Romney Gibson is the latest in the list of Tidings' columnists. She debuts today with her column "BOOM."
What is it with men and pillowcases? It's an astounding conundrum of physics gone awry; a mechanical, logical happening that should happen and doesn't.
Apparently, men cannot place two corners of a pillow into a newly laundered pillowcase, adjust the batting, and provide a useable, workable nightly headrest.
I was once married to a man with two masters degrees and a Phd who, despite my extremely good humored step-by-step demonstration, proceeded to stuff four cornered pillows smack in the middle of a perfectly formed cotton rectangle.
This created a look much like a boa constrictor midway through a six-course meal. When I queried his methodology he mumbled something about life's priorities.
Granted, this same man could have been equally strident in demonstrating the value of myputting away, say, the wheelbarrow after usage. But, we're not talking about wheelbarrows, we're talking about pillowcases.
I recently dated an extremely intelligent man with strong views on the efficiency of certain household tasks.
According to this expert, there's a profound rationale for ensuring that toilet paper dispenses from the top, the refrigerator door opens from the left and bowls are placed only on the accessible second shelf.
Surely, this man, with such an eye for detail and appreciation for the Science of the Domestic would have the precise practice of matching the old P to P-case. Ah. No.
One explanation for this dichotomy is that men and women place different values on different tasks. Probably. Is it something else? Power? Mm. Maybe. Passive aggressive? Possibly.
But, consider this: when a man chooses not to do something well within his intellectual and physical range hesimply may be attempting to be Cute. Helpless. Adorable. As in, "If I do this wrong 700,000 times, she'll find it endearing and reward me by never asking me to do it again!"
Well, all you brilliant, capable men out there - here's a note. You're not enchanting when you fumble with the pillowcase. You're not adorable when you dismiss the very existence of a toilet brush. And, helpless behavior in the face of a bathtub ring charms me not.
There is one thing that I find infinitely endearing. Something that counteracts the embarrassing ineptness so clearly dramatized by the Pillowcase Problem. A perfect solution, really, to that ongoing, silly irritation. Simply put away the wheelbarrow I've left out in the back yard.
I mean, what is with you guys?
Romney Gibson is a freelance writer living in Bellingham, Wash. who declares that one of her life's primary peak experiences took place at an afternoon concert in Ashland's Lithia Park. (Something to do with a John Phillip Sousa march being played at the bandshell.) Describing her work, she wonders "What might have happened if Erma Bombeck had married Dave Barry and they'd had a kid?" Or, "If Erma had a younger sister who married Barry's older brother and THEY had a kid?"
By Romney Gibson
