As the vast majority of American agree (and Donald Trump routinely reminds us), he’s the greatest president since Abraham Lincoln, the most brilliant military strategist since General Patton, and the most beloved, gracious international statesman since Benjamin Franklin.
According to polls conducted by Trump University, Trump’s popularity as president has shattered all previous records. In the past six months, everyday Americans have signaled their overwhelming approval of his brilliant chess game-like on-again-off-again tariffs, daily ICE deportation raids on elementary schools, dismantling of the totally useless Department of Education, de-funding of the radical leftwing Corporation for Public Broadcasting, pushing to remove permanently all Palestinians from Gaza so he can turn it into a Trump waterfront golf resort for rich American and European tech bros, and so many other gobsmacking, um, achievements.
Canadians are demanding to be added as our 51st state, insisting Trump choose them ahead of Greenland, Panama, and Vatican City. Every day our glorious leader furiously bangs out more than 50 inspirational ALL CAPS Truth Social posts (slightly fewer on the three days a week he typically reserves for golf).
His administration is staffed with the most dedicated team of professional sycophants of any presidential administration in history, from his genius pick of oft-times sober Pete Hegseth as Defense Secretary to vaccine denialist RFK Jr for Health and Human Services Secretary. Every day our widely respected president, who is adored by world leaders (from Putin to Kim Jong Un) works tirelessly from the time he gets out of bed at 11am until almost 2pm to focus on the needs of the average American (by which he means any Caucasian male with a net worth of $15 million or greater).
Here is just a small sampling of the president’s latest bold proclamations (to distract his supporters and critics), along with the glowingly positive reaction from his devoted followers:
President Trump announced this week that he will block the Washington Commanders football team’s efforts to build a new stadium in DC unless they agree to his demands to change the name back to the Redskins, which, according to his own internal polling, 97% of Native Americans think is a fabulous idea. His MAGA supporters love this idea too, with one person rave-tweeting, “The thing about changing the team’s name back to the Redskins is that … Donald Trump is on the Epstein list!!”
Recently, Israeli President Benjamin Netanyahu announced his plans to nominate President Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize (presumably for his decision to bomb the crap out of Iran – just after they safely removed all the uranium and the centrifuges from the places that were bombed). A Republican Trump supporter in Mississippi enthusiastically gave this idea two thumbs up, saying, “The only thing that could make this news any better is to finally once and for all release all the Epstein Files.”
Trump’s Department of Homeland Security announced, under Trump’s directive, that they will now start deporting anybody who has a Spanish-sounding accent (with the exception of Antonio Banderas) and will expand plans to build more Alligator Alcatraz facilities at middle schools throughout the nation. Rightwing white supremacist podcaster Nick Fuentes praised this decision, adding, “What are you hiding, Donald? Release the Epstein Files once and for all.”
At a recent press briefing Trump convincingly explained there was nothing in the Epstein files of importance. Just boring stuff. But if anything incriminating about him turns up, then it’s all fake news deviously plotted by Joe Biden in an attempt to destroy America. Everybody felt that his explanation addressed all their concerns.
Last week, in response to a reporter’s question about Artificial Intelligence, Trump explained at length how his uncle John Trump was a brilliant professor at MIT and even had Ted Kaczynski (AKA the Unabomber) as a student. Despite the fact that Kaczynski went to Harvard, not MIT, Trump was lauded by conservative media outlets for his creative storytelling, with one commentator adding, “For years you told us you’d get to the bottom of the Epstein cover-up. And now you are telling us there never were any files. Release the goddamn Epstein Files. All of them.”
Trump also announced recently that he is thinking about deporting Rosie O’Donnell and hinted that he wants California Senator Adam Schiff, one of the lead prosecutors on the January 6th Committee, executed for treason. At a rally in support of Trump’s comments, hundreds of vocal Trump loyalists held up signs reading, “STOP THE COVERUP! RELEASE THE EPSTEIN FILES!”
Trump also is receiving overwhelming praise for the passage of his Big Beautiful Bill, which among other things will result in loss of Medicaid healthcare coverage for over 11 million Americans and cause over 22 million struggling families to lose some or all of their SNAP (food stamps) benefits. With almost universal support, according to recent Trump Administration polling, thousands of Americans on Medicaid recently cheered his bold new legislation, explaining, “The only reason Trump could possibly have to shut down the FBI investigation into the Epstein Files is that he’s in it, and it’s really, really bad.”
A news story came out recently stating that Attorney General Pam Bondi has ordered the FBI to assign 1,000 personnel on 24-hour shifts to mine over 100,000 Epstein-related records for anyreference to Trump’s name. “Clearly, this is something you would only do if you knew Trump’s name was going to show up over and over, and you planned to delete all these references to avoid criminal prosecution,” said an enthusiastic longtime Trump supporter, as they tossed their red MAGA baseball cap and gold Trump sneakers into a burning dumpster.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Long before Tinder was a thing, I went out on a computer date. Turns out our fleeting, star-crossed love affair was doomed from the start. The computer concluded we were a perfect match. The computer was wrong.
This is a true story about the shortest date in my life. Now, technically you could make the case that my wife was my shortest date, given that she tops out at 5 feet 0 inches.
But I’m not talking about the shortest person I ever dated. No, I mean the shortest date in terms of hours… um, make that minutes. Because my shortest date lasted exactly 37 minutes. Despite its brevity, this date still doesn’t rank as my worst date. That would be another date you can read about.
As much as this may come as a shock to some of my readers, I was not exactly a Ladies’ Man in my youth. That’s because I went to a private all-boys’ military prep school from grades one through twelve. I had literally no interaction with girls, and thus virtually no dating experience, until I headed off to college.
In my first year at the University of Virginia, the dorm I was assigned to was an upperclassmen dorm, because they’d run out of space in the freshmen dorms. I lacked the self-confidence and charisma to approach any of the female upperclassmen in my dorm for a date. I asked out precisely one girl during my freshman year, named Jocelyn. She was a cute girl in my Astronomy class. But when I asked her out in October, she replied (and I will never forget her exact words): “I’m going to be pretty busy until April.” To this day I regret not having the presence of mind to come back with, “I hear you. I’m pretty busy, too. How’s the month of May looking?” So, no, we never went out.
I actually did have one date my freshman year. My dorm-mates, always up for a fun practical joke at my expense, decided to enter my name – without telling me – into a computer dating dance party. To participate, you filled out a form with information about yourself, your personality, likes, etc., which information was fed into a computer database. It then matched you up with another student the algorithm determined was compatible with you. Like a primitive version of Tinder but without the ability to swipe right.
A week later, I received a notification that I had been matched up with a computer date. WTF?? How did this happen? Then realizing that I had had roughly about as much sex in my freshman year as a neutered Boston Terrier, I decided to “go with the flow” and see where this unexpected opportunity might lead.
The rules explained you were supposed to meet your match prior to the actual event. Her name was Judy Spivey, from Suffolk, Virginia. When I knocked on her door, she immediately greeted me with an almost guilty look on her face.
I quickly determined why she had that almost guilty look on her face. Because after ten minutes of mindless, mundane conversation about “what are your favorite hobbies” and “what’s your major,” my soon-to-be date dropped this bomb: “Tim, you probably should know something before we go out on this date. I’m engaged.”
“I’m sorry. You’re engaged? Engaged in what?” I replied, pretending not to understand what she’d just said.
“I have a fiancé,” she clarified. “We both decided to enter our names in this computer dating thing, just to see what kind of people we would get paired up with. We meant it as a joke.”“Wow. Hilarious. So, I’m the joke, is that it?” I thought to myself, realizing this was a complete waste of my time.
“I got paired up with you,” my not-so-dream date sheepishly explained.
“Oh, I see. And who did your future husband get paired up with?” I asked, barely hiding my annoyance.
“He didn’t.” [Insert long, extremely awkward pause….] “But we both agreed that I should go through with this date” – like it was her civic responsibility, like jury duty – just an unpleasant commitment she’d have to endure, spending an evening with me.
The dance was two days later. I knocked on her door. She was dressed in a knee-length red dress. I was wearing my finest lavender corduroy bell-bottom slacks and matching red-and-blue striped shirt, with what in retrospect was a way too wide white tie (hey, give me a break, I went to a military school, so I had zero fashion sense).
After we arrived at the dance, we sat nervously for about fifteen minutes, sipping our Diet Cokes as I struggled to keep the conversation going with cliched questions like “Do, you think Uva will have a good basketball team this year?” and “So, how did you and your fiancé meet?”
Before long, I noticed Judy kept diverting her glance to something in the distance. Make that, someone. Who was she looking at? Now, don’t get ahead of me. Then she looked back at me, noticeably agitated, and said, “Pardon me, I’ll be right back.”
In case you were thinking I made up this entire story, I did not. This is a photo of my computer date from our college’s book that showed the names and faces of all the incoming freshmen.
She headed off to talk with the person in the distance. You guessed it. Her fiancé had been watching us the entire time. In retrospect, it probably was the right call not to try to slow dance with her in front of her future husband. Decades later, I still remember Judy’s words when she returned to our table: “Would you like to see World War Three begin? Or would you like for this date to be over right now?”
If this had happened today, the far more self-confident, wise-cracking version of me would have grinned and said, “Thanks for giving me a choice. I think I’ll go with the first option, Judy.” But the shy, freshman college student version of me instead said, ”I understand. I wish you both the best of luck.” What a wimp. Then I looked at my watch. 37 minutes had elapsed since the start of our first and last date. As I plodded back to my dorm, it occurred to me that I could have stayed in my room and watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O. It would have lasted much longer than my date.
Now and then I look back on our surreal, aborted courtship and wonder whatever happened to Judy. I tried to look her up on Facebook but without success. I will never know. But I like to imagine her future without me. Maybe – just maybe – she had a miserable, tumultuous marriage, and her husband left her for a younger woman he found on Tinder. That makes me smile.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Recently I created a bit of a panic with a buddy of mine who became deeply distraught over my wife’s shocking passing – because I texted him that she had been killed. Let me back up a bit. Like most people, I use my phone for texting all the time. But I don’t like typing, because it takes too long. So, unless it’s a short message like, “okay” or “I’ll be home in 10 minutes” or in the case of one of my daughters, “No, I won’t loan you $800 for a new iPhone,” then I usually dictate my text using the voice recognition feature. Saves me so much time.
Which brings me to the subject of my wife’s death, which – and I can’t stress this enough – never happened. She’s fine. Honest. If you’re a regular reader, or even if you’re someone who’s irregular, you probably know by now that throughout our marriage, we’ve always had cats. We’ve also fostered kittens – dozens of them by now. I love cats. Heck, I even sing to them – mainly to annoy my wife.
We had this one adorable calico kitty named Mischief. But over time, I gave her the nickname of Misha. She was a sweet furry companion, a real lap cat. She would routinely follow me to bed at nighttime and sleep on my pillow. She’d often knead my hair – adorable, I agree – and occasionally painful. I loved Misha deeply, which is why I was profoundly saddened to learn one day that she had escaped out the front door, ran off, was hit by a car and killed.
The next day, I got a text from a buddy of mine named Frank, reminding me about our lunch plans. I texted him back and told him that I would have to pass on lunch. I was not up for it because, as I texted, “I’m feeling a little down today. Misha was killed last night.”
Only that was not how my dictation came through. The message Frank received was: “I’m feeling a little down today. Michele was killed last night.”
“OMG I’m so sorry, man. Howd it happen?” Frank texted back in shock.
“She was hit by a car,” I nonchalantly replied, unaware of the typo that changed Misha to Michele.
“A car? A car??? Did they catch the guy? Was he a drunk driver? Were you there when it happened?” a stunned Frank replied.
“No idea what happened or who the driver was. I was watching an episode of The Simpsons at the time. You know the one where Homer almost blows up the nuclear plant he works at when he falls asleep on the job. Pretty funny episode, I have to say,” I wrote back.
“Tim, U okay? Do U want me to come over, buddy?” Frank inquired.
“That’s okay. I have a busy day today. I need to go to Costco. And after that I have to go to the post office,” I casually explained.
“Tim, buddy, are U sure U should be doing a Costco run after what just happened?”
“Well, I’m almost out of Twizzlers and granola bars, And I could use some more detergent,” I clarified.
“Wow, I have to say, not sure I could handle this tragedy as calmly as U. Tim, I think maybe U R in shock,” Frank probed.
“Nah, not really. To be honest, she was getting pretty old anyway. I figured she wasn’t going to be around much longer,” I wrote back.
“Seriously, dude? That seems a bit callous, pardon me for saying. She had a lot of good years left in her,” Frank wrote back, now starting to freak out.
“Well maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I sure miss her,” I sighed in response.
“I know this might be a bit premature to ask, but are U thinking about any sort of memorial service?” Frank asked, feeling uneasy about what to say next.
“Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go to all that fuss. I’ve been through this a few times before.”
“Tim, What are U saying???!!! R U thinking clearly, my friend? How can I help?” Frank implored.
“Well, I was planning to bury her in the backyard. You don’t happen to have a shovel, do you, Frank?” I asked.
“A shovel? A SHOVEL??? Of course, I have a shovel. Dude, U R really not thinking clearly right now,” Frank texted back, increasingly concerned about my mental state.
“I don’t want to impose. I was going to get a shovel at Costco anyway,” I calmly texted back.
“Enough about the shovel! Jesus, Tim. I think I better come over. On my way,” Frank wrote back frantically.
Then I texted back, “You know the saddest part about all of this, Frank?”
“I can’t imagine. Tell me, buddy.”
“Turns out she was pregnant. And I had repeatedly told my wife that we needed to get her neutered so that she would not get pregnant. But my wife never got around to doing it,” I wrote with a bit of melancholy.
“Pregnant? Seriously? Oh My God! This keeps getting worse and worse. Tim, I had no idea your wife was pregnant. I hope she and her baby didn’t suffer,” Frank wrote back in utter disbelief.
“What are you talking about, Frank? Michele’s not pregnant.”
“But you just wrote – wait, hold on. Michele’s not pregnant? But you said she was killed in a car crash. You have me totally flipping out, buddy!” Frank wrote back in exasperation.
Eventually we both figured out how this dialogue went off the rails. I explained that it was our cat Misha, not my wife Michele, who had died.
In case you were curious, this kitty’s name was Mischief, AKA “Misha.”
I guess the lesson is to carefully re-read my texts before I press SEND. In fact, now I always check my texts BEFORE I press SEND. Well, most of the time, anyway.
That’s all for now. I need to go. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight. I just dictated the following text to my wife: “Sweetie, dinner will be ready at 6pm. It’s your favorite: Barbecued Chicken.”
My wife immediately fired back a snippy response: “What’s wrong with you? Why in the world would you think my favorite meal is Barbecued Children??”
Uh, oh. I did it again….
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
If watching NFL football is too intense for your temperament, might I suggest fishing. No, not going fishing. Watching fishing – on TV. Just relax as you watch two drunk guys in a boat talk about the one that got away. Ideal for anyone who’s having trouble falling asleep.
Are you tired of traditional sports being too…well, sporty? Have you ever watched a high-stakes curling match and thought, “This is just too much excitement for my blood pressure?”
If so, my friend, I have the perfect solution for calming your dangerously overactive sports-viewing lifestyle: Fishing. On TV.
That’s right – fishing. But not the kind where you have to leave the house at the crack of dawn to go interact with nature, apply sunscreen, and swat pesky mosquitos. No, I’m talking about the televised spectacle of watching other people sit in a boat, drink beer, and every twenty minutes or so say something like, “Hey, I think I got a bite” – in a thick Texas drawl. This isn’t just a sport. It’s a lifestyle. A very slow, deeply uneventful lifestyle.
Now, you might say, “Isn’t watching fishing about as exhilarating as changing a light bulb?” To which I say: Exactly. That’s the point.
Fishing shows are the perfect remedy for anyone who finds professional bowling a little too fast-paced, or thinks golf is just a chaotic mess of sudden movement and over caffeinated whisper-commentary. Fishing is for the truly refined viewer who longs for a steady heart rate and the occasional glimpse of camouflage outerwear.
What To Expect When You’re Expecting . . . . Nothing
The beauty of fishing shows lies in their utter predictability, in that absolutely nothing will happen for 28 of the 30 minutes. You’ll tune in to see two guys named Dale and Bubba in Nowhere, Tennessee sitting in a boat with the color palette of dishwater. They’ll be wearing enough Realtree brand camo gear to confuse a passing deer into filing a restraining order.
For the first seven minutes, Dale will explain his revolutionary new jigging technique, which is identical to last week’s jigging technique except this time he’s wearing different lucky socks. Meanwhile, Bubba is laser-focused on the depth finder and his cooler of Busch Light. There’s a real “will they, won’t they” tension in the air, reminiscent of a Jane Austen novel if Jane Austen had been heavily into largemouth bass and gas station jerky.
Eventually, the camera will cut to a close-up of a bobber, because frankly it has more charisma than the hosts. The bobber floats. Still floats. Continues to float. Now we’re ten minutes in, and the only thing that’s happened is Dale coughed once, and Bubba accidentally cut his thumb with a fish hook, which was, if we’re being honest, the episode’s climax.
When watching fishing on TV, start slowly. The popular show Deadliest Catch may freak you out. Start with a show that’s a bit more sedate, like Backyard Fishing for Guppies. Nobody’s ever died in that show, as far as I can tell, not even guppies.
The Thrill of the Catch
Every once in a while – maybe once every three episodes – someone actually catches a fish. This event is treated with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the birth of a royal baby. The camera zooms in dramatically as Dale reels in a bass the size of a well-fed guinea pig. He holds it up proudly, as if to say, “Behold! I have conquered nature!” Bubba high-fives him and accidentally drops his beer overboard, triggering a good-natured chuckle that lasts roughly five minutes longer than it should. The show is brought to you by Skoal Chewing Tobacco – “The choice of professional anglers.”
And that’s the magic of fishing shows. It’s not about the fish. It’s about the journey. A very slow, meandering journey that involves zero cardio. And if you have to take a ten-minute bathroom break, trust me, you won’t miss anything while you are gone.
For the Die-Hard Fans
There is no shortage of fishing-viewing options. There are dozens of fishing shows and even several streaming channels devoted entirely to fishing. In fact, you could literally spend the rest of your life just watching the endless stream of fishing shows on YouTube alone. (My, what a sad life you must lead.) Here are some popular shows you may want to add to your binge-watch list:
Bassmaster – Because watching a guy in sunglasses yell, “It’s a big one!” and then haul up a fish the size of a pork BBQ sandwich is pure adrenaline.
Fly Fishing the World – A travel show disguised as a fishing show, where you mostly watch a guy stand in freezing rivers in Iceland and talk about how spiritual it is to wave a stick at passing salmon.
Deadliest Catch – The rock concert of fishing shows, except it’s just crusty guys yelling in the rain while tying knots with one frozen hand and swearing at crabs as their boat gets flooded by 25-foot waves. Will first mate Earl go overboard again? You’ll just have to tune in to find out.
But be warned. Deadliest Catch might be too intense for beginner fishing viewers. There’s action. Swearing. Sometimes people fall overboard – usually Earl. It’s basically Die Hard with barnacles. You might want to start with something lower octane, like a YouTube video of a guy organizing his tackle box alphabetically. Or re-reading this article…
When Fishing Is Just Too Dang Exciting
Of course, if watching other people fish on TV is too much of a thrill ride for your elevated blood pressure, perhaps Lawn Mower Wars is more your style. It features suburban neighbors competing to mow their yard in less time. Sponsored by Scotts Turf Builder, of course.
Now, if watching people fish is still too much excitement for your delicate immune system, don’t worry. You still have other options. Consider stepping down to even more sedate sports:
Watching Paint Dry: The Championship – Now with time-lapse slo-mo instant replay.
Grass Growing Invitational – Sponsored by Miracle-Gro and attended by absolutely no one.
Live Birdwatching (from a webcam pointed at an empty tree) – Where the motto is, “We think a chickadee showed up last Thursday.”
Fishing shows are the ultimate televised sport for people who think “thrill rides” should involve couch cushions and a tub of rocky road ice cream. They offer everything you could want: near silence, somewhat hilarious beer ads every eight minutes, and the occasional Walleye or Chinook salmon in its final throes, realizing too late that it probably shouldn’t have chomped on that lure that looked like a minnow.
So grab your remote, your Snuggie, and a six-pack of whatever’s on sale. The lake is calling, and by lake I mean your couch. And by calling, I mean whispering softly, with a yawn.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Notice how the wife meticulously measures just the right amount of detergent. Meanwhile, the husband pours half a bottle of bleach directly onto the laundry, thereby bypassing the bleach drawer. That’s just smart efficiency, if you ask any husband.
If you’ve been married for more than six weeks, sooner or later you’ll face one of the most contentious challenges a couple must confront: deciding on the proper way to do laundry. While both men and women technically possess the physical capability to perform this task, their approaches are as different as fine chardonnay and gas station nachos. As a result, these differences can turn into heated battles.
To help you navigate these tumultuous waters, I have compiled a step-by-step comparison of how women and men approach the sacred art of laundering clothes. Check your gender to be sure you know which approach you should follow.
Step 1: Sorting the Laundry
Women’s Approach:
Once a week, gather all the dirty clothes from the various hampers in the house, including the one in the bathroom, the one in the bedroom, and the mystery pile your husband swears he “was totally going to get to.”
Separate whites from colors, ensuring that no rogue red socks infiltrate the pristine whites and turn them an angry pink.
Further separate delicates, towels, jeans, and workout clothes into their own separate piles because apparently, different fabrics have different temperature and washing requirements.
Check all pockets for money, gum, rogue tissues, and – if you have young kids – LEGOs.
Stare in horror at what your husband has wadded up into a jumbled mass the size of a small moose and thrown into the hamper. Debate whether it can be salvaged or should just be set on fire, to prevent a potentially dangerous toxic waste dump from engulfing your house.
Men’s Approach:
Once every four months, grab everything from the hamper and the floor (same thing, really) and stuff it all into the washing machine until it is so full you can barely close the door. Remember, if it’s not overflowing, there’s room for more.
Consider checking pockets but then get distracted by a hilarious Bud Lite commercial on TV and forget.
Step 2: Selecting the Wash Settings
Women’s Approach:
Carefully consult the care labels on each garment.
Select the appropriate water temperature and cycle: cold for delicates, warm for colors, hot for whites, and, for unknown fabrics, Google it just to be safe.
Add just the right amount of detergent, fabric softener, and maybe even a color-safe bleach booster.
Adjust the settings accordingly so nothing shrinks, bleeds, or turns into something a miniature poodle could comfortably squeeze into.
Men’s Approach:
Turn the dial to whatever setting the machine is already on. It was fine last time, right?
Dump in a generous amount of detergent – more soap means cleaner clothes, obviously.If the water starts foaming like your two-year-old’s bubble bath, you probably have the right amount.
Hit the start button.
Check back two days later when you suddenly remember you never took the clothes out of the washing machine.
Step 3: Transferring Clothes to the Dryer
Women’s Approach:
Carefully pull out each item, one by one, and inspect for stains. If a stain remains, rewash immediately by hand to prevent the stain from becoming permanent.
Separate delicate items that should never see the inside of a dryer and lay them out flat or hang them to dry.
Set the dryer to the appropriate heat level: low for delicates, medium for everyday wear, and high for towels and sheets.
Add a dryer sheet because fresh-smelling clothes are one of the little joys of living in a civil society.
Men’s Approach:
Shovel the entire load into the dryer like you’re shoveling coal into the firebox of an 1830s steam engine train bound for the Dakota Territories.
Forget about delicates. Men don’t wear delicates, so you can ignore this issue.
Turn the heat to “High” because heat equals dry, and dry equals done.
Close the door and return to watching the game.
If you discover that your wife’s sweat pants have drastically shrunk to something a toddler could wear, secretly throw it in the trash and tell her you never saw it. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it, honey?”
Step 4: Folding and Putting Away
When the laundry is done, notice how the wife neatly folds every item and puts similar items together, like these towels. The husband, on the other hand, uses the time-tested “entropy” system, in which all the clothes are shoved into a giant pile – to be sorted out later. Much later.
Women’s Approach:
Remove clothes immediately to prevent wrinkles.
Fold each item neatly, ensuring shirts are stacked, socks are paired, and towels are folded to fit the closet in their proper spot.
Hang up dress shirts, blouses, and anything that even hints at needing a hanger.
Put everything away in its designated spot, where it belongs. Your work is done.
Men’s Approach:
Remember the clothes you put in the dryer last week and put the game on pause.
Grab the entire pile and dump it onto the nearest available flat surface, the kitchen floor.
Start to fold a couple shirts, then remember how boring this is. Decide to shove the entire mass into the floor of the closet. There! Job finished!
Final Step: Review Your Work
Women’s Approach:
Take note of what went wrong and adjust for next time.
Reflect on how grateful your husband will be when he sees all his clothes so neatly folded and stored in their proper repositories. Yes, he’s lucky to have you as his wife.
Try not to get triggered by the fact that in reality your husband is oblivious to all your hard work and asks if you could get him another beer.
Men’s Approach:
Act slightly indignant when your wife screams that her favorite cashmere sweater has shrunk four sizes.
Calmly de-escalate the situation by saying, “Is it possible you’ve put on a little weight recently?”
Say nothing as your wife gives you a daggers glare that could frighten a terrorist.
Hide your smile as your wife angrily announces you’re permanently banned from doing laundry ever again. Congratulations. Mission accomplished.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
