Complicated

Note to readers:  If you’re a male, you might, maybe, possibly, potentially be just a hair, say a teensy smidgen offended at the gross generalizations I am about to lay down.  They’re gross generalizations and super-stereotypes. 

If you recognize shades of your own behavior in any one of the following items though. . . well, stop it!  Or do it! 

(Also, with the addition of a male canine at Chez Weir, I am feeling outnumbered.  I can barely breathe here because Caleb [yes, the kids have chosen to stick with Caleb] rarely, if ever, extracts his head from my rear end.  I fully and openly acknowledge that I can be a most magnificent pain in the ass to the Y-chromosome carriers I share my life with.  I’m anxious, I talk a lot, I can adopt one mother of a sarcastic tone, and these are just a few highlights.  I know I am not above reproach.)

Unless I am at a restaurant or fast-food joint, I rarely add ice to my beverages.  It’s not that I’m not pro-frosty beverage, it’s more that mostly I drink stuff directly out of the fridge, and it’s already sufficiently cooled.  After dinner tonight, I was dying for a Coke Zero.  (You’re so welcome, Coca-Cola, for the free endorsement here)  I also rarely seek a glass vessel from which to drink my adequately cooled beverage, but tonight for whatever reason, I was in the mood for a pint glass of Coke Zero over ice.  Glass pint, check; room temp Coke Zero, check; ice cubes, not a one.

My husband consumes and chews ice like it’s his job.  There was a time in recent history when I was sure his ice chewing would be my undoing, so constant was the jaw action, but lately I guess I’ve been distracted.  And also since I used to listen to music through headphones so loudly that they’d bounce off my head, I am finally willing to admit that my hearing acuity may have taken a slight dive, and I can’t hear him.  Or tuned it out.  Probs both.  Being a cheap-ass, I never quite understood why people purchase ice for home use.  I mean, sure, it’s ice and it comes in swell cylindrical shapes which do possess a simply superior mouthfeel and glide as if made of, well nevermind. . .  They are made of ice.  It’s ice.

But with a minimum amount of exertion, anyone can make ice for free.  See, your fridge comes with these little plastic or silicone trays.  They’re also available for purchase in fun shapes or just your standard twelve if you need or want more.  If your fridge is newer, you probably don’t have them because holy crap!  You have an icemaker and have reached the pinnacle of culinary technological advancement!  If you’re an old school girl like me (until Saturday anyway when the new appliances are scheduled for delivery), you can make ice cubes.  Let me elucidate:

Fig 1:  Turn on your faucet.  You’ll want a low-to-medium flow so as to avoid splashing and water waste.  Believe it or not, if your tap flow is too forceful, you’ll end up with very shallow trays, not filled well whatsoever.

Fig 2:  Place the empty ice cube tray under the running water.  Fill all twelve compartments with water, oh, let’s say about 7/8 of the way filled.

Fig 3:  Walk over to the open freezer.  Wait, maybe open the freezer should be Fig 1.  You pick.  If you choose to renumber here, it’s OK.  Do what works for you.  See how flexible I am?

Fig 4:  Place said ice cube tray in the freezer and close the door.

This process seems to me to be fairly uncomplicated, yet every man I have ever lived with, and if the internet is to be believed, a great many male inhabitants of first world countries, struggles with this labor-intensive process.  Help me out here, guys.  Why is it so complicated?? 

While I’m on a roll here, may I offer some helpful suggestions guaranteed to prevent your wife/girlfriend/sister/mom/mother-in-law/daughter/neighbor lady from losing her mind?

Pro Tip 1:  Try opening the door before standing there staring at it for an extended period of time.  Sometimes it’s not locked.  Also, knocking.

Pro Tip 2:  Do not yank a pair of shorts from the middle of a basket of folded laundry.  Put your shit away.  All of it.  You do nothing but create Mount Washmore when you upend a basket of nicely folded clothing.  Related–the laundry baskets?  Those white, rectangular receptacles filled with your clothes?  That you pass by seventeen times as you go up and down the stairs?  Your vision is not that bad, I know this.

Pro Tip 3:  Toothpaste is meant to be washed down the drain, not to serve as an artsy turquoise accent to the sink bowl.

Pro Tip 4:  Toilet paper is conveniently located in the vanity under the sink.  For when you use the last square. . .  You don’t even have to get up.  But please do.

Pro Tip 5:  Empty cups and dishes with nothing left but crumbs have no place in the fridge.  It’s called a sink, and it’s kissin’ close to the fridge.

Pro Tip 6:   Blankets can be folded.  You might want to remove your stinky socks first.

Pro Tip 7:  Close the door when leaving the house, especially when the air conditioning is on.  What?  You born in a barn? (I wish there was a way to convey facial expression via text because I just channeled my mom and made the “holy crap, I just became my mom” wide eyes.)  Conversely, when the door is closed, say to my bedroom or bathroom, it’s a surefire clue to stay the hell out.  Seriously.

Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel a whole lot better!  Whew.

It really isn’t complicated, fellas.  I leave you with this:  You can do/not do many dingbat things, but if you bring me a dish of ice cream, unsolicited no less, after you fumble on the ice, you are still a hero.  I’m not taking all of it back though because I’m a helper, see, and I think my pro tips are solid.  I stand by ’em, no doubt.  Plus, crabbing about silly (un)complicated stuff like this takes me away from the real world.  In my real world, in my city, there are some very real and complicated social issues including rampant gun violence and rioting.  I have dedicated my career to serving inner-city youth, and my heart breaks to read about unrest and destruction where I work.  I just don’t have it in me tonight.  I am happy to report however that Puma, a dog we intended to adopt but didn’t because she was kind of a b with a capital B, got adopted by another family.  Yay!

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