If you’re married, like me, then at some point, or perhaps every day, you hear the phrase, “Honey…Where’s my…?”  Where is your what:  your brain,  your eyes,  your f’ing common sense?  I’ll tell you where it is, it’s up your ass!  Why is it that men are incapable of ever finding something that belongs to them?  Why!!??  If it isn’t bad enough I have to deal with three kids asking me the same questions, why must I also have to accommodate a grown man?  I’m starting to really question the whole idea of man as hunter.  I don’t believe they could find a bear in the woods if they tried.  I’m sure ancient man was somehow grunting to their gatherer wives, “Honey…grunt grunt…have you seen my buffalo?”  Ancient woman, leading the way, rolling her eyes and pointing to a large, brown, furry thing right in front of him was probably wondering the same thing her futuristic female counter part was.  Let’s face it, it wasn’t a male scout invited to lead Louis and Clarke from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, nooo, it was Sacagawea, a woman, carrying a baby no less!!

On top of not being able to find anything, men also don’t notice anything.  They’re like camels with their heads buried in the sand, looking up only for food, drink, and sex.  Men never notice the things you do around the house, but boy do they have eyes for the things you haven’t done.  I love the question, “What have you done all day?”  What have I done all day!!??  Really??

Some days I do ten loads of laundry.  I purposefully leave two baskets overflowing with folded clean clothes at the bottom of the stairs in hopes that maybe my husband might pick one up on his way upstairs.  Two weeks later he’s calling down to me, “Honey have you seen my underwear?”  Yeah, I’d like to see it…in a bonfire!

So the other day I’m at work and I get a call from my husband.  The first question he asks me is, “When did you paint the patch on the wall in our bedroom?”  Let me just fill you in on the history of ‘the patch’.  Three years ago we moved into our house, my husband, who is not so handy, decides to rip the old light switch remote plate off the wall, leaving a hole in the sheet rock.   BTW, this was done after we had already paid a bundle to have the whole house painted.  So my carpenter, (A.K.A. house husband), came and patched the hole, and we had a good laugh at my husband’s un-handy man attempt.

What was really funny was that the patch then sat there; a big, white, square surrounded by a bold terra-cotta hue, above the new light switch, for the past two years.  I even went so far as to bring the paint can upstairs in hopes he might try to repair the damage he inflicted.  Well, when the dust level on the paint can started to make me sneeze, I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands, and paint that white patch myself.  Three weeks later, I got the call.

Right after I got my call that day, my colleague got a call from her husband; apparently I wasn’t the only one with ‘white patch’ issues.  In lieu of caring for our critically ill patients, we were fielding phone calls from the men in our lives, solving problems, helping with child care issues, and listening to the evangelical revelations of noticing paint on the wall.

As my friend hung up the phone, her head bowed and shaking back and force, the swears under her breath just barely audible, I felt a shared sense of shoes in that moment and wondered, ‘what are we going to do with our husbands?’

Then it dawned on me, the solutions to our problems.  Not one to revel in despair, I knew I needed to have an upbeat idea, one that would satisfy both me and my husband and put an end to what seemed a hopeless ending.

You know how we reward our children for good behavior with a sticker or a treat or provide them with a detailed chart, so they understand their responsibilities throughout the family, thus did I think men also required some sort of symbol; a beacon to guide them to an understanding of what was done in the house that day, or to take notice of something they might otherwise pass by without so much as a glance, a symbol that would turn a man’s head even if his head was so low from the game loss of his favorite football team that day.

It has been my experience that the only thing to give a man’s head whiplash faster than a car accident, is a set of large, round, heaving, carefully placed breasts between a low V-shaped ensemble on a voluptuous woman.   Instead of trying to tell a man what you did all day, you must show him with some fabulous tata’s.  Whether it’s a playboy printout, or a set you crafty mom’s have created from paper mache, breasts are breasts, and no man will look away.  Boobs on the laundry pile are a guarantee he’ll want to carry that load upstairs.  Dishes done, post those boobs on the dishwasher and he might empty that load faster than you think.  When he’s looking for something he can’t find, just pin a pair of luscious breasts on it, and bam, he’ll come for it.  New haircut…need I say more?

I’m tired of feeling bitter.  We women need to think outside the box, or the bra for that matter.  If an extra pair of breasts in this house can help me out, then I’m all for it.  God knows, as an A-cup, I can use all the breasts I can get!