Bagels And The Sunday Paper
Besides our dog I’m the only male in our house, and since he hasn’t caught on to the intricacies of words I’m the only male in our house who gets confused. I don’t think it’s a conspiracy. My wife and twelve-year-old daughter don’t go out of their way to befuddle me. It just happens—it’s a gender thing.
The most recent example of this occurred last Sunday morning when all I wanted to do was pick up bagels and the Sunday paper. It was 7:30 A.M., and I was about to leave. My wife had just fluffed her pillow for another half-hour’s sleep. If I had had any sense, I’d have gone about my errand without asking. “What kind of bagels do you want?”
“Where are you going?”
I thought that was self-explanatory, “To get bagels.”
“Don’t go to Marty’s, go to The Bagel Barn. Get me sesame.”
As I turned to leave, my daughter shouted from her bedroom, “Ma, Marty’s is better. The Bagel Barn puts the sesame seeds on just one side; Marty sprinkles the whole bagel.”
My wife, shouting passed me and into my daughter’s room, explained, “The Bagel Barn cooks them too much. You can break your teeth on them.”
“Dad,” my daughter yelled, “Just go to Marty’s and ask them for light ones.”
“Sure,” my wife replied, “They’ll whip up a batch just for your father.”
I don’t have a favorite bagel place, unless you consider that, to me, the nearest store to purchase something would be my favorite store. Especially in this case, since it wasn’t as though I was shopping for a new Jeep Cherokee and needed to consider a whole lot more than a sesame seed count.
I moved out into the hallway and placed myself at an equal distance between the bedrooms. Truly, all I really wanted out of these negotiations was the Sunday paper. I know I’m not allowed to do serious food shopping. My wife won’t permit it, and rightly so since, among other things it’s too much of a hassle for me to clip coupons, ponder food groups and wait on lines—so I gladly relinquished that responsibility years ago. However, now I’m down to bagels and the Sunday paper and still don’t have much of a say.
The next voice was my wife’s. “Honey, where are you?”
“I’m right here in the hall,” I said, “waiting to find out where I’m going.”
“Ma,” my daughter yelled, “how about doughnuts?”
“What are you trying to do, confuse your father?”
At this point the dog lumbered up the stairs and joined me in the hallway. Apparently he had become curious about our loud conversation. He gave a lick to my dangling hand as if to say “Whasup?”—not that he expected an answer, mind you, nor that he had decided to give his two cents on what I should buy. However, if he could voice an opinion he would probably have had about as much say as I did.
Doughnuts or bagels, I didn’t care. I had already made up my mind that I could’ve lived with stale, liver-flavored dog biscuits. It’s the waiting thing, I thought. Males don’t like the waiting thing.
I believe this is why nature chose females to carry babies. If males got pregnant science would’ve long ago figured a way to push a fully developed kid out a week or two after conception. With women, it must be that extra ‘X’ chromosome they possess—I think it gives them more patience. I’m stuck with that ‘Y’ chromosome, and whatever it was once good for, it doesn’t mean a thing when dealing with double-X’s.
PeaJay either became bored with my company, or figured he’d hang around his food bowl till somebody came down to fill it. He gave me another lick on the hand and lumbered back down the stairs. I watched with envy as he descended, his carefree tail swinging lazily with each step.
“Now that I think about it,” said my wife, “doughnuts do sound better.”
That was okay by me, but I knew I wouldn’t get full closure just yet.
“Go to Kate’s at the mall, dad. They’re fresher.”
Since there are at least three bakeries within a ten-block radius of home, I waited for a counter-suggestion from my wife. I could not help thinking that my daughter was now in the tutoring stage of this male-female, yin-yang activity and she was now practicing the wearing down process on me, her own father.
Was the gender gap always like this? I’m sure. I wondered about how this situation would have played out back when civilization began. I pictured a male squinting at dawns early light as he leans against the cave wall, his spear in hand, about to go out to hunt down some food. His wife, half awake, is fumbling with the bear hides, taking advantage of the warm covers he just vacated. She says, “No wild boar this time Honey, a plump rabbit will due nicely.”
“Okay,” says the male, his spear drawing circles in the dirt as he awaits further orders. I’m sure he’d be thinking, As long as I can find one close by. His teenaged daughter, still with her eyes closed, the toes of her right foot playfully climbing up a stalagmite as she reminds her father, “With white fur, dad. I could use a hat that really stands out.”
His wife perks up a bit, “Good idea…see if you can get two, dear.”
He leaves the cave, and in no time at all he’s confused: was it a white boar or a brown rabbit?…or….? His dog follows him, gleefully snapping at some weird looking flying bug. He’s sure that the two at home either went back to sleep or were up, planning on other ways to confuse him.
My musing took a full two minutes to pass—I know because during my stay in the hall my watch hand involuntarily moved to my face every few seconds. Somewhat antsy, I walked into our bedroom and found my wife’s head buried in her pillow. She looked up puzzled and said, “I thought you went for doughnuts?”
My daughter’s door was cracked open just enough for me to see her curled up on top of the covers, sleeping. Her cat was curled up in front of her, the two of them forming a living parenthesis. I deduced that somehow, without my knowledge, there was a settlement.
On the way downstairs I pondered the two women and the tacit agreement that decided the course of my journey. It was disturbing for me to realize that the long exchange no longer bothered me, since I was now free to run out and get doughnuts and the Sunday paper. The dog was sprawled out in the living room. He looked up at me as I opened the front door, and, in blissful ignorance, drowsily rubbed his jowls on the rug.
I entered the crowded bakery with my newspaper securely tucked under my arm and tore off a number just inside the door. As I turned toward the counter a thought popped up: Did they want jelly…Cream…Crullers?
- end -
Published in The Front POrch Syndicate (copyrighted)
The most recent example of this occurred last Sunday morning when all I wanted to do was pick up bagels and the Sunday paper. It was 7:30 A.M., and I was about to leave. My wife had just fluffed her pillow for another half-hour’s sleep. If I had had any sense, I’d have gone about my errand without asking. “What kind of bagels do you want?”
“Where are you going?”
I thought that was self-explanatory, “To get bagels.”
“Don’t go to Marty’s, go to The Bagel Barn. Get me sesame.”
As I turned to leave, my daughter shouted from her bedroom, “Ma, Marty’s is better. The Bagel Barn puts the sesame seeds on just one side; Marty sprinkles the whole bagel.”
My wife, shouting passed me and into my daughter’s room, explained, “The Bagel Barn cooks them too much. You can break your teeth on them.”
“Dad,” my daughter yelled, “Just go to Marty’s and ask them for light ones.”
“Sure,” my wife replied, “They’ll whip up a batch just for your father.”
I don’t have a favorite bagel place, unless you consider that, to me, the nearest store to purchase something would be my favorite store. Especially in this case, since it wasn’t as though I was shopping for a new Jeep Cherokee and needed to consider a whole lot more than a sesame seed count.
I moved out into the hallway and placed myself at an equal distance between the bedrooms. Truly, all I really wanted out of these negotiations was the Sunday paper. I know I’m not allowed to do serious food shopping. My wife won’t permit it, and rightly so since, among other things it’s too much of a hassle for me to clip coupons, ponder food groups and wait on lines—so I gladly relinquished that responsibility years ago. However, now I’m down to bagels and the Sunday paper and still don’t have much of a say.
The next voice was my wife’s. “Honey, where are you?”
“I’m right here in the hall,” I said, “waiting to find out where I’m going.”
“Ma,” my daughter yelled, “how about doughnuts?”
“What are you trying to do, confuse your father?”
At this point the dog lumbered up the stairs and joined me in the hallway. Apparently he had become curious about our loud conversation. He gave a lick to my dangling hand as if to say “Whasup?”—not that he expected an answer, mind you, nor that he had decided to give his two cents on what I should buy. However, if he could voice an opinion he would probably have had about as much say as I did.
Doughnuts or bagels, I didn’t care. I had already made up my mind that I could’ve lived with stale, liver-flavored dog biscuits. It’s the waiting thing, I thought. Males don’t like the waiting thing.
I believe this is why nature chose females to carry babies. If males got pregnant science would’ve long ago figured a way to push a fully developed kid out a week or two after conception. With women, it must be that extra ‘X’ chromosome they possess—I think it gives them more patience. I’m stuck with that ‘Y’ chromosome, and whatever it was once good for, it doesn’t mean a thing when dealing with double-X’s.
PeaJay either became bored with my company, or figured he’d hang around his food bowl till somebody came down to fill it. He gave me another lick on the hand and lumbered back down the stairs. I watched with envy as he descended, his carefree tail swinging lazily with each step.
“Now that I think about it,” said my wife, “doughnuts do sound better.”
That was okay by me, but I knew I wouldn’t get full closure just yet.
“Go to Kate’s at the mall, dad. They’re fresher.”
Since there are at least three bakeries within a ten-block radius of home, I waited for a counter-suggestion from my wife. I could not help thinking that my daughter was now in the tutoring stage of this male-female, yin-yang activity and she was now practicing the wearing down process on me, her own father.
Was the gender gap always like this? I’m sure. I wondered about how this situation would have played out back when civilization began. I pictured a male squinting at dawns early light as he leans against the cave wall, his spear in hand, about to go out to hunt down some food. His wife, half awake, is fumbling with the bear hides, taking advantage of the warm covers he just vacated. She says, “No wild boar this time Honey, a plump rabbit will due nicely.”
“Okay,” says the male, his spear drawing circles in the dirt as he awaits further orders. I’m sure he’d be thinking, As long as I can find one close by. His teenaged daughter, still with her eyes closed, the toes of her right foot playfully climbing up a stalagmite as she reminds her father, “With white fur, dad. I could use a hat that really stands out.”
His wife perks up a bit, “Good idea…see if you can get two, dear.”
He leaves the cave, and in no time at all he’s confused: was it a white boar or a brown rabbit?…or….? His dog follows him, gleefully snapping at some weird looking flying bug. He’s sure that the two at home either went back to sleep or were up, planning on other ways to confuse him.
My musing took a full two minutes to pass—I know because during my stay in the hall my watch hand involuntarily moved to my face every few seconds. Somewhat antsy, I walked into our bedroom and found my wife’s head buried in her pillow. She looked up puzzled and said, “I thought you went for doughnuts?”
My daughter’s door was cracked open just enough for me to see her curled up on top of the covers, sleeping. Her cat was curled up in front of her, the two of them forming a living parenthesis. I deduced that somehow, without my knowledge, there was a settlement.
On the way downstairs I pondered the two women and the tacit agreement that decided the course of my journey. It was disturbing for me to realize that the long exchange no longer bothered me, since I was now free to run out and get doughnuts and the Sunday paper. The dog was sprawled out in the living room. He looked up at me as I opened the front door, and, in blissful ignorance, drowsily rubbed his jowls on the rug.
I entered the crowded bakery with my newspaper securely tucked under my arm and tore off a number just inside the door. As I turned toward the counter a thought popped up: Did they want jelly…Cream…Crullers?
- end -
Published in The Front POrch Syndicate (copyrighted)
posted by rich at 3:28 AM
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