A Walk in the Snark

by Rachel Thompson

  His kids pretend they don’t know him.

  2. The Waffler is the guy who can’t ever make up his mind which way to go on presents. He sees a present. He likes it well enough. But is it the perfect present?

  He just doesn’t know. How can one ever really know? While he’s waiting for a message from the universe, what could have been the perfect present flies off the shelf. (And online shopping hasn’t made his life any easier, he can tell you that.)

  For The Waffler, presents really are an existential issue and one he’s just not sure he’s up to handling each year. The prospect of getting it wrong is just so tangentially opposed to how he lives his life; however, he knows that he must take part in the ritual, despite his tendency to want to roll up in a little ball of eggnog-induced indecision.

  So like the good little soldier of capitalism he is, he marches on, making those purchasing choices. Slowly. Painfully. And he takes the week off between Christmas and New Year’s to recover from the stress.

  3. The English Patient is helpless when it comes to all matters of the present. He’d rather be burned in a bombing raid than face a mall full of terrible drivers, screaming children, and harried shoppers. He somehow manages to procure presents each year though, generally through much humiliating begging and pleading of daughters, sons, and neighbors through the covert passing of money, with change somehow never making its way back to his increasingly lightened wallet.

  Our English Patient does realize the pros and cons to his method and uses them to his advantage—he’s no fool. Pro: Less effort out shopping on his part means more time spent puttering around the house, making it look nice for guests, thus making the little woman happy. And we all know where that leads.

  Con: Sure, he’s out a few extra bucks than he himself may have spent if he had done his own shopping. But at least he’s still sane and safe from the madding crowd. So there’s that.

  4. Which brings us to Mr. Happy. He really isn’t happy to be shopping; he’s happy because he knows that shopping makes his woman happy. And if his woman is happy, he’s gonna get laid.

  He’s the guy you see trailing after his fast-talking wife, part-man, part-mule, big smile plastered on his face. Why, he’s just happy to be there.

  The equation is fairly simple for this guy: Just showing up, combined with enormous amounts of patience, will pretty much guarantee a good time for this guy. He frankly doesn’t understand dudes who don’t go shopping with their wives. What are they, stupid?

  5. Finally, The Hunter who views shopping as sport: He points, he shoots, he leaves. Anything else is extraneous and distracts from the task at hand. Well, except lunch. A man’s gotta eat.

  You can usually tell The Hunter by his attire: Fanny pack at the ready, this man will hand over his credit card like a shot for easier getting the hell out. He even heads out prepacked with his bright shiny purple mini-sized carabineer clips already conveniently slipped onto his jeans’ belt loop for more efficient package carrying.

  'Cause it’s not like this guy is coming back. It’s one-stop shot. Or not. If he can’t buy that one gift, perfect or not, on this one trip, it doesn’t exist. In all likelihood, The Hunter is single...or divorced.

  So there you have it. Many of you guys may disagree with me and cry out in protest: “But I love to shop!” I’ll stop you right there…of course there are several more types I’ve missed, including that rare breed of man who actually enjoys shopping. Usually he’s had a heart transplant, or is gay. Not that you are. Or that there’s anything wrong with that. 'Cause you’re, ya know, guys. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

  (I’d go with Mr. Happy.)

  ***

  “Men focus. Women multi-task. It's not a competition.

  We all work together in harmony #OMG #cannotstoplaughing”

  STUPID PANTS SYNDROME

  Like I said, I picked a “Mr. Happy.”

  When I met my guy, it was pretty clear up front that I was a fashiony kinda gal. Shopping together didn’t seem to be a painful process. And he seemed to have a real handle on fashion himself. Nothing fancy—he wasn’t obsessed or anything—not like my last boyfriend, M, who waited with bated breath for each month’s GQ and took the mag shopping with him, tucked under his arm, like a lover. Yeah, we didn’t last.

  But I really thought I knew my man. When I first saw him, he was standing in front of a room, handsome in a well-fitted suit. Sigh.

  Now, he wears these god-awful Mickey Mouse pants that my daughter and I figure must have been made by aliens. It’s not possible that the man I love, the man who’s married to a chick who WOULD NEVER BUY THOSE PANTS, is the same man I married.

  Clearly, he’s been abducted. It’s the only explanation.

  Just as friends don’t let friends drive drunk, chicks don’t let men wear stupid pants.

  Well, we TRY.

  “Honey,” he asks in all seriousness as he holds up multicolored Mickey Mouse pants covered in a rose, striped, and (gulp) plaid pattern, “What do you think of these?”

  His enthusiastic smile shows you that he has absolutely no idea how freakin’ lame those pants really and truly are. As you fight a wave of first-trimester pregnancy nausea, despite the fact that you’re not, in fact, pregnant, your “NO!” leaves your lips faster than intended. As obliviously as he picked them up, he thankfully drops those offending rayon/poly blend bad boys on the floor before actual hurling takes place.

  Phew. Close one.

  It’s a phenomenon known as Stupid Pants Syndrome, or SPS.

  Scientists are curious to know: What makes some men want to wear these ugly pants? And what makes them immune to the eye-scarring, burning disorder that makes the rest of us clamor for our dark designer shades in a harried panic? Is it a DNA thing?

  In recent study results released by the Human Genome Project, several female researchers were reportedly temporarily blinded while examining the Y chromosome. These cells were later shown to have tested positive for the Stupid Pants Syndrome marker.

  Clearly, no one is safe.

  Some men seem to have a chip missing when it comes to stupid pants. It’s as if they see them, but don’t recognize their inherent offensiveness. Or, if they do, they take particular pride in the stupidability of the pants and want to share them with the world.

  Side effects of SPS in men can include: inflammation of the male brain, husbandus ignoramus, and the urge to golf.

  Golf pants are a particular crime against nature—it seems that when the fibers of the material in the loud patterns are exposed to direct sunlight, a sort of toxic photosensitivity occurs that causes people to experience a burning and stinging sensation that many may never recover from.

  Trauma in women can include: nausea, retinal burning, light sensitivity, uncontrollable verbal outbursts, and the insatiable need for expensive eyewear.

  We’re talking epidemic here, people.

  Guys seem to think that if they put these monstrosities on, the awfulness will kind of oh, I don’t know, disappear. When clearly, given the loud nature of most of these humdingers, our fellas could actually say, light their way through a forest at midnight without the aid of artificial light. (This does kind of explain the Corey Hart “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night” synchronicity of the ’80s Day-Glo neon green balloon pants though, doesn’t it?)

  Perhaps men’s inability to recognize something that appalling can potentially be used as a torture technique (Goodness knows it’s been used in households across North America for years), or for clandestine espionage ops training.

  Women are suffering in not-so-silent silence (“my eyes!”) as we watch our men make fools of themselves in these ridiculous, offending garments. Is it too much to ask for our guys to look cool? Or if not cool, at least to wear something that makes us…not seasick?

  You may think your normal, well-dressed man is immune to SPS, but I’m telling you now—stop living in your smug bubble of invincibility—no man is immune. Even our best-dressed Armani-wearing gentlemen are
falling victim to Stupid Pants Syndrome.

  Do your part, girls. Check your man’s closet—does he own golf pants, short pants (aka floods), or pressed jeans?

  You in trouble, girl.

  This stupid pants epidemic has reached mass proportions. We must take a stand. End SPS before it’s too late.

  ***

  “I never hit my kids. If they misbehave, I either sing loudly or speak in a British accent. In public. #cruelmothertricks”

  DAYS OF THE WEEK, DECONSTRUCTED

  We all have our foibles. I’ve accepted that my guy will wear his stupid, retinal-burning pants with or without me dying of embarrassment. It just is what it is. Sigh.

  I’m not sure guys think in terms of alphabetical order—um, especially when it comes to days of the week. So my guy has had to deal with my OCD regarding something that I have no control over (which is, of course, the epitome of OCD, yes?) but I don’t care.

  Just um, go with it. It all makes sense if you really think about it. And if it doesn’t?

  Shhhh. Don’t tell me. I might start reorganizing your sock drawer.

  I’ve decided to redo the days of the week.

  Yeah, cause they just don’t make that much sense, ya know, alphabetically.

  Shut up. This is my world.

  I’m sure you’re probably thinking, “Um, what does this have to do with like, men, women, and the normal stuff this chick usually writes about?”

  It will all make sense, dear child.

  So…our first day of the week is now—Friday.

  Par-tay!

  Also, I think people would be MUCH happier starting the workweek off with a day that starts with the letter F, don’t you?

  Think about it. I can wait.

  *Whistles*

  Now that you’re back with smiles on your faces (See? Told ya. Happier.), we can move on to Day Two, Monday. Personally, I would have preferred to push this evil day all the way back to the end of the week (or just change the name entirely), but our alphabet friend here is kind of a stickler and insists on adhering to the damn rules. Bitch.

  To her face, however, we say thanks since she did allow us to start the week off with, ya know, the F-word and all.

  Okay. Moving on.

  The third day of the week is now Saturday, conveniently followed alphabetically by Sunday. Woo-hoo. In our new workweek, we slave for two days and then get a weekend. I know. See, our little alphabet isn’t really that much of a snappypants after all, now is she?

  Working only two days and then having a weekend off has now been proven in studies to not only decrease anger, but has also been shown to increase world peace. And brownies.

  Moving on.

  On the heels of our leisurely weekend of more sex, reading, and world peace comes Thursday. Most folks are pretty comfortable with Thursday already, so coming back to it after the weekend doesn’t freak them out like Monday did. Thursday is even given Most Favored Day of the Week status in many countries, which is quite exciting, given that it had lived in that other Tday’s (Tuesday) shadow all its former life.

  It really is wonderful to watch Thursday blossom so. I’m really hoping it grows up into Must-See TV. Again.

  This brings us to Tuesday, which is the next day alphabetically after Thursday. People initially have a hard time adjusting to Thursday-Tuesday, which causes some tongue-twisting confusion at preschools and daycares around the world, particularly when it comes to clothing color coordination, carpool, and the like. Disheveled children and parents work through it like champs however, with lots of coffee and strategically placed Sticky Notes.

  The final day of the week is now Wednesday. Wednesday is easy. Wednesday is fun. People finally learn how to spell it. It also thankfully loses the unfortunate moniker of “Hump Day,” which it found rather embarrassing growing up and well, undignified, to be quite honest.

  Now all of the days of the week are lined up in perfect alphabetical order. Doesn’t that make more sense? I know I can breathe now.

  Oh yeah—so how does all of this relate to men and women (besides the obvious F-word part)?

  You see, alphabetically, men come before women.

  Read that sentence again.

  The end.

  ***

  “People are wrong about me. I don’t hate men; I love men.

  If it weren’t for men I’d have nothing to write about.”

  NEAR-SIGHTED

  All of these experiences in life, good and bad, easy and difficult, we carry into our next relationship. Our likes and dislikes, our vulnerabilities, and our ability to find stuff in any situation. Like, ya know, chopsticks. Or appointments.

  One consistent variable I’ve found, however, is this: Men can’t seem to find things around the house. Apparently, we women are always hiding dude objects from them.

  Things we didn’t know existed (um, Liquid Nails, anyone?). Yet hide them we do.

  Great. Now talking like Yoda I am.

  Every chick in a long-term relationship will agree that men have selective hearing. They can hear you (depending on the subject), though of course being in close range of a TV for their game or dude show will always take precedence.

  I would also like to point out another little-known but just as detrimental disease: selective vision. This is where the guy may or may not be able to see key items in the home, based on need. This applies to things like dirty dishes. Or the TV remote. It’s like a scale of visual necessity, if you will.

  Let’s discuss.

  My guy will somehow avoid seeing the mess that he himself has made in the kitchen. I’m not sure how this is possible, given that the counter is covered in cookie crumbles, paper towel scrunchies,—you know, those used, wadded up paper towels that get left lying around—and dirty dishes. And don’t even get me started on the sink—ya know, that purgatory for dishes known to most men as the lather, rinse, and repeat zone of hell?

  (We won’t discuss the dishwasher. In my home, it only exists for my guy to say “Is it clean?” as if it’s an alien he dare not approach for fear of bloodsucking cooties.)

  Most guys don’t notice things like the unmade bed (Dude. You CAN make it. It won’t kill ya.), the bazillion Legos the five-year-old has left on the floor, or the hair bands the girl has dropped.

  Or where on earth the TV remote is.

  Life has been known to STOP in our home to find the remote. Come to a screeching halt (not kidding) so that the husband can watch his beloved football or just, ya know, Hawaii Five-O.) This is where we differ immensely as a couple (more on that below).

  He will pull the computer/book/phone from my hands in order to get me to look. He will yell for the kids, “Stop whatever you’re doing! Crisis of epic proportion!” and when we’re all front and center, it’s hands and knees time. He’s even had me call the cleaning lady if we’re truly stumped.

  Meanwhile, I’m looking into possible duct tape solutions.

  I suppose it’s his way of showing that he needs me. Sigh.

  Maybe he could need me just a little less.

  I, on the other hand, see the little things he doesn’t see—and they drive me crazy. Sometimes I wish I could be more like him (I know. I actually just said that.).

  Oh, to live in a state of divine tranquility, mindlessly stepping over wet towels and pillows, ignoring the mess I’ve made in the kitchen.

  But…I just can’t do it. With small children, meals (I don’t want to make) to be made, lunches to be packed, clothes to be washed…well, you know the drill.

  Women might multitask, but it doesn’t mean we like it.

  It’s probably why we get so bitchy around our periods.

  Still, I have to wonder: Does he really not see these things? Can he really and truly not find the butter in the fridge without my help?

  What if he were a bachelor? Would he just go butterless?

  Do throw pillows and decorative blankets exist solely for women?

  And the whole remote thing. I never could understand
people who got rid of their TVs. I thought they were nuts. But now? I tell ya…after the Great Remote Control Debacle of 2009, I’m ready to give the flippin’ thing to The Salvation Army. I’d just as soon we all read, listen to music, go out for walks, or (gasp!) talk to each other, than spend another minute on our hands and knees looking for the freakin’ remote.

  In the end, it really all comes down to this simple Chickspeak rule: If the chick can’t find it, honey, it doesn’t exist.