Although my 84 year old father lived among a lot of couples in his retirement community in Florida, I couldn’t help noticing every time I visited that he spent much more time talking with the women than the men. Finally I decided to ask him why that was: “Well, the wives are all very nice.” He said. “But their husbands are a bunch of schmucks.”
So while we may not be in a position to, or at all interested in, celebrating Father’s Day this year, I propose an alternate holiday:
“Thank You for Not Being a Schmuck” Month.
Your spouse/partner/husband–whatever he is– probably does some things that irritate you. That’s normal, of course. And yet, even with those small annoyances, minor aggravations and colossal pet peeves that drive you up a fkn wall… He’s the one, the only one, you’ve hand-picked to have calendar-induced copulation with and to sire your future children. You know you wouldn’t have your eggs in a freezer, snuggling together for warmth with anyone else’s sperm.
So he’s not perfect…
I would have to say that all of the stereotypical bad habits that we accuse most men of having… well, that’s pretty much me. I watch every ballgame I can and argue every play with the TV. I have road rage. I easily fit curse words in as nouns, verbs or adjectives in any sentence. I scratch whatever itches no matter where I am or who is looking. And I’m not the neatest person.
Some couples have problems in the bedroom. We have problems in the kitchen.
He doesn’t like the way I rinse stuff off. I rinse it off so it looks fine to me… but not to him. Then if I rinse it off adequately, I shouldn’t have left it in the sink. Clearly, it should have been transferred into the dishwasher. But if I’m the dish washer, why do I have a dishwasher? And apparently after I rinse off the food and gunk into the sink, I’m supposed to clean the sink. I don’t skeeve many things, but kitchen sink drains is one of them.
Also, if the dishwasher has clean dishes in it, apparently that’s my cue to empty it out. I’m aware that we usually have clean dishes in the cabinets. I just never knew how they got there.
And then there’s the peanut butter issue. A common breakfast for me includes sticking a teaspoon into the peanut butter and eating it…and repeating this action… three times… every morning. It’s not my fault: A serving size is a tablespoon. Three teaspoons equal a tablespoon. Sure I could dip one tablespoon once instead of one teaspoon three times, but my way just feels like a bigger breakfast. I finally did the only sensible thing and got my own private jar of peanut butter to slobber into. Still, I don’t get it. Of all the things my husband’s seen me put into my mouth in the past fourteen years, he thinks my peanut butter spoon is the most disgusting?
So maybe “Thank You for Not Being a Schmuck” isn’t quite right. I mean, we’re all schmucks sometimes. Maybe: “Thank You for not Being a Total Schmuck” is better.
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