(Prior posting from my old webspace)
Well, enough of the heavy shit. Back to being me.
What is it about men. We are truly odd creatures when you think about it. Women have thier moments too, but men, wow.. what a simple set of molecules.
It’s truly perplexing how those molecules can end up complicating things so damned much.
I mean, to us, it’s simple. To anyone that witnesses the act of a man, it’s anything but.
Just ask someone’s girlfriend, or wife, or partner. They’ll attest with vigor that this is Gospel!
A woman can go to the bank, take out money, shop, sometimes for hours, and come home with her purchases. Simple. And that’s amazing, because, unlike men, women tend to be much more complicated.
A man.. well, it’s a bit more of a challenge. See, we don’t like to spend… UNLESS it’s on something cool. With few exeptions.
Take for example a pair of jeans. I’ll give you a story about my shopping with my ex once for these items.
I go to the stores, knowing I am going to feel very badly and become moody when I discover, yet again, that nothing fits. I am built in an odd size, and no matter what direction my waist goes, I have to do massive alterations to get a proper fit. So shopping is a nightmare for me usually.
Ok, so if a female went shopping, she’d probably, if she’s a shopping guru, work the stores until they worked for her.
Not I said the dullard! LOL, not a chance!
This is where simple becomes complicated. I know, without a single doubt, that putting on even one pair of jeans will result in a flood of rage so deep that Rambo himself would envy it. It would take milliseconds for my own Columbine to occur as I discovered, yet again, that a size 38 was actually an American 36, meaning I have to wear even FATTER pants than I was prepared to buy.
Bodies of young teenage girls, and slickly dressed young Italian men would lie lifeless in my path.
So, in a moment of self preservation, and for the innocent lives I’m about to take in a moment of sheer mental departure, I devise a little plan.
Why not shop for HIM? Indeed. He’s with me, so I gotta be quick.
Keep in mind, I REALLY need the jeans, I’m wearing a quilt that used to resemble a jean once, and truly know that the rags I am wearing are not even fit to clean an engine block. Done means DONE. Time to move on.
But, do I have to make myself miserable in the hunt? All I seem to do is become a Bi Polar murdering psychopath in this endeavor, so how to get out of it.. HMMMM.
It’s then that my muse rests upon my tattered shoulder, and shows me the way.
We just lost a rabbit at that time (Hartz Mountain NEEDS to stop murdering animals for profit. http://www.hartzvictims.org/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=1029 ) and my shifty little mind, decides to take a simple task, and COMPLICATE the shit out of it.
Hmmmm.. anything to avoid that fucking dressing room.
We see this adorable little toy rabbit. It’s got black and white, and is about as good in temprament as you could hope.
I divert him to a store full of jewellery (I do electronics, he loves a good diamond) and buy the rabbit.
Man, is he PISSED. But one look at my jeans with a cotton tail and sweet kisses, and he’s parked the rage for a bit. I mean, HELLO, we have rabbit stuff all over the place from the last bunny.
So, how is this complicating? Well, this simple little move resulted in my not sleeping FOREVER. Rabbits, I seem to forget, are N O C T U R N A L and will spend my evenings of slumber thrashing about cages. This is usually escalated around the time that my stalking, hunting cat, Xena, decides to devil this poor animal.
So, for days, weeks, months, nearly a year, I am listening to the metal thump of a danger provoked toy rabbit on an aluminum cage. Nonstop.
And, the sound of his throwing litter, throwing food, chewing, scratching, knawing, licking that DAMNED LICKY BOTTLE SPOUT CEASELESSLY TIL THE END OF TIME, fornicating with himself.. the list goes on.
Until his last breath, which I am convinced Xena brought about when we went out one day, my furry little jeans became the most complicated purchase of my life.
And, the jeans I wore, fell apart. Completely. I was relegated to track pants, until I finally went to a second hand store and got lucky. This is ten years almost. I am still wearing those jeans… and now, THEY need replacement.
I even have a gift certificate. But I don’t have anyone to fool into getting out of buying them.
AAARRG. So, Complex Creature-Simple Task.
They just don’t mix.
When will I ever learn.