There are times when men are wise to tell a little white lie rather than come out with what may be an awful truth. Women are familiar with many of these and we’ve come to expect them. When we ask if our pants fit correctly or we say that our butt looks bigger, we don’t really want the truth, we want to be told that our pants look great and our rear end is more muscular or actually shrinking.
But all of these types of lies are usually restricted to the confines of our home, while my husband has shown me that honesty is not always the best policy in the real world as well. I learned this lesson one day after my husband’s cell phone buzzed its way into the toilet. Apparently he had created a ski jump like slope in the bathroom consisting of a three ring binder and a precariously positioned portable phone. After several buzzes, the phone slid down the jump and into the watery abyss below. Upon discovery of his waterlogged communication device and the realization that if he did not extricate it himself, no one else would, my husband removed the dripping and miraculously, still buzzing phone from the toilet. For my husband, the phone is a lifeline, something semi-permanently attached to his ear that he would be lost without.
So, following some surgeon like hand washing and the removal of the Sim card, we rushed over to the AT &T store to obtain a replacement device. When the generous man, who allowed us into the store five minutes after closing, asked what happened to the rest of the phone, as we had only brought in the Sim card, my husband convincingly told him that it had fallen in the tub. The man heaved a sigh of relief as he stated, “Good, because I don’t touch phones that have been in the toilet.” My husband reassured him it was definitely the tub, with a straight face that almost made me question other things that he may have told me with similar conviction in the past. He proceeded to buy the new phone without further fibbing and left the store.
Thus, I learned that in some instances, honesty will get you nothing, such as a new cell phone, whereas a slight fabrication will get you exactly what you want.
2. Table manners are still important:
Emily Post would be rolling over in her grave if she ever met my husband. All those years of teaching people the value of manners and their purpose in society and it appears to have gone by the wayside with some members of my generation. With the world changing so rapidly, technology advancing our world to unexpected levels and possibilities, it is hard to keep up with it all, let alone the tiny, time worn tradition of social respectability.
2. Table manners are still important:
Emily Post would be rolling over in her grave if she ever met my husband. All those years of teaching people the value of manners and their purpose in society and it appears to have gone by the wayside with some members of my generation. With the world changing so rapidly, technology advancing our world to unexpected levels and possibilities, it is hard to keep up with it all, let alone the tiny, time worn tradition of social respectability.
During the planning of our wedding I received a glaring, neon signal that there are people out there who do still value manners. Unfortunately, it was due to my husband’s actions that this fact was brought to my attention.
As we sat around the long, ovular, white linen covered table at the hotel where we were to be married in just a few short days, the wedding planner, my mother, my husband and myself were gathered for a final sampling of the delicacies we would be serving to guests at our reception. This event and the cake tasting were probably two of my husband’s favorite parts of the wedding preparation. Our favorite waiter, Alex, who had endured our shenanigans through out this process, delivered the first course. It looked delicious; a three tiered red and yellow tomato structure layered with creamy white mozzarella cheese and drizzled with sweet, dark, balsamic vinaigrette. He gently set the appetizer in front of each of us and stood back as we took a bite. It tasted as good as it appeared.
While my mother, the wedding planner, and I discussed the dish, my husband apparently had some issue with one of the tomatoes, but rather than deposit it on one of the adjacent butter dishes, he placed the offending item directly onto the crisp, white table cloth. I don’t think I’ve seen three women levitate so quickly and speak in such unison as the three of us at that moment. I thought that the sheer force of our simultaneous motion would surely knock my husband to be out of his chair with the strength of a gale force wind. “What are you doing?” we all shouted at him. “Why would you do that? You can’t put the tomato on the tablecloth? Were you raised in a barn?” We inquired with perhaps more vigor than we really felt.
While I do occasionally remind my husband where to dispose of unwanted food items, purely in jest, I have yet to see another inappropriately placed food particle since. While our tactics may have been a bit more confrontational than necessary, I think that Miss Manners would be proud.
3. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing as long as you’re holding a diamond
While this isn’t really a lesson that pertains to my future endeavors, or me, I thought it would be helpful for any boyfriends, husbands, or relationship wannabes out there.
For many men, the proposal, that moment where you seal the deal, you bite the bullet, you take the plunge, requires a huge amount of planning. Everything has to be just right, from the music, to the location, to the attire. Some men prepare for this moment in intricate detail, analyzing the pros and cons of each option, weighing the benefits of doing it on a jumbotron at the Lakers’ game versus in front of the lion cage at the zoo, etc. We’ll forgive the man whose fiancé swallowed the ring that he had placed in her Wendy’s frosty as a freak accident. Nevertheless, this is a life-changing event that should be done with care and consideration.
I’m sure that all of these thoughts were running through my husband-to-be’s mind as he was planning my proposal. He intricately crafted an incredible scrapbook created from mementos that we had both collected during our years together. Fancy paper and little doodads were used to embellish his creation and it was quite impressive in the end. When I returned home from a night out with friends, the lights were low, candles were lit, and music was playing softly in the background. And there, standing proudly in the middle of it all was my husband to be, carefully attired in the Chicago Bull’s t-shirt that was so stained that it’s original red was now slightly orange and looked as if he had worn it during his years as a mechanic. Holes had formed in the armpits and other strategic locations around this soon to be rag. Completing the ensemble was a carefully selected pair of mesh gym shorts. Maybe he just ran out of proposal preparation pep, as he had clearly worked arduously on the first three quarters of the event.
Nevertheless, when he got down on one knee and pulled the diamond engagement ring out from under the couch, I still said yes and eventually married him. Not that I am encouraging men who are planning on proposing to their beloveds to skip the final step of the process by dressing with wild abandon and a lack of consideration for the formality of the event, but it does go to show you that when it comes down to it, as long as you have love, and a diamond, he could be proposing in a Big Bird costume and it wouldn’t really matter, for most women anyway.
4. If at first you don’t succeed, try it again differently
After quitting my teaching job, due to a commute that explains the development of road rage, I have found it much harder than expected to find a new place of employment. This is not for lack of trying as I submit at least two applications a week to various employers for whom I believe that I am qualified to work. In spite of my persistence, not one company has had the decency to send me an e-mail claiming that they have even received my applications. As you would imagine, this is very frustrating for me and it upsets my husband a great deal as he’s probably becoming sick of seeing me in my sweat pants and tank top when he leaves for work and again when he returns home later in the evening. Frankly, I’m not enjoying it so much myself, except for the bonus of being able to enjoy the simple pleasures of The Bonnie Hunt Show and Ellen.
As my husband and I were discussing my predicament recently, he devised an idea that he thought to be at the root of my occupational woes. His theory was that because my name is spelled so uniquely, employers might be under the impression that I had spelled it incorrectly. Therefore, if I couldn’t spell my own name right, then I would probably not be a suitable member of their workforce.
While pondering this, I found there to be a few discrepancies with his proposal, such as the fact that my name was spelled the same way on both my cover letter and resume. My husband rationalized that I must be simply incompetent enough, in the minds of human resources, to misspell my own name twice.
The other issue with his brainstorm was that I had no way of solving this problem as my name was, in fact, correctly spelled each and every time I wrote it and therefore, there was no actual way around this. Again, my husband had a prepared resolution for this as well. “Why don’t you just start spelling your name the normal way and see what happens? It can’t hurt, ” he proposed. While I couldn’t do any worse than my current unemployed and unresponded-to status, a new conundrum arose out of this idea. Suppose I did actually receive an interview based on one of the misspelled applications, how did I now explain my little sociological test to the employer?
While, I appreciate my husband’s persistence and ability to think outside of the box in an attempt to help me get off the couch, into some respectable attire, and possibly the shower more regularly, I don’t believe that I will be carrying out his advice in the near future. However, I have realized that if something is not working, there’s no harm in doing it a little bit, but logically, differently the next time.
As we sat around the long, ovular, white linen covered table at the hotel where we were to be married in just a few short days, the wedding planner, my mother, my husband and myself were gathered for a final sampling of the delicacies we would be serving to guests at our reception. This event and the cake tasting were probably two of my husband’s favorite parts of the wedding preparation. Our favorite waiter, Alex, who had endured our shenanigans through out this process, delivered the first course. It looked delicious; a three tiered red and yellow tomato structure layered with creamy white mozzarella cheese and drizzled with sweet, dark, balsamic vinaigrette. He gently set the appetizer in front of each of us and stood back as we took a bite. It tasted as good as it appeared.
While my mother, the wedding planner, and I discussed the dish, my husband apparently had some issue with one of the tomatoes, but rather than deposit it on one of the adjacent butter dishes, he placed the offending item directly onto the crisp, white table cloth. I don’t think I’ve seen three women levitate so quickly and speak in such unison as the three of us at that moment. I thought that the sheer force of our simultaneous motion would surely knock my husband to be out of his chair with the strength of a gale force wind. “What are you doing?” we all shouted at him. “Why would you do that? You can’t put the tomato on the tablecloth? Were you raised in a barn?” We inquired with perhaps more vigor than we really felt.
We tried to make a joke out of it quickly after as we realized that we had probably really embarrassed my future groom. However, the damage was done. Clearly, etiquette, at least in my family still reigns. Believe me, from that moment on, I too was very careful not to put my elbows on the table and to make sure to use the appropriate silverware item, lest I be censured in a similar manner.
While I do occasionally remind my husband where to dispose of unwanted food items, purely in jest, I have yet to see another inappropriately placed food particle since. While our tactics may have been a bit more confrontational than necessary, I think that Miss Manners would be proud.
3. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing as long as you’re holding a diamond
While this isn’t really a lesson that pertains to my future endeavors, or me, I thought it would be helpful for any boyfriends, husbands, or relationship wannabes out there.
For many men, the proposal, that moment where you seal the deal, you bite the bullet, you take the plunge, requires a huge amount of planning. Everything has to be just right, from the music, to the location, to the attire. Some men prepare for this moment in intricate detail, analyzing the pros and cons of each option, weighing the benefits of doing it on a jumbotron at the Lakers’ game versus in front of the lion cage at the zoo, etc. We’ll forgive the man whose fiancé swallowed the ring that he had placed in her Wendy’s frosty as a freak accident. Nevertheless, this is a life-changing event that should be done with care and consideration.
I’m sure that all of these thoughts were running through my husband-to-be’s mind as he was planning my proposal. He intricately crafted an incredible scrapbook created from mementos that we had both collected during our years together. Fancy paper and little doodads were used to embellish his creation and it was quite impressive in the end. When I returned home from a night out with friends, the lights were low, candles were lit, and music was playing softly in the background. And there, standing proudly in the middle of it all was my husband to be, carefully attired in the Chicago Bull’s t-shirt that was so stained that it’s original red was now slightly orange and looked as if he had worn it during his years as a mechanic. Holes had formed in the armpits and other strategic locations around this soon to be rag. Completing the ensemble was a carefully selected pair of mesh gym shorts. Maybe he just ran out of proposal preparation pep, as he had clearly worked arduously on the first three quarters of the event.
Nevertheless, when he got down on one knee and pulled the diamond engagement ring out from under the couch, I still said yes and eventually married him. Not that I am encouraging men who are planning on proposing to their beloveds to skip the final step of the process by dressing with wild abandon and a lack of consideration for the formality of the event, but it does go to show you that when it comes down to it, as long as you have love, and a diamond, he could be proposing in a Big Bird costume and it wouldn’t really matter, for most women anyway.
4. If at first you don’t succeed, try it again differently
After quitting my teaching job, due to a commute that explains the development of road rage, I have found it much harder than expected to find a new place of employment. This is not for lack of trying as I submit at least two applications a week to various employers for whom I believe that I am qualified to work. In spite of my persistence, not one company has had the decency to send me an e-mail claiming that they have even received my applications. As you would imagine, this is very frustrating for me and it upsets my husband a great deal as he’s probably becoming sick of seeing me in my sweat pants and tank top when he leaves for work and again when he returns home later in the evening. Frankly, I’m not enjoying it so much myself, except for the bonus of being able to enjoy the simple pleasures of The Bonnie Hunt Show and Ellen.
As my husband and I were discussing my predicament recently, he devised an idea that he thought to be at the root of my occupational woes. His theory was that because my name is spelled so uniquely, employers might be under the impression that I had spelled it incorrectly. Therefore, if I couldn’t spell my own name right, then I would probably not be a suitable member of their workforce.
While pondering this, I found there to be a few discrepancies with his proposal, such as the fact that my name was spelled the same way on both my cover letter and resume. My husband rationalized that I must be simply incompetent enough, in the minds of human resources, to misspell my own name twice.
The other issue with his brainstorm was that I had no way of solving this problem as my name was, in fact, correctly spelled each and every time I wrote it and therefore, there was no actual way around this. Again, my husband had a prepared resolution for this as well. “Why don’t you just start spelling your name the normal way and see what happens? It can’t hurt, ” he proposed. While I couldn’t do any worse than my current unemployed and unresponded-to status, a new conundrum arose out of this idea. Suppose I did actually receive an interview based on one of the misspelled applications, how did I now explain my little sociological test to the employer?
While, I appreciate my husband’s persistence and ability to think outside of the box in an attempt to help me get off the couch, into some respectable attire, and possibly the shower more regularly, I don’t believe that I will be carrying out his advice in the near future. However, I have realized that if something is not working, there’s no harm in doing it a little bit, but logically, differently the next time.
Very funny and scarily true
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