The Ramblings of a Domesticated Man

"Men are so intelligent that they've sucessfully domesticating wild dogs while women have successfully domesticated men."

THE CASE AGAINST PURSES
The other day I was sitting in the passenger seat while my wife drove us to a party. I'm just sitting listening to Penny's favorite station on the radio, her new pink and black leather purse (which she loves) is on my lap where she keeps it when she drives. A couple of Hermosa Beach Surfer Types pull up next to us in their Rav 4 Jeep-thing and I see out of the corner of my eye that they're looking over at us. Okay. Cool, they're just checking out my beautiful wife, right? Wrong. They're looking at her purse and whispering to each other. I wonder. Maybe they're anti-leather tree-huggers or something. Then one of them gives me the traditional dude head nod and I dude nod him back. Then he turns to his friend in the passenger seat who snorts a laugh at my expense. The light changes and they're gone, but I can't figure out what just happened. I look down and realize they're laughing at me holding this big pink purse on my lap. I can hold the purse for hours without concern for my masculinity, much. Okay, it's a little uncomfortable to stand in the middle of a crowded restaurant holding a purse. And god, I do hate the color pink. In fact, the only thing that's pink that I do like is... I'll keep this post PG-13.

Still in the car, purse on my lap, I space out. I'm just staring out the window when it strikes me. At that moment I realized that I hold Penny's purse more than she does. During the drive there and back, I hold it. When she goes to use the bathroom, which is about every 4.5 minutes, I hold it. Of course that's just an average. Once she went for nearly 23 minutes without having to pee. But my point is that I hold the damn thing more than she does. When she's out with it, it's next to me on a booth, chair, whatever. It should be my purse. I should at least get to pick it out. Something cool, not pink leather. I want one of those cool metal briefcases. Like the kind that they always carried kilos of cocaine in on Miami Vice. If the case looked cool I wouldn't give a fuck how many tampons, lip sticks, birth control pills, maxi-pads, eyebrow pencils... Go ahead and jam Strawberry Shortcake, Hello Kitty and Cosmo Magazine in there for all I care. If the case looks cool I look cool. It could even have a chain attached that I handcuff to my wrist. Very James Bond, Oceans Elevenish. I mentioned this to my wife and after some calculating she agreed that I probably do hold her purse more than she does. But when I tried to explain that since I'm the one holding it that I should get to choose the purse, she looked at me like I was insane. As if I'd just suggested that she lead me around by my penis whenever we're out in public. She laughed it off, but I didn't let it go. When she realized I was serious her face contorted into a forced smile cleverly masking her "How do I un-marry this head case" expression. She gets that look a lot actually. Should I be concerned?

Anyway, where was I? Right, back to the purse. She tried to spin the whole thing into me buying her a new purse. When it comes to shoes and purses or jewelry women can out Machiavelli men every time. They're so cunning, that by the time they're done they'll even have you convinced that it was your idea in the first place. If you think that you've every actually picked out a purse, shoes or jewelry for your wife or girlfriend by yourself, you're either brainwashed, labotomized or you're fucking a Stepford Husband, my friend. You are a puppet on a string.

I'm sure the same thing will be true for picking out baby names. She'll dupe you. This is how it could go down.

You're both there... looking down at the gurgling baby... in the crib.

Husband: "I definitely think we should name her Randy. That'd be a cool name for a girl."

Wife: "Yeah, Randy is nice... It makes me think of Jenna, or Claudia. Which one do you like better, sweetie?

Husband: "I think I like Jenna slightly better than Claudia, but I don't really--"

Wife: (She cuts you off as she picks up the baby) "Hey little one. Your daddy wants to name you Jenna. You're baby Jenna. (to husband) She smiled. Jenna knows her name."

And woosh! Quick as a blur, she's named the baby. It's over. And for the rest of your life you'll actually beleive that you named the baby.

Women will let you do whatever they want you to do and you'll feel as grateful as a rescue puppy who gets to lick the hamburger grease from its Master's fingers. The puppy doesn't say "where's my damn burger?" Nope. He just laps it up blissfully. Yum yum, tastes meaty.

Here's an example. Let's say it's Saturday afternoon.

Husband: "Really honey, I can go play basketball with the guys?" Panting with excitement.

Wife: (duh) Yeah, of course, sweetheart. You can do whatever you want, it's your day off. Take my car if you want. You can fill the gas tank up for me. High Octane. Just make sure to stop by the grocery store on the way back. We need some non-fat milk, that cereal I like, get some Hagen-Daas-- Coffee Chip if they have it. Um... also as long as you're going, I need tampons-- the kind in the purple box. And have a great time with the guys. (nonchalant) Keep your cell phone on in case I think of any more groceries we need. Have fun!"

We're suckers! They have verbal kryptonite. Forget whipped. You've been hog-tied and branded.

They're like professional grifters. And it's scarier than any horror movie, because it's REAL and there's no escape. I'm tired of it and I'm gonna tell her straight up 'cause-- Wait-- the dogs just heard something. Her car just pulled into the driveway-- Shit... I gotta go--