My musing from somewhere in Cardiff:

***

"Are you listening to me?" Asks my loveable fiancée whilst we trek from Tremorfa's Tesco back to our cozy flat in Splott.

"Yep...." I reply, flatly, trailing off into a monotone drawl as the stretched grips from the cheap bags bite into my palms a little more each step. As my feet swell, my shoulders ache, and my hands threaten to ooze scarlet from my tender palms, I've nothing else on my mind but to shove our weekly rations into the fridge and cupboards, and forget about them.

My fiancée, however, had other ideas.

"No, you're not." She pointedly retorts. "You're switching me off. Fine, I'll shut up, now, Mr. Caveman."

Even though I won't admit it, but yeah, I‘m a simple caveman… and quiet is exactly what I'd like from her sometimes.

Don't get me wrong. I love my fiancée with all my body, mind, and soul, devoted to her though the fires within crackled down into a boiler's pilot light: controlled yet devoted to the cause, nonetheless. Yet, someway, somehow, it's as though she perpetually forgets that simple fact and acts like I don't love her anymore. Why; is it because I've other things on my mind, like getting home before the ice cream melts, before the local predators in the big-name jumpers accost us, or how much longer until my soles and hands start bleeding like those from a royal, Russian family?

Lather, rinse, and repeat... round two practically every time we've to step into Tremorfa just for cola and a couple bags of chips. Some days, I'd rather step into the ring with Mike Tyson, and tell him that he talks strange; my demise will come with a prompt right hook - much more swift than an entire day of grocery shopping with my fiancée.

Then again…!

Anyway, there came a letter in the post addressed to a “Mr. A” (the name withheld to protect the so-called “innocent” yesterday afternoon. Now, in our lovely, cozy flat, smack dab in the middle of Splott, there is no one residing who goes by that name. Ergo, grabbed a pen and wrote, “Not at this address; Return to Sender”, as I usually do with misdirected mail. However, the complex’s landlord does go by that surname, and no one was bothered to tell me.

When my fiancée discovered this, she promptly called me an “idiot” and proceeded to scratch out what I had penned, the envelope a pile of Jackson-Pollack vomit when she was through. Last I recall, the landlord did not reside anywhere in the complex; I believe he lives somewhere in Roath, a neighborhood nearby. Regardless of actual residence, she then drafted a simple note whilst I stared in wide-eyed wonderment.

I use the word “simple”, loosely. I did not know what was worse: the fact she actually did it, or that a three-minute job took five times longer than necessary! I merely suggested that she neatly scribble that the letter came to the wrong address, but no…! It took her fifteen minutes to pencil twenty words, and there’s still a pile of crumpled paper by the trash can that can reach my knee! Thank God there’s a dumpster for recyclables because we’re going to need it, at this rate.

This brings me to the point: women think we're mental. Unfortunately for them, perception of others is a street that goes both ways! If the fairer sex thinks we're crazy, it's fine, for we think they're completely mental, as well. If we don't respond to every single, little question that comes in a volley every five to ten seconds, we're "ignoring them"; if we do respond to those same questions with the same three-letter acknowledgement ("Yep..."), we're "shutting them off", and if we do as we‘d done countless times when they weren’t in earshot, God help us because we're "idiots".

My fiancée thinks I'm paranoid when I engage in basic awareness of the immediate surroundings, simply to ensure we're not being trailed by the local miscreants or the neighborhood's violent drunks. They say that "projection" is the most basic type of defense mechanism, too, but for the safety of the old Toshiba and the new XBOX360, I won't elaborate any further. I'll leave it to you to put that two and two together.

To all the ladies out there, reading, feeling slighted by my words, just... listen - like you constantly request (i.e. demand) from us: men... (now, scribble this down in an empty margin space of Vogue) are... (got your pens out, yet, or are you going to spend another twenty minutes, telling us why you feel slighted)... simple! It's as Lenard Skynard sang, "...simple man, my needs are few". Eating and sleeping are on the base of my proverbial pyramid, printed in big, bold letters that even Helen Keller could discern.

Sorry, Maslow: take your pyramid and park it somewhere in Giza!

We don’t need to spend twenty minutes, telling you what can be said in half of a second. “Not at this address; Return to Sender” will tell “Mr. A” all he needs to know, and he’ll take it for what he will; it doesn’t matter to me or will it matter much to him. More over, men don't always reply to everything, because we don't feel like it's necessary. If we answer one way, that's the way it is no matter how much the ensuing silence makes you think otherwise. Yes, I already said I love you - why do I have to tell you again... and again... and again? Are you sure you don’t need pills for this?

We do this because that is the way men bond with each other. We don't have to break the silence every fifteen seconds; we enjoy sharing the same immediate space (provided it's not too close, mind you, or I may have to direct you towards San Francisco), content with each other's company and watching our game as the commentators filter through the white noise. Ladies, don't compete with Terry Bradshaw if you choose to partake in the masculine ways of bonding; you won't win no matter how loud you mutter or sigh, and you'll score a penalty if you lean into us like we're walls. For a moment, it's cute, but not long afterwards, our joints start to swell.

To put it simply, be content with your simple caveman, and he’ll be content with you. Don’t constantly question it, or he’ll want to revert back to the club and hair pulling.

***

Till next time, Yah willing.

Moo... se!
-Unknown6-
III