Humor

“Men look at women differently than women look at men,” my wife stated.

My eyebrows threatened to become part of my hairline after she spoke. I must have had that universal blank expression on my face. You know. The one that means what the hell are you talking about, because she elaborated further.

“Men oogle.”

My eyebrows gave up their fruitless endeavor, and dropped into a furrow. I asked the only thing I could.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

You saw that coming, and she did, too. She smiled that little smug smile she gets when she knows she has grabbed my wandering brain. We were sitting on fold-up-in-a-bag chairs at the Taste of Minnesota, a celebration of local food and restaurants in our fair state, waiting for one of the bands to start playing on the main stage. The festival, normally held at the state capital, was now held at Harriet Island , just across the Mississippi from downtown St. Paul . The crowd was beginning to thicken, as people were trying to get a good view of the stage. Soul Asylum , a local band that made the big time, was scheduled to start at seven o'clock.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“No. Really I don't,” I replied.

“I've been watching you watch the women that have walked by.”

“It's pretty tough not to, Susan. There are ten thousand people here.”

“But you look at the women differently than I look at the men.”

“I certainly hope so!”

She laughed at that. “I don't care if you look at other women...in fact I expect you to. All I'm saying is that you look at them differently than I look at men.”

I gazed over the crowd. “How so?”

“You oogle.”

“I think it's ogle. With an “oh” instead of an “oo”.

She waved that off. “Whatever, smartass. The point is that you look at women like an object, and I look at men differently.”

“How is that?”

She rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses and said, “You know what I mean.”

I didn't press it any further because one thing I know, as any married man, or anybody in any long term relationship should know, is when to shut up. The fact is, I did know what she meant. That didn't mean that I looked with lust at every girl in a swimsuit; far from it. I'm getting a little long in the tooth for that type of activity, and besides, I'm married to a wonderful woman. But every once in a while a specimen of genetic excellence would saunter by, and how can you not look? It was ninety degrees outside, most of the people were dressed for the beach, and we were in the middle of a large field waiting for something to happen, for cryin' out loud! I shook my head, and went back to people watching.

As I sat there, it occurred to me that a lot of conversations have that, “Do you know what I mean?” element to them. My wife Susan and I can do the look across the room and know what each other are thinking thing, and I'm sure a lot of other couples can relate to that. But what about the everyday stuff? Sometimes, communication is so subtle, it defies explanation.

For example, we are remodeling our basement. That includes painting, new carpet, and the God-forsaken task of putting up a suspended ceiling. It took us three days to finish the ceiling, and I must admit, after it was done it looked very good. The directions proclaimed time and again that it was so easy a drunken monkey could do it blindfolded. They didn't mention that the monkey would have to be altered in a lab to have the balance of a Russian ballerina and the patience of Gandhi, but I should have expected that when I first saw the picture of the seemingly happy woman on the package. The rule of thumb is: The happier they look on the advertisement, the more your life will suck while doing it. Susan didn't know until we started that project just how many expletives I knew. I would have made a drunken longshoreman proud.

The painting was done; the ceiling was done; the old carpet was ready to be torn out and sent to clog up a landfill; and we noticed that there were gaps where the new ceiling didn't quite cover the wall. We had decided not to tear out the old paneling, but rather paint over it.

“We're going to have to ka-chung, ka-chung,” she said as she made a motion with her hands that looked like a cross between an old west gunfighter shooting his six-gun, and my Dad stabbing the remote at the television when a particularly bad commercial is on.

“Put some trim up?” I asked, hopefully.

“Yeah. That stuff.”

I nodded wisely, and went to dig the air compressor and trim gun out of the garage. The fact that I knew what she was talking about scared me a little, kind of like the feeling you get when you get on an airplane, knowing that the only thing between you and the ground was a theory that flight was actually possible.

Back at the Taste of Minnesota, the sound of a small prop airplane proving that theory correct reached our ears, and then the cries of the people reading the banner that was flapping behind it.

“Gross!”

“How rude is THAT ?”

“What the hell?”

Susan and I looked at the banner, and any thoughts of stopping at another booth for more food evaporated. The banner read: AN ABORTION AT ELEVEN WEEKS. Beside it was a picture that wasn't quite recognizable, but the message was quite clear. As a writer, I could try to describe it to you, but I won't. Suffice to say that it would gag a maggot.

Communication in this case wasn't subtle at all. In fact, it was like someone communicating with you by tattooing it on your forehead with a nail.

We didn't stay to hear the rest of the show, although the band sounded very good, but rather we packed our chairs back in their cylindrical bags, and fought the massive crowd back to our car. We held hands on the way back, and smiled our little smiles; communicating to each other that no matter how many crazy people were out there trying to shove their ideas down our throats, we would talk about it and try to sort it out. All of this we said to each other without saying a word; and if I had my druthers, I liked this form of communication best.

Do you know what I mean?