“How much money do you have?” asked Liz. We were seated on the patio at The Ladies Room, a newly opened tearoom that had garnered fabulous reviews in the local press. Crisp white linens and fine china set the table in true English style. Seemed like a perfect place to meet our “Girls Day Out” lunch group. “Why do you ask?” I tentatively responded to her query, now slightly worried about just how much the scones and cucumber sandwiches might set me back.
“Oh, I’m not talking about menu prices; that’s not what I’ll need the money for. I’m about to kill Harry and I might need help getting bailed out of jail.”
I laughed at her exaggeration and ordered some champagne. Several minutes and a few sips later, Liz began to relax. Our friends had arrived as I prodded “Ok, spill the beans. What did Harry do now?”
“Well, it’s not what he did exactly - it’s more like what he wanted me to do.” Our quizzical expressions urged her on. “Many years ago, my mother-in-law cautioned me that men never mature past the age of nine. Being a young, naive newlywed, I had no idea what she was talking about. But, yesterday, my dear hubby proved that the actual age of maturity is closer to six.”
We all nodded in agreement, and she continued. “You see, a few days ago, Harry played in a golf tournament at the Club. He had forgotten to use sunscreen beforehand and was out in the sun for nearly 5 hours. By the end of 18 holes, he was pretty sunburnt. He didn’t seem to notice and attended the post-tournament luncheon. There was an all-you-can eat taco bar, complete with countless toppings and endless cold cervezas and margueritas. To say the least, he had a great time.”
“Until he got home. A few hours into the evening, all he could do was sit in his recliner and moan. The day had finally caught up with him. His head, arms and legs were lobster red, and he had a tummy ache from overindulging. I applied cool compresses, slathered every exposed area with aloe vera and gave him lots of Pepto.
“Despite my best efforts to make him feel better, the minute I left his side he started whimpering like a little puppy. When I didn’t run back into the room immediately, he turned up the volume to full-blown moaning. I ran back into the room. “What?!” I said, just a little bit exasperated. He looked up at me with the expression of a little boy and asked, ‘Can’t you just be a little nicer to me?’
“Seriously? Nicer? It didn’t matter that I’d waited on him hand and foot all evening. He had done this to himself and now he was acting like a six-year-old!
“He wasn’t much better this morning, so to avoid further crankiness I grabbed my bag and escaped here. It’s so good to be able to vent to my friends. If I’d stayed home, I’m sure I would have committed murder!”
Our laughter was prompting looks from other patrons, but we didn’t care. We’d all been in similar spots and had our own stories. “As adorable as they are, men really can be such babies sometimes” volunteered Kathy, who relayed a story about her hubby getting a splinter in his thumb when he climbed the fence to retrieve an errant golf ball. After she had deftly removed it and applied antibiotic ointment and a band aid, he commented: “It really hurts. I don’t think I’m able to take the trash down today. Can you do it for me?”
More champagne prompted more stories, giggling at our men’s antics for a while longer.
Polishing off the tiered tower of finger sandwiches and petit fours, we all agreed. As valuable as they are, sometimes men really are little boys in big guy’s clothing. From nursing their colds, to providing neck rubs after a hard day at the computer or the golf course, women do quite a lot to make men feel better. And, for the most part, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
And then it dawned on us. All we needed to feel better was the camaraderie of friends and little venting (of course, the champagne helped a bit too). Then Susie had a brilliant idea. The four of us should develop and pitch a new TV talk show. Our working title: “The Rant.” Other women have certainly had similar experiences. Wouldn’t it be fun to watch women vent and laugh about their men, all on national television?
Move over Whoopee, Joy and Company. There’s nothing funnier than women regaling stories about our adventures with the other half.
© 2024 Annie Sokoloff
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