I'm Onto You...

 I figured it out. You husbands are all so busted, because with this blog post I am exposing you! All of you!

My husband has a saying: “Nothing gets done until after the THIRD trip to Home Depot.”  It reflects his irritation at the seemingly inevitable pattern of going to Home Depot to get supplies for his project, coming home and realizing he needs to go back for something else, returning home again and realizing he needs ONE MORE CRITICAL nut/bolt/tool to finish the job.  This same kind of hassle has probably happened to you, whether it is Home Depot, the grocery store or some other place, so I’m sure you get it.  His saying conveys the annoyance and a certain fatalism about the whole pattern, perhaps along with a tiny little tinge of “Look how much hassle I go through on your behalf.”  Fair enough.  I sure do appreciate everything he does around here and I certainly appreciate the hassle of those lengthy, repeated trips and all that comes of that hard work.  These are whole afternoons he is giving up, after all.

Except that it’s BS.  You know it.  I know it.  He knows it.  

He’s escaping.  He’s hiding.  He’s taking off to avoid dealing with the kids and leaving me to endure the chaos.  Those stands he built for the washer and dryer?  Avoidance.  The new sink he plumbed in the basement (for the laundry)?  Escapism.  What about the spectacular shed he built from scratch in the backyard?  Nice, but 2 years and 97 Home Depot trips later, he has far fewer gray hairs than I do. 

As I count and pluck those gray hairs in the bathroom, I have reflected deeply on the suspicious signals. Fact: Sometimes he is gone for hours. Can you really spend hours in Home Depot? What do you do, wander the aisles? Fact: Sometimes he comes home empty-handed, muttering about how he couldn't find exactly what he needed. Fact: Sometimes he comes home with exactly what he needs for a project... as if, perhaps, to quell my suspicion that something is indeed seriously awry with this Home Depot thing.

And so, like the dutiful and suspicious wife I am, I did my research and I am now officially ready to blow the cover on this Home Depot ruse. That's right! I've got your number!

Through a combination of private investigation, GPS, and an active imagination, I’ve figured it out.  There is a place at Home Depot where only men are allowed.  You (my sisters) and I have never been.  Entrance can only be gained if you are married and have a Y chromosome.  He goes there, I know he does, and your significant other probably does too.  Yes, he does.  Stop crying and face the truth.

Perhaps you’ve gone to Home Depot with your spouse and perhaps you’ve lost track of him there for a few minutes.  Did you see him duck into the closet and shelving aisle?  Like he gives a S—T about home organization!  He walks 10 paces, turns a hard left, and steps into one of those crappy, particleboard and laminate wardrobes he tried to give you for your birthday a few years back.  And he closes the door behind him.  And time stops.

Once inside the wardrobe he takes a few steps through darkness and…voila—it’s ClubHD!  Women.  Beer.  Football games.  About a thousand big screen TVs with a live picture-in-picture in the lower corner showing you struggling at home with the kids.  (Or ignoring them and writing a blog post.) The men are all laughing.  This is not Narnia, girls.  Or, if it is, there are about a hundred White Witches and they’re not wearing anything that would get them through an eternal winter. 

There are three rooms in ClubHD: The Happy Beginnings Room, The Happy Middles Room, and the Happy Endings Room.  Massage and manscaping; food, beer, and TV; and more “massage”.  All while being attended by a bunch of young chippies who are all smarter, funnier and have bigger racks than you.  

Starting to make sense, isn’t it? Starting to come together, huh? Yes, yes it is. 

In the corner of the first room a guy sits on a commode, taking a dump while some chick massages his back and shoulders. As if she weren't even there, he narrates his dump to a bunch of guys who are also taking dumps and getting back rubs.  For HOURS. They're laughing, he's laughing. Even the chippies are laughing. Good times. At home, my daughter throws a 100 gigawatt tantrum because I won't let her wear a tshirt outside in 20-degree weather. 

In the second room, the men rest. And dine. And drink and watch TV and laugh. About the dumps they took. Food, fun and friends!  Spectacular memories, to be shared amongst each other for a lifetime!  Alas, it, too, is taxing eventually and after another several hours they migrate to the third room, presumably to recover from their efforts in the first and second rooms. 

Listen, if you think I sound bitter about it you’re missing the point.  I know a thing or two about escapism and avoidance.  We all need a little.  Granted, my escape is usually to the basement to do more laundry.  Sniff.  Or to the garden to pull more weeds so our house looks presentable.  Sniff, sniff.  Or for a run.  Or a swim.  Or a bike.  Or all three.  But, still, you’d think in that third room they could at least take one of Home Depot’s vaunted How-To-Do-It-At-Home seminars on….oh, forget it!  I just want him to get home at be with the kids.  So I can go out for my 6-hour bike ride.  Now.