Did you say something? I didn't think so.

When women complain that men don't listen, trust me... they're not lying. Men don't listen. They don't. And if you say you have one that does? Then he probably has a vagina hidden somewhere in his anatomy. Listening is not in their genetic code. In the spot where women have the "Paying Attention To What Their Mate Is Saying" gene, men have a "Her Lips Are Moving But No Sound Is Coming Out" gene.

I'm not saying they do it on purpose... In fact, I just made it abundantly clear by using scientific evidence that they can't help it. Geneticists all over the world have done extensive studies on why men only hear what they want to hear and they actually isolated the "I'm Not Ignoring You, I Just Am Not Able To Pay Attention To Anything You Say That Doesn't Involve Sex Or Football" DNA particle. Don't believe me? Then come to my house on any given night and listen to my husband ask me the same questions he's asked me 145,747,839,302 times before and then insist that the subject has never come up and I don't know what I'm talking about.

In his mind, he is the innocent victim of my inability to communicate effectively.

It's a scenario that takes place night after night, on couches, at kitchen tables, and in bedrooms all over the world.

Dan is fairly picky, food-wise. (Which is shocking, considering he looks like he's never missed a meal.) If it isn't something he mother made (Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni, frozen fried chicken, or any large hunk of animal flesh served with potatoes and corn), then he's iffy, at best, and is usually pretty sure he won't like it. (In no way do I blame his mother... she had to cook for the pickiest eaters on the face of the planet. If it wasn't meat and potatoes, it wasn't getting eaten. She has my deepest sympathy.) Over the years, I've introduced him to many different foods that he's never eaten before, and literally every single time I cook one of these "weird" foods, he claims I've never made it. Which I have. Many, many times.

Take today:

Dan called from work, as he usually does, around 3:00-ish. Also per usual, he asked what's for dinner.

Me: *answering even though I knew exactly what was going to follow* "Frittata."

Dan: "What?"

Me: "Frittata."

Dan: "What??"

Me: "FRITTATA. FRITTATA. FRI. TAW. TUH. FRITTATA."

Dan: "Fri-what, now?"

Me: "Fri. Taw. Tuh."

Dan: "What the hell is that?"

Me: "The same thing it was the last 200 times I've made it."

Dan: "You've never made that."

Me: "Yes, I have. It's the egg thingy I make, with ham and cheese."

Dan: "You mean an omelette?"

Me: *remaining calm... I'm a SAINT, people* "If I meant omelette I would have said omelette. It's like a crustless quiche. You like it. I usually serve it with crusty bread and a salad."

Dan: "So it's like an omelette."

Me: "No, Dan, it's like a frittata. Because that's what it is."

Dan: "So is the ham and cheese and stuff inside of it, like an omelette?"

Me: *giving up on Sainthood* "Seriously? Dan... it's a frittata. It's like quiche, only with no crust. I cook it in the oven, cut it into wedges, and then we eat it. Like quiche. Only without crust. Because it's a frittata. I send the leftovers to work with you in the morning for breakfast. We have it probably once a month or so."

Dan:

Me:

Dan: "So what's it called again?"

EVERY. TIME.

We go through the same spiel if I make tamales, enchiladas, fruit salad (I know, right? He can't get it through his head that fruit salad is just cut up fruit. He always wants to know if there's Jello in it. NO, THERE'S NO FREAKING JELLO IN FRUIT SALAD. IT'S CUT UP FRUIT. PERIOD. THE END. GAHHHHH!), chili verde...

It's enough to make me crazy.

I also think it's a good enough reason to smother him with a pillow while he sleeps.

(I kid, I kid... Or do I?)

Here's what I know, with absolute certainty: The sun will rise and set, the earth will spin on it's axis, and Dan will come home tonight and say, "Now, what do you call this again?"

Mark my words.

Whiny-Ass Men

Men are the biggest babies in the world when they're sick.  Period.  End of story.  


Okay, maybe not quite the end, because Dan is lying in bed AS WE SPEAK potentially dying from a baseball umping injury.  


He can barely move without assistance.  He needs me to help him get up out of bed and then lie back down again.


You'd think I should feel sorry for him.


You'd be wrong.


Back story, before you decide I am a cold, heartless bitch:  Dan spent Saturday umping at a youth baseball tournament.  He was behind the plate and since he is large and the children were small, he had to spend a lot of time squatting.  My man is fat and out of shape.  (Bless his heart.)  He injured his hamstring and his lower back attempting to emerge from a full squat.  


(God strike me dead because I think that's funny as hell and I kinda sorta wish I'd been there to see it.)


He came limping and moaning home Saturday evening and spent 20 minutes trying to get up the stairs.  I was sympathetic and kind, gave him a leg massage and lower back massage, plied him with Advil and TLC and didn't once make a disparaging remark.  


I WAS NICE, DAMMIT.


Sunday we spent the day driving through the mountains and wandering through old graveyards.  Every time he had to get out of the truck, this is what I heard:


Dan:  *moan* *whimper* *gasp*  "Daniiiiiii... oh my godddddd.... my legs are killing meeeee... *moan* *whimper*  Daniiiiii.... my back... my whole lower body hurts...."


Me:  "Sorry, baby."


(But honestly... what was I apologizing for?  I didn't do it.  I didn't tell him to spend a entire day hunkering down behind home plate in 100 degree heat.  He didn't even ask for my opinion.  If he had, I would have said, "You're fat and out of shape with weak knees and a bad back." And you know what?  He would have done it anyway.)


So yesterday I was sympathetic. I was nice, I catered to his whims, waited on him hand and foot, and "poor baby'd" him until I was throwing up a little bit in my mouth.


And then?  Last night?  THIS happened:


Dan was lying in bed, moaning and groaning and unable to move.  He used the house phone to call me from the bedroom (seriously.... he was 10 feet away from me but apparently too weak to call my name) and tell me he needed help getting up so he could go to the bathroom.


I rolled my eyes, mentally called him a giant wuss, put my book down, dislodged Maisy from my lap and walked into the bedroom.


(Important sidebar here:  Dan is 6'2 and weighs 265 lbs.  I am 5'1 and weigh considerably less than that.  And... GO.)


He held out his arms for me to grab his hands and pull him into a sitting position.  With much grunting and pulling on my end and much whimpering, gasping and moaning on his, we managed to get his legs over the side of the bed and him sitting up.


He reached his arms out again for me to help him stand up.  He grabbed my wrists and I yanked back as hard as I could.


Him:  "Don't stop!"


Me:  *%$#@!*  "I'm not!"


Him:  "Pull harder!"


Me:  *pulling with all my might and main*


Him:  *letting go*


Me:  *flying backwards into the wall, tripping over his size 14 fucking work boots, and landing on my ASS in the closet*


Him:  *still moaning from pain*  "Are you okay?"


Me:  *breath knocked out of me but seriously, SERIOUSLY pissed*


Him:  *starting to laugh, the rat bastard*  "Are you all right?"


Me:  *sooooooo not finding this funny*  


Him:  *showing a modicum of concern beneath his obvious mirth*  "Dani, are you okay??  I'm sorry, I didn't mean to let go!"


Me:  *FURIOUS*


Him:  "I didn't think you'd fall like that."


Me:  *fuming and kicking his boots and saying bad words*


Him:  *trying to look really, really sorry while laughing himself stupid*


Yeah.


So this morning, he called in almost dead and is staying home from work.  After the required bitching, moaning, whimpering and complaining about how much pain he's in, we had this conversation:


Me:  "You do realize that I'm done feeling sorry for you."


Him:  *nodding head*


Me:  "You do realize that if you call me on the phone from the bedroom to ask me for anything, I will kill you."


Him:  *nodding head*


Me:  "Just checking."


I did go to the store and buy him some icy hot and a treat, but that's all he's getting out of me.


MEN.