Gherkin Street

By Donna Dinger:

I have never understood cricket. To me, it’s just a bunch of kids throwing rocks at each other except that two of them have flat sticks to defend themselves. Oh, and about fifteen layers of padding.

Seriously, though if I asked my husband (Red) to wear a bright yellow outfit he would say no faster than if you had just asked me would I like sex with Brad Pitt. Of course, one of us would be lying.

Cricketers also change outfits for different games. They wear white for the test matches. What is that supposed to mean? The only other time wearing white is significant is when women get married. Then, it’s supposed to mean they are “pure”. Can’t exactly say the same for our beloved cricketers. Or just about any other Australian (team) sportsmen.

Nevertheless, it’s perfectly ok for a group of Australian males to stand around a BBQ discussing which year’s colourful one-day outfit was best. Show them a picture of Sophie Monk wearing only a bikini bottom and they won’t even be able to tell you what colour the bikini was. Or the colour of her eyes. Or whether she had a head.

Red reckons the love of sport goes back to men’s “hunting and gathering ancestry”. However, for Red and just about everyone of his mates the only hunting and gathering they are doing when sports are concerned is finding the best seat in front of the television and seeing how many chips they can fit into one hand (the other one is either holding a beer or scratching themselves somewhere).

Oh there are a few older friends who actually play sport. They are the ones on crutches or waiting lists for new kneecaps. Even his mates who are young enough to play sport tend to watch more than they play.

Two things are certain though, they were all legends when they played sport and they are all experts at whatever they are watching now. Red has quite a bit to say about aerial ski-jumping and yet the only time in his life he was airborne while unassisted was when he fell backwards off the balcony after too many drinks. His friends said he would have won the contest but he blew the landing.

“It’s about the contest” Red always tells me. He may just be right. For men turn everything into a contest. Everything.

Sex is about who has the longest willy and who can “go at it” the longest. Here’s a tip boys, most of your wives wish you would just get it over with as fast as possible – if only so we don’t have to look upon your so-called “game-face”.

Driving is about who can get their faster and with fewer rest stops. Funny how the reigning Sydney-Melbourne winner is now deceased. They buried him in his car. Not because he was so attached to it but because it was so attached to him.

Drinking is about how fast and how many, eating is about how much and flatulence is about how smelly. Exactly how does the latter relate to your “hunting and gathering ancestry”. I am pretty sure that nowhere in the Darwin’s theory of evolution is a suggestion that mankind is in any way related or evolved form the skunk. I find it hard to believe that sometime in our dark past did one man escape the clutches of a deadly sabre-toothed kangaroo by the use of flatulence.

Nor, I bet, did his then spouse find the smell a turn on. If it was so sexy wouldn’t someone have bottled flatulence by now? I can just imagine the svelte model staring down the TV at us saying, “Try FRT – the new fragrance for men that drives men wild.” It’s a bit hard to imagine the Lynx girls smouldering because they have just sniffed the latest “fragrance of man – two day old Indian curry and port scent”.

Yep, everything men do is just a way of seeing whether they can beat their mates. To them it’s all about who comes first and … well ... that’s all that seems matter …

By Donna Dinger:

Hey, I'm enjoying this writing lark and God knows this website could do with a feminine touch so until such time as I stop enjoying torturing Red (possibly never), I will do my best for the fairer sex.

Put simply, men have no idea when it comes to understanding women’s emotions. Now, mea culpa, women aren’t all that good at making it easy for men to understand. There are plenty of times when an emotion overcomes me and I don’t even know why. However, if I burst into tears for “no apparent reason” perhaps its worth taking a moment to see if, in fact, there is an apparent reason.

For example, do you remember that day that was supposed to be “a family day” when we had all those chores to get done? If you’ve forgotten, that was the day you decided it would be a good time to go and buy a new barbeque and spend five hours making it given it came flat-packed. By the way, I must complement you on the fact that it works although I confess to being a bit concerned that you did not read the instructions. That and the fact that there are about fifty parts left over, including the one that has that big sign on it proclaiming “Warning, install this part first!” Fortunately, you have life insurance and have always wanted to take a ride in a rocket ship.

Anyway, on that day I did all the jobs and took all three children to their respective sports. Of course, we were running late because you decided it would also be good to get your eldest son to run to the shop to buy a paper. That would have been alright if the shop wasn’t three kilometres away and he wasn’t only 7. Anyway, after filling the car with petrol (because you ran it almost empty) I spent the next five hours running around in the 35 degree heat doing the shopping and helping out at the local community fete. Oh, and do you remember how on the way home number-two child threw up all over the other kids and me?

Well, there I was, exhausted, holding the shopping bags, covered in vomit and you said, “Did you remember to buy my beer?” I think I said something like “I'm sorry darling, I've been a bit busy.” At that point in time you, noticing that the kids had run over to the next-door-neighbours, proceeded to say to me something like “Fancy a quickie?” Well, you may recall that shortly thereafter I burst into tears? That was an “apparent reason”.

Unfortunately, I have given up all hope that men will ever evolve to the point of being able to understand women (without becoming homosexuals). However, I have come up with a possible solution that may work.

Perhaps we girls could get a whole heap of labels printed, each with a few words that express an emotion or state of mind and, when the moment is right, place one of these labels on ourselves so men could read them and know how to react?

Granted a label that says “Hot, tired, covered in vomit and not the least bit interested in a seventeen second quickie” might be a bit much. Perhaps a simple “Go away” would do the trick? In fact, that particular label, if read and obeyed by most husbands, would just about double household productivity.

There are plenty of labels that would help out. The worrying thing is I suspect if I ran the idea past some of my girlfriends we could very quickly come up with an extremely comprehensive list that we could all use.

For example, “Annoyed because you forgot our anniversary” would work. Same as, “No I don’t want a threesome.” Of course, I would love to put a sticker permanently on my back that read, “If I am asleep then, no, I am not interested in sex.” Of course, Id like one on my front that said, “Unless I am very drunk then, no, I am not interested in sex.”

I would have no trouble in wearing a sticker that said, “Just hug me without attempting to touch any erogenous zones” when I have just heard about the death of my mother. Or perhaps, “If you can read this then you are too close” for when hubby comes home stinking of booze. Or maybe even “Yes, I am upset that our romantic dinner just happens to be at a place that has a wide-screen TV on the wall.”

Then there would have to be “Any chance you could ask me how my day was (and care)?” So would, “No, I don’t need a solution, just understanding”. A label proclaiming “Don’t you dare complain about our phone bills when talking to my friends is the only way I get emotional support” would be a good one to try out, just for fun. I love that puzzled look on Red’s face. He gets it when we watch a “chick-flick”. It’s become the main reason I rent them.

Mind you, I wouldn’t mind sneaking a couple of labels on him either. Id love to put “Objects in underwear may be closer than they appear – ALL TOO OFTEN!” on the front of his jocks. The other obvious one would have to be “Contains 13 standard drinks.”

I know what you are thinking, how absurd, all these women running around with stickers on their foreheads just so they can get their husbands/boyfriends/lovers/delivery men/all of the above to understand how they are feeling. I quite agree. It’s bloody stupid. In fact, I'm not even sure my husband can read in the first place.

By Donna Dinger:

You know, I quite enjoyed my guest appearance last week for the website so if you don’t mind I'm going to do it again. Not only that, Red freaked out so it was quite funny seeing him trying to be nice to me in case I did. Bad luck hubby, this one is for that time you woke the entire street up at 3am after having come home drunk and screaming at the top of your lungs that “Kylie is not a real musician”. I notice you still have her Greatest Hits CD in your car.

Besides, what is Red going to do if I pay him and his gender out one more time, withhold sex? Oh no, the tyranny of being left in peace for a ten minutes.

Fact of the matter, men are far bigger drama queens than women will ever be. If Red so much as nicks himself he puts on a huge show to let us all know just how painful it was. Then, if I ask him “Does it hurt darling?” he will either get angry at me or put on his (pretend) stoic-face and deep voice with a, “Nah, its nothing.” Really? Then why are there tear marks on your face and a huge roll of unravelled bandages beside you? Why did you scream? Are you sure I cant help you with that tiny splinter?

Don’t believe me that men are drama queens? Watch what happens the next time someone scores a goal (if that’s what its called) in rugby or AFL. He will triumphantly sneer/cheer at the crowd, gesticulate in an aggressive manner and when he is mobbed by his mates he will hang his head in assumed modesty with a “It was nothing” look on his face.

You will hardly see better acting in any movie, certainly not one with Liz Hurley in it. I just don’t know why they cant celebrate like the soccer players do, with hugging and kissing . Perhaps they could take off their jerseys and run about showing everyone their flat chests? Its too gay to hug a goal scorer but its ok to bang chests together manfully or pat him on the bum? Men have no idea.

Men pretty much exaggerate everything (ok, I just did too, but it was worth it). If Red actually does something good around the house then we all get to hear about it for weeks. He will even call his mates about it:

“G’Day Max, what you up to?”

Silence.

“Oh, nothing much, just doing a bit of work around the house. You know, helping the boss out a bit - the stuff she cant handle on her own.”

Silence.

“Yeah, should be fine, see you at the pub in ten minutes.”

So what did Red do? He nailed shut the window that needed fixing. That’s right, he nailed it shut. It used to open and close. Enough said.

Actually, I need to say more. Red has a huge range of tools in his shed but the only one I've ever see him use is the hammer. Its pretty much his solution to everything that needs fixing. While I confess it worked on the neighbours cat - relax, he only threw the hammer at it and, like his urinating skills, he missed, of course - there are plenty of other examples where it has failed. Miserably. Funny how the VCR stopped working with a nail in it.

Meanwhile, I have made breakfast, got the kids ready for school, made their lunches, washed up, done three loads of washing and drying, the cleaning, the ironing, the vacuuming, the shopping and prepared dinner. The only time I stopped was for a quick coffee which was interrupted by the demand to put a bandaid on Red’s finger.

Red on the other hand has read the paper, watched the footy he taped, had a nap, sat in front of the TV aimlessly flicking from channel to channel, scratched himself about twenty times and spent up to 30 minutes in the toilet. At one point, he did manage to nail shut the window.

When he gets to the pub he will sigh in a manly way about how tired he is from “doing stuff around the house”. If anyone asks him what I did (which they wont) he will say, “All she did was sit around having coffee all day”.

For the next month or so anytime anyone comes to our house he will proudly show them his handiwork, including the four dints in the wall where he missed with the hammer (a testament to how difficult the job was). I am all for being house proud but I reckon the pizza delivery man has just about heard enough about that window. God help us if Red should actually get the mower started. Mind you, last time he fixed it with the hammer so I think we are safe.

By Donna Dinger:

Ok, so the “Blogmaster” asked me to provide a woman’s perspective to the website suggesting I write about what it is like to be married to Red.

Can you imagine what it is like to go through life as Mrs Donna Dinger? I was a peaceful person before I married Red but now whenever someone asks me “Can you hum?” I unleash a woman’s fury. Thank god I have a sense of humour or I'd be in a mad-house by now.

That paragraph embodies some of the major differences between Red and me and I'd go so far as to say it even covers all (straight) men and most women. Men like to parade about with silly nicknames attached to their heads like “Blogmaster”. Red likes to call himself “the love machine” – as if! I own a love machine and if I could teach it, my vibrator, to earn an income then I'd soon retire Red.

Why do men insist on coming up with such silly nicknames for themselves. Even the standard ones like “Bluey” or “Jacko” are nothing more than walls to hide their underdeveloped emotions. What do they have to fear from their own names? Ironic that they ask us to take them! Work it out boys, nicknames are childish and inane.

You shout them out at nightclubs and then look at us smiling an “Aren’t I so clever because I invented another name” look. Wow you must be a rocket scientist for coming up with "Warney" for Warne! Nicknames are not alluring. While the ones like “Trigger” and “Tripod” may raise an eyebrow, at the end of the day, just like sex, the joy of hearing your wonderful nicknames lasts about two seconds (whereas you men think it lasts for years).

Men might be bigger, stronger and smellier but none of them can stand up to a woman’s fury. They all cower like, well, cowards. Funny how they stand around in pubs reliving their greatest sporting memories and beating their chests like silver-backed Gorillas but as soon as they get home to face the wife its head bowed, bottom lip out and “yes dear, sorry dear.” I suspect its because deep down all men want is to be loved so when chastised they retreat to their childhoods or storm off into their caves. Poor little darlings.

That I suppose brings me to sex. Red is a great lover, perhaps the greatest on the planet. He asked me to write that and so I will humour him, just like in the bedroom. But seriously, how could a woman come to the conclusion that a man is a great lover in just seventeen seconds?

A man and a woman are wired totally differently. We can both work a 16 hour day, collapse into bed exhausted but if Red (or any man) so much as glimpses me (or any woman) naked before he closes his eyes then he gets enamoured.

For women, its not about sex its about intimacy. I have no idea why Webster continues to forlornly put the word “intimacy” in the dictionary because men just don’t get it and probably never will. No point crying over it, might as well say yes and then we can all get some sleep. Just like in the bedroom. Oh well, I can wait another seventeen seconds …

Men seem to associate sex with a lot of things – alcohol, food, sports, being awake …. Women associate sex with childbirth. If they haven’t been through it they have heard enough of it to be wary. Those that have experienced it don’t seem all that keen on sex for sex’s sake. Funny that. He comes home from the pub reeking of alcohol and a kebab and all he can think of is sex while all she can think of is unbelievable pain with drugs that didn't work. I'm aroused just thinking about it.

And another thing, we don’t find penises all that attractive. Put it away, Red. I do not want to sit at home while you walk about with your penis hanging out. Nor, Red, do I accept your excuse that it is incapable of doing anything else.

Sure there have been times that I've enjoyed good sex, even great sex and some of those times Red was even present. But its just not that important to me or most women for that matter. I'd rather go shopping and come home to a house that’s been cleaned with the lawn mowed, the garbage out and the kids nutritiously fed and in bed soundly asleep.

If I did I would probably smile, sigh, apologise and then walk next door to my house.