“The problem with women is that they can never be pleased,”?Chris tells me this past weekend.
This came after I threatened that if he didn’t clean the man cave right now I was going to do it.
It was beginning to stink like dirt and sweat and.... man.
He tried to convince me that a man cave should smell like a man.
“It’s the room that many of our guests see first. By the smell of it alone, they will never venture upstairs to visit me since your man cave smells like the south end of a north bound donkey,”?I told him as I?handed off the cleaning supplies.
“And turn on the Scentsy burner while you clean,”?I threw over my shoulder.
In the window I?could see him mimicking me as I walked away.
Later I snuck down to see how far he had gotten. As usual, he was sitting on the couch with a basket of laundry in front of him slowly folding one pair of jeans over and over while watching the Twins pre-game show.
“Is this all you have done?” I asked before I had to scrape him off the ceiling.
“Why are you sneaking up on me?” he demanded between labored breaths while clutching his chest.
He believed I?was sneaking up on him to prove that he wasn’t taking care of his man cave the “right” way.
He has this silly notion in his head that as a woman, I?was put on this earth to nag him to death. Furthermore, I him do things only so I?can point out that he’s doing them wrong.
He said he’s tired of never being able to do anything right, even when he’s asleep.
Apparently I’ve been complaining he snores too much and too loud.
Then he tells me I?don’t appreciate him enough and I make him do petty chores like taking out the trash or recycling or putting away left-overs from dinner.
These menial chores must be demeaning to his dignity.
If it were up to him, all he would need is a couch, a big screen TV and a fridge to store his cold beverages.
I spend too much time wasting energy on things like cleaning the house. Instead, I should put that energy toward bringing him dinner in the man cave and refreshing his empty beer.
In a month we are tying the knot and becoming Mr. and Mrs. Buller—oops! I?mean Mr. and Mrs. Melheim. While we were out this weekend he was inviting people to his funeral reception.
He tells me his life was so much easier as a bachelor. No one would get mad at him for leaving a week’s worth of dirty socks by his chair parked in front of the big screen TV. A few empty beer bottles and a sink full of dishes tell other men his house is lived in. It doesn’t make him dirty or uncivilized.
Before I came along he could watch ESPN for the entire four-hour loop without being interrupted. Once I?get home I want to socialize with him, and not just during commercial breaks. He doesn’t want to socialize after work. Part of winding down from his day is having the remote in one hand, a cold beverage in the other and staring at the TV for long periods of time without blinking.
After all, the TV doesn’t talk back to him or ask him to do things he really doesn’t want to do.
His need to watch hours of sports programing after a stressful day should not be taken personally by me. Contrary to popular belief, it is not for the express purpose of annoying me.
He says that men are not supposed to have engaging, meaningful conversations. The only conversation he is ever interested in is who the most valuable player is and what time the game is on. And in case I’m wondering, he is not listening to me most of the time because he is tuning me out to watch an instant replay.
When we go somewhere I?always make him do the driving. This, he swears, is only so I?can criticize his driving. In addition, I’m an overly cautious driver and so are the other women on the road. Men have to knock us out of the way just to get around us.
And I’m always complaining. Either I have a migraine or my back hurts. If I?have an aliment, I see a doctor. Before Chris would ever admit to pain, he’d have to be knocking on death’s door.
This isn’t sexism, he assured me. It’s simply the difference between men and women.
With that he banished me from the man cave until death do us part.