It’s a good thing they smell nice ...

  • Tuesday, May 6, 2014

I love my husband, and he loves me. But there are things about him—and men in general—that leave me stumped.

Take guns. Widdle won’t let me have one.

I didn’t grow up around guns--even with two brothers, a dad and a rural upbringing, we had none in the house. My father, a gentle man, would have gnawed off his foot before shooting anything. My brother, T-Bob, loved his Daisy BB gun until he shot a bird and it took a while to die. He threw up and aimed only at paper targets after that.

But times have changed. Today I live in the country, with A) No immediate neighbors, B) Two deaf dogs and C) A husband who travels. I have begged Widdle for a gun and he refuses.

“You get kind of loopy when you take your sleeping pills,” he says. “What if you shot me?”

News flash: My sleeping pills make me sleepy. They do not transform me into a whacked-out weapon-wielding wife.

And here’s the kicker: Last week, Widdle was invited to a skeet shoot… and he emerged from the guest bedroom carrying TWO SHOTGUNS I DIDN’T KNOW WE HAD.

This was a big honking deal. “Will you show me how to fire one so I can keep it behind the bedroom door, like Joe Biden’s wife?” I asked, hopefully.

“No, you get kind of loopy when—“

“Never mind,” I said, and that was that.

Another thing I don’t understand: Widdle rarely eats my cooking. I don’t cook that often, but no matter what I make, he’s all, “Oh, I’m off vegetables/chicken /soup/rice/seafood lately. I’ll just eat an apple.” Since he and I have totally different diets, it’s not like I can eat what I cook for him. (I know, it’s complicated.)

So my spurned culinary love sits uneaten in the fridge until I throw it out the back door for the chickens and dogs to fight over. (And judging by their reaction, I make a mean sausage gumbo. So there.)

It’s not just Widdle--I know a guy who loves caramel cake. When he and his wife go to a nice restaurant he always orders caramel cake for dessert. He tears recipes for caramel cake out of magazines, and bookmarks others online. So one day his wife cleared her schedule and made him a caramel cake, with six layers and boiled icing from scratch. She was proud of that cake. When hubby came home, she lifted the cover on the cake plate and waited for applause.

“Eh, I need to lose a few pounds,” he said. “But thanks.”

I probably would have shot him, which may explain why Widdle won’t let me have a gun.

The last thing I don’t understand—oh, who am I kidding? There are 43,219 other things I don’t get about men--is how guys can sleep anywhere, anytime. I don’t know any women who do this, only men. (I can’t sleep even after a warm bath, medication and a boring book.)

If my dad got tired while driving, he’d pull over and sleep for 10 minutes—under a glaring streetlight, with traffic rushing by. On a plane tossing in turbulent skies, Widdle takes a quick catnap. Watching a movie is an opportunity to snore so loud he wakes himself up. He will let the dog out, sit in the Queen Anne chair and pass out cold. Sitting upright.

Men. They won’t give you a gun, eat your cake or stay awake during a Meryl Streep movie. It’s a good thing they smell nice.

Julie R. Smith, who knows men are from Mars, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.

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