Stop Ogling Women

I’ll get right down to it. Men, stop ogling women. It’s gross and you look like a creep.

With that said, women please understand something; men have the innate ability to spot an attractive woman. That is how he found you. The act of finding you did not rob him of this ability or blind him to all others. Oh and men, pretending that it did just cheapens both of you.

However, this ability to recognize an attractive woman does not mean you don’t have to control yourself. You should refrain from leaping in the air, whistling and howling, while your eyes pop out of your head like a cartoon wolf. There are many reasons for suppressing such a reaction if for nothing else so you don’t look like a lunatic.

I am a man. When not with my family I spend most of my time in the company of other men, young and old. (That sounded bad. I just meant I hang out with guys. Don’t judge me.) On multiple occasions I have witnessed old men ogling women half their age. This immediately triggers my canned reproach, “Stop that. You disgust me.”

As for the young men whose company I keep (Why does it keep sounding like that?), I try to teach them that every young lady is somebody’s sister or daughter with the potential to be somebody’s wife and mother. I ask them, “Would you want somebody treating your (sister/daughter/wife/mother) that way?” The response invariably comes, “No.” To which I respond that we should keep in mind that every girl is somebody’s baby.

Don’t get me wrong this is no easy task for two reasons. 1) There’s a reason that one of the adjectives for a beautiful woman is stunning. A man can find himself gawking at a woman without even realizing it. Honestly, it sounds like an excuse but it’s not. And B) there are women who have every intention of flaunting what the good Lord gave them. That is their right I suppose.

I’d like to tackle each of these separately. First, intent matters here boys. If a beautiful woman happens across your path there will inevitably be a Wow factor but that lasts only a second or two; anything longer than that and you’ve entered the creeper zone (If you start hearing Ferris Bueller’s Oh Yeah in your head that’s a giveaway you’ve gone too far). Let me say it is not okay to objectify women in any way. Even in cases where they clearly don’t have respect for themselves that does not give us freedom to be disrespectful. Be a man. Know who you are and remember who they are, whether or not they act like they know. No excuses.

Second, Mademoiselles you can help here. While we have the responsibility to control ourselves no matter what, you can make that so much easier by dressing modestly. I’m not saying you have to wear a hijab or anything but short skirts and cleavage are going to attract our attention like a monkey to a shiny watch. Don’t hang your junk out there for the world to see and then feign offense when some dude stares at you. Help us respect you by respecting yourself.

This message is intended for all men but I’d like to particularly address married men. You are under no circumstances allowed to stare, gaze, gape, gawk, peer, leer, ogle or peep at another woman, EVER. I will jack stomp the next guy who says it’s okay to “look at the menu” because it’s not like he’s going to order. That’s the stupidest analogy I’ve ever heard. What are you doing at that “restaurant” anyway? Go home. There’s no menu there, you just choose from what you’ve already got in the house. Imagine how you’d feel if your wife went around squeezing guys buns and saying, “What? I’m not going to buy it I was just seeing if it was ripe.” For you it’s more than not being disrespectful it’s being considerate of the woman you love. FYI ladies, for those of you wondering I’m rock’n two ripe melons. BOOM! BAM! (The woman I love is no doubt shaking her head right now)

Let me be clear, this goes for women who are up close and personal as well as the women you see on film and in print. Just because she’s famous doesn’t mean she’s not somebody’s little girl. Just because, to a degree, she makes a living having people look at her doesn’t mean you’ve got free reign to be a scoundrel.

Since I know, in some cases, I’m address the lowest common denominator among us and all appeals for reason will fall on deaf ears I’ll make my final case for the worst possible reason to refrain from ogling. Guys, there is no scenario where you look cool checking somebody out. You always come off looking like a putz. It’s pathetic. Not to mention you give them all the power. So quit it.


One last thing. Ladies, feel free to ogle us all you want. We’re not offended in the least. Our self esteem is low enough that we don’t care and crave the attention, so gawk away. We’ll even shake what our mothers gave us upon request.

That is all.

Mean Girls

Growing up we’re taught that boys are made of “snips (whatever that is) and snails and puppy dog tails” and girls are made of “sugar and spice and everything nice”.

Well isn’t that special. The only problem with that is it’s a big fat lie. We’ve all met sweet girls (I married one) and spicy women that is true but, individually and as a whole, women are anything but nice.

Am I nervous about writing that? Do I fear the repercussions of my actions? Is there any chance I’m wrong and have simply misjudged this fairer gender? Yes, yes, and no.

I’ve put off writing this for months in order to be sure of what I wanted to say and that it was at least based in truth. (And because of the fears listed in the paragraph above) I write this now with the hope for a positive change for women everywhere.

This is born of no ill treatment I’ve received from women. On the contrary I feel that by and large men tend to get their fair share of sugar and spice and, ya know, nice. I’m not even here to question the motives behind said niceness heaped upon mankind. (I’ll save that for a different time)

No ladies, I’m here to ask a simple question, “Why are you so awful to each other?”

As I was formulating my thoughts on this topic I came across an article on how women are viewed in the workplace written by a woman named Gini Dietrich, she said, “Here's the thing, though. We're our own worst enemies…We're catty, we're mean, and we're judgmental. We treat one another poorly, and we rarely support one another.”

That’s from one of your own, sisters.

Here’s an illustration of what I’m talking about. Say you have a friend who is overweight. That friend loses fifty pounds. If that friend were a guy his guy friends would say, “Dang man, you look great! What did you do to lose all that weight?” Furthermore they’d be genuinely happy for him. If a woman were to see this same man they’d say, “Wow, looking good! Did you lose weight?” And they’d be genuinely happy for him. However, if this friend were a woman…? First of all a man would say nothing for fear of overstepping his bounds and appearing to come on to her (single guys fearing rejection and guys in a relationship just fearing their companion). A woman would SAY, “Wow, you look great! What’s your secret?” (Implying something other than diet and exercise like bulimia, anorexia and/or a tummy tuck) Using every ounce of energy to force a smile and appear to be genuinely happy for her. Inside, regardless of her own dress size great or small, she’s begrudging the accomplishment and attention while simultaneously hating herself.

I think that’s where it starts too, with self. Women are so hard on themselves. They minimize their own assets and accomplishments while maximizing their own perceived flaws and imperfections. It’s no wonder that this cruelty extends to anyone with two X chromosomes.

For those of us with a Y chromosome, sure we can get down on ourselves from time to time but, for the most part we feel we can do no wrong. I’m a hefty approaching-middle-aged bald man; yet I step out of the shower, towel it up and stand in front of the mirror brushing my teeth humming I’m Sexy and I know It without a hint of irony. (I work out!)

Women on the other hand get as close as they can to the mirror inspecting every pore, worrying about every wrinkle and bemoaning the dark circles under their eyes. Everywhere they look they have impossible standards of flawlessness shoved in their faces. Picture “perfect” women on the cover of every women’s magazine. You know what’s on the cover of every guy’s magazine? Pictures of “perfect” women. Think about it.

This problem is perpetuated by their own attempts to cover up their “flaws”. Women go to great lengths to conceal not only their physical “imperfections” but they attempt to conceal their true nature, you know overcompensating with that sugar and spice stuff. Thus women actually believe that this woman or that woman is perfect and they somehow have failed.

I assure you that she is just as big a mess as you, in her own special way. We all live with challenges and insecurities. Just do the best you can and take care of yourself; chalk the rest (wrinkles, grey hair, etc.) up to a road map of your own personal journey in life. My giant butt is a landmark to my traveling companion on this earthly sojourn, bacon.

The physical appearance and skewed perspective stuff are just the most tangible examples. It goes deeper. Women cannot be happy for one another. They begrudge every achievement attained or fortune that befalls their fellow women and that includes close friends. And it’s not plain old envy or jealously either. Guys are envious and get jealous too. It’s more than that. It’s a special blend that can only come from womanhood. It’s…It’s like…It’s like boogers and lice and everything vice. I’m not saying women wish bad things on other women (although sometimes they do) they just don’t particularly care to see good things happen to them either.

I’ll end with a quote from Ms. Dietrich (show of hands: Who just judged her for being single? What is wrong with you? Haven’t you been listening?) and then a final plea. “If we [women] want things to change, that has to start with us. The next time you are faced with making a snap judgment about another woman, think twice. Support one another. Be kind. From there, change will happen.”

Now, stop being awful to each other.

***Disclaimer*** I wrote this with my wife’s full knowledge and blessing. She neither admits to these practices nor seeks to separate herself from her fellow women. She’s fine with me posting this with the understanding that she’ll offer me no protection when I’m inevitably attacked by womankind.

Guys, you’re up next. (Click here)

Care In The Least

Earlier this week I wrote about a powerful principle as it relates to the NBA and its fans. The more I thought about it the more I felt it deserved further consideration.

The principle of least interest goes like this, “In any relationship, the person who has the least interest has the greatest power.” - Willard Waller

There are two types are people in play here; those who understand and respect this principle and those who repeatedly fall victim to it.

Play back the relationships you’ve had in your life, look at the relationship you are in at the moment. Now tell me it’s not true. Liar!

I’m reminded of this daily as my wife owns me. It was over before it started. I was immediately smitten by her and longed to be near her. I gladly forfeit this power as I am overwhelming interested in her and her happiness.

There are times when it is out of our control. For instance, if you work for a large company odds are their interest in you being employed is less than your interest in having a job. Therefore it’s probably unwise to show up late in flip flops and a Hawaiian shirt to gut a fish on your desk unless your interest in being employed with them has waned.

Sometimes this power just swings naturally to us without thought or effort. If you really want Chinese food and would gladly dine alone and your friend wants Italian but really wants to talk with you over dinner, he’d better get his mind wrapped around dim sum and sweet and sour pork because that’s what he’ll be eating tonight.

Women are in the driver’s seat in one particular area that men care about infinitely more than they do. They will always have the power in this sextuation, I mean situation. Women will always have the power in this situation. [Apologies to any minors who may have been shocked or offended by the preceding sentences. That begs the question, why is a minor reading a 1,000 word article on interpersonal relationships? But I digress] Oh and guys don’t even bother trying to fake disinterest to retake the power. That’s like trying to outlast a camel in the desert. That hump’s got water for days and days, you will lose.

Relationships aren’t just about people close to us either. I love shopping for cars. Salesmen are crafty little devils, full of tricks. You go to them because you want something they’ve got and they know it. They will seek to create urgency and scarcity to drive up your level of interest and their level of power in this relationship. Understanding this principle is paramount to getting a good deal. Here’s a story to illustrate what I’m talking about.

Years ago I was looking to purchase my first car. I found an ad on cars.com for a used 1999 Isuzu Rodeo for $9,000. I called on it and went down to the dealership with my friend. We took it for a test drive and it was just what I was looking for. I really wanted this car. The salesman told me that there had been a mistake on the cars.com ad and that the Rodeo was actually $11,900. Shaking my printout at him I said, “Not for me it’s not.”

He agreed to honor my price after changing the price to $11,900 online right in front of me. I said, “Good deal. That’s still more than I want to pay.” He looked at me like I was a crazy person and started telling me that he had people lined up to look at this vehicle later that evening. At the time we were expecting our first child and I started telling him about all the diapers I’d soon be buying. He was unfazed.

After several entertaining minutes he’d come down a few hundred dollars but he was still a little higher than I wanted. I thanked him for his time and left my number with him saying I needed to sleep on it and we left.

I wanted that car and I thought I was getting a good deal but that’s not the point. I had called him and therefore he had the power. By leaving and forcing him to call me I could take back that power. I didn’t sleep all night as I thought about the fictional other buyers who no doubt had scooped up that killer deal leaving me wanting. My morning bowl of cereal tasted like emptiness and despair as I waited for the phone call. Many times I fought the urge to call him and see if the car was still available. Finally the phone rang and I heard the voice of Mr. Isuzu Sales Guy on the line. I pretended to not have been waiting for his call and half-heartedly committed to returning and talking about the Rodeo. As I hung up the phone an evil laugh involuntarily emitted from my person as I felt the power coursing through my veins. Oh the power, the absolute power! Ha ha ha haaaaaaa!

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh right, interest and power.

Of course there is risk with this kind of tactic as you may be dealing with someone who is truly less interested than you. You have to be prepared to lose out if that is the case [see above camel in the desert analogy].

The lesson here is temperament. Wanting something is fine but there’s no need to be reckless. If you’ve lost the upper hand in a relationship you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Taking a relaxed or even an aloof approach sometimes is the wise path. Be cautious though because being indifferent or callous to someone you care about is just stupid.

The principle of least interest is like building a fire. You can’t just stack piles and piles of wood on and light a match, you’ll smother it. The fire needs fuel, it needs room to breathe. Put a little space between you and what you want, be willing to let it breathe, and before you know it you’ll be enjoying the warmth and light from the flames.

Men's Lib

Catching up with some old friend’s at lunch this past week I came to a disturbing realization. My friend rides motorcycles, has for years, and he rides with a group of buddies. Talking about a trip they took he stated, in a matter of fact way, his friend doesn’t ride in the rain anymore because his wife “won’t let him”.

Won’t let him? This is a grown up man. Won’t let him?!

Immediately I recalled a running dialog my wife and I have while watching Pawn Stars on the History Channel. In nearly every episode some poor schmuck shows up with a highly sentimental item from his past that he’s trying to sell because his wife/girlfriend “won’t let him” keep it in the house or is “making him” get rid of it.

We think it’s kind of funny because usually it’s a pretty bizarre item or something that a grown man probably should not have. It wasn’t until talking with my friend though that I realized that I’d never seen a woman come into the store with something her husband/boyfriend “won’t let her” keep in the house or is “making her” get rid of.

Why doesn’t that door swing both ways?

I’m not ignorant of the progress that women have made in the last century or the unfair treatment they’ve received in the past. I’m not a chauvinist and have a tremendous amount of love and respect for women. I’m not a king of the castle, caveman mentality type either. However, it seems that scale has tipped ever-so-slowing and men now find themselves sliding off the back side.

Think about it. What if a man said to a woman, “I don’t want that in MY house” or “I don’t want you doing that anymore”? He’d be patted on the head like a toddler and given that ‘How cute. You have an opinion’ look.

When I brought up this injustice to my wife, not only did she not deny it, she smiled and said, “And I’ve had you change your shirt a time or two as well.” What the frack is that?! She might as well have stamped OWNED on my forehead.

I know this is a popular sentiment now with shows like Man Up and Last Man Standing on the new fall schedule. But I’m now talking about returning to some bygone era or reclaiming a lost machismo. I’m talking about regaining an equal footing in a world gone mad.

I’m not a fool either. I understand that women will be able to get away with things that we never will. For instance I would never tell my wife I didn’t like something she was wearing and order her to change it. I’m not suicidal. As much as a guy wants to look nice he will never care as much as a woman does about it so I’ll concede to the more passionate position.

We may not be the king of the castle but we should at least be a co-captain on the same team. It can’t be “her way or the highway”, it should be “which way is our way?”

If you want to keep your life sized Wookiee figurine, that you’ve had since adolescence, in the living room then I think there should be a definite dialog around that (or an intervention if civil discourse fails), but I don’t think Chewbacca should be thrown to the curb at her command.

Men if you enjoy playing rugby well into your 40’s even after multiple concussions and broken bones then I think your partner should be able to voice her displeasure at your pursuit of death and disability. I do not, however, think she has the final word on the matter and that you should abandon something you love because she “won’t let you” do it.

I’ve heard all the “secret of a happy life is a happy wife” or the key to a happy marriage is two words, “Yes, dear”. I get it but I think it’s gone a little too far. The best marital advice I ever got, besides never say “I bought you a cookbook”, came from my father-in-law. He said you’ve got to have compromise, sometimes that’s a 50/50 compromise and sometimes someone’s got to compromise 100%.

Listen, if you want a happy successful relationship you’ve got to respect your companion and her feelings. That goes both ways ladies. It’s time to stop this “I have spoken” attitude and find a place of compromise and mutual respect.

There’s probably some of you reading this right now thinking ‘I can’t believe she “let him” write this’. Well I’m a grown up man and I do as I please…and she said I could, so there.

The unnatural and unholy

This week started like any other, but without warning tragedy struck.

On Monday the king returned to his castle at the appointed time and was greeted with a hero’s welcome. That is if “a hero’s welcome” is a 3 year old bounding towards you wanting to wrestle, a Wii entranced 9 year old’s half hearted acknowledgement that someone entered the room, an unrequited kiss on the cheek for your daughter as she races passed you to go to a friend’s house and a wife who is on the phone. Ah yes, it’s good to be king.

When my wife got off the phone she greeted me warmly and we exchanged a summary of our day’s activities; followed by my standard query, “What’s for dinner?”

She responded that we’d be having brinner [for the uninitiated that is breakfast for dinner], which is a favorite in our household. She explained we’d be having eggs, toast and…wait for it, bacon.

My heart began to soar. Oh bacon, how do I love thee? Let me count the…wait a minute. Who says eggs, toast and bacon? Isn’t it always bacon and eggs, or at the very least eggs and bacon? How did toast rise higher on the marquee than bacon? Something was amiss.

In a panic I raced to the frig and threw open the door. And just as I feared, there it was. An abomination; the worst fraud perpetrated on mankind since the Ponzi scheme and Milli Vanilli (kids ask your parents; they will know it's true ooh, ooh, ooh, they'll tell you). Staring up at me from the meat drawer was turkey "bacon". (get used to the sarastic quotation marks around "bacon")

Fighting back the tears I reached in and retrieved the package so deceptively wrapped that, without careful examination, one could be led to believe that it was indeed bacon. My protests were rebuffed with, “You’ll thank me when it comes time to step on the scale.” If I lived in a post-apocalyptic hellscape subsisting mainly on bark and weeds where the only source of protein was giant mutant cockroaches I still would not be thankful for turkey "bacon". You think a pound or two is going to make this affront to my senses easier to swallow? How dare you madam and how dare you Oscar Mayer!


Bacon is a cured meat prepared from the blessed pork belly of a pig. It is cured with large quantities of salt. It cooks up greasy, crispy and delicious. It goes wonderfully with, well, just about everything. The word bacon is derived from an Old High German word bacho, meaning buttock or ham and cognate with the Old French word bacon.

Turkey “bacon” is a meat product prepared from reformed turkey and sold as a low-fat substitute for traditional bacon. It comes from the thigh of a turkey and is manipulated to look like bacon. The word is derived from the Latin words atrox meaning terrible and prodito meaning betrayal.

That knowledge aside, if I knew nothing else about it, the fact the turkey “bacon” does not change in size, color or texture when you cook it would be enough for me. That’s not natural. My oldest child summed it up best when he said turkey "bacon" is “kind of like a fruit roll-up only salty.”

Where is the beautiful popping sound when the meat hits the skillet? Where are the greasy leftovers that need to be drained after half the package? Where are the rolling hills of fatty goodness rising up from the pan to greet you and the one of a kind aroma that sticks with you as a blessing for the rest of your day?



America, I know we have our problems. I realize that the scale and our waistline are foremost among them. I’m willing to make concessions, I really am. I drink, and prefer, skim milk. I’ll take water packed tuna over oil packed tuna any day. I can stomach low-fat ranch or I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Anything. I’ll even look the other way on sugar free ice cream (believe me that one hurts), but I’ll be darned if I’m gonna let somebody take my delicious delicious pig fat from me. I’d rather die.

There are some things that you just don’t trifle with; a man’s family, his home, his life, his liberty and his bacon. God bless you, God bless that pig and God bless the United States of America. Thank you for your suppork…I mean support.

Just the beginning

I am not a “handy” man. I do not say that to excuse myself as these are self imposed limits to my home improvement abilities. These limits were set years ago when I discovered that I’d rather do other things with my time than re-tile a bathroom or install crown molding throughout the house. From my conversations with other men I realize that I am in the minority here; still there hasn’t been a compelling argument to change my mind, so I do what I feel comfortable with and leave the rest to others.

My general rule of thumb is that if I can’t complete a task in a weekend I’m enlisting the help of someone else. And by “enlisting the help” I mean I’m going to pay someone because I don’t want to do it. I’ll do what needs to be done but feel no desire to stray far outside my comfort zone.

It’s not that I don’t get that deep sense of satisfaction from a do-it-yourself job, I do. Matter of fact in many cases that feeling of satisfaction is probably disproportionate to the actual task. For instance I can repair a broken rail on a kitchen drawer and feel like Bob Villa. Heck I installed a couple of ceiling fans in our first home and you would have thought I framed the walls and poured the foundation that held them up the way I showed them off. The thing is that feeling that comes from a do-it-yourself job hardly ever justifies, at least in my mind, the headache that accompanies said job.

Case in point, this past weekend I had some work to do on my grass. I had some other errands to run and took my youngest child with me. We went to Home Depot and made our way over to the lawn and garden section. I found the necessary bags of stuff I was going to spread over my wilting lawn and to my delight saw there was no waiting at the lawn and garden register. I paid for my things and we loaded up the car and returned home.

I hadn’t taken two steps in the door when my wife asked if I remembered to get the replacement sprinkler heads for the back yard. Doah! In my excitement at finding an open register I had forgotten about the sprinklers.

I retrieved my keys from the kitchen counter and headed back to the Depot. I arrived at the irrigation isle and only then remembered that there were two heights of sprinkler heads. I had run into this the last time I had to replace one and remembered that fortunately at that time I had guessed right. I held the 2” and 4” heads in my hand. After a brief internal debate I decided that I was 51% sure that I had the 2” sprinkler heads. I grab two with the appropriate configuration and headed for the checkout. It was then I ran across a display of 4” sprinkler heads bundled in a 4 pack for additional savings. The cheapskate inside of me caused me to return the 2” sprinkler heads on the chance that I could save money and have a surplus for the next time I needed one. So I, with some trepidation, tucked the 4 pack under my arm and headed home.

After unearthing the first sprinkler, much to my chagrin, I found that my gamble was folly as a pulled a 2” casing from the ground. I cursed my foolishness but wisely dug out the other sprinkler head as well. I discovered that it too was a 2” head but with a ½ inch extension, meaning that I would have had to return for a third trip even if I had stayed with my original 2” selection.

So I took the shameful trip to the returns counter and explained that I had gotten the wrong part. She said ‘no problem’ and took my 4 pack and placed it in a full bin next to like six other bins full of returns. As I was leaving the store, with the correct parts this time, I passed a man in the parking lot who had exited the building with me on my first trip. He was walking towards the store carrying a bag with a receipt. We exchanged a knowing smile and nod as we passed each other and he continued on his own walk of shame.

Can somebody tell me why it is that trips to Home Depot are like potato chips, you can never have just one?

I know you purveyors of hindsight wisdom will say that with a bit more planning or preparation you can avoid multiple trips. If we were talking about any other place in the world I would say that you were correct, but not Home Depot. Oh no, it can’t be done. You’ll forget something or buy the wrong size or get too much or not enough. You’ll discover a previously unseen problem buried beneath the original problem or find that the final product isn’t how you imagined it and you’ll have to start over. It will happen; something will compel you to return.

It’s a phenomenon like Big Foot and UFO’s or ESP and Déjà vu; you can’t explain it but you know it’s there. So don’t smirk at the wild eyed tales of an unending loop of Home Depot horror trips. One day it will be you. When that moment arrives remember me and remember at Home Depot you can do it and they can help but more saving means more doing and low prices are just the beginning of your descent into madness. Sometimes it’s just not worth it.

Confessions of a Shopahater

There are those who love shopping. There are even those who are addicted to it. They find browsing through potential purchases euphoric and love bringing home something new, especially if it was on sale. It’s more than just something they choose to fill their time with but the actual event or destination that has prompted them to leave their homes.

I am not one of those people.

Shopping, for me, has always been more of a chore than a pleasure. It boils down to two things really. First, I’m cheap and would prefer not to spend money. Second, and probably more important, if I need something I’m going to get it and only it and I want to find it as quickly as possible.

There’s a certain mindset one needs to go shopping and I don’t have it. This deficiency makes shopping almost painful to me.

Case in point, when I was single I went grocery shopping once a week. I went to the same store each week and bought the same things. I had a route mapped out where everything was that I was looking for and I followed a preconceived pattern that got me back to the register with the fewest amount of turns and no back tracking. I could complete my shopping odyssey in under five minutes which seemed just right to me.

One of the first shopping trips after I got married we went to the same store that I had always shopped at. I fully expected to deviate from my routine being that she was new to the store and had different tastes and requirements than I had. We began by getting a cart and heading to the produce section which was foreign to me but I was fine with it. She perused through the fruits and vegetables and made her selections and we moved one. We turned down the first aisle we came to and followed it to the end, selecting nothing. That was immediately followed by a trip down the adjoining aisle where we got the peanut butter that I was accustom to getting, although she looked several other brands first. I began to get antsy as we were already well over the five minute mark and the thorough aisle by aisle pattern we were setting would certainly have us there a while longer. Still I was happy to spend time with my new bride and didn’t much care what we were doing. Fifteen minutes later I fought the impulse to run screaming as she examined the contents of two different brands of the same product. By the time we reached the register I was a shell of my former self; a shaken sweaty mess desperate to escape from this gondola bordered prison.

It wasn’t too many more such shopping trips before we agreed that it was best that I not accompany her to the store any more. After all she didn’t want to drag around an agitated mess and I found it excruciating to hover over her shoulder in an aisle where nothing might even be purchased.

I know some of you are saying that grocery shopping isn’t really shopping and that real shopping is fun. Oh contraire.

Women have a shopping stamina that men just don’t possess. Women can shop for hours on end, store after store, and not feel the effects until they are nearly done. Men on the other hand aren’t built for shopping. You know those little sitting areas in the mall? They were built for men. Men and little old ladies, but mostly for men. I can go on a three day backpacking expedition and not feel as tired as one trip around the mall.

Recently I’ve had two terrifying experiences in an IKEA. The first was to purchase a gift for my wife and the second was to return said gift with my wife to get her something she’d actually like (I could write an entire different post on this topic but that will have to wait).

My first IKEA adventure was solo. I knew what I wanted to get and had been there once before so thought I had a rough idea where to find it. I was, however, unaware that IKEA was Swedish for ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here’.

I quickly became disoriented in the labyrinth of home décor and accessories. Trying not to panic I looked for signs or landmarks that could tell me where I was or how to find the section I was looking for. At long last I happened upon the object of my desire. I gave brief consideration to several different patterns and made my selection.

Sadly my adventure was only beginning. I discovered signs and arrows on the floor that said they led to an exit. I followed them twisting and turning through the dizzying maze of shelving and furniture and finally came to stairs that I hoped would lead me home.

At the bottom of the stairs I was met with disappointment as the network on the bottom floor was just as diabolically constructed as the top floor. I still followed the now taunting blue arrows but began losing hope that I’d ever see the light of day again. Just as I felt my legs would give out I saw it. A large sign that said EXIT. I crawled past the potted plants and plastic ware and entered what appeared to be a warehouse. Surely this was the end. It was not, and don’t call me Shirley. I saw nothing that resembled registers or an exit. I forged on while planning in the back of my mind a potential rescue plan for when my strength inevitably failed me. With great relief I caught sight of the registers around the next corner and felt renewed energy as I saw the light at the end of this eternally long shopping tunnel. After a few more minutes in line with two bitter man-hating women and a young mother with a hostile child I was free at last. A tear came to my eye as I climbed in the car, rolled down the windows and exited the parking lot. It was over, if only temporarily.

Experience told me to save the receipt as my taste in purchases for girls and women…well it stinks. So it was no surprise when the decision was made to return the item. What was surprising was the timing of the return as my wife thought that we could go together as part of our next date. So with silent horror I once again returned to that Swedish death trap.

I took comfort in the fact that I now had an experienced and well trained guide who could gladly withstand the rigors of a shopping trip. After all this is the woman who chooses to go shopping without a particular object in mind and who gets up early on Saturday mornings to go garage saling, for fun. I completely forgot about what other hardships coincided with such a battle tested travel companion.

I tightly clutched her hand as we entered the store and ascended the escalator. The anxiety welling up inside of me with nearly unbearable, I suppressed the familiar urge to scream and run. I knew right where to go this time and began to hurriedly make my way through the hodgepodge of self assembly furnishings when I felt a tug on my arm. I looked back to find her stopped in front of a small looking bed or table. She wondered if it was a basinet or a changing table. I bit my tongue as we had no immediate need for either and said that I thought it was a changing table and beckoned her to follow me and resume our march towards our objective.

The next unscheduled stop was to collect some bowls and plates that I was unaware we needed. She stated that it was her intention to get them all along, so we moved on without much more protest from me.

After stopping to peruse a few other odds and ends we reached the section where I had purchased the original item. After looking at the displays she said that another section existed downstairs with a better selection. I quickly grabbed her hand and led the way to the stairs following the aforementioned blue arrows. She paused at the landing in the stairs to look through some bins and picked up an ice cream scoop. I asked, “Did you want to get that ice cream scoop?” to which she nonchalantly replied “No,” and returned the scoop to the bin. I held back a baffled head shake, as I knew that would certainly provoke a dirty look, and we continued on our way.

Following several brief detours in the kitchenware section we came to textiles where I hoped we’d conclude our shopping for the day before making our way to the exit. I laid my head down on a large ergonomic pillow display while she looked up and down the vast array of different patterns. After briefly dozing off I looked up to see her holding something. I asked if she’d found one that she liked and she said she thought she had but that we’d need to get new curtains to match. The room began spinning and I felt as if I might throw up; I can’t be certain but my eyes and ears may have begun bleeding. I pulled myself together and said that we should go look at them as we had passed the curtains just a few minutes earlier. I placed her selection with the other things we’d picked up and threw that IKEA bag on my back like Chewbacca carrying C3PO in Empire Strikes Back and we back tracked to the curtain section.

We didn’t find anything to her liking and she suggested that there were better selections elsewhere and that we could go. A surge of joy bubbled up inside of me but almost immediately burst as we’d spend the next several minutes looking at chairs that we both agreed were too expensive but were just what she was looking for to go in the living room.

I could no longer remember what life was like outside the walls of this fabric and plywood laden tomb. I was sure that I’d spend the rest of my days looking at rugs and assorted cutlery but then suddenly and without warning it happened. We checked out.

My sweet wife bought me a cinnamon roll, most likely as a reward for being such a good boy, and we left. As I put that blue and yellow nightmare in my rear view mirror I was happy to be eating that frosting covered goodness, but not half as happy as I was to be done shopping…forever.

Valentine's Day Progression

It’s mid-February and that means one thing, Valentine’s Day.

As a child Valentine’s Day was fun. You got to design your own little heart-laden box to accept all your classmate’s Valentine’s. Then you’d get to fill in the To: and From: fields on your G.I. Joe cards (because nothing says “Be Mine” like Snake Eyes). I remember each time taking extra special care when filling out a card for the girl who I happened to like that particular year. When the day arrived and cards were exchanged I would rifle through my haul finding the one from whichever girl it was and kept it apart from the others. It was special even though I’m sure she’d written the exact same thing on mine that she’d written on everyone else’s. No matter, love was given and received. Valentine’s Day was for a young boy not yet mature enough to express his affections and for him to hold fast to even a token expression from the object those affections.

As a teenager Valentine’s Day was a stressful time. Either I didn’t have a “girlfriend” and was forced to endure a day of hearts, cards and stuffed animals parading through my loneliness or even worse I had a “girlfriend” and felt pressure to provide just the right combination of cards, candy and stuffed animals to show the appropriate level of affection. Are flowers and a card enough? Should I get her balloons? Does she like balloons? If I don’t get her candy will she think I think she’s fat? Why did I want a girlfriend again? Valentine’s Day was a report card on how you were, or were not in some sad cases, perceived as “boyfriend” material.

As a young adult I became disenchanted with Valentine’s Day. I’d tell anyone who’d listen that Valentine’s Day was for rotten lovers to make up for their shortcomings and failures throughout the rest of the year. I firmly believed if a man was doing his job and caring for his companion then Valentine’s Day was just another day.

It was easy to take such a stance because as a newly married couple we of course had it all figured out. We had plenty of time and energy to heap affection on one another everyday and had vowed never to become disconnected like those old fogies no matter what circumstances life had in store for us.

Adding to my distaste for Valentine’s Day was the fact that the same dozen roses I’d bought for her the previous week cost $20-$30 dollars more on this love sanctioned day. Over crowded restaurants offered just one or two Valentine’s meals for a king’s ransom. And last but not least cards failed to provide an adequate expression of my love for her. Valentine’s Day was a needless day for a loving couple who felt no compulsion to share their affections with the masses.

Now as a slightly less young adult Valentine’s Day is an oasis of sorts. I’ve become one of those rotten lovers who didn’t keep his promise to stay connected no matter what life through at him. Between children and work and school and church each day just fills up. At day’s end when the work is done and the kids are safely in bed it’s time to unwind, decompress or just veg out. Sure we spend that time together but I forget to make time to take her in my arms and just stare into those beautiful eyes. I don’t always take every shot I get to hold or caress her hand and tell her I’ve missed her today. I neglect to mention that when I catch a glimpse of her from across the room my heart still leaps in my chest. I don’t remind her daily that she’s the reason behind everything I do and she’s given my life meaning. I fail to tell her that I smile every time I think of her or that I’m smiling right now as I type this because I’m thinking of her. Or that she’s just as beautiful today as she was the day we got married, or how lucky I am to share a life with her. Valentine’s Day is an opportunity to break from the dizzying array of stuff that crowds our day to day and say “I Love You”.

Empty Headed Animal

Men like to pretend to be thoughtful. On occasion we’ll bring home flowers or candy. We’ll write a love note or bring home a card. We like the reaction and enjoy the adulation much like a toddler who learns to poop in the potty.

Women also like to pretend that men are thoughtful. You enjoy the heartfelt words expressed in pen and paper. You are delighted to open an unexpected gift from the wind beneath your wings. You love to brag on your man and how sensitive he is.

Here’s the truth. We brought you home something as a reflex action to something we saw or heard. Perhaps we saw it in a movie or on TV; possibly a coworker or neighbor had recently done something nice for his wife (no doubt as a reflex action to something he’d seen) and we wanted to do the same. The most probable reason is because you’ve dropped several not so subtle hints that such a gesture would be appreciated and it finally sunk through our thick skulls. Both of us erroneously believe that this idea sprung forth from some instinctual attentiveness. It’s not that we don’t love you or think about you; we do, it’s just that we’re incapable on our own of reaching that level of consideration.

There are those reading this right now who are thinking ‘Not my man, he’s so thoughtful’. He’s not. You are compiling a list of nice things he’s done for you “out of the blue” and formulating a comment to retort what I’ve said and defend this supposed thoughtful man. Let me just stop you right there.

It’s not that men don’t do thoughtful things. We do. That only perpetuates the illusion of thoughtfulness that later gets us into trouble. An expectation is set that will only lead to a letdown when you realize what an empty headed animal you are dealing with.

Case in point. Let’s say that, hypothetically, there is a day where it is customary to exchange gifts with those you love. It could be a jolly holiday just passed or a rapidly approaching day that might fall somewhere in the middle of February. In the course of preparing for this day you and your significant other discuss the whole arbitrary gift giving situation and through this discussion it is decided that you won’t get each other anything. This idea comes from the woman mind you because no man in his right mind would suggest such a thing. She may be motivated by the amount of money already spent on others or by a sincere feeling of contentment. It doesn’t matter. The point is an agreement is struck and both leave with an understanding of haud donum verto [that is Latin for I’m not getting you anything because that’s what you freak’n said we were doing].


In the words of Admiral Ackbar, “IT’S A TRAP!”

The man leaves the conversation fully confident in his love for her and her love for him. He feels a sense of relief not having to stress about what he’s going to get her and whether she’ll like it.

The woman leaves the conversation fully confident in her love for him and his love for her. She feels a sense of relief not having to stress about what she’s going to get him and whether he’ll like it. But then…

You start to think about how much he does for you and how much you care for him. You think of something he might like or need and the thought of him opening it. You then imagine that, although he agreed to it, he’d probably be disappointed if he didn’t have something to open (because deep down you know you would be). After all it is a small gift and he needs it anyway. You then buy it, wrap it and hide it. You smile to yourself thinking of how surprised he’ll be (and he will be surprised since you told him you weren’t getting him anything).

Meanwhile the man naïvely goes about his business barely aware that the holiday is approaching.

Now the day of reckoning arrives and to his horror he receives an unexpected gift while having nothing to offer in return. You’ll tell him not to feel bad and justify why the agreement you made didn’t really apply to this gift. You’ll tell him that you really didn’t want anything but he sees the mourning in your eyes.

It’s not mourning for the lack of a gift but rather mourning for the death of the thoughtful considerate man you both imagined.

It’s nobody’s fault really. We want to be thoughtful and you want to believe that we can be. The problem is that if not compelled or prompted to do something we will happily choose to do nothing.

Sadly, there is no electroshock therapy that will condition us to behave the way you wish we would (raise your hand if you just pictured your man strapped like a chimpanzee with an electroshock headband) (Now raise your hand if you just raised your hand) (Stop raising your hand I can’t see you).

I propose a plan to eliminate such frustration and disappointment. Ladies if you want something say so. We’ll be glad to do almost anything you want because we love you. Waiting around for us to discern what you want us to do is just frustrating for you and baffling to us because we seriously have not a clue. It’s a game that we are going to lose nearly every time because we’re ill-equipped to play.

If you want us to pick up our socks off the floor you are going to have to say something, probably many times. Angrily staring at the back of our head as we walk away isn’t going to make us think about our actions. If you want a bite of ice cream we’ve just scooped for ourselves then speak up because we’re not giving up that rocky roaded goodness on our own. You subsequently ceasing to speak to us doesn’t convey your thoughts it just makes us worried for what we’ve done…or haven’t done…or might have said…or didn’t say or notice...? Wait, what were we talking about? Oh right, for the love of Flannigan Flynn just say what you want! We don’t know what you are thinking, we’re barely aware of what we are thinking.

If we thought about it we’d be just as disappointed in ourselves as you are.

Saying What We Mean

Once again I am here to help men/women communications. But first, a story.

I recently took a course on ethnic relations and multiculturalism (don’t stop reading I promise I’m going somewhere). It was an interesting class where we discussed societal issues and prejudices (if you feel yourself falling asleep just bite down hard on your tongue, that’s a trick I learned in this class). During one discussion we were asked how the subordinate position of women is similar to that of oppressed racial and ethnic minorities and also how they differ (I nearly fell asleep typing that but it’s about to get good, hang in there). After outlining some similarities I mentioned that one way I could see their positions being different is that, in some cases, women share an intimate relationship with a member of the majority group and therefore have influence and consideration that would not be given to an oppressed racial or ethnic minority. And then it happened…

A woman in the class launched into a full blown attack/tirade about what a stereotypical viewpoint this was. How men think that women are always trying to be subversive to “the system” by using their feminine wiles and that this attitude dated back to Adam and Eve. How a man can use persuasive argument to get what he wants but how a woman is never given the benefit of the doubt by what means she garnered such influence.

In the moment I sought to subdue her outburst by explaining that I meant “intimate” as in close personal relationship and that there is a difference between intimacy and sex. I simply stated that I meant that a woman might receive consideration from the majority group (like her feelings and general well being) that was not afforded to racial or ethnic minorities and that consideration is influence. Initially I chalked this up to semantics and went on with my life.

The more I thought about it, however, the more it bothered me that her reaction had been so severe to what I thought was a fairly benign comment. And then it happened…

An epiphany. It had little to do with what I said and more to do with what she applied to what I said. Everybody, man or woman, takes their experience and applies it to whatever they may be presented with. That’s human nature it’s how we form our perspective. Therein lies the rub.

Let me explain. Men are very simple creatures. Scientists say that humans are 96% similar to chimpanzees, in my experience that 4% difference is entirely you, ladies. Men are an uncomplicated thoughtless lot. We give little consideration to things other than food and intimate relations, by that I of course mean close personal relations (get your mind out of the gutter). If asked for an opinion we’ll say what we think. And by “what we think” I mean the answer that comes to our mind first, seems most logical and requires the least amount of effort to articulate, while getting us in the least amount of trouble. Really that’s what our communication boils down to.

Women on the other hand, of course I’m speaking as an expert here, you are incredibly complex. Before expressing your opinion in an instant you’ve considered your past and present experiences on the matter, who you are speaking to and their feelings on the topic, the thoughts and feelings of those who may or may not ever possibly hear what you are about to say, potential reactions based on those feeling and how to best state your answer in terms that will be broadly accepted. The synapses in your brain light up like the Fourth of July while we may barely generate enough sparks to light kindling. It’s a credit to your gender that with all the going on you are able to select a single response.

That being your experience, naturally, you don’t express all that you are thinking. Therefore when processing information you believe that there is more being left unsaid by others leaving more work to be done to get to the meaning of what was said. The expectation is not the same for us.

What you’ve got to understand is that we mean what we say and not a lot more. You are searching for meaning behind the words. You drill to depths that we shallow beings simply don’t have and when you find nothing you apply meaning of your own. All of that would be fine except that on occasion you apply meaning that gets us into trouble. We can do that on our own; we don’t need your help.

For those still unconvinced let me use this illustration; the word “fine”. As in “I’m fine”, “it’s fine”, “that looks fine”, etc. For a man the word fine has, tops, three or four meanings and that’s only because of the fairly recent edition of “Dang, girl! You look fine!” Otherwise “fine” would range somewhere between satisfactory and of superior quality. For a woman the word “fine” has like seventy meanings and depending on voice inflexion can actually mean ‘If I’m questioned again I’ll stab you in your sleep’.

If we tell you we like something it is because we actually like it or because not liking it will lead to unpleasantness from you. If you say you like something it can mean that you truly like it, you think we want you to like it, someone you know likes it and you don’t want them to hear that you said you didn’t like it, you think we think you thought you should like it because someone you know likes it and…AHHHHH! My brain hurts. It’s exhausting in there.

Here’s the bottom line. For women, you need to understand that what we say is what we mean. Sure there are underlying motives behind what we say or sometimes what we say is born out of our natural thoughtlessness but there isn’t a deep, penetrating meaning underneath. So stop looking because you won’t find it and please don’t feel the need to fill that void with meaning of your own that is going to make you angry at us. For men, understand that she didn’t believe a word of the previous three sentences and has completely disregarded them as the inane ramblings of a fool so like it or not you are going to have to start thinking about how you say what you mean. You are going to have to consider your audience and how your words will be perceived. That’s just the way it is.

Now let the communication begin.

***disclaimer*** This is in no way a reflection on my experience with my wife. She had foreknowledge of me writing on this topic and granted permission. Our communication and relationship are sound as is her knowledge of my love for her. Love ya boo.

Punch Me In The Face

I love movies about the old west. I love the no nonsense heroes. The cowboy who is carving out his piece of the world, the local sheriff standing alone against corruption or the outlaw with a good heart. These aren’t complex characters in many cases, one commonality unites them; the expectation that people act civilly and responsibly. If they don’t the repercussion is swift and definitive; a punch in the face.


Not unusual in these movies is the occasion where someone is shooting off his mouth or disrespects a woman or just in general is being a public nuisance. That is when someone will step forward and punch that guy in the mouth. Of course someone is there to catch him or pick him up off the floor. There is a brief pause in the action where onlookers wait to see if anything else will come of it. Sometimes a friend or relative of the recently struck will appeal to local law enforce, “Sheriff, ain’t you gonna do someth’n.” His reply will consistently be something like, “He had it a com’n.” And that would be that.

Today we view those times as crude, uncivilized, even barbaric. But what if they had it right?

In movies today, set in present times, it is not uncommon to see someone take a well deserved shot to the face. Generally it comes with a painful shake of the hand and a great sense of satisfaction for the character and the audience. But when was the last time you saw someone take one to the chops in real life?

If that happened today, instead of the piano player halting, the barkeep staring and the clobbered being helped to his feet while wiping the blood from his lip; you’d have people calling 911 on their cell phones and most assuredly a horrified bystander questioning the puncher, “What is wrong with you?!”

As a society we’ve progressed to a point where it is unacceptable behavior to knock someone down who is acting a fool. I teach my children to use their words when faced with a conflict. That’s what civilized people do. All that is fine and good except for one small thing; we’ve enabled the fools.

You see, two rational intelligent people can work through their differences without physical confrontation. But what happens when a rational intelligent person is crossed by a clown without a shred of decency or common sense and no regard for the general welfare of humanity. The fool can act as he pleases, disregard any plea for civility and go about his business while the rational, sane, intelligent person is left frustrated and unsatisfied. So you do the right thing and the offending party leaves unscathed and largely unaware of the damage done. This situation will, most likely, be repeated again and again because rational intelligent people are bound by the expectations of society and are unable to correct the fool’s behavior through reason and discourse. So the fool will continue being a fool because he can.

Now before you get too carried away I’m not suggesting that anybody go around willy nilly throttling people who upset or annoy them. However, on the occasion that you run across a fool and all attempts at reason have failed wouldn’t it be nice if, in the end, someone could help that fool to his feet with a shrug and onlookers and authority figures alike could say, “Well, he had that a com’n.”

Taking it a step further just look at what happened at Felcher & Sons when they brought in an office linebacker. Productivity went through the roof. The Terrible Terry Tate brand of justice produced immediate results and put the fools on notice. (excuse his language)

Reebok Terry Tate Super Bowl Commercial Funny

What if people could expect a measure of instant justice when they were out of order? The acts of thoughtlessness would decline exponentially. If you give people license to be fools then you are left to deal with fools. However, if you put fools on notice then they’ll be forced to snap to attention and act right or suffer the consequences. Think of it as an adult spanking.

What if the punk talking during the movie who’s rebuffed repeated petitions for silence or the incompetent colleague whose perpetual thoughtlessness puts your team under the gun time and time again could expect a clothesline or a well placed stunner or DDT? You think they might modify their behavior? You bet your sweet bippy.

At one point or another we’ve all wanted to belt a deserving somebody; a coworker, a neighbor, a stranger; I don’t know a wife out there who hasn’t wanted to pop her husband from time to time. That thought has probably crossed my wife’s mind while she read this.

Look, I’m not condoning random acts of violence or saying that you should start punching people in the face…I’m just saying imagine a world where people had to think twice before they said or did (or wrote) something stupid.

Memo to Women: I don't get you.

In my life I’ve come to accept a handful of absolute truths. 1) You can’t name a food that I can’t improve with either bacon or chocolate. 2) I can gain weight easier than I can lose it (see No. 1 for confirmation). 3) Bleeping out swear words on TV makes me laugh, every time. 4) Most people, through no fault of their own, just annoy me. 5) I will never EVER understand women.

To be fair the list of things beyond my comprehension is long. Quantum physics, macro-economics, micro-economics, Yo Gabba Gabba and why some people actually like salad.

The difference is that I like to think if I put in enough time and effort I could come to at least a basic understanding of the above mentioned quandaries. Women, however, are an entirely different subject.

Even at a young age they perplexed me but I thought then with enough exposure I’d come to understand them. I foolishly believed that when I married one of them that the daily close up observance would enlighten me to their inner workings. Unfortunately the more I learn about them the less I understand. Recently I wrote about their inexplicable shoe fetish, but this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Ladies the way your minds work just astounds me. No offense but to an outside observer you all come off as, well, kind of crazy and interaction with your gender is a bit maddening. (By the way when you start a sentence with “No offense” you are not allowed to take offense to any ensuing statement no matter how offensive. That’s the rule.) Don’t get me wrong I think women are great and I love my wife dearly but seriously sometimes I think you all are conspiring to drive us insane.

Case in point, my wife has had a cough for some time now. I have repeatedly told her that she should go see the doctor. She resisted and I did not push it. This past week while I was out of town she visited with a couple of old friends. They also witnessed her coughing and her friend said “You should go get that checked out.” This was almost verbatim what I had told her a handful of times. Well guess what? She finally went to the doctor. Now I’m glad that she did but what the frack?! Why was my suggestion invalid but her friend’s counsel words of wisdom?

To further drive home the point she even posted this on her friend’s facebook wall “I went to the doctor. Bronchitis. Thanks for telling me to go.” AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

This situation was beautifully explained by one of my favorite TV shows, Scrubs. Yes the last few years of the show were dreadful but this gem came from the final season.

“A wife cannot hear logic from her husband. It must come from someone else; a friend, a stranger…Oprah.” – Dr. Perry Cox

If this recent cough-n-stance was an isolated incident then I could happily dismiss it but I’ve witnessed this phenomenon again and again. I’ve even been on the other side where my neighbor had made a suggestion to his wife which she rejected but when hearing through my wife that I had said the exact same thing she reconsidered. Why?!

Shouldn’t the information be judged on its own merit and not marginalized because it was spouted from the dolt that you call your husband?

Please, ladies, I beg you. If this is some carefully crafted worldwide conspiracy to cripple our mental faculties then we give. Call off the dogs. Have mercy. Stop the insanity.

Alas I fear this will not be the case and this universal struggle for understanding will inevitably be our downfall.

Guys, our only hope is to just accept this. Don’t try to understand it. Embrace the crazy like it’s a free chalupa. Do not attempt to fight it. Resistance is futile. Peel back one deranged layer and you’ll just be confronted with another. Trust me this is better left as is. With any relationship communication is paramount; so continue to talk, continue to share, continue (or start in some cases) to listen but stop trying to analyze their ways. That’s just what they want us to do. They’re trying to drive us mad, yes. That’s how they’re going to do it. They wants to break us. Drive us crazy. We mustn’t let them do it. No. No. We’ve gots to stay sharp. Yes. Keeps our wits about us. Yes, yes…yes.

Cuteness over Comfort? Really?

At work yesterday I heard the following conversation.

Lady #1 “Cute shoes.”
Lady #2 “Yeah, but they are really uncomfortable.”
Lady #1 “But they look so cute.”
Lady #2 “I know that’s why I got them.”

This has been a constant fascination/quandary of mine. Why do women buy uncomfortable shoes?



Just last week I witnessed a girl, preparing to go home for the day, change her shoes ala Mr. Rogers. When I questioned her on this she explained that pair #1 goes with her outfit and are “cute” but uncomfortable and also not allowed in the lab where she had work to do that day hence the need for pair #2.

I don’t know why I continue to question this behavior as it is clearly insane and I am left baffled each time I peel back another layer of insanity. I keep thinking that I’ll move closer to a logical explanation when in reality I know one doesn’t exist.

I recently purchased a new pair of running shoes. I walked into the store knowing which pair I wanted. My wife had shown me an ad in the paper and I selected the pair that looked good to me. Upon arrival in the store I found my size in the desired pair. Mind you I really like the look of these shoes. However, upon trying them on I found them to be a bit on the uncomfortable side. I tried on several different shoes before finding a pair whose look wasn’t exactly what I was looking for but whose comfort was off the charts. I purchased the shoes and haven’t had a moment of regret.

You see that is what a logical sane person does. You put on a pair of shoes and think ‘Boy these are uncomfortable’ and then you put those shoes back. You do not think ‘Well these babies will probably cause me feet to bleed but they really set off this pant suit. SOLD!’

What is it about shoes that cause women to cast aside common sense and dive into this world of masochism?

Could you image hearing someone say “Sure this blanket feels like sandpaper but it’s so cute.” Or “This hat has cut off all circulation to the top of my head but it’s adorable.” Or “Having to cram myself into this mini Cooper everyday has given me scoliosis but it looks super cool.” No, you’d call the loony bin and have that person carted off for their own protection. So why do we all stand by and allow this self destructive behavior to continue? Who is there among us that will stand up for feet?!

I too, in my quest to understand this sickness, have sat idly by and shook my head and smiled. But no more! It’s time for an intervention. Ladies please, stop this madness. If you try on a pair of shoes that suffocate your feet like a boa constrictor put them back. I don’t care how cute they are, it’s not worth it. Taking off your shoes at the end of the day should not feel like being liberated from a Nazi internment camp.

You spend all the time and money taking care of your body, your skin and your hair but treat your feet like John Rambo passing through Hope, Washington. Why?

They deserve better, you deserve better. Say it with me “My feet are my friends.” Now next time you see a “cute” pair of hoof hurters just ask yourself ‘Would I treat my friends like this?’

Men vs. Wild

Day One

Tuesday morning early we set off for the Hellsgate Wilderness. Jeff Neeley, Zane Frentheway, Marc Jackson, Cedar Glasgow, Mason Crandell, Kolter Anderson, Kyler Fackrell and myself.

The plan was to drop off vehicles down at Gisela and have Kent Anderson and Lane Glasgow drive us up to the rim. We discovered, however, that the area had been closed off and we could no longer park cars there. So after a bit of searching we found a spot back in a wash where we felt we could leave our vehicles that would carry us home. Then we loaded up into the two vehicles and zipped up to the drop off. Lane and Kent wished us luck and we were left to ourselves to brave the rugged wilderness that lie ahead.

The hike began with a 7 mile jaunt up and over a mountainous area. There were several fairly steep inclines, one that was particularly memorable as I felt my heart might pound right out of my chest. Our reward for making it to the top? Descending a perilous drop off on the other side to get down to the water.

Thus far in the journey the boy’s spirits were high, they were singing songs and goofing off. Although the hike was tough they seemed to be enjoying themselves despite the difficult terrain whether they would admit it or not.

We made it down to the water around lunch time without much trouble although Marc did lose his walking stick. We stopped there for some lunch and I gratefully removed my shoes and socks and let me feet dry out. Some of the boys swam in the water even though it was very cold.

At this point it hit me that we had no alternative but to continue on to the end. The climb back up that mountain seemed just as unpleasant as the thought of carrying on and even if you did no one would be back there for us. The only option was to get to the cars at the bottom. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on that thought though because I didn’t want to freak out.

One small digression; Mason thought it would be a good idea to up the difficultly level of this adventure by attempting to hike in his underpants. Once we got to the water Cedar joined him in this folly and donned a Speedo for the duration of the day, despite our warning to the contrary. I’ll illustrate later what a bad idea this was.

After lunch, which for me consisted of a protein bar and some jerky, went entered Tonto Gorge.

The first descent into the water was shocking. Although the day was very warm the water was very cold. The first several yards you only had to get your feet and ankles wet but slowly the water got deeper and more of your body was exposed to the cold. I’ll try to be delicate here but when the water hit the region just below your waist let’s just say it was unpleasant. Once you got past that and your body adjusted, by adjusted I mean became completely numb, the water wasn’t all that bad.

At this point in the hike Cedar declared that it was “The best hike ever”. That was the last time this sentiment would be expressed.

Several hours later we took a break on some rocks and a couple of the boys jumped off a cliff into the deep cold water while we older guys rested peacefully. At this point Kyler had lost one of his three water bottles (more on that later).

The bad part about taking a break like that was you get dry and warm and have to re-acclimate yourself to the water, again by re-acclimate I mean numb yourself.

You have three choices going down the Gorge. You can climb boulders and cliffs, rock hop/trudge through the shallow water, or swim when it gets deep. That’s it, that’s the list. Sometimes the canyon chooses for you and you just have to go with it. All of these have their pros and their cons and each is exhausting in its own way.

After several hours of getting in and out of the water I was spent. One piece of advice that I got from Bishop Peterson as he was prepping us for this hike was “Never pass up a decent camping spot”. The reason being is that you never know when you’ll find another one. Well about 4:00 we happened along a reasonably good spot to camp for the night. We met briefly and determined that 4:00 was too early to stop and that we’d make camp at the next good looking area. Almost immediately after making that foolish decision the canyon narrowed and the terrain became even more difficult and unwelcoming. It was nearly two hours before a suitable spot was found to camp.

At this point Marc and I had fallen behind the lead group and I had lost sight of Kolter who was 100 yards or so ahead of me. I kept replaying in my mind the counsel of Bishop Peterson “Never pass up a decent camping spot”. I was cursing myself for being so foolish when I heard the boys talking up ahead as the canyon turned to the left. I was so happy to be able to sit and know that I was done for the day.

After a few minutes I changed into some dry clothes and went to pump water for cooking and drinking for the night and morning. We brought a 5 gallon collapsible water jug for the camp. Cedar and I took turns filling up one and Kyler and Mason filled the other. Then we made our way back up the rocks to our camp site which was a sand bank about ten feet above the water on an incline.

There we dried out our gear. Kyler’s sleeping bag was completely soaked and my bag got wet as well. Another reason to make camp early was to allow things time to dry. Even though we were all prepared with dry bags things still get wet.

Then it was time for dinner. We all boiled water on the camping stoves we had brought. A big ‘thank you’ to Bishop Peterson for letting us use his equipment. We poured the boiled water into our freeze dried pouches and let them sit for 8 or 9 minutes. I had spaghetti and meat sauce. I used too much water but it still wasn’t bad.

We had scheduled our trip to go though Friday. After dinner the first night Kyler looked at me and said “I’m not doing three more days of this.” I couldn’t say that I blamed him. I asked Jeff, our guide without whom we never would have made it, if it was possible to make it out in 3 days and he said “It’d better be because I only brought food for three days.” At that point the decision was made to hike as long and as far as we could tomorrow in an attempt to get out by Thursday.

The sun had barely dipped behind the canyon walls and we were all lying on our beds, which were just a ground pad and a sleeping bag. I had decided before we went that I’d do a nightly devotional that centered around teamwork. I even prepared team building activities. I was a fool to think I’d have to energy for this but still I talked with the boys about team and teamwork before we prayed and tried to sleep foregoing any additional activities.

Day Two

Day Three

Day Two

The wind had blown throughout the night the temperature dropped significantly. Combined that with the incline that we were laying on and previous day’s activity and it was little wonder that no one slept very well.

We were all awake by 4:50 and Mason had already gotten up and started a fire with drift wood he had scavenged when the cold became unbearable. We all grudgingly got up and made breakfast. I boiled water and made what was supposed to be scrambled eggs with bacon. The bacon parts weren’t so bad but they were intermingled with something that resembled eggs but tasted like powdery bloated death. Shortly after eating this I abandoned my goal of not making twozie on this trip and quickly made a make shift toilet to relieve my suffering.

Then we all changed back into our hiking clothes from the day before, burned our trash and packed up our bags. We made our way down to the creek to pump water. At this point I learned that Kyler had lost all his water bottles the day before and Marc had lost one of his. I gave one of my water bottles to Kyler and Marc got a second from one of the boys Gatorade bottles.

All night I had been dreading getting back into the water. I was resigned to the fact that I had to keep hiking but getting back into the water after a cold windy night seemed just too daunting. Much faster than I wanted, the time came to take the plunge. The sun had still not peaked over the canyon and the day was still cool when my ankles and feet first sank into the ice cold creek. Then with one misstep I was up to my waist and fighting to catch my breath.

Eager to get out the boys, Cedar, Mason, Kyler and Kolter, sailed ahead trying their best to stay out of the water. This was for two reasons really. First, as I’ve already illustrated the water was cold and second, you could move much faster out of the water than in. Unfortunately this particular course meant scaling boulders and cliffs which was physically demanding and dangerous. More often than not I found myself choosing the left strenuous colder path which meant falling behind the lead group.

For the first part of the morning I stayed with Jeff and Zane with Marc just behind us. Before too long Jeff and Zane made their way ahead and I was left alone with them ahead of me and out of sight and Marc somewhere behind me. I didn’t mind hiking alone because I could go my own pace and didn’t feel the need to keep up with the faster boys. I could tell where they had been by the water marks on the rocks and for the most part just followed their trail.

There were two particularly unpleasant experiences I had during my morning sojourn alone. There was one area with gigantic boulders that I could see no way around or over. After some searching I found a small crevasse underneath and between two of the boulders. I had to crawl on my hands and knees through the passage scraping on the rocks in about three inches of mossy water. Much to my delight I found that this was also the home of twenty or so spiders that scurried about the rock walls that engulfed me.

Next I encountered a small waterfall/rapid area. I thought I’d be able to keep my feet or at least my hands and feet as I made my way down. Quickly though I was disappointed as I slipped and was pushed down stream by the current making sure to hit every rock on the way down.

After this though the rest of the morning was a piece of cake. I just had to rock hop and climb in between intervals of getting into the ice cold water and then swim for about a ¼ mile stretch. Now I know a ¼ mile doesn’t seem like a long way and you are thinking ‘hey it’s swimming, how bad could it be?’ Well let me tell you with a 30 pound pack on your back it’s no picnic. While I was swimming this last ¼ mile stretch I had determined that if the lead group, which now included every one but Marc and myself, hadn’t stopped for a break at the end of this swim to allow us to catch up that I would punch the first person I saw in the face and the next person until I was overcome by the group and eventually beaten. I know this is a disturbing thought to come from a young men leader who is charged with protecting these boys, I only share it because during this trying experience I had many more such thoughts that I wouldn’t normally have. Thankfully as I came out of the water and began to empty my pack of the 15-20 pounds of water I had taken on, a fun ritual I repeated after each swim, I heard Mason in the distance and the urge to punch someone in the face subsided.

I rejoined the group and was able to persuade Kyler to pump some water for me as my one water bottle had been empty for some time. I again feasted on a protein bar and some jerky. Yummy. And we awaited Marc’s arrival. Every few minutes we would yell for him as I explained to the group that hearing their voices had given me strength and saved them from what would have surely been my feeble attack on a group of well rested and younger combatants.

Before too long Marc made his way around the bend before collapsing next to us on the sandy beach and expressing a desire to not continue much longer. Some of the boys had already determined to lighten his load by taking some of his equipment and set about divvying up some of his things. I was particularly proud of Mason who took the lead in this labor of love and would later take the bulk of Marc’s dry bag for the duration of the trip. I’m sure Marc would take much more the one sentence to express the love and gratitude that he felt and feels for Mason’s service.

After our rest we continued on, this time making an effort to keep the group together. We stopped at shorter intervals and allowed everyone to catch up before moving on. I know this was a sacrifice to the boys who just wanted to keep going but I was glad we all stayed together for most of the afternoon.

Our goal all day was to make it to the final camp site that Jeff knew of. Making it there would guarantee us getting out in three days. Anything short of that we risked spending another night in the canyon. All of us were driven by the desire to make this site which led us to again forego the wisdom and counsel of our good Bishop and pass on a perfectly good camp site continuing on past a large sandy area with plenty of drift wood to make a fire. This decision was not reached lightly or unanimously. Mason, Cedar and Kyler wanted to press on. Kolter and Marc would have been happy to stop. Zane, Jeff and I were indifferent leaning slightly towards stopping. We had checked the GPS loaned to me by my friend Mike with the waypoints provided by Bishop and saw that the next closest waypoint was 0.94 miles away as the crow flies and we thought that it might be the location we had been seeking. I told the boys we could continue towards that waypoint but that we would not pass another camping spot. Kolter muttered something about doing harm to Mason, who had led the campaign to continue, if we ended up sleeping on the rocks.

The lead group flew ahead while I hung back at a slower pace to wait up for Kolter who had to pump water. After a few hundred yards Kolter caught up to me. From the GPS we knew the canyon was going to take a right and then a long semi-straightaway before banking back left and our waypoint and hopefully our camp site would be there. After 45 grueling minutes of hiking and climbing and wading through the water we hit a long swim that we weren’t anticipating. This was just when the sun had dipped below the walls of the canyon the water was now freezing as was our bodies. I couldn’t paddled and keep up with Kolter and he moved ahead of me shouting back when he had reached land. I was only half way through the swim when I found myself alone once more.

It was then that my mind started reeling again. My first thought was that I couldn’t keep going not knowing how much farther I had to go for the day and that I could potentially die. Oddly enough that thought was morbidly comforting being that I wouldn’t have to continue as I had for the past two days. I quickly dismissed that thought when I thought of my lovely wife and three beautiful children. My next thought was when I spotted a patch of sand about 4 feet by 6 feet and thought that I could just stop there and when Marc came along he and I could make camp for the night and with my stove and his water pump we’d be just fine. I began to fantasize about the two of us building a life there on that little spot of beach, a life of no more climbing and no more swimming. We would have been happy there. That plan was quickly dashed when I remembered that he’s 6’5 and wouldn’t want to sleep with his feet in the water the rest of his life. So I continued swimming.

At the end of this swim I discovered that the canyon indeed did turn to the left and, as I drained my pack once again, I saw that to my right was a relatively sandy area that would have been passable as a camp site. To my horror though there was nobody there. Before working myself up into a homicidal rage again I thought I’d a least yell for Kolter to see if he was in shouting distance. So I yelled “Hello!” and was relieved when several voices bellowed back from the other side of the creek not more than 200 yards up the canyon. I traversed my way through the bush and sand and rocks across the creek and up to where they were. When I drew near I saw that they were making camp and asked “Is this it? Did we make it?” Jeff said that this was the place. I smiled and told the boys I was proud of them for making the goal they had set. They mumbled something back to the effect of ‘Wipe that smile off of your face you crazy old man how could you bring us to this horrible horrible place, I hate you’.

I basked in the glow of their love and adoration for a moment and then set to work making camp and drying out my soaking wet sleeping bag. After several threats of physical violence a couple of the boys made their way down to the creek and relieved Marc who had showed up right behind me and immediately set to pumping water for the camp.

Since we were assured we’d make it out the next day the boys set to work consuming all the food they had brought for their journey. Seriously they ate three and in some cases four meals worth of food in one sitting. Jeff gave me some powdered Gatorade packets to add to my water for the night. I could literally feel the electrolytes flowing through my body. I hastily made my beef stew and set my still damp sleeping bag between Kyler and Marc near the fire Mason had built.

Although Marc’s body was clearly hurting he seemed to be in good spirits, although he was concerned about being cold so I gave him my emergency blanket. Likewise Mason, who had hiked in his jacket to cover his sunburned body, got a jacket from Zane. Everyone really pulled together and when a need was found somebody was always willing stepped up to fill that need. I was honored to be a part of this group of men.

A fire was started and we all attempted to sleep. It was a full, or nearly full, moon which was somewhat like trying to sleep directly underneath a florescent light bulb. Again it was windy and cold. Everyone slept in 30 to 40 minute intervals before being awakened by something or another. It was a long night.

Day 3