MoanDay: Sayonara, Martian

Did you know that over 30,000 men a year are ritually eviscerated with a huge kabuki sword by a wife, girlfriend, or friend with benefits?

No, you probably didn't, because it isn't true. But only because our high levels of estrogen mellow us out and we know that we'd be the ones stuck cleaning up the mess...as usual.

Why? Why do men persist in approaching their women in the one exact way that is garaunteed to make her say, 'Hey honey, how do you feel about Japanese theatre...?'

There are roughly a bazillion books out there telling men how to behave to women, but men aren't reading them because they're men. They don't read any books that are not about explosions, explicit sex, or explicit sexsplosions.

Men figure, 'Hey, if I ever want to understand about the gendered nature of communication styles, I'll...wait a minute, that will never happen! Let me get back to reading Mitzi Chestington, Arms Dealer to the Mob.'

Meanwhile, their wives are painting their faces white with huge exaggerated black eyebrows and trying on kimonos.

Today saw an example of the kind of thing I mean.

It began when we came home from the park where the dogs had rolled -- not wisely, but too well -- in what we laydees might choose to call fox...remnants. (For any Americans unfamiliar with the British urban fox, it is a prolific and pungent 'remnant' depositer; the odor is reminiscent of skunk).

The dogs were literally caked with filth. No leashes off, no uncollaring, go directly to bath, do not collect 200 kibbles. I placed Fi in the tub, unhooked the shower head...and...NOTHING HAPPENED.

'AAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEE,' I remarked with what I considered stoical restraint. I raced to the kitchen sink: nothing. Fiddled with our antiquated water heater: nothing.

'AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE,' I reiterated, with a tad more emphasis. 'What do they call the water authority in this stupid country?'

I riffled through our telephone directory, and if I ripped a few pages in my haste, bear in mind that there were two uber-stanky dogs at my side, still leashed up, just panting to roll on my couch.

No dice. The only thing under water was 'Bottled Water Delivery'.

I opined, mildly, that the phone company was on more intimate terms with its mother than is usually deemed healthy in Western society.

Now it was time for the big guns. In the words of Bonnie Tyler, 'I need a hero!'

I called the man of the house and calmly and cogently put the problem to him.

'Now take it easy,' he said, 'this is nothing to have a nervous breakdown over.'

STRIKE ONE.

Never tell a woman what's worth having a nervous breakdown over.

Do you know why fathers have only been allowed in the delivery room since the 1970's? It took that long to get it into their heads that saying, 'Jeez, honey, what are screaming about? It's only a baby, nothing to have a nervous breakdown over,' was a less than helpful birthing-partner strategy.

Similar to labour, not having water is a pain women experience on levels men will never understand. Women are essentially cats, as is widely reflected in popular slang, and if we cannot clean ourselves at closely spaced intervals, we are liable to scratch up the good furniture something fierce.

'Why don't you call the Water Board?'* he said.

STRIKE TWO.

Never give us unsolicited suggestions.

First of all, it implies you think we're mentally challenged. Do you seriously think we haven't thought of your first, obvious suggestion for ourselves? No, men, what you do is you WAIT and LISTEN to the problem. Then, when asked, you may respectfully offer an idea or two.

So, I called the Water Board: There has been a water main break on Tyler Street and service will be interrupted until 6 pm [it's now 12:30 pm]; thank you for calling.

I call the man of the house again: What about the laundry? What about the filthy, filthy dogs who are STILL on their leashes and think Mama must be on crack 'cause she won't let them go? What about the fact that I need to shower before class? How will I make tea? What about the toilet? Where will I go? What will I do?

'You know, if you keep rehashing all this you're just going to make yourself feel worse,' he says.

STRIKE THREE. Fetch my mask and my good obi, Tanaka-san!

Never keep us from discussing our problems at length.

Okay, maybe on Planet ChestHair 9 (I refuse to believe men are from Mars; the only life there is bacteria and most men I've met are definitely too tall to be bacteria), 'rehashing' your problems makes you feel worse. You guys get all depressed when groups of men you've never met before can't kick a ball as effectively as other groups of men you've never met before, so really anything is possible with you.

But on Planet Princesstonia, the one and ONLY thing that makes us feel better is the chance to discuss, at length, the things that are bothering us. If we do it to you men, you can just nod; you don't even have to really listen. In fact, it works better if you don't even listen because then you won't be tempted to offer suggestions (see Strike Two). Telling us not to 'rehash' is like telling a computer not to defrag -- prevent us, and we'll crash on you just when you're downloading something reeeeaaaally good.

Yes, I know all this stuff isn't exactly news to anyone (except men - remember? They've just gotten to the part where Mitzi goes undercover as a cheerleader at a small Midwestern college), but that's all the more reason to say it. Ignorance of the law is no excuse!

And now if y'all will forgive me, I've got a tea ceremony to get to. Keeps the ol' hands too busy for swords, don'tcha know.

*(Come on, seriously now -- 'Water Board'? What is this, Iraq?)