COMMON MATTERS

The Nothing Box

You might ask what is a "nothing box"?  I don't have one.  Most men have them. It's the space a man retreats to when he has nothing to say about a matter, or whenever he has things he doesn't want to deal with.  He sticks those things in his nothing box and forgets about it.  We ladies have a tough time relating to that "nothing box".  If we have something we don't want to deal with, we stuff it in a closet or shove it under the rug. We cram it in our purse, or stick it in the junk drawer.  Then we run around the house pretending it doesn't exist, all the while thinking about what in the world we are going to do with it. We worry about the space it's taking up beneath the rug and whether or not the rest of the world notices the lump it's created.  We plan out how we'll get to it tomorrow and think about how best to organize it when we do.  All the while we fold clothes, pay the bills, and go grocery shopping.  Not men.

Sometimes I ask my husband what he's thinking and he says, "Nothing".  I can't imagine that.  I can actually sit in my recliner, type a column on my computer, and think about stuff he ought to be thinking about.  I wonder how he can't be thinking about it.  How can he lie around thinking "nothing" all day long?

I asked my husband one day what he was thinking.  He said, "Nothing". Absolutely  nothing.  He literally can stare into space and nothing...not one single thought--passes through his mind.

We ladies are always thinking.  We think about rising gasoline prices, all the while wondering how to get strawberry kool-aid stain out of our sofa cushions.  We watch television and think about how we need to get up and clean that speck off the far right corner left by a fly that settled down on it the night before.  We drive down the road and stop at a stop light and wonder where the lady in the car beside us gets her hair done.  We stand in line at the grocery and wonder why they can't keep our favorite candybar stocked in every checkout lane instead of just lane 10 and 14.  We wonder where the day goes when we never leave the house and have nothing to show for the passage of 10 hours.  But men?

They just walk in the door, take off their caps, drop their keys, kick off their boots, read the paper, and wait for dinner.  They shut off their minds and stick the key in the nothing box.  They do not fill it up with needless information like how many calories are in a nutty bar, or who ate all the Oreos.  If they want a nutty bar, they get one and eat it.  If all the Oreos are gone, they reach for a bag of Doritos. They watch their ballgames without once noticing the speck in the righthand corner of the television screen.

Men can sit all day watching one team after another advance in the brackets and never even think about the contents of their nothing box.  Why?  because there is nothing in there.  I just wonder how in the world do you find a space like that and not begin decorating it?

Sometimes they put us in their "nothing" box.  And that is a good thing.  At least when we are in their nothing box, they don't get upset with us when we switch the channel from Nascar to the Lifetime movie channel.  Of course I'm kidding.  There is no way they could sit through that without telling us exactly what they think.

MEN!!!

They have this uncanny ability to annoy the buggers out of we women sometimes. Seriously.  Take last week.  I've been harping and moaning about my 2005 Prius needing a good wash-job.  Not one of those "touchless" things that barely wash Oklahoma claydust off the windshield.  No.  I wanted a hands-on approach that gently but firmly rubs the bug-guts off the front-end without scratching the paint.  I wanted my dusty gravel-gray colored tires restored to their black beauty (yep, been driving on Trail Road, again).  I wanted my windshield wipers gently lifted and washed beneath them...the corners of the windshield squeaky clean.  However, for some odd reason, unless a vehicle is a chrome-dressed black Silverado, or a man-sized apple-red F-150, guys have little interest in detailing it. I think, for the most part, that is because a car is a car and, well, not a truck.

 

Honestly.  I'm not talking out of school.  I know most men think a Toyota Prius is a sissy car.  I know when they drive past all those gas stations crammed with pick-up trucks guzzling down 100-dollar fill-ups, they feel a bit queasy sitting in a Prius.  That's fine.  I'm okay with that.  If they can't man-up and admit they're abit ashamed of being seen in a sissy car, that's fine with me--but can't they swallow a bit of pride and humor us a bit?  Let me explain.

 

A few weeks ago, when I asked for car-washing volunteers from our Sunday-dinner bunch of men, my only taker was my seventeen-year-old grandson.  "I'll take it to the carwash."  Say what?  I'm thinking, fagetta-bou'-dit.  Men!  Yes, I consider my grandson a man--he fights fires, for crying out loud.  He jumps tall buildings, and has all the qualities of his elder brother, father, brother-in-law, and grandfather.  Macho dudes all.  When I said the carwash wasn't good enough all the men in the room seemed stunned--a bit like roadkill on steroids.  I explained why those monstrous brushrollers scratch up the paint job and the pulsating Touchless systems don't touch the bug-guts.  They kinda looked at me like, well, after all, it's only a Prius--it's not like it's a chrome-loaded Silverado, now is it?  Suffice it to say, no one wanted the job.

 

So, my husband comes home from work last week and decides he's gonna wash my Prius.  And I said, "Nope, you are not going to wash my Prius."  He looked at me like I was nutso.  Folks, It was 92 degrees out!  My husband's heart condition does not gel well in extreme heat and extreme cold.  I wasn't about to become a party to his early demise.  Especially not over a dirty car.  He doesn't like being reminded that he is vulnerable, you see.  So I lovingly tell him he can wash my Prius if...if, he takes it to the carwash.  He looks at me like I've sincerely lost my mind.  I explain the reasoning.  I tell him to go through the touchless thing twice and maybe it will get some of those bug-guts to turn loose of my hood.

 

So, hubby listens and pretends to submit to my feminine rationale.  I know he's secretly thrilled he doesn't have to stand in our driveway in front of our neighbors washing that "sissy" car.  I did tell him that washing my car will probably ascertain we'll get rain as soon as it's washed, though.  (uh...rain?  you see that wet stuff coming down?  Hubby washed my car on Monday before Easter...), but I digress.  I'm talking about "men" here, not rain, so...

 

Opps, I've met the limit on my word count for the column this week.  You  know how wordy we women can be when we're detailing a story, don't you?  It's kinda like men when they detail their Silverados, takes forever for them to "getter done".  There is more to this story, but you'll just have to wait till next week to read it.  Until then, enjoy the rain Oklahoma.

selahV (a.k.a. hariette petersen)

check out my blog: SelahV Today

MEN!!...the rest of my story...continued.

If you recall, last week, hubby washed my Prius in one of those touch-free carwashes.  Three days pass and I don't drive my car, I don't even go look at it.  But on Thursday I go out to drive it to my Iraqi friend's house to teach her English.  I happen to notice that the tires are still gravel grey.  (I debated calling my hubby to chide him.  Oh, how I longed to say, I told you so....you know, just to be aggravating.)  But I don't.  Instead I get into the car, chuckle to myself and push the power button to start my engine.

Nothing comes on.  No "ready" light, no "bing, bing" due to my unhooked seatbelt.  Nothing...absolutely nothing.  I think, it must be me.  That's what I get for feeling all puffed up about proving the inadequacy of touchless carwashes.  I pushed the "park" button, stepped on the brake, and pushed the "power" button again.  Nothing.  Okay, I think to myself.  My 2005 battery-operated key probably needs a new battery.  So I go back into the house and get the other key (ya don't have to put these keys in any ignition, just have them in your pocket or purse and the power button makes it come on).  I get back into the car, and push the button again.  Nothing.  So I call my husband.

"What did you do to my car?"  I chided with amusement.  He gets mildly defensive.  "You were the last to drive it when you washed it, what did ya do to it?"  He has no clue what I'm talking about.  He says it may be the key--I say no, I"ve tried both keys.  Says he was pushing buttons on it when he was at the car wash and probably left something on and drained the battery.  He'd come jump it.   I say, fine.

So I'm sitting there staring at my car, waiting, and wondering how this happened.  I see a light with a red-car and a key in the center of it.  I get out the manual...I hate reading those things.  Couldn't find it.  Decided my Prius is trying to tell me to put the key in the ignition.  So I do.  And wella, it starts right up.  I feel proud.  I actually figured it out myself--even though it didn't explain why, at least I could drive the car.  I drive off to meet my Iraqi friend, and I call hubby back to tell him it started, "You don't have to come jump it."   He tells me he thinks the problem may be a button under my steering wheel.  I was driving so I could look beneath my steering wheel.  So later, I find this odd button under my steering wheel and push it.  Sure enough, the car is keyless operable again.

My daughter asked why he was testing the buttons.  "Oh, I think he was just being the typical man.  He was sitting in the carwash waiting for the pounding water to dissolve the bug-guts.  He was bored.  He had nothing to "do".  So he starts randomly pushing buttons, and messes up the normal ignition system.  I don't know what it is about guys, but they have this "thing" about everything from IPhones, gizmos, and car buttons.  It's some kind of challenge to figure out what buttons do when pushed, I guess.

That evening hubby and I are walking out of the mall and I tell him I finally found the button he was pushing when he was washing my car. I couldn't resist asking, "So...what made you push that thing, anyway?"  He replies, "I don't know...you know...it's a man thing!"  We both started laughing.  Men!!!.  They are definitely wired differently than we women...but I ask you, how can you not love 'em when they're that honest?