The longer I’m married, the more I realized that sometimes, men and women have completely different ways of looking at things.
Like a few years ago, out of the blue, Charlie says to me, “Ida, you know what we need?”
“A complete kitchen make-over?”
“Smaller.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. A set of Fiesta ware?”
“No, a boot brush?”
“A boot brush?”
“You know, put it by the door? Has a brush on top? You wipe your boots on it before coming into the house.”
“Oh, I’ve seen those. You mean like a little porcupine, with a brush on its back?”
“Well, I don’t know about a porcupine. Just your basic boot brush.”
“OK, Charlie, I’ll look into it. You know how much I love a shopping project.”
“That I do, dear.”
So, I threw myself into it. See, Charlie’s pretty good about wiping his feet when he comes in the door. (Not so much when we first got married, but eventually he come around.) Heck, I’m thinking, anything that’ll help keep the house clean is worth searching for. It took a while, but I finally found one that did the trick, one that both Charlie and me could live with.
It had a nice design on the base (for me), and a kind of rusty finish (for Charlie.) Far as he’s concerned, the rustier looking the better. It come with a black brush originally, and it worked pretty good for a season or two. We both used it, least until the bristles give out. Then, it got demoted to the shed, and I promptly forgot about it.
Well this spring, a modified version appears.
“Charlie, what’s up with the boot brush?”
“All fixed.”
“I can see that.” What the hell? I’m thinking. “Why didn’t you just ask me to buy you a new one.”
“Oh, the rest of its good. Just needed a new brush.”
I stare at the thing. Charlie had obviously found some replacement head for a shop broom at the hardware store, and tacked it on. How long, I’m thinking, are we going to have to live with this?
“Charlie….”
“I know, I know, it’s ugly, but it works like a charm.” He wipes his boots across the bristles, sending little bits of sand and grit flying. “See? And only $6.95 down to Smitty’s Hardware.”
And there you have it, folks. “It’s ugly, but it works like a charm.” For a woman, the first part of that sentence cancels out the second. For a man, it’s the other way ‘round. All I have to say is “bean bag chair,” and you know I’m right.
Wait, it doesn’t end there! One Saturday morning last fall, I’m cleaning the kitchen, when out of the corner of my eye I see Charlie measuring something on the deck. He’s going back and forth to his shop, moving with purpose. Didn’t think nothing of it ‘til I hear the screw gun, then the penny drops: Oh God! My husband’s doing some sort of construction project without my supervision. This can’t be good!
“Charlie, what are you doing?”
“The boot brush was moving around too much when I wipe my feet, so I added these here wooden stops, so it’ll stay put.”
I stand there, stunned. Somehow, he’d managed to make the darn thing even uglier than before.
Charlie takes my shocked silence as admiration, “Clever, huh?”
“Wicked. Is that how you’re leaving it?”
“For now. I’ll paint it when I do the deck.” Then all proud, he steps back and goes, “Ida, give it a shot.”
And being the good wife that I am, I try brushing my shoes on it. Sure as shooting, it works like a charm.
That’s if for now. Catch you on the flip side!
Here Ida Tell It: Sure It’s Ugly, but it Works Like a Charm