Yesterday I went out to the garage to get my Sawzall because I needed to cut some steel. This necessitated me changing the blade in the saw, which I can handle. The part I can’t handle is getting into the package the new blades came in. After a few futile attempts, I took the package over to the workbench, got another saw and cut them out. That’s right—I had to cut out the blades-- to get one, to put in the saw. I used to, when my wife was alive, cuss enough that she would take the package away from me, and with a disgusted look, open it up. She would say, “I would rather do it for you than see you rot in hell for your use of language.”
Men that have been around women—and particularly wives—long enough, learn a few tricks to make life easier for themselves. Men know, if you don’t want to paint, just make a big mess of it and she will do it for you. Don’t want to wash pots and pans? Leave a little sausage in them and quickly put them away. With any luck, you might not be home when she next uses the pan. You’ll never have to wash it again. You might get some flack, but heck, that’s water off a duck’s back compared to painting and doing dishes. On the other hand, if you like fried chicken and dumplings, tell her that her’s is much better than your mother’s ever was. But here is a caution. Don’t tell her she is pretty when she’s a mess; and for sure, don’t tell her she’s a mess. That’s just crazy talk. They know what they look like, and that reverse psychology you think works will boomerang on you, and you might be snoozing on the couch for a while. Not that that’s all bad—if you got the dog and your flashlight with you. It’s kind of like camping out, but be careful with the snacks. I once got in the doghouse by spilling sardine juice on one of her couch pillows. Not a good thing. I thought the dog would lick it clean, but he just rubbed his shoulder in it. Some buddy he was, huh?
Anyway, I got off-track here but I could write a book about this, and maybe I will—but back to the packaging. I know that, someday, I will be found deceased on the kitchen floor, with an unopened bottle of pills in one hand and a hammer in the other, the childproof lid still intact on the bottle of life-saving pills. It’s providence, my friends, and there is no use fighting it. I have many electronic devices that I can manage the bare necessities on, but I am stymied on most of it. Unless the grandkids come up, I’ll never learn how to use them.
I once went with my neighbor to pick up some lumber and we had a flat tire on his vehicle. Now men do change tires ladies, but we couldn’t find the jack anywhere in the car. We read the Owner’s Manual in our search for it, but he spilled coffee on the English section of it, and the Spanish section was no help to two guys that struggle with English, unless the jack was at Taco Bell. Some woman finally lent us her jack, and we did get it changed. However, we did lie a little, and told her we didn’t have a jack because we lost it while changing a tire for a bus full of nuns—on a railroad crossing—in a snowstorm. Oh man, I hope my priest doesn’t read this, and none of you women at the church need to bring it to him, either. I got enough problems right now trying to fold clothes.
No comments:
Post a Comment