A relationship, no matter how caring, loving, or impossible to back out of, is war. Well, at least to guys. To women, relationships are all princesses, unicorns, and pushing dazed heroes off a cliff.Relationships aren’t war to women, because war means there’s some doubt of the outcome. There is no doubt with women-they win.
But war, as we know, is the only way guys think about anything. Football is war. Deciding what movie to see is war. And edging your car into a parking space in front of the jerk trying to edge his car into the same spot is war. Every move we make is based on a strategy to make us look cool. When that guy swerved at the last minute and ran over a grocery cart, I was the coolest guy ever.
But, men, we can’t win this relationship war; women play dirty. Really dirty. The kind of dirty hot Russian spies in James Bond movies pull when they make out with 007 while wearing poison lipstick. Yeah, that kind of dirty.
I once confessed to my wife I didn’t like her mother’s spaghetti sauce-a spaghetti sauce recipe handed down from the first Homo habilis to eat a tomato. It was that steeped in family history.
The lesson I learned? Never confess, even under torture.
Me: I was only 15 minutes late, what’s the big deal?
My wife: You said you’d be home at 5. You know my parents are here.
Me: I think you’re overreacting. I wasn’t at Hooters.
My wife: Overreacting? How’s this for overreacting? (turning to her mother) Mom, Jason hates your spaghetti sauce, which really means he hates you. Oh, yes, he hates you.
Did I mention women play dirty?
Well, guys, we can play dirty, too. There are some obvious weapons in spousal war, like comments about cooking, thinning hair, and relatives. But these are just hand grenades; you throw one and duck, but still get hit with shrapnel.
Verbal heavy artillery shells are armed with “I’d rather have hemorrhoids coming out of my face than spend time with your family,” “Your sister’s hot,” and “Are you going to bury me like your dad buried all those wives?” Once the heavy artillery shell is deployed, you must leave the house. This is not a request. And a motel is too good for you.
But the weapon you need, the one you hold on to, tucked away in the dark recesses of your memory next to the time you saw Grandma naked, is the Doomsday Device.
This weapon is designed to stun, disarm, and knock Charlton Heston to his knees screaming, “You maniacs, you blew it up,” in front of the Statue of Liberty.
Warning: Guys only. The following information is as classified as the Roswell crash.
Where do you get the Doomsday Device? Your opponent (i.e., your girlfriend, wife, or someone you’re having trouble getting rid of) hands it to you. It may be a confession uttered in absolute secrecy, or something you weren’t supposed to see, but it must be embarrassing. Once this information is yours, keep it, smile knowingly at it, then wait for the right moment to drop it on their head.
The following was one such moment.
“Yeah, and Jason knows the words to an Alanis Morissette song,” my wife said at a party… in front of people… who were listening.
Noooo, my mind screamed. Don’t listen to her. I’m still a man.
Oh, yes, this was the moment. Alanis Morissette was a tactical strike on my testosterone. I had no choice; I had to deploy the Doomsday Device.
“Yeah, ‘Jagged Little Pill.’ It made me swear off Diet Coke. Oh, did you know my wife cheated while playing cards against a blind woman?” I said, grinning so hard on the inside my spleen hurt.
“Uh,” she stuttered.
Fantastic, a direct hit.
“It sounds a lot worse than it was,” she spat. “We were, um…”
“She was blind,” I said.
“Well,” my wife said, quickly regaining her form (it’s damned annoying how they do that). “Jason went to a strip joint while I was pregnant.”
For some reason things were quiet enough for me to hear bugs chirping in Wisconsin.
“Oh, yeah,” I slurred, my words having trouble finding their way through the mushroom cloud engulfing the room. “That’s a funny story…”
She’d nullified my Doomsday Device with her bigger, more powerful Doomsday Device. If we were Cold War countries, the world would be in nuclear winter right now. Guys, women are better at this game than we are. Surrender.
* * *
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.