The Way I See It

Upon arriving home from work yesterday, I flung open the door to the bedroom to allow for maximum air circulation. It was ghastly hot that day, and we could have used the cross breeze, but we have to keep our door closed to keep our renegade dog off of our bed.

(this is the same dog who allegedly has such bad hips that he can't climb the stairs, but is quite capable of getting on and off my bed at a moments notice. More to follow on that subject, you can be sure.)

In addition to the ghastly heat, there was a distinct odor in the room. I soon discovered the offending source of the odor, and resolved to temporarily suspend my vow to not nag Husby. Just this one time, right?


Husby, whom we all know and love, is an avid sailor. And avid sailors have extra bags for their sailing accoutrement, like spare shorts, socks, shoes, sun screen and Labatt's Light. After a full day of sailing on Sunday, this extra bag smelled EXTRA bad. I've previously admonished him in my gentle, dulcet tones to get that stink bag off my bed before I throw it out. The bag wasn't on my bed this time, but was offensive enough just sitting in the corner.


I lovingly gestured to his corner of the room which is stacked up knee high with assorted piles of clothes and said "Whatever is in that pile that stinks, move it." He sniffed the air and reluctantly agreed that something in that general area didn't smell great.


Now, if it had been my pile of stuff that stunk, and this fact had been brought to my attention, I would have acted promptly and removed the offending odor causing item. Right? (I do have a pile o' crap of my own, you see. I am not a germ-a-phobe or a neat-nik. It is just that my piles of junk are much, much smaller. And considerably less stinky.)

You don't need me to finish the story but I'm going to anyway - of course, the offending bag is still in the corner of the room, happily stinking up the joint. I might as well have let the dog into the room.

On the other hand, an offhand comment from him along the lines of "these rooms look un-finished. Should we finish them?" has resulted in a flurry of activity. In two months, we have new blinds, window treatments in three rooms, paint colors picked and plants perched cheerfully on tables. I have new pictures hung all around and a new light fixture coming in the mail.


My question is this: How is it that one comment from Mr. Male Privilege results in all sorts of productivity, while a simple request from Ms. Amazing Wife gets a nose wrinkle and a nap?