Even the way they choose a home is entirely different.
When a female (but not a female like me as I have no need for anything except a fridge) explores a potential new home, she usually makes a beeline for the kitchen. Cabinet space and counters make her smile. If she envisions friends and family around the large kitchen island, then yes, the real estate agent knows this house will soon be off the market.
If the male discovers a heated garage with cable for TV and a leftover “Sports Illustrated” poster on the new man cave wall, tears will fill his eyes. Immediately he knows this is his new home. He will stash a beer fridge over there, near the cable wires. During the play-offs envious buddies will gather in this royal garage. When his wife acts like a nut cake he will hide right over there by the work bench.
On moving day the wife and kids will happily settle in the new house. But the husband won’t even know where to sleep or find his underwear. That’s because he is in the garage, where his cellphone mysteriously won’t work when the wife calls.
Gender differences continuously give way to marital spats.
For example, males seem to have more saliva. They slobber on couch pillows and spit a lot while walking or driving or talking to other males.
Women aren’t spitters; however, they do get psychotic about dumb stuff.
Use a lady’s razor to shave ear lobe hair and she will definitely lose her cookies.
She might begin the drama with something like, “You have no respect for me.”
Initially, the husband might splutter an apology. But then his memory kicks in.
“Yes, I used your razor. But you threw away my best T-shirts.”
“So?” she rages. “They were threadbare.”
“They were concert memories and I loved them,”
The man hopes to appeal to his wife’s emotional side.
But her eyes turn devil red. “That closet is too small to store rags,” she says.
And that’s that. The female gets her way, mostly because she scared her man to death.
Guys get hot under the collar about completely different things.
“How did the car door get dented?” a man grumbles, knowing that his life mate will suddenly develop amnesia.
“When you go shopping you need to park away from all the other cars and shopping carts,” he says.
“Oh really? You expect me to park a mile away? Carry one kid and hold onto another one while pushing a grocery cart in the snow and ice?”
“I never asked you to walk a mile to the store entrance,” the man tries to diffuse the moment.
“It’s not enough that I stretched my uterus and bore your children?” the woman wails. “You think a fairy puts dinner on the table and clean clothes in your closet? Now you want me to be a bouncer for the car?”
Noting that his little love bug has turned into a terrorist, the male retreats to the garage.
Grateful not to hear his woman lose her marbles about stretch marks and shirt stains anymore, he pops open a beer and watches some TV. He forgets the whole thing. But the woman is fuming in the house, thinking that she might just file for divorce tomorrow on her lunch hour.
I completely understand the man cave mentality.
Before I retired from being a serial wife, I desperately wanted a place to escape to.
But I wanted a gator-filled moat and an electric fence around mine.
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.