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Men and Gift Shopping -- It Ain't A Pretty Sight! |
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The King of Procrastination actually believes me when I say I don't want anything for Christmas! See how the game is played. When my husband starts reading newspaper ads along about Thanksgiving time, it can mean only one thing . . . I'll be getting appliances for Christmas - again! Here's the warning signs! What does "winning" have to do with baseball? It all depends on whether you're the parent or the child. Check out our "Babe" in the making! What does it mean exactly when your husband actually helps without you asking? Guilt? Amnesia? No-no -- there's a much simpler answer. And it's right here. What we women have to realize, is that owning a riding lawn mower has nothing to do with how much grass you do or don't have . . . for men, it's a love like no other! And here's the proof . . . You got to appreciate a man who's smart enough to know not to get in the way of woman with her hand stuck in a frozen chicken! Read on . . . My husband has his own version of a First Aid Kit -- a bottle of green stuff and a bottle of alcohol. I am Mother . . . hear me rant! What is it with men anyway? Ask for a simple opinion about your hair & they cower in the corner like a scared puppy. Come play "Truth or Dare" with me. There is such a thing as too much togetherness . . . it's what they call that time when you put furniture together . . . together! Read and learn. If you were readng this ezine while waiting for hubby to find "the best parking place" at the mall, you'd have time to read all the past issues! Circle around with me one more time . . . Everyone has their job. His is being designated driver -- mine is being the ever-vigilant Safety Officer. It's my job to yell "STOP!" OK - Here's a test for you . . . what's worse? Surgically removing a husband from his remote control or catching a cat who doesn't want to be caught? Find out here. I've seen GQ Magazine . . . my husband apparently hasn't. Meet . . . My Trendy Guy And what is it men love even more than their old clothes? (No -- not that!) Read all about having The Right Tools To Outdoor Types . . . Sweating Is A Noble Pastime -- As for me -- I'll be at the Holiday Inn if you need me! |
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© 2000-2002 Carole Moore |
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Christmas Eve is a very important day of the year for most American men. It is the day when they finally put down their remote controls, grab their charge cards and hit the stores in search of SOMETHING for their wives or significant others. |
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They have waited until the last moment not because they dread shopping for their better halves or don't have a single clue as to
what to buy. No, they've waited until the last moment because that's the way their fathers did it before them. It's tradition and besides, it gives them lots of time to ignore all the hints their wives have been throwing at them
since Easter, instead surprising them with a gift made in a country that wasn't even on the map three months ago. Most men would do their shopping much earlier if only the sports people (all men) and television executives (again
men) would stop conspiring to thwart the natural inclination they have to shop early and often by pelting them with constant, unending sporting events. I know for a fact that each time my husband girds himself to go shopping, the
television magically lights up and throws a basketball game at him. Oh, he fights like a tiger. First he sits in a less comfortable chair so he won't get too entrenched. Then he relegates himself to less appetizing snacks like
popcorn WITHOUT movie butter. But it doesn't work. No matter how much he really wants to get out there and slug it out in order to buy me something I might actually want for Christmas, he's taken prisoner by ESPN. So he sits home
and checks the sales papers. Just the other day he held up one and said, "Look, Dirt Devils are on sale!" Perhaps I was too subtle for the man. Instead of turning off the television, taking his face in my hands, making
him look into my eyes and saying loudly and distinctly, "If you buy me a Dirt Devil for Christmas, I'm going to cut the toes out of all your socks and drop the television into the aquarium" I said: "I don't want a
Dirt Devil." That, of course, is not what he heard. What he heard was this: "Mumble, mumble, WANT mumble, mumble DIRT DEVIL." Then, on Christmas Eve -- and sometimes earlier in the holiday season, oh, say on
Dec. 23rd when there's nothing good on TV, he'll roll out of his recliner, wipe the popcorn remnants from his sweater and/or tank top depending on the weather, and head for the stores. He will decide which store to go to by using
the infallible scientific method of choosing the closest one with a vacant parking space. He will pull into the space and hike inside the store where he will run into three or four other guys he knows who are also out buying stuff
for their wives/girlfriends. They will group together like crows sitting on a fence and discuss the really important issues of the season -- who'll play in what bowl game, why Carolina/State/Duke will (or will not) go all the way
this year and the forecast for the Panthers/Hornets next year. Then one of them will look at his watch and say, "Gee, I guess I'd better go buy my wife a Christmas present." And all of them will agree that it's probably
time. Then they'll discuss what they are going to buy. One will tell the others about a really cool automatic potato peeler he saw on TV and -- relieved that they don't have to make a decision -- the guys will troop as one into the
store and buy up all the electric potato peelers they can find. Which is why, on the first work day after Christmas so many American men go to work with the imprint of electric potato peelers (or Dirt Devils) on the backs of
their heads. Merry Christmas |
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Home -- About the Humor Writer -- Getting Older . . . Not Better -- Potpourri Encounters of the Kid Kind -- Life With A Man The Perils of Eileen -- The New Adventures of Eileen
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My Serious Side --
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