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So, hubby goes to town the other day. He leaves early because he has a doctor’s appointment and then he has to go see about his chainsaw. I spend the morning doing my usual, trying to think up subjects for this column and ideas for another novel, all the while ignoring the cat fur and dust bunnies that are accumulating around me.

I come out of the shower and am doing the dishes when I hear the door open.

“Hi!” I yell. (We never wait until we’re in the same room to speak to each other.) “So, how did it go?”

He yells back, “There’s nothing wrong with the chainsaw.”

Cue crickets.

Really? This is what I care about? I glare at him as he dumps Sobey’s bags on the counter. “I don’t give two figs about the chainsaw. How was your doctor’s appointment? What did he say?”

It should be obvious to this man that my prime concern is his health and not whether he can saw a few trees out back to clear up our property. Women as a rule, don’t care about outdoor equipment and wouldn’t dream of having a serious conversation about whether the fuel-line is working correctly.

So, now I ask another important question. The doctor and his wife were expecting a new grandchild. Their daughter was in labour the day before and I was anxious to hear the good news.

“Did she have the baby?”

“Who?”

“The doctor’s daughter! You knew about this yesterday.”

“Oh yeah. She did.”

“And?”

“And what?’

“Details, man!”

“It was a boy.”

“I knew that already.”

“That’s all I know.”

“You didn’t ask his name? Or how much he weighed?”

“No.”

“Men! This stuff is important! How could you not ask?”

“I forgot.”

He can reel off the serial number of the chainsaw without looking, but he forgets to find out important details that matter to a woman? Now I’m going to have to wait until my next doctor’s appointment to get all the juicy details.

I mention a fun road trip our daughter is going on with a friend. “She’s so excited.”

“What shape are her tires in? When was the last time she had the oil checked? Call her.”

Speaking of cars, I’m not sure if every man alive has this problem, but the minute one of our cars makes the slightest odd noise, hubby goes into overdrive.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That ping.”

“No.”

“I can definitely hear it. I hope it’s not the manifold.”

“It’s probably a rock.”

“A rock is a ding, not a ping.”

Silly me.

I get the urge one day to go through our bureau drawers and throw out old stuff. I’m happily occupied until hubby walks in unexpectedly and has a fit.

“What’s this?”

“I’m throwing out your old t-shirts. They’re disgusting.”

“Not my work shirts! I work in them.”

“At some point even work shirts have had the biscuit. I’m throwing these away because you have other shirts that can now be your work-shirts and even better ones for actually walking around in.”

“No way. Clear off.”

It’s important to know when you’ve lost the battle.

Lastly, men are obsessed with parking. They spend countless hours of their waking moments contemplating this dilemma.

“We have to leave early to get a good spot?”

“Why?”

“Why? Isn’t it obvious?”

“No. So you might have to walk a little farther. Big deal.”

“Women.”

Lesley Crewe is a writer living in, and loving, Cape Breton. These are the meandering musings of a bored housewife whose ungrateful kids left her alone with a retired husband and two fat cats who couldn’t care less. Her 10th novel, Beholden, is being released this fall.

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