To Advertise Call 781-585-0037

May 9th 2008

Him & Her:
Life is Good, but the devil’s in the details
by Nancy and Dan Sapir

HE SAYS: I get so exasperated with her when she refuses to do some of the basic tasks generally associated with the human race. Let me give you some examples…

The Car: Self-service gas stations are for everyone else except her. She is afraid to step out of the car and pump gas. “Why should I when there are attendants on hand willing to do it for you? I could be contributing to somebody losing their job.” I offer to go with her and show her how the pumps operate. “I don’t want to know” is her response. It doesn’t end there. She refuses to check her oil level claiming it’s too dirty a job. She won’t check the air pressure on her tires because she heard of a woman who had a tire explode in her face. “Is that what you want to happen to me? You would never forgive yourself” she proclaims. She won’t even take the car in for inspection. “I’ll get all confused when they ask you to put on the emergency brake, toot the horn, hit the directionals and pump the brake pedal. I’m likely to hit the gas and drive through the bay. Do you want to pay for that kind of extensive damage” she reasons. My fear is that she could be telling the truth.

New Foods: She is a complete traditionalist when it comes to food. She will never try anything new. I’m surprised she ever passed the formula stage. Confront her with something new and she’ll say “I don’t like that”. Never mind she’s never had it, she doesn’t like it. “How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never had it” I reason. “I just know I won’t” is her perennial answer. Nothing will dissuade her.

Travel: She will not fly, ever. “Especially now that we have this terrorist problem” she reasons. I explain to her that she has never, ever wanted to fly. “Now you know why” she responds. She won’t ride Amtrak because “Man was never meant to ride on rails”. She won’t take buses because “I refuse to use those tiny, dirty bathrooms.” She even hates car travel because she has branded me the world’s worst driver. Part of my transgressions that have earned me that title are driving the speed limit, passing slow motorists, entering the highway from a ramp at speeds greater then 5 mph and talking while driving. About 8 years ago I traveled to the Middle East touring Israel and Egypt. She refused to go claiming “Things need to stabilize over there before I go. Now that should happen real soon. There I was, walking the Stations of the Cross while my wife, the Catholic, stayed home.

The Doctor: Simply stated, she won’t go. “They only have bad news anyway” is her defense here. “I’ve heard more doctor and hospital horror stories then I care to” she reasons. She claims she will know when and if she ever truly needs to visit one and claims that people run to the doctor for every small ache and pain. “We’re getting old, how good are we supposed to feel? I don’t need any doctor telling me the obvious and paying out $40.00. As long as Tylenol PM is on the market I’ll be fine.” I can’t agree with her. I’d rather have a bad doctor then a good mortician.

The Landfill: She argues that a landfill is simply a more acceptable word for dump. I have told her about the compactors that now exist up there. She says it all sounds fascinating but why would she ever go up there when I’m willing to do it. “You like the landfill. It’s a chance for you to socialize and talk politics, why would I ever be selfish enough to deny you those pleasures?”

The Bank: She hates banks but likes money. To her, a bank is an intimidating place. She complains that being in a bank is too much like being in a library. “Everybody is so quiet. People look around furtively like they are expecting someone to talk to them. There’s no privacy in banks any more. People have to conduct business in open cubicles with no privacy.” She either banks by mail or has me conduct her business. I’m used to furtive glances.

All-in-all she certainly has her own unique way of looking at the world. In many respects that is probably a good thing. Even when I disagree with her, I have to stop and think about why. I’ve never quite put it all together but one thing I know, if it takes me another 13 years to understand her, we’ll be celebrating our golden anniversary.

HER: Everything he said is true, however, this comes from a man who won’t dress himself. When he has a function to attend, he calls me and says, “Do I have clothes to wear to this?” “Can you put something together for me?” “Do you know where my black loafers are?” If I’m not home when he’s getting ready, and his chosen shirt isn’t ironed, he goes to the store and buys one rather than iron the damn thing himself. Our son Steven irons so well he could put a crease in a pair of jeans, but his father thinks an iron is what you give a woman for her birthday.

In the nearly 40 years I’ve known him, he has never made a pot of coffee, and he refuses to learn. For him, coffee is something best made and served by a woman who is preparing his breakfast while ironing his shirt.

He will not do anything that involves tools.

He does not put the toilet seat down, and he leaves whiskers in the sink. He doesn’t know the names of the rooms in our house. We have lived here for nearly 18 years, and when I ask him to get something from the kitchen closet, he goes to the pantry. He knows two things about our home: the location of the fridge and the seat in front of the TV.

And speaking of the TV, when he is in front of it watching football, and this could mean a pee-wee game in Nebraska, no one is allowed to speak. The grandchildren have to be herded from the room and sent to the playroom, wherever that is, and made to be quiet while Grampy keeps score of every game being played everywhere in the United States so he can keep his betting partner honest. Now, who wouldn’t trust Mauro?

He will not throw anything away unless it’s valuable. Once he tossed my dry cleaning. I lost a Pendleton suit, but he still has the cocktail napkin from his first date in college.

Now he’s downloading recipes from the internet. As if he could find the kitchen. He leaves the recipes where I can see them. So what is he saying here? ‘I don’t like your chopped liver, so here’s a better recipe from the Carnegie Deli. Try it.’

I’m going to check if Bob Villa has a website so I can download instructions for household repairs. He’d find them and say, “Don’t lose this because you’ll need it when you re-hang the door that fell off its hinges.” I don’t have time to go to the landfill, the bank, the doctor’s, or a trip. I’m too busy fixing things, and the only doctor I really need is a shrink.

The day before Thanksgiving, I broke one of my toes, and he was genuinely concerned. He said, “Are you going to be able to make dinner?” If I had broken my leg, I’d have made dinner, because if it were left to him we’d have had beer nuts and Dr. Pepper in the kitchen because he still can’t find the dining room.

by Nancy and Dan Sapir