I Live in an Under House
There are not many things my ex-wife and I agreed on. Corporal punishment, what constitutes “shopping”, when she’s gone whether I’m, in fact, “babysitting” to name a few.
When it comes to the differences of the sexes, I agree with John Gray’s excellent book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. We simply think differently. Guys dig Monday Night Football; women Trading Spaces. Guys love beer and nuts; women, chardonnay and cheese. Just get over it and move on. If you can’t, the chances of a lasting relationship are nil. Nada. Divorce Court City.
The only thing we seem to agree on is how all “papers” should be hung in the house. Toilet and paper towels specifically. We’re ‘unders.’
It only makes sense to me. You unroll counter clockwise, it comes out from behind. Rip. Done. Why would you do it any other way?
My father comes over and takes demonic pride in turning all of them around. It takes me a week before I go to grab a Brawny in the garage and stop mid-pull. I get the shakes. Hairs on my neck stand.
This is the wrong damn way!
It’s fairly easy for me to tell who my friends are/will be. I go to their house. Under? Compadre. Over? Rush-Limbaugh-lovin’, confederate-flag-wavin’, Dick Cheney-sympathizin’ loser.
So, if it’s not a battle of the sexes, what is it? Left side vs. right of the brain? Chronic fetal alcohol syndrome?