I am what I am
The ACLU is about to hear from me. I've been the victim of an extremely sexist remark. To make matters worse, it came from a complete stranger, over the phone. Never have I felt so defiled, so filthy. My journey into degradation started like this:
"Hello, customer service. My name's Jane. May I help you?"
"Hi Jane, this is Michael. Are you in custom- "
Not wanting to lay all my ignorance on the table right from the start, I stopped mid-sentence and corrected myself. "Of course you're in customer service. That's what you said."
The obvious may pull ahead of me sometimes, but it seldom races on out of sight.
Before I could apply the reins to my mouth, though, it just galloped on. "I must not have been paying very good attention." I chuckled out loud, being the good-natured person I am.
Jane was on that like wrinkles on the floor of a plastic surgeon. She shot back, "Are you being a husband?"
Snatch my arm up behind me and make me stop to ask directions, why don't you!
The shame I felt at that moment was disheartening.
I can sense the head-nodding of female readers. Most of you have experienced talking to the side of a man’s head, otherwise known as, deep space. After awhile you notice your words are simply spilling over your bottom lip and falling unrequited onto your lap. To double-check yourself, you might throw out a teaser sentence such as, “Your mother cannibalized the rest of her offspring because she knew one day you’d meet me and I would kill you myself.”
This, of course, brings the sincere reply, “Mmm hmm.”
Immediately, your scorned-woman’s thought bubble appears with graphic illustrations of WMD’s, Widespread Male Destruction. Then comes the phrase that instantaneously snatches a man from deep within the bowels of any electronic device with which he may be entranced.
"Are you listening to me?"
Women wonder why these words get through when obviously not much has before. Simple. Men were cuffed about their heads by their mothers when they were boys for not responding correctly nor expeditiously to this very phrase.
It’s all in the conditioning. Pavlov’s dogs drooled. A man flinches and goes into a defensive posture with a look of fear on his face.
Later, I stopped to consider all this and realized we, as husbands, may be on the verge of being technologically dominated if we don’t alter our behavior. If Oprah ever learns how to operate one of those MP3 players with the built-in voice recorder, we are done for.
Armed with one of these, a woman could blackmail you during ball games, NASCAR races or do-it-yourself shows featuring Hugh Grant or Charlie Sheen.
Fail to pay explicit attention to what she's saying and she'll have you doing all sorts of bizarre things. Polishing doorknobs. Reorganizing the recipe box. Swiffering. Buying your own underwear before your present ones have been declared, (we pause here for a moment of prayerful meditation) "Holey."
To quote Walt Kelly’s ‘possum, Pogo, "We have met the enemy, and he is us."
Guys, let’s not lose the war by losing too many of these inattentive battles. I don’t ever want to come over to any of your houses and find you sporting a frilly gingham apron with a feather duster in one hand, a copy of anything by Martha Stewart in the other, all the while singing Celine Dion tunes.
It would be way too awkward, you know, if we twinked.
© 2007 Michael Wicinski
"Hello, customer service. My name's Jane. May I help you?"
"Hi Jane, this is Michael. Are you in custom- "
Not wanting to lay all my ignorance on the table right from the start, I stopped mid-sentence and corrected myself. "Of course you're in customer service. That's what you said."
The obvious may pull ahead of me sometimes, but it seldom races on out of sight.
Before I could apply the reins to my mouth, though, it just galloped on. "I must not have been paying very good attention." I chuckled out loud, being the good-natured person I am.
Jane was on that like wrinkles on the floor of a plastic surgeon. She shot back, "Are you being a husband?"
Snatch my arm up behind me and make me stop to ask directions, why don't you!
The shame I felt at that moment was disheartening.
I can sense the head-nodding of female readers. Most of you have experienced talking to the side of a man’s head, otherwise known as, deep space. After awhile you notice your words are simply spilling over your bottom lip and falling unrequited onto your lap. To double-check yourself, you might throw out a teaser sentence such as, “Your mother cannibalized the rest of her offspring because she knew one day you’d meet me and I would kill you myself.”
This, of course, brings the sincere reply, “Mmm hmm.”
Immediately, your scorned-woman’s thought bubble appears with graphic illustrations of WMD’s, Widespread Male Destruction. Then comes the phrase that instantaneously snatches a man from deep within the bowels of any electronic device with which he may be entranced.
"Are you listening to me?"
Women wonder why these words get through when obviously not much has before. Simple. Men were cuffed about their heads by their mothers when they were boys for not responding correctly nor expeditiously to this very phrase.
It’s all in the conditioning. Pavlov’s dogs drooled. A man flinches and goes into a defensive posture with a look of fear on his face.
Later, I stopped to consider all this and realized we, as husbands, may be on the verge of being technologically dominated if we don’t alter our behavior. If Oprah ever learns how to operate one of those MP3 players with the built-in voice recorder, we are done for.
Armed with one of these, a woman could blackmail you during ball games, NASCAR races or do-it-yourself shows featuring Hugh Grant or Charlie Sheen.
Fail to pay explicit attention to what she's saying and she'll have you doing all sorts of bizarre things. Polishing doorknobs. Reorganizing the recipe box. Swiffering. Buying your own underwear before your present ones have been declared, (we pause here for a moment of prayerful meditation) "Holey."
To quote Walt Kelly’s ‘possum, Pogo, "We have met the enemy, and he is us."
Guys, let’s not lose the war by losing too many of these inattentive battles. I don’t ever want to come over to any of your houses and find you sporting a frilly gingham apron with a feather duster in one hand, a copy of anything by Martha Stewart in the other, all the while singing Celine Dion tunes.
It would be way too awkward, you know, if we twinked.
© 2007 Michael Wicinski
posted by Michael Wicinski at 6:03 AM
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