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My Life as a Cereal Killer and Other Abnormalities

 

 

     Gentlemen, it’s time for us to stand up and embrace certain inalienable truths.  Since the dawn of man, the goings-on of the fairer sex have remained obscure to our musing.  If not an out-and-out mystery, then certainly suspect. However, because we find ourselves genetically inclined to vie for their courtesies, we often overlook--with some trepidation-- these shortcomings of sort. 

     We wait patiently as they go about the business of being women.  Because it only takes five minutes to ready ourselves (for any given occasion), we pull up to the table with a slice of newspaper, and happily relinquish the extra, oh, twenty or thirty minutes that they require.  We do so without brood or bicker. 

     Never do we ask, “Hey, what is up with all those shoes?”  Because, to us, their happiness is of the highest import, so we lend support (usually financial) to these massive collections.  Never do we question the motives behind them spending our lives savings on those weekly visits to the nail-salon, or the hair-dresser. 

     They attend these girl-gatherings that sell everything from Tupperware to Pampered Chef, to the adult girl parties…the ones men are forbidden to attend?  God only knows the atrocities spoken within those hallowed walls.  Call it what you will, but they’re organizing right under our collective noses.  Still, we remain silent.

     One would imagine that with all the tolerance and understanding we’ve demonstrated throughout the matrimonial life-span –this would buy us a little leniency, a few get-out-of-jail-free cards as it were.  Perhaps a few Sundays of unmolested football gluttony wouldn’t be out of order.  My answer to you is, “Not so much.” 

     My latest short-coming is forgetting to properly close, wrap and seal the cereal box.  And while this certainly ranks towards the bottom in terms of global-issues, to my wife it’s a cause of vast unrest.  Apparently I’m not alone in this propensity.  In a case of genetic monkey-see-monkey-do, I’ve unwittingly passed along the cereal gene.

      It seems my two kids have also crossed over to the dark-side.  Between the three of us, you’d imagine one would step to the forefront and assume command of this gaggle.  My answer again, “Not so much.”  Essentially I’ve created an Axis-of-Evil, cereal style. 

     So there sits said cereal box, flaps pointing to the sky like some iconoclastic monument--its wax bag unceremoniously ripped open, and left exposed to the elements, parasites, and my wife’s consternation. 

     To exaggerate matters, there’s the chocolate-powder phenomenon that can sometimes accompany this open-box conspiracy.  After multiple secret meetings between me and my staff of said off-spring, a decree was forged into law.  This verbal proclamation asserts that no commercially produced cereal is sweet enough, and therefore requires additional sweetener…the chocolate powdered variety being standard operating procedure.

     Unfortunately for my confederation of non-conformists, the spatterings of contraband are habitually left abandoned on the not-so-pristine country-side that is the kitchen counter.  This evidence often takes the unlikely outline of the chocolate container itself, thereby null and voiding any argument of its origin.   

     Additionally, there’s the issue of open cabinets.  In the case of warring factions, this issue has simmered in obscurity until recently, with neither party willing to concede significant ground.  However, the metaphorical musket balls started flying with religious fervor after a recent--poorly conceived sugar-induced scavenger hunt, orchestrated by yours truly. 

     Accompanied by my duo of swaggering outlaws, we managed to wage a kamikaze like attack on the sacred temple of the kitchen, leaving cereal carnage, chocolate contraband, and open cabinets in our wake.  The sleeping giant now awoken, we beat a hasty retreat to the relative security of the common areas.  For now we move in the shadows, careful to cover any trail of our indiscretions, in hopes of one day realigning our leadership and reestablishing offensive posture. 

     In the end, we men are victims of genetics, as well as the female regime.  Our eventual demise is neatly encoded into twisted strands of DNA.  This, for those who didn’t know, is briefed at those all girl-gatherings.  Eventually, we’ll neatly seal the cereal-bag and ensure that the box-top is secured--to the best of our ability, anyway.  When we are through riffling through the cabinets, well snap them shut.  We’ll put down the toilet seat, and we’ll lavish her with all the niceties she requires. 

     Like my wife, my daughter will one day demand the same of her husband—she’ll carry on the same genetic inclination to quickly zero in on any pockets of male resistance, and crush them with a ruthless efficiency.  Chances are she’ll have a damn fine collection of shoes.