Z Blog: You don’t want my opinion
Why do women take their husbands shopping?
We can thank our wives for not dragging us along when they’re looking for underwear or wedding dresses, but they like us to get off the couch ” and miss the Broncos slaughtering the Raiders ” and go with them to places like The Home Deport to pick out things like wood floors, new sink fixtures, window shades or paint.
And not only do they drag us away from a long-anticipated afternoon of Cheetos, Diet Coke and football-anchored channel surfing, they want to know our opinion when we get to the big-box store at which we’re not sure we feel totally comfortably shopping.
But we must wipe the film of orange Cheeto residue from our chins, change out of our comfy old college sweatpants and stifle our pangs about driving the mom-and-pops out of business, and tell our wives which flooring we think will look nice on the first floor of the new condo we can’t quite afford.
“You like that floor?” she says.
“Uh … I do, yeah … the light-brown one,” we say, confidence in our eye for home improvement fading fast. We’re men. When it comes to the livingroom, we install, we drill, we saw ” we don’t design.
“The light-brown one? Really? You like it?”
Just give me the drill. I just want to drill some holes.
“Well … sort of … maybe not so much,” we mumble, hoping we’ll get home in time for the Broncos highlights.
“OK, hon … what about this floor? Darker brown.”
“Whichever one you like, sweetie,” we say, switching strategies, trying to be sensitive to her taste. She’s the one who really cares which direction the grain flows, anyhow.
And then she lowers the boom. Puts us in corner. Nudges us off the cliff. Scrambles our male brains.
“Darling … I do want your opinion.”
No they don’t. Car-manufacturers have crash-test dummies to gauge how safe their cars will be in horrible wrecks. Husbands are like opinion-test dummies.
Our wives ask us which would be a nice shade to paint the living room ” that starts our doomed journey toward the cement wall. We timidly pick Thunderstorm Blue or Seacliff Green ” more because we like the names ” and the speed accelerates, starts to snap our necks back slightly.
She doesn’t like Thunderstorm Blue or Seacliff Green. She likes Swooning Heather. Now we’re hurtling, our cheeks being shoved into our ears by gravity.
“Do you like Swooning Heather?”
KABLAMMO. And next weekend you find yourself missing the Broncos-Chiefs game and mixing the Swooning Heather.
Recently, I was taken baby shopping at Babys ‘R’ Us with my wife ” and my mother. I was excited at first to be picking out our coming child’s first possessions ” to be furnishing the nest she or he will snuggle in when we get back from the hospital.
I found an adorable washcloth that doubled as a dog puppet. And that was all. After that, I became the opinion-test dummy.
My wife and mother ” the dearest women in my life along with my sister and Samantha Bee ” were absolutely disgusted with the crib bedding I liked. Our child surely would have suffocated in the playpen I picked. So I offered to go next door to the Best Buy and play with the HDTVs.
“No ” we want your opinion,” they said, and promptly hated the baby monitors I thought we’re cool.
I’m going to Best Buy to check out the new “rocket-launcher iPod.”
“We want your opinion.”
And I recited to myself Michael Corleone’s famous line in Godfather III ” “I tried to get out but they pulled me back in.”
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