Gallagher, that icon of the eighties said it best, ‘the difference between a male and a female is a male can walk by a shoe store, especially when he has shoes on his feet.’ You have my permission to use it at those wonderful upcoming holiday parties; I don’t know if you still need Gallagher’s permission. But the truth of the matter is, women love to shop, women love to spend money, women love to buy things. I am not sure they like things more than men; in fact I am quite sure men like their possessions more than women, partly because the act of obtaining them is not a religious experience for them, but the possessions men own tend to be more revered. Men also tend to have fewer of them.
Men’s homes are less knick-knackery, less cluttered, less homey. Men’s homes tend to be stark compared to women’s, tend to have better electronics, and perhaps one incredible chair or sofa. Some exercise equipment, and a coffee table. What they lack is stuff like, paintings, candles, pillows that complement the curtains, kitchen tables that weren’t salvaged from some garage. Towels that complement anything in the house, and a bed that is meant to be a show piece instead of only for two things, passing out on, and you know what else. To that end men, you should keep it clean, and your room fairly decent. Keep your soiled briefs and tainted socks in a laundry basket, not left in a trail to your pass out zone.
So it occurred to me one hung over morning that a painting above my fireplace would be nice. The living room was let’s face it, bland. Not only was it dominated by that ridiculously large TV I had to have for a Super Bowl party four years ago, that was now screaming outdated like a white Chevrolet Suburban, but my girl friend was right I needed some color in here. I liked the Aztec clay that my walls were painted; the trouble is everything else was some shade of brown or other. Even the curtains my honey special ordered from The Pottery Barn. In her defense my walls at that time were going to be painted blue, so everything she brought in was a hue of brown, and the rug I picked out, and the sofa my mother bought were all brown.. It goes unnoticed by me, most of the time, and my girl friend stopped remarking on it after the first seven months or so.
But on this dreary lonely, quiet morning, where even the soulful sounds of Lucinda Williams couldn’t comfort the blues I was working up, I decided I needed art. Which meant a day, or a weekend, or a month of weekends, going through galleries being met by shopkeepers that were either pretentious or hovering, looking at one painting after another, until they blurred together like past loves.
I would have to take my girlfriend of course, I didn’t always agree with her taste, but she knows my taste even better than I do. And going into a shop without her by my side, would be like letting people know I have moments where I am insecure. Neither of which is ever going to happen. Shopping with my special someone is fun, to a point. When it comes to shopping I just don’t have that much stamina, those shop lights just tire my eyes, my head, and my feet. My favorite shops have comfortable chairs in a corner, where I can sit out of the way until my sweetie is ready to move on. She never buys anything with me, and it feels like when I take her to a ball game. The gesture is nice, but the energy to enjoy it just isn’t there. Certain activities were created to be enjoyed with your gender. Men have sports and sports, both watching and playing. I would have added drinking, but there are times when drinking with a woman has its definite pay-offs. Women have shopping, eating lunch, going to salons, power walking, and going to the bathroom.
When my girl friend goes shopping with her friends, things are purchased, deals are made, and memories are created. Celebratory desserts and wine consumed, and she comes home pleased with life. Victory has been had. It is as if she took three strokes off her golf score.
So the prospect of getting art on my fireplace was not looking bright. Either giving up weekend after weekend thumbing through art, until succumbing to that hopelessness that would lead me to purchase the very next non-ridiculous thing I saw. Or just sit here in all my UPSness décor.
And then it dawned on me, I can give her my credit card, with the direction on buying something for over my fireplace. She can round up her troops, there is shopping to be had, cars will be filled, plans of attack made, and she has a credit card. They can have desserts, she can sneak on there a pair of shoes, and I get a nice piece of art to complement my living room, my tastes. And the next hung over morning I have, I can admire my wall above my fireplace, and then worry about the throw pillows.
Mac McMann writes from the male point of view at www.manslant.com. He can be reached at mac@manslant.com
Men’s homes are less knick-knackery, less cluttered, less homey. Men’s homes tend to be stark compared to women’s, tend to have better electronics, and perhaps one incredible chair or sofa. Some exercise equipment, and a coffee table. What they lack is stuff like, paintings, candles, pillows that complement the curtains, kitchen tables that weren’t salvaged from some garage. Towels that complement anything in the house, and a bed that is meant to be a show piece instead of only for two things, passing out on, and you know what else. To that end men, you should keep it clean, and your room fairly decent. Keep your soiled briefs and tainted socks in a laundry basket, not left in a trail to your pass out zone.
So it occurred to me one hung over morning that a painting above my fireplace would be nice. The living room was let’s face it, bland. Not only was it dominated by that ridiculously large TV I had to have for a Super Bowl party four years ago, that was now screaming outdated like a white Chevrolet Suburban, but my girl friend was right I needed some color in here. I liked the Aztec clay that my walls were painted; the trouble is everything else was some shade of brown or other. Even the curtains my honey special ordered from The Pottery Barn. In her defense my walls at that time were going to be painted blue, so everything she brought in was a hue of brown, and the rug I picked out, and the sofa my mother bought were all brown.. It goes unnoticed by me, most of the time, and my girl friend stopped remarking on it after the first seven months or so.
But on this dreary lonely, quiet morning, where even the soulful sounds of Lucinda Williams couldn’t comfort the blues I was working up, I decided I needed art. Which meant a day, or a weekend, or a month of weekends, going through galleries being met by shopkeepers that were either pretentious or hovering, looking at one painting after another, until they blurred together like past loves.
I would have to take my girlfriend of course, I didn’t always agree with her taste, but she knows my taste even better than I do. And going into a shop without her by my side, would be like letting people know I have moments where I am insecure. Neither of which is ever going to happen. Shopping with my special someone is fun, to a point. When it comes to shopping I just don’t have that much stamina, those shop lights just tire my eyes, my head, and my feet. My favorite shops have comfortable chairs in a corner, where I can sit out of the way until my sweetie is ready to move on. She never buys anything with me, and it feels like when I take her to a ball game. The gesture is nice, but the energy to enjoy it just isn’t there. Certain activities were created to be enjoyed with your gender. Men have sports and sports, both watching and playing. I would have added drinking, but there are times when drinking with a woman has its definite pay-offs. Women have shopping, eating lunch, going to salons, power walking, and going to the bathroom.
When my girl friend goes shopping with her friends, things are purchased, deals are made, and memories are created. Celebratory desserts and wine consumed, and she comes home pleased with life. Victory has been had. It is as if she took three strokes off her golf score.
So the prospect of getting art on my fireplace was not looking bright. Either giving up weekend after weekend thumbing through art, until succumbing to that hopelessness that would lead me to purchase the very next non-ridiculous thing I saw. Or just sit here in all my UPSness décor.
And then it dawned on me, I can give her my credit card, with the direction on buying something for over my fireplace. She can round up her troops, there is shopping to be had, cars will be filled, plans of attack made, and she has a credit card. They can have desserts, she can sneak on there a pair of shoes, and I get a nice piece of art to complement my living room, my tastes. And the next hung over morning I have, I can admire my wall above my fireplace, and then worry about the throw pillows.
Mac McMann writes from the male point of view at www.manslant.com. He can be reached at mac@manslant.com
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