Boxes and Spaghetti

Here’s an analogy: male brains are made of boxes, while female brains are made of spaghetti. I’ve heard this more than once from PEOPLE WHO KNOW, meaning psychologists and such. As a lay-person peon, I also believe it to be true.

Men think about one thing at a time, period. They don’t tolerate small print or extras. “Just give me the headline.” On the other hand, women can have a whole menu of stuff running in their heads simultaneously, sort of like ticker tape. “Talk to me; TALK to me! Why can’t you just TALK TO ME?” Granted, this is only a generality and there’s plenty of room for individuality within the prototypes.

Earlier this afternoon I had a chance to practice the box vs. spaghetti thing. I began setting up the Christmas tree (again), this time in Buck Creek, in anticipation of our kids’/grandkids’ post-Christmas visit later in the week. (If you’ve been reading this blog recently I DID say earlier we were going to cut a live juniper growing in the pasture to use as our Indiana Christmas tree, but we brought the artificial one from Michigan instead.) I asked Fritz to retrieve just ONE BOX from the outbuilding where we store seasonal things – the ONE BOX with the old Christmas tree ornaments inside. Surely that task was well within his grasp. One box. O-N-E. A very male job.

He walked through the back door – an aging Santa’s elf well-dusted with fresh snow - carrying a big box.

Me: Thanks! That’s it! The very one I wanted!

Nicely done. Mission accomplished. I’m happy, and OH GOOD, I haven’t confounded him with too many details. He’s successful, and so is happy as well. He removes his boots and coat, and then opens another whole box-topic.

Fritz: I’m taking the tree box to the basement.

Me: Ok – good idea! (pause) Where will you put it? Just so I know when the time comes to take the tree down?

Fritz: (silence) I’ll put it in the basement somewhere.

Me: I KNOW! (I’m slightly annoyed and want more information.) WHERE in the basement?

Fritz: In that room with the computer.

I think he’s referring to his office of 30 years – the room with the computer table, printer, computer paper, desk, etc. - but he’s thinking about an overflow room where he has temporarily set up his laptop. Of course neither of us realizes this discrepancy at the time. He disappears to the basement and returns with a question.

Fritz: Do you want that thing that goes under the Christmas tree?

I think he’s trying to be sweet and make sure I’ve thought to cover all my bases. In fact, I’m stupid enough to assume he’s thinking as I WOULD THINK. Surely he’s diverting back to the previous task and the remaining boxes of Christmas stuff still in the outbuilding?

Me: (I try to second-guess his headline.) If you’re talking about the tree skirt, I already told you – I just wanted you to get the ORNAMENT box. You don’t need to bring in all the rest. The tree skirt your mother made doesn’t work with this little artificial tree – remember? When we took down the tree in Michigan I packed the little square of colorful fabric in the tree box – the one we use instead of the tree skirt. (My eyes glare through slits.) REMEMBER?

Fritz: That piece of fabric – do you want it?

Me: Of course I want it! But we just used it in Michigan; it’s not with the other old Christmas stuff here in Buck Creek. It’s in the living room with the tree.

Fritz: (His box-mentality is focused on just one thing.) I took the tree box to the basement. That thing that goes under the tree is now in the basement.

Me: (My spaghetti-mentality is going all over the place.) WHAT? Don’t you remember that whole conversation in Michigan? (I stand with hands on hips for emphasis here.) Remember how I said we could NOT use the old tree skirt with THIS TREE and how the square of fabric is a better option? You even agreed at the time that it works really well and looks nice. (A growl accents my voice when I get to the word NICE – sort of like Nnnn-grrrrr-ICE.) WHY didn’t you just leave it by the tree in the living room since you knew we’d be using it again?

Fritz: It’s in the box in the basement.

Me: (I stomp downstairs to the basement.) Humph! (I look around the basement office room and yell up the stairs.) Well, WHERE’S THE TREE BOX?

Fritz: It’s in the room with my computer. I SAID it would be in the room with my computer, didn’t I? I did say JUST THAT - DIDN’T I?

Fortunately we were laughing at ourselves all the way. But here’s an interesting bit of commentary. I feel like sometimes when Fritz opens one of his brain-boxes, there’s just one lonely, brittle piece of spaghetti in there. Granted, it’s not cluttered. But the poor little bugger. How depressing.

Male law says: ONE THOUGHT AT A TIME.

Sometimes my thoughts run all over the place like a bunch of spaghetti boiling in a big pot on the stove, all tangled and squirmy. They run everywhere simultaneously. I don’t even HAVE a box that would hold so much drippy, gummy pasta. One doesn’t even EXIST.

Female law says: SOMEBODY’S GOT TO KEEP TRACK OF ALL THESE DETAILS OR OUR LIVES WILL SURELY BECOME SHEER MAYHEM AND WE WILL DROWN IN THE GLACIAL ABYSS OF MISMANAGEMENT.

So the challenge continues. I try to cram multiple pieces of spaghetti into each of his many boxes, and he tries to tame my waving spaghetti when there are no boxes to contain it.

I think I should teach him the fine art of being a spaghetti connoisseur….how to drain el dente spaghetti in a colander, liberally splash on some olive oil and massage it in by hand, and then compliment it with a kiss of fragrant sun-dried-tomato-sauce laced with garlic and oregano and topped with the finest fresh-grated parmesan. Ah, CREATIVITY! And then add a few sautéed fresh mushrooms (perfection!), or some olives, or some kielbasa sausage. Diversity…aroma…texture. M-wah! Eccellente!

He probably would like to teach me to knock off the extras….in fact, I know for a fact he’s not a spicy tomato sauce man. He’d probably like to convince me that he really, truly prefers pasta PLAIN, or maybe the good old boxed, no fuss, plain Jane, predictable (gasp) Kraft mac-n-cheese. Yep, I bet that’s what he’d say. Y-E-A-H MAN. Bring on that ten-minute-manly-macaroni from the box! Bring on that foil-envelope of artificial cheese sauce from the box!

See, it’s all in the box.