Fleischman asked the sage-like Chris Stevens "What do women want?"
His response: "They want the same things we do only in prettier colours."
I guess that's evident in this Home Depot colour swatch from Disney. It seems that our little princesses are indoctrinated early on in their affinity for footwear. This is shortly before they are trained in the art of holding one's blouse whilst bending over to pick up your belongings -- a completely necessary maneuver, since if you're 18 or 180, we will attempt to sneak a peak at yo' bid'ness. (Keep them legs crossed, too.)Apparently our affinity for great breasts stems from biology, where somewhere in the nether-regions of our minds a little voice says, "Jesus. Those mammoth mammaries could conceivably feed 20 children until adulthood."
Physical attributes aside, there are inherent differences between the genders that are inexplicable by non-scientific types such as myself. A few years ago, for example, a friend's toddler waddles into the kitchen towards her uncle. She spots him, throws her arms up in the air and says, "Hold me."
My friend turns to me and says, "Boy, they start that sh*t early, don't they?"
Apparently, they do. It's some kind of protection thing, especially after coitus, but sh*t, baby. I've got to get up for work in the morning.
There are many other instances where the hes and shes don't see eye to eye. A few years back, when my wife and I first moved in together before we got married, we got back from the grocery store. Keep in mind that I'd never lived with a woman besides my mother and sisters.
When I unpacked the groceries, I looked at the cold cuts and decided to make myself a sandwich. That's just how we roll. My wise friend Jay once said, "That's how you know you're a guy. When you like stuff like snakes... and helicopters... and sandwiches."It seems women like sandwiches, too. As I sit next to the "Someday-to-be-Mrs. P" and take a bite, my eardrum is pierced with a shrill, "You didn't make me one?!" followed by a diatribe of indignance that came from left field.
"Uh... I figured if you were hungry you'd have come into the kitchen instead of plopping down to watch TV." My pragmatic response fell on deaf ears as her demeanor changed from zero to livid in about 38 seconds.
For monts thereafter, whenever she started what I construed as an irrational argument (98% of them), I'd simply say "Sandwich. Sandwich." I guess that was just a feeble effort to thwart the inevitable "venting" that the fairer sex needs once in a while. There's no stopping it, gents. It's like trying to shield yourself from a tsunami with a Titleist™ golf umbrella.
They can blame it on all the syndromes they want (they f*cking corner the market on them), but in their wake they leave a weak man quivering or an even weaker man swinging at them.
The inexplicables abound, yet even the strangest idiosyncrasies are explained, usually. On a night out, for example, your wife or girlfriend might decide to go to the pisser at the bar, place her purse in front of you and say, "Watch this for me, would you?" I'm not much of a conspiracist, but I equated it with a little territoriality. The female animal, marking her territory with a $200 Burberry (further proof of my lack of understanding), ensuring that all the other female predators in the bar don't pounce on her man-bone.
Hot Female: Ooooh. Unattended stud.
Hot Female #2: Ta-ken. Look. There's a Burberry in front of him.
Hot Female: F*ck it. I'm moving in for the kill.
I maintained this theory for a while until I asked a friend's girlfriend about the 'purse-leaving' stratagem.
"So nobody steals it."
I'm convinced she was simply being a good soldier, just giving name, rank and serial number. Maybe under duress, if I wielded a hefty telephone book, she might have cracked.
"Yes, Prego. You're riiiiiiight! You're riiiiiiight. We're staking our claim!"
Then there's the sh*t I just have no explanation for. No man does.
As I walked in downtown Chicago with a female friend, my eyes were drawn to some off-the-chart hotitude. "Whew. I like."
My female friend replies, "Pregoooo. She's wearing nude pantyhose." As if this somehow should diminish my desire to pounce on some kibbles.
What the f*ck does nude pantyhose have to do with anything?
As with any crazy male/female conundrum, I usually get a second opinion from a female such as my sister Zilt (as crazy a specimen, if there ever was one).
Prego: Zilt, what's the deal with nude pantyhose?
Zilt: (aghast) Oh my god. Chick-a-to-wah gah!*
* (Cheektowaga is a Buffalo suburb, known for it's pink flamingoes on the front lawns, crustily hairsprayed coiffs and general détritus blanc cheekiness)
So nude pantyhose is apparently tantamount to 70s bush on a string bikini? I was left bewildered with that one, particularly knowing that it's a removable garment. Perhaps they're just fuzzy dice in a t-top Camaro or a more tasteful vehicle. Either way it was the tip of the iceberg of what I don't know about women.We don't always have such differences of opinions, the lasses and I. Yesterday I saw two cute girls talking at the supermarket -- one of them slightly more visually striking than the other. As I grabbed my Sapporo and made my way back I saw that they were walking pretty damn close to each other. "Man... They're lesbians!" I quickly decided to walk down their same aisle in hopes they decide to show some affection. Sure enough, right in front of the cereal they decide to have a tender embrace. "Woo-hoo!"
Lame-ass comic Paul Reiser quipped on lame-ass show "Mad About You" on men and our voyeurism where lesbians are concerned:
"They're girls, it's fun and I agree with both of them."
Unfortunately our society isn't as forgiving when the fellas want to get huggy. As far as tolerance towards male homosexuality, we're still in the Mesozoic Age. It's not like it'd yield the same reaction from me as the ladies did. I won't go tying any gay males to a lamp post to beat them senseless. It'd be more like, "Hey guys. One of you have change for a twenty?"
But girls? I get it. I really do. I got it when I saw the lady with Cerebral Palsy making out with the business lady while holding on to the walker. I got it when the two punk rock chicks made out with each other at the Buzzcocks concert. See? Some things I do get.
The sandwich? Nude pantyhose? Purse dropping? "Hold me?" I'm still working on my baccalaureate. Sh*t. Sometimes I still feel like I'm in third grade.
Mrs. P asked me to go buy her a pregnancy test today. Where the f*ck do they keep those, anyway? Near the tampoons, since it's a cooch thing? In the baby section, since that's what it's going to result in? Near the toilet paper, since it involves piss? Well, I finally found it near the festering 'chocha' ointment, for some reason.
Hopefully it's positive. Hopefully it's a girl. Maybe a daughter can help me figure all that crap out. I doubt it, though. She'll probably just drive me to utter a phrase all fathers dread:
"You're not leaving the house like that. You look like a hooker."
Or if I'm lucky, she's a lesbian.
