I've said it before, but it bears repeating...men follow a completely different set of rules. Rules they surely must make up as they go along. Rules that make no sense whatsoever. Because they're men.

Tonight, Mike and I took a trip to town for a little last minute Christmas shopping combined with an outing for Mike's birthday. After an early dinner, we hit nearly every open shop in our little tourist town, including a shopping spree in the gourmet kitchen store. After paying for my purchases, I was anxious to hit the clothing boutiques before closing time. Mike was busy checking out the designer kitchen things (or the craft beers on draft, whatever, it was his birthday.) So, I told him I would be heading to the next little shop on the square. It was in the same direction we'd parked, so it was a logical choice to make. And yes, I use logic. Perhaps more complex logic than man logic, but logic nonetheless. It was important to be sure he knew where I was going because my phone had died. And yes, he knew this very important piece of information.

So, there I am in this little boutique, bumping into their displays, knocking over poinsettias, and checking out the pre-Christmas sales, (basically killing time until Mike wandered in my direction so we could leave). I have no idea how much time passed. I was chatting up the store employees, and scooping up the entire contents of my purse that had accidentally spilled onto the floor.

When the store was ready to close, I wandered back to the sidewalk to look for Mike. He was nowhere to be found. And not only was Mike missing, but the car was gone too.

Yes. The car was gone.

And yes. I'm sure I knew where we parked.

And oh, hell yes. My husband took the car and drove off, knowing my phone was dead.

So, I'm standing there on the semi-deserted sidewalk at closing time, in temperatures that had dipped below freezing, in a coat with no buttons (because my logic doesn't work like that, don't judge me) with a dead cell phone, and no husband to be found. And pissed off is an understatement of the highest order. I was livid...and not just a little freaked out.

But, being the resourceful female that I am, I flagged down a total stranger and begged them to use their cell phone (and lucky for me, I know my husband's number without hitting the auto-dial button).

He had the audacity to tell me he didn't know where I was (though I'd told him where I was going), so he decided the wisest course of action would be to move the car from the spot I would easily find it, to the spot we had been when we parted ways, assuming I would go back there to find him, even after telling him I would meet him at the boutique near the car.

And when I questioned his logic (because, let's face it, it was questionable at best) he told me it was my poor planning (letting my phone die) that caused the whole problem.

Yes, my husband is still alive. It's his birthday, after all, and I felt it would be in poor taste to kill him on his birthday, especially after he'd only just narrowly survived the coming apocalypse. It was a judgment call, not logical perhaps, but, apparently, logic isn't everything.

Until the next time...I'll be rethinking my position on the death penalty.

I’m beginning to think “man” should be considered a four letter word. It can be an honorary title…like those college diplomas passed out to celebrities who didn’t earn them. “Man” can be the first three letter word given four-letter word notoriety.

Why? Isn’t it obvious? Man…or rather men…are different from us. We can love them…cherish them…but by God, we rarely understand them, do we?

First off, men have their own brand of math. The kind where $30 will buy enough groceries to feed an entire family for seven days, and six inches equals a foot. They’re like under-developed children, fixated on games, sports, and the endless pursuit of getting back into the womb.

Basically, everything we need to know about men can be summed up using my theory on dogs and cats. If you don’t understand the male psyche, watch a dog in its natural habitat. Watch the dog play in the mud. Rolling in it. Reveling in its muddiness. Watch as the dog chases every ball you throw. Then think of men and their games. Picture a football game, or a baseball game, where man rolls and slides in the dirt on a quest to chase the ball.

Women don’t do this…because women are like cats. And a cat wouldn’t be caught dead rolling in the mud. Unlike dogs, cats are meticulous about cleanliness.

A dog will unabashedly hump anyone’s leg. I have never in all my life seen a cat hump anything.

Cats like sparkly things…like diamonds.

Need more proof? Watch a dog eat. Then watch a cat eat.

I believe this explains why men are so enthralled with the idea of the convertible. They have a deep-seated need to stick their heads out the window, tongues flapping in the breeze.

And when it comes to dogs, there are so many different kinds. Big dogs. Medium dogs. And of course, the small dogs.

Short men are like small dogs. Some people refer to it as the Napoleon complex, but I prefer to call it the small dog syndrome. Have you ever noticed a territorial Terrier, a persnickety Pekinese or Poodle? And then by comparison you have the laidback Labrador, the gregarious Golden Retriever, or the gentlest giant of them all, the Mastiff. Small dogs are almost always noisier, more aggressive, and high strung…as if they come from the Jersey Shore. And big dogs lay around all day licking themselves and drooling. Because at their core, both men and dogs are just a little gross.

Sure, we love them…but do we really need to know everything about them?

I think there is such a thing as too much information, and I think when you’ve reached that point even a good marriage can start to fold under the pressure. Where is it written that husbands and wives should witness each other’s bodily functions? I absolutely don’t need to see what he discovers upon blowing his nose. And I most definitely don’t need to come running to see if his latest foray in the rest room would make it into the Guinness Book of World Records. I want a rule that forbids a man from taking a dump while I’m in the shower. In fact, I think there should be a law written that that explicitly prohibits men from doing anything gross at all while in the presence of a woman. The faces they make during sex are bad enough, it’s a wonder we ever invite them for a second go. But to be forced to see into the seedy underbelly of the male existence just may be too much for many of us to bear.

I’m giving men a hard time here, and maybe they don’t really deserve that. They have a lot of good points. For one, men are portable. Mine would be perfectly content living in a shed or a tent in the woods. He isn’t picky about what I cook, and has been known to eat things that were probably long since destined for the trash without a single complaint. And most men, at least, don’t mind killing the errant spider as it climbs up a wall within our personal space.

So for all their icky habits, and dirty ways, men have a place in our hearts, and our homes. As long as they wipe their feet first.

Until the next time…I’ll be catching shit for this blog for days to come!