The invitation arrived via email. The team at Oh, So Many Balls was thrilled. I had been invited to sit on a blue-ribbon judging panel. This is a significant honor, and needless to say I felt privileged to be part of such an illustrious group.
The Golden Globes had just been awarded and Oscar nominations announced.
Not to be surpassed, the “Men Really Are From Mars” International Society announced its own upcoming formalities. The organization’s coveted “Venus Award” is bestowed annually on the funniest, and often craziest thing, a woman has experienced a man do or say, while not really understanding his behavior one iota.
Several categories were under consideration: “There’s a Remote for That” (hilarious takes on why men seem to need the remote in their hands at all times) and “Honey, I Can’t Find” (equally humorous sightings of men standing in front of something they were looking for and that they simply cannot see).
In the “Men, You Gotta Love ‘Em” category a few award nominations quickly rose to the top. These were rib-tickling accounts of things men do when they really don’t know how to resolve a problem but come up with a solution anyway - all while sticking to their guns that they have the correct fix.
All true stories: I mean, really, who could actually make this stuff up.
The first nomination was “How a Tennis Ball Nearly Ruined Christmas.” Sheila, the presenting wife, told a tale and we judges nearly split our sides as she relayed it. It goes like this: Sheila and her husband Randy were setting up the Christmas tree, only to discover that a leg on the tripod tree stand was broken. Instead of buying a new stand, or even using handy, dandy duct tape as a fix, hubby Randy decided a more appropriate - and simpler (?) solution, would be to prop a tennis ball under the broken leg to hold the tree steady. Despite Sheila’s misgivings, Randy insisted it would work.
You can only imagine what happened next. Unsurprisingly, a short while after the fully decorated tree was finished, it began to slide - no, roll - over onto its side, the bright yellow rubber ball bouncing across the room and knocking over the recently purchased poinsettia plant dumping dirt on the freshly vacuumed white carpet.
Sheila rolled her eyes as Randy left to purchase a new tree stand, muttering under his breath as he got in the car “I thought it would work, I thought it would work!” And of course, Sheila was left to clean up.
The second story under consideration was “The Blow Hard.” It’s a tale of how a grungy, dirty golf cart got spanking clean with maximum effort, fuss and grouchiness. The nomination featured Jack, a midwestern male who decided it was time to have his prized golf cart washed and detailed. He took it to the golf club for the maintenance crew to handle. He was sure that as an upstanding member, they would be delighted to do it for free.
The crew assured him that they would be happy to do what was needed to make the cart look spanking new in no time. The customary $20 fee would be charged to his account, and he could pick it up in an hour.
Jack was quite displeased. For the monthly membership dues we were paying, he felt such service should be delivered without cost. Instead of giving in, he climbed back into his filthy cart, deciding to handle it himself. He drove three miles on sidewalks to the nearest drive-through car wash.
Turned out, Jack had to pay the same $20 fee, and the car wash was for CARS only. Enclosed cars, with windows rolled all the way up. Golf carts do not fit this description but Jack was determined to complete his task. Despite objections of the establishment owners, he drove through anyway, getting a not-so-pleasant shower in the process. Assisted by a strong breeze driving home, he arrived some three hours later with a fairly clean golf cart and very soaked golf pants.
Several other articles were submitted including “Men Don’t Come With Instructions” (a tale of the perils of interrupting your better half’s dubious assembly skills with suggestions of your own) and “Didn’t We Drive By That Building Already?” (when asking for directions is not in their DNA and your help is rebuffed). Any of these stories could take home the coveted “Venus.”
After all, men may be from Mars and, as has been suggested, women are from Venus. But when all is said and done, despite mens’ inexplicable antics, in the end, you really just gotta love ‘em.
© 2025 Annie Sokoloff
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