the garbage and fix our computers. (Thank you, honey!)
And, I admit, like the wife/mother on black-ish, and a lot (all) women I know, I like things done a certain way -- my way. And I hate mess, or disorganization. So I wind up doing and taking care of stuff. Just because. And I don't expect a medal.
Yet when a man does one thing, like changing a diaper, or taking the kids to school, or baking cupcakes, he expects -- and often gets, from friends and coworkers -- an effing ticker-tape parade.Which pisses me off.
So, ladies (and guys), how's that Women's Liberation thing working out for all of you?
I am not a perfectionist (despite what the spouse and teenager think). I just like things done a certain way. The right way. (Which is why I have always been loathe to hire people to work for me -- and am always very careful about recommending people for jobs.)
True, "right" is open to some interpretation, but I think we can all agree that there are right ways to do things and wrong ways. Like loading the dishwasher, for instance...
Or making the bed.
This one drives me crazy. How effing hard is it to make a bed? I'm not talking hospital corners here, people, though they do look so nice.
I'm talking about making sure the fitted sheet fits and the top sheet and blanket (or comforter) are evenly spread across the bed. Seriously, how frickin' hard is it to make sure you have the same or similar amount of sheet and blanket or comforter (or duvet for my European readers) on each side?! Yet every cleaning person or service I have ever hired cannot figure this out (nor can the spouse -- though I still love you, honey), even after I've shown them. WTF?
And do not get me started about laundry or folding clothes (you know, so they don't get wrinkled and fit in your drawers)...
Don't get me wrong. I love the idea of delegating. But as the old saying goes, good help is hard to find.
Alternate title: Is your dishwasher hosing your marriage?
Forget infidelity and finances, people. You want to know the real cause of marital discord, at least in the United States? The dishwasher. (And you people thought I was kidding around when I wrote about Dishwasher Nazis.)
According to a national online survey conducted by Harris Interactive on behalf of
Bosch home appliances in June 2012 (though I just heard about it today), more than 40% of U.S. adults fight about loading the
dishwasher.
The top five dishwasher-related disagreements (and I quote)?
"1. 61% fight over whether dishes should be pre-rinsed or not. Nearly
two thirds of all men and women cited this issue as their leading cause
for argument, proving the pre-rinse, rinse debate to be a universal
annoyance. The truth is that you should not pre-rinse as the detergent
needs to cling to food to avoid scratching your dishes.
[Okay, Bosch, but then explain why when we don't give our plates and glasses a quick rinse -- I'm not talking pre-washing here -- stuck-on food becomes Krazy Glued to my dishes? And don't tell me it's because we have a Miele dishwasher.]
"2. 41% clash about separating dishes or cramming as much as possible to tackle a larger load. Perhaps
a case of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, Women (48%) are more
likely to fight about doubling together dishes than men (33%).
[Yo, Bosch, don't know if you realize this but there is no water on either Mars or Venus. And if you cram plates covered in food together in the dishwasher, that stuff is never coming off. Though right now the spouse, who is from Queens, is loving this survey and is totally going to give me grief.]
"3. 39% argue over placing sharp knives point down or point up. Out
of the group of women who were concerned with this issue, 43% argue
about whether knives should be placed point up or down, compared to 34%
of males. Using safety as your guide, the final say is to load knives
point down for safety, while forks and spoons can be placed either
handle up or down. A third rack on the Bosch 800 Plus dishwasher
separates utensils to make it safer and easier to clean, load and
unload.
[That third rack for utensils has probably saved many knives from being inserted point down into certain parts of the male anatomy. And while the separate utensil rack is a great idea in theory, it does a poor job of getting forks, knives, and spoons clean.]
"4. 34% insist on placing cups on the top rack and plates on the bottom rack while their mate believes it's every dish for themselves. The
biggest division in the dishwasher deliberation comes in the form of
organization: nearly one third (32%) of all females who fight about
loading the dishwasher insist that cups be placed on the top rack and
plates on the bottom rack, not mixed. Like any good relationship where
each person needs their space, each dish should be separated by a
dishwasher's tines. Often, couples can keep the peace by splitting up
large loads of dishes into smaller loads. A half load option on Bosch
dishwashers tackles smaller loads so dirty dishes don't sit in the
dishwasher.
[It is like this survey was conducted in my kitchen. Scary. Again, I direct your attention to this post. I would also like to point out that loading or organizing a dishwasher is about logistics and logic. Ahem.]
"5. 30% debate about placing plastic containers on the top
rack to prevent a major plastic meltdown, or placing containers wherever
space is available. You may think that loading the
dishwasher could smooth over a fight, but your efforts could have the
opposite effect if your dishes are ruined in the process. If destroying
an entire collection of plastic storage containers has plagued your
marriage, Bosch dishwashers feature a concealed flow-through water
heating element to prevent plastic containers from dissolving, no matter
where they are placed.
[Let me save you people the cost of a divorce attorney or mediator: Never put plastic in the dishwasher. Not only could the plastic melt, but most plastics, even ones deemed "dishwasher safe" give off toxic fumes when heated/run through the dishwasher. Take the less than 30 seconds it requires to wash plastic containers by hand and then let them dry in a drying rack. Problem solved.]
"The survey also revealed that almost four out of ten men who have a
dishwasher (38%) admit to finding excuses for getting out of loading the
dishwasher altogether. Perhaps a tactic for avoiding the dreaded
dishwasher dispute. The most common excuses included deferring the
cleanup because they cooked the meal and demand chore equality (16%),
blatantly admitting to being too lazy to clean the dishes (12%), and
feeling as though they are too busy and their time is too important to
be spent loading the dishwasher (10%)."
What turns me on even more? A guy with an organized closet.
(Alternate title to this blog post: Every girl's crazy 'bout an organized man.)
I don't know about other women, but there is something incredibly appealing -- and, yes, even sexy -- about a guy who doesn't leave his shit all over the bedroom and/or the rest of the house (consciously or unconsciously expecting you -- or "the elves" -- to pick or clean it up) but puts things away where they belong.
Sure, sure, looks, brains, and success are all fine and good, but a guy who keeps his closet and office tidy? Priceless.
Call me an organization addict (or, okay, a neat freak), but I had a hard time not shouting out "yes, YES, YES!!!" while watching this segment featuring organizer extraordinaire Peter Walsh on the Rachael Ray Show yesterday. (For the record, Rachael Ray was also very excited.)
That said, while I am all for order (and detest chaos), I would not want to be married to this guy (though I would never put a record back in the wrong place).
So this morning the spouse posted the following on his Facebook page (after I asked him to help me make the bed):
Make the bed or not? I say it's a waste of time. You?
To which one of his (female) Facebook friends replied:
I make it every day...there is something about smoothing out the sheets/and pillows....the sensation of getting into a made bed, is not the same as getting into an unmade bed.
Which pretty much sums up my feelings.
Also, I can't fold clothes on a messy bed -- and I don't like having cat fur (we have two cats who share joint custody of the bed) on the sheets. And, okay, I was traumatized by my mother and camp counselors as a child and cannot not make a bed without being terrified something awful will happen (though I no longer care if you can or cannot bounce a quarter off it).
So which side of the bed-making controversy are you on? Click the circle that best describes you.
To make the bed or not make the bed? That is the question.
Also feel free to post your thoughts on why making the bed is a good/bad idea/waste of time in the Comments section.
Equally problematic, at least for those of us who were big fans of the movie Risky Business and still fondly remember the scene where Tom Cruise dances around in his tighty whities (back when we didn't think he was crazy -- just crazy cute), that woman is no Tom Cruise. (Sadly.)
You want women to get excited about mopping, Shark people? Show some really hot guy mopping the floor.
Per the spouse, I am a dishwasher Nazi, meaning I have a very specific idea of how our dishwasher should be loaded (which I refer to as "common sense, so you can fit the most stuff into it to conserve energy" or "a place for everything, and everything in its place") and get annoyed when other people just randomly jam dishes and bowls and glasses wherever they please. And I am not alone. Indeed, the spouse and I, through years of observation, have come to the (unscientific) conclusion that in most households with more than one person, one of them is a dishwasher Nazi.
For the record, unlike real Nazis, I have never tortured or gassed anyone for putting a plate or bowl in the wrong slot, though I have been known to sigh and cast dirty looks. (Though seriously people, how hard is it to figure out where that plate should go?! Come on!)
Interestingly, in the several other cases of dishwasher domination we know about, it is the man who is in charge (by choice) of loading the dishwasher -- and woe to the spouse or child who attempts to place a plate or glass without his permission, or puts that fork or knife in the wrong side up. (Speaking of forks and knives, we no longer have this issue as our dishwasher has a silverware tray, but do you believe the sharp end should go up or down?)
So, my question to all of you is: Is there a dishwasher Nazi in your household? And, if so, which one of you is it?
[Btw, I just Googled the term "dishwasher nazi" and there are 714,000 results. Clearly, this is a bigger problem than I suspected.]
But getting back to today's subject -- pre-treating one's laundry.
I don't mind doing the laundry. Really. But it really pisses me off when, after I tell the spouse or kid to "pre-treat that really nasty stain," they totally ignore me and just throw whatever it is in the hamper -- and I wind up washing it and drying it and then when I'm about to fold it see that the stain or (more typically) stains have now set in and the shirt or pants are probably done for. Sigh.
Anyone else have this problem? Or a solution?
On a related note, I wonder if you can still buy Calgon water softener....
Forget about money, sex, the toilet seat, and toothpaste caps. You want to know the real source of marital or relationship discord or success? Toilet paper. More specifically toilet paper rolls -- and which way to hang them.
Joke all you want, but I have seen and heard couples nearly come to blows over whether the end of the toilet paper roll should hang over or under the bar (and why certain people seem unable to replace an empty roll). And it's not just couples. Ask your friends -- or really anyone -- about the "right" way to hang a roll of toilet paper and you are guaranteed to wind up in an argument eventually.
Sadly, I am apparently doing it the wrong way -- the "under" way. And per the Angry Aussie will be going to Hell.
Fortunately, the spouse will be going there with me. For he, too, prefers his toilet paper to hang under the bar. I think it's an aesthetic thing, for both of us, though I swear we use less toilet paper when the end hangs under the bar (as opposed to over). In any case, it is one less thing for us to argue about (though we hardly ever argue).
But let me put it to you, dear readers. Which side do you fall on on the great over/under debate? Does your mate agree with you?
Do me a favor and take a few seconds to do the (totally anonymous) poll below, which closes on Saturday, June 18, at 12 noon ET.
How's your toilet paper hanging? Thank you.
UPDATED: Blog reader Anonymous asked the following question in the Comments, which I felt compelled to reprint here: "Do you fold or crumple your TP?" You can let me know via the Comments. (Too lazy to put up another poll.)
This summer, my daughter, who will be 13, is going to a sleepaway program where the attendees have to do their own laundry. So rather than wait and let her figure it out (visions of overflowing washing machines and shrunken clothes and weeping child calling long distance dancing in my head), I decided to teach her the fine art of washing, drying, and folding clothes now.
And I am happy to say that we have now completed Phase One of Operation Do Your Own Stinkin' Laundry (learning how to use the washing machine and dryer) and are about to enter Phase Two, folding.
I was tempted to just make her watch this classic YouTube video titled "Japanese way of folding t-shirts!"
But I fear that would doom us to failure -- and a fear of folding.
There goes the buzzer on the dryer, people! Time for folding boot camp. Wish us luck!
UPDATED: I am happy to report that Phase Two of Operation Do Your Own Stinkin' Laundry: You Gotta Know When to Fold 'Em went off without a hitch (though I am taking J-THREE-O's word on this). Next up: Operation Change Your Own Gosh Darn Toilet Paper Roll.
As parents, we want our kids to be happy and confident -- with good self esteem. At the same time, we don't want our kids to be too or unrealistically full of themselves, like those poor deluded contestants on American Idol who think they are the next American Idol because their parents (falsely) told them they were great.
I had always thought the spouse and I did a pretty good job of parenting, or of making our daughter feel safe and loved. We encouraged her to pursue the things she loved (writing, drawing, Photoshop, cooking) and gave praise only when it was deserved. We also constantly told her to believe in herself, to be proud of who she was, and to not focus on or worry about what other people said or thought about her -- and that with hard work and perseverance she could be (almost) anything she wanted to be.
And while our daughter knows she will not be the next American Idol (okay, I'll admit it, I'm a little preoccupied with American Idol right now -- new AI blog posts to start end of this month!), nor a great athlete, after seeing her current email signature (pasted below), I'm wondering if maybe we went a bit too far with this whole be-proud-of-who-you-are-you can-do-(almost)-anything-you-set-your-mind-to stuff.
WARNING: You have just read an email from an evil genius. Reply with caution. When you get lemons, normal people make lemonade. I run around screaming with a pasta strainer on my head and demand chocolate. I am me. You don't like it? Too bad. You're stuck with it. I'm 40% Martian, 40% Plutonian, and 20% Saturnian. Now you understand why 100% of humanity is afraid of me. You call me crazy, abnormal, nuts, insane, extraterrestrial, annoying, weird, strange, cuckoo, bonkers, wacky, bizarre, odd, ridiculous, peculiar, unusual, queer, atypical, and outlandish...yeah, we've already established this. One day, I will be RULER OF THE ENTIRE WORLD! Common, don't deny it. Cook, artist, singer, actress, writer, clarinetist, drama queen, book worm, Gleek, animal lover, enthusiast, proud abnormal, journalist, genius, music lover, chocoholic....
From the awesomest person ever to cross the face of the earth...
Nah.
[FYI, before I wrote this post, I asked the future ruler of the entire world if it was OK to do so. She gave me her permission. And if she changes her mind, or I do, I'll take it down.]
Some of us (me) were born with the folding gene; others of us (the spouse, our daughter) were not. But even those of us blessed with the ability to neatly fold clothes have (admit it) struggled with folding fitted sheets.
I learned to fold fitted sheets from my mother, using the two-person, hold-the-sheet-by-the-corners-width-wise-and-then-fold-corner-to-corner-and-bring-the-half-folded-sheet-to-the-other-person-to-finish-folding method, which worked pretty well -- as long as you had someone helping you. But what to do when/if you were alone? In my case, I emulated the two-person, corner-to-corner method by spreading the fitted sheet on my (queen-sized) bed, going from one side of the bed to the other. Very inefficient, but it works.
But now, thanks to my friend, Justin, and Jill Cooper of www.livingonadime.com, my days of running around the bed to fold a fitted sheet are over! Behold, the power of "How to Fold a Fitted Sheet"!
If I did not already have a set of sheets in the dryer when I watched this video early this morning, I would have done a load. And even though it took a few tries, and my fitted sheet didn't look as neat as Jill Cooper's, the technique absolutely works.
Bonus folding video, for those of you who have always wondered what the best way to fold a t-shirt was:
Btw, if any of you understands Japanese, let me know what she says!
When I was growing up, and living at home, although we had someone who came in once a week (or every two weeks) to clean, I was expected to make my bed, keep my room clean, do my own laundry, and help out around the house (which, in my case, was an apartment).
Sleep away camp, which was supposed to be "fun" (HA!), was no different. We were expected to make our beds -- every day -- so that a quarter would bounce off the blanket; keep our clothes neatly folded in our trunks; and share in chores, which included sweeping the bunk and cleaning the bathroom. And, unlike Snow White, I didn't have any woodland friends to help me (unless you count my fellow campers, who weren't nearly as cute or as helpful as Snow White's), even though there were plenty up in Maine (where my camp was).
While others shirked their duty, I dutifully cleaned and pitched in because I'm an idiot if I didn't my bunk mates and I would suffer the consequences (ditto back at home, minus the bunk mates). But, even though I was really good at cleaning, I NEVER found it fun, nor did I find myself whistling a happy tune (and not just because I can't whistle).
Fast forward to adulthood -- and to waking up to scenes not so unlike this one from Enchanted (including the pigeons and cockroaches).
Actually watching that scene from Enchanted brings back memories of when I was first dating the spouse, and I would go over to his place and find a stack of dirty dishes lying in as well as next to his sink -- and would immediately start washing them and tidying up (without the help of rats or pigeons or insects!).
Fast forward to yesterday (Saturday) when I found myself, for the second time in about a week, on my hands and knees cleaning the wooden floor in the spouse's new home office, shining the new window, vacuuming the floor, and lint-rolling the carpet, which had just been dropped off from the cleaner, though it still looked like it was covered in cat hair. (Note: To be fair, the spouse did not ask me to do this. My Disney princess training just automatically kicked in.) And don't worry, I only did this after feeding the cats, cleaning the cat boxes, tidying up the kitchen, doing a load of laundry, going to get breakfast, and polishing shoes.
And all the while, as I wiped and polished and tidied, I kept thinking about Cinderella, and that scene (which I couldn't find) where all the cleaning is magically done for her -- and how happy that stupid Snow White seemed when she was cleaning up after those seven slovenly dwarfs, and it suddenly hit me: Disney totally screwed us women! He brainwashed us into thinking that cleaning was FUN and that a way to a man's heart wasn't just by cooking him a nice warm meal (which I also do, though the spouse cooks on the weekends) but washing his clothes and cleaning his house! OMG!!!
Fortunately (or not), my daughter, to whom I never read fairy tales to, nor had any interest in Disney princesses, has no such problem regarding cleaning. In fact, she is against it. Finds it a total waste of time and BORING. Besides, why clean when the cleaning fairy does it for you, while you are at school or asleep?
While I am (somewhat) relieved that she did not inherit my Felix Unger obsession with cleanliness, I do wish she was a little (ahem) less like Oscar Madison. (We have even offered her monetary incentives to regularly clean up, but she has turned them all down, telling us instead to donate the money to those who really need it.) Still, while she may not be cleanliest of children, unlike her mother she is almost always whistling a happy tune. UPDATED: My mother (who, though in France, still reads my blog posts) reminded me that in addition to Disney, I was also very fond of Free to Be You and Me, which featured Carol Channing singing a little ditty about Housework, the lyrics of which (just click on the hyperlink) are a must read. Wish mom had emailed me this before I spent yesterday morning and this morning cleaning by myself!
So a few months ago, the spouse goes to this BlackBerry user conference up in Boston and comes home with a brand-new BlackBerry Torch. Which he offered to me as he already had a smart phone (an HTC Android) and didn't need the BlackBerry Torch.
Now most people would have snapped up that offer -- and smart phone -- in a nanosecond. But I am not most people. Indeed, as I like to tell people, just because I write about technology for a living, that doesn't mean I have to use it.
I proudly used the same IBM ThinkPad laptop for six years, still use a paper weekly engagement desk calendar, and still have the same Rolodex I used at my first job. And I was doing just fine, thank you, with my old mobile phone (which I had only, reluctantly, relatively recently upgraded to because my previous phone didn't have a keyboard for texting).
Don't get me wrong, I greatly appreciated the offer (and agree that the Torch is pretty cool looking). I just don't need a smart phone (as I spend all day sitting in front of a computer for work).
Our daughter, on the other hand, who has been using a computer since she was 2.5 and can type rings around me on a BlackBerry, was dying to get a mobile phone that could text. Actually, she was dying to get the BlackBerry Torch, but the spouse nixed that, fearing our monthly data bill would go through the roof. So we decided that I should take the BlackBerry Torch (no fear of using up the data plan there!) and give the kid my mobile.
And so, as of this past Wednesday, I am now the owner of a shiny new BlackBerry Torch. Which the spouse already integrated with my Gmail account -- and threatens to add mobile apps for Facebook and Twitter. Me, I view the Torch much as the passengers aboard the Galactica viewed the Cylons (and jump, literally, every time I see the glowing red eye go off, even though I know it's just telling me I have a new email message).
Also, a note to Research In Motion and AT&T: Being on a perpetual roller-coaster, getting bumped by other cars, and being whirled around in a giant teacup is not my idea of fun.
P.S. We are currently taking bets as to whether I will actually wind up using the BlackBerry beyond answering the phone and clearing email messages off my computer. Care to make a wager?
Daughter to spouse: Why, because I didn't get enough sleep and haven't had my coffee yet?
Twelve going on 40.
Btw, after the spouse and I finished cracking up, J-THREE-O immediately asked if I would be putting her comment on the blog -- and said she was totally OK if I did.
No, I am not referring to New York Jets quarterback Mark Sanchez, who led the Jets to a 38-14 victory over the Buffalo Bills in Buffalo this afternoon. (Though I know many women who find Mark Sanchez very sexy.)
I am, of course, referring to the man who, after a hard day of computer troubleshooting, slaved over a hot stove and oven all afternoon making his ladies a delicious dinner of homemade Buffalo-style chicken wings (in honor of the New York Jets trouncing the Buffalo Bills -- sorry, Dave S.) and potato skins -- then helped me clean up and... vacuumed the floor (with the Valentine's Day present he gave me).
If that isn't the definition of sexy, ladies, I don't know what is. (And look how cute he looks in his yellow latex gloves and apron. Swoon.)
In the words of Salt N Pepa (and En Vogue), what a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man. (Yes, he is.)
Or, How many types of orange juice does the world really need?
While choice can be a good thing, too much choice -- or too many choices -- can sometimes be a bad thing, especially when it involves supermarket shopping and your spouse (or partner or boyfriend).
Gone are the days when a woman could simply write
orange juice
milk
shampoo
conditioner
and expect her helpmate to return with exactly what she wanted. HA!
Ah, if life were still that simple.
Now instead of confidently reaching for a container of orange juice, the ill-prepared male is accosted by a barrage of choices, nine out of ten of which are likely to be the wrong one (per his spouse or partner or girlfriend). Yet how is he to know pulp or no pulp? With or without calcium? Home style or grove stand (whatever those appellations mean)? From concentrate or freshly squeezed? Or which brand to choose when there are typically four or five or more brands, many of which look the same?
And buying milk is no easier. Do you get whole, 2%, 1%, or skim? Organic or not? Pasteurized or ultra-pasteurized? And don't forget to check the expiration date!
Though the worst aisle in the supermarket to navigate may be the health and beauty aisle, which has been known to reduce normally decisive, confident men to blubbering idiots. Does the world really need 10 shelves of shampoos and conditioners? Feminine products? Don't even bother. And as far as facial creams, I have to admit, to the inexperienced, Nivea and Neutrogena and Noxzema do look and sound awfully similar.
To combat supermarket overload, one woman I know (or, more accurately, whom the spouse knows) actually sends her husband shopping with a detailed spreadsheet, which no longer seems as whacky as it once did. (To minimize phone calls from the supermarket as well as having to return items later, I actually typed up a detailed, bulleted list, organized the same way our Stop & Shop is organized, for the spouse the other day, which I both printed and emailed to his Droid. He said it worked great -- and I didn't have to return a thing.)
Don't get me wrong. I am all for freedom of choice. I just sometimes think too much choice can be a bad thing -- though it's a nice segue to/reason to include this classic Devo song:
contrary to what this 1998 Super Bowl ad for Doritos, featuring former Miss USA Ali Landry, might have you believe.
I am at the point where I have lost count of how many loads of laundry I have done this week. (Got one in the dryer right now!) And trust me, I don't feel the least bit sexy. Though maybe it's because I'm not using the LG WM3431 Front Load All-in-One Washer/Dryer or popping Doritos 3Ds.
UPDATED: As I have now been reminded, laundry can be sexy (ditto ironing, vacuuming, and doing the dishes), when done by someone else. Exhibit A...
I started this blog to amuse myself, my friends, and my family. If you are not amused, just click on some other blog. You got millions to choose from. If you are amused, spread the word -- and the link! To contact me, send an email to moodyqt33 [at symbol] hotmail.com.
Posts
