Monday, October 27, 2003
Man, enough
On the main shopping street in the cool neighbourhood in the city in which I'm currently living -- the city in which, a few days before Halloween, shopkeepers have seen fit to start playing Christmas music and upon which god has seen fit to dump several centimetres of most unwelcome snow, but never mind that right now -- there is a store that drives me crazy. Oh, it probably doesn't mean to. In fact, most likely, it doesn't even know I exist. Regardless, just thinking about it, as I'm doing right this second, drives me to a bit of a boil.
First off, it's called Dick's Buckets. As far as I can tell, however, buckets are not its main merchandise. Also, the name Dick's Buckets makes me feel uncomfortable. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but I think you'll agree, it's a squinchy-sounding name. So what is its main merchandise? Well, in addition to being called Dick's Buckets, it's also called Gifts For Men.
And that's what's getting to my nerve, as I-ball's mother would say. And I mean it is REALLY getting to my nerve.
Because. Because it might as well be called Gifts For Men From Women Who Truly Believe Men Are From Mars While They Themselves Are From Venus. Or Gifts For Men From Women Who Simply Haven't Taken The Time To Get To Know The Men They Want To Give Gifts to.
I mean, just for a second, just for a moment, can we all stop with the men already? Stop with the dumb, hapless men in television commercials who can't feed the baby or clean the bathroom or remember to make their special sandwiches for their special date? Can we, please? Please, I'm begging you here. Men are no more and no less equipped than women to apply cleaning products to porcelain. If Dad can make his special spaghetti sauce, he can damn well also be trusted to wipe up the saucy splatters as they happen. Why? Because Dad's not some sauce-making idiot savant! He's a regular person who lives in the same world as you and I do. Though, granted, his world includes more CLR than mine.
The thing is, see, that men are just like women -- no, stay with me here, bear with me while I explain this very simple point -- men, just like women, like stuff. They're into stuff. Some of them even collect stuff. They do stuff. Some of them even have hobbies, and you can buy them stuff they use in enjoying those hobbies. No, really. Just talk to one for a few minutes and I guarantee you'll find a clue to some of the stuff they like and enjoy. If you ask the right questions. Like, maybe try: So, what did you do on the weekend? You might have to ask a few follow-up questions, but the thing is, if you're buying him a gift already, you probably can stand to have a quick confab with the dude. You dig?
And yes, I will admit that in my family, for nigh on a decade, my sister, my mother and I have been carrying out an elaborate Christmas ruse. I mean, elaborate. It involves slips of paper, all with one name on them, and a hat. Well, it doesn't any more, because we finally copped to the ploy a couple Christmases back, but up till then, we were basically conning my dad and my brother into always, every year, without fail, drawing each other in our annual stocking draw. It's not because either of them is hard to buy for. Mainly it's because when my sister is in charge of filling my stocking, I know it's going to be good. Really, really good. I know she's going to keep it in mind all year. She's going to think, Would she like that in her stocking? And if the answer is yes, she's going to buy it and put it away for me. My dad, god love him, is not going to do that. But not because he doesn't have breasts. No, he's not going to do that because he doesn't like to shop. And because he has a lousy memory. And because, well, because he's just not going to.
My friend Tom, on the other hand? Would totally do that. And he's a guy.
And see, I worry about guys, I really do. I mean, I wouldn't be one for all the money in the world. Well, maybe for ALL the money in the world. But seriously. The poor bastards. Between never knowing if they should hold a door open, usually having to make the first move, finally falling prey -- and falling hard -- to the beauty myth women have become so adroit at navigating and never, ever getting their due from television commercials for cleaning products and breakfast cereals, damn, they have a hard row to hoe. Also, all their bits are on the outside and could betray them anytime, though I'm assured by the adult males I know that this is pretty much not a problem after grade eight or nine, but still, couldn't such an experience scar a guy for life? Also, male pattern baldness. And erectile dysfunction. And no one ever buys them an engagement ring. And people still snicker at the phrase "male nurse," whereas only my grandmother still says stuff like "female doctor."
Oh sure, they still run pretty much everything. That isn't changing as quickly as some would like. But they are paying for it now. And not with all the money in the world, either. Now, they're paying with their dignity. As long as they don't pay Dick's Buckets, I think we'll be ok.
On the main shopping street in the cool neighbourhood in the city in which I'm currently living -- the city in which, a few days before Halloween, shopkeepers have seen fit to start playing Christmas music and upon which god has seen fit to dump several centimetres of most unwelcome snow, but never mind that right now -- there is a store that drives me crazy. Oh, it probably doesn't mean to. In fact, most likely, it doesn't even know I exist. Regardless, just thinking about it, as I'm doing right this second, drives me to a bit of a boil.
First off, it's called Dick's Buckets. As far as I can tell, however, buckets are not its main merchandise. Also, the name Dick's Buckets makes me feel uncomfortable. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but I think you'll agree, it's a squinchy-sounding name. So what is its main merchandise? Well, in addition to being called Dick's Buckets, it's also called Gifts For Men.
And that's what's getting to my nerve, as I-ball's mother would say. And I mean it is REALLY getting to my nerve.
Because. Because it might as well be called Gifts For Men From Women Who Truly Believe Men Are From Mars While They Themselves Are From Venus. Or Gifts For Men From Women Who Simply Haven't Taken The Time To Get To Know The Men They Want To Give Gifts to.
I mean, just for a second, just for a moment, can we all stop with the men already? Stop with the dumb, hapless men in television commercials who can't feed the baby or clean the bathroom or remember to make their special sandwiches for their special date? Can we, please? Please, I'm begging you here. Men are no more and no less equipped than women to apply cleaning products to porcelain. If Dad can make his special spaghetti sauce, he can damn well also be trusted to wipe up the saucy splatters as they happen. Why? Because Dad's not some sauce-making idiot savant! He's a regular person who lives in the same world as you and I do. Though, granted, his world includes more CLR than mine.
The thing is, see, that men are just like women -- no, stay with me here, bear with me while I explain this very simple point -- men, just like women, like stuff. They're into stuff. Some of them even collect stuff. They do stuff. Some of them even have hobbies, and you can buy them stuff they use in enjoying those hobbies. No, really. Just talk to one for a few minutes and I guarantee you'll find a clue to some of the stuff they like and enjoy. If you ask the right questions. Like, maybe try: So, what did you do on the weekend? You might have to ask a few follow-up questions, but the thing is, if you're buying him a gift already, you probably can stand to have a quick confab with the dude. You dig?
And yes, I will admit that in my family, for nigh on a decade, my sister, my mother and I have been carrying out an elaborate Christmas ruse. I mean, elaborate. It involves slips of paper, all with one name on them, and a hat. Well, it doesn't any more, because we finally copped to the ploy a couple Christmases back, but up till then, we were basically conning my dad and my brother into always, every year, without fail, drawing each other in our annual stocking draw. It's not because either of them is hard to buy for. Mainly it's because when my sister is in charge of filling my stocking, I know it's going to be good. Really, really good. I know she's going to keep it in mind all year. She's going to think, Would she like that in her stocking? And if the answer is yes, she's going to buy it and put it away for me. My dad, god love him, is not going to do that. But not because he doesn't have breasts. No, he's not going to do that because he doesn't like to shop. And because he has a lousy memory. And because, well, because he's just not going to.
My friend Tom, on the other hand? Would totally do that. And he's a guy.
And see, I worry about guys, I really do. I mean, I wouldn't be one for all the money in the world. Well, maybe for ALL the money in the world. But seriously. The poor bastards. Between never knowing if they should hold a door open, usually having to make the first move, finally falling prey -- and falling hard -- to the beauty myth women have become so adroit at navigating and never, ever getting their due from television commercials for cleaning products and breakfast cereals, damn, they have a hard row to hoe. Also, all their bits are on the outside and could betray them anytime, though I'm assured by the adult males I know that this is pretty much not a problem after grade eight or nine, but still, couldn't such an experience scar a guy for life? Also, male pattern baldness. And erectile dysfunction. And no one ever buys them an engagement ring. And people still snicker at the phrase "male nurse," whereas only my grandmother still says stuff like "female doctor."
Oh sure, they still run pretty much everything. That isn't changing as quickly as some would like. But they are paying for it now. And not with all the money in the world, either. Now, they're paying with their dignity. As long as they don't pay Dick's Buckets, I think we'll be ok.
