A Walk in the Snark (13 page)
There’s just one little annoying thing about going out with him…see, he can be a little, um, indecisive about where to eat when we go out. Man up, dude!
What’s worse is when we finally have a sitter (Instructions: Don’t call unless the house is on fire.), he can’t figure out where the hell to go eat.
I will name three or four restaurants that are perfectly fine. He will usually say they’re fine. Or not. He can’t decide. Sigh.
I’m not that picky, but don’t wait too long, as I will get grumpy if I get too hungry. Not only do I get low blood sugar, but I go quickly into the snark zone. I know; shocker.
It isn’t pretty. I wrote this one night while waiting for HIM to decide.
Check out this
brief video clip
from one of my absolute favorite episodes of
Friends
– the one where Rachel made a traditional English dessert, the trifle (with beef?). Pay particular attention to Joey as they sit down to eat, and especially at the end of the clip.
I love this clip for many reasons, not only because it’s hysterically funny but because I think it perfectly encapsulates the three types of male feeding personalities:
Joey: The Neanderthal
, who will eat anything, anytime. “I like it. What’s not to like? Custard—good. Jam—good. Meat—GOOD.”
Ross: The Pleaser
, who will eat something he doesn’t want, but does it anyway, just to make his woman happy. “It tastes like feet!”
Chandler: The Finicky Eater
, who won’t eat anything that seems unappetizing in any way, shape, or form. Ever (of course he was justified in this case). “I’m going to go enjoy this on the balcony—so I can enjoy the view whilst I enjoy my dessert.”
So, how does this all fit into the question,
“Where do you want to go for dinner?”
In my experience, that’s a loaded question. Mostly for the guy. I kind of feel sorry for the man who thinks that it is really up to him to decide what he and his wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/significant other are going to eat for dinner. The basic premise of asking that question in the first place assumes that he really wants to know.
In most cases, however, is that really the case?
In reality, the truth is that the man
just wants to eat
. He may ask the question out of a gentlemanly need to be polite (which we appreciate), but really he just wants to do whatever it takes to get to the damn food.
He may appear to be waiting patiently while she runs through the
litany of choices
, but what he is really thinking is “My God, can’t she just hurry up and decide? We could already BE there. Or at least I could have called by now, made a reservation, and we could be halfway there. Less wait time means quicker-food-in-my-stomach time.”
Date night can be so romantic.
My guess is what he’s really thinking is: Let’s just get a burger already. (“Meat.
Good
.”)
I liken this question to the hamster on the wheel. The man keeps asking, knowing it doesn’t really matter.
Speaking of the litany of choices, I will admit that we women approach the opportunity of going out to dinner differently than men. We mothers are so excited about being out of the damn house, away from the kids and the chore of family cooking, that when given the opportunity of CHOICE—Thai, Indian, Chinese, a steakhouse, a fish house, sushi, etc.—we can kind of lose ourselves, if you will, in an orgasm of
food porn
.
A smart man will be patient and recognize this as a sign of foreplay.
I also know that women get cravings for a particular type of food (even when we’re not pregnant) and when we say we want THAT food, there is no arguing with us. If we are craving say, Thai red curry—and you want a burger—seriously dude, give it up. I can guarantee you that we don’t care.
So—my advice to men regarding this question is to go with the Ross Model of Feeding Personality. You don’t have to eat awful food—no, no. After all, you picked your woman—she must have good taste. Just
please
her. Let her choose the cuisine. Be patient. You’ll get food of some sort and your chick will be happily satisfied and potentially open to other, er, pursuits.
You gave her an inch (hee hee)…now take your mile, baby.
***
“
A sincere apology is a cookie. Or a martini.
Put them together & you’ve got an orgasm, baby. #bestapologyever”
MORE POWER
I know men always think in terms of food. Well, and sex.
They definitely think bigger, thicker, and more has GOT to be better, right? Wait, are we still talking about sex?
Um, actually, no. We’re talking Christmas trees. Grow up.
In my house, my guy loves all the Chevy Chase Vacation movies. Griswold is God. I only see the bumbling idiot part (especially after, God help me, fifteen viewings).
Most guys love stupid movies. Especially stupid Christmas movies. I don’t get it. What I do get is that it still gives my guy ideas about wanting to put enough lights on our home to see it from space.
Thanks, Sparky.
I think I’m married to Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor.
Remember that show,
Home Improvement
? The one that made Tim Allen famous?
He was this goofy family guy with a hardware store and a local TV show called
Tool Time
, (accompanied by his able assistant Al and the ever-present hot chick) who raised three boys in suburban Michigan with his witty saint of a wife Jill, odd philosophical neighbor Wilson, and a garage full of hot rods.
Tim barely made it through each day by joking around and giving everyday objects MORE POWER while attempting not to kill himself.
Yeah. That’s my guy.
For example, our Christmas tree this year. JP asked me if, because we’re in a house that now has higher ceilings, would I want oh, a little bit larger tree? My exact words? “Sure, that’d be fine.”
I also mentioned that I wouldn’t mind if he flocked it. (I think he thought I was talking dirty to him. Maybe I was.)
In the past, we’ve had six-foot noble firs. Pretty trees. Manageable sizes, particularly for this little Jew girl, who had to get used to having a tree in the first place. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE having a tree. And of course what comes under it.
So when the guys showed up yesterday with a ten-and-a-half-foot noble fir I was, in a word, overwhelmed.
Shocked.
Just cause I said a little bit bigger tree would be FINE didn’t mean bring in the forest, dude.
Not that it isn’t beautiful. It is.
But holy hell, it’s ginormous.
I just keep expecting little forest creatures to come running out of it.
And if I see a
spider
, I’m outta here.
We’ve now spent half the morning out looking for a bigger ladder,
more
lights, and of course
better
ornaments…all the while accompanied by Perry Como and good ol’ Bing.
Groan. Kill. Me. Now.
The whole process kind of exhausts me, to be quite honest. But the dude enjoys it, so I watch him quietly in wonder as I savor my (spiked) eggnog from our sofa (now relegated to the backyard), as he goes about his business of decorating this monster, secure in the knowledge that he’s doing his best to make our home full of spirit and light.
And ya know, more power.
(I have all my emergency numbers on speed dial. Just in case.)
***
“
#Thanksgiving: I am NOT cooking
#everyoneisthankful”
LAST TRAIN HOME:
Once a year the holidays come swinging at your head
Feast until you’re full of pain again
It tightens in your chest and now it's written on your face
You’re staring at your lover or your friend
Get it on the table, pass the gravy pass the buck
Get it on the table, secrets and lies,
Silence, faith and luck
~ SECRETS & LIES~, Jonatha Brooke
The time of family obligations has begun.
Could’ve, should’ve, and would’ve will be coming over for dinner soon. Time to get out the good crystal.
Pour the wine of expectation, so careful not to spill. Large groups of family all together in small rooms have the effect of a meteor shower: stains of resignation that seep like red wine burned not only onto your carpet but also your heart that may not come out for years, no matter how hard you try.
The fragile glass of a family gathering can break so easily under the clenched smiles and hot lights of rosy-cheeked intentions, overwhelming even the hardiest among us. We all knew each other intimately once, were so involved in each other’s lives; afraid to think about, let alone ask, if it was really only distance and time that changed.
We skim the surface. We ask but we don’t delve. We search for words that ultimately get in the way.
We take our usual spots, sitting in our fine, sturdy chairs. The gap between where you are and where you seem to be makes you squirm and long for the solitude of all you’ve achieved; even if all you do is hold it in your dreams.
Impressions we try to change clutter our familiar table, no matter how hard we’ve scrubbed away at them year after year, casting a shadow over all that we say. We clear the table, wanting to wipe away the scars of dinners past, wondering—is it too much to ask for you to pass the hope that’s just out of reach?
So we gather our things, buttoning our coats, grateful for the warmth after the chill; breathing a sigh of relief at the reprieve another year offers us, tripping on our way out the door on the jumble of unresolved differences, anxious to catch the last train home.