- - - - - - - -
Current
Issue
Editor's Desk
Write for Pif
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
| |
| href="http://www.pifmagazine.com/archives/Commentary/As_I_See_It/"> PAST COMMENTARY | MORE COMMENTARY |
Mea Cup-A
When my girlfriend and I got engaged eight years ago, I manfully tried to convince her that we should "register" at our bank and list our checking account number as "our pattern."She wouldn't go for it, so instead of cash, we ended up with a lot of expensive pieces of china and silver that – from day one of our marriage – I have not been allowed to handle unsupervised. I can't even go near the plates, lest I try to do something foolish like, say, eat a sandwich off one of them.
I grudgingly accept this as fact of married life. China and silver are simply too precious to be used by actual husbands. No matter. Truth be told, we hubbies can't quite make out what many of the pieces are for anyway. A sorbet spoon? Please. If you're going to serve us fancy ice cream, have the decency to give us utensils of an appropriate size so that we can eat the stuff before it melts.
As I said, I have learned to live with this. I can deal with the fact that my wife and I have numerous kitchen cabinets and drawers devoted to items that we use only on very, very special occasions – occasions that, now that I think about it, are usually guy-free.
I really had to object, though, when my lovely bride tried to push this china-and-silver frippery beyond the limits of what most single folks would consider to be reasonable demands on a hubby. I really had to stomp my feet and whine when she ruthlessly demanded that not only could I not touch the china unsupervised but that I also could not bring into our marriage a very special – nay, sacred – form of kitchenware that served me well in my bachelor days.
I'm speaking, of course, of plastic stadium cups.
All guys have them. All women hate them. I have done an informal survey among my male friends and discovered that very few guys enter into a long-term relationship or marriage without confronting the Crisis of the Cups.
Like snowflakes and fingerprints, no two plastic cups are alike. Sure, they emerge from factories the same, sparkly and dishwasher-safe, but they quickly assume their own distinct personalities – faded, scuffed and maybe a little warped at the top, courtesy of the dry cycle. This, I gather, is part of what earns them the enmity of our ladies.
Some plastic cups are simple works of art, brightly colored but unadorned. Others are decorative, often recalling a special event in the owner's life. A college keg party. A ballgame. A night at a classy restaurant.
These unassuming plastic cups are, of course, as much a part of a guy's life as a well-worn, comfortable t-shirt, a well-worn, comfortable pair of jeans, or a well-worn, comfortable pair of shoes. What's more, they're damned useful.
Despite the fairer gender's reputation for common sense and practicality, it's my observation that women often fail to see the beauty in utilitarian objects. They almost always favor form over function, image over substance, polish over spit.
They prefer pretty but unusable china over perfectly good, discount-store plates. They seek to toss out our fine, serviceable plastic cups in favor of pretty glasses that are extremely fragile and, typically, hold no more liquid than a demitasse. (At least I think that frou-frou, thimble-sized cup is called a demitasse. I can't get close enough to it to identify it with much accuracy.)
Through a good bit of diplomacy on my part my wife and I have over the past eight years reached a compromise. I am allowed possession of a specific number of plastic cups – six – that I keep tucked away in a remote cabinet in our kitchen. I am allowed to bring them out only for use by me and the guys. (I refused her demands that I do so only with the shades drawn.)
So far this system has worked well, but I would caution all men to remember that old nuclear arsenal adage: Trust but verify. Count your cups when they go into the dishwasher, and count them when they come out. It's the only way to keep the peace.
Tell us what you think. Email talkback@pifmagazine.com
Daryl Lease lives in Bradenton, Florida, where — when he's not sharing his thoughts with our readers — he writes for a local paper.