I’m sure you’ve heard of the Butterfly Effect. It basically goes that since we live inside a large, enclosed, inter-related system that everything has an affect on everything else, and thus a wee butterfly on another continent can merely flap its wing, and the resulting draft can cause a cascade of events that do anything from opening a black hole to causing rioting in France.
Today, I discuss how one man’s desire to get a little nookie has left me abandoned in a sea of the unfamiliar. I’ll chronicle my adventures, and in this installment expose how women are covertly entrapping men.
Long story short in order to begin my own: Meet Jeff. Jeff marries my sister. Sister puts out. Sister has baby. Other sister goes across country to see new baby and help new mom. Local niece and nephew left without adult supervision. Meet Tamara, super adult with accompanying vision. Tamara leaves husband to babysit kids… for a WEEK. Husband, me, left to fend for self. So, collapsing the plot, because Jeff got some, I won’t.
Moving on, now that you have context, I’m at home fending for myself this week. In order to help me accomplish this task, Tamara has prep’d the place. For example, I might need to dress my self for work. Here’s how she’s handled that.
That’s right, she’s labeled my dresser.
And the sad part? It helped.
There’s this story about a guy who’s trying to capture some wild pigs. Only problem is, he can’t get close to them. Anytime he does, the pigs spook and run off. So, he gets an idea. He puts some feed in the middle of a field where he sees some pigs running. The pigs eventually learn about the feed, and eat it. Each day, he brings feed and puts it there in the pile, but does not approach. Eventually the pigs learn it’s easier to go to the feed than to work for their own food. One day he skips a feeding, and the pigs return and wait for the food, eventually leaving hungry. They’ve stopped fending for themselves. In his next plan, he puts a post in the ground where the food is. The pigs aren’t sure, but approach without threat in due course. Eventually he builds a small section of stand alone fence. The pigs learn to ignore it. Over the next few days he adds sides, and eventually has a full scale pen with an open door. The pigs march in, get food, and leave. Then he adds a gate, and the pigs ignore it as well, and then one day while feeding, he marches up and closes the gate. The pigs, having given up their freedoms and knowledge of self sufficiency over time in small increments for minor conveniences now find themselves trapped, and eventually on the kitchen table.
Men are pigs, with slightly better hygiene, and with slightly worse table manners. And, it is the process of dating and marriage that snares a man until it’s far too late.
The catch, however, is that women have help. Corporate help. And by this, I mean the evil folks at Pampered Chef.
Oh sure, you may think your wife is off at a party having fun, or you’re getting a great deal, perhaps winning free door prizes in hopes of the ever elusive antifreeze filled ice-cream scoop! But no, here’s what’s really going on: they’re feeding her devices like Q supplies 007.
It’s only day one, and I’ve just discovered in my wife’s absence that my house is littered with them. After you see this with your own eyes, you won’t doubt there’s a conspiracy afoot.
I come home from work at 8:30pm and decide to cook myself some dinner. And, by dinner, I mean Spaghetti-O’s… the low maintenance food for men.
In the cupboard, I discover the one last can. So, I pull out the fancy can opener and go round and round a few times.
Now I’m male, an engineer, and fairly strong. This black blade of death contraption merely morphs the lid of the can into a frictionless surface so that when I pull out an old fashioned can opener, which I used in college when I used to be self sufficient, it would no longer work.
Those bastards! I have only ONE can of food and this genetic gender sensing device has just locked my tasty morsels from my taste buds.
Ah ha! But I’m a man, and I’ll use brute strength. So I pry and pry and pry, until I eventually succeed in ripping the frigging lid of the can, as pictured.
Now what I like about Spaghetti-O’s is that they give you a lot. What I don’t like about Spaghetti-O’s is that they cram them all into one small can, so that when you get it open, they won’t pour out.
You have to smack the bottom of the can again and again, repeatedly, until you dislodge enough to make an air bubble and they come whooshing out. That is except for the fifth of them at the bottom that refuse to budge without even more whacking.
So, there I am whacking away, only to discover that the lid of the can I was just prying off had been mysteriously scored in such a way that it had a time release. The obvious happened.
Pisses me off, cause right at this time the cats are hearing cans crashing and come over where they stand on the hind legs and stretch against my leg begging, emphasizing their innocent love by drilling their claws in with excitement.
No kitty! Down! Not for you!
Still not put off (don’t worry, I do get there), I opt to use a fork and pluck out the burr covered lid.
It was at this point I knew there was a conspiracy. One can. Evil can opener. …and now, no forks.
Seems that as this chain of events was happening, it all had to have been carefully crafted, because that’s the only way that each necessary step could be a precursor to the disaster that followed.
Part of eating Speghetti-O’s is knowing you can do something nice, like saving the labels for the local schools.
What schools do with labels, I have no idea. Maybe they save up a few metric tons and glue them together into play ground equipment, I dunno. But we’ve been saving labels for years, and I figure why stop now.
Only problem is, the zillion steak knives I bought my wife for Christmas are gone. Oh, I eventually find them, they’re on top of the fridge instead of on the counter. I can only assume that she foresaw I’d injure myself and put them out of harms way.
Like a true guy, because they were in a slightly inconvenient place, I opted to use a butter knife instead. We had at least three of them.
So, like a pro, I slid the knife under the label to break the seal as my wife so expertly does.
And, that’s when I discovered two things. First, I’m not my wife. Second, they use some really freakin’ strong glue these days. I guess the labels must be so valuable, they don’t want people running off with them willy-nilly.
It all became fairly clear to me, as I was eating my cold Spaghetti-O’s (two zaps in the microwave and I just got impatient) that the food, the new kitchen utensils, the missing forks, and the magic glue were all too elaborately coordinated.
I know I’m male, but I’m not that incompetent. Like the pigs, I’ve been trapped by warm hugs and hot meals. Now that my wife isn’t here, I don’t just miss her, I sit in the corner crying for her return.
I’ve never felt so helpless and alone. I’d want my mommy, but I’m sure she’s in on it too.