TESTOSTERONE VS. ESTROGEN!

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On the weekends, when I’m relaxing in my recliner enjoying tasty snacks washed down with a cool beverage while watching sports on my 75″ TV, I like to occasionally exercise my lungs by unleashing screeching howls of disapproval at the umpires and referees at a volume level that would drown out the sound of a running chain saw.

In fact, my wife complains incessantly that I have more conversations with them than I do with her. But that’s understandable. The officials don’t argue with me over every word I say.

It is bliss!

Personally, I find it cathartic to yell at someone who can’t respond. And it’s even more rewarding if you employ a dash of creativity and fill the air with derogatory comments concerning their dubious decision-making capabilities, their abysmal eyesight, and their shocking lack of personal hygiene. (I don’t know. I just like to throw that one in there.) And once I get on a roll, I conjure up a wide range of disparaging remarks, including casting aspersions on their family regarding possible criminal activity. (You might as well get your money’s worth.)

It’s one of life’s simple pleasures that gives me great satisfaction. But my spouse does not understand.

She would prefer to turn off the TV (OH MY GOD!), so we can engage in lengthy, mind-numbing one-sided conversations. (They are one-sided because I have zero interest in discussing her favorite subjects.)

That is because my bride’s preferred talking points cover such spellbinding topics as her overwhelming desire to buy kitchen curtains to match the new paint she will decide she doesn’t like three months from now.

Then she’ll move on to what she believes is a distressing need for potpourri that can be liberally distributed throughout our home to combat the toxic fumes she always blames on me. (I admit, with good reason.)

After that, she’ll argue passionately about purchasing pricey pillowcases, which will never be seen because of the other twenty pillows on the bed.

And the love of my life will conclude by chattering away, with clamorous conviction, about her continuous craving to add to her ever-growing collection of (wait for it) SCENTED CANDLES! She buys them by the gross and lights dozens of them to help her relax during her bubble bath, where she can block out the world and forget about all of her problems – except me.

All I can say is, please send help! I AM LIVING IN ESTROGEN HELL.