I’d like to treat you to a guest column, partially because I was on a trip and have yet to master the art of typing while driving. (Don’t think I haven’t tried.)
It’s a great example of how we’re all alike. My friend jaded_jamie is from England, and in some ways isn’t like me at all. And yet – as you’ll see here, when he tells the story of trying to put together a computer workstation – despite being from other countries, we are so very much alike:
The Workstation arrived and Gina put it together, as is her want and need because I couldn’t put together a three piece jig saw puzzle without injuring myself and anyone else who used it from then on in.
One problem. She left the house with only the legs to be put on. A simple task by anyone’s standards. Right?
I mean, how hard can it be to put in four screws, anyway?
So I put the legs on. One fell off as I picked it up to turn it around – well, I didn’t know you shouldn’t lift it by one leg when there’s only one screw holding said leg in place! Who would know that?
So I went next door and got bigger screws in a blind panic that she might come home and discover that I had ruined the workstation in the 10 minutes she had dared to leave me alone with it. Put the bigger screws in. They wobbled, so I secured them with superglue and left them to dry.
Then I tried to clean up the superglue I had spilled all over the newly laid floor in the kitchen.
Then I used a crayon to cover up the scratch on the brand newly installed cupboard door that I had scratched with the screwdriver, when I fell forward while trying to get the larger screws in.
Then I mopped up the glass of milk that I spilled everywhere while leaning over the workstation to reach for one of the legs.
Then I changed my trousers and threw the superglue and milk covered ones in the washer and turned it on. So half an hour passed, and even though she told me specifically not to do it, her words being. “Put the legs on and leave it exactly where it is, okay?!” Because obviously I am male and therefore incapable of following instructions from a woman, I thought I would be nice and put the sodding workstation in my cupboard under the stairs. I was trying to be nice, damn it.
Then I plugged everything into the computer and positioned it really well and started it up to make sure everything worked. And you have to know what a pain putting a computer together from scratch is?
Then I stood proudly back and admired my handy work.
And I thought it good.
So I turned to put the kettle on, because one can never drink enough tea in my opinion, and boom. Right there next to the kettle.
Yes, it was supposed to have wheels, which I had neglected to install before I put
As a man, there was only one option now available to me. It was simple. I threw the wheels in the trash, covered them with an old wrapper of bread, and promptly chose to forget
Until last night when they came back to haunt me like a corpse I had inadvertently buried in too shallow a grave in my garden, that the dog had dug up.
When I was taking out the rubbish bag to the bin it split. All over the garden. Not fun. I started to gather up all the slop with a spade and Gina walks outside to see what’s taking me so long and picks up the wheels and glares at me.
So I explained to her what happened. Needless to say, she was utterly unimpressed.
Why is it that something as pointless as having wheels on a workstation can drive a woman to such frustration with her man? She claims it is the fact that I didn’t say anything and hid the evidence as the bug bear. A likely story. She was, in my advanced male logic, just finding something to complain about.
I had to listen to a 10 minute lecture as to why it would make her life so much easier if it had wheels when she was cleaning under said workstation. So my answer was simple, “So don’t clean under it, who will know anyway?”
She was utterly unimpressed by my response for some reason.
And then I had to listen for half an hour of why she shouldn’t leave me to do things like this because I never do them right. To which my reply was, “So stop leaving me to do things, you’re 18 years in and just realizing I am incapable of certain things?!”
She was equally unimpressed by that response.
You see, she disagrees completely with my assertion that when it comes to cleaning one should only worry about what people will see, and forget the rest. In fact her answer to this idea was “MEN!”
Why do women do that? They say “MEN!” like it’s some deep meaningful explanation to all that is wrong with the world? Sure it is exactly that but still, they don’t have to say it.
Sure, we start all the wars.
Sure, we have oppressed women using religion and politics since the dawn of time.
Sure, every country with a woman leader or matriarchal society is always much better off.
Sure, we have taken their rights and screwed them over repeatedly for thousands of years.
Sure, we are incapable of sharing emotion even on a basic level.
Sure, a cuddle to us instantly means full blown sex must immediately follow.
Sure, the older we get the grouchier we become.
Sure, we undervalue them completely.
Sure, we kept alive the assertion that being a housewife is a pointless and easy thing to do.
Sure we are difficult to live with.
Sure women have ruled the world since the dawn of time and we have always acted like we do.
Sure, we pout like children if we don’t get our own way.
Sure, we don't so much as attempt to understand where women are coming from on any point or opinion she is trying to make.
Sure…. Wait a minute, I’ve forgotten my point...
Anyway, she’s pretty much wonderful and perfect for me, and no other woman on the face of the planet would ever put up with me like she does, so I won’t go on…
Apart from my horrible long day at work, I have to go home tonight and install those sodding wheels onto the workstation under threat of being cut off for an indeterminate amount of time. *sigh*
Sodding wheels. It’s all their fault.
Clearly the conclusion to this story is simple: wheels are the root of all evil.