the male enigma

Since we no longer have any forms of transport available, I had to ride my pushbike up to the hospital for my pre admission blood test. In the rain. 

Since the hospital is at the other end of town this isn't actually as much of an arduous task as I just tried to make out. I used to ride my bike a lot more than I do now - I used to deliver Miss Comic Relief to nursery on it two days a week, then ride straight to the gym (are you feeling insignificant in the light of my physical prowess?). It was really only current laziness and the spitting sky that gave me pause. But it turned out that the biggest annoyance was the preparation of the bike.

My bike has a slow leak in the back tire. That means that pretty much every time I pull it out to use it, the back tire is totally and utterly flat. Almost as flat as me. And I have to pump it up before I can use it.

We have two pumps. One is "the one that works" and the other is "the one that doesn't work". The one that doesn't work is a shining testament to the glory of Mr Boxer Shorts in reverse. I call it a "folly" in orange and black. You see, we already had "the pump that works" when Mr Boxer Shorts went out and bought a brand new one. I am not 100% sure on the reason for buying the second pump, but I can hazard a guess. We're talking about a man who bought a pair of shoes that were too small merely because his mother was standing there saying "I'll buy you something". Like a child in a toystore (in fact, just like either of my children in a toystore) he couldn't leave the shop without spending the money - even though the shoes didn't come in his size.

So those "free" shoes necessated the spending of £3.95 of "shoe stretching" spray. I handed the spray to him with a look that pretty much said "Spray it on and walk around the house for several hours to get those shoes comfortable, and then we won't have wasted £30 of your mother's money, and I won't kill you later". I have very eloquent looks.

Guess how many times he used the spray? Even a snake could count this one (ie, on no hands... erm... I think if I have to explain the joke then I may have failed humour 101). Never, nada, zip, zilch. He wore the shoes 3 times, and each time complained that they were too small. Eventually they were donated to his dad, who they thankfully fitted, so it was like the shoes going home. Bye shoes, won't miss you.

That's got nothing to do with a pump, other than giving Mr Boxer Shorts more exposure in this article, which he secretly covets. Honest.

So this pump was brand new and fancy - and just didn't work. I know the nozzley thingys are technical, and sometimes a slip of a woman like me (don't argue, just go with the flow) might have problems working them out. But this pump just doesn't fit onto ANYTHING. She no work.

Me: Take it back, ask them if it's faulty, and if it's not then ask them to show you how to use it.
Him: Sure, erm. Yep, I'll do that right away. [Puts pump away, never touches it again]
Me: Great. Yippee.

So 5 years later we still own a pump that simply doesn't work, and has never been used.

Today I got both pumps out of the shed to try and inflate my tire. This time I discovered that I had not one, but two pumps that don't work. Did you know that pumps are very dirty and make your fingers icky? They do. I was sure that one of them was supposed to work, and after a lot of twiddling and frowning, I managed to work out that the brass screwy thing from the non working pump fits onto the bike valve. That then allows the working pump to fit over it and pump the tire up. Or would have, if I'd undone that whatsit on the valve first. So unscrew, remove, undo, rescrew, pump - success. The tire is now inflated. I feel empowered. And very dirty. And the cat wants to sit on me. AND it's raining.

And there I am, standing in the back yard in the rain, looking at two pumps, when I notice - right on the bottom of the non working pump is a white tag. That white tag has a website address on it. For the USER MANUAL. Knock me down with a ham sandwich, I bet Mr Fancy Pants* never even looked at that! I dashed inside and fired up the old gerbils. The website was slightly lacking. The first page had three words on it - "Our Design.......". Yes, they had that many full stops. I would NEVER use more than three of course!

But luckily, there was a second page with a little animated picture of how the pump should work. It was small, but viewable. 

I felt a warm glow of one upmanship, and dashed back down to the shed with images of my smugness dancing about my head. Imagine the next time Mr Boxer Shorts might need a pump...

"Of course it works, it's easy. You just do this. Look - simples. How could you not know that? Even **I** know how it works."

But that smugness trickled away when I looked at the pump again, and realised that it didn't quite match the picture. There was an extra bit in ours that stopped the whatsit from fitting in. Never detered, I unscrewed the front and removed the extra bit. Now the whatsit fit in, but the tightening dodad didn't tighten. The whatsit fell out again. Bumshit. I ran back inside and refered to the animation again. There was nothing extra showing on the face of it.

Brainfart number 2 - the extra bit must be around the wrong way. I dashed back down to the shed to experiment. No joy - the thing wouldn't even screw back together with the extra bit in backwards.

So all in all, I got really dirty and didn't even get to have my smug moment. I still can't make "the pump that doesn't work" work. But don't tell Mr Boxer Shorts about that.

* Mr Boxer Shorts's shorts are not actually fancy. None of them have anything in the least bit fancy on them. Certainly not lace. Why would you think he has lace pants? It's just not true and I have no idea where that rumour could have originated from. None of them are see through either. Anymore.

Apparently I appeal to men. Let's just leave you to think about that for a moment.
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Ok, while I enjoyed that little ego boost, what I was actually talking about was my writing. Although I DO appeal to men. Honestly. I did when I was younger and didn't have children bags hanging off me. Once those things were called boobs. And I did manage to attract Mr Boxer Shorts, and he's not half bad. In fact, he's quite dishy. Very Simon Baker-like when he needs a haircut, which I definitely fancy. Although should Simon Baker come knocking I might... Nah, it's never going to happen.

This article is the result of my one male reader pointing out that men like to read what women write under certain criteria. The first being that it's funny. One of the criteria that I think was missing was perhaps discussion of boobs, but I suspect that means the perky upright style of boobs!

I apologise for the abundance of boobs in this, now that I've said the word three times, I'll try and refrain from any more boobing. Sorry.

So in order to research this post, I decided to google "what do men like". I forgot to include the word "read". So the results were eye opening at best. Certainly a lot of sexual context within that list. Scattered between the debates about bushy or shaven were some less raunchy relationship tips. That wasn't what I was searching for, but I looked anyway, because it might even be useful!

Apparently men want love, trust, beauty and someone to settle down with. I'm sorry, did someone mislabel this article? Sounds more like what a woman might want. The dating tips go on to include femininity, support, a challenging personality, but not sexually adventurous. Eh? Who wrote this? I've never met any of those men! Mr Boxer Shorts excluded of course, since he fits the persona perfectly. Oh no, not the sex bit though, because he won't talk to me for a week if I were to allude to personal preferences like that in public. I've said too much already. Bum. He's hawt.

Apparently men don't like women who shout. I can dig that. I think Mr Boxer Shorts puts up with that because of all my other oustanding qualities. Like erm... my undying love, my ability to iron his shirts somewhat and occasionally, and my excellent first base prowess.

Another article I staggered across (if you can stagger while in google, which I believe is difficult, but not impossible) was of the opinion that men like emotional stability. Also very understandable, knowing what we women are like in that department. It swings straight off the shouting clause anyway. I am known for wild and completely irrational mood swings at times. (Very rare, honest.) Mr Boxer Shorts tends to roll his eyes and walk off, which has the net result of turning me into a banshee. I really must have some amazing other qualities I think!

From that article, with their listing of essential, important, and desireable characteristics from both male and female perspective, it would appear that men and women want the same thing as a priority. Mutual attraction and love, Dependable character and Emotional stability.

But that was a digression on my real mission. I was actually looking for what guys like to read. So I regoogled with some alternate keywords. Got a few hits.

According to author Ben Mezrich ''I don't think men want to read about dating and relationships,'They want to read about money, sex and people beating the system.'' 

Without shoe-horning entire swathes of authors into forced genres, does that mean that men would prefer to read male authors because they steer away from the emotional side of writing? There are not too many men who write books about the intricate world of relationship tangoing. The Bridget Jones novels don't tend to emanate from the male stable of writers. But that doesn't mean that they don't - I read a book by Matt Dunn that had me giggling like a girl once. I bet all his readers are female though... 

Even if most men do want action and adventure (with sex and money) in their fiction, surely some women cater to that genre. But according to Esquire, the top 75 books that men should read only contains ONE single female author.

How does that validate women writers? And as a male magazine, the list must be biased. But then the whole point of this exercise was to find out what men like to read, so a biased list is the right list to refer to. But to have just one woman author recommended seems outrageous. Surely there are more women who appeal to men's reading tastes.

Are men writers better than women? Or is it just the vast difference between the genders that perpetuates the differnce in writing style, and therefore appeal? It's a long standing argument, and one that has been debated for many years. 

"Critics have maintained that women writers narrow their concerns to the intimate and familial while men gravitate toward grander, epic themes"

Virginia Wolf, as a pre-eminant femanist rallied the cause for women writers, and recognition of their work. How can you define the importance of a book by the setting or the characters. Surely the value of the book is the message and lessons that it imparts to you. Whether set on a battlefield, or in the drawing room of a victorian home, the writing and the meaning behind it is what makes it a great novel.

Somehow all this seems a bit more cerebral than my little blog, where I am just trying to be little bit funny. And by the way, Mr Boxer Shorts thinks he has the worst name, and wants to be something else. Suggestions welcome.

Oh, and one final note - boobs. Sorry, I couldn't help myself.

I am not terrible at cooking, but I am terrible at remembering to prepare beforehand. So often I find myself with a lump of frozen chicken that I forgot to take out of the freezer that morning, and no way to defrost it quickly (without doing that half cooked thing in the microwave, which makes me want to be a little sick in my mouth).

So sometimes on a Friday I ring up Mr Boxer Shorts and suggest that he might like to bring home some takeaway. That's what I did a few weeks ago.

Here's how the conversation went at 6.30pm...
Me: I've fed the girls, but I've nothing for us. Do you want to bring something home?
Mr Boxer Shorts: Sure, I am about to leave the pub. What do you want?
Me: I don't mind, just get something I'd like.

An hour later I ring him again...
Me: Heya, where are you?
Mr Boxer Shorts: Jus leaving the pub now
Me: You're still there?
Mr Boxer Shorts: Iz leaving now, you want I get you somefood?
Me: Yes
Mr Boxer Shorts: What do you want? Indian? Chinese? Miso?
Me: You choose, just get something I like.

An hour and a half or so later he rings me
Mr Boxer Shorts: Do you wan me to getshou some food?
Me: YES
Mr Boxer Shorts: Whatchoowant?
Me: Something, anything. Just bring me some food for goodness sake.

So, 45 minutes later he turns up. I am upstairs in my office. It's 10pm. I hear him come in, then nothing. He doesn't call up the stairs and say "Honey I'm home, I've brought you some dinner!" (or even "Honeysme, I gofooooood")

After 10 minutes I go down to see what's going on. As you can imagine - I am quite pissed off by now! I don't want to eat at 10pm. It's a good thing I don't...

I find him sitting in the lounge eating - Chinese for one.

There are many milestones within each person's life, and most people would expect (with, for the most part, good cause) that those nearest and dearest to them will remember some of those milestones and celebrate with them. So it's feasible to think that when you're married with two children, that one of those three people might remember that it's your birthday.

I'll forgive a 4 year old and a 7 year old for this travesty, but the person I won't forget is my husband of 10 years. 

I woke up this morning to my alarm, which gets me up early on Thursdays to hurry daughter number 1 off to before school gymnastics. Husband, who we'll kindly call Mr Pink from now on was snoring gently, and letting out silent farts, as is his wont. No word from either of them. Just before I hurried her off to school, my mother rang to wish me happy birthday. She's calling from the other side of the world, so she had to wait up late to call. I hear grunts from upstairs.

When I returned from the school I interrupt a semi dressed husband rushing the 4 year old through a quickly drawn birthday card. He'd heard the phone call and realised his mistake.

So - now he's remembered my birthday, what do you think is going to happen? I receive flowers at about 1pm. I didn't know they could deliver on the day of ordering! But apparently they can. Flowers are nice, but they are the apology, they don't qualify as a birthday gift.

He arrives home that evening with a card and a present. It's a very light present... I open it with glee to find a silver filigreed picture frame. Made of plastic. It's a joke present.

And that, my friends - is that. I order myself a nice bag from ebay, and organise dinner out.

Am I asking too much to have expected something a little more than a joke present and apology flowers?

My husband just rang me from WHSmith, to ask me where the sticky back plastic was (which I'd sent him out to buy). My response? "Don't they KNOW?"

What makes men do this? Why, in preference to asking the people who work there, would he ring me and expect me to know where a commodity has been stocked in a stationary shop I rarely go in? What is it about asking people questions that makes men run a mile, and come away empty handed rather than open their mouths?

We've driven 60 miles out of the way because he wouldn't stop at a garage to find out where we were going. I've had to order almost every takeaway delivery we've ever eaten. I've watched him walk 30 feet to an open door, rather than push one of the closed ones and suffer the extreme humiliation of finding a locked one. I've even seen him bring home shoes that were too small (and never got worn again) because they were on the rack, and getting a bigger size would have involved finding a sales assistant and asking for them.

I now have a huge pile of grey clothing. Grey. Very very grey. Don't think that it is a choice thing. Grey being the new black and all - bollocks. Black is the new black and always will be. Grey is what happens when you let your boyfriend do the washing.

To be more specific, grey is what you get when your boyfriend puts more clothing than would fit in the hold of the titanic in your washing machine and blows it up. Of course, that in itself is not enough to ruin the clothing, so add to the mix a washing machine man who fails to turn up 3 times, and a week later forgets to bring his tools along. And I am not even going out with this guy, so who does he think he is to screw me around this much??

So the point of this story, is that men cannot handle washing. Although it could just as well be about the fact that you cannot trust B&B appliances on Garratt Lane to turn up when they say they will, but that's a story for another time.

My problem with men began a long time ago - again a story for another time - when I was away on holiday. To give him his due, Paul was only trying to do something good. In other words, he thought that a quick bout of washing would gain him enough boyfriend points to cancel out the drunken parties and broken stereo that I was bound to notice within 24 hours of stepping off the plane. It might have worked if he'd been successful... But due to a genetic deficiancy, men are unable to wash white clothing without casually stuffing a red sock or blue sweater in there with your newest, whitest Victoria's secrets. I didn't even know that I owned that many pieces of white clothing, but nevertheless, he managed to load the washing machine with a mysterious blue sock - that has not been seen since, and effect a colour change that even dylon cannot match.. I have never actually seen a colour run that turned the entire load of washing deepest indigo.

Several days later, when I was up to my elbows in a caustic bucket of colour saver (effectively, bleaching the hell out of everythng that i own, which is not so bad for the first week, but once the crotch falls out of your undies you begin to think that perhaps blue was better than crotchless. Well, some of us think that) he walks in bearing jewelry. Either I have him well trained, or someone else thought of it, but the way to a woman's heart is definately through small and expensive gifts.

So, for the cost of a ring, and a few days of temper, Paul managed to excuse himself from ever doing the washing again. A cunning plan, when you look back on it. Life in our household retruned to normal, I did the washing, the housework, the dishes, while he eked out his existance on the couch, and warming up the occasional pasta sauce in a jar. Eventually, the horror faded, and I began to ask Paul to wash now and then. (Wash clothes, that is.)

Imagine my horror, when he calls me at work to tell me this... "When I closed the door, I noticed some string hanging out, with water dripping down it. So I put a towel on the floor."

I spent the entire day in agony, wondering how much of that dripping water became a torrent. I didn't have to wait long to find out, in fact I didn't even make it into our house to find out - as soon as she heard my key in the door, the downstairs neighbour popped out of her door like a snake in a can. She had arrived home to find a small lake in her kitchen, with a picturesque, although miniature Niagra falls down her bathroom wall. Walking into my kitchen was like walking on a giant cleaning sponge. Our floor was squelching, and the boards underneath had wasted no time in warping and creaking.

I didn't get any jewelry out of that one - that's what a long term relationship does to you! But I did get to have a pleasant chat with my landlady, and make her pay for the ruined rubber seal fom the washing machine. My utter shock and surprise that such a thing could happen would have earned an oscar if anyone had filmed it. She paid up. As did the insurance company. No mention of trailing string, of course.

Instead of getting excused from the washing duty this time (after all, no gifts were forthcoming this time) Paul got instead a long lecture about what colours go with what. It's a shame I forgot to mention the topic of handwashing. Not that I expected him to do it, but throwing a chenille knitted top into the jumbo power wash certainly produced some unexpected results. I don't think that i was expecting to retrieve a knitted string top and a separate pile of fluff (most of which was resolutely stuck to every other piece of clothing apart from the one it had come from).

Then there was the time when our boiler was broken, and Paul put a wash in at 40 degrees. The washing machine took it upon itself to heat the water. Seven hours later, the washing was done. And two weeks later, we got the power bill.

But what gene controls this inability to wash? Is it the same one that prevents perfectly intelligent men from cleaning a toilet, or shower? Related to the gene that limits the ability to use the dishmop? Is it something that can be treated by a course of drugs, or perhaps shock treatment? Personally, i suspect that it dates back to cro magnum times, when man only owned one skin toga, and to take it off and wash it was to leave one's neanderthal tackle to the mercy of the elements. That must have scarred the population for life... and beyond!

And now, finally, I have the washing machine fixed again, and after 20 washes, the smell of rotten clothing is still lingering. Gift WILL be forthcoming this time, because most of the clothing that was in the washing machine for this past week, is totally ruined. Any pale details are blothched with blue, and I have one particular pair of trousers that have one pink leg and one brown leg. Perhaps the fact that two of his favourite shirts were also ruined might make him be a little bit more careful next ime.

But I doubt it!

(This article was written in 1998, and said boyfriend is now husband... and still no good at washing!)