No, dear readers, this does not imply lewdness or anything even remotely pornographic, so relax!
This is a blog for the middle-aged woman, maturing but ever young at heart, and ever mystified by the male, as I am and probably always will be.
Undoubtedly, you have also read that wonderful, block-busting best seller by John Grey, entitled Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. Brilliant, yes? I certainly thought so. But did that wise author really unveil every mystery about the male that we Venetians have ever encountered? I think not. In fact, far from it. They–the Martians, alien species that they are–are far too complex, wouldn’t you agree?
So here is my premise: We ladies use this blog site to share our travails, insights, hilarity and exasperation… so as to commiserate, find communion and most possibly even some enlightenment regarding ways to unlock what lurks in the minds of the Martians. Yours and mine. In other words, to travel together on this psychic voyage, going where every woman has gone before, but has not yet revealed to other Venetians!
This is the time. This is the place. I am chomping at the bit, excited as all get-out! Are you? I hope so. Let’s go!
The story of my own favorite Martian goes as follows:
My favorite Martian is a 60-ish male. A hefty man of Irish descent. Large but infinitely huggable. A hard-working contractor/property manager. A lover of sci-fi end-of-the-world movies. A truly decent fellow, I am happy to say. But a Martian nonetheless.
He went to the dentist recently and had two teeth extracted. When I came home from work that day, I found him passed out on our living room sofa. I tiptoed up to him, kissed him softly on the forehead (intentionally staying far away from the oral regions) and said, “How are you doing, sweety? Are you in pain?”
He opened his eyes and gazed up at me blearily. “I took a couple of Ibuprofen, so no, I am OK….just wiped out.”
Relieved, I asked eagerly, “Can I see?”
“What?” he responded.
“You know….the holes!” I exclaimed. Clarifying, “Where the teeth were pulled from.”
“NO!” he responded, resoundingly.
I shrugged and let him be, passing it off as “crumpiness” (his “cutsy” version of grumpy) because of having been woken up. No matter, I thought, I can ask him later on.
He was actually chipper at dinner time. So I waited until after the plates were all cleared away, and tried again: “Can I see them now?”
“NO”! Emphatically, his response, and I envisioned an image of Homer Simpson in his most petulant mode.
“Why not?” I queried, with all the reasonableness I felt as a mature, 50-ish woman who is naturally concerned about the health and well-being of her mate.
“Because I don’t want to.”
So now, dear female reader, you are getting a glimmer of why I am convinced I am indeed in the presence of a Martian–and certainly a very young one.
Now came the plea that often (but not always) works:
“I will give you some of my chocolate if you show me your holes!”
Irritably, “Leave me alone!”
Ahhh. This, I must tell you now, is one of his standard, most favorite phrases he uses when there is absolutely no explanation or rationale for his unfathomable behavior. I have no comeback for this one. It means, end of story. Truly.
It is many days later now, and I have tried a couple more times. To no avail, as you may have guessed.
My only hope is to catch him napping, as he often does, with his head tilted back on his cushy home office chair, mouth agape. When I do, I will clue you in on my findings.
Meanwhile, tell us about your own favorite mystery Martian, so that we may compile our anecdotal data banks in the hopes of one day fathoming the unfathomable!