Today I’d like to discuss the latest ongoing research from Northwestern University’s College of HairSpray and Mousse, whose scientists have proven that—with the exception of Albert Einsten—men are not as smart as women. But first, let’s talk about a news item from the Internet.
According to an article written by Bob Mims, and published in the Salt Lake Tribune on April 21, 2010, an alleged kidnapper tried to abduct a woman from a Smith’s Marketplace at midnight, and then was run over when he attempted to carjack a vehicle.
From the absurdness of the situation, I’m guessing the kidnapper was a male. Well, that, and the fact that it said so in the Tribune.
Perhaps this kidnapper had heard of Northwestern’s research and wanted to stand as proof, because after he forced his way into the victim’s car (while wielding a knife), and insisted she drive off with him inside, he let her pull into a gas station when she claimed to be running out of gas. And then, the assailant left his victim in the car while he went inside the station’s convenience store, presumably for something really important … like buying a stick of gum.
Seriously, can you picture any woman kidnapper doing that? No, she’d go in the store for something important … like a tube of mascara. And she’d at least remove her panty hose and hog-tie her victim before leaving the car. Why? Because, contrary to popular male belief, kidnap victims tend to flee when left sitting footloose and fancy free in a vehicle.
According to the Tribune, when the kidnapper came out and found that his alleged victim had disappeared, he went back into the store, and while pretending he had a gun, attempted to rob the clerk.
What person with a brain—who’s wielding a knife for the first half of the crime—now pretends to have a gun? If he was a woman, he would’ve pretended he had a can of pepper spray in his purse. Or a bazooka. Honestly, some women have purses big enough to hold a Stinger missile.
Since the store clerk refused to give up the money, the kidnapper grabbed a customer in the store and demanded the keys to his car. Being far more intelligent than the kidnapper, the customer punched him and they proceeded to rough each other up until the customer managed to push the kidnapper out the door. From whence—lest someone still have a lingering doubt about the kidnapper’s stupidity—the man ran to a nearby Wendy’s restaurant and pounded on the windows, demanding to be let in.
Now really, if you’re going to run to a Wendy’s restaurant after midnight, waving your pretend gun about and pounding on windows, why not at least pound at the drive-through and demand a bowl of chili and a Frosty?
At any rate, the employees were having none of it … no, not the chili, none of the kidnapper … and called the police. Whereupon the kidnapper broke in and chased two employees into the parking lot.
And this is where the story goes beyond normal male thinking and into bizarre. The dude that the kidnapper had fought with in the convenience store had inexplicably decided to go to this same Wendy’s restaurant for a late night snack.
Yes, I know. I see all you women out there shaking your heads in amazement at the progression of events. A woman would’ve had an emergency bag of chocolates in her purse, alongside the bazooka, and wouldn’t have needed to stop at a fast food joint during the hours when only criminals are out and about.
But, I digress … so the guy that fought with him at the convenience store started pulling out of the Wendy's parking lot, and the kidnapper ran over to the man’s Chevy Tahoe SUV, began banging on the hood and demanding the driver surrender the vehicle.
Although the driver wasn’t a woman, I have to give him credit for quick thinking. Rather than open the door and ask the deranged chili-and-Frosty kidnapper what he wanted, the guy continued driving away, leaving the kidnapper behind with tread marks from the tires on his chest.
Okay, I’ll admit it. I made up that last part about the tread marks on the kidnapper’s chest. The article in the Tribune did not mention tread marks, but based on my husband’s experience as a one-time convenience store clerk, that can happen.
However, that’s an anecdote for another day. And despite having made up the tread marks, I swear, I am telling the truth. Well, for the most part. And you can read the full story online, at the Salt Lake Tribune’s website.
The kidnapper was taken to the hospital, which at this point is incidental to what I set out to accomplish in telling you the story. I’m pretty certain that by now, all the women readers—and even a good number of men—are in agreement that the College of HairSpray and Mousse’s researchers knew what they were talking about in stating women are smarter than men.
And not just because the kidnapper left his victim untied in a car. Not just because he tried to rob a convenience store with a pretend gun, tried to commandeer the keys to a vehicle by punching a guy in the store, or tried to hijack the same guy’s vehicle in a Wendy’s parking lot.
No. It’s because if a woman had been driving that SUV when the kidnapper-turned-carjacker fell under the wheels, she wouldn’t have waited around calmly for the police.
After listening to Russ bemoan the fact that lids used to come off jars significantly easier when he was in his twenties, I finally said, “Well, don’t complain until you’ve walked a mile in the moccasins of a man who has no feet.”
It was a wise and pithy saying, but my hubby's face reflected confusion. Or maybe it was contortion. Yup, that was it, contorted with laughter.
After a few minutes, while his chuckles still echoed through the kitchen and Corky Porky Pie checked him out under the suspicion that food was involved, Russ wiped the tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. “Doesn’t that strike you as a little incongruous? Why would a man with no feet own a pair of moccasins?”
“I don’t know. I don’t make up the sayings, I just quote them.”
“More like misquote them,” Russ said, scratching Corky Porky Pie behind the ears.
It’s a good thing my eyebrows were attached, or they would’ve flown off my face and hit the ceiling with a splat. “Misquote? Since when?”
The corners of Russ’s mouth twitched, a look I would have found very appealing if it hadn't meant he was trying not to laugh out loud. He said, “How about … since when not?”
I put my hands on my hips and tapped the toe of my shoe. “Name one other thing that I’ve misquoted.”
Russ scratched the spot on his head that used to have hair. “Well, give me a minute, and I’m sure I’ll remember a thing or two.”
“Ah-ha! You’re just stalling for time so you can make something up. Well, I’ll tell you this … when you can’t think of anything, don’t go using me as your whipping goat.”
A sound that seemed like a cross between a laugh and a choke escaped his lips. “I think you mean either a whipping boy or a scapegoat,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s no such thing as a whipping goat. And you really need to get your sayings straightened out because you have them all mixed up. Why don’t you check out Poor Richard?”
I cocked my head—which always helped when pondering something—and tried to figure out what he meant, but really it made no sense. Besides, I’d learned long ago that dogs and men had similar thought processes, and they were undecipherable to the female mind. Unless food was involved.
I finally gave in. “Why would I want to consult about famous sayings with that homeless dude down the street? I guess he could be an English professor who’s fallen on rocky roads, but I doubt it.”
My hubby shook his head. “No, not the homeless guy down the street; I’m talking about Poor Richard’s Almanac. Ben Franklin and his proverbs. And besides, I think you meant, ‘Fallen on hard times’ because no one falls on a rocky road … that’s a type of ice cream.” Russ opened the freezer and started looking around, presumably for a container of the frozen confection by the same name.
Stepping closer, I looked over his shoulder. “Hey, don’t rearrange the food. There’s an order to it.”
He looked dubiously at the crinkled tinfoil packages and plastic containers of various shapes and sizes. “There’s a system here? I don’t see any dates on the food. And nothing seems to be sorted alphabetically.”
I knew better than to take the bait. Who ever heard of putting food in the freezer alphabetically? My tried and true method of stuff-it-in-where-ever-it-fits had worked for years, and no amount of bizarre male logic would convince me another system was better.
Russ hauled out a mangled carton of ice cream, and popped it open, ice crystals flying off the lid and through the air. “Exactly how long has this been in the freezer?”
Taking it in my hands, I turned it over and squinted. “Umm, the carton says it expires in October, so, it’s still good.” I grabbed a spoon, scraped out the ice cream at the bottom of the carton, plopped it in a dish and threw the container in the trash. Then, I wiped my hands on a paper towel and threw it on top of the ice cream carton. Strategically on top.
Russ’s eyebrows crinkled together as he looked at the trash and then back at me. “You threw that paper towel in there with great haste.” He walked over, took off the paper towel and pulled the carton out. “October, 1978” he read aloud.
“Uh-oh, foiled again,” I said, as brightly as possible for a woman who’d just been caught with last century’s ice cream still in her freezer.
Russ gave his “I’m being very patient” smile. “Would you like me to organize the freezer for you, as a Mother’s Day gift?”
I gasped and put my hand over my heart. “No! Never! Er … I mean … no, thank you. You keep your kingdom organized in whatever guy-type way you like and I’ll keep my freezer in my way." I took the carton from Russ and gave it to Corky Porky Pie to lick. "Besides, as everybody knows, faint heart never won fair pork chop."
Russ pulled a baking sheet out of the cabinet and said, "Okay, I give up. You win. Let’s bake some cookies and take them to poor Richard, who’s undoubtedly sitting down at the corner he calls home, and surfing the Net on his laptop."
Russ bought a huge bag of M&Ms recently. They're the kind that call to you in your sleep … and when you're in the shower … and when you're working on blogs … and when ... well, you get the idea. I finally succumbed to the alluring siren's song, cradled the bag in my arms and took it in to Russ's office.
I stroked it lovingly, and then, coming to my senses, said to Russ, "I can't keep my New Year's resolution to lose weight if you keep buying candy, especially peanut M&Ms."
"Sorry.” He patted me on the arm and looked contrite, but I wondered if it was really a love pat or something else. Was it a subterfuge and he actually wanted my candy?
Pushing the paranoia aside, I tightened my grip on the bag—just in case. Then reason took over. "If you're going to buy these, at least hide them someplace where I won't find them. Like under the bed." I could feel myself responding just like one of Pavlov’s dogs to the sight of the bright green and red candies on the package and I swallowed hard to keep from drooling.
Russ said, "You want candy put under the bed, with all the dust bunnies?"
Clearing my throat, I stroked the bag again, and surreptitiously tore one little corner open. "No, that was just an example. I want you to not buy them, but when you do buy them, put them out of sight."
He looked at me, confusion evident in his eyes. "Okay, so I'm supposed to buy them and put them where you can’t find them?"
"Yeah, something like that." Then, with a burst of virtuousness, I shoved the bag into his arms and said with a sob, "Quick, hide them!"
Russ lifted one eyebrow. "Are you okay? This isn't exactly life and death here, and certainly not something to cry over. If it's that big a problem, I'll just throw them out." He stood up and leaned toward the trashcan.
Thinking quickly, I grabbed his arm. "No! Not in there. It'll bring bugs if you put candy in the office trash. And besides that, it's against the law and morally wrong. Here, let me take them up to the kitchen."
Russ stopped, moved the candy out of my reach, cocked his head and stared for a minute. "Why are your eyes dilated?"
"Umm, oh ... aaah." I thought long and hard. It would never do to say it was because I’d realized I’d made a mistake in giving him the bag, and was ready to kill if he didn’t hand me back my M&Ms. "Because I just came back from the eye doctor."
Russ looked at the clock on the wall and then at his wrist watch. "It's 10:00 at night. You went to the eye doctor in the dark, when the rest of the world is going to bed?"
"Sure, that’s when he checks his patients’ night vision."
“Who are his patients? Owls?” Russ shifted the M&Ms behind his back, and I sidled closer. Corky Porky Pie, the dog, walked into the room, probably sensing the tension. Either that or smelling the delicious fragrance of chocolate. My chocolate. My chocolate covered, peanut M&Ms that Russ was not going to keep from me.
I lunged for the candy, and Russ pulled a maneuver to rival Jerry Rice. No, not on the dance floor—Jerry Rice on the football field. It did no good, though. Trickery and treachery will beat out speed and agility any time. I stuck out my foot and tripped him. The bag of M&Ms hit the floor. Nothing spilled and I realized the gods were on my side and actually wanted me to eat those chocolate covered peanuts.
Grabbing the candy, I ran up the stairs while tearing the bag open with my teeth. Ha! Nothing could stop me now. No one, no how, no waaayyyyyy—
I tripped over Corky Porky Pie, who had somehow managed to jump in front of me on my rapid ascent up the stairs. M&Ms flew everywhere, and Corky Porky apparently thought it was manna from heaven, as he scrambled with his fat, little legs toward the nearest pile.
They say love can cure anything, and in that instant, I knew it was true. Chocolate is toxic for dogs, and I placed Corky Porky Pie’s safety over my need for a chocolate fix. I grabbed him and held him as Russ swept up the M&Ms—my luscious, lovely M&Ms—and dumped them in the trash.
Afterward, Russ came over, gave me a hug, and told me how proud he was of me. I smiled, and a feeling almost as good as eating chocolate swept over me. I’d done it. I’d saved Corky Porky Pie and sacrificed my M&Ms. I was strong, I was invincible.
And I had five M&Ms stashed in my pocket that no one knew about.
Winner of the yogurt coupons and "Inner Goddess" bath pack: Jan (J.T.) Thomason. Congrats Jan! Please send me your mailing address and phone number.
And thank you to everyone who commented and entered the contest. You're the best! Please don't give up if you didn't win, but keep visiting, because there'll be more contests coming up. Until then, there'll be fun articles to read. Plus, tomorrow's post will be an exceptionally funny one (at least that's what one "pre-reader" told me).
What would you do when a huge bag of M&Ms keeps calling out to you? Well, I tried to stay on my diet, but ....
Ever wanted to kill your spouse because he/she keeps interrupting something you're trying to do? If so, you'll get a charge out of Cindy's latest published story, "Texting on Ice" in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Hooked on Hockey.