My wife was just like that but let me substitue “I like basketball” for “I like hockey” and add “I like Star Trek” to your list (for my wife).
After we got married you could scratch off Like football, basketball, Star Trek and hate shopping (actually she kinda liked shopping all the time).
How’d THAT work? We dated for four years before getting married…you’d think she’d have cracked sooner if it was all a put-up job for my benefit.
Here’s another one…
Techie said she wanted to be a race car driver when growing up. My wife, who has a desk job thinks she is a race car driver while tooling around the city. You should see her leave a toll booth. Here’s the rub though…if I drive even half as aggressively as she does I get an earful about not driving like an asshole. (This coming from a person who’ll slow down to 30 on the expressway to block someone in who pissed her off)
Persephone
Ahhh…now we get to it!
See, if a man get bent it’s, “That’s a non-issue, dear. Move on.”
If a woman gets bent it’s (woman speaking), “I’m not through with you yet! I’m really hurt! This reminds me of the time when you forgot my present for Groundhog Day…(blah blah blah for the next two hours)”.
Seriously wimmin of the SDMB…
Would you buy, “That’s a non-issue, dear. Move on.” and leave it at that?
Didn’t think so…he says answering his own question and diving for the nearest hole.
P.S. Single Guys of SDMB…If Techie’s resume posted above is legit and if Anthracite doesn’t convince her she’s gay count yourselves lucky. She is blond, she is good looking AND she hates shopping (among other things). If there’s an ounce of personality behind all that I’d start the bootlicking now!
Women are the worst passengers. They like to scream. It does not help the driver if you just scream out if you don’t like something they are doing. The driver panics then you die. If you think you see a danger that the driver doesn’t CALMLY bring his attention to it. And for God Sakes Never Grab for the steering wheel. At you STUPID are you trying to get us killed Bitch. Geez.
This masogynism is just dumb. You act like women’s faults make them worse then men. They don’t. They just make women about as bad as men. People suck, so get over it and look for their good qualities. Show me a person with no flaws, and I’ll show you a mannequin.
That said, sure, let the women take over the world. It could use a good cleaning.
Your Man Card has just been revoked! Sucking-up for the women of SDMB is no excuse.
Go dismantle your car with only a screwdriver and you can have your Man Card back.
In fairness if the women out here want a lengthty discourse on the problems with men check out this link to the SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas (the woman who shot Andy Warhol).
A more complete trashing of the male side of the species I’ve never seen. Kinda funny really.
Um, Jeff, dearheart, I think his “sucking up” was totally negated (and then some) by his last line…
Ha ha.
As far as driving goes: my ex-husband is the world’s worst driver. Ever. He squats his ass in the left lane, going a mere five miles over the speed limit, brakes before he gets onto the exit ramp (ARGH!!!), and doesn’t quite get the concept of the on ramp, either. I cannot count the number of events we missed because of his suck-ass sense of direction and utter refusal to listen to me when I have printed directions and a goddamned map in my hands. Nor can I count the number of times I prayed to God above to not let us rearend the car he’s not paying attention to. And we won’t even discuss the times he got out of the car to confront someone he pissed off.
Yep, men are such excellent drivers.
You know, Whammo, I feel sorry for your wife. Between the broken vent and the sprinkler heads, you sure are a slow learner.
You Pussy!
I don’t have a car! I ride a dog-sled to and from work… on asphalt roads! I scare even the Hell’s Angels with my dog sled! That’s right, lots of big dogs! Lots of big, sweaty dogs! Lots of big, sweaty, stinky dogs! Big, sweaty, stinky, mean DOGS!!! That piss everywhere and hump anything in sight!
Over 200 miles of asphalt I drive to work every day, with sparks flying behind me! Halfway there, I stop and get breakfast by chasing down a rabbit and catching him with my teeth! Then devour it whole as I enjoy the feeling of by teeth rending flesh and crushing bones!
I scream obscenities at the other drivers! I compare penises with them and grunt gorilla-like! I scream war slogans at the top of my lungs as I speed down the highway like Mad Max! Finally, when I get to work (I’m a professional shit-kicker), I get off the sled, and piss on it to mark it as my territory! The whole thing takes about four hours, so I can only be there for about ten minutes before I have to leave and do the whole thing over again.
P.S. You’ll need to send a video of all that however for…um…shipping and handling. Yeah, shipping and handling AND a six pack of beer for our infinite patience. Pabst Blue Ribbon will do. If not that then Black Label. No weenie ‘boutique’ beers for us MEN!
You’re petrified of us wimmen that can actually accomplish something (hats off to the astounding techchick!). You’re just afraid that there’s something (well, LOTS of somethings) that we can do better than you.
I will admit that as I am driving down a road, I do not know which direction I am traveling. But I can indeedy read a map. My husband knows which direction we are traveling, but he cannot find the shortest distance between point A & point B, even with a map, compass, and a damn sherpa riding shotgun.
I will also humbly concede the grill, too. The grilling ability in my household sits firmly in my husband’s 'nads. We went to a barbecue five years ago, and it was then that I found out that my husband had never grilled, ever, in his life. We brought steaks, and had to cook them somehow. I knew my grilling ability was limited, so I handed the steaks over to him and said “be one with the steak, dear. Let your testosterone take over, and you will be able to grill.” He did, and those steaks were flawless. He’s been the official Grillmeister ever since. I did have to holler at him a few weeks ago, though, about the fire. He had set the grill up about three inches from the house. Our new house. That we had only been living in for two weeks. HELLO.
Oh, and “serving wench duties,” dear Bluepony? I cordially invite you to blow me. I won’t take that shit from my children, so I surely won’t take it from you, Donut Boy.
But it would be cool if you could set the beer on fire.
