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Lots of TV Sports, but Lisa's Man Was One of Those Who Mutate Into: DESIGNING MEN  "Hi There. My name is Karl. I'm here to bring a little taupe and cerise into your bland life!" |
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She thought she’d covered all her bases.
When my friend Lisa announced
that her husband was retiring, she already had a strategy in
place. After 30-something years as a cop, Karl was bound to go
stir-crazy, she said. A three-decade career of action and excitement
wasn’t exactly conducive to settling quietly into a life
of leisure. Since the last thing she wanted was a bored husband
moping around, she developed what was meant to be a foolproof
plan.
Relocation was first on the agenda. They say retirement is a
whole new life, she told her husband. Why tarnish their golden
years with harsh Northern winters when they could languish under
palm trees, soaking up the sun? Besides, Lisa reasoned, all the
details of moving would keep Karl busy for months. And after
that, he could buy some Hawaiian shirts, take up golf, and putter
away his time on the fairway with the rest of the bored husbands.
A hobby that would keep him happy, occupied, and out from underfoot.
In theory, it sounded like a great idea. But like many great
ideas, the reality was something else entirely.
The first signs came at a restaurant, just a few weeks after
they’d completed their move. After the last carton had been
emptied, the last set of plantation shutters hung, and Karl’s
new 54-inch TV wedged into place, they decided to celebrate with
dinner at the local steakhouse. It was somewhere between the
Romaine with Vinaigrette and the double-baked potato that the
first comment came. Sucking down a sauteed mushroom,
Karl looked at his wife and arched a disparaging brow.
“Have you noticed the color scheme in this place? Teal and
taupe?” Nodding in the direction of the grasscloth-covered
walls, he barely suppressed a snort. “Teal is so last millennium!
And, yeah, maybe they’re going for a tropical look, but--hello?--there’s
other colors in the spectrum!”
While Lisa watched him attack his prime rib with all the delicacy
of a chain saw murderer, he went on with his critique.
“Warm colors are supposed to stimulate appetite,” he
said, chewing lustily. “You figure restaurant people would
be aware of that. Now if they asked me, I would have recommended
something in a persimmon shade. Muted, of course, but lively
enough to get the point across. Maybe throw in some burnt umber
and honey accents, with just a splash of spring green for contrast.
Sophisticated and stylish, but still inviting, know what I mean?”
While Karl bisected his beefsteak tomatoes, Lisa could only stare.
This from a guy who’d always had trouble coordinating white
socks? Had the stress of moving been too much for him? Maybe
he needed a few days of rest before she shoved him out on the
golf course.
But as days passed, it was clear that her husband literally had
a brand new bag.
“Why buy the standard black plastic garbage bags?”
he asked her while shopping at a discount store. “Black’s
been done to death. Our house is done in neutral shades.. Let’s
go for the white ones--a light counterpoint to the earth tones.”
After that, it was all downhill. Karl became a man on a mission,
his mission being to bring aesthetic harmony to every place in
his general vicinity. Bathroom soap was selected on the basis
of color that would coordinate with their new tumbled marble
tile. Instead of standard towels, he insisted on Egyptian cotton.
Texture is everything, he gushed to his astounded wife. Egyptian
cotton is plusher, with more nubs per square inch. By that time,
Lisa wondered if Karl was missing a few nubs of his own.
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but Lisa feared he soon might grow long hair, change his name to "Mr. Karl" (right) and start designing dresses for upscale women. |
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It didn’t stop there. While shopping for the LazyBoy recliner where she hoped to plant her husband for months of sports broadcasts, Lisa had another surprise. Instead of sinking blissfully into the nearest chair, Karl began to interrogate the sales staff on their upholstery options. Chenille was a possibility, he told them, but not leather, considering the climate. Uncut corduroy was definitely out. Perhaps one of the new faux-suede treatments? Something that would emphasize the play of light on the fabric’s nap.
Before long, Lisa realized that nothing escaped Karl’s newly discerning eye.
She came home one day to find their groceries arranged according to colors of the spectrum.
“There’s a trick artists use to remember the order of the colors,” he told her.
“Just think of the name Roy G. Biv. It stands for red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.”
The comment propelled Lisa directly to their master suite. Either there was a pod under their bed, (proof positive that her husband had been replaced by an alien) or a smoking jacket and paisley ascot stashed in his closet.
What she did find was almost as disturbing. Stuffed between the stack of sports magazines he preferred for bedtime reading were a whole selection of decorating magazines, ranging from the benign (“Better Homes and Gardens”) to the truly hardcore ( “Say YES to Silk Wall Treatments.”) It was time to admit her husband had a problem.
At first, she thought she could hide it from the neighbors. Figured it was easy to explain a man who spent 37 hours landscaping his lawn according to ‘textural tonality’ as merely having ‘pride of ownership.’ A bit harder to explain the crackle glaze he lovingly applied to his outdoor toolshed, a rough-ridged finish he described as ‘nouveau rustic’ that reminded her of freeze-dried armadillos. And what would she say when the kids came to visit? When the grandkids bellied up to the backyard picnic table, expecting to feast on Grandpa’s grilled burgers and hotdogs, only to receive a lecture on the merits of Fiesta Ware versus retro Melamine?
When Lisa caught him drying flowers between the pages of Sports Illustrated,
she knew Karl had reached critical mass.
“It’s for homemade potpourri,” he explained airily. “A little lavender, some jasmine, an impudent dash of citrus oil. Aroma therapy can add a whole new dimension to our lives.”
And when she found the starter training kit for Bonsai trees he’d hidden in the hamper, she hoped it wasn’t too late. Retirement hadn’t changed her husband, it'd mutated him. Without intervention, he was headed toward a future of fingering brocade fabric swatches, obsessing over paint samples and nurturing his dwarf flowering plum tree, a sure prize winner in the annual Horticultural Jubilee. It was time for drastic measures.
Like any desperate woman looking for a man, Lisa left nothing to chance. She canvassed the new neighborhood, made inquiries, left her name and phone number with anyone who might have a link to someone suitable. And was so focused on her mission, it was only a matter of time before she found the perfect candidate.
Like her husband had been, Monty was a classic alpha male: undeniably masculine with a brawny physique courtesy of a career as a building contractor. With ham-sized hands large enough to shot-put a sewer cover, this was definitely the man she wanted. Without wasting time, she invited him over that same afternoon.
“You’re exactly what I’m looking for!” she purred, pulling him through the door.
“My husband just...uh,... hasn’t been himself lately, and I hope you can help me out.”
With a vixen’s smile she led him to the bedroom.
Before nudging him over the threshold, she lowered her voice to a pleading whisper. “I can’t tell you how much I need this! You can do anything you want, just help me!”
Inside the room, Monty noticed the luxurious expanse of bed and the intimate slant of light that filtered through the new watered silk drapes. The ones Karl was now carefully inspecting to make sure the box pleats were properly aligned.
“Even on custom jobs, you have to double check the workmanship,” he told Monty. “Last week our dining room drapes arrived with an Austrian pouf valance instead of a tailored swag. It was a nightmare!”
Discreetly, Lisa eased the door closed and hurried toward the kitchen. In order for her plan to work, the two men needed some private time. Maybe talking to a guy like Monty would bring Karl back to his senses. In a few minutes, they’d retire to the den for cigars and macho bonding. And if that worked, they’d soon be deep in football-speak or baseball scores--the kind of male conversations she hadn’t heard since Karl’s retirement. By that time, they wouldn’t even notice the tray of tough-guy snacks she served them--Buffalo wings, nachos, and enough cold beer to lubricate the way toward a solid friendship.
In what seemed like no time at all, she heard their first muffled laughter, the sound of lumbering footsteps as the men went into the den. Her plan must be working! From this distance, she couldn’t make out the particulars of their conversation, but it sounded like they were getting along famously. Before long, Karl would be heading off with Monty for an early tee-time, and this episode of designer madness would be nothing but a bizarre memory.
Impulsively adding potato chips to the already loaded snack tray, Lisa headed toward the den. As she’d imagined, the two burly men were sprawled in reclining chairs, deep in conversation. But instead of sports scores, their conversation had taken an unexpected turn.
“Ricotta cheese,” Monty was saying. “That’s what gives my cheesecake its velvety texture. A little lemon zest, a dash of vanilla, and it’s to die for!” He paused politely as Lisa set down the tray.
“And fresh cinnamon. Only the imported kind from Madagascar, of course. I use a special grater. There’s a fabulous cook’s shop in the village where I get the most marvelous items--French cheesecake pans--springform is the only kind I use, and the sweetest little creme brulee cups! ”
“You don’t say!” Already Karl’s eyes were taking on that familiar glazed look of a man obsessed. “I haven’t done much cooking but...maybe you could give me a few pointers?”
Nodding modestly, Monty waved a beefy paw.
“Be glad to. But if you’re serious about it, you’ll want to grow your own herb garden. Fresh ingredients make all the difference, especially when it comes to entrees. I wouldn’t dream of making a marinade without some fresh-snipped tarragon. But only after infusing your meat, that is. You start with garlic cloves and a fresh leg of lamb.....”
Lisa had heard enough. It was obviously time to throw in the tea-towel and admit defeat. Somewhere along the road to retirement. Karl had morphed from big-city cop into the design police. Teaming up with Monty only meant further mutation It wouldn’t be long before she was banished from her kitchen, and not even entrusted to simple grocery shopping. The last time she’d come home with lettuce that wasn’t the correct shade of celadon, he’d nearly had a fit.
She trudged back to the kitchen and headed for the phone. Directory Assistance would surely have the number of the closest sporting goods store, one where she could buy a set of ladies’ golf clubs. And maybe one of those instructional books like “The Inner Game of Golf” just to get her started. It must be true what they said. Retirement was a whole new life.
© 2002 by Gina Gallo. The cartoons are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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