The Truth About Men

[Allinall]

 Women think, People threw those items out for a reason: They're broken. Men think, People threw them out for me to fix.   I always wondered about this, now I finally understand  

HEY!!! I finally figured out how to do the labled quote thingy!!  Please tell me how to do this.

Thanks

Click the "quote" thingy on the end of the post you want to quote instead of clicking on the reply button.  

It worked!!! Thanks

De nada amiga!

[Shylynne]

Why I Have No Money, No Brownies, No Tweezers . . . It's DNA!


If the cost of all the nail clippers and tweezers I've bought in the years I was single were added together, I might have enough to buy a cup of cappuccino and a muffin.

But that was then, this is now. If the money I've spent on nail clippers and tweezers since my daughter hit the age of 11 was added, my spouse and I could use it to buy a villa in Switzerland and keep at least one St. Bernard in dog food and brandy for the rest of his life.
 
   Knowing my investment in small metal personal care objects has exceeded the budget of many small Balkan nations, please answer just one question for me: WHY CAN'T I EVER FIND ANY NAIL CLIPPERS?

It's one of the greatest mysteries of my life. I've purchased about 7,859 pairs of clippers alone, so why is it that whenever I'm in the bathroom preparing for a shower and want to clip my nails I can't find a single pair? Not one. I mutter a few unladylike syllables, then go ahead and take my shower. Afterwards I check all the normal places a pair of nail clippers would reside, but in this house it's like looking for Osama bin Laden – if one exists, it's obviously either altered its appearance or is so well-hidden it's going to take a special ops team to find it. And it's the same with the tweezers.

How do I handle this routinely occurring scenario? I buy another set of nail clippers or tweezers. I take them home and put them in the drawer. And, just like Sasquatch, once I initially sight the darn things, they evaporate, never to be found again. So what's a logical, modern mom like myself do in a case like this?

I hide them. I put them in bureau drawers or lock them in a small travel bag. And you know what? They still disappear!

OK. I'm not a total dummy. Some misguided elf with no sense of mission isn't slipping into my house in the middle of the night and, instead of fixing shoes, stealing my clippers as I sleep. Nope, there's an excellent reason for this and I know just what – or who – is to blame:

My husband.

That's right. My spouse, significant other, one-and-only…my hubby is at the bottom of this and not for the reason you think. He doesn't actually hand the tweezers and clippers to the real culprit – our daughter. Nor does he tell her where they are stashed away. He simply passes on his DNA. You see – he looks like a man, but he's actually a reincarnated bloodhound..
 
 Many years ago before we had children I was faced with a dessert dilemma: I had one piece of apple pie and one brownie. So, since I like brownies and am not overwhelmed by apple pie, I decided to give him the pie and keep the brownie for myself. But knowing I was married to someone who'd eat the brownie if he saw it (this man takes no prisoners in matters of food) I hid it – way in the back of my lowest kitchen cabinet.

After dinner that night, I took the piece of pie and placed it in front of my husband and he started in on it, then I went to fetch my brownie. It was gone. When I asked him about it, he admitted he'd found it earlier that day. How? I still don't know. Must be something in his genetic make-up. And I swear he's passed this trait on to his daughter, because I can't find a single pair of nail clippers, no matter how hard I look. But I think I've stumbled upon a solution to the problem:

From now on, I'm hiding all my nail clippers and tweezers with a Twinkie attached. That way if I can't find them, I know HE will!
 
 
by Carole Moore

[Shylynne]

Husbands -- Modern Day Hunters & Foragers . . . In the Freezer!


Back in the good old days before food was primarily dispensed from drive-in windows, men – not teenagers saving money to buy cars – were in charge of procuring dinner.
   
   The little woman would remind them they were running low on saber-toothed tiger burgers, so they'd get up with their buddies, sharpen some sticks and ambush a wooly mammoth or two. Then they'd drag it back to the cave, chop it into pieces and the women would conjure up baked mammoth and mammoth stew and chipped mammoth on toast.

 In those days it was accepted that men were born hunters. They'd probably still be out punching holes in animals larger than a gas station if not for two things: Wooly mammoths, who were apparently on an intellectual par with golf balls, all jumped into the LaBrea Tarpits; and, women decided they didn't want their husbands hauling home dead animals too big to stuff in the garage.

 But even if wooly mammoths were Rhodes scholars and storage of a creature weighing as much as a Humvee wasn't an issue, some say men still wouldn't be dragging the bacon behind them when they come home. These people believe hunting DNA's been replaced by remote control DNA. But they're wrong. The predator DNA's still there – it's just been updated.

 Like most men, my husband's basic primal hunter instinct simply lies dormant until something alerts it to the presence of game. Like when I return from the grocery store and hide the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream behind several packages of frozen broccoli. Suddenly, the man who's been looking at me through half-mast eyelids and grunting when I ask him to fix the dripping faucet in the kitchen begins channeling Neanderthal man.

 He rips through the freezer, brutally casting aside entire packages of brussel sprouts and fish sticks without any thought to his own safety. Then, when he finally zeroes in on his prey – in this case the rest of the ice cream – he leaps with a ferocity that's terrible to behold, decimating his quarry without even a tinge of mercy.

 I know he does this because he leaves tell-tale clues behind whenever his inner-hunter takes command. Like he tries to cram all of the stuff back into the freezer, but it won't stay and falls against the door, pushing it open just enough to allow everything to defrost. Or he fails to wipe the traces of ice cream off his mustache.

 After primitive man returned home dragging gigantic animals carcasses behind him, he staggered into the cave and fell into an exhausted, but well-deserved sleep. My spouse possesses the same instinctive urge, because right after he kills a half gallon of ice cream, he can be found stretched out in his recliner, making lots of masculine hunter snoring sounds.

 Yes – hunting in modern times isn't quite the same as bopping large hairy mammals on the noggin, cutting them into bite-sized pieces and rendering them perfect fodder for Cro-Magnon fondue parties, but it's still a challenge, as my spouse will attest. In fact, he's been beside himself, waiting for big game season to start, working hard to prepare for it. He's checked out his equipment and laid in supplies. Judging by early indications, he's going to have a pretty good year.

by  Carole Moore

[Shylynne]

The Sportsmans Weekend . . . Oh My!


My poor husband goes to work on Mondays exhausted by the frantic pace of his weekends. Take this most recent one, for example.
 
 
 On Friday, he came home from work and barely had time enough to stuff down a couple of sandwiches before heading for the bowling alley. When he returned from an extremely demanding night of horsing around with his fellow bowlers, he collapsed in his recliner, only to spend the evening switching channels looking for John Wayne/Clint Eastwood movies while periodically scanning the lineup for obscure sporting events . The remote control was smoking, I can tell you.
 
 
 On Saturday, my spouse arose at the crack of 10 - no sleeping in for this whirling dervish - and spent an hour reading the paper, drinking coffee and plotting his day, with the help of the sports section. Then he casually asked what I had planned.

 "Oh, I'll be doing the usual - cleaning, washing clothes and writing," I said. "Why?"

 "Oh, nothing," he said. "I just thought I'd catch the Notre Dame game. It's the only thing I really want to see."

 My husband's a huge Carolina buff, but ever since Notre Dame hired a coach from Jacksonville, he's decided that when Carolina's not on the field, he'll root for Notre Dame.

 So he went outside and spent about 15 minutes blowing the acorns off our deck, much to the annoyance of the 7,482 squirrels living in our backyard. Then he tossed the blower back into the shed, and once again threw himself into his recliner.

 I passed by him several times while traveling from my desk to the laundry room. Finally, about four hours later, I stuck my head in the door.

 "Is the Notre Dame game over yet?" I asked. He looked suspiciously like he was asleep to me.

 "What?" he jumped, scattering potato chip crumbs all over the carpet.

 "Just wondered if the Notre Dame game was over," I repeated.

He squinted. "Uh, let's see, uh, no."  

I checked back with him several times and all I can say is that Notre Dame is one strange team. Every time I looked they were wearing a different-colored uniform. But boy do they have stamina! That Notre Dame team played the entire day, nonstop. Wow!

The next morning he climbed out of bed and cleaned up the den so he'd have a fresh, clean space in which to scatter miscellaneous food crumbs. Then he watched the pro football games, the races and the World Series. By the time he crawled into bed, the poor thing was completely worn out. But I can understand why.

After all, he has so much to do on game day: the pre-game warm-up (popping that first bag of popcorn, lining up his beverages, reading all the TV listings and the sports page of the paper) and then, when the game starts, adjusting and readjusting his recliner, punching all those buttons, making more popcorn and sandwiches, falling sleep in his recliner. It simply wears the man down.
 
- by Carol Moore

[Shylynne]

My Husband -- The World's Biggest Lover of Junk!


I hear the woman muttering NO MINE IS!  

My spouse spends a lot of time standing around our garage mumbling under his breath. And no, he's not losing it. He's looking for something – something he put in there months ago, something he won't find again without help from a team of bloodhounds and a crack squad from the FBI's criminal forensics lab.

 Let me explain. You know how everyone either has a junk drawer or another repository for dumping all those little things that have no real place? And you know how those things eventually build up until it's so full that you have to either clean it out or find another place to put those all-important junky things, like key chains and books of matches and screws you found but don't know what they belong to but are afraid to throw out because as soon as you do, you'll discover you need them? Well, the garage is my husband's junk drawer.

 And it's full. So full that to say "it's full" is like claiming Elvis leaned toward  sequins. Our garage couldn't hold a Matchbox car, much less a real one. And that's because it's jammed from floor to ceiling with junk. Well, I call it junk. He calls it "important stuff."

 His important stuff changes every few years, but it never diminishes. This man never parts with anything. Even stuff with no discernable purpose. Even stuff he can't identify. Even stuff that's certifiably trash.

 There are threadbare lawn furniture cushions, rusty nails, pieces of wood, empty bottles, electronic items that no longer work, clothes, boxes of old magazines, papers he's never had time to look through, yard equipment, a bed frame, empty boxes, cans and trash bags filled with what other, less junky people would call "garbage." I suspect that, years from now, when archaeologists find our garage and crack it open, they'll conclude the Homo sapien who lived there was the size of a walnut, because that's about all that would fit in there.

 My hubby refers to the garage as his workshop. And it really is crammed with tools. Of course, he can't actually get to any of them because every available inch of the garage is stuffed with everything else, which is why we also have a tool box inside the house. Some day he's going to clean it out. Probably the same day we establish a colony on Mars.

But, the scary thing is, just when you think there's no way anything else will fit into that garage, he manages to wedge in another item. And, unfortunately, I am now one of his unwitting accomplices.

My friend and neighbor, Connie, has a shed she wanted cleaned out. It was full of stuff she neither needed, nor wanted, and wasn't even sure what some of it was. I told her I'd send my spouse down to look it over and let her know if there was anything of value so she could sell it, rather than simply throw it away.

Big mistake.

He went to Connie's. He checked out the shed. I was gone and when I returned home, the kids said she'd called. Why? To apologize. Because, you see, when my husband was down there he offered to clean out the shed for her. Nice guy, huh?

Think again.

He bought all the junk in her shed and is now hauling it down the street to put in our garage where he'll stumble over it for the next decade or so.  I thought I'd seen it all, but I hadn't. He no longer collects and stores only his own junk in the garage. Instead, he's diversifying, like he's the CEO of some big company. And instead of simply generating junk on his own, he's changed his tactics and has started importing other people's junk.It's finally happened – he's gone global!  

by Carol Moore

[Shylynne]

Mr. Happy's Breakfast Report . . . He Just Doesn't Get It!


"Good morning," I say to my spouse as I walk into the kitchen.

"Good morning. Looks like rain," he says.

"Uh-huh." I answer as I make the coffee.
 
   "Of course, they're calling for clouds in the morning and rain by the afternoon. Might come earlier. Hmmm," he says. The paper rustles. "Calling for rain in Minnesota, too. Hey – look it's wet in London. Must be raining everywhere."

I count out his vitamins and fix juice for the kids, water for us, then hand him a cup of coffee.

"Well, it looks like it's going to be a pretty wet winter. It says here that the rain could affect crops and cost us more at the grocery store next year. Hey! Look here, they made an arrest in those armed robberies from last month," he swigs his coffee.

"And here's some pictures of some of the al Quaida fugitives. Pretty hard to see their faces. Says here they're putting them on the Internet, too. Maybe you can get a better idea of what they look like online," he says.

I pop some bacon in the microwave and push the button.

"You know, this election stuff really got out of hand last time. Look at some of the things both sides said. They should be ashamed of themselves, don't you think? Did you see the story on campaign contributions?"

"I haven't read the paper yet," I say through my teeth. My tone of voice alone would stop my kids at this point. They know when Mom uses "that voice" not to mess with her. She's deadly. She's King Kong on a rampage, the Balrog, a towering inferno of irritation, a sure-ticket to being thrown forever into one's room, Rapunzel-like.  Mess with Mom when she talks like that, draw back a nub, hear colorful and totally inappropriate language, watch Mom drool lava. Those clued in run like scalded hyenas when Mom talks like that. Those not clued in keep right on reading.  Out loud.

"Wow. Look at this. Really Big Discount Store has barbecue grills on sale. Great price. Might have to go look at those."

"We have a barbecue grill. Besides, it's the middle of winter."

"Dear Abby has a good one today. Woman wants to know how to tell her spouse he needs to take a bath.  Gee whiz, why doesn't she just come out and say it? People! I'll never understand them."

"Honey, I haven't read the paper yet. I've been cooking your breakfast. I save reading the paper for when I get everyone out the door. Then I read it and drink a cup of coffee. It's my morning ritual," I say, plopping scrambled eggs in front of him.

"Carolina should do a whole lot better in the tournament this year than last. They have some really good players lined up. Should be a great season." The paper rustles again.

"How about that? So-and-so died.  Gosh, I saw him just last month. He looked like he'd lost a little weight but I figured he was just on a diet. You never know how long you have on this earth, do you? Wonder what happened to him?"

"He probably read the paper to his wife every morning," I say.

"Well, guess I'll be off," he says, folding the newspaper back exactly how he found it and putting it on the counter.

"Have a good day," says Paul Revere.

Then he gets on his horse and rides to work.

by Carol Moore


 
ROFL!  NOW THATS THE TRUTH ABOUT MEN!  

[Shylynne]

what are they trying to say about us now