Some of you may have been wondering just who this Mr. Man’s Man/Woman’s Man/Everyman/Superman is that I am constantly referring to. And you may have been thinking that there is no way someone of that magnitude actually exists in real life. As in you’ve only ever seen anyone measuring up to that standard in a comic book…you know, like Wolverine of the X-Men (though I’m not sure he could be described as Mr. Woman’s Man…or a man at all, for that matter). So then maybe Edward. You know who I’m talking about ladies. Edward Cullen, the to-die-for vampire of Twilight fame. I mean really, who DOESN’T need an Edward in their life??? Really. But then again, he doesn’t exactly qualify as a man, per se.
So, superheroes and vampires aside, who on earth could possibly fill the bill?
Mm-hmm. Well, see this is where Mr. Right enters the picture. As in…the dear husband. I know, I know…how on god’s green earth did I EVER get so lucky?????? I ponder this question daily (and if you cannot spot the satire from a mile away, then there just might not be any help for you).
You see, I married a man who is simply, well, superhuman by anyone’s standards. The crazy thing is that I did not know this in the beginning. (I know, what am I…blonde???) What can I say? I miss things.
As in…the phenomenon of Mr. Man’s Man/Woman’s Man/Everyman/Superman. Right in my own home! Who would of thunk it? Certainly not I. Never in a million, bazillion years.
Here’s the way of things. I’ll let you decide where you may fall on the spectrum. (And this is in no way meant to denigrate either the dear husband or any of you who think so highly of him. The whole damn thing completely, COMPLETELY mystifies and baffles me on a daily basis, though I have long since given up trying to figure out the “why” of it. I now simply sit back and watch, amusedly mind you.)
Mr. Man’s Man
This is the man that all men want to be around, simply because…well, he is a manly man himself. And I’m surmising here, but I could be dead wrong because after all, I’m just a woman, but it could be that other men want to be manly men also. So they naturally gravitate toward the manly man, thinking that some of that manliness might rub off on them. It’s like all the men want to be him. Case in point (and truly no offense to our dear friends here visiting…well, they’re not really visiting us, they’re hunting…those very same cow elk out there calling “yoo hoo boys, come and get it..”–but I digress…) Oh lord, where was I? Oh yes…case in point: the other night, there was himself (Mr. Man’s Man) outside putting together the final pieces of the playset, using his power tool thingys and just basically doing manly stuff. I looked out the window and standing around him in a semi-circle were the three hunters/visitors/friends (really, they’re all of these). Hands in pockets, rocking back and forth from toes to heels, listening with rapt attention to whatever it was that himself was saying. He was gesturing with one of those power tool thingys (there were several out there…which is baffling as it is because why on earth do you need so many power screwdriver, drill things?) and those three men ringed around him seemed to be hanging on every word. Truly baffling.
This is not reserved for manly men like hunters. It happens whenever ANY of my family members come around. (Not that you dear family men aren’t manly!) The guys all gush about the snowplow machine out there and want to know how it drives and how it works and then…then…he took them fishing. And lord love a duck but wasn’t that just about the coolest thing in the entire world. Well, there was also the wood-chopping and the fire building in the rock ring fire pit himself built out in the “backyard.”
And it’s not just reserved for family either. Everyone wants his advice on everything from shoeing horses (though, if I do say so myself, I’ve not met a better farrier…and NOT just cause I’m married to the guy) to what nail to use to what’s the best way to fix anything that’s been broken.
And this seems to me the most egregious of all (not sure if that’s the correct word here, I just think it sounds cool)…he has been stopped NUMEROUS times (too many to count in the nine years we’ve been together) by numerous different lawmen–State Patrol, City Police, town police, the county sherrif’s deputies…getting my drift? And not once, NOT ONCE, has he received a citation. He always, always, always gets a warning. Now what in the heck is up with that? Me? I get tickets. Mr. Man’s Man…he gets warnings, and sometimes not even that. Sometimes they just end up chatting. Chatting.
Mr. Woman’s Man
This one isn’t so baffling as much as it is frustrating. All women complain about their mates, don’t they? For some little reason or other. Well, and this is truly true, I’ve not met a woman who hasn’t spent a little time with Mr. Woman’s Man who hasn’t fallen under the spell. I’m serious. All he has to do is flash those baby blues, crinkle up his eyes and chuckle and they all swoon…practically dropping like flies. I’ve watched it happen to a room full of otherwise sane females. That on any other given day, if Mr. Woman’s Man was nowhere in sight, would be sympathizing with me about my latest complaint. But something happens to anyone of the female persuasion when he arrives. They get a bit dotty. And here’s the clincher…I’m not immune to the flashing and the chuckling. And the dude knows it. So when he really wants something, or is looking to escape the latest rant of the crazy lady that he lives with, he’ll crinkle up those eyes and chuckle and I’m on the floor with the rest of them. Just like that. No willpower. Nada, zip, zilch. I’m a goner.
The frustrating thing about all of this is that I know his MO. I’ve got it down and I still get sucker-punched. Each and every time I fall for it. And then I completely forget why I was white-hot, steam-blowing, revved-up mad in the first place and he saunters jauntily out the door. Whistling a merry tune. AAgghhhhhh…..
I will say that on occasion I have used this to my, and our, advantage. If for some reason I have run into an unreasonable female say in a customer service position or whatnot, I’ll sweetly ask Mr. Woman’s Man if he can talk to said female, knowing full good and well that he will get the results that I want and need. That for some reason all of my kissing up to and brown-nosing and obsequiousness simply hasn’t produced, but which will quickly be righted once Mr. Woman’s Man is on the job.
This is the one that can do everything. Plain and simple. Simply everything. From surviving in the wilderness with a shoelace and a single match to building a princess throne from scratch because the 5 year old asked for one. From chipmunk sharpshooter (gasp…don’t tell the PETA folks) to Frank Sinatra croon-alike (yes, I made up that word). From daddy-that-can-do-hairstyles, play dress-up and create construction paper projects to Mr. Fix-it of simply ANYTHING. The list is endless…are you getting the picture? Mr. Everyman is simply everywhere, doing everything, everytime. And everyone knows it.
So Superman is invincible. And knows it. And can leap tall buildings in a single bound. In the dear daughter’s eyes, her daddy can do all of that and more. Which is why she bought him a Superman pin (to pin to his chest) and wants me to make him a red cape for Christmas. NOT going to happen mind you. As if himself needs any more building up of his image as the world’s most wonderful superhero.
Mostly for me, this is evidenced by the Herculean effort put forth to remove the latest dead mouse from the trap (something I simply abhor doing) or ripping and tearing the door jamb apart looking for the source of the marching maggots.
Well, also, there was that night two winters ago when we got stuck on the road in the dark in 40 degree below zero weather. Superman, who had earlier in the day undergone some mighty serious sedation for some dental work and who had just taken more Percocet and was still fuming because Mrs. Superman refused to let him eat a cheeseburger and instead only let him have soft french fries and a chocolate Frosty, buried the fairly “new, red, fast Subaru” deeper into the snow, all the while cursing at the stupid car because it wasn’t all it was made out to be. Never mind the fact that the exact spot where we got stuck is on the curve most susceptible to mind-numbing Arctic wind blasts causing unbelievable snowdrifts across the road. And never mind the fact that, despite being Superman, his brain was a little fogged, so perhaps his Superhuman, Superman, lightning-fast reflexes were a bit dulled. Causing my dear, precious clutch to protest in vain as a myriad of warning lights began to blink on the dashboard. So, Superman yanked open the door, got out, snarled, (OOPS I mean “said” cause we all know Superman doesn’t snarl)..said “don’t go anywhere,” and set off into the dark. I turned around to look at the dear daughter in the backside, raised my eyebrows and said, quizzically, “where would we go?” And then, “do you think we should try to call somebody?” (Note: Superman was obviously having an off day and might have needed a bit of help…say Robin or Batgirl or something?) After approximately 30 minutes, anxious ones at that, slowly out of the darkness emerged a figure, trotting down the road. OK…trotting is not the word I should use here. More like high-stepping through the two feet of snow blanketing the road, and trying to do so in a timely fashion. That’s more like it. So, out of the darkness, a figure emerges, with a scarf wrapped around his head and carrying…a shovel. What happened to the truck??? Superman then proceeded to dig the car out of the snowbank, in 40 degree below weather (that’s WITHOUT wind chill factored in), under the influence of some serious drugs, with only a french fry and a chocolate shake for energy. And after, which I learned at a later time, being chased by two rather startled, rather large cow moose he spooked on his mile-long trek up to the house. Did I fail to mention we were rather far from home at that point?
So…all satire aside, there are some benefits to living with Mr. Man’s Man/Woman’s Man/Everyman/Superman. Of course, if one were to really start thinking about it, one wouldn’t be living out here on this ranch, on the side of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mice and maggots…if not for Mr. Man’s Man/Woman’s Man/Everyman/Superman. Hmmm…..the things that make me crazy, insane, nutso, off-my-rocker mad.